He surprised me with an effusion of information, cheerily communicated. “The funeral service is at noon, sir, in the family chapel in the Hermit Wood, for reasons of privacy. It is not much used, but the Chaplain thought it more appropriate than the village church. The carriages are called for half past eleven. The hearse will lead the cortege, followed by your carriage, and then ours—Miss Dundas and Sir George riding with me. After a short service the burial will be in a plot to the rear of the chapel.”
“It all sounds most appropriate, as you say. Apart from my presence, is anything required of me?”
“I think Wilfred will be sufficiently honored by your attendance at his funeral, sir.”
I nodded. “Yes, it will be something of a departure for me—and much more of a departure for him, come to mention it.” I thought this rather droll, and waited for the faces around the table to respond, which they eventually did. “True, I’m not often seen at the funeral of a commoner. I have to draw the line somewhere, or I could spend the whole of my time in graveyards. However, I’m pleased to pay my last respects to this fellow. Even more reason why we don’t want any of today’s doings reported in the press. You’re quite sure we’re the only mourners?”
“Yes, sir, except for the undertaker and his assistants.”
“Don’t forget the sky pilot,” Holdfast jovially put in. Turning to Miss Dundas, he added, “The Chaplain, my dear—a term sailors use for the clergy.”
She said evenly, “Thank you. I am not without experience of sea voyages.”
The rebuke was lightly delivered, and Sir George gave a wry nod and smile. His avuncular presence had been a support to us all through this harrowing week. The amiable gleam had never left his eye. If anything, it had gotten brighter since Lady Moira’s departure. In fact, looking about the table, I found it well nigh impossible to cast any of my companions as the scheming, stony-hearted assassin I had divined as responsible for the murders. Isabella Dundas looked perfectly demure in a simple black dress overlaid with jet beads that I suppose she would otherwise have worn for dinner one evening. She had her reddish-brown hair gathered to a chignon and fastened at the side with black combs. Women of her stamp are equal to every contingency. If we had all been transported to the moon she would still have found something correct to wear. As for Marcus Pelham, my opinion was mellowing. The tragic death of his sister seemed to have made a man of him. The adolescent scowl was less evident. He even showed commendable concern for someone other than himself by asking, “How is Inspector Sweeney this morning? No ill effects from yesterday, I trust?”
“Apparently not,” I answered.
“Only I haven’t seen him.”
“I dare say he’s about his business,” said I.
Miss Dundas looked up and asked, “Did the Inspector have a bad experience yesterday?”
“A little time outside without an overcoat, that was all.”
“He did look somewhat distrait towards the end of the day,” she remarked. “I do hope nothing is amiss, sir.”
None of us said any more about Sweeney until later.
Of necessity, the funeral of Wilfred Osgot-Edge was without much ostentation, even if it is imprinted on my memory forever. There were few of the trappings of these occasions. True, Hibbert the undertaker supplied us with hatbands and cloaks, but that was the extent of it. I had refused to have my pair of grays dyed black, so they weren’t fitted with sable plumes, which would have looked silly. The hearse, of course, was drawn by plumed horses; Hibbert himself walked in front, which was heroic considering the state of the going, and the mutes and pallbearers also made the short journey on foot. We proceeded at the best gait they could manage along a sticky cart track through the wood, stopping at the lych-gate, where the Reverend Humphrey Paget stood waiting. As so often happens, the horses drawing the hearse marked our arrival with a mournful neighing—probably in protest at the tolling of the church bell.
While the pallbearers stepped forward to shoulder the coffin, I stood back with the others. The family chapel was a gloomy-looking stone structure with a small bell tower heavily encrusted with lichen. Although I doubt if it was more than a hundred years old, its location had exposed it critically to the depredations of nature. I didn’t relish stepping inside. Pelham nudged my arm and offered me a hip flask. My first reaction was to take a nip, and then I thought better of it. After all, I told myself, there was a one in three chance that the funeral was Pelham’s doing. A moment later, when I saw him put the flask to his lips, I wished I had been more trusting.
Hibbert nodded to the Chaplain and we followed the coffin through the lych-gate. The path was thick with moss and ivy, and one of the pallbearers stumbled slightly. But the dead and the living all got inside without serious mishap and the service commenced. The Padre had my backing when he steamed into his words like an express train, for the pews had no padding and the smell of mustiness was quite overpowering. None of us meant any disrespect to Osgot-Edge; I’m sure he wouldn’t have wished any of us except his murderer to feel uncomfortable on his account.
In a strange way Osgot-Edge contrived to make his spiritual presence felt. When the Chaplain first said, “Let us pray,” I was reminded of that poem about the obstinate boy and the lion that we’d heard recited on the first fateful evening. Curiously enough, on that occasion it had been the Chaplain who had read it to us. “Let us prey.” When he spoke the words for the second or third time, my thoughts, shameful to relate, took a sacrilegious turn. I was prompted to ask myself whether I might have overlooked a possible suspect.
My skin prickled at the thought. A man of the cloth? Surely not. I tried to remember whether the Reverend Humphrey Paget had been present in the house each time a murder had been committed. Certainly he had been at dinner with us the first night, when Queenie Chimes was poisoned. Moreover, he had joined us for lunch in the marquee on the day Jerry Gribble was shot.
“Amen,” said the congregation.
On the night Osgot-Edge had been stabbed to death, the Chaplain had played with gusto in the parlor games.
“Psalm Ninety,” announced the Reverend Humphrey Paget, “‘Lord, thou hast been our refuge.’”
On the morning Bullivant was pushed down the well, who had led us in morning prayers? I particularly remembered, because everyone had been waiting when I arrived.
Could the Reverend Humphrey Paget possibly have entered the building secretly in the small hours of Friday morning disguised as a servant and murdered Amelia? Her own family chaplain?
As the words “Let us pray,” were spoken yet again, I knelt and silently asked forgiveness for my unholy suspicions, and at such an ill-chosen time. I am sorry if this offends my more devout readers, but I fancy that a still, small, sporting voice said, “Hold your fire, Bertie, but keep your shooter loaded.”
The service in the chapel came to an end and we shuffled silently from the pews and followed the coffin outside. The ground we traversed was fearfully overgrown with damp, rotting bracken. I did my best to beat a path with my stick while Miss Dundas, accustomed to the jungle, took a grip on her skirts and stepped in behind me.
I should explain that this wasn’t in any sense a regular churchyard. There were no graves that one could see. I imagine that there was a family vault beneath the chapel where the Drummonds were interred, and where Amelia would be laid to rest in a day or two. Osgot-Edge, not being family, was accommodated outside, close to the drystone wall that enclosed the consecrated ground. We duly positioned ourselves around the grave and saw the coffin lowered. Four suspects and me. And I’m glad to say that the interment was completed with due reverence. We paid our respects and moved away. I told Pelham that I would now appreciate a nip from his flask.
He made the unnecessary remark, “So poor Wilfred is laid to rest.”
“That was my understanding of what happened.”
“
A nicely conducted service, I thought, sir. It went well.”
“Without a stutter,” said I.
He missed the irony. “We can be grateful to the Chaplain.”
“Yes, I intend to have a word with him.” I handed back the flask. “Why don’t you and the others drive back to the Hall for lunch? I’ll join you later.”
“Just as you wish, sir.” He hesitated as his features creased into a look of genuine concern. “Is it safe?”
“What exactly do you mean by that?”
“I mean out here in the open, without your bodyguard. No one has seen hide nor hair of Inspector Sweeney.”
I assured Pelham that I would take care of myself and he went back to Holdfast and Miss Dundas. I raised my hat to the lady and made clear my intention to be independent by picking my way through the bracken towards the far side of the chapel. They were soon out of sight. Presently I heard their carriage move off. Soon after, the hearse left as well. I had noticed the Reverend Humphrey Paget reenter the chapel by a back door, presumably the vestry, so I was alone, apart from an estate worker who had started the work of filling in the grave. The man was soon lost to view as I made my way around the building.
I was in no hurry to question the Chaplain. If possible, I wanted to remove a lingering doubt from my mind, only I hadn’t reckoned with the bracken, which was knee-high, even after the recent frost had brought it down some feet from its full summer glory. Hacking with my stick and looking to right and left, I progressed methodically towards the lych-gate until I spotted what I was seeking, surprisingly close to the path that the cortege had used as we entered the chapel.
I had discovered a gravestone, a plain, rectangular slab of granite jutting up from the ground and almost obscured by the bracken. A few swings of my stick enabled me to read the inscription, which was recent in origin:
ROBERT BELL
Died October 20, 1889, aged 17
Gone, but not forgotten
Not forgotten, but almost lost to view, I reflected wryly. This was, of course, the resting place of the youth accidentally shot a year ago by Claude Bullivant. Decent of the Drummonds to have had a stone put up for him. Gone, but not forgotten. Only a couple of days ago I had been inspired to concoct an entire theory out of the fate of this boy and Bullivant’s consequent difficulties. A misfounded theory, as events had proved beyond doubt, but I had wanted to see the grave for myself. I still had a strange intimation that it had a bearing on our present difficulties.
And now, with a thrill of discovery, I understood why. I understood almost everything about the Desborough Hall murders.
CHAPTER 22
I didn’t have long to savor the moment. I flung myself to the ground at the sound of gunfire.
I lay still and waited, flat to the ground. I knew the identity of the murderer now, knew it for certain. This was no empty boast, as you will discover, reader. If you flatter yourself that you could have matched my success as a sleuth, then you had better name your suspect at once, without sneaking a look at the last pages of the book.
For the benefit of those who prefer to remain mystified until the last possible moment, I shall continue to unfold the events as they happened. Obviously this was not the time to step forward and unmask the murderer.
Two shots had been discharged. If thirty years’ experience of shooting counted for anything, I knew they had been fired from a double-barreled shotgun, in which case the firer was probably reloading at this minute—or already taking aim. One can never be certain about the effects of echo in the vicinity of a building, but it seemed to me that the shots had come from somewhere close to the chapel. Nor could I be entirely sure that I was the intended target. Now that I considered the matter, I hadn’t noticed shot being sprayed in my vicinity.
I wasn’t comforted. I remained motionless, praying that my black clothes were not conspicuous. The sensation of helplessness made me shake with rage. If I was the target, the contest was so uneven. Even a wretched game bird has a sporting chance. What chance had a burly middle-aged man out there in the open equipped with nothing more effective in defense than a walking stick?
The boundary wall was twenty yards or more behind me. If I could run that far without being shot, I would still have the devil’s own job to get out of the firing line. Scrambling over walls isn’t the sort of exercise I am accustomed to taking. And the lych-gate was at least forty yards away. So I settled for discretion and a face full of damp foliage.
The extra shots I expected were not discharged. There followed a long, tense time when nothing happened except for a colony of rooks returning to occupy the chapel roof and tower which they had noisily abandoned. I wished I had their confidence.
Finally I risked raising my head sufficiently to peer around the gravestone. A patch of taller and more verdant bracken was to my left. I considered whether it was worth scrambling on my stomach for ten yards to get some better cover. I stared in the direction of the chapel and saw no sign of life. Yes, I would risk it.
First I removed the mourning cloak, made a bundle of it with the silk hat and walking stick and pushed them under some fronds. Then I started a passable imitation of an Indian scout, leaving the shelter of the gravestone to drag myself forward on elbows, hips and knees. No shot came. I crossed the divide and collapsed breathlessly into the denser foliage. Sanctuary.
I lay on my stomach for a few minutes recovering my breath. I reckoned that I could stay there in reasonable safety for an indefinite interval. Until dark, in fact. There was no point in taking unnecessary risks. It wasn’t just a matter of saving my hide; the future of the realm had to be safeguarded.
I was tempted to light up a cigar, but smoke signals would be taking the scouting to excess, so I rolled onto my side.
To my absolute horror, I saw the mistake I had made. I stared back at the way I had come. My route through the bracken was flattened into a track so obvious that I might as well have unrolled a red carpet and stood a guard of honor on either side. Any fool could tell where I was. All the subterfuge had been useless. I would have done better to have stood up and walked. In fact, I would have to move somewhere on foot, and fast.
Someone was approaching. I could hear steps on the gravel by the chapel door.
A dash for the lych-gate was out of the question now. It would make more sense to look for a sheltered place behind the chapel or, better still, inside. Gingerly I raised my eyes above the level of the foliage. Ahead was another oasis of tall bracken. I got up and bolted towards it. Out of the corner of my eye I had a blurred impression of the figure by the chapel door. I ducked down. In one more gallop I could get out of range on the far side of the building. I took a deep breath and was off like a rabbit.
I tripped, staggered, put a hand to the ground and kept my footing by the sheer force of my onward rush. I didn’t mean to stop until I reached the chapel wall. Suddenly a pheasant rose up screeching and brushed my face with its tail feathers. It didn’t stop my charge. Nothing but a cartridge would do that.
So when I glimpsed something red and white below me, I leapt over it and ran on. It wasn’t as startling as the pheasant because it didn’t move. Not startling in that sense, but in another. It was a glimpse of death.
The white object was the Reverend Humphrey Paget’s surplice. Do I need to say what the red was? The Chaplain had been shot through the head. It wasn’t a sight that a susceptible reader would wish me to describe, or that I should care to. Anyone who knows the power of a twelve-bore will have an idea of its effect at close range.
I lurched on until I flattened my hands on the chapel wall. I felt ready to vomit, but I dared not stop. Somehow I had to stay in control, get inside the vestry and lock the door behind me. I groped my way to the door, grasped the handle, turned it and let myself in. As it slammed shut, I leaned against it and breathed a great, shuddering sigh. That sigh stopped prematurely.<
br />
I was looking into the twin barrels of a shotgun.
The shock was profound. I failed to understand how it was possible. I was not capable of understanding. My brain had not fully absorbed the horror of the Chaplain’s death, and now I faced my own destruction. I am not at all proud of the spectacle I presented. I wanted to plead for my life. I merely gibbered.
I was at the mercy of the murderer, and she had now revealed herself. She was Miss Queenie Chimes.
The lady should have been dead, but she was not. She was standing with the shotgun leveled, her finger against the trigger. She was not an apparition. She had not, after all, been killed. You must take my word for it that I wasn’t in the least surprised. I had deduced that she was the murderer the moment I had seen that gravestone.
She did succeed in taking my breath away when she said, “You can sit down, Your Royal Highness. I shall not shoot unless you make it necessary. But I shall continue to aim the gun at you. There is a chair to your left.”
I wanted to protest about poor Paget, but the words would not leave my lips. I sank onto the chair. Queenie Chimes remained standing in the center of the vestry, which was furnished with a row of empty clothes hooks and a cupboard. She was dressed in a riding habit and silk hat. Appropriately she favored the color of mourning. I could recall the black velvet dress she had worn when I had seen her last. The signs of strain showed more strikingly in her face than they had that Monday evening, but she was well in control of herself.
She lowered the gun to the level of my chest. “You do remember who I am?”
I nodded.
She said, “Are you unable or unwilling to speak?”
I succeeded in saying, “Miss Chimes, or do you prefer Miss Bell?”
“I don’t mind very much how you address me. So you found the grave? I saw you searching for it.”
Bertie and the Seven Bodies Page 20
