The Casebook of Newbury & Hobbes (2 page)

“In this dress?” she replied, with a winning smile.

“Oh, come on, old girl!” said Black. “Otherwise Benson will lapse into another of his foul moods and spend the rest of the party scowling at everyone. You know how he is.”

Jocasta laughed as she closed the gap between them. She put a hand on his arm. “Do you like it?” she asked, demurely. “The dress, I mean.”

Black grinned. “Oh, come on, old girl. You know you’re not my type.”

Jocasta rolled her eyes. “Yes, well, more’s the pity. I suppose I shall
have
to make do with Benson and his billiards.”

“I
can
hear you, you know,” said Benson, with mock hurt. “And
I
think your dress is terribly pretty,” he added.

“There you are, then,” said Black. “Benson has someone to beat at billiards, and you have someone to appreciate your dress. The world is a happy place.”

“Go on,” replied Jocasta, sighing, “go and find Newbury before I change my mind.”

Black started toward the door. “Play nicely,” he called over his shoulder.

“You still owe me a guinea!” bellowed Benson, behind him.

Sir Maurice Newbury was lounging on a sofa when Black found him in the drawing room a few minutes later.

He was a handsome man in his late thirties, with a pale complexion and a square-set jaw. He wore his raven-black hair in a neat side parting, falling in a comma across his forehead, and tended toward black suits with starched white collars and colourful silk cravats.

Now, he was nursing a half-empty glass of claret, and appeared to be deep in conversation with an older man who sported an impressive set of white whiskers.

Newbury looked up when Black entered the room, and beckoned him over with a wave of his hand.

Dutifully, Black made a beeline toward them, ignoring the two other conversations that were taking place in the large drawing room: a cluster of four women had gathered on a seat beneath a tall, mullioned window, while two other men spoke in hushed tones across the far side of the room, standing before the fire. Black had been introduced to them all, of course, but he was damned if he could remember their names. He realised this was something of a weakness in a Crown investigator, but he seemed to get by.

“Ah, Templeton, have you been properly introduced to our host, Sir Geoffrey Potterstone?” said Newbury, as Black joined them.

Black turned to regard the older man, extending his hand. “I believe not, although I do fear I’ve rather been taking advantage of your hospitality, Sir Geoffrey.”

Potterstone laughed warmly. He was a ruddy-faced man, in his late fifties, with narrow blue eyes and the scarlet nose of a heavy drinker. He took Black’s hand in his own, giving it a firm squeeze. Black resisted the urge to grimace in pain. “You’re most welcome, Mr Black. Most welcome indeed. Any friend of Sir Maurice is a friend of mine.” He finally released Black’s hand, adding, “And besides, he speaks most highly of you.”

“Does he, indeed?” replied Black, with a quick glance at Newbury, whose expression was giving nothing away. “Well, it’s both a pleasure and an honour to be considered a guest at your impressive house, Sir Geoffrey.” Black glanced at the empty chair beside Newbury. “May I join you?”

Sir Geoffrey waved a hand dismissively. “Oh, don’t mind me, Mr Black. I’ve been ignoring my other guests for too long as it is.” He planted his hands firmly on the arms of his chair and pulled himself up. He was not a large man, but portly, and was clearly having some difficulty with his right foot.
Probably gout
, considered Black,
given the overall appearance of the fellow and the evidence of his most comfortable lifestyle
.

Sir Geoffrey turned to Newbury. “Regarding that other matter, Sir Maurice...?”

“In hand, Sir Geoffrey,” replied Newbury. “Say no more.”

“Excellent,” replied the other man. “Then I’ll ask the two of you to excuse me while I mingle for a while.” He turned and tottered off in the direction of the four women by the window.

Black turned to Newbury. “What was all that about?” he enquired, searching out his silver cigarette case and withdrawing another Guinea Gold. He lit it, leaning back and taking a long, pleasurable draw.

Newbury watched him for a moment, smiling. “A little problem he’s asked me to look into,” he said, after a moment. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. I rather fear I’ve volunteered our services.”

Black laughed. “I imagined you might.”

Newbury grinned. “I could use your help. And besides, I thought you might find it interesting.”

“Don’t I always,” replied Black, with a chuckle. “So, go ahead, enlighten me.”

“It’s the valet,” said Newbury. “He’s missing.”

“Missing?” enquired Black.

“For three days,” replied Newbury. “No one has seen hide or hair of him. He requested the morning off on Wednesday, claiming he had a personal errand to run. Said he was heading into the village. He never returned.”

“And no one here has any idea where he might have gone?” asked Black.

“Apparently not. Sir Geoffrey says he’s a very private man. Keeps himself to himself, spends most of his free time alone in his room, reading novels. His name is Henry Blakemore.” Newbury shrugged.

“Family? Might he have received word of an emergency and taken off without notice?”

“Hardly the actions of a dutiful valet. Even if he’d been called away by an emergency, it’s been three days. He’d have sent word by now.” Newbury took a swig from his brandy. “And besides, he has no family left. No parents, no siblings. No one to run to.”

Black smiled. “A real mystery.” He exhaled another cloud of cigarette smoke. “So, where do we start?”

“Apparently the servants are saying all sorts of fascinating things about the haunted woods on the edge of the estate,” Newbury became more animated as he spoke, and his face seemed to light up at the very prospect, “but I imagine our first port of call should be to search his room in the morning.”

Black laughed. “Don’t think for a minute that you can pretend you didn’t know about these so-called ‘haunted woods’ before we set out for this party. I can see now that’s the
only
reason we’re here.”

Newbury looked scandalised. “I’m shocked that you’d think that, Templeton.” He leaned forward, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “I had heard that Sir Geoffrey has a rather impressive and plentiful wine cellar, too.”

Black shook his head in mock dismay. “You’re incorrigible. I’m turning in. I suppose I’ll see you at breakfast?” He stood, crushing the stub of his cigarette into a nearby ashtray.

“Indeed,” confirmed Newbury. “And then our investigation can begin.”

“I can hardly wait,” said Black, with as deadpan a tone as he could muster.

Breakfast consisted of a small portion of bacon and eggs, followed by copious amounts of black coffee and cigarettes. Black had risen early, unable to sleep, and having eaten, he decided to take a stroll around the extensive grounds of the manor.

It had rained during the night and the air smelled damp and earthy. Water droplets glistened on the immaculate lawns as the sun attempted to break through the canopy of grey clouds, spearing shafts of brilliant light onto the ground.

Black paused for a moment on the stone terrace at the front of the house, surveying the horizon. There, on the far edge of the estate, were the “haunted woods” Newbury had mentioned the previous evening. Black didn’t put much stock in talk of ghosts and ghouls but, he had to admit, the dark, spiky stretch of woodland did not appear particularly inviting. The leafless trees seemed somehow threatening as they clawed at the sky with their jagged fingers. He could see why they’d attracted such a sinister reputation.

He turned at the sound of footsteps on the terrace behind him.

“Ah, there you are,” said Newbury, coming to stand beside him. “Your friend Benson said you’d be out here.”

“Benson?” asked Black, surprised. “I’m astonished he’s managed to rouse himself so early.”

“It seems he couldn’t keep away from the bacon and eggs,” replied Newbury, deadpan. “And I gather he’s smarting from losing at billiards.”

Black almost snorted as he attempted to fight back a guffaw. Newbury smiled. “I must say, Templeton—you do seem to have a fondness for rather raffish company.”

Black grinned. “We
are
here for a party, Sir Maurice.”

“Well, some of us, perhaps,” replied Newbury. “Are you ready to assist me in examining Mr Blakemore’s room?”

“Mmm,” mumbled Black, taking a final draw on his cigarette and stubbing out the still-smouldering butt on the stone balustrade. “Yes. Coming.”

He turned to find Newbury was already holding the French doors open for him, but he couldn’t resist one final glance over his shoulder at the brooding, ominous woods in the middle distance.

Henry Blakemore’s room was immaculately kept, ordered to an almost military precision. The furnishings were sparse and functional: a bed, a wooden nightstand, a small gentleman’s wardrobe. The man’s belongings appeared just as minimal, with very few personal effects, save for a hairbrush and toiletries, a handful of neatly shelved novels and a drawer full of papers and old photographs. A few carefully pressed suits hung in the wardrobe. A small window looked out upon the gardens. To Black it seemed more like a prison than a home.

“It seems he lives a rather spartan existence,” he said, picking out one of the novels and turning it over in his hands. He read the title on the spine:
The Moonstone
by Wilkie Collins. It looked well thumbed, with some of the page corners turned over. He returned it to its place on the shelf.

“A military man, I’d suggest,” said Newbury, glancing around. “We can confirm that with Sir Geoffrey, of course.”

“You think it’s pertinent?” asked Black.

Newbury shrugged. “Anything could be pertinent at this stage. It would certainly explain why he doesn’t appear to place much value in material acquisitions. Perhaps also why he leads such a private existence, and why he might have chosen not to share his problems with the rest of the staff.”

Black nodded. “Makes sense.” He crossed to the dresser. “There’s little here that might help us to discover what’s happened to him, though. The whole place seems devoid of personality.”

“Hmm,” murmured Newbury, distractedly. Black turned to see him folding back the bed sheets and lifting the pillow. “Ah-ha!” exclaimed Newbury a moment later, fumbling beneath the pillow for something small and blue.

“What have you got there?” asked Black, joining him by the bedside.

“A small bottle,” replied Newbury, holding it up to the light. It was corked and no more than six inches tall. A dark liquid sloshed around inside as Newbury turned it over in his hand, searching for a label. A little square of brown paper had been pasted on the side, with a handwritten legend scrawled upon it. It read:
WARNER’S LUNG TONIC.

“Quack medicine,” said Newbury, with distaste. He handed the bottle to Black, who took it, bemused. He shrugged and pulled the stopper free, bringing the vessel up to his nose, before recoiling in abject disgust.

“Who the blazes could even consider ingesting such a foul concoction?” he asked, quickly forcing the stopper back into the neck of the bottle. He fought a brief wave of nausea, hoping that the oily, acrid scent of the tonic would soon clear from his throat and nostrils.

“Someone who was very desperate,” said Newbury, thoughtfully. “Someone who had nothing to lose.”

Black placed the bottle on the bedside table and glared at it balefully as if it were a living thing. “Someone with an iron stomach and no taste buds,” he said.

“Nevertheless,” said Newbury, “it gives us something to go on.”

“You think he might have disappeared because of an illness or affliction?” prompted Black, when it seemed clear that Newbury was not going to elaborate. “What if he simply collapsed somewhere by the side of the road? He could be lying in a hospital, or even dead.”

“Quite,” replied Newbury. “But let’s not alarm everyone just yet. We don’t know anything for certain.”

Black nodded. “Of course, if he
is
seriously unwell, then someone must have noticed. No matter how private a man he might be. You can’t hide things in a house like this. Not from everyone. We should speak to the servants, see if anyone has observed any change in his behaviour.”

“Yes, you’re right,” said Newbury. “Sir Geoffrey told me he’d spoken with them all, and that no one knew where Blakemore might have gone. But this is a different question entirely, isn’t it?” He smiled brightly. “I’ll start with the footmen if you begin in the kitchens.”

“Excellent,” replied Black. “That way I might be able to charm the cook into rustling me up some elevenses.”

“It’s not even ten!” said Newbury, with a disbelieving shake of his head.

“Details,” said Black. “Mere details.”

It was the cook—the portly and generous Mrs Braddock—who turned out to be just the mine of information that Newbury and Black had been searching for.

Black had spent the two hours following their brief search of Blakemore’s room enjoying varied and enlightening discourse with the four women who inhabited the kitchens, sitting on a stool by the fire while they buzzed around him, readying a cold buffet for lunch and making early preparations for dinner. The pungent scent of herbs and spices filled his nostrils, causing his stomach to rumble.

Mrs Braddock had a colourful turn of phrase—one that might have caused a less worldly man to blush—but Black could tell she had a kind heart and, rather than embarrassment, he derived a great deal of enjoyment from her outrageous asides.

“I’d always considered him a bit of an arse,” she said of Blakemore, when finally she found time to take a short break, joining Black by the fire for a cup of tea. She was redfaced and hassled, but still smiling. “Bit aloof, if you know what I mean. As if he didn’t want anything much to do with the rest of us. Up ’imself, like.” She fixed him with a stern gaze, gesturing upward with bunched fingers as if mimicking something unspeakable. “But I was wrong. Very wrong.”