by Tessa Arlen
“This afternoon, Jackson,” her ladyship announced after they had raised their glasses in silent salute and had taken a sip, “I think we were handed a gift, a considerable step forward in our inquiry. And it just goes to show that there is a right way of handling a tricky situation and an altogether wrong way.” She paused for effect, so that her final revelation would be appreciated. Well, it is quite clear that she handled it the right way, thought Mrs. Jackson. She consciously fixed a concentrated look of incredulity on her face and took a cautious sip of sherry, but her stomach fluttered with anticipation. Discoveries were always so thrilling and she had been quite convinced that they had reached a stalemate.
“We have achieved two things today: the exposure of a dark and shameful secret,” Lady Montfort extended an upright forefinger, to be rapidly joined by her middle finger, “and a very credible witness.” And she waved them both as she began to relate Lady Althea and Lord Haversham’s discovery at Holly Farm.
“Walter Howard is a conchie, m’lady?” Mrs. Jackson was so shaken at this news she could not help but blurt out the unattractive expression. It was the worst curse imaginable in this day and age to have a conscientious objector in the family. How, for heaven’s sake, did a farmer’s son raised with the slaughter of spring pigs, the castration of calves, and the general butchery that goes on in the countryside find killing his country’s enemies repugnant? Why, this is even worse than harboring cowards in the name of neurasthenia, she thought and wondered what the village would make of this revelation.
“A conchie?” Lady Montfort had clearly not heard the expression before. “Oh! Ah yes, I see. Yes, I am afraid that poor Walter Howard is a conchie.” With a merry little laugh she sipped her sherry. “But,” her face became solemn, “I am hoping that we can save the poor wretch before he is clapped in irons and sent to the brig.” Mrs. Jackson made a mental note to provide some cheese biscuits next time she served sherry. She squinted at her ladyship’s glass, she had filled it a moment ago, and her own was still two-thirds full, but her ladyship’s was quite empty. She got up and poured her another splash.
“You were saying about Walter Howard, m’lady?”
“Discovering Walter Howard in his father’s barn is not the best part of this tale. You see, from his perch Walter could see out across the valley almost all the way to the village.”
Walter Howard saw something! Mrs. Jackson found that she was holding on to her glass quite tightly. She set it down on the table next to her.
“Walter Howard observed two most useful things on the day Captain Bray was killed. After his noonday dinner, which he ate in the open gable door of the hayloft, he dropped off for a moment or two, but he awoke with a bit of a start to hear the unfamiliar sound of a galloping horse.”
She paused and Mrs. Jackson quickly acknowledged the moment: “A horse? Was it his lordship’s Bruno perhaps?”
Lady Montfort shook her head. “No, it was not Bruno, Jackson. When Walter opened his eyes he saw a large gray horse, with a rider on its back, being galloped for all it was worth along the footpath that leads from Brook End Lane through the wheat field in the direction of Crow’s Wood. The very same path I walked the other day.”
“Could he see who the rider was, m’lady?”
“No, Jackson, he could not identify the rider. But I promise you I asked all the right questions. Was the man in uniform? I asked. He wasn’t sure, he said, it was difficult to tell from that distance. Was it a woman or a man? And he said that it was most probably a man—as the person was riding astride. I didn’t remind him that many women have abandoned riding sidesaddle.”
Mrs. Jackson made no comment for a moment and then she asked, “Did he know what time it was, m’lady?”
“Most certainly he did! Walter’s long days in the hayloft weigh heavily. Breakfast, dinner, and supper times are the highlight of the day—I suspect it must be the same for all prisoners. He ate his dinner promptly at noon, and when he awoke from his nap he looked at his watch and it was just after one o’clock.”
The time Lady Althea was laying out her picnic in the spinney, while Lieutenant Carmichael was setting Dolly loose in the pasture by Brook End Lane, Mrs. Jackson thought, smiling. “Then it must have been Dolly,” she said.
“Yes, it was certainly Dolly, but I am not sure,” her ladyship said rather wistfully, “that it was Lieutenant Carmichael upon her back because he had only been gone for twenty minutes or so when he joined Lady Althea at the spinney. I don’t think a horse as heavy as Dolly could gallop that distance and back in the time. But then her stride is particularly long, so it might just be possible.”
“At that time of day, riding in that direction, m’lady, it might very well have been the murderer.”
“Yes, I think it must have been. We are close.” Lady Montfort held up her forefinger and her thumb in a pinching gesture. “This close.” She looked down into her empty sherry glass and Mrs. Jackson refilled it.
“I am not quite finished with what Walter saw, Jackson,” said her ladyship when she had resumed her seat. “While he was sitting up in the hay loft that day, he saw someone else.”
Mrs. Jackson felt the tremor of excitement she was meant to feel and took a sizable sip of sherry.
“The hayloft has a gable at each end, and earlier that morning Walter had watched from its west side as Sir Winchell came to the river and settled himself on the footbridge for a day of fishing. The distance between the barn and the river is quite close and he could see Sir Winchell clearly. Oh, how Walter, imprisoned up in his dusty loft, envied him sitting on a cool riverbank with his creel and his rod! Sir Winchell fished up and down that short stretch of the river for hours, frustrating poor Walter with his inept casting, hanging over the bridge so the fish could easily see him, and standing with his back to the sun to cast long shadows onto the river. But he said at no time did Sir Winchell leave the riverbank until well after three that afternoon.”
Mrs. Jackson raised a polite hand from her lap. “Except for the time, m’lady, when Walter took his dinner over on the other side of the barn, during the crucial hours.” She put her sherry to one side, the better to keep east separate from west.
“Aha, Jackson, I said exactly the same thing! But before Walter sat down with his dinner on the east side of the barn, he said Sir Walter had been trying to disentangle a long length of line that he had caught up in a bush—it was in a terrible muddle. After Walter had watched the horse galloping along the footpath, he wandered back over to the west gable to see how Sir Winchell was faring. And there he was, no longer surrounded by lengths of tangled fishing line but with his rod and line tidily propped against a tree as he ate his luncheon. I think we can safely say that Sir Winchell did not have time to walk to the kitchen garden, murder Captain Bray after twenty-five minutes past twelve when VAD Fuller left the kitchen garden with her beans, walk back, and untangle his fishing line all by one o’clock. A younger man might have done it if he ran all the way there and back, but Sir Winchell is very stout.”
Mrs. Jackson smiled. “Then Walter can give Sir Winchell an alibi for the day when Captain Bray was murdered. And once again Inspector Savor has arrested the wrong man,” she said and felt a wave of pure happiness that the inspector had once again proven his worthlessness.
“Of course he has, Jackson. That incompetent individual has no more idea how to conduct a murder investigation than he has of tracking down all those gallons of stolen petrol. Sir Winchell is undoubtedly innocent of both murders, we knew that all along. But I do believe if we find out who was riding that horse then we will be close to understanding who killed Captain Bray.”
“And Lieutenant Carmichael?”
“Perhaps.”
“What happens next, m’lady?” Mrs. Jackson reached for her notebook.
“I am hoping that Lord Montfort will intervene on Walter’s behalf with the Market Wingley recruiting officer, and when all that has been taken care of I will arrange for Walter to talk to Colonel Valent
ine. I don’t want Walter anywhere near that dreadful Savor. And I somehow think it would be better if Walter did not talk to Colonel Valentine too soon, as I want our murderer to think he is off the hook and that Sir Winchell will be tried for murder in his place.”
Mrs. Jackson was not terribly sure that this was the right thing to do. It made her feel uneasy. “Isn’t that called withholding evidence, m’lady? If we know something for a fact and deliberately do not inform the police?”
“On no, Jackson, I shouldn’t think so. It is not withholding information, it is merely delaying it.” Lady Montfort waved a dismissive hand at the idea. “And anyway it will not do Sir Winchell any harm to think about losing his temper quite so thoroughly in future. Gentlemen, however frustrated and unhappy they are, should not shout and carry on in that way.” So it is one of her oblique little lessons on self-control, Mrs. Jackson thought as she watched her finish her sherry with evident enjoyment. “And perhaps,” her ladyship said softly under her breath, “the next time Colonel Valentine appears to want my advice and I give it to him, he should listen to it.” She put down her empty glass and Mrs. Jackson decided it was time to bring her up to date from her end.
“I think we can cross Lieutenant Forbes off our list, m’lady.” She briefly related her conversation with Mrs. Allenby.
“Very glad to hear it, Jackson. I like young Forbes, he is such a decent sort—all of our officers are.
“Now with this information about Dolly’s gallop I really think we should give some more thought to Lieutenant Carmichael. I only met him a couple of times; what did you make of him? Was he a decent sort, too? He was certainly an attractive young man with all that curly golden hair.” It was a lighthearted observation but it stopped Mrs. Jackson in her tracks. Into her mind flashed an illustration of a fairy tale prince, with yellow hair and large blue eyes. Where had she seen that image—in a children’s picture book? She frowned and closed her eyes in concentration, and saw once again the caricature of a man with golden hair.
“Do you have time to come up to the art room before you leave, m’lady? There is something I want to show you up there that I think might be helpful. It’s something I noticed yesterday just before Fuller made her startling statement about Captain Bray. And then it went completely out of my mind until just now.”
You had to hand it to her ladyship, she never hemmed or hawed about the time of day, and, having to be somewhere else, she was already on her feet and off they went together to the art room.
Chapter Twenty-One
It was nearly dark and Mrs. Jackson lit a lamp for each of them as they walked into the dark of the art room. “I was sorting through these paintings with Fuller, m’lady, and there was one here done by Captain Bray that was quite interesting. Let me see now, where did I put it.” She turned to the stack that they had started to make by the window.
“Every painting our officers did when they first came here was labeled with their name and the date it was painted. Some of them even gave their work a title.” She flipped through the stack. “Ah yes, here it is.” She lifted up a canvas and glanced at the label on its back. “Yes. Captain Bray, April 1916. Do you recognize the man portrayed here, or am I imagining things, m’lady?”
She held the painting toward the light. “Let me turn up the lamp. Yes, that’s better.” The light shone on a simple rendition of the head and shoulders of a man with yellow hair and large, round blue eyes.
“Oh good heavens, Jackson, for a moment I thought it might be Lieutenant Carmichael. But it can’t be. Do you see the man in the painting is not wearing the collar and tie of an officer’s uniform, but the woolen battledress of an enlisted man. Hm, I have to say it is a little like him, though.” She didn’t look particularly enthusiastic about the similarity.
“A very similar likeness, though, m’lady. Do you see his ears sort of jut out a little at the top, just like Lieutenant Carmichael’s did, and his right eyebrow lifts a little higher than the left? I always thought that Lieutenant Carmichael often looked as if he were about to ask a question,” Mrs. Jackson said as they gazed down at the painting.
“I only saw him a couple of times, I’m afraid I don’t remember. This man’s chin is very weak for a man, almost girlishly so,” said Lady Montfort, her eyes narrowed in what appeared to be dislike. “Was Carmichael’s chin really that negligible? Oh look, there is a name or something down here, I can’t quite make it out.”
Mrs. Jackson peered down at the far right corner, for there printed quite neatly in black paint was a name: D. Or was it a P? Hector. “Hector?” she said the name aloud, and almost startled when Lady Montfort jumped in.
“Well, that explains it, it is a portrait of someone the captain knew in France, a soldier who served under him and who happens to look rather like our Lieutenant Carmichael.” She turned the painting this way and that at arm’s length, and then turned it to read the back. “And the date is all wrong for Carmichael, Jackson. You see it was done earlier this year in April. Carmichael had only been here a couple of weeks. Yes, it’s definitely someone who served under Captain Bray—probably in his regiment.”
They were interrupted from their contemplation of the portrait by a cheery “Hullo!” as a head popped around the door before Major Andrews entered the room. “You are working late, Mrs. Jackson. Oh, and good evening, Lady Montfort, so sorry to surprise you. Going through the paintings are you? Some of them are most interesting.” He joined them in their study of Captain Bray’s portrait. Lady Montfort glanced at Mrs. Jackson and she understood that they should hear the major’s reaction to the portrait unprompted. He took his time as he squinted over Mrs. Jackson’s shoulder at the canvas
“That’s rather interesting—who did that?”
“Captain Bray, sir.”
“So he did! Never out of the art room when he first came to us. It looks as if he painted a portrait of one of his fellow officers here, poor chap.” He frowned. “And it is not a particularly flattering portrait of him, either.” He took the painting from her. “It is quite a crude, almost childlike portrayal, but like many childlike observations it is honest. It certainly bears a strong resemblance to Carmichael. Hah, Bray saw him as weak—interesting, I would have said the same. Yes, I have seen that expression of his sometimes in our sessions; a watchful, rather cynical look. But see here, this is odd: Bray has painted him in the uniform of an enlisted man. Perhaps that’s how he saw him.”
He sighed and pinched his lower lip between finger and thumb in deep thought. He must have noticed that their interest had sharpened because his face assumed the bland expression of the professional who kept his patients’ secrets safe. “Yes, I think we should perhaps hang on to this one. Look at this.” He tilted the picture. “There something written here on the front. I don’t have my spectacles.”
“It says ‘Hector,’ some man he knew in France probably…” said Lady Montfort, and Mrs. Jackson thought her expression was rather forbidding. She is almost determined that it is not Carmichael, she thought.
“So is it Hector or Carmichael? Most intriguing—I expect that is what Captain Bray was trying to find out. There’s the dinner gong, have to dash; perhaps you would join us in the officers’ mess for a glass of sherry, Lady Montfort—unless you have to return to Iyntwood?” He had put the painting back against the wall, but he was still looking at it.
“Thank you, Major Andrews, how kind of you, but I am already late as it is!” Lady Montfort’s smile was polite, but it was clear that her mind was a thousand miles away. And when the major left she was uncharacteristically silent.
“Perhaps Lieutenant Carmichael had a brother or a cousin, an enlisted man, in the same regiment as Captain Bray. But it is a strong…”
Her ladyship’s hand flew up to her mouth and then to her forehead. She looked so stunned for a moment that if Mrs. Jackson had not been aware of her distress, her expression would have been laughable. “Oh dear God, Jackson,” was all she said, looking for all the world like a landed
codfish. “This might very well be a portrait of a man called Hector, but Major Andrews also recognized the likeness as being our Lieutenant Carmichael, which might very well mean…” She stopped and glared at the portrait. “I can’t believe that this man came here as some sort of imposter … the … the impudence of it!”
Mrs. Jackson understood what was upsetting her. “Can we really believe that the man we know as Lieutenant Carmichael came here pretending to be someone he wasn’t? It just isn’t possible, is it? It’s a very serious crime to impersonate an officer.”
Her ladyship’s laugh was scornful. “More serious than murder, Jackson? And not a completely impossible thing to accomplish in the confusion of war. I think,” her face in the darkened room looked severe, “it would be quite possible if a man was both unscrupulous and clever.” She had clearly convinced herself that Lieutenant Carmichael was definitely not who he said he was.
“In that case, m’lady, I think it is important to find out if this man had the time to ride up to the kitchen garden from the horse pasture and back again on Dolly.” It was all she could come up with and was relieved to see her ladyship put her best foot forward.
“Quite right, Jackson, quite right.” She turned and started for the door. “We must get to the bottom of all of this. It’s time to concentrate our efforts; we have to find out who this young man in Captain Bray’s painting really was.” It was reassuring to see Lady Montfort had recovered from the stunning possibility that Carmichael might not be who he had appeared to be; her ladyship’s look of confusion had gone, and now there was only implacable disgust. If Lieutenant Carmichael was not already dead he would have been in serious trouble.
Mrs. Jackson had waited patiently for this moment ever since Major Andrews had also recognized the portrait as that of an enlisted man. “I believe we might accomplish it quite simply, it is just a question of going to the right source. We have the War Office files for both Lieutenant Carmichael and Captain Bray and I am hoping that by using their information we will find out if Captain Bray and Lieutenant Carmichael were in the same regiment, even the same battalion, and if there is indeed such a man as P. or D. Hector. I can write to Mr. Stafford, he might be able to help us solve this puzzle. I just hope we can get the information from him in time.”
