The Prisoner in the Tower, page 13
part #3 of Drusilla Davanish Mystery Series
‘Did the doctor say what time he was killed?’ I asked.
‘He thought it would have been between one and five in the morning. The constable had started to interrogate the servants by the time I left. It seems everyone in Dittistone knew about the problems they were having with the Comte.’ He stood up then. ‘I must go, Drusilla. I promised the servants I would be back within the hour. I pray with all my heart that the murderer is not one of them.’ And a murmur of agreement ran around the room.
I did not believe they were responsible, for most of the servants were women and they must have been reassured by Richard’s promise to speak to the Comte this morning. The stables weren’t in use at present, and although a strong youth was employed to do heavy work and to carry messages, he lived in Dittistone, as did the gardeners. Pink was the only man who lived in the house itself.
The local constable called on me later to ask what Pink had said to us the previous day. I complied with his request, but commented in a firm voice, ‘I really do not believe he is the murderer.’
‘But, my lady, who else can it be? The Comte hadn’t met anyone on the Island, except Mr. Tanfield, Mr. Frère and the doctor. Mr. Pink denies it, of course. But then, villains always do.’
I pointed out, ‘You do know Pink fainted when he saw the body?’
He nodded. ‘He could have done that to make himself look innocent. Murderers get up to all sorts of tricks when they’re forced to face what they’ve done.’
‘Yes, but did he have blood on his clothes?’
‘No, my lady. I expect he got rid of them overnight.’ And he went on, ‘It must be Mr. Pink, my lady. There was no sign of an intruder breaking in.’
‘Well, it was very humid last night, even during the heavy rain, and I expect the windows would have been left open. So an intruder could easily have got in.’
When I reminded him that Mr. Fenton had been stabbed too, he scratched his head, and said he didn’t think Pink was responsible for that, as he couldn’t have known the man was on the Island. ‘I did check with the other servants, my lady, and they said Mr. Pink was in the house as usual that particular morning.’
‘Do you think we have two murderers at large on the Island then?’
The constable shook his head from side to side, several times. ‘It doesn’t seem likely, does it, my lady. It’s a rare puzzle this one.’ That was true, nevertheless the one thing I was absolutely certain of, was that Pink had not killed the Comte.
Frankly, I did not expect the constable to solve either crime, but what right did I have to make a judgement on his ability, when so far, Mr. Reevers and I had failed to solve Mr. Fenton's murder. Louis was still under suspicion, having been out alone at the time it happened, but I hoped Mr. Arnold would be able to settle that for me. I knew exactly when Louis had left for Cowes that fateful morning, and roughly how long it would take him to reach Mr. Arnold’s house, where he was to join them for breakfast. If he was the culprit, it must have delayed him by an hour or two. Probably nearer two, if he took Tarquin back to the Yarmouth inn. If Mr. Arnold could recall what time Louis arrived that morning, I would know if he was guilty or not.
Thus on Monday morning I set off for Cowes after breakfast, accompanied by Mudd, and called on Mr. Arnold at his office. But he could not help me. ‘I’m very sorry ma’am, but that was the day our youngest child was ill with a fever. My wife looked after her all night,’ he said, ‘and I took over at six so she could get some sleep. I sent for the doctor first thing, and everything was at sixes and sevens. Mr. Gauvan did take breakfast with us, as arranged, but what time he arrived, I cannot recall. When I got home that evening our daughter was very much better. But that’s children for you. Up one minute, down the next. Still, it was a great relief, I can tell you, ma’am.’
‘I can well believe it.’
‘I only wish I could be of more help.’
I told him not worry, and went on my way. I’d had such hopes that Mr. Arnold could make it clear whether or not Louis was innocent or guilty. Under normal circumstances he would have done, but worry about a child stopped parents thinking of anything else. I understood, and accepted that, although I found it immensely frustrating in this particular instance. But that was life.
My aunt and uncle were spending the day at Ledstone and I’d asked cook to leave me a cold meal, as I was uncertain what time I would be home. I was thankful I had made that arrangement, as I decided to call on Dr. Redding on the way back, as he was the only person who could answer one particular question on my mind. I decided to leave a note if he was out but, fortunately, I caught him just as he was about to leave to visit a patient. Not wishing to delay him, I asked my question at once, and he answered immediately, and without any doubt in his voice.
‘No, ma’am. Mr. Fenton and the Comte were definitely not killed with the same knife. Nor do I believe they were murdered by the same man. The weapon used on Mr. Fenton had a narrow blade, and as you know, he was killed with a single thrust to his heart. Whereas the Comte suffered a frenzied attack with a very much broader blade, and the murderer’s clothes would have been covered in blood.’ I thanked him and inquired if the constable had asked the same question. ‘I’m afraid not, ma’am. But I will inform him of it.’
He went on his way then, and after I talked to Mudd about what the doctor had said, I rode home deep in thought. Once there I enjoyed my cold meal of bread, cheese and ham, with tomatoes from the garden, and thought about the murders. At first it had seemed to me that two men stabbed within a few miles of each other, in just three weeks, suggested there was only one murderer. But, considering what Dr. Redding had said, I did not think that was likely now. Yet, it was hard to imagine there were two murderers at large in our small community, both using knives to kill.
If, as I believed, the turncoat had killed Mr. Fenton, then who could have stabbed the Comte? For, the Comte had spent the last two years in Spain, and had only been here a few days, and was laid up in bed the whole time. So, what possible reason could anyone on the Island have had for murdering him?
I thought about what Mr. Pitt had said when Mr. Reevers and I met him in London. That he had every faith in our ability to find the man who’d killed Mr. Fenton. I shook my head from side to side, a sardonic smile on my lips. For, frankly, neither of us had any idea who the turncoat was. Nor did I know what to do next.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
T he day had started with dull skies, but the clouds had completely disappeared in the last hour and collecting a parasol I went outside to enjoy the sunshine. As I put up my parasol I saw Mr. Reevers riding towards the house. I walked over to greet him, thankful for this unexpected opportunity to discuss the Comte’s murder, and our lack of progress in finding the traitor. A servant quickly took charge of his horse, and I suggested we went for a stroll in the garden. He agreed readily and I politely inquired if Mr. Morel had settled in at Norton House.
‘Yes, Tom’s no trouble at all. Actually he’s gone to see Giles today. They worked together for a short time in Paris,’ he said, and changing the subject he asked if I knew what had happened to the Comte. ‘I’ve only had a garbled version from my groom.’
I repeated everything that Richard had told us and ended by saying, ‘The constable is convinced Pink killed him, but I think it more likely that a man climbed through an open window during the heavy rain last night and stabbed the Comte. Dr. Redding said the knife used on the Comte had a much broader blade than the one that killed Mr. Fenton, and it was such a frenzied attack that the murderer’s clothes would have been covered in blood.’
He murmured thoughtfully, ‘Perhaps the Comte put up a fight. Although it wouldn’t have been easy in his weakened state.’
‘No, but he was the only one to get ashore alive when the yacht capsized in that storm.’
‘A survivor,’ he acknowledged. ‘Only this time his luck ran out. Was anything stolen?’
‘His rings. Apparently he wore four that were extremely valuable.’
‘Really?’ he responded, raising his eyebrows. ‘The killer stole from Fenton too.’ He didn’t speak for a minute or two as we walked along the winding path through the flower beds. I guessed he was searching for a connection between the two murders, in much the same way as I had. But, like me, he clearly ended up with the same uncertain result, for he couldn’t quite hide his exasperation when he muttered, ‘Perhaps smugglers did kill Fenton after all.’
I understood how he felt. I wished the answer was that simple too, but as I told him quietly, ‘The difficulty I have with that is, every instinct I possess tells me it wasn’t smugglers.’ Observing a faint smile on his lips, I remarked icily, ‘I suppose you don’t believe in a woman’s instinct.’
‘My dear girl, I would never be so rude. It so happens....’
‘I am not your dear girl.’
‘No,’ he whispered softly. Foolishly, I turned to look at him, and the expression in his eyes left me in no doubt what he did wish for.
I took a deep breath. ‘Mr. Reevers, working together for Mr. Pitt doesn’t mean......’
He held up his hands in surrender. ‘I beg your pardon. Actually I was about to explain it was instinct that saved me from the guillotine on the morning our agents were arrested.’
I glanced up at him in surprise. ‘But you told me it was going for a walk that saved you.’
‘That’s what I’ve told everyone,’ he admitted with a wry smile. ‘But the truth is I was woken by a thunderstorm, and when I tried to go back to sleep, something kept urging me to get out of my lodging with all possible speed. In my business, you don’t ignore that kind of instinct, no matter how hard it’s raining. But it’s not the kind of thing you admit to your colleagues.’ I understood that and said so, whereupon he told me, ‘And like you, my instinct tells me smugglers did not commit these murders.’
Reaching the walled garden, he opened the gate and politely waited for me to walk through first. As he followed, he observed, ‘Not a soul in sight. Not even a gardener’s boy.’ He raised an amused eyebrow at me. ‘What would your aunt say? Should I go and find a chaperone?’
I choked back the laughter rising in my throat and spluttered, ‘Don’t be absurd. We have to talk about these murders.’
‘Must we?’ he murmured provocatively. ‘I’d much rather not.’
I took a deep breath. ‘Mr. Reevers will you please be sensible.’ I shook my head at him, cursing the tremble in my voice. The difficulty with my decision not to marry Mr. Reevers was that, when in his company, I began to weaken.
Determined to get a firmer hold on my emotions, I took a deep breath, and he, seeing I was about to give him another set-down, did as I’d asked. ‘Oh, very well, the murders it shall be. But I cannot see any possible connection between Fenton and the Comte.’
My heart sank at those words, for I had hoped he could suggest a reason why the murderer had killed both men. There had to be a connection, surely. And, again, I had that odd feeling we had missed something.
Strolling round the walled garden we talked through every detail we had learnt about the two men, including their backgrounds. ‘Fenton lived in London,’ Mr. Reevers said, ‘but grew up in Kent. He was twenty-two, unmarried, educated at Eton and Cambridge, and had been a secret service messenger for almost a year. He was often sent to France, as he spoke the language perfectly. The Comte had a wife and son, and a large estate in the south of France, all of which he lost to the revolution two years ago. Since then he has lived quietly in Spain, until he set sail for London with two of his friends. He didn’t meet anyone here except Richard, the doctor and your uncle.’
‘Yes, and Fenton was killed to stop him warning you that the turncoat had betrayed all our Paris agents. But no-one knows why the Comte was murdered.’
‘Or even if it was the same killer.’
In some despair, I said, ‘But what was the motive? Robbery? That is the only thing that links the murders.’
‘They were both stabbed,’ he reminded me.
‘Yes, but not with the same knife. Or even the same kind of knife. Nor were they killed in the same way. Fenton suffered a single blow to his chest, and the Comte endured a frenzied attack. Nor do they have anything in common. Mr. Fenton was a decent, brave, patriotic young man. The Comte treated his servants like slaves and was an absolute tyrant.’
‘I agree, yet there must be an answer.’
That was when I told him I kept getting this odd feeling that we had missed something vital. Jago would have dismissed that without a thought, but Mr. Reevers didn’t. ‘In that case,’ he said, ‘let’s go back to the beginning and check out everything carefully.’
Thus, the following day, assisted by Mudd, we made a thorough search of the area in Ledstone woods where Mr. Fenton's body had been left. The undergrowth was dry and we pulled out as much of it as we could, in the hope of finding some clue to help us. But there was nothing. We spent the next two days, with Richard's permission, going through everything in Mr. Hamerton’s house with meticulous care, starting with the bedchamber the Comte had occupied. Again there was nothing. A few of the rooms were rather poky, forcing us to be in close proximity, but Mr. Reevers did not take advantage of it, much to my surprise. He appeared to be concentrating entirely on looking for anything that would lead us to the identity of the turncoat. Regrettably the whole exercise proved fruitless. And by then the Comte had been buried in Dittistone churchyard.
Spending so much time in the company of Mr. Reevers, yet having made up my mind not to marry him, I tried to behave with proper decorum. But the more I saw of him, the more I wanted to be with him, and the more I was forced to admit to myself what he really meant to me. Yet, I still refused to risk marriage.
In the beginning, when Mr. Pitt asked us to work together to solve Mr. Fenton's murder, I hadn’t expected it to take long, and that Mr. Reevers would then be sent elsewhere. But we had made no progress at all. And our surveillance of Jago and Louis only showed that they had not put a foot wrong in any way. They continued to assist Mr. Arnold with the émigrés, and were so busy they asked Mr. Morel if he would help, which he kindly did for a day or two.
The following day Lucie and Marguerite had invited Aunt Thirza and Julia to Ledstone Place, to discuss ideas for decorating the nursery for the baby, as they both had a flair for such matters. Lucie also wanted to show them all the lovely things she had bought in London for the child, and to ask if they knew of a suitable nursemaid. She’d invited Lizzie and Gisele too, out of politeness, and told me I would be welcome to join them if I wished. Lizzie accepted, but Gisele did not wish to go. Fortunately, Lucie knew it was not the sort of thing I enjoyed and I was easily able to decline the invitation and thank her for being so understanding.
Mr. Reevers and I should have spent that day searching for Mr. Fenton's killer, but we were at our wits’ end, unable to think of a single possibility we had not explored. It was then that an idea totally unrelated to that task, entered my head. The gathering of ladies at Ledstone Place meant that all the gentlemen would be at a loose end, and I decided to organise a picnic for them at Westfleet. When I told Mr. Reevers what I had in mind, he was most encouraging. ‘That’s a splendid idea. A relaxing day might help us to think more clearly.’
All the gentlemen accepted my last minute invitation, and the lovely weather we had been enjoying lately did not let us down. In fact, it was so hot I had the picnic table placed in the shade of the oak trees just beyond the end of the terrace. The servants brought out the food, which included jellies and fruit, as well as bread, cold meats and pies, wine, and jugs of freshly made lemonade.
Once everything was ready, my guests settled themselves at the table. Mr. Morel was impeccably dressed as usual, despite the heat, and as I left them to go back into the house, the others were teasing him over his amazing ability to look cool and neat in such hot weather. I was still smiling as I went inside to thank the servants for all their efforts and to suggest they had a picnic of their own, if they so wished. I was instantly greeted by Luffe, who informed me “The Times” had just arrived. And he added elatedly, ‘The boy who brought it was bursting with news.’ When he told me what all the excitement was about, I grabbed the newspaper and eagerly read the relevant report. It was the most wonderful news and after I’d read the thrilling account, I burst out happily, ‘I must tell the others, Luffe.’
All the doors and windows were open, and even as I headed out onto the terrace, I could hear a great deal of banter about how a secret agent lived in France, their voices carrying well in the still air. I heard Giles say, ‘Radleigh, do you remember that lodging I had when I first went to Paris. It was incredibly dirty, reeked of garlic, and....’
‘It was a palace compared to the one I’ve just left,’ Mr. Reevers interrupted, with a laugh, as I drew closer. ‘It was down a dreadful dark alley with stinking, rotten filth everywhere. In fact, Tom --------------’
Mr. Morel broke in jovially, ‘Nothing could be as bad as that ghastly place Louis and I shared when I first went to Paris.’ He smiled at me as I reached the table where they were sitting, and went on, ‘That was so rickety it actually fell down.’
Louis chortled, ‘Luckily we weren’t in it at the time.’ That made the others fall about with so much laughter, tears ran down their cheeks. Tom Morel took out his pristine handkerchief and dabbed at his eyes, then he folded it with meticulous precision before returning it to his pocket.
As he did so, Jago declared, ‘I don’t know how any of you could bear to live in such absolute squalor. I insisted on something half decent.’
‘You always were far too fastidious,’ Louis joked, and told the others, ‘Jago lived in clean lodgings, told everyone he was an artist, and only ever mixed with lawyers, doctors and other artists. While I got all the dirty jobs, wearing those ghastly sans-culottes clothes so that no-one would guess I was spying on the revolutionary leaders.’
