by Robin Paige
Bess turned her hands over and began intently to examine her fingers.
“Yes, yes, indeed,” Charles said, striding on. “Our single piece of physical evidence is a smudged fingerprint—which, as you say, Ned, a jury would find hard to swallow.” (At this, Bess put her hands in the pockets of her woolen skirt.) “Were we to find traces of the substance—”
“I suppose,” Laken said dryly, “that you want me to return to the inn and examine the clothing which the men were wearing yesterday.”
“And their pocket handkerchiefs,” Kate put in. “I know that if I were to discover Mistress Gurton’s ointment on my hands, I should want to remove it as quickly as possible. A pocket handkerchief might well provide evidence.”
“I think it a very good idea to have a look at the clothing,” Charles said, and added, “if it does not strain your ethical principles, Ned.”
“But if I had soiled my clothing in that way,” Laken objected, “I should give it immediately to the laundress to be cleaned.”
“Cleaned?” Bess asked. “An’ ‘oo should be doin’ the wash of a Sunday, I’d like to know? Sart’nly not our Peg. She’s on ’er knees at chapel all the Sabbath.”
“Mistress Gurton is right, Ned,” Kate said. “It is not likely that the clothing has been washed. Your search may prove more fruitful than you expect.”
The constable nodded. “I shall do it.”
“And while you are at it, you might look for the jar,” Kate said. At Charles’s quizzical expression, she added, “Well, of course. If I had picked up Mistress Gurton’s jar of ointment and used some of it, I should certainly put the jar into my pocket. I shouldn’t want to leave it lying about as evidence, should I?”
“Very well, then,” Laken said, “I shall look for the jar too. As for fingerprints, however—” He paused and gave Charles a dark look.
“Yes, yes, I know,” Charles said impatiently. “But if you should happen upon an object that bears a clear fingerprint, perhaps you could remove it and—”
“I shall not.” Laken’s voice was firm. Nodding to Bess and bowing to Kate, he left the room.
Bess turned to Kate. “Wot,” she asked in a whisper, “about fingerprints?”
So Kate, making as quick a job of it as she could, gave Bess the details as Beryl Bardwell understood them. “With luck,” she concluded, “the fingerprint will identify the person who found your ointment and applied it to the motorcar’s brake.”
There was a moment’s silence. Then Bess, with a long sigh, said, “Would ye need to take mine?”
“Yours!” Charles exclaimed. “I should be very pleased to take yours—for purposes of elimination, of course.”
“Sir Charles means,” Kate interpreted, “that he can then show that you are not the guilty person.”
“ ’Lim’nation,” Bess said heavily. “I thought as much.” She screwed her eyes tight shut, turned her head to one side. and held out her hands. “ ’Ere they be, then, yer ladyship. Take ’em. I only ask—” She seemed to choke. “I only ask that ye leave me one er two on each ‘and, if ye please. I makes me livin’ wi’ baskets, like, an’—”
“Oh, dear, no!” Kate exclaimed. “Your fingers won’t be cut off, Bess! They will merely be inked, and their impressions taken.”
Bess’s eyes opened and her countenance cleared. “Oh,” she said, quite relieved. “Well, then, ye kin ’ave all ten o’ em, if ye like, yer ladyship, an’ welcome.”
When the simple procedure was over, Kate thanked Bess warmly. “Please stop by the kitchen and give my compliments to Mrs. Pratt. Perhaps you and she might stop together for a cup of tea.”
At Bess’s frown, Kate said, “I know you are upset with her for speaking to me. But I think you will have to agree that things have turned out for the best.”
“That’s true enough, yer ladyship,” admitted Bess, “although Sarah do let ’er tongue run on a bit long.”
When Bess had gone, Kate turned to her husband. “What was that business about Ned and the fingerprints?” she asked curiously. “And why did you make that odd remark about ethics?”
“Ned has a particular antipathy to taking the fingerprints of a person who has not yet been accused of a crime,” Charles replied, with some irony. “He argues that it is an invasion of privacy.”
“But a crime cannot be solved without evidence,” Kate objected. “Is not the detective obligated to use every available piece of evidence he is able to discover? Or she,” she corrected herself, thinking of the latest adventure of Beryl Bardwell’s female detective.
“It is a vexed question,” Charles said. “Suppose that science should somehow permit us to see into your mind, Kate, and determine whether you are telling the truth or a lie. Should the scientist be permitted to intrude on your privacy—even if you are suspected of murder?”
“But if I am guilty—”
“Just so. But what if you are entirely innocent? And who is to know until the scientist completes his probe of your thoughts, thereby violating your privacy? And what if the scientist’s instruments are in error, or his conclusions wrong? Who should be the final arbitrator of such methods?”
“A jury, perhaps?” Kate offered tentatively.
“A jury?” Charles chuckled without mirth. “Would you care to put your life into the hands of twelve jurors who may be good men and true, but may also be incapable of weighing such delicate evidence?”
Kate searched for an answer, but realized, uncomfortably, that she could find none.
“Ned, and many others, for that matter,” Charles went on, “question the propriety of obtaining and using evidence such as a man’s fingerprints on the grounds that to do so is an invasion of privacy. The issue is one that is likely to see much debate over the next few years, and I myself have not determined where I stand on such matters.” He paused. “But I am particularly distressed in this case, for there is a fingerprint on that fender, and without Ned’s help, I see no easy way of matching it against the fingerprints of the suspects.”
Kate stared at him for a moment, comprehension beginning to dawn. “And the suspects are—”
“The three surviving drivers, of course, as well as Harry Dunstable, Charles Rolls, and Roger Thornton. And, for the sake of completeness, I suppose I should include Bradford Marsden.”
“Not Bradford!”
“Why not? He has as much reason to hate Harry Dunstable as the next man, perhaps more. No, if only to eliminate him, I should obtain his prints, as I have already obtained those of Lawrence and Mistress Gurton. But I cannot do that easily, for he has gone off to London.”
“To London?”
“Yes. He has quarreled with Lord Christopher—or rather, Lord Christopher has quarreled with him. I cannot get his fingerprints at the moment. But, oh that I had the rest!”
Kate looked at him steadily. “Perhaps you shall,” she said. “But first, I need to speak to you about Squire Thornton. Mrs. Pratt told me this morning that she saw him pull the grapnel from the gondola. He, not the unfortunate Mr. Whipple, is the man who sabotaged the balloon.”
Charles stared at her, incredulous.
“And it was Squire Thornton,” Kate continued, “who gave the Jessups that thirty pounds—and who had it noised about that the money came from Charles Rolls.”
“But why should Thornton do that?” Charles asked.
“I am only guessing, of course,” Kate replied, “but I think perhaps he wanted to make it appear that Rolls was responsible for Old Jessup’s death. You remember, of course, that he was driving Bradford’s motorcar that night. And it is Rolls who threatens to snatch Patsy from him—at least as Squire Thornton sees it.”
“But no one believes that Rolls killed the man. The coroner did not even have enough evidence to—”
“Lord Christopher and Lady Henrietta might believe it,” Kate said, “if Squire Thornton told them it were true, and if the victim’s family gave it about that Rolls had compensated them.”
“You’
re saying that Thornton constructed this elaborate charade in order to cast a contender for Patsy’s affections into disfavor with her parents?”
“Men have practiced stranger ruses against their rivals,” Kate said with a little shrug. “It is the same motive, I believe, that led him to pull the grapnel from the gondola. The act was impulsive, no doubt, and entirely in character—he simply seized the chance that opportunity presented to him.”
“You believe, then, that he intended to cause Rolls’s death.”
“Or simply to cause difficulty,” Kate replied, “and keep his rival from becoming a hero.” She frowned. “I also think it is entirely possible that he is the man who sabotaged Bradford’s Daimler. I am sure that he had as much opportunity as anyone, and it is certainly in keeping with his other act of sabatoge. He might have found the jar of ointment where Bess Gurton dropped it, applied it to the brake, and gone on about his business.”
“And why should he?”
“To even the score with Bradford, perhaps. After all, it was Bradford who brought Rolls here. Or he might have wanted to cause trouble for the chase. You saw how he opposed the whole affair. Or perhaps it was a mixture of motives, and given the opportunity—”
Charles’s brow was furrowed. “I see all that you say, Kate, and grant you its plausibility. But if Thornton should deny Mrs. Pratt’s accusation, how many do you think would take her word against his?”
“Not many, I fear,” Kate said gloomily. “If only we had some other evidence—another eyewitness, perhaps, who could corroborate Cook’s testimony.”
“I think perhaps we do,” said a woman’s voice.
Kate turned, startled. The speaker was Patsy Marsden. Her face was pale and very serious, and in her hand she held a photograph.
24
A Lady an explorer? a traveller in skirts?
The notion’s just a trifle too seraphic:
Let them stay home and mind the babies, or hem our ragged shirts
But they mustn‘t, can’t, and shan’t be geographic.
—Punch, 1893
It took only a moment’s examination for Charles and Kate to determine that Patsy’s photograph, taken from the vantage point of the east terrace, had caught the squire red-handed, in the act of jerking the grapnel from its mooring at the side of the gondola. But it took some moments more to decide what to do with the photograph, and still more for Kate to explain the evidence she had gathered, without at all anticipating its actual use, at the ill-fated dinner party the night before—evidence which at this moment rested on a shelf in Mudd’s pantry.
In the end, after much debate, it was Kate and Patsy who put on their cloaks and set off to visit Roger Thornton. Charles was not entirely happy with this arrangement and expressed his dissatisfaction with some force. But as Kate quite reasonably pointed out, he had far too much to do with the fingerprint evidence to spend time chasing about after errant squires, and Patsy was really a far more suitable agent. Patsy herself had a very strong motive to undertake the assignment, and was quite persuasive on her own behalf.
“I want to do it,” she said earnestly. “I will smile prettily, and toss my head, and the squire will be flattered into believing that I am the very sweetest and most compliant sort of young lady. He might say no to you, but he will not be able to resist my invitation.”
“There really can be no danger, Charles,” Kate said “There are servants at hand, of course, and Patsy shall tell the squire that I am waiting in the carriage. And all she has to do is show him the photographs that she took of the balloon launch—”
“Not the one of his dropping the grapnel, though,” Charles said grimly. “That, we shall save for later.”
“But the others will do quite well,” Kate said. “You see how glossily enameled they are.”
So their plan was formed. Charles dispatched the gardener’s boy to the Marlborough Head with this message for Constable Laken.
Bishop’s Keep, September 27
My dear Ned—
I may after all be able to use that fingerprint to good effect. Please inform Ponsonby, Dickson, Bateman, Dunstable, and Rolls that they are expected to join us here at seven this evening. Light refreshments and entertainment will be provided (I am thinking of a magic lantern show, with lantern slides of the balloon and the chase and so forth). I feel quite safe in saying that Thornton will also be in attendance. I trust that your own researches are progressing. Let me hear what you have found.
Yours faithfully,
Charles Sheridan
Kate consulted briefly with Mrs. Pratt on the menu; then she and Patsy climbed into the closed carriage and were driven by Pocket to Thornton Grange. Once there, Kate remained in the carriage like a very grand lady, waiting nervously and wondering whether, after all, it had been a good idea to send Patsy on this errand.
But there was no reason for nervousness. Patsy returned with a satisfied smile. “The squire sends his compliments to Lady Kathryn, and is pleased to join her and Sir Charles at seven this evening.”
“And the photographs?”
She displayed the large envelope she had taken with her. “He took them with some apprehension, carried them to the window, and examined each one carefully, turning them over to read the legend I had written on the reverse. I’m sure he was worried that I might have captured his despicable act on film. But when he saw nothing incriminating, the man was all smiles. He returned the photographs to me with a very pretty compliment as to my artistic prowess. I am sure they have his fingerprints all over them.”
Kate smiled. “I hope your performance was not too successful, Patsy. You may have encouraged him to believe that you will accept him as a suitor.”
“When the time comes,” Patsy said grimly, “I will very quickly disabuse him of that notion.” Her voice changed and she held out her hand. “I must seek a favor of you, Kate—quite a large favor, I am afraid.”
“You know that anything I may do for you, I shall,” Kate said. “What is it, Patsy?”
She did not answer for a moment, and when she did, she spoke first of her brother. “Bradford and Papa quarreled last night. Papa says that Bradford is disgracing the Marsden name with his motorcars and the like, and has vowed to stop his allowance.”
“That is a regular threat,” Kate said. “According to Bradford, at any rate.”
“This time, I think, Papa is quite serious—and so is Bradford. He vows to have nothing more to do with Papa’s money, and says that from this moment forward, he will earn his own.”
“Commendable,” Kate said dryly. “I understand that he has gone to London.”
“By the early train this morning. I expect to follow him in a fortnight or so. In the meantime—and this is the favor I must ask of you—I would like to stay at Bishop’s Keep.” She raised her head, and Kate saw the determination written on her face. “I can no longer remain with my mother and father. I am going away.”
Kate was silent for a moment, thinking of the implications of this. “Has Mr. Rolls asked you to marry him?”
“No, he has not,” Patsy said fiercely. “If he had, I should have refused him.”
“Ah,” Kate said, more happily, and relaxed. So this was not a matter of disappointed love, or a broken heart. She had not thought so, but she was glad to be sure.
“Indeed,” Patsy said, with the same intensity, “this does not concern Charles Rolls, although Mama is sure that he is the root of my disaffection. She has ordered him out of the house to protect my virtue. My public virtue, that is,” she added bitterly. “I have assured Mama over and over again that nothing untoward has occurred between us, and never will. But she thinks more about the appearance of things than the truth of them. I do believe I could be a private strumpet of the wildest sort, and if word of it did not get out, I should be quite safe in Mama’s eyes.”
“I see,” Kate said gravely—and she did see the pain in Patsy’s eyes, and the hurt in her voice, and understood the girl’s heartache. “If you shoul
d leave, where do you mean to go? What will you do?”
Patsy looked out the window. “I don’t know,” she confessed with a sigh. “The truth is that I don’t really understand myself, or have more than the vaguest of ideas what I really want. All I know is that I must get away from Mama and Papa—and from England, too.” Her voice took on a fierce intensity. “Living here is like living in a hothouse, Kate. I am rooted in soil that is too rich, and pampered and petted as if I were some sort of delicate, exotic plant. I am closed in from the weather, from the cold and from storms. I scarcely know what real life is like, except that it cannot be like this.”
“I understand, Patsy,” Kate said quietly. She loved Bishop’s Keep and was grateful to the generous aunt who had made it possible for her to have a life here. And of course, she was deeply in love with Charles, and for the most part, her heart was content. But happy as she was, there was another part of her that longed to be gone, to be moving through the world, unencumbered and alone, as she once had been, and free to choose where she should go and what she should do without consulting anyone.
Patsy turned eagerly to her. “Oh, Kate, how I envy you! Growing up in New York, with a policeman for an uncle. Making your own way as a governess, and as an authoress, a famous authoress—” She stopped, suddenly conscience-stricken. “Oh, pshaw. Now I’ve let the cat out of the bag. What a dunce I am!”
Kate stared at her for a long moment. “How did you know?” she asked finally.
“Everyone knows,” Patsy replied, abashed. “Your servants may be very loyal, but one simply can’t keep secrets from them. I suppose one of them said something out of turn just as I have done. It is a fascinating story, and the news is all over the village—all over the county, I daresay. Even those who do not read detective fictions read Beryl Bardwell’s, for they know them to be yours. And to be worth reading, of course,” she added hastily. “Your stories are very much admired.”