It was late, and viciously cold; despite swaddling myself in everything I owned, my knees were stiff and I could scarcely feel my feet when I climbed off the train at Horncastle. I was the only person on the dimly lit platform who had been travelling in the padded comfort of a First Class carriage; the two or three others had ridden in on the pitiless wooden benches in Third.
A straight-backed man of soldierly bearing strode past me, carrying a wooden box on one shoulder; his face flashed out at me as he hurried through a puddle of lamplight, and I knew him at once.
‘Mr Blackbeard.’
He halted and turned to me. ‘Mrs Rodd!’
Inspector Blackbeard had close-shorn, iron-grey hair, and eyes like two cold grey pebbles. At some point in his past he had been a sergeant in the army; I always thought he looked like a cross between a wicked Renaissance nobleman and a senior clerk. He had some education and a very jaundiced view of his fellow-man, and he scorned anything in the airy-fairy shape of instinct or intuition – even when it was shown to be the truth. ‘Crime-solving is not for dabblers,’ he once told me. ‘Facts, Mrs Rodd; that’s all I care about.’ (As if I did not!)
‘Good evening, Inspector,’ I said. ‘My brother told me you were coming; I didn’t know we were on the same train.’
‘Ah, yes.’ Blackbeard put down the wooden box he carried. ‘I ran into Mr Tyson’s clerk yesterday; he told me Mr Tyson will be defending. I suppose that’s why you’re here. The boy’s father has hired both of you.’ (He had a way of making everything seem rather sordid.) ‘But I’m afraid this won’t be the sort of case that calls for your sort of fancy thinking, ma’am. From where I’m standing, it all looks pretty straightforward.’
‘All the more reason,’ I said, ‘to approach the case without prejudice.’
‘Prejudice? Take care, Mrs Rodd! I was merely remarking on appearances.’
‘I beg your pardon, Inspector.’ I had let my tongue run away with me. ‘Naturally, I would never dream of making such an accusation.’
‘I should hope not, ma’am.’ Though his face was in shadow, his voice was curt; I remembered now the great pride he took in the impartiality and professionalism of the police. ‘I should hope I know my duty better than that!’
‘Of course you do – please accept my apologies.’ As Fred would have put it, ‘grovelling’ was called for. ‘My frozen feet have soured my temper.’
‘Hmm – yes – well – it was a cold journey, certainly. I was about to remark that the plain facts so far are against Calderstone, that’s all.’ His voice sounded a shade less cross now. ‘Maybe he’s guilty, maybe not. We’ll have to wait and see.’
‘I know Charles Calderstone to be innocent,’ I said. ‘I’m here to prove it to you.’
‘Well,’ he said, ‘I’ll look forward to that.’
‘Mrs Rodd?’ Someone was advancing out of the darkness behind a lantern.
‘Good evening, Brody.’ I was startled that the head groom himself had been dispatched to meet me.
Brody took charge of my box and my valise, and asked me to wait at the end of the platform while he turned the horses.
‘Don’t let me keep you, Inspector,’ I said.
‘You’re not keeping me, Mrs Rodd; I’m awaiting a Mr Brewer, who will drive me to the inn.’
‘Brewer is a very good sort of man,’ I said. ‘You’ll find him perfectly helpful.’
‘Of course, you’re familiar with this place.’ Blackbeard’s dry-biscuit voice had a hint of cheerfulness. ‘I may as well pick your brains while I’m here.’
‘I’m sure you know as much as I do,’ I said. ‘Have you any news of Miss Winifred Orme?’
‘The lady is still alive as far as I know,’ Blackbeard said. ‘But still unconscious.’
‘Has she said anything about her attacker?’
‘No, ma’am.’
My fine carriage awaited. I wished Blackbeard goodnight, adding that I would be happy to share with him everything I knew – for whatever our personal opinions, we were both on the side of justice.
Wishtide
29th December
CONFIDENTIAL
My dear Fred,
The first person I encountered upon stepping off the train was none other than our Nemesis, Mr Blackbeard; he was annoyingly superior, as usual, but I don’t think he knows any more than we do, though I cannot shake off a horrid suspicion that he has made up his mind about the case in advance.
Early this morning, before I had spoken to anyone in the house except the little serving-girl Martha, I took another frosty walk to the Ormes’ cottage. And (naturally) Blackbeard had beaten me to it.
‘You’re in for a disappointment,’ was his dour greeting. ‘They’ve gone and cleaned it all up!’
I’m afraid he spoke no more than the truth; the murder scene has been scrubbed and scoured. The sofa cushions and curtains have been burned. The bloodstains on the walls are now nothing more than faint, brownish smears. I could not conceal my dismay.
‘It’s the landlord’s doing,’ Blackbeard said. ‘He wants another tenant for the place – as if anyone would live here now!’
He had been talking to Patty, the old charwoman who discovered the outrage. She sat stiffly on a kitchen chair in the middle of the newly cleaned sitting room, staring at the inspector in utter bewilderment.
‘As a witness, she ain’t up to much,’ Blackbeard said. ‘Deaf as a post, and keeps getting her times muddled. She made a formal identification for the coroner, and that was about it.’
The poor old thing is frightened out of her senses, and doesn’t yet realise that she will be relating her garbled tale at the Old Bailey; I doubt she has ventured five miles from Hobley Cross in all her life; London is as remote to her as the moon.
‘Patty –’ I took her hand and bent down to her so that she could see my face; I had an instinct that she would be less deaf if spoken to kindly. ‘I’m so sorry – what a dreadful sight for you to see!’
The main problem with Patty’s testimony is that she tells the time partly by the church clock over at Soking, and partly by the activities of local livestock. All I can tell you is that SOME time between noon and dusk on the twenty-second of December, she went to the Ormes’ cottage with some pieces of laundry she had taken home with her. The front door stood open; she found the body of Helen Orme on the sitting-room sofa, her head savagely beaten and her clothing disarranged in the shameful manner we have discussed. Patty emphasized, several times, that she had pulled down Mrs Orme’s skirt before running across the fields to the farm for help.
It was then that she heard the piteous cry she at first mistook for one of the cats in the kitchen. She is very much distressed (as I am) to think of Miss Winifred, left lying outside on the path for what must have been several hours. She was barely alive, unable to move or speak, and she lies now at the rectory in Soking St Mary, which is the nearest significant house if you take the road; she wasn’t strong enough to be carried across the fields.
That is all I can discover from Patty; I don’t think her testimony will make any difference to our case. I walked back to Wishtide to take up my post as unofficial guardian of the two young ladies.
You never saw a house as changed as this; it all looks the same as ever, but everything is warped by an atmosphere of fear and sorrow. The servants whisper in corners and I must admit that the family breaks my heart; it touched me very deeply, to see the swollen eyes of Mr Charles’s sisters when I found them in their sitting room this morning. Poor Miss Blanche said, ‘We know you’re not really a governess – Papa says you’ve come to help Charlie –’ and she flung her arms around me.
‘He didn’t do it – you will make them understand, won’t you?’ entreated Miss Elizabeth. ‘They can’t hang Charlie!’ And she burst into tears.
The young woman they had introduced as Cousin Esther put down her mending and comforted Miss Elizabeth as if she were a little child. ‘Come now – you promised you’d be brave, for your parents’ sake.’
This is Esther Grahame, with whom they have lately been staying in Yorkshire, and I must say I took to her greatly. She’s a large-boned, rosy-faced girl of two- or three-and-twenty, plain of feature, yet with that radiance of character that is better than beauty (you’ll know what I mean when I say she reminded me of Sophia M. at home – who looked like a kind of angelic toad and was such a darling that half the countryside was in love with her). Miss Grahame’s boots are thick, her hands are red and serviceable, yet she is a gentlewoman in the finest sense of that word, and I can see how her calm and cheerful manner puts heart into the two girls.
I am curious about Miss Grahame. From what I gather, she is a downright country lass who can milk cows and make butter. Kirkside Manor, the house in Yorkshire where she lives with her father, is old and quaint but by no means grand. The Grahames are not rich, let alone fashionable. So I would like to know why a man as worldly as Sir James wants to marry Miss Esther off to his son? Please find out what you can about the family.
As you know, I’m convinced that the killer of Helen Orme and the killer of Mlle Thérèse are one and the same. And as you also know, I’m having the greatest difficulty in getting anyone to take me seriously. The verdict at the Frenchwoman’s inquest was identical to that of Savile – ‘Murder by person or persons unknown’– at which point the poor creature was hurriedly laid to rest in the small Roman Catholic churchyard and forgotten. But she was not killed by Charles Calderstone, who was nowhere near Wishtide at the relevant time. I think the obvious connections between these two murders will be one of the chief pillars of your case for the defence (but I know you hate me telling you how to do your job).
Charles’s sisters want very much to see him, and cannot understand why Newgate is no place for them. ‘They will only see Charlie in prison if – if the worst happens,’ Miss Grahame told me privately, her eyes brimming. ‘They will only be allowed inside to say goodbye to him.’
Blackbeard has not called here as yet, though I know he means to; rest assured that nothing the young ladies tell him will spoil your case. On the morning of the murder, at the time their brother claims to have received the letter from Helen Orme, they were at breakfast with Lady C and they all marked Mr Charles galloping off down the avenue just as the clock struck a quarter past eight.
I am very much hoping to visit Miss Winifred, who is still hovering between this world and the next at the house of the Fitzwarrens (the vicar and his mother) in Soking. I know I shan’t get anything out of her; I’m mainly calling because she knows me and a familiar face might cheer her up. I’ll tell you anything at all that might be of use.
Your affect. sister,
Letty
At the very moment I was sealing this letter ready for the afternoon postbag, one of the footmen came to tell me I had a visitor. The formal rooms of the house were shut up again; I had taken to sitting upstairs with the girls and Miss Esther, and sharing the delicious meals sent up by Mrs Craik (the staunch old housekeeper longed to comfort her pets, and kept up a continual supply of treats), so did not know where I ought to be receiving visitors.
‘It’s Mr Fitzwarren, ma’am,’ the footman said. ‘Shall I show him up here?’
The young ladies’ sitting room was warm and inviting, and I didn’t see any harm in bringing Mr Fitzwarren upstairs; I thought a visitor might improve the tempers of the two girls (the little dears had been bickering all day, until even patient Miss Esther had begun to sigh with exasperation).
‘Please do,’ I told the footman, ‘and tell Mrs Craik there will be one more for tea.’
Miss Blanche groaned. ‘And now we must have tea with some horrid old vicar!’
‘He’s not horrid in the slightest,’ I said, thinking that the young lady was in for a surprise. ‘And please don’t forget that he and his mother are taking care of Miss Winifred.’
‘I’m glad he has come,’ Miss Esther said. ‘I haven’t liked to call there without being invited.’
‘Perhaps he’ll let us visit her,’ Miss Bessie said wistfully. ‘I should so like to see her.’
‘Well, we can’t,’ Miss Blanche said, ‘because everyone thinks our brother tried to kill her. Do get it into your head – we can’t visit anyone. And only dull old clergymen can visit us.’
‘Blanche, really!’ Miss Esther threw up her hands, with a laugh that was half-groan. ‘We’re all aware of the situation, thank you.’
Poor Miss Blanche, what a torment she was; she had been snapping and scratching all day, scorning any attempt at hopefulness and never missing a chance to snub Miss Bessie; I had to keep reminding myself that she was only behaving like this because she was worried half out of her wits about her brother, and her pretty life had turned overnight to ruin.
She did not care about her appearance nowadays; her curls were bundled back anyhow, and she wore a plain grey schoolroom gown, which made her look very young. With a scowl that could not conceal her unhappiness, she got off the hearth rug, her cheeks pink from the fire, and flopped crossly on to the sofa – right on top of Miss Bessie’s knitting, which would have started another quarrel if the footman had not shown in Mr Fitzwarren.
I was glad to see the young clergyman; he brought energy and hope with him, and a certain lightness and ease. It was another iron-grey frosty day and the cold still hung about him, cutting into the stuffy room in a way that woke us all up.
‘Ah, what a pleasure to see a handsome fire,’ he said, leaning towards the extravagant blaze. ‘I see you share my view that there’s no point in building a fire unless it’s hot; it’s the main cause of dispute between myself and my mother.’ He added, turning to me: ‘My mother sends her respects, Mrs Rodd; she wanted to come with me today, but I judged it too cold for her.’
‘That’s a nice way to get round it,’ Miss Blanche said. ‘We know she couldn’t possibly be seen to visit the sisters of someone on trial for murder.’
Such downright rudeness made us all wince. Mr Fitzwarren, however, only smiled, and looked at Miss Blanche so kindly that the colour deepened in her cheeks, and it was pitifully obvious how miserable she was. As he gazed at her, his face became tender.
‘Little things like that don’t bother my mother, Miss Calderstone – as I hope you’ll find out when you come to visit us. She claims to be a direct descendent of Queen Boadicea, and she rides her chariot wherever she pleases.’
The awkwardness passed; Miss Blanche smiled properly. ‘May we really visit? We’ve been so anxious about Winifred, and nobody tells us anything.’
‘Of course, that’s the first thing you all want to know,’ Mr Fitzwarren said. ‘I can’t say she’s well; my mother says she’s holding her own. She cannot speak or move, but she does respond to certain signs and plainly has moments of consciousness.’
‘Did the Ormes worship at your church?’ I asked.
‘No, they went to St Peter’s at Hobley Cross. The curate there is a Mr Searle, who admits that he did not know the ladies well.’
‘I would be most willing to help in any way I can,’ Miss Esther said. ‘Please tell Mrs Fitzwarren that she must call upon me to share the burden of nursing; I nursed my mother for many years.’
‘Thank you,’ Mr Fitzwarren said, ‘Miss Winifred needs constant care and my mother doesn’t trust hired nurses.’
‘Has Miss Winifred given any clue about what happened?’ I asked.
‘No – as I said, she cannot speak. She communicates by squeezing her one good hand. When they carried her to my house, it was assumed that she was only hours from death; I administered the last rites. The person who attacked her thought he had killed her. But she surprised us all by improving a little.’
‘Will she ever get better?’ Miss Bessie asked, in a quavering voice.
‘It’s too soon to tell,’ Mr Fitzwarren said gently. ‘I think she’s gaining every day. We must be patient.’
‘If only she’d wake up in time for the trial!’ Miss Blanche burst out. ‘She’s the one person who could save Charlie – oh, stop pinching me, Bess! Why won’t anyone let me mention it? I’m only saying what we’re all thinking.’
‘Well, if we’re all thinking it, you don’t need to mention it, do you?’ Miss Esther said.
‘You’re quite right, Miss Blanche,’ Mr Fitzwarren said. ‘I’m a great believer in plain speaking; of course you want to talk about your brother.’
‘He didn’t do it,’ Blanche said, clenching her fists fiercely. ‘I hope you know that.’
‘I don’t know anything.’ Mr Fitzwarren was calm and cheerful, as if discussing the weather. ‘But I believe Mr Charles Calderstone is innocent. I’d stake my life on it.’
This declaration lifted the last shadow of reserve; both girls brightened and the tea arrived (borne by Mrs Craik, the girl Martha and the young footman, Thomas; these were the only servants we saw now, though the rest of them were still downstairs eating and drinking at Sir James’s expense; poor Mrs Craik was having a hard time asserting her authority, though she strove to hide it from the girls). I took charge of the tea-urn, while Miss Esther passed round plates of tiny triangular sandwiches and Mrs Craik’s own shortbread.
‘Mr Fitzwarren,’ I said, once the servants had left, ‘do you believe in Mr Charles’s innocence out of instinct – or do you know anything else?’
‘It’s mainly instinct,’ Mr Fitzwarren said. ‘Having met him on several occasions and seen him going about the place. But it’s also because I visited the scene of the outrage and felt its atmosphere – I never had such a sense of pure wickedness.’
‘Do you think such a thing exists?’ Miss Esther asked.
‘Most certainly – don’t you?’ He looked around at all of us, his dark eyes intense. ‘It’s a sense you get in a place where someone has tried to drive out all goodness, all holiness – where, for a moment, a shadow has crossed the sun. I felt it most powerfully when I went to the cottage on the day following the attack.’
‘Was this before the house had been cleaned?’ I inquired.
‘I believe so,’ Mr Fitzwarren said. ‘Some items of furniture had been pushed aside by the constable and his men, and there were muddy footmarks everywhere. But certain things had not been touched –’ He stopped, unable to say more in front of the young ladies.
I passed him the plate of shortbread and changed the subject. ‘Miss Elizabeth has been very worried about the kittens.’
‘Er – kittens?’ Bless the man, he understood at once, and his face softened to a smile as he turned to Miss Bessie.
‘One of the cats from the farm came into their kitchen and had kittens in the cupboard,’ she explained to him earnestly. ‘You didn’t see them, did you? Winifred was feeding the mother-cat and giving her water –’
‘I can tell you all about the kittens,’ Mr Fitzwarren said. ‘Please don’t be worried. They come from a famous tribe of very good mousers and they quickly found respectable homes; there were only two left by the time I got there, and I knew my mother wanted a couple of really bloodthirsty cats for the kitchen, so I put them in my hat and took them home.’
Miss Bessie’s doughy little face lit up until it was almost beautiful. ‘Oh, I’m so glad – I cried so much to think of them being hungry! Are they boys or girls?’
‘One of each; my mother named them Solomon and Sheba.’
‘Oh, how sweet!’
‘Solomon is rather virtuous, but his sister’s a little rascal.’
‘What does she do?’
‘She jumps on my desk and tries to knock over the inkstand.’
It was very pleasant to hear the two girls laughing at this, and to see the care melting from their faces. Miss Blanche in particular was transformed – no longer a sulking child, but an unaffected and charming young woman. The rest of the hour passed very happily.
I made sure, however, that I saw Mr Fitzwarren out, so that I could speak with him privately.
‘You could not describe everything you saw in front of the young ladies,’ I said. ‘But I wish you’d tell me.’
We were walking down the great staircase; there was no fire or light in the hall and I carried a lamp, which cast a net of gigantic and bewildering shadows.
‘I beg your pardon, Mrs Rodd; why do you want to know?’
‘My brother is conducting Charles’s defence, and needs to know everything that might help his case; I’m making inquiries on his behalf.’
He halted abruptly and turned to look at me. ‘What I saw was very ugly.’
‘Bloodstains?’
‘Yes.’
‘Where, exactly, Mr Fitzwarren? I’m familiar with the house.’
If he was at all startled by my bluntness, he did not show it. ‘There was blood on the path at the back, about six feet from the kitchen door. There was more blood on the sofa in the parlour. There was blood spattered over the walls. It was a charnel house – as if the two ladies had been savaged by a wild beast. It made me feel sick to the very heart, but I prayed there for the best part of an hour.’
‘Did you happen to get a look at the body of the Frenchwoman? I’m sure that was the work of the same wild beast.’
‘I was at the inquest,’ he said. ‘And a very confused affair I found it; once it had been established that her so-called “husband” could not have done it, nobody could decide upon a motive for killing the woman. Hence the verdict which only states the obvious – murder by person or persons unknown.’ He resumed walking downstairs. ‘Where do your inquiries take you next?’
‘On the day that I met you at the inn,’ I said, ‘I met Helen Orme for the last time. I know that she saw something there – something that made her very afraid. I want to know about any strangers who were in town on that day.’
‘It’s a busy town, Mrs Rodd, and often crowded with strangers; the great horse fair makes it quite a centre for the horse trade right through the year.’
‘Yes – but someone outside the horse trade would stand out, wouldn’t they?’
‘I suppose so. I saw you and the two ladies driving away in a carriage.’
‘Did you notice anything unusual?’
‘I’m afraid not; I’ll tell you if I remember anything.’
‘The police inspector may want to talk to you,’ I said. ‘Of course you must tell him everything you know – but I would be very much obliged if you tell me too.’
‘Do you not trust him?’
‘He’s an excellent man.’ I framed my words carefully. ‘I only worry that he will make up his mind about Mr Charles too quickly.’
‘You have been employed to establish his innocence,’ Mr Fitzwarren said. ‘You are hardly impartial.’
‘I wouldn’t have accepted the employment,’ I said, ‘if I weren’t utterly convinced that I’m on the right side.’
The young clergyman regarded me gravely for a moment. ‘As a matter of fact, I’m convinced too. The Charles Calderstone I met could not have committed this outrage.’
I must admit, after Mr Fitzwarren had departed, I couldn’t help wondering what sort of woman he would marry; with the right wife at his side, there would be no stopping him (Matt would have groaned at this; he didn’t approve of my fascination with making matches, though I cannot think of a more interesting subject; so much of people’s fortune, good or bad, depends upon how they choose to fall in love).
Later that night, when I was about to prepare for bed, I heard a distant strain of music, somewhere in this great sleeping house. I lit a candle and left my room to follow the sound; someone was playing the Broadwood piano in the shrouded drawing room, and it was beautiful – I recognized one of Beethoven’s Sonatas, played imperfectly, but with an expressiveness that stirred me to my soul.
Miss Esther sat in a circle of golden lamplight. She was crying; tears had made snail’s tracks down her cheeks. She stopped playing the moment I came to the door.
‘I didn’t mean to interrupt you,’ I said, moving towards her. ‘Your playing is beautiful.’
Her round cheeks were pink with embarrassment. ‘I didn’t think anyone would be able to hear; I’m sorry if I disturbed you.’
‘You didn’t, truly.’
She shivered, pulling the folds of her blue shawl about her shoulders. ‘I had a sudden longing to hear music and it was too late to play the piano upstairs.’
‘I’m afraid you have been sad, Miss Grahame,’ I said. (I felt kindly towards this young woman, but was also aware that this was a very rare chance to talk to her alone, without having to worry about the sensitivities of the girls.)
‘Yes.’ She was not the sort to make a pretence of denial, but gave me a look of crystalline candour and trustfulness. ‘Sometimes, when I think about Charlie, the horror of it overwhelms me. When that happens I can’t be brave. I try to pray – and it’s like praying to a brick wall. If I believe in a just God, I must believe that Charlie will be declared innocent. But I’m so afraid.’
‘Of course you are,’ I said. ‘I know you are very fond of Mr Charles.’
‘Oh – yes.’
‘You spent a good deal of time together as children, I believe.’
‘They spent part of every summer at Kirkside at one time,’ Miss Esther said. ‘Lady Calderstone grew up there.’
‘I can’t quite follow the family ramifications,’ I said. ‘Are you and Mr Charles first cousins?’
‘My father and Lady Calderstone are first cousins. I don’t know what that makes us. Charlie’s like a brother to me.’
When a young woman says this about a young man it is almost never true, though it is a forgivable untruth; Miss Esther tried to keep her composure, but a great blush swept up her neck into her hairline. She loved him, of course she did; she was of too honest a nature to hide it.
‘Did you ever meet Mrs Orme?’ I asked.
‘No, never.’ If the name of the woman was painful to her, she did not show it.
‘But you know Miss Winifred?’
‘Yes, though I haven’t seen her since I was a child. She and Edmund come from a nearby branch of the family tree; I know my mother was very fond of them. But they went abroad for Edmund’s health, and my mother died, and we rather fell out of touch.’
‘Quite understandable.’ I decided I had made her blush enough for now. ‘I’ll wish you goodnight, Miss Grahame.’