Death Devil's Bridge

by Robin Paige

  “Charles!” she called, and waved.

  A moment later, Charles confirmed that she had indeed discovered the missing brake shoe. “It must have broken off in the impact and Albrecht found it,” he said. “Then he carried it with him up the hill to this spot.” He picked up the wooden block and sniffed it.

  “But why?” Kate asked wonderingly. “It would have cost him some effort, when the poor man had precious little to spare. Why did he do it?”

  “Because it proved his theory of the cause of the crash,” Charles said, “and he wanted to be sure that it was found.” He held out the block to her. “Do you recognize this odor, Kate?”

  She sniffed it as well, and pulled back. “Phew!” she exclaimed. “What is it?”

  “I don’t know,” he admitted. “But whatever it is, it may be the same substance I saw on Albrecht’s fingers last night.”

  “On his fingers?” She frowned, studying the leather-covered block in Charles’s hand. “But the brake is greasy, Charles! Is that what caused the crash?”

  “Very likely,” Charles replied. “The right brake caught and held, the left brake slipped, and the motorcar spun out of control. But let me show you something else.” And he took her to where his canvas bag lay, pulled out the small crockery pot, its lid fastened on with a metal bail, and opened it. “Smell,” he commanded.

  “It’s the same stuff!” she said when she had sniffed it. She looked at the jar, frowning. “Charles, that pot. I recognize it! It is one of the set of three little mustard pots Eleanor sent us from France some weeks ago.” She turned it over and pointed to the tiny word Dijon stamped on the bottom. “You see? But that awful substance inside is certainly not mustard.”

  “Are you sure of that, Kate?” Charles’s voice was tense. “That this pot came from our kitchen, I mean.”

  Kate, suddenly sick at heart, knew what he was thinking: that Amelia could have taken the mustard pot from the Bishop’s Keep kitchen to the Quibbley cottage, where Lawrence found it and filled it with the grease that ended up on the Daimler brake.

  “Well, I’m not absolutely sure, I suppose,” she said hesitantly, even though she felt sure enough. “I shall have to see whether Mrs. Pratt can produce all three pots. Where did you get it?”

  “I found it hidden in the gondola yesterday, under a pile of rapes.”

  “In the gondola?” Kate looked at him, perplexed. “I don’t understand.”

  But the moment the words were out of her mouth, she thought she did understand, after all. Lawrence had had full charge of the balloon on several occasions in the last few days. If he had wanted to cache something where he could readily retrieve it, he might have thought the gondola to be a handy hiding place.

  “Oh, dear,” she said sadly.

  Charles met her eyes. “Yes,” he said. “Oh, dear.”

  After the service that morning, Kate walked across the green churchyard to Miss Crosby’s house. Kate had been raised a Roman Catholic, but the nearest priest was several miles away, across the River Stour at East Bergholts, and she regularly attended services at St. Mary the Virgin, on the High Street, in Dedham. The walls of the old church, which dated from 1492, were built of gray stone from Caen, while the imposing tower was faced with the local knapped flint. In the tower hung the bells, five of which had been cast before 1552, as Vicar Talbot was fond of boasting. But because of Warden Russell’s fears of damage to the tower, the bells had only been chimed for the past few years, not rung—a sad loss to the village, the parishioners lamented. A solicitation (not the first, according to parish history) was underway to repair the tower.

  The small gray cottage belonged to the village school, which kept it for the use of the teacher. She was Miss Estelle Crosby, sister to the apothecary and cousin to the Widow Jessup. Kate’s knock was answered by the girl of all work, and she was ushered into the small, chilly front parlor. A coal fire was lit in the fireplace and Mrs. Jessup sat close beside it, her lap covered with a shawl, her slippered feet on the fender. Mrs. Jessup jumped to her feet, dropping the shawl, and ran away to fetch her cousin, who had also just returned from services.

  The two ladies, quite flustered, accepted Kate’s apologies for calling on Sunday and hurriedly produced an embroidered cloth, a pot of tea and three cups, and a chipped china plate filled with sticky buns. Miss Crosby, clearly sensible of the honor of her ladyship’s visit, remarked more than once how good it was of Lady Kathryn to call on her and her poor, bereaved cousin, and the widow herself several times repeated how grateful she was for her ladyship’s magnanimous offer of the loan of a pony cart, although of course her poor son, Tom—fatherless now, and broken-hearted—was now possessed of a gig, so that she would not be required to trespass on her ladyship’s extraordinary kindness. They had already heard of the wreck of Lord Marsden’s motorcar on the previous day, and were anxious to know if her ladyship had any news of the tragedy. But Kate pled innocent to any knowledge of the crash, and turned their attention back to themselves by mentioning how satisfied she was to find them in such fine health, which gratified them both.

  “Another bit of bun, if it please your ladyship?” asked Miss Crosby, offering the china plate so that her hand hid the chipped edge.

  “Oh, do,” urged the Widow Jessup, and removed the striped knit tea cozy to peer into the pot. “An’ ’ave another cup o’ tea, as well, my lady. It’s Sunday, and there’s a-plenty.”

  Kate obliged, and the three ladies were quite companionable for a few moments, sipping their tea and munching their sticky buns and speaking cozily of village matters. Miss Crosby, who seemed to know everything that was going on in the village, regaled them with a report of Mrs. Goettemoeller’s seventh child, born that very morning—a boy at last, after six girls, and as fine and lusty a boy as was ever seen, black-haired and sweetly plump as a baby pig. Of Rachel Elam’s dahlias winning the first prize at the fete the day before (when everyone knew that Mrs. Gotobed’s were by far the nicer), and Tom Whipple’s arrest on disorderly conduct charges, and of Squire Thornton’s generous payment of his bail.

  And then Kate remarked that she had noticed Mrs. Jessup’s quite lovely bonnet as that lady had walked on the High Street the week before, and begged, if it were not too great a trial for the widow, to be allowed to see it.

  Once the bonnet was on the table before them, in all its splendor of black crepe and black velvet ribbon, it was quite natural of Kate to praise the widow’s fine taste in millinery and to inquire where such a fine bonnet might be purchased, and to listen for the widow’s next remark, which quite naturally revealed what she had come to hear.

  “O’ course,” Widow Jessup sighed, reverently wrapping the bonnet in tissue, preliminary to replacing it in the cardboard bonnet box, “I could niver in a ‘undred years ’ave afforded such an extravagance if it ‘adn’t bin fer the squire, bless ’is soul.”

  “Nor Tom ’is fine gig,” observed the widow’s cousin.

  “Nor Tom ’is gig,” agreed the widow.

  “Nor Whipple his bail,” said Kate, thoughtfully.

  “Oh, aye,” said the widow. “The squire’s bin a tower o’ strength, ‘e ’as, an’ gen‘rous b’yond tellin‘.” She colored, and added hastily, “But I shouldn’t say so. ’E ‘as asked Tom an’ me pertic’larly not to.”

  Disregarding the last remark, Kate said warmly, “I am so glad to know that it was the squire who has helped you. I had heard it said round the village that it was Mr. Rolls.”

  The widow reddened. “Well...” she said slowly.

  “Mis-ter Rolls!” sniffed her indignant cousin. “I’d like to know why ‘e ’ud want to ’elp. Mis-ter Rolls, indeed!”

  “Now, Stella,” the widow said, and nervously turned her bonnet in her hand. “Remember wot the squire sez. We must ‘old no grudges.” She looked at Kate. “The squire sez t’wud be good if ‘twere believed as Mr. Rolls ’elped us out. Not to lie, o‘course. But wot’s past is past, as Jessup ’isself allus sez, an’ people wud be more
willin’ to fergive if they thought the gen‘leman were willin’ t’pay.”

  Miss Crosby sighed heavily. “Yer a real Christian soul, Tildy.” She appealed to Kate. “Ain’t she, my lady? A real Christian soul—as is the squire, bless ‘is ’eart. Didn’t ‘e go an’ stand bail fer poor Whipple, too? Ye don’t ’ear of Mis-ter Rolls standin’ bail for nobody, I don’t suppose.” Her smile was distinctly uncharitable.

  After a few moments, Kate repeated her praise of the bonnet and added a few words in favor of the sticky buns. Taking her leave, she departed into the crisp and refreshing outdoor air.

  But while the invigorating chill did much to clear Kate’s head, it did little to lift her spirits. She had got the intelligence she came for, but it left her with more questions. Why had Squire Thornton involved himself in this affair, which was truly none of his business? What had he to do with the Jessups, or with Whipple, or with any of it? It was all very confusing.

  But the sadness that most heavily burdened Kate as she rode along had nothing to do with Squire Thornton. Her concern and distress lay much closer to home, in the rose-covered cottage at the foot of the lane. She could believe that Lawrence Quibbley had intended to disable the Daimler, although she felt sure he had not intended to kill the driver. But dead was dead—or at least, so a jury would most likely reckon. Poor Lawrence—what would become of him? And what would happen to Amelia—sweet, loving Amelia—if her husband were arrested and brought to the dock for the death of Wilhelm Albrecht? How would she bear it? What would she do?

  Kate clucked to the gray pony, hurrying him homeward, wondering whether there was any way that she could help.

  19

  The number of owners and drivers of motor cars who are not gentlemen, would seem to be unduly large. There is no turning a cad into a gentleman, but there is such a thing as making even cads fear the law.

  —The Times, September 1901

  “You can’t be serious, man!” exclaimed Arthur Dickson. He rose from his chair at the inn’s breakfast table and glowered at the constable. “You expect us to stay here, in this wretched inn? Until what o’clock?”

  “Until,” Laken said quietly, “the inquiry is complete.” He studied Dickson, thinking that the man looked as if he had scarcely slept. His eyes were shadowed, his pale face lined, and when he sat back down and lifted his teacup, his hands trembled visibly. “I cannot promise you what time it will be concluded, Mr. Dickson. That depends upon Sir Charles’s progress in his investigation of the motorcar, and upon the outcome of my interviews with you and these other gentlemen.” He thought of Squire Thornton and the absent Bradford Marsden, who might also be able to throw some light on the shadowed subject. “And one or two others,” he added.

  Arnold Bateman threw down his fork. “This is what comes,” he said, with a dark look at Harry Dunstable, “of crying murder.”

  Dunstable raised his chin, indignant. “I did not cry murder,” he said loftily. “I merely stated my belief that Albrecht’s death was no accident. That is all.” With a hand that was almost as unsteady as Dickson’s, he poured himself a cup of coffee from the pot in the center of the table. “And if the constable wishes to question me, I shall be glad to offer what information I possess that may bear on the matter. I hope it is helpful.” Laken observed that the latter remarks carried an undisguised significance, and were accompanied by a sly glance around the table.

  Ponsonby rose to the bait. “And what sort of information would that be?” he demanded gruffly. “If you intend to aim any irresponsible allegations at me, Dunstable, you had better remember that you are in a most vulnerable position. One word from me and the British Motor Car Syndicate is ruined.” His voice began to rise. “Ruined, do you hear? I will see that every one of your notes is recalled for immediate payment. I will—”

  “Harrumph!” Bateman cleared his throat loudly and cast a meaningful glance in Laken’s direction. Ponsonby colored and fell silent.

  Dunstable sipped his coffee. “I doubt that you will recall any notes, Ponsonby,” he said, drawling out the words offensively. “If that happens, I may find it necessary to speak publicly about Mrs. Vickers’s sad end—a sensational story, I fear, and hardly to your credit.”

  “Don’t be afraid of him, Ponsonby.” Dickson’s words were acid. “No one will believe him.”

  “And who would believe you, Arthur?” asked Dunstable with a poisonous laugh. “Your perjury in the matter of those patents makes it impossible for anyone to trust your word.” He glanced at Bateman. “And you, Arnold. Arthur injured you once, in that little contretemps at the Crystal Palace, and you let him off. How much did he pay you? Are you going to lie for him again?”

  The silence was fruitful. Laken allowed it to ripen for a moment before he turned to Charles Rolls, who was seated at the end of the table. “I assume that you will have no objection to speaking with me, Mr. Rolls.”

  “Not in the slightest,” Charlie Rolls said, with a careless air. “I have no secrets. In any event, I had intended to remain here for a day or two, since there is some repair that must be made to the balloon before it can fly again. I heartily agree that we should see this business to its conclusion before we leave,” he added, “whoever is to blame.” And he cast a glance around the table, allowing it to linger on the three drivers.

  “But it was an accident,” Ponsonby objected. He turned to Laken, speaking desperately. “I have business in London, Constable. You can’t possibly mean to keep me—”

  “Indeed I do,” Laken said with authority, feeling that it was time to exert control over the situation. “I mean to keep all of you until this affair is concluded. Mr. Dunstable, I shall begin my interviews with you, if you please, in this room.” He looked at the others, who seemed to be in varying stages of confusion, according to their temperament: Rolls the coolest, Ponsonby the most agitated. “I shall appreciate your waiting in your apartments, gentlemen—without consultation among you.”

  “Apartment, hah!” Ponsonby ejaculated. “It’s no more than a broom closet.”

  “But you have a broom closet to yourself, Frank,” Bateman said with a laugh. “The rest of us are sharing a broom closet.”

  “And a bed,” Rolls said with disgust. He sighed. “The sooner you begin, Constable, the sooner this business will be concluded. Go to it, do.”

  And so Laken began a disagreeable task which he expected would take most of the morning and yield very little of substantive information.

  Lawrence was also carrying out a disagreeable task. Under the supervision of Sir Charles and with the help of P.C. Gaskell, he had hauled the wrecked Daimler from the ravine beneath Devil’s Bridge, carted it to the gatehouse cottage, and unloaded it in the drafty, dirt-floored barn which served as his mechanic’s shop. Now, Sir Charles had charged him with reassembling as much of it as he could—which was not going to be much at all, he thought, surveying the shattered wreckage.

  “Pardon me, sir,” he said to Sir Charles, “but ye don’t expect this car to be driven again, do ye?”

  “No.” Sir Charles gave Lawrence a glance in which he could read coldness and enmity. “I believe that the vehicle has been tampered with, Quibbley, and I would like your confirmation of my suspicions. I shall observe you as you do your work and raise queries from time to time.”

  These chilly words pierced Lawrence to the very heart. As the morning had worn on and no questions had been put about his part in the demise of the Daimler and its unfortunate driver, he had begun to breathe somewhat easier. But he could not forget the hard look that Sir Charles had aimed at him across the breakfast table that morning, and he knew he was being watched as he loaded the wreckage into the wagon. And that cold tone just now, edged with suspicion, where before had been trust and confidence—It robbed Lawrence of every hope of escaping undetected and made him quite sure that Sir Charles had found him out. And if that were the case, was it not better to confess what he had done before he could be accused of it, and throw himself on the mercy of
the court?

  “Sir Charles,” he said, taking his hands out of his pockets and standing straight, a man who has made up his mind to be honest, even though he speaks a bitter and shaming thing. “I must tell ye the Lord’s truth, sir. I tampered wi’ that car, an’ I’m desprit’ly sorry fer it.”

  And in the next moment, he had confessed all. How Lord Bradford had insisted that Lawrence accompany him to London to look after the motorcar. How deeply distressed Amelia had been by the idea of exchanging her beloved rose-covered cottage for low, smoky rooms, and how he had begun to seek some means of preventing their departure. How he had believed that if the Daimler were somehow disgraced in the balloon chase, Lord Bradford might think better of the London plan. And how he had cast about in his mind for ways to effect this disgrace, and determined at last on the scheme of siphoning out all but a small portion of the car’s petrol. When he was done, he stopped.

  The silence lengthened. After a moment, Sir Charles said, “Well?”

  “Well, sir?”

  “Is that all?” Sir Charles said.

  Lawrence wanted to ask whether that were not enough, but the question seemed an effrontery. “Yes,” he said, and hung his head. “The breakdown cudn’t point to me as a pore mechanic, y’ see. It had t‘be somethin’ as wudn’t connect to me at all, if ye see wot I mean, sir. That’s why I concluded on the petrol. Albrecht insisted on fuelin’ the car hisself, so I cudn’t be blamed if it came up short. An’ I had the oppertun’ty, d‘ye see, when I had t’stay up all the night to look after the balloon an’ the gas plant.”

  There was a moment’s silence, and then Sir Charles spoke, very gravely. “And you did not tamper with the brake?”