Enter Pale Death (33 page)

No result. Joe performed the same manoeuvre on the other side in case the shooter was moving around in an arc. His cap remained intact. Feeling embarrassingly like a boy scout on a wide day out in the woods with the troop, he next hurled the stick into a thicket behind and to one side of the tree. It landed with a satisfying crunch and a movement of the bushes. Joe was pleased with the result but the gunman wasn’t falling for that either.

Joe began to breathe more steadily. Common sense was telling him that if the gunman genuinely wanted him dead, then dead he would be by now. Unarmed as he was, there was only one thing he could do.

Cap firmly back in place, imaginary swagger stick tucked under his right arm, left arm swinging with military precision, Joe marched out from his shelter. Whistling “It’s a Long Way to Tipperary,” he presented a ram-rod straight back to the enemy.

T
HE MARCH BECAME
a trot as he stayed on his feet and the trot a fast zigzagging dash when he emerged from the cover of the trees and headed across the seemingly endless open stretch of mown meadow grass in front of the Hall.

Past caring who he was disturbing, he went into the telephone room off the hall, calling out loudly for Timmy as he went.

Timmy bustled up minutes later to find the policeman at the desk, grim-faced, putting sheets of paper into an envelope. “Ah, there you are! Can you ride the Swine, Timmy?… Thought so.
Look, go and get it out and take this note as fast as you can down to Superintendent Hunnyton. You know where he …” Timmy was already out of the door and running.

J
OE WONDERED IF
Hunnyton would come to the same conclusion as himself. It had been plain enough to Joe as he read the letter. If you want someone to swallow a thumping great lie, conceal it between two slices of verifiable truth and add a little garnish. It was a device he’d used himself. But Virbio was less skilled, evidently. He’d overdone the garnish. He looked at his watch and reviewed his schedule, which was tightening uncomfortably. Eight o’clock. His fixed points in the morning were: a visit to the stables, a confrontation in the graveyard at nine thirty, the welcoming of Truelove and his party some time before the parade of horses on the front lawn at eleven o’clock. Three hours at the outside before he greeted Dorcas. Three hours to come up with the solution to three murders. Phoebe Pilgrim, Lavinia Truelove and Robin Goodfellow. Better get on.

He went in search of Styles. He caught the butler about to carry a tray of early morning tea along the corridor. He smiled at Joe. Shiftily? No. Joe would have said rather: shyly. “For Mrs. B. I always take it along to her room myself. We do our best to relieve the staff as much as we can on a Sunday.”

“A moment please, Styles. There’s something you must know and I’d like you to convey it to Mrs. Bolton along with her cup of Assam.”

In the quiet of the telephone room Joe delivered a brief account of Goodfellow’s death.

“A case of suicide, you’re saying, sir? How simply dreadful! Well, well! I’m sure the fellow had much weighing on his conscience but all the same … I’m surprised to hear he took his own life. He never seemed the kind who would oblige the world by leaving it of his own volition. Oh, dear! Today of all days …”

“I have a plan to deal with the inconvenience of it all, Styles. You must relay all this to Mrs. Bolton and you must both …” He swore the butler, and through him the housekeeper, to silence and ensured they would maintain a cordon sanitaire between the house, including family, guests and servants, and the wood, where discreet police activity might be expected.

Styles hurried to assure Joe that he perfectly understood and would act as prescribed until further orders. “Lady Cecily …?” he began to enquire.

“I shall take it upon myself to break the news, Styles. At some time
after
the arrival of the guests,” he added carefully.

Styles nodded and appeared relieved. He picked up his tray and set off eagerly with his pot of tea and his budget of news to enliven his weekly heart-to-heart with the housekeeper.

A
N INVENTORY OF
the guests seemed to be Joe’s next most urgent task. Who was where and in whose company was something he had to establish without raising an alarm. He hurried along to the breakfast parlour where he came upon a convivial scene. The usual male breakfast club seemed to be forming up, helping themselves to bacon and devilled kidneys from heated chafing dishes laid out on a sideboard. A pair of footmen, one of them the indefatigable Ben, were standing by in attendance at the tea and coffee urns. Joe caught sight of a dish of fragrant kedgeree and was sorely tempted to join the party but he had things more urgent than smoked haddock on his mind.

Two of the gentlemen, Ripley and Somerton, were well into their breakfast, judging by the state of their plates. A third had just arrived. Alexander, to Joe’s surprise, was languidly questioning the footman on the provenance of the coffee and extending a shuddering hand to reject his suggestion of sausages and bacon.

Joe sidled up to him. “Early riser, Truelove?”

“Not by nature, Sandilands. Exceptionally—on a Sunday.
Mama sent up a footman to boot me out of bed. She won’t countenance my missing the Parade of Stallions. Especially not the Midsummer parade. The whole village will be there on the lawn with flags and ribbons and bells and babies. They may even have put up a maypole.” Alex shuddered again.

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world!” Joe said, grinning.

“Good man! I say, Sandilands …” Alex leaned closer. “Not so bleary-eyed I hadn’t noticed … You might like to nip up to your room and change your shirt. Blood-stained cuffs not really acceptable at the breakfast table, you know.”

Joe stared at his cuffs in dismay.

“So that was
you
out there popping off a gun at some unearthly hour, was it? Bothering God’s creatures?” Alex delivered the reprimand with a smirk and tweaked a sprig of bracken from Joe’s tweed jacket. He dusted off Joe’s shoulders with the concerned reproof of a good valet.

“Styles sent me out to bag a brace of woodcock for breakfast,” Joe said lightly. “They’re probably under some chafing dish already masquerading as
délice de bécasse
on toast.”

“No woodcock to be had in Suffolk before they come flighting in halfway through October, old man. I wonder what it was you bagged?”

Annoyed and preoccupied, Joe muttered, “Woodpigeon then. Excuse me—before I go up …” He turned and addressed the room: “I say, you fellows … Has anyone clapped eyes on Mungo McIver this bright
A.M.?”

The two married men looked about them checking the company as though just noticing that the news baron had not yet come down. Looks were exchanged and then Basil Ripley offered a kindly but mischievous, “Last seen staggering upstairs with a half-drunk bottle of Napoleon after losing badly at snooker. He’s probably still in bed, sharing a pot of tea or something with the delightful Mrs. McIver. ‘Do Not Disturb’ and all that, Sandilands.”

Joe cocked an eyebrow at Ben who nodded confirmation.

“Of course! I understand,” Joe said. “It can wait. Look, I’m just going up to change and then if anyone wants to see me in the next half hour, will you tell them I’ll be down in the stables?”

They all mumbled that they’d oblige, speared another kidney and returned to the racing tips in Saturday’s newspaper.

A
MEDDLING
S
COTLAND
Yard heavyweight was the last man they wanted to see in the stables at this busy time. Joe knew that and was doubly impressed by the quiet civility with which he was greeted. The head groom, Wallace Flowerdew, stepped up to deal with him, drawing him carefully aside as a great horse clumped by. A team of men and boys was moving purposefully about in the gloom in an atmosphere of suppressed excitement that seemed to have communicated itself to the animals.

The Suffolk Punches, Joe could have sworn, knew that this was a special morning. Their wise old faces had taken on an animation, their ponderous movements seemed lighter. Joe noted how a hoof would be obligingly raised to the groom’s hand a second before he asked for it. They were enjoying the attention. Some oily unguent was being applied on cloths to their hides and rubbed in until their bulging sides and quarters glowed like conkers. Others, more advanced in the preparation, were having their manes and tails plaited up with red and blue ribbons. Everywhere, brass shone, leather gleamed and lads whistled cheerfully.

“That’s all right, sir. We can manage. I know why you’re here,” Flowerdew began when they had retreated to a quiet corner of the yard. He gave Joe a succinct account of the events of the April night when Lavinia had ventured into his stables. “It was my sons took her there, sir, to her death,” he concluded. “I feel responsible. Expected to get the sack. I’d have tanned their hides if the master hadn’t stepped in. ‘No, you don’t, Flowerdew!’ he says. ‘It was no fault of the boys. They were just obeying a very thoughtless
command under pressure. Send them to me. I intend to give them a half crown each for their trouble.’ And he did.”

Flowerdew’s knowing old eye slid across Joe’s, catching a flash of approval which emboldened him to add: “Aye! He’s a good master, sir. The best. You can always rely on him to put right what’s gone wrong as soon as he hears of it … An”e loves ’is ’osses!” He delivered the ultimate accolade in broad Suffolk. “He bought four new Punches this season and cancelled ’is order for two o’ them new-fangled tractor ploughs.”

Joe thanked him for his account and told him he had one or two quick questions for him. “What was the condition of the stallion Lucifer when he was bought by Sir James?” he began.

“Well, first, he wasn’t called ‘Lucifer.’ He was called ‘Joey’ when he arrived. Good price paid for him. He was perfect. Would have made a good breeding stallion. But then, he started playing up. Refusing the bridle, kicking about and playing silly buggers. Then he started refusing to come out of his stall and he took to biting anyone who came near him. That was when the master gave him, joking like, his new name.”

“Tell me, was Goodfellow involved with his care at any time?”

Flowerdew frowned. “As little as I could manage. I like to use my own lads. Oh, don’t get me wrong—Goodfellow’s a practised hand with horses right enough. Cavalry groom in the South African war. But he wasn’t home-trained. A bit harsh, if you know what I mean. I expect that’s war for you. No time to do things the proper way. In these stables we don’t ‘break’ horses, sir, we ‘gentle’ them. Master understands and wouldn’t have it any other way. Goodfellow’s better off larking about in the woods if you ask me. But once a horseman, always a horseman, I suppose. He’s always buzzing about getting in our way. Telling us our business.”

Joe took a deep breath. “Flowerdew, if I told you that the horse’s crazy behaviour was caused by a deliberate laceration to the soft tissue on the sides of its mouth, discovered and recorded
in his equine post-mortem by Mr. Hartest, the vet, would you be surprised?”

“No, sir. I’ve heard of that. Folk do it to ruin an animal at auction. Never happened around me before though. Wouldn’t have thought to look even if he’d let us get near enough to look inside his mouth.”

“If I suggested that Goodfellow might have inflicted the wounds?”

“No one else would have or could have done it. I had wondered. Will you tell Sir James or shall I? I think he should know. He won’t be best pleased.” The old horseman’s normally placid features became almost animated as satisfaction vied with anxiety.

“That’s all right, Flowerdew. I’ll tell him. I have some other news—not unrelated—to break to him. Leave it to me.”

S
O DISCREET WAS
the police presence Joe thought that Hunnyton had not received his message. A few yards from the open door of Virbio’s cabin, a uniformed bobby stepped forward, large right hand extended to bar his way. Recognition followed and he asked, “Commissioner Sandilands? Go right inside. The inspector’s waiting for you.”

“Not waiting exactly,” said a cheerful voice from inside. “I’ve just about solved this one while you were toying with your toast.”

The corpse was still in place, as was the rifle. Hunnyton’s murder bag lay open at the foot of the bed. The superintendent was in control and relishing it. He was making a sketch of the scene on a sheet of graph paper. Joe was about to step forward and help himself to a pair of rubber gloves when Hunnyton called out crisply, “No! Stay where you are! Sorry, Sandilands, but would you mind plonking your plates of meat on that piece of newspaper I’ve laid out for you behind the door?” He peered meaningfully at Joe’s feet. “Ah! Changed into your brogues, have you? Those
were
your tennis shoes the constable and I found traces of in the
vicinity of the body? Dunlops, ribbed soles, size twelve, scarcely worn? Your left foot was rather dramatically outlined in blood. Just stay out of the way, will you? I can’t be doing with a fresh pair of Lobbs blundering on stage. I shall have to log four pairs plus any imprints the killer might have left, of course. So far no trace of
him
.”

“I’m just on my way to church. Blood-stained shirt and shoes … wouldn’t want to frighten the vicar …” Joe began.

“He’s seen worse! The Rev. Easterby was a front line padré in the last lot. Just help me out here—I’m assuming this fingerprint in blood on the neck of the body is yours.”

“I’ll supply my prints for the record, of course. Yes, the man was still alive when I got here. I rushed forward to offer assistance. Nothing I could do for him. I stood there by his side and said a prayer to Diana …”

“Crikey! Super Plod turns up to administer the last pagan rites? That must have sent him off rejoicing!”

Hunnyton looked up, puzzled, from his notebook and focussed on Joe’s face. “Good God, man!” And, more seriously, “What’s happened to you, Joe? You look bloody awful! Your face is bleeding.”

“The recently deceased threw a log at me yesterday. The wound opened up again when I was rolling around on the forest floor dodging bullets on my way back to the Hall an hour ago. Is this Suffolk or the Somme? Not sure.”