by N. C. Lewis
Within minutes, men were shouting all over the place. Police whistles blasted. Confusion was everywhere. The entire staff of Bagington Hall were running here and there searching for Frank Perry as the evening light faded to dark.
Chapter 42
"It’s Lady Herriman I feel sorry for," said Chief Inspector Little with a shake of his head. "Her Ladyship took the news well but now has to run Bagington Hall alone, and at her age!"
The chief inspector stood by the open door of the scullery eyeing Sergeant Pender, who sat at the kitchen table nursing a mug of "fortified" tea. Dolly and Mrs Mullins and I were the other occupants, each with our own mug: Withers, Boots, and Uncle Tristan having joined the manhunt for Frank Perry.
"Mrs Mullins," said the chief inspector, "I believe you found the body?"
"Yes, sir," began Mrs Mullins with a hesitant voice. "Sir Sandoe was slumped against the wall all owl like."
"Owl like?" Chief Inspector Little pulled out a sheet of paper from his top pocket and a pen from a side pocket.
"Arms spread like wings and eyes wide open as"—Mrs Mullins took a sip from her mug and relaxed a little—"if he'd been taken by surprise."
"Ah, please go on."
Mrs Mullins needed no further encouragement. "And his mouth was twisted as if his life were flashing before 'im, showing 'im all the evil deeds he'd done." She was in her element, rehearsing the story she'd repeat to the eager villagers. "So twisted even his own mother wouldn’t recognize him. So twisted it were like—"
"Yes, yes. I get the picture," interrupted the chief inspector. "Is there anything else?"
"It were terrible," replied Mrs Mullins. "What with the wide eyes, twisted mouth, and all that blood, I knew he was done in."
The chief inspector shuddered then said, "And what about you, Miss Trimmings? Do you have anything to add to what Mrs Mullins has said?"
"No, sir. I ain't got no more to say, other than I hope you catch Mr Frank Perry real quick, cos a man like that is like a viper. He'll strike again."
The chief inspector's head moved up and down with vigour. "Criminals like to return to the scene of their crime to gloat. Sergeant Pender, set up patrols day and night around Bagington Hall."
"Righto, sir."
"And you, Miss Darling," said the chief inspector, "anything you'd like to add?"
I placed my hands around the mug and gazed towards the window. I could hear muffled voices from outside, a constant reminder of the troubling events of the evening.
There were several things that concerned me. How did Frank get so close to the main house without being spotted? Why would he attack Sir Sandoe at Bagington Hall where the chances of being caught were so high? Frank Perry didn’t strike me as irrational and crazed, but maybe I was wrong on that one.
But what puzzled me most was Sir Richard Sandoe. His little hand had grasped tight on to an envelope, and one I recognised. It was the letter Uncle Tristan had returned to Frank Perry. Now I wanted to know its contents.
"There was a silver envelope in Sir Sandoe's hand," I said. "I suppose you have opened and read it?"
Chief Inspector Little turned to Sergeant Pender. "Did you open the envelope; what was inside?"
The sergeant took a gulp from his mug then stood up and hurried to the sink where he tapped on the window.
"Constable Lutz, do you have the envelope?"
The reply came back muffled but audible.
"What envelope, sir?"
"A silver one, in Sir Sandoe's hand."
"No, sir. There wasn't any envelope with the body."
"Did you look under the body?"
"No, sir."
"Then move it and look."
"Are you sure we shouldn’t wait for Dr Swensen, sir?"
"Move the body, Constable."
There were several large grunts, followed by a startled, dry-throated cry.
"No, sir," came the shaky voice of Constable Lutz. "No envelope under the body."
"Perhaps he should check the pockets," I said.
"Check the pockets," boomed the sergeant.
"Is that necessary, sir?"
"Lutz, check the pockets."
We waited in silence. I closed my eyes for several seconds, my mind racing over the events of the evening. Yes, the envelope was in Sir Sandoe's right hand. There was no doubt about it.
At last, Constable Lutz spoke, his voice thin and trembling.
"All his pockets are empty, sir. No envelope, not even a pocket watch or a coin."
"But I saw it in his hand," I protested.
Chief Inspector Little said, "Mrs Mullins, did you see an envelope?"
She shook her head. "I wasn't looking for no envelope. Seeing a dead body was enough for me. I wasn't looking for that neither. But I saw it all right."
The chief inspector said, "What about you, Miss Trimmings?"
"Lots of blood," cried Dolly. "And that monster with the dagger. I saw all that for a fact, but I didn’t see any silver envelope."
Idly, the chief inspector slipped the pen back into his jacket pocket. With one hand, he folded the sheet of paper then folded it again.
"Miss Darling, shock does terrible things to the unprepared mind. The letter was nothing but a figment of your gaudy, female imagination."
I stared at him, anger thick at the back of my throat. "Chief Inspector, I know what I saw."
"Now, now, dear woman, don't let your emotions get carried away. There was no envelope. Let that be the end of the matter. I suggest you take a nice long sip from that lovely mug of tea, and you'll feel much better."
Fighting back anger, I cleared my throat and said, "There was a silver envelope in his right fist. I am certain of what I—"
"I am afraid," interrupted the chief inspector, "I cannot spend precious police time chasing phantoms concocted from the feminine mind. The unfortunate death of Sir Sandoe is an all-too-common case of assault and robbery gone wrong. That his pockets are empty confirms my suspicion. Now where the devil is Frank Perry?"
Chapter 43
"Frank seemed like such a nice lad," said Mrs Mullins.
"He's the dark brooding type," replied Sergeant Pender. "Never know what they are thinking. I knew he was one to keep an eye on, and I was right!" He turned to the chief inspector. "The lad got into a scuffle with the gatekeeper."
"Ah," Chief Inspector Little said, leaning forward. "Please tell me more."
The sergeant put on an official tone. "On Monday, the first day of the agricultural strike, Mr Perry tried to sneak into Bagington Hall on the back of a delivery van. The gatehouse keeper spotted him, and there was a violent scuffle."
"Point?" Chief Inspector Little said.
"Mr Perry claimed to have a letter for Sir Sandoe."
"Letter?" The chief inspector's eyes fastened on mine. "In a silver envelope, by any chance?"
Sergeant Pender's lips curved into a faint smile. "When I searched him, there was no letter. But he was carrying somethin' silver—a long-handled dagger."
Chief Inspector Little walked to the sink, stared through the window.
"I noticed a dagger by the body, Sergeant."
"Indeed, sir."
"Do you recognise it?"
"The very same weapon I found in Frank Perry's possession, sir."
The chief inspector sucked in a breath. "Mr Perry will swing before the year is out. Now write up the report, and have it on my desk by noon tomorrow. Add Dr Swensen's comments when you get them."
"Aye, sir." Sergeant Pender took a long sip from his mug. "The thing is, sir, Frank Perry might not have worked alone."
"Go on."
"Frank was with the agricultural union. He came to Norfolk with George Edwards."
"The national union organiser?"
"That'd be him."
"Point?"
"George Edwards threatened Sir Sandoe at the gatehouse earlier today."
"Coincidence?"
"That's what I thought, but you see, a young lad by the name of Tom
my Crabapple—"
"I know the story, Sergeant. A terrible accident, wrote the report up myself. The whole incident shook up Sir Sandoe, I can tell you. Not good when workers drink on duty, not good at all."
"Aye, sir." Sergeant Pender placed both hands over his mug. "But George Edwards claimed the accident was a result of mechanical failure. He said Tommy Crabapple was teatotaller and was drunk because—"
"That's quite enough! I got the facts from Sir Sandoe himself." Chief Inspector Little closed his eyes and was silent for a long moment. "And you say George Edwards and Frank Perry are acquaintances?"
"Aye, sir."
"I suppose it'd take someone as crafty as Mr Edwards to help Frank." Chief Inspector Little nodded to the window. "How else could he have got so far without being seen?"
"And Frank's long-handled dagger, sir," added Sergeant Pender. "It is the same type Dr Swensen found plunged deep into the chest of Miss Antoinette."
Again, the chief inspector sucked in a sharp breath. "My God, man, we'd better tread carefully with this one."
"Shall I bring Mr Edwards in for questioning, sir?"
"Good God, no! Agricultural workers from all over England would flood here in protest… and Scotland Yard might get involved. No, Norfolk's in enough chaos as it is. There has to be an alternative explanation."
"But what, sir?" Sergeant Pender took another sip from his mug.
"Leave it with me, Sergeant. I'll work everything out. You concentrate on the report and finding Frank Perry. The sooner he swings, the better."
Chapter 44
Early Saturday afternoon, I sat at my desk in Uncle Tristan's loft office practising calligraphy. There was little activity in the curing yard. The stagnant, musty odour of the place was less intense than a weekday. Twenty-four hours hadn’t yet passed since the death of Sir Sandoe, and Frank Perry was still on the run.
For the third or fourth time, I'd pressed too hard on the acute accent over the Gaelic vowels.
"Oh bother!"
Uncle tilted back in his chair, feet propped up on his desk with his hands behind his head. "Maggie, you should show your penmanship. Your characters are well drawn; it could open up another career."
I shook my head and smiled. "It's a hobby, one I enjoy. I'm not sure it would be so much fun if I did it for a living."
The focused concentration and subtle hand movements of calligraphy were more of a therapy against the flotsam and jetsam of everyday life. But today it wasn’t working. I put the pencil down.
Uncle stared off into space. "Ah, well," he said forlornly, "what are we doing here on this fine last Saturday of the month?"
"Keeping away from the gossips." A hunger pang stabbed at my stomach. I'd missed breakfast at Mrs Rusbridger's boarding house to avoid everyone. Too many questions. And there was something else. The guests had begun to regard me with a wary eye.
There was a sudden intensity to the foul air. I gasped and wondered who in their right mind would willingly visit this dim, pungent place.
Uncle Tristan read my thoughts and said in a gloomy voice, "I can't see the likes of Lady Herriman climbing the stairs of a butcher shop to book our business."
"It takes time for the word to spread," I said.
But Uncle Tristan was in a glum mood. "Nobody has signed up. Not a cook, footman, or even a yard hand."
"A little patience is all that is required."
"Patience!" cried Uncle Tristan, tapping his feet on his desk. "Our office stinks like the devil's breath. We are a staffing agency with no staff. It's as if there is some… some blasted curse hovering over the business. Even the man who gave me the idea is dead!" He frowned. "Oh, Maggie, your father is the one with the business brains. Was the staffing agency a terrible mistake?"
Now wasn’t the time to mention that Father's business ventures weren't glittering successes. Everything he'd turned his hand to in London had met with difficulty: the fish shop on Seven Sisters Road closed, and his venture into the horse-drawn cab trade ended in failure. Father's only stable employment was as an assistant in a bakery shop.
"Come now, Uncle, cheer up. Sir Sandoe's murder has nothing to do with Tristan's Hands. And this office is temporary until things right themselves. Look on the bright side: we have one client."
His frown deepened into a scowl. "You know what Lady Herriman thinks about me."
"The woman is just out of touch, and now she has to take on the burden of running Bagington Hall. Can't you offer her a little kindness in her period of mourning?"
But Uncle Tristan continued in his downbeat tone. "With Sir Sandoe gone, the sour, old toad will cancel our contract. I can feel it in my bones."
I picked up the pencil. "Oh, don't be so pessimistic, Bagington Hall is the first client of many; you said as much yourself."
Uncle Tristan let out a long, low sigh. "Better than the bakery business, that's what I told him. Why did I not wait for confirmation?"
I put the pencil down. "What are you talking about?"
"Your father, Maggie. I told him about the gold mine in Peru." There was a raspy tremble to his voice.
"Yes, I know," I said, trying to quiet my own rising sense of unease. "You said you were going to write."
"To give him an update on his investments." Uncle Tristan's face twisted into a wild, almost hysterical look. "Your father has already joined me in the venture. He has invested all his savings."
"Dear God!" A sour sensation filled my stomach. I turned away to stare at the wall in front of my desk. "Everything?"
"And the money he put aside for you to care for your sister, Nancy, after his death."
I turned back to Uncle Tristan, dismayed.
"But what if…" I paused. There was little to be gained by panic. It only clouded the mind and left one feeling helpless. The money had been invested, and there was nothing that could be done about that. And the gold? I didn’t know what to think. I said, "You must visit with Lady Herriman and return with the bank cheque."
"On Monday," replied Uncle Tristan. "Any sooner would appear disrespectful to the memory of Sir Sandoe."
"Indeed," I said, already feeling a little less panicked. "Her Ladyship will be in deep mourning after the events of the week. Nevertheless, it would be wise to get the bank cheque and cash it with all haste."
Chapter 45
We sat in silence in the tiny office on the top floor of John and Sons butcher shop. Occasionally, Uncle Tristan let out a sigh, or the stench-ridden air would intensify, and we'd both begin a bout of coughing.
It was going to be a long wait until Monday morning. I intended to travel with him to Bagington Hall. While he met with Lady Herriman, I'd do a little snooping, see what I could find out about the death of Miss Antoinette, and pick up any titbits on the police investigation into Sir Sandoe's murder.
"I'd feel a lot better," began Uncle Tristan, after a particularly heavy sigh, "if I'd have got the bank cheque yesterday even if I had to pick-pocket it from Sir Sandoe's corpse." He paused, eyes darting towards the door. Then he lowered his voice. "If Withers and Boots weren't with me, I'd have checked his pockets."
"Ah-ha!" I stood to my feet. "The great Lord Avalon, Man of Mystery, strikes again!"
"Eh?"
"You took the envelope. How on earth did you manage it?"
"Maggie, what are you talking about?"
"The silver envelope, Uncle. The one you gave to Frank Perry. It was in Sir Sandoe's fist when I saw the body."
Uncle Tristan closed his eyes and became very still. Under the closed lids his eyeballs moved in little darting motions. It was as if they were putting together fragments of a filed-away memory.
When his lids lifted, he said, "Yes, I saw it also. It was in his right hand. Are you saying it vanished?"
"It wasn’t with his body when the police arrived."
Uncle shook his head. "Maggie, I didn’t take it nor did Frank Perry. I had the man in my sights the entire time."
I met Uncle Tristan's gaze. The room
was silent around us, the lack of weekday clatter and clangs intensifying the stillness.
I sat down, picked up my pencil, chewed the end, and thought for a moment. Speaking slowly, I said, "It must have been taken by Boots or Withers."
"Or someone else. There was a lot of activity around the body."
That was true. Anyone might have snatched it. The only fact was that the silver envelope was in Sir Sandoe's right hand, and now it was gone. Who took the envelope, and why?
Uncle Tristan placed a hand over his eyes. "Whoever swiped the envelope is sharper than me. Why didn’t I think to search Sir Sandoe's pockets for my bank cheque?"
"You needn't have bothered," I said. "His pockets were empty."
Uncle Tristan's eyebrows shot up. "Did you search him?"
"Constable Lutz did. Nothing. Not even a scrap of paper or a coin. The officer even looked under the body."
"But he must have had my cheque about him." He looked up, his face set as if a new revelation about the character of Sir Sandoe had just hit him. "The man gave me his word!"
"Maybe he left it on his writing desk… or perhaps Frank Perry rifled through his pockets and took what he could before we spotted him."
Uncle Tristan stared off into the distance. "Frank didn’t take it. What would he do with a bank cheque? He could hardly cash it."
"Maybe on the black market."
"Frank is not some underworld man of crime."
"He's wanted for the murder of Sir Richard Sandoe, and they might even link him to the death of Miss Antoinette."
"Stuff and nonsense! Frank Perry didn’t murder Sir Sandoe, and as for Miss Antoinette, well, she was the last person he'd harm."
A certainty in my uncle's tone caused me to pause. I thought about the brief glance of Frank through the scullery window and felt deep down he was as startled as myself to see the body. But, then again, he had a dagger in his hand, the one used to murder Sir Sandoe.
"Guilty or innocent," I said, "it doesn’t look particularly good for him."
"That’s why I agreed to—"
A sharp, hard knock on the door interrupted our conversation.
