Death of a Radical (25 page)

“I was only sayin' …” Mr. Hilton's voice had a harddone-by lilt. Beside him on the bench sat a woman whose small face looked out resentfully from a carapace of efficiently wrapped shawls.

“Tsk!” responded his wife impatiently. Their two great sons rode in the bed of the cart behind them. One had his face turned away, staring across the moor. The other watched his parents.

“Now da …” the youth contributed sheepishly. Mr. Hilton pushed out his lips. Jarrett was reminded of an offended baby. Mrs. Hilton glanced over and jabbed her husband under her shawls.

“Why, Mr. Jarrett!” Mr. Hilton hailed the duke's agent in a joyful voice. He hauled on the reins and the cart came to a halt. His face composed itself into a ludicrously solemn expression. “We heard,” he said dramatically, “of your great loss.” Jarrett inclined his head, embarrassed to be the object of such sympathy. “He was something to you, eh?” The duke's agent glanced down in a sort of acknowledgment. “That's hard, that is.” The farmer paused decently. A glint entered Mr. Hilton's eye. “I'm told it were murder.” His wife twitched beside him. “Now, Mrs. H. There's no call to be botherin' yourself.” He gave his wife's shawl a pat. “She's not feelin' too clever,” he confided. “I'm not happy her riding out this weather but she do love the fairs. She's a powerful decided woman this one,” he ended proudly. His wife looked faintly scornful. The cart rocked as their sons shifted their weight.

“Now da!” they chorused.

“So was it murder?” Mr. Hilton prompted, ignoring them.

“I fear so, Mr. Hilton. Perhaps you may help me,” said Jarrett, continuing over the farmer's excited exclamation. “There was a man seen in this neighborhood last night. An average-sized man dressed genteelly, wearing a low-crowned hat.” He swung round in his saddle, pointing behind him. “Over there, on the pack-horse trail.”

“A gentlemanly man, you say?” responded the farmer. “Well, there's none of that sort up here, not since old Mr. Lippett passed. He was a well-dressed man. Nothing but the best for him. Everything neat and proper to the day
he died.” Behind Mr. Hilton, Jarrett saw a thought cross the face of the younger son. His brother caught it too and widened his eyes. The younger boy tipped his head sideways toward his brother and mumbled something.

“What is it, Thomas? Speak up!” their mother cut in.

“Her?” responded the elder boy to his sibling. He pulled the corners of his mouth down around his bunched-up chin in a dubious expression. “Could be right,” he agreed. Jarrett looked to Mrs. Hilton for clarification.

“The Anders girl,” she translated. “Has a gentleman caller—well, that's what's said.” She tilted her head back and spoke down her nose disparagingly. “Not that any o' us ever laid eyes on him. Comes at odd times when there's none about.”

“Whist woman!” exclaimed her husband, astounded. “Mary Anne Anders! What you sayin'? Matthew Anders and his brothers would never have that! Powerful careful of that lass they are.” He leaned toward Jarrett to make his point. “She's all they've got since her brother died. Chopped his hand in the spring of '09 and went with a putrefaction, just like that. Grand send-off, mind. Whole Dale turned out. 'Twas before your time, Mr. Jarrett,” he added consolingly, as if the duke's agent might feel cheated to have had no part in such a funeral.

“And no one has any notion who this gentleman caller might be? How curious,” Jarrett said. “How long has this been going on?” The sons shrugged in unison. Their father puffed out his cheeks and declared it all a piece of foolishness but Mrs. Hilton pursed her lips as if there was
something else that might be said in different company. Alerted by his posture that Mr. Hilton was winding himself up to deliver one of his endless monologues, Jarrett collected his reins.

“I must not detain you,” he declared. “Mrs. Hilton will be growing chilled. Good day to you all.” He touched his hat and rode on.

Dewsnap's farm squatted like a comfortable hen in the curve of the land at the end of an open track. He rode up into the deserted yard. Not even a dog barked. He dismounted.

“Anyone at home?” he called. No one answered. Were they all at the fairs? He turned toward the house. A sense of movement behind him made him swing round. Red-headed Billy Dewsnap was standing in the door of a stone shed with a stick in his hands. Jarrett walked toward him. The youth's face was white against the shadows. The muscles in his neck moved as he swallowed.

“Mr. Jarrett,” he said. He filled the low doorway. Jarrett did not check his pace. At the last moment the lad fell back a step and let him by.

“Billy. Has everyone gone to the fairs and left you on your own?”

The smell suggested the shed had once been a byre but it was at present untenanted. Strips of light slanted through a roughly boarded window. At some point in its history a wooden partition had divided the room. The strut that once supported it remained in the center of
the space. A rope was secured to it at breast height. The ends dangled to the floor. Billy moved in front of the post.

“Dogs,” he said by way of explanation. There was a scatter of dark marks on the flags. Billy scuffed straw over the stains with his booted foot. Jarrett looked steadily at him. “Brought in a rabbit,” Billy said. He turned aside to set the stick he carried against the wall. “What can I do for you, Mr. Jarrett? Folks are all gone to town. I'm to follow quick as I can.”

“I am trying to trace a man, Billy. He was seen on the pack-horse trail last night. He was coming from this way. Dressed in a gentleman's coat and a low-crowned hat—know anything about it?” Billy shook his head.

“Nay.” His broad Dalesman's features were placid. His previous tension had dissipated. They watched one another a moment. Billy, it seemed, was prepared to wait him out.

“I'll let you get off to town then.”

As he rode out of the yard Jarrett thought of the shed. That good strong rope was tied too high for dogs. And a dog ripping a rabbit would have left smears not splashes on the stone. Had more than drink been dispensed at Dewsnap's farm the previous night? He might believe in an interrogation, had there been more marks on Grub's body. He thought of Dickon Watson's response on the fell. There had been tears in his eyes; but, then again, he had seen guilty men cry before. This business had him suspicious of everyone. He imagined a child using that
rope in the shed to swing around the post like a merry-go-round. It could be no more than a game. So what if Billy had been wary when he first rode up? Tenants were often uneasy when the agent came to call—and Billy was alone in the place. He turned Walcheren's head toward the Dewsnaps' neighbors, the Anderses. Miss Anders's gentleman caller intrigued him. Perhaps there were answers to be found there.

A view opened out down the sweep of the valley. The sky was a delicate confection of oyster pink and blue shaded with featherings of gray. All around the ground sparkled under the sun. The air was so clear he could distinguish individual roofs in Woolbridge across the shining ribbon of the river. There was movement on the Carlisle road. A troop of tiny horsemen were turning up the cross lane to Pennygill. He whisked Walcheren about.

He caught up with them just as they were taking the spur round to Grateley Manor—four troopers riding behind two officers. Lieutenant Roberts raised his hand and his troop came to an orderly halt.

“Mr. Jarrett!” It was Colonel Ison, all bundled up with watery eyes and wind-chapped cheeks. He wore fur-lined gauntlets that made his reins difficult to manage. He slipped in his saddle as his horse fretted. With an effort, he righted himself.

“Colonel, Lieutenant,” Jarrett greeted them, “what brings you out here?”

Colonel Ison struggled to compose his expression into something approaching cordiality. “My condolences on
your …” he stopped, recalling that he had no formal knowledge of what the victim had been to Mr. Jarrett. He began again. “Mr. Adley, a foul crime. A tragedy. I will, naturally, be calling on the marquess to express my personal regrets. I would have done so before now but that there is business that cannot be delayed.” He pulled back his shoulders. “We are on our way to arrest the man,” he declared astonishingly.

“The man, sir?” The colonel could not conceal his satisfaction at Mr. Jarrett's reaction.

“Mr. Adley's murderer,” he replied smugly. “We go to arrest him now.” The colonel clapped his heels to his horse. “You follow if you will,” he called back over his shoulder. The troop fell in behind him with a clatter of shod hooves.

The party advanced at a brisk trot. Grateley Manor appeared on a rise above a plantation of trees. It was a desolate location, its sparseness accentuated by the blanket of snow. The riders hunched themselves against a knifing wind. The house was forbidding from this aspect, showing almost windowless walls built to withstand attack in a time when marauders swept down from the border. The approach brought them round to a more recent frontage, barely softened by a portico and a couple of beds planted with hardy shrubs.

The door was opened by a servant, whose skirts hung bell-like over her ample hips. They stopped short of the floor to reveal surprisingly small stockinged feet thrust into gray felt slippers. The maidservant's eyes drifted over
the colonel's shoulder to the troopers. One was a fine-looking young fellow. The colonel reclaimed her attention.

“Colonel Ison to see your mistress.” Arethusa looked down at his muddy boots.

“She's suppin' tea in t'parlor. Are you comin' in?” she asked dubiously. “I've just washed t'floor.” Colonel Ison glared at her from under his fierce eyebrows.

“Damn your impertinence! Tell your mistress, woman!” He turned to Lieutenant Roberts. “Have the men search the outbuildings,” he commanded and swept in after the affronted maid. Jarrett followed. The passageway was so dark the lamps were still lit. The maid's slippers clung loosely to her feet. They slapped along the flags. She knocked on a door and opened it.

His first impression was of comfort. Although the windows set in the thick walls were small, clear light streamed in from the snowy landscape outside. Before a good fire, a sofa and a wing chair were drawn together on a fine Indian carpet woven in rich reds and blues. The fireplace was very old. It bore a stone cartouche with a painted crest featuring a sheaf of corn tied with blue cornflowers. Miss Lippett sat in the wing chair, a piece of sewing in her hands. On the sofa, dressed in a sage-green riding habit, her skin bright from her recent exercise, was Miss Henrietta Lonsdale. She was in the act of raising a wide-bowled teacup to her lips. She set it on its saucer, holding it before her, an expression of the liveliest curiosity on her face. A patch of sun illuminated the graceful arch of
her hand as she held the cup in its place. The contrast between the subtle tones of her skin and the gleaming blue and white of the porcelain cup pleased him.

“Gentleman to see you,” the servant said. “M'um,” she added as an afterthought and withdrew with her slapping step.

“What's the meaning of this?” demanded Miss Lippett.

“Miss Lippett. Good morning. I come on official business, I regret—” began the colonel.

“Sit down then!” interrupted his hostess. Colonel Ison looked about him. The sofa and wing chair were drawn together. The two remaining straight-backed seats stood between the windows in the cold outreaches of the room. The sofa was quite large enough to accommodate two persons with propriety, but the second place was occupied by a large tortoiseshell cat that faced Miss Lippett as if it were party to the conversation. The animal turned round yellow eyes on Jarrett and twitched its ears. Jarrett bowed.

“Miss Lippett, Miss Lonsdale. Good morning.” The day and the occasion, he thought, were just too odd for convention. The cat made a protesting mew as he scooped it up and sat down in its place. Miss Lippett bristled.

“Mrs. Pussypaws does not like to be handled by strangers!” Jarrett scratched the cat's head, lost for words at Miss Lippett's choice of so arch a name. Truly, she was a most unexpected person. The animal purred, rubbing itself against him as it reached up to his caressing hand. Tiplady wouldn't thank him for the hairs it was transferring to
his coat. “
Why
are
you
here?” his hostess demanded, sitting forward in her seat as if she might spring up and forcibly reclaim her pet.

“I am at a loss, ma'am. The colonel has not confided in me.” Jarrett looked over at the magistrate who remained standing by the door. “I believe he is in search of Mr. Adley's murderer,” he said conversationally. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Miss Lonsdale go white.

“Mr. Adley? Murdered!” she exclaimed. Jarrett instantly regretted his flippant demeanor. He wasn't himself. This business had made him mad. The cased clock in the corner gave the hour as just past two. Grub hadn't been dead a day yet.

“I do beg your pardon, Miss Lonsdale. I thought you knew …” She looked at him so directly he felt the impact in his chest.

“I am so sorry.” Her compassion almost unmanned him. “What … how did it happen? He was at the play last night. I saw him.” She blinked back tears. The damn cat on his lap made him feel a fool. Mrs. Pussypaws jumped to the floor and scuttled under the sofa as the colonel stepped forward to reclaim their attention.

“Last night Mr. Adley, the marquess's young cousin, was foully murdered on Quarry Fell,” he projected. His voice was too loud for the room. The man was enjoying himself. A surge of anger caught Jarrett unawares. For a second he saw himself leaping up from the sofa and his hands closing around the colonel's throat … He encountered Miss Lippett's eyes. They were bashful.

“I am sorry the young man is dead,” she said gruffly. “You have my condolences, Mr. Jarrett.” Picking up the piece of linen in her lap she began to set workmanlike stitches in a seam. The colonel raised his voice.