The Dead Songbird (The Northminster Mysteries) (20 page)

“He does not like me at all, Uncle Giles,” she said. “I must smell wrong or something.”

“You do not smell of rats, that is it. Have you been here long, Celia?”

“About a quarter of an hour,” she said. “I am waiting for Papa.”

“Have you seen Mr Harrison come by? You know him, I’m sure?” She nodded. “Did he come out of the Minster?”

“I haven’t seen him, no. Not today at least,” she said and then added a little hesitantly, “Why do you want to see him, Uncle Giles?”

“I want to talk to him.”

“Is it about poor Mr Barnes?” said Celia.

“Yes, as a matter of fact,” he said. “What do you know about that, Celia?”

“Well, I did see Mr Harrison. I saw him the other day. You see, yesterday I heard Cole and Betsy talking in the kitchen – talking about what had happened to Mr Barnes, and that he’d been left dead in that chapel above the gatehouse, that you can see from my tree, and I remembered that the other morning when I was up in my tree I saw Mr Harrison coming out of there. Along that little lane.”

“Which morning?”

“Tuesday. The day it happened. It was Tuesday, wasn’t it?”

“You are sure it was Tuesday?”

“Yes. I know it was Tuesday because it was before geometry.”

“And you are sure it was Mr Harrison?”

“Oh yes. He had that big long red scarf on and and he has a particularly shiny high hat. Mamma is always fascinated by it. She pretends not to be, but she is always saying it: how is Mr Harrison’s hat so shiny? Then Papa says he must use champagne and bootblack.”

“When is your geometry lesson?”

“Half past ten. Mr Smithson comes at half past ten on Tuesday and Friday.”

“And your lesson before that – when does that finish?”

“Miss Frey lets me out at ten.”

He nodded.

“That is extremely useful, Celia. Thank you for telling me.”

“I hope it doesn’t mean...” she said. “Well, you know... that Mr Harrison isn’t – is he? You don’t think that, do you?” Giles did not get a chance to answer, because Celia then said, “Oh look, there’s Mr Carswell.”

Giles turned. Carswell was striding along at great speed and would not have noticed them had not Giles called out to him, “Just in time, Mr Carswell! We need to find Harrison.”

“Harrison – oh?” said Carswell pushing his hand through his hair.

“You do think it is him!” said Celia. “Oh no. I wish I hadn’t said anything now.”

“You did exactly the right thing,” said Giles. “And it may mean nothing at all that you saw him then. I only need to talk to him again.”

“But it may mean everything,” she said. “You’re going to arrest him, aren’t you? – just because of what I said. And then he’ll be hanged.” She covered her face with her hands.

Giles crouched down and put his hands on her shoulders her.

“No, no, that isn’t the case at all. We simply don’t know. I have to make sure that he was not involved in any way, that is all. There may be a simple explanation to his being there, one that has nothing at all to do with Mr Barnes.”

She did not look convinced. She glanced up at Carswell for confirmation.

“Major Vernon is right,” he said. “It doesn’t mean that at all.”

She pursed her lips and nodded.

“Come, let me take you home, Miss Fforde,” said Carswell offering his hand. “I need to speak to your mother. I seem to remember I promised I would dissect a bull’s eye for you, and we must arrange a time.”

The prospect of this treat, which would have made most ten-year-old girls squeak with horror, seemed to mollify her, and the pair of them went off towards the Treasurer’s House while Giles was left to think where best to start looking for Josiah Harrison.

Chapter Twenty-six

Several hours later, Harrison had still not been located. He had not returned to his lodgings, neither had he been seen in the taverns he was known to favour. All the obvious and the less obvious places had been checked, and despite exercising a fair bit of ingenuity on the subject, Giles and his men drew a blank. He seemed to have vanished into thin air.

Very much the actions of a guilty man, Giles could not help thinking, as he poured himself a glass of claret and sat down to dinner. With the addition of Celia’s evidence it was damning enough. He could only hope that Harrison could be located before too long. He decided he would go out again later and continue the hunt.

Carswell was equally elusive in his own way. He came in late to dinner, and did not seemed much inclined to conversation. He picked at his food and avoided Giles’ glance. When they had finished, he took his wine and stood by the fire, staring gloomily down into it, apparently preoccupied by some private trouble. Giles wondered whether he ought to enquire about it or whether such an intrusion would be resented. He decided that if Carswell wished to talk to him, he would choose his own moment. A rational distraction would be a better strategy.

Giles got up from the table and spread the the latest letter Mrs Morgan had given him on his writing table next to the earlier letter. He had been thinking about them as they ate, and now wanted to confirm his suspicions.

“Interesting,” he said looking down at them. “I’d value your opinion on this. This is the latest piece of polite correspondence to reach Mrs Morgan. Pretty shocking, wouldn’t you say?”

Carswell eventually came and stood beside him, and looked the letter over. He said nothing, apparently determined to be indifferent to it.

“How different they look side by side,” Giles went on. “Cut from different paper, and pasted on different paper. Even the way the letters are cut out seems different. This person is a great deal more accomplished with the scissors. Look how the large letters have been so precisely cut round. It is like that fancy work women sometimes do with prints and so forth. Looking at them I wonder if we are are not looking at the work of two different people.”

“But the sentiment is equally vitriolic,” said Carswell, his interest apparently now piqued, “and the language is similar.”

“That’s the puzzle of it. Is person B,” Giles said, tapping the most recent letter, “imitating letter A, and by implication person A?”

“Or have they just taken more care on the second letter?” Carswell said.

“That is a possibility. But this one is done so finely, so carefully. It is like an arrangement in a commonplace book. My sisters used to do these things – Mary would cut entire castles out of paper. Now if you have a skill, and you are a meticulous person – as the maker of letter B clearly is – it is difficult surely to leave off being meticulous?”

“You think it is a woman who has done this?”

“It’s possible. I have had a look at some old cases – there was an example fifty years ago in Lincoln when a widow tormented her daughter-in-law with poisonous letters, alleging she was having an affair with another man. In the end the son believed the letters and attempted to kill the man in question, which was how it came to court. It was the prospect of her son being hanged which made her admit to it.”

“I am sure there are plenty of women that Mrs Morgan has offended,” Carswell said. “Sirens must run the risk of being disliked by their sisters.”

“Or more specifically their sisters-in-law?” said Giles, holding up the second letter to the lamp, and peering at it. “I’m willing to swear that this is all cut from the Bugle. Oh, how I wish she had kept those other letters. It was understandable of her to destroy them, but –” He laid the letter down, unable to make any more conclusions. He felt in need of a brisk cold walk in order to think clearly.

Carswell had returned to the fire and was staring moodily into it. It struck Giles that he was also in need of a distraction.

“Get you hat and bag, Mr Carswell,” said Giles. “We are going to call on Mr Geoffrey again. Let us see if we can’t get something useful out of him. Perhaps he will know where Harrison has got to.”

“Do you think that’s possible, sir?” said Carswell.

“I don’t know, but it’s better than sitting here in idleness, don’t you think?”

***

The door was opened to them by the grim-faced butler.

“Mr Holt, good evening!” said Major Vernon.

“I don’t think my master will want to see you, sir,” said Holt.

“We will deal with your master later,” said Major Vernon, going boldly into the house. “But first, I would like a word with you.”

“As you like, sir.”

“Have you seen anything more of Mr Harrison – since Monday night, I mean?” asked Major Vernon.

“Yes, sir, he has was here this afternoon as a matter of fact – at about half four.”

“He was? That is excellent information, Mr Holt. You opened the door to him yourself, not one of the other servants?”

“Yes, sir, I did.”

“How did he seem?” Major Vernon said, taking out his notebook. “Was he calm, for example, or agitated?”

“Agitated,” said Holt. “He was up on his high horse, as he always is with me, but more than usual. Trying to show me how much a gentleman he is, which of course he is not. Demanded to see the master at once. I told him to wait. I went to ask Mr Geoffrey if he’d seen him, but he followed me in, which of course set the master at loggerheads with him at once.”

“What did your master say, precisely?”

“He told me to put him out at once. So I had a go, but Harrison was in fighting mood, and started yelling at Mr Geoffrey, saying that the game was all up, and that Major Vernon would be onto him unless he gave him some tin to clear out of Northminster.”

“And how did your master take this?”

“He sent me from the room.”

“I don’t suppose you went far away?”

Holt hesitated for a moment before saying, “No sir.” He hesitated again. “I stayed outside the door to hear what I could of the rest of it. I thought, since a man was dead, I had better.”

“I understand,” said the Major. “There are indeed times when doors must be listened at.”

“I thought you would see it, sir,” said Holt. “Trouble was, it’s a solid door, and I didn’t hear anything else. But then about five minutes later, Harrison marches out and straight through the front door.”

“And you think your master gave him some money?”

“It seems possible, because the master was locking his desk drawer when I went back in to see if he was all right. I know he keeps a bit of ready money in there, so I suppose he did.”

“And how did he seem?”

“Rattled, I’d say. He asked me to fetch Nickson – that’s his man – to him at once, and asked for a large brandy and water. Oh, and he wouldn’t take his dinner, which surprised me, for the man’s a glutton and never misses a meal.”

“Mr Holt, that is extremely useful. Now, go to your employer and announce Mr Carswell, will you?”

“Yes, sir.” Holt went off obediently.

He came back a few moments later and said, “The master will see you, sir. This way, please.”

They followed Holt into an impressive apartment, lined with glazed bookcases. There was also a considerable amount of statuary about the place, giving the atmosphere of a museum. It was brilliantly lit up as if a great company were expected, with a huge fire burning in the grate. Felix wondered if this was the room where the
poses plastiques
took place and felt some disgust at the thought. If what they had surmised about these events was correct, then it was inexplicable to him. Man’s lustful urges were surely linked inextricably with the the desire to propagate the race. How could a man be driven to desire something that could only be futile in terms of the forces of nature? But then from his own bitter experience of the last few days, he knew that desire for a woman was not always rational. Perhaps, then, he in his own inconvenient concupiscence had more in common with these affairs than he liked to admit. He tried for a moment to imagine himself in lustful pursuit of a man, but could not twist his head about the notion.

Clad in his dressing gown and night cap, Geoffrey was sitting at a round table in the dazzling pool of light given off by a particularly large and elaborate Argand lamp. On the table were trays taken from a medal cabinet, and Geoffrey was squinting at some treasure through a magnifying glass. He looked up and stared at them as they entered.

“Who the devil are you, sir?” said Geoffrey.

“Forgive the intrusion at this hour, Mr Geoffrey,” said Major Vernon. “I am Major Vernon of the Constabulary. I have taken the liberty of accompanying Mr Carswell on his call.”

“Major Vernon, well – I have heard something of you, sir,” said Geoffrey putting down his glass and the medal on the baize-covered table. “A military gentleman is an ornament to any society,” he said after a moment. “We shall take some wine – Holt, fetch up some Madeira.”

“Not for me, thank you,” said the Major.

“How are you feeling, sir?” said Felix. “I am glad to see you up and about.”

“I have only been up this last hour or so,” Geoffrey said. “I have been in a miserable condition. I thought I would take a little consolation in my medals. But I am glad to see you again, Mr Carswell. I have been on the verge of calling you back.”

“Let me feel your pulse, sir,” said Felix, taking him by the wrist. “Splendidly regular.”

“You think so?” said Geoffrey, doubtfully.

“An improvement, certainly. Being out of your bed will always help you, sir, as will moderate exercise and mental distractions – such as your fine collection here.”

“Do you like medals, Mr Carswell?” said Geoffrey “I would imagine that you have an eye for such things. Perhaps you are a man of taste.” He picked up a medal and held it out to Felix. “What do you think of that? A rare specimen. Fifteen century Italian – the finest quality. Florentine, of course, from the days of Lorenzo the Magnificent. A nice piece of work.”

“I am afraid I am no judge,” said Felix.

“Perhaps Major Vernon has an opinion?”

He held out the medal to Major Vernon, who took and scrutinized it in the light of the lamp.

“A fine image and a handsome profile,” he said after a moment or two. “It reminds me a little of Mr Barnes,” he added laying the medal down on the green baize.

“Ah, yes,” said Geoffrey with a sigh. “Yes, indeed. How observant of you, sir.”