Ghosts of Mayfield Court

by Russell, Norman

I saw the beginnings of a smile on Michael’s face, which he instantly suppressed.

  ‘He is, Lady Carteret,’ I replied. ‘So if we are to talk family matters, you may safely do so in his presence.’

  ‘Very well. I told you in my letter that I knew your Uncle Maximilian: we had been acquaintances when we were both young, though he was some years my senior. Do you know what is meant by une amitié amoureuse? It’s a kind of romantic friendship which never goes beyond the bounds of propriety. The French have some wonderful ways of expressing these things. Well, your uncle and I were like that.’

  She cupped her chin in her hand, and looked at me without speaking for a while. It was a penetrating, rather unsettling look, but it soon passed, and she continued.

  ‘As you know, my dear, your uncle had a brother, Hector, and it is of him that I wish to speak now. He was a decent man enough, at least initially; but he married a handsome woman who was possessed of a cruel and ruthless personality. He soon fell under her influence, and ended up just as wicked as she was. Her name was Arabella Bancroft. I am talking now of events that happened thirty years ago.

  ‘Arabella had an older sister, Cecily, who married Henry Forshaw, a very rich man who had inherited the family fortune from his brother Edward. Well, this Edward was killed in a railway accident – in 1857, I think it was – and two years later Cecily married a man called John Walsh, a widower with a little girl called Helen.’

  I started involuntarily, and Lady Carteret gave me a sympathetic glance.

  ‘Yes, Miss Paget – I know that you have heard the story of little Helen, who was kin of yours in a rather convoluted way. Are you able to follow all this tangle of names?’

  ‘I am, Lady Carteret.’

  ‘Very good, then let us have some more coffee. There are sugar biscuits there, which are made in the house.’ Once again, she poured out coffee for us both, and resumed her seat.

  ‘Cecily Bancroft and her first husband, Henry Forshaw, had a son, their only child. His name was Gabriel. He died in 1865, at Bonny, in Africa, and the fortune passed from him to Cecily and her second husband, John Walsh. Then Cecily died. And her husband John Walsh died. They died within days of each other.’

  She suddenly rose, and crossed to the window. Her face had grown stern and indignant. She pointed out into the grounds.

  ‘Beyond those gardens,’ she said, ‘and across the road leading into the village, you will find the ivy-covered ruins of Waterloo House, the former residence of the Forshaw family. There is a man over there, a man called Inspector Jackson, who is engaged in digging into the foundations of that house in search of bodies. He is looking for the body of Gabriel Forshaw, who he thinks was murdered there – and that man, that rural inspector, has convinced himself that I am the murderer of that man! He is trying to frighten me, but if he thinks he will succeed, then he will find that he has got the wrong woman.’

  Michael gave an almost involuntary cry of protest.

  ‘You, madam, a murderer? I don’t believe it!’

  Lady Carteret gave him a half-amused smile as she resumed her chair.

  ‘Well, thank you, young man,’ she said. ‘I only wish that this man Jackson could be persuaded to believe the same. I have no proof – not one shred – but I have always believed that Arabella Bancroft murdered her own sister, and her husband, John Walsh. And so the fortune descended to little Helen. By then, its value had reached one million pounds. You know – you know what happened to Helen, don’t you? You went to Mayfield Court with your uncle, and the people there would have told you about it.’

  ‘Yes, Lady Carteret, I know all about it. At one time I thought that I was being haunted by that poor little child’s ghost.’

  ‘Hmm…. Well, I am to be made the villain of the piece. It is too tiresome. We’re having the chief constable here next week, and I’m hoping that my husband will persuade this Inspector Jackson to start looking for Arabella Bancroft, and leave me in peace. I have been lady of the manor here for over twenty years. I come from a good Warwickshire family. I do not deserve to be persecuted in this way— Ah! Sir Leopold had arrived. He will be delighted to see you both.’

  Sir Leopold Carteret was a slightly-built man in his fifties, clean-shaven, with an unlined face and mild blue eyes. He was dressed in a brown tweed hacking-jacket, and his trousers were tucked into leather riding boots. His voice held a curious caressing quality that put me immediately at ease.

  ‘So you are Miss Catherine Paget, Maximilian’s niece? How very nice to meet you. I’ve been visiting one of the estate farms, so I hope you’ll excuse these boots. I shall change presently into something more presentable.’

  He crossed the room, and solemnly shook hands with me.

  ‘And you are Dr Michael Danvers, Miss Catherine’s fiancé? How very interesting. And do you practise, Dr Danvers? Oh, in a hospital? You must tell me about it, and what it is that you do there.’

  That first day at Providence Hall was characterized by this kind of gentle, very normal conversation. Lunch was served in a magnificently opulent dining room, and Sir Leopold regaled us with tales of his family’s history, and some of the more eccentric baronets who had given the family an exciting reputation in the last century. We talked about our different occupations and interests, the quiet of the countryside as opposed to the fury and turmoil of London, and the differing strengths of the various City department stores.

  When lunch was over, Sir Leopold took Michael off to see the gun room and the stables, while Lady Carteret gave me a personal tour of the great mansion. It was a beautiful, fascinating house, upon which, I realized, much money had been lavished. I had sometimes visited country houses on open-days, and there had always been a kind of endearing shabbiness about some of the furnishings and fabrics. At Providence Hall, everything was in pristine order.

  Later that afternoon Michael managed to have a word with me alone.

  ‘Cath,’ he said, ‘do you really believe that this nice aristocratic couple can be murderers? It’s time for us to bow out gracefully, and get back to London. I was right, you know, and so was Marguerite. You should not have got yourself embroiled with those country police officers. Inspector Blade in London will surely find out who it was who murdered your uncle. We’ve been involving ourselves in what is, in effect, an appalling and misguided slander.’

  For once, I held my tongue.

  At dinner that night Sir Leopold told us how delightful it was to have a couple of young people staying in the house.

  ‘Lady Carteret and I, alas! were not blessed with children, and the heirs to this estate are a collateral branch of the family, the Duttons, of High Grange, in Oxfordshire. Very sound people, you know, but they’re not Carterets.’

  ‘Leopold,’ said Lady Carteret, in gently chiding tones, ‘our guests don’t want to know about the Duttons. Neither do I, for that matter. We’re not dead yet.’

  ‘No, that’s true,’ her husband replied, with a smile. ‘What I wanted to ask, was whether you’d both like to stay for a few more days? Stay for Saturday and Sunday and go back to London on Monday. Make a short holiday of it, you know. Perhaps we could have a little dinner party…. We could ask Mr and Mrs Bold, and the Rivingtons – they’re only young, aren’t they? Well, in their thirties, perhaps. What do you think?’

  ‘I think it’s an excellent idea. Will you both stay?’

  Of course, we both agreed. In true patrician manner, Sir Leopold and Michael remained for port, while Lady Carteret conducted me to her little private sitting room on the first floor. It was a pleasant room, with wallpaper and fabrics which I recognized as having come from Liberty’s in London.

  ‘We’ll join them for coffee later, in the drawing-room,’ said Lady Carteret. ‘Meanwhile, I want to revert to that last terrible meeting with your uncle. You don’t mind, do you? I know how terrifying the whole thing has been.’

  ‘I’m glad you’ve brought the matter up again, Lady Carteret,’ I said, ‘because there is one small point that
puzzles me, something that Michael pointed out to me on the journey down. You said that my poor uncle actually died when you were in the room with him. My housekeeper, Mrs Milsom, is convinced that he was still alive when she found him, after your departure.’

  Lady Carteret nodded her head vigorously.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘that’s precisely the point that I wanted to clear up. I said that poor Maximilian had died while I was there, but I realize that I could not be absolutely certain of that. He may have lost consciousness for a while, but at the time I was convinced that he was dead, which is why I fled. I am not a young woman, Miss Paget, and the shock of what I witnessed drove me to a kind of … palpitating panic, if you can understand what I mean by that. Do you think I should write to the officer in charge of the case, and tell him what I saw? The time for concealment is over.’

  ‘I think that would be a very good idea, Lady Carteret,’ I replied. ‘I will write down Inspector Blade’s details for you, so that you can write to him.’

  ‘Excellent. And now, let me show you the document that your poor uncle gave to me when I met him in Saxony Square—’

  ‘That will be entirely unnecessary, Lady Carteret,’ I replied. ‘You have no need whatever to justify your actions to me.’

  From somewhere below, we both heard the faint tinkling of a hand-bell.

  ‘That means that the gentlemen have gone into the drawing room. Come, my dear, let us go down for coffee.’

  It was Thursday, and we had been invited to stay over until Monday morning. Once back in Town, I would write to Sergeant Bottomley, and tell him all about our visit to Providence Hall. Since his first appearance at Mayfield Court I had felt a special affinity with him, and I was anxious for him to distance himself, if that were possible, from his inspector’s mistaken hypothesis. I told Michael of my intention, and he reluctantly agreed with my proposed course of action. He still maintained that only Inspector Blade was competent to solve the mystery of my uncle’s death.

  14

  Sergeant Bottomley’s Day

  Herbert Bottomley stood under the great oak in the gardens of Saxony Square, looking across the carriageway at Miss Catherine Paget’s house. Ever since the discovery of poor Mr Hindle’s body in Kensington Gardens just a week earlier, he had spent some time watching over the young lady who reminded him so much of his eldest girl back home in Warwickshire. The rest of his time had been taken up with helping Mr Blade at Little Vine Street. He was a good officer, who valued having an extra detective to assist him for a while.

  Mr Blade had not forgotten the smooth-talking Dr Morrison. He’d let Bottomley loose on that beauty, and he’d made a few discreet forays to the district where the nursing home was situated. He’d found a friendly little public house, the Pewterers’ Arms, where he’d been able to ply a couple of old soaks with gin, and ask them questions.

  Yes, they knew that Dr Morrison’s place. People were always dying there, and there’d be mortuary hearses arriving, and the doctor and that sour-faced nurse of his would come out on to the steps, weeping, and waving black handkerchiefs.

  Visitors? Yes, he had visitors. Tradesmen, mostly, and the occasional relative to see one of the patients – Oh, thanks, guvnor! Villains? Well, it’s hard to say what a villain looks like, isn’t it? Some of the biggest villains unhung look as though butter wouldn’t melt in their mouths.

  There was one bloke, though – a nasty piece of work he was, who’d come from time to time. Dressed as a gent, and with a big bushy beard. A foreigner, he was. Russian. Pole. Something like that. Come to think of it, he’d called there last week. Here, George! Didn’t you bring that foreign, bearded chap to Dr Morrison’s last week?

  George, who had turned out to be a cabman, had agreed. Yes, he’d brought him to Dr Morrison’s. It was 1/5d, and he’d given him two shillings. Take him back? Of course he’d taken him back. He’d told him to wait, hadn’t he? Oh, thanks, guv. A glass of bitter would be very acceptable. Yes, he’d taken him back. Number 5, Chatham Court, off Moorgate. Same fare, same tip. Foreigner, he was. German, by the looks of him.

  He’d written the address down, and it was at this moment burning a hole in Bottomley’s pocket. When the time was right, he’d pay a call on this Russian Polish German, and ask him a few questions.

  Nothing unusual seemed to have happened in Saxony Square during the week. Most days, he had seen the housekeeper leave by the front door, and walk quickly across the square and into Berlin Street, where there was a row of shops and a genteel public house. By dint of following her discreetly, he had seen where she went, learnt the names of the streets she frequented and the shops that she patronized.

  He knew that, when shopping was done, she would nip into the public house, which was called the Albany Arms, and emerge after half an hour with a renewed spring in her step. A measure of gin, perhaps, or a small port.

  An elderly police constable was rounding the corner from Berlin Street and into the square. He looked hot and uncomfortable in his heavy blue serge uniform, and he moved steadily but slowly as he made his way across the road and into the gardens. He came across to Bottomley, and stood looking him up and down for a while. He had a stern eye, and a bristling moustache.

  ‘I’ve had my eye on you all week, my lad,’ he said. ‘It’s Friday now, and you’ve been hanging around here since Monday, off and on, eyeing them houses more than I like. Now, you can move on, in which case don’t come back, or you can give me a reason why I shouldn’t take you up for loitering with intent. It’s up to you.’

  Sergeant Bottomley fumbled in his pocket, and produced his warrant card for the constable to read. The constable looked at it, and handed it back. He didn’t apologize. Why should he? He was only doing his duty.

  ‘Mr Blade should tell people what’s going on,’ the constable grumbled. ‘How was I to know you were a detective sergeant? What are you up to here, Sergeant?’

  ‘I’m keeping a discreet watch on number eleven,’ said Bottomley. ‘Miss Paget’s house. It’s all connected with a case of murder we’re investigating in Warwickshire.’

  ‘Miss Paget?’ said the constable. ‘You won’t find her there, Sergeant. She and a young gentleman left yesterday in a cab. I was passing by at the time on my beat, and heard them give directions. They were going to Paddington Station.’

  Bottomley recalled Inspector Blade’s words: ‘You can’t be in two places at once.’ He’d lost Miss Paget, but it shouldn’t be very difficult for an experienced detective to find her again. He’d start now. Bottomley thanked the constable for his help, and crossed the carriageway to 11, Saxony Square.

  Mrs Milsom cast a dubious eye over the big, shambling man who had rung the front-door bell. She left him standing on the step while she read the rather crumpled card that he handed to her.

  ‘Detective Sergeant Bottomley?’ she said. ‘And you say you’ve met Miss Paget before? Well, you’d better come in. It’s been nothing but police in this house ever since the poor master was murdered by that awful woman. It’s not very nice, you know. Miss Paget is away from home for a few days. How can I help you?’

  ‘Well, ma’am,’ said Bottomley, ‘Miss Paget and I first met at a place called Mayfield Court, in Warwickshire, when she was visiting there with her uncle, the late unfortunate Mr Maximilian Paget. I met her again just a few days ago – on the twenty-ninth, to be precise – and we had a little chat about various matters.’

  ‘The twenty-ninth? I don’t recall answering the door to you.’

  ‘That’s because you didn’t, ma’am, it being a Wednesday, and your day off.’

  ‘And how did you know that, pray?’ Really, this clodhopper of a man from the provinces knew more than he had a right to.

  ‘I know a lot about you, Mrs Milsom,’ said Bottomley, treating the housekeeper to a rather sinister smile. ‘I know that you like to buy your vegetables at Purdy’s, and your cheese and bacon at Savidge’s, and then, if you’re feeling a little fatigued, you like to slip into the Alb
any Arms for a drop of—’

  ‘Goodness me, Mr Bottomley, who told you all those things? And why did you want to know them? Surely you don’t suspect me of— What do you mean?’

  ‘Tell me where Miss Paget has gone,’ said Bottomley. ‘That’s all I want to know. For the moment. Tell me that, and I’ll bid you good day.’

  Mrs Milsom looked quite pale and nervous. Well, it was all to the good. These housekeepers clammed up if you asked them anything about the family. They were worse than butlers, and that was saying a lot.

  ‘Miss Paget left yesterday with her fiancé Dr Danvers. They will be away for a few days. They’ve gone to stay with a titled gentleman in your part of the world. I forget his name.’

  ‘I never forget anything,’ Bottomley replied, ‘I remember you going into the Westminster Bank branch in Leipzig Row, and cashing a cheque for four pounds. I remember—’

  ‘They’ve gone to stay with Sir Leopold and Lady Carteret at a place called Upton Carteret,’ said Mrs Milsom, her voice climbing perilously near to a shriek. If only this dreadful man would go! Not a bit like Inspector Blade.

  ‘That’s all I want to know, ma’am,’ said Bottomley, raising his battered bowler hat. (His hat! She had failed to ask for his hat as he stepped into the hall. Was that why he was raising it? Dreadful man!)

  ‘I’ll bid you good day. And young Dr Danvers went with her?’

  ‘Yes.’ Mrs Milsom’s fear of this man was being rapidly replaced with indignation. ‘Yes, Dr Danvers went with her. Why shouldn’t he?’

  ‘Why should he?’ asked Bottomley. Before Mrs Milsom could reply, he had left the house, pulling the front door shut behind him.

  Bottomley stood in Chatham Court, and looked round him. He didn’t think much of what he saw. The cobbles were strewn with horse droppings, and no one seemed to have bothered to swill them down for days. The livery stable was open, and bales of straw spilled out on to the pavement, but there was no sign of any horses.