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Authors: Robin Paige

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BOOK: Death at Rottingdean
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10
She [my grandmother, Georgiana Burne-Jones] was absolutely fearless, morally and physically. During the South African War [1898-1900] her sympathies were with the Boers, and ... she never hesitated to bear witness, without a single sympathizer. When peace was declared, she hung out of her window a large blue cloth on which she had been stitching the words: “We have killed and also taken possession.” ... Single-minded people can be a little alarming to live with and we children had a nervous feeling that we never knew where our grandmother might break out next.
—ANGELA THIRKELL,
Three Houses,
1931
 
 
 
 
W
hen Lady Burne-Jones had learned that both Charles and Rudyard were to go into Hove for cards at Mr. Sassoon's, she sent a note asking Kate to come for supper at seven that evening at North End House, with Caroline Kipling.
“If the men mean to desert us for a party,” she had written, “we ladies shall entertain ourselves with a small party here at home. Nothing difficult or format—but we shall be very gay, just we three.” But Caroline declined, pleading a cold, so there were only two.
North End House was painted a sparkling white and divided from the road by a low white fence and a euonymus hedge. The original dwelling had been a three-story cottage called Prospect House, which was later joined to Aubrey Cottage next door and renamed North End House, partly because the Burne-Joneses' London home was in North End Road and partly because this house stood at the north end of the village street. Aunt Georgie had welcomed Kate into the parlor—“too small to be called a drawing room,” she declared, but full of drawing-room treasures nonetheless, all beautifully artistic. Burne-Jones's paintings for William Morris's Sangraal tapestry hung on one wall, and on either side of the fireplace hung his paintings of the six powerful archangels: Gabriel, Raphael, Uriel, Azrael, Chemuel, and for Lucifer, a black opening with tongues of flame. Beside the deep window seat was a large oak bookcase filled with Aunt Georgie's books: William Morris's A
Dream of John Ball,
which described an ideal socialist society, and his new and very beautiful
Kelmscott Chaucer,
inscribed “with love to Ned and Georgie”; John Ruskin's
Fors Clavigera,
a treatise on social reform for the British working class; and
The History of Trade Unionism
by Beatrice and Sidney Webb, whom Aunt Georgie proudly said were friends of hers “and colleagues in the cause of social reform.” And behind the parlor door stood a little brown cottage piano that Burne-Jones had delicately painted with girls playing in a garden and Death, scythe in hand, knocking at the garden gate.
Aunt Georgie played and sang several of Schubert's songs and some English songs from Chappell's
Popular Music of the Olden Time,
while Kate sat on a dreadfully uncomfortable pre-Raphaelite sofa and listened with delight, looking about her at the works of art that adorned the walls. Had she been able to look into the future, she might have seen the little painted piano in the South Kensington Museum, where it was removed in later years, or glimpsed the archangels' images in countless books of art history, or read about the drawing room itself in a delightful memoir called
Three Houses,
written by Aunt Georgie's granddaughter, Angela Thirkell, some thirty-four years later. The book would have on its cover a tinted photograph of Angela and her grandfather Ned—the very same photograph which sat at this moment on top of the piano with dozens of other Burne-Jones family likenesses.
And had she been able to read Angela Thirkell's reminiscences, she would probably have chuckled at the insightful truth of the writer's affectionate observation that “my grandmother was curiously removed from real life”:
 
She had a great deal of natural self-possession and dignity and a power of accepting every one—no matter what their social position—entirely for what they were in themselves. She could talk to working people in their cottages with as much ease as she received royal princesses who came to look at pictures.... There was no condescension in her visits and no familiarity, though the child who accompanied her was ready to cry with confusion as she sat with her large blue eyes fixed on some gnarled unlettered old woman and telling her tidings of comfort from Fors
Clavigera....
She would have a worthy carpenter or wheelwright to the house once a week to discuss socialism in which she so thoroughly and theoretically believed.
 
 
Kate's chuckle would have been all the more understanding, because when they sat down to supper, Aunt Georgie began to discuss her work on the Parish Council in terms of socialist theory—a subject in which Kate herself had begun to have a recent interest but which she found a bit difficult to follow when she was hungry. Aunt Georgie spoke with such a passionate enthusiasm, however, that Kate could limit her responses to murmured yeses and noes, while paying the right sort of attention to the delicious little supper prepared by Mrs. Mounter: hot Chantilly soup, cold tongue sandwiches on buttered bread, and apple-ginger compote, made with Ribstone pippins from the orchard behind the garden.
They were finishing their compote, and Aunt Georgie was reviewing for Kate an essay that George Bernard Shaw had written for
Fabian Essays in Socialism,
when they heard voices outside the dining room window.
“But he's not at The Elms,” a boy said desperately. “If he isn't here, where is he?”
A man's voice replied. “If ye must know, Paddy me boy, Mr. Kipling's gone t' Mr. Arthur Sassoon's ‘ouse. 'E won't be back till late.” The man laughed heartily. “That is, if 'e comes back at all. They went in a motorcar, an' I wudn't be a bit surprised if they din't drive right off th' cliff. Motor cars be beastly things.”
Aunt Georgie rose from the table and went swiftly to the window beside Kate's chair. She threw open the casement, and Kate turned to see the boy she had met on the beach, confronting a man carrying a hoe in one hand and a basket of weeds in the other.
“Mr. Mounter,” Aunt Georgie snapped, “what do you mean by speaking so dreadfully? Go on about your work, please. And you, Patrick! What is your need of Mr. Kipling?”
The man gave a muttered apology and went off, boots crunching on gravel, and Patrick came up to the window. The freckles stood out on his white face, and his hands were balled into fists. “I must fetch him,” he said urgently.
“Fetch him!” Aunt Georgie said with a light laugh. “But that's ridiculous. Mr. Kipling and Lord Sheridan have gone to spend the evening with the—”
“It wouldn't matter if he'd gone off t' meet the Queen,” the boy said recklessly. “An' if his lordship's with him, all the better. They must be got back at once!”
Kate rose from her chair and stood beside Aunt Georgie. In his determination, the boy seemed more mature than she had remembered. “Why, Patrick?” she asked mildly.
The boy hesitated for a moment, his eyes searching her face. Something he saw there seemed to make up his mind, and he spoke. “ ‘Cause,” he said bleakly, “the Rottingdean coast guard's up there in th' mill.” He jerked his head in the direction of Beacon Hill, rising behind the garden. “Captain Smith has been shot. Murdered.”
“Murdered?” Kate whispered. A chill passed through her as she stared at the boy's set face. The second murder of a coast guard in two days!
“Murdered!” Aunt Georgie cried. “But it's nothing to do with my nephew! Why should he be involved? It's a matter for the constable! You are to stay here, Patrick. Do you understand?”
“Goodbye,” Patrick said. “And
don't
tell the constable!” He was gone before the women could open their mouths to protest.
Aunt Georgie turned to Kate, consternation written on her face. They stared at one another for a moment; then Aunt Georgie seemed to pull herself together. “Something is going on here, Kate,” she declared, “something unspeakably dreadful. But this is
my
village.
I
serve on the Parish Council, and I tell you that I will not allow evil to corrupt this beautiful place! I am inclined, on reflection, to agree with the boy. Constable Woodhouse has taken little interest in the one death. It is not likely that he will take any more interest in another. I shall send Mr. Mounter to the post office with a wire to the chief constable at Brighton, Sir Robert Pinckney, with whom I am acquainted. I shall beg him on behalf of the Council to bring his men to investigate these murders.” Her eyes took on a determined gleam. “Early in the morning, you and I shall drive to Black Rock to visit poor Mrs. Radford, and when we return, I shall personally call at every house in this village, asking the inhabitants to tell me what they know about this wretched, wretched business.”
Kate was silent for a moment. She did not like to contradict Aunt Georgie, but she did not think it likely that the truth, whatever it was, would be rooted out by a door-to-door canvas. More, the matter could not be let go until the chief constable from Brighton put in an appearance—whenever that might be.
“I am sure that those are all good measures,” she said at last, “but there is something more immediately pressing. The scene of the murder cannot be left unattended until the chief constable arrives from Brighton or Charles and Rudyard return from Hove. Someone may stumble on the body and disturb or destroy important evidence.”
Aunt Georgie frowned. “Perhaps we could send Mr. Mounter, with instructions not to allow the scene to be disturbed.”
“Are you sure,” Kate asked quietly, “that Mr. Mounter can be trusted?”
Aunt Georgie looked aghast. “You can't think—”
“I don't know what to think,” Kate replied honestly. “I believe, however, that it is best for me to go. Our manservant, Lawrence, and his wife have gone walking along the cliffs toward Saltdean this evening, and I don't expect them back for some time. But I will send a note to Seabrooke House asking Lawrence to come to the windmill as soon as he returns. Meanwhile—” She smiled ruefully. “I am sorry for this end to a delightful evening, but I fear I must ask you to excuse me.”
“Well, I hope you don't think I should allow you to go up there all alone,” Aunt Georgie said firmly. “I will find a jacket and a lantern and we shall be off immediately. But first we must find Mr. Fisher and ask him to open the post office so we can send a telegram to Brighton. I hope, at least, that we can trust our postmaster!”
And so it was that The Right. Honorable Baroness of Somersworth and Lady Edward Burne-Jones spent an interminable evening keeping watch over a dead man. With an involuntary shudder, Kate held up the lantern and glanced hurriedly at the body to make sure it had not been disturbed. Then she and Aunt Georgie sat just inside the door of the old windmill, waiting as the last light faded over the Channel and a pale sliver of waning moon rose over the silent, fog-shrouded downs, speaking only in whispers, as if their voices might wake the man who had been hastened so rudely to his eternal sleep.
“The dead coast guard,” Kate said. “What is his name?”
“Captain Reynold Smith,” Aunt Georgie replied. “He was assigned here several years ago, from Dover. He managed the coast guard office on the High Street and lived in the cottage behind.”
“Was he married? Did he have children?”
“I believe not,” Aunt Georgie said. “I met him occasionally on business for the Parish Council. I did not find him an altogether pleasant man. Insolent, I thought him, and quite assertive in his manner. When I spoke to him of Mr. Ruskin's ideas on social reform, I am sorry to say that he was almost belligerent in his refusal to hear me out.” She shook herself. “But I will not speak ill of the dead. I am sure that Captain Smith was a good man, and merely uneducated as to the need for improved sanitation and health care in villages such as ours.”
Perplexed and sad, Kate thought about the two human lives that had been taken in this placid village and wondered to herself who might be responsible. Had the same person killed both men? Why had it been done? What evil was hidden in the dark heart of this peaceful village by the sea, so serene in its seeming innocence and calm?
Sometime around ten, the fog suddenly grew more dense—not like the thick, yellow pea-soupers of London, but a gray, cold mist that curled and hissed over the downs like smoke. When Lawrence Quibbley hurried up the hill to take the women's places, they did not see his lantern until he emerged from the cloud directly in front of them. Cold, weary, and perturbed, they returned to the drawing room at North End House for a cup of hot black tea and a few moments of conversation, Aunt Georgie describing to Kate her efforts (unsuccessful, so far) to persuade the Parish Council to build a public bath and wash-house for the village, and to hire a nurse who could make daily rounds, attending to the sick and elderly.
And then Kate, so tired she could scarcely think, walked back to Seabrooke House. Her route took her past the Black Horse, a whitewashed alehouse, on the High Street. Lamp-light spilled in golden puddles out of its windows and onto the cobbled street, and from within could be heard the sound of murmuring voices, sometimes breaking into loud shouts. If Kate had paused to listen, she might have saved a great deal of time and effort in the investigation of the deaths of the coast guards. But she was too tired to stop, and hurried past, and so went home to bed.
11
Foxes Made in Germany.
Considerable indignation is being aroused in the hunting districts ... in consequence of the importation of foxes bred in Germany. Farmers are loud in their protestations against the practice, and allege that they are sustaining frequent and heavy losses by Reynard's nightly visits to their homesteads. The German fox is described as being even more vicious than his English namesake.
BOOK: Death at Rottingdean
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