Death at Gallows Green (31 page)

Charles had not said that Agnes had not killed Tod. He had said that he didn't see
how
she might have killed him.

Between the two there was a world of difference, a spectral world haunted by Agnes's motives. Artie and Betsy. Both beloved, both dead, both at the hand of Tod.

Now Tod was dead, too. Agnes, if she had known what he had done, could very well have killed him. And Charles, persistent and perceptive as he was, and dedicated to the art of detection, would undoubtedly discover the truth of the matter—even if it destroyed her.

And at that moment, Edward hated his friend.

A
rthur Oliver and Russell Tod were indeed dead, and nothing more was to be done for them in this world.

But Betsy was not.

Yes, Betsy Oliver was alive, although not at all happy with her lot in life. She lay trussed like a plump harvest pig, with a rag tied in her mouth in place of a baked apple, on a heap of dry, scratchy hay in a lean-to shed a short distance from the smithy. Her shirt was gone and her boots, and a filthy, scratchy blanket smelling of horse had been thrown over her.

Still, until the last few hours, Betsy had not been unbearably uncomfortable. Although she was securely bound and her feet and hands had long since gone numb, she was warm and dry, and she had not been lonely. The man with the pointed chin and scraggly red hair had twice come into the shed to remove her gag and feed her porridge and brown bread and give her milk to drink. And yesterday afternoon, through a crack in the board by her head, she had watched Uncle Ned and Sir Charles arrive, They were just about to break open the door and rescue her, when the smith's boy (a loud, loutish creature, frightfully inconsiderate of small birds and lizards) had galloped around the corner, waving his black cap and shouting that she had drowned.

What utter nonsense, she had thought angrily. How could anyone imagine that she might drown when her father had always boasted that she could swim as well as any pike? But no one seemed to raise that question. Voices from the smithy drifted into her prison: she heard that her boot had been found, as well as her shirt, and that the river was being dragged for her body. This intelligence was far more painful than the ropes that bound her, because she knew how sad and grief-stricken and lonely her mother must be. She longed to run home and fling her arms around her mother and tell her that the sharp-chinned man had only made it appear that she had drowned and she was perfectly alive. And not only alive, but less lonely, likely, than her mother, for she had Jemima Puddle-duck for company, and Mr. Browne, who sat on a limb outside the shed, hooting a raspy encouragement.

It was perhaps not surprising that Mr. Browne should have followed Betsy and her captors and stationed himself as a watchful guard outside her prison. Or that Kep, such a good tracking dog, should sniff her out and stay close by until the stupid smith's boy had laid hands on him and taken him away. But how did it happen that Jemima Puddle-duck had located her so speedily?

Betsy could give herself little credit for this fortuitous turn of events. The fact was that there was a small opening in one of the boards at the back of the shed, and Jemima—determined duck that she was—had discovered it. This event had apparently occurred several days before, for four large eggs lay like polished ivory in a nest in the dry straw. This morning, Jemima had slipped through the hole and settled herself amiably upon her four eggs, evidencing no surprise at finding Betsy in the audience. She sat there for an hour, yawning occasionally, now preening a wing, now her breast feathers. When she had finished her motherly duty, she got up and examined her fifth egg, nibbling it fondly with her orange bill. She then carefully covered all the eggs, quacked a maternal farewell to them and to Betsy, and went out briskly in search of her breakfast.

With Jemima's cheerful company, the heartening calls of Mr. Browne, and the sharp-chinned man's porridge and bread, Betsy had been less worried about herself than she was about her mother. But the sharp-chinned man had not come back since his dispute with the other man last night, and she was beginning to fear that he might not come back at all, especially considering the circumstances under which he had left.

Betsy had been asleep in the velvety darkness, dreaming that she was at home with her mother and father, having a late tea at the kitchen table. At first she had thought that the voices—the whispers and hisses and muttered curses—were somehow part of her dream. She even heard her father's name, and he heard it too. In the dream, he got up from the table and reached for his policeman's hat and said he would be back when he had done an urgent errand. But then she woke and pulled herself into a little ball under her scratchy blanket, realizing that her father was in the dream but the voices were real. The men who spoke were in the cottage on the other side of the shed. She looked through the crack and saw them, standing in front of the window, the light behind them.

At first Betsy was frightened by the harshness of the voices, that of the sharp-chinned man and the other. But her fear wore off a little as they kept on arguing, the voices rising and falling, only a word here or there distinguishable. This had gone on for a long time, while Betsy dozed and woke and dozed again. Then she woke to see them come out of the cottage, carrying a lantern. In the circle of light, their figures were quite clear: the sharp-chinned man and the other, a stoutish man with black whiskers and a hobble. They went around the corner of the cottage, and a moment later she heard the muffled hoofs of a horse. The sharp-chinned man had not come back.

That had happened last night. It was now mid-afternoon, judging from the clamour of the school children across the way and the loud rumbling of her empty stomach, and Betsy was feeling horribly hungry and thirsty. Jemima's ivory eggs lay beside her, lightly covered with straw, tempting. If worse came to worst, she might somehow contrive to break an egg and eat it, although the idea of raw egg was not particularly appealing, and the notion of eating one of Jemima's babies even less so.

But still, one did what one had to do. And with that last resort in mind, she lay back to watch an industrious brown spider who came out of a crack in the wall and began to drape a silver web between a protruding nail and the broken handle of a rusty garden rake, preparatory to trapping and trussing up unfortunate bluebottles.

B
ea's cold was not dangerous, but her nose was as red as a berry and she was plagued with great sneezes, so she confined herself to her bedroom. On the morning after their discovery of Tod's body, Kate joined her there, and Amelia brought in their breakfasts: tea, crumpets and fresh strawberries, and the Colchester newspaper. On the front page was an article about their grim find. It concluded with Chief Constable Pell's speculation that Russell Tod had been the mastermind of the grain thieves who had plagued the Dedham area.

“Now that he is dead, the ring is likely without a leader,” the Chief Constable was quoted as having said. “The police are to be congratulated upon resolving this matter.” Kate read the statement once more out loud, wondering exactly what it was that the police had resolved, and how.

“I suppose it was Brock who killed him,” Bea said thickly, and sneezed. “They must have argued over money. Perhaps Tod refused to pay what he had promised.” She accepted a cup of hot tea from Kate, laced heavily with lemon and honey. “It is the sort of criminal act one might expect to read in one of your novels, Kate.”

“Yes,” Kate replied, testy. “But Beryl Bardwell would not leave a clue like that woman's heelprint if Brock were the killer.” She buttered a crumpet and put it on her plate.

Bea sighed and took her handkerchief out of the pocket of her dressing gown. “
Agnes
is the only woman we know with a reason to kill that man.”

“I'm afraid you're right,” Kate said regretfully. “But suppose there was another woman about whom we know nothing—perhaps a woman scorned or abandoned. I am certain that such a man as Tod is perfectly capable of that sort of thing. Perhaps it's worth looking into, if only to distract attention from Agnes.”

Bea stared at her. “You don't
really
believe that Agnes . . .” Her voice trailed off and her watery blue eyes grew large. “You
do
!”

“No,” Kate said, “of course I don't.” She poured herself a cup of tea and added cream to it before she spoke. “But I fear that others may believe it. Especially when they discover that she has no alibi.”

“No alibi?”

“She cannot prove where she was the night Tod was killed,” Kate said. “On my way to Marsden Manor to fetch Sir Charles's plaster, I stopped to ask.” The visit to Agnes had been, in fact, the reason for Kate's volunteering to go to Marsden Manor. She wanted to reach Agnes before anyone else.

Bea's voice was worried. “And what did she say?”

“That she was restless and went for a walk along the river very late in the evening—hoping, I suppose, that she might find some trace of Betsy.”

“I suppose the next question has to do with boots.” Bea blew her nose.

Kate tried hard not to reveal the concern she felt. “She has a pair of black ones with small round heels, which she wears to church. I did not pursue the matter because I did not wish to alarm her. I can only hope that the heels do not match Sir Charles' plaster casts.”

Bea sat back in bed with an irritated look on her face. “One could wish that Sir Charles were not so diligent in his detecting.” She picked up her cup and sipped her tea. “Not that I believe for a moment that Agnes did it, of course.”

Kate nodded and finished her crumpet. “It's really most unfortunate that Sir Charles was summoned. Edward was so relieved to find Tod dead that he was not inclined to examine the scene very carefully. When he first arrived, he was sure that Tod had been killed in an accident with a horse. Without Sir Charles, those heelprints would have been trodden underfoot when the body was removed.”

Bea pulled a bowl of strawberries toward her. “Well, then,” she said with resolve, “you must not linger, Kate. If the evidence Sir Charles has discovered seems to point to Agnes, then the evidence is surely wrong. Brock is the murderer, I'm sure of it. It's up to you to find the clues that point to his guilt. You'd best get on with it.”

Kate stood. “You won't mind if I leave you all alone?”

“I'm hardly alone,” Bea replied with a little laugh. She pointed to the hedgehog curled into a ball in the middle of a pillow, her shiny prickles smoothed flat. “If Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle proves unsociable, there's always Hunca Munca. And I have my sketchbook. I was thinking of beginning another story.”

“Well, you've had plenty of adventures to draw upon,” Kate said as she turned to leave the room. “You shouldn't run out of ideas.”

Bea gave a sad little sigh. “My dear Kate,” she said, shaking her head, “when I wished for adventure, someone should have thrust a handkerchief in my mouth.”

 

“Well, but I can't help it, can I?” P.C. Bradley demanded irritably, “It's not
my
idea to question the woman. I was ordered. All I'm asking is your company during the interrogation, and that was ordered too.”

Edward could feel the anger welling up within him like molten lava. “For God's sake, man, it's insane! No one in his right mind could accuse that poor, bereaved woman of—”

“No one has,” P.C. Bradley broke in wearily. He shook his head. “I'm just supposed to ask a few questions, that's all. It's part of the investigation.”

Edward spoke very quietly, damming his fury. “What questions?”

Bradley looked uneasy. “What she knew about the victim. How much she knew about her husband's affairs.” He hesitated, and added slowly, “Where she was on the night Tod was killed.”

Edward felt as if he were drowning in a sea of fire. “You can't be serious! What makes you think she knew
anything
about—”

“For God's sake, man, I don't know.” Bradley's mouth went firm. “Take your complaints to Colchester. I'm just doing what I'm told to do.” He reached for his hat. “Are you coming, or am I to tell Chief Constable Pell that you have disobeyed a direct order?”

 

Garbed in a split tweed skirt, (not quite so comfortable but less controversial than bloomers), Kate rode her bicycle to Manningtree. The Pig 'n' Whistle was situated in a wide, open street, facing the quay. It was a Tudor building with generously pargeted stucco panels, window boxes filled with spring flowers, and gleaming diamond-paned windows. The Dutch door hung open and a black-and-white cat sunned itself on the stone step, which had been worn deep by the tread of many feet.

The publican's wife was stoutish, with sallow skin and a sour mouth. “Tommy Brock?” She frowned and indicated a direction with her head. “In the cottage behind, if he's t' home.” Her dark eyes glinted suspiciously. “Wot 're ye wantin' him for?”

Kate fell back on the lie she had invented for Mrs. McGregor several days before. “His sister has given me to understand that he might be available to do some work. She is the one who directed me here.”

The woman's face brightened. “Oo, aye!” she exclaimed. “By all means, then, go an' see if ye kin knock him up, an' if not, leave yer name an' where he kin reach ye, an' I'll see that he does.”