Death at Knytte

by Jean Rowden

  Beddowes waited, knowing he was watching an actress of some skill. ‘Told him what?’ he prompted.

  ‘The matter is indelicate. I’ll speak bluntly, though I may sound immodest.’ She lowered her head. ‘It gives me no pleasure, the way men react to me, but I have grown used to it. I can’t help the way I look. Jackman wasn’t the first man to be infatuated with me. If he had been, perhaps I’d have realized the risks. In the past few months I couldn’t venture into the grounds without his staring at me, following me, trying to speak to me if there was nobody else nearby. I should have had him sent away, but I never realized it would come to this. The man is clearly insane.’

  ‘You think he killed your husband out of jealousy?’ Beddowes would have liked a proper look at her eyes, for that was where the truth lay, but the veil was impenetrable.

  Lady Pickhurst nodded. ‘I suppose I should pity Jackman, that is what the Church tells us, isn’t it? I tried to stay out of his way. I barely gave him a civil word. How could a man like that think I would even look at him?’

  ‘You mustn’t blame yourself, your ladyship,’ Beddowes said. ‘Thank you for being so frank with me. I shan’t trouble you further. May I speak to Miss Drake? As Jackman’s only close relative, I think it only right to prepare her for the worst.’

  At that she consented graciously, and Beddowes was shown to a small parlour on the second floor, obviously adjoining a bedroom; he wondered idly why this place had been chosen for his meeting with the governess, but he supposed it must be because of its closeness to the nursery.

  When she came to him some five minutes later Miss Drake looked pale, but she was composed, offering her hand and asking after his health before she consented to sit down. ‘I hope you will take a seat, too, Sergeant,’ she said, ‘I’m used to speaking to men who loom over me, but I prefer not to crane my neck.’

  Beddowes found himself smiling at her directness as he sat down. Everything about this girl charmed him. Miss Drake had an inner beauty that added to the sweetness of her face, and her honest character shone from her eyes; after Lady Pickhurst she was like a breath of clean air.

  ‘I’ve spoken to Lady Pickhurst,’ he said, plunging in before he had time to change his mind. ‘She tells me your cousin was infatuated with her. She suggests that because she gave him no encouragement he killed her husband in a fit of jealous rage.’

  Phoebe made a helpless gesture with her hands. ‘If I didn’t know Jonah to be incapable of killing anybody, then even I might accept that as the truth,’ she said despairingly. ‘But of course she didn’t tell you how she led him on, how they met in secret after midnight…’ she blushed, lacing her fingers together in her lap.

  ‘Why don’t you tell me,’ Beddowes prompted gently.

  ‘I promised I wouldn’t. But she’s made it sound as if he’s guilty—’

  ‘Yes. So somebody should make sure Jonah’s tale is heard. I’ve already tried speaking to him. He won’t talk, not even to save his life. If you care for your cousin, if you want to save him from the gallows, then you must help me.’

  She looked up then. ‘You truly believe he didn’t do this awful thing?’ Her eyes were suddenly moist; tears were waiting to spill over onto her cheeks.

  ‘I’m sure of it. Lord Pickhurst was the victim of a cold-blooded murder, and the culprit intended that your cousin should be blamed. Please Miss Drake, tell me what I need to know.’

  Lucille’s hands gripped the silk hangings that once more hid the spy hole, torn between fear and anger. She bit nervously at her lower lip. The wretched governess had said a great deal, and Sergeant Beddowes had listened attentively, apparently believing her every word.

  The story of Jonah’s declarations of love had done no harm, for she’d told the detective of his infatuation. Driven mad by his obsession he could have invented the rest, and Miss Drake’s description of her own foray into the garden might be seen as an ill-conceived attempt to help his case. However, there was one thing that concerned her; the interfering chit had named a night when Jackman swore he’d remained in his bed. That had been the occasion of her first clandestine meeting with Mortleigh; she recalled how she’d run her fingers across the nursery door to disturb the brats within. She knew she’d prompted the boy to nightmares; she’d hoped it would help her persuade her husband that the child would be better sent away to school.

  What would the sergeant do? As Lady Pickhurst, owner of Knytte and its mighty estate, she was a person of power and substance, but without a husband, any woman was weakened in the eyes of the world. Her position alone might not save her from further questioning, if the governess’s story was believed.

  She had to speak to Mortleigh. In answering his letter of condolence she must bring him to her, and urgently. While writing to a neighbour she hardly knew, what could be more natural than a mention of his first visit to Knytte as her husband’s guest, and her hope that it would be repeated soon? Her lover knew her so well; she had no doubt he would come that very night.

  ‘It won’t do, Beddowes!’ Sir Martin shook his head vehemently. ‘You come to me with this story about Lady Pickhurst carrying on an affair with Jonah Jackman, but with no proof to back up such an outrageous accusation. And in the very next breath you tell me Jackman is innocent of murder! Have you lost your mind? If this is the best you can do, you’d better take the next train back to London.’

  ‘But, Sir Martin, if you’d just come to Knytte with me and let me show you the evidence I found in the old library, you’d understand. It was a most ingenious way of committing murder, and it didn’t require a man with Jackman’s strength. Even a woman might have done it, if she was ruthless and cold-blooded enough.’

  ‘So you’d lay the blame entirely on Lady Pickhurst?’ Sir Martin was red with anger.

  ‘No, on the man who took Jackman’s place as her lover once she tired of him. I don’t know his identity yet. Please, come to Knytte and let me show you exactly how cleverly the murder was arranged. Lady Pickhurst told me Jackman was infatuated with her. She insisted she never gave him any encouragement, but I have a witness who can swear they met after midnight in the summerhouse. I know that makes Jackman’s guilt look more likely, but if her ladyship has lied about that, if she was already betraying her husband only months after their marriage, what else might she have done?’

  ‘Who is this witness?’

  ‘Miss Drake, the children’s governess.’

  Sir Martin snorted, dismissing this with an impatient gesture. ‘As Jackman’s cousin she can’t be trusted to tell the truth.’

  ‘I might agree with you, if her evidence didn’t appear to prove his guilt. But there is more. She claims that Lady Pickhurst left the house late at night on another occasion, and that time, she didn’t meet Jackman. Her ladyship had another paramour. I believe that if we can find that man we have our murderer.’

  His lordship thrust himself back into his chair. Beddowes made to say something, but was stopped by a glare. He stood waiting in silence as Sir Martin scowled at the ceiling. A long minute passed.

  ‘If it’s true that the murder didn’t require the strength of a giant, as Tremayle has so persistently pointed out, then I suppose you may have something,’ Sir Martin conceded. ‘There has been talk about Lady Pickhurst. Of course that’s common enough when a young woman marries a man so much her senior, and I don’t give much credence to common gossip. Facts, Beddowes, that’s what we need. We’ll call at Knytte in the morning and take a look at the scene of the murder. I shall send a note to Tremayle, asking him to join us.’

  Rodney Pengoar’s nightmares had returned since his uncle’s death. Phoebe spent every night in the armchair by his bed, holding him until his screams subsided into sobs and he was able to sleep again. Her own fears troubled her, almost as nebulous as those which haunted the boy. Since that fateful night she’d hardly slept.

  The meeting with Sergeant Beddowes had disturbed her; she was glad he didn’t see the case against Jonah as hopeless, but she w
ished it hadn’t been at such a cost. What must the detective think of her? She’d been forced to speak of such indelicate subjects; she flushed as she recalled how much she’d revealed to him; her promise to Jonah was not only broken but shattered.

  The boy turned in his sleep, muttering restlessly, and Phoebe leant forward to lay a hand upon his damp forehead, murmuring soothing words until he settled into a deeper slumber. The uncomfortable position gave her pins and needles, and she rose to walk about the room. She peeped between the curtains; the sky was clear, and the garden lay still and serene under the light of the stars. There didn’t appear to be a breath of wind.

  Movement caught her eye. A man flitted across the path, close to the lake. He was only visible for a moment. Phoebe put a hand to her mouth; she had almost exclaimed aloud. Whoever that was, they had no wish to be seen, and she could be quite certain it wasn’t Jonah. She crept to the door and stood with her ear pressed against it, hardly daring to breathe.

  A creak of floorboards, the faintest hush of a foot on the carpet, told her all she needed to know. Phoebe looked back at Rodney. He was sleeping peacefully, one hand curled against his cheek. She moved the lamp onto a high shelf, safely beyond his reach. With luck he wouldn’t wake, but if he did he wouldn’t find himself alone in the dark.

  She hurried to her own room, dressing swiftly in the black mourning clothes she had worn for the funeral. Remembering how she’d stumbled in the dark last time she ventured through the house so late at night, she paused to light a candle, then very quietly opened the door and crept out into the corridor.

  The candle sent shadows spiralling wildly around the walls, in constant danger of being extinguished as Phoebe hurried down the stairs and along the lower corridor. She didn’t allow herself to think of the risk she was taking, though she gave an involuntary shudder as she passed the door to the old library. Very soon she stood under the vaulted stone ceiling in the refectory. The sound of her footsteps produced an eerie echo as she crossed the room and stepped into the cloisters. There was no lamp left in the first carrel. Bending low in the corner, Phoebe allowed some drips of hot wax to puddle on the stone floor, and left the candle standing there instead. The flame flickered a little as she turned to leave, then steadied.

  She crept towards the summerhouse, trying to make no sound. Her breathing became fast and shallow, and her heart pounded in her chest. Stopping in the depths of shadow beside a holly bush, she waited and listened. Growing cold, her nerves taut and her muscles aching with the effort of keeping still for so long, Phoebe stood straining her eyes and ears. She heard a faint rustle from somewhere behind her and turned her head; a badger lumbered by, so close she could have touched it with her shoe. It went past the open door of the summerhouse, pausing for a second to sniff at the air, then moving on.

  Phoebe heaved a sigh, and the terror that had kept her immobile for so long left her. The summerhouse was empty. Where else might Lady Pickhurst go? Lovers would seek a rendezvous that was secure from prying eyes. The dewy grass had soaked her shoes. Phoebe shivered, remembering what she’d seen from her window, and chose the path that led to the lake.

  Chapter Eighteen

  ‘Show me how much you’ve missed me,’ Lucille demanded, as Mortleigh rose from the couch where he’d been waiting for her. ‘I hardly saw you at the church.’

  He opened her robe to kiss her breasts. ‘If I’d stayed a moment longer I swear I’d have taken you there and then. Do you have to swathe yourself in this wretched black?’ He finished undressing her then stood to look at her nakedness. ‘Imagine those solemn fools at the graveside. They’d have been screaming blasphemy, wringing their pious hands, while every one of them was filled with envy.’

  She made a strange sound, half laugh, half groan. ‘I don’t know how I’ve survived without you so long.’

  ‘Perhaps murder improves the appetite.’ Having rid himself of his clothes, Mortleigh grasped her wrists and forced her arms behind her, pushing her against the wall so hard that she gasped in pain. With his feet he forced her legs apart and Lucille bit his neck savagely, as eager and impatient as her lover. Their passion was swift and violent, and soon they collapsed onto the couch, to lie panting in each others’ arms.

  ‘I hear your rustic Romeo is safe in prison,’ Mortleigh murmured a few moments later.

  ‘Yes.’ Lucille’s voice was a contented purr. ‘He’ll be hanged within a week, as long as nobody listens to that interfering little chit of a governess.’

  ‘Why, what do you mean? If anyone suspects…’ He propped himself on an elbow to look into Lucille’s face, his eyes bright with sudden fury. ‘My God, if your plan’s gone awry—’

  ‘It’s nothing. She won’t be taken seriously. We’re safe. Jackman’s refusing to talk.’

  He gripped her arm. ‘Never mind Jackman. This is about the governess. What’s she done?’

  ‘I tell you it’s nothing. She spoke to the detective sergeant, the London man. That little brat she looks after keeps her awake at night with his nightmares. With nothing better to do with her time she’s taken to snooping. She knew about me and Jonah. It seems he swore he’d stayed home one night when she suspected he and I had been together; it was the time you first brought me here. But it doesn’t matter what she says, nobody will take her seriously. There’s no proof.’

  Mortleigh’s fingers digging deep into her flesh. ‘Tell me the rest,’ he demanded. ‘What’s a Scotland Yard detective doing here? Jackman was arrested exactly as you planned. The local police had no reason to call for help.’

  ‘It all happened by accident. He was sent for because of the jewel robberies; he just happened to be at Knytte when Jackman was arrested. The murder’s no business of his.’

  ‘Are you mad?’ he flung himself off her and rose to his feet. ‘When he’s looking for the self-same man, even if he doesn’t know it? You stupid whore. Don’t you realize what you’ve done? Suppose that nosy little governess watched you leave again tonight?’

  Mortleigh dashed outside. Clutching her robe around her, Lucille rose from the couch and went to the door. She could see his naked body pale against the bushes as he ran, his bare feet silent on the grass. Before him a small dark figure fled towards the ruins. The gap between them was swiftly closing.

  A slight smile on her face, Lucille watched the end of the uneven race; Mortleigh had the girl in his arms, a hand clamping swiftly over her mouth to cut off her cries. When she tried to struggle he hit her hard across the side of the head; she was still and silent as he carried her back across his shoulder. Just the way, Lucille thought, the pleasurable heat swelling through her body again, he had carried her on that first night, claiming her for his prize.

  Mortleigh tossed the girl on the floor. She flopped there in a lifeless huddle, and he stepped over her. The savage excitement of the chase and the capture had aroused him, and Lucille made half a step to greet her lover. Seeing his expression she faltered; it was the first time she had been truly frightened of him since he had unwrapped her on the night of the abduction.

  His hands shot out to capture her. She made a futile attempt to break free, but he only gripped her more tightly until the pain made her gasp. His flung her to the floor beside the unconscious governess, his mouth upon hers. Again she struggled, finding strength in equal measures of rage and terror; she thought he was going to kill her. Unable to reach his eyes with her fingernails, she raked at his neck instead. Mortleigh grasped her by the hair and pulled it viciously, his other hand slapping her hard across the face. He took her, swiftly and brutally; despite herself, Lucille found her body responding to his, as it always did. They were a match, their pain and their pleasure in harmony.

  When he eventually pushed her away Lucille’s lower lip was torn, her mouth full of blood. Mortleigh spat a red gobbet on the floor. Trickles of his own blood ran from the marks she’d made on his neck and chest. ‘Damn fool,’ he snarled, rising to his feet. ‘You could have sent the pair of us to the gallows. I told y
ou, I’ll swing for no woman. There’s a ship sailing for France in the morning, I’ve half a mind to be on it.’

  ‘You’re the fool,’ she shot back, exploring her abused face with her fingers. ‘There’s no need for either of us to run, as long as we keep our heads. But how am I to explain this?’

  ‘Wear a veil, you’re in mourning, aren’t you? If you want something to worry over, tell me how we dispose of her.’ He prodded Phoebe with his toe.

  ‘Is she dead?’

  ‘Not yet. But she’ll have to vanish in some way that can be explained, we want no more bodies found. We’ll make it look as if she’s run off. With her cousin on his way to the gallows it won’t seem so strange. Go back to the house and fetch her belongings.’

  Lucille nodded, fastening her robe. As she went to the door he grabbed her arm and pulled her back. ‘Bring paper, pen and ink. It’ll look better if she leaves a note. And hurry, we have to get her out of here before the house starts stirring.’

  The morning was bright, but the room where Lady Pickhurst sat was in semi-darkness. The shutters were closed and the solitary lamp was heavily draped. ‘Am I never to be allowed to mourn my loss in peace?’ she asked tremulously, as Sir Martin Haylmer bowed over her hand. She was dressed in plain unrelieved black, and her head was covered by the thick veil she’d worn at the funeral.

  ‘Believe me, I’m deeply saddened by the death of your husband,’ the Lord Lieutenant said. ‘I held Lord Pickhurst in great esteem, both as a man and a fellow magistrate. I regret disturbing you, but I was unable to come earlier, and as chief magistrate of the county there are certain duties I have to perform, no matter how unpleasant they may be. We need to see where he died.’

  She gave a small sob, her fingers restless upon the black handkerchief she held. ‘You don’t realize, Sir Martin, how I blame myself for what happened. I knew that man was infatuated with me. My kindness has been my undoing. I should have had him sent away, but it seemed too harsh. Guilt and regret will haunt me for the rest of my life. I have given orders to seal that room. As far as I am concerned that terrible place will cease to exist.’