The Burry Man's Day (8 page)

This seemed unanswerable and Cadwallader changed tack.

‘
I
should have known,’ he said. Daisy and Buttercup both groaned.

‘Now you’re just being silly,’ I told him.

‘At least, I should have known better,’ said Cadwallader, and this was said in such a small sad voice that no one groaned or moaned or sighed at all and my heart went out to him. It was all new, I supposed, this being in charge of a staff, and although Dudgeon’s death could not possibly have had anything to do with the Burry Man it was an unfortunate sequence of events to occur so early in Cad’s stewardship of the estate.

He was staring at his feet again. Daisy tapped her watch and mimed eating and then below us, startlingly loud, we heard a dull clanking sound.

‘Front door bell,’ said Buttercup. ‘Melodious, isn’t it?’

‘I bet that’s the police,’ said Cadwallader.

The scrape of the door and the rumble of voices carried quite clearly up through the murder hole towards us and then, after a pause, light footsteps came hurrying up the stone treads and a maid appeared in the doorway. She was in black with her linen cuffs and frilled table apron on and she brought with her a rich waft of cooking. A slow rolling rumble emanated from Daisy’s middle.

‘Please, madam, sir,’ said the maid, rather breathlessly. ‘The police are here.’

‘Land sake’s alive,’ said Buttercup in a mock American drawl. ‘All right, Jean, show them into the library. Cad? You’d better go up and be ready to meet them.’ But Cadwallader was shaking his head.

‘Bring them to the drawing room, Jean,’ he said. And then to Buttercup, ‘We will face them together.’ The maid looked from one to the other, bobbed a curtsy and left, and then all four of us scurried out of the hall behind her and made for the stairs. At the drawing-room landing Daisy and I naturally began to carry on up but Cadwallader let out an exclamation, almost a squeak of protest.

‘Don’t leave us,’ he said.

‘Very well,’ I said, glad to have my nosiness indulged, but at his look of relief I had to giggle. ‘My dear Cadwallader,’ I said, ‘they’re not coming for you.’

Of course they were not, but anxiety is terribly catching and Cad’s hand-wringing trepidation, as we arranged ourselves in natural-looking poses and waited, infected all of us a little. Then the ringing tread of policemen’s boots on the stone steps did have rather an ominous feel to it, and so by the time the footsteps arrived in the passage outside the drawing-room door and the two men appeared in the flesh we were all cowering a little and inclined to gulp. There was a uniformed man, young and gormless-looking, busy casting his eyes around with interest at the interior of the castle, and an older figure, dressed in a light overcoat, carrying a soft hat, and looking surprised; not as though something in particular was surprising him right at the moment, more that surprise was the look of his face when at rest; surprise or a suppressed sneeze, one or the other. Anyway, it saved him from looking at all intimidating and one would have expected Cadwallader to rally.

I waited for him or Buttercup to rise or at least to say something but nothing happened, despite Daisy kicking Buttercup’s ankle quite hard, and the senior policeman spoke first.

‘Inspector Cruickshank, madam, sir, madam, madam,’ he said and I marvelled at the composure it must have taken to get to the end of this without faltering. Still nothing from the host or hostess.

‘Good evening, Inspector,’ I said at last. ‘I’m Mrs Gilver, a friend of Mrs de Cassilis’s, and this is Mrs Esslemont. Mr and Mrs de Cassilis are . . .’ I tailed off, ‘hopeless’ being the only word I could think of, which was hardly apropos.

‘I’m not surprised,’ said Inspector Cruickshank. ‘What a terrible thing to happen. Robert Dudgeon, you can scarcely credit it. Hardly fifty.’

This seemed to point very comfortingly down the heart attack or aneurysm route and Buttercup brightened visibly although Cad still hung his head like a dog expecting a kick.

‘Anyway,’ said Inspector Cruickshank and shifted rather awkwardly.

‘Do please sit down,’ said Daisy with another swift kick at Buttercup, which connected only with her chair leg and so had no effect. ‘And um . . .’ She glanced towards the young man hovering in the corner, but Inspector Cruickshank waved his hand and tush-tushed to say we need not worry about him.

‘The police surgeon is on his way,’ he said.

‘On his way here?’ said Buttercup, round-eyed. Inspector Cruickshank frowned and shook his head.

‘The fever hospital at Killinghouse Road is empty, given the time of year,’ he said. ‘So the post-mortem can be done there without delay. There is a room in a wee place by the gates of the cemetery too, but it’s really more for exhumed corpses and I thought Mrs Dudgeon would rather he was at the hospital.’

‘That’s a very kind thought,’ I said.

‘An autopsy?’ breathed Cadwallader, paling.

‘It’s a sudden death, Mr de Cassilis,’ said Inspector Cruickshank. ‘I’d go as far as to say a suspicious death, so certainly the body must be examined. I daresay Dr Rennick won’t find anything, but we have to be sure. And in the meantime, I’m just asking around, to see what I can see.’

I am sure the inspector had no idea how threatening he sounded in his vagueness so while Cad continued to shrink into his seat and stare I tried to take matters into my hands and move them along a little.

‘How can we help you?’ I said. ‘Anything that any of us can do, obviously.’

Buttercup made some kind of echoing murmur.

‘Two things,’ said Inspector Cruickshank. ‘Mrs Dudgeon was very keen to get Robert’s body home with her, and she’ll need to be told there’s no chance of that until tomorrow at least. She’ll need to be told about the post-mortem and it will all be better coming from you, Mrs de Cassilis, than from one of my men, don’t you think?’

Buttercup looked quite stricken at the thought and shook her head slightly. I felt a little irritation. After all, running a place was not all playing at castles and had it been our estate carpenter at Gilverton I should not have relished the task but I should not have shirked it.

‘And the other thing?’ said Daisy.

‘Yes, well, as I say,’ said Inspector Cruickshank. ‘My guess is that Rennick will find natural causes, but just in case he doesn’t, I might as well get ahead of the game while I can.’ This did not quite ring true, I thought, and looking at him closely I wondered just how sure he really was. ‘So,’ he went on, ‘I believe Robert Dudgeon came to speak to you yesterday night, Mr de Cassilis. What can you tell me about that?’ A surreptitious sound from the corner drew my attention and I saw the constable flicking open a notebook and drawing out a pencil he had threaded into its spring.

‘He seemed very well,’ said Cadwallader. ‘In good health, you know. No signs of any illness. So it must have been terrifically sudden.’

‘And how was he in himself?’ said Inspector Cruickshank. ‘In his spirits?’ Cad shrugged as though to suggest he had nothing to add and I stared at him, shocked. The senseless guilty conscience act was one thing but he could not seriously intend to lie to a policeman. I blushed inwardly at my own moral outrage (after all, lying to policemen was not unknown to me) but this was different.

‘He was troubled,’ I said in a loud, clear voice. Cadwallader could say what he liked to me later; there was no point in making this any worse than it was. Inspector Cruickshank cocked an eye at me and waited for more.

‘He didn’t want to do the Burry Man,’ I said. ‘I was there too, you see, Inspector. He didn’t want to do it one little bit, but he wouldn’t say why.’

‘And how did you persuade him in the end?’ said Inspector Cruickshank. I thought about this for a moment before answering.

‘I can’t honestly say,’ I told him. ‘I can’t quite remember what I said that made the difference.’ I looked towards Cad, before remembering that he had left by the time it came to that. But came to what? ‘I made a little joke about Mr de Cassilis taking over, but he knew I didn’t mean that. Then he just seemed, all of a sudden, to change his mind.’

‘Interesting,’ said Inspector Cruickshank. ‘Would you say he seemed frightened of the job?’

‘No,’ I said slowly. ‘Cad, did he seem frightened to you when he first turned up?’

Cadwallader shook his head. ‘He seemed exactly the same as when I was up on the roof with him earlier. Quite himself and perfectly calm, only absolutely determined not to dress as the Burry Man.’

‘Until he changed his mind,’ said Inspector Cruickshank. ‘And when you were with him earlier in the day, sir, he said nothing about these misgivings?’

‘Not a word,’ said Cad. ‘That’s a curious thing now that you mention it, Inspector. Why would he not?’

‘Perhaps looking for an opening and not finding it?’ I suggested. This would be absolutely up my street, I was sure – spending an hour with a person I had to tell something to and funking it completely so that I had to summon twice as much courage, pay a special visit and blurt it out standing on the carpet twisting my hat.

‘No, that wasn’t it,’ said Cadwallader, ‘because I was joking about it with him. We were up on the roof, as I say, and we could see some of the people still picking the burdock seeds. They’re scarce this year, I believe, but there are some good big clumps of them on my land. They came to ask my permission and all that, and I was delighted to let them.’ A note, not quite petulant, had crept into Cadwallader’s voice. He must have felt such a rush of well-being to be up on his castle roof with his trusted servant watching peasants below picking at the bushes on his say-so. An age-old tradition carrying on thanks to
his
carpenter,
his
bushes and
his
magnanimity must have been more than many Americans ever dream of. How horridly awry it had all gone since. Poor Cad.

‘Anyway, I was joking with Dudgeon about it,’ he said. ‘Shouting down to them to be careful to get only the prickliest ones, and Dudgeon laughed and said there wasn’t much to choose between one burr and another and besides he was used to it.’

‘So at that point – when would this be, sir? – at that point he was intending to go ahead.’

‘Oh, definitely,’ said Cadwallader. ‘This was just before tea. Three o’clock or something. So whatever it was that made him change his mind happened between then and seven when he came back to tell me the thing was off.’

This was a puzzle to be sure, but who could say whether it had anything to do with what had happened at the greasy pole? Inspector Cruickshank appeared to be thinking along similar lines to me, because he rolled the thought around for a minute or two, glancing at the constable to make sure the man was getting it all down in his notebook, then he seemed to shake it out of his head and he returned to business with an expressive sniff.

‘Well, we’ll see, we’ll see,’ he said. ‘Meantime, Mrs de Cassilis, would you be so kind as to pop along to Mrs Dudgeon’s house and explain.’ Buttercup nodded; the same hopelessness which meant she would rather die than do it also meant she had no idea how to wriggle out of it. Or so I thought.

‘Of course,’ she said. ‘Dandy and I will go together.’ I did not even bother to protest.

‘We must take something,’ I said ten minutes later, standing in my petticoats in Buttercup’s bedroom, as we tried to divide what black clothes she had between us. ‘Oh, heavenly!’ I exclaimed, falling upon a figured silk tea dress in black with the merest hint of purple. Buttercup had already bagged the only black skirt in her collection that did not look like a coal sack.

‘Purple roses, Dandy, be serious,’ said Buttercup, rootling through dark blouses. I took the silk frock over to the window and looked at it in the light. The figuring was roses, I could see now, but I was not going to give it up without a struggle.

‘Purple is perfectly funereal,’ I said. ‘And it’s so deep as to be practically black upon black anyway, and in the twilight, and in a cottage
-'
There was a sharp rap at the door which made Buttercup jump and drop what she was holding, but which I recognized with long experience as Grant.

She marched in, holding over one arm a black linen frock with bottle green ribbon-threading and carrying a bottle green small-brimmed hat and black kid shoes in the other hand. I did not recognize any of them.

‘Your mourning, madam,’ she said, depositing them on Buttercup’s bed and whisking the figured silk away from me with a pitying lift of her eyebrows.

I bought them in the spring,’ she added, by way of addressing my look of puzzlement. I didn’t bother you with it, madam, for who likes to be reminded of the need for them?’

‘And you brought them here because . . .?’ I always pack them, madam,’ said Grant, sounding astonished that I might doubt it. ‘Otherwise . . .’ She glanced again at the black and purple roses and her lip curled. ‘Can you manage?’ she went on. ‘The hat will cover everything.’ Grant, it will be clear, thinks little of my talents as a hairdresser. I nodded and she left.

‘Well,’ said Buttercup. ‘Talk about the spirit of Nanny Palmer living on, Dan really.’

‘Nanny Palmer was a darling,’ I countered. But I knew what she meant. Nanny Palmer was a well-starched darling who stood no nonsense and it is perfectly true that a great many of my retainers since have been along the same lines.

‘We have to take something,’ I said again. ‘Soup? Might there be a pie? Or a bottle of cordial? Flowers certainly.’

‘We’ll ask Mrs Murdoch on the way out,’ said Buttercup. ‘What a pity she’s only just arrived, though. A pie is a possibility, but as for a cordial or anything in a bottle I should think the chances are slim. What about cherry brandy? We have gallons of that somehow and it’s absolutely filthy.’

‘So generous,’ I said, as I set the bottle green hat on my head. It did indeed cover everything, and although one would think that a bottle green and all-enveloping hat would make someone of my sallow complexion look like one of the swamp creatures for which Queensferry was renowned, it suited me rather well. Grant is an angel in serge.

Mrs Murdoch, an angel in a linen pinny, was ready for us when we reached the ground floor and clearly the household tom-toms had related our mission to her for she had put together a basket with not only a pie, a bunch of lilies and a bottle of the cherry brandy, but also a fruitcake in wax paper and a bottle of tonic (her own recipe) which, she said, helped her own dear mother no end when her own dear father was taken.