“Exactly! But remember what happened to the young man who realized what that meant.”
“I haven’t got there yet,” I said. “But I get the idea. I’ll be careful.”
“Please do, Captain Boyle. I’d like you to catch whoever was responsible for this foul deed. There’s death enough in the world today without violence being done by one of our own. Tell me a little more about the men in the household.”
I told her about David and his burn scars, and the desire he showed to serve again, which disappeared fairly quickly after Sir Rupert’s death. And Edgar’s principled stand in India, which cost him his position, not to mention his sobriety.
“But they’re only visitors,” I said. “Roger Crawford is the estate manager, very efficient at it too. Sir Rupert left him a decent sum.”
“But?”
“But he’s arrogant. Walks through the house like he owns the place. Apparently Ashcroft House is quite egalitarian, but he always strikes me as having a smirk on his face.”
“You don’t like the man,” Mrs. Mallowan said.
“No, I don’t, perhaps because he has a chip on his shoulder about Americans. He had a house in the South Hams, which the government took over. I’ve seen what’s left of it after all the live-fire exercises. Hard to blame a guy for being sore after the American army uses your place for target practice.”
“And Edgar-Meredith’s husband-takes refuge in the bottle, you said?”
“Pretty much. Booze and Shakespeare seem to be his two passions. I think that one decent act in India was all he had in him. He’s planning on writing a book about Hamlet, which is the only thing I’ve seen him get excited about,” I said. “David’s wife, Helen, couldn’t look at his face when I first arrived. But now she manages it, and they seem to be getting along. I tried to get him a position here so he could stay in uniform, but his eyesight is too badly damaged. I thought he’d take it hard, but he shrugged it off soon enough.”
“All this after the death of Sir Rupert?”
“Yes,” I said. “The doctor saw no signs of poison, and confirmed Sir Rupert’s heart condition. A matter of time, he said.”
“Hmmm. Let me think,” she said, tapping her finger against her lips. A ship’s horn sounded in the distance, beyond Dartmouth harbor. A couple of minutes passed. “Let me venture a guess about this Meredith woman. Once Peter Wiley left the house, she voiced her displeasure with him in some way, perhaps even saying he would not be welcome again. Am I correct?”
“Yes, you are. How did you know that?”
“Because it is obvious that she knows more than she lets on. Her argument with her father behind closed doors tells me that. Perhaps she sincerely disliked Peter Wiley, and saw no reason to hide the fact after her father’s death, or from the moment Sir Rupert told her about Peter being in the revised will. But it is Helen who interests me. You described her as somewhat sensitive, which would make her reaction to her husband’s injuries understandable. It’s the change in demeanor that is hard to account for.”
“Like her husband’s?”
“No. That is easily understandable. A disfigured veteran might well worry about how he will make his way in the world and earn a living. Sir Rupert’s death may have seemed heaven-sent to a man with half a face, so it is entirely natural that he would no longer wish for employment. He certainly had reason to believe that Helen would receive a decent inheritance, since she and her father got along. But I wonder what drew Helen closer to David, following her father’s death? Mourning, or something else?”
“Are you saying I should treat Helen as a suspect? She doesn’t seem the murderous type,” I said.
“With your knowledge of the real world of criminals and killers, I should bow to your expertise. But based only on the sketch of Helen you have given me, I note the change in her attitude. Why, I ask? What would cause a young woman who is repulsed by her husband’s scars to alter her behavior suddenly? Do you have an answer, Captain Boyle?”
“I understand criminals, and that includes female criminals, Mrs. Mallowan. But women in general? I need all the help I can get.”
“That’s refereshingly honest of you, Captain Boyle. But she bears watching. Is Lady Pemberton a factor in this mystery?”
“I think she knows more than she lets on,” I said. “She’s still sharp, and she’s seen everything that’s happened at Ashcroft House since the Great War.”
“Ah,” Mrs. Mallowan said, tilting her head back and letting the sunlight fall on her face. “Why does the matriarch keep any secrets at all? Her silence must have a purpose. If you discover that, you will then know what the secret is, and why she keeps it hidden.”
“Are you sure?” I asked, after thinking through what she’d said.
“Goodness, no, Captain Boyle!” Mrs. Mallowan laughed, turning her face toward mine and clapping her hands together. “I am sure of so little. These are merely ideas, based on what you have told me. When I am planning a book, I sketch out concepts and characters and let them take me where they will. This is much like that process. I am extrapolating from what you’ve told me. But if I spent five minutes with poor Helen or ferocious Meredith, I might form an entirely different opinion of them. I only know them at second hand, through your American eyes, after all.”
“Fair enough,” I said. “You’ve given me a different way to look at these people, and that’s a big help. It’s been fun talking shop with you.”
“Remember to watch for those small inconsistencies, Captain Boyle. Now, is there anything you’ve forgotten to tell me about? Something so minor you left it out?” I didn’t think so, until I thought of the motorcycle tracks.
“Peter arrived on a motorbike. It hasn’t been found. But we discovered tire tracks leading out of a barn at Ashcroft House. The only thing is, it was after that heavy rain. They likely would have been washed away if he’d left when everyone said he did.”
“Oh dear,” Mrs. Mallowan said, rising from the bench. “That is not good, not good at all.”
“We thought it might have been a bicycle, actually, carrying a heavy load.” As I watched the worried look on her face, I began to feel guilty for not pursuing this clue more thoroughly.
“It could be. But don’t you see? If it isn’t, you are in some danger, Captain Boyle.”
“I can handle myself,” I said, somewhat defensively.
“I’m sure you can, but this is an unusual business. Have you thought about the implications?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean the motorbike may have been used to spirit away the body of poor Peter Wiley, which means the killer is definitely someone from Ashcroft House. Do you have any idea where the motorbike is now?”
“It could be anywhere. In the river, maybe.”
“I don’t think so, Captain. You mentioned that an inexpensive watch was stolen from Peter’s body, as well as the gold ring. That tells me that the thief-and I assume that the thief and the killer are one and the same-is not one to waste anything. A man-or woman-who knows the value of things, and who has perhaps gone without in life.”
“We looked through the barn,” I said. “I guess we could do a better search of the property.”
“Where do Meredith and Helen live?”
“London. But they’d never get enough petrol to drive a motorbike there, not that I can envision either one of them on one.”
“Then that leaves Crawford, the estate manager,” she said. “I have two recommendations for you, Captain Boyle. First, check his house in the South Hams. A restricted area makes a fine hiding place.”
“Good idea. What’s the other?”
“Move out of Ashcroft House immediately. This affair is not yet concluded.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
“Who were you speaking to?” Kaz asked as I started up the jeep to drive to Dartmouth. Big Mike was stuck with Colonel Harding, doing something hush-hush, and we were detailed to check on Monty’s spy. Or liaison officer, depending on how diplomatic I felt.