Murder on a Summer's Day (17 page)

The butler stood sentry outside the main door of Bolton Hall. He gave a small bow and opened the door for me. It was 10.20 a.m. by the grandfather clock.

I took a seat on the second row of the horseshoe arrangement.

Mr Sergeant and Mr Upton arrived together. Both acknowledged me, but went to stand by the great hearth where the fireplace was large enough to roast an ox. Only a couple of logs burned there, more for cheer than warmth, giving off the smell of wood-smoke. I was able to watch the two men without seeming to do so. The hotel manager no longer looked as subdued as when I caught sight of him earlier, but then he was not aware of being observed. Even now, he held himself not quite so straight and tall; a man who had lost a nugget of inner certainty. The duke’s agent lit Sergeant’s cigarette. If Upton was in any way perturbed, he did not show it.

The outer door opened again. Thurston Presthope burst in with his look-at-me stride. He tried to catch my eye. I looked ahead, hoping he would keep his distance. He did not. In a moment, he was standing over me, belching Turkish cigarette smoke.

‘Mrs Shackleton, how pleasant to see you here.’ He gave me a patronising smile that said, You thought me a little down-at-heel, well look at me now! He was certainly well turned out in what must have been his very best suit and a sharply starched shirt with high collar. He had polished his shoes and buffed his nails. ‘I believe a relation of yours is with the royal party.’

‘You are well-informed, Mr Presthope.’

He sat down on the chair next to me, pulling at the creases in his well-pressed trousers. ‘Have you mentioned that the prince gave me a small gift?’

‘No.’

This was quite true. I had not passed on Presthope’s misinformation about receiving two hundred pounds from his friend.

‘So wise, my dear Mrs Shackleton. You see, I know the Indian. Indian royals are very touchy about that sort of thing. They would consider it deeply vulgar to have such a trifle mentioned. I shall naturally, given my friend’s untimely demise, give that money to a charity. Do you have a favourite charity? I know many ladies do.’

I was supposed to simper the name of some good cause. ‘Do you have the cash with you? Give it to me and I’ll pass it to Osbert Hannon’s widow.’

‘What an excellent idea, but no. I don’t carry cash. Later perhaps.’

He hurriedly excused himself and went to join Sergeant and Upton by the fire.

At twenty-seven minutes past ten, Constable Brocksup came through a heavy oak door at the far end of the hall.

Behind him came Dr Simonson, his cane tapping a rhythm on the tiled floor. Brocksup indicated that the doctor should take a seat on the front row of the horseshoe. He then turned his black eyes on the three men by the hearth. As if drawn by magnets, Sergeant, Upton and Presthope took their seats at the far end of my row.

One moment later, the butler led in seven men who, apart from a parson in his dog collar, at first glance looked so like each other, with their dark suits and high collars, that it took a few moments to distinguish their features. The banks, insurance and solicitors’ offices of Skipton must be missing their key officials this morning.

Finally, the Duke of Devonshire, distinguished, gravely preoccupied with guiding his guest, escorted Maharajah Shivram Halkwaer to the front row. The maharajah wore an immaculately tailored Savile Row suit and silk shirt. Prince Jaya, similarly attired, led the widowed maharani, his sister-in-law, to a chair. All eyes were on them, and one could not help but feel great sympathy, and respect for their dignity. The prince was most solicitous, waiting until the maharani was seated, ensuring she was comfortable. Watching them enter, I had a better look at her today than yesterday. She was elegant, with high cheekbones and fine features. Perhaps because I was the only other woman in the room, I had the impression that she noticed me. Her pale sari gleamed in sunbeams of light from a high window. It was not to do with posture, but the family radiated an air of bereavement and pain.

James came next, alongside Mr Chana in his charcoal suit and a black turban.

Finally, the soft-soled coroner glided soundlessly into the room.

Chairs scraped the floor as we rose until he took his place behind the highly polished table. With his white hair and open, pleasant face, he had the appearance of a benevolent uncle.

He broke the ensuing silence in a cultured, kindly voice that sounded oddly intimate and out of place in this vast hall.

‘Your highness, your lordship, ladies and gentlemen, let me begin by expressing deepest condolences to Maharajah Shivram Halkwaer and his maharani, who is too distressed to attend this inquest, to Maharajah Narayan’s widow, Maharani Indira, and his brother, Prince Jaya on the loss of a dearly loved son, husband, brother, and of course father, to Rajendra, Menaka and Priya, and to family, friends and associates who respected and honoured the late Maharajah Narayan Halkwaer and who will miss him dearly.’

A fall of soot made a gentle patter in the hearth. Wood smoke wafted into the room.

The coroner spoke again. ‘May I remind your highnesses, your lordship, ladies and gentlemen, this is not a civil or a criminal court. We are here to establish the circumstances surrounding the tragic death of Maharajah Narayan Halkwaer. Our concern today is to establish when, where and how he died. To that end, I shall be calling witnesses. I shall do this in the form of a narrative, beginning with his highness’s arrival in the area.

‘We know he motored from Chatsworth, arriving in the area on Wednesday. He passed one night at the home of Mr Thurston Presthope, of Halton East. Mr Presthope.’

The coroner’s officer called Mr Presthope.

Presthope stood, drew back his shoulders, threw out his chest and strode to the side of the coroner’s table.

After being sworn in by Brocksup, and swearing to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, Presthope painted a picture of a happy reunion with an old school pal, a convivial supper, a hearty breakfast and a friendly parting when the maharajah set off for Bolton Abbey. Only when prompted by the query as to whether that was the last time he saw his friend did Presthope hesitate, glance at me, and offered the additional information that he paid a courtesy visit to the hotel on Thursday, to ensure that the maharajah was comfortably ensconced. This was at variance with what he had told me. Such a practised liar should know better than to improve a previous lie.

Presthope returned to his seat, well pleased with himself.

The coroner said, ‘Mr Sergeant, would you please step forward?’

Sergeant wiped his palms on a white handkerchief which fell to the floor as he stood. I moved a little to allow him to pass me. He trod on my toe without noticing. Yet when he took his place by the coroner’s table, his stand to attention and taking of the oath steadied his nerves.

In answer to the coroner’s question, Sergeant confirmed that he was the hotel manager and had done all possible to ensure Maharajah Narayan Halkwaer’s comfort and enjoyment.

‘His highness chose a horse, a spirited Arab. He had already ridden on Friday morning. He rode later in the day, having no complaint about the horse. At 8 p.m. in the evening, the horse returned without him, and the search began.’

‘You say the prince had no complaints about the horse, Mr Sergeant. Have there been previous complaints?’

‘Yes, sir. Some less experienced riders have found that horse difficult to handle.’

‘Did you not feel some concern when the maharajah had not returned by 8 p.m?’

‘No, sir. I knew he had a friend in the area and that he wanted to explore the countryside. Of course as soon as I was alerted to the horse coming back riderless, we began to search.’

‘Thank you, Mr Sergeant. You may step down.’

Sergeant hesitated, and then with something like relief returned to his place.

It was then Upton’s turn.

Once sworn, he explained that as the duke’s agent he had taken charge of the search, which included Westy Bank Wood.

‘Mr Upton, did you yourself search Westy Bank Wood?’

‘No, sir. It was searched by the head forester and his men.’

‘Can you explain why the maharajah was not found on Friday evening?’

Maharani Indira, Narayan’s widow, gave the slightest movement, a straightening of her shoulders as if some blow might follow soon.

Now I saw why Upton had appeared so hollowed out and so changed when I had seen him in an unguarded moment early yesterday morning. He felt obliged to either cover up the forester’s incompetence, or to lie, or both. He explained how thoroughly the wood had been searched, and yet was forced to admit that some part may have been missed.

‘Is it possible that the body lay undiscovered that night?’ the coroner asked.

Upton’s answer came out in a mumble.

‘Please repeat your answer, Mr Upton.’

‘It cannot be ruled out that we missed his highness’s body, sir.’

‘Thank you. You may step down.’

Although the room held no more seats than needed, Upton looked about him as if he had forgotten where he belonged. And then he returned to his seat, holding each chair for support as he moved along the row.

Would I be called? I wanted to speak up and say what I felt to be true. Yet the thought of having to say words no one would want to hear put every nerve on edge and made me feel physically weak. It was as if a jelly filled with thorns encased me.

Besides, by the time Constable Brocksup had given his evidence, it seemed to me that the verdict was inevitable.

Brocksup consulted his notebook. ‘We treated the deceased with extreme respect.’ He lowered his head, as if to indicate how extreme a level of respect. ‘Having due regard to the scene and to the removal of the deceased, having seen a bullet wound in the area of the heart, I searched and found a bullet lodged in the trunk of a tree, which I removed with a hunting knife and took for examination.’

Next came Dr Simonson’s account, which the coroner asked him to present to the court in layman’s terms.

The doctor stood. For a moment he hesitated, his walking stick having fallen to the floor. I thought he was considering whether he should take the few short steps without it. He picked it up and tapped his way forward, notebook in hand. He confirmed his name, and said, ‘I found a lacerated wound on the chest which extended upwards to the back. This proved to be the track of a bullet.’

‘What would be the effect of that injury?’ the coroner asked.

‘It would cause instantaneous death.’

‘Thank you, doctor. Is it possible to estimate the time of death?’

‘It is not possible to be precise, but I would say death occurred something under twenty-four hours prior to the body being discovered.’

‘You say the track of the bullet extended upwards.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘If the horse, which we have heard described as a spirited creature, was startled and bolted or baulked, and the prince was holding his gun, with an eye for a shot, could that account for the positioning of the bullet?’

There was the slightest hesitation, as when someone is offered a single choice and would prefer another. ‘Yes, sir, it would.’

Thanking and dismissing the doctor, the coroner shuffled out a page from his notes. ‘I have here a report from Mr Daniel Robson, gunsmith of Skipton. Is that gentleman present?’

He was, having slipped in late and unnoticed. A long-faced man, shoes polished to high gleam, he gave a slight bow in the direction of the Duke of Devonshire and the maharajah as he stepped forward.

Like the other witnesses, the gunsmith took the bible in his hand.

‘Mr Robson, will you tell this court what you have told me?’

The gunsmith explained how he had matched the bullet to the weapon carried by the maharajah.

When the man resumed his place, the coroner turned to the jury. ‘Gentlemen of the jury, do you have any questions?’

Small huddles and whispers followed as the jurors talked amongst themselves.

The jury foreman, a clergyman, spoke as if from the pulpit. ‘Is Joel Withers here, to give his account of finding the maharajah?’

‘Sadly, no. His father, who had accompanied the maharajah on Friday, suffered a stroke. Joel Withers is by his father’s side.’

In the lull that followed, I raised my hand, like some schoolgirl asking to leave the room. The coroner looked past me.

I scraped my chair as I stood.

‘Mrs Shackleton.’ The coroner spoke my name like a teacher taking the class register, but at least he knew it.

‘Yes.’

By way of explanation, he announced to the room, ‘Mrs Shackleton, niece of Lady Rodpen, daughter of the Lady Virginia, is staying at the hotel.’ He was delaying the moment when I would speak. ‘You wish to say something?’

‘When Joel Withers made his hue and cry in Westy Bank Wood, I was there, riding with Isaac Withers, Joel’s father, around the paths taken by the maharajah the day before. I sent the Withers father and son to alert the constable.’

Why were these words coming from my mouth? I wanted to cry murder. I wanted to say that evidence had been ignored, destroyed, fabricated.