The Mammoth Book of Best British Crime 9

by Maxim Jakubowski

  “But you are not dressed for Arcadia,” Horatio continued querulously.

  Our invitations, splendidly embossed with flower and small animal designs, had been for “An Afternoon in Arcadia”, and we had been encouraged to dress appropriately for the occasion.

  “… dressed for Arcadia,” Horatio’s companion, young Nathaniel Drake, echoed indignantly in support of his master. He had a habit of repeating Horatio’s words as if by this method he could ensure his continued employment. He was clad as a much humbler shepherd, I noticed, and no breeches had been permitted for him, merely a smock. I had not realized that even Arcadia had its hierarchical distinctions.

  “I serve the Good Shepherd,” I replied amiably to Horatio. “As His loyal sheep, I prefer not to compete with His authority.”

  Horatio did not seem amused, and Nat looked anxious. I felt sorry for Nat, now a young man approaching thirty and dependent on Horatio for his livelihood. He was a bright lad, and though he accompanied Horatio everywhere his aspirations for independence had come to nothing. Nevertheless he did his best to support his employer at every turn.

  “Behold,” Horatio said proudly, after we had entrusted our horses to the groom and been escorted through the house to the terrace. I had been amazed at the countless antiquities that had sprung up within it since my last visit during his father’s lifetime, and even more at the addition of an orangery. “Pray feast your eyes on Arcadia itself.”

  “I shall indeed. It is a spectacle of great wonder,” I managed to reply honestly. “Capability Brown’s work, no doubt?”

  There was a disapproving silence, which I did not at first understand. Nor Jacob either, I imagine. We were too overwhelmed at the vista before us. Gone were the formal gardens I had loved. Instead, a pastoral scene greeted us. The eye was swept into the far distance where water shimmered – a lake perhaps? Hills, trees, follies and pools greeted the eye wherever it fell. Carefully created wildness replaced order and varying hues of green the bright colours of the flowers I had loved so well. Even from this terrace, I could see antique statues sprouting between the bushes and in every nook and cranny, peeping out as though surprised to find themselves in Arcadian England.

  I disliked this new landscaped garden, and mourned the loss of Percival’s emphasis on grace and tradition. I was aware, however, of Horatio’s shrewd eye on me, and kept an admiring expression, while murmuring that elderly people move more slowly with the times.

  In the midst of this pastoral bliss, I could see a maypole, targets set out for archery and various arbours where guests might dine and drink. None of these connected with any vision of Arcadia that I could recollect, and I sensed Jacob stiffening with disapproval at my side. Little wonder. Arcadian costume – or an eighteenth-century interpretation of it – was to be seen everywhere. The lady shepherdesses looked more delightful than the gentlemen, needless to say, although their huge flowery hats and wide skirts would surely have been an inconvenience in tending Arcadian flocks. As for the gentlemen shepherds, those who had nobly forgone breeches might well have repented of the decision, I thought, as I saw the amount of naked leg displayed between boot and smock or sheepskin.

  There was an air of uncertainty about the guests, perhaps due to the sheep who wandered cautiously amongst them. Sheep in society Kent were usually safely divided from the viewer by a ha-ha ditch, and their introduction at these closer quarters might not be receiving universal acclamation. I did not dare glance at Jacob, who is my very dear friend but more accustomed to greeting Arcadia in the pages of his library than in person.

  Then I realized the reason for the disapproving silence of our host, as Horatio replied heatedly, “This paradise is my masterpiece. I am its designer.”

  “… my masterpiece,” repeated Nathaniel anxiously. “I am its designer.”

  He was ignored by his master. “The perfect home for my Aphrodite.”

  “… home for my Aphrodite.”

  “And the Renaissance sarcophagus?” I enquired.

  Horatio giggled mysteriously. “Perfection, the crowning jewel, Parson. It will reveal its secrets at four o’clock, and your presence is required. Meanwhile, dear friends, pray disport yourselves merrily in Arcadia.”

  Jacob and I duly endeavoured to disport ourselves, but our merriment was feigned. There was a curious atmosphere in this Arcadia, as though each shepherd and shepherdess glanced warily at his or her neighbour to see what degree of smile would be most fitting to display. Perhaps I imagined this in my regret for the destruction of a garden I had loved.

  Nevertheless, Horatio’s garden was not without its merits. In the hours that passed Jacob and I came upon a pool so exquisite, so covered with lilies, and a small rustic bridge so silent among the rocks surrounding it that nature herself seemed to hold her breath, overcome with what art could achieve. For it was undoubtedly art to have positioned the lilies so cleverly, to plant varied trees and bushes both to entice the curious onlooker and to create mystery as to what they might be shielding from his sight. Many other gardens boast such features, but this pool and the cunningly designed grotto that formed an arc around it showed that art could complement, not battle with, nature. The water sparkled as it trickled down rocks to a series of tiny pools until it reached the one at which we stood so admiringly. The only obvious sign of man’s intrusion was a small antique statue of a woman gazing into the pool as if, so I remarked to Jacob, she would woo her own reflection, like Narcissus in the old legend.

  “She is fine, is she not?”

  The harsh voice at my side startled me, for it was certainly not Jacob’s. I turned to see a gentleman I recognized as Mr Mortimer Kettle at my side. His round, portly figure and bright ginger un-bewigged hair were unmistakable.

  “She is my Aphrodite,” he continued, full of angry passion. “Do you realize, Parson, how rare it is to find a statue of the goddess of love? I would know mine anywhere, and this is it, stolen from me by our noble host.”

  Unfortunately the loyal Nathaniel, who was standing by a sundial nearby, had overheard, and at once defended his master. “Aphrodite is rightfully here, sir. As is the Medici sarcophagus—”

  “He has that too?” Kettle struggled for composure. There were tears on his face but whether of anger or loss was not clear. “Horatio bade me to come to this place at four o’clock. Is he to apologize for his perfidiousness? I shall not leave here today without my Aphrodite.”

  Nathaniel skilfully placed himself between the statue and her would-be abductor. “There are others joining us, sir. We must all go together.” He looked nervous now, and no wonder. Montague Kettle was not the only person to have strong emotions where Horatio was concerned. Whatever our host had planned for this ceremony – if that is what it was – he would need to take care. Caveat canem, I thought; there might be dogs a-plenty snapping at his heels.

  Squire Carstairs, hardly to my surprise, as he is lord of the manor of this parish of Farnley, now joined us, together with dear Eleanor, and John Simple, who both looked as though they would fain be elsewhere. When Horatio commanded, however, they had little choice, and I was glad of the Squire’s presence, as he is our local justice. Nothing, I told myself, could therefore be amiss. Even Horatio would plan no mischief if the Squire was to be present.

  Our small group followed Nathaniel as he led the way up a stone path cunningly concealed by the side of the grotto. At a last twist this led to a high rocky outcrop looking down over the gardens and on to the pool beneath. On its far side a hillside seemed to lead down to wild woodland, and the outcrop itself was framed by bushes forming a delightful arc around it and providing for a small arbour with a seat for two. The outcrop was an impressive sight, dominated by the large open stone sarcophagus with splendid carvings that suggested it had indeed been created for a powerful and rich occupant.

  Horatio was not yet present, but in the bushes I was sure I could see old Tom Hawkins, Percival’s knowledgeable gardener of many decades, who shared my own deep love of his mas
ter’s gardens, and had none for Percival’s heir. What, I wondered, was he doing here? I saw Montague Kettle edge forward to inspect the side of the sarcophagus, I saw Eleanor and John hold back, I saw Nathaniel walk over to the tomb.

  His cry of horror pierced us all, and I rushed to his side.

  Death had indeed come to Arcadia. Horatio’s bloodied body lay in the bottom of the sarcophagus. Across his chest lay an arrow, as if, having done its foul work, it had been disdainfully flung in after him.

  In times of shock, the eye can be a keen observer, because such a moment as we had experienced remains frozen in time and memory, every detail as crystal clear as the trickling water cascading down the rocks below us. I remember the look on John’s face, as he realized that the brother who had barred his way all these years was dead, but I could not then interpret it. I remember the blankness of Eleanor’s expression and Mr Kettle’s mingled shock and triumph as he looked on his rival’s body. I remember Nathaniel’s pale face, as he collapsed on to the arbour seat. I remember the hatred in old Tom’s face, as he came forward from the bushes, belatedly doffing his cap in respect. I shuddered for us all, but mostly for Horatio, who had met such a dreadful end as a result, surely, of his own actions.

  “Squire?” I asked tentatively.

  The Squire looked a gentleman more inclined to the bottle after luncheon than such a task as he must now face. I suspected he had no more liking for Horatio than I, but he had a duty to perform. He was the local magistrate and this was surely a task beyond the parish constable’s handling. It was the Squire who must call for the coroner.

  It was clearly an unwelcome task, but he took charge immediately. “Stay, if you please,” he snapped at John, who was about to escort Eleanor down the steps, his arm tenderly about her waist.

  John looked as if he were about to protest, but wisely did not. Nor did Mr Kettle who had already begun to run down to the gardens below us. He meekly returned to join us. The Squire next turned to Jacob and myself. “A doctor should be summoned and the innkeeper.”

  As I was not from this parish, the latter surprised me, until I realized that the innkeeper might be the coroner here. Having some experience in cases of sudden death, I reluctantly decided that I should remain here, but Jacob very willingly departed on his errand.

  “A prayer for the soul of Horatio Simple,” I said quietly.

  The Squire reddened at his previous emphasis on the secular demands of the situation, as I recalled our small group to the fact that there was a dead man here, no matter what their liking or otherwise might have been for him.

  I drew the Squire to one side after my simple plea to our Lord was concluded, so that we might speak privately. “My services are at your disposal, Squire.”

  He looked surprised. “Why, I need none,” he told me gruffly. “The affair is shocking but simply solved. The gardener was present when we arrived and there is but one entrance to this place. He is our man.”

  I was aware that Tom had retreated to the far side of the outcrop, too scared to venture forth, and I knew then that not only were my services going to be necessary but diplomacy also. Tom would not have been an invited guest to this place, so why was he here?

  “That may be so,” I agreed. “Tell me, Squire, what do you make of the arrow?”

  “Make of it?” He looked bewildered.

  I explained. “The arrow has been pulled out of the wound by the murderer, leading to the amount of blood we can see on the body. However, if Mr Simple were killed on the ground here, and his body thrown into the sarcophagus after, then his blood would be scattered on the ground around us, but I see none. Why should the gardener trouble to conceal his crime in such a way?”

  The Squire paled, and hastened to check my words. Then he straightened up. “Are you telling me the poor fellow was forced to climb into his own tomb and was then shot from above?”

  “So it would appear.” And yet my answer did not satisfy me.

  “Then a woman is indicated.” The Squire did not name Eleanor or turn to look at her, but his meaning was clear, even if he was reluctant to put it into words. I could see that her face was still a mask under the large hat which partially shielded it. What her real emotions might be were known only to her. “To put a body in this tomb would take more strength than a woman possesses,” the Squire continued, “but a woman would have to persuade a man to lie there of his own accord.” He was about to stride over to interrogate her further, when I stopped him.

  “Nathaniel guarded the only apparent passage up here,” I pointed out.

  “Quite. So Tom’s our man,” the Squire agreed in the belief that we were at one.

  “Ask Nathaniel what he knows,” I said gently. “He was alone while he guarded the steps.”

  “Bless me if you’re not right, Parson.”

  Squire Carstairs walked over to the apprehensive Nat, without suggesting that I join him, but I hastened to follow as he planted himself in front of the poor fellow. “What do you know about this affair, Nathaniel?” he roared.

  To Nat the Squire must have looked a fearsome sight, but he answered bravely enough. “Mr Horatio said no one was to come up to the tomb until the sundial showed four o’clock, and then only yourself, Parson Pennywick and his companion, and those others he had asked to attend.”

  “Those others who perhaps had reason to hate him most,” I murmured. “Strange.” The Squire brushed my comment aside, however, and continued to fire questions at Nat.

  “When did you begin these guardian duties of yours?”

  “Two o’clock, sir.”

  “Was Mr Simple already here?”

  “No, sir, he came about three o’clock.”

  “You must have come up here when you arrived. Was anyone else here?”

  “No, sir.”

  “And who came after that?”

  “Save for Mr Simple himself, no one, sir, until we all came up an hour later.”

  Nathaniel seemed to have answered honestly, but it served him ill. “That looks bad for you.” The Squire frowned.

  I knew Nat was generally well liked and, eager though the Squire was to find the perpetrator of this terrible deed, he would not wish it to be Nat.

  Nat went white with fear. “Why should I wish to kill Mr Simple, sir? He was my employer. I owe everything to him.”

  “If no one else could come up here without your noticing, it must have been you who killed him.” The Squire looked glum, but seemed satisfied with his reasoning.

  I was not. “But Tom must surely have arrived later than Nat?”

  The Squire looked at me sharply, and turned to the assembled company. “Is there another entrance to this place?”

  “I know of none,” Eleanor faltered.

  “Nor I,” John immediately confirmed.

  “I am a stranger here.” Mr Kettle looked highly relieved that this was so.

  “Then if there is no other entrance, you or Tom must be guilty, Nat,” the Squire said sadly. “Or both.”

  “Not so,” I said firmly. “Even Arcadia needs work upon it to keep it idyllic – provided of course the workmen are not seen by those enjoying its perfection. Tom,” I called to him, and he approached fearfully, “is it not true that weeds, leaves and pruned branches must be removed from this outcrop by some other path than the steps leading to the main gardens?”

  I was about to go on to ask him the reason he had come here, but at that moment, Jacob returned to assure us a doctor was on his way and the coroner been sent for. He was so overcome by the rush and importance of his mission that he had to be calmed lest he collapse. Once this was accomplished, we turned back to Tom, but there was no sign of him.

  “Where’s the old man gone?” the Squire cried out in fury. “How did he get away?”

  “By the same way he came.” I speedily investigated the bushes and found a most interesting hedge which had been so trained as to completely hide another narrow set of steps leading down the hillside at the rear.

  “
Tom,” I called out sternly, as the rustling of the branches made me sure he was still nearby. “Come hither to face your Lord.”

  Whether I referred to his secular or religious lord was immaterial. Tom was frightened enough to creep back to join us.

  “Thomas,” I addressed him formally, “you were here when we arrived. For what reason?”

  I thought at first he would not reply, but finally he growled, “I wanted to speak to Mr Simple. I saw him come up here. He turned me away yesterday. All for saying I liked his father’s garden better than his.”

  I sympathized, but could not show it. “Did you kill him, Tom?”

  He glared at me. “No. He was lying there just like he is now. Dead. Then I heard you all coming. With that old cock-brain out of the way, I thought I might stand a chance. He’d told me I’d to be out of my cottage, me and my family, by the end of the week.”

  John exclaimed in distress. “You shall not leave, Tom. You are safe now that I am the master here. My brother’s death puts an end to his cruelty to Miss Eleanor and to you.”

  Mr Kettle then decided to join the attack. “He was a shark up to every dodge,” he maintained. “I discovered Aphrodite in the ruins of Pompeii, and this sarcophagus was mine too. Nathaniel will tell you so, won’t you?”

  I thought at first Nat would not agree through loyalty to his dead master, but at last he spoke, albeit unwillingly. “Mr Kettle is correct. Mr Simple did steal them and Arcadia—”

  Then there was uproar, as everyone, including the Squire, burst out with his own tales of Horatio’s cheating ways.

  “Stop!” I cried out in horror. “This is not seemly.”

  But my words had little effect. Even when Mr Kettle rushed away down the stairs, saying he would take his Aphrodite now, only Nathaniel made any attempt to stop him. In vain, however. Mr Kettle had gone.