Enter Pale Death

by Barbara Cleverly

  Seeing the tightening of Joe’s jaw, he hurried to add in a conciliatory tone, “Forgive me. In my concern I go too far. A police officer is under no obligation to obey a government minister. He is employed by the people to serve the people. We ought all to remember that. But I still say, as a matter of humanity—will the people be served by the punishment of a thoughtless girl? You know as clearly as I do, Sandilands, that, realistically, this business will never come to court. For fifty years now, we’ve had a Crown Prosecution Service which, as part of the Home Office, does a very useful job. You are well aware of this; I mention the matter as some of us gathered around this table—law-abiding citizens, all—may never have encountered it. The system weeds out cases it judges a waste of public resources. This is certainly one of these cases. The family uphold the decision already taken by the magistrate at the time of the accident—which, in spite of your evidence, I still believe it to be—that we are dealing with a death by misadventure. I don’t ask, I beg you to declare here before my friends that you will pursue this no further. You have gone far towards clearing up a mystery which would not bear the increasing weight of speculation that was being heaped upon it to the detriment of my good name and for that I am grateful.”

  Cecily turned to Joe. “Well done, Commissioner! It’s never easy lancing a boil. Bystanders inevitably risk being contaminated by the effluent. I will say it—since James, in his rush of soft hearted solicitude neglects to—we’re grateful that you have wielded the scalpel. Grateful that you have proceeded through to the truth with such delicacy and concern for the reputations in question. No heavy boots, no handcuffs. Only friends of the house here present to witness the misguided girl’s downfall.”

  Her sharp look around the table was unmistakably a swearing to silence on the part of everyone, their understanding nods a guarantee of the reinstatement of her son’s reputation and career.

  Joe watched the pious sorrow gathering, listened to the murmured compassion being offered to Truelove and his stomach curdled. Only Adelaide was looking puzzled and angry. She got to her feet in a marked manner and murmured something to Cecily as she went by on her way to the door.

  Joe followed her clicking heels and managed to cut her off before Ben could open up for her. He hissed, “Stop right there, Adelaide. Don’t leave me alone with these swine! They may need you to sew their balls back on before the evening’s over!”

  CHAPTER 24

  Joe turned to Ben.

  “Did you bring it, man?”

  Ben picked up a brown paper package from behind a plant pot and handed it to Joe.

  Joe turned his attention back to the gathering. They fell silent, eager to hear him apply the soothing ointment of compliance and understanding. A police officer, a high-ranking one destined for the top position at the Yard, a man now shown to have the confidence and trust of a minister of Truelove’s promise, was a man they would listen to.

  He stayed on his feet between them and the door.

  “First things first: Miss Joliffe, for whose fate I observe you all to be exhibiting so much sympathy, is as we speak, on her way to enjoy a cup of cocoa with Adam Hunnyton. She will have already heard an apology for the treatment she has just received at our hands. That scene was enacted with her knowledge and consent, her contribution voluntary. It was, nevertheless, an unpleasant experience. I hope one day she will find it in her to forgive me. I know she will never forgive you, Truelove.”

  He paused for emphasis. “Yes, you, Truelove! That was a farce, not a pantomime, you have just witnessed. But the first act only. A scene played out to reveal to me—and to all in this room—the depths to which the Truelove household was prepared to stoop to protect its own. Its reputation, its very existence have been—still are—at stake. With one woman dead already, two more women’s lives and happiness were to be sacrificed without a second thought to keep a Truelove in place and in affluence. That’s what this is all about. You have shown yourselves in your true colours. I’m now going to hold up a mirror so that you can see yourselves in all your dishonour.”

  Pompous rhetoric, perhaps, but calculated. An Englishman, even a rogue, still had his attention caught by a challenge to his honour.

  Jaws dropped, two men leapt to their feet uttering threats. Again, the only thing that saved Joe from a revolt was curiosity. Wives tugged their husbands back down into their chairs, clucking and fussing. What on earth was this fiendish policeman going to come out with next? They had to know.

  Alice McIver, more prescient than the rest, spoke sharply to her husband: “Don’t interrupt, Mungo! He’s just smashed up the wristwatch, now he’s going to pull it in one piece out of someone’s ear.”

  Alexander managed a delighted grin. “She didn’t do it, did she? Ha! Told you so! You’ve been having us on, Sandilands! Poking us with a stick to see which way we’d jump.”

  “No, she didn’t do it, Alex. Dorcas Joliffe is entirely innocent of any attempt on Lavinia. The only thing she has been guilty of is trusting James Truelove. The man who connived at the murder of his own wife. Lavinia produced no heir and had, after many years, dished out the last of her fortune. Her character and conduct were increasingly showing themselves unsuited to life at the side of a man of Sir James’s political ambitions. She had become a worthless hindrance to the Truelove line. With her off the scene, James, still youthful and destined for a glowing future, could attract a rich, socially adept woman of childbearing years. He had one such in mind.

  “But how to manage it without drawing down suspicion on himself? The notion of allowing his wife to follow her own stupid fantasy to its inevitable grisly end occurred to a Truelove mind that disastrous weekend. There was even a love-lorn student on hand to take the blame, should anything go wrong and blame become a feature of the case. Dorcas Joliffe, in her blind attachment to her mentor, was a useful insurance policy. As was a recently appointed and ambitious Assistant Commissioner of Police. Conveniently, he was known to have connections with the Joliffe family and could be depended on to deflect suspicion from the Trueloves while ensuring that the blame-carrier escaped any serious trouble at the hands of the law. How thoughtful … How neat!

  “Grace was the only one who tried to avert a tragedy. Unfortunately, in her dilemma, she sought advice from not Dorcas but from one she trusted and who knew something about horses. I’ve discovered that in this household, everyone considers himself or herself an expert. But in this case, the authority consulted had access to a very ancient source of information.”

  Joe slammed the brown paper parcel down onto the table and slid out of it a leather-bound book.

  “Dr. Hartest. Please be so good as to open this tome at page three hundred and seven, will you, and read out the recipe you’ll find there.”

  Adelaide reached forward and took the book. “It’s something called The Accomplisht Ladie’s Companion,” she said, mystified.

  Mrs. Bolton gasped and glowered at Ben, who was beginning to look a little shaken.

  “And here it says: Receit for the bating of horses. A sovereign receit for keeping a horse in its rightful place. Will stop a horse in its tracks on the open road. Caution: will rouse ire and acute ill-temper in the creature if used against it in a confined space. Require your servant to collect together the following ingredients …” Adelaide looked up, sickened. “They’re all listed if anyone wants to see them … Stoat’s liver, cat’s urine, rat’s blood …”

  “We’ll never know at whose instigation the ingredients were collected together. No difficulty in harvesting the essential one—the stoat remains. These were freely available to anybody walking about the estate, where they were regularly displayed on a spiked fence by Goodfellow. In the few hours available to our conspirator, the recommended maceration time in noxious fluids had to be ignored. Not a problem to a mind unimpressed by magic, a mind that saw through the hocus pocus to the essential effective ingredient. I’d have harvested half a dozen stoat livers, added a few rat entrails for bulk and stirred up
the whole mess with a touch of urine from a house chamber pot. Perhaps our modern-day apothecary can inform us? I do know from Grace herself that the authority she consulted was …” Joe turned, not for cheap emphasis, but to do the accused the courtesy of looking her in the eye. “You—Cecily, Lady Truelove.

  “And you, in turn, Cecily, consulted and conspired with your trusted friend and retainer, Enid Bolton.

  “The plan devised by the two women was known to Truelove …” Joe asserted a fact for which he had no evidence and left a pause in which Truelove might have registered a denial. He did not, in the end, have the gall to leave his mother and his housekeeper to carry the can. “They arranged for James to be seen by the servants crossing over to spend the night at the Dower House.”

  The group had fallen silent.

  “This was murder. Nothing less. A plot which led to a shocking and painful death. We have the answers to the two questions I set you: The victim of murder? Lavinia. Her killer? The Truelove Household. A conspiracy of three: You, James; you, Enid; but principally, you, Cecily.”

  Loyal old Sir Basil Ripley had heard enough. He got to his feet and pointed an accusing finger at Joe. “Not another word, young man! So this is the new policing you were so keen on, James? Is this truly a sample of your appointees? Where did you recruit him? Auditioning for a part in the latest shocker on the wireless? Sherlock Holmes with his dubious detective skills? Or was he trying for Inspector Lestrade with his clumping feet and his clunking logic? I can see no more advantage or entertainment in listening to this man’s ravings. What are you waiting for, James? Have him thrown out.”

  Support for Joe came from an unexpected quarter. “Siddown, Ripley! You’ll do no such thing, Truelove! Now—carry on, Assistant Commissioner Sandilands.” Guy Despond pronounced his rank with careful emphasis.

  “Hear, hear!” said McIver. “Let him at least get to the end. I do enjoy a good story.”

  “Yes, go on, Joe.” Cecily’s voice. Sweet and reasonable. “I do hope you’re going to do justice to my motive for indulging in all this chicanery. You’re very nearly there.”

  “A wasted lifetime? Is that strong enough? How it must have irked your ladyship to see all your sacrifices—your money, your years spent fostering the family of a man of dubious fidelity—come to nothing. You did your duty by him. You produced four children. You made a considerable investment in the line and to see it shrivelling away in the hands of a daughter-in-law you despised was more than you could bear. Her degrading behaviour at the dinner table that night in April signed her death warrant as far as you were concerned. You had to secure the future to validate your own past. I attribute the inspiration for the plot to you. As you told me candidly early on in my investigation—it’s a woman’s crime.

  “You, Enid. For you, Lavinia had to die to preserve the household. To keep the house, as you always have. If Truelove failed, the whole establishment would have faltered and gone under, as other neighbouring estates have done, and been sold off, their staff released into a cold world with no chance of re-employment. The prospects for the older servants—I speak of you and Mr. Styles—were grim. Weighed in the balance against Truelove’s sparkling prospects, an injection of cash and a new heir to the family, Lavinia’s life counted for little. She represented a deficit in your book and you are a meticulous bookkeeper. You believed it the right moment to do a little judicious balancing. You had the means and the knowledge, and the practical aspects of the plot from the gingerbread onwards were left to you. I believe the lives of Dorcas Joliffe and Grace Aldred would have been at risk if a further adjustment had become necessary.”

  Enid showed no emotion. She stared straight ahead, back rigid, hands folded.

  But emotion finally got the better of Dorothy Despond. “And my life? What of that? Where do I figure in all this? A brass weight in a scale pan?” She jumped to her feet and glared at Truelove. “You haven’t even got the guts to do your own murdering! You leave it to Mummy and the servants! You’re nothing but a cheap chiseller!” She grabbed a glass half full of brandy and hurled it, glass and contents, in Truelove’s face. Her father rose with her and the two strode to the door.

  As she drew near to Joe, Dorothy whispered in a voice surprisingly in control, “Thank you, Joe. Canaletto had it right about England. Cold, unwelcoming and very murky. Worth collecting, though, if you get the chance—and it begins to look as though you may …”

  “Couldn’t agree more.” Joe smiled. “I’m off to the south of France and glad to shake off the mud and the gloom. Why don’t we step outside, Despond, and leave the assembled jurors to come to a decision?” He offered his arm to Adelaide, who seemed eager to leave with them.

  “I ought not to care, Sandilands,” said Despond, closing the door behind him, “but there are villains at large in there, free to stay or leave, and I’d like to know what you propose to do about them.”

  “I?” Joe said, waggling his eyebrows. “Nothing at all. Nothing I can do. Unless Cecily and her son are prepared to write out a confession and sign it, British law would never allow me to bring such an insubstantial case to court. The Crown Prosecution Service would turn me down in five minutes. I’ve always known that. At best, they’d consider putting Grace Aldred in the dock on the evidence we have.”

  “But you stuck with it anyhow.” Despond smiled. “And my daughter and I are eternally grateful. Not used to being taken for a ride, Sandilands. I’m used to being the biggest shark in the pond. What will you do now?”

  “My bag’s packed. I thought I’d leave them in the company of their dear friends to hear their judgement. I’d hope to hear the question asked: ‘How can we accept the fact that the forthcoming Home Secretary, destined to be in absolute charge of Law and Order in the land, has been complicit in the killing of his wife and other forms of skulduggery?’ I wonder what sentence they’ll dole out.”

  “Ten years’ exile? Blackballing from his clubs? In Ancient Athens they’d have written his name on a potsherd and got the guy ostracised. But, don’t raise your hopes, Sandilands. He’s among friends back there.” His eyes narrowed in mischievous speculation. “Not sure of the newsman, though … He’s the weak link. Too good a story to keep under wraps, are we thinking?”

  Joe smiled. “You’re forgetting the ladies, Despond. My hopes rest with Maggie Somerton, Alice McIver, who has the country’s most influential newspaper magnate wrapped around her little finger, and Florence Ripley. Florence was scribbling notes throughout. A man’s reputation can be preserved in the safe confines of a St. James’s club but …”

  “Not in the tearooms of London,” Dorothy supplied with an unladylike chortle. “That’s where I’m planning to make a start on the demolition!”

  “Well, I’m off now to have a cup of cocoa with the superintendent and Dorcas. They’ll be wanting to hear the outcome. Such as it is.” Joe held out his arm. “Won’t you join us, Adelaide?”

  CHAPTER 25

  In the cocoon of his lamp-lit home, Adam Hunnyton’s comment on the affair was, predictably, a grumbling protest on behalf of Ben, the footman. “You tricked him! He’s a good lad. He deserves better.”

  “I know Ben’s worth! Yes, I did deceive him because I am also aware of his sense of loyalty. I never like to put a man’s loyalty under stress. It does no one any good. But I did give him my card with a scrawled message on the back. The police college at Hendon can use such a man. He’s wasted smoking Woodbines to pass the long watches of the night in a slops cupboard spying on Cecily’s guests.”

  Joe stayed on with Adam when Dorcas and Adelaide left. Dorcas had gratefully accepted the offer of Adelaide’s spare bed for the night, before returning to Cambridge and the railway station in the morning. She had broken her silence to say only that she wanted to go home to Lydia and Marcus. Joe gathered that his company would be unwelcome for the moment and mentioned tactfully that he was planning to stay on in Cambridge for a couple of days. Forms to complete, statements to make, liaising to be done
…

  Before he crept up to the sleeping quarters in the loft, Joe agreed to a snifter of apple brandy and a smoke with the superintendent and settled with him at the table. He reached into his pocket and took out a shining object. He placed it on the table in front of Hunnyton.

  “Recognise it? No, why should you? There must be thousands like it scattered around the Truelove estate. But this one is special and very identifiable. For a start I witnessed it missing my fleeing form—deliberately missing, I hope—and lodging itself in the trunk of a lime tree. I marked the spot and later retrieved it. Attempted murder? That’s the first charge. When I hand this to our ballistics blokes they’ll be able to tie it to one of the Purdey guns you keep on the premises, Hunnyton.”

  Adam smiled. “And what’s the second charge?”

  “Murder.”

  “How come? I see you sitting here in front of me as large as life and twice as ugly … I must have missed you. Someone’s bound to point it out.”

  “No. I have in mind the murder of Robert Goodfellow, lately resident on the Truelove estate. You shot the bugger at seven o’clock precisely as he lay in his bed. Forty minutes later you fired at me, establishing a second possible killing time. More plausible, as it couldn’t be connected with any rook-scaring explosions. It sent me off back to the hall, blood-stained and dishevelled, looking every inch a wild killer. The scene of crime also was, as you pointed out to me, innocent of any trace of a third man. No one else had entered the cottage, according to the best evidence you could find. Of course there was none. Just my bloody foot and fingerprints. Perhaps a stray hair or print from the investigating officer but—there—you’d expect and discount that, wouldn’t you? The fact that the man lived on a further twenty minutes and really did die in my hands just added more credence to your story.”