Justin grinned in acknowledgement of this.
“She often allowed him to go into madam’s dressing room, so naturally he knew where all the valuables were kept, and also the key to them. It came out in evidence later that he was used to frequenting shady pawnbrokers in London’s more dubious quarters, though no felony had ever been brought home to him before. No doubt he meant to make off with the necklace back to London, where he’d know how best to dispose of it. But he caught cold at that, for madam suddenly decided to wear it at a ball on the very day that it was purloined, before he had a chance to escape. There was all Bedlam let loose when Healey reported it was missing, as you may suppose, Mr Rutherford.”
“What occurred then?” asked Justin. “Did they send for the constable?”
“Yes, sir, and for the magistrate, Sir George Marton, as well. All the servants’ rooms were searched, and it was discovered in Pringle’s. He’d made small push to hide it, for it was lying quite openly in the top drawer of his dressing chest. Doubtless he hadn’t had time to find a safer place of concealment.”
“It isn’t known precisely when it was taken?”
“No, sir, for madam and Healey, the maid, had been in York for the most of the day at madam’s modiste. Pringle might easily have had access to the dressing room at any time during their absence. Sir Eustace was a very easy master — between his rising at about eleven o’clock and retiring, often in the small hours, Pringle was free to come and go as he chose.”
“I collect that Mrs de Ryde wasn’t in the habit of wearing that particular piece of jewellery frequently? Otherwise surely this fellow Pringle would have known that it wasn’t safe to purloin it on a day when there was to be a ball? One supposes that he would have heard about the ball. No doubt Sir Eustace would have been attending it, too, as a guest in the house.”
Kirby nodded. “You are in the right of it on both counts, sir,” he acknowledged. “He certainly knew about the ball, but Healey herself didn’t know that madam was to wear the necklace, as she never did so unless pressed by the master. It is a family heirloom, heavy and old-fashioned, and the mistress makes no secret of the fact that she detests it, and thinks it unbecoming. All this Pringle would have learnt from Healey, so he must have felt himself quite safe in choosing that particular piece. Its loss wouldn’t have been discovered for months — perhaps years — if madam hadn’t suddenly taken a notion to wear it. And as Sir Eustace was leaving for London on the following day, taking Pringle with him, the villain would have come off safely enough. Likely he’d have disappeared once back in London.”
Justin knitted his brows thoughtfully. “And Healey presumably was not guilty of complicity in the theft?” he asked. “Sir George Marton must have been satisfied of that when he undertook the preliminary investigation, otherwise she, too, would have been charged.”
Kirby smiled wryly. “Sir George opined that she was a foolish widgeon who’d doted on the man, and let him use her, so he didn’t bring her to justice.”
“I see. Sir George mentioned to me that in his defence, Pringle stated that his master had initiated the scheme for stealing the necklace. Do you recall anything about that?”
Kirby shifted uncomfortably. “Well, he would, sir, wouldn’t he? There wasn’t much else he could find to say.”
“It is a fairly obvious gambit,” agreed Justin.
He paused for a moment, then asked delicately, “Do you consider it could be, let us say, within the bounds of possibility?”
Kirby’s discomfort deepened.
“Well, sir, there’s no denying Sir Eustace — speak no ill of the dead — was a bright spark, and always in Dun territory. He might — mind I don’t say he did, Mr Rutherford — but he might have thought, him being short of blunt and madam always ready to loose her purse strings for him, that he’d borrow the necklace, so to speak, pop it, and then recover it when he was in funds again. He knew she hated it and rarely wore it, so she wouldn’t be likely to miss it before he could get it back. And this valet of his being in the know with shady pawnbrokers — well, sir, it’s just what might have happened. No saying it did,” he added quickly.
“Mm.” Justin pondered for several minutes, while the butler stood deferentially by, waiting for dismissal. At last, his glance came back into focus again.
“Thank you, Kirby, I’m much obliged to you for your help. Would you be good enough to send Healey to me? I believe a word with her might be useful.”
But this part of the investigation had to be postponed. Kirby returned to report that Healey could not be spared at present from attendance on her mistress, who had taken her brother’s death hard and required the ministrations of both her medical man and the maid.
“When do you think I can have a word with your wife’s maid?” asked Justin, as Philip de Ryde escorted him to the door. “She may have valuable information to add to what Kirby has already supplied. It seems she was much involved with this fellow Pringle.”
“So she was, but it’s a long time since, and I expect she’ll have put the whole wretched business behind her now. Still, if you think she can assist you in discovering this villain — always supposing your theory is correct, though I must say, my dear Rutherford, it does sound highly improbable. I trust you take no offence,” he added in a conciliatory tone.
“Not the least in the world,” Justin assured him cheerfully. “There is one other possible explanation, and that is the existence of some kind of local vendetta which involves others of your neighbours. There’s to be a dinner party this evening at the house of your neighbour Cholmondeley, I believe — that is, unless it’s cancelled because of the murder. Naturally you won’t be there, in any event, but my relatives have already accepted, and I shall prime George to ask the men if they’ve received any threatening letters. It can probably be done quietly, perhaps after the ladies leave us to our wine. In the meantime, Mr de Ryde, I’d recommend you to have a care. And perhaps you’ll be good enough to let me know of the first opportunity for questioning your wife’s maid, Healey.”
CHAPTER 8
“Revenge!” exclaimed Anthea, with a shudder. “How prodigiously Gothic! Do you truly think so, Justin?”
She had been listening, spellbound, together with Rogers, to Justin’s account of the interviews at Denby House.
“It certainly seems a strong possibility,” said Rogers, “if there’s anything in the butler’s speculation about the late baronet’s part in the theft. Lud, I can just imagine that valet of his nursing revenge for all those horrendous years in a convict settlement in Australia — don’t bear thinking of! Except I collect he was no innocent, but a pretty hardened malefactor who’d been lucky enough not to get caught before. All the same, not a pin to choose between master and man, if the accounts are accurate.”
Justin nodded. “George is confident from the evidence that came out at the trial that Pringle was undoubtedly a wrong ’un. But if Knowle instigated the crime and stood to gain most from it, then the valet would certainly have cause to feel aggrieved that he should shoulder all the blame. As you say, Sprog, the rancour would grow with the years of misery. I don’t doubt, myself, that the butler’s taken Knowle’s measure correctly. An upper servant is a pretty reliable judge of character when it comes to his own household.”
“Oh, one wouldn’t have trusted him,” agreed Anthea. “He was too plausible by half.”
“Yet you seemed very well pleased with him,” said Rogers somewhat stiffly.
“I, too, have moments of dissimulation,” she replied, with a saucy twinkle. “But Justin —” turning to him — “I don’t quite see why Uncle George and Mr de Ryde should have been threatened as well? Oh, I suppose Uncle George because he was the magistrate who brought Pringle to trial — but why Mr de Ryde?”
“To hazard a guess, if Kirby suspected Knowle’s part in the theft, so would de Ryde. He’d obviously got no illusions about his brother-in-law. Naturally he kept quiet at the time about any suspicions he had, and I surmise that
the valet would harbour a grudge against him on that account.” He frowned. “It’s a pity that I couldn’t see the maid Healey this morning. I feel she may have more light to shed on the business.”
“That reminds me,” said Anthea suddenly. “When I was walking with Fanny to Denby House on Sunday afternoon, she told me some rigmarole about Anne de Ryde having surprised Healey going through her mother’s bureau. I don’t suppose there could be any connection —”
“Mm,” said Justin thoughtfully. “When Watts and I went over to Denby House earlier, this woman Healey passed by us in the hall, and seemed ready to swoon when she realised Watts was from Bow Street. The butler excused her on the grounds of the murder, but Watts and I did wonder if there might be anything else. It begins to be urgent that I should see her, I think.”
“Oh, do let me accompany you!” begged Anthea eagerly. “After all, this needs a woman’s touch!”
“No fear!” replied Justin, laughing. “In my view, this is more a matter for Watts. He’s a deal of expertise in questioning servants. Never mind —” as her face fell — “I don’t doubt I shall need to call on your invaluable services at some time or other.”
“I beg you won’t!” Rogers almost snapped. “It’s highly unsuitable, not to say dangerous, for Miss Anthea to embroil herself in this business!”
Justin gazed at him in mild surprise, but Anthea positively glared.
“And pray who gave you the right to interfere in my concerns?” she demanded.
He looked steadily at her before replying.
“I beg your pardon,” he said at last, stiffly.
Shortly afterwards, with a brief excuse, he rose and quitted the room. Justin gave Anthea a comically reproachful look.
“There, you see you’ve quite overset Sprog! You do dole out Turkish treatment to the poor fellow!”
“It serves him right,” retorted Anthea, “for presuming to dictate to me on matters of conduct! I will not allow even you —”
Justin wagged an admonitory finger at her, interrupting.
“Stuff, m’dear. I’ve often enough spiked your guns, and I’m still here to tell the tale. But Sprog will doubtless recover.”
Anthea elevated her chin. “It is a matter of supreme indifference to me what he does,” she declared.
Justin grinned. “Oh, yes, very true. Now, don’t fly up into the boughs,” he went on hastily, “but do listen to my alternative theory about the murder. There’s just a possibility —” as he saw that he had her attention — “of an outbreak of anonymous threatening letters in the neighbourhood written by some bedlamite who doesn’t stop at threats. George’s accident would fit as well into that theory as into the revenge motive. We mean to sound out the guests this evening at the Cholmondeleys’ party, and if you should chance to hear any gossip to the purpose — mind, though,” he added quickly, seeing her eyes light up — “no direct questions, is that understood? It might queer the whole pitch.”
She nodded, docilely for Anthea.
The Chomondleys lived at Warton Manor, less than half a mile distant from Firsdale Hall and Denby House. They had been settled in the neighbourhood for ten or eleven years, having inherited the property from an aged relative who had never had much intercourse with his neighbours. Mr James Cholmondeley at once set about rectifying this situation. Both he and his wife were easy-going, uncritical people who liked company and possessed few relatives. Invitations went out to the whole neighbourhood at frequent intervals, and as it was impossible for people to find excuses all the time, their social occasions, though privately stigmatised as insipid, were reasonably well-attended. In Races week especially, James Cholmondeley would have a house full of long staying guests, as well as inviting his neighbours in to meet them. This year there were only half a dozen house guests, rather a poor showing, as Sir George remarked sotto voce to his wife. Three of these had been introduced to the Firsdale Hall party at the masquerade; of the others, a Mr and Mrs Thrixen from Helmsley were frequent visitors. The third was a stranger from the Midlands, a sporting gentleman named Reade who had failed to secure accommodation in York through a lack of foresight in booking, and been rescued by Cholmondeley just when being turned away from one of the hotels.
“Couldn’t possibly let him miss Races week, now could I?” said their host, as he introduced Mr Reade. “Plenty of room here — m’ wife and I enjoy nothing better than entertaining.”
Mr Reade, an agile looking man in his late thirties with the tanned countenance and sun bleached brown hair of one who spends most of his time out of doors, smiled and bowed to the newcomers.
“Deuced good of Cholmondeley, though, what? Not many people as hospitable, don’t y’know. I collect you’re a sportsman yourself, sir —” to Sir George, nodding at the stick with which he was contriving to move around among the company — “and have, as I hear, taken a tumble recently. Deuced bad luck — I commiserate.”
Sir George nodded in acknowledgment, but said nothing.
“I believe, though,” put in Mr Barnet, in his rather flat tones, “that this wasn’t an ordinary sporting accident, but something of a more sinister nature?”
“Sinister?” echoed Sir George sharply. “Pooh! Fustian, sir! I beg you won’t discuss so trivial a matter!”
Barnet bowed, a cynical look in his eyes. Sir John Fulford exchanged a surreptitious wink with him. Evidently these two, at any rate, were better informed even than their host.
Meanwhile, Mrs Cholmondeley was explaining to Julia Marton why she had not cancelled her evening party on hearing of the murder of Sir Eustace Knowle that morning.
“I trust you don’t consider it too shocking of us, Lady Marton, but indeed we scarce knew the unfortunate gentleman — I suppose we may have met him once several years since at the de Rydes, but even for that I can’t vouch, I assure you! And put-offs are so difficult at the last minute, and we only heard towards luncheon, then we thought it might be only a stupid rumour, until Sir John Fellowes came in from the village and told us that he’d heard there it was true, that the Bow Street Runner had been to Denby House with your brother, Mr Rutherford, to inquire into the shocking, foul deed! And I’m sure the half of our neighbours don’t yet know about it, but Sir George asked my husband particularly not to talk of it here, nor to encourage others to gossip, which advice we have tried to follow.”
“But murder will out,” whispered Anthea to Louisa, unable to repress her all too ready sense of humour.
Julia Marton made a suitable reply to her voluble hostess and hastened to move on to other ladies in the room.
It was true that few of the people there had yet heard of the murder; but in spite of Sir George’s attempts at discouragement, those in the know could not resist passing the information on to others. It was generally agreed, however, that it would be foolish to alarm the ladies at a social occasion, so the news was circulated quietly among the menfolk.
Justin found himself sought out as word went round that he had been with the Runner that morning to view the scene of the crime.
“Would you say, Mr Rutherford, that there’s any fear we may have a homicidal maniac loose in the neighbourhood?” asked one of the guests nervously. “Did the Bow Street man incline to that opinion?”
“Good God, no, Browne!” expostulated another. “Sounds to me more like a marauder waiting his chance to break into the house, and he lashed out when Sir Eustace Knowle surprised him. Don’t forget, there’ve been a deal of burglaries around York of late. Good thing we’ve got a Runner handy, without the delay of sending to London for somebody.”
“Rumour has it,” put in Fulford, who had come up with Barnet and Reade to join Justin’s group, “that you yourself, Rutherford, have something of a flair for solving mysteries. I was up in London recently and heard your name in connection with the Jermyn affair.”
“And pray what was that?” asked the man called Browne.
“Gentlemen, I beg you’ll change the subject,” warned Justin hurriedly. “Here co
me some of the ladies, and this topic is hardly suitable for a social evening.”
Fulford’s eyes gleamed as he saw Anthea among the group approaching, and he promptly lost interest in the foregoing conversation, making his way to her side and doing his utmost to ingratiate himself with her.
She had little use for him, and would have turned him a cold shoulder; but she chanced to catch Rogers looking her way, so at once changed her mind. Her lively, flirtatious greeting quite surprised the gentleman, and earned her a contemptuous glance from the real object of her play. Justin caught her eye for a moment, and gave the slightest shake of his head. In answer, she tilted her chin and laughed even more often.
As previously agreed between Sir George and Justin, the matter of anonymous letters was broached in the interval after dinner when the men were sitting over their wine. An easy, relaxed time; and it was very much in that manner that Sir George began.
“Tiresome thing,” he said, as he filled his glass and passed the decanter round, “but one of our neighbours has complained to me that he recently received an anonymous letter. Full of nonsense, of course, as such things usually are, but, as I say, tiresome. He asked me to look into it, see if anyone else had been troubled in the same way, with a view to laying hands on the culprit. So — if any of you did get such a letter recently, perhaps you’d be good enough to let me know? Better still, if you’ve kept it, I’d like to take a look.”
He glanced round the table, apparently still relaxed, but in fact watching their faces keenly, as were also Justin and Rogers. Most shook their heads at once; some looked thoughtfully at Sir George, as though sensing something more than appeared on the surface. Cholmondeley burst into excited speech, gabbling away as was his wont.
Masquerade of Vengeance (The Rutherford Trilogy Book 3) Page 8
