Death of a Dishonorable Gentleman (12 page)

The next morning, remembering Lady Montfort's suggestion that any trivial or innocent event that had happened on the day preceding the murder might throw light on the events surrounding it, she dutifully tuned in to the whispered conversations of those around her as they went about their daily tasks. Her natural attentiveness sharpened into observance.

The morning was a particularly lovely one and she took some time to sit in the kitchen courtyard to enjoy the sun, now burning brightly in the sky, giving lie to the falling barometer.

Sunshine makes us all kindlier folk,
she thought, as she allowed herself a moment to consider that perhaps she had made a bit too much of Lady Montfort's request.
So much better to take things as they come
. To help reinforce her new understanding, she was interrupted from this reverie by Bill Craddock from the kitchen garden. He had trundled up with his handcart of fresh vegetables for the day's luncheon and dinner. Mindful that she was on a quest for information, she opened her ledger and appeared to be engrossed in the daily accounts as she watched Iris come out to inspect Bill's load of vegetables. In Mrs. Jackson's opinion, old Bill was a chronic gossip and, for all his sixty years, a flirt. He liked to pass time with the kitchen maids and would go to any lengths to get their attention.

“Good morning to you, Miss Iris.” His cracked old voice was thick with dialect, and to Mrs. Jackson's critical eye he almost bridled as he began to share his gossip. “That Sergeant Hawkins, you say? Oh yes, he were up early this morning, almost as early as me. I saw Mr. Makepeace on the way over here and he told me.” Bill looked over his shoulder and Iris and the kitchen maids closed in. He lowered his voice, but it was still loud enough for Mrs. Jackson to hear. “He told me that the sergeant went over the dray, inch by inch, while they was mucking out the stalls. Took his time he did, ever so thorough he was. Then he asked Mr. Makepeace to start her up and drive her out into the daylight, for a closer look-see. Even, Mr. Makepeace told me, of the wheels theyselves and whyfor he didn't know, seeing as how they was all covered in mud.”

Mrs. Jackson repressed a huff of irritation. The silly old man was puffed up with self-importance as he recounted his news, causing a flurry of excitement among the kitchen maids. They had only just become aware that she was sitting quietly under the mulberry tree, her account book open on her knee.

Her first instinct was to stand up and order everyone back to work and to give Bill a scolding for his gossip. But, mindful of her new role, she ostentatiously turned away to watch the kitchen cat stretch in the sun.

How elegant cats were, she thought as she watched the cat extend her forepaws and sink her claws deep into the coir doormat, pulling back to elongate her spine, her tail curled up and over toward her back, like the handle of a pitcher. The cat jumped up onto the windowsill and, half concealed by a branch from the mulberry tree, settled down to wash herself. Dick Wilson came out of the scullery door with an enamel pail. He swung his arm back, dashing soapy gray water onto the flagstones. He was usually well coordinated, but the backward movement of his right hand on the pail handle was awkward and the water hit the ground too near his feet. She saw him skip backward to avoid getting his shoes wet. The cat, alarmed by his abrupt movement and the splash on the stones so near her window, jumped off her sill, hissed at him for alarming her, and ran up the tree. Dick paused to laugh up at the cat. He moved his disordered hair from his forehead and, turning, caught sight of Mrs. Jackson sitting nearby. He lifted his hand again to his forehead in the time-honored countryman's salute of both deference and polite acknowledgment. She nodded to him and went back to her thoughts. But something had caught her attention. When Dick had swung his pail back to his side, she noticed that the knuckles on his right hand were red and swollen, the skin abraded and broken.
Footmen in training take care of their hands,
she thought. She must find out how the hallboy had so badly injured his.

Well,
she said to herself,
all this sitting about can be very profitable.
She stood up and smoothed her skirt and then her hair. Half an hour in the courtyard and her information had increased immeasurably. Now it was time to organize flowers for the house. She sincerely hoped Mr. Thrower would be around to help her and not one of the under-gardeners.

On her arrival in the kitchen garden, the first person she saw was Mr. Stafford. He strolled out from behind the forcing house, and when he saw her he stopped and lifted his hat in greeting to her with his customary good humor. His unexpected appearance was so discomfiting that she had to look away for a moment before she turned to greet him.

“Moss, Mr. Stafford?” She indicated the slice of dense, brilliant green he was holding, the rich black earth it grew in so damply compressed that it barely left a trace on his open palm.

“Yes, that's right. Look at this beautiful shade of green.” He turned his palm and she saw that the emerald moss was thick and flawless, dense as velvet. “Beautiful underplanting in shade gardens, if it doesn't dry up. I think it would work well among the Hellebore under the trees in the sunken garden, against the wall. There will be enough water from the spring, but I need…” Here he lost her, as he happily described soil conditions while she wondered how she could bring their conversation around to the dray. In the end she decided that being straightforward was the best way and made her feel less of a spy.

“Do you happen to know if the dray is still locked up in the old carriage house, Mr. Stafford? I mean, has the sergeant finished with it yet? We need to use it for bringing up more vegetables and fruit from the gardens for the rest of the week. The handcart doesn't hold enough and I don't want to bother the dairy for one of the wagons.”

“Well, I think the best person to ask about the dray is Sergeant Hawkins, seeing as he is the one who gave orders for it to be locked up in the carriage house. The dray is part of his investigation now.”

“I will, of course,” she answered. “but I just wondered…”

“What I knew? Not much I'm afraid, but the sergeant did find Mr. Teddy's evening shoe in the back of the storage box in the dray. Which leads all of us to suspect,” he smiled at her and she could have sworn he winked his eye, “that Mr. Teddy was locked in that storage box and taken up to Crow Wood that way. Oh, I am sorry, Mrs. Jackson; I didn't mean to … It doesn't bear thinking about, does it? That poor lad being kept in a box like that; course he might have already been dead.”

Momentarily taken aback at finding herself so swiftly precipitated into a conversation on what she would have been considered a forbidden topic yesterday, and surprised at how quickly Stafford had guessed what she was up to and how much he was willing to share, Mrs. Jackson could think of nothing to say at all. She must have looked disapproving, she thought, because Stafford hastened to explain that Mr. Teddy's being put in the storage box had been Makepeace's theory, not his. Makepeace, she thought, seemed to have a very strong opinion of what had been going on. Should she talk to him? No, she decided not, the head groom was a man's man.

It suddenly occurred to her that outside in the open, away from the hushed, protective shelter of the house, an act of intentional violence resulting in the death of a young man had been committed. Here, she thought, where they all lived, a murder committed by someone they all knew. For the first time the reality of what had taken place hit home hard, and her stomach felt sick and heavy.

She managed to nod, she hoped in encouragement, and Stafford went on to say that Mr. Teddy's being carted about in the storage box of the dray had been all the talk at the Goat and Fiddle last night. The pub had been packed with villagers and farm laborers; it must have been the busiest night of the decade for Fred Golightly.

“Someone had given Mr. Teddy quite a beating before he was killed—gave him a right punch on the nose. I didn't know he was so disliked, did you?” Mr. Stafford asked.

This was awful news, not what she had hoped to hear at all. She tried not to show her concern or any reaction. But the information served to push her out of her earlier reticence with Mr. Stafford and to overcome her reserve with him. She risked a question of her own.

“Wasn't there a stranger hanging around in the village on the day of the … the day of the ball?”

Stafford's glance was shrewd and Mrs. Jackson tried not to let his knowing look fluster her, but he answered her willingly enough.

“Yes, there was, Mrs. Jackson. I saw him myself, walking from the direction of Cryer's Breach railway station toward the village. He was on Dodder Lane when I spotted him at about three o'clock. Then Theo Cartwright saw him later on hanging around the back of the pub at about five o'clock or thereabouts. Sounded like the same man and he looked just like a Londoner: cheap, flashy clothes; pasty and unhealthy-looking.”

“Not from around here, then?”

“No, didn't look like a local man or a countryman either. There are a lot of men wandering the country these days looking for work, but this one certainly wasn't a tramp. Fred Golightly said that Mr. Teddy came to the pub that afternoon, about the same time as Theo saw the stranger hanging around the back.”

“Did Mr. Teddy meet with this stranger, then?” Mrs. Jackson's question was out before she could stop herself.

Stafford put his hands in his pockets, tilted back his head, and laughed at her question.

“No, it didn't seem that way. Fred said Mr. Teddy came into the pub, looked around as if he was hoping to see someone he knew. Then he left and drove around the back of the pub. Fred saw him sitting in his motorcar, as if he was waiting there for someone. Next he knew, Mr. Teddy had driven off.

“Not very popular was he, Mr. Teddy? The locals don't seem to have much time for him.”

Mrs. Jackson was certainly not going to let her information exchange with Mr. Stafford lure her that far. His straightforward, easy way of talking, pleasant as it might sometimes be, also reminded her that she had a position to uphold. She fell back on platitudes: what a dreadful thing Mr. Teddy's death had been, and how distressing it was for the family. She didn't want to snub Stafford and preclude any opportunity for more information, so she was careful to keep her tone regretful and not reproving, and then, circumspect as always, she changed the subject.

“I am hoping the rain hasn't ruined all the flowers. Are the irises open?” She was surprised how much more relaxed she felt with Mr. Stafford after their little gossip about Teddy's murder.

“We'll have to check with Mr. Thrower. The peonies are still looking good, which is a miracle considering the heavy rainfall, and we have plenty of roses that are opening up from the bud—they withstood the storm pretty well. Good Lord, look at the time.” He had pulled a watch out of his waistcoat pocket. “Getting on for nine o'clock and Colonel Valentine wants all the estate staff and the villagers assembled outside the stables in fifteen minutes. We've got to go and look for that nice little girl who worked up at the house, and the other young lady. What a business it's been.”

It had been a business indeed and suddenly Mrs. Jackson felt rather swamped by everything she knew and what she had just learned. The thought of choosing flowers seemed ridiculously trivial. She looked up and understood that Mr. Stafford was aware of her hesitation.

“It must be difficult for you right now. So much has happened, it must be hard to take it all in,” he said, and she was struck by how kind and concerned his voice was.

Her reluctance to discuss family business was deeply ingrained, but she found it quite easy to answer this sympathetic man.

“Colonel Valentine is talking to the family, and Sergeant Hawkins is talking to the servants. Everyone visiting the house will stay over for another three days. And it's all rather awful; there is an atmosphere of excitement in the servants' hall, the wrong kind of excitement.” It wasn't very interesting stuff, she thought, in comparison with what he had told her, but it was a long speech for her.

He looked concerned as he bent down and put the piece of moss neatly back into the place he had cut it from, a slice from the cake of rich, wet earth. When he straightened he looked at her carefully in his direct way, and she found it a little unnerving but quite agreeable to be so noticed.

“Keep your wits about you, Mrs. Jackson. That young man was murdered in a nasty way. Now two girls are missing, it's all linked you can be sure. Something bad is happening here, so be on the alert.” He brought his right hand up and gave her an ironic salute, since he was neither estate worker nor villager, and started to walk in the direction of the stable. He hadn't gone three paces before he turned back to her again, his eyes squinting in the sun's glare. She thought for a moment he was going to tell her something of importance, his expression was so grave, but all he said was:

“Mr. Thrower won't be joining the search. So he will be able to help you with the flowers.”

 

Chapter Thirteen

Clementine felt stifled and restless when she awoke that morning, and as the day was quite beautiful, she thought that if Colonel Valentine wanted to interview her then he would just have to wait until she had come back from her ride. Taking out her mare for a nice long gallop would invigorate her and help restore a sense of proportion.

Constance Ambrose had sent word to her that she had awakened with a slight headache and did not care to ride that morning, and Ralph had rushed off to his breakfast so he could meet with his agent, Archie Pommeroy, before he joined the hunt for the missing girls later that morning. She would ride alone. She rang for Pettigrew to help her dress in her riding habit.

As Clementine approached the stable block she heard its occupants snorting as they searched through the straw bedding of their stalls for leftover morning oats, and she stopped to enjoy the mingled scents of hay, horse, and saddle leather lifting up out of the stables to meet the cool morning air.