‘You stole her,’ Swift accused him.
Clegg reddened and lowered his head. ‘Ay, I did, and I know it were wrong, but that Chaplain, Jarvis, he was a nasty piece. Fine as could be to your face, then laughin’ and making things up behind your back. He called me a wooden-top and a dwarf, among other things. He did it to me and he did it to a few others that I know of. And he took stuff, things that weren’t his – some of my tools, for a start. I didn’t think this painting was his, and I reckoned that sooner or later the right person would come and claim it back.’
‘Has anyone else seen it?’ I asked.
‘No, they haven’t. You’re the only ones who know about it, aside from me.’ Clegg replied.
‘What happened to the other picture, the one of Mary Magdalene?’ Swift asked.
‘Taken away by that German bloke the night after Sir Crispin was killed. I were working till late and he came in, didn’t say a word, just tossed a cloth over the painting and walked off with it, bold as you like.’
‘Don’t happen to recognise this paint colour do you?’ I showed him my sleeve. I hadn’t been able to match it to any of the other paintings we’d seen.
‘Could be from that Tosca painting that he did, looks about right,’ Clegg replied.
‘We’re taking this with us,’ Swift announced, and shrugged off his trench coat to wrap around the painting. ‘You should have told us about it before,’ he snapped as he tucked it under his arm.
‘Ay, well, if you’d asked I would ha’ done.’ Clegg turned to me. ‘Who does she belong to?’
‘The house,’ I answered. ‘This lady is a member of the Bloxford family.’
His brows rose in surprise.
‘You’ll keep this to yourself, won’t you Clegg,’ I told him.
‘Ay. I will that, though I’m right sorry to see her go,’ he sighed.
We left him looking forlorn and took her back to my rooms and unwrapped her on the reading table. Tubbs came over and placed a playful paw on a piece of cord hanging from the back. Not having examined it properly, I turned her over.
‘Cobwebs,’ Swift remarked. ‘Or the remains of them, anyway.’ He ran a finger down the dusty inside of the wood stretching the canvas. It left a pale streak behind and he rubbed the grime from his hand with his handkerchief.
‘I’d say this was the original,’ I offered.
He nodded in agreement, then reached for Lady Grace. The woodwork was spotless, not a speck of dust; it looked brand new.
‘And this is a copy,’ he replied as he tugged his trench coat back on.
‘Why would he copy Lady Grace?’ I mused.
‘No idea,’ Swift said thoughtfully, then switched tack. ‘Are you going to the performance?’
‘What?’
‘Tonight. It’s Carmen. Florence asked me, and, erm, I agreed to go.’ He was wrapping the paintings up together in the cloth as he talked, and avoided looking me in the eye.
‘I thought you said “time is of the essence”, or some such thing, and we had to get this nailed?’
‘Yes, and we will, but …’ He ran a hand over his hair while running out of words.
I laughed.
‘What’s so amusing?’ he retorted.
‘Nothing,’ I replied. ‘Have a nice evening.’
‘Humph,’ he said, placed both paintings under my bed and walked out. Amusing though I found it to observe Swift’s Socialist principles vanishing in the face of tender emotions, I really did want to sit down with my notebook and think about the strange events of the day. Fogg was in need of a walk, too, and he came to tell me with a wag of the tail and a limpid look in his chocolate brown eyes. I put my pen down, slipped Mr Tubbs in my pocket, and set off with my dog at my heels.
Mist was rising over the meadows as I wandered the grassy pathways down to the brook. There was nothing to be heard other than birdsong in the hedgerows and the low of cattle in the distance. Fogg trotted ahead, nose to the ground, unhurried in the serenity of descending dusk. We halted at the brook, a broad, shallow stream where swans would sometimes glide by, barely causing a ripple on the still waters. I woke Tubbs and set him on the grass, and sat down beside him. Fogg came to join us and we stared into the distance until the kitten spotted a small frog and jumped on it. He trapped it under a paw, then didn’t know what to do. I distracted him with a piece of long grass, waggling it under his nose until the frog escaped. I listened to the toll of church bells ringing the hour as I unravelled the mystery of murders in my mind. Then I gathered up my little family and returned to the house with a heavy tread and a heavier heart. I deduced what had happened and what was yet to happen. And I realised that I would have to act soon if I was going to prevent another murder.
Dicks had been in my rooms and left a fresh saucer of milk for Tubbs and a bowl of choice cuts for Fogg. I picked out some liver for the kitten as he was growing by the day, then gave them each their respective meals. I rang the bell for my own dinner and sat at my desk before my notebook. By the time I’d run out of ink, Dicks had still not appeared. I rang the bell again and read back over my jottings. Most of it made sense although there were a few questions that remained unanswered. I underlined the name of the murderer. Perhaps I should use the word assassin rather than murderer? I mused. Or executioner?
‘Lennox.’ Caroline walked in without so much as a by-your-leave and addressed my back. ‘Are you coming?’
‘No,’ I replied as I blotted my page. ‘Things to do.’
‘Nonsense. Supper is on the table, it’s all ready for us. Do come along,’ she ordered me.
‘Where’s Dicks?’
‘Busy. Everyone is busy. I’m not going unless you come with me, Lennox.’ She sounded just as she had as a girl – bossy and annoying.
‘Look, old stick …’ I turned to face her and she suddenly smiled, her eyes shining. She looked radiant and terribly happy.
‘I’m getting married tomorrow, Lennox.’
I closed my book, rose to my feet and walked over to her, then caught her up and twirled her around in my arms. ‘And I think it’s marvellous.’
‘Come on,’ she took my hand. ‘Be happy with me – with all of us. Enough skulking in your room, you old crum-dudgeon.’
I laughed at the name she used to call me when we children.
We went downstairs, her arm tucked in mine.
‘I’m sorry if I’ve been cross with you about the detecting, Lennox,’ she said.
I looked at her, surprised to hear her apologise, as it wasn’t in her nature. ‘Couldn’t leave murder unaccounted for, old thing,’ I told her. ‘Done my best to keep it out of the house, you know.’
‘Daddy was pleased you dug up Bartholomew, he told me so. Miss Busby, too. She took him under her wing when he was a child. He was an awkward sort, always being teased by the other children.’
I stopped on a step and stared at her. ‘Miss Busby knew Bartholomew as a child?’
‘Yes, didn’t she tell you? His father was Chaplain here before the War – quite a while before, actually. He brought Jeremy with him, sent him to the local school. Miss Busby taught him until they left a few years later.’
She tugged me on downstairs, she with a light step and I in deep thought. We passed through the flower-festooned hallway and then the open French windows and onto the long, broad terrace behind the house.
Small jars of flickering candles had been placed along the table, which had been laid with care and fine cloth and bore platters of delicately cut sandwiches, slices of cold cuts, piled bowls of fruits, pastries, fresh-baked bread rolls, champagne on ice and all the delicacies the house could muster.
Everyone was present: the Brigadier sat in an upright chair from the house, Kalo at his side; Swift was self-consciously holding Florence’s hand; Ford was smiling at Ruth, who looked prim as usual. Hiram grinned broadly when he saw us arrive.
‘I’ve winkled him out of his hole,’ Caroline called out.
They greeted me warmly, with pecks
on the cheek and glad hands shaken.
Damn it, I thought, I didn’t want to spoil all this.
Chapter 24
Cyril Fletcher was right about opera – it was ear-shattering stuff. In such a small theatre Carmen could give the eardrums a serious rattling. Lizzie threw herself into the role of the gypsy femme fatale, a part for which she seemed entirely suited. Andrew was the hapless suitor and Dame Gabriel had been demoted to Second Maiden or something because she was only a soprano and Carmen was a mezzo-soprano. I assumed it to be an operatic conceit, as they both sounded the same to me.
Four hours in a hard chair surrounded by fidgeting farmers and friends was an experience I sincerely hoped never to repeat. Miss Busby invited me to sit with her; she arrived with the crowd of attendees just as we finished our cold collation on the terrace. She did try to explain the plot, but I can’t say I took in much of it, as it was rather complicated and my mind was elsewhere.
I looked around the full house and spotted Clegg on his three-legged stool at the back, a beatific beam on his face. The best bit was the ‘March Of The Toreadors’, which was pretty rousing stuff. I was still humming the tune to myself after I’d escaped the throng. I was planning to retreat to the peace and quiet of my rooms, when I was waylaid by Hiram and Ford, with Swift in tow.
‘It’s my last night of freedom, Lennox, and I think we men should take a drink together,’ he drawled.
‘Erm, right o, old chap. Best make it a quick one, though – your bride will have my hide if I don’t get you to the altar in good fettle tomorrow.’
‘She sure will,’ Hiram laughed as he put his arm around my shoulders and led us back to the drawing room. A fire was lit and burning brightly, decanters and glasses were set on a low table surrounded by sofas and deep wing chairs. One brandy led to another – Ford and Hiram soaked the stuff up without, apparently, much effect. Swift and I, on the other hand, became merrily and completely soused. I staggered to my bed some time later and slept very soundly indeed.
Dicks woke me with eager cheerfulness the next morning. He placed my breakfast tray on the reading table and pulled the curtains wide.
‘Isn’t it wonderful, sir. The whole house is brimful with excitement – can’t wait to see Lady Caroline, sir. We’re all going to line up as she goes through to the chapel with the bridesmaids and the Brigadier. Then, when the ceremony is done and the bride and groom come back through the hall, we’ve got rose petals to throw over their heads from up on the stairs. Lady Ruth has organised it – baskets full of them, there are. It’s going to be truly memorable, sir.’
‘Dicks?’
‘Yes, sir?’ he said as he clattered and banged cups and whatnots about. ‘Where are the headache powders?’ I asked, pulling on my dressing gown.
‘Top drawer of your bedside cabinet, sir … And the chapel is draped with garlands. There’s swathes of silk and lace woven with pink and white roses along the walls. And the ballroom looks like it’s straight out of a fairytale, sir. There are real cherry-blossom trees in pots, and Lady Ruth has had huge flower arrangements specially made –’
‘Dicks,’ I cut in, ‘if you don’t be quiet I’m going to have to shoot you,’ I told him as I rummaged in the drawer. ‘Or myself.’
He shut up, eyed me with a wry grin, then proceeded to quietly feed Fogg and Mr Tubbs and finally went off to join the bustle below.
Bacon, egg, sausages and copious amounts of fried bread, plus the powders, improved my hangover but not my enthusiasm for the day’s events. Fogg demanded a quick dash to the front lawn, and as we raced down and then back up the stairs, I pondered the question uppermost in my mind: How long before the next death? I didn’t think the murderer would kill before the wedding, but I doubted they’d let the day pass before the final execution took place. I had to act before they did.
Swift walked in as I was shrugging on my shooting jacket. Fogg greeted him with a woof and a wag of the tail; I managed a grunt.
‘No news on von Graf?’ he asked.
‘Not in the house,’ I replied. ‘Your chaps heard anything?’
‘No sign of him. Um, don’t have anything for a headache, do you, Lennox? They’ve invited me to the wedding and I’m not …’
I tossed him the powders and pointed towards the water jug. He helped himself as I eyed him.
‘Swift …’
‘What?’
‘I think I know where he is.’
‘Von Graf?’
‘Yes.’
‘Where?’
‘I’ll show you,’ I said, and led the way toward the door.
Swift finished his powders, placed the glass on the table, tightened the belt on his trench coat and followed me out. Fogg was at our heels but I explained to him that he wouldn’t like it and sent him back to join Tubbs in his basket.
We strode up the hill, the fresh air clearing our heads. A thin sun was emerging through wispy clouds; pale mist lay wreathed in the hollows. Crows squawked from treetops and a blackbird suddenly trilled a song from the roof of the mausoleum as we passed the chantry graveyard. The rectory was shuttered up, probably by the police after they’d searched it on the day of Jarvis’s murder. But the key was still under the upturned flowerpot and I retrieved it, Swift watching me closely as I did.
Despite my best efforts, the door squeaked as I pushed it open and we halted on the threshold to listen for signs of life. Swift shook his head. Hearing nothing, we trod quietly into the messy kitchen and then the stink hit us. It wasn’t as bad as the stench from poor Bartholomew, but it was still pretty putrid.
‘Tells its own story,’ Swift remarked, all efforts to remain silent rendered redundant.
Von Graf was slumped in a chair near the empty easel in the far corner of the room. We walked over and looked down at him.
‘Been here a few days,’ Swift said.
‘Mm,’ I replied. ‘He’s wearing the same clothes I last saw him in.’
‘When was that?’
‘The day Jarvis was murdered. He cornered me at lunch so I told him about the killing. He seemed shocked.’
‘Looks shocked now,’ Swift remarked, leaning in to scrutinise the corpse more closely.
Von Graf’s skin had taken on a sickly grey hue. His eyes were blue glazed and slightly protruding, his gaping mouth showing a few gold fillings and a lolling, bluish-grey tongue. Death did not become him, although in my view he damn well deserved it.
‘Shot,’ Swift remarked, carefully examining the expanse of blackened blood around a large hole made in von Graf’s expensive shirt.
Another sword had been left beside the corpse. It had been driven, point first, into the bare wooden floorboards.
‘I’d say the sword is identical to the rapier left next to Jarvis,’ I remarked, eyeing the Bloxford insignia on the hilt.
‘Yes,’ Swift replied. ‘Probably the other half of the duelling pair.
‘The bullet went right through his heart, by the looks of it.’
‘And out the other side,’ Swift added as he peered around the back.
‘Must have come up here after your Bobbies had searched the place,’ I said. ‘And the killer followed him.’
Swift used his pen to lift aside the flap of von Graf’s jacket. Flakes of dried blood fell off and spun away as he exposed the lining. There was nothing to see so he tried the other side, and in the inside pocket found a small, robust-looking key.
‘It’s from a safe deposit,’ Swift observed.
‘Mm.’ I recognised it as such. ‘Need the box number and bank.’
‘I do know that, Lennox,’ Swift remarked dryly.
He continued searching but nothing more came to light. He stuffed the key in his pocket, his brow furrowed.
I pulled out my fob watch and noted the time. ‘Must be going, old chap. And you’ll have to be quick, too, if you want to make the ceremony.’
‘Give my regrets if I’m not there, will you. It’s going to take a while to explain this to Watson and his crew
. They’re becoming irritatingly enthusiastic about murder enquiries.’
‘Swift …’ I began.
He turned to look at me.
‘I could do with you at the house,’ I continued. 'I know who did this and I’m going to expose the murderer today.’
‘Lennox, you can’t. They’re getting married, for God’s sake.’
‘No choice, Swift,’ I said. ‘Look, I need the evidence. Those letters and the rapiers – not the plank, it’s a bit of a heavy handful. But I do need the rest. Please, old man.’
He stared at me, consternation in his eyes under a heavy frown, and then asked, ‘Tell me who you think did it!’
I stopped in the doorway, paused in thought, then said. ‘Very well, I will, but only if you will keep the name to yourself until afterwards.’
Swift continued to stare at me. ‘What about this?’
I nodded. ‘Including this — don’t report it to Watson – not yet. Wait until this day’s over, would you?’
He thought about it for a moment more, then reluctantly gave his agreement. ‘But not a minute longer,’ he warned me.
‘Fine,’ I replied, and told him who did it, watched his face fall, then turned on my heel and strode down the hill as he gazed after me.
I barely had ten minutes to change and present myself for duty. Dicks was on tenterhooks as I gained my rooms.
‘Sir, sir, you have to hurry.’
‘Quickly now, hand me the rig, will you.’
The Black Cat Murders: A Cotswolds Country House Murder (Heathcliff Lennox Book 2) Page 20
