Death at Knytte

by Jean Rowden

  The tools were lifted from the wagon by the miners, and the four men trudged together down the slight dip beyond the ruined mine chimney. Still nobody spoke until they stood on the lip of a steep-sided pit.

  ‘You gents will want to cover your noses,’ one of the miners said, pushing a tentative heel into the edge of the hole.

  ‘Aye, an’ mebbe your eyes,’ added the other, peering down. ‘Tain’t purty.’

  ‘Just do your job,’ the younger man ordered tautly. ‘Should we not bring the box?’

  ‘Not till we see ’ow to get the beggar out, Mr Docket.’

  His partner gave a hoarse laugh. ‘Could be him’ll come by the shovelful, ’twouldn’t be the first time. ’Member when Wheal Dinnock caved in, Dickon, thirty year gone, an’ it took us six weeks to reach the last on ’em. Ye never saw such a sight.’

  ‘That will do.’ The older man had made no sound until now. He spoke quietly, but his order was instantly obeyed. Stationing himself at the rim of the pit, he watched as the miners manoeuvred the ladder into place and climbed down into its depths, gingerly avoiding the shapeless something that lay at the bottom. Docket, a scented handkerchief to his nose, stepped close enough to give the object a brief glance; he recoiled in horror and hurried away. Bending double behind a gorse bush, he retched noisily.

  His companion returned to the wagon and lifted the covering off the plain coffin. He carried the sacking back to the pit and tossed it down to the miners without a word. Unflinching, he stood and watched as they went about their gristly business.

  Nearly an hour passed before the little procession started back the way it had come, the pony leaning into its work now the coffin had an occupant. Docket’s face was grey; he led the way, keeping up a pace the pony couldn’t match, intent on distancing himself from the stench which dogged their footsteps.

  ‘You really think this ghastly business was worthwhile?’ he demanded irritably, when the man on the cob caught up with him. ‘What can possibly be learnt when the body is in such a state? He might have been twenty years old or sixty, a dwarf or a giant, for all you could tell by looking at him.’

  ‘I’m told this doctor in Hagstock is prepared to study the remains, no matter how badly decayed they are,’ Sergeant Beddowes replied. ‘There was a case in London not long ago when a murder victim was identified by the peculiar shape of his teeth.’

  ‘But you claim you saw this man when he’d only been dead a day or two. You must already know more about him than we can learn by looking at that …’ he broke off, his face blanching. ‘If I had my way we’d have buried him where we found him.’

  ‘Even villains like to have the proper words spoken over them by a parson,’ Beddowes said mildly, ‘and we have no idea whether this man was a saint or a sinner.’

  Docket looked a little shame-faced. ‘I suppose you think me weak.’

  ‘I think you’re lucky,’ Beddowes said. ‘As a soldier I grew accustomed to sights it’s better not to see. As to what I saw last time I was here, that’s partly why I’m so curious. His face was battered beyond all recognition. Either his attacker was driven by a terrible hatred, or he wanted to be sure the body couldn’t be recognized.’

  ‘But who would see it?’ Docket objected. ‘You were left for dead, and out here the body wasn’t likely to be found.’

  ‘Guilt can do strange things to a man’s mind,’ Beddowes observed. ‘A murderer can never be sure that his crime won’t come back to haunt him. I still have hopes that your enquiries of the silversmith may bring us a name to go with our faceless man.’

  ‘At best he’ll only suggest the name of a man who might be persuaded to help us,’ Docket said. ‘I see now why you’re so well thought of in your profession; you don’t give up, do you?’

  ‘Not when there’s a worthwhile line of inquiry to be followed,’ the sergeant replied, ‘and it makes a difference when somebody tries to kill me. But you’re right, I’ve never been good at admitting defeat.’

  ‘Unlike Sir Martin,’ Docket commented. ‘He told me quite openly that as long as there are no more jewel robberies, he’d be happy to let the matter rest. Since there seems to be little hope of recovering the stolen items, even if the culprit is apprehended, the affair will always be remembered as a failure. He would prefer that the process of forgetting should begin as soon as possible.’

  ‘He thinks like a politician,’ Beddowes said. ‘He might get his wish soon enough. I suspect he’s written to my superiors and asked for me to be recalled, but until I receive a direct order I shan’t be returning to London.’

  ‘Somebody’s in a hurry,’ Docket commented as they turned onto the main road. A rider, leaning low over the sweating neck of his mount, was spurring hard in their direction. As he approached he slowed, and Docket brought his horse to a stand. ‘It’s Woodham. What’s the matter, man?’

  ‘I came to find you, Mr Docket,’ Woodham said breathlessly. ‘And the sergeant. Sir Martin asks that you go at once to Knytte. Lord Pickhurst is dead. It looks as if the thief has struck again, only this time he did bloody murder.’

  Knytte looked serenely indifferent to the drama unfolding within its ancient stone walls; the mist had cleared and the house glowed in the soft autumn sun. A groom came to take the horses, with only a slight delay, and the liveried footman who opened the door bowed to the two men with no show of emotion, though his face was flushed, and he seemed uncertain what to do with them once they were inside. A hysterical wail could be heard from somewhere above. Muted sobs from the direction of the kitchen were abruptly cut off by the noisy closing of a door.

  ‘I am afraid Lady Pickhurst is indisposed,’ the man said. He gulped. ‘And I very much regret that his lordship—’

  ‘We heard,’ Docket said, ‘that’s why we’re here, to give what assistance we can.’

  The footman looked relieved. ‘Inspector Tremayle arrived some time ago, sir. He was in the old library, which is where his lordship was found, but he stepped outside a few moments ago.’

  ‘While we wait for his return it might be helpful if we have a look at the scene of the crime,’ Beddowes suggested.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir, but the inspector gave orders that nobody should be allowed in that part of the house without his permission.’

  Docket seemed prepared to argue, but Beddowes nodded. ‘The case is under the inspector’s jurisdiction, Mr Docket,’ he pointed out.

  ‘Then let him be told we’re here,’ Docket said.

  The footman bowed. ‘Very well, sir. If you gentlemen would care to wait in the morning room, I’ll send somebody to tell him you’ve arrived.’

  ‘We’re wasting time,’ Docket said impatiently.

  Beddowes went to look out of the window. ‘I’ve no right to become involved unless the local man requests help. Even if this crime is the work of our jewel thief, I should ask for Inspector Tremayle’s agreement before taking part in the investigation.’

  They weren’t kept waiting long; Tremayle came to them, and was almost effusive in his welcome, his face positively beaming. ‘I’m happy to say there’s no need for you to exert yourself, Sergeant Beddowes. The murderer is caught. I have him locked up and under guard. In view of the serious nature of the crime, and the risk that the culprit might attempt to escape, I have sent to Hagstock for the secure carriage.’

  ‘Congratulations,’ Docket said. ‘How did you achieve such a speedy conclusion to the case? Did the villain confess?’

  ‘No. In fact he insists he’s innocent, but he’s the only person who could possibly have committed the crime.’ Tremayle smiled broadly, obviously very pleased with himself. ‘Would you care to come and inspect the scene? Nothing has been moved, and I would be interested to hear your observations.’ He led the way from the room, and for a few moments the frenzied screams became more audible.

  ‘I’m afraid Lady Pickhurst is quite beside herself,’ Tremayle remarked. ‘Her maid and the housekeeper are with her, but they seem unable to comfort her. The d
octor is expected soon.’

  ‘I’ve found a large amount of cold water usually works well in cases of hysteria,’ Beddowes said. ‘And the sooner it’s applied the quicker the cure.’

  Docket looked shocked. ‘Sergeant, you can’t throw water over a member of the nobility!’

  ‘Hmph,’ Tremayle said non-committally. ‘I’m afraid what you’re about to see is rather gory, gentlemen.’

  ‘Did Lady Pickhurst see the body?’ Beddowes asked, thinking that might have caused the attack of hysteria.

  ‘No. His lordship was found by Henson, the butler. The sight was too much for him. Two footmen carried him to his room in a state of total collapse. He’s not a young man, of course.’

  Docket made a small sound, and Beddowes glanced at him in concern. His young companion managed a weak smile. ‘At least my stomach can’t betray me. I’m in no danger of losing my breakfast, since I rid myself of it some hours ago.’

  The old library was dimly lit, only two of the shutters covering the windows that extended along one wall having been opened. A long table stood before the two men as they entered, with a broken chair lying on its side at the far end. Close to the chair, something dark lay sprawled in the shadows. The sergeant screwed up his eyes in an attempt to make out more detail, but he had to move closer to recognize it. Lord Pickhurst lay face down. From the side of his head ran a stain that shimmered in the uncertain light. Tremayle had gone to the windows, and as he opened another shutter, the splashes acquired colour, and became deep red, creamy white and grey. The contents of his lordship’s skull, blood, bone and brains, were splattered across the dark pattern of the Persian carpet.

  Behind him Beddowes heard a kind of sigh, then a slight thud, as Docket fainted.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Beddowes helped Docket to a sitting position, prudently keeping between the young man and the gory mess on the carpet. ‘There’s no need for you to stay. Go outside.’

  Docket shook his head. ‘No. I’m here as Sir Martin’s representative. I’ll do what I must.’ He rose to his feet, visibly steeling himself before taking a step to the side so he could see what remained of Lord Pickhurst. ‘What did that?’ he asked, swallowing hard.

  ‘We thought at first it must be a shotgun,’ Tremayle replied, opening yet more shutters. ‘But we were wrong. The murder weapon is over here.’ With the morning light streaming in through six tall windows, the full horror of the scene was exposed.

  Averting his gaze, Docket made his way around the long table to join the inspector, while Beddowes carefully traced the shorter route past the still damp patches which extended almost to the wall. He moved slowly, his eyes missing nothing.

  The men met by the object which lay halfway between the windows and the upturned chair. It was the bust of a man, with a large strong-jawed head, and broad shoulders, modelled considerably larger than life-size. Beddowes stared at it with disbelief; it had the unmistakable look of solid marble, and he had never seen a less likely murder weapon. However, the evidence was plain enough; the side of the base and the right shoulder were horribly smeared with flesh, skin and blood.

  ‘You see?’ Tremayle was triumphant. He put his two hands around the neck of the bust, bent his knees in the classic strong-man’s pose, and attempted to move the huge piece of marble from the floor. Exerting all his strength, the inspector could barely raise it an inch. Beddowes measured the man with his eye and frowned thoughtfully, flexing his injured arm; it wasn’t sufficiently healed to risk the attempt, yet he was intrigued, wanting to test the weight of the bust himself. He placed his one available hand beneath the bearded chin, where he could get a good grip. The burden was greater than he’d expected, and he felt his muscles protest; they’d been weakened by the enforced inactivity of convalescence, following his injuries, not to mention the spell of near-starvation.

  Beddowes managed to lift the bust two inches from the floor. ‘With two good hands I believe I could carry it,’ he commented, ‘but something like that isn’t easy to use as a weapon.’ He looked at the damage that had been done to Lord Pickhurst’s skull and shook his head. ‘He’d have to be a giant.’

  ‘Exactly,’ Tremayle said, rubbing his hands together, whether from glee or to remove the sting caused by his attempt at lifting the bust, Beddowes couldn’t guess. ‘Not a man in ten thousand could pick that thing up, let alone swing it over another man’s head. It was immediately clear to me that this case was unconnected to the jewel robberies; I only had to ask if there was a particularly strong man known to be nearby, and the answer came. Jonah Jackman, a giant by comparison with the rest of us, has been employed at Knytte as a stonemason for nearly a year. I have a dozen witnesses who can swear they’ve seen him manhandling slabs of stone even larger than this during the course of his work.’

  ‘But that’s not the same,’ Beddowes said. ‘To lift is one thing, but to swing that great weight with enough power to do this –’ he gestured at the body. ‘It hardly seems possible.’

  ‘Do you have any other suggestion as to how Lord Pickhurst met his death?’ Tremayle asked. ‘Perhaps three or four assailants joined together and threw the bust at him.’ He pointed at the table, which was heavily scarred, his manner cheerfully sarcastic. ‘Perhaps they jumped onto the table carrying the bust and dropped it, while he sat helpfully tilting his head to one side.’

  Beddowes didn’t answer. With the spread of blood and brain matter this last suggestion was plainly nonsense. He had seen that sort of damage done to a man’s skull before, but only ever on the battlefield. Since joining the police force he’d encountered violent death many times; he recalled the case of a madwoman who battered a man to death with a sledge hammer. Slight in build, and apparently too weak to have committed the crime, she’d broken her victim’s skull in a dozen places. However, she had rained down many blows upon her victim, and doctors at her trial had maintained that the insane were often possessed of exceptional strength.

  The sergeant opened his mouth with the intention of making some comment, and then closed it again. Tremayle had made his position clear; this was nothing to do with the jewel robberies, and an outsider’s opinion wasn’t wanted.

  ‘I wonder if we might go outside?’ Docket suggested.

  ‘By all means.’ Tremayle took another complacent glance around the room. ‘There is nothing more to learn here, and the wagon may have arrived. I must get my prisoner safely locked up. Once he has seen how the evidence speaks against him, he’s bound to confess.’

  ‘I hope the doctor has come,’ Docket put in, his spirits clearly lifting once they’d left the scene of the crime, although the hysterical screams from the floor above had become clearly audible again. ‘Poor Lady Pickhurst. I hate to hear a woman suffering so gravely. There were those who said the marriage was ill-matched, but I think the gossips got it wrong.’

  ‘Since Inspector Tremayle has everything in hand, perhaps we should go,’ Beddowes suggested.

  Docket nodded. ‘Sir Martin will want a report. I suspect he’ll be happy that this matter has been so speedily resolved.’ He gave Beddowes a sideways glance. ‘I intend no slight, Sergeant. Sadly your own case has been dogged by bad luck.’

  Outside, a one-horse phaeton stood in the drive. Wooden-faced, a footman informed them that Dr Pencoe had arrived, and was attending Lady Pickhurst; the sounds of distress from within had grown no less. The distant rattle of wheels could be heard; a Black Maria, with two constables on the box, turned the corner around the yew hedge and bowled up to the house.

  ‘Excellent.’ Tremayle beamed at Docket and Beddowes. ‘Gentlemen, I’ll confess my prisoner concerns me. He’s a strong cove, Jackman. If he decided to attempt an escape we might have our hands full. I’d be obliged if you would remain while we move him to the wagon, just as a show of extra strength, as it were.’

  ‘Perhaps it would be wise for us to arm ourselves,’ Docket suggested.

  ‘I don’t think that’s necessary,’ Tremayle said. ‘My lads carry n
ightsticks, and we’ve got the manacles on him, but I’d be grateful if you’d stand by, just in case.’

  Docket bit his lip, half turning to Beddowes. The sergeant said nothing, content to leave the decision to the Lord Lieutenant’s secretary. He suspected Tremayle merely wanted an audience for his triumphal departure.

  The man who was led from the stables attended by four constables was indeed a giant, several inches taller than Beddowes, who stood over six feet, and a great deal more powerfully built. The suspected murderer towered over his escort, but he walked slowly, looking straight ahead. It seemed he had no intention of attempting to escape.

  Beddowes looked at the man’s face, and felt a jolt of recognition. In battle Beddowes had seen both men and horses reach a point when they removed themselves from a reality that was too awful to be borne. They no longer wished to live, even though they’d suffered no acute physical harm, because life itself had become intolerable.

  There was an obvious conclusion; Jackman must have committed the murder in a moment of madness, and now he was filled with horror at what he’d done. Perhaps he couldn’t escape that terrible scene in the old library; it would haunt him, waking and sleeping, until he met his end on the gallows. Disliking his morbid thoughts and knowing the prisoner would need no further restraint, Beddowes turned towards the stable yard, eager to leave. A woman’s voice stopped him, lifted in a heart-rending cry.

  ‘No, oh no!’

  Beddowes turned back. The captive was about to step into the Black Maria. A woman, small and slight and dressed in a plain grey gown, was running towards him.

  ‘No!’ she cried again. ‘This is all wrong! Jonah, you can’t let them take you. Tell them the truth.’

  Inspector Tremayle stepped forward, the smile wiped momentarily from his face. He caught the woman by the shoulder before she could reach his prisoner. ‘Come now, miss, this is police business. Step aside if you please.’