Doctor Phillips gave his report a few minutes later, looking suitably somber. “My condolences to you all,” he said. “I’m fairly certain it was a heart attack. Sir Rupert had an irregular heartbeat, and I had prescribed digitalis for it. I had been quite worried about the effects of the residual dengue fever on his weakened heart. Williams said he was feeling ill yesterday.”
“Yes,” Meredith said. “Of course, he did anything but rest. He was busy all day in Dartmouth, meeting with his solicitor and who knows what else. He was quite secretive about it.”
“Did he seem under any stress?” Doctor Phillips asked. All eyes flitted to Constable Carraher standing behind him, notebook in hand.
“None at all, other than his war work with the Foreign Office,” Great Aunt Sylvia said, the certainty in her voice matched only by the magnitude of the lie. The other family members fell in line, nodding in agreement. For Great Aunt Sylvia, the most pressing matter was to keep family matters private and be rid of the policeman with his pencil poised.
“That would be hard on any man his age,” the doctor said. “What with the fever and his heart condition, I’m only surprised it didn’t happen sooner. Sir Rupert was not a well man. He wished for the extent of his illness to be kept confidential, but that hardly matters now.” With that pronouncement, he left to talk to Williams about removing Sir Rupert’s body. The silence was uncomfortable as the family worked at not acknowledging the argument between Meredith and her father moments before his death.
Kaz stared out the window into the darkness, possibly wondering how much time he had left on his bum ticker. Once I’d asked him what exactly was wrong, but he changed the subject so fast that I never asked again. Now would probably not be a good time either. I left for some fresh air and a chat with Tom Quick.
“Too bad about the old boy,” Tom said as we stood in the light of the portico. “Wasn’t a bad sort, from what I heard.”
“Apparently his only fault was not being a Pemberton,” I said. “What did folks around here think of him?”
“Hard to say. He was off in India for so long he didn’t have a chance to make his mark with the locals. You’re right about the Pembertons, though. The story was the old lady didn’t like Ashcroft leaving their hands. The Sutcliffes were not quite up to snuff in her eyes.”
“Any special reason? Scandal in Sir Rupert’s past?” I asked, trying to draw out any gossip Tom might have heard.
“Not that I know of. Dig deep enough, though, and you’ll find what any man hides away. His shame, his failings, his regrets. I’m sure Rupert Sutcliffe-with his fortune, land, and title-was not exempt from that,” Tom said. “Please give my best to David. We were going to meet for a drink tonight, but that can wait.”
“Maybe Kaz and I will make ourselves scarce and leave the family to themselves. If we can get away we’ll drop by the pub in North Cornworthy.” I didn’t mention Michael Withers, the man who’d known Ted Wiley in the old days.
Constable Carraher and Doctor Philips filed out, and Tom fell in behind them. They all crammed into an old Jowett Eight coupé and rattled off, satisfied with the stories they’d been told.
“My God,” David said from the open doorway, before allowing a sigh escape his lips. “It’s hard to believe he’s gone.”
“How is Helen?” I asked him.
“Distraught, of course,” he said. “She was much closer to her father than Meredith. Obviously.”
“And how is Meredith doing? It’s got to be hard on her.”
“She won’t let on. I doubt she’d ever admit to any guilt or blame. Edgar thought it best that we leave the three ladies alone so they can have some time to mourn by themselves. Smart chap,” David said, with a rueful grin.
“I have a question for you,” I said, shutting the door behind him and stepping off the portico so we wouldn’t be heard. “Did Kaz ever tell you what his heart problem was, exactly? He never wanted to go into specifics, and Sir Rupert’s death has me worried about him. I thought he looked upset in there, but maybe I’m reading too much into it.”
“Well, he did seem rather distracted,” David said. “Actually, he was diagnosed while we were at Oxford. He’d been short of breath, winded after climbing a single flight of stairs. He was never terribly athletic, but such weakness seemed to be the symptom of an underlying problem. I helped him find a specialist.”
“What did he say?”
“Most likely a congenital defect in a blood vessel near the heart. The doctor said it was inoperable, since it was so close to the heart itself,” David said.
“Was there a prognosis?”
“He prescribed rest. He said the academic life was well suited.”
“That’s hardly the life Kaz has now,” I said.
“I must say, I’ve never seen him looking better. He’s keeping himself quite fit.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Last year I think he decided life was worth living. A non-academic life, at that.”
“He told me about the explosion. About Daphne,” David said. “This war has robbed us of so much.”
“It makes a middle-aged man dying at home of a heart attack seem less of a tragedy,” I said.
“It will certainly make life at Ashcroft easier,” David said. “It’s not pleasant to say, but it’s true.”
“How so?” I asked.
“Well, with Sir Rupert gone, Meredith and Edgar can stay on. His troubles are over, at least as far as a job goes.”
“Assuming she inherits, along with Helen, I suppose,” I said.
“Who else?” David asked, and opened the door to go inside. It closed behind him with a solid, satisfying sound, thick wood and old iron sealing off the outside world and all its problems.
Who else indeed?
CHAPTER TWENTY
The Hunter’s Lodge was cheerier on the inside than the outside. An old stone fireplace took up most of one wall, a well-stocked bar the other, and in between tables were set on a wooden floor that had been polished by generations of leather soles. The banked fire gave off a warm glow, and the odor of tobacco mingled with the scent of workman’s sweat and frothy beer. There were about a dozen or so men in the place, most of them probably from the mill, by the looks of their callused hands and worn leather jerkins.
I carried two ales from the bar to the table Kaz had claimed by the fire. I’d filled him in earlier on the details of Sir Rupert’s request to determine if Peter Wiley was his son. We were here to look for Michael Withers, but in a small village pub it was best to bide your time and not shoot your mouth off first thing. Besides, the ale was fine and the fire warm. We were in no hurry to get back.
“You the visitors up at Ashcroft?” one of the men at the next table asked. “Is it true what we’re hearing, that the squire’s dead?”
“Sir Rupert, if that’s who you mean, yes,” I said. “He had a heart attack today and died.”
“Sad thing, that,” he said, and went back to his drink, not entirely grief-stricken.
“Did he ever come to the pub?” I asked, to keep the conversation going.
“Rupert Sutcliffe? Not likely,” he said. “Hardly stopped in the village at all. It was India, London, the big house for him. North Cornworthy? No.”
“Not like the Pembertons?”
“Ah, they’re all gone now, except for the old lady. Cruel swant, they were,” he said.
“Pardon me?” Kaz said. “They were cruel?”
“No, no,” he said. “Sorry, that’s how we say right proper ’round here. Very proper people, the Pembertons. The old viscount would come in here and buy a round of drinks and chat with the fellas, ask about the mill and the crops. Not like the cropeing lot up there now. Never seen one o’ them; they don’t mang with the common sort.”
“Cropeing?” Kaz said, ever the student of language. “Not proper?”
“G’wan, Evan, you’re laying it on a bit thick for these folk,” another man said. “He means stingy, and they don’t mix with the likes of us. Of course, Evan thinks anyone who doesn’t buy him a drink is cropeing, eh?” Evan didn’t disagree, a mischievous gleam in his eye telling me he’d enjoyed flummoxing the newcomers.