"Oh, sir, is anything the matter? Did you ring?"
"No, no, Mary," I replied. "I am going for a walk, but the front door is locked."
She looked up at a clock hanging above the range. It told just a little before half past five.
"The master would always come down himself with the keys, at six sharp," she said. "Every morning, without fail."
"I suppose Miss Carteret has the keys now," I said.
"I can"t say, sir. I was that upset yesterday evening that Mrs Rowthorn said I might go home, which I did, though I made sure I was here early this morning."
"And do you live in the village, Mary?"
"All my life, sir."
"I imagine this has been a terrible shock. So senseless and unexpected."
"Oh sir, the poor dear master . . . such a good man, so good to us all." Whereupon her voice began to falter, and I saw that tears were not far off.
"You must be strong, Mary," I said, "for your mistress"s sake."
"Yes, sir, I shall try. Thank you, sir."
As I was about to leave, a thought struck me.
"Tell me, Mary, if it does not upset you too much, who found Mr Carteret?"
"John Brine, sir."
"And who is John Brine?"
She described him as Mr Carteret"s man, by which I understood her to mean his general factotum.
"And how many other servants are there here, besides John Brine?"
"Well, Mrs Rowthorn, of course, and myself. I mostly help Mrs Barnes, the cook, and do the cleaning, though Mr Tidy"s girl comes in three times a week to help me with that. Then, besides John Brine, there"s his sister Lizzie Miss Emily"s maid and Sam Edwards, the gardener."
She turned from the sink and began rubbing her hands on her ap.r.o.n. It appeared that John Brine had been on some errand to the great house when Mr Carteret"s horse was first seen trotting riderless through the Park. Brine, together with two of Lord Tansor"s grooms, Robert Tindall and William Hunt, had immediately set off to look for Mr Carteret, the two grooms taking the main road to the gates that stood on the southern side of the Park, Brine following the smaller track that led through a swathe of woods to the western gateway on the Odstock Road.
"So Mr Carteret was found by John Brine alone, then?" I asked.
"I believe so, sir. He rode back straight away to find the others, and then they all went there together."
"And where can I find Mr Brine?"
She directed me to a little yard leading off the garden, one side of which consisted of a range containing two or three stables and a tack-room. Here I found John Brine, a stocky young man of about thirty, with light sandy hair and beard. He looked up from his work as I entered, but said nothing.
"John Brine?"
"I am," he replied, in a suspicious tone, drawing himself up and straightening his back.
"Then I would like to ask you a few questions concerning the attack on Mr Carteret. I am "
"I know your name, Mr Glapthorn," he said. "We were told to expect you. But I don"t know why you feel it is appropriate to question me. I"ve told everything I know to Lord Tansor, and I don"t think, beggin" your pardon, sir, that his Lordship would consider it proper that I repeat myself to a stranger. I hope you understand my position, sir. If you"ll excuse me."
At which he returned to his work. But I would not be brushed off so easily by such as he.
"Just a minute, Brine. You should know that I am remaining here for a day or so with the express permission of Miss Carteret. It is inc.u.mbent upon me, in my professional capacity, for reasons I need not trouble you with, to inform myself as fully as possible with all the circ.u.mstances surrounding this terrible event. You will oblige me greatly, Mr Brine, if you could see your way to giving me your account, in your own words, of how you found Mr Carteret. I would not wish to rely on hearsay or rumour, which might distort or contradict the truth I know I shall hear from your own lips."
He looked at me for a moment, trying no doubt to gauge the sincerity of my little speech. Then he appeared to relax his stance a little, nodded to me to take a seat on an old wheel-backed chair that stood by the door, and began to tell me his story.
In outline, it confirmed what I had already heard from Mary. He had been at the great house when one of the gardener"s boys had run in to the stable yard to say that Mr Carteret"s black mare was trotting through the Park, but that there was no sign of its rider. With darkness now coming on, Brine and the two grooms had at once mounted up and rode out, the grooms heading towards the South Gates, Brine veering west towards the woods.
Brine had found him lying face down amongst the trees, a little way off the track, not far from the Western Gates.
"Had he fallen where he was attacked, do you think?" I asked.
"No," said Brine, "I don"t think so. The track bends sharply at that point, just before the gates. I believe they were waiting for him on the far side of the bend, just within the trees. He wouldn"t have seen them until it was too late. After he"d fallen, I suppose they"d sent the horse off and then dragged him into the trees you could see the flattened gra.s.s. He was still breathing when I found him, but I couldn"t rouse him."
"And his bag?"
"Bag?"
"The bag he had across his chest."
"There was no bag."
I then asked him where they had taken Mr Carteret.
"William Hunt rode back to the great house and they brought up a cart. We took him back on that."
"To Evenwood, not here?"
"Yes. Lord Tansor insisted. He said he should be kept as quiet as possible until Dr Vyse could be brought from Peterborough. Robert Tindall was sent straight away."
"What time was this?"
"Around eight o"clock."
"But Mr Carteret died before the doctor arrived?"
"At about half past nine, or thereabouts. Miss Carteret was with him, and Lord and Lady Tansor."
I held out my hand, which he took after a little hesitation. I was determined to get the fellow on my side, though he seemed somewhat dull-witted and morose.
"Thank you, Brine. I am grateful to you."
"Oh, Brine," I said, as I was about to leave, "where is Mr Carteret now?"
"In the chapel at the great house. Lord Tansor thought it would be best."
I nodded. "Indeed. Yes. Thank you, Brine. Oh, by the way, could you arrange for this to get to Peterborough, in time for the midday railway mail?" I handed him the second account I had written for Mr Tredgold, describing the reported circ.u.mstances of the fatal attack on Mr Carteret.
"You will need some money," I added, getting out a five-pound note. This should suffice."
He made no reply, but merely nodded as he took the proffered money.
I retraced my steps to the garden, and then walked across the lawn to the gate-house. As I stepped out onto the roadway, I noticed something dark lying on the ground. I stooped down to examine it more closely. It was the remains of a half-smoked cigar, sufficient for me by now a seasoned connoisseur to recognize one of the premier Havana brands, Ramon Allones no less. Miss Carteret"s lover was a man of discernment. I threw the stump on the ground and proceeded on my way.
A little before gaining the point at the summit of the long incline from where the great house could be seen, I stopped and looked back. Below and behind me were the turrets of the gate-house; to the right, the Plantation, with a glimpse of the Dower House beyond. Further to the right was the boundary wall, on the other side of which could be seen the roof of the Rectory and the spire of St Michael"s. The irresistible swell and spread of pure fresh morning light was breaking along the distant line of the river, whilst to the west the great arc of woodland that clothed the higher ground towards Molesey and Easton stood in silent half-shadow.
I turned and resumed my trudge up the long slope. The road here begins to swing through a gentle curve, flanked on either side by a short avenue of oaks, and then levels out before descending to cross an arched bridge across the Nene, which can be seen snaking its sinuous way eastwards through the Park. I emerged from the trees and stopped.
The house was spread out below, its magical splendour even more dizzyingly captivating in the misty September light than I remembered it from my first visit in high summer. I proceeded down the slope, across the bridge, and at last found myself standing in the inner courtyard. Before me were the main doors to the house, on each side of which were two elegant Doric columns supported a pediment, in the midst of which was placed the Tansor arms and an inscription: "What thing so Fair but Time will not Pare. Anno 1560". A little further off, to left and right, ab.u.t.ting into the forecourt, two of the many cupola-topped towers for which Evenwood is celebrated soared into the brightening air; a little way beyond the southernmost of these was a small archway, through which I could discern a cobbled courtyard.
I did not stop to consider what I would say or do if I encountered anyone. I had laid no plans, had no alibi or excuse prepared. Without thinking, I found myself walking through the archway and into the courtyard beyond, heedless of the possible consequences. I was simply intoxicated by the grave beauty of the building, which seemed to drive all calculated and rational thought away.
I had entered one of the oldest parts of the house. Three sides of the court consisted of open-arched cloisters, unchanged since the Middle Ages; the fourth, forming the outer wall at this point, was a closed-in range, altered in the last century, with four rectangular windows of painted gla.s.s, two on each side of an ogee-arched door standing at the top of a little semi-circular flight of steps. Surmounting the roof of this range was a magnificent clock of brightly coloured wood within an intricate Gothic housing, the gilded panels of which were now gleaming in the early morning sun.
As I ascended the steps, the bell of this instrument tolled the half hour. I looked at my pocket-watch: six-thirty. The household would already be about its business, but still I paid no heed to the prospect of being discovered creeping uninvited about the building. I pushed open the door and entered.
The interior of the chapel, wainscoted in dark wood and paved in white marble, was cool and silent. I noted, with approval, the pretty little three-manual pipe-organ of the last century, which I knew from my researches had been made by John Snetzler.2 On either side of a central aisle, three or four rows of ornately carved chairs stood facing a simple railed-off altar, above which hung a painting of the Sacrifice of Isaac. Before the altar, placed on trestles and lit by four tall candles in ma.s.sive golden holders, stood the open coffin of Mr Paul Carteret.
The upper part of his body had been covered by a white cloth. I gently pulled it back and looked down at the man I had last seen trotting out of the George Hotel in Stamford, antic.i.p.ating a good tea and the company of his daughter.
Death had not been kind to him. His jaw had been temporarily bound; but the rest of his poor round face showed all too clearly the violence that had been meted out to him. The left eye was closed and undamaged, but the right had gone completely, reduced to a horrifying mess of bone and pulp, along with much of that side of the face. I had seen such injuries before, on many dangerous midnights in London, and knew with cold certainty that whoever had visited this violence upon him had done so with truly murderous intent, having, I guessed, something of overwhelming moment to lose if their victim survived the attack. I was now sure that Mr Carteret had been doomed from the moment he took horse from Stamford: he had been carrying his own death warrant in the bag he had strapped round him, and which had now disappeared.
Though I went to church dutifully throughout my childhood, I have retained little of what is generally called religion, except for a visceral conviction that our lives are controlled by some universal mechanism that is greater than ourselves. Perhaps that is what others call G.o.d. Perhaps not. At any rate, it is not reducible to forms and rituals, and requires only stoical a.s.sent and resignation, since mediation or intervention is impossible. But, after pulling the cloth back over Mr Carteret"s face, I found myself bowing my head nonetheless not in prayer, for I had no listening deity to whom to pray, but in common human sympathy.
It was as I stood in this apparent att.i.tude of reverential supplication that I heard the door to the chapel open.
A tall, white-bearded figure in clerical garb stood framed in the doorway. He had removed his hat, revealing two wings of white hair swept back on either side of a broad highway of pink flesh. It could be no other than the Reverend Achilles Brabazon Daunt, Rector of Evenwood.
"I beg your pardon," I heard him say, in deep plangent tones. "I had not expected to find anyone here at this hour."
He did not leave, however, but closed the door behind him and walked down the aisle towards me.
"I do not think I have had the pleasure of your acquaintance."
No help for it now, so I told him my name and the simple truth: that I had come up to meet Mr Carteret on a matter of business; that he had invited me to stay on for a day or so; and that it had only been on my arrival at the Dower House, the previous day, that I had learned the terrible news.
We exchanged the usual pieties, dwelt a little on the iniquity of men, and discussed the likelihood of the attackers being apprehended.
"This must not stand," he said shaking his head slowly, "indeed it must not. These wretches will certainly be discovered, I have no doubt on that score. Such a crime cannot stay hidden. G.o.d sees all and so do men"s neighbours, I have found. Lord Tansor is placing an advertis.e.m.e.nt in the Mercury, offering a substantial reward for any information that leads to a successful prosecution. That, I think, may loosen a few tongues. Such atrocities are common, I believe, in London, but not here; no, not here."
"It is in the power of every hand to destroy us," I said.
A smile broke across his broad face.
"Sir Thomas Browne!" he said, with evident delight. ""And we are beholding unto everyone we meet he doth not kill us." There is always something in good Sir Thomas a kind of sortes Homericae.3 I often use him thus. Open him anywhere, and wisdom pours from his page."
We stood in silent contemplation of the coffin for a moment or two. Then he turned to me again.
"Will you join me in a prayer, Mr Glapthorn?" he asked.
Mirabile dictu! Behold me now, kneeling beside the coffin of Mr Paul Carteret, with the Reverend Achilles Daunt, the father of my enemy, at my right hand, intoning a prayer for the peace of the poor victim"s soul, and swift retribution to be visited on the heads of his murderers to which last sentiment I was only too happy to add my "Amen".
We rose and went back out into the courtyard.
"Shall we walk back together?" he asked, and so we set off.
"You are not a complete stranger to me, Dr Daunt," I said, as we were descending the chapel steps. "I have had occasion to consult your great catalogue,4 and am delighted, on that score alone, to have made your acquaintance."
"You have an interest in such things, then?" he asked with a sudden eagerness.
And so I began to reel him in, just as I had done with Mr Tredgold. The bibliophilic temperament, you see: its possessors const.i.tute a kind of freemasonry, ever disposed to treat those blest with a similar pa.s.sion for books as if they were blood brothers. It did not take me long to demonstrate my familiarity both with the study of books in general, and with the character of the Duport Collection in particular. By the time we had begun to ascend the slope back towards the South Gates we were in deep discussion on whether the 1472 Macrobius (Venice: N. Jenson) or the 1772 folio of Cripo"s Conjuracion de Catalina (Madrid: J. Ibarra), with its rare signed binding by Richard Wier, was the most perfect example of the typographer"s art in the collection.
He spoke at length, too, of Mr Carteret, whom he had known since first coming to Evenwood as Rector. After Lord Tansor had volunteered his secretary"s services as Dr Daunt"s a.s.sistant in the preparation of the great catalogue, their acquaintance had deepened into friendship. He had been especially helpful with regard to the ma.n.u.script holdings, which, though not extensive in comparison with the printed books, contained several important items.
"He was not a trained scholar," said Dr Daunt, "but he was extremely well informed on the ma.n.u.scripts acquired by his Lordship"s grandfather, and had already prepared some commendably accurate descriptions and summaries, which spared me a great deal of labour."
By now we had reached the point at which the path to the Dower House led off the main carriage-road.
"Perhaps, Mr Glapthorn, if you have no duties you need to attend to, you might wish to take some tea at the Rectory this afternoon? My own collection is modest, but there are one or two items I think will interest you. I would invite you for a spot of breakfast now, but I have to call on my neighbour, Dr Stark, at Blatherwycke, and then go on to Peterborough. But I shall be back in good time for tea. Shall we say three o"clock?"
22:.
Locus delicti1 ______________________________________________________________________.
I cannot resist a half-opened door just as I am unable to stop myself from peeping into a lighted and uncurtained window as I pa.s.s it on a dark night. The desired privacy proclaimed by a deliberately closed door I can respect; but not if it is half open. That, for me, is an invitation that I will always accept. This one was especially tempting, for I knew it must lead into the room from which I had heard Miss Carteret playing the piano-forte the previous evening.
After leaving Dr Daunt, I had been admitted to the Dower House by Mrs Rowthorn and noticed, as I was ambling towards the staircase, that this particular door was ajar. I continued on my way, but waited on the first-floor landing for a moment or two until I was sure that the housekeeper had returned to the lower regions of the house, then quickly descended the stairs again, and entered the room.
The atmosphere in the apartment was close, heavy, and silent. The instrument I had heard a fine Broadwood six-octave grand stood before the far window. On it, opened, as if ready to be played, was a piece of music: an etude by Chopin. I turned over the pages, but it was not the piece I had heard the night before. I looked about me. The pale blinds had been drawn down, and through them the morning sun cast a muted silver light about the room. My eye picked out three or four dark-velvet ottomans and matching chairs, with coloured cushions of Berlin- and bead-work scattered upon them; the walls, hung with a rich red self-patterned wall-paper, were covered with a profusion of portraits, prints, and silhouettes; a number of round tables, covered in chenille cloths and laden with a variety of j.a.panned and papier-mache boxes, pottery ornaments, and bronze figurines, were placed here and there amongst the chairs and ottomans, whilst above the fireplace, to the right of the door, hung an umbrageous seventeenth-century depiction of Evenwood.
The comfortable but unremarkable character of the room left me feeling a little cheated until I noticed, lying under the piano-forte, two or three half-torn sheets of music, which appeared to have been violently ripped out of a larger compilation. I walked over to the instrument and bent down to pick up the remnants.
"Do you play, Mr Glapthorn?"
Miss Emily Carteret stood in the doorway looking at me as I was picking up the ripped sheets to place them on the piano-stool.
"Not as well as you, I fear," I said, truthfully, though the note sounded false, a pathetic attempt at gallantry. But my words had an effect on her nonetheless, for she began to look at me with a strange concentration of expression, as if she were waiting for me to confess some mean action.
"You heard me playing last evening, I suppose. I hope I did not disturb you."
"Not in the least. I found it extremely affecting. A most satisfying accompaniment to the close contemplation of a twilit garden."
I meant her to know that I had not only heard her playing, but had also witnessed the rendezvous with her lover in the Plantation; but she simply remarked, in a flat, vacant tone, that I did not give the impression of possessing a contemplative disposition.