Death at Bishop's Keep (16 page)

When Jarrett was fetched, he proved to be a tall, thin man with a bulbous nose, bright red, and a bumpy chin. He stared at the photo for a moment. “Yep, I seen ‘im,” he allowed helpfully. “ 'Cept 'is eyes was hopen at th' time.”

The stationmaster gave Jarrett a scornful glance. “ 'Course his eyes was open, Jarrett. This here's a pitchur of a
corpse.”

“Can you recall anything special about the man?” Charles asked. “How do you come to remember him?”

Jarrett stretched his lips over teeth as yellow as antique ivory. “ 'E cudn't speak th' queen's English. Frenchy fella, 'e was, all slick talk an' smiley unner that waxed mustache. Wanted a ‘orse to 'ire.”

Charles frowned. “A cab?”

Jarrett wagged his head from side to side. “A ‘orse to 'ire,” he repeated emphatically. “An' a carriage, a-corse. Said ‘ee'd drive 'isself. Said as ‘ow 'e didn't trust cabbies. ‘E's right, too, 'if I
am
th' one wot says. ‘Alf th' cabbies cheat, partic'larly if th' fare's a for‘ner. Drive 'em ten miles at ten pence a mile, jus' t' get t' th' pub around th' corner. Bucks is th' worst, a-corse,” he added confidentially. “Them wot lost their license an' only drive at night, when they c'n rob th' fares wot 're drunk or asleep.” He laid a grubby finger beside his nose, so flagrant it seemed to glow with its own light. “Know fer a fac‘, I do. Me brother-in-law's a cabbie. Many's th' story 'e tells ‘bout bucks an' baddies, chargin' 'xorb‘ant fares an' givin' short change. An' racin', an' haccidents, an' sick 'orses, and—”

“Which jobmaster'd yer send th' bloke to?” The stationmaster intervened, bringing Jarrett's recital to a full stop. “Edge or Prodger?”

“Prodger,” Jarrett replied. He looked at Charles. “On North ‘ill. Tell 'im Jarrett sent yer,” he added. “ 'E'll treat yer right. 'E's me wife's second cousin.”

“I see,” Charles said thoughtfully. “Perhaps I should visit Prodger.”

“Indeed, Sir Charles.” The female voice, deep and rich, came from behind him. “I think that would be a fine idea.”

Charles turned, removing his hat. “Good afternoon, Miss Ardleigh,” he said. “How coincidental that we should meet again.” She was not wearing her rational dress today, he noticed, merely a dark suit and sensible boots.

“Yes,” she said. “Miss Marsden has gone to London for a day or two. She invited me to ride to the station with her, and I agreed. Her train has just departed. I came in to—” Her glance went quickly to the stationmaster, and back again. “To obtain a new timetable,” she said.

“I see,” Charles said, surmising from her look that it was a conversation with the stationmaster she had come for, rather than a timetable. He could not believe that her presence here was merely coincidental. She had shown an unusual interest in the murder, had appeared at the dig—without adequate explanation of her presence—and now at the station. Was she following the same trail he was following? His question was answered in the next breath.

“I wonder if I might accompany you on your visit to Mr. Jarrett's wife's second cousin,” she said in a serious tone. “I must confess to wishing to meet the man.”

Charles took her elbow and drew her outside. “And I must confess,” he said in a low voice, “to some curiosity. To my recollection, Miss Ardleigh, we have had four encounters, and in each of them you have evidenced a great fascination for murder. Why is this?”

She turned to face him, her hazel-green eyes clear, her expression straightforward. “I was afraid you would ask me that question,” she said, “and I wish that I could answer you. Will you accept that I cannot, Sir Charles, and be satisfied?”

He looked at her for a moment. She was not the kind of woman he could easily persuade to tell him what she did not wish him to know. Perhaps it would be good to have her where he could watch her. By so doing, he might be able to deduce for himself her reason for pursuing this case with such an uncommon interest.

“Very well, then,” he said, resigned. He turned toward the street. “You may come along. I have a chaise. It is full of photographic gear, but there is room for a passenger.”

“Thank you,” she said. She stopped at the carriage stand to ask Eleanor's coachman to wait until she returned, and then climbed into the chaise beside Sir Charles without waiting for his hand in assistance.

Yankee Doodle came to town
Riding on a pony:
Stuck a feather in his cap
And called it Macaroni.

 

 

 

K
ate had told the truth—part of it, at any rate. She had come to the station with Eleanor. Miss Marsden had stopped in briefly the day before, having apparently decided that her friendship with Kate was not to be sacrificed on the altar of Kate's secretarial labors. She had invited Kate to spend the weekend with her in London. Kate had demurred. She proposed accompanying Eleanor to the train instead, which would take only the morning, and not several days.

But Kate did not intend to leave the station the instant Eleanor's train departed, for the same thought had occurred to her that had obviously occurred to Sir Charles: that the murdered man could hardly have arrived in Colchester without attracting some notice, and that the railway station would be the logical place to inquire. Even though Aunt Sabrina had requested her to leave off her investigation, Kate had not
promised
that she would do so. In any event, Beryl Bardwell's curiosity was far stronger than Kate's sense of propriety. So it was that she found herself seated next to Sir Charles, driving up the steep incline of North Hill in pursuit of a dead man.

Prodger proved to be the largest jobmaster in Colchester. The shop, a drafty wooden building at the rear of a cobbled yard filled with horses and carriages, sheltered a number of vehicles—growlers, Victorias, barouches, phaetons, carts, chaises, broughams. Kate saw that it also housed a substantial stable, a carriage- and harness-repair shop, and, at the rear, a smithy with a smoking forge from which a rhythmic clanging could be heard, punctuated by shouts and a loud hissing. Prodger himself was stout and affable, and his ruddy, full-featured countenance conveyed the satisfied good humor of a man for whom life is going according to plan. He had barely to glance at the photograph Sir Charles held out to recognize it.

“T' be sure,” he said, stroking his grizzled chin whiskers. “The gentleman hired a chaise and a gray geldin'. Was quite partic'lar as t' horse and harness. Wanted somethin' smart.” His chin whiskers took on a knowing look. “T' impress a lady, I surmised,” he added, inclining his head in Kate's direction.

“Did he say anything about the gelding's lameness when he returned it?” Sir Charles inquired.

Prodger pushed out his lips and pulled them in again, giving thought to his reply. “Well, now,” he came out with finally, “I can't say as the gentleman was the one who returned it. The rig was left here the next mornin', accordin' to prearrangements. As to lame, Jip'll know.”

Jip was the stableboy, a fresh, bright-eyed lad of fifteen, full of the importance of his work. “Ay, Mr. Prodger, sir, th' ‘orse was 'alf-lame, ‘e was.” He wiped his hands on his blue denim apron. “But 'e's right agin now, never worry. T‘was only a splinter in 'is left ‘ind 'oof, an' easily took care of.”

Kate watched as Sir Charles turned around, to look at a row of light two-wheeled chaises arranged along one side of the main building. The second carriage leaned tipsily to the right, one red-painted wheel missing. He studied it for a moment as if he were measuring it with his glance. “Where,” he asked, “is the wheel that belongs to that chaise?”

Prodger jerked his head in the direction of the smith. “Trotter's got it,” he said. “He's ironin' it.” “Ironing it?” Kate asked, wondering how one ironed a metal wheel rim.

“Ironing it!” Sir Charles exclaimed. “For God's sake, man, that wheel's
evidence!”

Kate stared at him, uncomprehending. “Evidence?” she asked. But Sir Charles paid no attention to her. He hastened after Prodger to the smithy, with Kate trailing along behind. Trotter was standing over a wooden wheel, about to cut the iron tire with a chisel. Behind him, a group of workmen were creating a terrible din, clanging and shouting.

“Stop!” Charles shouted, holding up his hand.

The smith looked up, hammer poised over the chisel. His face was charcoal, his eyes white marbles. “Sez 'oo?” he retorted, and struck the chisel a ringing blow.

Behind the smith, Kate saw that two journeymen and two apprentices were working on another, larger wheel, which rested flat on a circular stone platform. A red-hot iron rim was being fitted to the wooden wheel and driven into place with blows of the journeymen's sledges. The apprentices doused the smoking rim with water from sprinkling cans. Steam replaced smoke with a great hissing and a stench of charred wood, while the iron tire contracted violently and the wheel snapped and creaked. Kate watched with fascination. So this was how one ironed a wheel.

Sir Charles turned to Mr. Prodger. “I need to examine the wheel,” he said loudly, over the noise. “The last man to hire the carriage from which it came was murdered.”

“Murthered?” the smith exclaimed, and dropped his chisel.

Kate stared at Sir Charles. How could he be so sure?

Prodger raised his hand to quiet the workers. Into the sudden silence, he said, “Murdered? D'you mean that the gent I read about in the
Exchange
was Monsoor Armand?”

“That was the name of the man who hired this carriage?” Sir Charles asked.

“That was the name he give me for the ledger,” Prodger replied cautiously.

Armand, Kate thought—a French name. A Frenchman with a scarab ring.

“I would like to photograph this wheel,” Sir Charles said. “It is evidence in a murder case. I am assisting Inspector Wainwright,” he added, by way of explanation.

“Wainwright needs assistin'.” Prodger's chin whiskers quivered disdainfully. Then, with an air of resignation, he addressed the smith. “Well, Trotter, I don't suppose it'll harm that wheel to let the gentleman make a photograph of it.”

By way of answer, the smith leaned the wheel against a tree and turned his back on it, going to oversee the progress of the men with the sledges and sprinkling cans. While Kate waited beside the wheel, Sir Charles went to the chaise, got his camera and tripod, and set them up. As she watched curiously, he unfolded his ivory rule, propped it against the wheel, and photographed the wheel and the rule, following that with several close-up views of the break in the iron rim. Then he marked the spot where the break touched the ground, carefully rolled the wheel one revolution until the break touched again, and measured the distance with his rule.

“Twelve feet seven inches,” he muttered to himself. He turned to Prodger. “I would like to photograph and examine the chaise from which this wheel came.”

Prodger led him back to the row of carriages. “What I want to know,” he said, as Sir Charles set up his camera, “is how you knew which wheel you was after.”

“The break in the rim,” Sir Charles said, taking a photo. “It left a mark at the scene of the crime, which revealed itself in the photographs I took. As good as a fingerprint for identification.”

“Fingerprint?” Prodger asked, mystified. “What's that?”

Kate spoke quickly, forestalling Sir Charles's inevitable lecture. “The distinctive mark left by a person's fingertips,” she said. “A fingerprint can be used to distinguish one person from another.”

Prodger grunted. “Seems to me a man's face ought to be bettern' his fingers, for that purpose.”

Sir Charles straightened up. “Did Monsieur Armand offer any identification?” he asked, changing the plate in the camera. “An address, perhaps?”

“He offered th' hire in advance, an' a generous tip,” Prodger replied with dignity. “In this business, that were sufficient identif' cation.”

“Did he mention his purpose for traveling to Colchester?” Kate asked. She ignored Sir Charles's irritated frown. He wasn't the only one who could question an informant. “Or the name of someone he planned to meet while he was here?”

The jobmaster pulled his mouth first to one side, then the other. “He asked after a street—Queen Street, I believe. But I disremember th' number.”

Kate felt a stab of excitement. Queen Street! Perhaps they were getting somewhere!

Sir Charles stepped out from behind the tripod. “Would you object to my examining the interior of the chaise?” he asked.

“Examine all you like,” Prodger said with a shrug. “But our carriages is clean swept after ev'ry hire.” He dragged over a wooden block and placed it under the axle of the missing-wheeled chaise, balancing the vehicle. “If it'll help t' have a look, climb up.”

Kate looked on while Sir Charles examined the carriage carefully. Prodger was right. The floor had been swept, the leather seat polished, the side panels wiped clean. But on the smooth handle of the whip, Sir Charles pointed out a clear fingerprint, which he photographed. “Well, that appears to be it,” he said, stepping out of the chaise.

“You've missed the feather,” Kate said.

Sir Charles frowned. “Feather?”

Kate picked it out of the corner of the seat and held it out. The feather was of an iridescent blue hue, such as she had never before seen. It was broken.

“Aha
^!
” Sir Charles exclaimed. With a triumphant smile, he grasped it and held it up to the light. After studying it for a moment, he folded it into a piece of paper and put the paper carefully into his pocket.