Death at Gallows Green (29 page)

So while the sad grey sky wept overhead and her heart wept within her, Kate climbed out of the gig and tied the horse to a tree. She walked to the riverbank, ignoring the stares of the village lads, who were clearly astonished by her costume.

“Nothing yet?” she asked of a muscular, round-cheeked man who seemed to be in charge. She recognized him as the owner of the tiny grocery on the corner of the green.

The grocer leaned on his pole, which had a hook on one end. “No, mum,” he said, “if wot ye mean is have we found lit'le Betsy.” His mouth was sad. “We did find 'er boot, though. Pulled it up on our first drag this mornin'.”

“I see,” Kate said gravely. Betsy's shirt, her boot. If anyone had doubted the child's fate, it could be doubted no longer. “Has anyone walked the south bank this morning?” The river, which marked the boundary between the counties of Essex and Suffolk, was quite wide at this point; it was not very likely, Kate thought, that Betsy's body would be found on the Suffolk side, along the north bank.

The grocer shook his head. “I was about t' send my lad t' do't.”

“Let him stay and work,” Kate said. “I shall search.”

“Beggin' yer pardon, mum,” the grocer said, alarmed. “It's hardly a woman's affair. Ye might find her an'—”

And what? Kate thought. Cry aloud at the sight of a dead body? Shriek? Faint? But she smiled as courteously as she could.

“Thank you for your concern,” she said, and started down the footpath that followed eastward along the winding course of the river toward Manningtree. The distance to the mouth of the Stour, where the river broadened into the estuary, was only two miles. The footpath was clearly trodden into the grass. She walked along it with attention, prodding the clumps of reed and willow on the riverbank with Aunt Sabrina's walking stick. But her probes yielded nothing more than sodden hanks of black weed and the occasional startled cry of a river bird frightened from her reedy nest. The river was stubborn. Or if it had given up Betsy's body, it was not along the south bank.

When Kate came to the river's mouth, within sight of the quay at Manningtree, she stood and looked out for a long moment over the quiet water, thinking of the secrets it held—the secrets of pirates and grain smugglers and of one brave girl, as headstrong and daring and truly emancipated as any bloomer-clad young lady who dared to cycle in Hyde Park, and whose last adventure had taken her far beyond the pale.

 

Back in Gallows Green, Kate drank the obligatory cup of tea and endured the suspicious scrutiny of the two women who had come ostensibly to offer Agnes their condolences but more likely to learn some new piece of information. Mrs. Wilkins, who had been so cordial the day before, averted her eyes from the sight of Kate's ankles. The other was a pinched, shriveled woman named Mrs. Bentley, her hair netted with black chenille at the back of her head and her thin shoulders draped with a black knitted shawl. She glared at Kate, and as she passed the biscuit tray, muttered something that sounded like “shameless, shameless.” But Vicar Talbot, who had stopped in with a pot of soup prepared by his housekeeper, gave Kate a smile and a sympathetic glance. And Agnes, true to her generous nature, remarked that she had always admired the practicality of rational dress—yes, even bloomers—and hoped one day to have the opportunity to try it for herself.

“Practicality and comfort come first, I believe.” Her smile was wan. “Betsy enjoyed the freedom of boys' clothing, and I shall always be glad that she took her comfort while she could.”

Mrs. Bentley's dark face went darker. “Yes, an' look wot ‘appened t' ‘er,” she said in a voice as grating as a rook's. “'Eadstrong, she was, 'eadstrong as a young 'orse. Needed a rein.”

“Marjory, Marjory,” Mrs. Wilkins chided. “She were just a child, an' she's gone from us. Now's not th' time fer hard words.”

Mrs. Bentley lifted her chin. “Well, but I have t' say't, don't I, Flora? An' Agnes ‘as to 'ear it. It's a sad time, indeed it is, an' I'd be th' last t' cast stones. But let it be a lesson.” The glance she threw at Agnes, if not a stone, was stone-like and accusatory. “It weren't just th' breeches, neither. The child used t' whistle goin' past my window, loud, like any boy. I said t' Mr. Bentley, I said, 'Crowin' 'ens an' whistlin' girls. Ye know wot their ends be,' I said.” Her nod was confirming and her eyes glittered. “ 'Eadtrong. Too 'eadstrong by 'alf.”

The vicar cleared his throat. “And the greatest of these,” he remarked into his teacup, “is charity.”

Mrs. Wilkins stood. “Marjory Bentley,” she said with dignity, “I am truly ashamed o' ye, lettin' yer hard mouth run ahead o' yer Christian heart. Now, come along an' leave this pore woman t' 'er grief.”

When they had gone, the vicar turned to Agnes. “You must not take Mrs. Bentley to heart, my dear. Be glad that Betsy was as she was—a carefree and happy child.”

“And headstrong,” Agnes admitted ruefully. “Perhaps I should have reined her in, or asked Artie to be harder with her.” She looked down at her hands. “Perhaps she would be here now if I—”

“Please.” Kate said, reaching for Agnes's clasped hands. “You can't blame yourself.”

Agnes sighed. “Yes, I know. But it is most difficult.”

Bea sneezed twice and blew her nose. “I fear I really am perishing with this cold, Kate.”

“Then it's time we started for home,” Kate said. She squeezed Agnes's hand. “You'll be all right?”

Agnes nodded. “You will come back when . . . when there is news?”

“Of course,” Kate replied. Good-byes were said, Bea was tucked into the gig with an extra robe over her lap and an umbrella, and Kate took up the reins. They started off, the pony's hoofs splashing thick brown mud.

“I think,” said Kate as they rounded the corner of the green, “that we should go home by way of Crayford Lane. It is less traveled and perhaps less muddy, and certainly shorter.”

It was on Crayford Lane, not far from the Dedham Gas Works, that they found the body.

T
he corpse sprawled beside the cart track was that of a man, as Kate could see from her seat in the gig. He was clad in dark trousers, a dark blue jacket, and muddy boots with a hole in one leather sole, and he lay sprawled on his back some little distance from the road, his limbs twisted and bent as if he had been hurled from a vehicle in some violent roadway accident.

“Oh, dear!” Bea exclaimed, wide-eyed. “Is he dead?”

“I had better see,” Kate said. She jumped down and touched the body gingerly, finding the skin cold. When she raised the wrist to search for a pulse, the arm was stiff.

The man was indeed dead. And justly so, Kate could not help but feel as she rose and stood staring down at the sharppointed chin, the coppery hair. A hot, angry revulsion rose like a volcano inside her.

“Kate?” Bea called anxiously. “Kate, is it someone you know?”

“It's someone we both know,” Kate said, “at least by sight.” She pulled her gaze away from the body with a deep shudder. “It's Mr. Tod.”

Bea gasped. “The man who—”

“Yes,” Kate said bleakly. “The man who may have murdered Betsy.” She clenched her fists, hard, nauseated by anger. “But now that he's dead, he's beyond the punishment of the law.”

Bea's voice was firm. “Now that he's dead, he is within the hands of the Law. And he
shall
be punished.”

 

“Tod?” Vicar Talbot asked, incredulous. He stepped back down from the gig into which he was climbing, in front of Agnes's house. “You think Russell Tod killed the little girl?”

“That's right,” Edward said grimly. “And her father, too. Have you seen him?”

“Not in the past few days,” the vicar said. He frowned. “I have to admit, although it's not Christian of me to say it, to not liking the fellow. He seems to have a wandering habit, here a year, there a year. Of late, he's been courting the Widow Dayle. The banns are to be said in two weeks. I have had my reservations about the marriage and have spoken to Mrs. Dayle. But to no avail. She is determined to wed again.”

“I fear the widow must remain a widow,” Edward said remorselessly, “unless she wishes to be widowed yet again. When Tod is apprehended, he will be jailed. If the case against him can be proved, and I believe it can, the man will be hung for his crimes.”

“Oh, I
say,”
the vicar protested. He was known to resist capital punishment. He looked distressed. “Still,” he muttered, “to kill a child and an officer of the law. Such things cannot be tolerated in a society that is governed by law.”

“I will go to see Mary Dayle,” Edward said, “and ask her if she knows where Tod might be.” He paused, thinking how women had to bear the burden, over and over, of such awful losses. Mary Dayle's first husband, Will Drunmond, had fallen on a hay fork and been carried home on a barn door, dead. She had nursed her second husband, George Dayle, through a cancer, to lose him two years ago on Christmas Eve. “Will you come with me?” he added, thinking that it might be easier to face the woman with the vicar at his elbow.

The vicar sighed and stepped back into his gig. “Of course,” he said. “I—”

“Constable! Constable!” The boy was thin and frecklefaced and out of breath. “Come quick! There's somebody dead down by th' Dedham Gas Works!”

Edward started. “Dead!” he exclaimed, thinking of Betsy. “A little girl?”

“No, not a girl,” the boy said. “A man. Miss Ardleigh found ‘im. She gave me a shillin' to come fer ye.”

“Miss Ardleigh!” Edward and the vicar exclaimed in unison.

“Yes,” the boy said. “Hurry!”

“Who is the dead man?” Edward asked. “Do you know him?”

The boy shook his sandy head. “Not me,” he said. “But the Miss knows 'im. Said to tell you he's the one you've been lookin' fer.”

“Tod!” Edward roared, thunderstruck. “Not Tod!”

“That's 'im,” the boy replied, now hopping on both feet. “That's 'oo she said. Mr. Tod, with red whiskers and a pointy chin. Come on!” He raced off.

Edward followed swiftly after, leaving the vicar sighing to himself and thinking of what he would say to the Widow Dayle.

 

Charles received the message as he was shrugging into his coat in the back hallway of Marsden Manor, on his way to collect the horse that the Marsden stablemaster had saddled for him. He was about to leave for Manningtree to learn from P.C. Bradley whether Tod had been apprehended at Wivenhoe the night before. It had been damned frustrating for him and Ned to wait all night in the shrubbery outside Tod's cottage, shivering in the damp air, listening to the wispy hoot of an owl, and not catch even a glimpse of the wretched fellow. They would have done as well to have sat in the warmth and raucous conviviality of The Flag. At least there they would have been dry, and not thirsty.

Lawrence approached. “From th' constable, sir,” he said, handing over the folded piece of paper. He cleared his throat and glanced over his shoulder as if to ensure that he was not overheard. “If ye don't
mind me
askin', Sir Charles,” he said in a low voice, “I was wond'rin' wot word ye'd 'ad wi' the lady.”

“What lady?” Charles asked, inattentive. He unfolded the paper.

“Wi' Miss Ardleigh,” Lawrence said. “About th'—” He coloured deeply. “Ye know.”

“Oh, quite,” Charles said, Remembering. “About Amelia.”

Lawrence nodded eagerly. “Hindeed, Sir Charles. Hamelia.”

“I must confess, Lawrence, that the pressure of events drove the matter right out of my mind. I have not yet spoken to Miss Ardleigh of it. But I shall. Rely on it.”

Lawrence's face fell. “I wouldn't press it, sir,” he said glumly, “but th' ol' misery—Mrs. Pratt, that is—says she's not t' come out wi' me, ever agin.” He shook his head. “Times've come round 'ard when a man's kept from courtin' th' 'ooman of ‘is 'eart.”

“I'm sorry, Lawrence,” Charles said with genuine feeling. “I will see what I can do. Thank you for recalling the matter to my attention.”

The heavy sigh that issued from Lawrence's lips seemed to convey both a lack of confidence in Charles's ability to intervene between his loved one and the self-appointed guardian of her chasteness, and the simultaneous belief that this ability was his only hope. “Thank 'ee, sir,” he said, and walked away with a dragging step, the picture of the despondent lover.

But Lawrence, however dejected, was not so easily conquered. Charles could not know that once out of sight, Lawrence straightened his shoulders, his eyes became flinty, and his determination hardened. Mrs. Pratt or no Mrs. Pratt, it was time to take matters into his own two hands.

Left to himself, Charles opened the envelope and read the brief message from Ned. It said simply, “I have just received word that Russell Tod is dead. Crayford Lane, near the turning to the Gas Works. Come at once.”

Charles stared down at the hastily penciled scribble and felt a sharp, almost physical relief. Tod's capture was inevitable, his trial a certainty, his execution by hanging—a savage, ugly act, even when well deserved—the most probable outcome. However death had come to Russell Tod, it had relieved the Crown of the burden of prosecution and saved Agnes from the agony of a trial.