Death at Gallows Green (26 page)

“No,” Edward said crisply. “The grain thieves wanted you to
believe
Artie was poaching, to keep you from nosing around and stumbling on the truth. They planted the hares and net and wrote you the note.”

Bradley blinked his pale grey eyes several times, very fast. “But I don't understand how you know that—”

“You will,” Charles assured him, “when you see the evidence.”

“But—”

“Believe it,” Edward snapped, in a tone Charles had never heard him use. “Question him.” He jerked his head at Napthen. “He'll tell you.”

Bradley blinked again. A momentary confusion flashed into his eyes, followed by a tightening of the mouth that registered an almost imperceptible anxiety. Charles frowned. Was something going on here that he and Edward had overlooked?

Bradley recovered himself and looked at Napthen, standing with hands tied behind him, head hanging, the picture of dejection. “Who else was involved besides this man?”

“Russell Tod and Tommy Brock,” Edward said. “Tod's a bailiff who assembles the harvest crews and sends them round to all the farms. Brock's one of his hired men. Napthen gave us the names, but they were already under suspicion. Another witness saw them moving grain from the barn to a barge on the river and will give corroborating testimony.”

Bradley cleared his throat. “A corroborating witness?” His young voice was thin. “Who?”

Edward jerked his head toward Napthen with a cautioning gesture. “Later,” he said. “Out of his hearing.”

Bradley nodded reluctantly. Charles wondered what his reaction would be if he knew that the corroborating witness was a child, a girl, at that. But it wasn't necessary to reveal Betsy Oliver's name at the moment, or her role in this. And perhaps not at all, if Tod and Brock were apprehended and made to confess.

Bradley seemed to recollect himself. He straightened his shoulders and reached for a large metal key hanging on the wall behind him. “Come on, you,” he said to Napthen, with unnecessary roughness. “I'm locking you up.”

The act of propelling Napthen into the cell and locking the heavy oaken door—without either untying the prisoner's hands or removing his rain-soaked coat—seemed to return to Bradley some of his self-importance. When he came back to his desk, he hung up the key with a flourish, sat down, and shoved the parcel of fried fish to one side.

“I'll need a written statement of everything you know,” he said to Edward, taking a printed form out of a drawer. “Make it complete. It'll go to Colchester with Napthen.”

“To Colchester?” Edward asked, surprised. “You're taking him there?”

Bradley busied himself with papers. “Yes, well, I'm not in charge, you know. It's Chief Constable Pell's case—he asked for it. I'm sure he'll want to question the suspect.”

Charles regarded the young constable thoughtfully. So Pell himself had asked to take the case—it hadn't been a whim of Hacking's, or some sort of punishment for Ned. But why had he wanted it? What was it to him?

Edward sat down and took up the pen Bradley handed him. “You can have your statement,” he said sourly. “But before you go trotting Napthen. off to see Pell, don't you think you'd better collar Tod and Brock? We brought the prisoner here in a fly. On the way we passed a dozen people, and a dozen more saw us in the High Street. Not to put too fine a point on it, but word of his arrest won't take an hour to reach the other two, and any others who might be involve.”

Bradley chewed his lip nervously. “Yes, yes, I see the difficulty. Er, are you available to help? It's a matter for more than just one officer, I should think. And this case isn't the only problem on my hands. It's been a busy morning.”

“It has?” Charles asked, looking around. The constable's office didn't appear busy, and the lunch testified to at least a quarter hour of leisure. “What's happened?”

Bradley shifted. “I don't suppose there's anything I can do about it, at least not at the moment, although I'll have to institute a search if she doesn't turn up. It's a missing child over at Gallows Green.” He glanced at Edward. “You were a friend of Sergeant Oliver's, weren't you? Did you know his daughter Betsy?”

Edward's face went white. He stood up abruptly and his chair fell over with a clatter. “Are you telling me that Betsy Oliver—”

“Afraid so,” Bradley said ruefully. “Gone missing. Happened last night, apparently. Sounds a bit improbable, I admit, but it seems she was in the habit of slipping out the window and down the drainpipe after dark. Her mother's in a bit of a panic, and sent over to ask for help.”

“Gone missing!” Edward roared, “and you sit here stuffing yourself with fried fish!” He ran to the door and yanked it open. “Come on, Charlie!”

“But the report!” Bradley exclaimed. He snatched up the paper Edward had been writing on and waved it frantically, like a white flag. “I can't take this man to Colchester without your written statement! I don't know any of the details!”

“Damn the bloody details,” Edward snapped, his eyes flashing. “Come
on
, Charlie! Agnes'll be beside herself. I must be with her.”

And there, in Edward's anguished face, was written the truth that Charles had not grasped until now. It was not Miss Ardleigh that Edward cared for, it was Agnes Oliver. But Charles was not conscious of any relief, for his belly had twisted with cold fear for the child's safety. Betsy Oliver was a witness to the theft that had motivated her father's slaying, and now she had disappeared. Had the thieves who killed the father taken the daughter, as well?

Charles held up his hand. “Wait,” he said. “We have a man here who may know something. Napthen.”

Edward whirled. “Of course!” he cried, snatching the key off the wall and running to Napthen's cell.

But whether Napthen knew something and would not reveal it, or whether he knew nothing at all and could only deny, they could not tell. After ten minutes of fruitless questioning, Napthen was flung into his cell once more and Edward and Charles hastened to Gallows Green.

F
rom the summer-like sunshine of the days before, the weather had turned cold and drizzly. Wisps of mist haunted the lanes like vagrant ghosts, and diamonds of raindrops dripped from every twig and thorn. It began to rain in earnest halfway to Gallows Green, and Kate was glad she had asked Pocket to drive her and Bea in the closed carriage. They carried with them a full basket supplied by Mrs. Pratt, who had insisted on sending the food she had prepared for their luncheon. Kate had brought it, although she knew Agnes would have little appetite. Some of the searchers might need food, though—for of course there would be searchers.

And there were. When Kate and Bea alighted from the carriage, a crowd of men was just setting off from the Oliver cottage, booted and mackintoshed against the wind-driven rain. Kate and Bea went into the kitchen where Agnes was huddled beside the fire in the company of her neighbour, Mrs. Wilkins, a stout woman with a face like a cauliflower and a nose as red as a radish. Her rolled-up sleeves revealed arms that rivaled those of her husband, the hamlet's smith, but her touch was gentle. She clucked softly to Agnes, petting her as if she were a child.

“She went looking for the duck, I am sure,” Agnes was saying wearily when they came in. “If the duck can be found, Betsy will be found too.” She began softly to cry, and Mrs. Wilkins pulled her to her ample bosom.

“There, there, dearie,” she said, “doan take on so. Like as not she'll be found quickly. Or else she'll come dancin' 'ome on 'er own, an' you'll ‘ave th' pleasure o' stroppin' 'er fer givin' ye such a fright.” With that practical observation, the fruit of nearly two decades of motherhood, she tucked the rug over Agnes's knees, greeted the visitors, and went to pour the kettle into the tea pot.

Kate took Agnes's cold hands in her own. “Tell me about the duck,” she said.

“The foolish thing was gone yesterday afternoon.” Agnes wiped her eyes. “Betsy looked everywhere. The child was still looking when I called supper, and it was all I could do to get her to bed, just before you came. I found her nightdress on the floor this morning, and her shirt and breeches missing.”

“I'm sure she's all right,” Bea comforted. “She's a very level-headed child, and she knows the fields and river.”

Agnes's face was thin-lipped. “That is why I fear so,” she said in a ragged whisper. “I am quite sure she isn't lost. No child ever knew her way more surely than Betsy.”

The door burst open and the rain and wind gusted in. “Agnes!” Edward cried, and was across the room in two steps. Sir Charles lingered at the doorway, looking on.

“Oh, Ned,” Agnes sobbed, letting herself be gathered up and held in Edward's strong embrace. “First Artie, and now Betsy. How can I endure it?” She buried her face in his shoulder, while he pressed his lips against her hair.

“We will endure it together, dear heart,” he said, so low that Kate was the only other who heard. “And when she is found we will be glad together.” There was a long silence in the room while he stroked her hair and she clung to him, both oblivious to all else.

At last Mrs. Wilkins coughed. “Well, now,” she remarked sagely. “Here is the tea, and I shall be off.” She poured five cups, found her shawl, and left, with a nod at Kate and Bea and a long look at the constable, still on his knees now beside Agnes's chair, her hands in his.

There was a catch in Kate's throat when she looked up, feeling Sir Charles's eyes on her. She blushed, remembering her thoughts of that morning, and looked away again quickly.

“What's to be done?” she asked.

“The entire hamlet has mustered for the search.” Sir Charles's brown coat was wet, and water dripped off his hat and onto his shoulders. “There's no doubt she'll be found.” He paused and stepped closer. “Edward has arrested the man who let Highfields Farm,” he said in a lower voice, “a man named Napthen. We fetched him to the gaol at Manningtree this morning. He says he knew nothing about Artie's murder, but he admitted to letting the barn. He named Tod and Brock in connexion with the grain stored there.”

Kate glanced toward Agnes. She was gazing at the fire, her hand still in Edward's, and did not appear to be listening. Agnes had enough to bear without knowing this—at least, not yet. “They'll be arrested quickly?” she whispered.

“Before the day is out, I hope.”

Kate was glad that the sergeant had been exonerated from the charge of poaching, and glad that progress was being made toward the apprehension of his murderers. But the gladness could not lighten her heart just now. Sir Charles's declaration that Betsy would be found sounded confident enough, but she felt a coldness settle in her as she remembered that it was Betsy who had seen the grain thieves, had heard their voices and their names, and could identify them. If Tod and Brock had somehow learned what she knew, and discovered that they were implicated in the constable's murder—

Kate felt her throat tighten. “If only we had known about them before . . . “ Her voice trailed away, but Sir Charles took her meaning and nodded.

“Yes,” he said softly. “If only we had known, we could have apprehended them before yesterday evening. But we did not.” He touched her arm. The slightest touch, but deeply intimate, it seemed to her. “There was nothing we could have done, Miss Ardleigh, knowing only what we knew.”

Biting her lip, Kate turned away. But she had known. She had known that Betsy was a witness to nocturnal activities in the barn, and had suspected that something illegal was involved, and that it was somehow connected with the sergeant's death. She could have come immediately to Agnes and warned her to keep her daughter safe. Or she could have told Edward to watch out for the little girl, or Sir Charles. Or she could have taken on the task herself, and kept an eye on Betsy. She could have done many things,
should
have done them, but she had done nothing—except to think how she might turn the events of last night into material for Beryl Bardwell's foolish novel.

Heartsick, Kate turned to the grey window, silvered with cold rain. Betsy was somewhere out there in that chilly damp—not a fictional girl, a character in one of her sensational stories, but a flesh-and-blood child, whose alert, curious attention to the world around her had lured her into very real danger. Thinking of the possibilities, Kate's heart twisted within her.

Was Betsy alive, or was she dead?

E
dward at last released the weeping Agnes and stood. His heart was heavy and dull as lead within him, but he could not simply sit beside the fire and let others carry on searching. He put his hand on Agnes's shoulder.

“She'll be found,” he said, with all the conviction he could summon.

“I pray, Ned, oh, I pray.” Agnes closed her eyes and rested her forehead on her hand. “If only I had penned the duck.”

Edward stood for a moment looking down at her, at the way the soft brown hair curled away from her face, at the lines of worry that etched her forehead. Sweet Agnes, who could in her innocence believe that Betsy had strayed after the duck, while he feared in his policeman's heart, darkened by the knowledge of too many ill deeds, too much rank disorder, that the truth was much harsher. Why hadn't he seen to the child's safety? Charlie had told him what Betsy knew, and he had sensed immediately how dangerous such knowledge could be. But he had done nothing to protect her, not the least thing, when it was his
business
to do it, as well as his heart's desire! In his haste to apprehend Artie's killers, in his hurry to show Pell that he could succeed where Bradley would inevitably fail, he had caused Betsy harm and Agnes torment, and the thought of his negligence ripped like a mad dog at his insides.