Authors: Jean Rowden
‘You think Lady Pickhurst murdered her husband?’ Sir Martin looked outraged.
‘I didn’t say that, but the stains are there, and this handwriting doesn’t match this earlier entry made by Lord Pickhurst. It would be easy enough to find out if it belongs to her ladyship.’
‘It’s all very circumstantial,’ Sir Martin said. He shook his head. ‘I don’t know.’
‘It could still be Jackman,’ Tremayle reminded him.
Sir Martin agreed. ‘All that’s changed is the method by which the murder was committed. What do you say, Beddowes? You’re very keen to prove Jackman innocent, but you’ve found no evidence in his defence.’
‘No, because everything points to his guilt,’ Beddowes said. ‘It’s all a little too convenient. I think he’s meant to be the scapegoat. Suppose Lady Pickhurst returned his affections for a while but then grew tired of him? Another man caught her
eye. She decided to rid herself of her husband and her discarded lover in one fell swoop.’
Sir Martin scowled at him. ‘I’ve met Lady Pickhurst on a dozen occasions, and she always appeared to be a doting and dutiful wife.’
‘Appearances can be deceptive,’ Beddowes said, thinking again about Miss Drake. He hadn’t thought she would run away. A flicker of fear coursed through him; perhaps she hadn’t.
‘Jackman remains the most likely suspect.’ Sir Martin picked up the bible. ‘However, I shall find out if her ladyship was responsible for the newest entry in this book, and when it was made.’
‘But with her face covered by that veil, you won’t be able to see how she reacts to your question,’ Beddowes objected. ‘Perhaps you might ask her to remove it.’
‘We are dealing with a lady, Sergeant!’ The Lord Lieutenant was scandalized. ‘You aren’t in your London stews now!’
‘I’ve found men and women pretty much the same everywhere, Sir Martin,’ Beddowes replied, unrepentant. ‘Manners might vary between rich and poor, but not human nature.’
‘It’s Annie, isn’t it?’ Beddowes said. Ignoring Sir Martin’s protests that he didn’t have Lady Pickhurst’s permission to roam freely about the house, he’d left the other two men downstairs, declaring his intention to seek out the nursery.
The maid looked warily at him. ‘Yes sir,’ she said. The sound of a child crying could be heard coming from somewhere close by.
‘Perhaps you should go back to the children. It seems they’re upset.’
‘That’s Master Rodney.’ The girl’s mouth turned down. ‘It’s no good me going to him, when ’tis Miss Drake he’s wanting.’
‘When did you last see Miss Drake, Annie?’
‘Last night. The children were in their beds. I took down the tray from their supper.’
‘Were you the one who discovered Miss Drake had gone?’
‘No sir. That was her ladyship. Master Rodney was screaming and carrying on so that she couldn’t sleep. She rang the bell, and ordered her maid to see why Miss Drake wasn’t tending to him.’
‘And then you were sent for.’ He didn’t wait for an answer but wandered to the door at the far end of the nursery. ‘Is this Miss Drake’s bedroom?’
‘Yes. But she didn’t sleep in there much. Master Rodney was having so many nightmares she spent most nights in the chair beside his bed.’ Annie pouted. ‘Daft I call it, cosseting a boy that age.’
Beddowes opened the door onto a small sparsely furnished room. The bed was in disarray, the linen and bedcover half heaped on the bed and half on the floor. He swung round and stared at the girl, as if seeing her properly for the first time. ‘Miss Drake wouldn’t leave this sort of mess, would she Annie?’ He stepped into the room, noticing that the drawer in the washstand had been left open. ‘Do you think she left in a hurry?’
The girl flushed and stared at the floor. ‘I wouldn’t know, sir.’
Beddowes stayed where he was, looking sternly down at her and letting the silence stretch uncomfortably between them. Annie fidgeted, and he could see the flush of colour rising up her face.
‘I think you have something to tell me, Annie,’ the sergeant said. ‘Were you the one who searched this room? You’d better tell me the truth, or you’ll be in serious trouble.’
She plucked nervously at her apron. ‘The room were all
upset when I come up,’ she said. ‘I only looked in the mattress, because I’d seen Miss Drake hiding something there, when she didn’t know I was at the door.’ She reached in her pocket and pulled out a purse, placing it reluctantly into Beddowes’s outstretched hand.
Her voice dropped to a whisper. ‘I thought if she hadn’t taken it, then it weren’t wanted.’
‘Don’t lie to me!’ Beddowes voice was suddenly harsh, ‘You’re not a fool, Annie. If you don’t want to find yourself in prison for theft you’d better tell me everything you know. I don’t think Miss Drake packed her own belongings. What else is there that she wouldn’t have left behind?’
‘In here, sir.’ The maid scurried out of the room and into the nursery. There was still no sign of the children, but the boy’s crying had quieted to an occasional sob.
Annie took a small volume from a shelf among about a dozen books. ‘Miss Drake always carried this when she went to church. She was proper attached to it.’
It was a prayer book, much used. Written inside the front cover was the name Bernard John Drake, and beneath that in a smaller hand, Phoebe had inscribed her own.
B
eddowes took the book and went racing downstairs. Without even looking for a servant to announce him, he went barging into the room where Lady Pickhurst had received them, an accusation already forming on his lips as the door flew back. The words were never spoken for the room was empty. He spun back to the hall and found himself facing an outraged Henson.
‘Can I be of assistance?’ the butler asked stiffly.
‘Where are Sir Martin and Inspector Tremayle?’ Beddowes demanded, quite unrepentant.
‘Sir Martin’s secretary, Mr Docket, arrived a few minutes ago. I showed all three gentlemen into the morning room.’ Henson took a step back and indicated a door across the hall. ‘If you would come this way. I suggest if there is anything else you require,
sir
, you might ring the bell,’ he said sternly, ushering him in.
A shutter had been opened here, and a shaft of sunlight fell on the three men seated round a small table. Docket looked up as Beddowes entered.
‘I found it, Sergeant,’ he said. The young secretary was obviously weary, his hair and clothes dishevelled, but his tone was triumphant. ‘I have a name for the dead man. That ring was sold to a Mr Laidlaw, nearly forty years ago, on the occasion of his marriage. I was able to ascertain that the couple were
no longer living, but they were survived by a son who moved to London about three years ago.’
‘And that son is almost certainly our corpse,’ Sir Martin said. ‘We have our answers at last. A Mr Laidlaw from London was a guest at Hagstock Hall the night the first robbery took place, along with a friend by the name of Mortleigh. In appearance they match what little we know of the men you encountered at the crossroads.’
‘There was no reason to suspect them,’ Tremayle said defensively. ‘They’d returned to the Castle Inn before the robbery took place. Since they weren’t well known in the area I took a little trouble when questioning the two gentlemen. They appeared to have a very good alibi.’
‘The details of how they carried out the robbery hardly matter at the moment,’ Beddowes cut in. ‘Where’s Mortleigh now?’
‘He’s here. At Knytte,’ Sir Martin said. ‘I think we can be sure we have our villain. He certainly has plenty of nerve; it appears he intended to settle down amongst the victims of his crimes. He took up the tenancy of the Dower House a few days ago.’
Beddowes felt as if somebody had just struck a killing blow over his heart. The purse and the prayer book were still in his hand. He flung them down on the table ‘I’m afraid we may have another crime to investigate, maybe even another murder, though God forbid. Whoever packed Miss Drake’s things made a big mistake. They left these behind. The poor girl didn’t leave Knytte of her own free will. I’m afraid we may be too late to help her.’
‘What are you talking about?’ Inspector Tremayle took a sheet of paper from his pocket. ‘We have her letter here. She makes her reasons for leaving quite plain. Perhaps she was in a hurry—’
‘She would hardly leave behind five guineas.’ Beddowes said. ‘Nor this. It belonged to her father. The maid was sure she wouldn’t willingly have abandoned it.’ He opened the prayer book, displaying the young woman’s name, before taking the paper from the inspector. ‘The handwriting’s different. This note wasn’t written by Phoebe Drake. Don’t you see? She told me Lady Pickhurst was leaving the house at night to meet her lover, but on at least one occasion she knew it couldn’t have been Jackman who was waiting for her in the grounds. Somebody else took his place. It has to be Mortleigh.’
‘We certainly have cause enough to question the man,’ Tremayle said.
‘Question him?’ Beddowes rounded on him furiously. ‘Miss Drake has gone missing. For some reason they suspected that she knew too much; her ladyship knew Miss Drake had spoken to me. All this may well be my fault. God willing we may still find her alive, but we must be quick.’
‘Come, Beddowes, you surely can’t think Mortleigh has killed the girl?’ Sir Martin was brusque.
‘He killed his friend,’ Docket broke in, too exhausted to show proper deference to his employer. ‘Sergeant? You really believe Miss Drake was taken by force?’
Beddowes nodded. ‘I’m sure of it.’
‘What are we waiting for?’ Docket leapt to his feet. ‘We have to go to the Dower House.’
‘It would be unwise to rush to arrest Mortleigh without proper precautions,’ Tremayle said, pushing back his chair. ‘Assuming Beddowes is right the man is dangerous. I’ll send to Hagstock for help.’
‘That would take too long,’ Beddowes protested.
‘You think we can tackle him on our own?’ Tremayle looked around at his companions, the portly and aging Lord
Lieutenant, Docket, painfully young and eager, and Beddowes, who still had one arm in a sling.
‘Ring the bell, Tremayle.’ Sir Martin said, suddenly decisive. ‘We’ll need to arm ourselves.’
‘What about Lady Pickhurst?’ Beddowes blocked the inspector’s way to the bell rope. ‘You can’t doubt her part in all this. Why would Mortleigh kill Lord Pickhurst, and in such a way that Jackman was blamed, unless there was some benefit for him? Her ladyship must be involved. If she gets to know that we’re after her lover she may run away.’
‘For the moment that’s neither here nor there,’ Sir Martin said. ‘A woman alone wouldn’t get far. We need to deal with Mortleigh. If word gets to him that he’s under suspicion he’ll be gone.’
Henson was summoned. With some reluctance he surrendered the key to the gunroom. ‘Lady Pickhurst must be informed before any of the guns are removed,’ he said. ‘If you’d remain here, please, gentlemen, I shan’t keep you a moment.’
‘It might be wise to have fresh horses saddled,’ Beddowes suggested, as Henson left them. ‘If we have a chase on our hands I don’t want to be riding that cob.’
Sir Martin nodded, sending Docket to the stables. ‘Four horses,’ he said. ‘Tell them it’s by order of the Lord Lieutenant, and we want the best.’
‘What about Lady Pickhurst?’ Beddowes asked again, once Docket had gone.
Sir Martin frowned. ‘She’ll be safe enough here. We—’
He was interrupted by Henson, returning pink-faced and slightly breathless. ‘Her ladyship has left the house. I gather she went directly to the stables and ordered her horse, as soon as she was alone.’
‘She’ll have gone to the Dower House,’ Tremayle said, rising
swiftly to his feet. ‘Dammit Beddowes, you were right! Let’s go and hurry those horses.’
‘Not until we’ve armed ourselves,’ Sir Martin snapped. ‘The gunroom first.’
They halted their mounts and peered at the Dower House from the cover of a narrow belt of woodland. Beddowes eased his arm from the sling and adjusted the rifle more comfortably across his shoulder.
‘We don’t want a shooting match,’ Tremayle said, seeing him.
Sir Martin snorted. ‘I doubt if the man will walk tamely to the gallows, Tremayle. For my part, I heartily wish we’d had time to turn out the militia.’ He rubbed a hand across his chin. ‘Still, we want him alive, Beddowes, if it can be managed.’
‘I’ll do my best,’ Beddowes said, edging his horse forward. ‘If you want to approach the front door as if nothing’s wrong, I’ll ride round to the back of the house. They could have gone already; we can’t afford to waste time.’ He clapped his heels to the horse’s flanks, bending low over the pommel. The beast shot from among the trees at a flat gallop, leaping over an ornamental flower bed and turning sharply towards the stables.
The yard was a hive of activity. Two horses were being led out, saddled and bridled, while a team of matched greys were being coaxed between the shafts of a closed carriage. Men shouted in surprise and horses spun in alarm as Beddowes, still spurring hard, galloped into their midst. A torrent of abuse followed him; one of the men by the carriage tried to intercept him, and narrowly missed his grasp at the sergeant’s boot.
It had been unwise to ride in without being sure of an exit. There was an archway in the opposite wall, too narrow for
comfort and barred by a gate, but with the grooms gathering to block the way behind him it was his only option. He was aware of his mount’s reluctance, but urged it on. Ducking low, Beddowes felt the sharp scrape of brick on his back, but they were safely through. Wheeling his mount, he took stock of his situation. He was in an orchard, overlooked by a dozen windows in the side of the house. The trees were too small and well trimmed to offer him decent cover. It would be unwise to linger.
He’d hoped to find Mortleigh in the yard, but none of those he’d scattered had been dressed as a gentleman. It would be good to see his enemy, to recognize him. As he’d slowly recovered parts of his memory, he’d wondered if a meeting, face to face, with the man who’d tried so hard to kill him, would bring back the last bits that were missing.
The blast of a shot rattled the windows; a draught skimmed past Beddowes’s cheek. Not stopping to check where the bullet had come from, he flung his horse back the way they had come.
Things had changed. Raising his head after ducking to get through the archway, Beddowes saw that the last of the horses was being hurried back into the stables. The carriage stood abandoned.
A slight figure clad in black from head to toe was suddenly right before him. With a shift of his weight the sergeant made the horse veer left, its shoulder missing the woman by an inch. She hardly seemed to notice. On an impulse, Beddowes leant from the saddle as he passed to twitch the veil from her head.
Slowing a fraction to look back, Beddowes saw the damaged face; Lady Pickhurst’s mouth was torn, the bottom lip swollen and black with congealed blood. Her cheek and chin were disfigured by darkening bruises.
Distracted, the sergeant slowed the horse to a trot; had he been wrong about this woman? His mount shied violently as another figure appeared, running from the doorway to the stables. Darkly handsome and dressed in a gentleman’s travelling clothes, Beddowes knew him at once. It was as if a light had been kindled within his mind, illuminating the gaps in his memory. He could see the road, Mortleigh and his servant advancing, intent on killing him, while the doomed Laidlaw sat watching from the carriage.
There was nowhere to go, no time to turn and attempt the archway again. Mortleigh had a shotgun in his hands, and a slight smile on his face as he lifted it towards his shoulder. He had a second, maybe less. Taking the reins in his left hand Beddowes twisted savagely at the horse’s mouth, feeling sinews and muscles in his half-healed arm protesting, while his right dragged the rifle off his shoulder. Throwing his weight back, he felt a twinge of guilt; the horse had done all that had been asked of it. Like so many on the battlefield, the reward for its obedience would be death. As the animal reared, obedient to his command, Beddowes threw himself from the saddle.
The expected blast of shot didn’t come, only the crack of a pistol, quickly followed by another. As the sergeant landed and rolled, the rifle held tightly against his body, Beddowes realized that help had come just in time; the shots fired by his allies had sent Mortleigh running back into the stables.
Sir Martin and Inspector Tremayle were hidden behind the carriage, while Docket stood a few yards further back, making no attempt to seek cover, his face blank with shock. Beddowes lay still. He was out in the open and an easy target. His only hope lay in playing dead. Mortleigh might well believe he was out of the fight, for he’d landed badly. The crack his skull received as it hit the cobbles had left his head ringing.
As if awakening from a trance, Lady Pickhurst started uncertainly towards Sir Martin.
‘Thank the heavens you’re here,’ she cried, stumbling across the cobbles. ‘I’ve been so scared.’ She waved a hand vaguely towards the stable doorway. ‘He’s the jewel thief. I saw him. At Dunsby Court, where he stole Mrs Stoppens’s rubies.’
‘But you said nothing of it,’ Sir Martin said sternly. ‘If you’d told us then, he’d be behind bars by now.’
The woman faltered, looking almost as if she might faint. ‘I dared not. I already knew him to have no morals, to be a vicious evil sort of man. When he came to stay at Knytte as my husband’s guest, he took every chance to be alone with me, to press his unwelcome attentions on me.’ She put her hands up to her ravaged face. ‘Must I tell you of the shame, the humiliation he brought me? Mortleigh swore he’d kill me if I told anyone of his true character. We’d known each other slightly in London you see, long before I was married. It was his idea to murder my poor husband. He meant to marry me and take Knytte for himself. Please, help me, I—’
Evidently Sir Martin was touched by her defencelessness. He took a few steps to meet her, but he was stopped by Mortleigh’s voice, which echoed from the stable.
‘Women are such liars! Is this how you keep your word, Lucille? Those wayward eyes seduced me the first time we met; they promised so much. And yet you’re no better than a cheap whore. You witch, you’d send me to the gallows without a thought, just like that other poor fool who fell under your spell. But I warned you, Lucille, I’ll hang for no woman. You’ll lead no more men astray. There’ll be no more lies from those pretty lips.’
A shot rang out, not the deep-throated blast of a shotgun, but the crack of a pistol. Lady Pickhurst gave a faint cry and
began to fall. Even before she hit the ground, a horse came racing from the stable.
Mortleigh lay flat along the animal’s neck. Inspector Tremayle fired a shot, but neither Docket nor Sir Martin reacted quickly enough. The inspector’s shot missed by a foot, and by the time Beddowes had risen to his feet Mortleigh was already a hundred yards away.
Grimly recalling his old sergeant major, Beddowes lifted the rifle and took in a deep steadying breath as he lined up the sights. The range was lengthening by the second, but he’d picked the prize among Lord Pickhurst’s guns; the butt kicked hard into his right shoulder, and he thought he felt bone grate in his left arm before the flare of pain hit.
The horse was still galloping away from him. Gritting his teeth Beddowes took aim for a second time, but then he saw the animal turn a little. The rider slipped sideways and as the scent of blood reached its nostrils the horse’s measured pace became a wild careering flight. Mortleigh’s body hung out behind the panicking animal for a few strides, then his foot pulled free of the stirrup and he dropped bonelessly to the ground.