by Ann Granger
‘She wrote to tell me he’d been found shot dead in his bed. She had no other information.’
Dunn sniffed. ‘No doubt Mrs Ross will be deploying her investigating skills even now. Well, you will know, then, that his valet found him dead the morning following the dinner party. A weapon, a duelling pistol, was found lying on the coverlet, fairly recently discharged. The weapon is one of a pair of such pistols, property of the deceased. They were kept in the library and occasionally displayed to visitors. Therefore their existence and whereabouts were common knowledge. Meager could not have imagined anyone would use one of them to kill him, or he’d have taken more care to keep them properly locked away in a gun cabinet or safe.
‘That is the trouble with country houses,’ Dunn added in a kind of controlled fury, ‘too many weapons of death available. Age-old blunderbusses displayed above the fireplaces, military men’s favourite service revolvers lying around, to say nothing of articles for use in hunting, shooting, fishing and, on this occasion, murder.’
‘Now the coroner has ruled that someone did shoot Meager, there must be some reason for it,’ I pointed out.
Dunn grunted and scratched his head of bristly hair to signify agreement. ‘I can understand the coroner’s ruling. Apart from the suspicious absence of a farewell letter such as people usually leave if they kill themselves, the forcing of the lock of the drawer in which the pistols were kept indicates another hand fired the pistol. Apparently, the deceased occasionally kept correspondence in the same drawer, anything he didn’t want lying about for curious eyes to read. Thus it was kept locked, and Sir Henry kept the key on his watch chain. This means he would have had no need to break in. Inspector Hughes took possession of the watch chain and has established that the key is still on it. The coroner made much of that. Nor does there seem to be any motive for suicide. The coroner was pretty insistent about that, too.’
I ventured to say, ‘Families don’t like verdicts of suicide, sir. The coroner may have been under some pressure to bring in the murder verdict. The local parson would have been entitled to refuse burial in consecrated ground for a suicide, and no local family would want that. There is probably a family plot in the local churchyard. Although the coroner could have decided that the balance of Sir Henry’s mind was disturbed at the time. Then he could be buried without any fuss.’
Dunn nodded. ‘You are right, of course, but there is no known reason why he should commit suicide. All who knew him, and that includes the coroner, consider it quite out of character. Oh, and families – county families – don’t like doubts raised about the balance of the mind. Any suggestion of madness in the bloodline, you know, would set the cat well and truly among the pigeons. No, they want this cleared up quickly, and they want a murderer found, someone to blame. That, Ross, is why they are so keen to have the assistance of Scotland Yard.
‘Now then, in normal circumstances, your former acquaintance with Beresford, and your wife’s presence at the house before the death occurred, would mean you would not be sent to investigate. Personal involvement can sway any man’s judgment. But, I repeat, we are dealing with a set of people who close ranks against outsiders. They have a marked objection to answering questions about their private affairs, since they consider such inquiries to be impertinence. But Beresford and others might, just, be prepared to talk to you. Only keep in mind, if you can, that you will be there as an investigating officer and not as a family friend, something you almost seem to be already!’
Dunn cleared his throat and added awkwardly, ‘There is a Mrs Beresford, Hughes informs us. She is young and might be moved to impart confidences to your wife. In any case, Mrs Ross is a witness to Sir Henry’s state of mind and she may have noticed other things of interest. She generally does.’ Dunn frowned. ‘Don’t take that as licence to let Mrs Ross have her head. The expression “a loose cannon” is one that comes to mind.’
At this I was moved to object more strongly that I usually dared. ‘That is unfair, sir! You place Lizzie, my wife, in an awkward situation. On the one hand, you want her to befriend Mrs Beresford, under pretences of sympathy, and then report what the lady may tell her to me. Yet you repeatedly insist she is not to investigate. And I am not a family friend!’
Outside on the windowsill, the second pigeon’s advances were being rebuffed.
‘Besides,’ I added, ‘it would be shabby thing to do and Lizzie, Mrs Ross, is a woman of high principles.’
‘Don’t make a fuss, Ross,’ Dunn said wearily. ‘Of course I don’t want her to investigate. That is what you will be going there to do. I just want Mrs Ross to keep her eyes and ears open. I would not presume to ask your wife to behave in any way that is underhand. Frankly, I wouldn’t dare to. But you and I know well that Mrs Ross has an active curiosity about criminal matters. Now then, I have spoken to the commissioner and he is in agreement. So, off you go to Hampshire. Oh, you cannot accept the hospitality of any of the persons concerned, of course, or any witnesses. That means you cannot stay under the same roof as Mrs Ross. Sorry about that.’
He did sound as though he meant the last words. I decided to be gracious.
‘Yes, sir,’ I agreed. I did regret I couldn’t lodge in Lizzie’s company; but felt glad I hadn’t to share a roof with Mrs Parry.
Both pigeons took wing and flapped away to another roof; where the male pigeon might have better luck, or not.
‘There is an inn where I lodged the last time, sir. I could probably stay there again. I could hire a pony from them to enable me to move about the area,’ I continued.
Dunn’s bushy eyebrows twitched alarmingly. ‘Didn’t know you were a horseman, Ross.’
‘Nor am I. Sergeant Morris was with me last time, and he rode the pony. But I did ride a horse one day while I was there, and managed, just, not to fall off. So, with a bit of luck, the pony won’t set me on the ground.’
Dunn pursed his lips. ‘Mrs Dunn and I have been married for twenty happy years, Ross.’
‘Congratulations, sir.’
‘Mrs Dunn is an intelligent and capable woman. She has never, never, Ross, become involved in a police investigation. Mrs Ross, on the other hand, seems to make a habit of it. You will need to keep not only the pony but your wife under control this time, Ross.’
‘I will do my best, sir.’ Of the two, the pony might prove the easier, I thought.
Elizabeth Martin Ross
‘In the circumstances,’ said Aunt Parry at breakfast, ‘we can hardly call and leave cards at the home of Mrs Beresford, though I should very much like to do so, of course, and socially it is expected of one. But we have no means of transport. I wonder, Elizabeth, do you think that if I sent a note to Mr Harcourt, Sir Henry’s estate manager, he would make the carriage available to us?’
‘It might be needed,’ I pointed out. ‘There will be a good deal of coming and going at Sir Henry’s home.’ I spoke firmly because I had no intention of being a nuisance at this distressful time for the Beresfords. Mrs Parry, naturally, had no such qualms. The idea that she might ever be considered a nuisance would never enter her head. But she reluctantly accepted my argument.
‘Yes, I dare say you are right. Well, then, we shall have to make do with letters of condolence.’ She sighed. ‘This distressing event quite takes away the appetite; but I think I might manage some scrambled eggs.’
Accordingly, after breakfast, we set about writing our individual letters to express sympathy to the Beresfords on their loss. Mrs Parry chose to settle herself in the small parlour. I took myself outside again to the little rose arbour. The day was very mild. There was only a gentle breeze and the sea murmured softly below making a friendly background sound. There is a formula to writing sad letters of this sort, but, even so, I found it difficult to begin because I could not rid my mind of the memory of the evening spent dining with Sir Henry. I am ashamed to confess that I wasn’t thinking so much of the shock and distress of his sudden and gruesome death as of that underlying tension between the three m
en at table; and how Harcourt, when Agnes was playing the piano so beautifully for us, retired to a separate area of the room to listen. Would it not have been more natural for him to take his seat with the rest of the small audience? Why hadn’t he? Because, I decided, he had been upset about something; and it was not just that he knew himself to be there to make an even number. Harcourt was the estate manager, so it had probably been a business matter.
As for Sir Henry, it is bad form to speak ill of the dead and perhaps even to think it. But I had not liked him. Now, shocked as I was at the manner of his death, I still could not help wondering if Sir Henry had not in some way ‘brought it on himself’, in the popular phrase. To think this way, even as I sat here with the intent of writing to the Beresfords, made me feel ashamed, but also resentful. It was as though Sir Henry, in death, had placed on the table a winning card. Whatever his faults, we were all now obliged to speak well of him. I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him… Shakespeare had understood how to phrase it. I however was no Shakespeare.
Lizzie! I told myself. Keep your mind on the task before you! I picked up my pen, only to be interrupted. Heavy footsteps were crunching along the coastal path towards me. The garden gate creaked and a postman appeared, in his blue-and-red livery, with a satchel of mail slung across him. He must have tramped up the hill from the village. Seeing me, he hesitated. At the same time, the front door opened and Mrs Dennis appeared.
‘Good morning, Charlie,’ she greeted him. ‘You’ve got letters there, I see. For the ladies, I dare say?’
‘Two ladies,’ confirmed the postman. ‘A Mrs Ross and a Mrs Parry. Oh, and there is a postcard for you, Mrs D. It’s from Italy.’ As he spoke, he took a pack of letters from his satchel. ‘Here we are.’
‘Well, there!’ exclaimed the housekeeper in delight, taking possession of the postcard. ‘That will be from Mrs Hammet. She always sends me a postcard from wherever she is. She’s a great one for travelling and I’ve got an album nearly full of all the cards she’s sent.’
‘Gone to Italy again, eh?’ asked the postman. ‘What have they got in Italy, then, that we don’t have here?’
‘Monuments!’ said Mrs Dennis firmly. ‘Left by the Romans, and all in ruins. I’ve got two pages of postcards of those in the album already.’
The postman did not look convinced that the attraction of monuments would be reason enough to set off across Europe; especially if these were in ruins. He stared across the scrap of garden towards the arbour where I sat. ‘That will be one of the ladies, will it?’
Mrs Dennis was recalled to her duties. She pushed the postcard into the capacious pocket of her apron. ‘That’s Mrs Ross,’ she said. ‘The other lady is in the house. Do you give those letters to me, Charlie, and I’ll see they’re safe delivered.’
It seemed a moment for me to join the conversation. I called out, ‘You can bring my letters over here, postman!’
Charlie accordingly handed Mrs Parry’s post to Mrs Dennis, then crunched his way over to the arbour and handed me the remaining two envelopes with a bow. ‘There you are, ma’am.’ He had a round, sunburned face with small dark eyes. He grinned and the boot-button eyes twinkled at me so brightly that I was put in mind of a photographer with his camera, and the flash of the bulb as the image was taken. Charlie would carry his mental postcard image of me, together with the latest information on the Hammet travels, to the next house at which he called.
I thanked him and, as he plodded away, I scanned the two missives in my hand. One was from Ben. The other envelope was addressed in a round, careful, childish script. It was very thin and must contain a single sheet of paper. Normally, I would have read Ben’s letter first. But I was curious and opened the other one. It proved to be from Bessie.
Dear Missis, it began. I hope you has both of you got there safe. We do very well here, the inspector and me. I made him a beefsteak pie for his supper last night. He ate most of it. I hope you and Mrs P. are both in good health and having a good time by the sea, even though the inspector says someone has been horribly murdered. We don’t have no excitement here, only that the coal-shed door has fallen off. A man is coming to mend it. Respectfully yours, Bessie Newman.
I was very touched by this missive, over which Bessie must have laboured. I did wonder about the beefsteak pie, though. I set the sheet of paper aside and opened Ben’s letter. He would not have had time to reply by post to my letter. But he’d obviously heard about it all in another way. Mr Beresford’s telegrams sent from the Hythe telegraph office must have sparked a spate of others.
The letter began: My dearest wife… After expressing satisfaction, as had Bessie’s letter, that we had arrived in safety, it continued: I am truly sorry I encouraged you to go with Mrs Parry to the coast, as Hughes at Southampton telegraphed the Yard about a case of murder in the locality, even before the arrival of your letter. Lizzie, I beg you, do not do anything! At least, not until I get there. I have reason to believe I shall be sent to help out with the investigations. I am more anxious to see for myself that you are safe than you can imagine. But I shall see you and I cannot wait until that moment. Alas, as my visit will be on police business, I shall not be able to lodge with you and Mrs Parry. It is planned that I stay at the Acorn Inn, as before.
I, too, was impatient to see him and more relieved to know that he would be coming to investigate this matter than I could express in writing. I did realise, however, that his letter must have been posted after Bessie had sent hers, as she had made no mention of Ben’s setting out to join me. Hum! I thought. So my little house will be left to the care of Bessie, Constable Biddle and the man who had come to mend the coalhouse door. Between the three of them, they would finish off the store of food I’d left in the larder and when I got back, like Mother Hubbard’s, my cupboard would be bare.
At this point, I recalled I was supposed to be writing a letter of condolence to the Beresfords. Again I set about this task, this time with better success. When I had finished, I took it indoors to find Mrs Parry had also finished composing her letter, and was now dozing in the sunlight coming in through the small window and falling on the rocking chair in which she’d established herself.
‘I hope you had satisfactory news in the post, Aunt Parry,’ I said loudly.
She opened her eyes and sat up with a start, so that the chair creaked in protest and rocked her forward. She gripped the arms. ‘Very little at all of any interest!’ she said discontentedly. ‘I have put it all aside to read again later. I have finished my letter to the Beresfords.’
‘You will be pleased to hear,’ I told her, ‘that there is a real possibility of Ben coming to join us. Unfortunately, he will not be staying here at The Old Excise House, because his visit will be official, to help with the investigation into Sir Henry’s death. He will stay nearby at an inn.’
‘How very odd and unsatisfactory,’ returned Aunt Parry crossly. ‘I am of course delighted to hear that the inspector will arrive soon to take charge of this matter, as I requested that he should. But I do not see why he cannot stay here. We are in need of protection. There is a murderer on the loose out there!’ She waved a hand to encompass the surrounding countryside. ‘We may be his next victims!’
‘Since Davy came with the terrible news, the Dennises have been sleeping in the attics, as well as Jessie,’ I reminded her. ‘We are not alone in the house at any time. There is safety in numbers, they say.’
Mrs Parry’s expression told me at once that she thought this poor consolation. It was true that Jacob and his wife had quitted their cottage and joined their daughter on the attic floor at night. This had led to a distinct loss of spirits on the part of Jessie, attributed by her mother to shock. I thought it more likely it was due to the absence of Davy Evans’s company. I well understood the Dennises were afraid to be alone in their cottage after nightfall. Mrs Parry was right. Murder had been committed. Until the crime was solved, fear stalked the heath and woodlands, and crept into each lonely cottage. But panic is a
voracious beast, and needs to be stopped in its tracks.
‘I really don’t see why we should be in danger,’ I told her robustly. ‘Why would anyone want to murder one of us?’ I quashed the unkind thought that Mrs Parry might inspire thoughts of murder from time to time in the most saintly of people.
‘Robbery!’ declared Mrs Parry without hesitation. ‘I have concealed my jewellery box beneath the mattress each night since this awful business began. I trust you do the same, Elizabeth.’
I thought it best not to confess I had no jewellery box; not a valuable one in Mrs Parry’s league, anyway. I had a trinket box; but any murderer who came for that would be sorely disappointed, and wish he hadn’t taken the trouble. In contrast robbery certainly could be a motive for an intruder to break into Sir Henry’s home. Yet we had not yet heard that anything of value had been taken and even the pistol used to carry out the murder had been left behind. If anything had been taken, we should hear about it in due course. ‘This is a very vexatious affair,’ I said. I had not meant to speak aloud; I was only mulling it over to myself.
‘I am glad you agree!’ snapped Mrs Parry. ‘If you will allow me to say so, Elizabeth my dear, you have seemed to treat our predicament with quite unnatural calm. It is being married to a policeman, I suppose, and hearing all the time about sordid criminal matters.’
I could have retorted that Ben did not ‘bring his work home’. But she would not have believed it. Perhaps it was a good thing, after all, that Ben was to lodge at an inn and not at The Old Excise House, since Mrs Parry found anything connected with police work so distasteful. I decided to avoid further discussion of the matter.