Death at Knytte

by Jean Rowden

  ‘I suppose that wouldn’t hurt.’ Sir Martin gave a decisive nod. You have your seven days, Beddowes, but no more. See Jackman. Tell Inspector Tremayle you’re acting on my authority.’

  Beddowes sat in the dismal little room in Hagstock gaol. He had talked himself to a standstill, and had no idea what else he could do.

  Jonah Jackman was refusing to speak. Perhaps after what he’d heard Miss Drake say he should have expected it. The stonemason had sat silent and unmoving for an hour, his large hands resting motionless on his knees. He showed no hint of nerves; he seemed unaware of the precariousness of his position. Even when Beddowes told him bluntly that his refusal to speak would be seen as an admission of guilt, Jackman wouldn’t say a word.

  ‘If you’ll not speak up for your own sake, what about Miss Drake?’ It was a low blow, but all he could think of. ‘She cares for you and thinks nothing of herself, but how will things be for her, if you’re hanged for murder? It would be disastrous for a governess to lose her post in such circumstances. Nobody would employ her. Would you die knowing you’re responsible for leaving her destitute, or even that your refusal to tell the truth has seen her into her grave?’

  Jackman looked up for the first time, as if this thought had never occurred to him.

  ‘Did you kill Lord Pickhurst?’ Beddowes stared into the man’s face, and saw nothing there to reassure him; the eyes retained that dead haunted look he’d seen when Jackman walked to the Black Maria. ‘Did you?’ the sergeant persisted.

  Very slowly Jackman shook his head.

  ‘But you know something of what happened that night,’ Beddowes said. ‘Miss Drake begged you to tell the truth. What did she mean by that?’

  Jackman let his head droop again. Guilty or not, it seemed he was determined to hang. He looked as if he was wearied to death by some intolerable suffering. Had that shake of the head been a lie? Crushing Lord Pickhurst’s skull might have been enough to unsettle his mind, but if so, why should he deny that it had been his work?

  Riding the cob steadily along quiet lanes, Beddowes reviewed his attempt to interview Jackman. He could think of nothing else he might have tried. Still deep in thought he turned into the drive; ahead of him Knytte lay calm and unchanging amid the autumn colours, the afternoon sun lighting its walls and adding to its beauty. Handing the cob’s reins to a groom, he found the man willing to talk, and he worked the conversation round to the subject of Jonah Jackman.

  ‘Tain’t my place to say,’ the groom said, pulling the cob towards a stall. ‘Tis only gossip, when all’s said and done.’

  ‘What do you mean? What gossip?’

  The man shook his head, and refused to say another word. Beddowes cursed under his breath. There was something to learn here.

  Despite questioning two footmen, the cook and several maids, he had no better success in the house. The butler, Henson, still looking pale and shaken, answered Beddowes’s questions briefly, but gave nothing away.

  ‘Was Jackman working alone?’ Beddowes asked.

  ‘No. He had two men with him. They’ll be in the ruins now if you wish to speak to them. Since there’s still a great deal to be done, I took it upon myself to keep them at their work, until Lady Pickhurst has recovered enough to be consulted.’

  ‘And do you know when that will be?’

  ‘She has sent a message to the estate steward. I believe she intends to see him tomorrow.’

  Beddowes nodded. ‘I’ll see the masons today, at least.’ If anybody here had known Jackman well, it should be these two. Henson summoned a footman to take him outside, by way of the tradesman’s entrance.

  The stonemasons were brothers, similar to Jackman in age, but not his match in height or build. They greeted the sergeant’s questions with suspicion, the older brother taking it upon himself to give the answers. He said Jackman was a good man to work with, that they knew no reason why he should attack Lord Pickhurst. When Beddowes pressed him, the man said Jackman had never been overly talkative; if he had secrets they’d no way of knowing. Once or twice Beddowes noticed that the younger man looked ready to speak, but his habit of deference to his brother kept him silent.

  ‘Jonah Jackman seems determined to go to the gallows,’ Beddowes said, having grown tired of hearing nothing of any significance. ‘His cousin, Miss Drake, swears he’s innocent. If you’re his friends, won’t you at least say a word in his defence?’

  ‘If he done murder, I’d say ’tweren’t all his own fault.’ These were the first words the younger man had uttered.

  ‘What do you mean by that?’ Beddowes asked sharply.

  ‘Only that Jonah’s not the violent type,’ the elder man answered for him, shooting his brother a warning look. ‘I s’pose he’d need a powerful good reason.’

  ‘Whether it was Jackman or some other man, have you any idea how the murderer might have got into Knytte, once it was locked up for the night?’

  The two men exchanged a glance; the elder brother shrugged. ‘There’s a door through the back here,’ he said. ‘Goes straight into the house. It were found unlocked once, a few weeks back, so we heard. Same thing must’ve happened again.’ At Beddowes request he led the way through the old refectory to the heavy oak door.

  Looking around, Beddowes saw a piece of stone, similar in colour to the large blocks the brothers were working on. He bent to pick it up; it was wedge shaped, about two inches deep at its widest, and maybe five inches long. Its edges were sharp beneath his fingers. ‘This looks as if it was cut recently,’ he remarked.

  ‘Reckon somebody brought it from back there,’ the stonemason said, hitching a thumb towards the tower. ‘It’ll be a piece we split off, shaping blocks for the stairs. Jonah did some work inside, but that were months back.’

  There was a deep mark on one of the longer sides of the stone, where the roughness had been worn off. ‘What’s caused this then?’ Beddowes asked.

  The man shrugged ‘Dunno. Nothing we’ve done. Can’t see no point to it.’

  Returning to the house, Beddowes asked Henson about the door. The butler looked distressed. ‘It’s usually kept locked but it was found wide open that morning,’ he said. ‘Inspector Tremayle saw that as more evidence against Jackman. When he was first employed here, nearly a year ago now, he repaired the fireplace in the old library. He used that door to come and go.’

  ‘But whoever came in here the other night to attack Lord Pickhurst would have needed a key.’

  ‘There was a key left in the lock while Jackman was working indoors,’ Henson said, as he led the way down the corridor Beddowes had followed with Docket the day before. ‘Perhaps he had a copy made.’

  At Beddowes’s request, Henson opened the heavy old door. ‘As soon as I entered the corridor the other morning I felt the draught of air. It’s dark along here, but I realized this must be open. When I came to investigate I glanced into the old library. That door was also standing wide open, and I saw his lordship’s body.’ Struggling to hold the door against the gusty wind, he picked up a piece of wood that lay on the floor nearby, and wedged it underneath.

  Beddowes stepped through into the old refectory and recovered the scrap of stone he’d found before.

  ‘That was used to wedge the door open the night his lordship was murdered,’ Henson remarked, before Beddowes could ask the question.

  ‘Why, though,’ the sergeant pondered. ‘Jackman would have known the wooden wedge was there. He must have used it when he was carrying stone or tools through.’ He frowned, trying to make sense of it all. ‘I’m told this door was found unlocked at night once before. Was it left wide open then?’

  ‘No.’ The butler shook his head decisively and told him how the household had been woken by a crash in the middle of the night, and how a search had shown no sign of any intruder.

  Beddowes gave the door a powerful shove, to see if the wedge could be dislodged by a gust of wind. It shifted half an inch then stuck fast. ‘If the wind had blown the door shut, the wedge could have
been pushed inside.’

  The butler shook his head. ‘It hadn’t been used. It was in its usual place. And there was nothing lying on the floor of the refectory either. I opened the door to look round before I locked up again.’

  ‘Was everything in order the next morning?’ Beddowes asked.

  ‘Yes. I took the precaution of bolting the door before leaving it.’ Henson’s face took on a haunted look. ‘I should have made a point of bolting it every night. Who knows but it might have saved his lordship?’

  Beddowes could offer him no comfort, but he had a hunch that Lord Pickhurst’s death had been premeditated, the result of some careful planning. He didn’t think a bolted door would have prevented it.

  ‘I’ve finished here, Mr Henson, thank you. I’ll take a look in the old library now. There’s no need for you to come with me,’ he added swiftly, seeing the butler’s expression.

  ‘It’s Lady Pickhurst’s intention to have the room sealed,’ Henson said. ‘She has given orders that nobody is to enter.’

  ‘I doubt if that would include an officer of the law in the pursuit of his duties,’ Beddowes said confidently, as they walked along the corridor. ‘Why do you think Lord Pickhurst was there that night?’

  ‘I can think of no reason. The room had been kept locked since work on it was abandoned.’

  ‘Abandoned? Of course, you said Jackman had been working on it. So, it was supposed to be part of the alterations.’

  ‘His lordship planned to have it made into a ballroom, but Lady Pickhurst didn’t consider it to be in the right position. She favoured adding a wing to the other side of the house.’ Henson shook his head, looking distressed. ‘Unless his lordship invited him in, Jackman would have needed a key to this door as well. Please, ring the bell if you require anything further.’ The butler avoided looking into the room as he ushered the sergeant inside, and closed the door swiftly behind him.

  Apart from the absence of Lord Pickhurst’s body, little had changed. Nobody had closed the shutters since Tremayle opened them, and there was plenty of light. Beddowes went first to the marble bust, kneeling on the floor to have a closer look, turning it one way and another, until he’d studied every part. Next, standing beside the table, he took up the stance of the attacker, pretending to swing a heavy object at somebody sitting in the broken chair. He repeated the exercise from behind the chair, before making a minute examination of the table. Some library steps stood against the wall, and Beddowes gave them the same careful attention before returning to the table and taking careful note of some scratches on its surface. He then stood staring at the ceiling. Satisfied, he gave a nod.

  When he had done, with everything returned to its proper place, Beddowes strode to the other end of the table, where he pulled out a chair and sat down. With the crucial half of the room before him, he recreated the scene of the attack in his mind, the frown that had furrowed his brow gradually smoothing out. He rose and began to search the book shelves. It only took him ten minutes to find what he was looking for, and a satisfied smile lit his face. He knew exactly how Lord Pickhurst had been killed. Now all he had to do was discover why, and then he would know the identity of the murderer.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Athunderous roar jolted Docket awake, his eyes starting open to stare uncomprehendingly at the smoky atmosphere. Everything around him shook and rattled alarmingly, and he experienced a brief moment of panic until he recalled where he was. The shrill of a steam whistle as the passing train streaked by the window added to the ache that was tightening around his skull. He hadn’t slept the previous night, his head was throbbing, and his bones ached.

  Across the carriage the elderly woman began to snore again, and Docket felt irrationally angry; how could she sleep through such discomfort? He rubbed the condensation from the window. It was hard to see anything, for the rain was relentless.

  He put two fingers into his fob pocket and felt the ring lying there. His mission had been successful in a small way; a guinea had bought him some heavy hints, and he was heading for Edinburgh, where it seemed the little keepsake had been made.

  The train lurched. Docket sighed and closed his eyes, trying to find a comfortable position. Ever since he’d met Beddowes he’d felt strangely ashamed of his easy life; family connections had secured his position as Sir Martin’s secretary, and his duties weren’t onerous. He’d been content, until the former soldier had given him a scent of a wider and more adventurous world. That was bad enough, but now he feared he might be falling into another of the traps that life set for independent young men.

  Miss Phoebe Drake was only a governess; when they’d both been employed by Sir Martin he’d hardly noticed her existence. The fact that his lordship’s son had frequently pressed his unwanted attentions on her had been enough to keep Docket away. Now, however, she seemed to have become rather desirable. She had played rather an exciting part in the rescue of the injured Beddowes, and since her cousin’s arrest she had become a damsel in distress. Her background was acceptable enough; she was the child of an impoverished clergyman and a woman who was considered to have married beneath her. That was of more importance than her poverty. Docket wasn’t an ambitious man; he had a small private income, and enjoyed his status as the Lord Lieutenant’s secretary.

  Seeing Phoebe lying pale and vulnerable against the sergeant’s shoulder as he carried her to the seat in Knytte’s garden, Docket’s heart had received its first serious wound. The connection with Jackman was unfortunate, but that could hardly be held against her, even if the stonemason went to the gallows.

  A slight smile curved itself onto Docket’s mobile lips. It had been no hardship to spend a few minutes with the two Pengoar children; he’d found them interesting. He’d never thought seriously about acquiring a wife and family of his own, but suddenly the idea was rather appealing.

  Several hundreds of miles from the train carrying the weary Docket to Scotland, Beddowes was also thinking about Miss Phoebe Drake. His visit to Knytte the previous day had convinced him of Jonah Jackman’s innocence, but while everyone refused to talk he couldn’t begin to identify the real murderer. His best hope was to force Miss Drake to break her promise.

  There was something about Miss Drake that made him reluctant to confront her; they had only met twice, but both those encounters had been charged with rare emotions. He didn’t think he could bear to see reproach in those bright and penetrating eyes.

  The sergeant had never married, though while he was a soldier he’d shared his life with a woman for three years, and not complained when she’d claimed the title of wife. She had sworn her love for him, during those brief spells when he was in England, and he’d offered to marry her when he returned home for the last time. However, before the ceremony could take place, he discovered that she’d promised herself to several other men. Each of them believed that he alone supported her, paying for the comfortable rooms she occupied in Colchester.

  The deception had been easy enough to sustain. She’d been clever enough to choose men in different regiments, and all of them spent most of their time overseas. Beddowes had resisted the temptation to beat his unfaithful mistress, but having discovered the identity of three more of her victims, jealousy got the better of him. He informed these other ‘husbands’ of her deceit. Two weeks later her body was dragged from the Thames. He’d never stopped regretting his betrayal; if guilt had driven him to join the forces of law and order, he never spoke of it, but he’d never again become entangled with a woman.

  The cob, finding its rider inattentive, drifted towards a tempting clump of cow parsley at the side of the road. As the animal tried to snatch the reins from his hand Beddowes was jolted back to awareness. They were almost at Knytte. He scolded the animal and shortened the reins before returning to his reverie. It was ridiculous to imagine himself in love. Miss Drake was a gentlewoman, and far beyond his reach. If she had been kind, that was just her nature, it meant nothing. Nevertheless, for the first time in many years,
Beddowes found himself wondering if he really wanted to remain a bachelor for the rest of his life.

  With her husband buried, Lady Pickhurst, pale of face but bravely putting her grief aside, was ready to take over her inheritance. She was disinclined to indulge the detective when he requested an audience with Miss Drake.

  ‘I’m puzzled, Sergeant,’ she said. The veil she wore today was lighter than the one she’d chosen for the funeral, but it still hid her expression. ‘The villain has been arrested. I see no point in raking over the circumstances of my husband’s death. I have to become accustomed to my lonely life, and this can only make my grief harder to bear.’

  ‘I’m sorry, your ladyship, I quite understand. I apologize for troubling you, but I must be sure that your husband’s murder wasn’t the result of a bungled attempt at robbery. We have new evidence that suggests the jewel thief could be violent, even murderous.’

  She looked at him directly for the first time, and he was sure he saw a flash of anger behind the concealing lace. His instinct, and rumour, had been right. Lord Pickhurst’s widow wasn’t grieving.

  ‘Jonah Jackman may well be guilty,’ Beddowes went on, ‘but he has the right to a fair trial, and the case against him must be supported by evidence. I know this is a difficult time for you, but if you could answer one question for me, that would be a great help.’

  ‘Very well.’ She lifted the veil a little to hold a wisp of lace to her eyes.

  ‘Do you know of any reason why Jackman should wish to kill your husband?’

  She gave a faint sob, and took a few moments to compose herself. ‘Yes.’ The word was a whisper. ‘My poor dear husband. If only I had told him, he would still be alive.’