In Pale Battalions (20 page)

“You’ve a damned impertinence . . .”

He held up his hand. “Excuse me, Mr. Franklin. I didn’t ask for this case. Now I’ve got it, don’t expect too many niceties. Like you, I’m just doing my bit for King and country. I retired three years ago, finished with this business, went off to grow my vegetables. Thanks to the war, I’ve been recalled. Ironical, don’t you think?” “In what way?”

“Because of the war, because of all that killing and shooting, we two find ourselves here discussing . . . just another killing, another shooting. But this one’s different. This one we call murder. Or do we? Do you call it murder?” “I don’t . . .”

Suddenly, he rose from his chair. “Come with me and see where it was done. Then tell me.”

Obediently, I followed him. For such a large man, Shapland moved quickly. He led the way back into the hall and up the stairs of the eerily silent house. As he went up, he continued to talk, in a piping, perversely cheerful voice.

“Murdered in his bedroom, but not as he slept. Apt fate, don’t you think?”

“When did this happen, Inspector?”

“Last night, about eleven o’clock. He’d gone up to his room after dinner. That’s where he was found.”

We were on the landing now, heading towards Mompesson’s room. The enormity of what had happened began to sweep over me. Only the evening before, I’d spied on that room from the observatory. What awaited us there now?

Another constable was standing by the entrance to Mompesson’s

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room: the door was open. Shapland went past him without a word and gestured for me to follow.

“He was found over here, by the dressing table.” He pointed to a dark stain on the carpet and the rough chalk outline of a corpse: the carpet’s rich pattern subdued the starkness of the image.

“Found . . . by whom?”

“That depends who you believe. Ostensibly, Lady Powerstock and her maid.”

“Together?”

“Unlikely, isn’t it? Lady Powerstock claims to have heard a noise whilst making her way to bed: possibly a gunshot, possibly not. She thought it came from this room. So, she fetched her maid and they investigated.”

“But you don’t believe that?”

“Not for a moment. I believe she came to this room to keep an appointment with Mompesson, found him dead, then fetched her maid. The maid’s obviously fearful for her job, so I shan’t push the point. But I’m sure you know I’m right.” “What makes you think I know anything about it?”

“Lady Powerstock was quick to accuse you . . . rather than an unknown intruder. I gathered she must have some reason to dislike you. The real question is whether you’re cool enough to have come back here this morning knowing what you would find.” “But I didn’t know.”

He ignored my answer and stooped over the chalked outline on the floor, holding his glasses to adjust the focus. “There’s not much to be learned here. After the post-mortem, we’ll know the calibre of the revolver. Do you have just the one we found in your room, by the way?” “What the devil do you mean by . . . ?”

“It hadn’t been used. That’s a point in your favour.”

“I don’t need any points in my favour.”

“Yes you do. Lady Powerstock says she saw you emerging from the stairs to the observatory shortly after seven o’clock yesterday evening. Do you admit that?”

I tried to think quickly. “No.”

“We found the telescope in the observatory trained on this window. Somebody was spying on Mompesson, somebody who may have killed him later. Can you prove you weren’t there?”

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“Of course not.”

He moved closer. A tired old man going through the motions: like me, a refugee from war. But in his eyes there was the look of a man who had seen too much human frailty to be deceived by anyone. “Mr. Franklin, who do you think killed Mompesson?” “I’ve absolutely no idea.”

“But you won’t miss him, will you?”

“No.”

He turned away and sighed. “I don’t think anyone in this house will. That’s what I find so puzzling. A warmly received guest—but universally hated.”

“Surely not.”

“I think so. Even Lady Powerstock, I believe. It’s as if . . .” He broke off and looked up as the sergeant came in.

“Bannister’s telephoned from the White Horse, sir. Appears the Major took a room there last night. Left an hour ago, before breakfast. Said’e was going to London.”

“How?”

“Didn’t say, sir. But the train’s the only way. ’E’ll ’ave to change at Alton.”

Shapland took out his pocket-watch and glared at it. “Then telephone the Alton station, man. We may be able to catch him there.” The sergeant bustled away. Suddenly, Shapland dropped his stern expression and smiled at me. “Is Thorley our culprit, Mr.

Franklin?”

“I don’t think so.”

“We found various IOUs and bounced cheques in Mompesson’s possession. Most of them were Thorley’s.”

“Even so . . .”

“We shall see. You can go now. But don’t leave the house without telling me.”

“I was planning to move out today.”

“Were you? Then change your plans.”

“Very well.” I turned towards the door.

“By the way, Mr. Franklin: you said earlier that you and Thorley left the White Horse separately. Now it appears Thorley didn’t leave at all.”

“When I left, he was still there. I assumed . . .”

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“Tut, tut. Assumptions are dangerous. Be sure you don’t make too many. I’ll see you later.”

I tried to walk past the constable at the door casually, without giving a hint of how I felt. Shapland had got under my skin. But he wasn’t the only thing crawling there. Mompesson was dead, all his swaggering confidence brought down by one well-aimed gunshot.

But whose? Thorley’s? I hardly thought so and nor, I suspected, did Shapland. I knew I had to speak to Leonora, but knew as well that, more than ever before, I had to be cautious.

I went into the drawing room and there found Charter, dozing by the fire, as if he knew nothing of the murder inquiry going on about him. He opened his eyes at the sound of my approach and winked.

“Young Franklin,” he said, clearing his throat. “I thought you were posted missing.”

I sat down in the chair opposite him. “I’m afraid I got rather drunk last night and didn’t make it back here.”

“I thought it must be something like that. This inspector they’ve dragged in took it as an admission of guilt. You’ve heard about Mompesson?”

“Yes. You seem to be taking it very calmly.”

“Good riddance, I say.” He smiled. “But I don’t say it in earshot of the police.”

“What would you say if I told you I did it?”

“Shake your hand.”

“But I didn’t.”

“Never mind. Somebody did. That’s all that matters. I beat Jepson in the end, by the way.”

“Charter, a man’s been murdered. We’ve got to take it seriously.”

“I’ll leave everyone else to do that.”

“And where is everyone else?”

“In their various boltholes.”

I rose and moved to the window. “Do you know where Leonora is?”

“Gone for a walk, I think.”

“Perhaps you’ll excuse me. I must have a word with her.”

I think he was asleep again before I reached the door.

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I went out through the conservatory and saw her on the other side of the lawn, walking slowly, with head downcast, along the path beside the screen of maple trees that served as boundary between the garden and the parkland beyond. I walked across the lawn towards her and, when I was halfway, she saw me and stopped.

In her eyes, there was a look not of loss, though some might have read it as such, but of a further retreat, a concealed withdrawal from those who did not understand—of whom I was one.

When she spoke, her voice had some of the softness of the drizzle that hung in the air. “Why did you come back?”

“I had no reason not to.”

“I didn’t mean you to react so . . . violently.”

“React?”

“To what . . .” She looked away. “To what you must have seen.”

“Leonora, I went to the observatory at the time you suggested.

You know what I saw there. But that’s all I did. I left the house afterwards, got drunk—stupid as it sounds—and came back this morning.”

“I thought . . .”

“That I killed Mompesson?”

She looked straight at me and the veil across her meaning dropped momentarily. “I didn’t mean to provoke his death. I just had to try to show somebody . . . why he had to be stopped.”

What she was implying seemed more incredible even than what I’d come to believe. “You mean you didn’t . . . care for him?”

She seemed taken aback. “Of course not. Surely that was obvious. How much . . . did you see?”

“Enough. But not enough to make me kill a man. I’ve seen too much of that already. When Shapland told me, I thought you must have done it, must have been driven to it. Nobody could blame you.”

“You thought I . . .” She broke off. “That’s ridiculous.”

“Not really.” I held her eyes with mine and defied her to look away. “It’s what I wanted to believe. Remorse for ever having become involved with him. Horror at what he was somehow forcing you to do. If you did kill him, I think I could respect you for it.” Still she did not look away. “But I didn’t.”

“Then . . . you
were
going to marry him?”

“No. I would never have done that.”

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“But you are pregnant by him?”

“No. Despite all the reasons why you may suspect that, it isn’t true. I am pregnant, but not by Ralph Mompesson.”

“Then . . . why did you let him . . . ?”

“I thought whoever killed him was trying to help me. And I thought that’s what you’d done—for John’s sake.”

“Not his alone.”

At last, she looked away. “Perhaps not. But if you’re saying you didn’t kill him, I must think this through again. What you’ve said has worried me where you may have thought it would reassure. I must have time to think.”

She turned to walk on, but paused when I touched her elbow. “I don’t understand anything that’s happened here, Leonora. You seemed to like me, yet it was Mompesson you favoured. Now you say you would never have married him and it isn’t his child you’re carrying. So what hold did he have over you? Did he know you were pregnant? Is that it? Was he threatening to tell people?” “They’ll know soon enough.”

“Yes, they will. But what else could it have been?”

She looked at me and in her face there seemed a yearning to tell me the truth, restrained only by overriding necessity. “You must judge me as you see fit, Tom. I can answer none of your questions, much as I would like to. Yes, Ralph was threatening me. I felt nothing for him but fear and loathing. I didn’t want him dead, but now that he is I’m not sorry. If only I could tell you all there is to know of his mind . . . all that he had planned. It was . . . was . . . horrible.” She broke off. “But I can’t. If you had killed him, I would feel I owed you the truth. If you did not, then I can’t afford to tell you—I dare not.” Then she walked on hurriedly towards the rhododendron glade and I did not follow.

I went back to the house and made for my room. I needed time alone—like Leonora—to think. I slunk past the constable guarding Mompesson’s room and closed my door on all that I could no longer escape.

A bath and a shave made me feel more human even if no more capable of dealing with events. Then I sat by the window, smoking a cigarette, thinking of Hallows and watching the arrival of a 138

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lumbering tow-truck, which the sergeant in charge directed towards Mompesson’s car: slowly, his brash presence was being prised from our lives, but the manner of its going remained to trouble us.

There was a knock at the door. Reluctantly, I went to answer it: in the circumstances, I felt it would be unduly suspicious not to. But it wasn’t the police.

Lady Powerstock stood smiling at me with a glittering falsehood apparently undimmed by the night’s events. Her dark blue frock contrived to add voluptuous touches to a sombre façade and in her eyes and voice there was nothing to suggest she had been shocked—far less saddened—by her lover’s dispatch.

“Why, Lieutenant Franklin. How good it is to see you back.”

With the constable at Mompesson’s door in earshot, I could not speak my mind, as the tilt of her smile implied she knew. “It wasn’t my intention to stay away. I was shocked to hear what had happened.”

“It was a blow to us all.”

I decided to play her at her own game. “I gather your maid was with you at the time.”

The smile stiffened. “Yes. And where were you, Lieutenant . . .

at the time?”

I lowered my voice. “Not here—as you know. I didn’t kill him.”

“No. I don’t think you did. I don’t think you’re man enough to have done such a thing. And I’m in a position to know what you’re man enough for—aren’t I?”

“Are you?”

“But the police aren’t. That’s your problem.”

“Lady Powerstock, what exactly do you want?”

“Nothing you can provide. My husband would like to see you. I can’t imagine why. But I said that I would tell you. He’s in his study.”

“Thank you for letting me know. I’ll go down.” Then I closed the door before she had a chance to say more.

I didn’t blame Shapland for thinking Meongate a strange household: it was. The prevailing calm was hardly what he can have expected after a murder. But the calm—as he seemed to suspect—was deceptive, in my case as much as any other.

And there were exceptions. As I made my way down the stairs a

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little while later, I met Cheriton coming up. He looked paler than ever and his hand on the banisters shook perceptibly. He stopped me on the half-landing and drew me into the angle of the wall beneath a large, drab oil painting of one of Lord Powerstock’s Georgian ancestors.