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AS I ATE MY BREAKFAST, consisting of a boiled egg, buttered toast, piping hot tea and a sugared apple tart, which I recognized as being left from last night’s dinner, Tilda began to relay to me the gossip she’d only just heard from the servants below stairs in the kitchen.
“Appears there was a ruckus on the grounds last evening at the Knife and Fork supper, miss. Footmen said some boys fell to yellin’ and punchin’ each another. Got so rowdy, the authorities come and hauled ‘em away. Cook said they was locked up tight.”
“What do you suppose the young men were arguing about?” I inquired absently, thinking they were most likely fighting over a pretty girl; although I was not particularly interested in the doings of rambunctious village lads. I was far more concerned with what I might do today that would result in Mr. Sheridan’s release.
In an effort to entertain Little Georgie as I ate my breakfast, I had tied a ribbon about my wrist so that every time I moved my arm, the dangling ribbon danced before his eyes, thereby providing him with something to bat at. To watch my sweet kitten playing at my feet always brought a smile to my lips.
Suddenly I wondered if one of the boys who had been hauled off to gaol might possibly be Jack Ninabar, the very fellow the young men I had spoken with yesterday at the Fair had indicated as being responsible for the death of the servant girl. That young man was obviously given to fisticuffs.
I turned to Tilda. “Were any names mentioned regarding the young men who were taken away last evening?”
She glanced up from where she was fluffing the pillows and smoothing the bedclothes. “No, miss; not that I recall. Don’t figure you nor I woulda’ knowed ‘em anyhow, even if their names was dropped.”
“No; no, of course not.” I brought the teacup to my lips, which caused the lavender ribbon dangling from my wrist to give a sudden jerk and Little Georgie to paw the air as he attempted to snag the purple snake.
“Was you meanin’ to go to the Cotswold Caves with the others today, miss?”
“I’ve not yet decided what I shall do today, Tilda.” Having now finished my breakfast, I rose, causing Georgie to leap up on his hind legs in another effort to snag the wriggling monster. I reached down to pick up the lively kitten. “Here, you take him, Tilda.” I handed Georgie off to her, untied the ribbon from my wrist and also gave it to her.
She promptly tied it onto the door latch to her room, in hopes that the jiggling ribbon would occupy the kitten whilst she did up my hair. When she was finished, I looked this way and that in the mirror to assess my appearance. Patting the neat knot at the nape of my neck, I exhaled a sigh of resignation.
“I daresay I have kept the gentlemen below stairs waiting long enough. I’ve no choice now but to go down and speak with whomever is awaiting me in Mr. Crumble’s study.”
“Very well, miss. I’ll keep an eye on Little Georgie.”
As I made my way below stairs, the sinking feeling of foreboding that had beset me earlier now settled deeper into my bones as I wondered exactly who might be awaiting me in Mr. Crumble’s study, and did the matter have anything to do with Mr. Sheridan? Or perhaps I was fretting over nothing as it might simply be two of the men he had spoken with in regard to repairing the carriage. Since the innkeep at The Pig With Black Ears Inn knew exactly where Mr. Sheridan and I were staying meant the innkeeper might have directed the men to come here.
After asking a housemaid where Mr. Crumble’s study was located, I showed myself into the surprisingly small book-lined room. Although it was nowhere near the size of the study or the library at Medley Park, it did boast a desk and two chairs, with sconces on the walls for candles. I had no way of knowing if the Crumble Estate was of sufficient acreage to employ tenant farmers, so could not imagine why Mr. Crumble even needed a desk to manage his accounts or any other matters, yet I knew that gentlemen did enjoy having a place of their own to go and smoke, or simply sit and gaze into the fire as they either made a pretense of contemplating important matters, or actually did so.
I noted that one of the pair of gentlemen who had patiently awaited my arrival this morning had availed himself of a book and was seated in the most comfortable chair in the room as he thumbed through it. The other man stood with his back to the door, both hands jammed into the pockets of his trousers as he gazed from the window onto the side lawn, seemingly caught up in observing the activity outdoors as workmen cleared away the rubble left from the onslaught of villagers who had descended onto the Crumble House grounds yesterday.
Both men turned when I entered the room. The man holding the book laid it aside and sprang to his feet as I advanced into the chamber.
“I hope I have not kept you gentleman waiting too very long.”
The older of the pair, a craggy-looking man with thinning hair and very wrinkled cheeks, said, “M’names Craddock, ma’am. This here’s Porter. I’m the constable hereabouts; Porter’s my deputy.”
My nerves instantly stood at attention, even as an odd thought struck regarding the co-joining of their names. Craddock and Porter rather sounded as if it could be the name of a London Tailor Shop or green-grocer’s establishment, which, of course, has nothing to say to anything. Still I admit to being more than a trifle discomfited now as I faced the very lawmen I had hoped to speak with today.
“And I, sirs, am Miss Abbott.” Lifting my chin I made an effort to remain calm in the hope of disguising my jangled nerves. “How might I assist you gentlemen today?”
“Please accept our apologies for calling on the Sabbath, Miss Abbott. No matter the day of the week, we take the crime of murder in Middlewych quite seriously. As it happens, Porter and I are investigatin’ the death of the young lady what was found dead on the grounds of the Crumble Estate yeste’day aft’noon whilst the Fair was in full swing.”
The younger man spoke up next. He was not . . . unpleasant to look upon. He had a full head of dark hair, a straight nose and a square jaw. The bulging muscles beneath his snug jacket and trousers suggested he might be an accomplished pugilist. Neither of the men reminded me of the boorish Constable Wainwright, who had questioned me at both Morland Manor and Medley Park. Neither experience had been the least bit pleasant, and for that reason alone, had left a foul taste in my mouth.
“As I am sure you are aware, Miss Abbott, your friend Mr. William Sheridan has been charged with a very serious crime. The constable and I would like you to tell us everything that transpired from the moment you and Mr. Sheridan departed The Pig With Black Ears Inn yesterday morning. The facts are vastly important to our case, so I urge you to leave nothing out, ma’am.”
“Indeed, sir, I quite agree that the facts of the matter are vastly important, therefore, I will be happy to relay every detail to you, and omit nothing.” I moved a few steps in order to stand before the desk whilst both men remained where they stood, one before the window, the other near the chair he had vacated. As the room was quite small, the three of us could have joined hands if we had a mind to, but that also has nothing to say to anything. Because I was acutely aware that what I relayed to these gentlemen had a very great bearing upon Mr. Sheridan’s fate, my nervous state was fast escalating to a near fever pitch. I once again endeavored to will a steadiness to my tone that I most certainly did not feel.
After inhaling yet another calming breath, I began to speak. “Upon leaving The Pig With Black Ears Inn yesterday morning, at approximately ten of the clock, Mr. Sheridan and I set out on foot to follow the dirt road that eventually brought us here.”
“Had the two of you quarreled, Miss Abbott?” the constable startled me by asking. “How would you describe Mr. Sheridan’s state of mind at the time? What was your state of mind?”
Taken aback by the older man’s interruption, I sputtered, “Why, no, sir, we had not quarreled. We have never quarreled. I daresay I did feel a trifle apprehensive, but . . .”
“Apprehensive? Regarding what, Miss Abbott? Had something untoward happened to overset you, or Mr. Sheridan?”
The man’s manner of firing unexpected questions at me was having the effect of derailing all my attempts to maintain an unruffled facade. I deliberately paused before replying, “The carriage we are traveling in, sir, had suffered an accident the day before, which is why we were forced to stay the night in Middlewych. Mr Sheridan had set out earlier yesterday morning in order to search out someone to repair the carriage so that we might be on our way up to London. As it happened, due to the Psychical Fair, the inn was overrun with guests and the innkeeper had only just informed us that he could not put us up for another night.”
“So, would you say Mr. Sheridan was angry over this unexpected turn? Was he especially put out with the innkeep over his refusal to allow you to stay on? Was he angry that he was unable to find anyone in the village who would be willing to forgo attending yesterday’s festivities in order to repair your carriage at once?”
Again, I blinked at this fresh barrage of questions. “No, sir; Mr. Sheridan was not overset. Nor was I.” I looked the constable straight in the eye and boldly held the gaze. In truth, I had felt a trifle overset the previous morning, still I prayed the man would leave off badgering me so I could calmly speak my piece. “Mr. Sheridan was not the least bit annoyed, sir, or, as you say, angry. To say truth, I have never once beheld Mr. Sheridan angry.”
I instantly realized the untruthfulness of that statement. Soon after I made Mr. Sheridan’s acquaintance a scant few months ago in Margate, I had, on several occasions, been privy to one or even two of his angry outbursts, but he had good reason; he was, after all, dealing with dangerous smugglers plying an illegal trade upon the Kentish coast. The facts of what I now thought of as the murder in Margate made me angry!
“Are you aware, sir,” I began steadily, “that Mr. Sheridan is in the employ of an important government agency whose purpose is to enforce the laws of the land? A few weeks ago Mr. Sheridan was instrumental in bringing down not one, but two notorious smuggling rings who had been wreaking havoc on the Margate coast for a good long while. Mr. Sheridan had been dispatched to sort out the matter, and I might add, he was extremely successful in doing so. Allow me to point out that Mr. Sheridan is an esteemed member of England’s law enforcement agencies the same as you gentlemen are.”
The constable’s lips firmed. “Be that as it may, Miss Abbott, he is, nonetheless, not above the law,” the older man pointed out.
In my estimation, Constable Craddock was beginning to sound more and more like my nemesis Constable Wainwright.
Mr. Porter cast a glance at his superior officer. “I daresay I was not entirely aware of Sheridan’s background, Craddock. Perhaps the gentleman could provide us with a few tips on how to capture criminals.”
“We don’t need any tips, Porter, but if you insist, then remind me to put a few questions to the gentleman before we measure his neck for a noose.” At present, Mr. Craddock appeared to be on the verge of losing his temper. The man glared at me. “You will please answer all my questions as truthfully as you can, Miss Abbott. Otherwise, I shall have no choice but to bring you before a judge at the next assizes court for an official inquest. Now, you will please carry on and tell me exactly how you and Sheridan came to be at the home of Mr. and Mrs. Crumble.”
I inhaled another breath in hopes of taming my roiling insides. “Well, sir, unbeknownst to me, Mrs. Crumble was also standing in the foyer of the inn when Mr. Sheridan and I were informed that there were no available rooms to be let.” At this juncture, I paused again, uncertain whether or not to reveal all that had transpired the previous morning, mainly the particulars regarding Mrs. Crumble’s peculiar proposition to me, and the fact that she persisted in addressing me as Angel. I quickly decided against it.
“Mrs. Crumble took pity on us, sir, and very kindly offered us the use of an empty bedchamber in her home, or rather,” I added nervously, “two bedchambers. Mr. Sheridan and I are not . . . well, at any rate, we had no where else to go, so we accepted her kind offer.”
“I see. And, upon arriving at the Crumble home, did you and Mr. Sheridan go your separate ways?” the constable asked. However, after asking one question, he hurriedly asked another on the heels of the first, giving me no time in which to reply to either. “Where did you go, Miss Abbott? And where did Mr. Sheridan go immediately upon arriving here? The innkeeper informed us that Mrs. Crumble had treated the pair of you to a fine breakfast. Furthermore, we learned that she wished you to . . . to, in some fashion, take part in her . . . psychical doings. Is that correct? Therefore, upon your arrival here, Miss Abbott, did you abandon Mr. Sheridan and go off with Mrs. Crumble, or . . . what? Exactly what did you do after you and Mr. Sheridan arrived here? I remind you to omit nothing, Miss Abbott.”
“Well, sir, I did not, as you say, abandon Mr. Sheridan. Nor did he abandon me. In fact before making our presence known to Mrs. Crumble, he and I both spent a bit of time leisurely taking in the sights.”
“And, what exactly do you mean by ‘taking in the sights’, Miss Abbott?” spoke up the younger man, a look of interest upon his face. “Are you saying you took in the sights of Middlewych, or those on view at the Fair?”
I looked down as I considered once again whether or not to reveal everything that transpired, or just the high points. Raising my gaze, I willed a small smile to my lips before replying, “We began to stroll on the grounds and as we did so, we paused at one or two of the vendor’s tables.”
“Which is it?” interrupted the constable. “One or two of them, and exactly which tables did you pause at?”
Despite all efforts to the contrary, I could not help growing increasingly annoyed by the constable’s manner of plying me with what seemed to be nitpicky questions that had nothing to say to anything. But, inhaling another breath, I determined to remain as calm as I could and answer every single question to the man’s satisfaction. The simple truth was that I would gladly stand here and answer questions the entire day if the doing of it would result in setting Mr. Sheridan free.
“Mr. Sheridan and I spoke first with a . . . I believe the man to be a Gypsy, sir,” I supplied without being asked. “He had very dark skin. His table contained an assortment of rocks and colored stones . . .”
“And did you purchase a rock or a colored stone?” Porter inquired. Now, of a sudden, his questions were becoming nitpicky, or perhaps he was merely attempting to emulate his superior officer’s manner of interrogation.
I shook my head. “No sir, neither of us purchased anything. I am . . . presently without funds.” I shifted nervously from one foot to the other. Why I thought that to be a pertinent fact to reveal, I did not know.
“Go on, Miss Abbott. What happened after that?” Despite his insistence that I also be specific in my answers, Mr. Porter’s tone and manner was still a decided contrast to that of Constable Craddock, or of Constable Wainwright at both Morland Manor and again at Medley Park, both of which were frightful experiences for me and something I hoped never to encounter again, although today’s inquest appeared to fast be headed in that direction.
I now fixed my full attention upon the younger man, and became aware of a small smile beginning to play at his lips. Was he enjoying this? Or, did he, perhaps, find me . . . somewhat attractive?
Whichever it was, beneath his gaze, I found I did relax a bit. “Well, sir, I recall that Mr. Sheridan asked me if one was to suck on a rock, or simply drop it into one’s tea in order to cure whatever ailed one.”
My attempt to lighten the mood had the effect I hoped for. Mr. Porter’s mouth curved upward. “And then what did you do?”
“I recall that next, Mr. Sheridan gave the Wheel of Fortune a spin, and after that, we moved on to a Tarot card reader’s table. The proprietor, who was also a dark-skinned man, only this one was wearing a turban, instructed me to draw a series of cards, from which he divined a meaning.”
“And do you recall which of the Tarot cards you drew?”
I paused, every part of me not wanting to reveal the three ‘Death’ cards I had pulled from the stack. “I drew a joker, an animal, and a princess.” I continued to gaze at the nice-looking young man who had taken up the questioning. “I have brought along my kitten on this journey, you see, and as we strolled through the Fair, I was carrying Little Georgie in my arms. The Tarot card reader declared that my kitten was my . . . Sacred Oracle, I believe those to be his exact words, sir, and that the joker represented my innocence.”
“Enough, Miss Abbott!” Craddock sputtered. “You visited a Tarot card reader, he read the cards, then what did you do?”
The slight smile that lifted my lips now was due entirely to the fact that I had not been obliged to mention the three ‘Death’ cards I drew. Instead, I drew a relieved breath and said, “Well, after that, sir, we strolled a bit longer, and soon spotted a sign that directed us to the Tunnel of Terrors. So, off we went to explore it.” I looked again at the younger, far kindlier of the two men. “I remember I tucked my kitten into my reticule so the terrors in the tunnel would not frighten him. He is only a baby. At any rate, Mr. Sheridan and I, with Georgie curled up asleep in my reticule, entered the tunnel and . . .” I cast another rather wide-eyed look at the handsome Mr. Porter, “It truly was quite frightening, there were bones and skulls lying about, and ghosts who sprang out to startle one. I admit I was not at all anxious to linger there, and was vastly pleased when we came to the other end of the tunnel and emerged again into the sunlight.”
The older man huffed as he folded his arms across his middle and rather impatiently began to tap the toe of one boot against the bare wooden floor. “And then what, Miss Abbott? Did Mr. Sheridan leave you at that juncture and you returned to the Crumble house alone, or what? What did you do next? And, if you do not mind, ma’am, can we get on with it?”
I turned what I hoped was an unreadable look upon the constable. “At that juncture, sir, Mr. Sheridan asked if I would like to walk with him in the meadow. The sunshine and colorful flowers looked most inviting.”
The constable’s brow furrowed, and I noted that his toe-tapping ceased. “The meadow? I see. And then you . . . did what?”
“Mr. Sheridan and I followed along a path that took us beneath an archway formed by tall trees, a cloister of sorts. It was there that I began to hear the sounds of a young lady weeping. Mr. Sheridan said it was only the wind whistling through the treetops, but I insisted upon pausing to listen, and very quickly did, indeed, spot a young lady sitting upon a bench weeping. It was apparent that she was quite downcast about something.”
“Can you describe the girl?” His brow furrowed, his gaze intent.
“We were a good distance away from her, sir, but I could clearly see that her hair was dark, very dark, possibly black; and she was wearing a light-colored frock. The sun was far too bright for me to determine the exact color of her gown; it might have been pale blue in color.”
At that admission, both men exchanged looks. The younger man urged me to continue. “Go on, Miss Abbott. Did you notice anything more about the girl, apart from the fact that she was weeping? Was she alone?”
I paused to think. “Initially she was alone, yes; but even as we watched, another man approached.”
“One man, you say? Can you describe him?”
I shook my head. “No sir, I cannot describe him; but there was only the one man. I recall Mr. Sheridan speculating that perhaps the young lady had agreed to an assignation with the gentleman and began to weep when she feared he was not coming. However, the minute he approached, and then sat down beside her, Mr. Sheridan and I turned and walked on into the meadow. Upon reaching the point where the stream becomes a small pond, we sat down upon the grass and began to idly watch my kitten romp amongst the flowers.” I glanced at Mr. Porter. “Georgie likes to bat at things. He will chase anything that moves.”
Although he nodded, Mr. Porter seemed not the least bit interested in my kitten. “Did you see anyone else in the meadow, Miss Abbott?”
Both men were now hanging onto every word I uttered. I suspected that it was at this juncture that the young girl had been accosted and soon thereafter, beaten to death by her abductor.
“No, sir, we never saw anyone else in the meadow. Mr. Sheridan and I sat alone in the grass for another quarter hour, or perhaps, a bit longer, speaking quietly to one another as we played with Little Georgie.” I did not wish to mention that Mr. Sheridan had kissed me as we sat by the stream, so I instantly made the decision to say nothing on that score. “In the distance,” I hastened to add, “we could hear the sounds of frolicking and laughter coming from the Fair, but then suddenly, we began to hear a series of screams.”
At this, both men leant forward, both their brows furrowed.
“It was quite clear to us that they were feminine screams. I remarked to Mr. Sheridan that it might be the young girl we had seen weeping upon the bench. When the screams continued and became even more intense, he and I both grew alarmed. Although we could see nothing untoward, Mr. Sheridan declared it was time to return to the house.”
I paused in my narrative, attempting to ascertain what effect, if any, this new and obviously pertinent revelation was having upon my interrogators. For the space of a second, the room became so still that one could hear a farthing drop.
“What did Mr. Sheridan do then?” solemnly asked the constable.
“He and I both hurried back to the house. We rapped at the entry door and were both shown inside. Mrs. Crumble soon appeared and spoke to us, then Mr. Sheridan inquired if he might stable his horse in the mews. If you recall, we had walked to the Crumble home and Mr. Sheridan had left his horse behind at the inn. He soon departed, leaving me with Mrs. Crumble. I assume he walked back to the inn to retrieve his horse, King George.” I felt my chin begin to tremble.” I-I have not seen him since.” Because tears had suddenly leapt to my eyes, I feared I could say no more, so looked down, biting my lip to keep from bursting into sobs.
As I fell silent, both men did so, as well. Finally, Mr. Craddock said, “Just one final question, Miss Abbott. As you and Mr. Sheridan retraced your steps back through the meadow to the house, did you continue to hear feminine screams, or had the screams ceased?”
Blinking, I looked up. “Why, I am certain the screams ceased, sir. Actually they ceased while we were still a good distance from the house.”
Because it was clear to me now that the constable was attempting to determine the precise whereabouts of Mr. Sheridan at the exact moment the girl was being brutally beaten, which would, of course, account for the screams we heard, I decided to not mention that he and I had followed a different route back to the house. Not that it made a whit of difference. Mr. Sheridan did not kill the girl, but as I relayed my story to the lawmen, I was acutely aware that this was the only moment in which I might be instrumental in saving my friend from the gallows as punishment for the girl’s murder. I did not wish to muddy the waters with unnecessary tidbits that had nothing to say to anything.
However, because I felt I had to, I did hasten to add, “Later that afternoon, after Mr. Sheridan had been taken away, I went back out to the Fair alone, and as I strolled about the grounds, I happened to overhear several of the villagers discussing the servant girl’s brutal murder. By then, my own lady’s maid had told me of the dreadful crime. At any rate, as I was outdoors again, I overheard a pair of young men speculating that the fellow who likely took the girl’s life was Jack Ninabar. It seems he and the girl . . .” I paused the instant I noted with alarm that both Mr. Craddock and Mr. Porter were shaking their heads.
“Ninabar is not our man,” Craddock declared firmly.
Porter concurred. “Already questioned him. He and a couple of chums spent the entire day in Banbury working in the Martin field.”
“He passed the whole evening in the pub at Banbury drinking away the few pennies he’d earned that day. Everyone over that way agrees that long before nightfall Jack Ninabar was drunk as a skunk.”
My heart sank as the truth hit me and also very nearly brought me to my knees. The authorities had not brought Jack Ninabar up on charges. Which meant, Mr. Sheridan was still their only suspect and he was already in custody.
Porter continued, “Jack didn’t come ‘round ‘til the sun came up this morning.” He looked to the constable for verification.
Craddock nodded. “Man smelt to high heaven when we roused him to question him. Sad state of affairs. Believe he truly cared for Marybeth.” Craddock’s head wagged.
“Well,” Porter nodded. “Thank you for your time, Miss Abbott.”
Craddock chimed in. “Good day to ye’ now, ma’am.”
Both men left me standing alone in Mr. Crumble’s study, my heart in my throat. With Jack Ninabar having already been cleared of the crime, I dared not think where that left Mr. Sheridan.
