Best British Crime 6 - [Anthology]

by Edited by Maxim Jakubowski

“She apologized profusely for having allowed a momentary nervous turn to summon us on a fool’s errand. However much I pressed her, she remained adamant. As for the note from Datchery, she had dreamed it. Stuff and nonsense! I know Clarissa too well. Something quite dreadful must have happened in order to reduce her to such a pitiable state, to cause her to lie to one of her oldest friends.”

  “You are convinced that she did receive the note she described?”

  “Most certainly. The question is - what has happened in between her writing to me and this afternoon to prompt such a crisis of confidence that, even when free of her husband’s malign presence, she would not admit the truth even to me?”

  “I suspect that . . .” Dickens began.

  “Surely the answer is obvious? Pettigrew has intimidated her into denying the truth. For some reason, he is anxious that nobody should know of the tramp, or of Datchery - although I believe that they are one and the same.”

  “There is an alternative hypothesis, Scheherezade. If the tramp does exist, what is his purpose? Could it be that the Major has instructed him to haunt Canute Villa?”

  “To what end?”

  “So that his wife comes to believe that she is indeed mad?”

  Elizabeth passed a slim hand across her face. “Oh, Charles, what are we to do?”

  * * * *

  That question remained unanswered as Elizabeth and Dickens drank coffee after dinner that evening. The venison had been excellent, but their appreciation of a fine meal had been dulled by concern for the woman trapped in such unhappiness behind the bleak facade of Canute Villa. Each time Dickens came up with a fresh notion for confronting Pettigrew, Elizabeth dismissed it, pointing out the difficulties of coming between man and wife. They risked making matters even worse for Clarissa, she warned. But when Dickens demanded to know what she proposed to do to assist her friend, she confessed to being at an utter loss.

  “Only one course remains open,” Dickens said at length. “We must track down the tramp and press him for the truth.”

  “But where might he be?”

  “This is your home ground, Elizabeth. Where do you suggest a man might seek to hide, or make a temporary home?”

  She frowned. “The woodland bordering the Heath is quite dense. And there is the Moor, of course.”

  “The Moor?”

  Elizabeth nodded. “It is the marshy valley below King Street. Tatton Mere peters out into tall reed beds and folk call it the Moor. It has a special place in my affections, since I used to play there for hours on end as a child. Certainly that area is as wild as anywhere in the neighbourhood. I remember when we were young . . . my goodness, Mr Tompkins, what is the matter?”

  The proprietor of the inn, a ruddy-faced man of equable temperament, had burst into the room. The colour had drained from his face and he was gasping for breath.

  “Mr Dickens! Mrs Gaskell! We spoke earlier about your friend Mrs Pettigrew and her husband the Major!”

  “What is it?” Elizabeth asked in a tremulous voice. “Has something - happened to Clarissa?”

  Tompkins stared at her. “Oh, no, Mrs Gaskell. At least. . .”

  “Come on, man!” Dickens was shouting. “Tell us what brings you rushing in here as though you have seen a ghost.”

  “I have - I have seen no ghost,” Tompkins stuttered. “But I have seen the body of a man. It is Major Pettigrew, and his eyes were almost popping out of his head. He has been most foully murdered.”

  * * * *

  Not until the next afternoon did Dickens manage to secure an interview with Sergeant Rowley, the detective charged with investigating the most sensational crime to have been associated with Knutsford since the hanging of Highwayman Higgins, whose exploits had inspired Elizabeth to pen a story for Household Words. To his dismay, Rowley was scarcely an Inspector Field or a Sergeant Whicher. Broad-shouldered, ruddy-faced and short of breath, he made it clear that he was not to be impressed either by the fame of his visitor or a close acquaintance with London’s principal detectives.

  “You will forgive me for keeping you waiting, sir,” Rowley said, without a hint of apology in his demeanour, “but the murder of Major Pettigrew is a most serious business and I have been fully occupied in seeking to ensure that the malefactor is brought swiftly to justice.”

  “I wish you every success,” Dickens said. “I thought it might help if . . .”

  “Bless you, sir,” Rowley said, failing to conceal smug satisfaction, “it is generous of you to offer assistance, but we have already apprehended the culprit. The constabulary of Knutsford may not be as eminent as its counterpart in the metropolis, but I can assure you that our dedication to our work is second to none, the length and breadth of the British Isles.”

  “There is talk in the town that you have arrested someone already.”

  “Indeed, Mr Dickens. A fellow by the name of Bowden. He used to work at Canute Villa, but the Major gave him notice two weeks ago.”

  “You think that Bowden would have waited so long before taking revenge for his dismissal?”

  Rowley shrugged. “There is more to it than that. Young Bowden was hoping to marry the girl who works for the Pettigrews.”

  “Did she throw him over?”

  “Not exactly, as I understand it. But the Major was a ladies’ man, God rest his soul. There is talk that he had taken a shine to young Alice.”

  “But she had worked for Clarissa for years!”

  “Even so, sir. The Major’s a fine figure of a man and it doesn’t take much sweet talk to turn a pretty young woman’s head.”

  “So Bowden killed him to make sure he didn’t lay his hands on Alice?”

  “You’re a man of the world, sir, so you won’t mind my saying that I’d wager he’s already laid his hands on that young lady a time or two. Of course, she won’t admit it, any more than Bowden will confess his guilt. But that’s where the truth lies, sir, you mark my words. The fellow is a hot head, this would not be the first time he has been involved in a brawl.”

  “A crime of passion?”

  “Indeed.”

  “Mr Tompkins tells me that Pettigrew had been strangled.”

  Rowley frowned. “Extraordinary how fast news travels in this town! And how exactly did he know that?”

  “He has a friendly rivalry with the landlord of the Lord Eldon and had called upon the fellow to discuss a business proposition.” While they were talking, a lad started shouting outside. They went to see the cause of the commotion to find him standing over Pettigrew’s body.

  “Have you traced the ligature?”

  “Not yet. We believe that the crime was committed with a thick cord or rope of some kind. It was pulled viciously around the Major’s neck, cutting into the flesh so much that it bled.”

  “Did you find such a cord on Bowden?”

  “No, but he’ll have disposed of it somewhere.”

  “So you are adamant that the man is your murderer?”

  “Oh, he reckons to have an alibi. Claims he was drinking at the Angel, and has half a dozen witnesses to prove it, but the Angel is only five minutes from the Lord Eldon. It’s my belief that he slipped out while no one was looking.”

  “And do you suppose the Major would have agreed to make an appointment with the man whom he had given notice?”

  Rowley drew himself up to his considerable height. “Rest assured, it is only a matter of time before the details emerge. It is my belief that Bowden lured the Major out there on a pretext, perhaps under a false name.”

  Dickens looked at him sharply. “Do you have any evidence of that?”

  “As yet, sir, none. But we’ll find it, you mark my words.”

  * * * *

  “The fellow is an ignoramus,” Dickens said to Elizabeth an hour later.

  “I take it that he has never read one of your books?” she replied demurely.

  Dickens snorted. “He has a single idea in his head and is determined to stick to it. I have been speaking to Tompkins and he tell
s me that young Bowden is well-liked in the town. Sergeant Rowley may find it more troublesome than he would wish to break that alibi.”

  “I have been talking to the staff here during your absence.” Elizabeth nodded. “They describe the young man as a hothead. His temper has got the better of him more than once and he has given one or two other fellows in town a bloody nose. But nobody believes there is real harm in him. So you think that he is innocent?”

  “I can accept that Pettigrew wished to seduce the housemaid, and thought the task easier to accomplish with her young man banished from the house. And I can imagine that Bowden might resort to violence. But would he commit murder by strangulation? I would have thought a blow to the head was more likely. Besides, if Bowden is guilty - what of Datchery?”

  “Perhaps Datchery is a nom de plume?”

  “No doubt. The name is uncommon, though frankly appealing - I may steal it for a character one day. There is much here that makes little sense. Suppose the message which Clarissa told you about was intended for her husband, not for her. Why should the Major fulfil the rendezvous twenty-four hours late? Why, indeed, should he wish to meet the mysterious Datchery at all? These are real puzzles. Was Clarissa able to cast any light upon them when you called on her?”

  “Naturally, she is deeply shocked by her husband’s death and I did not think it right to interrogate her. Do you have a theory that will explain the mysteries?”

  Dickens leaned closer to her and whispered. “Certainly.”

  “Tell me.”

  He chose his words carefully. “Consider this. What if Datchery were the pawn in a wicked plot on the part of the Major to drive your friend insane? But something went awry with the scheme. Before the day is done, I shall endeavour to discover the truth of the matter.”

  “Charles, please. The Major was murdered in a most terrible fashion. Promise me that you will have a care.”

  He beamed, relishing the tremor in her voice and the hint of admiration it conveyed. “Never fear, Scheherezade. If I succeed in identifying the Major’s nemesis, think what a story we will have to tell!”

  * * * *

  It was easier said than done. Dickens scouted around the Heath methodically for an hour or more, but could find no trace of the mysterious stranger whose appearance had so distressed Clarissa. None of the people he spoke to had seen a man answering Datchery’s description and, as the minutes ticked by, Dickens began to lose heart. The theory he had formed - and which he had taken good care not to share with Elizabeth - was outlandish and he could find no evidence to support it. Reluctantly, he found himself wondering if the tramp had any existence outside Clarissa’s imagination.

  As night fell, a chill settled on the town. Even wrapped in a heavy coat, he could not help shivering as he strode towards the Moor. For all its proximity to the bustle of King Street, it struck him as an uncommonly lonely place. Squelching along the soft, muddy track that people had trodden between the tall reeds, he could hear the rustle of wind in the trees and the scuttling of a fox. Otherwise the Moor was graveyard-quiet.

  He regretted his lack of candour when speaking to Elizabeth, but he felt he had no choice. Her sole concern was for her friend’s well-being and it would never do to voice his suspicion that Clarissa might have played a part, however unwitting, in the death of her husband. Besides, even if he was right, the chances of learning the precise truth were slim. Tomorrow, he must return to the capital, and make arrangements to spend a few days with Ellen. If he failed to find Datchery tonight, he would have no choice but to leave the Mystery of Canute Villa - as his good friend Collins might like to term it - to be solved by others.

  It was slow going with the pathways - such as they were - so treacherous underfoot and visibility fading. Much as he enjoyed walking in the darkness, the terrain was unfamiliar and he needed to take care to avoid slipping into a ditch or streamlet. Every now and then a branch would graze his cheek. It would be so easy for one of them to put an eye out. He found himself yearning for the lights of London at night-time and the warm, reassuring consciousness that, even though invisible, teeming humanity was always close at hand. The countryside was so isolated. Who knew how much wickedness lurked here?

  Suddenly, as he trudged towards a small copse, he thought he heard something. A cracking of twigs, succeeded by a cough. Dickens froze, straining his ears. Within a few moments came another sound. A low, painful groan.

  Was this a trap? Did someone intend him to suffer the same fate as the Major? He peered through the gloom and thought he could make out the faintest shape amongst the trees. Perhaps it was wishful thinking; too often his imagination mastered him.

  Another groan, louder this time, and then another, quite prolonged. He did not believe this was a hoax. Nobody, surely, could counterfeit such a noise of pain and despair.

  “Who is there?” he hissed.

  No answer. He advanced to the edge of the copse. The darkness was quite impenetrable and a branch grazed his cheek, making his eyes water.

  “Datchery?”

  This time he heard another sound. Was it a man, dragging himself through the undergrowth? Dickens took a stride forward.

  “Datchery! I am a friend of Clarissa. We must speak.”

  Suddenly, he felt an arm wrap itself around his neck. The shock of the attack knocked the breath out of him for an instant, but there was no strength in the attack. After a brief struggle Dickens thrust his elbow into the midriff of his assailant. Winded, the fellow lost his footing and Dickens seized his chance. Before the man could right himself, Dickens knelt upon his chest, and gripped his captive’s wrists as though his life depended on it.

  “Listen! I do not want to arrest you. I just want to talk.”

  The man said nothing; although strongly built, there was no fight left in him. He was wearing a ragged coat and had a beard and, although in the darkness it was difficult to make out his features, his breath smelled foul. This was the tramp Clarissa had described in her letter to Elizabeth, of that Dickens had no doubt.

  “I am Charles Dickens. Do you know my name?”

  “Dickens?” the tramp gasped. “What - what are you doing here?”

  “I am helping my friend Mrs Gaskell to . . .”

  “Mrs . . . Gaskell?” The tramp’s shock was palpable.

  “Yes.” Dickens leaned over the man’s face. “You know of her? She is a well-known author from these parts and her friend is Mrs Clarissa Pettigrew of Canute Villa.”

  “Not Pettigrew!” the man hissed. “Do not call her that!”

  “Ah!” A thrill of triumph coursed through Dickens. His guesswork - no, his deduction! - must be correct. “You know Clarissa?”

  “I ... I knew her. Long ago.”

  “And you ventured to renew the acquaintance?”

  “No - I wanted to save her from that beast Pettigrew. That is all.”

  “Did she recognize your name, Datchery?”

  “Of course not. She knew me as someone else.”

  A shiver of excitement ran through Dickens’ body.

  “You dared not tell her your real name. What is it?”

  The man groaned. “Mr Dickens, I am dying. Let me leave this world in peace.”

  Dickens frowned in the darkness. It took no more than an instant for him to make up his mind.

  “I believe I may hazard a guess at your true identity.”

  A soft gasp. “You cannot!”

  “You are John Stevenson, are you not? Elizabeth’s brother.”

  A long silence. “How . . . how did you know?”

  Dickens could not resist a smile of triumph. “Murder by strangulation is a crime often associated with the sub-continent. I wondered if the murderer had learned his craft there. He might have been a past associate of Pettigrew’s, but I also remembered that Elizabeth’s lost brother spent time in India. And if John had by some miracle remained alive - that might explain Datchery’s apparent familiarity with the town and his interest in Pettigrew’s wife. As well as ex
plaining why Clarissa, having met him secretly, tried to throw us off his scent.”

  “Dear Clarissa,” the man whispered.

  “As for your sister . . .”

  Stevenson raised a trembling hand. “She must never know.”

  * * * *

  Within a few minutes Dickens had teased out the whole story. John had been a free mariner on the private vessels working the Indian Ocean, but one terrible day in the winter of 1828, shortly after arriving at the port of Bombay, he had been attacked by the bosun, who had conceived a deep dislike for him following an argument over a game of cards and had started drinking heavily the moment they reached dry land. A brawl ensued and, in falling to the ground, the man had cracked open his skull and died. Two of the bosun’s cronies had accused John of starting the fight and, terrified that he might fall victim to summary justice, the young man fled into the back streets of the city. There he quickly discovered that, in order to survive, he had little choice but to become much more ruthless and dangerous than the cheerful, God-fearing young fellow that Elizabeth, twelve years his junior, had so admired. He became a creature of the shadows, coining the name Datchery as a mark of his decision to become a different man.