Death of a Dishonorable Gentleman

by Tessa Arlen

  Gertrude continued to recount the details of her humiliation on the night of the ball: “Well, Teddy left and I sat there for a while before I went back to join everyone on the terrace. When I got there, I could see Teddy; he was looking frightfully smug and smoking a cigarette on the other side of the rose garden. I was already thinking how I could put up my half of the money.”

  Clementine took another sip of Gertrude’s brandy and asked her what time that had been.

  “About half past three, probably a little later, I am not completely sure. The next day I heard Teddy had been found.” Gertrude looked at her empty glass, picked up her hairbrush, and began methodically to brush her hair.

  Clementine said, “Sir Hugo—”

  Gertrude rushed in with such emphasis that her voice was almost loud in the still room, “Must never know, never. It is not part of the understanding we have.”

  Clementine felt great sadness for her friend’s lonely and vulnerable situation. She completely understood the rules of the game. The overriding consideration was that there must be absolutely no exposure of any misconduct. The unforgivable sin was to bring disgrace among them. And apparently as far as Gertrude was concerned, her husband would not be her ally, no matter what arrangements they had. Sir Hugo wouldn’t divorce Gertrude if this all came out, but he would certainly make life difficult. She had seen that on the lawn this afternoon. Lord Houghton Lew had never spoken to his wife again, except in public, after her affair with Charlie Stampton became known.

  Clementine asked her friend if she thought Lord Booth might have killed Teddy.

  There was only a moment’s hesitation before Gertrude answered quite plainly, “I wouldn’t be surprised, Clemmy. He lost his temper in a very horrid way this afternoon: he actually…” Gertrude nearly broke down as the remembered shame and shock of the incident returned, “shook me … violently … threw me on the ground. His rage was devastating. Yes, I think he is capable of murder.”

  “Then keep away from him, Gertrude. There is nothing you can accomplish here at this point. Let’s just pray the letter is never found. Are you planning on coming down to dinner?”

  “Oh yes, Clemmy, of course I am. I have only an hour to get myself dressed but I must come down.” She laughed. “Can’t let anyone see I’m rattled.”

  * * *

  Clementine walked slowly back to her room as the dressing gong sounded in the hall. Mrs. Jackson was waiting for her in her sitting room, and no doubt since they were both sharing information she was hoping for an explanation. If she updated her, she would be moving into forbidden territory in discussing her closest friend’s business with her housekeeper.

  But wasn’t it a bit too late for that? she asked herself. Hadn’t she made an agreement with Mrs. Jackson when she wanted her housekeeper to get information for her? Now they had reached a tipping point and she knew she must not be rash. She remembered that she had drunk nearly two glasses of brandy, which were now floating around in her stomach with nothing but half a cucumber sandwich and a bite of Victoria sponge cake to give it ballast. She fixed Mrs. Jackson with her eye rather sternly, as if the poor woman had already said, Well, what’s going on then with Lady Waterford, ay? and told her housekeeper as accurately as she could what Lady Waterford had told her: intimate letters, blackmail, and sudden death. It was the stuff of penny dreadfuls, she thought.

  “So you see, Jackson, things are looking pretty dire for Lady Waterford,” she finished up.

  From the look on her housekeeper’s face, she obviously had not wanted to be taken into Lady Montfort’s confidence. The rules that upper servants lived by were as rigid and unbending as those of her own class. In telling her housekeeper about the blackmail of Lord Booth and Lady Waterford she had crossed the line and had taken Mrs. Jackson with her, and they might survive with their respect for each other intact, if they were prudent.

  “What happens now, m’lady?” Mrs. Jackson asked with her customary calm; she could have been referring to Lord Booth as a suspect for the murder or just as easily asking whether they should take their tea on the lawn or in the library. Clementine was reassured by her phlegmatic response.

  “I am not too sure. Jackson. Let’s both think things over for the next day or so. Perhaps we should let things percolate a little. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle told me, when he was writing The Speckled Band, that the introduction of new characters to the plot stirs things up a little, giving an opportunity for fresh clues to emerge. I think that is wise counsel and we should keep our eyes peeled and our wits about us.” She reminded herself that this was actually the advice of an author and not a detective.

  “Right, m’lady,” said her housekeeper with such intention that Lady Montfort relaxed in the comfort that at least she had a true ally, even if poor Gertrude did not.

  Chapter Twenty

  Early the following morning, Lord Montfort was on his way from the small dining room to his study when Detective Chief Inspector Ewan arrived at Iyntwood, accompanied by his detective sergeant. Lord Montfort paused in the hall in time to observe the exchange between his butler and Chief Inspector Ewan as Hollyoak ushered the two men into the house.

  Afterward he wished that he had taken the time to brief Hollyoak on the policeman’s importance before his arrival, as Hollyoak’s attitude to the chief inspector caused considerable resentment from the moment the man stepped over the imposing threshold of his house; regrettable for what was to follow.

  Lord Montfort was fully aware that Hollyoak, like most butlers, was a far greater snob than anyone else he knew. Among his butler’s many foibles on protocol and procedures, of which there were many, was his disapproval of incorrect attire for the country. The chief inspector was not in uniform, which was unfortunate, as it might have saved him from a thorough snubbing.

  He had to admit that Ewan’s brand-new lounge suit, a startling shade of royal blue in rather a busy check, with which he was wearing brown shoes, was an eyesore. But his butler was guilty of being patronizing and unpleasant to the chief inspector because of this innocent sartorial blunder.

  “Perhaps I may take your hat, sir,” Hollyoak said, his face registering the silent contempt he obviously felt, as he held out his hand for the policeman’s hideous hat. He was ignored, Lord Montfort noted, although the sergeant hastily proffered his hat, as if to balance out his superior officer’s bad manners in refusing his.

  He hastily stepped forward to greet the policeman, hoping to prevent Hollyoak from doing any further damage, but it was too late. He could see that Chief Inspector Ewan felt thoroughly insulted by his butler’s assessing glance as it took in the offensive brown bowler still clamped on the policeman’s head, the acres of blue check, and the glaring ocher shoes. Ewan was looking rather touchy to say the least as he turned to Lord Montfort, preempting Hollyoak’s announcement.

  “And you must be the gentleman of the house,” he declared as he cast an assessing glance over the dark wood paneling of the hall, on which hung generations of Talbots depicted in murky oils.

  “Chief Inspector Ewan? I’m Ralph Talbot, Earl of Montfort.”

  The chief inspector sighed, and his sigh spoke volumes.

  As a country dweller Lord Montfort spent most of his day out on his estates. He enjoyed an easy communion with the land-based working-class men and women who served and worked for his family and rarely had anything to do with the urban professional classes, except for his doctor, his solicitor, and his man of business. But he was not unobservant or indifferent and gathered, from Ewan’s deep sigh at the size and splendor of his house and his refusal to remove his hat in it, that he was the sort of man who disliked the idea of the landed class and their kind.

  He probably believes we are all antediluvian members of a soon-to-be-bygone age, he thought as he took in Ewan’s affronted air and reluctance to look him in the eye. Ewan was probably what Lord Booth often referred to in exasperation as a “new Englishman,” one who did not knuckle down and get on with it under the old order, but
more likely supported the union leader and labor politician, Keir Hardie. Lord Montfort, who would not have offered anything less than welcoming good manners to anyone who came to his house, resolved to speak to his butler about the importance of treating everyone who came through his front door as a guest, despite choice of attire and a tendency to suck their teeth.

  To his relief, Colonel Valentine chose to arrive through the terrace door at this moment and Lord Montfort called out a greeting in the hope that Valentine would help ease the tension of Ewan’s unfortunate beginning in his house. More introductions were made, and then, fully apprised of who was who, Lord Montfort led them all into the morning room, so that they could get the business of the day going. It was here that Ewan finally took off his hat, and put it down reverently on a small table out of the sun. Lord Montfort decided to take a seat in the corner to be out of the way and to allow Valentine to get on with building a smooth bridge for Ewan with the family.

  “Just thought I’d pop over and say hullo, as I am sure you have some questions for me,” Valentine opened up in his straightforward and forthright manner.

  “Thank you, sir. Very kind, I’m sure. I have read your sergeant’s notes on his interview with the servants; he did a very thorough job of it, sir, so I am only really interested in talking to the family and their guests. Evidence in this area seems rather sketchy to say the very least.”

  Lord Montfort felt they were off to an inauspicious start.

  “There is also this question of how many guests there were at the ball. You did not mention how they left, or when they left.”

  “Lord Montfort’s guests started to leave the ball at about half past three on Sunday morning; the last of them had left by four o’clock. Most of them came together and left that way. Friends in the county had house parties and they put up Lord Montfort’s guests who live further afield. That is how it usually works.”

  Valentine was clearly taken aback by Ewan’s rather uncivil tone, but he forged ahead, determined to be helpful. “The time of death was between three and six o’clock on Sunday morning. Mr. Mallory had been seen by both a footman and Lady Waterford, who was staying at the house, at a quarter to four in the morning in the rose garden. So it was not too difficult to establish that from the end of the ball at four o’clock when the family and their guests retired for the night, everyone in the house was in the clear at that time. Valets and maids confirmed that family and guests were settled in their rooms for the night between four and a quarter past five, where they stayed until they rang for their tea later that morning.”

  “So you have said in your report, sir, but what about after they had gone to bed?” Ewan asked with exaggerated patience. “This leaves forty-five minutes to an hour unaccounted for by everyone staying in the house, except of course the servants.” There was a supercilious expression on Ewan’s face as he made this last observation, as if Valentine had missed the point, and Lord Montfort watched Valentine struggle for patience as Ewan drove that point home.

  “You see, sir, this is why I need to interview everyone who was staying in this house and at Haversham Hall again, to find out where they were and who they were with in those critical moments on Sunday morning. Then there is the matter of this young woman, Miss Lambert, who left the house at an unknown hour and now can’t be found, and I believe a young maid has run off and no one knows where she is. You did not address in your report what steps were being taken…”

  Lord Montfort thought Ewan sounded rather triumphant and understood why Valentine stared down his nose at the man standing before him.

  “If a gentleman says he was asleep in his bed, you have his word on it; I can assure you of that at least, Chief Inspector. I have uncovered no motive whatsoever for anyone working or staying as a guest in this house to have murdered Mr. Mallory. Or have the time to get up, dress, walk to Crow Wood, and murder Mr. Mallory before six o’clock. It would take you at least thirty-five minutes in daylight to walk from the house to the wood. That is if you knew where the gibbet is located inside the wood. The night in question was obscured by heavy cloud and hammering with rain. It would have been tough going to achieve the wood and hang the victim from the gibbet all in the space of an hour, even if you had previously arranged to meet him at the stable block.” Valentine had all Lord Montfort’s sympathy. Ewan was barely listening to him. He’s treating Valentine like an amateur, he thought, as the policeman nodded impatiently and started in before Valentine could say another word.

  “In the Criminal Investigation Department we first of all establish how the murder was done and then bring in motive to back up proof. We address how, when, where, why, and who. Now it seems we have got the when and the where, and as soon as I have worked out how Mr. Mallory was taken to his death, I will know who murdered him and why he did it. Which brings me back to my point: so far as I can make out, Mr. Mallory was last seen at a quarter to four in the rose garden.”

  “In my interviews no one saw Mr. Mallory after a quarter to four on Sunday morning. He was in the rose garden, and—”

  “And the dray was in the service area by the ballroom.”

  Valentine, having recovered himself, now pounced. “I recommend you read my report and then visit the rose garden. The butler will show you the way. Mr. Mallory could not have been knocked unconscious, tied up, and stowed away in the dray before the end of the ball. The rose garden and the service area where the dray was parked are separated by a ten-foot-tall yew hedge that is four feet wide, which completely encloses the rose garden. It would be like trying to leave a room by walking through the wall. If anyone had forcibly taken Mr. Mallory to the dray from the rose garden, everyone on the terrace would have seen this happen. I was there, Chief Inspector, I can tell you Mr. Mallory was not taken before the end of the ball. He had to have agreed to meet his murderer either by the dray in the service area before four o’clock, which would have meant walking through the ballroom and the rest of the house through crowds of people who would have noticed him, out of the front door, and along the north walk to the service area. Or he met him by the stable block, which is the more likely of the two.”

  Lord Montfort saw that Ewan was now even more irate than he had been before Valentine arrived. He wondered why the two men could not pool their information, rather than butt heads in this ridiculous conflict. Ewan, having apparently not listened to Colonel Valentine, started a fresh tack.

  “Well then, Colonel Valentine, sir, to me the answer is clear. Someone from the house left their room after having retired for the night. They walked to the stable block to meet Mr. Mallory, where they overpowered him, knocked him unconscious, tied and gagged him and stowed him in the dray, and then drove up to the wood.

  “When I arrived I took the opportunity to time the walk from the stable area to the house as fifteen minutes. All perfectly doable, sir. I can’t imagine why you have not questioned the guests about this time.”

  It occurred to Lord Montfort that they were all in for a harrowing day at the hands of Ewan and his search for ironclad alibis. He heard Valentine sigh as he made as if to get up from his chair and then sat back down as he reached hopefully for a solution.

  “Just one more thing, Chief Inspector. The drawings I found in Mr. Mallory’s room and brought to Commander Eastman at Scotland Yard—surely they throw some light on events in Mr. Mallory’s life before he…”

  “Yes, sir, I am sure they do. But my job is to investigate the facts and the evidence here in the house, among Mr. Mallory’s close friends and family. The contents of Mr. Mallory’s personal letters and documents are under a separate investigation; as soon as they have information for me I will be notified. And if you are presenting this strange man from London as Mr. Mallory’s murderer and the gibbet is so hard to find in the wood, how would a complete stranger have been able to take Mr. Mallory there against his will? I am afraid I must cross-question everyone staying in this house again.”

  Lord Montfort saw that Ewan was frustrated with what
he obviously felt was Valentine’s lack of efficiency as his voice sounded terse and impatient. He came to the conclusion that Scotland Yard’s top detective had a first-class chip on his shoulder and it would be wise not to provoke him further. Hoping to help both men save face, as they were now on their feet, and facing each other in the standard posture of individuals protecting their turf, he left his corner and came forward.

  “How can I help you, Chief Inspector?” he asked courteously, determined not to make anything more difficult than it was apparently going to become.

  “Thank you, Lord Montfort. Since you are here, there is a question you can answer for me. Would you please tell me where you were on Sunday morning between three and six?”

  Lord Montfort noticed Ewan’s glance at Valentine as if to say, This is how we do things in the Metropolitan Police Force.

  “Certainly, Chief Inspector,” he answered willingly. “I was with my guests until they left at the end of the ball and our house party retired for the night. That would have been getting on for half past four or thereabouts. I can’t be sure of the precise time, I’m afraid. Then I went to bed. Actually my valet would know what time that would be.” If his manner was a little vague, he did not mean it to be.

  “And you went to bed at that time in your own room?” Ewan demanded, turning away to see if his sergeant was writing everything down.

  “Well, Chief Inspector, this is my house; of course I was asleep in my own room!” He was rather taken aback by the man’s impudence.

  “If you spent the remainder of the night alone in your room, then you don’t have an alibi who can vouch for your whereabouts until six o’clock on Sunday morning.”

  “An alibi? I have just told you, Chief Inspector, I was asleep in my bed.” He was beginning to feel confused.