Dread Murder

by Gwendoline Butler

  He knew in this instance that Lord Tom had killed an officer in the wars recently concluded. An unpleasant officer; a coward and a bully. But it would have been a shot in the head for Lord Tom and no more heard about him if he had been discovered. Even now, with victory and peace declared, it would have prevented him getting a job in the Royal stables, despite his skills with horses and guns.

  The Major speculated that it had been some letters found in his victim’s pocket that had eased Lord Tom’s way into the stables, but on this there was silence.

  ‘And what do they all know about you, Sir?’ Denny had asked humbly at the beginning of their working relationship.

  ‘Nothing,’ the Major had replied in a sad voice. ‘There is nothing to know.’

  This Denny did not believe.

  After delivering the tray back to Barber, who, for once, was not informative, Denny took himself off for his usual early morning walk – which was in part a pleasure to him and in part a duty. He did not always take the same path because he must not be expected; but he always looked about him with observant eyes, ever noting and checking. This power of reading a scene had been invaluable to him as a soldier, saving his life more than once.

  He walked out of the immediate Castle grounds towards the Great Park; then he debated whether to walk ahead or swing left to go through Shaw’s Farm and then push into the Park. He must be brisk, anyway, as the Major would be waiting for his daily report. The Major had never got over his military way of expecting a succinct report, and quick too.

  The park was heavily wooded, reminding him that this was once the hunting ground of the first Norman kings. Not an imaginative man, Denny did not waste much thought on the Normans. They hunted for food – no need for King George to do that; but the monarch enjoyed a ride himself when fit, and he still went out when he could escape his doctors, riding until the men of his Household were exhausted.

  Denny looked about him, then decided to take a path through dense bushes and trees. He walked down through a leafy dell. He slowed his pace; he sniffed. He smelt death. Pushing his way through the bushes, he stopped suddenly. At his feet was a pool of blood. It was a kind of basin in the ground which was lined with dried leaves so hard and dense that the blood had not drained away.

  Or not as yet, he thought – but soon it would, becoming thick and sticky.

  Keeping his feet clear, he circled the bloody area. But there was nothing to see except the blood. He considered what he had seen as he walked back to the Castle.

  Mearns was in his room, at his table, writing.

  Denny spoke at once and bluntly: ‘I have come across a pool of blood in the Park.’

  Mearns barely raised his head from his writing. ‘The remains of a fox’s kill,’ he said without interest.

  Denny rapped on the table and stared Mearns in the eye. ‘You and I have seen plenty of blood. We know how it falls. This is no blood from a fox’s kill. Too much blood, and it would have fallen in pear-shaped drops, with a smear as the dead animal was dragged away.’

  The Major stood up. ‘We must look around, Denny.’

  All the time there was a parcel on its way to be delivered to Major Mearns.

  A dead weight, he joked when it was handed over to him.

  The London to Windsor Coach arrived on time in the late afternoon. It stopped in the Market Square in sight of the Castle; the High Street ran into the Square. Here the coach stopped in front of The Royal George, the big inn which was its staging post before going on to Ascot.

  The coachman climbed down, slashing his whip in the air. ‘On time.’ Punctual to the half-hour, this was promptness enough. The clock was not watched to the minute. With horse, hills and foul weather, you took what came.

  The passengers descended from the coach, each one stiff and cold, glad to have arrived. The first to disembark was a woman. She was young and sprightly; she leapt down onto the paving stones, waved goodbye to the coachman and sped away.

  ‘Goodbye, Miss Fairface,’ the coachman called. She was an actress, about to perform in the new play at the Theatre Royal.

  The three men who next appeared were slower, especially a plump, well-furred man to whom the others gave way.

  ‘After you, Mr Pickettwick.’

  The coachman touched his hat and pocketed his tip. ‘Thank you, Sir.’ He shook Mr Pickettwick’s hand. Then he began to turn the coach in the direction of the stables where he would change the horses.

  ‘Stop, stop,’ cried Mr Pickettwick. ‘Miss Tux is not out yet.’

  Miss Tux. Tall, thin, more bone than flesh, bonneted and shawled, she was at the moment being lowered out of the coach by her maidservant who had a firm grip from behind on her elbows. ‘Now don’t pull away, Miss, or I’ll drop you in the mud.’

  ‘Libby, Libby, handle me gently,’ a high, old voice was wailing.

  Miss Tux was deposited, upright, on the ground, with Libby still holding on.

  ‘Come along now, Miss Tux; let me take you in and see you get a little refreshment. A hot one, I advise. Mulled wine is good. And your chair is coming … I think I see the men pulling it up the hill now.’

  In a low voice to one of his fellow travellers, Pickettwick explained: ‘A lady of some substance in the town …’

  There was one other passenger on the coach, and as it lumbered round to the stables, he poked his head over the top where he had been sitting.

  ‘So you’re still there, you little varmint,’ growled the coachman.

  ‘Coming down, don’t you fear. Frozen, I am.’ It was a young voice, full of spirit. The lad was small, with a shock of dark hair and an expressive face.

  ‘Took a free ride, you did, young ’un. What’s your name?’

  ‘Charlie.’

  ‘Right, Charlie, so you can pay for your ride by helping me with the horses.’ The coachman’s voice was gruff, but he was worried about the youngster. ‘Do it well and there might be a penny or two for you.’

  ‘Oh thank you, Sir.’ Charlie sneezed, then pulled a grubby rag out of his pocket to blow his nose. A small silver coin rolled out onto the floor.

  The coachman looked at it, accusation in his eyes. ‘Where did that come from, lad?’

  ‘Miss Fairface gave it to me at the stage in London. She said it would start me off …she’s a kind lady.’

  ‘And what was you a’doing at the stage in Holborn?’

  Charlie put his head down. ‘Looking for somewhere to go … Your Windsor coach had no outside passengers to tell on me …’

  The coachman grunted, and no more was said while the horses were freed of the harness and led away to be fed and watered, while fresh horses were coupled. Charlie did his bit, proving surprisingly strong and manipulative considering his size and age. Ten or so, the coachman had thought, judging him by the wary, adult gaze. Been at adult work for some time, he assessed. Child and adult all in one.

  One of the ostlers who was helping muttered to the coachman: ‘An old ’umman came in here and left two parcels for the Castle …asked if I could deliver them. Said she wasn’t strong enough.’

  ‘And you said “Yes”.’

  The ostler nodded.

  ‘And she paid you?’

  Another nod.

  ‘And you can’t do it?’

  One more nod.

  Not a man to talk much, thought the coachman, but he knew the ostler of old. ‘I can get it done.’ He held out his hand.

  The ostler passed a few coins across to him.

  ‘Is that all?’ asked the coachman, still holding out his hand.

  After a pause, the ostler passed another coin into his palm.

  The coachman nodded. ‘That’ll do.’ He turned towards the boy. ‘Carry them up to the Castle gate.’

  ‘They are labelled,’ said the ostler.

  ‘Leave them with the guard.’

  The coachman sorted out a couple of coins from those he had been given by the ostler.

  ‘Two more when you get back.’

 
Charlie picked up the parcels, which were long and sausage-shaped and wrapped in sacking. ‘Heave,’ he said, hoisting one on each shoulder, then staggering slightly.

  Slowly Charlie laboured uphill to the gateway with the soldiers on guard. They asked him his business, studied his burden, assessed the weight, and sent him on his way with directions. ‘You can do it.’

  More slowly now, and ever slower as he went down into the Castle. He thought he was lost, and was preparing to dump his burden and depart, when a pretty woman asked him what he wanted and where he was going.

  ‘Major Mearns …bundles to deliver.’

  Mindy, for it was she, hammered on the door behind an archway. ‘This is it.’

  The Major himself opened the door. ‘These are for you,’ said Mindy. ‘Give the boy a coin …and a drink; he looks as though he needs it.’

  The Major studied the boy and the bundles. ‘What’s your name, lad?’

  ‘Charlie, Sir.’

  ‘Well, Charlie, where have these packages come from?’

  ‘Left for you, Sir. In the inn below.’

  Silently, the Major handed over a coin and a small beaker of beer.

  ‘Thank you, Sir,’ said Charlie, drinking gratefully. Then he sped off. He had had enough of those two parcels. Another time, they could walk there, he joked to himself.

  He ran down the Castle mound and back to the inn in the High Street. The coach was just departing for the rest of its journey.

  Charlie held out his hand for his second payment. ‘Did what you asked. Parcels for Major Mearns – he took them from me himself.’

  As the coachman paid up, while protesting that it was none of his business and he had been obliging a friend, he said: ‘And where will you be tonight?’ It was going to be a cold night, and he could not dismiss some feeling for the boy.

  Charlie hesitated, then said, ‘Miss Fairface said to come to the Theatre; she thought she could find me a place.’

  The coachman nodded; this lad would go far. ‘And what about your father and mother, do they know you are on the loose?’

  ‘I have no one,’ said Charlie.

  Miss Alice Fairface might or might not have expected Charlie to come to the Theatre but, when he came, she greeted him with kindness. He reminded her of her young brother, at present on tour in the north of England. Her mother and father were performing in London at Drury Lane. She would like to go back there herself; she was hopeful – she knew she was good. But you needed a bit of luck. Still, you worked where you could and Windsor was a good theatre to which the old King had come. He was mad, of course, but better a mad king than no king at all.

  She was sitting in the dressing room where she applied colouring for her cheeks and eyes, and then put on her wig. She had blue colouring around one eye and had been doing the other when Charlie arrived.

  ‘You should have knocked on the door,’ she said mildly. ‘I could have been in a state of undress. Who told you where to find me?’

  Charlie gazed in fascination at her face, one blue eye and one plain. The pink on the cheeks did not quite match either.

  ‘No, no. I came through the door on the side street and listened till I heard your voice … You were talking quite loud.’ He looked round the room. ‘But there is no one here.’

  ‘I was running through my lines.’

  She studied his small, sturdy figure. He was not fat, rather thin and under-nourished in fact, but the sturdiness was of the spirit. He was so young – half child, but half old man. What had happened to him in his short life to split him in two?

  He was looking at her expectantly, but without trust, as if life had taught him hope, but caution with it.

  ‘Yes, I’m sure I can find a spot. But not for long, you know.’ She only had an engagement for a month in this theatre.

  ‘I will move on.’

  The door was pushed open. Miss Fairface swung round. ‘Oh, hello, Beau.’

  Beau was tall, handsome and only half dressed.

  ‘Alice, flower,’ he bellowed, ‘the costume girl has given me tights to fit a midget.’ Beau was his stage name, taken from the celebrated man of fashion, Brummell. Bertie was his real, never-used name.

  Hanging over his arm was a pair of white-to-grey tights, meant to be worn with his handsome boots. They did look small.

  ‘Oh, put them on, dear – squeeze yourself in, then go to see her. Or put on a kilt – you wore one when you were Robert the Bruce last week.’

  ‘Good idea, my love …’ He stopped. ‘Who’s the boy?’ Alice Fairface hesitated.

  ‘Bring him from London, did you?’

  ‘On the same coach … He needs somewhere to sleep.’

  ‘I can pay my share.’ Proudly, Charlie produced his handful of coins. ‘I earned them carrying two parcels up to the Castle. Precious heavy they were, too.’

  ‘You can sleep back-stage … And help with setting up the scene. So, you’ve been up to the Castle. Did you go in?’

  ‘Up to the gate where the soldiers stand guard and then right up the hill to the room where I had to deliver them.’

  ‘Where do you come from, boy?’ enquired Beau.

  ‘London,’ said Charlie.

  ‘That’s a big city. Won’t some person be looking for you?’

  Charlie shook his head.

  ‘What about your family?’

  ‘No family.’

  He was poorly dressed but not ragged, thin but not starved. A mystery here, thought Beau. On the other hand there were many new orphans. Death came easily and quickly.

  ‘Follow me, lad, and I will show you where you can sleep.’

  Charlie bowed to Miss Fairface. ‘Thank you, ma’am, for your help.’

  ‘Come and see me again, Charlie. I am here for the next four weeks.’

  ‘I will indeed, ma’am.’

  Then he followed Beau.

  The parcels were left untouched overnight. Denny and the Major had other things to think about – one of which was a trip to Datchet to see a contact.

  Next morning, back in his rooms in the Castle, Major Mearns was unpacking the two parcels. He used scissors to cut the wrapping. As he did so, he began to frown.

  ‘Open the window, Denny,’ he instructed.

  Denny obliged.

  ‘By God,’ said Mearns. ‘This is a leg … A man’s left by the size, weight and look of it. We have been sent a pair of legs.’

  ‘Is it …?’ began Denny, then stopped.

  ‘Yes, of course, they’re dead,’ said Mearns irritably. ‘But whether they were cut off when the man was dead or alive I have no means of knowing.’

  Denny felt sick. ‘You better send them to the Crowners’ Unit.’

  The Crowners was a newly-formed unit of men, almost all former soldiers, The Crown Keepers of the Peace in Windsor – another sign of the changing times.

  Mearns kept quiet. He did not like the Crowners. He particularly disliked Felix Ferguson, a young Scotsman, and the head officer. ‘Too cheeky!’ was Mearns’ comment – ‘blandness helps you more.’ John Farmer he liked a little better, and sometimes took a drink with him. He was a handsome young man. Felix was less handsome, but exuded power – which was what irritated Mearns.

  No, in his most honest moments he admitted that he disliked Felix because Mindy liked the man. Also, Felix, unmarried, was showing that he liked Mindy.

  Jealousy.

  But it was agreed on all sides that the Unit was doing a good job in Windsor. It was small, but efficient. England was changing. Industry was spreading and cities were growing. The Unit was part of that change. Major Mearns felt that he was part of the past.

  But he had no intention of going near the Crowners with the legs.

  The Unit was at that moment meeting. Felix was laying down the law. His law. He had strong proprietary feelings about the law and Windsor. But what annoyed Mearns was that Felix did not look fierce; he had a quiet, gentle face – almost feminine – with big blue eyes and a crest of fair hair. He had a goo
d army record, though – as Mearns knew — and by all accounts was not one to leave a fight. Otherwise, too confident for anyone’s good.

  Windsor, with the King in his Castle, was a town that needed the Unit to keep the peace, which, as Mearns admitted, it did well.

  It was an efficient unit, and soon there would be units like it all over the country. England was changing. London was growing. Cities were spreading in the Industrial North.

  Law and order should be respected. But all the same Mearns had no intention of consulting the Crowners’ Unit.

  Chapter Two

  ‘Life must go on,’ said Major Mearns gloomily. ‘Take those legs away. They begin to stink.’

  Dead meat, thought Denny. He was a strong meat-eater, but it might be some time before a leg of lamb had much appeal. ‘I suppose they are human?’

  ‘Look at the feet.’ Only one leg had been unwrapped, but they must match.

  Denny had seen many dead feet, but they were usually booted and on the battlefield. The foot he could see now was dirty; it had a large corn on the little toe and broken nails – a foot that had seen a rough, hard life.

  ‘I don’t know the foot,’ said Denny. Who could? One foot on its own was not easily given a name.

  ‘Take them down to the courtyard and undo the other leg. Then come back and I will join you …’ He looked into Denny’s reluctant face. ‘I should smoke a pipe while you do it … Come on, Denny – you did enough battle fieldwork.’

  Denny grunted as he went out, carrying the pair of legs in the paper of The Times. The King would have to do without. The Major considered what he should do. A pair of legs was not a welcome present, and who had sent them?

  ‘And why to me?’ he asked himself silently.

  He went to the door to shout after Denny. ‘See if there is a letter or such in the wrappings. Or if my name is written on the cloth …’