The remainder of the evening was spent at my desk, pen in hand, thoughts turning over Dawkins’s revelations. Jarvis had exchanged the planks, and no doubt been killed for his murderous deed. To my mind, that made von Graf even more suspect and I underlined his name in my notebook with a heavier stroke of the pen. But what about Lady Ruth? And where did Florence fit in? Or the opera group for that matter? But the Gainsborough was a glittering prize, almost beyond value.
The motivation must somehow be related to art, I thought. Jarvis and von Graf were involved in art – restoring it, selling it, maybe even stealing it. What could Crispin have done to warrant his murder? Was he sold a dud, or did he stumble upon their duplicity? Should I go and confront von Graf now? But Swift should lead the interview: I’d more or less promised not to act without him. And we didn’t have any evidence; although perhaps if I confronted him …? I reined in my musings – we needed facts, not meanderings. A trip to Oxford and the Black Cat Club may well reveal some evidence, I thought, or, at the very least, an example of what a den of iniquity really looked like.
Chapter 15
Early light saw me on the front doorstep, Purdey under one arm, dog under the other. Hiram arrived as the sun rose over the green-hilled horizon in front of the house. He was wearing a blue outfit such as his father had worn, with a white shirt and black cord for a necktie. Once accustomed to it, I thought it had style of sorts and was probably a great deal more comfortable than the stiff tweed he’d sported the other evening. Our habitual green and browns reflected the colours of the countryside around us; I imagine his blue and white suited the open skies of Texas. Perhaps he was homesick and wearing a reminder of his native land.
‘Greetings,’ I said.
‘Howdy,’ he replied.
Formalities complete we ambled off in the direction of the old woodshed and the pigeons I’d spotted in the vicinity.
‘How was the Gilbert and Sullivan performance last evening?’ I asked in a friendly manner.
‘I never seen anything like it,’ he replied in his slow drawl. ‘Got more life ’n that opera Ma’s so keen on, but my preference is for a hoe-down.’ He took a pot shot at a pigeon and brought it down, then another and reloaded his Holland & Holland to bring down two more. He was an expert shot – a great deal better than I.
I fired off a couple of blasts and landed one. Fogg refused to even look at the dead birds, so we gathered them up and put them in our game bags. There were plenty more pigeon near the hay meadows and we strolled up there.
‘I understand Ruth is related to Lady Florence,’ I tossed in as an opener.
‘She sure is,’ Hiram confirmed.
‘You were visiting Braeburn Castle? Home of Ruth’s family, the Braeburn clan?’ I persevered as we cleared the brow of the hill.
‘Met my fiancée there. She’s a great gal is Caroline. Great gal.’ He lifted his barrel and fired a couple more shots, bringing down two fat wood pigeon. I emptied a barrel which merely succeeded in scattering the rest of the flock.
‘Indeed, yes, she is. Known her since we were knee-high,’ I said.
‘She told me you don’t hold no hard feelings about our being wed,’ he said.
‘None at all.’ I stopped to face him. ‘Hiram, much as I admire Caroline, we are friends and only friends. Believe me, I wish you both the greatest joy.’
‘Why, thank you kindly.’ He took my hand and crushed it enthusiastically. ‘She was fretting over telling you, and I think her pappy had it in his mind that you were the man for her.’
I extracted my hand and shook some feeling back into it. ‘Maybe at one time,’ I said. ‘But I happen to know that he’s delighted with Caroline’s decision.’
‘Lennox,’ he said. ‘Would you do me the honour of being my best man? I know Caroline would like that.’
That caught me unawares. I stammered, ‘Well, erm, yes, yes, of course. I mean – yes, delighted. Honoured, actually.’
‘You know this is just a small wedding,’ Hiram explained. ‘Around a hundred folk coming over for the chapel ceremony and the ball. We’ll be having a proper Texas celebration at the family ranch next month. You don’t have to come, though, if you don’t want to. I have a friend out there will be standing by my side.’
‘Ah, good. Well, if you don’t mind, old chap, I’ll give that one a miss,’ I told him. ‘Sounds like you’ve been planning this for quite some time.’
‘We sure have. I fell for Caroline as soon as I clapped eyes on her. A happier man than me you’re not going to see, my friend.’
‘Excellent,’ I said as I called Fogg to heel. ‘Why were you visiting Braeburn?'
‘Ma – Ruth, that is – has been fretting to visit her ancestral home for many years. So Pa wrote to the old Laird and got us an invite. Came over last summer on the White Star ocean liner, we did. I didn’t want to go, but I’ll be forever grateful that I did. Made my eyes open wide to see what is out there in the world.’ He paused to search the skies for pigeon, but there were none, so we carried on our slow walk, guns ready in hands. ‘That old castle was sure a sorry sight,’ he continued. ‘Florence and her pappy, the Laird, did what they could to make us comfortable but the place is falling into the loch. It troubled Ruth and she made this plan for Pa to buy it.’
‘Your mother wanted to buy Braeburn Castle?’ I was somewhat incredulous at this piece of news.
‘She offered the Laird a blank cheque. Didn’t come out right, though; the old man wouldn’t sell so much as a stone. I think he was offended, myself.’
‘Um, yes, unfortunate.’ I imagine he was extremely offended, but there was no point in saying so. I sought to change the subject. ‘I assume Caroline came to keep Florence company?’ I asked.
‘She did. I think Florence had her matchmaking hat on, and I’m mighty thankful for what she did.’
I suspected Ruth had her matchmaking hat on when they persuaded Hiram to go to the Castle with her and Ford. She must have been terribly disappointed when Hiram and Florence didn’t fall for each other.
‘What did you make of Jarvis and von Graf?’ I asked.
‘Thieves is what I make of them,’ he said without preamble.
‘Really? Are they actually thieves, then?’ I asked, relieved we’d finally broached the subject.
‘I can’t prove it, but I believe they are. Ma won’t hear a word of it. She has a good heart but a head full of fancy ideas.’ Hiram suddenly stopped to fire off two more shots and brought down two birds that I hadn’t even spotted.
‘What made you think Jarvis and von Graf were stealing?’ I said once he’d collected his birds. Fogg sat by and watched him.
‘They were selling paintings for Florence’s pappy.’
‘And you thought they were pocketing some of the proceeds?’ I asked.
‘I did. Florence told me they had sold poorly. I questioned Jarvis, he said the market was swamped and the cost of sales were high, but I didn’t think that was so. Florence showed me the ones they kept back: there was cattle and meadows, mountains and forests. She said the others had been even better. I said they were mighty fine, but Jarvis and von Graf laughed – told me I didn’t understand art. Well, that may be so, but I can tell a good painting from a bad un. Those paintings were sold cheap and I reckon they were skimming the profits.’
‘And who did you tell about your suspicions?’ I asked.
Fogg ran ahead, saw a squirrel and started to bark, sending a bunch of wood pigeon into the sky. I raised my Purdey and downed one, Hiram hit two, reloaded, and hit two more at extreme range.
‘Everybody, at some time or another: the old Laird, Florence, Ma and Pa, Caroline, even the Brigadier. None of them agreed with me. That chaplain sweet-talked them all. He said every darn house in this country had old paintings like that on the wall and half the folk were selling on account of their homes being in a state of disrepair after the war.’
Actually, I did have to agree with the defunct Jarvis on that point: such works may seem ra
re to a Texan, but here in the old country they were as common as wood pigeons.
We picked up the birds and headed for breakfast, dropping the birds off with an unsuspecting footman as we entered the house.
The morning room was full of women, Caroline, Florence, Ruth and two others whom I assumed were bridesmaids – Bunty and somebody-or-other. The place was alive with chatter of weddings and I beat a retreat. Hiram was made of sterner stuff, and besides, Caroline spotted him and came over to drag him in by the arm.
I escaped to my room and rang for Dicks. Tubbs had rearranged my desk again. He flicked the remaining pen off the edge and sat down in the middle of my bare desk-top and stared innocently at me. I placed him back with Fogg in their basket just as Dicks arrived with a tray of fried eggs and bacon. He looked at the items scattered on the floor, frowned, plonked the tray down on the reading table, didn’t even lay the knives and forks – just stalked across to the desk, replaced Tubbs’s best efforts and walked out without a word. He didn’t give me a chance to explain.
He came back after I’d enjoyed my excellent meal.
‘The cat did it!’ I told him quite clearly.
‘Huh.’ He went off again with an air of indignation and the emptied tray; not even a ‘sir’ was spoken.
I turned the pages of my book and jotted down a few notes from this morning’s conversation. My quiet solitude was broken a short time later as Swift came in, ready for action.
‘Where’s Andrew Dundale?’ he said, without so much as a good morning.
‘Greetings, old chap,’ I replied. ‘He’s right behind you.’ Which indeed he was, for Dundale now shambled in with an obvious hangover and a sheepish demeanour.
‘Sit,’ Swift ordered Andrew, who sat in one of the club chairs. Swift leaned over the back of another, facing Andrew and scaring him out of what little wits he possessed. It didn’t take long for the whole story of the stolen wine and brandy to tumble out.
‘Where are the bottles?’ Swift demanded.
‘With Benson,’ Andrew answered, his voice shaking. ‘I gave them to him when I came in. You can ask him if you like.’
‘I will,’ Swift said. He withdrew his notebook and began writing in his careful, precise hand.
‘Are you going to arrest me?’ Andrew asked. ‘Because I don’t think it’s fair. I paid for them, you know. And now I have given them back and I’m out of pocket a great deal of money, so I don’t see how you can –’
‘Quiet.’ Swift cut him off. ‘We are not arresting you – yet. But don’t leave the estate. Now get out.’ And Andrew did, as fast as his feet would take him.
We watched him leave and I closed the door behind him. Swift dropped into a chair, crossed his legs and yawned.
‘Last night went well?’ I asked.
‘Hum,’ he nodded with half a smile.
‘I had a word with Dawkins,’ I told him, and recounted the incident and the news about the plank and Jarvis’s proven guilt. I concluded with the retribution brought upon him by Mrs Dawkins.
Swift laughed – the first time I think I’d heard him laugh. He wrote it all down and then snapped his book closed.
‘So it was Jarvis.’ He looked up at me. ‘We have two killers, or rather, we had.’
‘Yes, and now it’s a question of who murdered the murderer,’ I agreed. ‘We should talk to von Graf.’
‘He’s next on my list to interview,’ Swift said, pocketing his notebook.
‘Has anyone taken statements? The whereabouts of people when Jarvis was shot, that sort of thing?’ I asked.
Swift smiled. ‘Quite the professional, Major.’ He teased me. ‘Yes, Watson’s gang questioned the locals in the village. Nobody saw or heard anything.’ He paused to look wryly at me. ‘And I asked everyone at dinner last evening where they were — very politely!’ He added, then continued with a slight frown. ‘None of them actually has a sound alibi apart from Caroline who was chatting to a maid. Lady Ruth said she was bathing, Ford was reading the newspaper, Hiram was still asleep.’
‘And Florence?’
He turned a little pink. ‘She, erm, she went for a walk in the gardens, but she didn’t hear anything. And there was no-one about,’ he added hastily. ‘And they’ve all got guns, before you ask, and know how to use them. As you’ve already observed, this is a military household.’
I nodded silently, then said. ‘You didn’t find anything at the rectory?’
He shook his head. ‘No. You and Miss Busybody took the only item of interest. Where is the painting, by the way?’
‘Miss Busby, actually,’ a voice from the doorway corrected him. We both spun around as the lady herself walked in, preceded by Dicks acting as her escort. He left as silently as he’d come, still not talking to me, apparently.
We hastened to our feet and Swift had the grace to apologise.
‘No matter, Chief Inspector,’ she said as we offered her a seat. She sat on the edge, perched upright, hands crossed on her lap, wearing a pale green woollen suit, jersey and a scarf. Her shoes were damp: she must have come through the gardens. ‘I have been thinking,’ she announced, with a slight frown and raised a finger, ‘about bluebells.’
‘Y…es …’ I replied, with some hesitation.
‘They spread very slowly, you know. They have bulbs that split off and produce new flowers. They seed too, but it takes many years. Once the bulbs are disturbed they will die if not handled carefully.’
Swift was gazing at her with a deep frown and, no doubt, a shortening temper.
I caught on first, being a country chap.
‘Oh, well done!’ I exclaimed. ‘The grave was covered with grass.’
Now I realised what it was I’d missed.
Swift glared at me. ‘Will somebody tell me what possible significance bluebells could have?’ he snapped. ‘Because I’ve got better things to do than discuss horticulture.’
‘In spring,’ Miss Busby told him, ‘the graveyard behind the chantry is covered with bluebells. But there was merely grass growing on the grave where the body of the Reverend Jarvis was found. There can only be one reason why there weren’t any bluebells.’
‘Because someone dug it up last year and destroyed the bulbs,’ I answered.
‘Exactly,’ she said. ‘They probably stripped away the turf and relaid it afterwards. Of course the grass would continue growing, but not the bluebells.’
I looked at her appraisingly. ‘And you think that’s where the body of Jeremy Bartholomew was buried.’
‘Indeed, I do,’ Miss Busby replied.
Chapter 16
‘Right.’ Swift bounded to his feet, yanked the belt of his trench coat tighter and made for the door. We went through the gardens; Swift kept up a brisk pace and Miss Busby was a little breathless by the time we approached the old cemetery. Sounds of digging greeted us as we arrived. An old man was excavating the grave where we’d found the body of Jarvis yesterday. He worked with a steady rhythm and was already some two feet down, the turf carefully cut and stacked to one side, a pile of reddish brown soil heaped upon the other. The surrounding bluebells were bent and bruised having been trampled during the activities of the police the day before.
‘Good morning, Graves,’ Miss Busby called to him.
He stopped and looked up at us, his narrow face wrought with deep lines, grey stubble upon his chin. He leaned on his spade and called out.
‘Mornin’ to ye all. ‘Ye from t’ouse then?’
‘Yes; this is Major Lennox, Graves,’ Miss Busby told him.
Graves touched his grimy cap.
‘Greetings,’ I said. ‘Jolly good name for a grave digger – Graves.’
‘I’m called that because it’s me job, ye clod,’ he replied.
Miss Busby persevered. ’And this is Inspector Swift from Scotland Yard.’
Graves eyed him closely. ’Not from yon station, then? They be a right daft bunch, they be. Wouldn’t a dug this hole if it weren’t Miss Busby ’as asked me. Not for yon po
lice. They can do it the’selves.’ He spat on his hands, took up his spade and dug the shovel deeper into the soil. ‘’Tis the first time I’ve dug one up, ye know.’
Swift stepped forward for a closer look. ‘Has it been disturbed recently?’ he asked.
‘Aye, that it has,’ Graves replied, digging as he spoke. ‘Loose, ye see, not barted doon like ye’d expect.’
We all leaned in to look.
‘So there may be a body buried down there?’ I asked.
Graves grinned. ‘Ay, lad, old Benson is down here. That’s one of the eighteen hundreds Bensons, not the old, old Bensons, cos them’s over yon.’ He nodded towards a group of worn stones. ‘And the even older Bensons lie beneath them. But the plot got a bit crowded and they give up and came down ’ere.’
‘Um … right,’ I said, and decided not to ask any more idiotic questions.
Graves dug on, working along a six-foot trench about three feet wide.
I glanced at Miss Busby – she was looking rather anxious. To my mind, attending the excavation of mouldering bodies wasn’t a suitable experience for a lady.
‘Miss Busby, would you prefer to –’ I started to ask her, but my words were interrupted as Graves’s next shovelful brought a sickening stench up with it.
‘Wait.’ Swift called out. ‘That’s enough, man. You’ve found it.’
I reached for my handkerchief.
‘Ay, and summat more,’ Graves called, apparently impervious to the abominable stink. He clanged his spade against something metallic in the grave, then reached down and yanked a sword from the dirt, letting loose the most retchingly putrid odour that I’d ever had the misfortune to encounter.
He held the sword up above his head, filthy with soil, slime and God knows what on the blade. Part of the hilt glinted in the sunshine.
The Black Cat Murders: A Cotswolds Country House Murder (Heathcliff Lennox Book 2) Page 13
