Death at Gallows Green (36 page)

“Agreed,” Kate said.

But as she looked out the carriage window, she thought of Sir Charles and weighed her own single life against the feelings that had grown in her for him. She did not feel the kind of wistful, painful longing that the romantic novels associated with love, nor did she wonder frantically whether she had been too eager or too chilly in her demeanour toward him, or too bold or not bold enough. But she did wonder what he felt for her, if he felt anything at all. And she did think with affection about his concern for Agnes and Betsy, and with respect and admiration about the clear, insightful reasoning that had so neatly impaled Chief Constable Pell. And it did occur to her that perhaps she had lived singly almost long enough.

“W
ell, I am pleased, I must say, Ned.”

“I hoped you would be, Charles.” Edward loosened the reins to let the horse have its head on the straightaway just outside Chelmsford and glanced at his friend beside him in the gig. “It's thanks to you, old friend.”

Charles gave him a querying look. “How so?”

“If it had not been for the scientific evidence you brought, Pell's guilt would remain in question. I doubt that he would even be arraigned, given the reluctance of the police bureaucracy to publicly launder its filthy linen.”

“You don't think Betsy's testimony would be enough, then?”

“The word of a little girl, against that of a respected officer of the constabulary?” Edward gave a short laugh. “Murderer or no murderer, the man would remain free, to corrupt other young police officers.”

Charles's face was sober. “I suppose you're right, although for some reason I had the impression that police corruption was confined to London,”

“Hardly. Men are greedy everywhere.” Edward spoke with the passion he felt in his heart. “But once Pell is convicted, all will be put on notice that such a thing will not be tolerated.”

Charles gave him a sideways glance. “The constabulary needs men like you in positions of authority, Ned. I saw you talking with Hacking after the arraignment. Does the superintendent have something in mind for you?”

A cart came toward them and Edward pulled the horse to one side and gave it room to pass in the narrow lane. “As a matter of fact,” he said, “he has begun to shift men about. Wainwright is to be promoted to Pell's position.”

“Bravo!” Charles exclaimed. “Now perhaps Wainwright will be able to install that telephone for which he has been chafing these past months.” He turned to Edward, his face keen with interest. “And you, Ned? Will you have Wainwright's place?”

Edward felt himself tighten inwardly at the thought. “That is Hacking's idea,” he admitted, lifting the reins again. It had not come at him like a bolt out of the blue, of course. Since his several interviews with Hacking and Wainwright about the investigation into Pell's corrupt practices, he had the impression that both of them thought highly of his abilities. Still, it was a considerable jump from constable to inspector, and there were several sergeants who might be expected to look askance at the promotion.

“And you?” Charles inquired thoughtfully. “What is your idea, Ned?”

Edward sighed. “I don't know, Charlie. I am an ambitious man. I have long wanted a larger district and more responsibility. And the promotion would mean a substantial increase in income at a time when I shall want more money.” He paused. “I intend to wed Agnes, you know. I have asked and she has agreed, although we shall have to wait until the end of her mourning year.”

It seemed like a century away, the end of Agnes's mourning. Edward yearned for it to be over so he could make her his own, as she had been in his imagination so many times before. But he had waited a dozen years; he could wait as many months, with the certainty that in the end he would have her and their life together could begin.

He looked sideways to catch his friend's reaction. “You did know, or surmise?”

“I did,” Charles said with evident satisfaction. “My heartiest congratulations, old chap. She's a fine woman.”

“Yes,” Edward said, and laughed a little., feeling like a schoolboy. “I was a fool once, and let Artie make off with her. I don't intend to be a fool again.” He sobered. “But she's had a hard time of it these years, living on a constable's wage. It seems almost unconscionable to ask her to continue, if by accepting promotion I can bring her more.”

Charles's voice was wry. “But some part of you is not delighted with the idea of moving to Colchester and becoming a police inspector?”

Edward could not help but laugh. “Isn't it queer? For years that was my ambition—to rise in the ranks, to gain in experience and opportunity, to make a name for myself. But now . . .” He shrugged, scarcely knowing what to make of the melee of feelings within. “Now, I'm not sure. Dedham is a fine village, quiet, orderly, a friendly place for children to spend their young years. And Napthen's little farm, or its like—that idea has its charms, too. I have saved enough money to have it, or nearly so.”

“Ah-hah,” Charles said lightly, smiling. “I thought as much. Agnes in the dairy, Betsy in the market garden, a rosycheeked little Edward helping his father herd the cows. An island of pastoral peace and placidity amid the tumultuous sea of modern civilization.” He chuckled and fetched up a pair of lines that Edward recognized from his long-ago school days. “ ‘At last he rose, and twitch'd his mantle blue; to-morrow to fresh woods, and pastures new.' That's it, eh? A twitch of the blue mantle, and you're off to tend the sheep, with Milton under one arm.”

Edward laughed again, helplessly. “When you put it like that—But yes, I suppose so. It certainly
is
peaceful. Agnes and I and our children would have a good life.”

Charles turned to look at him steadily. “And yet, there is something alluring about the Colchester position, is there not? Aside from any personal ambition, that is.”

“There is,” Edward said, grateful to his friend for posing both sides of the question so clearly. “I suppose I could make a change in the way police business is done. If I were there, paying attention as attention should be paid, men like Pell might find it more difficult to do their dirty work under cover of the law.”

“Suppose, man?” Charles clapped him on the back. “It's not a matter of supposition! A man of your brains, your integrity—you' re what the constabulary needs, Ned.”

“You're suggesting that I should do it?”

“I'm suggesting that you and Agnes ought to confer and decide together. If both of you honestly prefer the cows and cheeses, then have your farm. I shall gladly visit your rustic retreat and revel in the delights of the country. But if there is a question in your minds, give the Colchester position a go and see what happens. You can always have the farm, can you not?”

“We can,” Edward said, feeling much easier. “I will bring it up to her this very evening.” He turned to Charles. “And what of you, my friend?”

Charles, who was applying his attention to a blue tit in the hedge, did not answer immediately. “Well?” he replied after a moment. “What of me? Ah, yes, what of me?”

Edward felt his question had been bold, but Charles had, after all, offered him advice. And he had seen the unguarded way his friend looked at the lady when he thought no one was watching. He knew Charles to be a man who placed his affection deliberately, but not one to make speed. Miss Ardleigh appeared to fancy him, Edward thought, from his observations of her behaviour in Agnes's kitchen several days before. But one could not read a lady's heart in her face—especially a lady as independent-minded as Miss Ardleigh. That she had resisted marriage as long as she had was testimony to her commitment to the single life. Still, just a day or two ago, one of the Marsden kitchen servants had let it slip in the butcher shop that Bradford Marsden fancied her, and the Marsden name and title had to be an attractive incentive to any woman. If Charles did not look out, he might find himself left behind, as Edward had been a dozen years before. And that would be a great pity, Edward thought, remembering with a melting in his stomach Agnes's soft, yielding “yes” when she agreed at last to marry him.

“I have told you my intention,” he said. “What is yours? With regard to Miss Ardleigh, that is.”

Charles continued to consider the blue tit singing merrily in the tangle of sprouts growing out of a pollarded willow. At last he spoke.

“It is not my intention that is in question, my dear Ned. It is Miss Ardleigh's.”

“T
he business was safely done, was it?” Charles asked. He did not allude directly to the emeralds, but Bradford knew of what he spoke.

“Well and safely done,” Bradford replied. “Mama is pleased.”

He laid aside the paper he was reading, an engineering description of a new motor car built by John Henry Knight, a three-wheeler propelled by a rear-mounted engine with a single horizontal cylinder, powered by kerosene. He had been to see the car and talk with its developer, who was already soliciting the interest of investors. His face darkened with annoyance. “Mama is not at all pleased, however, with me.”

Charles quirked an eyebrow. “No?” he asked, sitting in the leather chair beside the fire. “She does not approve of your interest in motor cars, I take it.”

“Worse than that,” Bradford said wryly. He opened a drawer, took out a leather cigar case, and carried it to Charles. “She does not approve of my choice of wives.”

“I have my pipe, thanks,” Charles said absently, shaking his head to the cigars. “She does not approve of Miss Ardleigh?”

“Unfortunately, no.” Bradford took a cigar, lit it, and sat down across from Charles. “It appears that the lady is too modern for Mama—and a little too common.”

Charles gave an odd chuckle. “Too common, eh? Your mother has interesting standards.”

Bradford pulled on his cigar. “It's very annoying,” he said. The conversation with Mama had taken place several days ago, but he was still stinging from its effect. “It seemed to me the perfect answer to a vexing question. A lady of means, whose property adjoins that of the manor, whose person is reasonably attractive, and whose wit—” He waved his cigar. “You understand.”

“I do, indeed,” Charles said soberly. “Property, proximity, personableness. It would seem that your mother would applaud your choice.”

Bradford sighed. “So it would. However, she does not. She has forbidden it.”

“Owing to—?”

Bradford stood and paced restlessly to the window, which gave onto the green slope of the west lawn. Eleanor and Patsy, his younger sisters, just returned from Paris, were playing a savage game of croquet.

“Owing to Mama's assessment of the lady's costume and character,” he said, feeling petulant. “She wears bloomers and rides a bicycle. And there was apparently some sort of rumour about her and the constable.” He went back to the chair and dropped into it, stretching out his legs.

Charles did not respond immediately. When he did, his voice was serious. “And do you intend to respect Lady Henrietta's interdiction?”

Bradford laid his head back against the chair and frowned at the ceiling. “Respect it? Of course I will respect it. I could not marry someone of whom Mama and Papa did not approve. Mama would make life impossible for us both, and Papa would very likely cut off my allowance.”

“And what of your heart?” Charles's question was mild.

“My heart?” Bradford gave a short laugh that expressed only a small part of the bitterness he felt. “Is any man in my station allowed to have a heart? If I am to marry, it will be someone like Hermione Poulett or Madeleine Dyke, neither of whom has the wit of a windlestraw.” He pulled on his cigar and blew out a puff of blue smoke. “
If
I marry, which I doubt,” he added, staring up into the cloud. “The idea of it puts me in a cursed funk. I cannot abide a witless woman.”

Charles stood. “I take it, then, that you did not call on Miss Ardleigh, as you planned?”

Bradford shook his head gloomily, reflecting that he had acted a cad. “Sent her a note saying I'd been called to London. Coward's way, of course.” He sighed. ”But what could I do?”

“What indeed?” Charles said.

Bradford stirred uncomfortably. “My most immediate problem is how to repay the money you loaned me.”

“Not to worry,” Charles said. He seemed to study the fire. “I presume that you would not take it amiss if I should call on Miss Ardleigh?”

Bradford stared. “You?” He caught cigar smoke in his windpipe and began to cough.
“You?”

Charles turned, half-smiling. “Is it strange that I, too, should find Miss Ardleigh attractive?”

Bradford felt suddenly and uneasily envious. “Strange?” He coughed again. “Not strange, old chap. Utterly mystifying.” He went to the sideboard, unstoppered the whiskey decanter, and poured two glasses. “I had given you up for a bachelor—and now to find that you fancy the very lady to whom I had yielded my heart!”

Charles's eyes were merry. “If you will pardon me, Marsden, your heart has the constancy of a crocodile—and about as much tenderness. And I have remained a bachelor only until I found a woman worthy of my interest.”