Murder on a Summer's Day (14 page)

‘Take you up on that. When I get my Rolls back, I’ll give you a run for your money.’

Mr Sergeant strode from his office as I was about to enter the hotel lounge.

‘Mrs Shackleton, enjoyed your drive, I hope?’

‘Yes thank you.’

‘You missed breakfast.’

‘Guilty. But I’ll be more than ready for Yorkshire pudding and whatever joint of meat you are roasting.’

‘Glad to hear it.’ He gave me a conspiratorial glance and continued his stroll to the desk, indicating that I should follow. He did not speak until we were well away from the lounge. ‘Another guest has arrived this morning.’

This was not news to me. I had seen the familiar car parked outside. It had belonged to me for a very long time, until I bequeathed it to my assistant, Mr Sykes. He insisted on having it painted black, which was just as well or our motors would have passed for close cousins.

I had no intention of revealing to Mr Sergeant that I had sent for reinforcements. ‘This must be a busy time of year for the hotel.’

‘I was unsure whether to turn him away. But he seems genuine. He is here to fish and has all the right tackle for brown trout. I don’t believe that a newspaper reporter would go to such trouble, and he shows no curiosity about recent events.’

‘Mr Sergeant, you have a business to run. Welcoming guests is what you do.’

He relaxed a little, but his worried frown did not entirely disappear. ‘You are probably right. He shows no sign of having heard about the tragic accident, but then, reporters are crafty.’

There were those words again: tragic accident. I could understand that Mr Sergeant would wish to avoid scandal in the press concerning the late prince and Lydia Metcalfe – but their affair was common knowledge. If he were so sure that Narayan had died in a tragic accident, what was there to hide?

‘Would it be so terrible if he is a reporter? The story is bound to come out.’

‘You are right. I just hope I have not let a viper into his lordship’s nest, though I believe there will be one reporter allowed in to tomorrow’s inquest.’

So he also had information about the inquest. I was beginning to feel like Mrs Shut Out.

‘Is there more news of the inquest?’

‘His lordship has given permission for it to be held at the Hall, eleven o’clock, tomorrow.’

‘If your angler guest tries to wangle his way in, that might be the moment to suspect him.’

‘This is a terrible imposition, Mrs Shackleton, but would you mind, if the opportunity presents itself, speaking to the gentleman and telling me if you think he is a newspaper reporter? If so, is he the one that is in the picture?’

What picture, I wondered.

‘Not at all, Mr Sergeant, our being fellow Jowett owners gives me the perfect opportunity. I will speak to him before lunch.’

He thanked me profusely.

Of course, it would not do to appear too eager to chat to a strange man, even if that strange man were well known to me.

I made my way to my room for a spit and lick.

As I turned from the wash basin, I noticed a familiar suitcase by the wardrobe – my own suitcase. How had Sykes found my room number and unlocked the door? Not for the first time, I was glad to have him batting for my team, as cousin James might say.

I placed the suitcase on the bed and snapped it open. Mrs Sugden had cleverly packed my violet afternoon dress and jacket, a suitable colour for mourning. The silk pink patterned dress with cap sleeves also looked good. Ever practical, my housekeeper had also included bath salts as well as writing and carbon paper.

I would ask Mr Sergeant to loan me a typewriter.

Having decided on the violet, with black Cuban heel shoes, I made my way to the lounge, feeling a little guilty at having dragged Sykes away from Rosie and the family on a fine Sunday.

He looked happy enough, seated by the French windows, reading the
Sunday Pictorial.
We exchanged a polite greeting.

I took a seat nearby and picked up a magazine.

After a few moments, he offered me his newspaper, and I accepted, allowing myself to be drawn into conversation.

The positioning of our chintz-covered chairs afforded a pleasant view of the garden, and also gave Sykes a view of the door. Although no one was in earshot, as far as I could tell, we uttered a few pleasantries before I said, ‘You went into my room with the suitcase. That was taking a chance.’

‘Everyone was otherwise occupied and I was very quick.’

Sykes would make an excellent burglar. He has tried to pass on his lock-picking skills, but my abilities are a pale shadow of his.

‘Tell me something about your plans to fish, so that I can assure the hotel manager of your bona fides.’

‘He’s still suspicious of me, after my grand performance? That’s an army man for you.’

‘He believes you may be a newspaper reporter, here to dig the dirt on the late prince and his paramour. I’m also beginning to think myself half mad because apart from Lydia and her mother I am the only one who suspects foul play. Everyone else is at pains to proclaim the “tragic accident”, well, accidents, to be precise.’

‘Plural?’

‘One of the grooms who rode with the prince has drowned. That may or may not have been accidental. I am inclined to think not.’

‘Because…?’

‘Too much of a coincidence. He was young and fit. I find it hard to believe that he slipped while leaping the river.’

‘And the prince?’

‘He died of a gunshot wound to the heart. Now there is the faintest of possibilities that his horse baulked and it
was
an accident. But in that case, he would have lain where he fell and would have been found on Friday. His clothing was dry. He had been covered in branches. It was not even a very proficient job.’

‘So whom do you suspect?’

‘Either someone local, or connected with a rival Indian state, or he may have become inconvenient to the British government.’

Sykes let out a whistle. ‘Now I wish I really were here for the brown trout. What are the police up to?’

‘With a piece of charcoal in his hand, the local constable is the Leonardo of the North Riding, sketching the scene and ignoring my photographs. Unfortunately, he is acting as coroner’s officer and intent on brushing me aside.’

‘Ignoring you? Doesn’t the man know that’s a hanging offence?’ He glanced beyond me towards the door and then evinced a sudden interest in a newspaper.

I took the hint and asked about how he planned to spend his time at Bolton Abbey.

Sykes captivated me for six long minutes on the topic of rods, lines, nets and bait, until Mr Sergeant had given up his eavesdropping.

‘All right then, boss. Tell me what you want me to do.’

‘Blend in. Have a drink at the Elm Tree in Embsay. There’s a coal merchant called Deakin who saw an Indian on Bark Lane on Friday afternoon and now claims he did not see an Indian, but a gipsy on a bike.’

‘A gipsy on a bike? No.’

‘That’s what I thought. Whether it was something or nothing, I would like to know. Also, an old school chum of the prince’s, Thurston Presthope, is now trying to defraud the royal heirs of ten thousand pounds. He believes he will get away with it because the prince asked him to buy the goodwill of his mistress’s father, Tobias Metcalfe. Presthope thinks no one else knows about it.’

Briefly, I told Sykes about Lydia Metcalfe, and my visit to the farm.

‘It’s the men round here who are the best gossips, Mr Sykes. So you won’t be sorry to hear that I want you to frequent the local public houses.’

‘No sacrifice is too great, Mrs Shackleton.’

‘I shall type a report for my cousin. He is the one who gave me this assignment and will be arriving this evening. What room are you in?’

‘Seventeen.’

‘Expect a copy under your door sometime this afternoon. The chartered train is due at seven.’

Sykes folded the Sunday paper. ‘I considered taking the precaution of signing in under a false name – “Mr Fish” – a scrupulously neat gentleman angler of impeccable habits.’

‘And did you?’

‘I decided against.’

‘That’s a pity. I should like to see scrupulous neatness and impeccable habits.’

‘Shall we have lunch?’

‘Don’t push your luck. You’re just a passing angler. I have my reputation to think of.’

‘I’m a passing angler who will attend evensong at the church. There are bound to be homilies about the dead. It’s the kind of topic that could interest a murderer.’

‘And then?’

‘I shall just have to force myself to try the local ale and be generally agreeable to the populace.’

Through the open window came a distant hum. Two waitresses appeared on the lawn, looking up at the sky.

We went out through the French windows and gazed up to the heavens. Sykes sidled across to the waitresses.

Mr Sergeant came to join me, shading his eyes as he looked up. ‘That’ll be his lordship and the senior maharajah. They’ve flown from Croydon.’ He blinked and screwed up his eyes as the plane came closer. ‘It’s a de Havilland 50.’

‘You can tell that from here?’

‘It’s an interest of mine.’

The hum of the aeroplane grew louder. It dipped a little.

‘Where will it land?’

‘I don’t know. I expect the pilot has his eye on some long stretch of ground over there.’ Sergeant glanced towards Sykes who was chatting to the two waitresses. ‘What did you find out about our new guest, Mr Sykes? He’s a bit over-curious for my liking.’

After lunch, Mr Sergeant had his office typewriter brought to my room, along with paper and a fresh sheet of carbon paper. No self-respecting private detective would use someone else’s carbon paper, to be perused by any nosey parker capable of reading inside out.

I used two sheets of carbon paper, top copy for James, second copy for the coroner, third copy for me and Sykes. After making a few preliminary notes, I began to type.

As my fingers hit the keys, I realised how furious I was with the whole business of feeling pushed to one side by the coroner’s officer. I must not take out my annoyance on the typewriter, or every p and every o would have a hole in it.

I stopped typing. It is strange that in a language as rich in synonyms as ours there is no word that carries the same weight as tragic. I was loath to use the word, given that it tasted wrong in my mouth, having been used to describe what happened to Narayan as an accident. Yet to leave such an incident without an adjective seemed heartless. Distressing would not do, not in an objective report. Shocking? Shocking it must be.

It is never hard to know what to put in a report. The hard part is what to leave out.

There ended my report. They would see from the photographs that the gun was unbroken.

I signed and folded the sheets and put them in envelopes.

When I looked up, I saw that Sykes hovered outside.

I opened the window.

‘I heard you stop typing.’

I thrust an envelope at him. ‘Go away. You will be mistaken for a peeping Tom.’

I shut the window.

Suddenly, tiredness hit me. I had been up at dawn two mornings running, and had eaten a tremendous Sunday dinner. When James and the Indian family arrived, I would need my wits about me. I shut the curtains and thought about entering the land of nod.

There was a knock on the door.

I opened it to find Mr Cummings, every brass button done up, looking shifty, glancing right and left.

He handed me a piece of paper. ‘The prince sent a telegram from the post office on Wednesday morning, addressed to Mr Mohinder Singh Chana at the Ritz Hotel in London.’

I glanced at the paper. The message read simply

It was signed NH.

‘This was it?’

‘Yes. Please destroy it. My cousin would be in serious trouble if this comes out.’

‘Do you know whether there was a reply?’

‘I don’t know if it was a reply but his highness received a telegram on Friday. I’ve written it on the back.’

I turned the paper over. This was the same telegram that the prince had tucked under his writing case:

Ides of August

C

‘I never would have done this as a rule, but you are working for his lordship. All the same, if this prying comes out my cousin’s livelihood is at risk.’

‘Here.’ I reached for my purse, and gave him another half crown. ‘What time did he receive the telegram on Friday?’

‘I gave it to him myself when he came back from his morning ride, about twelve o’clock.’

‘Did he say anything?’

‘He opened it then and there, and he looked pleased.’

‘Anything else?’

Cummings slipped the half crown in his pocket. ‘He said he’d do a bit of deerstalking that afternoon.’

‘You look as if this surprised you.’

‘I thought he’d want to be with his companion. They were inseparable all day Thursday. Later, when I went up to tell him that Isaac and Osbert were here, I heard Miss Metcalfe complaining about him going out again. He said this would be his only opportunity to go shooting, because he had a surprise for her later.’

There was a noise in the corridor. Cummings looked about him, and then scuttled off.

My tiredness fled. From what Cummings said, this cryptic telegram signalled the prince’s imminent departure from the hotel, otherwise he would have had plenty of time to go deerstalking before the grouse shooting began on the twelfth.

Ides of August.

What was significant about this date in August?

Slipping the cryptic notes in my pocket, I decided not to rack my brains. Answers have a habit of emerging in their own good time.