Death at Gallows Green (23 page)

The rats had put Betsy in the bag.

“S
o it's Highfields Farm you have in mind,” Edward said over his shoulder, as they strode purposefully along the ridge above the River Stour.

“What's your opinion?” Charles asked. He was trying to walk close enough behind Edward to utilize the lantern light, but far enough back to avoid treading on his heels. “If you were caching stolen wheat, would the barn at Highfields be a reasonable place to hide it?”

“It would,” Edward replied decidedly. “The barn is only a field's length up from the river. And it's below the locks, giving easy access to the estuary and the quay at Manningtree. If a barge or a flat-boat were pulled in below the barn, grain could be hauled there by wagon and readily ferried to a larger boat, or even to a ship moored at Manningtree.”

Charles negotiated a rickety stile after Edward. “Who owns the farm?”

“Sir Thomas Morrell, of Ipswich. He let it last year to a man named Napthen, who comes from over Harwich way. It's said that Napthen isn't much of a farmer, and the evidence points that way. The fields are idle, save for the odd cow.” He skirted a fresh pile of dung in the path. “How'd you get onto Highfields, Charlie?”

Charles grinned into the dark. “Miss Ardleigh again, I fear.”

Edward turned back a surprised face. “Indeed?”

“Quite,” Charles said dryly. “She heard word of it from little Betsy.” It was interesting to speculate how much of the information regarding this matter had come from the distaff side.

Edward stopped in the middle of the path. “I don't suppose I should ask how the child came by such facts,” he muttered.

Charles chuckled. “It appears that the young lady was out prowling with her owl one night when she saw a group of men—including, it seems, the elusive Tommy Brock—driving a wagon. They were hauling sacks from Highfields Barn to a boat on the river. Exactly the scenario you surmised.”

Edward's mouth was set, his voice sour. “Her father let her roam too freely, like a boy. Agnes will have to curb that one.”

“I hope not,” Charles heard himself replying rather to his own surprise. “A young woman growing up in these times needs a sense of adventure.”

The thought of Miss Ardleigh came unbidden to his mind. If Betsy grew up with anything like Kate Ardleigh's sense of adventure, she would be fortunate. On the other hand, she might also find herself in serious trouble now and then—especially if she took after Kate's apparent interest in criminal mischief. He grinned wryly. That was an interest that would likely be curbed, however, when Kate became Lady Marsden.

Edward wheeled about with an impatient sound and started off again. “Adventure be damned. A girl who goes prowling about at night may not live to grow up. These people, whoever they are, have already killed once—and a police officer, at that. Who's to say they wouldn't murder a child?”

Or a woman,
Charles thought, remembering that Miss Ardleigh had persisted in ignoring his earlier admonitions of caution. But that was something he could not worry about just now.

“I see no boat,” he remarked, looking down the hill where the broad, green meadow gently shelved into the river. “No sign of a barge.”

“Are you expecting activity tonight?”

“I don't know,” Charles said. “But the barn is just up the way there. It might be well to shutter the lantern.”

A little distance down the path, Highfields Barn emerged, a solid shape out of the shrouding, silvered fog. The silence was broken only by the heavy beat of an owl's wings and its sharp predatory cry, uttered once and then again.

“There's a side door,” Edward whispered, his voice eager, a man ready for action. “And no sign of life. The farmhouse seems dark, too. Shall we risk a look inside?”

“By all means,” Charles said. “My guess is that if our quarry were on the premises, there'd be a wagon. Anyway, if they're in there, we've cornered them.”

“Like rats,” Edward said feelingly.

Charles moved forward, carefully, looking all around. But caution did not seem warranted. No boat, no wagon, and the countryside was cloaked in a profound stillness, as thick and palpable as the fog. At the door, they paused once more.

“I'll go first,” Charles said. “You follow.” Edward seemed about to say something, then nodded. Cautiously, Charles pushed the door inward with his foot and flattened himself against the wall. Hearing nothing, and seeing that the interior of the barn was dark as pitch, he stepped quickly over the threshold, Edward on his heels.

Inside, there was the thick, dusky odour of animals and stored hay and paraffin, as if a lantern had been recently extinguished. All was quiet, cloaked with a heavy, foreboding stillness, and the air itself seemed to have weight. From a nearby corner came the sound of a large rat rustling in the hay. Charles took an uneasy step forward, groping along the wall. He was overtaken by the intuition that he and Edward were not alone in the barn, and the hair rose on the back of his neck.

Then he heard it, a throaty, menacing growl. He stopped, and Edward bumped into him.

“Someone's here,” Charles said.

“Could merely be a dog shut in to guard the animals,” Edward said quietly. “Or kill rats. I heard one rustling just a moment ago—a big one.”

“Someone's here,” Charles insisted, low. “I feel it.”

His insistence was corroborated with a sharp, light sneeze. A
female
sneeze. Charles scowled. “The lantern, Ned,” he said.

Edward unshuttered the lantern and held it up. “Show yourself,” he commanded. “In the name of the Crown.”

At the very edge of the lantern's pale circle, Charles caught sight of a hesitant form. He took two steps forward.

“Miss Ardleigh?” he demanded, incredulous.

For answer, there was another sneeze.

“Miss Ardleigh!” he exclaimed.

Kate Ardleigh stepped into the circle of the lantern's glow. “Good evening, gentlemen,” she said with consummate courtesy, as if this were her drawing room and he and Edward her guests. The brown shawl that covered her head fell back to reveal her russet hair, tendrils escaping untidily around her face, framing it. Behind her Miss Potter stifled another sneeze, and a collie dog—Agnes Oliver's dog Kep—wagged its tail furiously at the sight of Edward. “We did not expect guests,” Miss Ardleigh added dryly. “I fear you were not properly announced.”

Edward chuckled. Charles, however, was too out of sorts to be amused by the woman's deuced playfulness or swayed by her physical attraction.

“Don't you two have the sense to know that you are in danger?” he asked roughly. “What in God's name brought you out in the middle of the night?”

“We have come ratting,” Miss Potter said. “Anyway, it is not the middle of the night. It is scarcely ten.”

Charles ignored her. “What the devil gave you the idea to come here?” he demanded of Miss Ardleigh. “This is no place for a woman.”

But as he heard the harshness in his words, he knew also the passion and ambivalence that prompted it. If the woman lacked the sense to fear for herself, he feared
for
her. He feared because he cared. And he cared, paradoxically, because she had the courage and fortitude to undertake adventures like this one, when other ladies of far less heart were flirting through a waltz or being escorted to dinner by a handsome partner. What irony! He could not have her here, in danger, and yet he would not have her anywhere else. And the worst of it was that she was not his to command or protect. He could not in good conscience concern himself about her, more than in a friendly way.

But Miss Ardleigh could know nothing of the conflict that swirled within him. She pulled herself up, her grey eyes cool and steady, and spoke with a dignified reserve.

“We came here in search of the spot where Sergeant Oliver was killed. And we have found it.”

“You
what?”
Edward was incredulous.

“We found the very spot where the sergeant was murdered,” Miss Potter put in excitedly. She pointed. “Over there. By the wall. There's a bloodstain.”

“Yes,” Miss Ardleigh said. “Beside those sacks.” There was a deep sadness in her voice. “After they shot him, they dragged him to the door. You can see the track of the body.”

For the space of three heartbeats, Charles stared where Miss Potter pointed. And in that brief instant, he saw it all, just as it had to have happened. Artie bending over to fill his pockets with samples from the grain sacks. The grain thieves coming upon him in the dark. Artie turning, the thieves shooting point-blank. And then instead of loading sacks into their wagon, they loaded the dead Artie and drove off with him.

“But
why
was he shot?” Miss Potter asked. “What could have been the motive?”

Miss Ardleigh looked at Charles. “It was the grain, wasn't it?”

“Yes,” Charles replied. His irritation was gone, and his anger. How could he be angry at her for having the courage to search for the truth? “It looks as though a ring of thieves was stealing grain from granaries throughout the district and storing it here. Artie discovered the crime, and was murdered.”

“I see,” Miss Ardleigh murmured. “And Tommy Brock was one of the thieves?”

“So it appears,” Charles said.

“And the farmer who owns this barn,” she added. “I hardly think that grain could have been stored here without his connivance.”

Charles nodded. “Agreed.”

She was thoughtful. “And all this can be proved? I ask, of course, because of the need to refute the false charge of poaching and protect Agnes's pension.”

“It
will
be proved,” Edward said with determination, “when we apprehend the criminals. And that should be shortly.”

“Exellent.” Miss Ardleigh pulled her shawl closer. “There is one more thing,” she said. “When the bailiff Tod spoke to McGregor, he intimated that Tommy Brock was wanted for tonight. Miss Potter and I intended to set up an observation post, but since you are here—”

“Since we are here,” Charles said, “we might as well stay and see what is to be seen, and allow you ladies to return home.”

“Exactly.” Smiling, Miss Ardleigh turned to her companion. “Well, then, Bea, I think we should leave the matter in the capable hands of Sir Charles and Mr. Laken. Do you agree?”

The relief was plain on Miss Potter's face. “I do indeed,” she said vehemently, gathering her skirt in her hand. “We have had quite enough adventure for one evening!”

T
rue to his word, Bradford Marsden placed his mother's emeralds in her hands the next morning, immediately upon his return on the early train from London.

“Thank you, dearest Mama,” he said, “for the loan.”

Lady Marsden, still in her bed with a lace shawl around her shoulders, tried to hide her relief. She had not wished to let Bradford have the emeralds, but he was her only son and dearest joy. Her mother's heart had been touched, and she had offered to help—but impulsively, without fully understanding what was needed. That she had been sorry afterward was not something she wanted him to know. So she only said, in the acerbic tone she used to mask her sentimental feeling for him, “I hope, Bradford, that you have learned your lesson.”

With a toss of his head, Bradford gave her his usual insouciant grin. “I have, dearest Mama.” He sat down on the edge of her bed and reached for her hand. “At any rate, there will be no more need of loans. You will be glad to know that I have come to a decision about my marriage. The lady in question has an ample fortune, which should be quite an adequate supplement to my own.”

Lady Marsden's hand flew to her heart. Like every other mother, she had longed for the day that her only son should wed, should make a match that would not only bring him happiness but bestow honour and fortune upon the Marsden house and perpetuate the family name and title. To that end, she had scrutinized all the great families for suitable candidates and studied each acceptable young woman who was presented during the season. But even though she had identified three or four promising candidates each year—as many as five or six in a good year—none had suited Bradford. Their hair was the wrong colour, or their teeth were crooked, or they could not dance, or they laughed too often or not often enough. Last year, when he attained his thirtieth birthday and was still a bachelor, she had almost despaired of his marrying. But of course that was impossible. He bore the responsibility for carrying on the Marsden name. He
had
to marry, and she was delighted—indeed, jubilant—that he had chosen to do so now, when Eleanor was safely wed and she could devote a mother's loving attention to the nuptials.

“Bradford, my dear!” she exclaimed, seizing his hand and bringing it to her cheek. “How very wonderful! Oh,
do
tell me! Is it Miss Poulett?” Lady Hermione Poulett, the charming daughter of Lord and Lady Poulett, had been her favourite candidate this season. Lady Hermione and her gracious sister Lady Ulrica had been going about with Lady Damer, wife of Sir George Damer, who had been so long at the Foreign Office. Lady Hermione was remarkably pretty, with violet eyes and pale gold hair, and her ball dresses were an absolute wonder. Lady Marsden had fastened her maternal hopes upon Lady Hermione the minute she saw her.