Murder at the ashmolean, p.18
Murder at the Ashmolean, page 18
‘The man that Esther mentioned to us?’
‘That’s him. Grafton was definitely checking the house out and questioning one of his servants.’
‘So, what should we do?’
‘We do nothing,’ said Daniel. ‘I intend to follow him this evening and if he does break into the house, I’ll catch him when he comes out and ask him what he’s up to.’
‘I doubt if he’ll tell you.’
‘I think he might. He won’t like the idea that I’ll have caught him in the act and I think he’ll try and buy my silence. My price will be information.’
As the hansom cab drove down the long drive towards the huge mansion that was Charlbury Court, set in the vast estate of Charlbury Park, Esther was seized by a sudden moment of panic.
How does one address a duchess? ‘Your Duchess’? ‘My Lady’? Frantically, she racked her brain, and then remembered a book on etiquette she’d read some time ago. The first time you talk to a senior member of the aristocracy you address them by their title, then thereafter as ‘Your Grace’. So, it would be ‘Duchess’ to begin with, then ‘Your Grace’.
Doing these interviews had seemed such a good idea at the time, but now the reality was here, Esther couldn’t stop herself feeling nervous. Not about finding information for Abigail and Daniel, but about getting things wrong and upsetting Mr Pinker. Despite what Abigail said, Mr Pinker was already angry with her. If she upset the duchess it could mean the end of her prospective career as a journalist, certainly as far as the Oxford Messenger was concerned.
The hansom deposited Esther at the main entrance to the mansion, and as she stepped down from the cab Esther had qualms: should she have gone to the rear, the tradesmen’s entrance? What was the protocol here?
A liveried footman came down the steps towards her.
‘Good day,’ said Esther. ‘My name’s Esther Maris from the Oxford Messenger and I’m here to meet the Duchess of Charlbury.’
‘Yes,’ said the footman. ‘The duchess has just returned from her ride. If you’ll wait here, I’ll go to the stables and inform Her Grace you’ve arrived.’
He left her. Esther instructed the driver of the hansom to park his vehicle to the side of the house. ‘I’ll come and find you as soon as I’ve finished,’ she added.
The cab driver jerked the reins, and the horse trotted to the side of the large mansion.
Esther stood at the foot of the steps and waited. After about ten minutes, the footman reappeared. Behind him rode a stern-faced woman in riding gear, riding side-saddle on a dark brown horse. A young man in breeches and a waistcoat trotted beside the horse.
The woman pulled the horse to a halt beside Esther and slid down from the saddle.
‘You may return him to the stable,’ she ordered.
‘Yes, Your Grace,’ said the groom. He took the horse’s reins and led him away.
The woman stood and studied Esther, and Esther was sure the look she gave her was one of disapproval. But not blatant disapproval, this woman was too reserved for that. She was in her forties, slim, dark-haired, and her expression suggested she was used to getting her own way.
‘So, you’re the person from the Oxford Messenger,’ she said, unsmiling.
‘Yes, Your Grace,’ said Esther, and she bobbed in a curtsey. Even as she did it, she cursed herself: Damn, I should have called her ‘Duchess’ at first.
If the duchess was offended by the omission, she didn’t show it. But then, her face showed nothing, except possibly distaste.
‘Follow me,’ she instructed. ‘We’ll go to the conservatory.’
So, I’m not to see inside the actual house, thought Esther as she followed the duchess along the house’s frontage, then round a corner to where a large conservatory stretched along one wall. A footman was waiting by the door of the conservatory and he opened the door for them as they approached.
‘Lemon with ice,’ ordered the duchess curtly as they entered the conservatory.
The footman bowed and withdrew.
The duchess gestured for Esther to sit on a hard-backed wooden chair, then settled herself on a cushioned armchair close to it.
Just to let me know my place, thought Esther.
‘Your editor wrote to my husband asking for this interview,’ said the duchess. ‘If it had been left to me, I’d have said no. I dislike the vogue for poking around in people’s lives just because they are rich. It smacks to me of parasitism. But my husband insisted.’
‘I’m very grateful to His Grace,’ said Esther.
‘What do you want to know?’ demanded the duchess.
‘First, let me assure you that I will let you examine what I write for your approval,’ said Esther.
‘My husband will read it,’ said the duchess. ‘I have no interest.’ Then her attitude changed slightly as she said, ‘Your editor’s letter said this was to be a series. I assume you have other ladies of title to interview?’
‘Yes, Your Grace,’ said Esther.
‘Who?’
‘Baroness Whichford.’
‘And others?’
‘Not at this moment. My editor wants to see how the readers react to these first two interviews.’
‘And have you already interviewed the baroness?’
‘No, Your Grace. Yours is the first.’
This seemed to please the duchess, because Esther noticed a fleeting smile of satisfaction cross her face.
‘As it should be,’ said the duchess. ‘My husband’s family is the oldest in the county.’
‘Yes. I believe the title comes from the fifteenth century.’
‘My husband’s ancestor received the title from Henry VII in appreciation of his military support which helped Henry gain the throne. It is said that without Charlbury, there would have been no Tudor monarchs.’
The footman reappeared, with two glasses filled with iced lemon water, which he placed on a small table between the two women. Esther took a notebook and pencil from her bag.
‘With your permission, Your Grace, would it be alright if I kept notes? I want to make sure that what I write is accurate.’
‘If you must, if your memory is at fault,’ said the duchess dismissively. She sipped at her lemon as Esther opened her notebook, then asked, ‘What exactly do you want to know?’
‘About your life here at Charlbury Court,’ said Esther. ‘What your interests are.’
‘I ride and I hunt,’ said the duchess. ‘If you expect me to wax lyrical about needlework or poetry, which I believe most titled ladies are expected to devour, you will be disappointed. I ride as well as my husband and pride myself on shooting better. But then, my father was Earl Wenham, one of the best shots in England, and he trained me and my brother in firearms.’ She smiled. ‘I was better with both a pistol and a rifle than my brother, which delighted my father, but upset my brother’s pride deeply.’ She took another sip at her iced lemon, then said, ‘I understand your uncle owns the Oxford Messenger.’
‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘I assume that’s why you were taken on. Money has its own power.’
There was no mistaking the sneer in the duchess’s voice, but Esther forced herself to keep the smile on her face.
‘I’m sure that had something to do with it at first, but I’m trying to prove my worth,’ she said.
‘Your name: Maris. Where does that come from? It’s not English, is it?’
‘I believe my family were originally from France.’
‘Yes,’ said the duchess, with a definite sneer of superiority this time. ‘I believe a lot of Jews came over from France.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Daniel was outside the Swan Inn as darkness began to fall. As before, he’d checked that Grafton’s key was absent from its hook at the reception desk before he took up his watch point almost opposite the hotel entrance. Tonight, he was given cover by the large number of students who’d congregated in the area, indulging in childish games such as leapfrog and tag, many of them already seeming to be the worse for drink. Another problem for the local constables, reflected Daniel. Most of the students would be from wealthy, and certainly influential, homes and their families would object if their precious sons were arrested for unruly misbehaviour – ‘high spirits’, their families would call it – which meant that the constables would stay away and let them carry on with their anarchic actions.
Give me a decent criminal any day of the week rather than these overgrown and pampered children, thought Daniel.
Grafton appeared at half past ten. He didn’t appear disturbed by the students who blocked the pavements; in fact, he just barged his way between them, sending some of them stumbling into the road. Daniel set off after him. He had considered waiting near to Lord Chessington’s house, but – although he was sure that Grafton intended to burgle that house this evening – he didn’t want to take the chance of being wrong and discovering later that Grafton had another target in mind.
His initial suspicion was right: Grafton led him to Chessington’s house. Daniel found a hiding place beneath a tree where he could observe Grafton, as the Special Branch detective inspector made for the wall that surrounded the property. Grafton took a look around to make sure he wasn’t being watched and failed to spot Daniel in his hiding place. The rest of the street was deserted. Grafton hauled himself to the top of the wall, then disappeared over it.
So, he’s committed himself, mused Daniel. It was now just a matter of waiting for the inspector to reappear and then confronting him. Daniel smiled to himself as he pictured the look of consternation, then embarrassment, on Grafton’s face when he stepped out from his watch place and greeted the inspector.
He wondered if he’d have a long wait. The general rule of burglary was not to stay in a property for too long as it increased the risk of discovery. But Grafton was not a burglar, just a Special Branch detective who employed the technique. If he was caught, Daniel was sure he’d bluster his way to freedom on presentation of his Special Branch warrant card.
Daniel had been in his hiding place for about fifteen minutes when he was startled to hear the sound of a gunshot from within the house. What on earth had happened? Had Grafton shot someone?
As he watched, the door of the house opened, and the figure of Grafton staggered out, half fell, then pushed himself back upright again and began to stumble down the steps to the pavement, before falling and tumbling to the ground.
Daniel left his hiding place and ran towards the fallen detective, reaching Grafton just as the figure of a man appeared in the doorway, silhouetted in the light from inside the house. Daniel knelt down and checked Grafton’s breathing, and was shocked to find none.
‘There’s his accomplice!’ shouted the man in the doorway, and Daniel looked up to see the gun being swung up and aimed at him as the man yelled, ‘Stay where you are!’ This was followed by a cry of, ‘Don’t just stand there, get him!’
Daniel became aware that two men had rushed out of the doorway and were hurrying down the steps towards him. He got to his feet and began to say, ‘I am …’, but one of the men swung a punch that smashed into the side of his head, sending him staggering, his head ringing. As he tried to right himself, he saw a poker in the other man’s hand swinging towards him, and the next second it connected hard with his skull, and as his head exploded with pain, he felt himself falling, falling …
Slowly, Daniel came round. Through eyelids that flickered he saw that he was in a darkened room and he was lying down on something hard. His head throbbed. He breathed in and picked up the smell of urine and damp. He pushed himself up, but as he did so the pain in his head exploded again and he fell back with a groan.
‘Don’t try and get up,’ said a voice.
The voice was familiar, but not familiar enough to place at once.
‘You got a really bad crack on the head. The doctor thinks you might even have a fracture of the skull.’
Inspector Pitt.
‘Where am I?’
‘Take a guess.’
Carefully, Daniel turned his head and looked around. It was a police cell, light filtering through the glass porthole in the metal door. Daniel was lying on a hard wooden bunk chained to the wall, with just a blanket beneath him. The inspector was sitting on the bunk at the other side of the cell, looking at him, and even in the dim light, Daniel could see the look of concern on Pitt’s face.
Daniel put his hand gingerly to his head, and his fingers touched a thick bandage that completely encased his skull from his eyebrows upwards.
‘What were you doing?’ asked Pitt, and Daniel was aware of the tone of exasperation in his voice.
‘I was following Grafton.’ The image of the scene came into his mind: Grafton staggering down the stone steps and falling onto the pavement, and the man appearing in the doorway. He saw again the gun in the man’s hand.
‘He shot him,’ he said. ‘The man in the house shot Grafton.’
‘Yes, he told us.’
‘He told you?’ repeated Daniel, puzzled.
‘His name’s Lord Chessington and he said he found a burglar in his house, going through his private papers. The man looked dangerous and seemed about to attack him, so Chessington took the pistol he always keeps for his protection and fired at the man, intending to wound him, he says. Apparently, Grafton made a run for it, at which point Chessington summoned two of his servants to help him.’
‘Grafton came out of the house and then fell,’ said Daniel. ‘I went to help him, but I’m fairly sure he was dead. There was no sign of him breathing.’
‘He was dead,’ Pitt confirmed. ‘According to Chessington, he saw you bending over him and assumed you were the burglar’s accomplice, so he set his men on you.’
Slowly, Daniel pushed himself up to a sitting position. His head still throbbed, but the slowness of the action prevented the sharp and excruciating pain he’d suffered before.
‘If you’re involved, you must have told him who I was, that I was no burglar,’ said Daniel. He waved his hand at the walls. ‘So why am I in a police cell?’
‘If I had my way, you’d be in a hospital, under observation,’ said Pitt. ‘But the decision to keep you under lock and key was made by powers far above us here in Oxford.’
‘London?’ asked Daniel.
Pitt nodded. ‘We telegraphed the War Office once we realised that it was Grafton who’d been killed. We told them that you’d also been attacked. They telegraphed back almost immediately with orders that you were to be kept here, in a cell, and not be allowed to talk to anyone. They’re sending someone down to question you. They should be here sometime tomorrow morning.’
‘Does Abigail know?’
‘No,’ said Pitt. ‘The orders were that no one’s to know anything.’
Daniel looked at Pitt, a look of appeal on his face.
‘Please, tell her something, just to let her know I’m alive,’ he implored. ‘You don’t have to tell her the details, just that I’m safe, and I’ll be in touch as soon as I can.’
Pitt hesitated, obviously torn between his orders and the heartfelt appeal from Daniel. Then he said, ‘Alright. I’ll go and see her at the Wilton.’
It was two o’clock in the morning as Inspector Pitt walked into the reception of the Wilton Hotel. The night receptionist on duty looked at him inquisitively.
‘Yes, sir?’ he asked. ‘Can I help you?’
Pitt produced his warrant card and showed it.
‘Police,’ he said. ‘I’m here to see one of your guests.’
‘Which one?’ asked the receptionist.
‘For the moment, that’s police business,’ said Pitt. ‘But your guest is expecting me.’
He made for the stairs to the first floor. It was a lie, Abigail Fenton wasn’t expecting him, but he didn’t want to get into a lengthy explanation with a receptionist.
He wondered how to approach this situation, how much to tell her. Officially, he shouldn’t even be telling her that Daniel Wilson was in police custody. And there was a ban on imparting any information about the shooting of Inspector Grafton, or Lord Chessington’s role. But he knew, from his brief acquaintance with her, that a simple statement that Daniel was physically alright wouldn’t satisfy her. But how much to tell her without putting his own job at risk?
He arrived at the door of room 14 and knocked as quietly as he could, not wanting to disturb the neighbours and bring them into the corridor to see what was going on at this hour of the morning.
There was the sound of movement from inside the room, then the door opened and Abigail, wearing a dressing gown over her nightclothes, looked out, and immediately the look of relief that Pitt guessed was intended for Daniel vanished and was replaced by one of fear. Her hand went to her mouth and she gasped. ‘Daniel?’
‘He’s alive,’ said Pitt.
She stumbled back from the doorway as if she’d been struck, then she recovered herself and opened the door wider.
‘Please, come in,’ she said.
Pitt hesitated.
‘I’m not sure if it’s allowed,’ he said. ‘A man coming into a single woman’s room at night …’
‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ she burst out angrily. ‘Something dreadful’s happened to Daniel, and you’re worried about decorum? If the hotel doesn’t like it, they can turn me out. Anyway, you’re a police officer, here doing your duty. Now come in!’
Awkwardly, Pitt entered the room, and Abigail shut the door and gestured to one of the armchairs.
‘I know I’m going to need to sit down for this, and I’m guessing you’ll need to as well,’ she said.
Pitt sat down, while Abigail took the other chair.
‘You say he’s alive,’ she said. ‘But how badly is he hurt? Was he shot?’
‘No, but another man with him was.’
‘Inspector Grafton?’
Pitt frowned. ‘You knew what Daniel was up to?’
‘Of course! We’re partners. We tell each other what we’re doing. I’ve just been waiting here for him to return, unable to sleep because of the worry. I ask again, how badly is he hurt?’
