by Ann Granger
‘Excellent,’ I said. ‘Is the landlady still Mrs Garvey?’
Hughes confirmed that it was. He added, ‘Now then, you’d like me to bring you up to date on the case, I dare say.’
‘There is no doubt at all that it is murder?’ I asked. ‘Not a chance it might be suicide? I know the coroner has ruled it murder, and that must guide us. However, generally, when the weapon belongs to the dead man and is found lying beside the body…’
Hughes was shaking his head. ‘No suicide note has been found; and there is no known reason why the man should choose to blow out his brains. No reason why he should say goodnight to his dinner guests, go upstairs, make ready for bed, get into the bed in his nightshirt and then shoot himself in the head. He was wealthy. He was respected.’
‘And a close friend of the coroner, I understand,’ I commented.
‘That, too. But I think the coroner’s verdict was the right one; and wasn’t influenced by friendship with the victim. Someone broke into the house, smashed the lock of a drawer in the library where a pair of duelling pistols was known to be kept, crept upstairs and…’ Hughes spread out his hands expressively.
‘But nobody heard a thing?’ I knew I sounded a doubting Thomas.
‘The servants were all asleep. It’s a large old house, very solidly built, and the servants’ rooms are in the attics. If one of them had awoken, and thought it had been a shot that had disturbed his slumbers, he would probably have put it down to a poacher. There are deer in the wooded areas. Sometimes, at night, they leave the shelter of the trees and venture out into the open. I was told they have occasionally forced a way into Sir Henry’s garden and caused considerable damage. Venison fetches a good price, no questions asked. Likewise, the ponies that roam the area have been known to find their way into gardens seeking to graze in the vegetable patch or on the lawns. A householder with a gun might fire a shot to scare them away. A single shot at night doesn’t arouse the kind of alarm it might do in London.’ Hughes sat back and waited for me to ask my next question.
I repressed the impulse to point out, ‘But this shot wasn’t outside the house, was it? It was indoors!’ Instead I asked: ‘How was entry to the house effected? Has anything been taken? There must be valuables in such a fine property.’
Hughes’s features set obstinately. ‘Nothing taken and we found no sign of forced entry. The coroner asked twice about that. The butler (you will meet him) is an old chap, and to my way of thinking not quite in his right mind. But he’s worked there for many years and I don’t think a silver teaspoon could go missing without his being aware of it. Also, my men took a good look round. Windows, doors, all undamaged. You may take my word for it. Believe me, the only intruder we found was a dead mouse in a trap in the still room.’
‘Which would suggest he was shot by somebody already in the house?’ I was beginning to wonder whether Hughes, good fellow though he was, simply did not want the burden of investigating this case. He had enough on his hands. That was why I’d been brought in, and why he was happy to see me.
‘Who?’ Hughes spread his hands to signify he was at a loss. ‘The servants are all of good character and there were no house guests at the time,’ he returned promptly. ‘Yes, Mrs Ross and the other lady were there as visitors, earlier in the evening, but for dinner only. They were driven home by the deceased’s own coachman. You will not suggest one of them came back later to murder their host, a man they had only met that evening? Otherwise, Mr and Mrs Beresford attended the dinner party and they are family members, with no quarrel known between them and Sir Henry. They also drove home after the dinner party. The only other person present that evening was Harcourt, the estate manager. He has worked for Sir Henry for some time. It is a good position to have and he would not risk it. I dare say he hopes he will keep it when a new owner takes over. He is a single man, accommodated in a modest house on the estate, and returned there after the dinner party. No guests stayed overnight.’
Discontentedly, Hughes added, ‘These country houses always have plenty of people wandering around them, family, servants, visitors.’ He paused to pick up a sheet of paper and hand it to me. ‘This is a list of names of all the servants; together with the approximate date they began to work in the house. Some dates are very approximate because the servants concerned have been there so long, no one knows quite when they joined the staff. All have worked there for some time, even the housemaids who have been there for two or three years apiece. The most recent addition to the staff is the kitchen skivvy, Susan Bate. She’s just turned thirteen, but even she has been there nearly a year. Sadly, she’s simple.’ Hughes touched his forehead. ‘She came to the house from an orphanage.’
‘Indeed? I wonder how that came about,’ I said. ‘You said the butler was also a little muddled.’
‘Not muddled, but he’s got some strange ideas of a religious nature. Perhaps that’s because he is of an age to be long retired. He has been on the staff since Sir Henry’s father’s day. All of them see their lives turned upside down by Sir Henry’s death. They certainly have no reason to kill him, quite the reverse.’
Yes, I could see why he was so happy to hand the investigation over to me.
‘Just an idea,’ I said. ‘I haven’t seen the house and you have. Since it seems we must discount any idea of an actual break-in, causing damage, how easy would it be, do you think, for someone to slip in earlier in the evening? Just walk in and hide until Sir Henry had retired for the night?’
Hughes looked mournful. ‘Not difficult at all,’ he admitted. ‘Large, rambling house, Tudor in origin I’m told. It’s full of nooks and crannies. Might even have a priest’s hole, or something like that. I don’t know that it has, but these very old places have survived some very difficult times historically speaking, you might say. The servants were busy all day preparing for the dinner party that evening. If someone sneaked in, hid away, waited until all was quiet and everyone asleep… Yes, it’s possible. Indeed, it must have happened like that.’
‘Let us assume then that our murderer has got into the house. But he would have to leave by some exit or other, window or door, and you say they were all found locked in the morning.’ I thought it over and Hughes waited patiently. ‘Unless,’ I said, ‘our murderer has a particularly strong nerve, and it does look as though he is a very cool-headed fellow indeed. He hid away during the day, as you suggest. After the deed, he returned to his hidey-hole and waited until morning. The kitchen staff would be up early and the back doors would be unlocked. Maids would open the downstairs windows to air out the place. Our man slips out and no one is the wiser.’
‘And provided he’s a local chap,’ Hughes picked up my theory, ‘it doesn’t matter if someone does see him around the grounds. He might be there for any reason.’ Hughes shook his head mournfully. ‘There you have it, then,’ he concluded. ‘It’s a desperate business!’
So much for theory, for the moment at least. Time to turn to what physical evidence there might be.
Hughes had sent a photographer to make a record of the murder scene before it was all cleared up. The resulting pictures were stark, but also unsatisfactory, because they could tell me nothing I didn’t already know.
‘What about the weapon?’ I asked next.
Hughes produced a prosaic cardboard box. When he took the lid off, I couldn’t prevent uttering a low whistle. It was a beautiful object; a triumph of the Spanish gunsmith’s craft; the damascene work came from the hand of an artist. And there were two of these beauties! I understood Sir Henry wanting to own them. Yet this prized possession had been the means of his death. The weapon told me something else. I needed to hear if Hughes thought the same.
‘Tell me,’ I asked him. ‘In your opinion, what sort of a man might own something like this – and its pair?’
Hughes didn’t hesitate. ‘One who thought himself a very fine fellow indeed,’ he said. After a pause he added, ‘Rich, too, of course.’
‘Meager had made his will, I supp
ose?’ I asked. When a rich man dies, one always thinks of the will.
Hughes had the answer to that as well. ‘Oh, yes, and had recently requested his solicitor to update it. He had signed the new version just a few weeks before he died. His man of law came down from London, bringing the new will with him. Pelham is his name, and he will know the details. So all is in order there. Sir Henry had no children of his own and his heir is his nephew, Mr Andrew Beresford, who was at the dinner. He lives not very far away at Oakwood House and, as I’ve told you, was driven home afterwards, with his wife, by his own coachman. He is acknowledged to be a most respectable gentleman, of ample means, and not long married.’
This final detail was news to me. Beresford had been single when I last met him. He was a rich man but I doubted he was as wealthy as his uncle had been. And, with a new wife, and new household, his expenses would suddenly have increased. ‘I shall be calling on Mr Beresford,’ I said. ‘We have met before.’
With that, I shook hands with Hughes, and set out for the ferry across to Hythe.
The day was pleasant and I chose to sit on the deck of the little ferry with a gentle wind caressing my face as it chugged its way across the Southampton Water towards Hythe. The crossing was short but it gave me time to review the information supplied by Hughes. The first thing I discounted was the existence of a priest’s hole or other secret nook in the dead man’s home. Any house that is nearly three hundred years old is popularly believed to be full of secret corridors, hiding places of all kinds, sliding panels operated by pulling this or that piece of carved masonry, and any amount of such romantic nonsense. Not that these things do not exist, but if they do they are generally known about. Servants are well acquainted with every inch of a house in their care. Since no one had pointed out the location of a secret hidey-hole to Hughes, then Sir Henry’s home probably did not include one. On the other hand, I reminded myself, this murderer does know the house very well. He knew about the duelling pistols in the drawer in the library. He knew to find his way to Sir Henry’s bedroom. I would, of course, keep an open mind.
Having decided this, I turned to more pleasurable thoughts of seeing my wife before long. On my arrival at Hythe, my intention had been to hire a fly and driver from the livery service there. This was how Sergeant Morris and I had travelled to the Acorn Inn on my previous visit. To my surprise, this was not necessary. I scrambled ashore from the hard with all the other passengers and found an aged berlin carriage waiting. Its driver appeared equally aged and wore a strange old-fashioned caped coat. He studied me head to foot.
‘Tom Tizard!’ he announced himself. ‘You’ll be the police inspector from London we’ve been awaiting.’
I confirmed that I was the expected detective.
‘Mr Harcourt sent me to meet you and take you to the Acorn,’ he told me. ‘Mr Harcourt is Sir Henry’s estate manager, or he was Sir Henry’s manager. Now, I suppose, you would say he is Mr Beresford’s manager, since Mr Beresford has inherited the lot. Mr Harcourt says I’m to tell you the carriage is at your disposal during your stay.’
‘It is thoughtful of Mr Harcourt,’ I said. It also created a problem. If I went everywhere in the berlin, driven by Tizard, then Harcourt and Beresford would both of them know every move I made. So would every local inhabitant to whom this venerable conveyance would be a familiar sight.
Tizard gave me a knowing look. ‘I fancy Mr Beresford told him to do it,’ he said. ‘Mr Harcourt will be taking his orders from Mr Beresford now, as we’ll all be doing.’
‘Once the will is proved,’ I said mildly.
Tizard blinked. ‘No reason why it shouldn’t be!’ he retorted.
If one or more of the beneficiaries turned out to be the murderer, that person would inherit nothing, I thought but didn’t say aloud. Everyone believed Beresford was his uncle’s heir; and Sir Henry had declared it at the dinner party. Even my wife and Mrs Parry, who had only met the deceased that evening, knew it.
‘You just got the one bag, then?’ asked Tizard. ‘Well, you get up into the conveyance and I’ll hand the bag in after you.’
Any man of Tizard’s age, who had spent his working life in the service of a gentleman of means, had his social priorities nicely judged. He had been sent to help me, as I was a visitor of some importance. But I was not a gentleman. At no point in our conversation had he once addressed me as ‘sir’. I had been called in to do a job, as might any other tradesman. I climbed into the carriage unaided. He held up my bag at the open door. I took it from him and set it myself on the opposite seat.
‘Let’s be off, then!’ said Tizard, slamming the door on me.
No wonder no one asks a police officer if he is happy in his work, I thought, as we jolted forward and rattled over the cobbles. High or low, everyone considers him a dogsbody.
At least Mrs Garvey, the landlady of the Acorn, was delighted to see me.
‘Welcome back, sir! Jem, take the inspector’s bag up to his room. Your sergeant not with you this time, sir?’
‘He could not be spared,’ I told her. ‘But I am sure I’ll manage alone.’
‘Bless you, of course you will.’ Mrs Garvey bestowed this accolade with a beaming smile. ‘You’d like to take some refreshment after your journey, I dare say. Just go into the snug there, and I’ll bring whatever you fancy.’
I thought I had earned a mug of ale and, since I had not yet started my inquiries hereabouts, no one should object. I retreated to the cramped room so named. It appeared to be unchanged from how I remembered it during my previous stay here; the only difference being the addition of another layer of dust. I had forgotten Tizard and the carriage. As Mrs Garvey left to fetch my ale I caught a glimpse of the coachman raising a tankard in the taproom. If asked, he would reply he was awaiting my further orders, since Harcourt had so shrewdly put the vehicle at my disposal.
Mrs Garvey was back, bearing a tray on which stood my ale and an envelope.
‘Mr Beresford, from Oakwood House, rode by this morning and left this for you, sir. He was most particular that I should give it to you straight away.’
I opened the envelope and took out a brief letter. Beresford trusted I had arrived without any difficulties along the way. He would call on me at the inn in the morning, directly after breakfast, if I would be so kind as to wait for him. I might send my reply with Tizard. So that was why the coachman waited. I went out into the taproom.
‘Mr Beresford is waiting for a reply to this letter.’ I raised the sheet of paper in my hand.
‘Yes,’ agreed Tizard obligingly, wiping froth from his mouth with the back of his hand.
‘Tell him, if you would, that I will wait for him here in the morning, as he requests. I would like to make an early start.’
‘Don’t need me no more today, then?’ asked Tizard, a sharp gleam in his eyes.
‘No, thank you, Tizard. I am obliged to you for bringing me here so quickly.’
‘What about tomorrow, then?’
‘I won’t need you tomorrow.’
He still hesitated so I settled the matter by walking straight back into the snug and closing the door. Well now, I was in for a game of chess, was I? Beresford and Harcourt were determined to keep track of my inquiries and me. They had made their move. I had countered with mine.
It left me, however, with an immediate problem. I hoped to visit The Old Excise House that evening and see Lizzie for myself. But I had dismissed my means of transport. I waited until I was sure the berlin had rumbled its way out of the inn yard, then went to find the landlady again.
‘Mrs Garvey, you don’t, by any chance, still keep the pony you hire out? My sergeant rode it last time I was here.’
If she was surprised, or curious that I had dismissed the higher status of a private carriage in favour of her pony, she didn’t show it. I fancied she understood.
‘Bless you, sir, we can do better for you than that old animal. We have a new pony, a much smarter beast. Firefly is his name.’
I did not want a smarter animal, and the name given to the new pony raised alarm bells. I imagined myself clinging to the mane of an uncontrollable bolter. But if I requested the old pony in preference, I would, as I believe the Chinese describe it, ‘lose face’. The honour of Scotland Yard was at stake.
‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘My wife is staying at The Old Excise House. Do you know it? Is it very far?’
‘Oh, I know it, sir. Riding straight across the heath, you could be there in three-quarters of an hour.’ She pursed her lips and studied me thoughtfully. ‘But that’s if you know the way; and you don’t, I suppose, sir?’
I confessed I did not.
‘Besides, there’s coming back this evening,’ she said, ‘with the light fading. You would get lost easy; never find your way.’
Perhaps my chess move, dismissing Tizard, had not been such a clever one after all.
Mrs Garvey brightened. ‘I have the solution, sir! There’s Wilfred, the handyman. He looks after the ponies among other odd jobs. You take Firefly, and Wilfred will go along with you on the old pony, take you straight there. Wilfred knows the heath like the back of his hand. He’ll wait at The Old Excise House while you visit your good lady, and then the two of you can return here.’
I would have an escort after all, but at least it wouldn’t be one directly in Beresford’s employ. I thanked her and said I would like to start out at once, as it was late in the afternoon.
Wilfred proved to be quite a bit older than me, although how old I couldn’t judge. He was short, bandy-legged, had a skin tanned to the colour of a ripe acorn and very few teeth. He wore a bowler hat of the kind gamekeepers like, corduroy breeches and gaiters. His shirt was grimy and the elbows patched. Firefly, in contrast, was indeed a very smart pony, black, with white socks and blaze down his nose. Despite my fears, he did not seem ill disposed towards me.
