A Traitor's Tears (8 page)

‘I know him,' I said. ‘I've given him charitable gifts myself.'

‘Mr Cobbold said that his wife had been generous to him, and took an interest in his welfare. But Mr Cobbold also described him as scruffy to look at and never averse to taking a handout. The men I sent to question him confirm the scruffiness, though they couldn't speak for the handouts. But it occurred to Mr Cobbold that perhaps this man had asked for extra charity, more than Mrs Cobbold felt she could give, and become angry when refused. However, that theory wouldn't do, as I reminded him.'

He paused, apparently looking back into his memory. ‘Wouldn't do?' I prompted.

‘No. It wouldn't. After dinner, when Mrs Cobbold had left, Anthony and I sat talking in the parlour, by the window. Now I come to the gardeners. We could see them weeding. We also saw them finish their task, pick up some tools and a ladder they must have laid ready, and leave the garden. Mr Cobbold remarked they were probably going to deal with a tree that was becoming dangerous because of a partly broken branch that might fall on to a path – the track between the Hall and Jarvis's cottage. He'd given orders to see to it. I have inspected the tree myself and seen where the dangerous branch was cut. To get at it, the men would have had to climb quite high. They would have had a good view of Jarvis's cottage, and much of the path between it and the hall. You understand?'

‘Yes. Please go on.'

‘So the gardeners set off to attend to the tree. They agree that that is what they did. And they say that once up their ladder, they saw Mrs Cobbold starting to walk back to her home after visiting Jarvis. They also say that Jarvis then came out into his vegetable patch and started work there. Now, you see? The gardeners saw Jarvis in his garden, and he saw them up their tree. They say he didn't follow her or anything of that kind. She reached home safely but shortly after that, she was found dead in her own garden. All that time, Jarvis and the gardeners were within sight of each other. There was trouble with the broken branch, which was awkward to get at. It took the men quite a while.'

I was working it out for myself. ‘So Mrs Cobbold came back and went into her own garden, while Jarvis and the gardeners were all about half a mile away, close to the cottage?'

‘Yes. Mr Cobbold and I saw his wife come into the garden and examine the weeded beds – I suppose to see if the work had been done properly. When I called it to his mind, he remembered well enough. I remember, too. I was with him, after all.'

I was silent a moment, puzzling. ‘There's no link between Jarvis and the gardeners, is there? They're not all related to each other, or anything like that?'

‘Collusion? No. One of the gardeners has been at Cobbold Hall for years. He lives in Woking. The other is a lad from the village of Priors Ford, who only came to work for the Cobbolds a couple of months ago. Jarvis has had the cottage for a couple of years and isn't known to have any relatives at all. Certainly not the gardeners. Mr Cobbold was definite about that.'

‘I see,' I said bleakly.

‘You, of course, arrived with the Ferrises and had been with them since the morning. Otherwise,' said Sir Edward disquietingly, ‘we might have considered you as well, since you were the subject of Mrs Cobbold's gossip. A woman could have done it – the dagger blade
was
good. With such a keen edge, it wouldn't need a man's strength to drive it home. But you are obviously not a possibility, unless the Ferrises were in it too, which is hardly likely, since Mrs Ferris is Mrs Cobbold's daughter. Ha ha.'

I had never heard him laugh before. That sudden harsh bray took me aback. He had a cruel sense of humour, I thought.

‘And so,' he said, ‘we come to Roger Brockley. Who else is there?'

‘Was Brockley seen anywhere near Cobbold Hall itself?' I demanded.

He shook his head. ‘No. Only in Woking. But that's near enough.'

‘I sent him there to buy salt and pepper. And Woking is nowhere near enough,' I snapped. ‘It's all of two miles. If he wasn't seen near Cobbold Hall, or on the road between it and Woking, you have no case against him.' I stood up. Anger had come to my aid, taking the quiver out of my leg muscles, bracing my spine. ‘I shall approach Lord Burghley, whom I know well and who is a lawyer, for advice. I will not have my servants falsely accused!'

‘I doubt very much if this accusation is false,' said Sir Edward Heron calmly. ‘The gardeners can't have done it and nor can Jack Jarvis. Roger Brockley had every reason to detest the lady. He could have heard fresh gossip in Woking, come to the hall to protest to her, met her in the garden, been outraged by something she said, and struck her down in a fit of momentary fury.'

‘Only,' I said coldly, ‘he didn't.'

‘Loyalty between servant and lady is of course a virtue,' said Sir Edward politely. ‘But it can be carried too far.'

I didn't offer him any refreshment. I bade him good day, gave him a sketch of a curtsey, and walked out of the hall. I found Wilder hovering outside. ‘See him off the premises,' I said, and went on upstairs, back to Dale and Sybil.

I couldn't leave instantly to seek Lord Burghley's advice, because Dale was too upset to travel and I wanted her with me. While I waited, I tried to make plans, with difficulty because to make a journey of any length without Brockley in attendance felt so strange, and Dale burst into tears every time she was reminded that he couldn't be with us.

I finally decided to take Arthur Watts, our gnarled and gnome-like but very reliable head groom. Dale could ride on his pillion. Sybil could stay at Hawkswood and act as my deputy.

‘There may be visitors to receive,' I said to her distractedly.

There might – oh, please God – there might be a messenger from Sir Edward Heron to say that Brockley had been released; his arrest was all a mistake. Or there could be visits from friends who had heard the news, coming to offer help or condolences.

Dale was better the next day and we had begun to pack, when the first of the possible callers arrived. Wilder came up to the bedchamber where we were filling saddlebags, to announce that Master Anthony Cobbold was here to see me and was waiting in the Little Parlour.

The Little Parlour was the room in which Sybil and the Brockleys had so firmly told me that I must obey the queen and attend Norfolk's execution. It had once been very much a private place for Hugh and me. In those days, visitors were taken into the hall or the bigger parlour, which nowadays we often called the East Room. During my absence abroad just after Hugh's death, Sybil had taken to calling it that, because it was at the eastern end of the house, and the name had stuck. And now, visitors – unless they were official, as Heron had been – were usually shown into the Little Parlour to await me.

‘Anthony Cobbold?' I said. ‘What can he want with me?' I didn't in the least wish to see him. I pitied him in his loss but that same loss was doing dreadful injury to Brockley and to all of us at Hawkswood. I had stayed away from Jane's funeral. I couldn't imagine what had brought her husband to Hawkswood.

For a moment, I considered refusing to see him but it would be discourteous to send my guest away, even if he had come uninvited.

So with Dale at my heels, I went downstairs. I found Master Cobbold, all in black, standing uneasily by the window, twisting a velvet cap between his hands and obviously embarrassed.

‘Mistress Stannard!'

‘Do sit down,' I said automatically. I seated myself and signed to Dale to do the same. ‘Have you been offered any refreshment?'

‘Yes … but I said no. Thank you. Mistress Stannard, I can hardly suppose I'm welcome here but I had to come …' Tall and swarthy as ever, he looked like Beelzebub in a hangdog mood. ‘I'm so
sorry
! I couldn't stop Sir Edward from … Of course I know that Roger Brockley wouldn't have harmed my wife. Even he had reason to be angry with her and I suppose he had, and so had you, but I've known you both for years and I am as sure as I can be that there's been a terrible mistake!'

‘
Please
sit down!' I said, and this time there was some warmth in my voice. He did as I asked, and I said: ‘Brockley has been arrested. If you know of anything that may help him – or if you can suggest anyone else who might have been responsible – please tell me. If you noticed any strangers on your land, or anything else that might help to uncover the truth, please, please tell me!'

‘I didn't,' said Anthony sadly. ‘It was a perfectly ordinary day. There was nothing –
nothing
. I saw no strangers at any time that day. Do you suppose I haven't been all over it in my mind, again and again? I can't think of a single thing that might be of use. I did have ideas that I told to Sir Edward, but he proved them all to be impossible.'

‘He has said that to me. He's been here.' Awkwardly, I added: ‘Please don't think that I don't feel for you and for Jane, too! And I do ask you to take some wine.' Without waiting for an answer, I picked up the little bell that always stood on the Little Parlour's one small table, and rang it. Wilder appeared immediately and had probably been nearby. I requested wine for three.

‘You had reason to feel bitterness against my wife,' Anthony said heavily, as Wilder disappeared. ‘I know that. Jane was a good woman, perhaps too good. She did not understand the … difficulties of your life. She herself never had many difficulties to face. For me, the fact that Her Majesty the Queen accepts you and your son and recognizes you as relations of hers is enough for me. But …'

His voice tailed off, helplessly. It seemed as though he didn't quite know what he had come to Hawkswood to say. Wilder came back with the wine, poured for us all and then withdrew. Dale, who had as usual taken a stool at a little distance from me, wrapped her hands round her glass as though she were trying to warm them on it. Anthony glanced at her and said: ‘Mistress Brockley, I know this is a wretched time for you. I am sorry for you and for your husband. I can only hope that things can be put right and that you will soon have your husband home.'

‘He didn't do it,' said Dale miserably. ‘I know he didn't.'

‘I do have one idea,' Anthony said. ‘It seems to be impossible, but I suppose the gardeners could be lying for some reason though I don't know what. Maybe they were bribed. They've been questioned hard – I must give Sir Edward credit for that – and they swore they hadn't been but I still wonder. In my opinion, that tenant of mine, Jack Jarvis, is the man. We don't know much about him, but he had a grudge against the world, I can tell you that. It wasn't his fault that he lost his livelihood when the land where he used to graze his sheep was enclosed; that's true enough. But I always felt that because of that, he hated everyone, even Jane, who was so kind to him. That could have been it, you know. He always took charity just a little too willingly.'

I nodded, having felt the same thing.

Anthony sipped his wine. ‘He sometimes asked Jane for things, you know, things that I thought he could have provided for himself. He did quite well, selling eggs and vegetables and fowls for the table. But he has asked my wife to provide him with new garden tools, and two or three times said could he have a bag of corn for the hens, things like that, and a couple of months ago, he asked if she could buy him a donkey! And she did. Jane was so
very
generous, so
very
charitable.'

He sounded heartbreakingly proud of her. ‘She always said that charity was a virtue she was in a position to practise and that she was glad to do so. I admired her for that.' His voice broke. ‘Sometimes I can't bear it, knowing she isn't there. I keep expecting her to open a door and walk into the room I'm in … then I realize that she never will and it's dreadful. The world seems so empty. If I speak, if any of the servants speak, the house seems to echo!' There were tears in his eyes. ‘But do you see? Jarvis was beginning to ask for bigger, more costly things. He might have gone too far, asked her for something that she felt was a little too much, so that she said no … and then he became angry. I think the killer was Jarvis.'

‘The dagger,' I said. ‘I understand it wasn't valuable but it was quite ornate. Did you ever see such a thing in his possession? Brockley never had such a dagger. I'd have known, and certainly Dale here would – wouldn't you, Dale?'

‘Yes, ma'am. I would indeed.'

‘If Jarvis had one, I never saw it but what of that? Maybe he did,' said Anthony. ‘But there's one other thing, and
that's
the real reason why I feel so sure that Jarvis was the killer. It's what I came here to tell you, only these days I seem to be so confused. I should have explained at once, instead of waffling. Jarvis has disappeared.'

‘Disappeared?' I said, startled.

‘Went the day before yesterday, the day of the funeral. I didn't go to the graveside myself; the vicar said it wasn't proper for spouses to do that. But everyone who was there came to the house afterwards and Jack Jarvis wasn't among them and when I asked about him, no one had seen him. I couldn't understand it, thinking how good Jane had been to him. Then Master Poole – you don't know him; he rents a smallholding from me and he was at the funeral – he came up to me and said that Jarvis had called on him the day before, in the afternoon, and said he was obliged to go away for a while, and asked if Poole could take care of his chickens for him!

‘So yesterday I went to Jarvis's cottage, and sure enough, it's all shut up, and the chickens were gone. I rode over to Poole's place and found that he'd collected them and taken them home. He said it was easier to look after them if he didn't have to keep going over to the cottage. It's my belief,' said Anthony, ‘that Jarvis has run away, afraid of being accused. And I think that whatever my gardeners may say, he killed my wife.'