Authors: Jean Rowden
‘I don’t ask you to. I have a plan. My husband can be safely despatched. A week or two later, a month at most, we shall be together. What could be more natural than a grieving widow finding comfort in the company of her poor dead husband’s friend?’
‘You sound very sure of success, but accidents aren’t easy to arrange.’
She draped herself sinuously on top of his body and lowered her lips to his ear. ‘Let me tell you how it’s to be done,’ she whispered. ‘I trust you don’t find this too distracting.’
‘I have a great ability to control myself,’ he said smoothly. ‘Unlike you.’
She laughed, and began to speak softly in his ear.
‘We’re no further forward.’ Sir Martin Haylmer scowled across his desk at Docket. ‘So much for the London detective. He did us no good at all.’
‘To be fair, he got his hands on some of the stolen items,’ Docket reminded him.
‘Yes, and went and lost the damn things again. Tremayle has all but given up. One more robbery and I think he’ll resign. I shall be a laughing stock. Please, tell me you have some small idea as to how we might proceed.’
‘There’s this,’ Docket said, taking something small and glittering from his pocket.
‘A ring from a dead man?’ his lordship shook his head wearily. ‘What do you think that might tell us?’
‘I examined it through a glass. There are marks upon it, the sort a silversmith might be able to identify. Suppose we could find out where and when it was made?’
‘The guilds keep their secrets to themselves,’ Sir Martin was disparaging.
‘Yes, but some men are less honest than others. With your permission I might take the thing to Hagstock and make some enquiries.’
‘Very well, do what you can.’ Sir Martin thrust himself suddenly up from his chair. ‘I’m sick of the whole business, Docket. I need a change of air. If anyone asks I’m too busy to be disturbed. I’ll be joining my son on Clow Top. He’s gone off after rabbits, which sounds a lot more pleasant than chasing thoughts around my head. You’ll see I’m left in peace for a couple of hours, if you value your skinny hide.’
T
here could be no denying the approach of autumn; the trees in Knytte’s gardens and park were a riot of red and gold, although the colours were muted by the heavy morning mist that drifted from the lake. Phoebe stared out at the pearly brightness, seeing Jonah Jackman on his way to work. She felt for him; these days he wore his despondency like a huge weight on his wide shoulders. Her cousin had sworn to leave Knytte and she guessed it would be soon. As far as Phoebe could tell there had been no more night-time trysts at the summer house.
Unlike her cousin, Phoebe felt more settled now, for things had changed. There had been no more talk of finding schools for the Pengoar children. Lord and Lady Pickhurst occasionally summoned the youngsters to their presence; for half an hour Eliza would read to her ladyship, or play at cards with her, while his lordship talked to his nephew, their heads together over old maps and documents concerning the estate.
During her most benevolent moments, Phoebe thought perhaps she had misjudged her mistress, but the previous day, when she fetched the children from the salon, Phoebe caught an unguarded glance darted at Rodney from Lady Pickhurst’s narrowed catlike eyes, and saw the hatred in them.
Shaking herself from her reverie, Phoebe opened the door that linked her room to the nursery; the children might already be awake.
A scream tore through the house, a sound of such horror that it seemed to stop her heart. It was not the cry of some hysterical young maid, but that of a man, full-throated and raw. As Phoebe stood frozen, Eliza came rushing from her bed, flushed of face and wide-eyed. She flung herself at the governess, sobbing wildly.
Rodney was only a pace behind the little girl. ‘What’s happened?’ the boy demanded, as his sister hid her face in Phoebe’s skirts. ‘What was that noise?’
‘I don’t know. I can only imagine one of the pigs must have escaped from the home farm and got into the garden,’ Phoebe said. ‘It’s amazing what an awful screech they can make.’ She clasped her hands together to stop their shaking. ‘Anyway, there’s no call for you to be parading about in your night attire. Rodney, you are old enough to see to yourself, since Annie isn’t here yet. I shall help your sister. Come along now, hurry.’
With her ears at full stretch Phoebe soothed the little girl and helped her dress; she could make out the scurry of running feet, followed by the muttering of voices. The focus of activity was somewhere below the nursery, perhaps in the old library. It was strange, for none of those rooms were in use.
As she was brushing Eliza’s hair she heard the sound of horses being ridden at speed down the drive. Glancing out of the window, Phoebe saw men mounted on two of Lord Pickhurst’s fastest hunters, one taking the direct route across country that would take him to Trembury, while the other was heading for the main road.
Resisting the temptation to open the door and listen, or go seeking for information, Phoebe concentrated on the children.
She would not add to whatever chaos reigned in the great house at that moment; if her help was needed it would be asked for. Annie had still not appeared, and Phoebe could imagine the servant’s hall buzzing like a wasp’s nest stirred by a stick.
Rodney went to open the door but she called him back. ‘You are not to leave the nursery this morning without my express permission,’ Phoebe said.
The boy looked mutinous, and she shook her head severely at him. ‘You will behave as a gentleman should, Master Pengoar. Please remember who you are, and show your sister a good example. Ring the bell,’ she added. ‘No matter what has taken place, Annie should be here and tending to her duties.’
‘But,’ he began, tugging hard at the bell pull, ‘suppose—’
‘We shall suppose nothing,’ Phoebe said firmly. ‘I have heard no shout of “fire”, and I know of no other reason for us to leave the nursery until you have performed your morning task and eaten your breakfast. We shall—’
The door burst open and Annie ran in, her hair escaping untidily from its cap, her apron askew and her cheeks flushed. ‘Oh, Miss Drake, of all things! you’ll never guess—’
‘Hush!’ Phoebe cut across the torrent of words, stepping past the girl to close the door. ‘Look at the state of you. You should be ashamed to appear looking so unkempt, no matter what’s happened. Straighten your cap, and calm down.’
‘But it’s his lordship.’ Annie wasn’t to be silenced, even as she pushed her hair out of sight. ‘They just found him.’
‘I asked you to be silent, you silly girl,’ Phoebe said, taking the maid by the shoulder and giving her a little shake. ‘Remember the children. Think before you speak.’
Her words fell on deaf ears. The maid was in a state of almost hysterical excitement.
‘But we could all be murdered in our beds,’ she shrieked. ‘His lordship’s dead!’
Two miles away, at the Dower House, the household was preparing to welcome its new master for the first time. Tomms stood looking from a window high in the roof. Given carte blanche by his indulgent employer, he had chosen the largest of the attics for himself; from here he could see across the park and make out the chimneys of Knytte in one direction, and the main road running north and south in the other.
Being apparently tired of waiting for the alterations to be completed, and claiming that he didn’t wish to outstay his welcome at Knytte, his master was spending two days with an acquaintance near Hagstock. Mr Mortleigh was expected to arrive in time for luncheon. Tomms moved from one window to another, standing in silence and listening to the sounds of the household down below; he was satisfied that all was as it should be.
Two horses were being led from the stables for their morning exercise. In the garden an old man was raking fallen leaves from the lawns. Tomms lifted his gaze to the distance. Far off, glimpsed through the trees, he saw movement; a man was riding fast towards the Trembury Road. Moments later another horseman became visible, this time heading straight across the park to take the shortest route to Hagstock.
Tomms gave an abrupt nod, although his expression didn’t change. Turning from the window, he dusted an imaginary speck of dirt from his immaculate sleeve. He started downstairs, the picture of the perfect manservant, who, in his master’s absence, had nothing on his mind but his breakfast.
Far across the moors, a slow procession was winding its way through the boggy wilderness. It had left a wayside inn at
dawn with none to see but a yawning potboy. Two men led the way on foot, their clothes and demeanour marking them as miners. Behind came a blood horse ridden by a slender young man, alongside a cob bearing a larger man who rode one handed, his left arm held in a discreet black sling. A small wagon followed the riders, with a youth at the head of the rough-coated pony between the shafts. In the bed of the wagon lay a long narrow burden covered by a heap of sacking, topped with two spades and a short ladder.
Mist shifted around the feet of men and beasts, masking the faint path; sometimes it rose to above head-height to completely obscure their vision. The going was slow even when the mist cleared, for the track had barely been used since the mine at its end was abandoned some thirty years before. The cortege moved in silence. When the jagged top of a ruined chimney came into view the slender young man exclaimed and pointed, but his companion said nothing, merely nodding assent. Coming within fifty yards of their objective the wagon was halted; the pony at once dropped its head to graze on the rough greenery, while the two horses were handed into the care of the boy.
The tools were lifted from the wagon by the miners, and the four men trudged together down the slight dip beyond the ruined mine chimney. Still nobody spoke until they stood on the lip of a steep-sided pit.
‘You gents will want to cover your noses,’ one of the miners said, pushing a tentative heel into the edge of the hole.
‘Aye, an’ mebbe your eyes,’ added the other, peering down. ‘Tain’t purty.’
‘Just do your job,’ the younger man ordered tautly. ‘Should we not bring the box?’
‘Not till we see ’ow to get the beggar out, Mr Docket.’
His partner gave a hoarse laugh. ‘Could be him’ll come by the
shovelful, ’twouldn’t be the first time. ’Member when Wheal Dinnock caved in, Dickon, thirty year gone, an’ it took us six weeks to reach the last on ’em. Ye never saw such a sight.’
‘That will do.’ The older man had made no sound until now. He spoke quietly, but his order was instantly obeyed. Stationing himself at the rim of the pit, he watched as the miners manoeuvred the ladder into place and climbed down into its depths, gingerly avoiding the shapeless something that lay at the bottom. Docket, a scented handkerchief to his nose, stepped close enough to give the object a brief glance; he recoiled in horror and hurried away. Bending double behind a gorse bush, he retched noisily.
His companion returned to the wagon and lifted the covering off the plain coffin. He carried the sacking back to the pit and tossed it down to the miners without a word. Unflinching, he stood and watched as they went about their gristly business.
Nearly an hour passed before the little procession started back the way it had come, the pony leaning into its work now the coffin had an occupant. Docket’s face was grey; he led the way, keeping up a pace the pony couldn’t match, intent on distancing himself from the stench which dogged their footsteps.
‘You really think this ghastly business was worthwhile?’ he demanded irritably, when the man on the cob caught up with him. ‘What can possibly be learnt when the body is in such a state? He might have been twenty years old or sixty, a dwarf or a giant, for all you could tell by looking at him.’
‘I’m told this doctor in Hagstock is prepared to study the remains, no matter how badly decayed they are,’ Sergeant Beddowes replied. ‘There was a case in London not long ago when a murder victim was identified by the peculiar shape of his teeth.’
‘But you claim you saw this man when he’d only been dead a day or two. You must already know more about him than we can learn by looking at that …’ he broke off, his face blanching. ‘If I had my way we’d have buried him where we found him.’
‘Even villains like to have the proper words spoken over them by a parson,’ Beddowes said mildly, ‘and we have no idea whether this man was a saint or a sinner.’
Docket looked a little shame-faced. ‘I suppose you think me weak.’
‘I think you’re lucky,’ Beddowes said. ‘As a soldier I grew accustomed to sights it’s better not to see. As to what I saw last time I was here, that’s partly why I’m so curious. His face was battered beyond all recognition. Either his attacker was driven by a terrible hatred, or he wanted to be sure the body couldn’t be recognized.’
‘But who would see it?’ Docket objected. ‘You were left for dead, and out here the body wasn’t likely to be found.’
‘Guilt can do strange things to a man’s mind,’ Beddowes observed. ‘A murderer can never be sure that his crime won’t come back to haunt him. I still have hopes that your enquiries of the silversmith may bring us a name to go with our faceless man.’
‘At best he’ll only suggest the name of a man who might be persuaded to help us,’ Docket said. ‘I see now why you’re so well thought of in your profession; you don’t give up, do you?’
‘Not when there’s a worthwhile line of inquiry to be followed,’ the sergeant replied, ‘and it makes a difference when somebody tries to kill me. But you’re right, I’ve never been good at admitting defeat.’
‘Unlike Sir Martin,’ Docket commented. ‘He told me quite openly that as long as there are no more jewel robberies, he’d be happy to let the matter rest. Since there seems to be little
hope of recovering the stolen items, even if the culprit is apprehended, the affair will always be remembered as a failure. He would prefer that the process of forgetting should begin as soon as possible.’
‘He thinks like a politician,’ Beddowes said. ‘He might get his wish soon enough. I suspect he’s written to my superiors and asked for me to be recalled, but until I receive a direct order I shan’t be returning to London.’
‘Somebody’s in a hurry,’ Docket commented as they turned onto the main road. A rider, leaning low over the sweating neck of his mount, was spurring hard in their direction. As he approached he slowed, and Docket brought his horse to a stand. ‘It’s Woodham. What’s the matter, man?’
‘I came to find you, Mr Docket,’ Woodham said breathlessly. ‘And the sergeant. Sir Martin asks that you go at once to Knytte. Lord Pickhurst is dead. It looks as if the thief has struck again, only this time he did bloody murder.’
Knytte looked serenely indifferent to the drama unfolding within its ancient stone walls; the mist had cleared and the house glowed in the soft autumn sun. A groom came to take the horses, with only a slight delay, and the liveried footman who opened the door bowed to the two men with no show of emotion, though his face was flushed, and he seemed uncertain what to do with them once they were inside. A hysterical wail could be heard from somewhere above. Muted sobs from the direction of the kitchen were abruptly cut off by the noisy closing of a door.
‘I am afraid Lady Pickhurst is indisposed,’ the man said. He gulped. ‘And I very much regret that his lordship—’
‘We heard,’ Docket said, ‘that’s why we’re here, to give what assistance we can.’
The footman looked relieved. ‘Inspector Tremayle arrived
some time ago, sir. He was in the old library, which is where his lordship was found, but he stepped outside a few moments ago.’
‘While we wait for his return it might be helpful if we have a look at the scene of the crime,’ Beddowes suggested.
‘I’m sorry, sir, but the inspector gave orders that nobody should be allowed in that part of the house without his permission.’
Docket seemed prepared to argue, but Beddowes nodded. ‘The case is under the inspector’s jurisdiction, Mr Docket,’ he pointed out.
‘Then let him be told we’re here,’ Docket said.
The footman bowed. ‘Very well, sir. If you gentlemen would care to wait in the morning room, I’ll send somebody to tell him you’ve arrived.’