Death in a Scarlet Coat Read online

  ‘No, no,’ Candlesby replied, eager to move on, ‘that was only a figure of speech.’

  ‘Yours or Jack Hayward’s? Figure of speech, I mean.’

  ‘I – I don’t know. I don’t think it matters now, does it?’

  ‘So here you were, you and Jack Hayward, just the two of you in the stables. Did he take the blankets off? Off your father’s face, so you could see what had happened to him?’

  ‘I asked him not to. I didn’t want to look. I’m rather squeamish about that sort of thing, actually.’

  ‘Did he tell you how he came to be walking the horse with the corpse? Did he say if he found it by accident, or did somebody come to his house in the night or send him a note?’

  ‘He didn’t tell me. Maybe he was being respectful of my feelings so he didn’t want to say.’

  Powerscourt thought this account of the meeting in the stables one of the more improbable accounts he had heard in a lifetime of listening to improbable accounts.

  ‘So you didn’t really have much of a conversation with Jack Hayward then? What happened next?’

  ‘Hayward went off to bring the doctor and the undertaker’s people. I was keen to get the formalities under way. After I’d seen them I went up to the house to tell the family.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Powerscourt, ‘how very proper. Let me ask just one more question if I may. When you were in the stables, it was just you and Jack Hayward, nobody else?’

  ‘That is correct.’

  ‘Very good, my lord,’ said Powerscourt. ‘Now I think the Detective Inspector will want to ask you a few questions about the disappearance of Jack Hayward. Missing people are more in the police line than mine.’

  ‘This won’t take long, my lord.’ Blunden was trying to be pleasant. ‘Do you know when Jack Hayward disappeared?’

  ‘I’ve no idea, I’m afraid. The first I heard of it was the day before yesterday. Damned nuisance – the man was a genius with horses.’

  ‘And you’ve no idea where he is? He can’t have just disappeared, surely.’

  ‘As far as we’re concerned, that’s just what he has done – disappeared.’

  ‘And you don’t recall any previous occasion where he asked you about working in Wales, say, or your saying to him that he might like Yorkshire, that sort of thing?’

  ‘I don’t think anybody at Candlesby’, said Richard, sounding for the very first time like the lord of the manor he now was, ‘would ever have suggested he went anywhere else. He was needed and very much valued here.’

  Powerscourt and the Inspector collected their belongings and prepared to leave, Powerscourt confirming before they left that a visit to the stables on their way out wouldn’t pose any problems.

  ‘Feel free to look around as much as you like,’ said Richard affably. ‘I don’t think anybody needs to come with you.’

  That was Richard’s big mistake of the day. His coaching of his brothers, if a trifle excessive, had caused no problems. He felt his own performance had been convincing, though he wondered just how much Powerscourt knew about what went on in the stables. But there was one factor he had forgotten to control and this factor was now engaged in conversation with the Inspector and Powerscourt inside the stables.

  ‘I’m Charles, the b-b-black sheep of the Candlesbys,’ said Charles, introducing himself, ‘cursed with being the fourth son and a stutterer. They keep trying to p-p-pack me off out of sight, my b-b-beastly b-b-brothers.’

  ‘You don’t live here, Lord Charles, do you? I don’t recall seeing you about the place.’

  ‘I escaped to Cambridge for three years,’ said the young man, ‘et in Arcadia ego.’

  ‘I was in Paradise too,’ Inspector Blunden chipped in, keen to show off the remains of his Latin.

  ‘My b-b-brothers tried to p-p-persuade me that I was too stupid to pass any exams. That would have meant no trip to the Senate House at the end to collect a degree. But I p-p-passed all my exams. I got my degree. Everybody dressed up for the occasion. Doctors wore scarlet.’

  ‘And where do you live now, sir?’ asked Powerscourt.

  ‘I eke out a p-p-precarious living in London, teaching small boys at a p-p-prep school. The headmaster and his staff put on a great façade of caring for the p-pupils but it’s more like Dotheboys Hall than anywhere else with the headmaster as Wackford Squeers.’

  ‘What can you tell us about your father’s death, sir?’ said Inspector Blunden. ‘Were you here when he was brought up on his horse or did that come later?’

  ‘I was in London when it happened. Latin b-b-beginners class. Amo amas amat. Earnest little eight-year-olds in their crisp white shirts. I took the train as soon as I heard. I arrived about seven.’

  ‘And what impressions did you form about what had happened?’ asked Powerscourt, suspecting that they might at last have found a more truthful witness than the ones encountered so far.

  ‘Well,’ said Charles, ‘there was a great deal of anxiety. And I thought some story was being cooked up which wasn’t true.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Powerscourt, speaking very quietly, took a discreet look up at the Hall to check nobody was coming down to join the party.

  Charles retreated a couple of paces into the shadows. ‘I don’t know what had happened to my father, but I thought he had p-p-probably been killed. And I think he must have looked frightful. Jack Hayward told me so the evening b-b-before he left. And whatever my b-b-brothers told you is p-probably a p-p-pack of lies. Richard’s been rehearsing Edward and Henry in what they were to say to you.’

  ‘Are you saying your father was murdered?’ Inspector Blunden sounded incredulous.

  ‘Yes,’ said Charles. ‘I mean, I don’t know it as I wasn’t here, but I think that’s the most likely explanation. There was a lot of talk about the death certificate. I think they b-b-bullied Dr Miller into signing it saying death was by natural causes.’

  ‘And Jack Hayward,’ said Powerscourt, ‘when did he tell you about your father looking frightful? And did he say he was leaving, going right away?’

  ‘I saw him the evening of the death. I’d come down here to talk to the horses. I like horses. Jack was here. He loved horses too. He didn’t tell me he was leaving though.’

  There were faint noises of people coming towards the stables. Charles seized Powerscourt’s arm. ‘My father was a tyrant. Like some Central European despot who impales his enemies, thousands at a time, stake in at the bottom and out at the mouth. He’d have done that, my father. But I don’t think he should have been killed. I haven’t got much money, Lord P-powerscourt, b-b-but I want you to find his killer. I want you to investigate his death for me.’

  With that he let go of Powerscourt’s arm and drifted off. Powerscourt and Inspector Blunden made their way out to the drive to pick up their carriage. When Edward and Henry reached the stables the only noise to be heard was Charles, crooning quietly to the horses.

  6

  The drive and the gate lodges were well behind them when Powerscourt began to tell the Inspector the reason for his reticence with the inhabitants of Candlesby Hall.

  ‘I think there were two reasons, Inspector, for not showing our full hand at this stage. The first has to do with Dr Miller. I wouldn’t put it past them to send out another bullying expedition to make him change his mind. I wouldn’t want to put him through that again. He was shaking, literally shaking, when he told me what had happened about the death certificate. And the second reason is more diffuse. Assuming the doctor was telling the truth, and Charles Dymoke confirms some of it, we now know that they are all lying about what went on after Richard met Jack Hayward and they turned off the road into the stables. They don’t know that I have talked to Dr Miller and if I had divulged any of that information about the three of them bullying the doctor, they would know immediately where it came from. There was only one other person present, apart from them, after all. So we know they lied about who talked to the doctor; we know from Charles that they have been lying abou
t the manner of the old man’s death. We don’t know who looked at the body. So, I think we have a slight advantage from withholding the fact that I talked to the doctor, though what we do with it for the moment I’m not altogether sure. I do wish we knew what killed the old man; it must have been something pretty unusual.’

  A brief message was passed to Inspector Blunden when they arrived back at the police station. His face fell as he read it.

  ‘This is sad news, indeed, my lord,’ he told Powerscourt. ‘Dr Miller passed away this morning. Peaceful, they say it was, whatever that means.’

  ‘I’ll call at the house this afternoon,’ said Powerscourt. ‘He was brave at the end to tell us what really happened up at the Hall.’

  ‘I’m under instruction to report back to the Chief Constable on our return, my lord. Thank God he’s not here full time. He spends most of his working life making things impossible for the people up at headquarters in Lincoln. What should I tell him about the exhumation order? Do we try for it now or do we hold our fire? I think we have to get a coroner on side first.’

  ‘I’m going to have to read up about exhumations,’ said Powerscourt. ‘If my memory serves me, the family of the person to be exhumed have to give their agreement. That could be tricky. You could say, Inspector, that we’re reviewing our position at this stage. That should impress the Chief Constable, reviewing our position. Military people like him usually get mental images of troops being inspected on parade grounds, line after line of redcoats stretching to the far reaches of the drill square; you know what I mean.’

  The Inspector smiled. ‘I’ll plant that thought, my lord, and we’ll see what answer comes back.’

  Powerscourt resolved to contact Lady Lucy as soon as he could. He thought he might try an encircling movement on the Chief Constable. He was pensive as he walked over to Dr Miller’s house. Originally, he thought, there were three people who had seen the dead man’s face, three people who knew how he had died. Now one of them was dead. Another wouldn’t tell him the truth. And the third had disappeared off the face of the earth. Then he realized something else. He thought it possible, but not likely, that Richard, now the Earl of Candlesby, had killed his father. It just seemed an incredibly roundabout way of doing it – though that, of course, could have been planned to throw people off the scent. But if he hadn’t, then there was another person or persons who must have seen his face and his injuries before he died. The murderer or murderers. And Powerscourt had no idea at all who they might be or why they had killed him.

  He was still wondering about what had happened to Candlesby’s face when he reached the doctor’s house. Mrs Baines opened the door.

  ‘Oh, it’s you, Lord Powerscourt. I expect you’ve heard the news.’

  ‘I have indeed, Mrs Baines. I’ve come to pay my respects.’

  ‘There’s only a son left of his family now, and he’s in Montana or one of those places in Australia. Or is it America? Five children the doctor had at one point, but four of them died. Doesn’t seem fair, does it, four of them being taken.’

  ‘Montana’s in America, Mrs Baines. Full of cowboys with big hats. Could I ask you a question about the doctor’s last hours?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Did he have any visitors in the period after I left him?’

  ‘Funny you should say that, Lord Powerscourt; he did as a matter of fact. A gentleman called on him yesterday evening but the doctor wasn’t able to say anything sensible. I told the gentleman to come back in the morning but he said he could only manage the afternoon as he had business to attend to first thing.’

  ‘Did he leave his name, or a card or anything like that?’

  ‘No, he didn’t, but I’d know him anywhere. He had a great shock of red hair.’

  When she looked back on it after Powerscourt had gone she felt sure from the look on his face that he had known perfectly well who the mysterious visitor was. But like the visitor himself, he hadn’t chosen to tell her.

  Shortly after eleven o’clock the next morning a cab from the station deposited a visitor at Candlesby Hall. The newcomer took a quick glance at the front of the building and whistled softly to himself as if he had just worked out how much it would cost to repair. He was shown into the saloon where the new Earl was waiting to meet him. Another quick glance round the room seemed to add even greater sums to those already required outside.

  ‘Sowerby, my lord, Mark Sowerby, partner in Hopkins Pettigrew & Green, solicitors of Bedford Square, at your service.’

  ‘Sit down, do, Mr Sowerby. How kind of you to come so promptly. My father did a lot of business with your firm, I believe.’

  ‘That is indeed the case, my lord, and how fortunate we were to secure his custom.’

  Mark Sowerby had that indefinable look about him that says people come from London. Maybe it was the sharpness of his clothes, on the fringes rather than at the centre of fashion. Maybe it was the eyes, forever darting from one place to the next as if greater business or greater beauty was just around the corner. Maybe it was the restlessness, the shifting about as though anxious to be aboard the next train back to the capital. He had small rather mean eyes and a sharp nose.

  ‘I told you in my letter, Mr Sowerby, about my father’s death and the fact that we have had a Detective Inspector round here with a private investigator in tow.’

  ‘You did indeed, my lord. Would you have a name for the investigating gentleman?’

  ‘Powerscourt, Mr Sowerby, Lord Francis Powerscourt.’

  Sowerby let out another of his low whistles. ‘He’s got a very fine reputation, my lord, that Powerscourt. I wonder if we could pay him to go away.’

  ‘I’m not sure what you mean, Mr Sowerby. Pay him to go away?’

  ‘Sometimes, my lord,’ Sowerby was now leaning forward in his best man-of-the-world manner, ‘we find that if they are paid by us more than they have been promised by the other party, they drop the case. After the payment has been made, of course.’

  Richard stared sadly at one of the holes in his carpet. ‘I’m not sure that would work,’ he said. ‘I’ll think about it.’ He didn’t like to tell the lawyer from London that he would find it difficult to lay his hands on sums large enough to change an investigator’s mind.

  ‘We’re getting ahead of ourselves, my lord,’ Sowerby was rubbing his hands together now, ‘as often happens when lawyer and client strike up an immediate rapport. Now then,’ he pulled a dark blue notebook from his breast pocket, ‘why don’t you tell me exactly what happened at the time of your father’s death. It helps if we can begin with the truth. Then you can tell me what you told the police. Don’t worry if they’re not the same, my lord. That’s usually why people call us in.’

  Richard told him the truth first of all. He realized that he had given so many different accounts of what happened that morning that he wasn’t sure what the truth was any more. Sowerby wrote it all down. Then Richard filled him in on what he had said to the police and to Powerscourt. He didn’t mention what had happened to his father’s face. He did tell him that the groom Jack Hayward who had brought the body up the road to the Hall had disappeared.

  Sowerby stopped writing with a flourish of his pen, which he returned ostentatiously to his pocket.

  ‘Good! Excellent, I’d say! Couple of points, my lord. Did the police and the investigating man ask if you had killed your father?’

  Richard shook his head.

  ‘Right, my lord.’ Sowerby sounded like a man on home ground now, one who had handled many similar cases in his time. ‘One or two things occur to me. The first has to do with your brothers. Something in the way you told their story makes me think you don’t trust them very much. So, keep them away from the police at all costs. The second has to do with the man Hayward. Did you have anything to do with his disappearance, my lord? Don’t worry, I shan’t be upset and I’m certainly not going to the police.’

  Richard remained silent.

  ‘I’ll take that for a yes, my lor
d. Never fear. Let me just say that if he is coming back, I think it’s probably best if the date of return is a long time away. And I think you should check with us before you bring Hayward back again. Then there’s the death certificate, which you said was false. Do you know if that doctor – Miller, did you say his name was? – told anybody else about what he saw?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘You don’t suppose that the Powerscourt person might have got to him in the meantime, my lord?’

  ‘I don’t think it’s likely. Anyway, the doctor died yesterday morning. He was very old. He can’t cause any more trouble where he’s gone.’

  ‘No, indeed, my lord. Thank goodness for that!’

  Sowerby took a brief inspection of his tattered surroundings once more. He wondered if his client had killed the doctor as he believed he had killed his father.

  ‘There’s just one thing I should mention, my lord. It shouldn’t happen, but it’s as well to be prepared.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘If Hayward spills the beans, or if Dr Miller did speak to somebody before he died, there’ll be calls for an inquest and probably an exhumation; that’s when they dig up the body and get a pathologist to examine it.’ He noted the horror on Richard’s face and couldn’t work out whether it was caused

  by the unpleasantness of the exhumation or what it might reveal. ‘I don’t think we want to dig up the body, my lord, do we?’ Richard shook his head. ‘We’ve got people back in the office in Bedford Square who have stopped more exhumations and post-mortems than I’ve had fish suppers. All members of the family are supposed to agree for a start. That should stop proceedings once and for all. But if you hear anything about a pending exhumation, let us know at once. At once, I say. It could be crucial.’

  ‘One question, Mr Sowerby, if I may. Do I have to speak to the police when they come, or can I simply refuse to talk to them?’