The Scent of Murder (20 page)

‘I am staying at the Green Witch.’

Sir Desmond frowned. ‘You should be here with Tristram.’

‘Nothing would induce me to stay under your roof again. The public house is only a short distance away. You can summon me when you need me.’

‘But what do I tell Lady—’

‘Tell her what you wish. Your wife is not my problem.’

Dody expected to see a gleam of hatred in his eye, or hear a sarcastic comment about her ‘fancy man’, but all he did was sigh and say, ‘I want an honest answer from you. What is my nephew’s true prognosis? Will he last the night?’

‘Unlikely, but stranger things have happened.’

Sir Desmond threw the drink down his throat and immediately poured another. His hand was trembling. Some of the liquid dribbled down the side of the glass and soaked into the desk blotter.

‘I must send for his parents. He’s my heir, you know — not that I ever told him or his parents. But I like the boy. Never having had a son of my own, well …’ He snorted. ‘I can see by your face that you don’t give a damn.’

‘On the contrary, I care very much for Tristram, his aunt and my sister, and I am truly devastated by what has happened.’

‘But not for me — you don’t give tuppence for me.’

‘I don’t even think about you, Sir Desmond.’

Sir Desmond stared at the stained blotter for a moment, his face stretched by a bitter expression. ‘I suppose I asked for that. Poor Tristram. If he were a horse, he’d have been shot by now.’

Strangely enough, that statement, more than anything else, resonated with Dody long after she had left the study.

Dody and Pike were the only occupants of the public house’s parlour. The room had not been used in some time and the mantelpiece was thick with dust. They sat in worn, straight-backed chairs, separated by several feet of mildewed carpet. The fire, lit amid vociferous complaints by the publican’s boy, struggled to stay alight, filling the room with a pall of smoke that pricked at the lungs.

Dody coughed to clear her throat and told Pike of Tristram’s condition. Pike looked sad, tired. He ran his hands through his hair as he listened, then touched the knot of his tie, pressed tight against his throat, as if trying to resist the inclination to loosen it. However fraught, however sad the occasion — and they had shared a few of each — Dody had never seen Pike wear anything but a perfectly knotted tie, unless he was playing his vagabond role.

He told her how the police investigations had gone. ‘The men spent most of the day door-knocking, recording the types of firearm owned by each household and asking questions about the missing girl. They didn’t find a .22 of any description, only shotguns.’

‘Have you checked Sir Desmond’s guns?’

‘No, not yet. I intend to call upon Sir Desmond myself to ask for his guns.’

She lowered her eyes. ‘You came to my parents’ house to fetch me instead.’

‘Would you rather I had not?’

‘Of course not. Helping Tristram is something I am compelled to do.’

Dody sensed his gaze upon her and busied herself with aligning her belt and smoothing the stiff textured wool skirt across her legs. The fabric had been treated to a subtle sheen and reflected the fire’s light. She focused on its flickering luminescence while he returned to the subject of the search.

‘It was a complete waste of time,’ he said. ‘Those lazy so-and-sos didn’t even check the woods near your excavations.’ Pike lifted a glass of Madeira from the ring-marked table by his side and took a sip. ‘The killer might still hunt in the area. A new bullet might be found, fired from the same gun used to kill the girl all those years ago.’

‘The locals think the woods around the ice house are haunted.’

‘That’s no excuse. A policeman should be ready to put personal fears aside for the sake of his duty. Those two from Uckfield are a disgrace to their uniforms.’ Pike paused. ‘You know, it wouldn’t surprise me if the local constabulary were in Fitzgibbon’s pocket.’

‘Yes, I got that impression too when I spoke to them about the bones.’

‘A man named Montague offered to lend me the Hunt Club beaters. Perhaps they would be neutral; perhaps I could engage them in the search instead.’

‘I’ve met Montague; he’s chummy with Sir Desmond too.’

Pike raised his eyes to the damp ceiling. ‘Is there anyone around here who is not?’ He paused. ‘That’s why I’ll have to check Fitzgibbon’s personal gun collection myself.’

‘You won’t be very popular.’

‘He can’t refuse me if I get a warrant.’ Pike tented his fingers and stared into the struggling flames. He saw Dody looking at him and smiled. ‘Feeling better now?’

‘Yes, thank you,’ she said, incapable of altering the stiffness in her voice. No, I’m not feeling better at all, she thought. Sitting here alone with you should be a joy, but Sir Desmond has made the situation almost unbearable for me. ‘Sir Desmond said something to me earlier this evening that has given me cause for reflection,’ she said, collecting herself. ‘He said if Tristram were a horse, he would have been shot by now — put out of his misery.’

Pike thought about this. ‘You think someone shot the girl because of her broken leg?’

‘The placement of the bullet in the skull looked deliberate. This was not just some lucky potshot.’

He stared at her for a moment through thoughtful blue eyes. ‘You might be right.’ Then he said, ‘How would you like to work on this case in an official capacity?’

The invitation was unexpected. Normally she would have leaped at such an opportunity; now she hesitated over her answer. She had planned on returning to Piltdown only long enough to give her sister some support and to instigate a nursing regime for Tristram. The sooner she left this neighbourhood, the sooner she could put her experience with Sir Desmond behind her.

‘I am supposed to be on leave, remember?’ she reminded him.

‘I can’t see Spilsbury objecting. And you have already examined the bones. It seems a waste of time and resources to send them to London for further analysis. You are already familiar with the area and the background to the case.’

Silently, she agreed with him, and under different circumstances she would have welcomed the idea. But now? Pike would know it would be out of character for her to decline the offer. Furthermore, he was an intuitive man; he might even guess the reason behind her refusal.

She wavered. ‘It’s been a while …’

‘Since we worked together,’ he finished. ‘I take that to be a yes?’ When she did not contradict him, he lifted his Madeira glass and toasted to their future success.

She could not meet his eyes.

He replaced his glass, left his seat and crouched at her side. ‘What is it, Dody? What’s the matter? You’ve been a stranger to me all day.’

Dody took a steadying breath. ‘It’s nothing that a little time won’t heal.’ She tried to smile. ‘I’ll tell you by and by, but we must not let it cast a shadow over our professional relations. I’ve said I’ll help you with the case, and so I will. Please, try not to think any more about it.’

‘But what about our personal relations?’

Pike picked up her hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. She felt herself go rigid under his touch. He acted as if he did not notice, though she was sure he must have.

‘I’m glad you no longer have to come trotting through the rain to meet me here,’ he said. ‘We must still be careful, though; we must not invite talk. How I long for a time when we can spend the whole night together with no fear of discovery!’

Just days ago she would have cherished such words; now she did not wish to hear them, could hardly bear Pike’s proximity. She bit her lip and forced herself to stay where she was. The problem was with her, not with him, she reasoned. For the first time in her life she felt completely helpless, and she hated herself for it.

‘Dody?’

When she failed to answer, he rose and kissed her forehead as he might his daughter’s. She caught a whiff of hair oil and turned her face away.

Pike took a step back. ‘What’s wrong, my dear? What did I do?’

‘You haven’t done anything, Matthew. I just …’ She touched her head wound. ‘I have a headache. You must excuse me.’

Dody picked up her skirts and hastened upstairs to her room.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Florence pulled her shawl tightly around her shoulders and shivered in the chair by Tristram’s bed. No one was concerned with decency any more and she’d had no problem convincing Tristram’s aunt to allow her to sit with him for the night. The electric light made the room too startling, too bright, and she had replaced it with an oil lamp on the bedside table. All around her shadows played on the walls, the curtains rose and fell with the draught and the wind howled in the eaves.

She resolutely refused to pay heed to the glum looks of Dody and the family. The prognosis was not good, she could accept that, but it did not mean that she would give in to defeat. She was a McCleland and McClelands never gave up. Every now and then Tristram would mutter something incomprehensible and she would place her ear to his lips and try to make out the words. Once or twice his eyes had flicked open in panic and she had soothed him, wiping the sweat from his brow with a cool flannel.

Often she talked to him, convinced he could hear her.

‘Our ride at least started off well, didn’t it?’ she said. ‘If you hadn’t had the accident, I expect we would be sitting by the fire now in that cosy little nook off the morning room.’

Florence closed her eyes and imagined the fire flickering amber light across Tristram’s skin, the feel of his heartbeat close to hers, his wide, extravagant smile so soft during moments of tenderness. He had been part of her life for such a short while; nevertheless her chest ached at the thought of life without him. Determined not to allow her voice to betray her anxiety, she swallowed down the pressure in her throat and told him things she would not have considered saying if he had been awake.

‘Perhaps you would have proposed.’ She smiled down at his sleeping face. ‘I would have accepted, of course, though I might have played around just a tiny bit, telling you I would have to think about it. One should never appear too eager, Mother always says.’

Was that a twitch of his mouth? Buoyed, her voice sped on and she told him how much she was looking forward to meeting his mother and what a shame it was that his father’s visit would be delayed on account of his being in Scotland at present. Did Tristram think it would bother his parents if he and Florence settled in London? Not that she minded the idea of Cumberland, of course, but it
was
so awfully far away from her family and the suffragette division.

She searched his face for a response but saw none.

‘But we could keep horses still, and ride together in Hyde Park,’ she went on. ‘You don’t mind if I continue with my cause, do you, Tristram? We needn’t marry if you don’t wish it. I think living in sin sounds quite daring, don’t you? More and more people seem to be doing it these days— in the artistic set, anyway. Not that we are bohemians, not by a long shot. People like to call my family bohemians, which is quite wrong, really. Bohemians are poor; my family have money. Did I ever tell you that they were involved in the carpet trade in Moscow? But instead of wasting their money on extravagancies, they help people with it — bohemians, I suppose, among others. My mother associates with many of the Bloomsbury set. Father doesn’t approve, of course — you know Father — but there’s not much he can do about it. They also donate considerable sums to the Labour Party. Money is not a bad thing if it is used to do good, do you not think so, Tristram? Now, where was I?

‘Oh, yes, marriage. Of course, if we decide to have children, marriage would probably be desirous. I’d like to have a girl first, then a boy. We would educate them equally and they would both go to respectable universities.’

Tristram stirred. His eyes opened. ‘Schools,’ he whispered. ‘Where shall we send them to school?’

Florence’s heart leaped. ‘Oh, my darling!’ She dropped from her chair onto her knees and took his hand. ‘You can hear me! I was just prattling on, not knowing the words I was saying until they left my mouth.’

‘You want to marry me — like this?’ he said hoarsely, looking at her through pain-filled eyes.

‘I’ll take you any way, of course I will. Oh, Tristram, you are better! I can hardly believe it!’

He sighed, licked his lips. ‘No, not better, Flo.’

‘Of course you’re better.’ Florence’s cheeks were damp with tears. She cried anew when she saw how his eyes overflowed too, and dried his face with the top of the sheet.

‘I can’t move,’ he said.

‘That will pass. It’s just temporary because of the swelling, that’s what my sister says.’

He drew a long breath and fell silent. She took his pulse as Dody had taught her and found it to be alarmingly fast.

After some moments he whispered, ‘In the drawer, Flo, look in the drawer.’ He turned his head and rested his eyes on the bedside table.

Florence pulled the drawer open and found a Bible. ‘Do you want me to read from this, darling?’

‘No.’ The word came out as a long, exhausted exhale.

‘You’re thirsty.’ Indeed, his lips were cracked and dry. She poured some water from a jug into the glass by his bed and helped him sip from a straw. ‘Jolly good,’ she said when he had drained the glass. ‘Dody said you needed to drink lots of water to prevent dehydration.’ This time she remembered the handkerchief up her sleeve and gently wiped his lips with it.

‘Under the Bible, Florence,’ he said. ‘Please.’

She lifted up the Bible and found a small brown-paper package. An engagement ring? she wondered. Surely not!

‘Open it,’ Tristram said, his voice weakening.

With trembling fingers she opened the package and examined the contents. She tipped some rough wooden objects into her hand and then stared back at him, doing her best to hide her disappointment.

‘Buttons, Tristram? What do you mean by giving me these?’

He didn’t hear her question; his eyes had closed, his chest rose and fell. He was asleep.

Dody found her sister sleeping on her knees by Tristram’s bed, her head resting on his mattress. Gently she stroked Florence’s hair until she began to stir. ‘How did the night go?’ she asked.