Death at Bishop's Keep (36 page)

“Yessir,” Sarah said. “I mean, no, sir.” She frowned, trying to make out which way the question went. “I mean, sir,” she added, to make her answer clear, “as I di‘n't see no poisonous mushroom. If I had've, it wud never o' got near th' puddin', yer can be sure o' that.”

“Did anyone else see the gypsy?”

She spoke truly. “None o' the servants, sir, but me. Th' guest, though—he got a glimpse o' him.” Not a good glimpse, though, she thought. “He's th' one wot frightened him off.”

“Do you know the name of the guest?”

“Well, 'twas th' Marsdens who come fer luncheon, and he was their guest, a Sir Charles somebody-or-other. The same one wot pushed his way in while you was talkin' t' Harriet.”

The constable's eyebrows went up. “Sir Charles Sheridan?”

“If that 'twas 'is name,” Sarah said cautiously.

Her answer seemed to satisfy the constable. “Only a few more questions,” he said. “Harriet cut up the mushrooms and you prepared the pudding—in what sort of container?”

“Why, a puddin‘-basin, o'course,” Sarah said. “It were steamed.”

“Inside a pot with a cover, on the stove?”

Sarah frowned. “How else?”

“For how long?”

“An hour, most like. Till 'twas done.”

“Was anyone else in the kitchen during that hour?”

Sarah thought. “Just me an' Harriet.” She frowned. “An' th' young miss. She come in to make tea fer her aunt an' herself.”

The constable's mouth tightened at the corners. “Did she go near the stove?”

Sarah's frown darkened. “Cudn't say, sir,” she said carelessly. “I had too much t' do t' be watchin' others.”

But the constable's eyes were still on her as he shut up his notebook and stood. “I will confirm your report of the gypsy with Sir Charles as quickly as I can. You will not object to being detained meanwhile?”

Sarah smiled comfortably. “Oh, no, sir. I'd as soon have the day t' meself, ‘specially seein' as it's washday.” She stood. “Yer don't suppose, d'yer, that Pocket could bring th' carriage when it's time fer me t' go back t' Bishop's Keep?”

The constable's lips twitched. “I can't say, but I will inquire.”

“Thank ye, sir,” Sarah said. She looked up at the queen's photograph and dropped a deep curtsy, pleasantly conscious that she had met her obligation to the crown while still protecting the innocence of one whose motives she pitied, rather than hated.

The queen gave her a benevolent smile.

“When you have excluded the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.”

-SIR ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE, “The Beryl Coronet”

 

 

 

A
little before eleven, Kate was sitting at the Remington, typing—but not on her book. There would be a great deal to do over the next few weeks, and “The Golden Scarab” would have to wait. She was typing a letter to Mr. Bothwell Coxford, her editor, to ask for an extension of her deadline.

She was interrupted by the sound of cart wheels on gravel. She went to the French doors and saw Mudd, bowler-hatted and wearing his greatcoat, drive up with Pocket in the cart. She threw on her shawl and hurried outside.

“How is Mrs. Pratt?” she asked, shivering in the chilly air.

An hour before, Kate had dispatched Mudd to Dedham to find out what he could about Cook's situation, and fetch her home if possible. Although Harriet had been bidden to silence by the constable, the girl had finally told her story to Kate, who now knew that the deadly toadstool had found its way into the pudding by a tragic accident. This new information had much relieved Kate's mind, since she no longer had to wonder if either of her aunts, or Cook, had been somehow responsible.

But if it was known how the toadstool got into the pudding, it was not yet clear how the toadstool had gotten into the kitchen. Harriet did not know whether Mrs. Pratt herself had gathered the mushrooms from the wood, or whether they had arrived by some other means, and no one else was able to offer enlightenment. But Kate, thinking back over the events of the past few days and recalling the brown felt hat dropped by the would-be intruder, suspected that Jenny Blyly's lover—who certainly had a reason to hate not only Aunt Jaggers but Aunt Sabrina as well—might have brought the poisonous mushroom into the house. Indeed, she would have spoken the name of Tom Potter to the constable, had she been sure that to do so might not further incriminate Mrs. Pratt.

Mudd alighted from the cart. “Mrs. P. is quite well,” he said, “an' sends ‘er thanks fer inquirin'. She ‘as explained things t' th' constable an' hopes he'll soon let 'er go.”

“Thank God,” Kate breathed fervently. “But why did he not let her come back with you?”

“ 'E's gone off t' check 'er story wi' Sir Charles.” He took off his bowler hat and held it in his hands. “She'ud like t' know whether ye plan t' send th' carriage, miss.”

Kate could not help smiling. She had overstated the case to Mr. Laken when she claimed Mrs. Pratt as a friend. But as Aunt Sabrina's secretary, she had felt a fraternal sympathy for all the servants and an outright concern for the two youngest. As mistress, she felt the same compassion but with an added sense of obligation, for she was now responsible for the well-being of the staff. Still, she had to admire the irrepressible Pratt, and she hoped that even in the changed circumstance, a mutual friendship was not out of the question.

“By all means,” she told Mudd, “send the carriage.” She turned to go back into the house, then turned back. “You said that the constable is speaking with Sir Charles. Why is that?”

“Mrs. P. ses ‘twas a gypsy 'oo brought th' mushrooms t' th' kitchen door. Sir Charles saw ‘em talkin' t'gether, afore th' lad took to 'is heels.”

Kate stood still. A gypsy! Yes! At luncheon, Sir Charles had mentioned taking the photograph of a gypsy boy who had turned tail and fled when he saw the camera. Well, Tom Potter was slender enough to be thought a lad. If the picture were clear enough, it might confirm or contradict her suspicion of his guilt. She turned toward the house. Had not Sir Charles called with photographs yesterday? Had not he left them in an envelope on the table beside the chair where he was sitting?

Kate went swiftly back to the library. Yes, there was the envelope. She picked it up. In it were a number of photographic prints—several of her in various casual poses; two of Bradford and Eleanor, unaware of the concealed camera; the one taken by Mudd of the self-conscious quartet at the luncheon table. She laid the photo aside to study later, and turned eagerly to the last one. Yes, this was it! The slender gypsy boy at the kitchen door, face turned full to the camera, hat slipped to the back of his head.

Kate stared at the photograph for a long moment, puzzled. No, the figure was not that of Tom Potter, nor the face. It was too finely featured, too symmetrically drawn. But there was something familiar about that face, something about the eyes, the mouth—

Suddenly her fingers felt cold and her knees began to tremble. She
knew
the face in this photo! It was—

But that was impossible!

She swallowed. No, not impossible, only improbable. But why—?

She stood still, thinking rapidly. Outside in the hallway a cuckoo clock began to announce the hour of eleven. By the fifth cuckoo, her thoughts began to make a kind of muddled sense. By the seventh, Kate could see how it might have happened. By the eleventh and last, she thought she knew who and how, and even why. Her conclusion seemed improbable, very nearly impossible, but it made sense. It had to be the truth.

But she had to admit to an uncomfortable degree of doubt. She looked down at the photograph again, at the face, the clothing, the hat. The picture was not as clear as she would have liked, and her identification could not be absolutely positive. Still, she was almost sure she was right.

But what should she do? The first and most obvious step was to find Edward Laken and show him what she had discovered—what she
thought
she had discovered. But the constable was the one who had insisted so vehemently, despite her protests, on taking Mrs. Pratt in for questioning. What was more, he had infuriated her by staring when she ordered the carriage for the cook. No. It might be petty, but she would not allow him the satisfaction of making the arrest—or, if she was wrong, the satisfaction of laughing at her.

Then what? Should she show the photograph to Sir Charles and beg his assistance? For a moment, she was tempted. It would be quite pleasantly gratifying to show that arrogant man that he did not have a monopoly on hypotheses: she too could formulate a theory of the crime and provide the evidence to validate it. And it would be delightful to correct
his
incorrect conclusion that Mrs. Pratt was the killer.

But here the same nettlesome difficulty arose. If she was wrong, she would have made a fool of herself in Sir Charles's quite critical eyes. It would be far better to obtain definitive proof—a confession before a witness, if at all possible—and then turn the matter over to the proper authorities.

But it was not Kate's unwillingness to accommodate Constable Laken or risk Sir Charles's critical judgment that proved to be the definitive factor. What decided Kate was her quite natural impulse to face down the wicked person who had killed her aunts, and Beryl Bardwell's interest in hearing a confession from the criminal's own lips.

But this was obviously not a matter that she could take entirely into her own hands. She would need help. She stood quietly for another minute, sorting through various possible strategies. Then she made up her mind. She knew what she would do. But it had to be done quickly. Time was of the essence.

“The hiding of a crime, or the detection of a crime, what is it? A trial of skill between the police on one side, and the individual on the other.”

—WILKIE COLLINS The Woman in White

 

 

 

L
aken was frowning thoughtfully as he mounted his bicycle. But instead of riding out in the direction of Marsden Manor, he rode toward the vicarage. An important matter wanted clearing up before he spoke to Charlie Sheridan.

The vicar was among his roses. “Ah, Edward,” he said, straightening, a basket of late blossoms in his hand. “Perhaps you would care for a cup of morning tea? A biscuit? I am sure Mrs. Mills can find us a little something.”

“Thank you, sir,” Laken said, “but I fear I am in a bit of a hurry. I came to ask you to enlighten me as to the Ardleigh inheritance.”

“Ah, yes.” The vicar seemed burdened by the thought. “It is very simple, really. Miss Ardleigh—Sabrina Ardleigh—recently made a new will. Her sister Bernice was her previous beneficiary. Owing to difficulties between them, Miss Ardleigh determined to exclude her from inheritance. In her place, she named her niece. There are some minor bequests, of course, but the bulk of the estate goes to Kathryn. As it should,” he added. “She is the last Ardleigh.”

“I see,” Laken said. He kept his face carefully blank. “Do you know, sir, when Miss Kathryn Ardleigh learned of her good fortune?”

The vicar looked at him, a slight frown puckering his forehead. “As a matter of fact, I told her yesterday, after her aunt's death. It was a great shock to her.”

“You are sure?”

The vicar's tufted eyebrows rose. “Why, man, you're not suggesting ... Of course it was a surprise!” His face filled with consternation. “You can't possibly suspect that young woman of causing the deaths of her aunts!”

“Thank you, sir,” Laken said. It spoke well of Miss Ardleigh that the vicar would rise to her defense so readily. But of course it was his business to think the best of any soul. It was Laken's business to think the worst.

To Sir Charles Sheridan Marsden Manor Dedham Essex stop
Most urgent stop Ring inscription reads Armand beloved of
Thoth grant him eternal life stop Believe ring property Armand
Monet noted Parisian cryptographer stop Failed to arrive London
last week stop Send murder details forthwith stop

—SIGNED SMYTHE-HOWELL BRITISH MUSEUM

 

 

 

C
harles folded the telegram and replaced it in his coat pocket. It had arrived just after breakfast this morning, in reply to the letter he had posted immediately after copying the inscription. Having read it, he asked for a horse and set out for Colchester, his mind greatly unsettled.

Was Armand Monet the true name of the dead man in the dig? If so, what had brought a noted cryptographer from the continent to Colchester? Was he linked to the Order of the Golden Dawn, as the peacock feather might suggest? If true, what was the nature of that link? How could it be proved? And how would Inspector Wainwright receive this latest revelation?

But Armand Monet was not the only matter that unsettled Charles. The last two days had been decidedly disturbing, beginning with the luncheon party at Bishop's Keep, where he had enjoyed himself rather more than usual. His pleasure, he reluctantly admitted, was largely due to the presence of Miss Ardleigh, whose russet hair and penetrating hazel-green eyes lingered far longer in his memory than he would have preferred. Perhaps it was the photographs that fixed that grave and yet laughing face in his mind. Certainly it was not a beautiful face, not even conventionally attractive, for the times favored a female face that was demure and diffident. But yet it was a remarkable face. It was a face that suggested intellect, awareness, observance.