The Meaning of Night (37 page)

pantry door these two years . . .’

I remembered the item distinctly, and how Mr Carteret had strapped it tightly over

his riding coat before leaving the hotel.

‘And where is the bag now?’ I asked.

She paused for a moment.

‘Now there’s a thing,’ she said. ‘I don’t seem to recall seeing it when they . . .

excuse me, sir, I do beg your pardon . . . ’

She put the tray down, and I apologized for my thoughtlessness. When she’d

composed herself, and after a few consolatory words, she picked up the tray again and

wished me good-night.

I was certain now that Mr Carteret had not been tracked and set upon by this

supposed gang for the money they believed he might be carrying. This was no crime of

opportunity. Mr Carteret had been attacked for a clear and specific purpose; and if I was a

betting man, I would put money on its involving the contents of the missing bag. But it

puzzled me to surmise what Mr Carteret had been carrying, if not money, and what could

have been so valuable that cold-blooded, brutal murder was no bar to obtaining it. This

quiet place, standing in elegant seclusion within the walls of Evenwood Park, had

suddenly become a place of conspiracy and violent death. Slowly, but insistently, a

conviction began to form in me of some link between the death of Mr Carteret and the

letter he had written to Mr Tredgold. Bye and bye I concluded that such a conviction was

groundless. Yet Mr Tredgold had told me to take care, and so I then began to wonder if

his words had been anything more than a conventional farewell. I sat up for another hour

or more, turning matters over in my mind, contending with vague fears and unfounded

suspicions, until I could stand no more and blew out my candle. I lay, open-eyed, in the

darkness, listening to the call of an owl in the Plantation, and watching shadows cast by

the trees playing on the white-washed ceiling. How long I lay there, I do not know; but at

last I sank into a fitful sleep, pulled down into dreams that were haunted by the face of

Miss Emily Carteret. ?

21:

Requiescat?

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I rose early and made my way down through the silent house to find the front door

locked and bolted, making it necessary to take the back stairs down to the kitchen. There

I encountered the servant girl, Mary, at work at a great stone sink. She turned on hearing

my footsteps and curtsied.

‘Oh, sir, is anything the matter? Did you ring?’

‘No, no, Mary,’ I replied. ‘I am going for a walk, but the front door is locked.’

She looked up at a clock hanging above the range. It told just a little before half

past five.

‘The master would always come down himself with the keys, at six sharp,’ she

said. ‘Every morning, without fail.’

‘I suppose Miss Carteret has the keys now,’ I said.

‘I can’t say, sir. I was that upset yesterday evening that Mrs Rowthorn said I

might go home, which I did, though I made sure I was here early this morning.’

‘And do you live in the village, Mary?’

‘All my life, sir.’

‘I imagine this has been a terrible shock. So senseless and unexpected.’

‘Oh sir, the poor dear master . . . such a good man, so good to us all.’ Whereupon

her voice began to falter, and I saw that tears were not far off.

‘You must be strong, Mary,’ I said, ‘for your mistress’s sake.’

‘Yes, sir, I shall try. Thank you, sir.’

As I was about to leave, a thought struck me.

‘Tell me, Mary, if it does not upset you too much, who found Mr Carteret?’

‘John Brine, sir.’

‘And who is John Brine?’

She described him as Mr Carteret’s man, by which I understood her to mean his

general factotum.

‘And how many other servants are there here, besides John Brine?’

‘Well, Mrs Rowthorn, of course, and myself. I mostly help Mrs Barnes, the cook,

and do the cleaning, though Mr Tidy’s girl comes in three times a week to help me with

that. Then, besides John Brine, there’s his sister Lizzie – Miss Emily’s maid – and Sam

Edwards, the gardener.’

She turned from the sink and began rubbing her hands on her apron. It appeared

that John Brine had been on some errand to the great house when Mr Carteret’s horse was

first seen trotting riderless through the Park. Brine, together with two of Lord Tansor’s

grooms, Robert Tindall and William Hunt, had immediately set off to look for Mr

Carteret, the two grooms taking the main road to the gates that stood on the southern side

of the Park, Brine following the smaller track that led through a swathe of woods to the

western gateway on the Odstock Road.

‘So Mr Carteret was found by John Brine alone, then?’ I asked.

‘I believe so, sir. He rode back straight away to find the others, and then they all

went there together.’

‘And where can I find Mr Brine?’

She directed me to a little yard leading off the garden, one side of which consisted

of a range containing two or three stables and a tack-room. Here I found John Brine, a

stocky young man of about thirty, with light sandy hair and beard. He looked up from his

work as I entered, but said nothing.

‘John Brine?’

‘I am,’ he replied, in a suspicious tone, drawing himself up and straightening his

back.

‘Then I would like to ask you a few questions concerning the attack on Mr

Carteret. I am –– ’

‘I know your name, Mr Glapthorn,’ he said. ‘We were told to expect you. But I

don’t know why you feel it is appropriate to question me. I’ve told everything I know to

Lord Tansor, and I don’t think, beggin’ your pardon, sir, that his Lordship would consider

it proper that I repeat myself to a stranger. I hope you understand my position, sir. If

you’ll excuse me.’

At which he returned to his work. But I would not be brushed off so easily by

such as he.

‘Just a minute, Brine. You should know that I am remaining here for a day or so

with the express permission of Miss Carteret. It is incumbent upon me, in my

professional capacity, for reasons I need not trouble you with, to inform myself as fully

as possible with all the circumstances surrounding this terrible event. You will oblige me

greatly, Mr Brine, if you could see your way to giving me your account, in your own

words, of how you found Mr Carteret. I would not wish to rely on hearsay or rumour,

which might distort or contradict the truth I know I shall hear from your own lips.’

He looked at me for a moment, trying no doubt to gauge the sincerity of my little

speech. Then he appeared to relax his stance a little, nodded to me to take a seat on an old

wheel-backed chair that stood by the door, and began to tell me his story.

In outline, it confirmed what I had already heard from Mary. He had been at the

great house when one of the gardener’s boys had run in to the stable yard to say that Mr

Carteret’s black mare was trotting through the Park, but that there was no sign of its rider.

With darkness now coming on, Brine and the two grooms had at once mounted up and

rode out, the grooms heading towards the South Gates, Brine veering west towards the

woods.

Brine had found him lying face down amongst the trees, a little way off the track,

not far from the Western Gates.

‘Had he fallen where he was attacked, do you think?’ I asked.

‘No,’ said Brine, ‘I don’t think so. The track bends sharply at that point, just

before the gates. I believe they were waiting for him on the far side of the bend, just

within the trees. He wouldn’t have seen them until it was too late. After he’d fallen, I

suppose they’d sent the horse off and then dragged him into the trees – you could see the

flattened grass. He was still breathing when I found him, but I couldn’t rouse him.’

‘And his bag?’

‘Bag?’

‘The bag he had across his chest.’

‘There was no bag.’

I then asked him where they had taken Mr Carteret.

‘William Hunt rode back to the great house and they brought up a cart. We took

him back on that.’

‘To Evenwood, not here?’

‘Yes. Lord Tansor insisted. He said he should be kept as quiet as possible until Dr

Vyse could be brought from Peterborough. Robert Tindall was sent straight away.’

‘What time was this?’

‘Around eight o’clock.’

‘But Mr Carteret died before the doctor arrived?’

‘At about half past nine, or thereabouts. Miss Carteret was with him, and Lord

and Lady Tansor.’

I held out my hand, which he took after a little hesitation. I was determined to get

the fellow on my side, though he seemed somewhat dull-witted and morose.

‘Thank you, Brine. I am grateful to you.’

‘Oh, Brine,’ I said, as I was about to leave, ‘where is Mr Carteret now?’

‘In the chapel at the great house. Lord Tansor thought it would be best.’

I nodded. ‘Indeed. Yes. Thank you, Brine. Oh, by the way, could you arrange for

this to get to Peterborough, in time for the midday railway mail?’ I handed him the

second account I had written for Mr Tredgold, describing the reported circumstances of

the fatal attack on Mr Carteret.

‘You will need some money,’ I added, getting out a five-pound note. This should

suffice.’

He made no reply, but merely nodded as he took the proffered money.

I retraced my steps to the garden, and then walked across the lawn to the

gate-house. As I stepped out onto the roadway, I noticed something dark lying on the

ground. I stooped down to examine it more closely. It was the remains of a half-smoked

cigar, sufficient for me – by now a seasoned connoisseur – to recognize one of the

premier Havana brands, Ramón Allones no less. Miss Carteret’s lover was a man of

discernment. I threw the stump on the ground and proceeded on my way.

A little before gaining the point at the summit of the long incline from where the

great house could be seen, I stopped and looked back. Below and behind me were the

turrets of the gate-house; to the right, the Plantation, with a glimpse of the Dower House

beyond. Further to the right was the boundary wall, on the other side of which could be

seen the roof of the Rectory and the spire of St Michael’s. The irresistible swell and

spread of pure fresh morning light was breaking along the distant line of the river, whilst

to the west the great arc of woodland that clothed the higher ground towards Molesey and

Easton stood in silent half-shadow.

I turned and resumed my trudge up the long slope. The road here begins to swing

through a gentle curve, flanked on either side by a short avenue of oaks, and then levels

out before descending to cross an arched bridge across the Nene, which can be seen

snaking its sinuous way eastwards through the Park. I emerged from the trees and

stopped.

The house was spread out below, its magical splendour even more dizzyingly

captivating in the misty September light than I remembered it from my first visit in high

summer. I proceeded down the slope, across the bridge, and at last found myself standing

in the inner courtyard. Before me were the main doors to the house, on each side of

which were two elegant Doric columns supported a pediment, in the midst of which was

placed the Tansor arms and an inscription: ‘What thing so Fair but Time will not Pare.

Anno 1560’. A little further off, to left and right, abutting into the forecourt, two of the

many cupola-topped towers for which Evenwood is celebrated soared into the

brightening air; a little way beyond the southernmost of these was a small archway,

through which I could discern a cobbled courtyard.

I did not stop to consider what I would say or do if I encountered anyone. I had

laid no plans, had no alibi or excuse prepared. Without thinking, I found myself walking

through the archway and into the courtyard beyond, heedless of the possible

consequences. I was simply intoxicated by the grave beauty of the building, which

seemed to drive all calculated and rational thought away.

I had entered one of the oldest parts of the house. Three sides of the court

consisted of open-arched cloisters, unchanged since the Middle Ages; the fourth, forming

the outer wall at this point, was a closed-in range, altered in the last century, with four

rectangular windows of painted glass, two on each side of an ogee-arched door standing

at the top of a little semi-circular flight of steps. Surmounting the roof of this range was a

magnificent clock of brightly coloured wood within an intricate Gothic housing, the

gilded panels of which were now gleaming in the early morning sun.

As I ascended the steps, the bell of this instrument tolled the half hour. I looked at

my pocket-watch: six-thirty. The household would already be about its business, but still

I paid no heed to the prospect of being discovered creeping uninvited about the building.

I pushed open the door and entered.

The interior of the chapel, wainscoted in dark wood and paved in white marble,

was cool and silent. I noted, with approval, the pretty little three-manual pipe-organ of

the last century, which I knew from my researches had been made by John Snetzler.? On

either side of a central aisle, three or four rows of ornately carved chairs stood facing a

simple railed-off altar, above which hung a painting of the Sacrifice of Isaac. Before the