Murder at Cleeve Abbey

by Anita Davison

  ‘Oh, I expect so. I have a funeral to arrange, remember?’

  ‘Would you rather I stayed to help? I can easily re-organize my outing.’

  ‘No, of course not. You go. But I do appreciate the offer.’

  ‘Goodness is that the time?’ Bunny squinted at his bedside clock. ‘Better get some kip or I’ll be yawning tomorrow and William will think I’m bored.’ He planted a kiss on her cheek, licked his thumb and forefinger and snuffed out the candle on his side of the bed.

  Flora’s thoughts were already miles away, thinking of what she would do with her day. She had the funeral to organize, having refused Lady Venetia’s repeated offers to help. She needed to get on with it, but couldn’t bring herself to discuss coffins and graves while she still had this mystery hanging over it all.

  Then there was still the subject of Lily Maguire to settle completely, one which she intended to broach with Lady Venetia. She also wanted to visit the place her father was found in Bailey Wood. She might even pay a call on Dr Fairbrother. ‘The doddering idiot’ Lord Vaughn had referred to may have missed an important detail. She would have to find out where his consulting rooms were first, and borrow the gig to make the call. Should she mention her plans to Bunny or simply go off on her own?

  Flora stared at Bunny’s turned back for a moment, then tugged the coverlet over her bare shoulder and snuggled lower. No, it would be best to keep her plans to herself. The expression, ‘it’s easier to seek forgiveness than permission’ ran through her head.

  She might not have been a wife for long but knew never to start a disagreement at bedtime. Forced to sleep like bookends on a shelf while clinging to the edge of a mattress with their backs rigid, was rarely conducive to a restful night.

  *

  After breakfast the next morning, Flora saw Bunny off in William’s elegant carriage, then went in search of Tom Murray. She discovered him in the kitchen garden, pitchfork in hand and his shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows revealing muscular, bronzed arms. He didn’t see her approach and continued chatting amiably to a maid who threw him repeated shy glances whilst she unclipped washing from a line.

  Flora hovered by the back door, admiring of the way Tom’s masculine form contrasted with the girls’ delicate paleness, the pair framed by a row of white sheets that billowed like sails. Behind them rows of vegetable frames bursting with summer produce lent colour to a gentle, pastoral scene bathed in the glow of a summer morning that would have made a lovely painting.

  The maid spotted Flora and bent to scoop a laundry basket from the ground. She sketched a polite curtsey, then nodded at Tom before making her way back along the path to the rear door.

  ‘I’m sorry to interrupt,’ Flora said to his turned back. ‘May I have a word, Tom?’

  Her prepared smile froze on her face as he turned around. A purple bruise covered a badly swollen left eye. ‘Goodness, Tom, whatever happened?

  He brought a hand up to his face as if he had forgotten about it, and ducked his head away. ‘Nothing much, Miss. Horse kicked me.’

  Had Diabolous caused this? On closer inspection, Flora noted the skin wasn’t broken, so doubted any hoof had caused it, more likely a fist.

  Tom wouldn’t meet her eye, and embarrassed, Flora cast a glance over the garden. ‘This might sound a strange question, Tom, but are you familiar with the exact spot where my father was found?’ She wasn’t sure why, but the need to see the place where he died mattered to her.

  ‘I was in the search party.’ He frowned at the memory, then a slight grimace showed the movement hurt him. ‘I know the place.’

  ‘Would you take me there?’ She tried not to stare, but that eye looked painful. Whoever had inflicted it was evidently not averse to take on Tom, who was hardly frail.

  ‘What, now, Miss?’ At her pleading look he sighed. ‘I cannot leave my work for long, but we could take the gig.’

  ‘I would appreciate that, thank you. I won’t keep you.’ She was pressing her advantage as a guest and knew it, but Tom was the obliging sort and Lord Vaughn no tyrant.

  ‘It’s nay bother.’ He held open the gate to allow her onto the drive first. ‘The cart’s in the end stable. I’ll get it tacked up and we can go.’

  The sound of wheels on gravel brought Flora’s attention to a figure on a bicycle who entered through the Abbey gates. As it came closer it transformed into a constable who rode straight for them.

  ‘Not him again,’ Tom mumbled, his steps slowing to allow the cyclist to reach him. ‘Good morning, Constable Jones.’

  In no apparent hurry, the policeman dismounted, leaned his bicycle against the stable wall before striding towards them. A short, barrel-chested man, his uniform jacket strained against a slight pot belly, his buttons and collar flashes were highly polished.

  ‘I needs a quick word with you if you don’t mind, Tom?’ He planted both feet apart in front of him and adjusted his chin strap. ‘Morning, Miss.’ He touched the peak of his helmet in salute to Flora, though he didn’t ask who she was.

  Content to remain anonymous, she nodded in response.

  ‘What if I do?’ Tom asked, suddenly belligerent. ‘I can’t tell you any more than I did the last time you were here.’

  ‘Even so, I have to make my report for the sergeant.’ He withdrew a small notebook from his top pocket, flicked it open. His head still down, he asked, ‘That eye looks painful.’ He took a pencil stub from behind his ear and licked it. ‘Like to tell me how you got it?’

  ‘Not particularly.’ Tom removed a hand from the pitchfork and swiped it between his nose.

  ‘I see.’ His eyes flicked to Tom’s face then back to his notebook. ‘Has anyone reported seeing young Betsy Mason in the last few days?’

  ‘Not since the fête, which is what I’ve been telling you all along.’ Tom swung the pitchfork from one hand to the other, an act some might have seen as a veiled threat, though the sturdy policeman didn’t flinch.

  ‘I have to check if the situation has changed since then.’

  ‘Funny how I’m the only one you keep asking though, isn’t it? Why don’t you question Bracenose, or the footmen? They’re as likely to know anything as me.’ His eyes narrowed at the officer and his jaw worked as he spoke.

  ‘Now, now, Tom, no need to take on. I’ll get to them in due time. Has Miss Mason contacted you since she left?’

  ‘If she left, then why all the questions? Or are you going to tell me you’ve found a body or something?’

  ‘Now why would you go and say a thing like that, Tom?’ Constable Jones tipped back his helmet and regarded him steadily. ‘Are we likely to?’

  ‘I’ve no idea.’ Tom’s grip on the pitchfork turned his knuckles white and alarm entered his eyes. He relaxed again as he seemed to remember Flora was there. ‘Sorry, Miss, but I don’t know what else to say.

  Flora grew increasingly uneasy, unnerved by Tom’s uncharacteristic hostility. Or maybe he just didn’t like policemen? She debated whether she should discreetly withdraw, but curiosity won over and she stood her ground.

  Constable Jones gave Tom a final hard look before scribbling something in his notebook. ‘What about this Scrivens chap? He was at the fête that day? Has he been acting strangely of late? Sneaking off to places or acting nervous at all?’

  ‘No more’n usual, as far as I know. The man’s no friend of mine so I keep out of his way.’

  ‘And the other chap, Bracenose? Was he paying more attention to the lass when she was here?’

  ‘Bracenose? What road you going down there, Constable?’ Tom snorted. ‘You going to ask what Lord Vaughn thought of her too?’

  ‘No call for attitude, young man. I’m only doin’ me job.’ His gaze swivelled to Flora. ‘And who might you be, Miss?’

  Flora assumed he had taken her for one of the staff. Perhaps she still looked like one.

  ‘Mrs Harrington. I’m a guest of Lady Vaughn’s, and I have never been acquainted with Miss Mason.’

  ‘Ah, pardon me I�
��m sure.’ His pencil swung from Tom to her. ‘I’nt you the daughter of Maguire who was head butler here? I heard she married a Harrington?’ His eyes clouded as memory returned. ‘Please accept my condolences about Mr Maguire. He was a good man. T’were a nasty business his accident.’

  ‘Thank you.’ She looked away, surprised the effect a kind word from a stranger made.

  ‘Ah well, if there’s nothing more, I’ll be off then.’ He returned the notebook to his pocket and backed away. ‘I trust you’ll inform the constabulary if you do hear anything, Tom?’

  Tom’s jaw jutted forward and he looked about to say something he might regret. Flora cut across him.

  ‘Shouldn’t it be the other way around, Constable? Isn’t your job to find the young lady and return her to her family?’

  Constable Jones didn’t answer, merely saluted her again and retrieved his bicycle.

  ‘I’ll go and fetch the cart.’ Tom started for the stable before the policeman and his bicycle were halfway to the gates.

  ‘Has there been any news about Betsy Mason?’ Flora hurried to keep pace as he strode into the stable.

  ‘You think I was having Jones on then?’ Tom’s laugh reflected the return of his easy manner. ‘I’ll repeat what I told him. No one’s heard from Betsy since she left the fête.’

  ‘I see,’ Flora bit her lip. The fact he said ‘left’ and not ‘was taken’ struck her as an interesting distinction. ‘Was she with anyone that afternoon?’

  He shrugged. ‘Might have been. Can’t rightly remember. The field was full that day.’

  Her gaze strayed again to his discoloured eye as he held open the door to the carriage house.

  ‘Were you and Betsy courting?’ Flora didn’t know where the thought came from. Maybe it was the way his eyes took on a faraway look when he said her name.

  ‘Courting?’ Tom’s lips twitched into a slow smile ‘Let me explain ’bout Betsy.’ He rested the pitchfork handle against his shoulder, both hands crossed over the top. ‘Have you ever been close to an otter, Miss Flora?’

  She shook her head, wondering where the conversation was going.

  ‘That first time all you can hear are her whistles and chirrups as she stays out of sight because you’re a threat to the holt. If you’re patient and wait, quiet like, she’ll creep out to take a look at you. She’ll watch you for a while, and may even purr a little, but then she’s off again in a rustle of undergrowth and a tiny splash.

  ‘Then one day, she’s crouched on the riverbank and gets so close, you can even make out the pink scars on her nose pad from where the boar grasps her with his teeth when they mate. Minutes pass as you stare at her and she stares back as you take each other in. Then before you know, she’s gone again. You can’t help but smile then cos you know if you wait long enough, she’ll be back.’ He hooked the pitchfork onto a rack on the wall and continued on to where the gig sat on the tiled floor.

  Flora smiled, impressed with his analogy. Was Betsy aware of how he felt about her but didn’t dare ask?

  ‘Aye, well.’ He ducked his head away. ‘That’s what it was like with Betsy. She’s one o’ those rare creatures who needs time and patience to get to know. That uncle of hers treated her more like a maid than a member of his family.’ He brushed dust off the gig seat as he talked. ‘Not his fault I suppose, he’s been a miserable soul since his wife died last year. He never did have much time for Betsy. Even less now his lad can’t do the heavy work in the pub.’

  He gave a low sigh that deflated him. ‘And now she’s gone.’ He scooped his jacket from the top of the low door and nodded to where the horses stood in the row of stalls behind them. ‘Excuse me, Miss Flora, while I get the gig sorted.’

  Flora took the hint and returned to the drive to wait, mulling over what Tom had said. His annoyance at the policeman’s questions seemed out of kilter, or was it simply frustration at their ineffectual methods? Either that, or Tom’s anger was borne of jealousy because he knew who the man was Betsy had run off with? Whatever the truth of it, she was certain that if anyone had hurt Betsy, it wasn’t Tom Murray. He would have died first.

  12

  ‘Miss Flora?’ Tom held the rein loosely in his hands, his right foot braced against the angled baseboard. ‘Is it true Mr Harrington has one of those horseless carriages?’

  ‘Yes, Tom, he does,’ she said, disappointed. She had hoped he was about to reveal something of interest. They were ten minutes out of Cleeve Abbey and these were the first words he had spoken in a silence broken only by birdsong and the scurrying of small furry creatures in the hedges. ‘He wants to open a manufacturing business, but for the present he works with a man who makes motorcycles.’

  Flora’s black gown clung to her back as the hot summer sun bore down on her. She should have brought a parasol but hadn’t wanted to keep Tom waiting in case he changed his mind and found more pressing jobs to do.

  ‘Those mechanical bicycle machines?’ His brows rose. ‘Aren’t they even more dangerous than motor cars?’

  ‘Everything is a risk in the wrong hands.’ She repeated what Bunny told her when they had the same debate. ‘Building one motor car can take a long time and Mr Harrington has to have each component for the engine made specially. Besides, they’ll be very expensive when they are available. I should imagine most people will need horses for a good while yet, if that’s what worries you.’

  ‘Not especially. Motor cars cannot travel through thickets and over bushes the way horses can. Though mebbe I should learn to drive one. To be ready like.’

  Flora turned to study his profile, bemused but impressed at the same time. ‘I think that would be a good idea, Tom.’

  Without warning, he pulled the cart into a layby, and jumped down onto the grass. ‘Bailey Wood is up there, Miss.’ He hooked a thumb in the direction of a thick group of trees, attached the rein to a post-and-rail fence, then reached to help Flora down. ‘We’ll have to walk the rest of the way.’

  ‘How far is it?’ Flora glanced down at her heavy black skirt, then up at the closely packed trees ahead.

  He shrugged, a gesture that was beginning to annoy her. ‘You were the one who wanted to come, Miss.’

  ‘I did indeed.’ Flora sighed. ‘Lead the way then.’

  The route was hard going as Flora weaved her way between the closely packed tree trunks, a thick layer of decaying leaves covered the soft ground underfoot that gave off a damp loam smell.

  Twisted roots poked through the surface of the dark earth, and threatened to trip her up, while low branches brushed her face, and grabbed at her sleeves. Shafts of light punched through the canopy above them, growing less frequent the further in she went.

  ‘How did Father manage to ride through this?’ Flora kept her attention on her feet.

  ‘He couldn’t have, not on horseback,’ Tom said, forging ahead like a goat on the uneven ground. ‘A path runs over higher ground beyond the treeline. I couldn’t bring the gig round that way, so through the trees is the most direct route. You did say you wanted to know where he was found.’ The ground was dotted with rocks, some small enough to be pushed aside with a foot, while others were two or three feet high, the gaps in between dotted with tiny pink sowbread flowers.

  Tom reached back a hand to assist her up an incline to where a pathway ran, too narrow for a cart, although the number of hoof prints showed the route was well used. She paused to unhook the hem of her skirt from a low branch, then stepped awkwardly on a piece of uneven ground which sent pain into her ankle. She gritted her teeth, not daring to complain.

  ‘Mr Maguire was found here, Miss Flora.’ Tom nodded to an outcrop of larger boulders. ‘He were unlucky. The rocky bit peters out a bit further down. Had he fallen there he would have probably got away with bruises. He landed on one of those rocks.’ He coughed into his fist and backed discreetly away, leaving her alone with her thoughts.

  Flora waited for the pain to rush into her chest, and fresh tears well in her eyes, but nothing happen
ed.

  She stood in a pretty spot where thin shafts of sunlight formed an impressive lightshow in a place where people rode, walked and sat with their families and maybe even their lovers. There was nothing there; no sense that a death had occurred in that spot, no indentation in the ground, no signs of a mortal struggle, or even a blood-stained stone.

  ‘I wish I knew why he came here?’ She raised both arms and let them fall again. ‘This is a difficult route for an experienced rider, let alone someone who never rode. The path is narrow with too many twists and turns, not to mention all the low hung branches. And look at all these rocks.’

  Tom kicked at the ground with a toe of his boot, hands in his pockets. ‘Mr Maguire was a strange one.’ At her hard stare he added, ‘a good man, and fair. But he were a loner. You know that more than anyone. He never spoke to no one less he needed to.’

  Flora exhaled, resigned. ‘Yes, that’s exactly what he was like.’

  ‘Are you all right, Miss Flora?’ Tom asked gently.

  ‘I’m fine, Tom. Thank you.’ All she could hope for her father now, was that his last moments were neither fear nor pain filled. If only she had made more of an effort to see him since her marriage. A sob rose in her chest for all the things she couldn’t change, while a breeze disturbed the canopy of trees above her, carrying with it the fragrance of wet earth, grass and wildflowers. ‘We can go back now.’

  With a silent nod, Tom slipped his hand beneath her elbow and helped her down the slope which seemed steeper than the upward trek a few moments before. ‘What’s that, Tom?’ She pointed to a square, grey building she glimpsed through the trees. Squat and low, it looked as if it had grown out of the hillside.

  ‘That’s Mr McCallum’s house.’

  ‘It’s closer than I thought.’ The track emerged from the wood and ran in an uneven line toward the house through a gentle sweep of a wild meadow.

  ‘I’d better get back, Miss Flora.’ Tom’s apologetic voice interrupted her thoughts.