Murder on a Summer's Day (3 page)

‘I take it that Miss Metcalfe and the valet are at Bolton Hall?’

A coughing fit stopped Upton from answering me. He picked up a stained pint pot and took a swig of cold tea.

I gave him time to recover.

‘The prince is staying at the hotel, the Devonshire Arms.’

‘Is Bolton Hall shut up?’

‘In part. There is a skeleton staff. His lordship and her ladyship are expected on 9 August, with guests arriving on the tenth, in advance of the shooting.’

Neither of us voiced the thought that the duke may well need to change his plans, and soon.

There was something Upton was not saying. It puzzled me that Indian royalty was being accommodated at the hotel, not the Hall. I waited. Silence often prompts a fuller explanation than a demand.

‘How can I put this delicately? Normally the prince would be a guest at the Hall, as his father and younger brother have been before him. But given that he is travelling with an unsuitable woman who cannot be received they occupy a floor at the Devonshire Arms.’

So, Miss Metcalfe was a person the establishment did not intend to acknowledge. Bring in the outsider. Bring in Kate Shackleton.

‘I see. And does Miss Metcalfe have a maid?’

‘No. Apparently she insists on looking after herself.’ Having almost ventured into the territory of opinion, Upton’s eyes lit with a sudden understanding. ‘I expect they have asked a lady to come believing you might persuade Lydia Metcalfe to sling her hook.’

‘She must stay put, Mr Upton. Everyone must stay put. You say the maharajah arrived by Rolls-Royce?’

‘Yes. He drove himself.’

‘Have the Rolls put under lock and key. Instruct the stationmaster not to issue Miss Metcalfe or the valet a railway ticket. This is not to suggest blame attaching to them, but any information they have could be vital.’

He nodded. ‘I’ll send word straight away.’ He opened a drawer and took out writing paper. Then he turned to me. ‘It ought to come from you. His grace said that you would be directing the investigation.’

He placed paper on the blotter and pushed the glass inkstand towards me, inviting me to use his pen. Ignoring his touch of resentment, I dipped the blunt nib. I wrote two brief notes, one to the hotel manager ordering the Rolls-Royce to be impounded. The second, I addressed to the stationmaster, asking that no one be issued a ticket to leave Bolton Abbey station without my permission. This seemed to me a draconian but necessary order.

When I had finished writing, Upton opened the door and called to Joel. He gave the lad careful instructions about delivering the notes.

Joel repeated the instruction. Having a multiple errand brought a mist of confusion to his eyes. He bit his lower lip, and mumbled.

‘Go to the station first. Hold that note in your hand. Give it to the stationmaster. Put the other in your pocket. Go to the hotel second. When you get there, take the note from your pocket and give it to Mr Sergeant.’

Joel released his lower lip from his teeth, leaving a livid mark on his pouting lip. Carefully, he slid one envelope into his pocket, and then he left.

‘Tell me, Mr Upton, apart from this mysterious sighting of an Indian or not an Indian on the road, have any strangers arrived in the area recently?’

He opened a tobacco jar that stood on the table, and filled his pipe. ‘I thought of that. We had the usual crop of day trippers last Sunday, but they all left by evening. There is just the normal round of deliveries.’ He struck a match to light his pipe. ‘I was hoping his disappearance would turn out to be a prank, because of the reputation he has as a practical joker. You never know when a creature like Miss Metcalfe is concerned. He may have it in his mind to teach her a lesson for something or other. Give her a fright.’

This seemed to me unlikely, but not impossible.

We talked for a few more moments. I studied the map on the wall, trying to get my bearings. The River Wharfe snaked its way through the countryside. The places vaguely familiar to me were Strid Wood, and the Strid – the point at which a person with long legs and a brave but foolish heart might leap across the river. Down from the priory were the stepping stones, where Gerald and I had crossed.

Just then, the door flew open. Joel stood there, his mouth opening and closing as he struggled for words. He still gripped the letter to the stationmaster in his hand. ‘He’s got a stitch. He can’t run any nearer.’

As if feeling the need to demonstrate, Joel grabbed his lower abdomen and leaned forward, groaning.

‘Who’s got a stitch? What’s happened?’

Joel stared with wide, frightened eyes. ‘Matty’s took a stitch from running with his message. They’ve found him. Drowned.’

Sitting on the iron step outside the estate office I pulled on my boots. I felt hollow inside. The man was drowned. I had come too late; failed before I had begun. Upton and Joel had hurried to fetch horses.

I heard them before I saw them; the clip-clop of hooves.

Upton was mounted on a brown mare, leading a white pony. Joel hurried along behind.

It is a long time since I have ridden. I mounted the pony clumsily, sensing Upton’s impatience.

‘We’re going about a mile beyond Bolton Bridge, where the river bends before Paradise Lathe.’ He turned and called to Joel. ‘Stay here. If anyone comes, tell them where we are, and to wait.’

The gentle pony trotted quickly, needing little encouragement. I looked to my left, across the river. The ground rose steeply and became dark with trees. The slight breeze did not stir the leaves. Only the river rushed, as if determined to join our race as it noisily whooshed across boulders. The air smelled of grass and wild garlic.

Upton was a little way ahead. He called to me, his voice scattering, so that I had to lean forward to catch his words.

‘I don’t understand. We searched the river yesterday.’

Wildflowers bowed under his horse’s hooves; buttercups, daisies, wild pinks, poppies and meadowsweet.

I urged the pony to catch up.

A few moments later, Upton spoke again. ‘The poor man must have been submerged, the Wharfe playing her tricks.’

A couple of ducks sailed sedately along the river, looking about them. A curlew dipped and called.

‘How did it happen?’ he asked, without expecting an answer from me. ‘Maybe he stopped to let his horse drink, and scooped water for hisself. Being a stranger, he wouldn’t know the river’s treachery.’

‘But he was young, and a fine horseman.’

Upton pulled ahead of me again, muttering. It sounded like, ‘How could it come to this?’

Not far off, by a drystone wall, were two men. As we drew closer, I saw that they were standing a few feet from something on the ground. The something turned into someone, covered by a blanket. The searchers had come prepared.

Upton and I dismounted. I patted the pony. A creature alive in the face of death can be reassuring, and need reassurance.

I looked first at the men who had found the body. One was of medium height, with wiry sandy hair and a sun-freckled complexion. He looked shocked and bewildered, as if someone had hit him and taken the breath from his body. The second man was older, tight-lipped, with one of those grit-stone faces that is hard to read. His shoulders slumped. His arms hung heavy. As Upton drew near, this man bobbed onto his haunches and turned back the corner of the blanket that covered the head, and then turned it back a little more.

He revealed a deathly pale young man with luxuriant black hair that had begun to dry in curls. He was so slender that his ribs showed themselves one by one, a perfect cage, the river having stolen his shirt. In a painting, he would have been a shepherd boy. This was no Indian prince.

Upton dropped to his knees and stared.

After a long moment, he turned to me. ‘It’s Osbert Hannon, the groom I told you about. He went riding with the prince.’

‘He’s not much more than a child.’

‘He’s twenty-one, married these seven months, and his wife expecting. His two older brothers were lost in the war. He’s his mother’s only son.’ Upton gulped and turned away. ‘
Was
her only son.’

I spoke to the older man, the one with a face of stone. ‘He wasn’t missing, was he? Osbert I mean.’

The man shook his head. ‘He searched last night with the head gamekeeper. This morning him and Isaac was to ride about again, where they’d been with the Indian.’

‘When did you last see Osbert?’

‘About midnight, when some of us gave up the search, to start again at dawn this morning.’

Upton covered Osbert’s face, and stood up.

The sandy-haired, bewildered man looked at me blankly when I spoke to him. ‘I’m sorry to question you when you are so upset. I’m Mrs Shackleton, asked by the duke to represent the India Office. Did you see Osbert this morning?’

The bewildered man stared at me for a long moment, as if my words had to enter his brain, be translated into another language, and spoken back to him. Then, he shook his head.

Upton picked up a stone and slung it into the river with great force. He wheeled round, turning on the two men. ‘Why didn’t you say who you’d found? I thought it was the Indian.’

The stone-faced man said quietly, ‘Matty knew it were Osbert. He went running to find you, and then to get a stretcher.’

‘God help Osbert’s mam, sir,’ added the other. ‘And he’s no sight for a lass in his wife’s condition.’ He ran his fingers through his wiry hair, making it stand on end.

Upton did not answer. He turned his back.

I stared at the horizon. White clouds scudded hastily across the blue sky; the world hurrying to mock the quick and the dead.

We spoke no more, until the fellow they called Matty came into view, carrying one end of a canvas stretcher with wooden rods.

Behind him came Joel, holding the other end.

They placed the stretcher on the ground. Upton picked up Osbert Hannon’s body, as gently as if he were about to nurse a baby. As he did so, I noticed a nasty wound on the back of the young man’s head. This could have been from the rocks on the riverbed, or it may have been inflicted before he entered the water. Upton laid Osbert on the canvas and covered him, as though tucking him in for the night.

‘Matty, Joel, go on searching along the river.’

Matty nodded.

Joel looked blank. ‘What for?’

‘For an Indian, dead or alive. What do you think? I’m not sending you on a bloody fishing expedition. Go as far as the weir. And keep your traps shut about Osbert till I say open ’em.’

The other two men had taken up positions at either end of the stretcher, waiting for instructions.

‘Bring him to the estate office. Say nowt.’ He turned to me as we walked towards the horse and pony. ‘Thank God I didn’t have the church bells rung to call off the search.’

The animals were grazing patiently. This time I mounted more easily. ‘I must break the news to Osbert’s wife and mother before I bring his body home to them,’ Upton said as he swung into the saddle.

‘Wait! The coroner will need to consider Osbert’s death in relation to the maharajah’s disappearance. There will be a post mortem, and an inquest. Have the body taken to Bolton Hall and notify the constable.’

The flat of Upton’s palm went to his forehead. ‘Of course. You’re right.’

He called to the men and trotted up to them.

The wound on the back of Osbert’s head may have been caused accidentally, when he fell into the water. But the river murmured murder. A man so young and lithe did not fall and drown. He was pushed. Why?

I dismounted from the pony in the stable yard of the Devonshire Arms Hotel. This was where Upton told me I would find Isaac Withers, the man who, along with Osbert Hannon, had accompanied the prince on his ride yesterday.

Hearing the pony’s hooves, an elderly man emerged from the furthest stall, squinting as he came into the light. He looked at the pony, and at me. Ledges of pocked flesh crossed his cheeks and either side of his mouth. Two warts gave him the appearance of a lumpy old tree.

So this was Joel’s father, Isaac. Either Joel was older than he appeared, or he was the fruit of old loins. Whereas the son gave the appearance of a poorly clad scarecrow, the father appeared to wear every item of clothing that had come his way. In spite of the warmth of a summer morning, he wore gaiters on his trousers, two pairs of thick socks, grey and brown, a heavy overcoat, scarf and an old cap.

‘Are you done with the pony so soon, madam?’ The sheer amount of clothing slowed his movements. He hobbled closer, narrowing his eyes, waiting to hear where I had been, and why.

‘Are you Mr Withers?’

‘That I be.’

‘Hello. I am Mrs Shackleton. I’m here to find out what has happened to his lordship’s guest.’

Even his bushy eyebrows appeared extravagantly overdone. He raised them, giving a sparkle of surprise to rheumy old eyes that were exceedingly pink around the lids. ‘Has summat happened to him?’

‘Mr Withers, I need to ask you a few questions. When you have seen to the pony, please come and join me on that bench out there.’

‘What do you want to know?’

‘We’ll speak when you are done. Five minutes?’

‘I’m on me own, and I’m not as fleet as I were.’

‘Then, when you are ready.’

I left the stable block and sat outside. On the bench, I stretched my legs, examining the toes of my well-worn boots. These boots have been my stand-by since the age of nineteen. Perhaps I shall still have them when I am ninety.

The tranquillity of this place was palpable. Yet it was not silent. Nearby, bees hummed in a patch of lavender. Birds sang. Above, small white clouds raced by; clouds with an appointment to keep.

After ten minutes, the sound of hobnail boots cut into the hum of bumblebees. I edged to the far end of the bench to give the man room. ‘Please sit down, Mr Withers.’

‘They call me Isaac.’

When he sat down, a smell settled between us – horse muck, animals, sweat, damp clothes dried out, stale tobacco.

He took out a clay pipe. ‘Is it all right if I smoke?’

‘Yes.’

I waited until he had filled and lit his pipe.

‘Tell me about going out with the Indian prince yesterday, Isaac.’

‘He’s not found then?’

‘Were you asked to go, or did you volunteer?’

‘I’m better on a horse than on my feet these days, though I’ll be joining the beaters when grouse-shooting starts. Mr Upton picked me and Osbert to go, on what whim I don’t know. Me being the eldest and him the fleetest probably.’

‘What time did you set off?’

He pressed his fingers on the centre of his forehead and rubbed his inner eye, perhaps to prompt his memory. ‘Seven o’clock yesterday morning, that was the first time.’

‘How did he seem to you?’

‘He was right enough.’

‘Was he friendly, aloof, did he ask any questions?’

‘He wanted to know the lie of the land and asked about the grouse shooting. I pointed out Hazelwood Moor and Barden Moor. We took him through the Valley of Desolation, White Doe Path, all around. He were asking about Embsay Moor and the grouse butts. I gave him fair warning over the disused shafts up there, and peat pits.’

I made a mental note to ask Upton whether the shafts and pits had been searched, but given the man’s thoroughness, I felt sure they had, if searching such places was possible. A thought struck me. Perhaps the prince would never be found.

‘What was he like?’

Isaac sucked on his pipe. ‘Not like any man I ever did see. Something special about him. You’d say he was royal even if you didn’t know it.’

‘Can you explain?’

He thought for a moment. ‘I seen the king when he came here shooting twelve year ago. You know it’s the king but that’s because you know he’s the king. This one, even the horse took to him. It’s a horse with a wild streak, likes no one, tosses its mane, mount me if you dare. But when he came near, mild as a lamb it lowered its head and nuzzled his hand.’

‘So were you surprised when the horse came back without him?’

‘Surprised? I were fair flabbergasted.’

The curling tobacco smoke smelled sweet, too sweet.

‘What else can you tell me?’

‘His highness wanted to shoot. Said he’d shot his first tiger at ten, and shooting was what he were after.’

A sudden coughing made him thump his chest.

‘When you went out with him the second time, in the afternoon, did you notice any change in his mood?’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Did he seem upset, or more caught up in his thoughts?’

Isaac shook his head. ‘Not as I noticed. You’d have to ask Osbert. It’s not up to the likes of me to take notice of a personage’s frame of mind.’

‘Tell me about the afternoon.’

‘He left us by the stables and stalked up into the woods, after deer. Her ladyship made a deer farm on the park. There was five hundred head until four year ago, roe and sika. He said to wait and we’d hear a shot, or his whistle. We thought we could be there till doomsday. Them deer sense when someone’s out walking with a gun. But sure enough we heard the shot. If I’d been there, I might have stopped him.’

‘Why would you have stopped him?’

For the first time, he turned and looked at me full on, incredulity in his small, rheumy eyes. ‘Why? Why? Didn’t I say? He shot a white doe. The man shot a white doe, God help us. I went to the churchyard this morning to pray, but it’s too late. My bones tell me it’s too late. To shoot the white doe is sacrilege.’

What had upset the man so much? In my experience of country people there is nothing they like better than felling an animal, carrying home a carcass, large or small.

And then it dawned. This was the land of the white doe. I tried to remember the Wordsworth poem,
The White Doe of Rylstone
. Emily and her soft-paced doe trek across Barden Moor to visit the grave of her murdered brother at Bolton Priory. When Emily dies, the faithful doe continues the journey. I had seen an engraving of the doe, lying beside a grave, the embodiment of gentleness and fidelity.

In a world of long-held superstitions, where a four-hundred-year-old legend is alive and well, the prince had offended local sensibilities.

‘He blundered out of ignorance then.’

Isaac grunted. ‘Don’t tell me he didn’t know. You should hear him speak, like the duke himself. That Indian is more English than I am. Everyone knows the story and if you ask me…’

The clip-clop of hooves and clatter of cartwheels stopped his speech. We both looked up as the horse-drawn cart approached, on which the stretcher holding Osbert Hannon lay.

Isaac and I stood until it passed, he clutching his cap.

The grit-stone man who had helped pull Osbert Hannon from the river flicked a whip that missed the horse’s flank.

When the cart moved out of sight, Isaac said, ‘I knew it would end badly. God bless us. Where are they taking him?’

‘To the Hall.’

‘Where was he found?’

He would know soon enough. I answered him to watch his reaction. ‘In the river.’

Isaac closed his eyes. ‘Drowned?’

‘Yes.’

His breath came in rapid bursts. We both sat down again. Isaac pulled and twisted his cap. His hands were shaking.

I waited until his breath returned to something like normal. ‘Isaac, when did you part company with the prince?’

‘After he shot the deer, he left it to me and Osbert to take it to the barn. We would have gone on with him, for the pleasure of watching him ride, in spite of the deer. But he insisted. He’d go on alone. I expect we held him back, not being such fine riders.’

I sensed there was something he was not saying.

‘What time was that?’

‘About four o’clock.’

‘Did he ask for directions anywhere?’

‘Not as I remember. Osbert said he went towards Halton East. I were too upset about the doe.’

‘Did he give a hint of going somewhere?’

‘No. The good lord had another plan for him. The river claimed the heathen. The earth takes its revenge. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, an Indian prince for the white doe.’

‘Isaac, I have just one more question. When did you last see Osbert Hannon?’

‘Osbert? He’d have no hand in such an impossible deed. Are you saying he drowned the Indian?’

‘When did you see him?’

‘It was last midnight, when some of us gave up, so we could come fresh to task in’t morning.’

‘You must have been bone weary.’

‘That we were.’

‘And did Osbert have far to go?’

‘Not far, up by the Coney Warren.’

‘And you?’

‘Why, less still, at Strid Cottage.’ The creases in his face deepened. He stared from frightened eyes. ‘Tell me it’s the heathen just gone by, not Osbert.’

Upton would by now have broken the news to Osbert’s family. ‘I’m sorry, Isaac. Osbert is the one who was taken from the river.’

Isaac shut his eyes. Colour drained from his gnarled face. The pipe clattered to the flagged ground. ‘Then it’s true.’

Terror rolled off him in waves.

‘What is true? What are you afraid of?’

‘It’s the wrath of the maid, and the heavens that protect her, her and white doe. It’s begun. Osbert dead. The heathen prince missing. It’ll be me next.’