Death at Gallows Green

by Robin Paige

  “You what?” Edward was incredulous.

  “We found the very spot where the sergeant was murdered,” Miss Potter put in excitedly. She pointed. “Over there. By the wall. There’s a bloodstain.”

  “Yes,” Miss Ardleigh said. “Beside those sacks.” There was a deep sadness in her voice. “After they shot him, they dragged him to the door. You can see the track of the body.”

  For the space of three heartbeats, Charles stared where Miss Potter pointed. And in that brief instant, he saw it all, just as it had to have happened. Artie bending over to fill his pockets with samples from the grain sacks. The grain thieves coming upon him in the dark. Artie turning, the thieves shooting point-blank. And then instead of loading sacks into their wagon, they loaded the dead Artie and drove off with him.

  “But why was he shot?” Miss Potter asked. “What could have been the motive?”

  Miss Ardleigh looked at Charles. “It was the grain, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes,” Charles replied. His irritation was gone, and his anger. How could he be angry at her for having the courage to search for the truth? “It looks as though a ring of thieves was stealing grain from granaries throughout the district and storing it here. Artie discovered the crime, and was murdered.”

  “I see,” Miss Ardleigh murmured. “And Tommy Brock was one of the thieves?”

  “So it appears,” Charles said.

  “And the farmer who owns this barn,” she added. “I hardly think that grain could have been stored here without his connivance.”

  Charles nodded. “Agreed.”

  She was thoughtful. “And all this can be proved? I ask, of course, because of the need to refute the false charge of poaching and protect Agnes’s pension.”

  “It will be proved,” Edward said with determination, “when we apprehend the criminals. And that should be shortly.”

  “Exellent.” Miss Ardleigh pulled her shawl closer. “There is one more thing,” she said. “When the bailiff Tod spoke to McGregor, he intimated that Tommy Brock was wanted for tonight. Miss Potter and I intended to set up an observation post, but since you are here—”

  “Since we are here,” Charles said, “we might as well stay and see what is to be seen, and allow you ladies to return home.”

  “Exactly.” Smiling, Miss Ardleigh turned to her companion. “Well, then, Bea, I think we should leave the matter in the capable hands of Sir Charles and Mr. Laken. Do you agree?”

  The relief was plain on Miss Potter’s face. “I do indeed,” she said vehemently, gathering her skirt in her hand. “We have had quite enough adventure for one evening!”

  33

  “Tell me, what sort of match is it?”

  “An unspeakable match, my dear, utterly abominable. It has turned his mother’s hair silver and made his father into a pallid wretch.”

  “But could no one remonstrate with him? Could no one dissuade him from his intention?”

  “Sadly, no one. The affair is an absolute tragedy, and it bids fair to sink the whole family.”

  —BERYL BARDWELL

  Amber’s Amulet

  True to his word, Bradford Marsden placed his mother’s emeralds in her hands the next morning, immediately upon his return on the early train from London.

  “Thank you, dearest Mama,” he said, “for the loan.”

  Lady Marsden, still in her bed with a lace shawl around her shoulders, tried to hide her relief. She had not wished to let Bradford have the emeralds, but he was her only son and dearest joy. Her mother’s heart had been touched, and she had offered to help—but impulsively, without fully understanding what was needed. That she had been sorry afterward was not something she wanted him to know. So she only said, in the acerbic tone she used to mask her sentimental feeling for him, “I hope, Bradford, that you have learned your lesson.”

  With a toss of his head, Bradford gave her his usual insouciant grin. “I have, dearest Mama.” He sat down on the edge of her bed and reached for her hand. “At any rate, there will be no more need of loans. You will be glad to know that I have come to a decision about my marriage. The lady in question has an ample fortune, which should be quite an adequate supplement to my own.”

  Lady Marsden’s hand flew to her heart. Like every other mother, she had longed for the day that her only son should wed, should make a match that would not only bring him happiness but bestow honour and fortune upon the Marsden house and perpetuate the family name and title. To that end, she had scrutinized all the great families for suitable candidates and studied each acceptable young woman who was presented during the season. But even though she had identified three or four promising candidates each year—as many as five or six in a good year—none had suited Bradford. Their hair was the wrong colour, or their teeth were crooked, or they could not dance, or they laughed too often or not often enough. Last year, when he attained his thirtieth birthday and was still a bachelor, she had almost despaired of his marrying. But of course that was impossible. He bore the responsibility for carrying on the Marsden name. He had to marry, and she was delighted—indeed, jubilant—that he had chosen to do so now, when Eleanor was safely wed and she could devote a mother’s loving attention to the nuptials.

  “Bradford, my dear!” she exclaimed, seizing his hand and bringing it to her cheek. “How very wonderful! Oh, do tell me! Is it Miss Poulett?” Lady Hermione Poulett, the charming daughter of Lord and Lady Poulett, had been her favourite candidate this season. Lady Hermione and her gracious sister Lady Ulrica had been going about with Lady Damer, wife of Sir George Damer, who had been so long at the Foreign Office. Lady Hermione was remarkably pretty, with violet eyes and pale gold hair, and her ball dresses were an absolute wonder. Lady Marsden had fastened her maternal hopes upon Lady Hermione the minute she saw her.

  Bradford’s glance was teasing. “No, Mama, it is not Miss Poulett. Guess as you like, you are not likely to discover the lady’s identity. It will be a complete surprise to you.”

  “Then it must be Miss Dyke,” Lady Marsden said decidedly. While Lady Poulett might have been a better choice, she could feel no real disappointment, for Miss Madeleine Dyke was one of the Queen’s Maids-of-Honour, quite intellectual, it was said, and certainly the possessor of a pleasant face and figure and fortune—her own, in addition to the thousand-pound dowry bestowed by the Queen on her Maids of Honour. Miss Dyke’s dresses were not the equal of those of Lady Hermione, but they were quite nice, and she danced delightfully.

  Bradford leaned forward and laid his finger gently on her lips. “No, Mama,” he said. “Please, conjecture no more. The object of my affection, the lady who has won my heart, has no connexion with the Court, and none with Society. You are not likely to think of her when thinking of a match, although I am sure you will believe, with me, that it is most suitable.”

  Lady Marsden stared. “No connexion with Society!”

  “That is correct, Mama.” Bradford sat back and stroked his blond mustache with a pleased expression on his face. “She is in fact your own near neighbour. Now can you guess her name?”

  “My own—!” Lady Marsden felt herself go pale as a searing pain lanced her heart.

  “Indeed, Mama.” Bradford’s smile was triumphant. “She is Miss Kathryn Ardleigh, of Bishop’s Keep.”

  “Miss Ardleigh!” Lady Marsden cried. “Miss Ardleigh!” Her voice rose into a shriek. “No, Bradford, no! Not Miss Ardleigh!”

  At that moment, the door opened and Eleanor came running in. “What’s happened?” she cried. “I heard a cry. Is there a fire?”

  “No, no fire, sister,” Bradford said. “I have just told Mama of my intention to marry Miss Ardleigh and—”

  “Oh, no, no,” Lady Marsden moaned, pressing her hands to her heart, where she had been wounded mortally. “Not Miss Ardleigh! Never!”

  Bradford stood, frowning. “Really, Mama, there is no need for hysterics. Miss Ardleigh is a—”

  “Miss Ardleigh is Irish!” Lady Marsden cried, opening her eyes wide in
an agony of loathing.

  Eleanor frowned. “No, Mama,” she said, “she is an American, and American women have married into the best British society. Your own dear friend Lady Churchill, for instance—”

  “We are not speaking of Lady Churchill!” Lady Marsden cried, clutching at the counterpane as if it were all that shielded her and hers from the direct onslaught of a thousand mad Irish. “We are speaking of the common Kate Ardleigh, who was brought to Bishop’s Keep to be her aunt’s secretary!”

  Eleanor’s face darkened. “Mama, you are being utterly unreasonable! Miss Ardleigh is an uncommonly fine—”

  “Eleanor,” Lady Marsden said cuttingly, “you are to stay out of this. I have observed Miss Ardleigh worming her way into your friendship by the devices of flattery and ingratiation. Your perception of this affair is not to be trusted.”

  Bradford’s tone was stiff. “Am I to understand, Mama. that you oppose—”

  “Oppose!” Lady Marsden pulled in a gasping breath, clenched her ringed fingers, and steadied herself. Over the years, her only son, her dearest boy, had given her much cause for grief. But nothing he had done in the past held as much potential for future disaster as this. It was incumbent on her to deploy whatever force was needed, to use whatever ammunition was required to deter him from this folly. She weighted her voice with all her maternal authority.

  “I do more than oppose this match, Bradford. I utterly forbid it. You certainly know that she allowed her cook to ride in the Ardleigh carriage.”

  “Mama,” Eleanor said patiently, “I have told you. That was a special occasion. Miss Ardleigh does not as a matter of course allow the servants to—”

  Lady Marsden swept on. “And have you not heard that she goes about in bloomers, and rides her bicycle in the public lanes?”

  Bradford’s mouth quirked. “I have also heard that the Countess of Warwick, the Prince’s Daisy, wears bloomers and finds them extraordinarily comfortable. And that she has ridden her bicycle on Rotten Row.”

  Lady Marsden perceived that she had made a strategic mistake. She had not put the matter in its strictest terms. She straightened her shoulders and chose a better angle of attack. “I say again, Bradford, I forbid this match. As would your father, should you dare to mention it to him. I advise you, if you value his high estimation of your judgment and hope for his continued generosity, that you banish Miss Ardleigh from your mind. She is utterly unacceptable.”

  “But Mama,” Bradford said, “you are not accurately assessing the advantages of—”

  “There are no advantages in this match, Bradford.” Lady Marsden’s voice was steel now, her words ice, and she brought up her big gun from the rear. “Surely you have heard the wretched tales that are told about her.”

  “Tales?” Bradford asked.

  “What tales?” Eleanor echoed.

  Lady Marsden lobbed her last and best shot. “That the despicable woman is to wed the village constable.”

  Eleanor gave a little shriek. Bradford seemed stunned.

  “You are sure of this?” he asked.

  “Utterly,” Lady Marsden lied. “I have it on the best authority. They are to be married within the month. There. Does this not reveal the sort of low, uncultured person she is? Whatever foolish hopes you may have squandered on—”

  But her salvo had hit home. Bradford turned on his heel and left the room.

  34

  Mordre wol out.

  —CHAUNTACLEER

  Geoffrey Chaucer

  “The Nun’s Priest’s Tale”

  It was the morning after their discovery of the grain sacks in the barn, and Charles and Edward were on their way to Highfields Farm, in the fly Charles had brought from Marsden Manor. After the departure of Miss Ardleigh and Miss Potter, their vigil had been unproductive, and they had abandoned it at three in the morning.

  The lane was open to green fields on the one side and hedged on the other with hawthorn, its white blossoms mixed with the pink of wild roses. A tall elm stood beside the gate of Highfields Farm, its branches laden with rooks’ nests, a dovecot fixed in the fork. Beyond the elm, on the far side of the farmhouse, was a muddy sty containing two portly Berkshire pigs.

  The farmhouse itself was small and built of brick, the tiles of its roof furred with lichen and moss. A thin smudge of blue smoke rose from the chimney and into the misty morning. In the orchard, a hen cackled, cheerfully announcing a fresh egg.

  “Napthen, you say?” Charles pulled back on the reins and slowed the horse. Bradford’s groom had fitted him out with a smart high-stepping filly this morning, eager to show her mettle.

  “That’s the name,” Edward replied. “Said to have been a ship’s carpenter at Harwich before he rented this place.”

  “Why would a man leave a dependable trade for the uncertain rewards of farming?”

  “He’s one of these new four-acre farmers,” Edward said. “I heard he means to make the farm into a market garden.” He was thoughtful. “The scheme might work, at that. The farm is close enough to Colchester and Manningtree, and vegetables bring a good price all season. He could crop fodder for gentlemen’s stables on the rest of the acreage and do well enough. It’s a wish I’ve had for myself for some time now,” he added. “A market garden, a few pigs and chickens, and a small dairy—” He paused. “But a man can’t manage all that alone. I should need a wife.”

  “You should indeed,” Charles agreed in an even tone, trying to picture Miss Ardleigh in an apron, making cheeses or curing bacon. But Bradford planned to press his suit this afternoon, and any sensible lady would surely prefer to live on a manor than a farm. For Ned’s sake, he was sorry. For his own, he was sorrier.

  “The thought of taking a wife has come to me more and more since Artie’s death.” Edward’s voice was wistful. “I doubt, however, that she would want to—”

  But Edward’s reflections were interrupted by the sound of hammering. They had arrived at the house. Charles stopped the fly and got out and tied the horse, and he and Edward followed the path around the back. A man in a leather jerkin was pounding nails into the windlass frame that stood over the well, rebuilding it, from the look of the rotten pieces of wood scattered on the ground. Several black hens and a red rooster with iridescent green tail feathers pecked greedily at the wood, digging out grubs.

  Edward raised his voice. “Mr. Napthen?”

  The man in the jerkin turned, his hammer poised. He was slender and loose-limbed, the sleeves of his grey shirt, too short by inches, exposing skinny wrists covered with a coarse mat of dark hair that extended onto the backs of his hands. The corner of his mouth twitched nervously under a brush of dark mustache, and his eyes were deepset under a thicket of black brows that grew together in the middle.

  “I’m Napthen.” His voice was a boy’s tremolo, although he was a man of nearly middle age.

  Edward introduced himself and Charles. “We have come to inquire about the grain in the barn.”

  “Grain?” Napthen asked. His dark eyes flicked from Edward, who was uniformed, to Charles, who wore his khaki jacket and Norfolk tweeds. He went back to Edward. “There’s no grain i’ th’ barn, Const’ble,” he said roughly. “I didn’t sow last year—only sold th’ hay, standin’.”

  “I know you didn’t sow, Mr. Napthen,” Edward said, patient. “The fact remains, however, that your barn is stocked with over a hundred sacks of wheat. At least one load has already been hauled from there to the river, where it was carried onto a—”

  “If yer sayin’ I’m a thief,” Napthen broke in violently, “yer wrong.” He slammed the hammer onto the ground in an unconvincing show of anger. The chickens fled, clucking and fluttering, all but the rooster, who stood his ground, flapping his wings. “If there’s grain i’ that barn, it’s none o’ mine,” Napthen shouted over the noise. ’Twas put there wi’out my knowin’.”

  “Theft isn’t the only issue here,” Charles put in, watching the man’s face. “A constable was murdered in your barn.”


  Napthen’s eyes opened wide. “Murdered?”

  “You are aware of Sergeant Oliver’s demise, I presume,” Charles said. Of course he was aware. Everyone for miles around knew of the murder.

  “I am.” Napthen swallowed fearfully, his Adam’s apple a bony knob in his neck. “But I ha’n’t . . . I mean, I di’n’t . . .” His mouth jerked. “ ’Pon my honour, if murder was done here, I’m ignorant!” The rooster crowed, and several hens came out of hiding for another go at the bugs in the rotten wood.

  “Your honour!” Edward leaned forward, his voice flinty. “A constable was murdered here, and you have the gall to talk about honour!”

  “I don’t know nawt! I swear’t!” Napthen was swallowed up by his fear. His teeth chattered. “I swear!”

  “Murder was done,” Charles said softly, “in your barn. We have the evidence to prove it in a court of law.”

  “Gawd oh Gawd oh Gawd.” Napthen’s voice cracked into a soprano whimper. “I told em, I told ’em . . .”

  “What did you tell them, Mr. Napthen?” Edward asked.

  The man leaned against the half-built windlass as if all the strength had gone out of his thin legs. “I told ’em ’twas risky. I warned ’em ter be careful. I was afeered . . .” The words died into a long shudder. A drop of spittle hung on his mustache.

  “Told who?” Edward asked sharply. When Napthen did not answer, his voice became grim. “Do you want to be tried at the summer assizes for Constable Oliver’s murder? Come on, man. Talk!”

  “The grain, yes.” Napthen wiped his mouth with the back of his furry hand. His eyes were dark with panic, his voice tinny. “They wanted th’ barn t’ store th’ wheat till it cud be moved, an’ they offered a fair price. But I had nawt t’ do wi’ murder!”

  “Did you know the men to be thieves?” Edward asked.

  Napthen looked down at his feet. “Not ’xactly. They said th’ barn was wanted f’r extra storage.”