Murder on a Summer's Day (8 page)

‘Nay lad.’ Isaac stumbled towards him, his voice hoarse, his breath laboured. ‘What ails thee?’

Joel was white and trembling, terror in his eyes, his striped shirt wet with perspiration. He opened and closed his mouth but no words came.

I made him sit down with his back to a tree and dip his head towards his knees. He made whimpering noises and pointed towards a holly bush.

Isaac made no attempt to move. ‘That’s the place the highness shot the white doe.’

I walked towards the holly bush. A dead crow had fallen there. I moved as Joel would have, towards the crow.
And then I saw him
.

There, behind the bush, lay a body, partly hidden under branches. Someone had made a hasty attempt to conceal the dead man. The least glimpse told me who this was. Staring at the figure on the ground, I almost lost my balance. This could not be real. He did not look real. My stomach churned. I tasted the fried breakfast in my throat. Keep a hold of yourself. You will not be sick, not now.

During my wartime nursing in the VAD I had seen death at close quarters but could not suppress the shock of its finality, that terrible knowledge that here was a life snuffed out too soon.

I turned, to see Isaac looking in my direction.

I walked back to them.

‘Is it him?’ Isaac asked.

‘It is.’

Isaac held his hand to his head and closed his eyes. ‘He’s in the exact same spot where the doe was killed.’

‘I didn’t do it,’ Joel whimpered. ‘I shot the crows, that’s all. I didn’t see him.’

Isaac put a hand on his son’s shoulder. ‘Nay lad, you couldn’t have killed him with them cartridges.’

‘No one is blaming you, Joel.’ I wanted them gone, so that I could gather my thoughts and examine the area. ‘Isaac, fetch the constable. If you cannot find him, speak only to Mr Upton or Mr Sergeant. Tell them where to come.’

When father and son had gone, I went back to where the body lay. I carry with me an Ensignette pocket camera that produces three-by-two inch pictures. I could have done with a better one for this task, but it would have to suffice.

I photographed the branch-covered body. My first thought was that the initial search had been insufficiently thorough, and the body had been missed. But as I looked at the lifeless form through the tracery of branches, I saw that the prince’s hair and clothing were dry. If he had lain here since yesterday, the body would have been wet with dew. No crow had pecked at his closed eyes, no animal had nibbled here. I looked around. The nearby fern lay deeply crushed where someone had trodden. There was a broken branch, but broken branches abounded. I saw no torn scrap of clothing to indicate that someone had carried, or dragged, the body here. The crush in the fern was deep enough to indicate that whoever moved through that area had carried something, or someone, heavy. Roundabout, the dry ground showed no footprints. I took another photograph. Even in death, Maharajah Narayan Halkwaer of Gattiawan cut a noble and handsome figure. A tracery pattern shaded the prince’s cheek. As I clicked the shutter, images imprinted themselves onto my brain, like the pictures in a macabre fairy tale. A smooth, untroubled brow and sensuous mouth held my gaze. There was something regal and impressive in the way he lay, like a figure on a cathedral tomb. His well-cut forest-green jacket and trousers spoke quality. His soft boots were buffed to a high sheen. I had the strange feeling that any moment he would sit up and call for his valet to take off his boots.

As my eyes grew accustomed to the gloomy wood, I saw through the carelessly placed branches that blood had dried around his heart, where a bullet had penetrated. I reached through and touched the jacket. Dry as my own.

That was when I saw the rifle, lying at the side of the body. I have little knowledge of guns. But I know that after a person has fired, he would break the gun, take out the ammunition for safety, and ride with the gun open. This gun was not broken.

I looked again at the branches to see whether I could spot anything unusual such as a scrap of cloth.

Something about the way the body was laid struck me as odd. He had not simply fallen but had been ‘arranged’. At first I could not put my finger on why I thought this. There was no crossing of the hands on the chest, though the eyes were closed. The face looked quite calm, no grimace here in the face of death. His arms lay by his side. I bent down to take a closer look at the right hand that I could see most clearly. The fingers were not curled but in a relaxed position. His nails were carefully manicured.

Nearby, a branch cracked. Someone was approaching.

Feeling like the ghoul of Bolton Abbey, I took one more photograph.

The duke’s agent, Upton, hurried along the path on foot, followed by two men carrying a stretcher.

The men placed the stretcher by an elm tree and went quietly away.

‘It’s the maharajah?’ Upton asked, following the direction of my gaze towards the body. ‘We searched. How could we have missed him?’

I could have hazarded several guesses, but now was not the time.

We looked across towards the man who once had everything, who had entertained at a table so big that a miniature train chugged around it with drinks, cigars, chocolates; a man whose everyday jewellery could buy not just the estate of Bolton Abbey on which we stood, but the whole of Yorkshire, and have change to pay for Paris. Riches beyond measure had not saved Narayan’s life. Had riches beyond measure hastened his death? A prince, a warrior, his life should not have ended ingloriously on strange soil.

‘Constable Brocksup is on his way,’ Upton said. ‘He was telephoning to Skipton for the inspector. His wife is alerting the bell ringers to be on hand to ring out the news, but not until Mr Brocksup has seen for himself.’

‘Is the doctor still at Bolton Hall?’

‘Now that I think of it, I saw his Bugatti by the hotel. I should have alerted him.’

Minutes slowed to an eternity. A squirrel scuttled up a tree. Upton lit a cigarette. It was perhaps not much more than twenty minutes until the constable arrived, out of breath from hurrying.

Upton began to introduce us.

‘We’ve met,’ Brocksup said curtly. He walked towards the body, squatted on his heels and took a look. As he straightened up, he said, ‘You may leave this to me now, Mr Upton, Mrs Shackleton. I will take charge until the inspector arrives.’

‘What about the bell ringers?’ Upton asked.

‘Give them the nod.’ He took a sketch pad from under his arm, and produced a pencil.

‘I have taken photographs. But I expect the inspector will bring your own photographer.’

It was as if I had not spoken.

Ostentatiously, the constable began to sketch.

Upton and I were well and truly dismissed.

When we reached the path, Upton whispered, ‘He’s an odd cove. Don’t take his abruptness amiss, that’s just his way. And he’s quite an artist. He’ll sketch the maharajah in a most lifelike fashion, down to the curl of an eyelash.’

Something told me that Scotland Yard’s techniques had not yet reached the North Riding.

I glanced at the constable, intent on his drawing. ‘Mr Brocksup!’ He raised his head.

‘I shall inform the India Office of the maharajah’s death.’

Whether he liked it or not, I also had a job to do.

At the road, I parted company with Upton. He walked towards the priory church. I urged the pony in the direction of the hotel.

Before we had gone many yards, the church bells began their ominous toll, announcing the death, calling off the search. The pony’s hooves clip-clopped, giving me the eerie feeling that we were joining in the announcement to unseen multitudes: the prince is dead; the prince is dead.

How Lydia Metcalfe would take the death, I could not imagine. If she had gone on drinking gin at her earlier rate, she may well be comatose by now.

I trotted Betsy into the hotel stable yard. Joel was agitatedly grooming the horse that Isaac had ridden. The creature picked up on Joel’s mental state. It stamped, whinnied and drew away from him.

When he heard Betsy trot into the yard Joel dropped the brush. Moving with a dreamlike sway, he clattered across the cobbles and took the pony’s bridle while I dismounted, not looking at me.

I spoke gently, trying to bring him back from whatever place his thoughts had taken him. ‘Thank you for alerting Mr Upton to come to the wood, Joel. You did well.’

He stared blankly and then began to nod himself into speech as if moving his head turned a key. ‘You said not to barge into the hotel. I didn’t barge into the hotel. I made straight for Mr Upton’s office.’

‘Does Mr Sergeant know about the prince’s death?’

He shook his head. ‘I didn’t barge into the hotel. You said not to barge into the hotel. I didn’t barge into the hotel.’

‘Where is your dad?’

‘He didn’t barge into the hotel.’

‘Where is he?’

‘In there.’ Joel indicated the stable. ‘All this has sent him right dizzy. He had to sit down. He’s an old man and not up to this malarkey.’

I popped my head round the stable door. Isaac was seated on a bale of hay, trying to light his pipe. He dropped a match into the hay and made no attempt to stop it catching fire. I hurried up to him and killed the flame. ‘Isaac, you don’t look well.’

In a stall behind him, a black stallion pawed the ground. ‘That Arab is useless. No one’ll want to ride him no more. He’ll be a horse of death now.’

‘I’m sure he won’t. It’s not the horse’s fault, any more than it is yours.’

‘Nothing to say for hisself neither.’

‘The horse?’

‘Aye.’

‘Where do you make tea here?’

‘We don’t.’

‘Then come with me. You’ve had a bad shock.’

Without another word, I took the pair of them to the kitchen door of the hotel, ushered them in and asked a surprised kitchen helper to provide strong sweet tea.

Moments later, I found Mr Sergeant in his office. As briefly as I could, I told him about finding the body. ‘I did not mean Isaac and Joel to keep the news from you. It was to keep Miss Metcalfe and Ijahar from arriving and disturbing the scene before the police came.’

Sergeant gulped. ‘I thought as much when I heard the church bells. There could be no mistake?’

‘No. The constable is with him, waiting for his inspector to arrive. And I need to telephone the India Office.’

‘This is terrible.’

‘I know.’

‘And in Westy Bank Wood, you say? The wood was searched yesterday evening.’

‘Mr Sergeant, I saw the doctor’s car outside. Has the constable sent for him?’

‘I don’t think so. The doctor was having a drink in the bar last time I saw him.’

‘Then would you please tell him the news.’ It did not surprise me that in his excitement at telephoning for his inspector, the constable had forgotten to call for the doctor.

‘I’ll tell him now. And will you come?’

‘Not yet. I had better make that call. And I expect the India Office will want the valet to know, so that he can ensure that Hindu customs are observed. But let me see what they say.’

Sergeant sighed. ‘This will devastate Ijahar. I’ve never seen a man so utterly devoted to his master. He will want to ensure the body is treated with respect.’ He picked up his hat, and put it down again. ‘I will leave you to your telephone call, Mrs Shackleton.’

The local operator answered quickly. I gave her the telephone number for James at the India Office, and then waited for her return call. After several moments, the telephone’s loud ring startled me, and I realised how on edge I felt.

‘Kate, you have news?’ James spoke in a neutral voice, keeping hope, or dread, at bay.

‘I’m sorry to tell you that Maharajah Narayan Halkwaer is dead.’ I paused, to let him take in the information before adding, ‘I found him in Westy Bank Wood. The local constable is with him, waiting for the inspector to arrive from Skipton. There is a doctor on hand.’

‘How did he die?’ James asked.

‘A gunshot wound to the chest.’

‘Gunshot?’

‘What appears to be his own gun is beside the body, unbroken.’

James did not speak straight away. In my mind’s eye, I saw him clutching his pen, writing down my words, his hand not entirely steady.

‘When did you find him?’

‘Almost an hour ago. It has taken this long for the constable to arrive and for me to get back here and be put through. And James, I don’t believe that is where he died. The body was covered with branches, as if to disguise its presence. That area was searched yesterday.’

Silence.

I had the impression that he covered the mouthpiece with his hand and was speaking to someone else in the room. I waited.

‘Where are you calling from?’

‘The manager’s office at the hotel.’

‘Stay there. I will telephone back to you.’

‘James, wait! You need to alert Scotland Yard. The area where he was found should be carefully searched. I don’t believe the local police are up to that. He did not die there. This is not an accidental death.’

‘Kate, everything will be taken care of from this end. You will hear from me shortly.’

He disconnected the line, without giving me any indication as to what ‘shortly’ might mean. It was frustrating to be confined to a room when there was so much more I might do. I wished I could be confident that the inspector from Skipton would properly examine the scene and establish what path had been taken by the person or persons who carried the prince’s body to that spot and covered it with branches. And why that spot? It may be that the doe was shot there, as Isaac said. But it was just as likely Isaac would have said that of whatever place the body was found, because of his obsession with the creature.

There was something Isaac was not telling me, but what? That possibility of a link to Osbert’s drowning still niggled. Had some irate father or sweetheart come close enough to take a shot at Osbert, missed and hit the prince? Villagers would close ranks in the face of an outsider, but Osbert would feel responsible, may have threatened to talk, and lost his life because of that.

For a good half hour I sat on the manager’s chair, paced the room, sat down again, closed my eyes, tried to fathom how and why the prince had died. The means was clear enough – a gunshot wound. But who had pulled the trigger, when, where and why?

I answered the telephone the instant it rang, announcing my name, disconcerting the operator who was clearly unused to such a speedy response.

A moment later, James came on the line.

‘The Colonial Secretary is on his way to see Maharajah Shivram Halkwaer, to break the news of his son’s death. He expects that the family will travel to Yorkshire tomorrow. I shall be making arrangements for a private train.’ Perhaps it was my imagination, but I thought I detected a touch of reproach in his voice. I had done my job, but not well enough. My task had been to find the maharajah alive. James hesitated. ‘Will you wait at Bolton Abbey until I arrive with the family tomorrow?’

‘Of course.’

‘His lordship will speak to the coroner and the chief constable.’

‘Is there anything I can do, James?’

‘Just one thing, regarding the Metcalfe woman; throw her off the pitch. I’m told her parents are tenant farmers somewhere nearby.’

‘Consider it done.’

‘Good. I don’t want her in sight of the family when they arrive, or near the prince, nor any of his belongings. She is a menace.’ He spoke with the kind of vitriol I would have reserved for the killer.

‘All right, James. You make your point.’

‘Does she know about the death?’

‘No, or she would have had something to say by now.’

‘Keep it from her for at least an hour. She mustn’t be able to lord it over the family, saying she knew first.’

‘What about the valet? I expect he should be told so that he can ensure the proprieties are observed.’

‘You’re right. Thanks, Kate. Oh and you are invited to stay at the Hall.’

The thought of staying at Bolton Hall gave me the shudders. ‘It’s all right. I have a room here at the hotel.’

I wondered what the Gattiawan royal family, used to the sumptuous life of a palace, would make of Bolton Hall. It might be good enough for the king but I doubted it would match Gattiawan standards.

‘Very well. I shall see you tomorrow.’

‘All right.’

‘And Kate?’

‘Yes?’

‘Thank you.’

When I left the manager’s office, I sought out Rachel, the chambermaid who had been the object of Lydia Metcalfe’s ashtray-throwing wrath earlier. She looked drained, and should have been in bed with a hot-water bottle.

‘Rachel, has Miss Metcalfe stirred from her room?’

‘No. Mr Sergeant made me look in on her. She’s in a dead stupor. I closed the curtains. Let sleeping dogs lie.’

‘Thank you.’ I would have liked to say more but feared too much sympathy might result in a fresh outburst of tears.

I walked up the stairs, to check that Lydia really was in a ‘dead stupor’, and not dead.

Close up, I watched the rise and fall of her ample chest. It would be time enough to tell her about Narayan’s death when she woke. Give her a while longer of blissful ignorance. In the meanwhile, I would break the news to the valet, and hope that the poor man would not bring down the ceiling with his howls.