A Corpse in Shining Armour (12 page)

After half a mile or so the river bank became a more orderly affair, faced with stone, and the path wider. A wooden jetty
with a rowing boat moored to it stuck out into the river. To my right, an expanse of smooth lawn sloped steeply upwards to
a gem of a Queen Anne house: Brinkburn Hall. It wasn’t large, by the standards of the aristocracy. An indoor staff of ten
or so could probably maintain it quite easily. It stood among the lawns and shrubberies as if it had an age-old right to be
there, overlooking the river from behind its balustraded terrace, its mellow red brick and white stone facings glowing in
the sun. Nobody was visible except a single gardener, trimming the lawn edge. A path ran up to the house from the jetty. A
smaller gravel path led across the lawn at a diagonal towards a copse. I followed it. I was trespassing on the Brinkburn estate,
but that might be permitted to a tenant of their cottage.

Every step confirmed the first impressions that this was a well-tended estate. The gravel was freshly raked, the bushes on
either side cut back just enough to let one person in full skirts pass easily, while still giving the path a natural woodland
look. Now and then the trees would part and at every one of these places a wooden bench was placed precisely to give the best
view down to the river. Beyond a doubt, the lady of the house walked this way. At every turn, I thought I might see her sitting
on a bench with her sketchpad, but apart from scurrying squirrels, I had the path to myself. After a while it curved towards
the house. I turned and went back down through the trees to the river-bank path, sat on the trunk of a fallen willow tree
and realised that I’d come to a decision. Before rushing back to report to Mr Lomax, I’d keep my appointment with Lady Brinkburn.
She’d been polite to me and was owed that at least. With that decided, I thought I might as well try out one of my new sticks
of charcoal and began a sketch of an alder tree slanting down to the water. The angle wasn’t quite satisfactory, and when
I shifted along the willow trunk I saw the fisherman. He was on his own, standing so still that he might have been a tree
branch himself. Since I like sketching people more than scenery, I included him in my composition.

By the time I’d finished my sketch–as far as it would ever be finished–he still hadn’t moved. I’d have to walk past him
to get to the cottage. If he turned out to be from the village, or one of the servants of the estate, it might be useful to
talk to him. I packed away my sketching things and walked softly along the bank so as not to scare his fish. I was only yards
away when he caught something, a large roach, the red of its fins flashing as it was hauled into the sunshine. Expertly, he
disengaged the fish from the hook and slid it back into the water, where it stayed floating for a stunned second then whisked
away. He turned, aware of somebody on the path. I stared, knowing I’d seen him somewhere before but not able to place him.
Then the picture came to mind of a policeman’s tall hat, set respectfully down on the coroner’s table as its owner described
being summoned to number 47 Bond Street. Just in time, I remembered his name.

‘Well, good morning, Constable Bevan.’

‘Good morning, Miss Lane,’ he said, not missing a beat.

He showed no surprise that I remembered his name from the inquest and came out with mine as if we were old acquaintances.
His smile was perfectly friendly, but I didn’t quite like his air of being pleased with himself.

‘You’re obviously a skilful fisherman,’ I said.

‘I’m sure I could say the same about you as an artist, Miss Lane.’

Again, that slightly mocking use of my name, and he wanted me to know that he’d been aware of my watching him.

‘So what brings you here, Constable Bevan?’

‘I had some days’ leave owing to me. As you see, it’s a delightful spot for fishing.’

As at the inquest, his voice and manner struck me as more cultivated than you’d expect in a constable. I knew very well that
the Metropolitan Police were not generous in giving leave from duty.

‘Nothing to do, then, with the coroner asking for further inquiries into Mr Handy’s death?’

‘These things are decided above my level. Are you staying with Lady Brinkburn?’

‘No. I’ve rented the cottage back there.’

He must have passed it on his way to his fishing place. I was under no obligation to answer his questions, except I needed
answers to some of my own.

‘At the suggestion of the younger Mr Brinkburn, I take it.’

The remark came very near to being offensive.

‘Mr Brinkburn had nothing to do with it,’ I said. ‘I’m simply renting it from the estate.’

He didn’t believe me, and let me see that from his face. Then he turned aside and baited his hook.

‘At any event, you’ve missed the funeral,’ he said.

‘Handy’s funeral? Were you there?’

‘There were four of us: Mr Whiteley, a woman from the village, the sacristan and myself.’

‘You representing the Metropolitan Police Force?’

He flicked the hook into the water.

‘Representing myself. Did it surprise you, Miss Lane, that Mr Whiteley was so anxious to blacken Handy’s reputation at the
inquest? Drunk, disrespectful, likely to absent himself for days on end…’

‘And I suppose you’ve found out that he was none of those things?’

‘As far as I’ve been able to find out in the village, he was all of them and worse.’

He looked at his float on the water. The question ‘Well then?’ hovered in the air unasked.

‘I gather that there have been some alterations to the churchyard wall since then,’ he said.

He’d obviously heard the story. Did he know I’d been present at the time? He seemed to expect some comment from me, but I
was determined to disappoint him.

‘I mustn’t interrupt your fishing,’ I said, making a move to walk past him.

‘I assure you, you’re not interrupting it in the least, Miss Lane.’

I thought that was probably all too true. I kept walking, forcing him to step back. He wished me good morning and raised his
hat to me, looking altogether too cheerful for my peace of mind.

Back at the cottage, I said nothing about Constable Bevan. The rest of our Sunday passed quietly enough. I helped Tabby wash
her hair again in a solution of Mrs Martley’s herbs and showed her how to spread it to dry on a towel across her back. It
struck me that the roles of mistress and lady’s maid were being reversed, but she knew no better so was entirely unselfconscious
about it. Later, we ate our supper of soup, bread and cheese, then strolled to the bottom of the garden and sat on the river
bank. I rolled my stockings off and dabbled my feet in the water, feeling minnows tickling between my toes, watching swallows
darting low over the surface to catch midges. It helped to cool my annoyance about Constable Bevan. But even the thought of
him brought back all too vividly that day in Bond Street and the smell of Handy in the crate, blotting out the freshness of
the river. What had the man done to deserve so much dislike, first from Whiteley at the inquest, then from Lady Brinkburn?
If he were that bad a servant, why not simply dismiss him? And which of Lady Brinkburn’s sons had decided to bring him back
to the village for burial, so much against her wishes?

After a while the biting of the midges drove us back inside the cottage. It was after ten by the chimes of the church clock,
but only a few days away from midsummer so the last glow of the sun was still on the sky.

I told Tabby she should go up to bed, but she lingered.

‘It’s quiet here, isn’t it?’ she said.

‘Yes, isn’t it wonderful after the noise at home.’

‘This quiet’s noisy. It gets inside my head.’

I asked her if she meant the sound of the river, but she said no. I lit a candle in a holder for her, warning her to blow
it out before she went to sleep, then watched as she made her way up the steep stairs, her shadow wavering against the wall.
Leaving the door open to let in fresh air, I went and sat in the room’s most comfortable chair. It was not very comfortable,
but even so I must have dozed, because when I was next aware of anything it was dark.

There’d been no noise, I was sure of that, but I knew at once there was something outside. It was no more than an animal instinct,
made sharper by the darkness. A faint light of a kind was coming from the direction of the river, starlight on water perhaps,
just enough to make out shapes in the part of the garden I could see through the open door. Hollyhocks, nothing else, and
no movement. A sheep or cow perhaps? No, the fields were well fenced, and why should a lone cow or sheep stray into woodland?
A dog? It had sounded bigger than that. I was on my way out to look when a scream sounded from upstairs.

‘Tabby, what is it?’

I rushed upstairs, thinking she was having a nightmare or perhaps had woken and seen whatever it was in the garden. The white
shape of Tabby in her nightgown came flying downstairs and knocked me backwards.

‘There’s a ghost out there.’

I staggered down the stairs and caught her as she tripped over the nightgown. Her heart was thumping. The urchin who’d seemed
scared of nothing in London was terrified now.

‘Tabby, of course it’s not a ghost. It’s some animal come into the garden. I was just going out to look.’

She clung to me.

‘It’s not an animal. It spoke to me.’

‘Spoke?’

‘About somebody coming back to haunt somebody. I didn’t understand it.’

I’d have taken it for part of a nightmare, were it not for the way she said it with such flat certainty.

‘In that case, it will be some wretched boy from the village playing tricks,’ I said. ‘I’m going out there to give him a piece
of my mind.’

Tabby wouldn’t stay in the cottage alone, so I had to wait while she found her shoes. We went out together to the space where
the curricle had turned round. She pressed close to me as we stared into the dark woodland.

‘Who’s there?’ I shouted. ‘Why are you playing stupid tricks?’

No answer but the rustling of leaves. Then faint sounds came from the direction of the river, the creak of rowlocks and the
dip of oars in water.

‘The wretch must have come in a boat,’ I said.

I turned and stumbled across the garden with Tabby close behind me, the sharp scent of trampled marigolds rising like a gas.
By the time we reached the river bank, a rowing boat was in mid current some two hundred yards away, heading upriver towards
the old Maidenhead bridge. The person rowing, sitting backwards to the direction of travel, must have been pulling hard against
the current. I could make out nothing except a white oval of face in a dark hat or hood, rising and dipping. Soon even that
was out of sight.

Tabby and I went back into the cottage and I lit the lamp. She kicked off her shoes and sat in the chair, curling her bare
feet under her.

‘Tell me exactly what happened,’ I said. ‘Were you asleep?’

She shook her head.

‘I heard somebody downstairs, under the window. I thought it was you. Then something hit the window. I think it was a pebble.
I thought it might be you letting me know I’d left the candle burning.’

‘Why in the world would I do it that way? Go on.’

‘So I got up and opened the window, and this ghost sort of hissed at me.’

‘Did you see it?’

‘No, there’s this thing that sticks out under my window. He was on the other side of that.’

‘The wood shed. Tabby, what did he say? As exactly as you can remember.’

She frowned, then spoke in a low rasping voice.

‘He said “Are you a friend of hers?” I didn’t answer. I didn’t know if he meant you or what. Then he said, “Tell her he’ll
come back and haunt her. She won’t get rid of him as easily as that. He’ll come back and haunt her, tell her.”’

‘Then what?’

‘Nothing. That’s when I screamed and ran downstairs. What does it mean? Is it you that’s going to get haunted?’

‘Tabby, nobody’s going to get haunted. It wasn’t a ghost, just a silly trick.’

‘Is it to do with the man they buried yesterday? Perhaps he was angry because he got put outside the churchyard, so his ghost
has come back looking for vengeance.’

‘That’s nonsense. Besides, who ever heard of a ghost rowing a boat?’

She was quick-minded, for all her superstition. I’d already come to the conclusion that the warning had to do with Handy.
Whoever had come to the cottage had seen one candle-lit window and assumed it was mine. I was intended to carry the message
–but to whom? The obvious answer was Lady Brinkburn. Anybody could have seen her talking to me in the churchyard and not
known we were only meeting for the first time. Some friend of Handy’s resented the exiling of his body to the cow pasture
and was trying to use me in a crude attempt to scare the person responsible. It was mean and ugly, and I wished more than
ever that I could have got my hands on him. Then something else about what Tabby had said occurred to me.

‘How did you know about a man being put outside the churchyard?’

‘The fisherman told me. He came past this morning while you were out. He comes from London.’

She made it sound like meeting a countryman after a long exile.

‘Was he quite tall, with brown hair and a long nose?’

I hardly needed her nod to confirm that our visitor had been Constable Bevan.

‘What else did you talk about?’

‘He wanted to know all about you, where you lived and what you were doing here.’

Tabby hardly knew anything about me–or nothing that mattered, at any rate. Still, I was furious.

‘If he comes again you’re not to talk to him. Just tell him to go away.’

She didn’t argue, but her face fell. Simply, she had no notion of privacy or discretion. I made some tea for us then told
her to go back to bed and be sure to blow the candle out this time. It would soon be daylight in any case. Then I wrapped
myself in my cloak and went out to sit on the bench by the porch. Was this a piece of village malice, or something worse?
Tabby’s impersonation sounded as if our visitor had been trying to disguise his voice. I wondered whether Constable Bevan
might be responsible. If so, goodness knows what game he was playing. Could it have been one of the staff from Brinkburn Hall?
Quite possibly. In which case, should I warn Lady Brinkburn that she had an enemy in her household, or did she know that already?