Murder on a Summer's Day (7 page)

‘It’s the last straw her flinging the ashtray at me. I was keeping up well. I only cried a bit. I would’ve cried later, on my own time, except he’d hear me and be glad.’

‘Who on earth would be glad to hear you cry?’

‘My dad.’ She gave in to a fresh bout of tears and sought in vain for a handkerchief.

‘Here, take mine.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Sit down. Give yourself time to recover.’

Whether this was the right approach, I had no idea. Perhaps the Bolton Hall servant had the better way, ordering her young workmate to snap out of it.

I sat beside the girl as she cried. ‘What is your name?’

‘Rachel Simpson.’

‘Rachel, are your tears for Osbert Hannon?’

She snuffled. ‘Aye, and for me an’ all. He should’ve married me. She snatched him from under my nose. They’ll see when she has the bairn. They’ll all know how she caught him.’

And some of them may resent him enough to kill him. Love, hate, jealousy, they are all strong motives for murder.

I filled a glass with water. ‘Take a sip, Rachel. You’ll feel better if you tell me about it.’

I listened to the old, old story, at the same time following another train of thought.

An old memory nagged at me.

I had been at a dinner party at Aunt Berta’s. We ladies had withdrawn, ostensibly to play cards but really for a good old gossip. Someone had told a tale about a maharajah who worshipped a sixteen-year-old Spanish dancer. When she refused his advances, he wrote to her father three times, finally offering a hundred thousand pounds if the girl would marry him. It worked.

Knowing of Mr Metcalfe’s animosity, it made sense for Prince Narayan to use a local man as go-between to offer money to Lydia’s father in exchange for his blessing on their marriage. The prince was used to having someone else take care of his business. Who better than his old school friend, Presthope?

But what if that old school friend found another use for the money?

Of course Presthope may have acted honourably and passed on the ten thousand pounds, or the offer of it, to Tobias Metcalfe.

That may have been the final insult to an independent-minded farmer whose daughter was no better than she ought to be.

A death and a disappearance. Was there a connection, I wondered, between the drowning of Osbert Hannon and the failure of the maharajah to return to the hotel? What if the crime, if crime there be, arose not because of a practical joke or foul play involving an Indian prince, but because the local Romeo had overstepped the mark, and somehow the maharajah had become entangled? Or because the offer of ten thousand pounds for the purchase of his daughter had enraged Mr Tobias Metcalfe?

As I walked towards the stable to find Isaac Withers, a bulky, uniformed figure emerged from the police house.

Even someone without my well-honed detection skills would have recognised the man as the local constable. Stupidly, I had not troubled to ask about him, or learn his name. He had a fleshy, not unpleasant face, with the drooping jowls and liquid black eyes of a boxer dog. His crooked buck teeth gave the unfortunate impression of an ominous smile.

‘Constable?’

He turned towards me. It is always best to observe procedure, and I should have left a card with his wife.

I introduced myself and told him that I had been called by the India Office.

‘Have you by gum?’ He frowned. ‘Well I was out on the moorland since dawn, and no message has come to me about you.’

So much for James’s claim that he had smoothed my way.

I handed the officer my card. ‘Please do check with…’ I almost said ‘your superiors’, but did not want to start out on the wrong foot, ‘the chief constable.’

He glanced at the card, holding it by the corner as though it may need to be fingerprinted later. He gave a sideways glance as if hoping to spot a receptacle for used tram tickets into which he could drop my card. Reluctantly, he thrust it in his pocket. ‘Now I have important investigations and am now performing the task of coroner’s officer in connection with a drowning, so ...’

‘Just a moment, officer.’

‘A moment is what I am short of.’

‘Has anyone checked whether the maharajah may have left the area by car or train?’

His lips twitched. An eye did the same. ‘Everything that needs to be done is being done. I wish you good day, madam.’

In other words, keep your snitch out of our business.

With that, he strode off towards Bolton Hall, leaving me to find Isaac Withers.

I delayed doing so for just long enough to return to the hotel, contact my housekeeper and ask her to pass a message to my assistant, Jim Sykes. Check the railways. Contact local companies that hire out cars and drivers. Find out if anyone has had dealings with an Indian gentleman. He may have enquired about travelling to Gretna Green.

Mrs Sugden repeated my words back to me, with a touch of astonishment on the ‘Gretna Green.’ I realised it did all sound preposterous. Besides, the maharajah had his Rolls-Royce. But he may have preferred to sit in the back of a car with his mistress.

When I emerged from my telephone call, the commissionaire was loitering at the desk, busily perusing a sporting paper. He folded it as I came near.

‘Mr Cummings, I wonder if I could trust you to make an enquiry for me?’ I slid half a crown across the desk in a casual manner, as if I had never wanted it in the first place.

‘Of course, madam.’

‘Would you find out for me whether the maharajah made or received any telephone calls, or sent a telegram or a letter?’

Afternoon sun filtered through branches, giving the green world a bright glow. I was walking with Isaac, along the woodland path that led to the Strid. He had told me the name of the local constable, Brocksup, though I feared I had shot my bolt when it came to establishing cordial relations in that quarter.

I now wanted to see the place where Isaac believed Osbert Hannon fell into the river. The old man picked his way carefully as the ground sloped. We had tethered the horses when the way became narrow and steep. I followed Isaac as he sure-footed his way across crevices to a large flat rock that took us perilously close to the deep drop.

Below, water raged over rocks, its roar drowning out all other sounds. As a cloud passed overhead, we and the grey stone darkened. Waves of foam leapt and sparkled.

Isaac pushed his hands into his pockets. ‘This is the Strid. We warn young uns not to jump across, but we all done it.’ He pointed to the opposite bank. ‘Osbert wends his way from the Coney Warren. He’d arrive on yon side, and leap across. The young uns scorn the bridge.’ We stood in silence, listening, as though the river might murmur a confession.

His face had turned red and the veins in his neck bulged. The poor man was deeply upset. ‘Even in winter he leaps it. Happen he was weary from searching into the night, or just that second misjudged.’

I stared at the torrent, until the noise and strife of the river seemed to come from inside myself. Aside from the turbulence of the water, this place had a most tranquil air, as if nothing bad would ever happen. It was possible to hold these two thoughts simultaneously: this spot holds threat, danger; what a peaceful place, such an air of serenity.

Isaac said softly, ‘Osbert’s not the first, nor will he be last to come a cropper here. An age ago, the boy of Egremond perished. He’s sung of by the poet.’ Half to himself, Isaac murmured some old lines. ‘Where the rock is rent in two, and the river rushes through, ‘Twas but a step, the gulph he passed; but that step – it was his last!’

I broke his mood. ‘Isaac, you know the river. If Osbert did fall in here, would it be feasible in those hours between dawn and mid morning that his body would be swept to where the river bends, by Paradise Lathe where he was found?’

Isaac shook his head. ‘Who knows what tricks this river will play? I know of a case where weeks later a body was found miles off, and another poor soul caught in the deeps who never did emerge to be buried as a Christian. One thing I do know.’

‘What’s that?’

‘The river would never have swallowed him if he had not played a part in slaying the white doe. We have brought a curse on us-selves, him and me.’

‘You weren’t there. You told me yourself you were by the stables, waiting to hear a shot or a whistle.’

Isaac was not listening. I knew full well that nothing I said would shift his belief. The idea would fester in him. He would turn to the death of the doe for explanation of any and every misfortune that came his way between now and eternity.

‘Isaac, I believe Osbert was popular with the local girls.’

‘Aye. There’s no denying it.’

‘Might he have found himself on the wrong side of some father, brother, or a rival?’

‘He were safely married.’

‘That won’t stop tears dampening a fair few pillows.’

‘What are you driving at, madam?’

A young rabbit appeared, sniffed the air, and made a dash for cover.

‘It’s most likely that Osbert’s death was a terrible accident and nothing whatsoever to do with the shooting of the doe. You spent a lot of time with him.’

‘Everything he knew about horses, he took from me.’

‘Did anyone threaten him, some jealous sweetheart, or an angry brother?’

Isaac turned back towards the path, making out he had not heard me.

We began to walk back towards the horses.

‘Who’s been saying summat?’

‘I’ve kept my eyes and ears open, that’s all. It could be nothing. Tittle tattle.’

‘Aye, tittle tattle, but I’ve heard nowt.’

I made a guess, knowing only one name. ‘Tittle tattle about Rachel’s father?’

Isaac gave a mirthless laugh. ‘You’re on a dead end there. He wouldn’t drown the lad. He’d thrash him fair and square. A stationmaster has a position to keep up.’

‘Yes. I’m sure you’re right. It was just a thought.’

The pony whinnied as she saw me. I had learned her name: Betsy. If my riding lessons had included a pony such as this beauty, I might more readily have taken to the saddle.

If horses could talk, the maharajah’s Arab might save us a lot of time and trouble. It is most annoying to think that an animal might have a solution. Oh for a way to interview a horse.

Focus, Kate, I told myself. I must tuck away the information that the stationmaster may have had it in for Osbert, and now concentrate on trying to find the maharajah.

‘Isaac, I want you to take me on the morning ride you did with the prince. Perhaps it will jog your memory. I want you to tell me if he paused anywhere, or said something that might have given a hint as to what was in his mind that day. Anything, however small, or if you saw anyone on the way.’

Isaac shook his head. ‘He didn’t say much, just wanting to know the lie of the land. He was after inspecting the butts beyond Hazelwood Moor, where he’d be shooting come the twelfth. We took him across by stepping stones and up through the Valley of Desolation.’

‘Then take me there.’

If it were true that the maharajah expected to be shooting on the twelfth, then Lydia was wrong in her assumption that they would very shortly elope.

We rode on in silence, retracing our path alongside the Wharfe. The ruined abbey seemed to say that it had seen all this sort of endeavour before, and it was to no avail.

Gingerly, my pony trod alongside the stepping stones, following the bigger horse. Both Betsy and I were relieved to reach land on the other side. She gave a little shake, which made me smile, for the water, though fast flowing here, was not deep.

We climbed a little, and trotted through woods and a gate into meadowland. Either by instinct or familiarity, Betsy avoided marshy patches. Here was a horse who did not like wet hooves.

‘It’s beautiful, Isaac. What’s this place called?’

‘It’s the Valley of Desolation.’

‘But it’s not a bit desolate.’

‘It was once, when a storm came through and destroyed every tree, laid waste and flooded the land.’

‘By the time you reached this place, had the prince said anything, made any comment?’

‘We inspected the grouse. It’s been a good year for the chicks. See, there’s a couple there, feathers tucked in because they’re warm. Fluff ’em out when it’s cold.’

Enjoy yourselves while you can, little grouse. You’ll have a rude awakening come the Glorious Twelfth, not so glorious for you.

We rode across the Moor, inspecting grouse butts until I felt saddle sore. When we came across a hut we dismounted to check that it was empty, although the area had already been searched.

Enough was enough. I told myself that I should be interviewing the mysterious Thurston Presthope, the friend who had been trusted by the maharajah as emissary to Lydia’s father, or seeking a report from Upton as to the progress, or not, of the search parties.

But having come this far, I would persevere. We had exhausted the possibility of the prince’s morning ride offering any clues as to his whereabouts.

‘Isaac, what about the afternoon?’

‘Ah,’ said Isaac, as if suddenly interested, and as if this was what I should have asked him all along. ‘He lost interest in grouse in the afternoon. That was when he shot the white doe.’

By now, I had a slightly sick feeling from being so long in the saddle. ‘Show me where.’

‘That’s easy. He was in Westy Bank Wood when he shot doe.’

‘Take me there.’

We rode in silence back towards the river, this time crossing a wooden bridge. I was becoming as superstitious as the old man. Somehow I thought that if I could ride the same ride, see the wood where the maharajah stalked the deer, something might occur to me, one of those sudden insights that come when least expected. Straight away I regretted this as it meant that we did not enter the wood at the nearest point, but rode on, towards the hotel, and then veered round.

Isaac rode up into the wood. ‘This was his way. Of course he was on foot, stalking.’

We entered the shady wood that smelled of fern and wild garlic. Pansies, honesty and campion nestled in the grass. At that moment, all I wanted to do was clamber off the pony, find my way to the stream that gurgled somewhere nearby, take a cooling drink and sit in a shady spot.

We rode on in silence, horse and pony patterned with shadows as we moved between the trees under branches lit by the sun.

The pony stopped suddenly. She had seen a cage on the path. In it was a live crow. At that moment, a single shot rang out. Betsy whinnied and reared. I patted her neck and spoke a few words to calm her.

A second shot followed rapidly on the first. This time it took all my strength to hold her still.

‘What’s going on?’

Isaac called back to me, waving an arm at the caged bird. ‘That’s a bait crow. Its own kind have come to find it. My lad is shooting them. They’re destructive devils.’

The wood turned from idyllic to sinister.

The crow in the cage let out an unearthly sound.

And then a human sound followed; a shriek of terror.

The sound came from deep within the wood where trees grow too closely together for a horse to pass. I dismounted, as did Isaac. We hurried through trees, pushing aside branches and treading fern. There, in a clearing, were two dead crows. Beside them stood Joel. His gun lay on the ground.