Enter Pale Death

by Barbara Cleverly

  A Woodwose! He was holding down, but barely holding down, a bloody Woodwose! Joe had seen hundreds of effigies and carvings of the Wild Green Man in wood and stone on bench ends, on architraves, hidden up in the ceiling, keeping sinister watch on the congregation in country churches. No one had any real idea where the image came from but two things were certain: they were ancient and they were malevolent. Joe was disturbed to be faced with a flesh-and-blood relic of this paganism. He resisted the urge to tear off the mask and look into the face of the coughing, winded creature wearing it. Instead he pulled him to his feet, forcing him under his arm in a neck lock, and marched him back to the pathway.

  Joe stopped at the spot where his abandoned notebook told him he’d been standing, right by the considerable chunk of oak that had so nearly dropped him in his tracks. With time now to assess the weight of the object, he knew for a certainty that it could have split his skull. If he’d stood still, he calculated he would now be lying bleeding or dead—and from a wound that could have been caused by a falling branch. It would have been very simple, the work of a few moments, to arrange the scene. Remove the killer log, lose it in the undergrowth and replace it with a freshly torn down branch from the ancient tree overhead, ensuring that it bore signs of his blood. “Poor chap!” they’d say. “Killed by the very tree he was sketching! So sad … Still, it was a very old tree, rotten, quite rotten … Mentioned in the Domesday Book I shouldn’t wonder …” There you had it: a death by misadventure. Another death by misadventure on Truelove land.

  Keeping his voice steady, “The Green Man of the Woods, I presume?” he said. “How do you do? Or are you calling yourself the Green Knight in such seigneurial surroundings? Before I chuck you in the moat, which I am advised to do, tell me—why did you try to kill me?” He released the man’s head but kept a firm grip on his arm.

  “Kill you? Good Lord! Are you barmy? I didn’t! If you hadn’t leapt like a startled hare it would have landed harmlessly at your feet. I always aim to miss!” The voice was accentless and dismissive.

  The man was lying but at least he was talking. Joe needed to hear more.

  “City gent, clearly—how was I to guess you’d move like a grasshopper?” The shaggy head tilted to one side, assessing him and the voice was slick with suspicion as he asked, “Who the hell are you anyway?”

  This was a bit rich, coming from a man in a ludicrous mask, Joe thought, and he fought back a hysterical urge to laugh out loud. He saw the eyes flick, taking in his officer’s trench coat. “The war’s been over a few years now, you know. Didn’t anyone think to inform you, Captain?” The jibe was delivered with a derisory sneer, the use of the lowly rank insulting.

  “And the Middle Ages are even more distant,” Joe said, “so stop arsing about before I haul you up before the beak on a charge of buffoonery as well as attempted murder. Let’s have some ID, shall we, and we’ll start by taking a look at your ugly mug. Off with it, mate!”

  The man pulled himself to his full height and with an overdramatic gesture peeled the mask from his face. He shook the cap of leaves from his head and stood staring impassively at Joe.

  “I’m Virbio, King of the Woods,” he announced in all seriousness. “Have you come to kill me?”

  Joe was lost for words. In spite of his wiry strength, the man, he now saw, was in late middle age. In his fifties perhaps. White hair sprang about his head in tight corkscrews yet his face was not the face of an old man. The brows were still black above dark mocking eyes, the practised, sardonic smile was that of a pantomime villain. He was freshly shaven, his jaw firm and in his ears he wore gold earrings a pirate captain would have sighed for. Hard to place in normal society.

  “I’m Guardian of the Shrine of Diana, which, if I’m not mistaken, you were about to hunt out with murder in mind,” the man elaborated.

  Mad. Stark, staring. Joe was at a loss as to how he should proceed. Medical attention needed perhaps? For a moment, he had a longing for the company of Adelaide Hartest. He sensed instinctively she’d know what to do. She would identify the condition and stick a highfalutin label on it, prescribe a sedative and have him hauled away somewhere appropriate for treatment. One thing was sure—Joe could not allow a homicidal maniac to remain at large in these woods. Surely the family were …?

  The penny dropped and he felt foolish. His own sanity must have been knocked sideways for a moment by a perceived attempt on his life. He felt a trickle of blood dripping from his chin and dashed it away with his hand. Of course the family bloody well knew! Follies, hermitages—this idiot was a modern-day version of those poor old blokes the Georgians had employed to live a life of seclusion and poverty in romantically architected cells at the bottom of their lands. The object of an afternoon’s stroll around the estate. A source of laughter and wonder for their spoilt guests. These days, with neo-Gothic, hey-nonny-nonny, Merrie England myth and legend all the rage, the Trueloves had gone one better and in their ancient woodland had installed their own rural jester.

  This Green Man was tricked out expensively in an outfit straight from the stage of Covent Garden. Joe looked again with disapproval at the green tights, the leather tunic and the knee-high kid boots. He wondered how long the man had been in residence. Were the Trueloves aware that they were harbouring a log-chucking psychopath in their holy grove?

  Joe resolved to raise the matter with … Oh, Lord! Her ladyship was waiting for him, probably tapping her little foot in exasperation. He looked at his watch. If he ran he could just do it. If he could only rid himself of this clown.

  “How do you do? I’m Joe Sandilands. Now, listen, er, Virbio. I’m prepared to overlook your offence on two conditions. One: lead me to your goddess. I have something to give her. Two: get me out of this bloody wood and point me in the right direction for the Hall. I’m late for a lunch appointment with your mistress. That’s: Cecily, Lady Truelove, not Diana the Huntress.”

  He had not taken the name of Cecily in vain. The King of the Woods reacted visibly when he used it. Unctuous servility and cooperative sanity followed. “Of course, sir … Come this way … Happy to oblige Your Honour … I do apologise for the churlish welcome—I had taken you for a policeman.”

  On the whole, Joe had preferred the rude, mad Green Man.

  A FEW YARDS in front of an ornate but sturdily built wooden pavilion in a clearing, she was looking out at him, staring wide eyed over one white marble shoulder. Girlish breasts not entirely successfully concealed beneath a diaphanous shift, short pleated skirt, soft ankle boots, bow in left hand, she’d clearly been distracted by someone lurking in the bushes behind her and to the right. By Joe. He stepped forward feeling absurdly guilty that he’d startled her. She was holding out her right hand, palm uppermost to one of her hounds in the act of offering him some titbit. Superstition and a spirit of playfulness made Joe approach her plinth with head bowed. He went to stand by her side and, knowing that any seduction of the chaste goddess was bound to fail, he decided to turn his attention first on the hound. He caressed the marble head in an entirely natural gesture and murmured into its ear. “Hello, old mate. I wonder if you’re Syrius or Phocion? And has your mistress detailed you to tear my throat out if I take a liberty? I’ll chance it!” He reached up on tiptoe and dropped a kiss on the cold white lips. He felt about in his pocket, found what he was looking for and placed a small gold object on her upraised palm.

  “Amor vincit omnia, Diana,” he whispered. “Love conquers all. I do hope I haven’t got that wrong.”

  HE HEARD THE stable bell ringing out one o’clock as he pounded across the drawbridge. The huge door swung open as he arrived and he prepared, hot and breathless, coat tails flapping, to face the butler.

  To his dismay, her ladyship had bustled into the hall to bother her butler and enquire as to her guest’s whereabouts. Instead of drawing back discreetly and allowing him to recover, Cecily stalked forward, an expression of barely contained amusement on her face.

  “Take the gentleman’s hat
and coat, Styles, and give them a good brushing. Hunnyton warned us you were taking the scenic route through the woods.” She looked wonderingly at the stains of foliage and smears of body paint the King of the Woods had impressed on the pale fabric of his coat where Joe had clamped his head against his side. “He didn’t tell us you were going to take time off for a roll in the hay en route. Styles, have a word with that new dairy-maid will you?” Her eyes came to rest on Joe’s bloodstained cheek. “I see she defended her honour. Styles, we’d better have a wet flannel and a sticking plaster for our guest. And I expect he’d welcome a nice dry sherry after his adventures.”

  Joe grinned. Perhaps lunch was not going to be the painful episode he’d envisaged. “She told me her name was Diana, madam. She’s five feet tall and irresistibly lovely. When she recovers from the surprise of the kiss I planted on her cool virginal mouth, she’ll probably come after me with vengeance in mind. You may well see me turn into a stag before lunch is over.”

  “Indeed? I’ve never witnessed a transmogrification before. One of your party tricks, Commissioner? I shall look forward to it—one can always find a use for a healthy young stag,” she finished with an inscrutable smile.

  The butler led him to a nearby washroom, where Joe removed the traces of the forest floor and accepted a rather over-sized plaster to put across his wound before rejoining her ladyship.

  Styles gave them a strange look as, arm in arm and chuckling, they went into the dining room.

  CHAPTER 13

  The soup, as predicted, was green in colour, though made not from nettles but from peas picked in the garden that morning and introduced to a few herbs, some excellent chicken stock and a pint or two of cream from the home herd. The “dog biscuits” that accompanied the cheese were Bath Olivers from Fortnum’s in Piccadilly. A taste not yet acquired by Hunnyton, evidently. “A light luncheon,” the dowager had announced. “You will want to save yourself for dinner. We have an excellent cook.” He managed a bowl of pea soup, a token slice of game pie with a plentiful salad and nibbled at a biscuit, cursing the superintendent for his skittish humour. Her ladyship took his refusal of dessert as an admirable masculine trait and for that he was grateful.

  They ate companionably together, attended by one footman who withdrew the moment he had finished serving and clearing away. “My son Alexander is about the place somewhere, probably still in his room. He won’t be joining us,” she had explained. “He is one of those creatures who prefers to flee the daylight. The Romans had a word for that I think. London life proved too much for him, I’m afraid, and he’s come home to recuperate and gather his strength before he relaunches himself on society. Energetic and useful chap that I see you are, Sandilands, you will not find much to admire in Alex.”

  Apart from this bitter remark, conversation flowed easily. His hostess was very knowledgeable about the state of the nation, and she could talk about London affairs—political and scandalous—with understanding as well as an ironic asperity which Joe found entertaining. She listened to Joe’s stories of his days in India and on the North West Frontier, some of them flattering to Sir George Jardine, his friend and mentor, some sharp and comic. Cecily seemed to prefer the latter.

  When the footman brought in a tray of coffee things, Cecily dismissed him. “That’ll be all for now, Benjamin.” Joe had noted the familiar use of the Christian name for the attentive young man. Perhaps Cecily was not the old-fashioned stickler for correctness he had assumed. “The Commissioner will preside at the coffee pot.”

  Joe obliged and, uninterrupted and unobserved, they settled to their coffee, free to speak their minds. She said abruptly, “So you got my message then?”

  “Message, madam?” Joe said, smiling. “Would that be the anonymous letter penned by your maid and dictated by you? The letter sent to the Yard with the object of luring me down here to take issue with the man who could perhaps have had a hand in the alleged murder of your daughter-in-law?”

  She sighed. “Well, I don’t expect you to arrest a dead horse, silly man!” In the days when ladies carried fans, she’d have tapped him on the cheek in flirtatious reprimand. “Lavinia’s death was planned. In my view, that’s murder. I’m sure of that. I’m pretty sure also that I know who is responsible but I have no proof. I hear good things of you from my son James. He agreed with me that you would be the best possible man to investigate and uncover the guilty party. However—James was reluctant to be seen exercising any political authority in the matter.”

  Joe hoped he’d adequately concealed his incredulity.

  “Astute, independent, unconnected with the family, a gentleman, and—having the ear of the Commissioner—I thought you’d do well. I decided to lure you down here.”

  “You should have included hard-headed in that list of attributes. I’m afraid I can only offer discouragement. Even if I were persuaded of someone’s guilt, I doubt I could interest the Crown Prosecutor in supporting a legal case which has been satisfactorily closed for several weeks. But why now, madam? Why wait so long to launch an investigation? The whole affair had sunk quietly into the sand.”

  “No, Sandilands. You’re wrong there.” At last, a note of vehemence. “It was James who first became aware of the furtive looks, the chill atmosphere … aware that friends and colleagues were crossing the clubroom or the road to avoid speaking to him. One day, he cornered one of his closest friends and forced the truth from him. You know what Parliament is for rumours! More reputations are shredded in the tearooms at Westminster than in the House. His fellows were remarking on the fortuitous timing of his wife’s death. His own demeanour may have worked against him—James did not love his wife and failed to show much in the way of regret. What a fool! He should have moped and mowed about the place for a bit. Instead, he threw himself into his usual routine of work, appearing relieved and reinvigorated.”

  Joe picked up a word from this. “ ‘Fortuitous,’ madam? In what way fortuitous?”

  She hesitated. “I must keep nothing from you, even the embarrassing aspects, I suppose. You may have heard it spoken of—James has ambitions of the highest order …”

  “Next Prime Minister but one, is what they say,” Joe said bluntly.

  She seemed pleased that he was keeping up. “Lavinia was aware of this. She decided she would enjoy the role of the PM’s wife.” Cecily closed her eyes in silent pain at the thought. “She decided to help prepare his way. She made faux pas after faux pas! She said the wrong things to the right people and right things to the wrong.” And, with emphasis: “She was wrecking his career. No overriding intelligence, you see. It would not have been the first time a great man had been brought down by a silly wife.”

  “A great man?” he questioned lightly.

  “Not yet, obviously. You’re right to remind me of the dangers of maternal pride. James could be great. The stage is setting itself. He has the mind and heart for the part and he’s learned his lines. The country is weary of its inconsequential political leaders. Left? Right? Who cares? The electorate is undecided because it is offered no compelling choice. Yet—rightly—people sense that stirring times are approaching and no man of character steps forward. The ship of state sails into a storm with two weak pairs of hands scrabbling to take the wheel. Churchill has a strong pair of hands and a steady vision but has been sent off duty. He’s been stood down.”

  “But rumbling in the distance? I’m sure I catch the odd rumbling still.”

  “He’s not a man James would choose to be seen supporting. My son wishes to present himself as a fresh political mind, unallied and without the baggage of past failures.”

  Joe decided to accept all this for the moment. He knew of at least two other reasons why Lavinia’s death benefited James Truelove but he wished to avoid alarming the woman by showing too deep a knowledge of her son’s affairs.

  “So, you see, we need a solution to this unpleasantness for the sake of James’s reputation but also because there is a killer—unscrupulous and effective—at
large. It could be someone I speak to every day, regard as a friend … someone in my household or even family. I—we—need to know. The knowing is more important than the arresting.”

  “A large number involved. I have the police notes listing all the people in the house that weekend.”

  “That fateful weekend—as we say now—there were present some influential politicians. Lavinia, I remember, was making an exhibition of herself over dinner … rather worse than usually crass. I was seated at the other end of the table and unable to stop her launching into a shameful ragging of one of the guests—a woman. A woman moreover whom she had herself invited down for the weekend. I was mortified to catch the glances exchanged between a minister and a press baron. James’s friends and supporters. Supporters until that moment when his wife revealed herself unqualified to hold a tea party for teddy bears without inspiring a killing rage among the furry guests. Imagine Lavinia playing hostess on a diplomatic occasion, Commissioner!”

  “Faced with the Japanese Ambassador, flanked by a Prussian envoy and a Russian chargé d’affaires …” Joe made a mischievous speculation.