by Robin Paige
“I ask,” she replied gently, “because you have been waiting for some minutes for Miss Ardleigh and Mr. Marsden to emerge from the temple.”
Sir Charles laughed a little. “Come now, Miss Potter, I hardly think—”
“You are quite transparent, you know,” Beatrix said, gaining courage.
The redness that suffused his jaw showed her that she was correct. “Oh, I must say—” he began.
She leaned forward. “Why haven’t you told her?”
He paused. “Because there isn’t anything to tell,” he said. Then he stopped, considering. When he spoke again, his tone was straightforward and direct. “That is a lie,” he said. “I have not spoken because there are other claims on the lady’s affections. They take precedence to mine.”
Beatrix, had been about to drink from her glass. Now she set it down, surprised by his use of the plural. “Claims? Miss Ardleigh has suitors other than Mr. Marsden and yourself?”
The sudden flicker of pain in Sir Charles’s eyes raised him in Beatrix’s esteem more than a thousand scientific discourses might have done. He could deny his feelings to himself or hide them from others, but he obviously felt them deeply.
When he spoke, his voice was gruff. “She has not mentioned . . . Edward Laken?”
“Only in passing,” Beatrix said. She frowned. “But we are not so intimate that we have shared all our secrets.” She looked up. “Please forgive me for probing,” she said quickly. “I am sure it is quite forward of me, but I only wish your happiness, and hers. And forgive me when I say that I truly fail to see why you should take it upon yourself to decide which claim should be preferred. I have always understood that decision. Sir Charles, to be the prerogative of the lady.”
He turned his glass in his hands. He did not look at her, but Beatrix could sense his deep unhappiness. “The other gentlemen are close friends of mine.”
“I see.” Bea picked up a pansy that had fallen from the crystal bowl. The delicate purple and yellow petals had always looked to her like children’s faces, and she pressed it to her lips. “Yet I still feel that you must press your own claim.” She glanced obliquely at him. “To be fair to the lady, that is to say. What if she should prefer you to the others?”
Sir Charles sat still for a moment, as if he were weighing what she had said. A shadow crossed his face. Then his mouth lifted in an attempt at a smile and he placed his hand over hers in a gesture of intimacy that both surprised and gratified Bea.
“Thank you, Miss Potter, with all my heart. I value your advice most highly, although I fear that it cannot alter my intention. I trust you will safeguard my secret?”
Hesitant, aware that she was transgressing the bounds of propriety, she tried once more. “I cannot persuade you to declare yourself?”
His hand tightened over hers. “You must promise not to speak of this to Miss Ardleigh.”
She pulled in her breath. “Really, I—”
“You must promise, Miss Potter.” His voice was light, as if he were joking, but sharply intent. “This secret must remain between us. Otherwise, not another confidence you will worm out of me.”
She sighed. “Oh, very well,” she said crossly. “But I—”
“Thank you,” he said, and a smile lighted the depths of his brown eyes. He released her hand with a satisfied nod. “Now, what were we saying about lichens?”
In the temple, Bradford Marsden used his silver-topped walking stick to direct Kate’s attention first to the splendid stainedglass windows (“the work of William Morris, from a Burne-Jones design”), then to the richly detailed wainscoting, then to an antique marble cherub imported from Florence. But while she appreciated his commentary on the temple’s art, her thoughts were with the couple they had left. She desperately wanted to talk to Sir Charles, and she was afraid he might leave before she returned. As quickly as she could, she made an excuse to go back.
“Of course,” he said. He turned toward the door. “But grant me one favour first, please.”
“And what is that?”
His eyes were on hers. “That you will allow me to call upon you in the next few days, Miss Ardleigh.”
Kate was not easily taken aback, but Mr. Marsden’s question caught her unprepared. The man seemed to be asking permission to court her. But that was impossible! As a prospective member of the peerage, he was obligated to make a choice that would please Society. And while she enjoyed his friendship, he was not at all the kind of man she would consider marrying. On neither side was it a match.
“To call?” she repeated slowly. “But Mr. Marsden, I—”
“My dear Miss Ardleigh.” His smile was confident, self-assured, and almost (but not quite) surprised. “I trust you do not object?”
She hesitated, even more sure (and even more astonished at the thought) that he meant to court her. “Really, Mr. Marsden, I don’t think—”
A shadow darkened the door and a cultivated voice said, “Miss Ardleigh, Mr. Marsden! How nice to see you worshiping the gods of the garden.”
The speaker was Vicar Barfield Talbot, a stooped, leathery old man with a mane of silvery hair, a silver mustache, and an ebullient energy that belied his seventy-plus years. He was carrying a champagne glass in one hand and a white lily in the other. He had obviously been enjoying both the refreshment table and the garden.
“Ah, vicar,” Bradford Marsden said dryly. “Good afternoon.” He turned aside, but the vicar, a friend of Kate’s, had more to say. It was several moments before she could manage to interrupt the old man’s flow of words and pull herself and Mr. Marsden away.
As they left the temple, Mr. Marsden put his hand under her elbow. “Since you have no objection, I shall call,” he said. Before Kate could reply, he added, “The sooner the better, I think. I have business in London tomorrow. Shall we say, the day after that?”
Kate nodded. She could hardly tell him here that she did not wish to be the subject of his attentions. She would have to tell him when he called. Or perhaps she was imagining the whole thing. Perhaps his call was a purely social visit. Perhaps he meant to bring Eleanor, although he had not mentioned doing so.
Mr. Marsden cleared his throat. “There is another matter I wish to clarify with you,” he said, somewhat stiffly. “It has to do with something my sister told you. About my mother’s emeralds.”
“She mentioned to me that she had discovered them missing and feared them stolen,” Kate acknowledged. “This afternoon, she told me that she had been mistaken, but she did not explain.”
“Yes,” he said. “Ah, yes.” He twirled his walking stick, not quite meeting her eyes. “Well, y’ see, the clasp on the necklace was broken, and Mama asked me to have it repaired for her while I was in London on business. I took it to a jeweler, and that’s where it is. I will retrieve it tomorrow when I go up to London.”
The clasp might well have been broken. But why had that necessitated the removal of the other pieces in the set? Still, if Eleanor were satisfied, she must be, as well. And the matter clearly was not connected with the murder of Sergeant Oliver.
“I see,” Kate said quietly. “I am most gratified to hear that it was merely a misunderstanding.”
Mr. Marsden’s voice was hearty and his eyes, when he turned them on her, guileless. “Nothing at all of consequence, I assure you,” he said. “Poor Eleanor has suffered the pangs of self-reproach quite unnecessarily. And now shall we join the others?”
A moment later, Bradford Marsden seated her at the table beside the holly bush. “I shall look forward to our conversation,” he said meaningfully. He smiled at Bea and nodded to Sir Charles, then walked jauntily away, turning his stick between the fingers of one hand.
Kate was acutely aware that Bea and Sir Charles were watching her. “I am pleased to see that you are still here,” she said to Sir Charles. She coughed slightly, to cover her embarrassment at Bradford Marsden’s last remark. “Mr. Marsden and I were waylaid by the vicar, and were gone rather longer than I had expected.�
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Sir Charles signaled a footman and obtained a glass of lemonade for her. “I assume that the information you have for me has to do with Sergeant Oliver’s murder,” he said. There was a certain wryness in his tone, as if he were remembering that he had directed her to stay out of the affair.
Kate glanced at Bea. “You have not told him of our discovery?”
Bea shook her head. “We had something else to talk of. Anyway, I thought you would wish to tell him.”
Kate leaned forward. “We have learned of a curious nocturnal activity at a place called Highfields Farm,” she said, “about a half-mile from Gallows Green, just above the river. Our informant is Betsy Oliver, who witnessed it.”
Sir Charles frowned. “Ah, yes, Betsy. An adventuresome child. One might expect her to rove about at night.” His frown deepened. “What kind of activity? When?”
“Two nights before the sergeant’s murder,” Kate replied. “Five men drove a wagon from Highfields barn down to the river, where they removed a number of sacks from the wagon to a boat. According to Betsy, one of the men was called by the name of Juan. Another was called Mr. B.—the familiar name, I am told, of Mr. McGregor’s brother-in-law, Tommy Brock. Betsy also described a third, who sounds very much like Mr. Tod, a local bailiff who organizes the crews that travel from farm to farm at harvest and planting time.”
“We thought they might be pirates,” Bea put in excitedly, “Or smugglers!”
“But smugglers usually move goods into the country,” Sir Charles said, “to avoid the tariff.”
“Yes,” Kate replied. “The question is, what were they doing? And what is the connexion between their activity and the death of Sergeant Oliver?”
“Precisely,” Sir Charles said. “And you suspect that the poaching—”
“Might be merely a device to divert attention from the real crime to something else. A red herring, as it were.” Kate sipped her lemonade. “How did Constable Bradley come to discover the poaching equipment and the animals in the Olivers’ shed?”
“It was a tip, an unsigned letter.” Sir Charles looked at Kate, his eyes intensely bright. “A red herring,” he said thoughtfully. “Indeed, Miss Ardleigh, you could be right.”
“If I am,” Kate reflected, “then it is of vital importance to discover the writer of the unsigned letter. Were you able to examine it?”
“I was,” Sir Charles said. “I was also able to make a copy.”
“A copy!” Bea clapped her hands. “How fortunate!”
“It would seem, then, that we are pursuing the wrong quarry with this poaching business,” Sir Charles said. “A quite different scheme is afoot. But I should tell you that the murder has nothing to do with stolen emeralds, which have turned out not to be stolen at all.”
“So I am informed,” Kate said. She looked at him. “It seems that Mr. Marsden has taken the necklace for repair. Is that your understanding?”
Sir Charles coughed. “Something of the sort,” he said.
It was obvious to Kate that Sir Charles had a different idea about the emeralds, but she did not pursue it. “Well,” she said, “if poachers are not our quarry, who is?”
“I have not the slightest idea,” Sir Charles said. “Perhaps you would agree to examine the copy of the letter Constable Bradley received and give me your opinion on the matter.”
Kate looked at him, her head to one side. Was it possible that he was actually taking her seriously? Then perhaps he would be willing to listen to her other ideas.
“I would indeed,” she said. “And there is an additional matter to consider. I wonder if you examined the sergeant’s jacket—the one he was wearing when he was murdered.”
“Yes,” he replied, “in a rather cursory way. I recall that there was a small amount of grass seed intermingled with the dried blood on the front of the jacket, around the entry wound. There was no grass at the site where the body was found. It would appear that the sergeant fell face down onto a grassy area and lay in that position for some little while before he was moved.”
“Did you look in the pockets?” Kate asked.
“I did not.” He looked at her. “I suppose, from the tone of your voice, that you have done. But how did you come into possession of Artie’s coat?”
“Agnes gave it to me, together with her husband’s other clothing, to deliver to the vicar. I kept the coat, however, thinking that there might be more to learn from it. Perhaps if you were to examine the contents of the pockets under a microscope—Do you happen to have a microscope with you on this visit?” He had mentioned at one point that he usually traveled with a microscope.
“I do.” Sir Charles pushed back his chair and stood. “I shall dispatch Lawrence with the copy of the letter this evening, and he can fetch the coat to me.”
“Thank you,” Kate said, standing also, and feeling a deep satisfaction. She had come today feeling that she might have to force Sir Charles to listen to her ideas. She was leaving with the sense that he had not only heard them with respect, but welcomed and valued them highly.
Bea got up. To Sir Charles, she said, oddly, “It has been a revealing afternoon.”
“Indeed.” Sir Charles held her glance for a moment. “You will remember your promise?”
“Yes,” Bea said. But from the look on her face, Kate guessed that she was not pleased by the pledge which Sir Charles had extracted from her, whatever it was.
26
In the last half of the nineteenth century, a wave of investigative curiosity broke over the world, a need to examine, to weigh, to measure, to know, definitively. This new vision slowly began to affect methods of detection and the new science of criminology. When Sherlock Holmes employed a magnifying glass to scrutinize a flake or latakia tobacco discovered on the Smyrna rug in the Boscombe Valley Affair, and spoke of having written a little monograph on 140 varieties of tobacco ash, he was not just speaking as a fictional detective. He was a proponent of the scientific method in the investigation of crime.
—MARTIN DILISI
“Science and the Detective”
Lawrence must have hoped that his trip to Bishop’s Keep would serve more than one purpose, for when the valet returned that evening, he was deeply perturbed. Charles, who was clearing off the small table in his bedroom where his microscope sat, smiled a little.
“You have seen the fair Amelia, I suppose?”
Lawrence held out a brown-paper parcel. “Hit don’t bear talkin’ about, sir,” he said with dignity.
Charles took the parcel, regretting that his question had been so lightly and unfeelingly phrased. “Were you prevented from seeing her?”
Frustration was written across Lawrence’s face, mixed with disappointment. “Hit’s the ’ousekeeper,” he growled. “Missus Pratt. She don’t want Hamelia seein’ me.”
“On account of what happened the last time you were together?”
Lawrence’s lip curled slightly. “On haccount o’ Missus Pratt’s a narrow-minded ol’ misery wot cares more f’r happearance than f’r wot’s true.”
“I know Mrs. Pratt a little,” Charles said. “My impression is that of a woman intent on doing her duty. Perhaps if I spoke with her. or better—” He paused, considering. “Or better, with Miss Ardleigh. Under the appropriate circumstances, there might not be any objection to your seeing the girl. With supervision, of course.”
Lawrence shook his head sadly. “No disrespect, sir,” he said, “but ‘ow wud ye like t’ do yer courtin’ wi’ some sharpeyed ol’ woman lookin’ on, allus tellin’ ye t’ mind where ye put yer ’ands?”
Charles sighed. He was not likely to be doing any courting at all—at least, not in the immediate future. Miss Ardleigh seemed to have a surfeit of suitors. But Lawrence’s point was well-taken. “I’ll see what I can do,” he said.
Lawrence thanked him and was leaving the room when Charles thought of something and called him back. “Do you happen to know Tommy Brock?” he asked. “The brother-in-law of McGregor., the assi
stant gamekeeper?”
Lawrence’s face grew dark. “Ol’ Tommy? Sure I know ’im.’Ee’s a bugger, is Tommy. Ye don’t want t’ run afoul of ’im on a dark night.”
“Is that right?” Charles asked with interest. “What can you tell me about the man?”
What Lawrence could tell, it turned out, both was and was not material to the matter at hand. He and Tommy Brock had been acquainted before Lawrence came to work at Marsden Manor, when he was a man-servant in the home of a certain Mr. Dalton, a wealthy ship owner in Manningtree. Tommy Brock was an agent in Dalton’s shipping business. He was given to gambling at cards and had covered his losses from Dalton’s receipts. When the money was discovered missing, however, there was not sufficient evidence to take him before the magistrate, so he was discharged with a stem warning. He had remained in the area, doing whatever work he could find and applying frequently to his sister for assistance.
“Do you know where he lives?” Charles asked.
Lawrence shrugged. “Mayhap McGregor knows. Or Mrs. McGregor. Or ye might ask after ‘im at th’ Live an’ Let Live on a Sattidy night. ’Ee’s usually there.”
When Lawrence had gone, Charles laid the parcel on the bed and opened it. Inside, neatly folded, was the jacket Artie had been wearing when he was shot, the bloodstain on the front left breast still matted with seeds and what looked like bits of grass stem. But when Charles scraped off a sample and looked at it under the microscope, he saw that what he had taken to be grass stems were the broken pieces of thick, golden stems of wheat. The seeds were most certainly threshed grains of wheat.
He went back to the jacket to investigate further. There were pockets, one on each side and one on the right breast. When he carefully turned each one out onto a sheet of paper, he found a great deal more grain: so much, in fact, that he could only conclude that it had not got into the pockets when Artie was shot and fell to the ground. It looked as if Artie had deliberately scooped a handful of grain into each pocket. Why would he do such a thing? What was there about the grain that made it worth keeping?
