by Jean Rowden
‘But you’re making a mistake!’ She shook off his grip, but made no further move. ‘Whoever killed Lord Pickhurst, it can’t have been Jonah. He’d never hurt anyone, he’s the gentlest person I know.’ Jackman kept his gaze fixed on the ground as if he was unaware of her presence.
‘Are you saying you know where this man was when Lord Pickhurst was killed?’ Tremayle had assured himself that this was a person of no position in the household and his tone was rough. ‘Was he with you?’ He shot the words at her like an accusation, making her recoil from him. ‘This rogue’s a single man, so I understand,’ he went on relentlessly, ‘but perhaps you were keeping him company last night.’
The woman stared at him in horror. ‘I was in my room next to the nursery,’ she said, finding her voice at last, ‘as I am every night.’ She faltered under the inspector’s gaze. ‘You don’t understand. Jonah is my cousin. I’ve known him since we were children. He’s not a violent man.’
‘You’re wasting my time,’ Tremayle said. He brushed past her as the door at the back of the wagon was closed and locked. ‘All right lads, take him.’ With a nod to Docket he hurried to the carriage which had brought him to Knytte. There was the jingle of harness and the creak of springs, followed by the crunch and hush of wheels on gravel. The noise faded as the two vehicles went down the drive, until all that could be heard was the hysterical wailing floating from an open window above them.
Some instinct propelled Beddowes across the dozen yards that separated him from the young woman; he reached her just as she crumpled. She didn’t weigh much; even with the use of only one arm, he was able to prevent her from falling. He half carried her to a stone seat, set beside the steps into the house.
‘I’m quite well,’ she was saying, as she sank onto the seat, ‘a moment of weakness, that’s all.’ She turned her head, so that she could see who held her, and with a little gasp, she fainted.
Lucille flung out an arm, as if in a paroxysm of grief. She lay face down upon the bed, her pillow soaked with tears. For a while she’d relished the part of a widow driven mad by the loss of a beloved husband, but her hysterical shrieks had made her throat sore, and now she had a headache. Weary at last of her play-acting, she allowed her sobs to quieten, and heard her maid whisper to Dr Pencoe.
‘Please sir, is there nothing you can do?’
‘It’s difficult while her ladyship refuses to allow me near her,’ the man said testily. ‘Physical force is a last resort in such cases, and since I understand Dr Long is expected, it may be best to await his arrival.’
‘I believe her ladyship is close to exhausting herself,’ the housekeeper put in. ‘Should I order a fresh posset? We may be able to persuade her to take it now.’
‘If you can persuade her to take anything it should be the medicament I have here, but since two doses have already been spilt there seems little point wasting another.’
Biting at the bedclothes to keep from laughing, Lucille moaned and thrashed about again. This time she felt her hand connect with soft flesh, though which of the women she’d struck she couldn’t tell. A hysterical laugh burst from her lips. She would continue the charade until Dr Long witnessed her prostration. He was both older and more widely respected than the local man, Pencoe; she wished to convince as many people as possible of the sincerity of her grief, for plenty of her neighbours would be sceptical.
‘My Lady, please, try to be calm. I think I hear a carriage coming.’ The maid ran to the window. ‘Yes, at last! Will you not allow me to bathe your face and brush your hair before Dr Long comes upstairs?’
By way of answer Lucille gave another hysterical wail, flailing wildly. Stupid girl! What would be the point of working herself into this state if she was prinked and tidied before the old fool arrived? She lifted her head and immediately felt dizzy; that might be useful, for she felt a grand gesture was needed.
As the door opened a few minutes later Lucille rolled across the bed. ‘My husband,’ she sobbed, ‘I must see my poor dear husband.’ She rose to her feet before the two women could reach her and stood swaying; exhausted as she was, this required no play acting. ‘Help me, Doctor,’ she wailed, ‘please, if you have any compassion, let me hold my sweet love in my arms one last time!’
Phoebe pushed herself upright, forcing the man who held her to let go. ‘I am quite well now,’ she said, painfully embarrassed. She watched her rescuer as he withdrew, to stand a few feet away; he seemed almost as ill-at-ease as she was.
‘Miss Drake,’ Docket came to take the vacant space beside the governess; they had been acquainted when she worked at Clowmoor Manor, and he felt himself obliged to assist her. ‘Should I send indoors for a maid? You’ve been badly shaken.’
‘I need no help, thank you,’ she replied, her chin lifting suddenly. She stared at the sergeant’s back. ‘Seeing a man alive and well, having been assured that he was dead, was a great shock, that’s all.’
‘It was a villain by the name of Fetch and Carry Cobb who died.’ The tall man turned again, and came to stand before her. ‘I apologize for giving you such a shock.’
‘Allow me to present Sergeant Beddowes, Miss Drake,’ Docket said hastily. ‘He’s a detective from London.’
Phoebe rose to her feet. Her eyes were still a long way below those of the sergeant, but she met them fearlessly; this was the man of her dream, but that was a secret she wouldn’t disclose for the world. ‘It was you,’ she said. ‘The tramp. And don’t tell me I’m mistaken. I suppose there must have been a good reason for the deception, but I fail to see what it could be. Excuse me, I should return to my charges. They were fond of their uncle, and I’ll not risk them seeing or hearing things that are best kept from them.’
‘Of course,’ Docket said, offering her his arm. Beddowes quelled him with a look.
‘No, Docket, I believe this has to be set right. Miss Drake, I beg you will allow me to make a proper apology. I’m sure Mr Docket will carry any message you wish, regarding the care of the children.’
She had lowered her gaze and seemed not to want to look at him again. ‘I left them with the nursery maid, Annie, but the girl has rather lost her head this morning. It would be better if I were there.’
Docket sketched a little bow in her direction. ‘With your permission, I shall go to the nursery at once and speak to the children. I’ve met them before, I don’t believe they’ll be afraid of me. If they are, however, or if your presence is required, I shall return at once.’ With a sidelong glance at Beddowes he sketched a bow, ran up the steps and into the house.
‘Won’t you sit down again?’ Beddowes asked, gesturing at the seat. ‘You’ve had two nasty shocks this morning.’
‘No.’ She shook out her skirt and turned her back on him. ‘I prefer to walk around the lawn and clear my head. Mr Docket will find us easily enough if I’m needed.’
Beddowes hurried to follow her, a slight smile on his face. Miss Drake was not only pretty, she had a mind of her own.
‘First,’ he said, ‘let me apologize for giving you such a shock. I’d been playing the part of this rogue called Cobb ever since I arrived in this county. We planned to lure the jewel thief into a trap, but it didn’t work. In fact it went badly wrong. It was fortunate that a courageous young woman came to my rescue. I sent my thanks, but I’m afraid they weren’t adequate. Please, let me repeat them in person.’ He placed himself ahead of her, so she had to come to a halt.
Phoebe met his look with a slight flush on her cheeks. ‘I assure you this isn’t necessary.’
‘On the contrary, it is. Miss Drake, thank you. I believe you saved my life. I really am sorry. I didn’t expect anyone to recognize me.’
She didn’t drop her gaze and for a long moment they stood motionless. He had been thinking what an attractive woman she was, but suddenly it was hard to frame any thought at all.
‘It was your eyes,’ she said simply. ‘I couldn’t believe you were a villain, despite your outward appearance, and what I was told.’
‘I think that’s the kindest thing anyone has ever said to me.’ He was the first to break the charged contact between them, turning away so they could resume their walk. They had almost reached the other side of the lawn before Beddowes spoke again.
‘Miss Drake, I owe you a considerable debt. This business with your cousin; is there anything I can do to help?’
She shook her head. ‘Not unless you believe poor Jonah is innocent, as I do. I suspect that being a policeman, you’ll be inclined to see things the same way as Inspector Tremayle.’
‘I understand his reasoning,’ Beddowes conceded, ‘but he may have been hasty.’ He thought about his visit to the crime scene, and his uneasy feeling that all was not as it seemed. ‘Why are you so sure Jackman didn’t murder his lordship?’
‘Because I know him. You called me kind, but I’m not as tender-hearted as my cousin. The trouble is, I can’t prove he’s innocent.’ She made a helpless gesture. ‘Things have been happening in this house. Please, would you speak to Jonah? I made promises to him, and I can’t break them, but if you could persuade him to tell the truth, the whole thing might appear in a very different light.’
‘I’m willing to try,’ Beddowes said, intrigued. He said goodbye to Miss Drake without allowing himself to look her full in the face; he had enough to occupy his mind without getting entangled with a woman.
Fortunately Docket was silent as they returned to Clowmoor House, and Beddowes was left to his own thoughts; not all of them concerned the murder of Lord Pickhurst. Despite his best intentions, he was finding it hard to forget the soft voice declaring that he didn’t have the look of a villain.
Lucille accepted the sleeping draught Dr Lock gave her. She had known he would deny her request to see her husband, but it had been a nice touch. Worn out by her play-acting, she awoke some hours later feeling refreshed. She stretched her arms languidly; it was late now, almost dark. Her maid knew better than to enter until she was sent for, but nevertheless Lucille checked the joyous laugh that had almost come unbidden to her lips. She put up a hand to touch them, enjoying the sensuous softness of her own body; never again would she have to submit to the press of that hateful dry skin against hers.
On silent feet she rose and went to the window, careful to remain a little way from the glass; let the world think her in deep mourning and still prostrate upon her bed. It would be tiresome keeping up the pretence. Once the old wretch was buried she would summon the steward and begin to learn everything about her estate. She smiled to herself, planning her strategy; she would be pale and fragile but determined, a woman left alone by fate, courageously taking the place of a man.
The Dower House was hidden by trees. She wondered if Mortleigh had returned there yet. The thought of him brought a warm tingle of pleasure. Throwing back her head, she imagined the touch of her lover’s lips, hard and demanding upon her neck. As her body responded to the thought she smiled. She hadn’t forgotten how he’d treated her that first time. His ruthless nature matched hers so well.
Lucille, Lady Pickhurst, sank down slowly upon her bed. She had promised to share Knytte with her lover. It was a great prize. She hadn’t yet made up her mind whether she would honour that promise. Freedom was inexpressibly sweet.
Chapter Sixteen
Just two days after he was murdered, Lord Pickhurst was buried in the family crypt. His young widow, wearing a black veil which completely hid her face, leant heavily on her father’s arm during the short walk to the chapel. The Honourable Mr Horace Gayne had arrived in a hired carriage. Sour-faced and breathless he told the assembled congregation that his wife was not well enough to travel, having collapsed when she heard about the death of her son-in-law.
Victor Mortleigh was among those to offer condolences, but said no more than a dozen formal words before withdrawing to the Dower House. Very soon after that Lucille returned home. Her father followed her into the salon. Those servants who hadn’t retreated behind the baize door were treated to the sound of a loud and vitriolic quarrel.
Lady Pickhurst rang the bell and ordered a carriage. Very soon after that Mr Gayne left, red faced and perspiring. It seemed he was no longer welcome at Knytte.
Left alone, Lucille looked idly through the letters and cards from solicitous neighbours. Mortleigh’s was among them. The note was as formal and uninformative as the few words he’d spoken at the chapel. A frown creasing her forehead, she stepped towards the fire, intending to throw both card and envelope in. Just in time she noticed there were a few pencil lines on the inside of the envelope. At first glance Lucille thought they were random scribbles, but then she recognized the roughly outlined shape, and laughed aloud. Mortleigh had sent her a picture of the garden house, the location he had chosen for their first act of adultery.
Lucille kissed the drawing, then tossed it into the fire. Tomorrow she would find some excuse to call on her new neighbour. She decided she should pick a quarrel with him; let nobody say they had become friends too readily, or too soon after the death of her husband. As to meetings conducted at night, that was another matter.
Sir Martin Haylmer had requested his presence. Sergeant Beddowes was shown into a chilly parlour where he stood by the window looking out at the wide sweep of Clowmoor’s park. The trees were bright with autumn colour and fat cattle grazed among the first of the fallen leaves. It was a beautiful scene, but he wasn’t really seeing it; he had a great deal to think about.
His memory was improving; he’d recalled his encounter with the smugglers. After being tipped out of the rickety dogcart, he remembered deciding to take the road to the west and return to Clowmoor with the intention of speaking with Sir Martin. Beyond that it was still a blank, until he regained consciousness in the pit. Dr Long had warned him he might never remember those lost hours.
Immediately after Lord Pickhurst’s funeral, Docket had taken the train to London, carrying the ring that Beddowes had taken from the naked corpse on the moor. Silversmiths were notoriously secretive, but thanks to his local informant, Docket hoped to prise some information from the marks contained within the little silver band. Beddowes was grateful for the young man’s enthusiasm; but for that, he might have been forced to make an admission of defeat.
A footman came to summon him to Sir Martin’s presence. The Lord Lieutenant looked more cheerful than he’d expected, and waved the sergeant to the chair opposite his own. ‘Come in, Beddowes. I have some news for you. Good or bad, I’m not sure yet, but it’s interesting at least.’ He picked up a letter and handed it to the sergeant. ‘What do you think of that?’
It was a report from the young doctor in Hagstock, the man with a taste for dead bodies, no matter how decayed they might be. Beddowes scanned the first few lines. There was nothing new there; he already had a fair idea of the man’s height, weight and age.
He reached the second paragraph and his eyes widened; he read on swiftly.
‘I examined the cadaver’s right arm with some care, as the decomposition seemed more advanced there. I found a bullet embedded between the radius and ulna. From the condition of the surrounding flesh I would guess the injury was sustained no more than two days before the man’s death. The wound would have been painful but not necessarily fatal. A physician could have removed the bullet without too much difficulty. One must assume the wound had been left untreated.’
‘Well?’
‘One of the rogues was winged after all,’ Beddowes said. ‘I owe that man of yours an apology, and a pint of ale to go with it.’
Sir Martin nodded. ‘One of the thieves died. His partner made sure he couldn’t be recognized before disposing of the body.’
‘I’m not so sure that’s how it happened,’ Beddowes said. Wrinkling his nose, he tried to remember his awakening next to the naked corpse. ‘I don’t think that man died of the gunshot wound. It might have killed him in time; his arm was swollen but it hadn’t gone bad. I suspect his friend decided to get rid of him.’
Sir Martin scowled. ‘T
hat’s pretty cold-blooded.’
‘The man at the crossroads fits the bill. He gave the orders. When his pal showed his nerves and almost let something slip, he took a fist in the face for his carelessness. I’d say after nearly being caught, and with an injured man on his hands, our jewel thief decided he’d be better off alone. He certainly didn’t trust Cobb, despite having dealt with him for several months. Obviously my attempts to convince him that I’d got nothing to do with the ambush at the crossroads didn’t work, but maybe that close call scared him. He decided to cut loose from anyone who could identify him.’
‘None of this helps us.’ Sir Martin sounded despondent.
‘Maybe not.’
The Lord Lieutenant was silent for a long moment. ‘As chief magistrate I was responsible for asking Scotland Yard for help, Sergeant. When you arrived with a plan ready formed, thanks to Cobb’s capture, I thought we’d soon be done with the affair, but here we are, weeks later and the rogue is still at large. I’m not saying it’s all your fault, but we’re no closer to finding him than we were a month ago.’
‘I know what you’re thinking, but there’s a chance Docket may bring us some news. I’d be grateful if you’d allow me another week.’
Sir Martin hesitated, and before he could frame an answer Beddowes hurried on. ‘I’d like to look into another matter while we’re waiting. The jewel thief never attempted to rob Knytte, and now a much more serious crime has been committed in that house. Can it be a coincidence? After all, we know the thief’s capable of murder.’
‘I’m inclined to agree with Tremayle,’ Sir Martin replied, ‘the case looks quite straightforward. The trial’s set for Monday, you know. I’m not expecting it to last long.’
‘I agree the use of the marble bust as a murder weapon implicates Jonah Jackman,’ Beddowes said, ‘but what was his motive? Why would a respected stone mason suddenly decide to kill his employer? At least let me ask him.’ He had Phoebe Drake very much in mind. He would hardly acknowledge it, even to himself, but his interest in the affair at Knytte had more to do with that young woman than a remote chance of connecting Lord Pickhurst’s death with the jewel thief.