by Robin Paige
“You’ll have to ask P.C. Bradley. That’s his business.”
“I will.” Charles finished his tea and stood. “You’ll send word if you hear anything?”
The inspector nodded. His eyes were large and sad, like those of a bloodhound. “I could send it faster with a telephone.”
“No, you couldn’t,” Charles said. “There’s no telephone yet at Marsden Manor. Not likely to be for quite a while yet, either.”
Wainwright looked into his cup, found it empty, and pushed it away with a sigh. “By th’ bye, what d’you hear of Miss Ardleigh?”
“I have a note from her,” Charles said, “asking me to call this afternoon. She seems to be adapting admirably to her responsibilities at Bishop’s Keep.”
“Is that right?” Wainwright replied doubtfully. “Sergeant Battle rather wondered when he heard.”
“Heard what?”
Wainwright’s shrug was eloquent. “That she was seen in a lane just at dark, riding a bicycle.” He paused, and raised his glance. “In the company of Constable Laken. Battle thought there might be something between them.”
“Ah,” was all Charles said, and made his face as blank as the word. But within himself, he felt the stirrings of something that could only be envy.
Ned Laken was a very lucky man.
16
I want to prove that all sections of Society poach. Magistrates, policemen, keepers, farmers if they get the chance. Is in our nature as Englishmen. It is in our Nature to Cop what We Can.
—JAMES HAWKER
A Victorian Poacher
Kate knew Agnes Oliver well enough to have formed a high regard for her, and, added to that, a strong sense of obligation. Gallows Green was one of the nearby hamlets where Aunt Sabrina’s benevolent presence had often been felt. The villagers were for the most part agricultural labourers, and while they did not think of themselves as poor, poor they were, the weekly wage seldom amounting to more than ten shillings. Aunt Sabrina had provided blankets in the winter and garden vegetables in the summer, and clothing and shoes for the children throughout the year. Kate was eager to continue her aunt’s philanthropic work.
“It seems little enough to offer,” Kate had told the vicar, “when I consider how much I’ve been given.” Life had been difficult growing up in her uncle’s household, for Sergeant O’Malley’s wages as a New York policeman never quite stretched far enough to meet the needs of a wife, six children, and a niece. Kate had always expected to work hard for her own living. Finding herself an heiress had been a shock. She was anxious to make use of her legacy in a way that would bring credit to the memory of her aunt, and Agnes Oliver, who knew almost every family in the district, had helped her to do so by identifying those in the greatest need.
So it was that on the morning after their arrival at Bishop’s Keep, Kate and Beatrix took a gingham-covered basket into the gig and set off toward Gallows Green, two miles to the northeast by lane, less by the footpath. The hamlet nestled into the shoulder of a long, gentle slope above the River Stour, the expanse divided by pollarded hedges and stone fences into neat fields. The morning was warm, and the horse chestnut trees on the green in the center of the village were masses of white blossom. The twenty or so cottages, the inn, and a small general grocery shop with a postal office in the rear were ranged in a rectangle around the green. There was no church or school, for these were in Dedham, close by.
At the far end of the rectangle sat the Olivers’ whitewashed cottage with its thatched roof and diamond-paned windows with green shutters, the dooryard bright with foxgloves, irises, and daisies. Agnes Oliver answered Kate’s knock wearing a plain black cotton dress under a grey apron. Her brown hair framed a face that was lined with grief, but she managed a small smile. “It was good of you to come, Miss Ardleigh.”
“I only heard of your loss upon my return yesterday,” Kate said, taking Agnes’s hand in hers. “My dear Agnes, I am so very sorry. I hope you’ll let me do everything I can.”
“Thank you,” Agnes said simply. She stepped back. “Will you come into the kitchen? I’d ask you into the parlour, but—”
Kate understood. Sergeant Oliver’s body would have lain for a time in the parlour, for friends to visit. It would not be a happy place for Agnes for some while.
Kate introduced Bea and they followed Agnes into the small kitchen. An antique eight-day clock with a single hour hand ticked pleasantly in the corner. A braided rug of red and blue rags warmed the stone floor. Six bright oranges were heaped in a blue bowl on the table, and the room was tangy with their fragrance. The kettle was boiling, and while Agnes put tea leaves into a green teapot and added boiling water, Kate set her basket on the table.
“Mrs. Pratt sent biscuits and sweets for Betsy and a pudding and some mutton for your supper,” she said.
“That’s very kind,” Agnes said. She put the teapot on the table, and took three white china cups and saucers from the corner crockery cupboard. She looked up as the door opened and a small girl shot into the room, sandy brows pulled together in a furious scowl. She was wearing a grey sacking shirt and boys’ patched trousers held up by a pair of red braces. Her hair was braided into two tight, carroty braids. At her heels was a small brown collie with alert eyes.
“Betsy,” Agnes said gently, “please. Act a lady. We have visitors.”
Betsy’s scowl deepened. “I’m not a lady,” she said indisputably, “so I can’t act one. Ladies never get their hands dirty. I’m a girl.” And she held out grubby, berry-stained hands to prove it.
“Those,” her mother said distastefully, “are not the hands of a girl. They belong to a ragamuffin boy. Go and wash.” As Betsy went, sighing, to the basin, Agnes added, “You remember Miss Ardleigh from Bishop’s Keep. This is her friend Miss Potter. They’ve brought some sweets.”
Betsy acknowledged the introductions with a nod. “Uncle Ned brought oranges,” she said, making clear where her preferences lay. She washed her hands and dried them on the linen towel that hung under the basin, then sat down on a stool, the collie settling at her feet.
“She’s gone again,” she remarked somberly. “I’ve looked and looked. She’s not to be found.”
“I’m sure she’ll turn up,” Agnes said, beginning to pour the tea. “She always does, you know.”
Betsy looked at Kate, her mouth pulled down, her eyes—a startling lavender blue—intent. “Where would you lay your eggs if you were a duck and you were tired of having them found and carried off?”
“I think I should want a quiet place,” Kate replied thoughtfully. “And if I expected to raise a family, I should certainly want to be clear of cats.”
Beatrix leaned forward. “A duck?” she asked curiously. “What’s her name?”
“Jemima,” the girl said. “Jemima Puddle-Duck.” She looked at Beatrix, her glance giving nothing away. “You like ducks, then.”
“Most decidedly,” Beatrix said. She rose. “If you like, I shall help you search.”
The girl accepted the offer with a neutral shrug. “Well, come along, then,” she said, sliding off the stool. The collie got up. “You stay here, Kep,” she commanded. “Jemima won’t take tupp’nny from you.” To Bea, she said, “Kep’s trained as a tracker, you know. He can track people. He always tracked my father, in fun, of course.” She nudged the collie with her toe, her voice scornful. “But he thinks Jemima is foolish, so he won’t track her.” The dog who refused to track ducks lay back down again with a resigned sigh and watched as the girl and Beatrix went out of the room.
“She’s taking it hard,” Agnes said, with a sad look. “She’s always been her father’s girl, and not much girl at that. Always fancied herself more boy. With his encouragement, too.”
“There’s something to be said for that,” Kate said. “In the long run, Betsy’s spirit of adventure may stand her in good steal.”
“Perhaps,” Agnes said. “But in the short of things, it’s bound to bring her trouble. She needs to learn decent mann
ers if she’s to get work in the world.”
Kate took her cup from Agnes. “Mrs. Pratt tells me that you are to receive a police pension.”
Agnes sat down. “I fear it is in doubt.”
“In doubt?” Kate exclaimed. “But why?”
Agnes bit her lip. “Because,” she said in a low voice, “of what P.C. Bradley found in the shed.”
“Who is P.C. Bradley?”
“The constable from Manningtree who’s looking into Artie’s murder—Instead of Ned Laken, who ought to do. He was here very early this morning. Out in the shed, he found two hares and a net.”
“Two hares and a—” Kate set the cup down hard, and tea slopped into the china saucer. “A poacher’s net?”
“Yes. But it wasn’t Artie’s!” Agnes said passionately. “He never, never brought game for me to cook. It’s no secret that almost everybody in the village takes a hare from the Marsden park now and again, or pheasant. But never Artie. He was proud of being a police sergeant. He was an honest man.”
This was a serious business, Kate knew. The possession of a net was generally taken, de facto, to mean that its possessor was engaged in poaching, which carried serious penalties. If the Police Committee decided that the net and the animals had belonged to Sergeant Oliver, they might well deny Agnes her pension.
“Perhaps someone put the net and the hares in the shed,” Kate said. “Perhaps—” She was interrupted by a knock at the front door. As Agnes went to open it, she sat back, glad that she had not finished her sentence. It was not right to involve Agnes in speculation about her husband’s killer. The poor woman had enough to worry about as it was.
When Agnes came back, Edward Laken was with her, bearing a paper-wrapped parcel.
“Miss Ardleigh,” he said, his grey eyes smiling. “Kate.”
“Hello, Ned,” Kate said. In the past months since her aunts’ deaths, she had come to count Edward Laken as a friend. He was a dependable man, a man of kindness and common sense. He was patient too, even with a novice cyclist who habitually rode her machine into the ditch.
Edward held out the parcel to Agnes. “I’ve brought Artie’s things,” he said, sober-faced. “The police surgeon has done with them.”
“Thank you,” Agnes said. Her face was pale but her voice was steady. “Miss Ardleigh, I’ve gathered together Artie’s clothing. I wonder if you would take it to the vicar. He promised to see that it was distributed to those in need.”
“Of course,” Kate said, and watched as Agnes undid the parcel and took out a bloodstained uniform jacket.
“This can be cleaned and mended,” Agnes said matter-offactly, and laid it aside. “Artie would not want it to go to waste, when others are going cold.” She went through the rest of the parcel until she found a cheap silver-plated watch on a long chain. She fingered it lovingly for a long moment, then searched through the parcel again. “Where is his sovereign?” she asked.
“I don’t remember that he had a sovereign about him, Agnes.” Edward looked uncomfortable. “There were only a few shillings in his pockets.”
“On his watch chain, it was,” Agnes said, holding it out. “Just here. It was his father’s lucky coin, you see, with a nick in the edge. Betsy should have it.”
“I’ll ask after it in Colchester,” Edward said, but he sounded doubtful.
“Perhaps it’s in a pocket,” Kate said. She picked up the jacket and pushed her fingers into a pocket. “Nothing in here but chaff,” she said, pulling it out, “and some grains of wheat. If you’ll give me the other things, I’ll see that the vicar gets them.”
When Agnes had gone up the narrow stairs, Kate turned to Edward. “You’ve heard about the hares and the net?” she asked in a low voice.
Edward’s mouth was taut. “It’s a nasty business, Kate. The committee could deny Agnes her pension.”
Kate was silent for a moment. She could think of two possible explanations for the presence of the equipment and the dead hares hanging in the shed. The things could have been placed there to distract attention from the real crime—the theft of the emeralds, say. But even Beryl Bardwell had to admit that this was unlikely. The other explanation was much more probable.
“Is it possible,” she asked, “that the sergeant discovered a poaching ring? Could that have been a motive for his murder?”
“It could,” Edward said. “Times have been hard these last years. Poached game is free meat. And good money, too. It’s sold by the hundredweight to shops in Londan.”
“Who would know?”
Edward shrugged. “The local farmers, usually. They don’t often tell, however. They hate the gentry for their ruinous game preservation practices. They see poachers as Robin Hoods.”
There was yet a third possible explanation. “Sergeant Oliver himself couldn’t have been involved?”
Edward’s reply was firm. “Not Artie. A man of greater scruple never lived.”
“Well, then,” Kate said conclusively. “We shall have to discover who hung the hares and the poaching net in the shed.” Whether it had been done to conceal another crime, or was connected to the crime itself, the objective was obviously the same. Find the one who did it, and the killer was found.
Edward looked at her. “You must stay clear of this business, Kate. A police officer has been murdered.”
Agnes’s step on the stair kept Kate from replying, but she had no intention of staying clear. Agnes Oliver was her friend.
“Here is the clothing,” Agnes said. “I’ve kept several shirts to make over for Betsy. But the rest of these things should go to the vicar.” She turned to the kettle. “Let me make you a cup of tea, Ned.” She was pouring it when Betsy danced into the kitchen, cradling a white duck in her arms.
“We found her!” Betsy exalted. “Miss Potter discovered her under the cabbages at the back of the garden!”
“And we found this as well,” Beatrix said, holding up a large white egg.
“You’ll let Jemima keep the egg, won’t you, Mother?” Betsy asked anxiously. “She does so want to start a family.”
Agnes took the egg and put it into a basket on the window sill. “I’m afraid not, Betsy. Ducks are very poor sitters. Jemima would never stay on the nest for the twenty-eight days it takes to hatch the eggs, and they would all be wasted. If you want ducklings, we’ll save the eggs and set them under a hen.”
Betsy’s eyes grew stormy but she said nothing. Beatrix was introduced to Edward Laken, Agnes fetched another cup, and while Betsy took Jemima outside, the grown-ups had their tea. When they finished, Kate added the bloodied jacket to the clothing Agnes had brought downstairs, and she and Beatrix prepared to leave.
“You’ll call on me if you need anything, won’t you, Agnes?” Kate asked, taking the other woman’s hand.
“I shall,” Agnes said. “Thank you.”
Edward gave Kate a warning look. “And you’ll remember what I said?”
Kate did not reply. Edward looked as if he were about to say something, then thought better of it. Good-byes were exchanged, Kate put the clothing into the gig, and Beatrix climbed in beside her.
“What did Constable Laken mean by that last remark?” she asked as the pony moved smartly down the lane.
“He meant that I shouldn’t meddle in the investigation into Sergeant Oliver’s murder,” Kate said.
Beatrix turned to look at her. “And are you?”
“Not yet,” Kate said. “But I am very concerned about Agnes.” She told Bea about P.C. Bradley’s find in the Oliver’ shed and the possibility that Agnes might lose her widow’s pension.
“Without the pension, how could she live?” Beatrix asked, in the horrified voice of one for whom money was abundant, even if she herself had little.
“On charity,” Kate said thinly, flicking the pony’s rump with the reins. She could support Agnes and Betsy, if it came to that. But Agnes was a proud woman: She and her daughter would have to be very hungry and cold before she accepted money from a friend.
That was the last that was said of the matter until Kate returned to the gig from the vicarage, where she had left Sergeant Oliver’s clothing. Bea was holding the bloody coat.
“You forgot this,” she said.
“I thought to keep it for the time being,” Kate replied. She climbed into the gig and picked up the reins. “Will you mind if we make one other stop before we start home?”
“Not at all,” Beatrix said. “Where are we going?”
“To call at the McGregors’ cottage,” Kate said.
“Isn’t that where the constable’s body was found?”
“Yes,” Kate said. She lifted the reins and the pony moved down the lane. But when she brought him to a stop a mile or so later, beside the hedgerow, there was no cottage to be seen.
“I thought we were going to call on the McGregor,” Bea said.
“This is their back garden,” Kate replied, getting out of the gig. “I wanted to see for myself the spot where the constable was found, and I thought it inadvisable to announce my presence.” She looked around, trying to visualize what might have happened here several nights ago. The sun was warm on her face and the late morning was bright around her. But inside she felt a dark chill as she conjured up in her imagination the killer’s furtiveness, the fear of being seen, the stomach-turning horror, perhaps, at the savagery of what he had done. The immense weight of the dead man, the snapping of twigs as the body was dragged through the hedge to be abandoned in the com on the other side. And then the hurried escape, the hasty command to the horses, the flight into the darkness, unseen-where?
The bright sun slipped behind a cloud and Kate shivered against the bleak reality of her imaginings.
Where had the killer gone? Where was he now? Was he smugly gloating, knowing that he had so far successfully eluded all the efforts to identify him?
Who was he?
17
The gamekeepers, whose numbers had risen to well over 15,000 by 1895, outnumbered the police in many rural counties. As the elite of the estate employees, they often behaved arrogantly and with little regard for the rights or the tenants. Feared and distrusted by the farmers, gamekeepers were a law unto themselves.
