The Truth-Seeker's Wife

by Ann Granger

  Though I was not convinced, we were to discuss it no further. The clatter of hooves and rattle of wheels sounded from outside and a conveyance of some kind pulled up at the inn. We heard the potman, Jem, run out, shouting, and another voice I thought was that of Wilfred. Then a female voice, that of Mrs Garvey, joined the babble. It culminated in a blood-curdling scream from the landlady.

  ‘What the deuce?’ demanded Pelham, scowling.

  The door to the snug was thrown open and Mrs Garvey herself appeared in great agitation. There was a look of something near to terror on her face. The figure of Beresford’s groom, whom I’d encountered that morning, loomed up behind her. It was clear from his shaken expression that something very serious had happened.

  ‘Oh, sirs!’ cried Mrs Garvey. ‘Begging your pardon for disturbing you as you eat. But Callan, Mr Beresford’s groom, is here with awful news!’

  Pelham and I both jumped to our feet. ‘Not another murder?’ I demanded.

  ‘Oh, no, sir, not a murder, it is almost something worse! It does concern Sir Henry. He’s been resurrected, sirs!’

  Chapter Sixteen

  Inspector Ben Ross

  ‘What?’ Pelham and I cried out together.

  ‘You’d best come and see for yourself, gents,’ said Callan hoarsely. ‘I brought the trap on Mr Beresford’s orders. He asks you come at once. He wants you both to— to witness it, sirs.’

  This time there was no question of leaving Pelham behind. We both raced outside and scrambled into the trap that had been sent to fetch us. Callan drove us to Oakwood House at a reckless speed given the poor visibility; the wheels rumbling and bouncing over the road and the trap shaking so much, it seemed about to fall apart. Twice I feared we might overturn and Pelham was clinging on for dear life.

  But we were not the only ones making a hasty way there. The countryside appeared to be alive with moving figures, afoot, on horse or pony, or in vehicles of various sorts, including country carts. All were converging on the same goal. As we neared Beresford’s house we saw that a pink haze suffused the sky and illuminated all around it.

  ‘It is a fire!’ shouted Pelham, his fingers still gripping the side of the trap. ‘Is it the house?’

  ‘No, gents!’ shouted back Callan over his shoulder. ‘It’s not the house. It’s a bonfire on the shore!’

  ‘You know the location, Ross?’ yelled Pelham to me. ‘How close is the house to the shore?’

  ‘The gardens run down to the beach. There will be a gate in the outer garden wall, allowing access to it, and probably a path leading down!’ I shouted back.

  Our breakneck progress bought us into the stable yard of Oakwood House. We both scrambled down from the trap.

  ‘This way, gents!’ called Callan, beckoning to us to follow him.

  I didn’t need Callan to show me the way and broke into a run. Pelham had no intention of being left behind and panted along on my heels. We hastened across the gardens with others following behind us as the crowd converged on the target. We dodged onlookers and pushed aside those who got in our way. Then we were at the opened gate to the path that led down to the beach. We slithered down it and saw at last what had brought us and all the other spectators to this spot.

  A bonfire had been built on the shore. Someone must have stockpiled wood and other inflammable material nearby and brought it out for this purpose. The stack was not so very high, but high enough. In the middle a pole had been fixed, long, straight and sturdy. I guessed it to be part of a former sailing ship’s mast. The flames, yellow and red, crackled through the burning mass and licked at the base of the pole. Fanned by the strong breeze, they danced wildly around it. Above the fire, the air glowed cerise, and golden sparks erupted in showers across the night sky. All of it served to illuminate the thing that was at the centre of the devilish creation. Tied to the mast so that it stood upright atop the blaze was a human figure. I thought at first it was a dummy, but almost at once realised it was not. Beside me, Pelham was repeating, in tones of horror, ‘No, no, surely not!’

  Yet there was no mistaking Sir Henry Meager’s white dead face staring out at us. Bound around the corpse’s forehead was a silk kerchief, hiding the wound beneath, and giving the figure a piratical appearance. The effect was both gruesome and ludicrous. I have seen some terrible sights in my time as a police officer, but never anything as dreadful as this; and I pray I may never see another.

  ‘Dear heaven!’ Pelham was crying out. ‘They have broken open the coffin and taken out the body. Who could have done this— this sacrilege?’

  ‘The person who tied wire across the path Harcourt would take to ride back to the Hall,’ I replied grimly.

  Pelham was silent for a moment and then said steadily, ‘Inspector Ross, I do believe there is a monster among us.’

  For the first time I was in complete agreement with him.

  Efforts were being made to quench the flames. At the sea’s edge men were working hand pumps to send sprays of water, targeting the bonfire. As the seawater hit the flames, so a hissing could be heard, as if some huge serpent lived within the inferno, and clouds of steam mingled with the smoke. But the water achieved little, for the conflagration was well alight and would have to burn itself out. It seemed to me that, realising this, the operators of the hose carrying the water from the shore were aiming the jets at the figure, drenching the corpse in an attempt to save that from being consumed.

  Still, all around me, people were crying out in horror and dismay. I saw a man who must be the local parson, with his hands clasped and head bent in prayer. There were women on their knees, some also praying and others wailing. Many just looked terrified. Yet none of them ran away. They all remained, kept there by the gruesome theatre of it all. With the crowd weaving and gesticulating before the blaze, and the praying women and parson, it was like being present at some cruel martyrdom.

  In all this mayhem I searched desperately for Beresford. It wasn’t easy to see him, but I glimpsed him at last, down by the water’s edge, directing those who worked the pumps. Beresford had experience quenching the sporadic fires that broke out of the heath in high summer, I knew. If anyone could save the corpse was being consumed, it was he. I pushed my way through the crowd to reach him. As I did, I kept looking around me in the crowd for one face in particular. But Davy Evans, who previously had seemed to have the knack of turning up everywhere, was nowhere to be seen.

  I managed to reach Beresford and called his name. He did not hear me the first time, so I had to bellow it again, in his ear. Now he glanced over his shoulder, saw me, and shouted: ‘The icehouse was locked. The door was smashed in!’

  ‘Where is Davy Evans?’ I yelled.

  ‘Not to be found!’ Beresford broke off to direct the men with the hose to send the spray of water higher in the air. Then he turned back to me, his face blackened with grime and running with sweat. ‘I sent a man to the cottage where he lives. He wasn’t there! The old women he lives with said he had gone night fishing, in his boat.’

  ‘Confound it!’ I shouted. ‘He has run for it. Can he make France in that boat of his?’

  ‘The vessel is small but equipped with a sail and the wind is getting stronger by the minute!’ Beresford panted. ‘It’s a long way but Evans is a skilled sailor. Or he may have arranged a rendez-vous with another vessel. Out there!’ He flung a hand out towards the water. ‘I believe Evans to be something of a small-time smuggler. It’s never been completely eradicated hereabouts. A larger craft may wait out there to pick him up.’

  ‘It’s quite possible. Ne’er-do-wells like him generally have an escape route planned if they have to run for it!’ I agreed.

  I made my way back to Pelham, who stood watching, his pale features reddened by the glow of the fire. His normal self-possession had given way to shock. When I told him what Beresford had said, I had to repeat it twice. He seemed unable to take it in.

  ‘Is the fellow Evans the most likely candidate for your murderer?’ he asked at last. �
��Did you suspect him before tonight?’

  ‘I suspected a conspiracy, Mr Pelham; of which I am reasonably certain Davy Evans is a part. If it’s true that he’s run for it, then he’s betrayed himself. Now we have to catch him! But by morning, if the wind favours him in the course he’s set, he may well be in France. Who knows where he’ll go next?’

  It was getting very cold and I pulled my greatcoat about me.

  Pelham, who missed nothing, observed, ‘It is indeed unpleasantly cold and also, I fancy, damp.’

  ‘Is it raining? I don’t think so,’ I said.

  Callan, on his perch, had overheard our conversation. ‘I don’t think we’re in for rain, gents. More likely a fog is coming up. We’re on the shore here. Take a look about you.’

  We did so. It was true that wisps of a semi-transparent white veil had begun to swirl around our heads. We were now too far from Oakwood House for this to be smoke from the bonfire. But its odour clung to our clothes, bringing the memory of Sir Henry’s funeral pyre with us.

  ‘That’s sea mist, that is, gents,’ Callan continued. ‘I, for one, wouldn’t care to be out there in a small sailing boat.’ And he pointed with his whip in what must be the general direction of the English Channel.

  We were all silent thereafter until we reached the Acorn. By now the mist had thickened to fog; and the inn put me in mind of a baroque painting in which figures recline on cotton-wool clouds. Its door lantern and lighted windows glowed dimly though the vapour, but made a welcome sight. We’d been heard. The door opened and Mrs Garvey, shawl clutched about her throat, peered anxiously into the haze.

  Concerned at the worsening conditions, I called up to our driver after we’d descended, ‘You’ll be able to find your way back all right, Callan?’

  ‘The horse knows his way home,’ called down Callan. The trap clattered away.

  Pelham and I turned to go into the inn. Quietly, Pelham said, ‘God help him.’

  He was not talking of Callan.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Elizabeth Martin Ross

  Once again, bad news reached The Old Excise House in the early morning. I was awoken at six by a loud and unearthly wailing that seemed to be directly under my bed. I realised the noise was rising up from the kitchen and spreading through the gaps between the floorboards. I dressed hurriedly and went downstairs in time to collide with Aunt Parry, who had emerged from the former study now her bedroom. She was wrapped in a rose-pink silk peignoir and still wore her lace nightcap. Nugent came noisily down the stairs behind me and arrived breathless.

  ‘Now what?’ demanded Aunt Parry angrily. ‘I never knew a household like it for servants yowling in the morning!’

  ‘Whatever it is, it’s taking place in the kitchen,’ I said. ‘I’ll go and look.’

  I hurried out as Nugent stepped forward to soothe her employer, and made my way to the kitchen where I found disorder reigned supreme.

  Central to it was Jessie Dennis, who sat on the floor, her skirts spread around her, her long red hair loose about her shoulders. She was wailing and held clenched fists in front of her as if she had been beating her breast. Her mother stooped over her, trying to haul her to her feet and berating her. But Jessie sagged in a dead weight and her mother had to abandon the attempt and could only stand by, scowling in rage and frustration. By the back door stood Jacob Dennis and a man I recognised as Wilfred Dawlish. His reason for being there at such an early hour must be because he had brought bad news. The two men stood close, side by side, united in ineffectual male dismay.

  ‘You stupid girl! Stop that noise! You’re well free of him. Good riddance to bad rubbish, that’s what it is.’ Mrs Dennis bent forward to grasp her daughter’s shoulders and shook her violently.

  ‘I love him!’ howled Jessie.

  ‘Love? What do you know about love? He’s a bad lot, always was. If he’s taken himself off and we never set eyes on him again, then you should thank your lucky stars! He was always a wastrel.’

  Jessie managed to free herself from her parent’s grip. Her upper half fell forward so that she folded like a collapsed puppet, her face buried in her skirts, her shoulders shaking with a new outburst of sobs.

  This provided a moment when I could ask, ‘What has happened?’

  All present froze in a kind of tableau vivant. The two men and Mrs Dennis stared at me. Jessie remained in a heap on the floor, moaning.

  ‘Oh, ma’am!’ exclaimed Mrs Dennis. ‘I didn’t see you. I beg your pardon! You see what you’ve done, you silly child,’ she added, prodding her daughter with her foot. ‘You’ve woken the ladies.’ Turning back to me, Mrs Dennis added apprehensively, ‘Mrs Parry is awake, too, is she, ma’am?’

  ‘Yes, she is, but Nugent is with her. Will you please tell me what has happened?’

  Wilf Dawlish edged towards the back door and escape. ‘I’d best get back to the inn or Mrs Garvey will box my ears.’

  ‘You stay here, Wilf!’ snapped Jacob, seizing the stableman’s arm. ‘Don’t leave me here alone with all this.’

  ‘They’re your womenfolk,’ retorted Wilfred. ‘You take care of it.’

  I decided it was time I took charge of things. ‘Before you leave, Wilfred,’ I said loudly, ‘am I to understand from all this that you have brought some bad news this morning?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am,’ said Wilfred unhappily. ‘But I’ve got to go back to the inn. Your husband will very likely want the pony saddled up. Jacob here can tell you all about it.’

  There was a movement behind me. Silence fell, even on the part of Jessie, who looked up and stared past me, silenced, mouth agape. I turned and saw that Mrs Parry had entered the kitchen and stood, like a vast rose-pink satin tent, dominating the scene.

  ‘Lord bless us,’ muttered Wilfred, ‘I never seen nothing like that!’ He had temporarily forgotten the urgent need to return to the inn, and remained, shaking his head in disbelief.

  ‘Well…’ demanded Mrs Parry, her voice echoing around the kitchen like the clap of doom. ‘Speak up! Did you not hear Mrs Ross’s question?’

  ‘Yes’m!’ Wilfred made an awkward bow. ‘I heard it and I was just wondering how best to tell it. There’s been bad mischief done this past night, ladies. I’m sorry you have to learn of it from me. ’Tis the work of the devil, nothing less.’

  ‘Davy never did it, I swear,’ cried Jessie from the floor. ‘And now I’ll never see him again. He’s gone!’

  Mrs Parry turned a basilisk stare on the luckless Jessie. ‘Have you some information to give us?’

  ‘No, ma’am,’ whispered Jessie.

  ‘Then be quiet, and get to your feet. You are too old for childish tantrums.’

  ‘Yes’m,’ whispered Jessie and struggled awkwardly to her feet.

  ‘Go outside and put your head under the pump!’ ordered her mother.

  Jessie turned and trailed to the back door where her father and Wilfred parted to allow her space to exit.

  ‘A chair!’ commanded Mrs Parry.

  Mrs Dennis dragged forward a wooden chair and dusted the seat with her apron. Jacob was spurred into action and pulled out another chair for me. Wilfred stared longingly out of the back door, perhaps wondering if he could bolt for it.

  ‘Speak!’ Mrs Parry pointed a finger at him. ‘You, there, the fellow from the inn!’

  Wilfred came forward and made another awkward bow. ‘It’s like this, ma’am. I fear it will distress you and the other lady…’ Wilfred made another of his peculiar jerky bows in my direction. ‘But there has been mischief at Oakwood House.’

  ‘Oakwood House?’ Mrs Parry and I cried together.

  I added anxiously, ‘Are Mr and Mrs Beresford safe?’

  ‘Yes,’m, they’re safe, though very shocked, Mrs Beresford in particular. It concerns Sir Henry’s body, you see.’

  ‘His body? What about it?’

  ‘Well, they had it kept safe in the old icehouse. The lock was forced and the coffin broken open.’

  ‘If they insi
sted on keeping the coffin on the property, they should have expected some trouble or other,’ said Mrs Parry. ‘I never heard such a foolish idea. But are you going to tell us some heathenish tale of a Black Mass?’

  ‘Oh, no, ma’am. Though near as bad. The gardens at Oakwood House run down to the shore…’

  So Wilfred related his news again while we listened in horror. When he finished, and before we could ask any questions, he concluded with: ‘And now, ladies, I really have to go back to the inn. I’m sorry to have caused any distress.’

  He ducked his head, turned and ran out of the back door. Within minutes we heard the thud of the pony’s hooves retreating.

  ‘Barbaric!’ declared Aunt Parry, summing up the general impression.

  ‘Do they have any idea who did this dreadful thing?’ I asked the Dennis family.

  ‘They’re saying Davy did it!’ Jessie was back, bursting into the kitchen with hair dripping pump water. ‘Only he never did. ’Tisn’t fair the way they blame Davy for everything. And now he’s gone.’ Tears began to roll down her cheeks again, mixing with the trickles from her hair.

  ‘Davy lodges with— with Wilf’s aunties,’ said Jacob Dennis. ‘They said he went out night fishing last evening. He’s not returned.’

  Mrs Dennis asked timidly, ‘Will you have some tea, ladies?’

  ‘For myself, coffee!’ decided Aunt Parry. ‘It is stronger. How about you, Elizabeth? Yes, coffee for both of us. Bring it to the breakfast table – and bring the brandy. I need a restorative after hearing this ghastly news.’

  Neither of us was in the mood to eat much by way of breakfast, not even Aunt Parry, so we had buttered toast with our coffee, and Madeira cake to accompany the brandy.