Enter Pale Death (30 page)

“Poor
silly
lady! Where, I need to know, did she come by her recipe? Perhaps she left it in the other pocket.” Joe pulled a hopeless face. “Well, we ought to check.”

“Good lord! What the hell’s this?… These?”

He placed a folded sheet of paper on the floor and opened it up.

“Shopping list? Recipe? ‘Cummin … Rose Mary …’ No, I never saw that handwriting before, sir. Scruffy. Pencil. Not what you’d call educated, is it?”

“Just lists the attractants. No nastiness here. But I’ll show you something that is quite stomach-churning. The second thing Grace had left in the pocket for us to find.” He placed it carefully beside the note.

“Chicken’s wish-bone? That’s for good luck, sir.”

A memory had stirred. Joe had heard of these things but he’d never seen one before. “No. The opposite of good luck. This is magic,” he said. “Black magic. It’s bone all right but it’s from a toad.
Method: First catch your toad
. Then you kill it and pound the
flesh to a pulp and chuck it into a running stream at midnight. Of course, the flesh and most of the bones float away downstream with the current, but one bone—this one—perversely, swirls away upstream. This is the one you want. The piece that’s going to give you magic powers. Over horses. Or warts. Or sharp-tongued mothers-in-law. They do a similar bit of jiggery-pokery with frogs and ant-hills in India …”

Ben was prepared to scoff. “Floats upstream? Naw! How could it?” Gingerly, he picked it up and smoothed it between his fingers. “Light as a dry leaf. That scooped bit looks something like the bottom of a toy boat. That wouldn’t sink, but it would go along with the current.”

“Look at the shape. It’s like one of those Australian weapons that turn and fly back at you—a boomerang—don’t you think? Some winged things do move apparently against the forces of Nature as we know them—winged sycamore seeds … aeroplanes, for goodness sake! I don’t believe in magic, either, Ben. I think the shape must be special. No time to experiment but if we popped this onto the rippling surface of a stream it might well be caught by some rule of … shall we say … aquadynamics and sweep off in the opposite direction to what you’d expect. It would be fun to try. But the men who own one of these things don’t
want
to test out, cast light and explain. No—they want to believe without question and work in the dark. They also seek power by frightening and manipulating the credulous. ‘Toadmen,’ they call themselves where I come from.”

“Toadmen? I’ve heard of them. Down toward Stowmarket, there’s toadmen. Or used to be. Can’t say as I’ve heard of ’em since I were a lad.”

“Not since they were all given the keys to a shining new tractor,” Joe said, smiling. He took the piece of bone, held it between his finger and thumb and twisted it as he would have turned the starting key of a motor. “There’s more power in the turn of a piece
of steel in a Fordson tractor engine than in a brittle bit of bone working inside a darkened mind. But, evidently, there’s still one hereabouts who has the knowledge—and the malice—to pass on this evil piece of equipment to an unsuspecting woman and cause her death.” Joe glanced at the open cupboard door. “We’ll just put it back where we found it for the moment. It seems to be safe there. Did you look in the bottom? Anything else Grace left behind for us to see?”

Ben took a slender house-man’s torch from his belt and shone it around the depths of the cupboard. “Yes, there is. Not much but we ought perhaps to take a look.”

He brought out four blue paper chemist’s bags and put them in front of Joe. “All empty. Shall I read the labels? Well, well! Cummin, coriander, cinnamon and …”

“Fenugreek,” Joe finished for him. “Those bags contained the substance she thought she was marching into the stables armed with. We’ll lock those up in the cupboard again too. But where did she get the bate that caused her death? You can’t summon up a stew of stoat’s liver and rabbit’s blood overnight.”

“
G. R. Harrison, Purveyor of Pharmaceuticals. Estd. 1882
, it says on the labels. You going to arrest him?”

“For the crime of purveying curry spices to a rich household? No, I don’t think so. Mr. Harrison is about as guilty as the horse in all of this. Which is to say—not in the slightest. But there is someone lurking, someone with very evil intent, working through his own agenda. I wonder how far along he’s got … and whether he can hear us scrabbling down the rabbit hole after him.”

CHAPTER 18

Joe was awake again at five. He bathed, shaved and dressed himself in the hooray-hurrah outfit of flannels, linen shirt and Hermès cravat that he felt a summer Sunday morning in the country called for. He had no wish to undertake his next task looking bleary and unkempt in a dressing gown. ‘Never frighten the upstairs maid’ was another rule of country house living he abided by.

He heard her coming down the corridor at six o’clock precisely and nipped out the moment she drew level with his door. A quick: “Shh! It’s only the Police, miss!” and he’d tugged her, still clutching her dustpan and brush, into his room and shut the door.

He held his Scotland Yard warrant card under her startled eyes to calm or at least distract her. “I do beg your pardon! Are you the maid who normally takes care of the rooms in this guest wing?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Were you here on duty in April when the mistress was killed?”

“I was, sir.”

“Then I have a few questions for you. This will only take a moment and then you may return to your duties. What is your name?”

“Rose, sir. Rose Nicholls.”

“Known to Ben as ‘Rosie’?” Joe smiled. At last, one thing was going in his favour. “Rose, tell me—the morning of the awful event in April—did you tidy out all the rooms along this corridor?”

“Yes, sir. Nothing interfered with the routine. The guests were still here, all of them, and their rooms had to be seen to.”

“Were you also responsible for the guest in the Old Nursery?”

“I had that duty, sir.” Had he imagined that the reply came less swiftly and was accompanied by a slight upturning of the nose? The very pert nose. Ben had omitted to say how pretty Rosie was.

“The occupant of the room—Miss Joliffe—was she still in residence?”

“She was. Still abed. Fast asleep when I drew the curtains back. She’d asked me to wake her at six with a cup of tea. No breakfast required. No help with dressing. A very independent young lady. Good as gold, very polite and no trouble. She left me half a crown on the mantelpiece and her copies of
True Confessions
.”

“All as normal, then?”

The response came more slowly. “Yes, sir.” The eyes narrowed and looked away as she added, “No harm done, I’m sure, sir.”

“Right. That’s enough pussy-footing about, Rose. I want you to tell me what exactly was
not
normal about that room when you did it out. I have to tell you that Ben and I inspected it last night. I’m pretty sure I know what went on in there—I would be interested to hear your confirmation. And—hear this, Rosie—I usually work in the stews of East London. You can say nothing that could possibly shock me.”

He listened to her brief account. She wasted no time on unnecessary detail or speculation and he realised that she’d rehearsed this speech in her mind before delivering it. She’d clearly been
concerned and remained puzzled by what she’d discovered. Joe, on the other hand, believed he now had a clear idea of what had gone on that April night. He allowed himself a grim smile. For possibly the first time ever in what had been a seven-year struggle with Dorcas, he thought he had the advantage of her. What would she choose to feed him? Truth or lies?

“Rosie, your information is secure with me. Thank you for your openness and your clarity. I’ve heard less concise speeches from King’s Counsel in court at the Old Bailey!”

“Lawyers? Oh, sir! I’m just a maid!”

“In this household, I’m surprised to hear that! You must be fast on your feet.” The jovial words were out before he could censor them.

To his relief, instead of the offended splutter he’d deserved, he was rewarded with a gurgle of amusement and a very pretty blush before she bobbed and dashed for the door.

This was going to be trickier than he’d expected. He found himself in a household of well-chosen and irreproachable servants who understood and abided by the concept of loyalty. Polite and deferential though they were to the stranger policeman from London, their allegiance would go always and automatically to the family. But Joe thought he’d identified in at least two of their number a bolshy streak which gave rise to an intriguing tendency to support what they perceived as an underdog. Solidarity with the down-trodden. A third had, in the subtlest possible way, pointed to the trail of breadcrumbs that would lead him back to a murderer.

London. St. James’s. 6
A.M
.

L
ILY BLINKED, SMOTHERED
a yawn and broke off a piece of her toast. She caught the waiter’s eye and was about to
ask him for a second pot of coffee when she abruptly dismissed him and put down her knife.

There he was. On the move again. Truelove was quietly leaving the hotel having, she assumed, taken an early breakfast up in his room. She was glad she’d disobeyed Joe and stayed on watch. Glad too that she’d thought of booking a taxi and hiring the driver to stay on call for her for the whole morning. Easing forward, she saw him look at his wristwatch and smile with satisfaction as his Bentley was brought up for him from the garage. He slid into the driver’s seat, tipped the valet and set off. Luggage already in the boot, she assumed.

The streets would be empty of traffic at this hour and he could drive as fast as his great car would go. Quickly, she grabbed the case she’d packed and left under the table and nipped out to the street. She bashed the snoozing taxi driver on the head with her clutch purse and told him to follow the Bentley.

To Lily’s surprise they turned west towards Kensington. Ten minutes later they had pulled up in front of an impressive white-painted birthday cake of a house. A well-dressed gentleman of middle age swept his homburg off his bald head and greeted Truelove, who’d turned off the engine and stepped out. Sir James then proceeded to take the hand of the young girl who was standing by the side of—her father?—and kissed it. They’d met before, then. Two-timing, Truelove? A jolly conversation ensued. Arms were waved. Heads were nodded. Finally, Truelove strolled over to the Rolls-Royce parked in front of the house. At the wheel sat a uniformed chauffeur and in the passenger seat a lady’s maid. The car appeared to be loaded to the gunwales with suitcases and hat-boxes. Truelove spoke for a few moments with the chauffeur, pointing. Giving directions, Lily guessed.

He handed the young lady into the back seat of his Bentley, her father into the passenger seat, checked they were comfortable, and set off with the second motorcar following on.

Moving unobtrusively after them, the taxi followed on the northerly and easterly heading it had taken.

The man—if not the girl—had been familiar, Lily thought. A moment’s ransacking of her mental files and she had it. Poor old Truelove! Rather him than her, she decided, trapped in a shoulder-to-shoulder situation of intimacy for the next two and a half hours with that rogue. Not the kind of shark he usually swam with. She rather thought she knew where they were going. To her surprise, they made a further stop. A third guest was ready and waiting, again on the doorstep, this time of a more modest house on the Great North Road, and was ushered into the rear of the Bentley. This identification was easier and more surprising.

The convoy moved off again and Lily decided to follow the cars to a point beyond which she could be sure they were going where she calculated they were going. Then she would find a telephone box and get hold of Joe.

S
TYLES WAS ALREADY
up and about and ready for his day when Joe tracked him down to the kitchen. The butler’s scholarly features and patrician bearing seemed out of place and out of time in what Joe saw to be a thoroughly modern working space. No sign here of Jacobean open hearths, rotating spits and water pumps; the light, high-ceilinged room was equipped with the latest in kitchen equipment laid out against sleek uncluttered surfaces. Joe spotted an American refrigerator, a Scandinavian cooking range and a French coffee grinder of café proportions, a symphony of cream, black and gold. The only concession to Suffolk heritage was the large central table of scrubbed and limed oak.

Styles was evidently disappointed to have to tell Joe that the feast of sausages, bacon and kidneys he could expect for breakfast were not served until seven thirty as this was not a hunting morning. There could, however, be coffee and tea and toast available
in minutes in the east parlour if he wished. The footman was not on duty, nor yet Mrs. Bolton, but he, Styles, could oblige. He explained as he bustled about putting toast on the Aga cooker and deftly selecting cutlery that the housekeeper who was on late duty on Saturdays normally lay abed until eight on a Sunday, rising in time to go to church service at ten. This was her weekly—and her sole—indulgence, Styles confided with a lightening of the expression that in anyone else might have been called an affectionate twinkle.

“Then I’ll probably see Mrs. Bolton later in church,” Joe said. “Tell me, Styles, is or has Mrs. Bolton ever been—a married lady?”

“Sadly, there is no Mr. Bolton, sir. The title is the usual complimentary form of address for a lady in her position. Matrimony’s loss has been our gain.”

Joe located the coffee grinder, a model he understood, and set himself, without asking, to measure out beans into the funnel and turn the handle. “Aga toast and coffee! Wonderful! Join me in the parlour, won’t you, Styles? I shan’t expect anything more substantial until I return from my hike around the estate,” he announced, trying to look hale and hearty and ready for anything. “Hard to sleep through these wonderful early mornings. The birds around here wouldn’t allow it anyway,” he commented. “Sure I heard a nightingale last evening.”