Ghosts of Mayfield Court

by Russell, Norman

  So near, thought Jackson, and yet so very far away. He glanced at Sergeant Bottomley, who placed his hand over that of the old clergyman.

  ‘It’s all very interesting, sir,’ he said, ‘this story that you’re telling us, about Gabriel Forshaw, and how you saw him one night running along the drive of his house towards the road. Why was he running, sir? Was someone chasing him?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Bottomley, someone was chasing him, a dark, vengeful figure, bearing down upon him. He raised something in his hand and struck poor Gabriel down. Then I heard voices – the vengeful man had been joined by another – and saw that Gabriel’s body was being dragged back into the shadows towards Waterloo House. That’s how I knew he had been murdered.’

  ‘And where were you staying in Upton Carteret when you saw this happen?’

  ‘Well, Mr Jackson, I was staying with Mr Forbes, who ran the Congregational chapel there in those days. I was conducting a little preaching mission there before I embarked for Africa. Did I tell you about that? I went out there, just in time to see the coffin of the man passed off as Gabriel Forshaw. But I knew it couldn’t have been he. Oh dear! I did nothing. I wanted to forget it all, you see.’

  ‘And where do you think I shall find the body of young Gabriel Forshaw?’ asked Jackson.

  ‘I expect it’s somewhere in the burnt-out ruins of Waterloo House. But don’t bother yourself about it, Mr Jackson. It’s all past history, now. Leave well alone.’

  ‘Sir,’ Jackson said, ‘when I first met you, you were sitting in the churchyard at Upton Carteret. What were you doing there? Were you staying with the Congregational minister?’

  ‘Oh, dear me, no! There not been of chapel of that kind in Upton Carteret for many years. No, I was staying with my sister and her husband as a more or less permanent guest. They’re very kind, you know. Very indulgent of a foolish old fellow like me.’

  ‘And can you give me the names of your sister and her husband?’

  ‘Why, certainly. This has been very pleasant, Mr Jackson, meeting you again. But I don’t think I like sitting in this shed very much. I wonder could we go back to the house, now? It will be lunchtime soon, and they keep a good table, you know.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Jackson, ‘we’ll go now. And the names of your sister and her husband?’

  ‘My sister is called Lady Carteret, and she’s the wife of Sir Leopold Carteret, Baronet, of Providence Hall. Did you say you’d been to Africa? No, well, it’s very hot, and very dusty. Not a bit like Exeter, even in the summer.’

  In the back room of an alehouse in the shadow of St Mary-le-Bow, the three police officers conferred. Evidently the landlord was well known to Inspector Blade. He had ushered them into the empty room, and returned in a moment with three glasses of draught bitter. Blade had given him 1/3d, and told him to keep the change.

  ‘I’ll not leave your old clergyman alone to the tender mercies of that hypocrite,’ said Blade, sipping his beer. ‘I don’t know whether he’s a lunatic or telling the cold, sober truth, but he’s been put away there because he can’t control his tongue. Did you make any sense of his story, Mr Jackson?’

  ‘Oh, yes, Mr Blade,’ said Jackson. ‘I know exactly what he was talking about. That young man, Gabriel Forshaw, was murdered, so that someone else could inherit his fortune. Sergeant Bottomley and I believe that the murderer was a woman, the same woman who, nearly thirty years later, did away with Mr Maximilian Paget at his house in Saxony Square, on your patch. Our murders in Warwickshire – and there were many of them – are directly connected with your murder.’

  ‘Well, Officers,’ said Blade, ‘I’ll help you all I can by keeping a close eye on any developments here in London. Have you consulted your superintendent about calling in Scotland Yard? Or am I being a bit premature, as they say?’

  ‘If we have to, Mr Blade, then of course we will. But I think at the moment we know what has to be done. One important fact we learned today is that the Reverend Mr Hindle is the sister of Lady Carteret, of Providence Hall. That is very interesting, because when I called on Sir Leopold Carteret he blandly assured me that he’d never heard of anybody called the Reverend Walter Hindle – the man who is, in fact, his own brother-in-law.’

  ‘What will you do?’

  ‘I intend to unsettle Sir Leopold Carteret, Baronet, and his good lady, by conducting a very open and public search of the ruins of Waterloo House, which is very near indeed to his country seat. Maybe we’ll find the remains of Gabriel Forshaw; maybe we won’t. But what we will do is unsettle Sir Leopold Carteret and his wife – give them the jitters, if that isn’t too vulgar an expression – and then Sergeant Bottomley and I will launch our offensive against him. Where else could Mr Hindle have been staying when I met him that day in the churchyard, but at his brother-in-law’s house? Sergeant Bottomley and I have been following that hidden fortune all over Warwickshire, and here in London. I’m more and more convinced that its final resting-place is Providence Hall, in the village of Upton Carteret.’

  ‘And where is your homicidal woman?’ asked Inspector Blade. ‘The woman whom poor Mr Paget invited to his house, only to be poisoned by her? Where is she? And, more to the point, who is she? You and I have both got warrants out against her, but we don’t know who she is.’

  Sergeant Bottomley, who had fortified his beer from the battered flask of gin that he carried in the tail pocket of his overcoat, suddenly spoke.

  ‘As for that, sir,’ he said, ‘we may not know who she is for certain, but the guvnor and I have a pretty shrewd idea who she could be. And we do know what she is: a woman who must be in her late sixties, a lady in speech and bearing, according to Mrs Milsom, the housekeeper in Saxony Square. Asking your pardon, sir, for speaking out of turn.’

  ‘There’s one woman in this case who so far has only been a name,’ said Jackson, ‘and that woman is Lady Carteret, poor Mr Hindle’s sister. I’ve met her husband, but I’ve never set eyes on her. I wonder, with Sergeant Bottomley: is she a lady in her late sixties, well-spoken and lady-like? And does she know that her own brother has been shut up in a shady nursing home? You’ll see the way our thoughts are tending.’

  Inspector Blade rose to his feet.

  ‘I wish you well, Mr Jackson,’ he said. ‘Meanwhile, I’ll arrange for a constable to keep an eye on Dr Morrison’s nursing home. Nothing must be allowed to happen to that muddled old gentleman.’

  ‘Sir,’ said Sergeant Bottomley, after Inspector Blade had taken his leave of them, ‘I don’t like the idea of a single constable standing guard over that place. He’ll be no match for those people. I was wondering—’

  ‘Yes, so was I, Sergeant. I’m catching the afternoon train to Warwick. You’d better stay here and conduct your own investigation as you think fit, and if you can, rescue that poor old man from the clutches of Dr Morrison and his cronies. If you don’t, then I very much fear that the Reverend Walter Hindle will not be long for this world.’

  11

  Catherine’s Narrative: An Interlude of Impertinence

  ‘Catherine, will you put down that magazine and listen to what I am saying?’

  I was half successful in stifling a sigh of vexation as I abandoned the copy of The Lady that I had been reading. I had been grateful when Marguerite had offered to accompany me to Mrs Forster’s boarding-house in Bournemouth. Marguerite was much older than I, and in some ways more worldly wise, except in the matter of spiritualism, which she approached with a naïve enthusiasm.

  The week’s holiday at the seaside had been an excellent idea, but Marguerite never really left me to rest and recuperate. If I went for a stroll in the gardens, or along the promenade, she was there beside me, talking about Uncle’s murder, and the resultant police investigation.

  We had returned home on the twenty-seventh, and Marguerite offered to stay with me for a few days, in order to make herself ‘useful’, as she put it. And now there was to be another interruption – something to stop me relaxing in my own sitting room in Saxony S
quare with my favourite magazine.

  Somewhere in the depths of my mind I detected a very faint warning: Marguerite was beginning to establish an ascendancy over me. As yet the idea was tentative, but it rankled. We had been friends and equals, but the relationship was undergoing a subtle change.

  ‘What is it, Marguerite?’ I asked.

  ‘I think that now is a convenient moment, Catherine,’ she said, ‘to tell you what Michael and I think about your situation. Your uncle never liked me, but I have always had your happiness at heart. And, of course, so has my brother. But there, I needn’t tell you that, need I?’

  ‘So what is it that you and Michael think?’ I asked.

  ‘We are both convinced that you should take no further interest in this business of your uncle’s murder. You told Michael such a lot of things – things about a great fund of money that some terrible woman is trying to secure for herself at any cost. You told him about murders committed in the past – dreadful things, that someone like you shouldn’t concern yourself with.’

  ‘But Marguerite,’ I replied, ‘you can hardly expect me to forget all about my uncle’s murder! While that remains unsolved, I must retain an interest.’

  ‘Well, yes,’ she said, ‘and I quite understand you receiving visits from Inspector Blade. But you told Michael that you’d written a letter to some rural detective whom you met when you went to stay in that tumbledown old house in Warwickshire. Why get yourself involved with him, and the cases he is investigating? Give it all up, Catherine. Let the police do their work, and report when all’s over. Start looking to your future, and leave the past alone.’

  It is difficult, even now, to express in writing how impertinent I felt these words to be. There was nothing tentative about Marguerite’s suggestion: it carried an intimation of scolding, as though I was a little girl in the nursery, and she my disapproving nanny.

  ‘It’s very kind of you and Michael to take such a close interest in my affairs,’ I replied, ‘and I can assure you that I have no intention of becoming an amateur sleuth. You’ve given me sound advice, and I’ll think about what you’ve said. And there’s an end to the matter.’

  Marguerite shot me a glance, a curious, speculative look, but said nothing more. She wandered from the room on some errand of her own, and I returned to my perusal of The Lady.

  So Marguerite had metamorphosed from friend to mentor. And she and Michael had discussed my life and my present situation behind my back. Marguerite was a chatterbox, but Michael? He was, I felt sure, about to ask me to marry him. Well, it ill became a man to discuss his lady-love with a third party, however close in blood. That, too, rankled. When next I saw him, I would tell him so.

  There was a picture of Archduchess Stephanie wearing one of the new high-collared shirt-blouses with what appeared to be a man’s spotted tie – it interested me hugely, as did the rather boyish boater that she was wearing. But soon my attention wandered again to my late uncle, and his guilty secret – accessory to more than one murder, and living all his later life in terror of the murderess.

  If only I could have seen that woman! But fate had decreed that I should be out at the theatre on the very day that she called at our house on her murderous errand! How I regretted having asked Michael to take me to the theatre that afternoon! If only—

  I let the magazine slide unheeded from my lap on to the floor. It was not I, but Michael, who had suggested that theatre visit. But what of that? What difference did it make? A chill breeze rustled the trees in the garden of Saxony Square, seeking its way through the half-open sash window. I got up from my chair and drew the window down.

  I lingered for a moment, watching the few solitary people walking along the shale paths behind the protecting railings. There were a few loiterers, too: men and women with nothing to do on a working weekday but lounge about in public open spaces. There was a man standing almost motionless beneath the centre oak, seemingly looking up at the windows of our terrace, a man with a yellow overcoat and a battered bowler hat…. It was with a sudden rush of delight that I recognized him: it was Detective Sergeant Bottomley, my friend and guide to the mysteries of Mayfield Court.

  ‘I’m very pleased to see you again, Miss Paget,’ said Sergeant Bottomley. ‘I’ve been watching your house more or less all this morning.’

  He and I were sitting in Uncle’s study, with the door closed, so that we could not be overheard. I had wanted Marguerite out of the house, and had sent her off in a cab to the circulating library in Oxford Street. It was only when her cab disappeared from sight that I had opened the window again, and beckoned to Mr Bottomley to come over to the house. It was Milsom’s day off, so I had gone downstairs and opened the door to him myself.

  ‘I received your letter, miss,’ he continued, ‘and was shocked, but not surprised, at the sad news that it contained. In a moment, we’ll share our knowledge of what all this business is about, but first, I’d like to know who the youngish lady was who left your house in a cab about fifteen minutes ago. Nicely dressed, and well turned out, but looking none too pleased with herself – or with somebody else, perhaps.’

  ‘That was my friend Marguerite Danvers,’ I replied. ‘She’s gone to the library in Oxford Street.’

  ‘Gone, has she? Or was she sent?’ I saw the twinkle in the sergeant’s eye, and smiled an acknowledgement of his perceptiveness.

  ‘And is she the sister of your Michael – begging pardon, miss, for being so familiar?’

  ‘She is. As I think I told you, Michael is a doctor, working at St Thomas’s Hospital here in London. The three of us have been friends for quite some time. We like to go on excursions together to theatres, concerts and the like. Uncle Max didn’t like Marguerite, because she was so very keen on spiritualism, but he wholly approved of Michael. But now I have something to show you that will reveal the terrible truth about the fate of Helen Paget, and a good deal more, besides.’

  I rose from my chair and brought my uncle’s last letter to me for Mr Bottomley to see. I watched him as he produced a slightly bent pair of wire-framed spectacles from his overcoat pocket, and read the letter, silently mouthing some of the words as he did so. Occasionally he ran a finger along a line where Uncle’s writing had become a little uncontrolled. He put the letter down, and held his head in his hands for quite a minute. I realized that he was committing most of the letter to memory.

  ‘Nothing of what your uncle had written there surprises me,’ he said at length. ‘The guvnor and I had already deduced much of it from other evidence that we’ve examined. There’s a mass of fact and speculation waiting for us to make full sense of, miss, and I’m going to tell you all that Mr Jackson and I have discovered about the Forshaws, and what happened to them, and about little Helen.’

  Sergeant Bottomley proceeded to tell me about the examination of the little skeleton at Mayfield Court, the mortal remains of a child which we both knew were those of Helen Paget. I still mourned for that child, and in my mind confused her often with the forlorn little ‘ghost’ whom I had seen at Mayfield, and whose hand Mr Bottomley had held. He told me of Inspector Jackson’s experiences at Upton Carteret, and finally of his discovery of the aged clergyman, held a virtual prisoner in a London nursing home.

  ‘We’re on the threshold of solving this case, miss,’ he concluded. ‘We believe that the wicked woman – the harpy, as your uncle called her – is a titled lady living in Warwickshire. Very soon, we should be able to bring her to justice, and so lay the ghosts of Mayfield.’

  ‘A titled lady? Do you mean the woman who came here, bent on murdering poor Uncle Max? Oh!’ I suddenly recollected seeing one of Uncle’s letters waiting on the hall plate to be taken to the post box. Lady Carteret….

  ‘It’s a Lady Carteret, isn’t it?’ I cried. ‘My uncle wrote a letter to her not too long ago – it was to a house called Providence Hall, somewhere in the country.’

  ‘That’s right, miss. And when your uncle wrote that letter, he unwittingly summoned his murder
ess to come with her poisons and her subtle wiles to Saxony Square.’

  It was my turn to tell Sergeant Bottomley of my visit to the solicitor. All that I had to tell him merely confirmed in his mind the conclusions that he and Mr Jackson had already reached.

  When he rose to leave, he stood looking at me gravely for so long that I began to feel alarmed.

  ‘I’ll leave you, now, Miss Paget,’ he said, ‘and before I go I want to give you a solemn warning. Don’t speak to anyone about what you and I have discussed today. Somebody once said that knowledge is strength, but knowledge can also be danger. Above all, don’t tell Dr Michael Danvers or his sister. One is more or less your fiancé and the other the friend you’d normally share secrets with, but if you tell them what you know, you may be exposing them to danger. So in this instance, miss, keep your own counsel – and therefore mine, as well.’

  He left me, then, and I sat in Uncle’s chair, possessed of a growing unease for which I could not account. That day, his legacy of suspicion and murder sat heavily upon me.

  Marguerite returned to the house an hour after Mr Bottomley had left. She seemed her usual cheerful self, with no trace of the unwelcome intrusion into my affairs that had so vexed me earlier. She brought with her a number of library books, secured with a leather strap: Richard Jefferies’ Toilers of the Field, J.K. Jerome’s Told After Supper, and Olive Shreiner’s Dreams.

  At four o’clock Milsom brought us tea and buttered scones, and Marguerite read me the first pages of Dreams. Anything by Miss Shreiner is worth reading, and as Marguerite read to me – she read well – I felt my earlier annoyance receding. She left just before five, and I felt very glad that she did so with my fondest, though unspoken, regards.