by Michael Cox
So she had a lover. It could not of course be Daunt, for Mr Tredgold had told me before I left that he was in the West Country, on Lord Tansor’s business; he had also mentioned, in passing, that Daunt’s former amorous designs on Miss Carteret had been firmly discouraged by the young lady, in deference to her papa’s thorough dislike and disapproval of his neighbour’s son, and that they now maintained a civil but unencumbered friendship. But she was beautiful, and unattached, and must have many admirers amongst the county’s bachelors. Doubtless I had witnessed an assignation with some local buck. But the more I considered the dumb-show that had been played out before me, the more puzzling it seemed. One might expect a man who comes a-courting to step up to the front door, and announce himself boldly, not skulk in the shadows; nor did it seem to me that this had been a lovers’ tiff, but something of far greater moment. There was, it appeared, far more to beautiful Miss Carteret than met the eye.
There was a knock at the door, and the housekeeper came in to remove my tray.
‘Mrs Rowthorn,’ I asked, as she was about to leave, ‘these attacks that have taken place recently: how many have there been?’
‘Well, sir, let me see. Mr Burton, who has a farm of Lord Cotterstock’s over at Bulwick – he was the last, poor man. And then there was Squire Emsley’s man, and I believe there was another gentleman from Fotheringhay, but I can’t recall. The poor master would be the third or fourth, I think.’
‘And were they all carrying money?’
‘I believe so – except for the master.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean, sir, that the others had all been about their business in Stamford, it being market day when they were attacked. Mr Burton had near fifty pounds taken. But the master keeps his money at the bank in Peterborough, though I don’t know how much he had about him in the normal way of things.’
‘Why, then, did he go to Stamford yesterday?’
‘To meet you, sir, and to go to the bank.’
‘The bank? To withdraw money, perhaps?’
‘Oh no, sir,’ she replied. ‘I believe it was to bring back some papers they’d been holding safe for him. Before he left here, he came to ask me where he could find something big enough to put them in, and I found him an old leather bag of Mr Earl’s – who used to be his Lordship’s gamekeeper – that has been hanging on the back of the pantry door these two years …’
I remembered the item distinctly, and how Mr Carteret had strapped it tightly over his riding-coat in the stable-yard of the hotel.
‘And where is the bag now?’ I asked.
She paused for a moment.
‘Now there’s a thing,’ she said. ‘I don’t seem to recall seeing it when they … excuse me, sir, I do beg your pardon …’
She put the tray down to fumble for her handkerchief, and I apologized for my thoughtlessness. When she had composed herself, and after a few consolatory words, she picked up the tray again, and wished me good-night.
I was certain now that Mr Carteret had not been tracked and set upon by this supposed gang for the money that they believed he might be carrying. This was no crime of opportunity. Mr Carteret had been attacked for a clear and specific purpose; and had I been a betting man, I would have put money on its involving the contents of the missing bag. But it puzzled me to surmise what Mr Carteret had been carrying, if not money, and what could have been so valuable that cold-blooded, brutal murder was no bar to obtaining it.
This quiet place, standing in elegant seclusion within the walls of Evenwood Park, had suddenly become a place of conspiracy and violent death. Slowly, but insistently, a conviction began to form in me of some link between the death of Mr Carteret and the letter that he had written to Mr Tredgold. By and by, I concluded that such a conviction was groundless. Yet Mr Tredgold had told me to take care. I began to wonder whether his words had been anything more than a conventional farewell.
I sat up for another hour or more, turning matters over in my mind, contending with vague fears and unfounded suspicions, until I could stand no more and blew out my candle. Then I lay, open-eyed, in the darkness, listening to the call of an owl in the Plantation, and watching shadows cast by the trees playing on the white-washed ceiling. How long I lay there, I do not know; but at last I sank into a fitful sleep, pulled down into dreams that were haunted by the face of Miss Emily Carteret.
*[‘Woe to the conquered!’. A phrase from Livy. Ed.]
21
Requiescat*
Rising early, I made my way down through the silent house to find the front door locked and bolted, making it necessary to take the back stairs down to the kitchen. There I encountered the servant girl, Mary Baker, at work at a great stone sink. She turned on hearing my footsteps and curtseyed.
‘Oh, sir, is anything the matter? Did you ring?’
‘No, no, Mary,’ I replied. ‘I am going for a walk, but the front door is locked.’
She looked up at a clock hanging above the range. It told just a little before half past five.
‘The master would always come down himself with the keys, at six sharp,’ she said. ‘Every morning, without fail.’
‘I suppose Miss Carteret has the keys now,’ I said.
‘I can’t say, sir. I was that upset yesterday evening that Mrs Rowthorn said I might go home, which I did, though I made sure I was here early this morning.’
‘And do you live in the village, Mary?’
‘All my life, sir.’
‘I imagine this has been a terrible shock. So senseless and unexpected.’
‘Oh sir, the poor dear master … such a good man, so good to us all.’ Whereupon her voice began to falter, and I saw that tears were not far off.
‘You must be strong, Mary,’ I said, ‘for your mistress’s sake.’
‘Yes, sir, I shall try. Thank you, sir.’
As I was about to leave, a thought struck me.
‘Tell me, Mary, if it does not upset you too much, who found Mr Carteret?’
‘John Brine, sir.’
‘And who is John Brine?’
She described him as Mr Carteret’s man, by which I understood her to mean his general factotum.
‘And how many other servants are there here, besides John Brine?’
‘Well, Mrs Rowthorn, of course, and myself. I mostly help Mrs Barnes, the cook, and do the cleaning, though Mr Tidy’s girl comes in three times a week to help me with that. Then, besides John Brine, there’s his sister Lizzie – Miss Emily’s maid – and Sam Edwards, the gardener.’
She turned from the sink, and began rubbing her hands on her apron. It appeared that John Brine had been on some errand to the great house when Mr Carteret’s horse was first seen trotting riderless through the Park. Brine, together with two of Lord Tansor’s grooms, Robert Tindall and William Hunt, had immediately set off to look for Mr Carteret, the two grooms taking the main road to the gates that stood on the southern side of the Park, Brine following the smaller track that led through a swathe of woods to the western gateway on the Odstock Road.
‘So Mr Carteret was found by John Brine alone, then?’ I asked.
‘I believe so, sir. He rode back straight away to find the others, and then they all went there together.’
‘And where can I find John Brine?’
Mary directed me to a yard leading off the garden, one side of which consisted of a range containing two or three stables and a tack-room. Here I found a stocky young man of about thirty, with light sandy hair and beard. He looked up from his work as I entered, but said nothing.
‘John Brine?’
‘I am,’ he replied, in a suspicious tone, drawing himself up and straightening his back.
‘Then I would like to ask you a few questions concerning the attack on Mr Carteret. I am—’
‘I know your name, Mr Glapthorn,’ he said. ‘We were told to expect you. But I don’t know why you feel it is appropriate to question me. I’ve told everything I know to Lord Tansor, and I don’t thi
nk, beggin’ your pardon, sir, that his Lordship would consider it proper that I repeat myself to a stranger. I hope you understand my position, sir. If you’ll excuse me.’
At which he returned to his work. But I would not be brushed off so easily by such as he.
‘Just a minute, Brine. You should know that I am remaining here for a day or so with the express permission of Miss Carteret. It is incumbent upon me, in my professional capacity, for reasons I need not trouble you with, to inform myself as fully as possible with all the circumstances surrounding this terrible event. You will oblige me greatly, Mr Brine, if you could see your way to giving me your account, in your own words, of how you found Mr Carteret. I would not wish to rely on hearsay or rumour, which might distort or contradict the truth that I know I shall hear from your own lips.’
He looked at me for a moment, trying no doubt to gauge the sincerity of my little speech. Then he appeared to relax his stance somewhat, nodded to me to take a seat on an old wheel-backed chair that stood by the door, and began to tell me his story.
In outline, it confirmed what I had already heard from Mary. He had been at the great house when one of the gardener’s boys had run into the stable-yard to say that Mr Carteret’s black mare was trotting through the Park, but that there was no sign of its rider. With darkness now coming on, Brine and the two grooms had at once mounted up and ridden out, the grooms heading towards the South Gates, Brine veering west towards the woods.
Brine had found him lying face down amongst the trees, a little way off the track, not far from the Western Gates.
‘Had he fallen where he was attacked, do you think?’ I asked.
‘No,’ said Brine, ‘I don’t think so. The track bends sharply at that point, just before the gates. I believe they were waiting for him on the far side of the bend, just within the trees. He wouldn’t have seen them until it was too late. After he’d fallen, I suppose they’d sent the horse off and then dragged him into the trees – you could see the flattened grass. He was still breathing when I found him, but I couldn’t rouse him.’
‘And his bag?’
‘Bag?’
‘The bag he had across his chest.’ ‘There was no bag.’
I then asked him where they had taken Mr Carteret. ‘William Hunt rode back to the great house and they brought up a cart. We took him back on that.’ ‘To the great house, not here?’
‘Yes. Lord Tansor insisted. He said he should be kept as quiet as possible until Dr Vyse could be brought from Peterborough. Robert Tindall was sent straight away.’
‘What time was this?’
‘Around eight o’clock.’
‘But Mr Carteret died before the doctor arrived?’
‘At about half past nine, or thereabouts. Miss Carteret was with him, and Lord and Lady Tansor.’
I held out my hand, which he took after a little hesitation. I was determined to get the fellow on my side, though he seemed somewhat dull-witted and morose.
‘Thank you, Brine. I am grateful to you. Oh, Brine,’ I said, as I was about to leave, ‘where is Mr Carteret now?’
‘In the Chapel at the great house. Lord Tansor thought it would be best.’
I nodded. ‘Indeed. Yes. Thank you, Brine. Oh, by the way, could you arrange for this to get to Peterborough, in time for the midday railway mail?’ I handed him the second account that I had written for Mr Tredgold, describing the reported circumstances of the fatal attack on Mr Carteret.
‘You will need some money,’ I added, taking out some coins. ‘This should suffice.’
He made no reply, but merely nodded as he took the proffered money.
I retraced my steps to the garden, and then walked across the lawn to the gate-house. As I stepped out onto the roadway, I noticed something dark lying on the ground and stooped down to examine it more closely. It was the remains of a half-smoked cigar, sufficient for me – by now a seasoned connoisseur – to recognize one of the premier Havana brands, Ramón Allones no less. Miss Carteret’s lover was a man of discernment. I threw the stump on the ground, and proceeded on my way.
A little before gaining the point at the summit of the long incline from where the great house could be seen, I stopped and turned to look back. Below and behind me were the turrets of the gate-house; to the right, the Plantation, with a glimpse of the Dower House beyond. Further to the right was the boundary wall, on the other side of which could be seen the roof of the Rectory and the spire of St Michael’s and All Angels. The irresistible swell and spread of pure fresh morning light was breaking along the distant line of the river; to the west the great arc of woodland that clothed the higher ground towards Molesey and Easton stood in silent half-shadow.
I turned and resumed my trudge up the remainder of the long slope. The road here begins to swing through a gentle curve, flanked on either side by a short avenue of oaks, and then levels out before descending to cross an arched bridge across the Evenbrook, which can be seen making its sinuous way eastwards through the Park. I emerged from the trees and stopped.
The house was spread out below, its magical splendour even more dizzyingly captivating in the misty October light than I remembered it from my first visit in high summer. I proceeded down the slope, across the bridge, and at last found myself standing in the inner courtyard. Before me were the main doors to the house, on each side of which two elegant Doric columns supported a pediment carrying the Tansor arms and an inscription: ‘What thing so Fair but Time will not Pare. Anno 1560’. A little further off, to left and right, abutting into the forecourt, two of the many cupola-topped towers for which Evenwood is celebrated soared into the brightening air; a little way beyond the southernmost of these was a small archway, through which I could discern a cobbled courtyard.
I did not stop to consider what I would say or do if I encountered anyone. I had laid no plans, had no alibi or excuse prepared. Without thinking, I found myself walking through the archway and into the courtyard beyond, heedless of the possible consequences. I was simply intoxicated by the grave beauty of the building, which seemed to drive away all calculated and rational thought.
I had entered one of the oldest parts of the house. Three sides of the court consisted of open-arched cloisters, unchanged since the Middle Ages; the fourth, forming the outer wall at this point and containing the Chapel, was a closed-in range, altered in the last century, with four rectangular windows of painted glass, two on each side of an ogee-arched door standing at the top of a little semicircular flight of steps. Surmounting the roof of this range was a magnificent clock of brightly coloured wood within an intricate Gothic housing, the gilded panels of which were now catching the first gleams of the early morning sun.
As I ascended the steps, the bell of this instrument tolled the half-hour. I looked at my pocket-watch: half-past six. The household would already be about its business, but still I paid no heed to the prospect of being discovered while creeping uninvited about the building. I pushed open the door and entered.
The interior of the Chapel, wainscoted in dark wood and paved in white marble, was cool and silent. I noted, with approval, the pretty little three-manual pipe-organ of the last century, which I knew from my researches had been made by Snetzler.* On either side of a central aisle, three or four rows of ornately carved chairs stood facing a simple railed-off altar, above which hung a painting of the Sacrifice of Isaac. Before the altar, placed on trestles and lit by four tall candles in massive golden holders, stood the open coffin of Mr Paul Carteret.
The upper part of his body had been covered by a white cloth. I gently pulled it back and looked down at the man I had last seen trotting out of the George Hotel in Stamford, anticipating a good tea and the company of his daughter.
Death had not been kind to him. His jaw had been temporarily bound; but the rest of his poor round face showed all too clearly the violence that had been meted out to him. The left eye was closed and undamaged, but the right had gone completely, reduced to a horrifying mess of bone and pulp, along wit
h much of that side of the face. I had seen such injuries before, on many dangerous midnights in London, and knew with cold certainty that whoever had visited this violence upon him had done so with truly murderous intent, having, I guessed, something of overwhelming moment to lose if their victim survived the attack. I was now sure that Mr Carteret had been doomed from the moment he took horse from Stamford: he had been carrying his own death warrant in the bag he had strapped round him, and which had now disappeared.
Though I went to church dutifully throughout my childhood, I had retained little of what is generally called religion, except for a visceral conviction that our lives are controlled by some universal mechanism that is greater than ourselves. Perhaps that was what others call God. Perhaps not. At any rate, it was not reducible to forms and rituals, and required only stoical assent and resignation, since I considered mediation or intervention to be useless. Yet, after pulling the cloth back over Mr Carteret’s face, I found myself bowing my head nonetheless – not in prayer, for I had no listening deity to whom to pray, but in common human sympathy.
It was as I stood in this apparent attitude of reverential supplication that I heard the door to the Chapel open.
A tall, white-bearded figure in clerical garb stood framed in the doorway. He had removed his hat, revealing two wings of white hair swept back on either side of a broad highway of pink flesh. It could be no other than the Reverend Achilles Brabazon Daunt, Rector of Evenwood.
‘I beg your pardon,’ I heard him say, in deep plangent tones. ‘I had not expected to find anyone here at this hour.’
He did not leave, however, but closed the door behind him, and walked down the aisle towards me.
‘I do not think I have had the pleasure of your acquaintance.’