“I shall be there,” said Sir Arthur. He made no promises regarding his wife.
* * *
Pevensey and Cecil found the head groom crouched on a stool and applying some ointment to the legs of one of the horses.
“I’ll be with you gentlemen in a trice,” he called behind him once he realized he was being waited for.
“Gormley, isn’t it?” asked Cecil as the older man turned around and wiped his hands on his apron.
“Yes, sir,” said Gormley, feet planted, arms folded. “What can I do for you?”
“Yesterday, before the hunt,” said Pevensey, “did someone order the carriage readied?”
Gormley frowned thoughtfully. “Yes, must have, for I remember the carriage going out. But it weren’t I who heard the directions or harnessed it. I was tending to the ladies’ and gentlemen’s mounts. It would ha’ been Martin who done it.”
Gormley bellowed the other man’s name into the recesses of the stable, and within seconds, a gangly fellow, wearing the same leather apron Gormley had on, came out and stood before them. Remembering the fellow’s infirmity, Pevensey fell silent to determine how best to wring the needed information from him.
Cecil, unaware, launched into the same questions that Pevensey had just asked. Martin stared back at him in stony silence.
“He’s tongue tied,” interjected Gormley, jerking a thumb at his undergroom.
“Now, see here, Martin,” said Cecil. “There’s nothing to be afraid of. We just need to know the answers to our questions.”
“Not afraid,” said Gormley. “He’s mute. Can’t speak more than a grunt.”
“Can he understand us?” asked Cecil, a little taken aback.
“To be sure,” said Gormley. “He understands as well as you and me.”
“Then he must be aware who asked him to lead out the carriage yesterday morning,” said Pevensey. He pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Does he know his letters?”
“Nah,” said Gormley. “He canna even write his own name.”
Martin’s sullen glare turned ferocious at that comment and confirmed for Pevensey that the groom knew exactly what was being said.
“Martin,” said Pevensey, “I am an investigator attached to the magistrates’ office in London. A man may have been murdered here.” It was the first time in this case that Pevensey had used the gravity of a murder accusation to impress a witness. “It is essential that I know who asked you to lead out the carriage yesterday morning and wait alongside the road. Was it Walter Turold?”
There was no reply.
“Was it Henry Rowland?”
The groom’s scowl deepened.
“Was it Rufus Rowland?”
The groom looked away.
One by one, Pevensey patiently listed the butler, the housekeeper, the dowager duchess, and all the other inmates of the house, but the names failed to elicit even the smallest of grunts from the mute undergroom.
“Now, see here, Martin!” said Gormley, catching at the straw-haired man’s sleeve with a wrinkled hand. “You tell the gentlemen what they need to know!”
But not even his superior’s exhortation could compel his cooperation.
Gormley’s face began to grow red with expostulating until Pevensey held up a hand. “It’s all right, Mr. Gormley. No doubt young Martin here has a good reason for concealing why he was waiting on the road with the carriage—haven’t you, Martin?”
The sullen face split with a smile that could only be described as sly.
“I thought as much,” said Pevensey, returning the smile measure for measure, “and I hope you won’t be landing in the gaol when I discover what that reason is.”
23
“The family is eating dinner,” Hayward informed Pevensey as he and Cecil returned from the stables and re-entered the house. It was not an invitation to join them, but an injunction to stay away until dinner was over.
Cecil, who had no doubt dined dozens of times at Harrowhaven, looked a little dismayed. After all, investigations were hungry work, and the prospect of no dinner was a dismal one.
“Well, since we are not invited to table,” said Pevensey, “have you the stomach for one more errand?”
“Where to?” asked Cecil. Pevensey noticed that he did not acquiesce immediately.
“To find where the carriage was sitting and examine the ground for clues.”
“Very well,” said Cecil, “although do you think Brockenhurst’s Cook would be good enough to pack us a hamper?”
“I hardly imagine she would care to do so while she is in the middle of serving dinner to the family. Perhaps we can wend our way through the kitchens and snag a crust of bread on our way out.”
Cecil balked at that idea. He probably rarely visited the kitchens at his own manor, and never at the house of another gentleman. In the interest of furthering the investigation, however, he agreed to tighten his belt and press on until food should present itself.
The two men returned to the stable for their horses. Gormley led out Cecil’s mount with alacrity and cuffed his sullen assistant when he was slow to saddle Pevensey’s.
They followed the circular drive at a medium pace and then slowed as they turned onto the road. The summer evening’s light was still good, and they scanned both sides of the road carefully for anything unusual.
“What’s your guess as to who wanted that carriage sitting on the roadside?” Pevensey asked.
Cecil’s stomach grumbled. “Not the slightest sliver of an idea. But perhaps the best way of figuring it out would be to think why each person would want the carriage there.”
“A valuable experiment. Well then, Walter Turold? Why would he want a carriage standing ready on the road?”
Cecil nudged his horse nearer to a dark shape on the side of the road, but moved along when he saw it was only a rock. “Perhaps the shooting was premeditated. The carriage was to be his means of escape afterwards, but he did not count upon others reaching the clearing so quickly.”
“What was his motive in the shooting?”
“Money? Curtis told us that Turold had given vowels to Rufus too. Perhaps Turold was feeling the stranglehold of debt and needed a way out. Or perhaps Curtis didn’t want to dirty his hands, and paid Turold to do it for him.”
“Hmm.” Pevensey patted his horse’s neck. “It’s possible. Let’s try another. Henry Rowland?”
“Do you really think Lord Henry a suspect? I mean, Turold admits to shooting the duke.”
“But how many shots were there?”
“Two.”
“Is it not possible that the duke died from the first bullet before Turold fired the second one?”
Cecil’s lips parted. “Yes, I suppose it might be. I had not thought of it that way. Perhaps the movement Turold saw in the bushes was actually the murderer escaping. He thought it was the stag, shot, and missed. Then, when he came through the underbrush, he saw the duke’s body and thought he had killed him.”
“Yes, so in that case, why would Henry Rowland want a carriage waiting on the road?”
Cecil frowned. “Not to escape in—that would give everything away. If Henry Rowland fired the shot, his main ambition would be to remain undiscovered. Becoming the new duke would be small reward if he were to hang a few weeks later. So the carriage must have been because…because…. No, I give up. You’ve lost me there.”
“And lost myself as well,” said Pevensey with a grin. “It’s impossible to tell where the carriage was parked on this dry ground. Perhaps the carriage was not connected to the death. Perhaps Rufus ordered the carriage himself?”
“I can’t see why he would do such a thing. He was mad about hunting—could keep nothing else in his head when it was time to follow the hounds. And if he had wanted a vehicle to carry the deer back in, he would have ordered the dogcart, not a velvet-cushioned ca
rriage.” Cecil narrowed his eyes and looked into the distance. “Pevensey, perhaps we are on the wrong tack altogether. Perhaps Martin was using the carriage for his own purposes and refuses to tell us why for fear of a reprimand.”
“You know the country better than I,” said Pevensey. “Could he have been meeting someone here on the road?”
“The closest building to this spot is the church,” said Cecil, “and the parsonage next door.”
“The Reverend and his curate were away that day. And you said that Ansel has a budding daughter?” Pevensey looked at Cecil meaningfully.
“Yes, but she is a lady!”
“And a simpleton,” Pevensey reminded him.
Cecil’s forehead wrinkled. “As much as I hate to entertain the notion, I suppose that she and Martin might have had something…in common. Perhaps there was a meeting arranged between the two of them.”
“Then perhaps the carriage had nothing to do with the duke’s death,” said Pevensey. He saw a white building in the distance. “But in any case, I think we should stop by the parsonage to inquire further.”
“Of course!” said Cecil. “And who knows? They may invite us to join them for supper.”
* * *
The soft light of the evening had just begun to filter through the trees when Pevensey and Cecil pulled their horses to a stand at the iron fence surrounding the churchyard and the next door parsonage. They dismounted, and Pevensey felt a puff of red dust cover his trousers as his boots hit the ground. There had been no rain in this part of the country for some time, and while the shaded areas under the trees were still green, the open ground was parched.
Cecil led the way to the door and rapped upon it with polite, but hungry, knuckles. An elderly woman with a white cap and an apron opened the door. “Hello, Mrs. Hodgins! Is the Reverend at home?”
It was long past calling hours, as evidenced by the flustered look on the housekeeper’s face. “Well…yes…he is, but just about to tuck into his dinner.”
“Oh, goodness me,” said Cecil, feigning a look of distress. “Is it that time already? I do beg your pardon, Mrs. Hodgins. We would not have called had it not been so urgent. Regarding the murder…I mean the death of the duke yesterday.”
At the mention of murder, Mrs. Hodgins’ face looked quite frightened. “I don’t know anything about that, Mr. Cecil.”
“Of course not,” he said reassuringly. Pevensey noted approvingly that the young man was using the right touch. “We just need to speak with the Reverend.”
It did not take much more persuasion before Mrs. Hodgins showed them inside and had them wait while she went into the small dining room. The tone of the muffled voice inside implied that they might not be entirely welcome, but a man of the cloth is used to intrusion, and in less than a minute, Reverend Ansel had appeared beside Mrs. Hodgins in the hallway.
“How can I help you?” Reverend Ansel had shut the dining room door behind him, but in the brief moment that it had been open, a delicious savory smell had wafted out into the entry hall. Pevensey could hear Cecil’s stomach grumbling again. The Reverend removed his handkerchief from his pocket and blew his nose.
Pevensey took the lead. “We learned that the carriage from Harrowhaven was seen parked on the road near here yesterday morning. Did anyone from the house see it?”
Reverend Ansel looked at Mrs. Hodgins. She shook her head. “I was away very early yesterday,” said the Reverend, “and I saw nothing when I departed.”
“But you came back,” said Mrs. Hodgins.
“Of course I did,” said Reverend Ansel. “But by then, it was of course much later, and there was nothing of the sort on the road.”
Pevensey eyed the dining room door. “Was there anyone else in the house who might have seen something?”
The Reverend looked instantly uncomfortable, as if his clerical collar might be choking his large neck. “Yes, there is my daughter Catherine, but Mr. Pevensey, she is given to flights of fancy and not entirely….”
Cecil laid a hand on his sleeve. “Mr. Pevensey is aware of your daughter’s unfortunate condition.”
“Ah, yes.” The Reverend seemed mortified to have it spoken of. “Well, if you think it important to ask her about the carriage, we could try.”
“I do,” said Pevensey. Since the Reverend remained stationary, he moved toward the dining room door and led the four of them inside.
Seated at the small table was a girl on the cusp of womanhood. Blond ringlets framed her face, and soft blue eyes stared calmly at the invaders. Her slender figure, dressed all in white, could have been the model for a neo-classical painting. Pevensey wanted quite badly to draw her himself, but he suppressed the urge. He did not want to frighten her by pulling out his notebook.
“Catie, child,” said the Reverend gently. “These men need to ask you a few questions. Can you just answer what they ask you? You need not worry to say anything else.”
She blinked and smiled. Pevensey was reminded of a porcelain doll.
“Miss Ansel,” he said, “there may have been a carriage parked on the road yesterday morning. Did you see it?”
“No, I did not,” said the girl. “I never see any carriages except on Sundays.”
“Did you see anyone walking about in the woods near the parsonage?”
“Sometimes I see people in the woods. But not yesterday. Did you see anyone?”
Her eyes were frank and trusting. Pevensey smiled gently. “No, I did not. Did you go out yesterday, Miss Ansel?”
“No, I wanted to go out, but Papa would not let me.”
Reverend Ansel took his daughter’s hand and patted it. “Of course you could not go out, my dear, since I was not here in the morning to go with you. If that is all, Mr. Pevensey?”
“Just one more question. Miss Ansel, do you know a man named Martin?”
“No, I do not. Who is he? Is he your friend?”
“He is a groom at Harrowhaven. I did not expect you to know him, but I wanted to make sure.”
“I know where Harrowhaven is!”
“Yes,” said Pevensey, signaling to Cecil that it was time for them to take their leave. “It is quite close to here.” He turned to Reverend Ansel. “Thank you for letting us invade your supper hour.”
“Of course,” said Reverend Ansel, sneezing into his sleeve.
“And if you should happen to run across the missing weapon, do let us know.”
Catie Ansel’s head jerked upright. “I saw the gun. Papa had the gun.”
Reverend Ansel blushed, doubtless unused to exposing his child’s infirmity to strangers. “Mrs. Hodgins, could you take Catie to the kitchen with her dinner?” The girl picked up her plate and docilely followed the housekeeper out of the room.
Reverend Ansel went to the door and closed it behind them. “Yes,” he said, turning back to his visitors, “I found the gun this afternoon. I remember you saying that you were searching for the gun in the clearing. I took a walk over there and found it right nearby in the trees roundabout and brought it home to give to you.”
“Excellent!” said Pevensey. “May I have it?”
“It is in my study,” said the Reverend, and he hurried out of the room to retrieve it. “Here it is,” he said, returning to place a familiar-looking pistol in Pevensey’s hands.
“And you found it just outside the clearing?”
“Yes, in the underbrush.”
Pevensey examined the chamber of the weapon. “Did you clean it?”
“No, no,” said the Reverend hastily. “I found it like this.”
“So, it was never fired?” said Cecil with a wrinkled brow. He exchanged a glance with Pevensey.
It was something Pevensey could hardly credit. Then how had there been two shots? “Thank you, Reverend Ansel. We shall take this with us and be on our way.”
They le
ft the house, walked through the church yard, through the iron gate, and back to their horses. “Well?” asked Pevensey, as he stepped up into the saddle. “What do you think?”
Cecil laughed. “I think that Hayward would not allow us to intrude upon the family’s dinner. But surely the ladies must have retired by now, and perhaps we can join the gentlemen over some nuts and sweetmeats and avail ourselves of the duke’s sherry or port.”
* * *
Henry watched the ladies depart from the dining room with an inward sigh. The brief moment of delight he had experienced at seeing Eliza come down for dinner was curdled by the subsequent appearance of Lady Malcolm. His mother had recovered her spirits enough to join them as well, and as an insightful hostess—albeit a grieving one—she had not made the mistake of asking Henry to take Eliza in to dinner. No, that honor had fallen to Robert, and Henry was left to fume inwardly while he sat a whole table length away. He fruitlessly tried to catch Eliza’s eye at regular intervals throughout the two courses, but the auburn-haired beauty would barely look up from her plate, her long eyelashes veiling her expression and shutting him out.
Desultory conversation about the weather and Adele’s reminiscences about her London season kept complete awkwardness at bay, but the dinner still dragged on interminably. Barely three words came out of Eliza’s mouth. The only blessing of the evening was that Walter had had the grace to stay in his room. No one would have denied him room at the table, but no one wanted to sit down to dinner with the man who had shot Rufus when they were all still coming to terms with his death.
The ladies were departing now, and the duchess warned the gentlemen that as they would likely all retire to their rooms the gentlemen need not worry about rejoining them. There was his last chance to see Eliza—gone. Henry growled beneath his breath and walked over to the decanter of brandy on the sideboard.
“Ho there, Brockenhurst!” said a voice at the dining room door. “Do you mind if we join you?”
Henry looked up to see Cecil and Pevensey poking their heads around the corner. The last thing he wanted was to find himself under inspection right now, but he managed to smile and play the gracious host. Cecil lost no time in procuring a glass of spirits for himself and for the Bow Street Runner and helping himself to the sweetmeats on the sideboard. Henry noted, however, as he filled a second glass, that Pevensey was drinking his own beverage sparingly. Abstemiousness was an admirable quality in a constable. Henry wondered if the man ever went “off duty” when he was on a case, or if his mind was continually watching, observing, evaluating.
The Duke's Last Hunt Page 23
