The Scent of Murder (35 page)

Mrs Hutton straightened her shoulders and drew a breath. Her Ladyship gestured to Pike to fetch Mrs Hutton a chair. After ensuring that she was comfortably settled by the fire, Lady Fitzgibbon crouched at her housekeeper’s side and clasped her hand. To Dody it was a sickening sight.

‘The police will need more than that. Shall I go first, Mrs Hutton?’ Lady Fitzgibbon asked gently.

‘If it pleases you, M’Lady.’ The housekeeper’s voice was barely audible.

‘Mrs Hutton came to us from the workhouse many years ago.’ Her Ladyship addressed Pike, who was going through the motions of listening with a sympathetic ear, though Dody suspected he was as fed up with the household as she was.

‘Like Edith Pratt, she started as a scullery maid. She impressed us very much and worked her way quickly through the servants’ ranks to the position she holds now. Over the years we became less like servant and mistress, and more like friends. She confided in me once that at the workhouse she had harboured a childish infatuation for Mr Montague. I never questioned her further about it, though I sensed the infatuation had continued well into adulthood.’

‘But Mrs Hutton still married,’ Pike said.

‘No, Chief Inspector. The workhouse changed her name when she began to work full-time at the Hall. The name change is a common practice when children leave the workhouse. It signifies a clean break. The “Mrs” before her name is an honorary title she adopted on being appointed housekeeper.’

A satisfactory enough explanation, Pike’s expression seemed to convey. ‘Back to Montague …’ he said.

Lady Fitzgibbon paused to look at Mrs Hutton, but the housekeeper could not meet her eye. ‘There have been times when Mr Montague has called to see me on the most trivial of workhouse matters; any excuse, I thought, to see Mrs Hutton. I never saw any harm in it.’ Lady Fitzgibbon shrugged. ‘Some women seem to find Mr Montague attractive, and servants are only human, after all. It would not have surprised me to be told that the couple were to be engaged.’

‘Mrs Hutton was not the only woman under his spell. The workhouse Matron seems to have been more than willing to accommodate his tastes too,’ Dody interjected with a cynical edge to her voice.

‘His sport with the young girls?’ Lady Fitzgibbon clarified.

‘Not just that, but the beatings too,’ Dody said. ‘The stinging nettles, sadistic treatment—’

‘I swear, Chief Inspector, this is the first I’ve heard about this in any detail. I knew he sometimes engaged the children to lay scent trails, but that is a common practice.’

‘And you had no idea of the end result, Lady Fitzgibbon?’ Now it was Pike’s turn to sound cynical.

Lady Fitzgibbon coloured, and focused upon the work-worn hand that rested in hers. ‘No, of course not. The very idea shocks and repulses me.’

‘And Mrs Hutton, were you used also in this way?’ Pike asked gently.

Mrs Hutton pulled herself together, and lifted her chin. ‘Not used, no. In those days it was an honour to be chosen as one of the Master’s special girls; to be asked to lay the scent for the hounds. I mean, it never did me any harm.’

Her words provoked a brief silence.

‘Not all of the girls thought it was an honour, Mrs Hutton,’ Dody said, trying to control herself. ‘I can’t see how the girl who was murdered near the dry stream bed could have enjoyed the experience. It is my belief that the girl tripped and broke her leg while Mr Montague was chasing her, and he shot her dead rather than having to provide an explanation for her injuries to the authorities. Am I correct, Mrs Hutton?’

‘He may have said something of the sort once.’ Mrs Hutton straightened her back. ‘Some, of course, were unco-operative and had no idea of the special distinction he was bestowing upon them.’

The woman’s infatuation, coupled with her abuse, had turned her quite mad, Dody thought, her anger suddenly dissipating as she realised the awful truth. No, it never did you any harm, she thought sadly.

‘And Jenny Jones was the worst of the bunch,’ Mrs Hutton added.

Every muscle in Dody’s body tightened. ‘Jenny Jones was the name of the murdered girl? We thought her name was Jessica Wilson.’

The housekeeper looked shocked, paused and turned to Lady Fitzgibbon. ‘Why on earth would they think it was me buried in that hole?’

Alistair poured everyone cognac with the gravitas of an undertaker. Dody and Lady Fitzgibbon ministered to the bitterly weeping Mrs Hutton as best they could. At last, when all consolation was exhausted, Dody gave her a sedative and the cook was summoned to put the tearful woman to bed. Annie was dispatched to check on Mr Montague, Edith and Mrs Slater. There would be no relaxing for Dody this night, Pike realised as he took a sip of fine French cognac, even when the interview with Lady Fitzgibbon was concluded. One whole floor of this monstrous house seemed to be taken up with invalids who needed medical attention of one kind or another.

Pike stood above Florence, a paternal hand resting on her shoulder. He felt proud of her stoicism. The revelation that Mrs Hutton was Tristram’s missing sister, the girl for whom her deceased beau had been obsessively searching most of his adult life, would have been painful for Florence to hear.

He continued to interrogate Lady Fitzgibbon. ‘And all along you have known the identity of the murdered girl and have kept silent on the subject, despite being fully aware of Mr Slater’s desperate search for his sister.’ This was not a question.

‘I didn’t know her name, sir, but I knew she was not Tristram’s sister.’

‘How so?’

Lady Fitzgibbon paused. ‘My connection with the spirit world might not be as firm as I would like it to be, but it does give me a heightened sense of intuition.’

Pike flicked his gaze to Dody, relieved to see she was not rolling her eyes at the remark. ‘ I think you always knew Mrs Hutton was his sister.’ He needed to hear this from the lady’s own lips.

‘I did know, but not until recently. It was
my
sister, actually, who put two and two together when she arrived after Tristram’s death. Living at the other end of the country, she has not visited us here since she adopted Tristram, though we have on occasion met in York. She said she saw in my housekeeper similar features to those of Tristram, the nose especially, and I realised that she must be correct. My sister had met Mrs Hutton when she was but a girl in the workhouse. She remembered vividly how the girl had cried when they took the little boy away — he had a different name then, of course. She told me the girl’s face was etched on her memory. When we made the discovery recently we decided not to tell Mrs Hutton and I am convinced it was the correct decision. You can imagine the grief the knowledge would have caused.’

At this, Florence left her seat and kissed Lady Fitzgibbon on the cheek. The tragedy of Tristram’s death had brought them close.

‘Can you explain why you organised the séance for Tristram?’ Dody asked, able to constrain herself no longer.

‘I suppose Florence told you about that. I can tell by your tone, Doctor McCleland, that you think it was an unkind gesture. But I assure you, I was only seeking to put Tristram’s mind at rest and make him forget the silly search that was causing his mother so much grief.’

That answer would do for now. The strained faces of the women around him told Pike a change of subject was in order.

‘Did you have knowledge of your husband’s smuggling?’ he asked.

Lady Fitzgibbon, while apparently unashamed of the way she had deceived Tristram, did colour at the mention of her husband’s illegal activities.

The mistress of the Hall bowed her head. ‘I’m afraid I did, Chief Inspector. It didn’t harm anyone and it made him easier for me to, to—’

‘Manipulate,’ Dody broke in.

‘I would prefer to say it gained me his support for my philanthropic activities, enabled me to have a freer rein.’ She looked levelly at Pike. ‘Will I be charged, Chief Inspector?’

Pike forked his hands through his hair, aware of the odour of river mud he was releasing into the genteel setting. ‘If I charge you, I’ll have to arrest the whole hamlet. It seems almost everyone was involved in some way or another. The Uckfield police and magistrate, though, they are a different matter.’ Pike was looking forward to confronting them about it. That the guardians of the law, the so-called people’s protectors, had been caught up in corrupt shenanigans was an anathema to him.

Just then Alistair brought a mud-splattered footman with him into the room, reminding the gathering that even more serious questions were still to be resolved. The young man touched his forelock to Lady Fitzgibbon and shuffled from one foot to the other while the butler slid over to the mistress of the house and whispered in her ear.

Her Ladyship covered her mouth with her hand. The silence in the room was palpable. Pike found himself holding his breath while he waited for Lady Fitzgibbon to speak. Eventually, with great restraint and dignity, she informed the gathering that her husband’s body had been found miles downriver, caught in the millwheel of the next village.

The air was knocked from Pike’s chest. He had suspected the outcome but the news came as a shock nonetheless. Could he have tried harder to save the man? he wondered. The throbbing bruises down the front of his body told him no. He had risked his own life in his attempt to rescue Sir Desmond, the stick was wrenched from his hand, it had been impossible to hang on to. Still, a part of him agonised over his subliminal intentions, intentions that he might have hidden even from himself.

Pike and Florence followed Dody and Lady Fitzgibbon to a spare bedroom where the body had been laid for the purpose of identification. As Dody and Her Ladyship entered the room, Florence paused and turned to Pike, blocking his path on the stairs. She had that dangerous gleam in her eye, the one he always found so disconcerting.

She touched the side of her nose. ‘Our secret, Pike. Well done.’

He stared back at her blankly. What on earth was that supposed to mean? he wondered.

Just then the bedroom door creaked further open. The black dog emerged from the room and passed them on the stairs, its tail batting from side to side on its broad rump.

‘Escorting the condemned soul to the afterlife, do you think, Pike?’ Florence asked, a grim smile playing at the edges of her mouth.

Pike shrugged as he watched the black dog’s descent.

‘Well done,’ Florence said again. The dog reached the hall floor, its claws clicking on the polished stone flags.

At that moment a draught of cold air blew up the stairs from the hall below and chilled Pike to the bone. Yes, but which condemned soul? he wondered.

EPILOGUE

Her skeletal appearance and thinning hair were evidence of the toll recent events had taken on Lady Fitzgibbon’s body. Her eyes burned brightly, however, and there was a strength to her voice and her words that even her father, Aye-Aye, seemed to get the gist of. Aye-Aye had moved back into the Hall since Sir Desmond’s death. The company of the deaf old man was surely better than being alone, Dody reflected as they sat in the morning room.

Lady Airlie was doing her best to explain the reorganisation of the workhouse to him.

‘We’ve hired a new Master,’ she shouted into her father’s ear-trumpet.

‘Why, what’s wrong with the old one?’

‘He’s in prison, Father, you know that.’

‘Oh, yes. Despicable, despicable business.’

‘And I’ve finished interviewing potential Matrons, since the former Matron has disappeared without a trace. Doctor McCleland was kind enough to help me, and we think we’ve found a suitable replacement.’

‘Indeed, sir,’ Dody added, leaning towards the trumpet. ‘A nurse I met at the Women’s Hospital, a woman I admire greatly.’

‘Jolly good. About time that place was cleaned up. Never liked the place, Doctor, umm …’

‘McCleland, Father.’

The old man turned to Dody. ‘McCleland? I knew a McCleland once …’

They were saved from a conversation already oft repeated by the entrance of Mrs Hutton, followed by Edie Pratt carrying a tea tray. Edie wore the smart black uniform of an under parlour maid, complete with frilly white cap and spotless apron. Mrs Hutton explained to the girl that while it was customary for the lady of the house to pour the tea, Edie could offer the guests the cake, biscuits and sandwiches.

Dody took a cucumber sandwich and placed it on her side plate. ‘Congratulations on your new position, Edie,’ she said to the smiling girl. To a much-recovered Mrs Hutton she said, ‘I trust Edie is proving to be a willing student.’

‘It’s quite a leap from scullery to parlour maid, Doctor, but she’ll do.’ The slight smile at the corners of Mrs Hutton’s eyes belied the brusque tone. Apparently Mrs Hutton had taken the orphan girl under her wing, her only complaint being the constant visits to the kitchen by the Hall’s new stable boy, Joe. ‘He’ll have to mind a few more p’s and q’s if he ever wants to rise to head groom,’ Mrs Hutton had told Dody, who’d had a job hiding her smile.

Aye-Aye announced that he needed a rest and Lady Airlie asked Mrs Hutton to assist him up the stairs and into bed. ‘You may go also, thank you, Edie,’ she said.

When they were alone, Lady Airlie asked Dody, ‘How is your sister?’

‘As well as can be expected. She is staying with our parents.’

‘I hope she will never forget Tristram.’

‘I guarantee she won’t.’

Once the sisters had returned to London, Florence did not have the heart to continue with her suffragette activities. Dody had never thought she would miss the table thumping, the plotting of demonstrations and daring deeds, and hoped that under their mother’s tender ministrations Florence would soon recover her former spirits.

The butler showed Pike into the parlour. His superiors in London had given him the unenviable task of getting to the bottom of the corruption at the Uckfield police station and preparing a report for the Sussex Chief Constable. The strain on his face showed through his friendly smile to Lady Airlie.

After some polite conversation he pulled out his fob. ‘Well, Doctor. The London train leaves in just under an hour, and the trap is hitched and waiting for you outside.’