The Silver Ghost (6 page)

Thinking of food and drink reminded Sarah that she hadn’t yet talked to the cook. She walked over the drawbridge, through the massive front door that had been left wide open, and followed a potboy with a load of used flagons out to the kitchen. She didn’t think there’d be much use questioning him or any of the other servers. As far as she could see, they’d been paying more attention to their duties and to each other’s jokes than to the company. Anyway, she didn’t see how she could start grilling one without starting the lot of them wondering what was going on.

Talking to the cook was another matter. It was entirely in order for a guest to pay homage to the creator of so bounteous a feast. Cook received Sarah’s compliments with lofty dignity, and Sarah’s apology for not knowing her name with tolerant grace.

“Cook is my title, and Cook is the manner in which I prefer to be addressed.”

She was seated in a rocking chair that must have been built to her measurements. It was at least half again the regular size. She’d made no move to rise when Sarah came in, nor would Sarah have expected her to. Getting up would be a procedure not to be approached in haste by a woman of her dimensions.

“I suppose you’ve had a good many visitors, Cook,” Sarah ventured.

“No doubt I have. On revel day, however, I concentrate so ferociously on the infinitude of details concerning the banquet that I find I retain no memory of those who come and go. Suffice it to me that they come when they’re needed and go with whatever they’re supposed to be taking outside. I refer of course to the potboys and wenches. As for visitors like yourself, I frankly discourage them as most of the regulars know. Not to be uncivil, Mrs. Bittersohn. You wouldn’t have known, being new, and it doesn’t matter now anyway because my work is over. The scullions will handle the cleanup. I myself am far spent.”

“Then I mustn’t spend you further,” said Sarah. “Thank you for letting me come in.”

Cook answered only with a kindly smile and a courteous hope that they’d meet again when her faculties had been recruited to a more sociable level. She tilted her rocking chair as far back as it would safely go, and closed her eyes. Sarah returned to the lawn.

Drusilla Gaheris, her drab gown now covered by a warm gray loden cape, was standing over by the pavilion, chatting with Young Dork and Tick Purbody. As Sarah started over toward them, the two men moved away, their dags and slitters aflutter. Both looked a trifle meaded, she thought.

“They seem to be great friends,” she remarked to Mrs. Gaheris.

“Dorkie and Tick? Oh yes, they always have been. They were roommates at Princeton, Lorista tells me. Speaking of old roommates, where did Bodie go? I’ve been hoping for a little more time with her, but I haven’t seen her for ages.”

“As a matter of fact,” said Sarah, “I came to ask you the same thing. Aunt Appie’s worried that Aunt Bodie’s arthritis may be acting up in this chilly wind.”

“Then perhaps she’s gone in to keep warm. I’ll check the house, shall I? I’m staying with the Billingsgates, you know, until I can find a place of my own; so I know my way around pretty well. Did you want to see Bodie about anything special?”

“Just to make sure she’s all right.”

“If I find her, I’ll come back and tell you. You weren’t planning to leave just yet?”

“No, we’ll be around.” Sarah wondered for how long and sighed. Davy was all right with his Aunt Miriam and Grandmother Bittersohn, of course, but surely he must be missing his own mother by now. She thought wistfully of Davy at bathtime and Davy in his sleepers afterward, all three of them cuddled up together on the sofa with Max telling a bedtime story. She could take the car and go home by herself. Miriam’s son Mike would be only too glad to drive it back here and pick up his uncle.

But Max would still miss Davy’s bedtime, and he missed too many of them as it was.
He’d
asked her particularly to work with him on this unexpected job. “You know how these people think,” he’d said. “I have a hell of a time figuring them out.” She straightened her hennin and looked around for somebody else to tackle.

There weren’t all that many left. The dancing was over, the musicians were starting to pack up their instruments. Those revelers who’d stayed to struggle through the pavane were threading their way across the now cluttered terrace to bid Abigail goodbye. The hostess was taking time between hugs and handshakes to look vexedly over her shoulder for the host. Now Bill was joining her, trying to be cordial and almost succeeding.

And here came Aunt Appie, bundled now into a lurid granny afghan, her nose the color of a flowering quince and her eyes beginning to water. “Sarah, where on earth has Bodie got to? I’ve been looking everywhere.”

“What do you mean, everywhere?” Sarah asked in some alarm.

“Oh, around. I keep bumping into people, you know, and stopping them to ask. Then we get talking about something else, as one always does.”

“So in fact you’ve been mostly on the terrace and in the pavilion?”

“Yes, I expect I have, now that I think of it. But I’ve asked and asked, and nobody’s seen her.”

“I expect she’s gone for her four-mile walk. Don’t worry Aunt Appie.”

“But Lionel’s anxious to get started back, and I did want another little chat with Bodie before we go. She and I see each other so seldom.”

There was a reason for that. Apollonia had been named for the patron saint of toothaches. Maybe her parents hadn’t realized that, but they couldn’t have chosen more aptly. Her company for any length of time was about as welcome as a root-canal job to anybody who believed in a well-ordered life. Even Boadicea’s dedication to positive thinking could stretch only just so far. Sarah wouldn’t have said so for worlds. She kissed her aunt and gave her a pat on the cheek.

“You run along with Lionel before you catch a chill. I’ll give Aunt Bodie your love when I catch up with her.”

Assuming in fact she did. Sarah was getting a little anxious about Bodie. But she was far more concerned about Max and what was happening back at the car shed.

Well she might be. Ever since Nehemiah Billingsgate had met Chief Grimpen and his attendant minion and led them to the fatal horse chestnut tree, Max Bittersohn had been a most unhappy man. The police chief refused to be impressed by the suspended corpse.

“He’d been drinking, I assume. Eh, Mr. Billingsgate?”

“A jack of nut-brown ale with his manchet and beef, I expect, to help him feel his way into his role,” Bill replied rather stiffly. “We made sure Rufus had a hearty lunch before he went on duty.”

“Did you watch him eat?” Grimpen demanded.

“Hardly.” Bill was getting stiffer by the second. “I was much too busy with other things. But I’d told him to be sure and stoke up well for a long afternoon, and Rufus always followed my instructions to the letter. He’d have gone into the kitchen and Cook would have given him what he wanted. We can ask her what Rufus ate if you think ifs important.”

Chief Grimpen decided it wasn’t. “When did you last see this Rufus?”

“Shortly after noontime, here at the car shed. I brought him his costume and
Totschläger.
”

“His what?”

“A mediaeval weapon he was going to carry as part of his costume. Horrid thing, actually. Somebody gave it to my great-grandfather when he built his rather fanciful house. As a joke, I suspect. Anyway, the
Totschläger’s
been kicking around the place ever since, so I thought we might as well get some good out of it at last. It’s a club sort of thing you flail about and hit people with. Rufus wasn’t supposed to do any flailing, merely to make a feint of brandishing the weapon if anybody tried to get past his sentry box.”

“Where is the
Totschläger
now?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea,” said Billingsgate. “Dear me, why hadn’t that occurred to me sooner? Max, have you seen it?”

“No, I haven’t. Unless it was strapped to his back. I didn’t turn him around to look.”

“Why not?” said Grimpen.

Max gave him a surprised look. “Because I assumed you wouldn’t want me handling the evidence.”

“Oh yes. Well, let’s cut him down and have a look.”

“Aren’t you going to examine the rope first?”

Chief Grimpen was blond and handsome, if you liked the type. Though he was in fact only an inch or so taller than Max, he contrived to look down as from a height of amused superiority. “They only do that sort of thing in detective novels, Mr. um er—Sergeant Myre, untie that knot.”

“It’s a clove hitch,” said Max.

This information elicited from the chief not so much as a raised eyebrow or a sarcastic, “Do tell?” All Sergeant Myre said was, “It’s kind of tight.”

“It’s made to tighten from the weight of the body,” said Max. “You’ll have to pull in some slack.”

Continuing to look amusedly superior, Chief Grimpen whipped out a silver-handled jackknife and cut the rope. Max fielded the body before it could crash, and lowered what was left of the faithful old retainer gently to the ground.

Rufus was not wearing the
Totschläger.
Nor, Max was relieved for Bill’s sake to notice, had the
Totschläger
been used on Rufus. Something else had, though. The noose was dug tight into the weathered flesh, but the head was not cocked at an angle suggesting a broken neck, the face was not congested, and the tongue wasn’t hanging out.

“As I expected,” said Chief Grimpen. “This is a most distressing affair, Mr. Billingsgate, but it’s plain to see what happened. Your old fellow here, for whatever reason, formed a noose in one end of the rope and put it around his neck. He tied the other end to the tree in a clove hitch as your learned friend so kindly informed us, then climbed the tree, looped the rope over a limb, and jumped.”

“Leaving no trace of scuffing from his heavy boots on the trunk of the tree, no broken twigs, no fallen leaves, and no rips or rubs on those new plush knickers he’s wearing,” said Max.

“Yes, he must have been quite agile for his age,” Grimpen condescended to allow. “Would you wish to handle the arrangements with the mortician yourself, Mr. Billingsgate, or shall I have Sergeant Myre call the police ambulance?”

“Why, I—Max?”

“Since an autopsy will be required to determine the actual cause of death,” said Max, “you’d better call the wagon, Myre.”

“With all respect, Mr. Er”—Grimpen was having a bit of a struggle with his aplomb—“it’s customary for bystanders to leave such decisions to the authority in charge.”

“With all respect to you, Grimpen,” Max told him, “you’re no authority. In my own professional opinion, you don’t know your ass from your elbow. This man shows no sign of strangulation. He was killed on the ground and hauled up into the tree by means of a prearranged block and tackle device.”

“What?”

“If you hadn’t been too goddamn lazy to climb the tree yourself, you’d have found the rope had been threaded through two pulleys, one screwed to the tree farther up the trunk and one to the heavy branch from which he was hanging. The object of the pulleys must have been to make the job of raising the body faster and easier, and is an indication of premeditated murder. Obviously you think Mr. Billingsgate wants a cover-up, but he doesn’t. He wants to know who murdered his old friend and stole his Silver Ghost.”

“Stole his—” Grimpen made rather a production of turning his smartly uniformed back on Max. “Really, Mr. Billingsgate, you can hardly expect me to stand here and listen to this—”

“Mr. Bittersohn is referring to my 1908 Rolls Royce Silver Ghost, Chief Grimpen.” There was an edge to Bill’s voice Max hadn’t ever heard before.

“Your Rolls Royce?” This should have been an embarrassing moment for Grimpen, but he managed to rise above it. “You mean one of your famous antique cars has been stolen? This does put a different complexion on the matter. I might point out that we’d have saved valuable time if you’d said so in the first place.”

“I probably should have,” Billingsgate answered drily, “if I didn’t value a human life over an old car. I suggest we carry poor Rufe’s body into the car shed until the police ambulance gets here. Some of our guests might happen to walk this way as they’re leaving, and I’d hate to let them go with such a distressing last impression.”

“By all means,” said Grimpen, “unless Mr. Um Er—objects.”

“Open the gate, Bill.”

Max squatted and got a firm grip on the dead man’s torso. “Mind taking his feet, Myre?”

Sergeant Myre didn’t mind. At least he didn’t say he did. Together, he and Max carried the old retainer into the shed and laid him on a long counter that Bill had swept clear of ribbons and trophies from antique car rallies. Bill then fetched a handsome mohair carriage robe from one of the remaining cars and spread it tenderly over his faithful servant. At last he folded his hands, bowed his head, and stood in silence. Grimpen watched in puzzlement, Max in compassion. Sergeant Myre brushed a few bits of grass off his uniform.

“Now then.” Bill straightened up and spoke too briskly, to hide the fact that he was close to crying. “You’ll want the details, Grimpen.”

He whipped open a deep drawer under the counter and took out a bulky file. “Here’s a photograph of our Ghost. As you doubtless know, the first Silver Ghost was manufactured in England in 1906 and may or may not have been the show chassis that appeared at Olympia that year. The record is not clear. That one had green upholstery and gleaming silver everywhere else, hence the name. Ours is a more conservative gray with maroon upholstery, as you can see in this color snapshot. That’s Rufe at the wheel, dear fellow.”

Bill quickly went back to the larger black and white photo. “A number of Silver Ghosts were built at the British works up through and shortly after World War I, though they weren’t actually called by that name until after 1925. To distinguish them from the New Phantoms, you know. Our New Phantom was the first to go, I’m sad to say.”

“You mean it broke down on you?” said Myre.

“No, it’s been stolen, also. That was why I called Mr. Bittersohn. New Phantoms were only made from 1925 to 1929, which would certainly make them particularly desirable to what we may call a clandestine collector. Though I must say a Silver Ghost in virtually mint condition, like ours, is probably far rarer because most of the early Ghosts were simply worked to death. They were absolutely splendid cars for the time, you know.”