Death at Knytte
Page 19
‘Ring the bell, Tremayle.’ Sir Martin said, suddenly decisive. ‘We’ll need to arm ourselves.’
‘What about Lady Pickhurst?’ Beddowes blocked the inspector’s way to the bell rope. ‘You can’t doubt her part in all this. Why would Mortleigh kill Lord Pickhurst, and in such a way that Jackman was blamed, unless there was some benefit for him? Her ladyship must be involved. If she gets to know that we’re after her lover she may run away.’
‘For the moment that’s neither here nor there,’ Sir Martin said. ‘A woman alone wouldn’t get far. We need to deal with Mortleigh. If word gets to him that he’s under suspicion he’ll be gone.’
Henson was summoned. With some reluctance he surrendered the key to the gunroom. ‘Lady Pickhurst must be informed before any of the guns are removed,’ he said. ‘If you’d remain here, please, gentlemen, I shan’t keep you a moment.’
‘It might be wise to have fresh horses saddled,’ Beddowes suggested, as Henson left them. ‘If we have a chase on our hands I don’t want to be riding that cob.’
Sir Martin nodded, sending Docket to the stables. ‘Four horses,’ he said. ‘Tell them it’s by order of the Lord Lieutenant, and we want the best.’
‘What about Lady Pickhurst?’ Beddowes asked again, once Docket had gone.
Sir Martin frowned. ‘She’ll be safe enough here. We—’
He was interrupted by Henson, returning pink-faced and slightly breathless. ‘Her ladyship has left the house. I gather she went directly to the stables and ordered her horse, as soon as she was alone.’
‘She’ll have gone to the Dower House,’ Tremayle said, rising swiftly to his feet. ‘Dammit Beddowes, you were right! Let’s go and hurry those horses.’
‘Not until we’ve armed ourselves,’ Sir Martin snapped. ‘The gunroom first.’
They halted their mounts and peered at the Dower House from the cover of a narrow belt of woodland. Beddowes eased his arm from the sling and adjusted the rifle more comfortably across his shoulder.
‘We don’t want a shooting match,’ Tremayle said, seeing him.
Sir Martin snorted. ‘I doubt if the man will walk tamely to the gallows, Tremayle. For my part, I heartily wish we’d had time to turn out the militia.’ He rubbed a hand across his chin. ‘Still, we want him alive, Beddowes, if it can be managed.’
‘I’ll do my best,’ Beddowes said, edging his horse forward. ‘If you want to approach the front door as if nothing’s wrong, I’ll ride round to the back of the house. They could have gone already; we can’t afford to waste time.’ He clapped his heels to the horse’s flanks, bending low over the pommel. The beast shot from among the trees at a flat gallop, leaping over an ornamental flower bed and turning sharply towards the stables.
The yard was a hive of activity. Two horses were being led out, saddled and bridled, while a team of matched greys were being coaxed between the shafts of a closed carriage. Men shouted in surprise and horses spun in alarm as Beddowes, still spurring hard, galloped into their midst. A torrent of abuse followed him; one of the men by the carriage tried to intercept him, and narrowly missed his grasp at the sergeant’s boot.
It had been unwise to ride in without being sure of an exit. There was an archway in the opposite wall, too narrow for comfort and barred by a gate, but with the grooms gathering to block the way behind him it was his only option. He was aware of his mount’s reluctance, but urged it on. Ducking low, Beddowes felt the sharp scrape of brick on his back, but they were safely through. Wheeling his mount, he took stock of his situation. He was in an orchard, overlooked by a dozen windows in the side of the house. The trees were too small and well trimmed to offer him decent cover. It would be unwise to linger.
He’d hoped to find Mortleigh in the yard, but none of those he’d scattered had been dressed as a gentleman. It would be good to see his enemy, to recognize him. As he’d slowly recovered parts of his memory, he’d wondered if a meeting, face to face, with the man who’d tried so hard to kill him, would bring back the last bits that were missing.
The blast of a shot rattled the windows; a draught skimmed past Beddowes’s cheek. Not stopping to check where the bullet had come from, he flung his horse back the way they had come.
Things had changed. Raising his head after ducking to get through the archway, Beddowes saw that the last of the horses was being hurried back into the stables. The carriage stood abandoned.
A slight figure clad in black from head to toe was suddenly right before him. With a shift of his weight the sergeant made the horse veer left, its shoulder missing the woman by an inch. She hardly seemed to notice. On an impulse, Beddowes leant from the saddle as he passed to twitch the veil from her head.
Slowing a fraction to look back, Beddowes saw the damaged face; Lady Pickhurst’s mouth was torn, the bottom lip swollen and black with congealed blood. Her cheek and chin were disfigured by darkening bruises.
Distracted, the sergeant slowed the horse to a trot; had he been wrong about this woman? His mount shied violently as another figure appeared, running from the doorway to the stables. Darkly handsome and dressed in a gentleman’s travelling clothes, Beddowes knew him at once. It was as if a light had been kindled within his mind, illuminating the gaps in his memory. He could see the road, Mortleigh and his servant advancing, intent on killing him, while the doomed Laidlaw sat watching from the carriage.
There was nowhere to go, no time to turn and attempt the archway again. Mortleigh had a shotgun in his hands, and a slight smile on his face as he lifted it towards his shoulder. He had a second, maybe less. Taking the reins in his left hand Beddowes twisted savagely at the horse’s mouth, feeling sinews and muscles in his half-healed arm protesting, while his right dragged the rifle off his shoulder. Throwing his weight back, he felt a twinge of guilt; the horse had done all that had been asked of it. Like so many on the battlefield, the reward for its obedience would be death. As the animal reared, obedient to his command, Beddowes threw himself from the saddle.
The expected blast of shot didn’t come, only the crack of a pistol, quickly followed by another. As the sergeant landed and rolled, the rifle held tightly against his body, Beddowes realized that help had come just in time; the shots fired by his allies had sent Mortleigh running back into the stables.
Sir Martin and Inspector Tremayle were hidden behind the carriage, while Docket stood a few yards further back, making no attempt to seek cover, his face blank with shock. Beddowes lay still. He was out in the open and an easy target. His only hope lay in playing dead. Mortleigh might well believe he was out of the fight, for he’d landed badly. The crack his skull received as it hit the cobbles had left his head ringing.
As if awakening from a trance, Lady Pickhurst started uncertainly towards Sir Martin.
‘Thank the heavens you’re here,’ she cried, stumbling across the cobbles. ‘I’ve been so scared.’ She waved a hand vaguely towards the stable doorway. ‘He’s the jewel thief. I saw him. At Dunsby Court, where he stole Mrs Stoppens’s rubies.’
‘But you said nothing of it,’ Sir Martin said sternly. ‘If you’d told us then, he’d be behind bars by now.’
The woman faltered, looking almost as if she might faint. ‘I dared not. I already knew him to have no morals, to be a vicious evil sort of man. When he came to stay at Knytte as my husband’s guest, he took every chance to be alone with me, to press his unwelcome attentions on me.’ She put her hands up to her ravaged face. ‘Must I tell you of the shame, the humiliation he brought me? Mortleigh swore he’d kill me if I told anyone of his true character. We’d known each other slightly in London you see, long before I was married. It was his idea to murder my poor husband. He meant to marry me and take Knytte for himself. Please, help me, I—’
Evidently Sir Martin was touched by her defencelessness. He took a few steps to meet her, but he was stopped by Mortleigh’s voice, which echoed from the stable.
‘Women are such liars! Is this how you keep your word, Lucille? Those wayward eyes
seduced me the first time we met; they promised so much. And yet you’re no better than a cheap whore. You witch, you’d send me to the gallows without a thought, just like that other poor fool who fell under your spell. But I warned you, Lucille, I’ll hang for no woman. You’ll lead no more men astray. There’ll be no more lies from those pretty lips.’
A shot rang out, not the deep-throated blast of a shotgun, but the crack of a pistol. Lady Pickhurst gave a faint cry and began to fall. Even before she hit the ground, a horse came racing from the stable.
Mortleigh lay flat along the animal’s neck. Inspector Tremayle fired a shot, but neither Docket nor Sir Martin reacted quickly enough. The inspector’s shot missed by a foot, and by the time Beddowes had risen to his feet Mortleigh was already a hundred yards away.
Grimly recalling his old sergeant major, Beddowes lifted the rifle and took in a deep steadying breath as he lined up the sights. The range was lengthening by the second, but he’d picked the prize among Lord Pickhurst’s guns; the butt kicked hard into his right shoulder, and he thought he felt bone grate in his left arm before the flare of pain hit.
The horse was still galloping away from him. Gritting his teeth Beddowes took aim for a second time, but then he saw the animal turn a little. The rider slipped sideways and as the scent of blood reached its nostrils the horse’s measured pace became a wild careering flight. Mortleigh’s body hung out behind the panicking animal for a few strides, then his foot pulled free of the stirrup and he dropped bonelessly to the ground.
‘I’d rather have seen him hang,’ Sir Martin said testily, glaring at Beddowes. The sergeant had caught his own horse and raced across the field, concerned that Mortleigh might yet offer some resistance. He arrived to find the man dead, and returned more slowly, passing Tremayle and four grooms carrying a hurdle.
Beddowes winced as he dismounted, and placed his arm back into the sling. ‘I’m sorry, Sir Martin. At that range I might have missed altogether if I’d aimed to wing him. How is Lady Pickhurst?’
‘Still breathing, but not for long I suspect. Docket’s with her, and a doctor’s been sent for. Listen, Sergeant, it seems Mortleigh’s valet was very much in his confidence. I gather his name is Tomms. He needs to be found. There’s a chance some of the jewels may yet be recovered.’
Beddowes nodded. ‘Seeing Mortleigh set my memory straight. I owe Tomms a knock or two. I’ll find him, don’t you worry, but not until we ask her ladyship about Miss Drake.’
Sir Martin harrumphed and led the way into the house.
A footman stood by the door, and Beddowes paused to speak to him. ‘Mortleigh’s valet, Tomms,’ he said quietly, ‘is he still here?’
‘He ran off towards the big house a few minutes ago,’ the man replied.
Beddowes nodded his thanks. He could spare a minute or two, no more. Tomms was probably intending to steal himself a mount and vanish; he mustn’t be given the chance to get too much of a lead.
Lady Pickhurst lay on a couch, a growing pool of blood spreading beneath her slim body, while an elderly maid fluttered helplessly over her. Docket was on his knees at the woman’s side. ‘Please,’ he was saying. ‘Tell me what happened to Miss Drake. If you believe in redemption, help yourself by having some mercy now. Is she still alive? Did Mortleigh kill her?’
‘No time,’ Lucille murmured, through lips that were drained of all colour, making the dark scabs and bruises look all the more vivid. ‘Should have done it then. Might have done, but the brat was wailing.’
‘Miss Drake was crying?’
‘No. The boy. I thought he’d wake the whole house.’ Her face twisted in sudden pain. ‘Mortleigh?’
Docket looked up at Sir Martin who shook his head.
‘Dead, Lady Pickhurst,’ Sir Martin said. ‘Mortleigh is dead. If you hope for God’s forgiveness, please tell us where we can find Miss Drake.’
‘Mortleigh. Such a man. We might have …’ She sighed. ‘Interfering chit.’ Her mouth curved, as if she was smiling. ‘She’ll be cold by now. But she was always cold. No fire in her blood. So unfair….’
Lucille’s eyes drifted shut, and a minute later she died, without uttering another word.
Docket got swiftly to his feet, looking wildly at Beddowes. ‘Cold – she said she’s cold. Have they killed her?’
‘I don’t know.’ Beddowes closed his eyes, thinking about the woman’s exact words. No time. Should have done it then. That had seemed to be her answer, before her spite had prompted her to give them a more enigmatic reply. ‘Maybe not.’
If they were to have any chance of recovering even a little of the stolen jewellery, and with it his reputation, then he had to go after Tomms. But where was Phoebe Drake? He recalled the look in her eyes, the trusting innocence; she had been so grateful when he promised to help her cousin. He had questioned her, persuaded her to tell Jonah Jackman’s secret, and given no thought to her own safety. It was his fault she’d fallen foul of Lady Pickhurst and her murderous lover. If she was dead then the blame lay squarely at his door, and it would haunt him for the rest of his life.
‘But where would she be cold?’ Docket was saying. ‘The ruins? The tower’s always cold, but even though Jackman’s not there, the other men will still be at work.’
‘A cellar?’ Beddowes hazarded, looking at Sir Martin.
‘Not the one at Knytte, it’s in constant use. Here. I don’t know.’ The Lord Lieutenant looked enquiringly at the footman.
‘There’s not one here, sir. The wine is stored next to the buttery.’
‘Where else then?’ Beddowes began to stride the room, his right fist clenching. ‘Somewhere close. They were short of time.’
‘There’s an ice house,’ the elderly maid said. She had covered Lady Pickhurst’s face, and knelt to say a prayer over her, now she rose to her feet, all brisk normality. ‘It’s not been in use since his lordship’s father died. There’s nothing to see but a mound at the edge of the wood.’
‘That grassy mound. I saw it as we passed,’ Docket cried, dashing to the door.
As Beddowes made to follow, Sir Martin caught at his arm. ‘Sergeant, we need Tomms. He can’t be allowed to escape.’
The sergeant nodded, torn between his duty and his feelings for Phoebe Drake. He adjusted the rifle on his shoulder again, giving himself a moment to think. ‘I’ll go now. But I’d be obliged if you’d send some men after Docket, Sir Martin, and maybe go yourself. If Miss Drake’s in the ice house they may need to break the door down.’
Beddowes took the shortest route back to the gardens. His mount hesitated for only a second when asked to jump up the ha-ha, a feat it accomplished with apparent ease, before galloping on across the lawns. It seemed Lord Pickhurst was a good judge of horses, as well as guns.
Chapter Twenty
There were half a dozen men in the stableyard, clustered together around something lying on the cobbles. As Beddowes drew closer he saw it was a boy, and that his tow-coloured hair was streaked with red.
‘What’s happened?’ Beddowes demanded.
‘It was Tomms,’ one of the grooms replied, ‘Him what works for Mr Mortleigh. He come running up and snatched her ladyship’s Arabian mare. Simeon were walkin’ her, takin’ her to the paddock. Tomms jumped on her, bare-ridged an’ all. Sim tried to stop him and got kicked in the head for his pains.’
‘Is Simeon alive?’
‘Reckon so. Breathin’ any rate.’
‘Send somebody to the Dower House to tell Sir Martin. There’s a doctor on the way but he won’t be needed now. He might as well be of use here. Which way did Tomms go?’
‘North, sir.’ The groom pointed.
‘Aye,’ another man said. ‘Looks to be headin’ for Hagstock. What’s he done?’
The question went unanswered. With a nod of thanks Beddowes turned the horse. He rode across in front of the house, and with a pang he remembered how he’d caught Phoebe Drake in his arms on that very spot. Suppose their guess was wrong and she wasn’t in the ic
e house? Wasn’t even alive? He put the thought aside; he had a man to catch.
He gave the horse a kick that was more urging than it needed; with a great leap the animal flung itself down across the ha-ha again, landing far out on the pasture. They were in open country and free to gallop. No more than half a mile ahead was a man on a grey horse.
The mare was no match for the hunter Beddowes rode, and Tomms was riding bare-back; the gap between them closed quickly.
‘Pull up, Tomms,’ Beddowes roared, when he was no more than ten yards behind.
In response the fugitive drummed the mare’s sides with frantic kicks of his heels. He was fumbling at the pocket of his coat as he rode, in evident danger of sliding from his precarious seat with every stride. The gap shrunk to eight yards, to seven and then six.
Tomms half turned; he had a pistol in his right hand, the left was tangled with the reins and the mare’s mane as he struggled to hold himself steady.
Beddowes took his horse swinging out to the other side; his quarry must either swivel even further, not easy to do without a saddle, or turn back to aim across his body. Either way he would be too late, for the gap had closed to a mere three feet. Mindful of the damage he’d already done to his injured arm, Beddowes took the reins between his teeth, swept the rifle from his shoulder and swung it, butt first, at the other man’s head.
Beddowes horse reared away as Tomms fell under its hoofs, but he kept his seat. The mare was spent, and once rid of her rider she dropped instantly to a jogtrot. With the rifle cocked and ready, Beddowes dismounted where the valet lay still, face down. The pistol was nowhere to be seen. Warily the sergeant prodded Tomms in the ribs with the toe of his boot. The man rolled, moving fast, but not fast enough, intending to fire the gun he’d held concealed beneath his body. Using the rifle barrel as a club this time, though with a guilty awareness that it was no way to treat such a splendid weapon, Beddowes cracked the man’s elbow a hefty blow. The pistol dropped from a now useless hand, and the sergeant put his foot on it.