‘You think Sinclair’s dead?’ I stopped swivelling.
‘I think his death was the intention from the start.’ He was unravelling balled-up sheets of paper and laying them in a pile on the desk. I moved to help, I didn’t make any reply because he was probably right, but I couldn’t help feeling we should have done something to stop it.
‘There’s nothing out of the ordinary, here.’ Swift stood back, regarding the waste paper we’d untangled. ‘Where would he put a note?’
‘In his pocket,’ I replied.
‘Yes, damn it, why didn’t you think about that earlier. This is probably a complete waste of time.’ He began pulling open the doors of the drinks cabinet and rooting between the bottles. I’ve no idea why.
I returned to sit in the swivel chair. Fogg had a sniff around and discovered there wasn’t a hint of mouse or biscuits anywhere.
‘We’d better go.’ Swift stood up and ran fingers through his hair. ‘He could be anywhere. The estate is enormous.’ His dark eyes suddenly fixed on something. ‘Wait, move the chair, Lennox.’
‘Why?’ I stood up again and pushed it aside. It was heavy, made from steel and padded leather, and rested on small castors that raised it just above the dense pile of the carpet.
‘Look.’ Swift bent to retrieve a small ball of tightly crumpled paper.
He uncurled it with a delicate touch. It was as thin as onion skin and yellowed with age. It bore a scrawled note that had been written as though in haste. ‘Sinclair, I’m at the workshop. Randolph.’
‘Randolph!’ The hairs rose on the back of my neck. ‘Perhaps Lady Millicent really did see him.’
‘Nonsense.’ Swift was more prosaic. ‘The notepaper must have been taken from his rooms. Someone wrote this message on it to lure Sinclair out.’
‘Yes…’ I stared at it over his shoulder. Despite Swift’s cold logic, it still felt as if a ghost had returned.
‘Come on, at least we know where he was going.’ He placed the paper carefully in his wallet and headed for the door.
‘Direct everyone towards the workshop.’ Swift barely broke his stride as he called to Billie, who was standing to attention at the bottom of the staircase.
‘What… I mean, pardon sir?’ he called. ‘Why?’
‘Sinclair was meeting someone there,’ I told him in passing as we exited the front door with a very excited little dog at our heels. ‘Inform Lady Penelope.’
The fog was dense, clammy and cold. Somewhere high above us, the sun was trying to break through, but at ground level we could barely see a yard ahead. It didn’t take long to turn the corner of the house and cross the formal gardens to the folly. Grey shadows could be seen moving near the indistinct structure.
‘Don’t tell anyone about the note,’ Swift said sotto voce.
‘I wasn’t going to,’ I hissed back.
‘Hello,’ Swift called out. A clamour of voices responded.
‘We can’t find him, it’s hopeless,’ Lydia replied.
‘Oh, thank goodness you’re here.’ Persi turned towards us, her face as worried as everyone else’s.
‘Did you bring your dog?’ Jerome was with them.
They were on the steps of the folly, all in warm country wear. Even Jerome had changed out of his usual tailored suit and put on wellington boots.
Max stepped forward. ‘Could you take your dog along the lakeside? He might find a scent.’
They obviously weren’t acquainted with my dog.
‘Sinclair was going to the workshop,’ Swift announced.
Incredulity showed on their faces.
‘How do you know?’ Jerome recovered first.
‘What on earth for?’ Persi asked.
‘He was meeting someone.’ Swift was calmly taking command. ‘Where’s Finn, isn’t he with you?’
‘He usually sleeps until late,’ Jerome answered the question. ‘We didn’t see the point in waking him.’
‘You mean, you didn’t,’ Max retorted.
‘Mama will send someone for him,’ Lydia added tactfully.
The tension was simmering beneath the surface, fracture lines were already beginning to crack open.
Swift was watching them as closely as I was.
‘We’ll go to the workshop.’ He led off, although I doubt he knew the way.
I hung back to fall in step with Persi.
‘Hello, old stick.’
‘Hello.’ She slipped her hand in mine.
Lydia turned to see us and smiled.
The workshop was closed up. Early morning cobwebs wove a dew laden lattice across the doors, proof that it hadn’t been touched since nightfall.
‘We’ve already searched around here,’ Max said.
‘Do you have the key?’ Swift demanded.
‘Yes, but you can see it hasn’t been opened today,’ Max protested. ‘If you want to waste time poking around in there, I’ll unlock it.’
‘Is there another entrance?’ Swift wasn’t giving up.
‘No.’ Max was adamant.
‘There isn’t, truly,’ Lydia called out in support.
Swift gazed at the muddy ground. ‘Are these your footprints?’
‘Yes,’ Jerome replied as everyone looked down at the puddled mess outside the door of the workshop.
‘We walked around the perimeter,’ Jerome told him.
‘Well, now I’ll do it.’ Swift went off, I went with him. It didn’t take long to circle the building and return to the door.
‘Find anything?’ Max asked.
The look on our faces probably made that plain.
‘What about your dog?’ Jerome was insistent.
‘Right.’ I looked down at my little mutt. ‘Fogg, phezzie, off you go, find the phezzie,’ I ordered him. Phezzie being the word to go and search for something.
He cocked his head, then turned and ran off into the mist. Moments later we heard the sound of splashing and ducks quacking in alarm. I called him back, he didn’t come. The quacking continued.
Swift turned to rattle out orders. ‘Jerome and Max, you two come with me to the boathouse. Lennox, you go to the castle.’
‘Right, come on, Persi, Lydia.’
We walked quickly up through the copse of sweet chestnut trees, their drooping yellowed leaves clinging to dark twigs. Drips fell onto our heads and shoulders as we trod through the mist-shrouded silence.
The castle was at its most beautiful, its towers lost in the white haze.
‘Oh, it’s such an age since I was here,’ Persi exclaimed.
‘We should have a picnic when the sun comes out,’ Lydia declared.
‘Lydia…’ I reminded her.
‘Oh, yes, Sinclair.’ She went off to look inside the banqueting hall.
We searched under bushes and amongst the ruins. I ran up to the ramparts and peered over them; there was no sign of Sinclair. We scouted about for ten more minutes before regrouping in the castle courtyard.
‘It sounds as though they’ve got the boat running.’ Persi pointed to the lake where the engine could be faintly heard in the distance.
‘And your dog’s barking,’ Lydia told me.
‘He’s probably found more ducks.’
‘He sounds quite excited,’ Lydia continued.
‘Fine, we’ll go and see.’
We left the castle and walked in the direction of the noise. Foggy was near the boathouse. The mist had begun to thin along the shoreline, but was still dense and swirling beyond the banks. I saw the flash of his golden coat in the reeds.
‘Fogg,’ I called him, he turned to look at me, and gave a yip.
‘I’ll go,’ Persi volunteered. She was moving towards the high earth bank, which fell steeply away to the waterline.
‘No, he’s my dog.’ I sat down and tucked my trousers into my boots. I stepped onto the tightly grown reed bed, thick black mud oozed up around my soles.
‘Be careful,’ Lydia called, which didn’t help.
I went slowly, searching out f
irmer spots and sinking in the mire when I took a wrong step.
‘Fogg, come here, good boy.’ I tried cajoling him, which made no difference. He was balancing on a floating mass of reeds and lilies, I saw what had set him off, it was a man’s brown leather shoe. I reached out to grab it, then caught my little dog and squelched back to the bank with him firmly under my arm.
‘What is it?’ Persi called out.
‘Poor little doggie,’ Lydia cooed, I’m not sure her mind was really on the search at all.
I put him down and followed him, my boots thick with cloying mud.
‘He found a shoe.’ I showed them.
‘Oh, it’s Sinclair’s.’ Lydia’s face suddenly paled as her hands flew to her mouth.
It wasn’t a surprise, but it brought a cold shock of reality to the morning. The sound of the motorboat grew louder, I could barely discern it in the dense fog blanketing the water.
‘Lydia, is that you?’ Jerome’s voice called out.
‘Lennox?’ Swift shouted.
‘Yes,’ I replied loudly. ‘We’ve found a shoe.’
The boat came closer, it emerged from the mist and halted a few yards offshore. I could make out Swift and Jerome in the cockpit, Max was behind the wheel.
‘We’ve found Sinclair,’ Swift called.
Chapter 16
‘Is he dead?’ I shouted across the water.
‘Yes, of course he is,’ Swift retorted.
‘Where is he?’ Persi asked.
‘On the island,’ Jerome replied. He sounded miserable.
Swift started rapping out orders. ‘Persi take Lydia back to the house, and inform the police. Lennox, meet us at the dock.’ He ordered Max to return to the boathouse and they motored away.
I turned to Persi. ‘Lady Penelope will have to be told.’
Persi’s face fell. ‘Oh, she’ll be devastated.’
‘We’ll tell her together,’ Lydia told her. ‘We’ll be brave.’
Persi nodded. ‘Yes, but it’s dreadful.’
‘Would you take Foggy?’ I asked. ‘He hates dead bodies.’
‘Oh, can I?’ Lydia stooped to pick him up. ‘Dear little doggie, perhaps I can have one of my own now.’
I was bemused by her reaction. She may not have liked Sinclair, but his death was a shock if nothing else.
Persi caught my eye and gave her head the briefest of shakes. ‘You’d better hurry, Heathcliff.’
I hesitated, thinking to give her a reassuring hug, but she’d turned away, so I set off at a jog. I reached the entrance to the boathouse as Jerome was coming out.
‘Make sure they telephone the police the moment you reach the house,’ Swift called after him.
‘Of course I will,’ he replied as he dashed past me to catch up with Lydia and Persi.
Max was holding the boat against the dock, the motor purring quietly. It was a handsome craft and I admired it once again.
‘Come on,’ Swift called. ‘We’ll make a proper examination this time.’
‘How did he die?’ I asked, once I’d clambered aboard.
‘We’re not sure,’ Swift replied as Max steered the boat expertly back out into the misty water. ‘We didn’t land, it was clear he was dead. I thought it was more important to come and report the news.’
‘Was he drowned?’ I continued.
‘It didn’t look like it.’ Swift was staring ahead into the fog and turned to me. ‘He was wearing a life jacket.’
‘A life jacket,’ I exclaimed. ‘Why?’
He didn’t answer.
Max had increased the boat’s speed with a smooth, easy touch; he was evidently skilled in its handling. ‘Nearly there,’ he said. ‘I’ll land at the jetty.’
The island emerged in the mist. I’d only seen it from a distance; it was larger than it had appeared from the castle. The jetty was built onto a rocky finger, reaching into deeper water. Max switched off the engine and let the boat drift in to butt gently against a simple dock of wooden planks. He hopped out and tied the bow line neatly to a brass cleat, before fastening the stern. I noticed the rope was wet.
‘He’s on the south side,’ Swift walked along the planking and strode confidently on. I followed, Max brought up the rear. We crossed the wide grassy centre, fringed with cultivated shrubs and weeping willows. It was the perfect spot for a picnic on a sunny day; swimming in the lake, sipping champagne and feasting on tasty delicacies prepared by your own chef. I could imagine how tempting such a life must be.
We arrived at some rocks, a stoney path led up to a small plateau overlooking a strip of sandy beach.
‘Wait.’ Swift turned to Max. ‘Stay where you are. Lennox, we need to scan the scene first.’
‘Fine,’ I agreed, though unsure what he meant.
‘Look for footprints or anything out of place.’
I stood and scanned. There was nothing peculiar, apart from the corpse, of course. No footprints, discarded gun, knife or weapon of any sort. The body was lying half in and half out of the water; the sand around him undisturbed, it looked as though he’d washed up rather than scrambled of his own volition. I climbed down the rocks and walked across the beach. Swift followed, grumbling about making fingertip searches and such nonsense.
We came to a halt beside the earthly remains of Lord Godolphin Sinclair, his bulky form and forceful presence already diminished by death. He was lying on his back, his eyes bulged, his cheeks were mottled purple and blue, his mouth had pulled back as though he’d been gasping for breath. The tendons on his jaw and neck were tightly clenched, his hands were hooked like claws above his chest.
‘What the devil was he doing out on the lake?’ I muttered.
Swift wasn’t ready for questions. ‘We need to pull him up onto the shore.’
‘Fine.’
We grabbed him under the arms and heaved until the body was almost clear of the water.
Swift knelt down. He pulled out a magnifying glass and used it to peer at the life jacket. It was made of green canvas and had been pulled up under Sinclair’s chin.
‘Was he drowned?’ Max had followed us and now leaned over Swift’s shoulder.
‘Please move away,’ Swift ordered without looking up.
‘Look, I had nothing to do with it,’ Max muttered, then stepped back and shoved his hands in his pockets.
Swift put the magnifying glass aside and began carefully untying the fastenings at the front of the life jacket.
‘They’re tightly knotted.’ I watched him closely.
‘Yes, more than you’d expect,’ he remarked as he patiently fingered them apart.
‘He was clawing at it,’ I said quietly, so Max couldn’t hear. ‘There look.’ I pointed at scratch marks on the life jacket.
‘I saw,’ Swift replied.
I bent to prod the wet canvas, it was stuffed like a cushion.
‘Kapok,’ I remarked.
‘Cork is more bouyant.’
‘It’s only a lake, Swift.’
He finally pulled apart the ties on the life jacket and opened it up. I observed Sinclair’s sodden navy-blue suit. It was crumpled and wet, like the rest of him.
Swift pushed his fingers into Sinclair’s top pocket. ‘Just a handkerchief.’ He tugged it out and pushed it in again, then flipped the lapels aside. There weren’t any signs of injury on the white shirt; no bullet holes, stab wounds or blood. He searched the rest of the pockets and linings.
‘A few coins, no wallet – it may have fallen out.’ He lifted the hands next. ‘He’s very cold to the touch.’
‘The water’s freezing,’ Max remarked, he’d moved forward again.
‘Yes, but he has no residual body heat,’ Swift replied. ‘Max, go and wait on the rocks.’
Max went off, muttering under his breath.
‘So how long has he been dead?’ I asked.
‘I don’t know, over two hours.’ Swift was scrutinising one of Sinclair’s hands with the magnifying glass. ‘There’s mud and fibres under the finger
nails.’
‘The fibres are probably from the life jacket,’ I remarked.
‘Yes, or a rope,’ he replied quietly.
‘There’s some blood on his head.’ I’d walked around to the other side of the corpse.
Swift peered over. ‘Just tip him this way, would you?’
I disliked touching the dead, but rolled Sinclair over to his side anyway. The body was stiffening already.
Swift watched. ‘There’s no water coming out of his mouth.’
‘Does that mean he didn’t drown?’ I held Sinclair in place. He wobbled a bit.
‘It makes it less likely, but only a post-mortem will prove it.’ Swift didn’t move. ‘Just keep him still, would you, Lennox.’
‘Right, but hurry up.’
He leaned over to observe the back of Sinclair’s skull. ‘There’s a swelling near the temple and a minor contusion on the crown. Two strikes on the head.’ He was lifting portions of Sinclair’s wet hair aside with the tip of his pen. ‘Most of the blood from the wound has been washed off in the water. It’s already congealed, he must have been alive when it happened.’
I let the body fall back and stood up.
‘Both his shoes are missing,’ I remarked.
‘He must have struggled,’ Swift muttered, then turned to shout to Max. ‘Could he swim?’
‘Yes, he was a strong swimmer,’ he called down. He was standing up on the rocks, irritated but calm and not distressed at all.
‘You don’t think he drowned?’ I asked Swift quietly.
‘No, I think he had a heart attack.’
‘Perhaps he saw a ghost,’ I remarked.
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Lennox.’
I sighed and glanced at the water where Sinclair’s stockinged feet were lying. It was crystal clear and free of the black oozing mud on the lakeside. Small fry darted among the stones, the surface was as still as glass, not a ripple or wave disturbing it.
Swift straightened up. ‘We’ll go back and bring the police over when they arrive.’
We made our way up the rocks to where Max was waiting.
‘Someone should stay with him,’ Max said. His apparent consideration surprised me.
‘If you want to,’ Swift replied.
I looked out over the misty lake. It would be a lonely spot with only a corpse for company.
The Tomb of the Chatelaine: A 1920s Country House Murder Mystery (Heathcliff Lennox Book 6) Page 15