Murder on a Summer's Day (16 page)

The crow in the cage was silent, no doubt weakened by its prolonged captivity.

‘It’s a bait crow.’

‘I know it’s a bait crow, but what’s it doing here?’ He strode to the cage and looked closely. ‘I don’t see how this catch opens.’

‘Be careful.’

He took off his jacket and held it in front of his face, putting one hand into a sleeve and reaching down. ‘I’ve got it.’ A moment later, he stepped back.

The crow flew from the cage, its wings flapping, darting at James as if it would gladly peck out his eyes. He waved his jacket at it and for a few seconds it was not clear whether crow or man would win.

Then suddenly, the crow flew away, darting through the trees and disappearing out of sight.

‘That was very kind of you, James, to release the bird.’

‘Kind my foot. If Maharajah Shivram or Prince Jaya want to visit the spot where Narayan was found, I don’t want them tripping over a crow.’

We stood very still. A light breeze rustled through the trees. Far off, a blackbird called.

‘James, there is something I should tell you. Over there, that is where the body was found. This area should have been cordoned off pending a police search.’

‘I expect they have found everything they need.’

His complacency annoyed me.

I took his hand. ‘Come on, I’ll show you exactly where he was found.’

He stepped gingerly, fearful of pulling threads in his trousers. Near the holly bush, I pointed to where the body had lain and gave him an account of coming along this way with Isaac, and seeing Joel.

‘You are not suggesting this Joel Withers shot the maharajah?’

‘No. He is a timid young man, and a little odd, but he was afraid when he saw the body.’

‘That’s natural enough.’

‘There is something wrong, something I can’t put my finger on.’

He turned and strode back to the path. ‘It will be up to the coroner to review all the evidence in the case.’

‘Well I hope he does.’

James picked up the empty crow cage, and looked about. On the other side of the path, tall nettles grew against a felled tree. He flung the cage beyond the nettles. ‘Come on. This place makes my flesh creep. Woods are all right for boy scouts and for exercising dogs. Let us get back into the sunshine.’ We walked back along the path. ‘When you spoke to Lydia Metcalfe about the death, what did you say to her?’

‘She was in a bit of a state. I hinted to her – well, more than hinted, that his horse had baulked and his rifle had gone off. But that was only to keep her quiet.’

He nodded approvingly.

‘She didn’t believe me.’

‘But you said it. That’s the main thing. It is exactly the explanation that we thought most likely.’

‘We?’

‘In the India Office. May I explain something to you?’

‘I wish you would.’

We were on the downward slope, making our way back to the road.

‘Gattiawan is politically important to British interests. There has been unrest in a neighbouring province, some hot-headed nationalists stirring up trouble. We are in negotiations with Maharajah Shivram regarding his taking a controlling interest in that province, and increasing the Gattiawan gun salute from nineteen to twenty-one. It would be most inexpedient for this tragic death to impinge on delicate negotiations.’

He spoke in an irritatingly soothing tone. ‘The family need to be able to grieve, to take back Narayan’s ashes to a sacred river, to have a narrative that they can pass on to his young son, and to his daughters.’

‘What about the truth? What if an Indian from a rival state was sent to kill the prince?’

‘Kate, we rule in India because we know how to do things properly…’

‘What do you mean by properly?’

‘As far as I can gather, no one but you believes there was foul play.’

‘The family will want the truth.’

‘And they shall have the truth. But we will do it properly.’

‘Properly means examining the facts, sifting stories, corroborating statements.’

‘We have our way of doing things. Maharajah Shivram trusts us.’ He spoke slowly, as if explaining multiplication tables to a six-year-old. ‘We have given India a language, a system of law, a trusted civil service of the highest quality, railways, and an army. They look up to us because we know how to go about things in the right way.’

‘That was why Lydia Metcalfe spoiled the picture. You only ever like Indians to see the cream of the British crop, and their wives, sisters and daughters.’

‘Precisely.’

He offered me his hand as we reached the stile.

‘Is that it then? Are my services dispensed with?’

‘Of course not. I am authorised to give you payment in recognition of your success in finding the prince.’

We had reached the lane. The rumbling sound of a cart caught my attention. A handcart with very large wheels came into view, loaded with timber and an old chest. It was being pushed by the stony-faced man who had pulled Osbert Hannon from the river.

James did not meet my glance when I looked at him. He simply said, ‘It’s for the cremation.’

‘Cremation?’

‘The coroner will issue a certificate tomorrow, granting permission. I’ve forgotten the name of the place.’ He stopped the man who was pushing the cart. ‘Where is it you are taking the timber?’

‘To the Valley of Desolation, sir. And his lordship ordered this chest be given up, to help make the right sort of fire. It is an old cedar wood, and the kind that is preferred for Indian cremation.’

He walked on.

The stark reality of watching the timber being trundled along gave me the shivers. ‘Why such a hurry?’

‘It is Hindu custom not to delay. If they were at home and the body lying in state, things may have been done differently.’ James held out his hand. ‘I had better get back to the Hall. Thank you for everything you have done.’

I took his hand. ‘What happens now?’

‘I will call for you tomorrow morning, at least an hour before the inquest. I expect the coroner will issue a certificate authorising cremation.’

Sykes appeared from the direction of the river.

I was continuing my walk back to the hotel. Although there was no one about, he maintained his guise and hailed me as one might greet a fellow hotel resident.

There was no point in telling him of my conversation with James. My former policeman assistant would rightly be outraged at the thought of a suspicious death not being fully investigated. My approach was different to his. I would investigate anyway, leaving aside the outrage.

‘Do you want to hear about the church service?’

‘Yes.’

‘Only you seem preoccupied.’

‘No, it’s all right. Tell me.’ I slowed my step and looked towards the river. It was a fine evening. The sun glowed red. ‘Let’s walk by the water. We can come back up to the hotel separately. Don’t want to start tongues wagging.’

We left the road and walked the grassy slope towards the Wharfe. Finally, he said, ‘It was so very sad, that service. There’s a beautiful west window and the evening sun shone through. It lit up a very pregnant young woman, the widow of an estate worker who drowned. The older woman with her was in shadow. It seemed most odd.’ That was a rather poetic observation for him. ‘The duke was in his pew. I suspect he had instructed the parson to keep his homilies short and to the point. There were prayers for the souls of Prince Narayan and for Osbert Hannon. And he had a warning, too.’

‘What sort of warning?’

‘He said that no one in this congregation, indeed in this village or on this estate, should believe the superstition that the death of a white doe brought ill fortune. These were tragic events and no one could fathom the ways of the Lord. And they must not forget to pray for Isaac Withers who was sorely afflicted and being cared for in the hospital. That was the signal for the organ to shatter the silence, and for the choir to strike up. Afterwards, I saw the duke talking to the young widow and Osbert’s mother, which I thought was very kind.’

‘Yes. It’s so shocking, a terrible blow for them.’

‘People congregated outside after the service. There was speculation about whether there would be grouse-shooting this year, and a rumour that King George would have taken part but won’t now be coming.’

‘Nine days to go. I can’t see any shooting happening on the twelfth.’ A flock of slipstreaming birds passed overhead. ‘That coal merchant, Deakin, the one I told you about – I don’t suppose he was at the service?’

‘No. But Mrs Deakin was. Someone did ask her about her husband having seen an Indian in the area. She claimed not to know anything about it.’

‘She does know!’

‘I’m sure. But I don’t believe we should set too much store by what that man said. I gained the impression that he would not be a reliable witness.’ My assistant never fails to amaze me. I am quite good at drawing people out individually, but he has the ability to work a crowd. ‘Oh and I chatted to the verger. He said it was typical of Mrs Hannon and her daughter-in-law even at a time of such grief to be concerned about a young man who has gone missing from his cottage, and from his work.’

‘Joel Withers?’

‘Yes.’

‘He is a simple soul, scared of his own shadow. I came across him this morning, sleeping rough in the barn, where the doe is hung. He was reluctant to go home alone. Poor fellow woke from a nightmare.’

‘What kind of nightmare?’

‘He thought the prince’s ghost was in the barn with him. The poor chap saw a spectre rising from the hay, he smelled him, he probably even heard him. If you can find where Joel is hiding, I should like to speak to him again. I would hate for him to come to harm.’

‘I wonder if it’s too late for me to take a look at that barn, or see if I can find Joel’s hiding place.’ He looked at his watch and spoke the time aloud.

As he did so, something clicked for me. Twenty-one forty. Twenty minutes to ten. Prince Narayan had telegraphed the time of Lydia Metcalfe’s birth to Mr Chana in order to have her horoscope cast. Mr Chana had done as he was asked. He had sent an answer that not everyone would understand. A favoured day for the marriage of Lydia Metcalfe to Prince Narayan Halkwaer was the Ides of August. Presumably Chana was sure that the prince would understand this, or perhaps Chana had been deliberately ambiguous. And did the wording contain a threat?

On Monday morning, at breakfast, I exchanged polite good mornings with the other guests in the hotel dining room, two elderly couples and a gentleman with the reassuring appearance of a retired city bank manager.

Sitting not far from the door to the kitchen, within hearing distance of clattering pans and a chattering Mrs Sergeant and her waitress, I ate a leisurely breakfast of bacon, egg, mushrooms and fried bread. If James was as good as his word, he would not be long in calling for me and giving me more information about the inquest to be held at Bolton Hall. I assumed that it would be an affair of a few moments, to be opened and adjourned until a later date. Until that was done, investigations stood still for me. It was too soon to expect an acknowledgement of my report. James might hope for a verdict of accidental death, but a coroner, with all the independence and traditions of his office, would not be satisfied with such an interpretation.

Sykes was not at breakfast. I guessed that he must already be up and about his business. If a brown trout had information, he would fillet it out.

No sooner had this thought occurred to me than I saw him, seated outside in the garden.

When the waitress brought my coffee, I asked her to bring it outside. ‘It’s such a lovely morning.’

She carried the coffee out for me. My fellow guest waved his newspaper. ‘Good morning, won’t you join me, Mrs Shackleton?’ The waitress gave me a questioning glance.

‘I will join Mr Sykes.’

I sat down beside him.

He tapped the newspaper. ‘Interesting titbit of information here.’ Until the waitress was well out of hearing, he regaled me with a story of an extension to the sewage works at Esholt, and the daring plan of the Jowett brothers to have four cars drive civic dignitaries through the tunnels on the day of the opening ceremony. ‘You have to hand it to them. When it comes to promoting their motors, they’re not backward in coming forward.’

‘Is that true? Cars driving underground?’

He handed me the newspaper. ‘Here it is in black and white. It must be true.’

I glanced at the paper.

As I did so, he leaned in and said quietly, ‘No sign of your missing Joel Withers, but I did take a look at the barn where the doe is hung.’

‘Poor Joel seemed quite cut up about it. What with that and his father’s stroke, I’m not surprised if he has crawled off to lick his wounds. I only hope nothing bad has happened to him.’

‘I wonder if there is more to it.’

‘Such as?’

‘He told you he saw the prince’s ghost, and that there was a smell.’

‘Scent rather than smell. What of it?’

‘You believe the prince did not die in the wood so I thought it worth checking the barn.’

‘Did you find anything?’

‘Not a bullet, though I did look for a bullet. Not traces of blood, though it would take more light and more time than I had. But there was a smell.’

‘Joel said it was a sweet smell.’

‘And so it was, in the straw, something like perfume among the other more usual whiffs to be found on a farm, faint but definite.’

‘Perhaps some courting couple had been there.’

‘This was not cheap scent that a country girl might dab behind her ears, something more exotic than that. Of course it won’t last, and would not stand up in court, but that barn warrants closer examination.’

Before we had time to say more, I saw Mr Sergeant approaching from the direction of the Hall. I thought he looked in our direction, and that he would wave. As he drew closer, I realised he was not seeing me, not seeing anyone. The man who usually walked so decisively, so ramrod straight, now slouched and dragged his feet. Something had happened. My first thought was of Joel, the nagging feeling that he may have come to harm.

Sykes noticed the change in Sergeant, too, but we did not comment. Time would tell what had brought about this transformation in the once-confident hotel manager.

‘What next for me, Mrs Shackleton?’

‘Go on looking for Joel. I’ll persuade James to ensure there’s a thorough search of the barn.’

James arrived on the dot of nine, striding across the garden, waving.

Some people yawn when they are tired. Others yawn when the world is not going their way. James falls into the latter category.

‘What’s up?’

‘Nothing.’ He spoke without any great conviction. ‘I didn’t sleep well, that’s all. Always takes me a while to become used to the quiet of the country after London.’

He reached out a hand, as if I needed to be hauled from the garden bench. ‘Come on then, old girl. I know you’ll want to see this through to the last wicket.’

I held out two hands and let him pull me from the bench. ‘Lead on.’

As we walked back across the grass to the road, I told him about the possibility that Narayan had died in the barn. ‘It should be examined carefully.’

He made one of those agreeing yet non-committal sounds perhaps best represented by the letters huhuum.

‘I realise it could be awkward to mention it at this time, but given that the inquest will be opened and adjourned…’

James stopped in his tracks. ‘Who said that, that it would be opened and adjourned?’

‘I just assumed it would.’

‘Well, no. There has been some fairly solid evidence gathering. I believe it is hoped there will be a verdict.’

‘I don’t see how.’

‘Unless I am very much mistaken, it will be game, set and match this morning.’

James must be totally naïve to believe that within these few short hours there could be a satisfactory outcome. Suddenly I understood why Mr Sergeant had dragged himself back along the road. He must have been to see the coroner’s officer. But what had taken place to bring about such a change in the upright Mr Sergeant?

‘So a full inquest is to be held at Bolton Hall. Isn’t it unusual to hold an inquest in a private house?’

‘Not at all, apparently. I’m told there are a number of precedents for doing so, dating back to the Middle Ages.’ Before I had time for another question, he said quickly, ‘And tomorrow there will be an inquest into Osbert Hannon’s death, at Skipton.’

As we came in sight of the Hall, I noticed that Dr Simonson’s car was parked crookedly on the side of the road, behind a black Austin.

The front door of Bolton Hall stood ajar.

I paused by the entrance. ‘Just a minute, James. Before you usher me in, tell me something. Mr Chana, could he have been here on Friday?’

‘Good heavens, no. He was at the Ritz. I saw him there myself.’

That made sense. The telegram advising Prince Narayan of a propitious date for his marriage must have been sent on Friday morning. Only my increasing suspicions of almost everyone made me wonder whether Chana was here, and someone else had sent it on his behalf.

A smartly dressed young footman threw back his shoulders as we approached, greeted James politely, and ignored me.

‘This is Mrs Shackleton. Here to see the coroner’s officer.’

‘Come this way, madam.’

James squeezed my arm. ‘Thank you, Kate. You’re a brick.’

If I had held a brick at that moment I know what I would have done with it. This full inquest must have been on the cards since he arrived. He had simply kept quiet about it.

The young footman led me up to the gallery and from there into a room with creaking floorboards. A worn oriental rug covered the centre of the floor. Constable Brocksup sat behind a highly polished mahogany table. He did not stand to greet me.

‘Good morning, Mrs Shackleton. Please be seated.’

I scraped back the chair. A more uncomfortable seat has never been glued together in the history of joinery.

‘As you know, I am the coroner’s officer.’

‘Yes, Mr Brocksup.’ When threatened with being bullied into submission, take the initiative. ‘And you will have received my report, and photographs.’

He frowned, adding indentations to his tramline brow. ‘Indeed. Thank you. I will be obliged if you do not mention the photographs to anyone. We are dealing with Hindus, Mrs Shackleton. The family would be most distressed to know that photographs were taken of the deceased.’

‘Oh?’

‘It would offend their beliefs to know that such photographs existed.’

‘I am sure I have seen photographs of a royal Indian lying in state prior to a funeral.’ I was not in the least sure of this, but did not wish to accept his claim that photographic evidence would offend sensibilities.

‘That is as may be, but the circumstances of your photographs render them distasteful and inadmissible.’

Why was I allowing this man to wrong-foot me? I seethed but refused to be ruffled. ‘The relevance of my photographs is that they show a body that has been placed, rather than one thrown from a horse, a body that someone has made a crude attempt to hide. This indicates that his highness died elsewhere.’

‘That is your interpretation.’ He slid my report from a folder. ‘Your report will satisfy your obligation to the India Office. Unfortunately, it contains speculation and hearsay and so is inadmissible. The family will be obliged to you for giving information about the receipt for ten thousand pounds signed by Mr Thurston Presthope. But you will appreciate that the coroner must rely on medical evidence and the testimony of eye witnesses.’

‘If the maharajah’s riding clothes had been examined, they may have given an indication of where the body was between his disappearance on Friday and his being found on Saturday afternoon.’

Brocksup moved his fleshy lips, causing his jowls to dance. ‘The valet burned the clothing. That is the usual Hindu practice after a death.’

‘Did you bring me here to advise me that my photographs and my report will be ignored?’

The jowls spread as he attempted to make a pleasant face, to appease the little woman. ‘Of course not, Mrs Shackleton. The coroner will consider every item put before him.’

‘Am I to give evidence?’

He pushed back his chair. ‘This is not a court of law. If there is some point of clarification that is required, or the coroner deems you have something of use to contribute, then you will be called.’

He stood, indicating that the interview was over. ‘Thank you, Mrs Shackleton.’

When I did not budge, he walked to the door. With rudeness disguised as courtesy, he held it open for me.

‘Don’t you care to find out what happened? You are a sworn police officer.’

‘I know my duty, madam.’

On the gallery, he walked one way and disappeared through another door; I descended the stairs.

So his interviews were complete. I was the very last person to be dealt with, to be silenced.

The grand entrance hall was already being transformed. Two rows of chairs had been set out in a horseshoe shape. A table had been brought in. One chair was placed at its centre, and another at the end, presumably for the coroner and his officer.

I watched as three servants brought in seven more chairs, the minimum required for an inquest jury.

The young footman who had led me to the coroner’s officer stood by the grandfather clock. He opened the door and began to wind a cloth around the pendulum to mute its chime.

Even the clock must be silenced.

The encounter with the coroner’s officer had left me feeling a little sick. I went out for fresh air.

James was talking to Mr Chana, he of the black turban who had exchanged telegrams with the prince.

I wandered away from the Hall, towards the ruined abbey. There on the grass, clover grew. Narayan had found a four-leaf clover for Lydia. James and I once searched for a four-leaf clover when we were children. Now I could not remember whether we found one, or simply ate the sweet-tasting clover flowers.

Usually in life, the prospect of a dreaded event is worse than the event itself, nothing being good or bad but thinking makes it so. But this was something new. The words foregone conclusion came to mind. Everything would depend on the coroner. He could declare foul play. It was within his power to commit a suspect to be detained and charged.

But without a proper investigation, suspicion fell widely and settled nowhere. It would be up to me to change that.