Death of a Dishonorable Gentleman (32 page)

Her hand disappeared into the gap; it was only eighteen inches wide. She pushed herself into the hedge and found that the gap suddenly widened considerably. She reached out her right arm; the opening into the hedge turned to the left and then almost immediately again to the right. She pushed on and found herself on the other side of the hedge, in the small service area for the ballroom. She looked around the area. Here on the ground, in the sunlight, she saw the tire marks of the dray: here was where it had been parked, here was where it had been driven from the drive, and here was where it had been driven back onto the drive at the end of the ball. There was a confusion of footprints in the trampled grass where people had gathered around the dray to eat their pasties and drink ale.

Mrs. Jackson turned back and inspected the ground at the concealed entrance to the hedge. She saw two deep grooves in the soft earth; the hedge had protected them from being washed away by the rain. She felt a thrill of terrific excitement. What had she found? She walked back through the gap in the hedge to the other side and got down on all fours behind the pavilion, carefully lifting her skirt up so that her stockinged knees pressed into the cool, moist earth. Yes, she could see two long grooves here, and here again there were some broken boughs at the base of the hedge. She peered under the hedge to her left and right. Her eye caught something bright in the gloom underneath, where the lowest yew branches of the hedge were thinnest. She reached out and, with her cheek pressed into the earth of the path, groped back under the hedge, trying not to scrape her arm on the rough lower branches. Her hand closed over something smooth, hard, and cold. Something metal. She drew out her hand. It appeared to be a silver cigarette case.
Careful now,
she thought,
keep calm.
She rose swiftly to her feet, tugged her skirt down. and walked back to the pavilion. In the strong afternoon light she looked at what she had found. Indeed it was a cigarette case, beautifully engraved with a central monogram.

“T.E.D.M.,” she read aloud. “Theodore Edward David Mallory.
”
She sat down on the bench and looked at her watch. Nearly one o'clock; the maids would be serving luncheon in the dining room.

She opened the case. Inside were three oval Turkish cigarettes, still quite fresh. She sniffed the tobacco, which smelled rich and sweet. On the other side of the case was a square of folded ivory bond paper. She carefully drew it out from behind the silver latch that held the cigarettes in place. It was a letter. Mrs. Jackson hesitated. As an upper servant she lived within a strict code of honesty and discretion, especially where the family was concerned. Loyal to the Talbots, her job was to ensure their comfort, to serve their needs, and protect their privacy. Reading private letters was something for the servants of lesser mortals, loyal only to their weekly wages. After a struggle, Mrs. Jackson unfolded the letter. It was written in black ink, the writing forward-slanting and bold. There was no crest or designation at the top of the page; there didn't need to be. She saw what was written and blushed. She made herself read to the end. It was Lord Booth's letter to Lady Waterford and in it he told her how much he enjoyed her company, and in detail how much he would enjoy seeing her again at Iyntwood. This was the letter Teddy had used to blackmail them. Embarrassed and feeling rather disgusted with herself, and with Lord Booth, Mrs. Jackson carefully folded the paper and put it back in the cigarette case. She snapped it shut and slid it into her pocket.

*   *   *

Mrs. Jackson returned to her parlor, drank a cup of tea, and organized her thoughts as she waited for the Iyntwood cricket team to come back from Northcombe. When she was quite sure they had returned, she rang for Elsie.

“Ask Dick to come up to my parlor for a moment, would you? He can bring up my supper before he has his.”

Dick was prompt. He arrived with her tray and was his usual pleasant and attentive self.

“I want to talk to you for a moment, Dick,” Mrs. Jackson said in her crisp, matter-of-fact manner when he came into the room. “Just put that tray down. My goodness, your knuckles are still bruised, must have fetched them quite a wallop … how did you hurt your hand again?”

“Ice cream churn, Mrs. Jackson.” He didn't like reference to his knuckles, she noticed, as he slid his hand behind his back.

“Ah yes, the ice cream churn, how on earth did it get into the north pavilion do you think?” Dick, completely caught off-guard, looked stunned for a moment, and Mrs. Jackson felt mean; it wasn't fair to be flippant.

“Dick, I know what happened. I know what Mr. Teddy did to Violet. I know where Violet is. You see, I talked to Miss Lucinda.”

Dick was silent, and his face was very pale. The look he gave her was not just guarded. There was something else, a wistful glance, almost apologetic. It was not lost on Mrs. Jackson.
I'm with you, boy,
she thought.
Just tell me the truth.
And then she said, “What I couldn't work out was who was in the north pavilion when Mr. Teddy walked up the steps and into it, just before four o'clock. After that no one saw him again.” She didn't add “alive” because she already had the surprise of a frontal attack; she saw it in Dick's frozen stillness and his anxious eyes as he waited for what was to come. He reminded Mrs. Jackson of a hunted animal that bursts out of its hiding place too soon, then realizes its error and stands in vulnerable, paralyzed horror out in the open.

“I guessed you took Violet to the north pavilion so she could watch the ball. You wanted to give the girl a treat and you knew you were safe because no one ever goes to the north pavilion. Violet sat there with a glass of lemonade to watch the dancing, as you worked on the terrace. Then the worst thing imaginable happened—you saw Mr. Teddy walking across the rose garden to the north pavilion. You knew you had to get Violet away before he found her there. You went through the house, out of the front door, and along the north of the house to the service area where the dray was parked and squeezed through the gap in the yew hedge. You must have run like mad, Dick. But you weren't quite quick enough, were you?” She waited. Dick said nothing at all. He was such a nice boy, she thought, such a straightforward lad. She repeated herself in a stern voice: “Were you?”

“No, Mrs. Jackson.”

Mrs. Jackson almost let her shoulders relax.

“So you hit Mr. Teddy.”

“No! I had to get him off her. He was … he was…” Dick looked away. “He had his hand across her mouth. He … I pulled him off her. He took a swing at me and then I … well, then I hit him and he went down. He hit his head and didn't move. I knew I was in for it.” She noticed that his country accent was stronger. His careful enunciation was gone and he looked like a scared village boy.

“I didn't know what to do. We both thought he might be dead. I told Violet to get out of it. Run, I told her, and whatever you do, don't come back.”

“So what happened next?” Somewhere in Mrs. Jackson's mind she was reminded of unraveling an old sweater to reuse the wool for another purpose. You teased out a loop of wool from the hole in the edge of the cuff and then very carefully pulled, and before you knew it you were winding up the yarn into a nice tidy ball.

“I needed to get help.” He looked away from her, off into the corner of the room.

Ah,
she thought,
now he's going to lie.
She waited until he had lost his evasive and persecuted look.

“Dick, sit down.” She pointed to a nearby chair. He sat on it and stared down between his hands. After a while he looked up at her and continued.

“I knew after Vi had gone that he wasn't dead, but he was knocked out cold. I didn't kill Mr. Teddy, though I know you won't believe it.” His voice was low and she saw a look of defeat beginning to take hold on his frightened face.

“I believe you, Dick. You were only missing for twenty minutes—the time it took to get Violet out of the north pavilion and give Mr. Teddy a good punch on the nose. But you have to tell me what happened next so I can help you.” And then she simply sat there, her hands still on her lap, and waited.

“You see, we had to get him out of there. I had to tie him up and gag him, in case he came to. I took him over the pavilion wall, and dragged him round the back. I laid him down and checked the dray. No one was there.” Dick paused and licked his lips. “I went back and picked him up again, and dragged him through the hedge. I got him up onto the dray and put him in the tool-storage box … because, he was going to have to be there awhile.” He paused again and looked at Mrs. Jackson out of the corner of his eye. She nodded her head slowly in sympathetic agreement.

“I went back to work on the terrace. The rest I only know because I was told what was going to happen. At the end of the ball, when the orchestra went back to the stable block for the night in the dray, Mr. Teddy was handed over to the man who had been looking for him for the last two days. Mr. Draper I think his name was, you know, the strange man from London. I didn't know he was going to kill him!” Sweat had broken out on Dick's forehead and he looked white and shaken. “He was to take Mr. Teddy away, and we would never see him again. I believed it because that was what I was told!” He stopped and stared down at his hands, and eventually managed to meet Mrs. Jackson's gaze. She nodded again, encouraging him to go on.

“Next afternoon we heard that Mr. Teddy had been found dead. And I didn't know what to think. I knew it were the man from London who did it, because…”

“Because that was what you were told?”

“Yes! That's what I was told.”

“And who told you that, Dick?”

Dick started to shake his head and his face became sullen. He was shutting down, Mrs. Jackson thought with desperation. She stopped herself from pushing him too hard.

“Does Violet know what happened after she left the pavilion?”

“No, she don't, nor did Miss Lucinda. That night she saw Violet running along the front of the house and went after her, and Vi told her what had just happened with Mr. Teddy. Miss Lucinda hid Violet in her room. They left early in the morning, before anyone was up.” He paused and took another look at Mrs. Jackson, who kept her face neutral as she risked another question.

“Why do you call him Mr. Draper? How do you know his name?”

“I don't know who he really is. I never even saw him.”

“So who was it who helped you? Who was it who handed Mr. Teddy over to Mr. Draper?”

“Who are you going to tell? Not Mr. Hollyoak?”

Mrs. Jackson appreciated just how innocent Dick really was.

“No, Dick,” she said patiently. “Not Mr. Hollyoak.”

 

Chapter Twenty-nine

Lord Montfort went for a walk when the late afternoon faded into early evening. The light turned to golden-green as the sun slowly sank in the western sky; it was the time of day he loved best. His dogs were trotting beside him as he walked into the village and crossed the green, where the two younger dogs peeled off on their own paths, enticed by new scents and bored with obedience. He slowed his pace so that the oldest dog of the three could keep up with him. As he walked past the church, he called out a good evening to the verger who was locking up after evensong.

Twilight deepened to dusk and the lane softened to dull greens and purple shadows as Lord Montfort arrived at Jim's cottage. He told the dogs to stay and they sank into deep, damp grass, watching him through narrowed eyes, mouths opened wide to pant, as he turned to knock on the closed door.

“Good evening, your lordship.” Jim opened the door, and his hand automatically lifted in salute as he recognized his visitor.

“Good evening, Jim. I've come to tell you we've found Violet.” It was hard to see Jim's face in the half-light. Inside the cottage, lamps had been lit for the coming night. Jim opened the door wider and stepped to one side.

If Lord Montfort had expected tears and cries of relief when he told Jim Simkins that his daughter had been found, he was disappointed.

“How long have you known where she was?” he asked Jim as they walked farther into the cottage's main room.

“Since she first went to Cambridge, the morning after she was taken there by Miss Lucinda.” Jim was standing in shadow and was quite motionless. “She had written me a letter that night, and they posted it on their way.”

“Yes, they left before Teddy was found. Of course, Miss Lucinda thought she was doing the right thing, since we had been so lax in our responsibility to Violet. A sort of punishment, I think. There you have it, Jim, the arrogance of the young. How much better it would have been if Lucinda had come to me. How much trouble, heartache, and worry it would have saved.” He noticed that Jim did not react to his frustration, but was watching him, his face composed, disinterested almost.

“No one could have saved Mr. Teddy, your lordship. He was already on his path. The boy had caused nothing but misery and hurt his entire life. It was his time to go.” Jim's voice sounded remote. It was not shaded with blame, anger, or concern.

Lord Montfort was not prepared to hear the beginning of a confession so easily and his response was far brusquer than he intended. “It was not your decision to make,” he said.

“He was a parasite: corrupting, weak. Men like him eventually destroy everything; they destroy hope and the future. It was a natural end.” Again Jim sounded distant, removed from the moment.

He accepts his fate,
thought Lord Montfort.
He has been waiting for this time.

“Not for revenge, not by murder.” Lord Montfort kept his voice even.

“Not murder … justice…” Jim started to reply. But got no further. Lord Montfort saw his face gleam with a sudden slick of sweat as he reached into his pocket and pulled out a strip of cloth. He buried his face and started to cough deeply, hacking for a long time. Lord Montfort watched Jim make his way to the high-backed chair by the fireplace. He walked to the sink and poured water from a pitcher into a cup, then took it over to Jim and waited until the old man's chest heaved less and he regained his breath. Jim laid his head back against the chair and looked up at him. When he was sure that Jim had caught his breath, he handed him the mug and took the only other chair in the room; turning it to face Jim, he sat down and waited.