“Chief Inspector!” he said. “So very good to meet you! Leonard Parkinson!”
Lamb had the feeling of fending off a friendly though slightly frantic terrier. Although Parkinson could not have been more than five feet, four inches tall, he possessed the grip of a stevedore. Here was Pembroke indulging in the modern, Lamb thought. Parkinson possessed the glad-handing openness of an American on the make. The people from whom Pembroke had sought to distance himself likely saw Parkinson as a kind of thumb in the eye.
“Lord Pembroke is eager to meet you,” Parkinson said. “He finds this business with Mr. Blackwell absolutely a horror and is willing to help in any way he can.” He gestured toward the back of the house. “Lord Pembroke is waiting for you in his wildflower garden.”
Parkinson led the way through French doors at the rear of the house that gave onto a slate terrace fronting wide marble stairs that descended to a trim lawn about twenty meters wide and a hundred meters long that sloped toward bluffs above the sea. The central feature of this manicured space was a circular fountain perhaps ten feet in diameter that was topped by a bronze mermaid perched upon a rock. Either side of the lawn was bordered by a trimmed box hedge roughly five feet high; along the hedge, spaced every twenty or so feet, were marble benches at the ends of which sat cherubs strumming lyres.
Lamb followed Parkinson along the hedge until they reached a place in which the hedge opened, through an arch, onto one of the most singular and striking private gardens Lamb had ever seen. The garden was roughly fifty meters long and thirty wide; in nearly every square inch, wildflowers grew among delicate-looking bushes that sprouted a profusion of many-colored blossoms. The space was absolutely alive with bees and butterflies flitting among the blooms. A narrow, S-shaped flagstone path led through the blooms to an oval-shaped patch of lawn at the center of the garden; at the center of this green space, Jeffrey Pembroke sat at a black wrought-iron table that was set upon a circular patio of smooth stone, reading a book, a white canvas hat atop his head. At the center of the stone terrace was a sapphire tile mosaic of a butterfly with wings four feet wide. Pembroke was dressed in the Bloomsbury style: a pair of khaki cotton trousers, a green open-necked cotton shirt, and open-toed leather sandals. Pembroke seemed so lost in his reading that he failed to notice their arrival.
Parkinson cleared his throat. “Inspector Lamb has arrived, Jeffrey,” he said.
Lamb was surprised to hear Parkinson refer to Pembroke by his Christian name rather than his title. Pembroke looked up from his book—Lamb could not quite read the title—in a way that suggested that someone had just tapped his shoulder to awaken him. He took a second to focus on Lamb and then grew animated. He stood and offered his hand in greeting. “Welcome, Chief Inspector,” he said. “How nice of you to come.”
Pembroke possessed a high forehead, thinning sandy hair, a long aristocratic nose, and elegant fingers. He was long-armed and long-legged. “I see that you’ve already made a friend, Chief Inspector,” Pembroke said. “Have a look at your shoulder.”
Lamb found a tiny butterfly perched on his left shoulder. Its indigo wings moved once—almost as if it were acknowledging Lamb’s sudden awareness of its existence—then became still. He found it beautiful.
“The Large Blue,” Pembroke said. “Rather a strange name, given its size, I know. I’m afraid it’s becoming quite rare. But we’ve managed to attract a few around here, mainly by constructing the right kind of habitat. I’m not certain you realize how lucky you are, Chief Inspector.” He smiled. “I know lepidopterists who gladly would trade their first-born children for the chance to experience what you are now experiencing.”
Despite its beauty and apparent rarity, Lamb hoped the butterfly didn’t decide it liked his shoulder. He didn’t want to swat it away, given its supposed rarity and Pembroke’s clear affection for it. He settled for blowing the tiniest of breaths at the thing, which caused it to rise and return to the surrounding forest of flowers.
Pembroke gestured for Lamb to sit.
“Are you a collector, my lord?” Lamb asked.
“No. Were I a collector, I would have had my net on the thing, rare or no. True collectors, despite their protestations to the contrary, are never conservationists. They’d take the last grain of sand in the world for their collections if the need and opportunity presented itself. I enjoy butterflies simply for their presence in the world and their beauty. I find them calming, don’t you?”
“I suppose so,” Lamb said.
“It’s something to do with that rather self-possessed knack for stillness they possess, I suspect. And by the way, you needn’t worry with the ‘my lord’ business. I’m not that impressed with myself, despite appearances to the contrary.”
The remark caught Lamb off guard—it suggested that Pembroke had successfully read him even as he was reading Pembroke.
Pembroke turned to Parkinson. “Could you fetch us some tea, please, Leonard?”
Parkinson nodded and smiled. “Right away,” he said and disappeared through the arched portal in the hedge.
Pembroke sat back in his chair and tented his fingers. “Now then, Chief Inspector,” he said. “How can I assist your inquiries?”
“I read the chapter in your book on Will Blackwell’s boyhood encounter with the black dog and the subsequent whisperings about his practicing witchcraft. Also, the manner of his murder very much mirrors that of Agnes Clemmons, the milkmaid, even down to the use of the pitchfork and scythe. I was hoping that you might provide a bit of perspective on that. How likely is it that these superstitions have persisted in the rural places?”
“You’re right, of course. Blackwell’s murder is similar to that of Agnes Clemmons, though in the earlier case the victim’s connection to witchcraft existed only in the killer’s head. I’ve uncovered no evidence—nor did the police at the time—that Clemmons practiced witchcraft.”
“Does it appear likely to you that someone might have killed Blackwell because they believed him to be a witch?”
“It’s a possibility, I suppose, though a much more remote one today than it would have been when Miss Clemmons met her end. Still, Blackwell’s killing had several obvious hallmarks of the vanquishing of a witch.”
“Do you mean the cross gouged into his forehead?”
“No—that’s rather too obvious, actually. Even someone who knew nothing of witchcraft but was motivated by religious fervor might have gouged the sign of the Lord into what he considered an evil body. No—the cross is rather too much like the vampire stories. I’m speaking of the pitchfork in the neck. If our man did kill Blackwell because he believed him a witch, he might have run the pitchfork into Blackwell’s neck for a couple of reasons.”
“Such as?”
“Some occult legends say that the blood of a vanquished witch must be drained away and the body firmly secured to the killing spot, lest the spirit of the witch rise again. The pitchfork in the neck would accomplish both of those.”
“What do you think of the notion that someone who is not in the least mad or motivated by religious fervor—but wanted it to appear that way—might have convincingly pulled this off?” Lamb asked.
“Well, they obviously would need to know at least a little something about the lore of witchcraft, which they could achieve, of course, with a little reading. I would have to ask, in turn, whether someone who was out to kill Mr. Blackwell for more prosaic motives would have thought to bother with so many macabre touches. I’ll leave it to you to decide whether someone motivated to kill for commonplace reasons would have gone to the trouble this killer obviously has. If you are asking for my opinion, I’d say the crime points to someone with a very diseased mind—although his disease might not be readily apparent.” Pembroke leaned back in his chair again. “Might I be allowed to play the role of amateur psychologist?” he asked.
“Please do.”
“Well, if the killer is mad, his lunacy could nonetheless be hidden from the general run of humanity. But for that t
o be so, the man would have to enjoy little intercourse with the rest of the world, given that such a deep disturbance of the mind couldn’t be entirely cloaked. Given that, if your killer is a madman, I would guess that he is a loner or hermit, someone who exists without spending too much time in the general hustle and bustle of life. I don’t believe, for example, that he’d likely be a publican—just to take an example—or an estate agent.” Pembroke smiled. “Or a police detective.”
Lamb nodded and returned a smile of lower wattage. “Yes,” he said. “I believe you’re right.”
“Just a thought,” Pembroke said. “I doubt if it’s of much help in the end.”
“On the contrary,” Lamb said. “It’s quite helpful. Such a man could very well be a farmer—someone who might live and prosper, if he so chose, having little contact with the larger world, as Blackwell himself apparently did.”
A maid arrived with the tea. Pembroke thanked her; she bowed slightly and departed silently. Pembroke prepared a cup to Lamb’s specifications—no milk and one cube of sugar. The sugar bowl and creamer were full and the tea was something flavored and scented that Lamb had never before tasted.
“Did you know Will Blackwell?” Lamb asked.
“I didn’t really, I’m afraid. I tried to talk to him when I was writing my book but he refused to speak with me. I had to rely on the testimony of others—the local folklore, if you will—in order to write the chapter on him. I’m afraid my including his story in the book upset him. I’ve always been sorry about that; I hadn’t meant for that to happen.”
“Do you believe the story that he encountered some sort of ghost dog on Manscome Hill?”
Pembroke smiled again. “You might find this strange, Chief Inspector, but I don’t believe in ghosts. When I wrote the book, I was merely interested in the occult as a natural outgrowth of the human experience with the world, of our need to explain the irrational. Not to bog us down in metaphysics, but what role, after all, does religion play in our lives save to explain the irrational?”
“Do you remain interested in the occult?”
Pembroke placed his cup on his saucer and then dabbed his lips with a napkin.
“No,” he said. “The subject was a passion of my youth. But a time eventually arrived in my life when I realized that my interest in witchcraft and the occult was just that—a fancy. I realized that I had ‘other fish to fry,’ as the Americans say. The persistence of poverty and the barriers of class concern me very much. Ending those has become my central concern.”
Around them, a dozen butterflies of various hues and sizes fluttered, instinctively searching for the nectar that compelled them to take wing. Lamb needed a fag. He rummaged in his pocket and found the butterscotch. He withdrew it and, feeling sheepish, offered one to Pembroke, who declined it with a smile and said, as if he’d read Lamb’s mind, “You’re perfectly welcome to smoke, Chief Inspector.”
Lamb smiled. “I’m trying not to.”
Pembroke nodded. “I understand. Isn’t it funny how the worst habits always are the most difficult to shed?”
“Very true.”
“Anyhow, as I was saying, what we do here is not much, in the end, but it’s something,” Pembroke continued. “That, I think, is the lesson I’ve taken from it all—that you do what you can. There is nothing else, really. I realize, of course, that given the circumstances of my birth, I’m able to do more than most. But I’d hate for you to come away from our chat thinking that I understand the genesis of those privileges to be, at bottom, the result of anything beyond the sheer, blind luck of my birth. That said, one can be given the opportunity and resources to perform good works and waste them. I like to believe that I haven’t wasted mine.”
“I understand you have a boy living on the estate who once had been one of the orphans who visited Brookings. He apparently knew Will Blackwell and occasionally spent some time with him, sketching insects. Several people in Quimby mentioned him.”
“Peter Wilkins—yes,” Pembroke said. “He first came to us five years ago, when he was in the care of the orphanage, then stayed on. He’s a special case, Chief Inspector—a kind of genius, really. The medical term for people like Peter is idiot savant. They have a tremendous amount of trouble understanding and navigating the world. Peter is extremely shy and rarely speaks, for example, even to me. But these people often possess, as a kind of balance, a rare talent at something. Many of them, for example, possess musical or mathematical genius. Peter’s genius is as an artist. His favorite subject—his only subject, really—is insects, which he paints and sketches in the most exquisite ways. In my opinion and in the opinion of some others, Peter’s renderings of insects rival those Audubon created of birds. A publisher friend of mine in London arranged a couple of years ago to publish some of his renderings in a book, which sells quite well among lovers of insects. The problem with Peter, of course, is that he is incapable of producing any worthwhile or meaningful research or findings to accompany his work. He neither reads nor writes. It’s nothing save the art, but the art is beautiful and valuable in its own right. Frankly, I didn’t know that he knew Blackwell, though it doesn’t surprise me that he did. He has the run of the estate and wanders off it when it suits him.”
“When does it suit him?”
“When he is searching for the subjects of his art, particularly butterflies, which are the center of his life. He makes an annual count of them in and around the estate every summer. It’s all very detailed and rather obsessive. He keeps in sketchbooks excruciatingly detailed records, consisting of drawings and renderings of what he finds each year. This need to tote things up is part of his disorder. Peter is comfortable only when he is allowed to follow an ironclad routine and brooks no effort to disturb it. He can become angry if he perceives that you intend to prohibit him from following his routine.”
“He sounds difficult,” Lamb said. “Was it his genius, then, that prompted you to adopt him?”
“I haven’t adopted him. He is merely a resident on the estate. When I first met Peter I could see that he was special but that his disorder would not allow him to make his way in the world. At the time, I discussed his situation with the director of the orphanage and we agreed that he might do best here, on the estate, rather than cooped up with the other children. He doesn’t relate to other children—or most people, really. He is sixteen now and comes and goes pretty much as he pleases. He lives in what was once a small summerhouse on the estate, by the sea, which I had converted for his use. He lives there and has his studio there, though he comes and goes from the house, as he needs. I’m afraid he will never be able to go out into the world as a normal person would.”
“Do you intend to keep him here, then?”
“If he wants to stay, yes. If he doesn’t, I’m confident he will make that known to me. At that time, we’ll have to make other arrangements for him. But he seems happy here. Allowing him to stay is no burden; Peter is no burden, despite his handicaps. In fact, he is probably less of a burden than a normal sixteen-year-old boy would be. Mostly, he dwells in his own private world.”
“Do you find it unusual that he struck up a friendship with Blackwell? Apparently, he sometimes sat with Blackwell as Blackwell worked in the fields around the village.”
“It does surprise me, yes, though I suppose it’s possible that Peter found Blackwell less threatening than he finds most people. From what I knew of him, Blackwell was a loner and a bit of an outcast. His quiet nature might have made Peter feel at ease. When most people meet Peter, they normally try either to assist or bully him, depending on the quality of their character. Either way, they demand something of him, which Peter resists. But I suppose Blackwell might have merely accepted Peter’s presence.”
“Is Peter now in the midst of one of his butterfly counts?”
“Yes.”
Lamb produced the drawing of the spider and the bird he’d found at Blackwell’s cottage. “Is this Peter’s work?” he asked.
Pembroke
studied the drawing. “Yes,” he said. “The quality of it is unmistakable.” He looked at Lamb. “Where did you get this, if I may ask?”
“I found it in a toolshed behind Blackwell’s cottage, lying on what I believe was a kind of black-magic altar—an apple crate upended upon which someone had burned some candles. I also found a chicken with its throat cut lying nearby. A local man claims the chicken was stolen from him.”
Pembroke nodded, a grave look in his eyes. “I see,” he said.
“Have you any idea what the chicken was supposed to represent?”
“Well, it sounds like voodoo, some kind of blood sacrifice.”
“To who—or what—exactly?”
“I’m afraid I couldn’t say.”
“Can you venture a guess as to the meaning of the drawing?”
Pembroke looked again at the sketch. “I don’t know, Chief Inspector,” he said. “I wish I could be more help. I can tell you, though, that Peter doesn’t often draw spiders. Though as you can see, he can draw them beautifully.”
“Blackwell apparently liked birds and even told his niece that he was able to communicate with them. Is it possible that the bird represents Blackwell?”
“It might,” Pembroke said. “But it might be anything, really.”
“Is Peter capable of subduing a man such as Blackwell?”
Surprise animated Pembroke’s face. “Certainly you don’t believe that Peter might have hurt Blackwell?” he said.
“I’m not ruling out anything at the moment.”
“I don’t know,” Pembroke said quietly. “I suppose that Peter is strong enough to subdue a man of Blackwell’s age.” He looked at Lamb. “But I simply can’t see it—especially the manner in which Blackwell was killed. Violence frightens Peter.”
“And yet you just said that he resists any effort to change his routine. Perhaps Blackwell upset that routine in some way.”
The Language of the Dead: A World War II Mystery Page 10
