The Echo at Rooke Court

by Harriet Smart

  Willoughby was standing before them, as if in an audience with royalty.

  Sir Morten rose as Giles entered the room and came to shake his hand. “Good morning, Major Vernon. I hope you have some news for us.”

  “We hope that your son’s body will be returned to you shortly.”

  “This examination by the surgeon – is it absolutely necessary?” said Sir Morten.

  “Unfortunately, in the circumstances, yes,” said Giles.

  “And it is certain now that my son met an unnatural death? That he was murdered?”

  “Yes.”

  Sir Morten put his hand on his chest and turned away. “Then we must trust God that justice prevails and the villain is brought to light. I am grateful that we have a man of your reputation at our service in this,” he said. “Won’t you sit?”

  So Giles sat down beside Mrs Hurrell.

  “I have told Sir Morten,” Mr Willoughby said, “of that which we discussed the other day.”

  “In cases like this,” Giles began, “there will inevitably be many theories and rumours going about.”

  “You have no clear candidate yet?” Sir Morten.

  “No, I am afraid not. These are early days in the enquiry.”

  “But you are not disregarding what I told you?” Mr Willoughby said.

  “I am not,” Giles said, “but when a man’s life is taken in violent circumstances, the cause is usually raw anger, not some subtle conspiracy.”

  Sir Morten closed his eyes for a moment. “Such as a violent quarrel between brothers?” he said quietly.

  “You think that possible, sir?” said Giles.

  “What else can I think, given all that has passed between them? Though it is unbearable to think my own flesh and blood would be capable of such an act, given the events of recent months, I cannot –”

  He broke off, got up from his chair and went to stand in the great oriel window, looking out across his lands. “Sometimes, one has to acknowledge that there is corruption in something one loves.”

  “I understand you paid a visit to your son Mark at the Hermitage on the day Arthur Hurrell was murdered,” Giles said.

  Sir Morten shook his head. “I did not,” he said.

  “Are you sure about that, sir?” said Giles. “On Friday, before the rain came on?”

  “No, certainly not.”

  “Perhaps you have mistaken the –”

  “I don’t know where you have acquired this notion, Major Vernon, but I can assure you I have not been anywhere near the Hermitage. I have not set foot in that building for many years. Since my wife died, in fact, in 1828. It is not a place I care to visit. I would have demolished the place, if I still had title to it, but unfortunately I do not.”

  “Might I ask, then,” Giles said, “how your son Mark comes to be living there now?”

  “It is a sorry tale. In the first instance, a foolish lawyer made a mistake with my wife’s will. I gave the house and the land about it – barely an acre – to her as a gift after Arthur was born, because she so loved the house and its situation. That is why I cannot bear to go there. She loved the place so much. The understanding was that the property would revert to the estate at her death, but for some reason, at the end, there was some misunderstanding with her affairs and in her will it was left to John, our second boy, who was then fifteen. Why she did so, I do not know exactly. She did unfortunately display episodes of tragic confusion at the last, and perhaps that is where the accident arose.”

  “And then John left it to Mark,” said Mrs Hurrell. “And that was all Mark’s doing.”

  “We cannot say that for a fact,” said Sir Morten.

  “I know, I was there,” Mrs Hurrell said, getting up. “I nursed John to the last. And Mark was there, attempting to wring every last shilling from his dying brother because of his debts at Oxford! I do not think you need to look far, Major Vernon, for the person who did this. I saw Mark begging John to make him his heir, and John, poor sweet John, could not refuse him. That was always the way between them. And now Mark will inherit everything because of the entail. And where will he stop? He might be thinking of you next, Sir Morten!”

  “You are being hysterical, Susan,” said Sir Morten.

  “But is it not the case that some murderers get a taste for it?” Mrs Hurrell pressed on. “I have read –”

  “You should not read servants’ trash, ma’am,” said Sir Morten. “And I will not have you rehearsing such idle speculation. If Mark is involved in this terrible business, then – then that alone is –” He shook his head. “No!”

  He went and sat down again, with a defeated air. “I pray to our Lord God above that this is not the case, but all my instincts –”

  There was silence, and then Willoughby said, “Neither should we discount the possibility that Mark was a tool of those forces who seek –”

  “Enough, enough!” said Sir Morten putting up his hand to silence Willoughby. “Will you please leave us in peace, sir? Do my nephews not need you? You are supposed to be their tutor, after all.”

  “As you wish, sir,” said Willoughby. He left with the air of one enjoying a martyrdom.

  Sir Morten turned to his sister-in-law and said, “And Susan, do you not have duties that require your attention?”

  Mrs Hurrell obediently left the room without another word.

  When the door had shut behind her, Sir Morten rose from his chair, indicating the great gallery stretched out in front of them, and said, “Shall we walk?”

  So Giles joined Sir Morten in his progress down the room.

  “You must disregard her story, Major Vernon,” said Sir Morten. “I do not believe it to be the truth. John did not leave that legacy because Mark asked for it. John did it of his own free will. He spoke to me about it – it was because he wanted to redeem his brother. Unfortunately it was a misguided act. Mark was surprised to receive it, and for a short while it seemed to do him some good, but then –”

  “I understand that this is a painful subject, Sir Morten,” Giles said. “But can you give me some idea of why there was such animosity between the brothers?”

  “I fear it was all my doing,” said Sir Morten. “When my wife died, I took it very badly. I found it difficult to be with my children, especially the younger ones. They were left a little too much to their own devices, and Arthur being the eldest took to filling my shoes and commanding them in my stead. And now I think he was over-zealous. Being young, strong-armed and sincerely concerned for his brother’s welfare, he took his duties too seriously. He did not temper the necessary discipline with love. Mark certainly considered him monstrous and cruel, for he, with his high spirits, bore the brunt of it – deservedly, I must point out; there was nothing done that was not earned. Mark had the very devil in him and Arthur attempted to thrash it out of him. It was unfortunate. Mark, having the unhappy disposition to cherish grudges, has let it spoil his relationship with his brother.”

  “Causing him to write the book, do you think?” Giles said.

  “You have heard about that?”

  “I’m afraid I have, sir.”

  “I destroyed as many copies as I could. What else could I do? Such a piece of malice and libel. At the time, I could not believe he could do such a thing to us, but now, with Arthur found dead in such appalling circumstances, what else I am supposed think but that Mark has finally succumbed entirely to that wickedness that has always been in him? Must I now face the fact that my only surviving child will likely end his days on the gallows? Dear God, I hope that is not the answer to this business, Major Vernon! I pray you may turn up some other candidate, but I fear that –” He broke off, and turned away. “Excuse me, sir.”

  “I will take my leave now, Sir Morten,” said Giles. “Thank you for being so frank. Might I ask one favour of you before I leave? I understand that you and your sons are all experts with the longbow.”

  “It has been something of a sport with us, yes, but alas I cannot indulge any more. My shoulde
r, you see.”

  “Of course. Do you still have your bow and arrows?”

  “Naturally.”

  “Might I borrow the arrows?”

  “Yes, but to what end?”

  “It is merely to establish what kind of weapon killed your son. My colleague Mr Carswell is anxious to match the wound to the weapon.”

  “You think he was shot with an arrow?”

  “We do not know what weapon caused the wounding.”

  “Mark would be capable of that,” said Sir Morten after a moment. “He is the best shot of us all. Yes, you must have some arrows, though I pray to God that you are mistaken!”

  ~

  On Monday morning, Arthur Hurrell’s corpse was delivered to Felix’s laboratory and he began on the post-mortem, grateful to have a substantial piece of work in hand.

  Sunday at Hawksby had not been comfortable. He had been glad of the piety of the ladies who went to church twice. He went in the morning and sat with his wife and mother-in-law in the well-upholstered Blanchfort family pew and failed to listen to the long sermon given by a curate, not through inattention but because the young man never raised his voice much above a whisper. At luncheon Lady Blanchfort had told him he ought to call on the curate and suggest he learn to project his voice. “He will like it better coming from you,” she said. “And something must be done or he has no future in the Church.” Felix had not agreed to this. He was not at all in the mood for assuming such a role in the village. It was hard enough to be sitting at the head of the table in the dining room.

  He had spent the afternoon in the room that was to be his study but which was a mess of packing cases. He had attempted to set up his extremely expensive and complicated new microscope that he had bought in Edinburgh. Having utterly failed to put it together, he had lost his temper and taken himself off into the gardens to smoke while Eleanor and her mother went to Evensong. The evening had been enlivened a little by Lady Blanchfort playing the piano, at which she showed considerable skill. He was surprised she permitted herself the indulgence of music on a Sunday night, but found himself glad of it.

  He had just begun to take his preliminary measurements when Major Vernon came in. He was carrying a quiver of arrows and a brown paper parcel.

  “What’s in the parcel?”

  “A hind quarter of pork. I know it’s dead flesh but I thought it might allow a crude comparison.”

  “Excellent idea,” said Felix, pulling an arrow from the quiver and holding it up to the light.

  “Sir Morten explained to me that there are several types of arrowhead in general use.”

  Felix tested the blade of the arrow he was holding against his finger.

  “Sharp enough, certainly,” he said, and used it as a knife to cut the string on the parcel.

  “For a man who doesn’t practice the sport, they are in good condition,” said Major Vernon. “Perhaps he keeps them in order as a consolation for the loss of the pleasure.”

  “Perhaps,” said Felix, taking up another arrow and peering at it. “It is a pity you did not bring a bow.”

  “I did consider that. But you seemed of the opinion that those wounds were inflicted at close range.”

  “Yes, but I was not sure of my weapon then. Not that I am now, but I should like to see how an arrow wound might differ in appearance according to the speed, force and distance at which it was delivered.”

  “I will get a bow. Perhaps from Mark Hurrell.”

  “Who can bring down a hind with one of these. I should like to have a look at that cadaver.”

  “With luck it may still be hanging in the larder at the Hermitage. We shall pay a visit forthwith. I certainly need to talk to him again, and at some length.”

  “He is my man for it,” said Felix, uncovering Arthur Hurrell’s cadaver. “Look at this. Look at that pointed-almond shape. It’s an almost perfect match.” He held the arrow close to the wound. “And if we then attempt to replicate it here...”

  He seized the arrow and stabbed it into the joint of pork, then pulled it out.

  “Yes, that looks plausible,” he said, having studied the wound he had made on the joint and then the wounds on the cadaver.

  “So we have a possible murder weapon,” Major Vernon said, taking another arrow from the quiver and studying it. “Who would have thought a little blade could do so much harm?”

  At this point there was a knock at the door. It was Sergeant Coxe, newly returned from Axworth.

  “I might have something of use for you, sir,” he said. “There is a woman in the fever hospital who will not give her name but answers somewhat to your description. A black, lace-trimmed bonnet and a red-striped apron in her possessions. She had no infirmary ticket, so she is not local. Instead she gave them three guineas straight up and asked them to take her in.”

  “Did they let you see her?” Major Vernon said.

  “Yes, and I asked her direct if she were Esther Braithwaite but I got no answer. She seemed half dead already, if you know what I mean, sir. And they would not let me linger.”

  “Which is just as well,” said Felix.

  “I did tell the nurse if she was to say anything curious we would want to hear of it. But they have their hands pretty full, as you can imagine, sir. I felt like a rat deserting a sinking ship. That place was... pray to God it does not reach us here.”

  “Thank you Coxe, that was well done,” said Major Vernon.

  “What do you want me to do now, sir?” Coxe asked.

  “I am going out to Raythorpe again shortly. It would be useful if you came with me.”

  “You are going to call on Mark Hurrell, I suppose?” said Felix. “I will be surprised if you don’t bring him back in cuffs.”

  “We shall see,” said Major Vernon, and went to the door with Sergeant Coxe, leaving Felix to the work of the post-mortem.

  Chapter Twenty

  Mark Hurrell was not at home.

  The fire was doused in the hearth and the drawers in the writing desk had been left open as if he had gathered up his papers and left in a hurry. On going upstairs they found a similar picture – the washstand cleared of its necessities and his clothes scattered about as if he had been deciding what to take with him.

  “In the circumstances,” Giles said to Coxe, “we are justified in making a search.”

  “Certainly, sir.”

  “You search upstairs. I will see to the kitchen and yard.”

  There was nothing of interest in the kitchen, and Giles went out into the back yard. It was ornamented by a crumbling wooden privy on one side and a storeroom on the other. Giles went in and found a room that was thick with cobwebs, many years’ worth of work by industrious spiders. The light was dimly admitted by a square of mottled, dirty glass. However, there was enough light for him to notice a tangled clump of cobwebs on the floor, as if a portion had recently been pushed aside. There was a recess in front of him, also free of cobwebs, and on a high shelf was a bundle of crumpled canvas, similar to the tarpaulin that had been used to patch the roof. From the pattern of dust, it appeared to have been pushed deliberately to the back. Giles pulled it from the shelf and as he did so, it fell open in his arms, revealing that it was not just a bundle of canvas but a package containing a dun-coloured linen garment.

  It took him a moment to realise what it was: a farmer’s smock of the sort commonly worn in the county, with the yoke and shoulders elaborately worked in red thread. It was filthy, covered in stains that he could not at once identify.

  He carried it out into the yard to see it better in daylight, shaking it out and holding it up by its shoulders to reveal its full length. It was a long smock, made for a broad, tall man, and the staining seemed heaviest on the chest. Many of the stains had a rusty reddish tint to them that suggested blood, but what sort of blood was the immediate question.

  Mark Hurrell had been seen wearing a smock to protect his clothes from the more visceral aspects of his hunting activities, as a butcher would put on an apron.
It was perhaps a little eccentric for a gentleman to wear such a garment, but it was a sensible choice. But why had it then been consigned to an outhouse, wrapped in canvas? This smock had been hidden deliberately.

  “Is this what you were looking for, sir?” said Coxe, coming out into the yard. He was holding a quiver of arrows, similar to the one Sir Morten had given him, as well as a longbow. “Upstairs in the little back room.”

  They went into the parlour and laid their finds out on the table.

  “Definitely blood, sir,” said Coxe, peering at the smock.

  “We need Mr Carswell to look at this,” Giles said.

  “I did hear he was working to see if he could find if a stain was animal blood or human,” Coxe said. “Mighty useful that will be.”

  “I don’t know how far he has got with that, but this might help him. It looks fresh to me in parts. Here, for example. Now, we know Mark Hurrell brought down a deer in the woods recently.”

  “Yes, sir, definitely. And this being stuffed away like that, you have to wonder.”

  “And he does seem to have cleared out,” Giles said, looking around him. “We had better go and find out when he was last seen hereabouts. I saw him last on Saturday night in The Lamb Inn at Raythorpe. He was on the verge of going to see his father up at Hurrell Place.”

  They then called in at The Hurrell Arms where the landlady, Mrs Fuller, confirmed Mark Hurrell had hired a gig from her husband on Sunday morning.

  “Did he say where he was going?” She shook her head. Giles went on: “Do you know him well, Mrs Fuller? I understand you recently nursed him and dressed his wounds.”

  “I’ve known him since we were children. He used to come and play with my brothers. My father was tenant to Sir Morten, just in a small way, mind. So he was not supposed to have anything to do with us and there were always terrible scenes when they were all found out, but my brothers were always happy to take a whipping for the pleasure of his company. He’s stood by them too, for all his troubles, as if they were his own brothers, and done everything he could for them. Charlie is doing well in London thanks to him. And he gave me such a handsome brooch when I married.”