Ghosts of Mayfield Court

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by Russell, Norman

‘Yes, Doctor, we know who he is. Sergeant Bottomley and I have work to do, so I’ll bid you good morning. Come on, Sergeant. Let you and I go now to Barbary Court and beard that hypocrite Morrison in his den.’

  ‘I cannot believe it! Cannot. He was here at dinner yesterday evening, wasn’t he, Nurse?’

  ‘Yes, sir, and then he retired to bed. He seemed quite happy and contented, poor old man. He didn’t come down to breakfast, and we assumed that he had decided to sleep in. He was very old and frail, Inspector.’

  ‘I’ve sent an orderly to check the doors leading into the alley at the back of the premises,’ said Dr Morrison. ‘Oh, it’s impossible! Are you quite sure that it was the Reverend Walter Hindle that you found?’

  ‘Yes, Doctor,’ said Inspector Blade. ‘It was him without a doubt. And he’s dead. Drowned in the Long Water in Kensington Gardens.’

  The door of Morrison’s office opened, and a man wearing a short white linen jacket entered the room. To Blade’s eyes he looked more like a discharged waiter than a medical attendant.

  ‘Sir,’ the man stammered, ‘the little door beside the kitchen had been left unlocked. The key’s still in the wall-box. That’s how Mr Hindle must have contrived to get out. Maybe he wanted to go for a walk, or to catch an omnibus. Half the time he didn’t know what he was doing, poor old gentleman.’

  ‘But it was your duty to see that all doors were locked at night, and only opened after breakfast. And now a patient has died. He must have got as far as Kensington, walked through the gardens, felt faint, and fallen into the water. You are to blame, Higgins. You are dismissed. Collect your week’s wages from the porter, and go.’

  The man, hanging his head in shame, left the room.

  ‘A nice little play, Sergeant,’ said Blade, when they were out in the street. ‘They’d all learned their parts, and delivered them superbly. We’ll leave them where they are for a while, and when the time’s ripe, we’ll sweep up the whole gang.’

  ‘I don’t think Mr Hindle was there at all, sir,’ said Bottomley. ‘I think that after our last visit they got the wind up, and moved him to some other house. It’s just a feeling I have.’

  ‘You may well be right, Sergeant Bottomley. I’ll look into it. Meanwhile, I suggest you resume your watch over Miss Catherine Paget. I wouldn’t like to have another murder done on my patch. She’s a brave young lady, but bravery can make people do foolish things. Watch over her.’

  1 The Calton Papers

  13

  Catherine’s Narrative: Lady Carteret’s Story

  On 4 September I received a letter from Lady Carteret. It was only five days since Sergeant Bottomley had called, and told me of his suspicion, shared with his inspector, that this titled lady had murdered Uncle Max.

  The envelope was of the best cream-laid paper, with the coat of arms of the Carteret family embossed on the flap. I opened it, and found a page or two of bold writing, signed at the bottom with a fine flourish of penmanship: Bella Carteret.

  I held the letter unread for quite a minute. Was this woman mad, to write to me? But then, why should she think that I knew anything about her nefarious doings? She had no way of knowing that I was now an intimate of Sergeant Bottomley. My curiosity got the better of me, and I began to read the letter. I have it still, and reproduce it here.

  Providence Hall

  Upton Carteret

  Via Monks’ Stretton

  Warks

  31 August

  My dear Miss Paget

  We have never met, and so you may well be surprised to receive a letter from me. However, there is something that weighs heavily on my mind, and I can no longer sustain it without sharing the burden with you. I believe that absolute frankness is essential. Please read on.

  I am the woman who called upon your uncle, Maximilian Paget, on the afternoon that he died. As you will know, he had recently inherited an old property at Mayfield, in this county, and he had been good enough to grant my written request to search in the muniments of that property for a long-lost deed belonging to my family, which had been lodged there by a distant relative many years since, and then forgotten.

  Your uncle was successful in securing this document, and wrote to me, inviting me to call at your house in London, both to receive the document, and to have a talk over old times. I had known your uncle well when we were both younger, but had long lost touch with him.

  I called, as I think you know, but for family reasons I did not want to be announced, and wore a veil to conceal my features. Your uncle duly gave me the deed, and tea was brought in. It was then that he told me of an atrocious murder that his late brother Hector had committed, a murder of which he had full knowledge, although he had not himself participated in it. He began to talk wildly, and I became frightened.

  To calm myself I poured us out another cup of tea, and saw him put some kind of tablet into his. I thought it was medicine of some kind. He drank the tea, and immediately cried aloud and expired. He had committed suicide. I did not know what I was doing at that moment. I picked up the cup, which had fallen from his hand, and put it back on the saucer. I heard a noise in the house, and fled to my waiting carriage.

  I told no one of this, and I have since heard from my servants and others that ugly rumours are circulating about me, rumours that could redound to the detriment of my dear husband, Sir Leopold Carteret.

  Will you come down to Upton Carteret and talk to me? I will show you the deed that your uncle retrieved, and you will see that it is an innocuous proof of title to some of the fields bordering our demesne. Come and stay for a few days; my husband is very anxious to meet you and, I hope, reassure you. If you feel nervous at the idea of coming to Providence Hall, then by all means bring a friend, who will be welcome too.

  There is nothing viler, my dear Miss Paget, than unsubstantiated rumour and suspicion. Do say that you will come. Write to me by the next post.

  Ever yours sincerely

  Bella Carteret

  Suicide? Could this woman be telling the truth? I was in my sitting room overlooking Saxony Square gardens, admiring the steady morning sun, and the attractive architecture of a London square. I enjoy trips to the country, but I am a Londoner at heart.

  I remembered everything that Sergeant Bottomley had told me, and was grateful for his warnings; but would it be right to show him Lady Carteret’s letter? The assertion that Uncle had committed suicide was basically reasonable: my uncle had been in a very curious, fatalistic mood when I had last seen him, as though he were quite certain of the fate that was awaiting him. He had been anxious that Michael and I should leave him for the theatre – was that anxiety linked to a secret determination to do away with himself?

  I would accept Lady Carteret’s invitation. Hitherto, she had been nothing but a name. If I saw her in her true role as chatelaine of Providence Hall, the wife of a baronet of ancient noble family, then I would, perhaps, be reassured.

  But I would take her advice, and come with a companion. I looked down from my window into the square, and saw Michael crossing the roadway towards my house. He had rather too stridently criticized my receiving Sergeant Bottomley, and interesting myself in the case, and Marguerite had abetted him in a way that bordered on impertinence. But who better than my fiancé to accompany me to Providence Hall?

  ‘No, Catherine,’ said Michael, when he had read Lady Carteret’s letter. ‘I’m very strongly opposed to this. You don’t know these people. What if you are walking into some kind of trap? Leave it alone. If I were your husband, I would forbid you to go. As your fiancé, I can only plead with you to show some common sense. Do not reply to that letter.’

  Once again, I felt the spirit of rebellion stirring in my soul. What gave these men the right to lord it over women as though they were some kind of inferior creature?

  ‘On the contrary, Michael,’ I replied, ‘I have every intention of going. You are not my husband yet, and I shall do as I like. Will you come with me or no?’

  He flushed, but I d
etected a secret admiration for my stance. I could see a kind of satisfaction in his eyes. He was not marrying a ninny!

  ‘Very well, Cath. I’ll come. But I’m going as a guard, not a guest. I’ll leave you now, and get back to the delights of the dissecting room. Will you write today?’

  ‘Yes, and Milsom can post the letter to catch the midday delivery. Thanks for agreeing to come. This lady may be right: I wondered myself at times if Uncle Max would do something of the kind. Remember, in that letter he left for me, he accused himself of complicity in a great moral crime.’

  NOTE. Ten years is a long time, but the events of those weeks stay vivid in my memory. I was foolish beyond measure, but I was still only twenty, and very sure of myself. How fortunate I was to have a male friend at Providence Hall! Without that good fortune, I doubt that I would be here today, with my doctor husband, and my two little children. Fate can play strange tricks.

  (March 20, 1905)

  We set out together for Upton Carteret on the following Thursday. On receipt of my letter, Lady Carteret had sent me travelling instructions by return post. There was a daily train at 10.45 a.m. from Paddington to Copton Vale, in Warwickshire, where we were to change to a local train for Monks’ Stretton. A carriage would be waiting for us there.

  It was hot and stuffy in the train from Paddington, and once out of the seemingly endless suburbs Michael drew down the window. We had decided to travel first class, and we were the only occupants of the compartment. He had bought himself a copy of the Morning Post from the bookstall at Paddington, and gave it a cursory glance before throwing it down on the seat beside him.

  ‘Cath,’ he said, ‘do you really believe this Lady Carteret’s story about witnessing your uncle’s suicide? Milsom said that when she found him he was still alive, and in the last stages of toxic spasm. But Lady Carteret said that he was dead when she left the room.’

  ‘Either of them could have been mistaken,’ I said. ‘It was a terrifying moment for both of them, and they may have misinterpreted what they saw.’

  Michael shook his head dubiously, and was silent for a while. The train’s whistle emitted a warning shriek and then plunged into a tunnel. When we emerged into the light, we found ourselves travelling along on the skirts of a vast tract of woodland.

  ‘Milsom said that there was terror in your uncle’s eyes. She said he uttered a shriek—’

  ‘I know, Michael,’ I said, rather testily, ‘but it may be exaggeration on her part. Let us postpone judgement on the matter until we have heard Lady Carteret’s side of the story.’

  I was all for being fair, you see. I had received an excellent education at a private school for girls, where we had learnt of the merits of examining both sides of a question before rushing to judgement. I have since perceived other ways of tackling issues, both those of an intimate nature, and those that concern the public interest.

  Michael, who had resumed the reading of his newspaper, suddenly uttered an exclamation of shocked surprise.

  ‘I say, Cath, look at this! Do you remember telling me about an old clergyman whom Inspector Jackson met in a churchyard? He saw him just a few days ago, in a nursing home somewhere near Pewterers’ Hall. Listen to what it says here.

  ‘“This Friday last, the drowned body of a Dissenting clergyman, given as the Reverend Walter Hindle, was retrieved from the Long Water in Kensington Gardens. Inspector W.P. Blade, ‘C’ Division, who is in charge of the case, does not think that the unfortunate gentleman’s death was an accident. Foul play is suspected, and we are confident that Mr Blade will bring the perpetrator speedily to justice.” What do you think of that?’

  I shook my head, but said nothing. This poor old man, I knew, was involved in the whole complex matter of the Forshaw inheritance, but I knew nothing in detail. I was very sorry – no, I was outraged, as I always am when the innocent suffer – but at the same time I thought: well, whoever murdered him, it was not Lady Carteret. No ingenious theory could lay that crime at her door.

  At last, the train drew up at a long wooden platform, where a notice announced that we were at Monks’ Stretton Halt. We alighted, and were met by a liveried coachman, who told us that his name was Andrews. He took us down a short incline and on to a narrow road where a carriage was waiting, its horses both chafing at the bit. Andrews told us that we would be at Providence Hall in just under half an hour.

  It was pleasantly cool, sitting in the open carriage, with a light breeze blowing across the ploughed fields lying beneath sheltering tracts of woodland on either side of the road. We came to a village, which Andrews told us was Upton Carteret, but before we came to the main street he turned the carriage away and on to a narrow lane which ran behind an old church. Quite abruptly, we entered a deer park, and a few minutes later we found ourselves coming to a stop on the flagged forecourt of Providence Hall.

  I confess that I was for a moment overawed by the grandeur of the ancient Tudor mansion, long and low-roofed, with black and white timbers and diamond-paned windows. Towards the east, the old building abutted on to a Georgian extension in Cotswold stone. I was only a short time on the forecourt, but it was time enough to realize that Providence Hall and its surrounding demesne spoke of wealth and prosperity. For a fleeting moment I recalled the dilapidated and wretched Mayfield Court. These two houses, I mused, belonged to different worlds.

  Michael and I were received in the cool, flagged entrance hall of the mansion by a butler who was very obviously part of the established order there. I learnt later that his name was Hopkins, and that he had been in Sir Leopold Carteret’s employ for over twenty years.

  It was Hopkins who preceded us into the drawing room, a spacious Elizabethan chamber furnished in a mixture of antique pieces contemporary with the house, and comfortable modern furniture and draperies. It was a beautiful, welcoming room.

  It was here that I got my first glimpse of Lady Carteret. I had built up a picture in my mind of the woman whom my uncle had called the ‘harpy’, and had seen her as a kind of sere and yellow hag with a vicious mouth and a dangerous, half-mad voice. I could not have been more mistaken.

  I learnt later that she was sixty-five, but she looked many years younger than that. Her beautifully tended hair was still black, and her complexion, innocent of artificial aids, was flawless. She was wearing a morning gown of pale blue crêpe-de-chine, with one of the new halter necks. She had been standing before the great open fireplace of the room, and came forward to greet us as we entered. As we were expected, we were not announced.

  ‘My dear Miss Paget,’ said Lady Carteret, ‘I am so glad you agreed to visit us. And this young gentleman is your fiancé, you told me in your letter. You are very welcome, Dr Danvers.’

  Her voice, that of an educated lady, was both charming and welcoming. It was from this point that I began to think that Sergeant Bottomley and his superior – how odd it was, that I could never remember his name – were mistaken in their belief that this titled county lady was a deranged murderess.

  ‘Hopkins will take you up to your rooms,’ said Lady Carteret. ‘When you have refreshed yourself, please come down here for coffee. Perhaps I can begin to discuss things with you then. Sir Leopold is visiting one of the farms just now, but he will be back well in time for lunch at one o’clock.’

  She motioned to Hopkins, who had stayed in the room, and we followed him back into the entrance hall, where two liveried footmen were standing beside our luggage. We went in procession to our rooms on the first floor; they were at the front of the house, overlooking a formal knot garden.

  When we were ready, we met each other on the landing. Michael looked very thoughtful and, as we descended the stairs, he whispered, ‘She doesn’t look much like a harpy, Cath. I wonder— Well, I wonder whether those two policemen friends of yours could have gone badly wrong.’

  I was secretly inclined to agree with him.

  Morning coffee was brought in by a very young and demure maid, who set it out carefully on a low table near t
he fireplace. She looked timidly at Lady Carteret, who gave her a little nod of approbation, upon which she curtsied and left the room.

  ‘The housekeeper’s making a very good little servant out of that girl,’ said Lady Carteret. ‘It’s hard to get decent maids out here in the country. Leah is the daughter of one of our farmers. She was delicate as a little girl, not really fit for farm work. So we were glad to take her on.’

  Michael and I were sitting on a sofa, with small tables placed conveniently at hand. Lady Carteret rose, and poured out the coffee.

  ‘How do you like it, Miss Paget?’ she asked, and I told her that I liked a small drop of milk but no sugar. Michael was given his cup with sugar and milk. Evidently, mere men were not to be asked!

  Lady Carteret sat down in her high-backed brocade chair, and sipped her coffee in silence for a while. I looked round the tastefully furnished room, noting how its Tudor features – the great stone fireplace, the large expanse of diamond-paned windows, the coffered plaster ceiling – had been complemented by fine modern furniture. Old and new blended admirably. Lady Carteret followed my glances with her own eyes.

  ‘When I first came here, Miss Paget,’ she said, apparently reading my thoughts, ‘this room was overfilled with ugly, oversized Tudor and Jacobean stuff. Most depressing! Fortunately, my husband readily agreed to my schemes for refurbishment here. Later, perhaps, or maybe tomorrow, you must see what we did in the Regency rooms.’

  I looked at Michael, who gave what I will describe as the ghost of a shrug. Like me, he was bewildered. Could this cultured lady possibly be the ‘harpy’ who had murdered my Uncle Max?

  Lady Carteret put down her cup, and gently relaxed in her chair. I noticed how she contrived to sit upright, so that her grace and elegance were not compromised.

  ‘Now, my dear,’ she said, ‘tell me: is your fiancé completely in your confidence?’

 

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