Red Dragon – White Dragon

by Gary Dolman

  The long silence that followed was shattered by the harsh cawing of a raven silhouetted on the ridge of the cottage.

  “Does he indeed? Then he must suffer from what we call severe, delusional madness. James, your footman, mentioned that this part of Northumberland is steeped in Arthurian legend so his delusions are clearly linked to that.”

  “Ah yes, James my footman – my faithful, angel-faced fart-catcher. But James is correct, Lucie. The court of Uther Pendragon – the real Uther Pendragon – was supposedly just south of here at a place called Mallerstang. King Arthur’s court Camelot, again by local supposition, was no more than a mile away from this very spot at the site of the old Sewingshields Castle.”

  “How fascinating; I should very much like to visit Sewingshields Castle before we leave.”

  For several long, discomforting seconds, Sir Hugh was completely silent. Then he said, “I’ve no doubt of it. I know how you ladies love the romance of King Arthur and his Knights of the Round Table.

  “I’m afraid there is very little to see there these days, Lucie. Sewingshields Castle is gone now, barring a few overgrown earthworks and a stagnant old fishpond. But as you are so fond of the tale, let me tell you of another part of the legend of King Arthur and Sewingshields Castle: the part that tells how King Arthur and his queen, Lady Guinevere, lie in an enchanted sleep, deep in a hidden vault very near to the castle. They are ready to be awoken at such time as Britain is in great crisis and once again has need of them. Needless to say, Britton is convinced that they are already risen.”

  “That’s as may be, Sir Hugh,” interjected Atticus, “but why do you consider Britton – modern-day Uther Pendragon or not – to be dangerous?”

  “Because he’s mad of course; he’s quite as mad as the proverbial hatter.” Lowther laughed very loudly and added, “Quite literally, and I should know since I own a hat makers, myself.”

  He chuckled again and then his laughter died as if throttled.

  “I’ll admit at the present I would struggle to prove it to a court of law – I’m no doctor after all. But that’s why you’re both here isn’t it; to prove his guilt?

  “Consider a murder in which the victim is not only run-through with a sword but is carved open and beheaded. Do those sound like the actions of a sane man? And it happened just yards from the door of a confirmed madman; a madman who believes himself to be a Dark Age king and who keeps a great medieval sword by his bed.”

  “You may well be right,” Atticus conceded, “but proper method is proper method. If we are going to send a man to the gallows, the very least we can do is to build a case against him founded on something more than likelihood, however strong that likelihood may be.

  “I don’t believe there is much more to be gained here today. May we move on to your barn now, Sir Hugh? We need to examine this caravan of Elliott’s.”

  Sir Hugh looked at him and a black shadow passed over his face.

  “Aren’t you going to examine this field properly, Fox; properly earn your fees? A fellow is due his full sixteen annas-worth after all. Aren’t you going to look for footprints or suchlike?”

  “Not today, Sir Hugh. The light is wrong, for one. For another, we are always most effective when we first look at a case from afar. After that, we can begin to delve more precisely into the minutiae. So please; on to the barn.”

  Chapter 8

  The barn in question formed one entire side of the farmyard of the Shields Tower Farm. It was a long, low, single-storey affair, built ruggedly of stone and rubble under a heavy, stone-flagged roof.

  Sir Hugh said, “This is it.” Then he glanced at Lucie. “It’s built of the stones we took from the ruins of Sewingshields Castle, Mrs Fox.” He laughed harshly and beckoned them through the black void of the doorway, into the gloomy shadows within.

  “There it is,” he announced pointing into one corner. “That’s Elliott’s caravan.”

  Atticus felt a bite of frustration.

  “Sir Hugh, it will be impossible to examine it in here; it’s much too dark. Can’t it be drawn outside into the sunlight?”

  Lowther stood still for a moment. Atticus was about to repeat his request when he winced.

  “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I didn’t think,” he croaked into the void.

  Then he turned. “I apologise, Fox,” he repeated. “I should have realised. Please forgive me. I’ve been thoughtless. I’ll arrange for it to be done immediately!”

  He turned and left, muttering to himself as he strode out.

  Lucie made a face and whispered, “He seems a little on-edge, Atticus, don’t you think?”

  Atticus nodded. The light was poor but he might have worn an expression of bemusement.

  “He’s a military man. He needs everything to be planned out to perfection and to work like clockwork.”

  After a few minutes of uneasy silence save for the occasional scuffling of rats in the shadows above their heads, they heard the sound of heavy hooves moving across the cobbles of the yard outside. Sir Hugh’s broad silhouette appeared in the bright rectangle of the doorway, moved away and was replaced almost immediately by that of a short, thick-set man dressed in a waistcoat and bowler hat. He was leading an enormous, jet-black shire horse.

  “Mr and Mrs Fox, this is my land steward, Mr John Lawson. The farm men are all out in the fields so to save time Lawson has brought the horse himself.

  “Lawson, this lady and gentleman are the investigators I’ve engaged to look into the Gypsy’s death. They’d like to examine his caravan outside in the daylight.”

  Lawson pinched the brim of his hat and said, “Good afternoon to ye, Mr and Mrs Fox.” He guided the horse into the corner of the barn; its wide, feathered hooves clattering loudly on the hard-packed stones of the floor and backed it expertly between the caravan’s shafts. A few moments later, the harness was buckled up and they followed the giant horse and the little, green caravan with its white, calico-covered top into the afternoon sun; sun now almost unbearably bright after the thick gloom of the barn.

  Whilst Lawson unhitched the horse, Sir Hugh stepped forward. He patted the worn wooden slats, which formed a seat for the driver in front of the high front arch.

  “This is where Elliott was sitting when he was stabbed.” He glanced at something distasteful on his fingers and then reached over and smeared two brownish streaks across the pure-white of the caravan hood.

  Atticus opened his mouth to protest but the sudden realisation of what the streaks were stopped his mouth. Lucie stepped forward and began to closely inspect both the seat and then the broad, wooden footrest braced across the shafts just below it.

  “There is a reasonable quantity of blood around here and here, Atticus.” Lucie’s finger darted between a number of thick, dark blotches smeared across the slats and another staining the painted boards of the caravan door set into the arch behind.

  “And this deep indentation in the door is likely where a sharp instrument has passed completely through Elliott’s body. It must have been struck with some force.

  “There are more blood smears down here on the footrest. I suppose they might have been caused as he fell forward and then slid to the ground.”

  She straightened.

  “But there was much more blood on the grass where his body was found. Therefore, I would think it almost certain that, just as Sir Hugh described, the beheading and mutilation was done there, as the body lay on the grass but very shortly after he was impaled. That happened as he sat here on this seat.”

  She stared for a few moments longer at the tiny puncture in the timber of the door before turning to the land steward. He was regarding her nervously, gently stroking the horse’s broad muzzle with the backs of his fingers. Lucie wondered briefly if it was more soothing to himself or the big horse beside him.

  “Mr Lawson, Sir Hugh tells me that you were the one who actually found Mr Elliott’s body. Can you remember exactly how the body was lying, and in particular where Mr Elliott’s h
ead was in relation to his torso?”

  His fingers stopped moving and the horse’s ears pricked forward.

  “Aye, Mrs Fox, I surely can; I shall remember it ’til the day I die. The body was just lying there, in the grass, with blood everywhere. It didn’t look like a human being at all, if truth be told, it looked more like a… a big wax doll. I didn’t realise straight away that his head had been chopped off at all, not until I got close up to him and tried to lift it up. It rolled off in my hand.”

  He wretched suddenly and Sir Hugh scowled.

  “So his attacker must have used a very sharp blade to decapitate him and the blow must have been swift and accurate.”

  “I did say it was expert swordsmanship, Mrs Fox,’ Sir Hugh reminded her evenly.

  “Was there any cadaveric rigidity, did you notice?” Lucy continued.

  Lawson looked uncertain. He glanced nervously towards Sir Hugh before he said: “Cadaveric rigidity? I’m sorry, Mrs Fox, but I’m not quite certain what that is.”

  “Oh, I beg your pardon, Mr Lawson, it is a medical term. I meant was there any stiffness of the body? In other words, did you notice if rigor mortis had set in?”

  “Ah, yes.” Lawson nodded his comprehension. “Yes, Mrs Fox, it had. I tried to fold his arms over his chest as is proper but I couldn’t move them.”

  “And when did you find the body?”

  “It would have been the middle of the afternoon. I went up there directly; the colonel asked for a check on the progress of the crop.”

  Lucie turned to Atticus. “So the likelihood is that Mr Elliott was killed earlier that same day although we can’t be precise as to the exact time.”

  “I’ve already told you when it was,” Sir Hugh growled irritably.

  “Rigor mortis sets in usually around two to four hours after death,” Lucie continued, “and lasts for between one and two days. After that, the body becomes flaccid once more and begins to putrefy.”

  Atticus grimaced and leaned forward to scrutinise the deep, blood-ringed indentation in the door. He filled his lungs with the warm, fragrant moorland air and held it there. The image forming in his mind was hellish.

  Satisfied, he stood back and released his breath suddenly and explosively.

  Lucie said, “Mr Lawson, what can you tell us about Samson Elliott, the man?”

  Lawson removed his hat and glanced at Sir Hugh who nodded.

  “Well, Mrs Fox, I would like to say first off that Samson was a good man.”

  Sir Hugh grunted and said: “Rail not upon him that is dead.”

  “Although you must not hesitate to do so in this case, Mr Lawson,” Atticus retorted. “Erasmus, whom Sir Hugh quotes, was not after all conducting a murder investigation.”

  Lawson fingered the rim of his hat nervously.

  “I suppose not, Mr Fox. Samson was a good man though, alive or dead. He was around middle height, well formed, with a swarthy but kindly appearance. He was not what you would call well educated, but I always found him quick to learn with a ready wit, and for that he was a very great favourite with the farm men, and the women, come to that.

  “Before he decided to settle permanently on the estate, he was a true, roving Gypsy and he lived entirely in this caravan here. He called it his vardo. I believe he has two brothers who still live like that. In those days he would come and take employment on a by-the-day basis, helping with the harvest and clipping the sheep and suchlike. He always applied himself well to his work, was never in drink, never thieved and never quarrelled.

  “When the first Lady Lowther, God rest her soul, was having the Tower gardens re-laid, he stayed on to help. He made such a good fist of it that she helped secure him a permanent position as a farm labourer. That was when he left his vardo and settled into a tied-cottage.”

  Atticus asked, “How long had he been in the cottage?”

  Lawson’s work-worn fingers were twisting now at the brim of his hat.

  “Let me think on it, sir. He had been coming here as an itinerant for around five years. After that he would have lived on the farm for perhaps two- or three-and-twenty years. Yes, it must have been about that, because he moved into his cottage not so long before Master Arthur was born.”

  He hesitated.

  “Mrs Fox, Samson Elliott was a good man and I’m truly not just saying that because he’s dead now.”

  He glanced nervously at Sir Hugh.

  “He was good crack, a good worker and I for one will sorely miss him.”

  “Which is why,” Sir Hugh suddenly bellowed, “I have engaged the costly services of Mr and Mrs Fox. You can rest assured that justice will be served.”

  “Well said, Sir Hugh,” Lucie agreed. “But one last question, Mr Lawson, if you please; how old would Mr Elliott have been when he died?”

  Lawson smiled. “That no-one knows for sure, ma’am, not even Samson himself. Around his middle forties I would reckon.”

  Lucie glanced at Atticus, who reached up and lifted the little, iron latch that held the door of the caravan closed. Eerily, it drifted open of its own volition and Atticus peered inside.

  “How quaint!” exclaimed Lucie beside him. “It’s just exactly like a doll’s house.”

  Still smiling, John Lawson drew a short ladder from underneath the caravan chassis and fitted it expertly between the shafts.

  “Take a look inside if it might be of interest to you,” he said.

  Lucie needed no second invitation. She clambered nimbly up the steep steps and sidled through the narrow doorway. Atticus followed behind.

  The gaudily-painted interior of the Gypsy vardo was indeed very much like a doll’s house with, “a special place for everything,” as Lucie remarked.

  It was dominated by a large, wooden-framed cot-bed, which stretched across the full breadth of the farthest end. It was neatly made-up with the bed covers turned back, seemingly still waiting for a man who would now sleep eternally elsewhere. Down one side of the vardo was a line of intricately decorated closets. They began to open each in turn. Nothing seemed out of place there either. The closets were full of the ordinary stuff of life, albeit of a life now snuffed out in a most extraordinary way.

  Lucie pulled at the delicate, wooden doors of the last of these closets and as they parted, they disgorged the pungent stenches of sulphur and mothballs. Turning her head away for a moment, she peered inside. Hanging in the cramped space were three sets of exquisitely embroidered, traditional Romany dress, one evidently for a man and the two others for a lady.

  Lucie was captivated by them.

  “They’re so beautiful,” she effused, lifting out one of the lady’s gowns and smoothing it against her front. “Look, they would fit me perfectly.”

  She replaced the gown and lifted out the man’s suit.

  “Atticus, even the man’s clothing is gorgeous. Look at the gay colours… but I do think you might require a gusset.”

  “I should look like a music hall turn in that,” Atticus retorted. He glanced at Sir Hugh who was glaring at them from the foot of the ladder.

  “I think that we already have a very great deal of information to muse over, Sir Hugh. I propose that my wife and I bicycle back down to Bardon Mill village. We’ve taken a room in the Bowes Hotel there and we can discuss the establishment and the basic facts of the case before we determine the best way to proceed.”

  Sir Hugh shook his head emphatically.

  “Nonsense, nonsense. I won’t hear of it, Fox. You will both stay here at Shields Tower as our honoured guests. Miss Armstrong, my housekeeper, has already prepared a room for you and I’ll arrange for your luggage to be fetched up from the Bowes. You’ll be more comfortable here and much closer to your investigation.”

  Lucie beamed and Atticus had no choice but to accede. He said, “Very well, Sir Hugh, thank you. We accept your offer with pleasure.”

  As they stepped back down from the caravan, Lawson coughed. It was a timid cough, as a schoolboy might cough before his headmaster.
<
br />   “Excuse me, Mr and Mrs Fox. There is one more thing I should mention.”

  “What’s that, Lawson?” Sir Hugh snapped.

  Lawson was blushing deeply and twisting the brim of his hat as if he might be trying to throttle it.

  “Elliott did mention to me that he had been rather fearful of late…” He hesitated for a second, “… On account of his fervent belief that he was being haunted.”

  “Haunted?” Atticus was incredulous.

  “Yes, sir, haunted; that is what he said. The day before he set off for Appleby, he told me that he believed he was being haunted by the ghost of a knight – a knight in armour. He claimed to have seen it a good few times over the past month or so. Each time it just stood and watched him for a time before it disappeared back into the rocks up by the Roman Wall.”

  “Poppycock!” boomed Sir Hugh, although his face betrayed just the merest trace of amusement. “Everyone knows there are no such things as ghosts. Lawson, I’m surprised at you.”

  The land steward coloured yet more deeply. “Begging your pardon, Colonel, but that’s what Elliott told me. I thought I ought to mention it. He was quite glad to be getting away from the farm if truth be told, if only for a while.”

  “Did Elliott describe this supposed apparition to you?” Lucie asked.

  “Apparition, be damned!” Sir Hugh bellowed.

  “Yes he did, ma’am,” Lawson replied. “He said it was enormous and that sometimes it was on a great, black charger and sometimes it was on foot. It only ever appeared late at night or early in the morning, and it always came from the direction of the Sewingshields Crags. He believed it might be the ghost of King Arthur, awoken and abroad once more.”

  Chapter 9

  The large guest chamber to which Sir Hugh Lowther personally escorted Atticus and Lucie Fox quite took their breath away. Despite the fact that it was within the very ancient part of the house, the bare stone of the walls had been plastered over and the room fashionably decorated in the new Liberty style with its flowing, natural lines. The exquisite walnut furniture was inlaid with a vibrant marquetry of vines and twining plants, which was continued in the gaily-coloured stained glass of the window tops.