This was what happened in a place like this, where the big house and the village had been socially interdependent for generations. Rumour ran through their hitherto peaceful lives like a hot knife through butter – rumour, speculation, gossip and guesswork mixed with fact. Like everyone else, Lady Emily apparently knew the suspect well; but she did not appear to know the precise nature of the crime. Yet she knew about the scarf: Perkins, the village constable, doubtless. He made a note to speak to him. Was it a guess that it came from Liberty?
“We have to take everyone into account. And the circumstances are very suspicious, my lady.”
“No doubt. But things are not always what they seem, are they?” Her eyes flickered. For all her composure, he felt that she was shaken by the events. He suspected she was not easily shaken, that life had held more sorrow for her than this death of a stranger, which had taken others besides herself by surprise, but she was an old lady.
He left them both in what he privately thought of as Lady Chetwynd’s boudoir, and went to question Sir Henry – a mere matter of form, but it had to be done. He wasn’t by any means satisfied with the outcome there, either. Sir Henry’s land agent, Alexander Seton, and later, the gamekeeper Jordan’s own statement had confirmed that he had been out in the woods the previous day until just before his son’s arrival. “And why not?” he asked belligerently, his black brows coming together. “I’m out and around the estate every day of my life, when I’m here at Belmonde. No reason why yesterday should have been any different.”
If his son had been telling the truth about seeing the woman in the woods – and there seemed to be no reason why he should have mentioned it, if not – then Sir Henry could hardly have strangled the woman and been back in time to be taking tea when Sebastian arrived at the house – unless he had gone out again afterwards, which was of course quite possible. Yet where was the motive – indeed, where was the motive for anyone having committed such a murder? But Sir Henry was a man inclined to bluster, and moreover, not adept at lying, and to Crockett, experienced as he was in dealing with those who were strangers to the truth, it was pretty obvious he hadn’t been told the whole story.
As for Montague Chetwynd: The Honourable Member for East Lyndon had already gone back to London. He was a busy and important man. He could not afford to let the unexplained death of an unknown woman on his brother’s estate – however unfortunate it was – interefere with his Parliamentary duties. But in any case, according to the butler, he had not arrived until about seven on Saturday, having driven up from London.
The suffragette theory, in any case, seemed increasingly pointless to Crockett – if any form of attack were to have been made on him, then it would surely have been on his own property, in London, where it would have attracted the maximum amount of attention. These women rarely did anything on the quiet – publicity for their demands was what they thrived on. Moreover, as Meredith had been quick to point out, since Chetwynd did not come all that often down to Belmonde, there was the implication that someone in the organisation must have known him well enough to have the information that he had indeed planned to be there that particular weekend. This was quite possible, of course. Women in the Movement were quite apt to circulate in political spheres as well as in the upper echelons of society. Crockett could have named quite a few families who would have done a great deal to have the names of their daughters – and sometimes their wives – erased from the police records and therefore from public consciousness, shameless as they were.
He was told there had also been present at Belmonde over the weekend a Mrs Cashmore and her daughter, Miss Dora Cashmore, but Meredith had not deemed it necessary to prevent them from leaving as they had planned on the Monday morning. They had on Saturday been out visiting an elderly relative in Much Wenlock and hadn’t returned until late afternoon, when they had gone straight to their rooms to rest before dinner. Apart from the fact that they could not add anything to what had already been said, Meredith had thought it unlikely either was capable of committing such a crime.
In theory, everyone in the house, including the servants, could account for their movements from three-thirty onwards. In practice, it seemed to Crockett, any one of them, in a house this size, could have slipped out and murdered the woman – though as yet there seemed no cogent reason why there should have arisen a need to do something so drastic.
Chapter Seven
“Look here,” announced the young woman with flushed cheeks and bright brown hair escaping in tendrils from under her woolly hat, marching into the schoolroom the following morning , followed by a helplessly protesting Constable Simmonds. Crockett was in sole possession of the schoolroom for the time being, having left Meredith in Bridgnorth arranging, amongst other things, for the post-mortem to be held as soon as possible. “I hear I’m going to have to find my own way back to London tomorrow. It’s most inconvenient, you know. I especially arranged to come down with Sebastian – Mr Chetwynd – because I’ve a large box of books I must take back with me and he was going to drive me back. I am Louisa Fox, by the way.”
“Sorry, sir,” put in the mortified constable, “but I couldn’t say her nay —”
“That’s all right, Simmonds. Leave this to me. Very pleased to meet you, Miss Fox. I —”
“I suppose I can arrange for someone to take me to the station and have the books conveyed by taxi at the other end, but it’s not very convenient. Can’t you question Sebastian now and let him go for the time being? Oh Lord, that sounds as though you might suspect him, which is quite ridiculous. You surely can’t believe he had anything to do with this murder?”
“I’m sure such a resourceful young lady as you appear to be could indeed have managed very well about your books,” answered Crockett, smiling in spite of himself, “but as a matter of fact, there shouldn’t be any difficulty.”
“Oh.”
“I’m Detective Chief Inspector Crockett, from Scotland Yard. I don’t doubt Mr Chetwynd can drive you back after I’ve seen him later today. From what I’ve already gathered, it will only be a formality and then he’ll be quite free to go when he wishes – so long as he tells me where I can get in touch, if necessary. Won’t you take a seat, miss?” He gestured to the only one available, one of the pushed-back desks.
“That’s all right, then.” She hitched herself on to it. Her feet didn’t reach the floor, but she didn’t appear to be self-conscious about the fact. “Look, I’m sorry about bursting in on you. I’m not usually so ill-mannered – though I must confess I am inclined to be a bit impetuous at times. Is there any way I can help?”
“I’m not sure. Er – what time did Mr Chetwynd leave you at your house on Saturday?”
“Just after three, about ten past, I think.”
And Blythe had confirmed to Meredith that he had arrived at Belmonde at three twenty-five. There was no chance that between then and the time he had left Louisa that he could have found the time to get to the clearing, only accessible on foot, strangle the woman, throw her into the stream, and then get back to the house.
“Mr Crockett —” began Louisa, then stopped.
“Yes, Miss Fox?”
“There are a lot of rumours flying around the village, as I suppose you’re aware. We’re a very small community, and this has caused quite a stir. I know you’ve arrested Tom Jordan —”
“Not yet. We are merely questioning him.”
She dismissed this quibble with a wave of her hand. “Nobody believes he did it. He’s not a violent person, really. Besides, he never has anything to do with women – he’d run a mile if one appeared up there in the woods. He’s —” She stopped, as if uncertain, then went on in a rush. “People seem to think the woman was a suffragette, bent on some sort of mischief, but that can’t really be feasible, you know. It’s not our policy to work alone, for one thing —”
So, she too was one of them! Oh, Lord. Crockett would never cease to be amazed at the diversity of the women who joined that unholy band.
>
She seemed belatedly to realise what she’d said, and smiled wryly. “I shouldn’t be saying this to a policeman, should I? You’re not exactly the best of friends to us.”
“There’s a remedy for that, but I don’t want to get into an argument about it, Miss Fox.”
“I wouldn’t dream of arguing with you, we women never get the best of it with men like you. But in any case, I’m afraid I wouldn’t be entirely convincing.” She sighed. “I’m not wholehearted enough to get involved in the militant side of things – and besides, my medical studies take up all the spare time I have. But that can’t be wrong, can it? Being a doctor is the best way I know of helping women.” She fiddled with her gloves. “But I’m afraid some of the members are inclined to think I’m not active enough.”
“Take my advice and stay inactive, Miss Fox. You stick to your doctoring.”
She looked as though he’d said something amusing, and after a moment, he saw that maybe he had. Most people, especially men, thought a woman wanting to be a doctor was as outrageous as women wanting the vote, and more degrading than the things they were willing to do to get it.
Sebastian was still kicking his heels, impatient to be told he was off the hook and could take himself back to London, but before he did, he knew he must find some opportunity to talk with his father about the real purpose for this visit home. So much had been going on that it had seemed highly inappropriate to raise what was all too likely to cause another furore. But now, both had risen early and were alone together and, suddenly wanting to get the business over before he should lose his courage, he at last blurted out what he had intended to present as a reasoned argument.
He could not have chosen a worse moment if he’d tried. Everyone knew Sir Henry regarded breakfast as the most important meal of the day, which he took early and in silence, reading the newspaper as he tackled his porridge and the devilled kidneys, bacon and eggs while they were still fresh from the kitchen. He’d looked up from his newspaper and nodded a good morning, even more taciturn than usual, unfocused and with his mind obviously elsewhere, while Sebastian helped himself to some cold ham and toyed with it for a while before suddenly bringing up the subject uppermost in his mind. There had not been the blazing row he had expected. His father had not erupted like Vesuvius. Instead, there had been cold disbelief etched on his face, and an ensuing silence which Sebastian had steeled himself not to interrupt, holding on to his temper in case he said something for which he would later be sorry. After which, Sir Henry had departed abruptly. Presently, there had come the bang of the business room door.
The air in the dining room seemed all used up. Why had he spoken so impulsively? Sebastian cursed his own folly. He should have known better than to broach such a touchy subject at such a time, when his father was so preoccupied over this terrible business of murder being committed on the estate. But he had suddenly despised himself for being so weak-kneed as to need his mother’s support, and had seized the opportunity without thinking. Too late, he saw his mistake. Had he waited until his mother was present, she might at least have helped to smooth the path.
Like many normally easy-going people, when he did lose his temper, Sebastian could lose it royally; but it was a rare occurrence which never lasted long and he bore no grudge afterwards – nor, usually, did the recipients of it when they had got over the shock, for it was only ever provoked by unfairness or a threat to his independence. It was both which rankled now. He couldn’t see why the simple wish to take up a profession, the desire to be useful in the world, should be in any way worse than Harry’s quixotic adventure to South Africa – and certainly better than the idle life he’d led subsequently. But Harry had been astute enough to show an interest in his inheritance, to hide his boredom with Sir Henry’s endless preoccupation with Belmonde. He seethed for half an hour under the injustice of it, disregarding his breakfast and letting his coffee go cold, by which time, though still simmering, he was beginning to go off the boil. Anyone would think I were the heir to a dukedom, rather than a piffling baronetcy, he fumed – but he was damned if he was going to give up his only chance of doing what he had set his whole heart upon. Refusal of monetary help was the worst that could happen. Sebastian decided he could face that prospect – sell his car as a last resort, pay his pupillage with the money left to him by his grandfather, and live off dripping toast, a delicacy to which Louisa had introduced him.
Louisa! With a jolt, he remembered the reason he’d risen early. He wanted to see and confer with her before she set off to catch the London train, as she must if he was to be kept here by the police. He poured himself another cup of hot coffee and burnt his mouth in the process of drinking it, before leaving the dining room in haste and making his way outside.
There existed, in a deep corner between two of the twin towers of the house, a dark and gloomy Victorian grotto, or fernery, where the sun never shone, lit only by a sort of skylight, and which no one ever visited except as a short cut to the stable yard. Because of the damp, its door tended to stick, sometimes immovably for days at a time, and always had to be opened with force. Sebastian attacked it with his usual shove, helping it with his knee. This time, perversely, it gave easily and he fell inside, almost to his knees, and knocked his funny-bone with excruciating pain. Cursing under his breath, he picked himself up, just as Blythe, hearing the fall, reached the door. “You all right, Mr Sebastian?”
“I expected the door to be sticking, as usual. I see you’ve had it attended to.”
“I got the joiner round first thing this morning to shave some wood off. Time it was done, after all these years. Couldn’t get it open nohow yesterday.”
“Well, he’s made a good job of it. I shall have to remember in future, unless I want to break my neck.”
The fernery was dark and had a sinister aspect, a place that would cool anyone’s temper. A cave-like space with a low roof, dominated by a grotesque, greenish statue of Poseidon, god of the sea and earthquakes, wearing nothing but a look of thunder and a strand of seaweed, and wielding a trident which seemed poised to be plunged into whatever creatures might lurk in the depths of the fern-ringed pool beneath. The mossy walls, from which more ferns sprouted here and there, ran with damp and were encrusted with shells and fossils. By the time he set foot in this grotto Sebastian had realised it was still too early to burst in on them at the manor – and besides, he realised there was still need to collect himself before seeing Louisa. Despite the penetrating cold, he paused, nursing his still-tingling elbow, leaning against Poseidon’s leg, one foot on the flints that formed the rim of the basin, thinking about what he had to say to her.
As he stared down into the murkiness of the water, a gleam of gold between the fronds of a fern that grew among the flints caught his eye. He bent to extract whatever it was and found it to be a cuff-link. There it lay on his palm for several seconds, gold and black onyx, while he wondered where he’d seen it before, until the dank, chill air of the place sent a sudden shiver of ice down his spine. He thrust the cuff-link into his pocket and turned abruptly to leave; here – this darkly-shadowed place, which had something inescapably secret and corrupt about it – was not a place to linger.
Once he had stepped out of the darkness and into the sunshine, he took a deep breath of the warm air and walked more circumspectly towards the stable yard. Early as it still was, there were Monty and his mother, having just come back from an early morning ride. They made a striking pair: Monty, tall and athletic, the sun shining on his fair hair; his mother, who was not tall but whose graceful deportment and the way she carried her head made her seem taller, and who always looked well in riding habit. Her colour was heightened and they stood as they had dismounted, facing each other while the horses were led away. They had not seen him and Sebastian hesitated to interrupt what was obviously a private moment. Monty was holding his mother’s arm, their eyes held with an intensity he could almost feel. He saw her try to pull away. Monty would not let her go, but kept his hand clamped tig
htly around her wrist. She gave a small exclamation and for one incredulous moment, Sebastian thought he had been hurting her. Before he could step forward, however, he heard his uncle ask quickly, “Did I hurt you?”
Adèle’s chin lifted. “Not in the least,” she said tightly.
“I’m afraid I did. Forgive me, I did not mean it. You know how I get carried away by the force of my arguments.” He still held her wrist, however.
At that, she turned her head angrily aside and when she saw Sebastian, she drew in an involuntary breath, whereupon Monty, following her glance, immediately let go of her. She came towards Sebastian, smiling, and enquired in an ordinary voice whether he was going to ride, though the heightened colour had fled from her face. Her riding crop was in her right hand, her left dangled, the fingers red where the blood had coursed back. “I would have asked you to come with us, had I known.”
“No – I’m going to take a walk. Just need a breath of air.”
Adele nodded and went into the house, while Monty stayed chatting pleasantly, yet Sebastian could not rid himself of the picture of his uncle’s face as he had gripped Adèle’s hand. What had they been arguing about? A vein still throbbed near Monty’s temple, a sure, inherited giveaway of the Chetwynd temper – even in someone as normally controlled as Monty.
The idea that he had deliberately hurt Adele was unthinkable, but something disturbing had certainly occurred between them. A thought passed through Sebastian’s mind which he could not yet put a name to.
This shocking thing which had disturbed the propriety of life at Belmonde was making everyone out of temper and on edge, he thought as he walked on between the yew hedges, followed by the dogs who, sensing a walk, had bounded round the side of the house as he set off. Yet logic dictated there was no compulsion to be unduly upset about the death – even the murder – of a woman none of them had ever set eyes on. Shocked, yes, sad, even, as anyone must be at such a thing. But anything else was surely hypocrisy – even if they found out she had indeed been one of those suffragettes, come to badger Monty, which was quite possible, of course. Inky Winthrop’s father, also in Parliament, had lately had a stone thrown through the window of his motor. Fortunately – although it broke the window – it had missed Lord Winthrop and merely knocked off his chauffeur’s hat.
Shadows & Lies Page 9
