Death at Gallows Green

by Robin Paige

  Thinking that food might serve as an antidote to the beer, Edward signaled to the woman and received a penny-ha’penny pie. The woman gave Charles a dimpled smile. “ ’Ow about you, sir? ’Ot eel pie, sir?”

  Charles shook his head and watched as Edward wolfed down his pie. After a moment he remarked, oddly, and apropos of nothing that Edward could think of, “I suppose you’ve considered taking a wife, Ned.”

  Still fuzzy-headed, Edward finished the last bit of pie. “I have.” He thought of the time when he might have asked Agnes but had not, delaying, believing that she deserved more. “But life is hard fr a P.C.’s wife, an’ precious little t’ show fr it. Twenty-two shillings, eleven pence when I began, an’ not much more now. Long duty hours, difficulty, danger. A wife never knows when her man won’t come home.” He shook his head sadly. “An’ no station, either, and no respect. To most, a policeman’s low as a crim’nal, his wife none better.”

  But Agnes had wedded a policeman, and had lived with the duty hours and the danger, and had not wished for more. Edward sighed, weighed down by an awareness of the time and the opportunity he had missed and feeling that life had somehow grown sadder as he had grown older, alone. He had taken a wrong turn when he might have asked Agnes to marry him and had not, and he was heavy with regret.

  For his part, Charles, looking at his old friend, felt sympathy, and beneath that sympathy, sadness. He knew Ned to be a man with a large, warm heart, as well as intelligence, courage, and humour. He deserved an intelligent, courageous wife who would love him and laugh with him, whatever others might think. Charles did not know many such women. In fact, he knew only one, and therein lay his sadness.

  Her name was Kate, and Ned was teaching her to ride a bicycle.

  12

  All art is but imitation of nature.

  —SENECA

  No great artist ever sees things as they really are.

  —OSCAR WILDE

  Truth is always strange; Stranger than fiction.

  —LORD BYRON

  Beatrix was delighted that the Hyde-Parkers took very little notice of her desire to leave with Kate Ardleigh.

  The carriage ride from Melford Hall to Bishop’s Keep took eight hours all told, including an hour for luncheon at the Polstead Oak Leaf, a dark little inn which offered a greasy kidney pudding and stale Chelsea buns. But there was rhubarb tart and hot elder cordial out of a copper urn, and the fare did not matter in any event. For Beatrix, the journey itself was a notable event, and the company unmeasurably enjoyable.

  The carriage, driven by Kate’s man Pocket and laden with luggage and Beatrix’s animals, fastened up in hampers and cages, wended its way through the countryside. The narrow Essex lanes were bordered by bluebells and banks of blue speedwell, the marshes bloomed with golden kingcups and the large-flowered bitter cress, and the hedges were fragrant with May blossom. As Beatrix and Kate bounced along, their conversation ranged over a universe of subjects and became intimate even before they reached Great Waldingfield.

  Beatrix found that Kate, who wore a grey traveling dress and grey felt hat perched on her mane of russet hair, had a way of listening intently, with genuine interest. It was a trait that Beatrix had happened upon very seldom in her life, and despite her shyness, she found it so inviting that she surprised herself by revealing some of her most private thoughts. She told Kate more about her wish to publish a children’s book with drawings and a story, about her desire to leave Bolton Gardens, and her fear that she would always have to live with her father and mother.

  “Although I love them both,” she added, “Papa can be quite fidgety about things, while Mama complains constantly.” She sighed, afraid that she was being disrespectful, and began to talk about her wish to have a small stone cottage all her own, with a front garden full of flowers, ‘which just might be possible,” she added. ”I was recently given some North Pacific Railway bonds, although they’ve paid no interest since ’93, the company being in the hands of receivers. But there is some hope of realizing a small amount from them.”

  And Beatrix listened with great eagerness as the carriage rumbled through the early afternoon haze and Kate talked about herself. About her father’s death before her birth and her mother’s death when she was five. About growing up in New York City in the family of an Irish aunt and uncle (a policeman, of all things! Beatrix had never known anyone whose uncle was a policeman). About working as a governess for two utterly dreadful children, and as a secretary for an elderly German lady, and as an author, until she was asked by her father’s oldest sister to come to England, where, upon her aunts’ untimely deaths, she inherited the Ardleigh family estate. Really, this American woman was the most amazing creature, so clever, with so much energy and imagination! And so much independence, especially in choosing what she wanted to do!

  “You’re an author!” Beatrix’s sigh was wistful. Being an author was the dream she cherished most. If she could only sell her illustrated stories, she might be able to earn an independence something like Kate’s. She might remove herself from the hothouse of Bolton Gardens to a little cottage in the North, with ducks and geese and pigs and gardens all around.

  Kate’s mouth compressed. “Perhaps I should not have told you about my work. No one else in England knows.”

  “But whyever not?” Beatrix asked wonderingly.

  Kate made a self-deprecating face. “Because I write sensational stories. Penny dreadfuls. What you call ‘shilling shockers.’ My last story was called The Conspiracy of the Golden Scarab. I wrote it under the name of Beryl Bardwell.” She paused and glanced at Beatrix, as if testing her response. “It was about a murder, you see.”

  “How amazing,” Beatrix murmured. Her life in Bolton Gardens had not been so sheltered that she had never read a shilling shocker. She had, in fact, read any number of sensational tales, for they were in all the popular magazines. (Her mother, no doubt, would require the smelling bottle if she thought the purity of her daughter’s mind were tainted with such poisonous stuff.) “I should very much like to read it,” she added shyly.

  “You would?” Kate brightened. “Then you shall. It was published in America just last month, and I have a copy. But don’t let the servants know, or anyone else. I sometimes use the people around me as starting points for my characters, and everyday events seem to have a way of intruding into my plots.”

  “They do indeed,” Beatrix agreed enthusiastically. “I draw what I see, and I do it as realistically as possible. That’s why I use living animals and copy mushrooms and flowers from nature.”

  Kate smiled. “Where in nature does one find a frog wearing a mackintosh and galoshes?”

  Beatrix returned the smile. “Of course, art is always stranger than life.”

  “Indeed,” Kate said. “Real life is remarkably lacking in the sensational. If I were to write what goes on every day at Bishop’s Keep—shopping in the village, seeing to the servants, the gardens, the house—I would have no readers. But I must settle down to writing very soon, if I am to finish the story my editor has requested. I am hoping for inspiration.” She frowned a little. “Of course,” she said half to herself, “there are the Marsden emeralds.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Beatrix said.

  “Nothing.” Kate shook her head, still frowning. “Nothing I can do anything about, at any rate,” she said obscurely.

  Beatrix smiled. “Well, then, my dear Kate,” she said, “we shall simply have to have an adventure. Your next story must be a story of real life. And I shall perhaps find a new idea or two, and will do better than putting galoshes on a frog.”

  Kate patted her hand. “So it’s resolved,” she said gaily. “We shall have an adventure, and it shall be filled with enough murder and theft and missing persons to fill the most sensational of novels,”

  Bea began to feel anxious. “perhaps we’d better wait until we arrive safely at Bishop’s Keep,” she said. “I should rather not be adventured upon.”

  The rest of the jou
rney, however, proved to be without adventure or misadventure. They arrived at Bishop’s Keep just before tea. The house itself—a large, grey brick Georgian trimmed in while—wasn’t as grand as Melford Hall, Beatrix thought, but it was spacious and attractive, and so much lighter and more airy-looking than Bolton Gardens. A pair of stone lions stood guard on either side of the steps that led down to the drive, and the house was surrounded by thick evergreens and hollies. To one side was a veranda bordered by beds of brilliant flowers, with roses twining up the pillars. And below the house, set like a sapphire in the emerald grass of the park, lay a small lake, on the other side of which loomed an ancient rock ruin, like a large grotto, shaded by huge copper beeches. It was, Kate had told her, the ruin of the old Norman keep that had given Bishop’s Keep its name.

  Beatrix smiled happily as she left off admiring the vista and stepped around the carriage to show Pocket which hamper contained Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle. A few days to herself in this lovely, peaceful spot—no Mama constantly complaining at her, no Papa telling her what to do, and her new friend Kate with whom to share confidences. This by itself was all the adventure she needed!

  As Kate stepped out of the carriage after Bea, she realized how glad she was to be at home. She had enjoyed Melford Hall, especially after she had met Bea. But there were a half-dozen projects underway at Bishop’s Keep, not the least of which were the design of a new conservatory and the planting of a garden behind the house, and she was anxious to return to them. And there was her new story to begin, and the business about the Marsden emeralds that she couldn’t quite dismiss from her mind; and the other news she had received from Eleanor, that Sir Charles Sheridan had returned to Marsden Manor and might soon be—

  “Welcome back, Miss Ardleigh.”

  Kate spun around. As if she had conjured him up, there was Sir Charles, dismounting from a bay horse. He was a tall, lean man in his mid-thirties with deepset eyes, regular features, a closely trimmed brown beard, and brown hair curling nearly to his collar. As usual, he wore a shapeless brown felt hat and Norfolk breeches and a brown canvas jacket whose pockets were lumpy with the gear and tackle of an amateur scientist. He had gained a knighthood by taking some sort of photograph of the Queen at her Jubilee. But the honour seemed to matter very little to him, to the point where he always seemed surprised when he was addressed as Sir Charles, as Kate did now.

  “Sir Charles,” she said, trying not to show how pleased she was. “How kind of you to call.”

  “I was on my way to visit the ruins,” he remarked, gathering the reins in his hand, “and saw your carriage. I understand you’ve been at Melford Hall for the week.”

  “Yes,” Kate said, disappointed. Of course he had not come to call, but merely to continue his study of the bats. Eleanor’s remark to the contrary, Sir Charles had no interest in women, and certainly none in her. Science was his mistress. Bea came around the carriage, carrying Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle’s wicker hamper, and Kate turned. “Sir Charles, I would like you to meet—”

  “Miss Potter!” Sir Charles exclaimed, his voice deepening with pleasure. “How very good to see you—and Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle, of course. What brings the two of you to this corner of Essex? I thought you never strayed far from Bolton Gardens. Has your father come with you?”

  Kate was struck with surprise, and surprised even more when she looked at Bea, who had flushed nervously. Clearly Sir Charles and Bea were old friends, and judging from Bea’s blush, she was very glad to see him

  “Oh, dear,” Bea said, so flustered that she nearly dropped the hamper. “Sir Charles! How delightful to see you again! No, Papa has not come with me, I’m afraid. That is. . . I mean—” She stopped.

  “He is not ill, I hope.”

  “No, quite to the contrary.” A dimple flashed in Bea’s cheek, and her plainness was transformed to something close to prettiness. “I fear I have been very naughty, Sir Charles. took leave of Melford without informing Papa or Mama. have not told them that I have come to Bishop’s Keep. Should you happen to see them, I beg you not to give me away.”

  Kate looked from Bea to Sir Charles. “You have been long acquainted?” she asked.

  Sir Charles nodded. “We met through Sir Henry Roscoe. Miss Potter’s uncle and a chemist of distinction. He showed me her drawings of fungi, including one of a clump of Peziza, Aurantia. Most remarkable, I must say. Extraordinarily precise. A very faithful reproduction of nature.” He turned back to Bea. “And I thank you for the copy of your paper on the propagation of mould spores, Miss Potter. I found it quite intriguing. I hope we will have time during your visit to discuss it.”

  “Mould . . . spores?” Kate asked.

  “Indeed,” Bea replied happily, more animated than Kate had seen her. “I have recently been considering lichens, as well, Sir Charles, and I am anxious to have your views on my theory that they are dual organisms, fungi living in close association with algae. Uncle Henry says I should discuss the matter with Mr. Thiselton-Dyer, the Director at Kew.”

  Sir Charles nodded. “I should certainly like to hear your ideas, Miss Potter. But in the meantime—” His eyebrows drew together and his face became sober. “You will no doubt hear the news from your housekeeper, Miss Ardleigh. But perhaps I should set you right on the matter first, so that you will not be overly distressed when you discover that your maid Amelia and the Marsden footman, Lawrence—”

  “Lawrence!” Kate exclaimed, remembering Eleanor’s suspicion. “And Amelia?” Could she be involved in some kind of wretched jewel-robbing scheme?

  “I trust you won’t make it hard for the girl. She and Lawrence meant no great mischief.”

  “I think. Sir Charles,” Kate said grimly, “that you had better tell me exactly what they were up to.”

  An apologetic look crossed his face. “I am afraid,” he said, “that they discovered a dead man.”

  Bea gasped. “A dead man!” Kate exclaimed, forgetting all about the emeralds.

  “Yes,” Sir Charles said soberly, and told them.

  “Oh, how appalling!” Kate cried, clasping her hands. “Poor Agnes Oliver!”

  “You know the widow, then?” Sir Charles asked.

  “I do,” Kate said. “I met her at St Mary’s Church. She has helped me carry on Aunt Sabrina’s work.” Kate was Irish and had grown up in an Irish family, but she had given up attending Mass years before. Under the gentle influence of Vicar Talbot, the Episcopal vicar in the nearby village of Dedham, she had continued her aunt’s practice of giving generously to the support of needy people in the surrounding villages and hamlets. “I must call on Agnes tomorrow,” she said. “How very dreadful! And whatever will the poor woman do to earn a living?”

  “She is to be given a police pension, I understand,” Sir Charles said. “Fifteen pounds a year, and two-and-ten for the child.”

  “This Sergeant Oliver,” Bea said tremulously, “this friend of yours—you said he was murdered. Sir Charles?”

  “I’m afraid so,” Sir Charles said. “The coroner’s inquest was held yesterday. The jury returned a verdict of homicide.”

  “Does Constable Laken yet have an idea why the sergeant was killed?” Kate asked. The death of the constable and the loss of the jewels seemed to her unusually coincidental. Perhaps they were connected. If so, the constable would soon discover it. She pulled herself up short. No, he wouldn’t, for he couldn’t know that Lady Marsden’s emeralds were missing. No one but she and Eleanor—and the thief—knew that. She would send a message to Eleanor immediately and let her know what had happened. Lady Marsden must be told about the theft, and the constable informed. The business was very possibly connected to the murder

  “Laken has been taken off the case and the investigation handed over to some bureaucrat in Colchester,” Sir Charles said. “Some ridiculous political thing, no doubt. Ned’s terribly upset by it, of course, for he was Oliver’s friend. But his hands are tied.”

  “I don’t suppose,” Kate remarked, thinking that Lady Marsden might find
it easier to talk to Sir Charles about the missing emeralds than to the constable, “that your hands are tied.”

  A smile flickered briefly across Sir Charles’s face. “You are right,” he said. “I intend to find out who killed Arthur Oliver.” He went back to his horse and stepped into the saddle, and Kate thought that his eyes seemed to linger on her. “I am sorry to have been the bearer of bad news, Miss Ardleigh, so shortly upon your arrival.” He shifted his glance to Bea with a smile. “I won’t forget those lichens, Miss Potter. We must talk soon.”

  As she said good-bye to Sir Charles, Kate was thinking about Agnes Oliver and her daughter Betsy, and whether they needed help. And Beryl Bardwell—the irrepressible Beryl, whose imagination was fired by even the slightest of mysteries—was deeply intrigued. Why had Sergeant Oliver been killed? What did his murder have to do with the theft of the emeralds? Was Lawrence involved in either, or both? And what of Amelia?

  As Kate turned to go up the stairs to Bishop’s Keep, her mouth firmed. She had work to do. And she knew exactly where to start.

  13

  And so he made off with the rubies and left his sweet love behind, never to be the wiser, never to know why her miscreant lover had flown.

  —HARRIET PAXTON

  The Perjured Heart

  “Amelia,” Kate said firmly, “I am not overly concerned with the impropriety of your leaving the party to walk in the lane with Lawrence. What I am concerned about is the fact of the sergeant’s death, and any connexion Lawrence might have had with it.”

  Amelia’s tear-filled eyes widened. “Lawrence! Oh, miss, there’s no connexion, none! He didn’t even know th’ pore man! He was told later, by Constable Laken an’ Sir Charles.”

  Kate eyed her maid narrowly. She knew Amelia for a truthful girl and a good one at heart. Kate was sure that she was telling the truth. What she could not be sure of, however, was how much of the truth Amelia might not know. Lawrence, with whom Kate was little acquainted, might be very devious and canny. Perhaps he had murdered the constable when he was discovered with the emeralds, then disposed of the body and arranged to stumble on it himself, in the company of an innocent witness. He would thereby avoid all suspicion of guilt.