Death at Gallows Green (24 page)

Bradford's glance was teasing. “No, Mama, it is not Miss Poulett. Guess as you like, you are not likely to discover the lady's identity. It will be a complete surprise to you.”

“Then it must be Miss Dyke,” Lady Marsden said decidedly. While Lady Poulett might have been a better choice, she could feel no real disappointment, for Miss Madeleine Dyke was one of the Queen's Maids-of-Honour, quite intellectual, it was said, and certainly the possessor of a pleasant face and figure and fortune—her own, in addition to the thousand-pound dowry bestowed by the Queen on her Maids of Honour. Miss Dyke's dresses were not the equal of those of Lady Hermione, but they were quite nice, and she danced delightfully.

Bradford leaned forward and laid his finger gently on her lips. “No, Mama,” he said. “Please, conjecture no more. The object of my affection, the lady who has won my heart, has no connexion with the Court, and none with Society. You are not likely to think of her when thinking of a match, although I am sure you will believe, with me, that it is most suitable.”

Lady Marsden stared. “No connexion with Society!”

“That is correct, Mama.” Bradford sat back and stroked his blond mustache with a pleased expression on his face. “She is in fact your own near neighbour. Now can you guess her name?”

“My own—!” Lady Marsden felt herself go pale as a searing pain lanced her heart.

“Indeed, Mama.” Bradford's smile was triumphant. “She is Miss Kathryn Ardleigh, of Bishop's Keep.”

“Miss Ardleigh!” Lady Marsden cried. “Miss Ardleigh!” Her voice rose into a shriek. “No, Bradford, no! Not Miss Ardleigh!”

At that moment, the door opened and Eleanor came running in. “What's happened?” she cried. “I heard a cry. Is there a fire?”

“No, no fire, sister,” Bradford said. “I have just told Mama of my intention to marry Miss Ardleigh and—”

“Oh, no, no,” Lady Marsden moaned, pressing her hands to her heart, where she had been wounded mortally. “Not Miss Ardleigh! Never!”

Bradford stood, frowning. “Really, Mama, there is no need for hysterics. Miss Ardleigh is a—”

“Miss Ardleigh is Irish!” Lady Marsden cried, opening her eyes wide in an agony of loathing.

Eleanor frowned. “No, Mama,” she said, “she is an
American,
and American women have married into the best British society. Your own dear friend Lady Churchill, for instance—”

“We are not speaking of Lady Churchill!” Lady Marsden cried, clutching at the counterpane as if it were all that shielded her and hers from the direct onslaught of a thousand mad Irish. “We are speaking of the common Kate Ardleigh, who was brought to Bishop's Keep to be her aunt's
secretary!”

Eleanor's face darkened. “Mama, you are being utterly unreasonable! Miss Ardleigh is an uncommonly fine—”

“Eleanor,” Lady Marsden said cuttingly, “you are to stay out of this. I have observed Miss Ardleigh worming her way into your friendship by the devices of flattery and ingratiation. Your perception of this affair is not to be trusted.”

Bradford's tone was stiff. “Am I to understand, Mama. that you oppose—”

“Oppose!” Lady Marsden pulled in a gasping breath, clenched her ringed fingers, and steadied herself. Over the years, her only son, her dearest boy, had given her much cause for grief. But nothing he had done in the past held as much potential for future disaster as this. It was incumbent on her to deploy whatever force was needed, to use whatever ammunition was required to deter him from this folly. She weighted her voice with all her maternal authority.

“I do more than oppose this match, Bradford. I utterly forbid it. You certainly know that she allowed her cook to ride in the Ardleigh carriage.”

“Mama,” Eleanor said patiently, “I have
told
you. That was a special occasion. Miss Ardleigh does not as a matter of course allow the servants to—”

Lady Marsden swept on. “And have you not heard that she goes about in
bloomers,
and rides her bicycle in the public lanes?”

Bradford's mouth quirked. “I have also heard that the Countess of Warwick, the Prince's Daisy, wears bloomers and finds them extraordinarily comfortable. And that
she
has
rid
den her bicycle on Rotten Row.”

Lady Marsden perceived that she had made a strategic mistake. She had not put the matter in its strictest terms. She straightened her shoulders and chose a better angle of attack. “I say again, Bradford, I forbid this match. As would your father, should you dare to mention it to him. I advise you, if you value his high estimation of your judgment and hope for his continued generosity, that you banish Miss Ardleigh from your mind. She is utterly unacceptable.”

“But Mama,” Bradford said, “you are not accurately assessing the advantages of—”

“There are
no
advantages in this match, Bradford.” Lady Marsden's voice was steel now, her words ice, and she brought up her big gun from the rear. “Surely you have heard the wretched tales that are told about her.”

“Tales?” Bradford asked.

“What tales?” Eleanor echoed.

Lady Marsden lobbed her last and best shot. “That the despicable woman is to wed the village constable.”

Eleanor gave a little shriek. Bradford seemed stunned.

“You are sure of this?” he asked.

“Utterly,” Lady Marsden lied. “I have it on the best authority. They are to be married within the month. There. Does this not reveal the sort of low, uncultured person she is? Whatever foolish hopes you may have squandered on—”

But her salvo had hit home. Bradford turned on his heel and left the room.

I
t was the morning after their discovery of the grain sacks in the barn, and Charles and Edward were on their way to Highfields Farm, in the fly Charles had brought from Marsden Manor. After the departure of Miss Ardleigh and Miss Potter, their vigil had been unproductive, and they had abandoned it at three in the morning.

The lane was open to green fields on the one side and hedged on the other with hawthorn, its white blossoms mixed with the pink of wild roses. A tall elm stood beside the gate of Highfields Farm, its branches laden with rooks' nests, a dovecot fixed in the fork. Beyond the elm, on the far side of the farmhouse, was a muddy sty containing two portly Berkshire pigs.

The farmhouse itself was small and built of brick, the tiles of its roof furred with lichen and moss. A thin smudge of blue smoke rose from the chimney and into the misty morning. In the orchard, a hen cackled, cheerfully announcing a fresh egg.

“Napthen, you say?” Charles pulled back on the reins and slowed the horse. Bradford's groom had fitted him out with a smart high-stepping filly this morning, eager to show her mettle.

“That's the name,” Edward replied. “Said to have been a ship's carpenter at Harwich before he rented this place.”

“Why would a man leave a dependable trade for the uncertain rewards of farming?”

“He's one of these new four-acre farmers,” Edward said. “I heard he means to make the farm into a market garden.” He was thoughtful. “The scheme might work, at that. The farm is close enough to Colchester and Manningtree, and vegetables bring a good price all season. He could crop fodder for gentlemen's stables on the rest of the acreage and do well enough. It's a wish I've had for myself for some time now,” he added. “A market garden, a few pigs and chickens, and a small dairy—” He paused. “But a man can't manage all that alone. I should need a wife.”

“You should indeed,” Charles agreed in an even tone, trying to picture Miss Ardleigh in an apron, making cheeses or curing bacon. But Bradford planned to press his suit this afternoon, and any sensible lady would surely prefer to live on a manor than a farm. For Ned's sake, he was sorry. For his own, he was sorrier.

“The thought of taking a wife has come to me more and more since Artie's death.” Edward's voice was wistful. “I doubt, however, that she would want to—”

But Edward's reflections were interrupted by the sound of hammering. They had arrived at the house. Charles stopped the fly and got out and tied the horse, and he and Edward followed the path around the back. A man in a leather jerkin was pounding nails into the windlass frame that stood over the well, rebuilding it, from the look of the rotten pieces of wood scattered on the ground. Several black hens and a red rooster with iridescent green tail feathers pecked greedily at the wood, digging out grubs.

Edward raised his voice. “Mr. Napthen?”

The man in the jerkin turned, his hammer poised. He was slender and loose-limbed, the sleeves of his grey shirt, too short by inches, exposing skinny wrists covered with a coarse mat of dark hair that extended onto the backs of his hands. The corner of his mouth twitched nervously under a brush of dark mustache, and his eyes were deepset under a thicket of black brows that grew together in the middle.

“I'm Napthen.” His voice was a boy's tremolo, although he was a man of nearly middle age.

Edward introduced himself and Charles. “We have come to inquire about the grain in the barn.”

“Grain?” Napthen asked. His dark eyes flicked from Edward, who was uniformed, to Charles, who wore his khaki jacket and Norfolk tweeds. He went back to Edward. “There's no grain i' th' barn, Const'ble,” he said roughly. “I didn't sow last year—only sold th' hay, standin'.”

“I know you didn't sow, Mr. Napthen,” Edward said, patient. “The fact remains, however, that your barn is stocked with over a hundred sacks of wheat. At least one load has already been hauled from there to the river, where it was carried onto a—”

“If yer sayin' I'm a thief,” Napthen broke in violently, “yer wrong.” He slammed the hammer onto the ground in an unconvincing show of anger. The chickens fled, clucking and fluttering, all but the rooster, who stood his ground, flapping his wings. “If there's grain i' that barn, it's none o' mine,” Napthen shouted over the noise. 'Twas put there wi'out my knowin'.”

“Theft isn't the only issue here,” Charles put in, watching the man's face. “A constable was murdered in your barn.”

Napthen's eyes opened wide. “Murdered?”

“You are aware of Sergeant Oliver's demise, I presume,” Charles said. Of course he was aware. Everyone for miles around knew of the murder.

“I am.” Napthen swallowed fearfully, his Adam's apple a bony knob in his neck. “But I ha'n't . . . I mean, I di'n't . . .” His mouth jerked. “ 'Pon my honour, if murder was done here, I'm ignorant!” The rooster crowed, and several hens came out of hiding for another go at the bugs in the rotten wood.

“Your honour!” Edward leaned forward, his voice flinty. “A
constable
was murdered here, and you have the gall to talk about honour!”

“I don't know nawt! I swear't!” Napthen was swallowed up by his fear. His teeth chattered. “I
swear!
”

“Murder was done,” Charles said softly, “in your barn. We have the evidence to prove it in a court of law.”

“Gawd oh Gawd oh Gawd.” Napthen's voice cracked into a soprano whimper. “I told em, I
told
'em . . .”

“What
did you tell them, Mr. Napthen?” Edward asked.

The man leaned against the half-built windlass as if all the strength had gone out of his thin legs. “I
told
'em 'twas risky. I
warned
'em ter be careful. I was afeered . . .” The words died into a long shudder. A drop of spittle hung on his mustache.

“Told
who?”
Edward asked sharply. When Napthen did not answer, his voice became grim. “Do you want to be tried at the summer assizes for Constable Oliver's murder? Come on, man.
Talk!”

“The grain, yes.” Napthen wiped his mouth with the back of his furry hand. His eyes were dark with panic, his voice tinny. “They wanted th' barn t' store th' wheat till it cud be moved, an' they offered a fair price. But I had nawt t' do wi'
murder!”

“Did you know the men to be thieves?” Edward asked.

Napthen looked down at his feet. “Not 'xactly. They said th' barn was wanted f'r extra storage.”

“Did you know they were moving the grain at night?”

“We—ll . . .”

Charles could hear in that lengthy syllable a whole paragraph of admission. Of course the man had known. He had known he was letting the barn to thieves, and that the grain was being smuggled to a ship in the estuary. Perhaps he had helped steal the grain. Perhaps he had even rented the farm for the purpose of obtaining the barn to store the stolen wheat until it could be smuggled out by boat. But the extent of Napthen's guilty involvement could be determined later. Other matters took precedence.

“To whom did you let the barn?” Charles asked.

Napthen licked his mustache. “Name's Tod,” he whispered. “Russell Tod.” The rooster crowed again, jubilant over a newfound cache of grubs. He picked up the fattest one and laid it at the feet of one of the hens, who pecked at it greedily.

“Who else was involved?” Charles asked.

“Tod paid th' money. But there were a man wi' 'im. Brock, ‘ee were called. I niver saw any o' th' others.”

Napthen was sullen now, conscious of his betrayal and profoundly aware of the consequence. Charles understood. Even if the man could convince a jury of his peers that he was innocent of Artie's murder, he could not continue to work this farm, nor live in this county. For the villagers and farmers roundabout, betrayal was a heinous crime. Having cast his lot with thieves, Napthen was honourbound to keep his mouth shut. That he had not doomed him, and he knew it.