The Truth-Seeker's Wife

by Ann Granger

  Lizzie clearly didn’t think so. Her face reddened and her eyes sparkled with anger. These were not good signs, but she did look very handsome just then. She drew in a deep breath and then burst out with her tale.

  ‘Andrew Beresford clearly loves his wife, but he’s obviously very busy with the practical side of all this. I don’t care what you say, or whether the Hall staff are in hysterics, or the undertaker making a fuss, the body should be somewhere else. Preferably in the churchyard, buried. Agnes is a sweet person. She is also very, very frightened.’

  ‘Of something or of someone?’

  ‘Someone who is playing wicked tricks and trying to distress her.’ Lizzie recounted the incidents of the roses and the painted fan left on the piano at Oakwood House.

  ‘That’s very strange,’ I agreed, ‘and, as you say, a very unpleasant thing to have done by someone. But I won’t mention it to Beresford, if his wife doesn’t wish me to. I strongly recommend that she tell him herself. I understand she doesn’t want to worry him but, in his shoes, I would certainly prefer my wife to confide in me. Was there anything more?’

  Lizzie frowned a little as she considered her reply. ‘I think,’ she said at last, ‘Agnes is afraid of what might happen next.’

  ‘Hm,’ I murmured. ‘She has reason to think there may be another crime?’

  ‘She doesn’t know what to expect and is living in dread. I suppose it wouldn’t be surprising if Mrs Parry were right in her theory of gangs of violent thieves roaming the heath. She hardly talks of anything else. But, actually, although that would be a very worrying thought, I believe Agnes might find it preferable to the alternative. She admitted to us she is afraid the culprit may turn out to be someone near to the family. Not Andrew, obviously. But someone they know; and that must be a constant worry. Just to believe that among the people you meet regularly one must be a murderer.’ Lizzie glanced up at me again. ‘You’ve spoken with Beresford by now. What do you feel? Does he fear the same thing?’

  ‘From my talk with him,’ I told her, ‘I had the impression that, unlike some heirs, he was not in any hurry to come into his inheritance. He is frank that he will appreciate the income from land. He and his wife are very much set against moving into his uncle’s house, however. He says it is because of its many inconveniences. However, it may be something else worries him. I wouldn’t have described him as being afraid. But he is a worried man.’

  Lizzie asked, ‘Does he believe it possible that the killer, whoever he is, will next turn his attentions to Oakwood House?’

  ‘And Beresford may be his next victim? Is that what Agnes Beresford fears? We don’t know, that is the truth of it. Otherwise, Beresford’s much occupied with settling the affairs of the estate, so that he can seek a tenant for the house itself. That is his intention. Until we solve the question of his uncle’s murder, however, all that must hang in the balance. There will be long conversations with Pelham, I fancy.’

  ‘It is a very old-fashioned house, full of dark nooks and corners and a great deal of family antiques, portraits and so on,’ mused Lizzie. ‘I don’t think I would care to live there. But furniture, curtains, carpets, decoration can be all changed; and the house does have the benefit of gas lighting. I wish we had it here at The Old Excise House.’

  ‘I gather Sir Henry was loath to use the gas lighting. It cost a good deal to have it installed and he seems to have regretted the outlay. The gas mantles were specially lit for your dinner party, so Harcourt tells me. I also toured the house today and agree, it’s a strange place with more hiding places than may be obvious.’

  ‘A secret passage?’ cried Lizzie in excitement. ‘Where? How do you get into it?’

  ‘I’m sorry I can’t promise you that. Everyone is anxious to deny the existence of any such thing. That could be because there’s none or because the secret is lost. Or, indeed, because no one wants to tell me where it is.’ I hesitated. ‘I can tell you, in strictest confidence, that Mr Harcourt claims to be Sir Henry’s illegitimate son.’

  ‘Mr Harcourt!’ Lizzie stared up at me, open-mouthed. ‘Well, I suppose that might explain why his manner was a little strange at dinner. My goodness, is it true?’

  ‘Ah, that’s the thing! It’s not exactly a secret. Harcourt told me everyone knew of it. But Beresford, in recounting his family history to me, made no mention of it. So, for the time being, keep it to yourself, my dear.’

  ‘Goodness, yes,’ said Lizzie. She mulled over the information for a moment and declared triumphantly: ‘It’s that portrait, you know! I mean the one of Sir Henry’s father, the old naval hero, as a young man. There is a definite likeness to Harcourt in it.’

  ‘That sort of thing is easy to imagine after the fact,’ I warned her. ‘Did the resemblance strike you before I told you of Harcourt’s claim?’

  ‘Something struck me. I didn’t think of Harcourt immediately,’ Lizzie confessed, and frowned. ‘No, not Harcourt, I think it reminded me of someone else, but I can’t place who. I won’t tell anyone what you’ve told me. And we mustn’t let Aunt Parry know of it because I shall never hear the last of it.’

  ‘Of course,’ I warned her, ‘because Harcourt believes it to be the case, that doesn’t mean it’s true. He has come to believe it himself largely because Sir Henry paid his school fees, as far as I can make out. It’s more likely Sir Henry paid the school fees as a charitable act, because he thought the boy a bright lad: and possibly the mother was an old friend. Gossip can become entrenched in people’s minds after a long time. At no time, that I’ve yet heard, did Sir Henry ever openly recognise Harcourt as his son, or show any intention to do so before he died.’

  ‘I wonder how much, if anything, Agnes knows of all this,’ Lizzie mused.

  ‘I’d be surprised if Beresford has told her scandalous and unproven stories about his uncle.’ Ben spoke firmly. ‘All that’s certain is that Sir Henry intended to leave small amounts to his household retainers. However, taking account of the fact that Harcourt was estate manager, he would receive a little more than the others. Harcourt, far from feeling grateful, seems to have taken offence. He would not be treated as if he were no different from the household servants, other than by degree of responsibility. I believe that to be the cause of the quarrel you suspect had taken place before you and Mrs Parry arrived for dinner.’

  I squeezed her hand. ‘So, dearest Lizzie, tell me every-thing that has happened since you and she arrived here. Everything, mind! Don’t leave out a thing. I’ll make up my mind if it’s important or not. I want a complete picture.’

  Chapter Eleven

  Elizabeth Martin Ross

  Obeying Ben’s instruction, I began with our arrival and told Ben everything that had happened before Mrs Parry and I visited Agnes that afternoon. This time I described my walks to the village and my meeting with the Dawlish sisters, including the one with Cora on the heath.

  ‘Oddly enough,’ I told him, ‘in offering one of her herbal poultices to dress Mrs Parry’s ankle, I had the strange feeling she was attempting to make some reparation for all she said earlier and even making some kind of apology. Perhaps that’s too strong a word. It may be that she is worried. She did say, at our first meeting, that my reappearance would bring death to the community. I felt at the time that was malicious mockery. But now that a death has actually occurred, and the victim is someone of importance locally, she is awkwardly placed. She may wish to placate me; or distance herself from the whole affair.’

  ‘She may wish to avoid any suggestion she knew Sir Henry was going to die!’ Ben suggested. ‘That may certainly worry her a lot.’

  ‘If you were to say any such thing to her, she would reply she foresaw it in the tea leaves, or some such nonsense. She believes herself to be a witch.’

  ‘She told you this herself?’ Ben asked sharply.

  ‘Actually, no, she didn’t,’ I admitted. ‘Her sister, Tibby Dawlish, told me that she was. Cora herself promptly said she “helped people”. She did not describe her
self as a witch.’

  ‘Then she was wise to rephrase what her sister had rashly claimed, especially when speaking to a police officer’s wife. If Cora Dawlish has been getting money from people using her supposed talents, for want of a better description, then that would be an offence. She might well find herself before the magistrates, even before the judge at the Assizes. We don’t burn witches nowadays; or admit, in law, that they can make magic. But we don’t tolerate fraudulent attempts to extort money from the superstitious, either.’

  ‘Somehow,’ I told Ben, ‘I don’t think Cora Dawlish is knowingly fraudulent.’

  Ben smiled. ‘Cora Dawlish may or may not believe she has special powers, just as Harcourt may believe he is Meager’s son. They could both be deluded. They may have persuaded themselves of the fact because they want to be more important than they are. It is not unknown.’

  ‘I understand what you are saying,’ I assured him. ‘It could just be an attempt to give herself some standing in their community. The two sisters live in that tiny cottage, never go anywhere, and would be of no importance to anyone otherwise. Of course, I don’t believe the old woman is a witch. As you say, we cannot know that Harcourt was Sir Henry’s son, even if Harcourt believes it. Poor man, I feel quite sorry for him.’

  ‘Then don’t be. He has had a very good position as estate manager and I believe Beresford wants to keep him on, when he takes over.’

  ‘Harcourt may not want to stay on, if he believes Andrew Beresford is his cousin!’ I protested.

  ‘Why not?’ asked Ben. ‘Odder things have happened. But tell me about that dinner party.’

  I gave Ben as good an account as I could of the dinner party and my impression that there had been a dispute.

  But talking of eating recalled me to the time. The sun was setting. ‘Oh!’ I exclaimed. ‘Dinner! Aunt Parry will be waiting.’

  * * *

  Meals played an important role in Aunt Parry’s day and she was waiting impatiently for our return. Mrs Dennis’s excellent cooking put her back in good humour. When we retired to the parlour afterwards, she settled herself with Ben’s aid, with her ankle propped up once more on the footstool, and declared, ‘I have been giving much thought to your problem, Mr Ross.’

  ‘So Lizzie tells me,’ said Ben.

  Aunt Parry cast me a suspicious look. ‘Has Elizabeth already explained my theory?’

  ‘Oh, no,’ I hastened to deny. ‘I only told him that you were taking an interest.’

  ‘Well, there is little else to take one’s interest hereabouts,’ replied Aunt Parry, ‘although we spent a most pleasant afternoon with Mrs Beresford, as you will know, Mr Ross. Now then.’ Her manner became brisk. ‘This brings us to the murder of Sir Henry: a shocking and tragic business. But it occupies the brain and I have been thinking who might be responsible for poor Sir Henry’s dreadful death. It is clear to me that the killer was a professional housebreaker, who has travelled down from London for the purpose of marauding about the district, robbing the wealthy.’

  ‘It may well turn out so,’ Ben agreed.

  I thought he sounded a little too bland not to arouse Aunt Parry’s suspicions, but she was too swept up in her theory to notice that he seemed less than impressed.

  ‘It is more than probable that there is a gang of them. They will have been hiding out on the heath. Of course, with Sir Henry murdered, they may have fled. But what happened must be this. One or more of them found a way into his home and first found the pistol. Then, armed with it, they began to search upstairs. Poor Sir Henry awoke and saw them. They had no hesitation in using the pistol to silence him.’

  She sat back and smiled graciously upon us, but also with the expectancy of voiced agreement.

  ‘It is certainly to be considered, ma’am,’ said Ben.

  Mrs Parry frowned and opened her mouth. Luckily, at that point Mrs Dennis came in to announce, ‘There is no need for any hurry, Mr Ross, sir. I’ve just come to let you know that Wilf Dawlish is sitting in the kitchen, talking with Jacob, and is ready for when you’ll need him to guide you back to the Acorn.’

  ‘Dawlish!’ Ben and I exclaimed in one voice.

  Inspector Ben Ross

  It was late when Wilfred and I set off back to the inn. The moon seemed curiously bright, suspended above us like a silver penny. A ‘poacher’s moon’, they called that, I thought. It disguised and distorted but did not totally conceal. Shadows lent everything an unearthly look, both veiled yet visible. Dark shapes, like paper figures cut out to play a role on the stage of a toy theatre, loomed up and then vanished abruptly. Even though I discounted Mrs Parry’s belief in a gang of desperate housebreakers come down from London, I still found myself scanning the heath for signs of campfires. I knew that, even if I saw a red glow, it wouldn’t mark the encampment of a gang of desperadoes from London. I didn’t for one moment believe Mrs Parry was right. If for no other reason, that was because with the London Season at hand, every kind of thief, whether operating solo or in a gang, was heading towards London, not away from the capital. I had not said this to Mrs Parry because I did not want her worrying that her own house in Dorset Square was being ransacked even as we sat at dinner here. No, Agnes Beresford’s fears were well founded. The motive for Sir Henry’s death was homegrown. Nor did I discount the mystery of who had left the roses and the fan on Agnes’s piano. There was still malice lurking here. But one point seemed to have escaped Mrs Parry. Robbers wouldn’t bother with playing unkind tricks. The story of the flowers and fan made me more certain that the murder had nothing to do with a burglary gone awry. It was connected with the Beresfords and Meagers, who, after all, had been linked by kinship into one unhappy family.

  As for a fire, that might mark where gypsies had halted for the night. They had a reputation for petty pilfering, but of a trivial kind. I doubted they would have broken into an occupied house with the attendant risks.

  We had other company, Wilfred and I, riding across the heath. From time to time, bulky shapes moved among the patches of gorse and bramble, figures of fantasy in the purple night: the ponies. If I had not noticed them, then Firefly let me know of their presence, throwing up his head and occasionally blowing gustily through his nostrils. Sometimes an answering call would come from the near distance, a soft whinny or snicker. Once, a dark shape that was not a pony leaped out from a clump of trees, bounded across our path and was gone. Firefly threw up his head, startled into executing a complicated set of dance steps. I grabbed at his mane to steady myself as he bounced around, and was nearly thrown.

  ‘Deer,’ called Wilfred to me. ‘They grow bold at night and come out into the open. Otherwise you don’t see them much around here, being shy beasts. Just stroke the pony’s neck, sir, that will calm him.’

  William the Conqueror had decreed this area a royal hunting preserve, I remembered being told at school. Out there somewhere, the Conqueror’s son, also William and nicknamed ‘Rufus’ for his red beard, had been slain. Sir Walter Tyrrell, a hunting companion, had loosed an arrow to kill a stag. But it had been deflected by an oak tree and struck the king. Even as a schoolboy, I’d thought this unlikely. So, accident or murder? Sir Walter had not waited to explain. He had fled the scene and taken ship for France immediately. No one knew the truth, only that the king was dead, and his brother, Henry, claimed the English throne. Henry had also been hunting that day and was known to be a man of violent temper. Inheritance, I thought, the cause of so much trouble in families since Cain slew Abel.

  Up to that point, Wilfred and I had been riding in silence. I’d sensed a certain apprehension in my companion. Now that he’d spoken, I decided it was the moment to make my bid for information.

  ‘Dawlish is your surname, Wilfred?’

  ‘Yessir!’ came the answer through the gloom, smartly spoken. He had reckoned on my finding out his surname sooner or later and had been waiting for me to ask questions.

  ‘These family members you have been visiting tonight, they wouldn’t be two eld
erly sisters called Tibby and Cora?’

  ‘That’s right, sir,’ agreed Wilfred, a little too promptly. ‘I saw a few others in the family, too.’

  ‘Tell me about Tibby and Cora.’

  ‘Oh, well, sir,’ began Wilfred, again too quickly.

  I have listened to enough alibis to recognise the onset of a prepared speech and knew I was in for one now.

  ‘A really funny old couple, they are. They ought to be an act on the stage, in the music halls, they really did. They make you laugh.’

  They hadn’t made Lizzie laugh. ‘They have the reputation of being wise women,’ I said, ‘or so I understand.’

  ‘Why, whoever told you that, Mr Ross? They’re nothing but a pair of foolish old biddies.’

  ‘One of them has the reputation of being something of a witch, I gather.’

  ‘What, one of the aunties?’ exclaimed Wilfred. I had to concede he was a good actor. I couldn’t make out his features, but his voice rang with sincerity. ‘Bless you, sir, no! Nothing of the sort.’

  ‘Aunt Tibby told my wife so. She said her sister, Cora, was a witch.’

  ‘No, sir, never! Oh, she might have said it to your good lady. But it was her joke. No, no, nothing like that. I told you, they’re a comical pair. They might say all sorts of things, but you don’t want to pay any attention. And Aunt Tibby, well, she’s not quite right in the head, you know.’

  I made no comment on that. I wanted to worry Wilfred. He couldn’t see my face to judge whether or not I’d bought his explanation. We rode on for a while in silence.

  ‘I was at Sir Henry’s house earlier in the day,’ I said at last, switching to a new subject.

  ‘Oh, up at the Hall, were you?’ Wilfred knew that already but, like a good draughts player, he was moving his pieces with care.

  ‘There was a fellow hanging around the stables there, by the name of Davy Evans.’