Edwardian Murder Mystery 02; Hasty Death emm-2

by M C Beaton

  After she had bathed and dressed in fresh clothes, she went into Rose’s room. Rose was lying on the bed, her eyes half closed.

  “I am not very brave,” she said weakly.

  “I’m feeling better,” said Daisy in bracing tones. “That’s one fright dealt with.”

  ♦

  “This won’t do,” said Harry. “We can’t leave the body here.”

  “Why not?” asked Becket.

  “No matter how deeply we put it, some animal might start digging and a keeper might find it. Kerridge would immediately connect me with the shooting. All he has to do is check the gun licences for people in Britain with a Webley and my name would come up.”

  “How would he know it was a Webley?”

  “From the bullet.”

  “We could dig the bullet out of him. And why didn’t they trace the owner of the gun that shot Pomfret?”

  “It was one of the hundreds of unlicensed old Boer War weapons in Britain. Whoever murdered Freddy simply left it lying on the floor beside his body. Whoever killed Freddy knew that weapon could never be traced.”

  “So what’ll we do?”

  “Cover him up with leaves and we’ll come back after dark with the car, take it miles from here, and sink it somewhere in the upper reaches of the Thames. Daisy said something about a car following them. We’d better look for McWhirter’s car, if it was him, and get rid of it as well.”

  ♦

  Rose and Daisy picked nervously at breakfast the next day. There was no sign of Harry. Both wanted to talk to him about McWhirter – to talk away some of the nightmare.

  “You are looking very pale, Lady Rose,” said Maisie Chatterton, who had just helped herself to a large selection from the buffet. She sat down next to Rose.

  Rose noticed that Maisie no longer lisped as she had done a year ago. “This is not a very exciting house party,” mourned Maisie. “The gentlemen are either boring or quite too simply dreadful. Mr Stockton is a rotter, but at least he shows some interest in the ladies, which is more than can be said for the rest of them. Sir Gerald is as sarcastic as ever. Neddie Freemantle brays as ever. Mr Baker-Willis glooms about the place. Your captain is – ”

  “He is not my captain,” said Rose.

  “Indeed! You seem to be the only lady he talks to. I thought our hostess might have arranged something, but she spends her day reading newspapers and magazines and shows no interest in anyone. I asked her what we were doing today and she said, ‘Whatever you want.’ What sort of answer is that from a hostess?”

  Rose felt she must escape into the fresh air. “Excuse me,” she said. “I am just going outside, Daisy. There is no need for you to join me.”

  Outside, Rose stood and breathed deeply. The day was glorious. Not a cloud in the sky and the trees were still bright spring-green. She heard a step behind her and swung round nervously.

  Tristram Baker-Willis came up to her. “Jolly day, what. Care for a walk?”

  “Why not?” said Rose.

  They walked round to the back of the house, where formal gardens ran down to an ornamental lake.

  “Oh, look, swans,” said Tristram.

  Two swans were standing on the grass beside the lake. “How ugly they look out of the water,” said Rose.

  “I say, I never noticed that before. You’re a jolly observant girl.”

  What is he after? wondered Rose.

  “Sad business about Freddy,” said Tristram, snapping off the head of a rose. He looked at it in amazement, as if wondering how it had got on his hand, and then shrugged and tossed it to the ground.

  “Yes, very sad,” agreed Rose.

  “What’s Cathcart doing here? He still poking his nose into business that should be dealt with by Scotland Yard?”

  “I do not know. I think he is simply here as a guest. Lady Glensheil is very fond of him.”

  “Something deuced creepy about a fellow sinking to such a trade. I’m surprised that Lady Glensheil should encourage him. All of society should shun him.”

  Where is Harry? fretted Rose.

  Then she suddenly stopped short. Today was the day when Kerridge would be at The Feathers. Harry had probably gone to see him alone.

  “Must go,” said Rose, and picking up her skirts, she ran back towards the house.

  Daisy was not in the breakfast room. Rose ran up the stairs and found Daisy in their private sitting-room, looking out of the window.

  “We’d better change and get those bicycles,” panted Rose. “I had forgotten. Kerridge is at that inn called The Feathers today. Ah, Turner, there you are. We are going cycling. We will need our divided skirts, blouses and hats.”

  Soon they were speeding down the drive after a wobbly start. “Where is The Feathers?” shouted Daisy.

  “I saw it when we came through that little village. It’s only about a mile from the gates.”

  When they reached the inn, the landlord informed them that Mr Kerridge was in the pub garden at the back.

  And there they found Kerridge eating a large breakfast, with Harry and Becket beside him.

  “You might have told me you were going to meet Mr Kerridge,” accused Rose.

  “I thought you were asleep,” said Harry wearily. He had not been to sleep, having driven all night to get rid of the body and the car and then having come straight to the inn.

  “So is there any news?” demanded Rose.

  “Sir Andrew Fairchild, the king’s equerry, volunteered the information that Mr Pomfret had approached him with a view to buying a title.”

  “And what did Sir Andrew say to that?” asked Rose.

  “Of course he pretended to be shocked and said titles were never bought, which was silly of him, as everyone knows they are these days. So that confirms Mr Pomfret’s father’s story that Pomfret was desperate for a title. We studied the bank accounts further. He did not have much money, or rather, he did not keep much money. Very extravagant spender.”

  Harry put his hand over his mouth to hide a cavernous yawn.

  “Didn’t you get any sleep?” asked Kerridge.

  “Not much. Went for a drive.”

  “Near a river?”

  “I beg your pardon.”

  “Your car has mud on the sides and yet the weather is still fine and dry.”

  “Oh, we came through a water splash. Where was it, Becket?”

  “I cannot recall, sir. One village at night is very like another village. Have you learned anything, Lady Rose?”

  “Not really. On the face of it, it is an exceptionally boring house party. Everyone just glooms around. Lady Glensheil has obviously considered that having supplied a theatre for your suspects, she does not need to do anything more about it. Oh, Mr Baker-Willis invited me for a walk this morning. He was anxious to find out why Captain Cathcart was included in the guest list. I said it was because you were a friend of Lady Glensheil. He seemed highly nervous and ill at ease.”

  Kerridge looked disappointed. “I was hoping something more dramatic would have happened by now.” Rose and Harry exchanged glances.

  “What’s that?” demanded Kerridge. “Has something happened?”

  “Nothing at all,” said Harry quickly.

  “There’s no sign of McWhirter,” said Kerridge, fixing Rose with a hard stare.

  Rose felt herself beginning to blush.

  “You haven’t seen him?”

  “If we had seen him, we would of course have contacted the nearest police station,” said Harry smoothly.

  Kerridge leaned back in his chair. He wagged a finger at Harry. “You’ve been up to something. You haven’t shaved. You’ve got bags under your eyes. And you’ve got mud on your car.”

  Harry thought quickly. “I went for a drive all night because I could not sleep. I was in the Boer War, you know. It’s the reports in the papers of Kitchener’s concentration camps in South Africa packed with starving women and children. For us British to behave like that is sickening. It is tantamount to treason to criticize o
ur glorious victory, but I would see those donkeys of leaders, Buller, Kitchener and Lord Roberts, in the dock for having caused so much death and misery. Thanks to the new photograph reporting showing pictures of the misery of the Boer women and children, we are the shame of the world.”

  There was a long silence. A wasp settled on the remains of Kerridge’s breakfast. At last, the superintendent said gruffly, “I’ll still be here tomorrow in case you can find out more. If one of them took whatever evidence of their misdeeds when they shot Mr Pomfret, they might have that evidence with them.”

  “I’ll see what I can find,” said Harry.

  ♦

  Outside the inn, before she mounted her bicycle, Rose said, “We could search their rooms. There is a game of croquet scheduled for this afternoon. Everyone usually plays. I could get into Mrs Jerry’s and Mrs Stockton’s rooms and you could try Lord Alfred.”

  “Leave it,” said Harry curtly. “You’ve already been in too much danger.”

  ♦

  But Rose was determined. Despite Daisy’s pleas to be careful, Rose waited until everyone was assembled on the lawn for the game of croquet and then excused herself, saying the sun had given her a headache.

  She went straight to Mrs Jerry’s rooms. They were easy to find because, in the usual way, cards were on each door with the names of the occupants. It was an apartment like the one she shared with Daisy: two bedrooms off a sitting-room.

  There was a desk by the window in the sitting-room. She went to it and began to search through the small amount of papers. They were mostly unpaid bills and letters.

  And then she heard someone in the corridor outside. She hid behind a curtain and waited, her heart beating hard. The door opened and she heard Mrs Jerry’s voice, obviously speaking to her husband.

  “It’s a stupid game, the sun’s hot and I’m tired.”

  “Then go and lie down,” came her husband’s voice.

  “What are you going to do?”

  “What do you care?”

  “Don’t be so grumpy, popsy-wopsy. Come here.”

  Perspiration began to form on Rose’s brow.

  “No, I won’t,” said Mr Jerry. “It’s too buggering hot.”

  “Language!”

  “Coming from someone who swears like a fishwife, that’s rich!”

  There was the sound of a slap, and then Mr Jerry said evenly, “Do that again and I’ll kill you, you fat, disgusting toad.”

  “You! Don’t make me laugh. I’m off to bed.”

  Rose heard the bedroom door slam. She waited and waited. She could hear Mr Jerry moving about and then the creak of a chair as he sat down.

  After fifteen minutes of agony, there came a rumbling snore from the bedroom.

  Then to her horror, she heard Mr Jerry say, “You can come out now. She’s asleep.”

  Blushing furiously, Rose emerged from behind the curtain.

  “I came in to borrow a book,” she said in a low voice.

  “I saw your feet under the curtain. Let’s go for a walk,” he said amiably.

  Rose followed him out of the room and down the stairs. “We’ll go out onto the terrace at the back,” said Mr Jerry. “You know, I didn’t want to come. I told my wife I had business in the City to attend to. But she did screech so. She doesn’t like me, so why she wanted me along is beyond me. Ah, here we are. Nice and cool. Let’s sit down instead while you explain why you were spying. You were thick as thieves last year with Captain Cathcart during that business at Telby Castle, so I suppose the pair of you are up to something.”

  Rose decided it would be better to tell the truth. “Your wife paid Mr Pomfret the sum of ten thousand pounds. I think Pomfret might have been blackmailing her.”

  “I challenged my wife over that. She said it was a loan.”

  “Mrs Stockton and Lord Alfred also paid Pomfret ten thousand pounds each,” said Rose.

  “Blackmail! Oh, my dear, if only that were true,” he exclaimed.

  “Why?”

  “Don’t you see, if it were indeed something so awful that she paid out that great sum of money and if I got my hands on it, I could divorce her. Captain Cathcart is investigating the murder, is he not?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I shall offer to pay him anything he wants to find me proof.”

  “Can you think what it might be?”

  “A man, perhaps. But what man? I mean, look at my wife. I will go back and search for you. And I will talk to Captain Cathcart later.”

  “I am so sorry I hid in your room.”

  “Don’t worry about it. You have given me hope.”

  ∨ Hasty Death ∧

  Nine

  Even if we take matrimony at its lowest, even if we regard it as no more than a sort of friendship recognised by the police…

  Times are changed with him who marries; there are no more by-path meadows, where you may innocently linger but the road lies long and straight and dusty to the grave.

  Robert Louis Stevenson

  Dinner on the previous nights had been long, dull affairs. The guests mostly concentrated on the delicious food and largely ignored each other.

  Lady Glensheil did not notice, mainly because she liked the sound of her own voice and filled in the long gaps with monologues about the state of the nation, the weather, and the difficulties of getting good outdoor staff. She would probably have complained about the difficulty of getting good indoor staff had not so many of them been waiting on the guests.

  That evening, however, began badly over the soup and proceeded to get worse. Mr Jerry Trumpington had already been drinking quite a lot. His shoulders were usually hunched like a man expecting another blow, but for once he was sitting up straight. There were two hectic red circles on his cheeks.

  “What a jolly bunch we are!” he cried.

  “Oh, do be quiet, dear,” admonished his wife.

  “No, I won’t be quiet. For once in my bullied married life I won’t be quiet, you fat old frump.”

  “Mr Jerry, perhaps you would like to lie down?” said Lady Glensheil in glacial tones.

  “No, I’m fine and dandy. The prison door has opened a crack. Do you know why we’re all here, hey?” He pointed with his dripping soup spoon, first at his wife, then at Angela Stockton and Lord Alfred. “See those three? Each one of them paid the late and unlamented Freddy Pomfret ten thousand pounds. Blackmail, I think. So, dear wife, if the murderer and blackmailer is amongst us, I beg of him to supply me with whatever he has on my dear wife and I will pay him a fortune.”

  Harry glared at Rose, who dropped her eyes to her plate.

  “You’re drunk,” said Lord Alfred coldly. “If you can’t hold your wine, go to bed and stop making ridiculous accusations. The police have already questioned us. It is sheer coincidence that we all decided to help Freddy out. He demanded the same amount from each of us.”

  “Oh, Lady Rose!” squeaked Maisie Chatterton. “Don’t tell me there’s going to be another death. Death does seem to follow you around.”

  “I’ll talk to you later,” Mrs Jerry snarled. Mr Jerry merely grinned.

  “Listen to me, all of you,” said Lady Glensheil. “We are all going to church in the morning, and I mean all. Now, let’s talk about something else. The situation in the Balkans is fraught…”

  Her voice rose and fell inexorably through eight courses before she finally rose as a signal to the ladies to follow her to the drawing-room. But she turned in the doorway. “I think this evening we will break with tradition and the gentlemen will come as well.”

  To everyone’s relief, Mr Jerry said he was going to bed. In the drawing-room, tables were set up for cards while Frederica Sutherland entertained them by singing Scottish songs and accompanying herself on the piano.

  Harry drew Rose aside. “Why did you tell Jerry about the blackmail?”

  So Rose told him about being caught hiding behind the curtain.

  “You shouldn’t have said anything,” said Harry crossly. “No
w they really will be on their guard.”

  “Oh, pooh!” said Rose defiantly. “They must already have thought it odd that all three of them have been invited. Did you find anything in Lord Alfred’s rooms?”

  “Nothing incriminating.”

  “Did you bury the body very deep?”

  “No, we didn’t bury it. We took it off away to the Thames with his car and sank the both of them.”

  “So Daisy was right. He must have been following us. Where was the car?”

  “Outside the gates.”

  “But someone will find the body in the river.”

  “Don’t worry. The water was pitch-black and we wedged him behind the steering wheel of his car.”

  ♦

  Philip Hargraves, a blacksmith and motor mechanic, was walking along the upper reaches of the Thames outside the village of Maidenton with his teenaged son, Bertie, just as the sun was coming up. He planned to get in some early fishing before starting work.

  It was a truly beautiful morning and the dawn chorus sounded from the trees along the grassy bank.

  “Look at that, Dad,” said Bertie, stopping short. “Tyre tracks going straight into the river.”

  Philip joined his son and together they looked down into the waters of the Thames. The water may have been pitch-black at night, but in the brightening rays of the sun it was still and clear along the stretch outside the village. There was a strong current in midstream, but by the bank the water was as clear as glass.

  And so, looking down, they were able to see a figure in a car sitting on the bottom.

  “Better call the police,” said Bert.

  “No, wait a bit,” said his father. “Let’s get that car out first. I’ll go back and get the tractor and winch it out. You keep a look-out.”

  “But, Dad!”

  “Do as you’re told or I’ll take my belt to you!”

  The motor car and body were slowly winched up out of the Thames.

  Philip’s face was red with excitement. “Let’s get this back afore anyone sees us,” he said. “Hop in the tractor.”

  “But, Dad, the body.”

  “I’ll tell you about that.”

  Philip drove carefully back to his smithy, looking carefully left to right to make sure no one was watching. It was still very early and his smithy was on the outskirts of the village.