by Tessa Arlen
“Did he say what he planned to do with them?”
“Not really. He told me he was off to London, would spent the night with his sister, and come back here tomorrow. I understood that he had an appointment with the Metropolitan Police and he was eager to get up to town.”
Oscar paused in the lackluster recounting of his day, but Clementine sensed that he had kept something back about his time with Valentine. “You told me you had no alibi; is that a problem?”
“I hope not, I really do. Colonel Valentine told me I was free to come back to Iyntwood, but that he was going on up to London to Scotland Yard. I have to wait for him here for when he returns tomorrow.”
“Well, that sounds like a remarkably good outcome to your day. If he suspected you, wouldn’t he have taken you with him on to Scotland Yard?” She kept her tone bright, hopeful.
“I suppose so…” His voice tailed off and sorrow threatened to return.
Clementine did her best; she carefully turned the topic to other books they had read, in an effort to take him out of himself a little. He seemed so bereft and solitary and she felt tremendous sympathy for his plight. She wondered if his lonely childhood and his distant, disinterested father still weighed heavily on the boy. She also wondered what significance Teddy’s papers had held for Colonel Valentine.
* * *
When Mrs. Jackson was summoned to Lady Montfort’s sitting room for their evening meeting she was curious as to the form the conversation would take. She was prepared with menus for the next few days, as she knew that this was how their talk would begin, and she was right. After she had updated Lady Montfort on the state of the storeroom and larders and which bedroom Lady Verity de Lamballe would occupy when she arrived, Lady Montfort opened up her little notebook and asked her housekeeper to take a seat.
“It is so late, Jackson, you must be exhausted.”
It was half past eleven and Mrs. Jackson had been up since six o’clock. She was yearning with an almost frantic need for the quiet of her quarters, the opportunity to stretch out full-length on her bed, and listen to the only sound in the room, that of her own even, unhurried breath.
“Please make yourself comfortable so we can get to the business of what is happening in the house.”
In inviting her housekeeper to sit down in her presence, Lady Montfort had made a mere hop, skip, and a jump of breaching the abyss that separated her upstairs world from Mrs. Jackson’s downstairs existence. Mrs. Jackson had never sat in Lady Montfort’s presence before, and it did not come naturally to do so now. In fact, it made her feel extremely tense and self-conscious. However, she perched on the very edge of the chair, gazed down at her hands folded in her lap, and waited for Lady Montfort to begin. And there was no doubt that Lady Montfort understood her unease, because she decided to go first with sharing information, which came to Mrs. Jackson’s ear rather like an announcement.
“Colonel Valentine went up to London to consult with Scotland Yard this afternoon after he left Oxford. According to Oscar Barclay, he had in his possession some of Teddy’s papers that provide a new possibility in this business, and that have nothing to do with gambling clubs…” Lady Montfort proceeded to fill her in on the drawings that Oscar had described.
“Interesting, don’t you think?”
Mrs. Jackson said, “Yes, m’lady, it was,” because it was, and waited.
“I think these drawings and the colonel’s meeting at Scotland Yard are a clue. At the moment I am taking it to mean that there is another party involved in Teddy’s murder and one that is being taken seriously by the police.” And then, by the way of nothing at all, only in that it had obviously come into her head, she added, “It was interesting today, Jackson, I noticed that whenever any of my friends came out of their interview with Colonel Valentine, that they appeared to be more relaxed than when they went in. I am not sure what to make of that.” Lady Montfort spent a moment or two thinking on this further, then turned to her housekeeper, her eyebrows raised and a gentle inquiring look of interest on her lovely face.
Mrs. Jackson appreciated that it was her turn and she tried to be as businesslike as Lady Montfort.
“As you suggested, there was a stranger in the village, m’lady; he was seen both by Mr. Stafford and Theo Cartwright. I spoke directly with Mr. Stafford and he told me that a strange man was last seen at the back of the Goat, by Theo. And around that time Mr. Teddy pulled up to the public house in his motorcar and went inside and took a look around, as if he expected to see someone he knew. Then afterwards Mr. Golightly went out to the pub yard at the back of the house and Mr. Teddy pulled his car in and waited there for a moment or two before driving off. Perhaps he was there to meet with the stranger.”
“There you are, Jackson, it’s obvious Teddy had some arrangement with this man, this stranger. Any other information on him?”
“Mr. Stafford said that he saw the stranger in Dodder Lane, walking from Cryer’s Breach station at about half past three that afternoon. I looked up train times from London in the Bradshaw. Where the man was at that time would mean he had come in on the half past one express from Marylebone—there isn’t a train in at that time from the Birmingham direction—and had then walked up from the station. The express doesn’t make any stops so he would have come from London.”
“Now that’s what I call detective work, Jackson. Well done. Did Stafford say anything else?” Lady Montfort was scribbling away and then sat biting the tip of her pencil as she waited for more clues.
“Yes, he did. When Sergeant Hawkins inspected the dray he found a gentleman’s evening shoe in the large storage box behind the driver’s seat. It is commonly thought that Mr. Teddy had been tied up and put in the box. Apparently when his body was found in the wood it was missing a shoe. This might mean that the dray was used to take him up to the wood.” This was another hugely long speech for Mrs. Jackson and she stopped here to see its effect on her ladyship. She was gratified to see that Lady Montfort looked impressed. She was nodding and writing and then she looked up and smiled at her housekeeper as she made a heavy, full stop at the end of what she had scribbled down.
Mrs. Jackson judged it was time to report on further Goat and Fiddle gossip and reluctantly told the part about Mr. Teddy’s having been given a punch on the nose. Of course Lady Montfort didn’t like this at all; she stared at her housekeeper blankly with her mouth open, rather like a landed cod fish, and said, “Oh, God,” under her breath. And Mrs. Jackson, repentant at having caused pain, went on to explain that perhaps Lord Haversham was not the only one with a grudge against Mr. Teddy, and told her about Dick’s swollen knuckles on his right hand.
“Yes, you’re right, Jackson—if the police find out about their fight, a punch on the nose wouldn’t necessarily implicate Harry, would it?” Lady Montfort seized on the opportunity to see this new information from all sides. “It could have been Dick I suppose, but highly unlikely as Dick is such a nice boy, and Teddy was not. Anyway, Dick was busy all evening, he didn’t have time to give Teddy a punch, let alone take him off to the wood. Where was the dray during the ball, Jackson?”
“It was outside the north anteroom, in the service area for the ballroom, m’lady, same as always. Mrs. Thwaite had it stocked with food and ale for the musicians for when they took their breaks from playing.”
“So Teddy might have been taken from the ball to the wood in the dray?”
“I suppose he might…” Mrs. Jackson was careful not to put forward any premise of her own that might lead them up the garden path. She was determined to report facts only and would not be drawn into giving an opinion. That is, until she was specifically asked.
“But how would that work, do you think?”
Oh, Lord, and here it is, she thought, and reluctantly continued.
“The dray was in the service area throughout the ball, m’lady. At the end of the night the musicians were driven to the stable block in the dray, where they spent the night, and the dray was left in the wash-d
own until early Sunday morning, when it was driven back to the home farm. Then, of course, after luncheon when Mr. Teddy was found, it was driven up to the wood to bring his body back. It was then locked up in the old carriage house. I think…” She hesitated to say what she thought, but Lady Montfort eagerly nodded for her to continue. “Maybe Mr. Teddy was met by whoever it was who killed him by the stable block; he overpowered him, tied him up, and took him up to Crow Wood.”
“Why would the murderer have to put Mr. Teddy into the storage box do you think?” Lady Montfort asked.
“Because it was raining heavily—because of the storm?” Mrs. Jackson shook her head as she spoke. “No, he was going to hang him. If he’d punched him on the nose, and tied him up, why put him in the storage box? Not to keep him dry!” she added rather callously, since it was Lord Montfort’s murdered nephew she was referring to.
Lady Montfort laughed. “Exactly, Jackson, not to keep him dry. I think he was put in that box to conceal him. He was tied up and put in the box as there might have been people around. But who would have seen him at the stable block at well after four in the morning? Everyone would have been tucked up for the night.”
“Mr. Makepeace was there when the sergeant examined the dray. He said there was plenty of coiled rope under the seats. It was probably used to tie him up with.”
“So this murderer knew where to find rope, knew there was a storage space in the dray. Would a stranger to the area know all of this?” Lady Montfort was busily jotting things down in her little book; she did some heavy underlining and then looked up. Mrs. Jackson saw the strain on her face and comprehended that Teddy’s murder by the stranger was the ideal outcome, but her ladyship was not going to be lulled into a false sense of security.
She thought for a while and then pointed out, “But anyone would be able to see the storage box, it’s large enough, and there is always plenty of rope visible in the dray.” She closed her eyes as she tried to imagine how it would be. “It was dark. The rain was pouring down … he met Mr. Teddy by the stable block … he knocked him out, tied him up, and dragged him up onto the dray … perhaps he heard someone coming … he put him in the storage box and when it was all quiet, he drove up the lane to the home farm … but yes, you’re right,” she said as inspiration flashed. “How would anyone unfamiliar with the area know where the gibbet was, and if they did, how could they find it in the dark? I am not sure that anyone unfamiliar with the estate could find it in the daylight, let alone in the middle of a storm.”
“That’s absolutely right, Jackson. It would have to be someone familiar with the estate, someone who has been here many times—”
“Someone who had been at one of his lordship’s shooting parties, m’lady. That could mean any of the estate workers or your friends who have come over for one of his lordship’s shoots.” In her enthusiasm Mrs. Jackson had interrupted Lady Montfort and was horrified at her disrespectful manners.
But Lady Montfort hadn’t even noticed. She was running out of steam and her voice was suddenly tired. Mrs. Jackson could tell she was circling back to home, returning to the idea that her son might be in danger as a suspect.
“Yes, friends or family … you see we are back to where we started, Jackson. No matter what Teddy was up to with strangers from London, it is unlikely that he was taken to his death by someone who did not know the estate. Unless Teddy arranged to meet the stranger by the gibbet … No, then the dray would not have been used, and it seems that was how he was taken to the wood.
“And that is why when Colonel Valentine comes back tomorrow his investigation here will not be over. That is, unless he plans to arrest one of us for Teddy’s murder.” Lady Montfort sat back in her chair with her eyes fixed on her housekeeper. She had hoped that the stranger was going to save them, and with determination she summoned her concentration again.
Mrs. Jackson had never seen her ladyship so single-minded and intent, and it came to her in that moment that in less than fifteen minutes they had spanned the dark hours of Sunday morning clearly enough for them to make sense of what might have happened. She sat back in her chair, quite confident that between them they could make sense of this puzzle.
“Then we have to be a step ahead of him, m’lady,” she said.
“Yes, Jackson, we do. So, it’s back to punches on the nose, motives, missing alibis, and how Teddy was put into the dray. And whilst we are at it, what has happened to the two missing young women?”
Chapter Eighteen
It was a perfectly lovely afternoon with no possibility of rain to spoil it, which did much to alleviate the tension at Iyntwood as Clementine and her friends waited for Valentine’s return from London. Determined to save her house party from a swift return to the doldrums, Clementine suggested that they spend the afternoon outside on the lawn. Lady Shackleton and Lady Waterford challenged Lord Montfort and Colonel Ambrose to a game of croquet, and Harry, not to be outdone, enlisted Oscar, Ellis, and Sir Hugo in a doubles lawn-tennis match, with Pansy and Blanche eagerly running up and down to retrieve balls.
Lawn games were probably not a fitting occupation for a house in mourning, or a house suspected of murdering one of its occupants, but the Iyntwood house party was doomed to be the center of scandal anyway, she thought, and activity soothed the nervous system and passed the time.
Clementine, who needed time to think, wandered back and forth between the two games, played within several hundred feet of each other, which gave her the opportunity to move about without having to engage in conversation. Croquet gave Lord Booth, whose preferred activity, other than smoking huge cigars, was to pontificate, a chance to do both as he stood directly among the players, getting frightfully in the way, she noticed.
She briefly joined Lady Harriet and Gilbert Lambert-Lambert, Sir Wilfred, Lady Booth, and Constance Ambrose, who had stationed themselves under the shade of the chestnut tree. Here they observed a strenuous game of tennis, with Lady Booth kindly amplifying the rules of the game and keeping score.
“Fifteen love … each,” she said, happily inaccurate, and turned to fix Constance Ambrose with her eye, as Harry smashed a ball over the net to whip up off the grass out of Sir Hugo’s reach. “And it’s Sir Hugo still to give service. Though good heavens would you look at the perspiration, it simply isn’t fair to have him up against Harry and Ellis this way. Oh dear, yes, well that would be his fault, two into the net. He does look tired. That means fifteen to him and Oscar and then thirty, or is it forty, to other side? Do you see how it goes, Constance? First one side, then the other—that’s why it’s called tennis!”
Constance didn’t see, but Clementine guessed she would enjoy any sport that involved athletic men, balls, and a lot of speed. She smiled to herself, enjoying the idea that tennis observed the niceties of prep school: each politely taking it in turn, first one and then the other. For heaven’s sake, she thought, is that what happened to Teddy—was there more than one person involved in his death? Two people working together? Clementine ranged back and forth between tennis and croquet under her sunshade, her mind taken up with a missing shoe, strong rope, storage boxes, and forked lightning.
Just as Sir Hugo and Oscar had managed to turn the game against Harry and Ellis, she looked up and across the lake saw Colonel Valentine’s motorcar coming up the drive. He briefly appeared on the terrace and then, ignoring welcoming cries from the lawn, locked himself away in the uninterrupted quiet of the morning room, apparently—so Hollyoak informed her—to put together a report of his investigation thus far.
Clementine did not suspect that the colonel consciously set out to keep everyone in suspense. But since his return all lawn games had stopped, and when he stayed away from the group, pressure had started to build, reaching a tight-lipped, preoccupied politeness among them. And despite Clementine’s efforts they stayed that way until Valentine strolled out to join them for tea, when they grouped themselves in a semicircle around him like so many rabbits gathered in front of a stoat. She watched her
friends sip tea and nibble sandwiches and cake, chattering about things they didn’t give a fig about, as they waited for Valentine to begin.
“I know you are all most concerned about events surrounding Mr. Mallory’s tragic death,” he opened up. No one spoke, and she was conscious that all eyes watched him finish his salmon and cucumber sandwich and sit back to address the now silent group.
“Based on my original findings, this investigation now falls under the purview of the Criminal Investigation Department of the Metropolitan Police, who are sending down one of their top men, Detective Chief Inspector Ewan, to help us through the last part of the inquiry. This is a formality only, as it would seem, from evidence I found at Oxford, that Mr. Mallory’s involvement with an organization in London is the probable reason for his death.” There was a pomposity about this lack of real information that was infuriating, thought Clementine. It was certainly received with a certain amount of pursed lips and fretful, furrowed brows among the tea drinkers on the lawn.
For heaven’s sake, why would the Metropolitan Police be coming up to Iyntwood if their investigation was now down in London? Clementine struggled to be fair, and while she believed that Valentine had tried from the start to shield them as much as he could from the scandal of Teddy’s death, the age of hushing up unattractive and embarrassing breaches of the law for the country’s privileged classes was a thing of the past. Five or ten years ago Valentine could have protected them all from gossip and the public eye by exercising his position as the county’s chief constable. But now, unable to wrap up the murder investigation satisfactorily with an arrest, he had most likely been obliged to go to a higher authority for help, and obviously the Metropolitan Police were not as impressed as he was by his “new evidence found at Oxford.”
Clementine turned her head and caught her housekeeper’s eye with an I-told-you-so look on her face. She had asked Mrs. Jackson to help out with tea today so that she would hear firsthand what Valentine had to say, and her housekeeper was standing within earshot under the shade of the chestnut tree, keeping water hot for tea and filling trays of sandwiches for the footmen.