by Issy Brooke
Adelia composed herself. “Miss Johnson, I owe you an apology for transgressing on your private moment with Mrs Macauley and I can offer no explanation, no reason or excuse. It is only that I wanted to see where you had gone, and I did not mean to make you feel spied upon.”
“Well,” said Emily. “I suppose I am foolish to ever expect privacy in this house.”
“We will leave you in peace immediately,” said Anne, retreating to the door.
“Of course,” said Adelia, feeling that Emily’s reply could have been just a little more gracious. She nodded at the desk, unwilling to leave things as they were. “I can see you are a botanical specialist. I am not given to false flattery, Miss Johnson, so please believe me when I say that even at this distance, I can see you have a rare talent indeed. Your colours positively shine from the page. Have you shown Bamfylde? He is an artist, too, as I am sure you know, although of a different …” She was going to say “order” but that could have been misconstrued. “Genre,” she finished, lamely.
And she wasn’t lying about Emily’s skill, either. The paintings were jewel-like and accurate. They seemed to be exquisitely perfect illustrations of flowers and plants.
“I have not mentioned my rudimentary daubings to Lord Caxton. I am not in the same ranks as him at all. I, personally, am proud to be merely an amateur. I would not wish to try to create art for money.”
Adelia tried not to take offence at the implied slight. Did Emily even realise how insulting she was being? “Well, I am sure you could sell them if you wished. If you ever need for money,” she said.
Emily wrinkled her nose. “I rather doubt I shall ever sink so low. Do you paint at all, Lady Calaway?”
“I sketch a little. Pencils are my thing. I should very much like to go on a sketching excursion with you, Miss Johnson, as I feel I could learn a lot from your use of tone and shade.”
Emily gave a great sigh and gathered up some scattered pencils and charcoal sticks. “Very well,” she said. “I suppose we have a reasonable day for it.”
Adelia had not meant for them to head out that very moment. But it seemed that Emily was not immune to flattery, in spite of her outward reaction, and if she were willing to make the concession, then Adelia was happy to accept. It was an olive branch, of a sort. She looked over at Anne, who smiled in agreement.
“Yes,” said Anne. “We can have a happy hour or two tramping through the lanes. Let us head towards the river. It bends and sweeps around, and is the very model of the picturesque.”
Adelia did not want to change into her walking dress and find her sketchbook and spend a “happy hour” slogging along a muddy track. She had rather thought they’d drift out into the garden and draw a few early roses. But there was nothing to be done about it, and anyway, perhaps it would be good to see the area. She reminded herself that she was here to investigate, after all. So she headed off to get changed into more suitable clothing.
The treacherous weather began to swiftly change, snatching away the promise of a pleasant day. The sun slid away behind grey clouds and a chill came into the air.
They walked quickly through the village of Empton and Adelia was appalled at how rundown and neglected it was. The cottages were made of small, rounded cobbles in warm brown stone, with paler flint picking out the window surrounds and adding definition and decoration, but instead of looking pretty, everything was shabby. Few of them had a full set of unbroken windows. Children ran in rags in and out of doors that seemed to hang precariously from their hinges. The blank, slack faces of older adults stared out of gloomy shadows. There were piles of rubbish at the ends of the unpaved streets. There did not seem to be a church at all. Anne told Adelia that it was on a hill, a little way out of the village, “lofty and set apart as if it does not want to be part of this parish.”
Anne pointed out a few more points of interest as they went further. “A mile down there is the railway station. It opened years ago when this place was more … well, just more than it currently is. I don’t know why they don’t simply close it now. No one uses it. Oh, and up that road, do you see the large house and the wall, opposite the woods? That’s where Edwin Calcraft lives, you know, and Bernard says he was a former business partner of Walter Spenning.”
“We are not going that way,” Emily spat out. “Anne, you must be kind to me…”
“Dear Em, we shall not speak of him again.”
Had Emily been “unlucky in love” with Edwin Calcraft? Adelia wondered. Emily had said she had been disappointed in her love life with a local man. Surely that would have been mentioned sooner. She couldn’t ask. Anyway, Emily hated Florence Spenning too, for whatever reason.
Instead, Adelia said, “Where did Mr Spenning live?”
It was another unwelcome topic of conversation as far as Emily was concerned. Was there anything that wouldn’t set the unstable woman off?
“We are not going there, either,” Emily said hastily. “We are out to sketch. We will go this way, to the river.”
“Em, dear, look up at the sky. Don’t you think it’s going to rain? Perhaps we should head back,” said Anne.
But Emily had strode ahead. They had no choice but to follow her.
The black clouds were now gathering ominously in the sky that only an hour ago had been filled with pale sunshine.
Adelia called out, “Miss Johnson, please, look up! I am going to insist that we go back and try this another day.”
Emily was positively stamping her feet. She stopped and whirled around, and looked past Adelia to the looming clouds overhead.
“Oh,” she said as if she had been completely oblivious to the weather until that point. “Oh, bother. Lady Calaway, it seems that you are correct.”
“How quickly the weather turns in this area!”
“It is the season.”
A few fat blobs of rain began to fall. Then, all of a sudden, the heavens opened and with a cold gust of wind, they were in danger of being drenched. Adelia gave a cry and pointed towards a wooden hut that lay further down the road towards the river. It was the only shelter they could see. As one, they ran towards it, and bundled into the dark space and sanctuary that it offered. It was gloomy inside, and smelled of neglect and wood and dust and damp. The floor was dry, however, so the roof was sound.
Adelia went to a long, wide window on the far wall and rubbed at it to make a clear patch in the dirt. It revealed that the river lay just beyond, in fact right up to the wall of the building, and as her eyes adjusted, she could see that there were two more doors next to the window that let out onto the water.
“We’re in a boathouse,” she said, blinking in the shadows. “Although there is no boat here. The roof seems intact, at least.”
“And that is a wonder, indeed,” Anne replied. “For the boathouse’s owner was never known for his attention to upkeep or maintenance.”
“Is this where…” Adelia started to say, and then trailed off in horror.
From the look on Emily’s face, it was obvious. This was exactly where Walter Spenning had died.
There was a very long and awkward moment of silence.
Emily went to the main door and looked out through a slight crack, so that they could only see her back.
“Miss Johnson, are you quite well?” Adelia asked.
“Perfectly,” she replied without turning to look at them. It was impossible to tell, from her flat voice, what she really meant by that.
The rain hammered on the roof. Unless they were happy to get thoroughly soaked and risk being in bed with a fever or chill, they had to stay until the worst of the storm had passed. The storms that came down quickly also tended to pass with just as much speed. Adelia looked around, and Anne drew in close to her.
Anne whispered, “Well, you may as well investigate, I suppose.”
“I feel that I should not, if it upsets Miss Johnson.” Although quite why it upset Emily was a mystery and part of Adelia wanted to pick at that sore, and find out what was behind it al
l.
“To be honest, I don’t think there is much to see here. You should come back with papa and a good lantern. The murder weapon has been taken away by the police, of course.”
Adelia paced the small room but as Anne had said, there seemed to be little to be gleaned from it. She returned to the window and looked through the smeary glass.
“Goodness,” she said in alarm. “I think there is a boat out there on the river right now.”
“Are you sure it’s not a smudge on the glass? Or one that is moored up on a long rope?”
“It’s moving in the centre of the river. Yes. I can see three or four figures are in it. Four! I think one is rowing frantically and another is hanging over the side as if unwell. How curious.”
Anne joined her but it was impossible to make out any detail through the rain-streaked dirty window. Soon the boat and its occupants had spun out of view.
And with that, the rain began to ease.
They took their chance to escape the boathouse and made their way back through pattering rain. By the time they had reached Litton, each one of them was in a sorry and bedraggled state, with mud up their skirts and their hair in lank uncoiled messes curling down from under their hats and bonnets. Even Anne, who had hitherto been sanguine at almost everything that had been thrown at her, examined her boots and made a sad noise.
“They are utterly ruined!”
Emily, who was bending down to unlace her own sturdy boots, muttered, “Well, thank goodness for the trust money, I suppose.”
What trust, Adelia thought in surprise, but she didn’t have a chance to ask. Smith was descending on them with a maid in tow, and Patrick had emerged from a side room to launch himself at his mother, regardless of the mud that coated her. All was chaos, and Smith made some dark prophecies about what would happen if they didn’t all take a hot toddy without delay.
“And the gentlemen have not returned yet, either,” Smith added, looking past them. “We shall become a veritable sanitorium if you all get as ill as you deserve from gadding about in the rain.”
The men were, indeed, having something of an eventful time of it.
On their way back from Mr Calcraft’s residence, Bernard had taken them to see Mr Gordon Macauley who was a jocular businessman with houses in Empton and Norwich. He ushered them all inside with great glee, saying, “My good lady wife has gone to eat your food, Lord Blaisdell-Smith, and therefore it is only right if you come and eat mine. I was about to have a late lunch – my servants always put out a great spread when I’m here – so come and make the most of it, if you haven’t already eaten?”
Even if they had eaten, there was always room for more, especially when it was someone else’s food. Mr Macauley told them about his various investments, his factories, and all of his ventures both successful and unsuccessful.
“The only true failure is the man who never tries,” he said, “So I am a true success indeed for I have failed many, many times! But things always seem to work out in the end.” He asked about Bamfylde and was impressed by his career as an artist, and then turned to talk to Bernard about his latest research. For a man who spent half of his time in Norwich, he still seemed to have a good grasp of what was going on locally.
They had only just finished when Mr Macauley sprang to his feet. “Where are my manners! Lord Blaisdell-Smith, you’re showing these gentlemen all the sights of our little corner of the Norfolk Broads, are you not? Well, what better way to do that than by boat! Come along, sirs, let us get afloat! It is the only way to see this region, I can promise you.” Mr Macauley had as much random energy and passion as Bernard had; no wonder the two gentlemen were friends, in spite of their differing backgrounds.
Theodore wanted to ask Mr Macauley about Walter Spenning in case there was any connection, so he eagerly agreed to the boat trip, although his nautical experience was limited to a few ill-advised escapades on the Serpentine as a youth.
Theodore’s impulsive decision turned out to be a bad one. They had not got three yards out into the river before he was feeling decidedly queasy. He clung to the wooden edge of the boat, vaguely aware it had some technical name like gunwale or possibly spivot, or was it a keel? It was strange how one’s mind turned in odd circles when one’s stomach was spinning in the opposite direction.
Bernard laughed as he saw Theodore’s face, and clapped him on the back, which didn’t help at all. “This is all too soon after eating all that pâté!” he guffawed. “Macauley, we probably ought to not go too far. Anyway, look at the sky. There’s rain on the way.”
“Water above hardly matters when there’s water all around,” Mr Macauley said gnomically. “I say, speaking of water – well, water, Walter, that’s how my mind works – I should wager you’re looking into Walter Spenning’s death, am I right? You are a detective. I have read of you.”
Theodore mumbled, “Mmm.”
Bamfylde was laughing too. He took up the investigation while his father was incapacitated. “Do you think it was murder, sir?” he asked.
“I don’t know what to think. I was a suspect, you know, at one time! Yes, me! Do you remember, sir?” he said to Bernard. “The police hauled me off and everything, but I said to them that I couldn’t have done it. I would have liked to, that’s a fact. But I was at my club that night in Norwich, you know, and plenty of the other fellows vouched for me.”
“But you wanted to kill him?” Bamfylde pressed.
“Yes. We had some nasty encounters in the business world, me and him. I still think he diddled me out of a fair bit of money. But that’s all in the past now. Ten or more years ago, as it happens. I get on well with everyone, these days.”
Theodore thought that Mr Macauley was either innocent, or very cleverly guilty. But he also thought that his head was becoming unscrewed from his neck and his belly was flip-flopping around, so he couldn’t really form a sentence to express his thoughts.
“We’ve just been to see Colonel Calcraft,” Bamfylde said. “He seemed to take against me in an odd way.”
“Odd way? The man is built of odd ways! He’s really rather too prone to fancies and some strange Oriental practices, that man. They say travel broadens the mind. Well, some minds should have stayed a little more closed, if you know what I mean. At least our Lord Blaisdell-Smith’s strange practices are local ones, aren’t they, sir!”
Bernard laughed with a good-natured rumble. He said, “So, if the old chap was murdered, and it wasn’t you who did it – ha! Ha! – then who do you think did do it?”
“Oh, my money is on the widow, that Florence Spenning. If it were murder, which it might not be. Still, if she had done it, why has she stayed here in the village? She’s not an active member of the community at all. She wouldn’t be missed. She should have taken the inheritance and legged it to Paris. No, honestly, I think that it was most likely to have been an accident, just as the police said. I mean, don’t let me put you off in your investigation,” he said to Theodore. “Investigate away! But I think there’s nothing in it, in the end.”
“Miss Johnson also thinks that Mrs Florence Spenning is guilty,” Bamfylde said. Theodore wanted to kick him. Adelia had told him what relation Miss Emily Johnson was to Bernard. Theodore hoped that Bamfylde wasn’t about to put his foot in it.
But Mr Macauley shook his head, and looked up at the sky which had suddenly and rapidly darkened. A gust of wind spun the boat around and he had to fight with his oars to bring them back in line. Theodore hung over the side of the boat as it lurched, feeling a huge sense of regret at the imminent waste of good food.
“Miss Johnson is my wife’s department – you must speak to her about that,” Mr Macauley said. “Heave to, and hang on, men! Look out! The storm’s coming down hard now!”
Theodore clung on miserably and tried to think happy thoughts about warm fires, dry slippers and smooth brandy.
4
The investigation began in earnest the next day. In spite of everyone’s misadventures in the rain, no one
seemed to have suffered any lasting damage except for Emily who remained in her room with a headache, although Anne said this was common enough; Emily spent a great deal of time on her own. Theodore had taken a while to face food again, though, and had only dined on cold toast that night.
He felt better the next morning and made up for the previous day by having two breakfasts.
He noticed that Anne was absent from breakfast. “She will be painting, mostly, I believe,” Anne said when she was pressed on the matter, and Bernard nodded proudly. Theodore had informed by Adelia that Emily was an uncommonly good artist. And that she was a very strange woman who seemed to harbour grudges against everyone.
“Not murderous ones, necessarily,” she had added. “But then, you can never be sure…”
Bamfylde went off to the library. He was not a bookish sort of man but Bernard had a fine collection of engravings and etchings that he was curious to examine. From what Theodore had seen, they were mostly rather grey and dull scribbles of standing stones and the like – they really did all look the same – but Bamfylde could apparent see something in them that Theodore could not.
So only Theodore, Adelia, Anne and Bernard gathered in Anne’s favourite morning room, the yellow light-filled chamber on the east of the house. She sat in the window, soaking up every ray as she sorted through a pile of correspondence.
Adelia took a place at another small half-moon table. As she settled herself, she said, rather casually, “So what is this trust money that Miss Johnson mentioned yesterday?”
Theodore was surprised, as it really wasn’t done to speak of money, even amongst one’s closest family. But he knew that Adelia was concerned. The household didn’t seem to be living in poverty, exactly, but it was hard to see any signs of actual wealth. They kept to a few good rooms, but a large part of the house was mothballed. Theodore supposed that Bernard’s writing didn’t bring in much cash, but it made sense they might have an inheritance or investments or some kind of fund in trust they could draw upon. He was a baron, after all.