Death at Gallows Green (14 page)

Charles sighed. He did not want to be coercive, but he had no choice. He pulled himself up in a barrister-like stance. “I wish you to tell me,” he said, “on whose authority you recently invaded the home of Sergeant Arthur Oliver, and removed two hares and a net from a shed.”

P.C. Bradley's eyes blinked rapidly. “I am not at liberty to give information about a current investigation to—”

Charles held up his hand. “You are aware, are you not,” he said coldly, “that the rights of property are jealously guarded by the law of England?”

“Well, I—”

“And that any unwarranted interference with the rights of property—even by the police—is a tort for which an action can be brought?”

The young man's eyes went from one side to the other. “But I understood that—”

“Just how was it,” Charles asked, “that you determined it necessary to search the sergeant's property?”

The P.C.'s mouth twitched. He wore a cornered look. “I was given intelligence that I would find evidence of wrongdoing on the part of—”

“You were given
intelligence,”
Charles said with a heavy emphasis. “Pray, Constable Bradley,
who
gave you this intelligence?”

“I . . . ” The constable swallowed. “I cannot say, sir.”

“You will not say?”

“I cannot.” The P.C.'s voice had become shrill. He made an effort to bring it down a notch. “It was in a letter, sir.”

“A
letter
,” Charles said. The colour he gave to the word implied doubt as to the constable's veracity. “I don't suppose you are still in possession of this, ah, vital evidence?”

P.C. Bradley hesitated, obviously of two minds about the matter. He took three indecisive steps to a nearby table, opened a drawer, and took out an envelope. As Charles held out his hand he made a move to draw it back, but Charles persisted.

“Oh, very well,” P.C. Bradley said irritably. “I don't suppose it can do any harm for you to see it.”

The envelope was directed, in a sloping hand, to Police Constable Bradley, Wharf Street, Manningtree. The B was shaped with a flourish and the
t
's were crossed with decorative twists. The envelope had not been posted.

“How was this delivered?”

“Don't know.” The P.C. was sullen. “Found it in the door yesterday.”

Charles opened the envelope and found inside a folded sheet of plain white paper, upon which was written in the same hand that had directed the envelope the terse intelligence that if the P.C. betook himself speedily to the shed behind the home of the recently deceased Sergeant Oliver, he would discover certain evidence unmistakably indicating the aforesaid sergeant's unlawful attempt to augment his earnings by engaging in the lucrative side-line of poaching, in which effort the writer had no doubt that the victim had met his untimely end. The letter was signed, “A Dutiful Citizen.”

“You have no clue to this dutiful citizen's identity?” Charles asked.

“None, sir,” the P.C. said. He held out his hand for the envelope. “Now if you will be so kind as to—”

“One moment.” Charles reached into an inside pocket in his bulky jacket and took out a small box. In it were bits of charcoal and folded sheets of a lightweight, nearly transparent paper that he frequently used to make rubbings of certain interesting fossils. He took the letter to the window and proceeded to trace the script with a pen, taking care to reproduce it as exactly as possible.

The constable was alarmed. “With respect, sir, you can't be allowed to—”

“I'll square it with Pell,” Charles said over his shoulder. “Don't worry, old chap, I shan't get you into difficulties with the chief constable.”

“But that letter is evidence in a murder investigation. You can't—”

“Of course it's evidence,” Charles said soothingly. “That's why I
must
.” He finished his work and handed the letter back to the constable. “And here you are. None the worse for a bit of copying.”

The constable's lips thinned. “Who
are
you, sir, to take it upon yourself to behave in this high-handed manner?”

“Who am I?” Charles asked. He looked down at the note in his hand. “A man who is interested in justice,” he said, and turned and left the room.

T
hat afternoon, Kate and Bea explored the ruins of Bishop's Keep and walked into the nearby woods, looking for interesting fungi for Bea to draw. While Bea sat down to sketch a large mass of rust-coloured toadstools against a mossy rock, Kate picked meadow buttercups and yellow heartsease, feeling herself almost contented.

But several nagging thoughts continued to intrude into her mind. One had to do with Sir Charles, whose patronizing objection to her investigative efforts still rankled. Another had to do with Agnes, whose future security depended upon her husband's posthumous reputation. Surely there was something she could do to ensure that Agnes kept her pension, even though Sir Charles had so pointedly told her to stay out of the affair. And the third had to do with the emeralds.

So when they returned to Bishop's Keep that afternoon, and while Bea was giving Peter Rabbit an airing in the shrubbery, Kate summoned her butler to the library. Mudd, she had found, could be counted upon to supply almost any information she might need about the local environs. While he was young for his position and clearly a climber, she knew him to be reliable in difficult circumstances and she respected his intelligence and good judgment. She had come to this assessment when he had assisted her in apprehending her aunts' killer a few months before.

“Mudd,” she said, “I am greatly concerned about the welfare of Mrs. Oliver. I assume that you know her situation, and what is being said about her husband's off-duty pursuits.”

Mudd inclined his head to show that he did. “A very sad business.”

Kate eyed him. “What credit do you give the rumours about the sergeant's involvement in poaching?”

“None, mum,” Mudd said firmly. “It's only the riffraff talking.” Mudd was from London, and rather inclined to scorn the villagers, feeling himself their superior in station, manners, and intelligence.

Kate went to the mantle and stood staring down at the fire. “I have spoken with Lord Marsden's assistant gamekeeper, Mr. McGregor. What do you know of the man?”

Mudd pulled a long face. “He's a shrewd one, that Matthew McGregor. He has his hand into many a pot, I hear. People say they wouldn't put a spot of murder past him.”

“But I understand,” Kate said, “that the sergeant's body was discovered in Mr. McGregor's garden. One would scarcely think that a murderer would abandon a body on his own doorstep, would one?”

“ 'Twas said at the inquest,” Mudd remarked judiciously, “that the sergeant was shot elsewhere and left in the garden. But that was the constable's interpretation. If anybody saw what happened, they haven't put themselves forward yet”

“Suppose that theory isn't correct,” Kate said, thinking out loud. “Suppose the sergeant
was
shot in the garden and left there with the intention of bringing a cart through the lane to take him somewhere else, probably at night, when no one was about. Only the business was somehow interrupted, and Lawrence and Amelia discovered the body before it could be disposed of.”

“Could've been,” Mudd agreed. “There's Mrs. McGregor's brother, too. He's an unsavoury sort.”

“Mrs. McGregor's brother?” Sir Charles had mentioned a brother in his telling of the story, but Kate did not recall the details.

“Tommy Brock,” Mudd said, “called Mr. B by some. It was his gun that was first thought to be the murder weapon, but wasn't. He was gone for a time from the area, but he's back again. Or so Pocket's father says,” he added. “He's the brewer's drayman, you see, and goes from pub to pub.”

Kate had ceased to wonder at the marvelous efficiency of the information network that linked the villages and hamlets in the district so that news traveled as fast as by telephone in the city. Now she thought briefly of the copper-haired Mr. Tod, who had come to McGregor's inquiring after someone. Perhaps he had been looking for McGregor's brother-in-law.

“I would be obliged if you could inquire at the pub,” she said, “into the matter of Mr. Brock's reappearance. I should like to know if the man seems to have any connexion to the crime.”

Mudd was perfect for such an errand, because he had the interesting capacity of being able to mimic the speech and manners of those with whom he spoke. In any event, Kate herself could hardly visit The Live and Let Live without creating a local sensation. Even her completely innocent bicycle rides with Edward Laken had caused a great many raised eyebrows. And while Beryl Bardwell's female characters sometimes disguised themselves as males to gain information, Kate did not intend to do anything quite so
outré
when Mudd was available, willing, and excellently dependable.

Mudd gave her a canny glance. “I should have to go to the pub specially,” he remarked. “I don't have another half-day until next month.”

“Then go this evening,” Kate commanded, “and tell me what you learn.” She went to the desk drawer, took out a purse, and found two florins. “And use these to purchase a round,” she added, giving Mudd the coins. “Perhaps a pint or two will loosen a few tongues.”

Mudd straightened his shoulders. “Very good, mum,” he said.

“And one more thing,” Kate said. “What do you know about Lawrence, the Marsden's footman?”

Mudd's mouth reflected his displeasure. “A light sort, mum. He has played fast and free with Amelia's affections.” Mudd might look down on the villagers, but he was unfailingly kind to the household staff.

“Aside from your opinion,” Kate said, stressing the word, “what do you know of him?”

Mudd became rather more cautious. “Only what I see of him at the pub. He's likable enough. He's been in service hereabout for seven or eight years.”

“I would not want you to mention this question to anyone else,” Kate said, “but I wonder whether. . .” She paused and chose her words carefully. “Has there been any rumour of Lawrence's coming into a sum of money?”

“If he has, he's keeping it close,” Mudd said sagaciously. “He's been drinkin' on th' tick. On credit, mum,” he added. “He did not appear to be in funds.”

“Thank you,” Kate said. “And is there, do you think, any possible connexion between Lawrence and Mr. Brock?”

Mudd's brows came together. “I saw them drinking together once. A year or so ago, it was.”

Kate nodded. “Thank you, Mudd,” she said. “That will be all.”

Mudd retired, leaving Kate standing alone beside the fire, speculating about the mysterious Mr. Brock. How did he figure in this increasingly complicated situation? Was it possible that he was somehow connected to Lawrence? Were the two of them related in any way to the emeralds? And were the emeralds connected to the sergeant's murder?

Kate walked to her desk, wondering how Beryl Bardwell might resolve this puzzle. If this were a novel, however, the plot would likely need more thickening before it was done. Wanting to feed her readers' taste for sensation, Beryl might add another murder, or perhaps a kidnapping, and a few exotic characters—a pirate or two, perhaps. But in the end, no matter how many complications she introduced, the solution would be as neatly wrapped and pleasing as a pudding. It was a pity that the mysteries of real life were not resolved so easily as Beryl Bardwell's penny dreadfuls.

I
n all of her nine years, Betsy Oliver had prayed on only one occasion. Mister Browne, her pet owl, had flown off in a huff after she had taken a live baby rabbit from him and substituted a dead lizard. Betsy had petitioned God for his safe return, and God (who in her imagination bore a remarkable similarity to Father Christmas, the chief difference being that He wore a white robe instead of a red fleece suit and was somewhat less rotund) saw fit to respond by recalling Mister Browne to his perch in the shed before another night was out.

This minor success notwithstanding, Betsy was not given to prayer. It was not that she did not trust God to reply (for evidence of the efficacy of prayer, she had only to look to the safe return of Mr. Browne), but rather that she questioned the ethics of the transaction itself. For instance, telling God that you would be a good girl all day in return for marmalade biscuit for tea, when all Mother could put on the table was plain biscuit—wasn't that selfish and unjust? It seemed rather shabby to ask God to slip it into Mother's head that she ought to be supplying marmalade biscuit when she couldn't, with the consequence that Mother felt sad when she had to serve up plain, or spent more on marmalade than she ought. Or force God to expend divine effort on a marmalade miracle, which was admittedly more mundane than loaves and fishes but no doubt required every bit as much divine ingenuity.

Having reached this conclusion and despite the vicar's benevolent example and the exhortations of Miss Bottle, her Sunday School teacher, Betsy resisted putting God into such a sticky wicket. So when all the other Sunday scholars dutifully bowed their heads and repeated the Lord's Prayer after Miss Bottle, Betsy always sat with head up, eyes forward, and mouth resolutely shut. The murder of her father, however, tested her resolve. For several days after she learned the awful truth, it was all she could do not to fall on her knees and beg God for his return, intuitively feeling that while He could find an errant owl in the dark, it was asking too much to request Him to return an escaped soul to the body. Still, she was impressed and even somewhat comforted by the solemnity of her father's funeral at St. Mary's in Dedham, and by the gravity of the neighbours as they put the pine box with him in it into a muddy hole in the churchyard, and especially by the vicar's somber but fervent prayers for her father's soul.