by Jean Rowden
‘Get up,’ Beddowes ordered, ‘and catch that mare. Sir Martin Haylmer wants to see you. And you’d better have the answers he wants, or your neck will be in a noose, since your master’s gone to hell the quicker way.’
They had to follow a circuitous route back to the house. Beddowes rode towards the stableyard, his captive before him, subdued and silent on the mare. A procession could be seen coming up the garden from the ice house, led by Docket. Slightly built as he was, it was plain that Docket found Miss Drake no easy burden, but he strode on manfully. The governess lay unmoving in her young rescuer’s arms. Beddowes brought his mount to a halt. His heart was pounding; for all he could tell she might be dead. Docket’s face told him nothing; the young secretary was tight-lipped, barely glancing at her pale face as he carried her up the steps; behind him Sir Martin was already barking orders. They vanished into the house.
Cursing Tomms, letting loose with words he’d not used in a dozen years, Beddowes pulled Mortleigh’s servant off the grey mare. The man landed awkwardly and half fell against the sergeant’s sore arm, and in response Beddowes kicked him hard on the shin. Duty demanded that he stayed with his prisoner until Inspector Tremayle’s constables arrived, and meantime he had no way of knowing if Phoebe Drake still lived.
London was every bit as loud, ill-mannered and dirty as Sergeant Beddowes recalled; only the smell was worse than he remembered. At odd moments in the three days since he’d returned he found himself missing the sweeter scents of the country. The fresh perfume of soap and ripe hayfields, coupled with the murmur of a gentle voice, haunted his dreams. He was glad to be busy, to be too distracted to dwell on the past; this was his life, among the smog and noise of the great city. Phoebe Drake was a distant memory, last seen in Docket’s arms as she was carried into Knytte’s great entrance hall. He’d learnt to accept that he’d never see her again.
Here in the office of his superior, the smell of stale tobacco smoke and mouldy leather, mingled with the odour of wet wool rising from his damp coat, was enough to drive all other scents from his head. He stood rigidly to attention, his eyes focused on the religious tract which hung incongruously next to a rack of pipes upon the wall.
‘You were careless,’ Inspector Laker said. He scowled at the discreet black sling worn by the detective who stood silent and attentive before his desk. ‘I told you masquerading as that villain Cobb was a scatter-brained scheme. Not your proudest hour, Sergeant.’
Sighing, Laker leant back in his chair. ‘You’re expected to give evidence against this man Tomms; unfortunately Sir Martin Haylmer tells me the job can’t be done without you, and I can hardly refuse a request from Her Majesty’s Lord Lieutenant. You’ll catch the one seventeen this afternoon.’ The line between his brows deepened a little. ‘As you can see, we’re busy, which means I’ve nobody else to send with you, to take care of these baubles.’
The inspector opened a drawer and took out three packages wrapped in brown paper, handing them to Beddowes. ‘Names and addresses are written on each one. Make sure you bring back signed receipts, and don’t lose the damned things, that’s all I ask.’
Laker watched as the parcels were secreted beneath the sergeant’s coat, before glancing at the printed calendar on his desk. ‘I want that arm mended, so keep out of trouble, understood? He reached into the drawer again. ‘Train tickets. You report here for duty on the ninth. Be as much as a minute late and you’ll be back in a constable’s uniform, that’s if I don’t decide to be rid of you altogether.’ Beddowes hesitated. The date on the return ticket was the eighth. Allowing for two days to be taken up with the trial and the restoration of stolen property to its owners, he would still have five days to fill, and he didn’t want them. He wondered if it was worth trying to explain.
‘Dismissed,’ Inspector Laker barked.
‘Sir.’ With a parade ground salute, the sergeant marched from the room. Once he’d left Scotland Yard his pace slowed. He made his way back to his lodgings; he had plenty of time to pick up his bag and have a bite to eat before he caught his train.
As he walked his mood was black. Laker’s words had cut deeply, though the end of the affair had gone quite smoothly. Tomms had proved to be a mine of information, having spied most effectively on Mortleigh whenever he felt his master hadn’t taken him sufficiently into his confidence.
Once Beddowes had sent a telegram giving his superior a full report, he’d travelled to London on the overnight train and arrived in time to help arrest the fence Mortleigh had found to replace Fetch’n’Carry Cobb. Luckily the jewels Beddowes had held in his possession so briefly, during what Laker called his masquerade, had been among the recovered loot; another few hours and they’d have been across the channel, and out of reach. In that event, the sergeant thought gloomily, as he climbed the three long staircases up to his room, he would probably have been thrown out of the force. As it was, Laker had made the precariousness of his position quite clear.
Propped uncomfortably into the corner of the railway carriage, Beddowes slept, and dreamt of a girl, slender yet shapely, who lay snugly in his arms. She felt as if she belonged there. The familiar scent of soap and freshly mown hay was sweet, as he smiled down at her. Lifting her hand to his lips he kissed it, but at that moment the innocent young face underwent a terrible change. The sensuous mouth of Lady Pickhurst, disfigured by bloody bruises, curved in a cat-like travesty of a smile. Her face lifted to his, while her brilliant eyes flashed a blatant invitation.
He woke with a cry of horror on his lips, to find the compartment’s other passengers viewing him with distaste. For the rest of the journey he stayed awake, his thoughts becoming progressively darker as the miles unwound beneath the wheels. He made up his mind to discharge his duty quickly, and return to London as soon as he could, even if he had to pay his own train fare.
‘Welcome back, Sergeant.’ Docket shook his hand. Beddowes summoned up some suitable words as they walked into the yard where Sir Martin’s carriage stood waiting. He thought the young man seemed subdued, as if his mind was elsewhere.
Docket motioned him to step in first. ‘You’ll have heard the trial is set for the day after tomorrow?’
‘Yes. I take it Jonah Jackman has been released?’ Beddowes asked, settling himself into the seat with a sigh; he would have liked a little longer to stretch his legs after the long hours in the train.
‘He has,’ Docket said, joining him. ‘Sir Martin sent me to Hagstock gaol yesterday with the papers. He’s to appear as a witness, and of course the whole county knows the story by now, or some version of it; it’ll take a long time for the talk to die down. He’ll not find it easy to get work.’
‘I suppose not.’ Beddowes stared out of the window, not seeing the houses and streets gradually give way to countryside. A thought occurred to him and he patted the breast of his coat. ‘I’ll be off back to London as soon as possible once the trial’s over. I’ve some bits and pieces in my pocket, one of them is to be delivered to a house not far from here. Do you think Sir Martin would mind if I get that out of the way at once?’
Sleep had eluded Jonah Jackman while he was in prison, but he had expected better once he was back at home. He lay in the familiar room and stared into the darkness for long hours, helplessly trying to make sense of his life. Lucille’s betrayal had left him so bewildered, so deeply hurt, that he almost wished the crime had never been solved. He would have been dead by now, hanged as a murderer. Through the endless nights that seemed not so bad a fate.
His release had restored him to life, but brought little comfort. He would be forever branded as a lecher; no decent man who had a wife or a daughter would employ him. He might travel a hundred miles and more to look for work, but he knew his past would go with him, a shadow always at his back.
Unable to bear being within four walls any longer, Jonah walked out into the light of dawn, taking long strides away from the place that had been his home since childhood. His thoughts were not of life, but of death.
Some hours later, exhausted by his mad dash across a dozen miles of wild country, he looked down onto the surging water from the top of the rocky cliffs. Did it take more courage to live, or to die? Lifting his eyes to the horizon he noticed that it was a fine day. He was suddenly filled with a calm certainty. Shuddering he turned away from the coast, to stride back across the moors. His mind and his heart felt numb, but he knew what he had to do.
He kept to the open country and little-used tracks, avoiding people as best he could, and reaching Knytte as the light began to fade. As he followed the long drive, keeping in cover, Jonah saw a small figure, standing alone by the lake, staring into the water.
Phoebe looked like a lost child; the sight wrung his heart. He began to run but then his steps faltered; he’d spurned her attempts to help him, and because of that she’d almost died. His certainty deserted him. She wouldn’t want to see the man who’d caused her such an ordeal. He began to back away, but some instinct must have told her he was there, and she turned.
Her face lit up at the sight of him. ‘Jonah!’ She ran into his arms.
For more than a minute they clung to each other in silence.
‘I’m sorry,’ Jonah said eventually, easing away from her. ‘I was such a fool. If only I’d listened to you. I’ll never forgive myself. Because of my stupidity, Mortleigh might have killed you.’
‘That’s nonsense,’ Phoebe said, taking hold of one of his large hands in both of her own. ‘I’ll take my share of blame, if you don’t mind. What I did, following Lady Pickhurst out into the garden, when I knew what she was – that was every bit as foolish. Anyway, it’s all over, and I intend to forget it.’ She lifted a hand to his forehead as if to wipe away the new lines that scored it. ‘I’m afraid things won’t be so easy for you.’
He shook his head. ‘It’s no more than I deserve. How can I look my neighbours in the face after what happened? Lord Pickhurst was a decent man, not the monster she made him out to be. I think I always knew it, but.…’
‘She was an accomplished actress,’ Phoebe said gently, ‘and very beautiful.’
‘Only on the surface.’ He offered her a rueful smile. ‘Not like you. Sweet Phoebe. You have all the qualities she lacked.’ He pulled her back into a brotherly embrace.
Her head against his chest, she looked up so she could see his face. ‘What will you do?’
‘I’m leaving. There’s a steamboat to America that leaves in six days. Will you come with me? We could be brother and sister again.’
She was silent for a long time. ‘No. I’m sorry. I’ll always be your sister, and I’ll be sorry to see you leave, but I can’t go with you.’
He nodded in understanding. ‘You’re right not to trust me, after what happened.’
‘It’s not that. It’s the children. Rodney has hardly slept since that awful night, and Eliza isn’t much better. Dr Pencoe has given them something to make them sleep the clock round. That’s why I’m free to come out here. Annie’s sitting with them until dinner time, and for once I think she’s glad to do as she’s told. The whole house is in turmoil, although Mr Henson does his best to carry on as normal, as if the family had merely gone away for a few weeks. I know he’s worried about what the future will bring to Knytte. I gather there are no close relatives, except some very distant cousins in Scotland.’
‘You could find yourself alone and friendless, and quite soon,’ Jonah said, his frown deepening.
She smiled suddenly. ‘There’s another option.’
He brightened. ‘Would you come and join me later?’
The smile vanished. ‘No, I’m sorry, Jonah, I don’t think I’ll ever leave this country.’ Her cheeks flushed a little. ‘Mr Docket has asked me to marry him.’
‘Mr Docket?’ He looked astonished, and it took him a moment to find his voice again. ‘I hardly know what to say, except to congratulate you, of course.’
‘That wouldn’t be appropriate,’ she said, and the smile reappeared. ‘I turned him down, though I’m afraid he may repeat the offer. He’s so terribly young.’
‘But he must be as old as you.’
‘Exactly.’ She half turned, to look at the lake again. ‘The trouble is, Jonah, there’s another man, one I’d have answered differently.’ She was silent but only for a moment. When she looked back at her cousin Phoebe was completely in control of herself. ‘I’ll say no more. It was only a silly dream. I’m a governess, and for the moment Master Rodney Pengoar and his sister are in need of me. That will suffice.’
Jonah hugged her. ‘Dear Phoebe, I’ll only say that I hope the future is kind, whatever it brings. You’ll keep in touch with me? I could leave you a little money, enough to pay your fare in case you change your mind.’
‘No. Thank you, I’ve a little money put by. I promise I’ll write, as long as you let me know where to address my letters.’
The inquests into the deaths of Lord and Lady Pickhurst and Victor Mortleigh were over. An avid public devoured lurid newspaper accounts of the affair, and the court was crowded when Tomms appeared, although their most bloodthirsty appetites were not to be satisfied. Thanks to his eagerness to cooperate with the police, Tomms wasn’t being charged with the most serious offences. He was cleared of being involved in murder; Beddowes had made light of the valet’s part in the attack on the road, in exchange for the information that had led to the recovery of so much of Mortleigh’s loot. Nevertheless, Sir Martin’s judgement was considered lenient, when Tomms was sentenced to five years hard labour.
Docket met Beddowes outside the court and ushered him through the crowd to where the carriage waited. ‘Sir Martin will be engaged for several hours yet,’ the secretary said. ‘I’m to take you wherever you wish.’
Beddowes gave the young man a searching look; he had been quiet on their last meeting but now he looked positively downcast. ‘My bag’s at Clowmoor,’ Beddowes said. ‘If I’d brought it with me I could have caught a train back to town this afternoon.’
Docket seemed to be wrestling with some deep thought, his face going through a plethora of emotions. ‘I rather expected you might want to call at Knytte.’
‘Knytte?’
‘To see Miss Drake.’ Docket stared out of the window as he spoke, and his voice was almost sepulchral in tone. ‘If I didn’t have such respect for you, I should take it very hard,’ the young man went on.
‘I don’t understand,’ Beddowes said, though he found his heart was suddenly beating faster.
‘Then I’ll be plain. I asked Miss Drake to do me the honour of becoming my wife,’ Docket said. ‘Being an honest and plain speaking young woman, she gave me a direct answer. She turned me down.’
‘What does that have to do with me?’ Beddowes asked. Breathing seemed to have become a little difficult.
‘I’m not a fool,’ Docket said, ‘though it took me a day or two to realize the truth. Miss Drake was hoping to be borne in another pair of arms when she was carried out of the ice house. I should have realized sooner. She hung on every word Sir Martin said when he spoke of you. Her thoughts were all of you, and whether you’d returned safely after your encounter with Tomms. She seemed shocked when she heard of your speedy departure for London.’
Sergeant Beddowes stared at the young man for several seconds. ‘I’m sorry for your disappointment, Mr Docket, I truly am,’ he said, but he couldn’t suppress a smile. ‘You’ve acted in a very gentlemanly fashion, and I’m grateful.’ He put his head out of the window and bellowed at the coachman. ‘Take us to Knytte.’
By the Same Author
Bury in Haste
Deadlier Than the Sword
More Deaths Than One
Lost Innocents
Gone Astray
Copyright
© Jean Rowden 2013
First published in Great Britain 2013
This edition 2013
ISBN 978 0 7198 1237 8 (epub)
ISBN 978 0 7198 1238 5 (mobi)
ISBN 978 0 7198 1239 2 (pdf)
ISBN 978 0 7198 0982 8 (print)
Robert Hale Limited
Clerkenwell House
Clerkenwell Green
London EC1R 0HT
www.halebooks.com
The right of Jean Rowden to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988