“Only one course remains open,” Dickens said at length. “We must track down the tramp and press him for the truth.”
“But where might he be?”
“This is your home ground, Elizabeth. Where do you suggest a man might seek to hide, or make a temporary home?”
She frowned. “The woodland bordering the Heath is quite dense. And there is the Moor, of course.”
“The Moor?”
Elizabeth nodded. “It is the marshy valley below King Street. Tatton Mere peters out into tall reed beds and folk call it the Moor. It has a special place in my affections, since I used to play there for hours on end as a child. Certainly that area is as wild as anywhere in the neighbourhood. I remember when we were young… my goodness, Mr Tompkins, what is the matter?”
The proprietor of the inn, a ruddy-faced man of equable temperament, had burst into the room. The colour had drained from his face and he was gasping for breath.
“Mr Dickens! Mrs Gaskell! We spoke earlier about your friend Mrs Pettigrew and her husband the Major!”
“What is it?” Elizabeth asked in a tremulous voice. “Has something – happened to Clarissa?”
Tompkins stared at her. “Oh, no, Mrs Gaskell. At least…”
“Come on, man!” Dickens was shouting. “Tell us what brings you rushing in here as though you have seen a ghost.”
“I have – I have seen no ghost,” Tompkins stuttered. “But I have seen the body of a man. It is Major Pettigrew, and his eyes were almost popping out of his head. He has been most foully murdered.”
Not until the next afternoon did Dickens manage to secure an interview with Sergeant Rowley, the detective charged with investigating the most sensational crime to have been associated with Knutsford since the hanging of Highwayman Higgins, whose exploits had inspired Elizabeth to pen a story for Household Words. To his dismay, Rowley was scarcely an Inspector Field or a Sergeant Whicher. Broad-shouldered, ruddy-faced and short of breath, he made it clear that he was not to be impressed either by the fame of his visitor or a close acquaintance with London’s principal detectives.
“You will forgive me for keeping you waiting, sir,” Rowley said, without a hint of apology in his demeanour, “but the murder of Major Pettigrew is a most serious business and I have been fully occupied in seeking to ensure that the malefactor is brought swiftly to justice.”
“I wish you every success,” Dickens said. “I thought it might help if…”
“Bless you, sir,” Rowley said, failing to conceal smug satisfaction, “it is generous of you to offer assistance, but we have already apprehended the culprit. The constabulary of Knutsford may not be as eminent as its counterpart in the metropolis, but I can assure you that our dedication to our work is second to none, the length and breadth of the British Isles.”
“There is talk in the town that you have arrested someone already.”
“Indeed, Mr Dickens. A fellow by the name of Bowden. He used to work at Canute Villa, but the Major gave him notice two weeks ago.”
“You think that Bowden would have waited so long before taking revenge for his dismissal?”
Rowley shrugged. “There is more to it than that. Young Bowden was hoping to marry the girl who works for the Pettigrews.”
“Did she throw him over?”
“Not exactly, as I understand it. But the Major was a ladies’ man, God rest his soul. There is talk that he had taken a shine to young Alice.”
“But she had worked for Clarissa for years!”
“Even so, sir. The Major’s a fine figure of a man and it doesn’t take much sweet talk to turn a pretty young woman’s head.”
“So Bowden killed him to make sure he didn’t lay his hands on Alice?”
“You’re a man of the world, sir, so you won’t mind my saying that I’d wager he’s already laid his hands on that young lady a time or two. Of course, she won’t admit it, any more than Bowden will confess his guilt. But that’s where the truth lies, sir, you mark my words. The fellow is a hot head, this would not be the first time he has been involved in a brawl.”
“A crime of passion?”
“Indeed.”
“Mr Tompkins tells me that Pettigrew had been strangled.”
Rowley frowned. “Extraordinary how fast news travels in this town! And how exactly did he know that?”
“He has a friendly rivalry with the landlord of the Lord Eldon and had called upon the fellow to discuss a business proposition.” While they were talking, a lad started shouting outside. They went to see the cause of the commotion to find him standing over Pettigrew’s body.
“Have you traced the ligature?”
“Not yet. We believe that the crime was committed with a thick cord or rope of some kind. It was pulled viciously around the Major’s neck, cutting into the flesh so much that it bled.”
“Did you find such a cord on Bowden?”
“No, but he’ll have disposed of it somewhere.”
“So you are adamant that the man is your murderer?”
“Oh, he reckons to have an alibi. Claims he was drinking at the Angel, and has half a dozen witnesses to prove it, but the Angel is only five minutes from the Lord Eldon. It’s my belief that he slipped out while no one was looking.”
“And do you suppose the Major would have agreed to make an appointment with the man whom he had given notice?”
Rowley drew himself up to his considerable height. “Rest assured, it is only a matter of time before the details emerge. It is my belief that Bowden lured the Major out there on a pretext, perhaps under a false name.”
Dickens looked at him sharply. “Do you have any evidence of that?”
“As yet, sir, none. But we’ll find it, you mark my words.”
“The fellow is an ignoramus,” Dickens said to Elizabeth an hour later.
“I take it that he has never read one of your books?” she replied demurely.
Dickens snorted. “He has a single idea in his head and is determined to stick to it. I have been speaking to Tompkins and he tells me that young Bowden is well-liked in the town. Sergeant Rowley may find it more troublesome than he would wish to break that alibi.”
“I have been talking to the staff here during your absence.” Elizabeth nodded. “They describe the young man as a hothead. His temper has got the better of him more than once and he has given one or two other fellows in town a bloody nose. But nobody believes there is real harm in him. So you think that he is innocent?”
“I can accept that Pettigrew wished to seduce the housemaid, and thought the task easier to accomplish with her young man banished from the house. And I can imagine that Bowden might resort to violence. But would he commit murder by strangulation? I would have thought a blow to the head was more likely. Besides, if Bowden is guilty – what of Datchery?”
“Perhaps Datchery is a nom de plume?”
“No doubt. The name is uncommon, though frankly appealing – I may steal it for a character one day. There is much here that makes little sense. Suppose the message which Clarissa told you about was intended for her husband, not for her. Why should the Major fulfil the rendezvous twenty-four hours late? Why, indeed, should he wish to meet the mysterious Datchery at all? These are real puzzles. Was Clarissa able to cast any light upon them when you called on her?”