by Jane Jakeman
There were three of us: Elisabeth, Sholto Lawrence, and myself.
“I think I have made some progress,” said young Lawrence. “After you warned me in Alexandria that I might appoint myself Miss Lilian’s guardian, because you could not accompany her without arousing the suspicions of Casterman, I have been determined to protect her as much as is within my power — but I most earnestly wish to do more than that, and to restore to her something that was very precious to her.”
“There are one or two points to consider before you embark on that search,” said I. “When I visited Westmorland Park shortly after Miss Lilian’s accident, I walked the ground which she had ridden over and that was where I first thought there was some cause for suspicion. There was a mark around the trunk of one of the trees which could have been made by a length of thin rope or twine which had bitten into the bark, and there were some dark smears around the scar on the tree trunk, for which I could not account.
“But then, when I saw in the stables that there was a length of twine soaked in tar which was lying on top of a heap of rubbish — disgraceful, to allow such disorder to
accumulate in a stable, by the way — in the stall next to that of the old pony, Dobbie ...”
“Barbary!” said a reproving boom. Belos was placing a decanter of port on the table.
“I’m sorry, Belos — the stall next to that of ... er ... that magnificent animal, Barbary. Now, why had the twine been soaked in tar? Two reasons came to mind. Firstly, it would be much more difficult to spot a length of rope across the path if it had been blackened to be inconspicuous among the shadows that lie across that spot at the time of day that Miss Lilian’s accident occurred. I made a particular note of the way the trees cast the path into shadow just at that place, but did not think that alone could account for the accident.
“Secondly, if it had been desired to make the rope black, why use tar, which is not so easily available lying around in the average household — lamp-black or boot polish or ink are all substances which would come to hand much more readily in the normal course of events. No, tar suggested one thing — the sea! It is commonly used on sailing ships to coat twine and rope, protecting them against rotting and salt damage. So then, when I heard that Casterman and Overbury had done business at Bristol docks, I was immediately alerted to the possibility that one or the other of them had simply picked up a convenient length which was lying about — perhaps thinking therefore to avoid the problem of blackening a piece of rope at Westmorland Park. That might have been a conspicuous sort of procedure — and there at the docks there was no doubt an amply supply of cast-off bits of rigging lying around. I suppose it’s something we will say farewell to when the new steam-ships take over from sail.”
“So you knew that someone had contrived Lilian Westmorland’s accident?” asked Elisabeth.
“I suspected it. And then the other circumstances — the dismissal of the groom, for example.”
“I suppose that was in case he had noticed the twine stretched across the path,” commented Sholto.
“More than that!” I replied. “There may have been marks on the horse itself, which would have meant that the horse had to be disposed of, lest they give rise to speculation. A cut on the foreleg — well, that could have been passed off as a result of the horse perhaps rolling on the ground — something like that. But a cut in which there were traces of some blackish substance — something with the characteristic smell of tar — now that would have been a very strange injury, would it not? That might have set people’s minds a-working — even here, in the countryside.” I paused, tempted, but refrained from comment, and continued with my analysis.
“So the horse must be got rid of as fast as possible, and how is that to be done?
“Now, here we have to consider the mentality of Uncle Micah. The most obvious answer would have been to shoot the horse and send for the knacker to take the carcass away — pleading, perhaps, that the sooner the creature was put out of its agony, the less distress there would be for Miss Lilian. But this particular animal, the mare Selene, was a rare piece of horse-flesh. She was worth at least five hundred guineas — at least, Micah knew that was what Mrs. Westmorland had paid for her. And was there nothing to be gained from this creature, who was, after all, only slightly injured with a cut that would soon heal over? Was such a valuable animal to be thrown away, as it were, with no advantage to Micah Overbury?
“That is how misers are entrapped, you know, by their own petty greed. The hope of selling Selene for whatever sum he could get made Micah blind to the advantages of eliminating all trace of the crime. For the miserable thirty guineas that he got from the gypsy, Trito Hearne, Overbury was willing to forgo his long-term advantage.”
“Which was the Westmorland estate, I suppose!” exclaimed Sholto angrily.
“Not only that. The same mercenary and callous attitude he displayed towards horseflesh he displayed towards human beings. Selene was something to be sold for whatever he could get, and so was Rahaba, the Egyptian! Micah had no moral objection to slavery, provided it benefited him. But there was a practical difficulty. The slaves were to be brought from Egypt, a country well known to Casterman and where he had many business contacts. Then they were to be shipped out to the West Indies. But in the meantime they must be kept somewhere in Britain — somewhere discreet, where they could be imprisoned well away from any prying eyes. And that, of course, Micah thought to do at Westmorland Park. But his niece was an inconvenience — she might get in the way, make some discoveries of her own, perhaps. So she was to disappear from the scene and leave Westmorland Park completely in Micah’s control. Thus there would have been an isolated hiding-place which was perfectly situated — in the depths of the countryside but not too far from Bristol, a port to which much shipping was bound. Uncle Micah was in the act of furnishing his slave-quarters suitably, equipped with manacles, when the girl, Maggie Dermott, became a nuisance.”
“Oh, yes, she was found with manacles, was she not?”
“Yes, but I was misled there, for I thought at first that had she been manacled herself — had been confined somewhere in the house and was trying to escape when they killed her. Then I took note of the fact that the manacles were not actually on her wrists when we found the poor child — they fell out of her skirts when we lifted her up. I think that she went to Westmorland Park to warn Miss Lilian, did not find her, but perhaps crept into that horrible room which Sandys and I discovered, the one Overbury had prepared for his victims, and she found the manacles there and slipped them into her pocket as evidence. But as she was running to the gate to raise the alarm, they overtook her.”
“Casterman and Overbury?”
“Perhaps Casterman, acting alone. That quick and efficient strangulation was his particular mark — it was much the same method as he used on the servant girl who tried to run away in Cairo. She was trying to reach me in order to alert me to Miss Lillian’s plight. In fact, the pattern of the second killing was very much the same as the first — once more a girl shows sympathy for Miss Lilian Westmorland, tries to do something to help her — and dies for it! Murderers have their characteristics, you know, and that decisive ruthlessness was Casterman’s.”
“I suppose he was likely to make a great deal of money out of Micah Overbury’s dealings,” observed Elisabeth.
“Yes, but I don’t think he was involved just for money. His motive for taking Lilian into the heart of the epidemic of smallpox, for instance. I suspect that was a form of revenge — why he should he be condemned to wander the world with those terrible disfiguring pockmarks, accompanied by a smooth-skinned young woman whose every public appearance must be a counterpoint to his ruined face? I believe that he probably desired to maim Lilian Westmorland as much as to kill her. She might have survived the smallpox, as he himself had done, so it was not a sure way of contriving her death, but it was a sure way of destroying her good looks, and that would no doubt have given him great satisfaction. As long as she was
away from Westmorland Park, he could take his time over her death. Before that occurred, he could contrive much enjoyment from watching her suffering.”
Elisabeth shivered and drew her cashmere shawl about her shoulders. “What an evil creature he must have been!
But I suppose the sooner we can forget about him, the better Lilian Westmorland can recover from her experiences. I am afraid that some terrible losses have befallen her in her short life.”
“There is one loss that we may mitigate,” said I. “Sholto, can you accompany me?”
*
There was a small stone cottage at the very end of the village. Although it had at one time been rather better than most of the village houses, which were built out of mud and wattle, neglect had clearly befallen it so that weeds sprouted even on the shingle roof and the door and window-frames had long ago lost their paint or varnish to the weather.
There was a cleared patch in the garden, where some workmanlike rows of beans had been recently hoed and tied up to stakes. We made our way along the path beside this evidence of habitation.
The door swung open a few minutes after Sholto had rapped upon it with the handle of his whip.
The woman who opened it was tall and wiry, with an old poke-bonnet and a scarlet petticoat. She had the eccentric touch of a man’s old jacket draped around her shoulders. The garment was green with brass buttons; it was oddly jaunty.
“My name is Sholto Lawrence and this is Lord Ambrose ...” began my companion, but he was interrupted before he got any further. The sharp eyes took in every detail of our appearance.
“Yes, I knows both of you, who ye are. And I don’t know I cares a great deal for either of ye. Not a fig, as the saying goes.”
“We’ve come to ask you a favour. Will you allow us to come in?”
“No, I won’t. I don’t want folk thinking I’ve got too friendly with the gentry. Yez can speak on the doorstep, can’t ye?”
"Miss Adams, we do need some information from you, if possible. There has been a very grave wrong — and a wicked crime, too — committed, and there may still be some possibility of putting things right.”
"Yez can never make up for what happened to him! Never!”
"You know, then, what we are talking of?”
"Yes, of course. Soon as I saw the two of you coming along here — why else would you come, except about summa that happened to the young lady? You wouldn’t have come to see the likes of me for my own sweet sake — not unless it were about some of the gentry, and what have we to do with the gentry except for them at Westmorland Park? So that’s how I knows what you was coming here for.”
I thought it was time to add my voice to that of my companion. This lady was too shrewd for anything but the direct approach.
"Can you tell us where your brother is?”
She seemed startled. "Ah, you come out with it straightaway! And what kind of answer do you think you’ll get?”
"Miss Adams, I have an invitation for you. You are invited to a funeral, to take place at half-past two o’clock next Friday afternoon. The parson is doubtless even now fudging up some platitudes for the occasion. The name of the deceased is Casterman.”
There was a long pause. She sank into a chair with a sigh of amazement and relief. Then she spoke. "Well, I’ll come and dance on his grave all right, the wicked bastard, excuse my language, my lord. But he were only part of it — I’m still afeared of the other.”
"Micah Overbury? Why then, you have no cause for fear. Let me give the news of Mr. Overbury. It’s bad news — at least, for him.”
She asked us in at last, after I had told her.
“I cannot say it is a sad end. Casterman dead and Overbury in prison.”
“No indeed, my lord — let me get a drop of dandelion wine out to celebrate.”
“Er ... no, thank you, Miss Adams. Mr. Lawrence and myself are reforming our ways of life, you know — we are contemplating taking a vow against strong drink, are we not, Lawrence?”
“Confound it, Lord Ambrose, why d’ye kick me in the ankle so?”
“I do apologise, Mr. Lawrence — it was utterly accidental, I do assure you. No, madam, we will trespass no longer on your hospitality — all we would ask is that you will tell us where your brother is.”
“Oh, Lord Ambrose, I have not told a soul! For on the day after the young lady’s accident, my brother Robert came here after dark, skulking along as if the hounds of hell were after him. Which, in a manner of speaking, you might say they were, for Mr. Micah Overbury and that Casterman — they were on his track all right. They’d turned him away, you see — him as had worked there at Westmorland for twenty year or more! But he thought there were summa wrong, all right.”
“What did he say?”
“There was never any dead horse there. Where it was shot, supposedly — the young lady’s mare that Mr. Overbury said was so badly injured she had to be killed! Robert heard the sound of a revolver all right — he reckoned Casterman had fired a gun near the place where the horse fell. But Robert ran up through the trees and saw the horse alive and moving. Then when old Overbury dismissed him, he guessed there was something wrong. But what, Dotty? he says to me, what can it be?”
“Did he stay with you after the incident at Westmorland Park?”
“Only the one night. Then he insisted on leaving — he said it weren’t safe to stay anywhere near them two at Westmorland — and he told me to say that I’d never laid eyes on him after the accident. And that I did, when Casterman came to ask where my brother was. ‘I’ll send some extra wages after him,’ he said, the smooth-tongued devil, ‘to compensate him for the loss of his position. Mr. Overbury acknowledges that he was a trifle hasty in dismissing him!’ But I knew that Casterman meant no good to my brother and I never said a word, just stared at him, when he says, ‘You’ll have to tell me where he is if you want me to send the money, Miss Adams.’
“‘I don’t know!’” says I. “‘Not if you was to offer a thousand pounds, I still wouldn’t know!’
“He looks at me for such a long time, and I could feel myself getting frightened till I was shaking here on this very doorstep, like a willow branch in the wind, I was. And then he pushes me inside and he ...”
She held out her hand. There was a long red puckered scar running across the back of it.
“He thrusts my hand down on the edge of the stove. I screamed, but we’re at the end of the houses here — no one heard. Anyway, ’twould have been my word against his — he’d have just said I burnt meself by accident. ‘Now,’ he says, ‘you can remember me by this. Every time you look at the scar, think of your brother — and tell me if you know aught of him! For if you lie to me I shall find out — and that burn upon your hand is a little taste, a very little taste, of what you’ll get!’ And with that he makes off.”
“But do you know where he is, Miss Adams? And will you trust us? For your brother’s evidence will help to bring Micah Overbury to justice.”
“First show me Casterman’s dead body!”
*
She meant it. She enjoyed it, too. This was a woman with a strong stomach and I cannot say I exactly blame her.
Micah Overbury never did come to justice, if by that word is meant the usual flummery of our law-courts. Overbury had blamed all the deaths on Casterman, of course. He was imprisoned awaiting trial on a charge of slave-dealing and a lesser technicality involving unlawful possession of a dead body, which the authorities had dug up from somewhere, but which even I thought was undeserved. He had wanted to be in possession of a beautiful living slave girl, not a nasty smelly male corpse.
He did not stand trial. Word went across (by fast steam-packet!) to Kingston and his fellow slave-dealers, fearful that he would betray what he knew and interfere with their profitable business, made some arrangements. They had plenty of money and the goal turnkeys were poor.
One day Micah Overbury had supped up his customary prison breakfast of gruel. Perhaps it tasted a little strange, pe
rhaps a bitter scent arose as he set the first spoonful to his lips, but no doubt the prison fare did not encourage delicate behaviour at table, and Micah gulped his breakfast down.
It was his last.
He had a painful death.
“His eyes were fixed, glistening, the body leaping and twitching, the breath coming in great sobs or gasps. His jaws opened or closed two or three times, and so he died, within a few minutes of supping his gruel. Yes, there was a strange smell about it. Yes, it was flung into a corner and I saw some dead rats in that place afterwards”
The symptoms described by the turnkey corresponded well with those of poisoning by prussic acid. I believe Sandys mentioned this at the time.
No one cared.
TWENTY THREE - The Further Narrative of Miss Lilian Westmorland
It was a great good fortune to be returning to England as spring arrived. Reunited with Jennet, I had spent the winter in Egypt with Ariadne and Charles on board the Zubeida, where she was moored at Aswan in the dry scented air of Upper Egypt, where not only my troublesome cough had disappeared, but so had the fears and nightmares from which I had suffered, dreams in which Casterman, his scarred face monstrous big and swollen, lurched after me as I tried to run. And Jennet, too, had got over her frights and alarms, for, as she said she had feared me dead and that she would never see me again. “You vanished into that city, Miss Lilian — just think of it! All that great crowded Cairo — and you disappeared into the midst of it! They set me down on my own — and I found some great fellow in a turban and got him at last to lead me back to the hotel, and no one knew anything of you — most of them were packing, for there was rumours of disease starting to fly about! So I got a conveyance with Mrs. Cornwallis to Alexandria, for she was to leave for India, and there I hoped the authorities would do something. But could I get the Consul to stir his stumps to find you — not he! Not till Lord Ambrose came — and Lord forgive me that I ever said anything against his lordship — not till then did I have any hopes of ever seeing you again, miss! Oh, my blood runs cold when I do think about it!”
