“Perhaps. Still there is something to be said for a gilded cage.”
“Can you really see no purpose for the upper-classes in England?”
“I’m afraid that I cannot.”
“We lives our lives as if they are not our own. We marry not for love but for status. We spend our time absent from our family so that we can secure our fortune...not only for our own comforts, you understand, but for those who depend upon us.”
My puzzled look must have been apparent even in the dim moonlight for he elaborated. “Sir, on my estate alone there are employed some seventy-eight people. My colleagues who own factories, mines, and the like employ many more times that number. Should they be foolish enough to lose their fortune then all who depend upon them for employment no longer have that security.”
I laughed then took another swig from the bottle before handing it back to its owner. “Mr. Dunning, truly I do not wish to offend you, but I am afraid that seeing things from the top-down has given you a false perspective on the world. You see, it is not the lower classes that depend on the upper but quite the other way around. Were all of your servants, your farmers, etcetera to simply leave your employment and none stepped up to take their place would you not quickly lose your fortune?”
“Well...I suppose so.”
“You are absolutely correct when you state that the poor rely on your wealth to furnish employment, but only because the ignorant masses have for far too long allowed it to be so.”
That time it was Michael Dunning who laughed, his breath fogging the cold evening air as he did so. “A socialist revolutionary are you Mr. Carson?”
I had never considered myself as such but I suppose that in some way he was right. Surely there was enough in the world to be shared amongst all men rather than be locked away by the few and then miserly rationed out to the rest of humanity.
I did not respond so the old man eventually spoke again, “I meant not to insult your Inspector. You are correct in one thing, our respective positions in life have obviously distorted our views on reality. Perhaps the truth lies somewhere in between?”
“The truth.” I muttered, “Speaking of such, I’m afraid that I must ask again. Where is the body of Mr. Colin Wright buried?”
“That is a question you may ask,” he chuckled, “as many times as you like but never will there be an answer for it.”
With that he rose and bid me good night. I made for my comfortable bed hoping that night to actually be left to sleep in it.
The Grounds-keeper
I rose from my bed with a terrible start. What was that noise? I ran into the hallway and nearly bowled over Mrs. Kyle who was carrying an armful of folded towels.
“What’s going on?” I demanded.
The lady stared me up and down for I was in my dressing gown. “What on Earth are you talking about Inspector?” she seemed to have completely lost her patience with me by that point.
“That God-awful noise woman! It sounded like someone calling out in pain.”
She paused for a moment and then proceeded to laugh heartily at my expense. “Oh Mr. Carson, that was the peacock.”
“Peacock?” I asked, baffled.
“Yes, you’ve heard of them haven’t you? Large bird, long feathers...”
“Yes.” I waved her away and turned for my door but paused, “Mrs. Kyle, did I not give you a list of whom I wished to speak with when I first arrived?”
“Why yes.” she responded.
“Very well. I know that yesterday I was in town most of the day but I would like to resume my questioning today if possible.”
“Certainly sir.” she said with a bit of sarcasm before giving me an acerbic curtsy and walking away.
As I reentered my room and closed the door behind me my thoughts turned back to the bird which had awoken me. How was I to know they had a peacock on the grounds? More-so how was I to know that they made such horrendous noises? After all, I’d never before seen one in person. I thought to dress hurriedly and run outside in an attempt to catch sight of the creature, but I determined that my boy-like curiosity would have to be put on hold. I was hungry and could smell breakfast being prepared.
As I dressed myself I had all intentions of joining the family upstairs around the table but was distracted once again by another commotion coming from the lawn. That time it was the sound of Mr. Findlay, the grounds-keeper, hauling a cart full of tools which made the most dreadful clattering as he went. I had but a few questions for the man and catching him at such a time, when he expected hot breakfast and not an interrogation, was likely to reap the most benefit. With his temper roused I would have an easier time prying honest answers from him.
His task, apparently that of putting away tools and implements into the shed that lay only a short distance from the stable, was complete by the time that I managed to dress and scurry out of the house’s side door. I intercepted him half-way across the lawn, wet with the typical English morning dew, and introduced myself.
“Mr. Findlay.” I said as I thrust my right hand forward in greeting, “My name is Inspector Robert Carson.”
The strength of the grip that met mine was of no surprise. Despite being what I took to be slightly past middle-aged the Scotsman boasted an impressively muscular build, one of a man a couple of decades younger than himself. “Ah know who ye are. ‘Tis a pleasure ta make ye acquaintance sir.” He spoke in an accent so thick I would have sworn it had been rehearsed. If I were to guess I would say that the man took note of how strongly his accent had taken me aback, and as if to assure me that it was not put on purely for affectation he spoke again, “Somethin’ t’matter boyo? ‘Ave ye never seen a Scotsman before lad?”
I allowed myself a broad smile as I loosened my hand from the man’s grip. “Indeed I have met and known many sir but never, I must say, one with such a thick veneer of Scot upon his tongue.”
At that the grounds-keeper chuckled and slapped me squarely upon my left shoulder. “Well, now ye ‘ave. Ah was told ye’d be coomin’ ta see me, but ta be ‘onest with ye sir, ‘tis time fer brekfast and ah’m in no mood ta be missin’ it.”
“Nor would I wish you to do so. Still, I must demand five minutes of your time and then I shall, with any luck, have no need to trouble you again.”
Mr. Findlay appeared none too pleased about being disturbed so early in the morning but he maintained his proper bearing and to my surprise showed more patience with my intrusion than I had expected. Upon my request he turned and walked for the stable so that I might ask him about the state that it lay in. From behind I saw that his somewhat unkempt mane of reddish-brown hair did little to hide the fact that he was rapidly going bald. He also wore a beard, one that told me that he was a heavy smoker for its coloration had faded mostly to white save for brownish patches below his nostrils where night after night of smoke exhalation had thus stained it so with the tar of tobacco.
No wedding ring was upon his finger, that coupled with the fact that he lived on the estate and was mucking about with his tools in the early hours of the morning as well as the spotless appearance of all of the grounds that I had thus-far chanced to view told me that he had no romantic commitments. Polite in pleasant company perhaps, but with Mr. Peterson’s description of his drinking and rabble-rousing I took him for something of a knave when left to his own devices.
As we approached the door to the large wooden building I asked him to stop. I pointed over to the pitchfork still lying on the outside work table where I had left it. “I chanced to this implement, the very one involved in Mr. Wright’s tragic death, rested against a wall in the disused stall where hay is kept. Were you the one to put it there?”
“No sir, ah didn’a.”
“But you no-doubt noticed it placed there, correct?”
“Aye, the day after it ‘appened ah saw it there but no idea ‘ow it got there.”
“When was the last time you saw it prior to it being placed in that spot?”
He rubbed at his beard
in thought, “Must’ve been the day before when ah was workin’ in the stable.”
“You were working in the stable?” I asked as I approached the man, “Pray tell, what precisely were you doing that day and where was the pitchfork when last you saw it?”
“Ah ‘ad gone in some time in th’afternoon, perhaps around three or four, ta change the electric light bulb. Mr. Wright ‘ad complained early that morning that the one in the stable ‘ad burned oot.” the Scotsman then paused as he tasked his memory, “As to the fork…ah knocked it over when ah went ta retrieve a stool ta stand on from the stall where all of the ‘ay is kept. T’was a little dark, the light being oot and all, and ah tripped over the bloody thin’.”
“Yes?”
“In me anger ah believe ah flung it over near the shoein’ area.”
“And there you left it, lying upon the ground?”
He shook his head, “Ah may ‘ave a temper at times Mr. Carson but ah’m not inconsiderate. After ah’d replaced the bulb ah picked the thin’ up and placed it against a post.”
“Forks up or forks down?” he visibly cringed at the intensity of both my question and of my stare.
“Why...ah do’na recall.”
“Mr. Findlay did you assist in the removal of Mr. Wright’s body from the stable?”
“No sir. Ah’d gone into town the very night that ‘e passed away and ‘ad’na returned yet.”
I looked at him quizzically. “With grounds so immaculate as these and seeing as how you were at work shortly after the sun had risen this very morning I cannot think what would have kept you from your duties. You are not lying to me are you sir?”
“Assuredly not!” he protested. “Tis somethin’ ah prefer not discuss but leave it ta say that ah was indisposed that mornin’ and in no condition ta be workin’.”
“Drink, I shall assume.” the man rose to protest but I silenced him with a wave of my hand, “Fear not dear grounds-keeper, for I am a man of far more heinous vices than strong drink. I believe you when you say that you were not present for the discovery of the stable-boy’s body nor his removal from the stables. Am I to understand that you also played no part in his burial as well?”
“Aye. T’was some time closer ta two in th’afternoon when ah returned that day.”
“Were you not in a spot of trouble with your employer for having not attended to your morning duties?”
The man’s grizzled old face showed his honest surprise, “Aye, ah strongly expected a firm reprimand from Mr. Dunnin’ but received nothin’ of the sort. Imagine me surprise when ah found oot that Colin ‘ad died in the night and that the entire ‘ouse was in a tizzy over it. Tis with no pride that ah admit ta ‘avin’ used the confusion ta get back ta me duties with little notice of me absence.”
“Surely Mr. Dunning and Mr. Daidley could have used your assistance in burying the boy. Did your master not once say so to you?”
“No, never once ‘as ‘e mentioned it sir.”
“What of the stable itself? It would seem that someone has gone to great lengths to clean all traces of blood from the area, were you given that task?”
“No Inspector.”
“Have you set foot at all in the stable since the day of the accident?”
“Aye.” he shook his head in the affirmative. “Ah ‘elped get the ‘orses ready ta move ta the farm and ah’ve gone in once or twice fer a particular tool but ah’ve spent no real time in there.”
“Did you have a chance to witness the scene of the death before it was tidied?”
“Ah didn’a. As it lays now is ‘ow ah saw it after th’accident.”
“I am told that you had a friendship with Colin. Did you know him well?”
“Ah wouldn’a call it a friendship exactly sir, but we did speak on occasion.”
“Pray tell me what it was you spoke of.”
“Colin ‘ad a bit of curiosity about some of me duties. ‘E liked to ask about some of the plants around the gardens and such.”
“Nothing personal? He never spoke of family or perhaps of his hobbies or likes?”
“Not that ah can recall sir. We spoke mostly about the garden and on occasion about the weather or somethin’ of that nature but little else.”
“But you were aware of his relationship with Miss Elizabeth?”
Before he could respond I heard the door of the house open in the distance and the voice of young Kwame call out to the grounds-keeper, telling him that Mrs. Kyle had finished preparing breakfast. I turned and looked at the boy who quickly ducked back inside. Turning back Mr. Findlay’s expression told me that the man’s patience was nearing its end so I implored him to answer only a couple more of my questions before I would release him.
“Yes, ah knew ‘bout ‘e and Miss Elizabeth. T’was not a secret anymore Mr. Carson.”
“Very well. Your breakfast is no-doubt growing colder by the minute so I shall waste no more of your time, I shall simply be blunt. Have you reason to believe that anyone here on the estate could have been party to a plot to murder Mr. Wright?”
“Ah will tell ye that Master Adrian and Colin ‘ad quite a fallin’ oot but even though that boy is a little on the shady side ah canna believe ‘im ta be capable of somethin’ that foul. ‘E may be a bit of a shit but as far as ah’m concerned ‘e’s not a murderer either.”
“Very well.” I said as I stepped out of his way. “Please go and enjoy your breakfast and forgive me for taking up your valuable time.”
The Scotsman walked past me with a friendly nod and headed for the side-door of the house.
“I may call upon you again, though Mr. Findlay and if you remember anything peculiar about the day that Mr. Wright passed away, please do make sure to bring it to my attention.”
He paused about twenty feet from me and turned, “Ah do seem ta recall one thin’ that stood oot in me mind. Early in the evenin’, while ah was still lyin’ low and tryin’ not ta be noticed, a gentleman whom ah’ve never laid eyes on before came callin’.”
“Was that peculiar?” I asked, raising my tone to cover the distance.
“Only in the fact that ‘e stayed fer no more than five minutes before departin’ as quickly as ‘e’d come.”
“Thank you Mr. Findlay. I shall look into the matter more deeply. Now, pray go and enjoy your breakfast.”
Too Easy A Hunt
Knowing full-well that the family had been served before the staff I was no-doubt too late to take breakfast with the Dunnings so I decided instead to eat quickly in the servant hall, after which I grasped Mrs. Kyle by the arm and inquired about the mystery caller the night that Colin was buried. She had nothing to add but confirmed what the grounds-keeper had said; that a stranger had come that evening but stayed only for a few brief minutes before riding off at speed. This, of course, raised a good deal of suspicion in a mind such as mine.
Likewise, however, Mr. Findlay’s failure to remember whether or not he had placed the pitchfork with forks up or down concerned me every bit as much. One would have expected him to remember instantly and to proclaim that he’d placed the tool in the proper forks-down position. The fact that he did not said to me that either he was ignorant, angry at the time, or perhaps under the weather from partaking in too much drink the night before. Ignorance I did not believe, the man had worked around farm implements his entire adult life, he knew the proper way in which to rest a pitchfork. I suspected a combination of the latter was what resulted in his hasty placing of the implement and his resultant lack of memory regarding such. If that were the case, and in his frustration and haste the grounds-keeper had placed the tool in an un-safe position, resting against the beam with its forks up, then the case for Mr. Wright’s death being accidental looked all the more plausible.
One thing was certain, the stable-boy’s body needed to be found. I therefore instructed Mrs. Kyle to forgo rounding up witnesses for my interrogation and to instead pack me a lunch, something that would fit into my messenger bag. It was around that time that
I became aware of a steadily increasing amount of noise coming from the front of the house.
I was met in one of the hallways leading from the servants’ dining hall to the family sitting rooms by none other than Miss Elizabeth.
“Good morning Mr. Carson. I trust you slept well?”
“Indeed Miss Dunning, I slept like a newborn baby, and yourself?”
“I fear I have not slept well since this entire affair began.”
I looked past her and saw what looked to be several young men in the sitting room chatting each other up quite loudly and in pompous and arrogant form typical of the type to wear hunting jackets and riding boots.
“Friends of your brother I presume?”
“Yes. That is why I have come to fetch you Inspector.”
“Certainly not so that I should join them?” I asked suspiciously.
“Of course not.” she leaned in, “So that you may take this opportunity to inspect my brother’s room and hopefully find his journal.”
Just then I heard a familiar voice. It was that of Mr. Peterson. There he was, clad in the same ridiculous getup as the rest of them, shaking hands with a young man who I could not identify.
“Samuel Peterson?” I asked her.
“Yes. It’s been some time since he’s come on a hunt and Adrian simply demanded that he come along.”
“I see. Will he stay on for a time afterwards? I’d like to have a word with him later if at all possible.”
“I’m sure that he will.” she smiled sincerely, “Uncle isn’t much of a hunter but is of course humoring Adrian. He’ll likely stay around for supper.”
“Excellent. Now point me to your brother’s room so that I may investigate whilst he is distracted.”
A few moments later she was leading me down a hallway not too far from where the guest room that I had been occupying laid. She pointed out her own room, that of Miss Tripti, and then finally the one which belonged to Adrian. I bid her goodbye, tasking her with making sure that her brother did not return to his room for any reason, and let myself in.
A Case Most Peculiar Page 14
