M RS. JONES LED me through the kitchen to the back door that opened to the garden.
“I can call him, Miss, if you’d rather.”
Weaver either had not noticed us come to the door or refused to pay attention. I couldn’t tell.
“Don’t worry. I’m sure you’ve got things to take care of.”
I didn’t particularly want her to remain at the door watching us, although the bench was well out of earshot. Reluctantly she stepped back inside and I started to make my way toward it. The rain was a cold slap. The yellow leaves strewn across the lawn were splotched with dark circles like some arboreal warning of the Black Death. I was almost at the bench before Weaver turned around. He didn’t seem startled. He didn’t get up, just drew more deeply on his cigarette.
“You have to be the private detective Mrs. Jessop has hired.”
His voice was totally neutral, neither friendly nor hostile.
I extended my hand. “I’m Charlotte Frayne. You must be Sam Weaver. You were Mr. Jessop’s valet.”
Rather slowly, he accepted my handshake. His hand was icy cold. No gloves, no scarf or hat. The rain had reddened his face, which had an oddly squashed look to it as if he had spent time as a pugilist. He must have been in his forties, but he looked much older. Ravaged was the word that came to mind.
“I’ve already said everything I know to the police.”
“I’m sure you have and I wouldn’t be asking again, except that Mrs. Preston Jessop has hired me to go over the facts. I believe she has informed you of that.”
He blew out smoke. “She won’t accept it, will she? He killed himself, like the doctor said, when the balance of his mind was disturbed.”
“You accept that verdict, do you?”
That got a bit of a reaction out of him. “What else could it be? He’d had it. Couldn’t stand it anymore. He finally did the deed.”
“You mean he’d tried to kill himself on other occasions?”
“No. I didn’t mean that. I meant it was something he’d thought about over the years.”
“He shared his thoughts with you, did he?”
“That’s right.”
“That must have been hard for you. Was there no professional help available?”
I hadn’t meant to offend him, I was sincere. But take offence he did. He scowled at me ferociously, intensifying the impression of a man used to violent exchanges.
“He went to several clinics, but they was useless. Just wanted their money. None of them white coats were soldiers. None of them had been out there like I had. He got comfort talking to me. I was there. I knew what it was like. I don’t know what you mean, ‘hard on me.’ It wasn’t hard to listen.”
“I’m sorry. You’re referring to your experiences during the war? You were Mr. Jessop’s batman were you not?”
“I was. We was lads together, a few years apart only, but he was as good a master as you could ever hope for. Then and since.”
His lips were trembling and he struggled to contain his tears. I wanted to touch his hand, but I suspected such comfort would not be welcome.
He got another cigarette from the package. Then in the middle of lighting it he remembered his manners.
“Would you like one?” He shook up a cigarette.
“No, thanks.”
“I’m not used to women puffing else I would have asked you right away.”
“Of course. Thanks. I haven’t taken up the habit.”
“Good for you. Tell the truth I don’t like to see women smoking. Bad enough us men do.”
“Did Mr. Jessop smoke?”
“No. It was too painful. He’d lost pieces off his mouth you see. Anything too hot or too cold hurt him.”
He had regained his composure and was focussing on taking in smoke to the bottom of his lungs.
“You mentioned clinics just now. I understand Mr. Jessop was a heavy drinker.”
Weaver reacted. “Course he was. You’d be too if you suffered like he did.”
“The morphia didn’t help?”
“It sent him to sleep. He didn’t like that. His brain was too clever.”
“Hadn’t he just come back from a stint in a clinic?”
“Yep.”
“But he went back to drinking almost right away?”
Again, I’d inadvertently hit a trip wire and he glared at me.
“No. Not right away. He was sober as a judge for the last eight months. He was doing really well until—” he stopped abruptly.
“Until the night he died? I’ve read the coroner’s report. There was a lot of alcohol in his system.”
He nodded.
“Do you know where he obtained the liquor?”
“The policeman asked the same question and I gave him the same answer I’m giving you. I don’t know.”
“Nobody brought it in for him?”
“No. I sure didn’t, if that’s what you think. Nor any of the others. We all wanted him to stay sober. All of us. Besides I’d of seen it.”
“So you all had to be temperate whether you wanted to or not?”
He shrugged. “We’re none of us prisoners, you know. This is an old-fashioned household it’s true, but we do get days off. If anybody wants to go to the pub and have a bit of a tipple they can. Just not allowed on the premises.”
He didn’t have to tell me he was one of the servants who tippled on occasion. The message was clear.
I pressed on. “Many people drink heavily, but they don’t die from it. In this case Gerald Jessop took a heavy dose of morphia as well as a large amount of rum and got into a bathtub full of water. He seemed pretty determined to kill himself. I’m assuming in these previous attempts as you call them, he didn’t go that far.”
I was being a bit brutal, I know, but frankly I didn’t know how else to reach this man.
He slid a little further on the bench.
“No, he never went that far. Just took too much morphine.”
“Why do you think he did this time? Went too far, I mean.”
He shrugged. “Like I said, it was one thing too many.”
“What was that one thing?”
He went very still. “I don’t know. I couldn’t read his mind, could I?”
“There was no specific thing that happened? No arguments with anybody for instance? No bad news?”
He snorted. “Ha. We get that every day, don’t we? Mister Hitler is having fun over in Europe. Somebody’s going to have to stop him soon or we’ll all be at war again.”
“Given what Mr. Jessop went through in the previous war, I can understand that might have depressed him.”
“Depresses all of us that were over there. Bloody waste wasn’t it?”
He seemed as impervious to the weather as a tree, but I was starting to freeze. I was about to suggest we go inside when he began to stub out his cigarette. Old army style, he had a little tin box where he stashed the butt.
“You’re perishing,” he said. “Let’s go in. We can talk some more in there if you want to.”
At that moment the back door opened and barking at top volume, ears flapping, Duffy raced over at us. I could see that Mrs. Jones was standing on the threshold. I kept still, but Weaver reached down and snatched the dog up in his arms.
“Stop it you silly mutt. Nothing’s happening.” He gave her muzzle a little shake. “Quiet.”
She managed a muffled woof and he let her go. “You’ll never learn will you, silly goose. We’re all friends out here.”
“She must be upset by what’s happened.”
“Nah. Dogs don’t care. Here today, gone tomorrow. Long as you feed them, they’ll love you. Right Duffy?”
He put his face close to the dog’s and she licked him. In spite of his words, his voice was tender and to my eyes the little scoundrel loved him.
I heard Mrs. Jones call to us.
“You two are going to catch your death. I’ve made a pot of tea. Come and get it.”
We both stood up and Weaver placed the dog on the ground. She gave me a “I’m not giving up yet” sort of bark, but trotted after Weaver as we all headed for the door.
“The policeman is here,” the maid said to me. “He’s with Mrs. Jessop in the drawing room. I’ll bring you some tea, shall I?”
She was either a mind reader or my face was too revealing because she smiled at me.
“Would you prefer coffee?”
“That would be nice, thank you.”
Sam Weaver was one step ahead of us and without any farewell, he and Duffy disappeared into the servants’ parlour. Dolly backed into the hall and I followed her. From the direction of the kitchen, I could hear a woman crying.