Ghosts of Mayfield Court (17 page)

‘Hopkins will take you up to your rooms,' said Lady Carteret. ‘When you have refreshed yourself, please come down here for coffee. Perhaps I can begin to discuss things with you then. Sir Leopold is visiting one of the farms just now, but he will be back well in time for lunch at one o'clock.'

She motioned to Hopkins, who had stayed in the room, and we followed him back into the entrance hall, where two liveried footmen were standing beside our luggage. We went in
procession
to our rooms on the first floor; they were at the front of the house, overlooking a formal knot garden.

When we were ready, we met each other on the landing. Michael looked very thoughtful and, as we descended the stairs, he whispered, ‘She doesn't look much like a harpy, Cath. I wonder— Well, I wonder whether those two policemen friends of yours could have gone badly wrong.'

I was secretly inclined to agree with him.

Morning coffee was brought in by a very young and demure maid, who set it out carefully on a low table near the fireplace. She looked timidly at Lady Carteret, who gave her a little nod of approbation, upon which she curtsied and left the room.

‘The housekeeper's making a very good little servant out of
that girl,' said Lady Carteret. ‘It's hard to get decent maids out here in the country. Leah is the daughter of one of our farmers. She was delicate as a little girl, not really fit for farm work. So we were glad to take her on.'

Michael and I were sitting on a sofa, with small tables placed conveniently at hand. Lady Carteret rose, and poured out the coffee.

‘How do you like it, Miss Paget?' she asked, and I told her that I liked a small drop of milk but no sugar. Michael was given his cup with sugar and milk. Evidently, mere men were not to be asked!

Lady Carteret sat down in her high-backed brocade chair, and sipped her coffee in silence for a while. I looked round the
tastefully
furnished room, noting how its Tudor features – the great stone fireplace, the large expanse of diamond-paned windows, the coffered plaster ceiling – had been complemented by fine modern furniture. Old and new blended admirably. Lady Carteret followed my glances with her own eyes.

‘When I first came here, Miss Paget,' she said, apparently reading my thoughts, ‘this room was overfilled with ugly,
oversized
Tudor and Jacobean stuff. Most depressing! Fortunately, my husband readily agreed to my schemes for refurbishment here. Later, perhaps, or maybe tomorrow, you must see what we did in the Regency rooms.'

I looked at Michael, who gave what I will describe as the ghost of a shrug. Like me, he was bewildered. Could this cultured lady possibly be the ‘harpy' who had murdered my Uncle Max?

Lady Carteret put down her cup, and gently relaxed in her chair. I noticed how she contrived to sit upright, so that her grace and elegance were not compromised.

‘Now, my dear,' she said, ‘tell me: is your fiancé completely in your confidence?'

I saw the beginnings of a smile on Michael's face, which he instantly suppressed.

‘He is, Lady Carteret,' I replied. ‘So if we are to talk family matters, you may safely do so in his presence.'

‘Very well. I told you in my letter that I knew your Uncle Maximilian: we had been acquaintances when we were both young, though he was some years my senior. Do you know what is meant by
une amitié amoureuse
? It's a kind of romantic
friendship
which never goes beyond the bounds of propriety. The French have some wonderful ways of expressing these things. Well, your uncle and I were like that.'

She cupped her chin in her hand, and looked at me without speaking for a while. It was a penetrating, rather unsettling look, but it soon passed, and she continued.

‘As you know, my dear, your uncle had a brother, Hector, and it is of him that I wish to speak now. He was a decent man enough, at least initially; but he married a handsome woman who was possessed of a cruel and ruthless personality. He soon fell under her influence, and ended up just as wicked as she was. Her name was Arabella Bancroft. I am talking now of events that happened thirty years ago.

‘Arabella had an older sister, Cecily, who married Henry Forshaw, a very rich man who had inherited the family fortune from his brother Edward. Well, this Edward was killed in a railway accident – in 1857, I think it was – and two years later Cecily married a man called John Walsh, a widower with a little girl called Helen.'

I started involuntarily, and Lady Carteret gave me a
sympathetic
glance.

‘Yes, Miss Paget – I know that you have heard the story of little Helen, who was kin of yours in a rather convoluted way. Are you able to follow all this tangle of names?'

‘I am, Lady Carteret.'

‘Very good, then let us have some more coffee. There are sugar biscuits there, which are made in the house.' Once again, she poured out coffee for us both, and resumed her seat.

‘Cecily Bancroft and her first husband, Henry Forshaw, had a son, their only child. His name was Gabriel. He died in 1865, at Bonny, in Africa, and the fortune passed from him to Cecily and her second husband, John Walsh. Then Cecily died. And her husband John Walsh died. They died within days of each other.'

She suddenly rose, and crossed to the window. Her face had grown stern and indignant. She pointed out into the grounds.

‘Beyond those gardens,' she said, ‘and across the road leading into the village, you will find the ivy-covered ruins of Waterloo House, the former residence of the Forshaw family. There is a man over there, a man called Inspector Jackson, who is engaged in digging into the foundations of that house in search of bodies. He is looking for the body of Gabriel Forshaw, who he thinks was murdered there – and that man, that rural inspector, has convinced himself that
I
am the murderer of that man! He is trying to frighten me, but if he thinks he will succeed, then he will find that he has got the wrong woman.'

Michael gave an almost involuntary cry of protest.

‘You, madam, a murderer? I don't believe it!'

Lady Carteret gave him a half-amused smile as she resumed her chair.

‘Well, thank you, young man,' she said. ‘I only wish that this man Jackson could be persuaded to believe the same. I have no proof – not one shred – but I have always believed that Arabella Bancroft murdered her own sister, and her husband, John Walsh. And so the fortune descended to little Helen. By then, its value had reached one million pounds. You know – you know what happened to Helen, don't you? You went to Mayfield Court with your uncle, and the people there would have told you about it.'

‘Yes, Lady Carteret, I know all about it. At one time I thought that I was being haunted by that poor little child's ghost.'

‘Hmm…. Well, I am to be made the villain of the piece. It is too tiresome. We're having the chief constable here next week, and I'm hoping that my husband will persuade this Inspector
Jackson to start looking for Arabella Bancroft, and leave me in peace. I have been lady of the manor here for over twenty years. I come from a good Warwickshire family. I do not deserve to be persecuted in this way— Ah! Sir Leopold had arrived. He will be delighted to see you both.'

Sir Leopold Carteret was a slightly-built man in his fifties,
clean-shaven
, with an unlined face and mild blue eyes. He was dressed in a brown tweed hacking-jacket, and his trousers were tucked into leather riding boots. His voice held a curious caressing quality that put me immediately at ease.

‘So you are Miss Catherine Paget, Maximilian's niece? How very nice to meet you. I've been visiting one of the estate farms, so I hope you'll excuse these boots. I shall change presently into something more presentable.'

He crossed the room, and solemnly shook hands with me.

‘And you are Dr Michael Danvers, Miss Catherine's fiancé? How very interesting. And do you practise, Dr Danvers? Oh, in a hospital? You must tell me about it, and what it is that you do there.'

That first day at Providence Hall was characterized by this kind of gentle, very normal conversation. Lunch was served in a magnificently opulent dining room, and Sir Leopold regaled us with tales of his family's history, and some of the more eccentric baronets who had given the family an exciting reputation in the last century. We talked about our different occupations and
interests
, the quiet of the countryside as opposed to the fury and turmoil of London, and the differing strengths of the various City department stores.

When lunch was over, Sir Leopold took Michael off to see the gun room and the stables, while Lady Carteret gave me a personal tour of the great mansion. It was a beautiful, fascinating house, upon which, I realized, much money had been lavished. I had sometimes visited country houses on open-days, and there
had always been a kind of endearing shabbiness about some of the furnishings and fabrics. At Providence Hall, everything was in pristine order.

Later that afternoon Michael managed to have a word with me alone.

‘Cath,' he said, ‘do you really believe that this nice aristocratic couple can be murderers? It's time for us to bow out gracefully, and get back to London. I was right, you know, and so was Marguerite. You should not have got yourself embroiled with those country police officers. Inspector Blade in London will surely find out who it was who murdered your uncle. We've been involving ourselves in what is, in effect, an appalling and misguided slander.'

For once, I held my tongue.

At dinner that night Sir Leopold told us how delightful it was to have a couple of young people staying in the house.

‘Lady Carteret and I, alas! were not blessed with children, and the heirs to this estate are a collateral branch of the family, the Duttons, of High Grange, in Oxfordshire. Very sound people, you know, but they're not Carterets.'

‘Leopold,' said Lady Carteret, in gently chiding tones, ‘our guests don't want to know about the Duttons. Neither do I, for that matter. We're not dead yet.'

‘No, that's true,' her husband replied, with a smile. ‘What I wanted to ask, was whether you'd both like to stay for a few more days? Stay for Saturday and Sunday and go back to London on Monday. Make a short holiday of it, you know. Perhaps we could have a little dinner party…. We could ask Mr and Mrs Bold, and the Rivingtons – they're only young, aren't they? Well, in their thirties, perhaps. What do you think?'

‘I think it's an excellent idea. Will you both stay?'

Of course, we both agreed. In true patrician manner, Sir Leopold and Michael remained for port, while Lady Carteret conducted me to her little private sitting room on the first floor.
It was a pleasant room, with wallpaper and fabrics which I recognized as having come from Liberty's in London.

‘We'll join them for coffee later, in the drawing-room,' said Lady Carteret. ‘Meanwhile, I want to revert to that last terrible meeting with your uncle. You don't mind, do you? I know how terrifying the whole thing has been.'

‘I'm glad you've brought the matter up again, Lady Carteret,' I said, ‘because there is one small point that puzzles me,
something
that Michael pointed out to me on the journey down. You said that my poor uncle actually died when you were in the room with him. My housekeeper, Mrs Milsom, is convinced that he was still alive when she found him, after your departure.'

Lady Carteret nodded her head vigorously.

‘Yes,' she said, ‘that's precisely the point that I wanted to clear up. I said that poor Maximilian had died while I was there, but I realize that I could not be absolutely certain of that. He may have lost consciousness for a while, but at the time I was convinced that he was dead, which is why I fled. I am not a young woman, Miss Paget, and the shock of what I witnessed drove me to a kind of … palpitating panic, if you can understand what I mean by that. Do you think I should write to the officer in charge of the case, and tell him what I saw? The time for concealment is over.'

‘I think that would be a very good idea, Lady Carteret,' I replied. ‘I will write down Inspector Blade's details for you, so that you can write to him.'

‘Excellent. And now, let me show you the document that your poor uncle gave to me when I met him in Saxony Square—'

‘That will be entirely unnecessary, Lady Carteret,' I replied. ‘You have no need whatever to justify your actions to me.'

From somewhere below, we both heard the faint tinkling of a hand-bell.

‘That means that the gentlemen have gone into the drawing room. Come, my dear, let us go down for coffee.'

It was Thursday, and we had been invited to stay over until
Monday morning. Once back in Town, I would write to Sergeant Bottomley, and tell him all about our visit to Providence Hall. Since his first appearance at Mayfield Court I had felt a special affinity with him, and I was anxious for him to distance himself, if that were possible, from his inspector's mistaken hypothesis. I told Michael of my intention, and he reluctantly agreed with my proposed course of action. He still maintained that only Inspector Blade was competent to solve the mystery of my uncle's death.

14

Sergeant Bottomley's Day

H
erbert Bottomley stood under the great oak in the gardens of Saxony Square, looking across the carriageway at Miss Catherine Paget's house. Ever since the discovery of poor Mr Hindle's body in Kensington Gardens just a week earlier, he had spent some time watching over the young lady who reminded him so much of his eldest girl back home in Warwickshire. The rest of his time had been taken up with helping Mr Blade at Little Vine Street. He was a good officer, who valued having an extra
detective
to assist him for a while.

Mr Blade had not forgotten the smooth-talking Dr Morrison. He'd let Bottomley loose on that beauty, and he'd made a few discreet forays to the district where the nursing home was
situated
. He'd found a friendly little public house, the Pewterers' Arms, where he'd been able to ply a couple of old soaks with gin, and ask them questions.

Yes, they knew that Dr Morrison's place. People were always dying there, and there'd be mortuary hearses arriving, and the doctor and that sour-faced nurse of his would come out on to the steps, weeping, and waving black handkerchiefs.

Visitors? Yes, he had visitors. Tradesmen, mostly, and the
occasional
relative to see one of the patients – Oh, thanks, guvnor! Villains? Well, it's hard to say what a villain looks like, isn't it? Some of the biggest villains unhung look as though butter wouldn't melt in their mouths.

There was one bloke, though – a nasty piece of work
he
was, who'd come from time to time. Dressed as a gent, and with a big bushy beard. A foreigner, he was. Russian. Pole. Something like that. Come to think of it, he'd called there last week. Here, George! Didn't you bring that foreign, bearded chap to Dr Morrison's last week?

George, who had turned out to be a cabman, had agreed. Yes, he'd brought him to Dr Morrison's. It was 1/5d, and he'd given him two shillings. Take him back? Of course he'd taken him back. He'd told him to wait, hadn't he? Oh, thanks, guv. A glass of bitter would be very acceptable. Yes, he'd taken him back. Number 5, Chatham Court, off Moorgate. Same fare, same tip. Foreigner, he was. German, by the looks of him.

He'd written the address down, and it was at this moment burning a hole in Bottomley's pocket. When the time was right, he'd pay a call on this Russian Polish German, and ask him a few questions.

Nothing unusual seemed to have happened in Saxony Square during the week. Most days, he had seen the housekeeper leave by the front door, and walk quickly across the square and into Berlin Street, where there was a row of shops and a genteel public house. By dint of following her discreetly, he had seen where she went, learnt the names of the streets she frequented and the shops that she patronized.

He knew that, when shopping was done, she would nip into the public house, which was called the Albany Arms, and emerge after half an hour with a renewed spring in her step. A measure of gin, perhaps, or a small port.

An elderly police constable was rounding the corner from Berlin Street and into the square. He looked hot and uncomfortable in his heavy blue serge uniform, and he moved steadily but slowly as he made his way across the road and into the gardens. He came across to Bottomley, and stood looking him
up and down for a while. He had a stern eye, and a bristling moustache.

‘I've had my eye on you all week, my lad,' he said. ‘It's Friday now, and you've been hanging around here since Monday, off and on, eyeing them houses more than I like. Now, you can move on, in which case don't come back, or you can give me a reason why I shouldn't take you up for loitering with intent. It's up to you.'

Sergeant Bottomley fumbled in his pocket, and produced his warrant card for the constable to read. The constable looked at it, and handed it back. He didn't apologize. Why should he? He was only doing his duty.

‘Mr Blade should tell people what's going on,' the constable grumbled. ‘How was I to know you were a detective sergeant? What are you up to here, Sergeant?'

‘I'm keeping a discreet watch on number eleven,' said Bottomley. ‘Miss Paget's house. It's all connected with a case of murder we're investigating in Warwickshire.'

‘Miss Paget?' said the constable. ‘You won't find her there, Sergeant. She and a young gentleman left yesterday in a cab. I was passing by at the time on my beat, and heard them give
directions
. They were going to Paddington Station.'

Bottomley recalled Inspector Blade's words: ‘You can't be in two places at once.' He'd lost Miss Paget, but it shouldn't be very difficult for an experienced detective to find her again. He'd start now. Bottomley thanked the constable for his help, and crossed the carriageway to 11, Saxony Square.

Mrs Milsom cast a dubious eye over the big, shambling man who had rung the front-door bell. She left him standing on the step while she read the rather crumpled card that he handed to her.

‘Detective Sergeant Bottomley?' she said. ‘And you say you've met Miss Paget before? Well, you'd better come in. It's been nothing but police in this house ever since the poor master was
murdered by that awful woman. It's not very nice, you know. Miss Paget is away from home for a few days. How can I help you?'

‘Well, ma'am,' said Bottomley, ‘Miss Paget and I first met at a place called Mayfield Court, in Warwickshire, when she was visiting there with her uncle, the late unfortunate Mr Maximilian Paget. I met her again just a few days ago – on the twenty-ninth, to be precise – and we had a little chat about various matters.'

‘The twenty-ninth? I don't recall answering the door to you.'

‘That's because you didn't, ma'am, it being a Wednesday, and your day off.'

‘And how did you know that, pray?' Really, this clodhopper of a man from the provinces knew more than he had a right to.

‘I know a lot about you, Mrs Milsom,' said Bottomley, treating the housekeeper to a rather sinister smile. ‘I know that you like to buy your vegetables at Purdy's, and your cheese and bacon at Savidge's, and then, if you're feeling a little fatigued, you like to slip into the Albany Arms for a drop of—'

‘Goodness me, Mr Bottomley, who told you all those things? And why did you want to know them? Surely you don't suspect
me
of— What do you mean?'

‘Tell me where Miss Paget has gone,' said Bottomley. ‘That's all I want to know. For the moment. Tell me that, and I'll bid you good day.'

Mrs Milsom looked quite pale and nervous. Well, it was all to the good. These housekeepers clammed up if you asked them anything about the family. They were worse than butlers, and that was saying a lot.

‘Miss Paget left yesterday with her fiancé Dr Danvers. They will be away for a few days. They've gone to stay with a titled gentleman in your part of the world. I forget his name.'

‘I never forget anything,' Bottomley replied, ‘I remember you going into the Westminster Bank branch in Leipzig Row, and cashing a cheque for four pounds. I remember—'

‘They've gone to stay with Sir Leopold and Lady Carteret at a place called Upton Carteret,' said Mrs Milsom, her voice climbing perilously near to a shriek. If only this dreadful man would go! Not a bit like Inspector Blade.

‘That's all I want to know, ma'am,' said Bottomley, raising his battered bowler hat. (His hat! She had failed to ask for his hat as he stepped into the hall. Was that why he was raising it? Dreadful man!)

‘I'll bid you good day. And young Dr Danvers went with her?'

‘Yes.' Mrs Milsom's fear of this man was being rapidly replaced with indignation. ‘Yes, Dr Danvers went with her. Why shouldn't he?'

‘Why
should
he?' asked Bottomley. Before Mrs Milsom could reply, he had left the house, pulling the front door shut behind him.

Bottomley stood in Chatham Court, and looked round him. He didn't think much of what he saw. The cobbles were strewn with horse droppings, and no one seemed to have bothered to swill them down for days. The livery stable was open, and bales of straw spilled out on to the pavement, but there was no sign of any horses.

The dark, shuttered brick house would have been entirely anonymous but for the brass plate telling all and sundry that it was the residence of Dr Igor Zhdanov, Consultant Physician, who would see you by appointment only.

There was a nameless public house in the court, and Bottomley went in. It was dark and empty, and smelled of stale beer and tobacco smoke. A defeated-looking man in shirtsleeves sat behind the small bar, reading a newspaper. He looked up as Bottomley came in, and put the paper down.

‘What'll you have?' he asked.

‘Give me a glass of London gin,' said Bottomley. ‘You can leave the bottle on the bar.' He downed the gin in one gulp, and
immediately
poured himself another.

‘That house next-but-one to this,' he said, ‘there's a foreign doctor lives there.'

‘Is there?' said the morose man.

‘Yes, there is. Now what I want to ask you, is this: have you ever seen that doctor come out from his house accompanied by an old man? Or have you seen him putting an old man into a carriage?'

Bottomley poured himself out a third gin. His speech began to acquire a kind of slur, but his eyes remained bright and alert.

‘What's it to you what the doctor does? He minds his own business, and I mind mine. You'd better drink up and be off with you. Who are you, anyway?'

Bottomley produced his warrant card, and laid it down on the bar counter.

‘That's who I am,' he said. ‘And that's why you should keep a civil tongue in your head. Did you ever see this foreign doctor bundling an old party into a cab?'

The landlord rescued the gin bottle, and put it on a shelf behind the bar.

‘I might have done,' he said, with what he hoped was an air of nonchalance.

Bottomley smiled, rummaged in one of his pockets, and produced a half-crown, which he put down on the bar beside his warrant card. Then he suddenly reached across the counter and pulled the landlord up and over by the lapels of his coat.

‘Did you see him? It's murder, friend, and if you don't tell me what you saw, I'll take you up as an accessory. So tell me, and earn yourself two and a tanner. Did you?'

‘Yes, guvnor, I did. There's no need for pugilistics. Strewth! I never seen a man knock back so much gin and stay upright. It's going to cost you one and eight.'

Bottomley slammed down a few more coins on the counter and retrieved his warrant card. ‘Tell me,' he said.

The man lowered his voice, and glanced around the empty bar.

‘It was last Friday, guv,' he said, ‘and no later than half past four in the morning. I have to be up by then, to get this place ready for the market porters who swarm in here at half past five. I saw a cab – well, it may have been a private fly, I'm not sure – draw up outside Dr Zhdanov's house. The door opened, and the doctor appeared. He was with another man, and between them they helped an old gentleman into the cab.'

‘How did the old man look?'

‘He looked far gone to me, poor old soul. All three got into the cab, and were driven away. It's a kind of nursing home, you see, and that would have been one of the patients. Maybe he was cured, and they were taking him home. He was a clergyman.'

‘Was he, now? How did you know that?'

‘He was wearing black, and he had a clergyman's collar on. Is that all? Can I be left in peace, now?'

Bottomley walked slowly towards the door, and there was a slight stagger in his way of walking that told the landlord that he was not quite himself. Not drunk, but not quite himself.

‘I'll tell you what, landlord,' said Bottomley, ‘coincidence is a wonderful thing. The very morning that your neighbour Dr Zhdanov was taking his old clergyman patient home, having cured him of whatever ailed him – you did say he was taking him home, didn't you?'

‘It's what I assumed, Officer. It's not an offence, is it, to assume something like that?'

‘No, it's not an offence, I just wanted to make sure that that's what you suggested. Well, here's the coincidence. At the very time, last Friday, that Dr Zhdanov was taking his old clergyman patient home, somebody else was taking an old clergyman into Kensington Gardens, in order to drown him in the Long Water. And guess what? Your old clergyman and the one found drowned in the Long Water were one and the same person. It makes you think, doesn't it? Or are you more stupid than you look? Say nothing about this to anyone. Meanwhile, I'll bid you good day.'

‘Here, Sergeant, drink this black coffee. You should keep off the bottle when you're on duty. Still, you've done well. I've heard mention of this Dr Zhdanov. Now we can kill two birds with one stone.'

Inspector Blade put an enamel cup of steaming coffee in front of Bottomley, who was sitting on an upright chair near a tall filing cabinet in the inspector's office. He looked suitably contrite. After he had left the public house in Chatham Court, Bottomley had visited two more hostelries before making his way to Little Vine Street. When he got there, he was decidedly unsteady on his feet. He leaned against the filing cabinet, and sipped his coffee.