Death at Gallows Green

by Robin Paige

  Bea looked at Kate, her eyes wide. “Red chin whiskers? It must be Mr. Tod, the bailiff!”

  “And Mister B. might be Tommy Brock,” Kate said. This morning, at breakfast, Mudd had reported to Kate and Bea what he learned at the pub the night before: that Tommy Brock (Mr. B. to his friends) seemed to have access to a large supply of shillings, which was quite remarkable since he had not worked since the last harvest, when he was employed by Mr. Tod. If Betsy were correct in her identification, the source of those shillings might be the pirates or smugglers or whatever they were, of whom Tod was one.

  She frowned. It certainly looked as if Tommy Brock and Mr. Tod might be involved in something illegal—theft or smuggling, or both. But did that mean that they were connected with the death of Sergeant Oliver? And were the two of them involved with the theft of the emeralds as well? Or was that an altogether separate matter, unconnected to this one? And what of Lawrence? What was his role in all of this?

  As Kate and Bea drove on to Gallows Green that morning, they had a long list of unanswered questions to discuss. But their discussion brought them no nearer to a solution.

  22

  A chapter of accidents.

  —EARL OF CHESTERFIELD

  Letter to his son, 16 Feb. 1753

  Eleanor Marsden Fairley was in a dilemma. She had arrived at Marsden Manor the evening before in the company of her husband (the rather dull company of her husband, it had to be admitted). She had come with the full intention of laying her discovery of the theft of her mother’s emeralds before Sir Charles Sheridan, whom she knew to be a man of great logical ability and an acute observer of human nature.

  But this proved to be impossible, for when Eleanor had come downstairs to dinner that night, she learned that Sir Charles had gone to Dedham to spend the evening at the vicarage. Frustrated and feeling that she could no longer carry the knowledge by herself (the guilty knowledge, for she had by this time convinced herself that if she had not accidentally left the safe unlocked, Lawrence would not have yielded to temptation), she took the opportunity to approach her brother, Bradford, after Papa and Mama and Ernest had gone upstairs to bed.

  Bradford, ten years Eleanor’s senior, was an extremely handsome man with large blue eyes, blond hair and side-whiskers, and a charming smile. But the smile and charm were singularly absent just now. He was standing in front of the fireplace in the library, staring at the flames, with his hands in his pockets and a dark, brooding look on his face.

  “I need to speak with you, Bradford,” Eleanor said, “on a matter of great importance.”

  She spoke diffidently. Since the events of the week before, she and Bradford had not been on the best of terms. She had been dreadfully sorry that Ernest had refused Bradford’s request for a loan, because it had seemed quite reasonable to her. But the money was Ernest’s, of course, and Bradford should not be angry with her merely because she had been forced to convey her husband’s refusal.

  But then Bradford had seemed distant and angry a great deal of late. She did not expect him to share his feelings with her, however. The two of them had never been close. They were too distant in age for that, and Bradford had been sent away to school while Eleanor and her younger sister, Patsy, received their desultory and piecemeal education from various governesses. And of course Bradford was a son, the only son, and had always known that he would carry on the Marsden baronetcy and the Marsden traditions. He hadn’t seemed to welcome that responsibility, and for over a decade had resisted his mother’s efforts to find a suitable wife for him. But he must come to his senses soon, Eleanor knew, and seek a bride.

  And if her suspicions were accurate, his choice had fallen upon Kate Ardleigh. Eleanor was sure she was right, for she had seen him look at Kate with speculative interest when they were together. From her brother’s point of view, it would seem a good match: Kate was a lovely woman—a bit old, perhaps, at twenty-seven, but still quite pretty, with all that russet hair—and wealthy enough, now that she had inherited Bishop’s Keep. Her estate bordered the Marsden lands along the north and would extend them considerably. And from Eleanor’s point of view, the match was a romantic one, for Kate was her friend, and an American, and quite the most lively and adventurous woman Eleanor had ever known.

  But it could not be Kate that Bradford was thinking of just now, for there was a fierce look in his eyes and his brows had come together. Love did not make a man look so stem.

  “What is it, Ellie?” he growled.

  “I . . . have discovered something dreadful,” she said. “I should have told Mama or Papa straightaway, but I didn’t, and now I wish I had. But I shall tell you, and perhaps we can decide what to do.”

  Bradford scowled at her. “Whatever are you carrying on about?”

  Eleanor pulled in her breath. “It’s Mama’s emeralds. They’re missing.”

  Bradford stared at her, his scowl deepening. “How do you know that?” he demanded brusquely. “Have you been snooping in her safe?”

  “No, no, of course not,” Eleanor said too quickly. She had not been snooping, exactly, although she admitted to having browsed through Mama’s diamond and pearl cases, admiring the stones that would one day be shared between her and Patsy. “She had loaned the emeralds to me, and I returned all but the tea ring. When I opened the safe to return the ring as well, I discovered that the box was gone.”

  Bradford gave her a sidelong glance. “You did not speak of this to Mama?”

  “No, I. . .” She caught her lower lip between her teeth. She had concealed the truth too long. It was best to confess all, without reservation. “I very much fear, Bradford, that I am at fault.”

  To her surprise, Bradford threw back his head and laughed—not a very nice laugh, at that. “You!” he exclaimed. “Yes, indeed you are at fault, you little goose, grievously at fault. If you had not—”

  But Bradford did not finish his sentence. He was interrupted by the butler, Howard, a tall, haughty man of impeccable speech and dress. He bore an envelope on a silver tray.

  “A telegram for you, sir,” he said, bowing.

  “Thank you, Howard,” Bradford said, and the butler withdrew. Eleanor watched her brother open the envelope and saw his face change, grow even darker than before. Swiftly, angrily, he wadded up the paper, threw it on the fire, and flung himself into an arm chair.

  “What is it, Bradford?” Eleanor asked anxiously.

  But her brother did not answer her, and after a few moments Eleanor quietly stole from the room, leaving him as she had found him, staring into the fire.

  23

  Lord Fawn was always thinking, not exactly how he might make both ends meet, but how to reconcile the strictest personal economy with the proper bearing of an English nobleman. Such a man almost naturally looks to marriage as an assistance in the dreary fight, and he soon learns to think that heiresses have been invented exactly to suit his case.

  —ANTHONY TROLLOPE

  The Eustace Diamonds

  Bradford Marsden felt as if he were poised on the edge of a very high, very steep cliff, with breakers frothing angrily across sharp rocks below, while behind him roared a pack of savage hounds. He could be smashed on the rocks or torn limb from limb. The telegram that had arrived the night before had informed him that Concerto, publicly posted at twenty-five-to-one and privately assessed at two-to-one, had loped last and latest across the finish line. He had exhausted his final fragile hope. Nothing whatever could save him now—unless he could prevail upon his friend Charles.

  Bradford got up from the carved oak desk where he had been staring at his accounts ledger and walked to the French doors opening out onto Marsden Manor’s lovely south park, with its vista of meadow and field and rich woodland. To the right, in the elaborate latticed garden house, he could see his mother and sister directing the servants in the laying of the tables for the garden party that afternoon. A short distance away, complacently observing the activity that was being conducted in honour of his and his wife’s v
isit, stood Eleanor’s stout husband, Ernest Fairley.

  At the sight of Mr. Fairley, Bradford’s lip curled. One would imagine that the scion of Fairley’s Finest Fancy Candies—the well-heeled scion, still quite clearly besotted with love—would be willing to lend a spot of financial assistance to the brother of his dearly beloved, especially if the dearly beloved pleaded prettily. But no. Mr. Ernest Fairley, it seemed, was implacable, even when his wife laid an urgent case before him. He could also quote Shakespeare, and after he had given his no to Eleanor last week to convey to Bradford, he had taken the opportunity of a pause in the dinner table conversation to whisper in his wife’s brother’s ear a piece of avuncular advice from King Lear: “Keep thy foot out of brothels, thy hand out of plackets, thy pen from lenders’ books, and defy the foul fiend.” Mr. Fairley’s counsel had been delivered in great sincerity, Bradford believed, but that didn’t keep him from wanting to whip the fish off his plate and across the very sincere face of his parsimonious brother-in-law.

  The difficulty that Bradford faced, the one he had tried to solve by applying to his brother-in-law, had to do with his mother’s emeralds—the emeralds that Eleanor had discovered missing. They were not stolen, of course. They had been placed by Bradford himself on deposit with the Messrs. Attenborough in Chancery Lane in return for the sum of five thousand pounds, which he had used to answer a margin call on stock he owned in the Paramount Horseless Carriage Company. To no avail, however. Paramount had gone irretrievably defunct, taking with it all of Bradford’s liquid assets.

  Of course, when Bradford purchased the stock, Paramount had seemed to promise a very good return. It had been capitalized the year before, when Mr. Harry Landers, a British entrepreneur, had acquired certain valuable French automotive patents. The company was underwritten by the Bank of England and Wales and the Assurance Trust Corporation, as well as a number of shareholders belonging to the peerage. Bradford’s acquaintances at the Financial News had been quite bullish about Paramount’s potential, for the horseless carriage, they assured him, heralded a very profitable industry which would inaugurate innumerable other industries. A great new era of prosperity was about to dawn upon the land.

  There were, however, several spanners in the works. The motor car was vigorously opposed by factions both in the press and in the Parliament: the pro-steam lobby, for instance; and those who believed that the motor car spelt doom to horses; and those fearful of speeding automobiles running down women and children. In response to these fears, Parliament had passed the Red Flag Act, decreeing a speed limit of four miles an hour in open country and two miles an hour in populated areas and requiring a man to walk twenty yards in front of any vehicle with a red flag. Few people cared to drive a vehicle that had to be preceded by someone on foot.

  And Harry Landers himself was a spanner of a different sort, a blustering, brassy egoist who could not be trusted. Unfortunately, Bradford had discovered this only after his shares in the Paramount Horseless Carriage Company had become worthless, leaving him with nothing except his stock certificates and the pawn ticket from Attenborough & Attenborough.

  And now his mother had become urgent about the damned emeralds, imploring him to restore them by the next day but one, when she was expected to wear them to have her portrait taken. And when he asked her if she thought his father might advance him five thousand pounds to redeem the jewels, her horrified reaction affirmed his own glum perception: that Baron Marsden, president of the Essex Horse Breeders Association, would die before he saw a single Marsden shilling devoted to motor cars.

  This was why Bradford had wagered more than he ought on Concerto. And it was in this context that he had begun to think about marriage. The idea was not new to him: He had been brought up to know that he must assure the continuation of the lineage. But for nearly a decade, he had managed to elude the eligible young women thrust upon him by the machinations of anxious mothers, not to mention those of his own mother on his behalf. He had kept his heart free until now, when it seemed that he must bestow it upon an heiress whose land and fortune would allow him to pursue his investments in the motor car industry. Fortunately, one such lived in the neighbourhood.

  Of course, it was not her fortune or her estate that rendered Kathryn Ardleigh attractive. It was her person: her intelligence, wit, and courage—and the rich abundance of mahogany hair that made her almost beautiful. Still, the fact that she was an heiress added to her natural attractions and made her nearly irresistible, in spite of the fact that she was an American, and Irish—neither of which were likely to sit well with his parents. But he was confident of bringing them around. Marriage to Miss Ardleigh would not pull him out of his immediate predicament nor obviate the need for continued strict economy with regard to his own funds. But they could live quite nicely on her fortune until he came into the Marsden estate and could do what he liked.

  Yes, Miss Ardleigh was the perfect choice. He could only thank Providence for having seen fit to place her so conveniently at hand.

  Now, if he could just resolve the problem of those damned emeralds!

  24

  Englishmen are strange creatures. I doubt if they ever really fall in love; they marry of course; but generally from a prudent motive.

  —MAUD DE PUY

  to her mother, 1883

  Charles opened the door of Bradford Marsden’s study. His friend was standing by the French doors looking out, hands thrust into his pockets.

  “May I intrude?” he asked.

  Bradford turned from the window. “Ah, Charlie,” he said heartily. “Sit down and solve a problem for me, will you?”

  Charles sat down by the fire and put both feet on the fender. “I came to ask you to solve one for me.” He pulled out his pipe. “But let’s hear yours first. What is it?”

  “What else?” Bradford went to the sideboard and poured two glasses of brandy. “Money.”

  Charles wasn’t surprised. Lord Marsden had settled an allowance on his eldest son but it almost never went far enough to support Bradford’s expensive tastes. From time to time, his friend had applied to him for the funds he needed to get him out of a tight place, and Charles had always been glad to oblige. Without exception, the money had been repaid.

  “How can I help?” Charles asked. He took the brandy snifter from Bradford and placed it on the inlaid table at his elbow.

  Bradford sat down in a leather chair and put his booted feet up on a gros-point ottoman. “Lend me five thousand pounds. Interest at the current rate, of course.”

  Charles raised both eyebrows. It was the largest loan his friend had asked of him. As a younger son, Charles had long ago accepted the fact that his elder brother Robert would inherit the bulk of the Sheridan estate and money—as he had, upon the death of Charles’s father several years before. But Charles was not without fortune, for his father had settled a house and an allowance on him, and he had received a sizable legacy from his maternal grandmother. His public status as a second son functioned to keep him single, while his private fortune set him at liberty to enjoy his bachelor existence as an amateur scientist, amateur photographer, and amateur criminologist. Still, he had to live on his income. And five thousand pounds was quite a lot of money.

  Bradford’s face was grave. “I wouldn’t ask you if you weren’t the final resort,” he said. “And this is the last request you’ll have of me.” He swung his feet to the floor and sat forward in the armchair, his eyes lightening. “I’ve decided to marry, Charlie. The woman on whom I have settled my choice is well-established. We should be able to do quite well on her income until I come into the baronetcy.”

  Charles raised his glass. “I thought I’d never live to see the day! Good for you, Marsden! Who is the lucky lady?”

  Bradford stood up. “She is Miss Ardleigh, of Bishop’s Keep.”

  Charles stared, his thoughts turning around a hollow center that had suddenly opened inside him. Bradford and Miss Ardleigh were to be married! But what about Ned and Miss Ardleigh? Had
the woman been engaged in some sort of flirtatious game, playing the offer of one suitor against another?

  But even as Charles asked himself that question, he answered it. He did not know Kate Ardleigh well, and now was not likely to do so. But he knew, at least, that she was not capable of a duplicitous dealing in hearts. He had not seen Ned Laken since yesterday morning. There had been plenty of time for her to honourably refuse one man and accept the other. She was perfectly within her rights to do so—and wise, too, at least as the world would see it. Ned was a very good man, but Bradford was, or would be, a very rich one.

  “I . . . see,” he said. The hollowness within him seemed to echo in his voice, and he cleared his throat. “When will the wedding occur?”

  “As soon as is convenient. I may have taken my time to settle my choice, but now that I know my mind, I do not intend to linger. I plan to make the proposal in the next day or two.”

  “I see,” Charles said again. So she had not yet committed herself.

  “But you may expect the bargain to be struck most expeditiously,” Bradford added. “I have called on the lady once or twice and found her gracious and willing. I know of no other suitors. And of course the match is logical and quite prudent, since our properties adjoin.”

  As if from a distance, Charles heard himself ask, “Do you love her?”

  “Love her?” Bradford sounded surprised, as well he might. It was not a question that one gentleman would ask another. “I don’t know. Haven’t given it any thought. I suppose I will, once we are married. People do, don’t they? Now, about the loan . . .”

  “Consider it done,” Charles said. He covered his feelings by searching in his pockets for tobacco. “I’ll obtain a bank draft for the funds immediately.”

  Bradford’s sigh of relief was almost audible. “Many thanks, old man. You can’t think how you have eased my mind.” He stood and went to the window, looking out on the preparations for the garden party that was to take place on the manor grounds that afternoon. “And Mama’s, although she doesn’t know it yet. I’ll need the money tomorrow, if possible, so I can retrieve her bloody emeralds from Attenborough’s greedy clutches.”