Death Devil's Bridge (21 page)

“There are skid marks here that you may also wish to photograph,” Laken said, and pointed up the road, a dozen yards from the spot where the Daimler had plunged into the ravine.

Charles studied the marks, reconstructing the scene in his mind. The car had come hurtling down the hill, the driver had applied the brake, and then—

He stopped and stared down at the ground, remembering Albrecht's words and Kate's uncannily accurate dream. The right brake had held: in the sandy dirt of the little-used lane, he could see the point at which the right rear wheel had seized, had begun to skid, and then to turn. The left brake had failed, had “slipped,” Albrecht had said, and the vehicle had spun to the right.

“I wonder why he pushed on the brake lever so hard,” Laken remarked. “Albrecht was an experienced driver, was he not?”

Charles nodded. “I shouldn't have expected him to attempt to brake, unless—”

“ 'Less somethink walked out in front of 'im,” said Gaskell cheerfully. “A dog er a cat, like.”

“Or a person,” Charles said. He beckoned to Laken and they turned to trudge up the windy hill to the spot where Lawrence should arrive. “What did you learn from Jessup, Ned?”

“That he spent the day at the fete, in the company of various people, whom he named. I have not yet had an opportunity to confirm his claim that he was present for the balloon ascent. But if it is true, I don't see how he could have interfered with the motorcar's progress. Devil's Bridge is four miles from Bishop's Keep. Albrecht must have crashed only fifteen or twenty minutes after the chase began.”

Charles was of the same opinion. “It would also have been difficult for Jessup to predict that Albrecht would use this lane,” he added. “The other cars went round Ashton Cross—Albrecht could easily have done the same. I don't see that Jessup—or anyone else, for that matter—could have planned beforehand to interfere with his route.”

“But I did learn something of interest from my talk with Jessup,” Laken said. “I suppose you have seen the man driving a new gig. And Agnes tells me that Mrs. Jessup has a very fine new bonnet.”

“The gig, yes,” Charles said. “I wasn't aware of the bonnet.” He smiled, making a mental note to tell Kate, who had somehow failed to notice, or at least to mention it to him.

“According to Jessup, the money—thirty pounds—came from Charles Rolls.”

“From Rolls?” Charles exclaimed in surprise.
“But he
had nothing to do with the old man's dying. Why should he—?”

He stopped. Thirty pounds was a very large sum for a poor family—a year's wages, and something more. Was there more to Old Jessup's apoplexy than they had known or thought?

“Indeed,” Laken said thoughtfully. “Why should he? I must say, however, that I am not entirely convinced that Jessup was telling the truth. There was something about his behavior that—”

This puzzled Charles even more. “But what could the man gain from a lie? And if the money did not come from Rolls, where did he get it?” From Bradford Marsden, perhaps? It was his Daimler that Rolls had been driving on the night of the old man's death.

“I don't know,” Laken confessed. “The business is deuced puzzling.” He shook his head. “But I could get nothing out of the man except his continued reiteradon that the money came from Rolls's purse.”

Lawrence was waiting with the wagon at the top of the hill, hunched against the chilly wind, his coat collar pulled up around his ears. As Charles came toward him, he climbed down and held out an envelope sealed with a flat blob of red wax.

“From Lord Bradford, sir,” he said. “ 'Twas left at Bishop's Keep fer ye.” Not meeting Charles's eyes, he gestured nervously toward the bridge. “Shud I take the wagon an' 'orses down there an' get started?” Then he stopped, and his mouth fell open. “Lor' bless me, it crashed on
this
side o' the bridge!”

Hearing this, Charles gave him a quick look. “Did you think otherwise?”

“Why, er,” Lawrence stammered. He sucked in a deep breath. “I s'pose I thought—That is ...” He stopped, and stood without speaking.

“I see,” Charles said. He began to open the envelope. “I'll show you what must be done in a moment, Lawrence. I want to photograph the scene first, before you begin.” He scanned the letter, then read it again, more carefully, frowning.

 

 

Eyebrows raised quizzically, Laken had been watching Charles as he read. “What is it?” he asked.

Charles folded the letter. “Bradford has removed to London,” he said evenly.

“Ah,” Laken remarked.

“To London!” Lawrence exclaimed, almost involuntarily. “But wot 'bout me?” He stiffened smartly, remembering his place. “Pardon, sir.”

“I think we need not concern ourselves with that at the moment, Lawrence,” Charles said. He turned to Laken. “If the others—Dunstable, Bateman, and that crew—are still at the inn, it might be a good idea to keep them there.”

“Most decidedly a good idea.” Laken took out his pocket watch. “They are likely still at their breakfasts. If I hurry, I can reach the inn before they depart.” He looked at Charles. “You believe, then, that there is evidence of foul play to be found here?”

“There may have been foul play,” Charles said. “Whether we will find the evidence of it remains to be seen. But by all means, Ned, go to the inn.”

Five minutes later, Charles and Lawrence, in the company of P.C. Gaskell, stood at the side of the road, overlooking the scene of the crash.

“Blazes,” Lawrence muttered. “There's not much left o' the pore thing.”

“Can it be rebuilt, do you think?” Charles asked. Without waiting for an answer, he knelt to open his leather camera case.

“May‘ap, with work.” Lawrence shook his head. “ 'Tis sad as seein' a fine 'orse lamed.”

P.C. Gaskell shook his head emphatically. “Ye kin repair a motorcar when the wheel comes off. A ‘orse loses 'is leg, ye've got t‘shoot the beast.” He cast a look at Charles, who was getting out his camera. “If ye don't mind me askin', Sir Charles, wot's that for?”

“I am taking photographs which may aid in the investigation of the crime—if a crime is indeed what we have here.”

P.C. Gaskell regarded the camera with a skeptical look. He must have heard by now, as had even the most remote provincial policeman, that Scotland Yard photographed every criminal who came through the metropolitan jails. He may also have read in
The Times
that the French
Sûreté
was beginning to experiment with crime scene photography. But it was not very likely that P.C. Gaskell of the tiny hamlet of Lawford, in the borough of Colchester, County of Essex, had ever witnessed an actual photographic documenting of a crime scene—an event that would not become common police practice for several decades.

Charles felt that the constable's skepticism was quite understandable and hence explained, in some detail, his plan for recording the scene. He was using, as he often did for outdoor photography, a Lancaster Rover, a hand camera with a seesaw shutter, adjustable diaphragms, and a viewfinder. It held twelve unexposed plates that, at the touch of a lever, fell one after the other into position. With another lever, the exposed plate was shifted to a chamber at the back of the camera. He had also brought a larger, tripod-mounted camera—a favorite in his collection—that had been made in Paris in 1890. Its fine Eurygraphe Extra-Rapid Number Three lens made it ideal for work that required careful exposures where focus was critical. He would use the hand camera to make an overview of the scene, and the tripod-mounted camera to capture the details.

P.C. Gaskell did not yawn, but he was scarcely impressed. “Let's 'ope as it's not a waste o' time,” he remarked.

Lawrence gave the man a hard look and turned to Charles, who was still kneeling beside his gear. “D‘ye need a 'and with that work, Sir Charles?”

But Charles did not hear the question. He had opened the canvas bag that had gone up with him in the balloon the day before and found the tiny crockery pot he had placed there—the pot of red-colored grease, with the sharp, peculiar odor, quite distinct.

 

 

 

W
hen household prayers had been said, Kate climbed into the pony cart and clucked to Macaroni, the little gray pony that Charles had bought for her. She would have preferred to have ridden her bicycle, but that would not do at all, for she was on her way to Sunday services—after she had visited her friend Agnes Laken, who lived in the nearby village of Gallows Green. In the large wicker basket at her feet were a napkin-wrapped parcel of scones, two jars of Mrs. Pratt's red currant marmalade, and a fine cheese. It was still early morning and there was quite some time before the service would begin. She and Agnes planned to have a bit of breakfast and a comfortable visit together.

Some time before, Agnes Laken (then Agnes Oliver) had suffered a dreadful tragedy. Her husband, Arthur Oliver, had been murdered and her daughter Betsy abducted, and it had only been through the combined efforts of Charles and Kate (at that time unmarried) that the perpetrators of these crimes had been apprehended and brought to justice. After a suitable period of mourning, Agnes had married Charles's friend Ned Laken, and the friendship between Kate and Agnes had flourished. Kate looked forward eagerly to the mornings they spent together in the Laken cottage where Agnes was awaiting the birth of Ned's child, due early in the next year.

The hamlet of Gallows Green lay on the slope of a green hill above the River Stour. Its twenty or so cottages, the inn, a grocery, and a smithy were arranged on four sides of the rectangular green. One of the cottages was the Laken cottage, whitewashed, with a thatched roof, red brick chimney, and diamond-paned windows with green shutters. The dooryard was bright with autumn asters and late-blooming daisies, and a pot of bright red geraniums stood beside the door. Jemima Puddle-duck was there too, preening her white feathers under a fragrant rosemary bush. The white duck received Kate's stroking with equanimity, for the two were old friends, Jemima being Betsy's pet duck.

The pretty, brown-haired Agnes greeted Kate with pleasure, and the two women settled themselves in front of the kitchen fire with a china pot of tea and a plate of scones and red currant marmalade, the cheese having been set aside for Ned's tea. Kate enjoyed Agnes's small kitchen, where a red-and-blue braided rug warmed the stone floor, a casement window let in the sun, and an ancient clock marked the hour with a musical chime.

The conversation immediately turned to the events of the day and evening before, and Kate told Agnes all that she had not already heard from Ned—about the angry exchange in her drawing room the night before and Lady Marsden's unexpected after-dinner arrival in the pony cart. Then Agnes told Kate one or two things that
she
did not yet know: that Ned had interviewed Jessup until late the night before and felt that he was innocent of any complicity in the motorcar crash. Jessup had confessed, however, that his gig and his mother's bonnet—in fact, the grand sum of thirty pounds—had come from the Honorable Charles Rolls.

“Rolls!” Kate exclaimed. “That's absurd! Why should he do such a thing?” She frowned. “I don't believe it. Something is not right here, Agnes.”

“Ned questioned the claim as well,” Agnes said, buttering another scone. “But where else could the Jessups come by such a sum? They are poor as Job. Mr. Rolls must have given it out of the kindness of his heart, to assuage the Jessups' grief.”

Kate did not think that such a thing would occur to Charles Rolls, especially since the payment of money to the dead man's family would be judged by those who heard of it to be an admission of guilt. Rolls was certainly clever enough to think of that.

“I believe,” she replied thoughtfully, “that I shall try to learn where the money came from.”

“If you do, you shall be ahead of Ned,” Agnes said. “He was puzzling his brain over the same question this morning. How do you think to discover it?”

“Why, from Mrs. Jessup herself,” Kate said. “Where else?” She stirred a lump of sugar into her tea. “I understand from Cook that the lady is staying for a few days in the village with her cousin, Miss Crosby. After services, I believe I shall call there to pay my condolences to the widow.”

“Your way to Dedham will take you past Devil's Bridge,” Agnes remarked. “Ned went there early this morning.”

“And Charles went there to take photographs,” Kate said, glancing at the clock. “He must have gone by this time too. I suppose there will be precious little for me to see.”

 

 

As it turned out, however, there was a great deal to see.