Authors: Jean Rowden
Rodney Pengoar’s nightmares had returned since his uncle’s death. Phoebe spent every night in the armchair by his bed, holding him until his screams subsided into sobs and he was able to sleep again. Her own fears troubled her, almost as nebulous as those which haunted the boy. Since that fateful night she’d hardly slept.
The meeting with Sergeant Beddowes had disturbed her; she was glad he didn’t see the case against Jonah as hopeless, but she wished it hadn’t been at such a cost. What must the detective think of her? She’d been forced to speak of such indelicate subjects; she flushed as she recalled how much she’d revealed to him; her promise to Jonah was not only broken but shattered.
The boy turned in his sleep, muttering restlessly, and Phoebe leant forward to lay a hand upon his damp forehead, murmuring soothing words until he settled into a deeper slumber. The uncomfortable position gave her pins and needles, and she rose to walk about the room. She peeped between the curtains; the sky was clear, and the garden lay still and serene under the light of the stars. There didn’t appear to be a breath of wind.
Movement caught her eye. A man flitted across the path, close to the lake. He was only visible for a moment. Phoebe put a hand to her mouth; she had almost exclaimed aloud. Whoever that was, they had no wish to be seen, and she could be quite certain it wasn’t Jonah. She crept to the door and stood with her ear pressed against it, hardly daring to breathe.
A creak of floorboards, the faintest hush of a foot on the carpet, told her all she needed to know. Phoebe looked back at Rodney. He was sleeping peacefully, one hand curled against his cheek. She moved the lamp onto a high shelf, safely beyond his reach. With luck he wouldn’t wake, but if he did he wouldn’t find himself alone in the dark.
She hurried to her own room, dressing swiftly in the black mourning clothes she had worn for the funeral. Remembering how she’d stumbled in the dark last time she ventured through the house so late at night, she paused to light a candle, then very quietly opened the door and crept out into the corridor.
The candle sent shadows spiralling wildly around the walls, in constant danger of being extinguished as Phoebe hurried down the stairs and along the lower corridor. She didn’t allow herself to think of the risk she was taking, though she gave an involuntary shudder as she passed the door to the old library. Very soon she stood under the vaulted stone
ceiling in the refectory. The sound of her footsteps produced an eerie echo as she crossed the room and stepped into the cloisters. There was no lamp left in the first carrel. Bending low in the corner, Phoebe allowed some drips of hot wax to puddle on the stone floor, and left the candle standing there instead. The flame flickered a little as she turned to leave, then steadied.
She crept towards the summerhouse, trying to make no sound. Her breathing became fast and shallow, and her heart pounded in her chest. Stopping in the depths of shadow beside a holly bush, she waited and listened. Growing cold, her nerves taut and her muscles aching with the effort of keeping still for so long, Phoebe stood straining her eyes and ears. She heard a faint rustle from somewhere behind her and turned her head; a badger lumbered by, so close she could have touched it with her shoe. It went past the open door of the summerhouse, pausing for a second to sniff at the air, then moving on.
Phoebe heaved a sigh, and the terror that had kept her immobile for so long left her. The summerhouse was empty. Where else might Lady Pickhurst go? Lovers would seek a rendezvous that was secure from prying eyes. The dewy grass had soaked her shoes. Phoebe shivered, remembering what she’d seen from her window, and chose the path that led to the lake.
‘
S
how me how much you’ve missed me,’ Lucille demanded, as Mortleigh rose from the couch where he’d been waiting for her. ‘I hardly saw you at the church.’
He opened her robe to kiss her breasts. ‘If I’d stayed a moment longer I swear I’d have taken you there and then. Do you have to swathe yourself in this wretched black?’ He finished undressing her then stood to look at her nakedness. ‘Imagine those solemn fools at the graveside. They’d have been screaming blasphemy, wringing their pious hands, while every one of them was filled with envy.’
She made a strange sound, half laugh, half groan. ‘I don’t know how I’ve survived without you so long.’
‘Perhaps murder improves the appetite.’ Having rid himself of his clothes, Mortleigh grasped her wrists and forced her arms behind her, pushing her against the wall so hard that she gasped in pain. With his feet he forced her legs apart and Lucille bit his neck savagely, as eager and impatient as her lover. Their passion was swift and violent, and soon they collapsed onto the couch, to lie panting in each others’ arms.
‘I hear your rustic Romeo is safe in prison,’ Mortleigh murmured a few moments later.
‘Yes.’ Lucille’s voice was a contented purr. ‘He’ll be hanged within a week, as long as nobody listens to that interfering little chit of a governess.’
‘Why, what do you mean? If anyone suspects…’ He propped himself on an elbow to look into Lucille’s face, his eyes bright with sudden fury. ‘My God, if your plan’s gone awry—’
‘It’s nothing. She won’t be taken seriously. We’re safe. Jackman’s refusing to talk.’
He gripped her arm. ‘Never mind Jackman. This is about the governess. What’s she done?’
‘I tell you it’s nothing. She spoke to the detective sergeant, the London man. That little brat she looks after keeps her awake at night with his nightmares. With nothing better to do with her time she’s taken to snooping. She knew about me and Jonah. It seems he swore he’d stayed home one night when she suspected he and I had been together; it was the time you first brought me here. But it doesn’t matter what she says, nobody will take her seriously. There’s no proof.’
Mortleigh’s fingers digging deep into her flesh. ‘Tell me the rest,’ he demanded. ‘What’s a Scotland Yard detective doing here? Jackman was arrested exactly as you planned. The local police had no reason to call for help.’
‘It all happened by accident. He was sent for because of the jewel robberies; he just happened to be at Knytte when Jackman was arrested. The murder’s no business of his.’
‘Are you mad?’ he flung himself off her and rose to his feet. ‘When he’s looking for the self-same man, even if he doesn’t know it? You stupid whore. Don’t you realize what you’ve done? Suppose that nosy little governess watched you leave again tonight?’
Mortleigh dashed outside. Clutching her robe around her, Lucille rose from the couch and went to the door. She could see his naked body pale against the bushes as he ran, his bare feet silent on the grass. Before him a small dark figure fled towards the ruins. The gap between them was swiftly closing.
A slight smile on her face, Lucille watched the end of the
uneven race; Mortleigh had the girl in his arms, a hand clamping swiftly over her mouth to cut off her cries. When she tried to struggle he hit her hard across the side of the head; she was still and silent as he carried her back across his shoulder. Just the way, Lucille thought, the pleasurable heat swelling through her body again, he had carried her on that first night, claiming her for his prize.
Mortleigh tossed the girl on the floor. She flopped there in a lifeless huddle, and he stepped over her. The savage excitement of the chase and the capture had aroused him, and Lucille made half a step to greet her lover. Seeing his expression she faltered; it was the first time she had been truly frightened of him since he had unwrapped her on the night of the abduction.
His hands shot out to capture her. She made a futile attempt to break free, but he only gripped her more tightly until the pain made her gasp. His flung her to the floor beside the unconscious governess, his mouth upon hers. Again she struggled, finding strength in equal measures of rage and terror; she thought he was going to kill her. Unable to reach his eyes with her fingernails, she raked at his neck instead. Mortleigh grasped her by the hair and pulled it viciously, his other hand slapping her hard across the face. He took her, swiftly and brutally; despite herself, Lucille found her body responding to his, as it always did. They were a match, their pain and their pleasure in harmony.
When he eventually pushed her away Lucille’s lower lip was torn, her mouth full of blood. Mortleigh spat a red gobbet on the floor. Trickles of his own blood ran from the marks she’d made on his neck and chest. ‘Damn fool,’ he snarled, rising to his feet. ‘You could have sent the pair of us to the gallows. I told you, I’ll swing for no woman. There’s a ship sailing for France in the morning, I’ve half a mind to be on it.’
‘You’re the fool,’ she shot back, exploring her abused face with her fingers. ‘There’s no need for either of us to run, as long as we keep our heads. But how am I to explain this?’
‘Wear a veil, you’re in mourning, aren’t you? If you want something to worry over, tell me how we dispose of her.’ He prodded Phoebe with his toe.
‘Is she dead?’
‘Not yet. But she’ll have to vanish in some way that can be explained, we want no more bodies found. We’ll make it look as if she’s run off. With her cousin on his way to the gallows it won’t seem so strange. Go back to the house and fetch her belongings.’
Lucille nodded, fastening her robe. As she went to the door he grabbed her arm and pulled her back. ‘Bring paper, pen and ink. It’ll look better if she leaves a note. And hurry, we have to get her out of here before the house starts stirring.’
The morning was bright, but the room where Lady Pickhurst sat was in semi-darkness. The shutters were closed and the solitary lamp was heavily draped. ‘Am I never to be allowed to mourn my loss in peace?’ she asked tremulously, as Sir Martin Haylmer bowed over her hand. She was dressed in plain unrelieved black, and her head was covered by the thick veil she’d worn at the funeral.
‘Believe me, I’m deeply saddened by the death of your husband,’ the Lord Lieutenant said. ‘I held Lord Pickhurst in great esteem, both as a man and a fellow magistrate. I regret disturbing you, but I was unable to come earlier, and as chief magistrate of the county there are certain duties I have to perform, no matter how unpleasant they may be. We need to see where he died.’
She gave a small sob, her fingers restless upon the black handkerchief she held. ‘You don’t realize, Sir Martin, how I
blame myself for what happened. I knew that man was infatuated with me. My kindness has been my undoing. I should have had him sent away, but it seemed too harsh. Guilt and regret will haunt me for the rest of my life. I have given orders to seal that room. As far as I am concerned that terrible place will cease to exist.’
Beddowes took a step forward, but Sir Martin put up a hand to prevent his intervention. ‘By all means let that be done, if that is what you wish. I need only to inspect the place where the crime was committed, and then I shan’t trouble you about it again. If you would be kind enough to have us shown the way, the business will soon be done. I wish we hadn’t found it necessary to intrude upon your grief.’
‘There is one more thing, Lady Pickhurst,’ Sergeant Beddowes put in. ‘Please may we speak to Miss Drake?’
Lucille laughed, a high-pitched almost hysterical sound. ‘Of course. If you can find her.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘She’s gone. All because of that man. Despite the fact that they were cousins I was willing to allow her to stay at Knytte for the sake of the children, but she vanished, ran off in the middle of the night. It was so thoughtless. The poor boy started wailing for her before dawn.’
Beddowes began to protest but Sir Martin quelled him with a look. Turning to the woman he frowned. ‘I always found Miss Drake to be a responsible person. Surely she wouldn’t leave without some notice.’
‘She left a note.’ She gestured at a piece of paper on the table beside her. ‘There. It’s plain enough.’
Tremayle picked up the note and scanned it quickly. ‘There doesn’t seem to be any mistake. Miss Drake apologizes for causing such inconvenience, but says she’s unable to face being here during Jackman’s trial.’
‘But she—’
Again Sir Martin silenced Beddowes. ‘That can wait,’ he said sternly. ‘We have business elsewhere.’
The whole house was shuttered, and with few lamps lit the corridors were even gloomier than before. ‘We’ll need light,’ Beddowes said, half his thoughts on Miss Drake. Why would she leave so suddenly? Either he’d misjudged her, or she’d not left of her own free will. If his suspicions of Lady Pickhurst were correct, she was already a murderess, and Miss Drake might have given a damning testimony against her.
‘Nobody has been allowed in the old library to close the shutters,’ Henson said, leading them along a passageway so dark he was only a shadow before them. ‘Her ladyship has given orders for workmen from Trembury to be engaged to close the room up, and we’re forbidden even to come along this passage without her permission.’
‘A woman in mourning isn’t always rational,’ Inspector Tremayle murmured solemnly as they entered the library and suddenly there was light again. Beddowes shot him a scathing look; far from being irrational, he suspected Lady Pickhurst was a cold and calculating young woman.
Having opened the door for them, Henson scuttled away, averting his eyes from the inside of the room. Sir Martin looked with revulsion at the stain on the floor. ‘Well, Beddowes?’
‘Inspector Tremayle can tell you how he found things here,’ the sergeant replied. With a sideways look, as if expecting some trickery, Tremayle complied, describing where Lord Pickhurst’s body had been lying. ‘It was obvious a blow from the bust had killed him. You can see why I immediately sought out a man of unusual strength.’
His lordship nodded. ‘Indeed.’ He looked enquiringly at Beddowes.
‘I thought all along that the bust wasn’t an ideal weapon,’ Beddowes said. He turned to the fireplace and picked up the poker. ‘This would have made a better one, and it was here, ready to hand. No matter how strong Jackman is, I couldn’t see him picking up that great block of marble on an impulse. It couldn’t be swung with great speed. Why would Lord Pickhurst sit at the table and ignore a man staggering towards him with that thing in his arms? On the other hand, if the person who committed the murder was standing here –’ Beddowes walked to the other side of the table, ‘– to keep the victim’s attention distracted from the bust as it swung down to hit him, perhaps he wouldn’t have seen it coming.’
‘So the attacker was in two places at once,’ Tremayle said sarcastically, ‘or are we looking for two murderers now?’
‘Possibly.’ Beddowes pointed to the ceiling. There was a large hook, once used to hold a chandelier, almost above their heads. ‘The bust must have been hung from that. These gouges in the edge of the table were probably made when the murderer was adjusting it to swing to exactly the right spot. It would have been tested earlier, probably the previous night.’
‘What on earth are you talking about?’ Tremayle burst out angrily.
Beddowes said nothing, but walked across to the nearest bookshelf. The volumes that filled it were tattered, dusty and unloved. Reaching behind them, the sergeant removed a great tangle of ropes, a piece of thinner cord, and two pulley blocks. ‘I found these hidden here yesterday. Whoever thought up this scheme knew how to lift heavy weights. The library steps were placed on the table to reach the hook in the ceiling; if you look carefully you can see the marks of the feet are still there in the dust. This rope is splashed with blood; that end was tied round the neck of the bust. It’s only a guess, but I imagine
the thinner rope was used to anchor the bust, holding it just above the plinth. The hinge of that shutter has been pulled out of shape by the weight. I believe the rope was then passed beneath the table, and secured here with a suitable knot. Release that, and the axe, as you might say, would fall.’
‘This doesn’t prove Jackman’s innocence, it only makes him a more likely murderer,’ Tremayle said triumphantly. ‘He’d know how to use this sort of tackle.’
‘Yes, but any intelligent person could have learnt to do this by watching him. Over the last few months large pieces of stone were regularly brought in from the quarry. I agree Jackman is still a suspect, but this proves he isn’t the only possible culprit. You arrested him because of his physical strength, but I think we should find out who had a reason to kill Lord Pickhurst.’
‘We’ve established that.’ Tremayle was impatient. ‘Jackman was mad with jealousy.’
‘If you say so,’ Beddowes said. ‘But why would his lordship meet him here in the middle of the night?’
‘He must have been lured here,’ Sir Martin said.
‘Perhaps he was brought here by force,’ Tremayle suggested.
Beddowes nodded. ‘That’s possible, but if the murderer was holding a gun to his head, why would he go to all this trouble? There’s one more thing.’ He returned to the book shelves, and brought back a large volume bound in crumbling leather. ‘There were signs that this had been moved recently. It’s the Pickhurst family bible, with records of births, marriages and deaths written inside.’
The other two men leant over the book as Beddowes opened it. A spattering of reddish brown stained the end paper where names and dates had been entered in a dozen different hands. ‘It seems this was a silent witness to the crime.’
‘There’s an entry when Lord Pickhurst married his first wife,’ Tremayle commented, ‘and a note recording her death.’
‘No mention of his second marriage.’ Sir Martin commented. ‘He made no secret that he was after an heir, but that pairing was no more successful than the first.’
‘No doubt he’d have been happy to make an entry if he’d got what he wanted,’ Beddowes said. ‘Here, as you can see, somebody else has added Lucille Gayne, the third Lady Pickhurst. The ink looks fresh. I think she decided to make her own mark. And this little line here is interesting.’ He pointed. From between the two names a straight vertical line had been drawn, with a tiny question mark in pencil, in the place where the name of a child would be entered. ‘Perhaps his wife brought him down here to show him what she’d written. It would be a romantic way to give him news he wanted very much to hear.’