Mortmain Hall

by Martin Edwards

  Why had she run? Embarrassment, that must be the answer. She’d supposed that Jacob was there under cover, working on a story that would expose the Clan, and her own proclivities. Unconventional and eccentric she might be, but she was also Felix Dobell’s wife and an esteemed criminologist. If her secret way of life in London became common knowledge, it would hurt her reputation. But he didn’t believe it was connected with Bernice Cope’s death.

  “Nearly there,” he said as they rounded the last bend in the lane, and the inn came into view.

  “Do you think other journalists will be on their way?”

  He mopped the sweat off his brow. “Reggie Vickers’ death is still the big story in this part of the world. People are arguing about whether private zoos should be allowed, as if what happened was the animals’ fault. As for Mortmain Hall, until word gets out that an expert in crime is suspected of murder and has done a flit, the fact that a nurse has tripped over a cliff edge and broken her neck won’t cause anyone to hold the presses.”

  She nodded. “Good. I want to hear what the locals have to say.”

  *

  The sole topics of conversation in the Dobell Arms were the nurse’s death and Leonora’s disappearance. While Jacob went up to the bar, Rachel found a table in the corner alcove, close enough to eavesdrop.

  At the other table in the alcove, a man gnawed at his fingernails as he added a few touches to a sketch of a puffin in his journal. He’d neglected his ham salad and ginger beer. The binoculars at his feet and the walking stick propped against the wall identified him as the ornithologist, Siddons. She tried to engage him in conversation, but every pleasantry was rebuffed with a discouraging grunt. Eventually he squinted at her through his thick glasses with obvious irritation, and didn’t even grunt.

  Undaunted, Rachel tried again.

  “What a wonderful place this must be for spotting seabirds,” she said gaily. “Not just puffins, but guillemots…”

  “Madam.” Her latest interruption provoked him into throwing down his pencil. “With dozens of policemen clumping around, it will be a miracle if there’s a single bird left on the peninsula by tomorrow. Now if you’ll excuse me.”

  Picking up his binoculars and stick, he hobbled out of the bar without giving Rachel a backward glance. She turned her attention to the customers at the bar. The pub was an eavesdropper’s paradise, given that all the men talked in loud voices and there was no shortage of theories about the mystery of Mortmain Hall.

  Opinion was divided between those who regarded Leonora as a deranged killer, and others who blamed passing tramps or disgruntled former servants. One grizzled farm labourer who plainly harboured an ancient grudge insisted that Felix Dobell was a sex maniac whose ill health was feigned. He’d killed his nurse in a fit of homicidal madness. Another fellow was convinced that Nurse Cope was pregnant by Felix, and that she’d committed suicide out of a sense of shame. He reckoned that the story that Felix had been rendered impotent by the blast in which he lost his leg was an ingenious subterfuge to disguise his urge to have his wicked way with every nurse he engaged.

  “Then he should have chosen a woman with better looks,” a ruddy-faced beer drinker jeered.

  “No oil painting, that one,” another man agreed. “God rest her soul.”

  “She used to wheel him out along the cliff,” one venerable old codger said. “I often thought she might tip him over the edge, just to put him out of his misery, poor beggar.”

  The ruddy-faced man nodded sagely. “Who’d have thought he’d outlast her? Makes you think. That’s what it does. Makes you think.”

  The company was united in the belief that the nurse’s death was no accident. It wasn’t just that it seemed unlikely; it would have been too much of an anticlimax. Especially since two detectives from Scotland Yard were due to arrive at the Dobell Arms that afternoon. An inspector and a sergeant. They’d booked the only remaining rooms.

  As the other customers drifted away to share the latest developments in the scandal with everyone else in the hamlet, Lucy served Jacob and Rachel with bread and cheese. He introduced Rachel as a friend, without giving her name. Lucy hid neither her curiosity nor her ample figure; she was coping with the heat by leaving her blouse unbuttoned as far as decency allowed. When she lingered at their table, Rachel seized the chance to interrogate her.

  Jacob sat back and admired the skill with which she teased out information. Prior to being elevated to the judiciary, Lionel Savernake QC had been the most formidable cross-examiner at the English Bar, and much as Rachel despised him, she had a similar knack. The difference lay in the subtlety of her probing. Chattering away at nineteen to the dozen, Lucy had no idea how craftily she was being pumped.

  “I can’t believe Mrs Dobell has run away on purpose,” she said. “If you ask me, she’s lost her memory.”

  “Amnesia?”

  “That’s the word! And it can go on for years, just like shell shock, poor Mr Siddons was telling me only yesterday.”

  “You don’t believe Mrs Dobell is capable of harming anyone?” Rachel suggested.

  Lucy hesitated, compelled by honesty to think twice before agreeing. “I suppose anyone is capable of… well, dreadful things. But why would she hurt Nurse Cope? If things were so bad, she could give her a week’s notice.”

  “Mightn’t her husband forbid it?”

  “Mr Dobell would have hated to lose Bernice Cope, of course.” Lucy sighed. “But you have to be practical, don’t you? The poor soul is a cripple. Man of the house, yes, but what can he do, apart from his jigsaw puzzles? His wife rules the roost.”

  “Strong-minded?”

  “Oh yes. My mum says that from the day she came here, Mrs Dobell knew what she wanted, and made sure she got it.”

  Rachel dabbed her mouth with a handkerchief; the Dobell Arms didn’t run to napkins. “Nowadays, she’s a respected criminologist.”

  “Written books, hasn’t she?” Lucy shook her head. “Not that I’ve read any.”

  “She didn’t discuss crime with you?”

  “Never. Not a very nice subject, is it? I suppose it’s the sort of thing they get up to in places like London. I’m not surprised she’s ashamed. You can see why she uses a pen name.”

  “Does she often call in here?”

  “Now and then.” Lucy bit her lip. “You probably know, she likes a drink. Sometimes she gets a bit carried away.”

  “And drinks to excess?”

  “Not just that. Her conversation is very personal. I mean, she’s always asking after my young man.” Lucy blushed. “I tell her I don’t have anyone special. I go out with different boys. She keeps saying they aren’t good enough for me, and if I tell her I like someone, she gets fidgety and cross. It’s not my fault.”

  “Of course not,” Rachel said. “Has she told you about her club in London?”

  “The Circe Club?” Lucy nodded. “It’s lovely and posh, Leonora says. Mrs Dobell, I mean. She asked me to call her Leonora, even Leo, of all things. But it doesn’t seem right. Not with her being a lady.”

  “I hear the Circe is an excellent club.”

  “Would you believe it, she even offered to invite me down there, to take a look for myself?” Her tone was wondering. “I’ve never been to London in my life.”

  “You must be tempted?”

  “I said I’d think it over, and I’d let her know this weekend. But I couldn’t see how I might manage it. I can’t let Mother down. Or Uncle Bob.”

  “You’ll fly the nest one of these days.” Rachel gave a wry smile. “We all do.”

  “It’s different for you, miss. You’re a lady, aren’t you?”

  “Not always,” Rachel said.

  Lucy giggled, and turned to Jacob. “Then I’ve got some very good news for you. Mr Siddons is leaving the moment the police give permission. He’s not fit enough to go scrambling over the cliffs, and he’s annoyed that there’s such a to-do about the nurse and Mrs Dobell. Says there’s no chance of getting any
peace and quiet to watch for rare species.”

  “Selfish,” Jacob said. “If he’d paid attention instead of feeling sorry for himself about his ankle, he might have spotted someone push the nurse to her death through his binoculars. But why is it such good news that he’s going?”

  “Because it means the annexe room will be empty tonight.” Giggling, Lucy glanced at Rachel. Her expression was lascivious. “Move in there, if you like. You can come and go as you please, and you won’t be disturbed there. If you have company.”

  *

  “Any the wiser?”

  Having kept quiet all the way to the Dobell Arms, Jacob found it impossible to repeat the feat on the return journey. While they’d been inside the inn, sombre clouds had gathered. The wind had got up, and the waves were making a more menacing noise. As Mortmain Hall came into view ahead of them, his resolve cracked.

  He’d recovered from his embarrassment at the barmaid’s suggestion that he might lure Rachel to the annexe room for a night of carnal pleasure. Thank God she hadn’t responded to Lucy’s offer with mockery or disgust. In fact, she hadn’t reacted at all. And now, to his relief, Rachel didn’t bite his head off.

  “I’m making sense of it all at last.” Excitement gave her voice an edge.

  “Go on,” he said.

  “First, I need to find Leonora.” She pointed to a narrow dirt path that led from the lane up a grassy knoll and then towards the cliffs. “Let’s find the route she used to take for her nocturnal rambling.”

  He sensed her tension as she lengthened her stride. His forehead dripped with sweat as drops of rain began to fall. Rachel’s fitness came from a lifetime of swimming and climbing in the inhospitable environment of the island of Gaunt. Keeping up with her was hard work.

  “I’ve had an idea,” he said.

  “Congratulations.”

  “Nurse Cope bragged about having an admirer. Suppose she wasn’t making it up?”

  “You tell me.”

  “Could it have been Danskin or Rolland? Danskin was a salesman. We know he travelled widely. Nobody kept tabs on his movements. As for Rolland, he’s retired, and master of his own destiny. Both men could have spent time here.”

  “And their motive?”

  “They both have a history of philandering. Suppose one or other of them had an affair with the nurse.” Jacob was making it up as he went along. “If then she broke the news that she was expecting a child…”

  “Come on,” Rachel said as they reached the crest of the knoll. A rocky path led down to the cliff.

  “You think I might have stumbled on to something?”

  “Keep stumbling here and you’ll end up in the sea,” she said, as he tripped over a rain-dampened stone. “Watch where you’re putting your feet.”

  Panting, he followed as she picked her way forward, and joined her on the brink of the cliff. Far below, waves whipped by a gust of wind were beating against the boulders in a little cove. The seagulls cried, as if in mourning. This spot was exposed and all at once he felt cold.

  He was conscious of Rachel stiffening as she scanned the shoreline.

  “What is it?”

  She pointed down to the water’s edge. “Do you see?”

  Half hidden by the rocks, something billowed in the breeze. He caught a glimpse of navy and purple and his heart sank.

  “It’s not… her dress?”

  Rachel nodded. “Run back to the Hall and fetch the police. They can call off the search for Leonora.”

  27

  Jacob and Rachel left the police officers to their grim work on the shore. Leonora Dobell’s body had taken a pounding from the waves and the rocks. As the two of them strode through the rain towards Mortmain Hall, there was a faraway look in Rachel’s eyes. Jacob hoped her thoughts were less tangled than his.

  “Who’s this?” he said. A sleek and shiny red car stood outside the porch, an Alvis Silver Eagle. Jacob hadn’t seen it before. Inspector Tucker’s rusting Morris was parked at the far end of the building, close to Rachel’s Phantom.

  “The Romans built a signalling station here, to warn of approaching barbarians.” Rachel allowed herself a bleak smile. “An updated version would come in handy.”

  The front door of the house was flung open, and Gladys blundered out. Her tears were flowing like the rain.

  “Oh, miss.” Gladys was almost choking with misery. “It’s so terrible. First the nurse dies. And now Mrs Dobell…”

  Jacob put his arm around Gladys’s plump shoulders. Her body shuddered with emotion. And fear too, for what would she do now her mistress was dead? After helping Gladys inside, they found the three Truemans talking to the butler. Hetty took the distraught servants off to the pantry for a restorative cup of tea, while Rachel and the others adjourned to the long gallery.

  Trueman consulted his watch. “The inspector is in the library, rewriting his report to incorporate news that Leonora’s body has been found. Oakes came up on the Flying Scotsman. He should have reached York by now. A police car is bringing him here. He’s expected within the hour. Are they treating Leonora’s death as murder or suicide?”

  “It might even be an accident.” Jacob never liked to be left out of a conversation for long.

  Trueman’s expression was withering. “I suppose she fell from the same stretch of land as Bernice Cope?”

  Rachel nodded. “I gather the corpse has a wound to the scalp, but the nurse’s head was also gashed. Unless a pathologist says otherwise, there’s nothing conclusive. Now, that red car outside. Who does it belong to?”

  “Three guesses,” Trueman said.

  “Major Whitlow?”

  Trueman and Martha exchanged glances. “You’re so sharp,” he said, “one day you’ll cut yourself.”

  “As long as the major doesn’t clip my ear with his claw.”

  “He asked where you were,” Martha said. “We didn’t give anything away. He said he wanted a private word with you.”

  “I did wonder if he might.”

  “What will you do?”

  “I need to dry my hair, change out of this dress, and get my story straight,” Rachel said. “Then I’ll speak to him.”

  *

  Thunder was rumbling as Inspector Oakes marched into Mortmain Hall. He was accompanied by a stockily built sergeant. A few seconds out in the storm was enough to have left their hair wet and their mackintoshes sodden. Trueman strode out of the front gallery, where he’d watched the approach of the police car with Jacob and Martha. He gave the detectives a curt nod.

  “Inspector Tucker is on the telephone in the drawing room, speaking to his chief constable. If you want to see Miss Savernake, she’s in the morning room. Talking to Major Whitlow.”

  “Whitlow? The witness from the Danskin trial?”

  Before Trueman could answer, the door of the morning room swung open and Rachel strolled out.

  “Inspector,” she said. “The owner of the house is indisposed, and you will know that his wife has just been found dead. So let me be the one to welcome you to Mortmain Hall.”

  Oakes’ eyes narrowed as he shook her hand. “In the right place at the right time again, Miss Savernake?”

  She was amused. “It’s a modest talent, but I’m thankful for it. Jacob Flint is here too.”

  “I should have known.”

  “Yes, perhaps you should.” She pointed to the door which led to the front gallery. “Jacob is in there. Flirting with Martha, I shouldn’t wonder, the minute her brother’s out of the room.”

  “I don’t want to see him yet,” Oakes said. “Sergeant Whealing, can you get an update from Inspector Tucker? In the meantime, perhaps Miss Savernake and I can have a conversation?”

  “I’ll ring for tea,” Rachel said. “You’ll need it. Come into the library. We have plenty to discuss.”

  *

  “You realise you are a suspect?” Oakes asked.

  Rachel paused in the act of buttering a scone. “Absolutely. It was as easy for me as for any
one else around here to murder Leonora Dobell. And Nurse Cope, for that matter, if she’d witnessed me committing the crime.”

  “You think that’s the reason why she died? Because of what she saw?”

  “Not exactly,” Rachel said.

  “In other words, no,” Oakes muttered. “I’m bound to ask you if you received this note, or something similar.”

  He flourished a small piece of cheap unwatermarked notepaper bearing a few words in clumsily shaped capitals.

  MEET ME AT THE ROTUNDA AT TEN

  L

  Rachel studied the note as if it were an ancient runic script of fabulous value and scarcity. “I’ve not seen it before. But it answers one or two questions.”

  “Such as?”

  “Where did you find the note?” When Oakes hesitated, she said briskly, “Come on, no need to make a secret of it.”

  Oakes sighed. “One of Tucker’s men found it upstairs in Leonora Dobell’s dressing room.”

  “And your conclusion?”

  “It looks like a note she sent to arrange a meeting. Perhaps a first draft.”

  “A meeting with whom?”

  “Nurse Cope is my bet.”

  “I’m glad you’re not a betting man,” Rachel said. “The note didn’t come from Leonora and it wasn’t sent to the nurse.”

  *

  “Unthinkable,” Major Whitlow said. “I refuse to accept your terms.”

  He’d joined Rachel and Inspector Oakes in the library. Tea and scones had come and gone, and an open bottle of Bristol Cream stood on the table. They might have been debating the choice of guest of honour for a church bazaar.

  “I’m afraid I must insist,” Rachel said pleasantly. “Blame my taste for the theatrical. But Jacob Flint deserves to hear the story. Without him, we wouldn’t know the whole truth.”

  “How much do you really know?” the major snapped. “I’ve listened to your outrageous mish-mash of speculation and guesswork. You have no proof.”

  “Quite,” Rachel said. “Think of me as a storyteller with a vivid imagination, not as counsel for the prosecution.”

  “For my part,” Oakes said, “I’m willing to agree to what Miss Savernake proposes, and allow Flint to sit in with us.”