Murder on a Summer's Day (2 page)

I carried the bags and boots to the front gate. Buttoning my motoring coat, I walked up to my garage. It was a sweet feeling to be out so early on a fine morning. Dew brought out the scent of late roses. Silvery cobwebs glittered on garden hedges.

My motor spends its nights in a converted stable at the top of the street. I opened the garage door and greeted my shining blue Jowett Short-Two. She still looks brand new and eager. I bought her less than a year ago with the proceeds from a particularly successful though sad case, one that attracted considerable notice. This was the case that brought me to the attention of the Scotland Yard commander and no doubt swayed the India Office and the Duke of Devonshire into trusting me.

My police superintendent father always drills home the need for preparation: proper preparation prevents poor performance. I would need a map.

‘Shh,’ I told the engine as I urged the motor from her slumbers, drove out and closed the creaking door behind me.

I drove to my front gate and began to load my valise, boots and trusty satchel. When not in use for a small passenger, the motor’s dickey seat makes handy luggage space.

James’s briefing had left me feeling less than well-armed for the task ahead. What was a maharajah of Gattiawan doing in Yorkshire? Why was he visiting Bolton Abbey before the start of the shooting season? Today was Saturday 2 August, so open season, but with ten days to go before grouse-shooting began, on the Glorious Twelfth.

James had not even told me when the maharajah and his companion arrived in Yorkshire.

I checked my watch. Ten minutes to six.

Mrs Sugden called from the doorway. ‘I’ve found summat about maharajahs.’

‘I’ll be there in a tick.’

Fortunately, Mrs Sugden is a fast reader and
The Times
Court Circulars have the virtue of brevity. She placed the relevant pages on the piano stool, drawing it up to the chaise longue.

We sat side by side as she tapped the page with her ridged fingernail and read, ‘The Maharajah of Kapurthala is the first Indian Prince to visit the British Empire Exhibition. He expressed his satisfaction with the Punjab Court exhibit. He has now returned to Paris, but will be back.’

‘What about Gattiawan?’

Mrs Sugden is nothing if not thorough. ‘Aga Khan… Maharajah of Rajpipla at the Savoy Hotel… Maharajah of Nawanger… They’ll all know each other. Probably rivals, and one of them has done away with another, perhaps sent an assassin. It’s like Shakespeare. Ah, here he is. The Maharajah of Gattiawan arrived at Marseilles yesterday in the SS
Malwa
on his way to London.’

I looked at the item, dated 26 April. It gave no indication whether the maharajah was travelling overland, or stopping on the way. ‘Nothing else since then?’

She shook her head. ‘Nowt else in Court Circulars, only an article about the good command of English among educated Indians, from the Special Correspondent in Bombay.’

There was nothing for it but to set off, feeling less than well-prepared.

I shrugged into my motoring coat.

Mrs Sugden followed me along the garden path. ‘You don’t have much luggage. Have you packed an evening dress?’

‘The Delphos robe.’ I opened the car door and got in quickly, before she had time for more questions.

She frowned at my choice of evening wear. ‘I suppose that Delphos gown doesn’t betray its age. But I can pack another bag for you.’

I started the motor. ‘If I need anything else, I’ll send you a telegram.’ My mind already raced ahead. Prince Narayan of Gattiawan, where are you?

Mrs Sugden waved, folding her other arm around herself against the morning chill.

A sudden thought propelled her through the gate. She leaned into the motor. ‘Be careful. They all carry daggers, and they’re very good at strangling.’

‘I’ll try to stay in one piece, throat intact.’

As I drove away I heard her call something about the black hole of Calcutta, but my thoughts were already on the missing man, the lovers’ tiff, and the mysterious Miss Metcalfe who had hooked herself an Indian prince.

James wanted to rule out theft and foul play. The Yorkshire Dales has its sprinkling of poachers. But jewel thieves, murderers? Surely not.

The map lay on the passenger seat. I expected to consult it somewhere near Ilkley, and looked for a place to stop. Just as I was about to pull into the kerb, an arched bridge appeared on my right. Seeing it gave me a small jolt. My husband, Gerald, and I had visited Bolton Abbey one long ago, idyllic Sunday. We had driven across this very bridge.

I turned right, crossing the River Wharfe.

Bolton Abbey, in case you are wondering, is not an Abbey. It is the name of a village, loosely used to refer to the area that forms part of the Duke of Devonshire’s estate. On that far off pre-war Sunday, Gerald and I visited the twelfth-century priory ruins, walked through woods, and listened to the fast-flowing river and the cascading waterfall. It must have been May, because I remember nodding bluebells. We had purchased sixpenny entry tickets for the pleasure of strolling round the grounds. Along with a horde of other visitors, we tripped across slippery stepping stones to the tune of nervous laughter and cries of ‘Be careful!’

Glancing at my watch, I followed the narrow road. Almost eight o’clock, and the world had come to life. Smoke rose from a distant chimney. A dog barked. A black grouse narrowly missed premature demise as it flew across my path. It occurred to me that I did not know the location of the estate office, nor the name of the steward.

Entering the village, I reached the smithy. I stopped the motor, believing that the blacksmith would direct me. The fire smouldered, but the place was deserted. Hesitating to knock on a cottage door, I drove on.

As I rounded the bend, I saw a creature that from a distance resembled a scarecrow. His trouser bottoms stopped halfway up his calves. He wore a striped, voluminous sleeved shirt, tucked in at the front but not at the back, its cuffs undone and hanging. He must have heard the motor but did not stop what he was doing. At first I thought he was scraping muck from the soles of his large boots. But then I saw that it was a childlike, almost ritualistic activity. He stood first on one foot, then the other, striking the sole of his boot against a large stone several times, with an urgent hit-and-scrape movement. As I came closer, I saw that on the last go he made a spark, presumably by the friction between the stone and the nails on the soles of his boots.

Only then, after the spark, did he turn and look at the car. As he did so, he raised his arms, giving himself the shape of a cross, and then began to wave like an injured pigeon attempting take off.

‘Hello and stop!’ His voice betrayed uncertainty. His breath came in short, nervous bursts as if he feared that by flagging me down he may have committed some grave error for which he would pay dearly.

I stopped.

His wild haystack of hair had been roughly chopped to form the shape of a basin above his weather-beaten face. It was difficult to tell his age. Perhaps twenty. Too old to be playing a game with his boots and a stone.

‘You be Mr Shackleton.’

Mister! Because I have bobbed hair? Not a good start, but a discussion of my sex seemed a bad idea. ‘I’m expected?’

‘Aye.’ He waved an arm, indicating that I should follow him. He gave one last longing look at his stone and then walked close to the edge of the road, one foot on the grass verge, glancing back at me suspiciously as if half expecting to be mown down.

At snail’s pace, I followed.

After a few moments, he stopped by a third-class railway carriage that stood on the verge, mounted on concrete fingers and stone chippings. A metal chimney protruded from the roof.

This seemed to me an ingenious use of an unwanted railway carriage. I remembered that the Cavendish Pavilion, where Gerald and I had taken afternoon tea on our visit here, was built along similar lines to a railway refreshment room. Gerald had commented on its architecture at the time, saying that the coming of the railway had transformed Bolton Abbey in more ways than one.

Had the errant Indian prince, practical joker, sent his horse back without him and secretly boarded a train, I wondered.

I climbed from the motor. ‘Is this where I will find the duke’s agent?’

He of the hob-nailed boots nodded.

Through the window of the carriage, I glimpsed a tall figure. He had his back to me.

The lad climbed an iron step, opened the door and entered what must be the estate office. ‘Here is that person you was expecting, sir.’ He stepped aside to let me in, holding open the door with his bulky frame.

The interior smelled of tobacco, earth and sweat. A wood-burning stove in the centre of the carriage, its chimney piercing the roof, sported a battered black kettle.

A tall, sparely built man, clad in tweeds and gaiters, turned towards me. He had been studying a map that was pasted to one of the windows. His gaunt, unshaven face was as grey and tired as his worn jacket. From his slightly glassy-eyed stare, I guessed he had not slept. He blinked, as if believing me to be some apparition, and spoke with barely restrained annoyance. ‘Can I help you, madam?’

Madam. This was an improvement. The skirt probably helped.

‘I’m Mrs Shackleton. You are expecting me, I believe.’

He looked beyond me. ‘Where is Mr Shackleton?’

The thatch-haired young man looked out of the door, as though there may be another person he had missed, running along behind the motor.

My poor sweet Gerald has not been seen, except in my dreams, since the last month of the Great War. ‘It’s me you are expecting.’

His mouth opened wide enough to nest half a dozen grouse chicks. He had expected a solid chap who would lift a little weight from his shoulders.

I spoke again, quickly, before he had time for words he may regret. ‘Am I speaking to the duke’s agent?’

‘Yes, yes, that’s me.’ He recovered himself sufficiently to give me his name. ‘Frederick Upton. I was led to understand that a Mister Shackleton would call.’

Clearly my fame had not travelled this far into the North Riding. One small part of me felt the need for apology, or explanation. All it would take to bring him to heel would be a flourish of my aristocratic connections, but I would not do that. Instead, I adopted a manner copied from my mother and aunt, of effortlessly putting men in their place by a show of social confidence. For my mother and aunt, that comes naturally. I have had to practise.

I handed him my card. ‘Mr Upton, I was contacted by the Honourable James Rodpen this morning, on behalf of the India Office and His Grace the Duke. I am asked to investigate the maharajah’s disappearance.’

His manner changed.

After a brief hesitation, Upton drew out a chair for me. ‘I beg your pardon, madam. I must have misheard your title.’ He took a seat himself, in the captain’s chair, on the other side of a scratched and cigarette-scorched table.

‘Please tell me everything I need to know, Mr Upton, including when Prince Narayan arrived in the area and when and where he was last seen.’

‘His highness arrived by car on Tuesday last. He stayed one night with a Mr Presthope, in Halton East. On Wednesday, he came across from there. On Friday morning, he went riding, nice as ninepence, back mid-morning. In the afternoon, off he went again. He was on a fine Arab, and the horse came back without him, at eight o’clock last night.’

‘Did it strike you as odd that he went riding twice in one day?’

He frowned. ‘I hadn’t thought about that, but no. He is a top polo player, the best in the world I’m told. He does not fish, so it is natural enough that he took his gun, to fit in a spot of deerstalking, and another ride.’

‘Is deerstalking allowed, so near to grouse shooting?’

‘The grouse are out on the moorland. He would know not to disturb them. The deer keep to the woods.’

‘And did he ride alone?’

‘Two grooms rode with him, Osbert Hannon, and Isaac Withers.’

‘My dad,’ piped up the lad in the doorway. Having drawn attention to himself, he now stared at his feet, and blushed.

‘Joel, go make yourself useful. Keep your peepers peeled out there.’ He waited until Joel had left, shutting the door quietly behind him. ‘He can be a useful lad, but a little deficient in the brains department.’ He folded his hands on the desk. ‘To go back to what we were saying, the prince bagged a doe, a white roe.’

‘Isn’t it surprising that he shot a doe and not the male, with its trophy antlers?’

‘It was the creature that came in his sights. A hunter sometimes takes the first shot he can. Very shortly after that, he rode off alone, possibly in the direction of Halton East.’ He walked to the map on the window and jabbed a finger at it.

I moved to stand beside him. The place he pointed to was east and a little north of our present position. ‘That’s Halton East, where his highness stayed his first night in the area, with an old school friend.’

‘How far is it from here?’

‘Two miles.’

‘And did he call on his old school friend?’

‘He did not. Mr Presthope has joined the search, around Embsay Moor.’ Upton made a circle with his hand around the map. ‘This is the area we’ve searched. Of course, he could have gone beyond. His highness is a young man, and a fine horseman, but accidents happen.’

‘How many men are searching?’

‘The local constable has a team of men and police dogs on the moors. Everyone from the estate who can be spared is out there. The head forester has a group combing woodlands. The water bailiff is searching every bend of the river. Gamekeepers are tramping the moors. The works manager and his men are inspecting every building. I felt sure we would discover him before nightfall. At eleven o’clock last night, I notified his lordship. We continued searching with lanterns, and began again at dawn. It’s a mystery, Mrs Shackleton, a mystery.’

In spite of the seriousness, I almost smiled. I could hear James hymning my praises to the powers that be. My cousin, Kate Shackleton, has solved the most difficult of cases.

The stuffed shirts of government would be only too happy to pursue the matter quietly, to avoid turning a crisis into a news story and a political embarrassment. But the nagging doubt returned. Why me? India Office tentacles must stretch across the land; retired colonials who know India better than their own county, who are acquainted with the personalities and speak the languages.

‘I’m told that the prince is a practical joker.’ I turned away from the map. ‘Is there a possibility he could have taken the train, or be paying another visit and enjoying himself at his lady companion’s expense?’

Upton scratched his head. ‘I doubt that. No one has left by rail. His Rolls-Royce is still here. There was one little oddity, but it amounted to nothing.’

‘All the same, Mr Upton, do tell me. I want to have as full a picture as possible.’

Upton leaned against the edge of his desk, betraying his weariness. ‘One of the men said that the coal merchant from Embsay, Deakin, saw an Indian on Bark Lane yesterday. When I asked Deakin about it, he said it was a mistake.’

I made a mental note to talk to this man. After all, James had mentioned a rival Indian state. Mrs Sugden may have been indulging in her usual flights of fancy when she suspected all Indians of carrying knives and being excellent stranglers, but an Indian wandering the lanes of the estate would hardly be mistaken for a local yokel.

‘It’s an odd thing for the coal merchant to have said.’

‘He’s an odd man. Some people will say anything to be stood a drink.’

I glanced at the map again. ‘It’s a huge area, Mr Upton.’

Upton’s hands made fists. ‘You’ll be taking over I understand.’ The words almost choked their way through his dry lips. ‘I suggested we contact the barracks, but his lordship said to give it a few more hours.’

‘Please telephone to his lordship, Mr Upton. Add my voice to yours regarding the need for troops to widen the search. You have done everything you can and you are the expert on the countryside.’ He brightened a little at my praise. ‘I want to find out a little more background by speaking to those in the royal party. He may have given some hint as to what was in his mind. Also, I want to see the men who accompanied him on his ride yesterday.’

He nodded. ‘I’ll have Osbert and Isaac sent to you. Will you work from here?’ He glanced about the converted carriage in something like dismay.

‘I’m sure you need this room yourself. I’ll speak first to the prince’s companion. Who else travelled with him?’

‘His highness drove here with just his companion, Lydia Metcalfe.’ As he spoke the woman’s name, Upton’s nostril twitched, betraying a powerful hint of disdain.

‘How many servants?’

‘Just one valet. The valet travelled by train, arriving before them with the bulk of the luggage.’

From what little I had heard of Indian royalty, it surprised me that the prince travelled with only a single servant. ‘Isn’t it a little unusual for someone of his rank to travel without an entourage?’

He sighed. ‘It certainly is. Prince Narayan must be cut from a more modern cloth. When the prince’s father and younger brother, Prince Jaya, were guests at his lordship’s shooting parties the retinue would have populated a large village.’