“You all right?” asked Fowler.
I assured him I was. ”But … but what is the meaning of this? Who is this man?”
“I know not,” said he with a shake of his head.
Then did two more men emerge from the brushy wood; one of them I recognized as Sir Simon Grenville; the other was quite as unknown to me as the man in the driveway.
“Those two men with Sir Simon,” Fowler muttered to me, ”they’re part of that new crew, like the man who was killed.”
“Will,” Sir Simon called out, ”Will Fowler. Had you forgotten completely where you found the body? You, of all people!” Then did he let go a low, chuckling laugh, as if to assure his man that he meant what he had said merely as a mild reproof.
Yet Fowler was clearly confused: ”I … well, I suppose I did, sir. Do forgive me.”
“Nothing to forgive,” said his master magnanimously. Then did he call out: ”Sir John, Mr. Sarton, if that wild stop did not kill or cripple you, come along and I’ll show you what you were summoned to see.” He seemed oddly jovial.
At that, I scrambled down to the ground to assist them. I opened the door to the coach and presented my hand first to Mr. Sarton, who hopped down with no difficulty, and Sir John, who exited a bit laboriously.
“Are you all right, sir?” I asked him.
“I believe so. No broken bones, in any case. Here, give me your hand and a stiff arm to lean on. I won’t risk jumping.”
Thus he made it down, step by step, panting slightly from the effort. Holding my arm, he limped along in a rather tentative manner. I wondered if he were perhaps in pain.
“This way, gentlemen,” said Sir Simon, beckoning us into the wood.
“Is there no path?” asked Mr. Sarton.
“I fear not. And the undergrowth is rather thick just here.”
“Perhaps it would be better, Jeremy,” said Sir John, ”if you preceded me.”
And so we arranged ourselves in single file—Sir Simon leading the way, followed by the magistrate of Deal, then myself, and Sir John last of all. As I passed them, I gave a good, thorough examination to the two that Fowler had described as belonging to ”the new crew.” They were a hard sort. I had seen their kind in London, in and around Covent Garden—on Bedford Street specifically. And when I saw them there, I usually had the good sense to give them a wide berth. But having thought of Bedford Street, my mind went swiftly to Mr. Perkins, who had mentioned it earlier that afternoon. With such as those two around, staring after us, I found myself wishing that he were here. I always felt safer with Mr. Perkins close by.
Sir Simon seemed to know just where he was going. We followed as he tramped on through the dense brush for a good twenty yards or more.
The trees hereabouts were grown so close that the leaves above masked the greater part of the afternoon sunlight. The light did thus come through only in patches. We moved from sunlit patches to patches of darkness, and then back into sunlight. It seemed oddly fitting that the corpus, when at last we came upon him, lay completely in the dark.
The body was that of a young man, one in his middle twenties at most. And though still young, he was thick through the chest and legs in a way which suggested he had done a good deal of physical labor in his short life—a farm lad perhaps, a plowboy. He had a beard of a few days’ growth which was nevertheless thin and patchy. Dressed quite ordinarily he was, except that he wore no hat; perhaps it had fallen from his head and was beneath him. He was on his back, arms thrown out to each side. The ugly wound that had killed him was exposed to view. It followed the line of his chin some inches, perhaps just two, below it. Though bloody still, the red had dried black upon his throat, indicating, to me at least, that he had been dead a good many hours. I saw no sign of a weapon of any sort.
I described the corpus in words quite like these to Sir John. He listened closely, nodding his understanding as I talked on in a mere whisper. While we were thus engaged, Albert Sarton was bending close to examine the body, though not closely enough to suit him: Before he was done, he was down upon his hands and knees, spectacles upon his nose, looking at the wound, at the hands and fingers of the deceased, and even at his shoes. Finally, and most peculiarly, he looked carefully at the ground all round the victim.
Looking on, Sir Simon seemed at first amused and somewhat puzzled by the magistrate’s strange behavior, then finally, openly annoyed. Why he should be annoyed, however, I could not fathom.
At last, Mr. Sarton rose from his hands and knees to his full height (which was not great) and announced: ”He was not killed here.” This was said with great certainty. ”No doubt he was moved to hide him.”
”How can you be so sure?” Sir Simon demanded.
“Easily enough,” said the magistrate of Deal. ”There is no sign of a path in the surrounding area, and so he would have to have come to this spot in the same way we did—that is, from the roadway. But look at the soles of your shoes, and you will see that they are clotted with humus—moist, dark dirt with bits of decomposing organic matter therein.” He held up some to show Sir Simon. ”This bit here is specially moist, almost like mud.”
“That proves nothing!”
“Not alone—no, of course not. Yet if we look at the soles of the shoes worn by this poor individual, we see no sign of humus. What we find instead is something very interesting: chalk.”
“Chalk?” echoed Sir John.
“Yes sir,” responded Mr. Sarton, ”chalk. It’s quite common in these parts—whole cliffs of the stuff, as I’m sure you’ve heard.”
“So I have.”
“Come all of you who wish, and take a look at these soles—almost completely whitened with chalk dust. And see, too, his clothes are dusted all over with chalk dust. He could not have picked it up here. Sir Simon, do you know of a place in your vast holdings where a man might whiten the soles of his shoes from an abundance of chalk on the ground?”
“No, I know of no such place.” His response came so quickly that it seemed he had anticipated the question. Yet perhaps thinking better of it, he added, ”Though there may be such. After all, I know not every nook and cranny of what you call my ‘vast’ holdings.”
“I meant no offense.”
“None was taken.”
“Good, for I have a few questions regarding him. First of all, who is he—or, lamentably, who was he?”
“I know not his name, but he has been in my employ for the past four or five months. No doubt one of the other men knows who he is.”
“His next-of-kin should be notified, after all.”
“I’ll find out.”
“Good.” Mr. Sarton rubbed his chin, as if in thought. ”Now, this poor fellow’s body is already quite stiff, which means he has been dead a good long time. My guess is that he was killed sometime during the night. What was he doing out, say, well after midnight? Just out on a nocturnal ramble? Or had he some duty to perform?”
“No doubt,” said Sir Simon, ”he was out as a guard. I had left orders that guards be posted.”
“For what purpose? What were they to guard against?”
“Against poachers.”
“Oh? Are they such a problem?”
“I’ve lost a good many deer. I fear I shall have to lay traps.”
“Man traps?”
“Yes, of course.”
“I’ve seen what they can do,” said Mr. Sarton. ”They are truly terrible things.”
“Is not the murder of a man a worse thing?”
“Oh yes. Yes, of course. I did not mean to say …” He allowed the sentence to go unfinished. Yet though that quietened the young magistrate for a moment, it did not end his questions. ”Who found the victim? Was it you, Sir Simon?”
“By no means. I, in fact, was off some distance attending to a business matter near Sandwich. Mr. Fowler found the body just here and sent for me. Then he drove off to Deal to fetch you. I had arrived only a little before you myself.”
“Then it was he who brought us here who f
ound him?”
“That’s as I said.”
“Strange that he did not tell us that.”
“Well, you must take that up with him,” said Sir Simon. ”Now, however, if you have no more need of me, I must return to Sandwich to conclude my business there.”
Without waiting for an answer, he did then gesture that we were to follow and started back through trees and into the underbrush along the way we had come. Having little choice in the matter, we trailed him as before, though this time Mr. Sarton took up the rear, reluctant (it seemed) to leave the body.
When we arrived at the driveway, we found to our general dismay that Will Fowler was nowhere about. His place in the driver’s seat had been taken by one of the two new men, him whose frantic waves had persuaded Fowler to stop. Sir Simon, I noted, was conducting an earnest conversation with the second of them. He concluded with him and came over to us.
“Mr. Sarton, I regret to say that Will Fowler has gone off to attend to his regular duties. I did not tell him to remain because I, like you, supposed he had told you all that he knew before bringing you here.”
“Ah well,” said Mr. Sarton, ”it seems then that we are both deceived.”
“So it seems. I’ll see that he talks to you tomorrow.”
“I should greatly appreciate it if you did.”
“Well then.” With that rather unceremonious goodbye, he took his leave of us and began trudging up the hill. The manor house was no more than a hundred yards ahead.
“Into the coach, gents, and I’ll take you to the house,” called the new driver.
“No,” answered Mr. Sarton, ”I’ve a wish to talk with Sir John. Take the coach up to the house, and turn it round. Then you may drive me back to Deal.”
“As you wish, sir.”
And so saying, he started the team up the driveway, and in a few moments he was out of sight. Only his companion, whom first we viewed emerging from the wood with Sir Simon, remained behind; and he, it seemed, was returning to that spot in the wood where we had been but minutes before. No doubt he had been told to keep a vigil over the body.
Sir John kept his right hand upon my left arm, which I held bent at the elbow. And beyond him, on his left side, walked Mr. Sarton. Thus we went three abreast up the rise along the circling driveway. I was eager to hear what the two men would say one to the other about the scene in the woods, for by that time I had formed impressions and opinions of my own. For a moment or two they seemed to hold back; each seemed to be wishing the other would start. Yet in the end, of course, Sir John initiated the conversation. He never was one to stand upon ceremony.
“I must congratulate you, Mr. Sarton, upon your observations regarding the corpus. It was both sound and clever the way that you proved—conclusively, to my way of thinking—that the victim had been murdered elsewhere and his body simply dumped where it was found.”
“For that I thank you, sir. There is no man alive from whom I would rather hear such praise.” The young magistrate hesitated: ”But … well … I daresay Sir Simon did not take kindly to my suggestion. I don’t know why. I fear I’ve lost a friend.”
“Young man, Sir Simon is not your friend.”
When Mr. Sarton heard that, the look that came upon his face was not one of anger or indignation, but rather one of terrible disappointment. He seemed quite crushed by Sir John’s rather emphatic suggestion.
“It would seem,” said he at last, ”that I have not many left. But why? How did I offend him?”
“He was rather vague on that,” said Sir John, ”but it seems it all has to do with your unwillingness to take his advice and follow his tips on subsequent landings of the smugglers.”
“That was on the advice of another—indeed, the same individual I hope to introduce you to on the morrow.”
”Well, I shall look forward to seeing you then.”
As Sir John realized with that sixth sense of his, we were quite near the entrance to the house. The coach had been turned round, and Mr. Sarton was about to take his leave of us. Therefore, Sir John’s next words to the young magistrate had the sound and sense of a speech of farewell.
“Were I you,” said he, ”I should not worry overmuch whether or not you have the friendship of Sir Simon Grenville. The nature of our work is such that we are not allowed many friends, and those few we have must be those worthy of trust. I do not feel that Sir Simon is altogether worthy of trust, do you?”
Mr. Sarton sighed. ”No, I suppose I do not. If I put great value upon his friendship and support, it is because he is a very powerful man in these parts.”
“Well, it has been my experience that those who have power are most interested in keeping and increasing it. All their plans, all their activities, even their choice of friends—all are directed toward those ends. If Sir Simon once offered you his friendship, it was no doubt because he thought that you could be of use to him. You may take that from an old cynic such as myself, for it has thus far in my experience proven to be so.”
Albert Sarton smiled a rather crooked smile. It seemed to give him a mischievous look. ”I shall do that, sir,” said he. ”And I look forward to our meeting in the morning.”
I saw this as my last opportunity to say to him something I felt needed to be said. Clearing my throat and lowering my voice (that the waiting driver might not hear), I said to Mr. Sarton: ”Before you go, sir, there is something I heard from Will Fowler whilst riding beside him that I think you should know.”
“Then tell me by all means, young sir,” said he.
“I learned from him that he was not alone when he found the body. Mistress Clarissa Roundtree, who traveled from London as one of our party, was with him.”
”She is our ward, more or less,” Sir John interjected. ”Lady Fielding employs her as her secretary.”
“I see,” said Mr. Sarton. ”Well, by all means bring her along. I should like to hear her version of the event.” He paused then just long enough to bow a proper bow to Sir John and me. ”I thank you both,” said he. ”Until tomorrow.”
And with a wave of his hand, he was gone.
Though greatly interested in my meeting with Dick Dickens, and of all that Constable Perkins had to say of his former employer, rather than discuss it at length, Sir John chose to retire to bed for a nap. He admitted he had tumbled to the floor of the coach when Will Fowler had made that wild stop, but he insisted that he was in no wise crippled by the fall.
“You, as I,” said he, ”must allow that as I grow older my body seems to need greater rest.”
“Nevertheless, I do believe, sir, that you have pain in a particular place. Now, where is that?”
“Oh … my hip, if you must know, my left hip. It was there I hit the floor of the coach.”
“Well then, I agree that a rest is in order—and perhaps later, a doctor should be summoned to have a look at you.”
“No doctors,” said he, ”no surgeons, no provincial saw-your-bones. If I have need, I shall wait till we return to London and put myself at the mercy of Mr. Donnelly. He’s the only doctor I trust.”
And that, reader, put an end to the discussion. There is a certain tone of voice adopted by Sir John when he wishes to make it plain that he will brook no argument, and that last, ”provincial saw-your-bones” speech was spoken in that tone. I said nothing more, helped him undress, and assisted him into bed. Then, remembering to take with me Laurence Sterne’s Sentimental Journey, I tiptoed out of the room, convinced that he was already asleep. Then did I most quietly close the door behind me.
The room across the hall, which I recognized as Clarissa’s, had attracted the attention of a maid at the time I accompanied Sir John to our door. She was just finishing up with her broom when she spied us. Of a sudden she did drop her broom and deliver a curtsey with a brightly spoken, ”Good day to you, sirs.”
So taken aback was I by this that I could only think to say, ”Good day to you and … carry on.”
Having said that, I did throw open the door to
our room and show Sir John the way inside.
I had all but forgotten the incident when I stepped out into the hall. I was reminded of it only in noting that the courteous maid was no longer about. My original intention was to go to the library where I might read for an hour or two before looking in on Sir John. But having noted Clarissa’s door, I wondered if I might not visit her and hear her story of the discovery of the body. There could be no harm in it, I told myself, so long as there was no such foolishness as last evening’s kissing games.
Assuring myself that there would be nothing of the kind, I knocked softly upon her door. For some several moments there was no sound beyond the door. It occurred to me that she, too, might have taken it into her head to go down to the library. But no: there was a sound and another and another. Clarissa was inside, right enough, and she was coming to the door.
“Who is there?” she asked. But was it Clarissa? The voice I heard seemed lower, huskier, than hers.
“It is I, Jeremy,” said I and waited—yet there was no move to open the door. ”Let me in.”
“I cannot,” said she.
“What do you mean? Why not?” Was she ill? Not properly dressed?
”The door is locked.” It was suddenly rattled from the other side. ”There, you see?”
I grabbed the latch and tried the door myself. It did not budge. I rattled it, and it still did not budge. Yet between us we had loosed the key from the keyhole. Big as it was, it dropped with a clang to the floor.
“Wait a moment,” said I. ”There is a key.”
“Well, use it, you dolt!”
Sharp-tongued as ever. I’d a notion to drop the key in my pocket and walk away, leaving her to shift for herself—but I did nothing of the kind. No, I jammed it into the keyhole, turned it, and threw open the door. As it opened inward, I managed somehow to bestow a bump upon her forehead. (Thus, without quite willing it so, I had my revenge upon Clarissa.)
“Ow!” She clapped a hand to her head.
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