Tears threatened to spill as she lay on her bed, and she dabbed the moisture away with the corner of a lace handkerchief, willing herself to remain composed. She mustn’t appear distressed in front of the staff – English reserve was, after all, something she should pride herself on. A lady of refinement would never show her emotions to those in her employ. It had so far been far from easy, and she was unsure as to how much longer she could keep up the pretence. The duress she experienced felt more extreme than anything she had so far endured in her lifetime, and there seemed no sign of it ending any time soon.
From the floor below she heard distant voices, growing louder with urgency and more animated with each passing second. The raised voices stirred her curiosity, and she slowly raised her head from the pillow to better listen. Footsteps crunched on gravel beneath her window, accompanied by the unmistakable sound of sobbing.
Fully rousing herself, Philippa stood and moved to the door, just as she heard the footfall of someone running up the stairs. She threw open the door to find Jackson heading towards her along the galleried landing.
‘What’s going on, Mr Jackson?’
Short of breath from running up the stairs, Jackson paused, his chest heaving from exertion. ‘Your Ladyship, there has been… an incident,’ he gasped. ‘There’s a body… in the woods.’
Closing the door as she stepped from her room, Philippa focussed her attention on the butler’s pale anxious face and she felt a sudden chill of dread. ‘Not–’
As though sensing her desperate fear, Jackson shook his head and interrupted. ‘No, Your Ladyship, not young master Henry. It’s young Herbert.’
Philippa pressed a hand to her mouth. ‘Thank goodness. Oh, the poor lad,’ she added, realising how callous her relief must seem. ‘Is he – dead?’
Jackson nodded sadly. ‘I’m afraid it seems so, Your Ladyship. The Chief Inspector politely requests that you return to the drawing room. Your feminine touch is required to console the young lady who found the body.’
Philippa gasped in appalled shock. ‘Oh the poor creature. Who is she?’
‘It’s Miss Harrington’s niece, Juliet.’
Lady Castleford moved ahead of Jackson, who trailed at a distance as she hastily descended the stairs. She threw open the door to the drawing room with more of a flourish than she had intended, surveying the scene that greeted her.
Over by the window, the Brigadier was deep in conversation with Constable Denham and the Sergeant, who had arrived at some point during her absence; Chief Inspector Lennox stood behind the settee on which Gertrude struggled to console a girl with black hair. The girl was making the most awful wailing noise to accompany her sobbing – a sound so wretched it twisted Philippa’s heart, and she flung herself down beside the pair.
‘Oh you poor thing,’ she said in her most compassionate tone, completely forgetting for the moment her own woes. ‘How utterly terrible to find your poor love in such a manner.’ She wrapped an arm around Juliet’s shoulder, and the girl instinctively leaned into her comforting embrace.
‘I want my mother,’ Juliet sobbed in abject desolation.
‘I shall send Wilkins to fetch her,’ said Philippa softly, indicating for Jackson to convey her request to the chauffeur. She then turned to Gertrude, noticing that Lennox was already moving towards the door. ‘I somehow suspect the Chief Inspector might need a few moments with you Miss Harrington. I shall stay here with your niece until my chauffeur returns with her mother.’
Gertrude thanked the Countess for her kindness. She kissed Juliet’s cheek. ‘I must go with the Chief Inspector,’ she whispered. ‘Your mother will be here shortly.’
She stood and followed Lennox from the room.
Philippa smoothed Juliet’s hair, whispering words of comfort in the girl’s ear, relieved that the awful wailing had ceased. Gradually the girl’s wracking sobs also subsided. ‘There, there,’ she murmured, holding out her lace handkerchief, ‘it’ll be all right.’
Juliet shifted on the settee, moving her head away from the comfort of Lady Castleford’s breast. She took the proffered handkerchief, wiping her eyes. ‘It was awful,’ she croaked. ‘He was just lying there, all covered in blood.’
Sensing that more tears were imminent, Philippa said: ‘Don’t talk of it for the moment. I’m sure the nice constable here will have some questions for you, but later.’ She fixed Denham with a frosty glower, as though daring him to ask the distraught girl anything right now.
‘Yes,’ Denham said, his voice quiet, ‘I shall speak to you about your discovery, but later will do.’
Sergeant Callaghan cleared his throat, and Philippa glared at him. ‘The poor girl has just had a terrible shock,’ she snapped icily. ‘Allow her a little time to compose herself before you start interrogating her.’
Philippa returned her attention to Juliet, whose ashen face was gradually regaining its colour. ‘Don’t worry, my dear. I won’t let them ask you anything until you’re ready to speak to them.’
‘Thank you, Lady Castleford,’ whispered Juliet appreciatively. ‘You’re really most kind.’
Squeezing the girl’s shoulder, Philippa managed a smile. ‘Think nothing of it,’ she said quietly, her thoughts drifting towards her husband. ‘I do understand how you’re feeling right now.’
Callaghan nudged Denham. ‘Come on,’ he said sharply, ‘let’s go and join the Chief Inspector. I think the ladies will be better left in the care of the Brigadier.’
Denham frowned, clearly unsure that leaving two women and an elderly man alone was a good idea with a killer on the loose, but Lady Castleford inclined her head, and so he reluctantly followed the Sergeant from the drawing room.
‘Now then,’ Philippa said, extricating herself from Juliet’s clasp, ‘what you need, young lady, is a drink to steady your nerves. Would you perhaps like a cognac? Brigadier, if you’d do the honours?’
*
Gertrude struggled to keep up with the brisk pace set by Lennox as he headed towards the area of the copse that the Brigadier had previously pointed at through the drawing room window.
‘Really, Chief Inspector, I think your haste is rather ill advised,’ she gasped. ‘The body is going nowhere, and the killer might still be lurking in the trees.’
Lennox apologised and slowed his pace, allowing Gertrude to catch up. ‘You are correct as usual.’ He sighed deeply. ‘I guess this puts an end to the theory that Herbert was our man. Small comfort to your niece, I suppose, that he might yet turn out to be innocent.’
Gertrude pursed her lips. ‘Really, Chief Inspector, you really must learn to curb your tactless comments. They might yet be the death of you.’
Lennox chuckled mirthlessly. ‘Good Lord, I sincerely hope not. That would be an inappropriate end to a glorious career. I plan on going out triumphantly, protecting the public from a notorious killer, not having a small-time criminal of little significance kill me out of petty spite for a careless comment.’
Gertrude smiled. ‘You really do have an extraordinarily high opinion of yourself, don’t you Chief Inspector.’
‘Naturally. Making everyone think I’m the best gives those working beneath me something to aspire to.’
‘Anyway, I really don’t think we can rule anyone out just yet.’
Lennox nodded in silent agreement as they had reached the edge of the copse, and their good natured banter ceased as the gravity of the situation fell upon them. Levity was all well and good to keep spirits aloft in a time of unease, but when it came down to it Chief Inspector Lennox was a consummate professional – as Gertrude knew full well.
The ground that squelched beneath their feet threatened to turn into a quagmire as rain splattered down through the autumnal canopy above their heads, forcing the pair to choose their path with care.
Gertrude spotted Herbert’s body first. She touched the Chief Inspector’s shoulder and pointed. ‘Over there,’ she said softly.
Gertrude and Lennox reached the prostrate figure, having
made their way through sodden leaf mould whilst trying not to trip over tree roots and fallen branches. Even though it was daytime, beneath the canopy of still plentiful leaves it was more akin to twilight, and if they hadn’t known roughly where the body lay they might well have missed it.
Assisted by the chivalrous Chief Inspector, Gertrude stepped around a fallen log and almost lost her footing as the ground slid away beneath her. Under other circumstances she might have giggled; in the current situation she merely mumbled her annoyance beneath her breath and thanked him for keeping her upright.
‘You’re most welcome, Gertrude. We wouldn’t want you getting covered in slimy mud, now would we?’
‘Of course not, Chief Inspector,’ Gertrude huffed, slightly out of breath as she straightened her cape. She was quite enamoured by the attention he paid her and was grateful for his gentlemanly demeanour. Adele was most definitely very lucky to have married such a charming man.
Down to business.
Lennox bent down, peering at Herbert closely. He winced as he inspected the congealed blood on the side of Herbert’s head. ‘The poor lad’s skull has been stoved in.’
Gertrude could see instantly why Juliet had been so taken with Herbert. In life, he would have made a strikingly handsome young man. Through the dried blood she could see his finely chiselled features, and hated the thought that Juliet had stumbled upon the body of her fiancé whilst all alone.
Gertrude’s face betrayed her horror as she too examined the wound. She liked to think she was made of stout stuff, having seen enough death over the past few years, but the severity of the wound appalled even her.
‘Look there, Chief Inspector,’ she said, pointing to a rock on the ground nearby, its sharp jagged edges coated in blood. ‘That looks a likely weapon.’
Lennox nodded. He made some gestures with his hands, trying to judge how the death might have occurred. ‘Was he pushed, or did he fall and hit his head on the rock, or was the rock hefted by someone to strike him down?’
Gertrude tilted her head to one side and peered closely at both the position of the body and that of the rock. Could it have been an accident? Had the poor unfortunate lad merely slipped in the mud and hit his head? There were a number of footprints around the body. Gertrude inspected Herbert’s shoes and compared them with the footprints. There was no doubt that the prints were not all made by Herbert: he had not been alone at the time of his death. She decided the Chief Inspector’s question was a valid one.
Had he fallen? Was he pushed? Had someone struck him down?
A much closer inspection of the bloodied rock revealed that it was loose rather than entrenched in the soil as might be expected. There were fingerprints in the dried blood that might conceivably be those of the killer.
Gertrude glanced up at Lennox. ‘I think it’s clear to say that Herbert was murdered.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
As they approached the copse, Sergeant Callaghan and Constable Denham spotted the unmistakable figure of a young man, lurking on the farthest edge of the trees. They instinctively broke into a canter without raising their voices. The figure was looking in the opposite direction, scanning the northern boundary of the estate for something, and so didn’t see the approaching officers until it was almost too late.
With a yelp, he turned and hightailed it into the depths of the trees, trying to put distance between his pursuers and himself.
Giving a low whistle, Callaghan indicated that Denham should head into the copse, while he continued on the outer edge, peering in amongst the trees to keep track of the fugitive. His task was made a little easier by the autumnal foliage, and as he ran along the perimeter of the copse, Callaghan could clearly see both his quarry and Denham, who was surprisingly fleet of foot and catching up fast with the youth.
Struggling for breath, Callaghan slowed slightly but didn’t stop, unwilling to admit his lack of stamina. It seemed quite clear to him that the intruder knew the lay of the land. He could see the young man vaulting over fallen branches, ducking under low hanging branches, neatly side-stepping what were presumably rocks – all without breaking pace. The young man had obviously been living within the trees for a while, no doubt surveying both the house and its grounds.
He’s the killer all right, Callaghan thought, notions of praise and a congratulatory reward for the capture of the Earl of Castleford’s murderer passing swiftly through his mind. Callaghan suddenly no longer wanted Denham to be so close: he wanted the prize for himself. He forced his aching legs to work harder, propelling him faster towards the goal, but as his attention wandered and his gaze cast downwards to the ground, Callaghan lost sight of the intruder.
He paused, squinting into the trees, clutching his side as he fought to catch his breath. He could just make out Denham, moving further inwards as the depth of the trees increased, but he could see nothing of the fleeing young man.
Moving more slowly, Callaghan entered the trees, continuing northwards as Denham continued in a more north-easterly direction. Callaghan wasn’t sure what spurred him on in the direction he had chosen; instinct perhaps. He felt that if the intruder had been watching the house and grounds for some considerable time then he must surely have some sort of hideout; some refuge from the dreadful weather – somewhere near the edge of the trees where he might still be able to see the house.
He was right.
Up ahead he could see that where the trees thinned out someone had constructed a rudimentary shack from fallen branches, fashioning a thatched roof of interwoven bracken. Had the trees still been full of leaves then the shack would almost certainly have remained unnoticed to anyone who hadn’t been foolhardy enough to scramble through the dense undergrowth. It was only due to autumn leaf-fall, assisted by the high winds and heavy rain, that the shack had become visible.
To his right, Callaghan could hear someone thrashing through the undergrowth, breathing heavily from their exertions. He guessed it was the intruder, having taken a more circuitous route through the trees in an attempt to shake off Denham.
Callaghan dove into the shack, pressing himself tight against the farthest dark corner, and waited. He wasn’t sure if the young man would be stupid enough to come and hide inside when two policemen were in close pursuit, but he prayed for further stupidity: only an idiot would remain close-by following two murders.
He held his breath as he heard scuffling outside, and then the shadowy figure of the young man scrambled in through the entrance. Callaghan forced himself not to move, watching as the lad peered fleetingly out into the trees before burying himself beneath a pile of bracken and leaves to the left of the door.
Callaghan slowly inched forwards, hoping that stealth and surprise would not give away his presence, and then as Denham suddenly appeared at the shack’s entrance, he pounced on the youth.
There followed a brief struggle with much yelping and thrashing of limbs, and in the mêlée Callaghan found himself beneath a jumble of bodies. Something struck him on the back of his head, and he lost consciousness.
*
Gertrude and the Chief Inspector heard the unmistakable sound of running feet nearby and glanced up from their inspection of Herbert’s body. The noise of someone thrashing through the undergrowth was very close, but as they stood in unison looking for the source of the noise, the sounds drifted further away.
‘Should we investigate?’ asked Gertrude softly.
Lennox nodded. ‘It might be the killer. It’ll make the case much easier to finish if we can catch the fiend quickly.’
‘Do you think it wise to leave poor Herbert unattended?’
‘I don’t think he’s going anywhere, and if that was the killer, he’s moving away from us.’
‘That sounded like more than one person to me.’
Lennox nodded. ‘I agree, but they were still moving further away. It should be safe to leave Herbert for a moment.’
Despite her misgivings, Gertrude trailed close behind Lennox as he made his way back out fr
om the copse. Wandering along its outer edge they came across Constable Denham frogmarching a stout looking young man. The youngster was grubby and miserable looking, his clothes soiled and ripped.
‘This boy was observing the house from the edge of the woods,’ Denham said as they approached. A nasty looking welt to his cheek dripped blood onto the collar of his white shirt, which, along with his uniform, was also covered in a fresh coating of mud and wet leaves.
From their appearance, Gertrude guessed that the pair had been tussling in the undergrowth.
Denham nodded behind him. ‘Sergeant Callaghan’s unconscious in there. This lad’s been quite resourceful and built himself a bivouac in the woods.’
‘I haven’t done anything wrong,’ muttered the teenage lad sullenly, keeping his eyes fixed to the ground.
‘No, of course you haven’t,’ said Denham, his voice dripping with sarcasm. ‘You’re trespassing on private property, the owner of which has been killed, and now there’s another body as well. I’d say that puts you in a rather precarious situation – wouldn’t you?’
At the mention of the deaths, the youth looked up sharply. ‘Father’s dead?’
Gertrude nodded. She thought she’d recognised him as they approached, and now they were close enough she knew for sure. His words confirmed it: he was The Honourable Henry Clarendon, erstwhile missing son of Lord and Lady Castleford – the new Earl of Castleford.
‘I’m afraid so, Henry,’ said Gertrude gently. She motioned Constable Denham to release the lad. ‘He was killed yesterday on the road leading to Clyst St James.’
‘Do you know who killed him?’
Lennox shook his head. ‘Not yet, but we’re working on it. What are you doing here in the woods, young Master Clarendon? Have you been spying on your parents?’
Henry shook his head sheepishly. ‘I wasn’t spying on them. I just couldn’t face them after running away from that awful school. Father will be furious – would have been furious. Mother will no doubt be disappointed in me.’ He stared imploringly at Gertrude. ‘You know, I’m sure, how disappointed parents can be in their children.’
Death on Swift Wings (Gertrude Harrington Mysteries Book 1) Page 18