The Dead of Haggard Hall

by Marie Treanor

  * * * * *

  A door closing close by woke me with a start. It wasn’t my door but Miss Salton’s, for I recognized her scurrying footsteps heading along the passage. I closed my eyes again, but sleep wouldn’t come back. The humiliation of last night felt like a stone in my stomach, which hadn’t really been lightened by my discovery of his journalistic endeavours, while I was no nearer finding out what had happened to Martin or if there really were some danger to Arthur.

  I rose, washed, and dressed in my familiar old grey dress, and decided on a brisk walk before breakfast to clear my head. I ran quickly downstairs and let myself out of the house, encountering no one but Milly the maid, who gave me a quick smile and a bob of a curtsey.

  More than ever, my plan was to leave the following day, so I had to break this news to Emily in such a way as would boost her confidence and help her find her true place as mistress of Haggard Hall. At least I would be spending all day with her to prepare for the guests and the ball. In my spare moments, I could try again to reach Martin.

  As I breathed in the fresh early morning air, I turned my feet away from the house towards the wood. The things I didn’t want to think about all seemed to be to do with Patrick Haggard. I so wished he hadn’t seen me in the control of what I thought of now as “the lust bag”, but to jump to the conclusion that I was somehow trying to convince him of my credentials in this manner or, worse, ensnare him in my womanly wiles, was so demeaning to me that I felt hatred rise like bile. At least I thought it was hatred. That too I wouldn’t think about. It was irrelevant.

  What was relevant was what the spirit of his wife had told me. When I had asked her what caused her fall to her death, she’d said only “Patrick.” Until that moment—in fact, right up until this moment—I realized I’d dismissed the rumours as salacious gossip. Even on our first, wary encounter, I hadn’t imagined Patrick Haggard as a wife murderer. Killing a weaker creature dependent upon him had seemed somehow too paltry for him. But perhaps it would depend on what she herself had done. Or perhaps, for all my emotional empathy, I really didn’t know him at all.

  I’d expected him to be repelled by my possession, not cast vile allegations that demeaned me. He’d kissed me in such a way, and yet still reviled me. Perhaps he really was capable of paltriness and vileness. The violence I’d already sensed.

  The trouble was, I didn’t really believe it, because I didn’t want to. The man who’d shattered me, conquered me even, however temporarily, with his kiss, could not possibly be capable of such behaviour.

  Ha. I was as big a fool as any other woman.

  I walked only far enough to ease my still slightly stiff bones before I turned back to the house. As I crossed the driveway towards the front door, two horsemen emerged around the side of the house, deep in conversation. One of them waved to me. Prince Bela. I hadn’t realized he ever rose before luncheon, but perhaps he simply didn’t eat breakfast. His companion was Patrick Haggard, who turned his head but didn’t acknowledge me. I pretended not to see either of them and went inside for breakfast.

  There, I threw off my ill humour. There was enough of that eating away at this house. And yet it wasn’t a bad place. It just needed a little more joy, a little less anxiety, to disperse the negative emotions that had grown too powerful. Someone in the house was causing that imbalance, and I had to acknowledge I hadn’t been quite so aware of it before Patrick Haggard had arrived. There was a dark side to him I had sensed and yet never truly seen. I tried to put it out of my mind.

  Mrs. Grant deigned to spare us a moment from her busy schedule, though her expression made it plain she would rather be doing something more vital than discussing her work with the lady of the house. Emily gave her altered seating plans for dinner on the night of the ball, which Mrs. Grant sighed over, as if she couldn’t see the point. Emily looked as if she was about to explain it to her until I caught her eye and she moved on the final matter of fresh flowers in all the guest bedrooms.

  “Oh no, there’s no time for that,” Mrs. Grant said dismissively.

  “Surely there is!” Emily exclaimed. “I mentioned it last week, and it’s something I’d particularly like. The work will really all be mine and Mrs. Darke’s. All that you need do is see to the distribution of the vases we make up.”

  “My lady, trust me, it can’t be done. And there’s no point.”

  For an instant, it hung in the balance. For another moment, I thought Emily, although rarely one to back down, was going to resort to wheedling rather than commanding. I pushed my foot into hers to stiffen her.

  She continued to gaze at Mrs. Grant, although at least now she’d assumed an expression of displeasure.

  “Sorry, my lady,” Mrs. Grant said by way of softening the blow.

  “I’d rather you weren’t sorry, Mrs. Grant,” Emily said steadily. “I’d rather you were able to carry out my simple instructions.”

  It was, I thought, a master stroke: the unspoken implication of disobedience in this or any other matter being a dismissible offence; the insinuation that the housekeeper might not be up to her job. I was proud of Emily.

  “As your ladyship wishes,” Mrs. Grant said stiffly, bowing before her departure.

  “That,” I murmured to Emily, “was an excellent day’s work. I may leave you now with a clearer conscience.”

  Emily, who had bounced to her feet to crow a little in her victory, swung back and frowned at me instead. “Leave? When?”

  “Tomorrow, I thought. Before your guests arrive.”

  “But Barbara, that’s when I most want you!” Emily cried, appalled.

  I smiled. “In such a throng, I guarantee you won’t miss me.”

  “Oh but I will, Barbara!”

  I sighed and took her hand, drawing her back down on the sofa beside me. “My dear, I do you no good,” I said gently. “Your family does not care for my background or my presence. My being here does your cause more harm than good.”

  She stared at me, clearly baffled. “Where is all this coming from? Arthur likes you. You must not mind old Lady Haggard, though I’m sorry she was ill-natured enough to hit you. Arthur and Patrick both told her off.”

  I hesitated, then shrugged. “I’m surprised, at least in Patrick’s case. But it doesn’t matter. I was looking for you yesterday in the library and overheard enough to understand my position. You must see I can’t stay now.”

  “Oh bother, I’m sorry you heard any of that nonsense. Henry is being legal and Patrick stuffy, but in fact neither truly objects to your presence here.”

  I cast her a quick sceptical glance and made to rise with the rejoinder that I’d made up my mind, but she held on to my hand, interrupting me.

  “Didn’t you know Patrick was furious with everyone for sending that old coach to meet you? He told Susan and old Lady Haggard they should have been ashamed of themselves and could count themselves lucky you were good-natured and no worse than bruised. He said they could easily have been directly responsible for your death and that of the coachman. I must admit I hadn’t thought the coach was in quite that bad a state, but Arthur went white when he realized anyone had used it, and he suffered Patrick’s lecture about his responsibilities quite meekly.”

  She gave me a rueful smile. “I think you were more physically hurt by that than I knew. But you see, Patrick would not care about that if he didn’t actually think well of you as a person, whatever disapproval he has of your gifts.”

  “Emily, he knows where the blame would lie if there was an accident.”

  “Well, he does look after Arthur,” Emily allowed, “but I don’t think you’re being quite fair to him.”

  Shamelessly, I took my chance to learn what I could. “I can see he has an overdeveloped sense of responsibility, but he does seem very close to everything here.”

  “Well, he was brought up here at the Hall, more or less. Apparently, after his fathe
r died, his mother made a disastrous remarriage to some penniless ruffian, and old Sir James—Arthur’s father—brought Patrick to live here. He was more Arthur’s big brother than George was.”

  George, the bully, who had died only months ago. There was a lot of premature death around this family. “Did George get on with Patrick?”

  “I think they fought. Arthur once said Patrick was the only person George was afraid of. But when they were boys growing up, surely it must have been the other way around?”

  “And Rose,” I said, coming to it at last. “Did Patrick look after her too?”

  “Not well enough, it would seem,” Emily said ruefully. “Perhaps that’s why he’s such a moody devil.”

  “Is he? I only ever see him in a mood of disapproval.” That wasn’t quite true, although everything else, kindness, passion, bantering, all seemed to come back to it.

  “Oh he can be fun too. But he has a temper like the devil, apparently, and he’s frequently monosyllabic to the point of grouchy. He will disappear all day—and all night—and bite your head off if you ask about it. Arthur says the ills of the world concern him, but he’s never spoken of such things to me.”

  “Probably because you’re a woman,” I said. “Which is another of the ills of the world. I wonder if he talked about such things to Rose. If she cared.”

  “I don’t know. I never like to bring up the subject of Rose, even when Patrick’s not here. Arthur said it almost broke him. Rose’s death and the investigation and all the publicity surrounding it. I do hope Martin’s death doesn’t rake all that up again…”

  I thought of the soaked, devastated figure crouched on the ground in abject misery beneath that window. Guilt, deserved or otherwise, had been part of the agony I’d sensed tearing through him. But if I thought about it now, hadn’t that guilt felt rather…immediate?

  I gazed out the window at the formal gardens, bright and colourful in the calm spring sunshine.

  Why had Patrick ridden to the Hall from the railway station? How had he? Surely he didn’t keep a horse stabled at Market Gainborough for the purpose? He could have borrowed or hired one, I supposed, but he’d called it “my horse”, not anyone else’s, not “the hired horse”.

  I listened to the beat of my own heart. What if Patrick hadn’t come from the station at all? What if he’d already been in the neighbourhood, had entered the house secretly and pushed Martin out of the window because the sun had been in his eyes and he’d thought the figure standing there was Arthur?

  If he’d succeeded, Patrick would be the new baronet. Providing Emily carried no heir, and I knew she didn’t.

  What if he’d killed George too, and no one knew? And Rose because she’d somehow displeased him, or he’d wanted to marry someone else? Then Arthur was in terrible danger, and so was Emily, since I was sure she hadn’t shouted to the whole world that she wasn’t with child this month either.

  I turned with new fear, refocusing my gaze upon Emily. “Maybe I will stay another few days,” I said hoarsely.

  * * * * *

  By the time I went to change for dinner, I had my suspicions more under control. I couldn’t blame Patrick Haggard for every crime, every death at the Hall, just because he didn’t like me. On the other hand, it did seem that someone meant Arthur ill. On impulse, I changed direction and found my way to the schoolroom.

  There was no one there. I presumed Irene must be in her room, either preparing for bed or for another visit to the drawing room. I hoped the latter and closed the door. As I did so, I felt almost as if something had come with me, squeezing out of the room with the air. It was so fleeting, I could have imagined it, but I was sure I sensed something excitable, eager, vicious. Instinctively, I closed down my defences, but I could no longer feel it.

  I walked back towards the stairs to Irene’s bedroom and the place where the marble bust had stood, the one which had so nearly fallen on Arthur a few weeks ago. Pausing in front of the circular mark, I imagined the height of it, which couldn’t, I thought, have been so much taller than Arthur. But the weight of solid marble would surely have hurt him, crashing into his head or his shoulders, or even killed him if there had been much force behind it.

  I walked across to the door on the other side of the passage, the one that led to the disused nursery, and turned the handle. The door opened without a creak. Inside were two dusty little beds and a cradle, a box of toys, a rather nice rocking horse, a nursing chair, and a couple of hard wooden chairs with peeling paint. Another door at the end of the right-hand wall probably led into the schoolroom. I vaguely recalled seeing it from the other side when we’d had tea with Irene.

  I walked around a little, touching things. A fine film of dust covered most of it. I caught the unthinking happiness of childhood games, quarrels, laugher, friendship; a hint of loneliness, helpless anger.

  I glanced back through the open door, considering.

  I could have tied a length of strong string or rope around the bust’s neck and, bringing the end of the rope in here, pulled the marble down whenever I liked—particularly if I’d already moved the bust so that it teetered a little. If I’d pulled with all my strength, it would have tumbled with some force.

  Only, of course, Emily and Arthur would have walked into the rope. Even if the light had been too dim to see it, they would have felt it. Unless…

  Walking farther into the room, I lifted one of the hard chairs and carried it to the door, which I closed over until it stood open only a crack. Eyeing the chair with disfavour, I realized it wasn’t tall enough. So I took the cushion from the nursing chair and the pillows from the beds and piled them on the top. A somewhat risky tower to climb, but having gone this far, I braved the ascent.

  Wobbling slightly, I hung on to the door and found I could peer over the top. Through the crack between it and the lintel above, I could make out the side of the staircase and the wooden banister, and, the place where the bust must have stood on its plinth. My string or rope, tied around the bust and led into this room over the top of the door, would now be well above eye level. And in dim light, to lovers, possibly invisible. Why would they look up?

  I could almost see the bust and the string stretching across. I lowered my gaze to the top of the door, and my breath caught. Of the entire length, about two inches looked considerably less dusty. And the door was marked there, rubbed so hard it looked cut into, especially on the edges which looked as if it had been chewed, or fiercely abraded, with tiny splinters sticking out.

  “Oh dear,” I said aloud. “Oh dear.” Now that I’d found confirmation, I realized how much I’d wanted to be wrong.

  “What can you see from there, Mrs. Darke?” drawled the voice I most didn’t want to hear at that moment. “Ghosts in the stairwell? Maliciously inclined spiders?”

  I wobbled precariously on my shifting tower but managed to keep my balance by holding tighter to the door with my fingernails. Patrick Haggard’s voice came from behind me, from the door I’d suspected led into the school room.

  My heart recovered from its startled lurch, and without too much of a pause, I managed to reply, “I wish you were right, Mr. Haggard.”

  I pulled my skirts aside and prepared to dismount. But I heard the sound of his hasty footsteps across the floor. “Wait! Didn’t your mother ever tell you not to stand on things on top of other things?”

  “Actually, no,” I said with perfect truth. “My mother’s advice was always of a less practical nature.”

  “Give me your hand,” he said peremptorily, appearing by my side with his right hand held out in clear command.

  I must admit it was not an unpleasant novelty to look down on him from this height. For a change, he had to turn his face up to mine. Harsh, big-boned, and angular, it wasn’t exactly handsome, though it was certainly dramatic enough to catch at my wayward breath and release those butterflies I’d only just got under control in
my stomach. I could make out the texture of his unruly black curls. His dark, straight brows were raised in an expression of tolerant amusement, although beneath them, his eyes were veiled. His mouth…but I wouldn’t look there.

  Without appearing foolish or petty, I could not refuse his assistance, so with good grace, I placed my hand in his, felt his fingers curl strongly around mine, and then his left arm reached up around my waist and swung me down as I jumped. I landed far too close to him, and his arm lingered loosely at my waist.

  For the space of a heartbeat, our eyes met and held.

  His lips parted. “What did you see up there that so disturbed you?”

  I had a choice. I could say “Nothing,” and laugh it off. Safest, if he were the culprit. It would, surely, put me in danger too to reveal what I knew. On the other hand…this had been going on too long, and I needed to know as soon as possible who or what threatened Arthur and Emily. Without knowing, it would be impossible to protect them.

  Besides, I had ways of looking after myself.

  I said, “There are marks on top of the door such as might be made by a thin rope or strong string being dragged across it bearing a heavy weight.”

  His brows flickered. His eyes no longer looked amused. “Your theory?”

  “That a rope was tied around the bust that used to stand there and strung overhead to this door and pulled so that the bust fell.”

  “Missing Arthur by inches,” he said slowly. At least he understood at once and made no pretence otherwise.

  “You don’t seem very surprised,” I remarked.

  “I’m surprised by your thoroughness and imagination,” he said with a hint of wryness. “At the time, although suspicion nagged at me, I could see no way and no reason for it to have been anything other than an accident. Until Martin…”

  My breath caught. “Then you agree Martin was pushed in mistake for Arthur?”