The Echo at Rooke Court

by Harriet Smart

  “Dunbar – well, not directly, he is not so insolent yet. He may be more frank with me when he marries Charlotte. That will be his privilege. But he has been pleading my cause, and since he is so much the rising man, they may consider taking on the old fool clinging to his coat-tails if he behaves himself.”

  “Do you really want it on such terms, my lord?” Felix said. “I’m not sure I would!”

  “That is the difference between five-and-twenty and fifty.”

  “They should be grateful to get you on whatever terms you dictate,” Felix said. “And do you trust Dunbar?”

  “Charlotte trusts him, and I trust him enough to let him marry her.”

  “If I were him, I would not give you any quarter,” Felix said. “If you are returned to favour, surely all your experience and connections will make him look raw.”

  “Some would say raw, others will say fresh, and that is a desirable quality. The electors love novelty!”

  “He is only setting up a rival if he helps you, and from everything I have heard of Dunbar, he is fixed on power, at any cost. You should be careful.”

  “You have such a cynical view of politics, Felix.”

  “You cannot try and convince me it is other than a bear pit, not after you have been so battered over the years by men who pretend they are your friends! I do not know how you can stand it.”

  “It does not hurt me so much,” said Lord Rothborough. “And I’m touched by your concern for me.” He studied the paper in his hand for a moment and then let go of it. “Of course, this may all be moot! This business with Lady Rothborough may have sunk me for good in terms of taking office. We live in censorious times, after all, and even if we keep this out of the newspapers, it will be known and held against me. She may even stir the pot. I would not put it past her.”

  “Stir the pot?”

  “A letter or two to the right person outlining my supposed misdeeds.” He got up and went to the window, opening the shutter. “In fact, it is possible that one of her correspondents – and she has many – has told her that I may have visited a certain widow from Santa Magdalena when I was in town.”

  “Do you mean –?” Felix said. “I thought my mother said she would never come back to England.”

  “The situation on the island was unsafe for her. She was obliged to take refuge in London. This was last month, while you were in Scotland.”

  “But I thought that you and she had decided –”

  “Town was empty,” Lord Rothborough said. “But it seems we may have been seen together. An innocent walk in St James Park, that was all. In retrospect foolish, perhaps, but –” He sighed. “It was so pleasant to see her. And she is glad to hear you are settled.”

  “And she is going to stay in London?” Felix managed to say after a moment.

  “She has not yet decided,” said Lord Rothborough. “And don’t worry, we shall not make a scandal. I’m not such an old fool as that. However tempting it might be, these are, as I said, censorious times and I care too much for her to make any such trouble for her. It is wretched, for she had to leave in great haste, and as a result she is living in rather straitened circumstances. But I cannot do anything for her. She will not allow it.”

  “How bad are things for her?” said Felix. Lord Rothborough’s idea of straitened circumstances probably meant managing without a carriage and pair and not giving dinners for more than a dozen. “Would she allow me to help her?”

  Lord Rothborough smiled at that, and then shook his head.

  “She will not allow that either, but I shall tell her you suggested it. She will be touched.”

  “So you are writing to one another?”

  Lord Rothborough did not answer at once, but got up and walked down the room. He picked up a small alabaster figurine of a naked goddess and began to play with it.

  “We find that we are,” he said, replacing the figurine with care on the table. “And as she herself has pointed out, Héloise within the cloister wrote to Abelard. Are we not allowed some solace?”

  “I don’t know,” said Felix.

  “The fact is,” said Lord Rothborough, “the marriage laws in this country are no longer fit for purpose. My wife and I, for example: we do not have a marriage, we have not done for years – I can speak to you about this now, Felix, for now you understand what it means to be married – and it would be immeasurably better for both of us, and for our daughters, if we could dissolve that bond without recourse to sordid fault-finding. It ought to be enough that when a couple have not lived comfortably together for years, when a couple have not been intimate in any sense, when they have lost all sense of common life and purpose, that they ought to be released to seek better and more productive unions!”

  “Are you planning to raise this in the House?” said Felix.

  “I may do,” said Lord Rothborough. “The cruelty of our present arrangements... but you do not want to hear this. I do not want to poison your well with my complaints when the institution is clearly doing you no harm. You look as if you are thriving, I must say!”

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Felix returned to the Northern Office and spent the rest of the afternoon writing up the post-mortem. Major Vernon came in at a little after four.

  “I have these for you to look at,” he said, and presented Felix with a brown paper parcel and a quiver of arrows.

  “More arrows?”

  “Mark Hurrell’s. Or at least taken from his house. The man himself has absented himself and cannot confirm if they belong to him.”

  “That speaks volumes.”

  “It does and it does not. Everyone in the neighbourhood is more than willing to put a noose about his neck, but at the same time they tell me how sweet and charming he is.”

  “What is this?” said Felix, opening the parcel.

  “A blood-stained smock. Found in an outhouse. Stuffed away on a shelf with an intent to conceal. Can you do anything with it?”

  Felix picked up the smock and carried it to the window to examine it properly. “Heavens, but that is interesting!”

  “Isn’t it? The spattering here – it is dense.”

  “It looks like an arterial spurt at first glance,” Felix said, “which would certainly match the position of one of the wounds, if our murderer was facing the victim. Unlike your first hypothesis.” Felix laid the smock down on the table. “In a box somewhere at Hawksby I have the beginning of my comparative study of bloodstains. There is an album of samples of different stains which might be useful.”

  “Then you had better go home and find it,” said Major Vernon.

  Felix nodded, though the idea of going back was not appealing. However, he would at least have something to keep him busy and away from Eleanor. There were a dozen or so boxes to sort through.

  “There is an arrow here which also interests me.” Major Vernon drew an arrow from the quiver that had been marked with red thread. “This one. That must be blood.”

  “Most possibly,” said Felix. “But why did he not clean it?”

  “It looks partially cleaned. Perhaps put away in a hurry?”

  “If that is the weapon, why did he not conceal it better?” Felix said.

  “It does seem foolish,” said Major Vernon frowning. “But we should not be surprised at that. If he killed his brother in a rage, without much premeditation, then the details of concealing the crime may be equally haphazard.”

  “So what do you think happened?”

  “This is purely hypothetical,” said Major Vernon, picking up the arrow again. “But can we surmise that on the Friday at some point, before the rain starts, Mark Hurrell, sufficiently recovered from his wounds, takes his bow and arrow out into the woods for a little sport, perhaps to relieve his feelings? He is probably still angry with his brother. Perhaps he is wearing the smock to protect his clothes, like a sensible countryman of limited means. He has been seen wearing a smock when hunting by Mrs Maitland and Lady Maria, after all. But instead of finding a few rab
bits to shoot at, he finds his brother at his prayers in the old chapel. It would be provoking to see him there, and the idea of getting some immediate redress for his public humiliation may have come over him. It may have started with angry words and gone from there. Perhaps Arthur said something that pushed Mark beyond the limit at which he could restrain himself.”

  “And with one of them being armed and the other not,” Felix said, “one thing led to another.”

  “He has the arrow in his hand and his brother at a disadvantage for once. Hurrell does not even have his coat on to protect him. He is an easy prey and Mark has the perfect opportunity.” Major Vernon then mimed plunging the arrow into Felix’s chest. “Two good stabs and the deed is done.”

  “But not without a fair bit of blood covering them both,” Felix said.

  “Arthur collapses onto the ground and Mark cleans the arrow on his smock or his handkerchief, before dragging the body to the edge of the cliff and pushing it down.”

  “And then he buries the handkerchief, and goes back to the Hermitage and hides the smock. And puts the arrow back with the others.”

  “Perhaps he intended to dispose of them more thoroughly at a later date.”

  “Why did he not take them with him when he left?” Felix said.

  “And be caught with them?”

  “He might have wanted to dispose of them somewhere further away, where the connection would be harder to establish. But to leave them in the house – it is strange, is it not?”

  “Very,” said Major Vernon, laying the arrow down on the table again. “Well, do what you can with them now, Mr Carswell, and we shall see where it leads us.”

  ~

  Giles went to Jebb Street in order to remind himself of the circumstances of the fire, having spent some time trying to construct a plausible sequence of events that might have led Esther Braithwaite – if it was she – to try to burn down a warehouse. She was still a cipher to him, and now, standing in the street looking up at the timbered warehouse and the neat stone face of Wytton’s Bank, he wondered what detail he was missing that would make sense of it all. Had someone already said something of which he had failed to take proper note? Had he been less vigilant than he should because of the business at Hurrell Place? To have two such cases open on his books was both stimulating and troubling. To concentrate on one inevitably meant the neglect of the other.

  The door to the bank now opened, and a man was strong-armed out into the street by a sturdy looking individual in a porter’s coat. With them was the clerk Giles had spoken to previously. He was now attempting to calm the man who had been put out.

  Giles crossed the street to join them.

  “Yes, yes, I shall go!” the ejected man said, putting up his hands and retreating a little as the porter threatened to give him a further shove. “But I shall be back tomorrow, and if you do not –”

  “No, sir,” the clerk replied. “Not tomorrow. You will only be disappointed and there is no point to it. Henry, keep the door closed to him!”

  At which the clerk went scuttling back in, closing the door, and Henry took up his post in front of it. The ejected man eyed him, full of hostility – his fists were balled and he seemed to be considering an assault, at which point Giles thought it best to intervene.

  “May I help you, sir?” he said. “I am a police officer.”

  The man who had been put out turned his angry gaze to him. He was a respectably-dressed man in his thirties.

  “Yes, sir, you certainly may!” he exclaimed, speaking in the local accent. “This place – they will not –” He glanced around him furtively and then added, in a furious undertone, “Give me my money! And you,” he said, turning to the doorman, “I should not be put out like a ruffian! You may think you are serving your master, but I’m your master! I am a depositor in this bank and I demand that –” He broke off, glancing around him again. “This is not a matter for the street, Lord help me, but –”

  “No, sir, certainly it is not,” said Giles. “Perhaps we should go into this coffee house and you can tell me what the difficulty seems to be?”

  The man agreed and they went into the coffee house. They sat down in the privacy of a red-curtained booth.

  “I am Major Vernon, the Chief Superintendent of the Northern Intelligence Office,” Giles said, having ordered the coffee. “And you are, sir?”

  “Nathanial Dyson,” said the man. “Wool merchant. I was with Hurling and Co but I am making my own way these days.” He took out a neatly engraved card and laid it on the table. “And it’s a honour to meet you, sir – the famous Major Vernon, eh? I have read all about you in The Bugle.”

  “You should take all that with a pinch of salt,” Giles said, opening his notebook. “Now, you said you are a customer at Wytton’s?”

  “Yes. I don’t have all my money in there. But I have a tidy sum there – some of it my wife’s.” He rubbed his face and sighed.

  “And you asked to make a withdrawal?”

  “Yes, and this is what I cannot fathom. Well, I can fathom it, and the fates have sent you my way, sir, for there is a stink there, I’m sure of it. I was not so sure at first, but now...” The waiter brought the coffee and Dyson drank his down in one gulp, winced at it and then ordered another.

  “A stink?” said Giles. “What makes you think that?”

  “Last Thursday I went in and asked to clear out most of my money. They were very civil, as usual, and said to come back the following day and it would be ready for me. It is a matter of two hundred pounds, give or take a shilling, and I was happy to come back and collect it on Friday, except that when I went on Friday they hadn’t got it ready for me, which was vexing, but I thought I would come back today. So I did and I left it until the afternoon, and it still was not ready! Now I’m not wanting to kick up a fuss, but it’s not the largest sum and they’ve had all the benefit of it for a couple of years, at least. They ought to have been able to hand it back to me in three days. I was not expecting the interest on it – I told them to leave that be, such that it is – not the best rate, no matter what they say – and so I left it and then, this afternoon, I am treated like a damned dog by the head clerk, and told I don’t have any money in the account, that it had been closed three month ago, and did I not remember? Which of course I did not, never having done such a thing. I tell you, Major Vernon, if I had two hundred in cash I would have remembered it!”

  “That is curious. Why did you want to take out the money in the first place?”

  “Ah yes, sir, that’s the interesting point and that’s why I smell a stink, although I pray to God I am wrong, for it is the last thing trade in the town needs now. I heard something which set me wondering. I was in Axworth last week. I go there about once a month, buying mostly, and I was talking to customer of mine, an honest fellow, and he was convinced that Wytton’s was about to –” He glanced about him again and said in a low voice, “Go down. Plumb down.”

  “Axworth?”

  “Yes. At first I took it for an Axworth man speaking ill of Northminster, as they do, and as we do of them. But he was in earnest. Said he had heard it from a sound man, his own family doctor.”

  “Who also has funds in the bank?”

  “No, not at all. He’d heard it from a patient. That Wytton’s was about to fail, that they had not enough money to cover their deposits.”

  “Did he give you the doctor’s name?”

  Dyson thought for a moment. “I can’t be sure of it. Perryman, I think – he’s a well-known man in the town. Been in practice there for years.”

  “But you did not speak to him in person about this?”

  “No, and I know it was just a rumour, but I thought I would take my money from Wytton’s just in case there was any truth in it. Discreetly. I know how these things go. And at first, I thought they were just being slow, as these places sometimes are, but then to be told I had already taken out my money and closed my account! I swear to you, sir, I have done no such thing, even thoug
h that damned clerk showed me the ledger page with my name crossed out. I was never so shocked as when I saw that!”

  “I can imagine. I shall certainly go and ask them about it, Mr Dyson.”

  Giles left Dyson to his second cup of coffee and went back to the bank. He had hopes of seeing Lord Wytton there, but found the head clerk instead. He was at work in Mr Pierce’s office.

  “Mr Dyson closed his account,” he said, after Giles had told him what Dyson alleged.

  “Can you show me the evidence of that?”

  “Of course, Major Vernon. It may take a while to find the correct ledger.”

  “I am happy to wait.”

  “As you wish, sir. Excuse me.”

  Giles was left to contemplate Mr Pierce’s office. He would have liked to conduct a thorough search, but he had nothing tangible enough to warrant this. The clerk returned with a large ledger, stamped Depositors. He opened it at the ‘D’ tab and began to turn the pages.

  “Do you have any recollection of this account being closed?” Giles said. “It’s dated three months ago, I see.”

  “No, I don’t. We do a lot of business, you see, sir, and I have been working in a different department.”

  “But it is a large sum?”

  “Not for us, sir,” said the clerk. He squinted at the ledger for a moment and sighed. “I think that is Mr Fred’s hand. He must have done it. He would have been able to tell you.”

  “Do you keep a list of recently closed accounts?” Giles asked.

  “No, I don’t believe we do, sir.”

  “But you would know how much has been withdrawn from individual accounts being closed? Would it not need to be marked as a form of loss?”

  “That is a matter for the Directors,” the clerk said after a moment.

  “Of course,” said Giles. “But you would notice if there was a higher than usual number of accounts closed?”

  “I don’t know what you are driving at, sir.”

  “Well, just glancing back a few pages, here, I see that there is another account closed here, Mrs Dixon, twenty-five guineas paid out on the ninth of June. Now when did Mr Dyson close his – yes, June twelfth?” He would have turned a few more pages on, but the clerk intervened.