Death at the Wychbourne Follies

by Amy Myers

  That meant murder was a possibility – even a probability given that Mary Ann disappeared late at night and accident was as unlikely as suicide. Now, Nell braced herself, she had to tell him about Ethel Palmer and Lady Sophy. The latter first.

  He listed grimly while she told him, and then said: ‘That’s not good news for John Palmer, Nell. I’ll have to follow it up. From what you and Jethro James tell us about the state of the blood when he was found, we don’t think Tobias Rocke had been dead for more than, say, three-quarters of an hour. Which I’m afraid fits in with his accompanying the Palmers back to their home. Which means he must have been killed on his way back to the Court.’

  The question of whether she should or should not tell him about Lord Ansley still bothered Nell. After all, the investigation of Mary Ann Darling had been closed. Nevertheless, given her own conviction that Tobias Rocke’s past played a role in his murder, she had no choice.

  ‘My visit to Ethel Palmer produced something else too,’ she forced herself to say. ‘She claims that Mary Ann Darling’s dining partner that night was Lord Ansley.’

  He stared at her. ‘I understand why that cauldron’s boiling now. Did you believe her?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said reluctantly. ‘But I can’t believe Lord Ansley is a murderer or involved in any plot that ended in a woman’s death.’

  ‘We have to take this information into account, however unlikely.’ A long pause now. ‘I would have arranged a picnic lunch shortly, you know.’ Then another pause, while she waited, taken aback. Then he remarked. ‘Your trust in Lord Ansley is a natural one, but he would have been a young man at the time of Miss Darling’s disappearance. Passions sometimes decrease with age.’

  ‘Not always,’ she said obstinately. ‘People don’t change.’

  ‘Fortunately, Mary Ann Darling is not my case, and I’m glad of that.’ He reached out and took her hand. ‘Don’t worry, Nell. This goes no further.’

  EIGHT

  ‘Oyez, oyez, oyez …’ The formal opening of the coroner’s court. Only four days earlier this room had been alive with the singing and dancing of the Follies. There were no Pierrots on the stage now. Instead, the coroner and his officers were assembled, one or two of whom Nell recognized as policemen she’d seen in the village. The coroner was new, though. Lord Ansley had told her he was a Sevenoaks lawyer and very stiff and stern he looked, especially with the Royal Coat of Arms displayed behind him.

  The inquest’s legal purpose was to establish how Tobias Rocke had died, not who had killed him, and that perhaps explained why not many of the national press were here, although the local press was. Nell recognized a journalist from the Sevenoaks Gazette. She reasoned that from the national point of view, the story was temporarily over because of Gentle John’s arrest.

  From where she was sitting in the row of witnesses, she could see the Wychbourne Court guests, including Mr Beringer, sitting with the Ansley family and behind them the Wychbourne Court and the guests’ servants – and the indefatigable Mr Trotter. Among those sitting near her were Jethro James, together with a defiant-looking Ethel Palmer, Lord Ansley, and of course Alex Melbray, together with the Sevenoaks police. Altogether an odd mixture, she decided.

  She tried in vain to shut her ears to the gruesome details of Mr Rocke’s injuries given by a pathologist from St Mary’s Hospital in London, although her conscience told her she should listen. Obediently she concentrated on new facts. The blood on the mackintosh found in the churchyard bushes matched that of Tobias Rocke and the solitary glove found by the lychgate had been identified as John Palmer’s. Both men were Group O, the most common group, so surely that did not lead anywhere, she reasoned. However, a lightweight mackintosh would hardly have been warm enough to wear on a cold January night, so that would suggest that the murder had been planned, as it could more easily be worn and disposed of after the murder had been carried out.

  Once on the witness stand Jethro also produced something new. For once he was, amazingly, looking quite smart but otherwise he was his usual truculent self.

  ‘And there he was,’ he announced jauntily, ‘lying there with his head bashed in. Midnight, it was.’ He was clearly enjoying his big moment.

  ‘Were you on your own, Mr James?’ the coroner asked.

  ‘I was, your lordship.’

  ‘Why were you there so late at night? It was midnight.’

  ‘My dad’s the gamekeeper for his lordship, Lord Ansley,’ Jethro said virtuously. ‘I help him by checking his lordship’s estate to see there aren’t no poachers around.’

  ‘And were there?’ the coroner asked drily, clearly not believing a word of this.

  ‘Not that I could see, sir. What happened was this. I did my usual tour in two halves. Poachers don’t like folk being around, ’cos birds and game keep mum then, see, so I starts my tour before all those people come storming out of the pub and up the driveway which frightens the birds. Not seeing any poachers, I goes to check the outside larders to see whether they’re being raided by poachers while the cat’s away – beg your pardon, your lordship.’

  ‘I take it there were none there either?’ enquired the coroner.

  ‘No, sir. Having done my checking, I decides to leave it awhile and go back to my home. That would be about quarter past eleven when I reached the churchyard making for Mill Lane. The bushes there were shaking a bit, a bit of nooky-nooky, if you ask me.’

  ‘A cold night for it,’ the coroner observed.

  ‘True enough, sir.’ Jethro laughed heartily, then must have seen the coroner’s stony expression because he added hastily, ‘It can’t have been poachers, sir, there being no game around by the church. You need to be further into the estate for that.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr James. I will bear that in mind.’

  The coroner spoke with a straight face but Jethro looked at him doubtfully. ‘Then I saw that beyond the bushes there was two gentlemen talking by the lychgate. ’Ello, I says to myself, poachers.’

  The coroner regarded him grimly. ‘You said there were none about.’

  ‘That was earlier,’ he said hastily. ‘Anyways, these gents weren’t poachers when I got closer. It was Gentle John and the tubby gentleman. Him that was murdered.’

  The coroner frowned at this invasion of his court’s prerogative in deciding how Mr Rocke had died. ‘What did you do then, Mr James?’

  ‘Not wanting to interrupt them, I climbed over—’

  ‘Climbed over?’

  ‘It’s a quick way in and out of the grounds from Mill Lane, sir,’ Jethro quickly recovered. ‘I use it just because the poachers do, so it’s a good way of catching them. Then I went the long way home so as not to disturb the gentlemen. The long way back being through the mill yard and round down Shepherd’s Lane to the green where I live. I had a nip of something at home and then went out to do the second part of my tour half an hour or so later. It was when I was passing the green that I spots the lump on it and goes over to investigate. Gave me the fright of my life, it did, seeing him there like that, with the blood and all. So I hollers for help.’

  Usually, Nell thought savagely, Jethro couldn’t be trusted further than she could toss a pancake, but if his story was basically true, barring all this tommy-rot of looking for poachers, it was clear why Gentle John had been arrested. Ethel had made no mention to her of going out again. He had motive, opportunity and means. At least, Nell amended, he had the means as regards the stone. No knife had been found, according to Chief Inspector Melbray’s evidence, only the pair to the glove. John Palmer could have disposed of the knife, Nell reasoned uneasily, snowy weather or not.

  As for Jethro, he must have set out for his usual trip to scrounge what he could in the way of game either from the grounds or more likely, given the snow, the Wychbourne Court outhouses, and then had to make for the outhouses speedily to avoid people returning from the Follies. He must have waited there until the coast was clear and then made off across the grounds with his booty to his unorthodox ex
it to Mill Lane (or perhaps only part of his spoils which would explain his later planned return journey).

  Her own interrogation on the witness stand and Lord Ansley’s were mercifully brief, confirming Jethro’s time of ‘hollering’, and that, she imagined, would be that, especially as Gentle John had already been charged with murder. She was wrong. Ethel Palmer was put through it next. This coroner was thorough, Nell thought; nothing was going to slip by him, and he could well get further with Ethel than she had.

  ‘Mr Rocke wanted to talk to us,’ Ethel stated reluctantly, ‘so instead of standing in the cold when the pub closed, we said, “Come back home with us and we’ll talk it over.” That was just gone ten thirty. And so we did go home. He said he’d sort it all out somehow and we wasn’t to worry about this marriage thing. He was ever so sorry that he’d given me the impression we was no longer wed when apparently we was.’

  Nell pricked up her ears. That was new. Just an embellishment, or the truth?

  ‘What then?’ the coroner asked gently, as she came to a halt.

  Or so Nell had thought, but she was wrong.

  ‘Nothing,’ Ethel said defiantly. She wasn’t doing herself any favours, Nell feared. ‘Well, John did go down as far as the church gate with him for a minute or two just to show there was no hard feelings. They had a chat and John came straight back here. He couldn’t have been away more than five minutes and there was no blood on him or nothing like that.’

  ‘What was he wearing when he went out?’

  ‘His old jacket.’

  ‘Under a mackintosh?’

  ‘Yes.’ Then Ethel must have realized what she’d said, because she added quickly, ‘Not one of those light ones, though.’ But the damage had been done.

  By the time a procession of witnesses had given their evidence, the flurry of excitement had died down. The emphasis being on how Mr Rocke had died, most of the questions were devoted to that angle, although there was seemingly endless probing as to how the guests had left the Coach and Horses that evening: Nell made mental notes that Mr Peters had been first to leave, before the Pierrot finale, Mr Jarrett, having refused to take part in that, was the next, walking back to Wychbourne Court; Lord Richard had left with Miss Smith about five minutes past ten in the governess cart; Lady Sophy, Lady Helen, Mr Beringer, Mr Fontenoy and Muriel had returned by wagon; Mrs Reynolds, Mrs Jarrett and Lord and Lady Kencroft had walked; Mr Heydock and his ‘Jeeves’ had taken another wagon; Miss Maxwell and Doris Paget had walked back to the Court just before ten thirty; Lord and Lady Ansley, accompanied by the dowager, had left promptly at ten o’clock; and Lady Clarice had commandeered another wagon for herself and Mr Trotter.

  Nell therefore deduced from their evidence that they had all left by ten thirty and it had also been established that all of them had appeared for supper, at least briefly, and then retired to their rooms or to the drawing or billiard rooms. But suppose, she thought, one of them had slipped out again? No, that wouldn’t work. Tobias Rocke had not returned to the Court and how would any would-be killer there know where he was?

  The jury, unsurprisingly, having retired to the bar parlour, didn’t take much time in reaching a decision of unlawful killing.

  Here’s a load of bubble and squeak, as her father used to say, Nell thought ruefully. How was Mrs Squires going to take this? Convinced as Nell still was that Gentle John was no killer, she had as much hope of proving it as a snowman surviving a heatwave. She was about to leave the Coach and Horses when Arthur Fontenoy beckoned to her.

  ‘Nell, a word in your ear, if you please. I did with some difficulty,’ he explained, ‘persuade Lady Clarice not to insist on giving evidence at the inquest, but only at the cost of suggesting she talked to your Chief Inspector Melbray. I also suggested you might accompany her.’

  ‘Thank you, Arthur,’ Nell said grimly. She had a shrewd suspicion what this ‘evidence’ might turn out to be. This was no time to point out she was needed back at Wychbourne Court, as Lady Clarice was already advancing towards Chief Inspector Melbray, who was engaged with the Sevenoaks police. By the time Nell caught up with her, it was too late to stop her.

  ‘One moment of your time, Chief Inspector,’ Lady Clarice said, as the inspector turned to her politely. ‘I have some good news for you.’

  ‘Relevant to this case?’ he asked, glancing at Nell as though this were her idea.

  ‘The fifth marquess is eager to help,’ Lady Clarice said triumphantly.

  ‘The fifth? But he must have lived some time ago,’ Inspector Melbray observed, as Nell inwardly groaned.

  ‘Certainly he did. Simon Ansley, like Mr Rocke, was cut off in his prime. He came into his inheritance in 1856 and died, one suspects courtesy of his twin brother, in 1857. He is entitled to his say now, however. Unfortunately, he can be a fibber on occasion but I’m sure you are used to that in witnesses, Inspector.’

  The inspector did not comment. ‘Did the marquess communicate directly?’

  ‘Ghosts rarely do,’ Lady Clarice pointed out. ‘One requires a medium to be sure of the message. If you wish, Mr Trotter might oblige in this respect, although his speciality is spirit photography, rather than Ouija boards and such devices. He appeared quite unexpectedly last night. His message was quite clear. There is a murderer among us who walks free and who must not be allowed to do so.’

  ‘We believe we have him in our charge, Lady Clarice,’ Inspector Melbray said.

  ‘Nonsense. You may have Mr Rocke’s murderer in charge,’ Lady Clarice replied earnestly. ‘I refer to quite another murderer. The fifth marquess referred to the murder of Miss Mary Ann Darling.’

  Nell squirmed. Chief Inspector Alex Melbray must think that everyone at Wychbourne Court was cuckoo, but privately he proved amazingly understanding. ‘After all, Nell,’ he pointed out, after Lady Clarice had left with his full assurance that he would give this matter his full consideration, ‘the fifth marquess is working on the same lines as you.’

  ‘I’m flattered,’ she retorted.

  He laughed. ‘It’s true. You both believe the real answer to why Tobias Rocke was killed lies in his past life.’

  Nell was only partially mollified. ‘And you don’t?’

  ‘Officially, no. I’m coming up to Wychbourne Court again, remember?’

  ‘You’re right,’ she grudgingly agreed.

  ‘Always words I like to hear. Let’s hope the fifth marquess hears them too.’

  He returned to the pub and once again she set out for Wychbourne Court, only to run straight into Jethro James.

  ‘You spoke splendidly, Jethro,’ she said, stretching the truth as far as she could in the interests of diplomacy. After all, he had given a splendid statement from his point of view.

  He smirked. ‘Thanks, Miss Drury. I like to do my bit for his lordship.’

  ‘His lordship could do without some of your help in reducing his game supplies.’

  He shrugged. ‘Cottagers’ rights. He ought to be grateful to me for checking his game larders.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Justice, that’s why. I see his posh guests come back after the Follies, and I see them go out again.’

  Nell stiffened. Had she been misjudging him? Could Jethro really have seen something to shed some light on what had happened that night? ‘That’s Mr Peters’ job,’ she said cautiously.

  ‘The butler don’t always see everything. He’s at the front door. He can’t see those who come out the side door by the toffs’ breakfast room, now does he? There was someone.’

  ‘Who was it?’

  ‘How could I know that? Dark, wasn’t it? You don’t light that yard too well at nights, Miss Drury.’

  Another setback for Nell the Great Detective, she fumed, as she stomped back to the Court. Mrs Rundell or Elizabeth Raffald or Mrs Acton didn’t take time off from their dedicated work on their cookery books in order to investigate murders, and here was she, Nell Drury, being out-manoeuvred by Jethro James. Stick to the jobs you understand,
Nell told herself. Luncheon called, and it would have to be a speedy one, as Chief Inspector Melbray wanted to speak to them all in the drawing room while coffee was being served and then he had to return to London.

  A distressed Mrs Squires was in full flow when Nell reached the kitchen. ‘They don’t understand, these judges,’ she said as soon as she laid eyes on Nell. ‘Why didn’t that coroner fellow set him free? Gentle John couldn’t kill a chicken – Ethel has to do it. As if he’d kill a gentleman like Mr Rocke.’

  ‘It’s ever so exciting, though,’ enthused Miss Smith, blundering in once again. ‘I thought it was going to be dull down here in the country but this is as good as having Jack the Ripper around.’

  ‘Or that Patrick Mahon,’ Kitty said with a shudder. ‘Fancy cutting up your lady-friend into little pieces and boiling her.’

  ‘Not here, Kitty,’ Nell said firmly. There were limits to what she permitted in the way of idle kitchen chit-chat. ‘We’ve enough on our hands.’

  Although he had not expressly said so, Chief Inspector Melbray’s request to speak to everyone at the Court did seem a sign that he was beginning to have doubts about Gentle John’s guilt, despite Ethel Palmer’s revelation. He couldn’t ignore the coincidences of this reunion, Mr Rocke’s death and the presence of so many people who knew Mary Ann Darling. Even the fifth marquess had his views on her murder.

  Luncheon over (not entirely satisfactorily owing to the rush), it proved to be a larger gathering in the drawing room than Nell had bargained for. It wasn’t just the family and their guests whom Chief Inspector Melbray wished to see. Mr Trotter was here and the upper servants too – save for Mr Briggs, who was already upset by the commotion in the house and would not understand what was going on, and Mrs Fielding who was nobly coping with coffee together with her still-room maid. With trepidation as to what was going to happen, Nell took her place beside Mr Peters and an excited Miss Smith.