Death of a Dishonorable Gentleman (15 page)

All that day he had searched the country for the two girls. But it was Violet Simkins who had predominated in his thoughts as he paced the countryside on Bruno's strong back. He wasn't terribly sure what Violet looked like, but in his mind he saw a young girl, frightened and injured, waiting to be found, and who depended on him for her existence. Because of Teddy's terrible death, he had been most anxious that they might find her badly hurt, perhaps even dead. As the day wore on, he realized he had been dreaming. His hope of finding her was just that, and bore no reality to what had happened at Iyntwood in the last two days, and to the changing world he lived in. Violet, like her more sophisticated counterpart, Lucinda, had certainly disappeared from Iyntwood, but for her own reasons, and ones that he couldn't begin to understand. Now all that remained was for him to walk his tired horse back to the village and let Jim Simkins know that they had been unable to find his only child.

The search wound down as Lord Montfort and the Haversham men tramped to their village. They were too many to cram into the Goat and Fiddle, so they grouped themselves outside, filling their tankards from the keg. Lord Montfort was pleased to discover that Fred Golightly and his wife had spent the day cooking up large, generous pots of a rich beef stew with dumplings, all costs to be absorbed by him. As the men gathered to eat, Lord Montfort walked his horse over the green toward the church and the one-room schoolhouse behind it.

Jim Simkins lived in a small two-up-and-two-down cottage next to the schoolhouse. There was a light in the lower window, and Lord Montfort slid off his horse and tapped on the door. It was not closed fast. It swung open as if Jim had known someone would drop by and had made sure that he would hear their knock or call. The older man walked across the brick floor of the kitchen and pulled the door open wide. Lord Montfort was stunned by the change in the man's appearance. It looked as if he had lost height in just a few days: his body seemed to have folded in on itself. Jim straightened up as he saw who his visitor was, nodded his hello, and extended a welcoming hand into his cottage.

“Jim, I am most terribly sorry … we have not been successful.” He closed a mollifying hand on the older man's shoulder; it was stick thin, the skin hot under the fabric of Jim's rough wool coat.

“Well, your lordship, I didn't think somehow it would be. But I thank you for your time, thank everyone for their time. I know you have done all you can.” They stood awkwardly for a moment before Jim took hold of the door and swung it back.

“Would you come in for a moment?” The room was stuffy and although clean and tidy had an airless atmosphere. Lord Montfort looked over at Bruno, who wanted his stable, oats, and hay, and was grinding away at his bit and tossing his head, ears pinned at the unwarranted stop that was far from home. Feeling that it would be unsympathetic to leave too quickly, Lord Montfort sat himself down outside under the cottage window on a small bench and gestured to Jim to join him. The two men sat in the quiet of the evening; the clouds were banked up on the horizon, but the sky was still clear, and the coming night was cool.

“Coming in to rain again, you can smell it in the air,” Jim said, and Lord Montfort nodded.

“Yes, the barometer was falling when I left the house this morning, and it looks like another rainstorm…” He stopped. He didn't want to remind Jim that somewhere out there without a roof over her head was his only child.

Together they watched early stars come out. Lord Montfort listened to the hedgerow creatures scurrying about their nightly routines in the hawthorn and eglantine hedge by the lane.
The hunter and the hunted,
he thought. He watched the bats as they flapped in the upper canopy of the elm trees. A flock of crows flew noisily across the lane to roost in the trees at the edge of Deansfield.

“And the other young lady, Miss Lucinda—anyone know where she's got to?” Jim asked.

“We haven't heard directly from her. We are hoping that none of this is linked…”

“I'm sure it's not, just a set of coincidences. I expect Violet will turn up, word will get out and someone will have seen her. She might even be with her aunt over in Ticksby. It's hard to understand the young sometimes.”

Jim was a gentle man, if not a gentleman. There was not a shade of blame or reproach in his voice, Lord Montfort realized, grateful for the man's dignity. He had always had time for Jim Simkins, a philosopher and natural scholar much liked and respected in the village though he didn't quite fit in. He'd heard somewhere that in his youth Jim had left the village but had never been the same since he had worked as a housepainter in Market Wingley when he was a lad. The Reverend Bottomley-Jones had told him that Jim was already sick and broken down by town life and had returned to the village with his only child. And with some strange ideas about a new philanthropic and collective social order—a socialist, some of the villagers said. Lord Montfort thought that if Jim was a socialist he was a remarkably quiet one. There was nothing of a Keir Hardie about this man. He lived quietly in his cottage with his books and his thoughts, tending his garden and rambling through the countryside. Ten years ago, at Lord Montfort's suggestion and with his backing, he had started the village school. He taught the children how to read and write and do their sums when they could be spared from their work on the land. He had thought Jim a good teacher; he had a gentle authority and was a kindly schoolmaster, determined to do what he could for the country children and always happy to find a bright spark among them whom he could bring on. He knew the challenges Jim faced, as the children rarely stayed on a regular basis, often pulled away from their studies for haymaking, harvesting, or seasonal planting.

Lord Montfort kept Jim company for a little longer, until he was summoned by his horse, snorting and stamping for his saddle and bridle to be off.

“Well, Jim, you know we are still on the lookout for her. If you hear anything, or if you need anything, please let me know.”

“Thank you, my lord.” Jim turned and almost shuffled into the house. His health had never been good, but Lord Montfort was concerned to see how thin and frail he had become in so short a time. It was known that Jim had trouble with his lungs, had been nursing his condition for years. Now the shock of Violet's disappearance had broken the last reserves of his health. Lord Montfort led Bruno up the lane to a stile, climbed up onto his back, and trotted back to the village, and the heaviness he had felt in his chest since the death of his nephew deepened.

He looked up as a large barn owl dropped out of an oak tree, its great round head turned to fix Lord Montfort briefly with an accusing stare before it leveled out on powerful wings to glide silently ahead of him down the lane. In the twilight of the evening its feathers gleamed silver-white against the dark hawthorn. If he had been a Roman he would have taken the owl's appearance as a very bad omen indeed.
But you're not a Roman,
he told himself,
all you need is a decent dinner.

Outside the public house, he let his horse drink at the trough. The dogs hadn't moved from the group of men enjoying their supper at the wood tables against the timbered frame of the building, but now two of them wandered up and sank their muzzles into the water alongside the horse. For Lord Montfort it was a companionable moment; on any other evening, at any other time, this would have been a peaceful end to the day.

He walked his horse over to the crowd of men who were gathered around a keg of ale. He handed Bruno's reins to a young boy standing on the edge of the group and loosened the horse's girth before he joined the crowd at the pub door. He allowed himself to be welcomed by those who worked for him, reassured by the closeness of men he had known for years.

“Been a long day, my lord, and a pity we didn't find the young misses.”

“Sure to turn up though, your lordship, young people being what they are these days.”

“Thank you, Dawkins, I'm sure you're right.”

“Know I am, my lord. That Violet's a good girl, she ain't in no trouble, you can be sure.”

Lord Montfort was grateful for their cheerful determination to be optimistic; he was conscious of their respect and knew they only wished him well. He spent a little while with them outside, drank a tankard of ale, thanked them for their help, and apologized for taking them away from their work at one of the busiest times of the year. Then he climbed back on his impatient horse and made his way home. As Bruno clattered up the village street, the gossip, which had been fueled by the first tankard of ale and quelled by his arrival, flared up with greater relish and he was glad that he was not around to hear it.

 

Chapter Fifteen

Belowstairs at Iyntwood, there was no respite from a grueling schedule that was beginning to take its toll on Mrs. Jackson's beleaguered staff. With the additional visiting personal maids and valets swelling their numbers, she felt as if their world had been condensed into an obstacle race without a finish line. With Violet's disappearance, the housemaids Agnes and Elsie were shorthanded, and very early that morning Mrs. Jackson and Dick had helped them ready the reception rooms before returning belowstairs to help with the breakfast trays.

As soon as guests and family gathered on the ground floor of the house later that morning, Agnes, Iris, and Dick—once again helped by Mrs. Jackson—worked through the guest wing and the family's bedrooms. They were exhausted at the end of the morning and Mrs. Jackson was grateful for the particularly delicious dinner Iris had prepared for the downstairs midday meal: shepherd's pie, followed by a nice jam roly-poly pudding with custard.

Mrs. Jackson knew that a good meal and an opportunity to relax from the labors of the day often produced a surfeit of idle chatter among the lower servants. So when Mary and Myrtle had cleaned up the kitchen after the family's luncheon, and Iris joined them for Mable Thwaite's instructions for tea and dinner, the housekeeper went into her stillroom across the corridor from the kitchen and kept the door open. She quite easily heard the housemaids and the kitchen servants chewing over the events of the morning. Myrtle had been talking to one of the gardeners who had delivered fruit and vegetables for the family's dinner; in the village they had still not heard from Mr. Simkin's sister over at Ticksby if Violet had gone to her.

“How's that search going on?” Iris White asked for the fifth time that day.

“Not very well, my girl, because if they'd found them, it would be all over. Anyway, you hope they don't find them, because they wouldn't be alive if they did.” Only Mable Thwaite could be this callous, thought Mrs. Jackson as she leaned a little farther toward the open door of the stillroom.

“How could you say such a thing?” Iris was shocked.

“Because Violet is a local girl, not from the town.” Mrs. Thwaite snorted in contempt. “And she knows the country round here like the back of her hand. So she's not lost. And we all know that Miss Lucinda went off in her motorcar.”

“Well, it's poor little Vi I'm worried about—”

“Well don't be, she's done a bunk. Mr. Hollyoak had better start counting the silver.”

As soon as she judged the kitchen staff was breaking for their afternoon tea, Mrs. Jackson washed her hands and joined them in the kitchen.

“The strawberry jam is ready, so you can make scones for upstairs tea, Mrs. Thwaite. Mr. Brown brought some clotted cream up from the dairy early this morning.”

“Good. Lady Montfort enjoys a nice scone at teatime, poor thing. She must be worried sick. Have a cup, Mrs. Jackson?”

“Yes indeed, thank you. How is everyone coming through for you with all this extra work, Mrs. Thwaite?” Mrs. Jackson put a sugar lump into her cup and stirred lightly.

“Well trained every one of them, my girls have certainly pulled
their
weight.” Here of course was a little gibe. Mrs. Jackson almost laughed. Evidently all of the cook's
kitchen
maids were present, correct, and doing their bit for King and Country.

“I think the food for the ball was a success, but it's all been forgotten because of that dreadful murder.”

Mrs. Jackson nodded in agreement. Of course, Mrs. Thwaite's greatest remorse was that her sensational food had been completely eclipsed by Teddy's murder.

“Course, we're all tired and distracted so it will be a few days before everything is back to normal. It's poor Mr. Hollyoak I feel so sorry for. Nowhere to go because that blinkin' sergeant is in his pantry, nosing around and asking questions as if anyone in this house had a reason to off Mr. Teddy.” Mable Thwaite lowered her voice. “Of course, the biggest strain is having all these extras here, cluttering up the place when they should have all gone home. That's what's tiring everyone out.” She drank her hot tea rapidly, taking little sips as her eyes darted back and forth across the kitchen and the girls working around the large, scrubbed table. “Oh yes, it's quite clear of course that the one that done
him
in is that stranger wandering around the place. That's why the colonel's dashed off up to London.”

“Oxford I thought, with Mr. Barclay.”

Mrs. Thwaite clapped her hand to her mouth and shook her head. “I am so sorry, Mrs. Jackson, I meant to tell you. Mr. Barclay will be back in time for dinner. Colonel Valentine telephoned his sergeant, who just now told Mr. Hollyoak there had been a change in plans. Colonel Valentine has left Oxford and is on his way to London to talk to Scotland Yard.”

“Oh, I see. Please keep that information to yourself, Mrs. Thwaite. Will Colonel Valentine return tonight?”

“No, he's spending the night in town. I expect he'll return tomorrow when he's done.” Mrs. Thwaite let out a gusty sigh. She poured them both another cup of tea, and Mrs. Jackson felt almost companionable in her role of confidante.