Death Devil's Bridge (28 page)

“To London?”

“Yes. He has quarreled with Lord Christopher—or rather, Lord Christopher has quarreled with him. I cannot get his fingerprints at the moment. But, oh that I had the rest!”

Kate looked at him steadily. “Perhaps you shall,” she said. “But first, I need to speak to you about Squire Thornton. Mrs. Pratt told me this morning that she saw him pull the grapnel from the gondola.
He,
not the unfortunate Mr. Whipple, is the man who sabotaged the balloon.”

Charles stared at her, incredulous.

“And it was Squire Thornton,” Kate continued, “who gave the Jessups that thirty pounds—and who had it noised about that the money came from Charles Rolls.”

“But why should Thornton do
that?”
Charles asked.

“I am only guessing, of course,” Kate replied, “but I think perhaps he wanted to make it appear that Rolls was responsible for Old Jessup's death. You remember, of course, that he was driving Bradford's motorcar that night. And it is Rolls who threatens to snatch Patsy from him—at least as Squire Thornton sees it.”

“But no one believes that Rolls killed the man. The coroner did not even have enough evidence to—”

“Lord Christopher and Lady Henrietta might believe it,” Kate said, “if Squire Thornton told them it were true, and if the victim's family gave it about that Rolls had compensated them.”

“You're saying that Thornton constructed this elaborate charade in order to cast a contender for Patsy's affections into disfavor with her parents?”

“Men have practiced stranger ruses against their rivals,” Kate said with a little shrug. “It is the same motive, I believe, that led him to pull the grapnel from the gondola. The act was impulsive, no doubt, and entirely in character—he simply seized the chance that opportunity presented to him.”

“You believe, then, that he intended to cause Rolls's death.”

“Or simply to cause difficulty,” Kate replied, “and keep his rival from becoming a hero.” She frowned. “I also think it is entirely possible that he is the man who sabotaged Bradford's Daimler. I am sure that he had as much opportunity as anyone, and it is certainly in keeping with his other act of sabatoge. He might have found the jar of ointment where Bess Gurton dropped it, applied it to the brake, and gone on about his business.”

“And why should he?”

“To even the score with Bradford, perhaps. After all, it was Bradford who brought Rolls here. Or he might have wanted to cause trouble for the chase. You saw how he opposed the whole affair. Or perhaps it was a mixture of motives, and given the opportunity—”

Charles's brow was furrowed. “I see all that you say, Kate, and grant you its plausibility. But if Thornton should deny Mrs. Pratt's accusation, how many do you think would take her word against his?”

“Not many, I fear,” Kate said gloomily. “If only we had some other evidence—another eyewitness, perhaps, who could corroborate Cook's testimony.”

“I think perhaps we do,” said a woman's voice.

Kate turned, startled. The speaker was Patsy Marsden. Her face was pale and very serious, and in her hand she held a photograph.

A Lady an explorer? a traveller in skirts?
The notion's just a trifle too seraphic:
Let them stay home and mind the babies, or hem our ragged shirts
But they mustn‘t, can't, and shan't be geographic.

—Punch,
1893

 

 

 

 

I
t took only a moment's examination for Charles and Kate to determine that Patsy's photograph, taken from the vantage point of the east terrace, had caught the squire red-handed, in the act of jerking the grapnel from its mooring at the side of the gondola. But it took some moments more to decide what to do with the photograph, and still more for Kate to explain the evidence
she
had gathered, without at all anticipating its actual use, at the ill-fated dinner party the night before—evidence which at this moment rested on a shelf in Mudd's pantry.

In the end, after much debate, it was Kate and Patsy who put on their cloaks and set off to visit Roger Thornton. Charles was not entirely happy with this arrangement and expressed his dissatisfaction with some force. But as Kate quite reasonably pointed out, he had far too much to do with the fingerprint evidence to spend time chasing about after errant squires, and Patsy was really a far more suitable agent. Patsy herself had a very strong motive to undertake the assignment, and was quite persuasive on her own behalf.

“I
want
to do it,” she said earnestly. “I will smile prettily, and toss my head, and the squire will be flattered into believing that I am the very sweetest and most compliant sort of young lady. He might say no to you, but he will not be able to resist
my
invitation.”

“There really can be no danger, Charles,” Kate said “There are servants at hand, of course, and Patsy shall tell the squire that I am waiting in the carriage. And all she has to do is show him the photographs that she took of the balloon launch—”

“Not the one of his dropping the grapnel, though,” Charles said grimly. “That, we shall save for later.”

“But the others will do quite well,” Kate said. “You see how glossily enameled they are.”

So their plan was formed. Charles dispatched the gardener's boy to the Marlborough Head with this message for Constable Laken.

Kate consulted briefly with Mrs. Pratt on the menu; then she and Patsy climbed into the closed carriage and were driven by Pocket to Thornton Grange. Once there, Kate remained in the carriage like a very grand lady, waiting nervously and wondering whether, after all, it had been a good idea to send Patsy on this errand.

But there was no reason for nervousness. Patsy returned with a satisfied smile. “The squire sends his compliments to Lady Kathryn, and is pleased to join her and Sir Charles at seven this evening.”

“And the photographs?”

She displayed the large envelope she had taken with her. “He took them with some apprehension, carried them to the window, and examined each one carefully, turning them over to read the legend I had written on the reverse. I'm sure he was worried that I might have captured his despicable act on film. But when he saw nothing incriminating, the man was all smiles. He returned the photographs to me with a very pretty compliment as to my artistic prowess. I am sure they have his fingerprints all over them.”

Kate smiled. “I hope your performance was not too successful, Patsy. You may have encouraged him to believe that you will accept him as a suitor.”

“When the time comes,” Patsy said grimly, “I will very quickly disabuse him of that notion.” Her voice changed and she held out her hand. “I must seek a favor of you, Kate—quite a large favor, I am afraid.”

“You know that anything I may do for you, I shall,” Kate said. “What is it, Patsy?”

She did not answer for a moment, and when she did, she spoke first of her brother. “Bradford and Papa quarreled last night. Papa says that Bradford is disgracing the Marsden name with his motorcars and the like, and has vowed to stop his allowance.”

“That is a regular threat,” Kate said. “According to Bradford, at any rate.”

“This time, I think, Papa is quite serious—and so is Bradford. He vows to have nothing more to do with Papa's money, and says that from this moment forward, he will earn his own.”

“Commendable,” Kate said dryly. “I understand that he has gone to London.”

“By the early train this morning. I expect to follow him in a fortnight or so. In the meantime—and this is the favor I must ask of you—I would like to stay at Bishop's Keep.” She raised her head, and Kate saw the determination written on her face. “I can no longer remain with my mother and father. I am going away.”

Kate was silent for a moment, thinking of the implications of this. “Has Mr. Rolls asked you to marry him?”

“No, he has not,” Patsy said fiercely. “If he had, I should have refused him.”

“Ah,” Kate said, more happily, and relaxed. So this was not a matter of disappointed love, or a broken heart. She had not thought so, but she was glad to be sure.

“Indeed,” Patsy said, with the same intensity, “this does not concern Charles Rolls, although Mama is sure that he is the root of my disaffection. She has ordered him out of the house to protect my virtue. My
public
virtue, that is,” she added bitterly. “I have assured Mama over and over again that nothing untoward has occurred between us, and never will. But she thinks more about the appearance of things than the truth of them. I do believe I could be a private strumpet of the wildest sort, and if word of it did not get out, I should be quite safe in Mama's eyes.”

“I see,” Kate said gravely—and she did see the pain in Patsy's eyes, and the hurt in her voice, and understood the girl's heartache. “If you should leave, where do you mean to go? What will you do?”

Patsy looked out the window. “I don't know,” she confessed with a sigh. “The truth is that I don't really understand myself, or have more than the vaguest of ideas what I really want. All I know is that I must get away from Mama and Papa—and from England, too.” Her voice took on a fierce intensity. “Living here is like living in a hothouse, Kate. I am rooted in soil that is too rich, and pampered and petted as if I were some sort of delicate, exotic plant. I am closed in from the weather, from the cold and from storms. I scarcely know what real life is like, except that it cannot be like
this.”

“I understand, Patsy,” Kate said quietly. She loved Bishop's Keep and was grateful to the generous aunt who had made it possible for her to have a life here. And of course, she was deeply in love with Charles, and for the most part, her heart was content. But happy as she was, there was another part of her that longed to be gone, to be moving through the world, unencumbered and alone, as she once had been, and free to choose where she should go and what she should do without consulting anyone.

Patsy turned eagerly to her. “Oh, Kate, how I envy you! Growing up in New York, with a policeman for an uncle. Making your own way as a governess, and as an authoress,
a famous
authoress—” She stopped, suddenly conscience-stricken. “Oh,
pshaw.
Now I've let the cat out of the bag. What a dunce I am!”

Kate stared at her for a long moment. “How did you know?” she asked finally.

“Everyone
knows,” Patsy replied, abashed. “Your servants may be very loyal, but one simply can't keep secrets from them. I suppose one of them said something out of turn just as I have done. It is a fascinating story, and the news is all over the village—all over the county, I daresay. Even those who do not read detective fictions read Beryl Bardwell's, for they know them to be yours. And to be worth reading, of course,” she added hastily. “Your stories are very much admired.”

Kate sighed, resigned. “I might have known,” she said, “that I could not keep Beryl Bardwell's secret forever.” Then, a little disconcerted, she thought of Charles's mother and brother, and his own future position, and added, “I do hope, however, that the report does not travel far. There are certain people—”

“Certain people?” Patsy prompted after a moment.

But Kate had thought better of the confidence, for it was not likely that the news would go as far as Somersworth. Anyway, she could not fret about what Charles's mother might think; there was nothing at all she could do about it. “My occupation and what people think of it is neither here nor there, Patsy. We were talking of you, and what you are to do in the world. You seriously intend to leave your parents' home?”

“I do,” Patsy said with great earnestness. “I don't know everything I want—but I
do
want to see the world. And perhaps that will teach me to know what I want.”

“But you could see the world with your mother, or your sister.”

“But I could not, Kate,” Patsy said, almost indignant. “Mama and Eleanor frequent only those places where other English people go, and stay in hotels with their English friends, and go to balls with other visiting English people. If I went with them, I should not see the world as it is, but only as a pale reflection of England.” She shook her head emphatically. “No. To see the world truly, I must not expect it to suit me, or to meet the expectations I have already formed. I must go out
into
it, like a child who does not know what she shall find.”

“Like Mary Kingsley,” Kate suggested with a smile, thinking of a woman whose writings she had recently read, “paddling her canoe through the swamps of West Africa, dodging the crocodiles—and then sitting down in her tent with a candle to write about it.”

“Exactly, Kate! Only
I
shall take the crocodile's photograph, not merely write about him. And I shall photograph giraffes and rhinoceri and elephants and tigers, and send the pictures to you.” She thought for a moment, then added, in a breathless rush, “No! Rather, you shall come with me on one of my expeditions, after I have gotten entirely used to seeing the world alone, and we shall motor across Europe, and ride camels across the Gobi, and climb the Swiss Alps. I shall take pictures of everything, and you shall write about where we have been, and we shall see ever so many strange sights, and be thought the very strangest sight of all! We shall be a pair of those ‘globe trotteresses' that
Punch
is always poking fun at. What do you say, Kate?”