The Bagington Hall Mystery

by N. C. Lewis

  "Good God, man! Get down, or we'll all swing," cried Uncle Tristan.

  Frank lowered himself down, grumbling as he did so.

  "Do you think," I said in a slow voice, "we ought to postpone our treasure hunt until Monday? How can we search for Albina's Hoard with all of Cromer about us?"

  Uncle Tristan rubbed his chin. "Everyone is here at the front gate. That leaves the West Wood wide open for us to explore. Now all we have to do is find George Edwards, let Frank have his chat, and everything will be tickety-boo."

  I wasn’t convinced and said, "Maybe we should come back tonight."

  "Too dark," said Uncle Tristan. "We'd stumble around, and our oil lamps might draw the attention of the gamekeeper."

  Uncle eased the motorcar door open. "Come on, Maggie, let's speak with George Edwards." He took off with long prancing steps, his Victorian cape flapping like the wings of a giant seabird.

  I clambered onto the grassy verge. Uncle Tristan was already twenty yards ahead of me. I walked at a slow pace, afraid to move quicker in case I caught the attention of Sergeant Pender.

  Vicar Humberstone stood on a soapbox with a large Bible in his right hand. At his side rested a bow with a quiver full of arrows. A small group of villagers gathered around as he delivered his Sunday sermon.

  As I drew closer, I stopped to listen, and soon I spotted George Edwards. He leaned against the stone wall, watching. His hand dipped into a brown bag and flipped a cobnut into his mouth. He chewed as the vicar's sermon reached its crescendo. Then he spat the remnants back into the bag.

  A hand tapped my shoulder. I turned around.

  "Hullo, luv, thought it was you," said Hilda Ogbern. Dobbin was at her side, tail swishing back and forth.

  "Hello, Hilda," I said. "Hello, Dobbin."

  The dog rolled over. I rubbed his stomach.

  Hilda said, "He's been tugging on the leash all morning. Suppose all these crowds excite him."

  "Dobbin just needs a bit of attention," I said as I continued to rub his stomach.

  "Aye, 'tis true enough."

  I glanced towards Sergeant Pender. He was deep in conversation with the gatekeeper. A large group of men cycled in a circle in front of the gate. Uncle Tristan was alongside George Edwards and pointing in the direction of his motorcar.

  "They say it will be a long strike," said Hilda. "Things ain't easy for Harold and me, but we'll stick it out a little while yet."

  Dobbin tugged at the leash and broke free.

  "Dobbin!"

  But Dobbin didn’t stop. The large hound didn’t even look around as the leash dragged along the ground. He bounded away from the gates around a corner and disappeared.

  "I'm not chasing after him," said Hilda. "He'll 'ave to find his own way back to our cottage."

  "I think he'll be fine," I said, knowing the dog had a good nose for home.

  "Aye, reckon your right." Hilda placed her hands on her hips. "More excitement 'ere than we've 'ad all year. What with Dobbin runnin' off, the strike, the vicar preaching brimstone and fire at the gates of the ole 'ouse, and now"—her voice filled with a tone of eager expectation—"you and Mr Harbottle is 'ere."

  "Pardon?"

  Hilda glanced around, shifting her weight from one foot to the other, looking as though she wanted to say something but needed a little prod.

  I said, "What's the news?"

  She turned towards the vicar and back then took a deep breath. "They say your uncle cast a spell to call upon Black Shuck to deliver another body before nightfall."

  Dear God! Was there no end to the rumours? "Where on earth did you hear that?"

  Hilda continued, "Since Lady Herriman is an old bird, me and Harold figured she'd be next."

  "Utter nonsense."

  But Hilda was enjoying herself too much to take any notice. "Don't likes to ask, but Mr Harbottle's cape got me thinkin'. Is it true he is one of those druids?"

  "No," I snapped, "we are not druids, neither are we engaged in witchcraft or any other such occultist practices."

  Hilda eyed me with disappointment. "That's what I told Boots when he got to jabbering about a curse."

  "Utter nonsense," I repeated. "Not a shred of truth in it."

  "I always said you is a God-fearing woman," replied Hilda. "And so is Mr Harbottle, in his own way. Anyone throw a curse on you, and it will only double back."

  Again, I said, "There is no curse."

  "What curse?" The question came from Mrs Mullins. She hurried over to join us.

  "The one over Mr Harbottle's staffing agency," said Hilda, eager to keep the theme going.

  "Oooh, so it's true, 'tis it?" Mrs Mullins' eyes shone with excitement.

  I said, "Ladies, you ought to know better! And with the vicar delivering his sermon only a few feet away. There is no curse."

  "Just repeating what I heard," said Hilda. "Thought I ought to let you know. Neighbourly thing to do, ain't it?"

  Mrs Mullins said, "It ain't nothing to do with Miss Darling that we've had two bodies in less than a week, and we've never seen the likes of in Cromer before. No, no, she ain't cursed."

  "Well, Mrs Mullins," I said with a hint of annoyance, "need I remind you that you were also at the scene of both bodies. So if there is a curse, it must be to do with you!"

  "Ahhh," cried Hilda, "never thought of that. Mrs Mullins, what you been up to in that scullery of yours?"

  "Don't be ridiculous." Mrs Mullins stamped her foot. "Stick to the facts."

  "Well, 'ere is a fact and a good one," replied Hilda. "Norwich Bank 'ave hired a detective to investigate Sir Sandoe's financial affairs."

  Hilda's face gleamed as she watched the astonished expressions on our faces.

  I said, "From Scotland Yard?"

  Hilda shook her head. "Nope."

  "Then who?" asked Mrs Mullins.

  "Chief Inspector Little. There'll be a write-up in the Norfolk News."

  Mrs Mullins laughed. "The only thing that lazy sod will get to the bottom of is a tankard of apple cider."

  There was a murmur of agreement.

  Mrs Mullins said, "There ain't nothing but rumours and speculation in the newspaper these days. And such tittle-tattle don't count as facts in my book. "

  Hilda said, "Well, 'ave you got anything better?"

  "Oh yes," said Mrs Mullins. "Here is a real fact for you. Lady Herriman fired Dolly Trimmings, but—"

  "Everyone knows that," said Hilda, cutting her off in mid-sentence. "I even knows she is living in the horse stable, and her last day is tomorrow. Next you'll be tellin' me Sir Sandoe is dead! What's the good sharing facts that everyone knows?"

  Mrs Mullins snorted. "But do you know about Withers?"

  "No," Hilda and I said simultaneously.

  Mrs Mullins lowered her voice to a whisper. "The wedding is off. Her Ladyship fired him, and Dolly Trimmings 'as got her old job back."

  Chapter 58

  My mouth opened in astonishment at Mrs Mullins' news then snapped tight shut as my eyes bugged, and a slither of fear rippled along my spine.

  Sergeant Pender strode towards us, his eyes fixed and earnest. Constable Lutz hurried at his side.

  "Mornin', Officers," said Hilda as they drew near. "Nice day for it."

  I froze, my mouth open, throat bone dry.

  "Good day, ladies," mumbled the sergeant, his eyes fixed on some point in the distance.

  We followed his gaze to Uncle Tristan's motorcar. George Edwards leaned against the door. Inside, I could make out the head of Frank Perry. He peeped through the open window, and his lips moved fast as if conveying a lot of information.

  The officers continued their march.

  A cry came from the entrance to Bagington Hall. The thud of feet landing on the grass combined with shouts.

  "Stop! Wait!"

  Uncle Tristan ran after the police officers with galloping strides, cape flapping, arms waving. I charged after him.

  Sergeant Pender swung around, raised a hand in a salute, and tur
ned back, picking up his pace.

  Frank ducked down.

  George Edwards lifted his eyes, turned, and with surprising fleetness for one so old, took off towards the stone wall.

  Like a greyhound after a hare, the officers changed direction, scurrying after the old man.

  George Edwards scrambled up the wall, balanced on the top, and raised his arms high in the air like an excited politician.

  "We'll not end this strike until we gets fair pay for fair wages," he yelled.

  Sergeant Pender and Constable Lutz stood in silence, contemplating whether to go after the union organiser. They waited too long. A crowd gathered—strikers—men and women with faces that showed they worked hard to earn less than they needed.

  A murmur of excitement flowed through the throng. They were eager to hear the encouraging words of the union organiser.

  "We'll not give in to them in London or be forced into surrender by the local police."

  A wild cheer went up from the crowd.

  "Come on," I said, catching up to Uncle Tristan and grabbing his arm. "Let's leave before Sergeant Pender remembers he wanted to investigate the contents of your motorcar. And thank God George Edwards' decoy trick worked!"

  Chapter 59

  I was wet, cold, and tired, but although we'd followed the instructions of Miss Antoinette's letter, there was no sign of Albina's Hoard.

  Uncle Tristan tugged at a root with his bare hands, slipped, and cursed as he fell onto the stony soil at one end of a shallow trench. His mud-splattered face looked at me. "Are you sure this is the right spot?"

  For the tenth time, I pointed to the overhanging ledge and the ancient, twisted oak. "About fifty paces from the river. This is it."

  "Aye," added Frank on his knees, digging with a shovel, his sweat-soaked shirtsleeves rolled up. "Albina's Hoard 'tis buried in this pit somewhere."

  "Maggie, reread the letter to me," said Uncle Tristan, arms rested on the shovel.

  "No, keep digging." The shadows were already lengthening. Dusk would bring an end to our treasure hunt. "Else we must come back tomorrow."

  Uncle Tristan brought down the shovel with a resounding thud. Pebbles and earth flew in the air, revealing only more of the same underneath.

  "Arrgh!" He threw the shovel on the ground. "I'm tired of breathing in dirt. Where's the treasure?"

  "Come on, Uncle, I reckon we're less than three feet from gold." But I wondered if we were on a wild-goose chase. Did Miss Antoinette have a warped sense of humour? Was the letter a youthful prank?

  A snort mingled with the sharp clang of the shovels.

  "Shhh! What's that?" asked Uncle Tristan.

  We listened.

  The noise came again. An occasional snort from beyond a clump of bushes on the bank that sloped up to our left. I moved closer to the sound while the men watched. It was then I saw him: Dobbin, paws high up a tree trunk, sniffing and snorting.

  "It's Hilda Ogbern's new puppy," I said, moving up the slope.

  "He's a big 'un for a pup," said Frank.

  "Keep digging while I catch him, and we can take him back to Cromer with us."

  "If there is room in the motorcar," said Uncle Tristan. "Albina's Hoard might take up all the space."

  "There'll be space," I said. "If not, you must make two trips."

  I left the men to their digging and climbed the shallow incline towards the bushes and Hilda's dog.

  "Dobbin, come here."

  But Dobbin, with a taste for freedom, dropped from the tree trunk and squirmed through a gap in the shrubs.

  Gasping with annoyance and clinging to low tree branches for support, I tried to follow the lively hound. A branch snagged my coat.

  "Dobbin, come here!" I shrieked.

  Drawing in a deep breath, I untangled myself from the branch and eased through a narrow gap, sidestepping sharp thorns.

  There were trees and bushes in every direction but not a sign of Hilda Ogbern's dog.

  "Oh bother!"

  Retracing my steps, I began the downward walk back to Frank and Uncle Tristan. And then it happened. If only I'd have been nearer, I would have seen the whole incident unfold.

  "Found it!" Uncle Tristan's voice carried through the trees.

  "God bless Tony," cried Frank.

  "Wrapped in cloth," said Uncle Tristan, his voice filled with excitement. "Help me tug the thing."

  The voices went quiet.

  For almost a minute, the woods became still. No bird chirps, no breeze, not even the hum of insects.

  A fierce cry broke the calm.

  It rang out above the trees followed by a sharp thwack. The dull thud repeated four or five times.

  I scrambled down the incline. At the edge of the bushes where the ground levelled, I stopped. Steadying myself on a tree trunk, I gazed towards the area where the men had been digging.

  Uncle Tristan lay sprawled on the ground, his arms askew. Next to him, Frank Perry rolled around on the edge of the shallow pit bawling in pain.

  Chapter 60

  What on earth?

  I crouched low, watching.

  "Me leg's broken. For God’s sake, man. Me leg is broken." Frank clutched his right leg.

  A figure stood over him.

  With a start, I realised it was Withers. He held a horsewhip in his right hand.

  I crouched even lower.

  "Man, 'ave a little mercy," said Frank.

  Withers raised his arm high in the air. The horsewhip came down with his full body weight. Frank let out a low groan, twitched, and became still.

  "Dear God!" I whispered.

  For a split second, I considered rushing from my hiding place to confront the evil man but immediately dismissed the thought. He'd already knocked down two men. I'd suffer the same fate. How could I even the odds?

  My mind worked fast. Soon I had a plan. It was simple. When Withers turned his back, distracted by the find, I'd rush forward, grab the shovel or horsewhip, and let him have it. I licked my lips at the thought, and as tight as a coil, I watched and waited for my chance.

  Withers stared at the unmoving figures, his body jerking in deep, gasping breaths. At last, he let the horsewhip fall to the ground and stripped off his jacket. A silver envelope peeped out of the side pocket.

  I let my breath out slowly. The odds were tipping in my favour. On a count of three, I told myself, as he climbed into the shallow trench.

  "One."

  With a grunt, he dropped to his knees. Only his head was visible. The sound of his hand clawing at the soil echoed through the still air. "The old witch can throw me out of Bagington Hall, but this treasure is mine."

  "Two."

  The scraping stopped. Withers grunted like an impatient pig at mealtime. "I have it!"

  "Three."

  He was laughing now.

  I lurched forward, hurling myself down the slope, fury blazing in my eyes.

  What happened next occurred with such speed, I'm not sure I took it all in.

  "What the…" Withers scrambled from the trench. His shoulders trembled. The shudder moved like a wave along his back. When it reached his legs, they collapsed, throwing him face first back into the pit.

  Just as he clambered out a second time, Dolly Trimmings appeared. She charged towards the man, a long-handled dagger in her right hand.

  At the last moment, Withers saw the threat. In a quick movement, he reached for his horsewhip. But she was upon him before he took aim.

  "You lied to me about the gold mines," she squealed.

  "Only way to get an ounce of work from your lazy butt."

  They struggled, twisting and turning, making it hard to see exactly what was happening. Dolly let out a savage growl; Withers slipped; the dagger plunged down, striking him in the chest. He let out a thin, high-pitched wail. It sounded close yet far away. A wretched, soulless whine.

  Again, Dolly struck, and again. And now she was laughing.

  Withers' feet went out from under him casting him forward bac
k into the pit.

  Momentum carried me to the edge of the trench. At the bottom, underneath Withers and wrapped in a ragged, torn sheet, part of a blackened leg stuck out. I felt my stomach churn, stumbled, corrected myself, but twisted my left knee: the strength oozed from it.

  I heard laughter behind me and turned to see Dolly, the bloodied dagger in her steady hand.

  "Sorry, Miss Darling," she said quietly, her birdlike eyes twitching. "You have found my secret."

  I let out a ragged breath, trying to ignore the shooting pain from my knee. There was no chance of running. I played for time. "Why did you kill Miss Antoinette?"

  "She was poking around the grounds for treasure but figured out what I done with her mother. Told me all about it, she did. So I had to do her in." Dolly's broad lips tugged into a grin. "Miss Antoinette was as nosy as 'er mother." Dolly nodded towards the pit, leaving no doubt about the identity of the corpse.

  "But why did you kill Lady Sandoe?"

  "The woman strongly objected to my entrepreneurial activities."

  "You mean stealing from Bagington Hall?"

  "Gave me a week to turn myself in, she did. But that would've meant time in a cold, hard prison cell. And I likes me plum wine and me pearls and me fine gowns."

  "Put the dagger down," I said. "Let's talk about this before any more damage is done."

  "No, no, Miss Darling," she snarled. "Got me job back with Her Ladyship, I 'ave. You'll 'ave to die here. Then I can thinks about me plan." She nodded towards Frank. "He'll swing for the lot of yer. Including Withers who got what he deserved."

  She stepped forward, dagger ready to strike.

  I placed weight on my left leg and clenched my teeth with the pain. "Tell me how you knew we'd be here."

  "I didn’t," she growled. "But guessed. Old Dolly forgot the envelope when I killed Sir Sandoe. I knew it was from Miss Antoinette. But I only remembered the darn thing when I looked through the scullery window. Then it was gone. Me thinks it must 'ave been Withers or Mr Harbottle or Boots. I didn’t know who, so I waited to see who'd show up."

  I could wait no longer. I hurled myself at Dolly. She lurched forward with the dagger. It sliced through the sleeve of my right arm. Again, she jabbed, this time drawing blood.