Murder on a Summer's Day (23 page)

I sat beside Jenny and the sleeping baby.

When Joel brought the pail of water, Jenny waved him over. ‘Come and look at the baby.’

He stared at the infant, and reached down to touch its tiny hand.

‘You are a good lad, Joel,’ Mrs Hannon said. ‘The doctor says they will find a place for you near the hospital. You can make yourself useful to them there, and to the old folk in the almshouses, and you will be near your dad.’

Jenny handed the baby to Joel. ‘Set him in the cradle you made. It’s all ready for him. He’ll like it.’

The rescued dog, scratching its ear and looking a little brighter, viewed proceedings from its spot on the rag rug.

When he had placed the baby in the cradle, Joel poured water from the pail to the jug.

‘It was my fault Osbert fell in the water. I shouted at him for letting the Indian kill my doe. I pushed him.’

Jenny looked up. Her mouth fell open.

‘Nay lad, you allus think summat is your fault. Jenny, pay him no heed.’ Mrs Hannon turned to me. ‘His mam died and he thought it was his fault, isn’t that right, Joel? These things are no one’s fault. We mun go on as best we can.’

‘What am I to do?’ Joel asked.

‘Get yerself off to yon hospital while they’ll have you. And tek that little terrier with you if you must have a pet. We’ve enough mouths to feed here without a dog.’

Joel bobbed down on his haunches. Making a beak of his fingers, he caught a flea from the dog’s neck. ‘I’ll have my work cut out taking care of this little fellow.’ He squashed a flea’s egg between his thumbnails.

I hoped that no one would take a shotgun to Joel’s new pet. Heaven help them if they did.

‘Come on, Joel. We’ll let Jenny rest. I’ll give you a lift to the hospital and we’ll see how your dad is getting on.’

As we drove back along the road, I saw that a marquee and a dozen tents of various shapes and sizes had mushroomed on the hill at the rear of Bolton Hall. White-clad figures darted in and out, or perched on their haunches, looking about them, chatting to each other. I stopped the car as I drew level with Mr Cummings who stood by a wheelbarrow loaded with old army blankets.

He looked at us in surprise. ‘You found him then? I could do with a hand here. Will you shift yerself, Joel?’

Joel stared at Cummings. I guessed that in his mind, Joel had already left this place and was at the hospital with his father.

‘What’s going on, and what do you want us to do?’

‘Oh, not you madam. But you see, it’s the maharajahs. They all arrived for the funeral. Each one brought a trainload of servants and hangers-on. There isn’t room for them all inside.’

‘And you don’t look well. Are you all right?’

He shook his head. ‘There’s sickness going round the village. I hope you don’t get it, madam, or you’ll be feeling none too clever.’

I climbed from the car. ‘Here, let me help you. Give me and Joel some of those blankets.’ He made as if to refuse. ‘Come on, I was in the VAD during the war. I’m used to lending a hand.’

When Joel got out of the car, the little dog jumped into the driver’s seat and sat there, looking important. Perhaps he thought his new life would always include a flea picker and a chauffeur.

We walked among the tents, listening to the chatter of strange tongues, watched by hundreds of eyes.

A cross-legged man played a flute. From a basket in front of him rose a graceful snake, peering about with a curling movement of elegant indifference.

Suddenly a shot rang out. All the men in the makeshift camp jumped to their feet and stood statue still, heads bowed.

Another shot, and another. It was the gun salute. Prince Narayan Halkwaer had been surrendered to the flames.

Smoke still rose from the distant funeral pyre.

Reaching the hotel, I decided against looking about to see whether Sykes was loitering in the grounds, waiting to hear about my encounter with Joel. Having squeezed in so many tête-à-têtes, we would be in danger of raising eyebrows.

I was not in a hurry to see him. Once a policeman, always a policeman; he had been out of the force for several years, but never quite shook off his desire to put a hand on a person’s shoulder and say, ‘Come along with me, chummy.’ I believe his biggest regret in moving into private detection was the lack of a pair of handcuffs. I did not want to hear the word manslaughter in relation to a young lad who would live forever with the nightmare of having caused his friend’s death. If Joel insisted on repeating his story and someone went to the police, then so be it. I would do my best to see that he was well-defended.

Cummings was standing in the hotel doorway, staring across at the smoke. He touched his cap, held the door for me, and then followed me into the foyer.

At the desk he handed me my key. ‘And there’s a message for you, madam. Came earlier today.’

I took the envelope from him, recognising James’s hand-writing.

No doubt he was still at the funeral. I wondered how long it might last.

I would be glad when this day was over. The only bright spots were seeing a baby come into the world, and finding that the mangy dog on the road was still alive.

A bath and a change of clothing would be the best next step. I took the note back to my room, kicked off my shoes and slit open the envelope. James wrote,

Unaccountably, his letter cheered me. Perhaps it was because I knew I would shortly have supper, served from a kitchen supervised by the excellent Mrs Sergeant.

Also, I had wondered who conjured the elephants. Arch enemy Brocksup’s initiative matched his cunning and his contempt for me.

Reluctantly, I decided that James was on the right track in suspecting Lydia Metcalfe of stealing the diamond. She knew the combination of the safe in the prince’s room; otherwise, he would not have had the surprise gift of emerald clover earrings, necklace and bracelet locked in the hotel safe.

I gathered up towel and sponge bag to head for the bathroom. Just as I was about to open the door, there was a tap on the window.

It was Sykes.

Having a ground-floor room brings certain disadvantages.

I put down towel and sponge bag and opened the window.

He made as if he had just paused in that particular spot to smoke a cigarette. Keeping his back to me, he said, ‘I was sitting round the back on our bench. I thought you would come to find me. What happened in the woods?’

‘I saw Joel. He did not kill the maharajah.’

Sykes said. ‘Didn’t think he had, poor blighter. What ails him?’

‘I’ll tell you about it later.’

‘Anything else?’

‘We’ll find a moment to speak after supper. I’ll walk in the grounds.’

Sykes moved away from the window.

Once more I picked up my sponge bag and the bath salts that Mrs Sugden had thoughtfully packed. As I walked along the corridor to the bathroom, I wondered whether James and the India Office were cleverer than I had given them credit for.

Could the rivalry between Gattiawan and Kalathal have provided a motive for the maharajah’s murder? Narayan was young, energetic, emotional, and probably ambitious. The Maharajah of Kalathal may have calculated that with Narayan gone Kalathal would prevail. There could be nothing more designed to knock the stuffing from a man than to take his son and heir from him.

By inviting the maharajahs to the funeral, perhaps the Secretary of State for India hoped to bring matters to a head and discover the culprit.

I ran the water, watching it swirl onto my bath salts. Where was the Gattiawan diamond? It would be so easy to hide, so difficult to find.

An early night was called for. Supper over, no new inspiration as to the murder or the theft of the diamond came to mind. I dealt myself a hand of solitaire, determined not to cheat.

As I pondered about moving a seven of diamonds, there was a knock on the door.

What fresh hell is this, I wondered.

The answer to my ‘Who is it?’ was a murmur; a female voice. I turned the key.

It took a few seconds to realise that it was Mrs Metcalfe, and not Lydia. They are about the same height, and with a family resemblance in the way they hold themselves. It was the quality of the clothing that first told me this could not possibly be Lydia. Mrs Metcalfe was muffled up in a brown coat with turned up collar, a navy check scarf tied under her chin.

As I opened the door wider, the light fell on her troubled face and anxious pale blue eyes above a web of fine lines that I had not noticed before.

‘Mrs Metcalfe, is something wrong?’

She nodded. ‘I came across in the pony and trap.’

‘You had better come in.’

‘I didn’t know who to tell.’

‘Tell what?’

‘I hope you don’t mind my coming straight to your room.’

‘How did you know which room I’m in?’

‘One of the chambermaids was at school with my youngest daughter, but I don’t want to get her into trouble.’

It was probably the same across the whole area. Everyone would have some friendship or kinship with everyone else. Small wonder that Thurston Presthope had been able to attempt fraud by destroying what he thought to be incriminating evidence, and that everyone knew that Joel made a pet of the white doe and had killed the prince, even though he had not.

‘What is the matter?’

‘Our Lydia has gone.’

‘Gone where?’

‘I don’t know. That’s why I’ve come to you. She went to bed last night, well, early hours of this morning I should say. She plays cards by herself and keeps the fire going till all hours. She’d been marching about, making a racket. She doesn’t live by the same clocks as we do. This morning she was up at ten o’clock and had breakfast. She left the house at about eleven, and said she was going out for a drive.’

‘What in?’

‘That’s what I said. I thought she must be coming to see you, since you have a motor. I said would she be in for dinner. No she wouldn’t. Would she be in for tea? She might, she might not. Don’t wait for her. Well she wasn’t back at teatime; she didn’t come in for supper. And I’d a lot on my plate today. She’ll come back when she’s ready, I thought. Only she didn’t. I went to her room, and I see all her jewellery is gone and that little bag she had, and her case. Well they weren’t in her hands when she went out so she must have stashed them somewhere. How could she go off like that, without a word?’

Very easily, I guessed, probably chuckling to herself at her cleverness. ‘The Rolls-Royce is under lock and key.’

‘I went to the railway station, made out I was passing like. Asked when the trains would be back to normal as I have a relative wanting to visit. Well they would have told me if Lydia had caught a train, mentioned it at least.’

So the bird had flown.

Mrs Metcalfe bit her lip.

And then it dawned on me. Lydia was not one to let a locked door block her route to freedom. ‘Come on. We will take a look.’

Sykes had retrieved my satchel from the barn. I picked up my flashlight and put it in my pocket.

We walked along the hall. Mrs Metcalfe led the way to the hotel’s side door. ‘I don’t want to cause a kafuffle.’

A moon was barely visible behind the clouds. In one of the stables, a horse whinnied.

The Rolls had been garaged in an unused stable, but which one? We walked from stable to stable. I shone the torch. A door swung ajar. Inside, a crowbar leaned against the inner wall.

Mrs Metcalfe picked it up. ‘That’s our crowbar. How did she walk the lane without drawing attention? She must have crossed the fields.’

‘Thanks for coming to tell me. At least now you know.’

Mrs Metcalfe held the crowbar, as if weighing it. ‘Not so much as a goodbye.’

We walked together to her pony and trap.

‘Try not to worry.’

‘I’m past worrying about Lydia. It’s how her dad’s going to rant and rave about her just up and offing.’

‘Do you have any idea where she may have gone?’

‘Where else but London?’ She sighed and placed the crowbar on the seat. ‘Well I’ll know what to do if I’m set upon by highwaymen on the way home.’

I watched her turn around the trap. The pony trotted steadily out of the stable yard and along the road.

At times like these, I am glad that my father is chief superintendent of the West Riding Constabulary. I preferred to have more definite information before putting James in the picture.

Back in the hotel, I noticed that Mr Sergeant’s office door was ajar. He had been avoiding me since the embarrassing moment when he admitted having passed my photographic negatives to the constable.

I tapped on his door. Acting as though there was no rancour between us, I asked for the use of his telephone.

Of course, he could not do enough for me. ‘Please feel free, Mrs Shackleton.’

He tactfully exited the office, but before he had time to disappear, I took advantage of his contrite attitude. ‘I would much appreciate it, Mr Sergeant, if you could send a message to Mr James Rodpen at the Hall and ask if he will find time to call on me as soon as convenient.’

He agreed and straight away summoned Cummings.

I closed the office door, and placed my call.

After a waiting time that seemed like an eternity, the call came through.

Mother answered. ‘Kate! Mrs Sugden tells me you are still at Bolton Abbey. How lovely! Will you be staying long?’

I knew that tone. It was a prelude to her saying that she might just consider joining me.

‘Not much longer. In fact I may be going to London.’

‘Then you must visit Aunt Berta. I had a letter today. She tells me James is in Yorkshire.’

‘Actually James and I are collaborating on something to do with his work, and I’d like to speak to Dad about it if he is there.’

The penny dropped. ‘I see, yes. Well I am glad to hear James is with you.’ She tried to hide her disappointment and almost managed it. ‘Your father is at my shoulder. Goodbye, dear.’

‘Bye.’ Now I felt bad. I would have to arrange some pleasurable mother and daughter outing soon.

My father listened to my request. ‘That should not be too difficult, Kate. A red-haired woman driving a white Rolls-Royce along the Great North Road is bound to have attracted attention. And you have the number plate?’

I did, and gave it to him.

‘Stay by the telephone. I will see what I can do.’

For thirty-five minutes, I sat by the office telephone. Finally, it rang.

‘Do you have a pencil?’ He wastes no time in coming to the point.

‘Yes.’

James burst in. ‘What is it? I came straight away…’

He saw that I was on the telephone, and stood over me, trying to listen. I pushed him away as I jotted down details.

‘I have sightings in Doncaster, where she stopped for petrol at 1700 hours, and at Retford, where she was cautioned for driving too fast. She has now stopped for the night in Grantham, registered at the hotel as Miss Lydia Metcalfe.’