“Not a single word about Roberto,” he murmured as he handed the phone back to Ellen. “Hector must have been told by now.”
“I directed the police myself to His Lordship in the estate office.”
“Which is how you learned of Mr. Sica’s death.”
Ellen nodded. “But not of the manner.”
It crossed Tom’s mind: Was Gaunt protecting Hector? He tilted the map towards Ellen. “Is it possible your husband might go up onto the moor?”
She glanced at the map with mute incomprehension.
“Does he have walking shoes? Or a waterproof?” he added, conscious of the lowering sky in the window behind him.
“Mr. Christmas.” Ellen found her voice. “This isn’t a holiday for us. We have only our work dress. And …”
“And?”
“We’ve never taken a holiday in … wild places. Mick doesn’t care for them.”
Tom thought he knew why: Dartmoor, Exmoor, Bodmin Moor, Dark Peak—any might remind Mick of The Wrekin and the horror he witnessed that day. But he could see no such realisation dawn in Ellen’s eyes. She bent to sweep the cup into its saucer and the tray into her hand, for all this a creature of habit. Running his fingers along the edge of the map, he pondered his next question:
“Mrs. Gaunt, what would you say was the state of your husband’s mind when you left him here an hour ago? There had been … raised voices …?”
“We didn’t often row, Mr. Christmas.” Ellen’s face looked pinched. “He had put the kettle on for tea, but the water hadn’t boiled before I could bear it no more and left for the dower house with Madrun.”
Tom wasn’t sure this answered his question. “Your husband has certainly seemed the consummate professional, at least to me this weekend—”
“He’s never before been derelict in his duties.” Ellen moved to a side table to collect another teacup.
“—but these terrible events must be taking a toll, whatever blame might be attached to him. He’s told you the darkest secrets of his soul, Mrs. Gaunt. You’re ready to believe he killed Lord Morborne. Roberto, too? What is the it you could not bear?”
“The weeping, the begging forgiveness, the whole horrid unimaginable story about poor, poor Kim! Everything.” She stared at him. The cups rattled on the tray. “I can’t bear what he’s done. I can’t bear what he didn’t do.”
“Fail to report—”
“Kim can’t be brought back, but her killer could have got what he deserved! Rot in gaol for years and years. All that time living not knowing who had done this terrible thing to my sister and married to a man who did.”
We have offended against Thy holy laws. We have left undone those things which we ought to have done. The words of the Morning Prayer flooded his mind.
“Perhaps, Mrs. Gaunt, he can bear it no more himself. What he ought to have done. And what he has done.”
Tom turned again to the map. He imagined the man in his black jacket, striped grey trousers, and polished dress shoes trailing through the bracken and gorse, a peculiar figure next to hikers in their khakis and day-trippers in their short trousers. All that would be needed to complete the absurdity, he thought, noting a low, distant rumble of thunder, would be an unfurled umbrella. Glancing towards a half-stuffed umbrella stand in the hall, he gave a thought to a parishioner he had had in Bristol, a woman who under the duress of losing a young child to cancer went missing for several days until she was found by police wandering the Wednesday market at Wells emptied of any memory of how she had pitched up there.
And yet Gaunt had had the presence of mind to consult a map.
Had he bolted instead? But why not take a vehicle? The Gaunts, he knew, drove down to Eggescombe from London in a separate van, laden with provisions and goods for the family’s fortnight in the country. The very van was parked in the stable block forecourt. But of course the police and SOCOs had been everywhere at the stables. The Gatehouse gates themselves were closed against traffic. Gaunt was on foot, somewhere. The moor—he glanced again at the OS map—a good bet. With reluctance, he said, “I wonder—again—if we shouldn’t alert the police.”
“Please, no.”
“But Mrs. Gaunt, it was your intent in coming to me that we together should persuade your husband to go to the police, but as he seems to have vanished—”
“Please. Not the police, not yet. I can’t bear it.”
Tom bit his lip in indecision, looking at the pain in her eyes. Common sense decreed leaving this to the proper authorities, but his heart understood her mortification. How far could Gaunt have possibly got on foot? In under an hour? The only formally dressed man on the moor, he should be quite identifiable and easy to find. His eyes fell to the tray gripped in Ellen’s hands, drawn by a glint along its silver surface. He felt a jolt of surprise.
“Why—?” He stopped himself.
“Mr. Christmas?”
“Oh … it’s nothing.” He forced his eyes from the tray. Why were there two cups of tea? Hadn’t Mrs. Gaunt fled the Gatehouse before the kettle had boiled? Troubled by the implication that someone had joined Gaunt at the Gatehouse after Ellen and Madrun had left, he struggled to paste a reassuring smile on his face. Suddenly, finding Gaunt—discreetly, alerting no one—took on a new urgency.
“I have a suggestion, Mrs. Gaunt. You go to the Hall and carry on as you would—or as best you can. I’ll find your husband and sort this out.”
But how? He refrained from glancing down at his cast boot, his Welly manqué encumbering his right foot, lest he plant a seed of doubt in Ellen’s mind over his ability to carry out this task. Instead, he increased the wattage of his smile, which she returned with a tremulous one. After giving him her mobile number, Ellen gathered up her bag and together they exited the Gatehouse. In the gates’ shadow Tom watched her move down the road to the Hall; he pulled his mobile from his pocket and switched it on. No road crossed the moor at this deep south end; only bridleways and footpaths took people through the stark and melancholy landscape.
He had an idea.
“Fancy meeting you here.” Lucinda pushed her sunglasses to her brow.
“I might say the same.”
Lucinda peered at him, her eyes adjusting to the shadows under the arch of the Gatehouse entrance. She smiled coolly. Tom had watched her approach, some little urgency in her loping walk, aware that she did not see him. She was wearing a simple summer frock of creamy linen, the gathered waist of which emphasised her curves. It seemed an age ago he had gazed at her with longing, had found her conversation amusing and attractive. He felt now detached from this creature who had stirred strong feelings, but not—he had to admit—from the feelings themselves.
“Hector asked if I might fetch Gaunt.” Her words echoed against the brick wall. “Trouble rousing him by phone apparently.”
“An unnecessary trip, I’m afraid. I spoke with Hector a few moments ago. Gaunt’s taken ill.” It seemed not such an untruth now. “Did you not pass Mrs. Gaunt on your way?”
“No, I … I took a shortcut.” She glanced towards the door to the Gatehouse apartments. “Nothing serious, I hope.”
“Gaunt? A touch of something—summer flu perhaps.”
“How very odd. He seemed well enough when he served us by the pool earlier.”
“I expect he thinks it’s his duty to carry on regardless. He seems to me rather the compleat servant.”
“We call them ‘staff’ now.”
“We?”
“Dominic and me. We spent the afternoon by the pool. Didn’t we say so at lunch? Well”—she gestured to the dull sky outside the curve of the arch—“we were by the pool until the clouds gathered, English weather being ever fickle.” Her eyes went again to the door. “Is there anything I can do, do you think?”
“For Gaunt?” Tom thought the offer faintly farcical. He doubted she ever betrayed much interest before in the well-being of “staff.” “Rest is all he needs,” he replied, wearying of this small talk. “You must know about
Roberto.”
“Of course. Awful, isn’t it.”
“How did you learn?”
“That he had … died? Oh? One of the police detectives—the one with the skin problem …”
“Blessing.”
“—came and told us. When we were about to leave the pool.”
“An interview?”
“Well, not awfully official, I don’t think. The other one …”
“Bliss.”
“—wasn’t with him. I expect they’ll be wanting another of those sort of gang interviews later.” She grimaced. “I suppose Roberto’s dying has rather taken the wind out of their investigative sails. What a terrible coincidence.”
“Are you suggesting Roberto’s death was accidental?”
“Wasn’t it?”
“I doubt it very much.”
“Oh … I see.” Lucinda pushed at her sunglasses, which were slipping down her brow. “Then who do you think killed him?”
“The same person who killed Oliver, I should imagine.”
“Oh, surely not. Such different … methods—if that’s the word. Means? Roberto was electrocuted, I gather. ‘Countess’s Toyboy Death Shock.’ ”
Tom ignored the quip. “Did the DS tell you he had died that way?”
“Of course. Who else?”
Tom looked past the arch to the road with impatience. Where are Jane and Jamie? He strained to hear their approach. “Hector is aware of Roberto’s death, yes?”
“I assume so.”
“But you just came from him.”
“Hector’s in one of his moods. The atmosphere is a bit strained. I was happy to get away.” She canted her head. “Why do you ask?”
“I thought he might come to the dower house to offer some sympathy to his mother.”
“Is that where you’ve been hiding all afternoon? Not from me, I hope.”
“Marguerite invited my daughter and me to tea.”
“I see.” Her mouth formed a moue. “I’ve told you why I’m here. You didn’t say why you were here, at the Gatehouse. Are you a doctor as well as a priest?”
“Mrs. Gaunt asked me to see her husband.”
“As bad as that?” She laughed. “Were you giving last rites?”
“Priests do perform other services.” He immediately regretted his words, for Lucinda’s laughter died suddenly. She looked at him sharply and asked:
“What other services?”
“I couldn’t say in this instance. Gaunt had … fallen asleep.”
Lucinda’s brow knitted, sending the sunglasses cascading to her nose. She removed them. “I don’t under—”
“Really, Lucinda, all Mrs. Gaunt wanted was for someone to walk her back to the Gatehouse. Too proud to express her fear, you understand. There is a murderer at large.”
“And yet Mrs. Gaunt has been allowed to walk back to the Hall all on her own. Curious.”
“She felt more confident.” I don’t think I’ll ever get the hang of lying.
“Would you care to accompany me back to the Hall, Vicar?” Lucinda spun the sunglasses between her fingers.
“I’m waiting for Jane and Jamie. And here they are.” The sound of hooves heralded the sight of a man and woman each on a grey gelding, the former leading a third, a chestnut mare, by its reins.
“Are you going riding?” Lucy asked as they walked into the pale light beyond the arch. She glanced at his cast boot, then smiled. “May I come, too?”
“No,” Jane replied, now within earshot.
“How unkind.”
“I don’t mean to be, Lucy. All we’re doing is having a brief trot around the estate—”
“Looking for villains? It’s going to rain, you know.”
Jane flicked a helpless glance at Tom as she handed him down a pair of riding boots. “For some … diversion. It’s been a very tense afternoon. I’m sure you’ve heard.”
“Leaving women and children at home without menfolk?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Tom suggested to me a moment ago that there’s a murderer at large.”
“We can run you back to the Hall, then.” Jamie patted his horse’s neck.
“Oh, don’t be silly.” Lucinda waved a dismissive hand. “I’ll be fine. I’ll take the road. I doubt some murderer is going to leap out at me from a hedge. But thank you, darling Jamie. Nice to know that chivalry isn’t completely dead.”
Lord Kirkbride had finessed the horse acquisition with, Tom presumed, aristocratic assurance. Only Roberto’s studio—not the entire stable block—had been cordoned off by police tape, and the lone PC left to guard had seemed to buy the argument. On the phone Lady Fairhaven had cautioned him—and she was right, of course—that it was not wise to ride a horse even two days after spraining an ankle. But she needed little convincing of the urgency of the task he outlined or the practicality of the transport: By horse, they could roam quickly, efficiently, and unobtrusively over the rough open terrain of the moor in ways they couldn’t on foot or by car. The boots, though: Without gripping heels, his orthopedic cast boot wouldn’t do in a stirrup. He had winced pushing his foot gingerly into the beautiful leather boots. And he winced now, swaying in sync with the jogging animal beneath him, his right heel pressing into the thin metal stirrup.
Jane flicked him a concerned glance. The three of them were riding under a dark leafy canopy of sycamore trees. “You’re sure you’re not in pain? You’ve barely rested that foot since you’ve been here. We could find Gaunt ourselves—Jamie and I.”
Tom chose his words carefully. “I’m not certain of Gaunt’s state of mind, and I feel duty-bound to Mrs. Gaunt. She’s in much distress. My housekeeper has apparently made claims for my powers of … mediation or persuasion.”
Jane frowned. She leaned slightly towards him, as if to ensure she would be heard above the clattering of hooves. “You’re not suggesting Gaunt’s suicidal?”
“I’m afraid it has crossed my mind.” Tom loosened the reins a little—it had been years since he had been on a horse. “But I can’t quite … believe he would—”
“But why, Tom?” Jamie spoke. “His going walkabout has to be about something more than being upset at the awful events of this weekend.”
Tom considered the question as he found his body falling into the rhythm of the horse’s stride. “I’m afraid I wasn’t entirely candid with Marguerite when I asked for her help, and you’ll understand why in a moment. Mrs. Gaunt begged me to be discreet, but I can’t, if I’m going to have your help.”
He glanced towards a pinhole of open sky at the end of the green corridor, dreading giving the words voice: “Mrs. Gaunt believes her husband killed Oliver.”
“What?” Jane jerked at the reins, startling the horse into a sudden lurch. “Good God, why?” she called over her shoulder.
Unhappily, Tom relayed the story of Kimberly Maddick’s cruel death on The Wrekin decades earlier, glancing from time to time to see both Jane’s and Jamie’s faces in profile stiffen, turning now and again to present to him features stamped with incredulity.
“I don’t know what to say,” Jane intoned when he had finished. “I am absolutely shaken at the depths of Oliver’s depravity. I don’t want to believe it’s true, but if he’s capable of murdering Boysie—even if it was in some fit of rage—and running down a mentally challenged boy with a car, then raping a young woman … a girl, my God, seems not—” She paused and addressed her husband, who had remained silent and stern. “Jamie, this must have taken place during that time when Olly’s parents’ marriage was in disarray. He would have to have been … fifteen.”
“Are you suggesting age as a mitigating factor?”
“No! Not at all.” Jane went quiet a moment. “And you say, Tom, that Gaunt was nineteen at the time.”
Tom explained the reasons for Gaunt’s unconscionable inaction at the crime scene. “Then about a year later, he met Ellen Maddick, as she was then. They married, then secured a position together in Anthony f
forde-Beckett’s household.
“The Gaunts, at least according to Ellen—although I’m not sure it’s true—didn’t meet Oliver properly until they were working for the Arouzis some years later. That’s when he heard Oliver’s distinctive whistle and, according to Mrs. Gaunt, knew. It’s why he insisted on leaving the Arouzis’ employ when a position at Lord and Lady Fairhaven’s became available.”
“Waiting for the moment to wreak revenge.” Jamie frowned. “It’s very melodramatic, Tom.”
“Can it be true?” Jane asked. “Did Gaunt kill Oliver? And what about Roberto?”
“The motive’s powerful in Oliver’s case,” Tom reflected.
“Roberto’s murder doesn’t seem to … to match somehow,” Jamie insisted. “Why would Gaunt—?”
“Perhaps Roberto knew something or saw something important, darling.”
“But why didn’t he say something to the police, the idiot?”
“Because he may not have been aware of its significance.”
“Or he was protecting someone,” Tom added. “This is why I couldn’t be completely candid with Marguerite.”
“What? Do you think Roberto was protecting Marve?” Jane turned widened eyes to him.
“I hadn’t thought of that. I meant I wanted to keep faith with Mrs. Gaunt. If Marguerite knew Mrs. Gaunt thought her husband responsible for these awful crimes, she wouldn’t have patience for this exercise. And if Gaunt is responsible, then he is paying a price, now, wandering in the moor. I’m wondering if he hasn’t lost his mind, at least temporarily.”
“Or,” Jamie said, “simply running away.”
Or he’s running from someone. The second teacup in the Gatehouse sitting room flashed in his brain.
“But all this is based on the memory of someone’s whistling?” Jane asked.
Ten Lords A-Leaping: A Mystery (Father Christmas) Page 33
