Rustication

by Charles Palliser

  I came up here to ponder this turn of events. In the instant that Betsy spoke, I saw the point of it all. The deed has been done and the trap has snapped shut upon me. It is more than just the letters that I am to be incriminated for. I am overcome with admiration for their ingenuity.

  Davenant Burgoyne did not fall from his horse. He was murdered. I am certain of it. And it has all been done so cleverly. Suppose that I want to kill someone. Suppose further that I am the obvious suspect because his death benefits me. And I am all the more likely to be suspected because it is thought that I have already tried to murder him and failed. Under those circumstances I would select a plausible culprit—someone who is believed to have a grudge against my quarry. I would goad and deceive him so that he appeared to be violent and even unstable and if possible I would try to make it seem that he was the author of a series of deranged letters filled with threats of violence against the intended victim and that he was wandering the fields at night venting his rage on dumb beasts. If he could be induced to threaten my “mark” in front of witnesses, that would be perfect. And it would be ideal if I could arrange for him to have no alibi at the moment I committed the murder. If I managed all that successfully, the police would not even bother to investigate me.

  Looking back through these pages I can see things so clearly now:

  They met at Lady Terrewest’s house—perhaps Lyddiard sought Euphemia out after hearing that Davenant Burgoyne had jilted her—and made common cause since both had good reason to hate Davenant Burgoyne. I imagine that the bargain they struck was that once he was dead, they would marry. So although Euphemia would not be a countess, she would be the wife of a wealthy man at least. He visited her often and that is why, the evening I returned, Mother mistook me for him and why Euphemia was wearing her best clothes. Davenant Burgoyne had to die—and, as Mr Boddington explained, that had to happen before his next birthday—and the difficulty was that Lyddiard was the obvious suspect and was already widely believed to have made an attempt on his half-brother’s life. So they needed a scapegoat. When did the conspirators conceive the idea of making me their dupe? I believe I know that. It was the moment I revealed my erroneous belief that Euphemia was still meeting Davenant Burgoyne out on the Battlefield. She and her lover realised that they could take advantage of my mistake to whip me into a fever of rage against the man they wanted dead. That’s why Euphemia unexpectedly changed her mind about me. Instead of being hounded out of the house I was urged to stay and then charmed into agreeing to attend the ball. (The Yass woman—the so-called cook—was sent away the same day and I must admit that I don’t yet understand the significance of that.) And then the letters and the attacks on animals. They wanted to arouse fear that some deranged person was on the loose and then gradually incriminate me. That is why Euphemia was so determined that I be present at the ball: I had to have a public confrontation with the victim a few hours before he was murdered.

  I have been reading and re-reading what I wrote in this Journal about the ball, trying to find some clue that might help me. Some things I understand and others I don’t. That moment when I saw Euphemia running down the stairs in tears was the bait that led me into the argument with Davenant Burgoyne.

  Yet I had seen her again as I was being pushed out of the billiard room a few minutes later. Had she come up to listen at the door? And then there was that mysterious business of her hurrying off while we were going back to the inn. At least I now understood her insistence that she would not share a carriage with me: I had to be made to walk home to ensure that I had no alibi. But I’m sure there is something I have failed to grasp.

  However much I disliked Davenant Burgoyne, I take no joy in his premature death. I can’t help thinking of the grief of the old earl. This is a blow for him. Although he has two good-for-nothing nephews, he is said to be a decent and honourable person. And as for Maud—I am truly sorry to think how devastated she must be. Just a day ago I saw them smiling and laughing. She and the earl are the really innocent victims in this imbroglio. I, in contrast, have contributed to my destruction: I have at the very least been guilty of wilful stupidity.

  5 o’clock.

  Events are unfolding with the strange logic of a dream where what should appear astonishing seems inevitable and normal.

  A couple of hours after luncheon we heard the sound of a chaise in the lane and then there was a hammering at the door. I went out and found a police-officer in uniform with a man in civilian dress. The latter introduced himself as Sergeant Wilson of the Detective Force. He asked if he might talk to my family and myself about a grave matter and I led him into the parlour where my mother and sister were.

  He explained that he was from Scotland Yard and had been commissioned to investigate the circumstances in which Mr Davenant Burgoyne had died.

  Mother asked in a trembling voice: Why have you come to this house?

  Wilson said: I’ll deal with that in a moment, ma’am. First I have to inform you of something that you may or may not know. Here he turned and looked at me: Mr Davenant Burgoyne was murdered.

  Mother gasped and Euphemia turned away.

  Wilson said to me: You don’t seem very surprised, Mr Shenstone?

  I shrugged. It didn’t sound like an accident.

  Now that’s an interesting remark, he said.

  At my invitation he seated himself and told us this story: Davenant Burgoyne left the ball an hour or two later than us and in the company of his uncle. They went back to the earl’s townhouse and had breakfast together and then he set out on horseback along the Handleton road to ride to his uncle’s country-house. Nobody saw him alive again. His horse was found wandering back towards the town. Late in the day his body, lightly covered in leaves, was discovered in a ditch at the side of the road about ten miles from the town.

  I asked how he was killed.

  The officer turned to me: We believe his assailant was waiting for him.

  On foot or horseback?

  On foot. A horseman is always going to announce his presence and will leave traces that might enable detection, but a man on foot at night can move as silently and invisibly as a cat.

  So the attacker had not followed him from Thurchester?

  We think not. We believe he was lying in ambush at a place previously selected where there were trees at the side of the road. That allowed him to jump out on his victim with all the advantages of surprise.

  Then did he shoot him?

  Mr Davenant Burgoyne had not been shot, he said sadly like a disappointed schoolmaster receiving a wrong answer from a favourite pupil. Can you make a guess as to the means used?

  I smiled. No, Sergeant Wilson, I cannot.

  He brought him down with a most unusual weapon. It had a sharp blade and a long enough handle to let him swing it up at him and deliver a hard blow that would have knocked him from his seat.

  My mother gave a cry of horror.

  Wilson turned and bowed. I apologise for these distressing details, Mrs Shenstone.

  I said: That sounds like a very extraordinary weapon, Sergeant Wilson. Have you any idea what it was?

  We know exactly what it was, Mr Shenstone. It was found in the ditch beside the corpse. I am not at liberty to particularise its nature. I can say that it is highly distinctive and is of considerable significance in our investigation. He paused weightily and then said: There is a matter that seems to be connected to this dreadful business. A number of menacing letters have been received in recent weeks by several individuals in the district.

  Yes, Mother said in apparent surprise. Both my daughter and I have received such letters.

  I would like to have sight of them, Mrs Shenstone, in order to further my investigation.

  I will be glad to have them out of the house, Mother said. She began to rummage in her work-basket saying: One of them has been destroyed. It was the first that my daughter received. But there are two others that we kept. And I don’t want them returned.

  She handed them to t
he detective. He looked down at them. The author of these is of great interest to me. For one thing, he made numerous threats against Mr Davenant Burgoyne. Threats of a very disgusting nature which I wouldn’t for a thousand pounds say any more about in the presence of ladies. And it seems reasonable to suppose that he is the individual who has been maiming animals in the locality since some of the same indescribable acts were performed against them. Against the stallions and rams. And the implement he used for that is most probably the one used in the murder.

  At that instant I guessed what the weapon was and another piece of the design fell into place. It was Fourdrinier’s stolen tool! I said: But to repeat my mother’s question, why have you come to this house?

  He smiled appreciatively as if I had made a witticism that required no reply. He addressed himself to my mother: I understand that after the ball you and your daughter returned from Thurchester by carriage on Sunday morning leaving Mr Shenstone at the inn? She nodded. At what time did you part from your son?

  The vehicle was ordered for ½ past 5, she said. We must have left the inn a few minutes after that.

  The detective took a note-book from his pocket and wrote something in it. He turned to me: And you walked back?

  I nodded.

  Was there any reason for that?

  None, I said quickly. I just needed some fresh air after all that time in a stuffy room.

  A long walk, he commented. It must have taken you about four hours. Perhaps longer. At what hour did you set off?

  I didn’t leave immediately. I stayed for a while at The George and Dragon. I left at about a quarter past seven.

  Did you speak to anyone? the detective asked.

  I met my mother’s lawyer, Mr Boddington, near the Assembly Rooms.

  What time did you part from him?

  A little before eight. And a few minutes later I had a brief conversation with his son, Mr Tobias Boddington.

  And from that moment until you reached here, can anybody confirm your presence on that road?

  Nobody, as far as I am aware.

  He looked at Mother: What time did the young gentleman arrive here?

  Mother hesitated. Before she could speak, Euphemia said: It was about one o’clock.

  Wilson turned to me and said lugubriously: Then from eight until one o’clock there is only your own word for it that you were on a walk that should have taken you about four hours?

  I could see exactly what was going through his mind. During that period I could have taken the road towards Handleton and arrived at the fatal spot before Davenant Burgoyne, done the deed, and then cut across country along lanes and by-ways and got back to the route from Thurchester to Herriard House without being seen. Telling the truth would gain me nothing since nobody had seen me make the detour to the house of Lady Terrewest which had lengthened my journey home.

  My sister is mistaken about the time I reached here, I said. It was an hour or two earlier but I came in quietly and went straight to bed so she didn’t hear me. She is thinking of the time she saw me which was when I came down for luncheon.

  Wilson made a note. Then he smiled and turning to my mother, said: I love to walk in the evening air, ma’am, when the bustle and noise of the day have died away. He turned back to me: I understand that like myself you enjoy taking a stroll after sunset?

  Now and then, I agreed.

  Often till quite late?

  Occasionally.

  It has been alleged that on some of these occasions you have been seen peering through the windows of various houses at night.

  I smiled and said: You’ve been speaking to Mrs Darnton, I suspect. Has she also told you that I have harassed several young ladies?

  Since you mention it, he said good-naturedly. It seems the whole neighbourhood has been talking about you. Mrs Darnton has also told me that you have been very curious about how the post is collected and franked and delivered.

  I was trying to discover who was writing those letters.

  Mrs Darnton says that on one occasion you asked her for the address of Mr Davenant Burgoyne.

  I shrugged. I could think of no explanation for that which did not enfold me still more securely in the coils of the plot against me.

  He gazed at me speculatively for several seconds and then said in the most avuncular manner: Of course, you understand why I’ve come to have a little chinwag with you?

  My conversation with Mr Davenant Burgoyne at the ball, I assume.

  Rather more than a conversation, by all the accounts I’ve heard, he said cheerfully.

  An altercation, then.

  He smiled. If that word means that you shouted at him and threatened him, then it’s the right one.

  I think his friends may have exaggerated what occurred, I said.

  He accused you of having made an attempt on his life?

  Yes, he made the absurd allegation that I attacked him outside his lodgings about a week ago.

  He looked surprised and stared at me for a moment still smiling: The assault in Hill Street?

  I nodded. What else were we talking about?

  He said: That’s enough for now, Mrs Shenstone. He turned back to me as he stood up: Would you see me to the door, young fellow?

  When we were out in the passage and the door was shut behind us, he said: That’s very interesting. You misunderstood me a moment ago. When I brought up the accusation that Mr Davenant Burgoyne made at the ball I was referring to the incident in London back in November and I know you were not involved in that because I’ve already telegraphed my colleagues in Cambridge and established that you were there at the time. Incidentally, they told me about a little bit of trouble involving you and a chum of yours who died in somewhat mysterious circumstances. A young man to whom you owed a great deal of money.

  I tried to dissimulate the dismay his words caused me.

  He went on: But when I mentioned an assault on Mr Davenant Burgoyne you thought I was talking about the more recent incident in Hill Street. Now I wonder why.

  Foolishly I blurted out: I wasn’t in Thurchester on that day.

  Which day? he asked quietly.

  The day that Mr Davenant Burgoyne was attacked.

  What date was that?

  I don’t know, I had to admit.

  It was Monday the 4th of January, he said.

  I said: That wasn’t the day I went to Thurchester. It was about that time but I believe it was a Tuesday. I went to book rooms and a carriage.

  Even as I uttered the words it seemed to me highly probable that Wilson would establish the true date from the people at the inn or the livery-stable and if not from them, then certainly from Mr Boddington.

  The officer looked at me pityingly. Then he put his arm on my shoulder and said softly: Now, is there anything you wish to tell me that you didn’t want to say in front of the ladies?

  Nothing, I said.

  He looked offended and withdrew his arm. As you wish.

  Just one thing, I said. How can you be sure the murder was not just a commonplace highway robbery?

  Without going into the details which are highly distasteful, I would refer you to the point I made about the threats in the letters and the things done to animals.

  Do you mean that things of that nature were done to the body of Mr Davenant Burgoyne?

  He just smiled at me and opened the door. The uniformed policeman was standing by the horse’s head. Wilson nodded at him cheerfully and then turned back to me. I’ll just stroll around talking to people for the next day or two. I love this part of the world, though I don’t know it well. This is a chance to become acquainted with it. And the people are so friendly. I’ve talked to Mr and Mrs Lloyd and, as you guessed, to Mrs Darnton—all charming, quite, quite charming. And I’ve made a friend of that good soul Miss Bittlestone who was in Mrs Darnton’s shop when I looked in and I’m planning to pay her a little visit. They’ve all had so much to tell me. There’s a gentleman with a strange name who is anxious to speak to me. Has the od
d pastime of poking about in the dust looking for dead Romans, as far as I can gather. And there’s more for me to learn from these good people, I’m sure of it.

  As he and his subordinate climbed into the trap he said: So as I say, I’ll be here for a while and I’m sure I shall have the pleasure of speaking to you again very soon, Mr Shenstone.

  I look forward to that, I responded with a slight bow.

  When the men had gone I hurried up here to write it all down.

  I’m surprised Wilson did not arrest and charge me. He knows that I threatened Davenant Burgoyne in public and that I have no alibi for the time he was killed. He probably believes that I wrote the letters and committed those disgusting acts against animals. If he doesn’t think that yet, he will after listening to my neighbours on the subject. He hardly needs any more evidence against me.

  · · ·

  However, when my mother tells Wilson that I arrived home at eleven o’clock yesterday and therefore could not have been on the Handleton road at the time of the murder, that will go some way towards clearing me.

  9 o’clock.

  I did not utter a syllable to my mother or sister from the moment of the officer’s departure until I seated myself at the table for dinner. Would either of them ask me about Wilson’s suspicions?

  Apparently not. We began to eat in silence. It seemed absurd for us not to talk about what had happened. I said to Mother: It’s unfortunate that nobody saw me between eight and one yesterday since it has led that detective into wasting his time investigating me. You could help everybody if you were to tell him that I got home at eleven.

  Before she could respond Euphemia said: It’s outrageous that you expect Mother to lie. If she said that in court she would be committing perjury.

  I told her that I found her respect for the truth deeply moving. Nobody spoke again.

  Striking that Mother never looked me in the face.

  I see nothing to be gained by challenging Euphemia. She knows I have no evidence to prove what she and Lyddiard have done. And I would lose the one advantage I have which is that they don’t know that I have guessed everything.