Death at Gallows Green

by Robin Paige

  Contemporary Melford bore little visible trace of its dramatic history. There was the stained glass portrait of Elizabeth, dressed in blue and gold for the Service of Thanksgiving that commemorated her victory over the Spanish Armada, and a rather nondescript oil of the ill-fated Lady Rivers, both located in the East Gallery. But Melford’s present owners, the Hyde-Parkers, seemed serenely unconnected to the cataclysms of past centuries. The grand old house, impressive as it was, did not even harbour a ghost, although Kate had heard rumours of a medieval vaulted chamber beneath the Banquet Hall, which she had hoped to visit until she learned that it was walled up after the house was built.

  There was very little of the sensational about the guest list, either, since the socially ambitious still lingered in London, taking advantage of the last month of the season. The Hyde-Parkers, however, were secure enough in the social elite not to care about missing a few last parties, and Lady Hyde-Parker, who loved to garden, always indulged herself with long stays in the country even at the height of the season. Her guests for the week included several Hyde-Parker relatives and their children, mostly kept out of sight on the nursery floor or in the back garden; two young women who had not gotten husbands in the requisite three seasons since being “out” and were hence considered failures; one dour dowager swathed in black shawls; and a white-haired military gentleman who kept putting snuff up his nose. Kate’s days had been spent in dressing for and then sitting down to breakfast, lunch, and tea, with croquet and a ramble around the pond as a respite. Her evenings were filled with dressing for dinner, then dining and playing whist as the conversation revolved around people and events of which Kate knew nothing. She was unutterably bored.

  But the weekend promised improvement. Eleanor Marsden Fairley and her husband were due to arrive shortly from London. And here was this odd little governess or nanny, or whatever she was, pressing a white rabbit to her neat green bosom and offering a lecture on the creature’s life-habits.

  “Thank you for snatching him up so quickly,” the odd person said. “Most wouldn’t, you know. They don’t much care for rabbits, except in rabbit pie.” She shuddered.

  Kate smiled. “But you do care?”

  “Oh, yes, particularly about Peter, and Benjamin too, of course.” She gathered her skirts with her free hand. “Well, now that I’ve got him again, I expect I’d better go. Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle has to be let out, and there’s no end of unpacking.”

  Kate wondered who Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle was and why she might be confined. Was she some incompetent relative, some mad person, perhaps? Kate had read of many such tragic women, who upon exhibiting symptoms of madness (or perhaps merely the wish to choose the course of their lives for themselves) were kept close confined for years upon end, able to see no one. Kate’s human sympathy—and Beryl Bardwell’s authorial interest—suddenly were invoked. But there was a limit to what one might decently ask. The standards of politeness did not permit her to probe the state of Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle’s mental health.

  “You have recently arrived, then?” Kate inquired.

  “Oh, yes, just,” the woman said eagerly. “On the railroad. I came alone.” In her voice Kate heard an unmistakable note of triumphant delight. Why should anyone take such satisfaction in traveling on the railway, which to Kate seemed a noisy, dirty business? That she had traveled alone seemed to suggest that Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle was already here, perhaps lived here, was perhaps some mad relation of Kate’s host and hostess. Beryl Bardwell immediately imagined the poor lady in the garret, let out only when someone was available for close supervision. Perhaps the rabbit belonged to the mad woman.

  “I’m sorry,” Kate said. “I don’t believe I quite got your name. Mine is Kate Ardleigh.”

  “You’re an American, aren’t you?”

  Kate smiled. “I suppose my speech gives it away.”

  “How interesting you Americans are,” the other woman remarked, “announcing your given name straight away, without bothering with misses and misters and all that stuff and nonsense.”

  “I suppose we do,” Kate said, warming to the woman’s candour. “It seems easier that way, and friendlier. What’s your name?”

  “Bea,” the woman said shyly, almost as if she were experimenting with it.

  “Will I see you at tea?” Kate asked, and then regretted her thoughtless question. Bea would no doubt be busy with her ward. Anyway, staff did not come to tea. “Or perhaps we could walk together,” she added hurriedly. “At your convenience, of course.”

  “I’d like that,” Bea said happily.

  “Tomorrow afternoon at this same time, then?” And as Bea nodded, Beryl Bardwell felt a surge of anticipation. The mysterious Bea was an interesting character in her own right. And perhaps through her, Beryl could meet the madwoman in the attic!

  3

  . . . To die, to sleep;

  To sleep: perchance to dream: aye, there’s the rub;

  For in that sleep of death what dreams may come

  When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,

  Must give us pause.

  —WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

  Hamlet, III, i

  Police Constable Edward Laken stood at the foot of McGregor’s garden, his hands in his pockets, staring bleakly down at the cold, still form of his friend and colleague, Sergeant Arthur Oliver.

  “Dead,” said Lawrence, the footman at Marsden Manor, who had discovered the body and summoned Edward. “Shot, it happears,” he added unnecessarily.

  It did indeed appear that Arthur Oliver had been shot, and a great grief welled up in Edward Laken. He and Artie had been boys together, fishing in the River Stour, padding the dusty lanes in search of birds’ nests and berry bushes, skating on the thin ice of Bailey’s Pond and once, even, falling through. He might have drowned that winter afternoon if Artie had not crawled out and pulled him to safety with a willow branch. A passage from Hamlet came into his mind, a passage he had once got by heart, playing Hamlet to Artie’s Laertes in a parish theatrical. And now Artie lay on his side in a bramble thicket, eyes open, staring upward in the sleep of death, dreaming who knew what dreams, the navy serge of his uniform jacket thickly matted with cold dark blood.

  With an effort, Edward pulled his gaze from the dead eyes and looked up. McGregor, whose garden this was, served as an assistant gamekeeper on the Marsden estate. His cottage was some distance away, beyond the apple trees. The garden was deep, and backed up to Lamb’s Lane. He looked back at the footman. “How was it that you happened to come here?”

  Lawrence spoke carelessly, but avoided Edward’s eyes. “T‘were a young lady, sir. We come ’ere fer a bit o’ privacy, you might say. Through th’ gap in th’ ‘edge.” He became defiant. “I’ll take my affidavy it’s th’ truth.”

  Edward pulled out his notebook. “The young lady’s name?”

  Lawrence looked up, eyes wide, and his tone suddenly changed. “Oh, no, sir, please, sir. I promised. Mrs. Pratt ‘ud be most ferocious to ’er.” He stopped, conscious that he had said too much.

  Edward knew the servants at Bishop’s Keep, for he had interviewed them all six months before, upon the deaths of the elder Miss Ardleigh and her sister Mrs. Jaggers. He had been there several times since, and he knew Mrs. Pratt. He did not need to wonder which of the servants had been the object of Lawrence’s attention and his accessory in this discovery.

  “Amelia, I suppose,” he said.

  Lawrence sighed, resigned.

  “I’ll be as circumspect as possible in my inquiry,” Edward said. He looked once more at the huddled figure of his friend. “You saw no one?”

  “No one but ‘im,” Lawrence said. He too turned away from the dead gaze. “D’you suppose it’s true?”

  “What’s true?” Edward asked.

  “That th’ dead takes a pitchur o’ th’ last thing they see wit’ their open eyes. If ‘tis, mayhap ’ee’s took a pitchur o’ th’ one’oo kilt ’im.”

  “Mayhap,” Edward said. Gently, he bent down and closed
the eyelids of Sergeant Arthur Oliver. Let him dream in peace.

  4

  Although the camera was used from the mid-1880s to record the features of known criminals for the purpose of identification, it was not systematically employed to document a criminal investigation until much later. In the late nineteenth century, a crime scene was photographed only when an amateur photographer happened upon some criminal event, or when one was summoned by an astute constable who recognized the great utility of such permanent evidence. Few police forces officially possessed a camera.

  —DANIEL TRIMBLE

  Early Forensic Photography

  Sir Charles Sheridan, a leather case in one hand and a wooden tripod over his shoulder, strode down the path in the anxious wake of Mrs. McGregor, who churned like a fervent little tugboat against a surging current. She stopped when they reached the foot of the garden, so unexpectedly that Charles bumped into her.

  “Oh dear oh dear oh dear,” Mrs. McGregor said, twisting one corner of her white apron. “I’m sure I don’t know wot Mr. McGregor’ll say when he finds that murder’s been done in th’ back garden. He’ll be that put out, he will. That’s where he allus sets his rabbit snares.”

  “I doubt,” Charles said, “that this event is likely to affect the rabbit population.” He set the case down and extended a hand to Laken, while Mrs. McGregor stood behind, her eyes averted from the body. “I came as soon as I got your message, Ned. I’m very sorry. Artie was more your friend than mine, but I remember him with great affection.”

  It had been over twenty years since those halcyon days when Charles had spent summers in East Bergholt, just on the other side of the River Stour, visiting his mother’s family, the Constables. But he had forgotten neither Artie nor Ned. They had been comrades in grand misadventure from the mill at Dedham to the tidal flats at Mistley and beyond.

  “He was a good friend to both of us,” Edward said. The grief was written on his narrow face. “Thank you for coming, Charlie. I thought two pairs of eyes would be better than one.”

  Charles positioned the tripod. “And here’s another eye, which won’t forget anything it sees.” He opened the leather case, unfolded a camera, and fastened it onto the tripod. He had acquired the compact, portable bellows camera in France just a month before. It was the most recent addition to the growing collection of cameras he kept in his London house.

  “You’ll be at Marsden Manor for a few days?” Edward asked, as Charles draped a black camera cloth over his head.

  “For an indefinite period,” Charles said. He peered into the ground glass viewing screen at the back of the camera, adjusting the rack and pinion that operated the helical lens to focus the inverted image of Artie’s body, lying on its left side, the neat round hole and matted blood quite evident on the uniform jacket.

  “ ’xcuse me, Sir Charles.”

  Charles pulled his head out and whirled around, noticing for the first time that Edward was not alone. “Lawrence? What the devil are you doing here?”

  Lawrence ducked his head. “Well, sir,” he began, “y’see, Sir—”

  “He and a young lady companion discovered the body,” Edward put in.

  “A young lady?” Mrs. McGregor cried shrilly. She stamped her foot. “F‘r shame! Wot Mr. McGregor’ll say t’ such wild gooin’s-on in the garden, I don’t know.”

  Lawrence fairly bristled with indignation. “There warn’t no wild goin’s-on.” He turned to Charles. “ ’Pon my life, sir! ’Twas innocent. I swear!”

  “You’re acquainted with Lawrence?” Edward asked, frowning. Then, “Of course. He’s employed at Marsden Manor.”

  “He is my valet,” Charles said. “My acting valet, that is.” His man had given him notice only a fortnight before, and when he arrived for an extended visit at the manor Lady Marsden had insisted upon supplying him with Lawrence. Charles turned back to the body. “I suppose the primary question is whether Artie was shot here or someplace else.”

  “Just so,” Edward agreed. “The ground is dry here, and there’s a great deal of bramble. No chance of footprints.” He turned to Mrs. McGregor. “Did you hear a gunshot in the last twenty-four hours?”

  “Gunshot?” Mrs. McGregor was wry. “Ooh, aye, there be many a gunshot ‘round here. Mr. McGregor’s one o’ th’ gamekeepers at Marsden Manor, y’see. He’s allus about wi’ his gun, day an’ night, he is. I say t’ him, ‘Mr. McGregor,’ says I, ‘d’you niver think t’ lay doon yer gun an’ hang up y’r billycock an’ be done wi’ gamekeepin’?’ An’ he says to me, ‘Niver,’ Mrs. McGregor,’ he says, ‘as long as I has me two gud eyes.’ There be that many weasels and other varmints hereabouts, y‘see. Th’ gamekeeper must keep th’ game safe.”

  Charles smiled a little. He himself had never been a hunter, and felt it a deep irony that the game was preserved from its natural predators at great effort and expense, only to be slaughtered by the thousands during a hunt. He and Edward exchanged glances.

  “When can we see Mr. McGregor?” Edward asked.

  “When he’s t’home,” Mrs. McGregor said.

  “This evening?” Edward inquired.

  “Cert’nly. The pore man’s got t’ have his tea, now, don’t he?” She shook her head mournfully, still twisting her apron. “Although how I’m to make it f’r him, I don’t know, betwattled as I am ’bout dead men an’ young ladies an’ wild gooin’s-on in th’ garden.”

  “Tell your husband we’ll stop ’round at teatime,” Edward said. “Thank you, Mrs. McGregor. You may go.” He turned to Lawrence. “You, too, Lawrence.”

  “You’ll remember?” Lawrence asked. He looked warily at Charles. “ ’Bout Mrs. Pratt, I mean.”

  “I’ll remember,” Edward promised. Lawrence sketched a bow to Charles and made swiftly for the gap in the hedge.

  About to return to his camera, Charles stopped. “Mrs. Pratt? The housekeeper at Bishop’s Keep?”

  Bishop’s Keep was familiar to Charles as the home of Kate Ardleigh. He had met the young woman upon her arrival in England and had been quite taken by her, especially by the way she had dealt with her aunts’ deaths. She had, in fact, quite surprised him with her courage and common sense. They had seen one another several times since, and he had begun to think that something might come of their acquaintance.

  “Yes,” Edward said. “When Lawrence discovered the body, a maid from Bishop’s Keep was with him. Can you make a close shot of the chest, Charlie?”

  Charles pulled the hood over his head and set to work again. When the camera’s focus satisfied him, he inserted the plateholder and snapped the shutter. “From the look of things, I don’t believe he was shot here,” he said, emerging from under the cloth. “What do you think?”

  “Doesn’t seem so to me, either,” Edward said, bending down and putting a finger to the bloodstain on the dead man’s chest. “There’s grassy debris in the congealed blood, as if he died face down. And yet he was found in this position, lying on his side. There’s no blood on the ground beneath or around him, either, although there should have been, if he died here.”

  “Are those grass seeds in the blood?” Charles asked.

  Edward straightened up. “See for yourself.”

  Charles took a folding lens out of one of the pockets of his bulky coat and knelt beside the body. After a moment’s close inspection of the wound, he took out a penknife and a small square of oiled paper and scraped a sample of debris from the bloody jacket onto the paper. He folded it carefully and put it into another pocket.

  “From the size of the entry wound,” he said, “the weapon appears to have been of rather large calibre. Not likely a rifle, though, since there’s no exit wound. Most probably a pistol.” He stood up. “Shot in the heart, it seems.”

  “If he wasn’t killed here,” Edward said, “he must have been dragged through that gap in the hedge. That’s Lamb’s Lane on the other side.”

  Charles pocketed his penknife, followed Edward to the hedge, and studied the ground carefully. T
he soil was packed and hard and there were no footprints. But there were indications that something had been dragged through the gap. And on a twig at the height of his elbow, he found something interesting: a triangular flag of faded red cloth about the size of his thumbnail. He repositioned the camera, photographed the cloth, then retrieved it carefully. It went into another piece of oiled paper. “May I take this and the scrapings?” he asked. “You’ll get them back.”

  Edward nodded. “You’re thinking the killer left this scrap behind?”

  “Lawrence was wearing a blue jacket,” Charles remarked thoughtfully. “What colour dress was his companion wearing?”

  “I’ll find out.” Edward jotted something in his notebook. He looked up as a cart, pulled by a brown horse and driven by two uniformed policemen, came to a stop in the lane. “The chaps from Colchester,” he said bleakly, “are here for the body.” Charles began to repack his gear. “I’d appreciate a copy of the surgeon’s notes,” he said.

  “I’ll see what I can do.” Edward put away his notebook. “Would you mind coming with me?”

  “To Bishop’s Keep?”

  Edward’s face was grim. “To Gallows Green. Artie’s widow has yet to be told.”

  5

  Once upon a time there was a very beautiful doll’s house; it was red brick with white windows, and it had real muslin curtains and a front door and a chimney.