As Atticus and Lucie Fox bicycled side-by-side up the rough, stony lane leading to the short terrace of cottages Sir Hugh had pointed out the previous day, the faint sound of angry voices carried to them on the afternoon breeze. They glanced in alarm to each other and Atticus reached under the crossbar of his bicycle for the reassuring presence of his walking cane.
The voices quickly grew louder as they approached and were distilled into three. They were all the voices of men and very soon they came upon their source. Two men were facing one other in an obviously heated altercation across the lane ahead.
The solitary man they knew immediately as John Lawson, Sir Hugh Lowther’s land steward, but the other two they did not recognise. A large heap of smashed furniture and other household articles lay scattered across the grass in front of the neat, little end cottage and they realised that this must be the same tied-cottage that until so recently had been occupied by Samson Elliott.
“What’s going on here, Mr Lawson?” Atticus called as they braked to a halt in front of the group. The argument ceased abruptly and the two strangers rounded on the Foxes.
“Who are you? Are you this ’ere Colonel Lowther?” the older and broader of them snarled. He pushed his thumbs behind the lapels of his threadbare jacket and swelled like a blowfish as he glared at them.
Atticus reached down and eased his cane from its clips under the crossbar. He met the man’s gaze steadily.
“No, sir, my name is Fox. I am a privately commissioned investigator working on behalf of the colonel, as is my wife.”
He held the man’s glare for several more seconds before turning to Lawson. “What’s going on?” he repeated.
The land steward stepped forward, glaring menacingly at the others and tugged respectfully at the brim of his hat.
“I heard the sound of banging and crashing as if the Devil himsel’ were here, Mr Fox – begging your pardon, Mrs Fox – and I hurried over to find these fellows. They were turning ower Samson Elliott’s cottage and smashing up his things like it were the Bristol Riots.”
“I see,” said Atticus. “You gentlemen being kinsmen of Mr Elliott, I presume?”
“We’re his brothers, aye. We’re ’is only flesh and blood and we’re ’ere to see to him and ’is things as is proper. You ain’t going to stop us, Mister; it ain’t again’ the law.”
“I have no intentions of stopping you, Mr Elliott,” Atticus replied curtly, “although Mr Lawson here may well have.”
He turned back to Lawson. “Let me explain what these men are about, Mr Lawson. Rest assured they are not rioters. You see, it is a Gypsy custom that once one of their fellows dies, all of their possessions must be immediately destroyed and burnt. Unless they do so, they believe that the deceased’s spirit might return and reclaim the property as their own. Their body is usually burnt in their vardo – their caravan.”
Lawson looked aghast. “What sort of heathen, ungodly practice is that for this day an’ age?”
“A very ancient one,” Atticus replied, “and one with some practical merit to it too. For example, if it happened to be a disease or an infection that had caused the Gypsy’s death, the germs would likely be destroyed in the flames and therefore prevented from being passed on to contaminate others.”
Lawson was still indignant. “That’s as may be, Mr Fox, but they were breaking the colonel’s property along with Elliott’s.”
“Then let me suggest a simple compromise,” Atticus proposed. “Go with Elliott’s brothers into the cottage, explain to them how it is tied to the Lowther estate and point out exactly what is estate property and what belonged to Samson. They may then, of course, dispose of that in whatever way they see fit.”
Lawson nodded doubtfully. “It still doesn’t sound right to me, Mr Fox, but aye, I’m willing to do as you suggest.”
Atticus turned to the Gypsy brothers. “Your brother’s vardo is being held as evidence by the police. You must get the permission of the detective superintendent at Hexham before you can touch that. His body is held by the Hexham coroner but it is due for release.”
Then he addressed all three. “Mrs Fox and I are here at Sir Hugh Lowther’s personal expense to try to ascertain exactly who is responsible for Samson Elliott’s death. Do any of you have any objection to our quickly examining his cottage for clues?”
Lawson answered immediately. “No, sir, I’ve none at all, of course.” He glared another challenge to the Elliott brothers.
“No, I don’t suppose we do, so long as you don’t take nothing of his,” the elder conceded finally.
“You have our word on it,” Atticus assured him, then on a sudden thought asked, “Tell me; how did you find out about your brother’s death so quickly?”
“It was right easy. This Sir Hugh Lowther has kin in Westmorland – gentry, the same as he. He sent word to them and they sent one of their servants down to Appleby with the news. We were there for the Horse Fair. It was where poor Samson was bound when he was murdered.” The brother hesitated. “They said it was some madman that killed him, a lunatic that lives on his own in a hovel near to here.”
“We do not yet know for sure it was he.” Atticus’s response was guarded.
“Come on, Mister Investigator or whatever y’ are, it was him all right. Once we’ve sorted out Samson’s affairs here, we’ll be going to pay a little visit on this madman. You never know, with a little bit of persuasion, we might just be able to get him to admit to what he’s done. It’ll save you the trouble and Lowther a lot of, ah, personal expense.”
Atticus was horrified.
“Mr Elliott, let me remind you that we have a system of justice in Great Britain which is admired all around the world. That justice declares that a man is considered entirely innocent of a crime until and unless he is proven guilty in a court of law before a jury of his peers. That principle is sacrosanct and you must never, ever take the law into your own hands.”
The brother allowed his eyes to slowly rake Atticus up and down, lingering for a moment on the thick, pewter and ebony walking cane he held so tightly in his fist.
“Well ain’t that nice and dandy for Great Britain? So why don’t you and your wife take note of your own lecture and go back to where you came from?”
Atticus was all at once incensed. A tick in his neck began flashing the warning that his careful arguments might yet turn into a raging spew of bile. He drew a deep, slow breath and forced himself to be calm, to think and to speak rationally.
Lucie glanced at him warily. She knew the warning too.
“But my husband and I are not taking the law into our own hands, Mr Elliott,” she smiled. “We are properly commissioned investigators who are scientifically examining the facts of the case. Our conclusions will then be properly presented, firstly to the constabulary and secondly to a judge and a jury.”
“Well our way is quicker and surer and we don’t need science or a big, fancy bag.” The brother leered at her. “I wouldn’t mind taking you along with us though. We could do with a bit of sweet company to help us pass the time. How would you like a bit of Gypsy, my darling? They tell me we’re much in demand amongst the fine ladies.” He grinned at his brother.
Atticus’s gaze was murderous. “Be warned, Elliott, you go too far now!”
The other smirked insolently and his gaze crept down Lucie, his eyes taking in every detail of her. Atticus indignantly sidestepped to shield her and Elliott’s eyes flickered up to meet his.
“Look at this, Elliott,” Atticus hissed, rubbing irritably at his neck. “We took an impression of a boot print close to where the body of your brother was discovered.”
Reaching inside his investigations bag, he carefully lifted out the plaster impression and held it up for the brothers to see.
“What in God’s name sort of boot is that?” Lucie forgotten, the two brothers stared, wide-eyed at the cast.
“It is called a sabaton, Mr Elliott, and it was the iron footwear of a knight of the Dark Ages. Uther Pendragon, the lunatic to whom you refer, is not able to venture much out of his cottage at present because of the fragility of his mind, but did Samson ever tell you about the legends of King Arthur hereabouts?”
The brothers nodded in unison, almost comically, with mouths gaping like the audience at a phantasmagoria.
“I of course do not… really… believe the stories, but many do. Many people believe that your brother’s killing was the work of the spectre of King Arthur, awoken from the spirit realm.”
He tapped the cast softly with the heavy end of his cane.
“This plaster impression would seem to support that notion. There are those who would hesitate before venturing up towards the moors of Sewingshields at present. They might well be afraid of who, or what, might find them there.”
The older brother crossed himself and the other swallowed hard. Even John Lawson looked visibly shaken.
“We’ll leave you to your work then,” murmured Atticus. “Good day to you all.”
He put his arm around Lucie’s waist and shepherded her around the two brothers and towards the entrance of the little, white cottage.