“I meant Canterbury, not York,” said Edward Fforde.
“It might be politic not to tell him,” said Canon Fforde, with a sigh, refilling his glass. “But what is to be done, I don’t know.”
Felix wandered out into the hall, having helped himself to another ice. Here he found Mrs Maitland and Celia waltzing together to the sound of the fiddle that was coming up from downstairs. Major Vernon was watching them, and then, suddenly, he stepped in and caught Celia’s hand, and, with his hand about her waist, whirled her about her a few times, lifting her from the floor, much to her delight, and then setting her down again he turned to Mrs Maitland, offering his hands to her. She accepted and they proceeded, a little more decorously, but still with considerable intimacy in the arrangement, and with a certain forcefulness in the Major’s manner as he swept her down the length of the hall.
The melody ended and they broke off laughing.
“I must say goodnight now,” he said. “Carswell, will you get that translation from Mrs Maitland for when we see Parham tomorrow?”
“I am never to be idle when I am here!” she exclaimed with mock indignation.
“It will be a trifle for you. Good night, Celia,” said the Major, kissing his niece. “Don’t make yourself ill with all those cakes.” She promised she would not, but went off in the direction of the supper table.
“We had better do as he says,” said Mrs Maitland as the front door closed behind the Major.
“Perhaps if we went in here?” said Felix, taking up the book from the hall table.
They went into Canon Fforde’s book room, where there was a good lamp burning, and Mrs Maitland sat down to make her translation. Felix sat on the sofa eating the rest of his ice.
Mrs Maitland finished reading the text.
“Well, this is rather startling,” she said. “And you believe you ate these things?”
“It is possible. I was driven quite out of my wits, and the Major, to some lesser degree.”
“I hope you are both quite recovered,” said Mrs Maitland.
“I think so,” said Felix.
“It seems that you might be, given your performances on the dance floor tonight.”
“I have never seen Major Vernon dance before,” said Felix.
“I have,” said Mrs Maitland, taking up a pencil, and smiling as she began writing her translation. Felix was quite sure it was not the text that was amusing her.
After a few minutes Dr Fforde came in, and looked a little surprised to find his fiancée hard at work at his brother-in-law’s desk.
“I shall not be a moment,” she said, putting her hand up to him. “I have only one more sentence.”
“What is this?”
“It is for Major Vernon,” she said. “A case. Mushrooms with extraordinary properties. Listen to this: ‘Agaricus semilanceatus is occasionally found in Northern European woodland and low-lying scrub, often with a marshy aspect. In quantities above several ounces it is usually fatal, but in lesser doses it has been known to cause convulsions and visions, and in certain circumstances sleepwalking.’”
“It does say sleepwalking!” said Felix, jumping up to look at the text. “I guessed that it might, because of my own experience, but I was not certain.”
“You were sleepwalking?” Mrs Maitland said.
“Yes. Quite an interesting experience I must say. Perhaps if I find some of these, I should see if I can repeat it.”
“That sounds rather rash, Mr Carswell,” said Dr Fforde.
“All scientific enquiry has an element of risk. It is the nature of the beast. And if one could replicate the effect, then that would be the proof we need.”
“It goes on to say,” Mrs Maitland said, “‘In the smallest doses the effects have been curious ones – often with an element of disinhibition involved. A taciturn man taking a pie containing the mushrooms was observed to grow unexpectedly voluble. Sometimes called the deadly milk-cap.’ Oh, how interesting. I do hope you find your mushrooms, Mr Carswell.” She finished writing out the text and then handed the paper to him. “With my compliments.”
“Very much appreciated, ma’am.”
She rose and said, “It was no trouble. Edward, was there something you wanted?”
“Just to know what you were doing.”
“Assisting justice,” she said with a flourish and a smile. “I am sorry, I did not mean to neglect you.”
Felix, sensing a little awkwardness between the lovers, excused himself and said his good-byes to the rest of the party. As he walked back to The Black Bull he wondered if Edward Fforde had seen that impromptu waltz in the hall.
-o-
“We played cribbage, sir, and she took me for a shilling,” said Holt. “She is wily.”
“But she’s gone to bed now?”
“I hope so,” said Holt, stretching and yawning.
“And the door to her room is locked?”
“Yes, there was a lot of fussing and squawking about it, but I told her what was what.”
Giles wondered if he should check on his charge and then decided he would leave it until the morning.
“I have two constables here for the night,” he said. “You can go home. She didn’t say anything of interest when you were playing?”
“No,” said Holt. “She wasn’t inclined to confidences.”
Holt left and Giles gave his two plain-clothes men his instructions, before leaving himself. He would look in briefly in the morning before going to Ardenthwaite.
Instead of going straight to his bed, he went to the Northern Office, and lighting a lamp made his way up to the attic, where he sat on the floor and stared at the notes he had pinned to the wall, adding one new foolscap sheet which read: “Bickley has found his Saviour.” How sincere was this repentance, that was the great question. If it was perfectly sincere then they had been handed a great advantage, for in such a state, Bickley might be persuaded to talk openly at last.
When Kate spoke of ‘him’ did she mean Bickley? Was he the shadowy master, the rule-maker imposing exceptional discipline upon his underlings? From what Giles had seen of the man, it might be possible. He was meticulous and cunning. An intelligent criminal who saw crime as a business and did the thing properly. There was no sloppiness in Bickley’s operations. That was why it had been impossible to find enough evidence to bring him down.
And now he was at the Bishop’s Palace, on his knees, declaring he had found God. It was astonishing whichever way he looked at it. But from what Giles knew of Bickley, from the few occasions they had met, this conversion narrative felt fake and convenient. To go to the Bishop, whom he would have noticed was an ardent self-publicist, and declare himself a repentant sinner, willing to be washed in the Blood of the Lamb, was a spectacularly daring thing to do. What would it gain him?
At length his mind clouded over, and he could no longer think clearly. He found himself thinking of Emma Maitland and her smiles, and how he would like to go home and find her in his bed.
Chapter Twelve
“You could write your memoirs,” Giles said. “There was woman in your profession who did that.”
“As if I would,” Kate said, with a pout. “I shall go out of my mind in here. It’s so stuffy. Can’t I even go for a walk?”
“Perhaps something can be arranged,” he said. “But not today. I have to work. I am going to see your Colonel.”
“What?” she said, her eyes narrowing.
“Have you any messages for him?”
“You are stirring it, aren’t you?” she said.
“I mean to upset the pot,” he said.
“Wouldn’t you rather stay here and play the Colonel with me?” she said after a moment. “You didn’t seem to mind that game the other day, did you?”
“It wouldn’t serve any purpose,” he said.
“But doesn’t stop you wanting it,” she said, coming close to him. He put up his hand to deter her, but she pushed against his outstretched palm. “You’ve got that achin
g, hungry look about you. A man who hasn’t got his share. Furious for it you were,” she said, reaching out and touching his cheek. “Like a boy for the first time. No wife, you said. I know that kind well enough, and you are no different.”
She walked over to the bed, and perched on the edge, her shawl falling away, and her chemise likewise, her pose calculated to entice.
“Wouldn’t take long,” she said. “For your health?”
“No,” said Giles. “And if you have any sense you will not play these tricks with the men downstairs. Unless you want to end up in the Bridewell or a ship to Australia.”
She got up from the bed and strolled across the room, still displaying herself, as if she was very determined to tempt him to it. He was tempted, that he could not deny, for he had had nothing but the most lascivious dreams, involving this creature and Emma Maitland, and they had left him as hungry, just as she had said.
She picked up the copy of The Bugle he had brought for her and studied its front page.
“Do you know George Bickley?” he said, pushing away these thoughts as best he could, and turning to business. She did not speak nor look away from the paper, but he thought he noticed her eyelids twitch for a moment. “Ever had any dealings with him?”
“Never heard of him,” she said after a moment and he felt almost certain she was lying. He did not pursue the matter, however, as he was anxious to get on the road to Ardenthwaite.
-o-
The ride out to Ardenthwaite was a pleasant distraction, the exercise a good counter to his confusion. Even Carswell, usually cautious on horseback, seemed happy to take a brisker pace than usual, and even occasionally urged his mount into a gallop, as they rode through the extensive woodlands that surrounded the property.
Then Carswell brought his horse to a standstill and gazing about him, said, “The Colonel – if he did poison us deliberately, then –”
“It would be a very serious matter if he did,” said Giles.
“It seems a most elaborate scheme to get out of paying his rent.”
“I agree, but if he was feeling pressure from elsewhere, then perhaps it becomes understandable? I suspect he is not entirely the blameless character he presents himself as.”
“What have you found?”
“Nothing substantial. A scrap of gossip, really. But enough to unsettle him if it’s true.”
“These woods are the ideal habitat,” Carswell said. “Though where to begin?”
He dismounted, and leaving his horse in Holt’s charge plunged into the undergrowth on foot.
Giles and Holt rode a little further up the drive, before Giles himself dismounted.
“Go and see if you can find Mostyn,” he said, handing the reins to Holt.
It was his intention to keep things absolutely mild and civil with the Colonel, with no hint of an accusation of anything improper.
He rang the bell but there was no answer. He could, however, hear the dogs barking furiously, somewhere within the house.
Giles tried the door. It was not locked. He opened it and called out to signify his presence, at which the dogs redoubled their barking.
He went into the hall. The great room felt cold and still. There was no sign of any recent fire in the hearth.
“Good day!” he called out. “Is there anyone at home? Colonel Parham? Are you about, sir?”
Still the barking continued. In truth it was more of a piteous yelping, a chorus of canine misery. Having tried a succession of doors, Giles opened one in the passage which led to the kitchen, and which he now remembered opened into a store room.
The two salt and pepper pointers, Hector of the rheumy eye and the younger Hero, both came shooting out of the darkness. They were highly agitated and panting for water. How long had they been locked up in there, he wondered, noting the strong smell of their excrement.
They leaped delightedly at him, desperate for reassurance.
“No sign of Mostyn, sir,” said Holt coming through from the kitchen.
“And no kitchen fire?”
“No, sir. Not a soul about.”
“Get these poor beasts some water and something to eat if you can find anything,” Giles said, now down on his knees caressing the dogs.
Holt took the dogs into the kitchen and Giles began to search the house, feeling as every minute passed that this was not a simple case of flight. The Colonel would have not have left his dogs – he had been devoted to them.
It soon became clear that most of the man’s possessions remained in the house, with the exception of his guns, which were no longer in the rack in his study that Giles had noticed on his previous visit. Neither were there any papers on his desk.
He began to make a slow tour of the house, looking in each room in turn for signs of occupation. The same curious deadness of air remained.
He climbed up to the top story of the house and opened the door to a great attic room, crossed with ancient beams. A disturbing smell of decay at once filled his nostrils, and the buzzing of a mob of flies broke the silence.
A second later he saw it – Colonel Parham dangling by the neck from an ancient cross beam.
He turned and went to find Carswell.
-o-
“How long has he been here, do you think?” Major Vernon asked when they had cut him down.
“Rigor is quite pronounced,” said Felix. “But it’s warm up here, and the fact he’s been left hanging may have had some effect. But roughly I would say three or four days.”
“Tuesday or Wednesday, then?”
“And this is definitely not suicide,” said Felix. “Feel that. If you slide your hand there, you can feel the second vertebrae is broken. That never happens with suicide by hanging. This is a neat job. He will have died almost at once. It would have taken several men to do it, though, given his height and strength. You can see his hands have been bound from the rope marks on his wrists. They must have subdued him and then strung him up.”
“A calculated affair,” said Major Vernon. “So, are we supposed to see this as suicide, or is the point that it is an execution?”
“Given that it is straightforward for all but the most foolish medical man to distinguish suicide by hanging and murder by hanging, the latter, I suppose. But why make it so obvious that it was a murder?”
“To make a point?” said Major Vernon, getting up. He stood looking down at the Colonel’s corpse. “A fearless demonstration of power.”
“But to whom?” Felix said. “Who was their intended audience?”
“A good question,” said Major Vernon. “So, a group of men arrive here and are apparently invited into the house by Parham – we can assume he knew them, or thought they offered no threat. They proceed to overpower him, drag him up here and hang him. Then they lock up the dogs, and take the guns and whatever valuables are lying around.”
“They must have known that this room existed,” said Felix, looking up at the beam. “To know that it was possible to hang a man here, of his height and weight.”
“Good point. Someone among them knows the house. Mostyn, the Colonel’s man – what’s become of him? Did he bolt or leave with the others? Is he one of the others? We need to find him.”
“Let’s hope he’s not dead as well,” said Felix.
They went downstairs to the kitchen where the dogs were still howling with hunger.
“Not so much as a crust in the larder,” said Holt. “I gave them some water.”
“Nothing left to rot?”
“No, sir. The place has been quite cleaned out.”
“Mostyn perhaps didn’t leave in a hurry, then,” said Major Vernon.
“Strolled away knowing his master was dangling upstairs?” said Felix. “A nice show of loyalty.”
“Dangling?” said Holt.
“Colonel Parham has been hanged,” said Major Vernon. “What did you think of Mostyn, Holt? You had more to do with him than we did.”
“You think he hanged his master, sir?” said Holt. “The
servant always gets the blame, is that it?”
“That is not what I said, Holt,” said Major Vernon. “What did you make of Mostyn? How did he strike you?”
Holt thought for a moment.
“Now I think of it, he was a dull dog, all in all. He was busy making the dinner. Didn’t make much in the way of talk. I had a hard time of it with him.”
“He didn’t say how long he’d been in Parham’s service?”
“No, nothing like that. Nor talked about him much. But he had his hands full, and wasn’t the type to talk.”
“It would have been too convenient if he’d been indiscreet,” said Felix, gazing at the drooling old dog whom the Major was comforting with his hand. “I think these animals will eat us if we do not find them something.”
“Holt, I want you to ride back to Northminster. I will have a few notes for you, assuming they have not taken the Colonel’s ink pot as well. You can stop at the Inn in the village and get them to send some supplies up to us. Mr Carswell, we need to scour the house. These people may be careful, but they may have overlooked something of importance.”
While Major Vernon wrote his notes, Felix went back upstairs to the attic, and attempted to trace the route by which the Colonel had been got up there. As a march to the scaffold, it was a considerable distance to travel.
“His boots are very scuffed,” pointed out Felix when the Major joined him again in the attic. “He must have fought quite violently against being taken up.”
“It’s a grim end,” said Major Vernon, “but clean and quiet, afterwards. There was no danger of that body being found in any hurry and no need for them to dispose of weapons, or clean themselves of blood. Just a rope, left round his neck and brute force. It’s efficient, certainly.”
“And Mostyn paid off?” said Felix. “Or one of them?”
“If we assume he poisoned us, being the cook, then it seems he may have such tendencies.”
The Ghosts of Ardenthwaite (The Northminster Mysteries Book 5) Page 11