by N. C. Lewis
Frank's eyelids lifted. "Aye, ya secret is safe to the grave."
"Now, Maggie, please tell me what Lady Herriman had to say."
I kept my mouth shut for a moment and began to think. Uncle Tristan wasn’t a murderer, crook, or otherwise bent to the devious. If Frank Perry was living in his shed, there had to be a good reason.
The wind picked up, slamming hard against the rickety walls.
I took an enormous breath, and with a raspy dryness in my throat, said, "The news isn't good."
Uncle pranced across the small space and took me by the shoulders. "I know it is bad tidings. Lady Herriman is as sharp as an axe. Did she offer to return only half? Do you have the bank cheque?"
"Yes, I do, but…"
"Rejoice! Rejoice! Rejoice! Half is better than I expected from the old witch. We'll fight over the remainder later." Uncle threw his arms in the air. "Last week down our alley came a toff. Nice old geezer with a nasty cough… Come on, Maggie, we're celebrating. Sing along with me…"
"The cheque is worthless."
He stopped mid prance, his arms above his head like antlers on a giant deer. "What are you saying?"
"Sir Sandoe's bankers visited Lady Herriman today. He died without a penny. The only thing he left was an insurmountable mountain of debt."
"But what of the gold mines?" Uncle Tristan's arms dropped to his side.
"There are no mines. Not in Peru or anywhere else. Sir Sandoe invested his backers' money in the gaming tables and lost. Uncle, everything's gone."
Uncle Tristan staggered back and collapsed onto the stool; his arms flew to the side hitting the wall. "This… this is despicable!"
"Yes it is," I agreed softly. I could not look at him. I bent my head and hid my face in my hands. I wanted to weep for Uncle Tristan, for Father, and for Nancy, but tears would not come. So I sat there helpless, listening to the muted silence of the spluttering oil lamp.
Uncle Tristan breathed in deeply and then out again. "Just one minute, Maggie, so I can think; clear my head; come up with a plan."
But after forty-seven minutes, he was still breathing heavily, and there were no signs of a plan, only the gentle crackle of the lamp.
"Uncle," I said at last, "I am afraid that is not the end."
His eyebrows shot up. "What more could there be?"
I closed my eyes as if I could shut out the truth with the darkness. "Lady Herriman has cancelled the contract with Tristan's Hands. Our agency has neither clients nor staff."
Uncle Tristan jerked to his feet, stood straight like a soldier on parade, and stared at me. Then as my words sunk in, his shoulders stooped.
"It's… as if we are… cursed! All we need now is for the wind to pick up and tear down this shed. Then I'll have nothing but the clothes on my back, and they belong to a dead man. Sir Sandoe's left me ruined!"
Another gust battered against the shed. Frank let out a piggish snort. His eyelids lifted.
"Wish I'd plunged the dagger into the evil sod's heart myself. I might have too, if the bugger weren't already dead when I found him."
Chapter 55
Frank Perry eased onto his feet and walked to the entrance of the shed. There he stood for several minutes, hands behind his back, head tilted to one side, eyes half closed.
"Like I said, I wish I'd killed the bloody leach."
"Tell Maggie what happened," urged Uncle Tristan, his voice small and tired. "She might make sense of it."
Frank spoke, but his eyes remained shut.
"The first thing I saw when I arrived in the walled yard by the scullery was the dagger. I picked it up and only then saw Sir Sandoe slumped on the floor. At first, I thought he'd fainted."
I couldn’t understand why he'd think that and figured it required more explanation. "Fainted? What made you believe that?"
"Passed out, I suppose. Sir Sandoe liked his drink." Frank still spoke with his eyes closed, beads of sweat forming on his forehead. "I don't know why, but I felt as if I were being observed. That's when I turned to the scullery window. Mrs Mullins, Dolly Trimmings, and you stared back. All hell broke loose, and I ran."
"But why pick up the dagger?"
"It looked familiar." Frank's eyes snapped open. He reached into his jacket pocket, retrieved his dagger, and held it up.
"Tony gave this to me on my last visit."
"Tony?"
"Miss Antoinette. I called her Tony." A sheen of perspiration covered his face.
I already knew about the romance so didn’t press the issue. Instead, I sat still and waited.
"The plan was to run away to America." Frank was speaking slowly and trying to think the thing out while he talked. "But I wanted to earn some money first, so we'd have a cushion. I went to work in Africa, on the land, farming. Then after a fruitless year or two, I headed to India then back to England and my home town of Middleham in Yorkshire."
I stared hard at his glistening face. "But why a dagger?"
"Tony couldn’t 'ave a ring as the servants would find it, and anyway I didn’t 'ave money for that. Just enough for our passage to America, then I'd find a job." He paused and was silent for a few moments. "Tony gave me a dagger, and she kept one back for herself. A replica. 'Twas symbolic of us killing our old lives, I suppose."
I glanced at Uncle Tristan. He leaned forward on the stool, the orange glow of the lamp emphasising the whites in his eyes, which were open very wide.
"So," Frank said, speaking more slowly than ever now and so quietly, I had to hold my breath to hear him. "I saw the knife and picked it up. But it wasn’t Tony's dagger."
"How do you know?"
His eyes closed for an instant, and then he gulped. "Because I etched a special message on the inside handle." He handed me the dagger and pointed. "Look close."
Under the flickering light, the letters XOT were faint but visible. I recalled Dr Swensen found a similar inscription on the dagger found in Miss Antoinette's chest.
I said, "What does the inscription mean?"
"Lots of kisses and hugs, and the T is for Tony. I inscribed the letters on two daggers: mine and Tony's."
I said, "Where did Miss Antoinette get the daggers?"
Frank smiled. "She swiped them from Lady Herriman's rooms. There were five in total, all identical. Real Victorian craftmanship and stored in an elegant wooden display case."
I shifted in my chair. His eyes followed me, and I could see he was wondering what I made of his story. Five daggers, with three accounted for. One in Frank's hand, one that killed Sir Sandoe, another found in the chest of Miss Antoinette. That left two. Where were they?
Frank continued, "Tony planned to return the knives as soon as she found it."
"Found what?"
Again, Frank smiled. "Tony liked languages and history. She was searching for Roman treasure."
"Albina's Hoard," said Uncle Tristan, with a gasp.
"Aye, that'd be it," said Frank. "Tony thought it was buried in the grounds of Bagington Hall. Anyway, the dagger that killed Sir Sandoe ain't my dagger."
I shifted again, trying to think of the best way forward. What was Frank doing outside the scullery window? Who killed Sir Sandoe? Was it the same person who murdered Miss Antoinette? And why? And there was the disappearance of Lady Sandoe. A thousand other questions bubbled in my mind. But I said, "How did you get into the scullery yard?"
"With my help," said Uncle Tristan. "Sir Sandoe left a note in the carriage house envelope rack with an instruction it be hand delivered to Frank. But Boots was too busy to go to the gatehouse. I'd seen Frank earlier, so I offered to deliver it for him."
I mulled this over for a moment then turned to Frank. "What did the note say?"
"Meet me by the scullery window in thirty minutes, but don't let anyone see you. And bring the envelope."
I said, "That's all?"
Frank nodded. "And with Mr Harbottle's help, I sneaked into the scullery yard."
I turned to Uncle Tristan. "How on earth did you get away
with that?"
He looked at the ceiling, closed his eyes, and opened them again. "The note was a fake. Whoever wrote it set Frank up!"
"Okay," I said, standing and pacing the minuscule space, "so Frank didn’t kill Sir Sandoe, but who did?"
Frank's eyes followed me as I moved. "Same person who did in"—his voice caught in his throat—"my Tony."
For about five seconds, there was silence. Then speaking slowly, I said, "Think back to when you discovered Sir Sandoe. Did you see who took the silver envelope from his body?"
"I've already asked him that," interrupted Uncle Tristan with a hint of annoyance.
Frank shook his head. "I scrambled over that wall and got away as quick as I could. 'Twas in his hand when I left." He turned to Uncle Tristan. "Thank you once again for slowing 'em down, else I'd be in a prison cell, and that's a fact."
"Shhh! For God's sake, man," whispered Uncle Tristan.
His concern was understandable. Aiding a murderer came with a lengthy prison sentence, or at worst, the hangman's noose. I changed the subject. "What was in the envelope?"
"Dunno, Tony mailed it to me sister's 'ouse in Middleham, Yorkshire, cos I was overseas and 'ad frequent changes of address. I came back from India two weeks ago."
I said, "That's when you first saw the silver envelope?"
"Aye, it came with a note from Tony that instructed me to give it to Sir Sandoe."
"Why?"
He shrugged. "Tony wrote if anything happened to her, he'd know what to do. Got involved with the agricultural union and came 'ere as quick as possible." His face slackened, eyes swollen and moist. "Tony's death is a terrible blow."
There wasn’t much doubt in my mind about the truth of his story. But without the original letter, there was only his word, and that wouldn’t go far if he was arrested for murder.
I said, "Are you sure you don't know what Miss Antoinette wrote in the letter?"
Frank walked with leaden feet back to his stool. "I know what she wrote. I made a copy." He reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a crumpled slip of paper, and with eyes cast down, said, "But I don't know what it means."
Uncle said, "Good God, man, why didn’t you say so! Here, let me see."
For several moments, we sat in silence as Uncle Tristan's eyes darted back and forth across the page. The oil lamp hissed and crackled. At last, he let out an exasperated sigh. "Looks like the scribblings of a madman. Maggie, come see."
I squinted in the dim light. Frank's penmanship was that of a drunken spider. But his faint scratching was legible, if unintelligible, to anyone who didn’t read Gaelic. I spoke out loud as I translated.
"You shall find it in the West Wood, fifty paces from the riverbank, to the side of the overhanging ledge. A twisted oak lies to the left." I looked up. "What on earth does it mean?"
Frank said, "Sounds like the location of—"
"Dear God!" Uncle Tristan jumped to his feet, arms in the air. His eyes were bright now and wide open. "Gold! It's instructions to Albina's Hoard."
Uncle pranced in a tiny circle. "We're rich! Maggie, the treasure will more than cover our losses. Everything will be tickety-boo!"
Frank watched out of the sides of his eyes. "Won’t do me no good on the gallows."
For the first time, Uncle raised his voice to almost a shout. "Now listen here! We'll be having none of that talk. There'll be more than enough to set you up for life in America. I have a contact in the town of Dover who'll secure your passage to Texas. Lie low for a few more weeks, and then I'll help you slip out of the country. Did it all the time in my circus days, and with gold in your pockets, you'll be set up for life."
Frank was on his feet now, the two men moving around each other like joyful Morris dancers.
I said, "But what about the murderer? We can't let them get away."
They sat down.
Frank said, "You are right, Miss Darling. I can't leave England until the police have caught Tony's killer."
Uncle Tristan stood up, walked over to Frank, and touched his shoulder. "Then we've got to give them a helping hand, and be quick about it."
"How?" asked Frank.
We fell into a glum silence. Chief Inspector Little was on the hunt for Frank Perry. There was no other person in his sights. Unless the killer turned themself in, there was little chance the murderer would be brought to justice.
Uncle rose to his feet and paced to the door. "Maggie, how many people read Gaelic?"
"Very few."
"Then the treasure is safe, for now. Come, I shall walk you home, and tomorrow we shall return to the woods of Bagington Hall to dig our own gold. Then we shall turn our attention to solving the murder of Sir Sandoe."
Chapter 56
Later that night, I stood by the bedroom window watching Uncle Tristan skip away along the gravel path. I thought about Miss Antoinette. From what I'd learned, she was a resourceful young woman, independent and determined to carve her own future. The letter to Frank Perry was her insurance policy.
When Uncle disappeared through the garden gate, I gazed at the shadows dancing across the face of the moon. Suddenly overcome with fatigue, I drew the curtains, crawled into bed, and fell asleep, but my rest was fitful, punctuated by an indelible dream.
I sat on a bench under a tall oak tree looking across Saint Magdalene's graveyard. A bright sun warmed my face. I could see the meadow and hear the tinkle of water from the little stream. The sweet scent of mown grass filled my nostrils. I thought about how peaceful it was.
"Maggie!"
It was Mother's voice.
I looked around, but she was neither in front nor behind.
"Maggie!"
I looked up.
At the top of a long flight of stairs stood Mother. Not her face, but her back, hunched, leaning into the white light that emanated from a doorway.
"I'm coming," I called out, clambering to my feet. I took the stairs two at a time. "Almost there."
Feet moving faster than I could imagine, I made rapid progress. Two steps from the top, Mother turned around, her face in shadow.
"Be persistent but polite," she said then vanished.
Bewildered, I spun around. The bedsheets tumbled to the floor. I sat up. Gradually, consciousness crept in, sleep faded, but the vivid voice of Mother remained.
I walked to the bedroom window, pulled back the curtains, and peered through the glass. The sun was just coming up, partially hidden by a row of trees. Awake, but not yet alert, I lifted the metal latch and pushed.
The window swung open.
Oak, and sage, and the faint tint of fresh tobacco drifted in on the morning air. With deep breaths, I sucked it in then exhaled.
Wide awake, I glanced at the clock. Six a.m. Mrs Rusbridger wouldn't even be stirring. She served breakfast late on Sunday. Then at ten o'clock, I'd meet Uncle Tristan at the gate by the lane.
Feeling at a loose end, I sat at the writing desk and flipped open my journal. The solution to this puzzle lay with logic.
I thought about the killer. What did I know?
Nothing.
I tried asking a question.
"Why did Miss Antoinette ask Frank Perry to personally deliver a letter to the man who would oppose their marriage?"
Nothing.
But I wasn’t ready to give up. I'd read that drawing random shapes triggers the logical brain into action. I picked up a pencil and doodled in my journal.
After ten minutes of random scribbles, I said, "It makes little sense."
I gave up on logic, closed my eyes, and let my unconscious mind take the lead.
The elongated face, weathered skin, and wide, dark eyes of Sir Sandoe stared back. He lay crumpled on the ground outside the scullery window. Even in death, his owl-like eyes seemed to take in everything all at once. And then there was the blood.
My eyes snapped open. The shock of his murder still rattled me.
"No, wait!"
There was something about the man's face.
/> Again, I closed my eyes and concentrated.
Then I saw it. His expression. Was it fear?
"No, no, astonishment!"
My mouth formed an O as my eyes widened.
"Sir Sandoe knew his murderer!"
I lowered my eyelids in search of further inspiration. The minutes flashed by as I concentrated. Gradually, an image formed, blurred at first, then sharpening into a hairline moustache.
"Withers!"
With an eager hand, I printed his name in large letters at the top of a blank page. All I needed now was evidence to put the fiend behind bars.
"But who else would want Sir Sandoe dead?"
Lady Herriman did not hide her contempt. Dolly Trimmings had been duped by the prospect of gold. Boots suffered the indignity of a horsewhipping, and Mrs Mullins' complaints to Sir Sandoe about Withers' abuse of the staff fell on deaf ears.
And then there was the possibility the killer might be a visitor familiar with the grounds. But who? I thought of Tommy Crabapple with his crippled legs, of George Edwards the union organiser, and even of Vicar Humberstone with his bow and quiver filled with arrows. And then I thought of Frank Perry. I stopped there. Everyone had a motive.
I put the pencil down, closed the journal, and let out a miserable sigh.
Chapter 57
Parking near the entrance of Bagington Hall with Frank Perry lying low in the back wasn't the best way to slip into the grounds unnoticed.
But Frank insisted on speaking with George Edwards, so we sat in the motorcar on the grassy verge, a little distance away from the main gates.
It was like a carnival. Tablecloths spread on long wooden benches; red, white, and blue bunting; flags; and lots and lots of protestors. Women, men, small children with their pets. They all congregated around the entrance where the gatekeeper stood, arms folded, flanked by Sergeant Pender and a handful of constables.
"Seems like the whole village," I muttered.
"And the Cromer Police Department," added Uncle Tristan, casting an anxious glance at Sergeant Pender.
Frank eased himself up to look through the window. "Would be nice to grab a bite to eat from one of those tables."
