The Scent of Murder (31 page)

The boy turned away, confirming Dody’s worst suspicions.

‘You must take me to them, Joe. We have to stop the Master from scaring or hurting Edie.’

‘Easier said than done, miss. They’re pro’ly miles away by now.’

‘But you must have some idea of where they’ve gone.’

‘Too far for us to catch ’em on foot, I know that much. Towards the seminary over Piltdown way, I s’pect.’

Dody’s desperate glance around the yard took in a bicycle leaning against the door of one of the offices.

‘I know what you’re finkin’, miss, but the bike won’t cope with the rough ground,’ Joe said. ‘Too late for Edie any’ow.’

‘A horse, then. A horse. I saw one in the stable. We’ll take that.’ It was all Dody could do to stop herself from physically shaking the boy from his negativity.

‘The Master’s on ’is ’unter, miss, and that’s ’is saddle ’orse.’ Joe indicated, gloomily, the handsome dark-bay creature nodding its head at them from its loosebox. ‘I’d be thrashed silly if I touched that,’ he added.

‘And I’ll thrash you silly if you don’t,’ Dody said in her firmest voice, giving him her flintiest of glares. ‘So let’s get this mount tacked up so you can take me cross-country to Piltdown.’

The boy gave in with a resigned shrug.

Over the fields and towards the woods Edie fled, soggy ground sucking at her boots, wind tearing at her mob-cap and shawl. She scrambled across a ploughed field, slipping and stumbling, the heavy weight of her mud-clogged boots tripping her up. At a big oak on the fringes of the wood she caught her breath. The tree’s girth was so thick she could not encircle it with her arms, but still she embraced it as best she could. If only she could be as strong as this tree, she thought as she wept, pressing her cheek against the scratching bark. Beneath the tree the ground was soft and damp and rich with the earthy smell of leaf mould. Fear, like a serpent, wrapped itself around her heart and squeezed. As its grip tightened, she felt it urging her to stay where she was, to sink into the thick layer of fallen leaves and curl up into a tight ball. She felicity young heard the baying of the hounds, whether real or in her head she could not tell. Strings of saliva spinning from snapping jaws, hot meaty breath assaulting her face. The memory of how it was before made her whimper.

‘Last time you gave up like a three-legged sheep,’ the Master had grumbled just before she’d taken off. ‘Poor sport for all. Do that once more and you’ll pay for it, girl.’

She sobbed aloud, knowing she wouldn’t get away with that again.

The wet weather hadn’t seemed to worry him. He’d said it would be good practice for the hounds; force them to focus on her scent and leave the younger animals less open to distraction. He’d told her the direction in which to head, and said he’d give her a longer start than last time, meaning the nightmare would take longer to end. ‘Head to Piltdown towards St Crispin’s,’ he’d ordered.

Oh, sweet Jesus, she thought, why does he have to send me over there? Everyone knew the rectory and the area around it were haunted.

He’d chucked her under the chin, fired his pistol into the air, and off she’d run.

Summoning up every last ounce of will power, Edie kissed the tree farewell, her forehead brushing its solid trunk, dislodging tiny bits of bark that stung her eyes and made her tears stream faster. The hounds couldn’t be far away. Taking a deep breath, she picked up her soggy skirt and plunged on into the woods towards Piltdown.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

The Buxted magistrate waved Pike goodbye from the shelter of his office porch. The slap of rain upon the trap’s flimsy roof and the spray from the road on his trousers did nothing to wash the smile from Pike’s face. With Fitzgibbon’s arrest warrant tucked safely in his inside pocket, he snapped the whip above the mare’s back and began the five-mile drive to Fitzgibbon Hall at a jaunty trot.

He’d had no scruples about lying to Philips to make him confess to tampering with Warrior’s girth. That Philips had also blown the lid off the illegal activities of Sir Desmond had proved a bonus.

For some years, Philips had told Pike in the police interview room (after Pike had provoked in the groom a bout of extreme anxiety, thanks to his ‘Charge of the Light Brigade’ ruse), Sir Desmond Fitzgibbon had been part of a loose-knit smuggling operation extending along the south coast. Fitzgibbon was a middle man, responsible for the distribution of goods brought across the channel by the likes of Harry Wheeler, the man Pike had arrested in Hastings. Smuggled goods often needed to be stored for a while before redistribution, and Sir Desmond’s ice house had proved ideal, especially since the surrounding wood was supposed to be haunted by a pack of ghostly hounds.

‘Most of the locals keep clear of it at night,’ Philips had said. ‘Even Sir Desmond’s a-feared.’

‘But you’re not?’ Pike had asked.

‘Load of twaddle, if you ask me.’ Philips had shifted in his chair. ‘Still, there’s no need to tempt fate, is there? When I know a delivery’s due to be made to the customers hereabouts, I move the goods to the stables just before dark, a day or two ahead of time.’

When Tristram had caught Philips loading smuggled spirits into the Hall cart, destined for sale at the Green Witch, he had given the groom twenty-four hours to do the honourable thing and man up to his crime, before he informed his uncle. Foolish maybe, but Pike found himself admiring the sense of honour — a quality he respected — in the man he would now never meet.

Philips had feared their operation would either be blown from the water or suspended by Sir Desmond himself to save face with his nephew, and he had panicked. He relied on the proceeds of their operation to supplement his paltry wage, he’d explained to Pike, and had taken it upon himself to tamper with Tristram’s girth. He’d been certain he was doing the right thing, certain that he would be praised by Sir Desmond for his initiative.

Philips had sat hunched over the interview table, sobbing like a child. ‘I never meant to kill ’im, just wanted to put ’im out of action for a while. ’Ow was I to know ’ow fond Sir Desmond was of ’is bloody nephew?’ he’d repeated over and over again. ‘Sir Desmond needed the money, just like me, and neither of us could risk being collared for the operation. I mean, that was why Sir Desmond was so keen to keep the searchers away from the ice house, wasn’t it? Some of the rozzers were in ’is pay, but not the lot of ’em.’

Pike had already planned a way of dealing with Fitzgibbon with regard to his brutal treatment of Dody. The information from Philips had proved to be an additional sweetener.

The wheels of the trap splashed through the Hall’s puddled driveway. Pike pulled the brake and alighted. Turning up his collar, he dashed to the Hall’s front entrance, thumbed the bell and patted the revolver in his coat pocket for good measure. He’d taken Fitzgibbon for a coward, but could not predict the outcome if the man panicked when confronted — there were a few too many armaments lying about this house for Pike’s comfort.

The butler opened the door and informed Pike that Sir Desmond was not at home; he had taken his dog out hunting.

‘Then I would like to see Lady Fitzgibbon, please.’ Pike removed his bowler and tipped rain from its rim.

‘I am afraid that is not possible either, sir. She is visiting the workhouse.’

From behind the butler Pike heard light footsteps and the rustle of silk. Florence joined them at the front entrance.

‘That will be all, Alistair. I will deal with the Chief Inspector. Please ask one of the maids to draw Mrs Slater a bath.’

‘Certainly, Miss McCleland,’ the butler answered before taking his leave.

Florence did not invite Pike in. She left him standing on the cold front step, regarding him from beneath pinched brows. Pike was obviously still not forgiven for his perceived lack of action against Fitzgibbon.

‘Dody and Lady Fitzgibbon are at the workhouse; there has been an outbreak of scarlet fever,’ Florence said coolly.

‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ Pike said. He had intended meeting Dody at the workhouse to search for Jessica Wilson’s records, but after Philips’s confession, he had been obliged to travel to Buxted to find a magistrate willing to sign Fitzgibbon’s arrest warrant.

‘I wanted to ask Lady Fitzgibbon where her husband has gone hunting. I have an arrest warrant in my pocket for him,’ Pike explained.

An excited gleam replaced the coolness in Florence’s eyes. ‘Really?’ she said, clasping her hands to her chest. ‘You are going to arrest Sir Desmond for what he did to Dody?’

‘No, actually, on suspicion of smug—’

‘When?’

‘Today, I hope, if I can find him, but—’

‘That’s easy. I know where he’s gone. Before he left he told us he was going shooting near the river. He didn’t want company, didn’t even take his man with him; he said he needed to be alone to think and that he would be back before dark.’ Florence paused, her eyes flitting around the entrance hall as she spoke. ‘If you’ll just wait a moment, I’ll find my coat—’

‘Out of the question,’ Pike interjected.

Florence stared back at him, started to bristle, then checked herself. ‘Oh, no, on second thoughts I suppose I can’t, but it’s not because of your say-so. I can’t leave Mrs Slater, you see. She’s naturally taken Tristram’s death very badly, and it would be awful to leave her in this big, spooky place on her own.’

The tension in Pike’s shoulders began to ease. The last thing he needed was Florence’s company in the woods.

Florence had told Pike that Fitzgibbon and his dog had left the Hall on foot, heading towards the river, which was about two miles north of the Hall. Pike drove the trap as far as the furrowed path would permit, then left the mare and trap tied to a tree and started walking. Every now and then the boom of a shotgun signalled the way. He followed the sound, climbing over stiles and slogging through fields until he reached the fringe of the woods.

He could have waited for Sir Desmond’s return to the Hall before making his arrest, but wanted to confront the man alone in the isolation of the wood. Not from any desire to rough him up, he convinced himself — he was not
that
kind of policeman, just as he had not been
that
kind of army officer. However, he felt that in the privacy of the woods he had more hope of convincing Fitzgibbon to admit to his assault on Dody. Pike had not been privy to any of the details, and the typed confession residing next to the arrest warrant in his inside pocket was unfortunately vague, but he was counting on it to panic Fitzgibbon into at least making some kind of acknowledgement of the crime. A direct confession from Fitzgibbon to Pike would mean less involvement for Dody in the trial, and, he hoped, aid the process of her recovery.

Pike was all too aware how difficult it was for women to stand up and testify in court about such delicate matters; he knew full well how hard the all-male legal system made it for them. The thought that Fitzgibbon might get away with what he had done to Dody was more abhorrent to Pike than that the man might wriggle out of the smuggling charges. He would make Fitzgibbon pay for it — through legal means, of course — and, if possible, make the procedure as humiliating as possible for him. The man obviously had no scruples about inflicting pain and humiliation upon Dody.

The scattering of trees increased in density until the stark branches of silver birch, elm and beech were an entwined, lacy mass above his head. Under his feet watery shafts of light shone dully on tangled bramble thickets, mouldy logs and yellowed bracken.

By the time he’d trod a path of soggy loam into the woods proper, the grey of daylight had taken on the graininess of an artificial dusk. Barely a breath of wind disturbed the branches and the sleet had dwindled to a soft drizzle. Still and gloomy, the woods seemed to have their own climate, almost as if they belonged to another world.

A shotgun blasted from the north. As if uncorked from a bottle, a flock of birds rose squawking into the sky. Pike tried to identify the position of the shooter. Another shot soon followed; it had come from closer to the river, he calculated. The path he was on should take him straight there.

The woods returned to their former silence. Pike followed the path, sometimes no more than a deer track, for about a quarter of a mile until the damp air in his nostrils gave way to a sweeter, wetter scent. He had never seen the river, but had been aware of its presence the night he drove Dody back to the Hall. It was not long afterwards that she had been attacked in the stables by Sir Desmond.

Pike increased his pace. His heart thumped in his chest and he found himself trying to stifle the rising emotion he’d earlier managed to repress with his civilised notions of justice. If Sir Desmond refused to sign the confession, what then? He’d make the bastard pay, whatever it took
.

Gradually noises began to encroach upon the silence: the roar of the river, the crack of a gun barrel, the easy slide of cartridges followed by a smooth, well-oiled click. Through the gloom he made out the shape of Fitzgibbon, an overweight labrador at his side. The dog turned its head, pricked its ears towards Pike and whimpered. Pike froze.

Fitzgibbon, aiming high, paid his dog no heed. A wood pigeon had alighted on a branch. To shoot the bird in that position was usually considered unsporting, but the kind of behaviour Pike expected from such a man. Pike waited for the double boom before stepping into the open.

‘Go seek!’ Fitzgibbon hissed to his dog.

‘Fitzgibbon!’ Pike called out.

The man whirled around, the fired shotgun now impotent in his hands. ‘What the devil? Pike, is that you? You’re trespassing! Get the hell out of my wood!’

Undaunted, Pike approached. The dog returned with a shredded wood pigeon and dropped it at its master’s feet. Fitzgibbon patted the dog and shoved the remains into a small canvas bag slung across his shoulder. The bag was almost full, the canvas stained with the blood of small birds.

‘I have here a warrant for your arrest.’ Pike dug into his pocket for the document.

Fitzgibbon snatched it from Pike’s hand and examined it for a moment. ‘I can’t read in this light without spectacles.’