by Robin Paige
Kate raised her shoulders and let them fall. “How matters will turn out? My dear Bea, I must confess to being curious as well.” She had thought from the way he looked at her that afternoon at Agnes’s that perhaps he had an interest in her. But it had been several days now, and not a word. And all that time, she had felt vaguely restless and discontented, despite the outcome of the inquest and the assurance that Agnes’s pension would be paid. “I understand that he has gone off to Chelmsford.”
“He may have gone to Chelmsford,” Bea said with composure, as the carriage rattled off down the lane. “But he has hardly departed for good. In any event, he has merely gone for the arraignment of the chief constable, has he not?”
Kate nodded. “I believe it was scheduled for today. He is to give the same evidence, I understand, that he gave at the inquest.”
The source of her information was Amelia, who heard it from Lawrence. At the thought of Amelia and Lawrence, she smiled a little. She had spoken to Mrs. Pratt about the situation that morning. There was no reason why the two should not be permitted to see one another openly, so that they could stop creeping about. Mrs. Pratt was a dear soul, but rather too severe when it came to the maidservants.
Bea shook her head, obviously still thinking about the inquest. “What a business.” She made a tch-ing noise. “Who in the world would have thought it possible that an officer of the law could be so villainous as to engage in theft and murder!”
“Apparently the theft was of long-standing, too,” Kate said. “Sir Charles told me after the inquest that Pell had been involved in grain-stealing for several years, and not only in this area, but to the south and west as well. As far as Chief Constable Pell was concerned, of course, the beauty of it was that he was so remote from the crimes themselves, and yet received quite substantial sums of money for providing both a means of shipping the grain and protection from the law.”
“I find that wonderfully fascinating,” Bea said. “Since he employed bailiffs like Russell Tod to manage the actual thefts, he was involved only in arranging for the shipment and sale of the stolen grain—and that through his wife’s shipping business. Such an ingenious entrepreneur! To use his occupation as a police officer for the protection of criminals and to enhance his wife’s shipping business—and to reap the profits from both ventures!”
“Indeed,” Kate said ruefully. “And apparently most of those bailiffs never knew his identity. It was Russell Tod’s bad luck that he was curious enough to go to Wivenhoe, the headquarters of the shipping firm, and nose out the real name of his employer. That is apparently why he was killed.”
“Brack has confessed that he and Tod killed Sergeant Oliver?”
“Yes, and to kidnapping Betsy—although he is not quite clear as to what he and Tod planned to do with her. They seemed to think that if the law closed in on them, she might become necessary to their escape. In the meantime, they made it appear that she had been drowned in order to curtail the search and possible discovery.”
“I am not sure I understand,” Bea said, “to what extent other policemen may have been involved in the thefts.”
“That is the saddest part,” Kate replied. “When Edward realized that it was Pell whom Betsy had seen arguing with Russell Tod the night of Tod’s death, and when Sir Charles determined that Tod had been accompanied to his death by a man with a wooden leg, they immediately laid their evidence before the coroner. He agreed that in view of the extraordinary circumstances, Superintendent Hacking should be notified at once. Hacking instructed Inspector Wainwright to begin an immediate investigation of Pell. The results are not yet complete, but Pell seems to have suborned at least three constables, each of whom profited from the crimes in their districts.”
“I trust that Sergeant Oliver was not one of them,” Bea said.
“No. Pell had sent Tod to approach him. The sergeant misled Tod into believing that he would join them. When Tod realized that the sergeant was gathering evidence to charge them with theft, he and Brock murdered him.”
“And P.C. Bradley? Was he involved?”
“Apparently not,” Kate said, “although Pell seems to have had his eye upon him as a possible recruit. Nor was Edward Laken.” She smiled a little, thinking of Edward. “in fact, it was Edward’s reputation for stubborn honesty that persuaded Pell to take him off the investigation. He told the superintendent that he wanted to handle it himself, and Hacking concurred—ignorant, of course, of Pell’s real motive.”
“And of course by taking the case himself, Pell thought he was ensuring that the sergeant’s killers would not be discovered.”
“Exactly. That is why he assigned P.C. Bradley to the case, knowing him to be a young officer who would take orders without question.”
Bea sat back in her seat and looked out the window. “An amazing series of events,” she said reflectively. “Coming to Bishop’s Keep, Kate, we both wished for adventure. Have you had your fill of it yet?”
Kate laughed and patted her hand. “Enough to keep Beryl Bardwell occupied for some time. I fear, however, that she may never get her fill—if she intends to go on writing, that is.”
“If?” Bea raised her eyebrows. “There is a doubt?”
“Not about writing itself,” Kate said, and hesitated. The excitement of authorship, as she had discovered upon the publication of her first story, ran deep in her veins and would not be denied. But the writing of sensational stories, with their fragile, fainting heroines, dastardly villains, and neat moral lessons, was not as easy or appealing as it had once been. Was she running out of enthusiasm or inspiration? Or had her own experience become more complex, so that she could not so readily portray the world in terms of right and wrong?
“I think,” she added, “that I should like to try my hand at a different kind of writing.”
Bea smiled, “Less lurid and more literary?”
“Something like that,” Kate replied. “Having to keep my work secret because I fear that some may be offended by it takes much of the pleasure from writing.” She thought briefly of Sir Charles, imagining with an apprehensive shiver what his response would be if he knew about Beryl Bardwell.
Bea looked directly at her. “Then don’t keep it secret,” she said. “Your stories are exciting in their own right, if rather sensational. They are nothing of which you should be ashamed.”
Kate considered. There was merit in Bea’s advice. If she were truly an independent woman, or if she truly believed in what she wrote, she would not fear others’ reactions. If she did, then perhaps she was not as independent as she thought, or her stories as well worthy as she had believed.
“I myself am certainly aware of the problem,” Bea went on ruefully, “although it is not I who am concerned. It is Papa who would be sorely distressed at the thought of my writing for publication. It would utterly dismay him to see the Potter name appear on anything so commercial as a book. In his mind, publishers are at the same low level of society as pawnbrokers and policemen. He would be utterly horrified at the idea of my doing business with any of the three.”
Kate smiled. “Weil, then, what of you, Bea? What are your writing plans?”
Bea looked down at her hands in her lap with the self-deprecating smile Kate had come to know so well. “I fear that is too grand a term for my little schemes, Kate. But I have learned from observing the discipline you bring to your craft. I shall set about making a book of my little Peter Rabbit story, and perhaps one about Jemima Puddleduck, and Mr. Tod and Mr. Brock, as well—a fox and a badger, if ever I saw them. You knew, didn’t you, that the name Tod means fox, and Brock means badger?”
“No, I didn’t know,” Kate said, “but it sounds like a wonderful story, about two very disagreeable men. But how shall you get around your father’s difficulty with publishers?”
Bea considered. “If I had the books printed up myself, Papa could not complain.”
“Of course!” Kate cried. “As miniatures, just the right size for children, illustrated with
your marvelous drawings!” She squeezed Bea’s hand. “You see? Your trip to Bishop’s Keep has not been wasted.”
“Wasted?” Bea was half-amused. “You have whetted my appetite for more than the writing life, Kate. You have given me a taste of what it is like to live singly, obliged to no one. I am even more determined now to have my own cottage near Sawry, far from London and Bolton Gardens and Papa and Mama. And you and Beryl Bardwell. shall visit me there, and we shall have even more adventures!”
“Agreed,” Kate said.
But as she looked out the carriage window, she thought of Sir Charles and weighed her own single life against the feelings that had grown in her for him. She did not feel the kind of wistful, painful longing that the romantic novels associated with love, nor did she wonder frantically whether she had been too eager or too chilly in her demeanour toward him, or too bold or not bold enough. But she did wonder what he felt for her, if he felt anything at all. And she did think with affection about his concern for Agnes and Betsy, and with respect and admiration about the clear, insightful reasoning that had so neatly impaled Chief Constable Pell. And it did occur to her that perhaps she had lived singly almost long enough.
51
At last he rose, and twitch’d his mantle blue;
To-morrow to fresh woods, and pastures new.
—JOHN MILTON
Lycidas
“Well, I am pleased, I must say, Ned.”
“I hoped you would be, Charles.” Edward loosened the reins to let the horse have its head on the straightaway just outside Chelmsford and glanced at his friend beside him in the gig. “It’s thanks to you, old friend.”
Charles gave him a querying look. “How so?”
“If it had not been for the scientific evidence you brought, Pell’s guilt would remain in question. I doubt that he would even be arraigned, given the reluctance of the police bureaucracy to publicly launder its filthy linen.”
“You don’t think Betsy’s testimony would be enough, then?”
“The word of a little girl, against that of a respected officer of the constabulary?” Edward gave a short laugh. “Murderer or no murderer, the man would remain free, to corrupt other young police officers.”
Charles’s face was sober. “I suppose you’re right, although for some reason I had the impression that police corruption was confined to London,”
“Hardly. Men are greedy everywhere.” Edward spoke with the passion he felt in his heart. “But once Pell is convicted, all will be put on notice that such a thing will not be tolerated.”
Charles gave him a sideways glance. “The constabulary needs men like you in positions of authority, Ned. I saw you talking with Hacking after the arraignment. Does the superintendent have something in mind for you?”
A cart came toward them and Edward pulled the horse to one side and gave it room to pass in the narrow lane. “As a matter of fact,” he said, “he has begun to shift men about. Wainwright is to be promoted to Pell’s position.”
“Bravo!” Charles exclaimed. “Now perhaps Wainwright will be able to install that telephone for which he has been chafing these past months.” He turned to Edward, his face keen with interest. “And you, Ned? Will you have Wainwright’s place?”
Edward felt himself tighten inwardly at the thought. “That is Hacking’s idea,” he admitted, lifting the reins again. It had not come at him like a bolt out of the blue, of course. Since his several interviews with Hacking and Wainwright about the investigation into Pell’s corrupt practices, he had the impression that both of them thought highly of his abilities. Still, it was a considerable jump from constable to inspector, and there were several sergeants who might be expected to look askance at the promotion.
“And you?” Charles inquired thoughtfully. “What is your idea, Ned?”
Edward sighed. “I don’t know, Charlie. I am an ambitious man. I have long wanted a larger district and more responsibility. And the promotion would mean a substantial increase in income at a time when I shall want more money.” He paused. “I intend to wed Agnes, you know. I have asked and she has agreed, although we shall have to wait until the end of her mourning year.”
It seemed like a century away, the end of Agnes’s mourning. Edward yearned for it to be over so he could make her his own, as she had been in his imagination so many times before. But he had waited a dozen years; he could wait as many months, with the certainty that in the end he would have her and their life together could begin.
He looked sideways to catch his friend’s reaction. “You did know, or surmise?”
“I did,” Charles said with evident satisfaction. “My heartiest congratulations, old chap. She’s a fine woman.”
“Yes,” Edward said, and laughed a little., feeling like a schoolboy. “I was a fool once, and let Artie make off with her. I don’t intend to be a fool again.” He sobered. “But she’s had a hard time of it these years, living on a constable’s wage. It seems almost unconscionable to ask her to continue, if by accepting promotion I can bring her more.”
Charles’s voice was wry. “But some part of you is not delighted with the idea of moving to Colchester and becoming a police inspector?”
Edward could not help but laugh. “Isn’t it queer? For years that was my ambition—to rise in the ranks, to gain in experience and opportunity, to make a name for myself. But now . . .” He shrugged, scarcely knowing what to make of the melee of feelings within. “Now, I’m not sure. Dedham is a fine village, quiet, orderly, a friendly place for children to spend their young years. And Napthen’s little farm, or its like—that idea has its charms, too. I have saved enough money to have it, or nearly so.”
“Ah-hah,” Charles said lightly, smiling. “I thought as much. Agnes in the dairy, Betsy in the market garden, a rosycheeked little Edward helping his father herd the cows. An island of pastoral peace and placidity amid the tumultuous sea of modern civilization.” He chuckled and fetched up a pair of lines that Edward recognized from his long-ago school days. “ ‘At last he rose, and twitch’d his mantle blue; to-morrow to fresh woods, and pastures new.’ That’s it, eh? A twitch of the blue mantle, and you’re off to tend the sheep, with Milton under one arm.”
Edward laughed again, helplessly. “When you put it like that—But yes, I suppose so. It certainly is peaceful. Agnes and I and our children would have a good life.”
Charles turned to look at him steadily. “And yet, there is something alluring about the Colchester position, is there not? Aside from any personal ambition, that is.”
“There is,” Edward said, grateful to his friend for posing both sides of the question so clearly. “I suppose I could make a change in the way police business is done. If I were there, paying attention as attention should be paid, men like Pell might find it more difficult to do their dirty work under cover of the law.”
“Suppose, man?” Charles clapped him on the back. “It’s not a matter of supposition! A man of your brains, your integrity—you’ re what the constabulary needs, Ned.”
“You’re suggesting that I should do it?”
“I’m suggesting that you and Agnes ought to confer and decide together. If both of you honestly prefer the cows and cheeses, then have your farm. I shall gladly visit your rustic retreat and revel in the delights of the country. But if there is a question in your minds, give the Colchester position a go and see what happens. You can always have the farm, can you not?”
“We can,” Edward said, feeling much easier. “I will bring it up to her this very evening.” He turned to Charles. “And what of you, my friend?”
Charles, who was applying his attention to a blue tit in the hedge, did not answer immediately. “Well?” he replied after a moment. “What of me? Ah, yes, what of me?”
Edward felt his question had been bold, but Charles had, after all, offered him advice. And he had seen the unguarded way his friend looked at the lady when he thought no one was watching. He knew Charles to be a man who placed his affection deliberately, b
ut not one to make speed. Miss Ardleigh appeared to fancy him, Edward thought, from his observations of her behaviour in Agnes’s kitchen several days before. But one could not read a lady’s heart in her face—especially a lady as independent-minded as Miss Ardleigh. That she had resisted marriage as long as she had was testimony to her commitment to the single life. Still, just a day or two ago, one of the Marsden kitchen servants had let it slip in the butcher shop that Bradford Marsden fancied her, and the Marsden name and title had to be an attractive incentive to any woman. If Charles did not look out, he might find himself left behind, as Edward had been a dozen years before. And that would be a great pity, Edward thought, remembering with a melting in his stomach Agnes’s soft, yielding “yes” when she agreed at last to marry him.
“I have told you my intention,” he said. “What is yours? With regard to Miss Ardleigh, that is.”
Charles continued to consider the blue tit singing merrily in the tangle of sprouts growing out of a pollarded willow. At last he spoke.
“It is not my intention that is in question, my dear Ned. It is Miss Ardleigh’s.”
52
And what is better than wisejoom? Womman.
And what is bettre than a good womman? Nothyng.
—GEOFFREY CHAUCER
The Tale of Melibee
“The business was safely done, was it?” Charles asked. He did not allude directly to the emeralds, but Bradford knew of what he spoke.
“Well and safely done,” Bradford replied. “Mama is pleased.”
He laid aside the paper he was reading, an engineering description of a new motor car built by John Henry Knight, a three-wheeler propelled by a rear-mounted engine with a single horizontal cylinder, powered by kerosene. He had been to see the car and talk with its developer, who was already soliciting the interest of investors. His face darkened with annoyance. “Mama is not at all pleased, however, with me.”
Charles quirked an eyebrow. “No?” he asked, sitting in the leather chair beside the fire. “She does not approve of your interest in motor cars, I take it.”