Death at Bishops Keep scs-1

by Robin Paige

  50

  To Sir Charles Sheridan Marsden Manor Dedham Essex stop Most urgent stop Ring inscription reads Armand heloveo 01 Thoth grant him eternal lile stop Believe ring property Armand Monet noted Parisian cryptographer stop railed to arrive London last week stop Send murder details forthwith stop

  — SIGNED SMYTHE-HOWELL BRITISH MUSEUM

  Charles folded the telegram and replaced it in his coat pocket. It had arrived just after breakfast this morning, in reply to the letter he had posted immediately after copying the inscription. Having read it, he asked for a horse and set out for Colchester, his mind greatly unsettled.

  Was Armand Monet the true name of the dead man in the dig? If so, what had brought a noted cryptographer from the continent to Colchester? Was he linked to the Order of the Golden Dawn, as the peacock feather might suggest? If true, what was the nature of that link? How could it be proved? And how would Inspector Wainwright receive this latest revelation?

  But Armand Monet was not the only matter that unsettled Charles. The last two days had been decidedly disturbing, beginning with the luncheon party at Bishop's Keep, where he had enjoyed himself rather more than usual. His pleasure, he reluctantly admitted, was largely due to the presence of Miss Ardleigh, whose russet hair and penetrating hazel-green

  eyes lingered far longer in his memory than he would have preferred. Perhaps it was the photographs that fixed that grave and yet laughing face in his mind. Certainly it was not a beautiful face, not even conventionally attractive, for the times favored a female face that was demure and diffident. But yet it was a remarkable face. It was a face that suggested intellect, awareness, observance.

  He frowned. Observance, indeed. So observant that Miss Ardleigh's sharp eye had caught him in the act of taking surreptitious photographs. Oddly, he had not minded being found out, but had been intrigued. Other women of his acquaintance saw little beyond what they expected, or more precisely, were expected to see. But Miss Ardleigh seemed to cultivate the habit of observant inquiry. He recalled the first day they met, when her attention to his photos and fingerprints had been more than that strictly required by social convention. She seemed genuinely fascinated by things that were not normally of interest to women. He had even thought that, with the proper cultivation, her interests might encourage between them a bond of friendship. But that was now quite out of the question, after what had happened yesterday.

  He had developed the photographs, as he promised, and had ridden with them to Bishop's Keep. He told himself that he merely planned to drop them off, but in the depths of his being he felt a secret anticipation at the opportunity of seeing this unconventional woman again and perhaps even having private conversation with her. He had even considered the possibility ofBut Charles had forgotten what he might have considered, for his visit to Bishop's Keep had proved the undoing of all possibility. Now, he only recalled how he had been greeted at the door with the news of the death of her two aunts. And how shortly after that he had managed somehow to inspire her anger, and she to awaken his irritation. Her insistence on hearing his theory of fungal poisoning-which he had scarcely formulated to himself and was not at all ready to share with another-had seemed unreasonably abrupt, even rude, exactly what he would have expected from a red-haired American woman of Irish parentage. Well-bred women did

  not as a rule demand to know the thoughts of casual acquaintances; to do so suggested an equality of intellect and experience to which they would hardly pretend. They were deferential, respectful; they did not contradict. Yes, indeed; her outburst had greatly irritated him. It had even-yes, it had even insulted him.

  Still, perhaps he should make allowances. Miss Ardleigh certainly had uncommon reason to display emotion on that day; in fact, now that he thought of it, he was surprised that she had not shown more. Most women, in the tragic circumstance of losing two beloved aunts, would have been totally incapacitated with grief. Indeed, the strain on her must have been extraordinary. At the time of their conversation, she was acting as mistress. She was probably well within her rights to know the actions of visitors with regard to her servants and on her property.

  Her property? It suddenly dawned on Charles that he had heard of no other close relatives. Could she be, was she the last Ardleigh? He frowned. If this was indeed so, some might construe the mysteries of the deaths in a distinctly unfavorable way. In fact, Miss Ardleigh was perhaps fortunate that the cook had been so ready a suspect. Without that, Miss Ardleigh might well have found herself in that position. And if it proved that Mrs. Pratt was indeed not the killerCharles did not wish to follow this line of inquiry. His horse had just passed the old half-timbered house that still bore the scars of the Civil War siege 250-odd years before. He crossed over the River Colne on East Bridge, and rode up East Hill Street, which rose at a sharp angle up to the crest where the ruins of the castle stood. Begun during the time of William die Conqueror, the castle had been a royal fortress and royal prison (a certain Sir Thomas Malory was said to have been rescued therefrom in 1454), and then a baronial residence. It now was in private hands, although he understood that there was a move afoot to purchase it for the borough and make it into some sort of museum.

  He paused for a moment and looked at the massive stone walls. When construction of the keep began in 1076, various Roman ruins must still have been visible, especially that of

  the Temple of Claudius, where the defenders of the town the Romans called Camulodunum had made their final stand against Queen Boadicea and her Icenian army in the first century. Boadicea. Ah! there was a woman. Her passion and zest for life, her warlike power, shone through the darkness of those early centuries with all the fervor and flame of a firebrand. There were no women of that sort now, and it was a pity. Or, if there were, they struck one as abrasive, unmannerlyHe abandoned that sentence and returned to the thought he had originally meant to pursue before he had been sidetracked by Boadicea. It was a thought of which Tennyson would have approved, or Arnold, some vague reflection on the inexorable, inescapable round of life and death, and the unfortunate truth that there was little justice to be had in either. A few minutes later he was entering the Colchester police station.

  "Good morning," he said to Sergeant Battle, who was crouching over the desk in the outer office, a pen in his heavy hand, an inkpot at his elbow, and a pile of papers before him.

  The sergeant gave him a dark look. "Mornin'," he returned shortly. Charles remembered that his last visit had begun on just such a sour note. Obviously, Inspector Wainwright's pessimism was infectious. Sergeant Battle had caught it.

  With a determined cheerfulness, Charles related his reason for coming and asked the sergeant to inform the inspector. While he waited, he sat in a chair by the window and surveyed the room, which held little of interest other than a blurred photograph of the castle, a fanciful etching of Balk-erne Gate in the time of the Romans, and a framed citation from the Borough Council for exemplary and heroic police effort. His gaze finally came to rest on a somewhat shabby valise sitting on the floor beside the sergeant's desk. It was a well-traveled leather bag, of the sort that might be owned by a man of the middle class. It appeared to have a monogram engraved on the clasp. Having nothing else to look at, Charles went to the valise and knelt. The initials on the clasp were A.M.

  The sergeant reentered the room and immediately stumbled

  over Charles. He scowled. " 'F I may inquire, sir, is there somethin' about that valise wot int'rests you?"

  Charles rose. "How did you come by it?"

  "Mrs. Grogan."

  "Mrs. Grogan?"

  The sergeant sat down and resentfully picked up his pen. "She owns a boardin' house on King Street."

  "Why did she bring it here?"

  The sergeant dipped his pen in the inkpot. "Owner left it."

  "Have you examined the contents?"

  "I've more important things t' do than fiddle th' lock on somebody's valise." The sergeant began to write with great industry. "Inspector says fer you t' sh
ow yerself in."

  Charles stood looking down at the sergeant, wondering how he would react if the inkpot at his elbow were to leap suddenly to the floor. He pushed that unworthy thought out of his mind. "Right, then. I'll just speak with the inspector."

  "Good, sir," the sergeant said, signing his name with a flourish and beginning on another paper. "You just do that."

  The inspector was not writing; he was reading. Apparently, the stack of reports that began on Sergeant Battle's desk ended on Wainwright's table. It was a moment before he put down the paper and looked up.

  "Battle says you know something about the ring."

  "I do." Charles took out the telegram, unfolded it, and handed it to the inspector, who scanned the yellow sheet with his lower lip stuck out. After a moment he laid it down.

  "Cryptographer?" He scowled. "What the bloody hell was a cryptographer doing in Colchester? Some kind of spy, was he?"

  "I doubt that," Charles replied. It was an interesting idea, though; if true, it would add an extra fillip of intrigue to the case. "I have been developing a theory that the man's death was in some way related to a secret society known as the Order of the Golden Dawn. Its insignia is a peacock feather."

  "Is it, now?" The inspector's voice held an edge of sarcasm.

  "Yes," Charles replied evenly. "But there is another lead which may prove more productive at the moment. If I am not

  altogether mistaken, you have just come into possession of the dead man's valise."

  The inspector's eyes narrowed.

  "The proprietor of a boardinghouse on King Street has delivered to you the unclaimed luggage of a boarder. The initials on the clasp are A.M."

  Wainwright's look was that of a man betrayed. "Battle!" he thundered.

  The sergeant materialized in the doorway. "Sir!"

  "Did someone bring in a valise?"

  The sergeant stiffened. "Yessir."

  "Why wasn't I told?"

  "It just got 'ere. I thought 'twas a reg'lar unclaimed bag."

  Wainwright glared. ' 'Don't think. Fetch it here, at the double."

  Sergeant Battle returned forthwith, valise in hand, and set it on the inspector's table. The inspector examined the monogram and tried the clasp. It was locked. He spoke between his teeth. "Don't stand there like a stork, Battle. Bring something to force this.''

  A moment later the sergeant was back with a large screwdriver. The inspector inserted it under the clasp, which obligingly popped open. Neatly arranged within the valise were several shirts and sets of undergarments, two fresh collars, a pair of silver-backed brushes, and a thick leather-bound volume with gilt lettering on the spine.

  The inspector leafed through the book and handed it to Charles. "Codes," he grunted. "Ciphers. Definitely a spy."

  "Actually," Charles said, looking at the title page, "the book is a treatise on cuneiform writing, in French. Monet must have been interested not only in codes and ciphers, but in the pre-Hellenic languages of the Middle East." He paused, his eye caught by a passage in the text. "Fascinating, this. Here is a translation of the tablet of King Nabu-Apalidinna, from Sippar. Seventh century B.C. Neo-Babylonian. I examined it recently in the British Museum, but I didn't have a clue as to what it said."

  The inspector was thumbing through a slim black book he had taken from a pocket inside the valise. He tossed it on the

  desk, vexed. "More codes and gibble-gabber."

  With some regret, Charles put down the cuneiform text and picked up the black book. "This is in French also."

  Sergeant Battle brightened. "A French spy."

  "It appears to be the business diary of a Monsieur Armand Monet, 17 Rue du Pont, Paris." Charles leafed quickly through the pages, scanning the tidy, dated notes. The man wrote a clean hand and kept detailed records of his activities.

  The inspector glared. "Well?"

  "Monsieur Monet was an exceedingly busy man." Charles turned several pages. "He seems to have become involved with the Ahathoor Temple of the Order of the Golden Dawn in the spring of last year. That is the temple in Paris," he added in explanation, and then murmured "ah," as he found a name he recognized. "It appears that Monet was also a friend of Mathers."

  "Mathers? Who the devil is that?" The inspector was obviously not pleased to receive such a lot of new information, so thoroughly out of order and disconnected, and not in the form of a written report.

  "Chief of the Paris temple. Give me a moment, if you please." Charles leafed through the book until the pages became blank, then leafed backward for several pages and began to ready Monet's notes. "It appears that Monet was in Colchester at Mathers's request," he mused, half to himself.

  The inspector looked on with his arms folded. Sergeant Battle stood stiffly at attention.

  After a few minutes Charles closed the book and laid it on the inspector's desk. He spoke crisply. "We have work to do."

  "What work?" the inspector asked.

  "Monsieur Monet's diary tells us a great deal," Charles replied. "Why he came to Colchester, with whom he spoke here, and what he planned to do."

  "Does it tell us who killed him?"

  "Not in so many words," Charles said. "But it does suggest a possible motive. And it tells us the name of the person of whom we must inquire. That person may be able to direct us to the killer." He started for the door.

  The inspector turned to the sergeant. "Well, man?" he bellowed. "Are you going to stand there the whole bloody day? Come along. And fetch your notebook!"

  Charles was halfway out the door when he thought of something. He turned back, bumping into Wainwright. "Excuse me, Inspector. I doubt that the cuneiform treatise has any relevance to the case at hand. I'll just borrow it, if you have no objection."

  The inspector's mouth pursed. "You're not a spy too, are you?''

  51

  "I prithee now with most petitionary vehemence, tell me who it is.

  "O wonderful, wonderful, and most wonderful wonderful! and yet again wonderful, ana after that, out of all whooping!"

  — WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, As You Lite It, III, II

  Kate got out of the pony cart at the corner and, after lingering an appropriate time, walked down the street to Number Seven, carrying Aunt Jaggers's tapestry knitting bag. She marched with spine erect, chin up, and shoulders straight. Outwardly she was a woman of calm and deliberate demeanor, a woman who knew her purpose. But within, all was chaos. Within, Kate found herself

  nearly overwhelmed by the sheer folly of her mad scheme. The ride from Bishop's Keep had given her time to consider what she was about and to think better of it. She had played a few juvenile tricks in her day: lurking, for instance, outside the steward's cabin on the ship, on the lookout for Mrs. Snod-grass's diamonds. But she had never done anything as absurd as this. She had never accused anyone of murder. And to make matters worse, not even a few glances at the photograph she was carrying with her could restore her confidence, for she found herself uncertain about the identity of the gypsy boy. Guilty or not guilty, she was no longer sure.

  But it was too late to change her mind. The die was cast. Arrangements had been made, and if she did not do her part- Well, she had to, that was all. She owed it to Aunt Sabrina, if not to Aunt Jaggers. Two lives wasted, and for what? At the thought, her purpose firmed. She went up the steps and rang the bell.

  There was silence within. Kate rang again, mentally scrabbling for something to say. Should she be delicate or direct? Should she open the conversation with a forthright challenge, or allow the discussion to take its own course, following its natural meander into the topics she wished to pursue?

  But before Kate could devise a plan of action, the bell was answered-not by a servant but by the very person she had come to see.

  Kate made herself smile. "Good morning, Mrs. Fams-worth."

  "Why, good morning, Miss Ardleigh," Mrs. Farnsworth replied. "Please, come in. I am afraid you have caught me answering my own bell, since it is my maid's half day." Her golden brown hair was
bound back loosely and her green gown flowed without a waist from the shoulders, giving her a look of pastoral innocence, yet with a complexly mysterious knowledge behind the eyes, like one of Rossetti's maidens.

  "Thank you," Kate said, masking her relief in formal politeness. She had recalled the vicar saying that Mrs. Farnsworth had only one servant, and had hoped that the woman might be out.

  Mrs. Farnsworth's eyes became shadowed. "I was appallingly grieved-and shocked-to hear of your aunt's death. Your note did not elaborate. Please, come into the parlor and tell me what happened. It was a tragic accident, I assume."

  Without answering, Kate followed her. The room was dim and chilly, palely lighted by the gas lamp on the wall beside the fireplace and warmed by a fire so small as to be almost symbolic. Kate noticed that the coal hod on the hearth was nearly empty, and wondered if Mrs. Farnsworth had simply allowed herself to run out, or was effecting a necessary economy.

  Mrs. Farnsworth put her hands into the embroidered pockets of her dress. "If you like, I can prepare tea. One learns, you know, not to depend upon one's servants for all the necessities of life."

  "Thank you, no tea," Kate said. She sat on the plum velvet settee facing the fire-on the edge, as decorum demanded- while Mrs. Farnsworth took the chair where she had obviously been sitting, wrapped in a paisley shawl. Between them was a small rosewood table that held a glass dish of shells and several small framed photographs of Mrs. Farnsworth in various costumed poses.

  Mrs. Farnsworth pulled the shawl around her shoulders. "Now, please, Miss Ardleigh," she said, "if it is not too trying, perhaps you will tell me how your aunt died."

  "It is very trying," Kate said, "but I will tell you." Lacking a strategy by which to plot a more devious course to the subject, she simply spoke what came first to mind, which was the truth. "She was poisoned."