With a Little Bit of Blood

by D. E. Ireland

  For the past half hour, Higgins had accompanied Dwight Pentwater. Higgins knew exactly how much time he’d spent with each member of the shooting party; he checked his pocket watch every ten minutes. Now he couldn’t wait for luncheon and the chance to stop terrorizing bunnies in the damp forest. Enough food was stored in the Banfield Manor kitchens to keep the county of Kent fed for the next year. Hunting for anything other than sustenance offended Higgins’s sense of justice. Every time another one of these well fed blighters killed a forest creature, he wanted to give them a swift kick in the arse.

  He toyed with the idea of leaving the shooting party. After all, with Lady Annabel now in the forest with her husband, she couldn’t chase after him in the manor house. But every beech tree in the forest looked like the next, especially in the mist. And from every corner shots rang out. If he set off on his own, one of these bunny killers might shoot him. A bullet would no doubt already be lodged in an arm or leg, if not for the eagle eyes of the gamekeeper and his men.

  Beside him, Dwight Pentwater lifted his shotgun and fired. Of course he missed. Higgins gave him credit for one clever thing. The American wore a crimson scarf about his neck and a red feather in his hat.

  “I admire your sartorial choices this morning,” Higgins remarked. “Given the low visibility, you probably assumed everyone would be shooting at anything that moved.”

  “Exactly.” Pentwater lowered his gun. Unlike the other men in the party, he preferred to reload the ammunition himself than rely on someone else. “In America, we often wear red to prevent any accidents. You Brits don’t take the same precautions, I guess.”

  “You don’t have much faith in hunters?”

  “I certainly don’t have any faith in this gang. Wasting their time shooting at rabbits.”

  Higgins shrugged. “We prefer to call them hares.”

  “I don’t care what you call them. Might as well be shooting squirrels. I own a hunting lodge in Pennsylvania. Every autumn I invite friends and fellow businessmen to shoot whitetail deer. That’s how a man hunts. Not this nonsense.” He snorted. “And the loaders have done everything but pull the trigger for these idiots. I’ll never understand the English.”

  “No more than my fellow countrymen can understand the American love of hot dogs.”

  “I blame the Germans for that,” Pentwater replied. “I blame the Germans for a lot of things. For example, I’m sure it was Count Rudolf who came up with this tedious rabbit shoot. Lord Ashmore doesn’t have the guts to stand up to him, even if this is his property.”

  “Count von Weisinger is an Austrian,” Higgins reminded him.

  “Don’t see any difference between a German and an Austrian.” Pentwater raised his gun once more. Gunfire sounded all around them. He let off another shot. “Neither is to be trusted.”

  “And yet you do business with the count.”

  Pentwater sent Higgins a cynical look. “I do business with lots of people I don’t trust. Profit is my only concern, like it is for every good businessman. That’s why I don’t consider the count a businessman.”

  “What is he, then?” Higgins fell into step with Pentwater as he set off towards another clump of trees. Fallen leaves crunched beneath their feet.

  Pentwater thought a moment before replying. “A fabulist.”

  This intrigued Higgins. “Which definition of ‘fabulist’ does he fit? A liar who invents complicated, dishonest stories, or a person who passes on fables?”

  “Both.” Pentwater raised and shot his gun once more. Higgins saw a brown shape twitch in the shadows of a tree. “Got ‘em.” He whistled to alert a beater to collect the animal.

  “The count isn’t interesting enough to warrant anyone’s curiosity,” Pentwater went on. “There are other house guests a lot more entertaining. Lady Annabel, for one.” He chuckled. “That one has her eye on you. I have a feeling she wants to bag you like I bagged that rabbit.”

  Higgins grunted. “I’d rather meet the rabbit’s fate.”

  “She isn’t bad. I have a fondness for redheads, but I don’t blame you for not being thrilled. Women who pursue men are vulgar.” Pentwater came to a stop, cradling his gun in his arms. “Men should be the ones who go after women. And it makes the chase more fun if they don’t want you.”

  “I don’t see how.” Higgins found the fellow increasingly unpleasant. He understood now why no one else in the shooting party chose to hunt with Pentwater.

  “Because then you bend them to your will.”

  “A man can end up in jail for that,” Higgins said in a harsh voice.

  “There are other ways of persuading a woman to give her favors other than physical force. Especially if you have money and power.”

  “And no conscience.” Higgins shook his head. “Is that how you win over women, with physical force and fear? If so, I pity the woman who marries you.”

  “Save your pity. I’ve been married for some time. And Alice lives quite well.”

  Higgins would love to hear Alice Pentwater’s side of the story. It was certain to be a dark tale.

  He’d heard enough from Pentwater. And he’d also had his fill of hunting. No matter the risk of being shot in this fog, he planned to head back to Banfield Manor. Once he got there, he would insist to Eliza that they return to London. They could stay at his mother’s Chelsea flat until the fire damage was repaired at Wimpole Street. But it was madness to remain closeted here with Lady Annabel, the unpleasant count and countess, and the even more tiresome American.

  As for Madame Evangeline’s dire warning the day they arrived, Higgins felt foolish for allowing Eliza to convince him to stay. Madame Evangeline was an obvious fraud, one of many spiritualists who sprang up to take advantage of a credulous public. The only disaster he could foresee was enduring another week in close contact with the houseguests at Banfield Manor.

  “I’ll take my leave, Mr. Pentwater.” Higgins briefly doffed his fedora. “Hunting has proved as dismal as I expected, and your conversation far worse. My only hope is that one of the hares learns how to shoot a gun before this hunting party comes to an end.”

  “You English say the damnedest things,” Pentwater muttered.

  Higgins set off in what he hoped was the direction of Banfield Manor. But he hadn’t gone more than twenty steps when he heard Eliza calling him, “Professor, where are you? It’s Eliza! Can you hear me?”

  “I’m over here! Follow my voice!”

  Higgins strained to catch sight of her through the trees and smiled when he saw a slender figure dressed in yellow emerging from the mist. Just then, a loud gunshot fired, followed by a strangled shout. He spun around and ran back to where he had left Pentwater.

  With a startled cry, Higgins stumbled over the unmoving body on the ground. Blood stained the front of Pentwater’s hunting jacket.

  Higgins crouched down and felt for a pulse. After a moment, he released the man’s wrist. The red feather and scarf had not protected him after all. Dwight Pentwater was dead.

  10

  Higgins needed a distraction, something to keep him from remembering the blood-spattered corpse in the forest. Only there was little hope of that. The county police had been summoned and the day promised to be filled with endless unpleasant questions. All of them leading back to the dead man.

  He scanned the room they had been asked to assemble in, a fancy chamber known as the blue parlor. Well, he certainly felt blue sitting here among the delicate furnishings.

  While Chief Constable Sidney Brakefield studied his notes, Higgins forced himself to stare at the ivory plaster busts perched above the parlor’s elaborate pediments. Probably ancestors of Richard Ashmore, as were the subjects of the oil portraits hung every few feet on the walls. He might have a better chance at distraction if he were allowed to thumb through the aged tomes displayed in two Chippendale break-front cases. Then again, he doubted it.

  When he’d knelt beside Pentwater’s body, Higgins was reminded of a similar scene this past summer. His
friend and colleague, Colonel Pickering, had been shot right in front of him. Only by the grace of God – and a fine surgeon – did he survive. But the horror of that shocking moment had never left him. Witnessing Pentwater’s death from a bullet not only reawakened those unhappy memories, it left Higgins shaken.

  “Their shoes are muddy,” someone said in a furious whisper.

  Higgins looked up. Clara sat on a divan with her husband. She seemed distraught, only he wasn’t certain if it was because of Pentwater’s death, or the mud streaks left on the Persian carpet from the parade of witnesses the policemen had questioned. Knowing Clara, it was probably both.

  When the Kent police first arrived, the chief constable interviewed the beaters and loaders from the hunting party. Of course, their boots had been muddy. As were the boots of the gamekeeper, Mumford, who stood before Brakefield with flat cap in hand.

  “Aye, the gen’lmen all had guns. ‘Cept for him, due to his arm in a sling.” The man gestured toward Higgins. “But I didn’t see when the American gent was hit.”

  “Then you couldn’t say where the shot came from?” the chief constable asked.

  He shook his head with sorrow. “Didn’t even ’ear it, sir.”

  Chief Constable Brakefield’s craggy features spoke to years of hard work, as did his prominent worry lines and calloused hands. Higgins bet those sharp brown eyes didn’t miss much. He once more turned to Richard Ashmore. “Tell me again, Lord Ashmore. Why did you decide to host a hunt this week?”

  “This was the first of our autumn house parties,” Richard said. “The Ashmores have held shoots and fox hunts every fall for generations. As the newest baron, it was my duty to do likewise. The county expects it. Especially the fox hunt and the accompanying ball. Over forty people will be attending.”

  “But you weren’t hunting fox,” one of the constable detectives said. “Or grouse.”

  “No, I decided to begin this first house party by letting the guests shoot hares in the forest.” Richard frowned. “Actually, none of this was my decision. For this party, I relied on the advice of my brother-in-law, Count Rudolf von Weisinger. And my sister, his wife. They had several shoots planned. Some in the forest, others in the fields. With the fox hunt closing off the week.”

  “The weather this morning was not agreeable for hunting.” Countess von Weisinger’s voice came from the depths of a blue wingback chair. “By the time we realized the light mist had turned into a fog, it was too late. Someone accidentally turned their gun in the wrong direction. It has happened before at Banfield Manor.”

  “It has?” Brakefield asked, his voice sharp. “When?”

  “Eight years ago,” the gamekeeper said. “The old baron presided over things then. Best shot I ever saw. During a pheasant shoot one of the beaters got hit. Never found out who pulled the trigger. Hard to know with two dozen guns going off.”

  “Did the beater die?”

  “No, but the bullet tore up his leg pretty bad.” Gamekeeper Mumford winced at the memory. “The doctors ended up cutting it off.”

  “My father saw to it that the man had work on the estate,” the countess added, “and provided a cottage for him and his family. They’re still here, if you wish to speak with the man. The Ashmores take care of their own.”

  “That’s true,” Richard said. “And there have been other hunting accidents over the years. Sometimes a gun misfires and causes harm to the shooter.”

  “When I first began to work for the Ashmores as a lad, a misfired gun killed some marquis from France. Terrible thing it was.” The gamekeeper shook his head.

  The last thing Higgins wanted was to hear descriptions of other men who had been shot. He glanced at his pocket watch. Three hours had passed since Pentwater had been killed. Was the body being held somewhere in Banfield Manor until a local doctor or coroner pronounced accidental death? Or had it already been taken to the village? Higgins suspected the body was still here. Although he hated to sound as fanciful as Eliza, it felt like a dark heaviness hung over the house. A shroud.

  He caught movement out of the corner of his eye. Eliza paced from one end of the parlor to the other. She looked as upset as Clara, but with more reason. Eliza had been the first person to join Higgins when he discovered Pentwater’s body. She had also witnessed Pickering being shot. Bending over another bloodied victim had upset her as much as Higgins.

  “Plenty of bullets go astray,” the gamekeeper continued. “One of my beaters, Tom Moray, has a scar three inches long. Happened last year. On a day as clear as can be.”

  Brakefield frowned. “That’s what bothers me. Why hold a shoot when a man can’t see more than ten feet in front of him? Is it usual to go shooting in a thick fog?”

  “It is not,” Sir Anthony declared from where he sat with his dirty boots propped up on a footstool. He puffed on his cigar. “Fool decision, if you ask me.”

  “Then why were all of you out there shooting?”

  “I believe my wife has explained.” Count Rudolf stood by the door, as if he planned to leave at the first opportunity. “When we left this morning, there was no more than a nebel – a mist – over the grass. It was warmer yesterday, but a frost came during the night. Such things draw mists from the wet ground. It is common in the country at this time of the year. As the day goes on, the nebel lifts. It vanishes. Poof.”

  “Only this time it didn’t,” Brakefield reminded him.

  “Ja, the mist became thick. A fog. And I tell my wife, we should end the hunt.”

  “He is correct,” the countess said. “Shortly before Mr. Pentwater was shot, my husband informed me that it made no sense to continue. The fog had grown worse and he feared someone might be hurt. He left me to find the gamekeeper and give orders that the beaters were to round up everyone and lead them back to the house.”

  The count nodded in agreement. “I had difficulty finding Mr. Mumford. But I saw Sir Anthony. He was upset because his wife had come to join him in the hunt, and he had lost sight of her. I informed him the hunt was over and we must return.”

  “And so he did,” Sir Anthony said. “I asked one of the loaders to point me in the direction of the house. Along the way I spotted Annabel, who seemed to be doing just fine.” He winked at his wife, who perched on the edge of a nearby Hepplewhite chair. “She had just bagged two hares. Amazing woman.”

  “Lucky shots,” she demurred.

  “Women were shooting?” one of the constables asked in shock.

  “It’s not unheard of for women to shoot with the men,” Richard said. “But it is uncommon. My sister has always hunted. She’s an excellent shot, better than me.”

  Brakefield turned to Clara. “Lady Ashmore, were you shooting as well?”

  She looked at him as if he’d just asked if she danced naked on London Bridge. “Good heavens, no! I never left the house. In fact, I was still in bed when I heard about the shooting.” She made a face. “I can’t imagine anything I’d fancy doing less than tramp about shooting at animals. Beastly business.”

  Literally, Higgins thought, trying not to chuckle. Clara might end up being his only distraction.

  Richard clasped her hand. “My wife doesn’t shoot or ride.”

  “I’m afraid of horses.” She leaned forward as if imparting a secret. “They’re so big.”

  The chief constable glanced down at his notes. “Miss Doolittle? Did you participate in the hunt?”

  Eliza stopped pacing. “There’s enough violence in the world without me trying to find sport in it. But I did go out to find the Professor.”

  Higgins cleared his throat to get the constable’s attention. “As I mentioned before, Eliza arrived at the exact moment I heard the gunshot. She was not carrying a weapon.”

  “I saw the young lady in the woods,” the gamekeeper said. “Couldn’t hardly miss her, seeing as she was dressed in that yellow skirt and jacket. Bright like the sun, she was. And she weren’t holding a shotgun.”

  Brakefield consulted the list of guests a
gain. “Freddy Eynsford Hill?”

  Freddy raised his hand from where he slouched on the sofa. Lily sat beside him, fiddling with her charm bracelet and swinging a dainty foot back and forth.

  “Mr. Eynsford-Hill, did you see Mr. Pentwater in the forest this morning?”

  He shook his head. “I didn’t see anyone at all, except for Lily. The two of us decided to join the hunt after everyone else had left. By the time we got dressed and found guns, the fog had turned into a real pea-souper.”

  “Didn’t you think it pointless to go hunting when you couldn’t see anything?”

  “Actually, we thought it would be something of a lark. And it was.” He peeked over at Lily, who shot him a quick smile. “We chased each other about for awhile. The fog made everything so mysterious and exciting, didn’t it?”

  “It felt like we were the only people around for miles,” Lily said. “Except for when we heard the guns.”

  “What the devil did the two of you do out there?” Brakefield demanded.

  They exchanged another conspiratorial look. “Oh, we shot at things once in awhile. Trees mostly.” Freddy grinned. “And played hide and seek.”

  “Then you weren’t always in sight of each other?” one of the detective asked.

  “Oh, Freddy couldn’t see me when I hid, but I always knew where Freddy was.” She tousled his hair. “How could I miss him with such a golden mane as this? He was almost as hard to miss as Eliza in her sunny ensemble.” The pair nudged each other.

  Brakefield looked like he regretted asking them anything. “Where is Mr. Corbet?” He mistakenly pronounced the name to rhyme with ‘orbit’.

  “Oui?” Philippe stood leaning against the window.

  “Professor Higgins states that he was with you for the better part of an hour during the shoot. After he left, did you join up with anyone else?”

  “I begin the hunt with Lord Ashmore, Count Rudolf, and his wife. Then I spend time shooting with Professeur Higgins. After that, I shoot alone.” He looked out the window. “And no, I do not see Monsieur Pentwater when I was in the forest. At least not until I hear the shouting and run to where the man is lying dead.”