Death at Gallows Green (17 page)

“Miss Ardleigh!” Bradford pulled at his mustache, scowling. “Confound that Eleanor,” he muttered. “Can't keep her mouth shut. Probably carried the tale to that husband of hers, too. Suppose I'll have to set her right.”

“That would relieve her of the concern that Lawrence took the jewels,” Charles said.

Bradford swallowed the last of his brandy and set the glass on the sideboard, turning to face Charles. “Well, then. You have solved my problem, and handily, at that. Now let me have a shot at yours. What is it?”

Charles lit his pipe and pulled on it, giving himself a moment to flush Kate Ardleigh out of his mind and call up the matter that had brought him to Bradford's study.

“What do you know of poaching?” he asked.

“Poaching?” Bradford poured himself another brandy. “In general, you mean, or hereabouts?” He held up the decanter. “Another brandy?”

Charles shook his head. “Hereabouts,” he said. “And tell me about your assistant gamekeeper, McGregor. Have you had him long?”

“McGregor has been in service for a decade or so,” Bradford said. “My grandfather set sport above all else. When he died, a dozen liveried gamekeepers headed his funeral procession.” Bradford chuckled dryly. “They are nearly gone, though. McGregor and Peters—the chief keeper—are remnants. Papa's passion for horses supersedes every other. He has no time for anything that does not involve a horse. But he does insist on a minimum of preservation—maintaining the game coverts and the deer in the park, and holding down the poaching where possible.” He glanced at Charles. “What's this about, if I may ask?”

“It has to do with Sergeant Oliver's death.” If the emeralds were not a possible motive, as Miss Ardleigh had suggested, the only thing left that resembled a clue was the connexion to poaching.

“Ah, yes. Sad business, that. Are the police making any progress?”

“Precious little. The constable from Manningtree received an anonymous tip, and when he went to investigate, he found a pair of hares and a net in Oliver's shed. Artie wasn't the sort to be involved in anything dishonest, but it looks very bad. The police committee could well deny his widow's pension. If so, it would go hard with her.”

“In Grandfather's day, possession of the net alone would have sent the man to Australia for seven years, policeman or no,” Bradford remarked. He frowned as he took a cigar from a gold case on the table beside him. “Is there a suggestion that McGregor is involved in the murder?”

Charles drew on his pipe. “No evidence, only suspicion.” He did not want to say whose suspicion it was.

“The man's a shifty devil,” Bradford said, sniffing the cigar appreciatively. “I don't recall the details, but there was trouble some years back when he beat one of the tenants for cutting down a game shelter. When Papa learned of it, he stopped the practice of planting shelters in the middle of the fields.” He applied a match to the cigar and pulled on it. “One has to think of the tenants' livelihood. It's to the detriment of the crops when the land becomes nesting and feeding grounds for game.” His smile was rueful. “My grandfather would have had me caned for such heresy, of course.”

“McGregor has a brother-in-law, Tommy Brock. What can you tell me about him?”

“Only that he is a neighbourhood nuisance. He was accused of stealing several sacks of thrashed grain some while back. But there wasn't enough evidence to have him up, so the matter was let drop.”

Charles hoisted himself to his feet. “You will keep your ear to the ground and let me know of anything you hear about either McGregor or Brock?”

“I will,” Bradford said. He stood too and held out his hand. “My dear Charles, many thanks for the loan. You have saved me from a rather nasty circumstance.”

“You are quite welcome.” If Lady Marsden's emeralds were at stake, Charles did not doubt that the circumstance was indeed nasty. He had known for some time about Bradford's financial interest in Harry Landers's various motor car schemes. It wouldn't surprise him if the recent failure of the Paramount Horseless Carriage stock figured prominently in his friend's need for money—and if that need figured equally prominently in Bradford's decision to marry. Not that Miss Ardleigh herself were not attraction enough, he reminded himself with a great sadness.

“Well, things may be a bit rocky just now, but all will be well once Miss Ardleigh and I are wed.” Bradford clapped Charles on the shoulder. “Will you be the chief groomsman, Charlie? I can think of no friend I would better like to stand beside me on that great occasion.”

Charles met his friend's eyes with as much candour as he could summon. “I would be honoured,” he said.

“I knew I could count on you, old man,” Bradford said. “Knowing the esteem in which you are held by Miss Ardleigh, I am sure that she will agree to your place in our wedding party.”

“Thank you for the compliment,” Charles said, and escaped.

H
aving been recently at Long Melford, with its constant luncheons, teas, and dinners, Kate was not anxious for another party so soon. But she
was
anxious to convey to Sir Charles the information she had learned from Betsy that morning, and to hear from him what he had learned about the stolen emeralds. When she and Bea returned from visiting with Agnes, after their encounter with Betsy at the church, she immediately submitted herself to Amelia for the tedious ritual of dressing for the garden party at Marsden Manor. When she emerged, impatient with the maid's fussing but pleased with the result, she was wearing a grey silk dress with a lace cape over full sleeves, caught at the breast by a red silk rose. She wore elbow-length grey gloves and a wide-brimmed, tulletrimmed hat. Bea was simply dressed, in a light shade of blue that exactly matched her eyes.

“Do you think we will see Sir Charles?” Bea asked, as she and Kate were handed into the carriage by Pocket. To Kate's pragmatic mind, it had seemed silly to order the carriage for a three-mile drive. But to have driven themselves would have offended their hostess.

“I certainly hope so,” Kate replied, settling her skirts with a rustle. “We have a little matter of murder to discuss with him—whether he wants to hear it or not.”

She glanced at Bea, whose face wore an anticipatory look. Remembering how Sir Charles had patronized her at their last meeting (
muck things up
, indeed!) Kate resolutely turned her eyes forward. If Bea liked the man, that was her business. Her own eagerness to see him had entirely to do with finding Sergeant Oliver's killer and helping Agnes out of her trouble. However fervently Sir Charles might wish her to stay out of it, he would simply have to listen.

The garden of Marsden Manor was laid out in the elegant French style, with velvety expanses of lawn bordered by formally trimmed hedges and brilliant flower beds. An ornate temple stood on one side, suggestive of aristocratic pastoral fantasies, and on the other was a latticed white pavilion sheltering elaborately decorated tables laden with ices, sandwiches, cakes, and drink. In a nearby rose-covered pergola, a small group of musicians played Mozart and Bach. Linendraped tables centered with crystal bowls of flowers were scattered conveniently about so that guests could sit and sip champagne and seltzer or lemonade while they recovered from the exertion of strolling about the gardens and the shrubbery.

Upon their arrival, Kate and Bea were immediately swept up by a bubbling, diamond-decked Eleanor. “I have been waiting especially to see you, my dears!” she cried, embracing Kate and warmly pressing Bea's gloved hand. To Bea, she said, “I hope you are finding more to interest you at Bishop's Keep than at Melford.” To Kate, she said in an enigmatic whisper, “Never mind about the emeralds, Kate. All has been explained, and I am absolutely mortified at my ignorance.”

“Ignorance?” Kate asked with great interest. “Of what? How was it all explained?”

“It was explained by my brother,” Eleanor said. Without waiting to hear the other questions that came to Kate's lips, she led them toward Lord and Lady Marsden. They were stationed on the marble stairs that led from the upper gardens to the lower, surrounded by masses and pyramids of flowers in an exquisite profusion of perfect bloom, arranged in great vases that might have been stolen from the Arabian Nights. The baron was a bluff, balding man whose ample girth and apple cheeks testified to his love of fine food and wine. Lady Marsden was as brittle as porcelain but rock-hard, her aristocratic nose slightly beaked, her chin jutting, her grey eyes glinting.

“Miss Ardleigh, Mama,” Eleanor said, “and Miss Potter.”

Lady Marsden smiled graciously and gave her hand to Bea. But to Kate, she only inclined her head, withholding her glance. Kate detected a distinct coolness in the gesture and was puzzled. She had been invited to tea and to dinner at the manor several times before Eleanor was married, and had exchanged easy pleasantries with Lady Henrietta on those occasions. Those conversations had been threaded through with Lady Henrietta's unthinking assumption of superiority, which Kate had noticed but had not bothered to resent, since it was so obviously bred into the woman. Today's response was haughtier and more chilly, and Kate wondered what she had done to earn Lady Henrietta's disapproval.

Under another circumstance, Kate might have asked Eleanor what was behind her mother's cool greeting. But there was no time for that now, for Eleanor whisked Kate and Bea away from the baron and baroness and trotted them around from one glittering cluster of guests to another, all extravagantly dressed and jeweled and gay. The Marsdens had invited many of their Society friends, and Kate found herself in the company of such notables as Sir Hwfa Williams, the founding genius of the new Sandown Race Course and a special friend of the baron's; to Louisa, the lively, amusing Duchess of Manchester; and to the charming, witty Lady Brooke, the Countess of Warwick and (Eleanor whispered to Kate) the current mistress of His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales. To Kate's surprise, the countess (whose handsome husband, Lord Brooke, was animatedly discussing politics with Lord Marsden) was not only elegantly beautiful, but seemed to possess a brain beneath her elaborate confection of a hat. Kate was intrigued to learn that she was an elected trustee of the Warwick Board that governed the local workhouse and that she proposed to take the prince on a tour of its awful wards.

Eleanor raised her eyebrows when she heard that news. “I was not aware that the prince had an interest in such matters,” she said delicately.

The countess sighed and fluttered her ivory fan. “I fear you may be right. But that shall not excuse His Majesty. I have vowed to do all in my power to make him see how wretched the poor really
are.”

Kate stared at her, thinking how incongruous it was that those words should be spoken by a titled lady with a half-dozen rings on her fingers, a rope of enormous pearls around her alabaster neck, and diamonds dripping from her pretty ears. But Lady Brooke herself seemed oblivious to any contradiction. She went on to chatter with enormous enthusiasm about her schemes for educating poor children, providing jobs, and improving housing.

“There is a great deal of work to be done,” she said, her voice ringing with passionate conviction. “People's minds must be changed, their hearts touched. People, that is, who have the power to make changes in the government.”

“That may prove difficult,” Kate said quietly. “Society—in this country and in America as well—has a habit of caring chiefly for its own.”

The countess regarded her thoughtfully. “A perceptive remark, Miss Ardleigh. You are exactly right. But that is why we need to make
examples
of those who care. And we need persons to carry the message!”

“I regret to interrupt your exhortations, Daisy,” said Lord Brooke, coming up to place a hand under her elbow. “But you must leave off talking about your causes and come. You are wanted by Lady Henrietta.”

The countess tossed her head. “We must speak of these things again, Miss Ardleigh,” she said with a bright smile, and went off with her husband.

There might be some incongruity between the countess's person and her message, Kate reflected as she watched her go, but her concern was decidedly genuine. Speaking with Lady Brooke was the high point of the party, however. It wasn't long before Kate was quite weary of the entire affair and longed to sit down.

“There's an empty table beside that holly bush,” Bea pointed out.

“We shall take it,” Kate decided, thinking of her chief reason for coming to the party, “and see whether we can spy out Sir Charles.”

But just as Kate and Bea reached the table, they were waylaid by Bradford Marsden, resplendent in black frock coat, grey trousers, pink satin waistcoat, silk hat, and silver-topped walking stick. His blond hair was combed smoothly back, his blond mustache and side-whiskers carefully groomed. His handsome face bore the impress of aristocracy, a man with a look of vitality, confidence, and the authority bestowed by fortune and family tradition.

“Ah, Miss Ardleigh.” He bowed over Kate's hand with a flourish of feeling that was at odds with his mother's cool greeting. “It has been far too long since I have seen you. Far too long,” he repeated, engaging her eyes as well as her hand.

“Miss Potter,” Kate said, “may I present the Honourable Mr. Marsden?” She withdrew her hand and gave in to a mischievous urge. “I must warn you, though,” she added. “Mr. Marsden has a passion for motor cars. If he has his way, we shall all be on wheels by the turn of the century.”