by S K Rizzolo
“Yes, Mr. Chase. I am her companion. I understand the family hails from Dorset. Mr. Buckler recommended me to the position after my landlady decided that a woman on her own with a child did not promote the respectability of her lodgings.”
Chase had to restrain a grin at the thought of Penelope Wolfe as genteel companion to a lady of quality. Weren’t companions supposed to be little mice whose sole purpose in life was to fetch and carry and to swallow any bullying that came their way? “What of Miss Sarah?” he asked.
“Lady Ashe has kindly assigned a maid to remain with her whilst I am at my duties.”
He understood. This was come-down indeed for Penelope Wolfe, raised in affluence in Sicily by an indulgent father, an expatriate Radical philosopher. Yet it was her imprudent marriage to the artist Jeremy Wolfe that had brought her to this pass, and he could not entirely pity her, though he had to admire her courage in facing up to her circumstances.
“This house belongs to your employer’s father? Is not Wallace-Crag a Scottish name?”
“Yes. I believe Sir Roger’s kin came from somewhere near Dundee originally. His father stayed loyal to King George during the Jacobite rebellion and was rewarded with an estate in Dorset and a baronetcy. Sir Roger was raised in England.”
“How large a family?”
“There’s just Lady Ashe and her husband. Tragically, her mother died in childbirth when she was quite small.”
He regarded her thoughtfully. “I take it neither of the ladies is responsible for the décor?”
Humor sparked in her eyes. “Sir Roger is an antiquary. Overpowering, isn’t it? Still, I’m told this is nothing compared to the family seat. When Lady Ashe is able to spare me, I have been helping to catalogue Sir Roger’s souvenirs of his travels.”
“Any word from Wolfe?” he asked abruptly.
Before Penelope could reply the door opened, and a woman entered. She wore a white gown with short tasseled sleeves and a half train draped over her smooth, rounded arm. An opal necklace lay in two rows round her neck. Her light brown hair was a cluster of delicate curls restrained only by a strip of muslin tied at the side of her head with a bow.
Chase had time to scan her features as she stood without speaking for a full minute and gazed around the room at the crosses, her eyes sliding over the body as if she didn’t see it. Her face possessed a piquant sharpness of nose and chin that was by no means unattractive.
“I beg your pardon,” she said at last. “I see you are occupied, Penelope.”
“This is the man from Bow Street of whom I told you, Lady Ashe.”
“Indeed? So this is your police officer. I have always wished to become acquainted with a genuine Bow Street Runner, sir. You will forgive my intrusion and my curiosity?”
Chase bowed. “You would be forgiven anything, my lady.” A poor attempt at gallantry, he reflected wryly. “I am sorry to make your acquaintance under such circumstances,” he went on. “Ransom’s death no doubt has distressed you.”
“’Tis a dreadful occurrence, Mr. Chase. Truly dreadful. I need hardly say Lord Ashe and I wish you to do your utmost to get to the bottom of it. We shall put up a reward and pay your fees.”
He bowed again, keeping his expression neutral. “Thank you, my lady. Perhaps you will allow me to ask you a few questions. Your footman Dick Ransom, was he in good standing in your household?”
“Oh yes, though he’d not been with us long. Just a few months, I believe.” Her gaze fixed unwaveringly on his; her voice was low, a trifle husky. “You may get further particulars from Timberlake, but I always found the young man eager to please and a sober, respectable sort of person.”
“As your manservant he must have accompanied you when you paid calls or went out shopping?”
“Frequently, but I noticed nothing out of the ordinary.”
“And this morning? Were you yourself roused by the disturbance?”
“No, I heard nothing, for unlike Mrs. Wolfe, I am a shockingly sound sleeper and my window was closed. But it may be we owe Dick an enormous debt. I’ve very little doubt but that he stumbled upon some villains attempting to gain access to the house and prevented a robbery at the cost of his own life. The villains would have been frightened off.”
Chase glanced at Penelope, who had been watching her employer with an oddly veiled expression. There was something definitely amiss there, he thought. Was it that she found this explanation as little persuasive as he did, or was it something more? Lady Ashe’s manner did not sit right with him, and he could not for the moment determine why.
“Your butler will be making arrangements for the funeral? There will have to be an inquest, after which Ransom may receive a respectable interment. I shall inquire of your butler if the murdered man has family that will need to be informed.”
“Timberlake says he thinks not,” broke in Penelope, “or at least Dick never spoke of anyone. He was pleasant enough but kept to himself. One of the maids mentioned he was a Londoner born and bred.”
“How clever of you to think of asking the staff, Penelope!” cried Lady Ashe.
When Penelope did not immediately reply, an uncomfortable silence fell. Lady Ashe looked embarrassed, and Chase thought he caught a fleeting expression of hurt in her eyes. He nodded politely. “If you’ll excuse us now, perhaps Mrs. Wolfe will show me the garden.”
“Yes,” said Penelope with alacrity. “I shall join you presently if that’s agreeable, ma’am.”
She waved a hand. “Take your time, my love. We must do all possible for poor Dick. I know I’ve no need to ask for your pledge on that score, Mr. Chase.” Flashing a quick smile, she glided from the room.
Chase’s gaze swept again past the rows of crosses glimmering in the blue-tinged light to rest on the still form on the sofa. “No pledge needed,” he murmured. “Poor devil.”
Chapter III
Chase squatted down to examine a bloodstain as Penelope stood a little to one side watching. There was blood where the body had lain, but very little along the rest of the path as far as he could see in the gloom. But he spotted areas where the gravel had been displaced when, presumably, the wounded man had stumbled some yards in a futile quest for assistance.
“He spoke just the one time?”
“Yes, those few words only.” She kicked at the gravel with the toe of one slipper. “I found the passage. It’s a quotation from the Bible. The Book of Joel, a minor prophet who prophesied the Day of Judgment.”
“Ransom was preparing to meet his Maker, eh? Probably had good reason to fear the accounting.”
“I’m not certain that was it, Mr. Chase,” said Penelope, raising troubled eyes to his. “It seemed, I don’t know precisely, as if somehow the warning were more general.”
Chase half wanted to say something to comfort her but couldn’t think what, and in any event offering comfort wasn’t really in his line. Instead, he continued slowly up the path a second time, his eyes scanning the close-cropped turf along the border. Several times he paused to slip his hand under a bush or to peer into a flower bed. It was too much to hope for that he would luck upon the murder weapon, yet he had to try.
“You do not subscribe to the theory of a foiled robbery,” he said after a minute or two.
She looked surprised. “I don’t know why you should suppose I have had the leisure to conceive any theory.”
“It was your countenance that told me so when Lady Ashe spoke of the matter.”
“I suppose that’s true, for I can’t imagine why Dick Ransom should have been dressed and out of doors in the first place. How should he realize playing the part of the hero was required?”
“Exactly. Will you come into the shrubbery with me, Mrs. Wolfe? If Ransom came out to meet someone, this part of the gardens would provide some shelter and privacy, I should think.”
“Yes. I often walk here when I find a moment to myself.”
They proceeded down the graveled path and into the walk lined by hedges and dotted with benches at
intervals. Though the air was chill, the close-set greenery did offer some protection from the damp. There was just enough room for Chase and Penelope to walk abreast, close but not touching.
“Are you happy here, Mrs. Wolfe? Your employer seems a tolerable sort of person.”
She paused to consider, and he reflected that he had forgotten this trait she had of groping after the honest answer. “No. I cannot say I have been happy here, Mr. Chase, though Lady Ashe has been most generous.”
“A generosity that sticks in your throat?” he hazarded.
“Yes, I suppose it does.”
Chase thought he understood. She herself had been generous of her time and compassion on behalf of the women of the St. Catherine Society when their patroness Constance Tyrone had been slain, but Penelope no doubt found it a different matter altogether to be on the receiving end. Yet he presumed she actually worked for her daily bread in this house. There could be no shame in that.
“You are fortunate to have found a haven for yourself and your daughter that is both comfortable and secure. Indeed, you are surrounded by every luxury here.”
“I do not need you to tell me so.”
“I saw your essay about the murder of Miss Tyrone in a periodical I picked up one day. Unsigned, of course, but ’twas obvious who had written it. A pity it won’t have sold as many copies as that hack Gander’s ‘true confessions of a murderer,’ despite the fact yours was the far more accurate portrayal.”
“You read it?” she said eagerly, her momentary pique forgotten. “Yes. I was proud of that piece, and was, in fact, paid rather handsomely for it.”
“Well then. Perhaps you may produce something similar on the life of this Dick Ransom.”
“A footman? Somehow I doubt there is as much scope in his history.”
He had already turned away, his attention diverted. “Come here, Mrs. Wolfe. What does this look like to you?”
She bent to peer at the gravel next to the bench. Shiny with moisture, the patch was perhaps the size of guinea. “I can’t quite see. Oh, it’s just a bit of candle grease, but Mr. Chase—”
“Do you walk in the shrubbery after dark?” he said and watched the light of interest and curiosity come rushing back to her eyes.
“Of course, I don’t. How foolish of me not to understand you at once.”
“Not tallow,” he pointed out, rubbing his thumb over the mark. “The dropping is clearly from a wax candle.”
“I believe you are right.” She was down on her knees in the gravel, heedless of her print cambric morning gown.
“Perhaps Dick sat here waiting for a time,” said Penelope. “He set his candle just there on the bench, and because of the incline, the wax dripped from the holder through the slats to the path beneath.”
“That is certainly possible.”
“Yet I don’t know how we shall determine whom he was waiting for, or to what purpose.”
“We, Mrs. Wolfe?” Though he shook his head at her, he found himself smiling.
***
John Chase stood in a library that did double duty as an armory, several dozen axes, dirks, sabers, and ornate swords lining its walls. He thought nostalgically of his old navy cutlass, which now reposed at the back of his wardrobe, though of course his cutlass with its plain, thick blade and practical lines was bread and butter to all this cake. Slanting a glance at Sir Roger Wallace-Crag, Chase put his hand to an iron dagger and fingered the curved guard.
“Spanish,” said the older man. “Essentially a small sword. A duellist would have gripped it in the left hand, paired with a rapier in the right. See the matching rapier there?”
“Are all the weapons accounted for, sir?”
A robust, high-colored man in his late fifties, Roger Wallace-Crag lounged, quite at ease in a wing chair, legs stretched out to the fire and booted feet crossed. He would have appeared a prosperous country squire, but for the intensity of his glance and the sophistication of his manners.
“The collection is rather haphazardly assembled, you see. Perhaps you should inquire of Mrs. Wolfe, who has been attempting an inventory. My fault for never having made a record of where and when I purchased most of these pieces.”
Returning the knife to its place, Chase sat down opposite the older man. Light played over the antiquary’s mobile features as he stared musingly into the flames. The man was relaxed. Too relaxed. Chase had seen many reactions to violent death, yet rarely this detachment, this ability to speak so naturally of murder. Granted, the victim was only a servant, but Wallace-Crag hadn’t turned a hair when viewing the body.
Deliberately, Chase sat back in his chair. If the baronet wanted to play this as two gentlemen enjoying a friendly conversation, he was willing to oblige.
“Will you describe your work for me, sir?”
“Willingly. I spend much of my time in the country. In fact, I only came up to town for a few weeks to see about arranging workmen for an excavation. There’s an old church built over a Druid’s circle I’ve been most eager to explore, but I’ve had the devil of a time obtaining permission. Had to take matters into my own hands after my fool of a secretary misplaced some important correspondence.”
He shot Chase a keen look as if to gauge his interest. “I am compiling a history of Dorsetshire, an attempt to elucidate the lives of its inhabitants going back to the ancient Britons. For me, there is no greater satisfaction than getting at the Truth of the past. Faint though the voices of antiquity may be, they are still audible if one knows how to listen.”
Chase smiled. “If I am to discover who is responsible for this deed, I must hope to catch more recent echoes than those of interest to you, sir. It will be necessary to obtain a precise knowledge of events. I’ve already spoken to your butler and to some of the servants and have examined the young man’s effects. But I shall need you to describe your movements last night and this morning.”
“I’m happy to do so, sir, not that such information is likely to prove either interesting or useful. Perhaps you will tell me first whether aught has turned up in your inquiry?”
“Very little. I know that the housemaids were turning out the grates at the time of the disturbance, and your cook had busied herself in the kitchen. Some of the lower servants, with the exception of the footman George who had discovered Ransom missing, were still abed on the attic floor. Your butler and housekeeper had been awakened, of course, but not Mr. Finch.”
“I see no help in any of that.”
“No, sir, not really. There is also my examination of Ransom’s effects. I found very little, no letters, no papers of any kind for all that he is said to have been well spoken. He did, however, possess a Bible.”
“I’m afraid I cannot tell you anything further to the purpose, but that is the way of it with servants. The good ones do not intrude upon your notice. Timberlake tells me the young man was not long in service with us.”
Chase remained silent, and Sir Roger continued. “As for my own affairs, I dined with friends yesterday evening and retired a trifle later than normal. I’m afraid I never heard a thing in the night and knew nothing of what had occurred until my man roused me.”
“Lord Ashe was unable to grant me an interview, but I understand he too was awakened by the uproar this morning. You have discussed the matter with him?”
Some emotion flickered in his eyes, amusement or possibly contempt. “We see very little of each other. He breaks his fast early, about eight o’clock, then shuts himself up with his correspondence.” He glanced at his watch. “I am expected at Somerset House in an hour, Mr. Chase. The Antiquary Society has rooms there.”
“Thank you for seeing me, sir,” said Chase, getting to his feet. “I regret the necessity of troubling you.”
“No trouble.” Rising, Wallace-Crag held out his hand. “I only hope you may get to the bottom of this matter. And soon.”
What was it Wallace-Crag had said about getting at the Truth of people’s lives? Chase rather doubted scholarly inquiry yielded
anything like pure historical truth, just as his own efforts, even when successful, could provide only a partial grasp of a crime’s inner workings.
Which reminded him of the foliage in his pocket. He took it out, saying, “Oh, by the by, this was in Ransom’s pocket.”
Slowly, Sir Roger reached out his hand for the leaf. “Corylus Avellana. The hazel. Note the crimson stigmas at the top of the cluster. Later this bract will become the husk of the nut. That’s odd,” he murmured.
“Sir?”
“Very likely this is torn from a branch I brought up to town from Dorset. A sort of prop for an engraving of a water diviner dowsing for water with a forked hazel twig.”
Chase stared at him blankly. “What value would Dick Ransom find in a bit of greenery?”
“In Avalon the hazel was the Tree of Life at the side of a sacred pool. Only the salmon that lived in the pool was permitted to eat of the hidden wisdom the nuts represent. To the Greeks, the hazel was the rod of Hermes, the messenger, and thus a symbol of communication and reconciliation.”
He fell silent for a moment, his expression somber, then said in a lighter tone, “Possibly, the hazel might help one to cross the barrier between the worlds, though how poor Dick should have known such a talisman would be needed, I cannot fathom. Perhaps he felt a premonition. My staff does seem inclined to such foolishness.”
“Foolishness, sir?”
“It’s my collection, Mr. Chase. They don’t like being surrounded by the unusual and the unique. Makes them skittish, I’m afraid. You ought to see what a commotion we have when the housemaids are asked to dust.”
“Where is this branch now?”
He shrugged. “It began to appear a bit tattered and browned, so I told Timberlake to throw it in the dustbin. Well, if that is all, sir, do let me know if I can assist further. I don’t hesitate to tell you I have the utmost confidence in Bow Street.”
When Chase bowed, ready to take his leave, Wallace-Crag stopped him with an upraised hand. “One more thing. It is likely nothing, but I’ve recalled something Ransom said when he came in with tea and saw the branch. He inquired if I wished him to sweep up the leaves and catkins that had shed on the desk. Then he laughed and quoted an old country saying about a good crop of hazelnuts being a sure sign of disaster, though it may also indicate many babies to be birthed. Another matter entirely.”
