by Tessa Arlen
Mr. Golightly saw Mrs. Jackson and raised his right hand to his temple in salute.
“Good morning, Mrs. Jackson. No, can’t say as I remember serving Corporal West his usual half pint. And how are things for you up at the hospital these days?” His bright eyes appeared curious. Aha, she thought, Fred Golightly knows about Captain Bray. So it’ll be all round the county by this evening.
“Fine, thank you, Mr. Golightly. Well, I must be on my way.” She smiled and wished them both good day and left them to argue together alone in hushed tones about the inevitability of violent doings at the hospital.
She pedaled on out of the village and up Haversham Hill toward the Hall. On the downhill she felt as if she were flying as she swooped smoothly past the tall iron gates that now stood permanently open with the Ministry of War sign proclaiming “Haversham Hall Hospital” in black letters on a white board.
But she did not steer up the left fork of the drive to the back of the Hall and the scullery door but continued along the lane that led to Iyntwood. When the kitchen-garden wall loomed up on her left and the apple trees of the orchard were on her right, she hopped off the bicycle and wheeled it along the flint path that ran through the orchard to the boathouse. She wouldn’t risk Agnes’s lovely fat tires on this uncompromising path of Buckinghamshire flints. She propped the bicycle against the boathouse wall and walked up the steps and opened its nail-studded, neo-Tudor front door.
Many decades ago the boathouse had been a simple building in which to moor punts, rowing boats, and a little sailing skiff below it on the edge of the lake. When Lady Montfort had come to Iyntwood she had had the old structure torn down and this pretty little rustic cottage built in its stead. The ground floor consisted of a large and airy sitting and dining room to give shelter for picnickers and boaters should it come on to rain and had gone from there to become a comfortably romantic spot to linger on a summer’s afternoon. It had been a favorite of the Talbot children—Lady Althea and Lady Verity had done their lessons there in the summer with their governess when they were little girls.
There was no electricity in the boathouse, but the windows overlooking the lake were big enough to admit plenty of daylight into its dainty interior. Mrs. Jackson did not pause to admire the view of swans, ducks, and geese in their allotted territories gliding on the mirror of the lake’s surface, swept at its edges by the silver-green of weeping willows. Instead she went to the comfortable sofa in the middle of the room.
“Pork pie, a piece of cake, and an apple,” she said aloud as she looked down at the sofa. Crumbs, of course there would be crumbs; she smiled as she gathered them up in her hand. Even carried halfway to her nose she could detect the rich scent of dried fruit—cake! She peered into the wastepaper basket in the corner, nothing at all. Opening the French doors, she walked out onto the veranda. The curve of the bank disappeared on either side of her under the boathouse. The right bank ran almost parallel with the edge of the veranda, and there, lying on its side, on the smooth green turf, she saw a brown apple core, the circle of skin around its stem already wrinkling. She closed the French doors—someone had forgotten to bolt them—and returned to the front door of the cottage.
Standing in the open doorway, she looked out into the orchard. It was a bucolic prospect: late roses swayed overhead on the porch arbor; the orchard was cool and shady with its gnarled apple trees and soft tussocky green grass. She could just about see the east drive and the kitchen-garden wall through the trees. Lips pursed, foot tapping, she stood in thought for a moment or two. And then she looked down and there on the bottom step of the porch was the dottle from a pipe. The ash, disturbed by the hem of her skirt, eddied around a little plug of unburned tobacco.
Mrs. Jackson wheeled the bicycle through the orchard to the drive and pedaled back to the hospital. She went into the kitchen where the cook was lifting a large, heavy pot from the stove.
“Shepherd’s pie today for dinner, Mrs. Jackson. I know it is one of your favorites.”
She made appreciative noises and watched the cook strain the potatoes and put them into a bowl for mashing. “Has the luncheon basket been returned from the kitchen garden by any chance, Cook? The one that Ellis took out to Captain Bray yesterday?”
The cook straightened up, her mind clearly on her minced mutton with onions and carrots; she tossed a large knob of butter into the steaming potatoes and picked up her corrugated masher. “Can’t honestly remember, Mrs. Jackson. It would be in the scullery cupboard if it was brought back—top shelf by the window.”
“And is there any fruitcake left, from the one you made the day before yesterday?”
The cook shook her head. “Last of it went into Captain Bray’s lunch basket, poor man. It was a nice big portion, so was the piece of pork pie Ellis cut for him, and a couple of apples. At least he had a decent meal inside him when he went.”
Mrs. Jackson retraced her steps and put her head around the door into the scullery pantry. There sitting on the top shelf was the luncheon basket. She stood on tiptoe and hooked it down. It was quite empty.
Chapter Eleven
Mrs. Jackson barely had time to take off her hat and wash her hands and face in the handbasin when there came a very insistent knock on her bedroom door. Patting wisps of hair into place, she crossed the room and opened it. Standing on the threshold, deeply flushed no doubt with the exertion of taking the stairs two at a time, was Corporal Budge. Her face must have registered the disapproval she felt that a young man should dare to pound on her bedroom door in such a forceful fashion, because the color of Corporal Budge’s complexion deepened and he took a step backward. He said something in a tangle of thick, round vowels intelligible only to those from the Mendip Hills that sounded to her very much like “mongrel-wurzel.” She shook her head.
He took a breath to steady his voice. “That there policeman has arrested Lieutenant Phipps for the murder of Captain Bray,” he said, taking care not to put Rs into words that need not have them.
She said nothing for a moment and Corporal Budge said, “Oh, so you did know.”
No, she had not known, but she had expected it; only someone completely bereft of intuition or intelligence would have arrested Lieutenant Phipps so soon in the investigation.
“Where are they now?” she asked, and when he hesitated she said more firmly, “Where are Inspector Savor and Lieutenant Phipps now, still in the hospital I hope, Corporal?”
“Downstairs with Major Andrews in his office. All hell broke loose when the inspector arrested the lieutenant. Captain Martin went completely over the top and West had to restrain him from hitting the inspector, which sent him round the twist, striking out and screaming about Fritz, and leaving the trench mortars unmanned.” From where she was standing Mrs. Jackson heard Captain Martin’s distant cries echoing up to them from the hall.
“What about Lieutenant Phipps? I hope he didn’t say anything … that would…”
“Not a word more than he didn’t do it. Major Andrews insists that Lieutenant Phipps is in no condition to go to Market Wingley jail and…”
Mrs. Jackson brushed past him and walked down the corridor to the back stairs. Down she went, as quickly as the steep, dark staircase would allow.
“Where is Ellis?” she said to Mary Fuller as she put her head around the door of the servants’ hall. From the kitchen she heard an excitable giggle.
“Ellis, upstairs to my office at once, please.” On the way up the back stairs she came upon Corporal West coming down them. “If you wouldn’t mind, Corporal, I would like you to come with me. At any moment Lieutenant Phipps will be taken from the hospital by Inspector Savor. Come on, the pair of you, we haven’t a moment to lose.” She went ahead of them up the stairs to the ground floor of the house. On her way across the hall she called out to Corporal Budge as he came down the main staircase.
“Would you please go as fast as you can to Major Andrews’s office and tell Inspector Savor that I have some information for him? Whatever you do, d
o not let him take Lieutenant Phipps from the house.” He was already walking down the corridor to the medical wing. “Thank you, Corporal,” she called after him.
In her office she stood in the windows so that she could see out across the drive. Corporal West and Sarah Ellis filed in through her office door, both looking, she thought, guiltier than anyone could possibly imagine.
“All right, you two,” she said. “No need to look so mortified your secret is out. And by the way, having a picnic together is not a crime, even if it was Captain Bray’s luncheon. But we cannot let Lieutenant Phipps be arrested for something he didn’t do, can we? So let’s be straight here. I know you were together in the boathouse from just after eleven until noon yesterday.” She had hazarded a well-educated guess from minimal clues, but her intuition about young people was rarely wrong. “Right?” And when Ellis rushed to protest, she held up her hand. “No, Ellis, I know you were both in the boathouse eating Captain Bray’s luncheon together, just accept that I know. In fact, you didn’t even walk to the kitchen garden to give him his basket, did you? Instead you borrowed my bicycle and rode it down the drive and along the path to the boathouse for a picnic with Corporal West.” Ellis’s bottom lip jutted in dissent. “What you need to tell me is whether you saw Lieutenant Phipps in the orchard loading apples into his wheelbarrow while you were there?” The girl started to cry but Corporal West shushed her.
“Don’t cry, Sarah, we weren’t doing nothing wrong, and this is important. Yes, Mrs. Jackson, we was in the boathouse and when Sarah went back to the hospital I stayed on for a smoke with my newspaper—not in the house itself,” he added in quick apology—he had probably lit his pipe inside and then remembered to smoke it on the porch. “And yes, I did see Lieutenant Phipps. He came into the orchard while I was on the porch. He loaded apples into his barrow and then he wheeled it off up the drive.”
“Up the drive, not into the kitchen garden by the north door?”
The corporal looked puzzled for a moment. “No, he went up the drive, it’s quicker that way. I followed him up there a moment later, and he came out of the kitchen courtyard and walked on ahead of me along the lane to the hospital.”
“What time was that, Corporal?”
“He came into the orchard about half past twelve and took a load of apples, then went up to the courtyard. He came out as I was passing the archway and we both walked back to the hospital just in time for lunch.”
Then he could not have had time to kill Captain Bray before luncheon. But why did he go into the kitchen garden with his second load after luncheon? This wasn’t making sense and she was running out of time. If Inspector Savor took the lieutenant off to Market Wingley jail it would be very difficult to obtain his release. Policemen, especially ones with little talent for their job, did not like their mistakes to be made public. Mrs. Jackson glanced at her watch and then out of the window. The inspector’s motorcar was still parked in the drive, so it was not too late. She stood in silent thought, ignoring the sad little snuffles coming from Ellis.
Why would a man take the easy route the first time and the more time-consuming and difficult-to-negotiate path through the kitchen garden the second time—was it to murder Captain Bray? She was stumped. Looking up, she saw Major Andrews and Inspector Savor walking down the steps onto the drive from the front door, and following, at a slower pace, was Lieutenant Phipps between two police constables. Major Andrews was talking to the inspector with evident vehemence. At the same time, there was a knock on the door and Corporal Budge put his head around it.
“No keeping them, Mrs. Jackson. That inspector has nobbled our lieutenant for the murder.”
She was so concerned that she uttered aloud the question she had no answer to: “Why did Lieutenant Phipps take one barrow load of apples up the drive from the orchard to the kitchen-garden courtyard before luncheon and the second barrow through the kitchen garden afterwards?”
And Corporal Budge, a countryman through and through, laughed and said, “Because Mr. Thrower drives the geese into the orchard after lunch to pasture there, that’s why. Those geese are aggressive blighters and that gander doesn’t like anyone near his apples or his females. Lieutenant Phipps is scared stiff of him. Most probably he saw the gander on the edge of the orchard as he came onto the drive and turned back to take the safer route through the kitchen garden.”
Mrs. Jackson took one look out her window and started off at an impressive pace. “Come on, Corporal, we might still have time,” she ordered as she dodged around Corporal Budge still standing in the doorway of her office. “Go and get Mr. Thrower, you will find him in the orchid house. Tell him that I need him to come up to the Hall and tell him it is important—even if he says he is busy, tell him he must come immediately.” Budge set off ahead of her with surprising speed.
“Ellis, dry your eyes, and, Corporal West, I need you too. Don’t just stand there, we haven’t much time.” And with Ellis still dabbing away with her hankie they ran across the hall and out through the front door.
“Just a moment please, Inspector Savor!” Waving her arm, she went down the steps and out onto the drive to arrive only a little out of breath and just in time to stop the inspector before he ordered the constable to drive off for Market Wingley.
* * *
“I am so sorry to detain you, Inspector, but you did particularly ask that I report anything out of the ordinary that happened here yesterday,” Mrs. Jackson said to Savor, who had reluctantly returned to the house to stand in front of the fireplace in the officers’ mess with his hands in his pockets. He waited sullenly for her to enlighten him as he stared at Lieutenant Phipps, who was still wedged between his two constables in the middle of the room. Gathered around them were Major Andrews, Corporals West and Budge, VAD Ellis, and Mr. Thrower.
Does the man get drunk every night? Mrs. Jackson wondered as Inspector Savor lit a cigarette with an unsteady hand and gestured impatiently at her with the spent match to explain her reason for impeding his arrest. She pitched her voice low so that it did not jar a severe headache. “Before luncheon Lieutenant Phipps went to the orchard for a load of apples to take to the kitchen-garden courtyard. He was seen by Corporal West shoveling them into his wheelbarrow at just after half past twelve.” She turned to Corporal West. “Am I right, Corporal?” She waited only for an acquiescent duck of his head and then continued. “When the corporal came out of the orchard onto the east drive, he saw Lieutenant Phipps ahead of him pushing his wheelbarrow up the drive in the direction of the kitchen courtyard.” She turned to the corporal and this time waited for his reply.
“Yes, sir, that’s how it was.”
She did not wait for a response from the inspector before she continued. “By the time the corporal had almost reached the entrance to the kitchen courtyard, Lieutenant Phipps came back through the archway and they walked on to the hospital. The lieutenant then went to wash up before going into the officers’ mess for luncheon, is that so, Lieutenant Phipps?” The young man stuttered a yes. “And was just a few minutes late to join the other officers for luncheon.”
Inspector Savor mashed his cigarette out in the ashtray. “And what about later, what about after luncheon? He went to the orchard for more apples, but on his return he went into the kitchen garden by the north gate when it would have been a lot quicker just to have continued up it, the way he did the first time. That’s when he did it—that’s when he murdered Captain Bray. He had it planned out right from the start—he brought along a weapon for the job and then hid it after he killed Captain Bray.” He glared around him, daring anyone to contradict him.
For a moment Mrs. Jackson was almost stunned. The potato spade was not the weapon! Then it had not been, as she had thought, a murder of opportunity but one that had been planned. “Did you find the murder weapon, Inspector Savor?”
He scowled. “No, but we will.” He jerked his head toward Lieutenant Phipps. “This one will sing a different tune when we get him down to Market Wingley. C’m
on, matey, let’s be having you.” He turned toward the door
If the murderer had brought along a weapon then he had obviously taken some time to conceal it, if the police had not yet found it, or taken it away with him. This is even better than I hoped it would be! Mrs. Jackson took a step forward, her voice lifted in conviction. “The captain was already dead, Inspector, when Lieutenant Phipps went into the kitchen garden after luncheon. Captain Bray was lying at the bottom of the potato bed; one glance and the lieutenant saw the wounds on his head. It brought the death of his friend in the trenches back to him.” Inspector Savor gave a derisive snort and rolled his eyes. But Mrs. Jackson continued on. “In his panic he let go of his barrow, spilling apples all over the path, and ran for help to the kitchen courtyard to Corporal Budge and his fellow officers. He arrived through the east gate into the courtyard at half past two, completely out of breath and very distraught.”
“So why did he go into the kitchen garden then? Anyone in their right mind can see that it’s slower going through the garden; much easier to wheel a heavy barrow up the drive like he did before. No, Miss Jackson, it won’t wash.” He waved his constables toward the door and they took hold of the lieutenant.
“But Lieutenant Phipps couldn’t go up the drive, could he, Mr. Thrower?” Mrs. Jackson turned to the elderly gardener who was standing in a far corner of the room with his hat in his hands, summoned there by the fleet-footed Corporal Budge. The old gardener touched his forehead in respect to her and stepped forward.
“No, Mrs. Jackson, he could not. Not with old Bill doing sentry go.”
The inspector stopped halfway across the room. “Old Bill—who the hell is old Bill?” He turned on the older man, his face scowling in suspicion as if someone was trying to pull a fast one on him.
“He is a gander with a powerful temper and Lieutenant Phipps avoids him as he would the devil. You see, sir, Bill is big even for an Embden goose, a most impressive size to go with a ferocious nature. That old boy will hiss and flap his wings at anyone on the edge of his orchard.” The gardener laughed, and extending his arms straight out on either side he craned his neck forward in a droll imitation of the gander on the attack.