The Hanging Cage (The Northminster Mysteries Book 4)

by Harriet Smart

  “Did the day go well?” asked Major Vernon.

  Felix sat down by the fire and pulled off his wet boots.

  “I think so,” he said. “It was touch and go for a while. But a healthy little boy in the end, and the mother bearing up as well as can be expected in the circumstances. I shall have to go back later and check on her.” He hauled himself up from the chair in order to take off his coat. “I need a clean shirt.”

  “Your bag is next door,” Major Vernon said. “There should be a fire in there. I ordered one for you.”

  Felix went through and found he had a comfortable bedroom at his disposal, warm and with a generous bed. It made him remember he would be alone that night. He took off his shirt and stood gazing down at the little embroidered heart on the tail. He pressed it to his lips for a moment, wishing desperately he could kiss her instead. He then looked at the bloodstains and began thinking of the various tests he had been attempting to formulate to identify different types of bloodstains on textiles. The shirt, although ruined, might make a useful sample.

  “What are all these?” Felix said, returning to the parlour, stuffing the tail of his clean shirt into his trousers.

  “The contents of Miss Barker’s dressing table. And that one on the left is the alleged bottle –”

  “That was full and then empty,” said Felix, picking it up and examining it.

  “I spoke to the servant,” said Major Vernon, getting up. “She is quite convinced of what she saw, and she may well be right, but that doesn’t prove that Miss Barker drank the contents, does it? There was a full bottle there as well, in these baskets. One might easily have been substituted for the other. Imagine – you have a full bottle to hand and then realise that there is a little left in the previous bottle. So you put the full one away in the basket and leave the other, now empty, on the dressing table. I am assuming, of course, that the contents of both were perfectly harmless. I do not want this full or empty bottle business to colour our thinking of what may have caused death. It disturbs me that Dr Fellowes pointed that out so eagerly. It is disingenuous, to say the least.”

  Felix nodded.

  “He is either stupid or wilful,” Felix said.

  “Or attempting to misdirect us?” said Giles.

  “Then he is a fool,” said Felix.

  “The Ampners seemed to think little of him. That he is unreliable and given to tippling.”

  “That was what Miss Yardley said,” Felix said. “There was nothing else in the room that seemed suspicious, other than these? The chamber pot? Any dirty basins?”

  “Nothing. Earle told them to leave the room untouched, which they assured me they had, but I only have their word for that. The chamber pot and the wash basin were gone. Whether that was deliberate or not, I don’t know.”

  “I need to do the post-mortem tomorrow,” Felix said. “The sooner we have the cause of death the better.”

  “Yes. But where? I have been to the Bridewell and it is not suitable.”

  “Mr Yardley has offered me the use of the old kitchen at the castle,” said Felix. “I am not sure how suitable that would be either.”

  “Is that the father of the newborn?”

  “Yes, Squire Yardley,” Felix said. “He’s a trifle odd, to say the least. The house is full of old weapons and instruments of torture and goodness knows what. I think he has a ghoulish temperament. He seemed to derive pleasure from the thought of my performing a post-mortem under his roof. Never mind the state of his wife and child.” He sighed. “But it might be just the thing. And I need to get on with it.”

  “The sort of man who enjoys an execution?” Major Vernon said.

  “Exactly,” said Felix.

  “Go and see the undertaker first,” said Major Vernon. “He may be able to accommodate you.”

  “I hope so,” said Felix. “I want as little to do with Yardley as possible. He knew who I was, of course, and made all sorts of unpleasant insinuations.”

  “Shall we go and get some dinner?” said Major Vernon, putting on his coat.

  “Yes, and a good bottle of something,” said Felix, picking up his own coat. At that moment the rain hurled itself against the window and rattled the sashes. “If this rain carries on we will all be driven up the hill and forced to beg him for shelter,” he remarked.

  “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” said Major Vernon.

  Chapter Six

  An early call at the Ampners revealed that George Gosforth had not come home the night before. Mrs Ampner’s anxiety was now bordering on the hysterical – far beyond what might be expected in such circumstances.

  “It was suggested to me,” said Giles, “that he might be at Lord Milburne’s house – that the weather trapped him there?”

  Mr Ampner thought this likely.

  “He’s been spending enough time there,” he said. “They are friends after a fashion, though I don’t imagine that will last. Indeed I hope it won’t, for it gives the boy notions, being taken up like that.”

  “Did he say anything about going there to you, ma’am?” Giles said.

  She shook her head.

  “He did not even say he was going out,” she said. “Not a word. That is what I cannot understand. He was here when Dr Fellowes and Mr Earle were here – he was such a comfort – and then I looked for him, and he’d gone! And now...”

  “I think it most likely he is at the Park, my dear,” said Mr Ampner. “He was fond of her, that’s true enough, and perhaps he wanted to take comfort with his friend. It is likely no more than that.”

  Mrs Ampner seemed to struggle to accept this, but at length she did. Yet Giles wondered if her concern was that he had taken flight out of fear of being implicated in Miss Barker’s death. Why she might assume this was another question.

  “Do you have his picture, ma’am?” said Giles.

  She did, in a locket around her neck.

  “It was only done this summer,” she said. “It is a good likeness.”

  It showed a slender, fashionably-dressed young man, handsome, and with carefully curled dark hair.

  “And you are absolutely certain that there was no sentimental history between Miss Barker and your brother?” he asked, handing back the locket.

  “Quite sure,” she said.

  “And you, sir, you have not seen anything that made you think that there might be?”

  Ampner considered for a moment and then shook his head.

  “Please let me know if he does come back. You can send any message to me at the Falcon, or the Bridewell if that is more convenient.”

  “Of course,” said Mr Ampner, showing him to the door. “Is that all today, sir?”

  “Yes, thank you. Do you think the roads will clear today?” he asked. The rain had stopped, and the skies looked set fair.

  “We can only hope so,” said Ampner.

  Whithorne was drying itself slowly under the influence of weak sunshine, and presented a slightly more cheerful aspect, though it was still cool and damp, with a brisk wind ruffling the surfaces of the many puddles.

  At the little house in St John’s Lane, Giles followed Mrs Rivers upstairs to a room that was well placed to catch what sun there was, with a long, old-fashioned latticed window. Louisa Rivers was sitting beneath it with a piece of sewing, but she got to her feet when they came in. Like her mother she was a great beauty, but at the same time she looked alarmingly pale, with violet shadows under her red-rimmed eyes. Her hair was the same deep chestnut shade as her mother’s, and equally thick and wavy, but in her case it hung about her shoulders in a unkempt tangle, instead of being elegantly constrained.

  “This is Major Vernon,” said Mrs Rivers. “He is trying to find out what happened to Bel. He wants to speak to you about her.”

  “If you don’t mind, Miss Rivers?” Giles said.

  “Do I have to?” she said in a whisper to her mother.

  “Yes, I’m afraid so,” said Mrs Rivers.

  “It will help us greatly if
you can bear to,” Giles said. “And you want to know what happened, I am sure.”

  She did not answer but stood turning her work in her hands, looking pointedly away from him.

  “Must I?” she said again to her mother.

  “It will only be for a little while,” said Giles, but he hoped that the conversation might be longer than that. Her reticence hinted that she might be concealing something important.

  “Please, won’t you both sit down?” he said, taking the other chair and putting it next to the one where she had been sitting. He would have to content himself with a stool, such were the sparse furnishings. “Then we can be at our ease.”

  “Yes,” said Mrs Rivers, sitting down and patting the space beside her. Giles took his own place, and then at length Miss Rivers sat down too.

  “Thank you,” said Giles. “I know this must be painful for you. To lose a friend in such circumstances is a horrible thing.”

  “How do you know?” she said, with sudden vehemence.

  “I lost a school friend when I was about your age. He died suddenly of a fever. It was...” He was surprised for a moment by the stab of pain that this remembrance brought him. “At the time – unimaginable.”

  “What was his name?” she asked.

  “Hal,” Giles said. “So I understand a little – but it must be worse for you. I had the comfort of knowing why he had to be taken. But for you, there is no answer to that question yet. But that is why I am here, to find that answer for you.”

  “What was he like?” the girl asked.

  Giles considered for a moment. Hal had been obsessed with two things: the greatness of the Duke of Wellington and how soon he could contrive to lose his virginity. As these had been Giles’ own obsessions, they had got on pleasantly.

  “He understood me,” he said, “as no-one else seemed to do.” He watched her reaction. “Was that the case with Miss Barker?”

  She looked out of the window for a long moment, clearly preparing an answer.

  “We were just friends,” she said. “That’s all.”

  “I know it isn’t all,” he said. “Help me, Miss Rivers, please?” She pursed her lips. “I know, let us start with something simple. Tell me what you did together. When you went to call on her, or she came here? That did happen, yes?”

  “Yes, I suppose,” said Miss Rivers.

  “So she would call on you and come here?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you would sit and talk?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “About what?”

  “Things.”

  “Yes?”

  “Private things,” she said. “Very private.” She got up from her chair and walked across the room, so that she stood with her back to the far wall. “And I don’t see why you need to know them, sir! What difference can it make? And perhaps she’s just dead because she’s dead! People do die, just like that, all the time. Your friend did!”

  “He had a fever. Miss Barker seems to have been in perfect health, dancing the night before at a ball. That she was found dead in her bed the next morning for no apparent reason means that something may be awry.”

  “I don’t want to talk about this,” she said to her mother. “I don’t. I can’t! Please will you just let me alone?” she begged, with a great sob.

  Mrs Rivers rose and went to her, laying a kind hand on her shoulder.

  “Louisa, darling –” she began, but the girl bridled at her touch.

  “Just leave me alone!” she exclaimed and threw herself face down on the bed in the corner, and began to sob into the counterpane.

  Mrs Rivers looked helplessly over at Giles, who put up his hands to suggest that there was no point continuing. He left the room at once and went down the narrow stairs to the sitting room where he had talked with Mrs Rivers the night before.

  Mrs Rivers joined him a few moments later.

  “I am sorry. I cannot account for her reluctance.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Giles said. “Perhaps you can tell me something of their friendship – their habits. Did she come here often or was Louisa much at the Ampners?”

  “About half and half. They were close, despite the fact that Bel was a little older. I wondered at it sometimes, but they seemed to take to each other. It was good for them both.”

  “And what did they talk about?”

  “I don’t know exactly. I left them to their own devices – they would rather sit upstairs without a fire than be downstairs in the kitchen with the rest of us. Girls do like their secrets. I remember that myself. My sisters and I would keep fearful secrets from my mother. I suppose that I should not flatter myself that my daughter is any different.”

  “My sisters were like that, and then they seemed to grow out of it and grow confidential with my mother once more.”

  “You’re right. One does grow out of it. But we are in the thick of it here, and it is not helpful to you, sir, for which I apologise. My elder children are being great thorns in your side. I shall have to make sure the others behave themselves,” she said glancing at the door to the kitchen. “In fact, will you excuse me a minute?” she said going to the door and opening it.

  “I do not object to a kitchen,” said Giles, “if there is a fire in it.”

  He was not particularly cold, but he wished to see the rest of the house and talk with her a little longer, to see if he could glean anything more about Annabella from her. Neither was it unpleasant to be in her company. She was as warm as a good fire herself, and he found himself wondering why on earth she had not remarried. Her children were as pretty as she – a responsibility, yes, but not an objectionable one.

  “Yes, yes, of course,” she smiled. “So silly of me. You must be cold.”

  They went into the kitchen where two small girls were engaged in some complicated game on the floor, using wooden spoons and handkerchiefs as dolls. They only had one real doll, dressed in red silk.

  “Bel gave them that doll,” said Mrs Rivers rather quietly. “She was very kind to them. They will feel her loss too, though differently from Louisa. She would bring cakes and sweets, all those little treats that I cannot afford, alas.”

  “Are those your youngest?”

  “Yes, Sophie is seven, and Frances eight. Then there is Richard who is twelve and at school with John, whom of course you know already. Regrettably.” She sighed and went to the fireside. “Here it is, such as it is. Please sir, sit down and get warm.”

  “Do you have any help here?”

  “A girl comes in three mornings a week. She does the roughest work for me, and I send out the laundry. And Louisa is very good. That was why it was such a pleasure that Bel and she became friends. It let her have some relief from this rather wretched life of ours. Would you like some tea? I will have some, and I should take a cup up to Louisa by and by.”

  She went and filled the kettle and set it on the hob, while Giles did as he was bid, and took his ease by the fire. It was not at all unpleasant to sit there and watch her make the tea, and listen to the quiet chatter of the two girls in the corner. His mind wandered idly from the business in hand into a vague fancy where he was the father of five such children, and Mrs Rivers his wife. When he found himself imagining that latter part in lascivious detail, he was forced to get back to the point, which was not easy when she smiled so appealingly as she handed him a cup of tea.

  “So Miss Barker and your daughter, did they go about together?”

  “Yes. Miss Barker was asked everywhere and Louisa went with her. To Mrs Yardley at the castle, for example. She often had them to tea. She is not much older – she was something of a child bride.”

  “Tell me more about George Gosforth. Have you heard any gossip about him?”

  “Gossip?” she said, pulling her chair a little nearer the fire. “Does gossip help your business?”

  “Always. There is often a lot in it. You never heard Louisa and Bel talking about him, for example?”

  She considered for a m
oment.

  “Sometimes. I don’t think they had much respect for him. He may be handsome but he lacks – oh, how does one put it? He lacks substance. He is young and one hopes he will acquire some, but then, some people never do, do they? Their characters remain slight. Pleasant but slight. A little like Lord Milburne.”

  “Ah, so you know him too?”

  “Only a little. And I’m not being fair to him. He does have a little more about him than Mr Gosforth, and I think he will grow into his position quite nicely. But at the moment...” She could not help smiling. “He is somewhat interested in fancy dress and medieval notions. His mother, who is the most sensible, forthright woman you can imagine, is at her wits’ end – not that she lacks wit. She is one of the most amusing people I have met. He was prancing up and down in armour, and a plumed helmet, and she said, ‘Clearly I should not have read Ivanhoe three times when I was carrying him. It had a pernicious effect on the child in my womb’.” Giles smiled at this, and she said, “Is that not quality gossip for you?”

  “Definitely,” he said.

  “Good. Now I will take some tea up to Louisa and see if she is any more willing to talk. I shan’t be long.”

  He was left alone with the girls and their chatter. One was saying, “No, no, I don’t think that’s at all a nice thing to do, Miss Brown,” to the doll in red silk, when there was a loud, impatient knocking at the front door, and a man’s voice called out, “Alice? Alice, are you there?”

  Rising from his seat, Giles heard the door open. He went to the kitchen door and saw an elegantly-dressed, middle-aged gentleman standing in the parlour.

  “Who the devil are you?” he said to Giles.

  Mrs Rivers came running down the stairs.

  “Mr Latimer,” she said. “What a surprise.”

  “You don’t know, do you? You don’t know what that wretch of yours has been up to? Threatening Ned with a knife! A knife! The poor lad was too afraid to go to school today, and he was up all night, sick with fear!”