Death at Bishops Keep scs-1

by Robin Paige

  "I'm sorry if I deceived you, Eleanor," she said quietly. "I did not come to Bishop's Keep to be a lady of leisure." She hesitated, hoping that there might still be a chance for a friendship. ' 'But if you were about to suggest that we go for a walk or a short drive some afternoon, I am sure that Aunt Sabrina would be glad to let me take an hour."

  "Certainly," Aunt Sabrina said warmly. "I am only sorry I did not think to suggest it myself. I-"

  "Excuse me, mum." The door had opened to admit Amelia, hesitant, and without the tea cakes. "There's someone t'see yer, mum, but I misdoubt that-"

  "Stop blathering and show them in," Aunt Jaggers snapped.

  Amelia frowned uncertainly. "But he's a constable, mum."

  Aunt Jaggers's face grew dark. "Then send him to the kitchen."

  Aunt Sabrina intervened. ' 'Did he say what his errand was, Amelia?''

  Amelia's head bobbed. "He said 'twas news, mum. Important news."

  "Then show him in, please," Aunt Sabrina said.

  In a moment Amelia reappeared. With her was a portly man, balding, with a pockmarked face. His navy serge uniform was grimy, his boots sheened with dust. He held a tall hat under one arm and a newspaper-wrapped parcel under the other. He looked uncertainly from one person to the other, as if unsure whom to address.

  Aunt Sabrina relieved him of his uncertainty. "Good day, sir," she said. "I believe you have news, Constable-"

  "Clay, mum," the man said, stepping forward. "From Chelmsford." Kate recognized the name of a town that the train had passed through, about thirty miles from London. "I'm some sorry t'intrude, mum, but I've brought somethin' t'was left f'r yer. I was on me way t' Dedham, y'see, an' thought it best t' bring it t'yer, rather than send it by post, seein' what it was."

  "Something left for me?" Aunt Sabrina frowned. "How odd. I know no one in Chelmsford."

  The constable shifted his bulk. "T'be sure, mum," he mumbled. "But happen that th' girl bin an' died yesternight 'n th' workhouse, y'see, an' she left-"

  "The girl?" Aunt Sabrina spoke sharply. "What girl?"

  The constable frowned. He managed to secure his hat under the same arm that held the parcel, and fished in his pocket, pulling out a soiled scrap of paper. "Name o' Jenny, 'twere," he said, reading from it. "Jenny Blyly."

  Suddenly there was a piercing shriek, the cry of a soul in

  torment. All eyes in the room went to Amelia. "Not Jenny!" she cried. "Dear God, not Jenny!"

  Cook stood in the kitchen, staring down at the opened parcel on the table. "An' how'd she die?" she asked, her voice a brittle thread.

  The constable lifted the mug of hot tea Nettie had given him. "In th' workhouse," he said. He looked up. "Th' babe died afore her."

  Amelia's muffled sobbing could be heard from the corner by the fire. Harriet was huddled beside her knee, trying to comfort her. Pocket stood an uneasy distance away, his face working. Mudd sat at the other end of the table, head bowed.

  Cook lifted the ragged dress from the table. That and the green knitted shawl and the worn shoes were all that was in the parcel. "Nothin' else?" she asked the constable. "I'm her aunt. I'm who has t' tell her pore mother how she ended."

  He countered her question with one of his own. "D'you know some un called Tom Potter?''

  Amelia's sobbing grew louder. "I do," Cook said shortly. "Why?"

  "T'was a note fer him in th' pocket o' th' dress," the constable said. He fished in his trousers. "Here 'tis."

  Cook took the crumpled bit of paper from his hand. "I'll see't he gits it," she said.

  The constable had been gone several minutes before Cook roused herself to smooth out the note. She went to the lamp and held it up so that the poorly penciled script was illuminated by the golden light. Finally, she turned and spoke into the silence.

  "Nettie," she said, "fetch me shawl. I've an errand."

  Nettie's mouth made a round O. "But there's the dinner!" she said. "Mrs. Jaggers'll-"

  "Jaggers kin go t' bloody hell," Cook said fiercely. "That's where the Lord sends the murderers of pore babes and young girls!"

  Mudd lifted his head and spoke. "An' if th' Lord don't dispatch 'er quick," he said through clenched teeth, "I will."

  From the doorway, there was a stifled gasp. Cook looked up to see the startled face of the young Miss Ardleigh.

  Aunt Sabrina was not eager to talk about what had happened, but Kate managed to wring a little information out of her that evening, after they finished the cold supper that Nettie and Harriet scraped together in the unexplained absence of Cook. Jenny Blyly, barely nineteen, had been Amelia's predecessor. She had disappeared six months before under circumstances that Aunt Sabrina would not divulge but which seemed to involve Aunt Jaggers. In fact, having heard what she had in the kitchen, it was clear to Kate that the servants blamed Aunt Jaggers for Jenny's disappearance and her death.

  But even though Aunt Sabrina would not discuss the details of Jenny's story, its sad outline was not hard for Kate to reconstruct. The girl must have become pregnant. Aunt Jaggers, discovering the fact, would have heaped recriminations on her head and discharged her on the spot, with no hope of a character. Penniless, despairing, she had found her way to the Chelmsford workhouse, where her newborn baby had died and she shortly after.

  Jenny's tale was the stuff of Beryl Bardwell's novels, and under other circumstances, Kate might have pursued the details with a writer's interested curiosity. But echoing in her mind was Amelia's tortured cry and Cook's impassioned consignment of Aunt Jaggers to hell. And when she saw Mudd the next morning, face impassive, eyes hooded, arranging the creamed eggs and kidney on the breakfast sideboard, Kate remembered his ominous threat with a shiver of cold foreboding. She was too practical for presentiment, but even she could not escape the certainty that something dreadful was going to happen at Bishop's Keep.

  20

  "The reputation or Scotland Yard was unfortunately sullied by corruption during the latter eighteen-hundreds. One day trie superintendent met a stranger who resembled a former Yard official. 'Were you not on our stair?' he inquired. To which the stranger replied, 'No, thank God, I have never sunk that low.' "

  — GEORGE DAIXSBURY, Police in Great Britain

  On the day following his call with Eleanor at Bishop's Keep, Charles was once again taking photographs at the dig. It was interesting, and he enjoyed chatting with Fairfax, who was a curmudgeonly old fogey but for all that, a dedicated archaeologist. After Kathryn Ardleigh's unauthorized incursion, he had instituted an entire set of new regulations that constrained horses, police, and women from straying onto the site of the dig.

  Kathryn Ardleigh. Charles could not think of her without smiling, remembering the sight of her in the doorway of Sir Archibald's field tent, neatly garbed in what the dress reformers called "rational attire," a divided skirt actually suited to freedom of movement. And the next day, appearing in front of callers in a rumpled shirtwaist and inky cuffs. Of course, as a man, Charles did not know much about women's costumes. But he knew what he liked: dress with a practical bent. He admitted to thinking that the bustle (before it went out of

  fashion a few years before) was the most absurd appendage a woman might strap onto her derriere, and the corset almost as ridiculous. He had the suspicion that Kathryn Ardleigh would be loath to wear either, especially if she spent much of her time, as it seemed she did, at secretarial labors. It appeared that she was a woman who resisted the dictates of fashion and made up her own mind about the way she dressed. He wondered if this unconventionality reflected her general outlook on life, and he hoped she had not been too deeply offended by Fairfax's misogynistic tirade.

  In addition to photographing the dig, Charles also called from time to time at the police station in the center of town. There, he began to perceive that Inspector Wainwright, while an intelligent and dedicated policeman, was handicapped by a lack of trained assistants. Battle, Trabb, and two other inexperienced PCs were the whole of the force in his ward, and their efforts
were chiefly dedicated to patrolling the streets, dealing with rowdy soldiers from the nearby army barracks, and directing carriage traffic. As a result, any investigation was necessarily limited to accumulating basic facts from cursory examination or direct interview. Given this situation, Charles thought, any criminal who found himself in the Colchester jail probably got there through his own criminal stupidity or through sheer bad luck. His suspicion was confirmed by the paucity of evidence offered at the coroner's inquest, which returned a verdict of unlawful killing by person or persons unknown.

  So it was that after several unsatisfying discussions with the pessimistic Inspector Wainwright, Charles concluded that, if it were left to the Colchester constabulary, the unfortunate victim's identity would never be known. And without that, the murderer's identity would remain undiscovered. True, PC Trabb had been sent round with the photos of the dead man to the stationmaster, the cabbies, and all the inns, but his circuit was to no avail. No one would admit to recognizing the dead man. And while the Colchester Exchange regaled its readers with the lurid details of the killing and pleaded for information from the public, no informants came forward. Sensing that Wainwright had arrived at a dead end, Charles

  tentatively advanced the suggestion that perhaps this was a case for the Criminal Investigation Department of the Metropolitan Police-Scotland Yard.

  Inspector Wainwright bridled. "The Defective Department?" he snorted. Charles recognized the reference to an infamous Punch cartoon of a few years before that had expressed the commonly held view that the CID was at bottom corrupt, as well as incompetent. "Had the Yard in on a killin' three years ago," Wainwright added gloomily. "Didn't come up with a bloody thing. Waste of time. Won't do it unless I'm ordered to."

  Charles was sympathetic to the inspector's dilemma, but that did not take them any farther toward solving the crime. Concluding that the floundering Wainwright was not going to ask for a helping hand, he determined on his own private course of action. So the next morning, instead of driving as usual directly to the dig, he took copies of his photographs and began to retrace the steps of PC Trabb, going first to the railway station, where he hoped to meet someone who remembered the dead gentleman.

  "Nope, never seen 'im," was the stationmaster's reply to the question Charles asked when he presented the full-face image of the deceased through the painted metal of the grille window. "When'd yer say 'e come?"

  When Charles mentioned the date, the stationmaster cocked his head. "Well, I never seen 'im," was his reply. He leaned his elbows on the wooden counter and adjusted his green eyeshade. "But that's 'cause I wudn't at work that partic'lar day, which I'd've cert'nly said t' the PC if he'd had th' wit t' ask. Goods wagon rolled over me foot an' laid me up proper. 'Twas Jarrett wot was here in me place." He turned and raised his voice over the hiss and clatter of the departing train. "Fetch Jarrett."

  When Jarrett was fetched, he proved to be a tall, thin man with a bulbous nose, bright red, and a bumpy chin. He stared at the photo for a moment. "Yep, I seen 'im," he allowed helpfully. " 'Cept 'is eyes was hopen at th' time."

  The stationmaster gave Jarrett a scornful glance. " 'Course his eyes was open, Jarrett. This here's a pitchur of a corpse."

  "Can you recall anything special about the man?" Charles asked. "How do you come to remember him?"

  Jarrett stretched his lips over teeth as yellow as antique ivory. " 'E cudn't speak th' queen's English. Frenchy fella, 'e was, all slick talk an' smiley unner that waxed mustache. Wanted a 'orse to 'ire."

  Charles frowned. "A cab?"

  Jarrett wagged his head from side to side. "A 'orse to 'ire," he repeated emphatically. "An' a carriage, a-corse. Said 'ee'd drive 'isself. Said as 'ow 'e didn't trust cabbies. 'E's right, too, 'if I am th' one wot says. 'Alf th' cabbies cheat, partic'larly if th' fare's a for'ner. Drive 'em ten miles at ten pence a mile, jus' t' get t' th' pub around th' corner. Bucks is th' worst, a-corse," he added confidentially. "Them wot lost their license an' only drive at night, when they c'n rob th' fares wot 're drunk or asleep." He laid a grubby finger beside his nose, so flagrant it seemed to glow with its own light. "Know fer a fac', I do. Me brother-in-law's a cabbie. Many's th' story 'e tells 'bout bucks an' baddies, chargin' 'xorb'ant fares an' givin' short change. An' racin', an' hac-cidents, an' sick 'orses, and-"

  "Which jobmaster'd yer send th' bloke to?" The station-master intervened, bringing Jarrett's recital to a full stop. "Edge or Prodger?"

  "Prodger," Jarrett replied. He looked at Charles. "On North 'ill. Tell 'im Jarrett sent yer," he added. " 'E'll treat yer right. 'E's me wife's second cousin."

  "I see," Charles said thoughtfully. "Perhaps I should visit Prodger."

  "Indeed, Sir Charles." The female voice, deep and rich, came from behind him. "I think that would be a fine idea."

  Charles turned, removing his hat. "Good afternoon, Miss Ardleigh," he said. "How coincidental that we should meet again." She was not wearing her rational dress today, he noticed, merely a dark suit and sensible boots.

  "Yes," she said. "Miss Marsden has gone to London for a day or two. She invited me to ride to the station with her, and I agreed. Her train has just departed. I came in to-"

  Her glance went quickly to the stationmaster, and back again. "To obtain a new timetable," she said.

  "I see," Charles said, surmising from her look that it was a conversation with the stationmaster she had come for, rather than a timetable. He could not believe that her presence here was merely coincidental. She had shown an unusual interest in the murder, had appeared at the dig-without adequate explanation of her presence-and now at the station. Was she following the same trail he was following? His question was answered in the next breath.

  "I wonder if I might accompany you on your visit to Mr. Jarrett's wife's second cousin," she said in a serious tone. "I must confess to wishing to meet the man."

  Charles took her elbow and drew her outside. "And I must confess," he said in a low voice, "to some curiosity. To my recollection, Miss Ardleigh, we have had four encounters, and in each of them you have evidenced a great fascination for murder. Why is this?"

  She turned to face him, her hazel-green eyes clear, her expression straightforward. ' 'I was afraid you would ask me that question," she said, "and I wish that I could answer you. Will you accept that I cannot, Sir Charles, and be satisfied?''

  He looked at her for a moment. She was not the kind of woman he could easily persuade to tell him what she did not wish him to know. Perhaps it would be good to have her where he could watch her. By so doing, he might be able to deduce for himself her reason for pursuing this case with such an uncommon interest.

  "Very well, then," he said, resigned. He turned toward the street. "You may come along. I have a chaise. It is full of photographic gear, but there is room for a passenger."

  "Thank you," she said. She stopped at the carriage stand to ask Eleanor's coachman to wait until she returned, and then climbed into the chaise beside Sir Charles without waiting for his hand in assistance.

  21

  Yankee Doodle came to town

  Riding on a pony: Stuck a reamer in his cap

  And called it Macaroni.

  Kate had told the truth-part of it, at any rate. She had come to the station with Eleanor. Miss Marsden had stopped in briefly the day before, having apparently decided that her friendship with Kate was not to be sacrificed on the altar of Kate's secretarial labors. She had invited Kate to spend the weekend with her in London. Kate had demurred. She proposed accompanying Eleanor to the train instead, which would take only the morning, and not several days.

  But Kate did not intend to leave the station the instant Eleanor's train departed, for the same thought had occurred to her that had obviously occurred to Sir Charles: that the murdered man could hardly have arrived in Colchester without attracting some notice, and that the railway station would be the logical place to inquire. Even though Aunt Sabrina had requested her to leave off her investigation, Kate had not promised t
hat she would do so. In any event, Beryl Bardwell's curiosity was far stronger than Kate's sense of propriety. So it was that she found herself seated next to Sir Charles, driving up the steep incline of North Hill in pursuit of a dead man.

  Prodger proved to be the largest jobmaster in Colchester. The shop, a drafty wooden building at the rear of a cobbled yard filled with horses and carriages, sheltered a number of vehicles-growlers, Victorias, barouches, phaetons, carts, chaises, broughams. Kate saw that it also housed a substantial stable, a carriage- and harness-repair shop, and, at the rear, a smithy with a smoking forge from which a rhythmic clanging could be heard, punctuated by shouts and a loud hissing. Prodger himself was stout and affable, and his ruddy, full-featured countenance conveyed the satisfied good humor of a man for whom life is going according to plan. He had barely to glance at the photograph Sir Charles held out to recognize it.

  "T be sure," he said, stroking his grizzled chin whiskers. "The gentleman hired a chaise and a gray geldin'. Was quite partic'lar as t' horse and harness. Wanted somethin' smart." His chin whiskers took on a knowing look. "T' impress a lady, I surmised," he added, inclining his head in Kate's direction.

  "Did he say anything about the gelding's lameness when he returned it?" Sir Charles inquired.

  Prodger pushed out his lips and pulled them in again, giving thought to his reply. "Well, now," he came out with finally, "I can't say as the gentleman was the one who returned it. The rig was left here the next mornin', accordin' to prearrangements. As to lame, Jip'll know."

  Jip was the stableboy, a fresh, bright-eyed lad of fifteen, full of the importance of his work. "Ay, Mr. Prodger, sir, th' 'orse was 'alf-lame, 'e was." He wiped his hands on his blue denim apron. "But 'e's right agin now, never worry. T'was only a splinter in 'is left 'ind 'oof, an' easily took care of."