Red Dragon – White Dragon

by Gary Dolman

  Atticus sensed Lucie’s blood rise as she stood beside him.

  “Have no fears on that score, Sir Hugh,” he assured him hurriedly. “My wife was once a nurse. Blood and gore are second nature to her.”

  Sir Hugh grinned. “In that case, sir, well said, and so be it! There’s been enough blood and gore to satisfy any nurse. Now, let’s take our tea and I’ll tell you both why I’ve summoned you here.”

  He shuffled restlessly as the butler ritually poured the tea and passed the cups around. Then, like an actor about to enter upon a grand stage, he took a deep breath, visibly composed himself, and began:

  “We had a labourer employed on my home farm, Fox. He went by the name of Elliott – Samson Elliott – and he was a Romany Gypsy as I recall. Very early on the morning of Saturday last, he set off in his little caravan to visit the Gypsy Horse Fair at Appleby-in-Westmorland, which as you may know is held every year and always in June. We’re generally quiet on the farm at that time of the year, as I understand it, and so Lawson, my land steward, always allows him to go to Appleby and meet up with his two brothers and do… well, whatever it is that Gypsies do up at the fair.

  “I fear Elliott never even got so far as the boundary of the estate. Lawson found his body later that same day lying at the edge of one of the outlying fields close to the moors. He’d been run-through with a sword, he’d had his guts sliced open and he’d been beheaded. Expert swordsmanship it was too, by the by, and I should know! The horse he used to pull his caravan was filling its belly on the headland a little way away. It was still in its harness.

  “We immediately called for the police, of course, and a detective came out directly from Hexham with two of his constables. He examined Elliott’s body and the circumstances of his death but he could make nothing of it, the bloody imbecile!”

  He grunted under his breath and added: “Forgive me, Mrs Fox, but this is a military house and we use military language.

  “Anyway, I did his damned job for him. I practically told him who the killer was – a madman who lives in an estate cottage not twenty yards from where the body was found.

  “He went to question him, of course. He questioned him for most of the next day but he discovered nothing – absolutely nothing. As I say, the man’s a rank fool.”

  Sir Hugh paused and looked directly at Atticus and Lucie in turn.

  “I know beyond any shred of doubt that the madman was responsible for that murder. He was an accomplished swordsman before he went insane and he has a sword – a great two-hander – in his cottage. I told the detective as much. Unfortunately neither he nor his constables could find any trace of it when they searched his cottage and he refused point-blank to search the moors or the lakes, even at my own personal request. He’s bloody derelict in his duty if you ask me, by God!”

  He pounded the leather arm of his chair with his fist and swore again.

  “As you might tell, Fox, I’m frustrated – damned frustrated – by the lack of progress. Elliott, for all he was a fool, was a labourer on my estate and I feel honour-bound to ensure that the greater justice is served and a culprit punished. That’s why I’m engaging you both. I want you to find someone to hang for Samson Elliott’s killing, and I declare you’d do well to begin with our madman.”

  Atticus felt the maw of irritation nibbling at his guts. He was fiercely independent-minded when it came to the disposition of any investigation and he said: “Very well, Sir Hugh, thank you for your suggestion. However, I insist that we approach this commission as we do every other: with a completely open mind. We follow a tried and tested method, which always begins with an examination of the scene of the crime itself.”

  He was conscious of Lowther staring at him with his intensely blue eyes.

  “Is it possible we may do so now please?”

  “Yes of course, Fox.” Lowther continued to stare.

  “May we do so directly? The case is already five days old and time, in any manner of investigation, is very much of the essence.”

  “I don’t see why not; I intended to take you there myself.”

  Sir Hugh leapt out of his chair and strode across the room towards the portrait of the military officer. He produced a key from his waistcoat pocket and prodded it into a hole in one side of the heavy, gilt frame. A hidden lock gave a gentle click and the frame drifted ajar. Sir Hugh wrenched it wide on its hinges to reveal a large, hidden closet recessed into the thick wall behind.

  Sir Hugh’s broad frame almost filled this cavity as he leaned into it, all but obscuring a heavy, cast-iron safe on top of which sat a row of handsome journals, all identically bound, and each held shut by its own delicate silver clasp. He reached behind these and lifted out an ugly, black handgun.

  “My service revolver,” he explained. “Webley Mark I, Break-Top. I keep it hidden behind my first wife’s old diaries.”

  He broke open the gun in one expert motion and noted with a satisfied grunt that the chamber was full.

  “Just in case of trouble,” he added with a grin, his eyes suddenly blazing. He looked very much as if he might relish any chance of trouble there might be. Tucking the gun securely into the pocket of his jacket, he led the way out of the room and back into the vast cathedral that was the hall.

  “Lucie Fox,” exclaimed Sir Hugh loudly and suddenly as they passed the foot of the stairs.

  “Yes, Sir Hugh,” Lucie replied.

  Sir Hugh turned to stare at her, the full, black circles of his eyes creeping across every detail of her face. The golden light from the window tinged his own face and for just a moment he seemed like some grotesque, somehow carnivorous appendage to the statue behind him.

  He hesitated for a moment longer and then asked: “Mrs Fox… Do you… How do you like Shields Tower?”

  “I like it very much indeed, Sir Hugh,” Lucie assured him, “And I adore Northumberland.”

  “Good… That’s very good,” he muttered and smiled.

  “I confess that I was a little surprised by this hall,” Atticus said. “Magnificent as it is, it is quite a—”

  “It is quite a bit different to the outside of the house, eh?” Sir Hugh cut across him. He laughed harshly. “That is because Shields Tower is actually two houses in one.”

  He swept his arm theatrically around the hall.

  “This is the original. The Kingdom of Northumberland has rarely been at peace and this part is nothing less than a fortress – a castle. My grandfather built the newer part around it like a smart overcoat and added the north and south wings. My father, Sir Douglas, rebuilt the stables.”

  “That explains it admirably,” said Atticus. “And also the immensely thick walls. I like it very much too, Sir Hugh – what I have seen of it so far.”

  Lowther did not reply but led them out through the main doors and down the gently curving lane that connected Shields Tower to its stable block. It was a route that took them through a scattered audience of hideous grotesques and fiendish beasts carved brutally in stone and perched on columns of various heights. They seemed to be following their progress through blank, sightless eyes.

  Ahead of them, a couple emerged from the shadow of a carriage-arch beneath the stables’ clock tower. It was a young man and woman.

  The man was tall and lean with hair the colour of rich copper. The woman, they could see even at that distance, was exquisitely beautiful; slender and elegant, with white-blonde hair swept casually back from her face. She was wearing the new ‘rational clothing’ of which Lucie was so fond; a divided skirt and no bustle which allowed for a far greater freedom of movement. They were walking arm-in-arm and both were in gales of laughter.

  Sir Hugh stopped as they approached. He stood, tall and straight, and said: “Mr and Mrs Fox, I should like to present my daughter, Miss Jennifer Lowther and Master Arthur. Jenny, Arthur, Mr and Mrs Atticus Fox are the privately commissioned investigators I told you about. They are here about the murder of the Gypsy and they are going to find us someone to hang.”


  Artie bowed his head and said: “We are very pleased to meet you, Mr and Mrs Fox,” and Jennifer bobbed an elegant curtsey. There was a second or two of awkward silence before Atticus advised them that, as a routine of their investigation, they might wish to speak with them both in the course of the next day or so.

  “Yes of course, Mr Fox,” Artie replied genially. “We’d be only too pleased to help in any way we can.”

  “And we can tell you who was responsible for Samson Elliott’s death,” added Jennifer earnestly.

  “Yes, I’ve already told ’em; it was the madman,” barked Sir Hugh.

  “Well, we are quite sure it was King Arthur himself, awoken from his slumbers, Papa,” Jennifer replied sweetly.

  Sir Hugh exhaled sharply. “That is arrant, bloody nonsense, Jenny. King Arthur indeed, whatever next? You sound like an ignorant villager from Bardon Mill. It’s preposterous. In any event, introductions are over; we mustn’t hold up Mr and Mrs Fox’s examination of the facts.” He laid heavy emphasis on the word ‘facts.’ “We don’t have all day. Time, as Fox here has only just reminded me, is of the essence. Let us proceed.”

  As they passed through the carriage arch, both Atticus and Lucie were stopped short by the panorama that suddenly opened out in front of them. Beyond the rails of the white-painted fence that stretched along the boundary of the stable yard was a broad mosaic of lush meadows and grey, dry-stone walls. Further still stretched mile after mile of rolling, grassy moorland, punctuated only by the bright azure waters of the loughs the footman had told them about and the black rocks of the Great Whin Sill. Then rose the great Northumbrian Pennine hills, shimmering blue in the distance through the haze of the summer sun.

  Sir Hugh stopped too, and pointed ahead into the middle distance.

  “Do you see that white cottage there?” he asked, stabbing the air with his fingertip. “That’s where the madman lives. The little, square field next to it is where the Gypsy was killed.”

  Atticus and Lucie peered along the line of his finger and Sir Hugh explained: “He was ambushed as he took a shortcut around that field. No doubt he would have been on his way to join the public lane, which you can see to the left of it.”

  “I’m no farmer, Sir Hugh,” Lucie conceded, “but I can plainly see that field is a different shade of green to the others. There are no yellow buttercups nor any sheep or cattle in it. Might it perhaps be growing a crop of some kind?”

  “You have a wonderfully keen eye, Mrs Fox – Lucie – and yes, you’re quite correct. I’m no farmer either and I’d normally leave the running of the estate strictly to the peasants. But this year I’d insisted upon Lawson, my land steward, the Peasant-in-Chief, that that field be ploughed and sown with wheat. It was by way of an experiment to see if these high fields could be a bit more productive than they are at present in supporting a few scraggy cattle or sheep. Lawson tells me that the early signs are disappointing and heaven knows it was devilish difficult to plough it up in the first place. There were only a few inches of dirt under the grass and more stones than Hadrian’s Wall, d’ye see, but I dare say that for all that, it was more than worth the attempt.”

  He grinned defiantly under his luxuriant whiskers and they set off once again. As they walked, Sir Hugh asked, “Tell me, Fox, are you any relation to the owner of the Leeds Forge, Samson Fox? He’s from Harrogate too, I believe.”

  Atticus replied that he was a distant cousin.

  “Brilliant man of course,” Sir Hugh continued, “although of humble birth. We use his inventions in our own factories. I also hear he’s something of a philanthropist?”

  Atticus was piqued by his words.

  “He is a brilliant man, thank you, Sir Hugh. And yes, he’s also a great philanthropist. His birth, if I may say so, is neither here nor there.”

  Sir Hugh chuckled. “Now you’re the one talking nonsense, Fox, never mind my daughter. I’ve no time for all that egalitarian bloody claptrap. Breeding, good or bad, will always come out in the end. We Lowthers are warriors and we do our philanthropy on the battlefield. Civilising the world is our good work and that is just about big enough for us.”

  He proceeded to tell them of the ancient and noble history of the Lowther family and of some of his more illustrious forebears. As he began to talk of the Anglo-Saxons and of the reach of the Domesday Book, Lucie suddenly noticed again just how beautiful the Northumberland moors were, and how spectacular the yellow gorse. Indeed, it was rather like the gorse bushes on the Stray they could see from their own window at home.

  They arrived at last at the gateway to the little field Sir Hugh had pointed out from the stable yard. As they had seen at a distance, it was roughly square in shape with a second gateway punctuating the wall directly opposite them. The two were linked by a broad, grassy headland, which tracked around the northern edge of the field close to the madman’s tiny cottage. The rest of the field was filled with stunted, chlorotic wheat and the warm breeze was blowing dapples across it like the waves of the lake that sparkled in the sun a few hundred yards upwind.

  Atticus swung his heavy investigations bag onto one of the massive stone stoops which carried the gate and glanced around, gauging his bearings. As he twisted, he felt a bead of sweat trickle down his skin where the bag’s strap had lain.

  “Elliott’s cottage was where, Sir Hugh?” he asked.

  Sir Hugh turned and pointed across the horizon to a short terrace of cottages.

  “His was the farthest to the right of those.”

  “And the lane you say he was intending to join?”

  “Is just on the other side of that.” He inclined his head towards the gate on the farthest side.

  Atticus pulled gently on the hairs of his whiskers as he considered. “Did Elliott always take this route?”

  Sir Hugh nodded. “All of the workers do whenever they’re heading over to the west. It saves a long detour down the valley.”

  “Good, then that gives us a starting point to our investigation. Now, Sir Hugh, where exactly in this field was Elliott’s body found?”

  Sir Hugh led them some two thirds of the way around the headland path to a point just beyond the cottage. Here, he indicated a number of dark stains still just visible on the lush sward of the grass. The area was humming with dozens of flies.

  “This was where he died, Fox. You can still see his blood on the ground, although he was actually attacked right next to the madman’s cottage there.”

  “You say he was riding on a Gypsy caravan?” Lucie asked.

  “Yes he was.” Sir Hugh regarded her thoughtfully. “As I’ve told you already, he was a Gypsy himself. He kept his caravan painted and in good order by the side of his cottage.”

  His piercing, blue eyes seemed to turn to ice.

  “When he first came to settle on the estate, he would often take his caravan over to the moors and spend the nights there, even though we gave him a cottage to live in. It was his roving nature, I suppose, his lack of civilisation.”

  Atticus asked, “Where is his caravan now? Has it been destroyed yet?”

  “Destroyed? Why no, of course not. Why would we want to destroy it? We put it in the barn at the request of the detective superintendant. He wanted to preserve any evidence there might have been on it; not that he found a great deal by all accounts.”

  “Detective superintendant!” exclaimed Atticus. “Bless me, they’ve certainly brought the big guns to bear on this case. But that’s excellent news because Lucie and I can examine it at first-hand. There is a very good chance we might find something they have missed.”

  He pointed through a narrow gap in the dry stone wall; a style just large enough for a man to pass through.

  “The little, white cottage yonder is where your lunatic lives, you say? Tell us more of him.”

  “And why,” Lucie added, “you allow him to remain living here on your estate if you believe him to be a murderer?”

  Lowther turned and stared at the cottage for several long se
conds before he answered.

  “Yes, that’s where the madman lives, if living is what you can call it. I’d call it more of a daily existence myself; just one step up from the cattle Lawson keeps in the fields.

  “Why do I allow him to remain in the cottage, Lucie?”

  He shrugged.

  “That is to do with the repayment of an old debt of honour my family owes him.”

  He turned back to face them.

  “You see many years ago, our madman served in the Royal Navy. He was a midshipman on board that celebrated ship, HMS Shannon. The Shannon, and consequently he, was involved in the relief of Lucknow in the Indian Mutiny back in the late 1850s. My father and I also fought at Lucknow but we were with the army, with the Fighting Fifth, the Northumberland Fusiliers. It was there that our mad friend rendered my father a great service. He single-handedly rescued him from a large number of Sepoy mutineers.

  “Shortly after he returned to his ship, his feeble mind finally gave out and he went mad. He was discharged from the Royal Navy as unfit for duty and given an almshouse by the Greenwich Hospital Trust, which owns a lot of property hereabouts. As time went on, though, he grew more and more insane and it wasn’t long before even they threw him out.

  “My dear father, hearing about it all, allowed him that cottage gratis for the rest of his life, together with sustenance and a small allowance in gratitude for saving his skin. Bessie Armstrong, my housekeeper, delivers a food parcel to him twice each week as she visits a… a lady-friend she has living up on the moors. If he didn’t live there with alms from the estate, I have little doubt he would either be dead or locked up in a lunatic asylum just as his doctor insists he should be. But for my father’s sake, Lucie, until he is proved beyond doubt to have committed the murders, on this estate he will stay.”

  “Bravo, Sir Hugh, but in what respect is he insane?” Lucie’s question was intense with professional interest.

  Lowther laughed, briefly and without mirth.

  “His real name is Britton, Michael Britton, but he calls himself Uther. He firmly believes himself to be the returned King Uther Pendragon of legend, and the father of King Arthur.”