Death at Gallows Green
Page 1
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
A Note About Beatrix Potter
THE VICTORIAN MYSTERY SERIES BY ROBIN PAIGE
DEATH AT BISHOP’S KEEP
. . . in which our detectives Kate Ardleigh and Sir Charles Sheridan meet for the first time as they are drawn into a lurid conspiracy . . .
DEATH AT GALLOWS GREEN
. . . in which two mysterious deaths bring Kate and Sir Charles together once more to solve the secrets of Gallows Green . . .
DEATH AT DAISY’S FOLLY
. . . in which Charles and Kate discover that even the highest levels of society are no refuge from the lowest of deeds—such as murder . . .
DEATH AT DEVIL’S BRIDGE
... in which newlyweds Charles and Kate Sheridan begin their lives at Bishop’s Keep—only to find a new mystery right in their own backyard . . .
MORE PRAISE FOR ROBIN PAIGE’S VICTORIAN MYSTERIES . . .
“I read it with enjoyment . . . I found myself burning for the injustices of it, and caring what happened to the people.”
—Anne Perry
“I couldn’t put it down.”
—Murder & Mayhem
“An intriguing mystery . . . Skillfully unraveled.”
—Jean Hage, author of Blooming Murder
“Absolutely riveting . . . An extremely articulate, genuine mystery, with well-drawn, compelling characters.”
—Meritorious Mysteries
“An absolutely charming book . . . An adventure worth reading . . . You’re sure to enjoy it.”
—Romantic Times
The Victorian and Edwardian Mysteries by Robin Paige
DEATH AT BISHOP’S KEEP
DEATH AT GALLOWS GREEN
DEATH AT DAISY’S FOLLY
DEATH AT DEVIL’S BRIDGE
DEATH AT ROTTINGDEAN
DEATH AT WHITECHAPEL
DEATH AT EPSOM DOWNS
DEATH AT DARTMOOR
DEATH AT GLAMIS CASTLE
DEATH IN HYDE PARK
DEATH AT BLENHEIM PALACE
DEATH ON THE LIZARD
China Bayles Mysteries by Susan Wittig Albert
THYME OF DEATH
WITCHES’ BANE
HANGMAN’S ROOT
ROSEMARY REMEMBERED
RUEFUL DEATH
LOVE LIES BLEEDING
CHILE DEATH
. LAVENDER LIES
MISTLETOE MAN
BLOODROOT
INDIGO DYING
A DILLY OF A DEATH
DEAD MAN’S BONES
BLEEDING HEARTS
SPANISH DAGGER
NIGHTSHADE
AN UNTHYMELY DEATH
CHINA BAYLES’ BOOK OF DAYS
The Cottage Tales of Beatrix Potter by Susan Wittig Albert
THE TALE OF HILL TOP FARM
THE TALE OF HOLLY HOW
THE TALE OF CUCKOO BROW WOOD
THE TALE OF HAWTHORN HOUSE
Nonfiction books by Susan Wittig Albert
WRITING FROM LIFE
WORK OF HER OWN
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
Published by the Penguin Group
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business etablishements, events or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
DEATH AT GALLOWS GREEN
A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the authors
Copyright © 1995 by Susan Wittig Albert and William J. Albert.
All rights reserved.
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ISBN : 978-1-440-67294-1
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Version_4
For Ruby Hild, with our grateful thanks
Susan and Bill
1
“Where shall I begin, please your Majesty?” he asked.
“Begin at the beginning,” the King said gravely, “ans go on till you come to the end; then stop.”
—LEWIS CARROLL
Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland
The gentle southern breeze that riffled the fresh green grass of the Essex meadows was mild and fragrant. Both sides of Lamb’s Lane were strewn with lacework of celandine and angel eyes and stichwort, and a glossy blackbird showered the hawthorn hedge with his courtship song. Amelia walked with a watchful trepidation, her heart beating as she scanned the hedge
rows for a sign of Lawrence. Once or twice, she glanced back in the direction of Mrs. Windell’s garden to make sure that none of the members of the Girls’ Friendly Society had seen her steal away. It was unlikely that they had, for the group was large and celebratory and Mrs. Windell and the parish ladies were greatly harried by the exigencies of teapot and tea tray.
But the cucumber sandwiches and fresh strawberry tarts on the tables in Mrs. Windell’s garden would shortly be eaten and the program would begin. It was to consist of a dramatic reading of “Napoleon at Waterloo” by Mr. Windell, a recitation by the Infants of the National School (dressed for the occasion as fairies, barefoot and with tulle wings stiffened with wire), and several songs by the school’s monitress, Miss Flora Watson, among them “Home, Dearie, Home” and “Because,” which always made Amelia’s sentimental heart melt within her. Sadly, Amelia’s errand required her to forgo these delightful entertainments, but the afternoon was short, and she had to be back at Bishop’s Keep to help Mrs. Pratt with tea. It was true that her mistress, Miss Ardleigh, was away at a house party near Long Melford, but all the other servants would be there, and Amelia would be missed if she were absent. Mrs. Pratt had allowed her an extra half day to attend the annual garden party given for the young women in service in the parish, and she would be livid if she suspected Amelia of exploiting the occasion for a hole-and-corner rendezvous. So if Amelia were to see Lawrence at all, it would have to be during the program.
Amelia’s chestnut hair was thick and shiny, her eyes were cornflower blue, and she was wearing her best dress, a white lawn with a frill of knitted lace pinned at the throat and a narrow flounce at the hem. Lawrence, the handsome, dark-haired footman at neighbouring Marsden Manor, would not be her last lover, but he was her first, and the anticipation of their meeting brought a deeper blush to her already pink cheeks.
“Oh!” she exclaimed, as if surprised and even frightened by the sudden large hands that spanned her slim waist. And then “Oh” again, as the hands whirled her around, and “oh,” quite muffled, as Lawrence boldly kissed her, her small hands beating in a pretense of resistance against his broad shoulders.
“Lawrence, you naughty!” she exclaimed, when she was released and could breathe again. “Not in the lane! We’ll be spied!”
“We cud go through th’ ’edgerow, then,” Lawrence suggested with a sly grin, possessing himself of her hand. He pointed. “That’s th’ back o’ Mr. McGregor’s garden, below ’is apple trees. Wudn’t be spied on there, now wud we?”
Amelia’s answer was a rosy giggle, and in another minute the two had slipped through a twiggy gap in the hedge and into the green and silent garden beyond, where after a moment’s warm embrace, a flurry of kisses, and more stifled giggles, Lawrence tugged his pretty charmer in the direction of a thickly wooded copse.
“I can’t,” Amelia said, resisting. “I have t’ get back.”
“Wot’s yer ’urry?” Lawrence asked, teasing her forward a step. “There’ll be songs fer an hour.” His smile was guileless. “Anyway, we’re jes goin’ t’ sit a minnit er two. Won’t ‘urt t’ bide a bit, will it?”
“We-e-ll,” Amelia said slowly, allowing herself to be persuaded in the direction of the copse. Who knows what improprieties Lawrence might have tempted her to, had they not come upon an unexpected huddle of navy serge, deep in a thorny blackberry tangle.
Amelia stepped back, startled. “Who’s that?” she exclaimed.
“Dunno,” Lawrence said, pushing the burgeoning undergrowth aside and bending over for a better look. “A gypsy, I reckon. Sleepin’. There’s a flock of ’em camped in th’ field at Bailey’s Farm.”
“That’s no gypsy,” Amelia hissed to Lawrence’s bent back. “Not in that getup. An’ he’s not asleep, ’cause his eyes is open. He’s drunk.” She wrinkled her nose in distaste. “Come away, Lawrence, an’ leave th’ man be. I don’ want him to see us.”
Lawrence straightened and turned, grim. “‘Ee’s not goin’ t’ see us,” he said. “Not nobody else, neither.”
Amelia took a step backward, wondering at the look on Lawrence’s face. “Why not?”
“’Cause ’ee’s dead,” Lawrence said. “Poor bugger,” he added with feeling.
The poor bugger was Sergeant Arthur Oliver of the Essex constabulary, late constable of the hamlet of Gallows Green. He had been shot in the chest at very close range.
2
The house party at a large country estate was one of the most important, if complicated, social rituals of Victorian England. It allowed the guests to participate in gossip, sport, romance, political intrigue, and to display their wealth and power. It was, in short, an essential part of British upper-class life.
—ANNE RILEY RICHARDSON
Social Life in Victorian England
“Bother.”
Kate Ardleigh was annoyed. She had wetted her last pair of dry shoes. She paused beside a tall hedgehog holly and glanced through its variegated leaves at the puddled path around the fish pond, up at the gloomy, pewter-coloured sky, and across the park at several lavishly costumed women playing a desultory game of croquet on the lawn before Melford Hall. Sighing, Kate elected to walk round the pond, however muddy the path or drizzly the afternoon. Her shoes were already soaked through, and walking was preferable to the trivial pursuit of a croquet ball or the even more trivial conversation of the players. She started off down the path.
Her walk was interrupted, however, by a rustling scramble in the underbrush, the crackle of twigs, and a duet of shrill squeals and cross mutters. Kate turned, startled.
“Who’s there?” she called.
A short, round young woman in a plain green merino dress and sensible boots backed out of the shrubbery, her straw hat knocked askew. An instant later, she was followed by a fat white rabbit, which darted around her skirt and down the path. Quick as thought, Kate reached down and scooped it up. It struggled briefly, scratching and squealing, but she held it, firm, in both hands.
“Is this . . . yours?” Kate asked.
“Indeed he is,” said the young woman. She came forward and took the rabbit. Her round face was flushed with exertion, and her brown hair escaped untidily from under her hat. “Peter, you wretched thing,” she scolded. “You have disgraced both of us.” She tucked the rabbit under one arm with a practiced gesture.
“I’m glad he’s been recovered,” Kate said, and then wasn’t sure what else to say. It was a bit disconcerting to encounter a woman with a rabbit.
“He wanted a walk out, you see,” the young woman said. “Only when I put him down, he fancied a bit of fresh cress by the lake. And then he insisted on having it in the very densest part of the shrubbery.” She stroked the pink ears. “Rabbits are creatures of very warm temperament,” she added. “At one instant Peter is quite amiable, and the next he’s a regular demon, kicking and scratching and spluttering. But if I can lay hold of him without being bitten, in half a minute he’s licking my hands, utterly contented to be held.”
“He seems quite contented now,” Kate said, eyeing the rabbit for signs of his becoming demonic. She was intrigued by this plainly dressed, shy-looking woman with soft brown hair and prominent brows, curving like parentheses over the corners of her deep blue eyes. On closer inspection, though, she seemed not as young as Kate had thought, close to Kate’s twenty-seven, probably, and also unmarried, for she wore no ring. At that age, and with her demeanour, she was probably the nanny of young William, Lady Hyde-Parker’s little boy, and the rabbit belonged to her young charge. But nanny or governess, she was by far the most interesting person Kate had met on this visit.
The house party was Kate’s first since arriving in England from America the year before. Her first ever, actually. Before she came to live with her Aunt Sabrina Ardleigh and Aunt Beatrice Jaggers at Bishop’s Keep, she had lived in New York, where she had supported herself as a writer of sensational fiction. Under the pseudonym of Beryl Bardwell, her penny dreadfuls (with such titles as Missing Pearl
and The Rosicrucian’s Ruby) had attracted quite a following of loyal readers in Frank Leslie’s Popular Monthly.
But since coming to England as her aunt’s secretary seven months ago, Kate had finished only one story, The Conspiracy of the Golden Scarab. It was in part a record of the tragic poisonings of both her aunts. Upon their deaths, Kate had inherited Bishop’s Keep, which included a holding of several hundred acres, a substantial Georgian house, and a coterie of servants. Since then, her new role as mistress of the manor had left her little time for writing and less time for house parties, even if she had not been in mourning.
But six months had passed since the deaths of Kate’s aunts and she was beginning to feel comfortable in her new duties. Her friend and neighbour Eleanor Marsden, recently married to Mr. Ernest Fairley, had insisted that she be out and about and see something of England. At Eleanor’s suggestion, Lady Hyde-Parker of Melford Hall had invited Kate to spend a week at the Hyde-Parker estate near Sudbury, in Suffolk. Kate had accepted the invitation gladly, not only because she looked forward to a week’s refreshing respite in a lovely English country house, but also because she wanted to be writing again. (“Please, dear lady,” the editor of Frank Leslie’s Popular Monthly had pleaded in his last letter, “do, do oblige your readers with another tale of Death and Passion.”) Kate had hoped that Melford Hall might be the place to collect ideas for Beryl Bardwell’s next thrilling narrative.
But sadly, Kate had discovered that the most sensational events at Medford Hall had taken place several hundred years before. The mid-Tudor residence was grandly constructed of two wings of mellow red brick enclosing a grassy courtyard, with matching octagonal turrets fore and aft. Melford’s builder had been William Cordell, Speaker of the House of Commons and Master of the Rolls under Elizabeth I, and in 1578, Cordell entertained his queen and two thousand of her retainers in the Great Hall. From the Cordells the estate passed to the family of Lord Rivers, a Catholic Royalist. In 1642 the rabble sacked the house, destroyed its furnishings, and made off with all the deer in the park. Lady Rivers was remanded to debtors’ prison and died within the month.