The Poacher's Daughter, page 11
Rosie nodded again. ‘Would you like a drink, Mr Foster?’ She was surprised how steady her voice sounded and wondered if she ought to be showing a bit more concern. Perhaps being too calm was a giveaway in itself.
She stood up to go to the scullery but paused to look down into the policeman’s face. ‘He hasn’t got a gun, Mr Foster.’ This at least was the truth now. It was at the bottom of Byron’s lake. She always thought of everything as belonging to Byron already. Not his father, not William Ramsey, but Byron. In her mind the manor, the lake, the stream and the estate, all were Byron’s.
They sat together in front of the fireplace, but conversation was awkward and stilted. At last, PC Foster said, ‘I’d best be going, but be prepared for another visit later. I’ll try to come with them, but I might not be allowed. My superiors’ – there was a hint of bitterness in his tone – ‘have a habit of wanting to take all the limelight from a simple copper such as me.’ He picked up his helmet from the table, glancing once more at the note. ‘Anyway, lass, I hope all goes well. Let’s hope they don’t find owt, eh?’
‘They won’t, Mr Foster. There’s nowt to find.’
Douglas Foster eyed her keenly and then nodded. ‘Aye, well, lass, I hope you’re right, because now he’s gone off – for whatever reason – you’re the one they’ll be looking to. Someone shot that gamekeeper on Sunday night and, as far as I know, there’s only you and your dad who are known poachers around here.’
A shudder of dread ran through her.
Fourteen
Britain had declared war on Germany at 11 p.m. on Tuesday, 4 August. On the Friday morning, Byron stood at the top of Steep Hill in Lincoln looking down over the city. To his left was the cathedral, to his right the castle. Slowly he turned to the left and walked towards the towering building. Inside it was gloomy, but peaceful. Oh how he needed peace; peace from the disaster his married life had become, peace from the turmoil in his heart and mind over Rosie. He had delivered his wife and son to her parents’ home in Stamford the previous day, had stayed the night and was now travelling back and had called into the city as he returned home. He loved the cathedral and, if ever he’d needed some moments of solitude and tranquillity, it was now.
‘They must stay here as long as necessary, until that dreadful man has been caught,’ Pearl’s mother had said. ‘Are you sure you can’t stay too, Byron? You’re very welcome.’
Byron had shaken his head, pretending reluctance and citing his duties at home helping his father run the estate. But they all knew this was an excuse; William still held the reins firmly in his grasp despite his promise to hand everything over to his son. Admittedly, he involved Byron much more now in the organization and running of the estate, but nothing had been put down on paper yet. William was still the legal owner and there was Jack Pickering, the estate bailiff, too, overseeing everything. The Thornsby estate did not, at the present time, need its heir.
He sat in a pew, but couldn’t think how to form a prayer, though he badly needed to pray. He needed guidance because he didn’t know what to do. He couldn’t think how he could reach out to help Rosie without innocently making things worse for her. He was sure she hadn’t actually shot the gamekeeper herself, but if she had been with her father that night, she could be considered an accessory. Now, Byron shivered in the coolness of the cathedral’s cavernous interior. He wasn’t aware of how long he had been sitting there, but at last he rose stiffly to his feet. Dropping a few coins into the offertory box, he went out into the bright light of the day and walked along the road to where Monty was waiting with the carriage. He was about to climb in when he saw a group of men walking together, laughing and joking. A little way behind them there was another group and beyond them yet more, all walking in the same direction.
‘What’s going on, Monty? Do you know?’
‘It’s been going on for over an hour, sir. There must have been a hundred men or more gone by me.’
‘Why? Where are they all going?’
‘I stopped one of ’em and asked him. The army barracks is along the road there, sir. They’re going to make enquiries as to how they can volunteer. It’s been in the newspaper today that the new Secretary for – for—’ Monty hesitated.
‘For War?’ Byron offered helpfully.
‘That’s it, sir, yes. That he’s calling for one hundred thousand volunteers to join the army. That’s an awful lot of men, isn’t it, Master Byron?’
‘It is, Monty,’ Byron murmured. He was silent for a long moment before saying, ‘I know I’ve kept you waiting a long time already and I’m sorry, but would you mind waiting a little longer?’
‘Of course not, sir, though could I ask a favour?’
‘Do you need money to get something to eat?’
‘No, no, sir. It’s not that. It’s just that when we get back, Mr Brown’ll likely clip my ear for being away so long. Would you explain to him?’
‘Of course I will. I’ll try not to be too long,’ he said, as he turned and began to follow the men all walking in the same direction.
At the same time that Byron was walking towards the barracks, a knock came at the door of Rosie’s cottage. Douglas Foster stood there again, but this time he had a plain clothes officer with him.
‘Rosie, lass. A team of detectives have come from Lincoln to investigate Darby’s death. They’re going to search your place again and you’ll have to come to the police station in Alford for a formal interview. I’ve told them I’ve already questioned you and searched your cottage, but they want to do it for themselves. I’m sorry about this, lass.’
‘Am I being – arrested?’
‘Only if you don’t co-operate,’ the other man said sharply. He had fair hair and piercing blue eyes which, she was sure, never missed a thing. Dressed in a smart suit, his manner was superior and Rosie felt he looked down his nose at her. To him, she was nothing more than a country girl, who was known to be a poacher and might well be a murderess too.
‘This is Detective Inspector Cowley,’ Douglas Foster said. ‘If you’ll come with us, Rosie . . .’
As she left her home, four police officers moved into the cottage to begin their search.
Surprisingly, Rosie had never been inside the police station in the nearby town. Douglas Foster lived in the village and, if they needed his help or advice, all the villagers would traipse to his front door. He had always been a friendly, caring community policeman and this was the biggest case he had ever had to manage. In truth, he was quite relieved to be able to hand it over to his superiors, and yet, he was worried for Rosie. He looked upon the local inhabitants of Thornsby and its estate as his ‘flock’, in much the same way as he believed the vicar did.
Arriving at the police station in Alford, Rosie looked about her with interest. She was not in the least fazed or frightened. She would stick to her story – the same one she had told PC Foster. Much of it was the truth and the one or two lies were easy to remember. She had repeated the details to herself so many times now that she almost believed it was all true. Even so, as she sat in the cold, stark interview room with the detective and Douglas sitting on the opposite side of the table, she couldn’t stop her heart beating faster; it felt as if there was a bird fluttering inside her chest.
‘Now, Miss Waterhouse. Some of my questions will perhaps be the same as PC Foster has asked you, but I need to hear them for myself.’
‘Of course,’ Rosie answered as calmly as she could.
At first, he did just that; asking the same questions as Douglas had done. Now and again, however, he threw in an additional one but Rosie was ready for them.
‘So you went to Skegness early on the morning of Bank Holiday Monday.’
Rosie nodded.
‘Did you see your father that morning?’
‘No, I went out very early. I didn’t want to miss all the excitement and fun.’
‘Did you look in on him?’
‘No, I didn’t want to disturb him.’ She forced a cheeky grin. ‘He might have tried to stop me going.’
Douglas smiled a little, but Chris Cowley remained stony-faced. ‘You say you got back late on the Tuesday night? So, did you stay two days in Skegness?’
‘No. I left late on Monday night’ – she recalled that Douglas had only asked when she got back home, not how long she’d stayed at the seaside town – ‘to walk home, but I got very tired. There was a barn in a field on the road coming out of Skegness with a hay loft.’ She sighed expressively. This was a new lie she’d invented in the darkness of a sleepless night. ‘I know I was trespassing, but I was so tired. I didn’t do any harm.’
‘So, then, you walked the rest of the way home on the Tuesday. Is that right?’
‘Yes. I’d slept a long time so I was late getting back here and I went straight to bed.’
‘Wouldn’t your father have been worried about you being away for two days?’
Rosie hadn’t thought she might be asked this. She hadn’t practised an answer. For a moment, she was at a disadvantage. Then she smiled. ‘I’ve always been allowed a lot of freedom. He knows I can look after myself.’
Again, the inspector repeated Douglas’s questions about finding the note.
There were a few more questions which Rosie answered easily before she was taken to a cell to await their decision.
‘What do you think, Douglas?’ The two men had known each other for several years. They’d trained together, but while Douglas had happily remained a ‘country copper’, Chris Cowley had risen through the ranks.
‘You know these people better than I do. Is it true her father is a poacher?’
‘Yes, it is, but he’s not a killer. Not of people anyway.’
‘Did he have a gun?’
‘He may have done, but not that I know. They’re noisy things for a poacher in a small community like ours. Using one might well have brought the gamekeeper running.’
‘You searched the house on Wednesday? Is that right?’
Douglas nodded. ‘Yes, straight away after Darby had been found.’
‘And d’you believe her story of walking all the way to Skegness?’
‘Yes, I do. I’ve asked around and no one has said they saw her on Monday or Tuesday.’
The inspector sighed. ‘But they’ll cover for one of their own, won’t they?’
‘Aye, I don’t doubt that. And no one admits to hearing a shot on Sunday night either.’
‘Not even Mr Ramsey at the manor?’
‘No, but then if there was only one shot fired, it’s believable,’ Douglas said.
‘Yes, I know what you mean. It might have wakened them but they wouldn’t be sure. So, no one suspected foul play or carried out a search until Darby was reported missing.’
‘And because he lives alone at the moment, he wasn’t missed until’ – Douglas wrinkled his forehead – ‘Wednesday morning. Ted from the pub got in touch to say that Darby hadn’t been into the pub since Saturday night and although he was new to the area, it was unusual. Ted said the new gamekeeper went in most nights for a pint and’ – he chuckled – ‘to pick up the local gossip.’
‘Darby wasn’t married, then?’
‘About to be, I understand.’
The inspector pulled a face. ‘That’s sad.’
They were silent for several moments until the inspector said slowly, ‘I don’t think there’s much more we can do. I’m inclined to believe most of her story.’
‘We’re not going to break her. She’s a tough little nut, is Rosie.’
‘Is the note in her father’s handwriting?’
‘I believe so, but he could just as easily have been leaving because he’d killed the gamekeeper or, like she said, he’d decided to volunteer.’
‘And that’s the bit I don’t quite believe, Douglas. It’s a bit too convenient.’
‘Aye, well, he won’t be the only one to volunteer from the village. There’s a lot of excitement among the young fellers.’ His kindly face fell into lines of sorrow. ‘I only wish they realized what they’re letting themselves in for.’
‘So are you inclined to believe that her story about her father volunteering might be true?’
‘If what I’ve heard is to be believed, Sam did want to join the army some years ago, just after he lost his wife, but he had the bairn to look after by then.’
‘Mm.’ Chris Cowley was thoughtful for a few moments again and then seemed to come to a decision. ‘I’ll put out a “wanted” notice on Sam Waterhouse. He’s definitely the one we really need to find. We’ll release the girl from custody but keep an eye on her. If she stays around, then I think she’s innocent, but if she leaves suddenly, then . . .’ He shrugged his shoulders, but Douglas understood exactly what he meant.
Exhausted by the questioning, the hours in the uncomfortable cell and the constant anxiety, Rosie knocked on Nell’s door and fell into her arms.
‘Come on, lass. Sit yarsen down. I’ve a nice stew on the hob.’
‘I couldn’t eat a thing, Aunty Nell.’
‘You should try. I bet you haven’t had anything all day, have you?’
Nell fussed around the girl, as much to keep her own mind off Sam as wanting to take care of his daughter. When the plate of steaming meat and vegetables was placed in front of her, Rosie found that, after all, she was hungry.
‘I’m not going to bombard you with a lot of questions. I bet you’ve had enough of them today. Just tell me about it when you’re ready.’
They both ate in silence and then sat by the range. Rosie leaned her head back and closed her eyes.
‘Have a sleep, lass. I can see you’re shattered. You can stay here the night, if you want. Sleep in Nathan’s bed. He won’t mind. He’ll sleep in the easy chair by the range.’
Rosie opened her eyes and sat up. ‘I will, if you don’t mind – stay with you tonight, I mean. I can’t face going home yet. They’ve searched our cottage again. Four great clod-hopping constables. I bet the place is a right mess.’
‘I’ll come and help you tomorrow. We’ll soon have it ship-shape.’
‘What on earth do you mean, you can’t find any evidence to arrest her?’ William Ramsey stormed at the inspector standing in front of him. He didn’t even ask the officer to take a seat or offer him refreshment. ‘The girl is as guilty as sin.’
Calmly, Chris Cowley said, ‘That’s as may be . . .’ Reluctantly, he added a courteous ‘sir’, though he was averse to pandering to the likes of William Ramsey. Just because the man had a few bob, owned some land and held sway over people’s lives and fancied himself as the local ‘squire’, it didn’t make him a gentleman in the policeman’s mind. That was one thing about being an upholder of the law; it gave him authority over others, no matter who they were – or who they imagined they were. The only people for whom Chris Cowley had deference were his superior officers. ‘But,’ he went on now, ‘we have to have evidence before we can arrest someone and the girl answered all my questions to my satisfaction.’
‘If it’s not her,’ William growled, ‘then it’s her father.’
‘Quite possibly, sir. But he’s not here.’
‘Then find him, dammit.’
‘I have circulated a “wanted” notice to other forces, but I fear that if what the girl says is true and he has indeed volunteered, then it might not be so easy to extricate him from the army.’
‘But he’s a murderer. Of course, the army will release him to stand trial.’
The inspector said nothing. Did the blustering man in front of him not understand that perhaps at this very moment Sam Waterhouse was being trained to kill other human beings in the name of war? Of course, it was a very different situation; Chris understood that. One was unlawful killing, the other was sanctioned by the government of the day in defence of the realm. But arguing with William Ramsey would serve no purpose and might get him into trouble with his superiors.
‘I’ll see what I can do, sir,’ was all he said.
‘Mind you do,’ William said curtly and Chris found himself dismissed.
Fifteen
The following day, Rosie and Nell tidied the small cottage.
‘At least they haven’t broken anything,’ Nell said, as she washed all the pots and pans and placed them on the shelf in the scullery.
‘Actually, they’ve been very good.’
‘I expect Douglas was in charge of them and, despite him being the local bobby, he’s one of us. Mebbe he told ’em to be careful.’
Rosie sighed. ‘He’s been very fair with me, really. He was only doing his job.’
‘Aye well, he can’t show favouritism, lass, not when there’s wrong been done.’
Silence fell between them. They were each thinking about Sam in their own way.
‘You’re going to do what?’
Calmly, Byron faced his father. ‘I am going to volunteer for the army.’
William stared at his son, his expression thunderous. ‘Then you’re a bloody fool.’ He was silent for several long moments, seeming to struggle with his son’s proposal.
‘What’s brought this on?’
Byron explained how he’d followed the lines of men heading for the barracks in Lincoln and how he’d felt the compulsion to help defend his country.
‘You’ve no need to go,’ William argued. ‘You’re running a big estate . . .’
Byron raised his eyebrows. ‘Not exactly, Father. You haven’t really let go of the reins yet, have you?’
‘Then I will.’ William sat bolt upright. ‘I’ll sign everything over to you this very day. I’ll send for my solicitor now.’ He half rose, as if to pull the bell to summon a servant.
Byron was shaking his head. ‘Father, I have given my word that I will return on Monday and sign up properly. I can’t – and won’t – go back on my promise. They’ll be forming some sort of service battalion in answer to Lord Kitchener’s request for volunteers. No doubt I shall be drafted into that.’
