Death at Knytte (20 page)

‘I’d rather have seen him hang,’ Sir Martin said testily, glaring at Beddowes. The sergeant had caught his own horse and raced across the field, concerned that Mortleigh might yet offer some resistance. He arrived to find the man dead, and returned more slowly, passing Tremayle and four grooms carrying a hurdle.

Beddowes winced as he dismounted, and placed his arm back into the sling. ‘I’m sorry, Sir Martin. At that range I might have missed altogether if I’d aimed to wing him. How is Lady Pickhurst?’

‘Still breathing, but not for long I suspect. Docket’s with
her, and a doctor’s been sent for. Listen, Sergeant, it seems Mortleigh’s valet was very much in his confidence. I gather his name is Tomms. He needs to be found. There’s a chance some of the jewels may yet be recovered.’

Beddowes nodded. ‘Seeing Mortleigh set my memory straight. I owe Tomms a knock or two. I’ll find him, don’t you worry, but not until we ask her ladyship about Miss Drake.’

Sir Martin harrumphed and led the way into the house.

A footman stood by the door, and Beddowes paused to speak to him. ‘Mortleigh’s valet, Tomms,’ he said quietly, ‘is he still here?’

‘He ran off towards the big house a few minutes ago,’ the man replied.

Beddowes nodded his thanks. He could spare a minute or two, no more. Tomms was probably intending to steal himself a mount and vanish; he mustn’t be given the chance to get too much of a lead.

Lady Pickhurst lay on a couch, a growing pool of blood spreading beneath her slim body, while an elderly maid fluttered helplessly over her. Docket was on his knees at the woman’s side. ‘Please,’ he was saying. ‘Tell me what happened to Miss Drake. If you believe in redemption, help yourself by having some mercy now. Is she still alive? Did Mortleigh kill her?’

‘No time,’ Lucille murmured, through lips that were drained of all colour, making the dark scabs and bruises look all the more vivid. ‘Should have done it then. Might have done, but the brat was wailing.’

‘Miss Drake was crying?’

‘No. The boy. I thought he’d wake the whole house.’ Her face twisted in sudden pain. ‘Mortleigh?’

Docket looked up at Sir Martin who shook his head.

‘Dead, Lady Pickhurst,’ Sir Martin said. ‘Mortleigh is dead.
If you hope for God’s forgiveness, please tell us where we can find Miss Drake.’

‘Mortleigh. Such a man. We might have …’ She sighed. ‘Interfering chit.’ Her mouth curved, as if she was smiling. ‘She’ll be cold by now. But she was always cold. No fire in her blood. So unfair….’

Lucille’s eyes drifted shut, and a minute later she died, without uttering another word.

Docket got swiftly to his feet, looking wildly at Beddowes. ‘Cold – she said she’s cold. Have they killed her?’

‘I don’t know.’ Beddowes closed his eyes, thinking about the woman’s exact words.
No time. Should have done it then
. That had seemed to be her answer, before her spite had prompted her to give them a more enigmatic reply. ‘Maybe not.’

If they were to have any chance of recovering even a little of the stolen jewellery, and with it his reputation, then he had to go after Tomms. But where was Phoebe Drake? He recalled the look in her eyes, the trusting innocence; she had been so grateful when he promised to help her cousin. He had questioned her, persuaded her to tell Jonah Jackman’s secret, and given no thought to her own safety. It was his fault she’d fallen foul of Lady Pickhurst and her murderous lover. If she was dead then the blame lay squarely at his door, and it would haunt him for the rest of his life.

‘But where would she be cold?’ Docket was saying. ‘The ruins? The tower’s always cold, but even though Jackman’s not there, the other men will still be at work.’

‘A cellar?’ Beddowes hazarded, looking at Sir Martin.

‘Not the one at Knytte, it’s in constant use. Here. I don’t know.’ The Lord Lieutenant looked enquiringly at the footman.

‘There’s not one here, sir. The wine is stored next to the buttery.’

‘Where else then?’ Beddowes began to stride the room, his right fist clenching. ‘Somewhere close. They were short of time.’

‘There’s an ice house,’ the elderly maid said. She had covered Lady Pickhurst’s face, and knelt to say a prayer over her, now she rose to her feet, all brisk normality. ‘It’s not been in use since his lordship’s father died. There’s nothing to see but a mound at the edge of the wood.’

‘That grassy mound. I saw it as we passed,’ Docket cried, dashing to the door.

As Beddowes made to follow, Sir Martin caught at his arm. ‘Sergeant, we need Tomms. He can’t be allowed to escape.’

The sergeant nodded, torn between his duty and his feelings for Phoebe Drake. He adjusted the rifle on his shoulder again, giving himself a moment to think. ‘I’ll go now. But I’d be obliged if you’d send some men after Docket, Sir Martin, and maybe go yourself. If Miss Drake’s in the ice house they may need to break the door down.’

Beddowes took the shortest route back to the gardens. His mount hesitated for only a second when asked to jump up the ha-ha, a feat it accomplished with apparent ease, before galloping on across the lawns. It seemed Lord Pickhurst was a good judge of horses, as well as guns.

T
here were half a dozen men in the stableyard, clustered together around something lying on the cobbles. As Beddowes drew closer he saw it was a boy, and that his tow-coloured hair was streaked with red.

‘What’s happened?’ Beddowes demanded.

‘It was Tomms,’ one of the grooms replied, ‘Him what works for Mr Mortleigh. He come running up and snatched her ladyship’s Arabian mare. Simeon were walkin’ her, takin’ her to the paddock. Tomms jumped on her, bare-ridged an’ all. Sim tried to stop him and got kicked in the head for his pains.’

‘Is Simeon alive?’

‘Reckon so. Breathin’ any rate.’

‘Send somebody to the Dower House to tell Sir Martin. There’s a doctor on the way but he won’t be needed now. He might as well be of use here. Which way did Tomms go?’

‘North, sir.’ The groom pointed.

‘Aye,’ another man said. ‘Looks to be headin’ for Hagstock. What’s he done?’

The question went unanswered. With a nod of thanks Beddowes turned the horse. He rode across in front of the house, and with a pang he remembered how he’d caught Phoebe Drake in his arms on that very spot. Suppose their guess was wrong and she wasn’t in the ice house? Wasn’t even alive? He put the thought aside; he had a man to catch.

He gave the horse a kick that was more urging than it needed; with a great leap the animal flung itself down across the ha-ha again, landing far out on the pasture. They were in open country and free to gallop. No more than half a mile ahead was a man on a grey horse.

The mare was no match for the hunter Beddowes rode, and Tomms was riding bare-back; the gap between them closed quickly.

‘Pull up, Tomms,’ Beddowes roared, when he was no more than ten yards behind.

In response the fugitive drummed the mare’s sides with frantic kicks of his heels. He was fumbling at the pocket of his coat as he rode, in evident danger of sliding from his precarious seat with every stride. The gap shrunk to eight yards, to seven and then six.

Tomms half turned; he had a pistol in his right hand, the left was tangled with the reins and the mare’s mane as he struggled to hold himself steady.

Beddowes took his horse swinging out to the other side; his quarry must either swivel even further, not easy to do without a saddle, or turn back to aim across his body. Either way he would be too late, for the gap had closed to a mere three feet. Mindful of the damage he’d already done to his injured arm, Beddowes took the reins between his teeth, swept the rifle from his shoulder and swung it, butt first, at the other man’s head.

Beddowes horse reared away as Tomms fell under its hoofs, but he kept his seat. The mare was spent, and once rid of her rider she dropped instantly to a jogtrot. With the rifle cocked and ready, Beddowes dismounted where the valet lay still, face down. The pistol was nowhere to be seen. Warily the sergeant prodded Tomms in the ribs with the toe of his boot. The man rolled, moving fast, but not fast enough, intending to
fire the gun he’d held concealed beneath his body. Using the rifle barrel as a club this time, though with a guilty awareness that it was no way to treat such a splendid weapon, Beddowes cracked the man’s elbow a hefty blow. The pistol dropped from a now useless hand, and the sergeant put his foot on it.

‘Get up,’ Beddowes ordered, ‘and catch that mare. Sir Martin Haylmer wants to see you. And you’d better have the answers he wants, or your neck will be in a noose, since your master’s gone to hell the quicker way.’

They had to follow a circuitous route back to the house. Beddowes rode towards the stableyard, his captive before him, subdued and silent on the mare. A procession could be seen coming up the garden from the ice house, led by Docket. Slightly built as he was, it was plain that Docket found Miss Drake no easy burden, but he strode on manfully. The governess lay unmoving in her young rescuer’s arms. Beddowes brought his mount to a halt. His heart was pounding; for all he could tell she might be dead. Docket’s face told him nothing; the young secretary was tight-lipped, barely glancing at her pale face as he carried her up the steps; behind him Sir Martin was already barking orders. They vanished into the house.

Cursing Tomms, letting loose with words he’d not used in a dozen years, Beddowes pulled Mortleigh’s servant off the grey mare. The man landed awkwardly and half fell against the sergeant’s sore arm, and in response Beddowes kicked him hard on the shin. Duty demanded that he stayed with his prisoner until Inspector Tremayle’s constables arrived, and meantime he had no way of knowing if Phoebe Drake still lived.

London was every bit as loud, ill-mannered and dirty as Sergeant Beddowes recalled; only the smell was worse than he remembered. At odd moments in the three days since he’d
returned he found himself missing the sweeter scents of the country. The fresh perfume of soap and ripe hayfields, coupled with the murmur of a gentle voice, haunted his dreams. He was glad to be busy, to be too distracted to dwell on the past; this was his life, among the smog and noise of the great city. Phoebe Drake was a distant memory, last seen in Docket’s arms as she was carried into Knytte’s great entrance hall. He’d learnt to accept that he’d never see her again.

Here in the office of his superior, the smell of stale tobacco smoke and mouldy leather, mingled with the odour of wet wool rising from his damp coat, was enough to drive all other scents from his head. He stood rigidly to attention, his eyes focused on the religious tract which hung incongruously next to a rack of pipes upon the wall.

‘You were careless,’ Inspector Laker said. He scowled at the discreet black sling worn by the detective who stood silent and attentive before his desk. ‘I told you masquerading as that villain Cobb was a scatter-brained scheme. Not your proudest hour, Sergeant.’

Sighing, Laker leant back in his chair. ‘You’re expected to give evidence against this man Tomms; unfortunately Sir Martin Haylmer tells me the job can’t be done without you, and I can hardly refuse a request from Her Majesty’s Lord Lieutenant. You’ll catch the one seventeen this afternoon.’ The line between his brows deepened a little. ‘As you can see, we’re busy, which means I’ve nobody else to send with you, to take care of these baubles.’

The inspector opened a drawer and took out three packages wrapped in brown paper, handing them to Beddowes. ‘Names and addresses are written on each one. Make sure you bring back signed receipts, and don’t lose the damned things, that’s all I ask.’

Laker watched as the parcels were secreted beneath the sergeant’s coat, before glancing at the printed calendar on his desk. ‘I want that arm mended, so keep out of trouble, understood? He reached into the drawer again. ‘Train tickets. You report here for duty on the ninth. Be as much as a minute late and you’ll be back in a constable’s uniform, that’s if I don’t decide to be rid of you altogether.’ Beddowes hesitated. The date on the return ticket was the eighth. Allowing for two days to be taken up with the trial and the restoration of stolen property to its owners, he would still have five days to fill, and he didn’t want them. He wondered if it was worth trying to explain.

‘Dismissed,’ Inspector Laker barked.

‘Sir.’ With a parade ground salute, the sergeant marched from the room. Once he’d left Scotland Yard his pace slowed. He made his way back to his lodgings; he had plenty of time to pick up his bag and have a bite to eat before he caught his train.

As he walked his mood was black. Laker’s words had cut deeply, though the end of the affair had gone quite smoothly. Tomms had proved to be a mine of information, having spied most effectively on Mortleigh whenever he felt his master hadn’t taken him sufficiently into his confidence.

Once Beddowes had sent a telegram giving his superior a full report, he’d travelled to London on the overnight train and arrived in time to help arrest the fence Mortleigh had found to replace Fetch’n’Carry Cobb. Luckily the jewels Beddowes had held in his possession so briefly, during what Laker called his masquerade, had been among the recovered loot; another few hours and they’d have been across the channel, and out of reach. In that event, the sergeant thought gloomily, as he climbed the three long staircases up to his room, he would probably have been thrown out of the force. As
it was, Laker had made the precariousness of his position quite clear.

Propped uncomfortably into the corner of the railway carriage, Beddowes slept, and dreamt of a girl, slender yet shapely, who lay snugly in his arms. She felt as if she belonged there. The familiar scent of soap and freshly mown hay was sweet, as he smiled down at her. Lifting her hand to his lips he kissed it, but at that moment the innocent young face underwent a terrible change. The sensuous mouth of Lady Pickhurst, disfigured by bloody bruises, curved in a cat-like travesty of a smile. Her face lifted to his, while her brilliant eyes flashed a blatant invitation.

He woke with a cry of horror on his lips, to find the compartment’s other passengers viewing him with distaste. For the rest of the journey he stayed awake, his thoughts becoming progressively darker as the miles unwound beneath the wheels. He made up his mind to discharge his duty quickly, and return to London as soon as he could, even if he had to pay his own train fare.

‘Welcome back, Sergeant.’ Docket shook his hand. Beddowes summoned up some suitable words as they walked into the yard where Sir Martin’s carriage stood waiting. He thought the young man seemed subdued, as if his mind was elsewhere.

Docket motioned him to step in first. ‘You’ll have heard the trial is set for the day after tomorrow?’

‘Yes. I take it Jonah Jackman has been released?’ Beddowes asked, settling himself into the seat with a sigh; he would have liked a little longer to stretch his legs after the long hours in the train.

‘He has,’ Docket said, joining him. ‘Sir Martin sent me to Hagstock gaol yesterday with the papers. He’s to appear as a witness, and of course the whole county knows the story by
now, or some version of it; it’ll take a long time for the talk to die down. He’ll not find it easy to get work.’

‘I suppose not.’ Beddowes stared out of the window, not seeing the houses and streets gradually give way to countryside. A thought occurred to him and he patted the breast of his coat. ‘I’ll be off back to London as soon as possible once the trial’s over. I’ve some bits and pieces in my pocket, one of them is to be delivered to a house not far from here. Do you think Sir Martin would mind if I get that out of the way at once?’

Sleep had eluded Jonah Jackman while he was in prison, but he had expected better once he was back at home. He lay in the familiar room and stared into the darkness for long hours, helplessly trying to make sense of his life. Lucille’s betrayal had left him so bewildered, so deeply hurt, that he almost wished the crime had never been solved. He would have been dead by now, hanged as a murderer. Through the endless nights that seemed not so bad a fate.

His release had restored him to life, but brought little comfort. He would be forever branded as a lecher; no decent man who had a wife or a daughter would employ him. He might travel a hundred miles and more to look for work, but he knew his past would go with him, a shadow always at his back.

Unable to bear being within four walls any longer, Jonah walked out into the light of dawn, taking long strides away from the place that had been his home since childhood. His thoughts were not of life, but of death.

Some hours later, exhausted by his mad dash across a dozen miles of wild country, he looked down onto the surging water from the top of the rocky cliffs. Did it take more courage to live, or to die? Lifting his eyes to the horizon he noticed that it was a fine day. He was suddenly filled with a calm certainty.
Shuddering he turned away from the coast, to stride back across the moors. His mind and his heart felt numb, but he knew what he had to do.

He kept to the open country and little-used tracks, avoiding people as best he could, and reaching Knytte as the light began to fade. As he followed the long drive, keeping in cover, Jonah saw a small figure, standing alone by the lake, staring into the water.

Phoebe looked like a lost child; the sight wrung his heart. He began to run but then his steps faltered; he’d spurned her attempts to help him, and because of that she’d almost died. His certainty deserted him. She wouldn’t want to see the man who’d caused her such an ordeal. He began to back away, but some instinct must have told her he was there, and she turned.

Her face lit up at the sight of him. ‘Jonah!’ She ran into his arms.

For more than a minute they clung to each other in silence.

‘I’m sorry,’ Jonah said eventually, easing away from her. ‘I was such a fool. If only I’d listened to you. I’ll never forgive myself. Because of my stupidity, Mortleigh might have killed you.’

‘That’s nonsense,’ Phoebe said, taking hold of one of his large hands in both of her own. ‘I’ll take my share of blame, if you don’t mind. What I did, following Lady Pickhurst out into the garden, when I knew what she was – that was every bit as foolish. Anyway, it’s all over, and I intend to forget it.’ She lifted a hand to his forehead as if to wipe away the new lines that scored it. ‘I’m afraid things won’t be so easy for you.’

He shook his head. ‘It’s no more than I deserve. How can I look my neighbours in the face after what happened? Lord Pickhurst was a decent man, not the monster she made him out to be. I think I always knew it, but.…’

‘She was an accomplished actress,’ Phoebe said gently, ‘and very beautiful.’

‘Only on the surface.’ He offered her a rueful smile. ‘Not like you. Sweet Phoebe. You have all the qualities she lacked.’ He pulled her back into a brotherly embrace.

Her head against his chest, she looked up so she could see his face. ‘What will you do?’

‘I’m leaving. There’s a steamboat to America that leaves in six days. Will you come with me? We could be brother and sister again.’

She was silent for a long time. ‘No. I’m sorry. I’ll always be your sister, and I’ll be sorry to see you leave, but I can’t go with you.’

He nodded in understanding. ‘You’re right not to trust me, after what happened.’