“He’s naturally very concerned, and would have gone round at once when we heard the news yesterday evening, but for his injury. However, he sent Watts, the Bow Street Runner, to look into the business and try to ascertain if any of the stable hands had been negligent.”
“Did he discover anything?” asked Barnet.
It seemed to Justin that the eyes of all four of Cholmondeley’s guests were fixed on him with intensity. Was there one of them, he wondered, who knew more of this matter than he himself did? When he replied, it was in a casual tone tinged with regret.
“He was told more or less what I’ve just repeated to you — that the murder had so disorganised the normal working routine as to make the grooms forgetful of certain aspects of their duties. Examining all the vehicles in the coach house would, of course, have been one of these.”
“Yes, but —” began Barnet.
“But what precisely was wrong with the wheel?” interrupted Fulford and Reade, more or less in chorus.
“What caused it to come off?” supplemented Fellowes. “Did the linchpin break? One does prefer to know, so as to be sure to take proper care oneself.”
Justin nodded. “That, and it seems there was also a weakness in the axle.”
“Well, it sounds a devilish odd thing to happen in a well-run gentleman’s stable!” exclaimed Reade. “If it were mine, I’d sack the lot of ’em, I can tell you!”
There was a chorus of agreement with this.
“But possibly the curricle was one that had been too long on the road,” put in Barnet.
“Shouldn’t think that likely,” retorted Cholmondeley. “Not with de Ryde. Drives bang-up equipages — quite noted for it in the neighbourhood, I assure you.”
To Justin’s relief, their hostess turned the subject.
“I beg you won’t say any more!” she pleaded in a faint voice. “I declare I am quite overcome as it is. I must write a note to Mary de Ryde at once.”
Julia rose to her feet.
“Perhaps we should take our leave now, Mrs Cholmondeley. I dare say you may prefer not to undertake the outing to Helmsley at the present time. I shall quite understand.”
“Oh, no,” replied that lady, rallying quickly. “If we could help our neighbours in any way by giving up the scheme, of course we would. But it seems a pity to deprive our guests, yours and mine, of such a pleasurable outing — such a vastly good notion of yours, Lady Marton! I am sure they are all looking forward to it prodigiously, so we cannot disappoint them, can we? Do let us make our arrangements for it now, while you are here — that is, if you can spare a little longer?”
Her husband echoed this enthusiastically; so after some discussion, Tuesday of the following week was appointed and suitable transport for everyone arranged.
“Seems to me,” said Justin, “that only Fulford was keen on the scheme. The other three would have refused if they could have done the thing civilly.”
“And he only wishes to join the party so that he can flirt with Miss Anthea!” exclaimed Rogers disgustedly. “A loose fish, if ever I met one!”
“Still, it may give Anthea the chance to find out something about him — where he comes from, how long he’s been there, and so on,” Justin answered reflectively. “It’s devilish tricky knowing quite how to tackle the business of obtaining information about these people.”
“I must say, old chap, that I don’t entirely agree with the notion of your niece having to put up with that oaf’s amorous overtures simply to assist your investigation,” retorted Rogers, with some heat. “Damned if I do!”
“Oh, Anthea’s perfectly able to take care of herself.”
Sir George, who had been listening to the two friends giving an account of their morning call, ignored all this and went straight to the point.
“I collect that you think it unwise to attempt the straightforward tactic of asking Cholmondeley to supply information about his guests?”
Justin nodded. “I might try a casual question or so. Difficulty is, I’d have to tell him the whole story in order to question him outright, and we’ve agreed at this stage, anyway, that’s inadvisable. He’s a good chap, but such a gossip monger that there’s no hope of relying on his discretion.”
“That’s true. And we don’t wish to alarm the whole neighbourhood by informing them that there’s a murderer in their midst, even though we’re confident that the felon means mischief only to those of us who were concerned in that bygone affair,” agreed Sir George. “At present, the general opinion is that Knowle was murdered by a burglar whom he caught in the act. Better keep it like that for as long as possible.”
“Indeed, far better. It gives us a stronger chance, too, of uncovering the culprit. What Joe Watts and I have decided is that we’ll investigate every newcomer to the district between us. At the moment, he’s taking the few candidates there are among servants and villagers — certainly not many — and also questioning local people about comings and goings relevant to the crimes. My part is with newcomers among the gentry, and requires a more oblique approach, as you’ll appreciate.”
“That’s why you thought this excursion to Rievaulx Abbey might be of service — bring some of these suspects under surveillance, so to speak?” asked Sir George.
“That, and attempting to get on the kind of easy terms with them when they’ll chat to us, tell us something about themselves.”
“You realise, of course, that if the guilty man is among them, he won’t divulge anything of significance?”
“Yes, but one of the others may — or even he may let drop a hint unawares.” Justin shrugged. “I’m not an ardent gambling man, but I must risk a hazard now and then. However, I must confess I could think of no quicker way of insinuating myself — and my attendant spies —” with a grin at Rogers, who looked a trifle unresponsive — “among the enemy. Julia has indicated that her troubled social conscience will drive her to invite them to dine before long, but I couldn’t wait for that.”
“The rest of us, however,” said Sir George glumly, “can manage to wait for it tolerably well, I assure you! A good chap, Cholmondeley, and his wife the best of women, no doubt, but —”
Rogers and Justin laughed.
“I must remember to thank my sister, by the by, for her co-operation in the matter of the outing,” remarked Justin. “She certainly turned up trumps.”
“Yes, but I fear there may be a reckoning,” warned Sir George. “Julia ain’t the hen witted female you may fancy her — that’s a fault of brothers — and God knows what I’m to tell her if she starts asking questions again! She did yesterday evening after you’d asked her to invite the Cholmondeleys on that outing, but I managed to fob her off then. Next time she pesters me, I shall send her straight to you, and so I warn you!”
His fears were justified, for no sooner was luncheon over, than his wife stalked into the library where he was half dozing over a book. She had the air of a woman who means business.
“What is all this nonsense, George?” she demanded, sitting down with a flourish. “Don’t tell me there’s not something vastly odd going on between you and that unregenerate younger brother of mine, for I shan’t believe you! Why was it so important to him that I should invite the Cholmondeleys on an expedition to Helmsley and Rievaulx Abbey?”
“Didn’t need to be Helmsley in particular,” replied her spouse carelessly.
“Don’t prevaricate! Why is Justin going out of his way to seek their company? If they had a nubile daughter,” she added, with a sly smile, “I could understand it, of course, but the entire household — except for Maria Cholmondeley, and I cannot suppose him so lost to all natural taste as to nourish a passion for her in his bosom! — as I say, the entire household is male. And not, I would have thought, the kind of people to have anything in common with my brother, even allowing for his sporting proclivities as well as his academic interests.”
Sir George hesitated, then appeared to make up his mind.
“No, you’re in the
right of it, m’dear. Your brother don’t care a rush for any of Cholmondeley’s guests. He needs to seek their company for quite another reason.”
She registered alarm. “Don’t tell me, George, that he’s becoming involved in one of those unsavoury mystery investigations that our elder brother Edward was telling us of, while he was here! I cannot imagine — but, yes, of course, I see it all, now! The murder of Sir Eustace Knowle — that Runner from Bow Street who’s always haunting Justin’s footsteps —” She broke off, frowning.
“George,” she demanded presently. “Tell me truly, now — the whole neighbourhood believes that Knowle was killed by an intruder whom he surprised; but is that so? You as a JP will naturally know more about this than others. Does Justin suspect some other murderer, and moreover one who is in our midst? If so, I think it only right and proper that you should tell me. Believe me, I know how to be discreet, and can act a part as well as the next female! But I must know what is going on.”
CHAPTER 13
After the Firsdale Hall party had left Warton Manor, Mrs Cholmondeley bustled out of the room to arrange some domestic matters with her staff, while the gentlemen remained chatting together for a while.
“Now you must allow that we have eminently pleasant neighbours!” exclaimed Cholmondeley enthusiastically. “Only think, for them to take the trouble to invite us to join them in a day’s outing, and it’s not even as if they were particularly acquainted with you four gentlemen! But I take it as being out of compliment to Mrs Cholmondeley and myself — Sir George and his good lady are never lacking in those little attentions which mean so much among neighbours.”
“You are indeed fortunate, Cholmondeley,” agreed Fellowes. “I am somewhat isolated from my neighbours at home, you know, but then I travel about a good deal.”
“Where do your travels take you?” asked Barnet in a casual tone.
“Oh, London, Brighton, and to racecourses up and down the country — wherever the spirit moves me to go. I’m by way of being a wanderer. I’ll be off to Doncaster for the St Leger next month.”
“I might join you,” said Reade impulsively. Then, trying to weaken the implied invitation, “That’s to say, if circumstances permit, I’ll be there. Dare say the rest of you fellows will, too? Sure to run across each other.”
He could think of few things more boring than another dose of Fellowes’s company, a dull stick if ever he met one, so he hastened to change the subject.
“Odd thing about that chap de Ryde’s accident,” he continued. “Some negligence somewhere, I’ll take my oath. Heads would roll, believe me, if it occurred to any vehicle of mine!”
“So you indicated earlier,” remarked Barnet. “That fellow Rutherford seemed to be playing the business down, no doubt in deference to the tender feelings of our hostess. I’d hazard a guess that he could have told us more.”
“Perhaps so, for he is Marton’s brother-in-law, after all,” said Cholmondeley, “and as a Justice of the Peace, Sir George hears of anything untoward hereabouts. Well, Reade, you must admit that any negligence will certainly be discovered with no less an investigator than a Bow Street Runner looking into the affair.”
“The Runner was originally sent up to York for the Lord Mayor’s ball, wasn’t he?” demanded Fulford. “Because of some jewel robberies in the district?”
Cholmondeley nodded. “Quite an outbreak of them, you know, both in the town itself and in some outlying parts. The Hartes at Strensall and the Terrys at Flaxton, not more than six or seven miles from here, were burgled recently, and the felons never found. Nor the valuables, which one does hope for. As I expect you know, receivers of stolen goods often advertise, offering to return them for a sum agreed between themselves and the thieves.”
“Yes, but they need to have a care,” said Fulford, “or they can catch cold at that game. If they’re caught with the goods in their possession, they’re for the Nubbing Cheat, as felons call it. Remember Jonathan Wild?”
The notorious Jonathan Wild was a nursery tale familiar to most. He had pursued a successful life of theft and receiving stolen goods, while informing at the same time on his confederates to the authorities, thus earning the name of thief-taker. Eventually he was found out and hanged at Tyburn in 1725.
“Knew a man who recovered his watch and snuffbox by that means,” put in Reade. “That was in London, though.”
“Worth it, I should say,” remarked Barnet. “Cut your losses. This Runner, now, he’s investigating the murder at present, ain’t he? Not that there’s much likelihood he’ll discover who did it — some chance intruder, it’s said, whom the victim surprised. D’you suppose it could have been one of these thieves, after valuables at Denby House?”
“You’ve most likely hit the nail on the head there, Barnet,” approved his host. “Not that I’m overjoyed to think that we’ve got those gentry in our vicinity! Not a word to my wife, I beg — she’ll be in a horrendous state if she gets wind of it.”
“But I should suppose the thieves would have removed from this neighbourhood with all speed once they discovered they’d killed someone,” objected Fulford. “The game ain’t worth the candle when murder’s afoot.”
“I’d agree with that, so you’ve nothing to worry over as far as your wife’s concerned,” soothed Reade. “Well, I’m off for some exercise. Anyone care to join me in a gallop?”
“I thought of going into York,” said Fellowes. “I might buy myself some new cravats. My man complains that we didn’t bring enough with us.”
“Regret we’ve other plans for the afternoon, too,” said Fulford, looking at Barnet.
Reade gave them a quizzical look. “After ladybirds again, are you? A certain house in Pavement, eh? Well, who’s to blame you? Amuse yourselves, gentlemen.”
Cholmondeley hastened to cover up this gaffe, and the five dispersed on their different errands.
Fellowes took his curricle into York, dispensing with the services of a groom for such a short distance. Once there, he stabled the vehicle at the Black Swan, going on foot to his ultimate destination, a street known as First Water Lane.
It was narrow and cobbled, with mediaeval and Tudor houses crowded along its steep gradient, which ran down to the river. The street was decidedly picturesque, although in a sleazy kind of way. Fellowes turned into it as one who knew his way; but he did look cautiously about him before entering a house next to one advertising ale and spirituous liquors.
His caution was not equal to the experience of Joseph Watts, who had arrived there in the company of the constable whom he had set on to follow Ross on the previous day. This worthy had duly reported that the man who had met Ross in the coffee house had left there soon afterwards and made his way to a dwelling in First Water Lane.
Watts had insisted on being shown this street, which the constable had warned him was a rare haunt of crime. As luck would have it, he arrived there just as Fellowes was approaching the turning. Recognising the gentleman, Watts prudently concealed himself and the constable in a convenient doorway.
The Black Horse in Firsdale Village was a modest hostelry, certainly not in the posting inn class, but sufficiently respectable for the local gentry to patronise it on occasion, and for it to be a meeting place of most of their servants.
The landlord had been happy to oblige the Honourable Justin Rutherford, Quality from London, no less, and brother to Squire Marton’s wife, by finding accommodation for Mr Joseph Watts, a respectable man with the kind of tidy domestic habits favoured by the landlord’s wife.
“For put up with them folks as chucks their clobber all over t’place and worse when they’m drink taken, I’ll not, no, not if tha asks on tha bended knees, Perkin, be it ever so! But yon lad —” this referred to Watts — “minds ’is manners, an’ knows ’ow to treat a respectable female. What’s more, he says he’s never tasted owt so good as my apple pie; it puts him in mind of his ma’s, poor lad.”
Perkin, not as likely to be influenced by what he clearly saw as d
iplomatic remarks, acknowledged that Watts was a likeable fellow, and did not confide to his wife certain reservations about the man’s occupation. Some of the servants from Denby House who were his customers had informed him of this, and Watts freely acknowledged it when they were sharing a friendly tankard of ale after breakfast on the morning following the interview at Denby House stables.
“Reckon y’know who I am?” Watts asked.
Perkin nodded. “Ay, reckon I do.”
“Well, do me a favour, and don’t spread the news around, friend. Some will know, o’ course — the servants from Denby House, I reckon. Who else?”
The landlord considered.
“Groom from t’Squire’s place, name o’ Ross. Tak’s a sup wi’ t’Denby House lads, now an’ then. In yestere’en, he were, along o’ Jem, who’s one on ’em. They was talkin’ o’ thee — I chanced to hear tha name in passing.”
“Hm. That would have been after I’d been there to interview the head man, Webster, I reckon. Anyone else likely to know?”
Perkin shook his head. “Not yet, maister. But reckon t’word will spread afore long. Nowt’s a secret here, sithee.”
Watts nodded. “Yes, I’m taking account o’ that. But meanwhile, they’re more likely to open their mummers if they don’t know, see? Reckon ye can help me, too, landlord, if ye’ve a mind to.”
“Allus willin’ to help the law,” said Perkin in pious tones.
Watts gave him a nod and a wink. “That’s the dandy! Been here a long time, have you?”
Masquerade of Vengeance (The Rutherford Trilogy Book 3) Page 13
