Murder at Locke Abbey (8 page)

“I left my handkerchief trapped in the window this morning, and I can see it from here.”

He approached the window but she didn’t move. He slowed down but still she didn’t move out of his way. In fact she was looking at him with a quite beguiling expression.

“Might I look?”

“Look? Oh, out of the window, of course, yes, of course you may.” She stepped away and he realised that she really did not read people well. Clearly she had not realised his intent to look out and had she noticed the fire in his eyes, she would surely have run a mile.

He looked out and with the cool summer breeze on his face, realised that she was correct, these rooms were too hot. Looking down, he noticed the white handkerchief, standing out against the stone sill. She was absolutely right, the window was two over.

“The dressing room is surely below us here then,” he realised. “Could the murderer not have climbed down a rope from that window?”

“I don’t believe he had time to move the dressing table
, open the window, crawl out, pull the table back in place and close the window again. Plus, if he had attempted it in haste, the dressing table and mirror are so heavy that it would have scuffed the floor.”

She looked around the room. “Besides, t
his seems to be the butler’s room, and I cannot imagine Black being involved, although my judgements on character should always be taken with a large pinch of salt. Also, nothing in here appears to be fixed.”

She moved to the bed and pushed on the frame, which moved a few inches. She dragged it back and went to the wardrobe, putting her weight against one side, moving it marginally.

“Is there a point to this or have you developed a habit for decorating?” he asked.

“No,” she smiled. “I’m testing to see if the furnishings could hold t
he weight of someone on a rope. Moment equals force by distance. With the weight of my body as force and the distance of the rope from the wall as distance, whoever climbed down that rope, if indeed there was one, would surely exert more force on these objects than I am doing.”

The sole table in there
moved easily, she didn’t even bother with the chair, although she did pick it up and carry it over to him. Turning the chair on its side, she tried to brace it against the wall to either side of the window.

“Too small. Beside
s, if he used a chair to secure the rope, even assuming it was wide enough, is no guarantee that it would have risen uniformly enough to act as a brace when weight was put on the rope. Were the back to rise more quickly, the whole chair could have gone out of the window. Plus there would be signs of damage to the chair.”

“It’s possible he brought another chair up, or perhaps just planks of wood.”

“The same problem would arise and one end of the plank could easily go out of the window. Besides, there are how many servants on this estate?”

“Almost o
ne hundred, I believe.”

“It would be hard to remain unseen while carrying planks of wood that were at least three feet tall.”

“What about the bed, that could have been moved under the window, and is at no risk of being pulled out.”

“True, but just moving it an inch or two has
scratched the floor, they couldn’t have moved it far without leaving marks.”

“
Then perhaps Mary Potter was aiding the murderer. Perhaps she brought the wood up here and if so, she could have left her room that night to meet the murderer.”

“That is a lot of supposition with little fact to back it up.”

“True. But it is possible.”

“Yes. However to be successful, the murderer would have needed to secure the planks of wood to the wall, to prevent them
being pulled through the window, and the walls show no sign of being tampered with.”

It did all seem like an awful lot of risk and happenstance however.

“There is another fact we have not considered.”

“Oh?” she turned to him eager to hear his theory.

“Why make it appear that the murderer disappeared? Why would anyone want to make this look like the work of an apparition? There are a thousand ways to murder someone, many that would appear to be an accident.”

“Yes, so why blame a gho
st, when that more than most, is sure to be disbelieved? Hmm. Very good observation, Cole. Still, however improbable, we must check the next two rooms, just to be sure the rope couldn’t have been lowered from there.”

In the hallway, Thea tried the door in the middle of the corridor.

“It’s locked, why is it locked?” She turned to him and he brandished a key.

“The female servant
s’ rooms are on the other side. Only the housekeeper has a key, to prevent impropriety.”

She stood back and he unlocked it.

She tried the next three windows but they were all fixed.

“Well, I
think we can rule out a rope as an escape method.”

“So, now on to corpses and cadavers?” he asked.

“Unless you know which room was Mary Potter’s?”

“The next door on the right.”

When she looked quizzically at him he explained.

“The magistrate
wanted to see her personal effects and I accompanied him.”

“Of course.” She seemed relieved.

Mary’s room had two beds, although one was not made up.

“Her things were placed in the trunk,” Cole explained. “Ready to be sent to her family once her killer was found.

Thea opened it and began to look through the contents. There was a simple bonnet, dresses, two for work and one Sunday best; she checked the pockets before setting it aside but found only a folded advertisement, for passage to America by boat. She set the clipping aside and continued her search. There were hair pins, a brush, comb, ribbons and a small mirror.

At the bottom of the case, she found papers. Letters from her family, a sketch of a woman, newspaper clippings and two books,
Helen by Maria Edgeworth, the story of an orphan, and A Simple Story by Elizabeth Inchbal, a romantic book.

She opened the books to check they were not hollowed out, and the pages fell open at
another clipping.

Thea picked the first cutting up and compared them.
Neither had been cut with scissors, but great care had been taken when they were torn from the newspaper, by folding and moistening the fold before separating the paper. Such a crude method ensured that lines of the surrounding articles were also visible.

“Interesting,” she stated. “Both are advertisements for travel to America.”

She handed them to Cole.

“
I wonder how long she’s had them. We don’t throw newspapers out, they can be useful for lighting fires if nothing else. Perhaps we can check and see which editions these were torn from.”

“No need
,” she smiled. “The clippings come from the August eighth and ninth editions, less than two weeks ago.”

“How do you know?”

“The articles above the advertisements speak of Mr Brome, who was found guilty of murder on the sixth of August, although the newspaper was next printed on the eighth. Beside that is a story about Lanark library and both appeared in The Register on the eighth. The second clipping contains a wedding announcement, and news of Mr Worth’s death, who was trampled by a horse. Those articles appeared together on the ninth, in a publication called the Gazette.”

“We get both
newspapers,” he confirmed.

“And staff are allowed to read them?”

“Not explicitly, as far as I know but my mother encouraged education and it wouldn’t surprise me if once the family is finished, she encouraged anyone with an interest to read them.”

“That is very progressive of you.”

“Yes. Well, I tried acting like a caveman but I kept hitting myself in the eye with my club.”

Her answering laugh was worth the self-deprecation. Indeed, he would be quite happy to play the fool to hear more. Alas, they did have rather more important things to be doi
ng, so indulgence of his desires would have to wait.

“I’
d like the trunk moved to my sitting room if possible, so I can go through the contents again at my leisure.”

“I will have it done while we are out.”

Thea closed the trunk and went to the wardrobe, quickly going through the pockets of the dresses hanging there.

“Just in case her neighbour kept a dress for herself,” she explained. Next she lifted the thin mattress
off the bed frame, opened the drawers, half of which were empty since they had been Mary’s, but she quickly rummaged through the roommate’s belongings. Since neither woman possessed very much, the search was relatively quick.

“Have you finished?” he asked.

“I think so. I can come back if I need to.”

“Then
shall we go? Breakfast should be ready any moment.”

“Perfect timing, I hav
e worked up quite an appetite.”

They ate breakf
ast with Cole and Thea’s fathers since no one else was up. Cole Sr. hardly seemed up to the task of eating, his movements were slow and sluggish, giving the appearance that he was ready to fall asleep at any moment. He didn’t eat much, just a slice of toast and jam.

Thea couldn’t help studying him
discreetly. He did look very frail, his white hair was thinning, he had dark shadows under his eyes and he seemed as if he had lost weight recently so while not thin, his skin sagged around his face and neck. His movements seemed almost painful and she wondered if his lethargy was perhaps caused by a pain reliever, most of which contained opium.

He appeared to be a good deal older than his son and while it may be partially due to his illness, for he was suffering from more than simply old age and frailty, he looked to be in his sixties, perhaps even seventies. It wasn’t unusual for a man not to marry until he was thirty and if Cole was the last child, his father could have been approaching forty when he was born. To have fathered two further children with his second wife
at his age… Well it almost felt unnatural to Thea.

Conversation at the table was stilted and
Cole and Thea left as soon as they had eaten. The grooms were waiting with the horses and they mounted and rode off.

“You have a fine horse there,” Cole said as they rode.

He was small for a horse, just over fourteen hands, but he was perfectly formed.

“Isn’t he marvellous?” she reached forward and pat
ted his neck. “Papa gave him to me for my twentieth birthday. His name is Pitch.”

“As in pitch b
lack?”

“Exactly. Papa said he matched my hair and being Arabian, he would match my spirit too.”

“Is he wilful?”

“He is with many, and even me on occasion, but we understand each other. I schooled him, so I know him even better than the grooms. Do you like horses?”

“What gentleman doesn’t? They are fine, noble beasts.”

“Perhaps, but they are also intelligent, and playful at times.”

“You have a great affinity for animals,” Cole noted.

“I do.”

“Well, it’s about half an hour to the town at a walk, would you be up for a race? Just to the road.”

“You are already in m
y debt to the tune of one dare, Sir.”

“Ah, but this would be for pride, winner gets gloating rights.”

“Is it safe to ride to the road?”

“We’ll set the finish line at the gateposts, they are a good thirty feet or more from the
main road.”

“Very well, when do we start?”

“Now!” He urged his horse into a gallop, leaving Thea in his dust for a moment. Of course, once she got going, that only spurred her on to win!

Cole’s horse was good but although smaller, at four years old, Pitch was in his prime. He was also devoted to Thea and he had a lot of heart. They began to gain on Cole and he urged his horse forward with everything he had. It was a close run thing but as they crossed the gateposts, Thea was a good
neck ahead.

They pulled up quickly and turned in a circle to avoid the road as the horses slowed.

“I win,” she grinned at him.

“Indeed you do. In fact, had I realised how pleasant it was to ride behind you, I might have been inclined to throw the race.”

“That is scandalous!” she informed him, although her chastisement was rather spoiled by her smile.

Side by side, they resumed their journey.

“Thank you,” she said suddenly.

“What for?” he seemed genuinely perplexed.

“For not throwing the race.”

“I rather thought you would be angry at me for cheating at the start.”

“A young lady spends much of her life being pleased and placated. Most gentlemen would have allowed a lady to win and rarely does anyone believe in us enough to issue a real challenge, be it racing, cards or chess. So thank you, for believing in me enough to give me a real challenge.”

“I
think only a fool would underestimate you, Thea, and while I am many things, I like to think that I am nobody’s fool.”

“Indeed.”
She smiled.

***

When they arrived at Doctor Kerridge’s house, his wife and nurse ushered them inside, informing them that the Doctor was already in surgery. Thea professed a desire to observe but Mrs Kerridge forbade it.

Cole stepped forward, intending to intervene on her behalf but she spoke before he could.

“Mrs Kerridge, I realise that most people believe ladies to be delicate creatures, incapable of handling anything even slightly daunting. That however, is a myth and since I’m sure you have attended more than one birth, you more than most, know exactly what women and ladies are capable of enduring.”

“But-”

“I also studied anatomy at the Royal College of Physicians of Edinburgh, watching three cadavers being dissected and even dissecting a human heart myself. If such learned men allowed me to attend their classes, what exactly makes you more knowledgeable of what I can and cannot do, than they?”

Mrs
Kerridge appeared angry but wisely held her tongue.

“I’ll fetch you both
an apron.”

“Thank you.”

Cole was tempted to tell her that she could have delivered her diatribe in better language, tried to cajole rather than confront, then he realised that he would be little better than Mrs Kerridge. That didn’t mean that he was wrong, he was a firm believer that you could catch more flies with honey than vinegar (a favourite saying of his mother’s) but Thea had probably had such arguments frequently during her life; people did so long to tell ladies what they could and could not do, so she was perhaps tired of defending her rights.

“I’m still surprised they let you view a dissection,” Cole commented. “Although given that display, perhaps I shouldn’t be.”

“I wanted to study medicine but they wouldn’t admit a woman. It took a year of calling in every favour my family was owed, and a sizeable donation, before they allowed Mother and I to watch their classes.”

Mrs
Kerridge returned. “Here, it’s all I have got left.” She handed them each an apron.

His apron was
clean while Thea’s was covered in dried blood.

“Here,” he handed her his but she was already tying her own.

“The blood is a mark of a good trade,” she explained. “No surgeon worth his salt wears a clean one.”

Mrs
Kerridge harrumphed; clearly the bloody garment had been meant to put Thea off.

“What’s that smell?” he asked
as he tied his apron and looked up to see Thea slipping something into her pocket.

“Ready,” she said
before he could ask about it.

“This way.” Mrs
Kerridge led them down a short corridor and stopped beside a door. “In there.” She walked off, leaving them to enter on their own.

Thea tapped on the door and waited for someone to call, “Come
in!”

Dr
Kerridge looked taken aback as she entered and was about to speak when he noticed the bloody overalls she wore, which rendered him speechless.

“Dr
Kerridge, I’m Lady Copley, the one who suggested looking for an apoplectic seizure.” She looked to Lord Small, who had volunteered to stay with the body, and nodded. “I have the list of medical books we spoke about last night, which document apoplectic seizures.”

“Right, well,” Dr
Kerridge appeared thrown. “I have cut the skull and am just about to remove the bone.” He turned towards the table then turned back. “Are you quite sure you want to watch this?”

“Quite sure,” she affirmed.

He hesitated, looked to Cole then Lord Small and finally, with a loud exhale, resumed his examination. “There’s buckets by the sink, just in case.”

Lord Small was over the other side of the room and at such an angle that he couldn’t easily see what was happening to the crown of Mr Lanning’s head.
Cole couldn’t blame him, the sight before him was gruesome, to say the least.

Were it just the sight, he would probably have been fine but as Dr
Kerridge removed the skull, revealing the brain, the stench of decay worsened and he retched. He was able to damp down his reactions twice but the third time, he barely made it to the bucket in time. Taking it with him, he stumbled out of the room.

“I’m sorry,” Thea said, as his breakfast made an unwelcome reappearance. He was unable to answer her for quite a few moments but when his heaves stopped, he took a handkerchief
out and dabbed at his lips.

Mrs
Kerridge ran into the corridor, looking surprised to see that it was Cole who was ill. Her smug expression fled, replaced by concern.

“Would you like some water,
Sir.”

“Please.”

She left and Cole put the bucket down, breathing heavily.

“I’m sorry,” Thea repeated.

“This was hardly your fault,” he answered.

“But it was,” she said, her voice hesitant and unsure, qualities he had not heard from her before. “At the school of physicians, it was a
rite of passage, you see. Everyone gets sick their first time, everyone, but to see if you have the stamina to be a doctor, they don’t tell you how to stop it. They didn’t tell me until I had been ill three times. You have to prove yourself first. I thought that if I carried on the practice, I’d feel like a part of the fraternity but apparently, I cannot watch someone I like suffering, not even if it is tradition.”

She
stepped closer, until only a few inches separated them and took a small bottle from her pocket.

“Eucalyptus oil,” she said. “The scent is so overpowering that it blocks most of the stench of decay.”

She pulled the cork from the bottle and putting her middle finger over the top, upended it. Raising her hand, she dabbed the oil on his upper lip, below each nostril.

Her hand hesitated, unwilling to lower but hesitant to touch him again. He raised his own hand
and grasped hers gently.

Were his mouth not filled with a bilious taste, the intimacy of the moment might have tempted him to kiss her, but even he had better sense than that. Still, the gentle pressure of her soft fingertip was a promise of things to come, he hoped.

“Your skin will warm the oil and by the time we return, your nose will be full of it’s scent,” she explained.

“Thank you.”

“I’m so sorry, Cole.”

“You weren’t to know.” He gave her hand a reassuring squeeze. “Thank
you
for not laughing at me.”

“I could never laugh at you.” She said with confidence.

He breathed deeply, rather liking the scent of her oil but at that moment, a rather pointed cough signalled Mrs Kerridge’s return.

“Your water,
Sir
.” She thrust the glass towards him; having caught them in an intimate embrace seemed to have soured her to them both now.

“Thank you, Mrs
Kerridge.” With some reluctance, he let go of Thea’s hand and stepped away. She pushed the cork back in the bottle and replaced it in her pocket.

Cole sipped the water, rinsing his mouth and spitting into the bucket
a few times, and Thea turned her back to give him the illusion of privacy. Mrs Kerridge had left them.

When they returned to the room, the doctor had removed the brain. On the far side of the room, Mr Small had moved to and opened a window, and was keeping his back turned to them.

“Ah, there you are. You were right, my dear!” Dr Kerridge greeted them, now with a warm smile. “See here?” He lifted the bowl that the brain was resting in. “How the underside of the brain is discoloured?”

Cole thought it best not to look too closely
but when he dared to draw a shallow breath, was pleased to smell almost no decay.

“
Fascinating,” Thea said, and a quick glance confirmed that she was leaning in close. “I’ve never seen an example in person, only descriptions.”

“I confess, it never even occurred to me. I’m feel slightly foolish admitting this but given all the recent tragedy at
the Abbey, I was almost ready to believe in the supernatural.”

“I confess, I get the occasional shiver too.”

“I haven’t located which artery the bleed came from, and given the speed of his demise, it must have been an artery, but I suppose that hardly matters. With the funeral so soon, I should already be preparing the body for burial.”

“
Of course,” Thea exuberance dulled somewhat as she remembered that this wasn’t just a science experiment, this was a man with a family and friends who were mourning him.

“Your enthusiasm does you credit, my dear, you would have made a fine physician.”

“Thank you, Doctor. Perhaps one day, they will let me.”