Death at Gallows Green

by Robin Paige

  That had happened last night. It was now mid-afternoon, judging from the clamour of the school children across the way and the loud rumbling of her empty stomach, and Betsy was feeling horribly hungry and thirsty. Jemima’s ivory eggs lay beside her, lightly covered with straw, tempting. If worse came to worst, she might somehow contrive to break an egg and eat it, although the idea of raw egg was not particularly appealing, and the notion of eating one of Jemima’s babies even less so.

  But still, one did what one had to do. And with that last resort in mind, she lay back to watch an industrious brown spider who came out of a crack in the wall and began to drape a silver web between a protruding nail and the broken handle of a rusty garden rake, preparatory to trapping and trussing up unfortunate bluebottles.

  44

  There will never be any love lost between Tommy Brock and Mr. Tod.

  —BEATRIX POTTER

  The Tale of Mr. Tod

  Bea’s cold was not dangerous, but her nose was as red as a berry and she was plagued with great sneezes, so she confined herself to her bedroom. On the morning after their discovery of Tod’s body, Kate joined her there, and Amelia brought in their breakfasts: tea, crumpets and fresh strawberries, and the Colchester newspaper. On the front page was an article about their grim find. It concluded with Chief Constable Pell’s speculation that Russell Tod had been the mastermind of the grain thieves who had plagued the Dedham area.

  “Now that he is dead, the ring is likely without a leader,” the Chief Constable was quoted as having said. “The police are to be congratulated upon resolving this matter.” Kate read the statement once more out loud, wondering exactly what it was that the police had resolved, and how.

  “I suppose it was Brock who killed him,” Bea said thickly, and sneezed. “They must have argued over money. Perhaps Tod refused to pay what he had promised.” She accepted a cup of hot tea from Kate, laced heavily with lemon and honey. “It is the sort of criminal act one might expect to read in one of your novels, Kate.”

  “Yes,” Kate replied, testy. “But Beryl Bardwell would not leave a clue like that woman’s heelprint if Brock were the killer.” She buttered a crumpet and put it on her plate.

  Bea sighed and took her handkerchief out of the pocket of her dressing gown. “Agnes is the only woman we know with a reason to kill that man.”

  “I’m afraid you’re right,” Kate said regretfully. “But suppose there was another woman about whom we know nothing—perhaps a woman scorned or abandoned. I am certain that such a man as Tod is perfectly capable of that sort of thing. Perhaps it’s worth looking into, if only to distract attention from Agnes.”

  Bea stared at her. “You don’t really believe that Agnes . . .” Her voice trailed off and her watery blue eyes grew large. “You do!”

  “No,” Kate said, “of course I don’t.” She poured herself a cup of tea and added cream to it before she spoke. “But I fear that others may believe it. Especially when they discover that she has no alibi.”

  “No alibi?”

  “She cannot prove where she was the night Tod was killed,” Kate said. “On my way to Marsden Manor to fetch Sir Charles’s plaster, I stopped to ask.” The visit to Agnes had been, in fact, the reason for Kate’s volunteering to go to Marsden Manor. She wanted to reach Agnes before anyone else.

  Bea’s voice was worried. “And what did she say?”

  “That she was restless and went for a walk along the river very late in the evening—hoping, I suppose, that she might find some trace of Betsy.”

  “I suppose the next question has to do with boots.” Bea blew her nose.

  Kate tried hard not to reveal the concern she felt. “She has a pair of black ones with small round heels, which she wears to church. I did not pursue the matter because I did not wish to alarm her. I can only hope that the heels do not match Sir Charles’ plaster casts.”

  Bea sat back in bed with an irritated look on her face. “One could wish that Sir Charles were not so diligent in his detecting.” She picked up her cup and sipped her tea. “Not that I believe for a moment that Agnes did it, of course.”

  Kate nodded and finished her crumpet. “It’s really most unfortunate that Sir Charles was summoned. Edward was so relieved to find Tod dead that he was not inclined to examine the scene very carefully. When he first arrived, he was sure that Tod had been killed in an accident with a horse. Without Sir Charles, those heelprints would have been trodden underfoot when the body was removed.”

  Bea pulled a bowl of strawberries toward her. “Well, then,” she said with resolve, “you must not linger, Kate. If the evidence Sir Charles has discovered seems to point to Agnes, then the evidence is surely wrong. Brock is the murderer, I’m sure of it. It’s up to you to find the clues that point to his guilt. You’d best get on with it.”

  Kate stood. “You won’t mind if I leave you all alone?”

  “I’m hardly alone,” Bea replied with a little laugh. She pointed to the hedgehog curled into a ball in the middle of a pillow, her shiny prickles smoothed flat. “If Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle proves unsociable, there’s always Hunca Munca. And I have my sketchbook. I was thinking of beginning another story.”

  “Well, you’ve had plenty of adventures to draw upon,” Kate said as she turned to leave the room. “You shouldn’t run out of ideas.”

  Bea gave a sad little sigh. “My dear Kate,” she said, shaking her head, “when I wished for adventure, someone should have thrust a handkerchief in my mouth.”

  “Well, but I can’t help it, can I?” P.C. Bradley demanded irritably, “It’s not my idea to question the woman. I was ordered. All I’m asking is your company during the interrogation, and that was ordered too.”

  Edward could feel the anger welling up within him like molten lava. “For God’s sake, man, it’s insane! No one in his right mind could accuse that poor, bereaved woman of—”

  “No one has,” P.C. Bradley broke in wearily. He shook his head. “I’m just supposed to ask a few questions, that’s all. It’s part of the investigation.”

  Edward spoke very quietly, damming his fury. “What questions?”

  Bradley looked uneasy. “What she knew about the victim. How much she knew about her husband’s affairs.” He hesitated, and added slowly, “Where she was on the night Tod was killed.”

  Edward felt as if he were drowning in a sea of fire. “You can’t be serious! What makes you think she knew anything about—”

  “For God’s sake, man, I don’t know.” Bradley’s mouth went firm. “Take your complaints to Colchester. I’m just doing what I’m told to do.” He reached for his hat. “Are you coming, or am I to tell Chief Constable Pell that you have disobeyed a direct order?”

  Garbed in a split tweed skirt, (not quite so comfortable but less controversial than bloomers), Kate rode her bicycle to Manningtree. The Pig ’n’ Whistle was situated in a wide, open street, facing the quay. It was a Tudor building with generously pargeted stucco panels, window boxes filled with spring flowers, and gleaming diamond-paned windows. The Dutch door hung open and a black-and-white cat sunned itself on the stone step, which had been worn deep by the tread of many feet.

  The publican’s wife was stoutish, with sallow skin and a sour mouth. “Tommy Brock?” She frowned and indicated a direction with her head. “In the cottage behind, if he’s t’ home.” Her dark eyes glinted suspiciously. “Wot ’re ye wantin’ him for?”

  Kate fell back on the lie she had invented for Mrs. McGregor several days before. “His sister has given me to understand that he might be available to do some work. She is the one who directed me here.”

  The woman’s face brightened. “Oo, aye!” she exclaimed. “By all means, then, go an’ see if ye kin knock him up, an’ if not, leave yer name an’ where he kin reach ye, an’ I’ll see that he does.”

  Surmising that the landlady’s enthusiasm might have something to do with payment of the rent, Kate gave her name and directions to Bishop’s Keep, and went out into the graveled
alley and around the back. Tommy Brock’s dwelling was a board shack tilted to one side under the weight of a large creeper vine, which covered the roof and the adjacent brick wall. The vine was full of blue tits, who fled with shrill peeps at Kate’s approach. She tapped at the open door, then called, and then, with a cautious glance over her shoulder, pushed it wide and went in.

  The two-room shack was dark and chilly and smelled of damp. Other than the bed, the table, and a few items of clothing hung from pegs in the wall of the second room, Kate saw nothing unusual, and certainly nothing to connect Brock with Tod’s death- She had just come out the door and was closing it behind her when she found herself face to face with the ugliest man she had ever seen. He was short and hefty-looking, with a face like a bulldog, a bristly black beard, and a fresh cut over his left eye. He was carrying a bottle of ale in one hand and a stout oak staff in the other.

  “ ’Oo be ye?” the man growled, and brandished the staff. “Wot be ye doin’ in me ’ouse?”

  Kate recoiled from the man’s alehouse breath. “My name is Kathryn Ardleigh,” she said with as much dignity as she could muster. “I was looking for Mr. Brock.”

  “This be Brock,” the man said, indicating the front of his filthy navvy’s coat with a jerk of his thumb. He bared yellow fangs in a ferocious grin. “Wot d‘ye want wi’ th’ bastard?”

  “I understand from your sister,” Kate said faintly, “that you might be available for work. I am seeking to fill a position on my—”

  But Kate did not get to finish her sentence. Unexpectedly, Tommy Brock threw back his ugly head and exploded into a shout of rough laughter. “Work!” He slapped his hand on his thigh. “Work, th’ leddy sez! Work!”

  Kate pulled herself together. “I see nothing amusing about an offer of employment.”

  “Amusin’!” Brock cried. “Nothin’ amusin’ ’bout employment, the leddy sez!” He lifted the bottle of ale to his mouth and pulled a generous swig. “Tom Brock woan’t be workin’ agin.” He belched heavily. “Not til ‘ee’s drunk up ’is money from ‘is las’ job. An’ that’ll take sum time, I’ll wager, sum time. Tom Brock, ‘ee’s a rich man. Very, very rich, ’ee is.”

  “I see,” Kate said with a show of respect. “And what kind of work have you been doing that has earned you so much money, Mr. Brock?”

  A guarded look came into Brock’s eyes. “Bit o’ this, bit o’ that,” he said. He downed another swig of ale and slung the empty bottle against the wall of the shack, where it shattered. “Be orf wi’ ye, leddy. Ye’ll get no work from Tom Brock this day. He’s gom t’ sleep, like th’ gud ’eathen ’ee be.” And he lurched toward the shack and pushed open the door. A moment later, there was a thud, followed by a loud crash, as if he had flung himself across the bed and it had collapsed under him.

  As Kate got on her bicycle and pedaled down the cobbled street, it occurred to her that P.C. Bradley might be interested in the news that Tommy Brock had recently earned enough to keep him in ale for some time. As to what kind of work the man had been doing, Kate was sure she knew. He was a confederate of Tod’s, and Betsy had identified him as one of the grain thieves. He could be a murderer, as well. That gash over his eye—so raw it hadn’t begun to scab yet. Had he got it when he struggled with Russell Tod? Had that heavy oaken staff in his hand left the round prints that Sir Charles had found beside Tod’s body, and mistaken for the prints of a woman’s boot? She pulled in a sharp breath. Had that staff, which Brock had brandished in her face, been the murder weapon? It was possible, Kate thought excitedly, and more than possible. It was very likely!

  But when Kate arrived at the police station, out of breath and eager to share her information with the constable, she was informed by a hand-printed notice pinned to the door that he had gone to Gallows Green and would not return until later in the day. She frowned at the paper, nervously chewing on her lower lip. What errand had taken him to the hamlet? It couldn’t have anything to do with Agnes, could it? She stood for a moment indecisively, then climbed back on her bicycle and rode off in the direction of Gallows Green.

  45

  “This my child was dead, and is alive again; was lost, and is found.”

  —Matthew 15:24

  “I have told you,” Agnes said gently, “but I will tell you again. All I know of the man is his name. I had not even heard of his death until you told me.”

  P.C. Bradley shook his head. “Surely, now, Mrs. Oliver, that cannot be. Word travels fast in a hamlet like Gallows Green, and Mr. Tod was found yesterday afternoon. You must have heard.” He shifted uncomfortably. “Or perhaps you already knew,” he blurted.

  Edward strained forward, barely managing to hold his rage in check. The interrogation had gone from bad to worse, as Bradley managed to insinuate (without actually saying so, of course) that Artie had had dealings with Tod and that Agnes had known of them. And now he was suggesting that Agnes knew of Tod’s death before anyone else! Edward, a man of usually calm demeanour, completely forgot that he was a police officer. He was about to stuff Bradley’s insulting words back down the man’s throat with his fist when Agnes spoke.

  “And you must have heard, constable,” she said with simple dignity, “that I have lost my daughter as well as my husband. I have been in this house, waiting for news of the recovery of her body. I have no interest in other events, of whatever magnitude, not even the death of the Queen. And how could I have known of this man’s death before I was told? That is nonsense.”

  Bradley had the grace to look ashamed. “I did not mean to suggest, ma’am—”

  “Perhaps you did not,” Agnes said, wearily passing her hand over her eyes. “We are all on edge these days. I wish, Constable, that I could be of more help in your investigation. But if you have come to me hoping for intelligence about this man who has died, you shall certainly be disappointed, for I know nothing.”

  Bradley pulled himself together. “Yes, ma’am,” he said. “Begging your pardon, ma’am—” He blushed furiously, fumbled with the hat he held in his hand, and tried again. “Begging your pardon, ma’am,” he burst out, “may I see your boots?”

  It was too much for Edward. With a roar, he lowered his head like a bull and charged full force at P.C. Bradley.

  Kate made a circuit of the village green, looking for Constable Bradley’s cart or horse. She was bicycling past the smithy when she caught a flash of something white slipping under the currant bushes along the path to Mrs. Wilkins’s garden. Betsy’s duck!

  Without thinking, Kate braked quickly, jumped off her bicycle, and pursued the duck. Jemima had been missing since the afternoon of Betsy’s disappearance. She should be caught and returned home where she could be penned up, away from the village dogs. So Kate gave pursuit through the currant bushes, alongside the raspberry patch, and down the walk between Mrs. Wilkins’s lettuce and cabbages and freshly mounded potatoes.

  But Jemima was clearly determined on conducting her own personal business and upon remaining free to do so. She waddled nimbly through the garden and around a small stuccoed cottage, past a row of cold frames, and around the corner of a small lean-to shed. Kate, however, was equally determined. She stayed close enough to see the duck disappear through a hole at ground level at the back of the lean-to. Quick as thought, Kate knelt down, thrust her arm through the hole, and felt around, hoping to catch hold of a wing or a webbed foot and pull the bird out But it was not upon a duck’s wing that her grasping fingers fastened. It was a warm, bare ankle!

  With a little cry, Kate pulled back. She sat for an instant, her heart beating fast, then bent over and put her face to the opening. What she saw in the dim twilight of the shed made her cry out with joy. For what she saw when she looked in was the grimy, tear-streaked face of a little girl, lying on her side, looking out.

  46

  The terrorist and the policeman both come from the same basket.

  —JOSEPH CONRAD

  The Secret Agent

  P.C. Bradley proved to be more injured
in pride than in person by Edward’s attack. He had gone back to Manningtree to write his report and, without a doubt, to accuse his fellow officer of violent assault. Edward still sat in Agnes’s kitchen, nursing a jammed thumb and a cup of hot tea.

  “I have made it the worse,” he said miserably.

  “Only for yourself,” Agnes said. She went to the fire and stirred it. “What will they do to you?”

  Edward managed a half-smile. “Force me to endure Pell’s berating,” he said. It would be worse than that, of course. Edward could be charged not only with assaulting a policeman, but with obstructing justice. It meant the end of his police career.

  She sat down at the table across from him. “Someone actually did murder the man, then?”

  “Yes,” Edward said. “Someone wearing narrow, sharp-pointed heels.”

  “It’s no wonder that the constable wanted to see my boots,” Agnes said. “This dead man, this Mr. Tod—” She studied her laced fingers. “Is it thought that he killed Artie?”

  “Yes,” Edward said, devouring her with his eyes. Her face was lined and pale, her eyes sunk deep in their sockets, as if she were starved for sleep. But her skin had the translucence of fine porcelain and her brown hair was like silk. He ached to touch it.

  She did not look up. “And it is thought he may have had something to do with Betsy’s . . . death?”

  Wordlessly, Edward nodded.

  The words were drawn out thinly, like wire. “Does the constable really believe that I could have killed him?”

  Edward never knew what he might have answered. Indeed, he was spared from answering at all, for at that moment, the latch rattled loudly and the door burst open. Betsy, shirtless and shoeless and with bits of straw stuck in her hair, flung herself with a cry across the room and into her mother’s arms.

  Edward stood, dumbfounded, and knocked his chair over with a crash. Then he shouted “Betsy!” and clasped both mother and daughter to his breast in an incredulous embrace, while a beaming Kate Ardleigh, holding an improbable white duck under one arm, looked on.