The Scent of Murder (11 page)

‘Not really, just a bit of tack, a couple of sacks of oats — probably one of the stable lads.’

The information came as no surprise. Dody knew too well the appalling wages such workers received.

Sir Desmond did his best to further the conversation by pointing out landmarks — the Ditchling Beacon, the remains of the old Roman road — until, in the face of Dody’s lack of interest, he gave up and dozed off. Dody closed her eyes too and attempted to conjure Pike into her dreams, a tactic that proved impossible when Sir Desmond flopped his curly head against her shoulder and started to snore.

The chauffeur, at Sir Desmond’s direction, dropped them off at the stables. It was drizzling and the gas lights round the cobbled yard flickered and hissed. The stalls were built in a U-shape, and most of the top doors of the looseboxes were open, a stamping equine audience observing the human players in the yard.

Dody identified the stable holding the bones by the police bicycles propped against its door. And then an excruciating pain pierced her shoulder. She whirled around and found herself confronted by a pair of rolling eyes and teeth the size of tombstones. She could not help but cry out.

Sir Desmond slapped the horse responsible on the nose. ‘Bad boy, bad!’ He prodded at the torn patch of Dody’s coat, uttering a string of apologies. ‘Damn horse, bites anything and everyone. Keep that confounded thing under control, Philips.’

The sour-faced groom slammed the loosebox shut on the horse. ‘Sorry, sir, miss. Won’t ’appen again.’

‘Not if you want to keep your job, it won’t,’ Sir Desmond growled, shaking his finger at the groom. ‘You’re on thin ice, Philips. I’m watching you.’

‘Please,’ Dody said to her host, pushing away his eager ministrations to her shoulder. She could feel no welling blood; all she would suffer was a nasty bruise. ‘Forget it, Sir Desmond. It’s nothing.’

He still stood unnaturally close to her. ‘Most women would faint at a bite like that. You’ve got pluck, Doctor, I’ll grant you that.’

‘Thank you, Sir Desmond,’ she said, struggling to remain civil. He had ruined her afternoon and she would not have his pawing attentions ruin her evening too. ‘Let us speak to the police, shall we?’

He stepped aside so she could enter the stable first. The bones had been placed at its far end. Reduced once more to a jumbled pile, they had been transported from the ice house in the picnic hamper, along with the trestle table, which was folded and propped against the stable wall. Dody had packed Fred up earlier and he was once more residing in her suitcase under the bed.

She was introduced to Sergeant Berry and Constable Weedon from the Uckfield police station. Moisture gleamed on their coats and helmets. The men had a long and uncomfortable bicycle ride ahead of them and seemed impatient to get going.

‘But surely you cannot transport the bones by bicycle,’ Dody said, moving towards the hamper.

Berry took a piece of straw from his mouth. ‘No, miss. We’ll have to send a wagon for them later. It’s not available right now.’

This was a reminder Dody didn’t need: that she was no longer in London. In so many ways the Hall and the hamlet of Piltdown made her imagine she had journeyed back through time in one of Mr Wells’s machines.

She explained to the three men what her examination of the skeleton had led her to conclude: that it belonged to a young female from a deprived background. The girl had a disproportionate length of feet to limbs, meaning she should have been of taller stature but her height had been stunted, probably by a poor diet. She also told them the girl had suffered from a greenstick fracture of the leg.

Dody extracted the damaged tibia from the pile and showed it to the police and Sir Desmond. The groom, she noticed, was listening attentively at the stable door. Once they had all examined the bone, she picked up the skull and pointed out the decayed molars in the upper jaw. Sir Desmond made some tut-tutting noises.

The best she kept for last. Holding the skull towards the gas lamp, she ran her finger around the neat hole in its cranium.

Sergeant Berry broke the shocked silence. ‘I’ve seen enough bullet holes to know one when I see one.’

‘Someone killed the girl and buried her in a shallow grave?’ Sir Desmond all but whispered.

‘Almost certainly during your family’s tenure of the land — yours even, I’d hazard a guess, Sir Desmond,’ she replied.

‘Ancient history, still.’ He recovered his voice, eyes darting towards the policemen.

Dody glanced at Berry and Weedon. ‘I think a death that occurred ten years ago would still be considered recent, do not you, gentlemen? I would suggest a coronial enquiry might get to the bottom of this, or at the very least throw some light on the victim’s identity.’

There was something in the way Sergeant Berry coughed and glanced at Sir Desmond that put Dody on her guard. ‘We’ll need to examine the bullet; was it with the remains, Doctor?’ the sergeant asked.

‘You have been trained in ballistics, Sergeant?’

‘I beg your pardon, miss?’

‘That is answer enough.’ Dody smiled sweetly.

‘With all due respect, miss, if you have a bullet it is your duty to hand it over to us as the investigating officers.’

‘I will, Sergeant, just as soon as I get it back again.’

Sir Desmond looked from Berry to Dody. ‘You didn’t discuss this find with that Scotland Yard chap, did you, Doctor?’ he asked, glancing at Berry — they both looked most put out.

‘Along with other things, yes, I did discuss it with Chief Inspector Pike, Sir Desmond. And I gave him the bullet I found.’

‘Confound it, woman! This is a local matter and should be investigated by local people!’

You mean by your own people, Dody thought, though she managed to halt the sentence before it snapped from her mouth. ‘In that case I would advise they begin with a thorough search of the area where the skeleton was found.’

Fitzgibbon took control of himself again, clasping his hands behind his back, and worrying at a dollop of horse manure with the shiny toe of his town boot. ‘Of course, of course. You’ll attend to that Berry, no doubt, but I’m taking out a shooting party tomorrow and don’t want any of your lot in the way.’ Hope lit up his face and sped up his voice. ‘Say now, you don’t think it’s possible the young girl died as a result of some kind of a shooting accident, do you, Doctor?’

‘That is a possibility,’ Dody replied, humouring him. There was no point in getting his hackles up again by pointing out that the bullet hole was clearly not from a shotgun’s blast.

Sir Desmond seemed to like that idea. ‘I’m always telling the beaters to stand out of the damned way, but you never know. I mean, often they are young and inexperienced — sometimes as young as this skeleton lady, aren’t they, Berry?’

‘Indeed, sir; a most likely explanation, I’m sure.’

Sir Desmond clapped his hands together. ‘Good. That’s settled, then. Just let me know if there’s anything more I can do to help. Good evening to you, Sergeant.’

When he offered his arm to Dody, she had little choice but to take it.

CHAPTER TEN

‘Are you sure you want to go through with this, Flo?’ Tristram asked after tea as they were making their way arm in arm along the dimly lit passageways to the library. They had finished taking tea with the house guests, and most of the women had retired to their rooms for a pre-dinner nap. Sir Desmond was showing his male guests his weapon collection. ‘Aunt Airlie only likes true believers to participate. I’m afraid she might question your sincerity.’

Florence shivered and tightened her grip upon his arm. ‘She need not worry about me.’

They stopped just before the closed library door with its pointed stone arch and he kissed her forehead.

‘There’s no need to be afraid,’ he whispered. ‘You’ll probably find the experience a comforting one. People often have doubts about these kinds of things, but I go where my heart goes, and my heart tells me this is true. Once Aunt Airlie contacted my birth-mother for me. My mother said she was in a far better place, she loved me, and her spirit would always be with me. Those notions have got me through some challenging times.’

He tapped on the door and they entered hand in hand. They had never needed to act according to the strictures of society in front of Lady Fitzgibbon.

Her Ladyship sat at a small, round reading table towards the back of the library, near a lavishly curtained bay window. She was wearing her customary grey, with the addition of a fine veil falling like gossamer over her face. An image of Miss Havisham sprang into Florence’s mind.

The library was dark save for three candles flickering on the table. As Florence moved towards them, the light distorted her shadow and made the bookshelves ripple.

‘Welcome, children,’ Lady Fitzgibbon greeted them, a hidden smile evident in her voice. ‘Has Tristram explained what we are going to do, Florence?’

Florence could only nod.

‘Then sit down, do. Take one candle each and place it in front of you.’

They did as instructed.

‘And now join hands. Tristram will show you how, Florence, dear.’

‘Like this.’ Tristram spread his palms down upon the table, thumbs together, the little finger of his left hand touching his aunt’s. Florence did the same, the little finger of her left hand touching Tristram’s, the little finger of her right touching Lady Fitzgibbon’s.

‘You are fearful, child,’ the older woman said.

‘Just a bit,’ Florence admitted.

‘A bit of fear is good, provided it does not overwhelm. The spirits can be fearful too, so try not to make them anxious. This is an enlightening experience for both worlds.’

‘Yes, Your Ladyship,’ Florence whispered. Her mouth was parched; she wished she had a glass of water. They touched each other through a thin film of sweat, and Florence fought the urge to clasp her companions’ hands. All around the library, stuffed animals stared down at them from glass-fronted cabinets: foxes, squirrels, a baby badger and a variety of beady-eyed birds.

Lady Fitzgibbon said, ‘Now, Florence, I want you to close your eyes and breathe deeply. Fill your mind with thoughts of someone you once loved who is no longer of this earth.’

Florence, relieved to block out the glassy-eyed audience, shut her eyes and tried to conjure a picture of a departed loved one.

‘Slow, deep breaths, Florence. Relax your shoulders.’

Florence slowly released her breath. The candlelight turned the inside of her lids a warm, flickering red. Images of Uncle Peter, her father’s younger brother, began to appear, flickering as in the films she watched at the picture palace. He looked as he did in the family photograph album, his waxed moustache curling at the ends, his hair combed back and prematurely receding. He had been Professor of English at Moscow University. Unmarried, he had treated Florence as the daughter he’d never had, and Florence had loved him dearly.

One spring, a chest cold had prevented Florence from accompanying the rest of the family to their
dacha
, and Uncle Peter had volunteered for the job of escorting his eight-year-old niece to the countryside once she had recovered. Now, before the red lids of her eyes, Florence watched her younger self with her uncle as they sleighed across a still-icy path through the woods, furs tucked cosily around them, composing nonsense songs to the rhythm of the pony’s tinkling bells. She could almost hear the bells now, shimmering in her head just as the moonlight had shimmered on the pines that evening many years ago. They had arrived at the
dacha
when the family soiree was in full swing, supped on
belyasha
— meat pies — drank eggnog and listened to various members of the family read from novels in progress, recite poetry, sing newly composed songs or show for the first time their most recent paintings.

Uncle Peter had been shot dead a year later by a student who thought he deserved a better mark for his English thesis.

Florence bowed her head and peeped at the pendant she wore around her neck. A blink of candlelight caught the warm gold of the waterlilies, and made the diamond flower between them sparkle. The tiny pendant had once swung from Uncle Peter’s watch chain.

A low moan made her gasp. Her eyes flew open. The sound was coming from behind Lady Fitzgibbon’s veil. She began to speak. But it was not in her own soft voice. It was deeper and louder, and could have belonged to a man.

‘You are doing well,
zaichik
. I am proud of you.’

Florence stifled a gasp. ‘Uncle Peter?’ she stammered, eyes staring through the candle flame at the trembling web of Lady Fitzgibbon’s veil. To Tristram she whispered, ‘That’s what Uncle Peter used to call me. It means “rabbit” in Russian.’

‘Ask him something, then,’ Tristram whispered back.

Florence racked her brains. ‘Are you happy, Uncle Peter?’

No response. Perhaps that is the wrong question, she thought.

But then Lady Fitzgibbon chuckled as Uncle Peter used to do. ‘I am content, my dear.’

‘I miss you. There is so much I want to ask you. Do you know what lies in the future? Have you seen heaven; does it really exist? Will there really be a European war? Can I tell Father about hearing your voice, or will that break the spell …?’ Florence’s fear vanished and excitement tripped up her words. She had so many questions to ask but had no idea what was pertinent or right. Then Lady Fitzgibbon shivered and sighed, and her head drooped to her chest.

‘Oh, my goodness, Tristram, is she ill? We must turn on the light.’

‘Don’t worry, it’s all right. She always does this when a spirit leaves.’ Tristram gently moved his aunt’s veil from the vicinity of the nearest candle to prevent it from catching fire.

‘What? Gone already? Oh, no!’ Florence covered her mouth with her hand. ‘What have I done? My questions must have frightened Uncle Peter off!’

‘Hush, now. This is a huge strain on Aunt Airlie. She can’t keep these conversations up for long.’

Lady Fitzgibbon shook herself and straightened up. ‘And now we join our hands again,’ she said, as if nothing had happened.

They fell silent once more. Florence concentrated on Uncle Peter, but this time saw nothing but the reddened insides of her eyelids. If only she could bring him back; their contact had been so brief.