Mr Lawrence smiled back and shook his head. ‘I’m afraid you aren’t going to draw me that way, Mrs Verrity. I don’t like the guy. Simple as that. I’ve never believed he could give a snap of his fingers for the girl and I’ve always said as much. And after the other night who’s to say I’m wrong? You heard him, Major Haldean heard him, Marguerite heard him and as far as I’m concerned he’s through.’
‘So you know nothing?’
‘How could I? I’m sure I could find something if I did a bit of digging but the past is the past. As long as he keeps out of Marguerite’s way that’ll be fine by me. He can do what he likes and good luck to him. I’ll go back to Canada and he’ll never hear of me again. But there’s one thing for sure. He’s not going to touch a penny of that girl’s money.’
‘You are very blunt, Mr Lawrence.’
He grinned at her, the lines round his eyes crinkling. ‘I guess I am, aren’t I? Why don’t you put it down Lo an imperfect grasp of etiquette?’
Haldean opened the gate out of the top paddock of the Whitfield estate, standing by to latch it shut after Ashley. ‘Did you say that Whitfield was a bit perturbed?’
‘Colonel Whitfield,’ said Ashley, ‘is hopping mad. You seem to have got up his nose good and proper. He saw the Chief again this morning. I suppose he was all worked up after his scene with Miss Vayle, but you came in for some fairly vigorous criticism.’
‘My heart is broken and my spirit crushed,’ replied Haldean, shutting the gate.
The stables were swathed in a deep blanket of summer afternoon silence, but Young Alfred had informed them that, although the master weren’t about, he should be coming along Rickett’s Lane soon enough. Screwing his eyes up in the sun, he had professed his astonishment that the gennel’men didn’t mind where Rickett’s Lane was; waving an explanatory hand in the direction of the top paddock he averred they couldn’t miss it. And, oddly enough, they couldn’t. The lane ran out of Breedenbrook, up to the fields belonging to the livery stables and stopped at the gate before straggling off humbly as a path across the Downs.
Haldean leaned against the flint-studded gatepost, tipping his hat slightly forward to shield his eyes from the sun. A fresh breeze brought a hint of the distant sea mixed with the scent of grass, thyme and clover. Not far away the roofs of Thackenhurst were visible, but not even a wisp of smoke disturbed the still air. A flock of black-faced sheep on a distant slope were the only other living things in sight. He breathed a deep sigh of contentment and looked at Ashley. ‘What did Whitfield tell the Chief I’d done?’
‘Hinted that he’s been mixed up in blackmail.’
Haldean broke off a piece of grass and chewed it thoughtfully. ‘The odd thing is, you know, that I did nothing of the sort. I told you everything that happened at the ball. I’ll grant I was a bit short with him, but he’d needled me. I talked about blackmail, certainly, but only because he knew all about it already, thanks to the Chief Constable. I say, Ashley, you’re not in trouble because of anything I’ve done, are you?’
Ashley sucked his cheeks in. ‘I can’t say the Chief’s happy but that, to be honest, is his business. If he hadn’t insisted on telling Whitfield all about it, then none of this would have happened in the first place. But look here, Haldean, you don’t think Whitfield really was being blackmailed, do you?’
‘I didn’t. To be honest it had never occurred to me. When he went up like a rocket I thought he was getting agitated on Marguerite’s behalf. I’m not nearly so sure now after what I heard the pompous ass say this morning. D’you know he called me a dago?’
‘You said. But he can’t possibly have murdered Boscombe. We know that.’
‘I’m not saying he did, but he could be another one of Boscombe and Morton’s victims. He’d fit the bill, actually, and that would account for him going off pop. He used to be well off, but he isn’t any more. Is that a result of bad investments, taxes or blackmail?’
‘The last two are more or less the same thing, aren’t they?’ put in Ashley.
Haldean grinned. ‘As you say. Anyway, last autumn he sold two of his brood mares about the same time as Boscombe and Morton cashed in. It might be coincidence, or it might not be. He’s got a position and a reputation to keep up and in one thing at least, I know him to have told an outright lie. He said Boscombe had wanted him to write a preface for his book. As far as I can make out that’s not actually true. I spent a smoulderingly hot afternoon yesterday trailing round all the likely London publishers to see if any of them had been in touch with Boscombe and requested a preface. The only publishers who had seen the book were the ones I’d originally recommended, Drake and Sanderson, and, as far as they were concerned, Boscombe had withdrawn his manuscript. They certainly hadn’t requested a preface from anyone.’
‘Could Boscombe have wanted a preface by Colonel Whitfield to make his book easier to sell?’
‘But why? Drake and Sanderson were perfectly happy with it. To be fair, I can’t disprove what Whitfield said, but I don’t half suspect it. I think he was lying to cover up what Boscombe had actually said. What that was I don’t know.’
Ashley took out his pipe and slowly filled it. ‘I’m going to ask the Colonel. It seems the most straightforward way to me. By the way, did you ever get to the bottom of why Mr Lawrence is so against him marrying Miss Vayle?’
Haldean shrugged. ‘Belle’s convinced it’s because he’s stuck on her himself. She might be right, or it may be that Lawrence knows something about Whitfield that’s none too pleasant. I’d wish you’d heard the exchange between Mrs Verrity and Lawrence this morning. I might be reading too much into it, but it had that significant quality, if you know what I mean. Teemed with hidden meaning and all of that. I’ve given you the gist of it, but I wish you’d been there.’
‘What sort of hidden meaning?’
Haldean hesitated. ‘It sounded as if Lawrence was threatening Whitfield through Mrs Verrity if Whitfield didn’t stop making a nuisance of himself to Marguerite. Pass your tobacco over, Ashley. I haven’t knocked off smoking, you know.’
Ashley handed over his pouch. ‘But what the devil was he threatening him with? If Mr Lawrence knows something or suspects something about Whitfield, why on earth doesn’t he tell us? There’s no love lost between them, that’s for sure.’
Haldean, having discarded the stalk of grass, was busy filling his pipe. ‘Rotten, this, isn’t it?’ he said, with a sideways glance at Ashley. ‘Two solid, hard, unpalatable facts in the form of murder and a mountain of speculation. D’you think we’ll get there?’
Ashley shook his head. ‘I haven’t always, you know, in other cases. I’ve had my suspicions often enough as to the rights of things, but evidence? That’s another matter.’ A faint continuous noise sounded in the distance, causing him to look up. ‘Hello, is this the Colonel? It’s about time.’
They looked down the lane. The black shape of a man on horseback breasted the ridge of the hill at a steady clip, the features blotted out by the sun at his back. Haldean squinted and waved. ‘It’s him all right.’
The horse cantered towards them before it suddenly stopped, head tossed back and feet splaying in a jinking dance to one side. The head tossed again, ears flat against its skull. Whitfield seemed to be fighting to stay on its back. He leaned over its neck, struggling for control, then, with a braying whinny, the horse thundered towards them.
‘Run!’ shouted Ashley in shocked disbelief. He instinctively pulled Haldean to one side. ‘Run!’
With a jolt of pain Haldean felt his leg go at the knee, sending him sprawling in the dust. There was a brief sight of white, maddened eyes, steel-shod hooves, kicking legs and a monstrous black bulk towering above. He rolled away desperately as the hooves crashed down inches from his ear. The horse reared again. Haldean scrambled to his knees, shying away, then something struck his head in a star-shell of blackness.
Whitfield clung on to the horse’s back, one hand matted in the mane. The beast reared and plunged o
nce more, sending him flying. He sprawled in the dust, rolling away from the raging horse. Ashley’s world seemed to slow to a crawl. With great deliberation he edged his way between the flailing hooves and the gate. He found the catch and swung the gate back, part of his mind standing back and marvelling at the precision of his movements and the clearness of his thoughts. With the gate open and its way clear, the horse galloped through and raced across the field, where it came to a halt, shivering.
The spell was broken. The world snapped back to its normal speed and with it came noise; a groan from Whitfield, birdsong, the rustle of trees, but absolute silence from Haldean. Ignoring Whitfield, Ashley knelt down by Haldean’s side, and carefully touched the blood-caked hair. Resolutely thrusting down the weary sickness that enveloped him, Ashley put a hand on Haldean’s chest, closing his eyes with gratitude as he felt the heart quicken beneath the shirt.
There was a scuffle on the road beside him and Whitfield, white-faced and shaking, stood next to them, nursing his upper arm. ‘Is he all right? Satan – the horse – I couldn’t hold him. He has a filthy temper. Is he all right?’ Ashley nodded, not trusting his voice. ‘You saw I couldn’t hold him? You saw that? Are you sure he’s all right?’
‘He needs a doctor.’
‘A doctor?’ Whitfield winced. ‘So do I.’ He glanced down at Haldean. ‘I’ll stay here while you go for help.’
‘No!’ Ashley jerked the word out involuntarily. In Whitfield’s glance he had seen something that was there for only a fraction of a second, but which Ashley knew, knew beyond all argument, was hatred. In those few hundredths of a second all his suspicions flared and focused on the man, leaving him utterly certain that he had just witnessed an attempt at cold-blooded murder.
He saw Whitfield’s eyes widen in surprise and forced himself to pick his words carefully. There had to be a reason. Think! I’m not leaving him with you . . . He couldn’t say that. ‘You can walk. It’s better if you go because you can give instructions to your men.’ Steady, commanding voice now, Superintendent. ‘Off you go, sir. Every moment may be precious.’
Whitfield paused then nodded, before half-walking, half-stumbling through the gate, across the field, past the now shivering and quiescent horse and into the stable yard.
Ashley loosened Haldean’s tie and undid his collar. Taking off his own jacket and bundling it into a pillow he carefully raised the younger man’s head and slipped it underneath. As he did so, Haldean stirred and, to Ashley’s unspeakable relief, flickered his eyelids open.
‘My head hurts,’ he whispered.
‘You’re lucky you’ve still got one,’ said Ashley, his voice oddly shaky. Haldean attempted to sit up. ‘For God’s sake, man, stay still, will you? Whitfield’s gone for a doctor.’
Haldean subsided back on to the jacket and shut his eyes. ‘Whitfield? I remember. Whitfield on the horse. He was dancing.’
‘Dancing?’ Ashley wondered if the injury had affected Haldean’s mind. ‘Whitfield wasn’t dancing.’
Haldean made a slight, impatient motion with his hand and flickered his eyes open again. ‘The horse. Danced to one side. They do that – oh, my blasted head! – when they don’t know what to do. Conflicting instructions. Charge. Stay still. The horse bolts. He set it up.’
‘Quietly does it.’ Ashley swallowed and took the plunge. ‘I think so too.’
‘Good man.’ Haldean closed his eyes and breathed deeply. ‘Can’t prove it. Can’t prove anything . . .’
‘You’ll live,’ said Dr Wilcott succinctly. ‘You’ll probably suffer from concussion to some degree but you’ve got off very lightly, all things considered.’
Haldean, who had endured being lifted on to a home-made stretcher and carried to the tack room where he had submitted with gritted teeth to the doctor’s examination, couldn’t quite agree. ‘My head’s throbbing like the dickens.’
‘Lie down. Of course it’s hurting.’ He looked at Ashley. ‘Has he been totally rational? Giddy? Bad-tempered? Shown signs of drowsiness?’
‘You sound like an advert for a liver pill,’ murmured the patient from the tack-room table. Dr Wilcott allowed himself a smile. ‘I feel sick and I want to go to sleep,’ he mumbled heavily.
Dr Wilcott cocked an eyebrow at Ashley. ‘Well?’
‘He’s been quite rational, Doctor, but sleepy, as he’s said.’
‘In that case the best thing is complete rest in a darkened room . . .’ He looked up as Buckman, touching his forehead respectfully, creaked the door open. ‘What is it?’
Buckman ignored the doctor and spoke to Whitfield who was sitting on a broken-back chair, nursing his arm. ‘Here’s Mrs Verrity to see you, sir. I told her as how there’d been an accident, and she wanted to come in. Here she is, sir.’
‘Can’t you –’ began Whitfield, breaking off as Mrs Verrity came into the room. She was dressed in tight-fitting jodhpurs and a hacking jacket and looked, if possible, even more striking than she had done in her ballgown. However the sight of her seemed to afford Whitfield very little pleasure. ‘I didn’t think you were coming this afternoon,’ he said with poor grace.
‘Nonsense, Richard,’ she said, taking in the scene. ‘Buckman tells me Satan bolted.’
‘I couldn’t hold him,’ he said, looking her straight in the eyes. ‘I’ve crocked my arm. It’s not broken but it jolly well feels like it and he damn nearly killed Haldean here. Trampled him down.’
Mrs Verrity looked at Haldean with a quick, appraising glance. ‘A head wound? That could so easily have been fatal.’ Haldean made a futile attempt to sit up and she suddenly smiled. ‘I am glad to see it was not.’ She looked at Wilcott who had unwittingly straightened up to his full height and was adjusting his tie. ‘You are the doctor, yes? Is he in any danger?’
‘Not now,’ said Wilcott. ‘He’ll have a nasty headache for a day or so and various bruises, but he’ll live. No doubt about that.’
She tensed for a moment, then her shoulders relaxed in an almost imperceptible movement. ‘And what happens to him now? He is not fit to be driven home, that is obvious.’
‘Good Lord, no. He needs something cold on that head. Ice is the best thing, if you have it, and he needs to avoid eating for a day. Fluids but no alcohol. Drink can have very funny effects on concussion cases. That, together with total bed-rest in a darkened room until tomorrow at least, should see him on his feet again.’
‘He’d better stay here,’ put in Whitfield.
Ashley opened his mouth to speak, but was beaten to it by Mrs Verrity. ‘I think not, Richard. After all, you are injured yourself and I doubt if you would be able to give Major Haldean the care he deserves.’ She bent over Haldean and stroked the hair away from his forehead. ‘You will come to me, to my house? And I will telephone Lady Rivers to send someone to sit with you. It is better that you are not left by yourself, I think.’ She glanced at the doctor. ‘He will need to be carried there, of course, but it is only a short way over the fields. Can you arrange for that to be done?’
‘Certainly,’ said Wilcott. ‘If he can’t be looked after here that sounds like the best solution. If I may use your telephone, Colonel, I can organize things right away. And I must say, Mrs Verrity, that I’m very grateful to you for your help, and yours, Colonel. I don’t know about that horse, though. It’s not the first time it’s caused an accident, I believe. I think you may have to consider having it destroyed.’
Whitfield shifted on his chair. ‘It’s a damn fine horse, but you might be right. Look, Anne-Marie, I hate to land you with an invalid.’ He caught her gaze with his. ‘Wouldn’t it be better for everyone if Haldean stayed here?’
‘No, Richard,’ said Mrs Verrity, firmly. ‘I think I should take care of Major Haldean. I will call later on and tell you how he is, but first I would like to speak to Lady Rivers.’
Whitfield shrugged, wincing as the movement caught his arm. ‘Just as you like. It’s only . . . Well, if he stayed here I could have everything arranged for him.’
‘I doubt that,’ said Mrs Verrity. ‘I don’t think your arrangements would suit the Major at all. I really think you had better leave the matter to me.’
‘I don’t like it,’ said Ashley, instinctively lowering his voice.
The curtain flapped gently over the half-open window, bringing fluttering fragments of light over the rich bedroom carpet. Haldean stared at it as if mesmerized. The bed was soft and the linen sheets wonderfully cool. He wanted to go to sleep so much it was horribly hard to force himself to speak. ‘I’ll be all right now.’
‘I certainly wasn’t going to let you stay with Whitfield, that’s for sure, even if I’d ended up carrying you home myself. I haven’t got to the bottom of what’s going on, but he’s up to something.’
‘Yes. Good alibi. Can’t break it. I might be wrong.’ Haldean closed his eyes, feeling sleep mounting like a tidal wave. ‘Mrs Verrity doesn’t trust him. Do you trust her?’
‘At the moment I don’t trust anyone but she wanted you away from there nearly as much as I did. I’ve got to say that Mrs Verrity’s been very good. The first thing she did was telephone Hesperus. Your aunt and Miss Rivers are on their way over.’
‘Fine. Sorry about the fuss . . . Decent of Belle to come too. I wish I understood things. Better ask Aunt Alice not to leave me alone.’
‘Don’t worry,’ said Ashley grimly. ‘I’ll make a point of it.’
The next morning, Isabelle and Lady Rivers decided that Haldean, who was sound asleep, was well enough to be left while they went down to breakfast.
Mrs Verrity looked up with a welcoming smile as they entered the room. ‘Good morning. How is Major Haldean? Please help yourself to some breakfast from the sideboard, by the way. If there is anything else you would rather have, please say so.’
As the sideboard held eggs, sausages, bacon, kidneys, mushrooms, ham, porridge, kedgeree, bread and fruit, it seemed unlikely that there could be anything else that could be wanted for breakfast. Fighting down a mischievous urge to ask for kippers, Isabelle helped herself to bacon and eggs. Mrs Verrity, she noticed, was breakfasting on grapefruit and thinly buttered bread. You didn’t get to keep a figure like that by tucking into sausages and ham. ‘Can I get you something, Mother?’
A Fête Worse Than Death Page 18
