The Viscount's Deadly Game

by Issy Brooke

  “So you’re here about the Beaconberg business?”

  “Indeed so. I feel it is a fool’s quest, of course. But let me ask you about the manner of his finding, for I am not sure the police have it right.”

  Mr Jenkins said, “I was informed that the body of the deceased was brought up out of the water and had been lodged half in, and half out, of the open carriage window.”

  “But that makes no sense.”

  “I agree, it does not, and I am not surprised that you are asking about it. But I have worked before with the policeman who was there and who saw it, and I am inclined to believe him. He is a steady and experienced man.”

  “Was that eyewitness actually in the river?”

  “Yes, he was.”

  “Oh.” Theodore was punctured for a moment. “I see.”

  “Drink up! I’ll show you the corpse!”

  “Er – really?”

  “You are a man of science! It’s no bother. I should like you to see it. I’d be honoured, if you don’t mind. Come along!”

  Theodore followed Mr Jenkins along a series of cool corridors. The sprightly man almost skipped to the mortuary, and Theodore thought to himself, there is man who enjoys his work very much. Possibly too much. But then, of course, he probably can’t talk about his day to day tasks in polite company. Adelia would have bashed my head in with a fire-iron by now, if I were like this cheerful man of death.

  “We’ve put him away, of course,” Mr Jenkins said. “Through here. Nice and cool, isn’t it? He’s under this sheet. Ready for the undertakers to come and do the things that they do.”

  “No autopsy?”

  “No real need; he drowned. I’ve done as much investigation as I need to do, and there’s no sense in cutting a chap open for the fun of it.”

  Theodore looked at him and thought, but you would, if you could, I’ll bet. The smiling man was beginning to make Theodore feel a little queasy. Or perhaps that was just the effect of the lingering aroma of formaldehyde mixed in with the musty, damp and swampy smell that lingered over the shape on the table.

  Mr Jenkins pulled back the sheet with all the flourish of a showman on stage. Theodore paused for a moment as he regarded the strange, waxy face of the dead man. This was hardly the same man he had enjoyed a convivial evening of drink and conversation at the club – it was difficult to believe.

  But it was. There was no case of mistaken identity here. The body was slightly swollen and bloated, and the blood had pooled in purple patches where the body met the table on which it lay. The undertakers would work their magic in restoring some mockery of life to the corpse, but at this moment, Lord Beaconberg was very definitely dead.

  “He had not been in the water for long,” Theodore mused, assessing the state of the body’s bloating. Long-drowned corpses absorbed a great deal of water, puffing them up like sea sponges.

  “No. A matter of an hour or so.”

  “And his lungs were full of water?”

  “Undoubtedly so, or so I imagine. But they were actually empty when he came at last to me. The police had performed the usual manoeuvres in a vain hope of reviving him, and so any water was expelled. They didn’t know any better; he would have been far past that point.”

  Theodore shuddered. Still, it was to their credit. An autopsy could confirm whether water had been in the lungs or whether Lord Beaconberg had been dead before he hit the river, but if one was not to be performed, there was no way of knowing for sure. He had to rely on what he was told. He forced himself to walk to the head of the dead man, and look more closely at his hair and clothing.

  “What is it that you seek?” Mr Jenkins asked.

  “I don’t know until I see it.” But there was nothing to see. Beaconberg was dressed just as Theodore had remembered him, although his clothing was in disarray. The swampy smell was much stronger now. Theodore noticed green leaves in the dead man’s hair, and pulled them free.

  “Water weeds,” Mr Jenkins said.

  “Indeed.” Theodore took out a handkerchief and wrapped up the plant matter carefully. They had not looked like any weed he knew of, but he wanted to be sure.

  “And so you must also be a botanist!” Mr Jenkins exclaimed. “Is there no end to your talents?”

  “My wife suggests there is no start to them.”

  “I cannot believe that.” They shared a male moment of laughter at the notion of uncaring wives, and Mr Jenkins laughed for just a little bit too long. Theodore resumed his perambulation around the corpse.

  “Thank you,” he said at last. “I shall trouble you no longer.”

  “Come tonight for a meal!”

  “I thank you but I have a prior engagement.”

  “Tomorrow, then...”

  Theodore had to extricate himself with considerable difficultly. He felt like he had prised himself out of the coroner’s office like a limpet from a ship’s hull, and was still shaking off Mr Jenkin’s pleas and entreaties as he hurried away down the street, leaving the man to his brandy and his corpses.

  He drew in a few deep breaths of cleansing air, and headed out once more on the route that Lord Beaconberg had taken on that fateful night that led to his death.

  He walked, because it was still not quite lunchtime, and he wanted to exercise to get the blood flowing. He also wanted to pay close attention to the plant-life that he saw along the way. He pulled the handkerchief free from his pocket and examined the leaves once more.

  They were not the leaves of plants that habitually grew alongside rivers. He thought he could recognise the distinctive serrated leaves of yarrow and there was even still a faint smell of the plant that emerged when he pressed them. There were also roundish leaves much like mouse-ear hawkweed or similar; he could not be entirely certain without more of the plant to study. But both were meadow plants rather than river-dwellers.

  Eventually he reached the part of the road where the accident had occurred. The fence had been hastily repaired with planks and nails. Theodore went through the horizontal rails and explored the top part of the banking. Here he found the more common riverside vegetation that he expected, but not a scrap of yarrow or hawkweed.

  Thoughtfully, he clambered back through the fence and turned his face back to York. He had gone a little way, just nearing to the toll-booth house where the rag still fluttered in the hedge, when he noticed a flash of yellow in the grassy verge to one side. The flowers looked like dandelions with their blunt toothy petals, but as he bent to examine the plant, he knew it was hawkweed from the smoother shape of the leaves. With his heart beating faster, he looked at the area more closely.

  And there was a stand of yarrow, but it was half-flattened.

  Obvious and immediate conclusions flashed into his mind but he had to stop himself from running away with wild speculation. Yes, a scuffle could have taken place here, but how and who and why?

  He had to consider other explanations too. The yarrow could be flattened from the great to-and-fro of people that had been swarming about on the road between the scene and the town after the accident was revealed. Many policemen had been here, not to mention the wave of casual gawkers, the members of the public who seemed to revel in looking at places where terrible things had occurred. The plant matter could easily have got caught in Beaconberg’s hair when the body was recovered from the river. Theodore could picture the chaos. The corpse being dragged out of the water – being laid on the ground – didn’t the coroner say that the police had worked on him, trying to revive him, expelling the water from his lungs? Perhaps he was brought a little distance from the river bank, to here, where the yarrow grew, rather than laying him out on the dangerous bend in the road.

  Theodore barely noticed the long walk back into York. His mind was in turmoil. And he did not return to the coroner’s office, but instead found his way to the police station where he was not able to speak to the inspector from the night of the accident, but did persuade a happy young policeman to let him look at the Brougham that Beaconberg had b
een driving.

  This young man had been on duty that night and was more than pleased to be able to answer questions. Having knowledge clearly gave him a sense of importance and Theodore surmised that he was rather new to his post in the force.

  “We did tell Lady Beaconberg we’d bring it back to her,” the young policeman said as he led Theodore into a courtyard surrounded by sheds and stables. “But she said no and that was probably for the best, as it needs a fair bit of repair. I suppose we’ll let it go to the scrappies. They can get the metal and the wood and the cloth and make some money.”

  The carriage looked sad and battered. There was always something a little miserable about a coach that was unattached to a horse, Theodore thought. And that made him ask, with a slight sense of reluctance as he didn’t want to hear the worst news, “What really happened to the horse?”

  “Oh, it’s well.”

  “It’s well? It survived?” So were those reports correct?

  The policeman grinned. “It was hale and hearty, sir. It’s gone to Lord Beaconberg’s stables. Sir Arthur Glanville took it.”

  “But how?”

  “It got free and when we arrived that night, we found it wandering on the bank, and munching away on the grass.”

  “How did it get free?”

  “It broke free. The instinct to save one’s life is strong in both men and beasts,” the man said, as if he were quoting someone else. “My sergeant said he once saw a mother lift an upturned cart right up in the air to save her son who was crushed underneath. This cart, not four men together could have lifted it – but she did.”

  Theodore shook his head and looked at the stained, dented carriage. He picked and pulled at the leatherwork that still hung in tatters from the shafts. “This edge has been cut,” he said, and showed the clean slice in one of the reins.

  The policeman glanced at it. “Maybe. Or it snapped when the horse was struggling.”

  “I need to speak to one of your superiors,” Theodore said.

  The young policeman’s demeanour shifted, as if Theodore had said the wrong thing, though he couldn’t think why. He had vital evidence right in front of him and it was the obvious thing to do; his suspicions had to be passed onto the men in charge.

  But the policeman was shaking his head. “I can pass a message to Inspector Benn for you, sir.”

  “I need to speak to him.”

  “He is not here at present.”

  “When will he be here?”

  “I don’t know, sir.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “Elsewhere, sir.”

  Theodore’s interrogation techniques were now exhausted. Furious with himself as much as the obstructive policeman, he stalked out of the station and was in such a fury that he bumped into a man in a mustard-yellow suit who put a hand flat on his chest and said, in amused tones, “Ah, Lord Calaway– we meet at last!”

  Theodore blinked at the man. “Who the blazes are you?”

  THE MAN HAD A FLESHY round face and round spectacles and a very genial expression. “I’m Horatio Dobson of the Gazette, and I am pleased to make your acquaintance. Speaking of acquaintances, you were close with Lord Beaconberg, were you not? Would you care for a drink, sir?” He waved his hand towards a public house.

  “You’re a journalist,” Theodore said in tones of horror. “I rather think I would not, thank you.”

  “Yes, yes, I am indeed a man of letters.”

  “I hardly think that scribbling for a newspaper can glorify one with such a title,” Theodore said primly.

  Yet Mr Dobson’s facial expression did not waver. He was used to such slights. “Tell me about your poor dear friend,” he said. “All the world is dying to know.”

  “Let it die. I have nothing to say.”

  “Do you not? What of Sir Arthur? What will happen to the stables? What, in particular, will happen now to Golden Meadow?”

  That took Theodore by surprise. He had been bracing himself for a barrage of questions about the manner of Lord Beaconberg’s death, but had quite forgotten about the prizewinning horse. “I have no idea,” he said.

  “You are an amateur detective, are you not?”

  “I may have assisted in one case but that hardly befits me to claim such a role.”

  “You were successful and therefore yes, you may claim it. Own it, sir! You have a talent which ought to be cherished. I know many detectives, both professional and amateur, and I would be delighted to tell you all about them – over that drink, perhaps...”

  “No, thank you. I must be on my way.” Theodore tapped the brim of his hat in the most perfunctory gesture of politeness and headed off along the street.

  The infuriating man kept pace with him. He said, “Have you been to the stable yard?”

  “Of course I have,” Theodore snapped. “But I can hardly see what it is to do with you.”

  “Impressed, were you?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Intrigued?”

  “What? No. What are you suggesting?”

  “Loyal staff members there, you know. Very loyal.”

  Theodore stopped. Mr Dobson’s face was still broken in an honest and almost placid grin, which was completely at odds with the air of menace that hung around his words. Theodore said, “You can’t get access, can you? Well, you shan’t manage it through me, either. I have nothing more to say to you.”

  “Then don’t speak to me. Speak to Douglas Mackie. Then you’ll be coming back to me and asking for all the things that I know. The things I know about Golden Meadow. You know where to find me!” This last sentence was shouted after Theodore as he resumed his hasty walk down the street. This time, Mr Dobson did not follow him.

  Theodore throbbed with annoyance. Firstly, how dare the man!

  But secondly, what on earth was he talking about?

  Why was a racehorse suddenly important?

  Ten

  Adelia was happy enough to return to Dovewood and keep Lady Beaconberg company. She missed Mary and was still worrying, from time to time, about her sleepwalking habits. The recent events of the death would certainly upset her further, but Adelia reminded herself that Mary was in a safe place and surrounded by those who loved her. Whereas Lady Beaconberg was now almost completely alone. She was insisting on being called Marguerite and was treating Adelia like a long-lost friend, clinging to her arm and sharing giggling anecdotes, though every now and then she stopped and sighed. She would turn and look pensively out of a window and Adelia let the silence cover those moments, recognising that Lady Beaconberg was remembering her dead husband and reflecting on his passing.

  But those moments were fleeting, and surprisingly so, for a woman who declared herself to be utterly heartbroken and devastated. She was lonely and she was lost but she wasn’t, in actuality, shattered and broken by her loss. Her loneliness and loss came more from the fact that she was now condemned to a period of polite seclusion. Not everyone stuck to the strict rules of the etiquette manuals and advice columns in the journals – in fact, few adhered to them rigidly – yet there were certain conventions that no one would ever break, and this meant that Lady Beaconberg was expected to remain quietly at home for a good few weeks at the very least.

  And she clearly hated it.

  Adelia was fully aware that she was being used. Yet she didn’t mind it. Lady Beaconberg needed someone, and if Adelia was to be the one to help her in her hour of need, why not?

  The long hours of meaningless conversation did begin to grate on Adelia’s nerves, however. By the mid-afternoon, she was ashamed to find that she was rather tired of hearing the same shallow stories endlessly repeated, and she found herself unwilling to join in with Lady Beaconberg’s spiteful carping about other people. She was relieved when Lady Beaconberg retired to her rooms for an afternoon nap. She seized the chance to take a walk down the road. She had not managed to see her daughter Mary that morning and that was a good a pretext as any to escape once more from the cloying halls of Dovew
ood.

  When she arrived back at the Grey House, she was told that her husband was still out in York, but that the mistress of the house was in her private rooms. Adelia shook out her gloves as she walked briskly up the stairs, hoping for some nice and uncomplicated conversation with her daughter. Mary, unlike Lady Beaconberg, would not speak ill of anyone and that would refresh Adelia’s soul, she thought. If one is too long in the company of sour folk, one can’t help taking on a little of their negative taint.

  She reached the door and was about to tap on it but found that it was partly ajar, and she peeped in through the crack. She could see a shape on the bed, and using a mother’s prerogative to access all areas, she pushed open the door wide enough to see that Mary was lying asleep yet fully clothed.

  Poor lamb, thought Adelia. She must be so very tired. She spent a moment in maternal contemplation of her daughter, then noticed with equally maternal disapproval that Mary’s stockings were wrinkled around her ankles and they were not as clean as they ought to have been. Her silk house slippers were on the rug by the bed, and her feet were clad only in the pale stockings which should have been ivory but were, in fact, stained with green as if she’d been cavorting on grass.

  Adelia retreated back out onto the corridor and thought, she must have been sleepwalking again.

  But no. That didn’t make sense. She would not have been wearing the stockings in the night.

  She thought again of the sensible boots that Mary had worn one night.

  And she thought also of the maid who had spotted someone and made a secret signal.

  And then there were the unlocked doors when all doors ought to have been firmly secured.

  Another suspicion now grew in her mind. She left Mary in peace, and went to find her mother-in-law, Grace.

  GRACE WAS NOW DEEP in the grips of her summer cold. She was bundled up in a shawl and complaining bitterly to anyone who strayed into earshot. She was sitting on a patio area at the top of a set of terraces overlooking the lawns which had been laid out with hoops for a potential game of croquet.