Sunday
The phone rang at seven o’clock Sunday morning, never a good sign. Inspector Devenand Hunter picked it up on the second ring and listened. It was Deputy Commissioner Olive himself, which made Dev sit up straighter and be grateful the old man could not see through the wires that he’d slept naked. It was hot already, and the day had barely begun.
Important People had evidently called Commissioner Horwood all night, and Horwood had called Deputy Commissioner Olive. Dev scribbled the particulars of the incident in question in the notebook he kept at his bedside, his heart dropping with each detail.
This assignment had his father’s fingerprints all over it. He might be retired from the force, but the force had not retired in him. As an old army man, he’d always had Horwood’s ear. Had they cooked this up between them in the middle of the night?
All Dev needed to do was go to the flat next door and ask. His mother, Chandani, would feed him a full English breakfast and Methi Ka Thepla, and his father, Harry, would pretend to be deaf and read his paper. Since his retirement, Harry Hunter bought every reputable newspaper—and some disreputable—from the newsagent’s shop on the ground floor of the building and spent hours pouring over them to keep himself abreast of news from around the world.
Thirty-five years ago, he had rejoiced in first-hand knowledge of Indian affairs, serving in the military police force in Her Majesty’s army. It was in Jhansi Province where he met and married his wife, returning to London for a job in the Metropolitan Police Force. A year later, Devenand (“Joy of God”) Hunter was born.
Dev might have been born on British soil, but most days he didn’t think God was feeling the joy. He would always feel like an outsider. He didn’t really mind it; it only sharpened his instincts. And right now his instincts told him that his father’s ambitions for him were going to give him a pain in his bollocky-bare brown arse.
He was perfectly happy solving urban crimes. Jaunting to the Cotswolds to interview guests at a fancy house party had no appeal whatsoever. From what Olive said, the local constable had kicked up a hornet’s nest. Formal complaints had been filed already by influential banker Ernest Shipman and the deceased’s husband, a baronet, to the Commissioner himself, waking him up several times during the night. It was a proper cock-up, and the authorities had been involved for less than ten hours. The Cirencester constabulary wanted nothing more to do with the mess and had passed it up as high as it could go. A car had been requisitioned for Dev and his sergeant, and arrangements had been made at the Compton Arms.
Dev would have to remember to address the hostess as Lady Adelaide, not Mrs. Compton. She was a marquess’ daughter, and bound to be a snob and a stickler. Dev paid no attention to the gossip columns—if he’d been feeling more in charity with his father, he might have asked him what he knew about the cast of characters at Compton Chase.
He did seem to remember hearing about Rupert Compton’s death a few months ago, though. The man had made his name in the British Royal Flying Corps, surviving the odds over the Somme battlefields. Dev had been below on the ground before he was wounded and spirited to a field hospital, where he’d almost lost his foot. He’d been lucky to live; over a million in the Somme campaign alone had not been so fortunate. All he needed was his specially fitted boot and he could fox-trot with the best of them, not that he had time or interest in going dancing.
Dev called Bob Wells, his sergeant, then washed up, dressed, and over-packed. He hoped they wouldn’t have to stay more than a few days at the village pub, but he liked to be prepared.
His first order of business would usually be to interview the local constable, but Yardley had raised so many hackles in such a short time that Dev decided to postpone that and meet the group with fresh eyes. Unruffle some feathers, if possible. The medical team was already in place, and a local doctor had also examined the body. With any luck, the dead woman had just tripped on a rake, hit her head, and expired amidst the hay.
In less than an hour, Dev heard the horn of the police-issue vehicle outside in the street. He was sure his mother was peering through the lace curtains as he reached the pavement, so he waved in that general direction and climbed into the car, tossing his bag in the backseat.
His sergeant was wearing a painfully new navy blue suit, probably purchased for his soon-to-be-born baby’s christening. “Morning, Bob. Good day for a Sunday drive.”
“It might be cooler out of the city,” Bob Wells said.
“We can hope. How’s the missus?”
“Hot, sir. And cranky.”
“How much longer?”
“The midwife says two weeks or so left. I hope we get this business settled well before then, or Francie will have my bal—head.”
Bob had a certain delicacy of speech that always amused Dev. They had been working together now for two years, and there was none of the undercurrent of resentment that had been present with Dev’s other sergeants. Bob might not be brilliant, but he paid attention to detail and had a way with folks who were too startled by the color of Dev’s skin to be comfortable confessing to him.
“Her mother’s there, so she’s not alone,” Bob said, more to reassure himself than to inform Dev. “It’s probably best I’m out of the way.”
Dev understood many women were inclined to contemplate murdering their husbands during childbirth. He had no experience of that himself, having assiduously avoided his mother’s matchmaking within London’s Anglo-Indian community. He was only thirty-four—his father hadn’t married until he was forty, which he reminded his mother of regularly. It was her opinion Harry had been too old to change, and she wouldn’t wish such Hunter stubbornness on any future daughter-in-law.
Dev was not stubborn. Dogged, perhaps. Thorough. Traits that served him well in his profession. He pulled out his notebook and read out the information he’d received so far, knowing that Bob would remember every detail.
They passed the rest of the hundred-mile drive in companionable silence, stopping when necessary to refuel and stretch, arriving in Compton-Under-Wood just before the pub stopped serving, according to the sandwich board outside, “the best roast lunch in the Cotswolds.”
The gentle roar of the dining room ceased as the two men took their table. Strangers in a strange land. Dev decided not to take it personally, and tucked in to what was a surprisingly delicious meal. He’d long abandoned any adherence to the vegetarianism of his mother’s Hindu religion; for that matter, so had she. She now sat in a rear pew in Chelsea Old Church every Sunday, dressed like any other respectable English matron. She saved her saris for home and her elderly husband’s nostalgia.
Their lunch was interrupted by a packet sent from the cottage hospital in Painswick, along with Yardley’s garbled notes. Dev was used to such things, and it didn’t interfere with his appetite. He apprised Bob of the current findings and ate his pudding—a somewhat tart blackberry crumble—and drank two cups of coffee to counteract the heavy meal. It wouldn’t do to fall asleep mid-interrogation.
Once they had finished and checked into two plain but scrupulously clean rooms, Dev asked the landlord if he could use the telephone to call ahead to Compton Chase and alert Lady Adelaide of their imminent arrival. After speaking to a butler who sounded more like King George V did than King George V, they traveled the half-mile from the village to the Compton estate. A serpentine brick wall led to a gatehouse, which was unmanned. Bob rolled the Crossley onto the crushed stone drive.
“Blimey.”
“Is that your professional opinion?” Dev asked with a smile.
“Wouldn’t Francie be impressed at how I’ve come up in the world? Glad I wore my new duds. How many rooms do you think this place has?”
Too many. There really was no justification for anything this size, as far as Dev could see, unless it was housing orphans. He was perfectly satisfied with his three-room Chelsea flat, even if his parents were down the hall. “I wouldn’t want to pay to heat it.”
“Not on our salaries, even after we went on strike. Look at the undertaker.”
“I believe that’s the butler, Bob. Let’s get the lay of the land.” Dev swung out of the passenger side before the butler could open the door.
“Mr. Forbes? We spoke on the phone.” Dev knew better than to offer a hand.
“Inspector Hunter, welcome to Compton Chase. A sad business.”
“Indeed. This is Robert Wells, my sergeant. Is Sir David here?”
“He left last night to tell his children once Constable Yardley was done with him, but we expect him back any moment. I took the liberty of phoning Holly Hill after I spoke with you. Lady Adelaide and her family are waiting for you in the Great Hall. Please follow me.”
If the Great Hall was meant to intimidate, it was doing a pretty fair job. A floor-to-ceiling window wall with hundreds of panes of glass gleamed in the bright August sunlight, briefly blinding Dev as he entered the cavernous space. Three fair-haired women were seated around a games table, no sign of any amusement on the marquetry surface or their faces.
Before Forbes could introduce them, the one wearing spectacles rose. She extended a slim white hand. To Bob. “Inspector Hunter? How kind of you to come.”
Bob’s face turned the color of a very ripe tomato. “Not me. This is my guv, Inspector Devenand Hunter. My, um, lady.”
“Easiest promotion you’ll ever get, my lad. How do you do, Lady Adelaide? We’re so sorry to intrude on your time of mourning.” Dev gave her what he knew to be a devastating smile, no pun intended. Just enough of his white teeth. Dark eyes radiating warmth and sympathy. He clasped her hand and gave it the gentlest of squeezes. She wouldn’t mistake his authority again.
Her hand was cold and trembled in his. His thumb alighted on a massive diamond and sapphire ring on her right hand, the sale of which could have fed quite a few orphans for quite a few years. He reminded himself he was every bit as equal as this fluffy society beauty, who probably didn’t have a thought in her head beyond buying her next new hat.
Ah. Who was judging who? One didn’t get anywhere with a closed mind. He recited the Nyaya verses to himself.
Perception, Inference, Comparison and Word—these are the means of right knowledge.
Perception is that knowledge which arises from the contact of a sense with its object and which is determinate, unnameable and non-erratic.
Inference is knowledge which is preceded by perception, and is of three kinds: a priori, a posteriori, and commonly seen.
Comparison is the knowledge of a thing through its similarity to another thing previously well known.
Word is the instructive assertion of a reliable person.
It is of two kinds: that which is seen, and that which is not seen.
Soul, body, senses, objects of senses, intellect, mind, activity, fault, transmigration, fruit, suffering and release—are the objects of right knowledge.
“My husband has been dead six months. Some intrusions are welcome. Oh! You mean Kathleen. I didn’t know her well at all, so I wouldn’t say we were in mourning for her. Please sit down. Have you had lunch? Shall I ring for coffee or tea? Beer or ale? The others are in the drawing room. I thought you’d want to meet me first, since Kathleen was found on my property. No one knows how she got here. She wasn’t invited.”
Lady Adelaide was flustered. Talkative. And remarkably pretty. Not too tall, not too slender, with none of the boyishness of figure that was so in vogue at the moment. Her black crepe tea gown probably cost more than Dev had earned so far this year, but he wouldn’t let himself hold that against her.
“Addie. Darling.” Those two words were enough of a warning for Lady Adelaide to remove her hand and sit back down in the crewel-work chair.
“I’m sorry—excuse the chattering. It’s my nerves. Bodies don’t usually turn up here. Dead ones, anyway. Until recently. May I present my mother, the Dowager Marchioness of Broughton? And my sister, Lady Cecilia Merrill.”
Dev and Bob nodded to the women. Lady Broughton inclined her chin a fraction. She was small and blond, growing older beautifully, but Dev was not fooled—there was a martial glint in her hazel eyes. The sister was pretty as well, with her riot of short golden curls and pink cheeks which owed nothing to cosmetics.
He and Bob took the available chairs. “I understand my colleague in the village was somewhat ham-handed last evening. On behalf of the Commissioner and Metropolitan Police Force, I apologize and want to assure you we will discover precisely what happened with as little discommoding your family and friends as possible. I know your guests are anxious to leave. Will you be able to put them up one more day?”
“Of course. Only Mr. Shipman has made a fuss about staying—he’s very anxious to get back to his bank. His wife told me when she accepted the Saturday-to-Monday that they couldn’t stay past Sunday afternoon.”
“I’ll speak to him.” He turned to Lady Broughton and Lady Cecilia. “Would you mind very much if I talked to Lady Adelaide alone for a few minutes?”
“If we did, I don’t suppose it would matter. You’re not going to bully her like that idiot Frank Yardley, are you? The family employs an excellent firm of solicitors. I could get one of the Mr. Pullings down here on the next train, even if it is Sunday.”
Dev smiled again. “Pulling, Pulling, Stockwell and Pulling. Very impressive gentlemen. I don’t think that will be necessary, Lady Broughton. I’ve never had any complaints filed against me in all my years on the force.”
“And how many has that been? You seem awfully young.”
“Clean living, my lady. It’s been over a dozen, but with my army service tucked in the middle, so not consecutive.” He left out the lost year of slow, painful recovery.
“You are English then?”
“Half. I was born at St. Anne’s Hospital, Chelsea.” He refrained from asking her where she was born.
She stood. “Very well. Come along, Cee. If you need us, Addie, we’ll just be down the hall.”
Like his family, Dev realized, hers was only too ready to “help”…and interfere.