Enter Pale Death

by Barbara Cleverly

  Cecily’s eyes crinkled with waspish humour. “Lavinia could, single-handedly, have provoked a second world war, right there at the table, and presided over it if the knives were sharp enough.”

  “Ouch! But James is now free to remake his reputation?”

  “He would have been had he not been besmirched with a much more serious accusation than making a bad choice of wife. Murder. We have to prove that he is innocent by possibly arresting, certainly making known, the identity of the person responsible. James’s career depends upon it.”

  She turned the dark eyes of a Roman empress on Joe. Unblinking, forceful, hypnotic. “More than that. You know the state of the country. Financially ruined. Emotionally exhausted. The reins of power being tugged in all directions by the inexperienced hands of a crew of squabbling nonentities who call themselves a ‘coalition.’ We’re hurtling towards a cliff edge, Sandilands. James sees that. He is a strong-minded man and no appeaser of bullies. He knows what needs to be done and understands that he is the man to do it. He has built up support in preparation for the moment. We cannot afford to stand by and watch that support be cut out from under him. Undeservedly.”

  “Are you telling me you have proof that he had nothing to do with his wife’s death?”

  “I know with certainty and—yes—I can prove that my son had no involvement whatsoever. But I’m his mother. Of course I would say that. We need an independent authority, trusted by all, to discover this for himself. I hand you no names, Sandilands. But I will facilitate your enquiries. You have my permission to go anywhere, question anyone in the house. Do what you have to do.”

  “You carefully say ‘person,’ your ladyship. Man? Woman? Are you hinting that perhaps I should be hunting about in the boudoir rather than the gun room?”

  “I’m sure you are equally at home in both,” Cecily said crisply. “But, do agree, it could well have been a woman who arranged her death. It has all the hallmarks, wouldn’t you say, of a female mind? We are supposed to be the sex that prefers a clandestine approach to an outright assault. Women do not have the strength of mind and hand to sink knives into flesh; we tend to be ignorant of the workings of firearms, even if one should be to hand. A push in the back at the top of a staircase is perhaps the nearest we come to the physical assault. Killing at arm’s length, carried out by one of God’s innocent creatures—a perfect solution, wouldn’t you say? A female solution?”

  Joe could have demolished her argument with countless examples from real life and real death but he was enjoying hearing her nonsense, wondering where she was heading with her theories.

  “Yet it has a certain sporting element about it that to me speaks of a masculine mind set,” he said. “Tell me about her maid. Is she—was she—close to her mistress? Close enough to have vital information for us?”

  “Oh, Grace Aldred is the girl’s name. I have interviewed Grace, of course, but she denies all responsibility. She’s very loyal to her mistress—alive or dead. I’ve kept her on here working as a laundry maid, even left her in possession of her old room, until such time as she can be made to confess to something.”

  “Excellent!” Joe forced out the word. The old nuisance had probably ruined any chance of an unrehearsed testimony from the maid. “She is the first I should like to interview.”

  “You’ll have to wait, I’m afraid. The housekeeper was so bold as to grant her leave to visit her sick mother in Bury.” Cecily heard her own tone of asperity and hurried to correct it. “I’m not criticising Mrs. Bolton. Our excellent housekeeper finds herself in an awkward position—between two mistresses, you might say. Lavinia’s reign is over and Mrs. Bolton will have shed no tears over that, and I am here, as you see, a power from the past, grabbing at the reins. Always with the prospect, of course, of a third mistress waiting in the wings. James will marry again. His career demands it. Meanwhile, Mrs. Bolton is a steady pair of hands and we all trust her judgement. Grace has been given a week’s leave. Of course,” she added casually, “there were other ladies in the house that weekend in April and I’ve prepared a list for you.”

  Joe decided to take the bull by the horns. “We always look to the motive in killings, madam. Who stands to gain? In this case, you are right to suppose that your own son, James, fits the frame very well. He loses a wife you tell me was becoming a liability. Being her heir he must retain what is left of her fortune?”

  “Of course. I’m glad to hear you speak so bluntly. It saves time and allows me to be equally blunt.” She gave him a sharp sideways look. “As no holds are barred I’ll tell you that my own suspicions fell originally on a certain female guest. A young lady my son has formed a regrettable attachment to. The girl is his student and a pampered one at that. I know that he spoke of her frequently to Lavinia and to me in glowing terms. Lavinia became suspicious—and who shall blame her?—of his relationship with this baggage and took the bold step of inviting the girl to spend a weekend here in April. To look her over, assess the danger and warn her off. She gave James no warning of her arrangement and the whole business was a disaster. The girl was pretty and intelligent and capable of winning any verbal skirmish Lavinia cared to engage her in. But, more importantly, it was clear to all that she trumped Lavinia on a subject dear to her own heart.”

  “Which was horses, I understand.”

  “Indeed. Lavinia had established that this girl had a certain way … an ability … with animals. Horses and dogs. During the day, Lavinia took her by the arm and set off on a tour of the estate. Just the two of them. Stables, kennels—we still keep spaniels and hounds and a few herd dogs—and they returned hours later with Lavinia shaken and angry. Now, Commissioner, I looked at the pair of them with foreboding. My blood turned to ice in my veins. I saw disaster ahead. But what I feared at that time was that it would be Lavinia herself who made an attempt on the girl’s life while she had her under her roof. Her reason for inviting her here, Commissioner? Lavinia was capable of such a clumsy manoeuvre.”

  Cecily raised a hand to ward off objections that were not voiced. “No, I do not overstate my reaction. She was a woman of sudden rages. I’ve seen her badly mishandle her unfortunate mounts when her pride was at stake. I’ve witnessed her slashing a stable lad in the face with her whip. I know that she was overly harsh in her dealings with the cottagers. Adam Hunnyton and I have, too often, had to step in and repair, reinstate, reimburse … smooth feathers. I knew her to be—we all knew her to be—a cruel, bullying woman with what my dear husband would have called ‘a short fuse.’ I honestly thought she was capable of pushing someone downstairs or out of a window. And her target on this occasion was quite small and easily pushed, poor child. I’m sure no one would seriously blame her if she took steps to protect herself from an onslaught by Lavinia.”

  Yes, compared with the Amazon proportions of Lavinia, Dorcas was quite small. In fact she was all the things Cecily was telling him. He could hear no misrepresentation or exaggeration in what she had to say. But was Dorcas a killer? A cunning and ruthless killer who might judge that the world would be a better place without Lavinia’s boots trampling it? Who might devise just such a righteous death under the hooves of an animal she had no respect or love for? Joe was shocked that he had even allowed the monstrous thought to take shape and twitch with life.

  At least he was one step ahead of Cecily. He knew where she was heading with her comments. Deviously, disarmingly, towards putting the blame on Dorcas and then cancelling out the consequences. All this hocus pocus had been put on with the aim of taking Dorcas off the scene, if the worst came to the worst, on an accusation of murder. Had Cecily any idea of the girl’s connection with the police officer she was now confiding in? He could have sworn she hadn’t. Their names were in no way connected. Any relationship James Truelove was aware of had been explained to him by the devious Dorcas herself. Joe remembered Truelove had actually had him called to the telephone on one occasion to offer him advice on handling her. “You’ll get the best out of Miss Joliffe if yo
u don’t run her in blinkers, Sandilands,” he’d told Joe briskly. Truelove probably connected him to Dorcas through her closeness to his sister, Lydia, and her family. After all, she’d lived with them in something approaching harmony for eight years. She loved them and they loved her like a daughter. “My guardians,” was her way of referring to Lydia and Marcus.

  Perhaps that was the plain truth? Perhaps, all these years, he had been peripheral to Dorcas’s life and not, as he’d fancied himself, central to it? A truly distant but, on occasion, useful uncle?

  The thought startled and disturbed him.

  Cecily was finding it increasingly difficult to continue but responded to Joe’s concern when he prompted: “I would guess that you felt it your duty to take precautions against an outbreak of violence in the house?”

  Her response had been ready to flow. “You’ll think me a fussy, deluded old woman but … but … yes, I posted a footman—Ben, who waited on us just now—at the end of the corridor outside Lavinia’s room that night. I told him to follow her, unseen, if she left her room and, if she went in the direction of the Old Nursery, which is out in the north wing well away from the other guest rooms, he was to alert me at once, even use his own judgement to prevent a catastrophe. He knew he would have had my backing. You will find Ben a trustworthy man with an ability to think for himself and anticipate a command. I shall look forward to hearing your impressions of him.”

  Good Lord! The old lady had the thought processes of a damned efficient general, Joe decided. “The Old Nursery?” he questioned, mystified.

  “Yes. That is where Lavinia had chosen to put her guest. Another little calculated cruelty. She showed the girl to her room herself. I can imagine why and I’m sure you can imagine why …‘This is the room James and I had decorated last week in anticipation of a joyful and long-awaited event … Yes! We are to have our happiness completed, though I must swear you to secrecy, my dear …’ I’m pretty sure she deliberately leaked news of her supposed condition. The servants were openly gossiping about it. Even my son Alexander managed to rouse himself from his stupor to ask me if I’d heard his brother’s good news. But the autopsy which James had the sense to insist on showed that it was all in her imagination or calculatedly misleading.”

  “Did your footman follow her to the stables?”

  “He did. Sadly not with any sense of urgency, however—Ben calculated that as she was in riding habit and heading for the horses, she was about to take her early morning ride a little earlier than usual and that his responsibility was at an end.”

  Joe understood. A footman’s territory did not extend into the grounds. Their polished shoes venture no further than the tiled floor of the dairy.

  “Ben knew he’d been posted to protect a guest from her ladyship. He had no instruction to protect her ladyship from her own folly. He was merely doing what I’d told him to do, staying out of sight whilst ensuring that she didn’t double back and become again a threat to her guest. I have not blamed him. Nor should you. He stopped to have a chat with a kitchen maid who was lighting the fires. However, when he heard the commotion he ran to investigate. Too late. He stayed at the scene, although in terror of the horse, and sent the two stable lads she’d coerced into accompanying her back to the house to raise the alarm. The vet and the doctor were instantly called while Ben stayed on guard over the body.”

  “Brave chap,” Joe murmured. “What a scene!”

  “But why, Sandilands? Why? And why am I so certain that her death was no accident? It was all so out of character. Visiting the farm horses before breakfast without notifying the head horseman? Madness!”

  “I can explain all that,” said Joe. “But I agree with you that she was put up to it, her foray into the stable of an injured and aggressive horse calculatedly risky.”

  She listened quietly as he told her of his interview with the vet’s daughter, her evidence and theories, and the conclusion he and Hunnyton, pooling their knowledge of horse-craft, had arrived at.

  “Horse witchery? How very medieval!” Cecily had listened entranced, entertained, aghast. “Not sure that I can accept all you tell me, but … it does make a certain awful sense,” she said finally. “And I would always listen with attention to your two advisers. Hunnyton is shrewd and sound and the best authority I know on the handling of horses. His father Hunnybun, whom I knew, was deeply involved with ‘gentling,’ as they call breaking-in horses down here, and I’m sure the son absorbed his knowledge. I have met Doctor Hartest. A sensible young woman with her wits about her. Attractive and personable too. I’d rather marked her down for my Alex.” She sighed. “I’ve given up hope of his ever securing a rich, well-bred girl so he might as well have a competent woman who’ll understand his condition and care for him.”

  Joe managed to reply affably, “Splendid idea! We men all dream of marrying our nurse.” He resolved to find out—but not from the boy’s own mother—exactly what condition was so dire the suffering Alex was thought to need a lifetime’s care from a physician.

  Cecily’s hostess’s mind was still running on matchmaking. “We shall be a lady short for dinner tomorrow night. I wonder … Do you think Adelaide Hartest would be insulted if I sent her a last-minute invitation? Do you suppose she has evening dress down here in the country? I’ve met her once or twice in church and observed her to be neatly dressed and well spoken. Though I note she stomps around the village in dungarees and gumboots. The question is: is she a lady?”

  Joe should not have been surprised or irritated by her snobbery. He reminded himself that Cecily’s attitudes had been formed in the Victorian Age and her perspective must always have been that of the minor aristocracy, constantly aware of status and class and seeking to improve or at least uphold what she saw as her family’s place in society.

  “Doctor Hartest is an intelligent, professional woman who has lived her life until recently in London. She is articulate and humorous and would adorn any Mayfair soirée.” The firmness of his judgement based on one encounter surprised even Joe.

  “Goodness! I’m afraid we would risk boring her to tears with our country ways, were we to invite her to dinner. A girl may be too educated, you know. No man rejoices to find himself seated next to grey-eyed Athena at the dinner table.”

  “Truly, I hardly know the lady and should not answer for her,” Joe said, thinking this party was probably the last thing she’d enjoy and finding it difficult to picture rangy Adelaide in a dress, evening or otherwise. “Doctor Hartest was very ready to point the finger at Grace Aldred,” he said to get her back on track.

  “Ah, yes. I’m sure she’s right. It seems Grace may well hold the key to all this witchery. But Grace would never have planned a mischievous assault on her mistress. She’s a Suffolk girl. They don’t hold with violence about here. Murders in the county are few and all committed by incomers, Commissioner. No—for the originator of this evil you must look elsewhere. But there is one person you can discount. I have already mentioned: my son, James. He has an alibi—is that what you’d say?”

  “Possibly. It depends on whether he could offer witness of his whereabouts that night. And I’m remembering that this murder, if murder it was, was perpetrated at arm’s length, so to speak. A suggestion was put into Lady Truelove’s head, she performed accordingly and at some later time, the spiced cake was switched for a noxious offering which had been prepared in advance. Anyone could have planted the suggestion, exchanged the cake for what I’ll call the ‘poisoned’ one in the early hours of the morning, let’s say, and been fast asleep in bed by the time Lavinia was approaching the stables.”

  Joe fell silent, suddenly seeing the flaw in his theory.

  “No. I think there must have been a simpler way,” said Cecily, echoing his thoughts. “One that didn’t involve to-ing and fro-ing in the night. Ben would have noticed anyone creeping about after midnight armed with a mess of stinking … stoat’s liver, did you say? You may ask him yourself.”

  Just as Joe had been about
to press her further on the matter of Truelove’s alibi, the butler entered to warn his mistress that the first of the guests was coming up the drive. A Rolls-Royce with Surrey plates.

  “Ah! Sir Basil and Lady Ripley,” she exclaimed. “We’re kicking off! I shall come at once. Sandilands …” and, with sudden intimacy, “Joe! Do come and greet them with me. James and Alex are not about the place and I do appreciate a masculine presence at my elbow.”

  As they got to their feet, her conversation became purposeful and fast and he recognised the tone of a commander to her aide-de-camp.

  “Basil Ripley and Florence were here at the house during that frightful weekend, Joe. Basil is very influential in the House of Lords and James is keen to impress him. Florence is a bit of a gad-about—twenty years younger than her husband—and rather susceptible. Take her to have look at the Edwardian glasshouse or for a stroll in the knot garden … intrigue her a bit …”

  Joe smiled and surrendered. He’d decided he would be rather entertained to play poodle—or was it tame stag?—for Cecily. He would give good value. He would establish himself as a welcome presence with an understanding smile and a ready pair of ears.

  He checked his sticking plaster was in place, planned a joking account of how he’d acquired his wound if anyone asked, offered his arm to her Ladyship and accompanied her to the hall.

  CHAPTER 14

  It had been a demanding afternoon. The first two pairs of guests had arrived in quick succession and been welcomed with delight by Cecily. Joe had made himself useful, offering the expected staccato exchanges with the gentlemen, flirtatious chatter with the ladies, and pouring many cups of tea. He’d even found time to escort Florence on an expedition to view the pineapples in the glasshouse. Cecily had introduced him to the guests as ‘James’s dear friend … and George Jardine’s associate in India, you know. Wilfred, weren’t you and Maggie in Ootacamund before the war? I thought so. Joe, you must know Ooty?’ ”