Masquerade of Vengeance (The Rutherford Trilogy Book 3)

by Alice Chetwynd Ley

  “All o’ twenty year. Bain’t owt to do wi’ me, maister Watts, but what zackly be ye lookin’ for?”

  “Murderer o’ Sir Eustace Knowle,” replied Watts glibly.

  The landlord considered him shrewdly for a moment.

  “A burglar tryin’ to break into t’Hall, that’s what we all reckons in t’village. So tha thinks he’ll still be hereabouts, dost tha? Why, maister?”

  “I’ve got my reasons,” replied Watts darkly. “Don’t do to open yer mummer too wide in my business. Tell me, now, what newcomers have there been in the neighbourhood lately — either servants in the big houses or other folk, cottagers, tradespeople and the like?”

  The landlord whistled. “That’s a tall order, maister. Still, I’ll do my best. Tak’ villagers first, as there’s not many on ’em who’ve not been in Firsdale all their lives. There’s Ned Appleton’s niece at the post office, come to help his good lady out for a spell —”

  “Don’t bother about the females at present. I’m interested in males round about the age of forty.”

  “Is that a fact?” asked Perkin, with another shrewd look. “Well, no one comes to mind, then, barrin’ a waiter and an ostler I took on extra for Races week, like, because o’ t’extra gentry in t’neighbourhood. Recommended to me by t’landlord o’ t’King’s Arms in York — it’s on t’King’s Staith, sithee — he’s a cove as I worked for, long ago. They’ll be leavin’ afore long, though, for I can’t afford to pay out good brass for nowt, an’ I reckon folk from Mr Cholmondeley’s place’ll soon be gone.”

  Watts slid his notebook unobtrusively from his pocket.

  “As those two will be about your premises, I suppose I can have a word with them just now? So that’s the village people — what about new servants at the Quality houses locally? Take ’em one by one — Firsdale Hall, for instance? Any other than the two new grooms?”

  Perkin shook his head. “Leckby and Ross — nay, there’s none other there. Leckby’s from t’Black Swan in Coney Street in York, sithee. Been there a good many years, but fancied a change for a bit. Ross — well — stable in Bradford, he says, sold up, so’s he was forced to look elsewhere. Long way off, Bradford,” he finished ruminatively.

  “Ay. Can ye tell me anything about the man? Ye say he comes in for a drink and a chat with the other local servants. Anything ye’ve noticed or heard about him?”

  “We-ell, reckon he’s a dab hand at sloping off,” Perkin pronounced, after a pause. “Seems to get more time to ’isself than usual. Mostly he’s out on errands — reckon he’s quicker on t’uptake than t’other stable lads, so gets sent out more. But he knows how to tak’ his time over t’business, he does an’ all! And I reckon now an’ then he does summat special for t’gennelmen stayin’ with Mr Cholmondeley. Saw him wi’ one on ’em yesterday talkin’ away serious like — brass changed hands, too.”

  “Which of the Warton Manor guests was this? Where, and when?” shot out Watts, pencil poised.

  “Hold ’ard, maister! That gennelman called Fellowes, it was. And of all places in t’Black Swan, where I chanced to be on business. They wasn’t together long, sithee, but seemed fair taken up wi’ each other’s chat. As for when, why, reckon’t would ’ave been close on one o’clock, judgin’ by t’Little Admiral.”

  “Little Admiral?”

  The landlord grinned. “Ay, Little Admiral atop t’clock o’ St Martin le Grand in Coney Street, sithee.”

  “Ay, I know. It chances I was there at the same time, keeping an eye on our friend Ross. He did go into the Black Swan for a short spell, but I waited outside, so missed the meeting you saw. I’m too old a hand to be caught by a man entering a building to shake off pursuit — not that I think he’d spotted my surveillance, mind.”

  “Sounds as if tha’d got this Ross down for a villain?” queried Perkin.

  “Only a suspect. In my trade, we suspect everyone, cully. But keep quiet on that, mind. So he was meeting this Mr Fellowes — interesting, very. And now, let’s consider the other big houses. Any new staff there?”

  “Denby House there’s a new gardener — don’t know his name, he’s nobbut a lad. He’s t’lad who found Sir Eustace Knowle’s body, fair shook up ever since, he is. But if tha’s only lookin’ for men o’ fortyish, he’s no use. Warton Manor, now —” he frowned in recollection — “there’s a couple o’ lasses, kitchen maid and parlour maid — a footman —”

  Watts looked up. “Age?”

  “Oh, ’bout t’reet age, I reckon, for thee. An’ then there’s a valet to Mr Fellowes — he’s not new, o’ course, only to t’house. He came wi’ his maister, as tha might expect.”

  “Hm! Sounds promising. Tell me what ye can about the pair of ’em, if ye’d be so good, Perkin.”

  The landlord drained his tankard and inspected the one in the Runner’s fist.

  “Thirsty work, this, I reckon, maister. Happen tha’d like another?”

  Watts thanked him, then waited while his host went towards the tap, returning with the tankards refilled.

  “Not much I can tell,” he resumed apologetically. “New footman was taken on three to four weeks agone. He’s been in t’tap wi’ other lads a few times — don’t seem much to say about him. Quiet like, not the sort as a body’d notice.”

  “Where’s he from?”

  “Did hear as ’ow t’maister hired him from one o’ them employment agencies in York, don’t know which. Reckon tha’d be able to find out? That’s if it matters.”

  Watts nodded, making another note.

  “This valet, now. Ye say he came to the Manor with Mr Fellowes — been in his service a while, then, I collect?”

  Perkin spread his hands in a helpless gesture.

  “No notion, maister. And he’s only been in here once, sithee, with Mr Cholmondeley’s own valet, an’ then they didn’t stay above a half hour. Reckon he was wishful to see what it was like ’ere, and asked Mr Cholmondeley’s man to bring him along, because that one’s never darkened my door afore. Reckon he tak’s his sup o’ ale in some crack York inn, along o’ t’gentry.”

  “So you can’t tell me anything about him? Never mind.”

  Watts had no great hopes of the valet as a suspect, since it appeared that the man must have been attached to the household of Mr Fellowes for some time. Nevertheless, he determined to see what he could glean from the housemaids at Warton Manor. As Justin had remarked, the Runner was adept at ingratiating himself with housemaids, thus gaining useful information.

  “One other matter,” resumed Watts, after a few moments’ silence while both drank their ale meditatively. “Ye’ve been a great help, landlord, and I’m duly grateful. Now, I wonder if ye can find answers to a couple of points which are puzzling me? Mebbe not now — mebbe ye’ll need to think,” he added hastily, as he saw the other look troubled. “And mebbe ye can’t help at all, which I’ll fully comprehend, for ye’re tied to your business, not out and about like most folk.”

  “Well, that’s reet enough. What’s tha want to know?”

  “Cast your mind back to a week since, the night of the Lord Mayor’s masquerade ball in York. Can ye recall who was here, in your hostelry, that evening — say, about nine o’clock?”

  “Now tha’s set me a puzzler, an’ no mistake!” laughed Perkin. “Let me see, now — the reg’lars, I reckon, Bill Archer, Jem —”

  “I’ll make it simpler,” cut in Watts, with no mind to hear a long list of names. “Was Ross one of ’em?”

  This earned him another sharp glance.

  “Ross, is it? Tha’s a fancy for yon lad, sithee. Come to think on’t —” he screwed up his eyes — “don’t reckon he was. Nay, Ross wasn’t there.”

  “Thankee. Another thing — have ye seen, yourself, or have ye heard tell of, anyone acting at all in an unusual way, or being somewhere ye wouldn’t expect ’em to be, during the past week?”

  Perkin shook his head slowly, looking puzzled.

  “To give ye a notion of what I’m seeking
,” Watts expounded patiently. “Take the murder of Sir Eustace Knowle late on Tuesday night. Someone entered the grounds of Denby House, most like with felonious intent, and was surprised by the victim.” This was the version for public information. “That person might well be one o’ these newcomers to the neighbourhood ye’ve just now been telling me of. I say might, because equally it might be a complete stranger. But ye can see that it don’t do for me to ignore any possible suspect, can’t ye?”

  Perkin nodded.

  “That being so, if ye or any of your friends and neighbours saw anyone at all — but in particular any of these folk — acting suspiciously in the vicinity of Denby House on that night, I’d be obliged to hear of it. And not only on that night,” the Runner added, choosing his words with some care. “If there’s aught smoky going on hereabouts, no matter what, I’ll trust ye to pass it on. Ye’re in a fine position here as landlord to hear gossip, I’ll be bound.”

  Perkin acknowledged that this was so, and promised to do his part in bringing the murderer to justice.

  “But softly does it,” warned the Runner, tapping the side of his nose. “One word in the wrong place, and the bird flies off, as we’ve learnt to our sorrow at Bow Street.”

  CHAPTER 14

  The funeral of Sir Eustace Knowle passed off quietly on the Saturday, with no other members of the family present but Mrs de Ryde and her formidable sister-in-law, who had arrived post-haste from Pickering on the previous day. The latter considered it her duty to be present at the interment, as her brother was still confined to his bed on doctor’s orders; but her private view of the deceased fell lamentably short of that recommended by Christian charity.

  On Sunday, the neighbours were relieved to see Mary de Ryde in church with Miss de Ryde, Anne and Miss Fawcett.

  “One always feels better after the interment,” whispered Mrs Cholmondeley to her husband. “I don’t know why it is, my dear, but it’s always so.”

  Fanny Marton reflected compassionately that poor Anne looked monstrously forlorn in her blacks, and wondered if she would be permitted to attend the outing to Helmsley on Tuesday. Perhaps, she thought timidly, it would not be so very irreverent to address a prayer to the Almighty to that effect? She gazed at the new curate, and wished she might seek his guidance on that subject.

  After the service, neighbours quietly offered their condolences to the afflicted lady who, protected by a thick black veil and the strong arm of Miss Cassandra de Ryde, managed to bear the ordeal without breaking down. They also asked after the health of her husband, and here Miss de Ryde took over the responses. Philip was making progress, slow but sure. Dr Clent said that a good constitution had guarded him from the worst effects of the concussion.

  “As for bones, you know,” she informed them in her sensible, no-nonsense voice, “they take time to knit, of course. But since the damage is all on the left side, at least he has the use of his right arm. He was sitting up and taking nourishment yesterday, and if I know him, he’ll be out of his bed tomorrow. We’re not given to pampering ourselves in my family.”

  “D’you think he’d care for company, ma’am?” asked Sir George. “Not doing much visiting at present, but I’d like to look in if he feels equal to it.”

  Miss de Ryde gave it as her opinion that it would be the very thing to cheer up Philip, and called upon her sister-in-law to issue an invitation for that afternoon. To everyone’s surprise, Mrs de Ryde rallied sufficiently not only to do so, but to include Julia and Fanny.

  “You will forgive me, I know,” she said in a low tone, “if I do not also invite your nieces, but at present I don’t feel equal to a large party. I know that Anne will be glad of your daughter Fanny’s company, however, as they’re accustomed to being so much together.”

  The rest of the Firsdale Hall party were in conversation with the Cholmondeleys and their guests. By now, Justin had received a report from Watts on the activities of Fellowes in York on Friday, so was understandably curious about that gentleman.

  “I collect from Cholmondeley that you’re interested in wandering around the town of York looking at its historic buildings, Mr Fellowes,” he said. “There I think we may have an interest in common.”

  “Oh, yes, but indeed I can’t lay claim to your scholarship, sir,” protested the other. “I’m but a humble amateur.”

  “You’re too modest, Fellowes,” put in Barnet, with a grin at the others. “You gave us a vastly interesting, if lengthy, dissertation on Clifford’s Tower the other day.”

  “You’re pleased to roast me, Barnet, but I shan’t regard it,” replied the other, a shade petulantly.

  “Everyone’s fair game to Barnet,” declared Fulford, digging Fellowes in the ribs. “He’s a devil of a fellow for quizzing us all — haven’t you noticed?”

  Justin ignored this by-play. “Have you by any chance come across Mr Henry Cave’s splendid book Antiquities of York?” he asked Fellowes. “He’s included some delightful etchings of mediaeval and Tudor parts of the city. It was published a few years ago.”

  Fellowes replied regretfully that he had not, but would look out for a copy in the booksellers.

  “One of the finest mediaeval streets, in my opinion,” continued Justin, “is First Water Lane — have you been there, sir, at all?”

  For a moment, Fellowes looked taken aback. He quickly recovered, however, and admitted that he had.

  “I took a short stroll along the street the other day. It certainly is, as you say, Mr Rutherford, vastly fine from a historic point of view, though somewhat dilapidated.”

  “For my part,” interrupted Reade, impatient of this scholarly discourse even on a Sunday after church, “my interest in York ends at the Knavesmire.”

  “Then I suppose you’ll soon be returning home, Mr Reade, since the Races are over. What part of the country do you come from?” asked Rogers carelessly.

  “Oh, I’ve a place in the Midlands, but I’m seldom there,” replied Reade in the same tone. “Like Fellowes, I’ve a habit of travelling around to racecourses.”

  Further inquiry would have seemed impertinent, so Rogers was obliged to abandon what had been an attempt to assist Justin in his search into the origins of Cholmondeley’s guests. Justin had earlier tried to extract some information in a casual way from Cholmondeley himself on this matter, but it had been abortive. The man neither knew nor cared who his visitors were or where their homes were situated. In one way or another, they had recommended themselves to him as good fellows, and that satisfied him. Justin had dropped a hint to Anthea that perhaps Mrs Cholmondeley, who dearly loved a gossip, might be better informed. His niece promised to lose no opportunity of leading the lady on to reveal anything she knew.

  “And I may say it’s a prodigious sacrifice,” she told him, “for a more boring creature I don’t believe I ever encountered! Nevertheless, I’ll do it for you.”

  “Fustian! You’ll do it for yourself and the thrill of the chase, if I know you, my dear niece.”

  “Oh, well, perhaps. But, Justin, do you seriously think one of the Cholmondeleys’ guests is the murderer? I find it hard to believe that any of them could ever have been a transported convict.”

  “Especially not your favourite, Fulford?” he quizzed her, laughing at her indignation. “No, well, bear it in mind that our man has been an actor at one time, even if an unsuccessful one, so may have a few tricks of disguise and dissimulation up his sleeve. All I do know,” he went on, more soberly, “is that any newcomer to the district whose origins are obscure and who’s of the right age must be suspect. He may be concealing himself among the humbler folk of the neighbourhood or among the gentry. Joe Watts is investigating the former possibilities, as you know. I don’t intend to neglect the latter. These four men could fill the bill as far as age is concerned. Fulford appears a trifle younger than the others, but who can be sure? Moreover, we know nothing of them beyond what they choose to tell, which is precious little. Fellowes says he lives somewhere near Whitby, while Re
ade has named the Midlands — an immensely wide area.”

  But Anthea found no opportunity that morning for any private conversation with Mrs Cholmondeley. Soon the groups dispersed to their carriages, and she was left to rack her wits for some scheme to achieve this end. Perhaps it might be possible on the visit to Rievaulx Abbey.

  “This is a damnable business, Philip,” Sir George greeted his friend. “Y’might have been killed, old fellow.”

  The two were alone in de Ryde’s bedchamber.

  The patient was out of bed, as his sister had forecast, propped up with cushions on a sofa, with his left leg stretched out, splinted and bandaged, and his arm in a sling.

  Philip de Ryde grimaced. “I feel as if I have been, George, tell you the truth. A devilish wreck I am now, hell and damnation to it!”

  For a few minutes, Sir George commiserated with him, asking about the extent of the injuries and Dr Clent’s prognosis.

  “Oh, it’ll take a devil of a time before I’m fully fit again, curse it! And God only knows why it should have happened — never been anything like it in my stable in the whole of my existence! I promise you, George, if ever I find out who’s responsible —”

  “The Runner looked into that. My brother-in-law, Justin, sent him over here on Thursday evening. He was tolerably satisfied that none of your men had been negligent —”

  “But, hell and the devil, I’m told the axle was tampered with! I saw Webster this morning — yes, I know, Clent was against my troubling my head with anything at present, but I had to know, dammit, George! Told me of the Bow Street man’s visit, too. If my men weren’t responsible — and I don’t care to suppose that — then tell me who was?”

  Sir George looked at him soberly.

  “Whoever murdered Knowle.”

  “My God!” Philip de Ryde stared at him. “You think this was an attempt at — murder?”

  Sir George nodded grimly. “Just as my supposed accident was. After all, we both received those threatening letters, did we not?”