by Ann Granger
‘That is savagery,’ said Beresford, clearly appalled.
‘It is murder,’ I said simply. ‘Murder is a savage crime, however it is committed.’
Beresford scowled even more darkly and shook his head as if to dismiss this. It was a gesture familiar enough to me. There is a degree of wickedness in some crimes that is so offensive to decent people they cannot comprehend it. They reject it as impossible.
Beresford was still finding it hard to accept. ‘But, see here, Ross! If the person who was responsible, or an accomplice, emerged from the undergrowth to check the body, as you suggest, and then that person found that Harcourt was dead, why strike the poor fellow’s head with that stone? He was already dead, from the broken neck,’ he protested.
‘Yes, he was,’ I agreed.
Beresford frowned. ‘I admit I struggle to understand,’ he said. ‘Dr Wilson observed a place on Harcourt’s head, here…’ Beresford touched his temple. ‘So did you, and it seemed to me you took a lot of interest in it. The skin was broken, but there was no blood or sign of bleeding. Nor is there on this stone. You and Wilson agreed the injury was inflicted after death. If so, it is inexplicable.’
‘Well, sir, there is a great deal of anger and hatred in this murder, as there was in that of Sir Henry Meager. Harcourt lay dead. But it gave someone great personal satisfaction to strike his head with that rock.’
‘Then that person is indeed a barbarian,’ said Beresford quietly. ‘It was vicious and unnecessary.’
‘Oh, yes, Mr Beresford, it was certainly that. But it was also a mistake. It means now I know for sure what I already suspected: all this is about revenge.’
* * *
On my way back to the inn later in the day, I asked Tizard to stop at The Old Excise House. I didn’t expect to be the bearer of the bad news, because I’d learned Evans had ‘borrowed’ the horse to ride off and spread it himself. Anyway, the word would have run round the countryside even without Evans. Bad news travels fast. Tizard seemed to cheer up at the thought of stopping off there. He would see the Dennises and be able to tell them his own version of it all.
Lizzie and Mrs Parry had certainly heard it. Lizzie came running out as I approached the door and asked breathlessly, ‘You have found him, haven’t you? I went down to the village yesterday morning and heard it from Cora Dawlish. When I returned, the news had got here ahead of me. Jacob Dennis walks down to the public house in the village for a pint at lunchtime and he brought it back. He really is dead, then, poor Harcourt?’
‘Yes, Lizzie, he is dead. I wish I could also say it was a genuine riding accident, but I am afraid it was murder. There is clear evidence wire was stretched across the path to bring down the horse. I have been at the scene of the crime this morning. Now I have to go back to the Acorn Inn and tell Pelham. I believe Harcourt was named as a beneficiary in Sir Henry’s will, although he had protested against it. Whether that resulted in the bequest to him being struck out, I don’t know. I hope Pelham will tell me. Then I have to go across to Southampton and inform Hughes about all this.’ I kissed her cheek. ‘I am sorry, my dear, but I cannot stay longer.’
‘Of course, but you will come in and speak to Mrs Parry? She must know you are here.’
‘What sort of state is she in?’ I asked suspiciously. I did not need to have to deal with Julia Parry in a state of hysterics, as well as everything else.
‘She can be surprisingly sensible,’ Lizzie told me. ‘She is not a fool, you know. She is selfish and demanding and prejudiced in all manner of ways. But she recognises a real emergency.’
Indeed, Mrs Parry received me quite graciously. ‘It is good of you to stop by and reassure us,’ she said. ‘We understand how busy you are. This is a sad and terrible business. Is it true that Mr Harcourt’s horse was brought down by wire?’
‘Yes, ma’am, it’s true.’
‘And the trap was set deliberately?’
‘I am afraid it looks that way.’
‘There will be an inquest?’
‘Yes, ma’am, although I cannot say when. Within the next day or two, I expect.’ I was about to add, ‘Unless something more happens,’ – but I bit back the words.
‘I feel we should attend,’ decreed Mrs Parry. ‘I shall inquire of Mrs Dennis how transport can be arranged. Where will it take place?’
‘I suspect it will be in Lymington.’
Tizard was holding court in his own version of an inquest in the kitchen. He was not pleased at being pried away from his audience by my insistence on returning at once to the Acorn. But I had questions of my own to face there, from Lawyer Pelham.
Chapter Fifteen
Inspector Ben Ross
Pelham was waiting for me, sure enough, ‘with a face that would have curdled milk’, as my mother used to say.
‘I have to go across to Southampton to see Inspector Hughes, Mr Pelham,’ I told him briskly. ‘I’d be obliged if you could wait until I return this evening before you quiz me. I may have something more I can tell you by then,’ I added, to soften my tone.
‘I trust you will not avoid me again!’ snapped Pelham.
I rode Firefly to Hythe, left him at the livery stables there as before, and took the ferry across the water to Southampton.
‘Well,’ said Hughes, when he’d heard my tale. ‘This is a complicated business and I am glad you are here to deal with it. I met Harcourt when I went across to the Hall on the day Meager’s body was discovered. He struck me as a competent fellow. I’m sorry he’s dead. I have a little news for you here, by the way. I have heard from the police in Winchester. I telegraphed them with your inquiry about the girl, Susan Bate, as I told you I would.’
‘I am sorry to have troubled you with that,’ I told him. ‘It was only my curiosity.’
‘Well, it’s mine too, now,’ said Hughes cheerfully. ‘And don’t apologise. You were following a sound instinct. The child was not abandoned to the parish, but was brought as an infant to a private orphanage run by nuns in Winchester, as I’d already told you. They don’t take in just any baby or child, you understand. They have room for only fifteen at most. There has to be a reason for a new child being taken in; special family circumstances, for example. The, um, persons depositing a child generally make a generous donation to the place when they do so, and contribute to the orphanage from time to time while the child is in its care.’
‘And someone did that when Susan Bate was brought there?’ I asked in surprise.
‘Indeed so. The sister in charge of the convent’s records looked up the arrival of the infant thirteen years ago. She was but three months old at the time. She was brought to the convent by a lawyer, whose name is not recorded, on behalf of a family whose name is not recorded either. At least, it’s not set down in the ledger shown to the officer making the inquiry. But that, I dare say, was to protect the identity of the mother. It is understood locally that the babies raised there are born to girls of good family. Those who have “made a mistake” and been deceived. It wouldn’t surprise me if there were not a second set of records somewhere. But to see those would need a judge’s authority. The nuns appear to have been very fond of the child, and taken particular pains with her, on account of the fact she was clearly slow. The doctor who attended the orphanage at the time thought it possible the birth had been a difficult one and the infant deprived of oxygen. But she was otherwise healthy and of pleasant temperament and, as she grew, showed willingness to do as bid. When she became old enough to leave the convent, another lawyer came and took her away. He had been asked to find a suitable girl to work in the kitchen as a general skivvy.’
Hughes leaned back in his chair and beamed at me. ‘This is my moment, see?’ he said. ‘Now I shall surprise you!’
I thought I could guess what he was going to say, but I hadn’t the heart to disappoint him. ‘Go on,’ I invited.
‘The nun was able to tell the officer the name of the lawyer who took her away, and where she went. The lawyer’s name was Pelham.
He took her to work at a house in the county, belonging to Sir Henry Meager. The nun was rather impressed by that, my informant tells me.’ Hughes smiled slightly. ‘Make of it what you will.’
There was a silence during which I sought carefully for the right words. ‘I cannot say I am altogether surprised,’ I said at last.
‘Think she is a by-blow of Meager’s?’ he asked.
‘There is no way of knowing. But when I return this evening, Pelham will find that I have questions for him, as he is hoarding up questions for me.’
‘Have you seen the girl? Does she look like a Meager?’ asked Hughes.
‘That would be difficult to say. The Meagers, going by their portraits, were a fierce-looking lot. I have seen Susan and she has a meek appearance and giggles a great deal. She does, however, have striking brown eyes and fine features.’
‘Seems to me,’ said Hughes, ‘that if this fellow Harcourt was right and Meager was his natural father, then Meager might have quite a family scattered about the county.’
‘He might,’ I agreed. ‘His valet, Lynn, has a mother in Winchester. It’s been bothering me. Now I begin to wonder about him.’
‘How old is he?’ asked Hughes.
‘Perhaps thirty or so, and of fair complexion, and a nervous disposition. He did find the body. That might account for his nerves. Even the strongest imagination wouldn’t link him with the Meager family portraits in looks or disposition.’
‘Want me to inquire?’ asked Hughes.
‘Thank you, but not at the moment. Things are complicated enough! I thank you again for the information regarding Susan Bate. Now I must get back to the inn. Pelham is waiting there for me and now I have questions for him.’
* * *
I had not eaten since the morning and on my return to the Acorn found that Pelham had delayed dining until I returned. So we dined together in the snug. This ought to have been awkward, but in the circumstances the privacy meant we could both relax. Also, I was tired. If Pelham wanted to talk, the sooner we got it over with, the better. Then I could retire to my bed and get some well-earned sleep.
But Pelham had another reason for wanting to talk that evening. ‘I shall be leaving in the morning, to return to London,’ he announced as we sat down at the table in the snug. He shook out his napkin and tucked one corner into his top waistcoat buttonhole. ‘I have work to attend to there and cannot linger here indefinitely.’
Neither could I remain indefinitely, I thought but did not say aloud. I might also have said, but did not, that he’d had no reason to wait about here for as long as he had. But it was time to take the initiative.
‘Susan Bate!’ I said briskly.
Pelham was so startled that he dropped the soup spoon and splashed the liquid. ‘What of her?’ he asked. A fraction too late, he added, ‘Do you refer to one of the servants at the Hall?’
‘Yes, the girl who washes the dishes. I understand she came to the Hall from an orphanage run by nuns in Winchester, and that you yourself went there and fetched her.’
Pelham scowled. ‘You should not have come by this information. I presume you have it from the convent. They are not at liberty to disclose information about the children in their care.’
‘Oh, they were very discreet about the circumstances of the baby being brought to the convent thirteen years ago. The fact that she left there to take up the situation at the Hall can surely not be secret?’
‘No,’ muttered Pelham, ‘not secret. There is no need for secrecy. I spoke of discretion. The convent should have shown more discretion.’
‘Sir Henry lies dead, murdered, in a coffin kept for the time being in a disused icehouse on Mr Beresford’s estate. This is not a family, it seems to me, which is much given to discretion. Was it at Sir Henry’s orders that the infant Susan was handed over to the convent?’
‘I cannot say,’ returned Pelham. He’d had time to resume his usual implacable manner. ‘I did not represent Sir Henry at that time. You speak of thirteen years ago.’
‘Do you know whether Sir Henry gave money to the convent, over the years, perhaps?’
‘Sir Henry was not an uncharitable man,’ said Pelham stiffly.
‘Nothing I have heard about him since I arrived here,’ I pointed out, ‘has suggested to me that he was a particularly charitable one! Everyone seems agreed he was careful about money.’
Pelham smiled thinly. ‘Surely it is better to do good deeds quietly, not make a fanfare about them?’
I would get no further for the moment with this line or questioning. I changed it. ‘What of the valet, Lynn? He has a mother in Winchester, I believe?’
Now Pelham looked genuinely astonished. ‘What on earth do you suggest, Inspector Ross? As it happens, Sir Henry was in need of a valet. He asked us, as his solicitors, based in London, to inquire of the agencies there; those that find and place upper servants in gentlemen’s households. We carried out this request. Lynn seemed a suitable candidate. We recommended him to Sir Henry. If Lynn has a mother in Winchester, I do assure you, Inspector, that it is news to me. It can only be coincidence. It could, of course, be a reason why Lynn was eager to accept the position. It would put him within visiting distance of his parent.’
This all made sense and I saw no reason to quibble with Pelham’s account. In truth, I was quite relieved. Sir Henry’s private life seemed already to be quite complicated enough.
We finished the soup in silence. We both needed time to think. Mrs Garvey arrived with roast duck, which put both Pelham and myself into a better mood.
‘Now, then, Inspector,’ the solicitor began in quite a relaxed tone. ‘You have asked me several questions. May I not ask a few of you? Beginning with the death of Robert Harcourt, naturally. Are you now satisfied it was an accident?’
‘Unfortunately, no, I am not. There is evidence the horse was brought down by a carefully set trap. But my investigation has barely begun.’
Pelham was moved enough to set down his knife and fork. ‘I am very sorry to hear that. Harcourt was a capable man; and another murder is not what we need.’
‘He told me he believed himself Sir Henry’s natural son.’ I wondered, as I spoke, whether Pelham would show surprise but he did not.
‘That claim was entirely unsubstantiated.’ Pelham sighed. ‘When a wealthy man dies, Inspector, you would be surprised how many persons, of all kinds, turn up to make a claim on the estate.’
‘I thought Harcourt had rejected the legacy Sir Henry had left him in the will?’
‘Oh, no,’ said Pelham. ‘You misunderstand, Ross, or have been misled. Harcourt made a fuss about the new will, but it was not on account of anything it contained. It was on account of something the will did not, would never, contain.’
‘A declaration by Sir Henry that he was Harcourt’s natural father?’
‘Exactly. I cannot stress too greatly, Inspector, that Sir Henry never recognised Harcourt as his offspring in any way. As a young man, it’s true, Sir Henry was acquainted with the late Mrs Harcourt, Robert’s mother.’
‘He brought her to his home from France,’ I said. ‘Or is that not true? He had promised her marriage.’
‘He may gave brought her with him from France when he was a young fellow!’ snapped Pelham. ‘That, alone, does not make him Harcourt’s parent. Wealthy young men, Inspector, sometimes use inappropriate language when strongly attracted to pretty girls. There is no evidence at all that he ever had any intention of marrying her, whatever he might have led her to believe at the time; or whatever she might have claimed. He would have known he needed parental consent; and it would be quite out of the question. She was a mistress, nothing more, and his own father, Captain Sir Hector Meager, very quickly got rid of her – found a husband for her. That was the end of the matter. I dare say the girl was well satisfied.
‘Later, of course, and quite inadvisably, Sir Henry paid for the boy’s education. I have already told you that Sir Henry was not uncharitable. Sadly, the boy, Robert, misunders
tood the situation. He let his fancy run riot and the version of his parentage he imagined became fixed in his brain.’ Pelham shook his head slowly. ‘It is a not unfamiliar tale. Ask any solicitor.’ He dabbed at his lips with the corner of his napkin.
‘What happens now to any legacy made to Harcourt under the terms of Sir Henry’s will?’
‘We shall endeavour to trace any relatives of Harcourt himself, particularly in Lymington, where he was born. To track down his mother’s family in France would be well nigh impossible. I understand she was an orphan when the young Henry Meager met her on his Continental tour.’
‘He also told me she had been living with an elderly female relative at the time Henry Meager met her.’
‘Yes, yes,’ snapped Pelham. ‘It may be true she was living with a female relative when Henry Meager met her. Or it may not. You are familiar with the term entremetteuse, Inspector Ross?’
‘I have heard it,’ I said. ‘At best it means a matchmaker, and at worst a procuress, does it not?’
‘Quite so. A wealthy young man travelling alone on the Continent, with no guardian but a retired seaman to keep him from physical harm, would be natural prey for such a person. As I say, it is unlikely there is anyone in France with a claim.’
‘You do not have a romantic disposition, Mr Pelham,’ I exclaimed.
For the first time in our acquaintance, the lawyer allowed himself a dry smile. ‘I most certainly do not. I have been a family solicitor for too long. But there may be some Harcourt connections on the male side. I shall initiate inquiries in Lymington.’
‘Mr Pelham,’ I said. ‘It seems strange to me that the details of a will are known before the person whose will it is has died. Everyone seems to know what was in Sir Henry’s will, while he was still alive!’
‘Not exactly. You seem to be under a considerable misunderstanding about the will, Inspector. The details were not known, only the general outline. Chiefly, our client, Sir Henry, wanted it made clear that Mr Beresford was his designated heir. In the absence of an entail on the estate, he wished, by making that public, to reassure his tenants that it would stay in the family. The thought of a stranger becoming their landlord would have caused some apprehension. But they all know Mr Beresford.’
