Murder at Locke Abbey

by Winchester, Catherine

  “She had quite an imagination.”

  “That’s one word for it.”

  “Do you think it possible she… well, was having relations with someone in the house?”

  “Oh no, Ma’am, she wasn’t allowed to talk to the family, only upper maids can do that.”

  “Then what do you think she was doing in the family rooms?”

  “Some of us wondered if she was living out a dream as best she could, pretending to be rich by sitting in the parlour or something.”

  “You sound dubious.”

  “Well, it’s a big risk, isn’t it? If she was discovered, she’d have been out on her ear.”

  “Sometimes I wish I understood human behaviour,” Thea lamented as she returned to her search, looking through the drawers until she discovered a journal. She flicked through the pages and aided by Mrs Garwood’s excellent penmanship, was able to read it exceptionally quickly.

  “Ah, Lady Thea.”

  She jumped, wondering what the fluttering in her stomach was. Perhaps she was coming down with something.

  “Cole, you surprised me.”

  “I apologise for interrupting you, I saw the open door and wondered who was in here.”

  “No matter, I was just reading Mrs Garwood’s journal, but it doesn’t contain anything incriminating so far.”

  “No, the magistrate also found and read it; he agreed.”

  “Did the magistrate remove her jewellery too?” Thea asked.

  Cole cocked his head to the side. “No, why do you ask?”

  “Ella tells me that she had a string of pearls which are missing. Was she buried in them?”

  “No. Perhaps her husband took them for safe keeping.”

  “Perhaps, but he is rich enough that he need not worry about such things.”

  “Ma’am?”

  Thea looked to Ella.

  “Do you need me any more?”

  “No, thank you for your help, Ella.”

  The maid hastily curtseyed to Thea and Cole, then all but ran from the room.

  “Oh, Ella?”

  The girl froze, as if she were in trouble, and turned back. “Ma’am?”

  “Are the servants’ quarters in the attic?”

  “Some are.”

  “I wish to tour them after breakfast, please make sure that everyone is informed, I would hate to stumble across something private.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” She curtseyed again, then fled.

  “The servants’ quarters?” Cole questioned.

  “Yes. I’m wondering at the possibility of a rope being secured up there, which the killer could have used to escape.”

  “That seems unlikely.”

  “I agree but since I’m not yet prepared to admit that a ghost did this, I must make sure.”

  He favoured her with a warm smile, which gave her some very impure thoughts.

  “If you would just bear with me for a moment,” she returned her attention to the journal, needing to do something to distract herself from her overactive imagination.

  She turned the pages at a steady pace, quickly finishing the journal. Reading about Mrs Garwood’s unhappiness had helped to temper some of her more unacceptable urges towards Cole.

  “There,” she closed it with a flourish and smiled at him.

  “You did not just read a dozen pages of writing in that time,” he said with disbelief.

  Thea simply gave him a rather smug smile. “Didn’t I?”

  “No, it’s not possible… Is it?”

  “That is for me to know and for you to find out, Sir.” It was unusual for her to be so playful, especially with a virtual stranger, but his answering grin assuaged her doubts about propriety.

  Unfortunately his smile soon faded.

  “It almost seems a shame to tell you this now, but Mrs Lanning has agreed to allow an autopsy providing we confine ourselves to his head.”

  “She has? Oh, that is wonderful news! When can we do it? Oh but the funeral is today, is it not? How shall we manage it?”

  “I heard from the doctor this morning, he will perform the… well, he will remove the skull before the funeral and the body is being readied for transport now. That should give him just enough time, he assures me, and Mrs Lanning will not have to see him afterwards. Mr Small will accompany the body, so he is not left unattended.”

  Her spirits deflated slightly at the realisation that she would not be performing the dissection, she did so long to perform one but while medical schools had allowed her and her parents to observe, they would not allow either woman to operate, and her father wasn’t interested enough to want to.

  Still, she would have her theory proved or not. Even if an apoplectic seizure was disproved, it was better than basing her theories on a lie.

  “Can I observe the procedure?”

  “I see no reason why not. I called on your father first thing, to let him know the developments, and he is happy for me to escort you. He wishes to remain here and talk to the guests.”

  “Yes, he is far better suited to dealing with people than I am. When do we leave?”

  “After breakfast, if you are inclined to eat, that is.”

  “As I said, I am not squeamish, Cole. If this is your first time however, you might wish to wait until afterwards,” she teased.

  “That sounds very much like a challenge.”

  “Well that rather depends on your constitution, doesn’t it.”

  She took a watch out of her pocket and opened the case. “Perhaps we should visit the servants’ quarters now, then we can get straight off after breakfast, what do you think? Do they need time to tidy their rooms?”

  “I doubt it, Black runs a tight ship, but I’ll go and inform him if you wish.”

  “Please, I’ll run to my room and quickly change into a riding habit, then meet you back here in fifteen minutes.”

  “Not one to dawdle, are you?”

  “Never,” she agreed a little smugly.

  “Still, perhaps we should say half an hour, to give the servants time if they need to return.”

  “But that will mean I have time to have my hair done.”

  Her petulance over something most women seemed to enjoy appeared to amuse him.

  “And as awful as that is, nonetheless, I believe it only fair.”

  “Very well, thirty minutes.”

  ***

  Cole was sure to be back in the hallway in plenty of time but it was Thea who was tardy, and still trying to pin her rather fetching hat to her hair.

  Her habit today was a deep, emerald green, which suited her very well and he idly wondered if there was a colour that would not suit her. The tailored jacket squared her shoulders, pinched in at her waist and flared over her hips, creating a lovely silhouette. The lack of petticoats was also appealing. Sometimes he felt as if he was conversing with women through a lace cage and on more than one occasion, he had wondered if the excessive use of petticoats was designed to make ladies keep their distance from people.

  “Ouch!” she cried, stabbing herself with the pin, rather than safely passing it through her bun and out the other side of the hat.

  “Here,” he rushed up to her and took the pin. “Let me.”

  One hat pin, with ornate black beading on the head, was already in place, although the hat was wobbling dangerously. He passed the pin through, taking care to miss her scalp, and out the other side, then she handed him a piece of cork and taking his cue from the first pin, he pressed it onto the end. Next she handed him a third pin, and a forth.

  “I take it that you like to go fast,” he said.

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Because I have never seen a hat attached with more than two pins, nor pins fastened with cork. I can only assume that your hat must endure more than most lady’s do.”

  She turned to him, a pleased smile on her lips. “We will make a detective of you yet.”

  Her praise pleased him and he had the insane thought to kiss her. Not that kissing
her was a bad or wrong thought, but doing so in a hallway was certainly not a good idea, her reputation could be easily compromised.

  He noticed her smile fade as she became aware of his proximity and her breath hitched.

  “We- we should, that is, we have work to do.”

  “Of course.” He stepped away and gestured for her to follow him. “Shall we?”

  He led her to the servants’ stairs at the end of the hallway, hidden by what appeared to be a large closet door, then they climbed the bare, wooden, narrow and steep steps into the attic corridor.

  She looked confused for a moment. “I should have taken note of the distance to Mrs Garwood’s door,” she lamented.

  He hoped that he was the reason she hadn’t done it. She did not seem to possess much in the way of artifice, as many young women did, but she did seem… well he wasn’t sure. Cold wasn’t the right word, he could see her passion for various things quite often. No, she seemed almost… well afraid, and she hid that fear, and whatever caused it, behind logic and intellect.

  He didn’t know what she was afraid of, exactly, perhaps she had been disappointed in matters of the heart before. Her father hadn’t said as much but perhaps it had been implied.

  He was also aware that he should not toy with her affections. Most young women might brush an innocent dalliance off if it came to nothing but if Thea’s passion ran as deep as he suspected, he must not become one of her passions until he was sure of his affections.

  Something told him that he would not have to wait very long; in a day or two, he would either be madly in love, or ready to throttle her. He hoped it would be the former and not the latter.

  “Shall we go back down?” he asked.

  “No, it might just be trial and error for a moment.”

  She walked down the corridor and entered the fifth door. Ignoring the room entirely, not even sparing it a cursory glance for curiosity’s sake, she headed to the window.

  “It doesn’t open,” she lamented. “No wonder it’s so hot in here. Are they all like this?” She turned to him.

  “I confess, I do not know.”

  “Well, if none of the windows on this side open, then we will have our answer, but it must get rather hot and stuffy up here.”

  She moved onto the next room and window. It too didn’t open, so she went to the next, and the next until finally she found one which was slightly larger, probably a feature of the architecture, and was a casement window, so she was able to undo the latch and push it open.

  “Another two windows down,” she said as she came back in.

  “How the devil do you work that out?” he asked.

  “I left my handkerchief trapped in the window this morning, and I can see it from here.”

  He approached the window but she didn’t move. He slowed down but still she didn’t move out of his way. In fact she was looking at him with a quite beguiling expression.

  “Might I look?”

  “Look? Oh, out of the window, of course, yes, of course you may.” She stepped away and he realised that she really did not read people well. Clearly she had not realised his intent to look out and had she noticed the fire in his eyes, she would surely have run a mile.

  He looked out and with the cool summer breeze on his face, realised that she was correct, these rooms were too hot. Looking down, he noticed the white handkerchief, standing out against the stone sill. She was absolutely right, the window was two over.

  “The dressing room is surely below us here then,” he realised. “Could the murderer not have climbed down a rope from that window?”

  “I don’t believe he had time to move the dressing table, open the window, crawl out, pull the table back in place and close the window again. Plus, if he had attempted it in haste, the dressing table and mirror are so heavy that it would have scuffed the floor.”

  She looked around the room. “Besides, this seems to be the butler’s room, and I cannot imagine Black being involved, although my judgements on character should always be taken with a large pinch of salt. Also, nothing in here appears to be fixed.”

  She moved to the bed and pushed on the frame, which moved a few inches. She dragged it back and went to the wardrobe, putting her weight against one side, moving it marginally.

  “Is there a point to this or have you developed a habit for decorating?” he asked.

  “No,” she smiled. “I’m testing to see if the furnishings could hold the weight of someone on a rope. Moment equals force by distance. With the weight of my body as force and the distance of the rope from the wall as distance, whoever climbed down that rope, if indeed there was one, would surely exert more force on these objects than I am doing.”

  The sole table in there moved easily, she didn’t even bother with the chair, although she did pick it up and carry it over to him. Turning the chair on its side, she tried to brace it against the wall to either side of the window.

  “Too small. Besides, if he used a chair to secure the rope, even assuming it was wide enough, is no guarantee that it would have risen uniformly enough to act as a brace when weight was put on the rope. Were the back to rise more quickly, the whole chair could have gone out of the window. Plus there would be signs of damage to the chair.”

  “It’s possible he brought another chair up, or perhaps just planks of wood.”

  “The same problem would arise and one end of the plank could easily go out of the window. Besides, there are how many servants on this estate?”

  “Almost one hundred, I believe.”

  “It would be hard to remain unseen while carrying planks of wood that were at least three feet tall.”

  “What about the bed, that could have been moved under the window, and is at no risk of being pulled out.”

  “True, but just moving it an inch or two has scratched the floor, they couldn’t have moved it far without leaving marks.”

  “Then perhaps Mary Potter was aiding the murderer. Perhaps she brought the wood up here and if so, she could have left her room that night to meet the murderer.”

  “That is a lot of supposition with little fact to back it up.”

  “True. But it is possible.”

  “Yes. However to be successful, the murderer would have needed to secure the planks of wood to the wall, to prevent them being pulled through the window, and the walls show no sign of being tampered with.”

  It did all seem like an awful lot of risk and happenstance however.

  “There is another fact we have not considered.”

  “Oh?” she turned to him eager to hear his theory.

  “Why make it appear that the murderer disappeared? Why would anyone want to make this look like the work of an apparition? There are a thousand ways to murder someone, many that would appear to be an accident.”

  “Yes, so why blame a ghost, when that more than most, is sure to be disbelieved? Hmm. Very good observation, Cole. Still, however improbable, we must check the next two rooms, just to be sure the rope couldn’t have been lowered from there.”

  In the hallway, Thea tried the door in the middle of the corridor.

  “It’s locked, why is it locked?” She turned to him and he brandished a key.

  “The female servants’ rooms are on the other side. Only the housekeeper has a key, to prevent impropriety.”

  She stood back and he unlocked it.

  She tried the next three windows but they were all fixed.

  “Well, I think we can rule out a rope as an escape method.”

  “So, now on to corpses and cadavers?” he asked.

  “Unless you know which room was Mary Potter’s?”

  “The next door on the right.”

  When she looked quizzically at him he explained.

  “The magistrate wanted to see her personal effects and I accompanied him.”

  “Of course.” She seemed relieved.

  Mary’s room had two beds, although one was not made up.

  “Her things were placed in the trunk,” C
ole explained. “Ready to be sent to her family once her killer was found.

  Thea opened it and began to look through the contents. There was a simple bonnet, dresses, two for work and one Sunday best; she checked the pockets before setting it aside but found only a folded advertisement, for passage to America by boat. She set the clipping aside and continued her search. There were hair pins, a brush, comb, ribbons and a small mirror.

  At the bottom of the case, she found papers. Letters from her family, a sketch of a woman, newspaper clippings and two books, Helen by Maria Edgeworth, the story of an orphan, and A Simple Story by Elizabeth Inchbal, a romantic book.

  She opened the books to check they were not hollowed out, and the pages fell open at another clipping.

  Thea picked the first cutting up and compared them. Neither had been cut with scissors, but great care had been taken when they were torn from the newspaper, by folding and moistening the fold before separating the paper. Such a crude method ensured that lines of the surrounding articles were also visible.

  “Interesting,” she stated. “Both are advertisements for travel to America.”

  She handed them to Cole.

  “I wonder how long she’s had them. We don’t throw newspapers out, they can be useful for lighting fires if nothing else. Perhaps we can check and see which editions these were torn from.”

  “No need,” she smiled. “The clippings come from the August eighth and ninth editions, less than two weeks ago.”

  “How do you know?”

  “The articles above the advertisements speak of Mr Brome, who was found guilty of murder on the sixth of August, although the newspaper was next printed on the eighth. Beside that is a story about Lanark library and both appeared in The Register on the eighth. The second clipping contains a wedding announcement, and news of Mr Worth’s death, who was trampled by a horse. Those articles appeared together on the ninth, in a publication called the Gazette.”

  “We get both newspapers,” he confirmed.

  “And staff are allowed to read them?”

  “Not explicitly, as far as I know but my mother encouraged education and it wouldn’t surprise me if once the family is finished, she encouraged anyone with an interest to read them.”