Death at Knytte (17 page)

‘That was used to wedge the door open the night his lordship was murdered,’ Henson remarked, before Beddowes could ask the question.

‘Why, though,’ the sergeant pondered. ‘Jackman would have known the wooden wedge was there. He must have used it when he was carrying stone or tools through.’ He frowned, trying to make sense of it all. ‘I’m told this door was found unlocked at night once before. Was it left wide open then?’

‘No.’ The butler shook his head decisively and told him how the household had been woken by a crash in the middle of the night, and how a search had shown no sign of any intruder.

Beddowes gave the door a powerful shove, to see if the wedge could be dislodged by a gust of wind. It shifted half an inch then stuck fast. ‘If the wind had blown the door shut, the wedge could have been pushed inside.’

The butler shook his head. ‘It hadn’t been used. It was in its usual place. And there was nothing lying on the floor of the refectory either. I opened the door to look round before I locked up again.’

‘Was everything in order the next morning?’ Beddowes asked.

‘Yes. I took the precaution of bolting the door before leaving it.’ Henson’s face took on a haunted look. ‘I should have made a point of bolting it every night. Who knows but it might have saved his lordship?’

Beddowes could offer him no comfort, but he had a hunch that Lord Pickhurst’s death had been premeditated, the result of some careful planning. He didn’t think a bolted door would have prevented it.

‘I’ve finished here, Mr Henson, thank you. I’ll take a look in the old library now. There’s no need for you to come with me,’ he added swiftly, seeing the butler’s expression.

‘It’s Lady Pickhurst’s intention to have the room sealed,’ Henson said. ‘She has given orders that nobody is to enter.’

‘I doubt if that would include an officer of the law in the pursuit of his duties,’ Beddowes said confidently, as they walked along the corridor. ‘Why do you think Lord Pickhurst was there that night?’

‘I can think of no reason. The room had been kept locked since work on it was abandoned.’

‘Abandoned? Of course, you said Jackman had been working on it. So, it was supposed to be part of the alterations.’

‘His lordship planned to have it made into a ballroom, but Lady Pickhurst didn’t consider it to be in the right position. She favoured adding a wing to the other side of the house.’ Henson shook his head, looking distressed. ‘Unless his lordship invited him in, Jackman would have needed a key to this
door as well. Please, ring the bell if you require anything further.’ The butler avoided looking into the room as he ushered the sergeant inside, and closed the door swiftly behind him.

Apart from the absence of Lord Pickhurst’s body, little had changed. Nobody had closed the shutters since Tremayle opened them, and there was plenty of light. Beddowes went first to the marble bust, kneeling on the floor to have a closer look, turning it one way and another, until he’d studied every part. Next, standing beside the table, he took up the stance of the attacker, pretending to swing a heavy object at somebody sitting in the broken chair. He repeated the exercise from behind the chair, before making a minute examination of the table. Some library steps stood against the wall, and Beddowes gave them the same careful attention before returning to the table and taking careful note of some scratches on its surface. He then stood staring at the ceiling. Satisfied, he gave a nod.

When he had done, with everything returned to its proper place, Beddowes strode to the other end of the table, where he pulled out a chair and sat down. With the crucial half of the room before him, he recreated the scene of the attack in his mind, the frown that had furrowed his brow gradually smoothing out. He rose and began to search the book shelves. It only took him ten minutes to find what he was looking for, and a satisfied smile lit his face. He knew exactly how Lord Pickhurst had been killed. Now all he had to do was discover why, and then he would know the identity of the murderer.

A
thunderous roar jolted Docket awake, his eyes starting open to stare uncomprehendingly at the smoky atmosphere. Everything around him shook and rattled alarmingly, and he experienced a brief moment of panic until he recalled where he was. The shrill of a steam whistle as the passing train streaked by the window added to the ache that was tightening around his skull. He hadn’t slept the previous night, his head was throbbing, and his bones ached.

Across the carriage the elderly woman began to snore again, and Docket felt irrationally angry; how could she sleep through such discomfort? He rubbed the condensation from the window. It was hard to see anything, for the rain was relentless.

He put two fingers into his fob pocket and felt the ring lying there. His mission had been successful in a small way; a guinea had bought him some heavy hints, and he was heading for Edinburgh, where it seemed the little keepsake had been made.

The train lurched. Docket sighed and closed his eyes, trying to find a comfortable position. Ever since he’d met Beddowes he’d felt strangely ashamed of his easy life; family connections had secured his position as Sir Martin’s secretary, and his duties weren’t onerous. He’d been content, until the former soldier had given him a scent of a wider and more adventurous
world. That was bad enough, but now he feared he might be falling into another of the traps that life set for independent young men.

Miss Phoebe Drake was only a governess; when they’d both been employed by Sir Martin he’d hardly noticed her existence. The fact that his lordship’s son had frequently pressed his unwanted attentions on her had been enough to keep Docket away. Now, however, she seemed to have become rather desirable. She had played rather an exciting part in the rescue of the injured Beddowes, and since her cousin’s arrest she had become a damsel in distress. Her background was acceptable enough; she was the child of an impoverished clergyman and a woman who was considered to have married beneath her. That was of more importance than her poverty. Docket wasn’t an ambitious man; he had a small private income, and enjoyed his status as the Lord Lieutenant’s secretary.

Seeing Phoebe lying pale and vulnerable against the sergeant’s shoulder as he carried her to the seat in Knytte’s garden, Docket’s heart had received its first serious wound. The connection with Jackman was unfortunate, but that could hardly be held against her, even if the stonemason went to the gallows.

A slight smile curved itself onto Docket’s mobile lips. It had been no hardship to spend a few minutes with the two Pengoar children; he’d found them interesting. He’d never thought seriously about acquiring a wife and family of his own, but suddenly the idea was rather appealing.

Several hundreds of miles from the train carrying the weary Docket to Scotland, Beddowes was also thinking about Miss Phoebe Drake. His visit to Knytte the previous day had convinced him of Jonah Jackman’s innocence, but while
everyone refused to talk he couldn’t begin to identify the real murderer. His best hope was to force Miss Drake to break her promise.

There was something about Miss Drake that made him reluctant to confront her; they had only met twice, but both those encounters had been charged with rare emotions. He didn’t think he could bear to see reproach in those bright and penetrating eyes.

The sergeant had never married, though while he was a soldier he’d shared his life with a woman for three years, and not complained when she’d claimed the title of wife. She had sworn her love for him, during those brief spells when he was in England, and he’d offered to marry her when he returned home for the last time. However, before the ceremony could take place, he discovered that she’d promised herself to several other men. Each of them believed that he alone supported her, paying for the comfortable rooms she occupied in Colchester.

The deception had been easy enough to sustain. She’d been clever enough to choose men in different regiments, and all of them spent most of their time overseas. Beddowes had resisted the temptation to beat his unfaithful mistress, but having discovered the identity of three more of her victims, jealousy got the better of him. He informed these other ‘husbands’ of her deceit. Two weeks later her body was dragged from the Thames. He’d never stopped regretting his betrayal; if guilt had driven him to join the forces of law and order, he never spoke of it, but he’d never again become entangled with a woman.

The cob, finding its rider inattentive, drifted towards a tempting clump of cow parsley at the side of the road. As the animal tried to snatch the reins from his hand Beddowes was jolted back to awareness. They were almost at Knytte. He
scolded the animal and shortened the reins before returning to his reverie. It was ridiculous to imagine himself in love. Miss Drake was a gentlewoman, and far beyond his reach. If she had been kind, that was just her nature, it meant nothing. Nevertheless, for the first time in many years, Beddowes found himself wondering if he really wanted to remain a bachelor for the rest of his life.

With her husband buried, Lady Pickhurst, pale of face but bravely putting her grief aside, was ready to take over her inheritance. She was disinclined to indulge the detective when he requested an audience with Miss Drake.

‘I’m puzzled, Sergeant,’ she said. The veil she wore today was lighter than the one she’d chosen for the funeral, but it still hid her expression. ‘The villain has been arrested. I see no point in raking over the circumstances of my husband’s death. I have to become accustomed to my lonely life, and this can only make my grief harder to bear.’

‘I’m sorry, your ladyship, I quite understand. I apologize for troubling you, but I must be sure that your husband’s murder wasn’t the result of a bungled attempt at robbery. We have new evidence that suggests the jewel thief could be violent, even murderous.’

She looked at him directly for the first time, and he was sure he saw a flash of anger behind the concealing lace. His instinct, and rumour, had been right. Lord Pickhurst’s widow wasn’t grieving.

‘Jonah Jackman may well be guilty,’ Beddowes went on, ‘but he has the right to a fair trial, and the case against him must be supported by evidence. I know this is a difficult time for you, but if you could answer one question for me, that would be a great help.’

‘Very well.’ She lifted the veil a little to hold a wisp of lace to her eyes.

‘Do you know of any reason why Jackman should wish to kill your husband?’

She gave a faint sob, and took a few moments to compose herself. ‘Yes.’ The word was a whisper. ‘My poor dear husband. If only I had told him, he would still be alive.’

Beddowes waited, knowing he was watching an actress of some skill. ‘Told him what?’ he prompted.

‘The matter is indelicate. I’ll speak bluntly, though I may sound immodest.’ She lowered her head. ‘It gives me no pleasure, the way men react to me, but I have grown used to it. I can’t help the way I look. Jackman wasn’t the first man to be infatuated with me. If he had been, perhaps I’d have realized the risks. In the past few months I couldn’t venture into the grounds without his staring at me, following me, trying to speak to me if there was nobody else nearby. I should have had him sent away, but I never realized it would come to this. The man is clearly insane.’

‘You think he killed your husband out of jealousy?’ Beddowes would have liked a proper look at her eyes, for that was where the truth lay, but the veil was impenetrable.

Lady Pickhurst nodded. ‘I suppose I should pity Jackman, that is what the Church tells us, isn’t it? I tried to stay out of his way. I barely gave him a civil word. How could a man like that think I would even look at him?’

‘You mustn’t blame yourself, your ladyship,’ Beddowes said. ‘Thank you for being so frank with me. I shan’t trouble you further. May I speak to Miss Drake? As Jackman’s only close relative, I think it only right to prepare her for the worst.’

At that she consented graciously, and Beddowes was shown to a small parlour on the second floor, obviously adjoining a bedroom; he wondered idly why this place had been chosen for his meeting with the governess, but he supposed it must be because of its closeness to the nursery.

When she came to him some five minutes later Miss Drake looked pale, but she was composed, offering her hand and asking after his health before she consented to sit down. ‘I hope you will take a seat, too, Sergeant,’ she said, ‘I’m used to speaking to men who loom over me, but I prefer not to crane my neck.’

Beddowes found himself smiling at her directness as he sat down. Everything about this girl charmed him. Miss Drake had an inner beauty that added to the sweetness of her face, and her honest character shone from her eyes; after Lady Pickhurst she was like a breath of clean air.

‘I’ve spoken to Lady Pickhurst,’ he said, plunging in before he had time to change his mind. ‘She tells me your cousin was infatuated with her. She suggests that because she gave him no encouragement he killed her husband in a fit of jealous rage.’

Phoebe made a helpless gesture with her hands. ‘If I didn’t know Jonah to be incapable of killing anybody, then even I might accept that as the truth,’ she said despairingly. ‘But of course she didn’t tell you how she led him on, how they met in secret after midnight…’ she blushed, lacing her fingers together in her lap.

‘Why don’t you tell me,’ Beddowes prompted gently.

‘I promised I wouldn’t. But she’s made it sound as if he’s guilty—’

‘Yes. So somebody should make sure Jonah’s tale is heard. I’ve already tried speaking to him. He won’t talk, not even to save his life. If you care for your cousin, if you want to save him from the gallows, then you must help me.’

She looked up then. ‘You truly believe he didn’t do this awful thing?’ Her eyes were suddenly moist; tears were waiting to spill over onto her cheeks.

‘I’m sure of it. Lord Pickhurst was the victim of a cold-blooded
murder, and the culprit intended that your cousin should be blamed. Please Miss Drake, tell me what I need to know.’

Lucille’s hands gripped the silk hangings that once more hid the spy hole, torn between fear and anger. She bit nervously at her lower lip. The wretched governess had said a great deal, and Sergeant Beddowes had listened attentively, apparently believing her every word.

The story of Jonah’s declarations of love had done no harm, for she’d told the detective of his infatuation. Driven mad by his obsession he could have invented the rest, and Miss Drake’s description of her own foray into the garden might be seen as an ill-conceived attempt to help his case. However, there was one thing that concerned her; the interfering chit had named a night when Jackman swore he’d remained in his bed. That had been the occasion of her first clandestine meeting with Mortleigh; she recalled how she’d run her fingers across the nursery door to disturb the brats within. She knew she’d prompted the boy to nightmares; she’d hoped it would help her persuade her husband that the child would be better sent away to school.

What would the sergeant do? As Lady Pickhurst, owner of Knytte and its mighty estate, she was a person of power and substance, but without a husband, any woman was weakened in the eyes of the world. Her position alone might not save her from further questioning, if the governess’s story was believed.

She had to speak to Mortleigh. In answering his letter of condolence she must bring him to her, and urgently. While writing to a neighbour she hardly knew, what could be more natural than a mention of his first visit to Knytte as her husband’s guest, and her hope that it would be repeated soon?
Her lover knew her so well; she had no doubt he would come that very night.

‘It won’t do, Beddowes!’ Sir Martin shook his head vehemently. ‘You come to me with this story about Lady Pickhurst carrying on an affair with Jonah Jackman, but with no proof to back up such an outrageous accusation. And in the very next breath you tell me Jackman is innocent of murder! Have you lost your mind? If this is the best you can do, you’d better take the next train back to London.’

‘But, Sir Martin, if you’d just come to Knytte with me and let me show you the evidence I found in the old library, you’d understand. It was a most ingenious way of committing murder, and it didn’t require a man with Jackman’s strength. Even a woman might have done it, if she was ruthless and cold-blooded enough.’

‘So you’d lay the blame entirely on Lady Pickhurst?’ Sir Martin was red with anger.

‘No, on the man who took Jackman’s place as her lover once she tired of him. I don’t know his identity yet. Please, come to Knytte and let me show you exactly how cleverly the murder was arranged. Lady Pickhurst told me Jackman was infatuated with her. She insisted she never gave him any encouragement, but I have a witness who can swear they met after midnight in the summerhouse. I know that makes Jackman’s guilt look more likely, but if her ladyship has lied about that, if she was already betraying her husband only months after their marriage, what else might she have done?’

‘Who is this witness?’

‘Miss Drake, the children’s governess.’

Sir Martin snorted, dismissing this with an impatient gesture. ‘As Jackman’s cousin she can’t be trusted to tell the truth.’

‘I might agree with you, if her evidence didn’t appear to prove his guilt. But there is more. She claims that Lady Pickhurst left the house late at night on another occasion, and that time, she didn’t meet Jackman. Her ladyship had another paramour. I believe that if we can find that man we have our murderer.’

His lordship thrust himself back into his chair. Beddowes made to say something, but was stopped by a glare. He stood waiting in silence as Sir Martin scowled at the ceiling. A long minute passed.

‘If it’s true that the murder didn’t require the strength of a giant, as Tremayle has so persistently pointed out, then I suppose you may have something,’ Sir Martin conceded. ‘There has been talk about Lady Pickhurst. Of course that’s common enough when a young woman marries a man so much her senior, and I don’t give much credence to common gossip. Facts, Beddowes, that’s what we need. We’ll call at Knytte in the morning and take a look at the scene of the murder. I shall send a note to Tremayle, asking him to join us.’