Justin frowned. “True. One wonders, though, about this Gipsy’s warning you mentioned yesterday at the Races? A coincidence, most likely — did the fortune-teller give you the message verbatim?”
“No, guv’nor.” Watts shook his head. “A warning, that’s all he said. But them gentry are as full o’ warnings as an egg is of meat — stock in trade, that is. Only thing caught my attention was that another party had put the gipsy up to it. You don’t think, sir —?”
“No knowing. I’ll ask my niece if she can repeat the message. Meantime, perhaps we can authorise the relatives to remove the body for decent burial, pending the official inquest, of course.”
Dr Clent parted from them to see what could be done to alleviate the grief of Mrs de Ryde, who sincerely mourned her scapegrace brother. Meanwhile, Justin and Joe Watts sought out the lady’s husband to ask him a few more questions.
They found him rather less than prostrated by grief, although he murmured that it was a shocking business.
“Most likely the poor fellow disturbed some intruder,” he added.
“Ay, so it would appear, sir,” agreed Watts. “Especially in view of these robberies that have been taking place hereabouts recently. Not that the murderer filched aught from the unfortunate gennelman — his watch, fob, seals and pocket book were all there, right and tight. But most like he scarpered quick when he saw his man was a goner.”
Justin nodded. “All the same, Mr de Ryde, it is perhaps worth asking if your brother-in-law had any enemies?”
Philip de Ryde grimaced, and glanced at the Bow Street Runner as if reluctant to say too much in front of him.
“I knew little of his private life. He rarely visited us, and then only for short periods — when his pockets were to let, I fear.” He smiled deprecatingly. “One might say he was a rolling stone. He was mostly in London, but his infrequent letters to my wife seldom came from the same place.”
“I see. Any close friends who might know more?”
The other shook his head. “It would surprise me to learn that he had any. His borrowing habits must have alienated all of ’em. He made mention of a group of gambling, carousing fellow-spirits whom he hobnobbed with from time to time, but no one name comes especially to mind. Used to patronise the gambling hells rather than White’s or Brooks’s — sure way to end at point non plus, as I don’t need to tell you. Ah, well — de mortuis, I suppose.”
Justin rose. “Thank you, sir,” he said, with a short bow. “There seems small likelihood that the attack was a personal one, but it was worth considering.”
It seemed to him that de Ryde looked thoughtful for a moment, but nothing was said as he accompanied them personally through the hall to the main entrance.
A maid, obviously one of the upper servants, was also passing through hurriedly, but she stopped stock still on seeing them. Her eyes widened in horror, and she let out a low moan as she clung, half fainting, to the newel post at the foot of the stairway.
The three men halted, eyebrows raised in surprise. The butler, who hovered close behind his master as he was seeing the guests out, clicked his tongue impatiently and moved towards the woman.
“Now, now, Healey, what’s all this?” he asked reproachfully. “You’d best not be setting yourself up with hysterics! Pull yourself together, do, and get along to your mistress! She needs you.”
“That — that man with the master,” she whispered, in a tone that only just reached their listening ears. “Is he — is he — the Runner from Bow Street they’ve been talking of?”
The butler nodded. “Yes, but he needn’t concern you, silly widgeon! Now get along, do, like I said.”
“Oh, my Gawd!”
She let the exclamation slip involuntarily before taking a deep breath, pulling herself upright, and scurrying out of the hall through a service door.
“I apologise for Healey, sir,” said the butler placatingly. “The staff are all at sixes and sevens, I fear.”
“Understandable,” said de Ryde.
Once outside, Justin and Watts exchanged glances.
“Seems your phiz strikes terror into the most innocent heart,” Justin remarked, grinning at his companion. “Mind, I don’t blame the female — that proboscis of yours is a fearsome thing! All the same — natural shock arising from a murder on the premises, d’you think? Or was there some particular reason why she don’t wish to see you?”
Watts grunted. “You will have your little jest, guv’nor! Wouldn’t surprise me if she’d been up to something on her own account, not connected with the murder. Most folk who behave like that at sight o’ me have got something to hide, though most times it’s got no connection with my inquiry.”
“Mm. Did you gain the impression, as I did, that our friend de Ryde was also keeping something back? Seemed to me that when I said we’d thought it worth checking the possibility of a personal attack on Knowle —”
“He looked no how for a moment — yes, I did, guv’nor. Wonder what there is behind that?”
Justin shrugged. “As you say, most people keep something back when confronted by officialdom, often for trivial reasons. We’ll report to Sir George in due form and see what he has to say.”
“Odd, that business of the warning,” said Sir George, frowning. “You say that by Anthea’s account, this gipsy uttered a warning about danger out of the past, and retribution? That’s devilish strange, y’know, Justin, I must say.”
“Any particular reason why you should say so, George?”
The two men were closeted together in the library, Watts having withdrawn for refreshment into the servants’ hall. Justin had first spoken to his niece, who had given him an accurate report of the gipsy’s words. She was naturally shocked at the news of Sir Eustace Knowle’s murder; but as their acquaintance had been so recent, the effect was passing, and her curiosity quickly came to the fore. Somewhat to her chagrin, she had been barred from the interview with her Uncle George.
Sir George was silent for a moment, and Justin repeated the question. The other man eased his injured ankle into a more comfortable position on the footstool before replying, a slightly hangdog expression on his face.
“Fact is, I received a letter the other day with some similar damned tarradiddle! Anonymous, of course, and hadn’t come through the post, though it was amongst the rest of my correspondence on the desk here.” He waved a hand towards it. “I questioned the footman who’d picked up the post from the village receiving office, but it was plain he could tell me nothing. I meant to go down to the office to question the postmaster, Ned Appleton, but what with one thing and another —”
“Did you by any chance keep that letter, George?” asked Justin sharply.
“Yes, for I meant to follow it up. If you open that left hand top drawer, you should find it — I simply tossed it in.”
Justin rose, crossed over to the desk and opened the drawer, removing the folded paper which rested inside. The superscription was to Sir George Marton, Firsdale Hall, written in capitals. He opened it out, reading carefully the message it contained.
“Hm!” he said judicially, having mastered the contents. “The writer evidently finds you one of the poorest specimens of humanity, and intends to avenge himself upon you for an injury in the past. Any notion, old chap, what that injury might be?”
Sir George shrugged. “Devil a bit. Y’know how it is, though, Justin — in the execution of my duties as a magistrate, I bring wrong-doers to justice. Any one of ’em might decide to avenge himself — who’s to say?”
“Most serious offenders who appear before you would either be hanged — in which case they could scarcely seek vengeance! — or else transported. And this must have been a serious business, one feels, to come to murder. Murder of Knowle, though, not you.” Justin broke off, frowning. “It would seem,” he went on slowly, “that vengeance is being sought for something in which both of you were involved at some time in the past. Can you cast your mind back to recall any such affairs?”
> “I and Knowle? Good God, I scarce know the man — that’s to say, knew of course. I saw him on occasion when he was staying at Denby House — as you know, de Ryde and I have been friends and neighbours for I don’t know how long — but my acquaintance with his brother-in-law was of the sketchiest kind. Didn’t like the man, to own truth! He never came to Denby House unless he was sponging on his sister, and de Ryde didn’t like it above half. He’d have kicked him out, but for his wife’s sake.”
Justin nodded. “So I collected from what he said to me earlier. There’s nothing, then, that could connect you and the murdered man as objects of some felon’s vengeance? No case that came before you in which Knowle was involved?”
Sir George began to shake his head, then he stopped suddenly.
“Wait a moment, though! Yes, it’s coming back to me now! A devil of a time ago, it would be — something to do with a servant of Knowle’s stealing a family heirloom from the de Rydes while he and his master were staying there! Can’t recall the servant’s name, but he was found guilty and transported for fourteen years. Yes, and he persisted in arguing in his defence that Knowle had put him up to it, but that didn’t fadge, of course.”
Justin’s eyes glinted in the way they had when his interest was caught.
“Hah! Now that does sound as though it might have a connection! Fourteen years — that would take us back to 1802. It will be on record, of course, if we can discover the date of the trial and the man’s name. Doubtless de Ryde can give us that information, though dare say he won’t be best pleased to see me back again.”
“I would go myself, old chap,” said Sir George apologetically, “but this damned ankle makes any kind of transport uncomfortable, to say the least. Besides, although it’s my job to inquire into any nefarious matters in the locality, murder is an affair for Bow Street, and we’re fortunate enough to have a Runner at hand. Not to mention, of course —” he shot Justin a sly look — “your own considerable prowess in solving puzzles of the kind.”
Justin grinned. “You are too good. But speaking of puzzles, when did you receive this warning letter —” he tapped the paper which he was still holding — “before or after your so-called accident?”
His brother-in-law let out a whistle, then nodded.
“Must admit, that thought had crossed my mind. Before — in fact, the previous day, day of the masquerade. Think it was deliberate, do you?”
“Not much doubt of it. You wouldn’t talk about it at the time — don’t blame you for that, with Julia and the other females present — but suppose you go over the incident for me now, in as much detail as you can possibly recollect?”
Marton obliged, protesting as he did so that there was little to relate.
“You’re sure there were no birds flying near?” insisted Justin.
“Not a single one, though the noise of the shot put up a few afterwards.”
“Did you hear any movement in the wood before the shot? Or any other shots as you approached?”
“Can’t say that I did. I wasn’t paying any particular heed, mind, as my thoughts were on the business I had with Thwaite, my tenant.”
“Who would have known you’d be riding that way?”
Sir George shrugged. “Thwaite, for one, as we had an appointment. Anyone in the household might have done. Look, Justin, what are you suggesting? That someone knew I’d be going that way, and lay in wait for me?”
“Something of the kind.”
“But that’s absurd! My own servants! Or Thwaite, who’s been my tenant for I don’t know how long!”
“I seem to recall,” replied Justin, frowning in an effort of memory, “that Sprog and I were about to set out for Sheriff Hutton at the same time as you went off to see your tenant farmer. We all met at the stables, and announced our plans in front of the grooms. And, yes! Didn’t you remark that one of ’em was new, you’d not seen him before? Your head groom explained that he’d taken on a couple of new hands for the wedding, I believe.”
“Damme if you’re not right!” exclaimed Sir George. “There was a strange face, and Carr said there were two of ’em — gave me their names, but they just slip my memory at present. But that’s all gammon, m’dear chap — must be! Carr wouldn’t engage anyone without being very careful about references. Typical canny Yorkshireman, y’know.”
“Mm,” said Justin, unconvinced. “Well, references can be forged, though I’m not saying these were. I’ll get Watts to look into it, also find out where those new stable-hands went that day. But the so-called accident begins to look a trifle smoky, don’t you agree?”
“Well, yes, but there’s one point you’ve overlooked. If the unknown marksman was out to kill me, why didn’t he? Even supposing he missed first shot, there was ample opportunity when I came off Rowley.”
“Yes, I had thought of that, as a matter of fact, and I don’t know the answer,” admitted Justin. “Mayhap he was only out to scare you, possibly he was interrupted in some way — we can’t know without more evidence. Nevertheless, I think you should take care for the future, until we discover Knowle’s murderer — if we do. Meanwhile, I’ll see what further light de Ryde may be able to throw on the matter.”
As Justin had anticipated, Philip de Ryde gave him a cool reception, stating at once that he could add nothing to what had already been said, and therefore could see little point in going over it all again.
“Quite so, sir,” Justin agreed, “but this is about another matter altogether, though not, we think, unconnected with your brother-in-law’s murder.”
He began to explain. When he made mention of the threatening letter that Sir George Marton had received prior to his accident, Philip de Ryde gave a convulsive start.
“Good God! D’you say so? Eustace threatened by a gipsy — Marton also threatened! I must tell you, Rutherford, that I, too, received a note couched in such terms — it was delivered to me the morning after the Lord Mayor’s masquerade ball! I’d no intention of saying anything about it to anyone, but this alters matters.”
“Now that is most interesting, and bears out a theory which I have about this unsavoury business. Tell me, has any attempt been made upon your life since then?”
“Attempt upon —” de Ryde broke off in dismay.
After a pause he spoke again, more calmly.
“So you believe that whoever killed Eustace has designs not only upon Marton’s life, but upon mine? But it don’t make sense — why?”
“It could do if you consider who might bear a strong grudge against all three of you,” replied Justin. “I put the question to George, and he recalled an incident many years ago which involved the theft of a valuable necklace belonging to Mrs de Ryde. The thief was a servant of your late brother-in-law, who was staying with you at the time. The man was charged, found guilty, and transported. Do you recall this?”
“Good God! Of course I do! I could scarce forget a furore of that kind! The most damnable thing!”
“Quite so. Perhaps you’d be good enough to give me some detailed information, sir? This man, for instance — was he an old servant of Sir Eustace’s?”
Philip de Ryde snorted. “He didn’t possess any old retainers, for the simple reason that he never paid their wages. As I remember, he told us that this fellow was an out-of-luck minor actor who’d been glad to take service with him as a valet and general factotum. He brought the man from London with him on that particular occasion — the usual repairing lease, I fear.”
Justin nodded. “Can you perhaps recall the man’s name, and the actual date of the theft?”
Philip de Ryde frowned in an effort of concentration.
“It occurred in the spring of — let me see — 1803? No, 1802, I believe, for my daughter Anne had but just celebrated her second birthday, and she’s sixteen now. As for the man’s name — no, I couldn’t hazard a guess. Y’know how it is with other people’s servants, especially of a temporary kind. Tell you what, though, Rutherford, some of my own domestic staff may remem
ber. After all, most of ’em have been with me ever since my marriage — butler, cook, housekeeper, my wife’s personal maid, several of the outdoor staff. Have a word with Kirby, my butler — I’ll send for him.”
“Thank you. And I wonder if you’d mind my seeing him on his own? The man may be reluctant to answer questions freely in your presence.”
“Not at all,” agreed de Ryde.
“Perhaps you could prepare him a little for the substance of the interview? It might be preferable to springing the matter on him suddenly.”
Philip de Ryde also thought this a good notion; so he went in search of Kirby, the butler, in person, rather than summoning him to the room.
Kirby was a comfortably portly man, with an almost totally bald head and shrewd eyes which missed nothing. The younger among the footmen serving under him knew better than to play off any tricks in front of their superior, although he was never unduly harsh with them.
Justin liked the look of the man, and judged he would be a useful informant.
“Mr de Ryde will have told you what this is about, Kirby,” he began, “so I’ll waste no more of your time in leading up to it. I’m anxious to learn all I can about this valet who stole the necklace, and the exact circumstances of the theft. Perhaps it would be best if you told the story in your own way, and I’ll put questions to you when necessary.”
“Very good, sir.” Kirby gave a short bow. “The master was unable to recall the man’s name, but I can, perfectly. It was Pringle. He was in his early twenties, quite a well-favoured fellow — or so the females seemed to think,” he added dryly. “In fact, he could twist them around his finger, and that was part of the trouble. Healey, the mistress’ maid, was particularly taken with him.”
Justin nodded, encouraging him to continue.
“They got very thick together, those two. He was a Londoner, of course. Very good sort of folk, I dare say —” a note of scepticism crept in here — “but smoother in manner than our local lads and lasses. Or perhaps it was because he’d been an actor. Not much of one, by what I could make out, at least as far as getting jobs was concerned, but able to tell the tale, all right and tight. Healey, poor wench, was fair dazzled by him, for all she’s almost ten years older and might have been supposed to have more sense. But there, what female ever does where a personable man’s in question?”
Masquerade of Vengeance (The Rutherford Trilogy Book 3) Page 7
