by Rhys Bowen
Chapter 25
DECEMBER 27
I’m beginning to agree with Lady H-G. This party has gone on long enough. I’m wishing I could get away from here, before the next awful thing happens. It’s like having a sword of doom hanging over us and I feel so powerless.
It was a glorious bright morning with the sun sparkling on the snow-clad Lovey Tor. At breakfast Lady Hawse-Gorzley announced that she and her family had to attend the funeral of Miss Ffrench-Finch but suggested that the chauffeur drive those who were interested around the local beauty spots, to show them the sights in this part of Devon. They could stop for lunch in an old pub in a historic village. The Upthorpes and Wexlers both wanted to do this. The countess declared that she had spent childhood holidays in Devon before anyone else in the room was born and had no need to see it again. Badger thought he might want to come along for the ride (having become, I suspected, rather enamored of Ethel Upthorpe, or at least of Ethel Upthorpe’s money), but Lady Hawse-Gorzley stopped him.
“You’ll want to start training for the Lovey Chase with the other boys, surely, Badger?”
“The Lovey Chase? What’s that?” he asked suspiciously.
“Remember I told you, old fruit,” Monty said. “All the young men of the area compete in a steeplechase. Have to run around the course and jump over the fences, wearing a dashed ridiculous saddle. And the crowd places bets, just like a real horse race. I actually won a couple of years ago when I was just down from Eton and remarkably fit.”
“Before you went to seed at Oxford,” Bunty commented. “It’s awfully good fun, Badger. Nobody takes it seriously.”
“And it’s quite historic. Goes back to 1700, I believe—when there was a powerful Catholic family in the area and Catholics were not allowed by law to own horses. So they invented their own alternative horse race with their own sons.”
“Absolutely fascinating,” Mrs. Rathbone said. “Can’t wait to see it. I adore these old English traditions, don’t I, Reggie?”
“Is it only for the young bloods or can an old codger like me take part?” the colonel asked.
“Reggie, you are not going to make a fool of yourself stumbling over fences while wearing a saddle,” Mrs. Rathbone said.
“Well, I’m to be a contender,” Johnnie Protheroe said. “Don’t care if I have passed forty. How about you, Sechrest?” This was clearly thrown out as a challenge.
“Might just take you up on that,” Captain Sechrest said.
“So I thought you young men might want to go out and view the course, practice the jumps and all that,” Lady Hawse-Gorzley said.
“Absolutely,” Darcy said. He looked at me. “I hope you plan to bet a large sum on me.”
“Are you fit enough to win?”
“I haven’t seen the competition yet.” He chuckled. “If we’re up against some strapping young farm lads, then I don’t know.”
“Oh, it’s only for the sons of good families,” Bunty said. “We don’t allow the riffraff to join in.”
“Bunty dear, do try to be a little more diplomatic in the way you put things,” Lady Hawse-Gorzley said.
“I don’t see why you make such a fuss,” Bunty said, tossing her head. “It’s not as if there are any of the riffraff present, is it? And I think it’s jolly unfair that they don’t allow girls to compete. I was rather good at cross-country running at school.”
“Come and offer advice then, Bunty,” Darcy put an arm around her, then looked back at me. “Are you coming too? We’ll need a cheering section.”
“I thought I might spend some time with my mother and grandfather, if everyone is occupied elsewhere,” I said.
“Splendid idea, Georgiana,” Lady Hawse-Gorzley said. “You’ve hardly had a chance to enjoy your own relatives. Those staying here are planning to play bridge this morning. Mrs. Sechrest can’t survive more than two days without a bridge game, can you, Sandra?” Mrs. Sechrest smiled prettily.
“I’m going with the guys,” Junior Wexler said, breaking away from his mother. “It’s boring seeing old things.”
“And I think I’ll come and join the cheering section,” Cherie Wexler said, her eyes on Darcy. “It might be fun. Are you coming, Ethel?”
“I’d rather sit in a warm motor than stand in the freezing cold,” Ethel Upthorpe said. “There might even be shops open if we go through a town.”
So I waited until the estate car had set off loaded to the gills with sightseers and the young Adonises had gone to their steeplechase training before I headed down the driveway to my mother’s cottage. My mother and Noel Coward were hard at work—at least, Noel was hard at work. My mother was lounging in peacock blue pajamas, a long ebony cigarette holder in her hand, nodding agreement occasionally as he tossed off another line. So Granddad and I decided to go for a walk before lunch.
“The inspector stopped by earlier this morning,” Granddad said. “It seems that they’ve arrested that Wild Sal person. Caught her going back to that hovel she lives in up on the moor last night. Said she put up a terrible fight, like a wild animal.”
I nodded. For some reason there was a lump in my throat and I couldn’t speak. She had almost certainly saved my life by warning me away from the bog. And I couldn’t help wondering what she had been like before and what it must be like to live apart and have absolutely nobody in the world. Perhaps I identified with her a little.
“And of course it makes sense, now that we think of it,” Granddad went on cheerfully. “She roams all over the moors, doesn’t she? And she’s clearly quite crackers. Probably didn’t even care who she was bumping off. Probably hears voices or something like that. They often do, don’t they? Well, at least the inspector can breathe easier now, and it won’t even go to trial. She’ll be sent off to an asylum, poor thing.”
We walked on, past the village shop, which was open again today and doing a good trade in newspapers and cigarettes, and past the pub, where a group of local people were standing gossiping, presumably about the arrest of Wild Sal. They looked up warily as we walked past.
“I’m glad it turned out to be a mad person,” Granddad said, “because I couldn’t for the life of me find any link between the people who had died and the way they were killed. It didn’t tie in with any case I’d ever worked on in my long years with the force.”
“You’re walking quite fast,” I said. “The country air is making you a lot better.”
“You’re right, it is,” he agreed.
“You should think of moving down here. Get a little cottage in a village like this.”
“Oh, no, ducks. Wouldn’t suit me at all,” he said. “I’m from the Smoke. Born and bred. I know where I belong.”
I looked at him with concern, realizing how much I loved him and relied on him. In fact, he was the only person in the world I could rely on—certainly not my flighty, self-centered mother, or even Darcy, who was never around for more than two minutes. Why would Granddad want to go back to London where the air was so bad for his chest and could lead to an early grave? I tried to dispel gloomy thoughts. He was here with me now and we were enjoying ourselves. That was all that mattered.
By the time we came back to the cottage there were wonderful smells coming from the kitchen and Mrs. Huggins’s head poked out. “I’ve some sausage rolls in the oven if you need a bite to eat before your meal,” she said. “The gentleman upstairs is particularly fond of my sausage rolls. He told me I was a dab hand with pastry, and of course he’s right. I’ve always had a way with pastry, ain’t I, Albert?”
“You have, my dear,” he said.
She smiled at him fondly.
Mummy and Mr. Coward came down to join us for wine and sausage rolls. Mummy had changed into a skirt and cashmere jumper, but Noel was still in his dressing gown.
“I made another of your favorites, Mr. Coward. A steak and kidney pie,” Mrs. Huggins said.
“Mrs. Huggins, you are an angel in disguise, sent from heaven to bring me happiness,” Noel said.
&nb
sp; Mrs. Huggins blushed charmingly. I wondered whether she might have landed herself a permanent job as Mr. Coward’s cook and what Granddad would think of that.
“Noel, are you sure you’re not Irish?” Mummy said. “You are full of blarney.”
Noel reached for the decanter and poured himself a glass of red wine. “I speak from the heart, Claire.”
“Darling, you don’t have a heart. Everyone knows that.” Mummy reached forward to pour herself a large glass of red wine. The steak and kidney pie, served with cauliflower in a parsley sauce, was absolutely delicious, as was the jam roly-poly that followed.
“Good simple English cooking at its best,” my mother said. “How I long for this sometimes, when I am stuck with that rich German food.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” Mr. Coward said. “There are times when one simply can’t face another schnitzel, or even another bite of caviar. Of course, it’s really the longing to go back to the security of the nursery, isn’t it?”
We finished the meal with coffee and nuts and dates around the fire.
“This really is most delightful,” Mummy said. “I shall be loath to leave and travel back to those big drafty rooms at Max’s house and all that entertaining and boring German parties.”
“You know, Claire, I really do believe you’re looking for an excuse to leave that brute,” Noel said.
“He’s not a brute.”
“He’s a German and all Germans are brutes at heart.”
“He adores me, Noel, and you know how much I like to be adored. And he is very rich and generous. But you’re right. There is only so much time that one can spend in Germany without longing to escape—especially now that that dreadful little Hitler man seems to have taken control.”
“He won’t last, my darling,” Noel said. “He can’t last. He is comic beyond belief. You’ll see. Someone with more military bearing will arise and topple him. Maybe even your Max might like to take over—then you could be Frau Führer.”
“If you’re in Mr. Coward’s play then you’ll be stuck in England, won’t you?” I said. “It’s bound to be a hit and then it’ll run forever.”
“Of course it will. Anything I write is a hit,” Noel said. “And then we’ll take it to America, where everyone will adore us.”
“Oh, yes. Do let’s.” Mummy’s face lit up. “I really do think it’s time I went back to the stage. It’s been so long. Do you think my public will have forgotten me?”
Noel took her hand. “As if they could, my darling. They have been yearning for your return.”
I glanced at my grandfather and he winked.
The grandfather clock in the hallway struck four. I stood up. “I should go back to the hall, I suppose. They’ll all be returning from their various expeditions.”
“Apart from the ones who have been felled along the way by the Lovey Curse,” Mr. Coward said callously.
“No, that’s all taken care of now,” Granddad said. “Remember the inspector told us he’d arrested the madwoman.”
Noel sighed. “How I love this village. A resident madwoman and old spinsters and a village idiot and a pub called the Hag and Hounds.”
“And don’t forget about the Lovey Chase,” I said and gave them all the details.
“We absolutely can’t miss that, can we, Claire?” Mr. Coward said. “And I rather think we’re coming to your fancy dress ball tomorrow night, since we can be in disguise and nobody will recognize us.”
“Oh, yes, I’d forgotten about the fancy dress ball,” I said. “You should see the ballroom. It’s absolutely lovely.”
“I don’t know what we’ll do for costumes,” Mummy said. “I don’t suppose there is a costume shop in Exeter that can send something over by tomorrow. One will just have to improvise, I suppose, if you really insist on attending, Noel.”
“I do, darling. Absolutely adamant about it. Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
I glanced at his elegant face with its sardonic smile. One never knew with people like him if they were being serious or if this was thinly veiled sarcasm.
“Toodle pip, everyone,” I said, blowing a kiss. As I opened the front door I saw a man getting out of a motorcar. “It’s the inspector again,” I called back to the others. “I wonder, has Wild Sal confessed?”
The inspector came up the path with slow, measured tread. “Well, it seems I spoke too soon,” he said. “We’ve got Wild Sal in custody and now I’ve just heard there’s been another death.”
Chapter 26
MY MOTHER’S COTTAGE
STILL DECEMBER 27
“Another murder?” my mother asked. “How positively thrilling. People are dropping like flies.”
The inspector frowned at her. “Not sure about the murder part, madam. It was some miles away, on the other side of Bovey Tracey, which is why I didn’t hear about it until now. A farmer’s wife was found lying in the milking shed. Apparently she was kicked in the head by the cow she was milking. Any other time I’d think this was just a nasty accident. Now I just don’t know.”
“You’d better come in and let Mrs. Huggins make you a cup of tea,” my mother said. “You’re looking quite haggard.”
“I know. This whole thing is driving me mad. My chief gets back in a few days and he’ll think I’ve done nothing.”
“But you’ve had nothing to go on,” my grandfather said, ushering the inspector to the armchair by the fire. “I mean, there’s not been one of these deaths that one could pinpoint as a murder. No signs of foul play, no motive at all, was there?”
The inspector nodded. “You’re right. No clues, no motive, no sense at all. To start with I thought it might be those escaped convicts, killing because someone had spotted their hideout. But that wouldn’t explain a switchboard operator in town, would it? And an escaped convict wouldn’t go to the trouble of setting up a trip wire for someone’s horse. He’d have been able to stay hidden very nicely in that kind of mist without doing anything. No—that horse’s leg has opened my eyes, so to speak. That was a deliberate act of malice. I don’t know if it was aimed at a particular person or just at the hunt in general, but it was certainly aimed at felling a rider.”
“Did you find the actual tree where the trap was laid?” I asked.
“My boys might have done so by now, but quite frankly they’ve been stretched to the limit, what with finding this Wild Sal and bringing her in. My, but she was a little tiger. Put curses on my men too, like someone possessed by the devil—scared the daylights out of some of them, I can tell you.”
“If you look at it logically,” Noel Coward interjected in his bored upper-class drawl, “you still couldn’t come to the conclusion that you were looking at a string of murders. The horse’s leg is the only sign of outside intervention—unless you found telltale boot marks around that tree in the orchard or signs of a scuffle where the man fell off the bridge.”
“To tell you the truth, sir, we bungled both of those,” the inspector said. “That first one with the man in the tree—well, we just took it to be a stupid accident, see. So we walked around a bit and left our footprints all over the place. Same goes for the man who fell off the bridge. Didn’t occur to us that they were crime scenes to begin with.”
“Why would it?” Granddad said. “You don’t expect someone to be lurking and pushing people off bridges in this part of the world.”
“You do not, sir,” the inspector agreed. “But after eight days of one death per day, I have to believe that someone is behind this.”
“Not one death per day,” I interrupted. “There was no death on December twenty-fourth, remember?”
“You’re right, my lady.” He wagged a finger in my direction. “But there was a crime, wasn’t there? The jewelry shop in Newton Abbott was broken into. I don’t suppose that had anything to do with the deaths. In fact, I’d have said that someone needed extra money for Christmas except that it was clearly a professional job—safe cracked with no problem and only the best stuff taken—some real
ly expensive gold rings.”
“So have you given up on the idea that the convicts were to blame?” Granddad asked.
“I think I have to, sir. The deaths have been so spread out now that I can’t believe escaped convicts could have covered so much ground on foot without being seen. And then there’s the question why. If you’d just escaped from Dartmoor Prison your one thought would be to get as far away as possible and then lie low, wouldn’t it?”
“You said they’d recaptured one of the convicts, didn’t you?” I asked.
“They have, my lady, and they’re holding him in a cell up in Birmingham until they can bring him back here.”
“Did he have anything to say about his fellow escapees?” I went on.
“He thought the other two were planning to head straight for London. Leastways, that’s what he said. If he knows more, he’s not spilling the beans. They don’t usually rat on each other.”
“So this woman who was kicked in the head—have you seen her yet?”
“I haven’t. They rushed her to the hospital because she was still breathing, but unfortunately she died on the way there, and nobody got a chance to see how she was lying or to examine the shed as a possible crime scene. By now those cows have probably walked all over the spot where she was found.”
“It seems to me this all comes down to why,” Granddad said. “Why these particular people.”
“I agree with you, sir,” the inspector said. “And believe me, I’ve asked myself that question over and over. But they’ve nothing in common. They’d certainly not have mixed socially, would they? I mean a master of hounds and a switchboard operator and a butcher. I’ll wager they didn’t even know each other.”
“I presume you’ve been through your case files to see if you’ve any antisocial or violent blokes in the area?” Granddad asked.
“I’ve done that. We’ve our share of lads who are soft in the head, like that poor chap you’ve got in the village here, but nobody who’s shown any inclination to kill people.”
