He went in search of Styles. He caught the butler about to carry a tray of early morning tea along the corridor. He smiled at Joe. Shiftily? No. Joe would have said rather: shyly. “For Mrs. B. I always take it along to her room myself. We do our best to relieve the staff as much as we can on a Sunday.”
“A moment please, Styles. There’s something you must know and I’d like you to convey it to Mrs. Bolton along with her cup of Assam.”
In the quiet of the telephone room Joe delivered a brief account of Goodfellow’s death.
“A case of suicide, you’re saying, sir? How simply dreadful! Well, well! I’m sure the fellow had much weighing on his conscience but all the same … I’m surprised to hear he took his own life. He never seemed the kind who would oblige the world by leaving it of his own volition. Oh, dear! Today of all days …”
“I have a plan to deal with the inconvenience of it all, Styles. You must relay all this to Mrs. Bolton and you must both …” He swore the butler, and through him the housekeeper, to silence and ensured they would maintain a cordon sanitaire between the house, including family, guests and servants, and the wood, where discreet police activity might be expected.
Styles hurried to assure Joe that he perfectly understood and would act as prescribed until further orders. “Lady Cecily …?” he began to enquire.
“I shall take it upon myself to break the news, Styles. At some time after the arrival of the guests,” he added carefully.
Styles nodded and appeared relieved. He picked up his tray and set off eagerly with his pot of tea and his budget of news to enliven his weekly heart-to-heart with the housekeeper.
AN INVENTORY OF the guests seemed to be Joe’s next most urgent task. Who was where and in whose company was something he had to establish without raising an alarm. He hurried along to the breakfast parlour where he came upon a convivial scene. The usual male breakfast club seemed to be forming up, helping themselves to bacon and devilled kidneys from heated chafing dishes laid out on a sideboard. A pair of footmen, one of them the indefatigable Ben, were standing by in attendance at the tea and coffee urns. Joe caught sight of a dish of fragrant kedgeree and was sorely tempted to join the party but he had things more urgent than smoked haddock on his mind.
Two of the gentlemen, Ripley and Somerton, were well into their breakfast, judging by the state of their plates. A third had just arrived. Alexander, to Joe’s surprise, was languidly questioning the footman on the provenance of the coffee and extending a shuddering hand to reject his suggestion of sausages and bacon.
Joe sidled up to him. “Early riser, Truelove?”
“Not by nature, Sandilands. Exceptionally—on a Sunday. Mama sent up a footman to boot me out of bed. She won’t countenance my missing the Parade of Stallions. Especially not the Midsummer parade. The whole village will be there on the lawn with flags and ribbons and bells and babies. They may even have put up a maypole.” Alex shuddered again.
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world!” Joe said, grinning.
“Good man! I say, Sandilands …” Alex leaned closer. “Not so bleary-eyed I hadn’t noticed … You might like to nip up to your room and change your shirt. Blood-stained cuffs not really acceptable at the breakfast table, you know.”
Joe stared at his cuffs in dismay.
“So that was you out there popping off a gun at some unearthly hour, was it? Bothering God’s creatures?” Alex delivered the reprimand with a smirk and tweaked a sprig of bracken from Joe’s tweed jacket. He dusted off Joe’s shoulders with the concerned reproof of a good valet.
“Styles sent me out to bag a brace of woodcock for breakfast,” Joe said lightly. “They’re probably under some chafing dish already masquerading as délice de bécasse on toast.”
“No woodcock to be had in Suffolk before they come flighting in halfway through October, old man. I wonder what it was you bagged?”
Annoyed and preoccupied, Joe muttered, “Woodpigeon then. Excuse me—before I go up …” He turned and addressed the room: “I say, you fellows … Has anyone clapped eyes on Mungo McIver this bright A.M.?”
The two married men looked about them checking the company as though just noticing that the news baron had not yet come down. Looks were exchanged and then Basil Ripley offered a kindly but mischievous, “Last seen staggering upstairs with a half-drunk bottle of Napoleon after losing badly at snooker. He’s probably still in bed, sharing a pot of tea or something with the delightful Mrs. McIver. ‘Do Not Disturb’ and all that, Sandilands.”
Joe cocked an eyebrow at Ben who nodded confirmation.
“Of course! I understand,” Joe said. “It can wait. Look, I’m just going up to change and then if anyone wants to see me in the next half hour, will you tell them I’ll be down in the stables?”
They all mumbled that they’d oblige, speared another kidney and returned to the racing tips in Saturday’s newspaper.
A MEDDLING SCOTLAND Yard heavyweight was the last man they wanted to see in the stables at this busy time. Joe knew that and was doubly impressed by the quiet civility with which he was greeted. The head groom, Wallace Flowerdew, stepped up to deal with him, drawing him carefully aside as a great horse clumped by. A team of men and boys was moving purposefully about in the gloom in an atmosphere of suppressed excitement that seemed to have communicated itself to the animals.
The Suffolk Punches, Joe could have sworn, knew that this was a special morning. Their wise old faces had taken on an animation, their ponderous movements seemed lighter. Joe noted how a hoof would be obligingly raised to the groom’s hand a second before he asked for it. They were enjoying the attention. Some oily unguent was being applied on cloths to their hides and rubbed in until their bulging sides and quarters glowed like conkers. Others, more advanced in the preparation, were having their manes and tails plaited up with red and blue ribbons. Everywhere, brass shone, leather gleamed and lads whistled cheerfully.
“That’s all right, sir. We can manage. I know why you’re here,” Flowerdew began when they had retreated to a quiet corner of the yard. He gave Joe a succinct account of the events of the April night when Lavinia had ventured into his stables. “It was my sons took her there, sir, to her death,” he concluded. “I feel responsible. Expected to get the sack. I’d have tanned their hides if the master hadn’t stepped in. ‘No, you don’t, Flowerdew!’ he says. ‘It was no fault of the boys. They were just obeying a very thoughtless command under pressure. Send them to me. I intend to give them a half crown each for their trouble.’ And he did.”
Flowerdew’s knowing old eye slid across Joe’s, catching a flash of approval which emboldened him to add: “Aye! He’s a good master, sir. The best. You can always rely on him to put right what’s gone wrong as soon as he hears of it … An”e loves ’is ’osses!” He delivered the ultimate accolade in broad Suffolk. “He bought four new Punches this season and cancelled ’is order for two o’ them new-fangled tractor ploughs.”
Joe thanked him for his account and told him he had one or two quick questions for him. “What was the condition of the stallion Lucifer when he was bought by Sir James?” he began.
“Well, first, he wasn’t called ‘Lucifer.’ He was called ‘Joey’ when he arrived. Good price paid for him. He was perfect. Would have made a good breeding stallion. But then, he started playing up. Refusing the bridle, kicking about and playing silly buggers. Then he started refusing to come out of his stall and he took to biting anyone who came near him. That was when the master gave him, joking like, his new name.”
“Tell me, was Goodfellow involved with his care at any time?”
Flowerdew frowned. “As little as I could manage. I like to use my own lads. Oh, don’t get me wrong—Goodfellow’s a practised hand with horses right enough. Cavalry groom in the South African war. But he wasn’t home-trained. A bit harsh, if you know what I mean. I expect that’s war for you. No time to do things the proper way. In these stables we don’t ‘break’ horses, sir, we ‘gentle’ them. Master unde
rstands and wouldn’t have it any other way. Goodfellow’s better off larking about in the woods if you ask me. But once a horseman, always a horseman, I suppose. He’s always buzzing about getting in our way. Telling us our business.”
Joe took a deep breath. “Flowerdew, if I told you that the horse’s crazy behaviour was caused by a deliberate laceration to the soft tissue on the sides of its mouth, discovered and recorded in his equine post-mortem by Mr. Hartest, the vet, would you be surprised?”
“No, sir. I’ve heard of that. Folk do it to ruin an animal at auction. Never happened around me before though. Wouldn’t have thought to look even if he’d let us get near enough to look inside his mouth.”
“If I suggested that Goodfellow might have inflicted the wounds?”
“No one else would have or could have done it. I had wondered. Will you tell Sir James or shall I? I think he should know. He won’t be best pleased.” The old horseman’s normally placid features became almost animated as satisfaction vied with anxiety.
“That’s all right, Flowerdew. I’ll tell him. I have some other news—not unrelated—to break to him. Leave it to me.”
SO DISCREET WAS the police presence Joe thought that Hunnyton had not received his message. A few yards from the open door of Virbio’s cabin, a uniformed bobby stepped forward, large right hand extended to bar his way. Recognition followed and he asked, “Commissioner Sandilands? Go right inside. The inspector’s waiting for you.”
“Not waiting exactly,” said a cheerful voice from inside. “I’ve just about solved this one while you were toying with your toast.”
The corpse was still in place, as was the rifle. Hunnyton’s murder bag lay open at the foot of the bed. The superintendent was in control and relishing it. He was making a sketch of the scene on a sheet of graph paper. Joe was about to step forward and help himself to a pair of rubber gloves when Hunnyton called out crisply, “No! Stay where you are! Sorry, Sandilands, but would you mind plonking your plates of meat on that piece of newspaper I’ve laid out for you behind the door?” He peered meaningfully at Joe’s feet. “Ah! Changed into your brogues, have you? Those were your tennis shoes the constable and I found traces of in the vicinity of the body? Dunlops, ribbed soles, size twelve, scarcely worn? Your left foot was rather dramatically outlined in blood. Just stay out of the way, will you? I can’t be doing with a fresh pair of Lobbs blundering on stage. I shall have to log four pairs plus any imprints the killer might have left, of course. So far no trace of him.”
“I’m just on my way to church. Blood-stained shirt and shoes … wouldn’t want to frighten the vicar …” Joe began.
“He’s seen worse! The Rev. Easterby was a front line padré in the last lot. Just help me out here—I’m assuming this fingerprint in blood on the neck of the body is yours.”
“I’ll supply my prints for the record, of course. Yes, the man was still alive when I got here. I rushed forward to offer assistance. Nothing I could do for him. I stood there by his side and said a prayer to Diana …”
“Crikey! Super Plod turns up to administer the last pagan rites? That must have sent him off rejoicing!”
Hunnyton looked up, puzzled, from his notebook and focussed on Joe’s face. “Good God, man!” And, more seriously, “What’s happened to you, Joe? You look bloody awful! Your face is bleeding.”
“The recently deceased threw a log at me yesterday. The wound opened up again when I was rolling around on the forest floor dodging bullets on my way back to the Hall an hour ago. Is this Suffolk or the Somme? Not sure.”
Hunnyton listened intently to Joe’s story, jotting down his estimate of the time of his arrival at the scene, the time Goodfellow had expired, and the time he’d been shot at in the woods without comment or question. “Well, kindly drip your blood type onto the paper provided. I’ve got a neat little sketch here and I’m not about to add any extraneous bodily fluid contributions from Scotland Yard.”
“That villain tried to kill me. We’re lucky it’s not my corpse you’re waving off in an ambulance.”
“Everybody’s lucky this is the corpse if I read his letter aright.” Hunnyton sniffed. “Not before time and I’ll raise a glass to the perpetrator. Those are my deathbed sentiments, if anyone wants to hear them. Now, I hope you don’t mind, I borrowed Timmy and his flash new bike to run a few errands for me. First he summoned PC Godestone from his allotment to act as guard dog, then he belted off to the vet’s with a phone message for Adelaide to transmit to the force back in Cambridge. We’re going to have to put that lady on the pay roll. Or me on the phone line.” He sighed. “And there goes my privacy. There’ll be a squad out within the hour. I haven’t alerted the Co-op funeral services yet—he’s going straight onto a slab at the morgue. I want a proper postmortem done by a doc I can trust in Cambridge. This is one case that’s not going to come back and bite me in the bum.”
“Not a suicide, then, Hunnyton?”
Joe received a scathing look. “I think you know that as well as I do. Could easily have been, though. I’ve come across these cases before. Bankrupt farmers usually. Their guns are old friends. If your arm is long enough, you can reach the trigger and fire it upwards into your head. Toe grip not unknown. Remote place like this—he’d have kept his gun at the ready under the bed in the country way. It’ll be interesting to see whose fingerprints are on the trigger.”
“I’m betting—Goodfellow’s.” Joe sighed.
“So am I. This is murder, Sandilands; we both know that. But it’s murder by a bloke who’s very sure of himself. Cool as you please. No emotion in evidence—no fight, nothing broken. Familiar with the victim’s habits. Knew he’d find him sleeping off a hangover. Knew he kept a loaded gun to hand. This was planning so careful, the bugger’s left not a trace of his presence. I tell you, Joe—I haven’t found so much as a hair so far. That’s worrying. They always leave something … Perhaps the forensics boys will see more than I’m seeing. Our careful friend would take the time to apply the dead man’s fìnger to the trigger when he’d wiped it clean, don’t you think? He might even have been wearing gloves and needn’t have bothered with the dead man’s finger. What he hadn’t counted on was that his target might be more alert than usual this morning. Planning an early get-away, Goodfellow might have drunk less than his usual eight pints at the Sorrel Horse.
“I was there at the Horse, Sandilands, last night. For the first part of the evening at any rate. In the public bar. Goodfellow was in the snug buying a round for his cronies. His last round as it turns out. I noted he sank two pints before I left. The barman will cast further light. We shall see. The murderer hadn’t counted on the instinctive recoil of a threatened body away from a blast, what’s more. Point blank range. The bullet was supposed to go straight up and take the top of the head off. But it went crosswise, through the throat and jaw. Removed his ear but left the skull intact, I’d say.”
Hunnyton looked dispassionately at the shattered head. “There’s so much blood and it’s so fresh it’s hard to tell. Are you sure it was as long ago as seven?” He tweaked the dead arm, testing again for rigor mortis. “Anyway, the doc will tell us more. I’m not an expert. Whatever—the shot only did three quarters the damage intended.”
“Nothing much our bloke could do to finish him off though. A dying suicide doesn’t generally have the strength to fire the second barrel.”
“He couldn’t hang around after the shot. He must have judged his victim had only minutes to survive. Made a fast exit and hoped for the best. Too bad for him that a nosy Scotland Yarder was taking the air in the environs and had the benefit of hearing the victim’s last gasp. What the hell were you doing in the wood at that hour? Never mind,” he rushed on, “Timing, Joe? Can you be precise?”
“No trouble! Styles and I heard the shot at seven o’clock exactly as I said. We were breakfasting together and he happened to open the window at the crucial moment.”
“That confirms what Adelaide told me. She sent Timmy back to me with
a note. She was out in the garden and heard the first shot at seven. A second at seven forty. Country folk are so used to gunfire they wouldn’t notice but being just down from London, Adelaide did.”
“That’s exact. The second was the one fired at me as I retreated. But tell me, Adam, what did you make of his letter?” Joe had been aware that the superintendent had, in his rush of sympathy for him, fallen into calling him by his Christian name. It seemed polite to return the compliment and in view of the personal nature of the question, a more natural and feeling approach.
The handsome features congealed into a dark scowl. “Hardly the last note from a bloke about to top himself, was it? Had more the flavour of one who was just about to call a taxi and leg it. In fact, he’d got as far as packing. His bag’s the other side of the bed. Full to the gunwales! He wasn’t counting on coming back.” The professional comment was followed by a more dismissive tone. “It was no more than I’d expected. And suspected for years. It’s all right, Joe. I’m not one to have a fit of the vapours. I hope you didn’t fall for his blarney?”
“I didn’t. There was much truth in there but, even for me, the one lie stood out.”
“The heels?”
“That’s right. One detail that speaks volumes. You weren’t here, Adam, when Phoebe died?”
“No. She was nailed down in her coffin and the Trueloves were presiding by the time I got here. That was a different world, pre-war. None of the right questions asked. Not even a police autopsy. A shameful, self-inflicted death, they reckoned. Better shovelled underground sharpish. A maidservant. Not worth investigating and annoying the Trueloves for. Not with her ladyship in a delicate condition.”
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