Murder on a Summer's Day (11 page)

‘I did call at the hotel, but on another matter, to meet an associate in the bar, not to see Narayan. I did bump into him though. Has Miss Metcalfe been making accusations against me?’

‘Why should she?’

‘Because I know her. In Narayan’s imagination she was some sort of goddess but I know her to be a jumped up money-grubbing farm girl. Her father and brothers cannot make light of her way of life as I do, being a man of the world. As long as she confined her activities to London and foreign parts, they were not compelled to reckon with her immorality. But for her to wave her doings under their noses must have been hard for them to stomach.’

‘Are you suggesting they are capable of murder?’

‘I am suggesting nothing, and casting no aspersions. It simply occurs to me that if you are making enquiries into Narayan’s death – which I sincerely hope will turn out to be a tragic accident – then you should be apprised of the local situation.’

‘Thank you.’ The man was not above throwing mud in every direction to divert attention from himself. ‘You say you bumped into the prince at the hotel.’

When he saw I would not let go, he relented. His eyes narrowed. ‘I don’t wish what I am going to say to be widely known, Mrs Shackleton.’

‘I am sure if it has no bearing on the prince’s death, then I would have no reason to divulge whatever you have to say to me. But I am trying to establish as full a picture as possible.’

He nodded. ‘Very well. I shall be candid.’

That would be the day.

‘I have had some financial difficulties lately, death duties and so on. Last Thursday, Narayan pressed two hundred pounds on me, and insisted I regard it as a gift.’

‘I see.’

What a liar, and yet so persuasively spoken. If I had not seen the receipt for ten thousand pounds with my own eyes I may have believed him.

If he were right about the men of the Metcalfe family, hatred of Narayan would give them a motive for murder. But ten thousand pounds was no paltry sum. And an old school friend could come close enough to press a trigger.

How could he lie so confidently after having signed that he had taken possession of the money?

The hotel room that until yesterday had been occupied by Prince Narayan now looked very different. The silk throws and cushions had gone. Clothing that had been set out for him to change into after his ride no longer lay on the bed. Yet there remained a heady whiff of something like jasmine, and a sharp scent of sandalwood from the writing case on the Elizabethan table by the window.

The hotel manager, Mr Sergeant, came to join me. At my request, he opened the writing case. ‘What am I looking for?’

‘A receipt recording a monetary transaction between the prince and a third party.’

He picked up the stationery and the blue bond paper bearing the poem in a strange language, decorated with tiny flowers. I was glad we could not read the script. I guessed it to be from Narayan’s wife.

‘Nothing like that here.’

He closed the case and locked it.

I went to the fireplace. A small fire had been laid, but not lit. Scraps of charred paper lay between the logs.

Small wonder Presthope was so confident and had lied to me in such a bare-faced way, saying only that his friend had ‘given’ him two hundred pounds. Somehow, when Ijahar was in and out, back and forth from Bolton Hall, taking incense and cloths of gold, Presthope – or some emissary – had, they thought, destroyed the note. He was not to know that I had kept the original. My forgery had fooled him. I felt a frisson of pride at having copied his signature so well.

‘Anything else?’ Sergeant said.

‘Was Mr Presthope in the hotel today?’

‘If he was, I did not see him. I can ask the staff.’

‘Has anyone been in this room apart from the valet and the chambermaid?’

‘It is possible. Ijahar came back for the prince’s laying out clothes, and then for every bit of silk, velvet, muslin that was on the chairs, the bed, and in the trunks, and for some ointment and incense. Given the state of the man, he may have failed to lock the door.’

‘Yes, I suppose that is possible.’

‘Shall I question the staff?’

‘That would be a good idea. I know you’ll be discreet.’

‘Very well, and now my wife asks will you come to the dining room. She will cook you a chop.’

‘Thank you but there is something else I need to do. Does anyone in the area have a dark room and photographic facilities that I can use? I have a film to be developed and printed.’

‘Sorry, no one in the hotel. There is a photographer in Skipton but he does not live on the premises and his shop will be closed now.’

‘That’s a pity. But never mind, I’ll drive home, and come back early tomorrow.’

‘Wait a minute. We do have one keen photographer nearby. Dr Simonson at Embsay. Shall I telephone to him?’

‘There’s no one in the village? Nearer to hand?’

‘Not that I know of.’

It would be a lot nearer to drive to Embsay than to Leeds and back. That decided me. ‘Then yes please. It’s a bit of an imposition on a Saturday evening.’

Not only did the doctor let me use his dark room, he shared the shepherds pie left for him by his housekeeper. We tucked in while my prints were drying.

‘Do you take the
British Journal of Photography
, Mrs Shackleton?’

‘Yes I do.’

‘I have quite a collection, passed to me by my father. Did you know that Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, when he was a young medical student, wrote accounts of his photographic adventures, to supplement his income?’

‘No. That’s news to me.’

I do know Sir Arthur slightly. He is a friend of my aunt and uncle. But I decided against mentioning this to Dr Simonson.

When we had finished the shepherds pie, he pushed the plates to the edge of the table and crossed to a bookshelf in the corner of the room, returning with a pile of old, well-thumbed magazines. He opened one and turned the pages.

‘Hark at this, eh? He writes of himself in the third person and never by name. He refers to himself as The Doctor, and he is travelling with The Commodore. So witty. Listen to this: “The Commodore is not a conversationalist. Though more lively than the proverbial tombstone, he is taciturn when compared to an eight day clock. Clearly, a third companion was necessary… The Genius.” They sail the coast line from Eddystone.’ He ran his finger down the page. ‘“None of our results did justice”, he says. Don’t you know the feeling?’

‘I do indeed.’

He set the magazine down on the table. ‘It was reading Arthur Conan Doyle that lured me into photography. I thought the adventure part sounded like a great lark, not that I travel far now.’

‘Did you take your camera with you during the war?’

‘Heavens no. I thought I’d have plenty of time for taking photographs when I got back, if I got back.’

I almost told him that my husband, Gerald, had carried a camera with him to the end, but I am trying to wean myself away from mentioning him in these sorts of situations. I busied myself looking at the illustrations in the journal.

He opened another copy and scanned it. ‘Here, read this.’

‘You read it to me.’

‘Conan Doyle is talking about not being able to capture colour. He says, “Are we never to have the yellow of the sand and the green of the grass and the blue of the ocean transferred to our plates? It seems to me that a standing fund should be put by as a reward, to attract the researches of chemists and physicists in that direction.” He had a point, eh?’

‘Perhaps we would be even more disappointed in our efforts if we had colour.’

‘Oh I don’t think so. What brought you into photography?’

‘My aunt and uncle bought me a Brownie for my twentieth birthday.’ The old journals were dusty. I pulled a hanky from my pocket as a sneeze began. ‘I enjoyed taking pictures but it was not until I visited Frank Meadow Sutcliffe’s studio in Whitby that I began to take it seriously.’

‘Oh? I’ve never visited Whitby, or Sutcliffe’s studio.’

‘You should.’

I turned the conversation quickly, before he took my comments as an invitation. I liked the man but after all, I had known him just a few hours. ‘I think my prints will be dry. Would you like to see them?’

‘Not before pudding, thank you.’

‘Of course, tactless of me.’

He laughed. ‘Not at all.’ He rose from the table, gathering up the plates, turning his back to me. ‘I had better not see them, Mrs Shackleton. I was drafted in to do the autopsy and prefer not to have the complication of having seen your photographs of the body in the wood, however professionally expert.’

It was a kind of rebuke and a closing down of the conversation.

On the way back to the hotel, I noticed a light still on in the police house. My knock was answered by Mrs Brocksup, a tall, angular woman with grey hair done up in a bun above her head. I introduced myself.

‘Here are some photographs for Mr Brocksup to pass to the coroner.’

She took them from me. ‘I’ll hand them to him.’

I thanked her, and wished her goodnight, once again with the feeling that my photographs were not wanted. I would be glad to see the back of this day, and hoped that James’s arrival tomorrow might mark a change of some kind.

It was eleven o’clock when, back at the hotel, I asked Mr Sergeant to lock my photographic negatives in the safe.

Like Dr Simonson, Sergeant showed no curiosity.

At the time, I had accepted Simonson’s explanation of why he did not want to see the photographs. Now, I thought again. Neither man wanted to see because he did not need to know, and therefore did not want to know. There was something very military in that attitude.

Sergeant turned the key. ‘All done.’ He slipped the safe key into his waistcoat pocket.

It occurred to me that a retired army man, like Sergeant, falls into a position of trust, such as hotel manager, for services rendered, and because he is known to be reliable. Not exactly ‘one of the chaps’, the wrong social background, the wrong school for that, but utterly reliable all the same.

In Westy Bank Wood, a spindly-limbed young white doe paused by a felled tree. Head raised, it sniffed the air and looked about nervously from big round eyes. Suddenly confident of being unseen, it lowered its snout and nudged a branch aside, and another, until it revealed a man’s face. The maharajah rose like a spirit. Wordlessly, he called for his horse. Betsy, the white pony, galloped towards him from one direction and the Arab stallion from the other. As the horses hurtled towards him, about to collide, about to trample the maharajah and the doe, a suffocating sense of panic flooded over me.

The doe fled.

A disembodied voice said, ‘He is too young.’

I woke, unable to see or think because of the power of the dream. Outside, a dawn chorus chirped, mocking my fears. Slowly, I remembered it was Sunday morning. I took in the unfamiliar bed and the strange room.

What did the dream mean? It could be something or nothing. After the events of yesterday, it was hardly surprising that my mind struggled to take in everything that had happened.

Unwilling to return to haunting dreams, I swung out of bed, still feeling a little shaky. It was not yet 6 a.m. I would go for a walk before the world came to life.

At the small basin in my room, I brushed my teeth and washed.

Looking through the clothes that I had brought, I now saw everything was wrong. How dowdy that old tweed costume I had grabbed in such a hurry. It would have to be the walking boots; not exactly a good pairing with my summer coat.

As I dressed, the sentence from the dream rang in my ears. ‘He is too young.’ Who was too young?

The maharajah, I supposed. He was too young to die.

I drew back the curtains. Of course being the country it was not too early for people to be out and about. Beyond the hotel grounds, I saw a familiar figure walking along the path towards the hotel. It was Upton, the duke’s agent. He walked like a man who had been hollowed out. Every step seemed an effort. I turned away, feeling like a spy.

My room was at the wrong side of the hotel for me to see the wood, but not seeing it made it that much more real, a dark and mysterious place that called out the word murder. I could not shake off the dream. Perhaps it was trying to tell me something. Are we cleverer than our dreams, or do they outsmart us?

The best way to dispel the dream would be to stroll to the wood. The hotel was eerily quiet as I walked from my room to the entrance. I wondered would the doors be locked from the night before. Fortunately, someone had been up and about. I closed the door quietly behind me and turned to walk through the village.

It was a relief to stroll along the road in such silence. Even the birds had disappeared into the woods or some other haunts. After the manic activity of the day before, the very air, with its slight breeze, urged me to slow down.

As soon as I noticed a path leading to the trees, I took it. Of course that was a mistake. The path meandered and led me higher than I intended. I somehow missed the way to the place where the prince had lain.

Trying to picture the map in the estate office, I realised from the slope of the hill and the farm not far off, that I was near Stanks’s farm. If I went by it, I should be able to turn and find my way back to that fateful spot in the wood. Had it been cordoned off by the police, I wondered. James would want to look at it. So, too, may Narayan’s father.

Smoke curled from Stanks’s farm chimney.

I realised I was on their land and that the working day had already started. Hens pecked across the yard. I strolled towards the gate, intending to leave quickly. That was when I saw the barn. It must be the one where the doe had been taken. What if it was exactly like the doe in my dream?

Quietly, treading like a thief, I pushed open the barn door, just enough to allow me to squeeze in.

It was dim inside after the brightness of the morning. I blinked and glanced about. There hung the white doe. In my mind, it was a small, delicate creature, like the one in Inchbold’s painting. In reality, it loomed much larger than I imagined, smooth and magnificent, in spite of being inelegantly trussed by its limbs to the rafters. There was something ancient, almost sacramental about viewing this upside-down creature. I suddenly understood how animals can be imbued with qualities and powers beyond knowledge.

I sat down on a bale of hay and contemplated the beast – so calm and regal, in spite of this undignified ending.

My semi-worshipful staring at the deer would bring me no nearer to finding who murdered the prince.

I averted my eyes from the doe and took out my notebook and pencil. Jot something down, I told myself. James will be here today and will want to know everything. But all that came to my mind were questions. If, as Lydia claimed, her maharajah was so keen to marry her, why had they not married in Paris? She must have told Narayan what her father’s attitude would be and that his blessing was unlikely.

Why come to Yorkshire?

They were free agents. No reason why they should not come here. Perhaps the maharajah really did want to see Lydia’s birthplace, if he were so besotted with her. He clearly thought he would be able to persuade Mr Metcalfe to give way.

Of course the prince was also here for the sport. Being here would give him the run of the Duke of Devonshire’s estate before the hordes arrived for the glorious twelfth.

Since Lydia was unwelcome at Chatsworth, Narayan may have wanted to test how it would be here. He had never been on a shooting party at Bolton Abbey. Perhaps he thought being near her parents’ farm would give her somewhere to visit and something to do. He would feel easy knowing she had family nearby.

He had another reason to come here, renewing the acquaintance of his old school friend, Thurston Presthope.

Perhaps there was some assignation that he had revealed to no one. If there had been an Indian in the area, was this someone the maharajah had arranged to meet?

What enemies did he have, and who would benefit by his death? Thurston Presthope had much to gain, if he believed he could pocket the ten thousand pounds that was to have persuaded Mr Metcalfe to give his blessing to his daughter’s marriage.

There was still the question of whether the coal merchant did or did not see an Indian on Bark Lane. By the time James arrived, I would try and have an answer to that question at least.

Sometimes, when investigating, I feel that a small fact has escaped me, or there is some person I have overlooked. This time, there were just the tiniest facts and only two suspects in sight. There was the respectable stationmaster, suspected because of his anger at his daughter’s love for the man who had jilted her, Osbert Hannon. I must meet the stationmaster, and soon. But my earlier theory that the stationmaster fired at Osbert and hit the maharajah now struck me as unlikely.

Both Presthope and the stationmaster knew the area well. I was convinced that the maharajah’s body had been moved. Whoever moved the body must be familiar with the area, and confident enough to choose a time and place when he would be unobserved.

I put away my notebook without writing a single word.

A bluebottle appeared and buzzed about the unblinking eye of the dead doe. Hating to witness the creature so pestered, I stood to leave the barn.

As I stood, so did someone else.

The figure rising from a kind of trough at the far end of the barn almost made me jump out of my skin. Straw clung to his hair and to his striped shirt.

I froze; so did he.

‘Joel?’

He climbed from the trough, picked up a cap and twisted it in his hands.

Act normally. Behave as if you see people climbing out of troughs every day.

‘I’ve done nowt wrong!’ He stayed glued to the spot.

‘I’m sure you haven’t. Did I disturb you?’

He shook his head.

‘You probably have permission to be here. I don’t.’

‘Did you come to see her?’ His voice sounded strange and unreal in the echoing barn.

It took me a few seconds to realise that he was asking me about the doe.

‘Yes. She is a beautiful creature.’

He moved closer, staring lovingly at the doe, waving the flies away with the cap that I recognised as belonging to Isaac.

Joel glanced at the door, as though I might prevent his reaching it.

‘I ought to be going. Will you walk out with me, Joel, or are you working here today?’

He shook his head. ‘I don’t want to go home.’

‘It must be lonely there, without your dad.’

‘Aye.’

‘Did you see him yesterday?’

He nodded.

‘How is he?’

He gazed at the doe, as though she was the one who had enquired after his father’s health.

‘Dad’s right badly.’ He looked towards the barn door.

I did not want him to bolt, as he had yesterday. He may have helpful information. Besides, I felt pity for him. He seemed so puzzled, and alone.

‘I’m glad they let you see your dad.’

‘He tries to speak but it comes out wrong. His feet are cold.’

‘He will be taken good care of there.’

Joel moved closer to the doe.

‘She is beautiful, Joel, a fine animal, she would not have suffered. The prince was a good shot.’

He stepped back quickly. ‘I saw his ghost. I smelled his ghost. There’s two ghosts now, him and Osbert.’

‘Perhaps it was a dream.’

‘I smelled him. I smelled the Indian.’

‘What kind of smell?’

‘Sweet, like flowers.’

‘When was this?’

‘In the night and just now.’

‘There was no one here but me. There are no ghosts.’ I must keep him talking, keep him by me. What was he afraid of, and what did he know? ‘The dead won’t hurt you.’ He was unconvinced. ‘Probably we should go. They are out and about at the farm. Do they know you are here?’

‘No.’

‘Then we are both trespassers. Shall we walk a little way together?’

He pulled on the cap.

‘You haven’t eaten. Let me see if I can get something for breakfast and I will walk back with you. It may not be so bad to go home if someone is with you.’ The mention of food seemed to cheer him. ‘You stay here. I’ll see what I can get.’

‘I’ll stop by the gate.’

‘All right. Be sure you wait for me.’

Knocking on the farmhouse door would be good cover for my trespassing. And perhaps I might speak to someone who would have helpful information – though I hardly knew what questions to ask.

I walked to the farmhouse. The girl who answered the door was about twelve years old. She looked surprised to be asked for milk, bread and eggs, but left me waiting and came back moments later with half a loaf, eggs, not very well wrapped in a bit of old sacking, and a jug of milk. ‘Have you fetched a jug, missis?’

‘No.’

‘Then you mun fetch this one back soon as you’ve done.’

‘Right. I will.’

I paid her, though neither of us was sure what the amount should be. She asked too little, I probably gave too much.

I pictured walking back to Joel’s cottage, making tea and frying eggs.

Joel put paid to my thoughts of a rustic breakfast. He cracked two eggs into the jug and offered it to me. When I refused, he drank it down in three or four gulps.

He put the rest of the eggs, and the bread, in his pockets.

‘Wait here, Joel. I’ll still walk you back to your cottage.’

I returned the jug.

It was gratifying that he had waited. As we walked down the incline towards the road, I put my question to him; or one of my questions.

‘I heard that there was an Indian on Bark Lane on Friday. Did you happen to see him, or did you hear that story?’

‘No.’

That was simple enough.

‘Have you seen any Indian, apart from the prince?’

‘Yes.’

Hope leapt.

‘When, and where?’

‘On Friday. The one who wears white. He carried the prince’s gun from the hotel. He is a small man with a scar on his eyebrow.’

‘I see.’

‘I telled the constable. He asked me all about it and about shooting crows. He said I mun tell, because I saw prince dead. But I am mixed up. They will blame me.’

‘No one will blame you for what happened to the prince.’

‘My brain is not good. Everyone knows it.’

‘No one will ask you a hard question. Let me ask you another question, Joel. Is that all right?’

‘My brain is not strong because my head is big and a breeze cools my brain.’

‘A cool breeze can be good.’

‘Not for the brain.’

‘This is my question. Do you have any idea how, when everyone searched the wood for the Indian prince’s body on Friday, it was not there?’

‘I have to go now.’

I caught his sleeve as he set off to run. ‘Wait! It’s all right. I won’t ask any more questions.’

‘No one mun seek me. Tell them not to seek me.’

I had handled our encounter badly. I wondered who or what he was afraid of.

The day looked set fair. Having upset him, it seemed only kind to walk him home. He said the road would be a better way, but I wanted to look again at the Strid.