A Cruel Necessity (A John Grey Historical Mystery)

by L. C. Tyler

  Aminta shakes her head. ‘Roger left the inn, as you say, but there will be those who will argue that he could easily have returned. After all, the Colonel has to sleep, does he not? And the Big House is close to the inn and to its stables. The point is, John, that those who stayed at the inn have each other to confirm their plea of alibi, should it be needed. It is not that Roger’s story can be vouched for and that the others are under suspicion – quite the reverse in fact.’

  ‘But Jem will give evidence to the Colonel. He will say who killed Henderson.’ Which is, it suddenly strikes me, a powerful argument for Pole’s innocence. ‘Jem would scarcely insist on telling it to the Colonel if he had seen Roger Pole killing Henderson. He must know Pole is the Colonel’s secretary. Why would he then trust the Colonel rather than me?’

  ‘A lot rests on Jem returning safely to the village,’ says Aminta. ‘He’s just a boy. How do you know that he won’t run off somewhere where we cannot find him?’

  ‘He will return,’ I say. ‘One of the colliers – Kit – gave his word.’

  I realise that this too is less substantial than it might be, but it seems to be enough for Aminta.

  ‘If he is with Kit, he will be safe enough.’ Aminta stands on tiptoe and kisses me on the cheek. ‘Thank you, John. I knew that I could depend on you.’ She raises her hand to the same cheek and strokes it gently with the back of her hand. She smiles at me. It is the most beautiful smile I have ever seen. Then she is gone.

  An hour later my mother knocks cautiously at the door.

  ‘You are sitting in the dark,’ she says to me. ‘Do you not want a candle, John?’

  ‘No,’ I say.

  ‘Would you like some supper. Martha has prepared . . .’

  ‘No,’ I say.

  ‘So, you just want to sit there in the dark all evening by yourself.’

  ‘Yes,’ I say.

  My mother closes the door softly. She understands.

  It is with trepidation that the following day I approach the Big House again. I walk slowly up the gravel path and admire the exterior. This is the third house to be built here. The first, a small, uncomfortable fortified manor, dated back to the days of Henry I. By the time my great-grandfather gave his ill-advised support to Essex’s rebellion, only the cellars of the old house survived. A homely red-brick house well suited to a long-established but only moderately wealthy county family had been built over them. The Cliffords contemptuously pulled it down brick by brick and erected a modern stone building in a severe classical style, with much glass and many ogees. It was the cost of this rebuilding more than anything that began their ruin. The Colonel looks unlikely to repeat their mistake of overspending on construction work. Indeed, the exterior is acquiring an uncared-for appearance that my mother has already commented on. She would do things differently.

  I take a deep breath and knock on the door.

  ‘Roger Pole is well, thank you for asking,’ says the Colonel. Though it is sunny outside, I must say there is a distinct chill here at the Big House.

  ‘I trust the cellars are not too uncomfortable,’ I say. I hope, in view of my promises to Aminta, that I am not smirking too much. I try to remind myself that I now wish Pole well rather than merely dead.

  ‘He has the freedom of the house and the Park,’ says the Colonel. ‘And I have his word as a gentleman that he will not attempt to escape.’

  I am led by this to understand that, were I his prisoner, I would not necessarily be entitled to the same terms.

  ‘Obviously,’ I say, ‘it was not my intention to . . .’

  ‘What was your intention, John? I’ve been wondering a lot about that. If you did not desire Roger’s arrest and imprisonment, what could your intention have been? You found it necessary to strike shadily and without any warning to Roger or to myself. Surely, I deserved more from you than that, even if your understandable jealousy of Roger clouded your judgement. Surely, you might have trusted me enough to bring the charges to me – as your magistrate and your lord of the manor – rather than make a public accusation in some low inn.’

  The inn is nothing like as low as some in Saffron Walden, but that is not perhaps the Colonel’s point.

  ‘At least there is a witness who will clear him,’ I say.

  ‘Who?’ asks the Colonel.

  This enquiry rather forestalls my own question: did Jem arrive safely at the Big House last night?

  ‘Ben’s stableboy, Jem. He was in hiding with the charcoal burners in the wood but was to come to you last night – or tonight if not – and tell you what he saw.’

  ‘No boy came here last night. And what did he see?’

  ‘He would tell you and only you. But I believe he knows who the murderer is.’

  ‘Not Roger?’

  ‘You will need to hear what he says. But no, I think not.’

  ‘If you think not, why did you accuse him?’

  ‘Because . . .’ I say. I suppose it was because I had not then spoken to Aminta. Yes, I could have worked it out for myself before that, but for some reason I did not. Since I have not said any of this to the Colonel, he looks on, still mystified.

  ‘Let us hope that Jem comes here safely tonight. Does anyone else know where he is hiding?’ asks Colonel Payne.

  ‘No,’ I say, meaning that I can trust everyone I have told. And yet I am strangely worried that Probert may somehow have discovered the secret.

  ‘Good,’ says the Colonel. ‘Well, if he comes here, I am forewarned.’

  ‘It is important that Probert does not learn of this,’ I say. ‘Surely, it must be possible for you to arrest him. At least until we know that Jem is safe.’

  ‘That might be difficult,’ says the Colonel.

  I think of the Colonel’s face when he saw Probert. He knows who Probert is. He is at least a little afraid of him. And Probert orders people around with a confident manner.

  ‘Are you saying he is not a Royalist spy?’ I ask.

  ‘That would seem probable,’ says the Colonel. ‘Probert is in any case likely to be busy today with the exhumation of Henderson’s body.’

  ‘Would he not need your authority for that?’ I ask.

  ‘Yes,’ says the Colonel. ‘Yes, he would.’

  ‘And you granted it?’

  ‘I must have done, mustn’t I?’

  The Colonel looks as coldly as before. However little he trusts Probert, he trusts me just a bit less.

  ‘I must go to the charcoal burners’ encampment,’ I say. ‘I pray to God that Jem did not leave there last night and is preserved safe and well. At least his whereabouts are concealed for the moment from those that might harm him.’

  The Colonel says nothing but looks out into the Park, where the deer are cropping the short grass. There seem to be fewer of them than before, but some may be hiding in the trees. It’s a good place to hide.

  ‘He left last night, as he promised,’ says Kit. ‘And he knew the paths well. I had told him where to climb the wall into the Park. I should have gone with him . . . intended to go with him . . . but he left without even telling us. I think he trusted nobody.’

  ‘He may have fled,’ I say. ‘Gone to Colchester or Cambridge or London. Or Ely. He is only a boy, after all, and owes nothing to me or to the Colonel.’

  Kit shakes his head. ‘We must search the woods. Jem may have twisted an ankle on a tree root and be unable to go on to the manor or to return . . .’

  I do not need to say that this is unlikely. Kit is already calling together the other colliers, and we are soon combing all of the most likely tracks and the bushes that flank them. An hour makes us hot and tired but no wiser; then we hear a call from a little way off. Nothing about the call makes me hope that we are about to see Jem alive.

  His small body has been dragged into the undergrowth within a mass of brambles and then poorly concealed under some dead branches. His throat has been cut by somebody skilled in the use of a knife. Like Henderson, he would have died quickly. But unlike Hender
son, he clearly died much where his body came to rest. The leaves close by are covered with sticky red blood, on which flies are already feasting.

  ‘This is a bad business,’ says Kit. ‘Whatever sins Henderson may have committed, Jem’s were few. He did not deserve this.’

  ‘Once we catch the killer,’ says one of the charcoal burners, ‘he should hang from the nearest tree.’

  There is a general murmur of agreement, and our eyes turn instinctively to a large oak close by. It’s definitely the nearest. The problem, of course, is that we first have to catch the killer.

  In the midst of this horror, my mind continues to work in small, logical steps, as if trying to break a particularly difficult cipher. I note that the body is cold but not yet fully stiff. There is no sign yet of putrefaction, though it is a hot day. The bracken is beaten down between the path and where he is now, but there is no suggestion of the undergrowth being trampled by two or more men fighting. Perhaps there was a struggle. But more likely there was none. An ambush last night, then, and a sudden death. I explain this to Kit.

  ‘You know how a dead body should look, John Grey?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say, ‘I know how a body ought to look.’ I explain how it would look after a day and after two days and after three. And how that changes, depending on whether it is summer or winter. And how the body grows stiff after a few hours, then limp again after three days. Jem died more than six hours ago – but, I think, less than twelve. The cut is clean – a single wound made with a very sharp weapon, deeper on the right than the left. It bears the signature of Henderson’s killer.

  ‘Do they teach this to all lawyers?’ asks Kit.

  ‘I learned it from the dead themselves,’ I say. ‘They were good tutors.’

  ‘So you know who killed Jem?’

  ‘I know that he died during the night and not this morning. And I think the killer knows the woods well – well enough to guess by which path Jem would have to travel. I begin to fear that it may be somebody who lives in the village.’

  ‘Since the war, half the world knows how to kill a man,’ says Kit with a sigh. ‘And many have grown hardened to killing babes in arms. But I do not enjoy the thought that it may have been one of us who did this.’

  ‘Jem left without revealing who he saw at the stables?’

  ‘I would have said.’

  ‘So we shall never know why he would not tell me,’ I say.

  ‘On the contrary,’ says Kit, ‘he said he could not tell you, because you would never believe him. Not in a hundred years.’

  At the Church, and Afterwards

  We are a sorry party. Four men walking, three in leather jerkins and rough woollen breeches, one in a fine suit of green a little stained with mud and blood and now rent at the knee by thorns. And we carry with us a small burden in a sack – the only winding sheet that we have at our disposal. We pause at the lych gate and say a brief prayer, in which Kit leads us.

  For a moment I think that the Rector must, through some strange visitation, already know our purpose. There is a pile of earth and a deep hole and two sweating men resting on their spades. But they today are removing a body, not committing one to the ground. Henderson is about to give evidence for the prosecution.

  As we approach, their attention turns from the new grave to Jem’s body. The Rector and Mr Probert emerge from the porch, where they have been sheltering from the sun’s heat.

  ‘It’s Ben’s stableboy,’ I say.

  ‘Where did you find him?’ asks Probert.

  ‘Near one of the paths in the wood,’ I say.

  ‘The fool,’ says Probert, shaking his head. ‘He would have been much safer if he had stayed where he was. What on earth made him leave?’

  Kit looks at me but says nothing.

  ‘Has the Colonel been informed?’ asks the Rector.

  ‘Not yet,’ I say. ‘Nor has Ben.’

  ‘They must both be told,’ says Probert. ‘Take the lad down to the crypt, you men. In the meantime let me see Henderson one last time.’

  The gravediggers both stretch their limbs in preparation for their final task. Strong cords have already been placed round the coffin. The two of them, aided by Probert and myself, pull on the ropes and watch the simple oak box rise slowly. Henderson died in the hope of resurrection but cannot in his wildest dreams have expected it so soon.

  Once the coffin is firmly on the ground, Probert takes an iron bar and works his way round the lid, loosening the nails. I give him a hand to wrench the top of the coffin away. A pungent odour of rotten meat washes upwards and around us. Henderson’s deathly grey face looks up with sightless eyes. In place of the black and bloodstained suit of clothes that he had been wearing, he is now wrapped in a cheap winding sheet, tied round his body and up and over his head. The women who laid him out did well, but there is still something about his neck that is not entirely pleasing. He does not have the air of a man who has died happily.

  Probert takes a deep breath, almost a sob, and says, ‘That is he. That is all that remains of my dear friend Henderson. My ever-loyal companion in life, whom I hope to embrace again in God’s heaven. Vitae summa brevis spem nos vetat incohare longam. Now nail up the box again, for he stinks worse dead than he ever did alive.’

  ‘Wait!’ I say. I had wanted to compare the button that I found in the field with those on Henderson’s doublet, but he now has only grave clothes. ‘Where is his doublet?’

  ‘It would have been removed, of course, when the body was washed and dressed for the grave,’ says the Rector.

  ‘And where is the doublet now?’

  ‘You would have to ask the women. Mistress Hardy and Mistress Mansell. They deal with matters such as that. Now, if everyone’s curiosity is satisfied, perhaps we can return Mr Henderson to the ground. Today is not the Day of Judgement, and I have a baptism to perform this afternoon. I do not yet know all of the superstitions of this part of the world, but I suspect that not baptising children within sight of an open coffin is one of them.’

  Nails are again hammered home. The gravediggers prepare to lower a coffin once more. Vitae summa brevis.

  ‘Why the interest in his doublet, Grey?’ asks Probert over my shoulder as the first shovelfuls of earth rattle onto the lid.

  ‘It is of no importance,’ I say.

  ‘Grey, though I do not understand why, I feel that our relationship has got off on the wrong foot. I feel that you do not trust me as you ought. The Rector tells me, for example, that you found the body, and yet you said nothing of that to me. You must have realised that I would be curious to know more.’

  ‘Who exactly are you?’ I ask.

  He raises his eyebrows. ‘I thought I had introduced myself already. But meet me tonight at the inn. We shall have supper together, and I shall try to explain myself more clearly. In exchange you can tell me then about the doublet, for I am sure that it is an interesting tale.’

  ‘And if I decline?’

  ‘You won’t. You’ll come. You love knowledge for its own sake, Grey, just as I love withholding knowledge. One day that may be the death of both of us, though not tonight. But even if you were risking all, you would still come. You are drawn to a mystery as a bee is profitably drawn to the flower, or a foolish moth is drawn to the candle flame.’

  ‘You will eat alone,’ I say.

  But Probert merely smiles.

  I wonder which I am. Bee or moth? Not moth, I hope.

  ‘I am sorry to hear of Jem’s death,’ says the Colonel. ‘Sorrier than I can say.’

  ‘The Coroner must be informed. And this time before the burial takes place.’

  ‘I do not need you to remind me of my business,’ says the Colonel. He wasn’t so prickly a couple of days ago. Things change. A couple of days ago I wasn’t an informer.

  ‘No,’ I say, ‘I’m sure you don’t. I think that Jem’s murderer was the same man who killed Mr Henderson. In both cases their throats were cut expertly with a sharp instrument of some sort. I think the
killer knows the village well. He is skilled in the use of a knife. And I think he is still here amongst us.’

  ‘I assume you exclude Roger Pole. Or are you now suggesting that he would kill innocent children?’

  He’s right; I’m not planning to suggest it. Pole is vain, arrogant, annoying, cynical and beribboned – and children are murdered every day by people with no visible mark of evil on them. But it cannot be Pole.

  ‘When the second murder occurred,’ I say, ‘Roger Pole was here at the Big House under arrest. Jem’s death speaks for his innocence as eloquently as if he had lived to testify.’

  ‘Almost,’ says the Colonel. He has a point. In Pole’s place I’d also prefer a living witness to a clever hypothesis by a lawyer without clients. ‘And presumably you also exclude this rider of yours, who must, if he ever existed, be many miles away by now.’

  ‘No, I still think the rider played a part. Perhaps he is the unlikely person referred to by Jem, or perhaps that person assisted him. Indeed, we have to accept the possibility that somebody in the village was the killer of Henderson or Jem. I think Ben still has many questions to answer.’

  ‘You are very free with your allegations,’ says the Colonel. ‘You have already had to concede that you have spoken unjustly against Roger Pole. Henderson’s death caused little stir. But there may be people in the village who will find this less easy to forgive, and they may decide that due legal process is a little too slow for their liking. And even if Ben might know something about Henderson’s death, he would scarcely have murdered his own stableboy. Have a care, John, before you make further accusations in public.’

  I nod. This is good advice. It is just the sort of advice I would give my clients if I had any.

  ‘I saw Probert heading into the woods,’ I say.

  The Colonel shakes his head. ‘Probert certainly didn’t kill Jem. Stay out of this, John. If Jem’s death hasn’t shown you how dangerous this business is, then please accept my word for it.’

  ‘Who exactly is Probert?’ I ask. ‘You have met him before. I saw it in your face at the inn.’

  ‘He’s somebody to keep clear of,’ says the Colonel. ‘Be grateful that you can do that, even if I cannot.’