The squire, William Dacres, and I went not to the dining room, dearly though I would have liked to. I thought longingly of the happy winter evenings I had spent here at the squire’s fireside eating his good victuals and basking in his good cheer, but now I entered dark territory at Diplock Hall. We went instead to his breakfast room, where the servants obligingly brought us some sustenance. Much as I welcomed it, it tasted of little while we waited for news. At last Dr. Meek rejoined us, but it was to ask only me to accompany him, not the squire or William.
“Deuced odd,” I heard the squire say to William as we left.
I thought so too, and foreboding returned as I followed the doctor back to the powder room.
“I had thought it heart disease,” Dr. Meek said gravely.
He is a youngish man, but I have great faith in him, albeit he is not such a believer in the old country cures as I am. Young men bring new ways with them.
“Until I saw this,” the doctor continued.
The clothing had been loosened now, but was still in place. All I saw at first was a spot of blood underneath the left breast. Then I realised that what I had taken for a design on the dress was in fact a round object sticking out from it. As Dr. Meek pulled it clear, out came darkened blood upon it. The instrument was something I recognised with shock.
“A stiletto,” Dr. Meek confirmed.
This was not in its usual sense of a dagger, but the so-named instrument women use in their needlework to create such holes as eyelets; it is long, strong — and, I presumed, lethal, if it struck the heart. I have seen my housekeeper stab at coarse cloths with hers often enough.
“She was unfortunate,” he continued. “It went between the bone struts of her stays and found its target.”
A silence, as I wrestled with my conscience. “So she was murdered, Doctor,” I said at last.
“This is a woman’s tool. Could a woman have killed her?”
Rapidly, I thought of the Sir Roger de Coverley, and those who had met her in the whirligig while she progressed down the set. It would take no great force to drive the stiletto in, but I saw no chance of a woman having had the opportunity to kill Mrs. Dacres, nor indeed any of the men without great risk. And yet, Constance Dacres had been moving from enemy to enemy on the men’s side. The womenfolk opposite might have had little love for Constance Dacres, but would lack the opportunity.
“Any man could have brought such an object if he had decided to kill Mrs. Dacres in advance. He could wait for an opportunity to arise in the crowds where many might be suspect,” I said unhappily. “What easier weapon to obtain and conceal unnoticed in hand or clothing. Nevertheless,” I felt obliged to point out, “she fell at the end of the whirligig.” I could have added, “where I stood,” but it was obvious enough.
“She might not have died instantly,” Dr. Meek said. “I have heard of several cases of delayed death where the victim kept moving without difficulty for some little while.”
“She would have made some sign, cried out, even if all she felt was the pain of entry.”
Dr. Meek considered this. “The dance is fast, and hardly quiet.”
He was right. The Sir Roger de Coverley is usually a cheerful dance. The cries of “Hey!” were many as the dancers twirled and spun, and there was much laughter, too. A murderer could easily have covered any cry from Mrs. Dacres with one of his own.
“She could not have been stabbed before she joined the set,” I said. “There would have been too great a risk while she stood alone at the doorway, and yet surely I would have seen if she had been stabbed in the line.”
Or would that be so? I then wondered. As the squire and Mrs. Dacres made their way down the set through and around the other couples, those gentlemen who had not yet “met” the lady would be watching the one in front, whose back (since he and the lady would pass on each other’s left) might mask movements from those watching behind. Those who had already “met” the lady would not be watching her progress down the rest of the line of gentlemen, but the ladies’ side, as the squire made his way down the set. Yes, it might have been possible, I conceded.
“We must inform the coroner,” Dr. Meek declared.
“First the squire and the lady’s husband,” I reminded him.
We decided in this awkward situation that, having done so, I should remain with the squire, and Dr. Meek return to the dining room with William Dacres to inform the company of what was going on. I needed to talk to the squire in private.
Once the news was imparted to Squire Holby, there was, as I expected, an appalled silence. Then: “What,” he enquired, “the devil do we do, Caleb?”
Crime in Cuckoo Lees is a matter for careful consideration, as the village runs on well-oiled and accepted lines. Our unpaid parish constable, Samuel Byward, is hardly equipped to judge a murder, only to deliver the presumed guilty party to prison through the magistrate in order to await trial at the Assizes. Alternatively, a Bow Street Runner may be sent for to discover the miscreant. There is a drawback to this apparently simple solution: He would be an outsider, and as a result, other secrets in Cuckoo Lees could face the unwelcome light of day.
Such as the smuggling arrangements for our tea, brandy, tobacco, and other such essential comforts of life.
Cuckoo Lees lies near the smuggling route from the coast at Hythe to London, and, as has every other village, possesses its own organisation to deal with the goods. This organisation must therefore have its leaders. Obviously I cannot reveal the identity of our captain, but there is a stalwart lieutenant and his second in command.
These are respectively myself and the squire.
Somehow Mrs. Constance Dacres had discovered this, as had been evident from her threat to me. Our position was therefore very delicate, particularly since the squire is also our magistrate. We have our own enemies in Cuckoo Lees, but even they draw the line at bringing in the law from outside. But what should we do now?
“We have no choice,” Squire Holby said gruffly. “We must solve this affair ourselves, send for Samuel and notify the coroner; then put the villain behind bars.”
I agreed, with only one reservation, but this time it was I who had no choice. “You’ll forgive me, Squire, but we’re in too fine a pickle here.”
Rather to my surprise, he glared at me, but took my point. Not only might he be prejudiced in the matter, but I might myself, so we sent for the doctor and William Dacres again and candidly explained our dilemma. Since most people, poor and rich, benefit from our activities, we had a sympathetic audience. Nevertheless, I was aware that William Dacres would appear to have every reason to wish his wife dead, as would his son.
“What about me?” William asked. He stared down at the body of his wife, and still I saw no emotion there, though this was a woman he had held in his arms and loved enough to marry. “She cuckolded me, made me a laughing stock, and would have ruined my son’s happiness too. You’ll think it strange the power she held over me, but you didn’t know her as I did. It was as if she sucked the life blood from me, everything that made me a man. I’d say that makes me prejudiced, too.”
“I’m not prejudiced,” Dr. Meek pointed out.
“How do we know?” William growled. “No, there’s only one person I’d trust. The parson can find out who did this.”
Three pairs of eyes rested on me thankfully when I reluctantly nodded. “But with your assistance, Squire,” said I. The stakes were high. If I failed, the parsonage, Dorcas, Barnabas, and my whole peaceful life would be forfeit.
The body of Constance Dacres was a grim reminder that time was short. Once the guests dispersed, there would be no solving of the crime amongst ourselves. Early in the evening we had been merry with wine and brandy, but now our minds were sobered with the responsibility before us. I allowed myself one brief image of my quiet study at the parsonage and Dorcas sitting there with her sewing. That brought unwelcome thoughts of the stiletto, so I hastily changed it to her baking a tench pie.