by David Field
‘I don’t think so,’ Esther mumbled in her most humble tone, giving silent thanks for the fact that life had not required her to earn her living in this fashion.
‘Very well, then — upstairs,’ Ormonde instructed her, gesturing towards a flight that led up behind a curtain that had been drawn to one side.
‘I beg your pardon?’ Esther said in a feigned tone of alarm.
Ormond smiled knowingly and suddenly Esther’s feeling of alarm was genuine.
‘Don’t be concerned, Miss Jacobs, or may I call you “Esther”? The accounts are kept upstairs in my late sister’s old room, where she maintained her work desk. Follow me up and I’ll show you.’
He led the way up the stairs and Esther followed dutifully behind. At the top was a broad landing, leading to a large room on the right that appeared to be directly above the salon and a smaller one to the left that presumably looked out over whatever lay to the back of the premises. Ormonde gestured to the right, observed ‘my living quarters’, then held out his other arm invitingly as he added, ‘You will be based in there.’
Esther deduced that she was intended to go the left, so she did. She found herself in what could best be described as a boudoir that still smelt faintly of what must have been the late sister’s chosen perfume. There were mirrored wardrobes on either side of the room and a large bed under the window, with its foot pointing back out into the room. She was confused until she turned round and there, on the back wall, was a set of bookshelves that looked down on a chair with a matching desk, on which was an inkstand and a container of nib pens.
‘My late sister preferred to work in her room,’ Ormonde advised Esther with what threatened to turn into a leer as he gestured with his arm but kept his eyes on Esther’s bosom. ‘If you find it convenient we can maintain that arrangement and you may of course rest on the bed should you feel the need from time to time. The view from the window leaves a lot to be desired, but you will note that the usual facilities are located in the rear yard, which is accessed by the door on the left in my downstairs office. Go and sit at the desk and I’ll explain how the books are organised.’
Glad to be safely seated, Esther paid dutiful attention as, one by one, Ormonde lifted down the ledgers, opened them and explained how he required items to be entered. In order to do so, he was required to lean over Esther’s shoulder and she did her best not to grimace as she caught the smell of stale cigar smoke, and worse, on his breath. Having been through them all and with the volumes replaced on the shelves, Ormonde took delight in setting Esther imaginary tests.
‘Let’s see how well you’ve grasped the system,’ he suggested. ‘Assume that I purchased a Renoir from the Regency Gallery Auction for five hundred pounds. Where would you enter the sale price?’
Suppressing a bored sigh, Esther reached up to the shelf and took down the ‘Acquisitions’ book and looked at him enquiringly. ‘You’d have to spell the artist’s name,’ she advised him in her best humble voice and Ormonde smiled.
‘Excellent, my dear,’ he replied patronisingly. ‘Now, if I were to sell it for eight hundred?’
Esther pointed up at the ‘Sales’ book and Ormonde smiled condescendingly.
‘You seem to have got it so far. Now, in this imaginary exercise I have made a notional profit of three hundred pounds. Where should that be recorded? This time, lift the book down.’
She did as requested, laid the book on the desk and opened it at the latest page.
Ormonde clapped his hands in an excess of appreciation and leaned forward eagerly, brushing closely up alongside her as he did so.
‘And, as you can see,’ he continued, ‘the last entry was two days ago, recording a profit of two hundred and eighty pounds. Clearly, your next entry would be here.’ He bent over beside her and pointed to the next available blank line on the ledger, as he announced, ‘I’ll go and get my draft notes on the next few entries that will be required.’
Esther sat down heavily at the desk, hoping that she had imagined the hand brushing her bottom as he moved away.
Early on Tuesday morning Percy instructed Josh Babbage to turn the coach and wait for him at the farm gate, then walked across the lawn towards the stables and coach house above which Bert Gregson had his accommodation. Bert was grooming the horse that normally pulled the coach and looked up as he saw Percy approaching.
‘What d’yer want this time?’ Bert enquired grumpily.
Percy tried the diplomatic approach. ‘I believe I’m in a position to return some lost property, Mr Gregson.’
‘Whaddyer mean?’
Percy extracted the key and string from his pocket and held it up in front of him. ‘Unless I’m very much mistaken, this is your missing back door key. I noticed on my earlier visit that the back door was fitted with one of those new “Yale” type locks and this particular key may well have once been hung on the hook at the side of the back door to the farmhouse, using the sort of string favoured by market gardeners.’
‘There’s one way ter find out, in’t there?’ Bert replied gruffly as he put down the horse comb and led the way to the rear of the farmhouse. He used his own key to gain access, then put the knob in the ‘snib’ position, before taking the key from Percy and using it to release the lock again.
‘Looks like yer right,’ he conceded. ‘Where d’yer find this?’
Percy was well prepared for this question and smiled as he lied, ‘On the lawn there, just as I was walking up to see you.’
Bert’s face darkened as he replied, ‘I’m not a stupid yokel, Mr Whatever-yer-name-is, an’ as yer can see, that lawn were scythed not two days since. I’d ’ave seen that key if it’d bin there, so where d’yer really find it?’
Percy was both embarrassed and chastened. ‘Sorry,’ he replied, ‘I didn’t mean to insult your intelligence, but I’m not at liberty to disclose where I found it. Police business, I’m afraid.’
‘Yer found it near poor Miss Marianne’s body, din’t yer?’ Bert asked accusingly.
‘What makes you think that?’ Percy enquired. ‘You’re wrong, as it happens, but what made you suggest such a thing?’
‘Come this way,’ Bert insisted with a jerk of the head, as he led Percy through the stables, up a flight of wooden stairs on the far inside wall and into a long straight room that contained an unmade bed, a table, two chairs and a wardrobe, as well as a wood stove in the corner.
‘It ain’t much, but it keeps me warm an’ dry,’ Bert advised him. ‘It also gives me a good view o’ what’s goin’ on yonder,’ he added as he nodded towards the window.
Percy walked over and looked out; from that window Bert had a commanding view of the back door to the farm house.
‘I couldn’t say much last time I talked ter yer,’ Bert explained, ‘since Clarice were listenin’ an’ I didn’t wan’ ter be ’eard talkin’ ill o’ the master. The truth is that I seen both of ’em leavin’ the ’ouse by the back door the night what Miss Marianne were found dead.’
‘Were they leaving together?’
‘No. Miss Marianne went first — stormed out like there was a ragin’ bull chasin’ er. She went chargin’ off down the drive towards the front gate, dressed just like she ’ad been when I picked ‘er up from the station earlier that evenin’. Then maybe ten minutes later I ’eard the door slam shut again, an’ I looked out an’ there were the master, in the act o’ testin’ the door ter make sure it were locked. Then I think I saw ’im stuff the key in ’is pocket, although it were dark o’ course, so I can’t be sure, but that’s what it looked like.’
‘How was he dressed?’
‘Again, just like the mistress, the same clothes ’e’d bin wearin’ when ’e arrived. That fancy bloody ’untin’ jacket, ’is travellin’ cloak an’ that stupid ’at ’e’s so fond o’ stickin’ on is ’ead. I think they call ’em “deerstalkers”, although ’e’s no better than all them other town folk when it comes ter shootin’ — couldn’t ’it a barn door at twenny paces.’
&
nbsp; Percy smiled at the illusion and kept going while the man was in the mood. ‘You told me last time I was here that when he got back much later you were obliged to let him back into the house because he claimed to have forgotten the key.’
‘Yeah, that’s right, but like I said then, it didn’t look like ’e’d just bin ter the lavvie across the yard.’
‘Describe how he was dressed then,’ Percy requested.
Bert screwed his face up. ‘Like a bloody scarecrow, ’e were. ’E’d obviously lost ’is stupid ’at somewhere, ’e were all red an’ sweaty, like ’e’d done a day’s harvestin’, an’ ‘is ’untin’ jacket were all ripped down one side. I reckon it ’ad a couple o’ them fancy buttons missin’ an’ all.’
‘What sort of fancy buttons?’
‘Like they make outer deer’s antlers, or somethin’ like that.’
‘Ivory?’
‘Is that what it’s called? Some sorta bone, anyway.’
‘Would you prepared to sign a statement confirming all this, if I have one drawn up for you?’ Percy enquired.
‘I s’pose so,’ Bert grumbled, ‘since I were always brought up ter tell the truth. Mind you, it’ll likely cost me me job ’ere, if the master finds out about it.’
‘Let me assure you, Mr Gregson that if I get to make proper use of your statement, your master will be in no position to dismiss you — or anyone else employed here.’
Satisfied with his morning’s work, Percy asked to be driven back to Kemble Police Station, where he once again sorted through the deceased’s belongings. It was too much to hope that he’d find any bone buttons trapped in the late Marianne Ormonde’s clothing, but on a whim he removed the scarf that had been used to gag her, in the belief that someone at the farm could identify it as having belonged to the unfortunate lady. Then he went back out to the front desk, where Constable Jacks advised him that Sergeant Oakley wanted to speak to him.
Thirty minutes later he was seated in the back parlour of a terraced cottage in Station Road, having been introduced to Martha Longhurst by a clearly disapproving Sergeant Oakley.
‘Is it right that yer one o’ they Scotland yard types what’s lookin’ inter that woman what got ’erself murdered in the tunnel?’ Martha enquired.
‘That’s correct,’ Percy confirmed, wondering what he might conceivably learn to his advantage from a lady described to him by the sergeant during their short walk down the road as the most unrepentant prostitute in the small township. ‘She’s got a bit o’ competition these days and she’s a bit past ’er prime,’ Oakley had advised him. ‘However, she can sometimes place us in possession o’ useful titbits of information and she’s very anxious ter avoid a charge that’s ’angin’ over her ’ead at present. She robbed an out o’ town mark of a gold watch and she’s lookin’ at a two year stretch unless she can redeem ’erself.’
‘Well, it’s like this,’ Martha insisted as she leaned forward to emphasise her point with a clear view down her ample cleavage. ‘That bloke what they reckon’s ’er brother were tryin’ ter talk me inter tellin’ anyone what was interested that ’e’d bin ’ere wi’ me from ten o’clock ’til midnight that night they found ’er body.’
‘Did he offer you money?’ Percy enquired.
‘No — ’e give me money,’ Martha replied. ‘Two quid, but I spent it already.’
‘And did you promise to give him that alibi?’
‘Yer what?’
‘Did you agree to say that he’d been with you for those two hours?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Well, do us all a favour and don’t tell him that you’ve reported this to us,’ Percy advised her. ‘That way you can keep your two quid, but if the matter comes to court, we’ll need you to tell the truth.’
‘Yeah, all right. What about the misunderstanding about the gold watch?’ she asked Oakley, who smiled.
‘We got it back and the gentleman yer stole it from is anxious to avoid it becomin’ public knowledge how ’e come ter lose it, so we’ll call it quits. But keep yer hands ter yerself in future.’
‘Me gentlemen friends prefer it when I don’t,’ she grinned back.
‘That alibi wouldn’t have done him any good anyway,’ Percy observed as they walked back up the road. ‘He must realise that we’ll know from Tom Savage that he was on his way back from Swindon during that time.’
‘Maybe he’s getting confused by all the detail,’ Oakley suggested. ‘I know I am.’
‘How’s Lily?’ Esther asked eagerly as she pushed open the front door and threw her arms around Jack.
‘Fine, so don’t worry. Alice looked in as promised and between us we managed to get Lily to eat some mashed potato and carrot. Looks as if the milk counter can be closed until the next one needs it.
‘You’re sure she got enough to eat?’
‘Take a listen — she’s fast asleep, grunting with satisfaction. I offered Alice ten shillings a week, by the way, but she refused to take it. She said it was reward enough to have a “wee darling” to look after again.’
He was talking to Esther’s back as she leaned over Lily’s cot to reassure herself that nothing untoward had overcome her while her mother had been out in the wicked world.
‘Are you going to get around to telling me how you got on during your first day working for Ormonde?’ Jack enquired.
Esther straightened back up, turned and pulled a face.
‘He’s so creepy and I swear he deliberately touched my bottom when he was showing me over the books! How that poor Miss Prendergast puts up with him I’ll never know. The room he’s obliging me to work in is like some sort of religious shrine to his dead sister. Her photographs are all over the place, the room’s been left exactly as it was — with her bed still in it, mark you! — and I wouldn’t be surprised if her ghost’s looking over my shoulder the whole time. Thank God it’s only going to be temporary, that’s all I can say!’
‘Don’t forget that the first thing we need is a photograph of Ormonde himself.’
‘That shouldn’t be difficult,’ Esther pouted. ‘The only photographs around the place that aren’t just of the dead sister are also of him with her, the conceited oaf!’
‘Will you be able to do the work?’ Jack enquired solicitously and Esther hooted ironically.
‘A child of seven could do the work, believe me! He went through it with me like he was some sort of ancient wizard revealing the secrets of eternal life, when in fact it’s less complicated than managing our weekly bills. What I can’t understand is why Miss Prendergast found it so difficult — honestly, you could train a child to do it.’
‘Perhaps it was deliberate on her part,’ Jack suggested, ‘you know — pretending she couldn’t do it so that she didn’t have to. Or perhaps she’s naturally stupid.’
‘Perhaps,’ Esther mused thoughtfully. ‘But maybe it was to avoid being felt up by that dreadful deviant. I take it that I can’t knee him in the privates if he does it again?’
‘Not if you want him hanged for the murder of his sister, which you have to admit is a bit worse than a pain in the nuts.’
‘So once I get you his photograph, can I hand in my notice?’
‘That will depend on what Uncle Percy decides. And don’t forget that you’re going to have to make an appointment with that abortionist.’
Esther shuddered at the mere thought and put her arms around Jack. ‘Hold me tight and remind me of how safe I am when you’ve got your arms around me. Edgar Ormonde’s like a girl’s worst nightmare.’
‘Do you want me to prepare supper?’
‘Later. Afterwards.’
‘After what?’
‘Take a guess.’
‘I’m going to make tea,’ Abigail Prendergast shouted up the stairs. ‘Would you like some?’
‘Yes please,’ Esther shouted back, then placed her pen on the desk and negotiated the steep staircase down into the back room that served as both an office for Edgar Ormonde and a tea room for the two young w
omen in his employ. Edgar himself was out at an art auction, so the two of them had the room to themselves.
Abigail made a slightly irritated noise as she looked into the biscuit tin, then closed its lid.
‘We’re out of biscuits again. I swear that Mr Ormonde eats them all when nobody’s looking.’
‘How do you get on with him?’ Esther asked by way of polite conversation.
‘He’s alright, I suppose,’ Abigail conceded, ‘but watch his hands.’
‘I’ve already encountered those,’ Esther said grimacing. ‘On my first day, what’s more. Now I make sure that I never turn my back towards him.’
‘He seems to like bottoms,’ Abigail confided, ‘but he only tried it once with me and I warned him that if he did it again I’d call in the constables. He pointed out that it would be my word against his and that I wouldn’t find another place of employment in the London art world if I as much as breathed a rumour of accusation. These days I try to make sure that we’re never in the same room together, but I was very glad when you arrived. Not that I want you to suffer it, of course, but at least now there are two of us, he may think twice before he lets his hands wander.’
‘You must miss having his sister around,’ Esther suggested and Abigail nodded.
‘Mind you, not half as much as he seems to. At first, he seemed indifferent to her death, but in the past few days he’s changed. Always looking up at that portrait of her in the main salon, and when you aren’t here he spends a lot of time in the former bedroom where you’re working. If you haven’t realised yet, her clothes are still hanging in the wardrobe and her cosmetics are still on her bedside table. And some days I swear that her perfume fills the place. All very creepy, you must admit.’
‘What was she like?’
Abigail thought for a moment, looked carefully towards the still open door into the salon, lowered her head and continued in a whisper. ‘Very sweet, but very much under his thumb. She seemed scared to death of him most of the time and I think he did — well, inappropriate — things to her as well. It’s one thing to fumble the backsides of female staff, which after all goes on inside the finest stately homes in the land when the lady of the manor isn’t looking, but to do it to your own sister — ugh!’
