Death at Gallows Green

by Robin Paige

  Charles spent the next few minutes with his microscope, giving a cursory examination to the grain from each pocket. What he saw both puzzled and intrigued him. The material in each sample—mostly wheat seeds, a few other seeds, and some chaff—appeared to differ substantially from the material in the other two samples. Artie had somehow managed to acquire samples from three different sources. How had he done this? Why? Did this material hold any clue to the reason for his death, or to the identity of his murderer?

  These questions intrigued Charles to such an extent that he spent the next several hours, until well after midnight, performing what he was accustomed to call a “population analysis,” a technique he had developed in his work in paleontology. In studying different rock strata, he had learned that the populations of different organisms varied from strata to strata. The strata could be compared by identifying and counting the organisms. Using the same technique, he carefully sorted the grain, seeds, and other materials—mostly bits of grass and stem. When he had finished and recorded his results, he had a profile of each sample: so many grains of wheat; so many round, brown seeds; so many pointed yellow-green seeds; so many tiny burrs; and so on.

  And when Charles compared the material in each sample to the other two, he discovered something equally intriguing. The grains of wheat from Artie’s breast pocket were fuller and more round than the grains of wheat from his right pocket, while the grains from the left pocket were much darker in colour and heavier. In one sample, there were yellow-green seeds and no burrs; in another, many burrs and no yellow-green seeds. The conclusion was clear. Artie Oliver had carefully filled each of his three pockets with three very different samples of grain: so different, in fact, that the contents of each pocket might have come from a different field, perhaps even a different farm.

  For a moment, Charles stood staring down at what he had found. What on earth was Artie doing with all this grain in his pockets? Where had he got it?

  But the grain yielded no answer, and the longer Charles stared, the less distinctly he saw. And when he finally lay across the bed and fell asleep, he dreamed of Artie Oliver, tramping from field to field, filling his pockets as he went.

  27

  “The rats get upon my nerves, Cousin Ribby,” said Tabitha.

  —BEATRIX POTTER

  The Roly-Poly Pudding

  “I should like,” Kate said to Bea at breakfast the next morning, “to make an excursion. It is time we talked to Mrs. McGregor.”

  “What can she tell us?” Bea asked from the sideboard, where she was serving herself a generous portion of Mrs. Pratt’s scrambled eggs and herring from a silver dish.

  “She is the sister of Tommy Brock. The mysterious Mr. B.” Kate said, spreading marmalade on toast. “She ought to know where he is to be found.”

  Bea added some stewed apples to her plate and sat down at the table. “But what would we do once we have discovered his whereabouts?” She paused, and after a moment, added, uneasily, “Do you intend that we should actually confront the man?”

  Kate added another spoonful of marmalade to her toast. Bea had lived her entire life with a father who oversaw her every move and a mother who continually fretted about her health, and welfare. Seen in that context, her decision to visit Bishop’s Keep, alone and without their permission, had been a brave and daring act. Kate did not want to push her to the point where she might regret her adventure. Beryl Bardwell might be all for bearding the elusive Mr. Brock in his den (wherever it was), but Kate had to take her friend’s nervousness into account.

  “Well, then,” Kate replied, “perhaps we could enlist the aid of Sir Charles.”

  “A capital idea,” Bea said more comfortably. “We can discover where to find this Tommy Brock, and Sir Charles can take the matter from there.” She looked at Kate. “It isn’t that I’m not brave, of course.” She laughed a little. “Or is it? You were brave enough to confront a killer.” Kate had told her about her encounter with her aunt’s murderer. “Perhaps I am simply too timorous.”

  “No, no,” Kate said. “Looking back, I shudder at what I did. It strikes me as incredibly foolhardy now, although at the time it seemed quite necessary.” She busied herself with the teapot. “But I have another idea. What would you say to a nocturnal expedition in addition to our morning excursion? Please say no straightaway if you wish,” she added hurriedly.

  “A nocturnal excursion?” Bea smiled. “Now, that’s something to which I am accustomed. My brother Bertram’s ferret—quite a fascinating creature, really—had been trained by his previous owner to hunt rats. At night, after Papa and Mama had gone to bed, Bertram and I often took Filbert into the alley behind Bolton Gardens so that we might observe his behaviour. Bertram is quite as taken with animals as am I.” Her eyes shone with mischief. “Poor Mama. She would have perished with fear had she known that I went ratting with Filbert and Bertram.” Her face darkened and she shook her head, sadly musing. “Poor Mama indeed. I doubt if she has ever been abroad at night after nine, except to go with Papa to the opera.”

  Kate felt heartened. Bea was not quite the timid person she might appear. “In that case, the excursion I propose might be of interest to you. Its purpose is to observe rats—of a sort.”

  “Of a sort?” Bea raised both eyebrows. “I take it that you are speaking of metaphoric rats. We are likely to encounter criminals?”

  “If things happen as I anticipate, we might observe a certain amount of criminal activity,” Kate conceded, feeling it best to be honest. “I should not expect the criminals to observe us, however. We will be quite safe.”

  Bea finished the last of her eggs and herring, appearing to give the matter careful consideration. When she finally spoke, it was with resolute anticipation.

  “I have learned by experience,” she said, “that it is prudent to wear dark clothing when one goes ratting at night.”

  Their morning excursion began a half-hour later. Kate and Bea drove the gig down sun-dappled Lambs’ Lane and around the corner to the McGregors’ cottage, stopping in front and looping the pony’s reins around the slender trunk of an ash tree. A pair of large grey geese accompanied them to the door, the gander stretching out his neck and hissing with a show of authority, the goose announcing their presence with loud cries,

  With such a noisy escort, they were hardly required to knock. The door was opened by a short, plump woman in a black dress, white apron, and flat white cap. She acknowledged their introductions and invited them into the parlour, a small, tidy room with a vase of daffodils on the mantel and an unlit fire neatly laid in the grate. Not a speck of dust could be seen on the small tables arranged on either side of the old-fashioned green plush sofa; the square window panes were crystal clear; and the flagstone floor was swept clean and covered with a scrap of blue wool carpet. Across the back of the sofa was an odd carriage-rug of a beautifully striped grey fur that Kate could not identify.

  “Oh, that?” Mrs. McGregor replied when Kate asked. “That’s tabby-cat skins, a dozen of ’em.” They had been cured and prepared by her husband, who practiced the trade in the course of his profession as gamekeeper. In fact, all the cats to which these skins belonged, most of them wild, had been caught in the traps Mr. McGregor set for vermin. Mrs. McGregor had matched the skins and sewn them together.

  “I’ve made many a rug of badger skins, an’ ladies’ muffs of fox skins, an’ waistcoats of moleskin f’r gent’lmen,” she said proudly. “Moleskin work is tedious work, though, f’r each little skin is no bigger’n th’ palm o’ yer hand, an’ has t’ be done separate. When ye’ve collected sev‘ral score, there’s th’ sewin’ together, an’ the cuttin’ an’ the linin’.” She stroked the cat-skin rug. “I’d ruther do cats than moles, were it left t’ me.”

  Seeing that Bea was troubled at the thought of so many innocent foxes and moles sacrificed to warm a lady’s hands or a gentleman’s midriff, Kate hurriedly broached their reason for calling. But she did so obliquely, for if Mrs. McGregor knew their t
rue motive for inquiring after her brother, she would never tell them what they wanted to know.

  “I find myself in need of another pair of hands at Bishop’s Keep,” Kate said, giving the reason Bea had helped her invent during their drive to the cottage. “The work will be steady and the remuneration substantial. I am informed that your brother, Mr. Brock, might be the right person for the position. I wonder if you could tell me where I might find him.”

  Mrs. McGregor’s face lighted up with such unabashed delight that Kate felt ashamed of the lie. “Sartin’ly I kin tell ye,” she said. “If ’twer an idle reason I wudn’t, ‘cause Tom Brock is a man wot seeks his privacy an’ niver wants people t’ know where he lives. But steady work, now, that’s different, it is. Tommy ’ud want me t’ jump at it.”

  “Well, then,” Kate said, “where may I call to speak with him?”

  “Behind th’ Pig ’n’ Whistle, in Manningtree,” Mrs. McGregor said. She paused, thinking. “I misdoubt ye’ll find him in t’day, though. Best wait till t’morrow, I’d say.” She smiled guilelessly, showing a broken front tooth. “He’s got a job t’night, as I heard him tell Mr. McGregor. Yes, best wait till t’morrow.” She stood up, obviously eager to please the lady who might be her brother’s employer. “Now, how ’ud ye ladies like a cup o’ tea?”

  When Kate and Bea returned to Bishop’s Keep, Kate dispatched Pocket with word to Sir Charles that Tommy Brock might be found behind the Pig and Whistle in Manningtree.

  28

  To do the bulk of the labourers bare justice it must be stated that there is a certain bluff honesty and frankness among them, which entitles them to considerable respect. At the same time, the labourer is not always so innocent and free from guile. There are very queer black sheep in the flock, and these force themselves, sometimes most unpleasantly, upon the notice of the tenant former and the landlord.

  —RICHARD JEFFERIES

  Hodge and His Masters, 1880

  Charles woke groggily the morning after his midnight session with the microscope. He washed and shaved in the basin of hot water a morose Lawrence brought him, renewed his promise to speak to Miss Ardleigh about Lawrence’s suit, and took himself down to breakfast, which was spread on a sideboard in the morning room. He had removed the top from a silver tureen of hot deviled kidneys and was helping himself when Bradford came into the room, whistling.

  “I’m off to London on the ten o’clock train,” he announced cheerfully. He clapped Charles on the shoulder. “Thanks to you, Mama’s emeralds will be back in her anxious hands this evening.”

  Charles added scrambled eggs and a rasher of bacon to his plate, took a roll from a covered basket, and sat down at the damask-covered table while the butler poured coffee into his cup. After a moment he remarked, not looking up, “I take it from your remark to Miss Ardleigh yesterday that she has consented to your calling.”

  Bradford pulled out a chair and lounged on it, accepting the coffee the butler handed him. “Of course,” he said lazily. “Why should she refuse?”

  Indeed, Charles thought, staring into his plate of kidneys. Why should she refuse? The Marsden estate bordered Bishop’s Keep, the Marsden fortune was substantial, the Marsden name socially prominent, the Marsden heir handsome and debonair . . . Bleakly, he abandoned his fruitless enumeration of the advantages to Miss Ardleigh of a marriage to the Marsden baronetcy and turned his attention to breakfast, while Bradford regaled him with a story he had read in the newspaper of a possible German plot to invade the south of England. A bit farfetched, Charles thought, only half-listening. The Germans might have designs on portions of the Empire, but only if they could lay their hands on them without a great deal of effort. And it was foolish to imagine an invasion of the south when a landing on the East Coast offered a clear way into the industrial Midlands.

  When he had finished eating, he pushed back his plate and brought up the matter which had kept him up so late the night Before. “I would like to have your permission to speak with your estate manager, Marsden. I am in need of some information.”

  “With Carter?” Bradford leaned forward and began to pull grapes off an elaborate pyramid of fresh fruit and flowers in the center of the breakfast table. “Of course, although the old man’s a bit foggy.”

  “He’s been with you for some time?”

  “Since Grandfather’s day. Much of the arable land that is not let has been turned back to meadow to feed Papa’s horses. But we still plant some grain, even though the American wheat imports hold prices down. And of course there are the swine and the dairy, though those operations too are small, in comparison to the old days.” He waved his hand like a man clearing away a swarm of vexing problems. “What kind of information are you seeking?”

  Charles held out his cup to the butler for more coffee. “It has to do with the murder of Sergeant Oliver.”

  Bradford pulled out an elaborately engraved gold watch and consulted it. “I do hope you are not planning to accuse Carter. The man’s too decrepit to have killed anyone—recently, at any rate. And too old to go to jail for it, if he did.” He put the watch back in his pocket.

  “No accusation,” Charles said. “I want to pick his brain about harvest practices hereabouts.”

  Bradford drained his coffee cup and stood up. “Well, dear chap, I don’t profess to know how the harvest might be connected to that wretched murder. But if you think Carter can help, by all means have a go at him. As for me, I am off to London to redeem Mama’s emeralds.” He went to the door and turned. “Eternally grateful, Charlie. You’ve saved me once again.”

  Charles was left with his thoughts about murder, the harvest, and Miss Ardleigh.

  Carter had once been a thickset man with a face the colour of brickdust and whiskers and hair of the same tint. Now, his girth had softened and sagged into belly, his ruddy complexion was lined and faded like a dried pippin too long on the tree, and the fringe of rusty whisker beneath his jaw was streaked with white. He wore a round black felt hat, made in the old broad-brimmed style, an ancient green smock-frock, thick green trousers, and black boots, well-oiled. Charles found him standing at the corner of a field, shading his eyes to look out over a gang of men at work with a noisy, hissing steam plough that turned the dark, rich soil in even rows. The plough was drawn back and forth on a cable strung between two traction engines posted on either side of the field and followed by a crowd of raucous black rooks, searching the turned-up clods for worms and grubs. The old man leaned on a carved oak stick, looking from the ploughmen to the northern sky, and back again.

  “A good day for ploughing,” Charles remarked, when he had introduced himself and mentioned his errand. The sun was bright, the breeze gentle, and the air sweet.

  The old man turned flint-blue eyes on him. “No, ’tant.”

  Taken aback by this gruff reply, Charles asked “Why not? The sky is clear.”

  “No, ’tant,” Carter said again, and gestured toward the north. “See that grey cloud wind‘ard? Th’ glass be fallin’, too. By afternoon, it’ll be dank an’ foggy, an’ termorrer there’ll be rain. Got t’ plough this field an’ the next afore then. Don’t do t’ have th’ steam plough mired in, er th’ men.”

  Charles thought to himself that he preferred the sights and sounds of the horse-drawn ploughs of his childhood, when teams of horses, each with a boy at the head and a ploughman behind at the shafts, moved up and down the field, striping the pale stubble with widths of darker furrows—and with none of the menacing hiss and clanking of the steam plough. But the machinery had its advantages.

  “I suppose the machines have reduced the labour requirements,” he said out loud.

  Carter gave a sharp, sardonic cackle. “So say some,” he replied. “But th’ steam plough don’t work itself. See those two engines? Want a man apiece t’ manage ‘em, an’ another to go wi’ th’ watercart t’ feed the boilers, an’ others wi’ th’ wagon f’r coal. Th’ drill wants men, too—experienced ones—an’ horses t’ draw it, an’ th�
�� horses want men. An’ the threshin’ machine wants a reg’lar troop to feed it.” He shook his head mournfully. “In better days, th’ men an’ horses ‘ud work past midnight, ’til they were too fagged-out t’ walk home. But they cared about gettin’ th’ oats in or rickin’ th’ hay, an’ they cared about doin’ it right, an’ all f’r ten bob a week.” He took out a large pocket-handkerchief and blew his nose. “Now they want four shillin’s extra an’ a cottage free o’ rent.”

  Charles pursed his mouth thoughtfully. “Do you hire the men yourself?”

  “No, worse luck.” The old man pulled out a chipped pipe and applied a match to it. “That’s why they have t’ be watched—so ye know th’ work’s done as ye’d want it. Have t’ rely on bailies like Russell Tod t’ supply th’ labour. Every harvest, he combs th’ country, hirin’ as many as he kin get from th’ villages an’ fillin’ in where he kin’t wi’ navvies an’ gypsies an’ such. He supplies the machines, too. Hires ’em wherever he kin find ’em sittin’ idle.”

  Charles considered for a moment, thinking about his errand and the problem he was trying to solve. Carter’s morose description of the coordinated system used to bring in the harvest had shed a new light on it. “The harvesters, then, are not necessarily local people?” he asked.

  “Happen not.” Carter pulled on his pipe, his face grim. “Nobody wants t’ do field work anymore. ’Tis too hard. Folks’ud rather fly off London t’ hire out as grooms an’ footmen. They make more money cleanin’ rich folks’ boots than farmin’.” He spat. “Among them that are left are a few black sheep, lazy idlers, er worse.” A chaffinch uttered a bold challenge from a nearby hedge and from a nearby copse came the deep hollow bass of the wood pigeon. Carter paused to listen for a moment, then turned back to Charles. “Was it plantin’ ye wanted t’ ask me about?”