Death at Gallows Green (13 page)

T
he copse still showed evidence that something had lain there, and the marks of the dead body's removal were still evident in the grass. But when Kate and Bea examined the ground in the area, they found nothing of real interest.

“I think,” Kate said, “that we should find Mr. McGregor.” They walked down the lavender-bordered path toward the cottage. As they came to the corner, Kate held up her hand. They could hear voices.

“All I want to know, McGregor,” a high, thin voice was saying, “is whether you know where he is.”

“I haven't seen ‘im, and ain't like to,” a different voice said, as raspy as a rusty file. “Leave it, Tod, an' be gone wi' ye. I'm off t' th' Manor.”

The thin voice became peeved. “There's no call t' take that tone with me, McGregor.”

“I'll take any tone I please wi' intruders on my place. Now be gone!”

Kate stepped around the cottage, trailed by Bea. “Mr. McGregor?” she asked.

Two men stood looking at her, their faces reflecting their surprise at the sudden appearance of the two women. One man was tall and thread-paper thin, with a sharply pointed chin, coppery whiskers along his jaw, and a brush of reddish hair under a green felt hat. The other was stooped and surly with a grey beard. In one hand he held a long-barreled gun and in the other the reins of a grey horse. He was the one who spoke next, in a crabby tone.

“I'm McGregor.”

“Good morning, sir,” Kate said. “I am Miss Ardleigh, of Bishop's Keep.”

McGregor grunted. “I know who ye are. I seen ye ridin' yer bicycle.” He gave a sharp chuckle.

Kate didn't like the tone of his voice, but she behaved as if she had not noticed it. “And you, sir, are—?” She turned to the other man.

“Tod, ma'am.” The copper-haired man swept off his hat with a foxy smile. “Russell Tod, at your service, ma' am.”

“To be sure, Mr. Tod.” Kate recognized the bailiff who had organized the workers who picked apples during last autumn's harvest. The yield had been heavy, and the villages and hamlets roundabout could not provide enough labourers. Mr. Tod had been hired to bring in navvies and gypsies and other itinerant workers to speed the picking.

Tod replaced his hat and turned to McGregor. “If you see him, tell him he's wanted tomorrow night.”

McGregor growled something inaudible. Tod nodded to Kate and departed without a word.

Kate turned back to the surly man. “You are Lord Marsden's assistant gamekeeper, I understand.”

McGregor nodded and laid his gun across the saddle. “Been so fer a dozen years,” he said, putting his foot into the stirrup.

“Then,” Kate said, “I suppose you are aware of whatever poaching might occur in the vicinity?”

McGregor's eyes grew flinty. “People got no respect fer propity.” He swung onto the horse. “There's allus poachers. That's me job, t' keep th' poachin' down. Keeps me busy.”

Kate looked up at him. “What do you know of poaching in regard to Sergeant Oliver's death?”

McGregor's eyes shifted to Bea and back again to Kate. His mouth twitched in something like a smirk. “Oh, so
that's
wot ye want t' know,” he said. “Come t' think o' it, I did hear summat about a net an' a hare er two hangin' in th' sergeant's shed.” He pulled his brows down fiercely. “There's plenty o' crooked coppers these days. Wudn't surprise me if he was one of 'em. Now, 'f ye'll 'xcuse me, I'm expected at th' manor.” He turned his horse's head and rode off down the lane.

Bea looked at Kate and wrinkled her nose. “A thoroughly unlikable and arrogant man,” she said. “His eyes are shifty.”

“He reminds me of a ferret,” Kate said. They began to walk back through the garden to their gig and pony waiting in the lane.

“But ferrets are quite fetching creatures,” Bea objected, “and not at all arrogant. My brother, Bertram, had one once. Its name was Filbert, and its gaze was most direct.”

Kate frowned. “Well, I hardly think we could call Mr. McGregor a fetching creature,” she said. “I think the man knows something.” She quickened her step. “But we must hurry. It's past time for lunch, and I've asked Sir Charles to call this afternoon.”

 

The ride from Colchester toward Dedham was a pleasant one, through narrow lanes under the blossoming hawthorn, loud with the midday cries of linnets. But Charles scarcely noticed the beauty of the countryside, for the business about sheep-stealing was still in his head. Had Artie been investigating theft when he was killed? Or was it more than that: Had he been killed
because
he was investigating theft? If so, someone in the farm district of Gallows Green ought to know something. But short of questioning each farmer, one by one, how could the matter be uncovered? And if the business were so surreptitious that Artie had not told Ned about it, would the farmers be any more free with their tongues?

Charles frowned, remembering that in fact someone
had
talked already of sheep-stealing: McGregor, in whose garden Artie's body had been discovered. At the thought, his mouth hardened. Was there a connexion, after all, between McGregor and the murder? Perhaps not. Perhaps it was entirely coincidental that the murderer had chosen his garden in which to abandon the victim's dead body.

But there was also the possibility that McGregor himself knew something more than he admitted—that he had been one of the killers, or knew the killers. He might have agreed to placing Artie's body in his garden until it could be moved elsewhere. The question certainly warranted more investigation. He would search out McGregor after he had spoken with Miss Ardleigh at Bishop's Keep. And after he had talked with P.C. Bradley, the constable at Manningtree.

Charles pulled out his watch. It was early yet to call on Miss Ardleigh, but Bishop's Keep was quite nearby. He would go there next, and then to Manningtree. But as he turned a sharp bend, he had to pull up sharply to avoid a smartly-stepping pony and gig.

“Sir Charles!” Miss Ardleigh said, pulling the pony to a stop. “Good afternoon.”

“Good afternoon,” Charles replied. He tipped his hat. Miss Ardleigh looked quite pretty, with russet tendrils curled loose around her face, cheeks flushed, eyes bright. He thought of Ned and looked away. “I was just on my way to Bishop's Keep.”

“As are we,” Miss Potter said in her sweet, cheerful voice. “We have just come from calling on Mr. McGregor.”

Charles frowned. Miss Ardleigh was a charming and intelligent woman, but her cleverness could get her into difficulties which charm could not resolve. “If you don't mind my asking,” he said stiffly, “what took you to see McGregor?”

Miss Ardleigh's reply was cool. “We went because we are concerned about Agnes. This morning very early, the constable from Manningtree found a pair of hares and a net in the Olivers' shed.”

“Hares and a net!” Charles exclaimed.

“Yes. Agnes may lose her pension if the authorities believe that her husband was involved in poaching. Mr. McGregor is a gamekeeper. He seemed the logical person to ask.”

Charles stared at her. The woman might as well be a detective, such a nose she had for information. “Well?” he asked, “what did you learn?”

“Disappointingly little,” Miss Ardleigh admitted, “although Mr. McGregor gave me reason to suspect that he Knows more than he's willing to tell.”

“His eyes were shifty,” Miss Potter added in explanation.

Miss Ardleigh checked the pony. “Have you made any progress in your investigation, Sir Charles?”

“Not as much as you have,” Charles replied honestly.

“I've only just come from talking with the chief constable in Colchester.”

“Oh, yes,” Miss Ardleigh said. “I suppose he is the one who took Edward off the case. What did you learn?”

Charles spoke with more heat than he intended. “That Pell is incompetent and too busy about his own affairs to be much bothered with his official duties. He has assigned a young and inexperienced policeman to the case—P.C. Bradley.”

“Yes.” Miss Ardleigh nodded. “The one who found the hares and the net.”

“But Mrs. Oliver says that her husband would never have been involved with poaching,” Miss Potter said.

Miss Ardleigh looked at Charles. “You knew Sergeant Oliver. Do you agree?”

“I do indeed,” Charles replied. Honesty was one of the traits Artie had shared with Edward Laken. Many police officers might take a little something in tribute. But never Ned, nor Artie.

Miss Ardleigh tilted her head. “That means that either he stumbled onto poachers and took the hares and the net as proof of their wrongdoing, or that someone has—”

“Constructed the evidence in such a way as to deliberately implicate him.” Charles finished the sentence for her.

“Exactly so,” Miss Ardleigh said. She raised her eyebrows. “But there is something else that may complicate this situation, Sir Charles, and that is why I asked you to call at Bishop's Keep. It has to do with some emeralds that are missing from Lady Marsden's safe.”

“Emeralds!” Charles exclaimed.

Miss Ardleigh nodded. “When Eleanor returned a ring she had borrowed from her mother, she saw that the other jewels were missing from the set, although she knew them to have been there shortly before.” She gave him a narrow look. “She suspects that Lawrence might have taken them. She has not mentioned this to you?”

“Eleanor is not expected at the manor until tomorrow,” Charles replied. “I could not swear that Lawrence is not a thief. But if he took the emeralds, I do not believe he would stay to risk discovery.” He regarded Miss Ardleigh. “You are supposing that the theft of the emeralds is somehow connected to the murder of Sergeant Oliver?”

“I thought it possible when I learned that it was Lawrence who discovered the body.” Miss Ardleigh pursed her lips. “I am not in a position to investigate the theft of the emeralds, Sir Charles. You are. Perhaps you could look for a connexion to the sergeant's murder. And perhaps I could pursue the poaching business and discover whether our murderer—”

“Miss Ardleigh,” Charles broke in hastily, “I must congratulate you on the impeccable logic with which you have analysed the situation. But this is not
your
murderer. You must stay out of it. You might find yourself in serious danger. Or you might—”

Miss Ardleigh's hands tightened on the reins. “Muck things cup?”

It was not a word Charles would have expected a lady to use, but it certainly fit the circumstance. “I fear so,” he replied.

“Oh, really, Sir Charles,” Miss Potter said earnestly, “Miss Ardleigh's efforts scarcely warrant—”

Miss Ardleigh's tone became sharp. “The man has made up his mind, Bea. It's pointless to attempt to reason with him.” She raised the reins and chirruped to the pony. “Let's go home.”

Charles scarcely had time to tip his hat before they had driven away. For a moment he sat, looking after them in sheer surprise. Then, as he turned to ride off in the opposite direction, he caught himself chuckling.

T
he twin villages of Manningtree and Mistley lay at the mouth of the River Stour, where it ceased to be a welldefined river and lost itself among the reeds of Seafield Bay, sheeting like hammered silver across Jacques and Copperas and Holbrook Bays, and thence into Harwich Harbour before spilling into the stormy grey waters of the English Channel. At Manningtree and Mistley, the upper reaches of the Stour estuary were deep enough to accommodate ocean-going vessels, and as Charles rode down the hill and through the twisting streets into the town, he could see the forest of masts along the quay. The air had a salt taste, and gulls wheeled over a recently arrived fishing boat, raising a hungry clamour.

The police station and gaol were in the rear of a plastered building at the foot of Wharf Street, which housed an apothecary's shop in the front and dentist's and doctor's offices above. Charles reached it by taking the cobbled alley to the rear and stooping under a low lintel. A narrow hallway gave directly onto a square room with one window and a barred cell at the back, quite chilly, where the atmosphere was acrid with coal smoke. A uniformed man was down on both knees, putting a light to a coal grate. He scrambled to his feet when Charles came in.

“Sir Charles Sheridan,” Charles said in a crisp, old-school voice. He did not offer his hand. “You are P.C. Bradley, I assume.”

“I am,” said the constable. He was a smart-appearing young man with pale grey eyes and blond hair combed slickly back. He had a certain arrogance, as if he were accustomed to having attention paid to him. He was, however, at some little disadvantage, for he was bootless. “Help you with something?” he asked, somewhat carelessly.

“I wish to speak with you.”

The constable's eyes measured the distance to his boots, which stood on the other side of the grate, drying. Apparently deciding that he could not surreptitiously retrieve them, he muttered “Excuse me,” reached for them, and took the required measures to put them on. Appropriately attired, he went behind his desk and asked, with a curl of his lip, “In regard to what business?”

“The death of Sergeant Oliver.”

The constable's jaw tensed. “I have no information on the matter,” he said stiffly.