“Anonymous letters? Dear me, whatever next? As though a murder in the neighbourhood were not enough! But who was it who received this letter, Marton? Not anyone present, I collect, or you would have said so — but then, almost everyone who signifies is present, so who can it be?” He looked around him for some sign from one of the others, but seeing nothing, shrugged helplessly.
“Well, I haven’t had any such letters. Have any of the rest of you?”
He looked round the table again, and this time the head shaking was general.
“Capital!” he exclaimed, satisfied. “Y’see, Marton, it’s simply one isolated incident, probably some servant who’s been turned off and done it for spite. Yes, I should think that’s most likely, wouldn’t you? And no doubt you’ll easily track the wretch down, and put a stop to the business. I don’t know what this neighbourhood’s coming to — burglaries, anonymous letters — though only the one, of course — and even murder! Yes, and a pickpocket at the Lord Mayor’s masquerade in York, I’d forgotten that — though that’s not precisely this neighbourhood, of course, not our local area. I wonder, my dear fellow —” turning to Barnet — “if that felon should have been the same one whom you were so clever as to prevent from robbing me? But I couldn’t recall his face, could you? It was all too quick.”
Barnet shook his head. “Plenty of them about.”
The conversation was allowed to drift into more usual channels.
It was later, when Sir George had retired to the room set aside for gentlemen’s cloaks, that he put his hand into his pocket and found a piece of paper.
Puzzled, he pulled it out and unfolded it. It contained a short message of only six words:
YOU ARE GUILTY AND SHALL DIE!
On the following morning, Justin and Watts met in the grounds of the Hall before the family was astir in order to compare notes, as they had previously arranged.
Watts began. “Those two grooms, guv’nor, Leckby and Ross. Their references are satisfactory on the face of it. Leckby from the Black Swan in Coney Street — easily checked, though I haven’t had time yet — t’other man Ross worked at a gennelman’s stable in Bradford, since sold up, which was why he left. Leckby was under Carr’s eye all that day when Sir George was shot at, but Ross was sent out soon after Sir George rode off for the farm. His errand was to get a horse shoed at the blacksmith’s. Took an unconscionable time about it, according to Carr, so I had a word myself with the smith. He says Ross left the nag there promptly, then went off, returning much later, but the smith can’t say exactly how long. I asked round the village, but no one seems to have seen him about. After some wench, was the smith’s guess, and I didn’t disagree, though no one can suggest a likely moll. Well, could he have ridden off after Sir George to take a pot shot at him? Sir George had at least twenty minutes start according to Carr’s timing. If Ross knew of a shortcut, mayhap — but he’s supposed to be a stranger hereabouts. And he could hardly ride hell for leather after Sir George without attracting the gennelman’s notice. Don’t seem to me feasible, what d’ye reckon, guv’nor? Though as to what the man was about, well, I’ll go on pursuing my inquiries, unless ye’ve anything more urgent for me. The long and the short of it is motive, though. Why should he want to harm Sir George?”
“As to that, there’s motive enough,” replied Justin, having listened without interruption. “I’ve a deal to tell, Joe.”
He proceeded to relate everything he had learnt since parting from Watts on the previous day. At the conclusion, the Runner emitted a long, low whistle.
“It seems tolerably certain that we can dispense with the theory of a general outbreak of threatening anonymous letters,” concluded Justin. “No reaction was registered to that suggestion yesterday evening, and three of us were keeping a close watch. Besides, I think most of those present would have wanted to assist Sir George in such a matter — no reason why not. So we’re left with the alternative — a felon returned to England from transportation, determined to avenge himself on those he considers responsible for his conviction. One of these people is already dead, and our task is to make sure that he doesn’t wreak his vengeance on the other two, Sir George and Philip de Ryde. Both have received threatening letters, and there’s no doubt that the recent mishap to Sir George was either an abortive attempt at murder, or intended as a warning that the villain meant business. There’s more yet, as far as Sir George is concerned. Last night, just before he left the party at Cholmondeley’s place, Warton Manor, he found another threatening letter in the pocket of his evening cloak. Here it is.”
Watts scrutinised the paper, then whistled.
“Don’t waste words, does he? But that does give us a lead, sir, wouldn’t ye say? We know our man’s in the neighbourhood somewhere, but if he’s got into a room at Warton Manor, surely we can start by looking there? He’ll be a newcomer, o’ course.”
“Yes to that, but we can’t take too much for granted about your other notion. To begin with, the note may have been placed in the pocket of the cloak before Sir George left home. Again, with all the fuss of a social gathering and the servants fully occupied, any outsider could easily enter the premises unnoticed. So the field is wider than might appear. I think we must consider first what manner of man we’re looking for. All we know is that he was in his early twenties at the time of the robbery, was personable, and had been an actor — also, of course, a valet of sorts. Devil take it, Joe, he might be able to pass himself off as either a servant or a gentleman, choose how!”
“He’ll have had a rough time in Australia, though, sir, and he’ll have the marks o’ that about him. Not easy to pass for gentry, I’d say.”
“He may have been one of the more fortunate who are issued after a certain time, with what is known as a ticket of leave for good conduct. I was told about this by an officer on furlough over here last year, a man on the staff of Colonel Macquarie, Governor of New South Wales. It appears that such convicts are excused from working for the government or the settlers to whom they’ve been assigned, and are allowed to set up in business for themselves, if they possess a trade, or else to earn their living as free employees. It seems many of them eventually do very well for themselves. If our man passed several years of his transportation sentence in these easier circumstances, all traces of rigorous toil will have been obliterated, and he’ll appear much as any normal Englishman. No, I fear we can’t hope for any simple, rule-of-thumb guide to his identity. All we can be sure of is his age, and the fact that he’ll be a newcomer to the district.”
Joe Watts grunted. “Seems to me, guv’nor, we’ve got our work cut out. Either of those grooms, though, would fit the bill by that reckoning.”
“I agree. I think Mrs de Ryde’s maid may perhaps be able to offer us further assistance. She’ll surely recall more about this fellow’s appearance and any little personal quirks than a mere male such as Kirby, the butler. After all, they said she used to be sweet on the fellow. I’d like you to interview her, Joe — you’ve a winning way with females.”
Watts grinned. “Mayhap with some, sir, but younger wenches than this Healey. Besides, she fair took fright at me yesterday. That don’t promise well for getting aught out o’ her, now, does it?”
“You’ll contrive, I’ll wager. In any event, she’ll be much more reticent with me, as a member of the Quality. Off you go, then, and don’t let de Ryde refuse you access to her. There’s all the authority of Bow Street behind you. And I think perhaps it may be as well to find you a room in the village inn for emergencies, as well as your official booking at the Olde Starre in York. There’s no saying where you’ll be most wanted.”
CHAPTER 9
Healey tiptoed from her mistress’s bedroom, closing the door softly behind her, and made her way to the servants’ staircase. She had started on her descent when one of the housemaids came running upstairs, meeting her halfway.
“Mr Kirby’s looking for you, Mrs Healey,” said the girl, evidently enjoying some secret source of pleas
ure, judging by the expression on her face. “He wants to see you in the Hall as soon as maybe, so he says.”
Healey surveyed her coldly. “Indeed! And what would he be wanting, or didn’t he tell the likes of you?”
“I couldn’t say, I’m sure,” replied the other smugly. “All I know is, he’s got some kind of visitor with him. But best not keep him waiting, sithee.”
Healey swept past her with a contemptuous look, and continued down several flights until she reached the servants’ hall.
She entered, then stood still, staring. Kirby was sitting at the table with another man, but he turned and rose as she slowly approached.
“Ah, Healey,” he said, quietly. “Mistress asleep, is she?”
She nodded mutely, her eyes fixed upon the other man. Now she recognised him as the Bow Street Runner she had seen yesterday. Panic surged up in her.
“Mr Watts here would like a few words with you, Healey,” explained the butler, still gently, for he saw that she had turned pale. “He’s an officer from Bow Street looking into the villainous business of Sir Eustace Knowle’s murder, as I think you already know. Now, no need to get yourself into a state about it, but just answer his questions sensibly, there’s a good wench.”
“I don’t know nothing — anything — about it!” she gasped, clenching her hands together.
“No, course not,” replied Watts soothingly, rising to set a chair for her a little distance from the table and facing the window. “Pray sit down, ma’am, and be at ease. I don’t bite, y’know.”
She paused for a moment, then seated herself. Watts turned his chair towards her and also sat down, signalling with a nod of the head to Kirby to make himself scarce.
“I’m hoping ye’ll be able to help me, Mrs Healey — it is Mrs, I take it?”
“It’s — it’s a what d’you call it — courtesy title — the lower servants use,” she answered, hesitantly at first, but gaining fluency as she continued. “I’m a spinster, truth to tell, so’s Cook, but she’s always called Mrs Sallis. It don’t do for the lower orders to get above themselves.”
“Quite right and proper,” he murmured approvingly, “so I’ll call ye Mrs, too, then happen I’ll mind to keep my place.”
He grinned engagingly at her, and she relaxed a little, even producing a somewhat coy look.
“That’s better,” he went on, “now we begin to understand each other. What I want from you, m’dear, is for you to cast your mind back a few years — a good few years — and tell me what ye can recall about a certain incident and the persons concerned in that incident.”
The frightened expression returned to her eyes.
“A — an — incident — from years back?” she echoed, in a whisper.
“No need to be alarmed, Mrs Healey. The incident I refer to was the theft of Mrs de Ryde’s necklace in 1802, fourteen years since. I would like you to tell me all you remember about that and the thief — a valet called Pringle. I’ve had an account from Kirby, and he gave me to understand that you were on friendly terms with this Pringle — perhaps I could say, very friendly terms?”
She lost colour again, putting her hands up to her mouth in a distracted gesture. She made some attempt to speak, but no words came.
He studied her for a moment in silence, then rose to cross over to a wall cupboard, producing from it a couple of glasses and a bottle. Kirby had offered him hospitality earlier from the same source.
He poured a measure of the liquid into each glass, pressing one of them firmly into Healey’s grasp and raising the other to his own lips.
“Drink that up,” he commanded.
She obeyed, but her hand trembled so that a few drops trickled down her chin. He gestured that she should empty the glass completely, then removed it from her, turning his back while she mopped at the spilt liquid.
When he turned round again, she seemed to have recovered some of her poise. Evidently the brandy was going to work; he decided to press home his advantage.
“Now,” he said. “Easy does it. No harm in a pretty young wench strikin’ up a friendship with a personable young feller, that I can see — only natural. Tell me about it.”
She stared back at him defiantly, but the fear had left her eyes.
“As you say, there was no harm. Mind, it’s a long time since, and I can’t say as I rightly recall much about it.”
“Just tell me the little ye do recall,” he said persuasively.
“Well, Sir Eustace came here on what the gentlemen call a repairing lease — pockets always to let, that one,” she put in disparagingly. “And Madam as soft as butter with him, always giving him money, which made the Master as mad as fire — many’s the quarrel I’ve overheard when I’ve been in the dressing room! Not that I ever listen at doors, mind you — I wouldn’t have you think that!”
“Such a notion would never enter my head, I assure ye, Mrs Healey.”
She cast him a suspicious glance which he returned with a mild expression. Soothed by the brandy, she was reassured, and continued.
“He’d been several times before, but never brought his own valet, relying on sharing the services of Mr Goddard with the master. He — Pringle —” she hesitated over the name — “hadn’t been long with Sir Eustace. He wasn’t a valet by rights, but an actor who’d been out of work so long, he was glad to turn his hand to anything genteel. Not that he got paid, except by fits and starts, but there was a roof over his head and victuals, so he didn’t find it too bad a bargain.”
“How long did Sir Eustace stay that time?”
She considered for a moment. “About six weeks, I reckon. He only ever stayed until his pockets were filled again.”
“So both of you being young, and in the same line of service — your work and his would keep you both on the floor of the family bedrooms mostly — you became friendly?”
She nodded.
“And I dare say, being friendly, he’d now and then pop his head round the door when you were clearing away your mistress’ jewellery and such like in her bedroom?”
He put the question as casually as he was able; but even so, she stiffened.
“That’s what the magistrate, Sir George Marton, tried to make me say!” she exclaimed, going red in the face. “And it was no such thing! If Pringle did poke around in there, and he must have done, to lift that necklace, it was none o’ my doing! I’m as innocent as the day I was born, and that’s Gawd’s truth! And so I told him!”
All at once, her defiance crumpled, and she began to snivel.
“It’s a lonely life, bein’ lady’s maid,” she whimpered. “Only the butler and the housekeeper on my level, and them married, and Mr Goddard, of course, but he was older than me, and a starched up, frowsty thing, to boot. And when a young feller comes along, ready to have a bit of a laugh with a body —”
She broke off, sobbing.
“There, there,” said Watts soothingly. “I understand very well, m’dear, and I’m not accusing ye of aught. But tell me, what was this young chap like in looks? Handsome? Tall or short? What colouring?”
She dried her tears, and was silent for a moment. Then she darted a quick, frightened look at him.
“Why? Why d’ye want to know?” she gasped.
“Never mind that, but try to answer the question,” replied Watts, more firmly.
“There’s something ye’re not tellin’ me!” she accused him.
“And there’s something ye’re not telling me,” he retorted. “I want a description of this man Pringle, if ye please, ma’am.”
“I can’t say — it was too long ago — all I know was he seemed a personable man — all the female staff thought so —”
“But ye surely must remember if he was tall or short, dark or fair,” he persisted. “Come, now.”
“As far as I recollect, he’d be a bit shorter than you, and his hair was middling brown.”
“And his eyes? Don’t tell me ye didn’t notice the colour of his eyes?” His tone was insinuating.<
br />
She flushed. “They were a kind of blue grey,” she said grudgingly. “But Kirby could tell you all this, as well as me.”
“Mebbe, but it’s you I’m asking. Was there anything else ye noticed about him — any distinguishing marks, like a wart, or some such? Perhaps not on his face or hands, but elsewhere, for instance?”
“What are ye suggesting?” she shouted. “D’ye have the impudence to accuse me of — of — behavin’ like a trollop? Get out o’ here! I’ll not put up with another minute o’ this! Get out!”
She had risen to her feet, pushed away the chair and was rushing for the door when he started after her, grabbing her wrist.
“A moment,” he said grimly. “Have ye seen this man since his transportation — have ye seen him lately?”
It was a bow at a venture, but the arrow went home.
She gave a loud gasp, turned deathly pale, and collapsed in a heap at his feet.
“And there was no more to be got out of her at that time,” reported Watts to Justin, less than an hour later. “What with the cook and a gaggle o’ housemaids with sal volatile and burnt feathers, you never knew such a commotion goin’ on, guv’nor, not since we was in the Peninsula with Old Hookey — beggin’ his pardon, the Duke o’ Wellington — an’ Boney’s lot were pepperin’ us! I scarpered double quick, and so did the butler. But I’ll have another touch at her, never fear. I reckon she knows something.”
Anne de Ryde had been paying small attention to the Elegant Extracts which her governess Miss Fawcett had set her to copy. She kept biting the end of her pen and staring into space, from time to time, fetching heartfelt sighs. At last Miss Fawcett, who was herself trying to concentrate on a book, felt obliged to remark on her pupil’s obvious lack of interest in her task.
The governess was not a strict authoritarian, nor an unfeeling woman. She was too shrewd not to realise that Anne’s late uncle was unlamented as far as the girl was concerned; but she did allow for the present unsettling atmosphere of the household making it difficult for her charge to concentrate.
Masquerade of Vengeance (The Rutherford Trilogy Book 3) Page 9