Death at Gallows Green (21 page)

“How can you tell?”

“ 'Cause a bit of spurrey's mixed wi' th' wheat.” To illustrate, Carter licked the tip of his old blunt finger, pushed it into the envelope, and pulled it out with a brown seed stuck to it. “Spurry grows where th' soil's light an' sandy, near th' coast. Sandwort, some call it. An' this lot—” He looked into another envelope. “Th' western edge o' th' district, as far west as Melford, I'd reckon. See how shriveled an' brown is th' seed? There was almost no rain t' th' west last summer. Th' buyers at market remarked that th' wheat from there was poor an' overdry.”

Charles nodded. “So these samples,” he said thoughtfully, “came from various parts of Essex.” It was a good fifty miles from the estuary to Melford.

“And into Suffolk as well,” Carter replied, as he opened a third envelope and peered into it. “Th' thistle here—mean thistle, it is. It's mostly been cleaned out, but you'll still find it t' the north o' East Bergholt, where th' land's unthrifty.”

“I see,” Charles said. His dream came back to him. But would Artie have tramped from field to field? Wasn't there another explanation? “Where might I be likely to find all these different lots of grain together in one place?”

Carter shrugged. “Market comes t' mind. Farmers bring samples of their harvest t' market, f'r buyers t' look over.”

“Where else besides market?”

“Well, there's th' shippin' depot warehouse. When th' farmer's sold his harvest, he hauls th' sacks t' th' depot, where'tis stored a-fore bein' shipped. Whut's stored has been brought in from all corners o' th' district.”

“Are there any depots in this vicinity?”

Carter shook his head. “You'll find ‘em in towns wi' warehouses, on th' railway. Colchester, Ipswich, Chelmsford, an' other such like.”

Charles had not yet heard what he needed to hear. “And where else besides market and shipping depots?”

“Nowhere else.” Carter pulled out his pipe and grinned, showing cracked, yellowed teeth. “ 'Cept where there's rats in th' granary.”

“Rats?” Charles asked.

The old man spat again, derisively. “Thieves, sir, thieves,” he said.

That
was what Charles had needed to hear.

K
ate spent the afternoon in the person of Beryl Bardwell, shut up in the library at her Remington typewriter, working on her new story, which now bore the intriguing title of
The Corpse in the Garden, Or, The Gamekeeper's Fatal Secret
. The story was well underway; that is to say, it had a beginning: Two lovers, out for an afternoon ramble, stumble upon the body of a gamekeeper at the foot of the constable's garden. Beryl could not bring herself to do further damage to Agnes or Betsy by making a fiction of the sergeant's death. But the story itself was so interesting that it begged to be told, and Beryl could not but oblige it.

Kate and Bea began their nocturnal adventure about eight in the evening. Wearing dark dresses with narrow skirts and with dark shawls thrown over their heads, they took the gig once more and drove away. Kate had instructed Mrs. Pratt not to prepare dinner, since the vicar had invited them for a visit and an informal late supper. She was sorry to deceive her kindhearted housekeeper, but Mrs. Pratt would be deeply perturbed if she knew the real purpose of their excursion. It was kinder to lie than to tell the truth. To stave off hunger, she and Bea had eaten a large tea and pocketed several small sandwiches and biscuits.

It was nearly dark when they set out in the direction of Gallows Green. By the time they reached the hamlet, a ground fog had risen from the low-lying areas and thickened to treetop height. But the sky above was clear, and the full moon, just rising, eerily silvered the landscape so that it took on a mysterious quality. That was the way Beryl Bardwell would have expressed it, Kate thought. “The night had an enigmatic quality,” she might have written, “as if little were known and much were to be guessed.”

Bea did not speak. Where her hair showed under her shawl it was beaded with mist, but her face was shadowed so that Kate could not read it. Kate also said little, preoccupied as she was with the plan she was trying out in her mind. But finally she gave up trying to think through what they would do when they got where they were going. There were too many circumstances that could not be predicted. All they could do was feel their way along, watch what they had come to see, and observe what occurred.

Suddenly the face of Sir Charles Sheridan rose before her, the sherry-brown eyes, the thick brows, the flash of a smile, half-cynical. What would he say to their expedition? Yesterday, he had shown himself sympathetic to her efforts to save Agnes's pension. But his sympathy would likely not extend to tonight's sortie. Ladies of breeding did not drive down lonely country lanes in the dark, unaccompanied. He would certainly order them home. It was a good thing that he would not know what they had got themselves up to.

At Gallows Green, Agnes Oliver ushered them into her kitchen with pleased surprise but some little embarrassment, for she and Betsy had eaten their suppers a while ago, and Betsy was already in her bed in the loft.

“Had I known you were coming,” she said, “we could have stayed our supper. May I fix you something to eat, or a cup of tea?”

“Please, no,” Kate said, perfectly aware that there wasn't any extra food in the Oliver cupboard. “We had quite a substantial tea.”

“We thought Betsy might like to have these for her breakfast,” Bea said, taking out a packet of shredded beef and a small jar of gooseberry jelly Kate had spirited from the pantry. She set a tin of tea beside them. “And this is for you.”

Kate pulled off her dark gloves, put them in her pocket, and got straight to the point of their visit. “We have come,” she said, “because we would like to borrow your dog for the evening.”

Agnes stared at them, astonished. “Kep? But whatever for?”

Bea gave her a dimpling smile. She looked, in fact, as if she had gotten over any trepidation she might have felt and was quite enjoying this odd adventure. “Miss Ardleigh and I are going ratting,” she said.

“Ratting?” Agnes's surprise turned to puzzlement. “I am not sure I understand you.”

“I think it would be better,” Kate replied carefully, “if we spared you the details, Agnes. Simply let me say that we hope to clear your husband's name, if we can, so that your pension need no longer be at risk.”

Agnes pressed her lips together and her eyes filled suddenly with tears. “Oh, Miss Ardleigh, do you think you can do that?” she whispered. “Living would be hard without the money. But even harder would be the agony of knowing Artie judged as a criminal, when he was a decent, law-abiding man!”

“I am not sure what we can achieve,” Kate replied honestly. It would not be fair to raise Agnes's hopes, when the outcome of their night-time investigation was so uncertain. “All I can speak to is our intention.”

“Thank you,” Agnes said. She took out a scrap of white cotton handkerchief and blew her nose. “Yes, by all means take the dog, and the rope Betsy uses to leash him. Whatever rats you are after, I pray he will help you catch them. And keep you safe,” she added, with a half-smile. “Kep is small, but ferocious.”

“Thank you,” Kate said, touched by her earnestness. “There's one other thing, if you don't mind. I remember that you kept several of your husband's shirts to make over for Betsy. I wonder if we might borrow one.”

“Artie's shirts?” Agnes's face was Ã¥ study in emotions. “But then you must think that the dog . . . that is, you must have some knowledge of where Artie . . .” She bit her lip and looked from Kate to Bea. “Are you sure that what you are doing is entirely prudent?”

Bea put her hand on Agnes's arm. “Perhaps it is not,” she said gently. “But prudence may not discover what must be discovered.”

Agnes managed a small smile. “Then you are very brave,” she said. “And I will give you something more to your purpose. I still have his nightshirt. I have not been able to bring myself to wash it since—” Her mouth trembled.

“Thank you,”. Kate whispered, and folded her in her arms.

 

When Kate and Bea embarked once more into the dark and misty night, they had with them Arthur Oliver's nightshirt. And beside the gig, looking alert and pleased to be taken on a late-night expedition, trotted Kep, the collie dog who was trained to track.

Bea was silent for a space of time, whether it was because she was occupied by her thoughts or because the darkness somehow seemed to silence speech, Kate did not know. Finally, as they drove down the lane past the church, its bulk shadowy in the moon-silvered fog, she spoke.

“It seems, Kate, that you intend to use the dog to track the sergeant. And we are on the way to Highfields Barn. Does that mean that you believe him to have been killed near there?”

“I think it is possible,” Kate said, “that Sergeant Oliver may have been in the barn before he was killed, or perhaps
when
he was killed. His pockets were full of grain and chaff—the sort of thing one associates with barns. Betsy claimed that Kep could track her father—remember?”

Bea's voice was dubious. “But even if the dog has that ability, it has rained since the murder. It doesn't seem likely that the scent will remain.”

“I am sure you are right,” Kate said, “If we were to try to track him out-of-doors, we should fail. But the barn is enclosed. If there is anything inside pertaining to Sergeant Oliver, Kep may be able to show us what it is. I know it sounds far-fetched,” she added. “But we have nothing to lose and everything to gain. If we can prove that the sergeant was not killed because he was a poacher, Agnes's pension will be secure.”

“To be sure,” Bea said. “But what of the pirates, or smugglers, or whatever they are?” She glanced at Kate, her mouth apprehensive. “Betsy saw them at the barn. Perhaps they will be abroad tonight?”

“It's entirely possible,” Kate conceded. “In fact, when we came upon Tod and Mr. McGregor, Tod was mentioning that—”

“—that the man he was looking for, who must have been Tommy Brock, was wanted for an urgent job
tonight!”
Bea clutched at Kate's arm. “But, Kate, what if they come to the barn while we are there?”

“Not
we,”
Kate corrected her. “While
I
am there. Kep and I will go to the barn and quickly look around. You will remain with the horse and gig. When I return, we will find a safe place from which to observe anyone who comes to the barn tonight.”

Bea sat up straight. “Don't be ridiculous,” she said smartly. “I have faced my fears this entire evening. And I have gone too far in this journey to quit it at the point of our arrival. I will
not
let you go into that place alone.”

“But really, Bea,” Kate objected, “I think it would be far better if you—”

“I am coming,” Bea said with a decided firmness. “If there is danger, we will face it together. We will be a true Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson.”

In spite of herself, Kate had to chuckle. She knew there was very little similarity between herself and Bea Potter—two women groping about in the foggy dark, pursuing they knew not what—and the cool, supremely logical characters of Conan Doyle. But Beryl Bardwell, who had been making mental notes all evening for Chapter Two of
The Corpse in the Garden,
could not help but be flattered by the comparison.

“Very well, then, come,” Kate said, “and welcome. But I am sure we will face no more real danger than do Holmes and Watson in their fictional adventures. It was barely nine by Agnes's clock when we left her kitchen, and must be no more than nine-thirty now. I doubt that any self-respecting pirate will be out and about before midnight. We ought to be able to see what there is to see in the barn, leave it, and safely conceal ourselves in an observation post before the business begins.
If
there is business at the barn tonight,” she added carelessly, “which may very well not be the case.”

Bea stifled a giggle, and Kate glanced at her. “My dear Bea,” she said, “what can possibly be funny?”

Bea's shoulders were shaking under her shawl. “I was thinking of Mama,” she managed finally, “and what she would say if she saw me riding down a dark country lane in search of rats. Quite
nasty
rats, at that!”

Kate was saved from answering by the emergence out of the silvery fog of a cart track leading away from the lane in the direction of Highfields Barn. Kate followed it for a hundred yards, and then pulled the pony into a clearing well off to the side. Bea shielded the flickering lantern with her shawl. glancing apprehensively into the thick shadows around them, while Kate tied the rope Agnes had given them around Kep's neck and bundled Sergeant Oliver's nightshirt under her arm. They followed the cart track in the direction of the barn, Kep pulling ahead, head up, ears pricked attentively. When they came close to the barn, Kate held up her hand and stood listening for a moment.

Save for the eerie hoot of a nearby owl and the distant tolling of a fog bell on the estuary, she could hear nothing. There was not a light anywhere. The farmhouse was some distance away across the ploughed field. It was a silent silhouette against the darker woods. Kate shivered in the otherworldly, fog-softened silence, under the half-light of the moon.

“It seems safe enough,” she whispered. “But let's move quickly and be ready to leave at any moment. If someone does come, it wouldn't do to be trapped inside.”