The Echo at Rooke Court

by Harriet Smart

  “And he was dead?”

  “Yes. Powell went down – he kept calling to the dog to come back because he was barking, and Powell was worried that he had been caught in a trap or some such. So he climbed down the slope to get him, which was not easy because it was raining so heavily and the slope had turned into a river of mud, and suddenly he was shouting back that he had found Mr Hurrell. I could scarcely believe it, and I scrambled down myself and nearly turned my ankle doing so. And there he was, lying there in a heap, all twisted about and caught up in the roots and the branches...” He pressed his hands to his face for a moment.

  “If it is any comfort to you,” said Major Vernon after a moment, “there is nothing you have described that means this death is in any way suspicious. An accident can produce the most disturbing effects, can it not, Mr Carswell?”

  “Certainly,” said Felix.

  “I understand what you are saying, sir,” said Stapleford, straightening, “and I have tried to think that myself, but the more I consider it, I am sure...” He shook his head again, and gazed out of the carriage at the rain. “May God and you gentlemen prove me wrong!” he said.

  ~

  Arthur Hurrell’s corpse had been brought back to Langdon Rectory where it had been laid on the dining table.

  The room was consciously austere, as if Hurrell, on taking over, had attempted to make a monkish refectory out of the previous rector’s dining room. However, the cheerful yellow and white wallpaper with Italian ruins and lounging shepherds remained, a curious contrast to the large and graphic crucifix hung above the sideboard. Someone had lit candles and arranged them on the mahogany board as if it were an altar.

  “Why could they not have left him where he was?” said Felix, pulling back the sheet that covered him.

  “In this rain?” said Major Vernon, pulling open the shutters and putting up the blinds.

  “True,” said Felix, surveying the body.

  Arthur Hurrell lay in shirtsleeves and black waistcoat. His face was covered in mud, as was his white clerical stock and shirt front.

  “What happened to his coat?” said Major Vernon, joining Felix at the table. “Did he go out without one?”

  “It’s here,” said Felix, spotting a black coat draped over two dining chairs in the corner. He felt the sleeves. “It is soaked through. He must have been lying there for some time.” He turned back to the cadaver. “We need to undress him. And some water and rags would be helpful.”

  “I’ll go and arrange it,” said Major Vernon. “And make sure no one disturbs us.”

  Felix continued with his superficial survey until Major Vernon returned, servant-like, with a jug and ewer and towels draped over his shoulder.

  “Anything?” he said.

  “We have wounding of a sort,” said Felix. “But it is rather curious. Can you help me with this, and the shirt? I want to keep them intact.”

  Together they set to the awkward business of removing the dead man’s clothes.

  “Rigor well set in, you will note,” Felix said. “Which means we can hazard a guess that the time of death was yesterday. Perhaps in the afternoon.”

  “Before the rain came on?”

  “Perhaps,” said Felix, reaching for his hand lens. “These are our culprits.” Now the shirt had been taken off, the two abdominal wounds he had identified earlier were clear to see. “Here and here.”

  “Knife wounds?” said Major Vernon.

  “I would have said so at first, but there is something about them –” He crouched and peered at them. “A knife wound is usually elliptical, with the sharp side – the cutting edge of the blade – quite evident, but the flesh is torn all about here. Do you see?” He passed the lens to Major Vernon.

  “Yes. And the other the same?” Felix nodded. “A dagger?” Major Vernon went on.

  “Perhaps. And turned about and then pulled out,” said Felix. He mimed the motion, trying to picture it in his mind.

  “But you cannot say for certain?”

  “Not at this stage. It may become clearer,” he said. “But that is certainly the cause of death. There is a great deal of post-mortem bruising and bleeding, as you can see – a result of the body rolling down the slope.”

  “So he was dead before he was pushed down the slope?”

  “I should say so. After being wounded at close quarters.”

  “A face-to-face attack?” Major Vernon said. “Or if he were on his knees, I suppose his attacker might have come up behind him and reached over? Is that possible?”

  “That’s an interesting idea, and plausible,” said Felix, “given that the wounds are on the left side.”

  “Kneel down,” said Major Vernon.

  So Felix did as he was bid and found himself gazing up at an old painting of the Virgin Mary and an extremely ugly Christ Child. A moment later, the Major came up behind him, hooked his left arm about his neck, restraining him and pulling him back, exposing him perfectly for an attack on the abdomen.

  “More than plausible,” said Major Vernon, sinking back on his own heels, having mock-stabbed Felix twice. “So this is efficient and ruthless. To take a man at his prayers – that says something about the character of our murderer, does it not?”

  “And these fellows will make a martyr of him, given their tastes,” Felix remarked.

  “A nest of Romans,” said Major Vernon, looking about him at the paintings. “They are talking of crypto-Catholics in the neighbourhood.”

  “I cannot imagine,” Felix went on, getting back on his feet, “what possesses an apparently sensible, not unintelligent man like Stapleford to get involved in this sort of” – he gestured about him – “business. Yes, we need our clergymen, but can they not be calm and civilised about it, like your brother-in-law?”

  “Enthusiasm is the fashion,” said Major Vernon.

  “When the benefits of science are laid out for them! Why the devil must people retreat into mere superstition? I cannot comprehend it! To throw back all the benefits of knowledge in favour of –” He broke off.

  “They would probably say the Devil is at the heart of it,” said Major Vernon.

  “The Devil is a construct made to keep us in servitude,” said Felix. “I have never believed in him!”

  Chapter Fifteen

  The rain came on strongly again as they made their way into the Hermitage woods. They took with them Mr Powell and his terrier. Powell seemed to Giles an unlikely addition to the ‘monastery’ at the Rectory; he was as handsome in his way as Stapleford, but was dressed in the sensible clothes of a countryman and clearly not much bothered by the intense downpour. He had good command of his sturdy little dog and went striding along the narrow, twisting path ahead of them.

  “I tied my handkerchief about the nearest tree,” said Powell. “I thought you might want to see exactly where he fell.”

  “Thank you, Mr Powell,” said Carswell.

  “What did you think of Mr Hurrell?” Giles asked. Powell did not seem noticeably upset by Hurrell’s death.

  “Everyone will tell you he was a saint,” said Powell, “and I suppose it depends how you define such things. But I don’t know – one ought not to speak ill of the dead, but I was beginning to feel uncomfortable here. My parents did not want me to come, and –” He broke off and gestured up to the right. “The old chapel is up yonder; there is a sort of a path and we had just come down it, to this spot here, and Billy set up barking and went hurtling down there.” Now he pointed out an opening on the left hand side of the path and took the eager dog in his arms to restrain him. “I assumed he was after a rabbit.”

  “And presumably all this undergrowth was hacked down when you brought him up on the hurdle?”

  “Yes, that was Joe’s doing – he’s the gardener at the Rectory. He helped us get him up, which was no easy task. I wondered if we should have left him there,” he said, turning to Carswell. “I think that is what you fellows prefer, from what I have read, but Stapleford said it was disrespectful. Bu
t what is disrespectful about trying to find out the truth of the business? Still, I let him have his way.”

  Carswell nodded, and then squatted down at the edge of the path, peering into the undergrowth.

  “In all honesty,” he said, “I don’t suppose much would have been gained in leaving him in situ. He was dead before he got down there, that much I can say.”

  Giles glanced at Powell, who had covered his mouth with his hand, as if disturbed.

  “Who would do this?” he said after a moment. “I know he wasn’t an easy man. I was angry with him, I will be the first to admit that, and I don’t suppose I was the only one.”

  “Why were you angry with him?” said Giles.

  “It was about Billy,” said Howell, fussing with the dog in his arms. “He didn’t care for Billy and Billy didn’t care for him. A man is entitled not to like another man’s dog, that I can’t quibble with, but to dress it up as a spiritual reproach! Are we not supposed to care for all God’s Creation? Billy is as worthy of my love as my fellow man, surely? But Hurrell was all for fasting and self-denial and taking it a sight too far, if you ask my opinion. And celibacy – that was another thing. He was pushing us all towards Rome, that’s the truth of it, and I for one was not ready for that. Stapleford might be, but I am not! I was going home today. I had had enough. I would be on my way already if we had not –” He turned away. “You’ll want to look over the chapel, there’s a bit of shelter there,” he said. “Shall we?”

  And he started energetically up the path.

  “When did Billy start barking?” asked Giles, following him. It was a steep, tight climb up to the chapel, and the undergrowth was showing some signs of damage. He found himself wondering how a fatally wounded Hurrell had got down the path. Had he been escaping, staggering down away from his assailant, or had he already expired and been pushed down?

  “In the chapel, now I think of it,” said Powell.

  “Damn this rain,” said Carswell, coming up behind them. “How is one to see anything?”

  “Fortunately, we have a smart dog,” said Major Vernon. “Put Billy down, would you, Mr Powell? Let us see if he can still pick up the scent.”

  Powell obliged; Billy began to run about energetically, and then started to bark excitedly and scrabble at the earth.

  “What have you found there, you clever boy?” said Powell. “What is it?”

  The dog had a piece of white material, heavily muddied, between his teeth. Powell detached it and handed it to Carswell.

  “Man’s handkerchief,” Carswell said, shaking it out and studying it. “Those patches might be blood.”

  “Any markings?”

  “M.H.,” said Carswell, passing it to Giles. It was a fine linen handkerchief, with the initials beautifully embroidered. At the other corner was a rose, equally neatly done.

  “Property of a gentleman, would we say?” said Giles. “Made by an affectionate woman, perhaps?”

  “And discarded as too incriminating,” said Carswell, taking it back from Giles. “I am certain that is blood.”

  “Then you had better take it back to Northminster and see if you can make any more sense of it with your microscope. And let us get out of this rain.”

  They returned to the Rectory, thoroughly sodden. Here Mr Stapleford informed them that Mr Willoughby had been taken ill. Carswell went up to see to him while Powell chivvied the servants into making up fires and bringing refreshments.

  “There is no reason why we should be uncomfortable,” he said, “is there?”

  “None at all,” said Giles.

  “You and Mr Carswell can take your ease in here,” he said, opening the door to a small sitting room. “You will need to talk privately, I expect. I had better go and see to poor Stapleford. He looked wretched. He has taken this hard, but in the end it will all be for the best. All this –” He broke off, shaking his head, and left Giles alone.

  Carswell came in a while later and was glad of the coffee, the fire and Powell’s good sense.

  “What is wrong with Willoughby, then?” Giles asked.

  “It’s nothing serious,” Carswell said, stripping off his wet layers. “He has a predisposition to acute dyspepsia and the situation has brought it on. He is a strange fellow, though. He was almost enjoying the pain he was in, or at least enjoying the chance to suffer. He did not want my advice on how he might avoid it in future. He wanted me as an official witness to his suffering. Ridiculous. Well, that is his choice, I suppose.” He bent over the fire, now in his shirt sleeves. “To be a slave to something like that when –”

  Giles spread out the handkerchief on the table. Carswell glanced round at him.

  “Mark Hurrell, do we think?” he said.

  “Morten Hurrell?” Giles said.

  “Who would embroider roses on his handkerchief?” said Carswell.

  “His late wife or one of his daughters?” said Giles. “Poor man. To have to bury six children and a wife.”

  “And only the black sheep left,” said Carswell. “Who will inherit everything now, I imagine.”

  “Mark Hurrell,” said Giles. “Yes, true. And he was violently and publicly humiliated by our victim. That would be a serious provocation for a certain kind of man. I shall have to go and talk to him – but perhaps we should wait until the rain clears a little.”

  “I’ll go and have another look at the body while there is still some light,” said Carswell. “There may be something I missed earlier.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Alone with his thoughts, Giles took out Emma’s letter and began to re-read her description of the village sports and of Mark Hurrell. He was interrupted soon after by a knock at the door.

  “Major Vernon?” It was Mr Willoughby, arrayed in an elaborate and gorgeous crimson damask dressing gown with pointed red slippers to match. “Forgive the intrusion. I must talk to you.”

  “Of course,” said Giles, folding up Emma’s letter and wishing she were there to see the sight of the pale, slight young man in such a splendid raiment. He looked like a boy cardinal from some dark Italian intrigue. “I’m glad you are feeling better.”

  “A little. It is a habitual condition with me. The slightest anxiety sets it off – and this day has been –” He broke off, closing his eyes and putting his head back, clearly attempting to master himself.

  “Come and sit down, Mr Willoughby,” said Giles, setting a chair for him opposite his own. “What do you wish to tell me?”

  The young man shut the door behind him and settled himself, with some care for his silken skirts. Then he leant forward and said quietly, as if afraid of being overheard, “I wish to tell you – that however shocking this event has been, I cannot say I am wholly surprised. I have been afraid for some time that Arthur’s life – Mr Hurrell’s, I mean – has been in danger.”

  “What makes you think that, Mr Willoughby?” said Giles, reaching for his notebook.

  “You are going to make notes?” said Willoughby.

  “Yes?”

  “I cannot allow that,” said Willoughby.

  “I’m afraid I am not so young and nimble-minded as you,” Giles said. “It’s a necessity.”

  “No, no,” said Willoughby. “This conversation must be entirely off the record – as if it had never happened, so to speak.”

  “And why is that?” said Giles.

  “Because – it is a little difficult to explain to a layman, but the importance of what has been occurring in the Church recently cannot be overestimated. We are at a great moment in history, Major Vernon, and the forces at work here – they are stronger and more dangerous than you can imagine. I therefore insist that this conversation is entirely off the record.”

  “I’m afraid I cannot agree to that,” said Major Vernon. “My professional experience has shown, many times over, that when a person asks for no record to be made of a conversation, it is to avoid incriminating himself. Now, I don’t think that is your intention, Mr Willoughby, is it?”

 
“No, of course not!” said the young man, flushing a little. Then he drew himself up and said, “My intention is to protect Mr Hurrell’s legacy, and it is my strong belief that the forces against us are powerful ones. It does not do to let certain information into the wrong hands, and I wonder if I am wise even to speak to you –” He crumpled up his face and bent forward a little. “Oh, excuse me, sir –” he gasped.

  Giles attempted to push aside the idea that this was an elaborate feint, and feel a little pity for him, but he could not. There was something about Willoughby that struck the wrong note.

  “Do you need something?” he said, wishing he had Carswell there to examine him again. He was an expert in detecting confected illnesses.

  “No, no,” said Willoughby. “It will pass, God willing.”

  So there was an uncomfortable interval while Willoughby writhed and muttered to himself.

  “Excuse me,” said Willoughby at last. “It is just that when I think of what may be at work here – and I had hoped to make you understand how grave the situation is, but it seems –”

  “Then make me understand,” said Giles, closing his notebook. He felt it necessary to concede that.

  “Thank you, sir. I am sure that when you hear what I have to say to you, you will understand my caution, and I thank our Lord for your wisdom and patience.” He closed his eyes for a moment, made the sign of the Cross and then fixed his large, pale blue eyes on Giles with a watery but curiously intense gaze. “The difficulty for you is that you only knew Mr Hurrell slightly. If you had more acquaintance with the man and his ambitions then you would understand what has been lost. So I shall try in the first place to address this, though it can only be an imperfect sketch. However, I can say with some confidence that Arthur Hurrell will be remembered in the coming centuries as one of the great men of England – no, he will be seen and loved as one of the Saints. He was a man who, had he not been taken from us, would have brought England back to the loving embrace of Rome.”

  “I see,” said Giles.

  “I sense your disapproval, sir,” said Willoughby. “That is to be expected. Your eyes are not yet open to the necessity of this. But with time, because of God’s Grace, you will see it too, and join us in our crusade. As you come to know what and who Arthur Hurrell was, you will see him as a saint martyred to a great cause, a cause to which every loyal and truth-loving Englishman must turn if he wishes to save his country from the Devil!”