by Jean Rowden
Coper, one of the footmen, appeared at the top of the stairs, a light held aloft. ‘Miss Drake, is that you?’
She hushed him with a finger to her lips and pulled the door closed. ‘Don’t wake the children,’ she whispered, hurrying to join him.
‘I take it that noise didn’t come from the nursery?’ Coper said. ‘Mr Henson told me to come and check.’
‘No, I thought it came from downstairs,’ she said softly.
The murmur of voices wafted to them from below. They went down together, to find Mr Henson and half a dozen other servants gathered there.
‘It wasn’t upstairs, Mr Henson,’ Coper said, ‘Miss Drake is quite certain.’
‘It wasn’t from the library either, as far as we can see,’ another man reported.
‘The door then,’ Henson said, striding to the end of the corridor. ‘Good heavens, it’s unlocked! But I checked it myself, no more than two hours ago.’ He lifted the latch and peered into the gloomy refectory. From where Phoebe stood she couldn’t see outside, but she feared he must notice the lantern.
‘Perhaps it was the burglar,’ one of the maids said shrilly. ‘He’s come to steal her ladyship’s jewels. He might be hiding in the house this very minute. We could all be murdered in ours beds!’
‘Don’t talk such nonsense,’ Henson said, closing the door. ‘Miss Drake, are you sure nobody went past the nursery?’
‘Quite sure. I was awake when I heard the noise, and it only took me a moment to get to the door.’
‘And nobody came through into the servants’ wing. Coper, Wills, go up to his lordship’s study at once, and check that nobody has been in there.’
The girl who had spoken before gave a little scream. ‘Perhaps he’s already made off with his loot.’
Henson glared at her. ‘Be quiet, girl. There’s no call for you to start shrieking. If the sound we heard was the thief leaving then we’ll soon know.’ He sent pairs of servants to search the other main rooms, with particular instructions to be quiet. ‘It seems his lordship and Lady Pickhurst have managed to sleep through all this upset. I’ll not disturb them unless it’s absolutely necessary.’
Phoebe stood in shivering silence, listening to the excited whispers of the remaining servants. If Lady Pickhurst returned to the door before the hunt was over she would be discovered, and who knew what might happen. Biting her lip, Phoebe prayed, though for what she couldn’t be sure. By the time the men returned she was cold to the bone, but they brought reassuring news; all was as it should be.
‘Well, it seems there’s no harm done,’ the butler said. ‘I don’t understand how this door came to be unlocked, but the matter can be looked into tomorrow, once I’ve spoken to his lordship.’ He took a bunch of keys from his pocket and locked the door, then shot the huge bolt at the top, which gave a loud grinding protest as it was pushed home. ‘Back to bed, everybody, and no lingering to gossip; I’ll have no lateness in the morning.’
Sleep was impossible. Phoebe prowled the nursery, going often to the window and staring out towards the summer house. The night seemed to last forever, and it was a relief when Rodney cried out in alarm at four o’clock, needing her comforting presence. She stayed by his side, at length dozing in the armchair, only to wake cold and cramped an hour later to find that dawn was breaking on a dull and cloudy morning.
It was Sunday, when the usual routine allowed her to leave Annie supervising nursery breakfast before she dressed the children ready for the early morning service. Phoebe ventured down to the servants’ hall. She dared ask no questions, but she deduced that Henson had stood by his decision not to wake his lordship, and that Lady Pickhurst’s maid had already been summoned by her mistress.
How it had been done Phoebe couldn’t imagine, but somehow her ladyship had returned to the house without the alarm being raised. The maids began to gossip about the noise in the night and the mystery of the unlocked door, but they were quickly silenced by Mr Henson.
‘You might learn from Miss Drake,’ he admonished the youngest of them. ‘She comes to her meal on time and in a ladylike fashion, and engages in no senseless tittle-tattle.’
Phoebe blushed and gave the elderly butler a small nod of thanks, taking the earliest opportunity to leave.
It was no great surprise to see Lord Pickhurst set off for church without his wife; she preferred the shorter evening service, and even avoided that when she could. Once his lordship’s carriage had drawn away, Phoebe watched the children being helped into the dogcart, and settled herself between them, glad to find that Nunnings, the under coachman, was driving. He was a pleasant young man, always ready to give her a hand into the carriage, but keeping a respectful distance.
‘Did you hear the noise in the night, Miss Drake?’ he asked. ‘I gather it came from somewhere near the nursery.’
‘I heard it, but I can tell you nothing about what it was,’ she replied, flushing a little at the lie. She couldn’t imagine how Lady Pickhurst had re-entered the house, once the door from the refectory had been locked. ‘Has Mr Henson discovered the cause?’
‘No.’ Nunnings chirruped to the horse. ‘Nearly everyone seems to think it was young Master Rodney up to some mischief,’ he added, giving her a wink as he glanced back at the boy.
‘I was sound asleep,’ Rodney said indignantly. ‘I wish you’d woken me, Miss Drake.’
‘If I had you’d be tired and miserable this morning,’ she said evenly, ‘and none the wiser for it. Sit straight now, you are slouching. Eliza, put your glove back on this instant.’
Lucille lay staring at the lace hangings above her bed. She felt feverish, thoughts racing through her head too fast to make any sense. Thanks to Jonah’s insistence on seeing her back to the refectory, her absence hadn’t been discovered. Fetching a ladder he’d forced a window open on the second floor and crept silently downstairs, surprisingly quiet and agile for such a large man, to let her in at the refectory door. While Lucille raced up to her room, he’d bolted and relocked the door again, before returning the way he’d come.
The mason’s lovemaking had been intolerably clumsy after Mortleigh’s expertise. She wanted her new lover, but jealousy ate at her; she was still furious at his deception. What could he want with a silly child like Agatha Stoppen? To be sure, the girl was an heiress, but she had nothing to offer that compared with Knytte!
Jonah swore he’d do anything for her, but he was a pious soul at heart. Committing adultery was preying on his conscience; he would never agree to the greater crime that was so necessary if she was ever to be free. Lucille shifted restlessly as she ran through her plan again. Everything depended on Mortleigh.
The distant clangour of the doorbell broke into her reverie. Lucille half rose from her bed. It was most unusual for anybody to call at this hour on a Sunday. Perhaps it was Mortleigh, pretending to have returned overnight from London. Suddenly calm and ice cold, she reached for the bell rope and pulled it to summon her maid. The girl arrived breathless and pink-cheeked. ‘My lady, Sir Martin Haylmer is here, with another gentleman. When they heard that his lordship wasn’t home from church, they asked if you’d be kind enough to see them. Mr Henson has shown them into the morning room.’
‘Sir Martin?’ It was most unusual for the Lord Lieutenant to come visiting, particularly on a Sunday. ‘I suppose I shall have to see him. Quickly then, help me to dress.’
The two men were standing by the fireplace, the Lord Lieutenant at his ease, the other shifting awkwardly from one foot to the other, his gaucheness reminding Lucille of Jonah Jackman, ill at ease as he was in the elegant room.
Sir Martin greeted her apologetically and introduced his companion as Inspector Tremayle of the county police. Tremayle bowed clumsily over her hand, and Lucille invited them both to sit down.
‘I’m sorry to disturb you, Lady Pickhurst,’ Tremayle said, ‘but when you hear the circumstances I am sure you’ll understand. There has been another robbery. Some very valuable jewellery was stolen from Dunsby Co
urt yesterday.’
‘What?’ Somehow this was the last thing she had expected. ‘But I was there myself, at Miss Agatha Stoppen’s party!’
‘Yes, along with most of the county.’ Sir Martin scowled. ‘My wife and I would have attended, had my duties elsewhere not made it impossible. That’s why I decided to involve myself personally in the investigation. We plan to speak to all the guests. Among so many we can only hope somebody will have noticed something out of the ordinary.’
Lucille’s mind was racing, but she showed no outward sign of it, giving him a sympathetic smile. ‘I wish I could help, but I can’t think of anything. How awful. And poor Agatha, she must be terribly upset.’
‘She is, although it was her mother who suffered the greatest loss. Mrs Stoppen is very distressed at the loss of her rubies.’
Lucille nodded. She had seen the two enormous rubies more than once. They were mounted in a tiara ringed with diamonds. She thought the thing vulgar, but there could be no doubt of its value. ‘Had they given a more formal party she would have been wearing her jewels,’ she said, with a certain satisfaction. ‘I have never cared for garden parties.’
‘Did you go inside the house?’ Inspector Tremayle asked.
‘I did, to the gallery. Reverend Stoppen was eager for my husband to see some new additions to his collection. I sat in a window seat and looked out over the garden. Sadly I saw nothing of interest to anyone except the local gossips.’
Sir Martin gave her a wintry smile as he rose to his feet, ‘we’ve already heard of Miss Stoppen’s many admirers; we shall be speaking to them all in due course. Thank you, Lady Pickhurst. Perhaps you’ll be kind enough to mention our visit to his lordship, and ask him to contact me if he has any useful information. Oh, and there’s this. With your permission I’ll give a copy to your butler. I need it to be seen by all your staff, and as far as possible by tradesmen calling at the house.’ He gestured to Tremayle who took a piece of paper from his pocket. It was a handbill, asking for information about a vagrant who was wanted for questioning in connection with the robberies.
Lucille looked at it without interest. ‘Whatever you wish. I’m sorry I couldn’t help you further.’
Once the men had gone, Lucille rose to her feet and paced the floor for a few minutes, thinking hard. Biting on her lip, she rang the bell to summon the butler, and requested him to bring all the recent newspapers he could find.
Respite came for Beddowes only when he dropped to the ground through sheer exhaustion. Hours passed in a daze; he was transported to half-remembered marches through distant lands, unaware of any clear distinction between past and present. At times the sharp-spined gorse and rough heather flaying his legs became shifting sand, and at others it was deep clinging mud. His old sergeant major marched alongside him, and Beddowes was glad of the companionship, even though the man’s orders made no sense, and he shimmered in a very disconcerting manner from time to time.
The day was coming to an end. He stumbled through yet another patch of bog, and as he dragged himself back to drier ground he thought he heard the sound of bells, brought to him on the breeze. Some part of his mind wondered if it might be Sunday. The idea pleased him for a second or two; it was the day of rest, he thought. Surely, even if he was no saint, he wouldn’t die while the rest of the world was busy at their prayers. Suspecting there was something wrong with his logic, he soon forgot about it and slipped back into a daze.
When darkness fell Beddowes kept moving for a while, until he lost his footing, stumbling over a clump of heather and measuring his length on the ground. It seemed too much trouble to rise to his feet, so he allowed his eyes to drift shut. It would have been easy, he thought dreamily, to simply lie there and die. But that would mean he would never know who had been so intent on killing him. He felt an illogical need to discover the identity of the man whose body had been tipped into the makeshift grave before him. Had he been friend or foe? The thoughts spiralled until they vanished into darkness. For a long time he knew no more.
Chapter Eleven
Phoebe Drake splashed water on her aching eyes. Jonah was constantly on her mind and she’d hardly slept. Despite her best intentions she had gone to the window often during the night but this time she saw no stealthy prowlers, nor did she hear any quiet footsteps passing the nursery door.
Looking out into the cool morning light, she saw her cousin, his two assistants following behind, walking briskly towards the ruin to start their week’s work. She thought the young mason looked as if he too had gone short of sleep; there were furrows on his forehead she’d never seen before.
Suddenly angry, Phoebe hurried back to her own room to dress; until Jonah came to his senses there was nothing she could do. She would spend all her energy on the two children under her care. Rodney in particular was unhappy and, although he didn’t speak of the reason she could guess it; Lady Pickhurst did all she could to keep the children away from their uncle, and talked frequently about the benefits of their being sent away to school. Before their marriage, his lordship had indulged the boy, taking him around the estate. Sometimes Rodney had even been allowed to join his uncle at dinner, when there was no other company.
Once the children were having breakfast and safely in Annie’s charge, Phoebe hurried downstairs to the dining room, where she guessed she would find Lord Pickhurst alone. Coper was on duty. His eyebrows lifted a little in surprise as she asked to be announced.
‘Miss Drake.’ His lordship put down his newspaper and beckoned her closer. ‘I trust nothing is wrong?’
‘No, your lordship, but I have a small request to ask of you. I was wondering if I might take Master Rodney on a little excursion. We are studying the history of Knytte, and have started with the monastery system. Would you give us permission to visit the ruins at Gretlyn this morning?’
‘I don’t see why not,’ Lord Pickhurst said. ‘The journey shouldn’t take more than an hour if I order the bays, they’ve had little exercise lately, and they’ll take you at a fair clip. You don’t intend to take little Eliza?’
‘I thought she would find the outing too tiring. Annie can look after her, just this once, unless you would prefer some other arrangement.’ Phoebe felt suddenly light-hearted; she hadn’t been away from Knytte since she took up the post of governess, and depending upon who was sent to drive, she might be allowed to take the reins of the two fine horses for part of the way.
‘No, that will do.’ Lord Pickhurst picked up the paper again, giving her a half-smile. ‘Tell Rodney I shall try to find time to take him out myself sometime next week, Miss Drake, as I used to. I quite miss the boy’s company.’
She almost ran to take this message back upstairs. Half an hour later she and the boy were seated behind Nunnings, with a stableboy perched behind, and the matching bays pulling hard, as eager as she was to leave Knytte for a few hours.
A bright sun shone on his back and warmed him. It would have been easy, the sergeant thought hazily, never to make another move. He could simply lie there until death took him; he had a feeling it might not take too long. But then he’d never discover who had tried to kill him, or why. It would be annoying to leave such a mystery unsolved, and the offence unpunished.
It must have been halfway through the morning by the time Beddowes dragged himself to his feet once more. The spectre of his old sergeant stood grinning at him. ‘One last day, lad,’ the familiar voice was jovial. Beddowes tried to reply, but could make no sound. His lips were dry and cracked, his tongue felt too large for his mouth, and there was a nagging pain in his belly to add to the aches left by the beating he’d taken, but still he set himself into motion. He’d long since forgotten why he’d been heading west, but he saw no reason to change direction. His imaginary companion nodded approvingly and promptly vanished.
Beddowes had been following the track for some time before he noticed it. It had simply appeared under his feet. Looking back he saw his own footprints in a wet patch, but there were others, and the mar
ks of shod hoofs, quite fresh. People came here.
Despite this discovery he couldn’t pick up speed; he was close to the end of his strength. The track became wider. It lead downhill, and stopped where it encountered a dusty lane. He halted for a long moment, unwilling to make a choice between left and right. He looked to the south. The sun felt too hot and bright on his face, so he turned north instead, and plodded on.
Barely conscious, he saw the gang of road-menders before him as a group of moving trees. One of them, a lad of about eight, employed to gather stones while his older brothers dug out ditches, picked up a pebble and threw it at the tramp, jeering at the ragged scarecrow as he staggered by, and capering in delight when he scored a hit. This brought a laugh from some of the men, welcoming the brief diversion from their labours, and very soon they had all entered the game, scooping small stones from the road.
Shouts rang in Beddowes ears, but his addled brain made no sense of them, and he slouched on, head down and shoulders hunched. Hits on his head and face were met with roars of delight, and an increasingly heavy barrage. Losing his balance, he fell to all fours. Shouting enthusiastically, the road gang crowded closer. Beddowes tried to regain his feet, but the world was slowly tilting and the sky above him darkened. Without making a sound, he dropped insensible to the ground.
The excursion to the ruins of Gretlyn monastery was a great success. Many of the walls still stood and they spread over a large area, making an exciting roofless maze to be explored. ‘Take care, Master Rodney,’ Phoebe warned, as the boy climbed the remains of a spiral staircase which vanished into the darkness of a narrow tower.
‘It’s quite safe,’ came the reply, ‘I’m holding onto the wall.’ He went on climbing, his voice echoing as he went higher. ‘I can see the top now. Why don’t you come up?’ A gleeful laugh drifted down to her. ‘I’m on the roof, Miss Drake!’