Death at the Wychbourne Follies Read online

  Not just a shape. As she drew nearer, she could see something else by the body, despite the dim light. Something darkening the white snow – mud? earth? a coat? No, Nell felt her stomach heave. In the light of Lord Ansley’s torch, she could see it was blood. A lot of blood, some in a pool, some just splatters across the snow. It belonged to the man lying there face down – only there might be no face, she realized with another lurch of her stomach. He was undoubtedly dead. A large stone lay to one side of him. A crumpled bloody object which could be his hat shielded whatever lay underneath. Nell had to fight to control her nausea. She should leave, she told herself, this could have nothing to do with Wychbourne Court. But she couldn’t move and watched hypnotized as Lord Ansley and the two other men made the decision to turn over the body.

  Tobias Rocke had not retired early with the other guests. He was dead. Horribly dead. The keeper of secrets had taken them to his grave.

  FOUR

  ‘We should take the gentleman into the pub, my lord. That’s what the police said on the telephone. They’ll be sending someone along in the morning, snow permitting.’

  Frank Hardcastle’s words faltered as he rejoined them after hurrying back to the Coach and Horses to make the telephone call. He must have seen the expression on Lord Ansley’s face and realized that this was not acceptable.

  ‘Wait here, if you would, Miss Drury,’ Lord Ansley said quietly. ‘And you too, Jethro. With your permission, Hardcastle, I’ll use your telephone to speak to the police myself.’

  Nell watched Lord Ansley stride away to the Coach and Horses, snow crunching under his feet. She was relieved that he had taken matters in hand. Frank Hardcastle meant well, but this was no accidental death; the head had been partly shattered by the blow and there was some kind of wound on the back too. She knew enough about what should be done in criminal investigations to be sure that moving poor Mr Rocke’s body from the scene before the police arrived was not advisable. She shivered. On the other hand, waiting here in this appalling scene until the police arrived from Sevenoaks was a horrifying prospect. In this weather, their journey would not be easy or speedy.

  She felt as frozen inside as outside. At least Mr Hardcastle was with her. She would not have wanted to remain here with Jethro. The wayward son of the gamekeeper, Harry James, Jethro had left home for the colonies, returned, served a sentence for theft, and was now an odd job man and itinerant farmhand – by day, that is. By night, he poached the game his father protected. Nell tried to feel sorry for him, because his father was a hard taskmaster, whose son had never lived up to his expectations. His poaching, of which his father was blissfully unaware thanks to Lord Ansley’s discretion, was Jethro’s revenge. Nevertheless, he was a surly individual, his good looks marred by the scowl he perpetually wore.

  Mr Hardcastle was a different kettle of fish, and even if he displayed no great cordiality towards Nell, he presented no threat. Competent as he was, though, and a good landlord, he didn’t fit the popular image of a cheery innkeeper.

  At last she could see Lord Ansley returning. It had seemed an interminable wait even though in fact only ten minutes or so had passed. ‘They’ve now telegraphed the chief inspector; he’ll be here as soon as possible given the snowy roads,’ he told them briskly, ‘and he’ll be accompanied by the doctor and a photographer. His van should be able to cope if they come along the London Road and turn at Watt’s Cross rather than relying on Bank Lane being passable. Meanwhile I suggest we take it in turns to retreat to your inn, Hardcastle, two by two. The embers of your fire are still very warm.’

  ‘Won’t be doing that,’ Jethro snarled. ‘I’m off.’

  ‘You are not,’ Lord Ansley informed him. ‘You stay here with the rest of us.’

  ‘Nothing to be done for a dead man.’

  ‘He can be shown respect.’

  This time Jethro wisely stayed silent.

  ‘And before you and I leave here, Jethro, we need to consider one matter,’ Lord Ansley continued. ‘Has Mr Rocke been robbed? For your own sake, Mr Hardcastle and I need to be sure that that is not the case.’

  ‘You accusing me of murder, your lordship?’ Jethro snarled.

  ‘On the contrary, by asking you to turn out your pockets and remove your hat and jacket I’m ensuring that the police can have no such suspicions.’

  Jethro saw the sense of this, and sullenly did as requested, while Nell forced herself to kneel down at Tobias’s side to check his watch was there.

  ‘Leave that to me, Miss Drury,’ Lord Ansley said to her quietly, and, nothing loath, Nell stood aside as they finished inspecting Jethro’s pockets and then moved to look briefly at Mr Rocke’s albert, watch, wallet and cufflinks. All in place.

  For once Jethro was innocent, although with Mr Rocke lying face down his pockets would have been difficult to reach unless Jethro had moved the body before they arrived, Nell reasoned. No, he would have blood on him if he’d done so, and in any case he would quickly have made his escape with any ill-gotten gains, not called for help. Nausea began to rise again, and she wondered how long she could keep it at bay.

  Lord Ansley and a self-righteous Jethro departed, leaving Nell with Mr Hardcastle. He was his usual taciturn self, hunched up against the cold with his hands in his pockets for extra warmth. Nell decided to concentrate on what the police might be looking for when they arrived. Anything rather than let her eyes dwell on the pitiful sight of Mr Rocke’s body with that awful stone lying close to it. And the blood. Look away. Think of something else. Pretend you’re a policeman.

  She seized on this idea and did her best. The snow’s disturbed all around the body, she told herself, with no clear footprints in it. Their own trails of footprints to and from the Coach and Horses were still visible as it had stopped snowing, temporarily at least. There was also a set coming to this point from the far side of the green. Probably Jethro’s? Other prints caught her attention, though. She could see sets leading from the churchyard gate across the narrow road that encircled the green and then some footprints returning. Looking at them closely she decided there were two sets coming towards them, not side by side, nor one precisely behind the other, but overtreading them in places. There were also what seemed to be splashes of blood. Her stomach lurched again. Concentrate on the footsteps. A single set led back to the gate.

  With the help of the dim gaslight and her torch, she ventured over the ten feet or so to the roadway and then across it, without trampling on the existing footprints, glad to briefly leave that ghastly scene. As she peered over the fence by the open gate to the churchyard she saw that the sets of prints continued to the church porch, two towards her, one away. No signs of blood here though – or were there? Up nearer the porch there might be some, but she dared not risk going inside the churchyard to look more closely – and she didn’t want to anyway.

  Could that be where Mr Rocke had been killed while talking to someone? Had he walked away from the porch with a companion who then attacked him on the green? No, why would there be a wound in the back and that stone? Had he staggered away from a first attack inside or outside the church, trying to reach safety and been pursued, then attacked again once he reached the green? That would account for the wound in his back. No stone could do that though, and she’d seen no other signs of a weapon lying around.

  Why would Mr Rocke have been in the church porch though? she wondered. If he’d come straight from the Coach and Horses, he would have to have been attacked at the latest very soon after it closed, not long after ten thirty. She had left at about ten forty. She’d seen nothing on her return to the Court, nor any sign of anyone on the village green. Or—

  ‘Nell,’ Lord Ansley called out to her. ‘We’re back. Your turn for the fire.’

  Breakfast. Nell woke up with a start. Neither the birds nor the arrival of dawn had managed to wake her and it was past eight o’clock. Why had she overslept? Then she remembered, and the image of Mr Rocke’s dead body was vividly and frighteningly with her. This was no
ordinary Sunday. Thankfully, the family’s breakfast was not her responsibility but her duties usually began early with deliveries and schedules to plan. Today there would be a horrifying difference.

  The body would long since have been taken away by the police to the mortuary, and the porch of St Edith’s church and those footprints would already have been trampled under many feet attending the Reverend Higgins’ early service, she reasoned. The police had eventually arrived, although not for an hour and a half, by which time they were in no mood to listen to Nell’s pleas about recording footprints in the snow, especially as not long afterwards it had begun to snow again. That evidence would have gone for good. Their chief and apparently only interest lay in Jethro because he had found the body; they remained suspicious even when another search of his pockets produced nothing. She and Lord Ansley had left as soon as they could, leaving the photographer still fiddling with his flash-lamp, feeding it with powder.

  Now she must face the day and do what she could to help cope with the situation. Fleetingly her mind noted that the guests might have to stay at Wychbourne Court later than planned, which had been for departure that afternoon. That would mean adjusting menus and supplies. Very well, this wouldn’t be the first time. Most of her mind though was preoccupied with the enormity of what had happened and what might happen now. There was no doubt that whether Jethro was the guilty party or not, this was murder, which meant that the Sevenoaks police were quite likely to call for the assistance of Scotland Yard, especially as Mr Rocke had been a guest at Wychbourne Court. That meant spectres from the past might arise. Forget that, Nell Drury, she ordered herself, and think of now.

  The minute she entered the kitchen it was obvious the news had spread. Work had stopped and half a dozen pairs of eyes fastened on her.

  ‘Is it true he had his throat cut with an axe?’ Kitty asked, wide-eyed.

  ‘He was banged over the head with a gravestone, I heard,’ head footman Robert volunteered.

  Nell took a deep breath. She had to deal with the mighty goddess Rumour who seldom had anything to do with the real truth. ‘No,’ she said calmly, ‘it wasn’t an axe and I saw no gravestones lying around on the green.’

  ‘They’re saying you found the body, Miss Drury,’ Mrs Squires contributed, confirming Nell’s fears. Early service at St Edith’s had obviously set tongues wagging with a vengeance.

  ‘No, Jethro James found the body.’ Keep your voice calm, Nell told herself. ‘Lord Ansley and I went back to the Coach and Horses to look for some jewellery that had gone missing, so that’s why we were there.’

  ‘Was the corpse all bloody?’ Jimmy asked in an awed voice, having just joined the party.

  Nell swallowed hard. To Jimmy, dead bodies merely summoned up Sherlock Holmes. ‘There was a lot of blood around.’ She had to control another retch as the memory of what she had seen rushed back again.

  ‘I never liked that Jethro,’ Mrs Squires observed. ‘He’s a real Peter-Grievous, that lad. Always whining about something. Creeps up behind you all slimy-like.’

  Put a stop to this, Nell told herself, or Jethro will be pilloried as a murderer for evermore. ‘Jethro just happened to be there as were Lord Ansley and I. Jethro found the body, and if he’d killed Mr Rocke he would have run away, not come to fetch us. Now, is breakfast over?’ she asked in her best chef’s voice.

  Kitty and Michel snapped to attention. ‘Yes, Miss Drury. Some took it in their rooms, others down here, but they’re finished now. All talking about the murder of course.’

  Of course. To Nell’s relief Mr Peters came in. He would handle the situation better than she could manage this morning. ‘His lordship’s been talking to the police,’ he announced calmly. ‘And her ladyship’s ready to see you, Miss Drury. The guests are gathered in the morning room.’

  No prizes for what they would be talking about: why Mr Rocke was murdered; who could have wanted to kill him; how soon could they leave? Nell steeled herself. It was going to be a hard day.

  ‘Of course, we have to stay here,’ Katie said, looking round the assembled group. Her husband had asked her to explain what was going on to the other guests, while he talked to Lord Ansley. It wasn’t easy. Hubert was looking even more poker-faced than usual, Constance scared, Neville bore his habitual ‘what’s all the fuss about?’ expression, Lynette was endeavouring to look bored, and Alice bore the tragic look for which she was so famous on stage. At least Mr Trotter must have taken refuge with Lady Clarice or Arthur Fontenoy, otherwise he’d no doubt be hopping around trying to see if poor Tobias’s spirit could be captured on camera.

  Katie’s task was made harder by the fact that she was so shocked and upset herself. Tobias had once played a big part in all their lives, and she was determined to help Gertrude at this terrible time by ensuring that they all behaved decently. Tobias had been one of them and they owed it to him to find out what had happened. It just didn’t seem possible. At half past nine, Tobias had been cavorting around on the stage dressed as the Beast’s Mother, Ermyntrude; twenty minutes later, he was prancing up and down in the Pierrot line; and an hour or so later he was dead, probably at the hands of someone leaving the pub sozzled.

  Katie’s words were in vain, because trouble began at once.

  ‘The snow has abated and I shall leaving this afternoon with Constance,’ Hubert declared. ‘That is as we had planned. I am not in good health and simply cannot give a performance tomorrow evening after travelling half the day. I owe that to my public.’

  ‘I prefer that we stay, Hubert,’ Constance said firmly to Katie’s amazement and judging by their expressions, she thought, to everyone else here, including Hubert.

  ‘Today, Constance,’ he decreed.

  ‘Tomorrow would be more polite, Hubert.’

  Oops! Time to intervene, Katie thought, seeing the expression on Hubert’s face. ‘Let me explain,’ she said speedily. ‘Our hosts have been obliged to ask us to remain in accordance with the police’s wishes.’

  A silence. ‘The commissioner shall hear of this,’ Hubert then replied in fury. ‘Art is not to be seconded to the whims of the police force.’

  ‘It will be an inconvenience to us all, Hubert,’ Alice said gravely. ‘But we artists are adaptable, are we not, Neville?’

  ‘Certainly,’ Neville agreed with pleasure, clearly delighted at seeing Hubert put in his place by his bête noire Alice. ‘We all have our duties to bear in mind, but even though we have nothing to do with this tragedy, we must put our late friend first.’

  ‘And friend he was indeed,’ Katie declared. ‘We knew and loved Tobias. He knew our secrets, he knew our strengths and our weaknesses. Of course we must stay until tomorrow.’

  That silenced them. At first she was relieved, but – perhaps it was her imagination – she sensed they were holding back, unwilling to reveal their thoughts. It was only for a moment or two, though, and then everything seemed normal once more.

  ‘That was years ago,’ Lynette said airily, ‘and we haven’t met since. Any secrets we confided in Tobias are long past being so.’

  ‘Are they?’ Katie said soberly. ‘Some secrets never die.’

  ‘My goodness, Katie, that sounds almost as though you’re threatening us,’ Lynette drawled.

  ‘How could I? I don’t know your secrets,’ Katie said crossly.

  ‘If there are any,’ Alice contributed.

  ‘We all share one,’ Neville pointed out, clearly enjoying this. ‘Mary Ann Darling. I do wonder nevertheless whether it’s the same secret about her that we share.’

  ‘What on earth do you mean, Neville?’ Katie asked uneasily. This conversation was entering dangerous territory.

  ‘I understand, Neville,’ Constance said eagerly. ‘We’ve never really talked about that day and whether she was murdered like poor Tobias. So it could be a different secret for all of us. We all feared that she might have been, but we all kept silent. Why was that? Was that the secret?’

  ‘My dear Constance, you ar
e talking nonsense,’ Hubert barked immediately.

  Alice promptly begged to differ. ‘I find Constance’s suggestion most interesting.’

  ‘Dearest Connie, you did make it sound like a very Grimm fairy tale.’ Neville laughed lightly.

  Constance took heart. ‘I was just wondering,’ she said firmly, ‘whether that is why Tobias was murdered.’

  Katie looked at her friends: was the sudden silence from blank incomprehension, or were they simply astounded?

  Hubert was first to clear his throat and speak. ‘You are not yourself today, Constance. Your comment implies that one of us could be responsible for Tobias’s death, which you cannot surely have meant. No, no, Tobias was killed because he was out late at night; he must have been robbed or attacked by a drunken madman. His murder is nothing to do with us. That theory is more suited to the lurid novels you insist on reading, my dear. We can return home in perfect confidence as to the cause of Tobias’s death.’

  ‘Can we?’ Lynette raised an eyebrow. ‘That’s claptrap. If we’re playing detectives how can we be sure of that? We no longer know each other, nor can we be certain of what each of us was doing after the Follies ended last night. How therefore can we vouch for one another? For all we know, Tobias could have been as queer as a coot and picked up someone in the audience.’

  ‘Of course he didn’t,’ Alice snapped. ‘I’d no time for the man, but he wasn’t that way inclined.’

  ‘How can one tell? Out of our sight, he might have been a ladykiller – all too literally,’ Lynette retorted. ‘But then—’

  ‘Inappropriate though your words are, Lynette,’ Hubert intervened coldly, ‘I do recall that Tobias was infatuated with Miss Darling and therefore could well have known exactly what happened to her and why.’

  ‘What a jester you are, Hubert,’ Neville dropped into the horrified exclamations that followed. ‘Just like my former wife, you like stirring up sleeping dogs who don’t exist?’