The Echo at Rooke Court

by Harriet Smart

  He spoke softly and earnestly, just as Emma had described his preaching. Giles decided he would let him carry on without interruption, although he had many questions. It was clear that Willoughby’s intention was to push a particular line about Hurrell’s death and that Giles was supposed to swallow it whole, like an enthralled undergraduate in the University Church at Oxford. So he sat and listened.

  “We have fallen, Major Vernon, fallen,” Willoughby went on. “Far from the state of happy faith that existed in this country three hundred years ago, when Henry VIII was still content with his devout Spanish Queen; where, in every parish in England, the Mass was celebrated every day and the ordinary people felt a living, joyous sense of devotion to their Lord God and his Lady Mother. Those bright altars and flower-decked shrines spoke of a simple but true faith. That is the England that Mr Hurrell and others, myself included, are struggling to bring back, but there are many against us.”

  Giles considered this for a moment and said, “And you think this may have something to do with Arthur Hurrell’s murder?”

  “Why else would he have met such a violent, terrible, unshriven death? As I said before, if you had known him as I did, then you would know that there could be no commonplace reasons for his murder. This was not an ordinary murder, in short.”

  “I do not think murder is ever ordinary,” Giles said.

  “I take your point, Major, but you must understand me. This was not a base undertaking. It was an act of war.”

  “So who do you propose as a suspect, Mr Willoughby?” said Giles. “These powerful forces, these enemies, who are they?”

  “They are everywhere,” said Willoughby. “And they are well hidden. That is the difficulty.”

  “Then it is just as well that I have some experience in finding out such people,” said Giles, feeling a little tried by Willoughby now.

  “Yes, yes, that is true,” said Willoughby.

  “However, a few specifics would not go amiss, Mr Willoughby,” Giles said. “I had heard he had quarrelled with people.”

  “People had made quarrels with him, sir,” said Willoughby. “People who were not ready for the truth, or rather were its sworn enemy.”

  “For example? Friends, relations, lovers?” Willoughby frowned at that, as the idea of any such persons surrounding Hurrell’s already sainted presence offended him. “Mr Stapleford and Mr Powell saw him horsewhip his brother Mark. Did you see this?”

  “They have overstated it.”

  “Did you see it?”

  There was silence for a moment. Willoughby then shook his head.

  “Mr Hurrell told me of it.”

  “What did he say happened?”

  “He said that he was provoked by what his brother said to give him a few cuts with his whip. I do not suppose much damage was done.”

  “But he did not say what it was that Mark said to him?”

  “No.”

  “And do you know what the general nature of their quarrel was? Why had Mr Mark Hurrell been banned from his father’s house?”

  “Mark Hurrell is an apostate and a troublemaker. He is not a fit person for the society of the young men under this roof, nor for anyone in this neighbourhood. He has forsaken his right to be received by decent people.”

  “What exactly did he do?”

  “He wrote a book. Of course, he calls it a novel and hides, like a filthy coward, behind a mask of anonymity and fiction, but in reality it is a piece of libellous trash. He has taken the trouble to insult everyone. As I say, he is a troublemaker and an apostate. I pray for him. He has a great mind, but he has put all his talents at the service of the Devil.”

  “But he was of your party at one time?”

  “Yes, and we had great hopes of him. He is quick-witted and an excellent scholar, no one can deny that. He had the sense in him then to know what his brother could accomplish and wished, quite sincerely at that point, to serve under him, as we all did. But then –” Willoughby sighed. “Arthur always said he had the Devil in him, that even as a boy he was wild and wilful and seemed to delight in provoking everyone, merely for the sake of it. There was a strange tale he told me once. When they were children, they had been taken to Swalecliffe for their health and were sea bathing there. Apparently Mark had, in his usual foolish fashion, gone out too far and Arthur brought him back to safety – clearly preserving his life. Yet Mark always claimed that Arthur had urged him to swim so far, taunted him into a foolish venture, and had threatened not to bring him back to safety. What an extraordinary piece of ingratitude! But that is the way with the man.” He hesitated a moment. “It would not surprise me if he were behind this. He has clearly lost all sense of what is right. From there, it is a small step to murder.”

  “More than a small step, usually, Mr Willoughby,” said Giles.

  “Not for Mark Hurrell,” said Willoughby with a solemn air, reminiscent of a liveried footman placing an elaborately dressed dish on the dinner table for all to admire. “Now if you will excuse me, sir, I must rest.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  The rain had cleared a little, so Giles decided to waste no more time. He called on the kitchen boy from the Rectory to take him through the winding paths of the Hermitage woods and show him the way to Hermitage House, the property of Mr Mark Hurrell. He went without Carswell, for a message had come by tortuous means from Northminster that Mr Gray was concerned about his wife and so he had gone to Raythorpe to attend to her.

  The Rectory kitchen boy was not a boy at all, but an elderly man who had worked for the Hurrells for many years. When Giles enquired what he thought of his late master, all he would say was that it was “very sad, very sad, and he was right sorry for the Squire to have to bury another child, after he had already put five in the earth.”

  “There you are, sir – just over yonder. You can find your way from here.” At which he turned and began to make his way back to the Rectory.

  It soon began to rain again, and Giles continued along the path to get a better view of the house.

  The Hermitage House was small and consciously picturesque. Set under a thatched roof, it had pointed, latticed windows set in rusticated stone. Charming though it might be, it sat uncomfortably on a narrow strip of land resembling a ledge. Behind was a densely wooded cliff, and in front the ground fell away precipitously. It had, he realised, been placed so as to catch a magnificent view through the tree tops to the river flashing in the gorge below, but the house itself looked ill at ease. The thatched roof had in places been supplemented by tarpaulins, and the dark stone looked damp and less than welcoming in the rain.

  A young woman, her neat bonnet, crisp print dress and ruffled apron suggestive of an upper servant, was sitting on a bench outside, with water cascading from the overhanging roof in front of her. She had risen and appeared to be on the verge of retreating from the rain as Giles approached.

  “Is Mr Hurrell at home?” he asked her.

  “Well, yes, I suppose so, sir,” she said, making a slight curtsey, “but I don’t know, really, I’m only waiting on my mistress.”

  “I see. Who is your mistress, may I ask?”

  “Miss Margaret, sir. I mean Miss Wytton.”

  “You are a fair way from home in this weather,” said Giles.

  “I know, sir. Miss Margaret did insist on our coming. We were lucky to escape the rain, but now –” She sighed. “She had to come when she heard the news.”

  “I think we should go inside, Miss –?”

  “Agnes Baker, sir,” she said.

  “The news being about Mr Arthur Hurrell, I suppose?”

  “Yes, sir. The very thing. You know about that too, sir?”

  “I am from the police in Northminster,” Giles said.

  The girl put her hand on her chest for a moment. “Then it’s true? That he was done away with?”

  “It does seem so.”

  “Lord save us all!” she whispered. “And I’m glad you are here, sir. I don’t reckon the constable h
ere would know what to do with a murderer, let alone find one out.” She looked at him for a moment and said, “Excuse me for asking, sir, but you aren’t Major Vernon, are you?”

  “I am.”

  “We have read all about you in The Bugle!” she said. “Mr Owen the butler reads it to us after dinner. That last business – so shocking! And you are here now – what a blessing to know, for everyone at Raythorpe has been so, so –” She laid her hand on his arm for a moment. “We shall all be safe in our beds now you are here.”

  “I hope so, Miss Baker,” he said, rather surprised at his fame. “Now, perhaps we should go and find your mistress?”

  She looked a little fearful at that.

  “She told me to wait outside,” she said.

  “I am sure nothing improper is going on,” he said, and knocked on the door. “Good afternoon, Mr Hurrell!” he called out. “May I come in? It’s Major Vernon.”

  He half expected Hurrell to come to the door in a state of undress, but he was perfectly respectable in his appearance. In fact, he looked pleased to be interrupted. However, since Giles had last seen him, his face had acquired an unpleasant tangle of scars.

  “Major Vernon – how good to see you again,” he said. “And Agnes, will you come in and look to Miss Meg? She needs some salts. And some tea.”

  He led them into an ill-lit chamber with a bare flagstone floor. It was furnished with old furniture of the plainest sort with the addition of a great many books heaped about in no particular order. A square piano was open in the corner, and there was a mess of writing things on the table as if some great literary undertaking was under way.

  Amidst all this Miss Wytton was sitting on a low stool by a smoking, smouldering apology for a fire. Dressed in full mourning, as profound as any widow’s, she turned her veil-framed face to stare at Giles, as if she were a prophetess who had just seen some vision in the grey fog of the hearth.

  “Oh, it is you,” she said, her voice a husky whisper.

  “I’m afraid so, Miss Wytton.”

  “You are the herald of everything miserable,” she said. “First Fred Pierce, and now –” She could not go on, and pressed her hands to her face.

  “We really should go back now, Miss Margaret,” said Agnes Baker, attempting to comfort her. “Before the rain comes on too heavy again. If we make haste we should be all right. Otherwise you will catch cold and –”

  “Die, Agnes?” said Miss Wytton, pushing her away. “Oh, I should welcome that!”

  “Meg, Meg, come now,” said Mr Hurrell, taking a greatcoat from a hook on the door. “If you wrap this about you, you will escape the worst. Agnes is right, you really should not be here.”

  “You are so cruel,” she said. “Let me stay, for pity’s sake, Mark, let me stay!”

  “It is bad enough that you have been here as long as you have,” said Hurrell. “If you go now, your reputation –”

  “It is only your reputation you care about!”

  “I have no reputation left,” said Hurrell. “But you do. Please, Meg, I know it is hard for you, but you must go home. I will come and call tomorrow, I promise.”

  “And my brother will not let you into the house,” Margaret said.

  “Given all that has happened, he may.”

  “He will not!”

  “Mr Hurrell is right. You should go home, Miss Wytton,” said Giles. “In fact, I will take you myself, given the circumstances. What happened to Mr Hurrell may not be the end of it.”

  “Oh dear God, you do not think so?” said Miss Wytton, rising and staring at him.

  “We do not know what has happened. At the moment, I do not think these woods are particularly safe for anyone, and especially not two women alone.”

  “Here, Meg,” Hurrell said, coming forward and attempting to drape the coat about her shoulders. She pushed him away.

  “I will go, but only because Major Vernon says I must,” said Miss Wytton, “though he need not look far for the culprit.”

  “What do you mean?” said Hurrell.

  “You, Mark,” she said. “After all, you have everything to gain, and you always hated him, for no good reason – and you have the hardest, blackest heart! A murderer’s heart.”

  “I did not hate him!” Hurrell said. “You will not say that! I will not have you put that about, Miss!”

  “So defensive!” she said. “Yes, I can see it now. Everyone knows how much they loathed each other, Major Vernon. It would not surprise me at all that –”

  “You don’t know what you are saying,” Hurrell said. “You know nothing about how it was between us.”

  “I know exactly what I am saying!” Miss Wytton said. “If you cared one jot for Arthur, if you felt this loss truly in your heart, you would not send me away like this.”

  “It is only for your own sake,” said Hurrell. “And I will come with you now, and attempt to speak to Edward. Will that satisfy you? And please, I beg you, do not throw around such foolish accusations. I know you are wretched, but you get yourself absolutely no credit by it.”

  She was at last persuaded, and they began a long, sodden and uncomfortable walk, a good two miles on a bad path made extremely imperfect by the rain. They reached Raythorpe Hall and at the gates, Miss Wytton suddenly rejected her escorts and went running into the house, followed by her anxious, loyal Agnes.

  Mark Hurrell stood watching her, shaking his head.

  “The inn here is decent place, Major Vernon,” he said. “Perhaps we should take refuge? I have to admit I cannot face a run-in with Edward Wytton just yet. Let me buy you a brandy and hot water, if it does not sully your good name to be seen with a wretch like me in such a place. I imagine you want to talk to me about Arthur’s death?”

  “I am afraid I must, Mr Hurrell,” said Giles. “And the inn will do as well as anywhere.”

  ~

  Felix sat staring at the empty grate in the private room in The Lamb Inn at Raythorpe and wondered, as the rain beat on the lattices, if he might order a fire to go with his dinner. He had got thoroughly soaked walking from Langdon to the Rectory.

  “Mr Carswell?” It was Major Vernon. “May I come in? The landlady told me you were here.”

  “Of course,” said Felix opening the door to him. “Mrs Gray is not quite at the stage of delivery so I thought I would get myself some dinner here first.”

  “Then I apologise for intruding. This weather –”

  “No, it’s not an intrusion at all. I’m glad of company, to be honest,” he said, glancing at the other rain-drenched figure standing behind the Major.

  “This is Mr Mark Hurrell,” Major Vernon said.

  Felix nodded and indicated that they should both come in.

  “I was about to ring for a fire.”

  “A good plan; and perhaps some coffee?” said Major Vernon.

  “I was thinking brandy and hot water,” said Hurrell.

  “As you wish, Mr Hurrell,” said Major Vernon, “but I am afraid I must keep my wits straight.”

  Hurrell nodded.

  “Perhaps you are right, sir,” he said. “This business...” He sat down, and turning his wet hat in his hands said, “I must go and see my father – if he will see me. He must see me now, after all this. He will be broken, though he will not show it. And these circumstances – it will be seen as a great humiliation. He is already traumatised by the stains I have inflicted upon the family honour.”

  The servant came in and Felix gave her orders, and a few minutes passed in silence as she made up the fire and brought in the tray of refreshments. When she had gone, Major Vernon sat down opposite Hurrell and took out his notebook.

  “Perhaps we should get down to business, while matters are still fresh in everyone’s mind.” Hurrell nodded. “Could you tell me when you last saw your brother?”

  “That was on Tuesday evening. It was when he attacked me.” Hurrell put his hand up to indicate the scars on his face.

  “And this took place where?”


  “In the garden of The Hurrell Arms at Langdon.”

  “What happened?”

  “I had gone there at about six to see Fuller, the landlord. I wanted to have a piece of game butchered. I had brought down a hind in the woods that afternoon and I wanted him to deal with it for me. So I was sitting in the garden with a glass of ale, having delivered it to him, when my brother came riding down the high road and saw me there, and after that –” He gave a sigh. “We were not civil with one another. I suppose I provoked him, as I always seemed to do, and he lost his temper with me.”

  “And after that?”

  “I let the landlady dress my wounds and then I staggered back to the Hermitage, without my haunch of venison.”

  “Was that the hind that you killed with your longbow in the woods below Hurrell Place?” Major Vernon enquired.

  “Yes. May I ask how you know that?”

  “Mrs Maitland mentioned it in a letter to me. She told me how she and Lady Maria met you that afternoon.”

  “You know those ladies?” Hurrell said.

  “Yes,” said Major Vernon.

  “You killed a hind with a longbow?” Felix said, sitting down next to Major Vernon on the settle.

  “My father taught us all to hunt with longbows. He is the master of it – well, he was, until he got a rheumatic affliction in his shoulder, so he can no longer draw a bow.”

  “And when you make a kill,” Felix said, “you draw out the arrow and use it again?”

  “Yes.”

  Felix had an urgent desire to ride back to Northminster and examine those curious abdominal wounds again. An arrowhead was a weapon he had not considered.

  “I should be interested to see a demonstration,” said Major Vernon, and Felix felt sure that he was pursuing the same line of thought.