I embarked on my rail journey back from Lichfield almost fully satisfied with what I had achieved – though the visit I had sought would not happen immediately, it was promised. However, the evening newspaper that I bought was full of an account of a grievous murder. A young man had been slain out of hand by a woman – stabbed over twenty times as he lay with her. She was now rightly on trial. It seemed the whole train was tutting in disgust. I was myself. I read further. This vile, foul harlot’s victim, an Oxford student, had been walking with a group of fellow-undergraduates who had encouraged him to befriend her. They had adjourned to a back alley, and intercourse had taken place. When it was over, she had produced a knife from her pocket and attacked him, with fatal results. What a foul crime. But I had missed one salient detail, had I not? The fallen woman – was a girl of eleven. She swore she had never been with a man before. Prosecuting counsel mocked the notion, as if it was normal for a child of that age to make a living from prostitution. The editorial stigmatized her as a vile Jezebel – yes, Mr Pounceman’s language.
All I could imagine was a little girl, raped for a rich young man’s pleasure, retaliating in the only way she knew. And almost certainly, without the very best of defence lawyers, she would hang.
I had walked to the estate station for the early train, and now strode back to my house, in such a fury that I noticed nothing of my surroundings. I believe I even forgot about Harriet. Still wearing my hat, I believe, I wrote an urgent letter to my cousin, the lawyer with the eye for a good contract: he must know criminal lawyers. Could he mobilize help for the child on trial? I would pay for anything necessary. Will stared at the envelope, dumbfounded by my insistence that it must reach the post tonight: he must ride into the village if necessary. The last collection was at nine o’clock.
Still flooded with energy, what might I do now? All I wanted to do was rush to the House and beg to see Harriet, but I had to accept the counsel Beatrice had left me in a short – and not well-spelt – note: Harriet was much better, but had agreed to spend another day in bed. It would be best to partake in my own house of a meal Beatrice had sent there. If Harriet asked, Beatrice would say my business had no doubt detained me.
I hoped her advice was good. What if she were somehow trying to split us apart? I had imagined once that she was developing a tendresse for me.
Heavens! I was thinking like a lovelorn youth, an arrogant one to boot. I burned with shame for even thinking like a foolish cad. I only had to look around my house. Beatrice had been as good as her word: whoever she had sent had made the whole place gleam, from the back kitchen to the top corridor no one ever used. Clean linen graced all the beds, with fresh-cut lavender hung in bunches from the curtains and laid in pretty sprays on all the pillows. The windows, newly-cleaned, had been left ajar: since clouds were building, hinting at rain, I closed most of them, but spent some time in my own bedchamber, gazing out on the scene before me, elbows resting on the window sill, and my head in my hands.
My supper was laid on a table in the morning room. I lit the lamps, forgetting to draw the curtains. Soon a big moth – when I was a child my nurse had called it a bob-howler and I couldn’t recall ever having learnt the proper name – tried to immolate itself in the flame. I caught it, clasping it loosely in my cupped hands, and released it, closing the window firmly behind it and then drawing the curtains lest it start bringing reinforcements to try again.
It did not take me long to finish my supper; I could not recall afterwards what I had eaten. I found it impossible to concentrate on reading the latest novel by George Eliot – I was sure on another occasion I would be entranced by it, but not tonight. Would I be able to discuss it one day with Harriet? It was she who had recommended it after all.
It was much too early to retire for the night.
After a while staring at nothing, I headed for my study, reached for a sheaf of paper, and sharpened some pencils. There must be some way of collating the random pieces of information we had gathered and making coherent sense. But if there was, I could not find it, and retired to bed, seeking consolation, as my parents would have suggested, in the Bible and in prayer.
My heart was still heavy the following morning after an uneasy night’s sleep. How had Harriet fared? Probably worse than I. And I was not there to comfort her – had no right to be. But handwringing would get me nowhere. I had work to do and responsibilities to assume.
The overnight rain having cleared, I walked up to the House, knowing that even if my appeal to my cousin would not affect the Oxford child’s fate I had done something. Then I forced myself to start my working day, by simply looking around me. Yes, I was pleased with what I saw of the estate. The lake was almost ready for his lordship’s pleasure boats to row on – all the foul silt had now been tipped out of sight and, more important, out of smell. Where the grass had been damaged by the carts transporting the muck, it was now growing nicely again, with only the deeper ruts still showing. The storm-damaged trees were being cut back. Scaffolding on the roof showed that progress was being made there. Somewhere on the far edge of the estate someone was burning rubbish. Gardeners were trimming the edges of the beds; one was obviously gathering flowers for the House. Two trugs were already overburdened. Traditionally the lady of the house would arrange them; would her ladyship bestir herself? If she declined, would Harriet be well enough to add them to her other duties?
As I got within sight of the House a lad hurtled towards me, so out of breath from his exertion that it was a full minute before he could gabble words about gentlemen one of whom wasn’t a gentleman but he shouldn’t say that … Cut to its core, the message was that Sergeant Burrows and Elias were waiting for me in the entrance hall. At least they would be thoroughly intimidated by the time Thatcher escorted them to my office.
I took care to check my attire before dispatching Thatcher. Then I sent him off to fetch us tea. I was tempted to check that he had closed the door firmly but told myself that the time to ensure privacy was when I suspected that things other than polite preliminaries were being said.
At last, tea cups in their hands, the officers leant forward as if they too wanted to ensure confidentiality.
‘It’s about her ladyship, Mr Rowsley,’ Sergeant Burrows said in a stage whisper.
I raised a hand, and, treading quietly, opened the study door. ‘Thatcher, when I want you I will ring for you. There is no need for you to wait there.’
His back, as he imitated Samuel’s stately gait down the corridor, told me he was much offended.
I returned to the far side of my desk, a move which seemed to subdue my visitors, an effect which deepened as I put paper and pencil before me. ‘Her ladyship,’ I prompted.
‘Is she … all there?’ Burrows touched his forehead.
‘You would have to ask her medical man, Dr Page,’ I said. ‘I am so little acquainted with her ladyship I cannot offer an opinion either way.’
‘And where would we find this Dr Page?’
‘I’m sure Elias can help. It’s a pleasant stroll on a day like this. He’s had to treat a cricket injury or two, hasn’t he, Elias?’
‘Put my shoulder back in after I dislocated it,’ he said.
Burrows looked at me sharply. ‘You mix with the villagers?’
‘I am proud to call some of them teammates, and one or two my friends.’
‘What about your employees, here on the estate: how well would you say you know them?’
I should have seen this coming. ‘Some very well. Others less so.’
‘Would you know any of them well enough to think they might have murdered his lordship?’
‘What?’ I was on my feet. ‘He is dead and you have not yet told me?’
‘I didn’t say he was, and I can’t say he isn’t. There’s still no sign of him, Mr Rowsley. And I can tell you, in confidence, that having left Nutsall Place he did not arrive at Kemberly House, where Lord Palfrey was expecting him.’
‘Neither is very close to where his vehicle was found,’ Elias pointed out.
‘But then, if one were minded,’ I mused, ‘one might kill – or kidnap! – his lordship and drive off in the vehicle before disposing of it. Kill or kidnap Luke too, of course.’
Burrows raised a finger. ‘Assuming Luke – that would be Luke Hargreaves? – assuming he wasn’t the killer or kidnapper.’
Considering that I had been floating the possibility only the previous day, I believe I simulated loyal anger quite well. ‘Luke? A good employee, with a very bright future.’ And a father with a prize sow capable of killing and eating a man. ‘And how would he dispose of not just his employer but a quantity of luggage, too?’ The irony of this conversation was not lost on me. I hoped Alf would not have to endure a similar one. ‘Surely this argues …’ I nearly said, collusion. After what dear Harriet had found, it might well be that others from the estate were involved. I thought of the neat beanrows flourishing in cottage gardens – a man’s body would fit neatly under the canes. Of the huge piles of sludge that might cover even four fine horses. ‘Surely this argues that his lordship and his valet were attacked by a gang – of horse thieves, perhaps, since his lordship always bought the very best team. Have the horses been traced?’
‘The horses – well, I suppose a gang of gypsies could make them vanish into thin air. Just like that!’ he snapped his fingers.
‘Exactly. And they’d turn up at a horse fair a different colour and no questions asked or answered.’ Should I float the idea of fences and valises? On the whole I thought not. But there were other things that in all conscience they ought to know – the trophies. Since Harriet was unwell, they were presumably exactly where she’d left them. Presumably. But what if, having made an undertaking, she insisted on keeping her word, illness or no? I must simply keep quiet until I had spoken to her, even if technically I was concealing evidence. Possible evidence. I would simply have to speak to her.
The conversation continued for several more minutes; it became harder and harder to conceal my impatience. But I must smile and smile, even if I feared I was being a villain. But lie I could not, not when Burrows said, ‘You are clearly a model employee, Mr Rowsley. Everywhere I look I see evidence of your diligence. Surely you must have had many meetings with his lordship – if any man could make a judgement of his character, you could.’
‘Between these four walls? How would any young man be who had been indulged from birth and suddenly found himself in possession of a great deal of money react? In my time I have worked for landowners with a profound sense of responsibility, both for their families and for all those in their spheres, servants, tenants, local villagers. I found none of this in his lordship. Other people – like Elias here – have been acquainted with him longer than I have: you should seek their opinions too.’
‘Please do not tell me what I should and should not do, Mr Rowsley. Why are you laughing, may I ask?’
‘Because that was what his lordship said to me, if only in as many words. You are doing your job, sergeant; he never had a job to do, and like many others is the worse for it. He was a spendthrift, as we know. Maybe he had gambling debts and it was better for him to disappear.’ I spread my hands. ‘Or, since he liked the company of ladies, perhaps he annoyed one husband too many. I just wish I knew, Burrows – there are some urgent tasks that I really need his authorisation for before I start them.’
At long last they left, but I had a strong feeling that they would be back. Now it was not a matter of the tenderness of my affections, it was imperative I spoke to Harriet, with or without a chaperone.
Perhaps I was more abrupt than usual when I asked one of her housemaids where Mrs Faulkner might be. Certainly she looked very scared as she bobbed her answer. ‘In the Room, I suppose, Mr Rowsley.’
I strode down the corridor, knocking before I entered. And found her, hat on, valise in hand.
‘My dearest Harriet!’ Had I shut the door? I didn’t care. ‘What are you doing?’