grateful that he had established that habit, otherwise his
presence might have given rise to questions.
‘Yes, of course. Now there are some points … I was
only just awake, you know, and of course vastly shocked.
If you wouldn’t mind recounting the whole thing again.
… And I say, do drink that brandy; you look quite grey.’ He drank himself and began to climb nimbly into his breeches. ‘Now, you heard the dog, you said …’
So once more, wondering how many times he would have to tell the tale before it was done with, Hadstock told him how he had heard the dog, realised that it had escaped, dressed, lighted his lantern and come down. ‘By that time the noise had ceased, but I went towards where I had last heard it, and hunted about and called. I saw the dog first, just on the edge of the park across the drive from the side door of the house. And the bodies lay
nearby.’
‘Sir Richard stabbed and bleeding to death and Mr Mundford bitten in the throat. What a very terrible thing! And what a mystery. What do you think happened, Hadstock?’ Sir Edward shrugged on his coat and buttoned it, his fingers skipping by long practice over the three places where buttons were missing. ‘It’s hardly for me to say, sir, is it?’
‘To hell with modesty, man! This is an inquest. You found the bodies, saw how they lay. Who is better qualified to express an opinion? Wait a minute, I think I hear …’ He went to the window, opened it and poked out his head. ‘Brinkley! Hi, Brinkley! I want my horse. What? Yes, of course I mean now. The man’s a fool,’ he said, closing the window. ‘Well now?’
‘I can only think that Sir Richard and Mr Mundford heard the dog and went out; that the dog renewed his attack on Mr Mundford, who tried to defend himself; that Sir Richard tried to pull the dog away and was stabbed.’
‘With what?’ asked Sir Edward sharply.
‘Mr Mundford had a carving-knife in his hand. I think the gentlemen were just about to sit down to a late supper. Cards were laid out in the library, and a cold fowl, partially carved, was on the sideboard in the dining-room.’
Sir Edward tested this account, as Linda and Hadstock had done in the small hours, and found it acceptable.
‘It might even be that Mr Mundford, knowing the dog’s enmity, deliberately armed himself—with what a fatal result,’ he said musingly. ‘Well, I’m ready now.’ But outside the bedroom the good odour of eggs and bacon being fried for the servants’ breakfast found its way up the back stairs. He paused and cocked his nose.
‘You know, Hadstock, I still think we should have breakfast. By all accounts you’ve had a shocking night— and we’ve a heavy day ahead of us. I’m deeply shocked; old Sir Charles was my closest friend—I was at Clevely when we learned of his sad accident, you know. With Sir Richard I was not, of course, on such intimate terms. Still, it is a shock. But it must be faced, and I think breakfast would help.’ He trotted into the dining-room and pulled the bell-rope vigorously. Then, just to show that his mind was still on the affair he said, ‘That dog! The dog must be destroyed at once.’
‘I have already taken the responsibility for that, sir.’
‘Splendid. You seem to have kept your head and thought of everything. How very fortunate for poor
Lady Shelmadine that you were on hand.’
Hadstock’s lips tightened and a kind of twitch deepened all the lines on one side of his face.
‘Yes, the fog served some purpose,’ he said.
Sir Edward tugged again at the bell. As he did so another explanation of the affair flashed into his head. Of Mundford he would believe anything, and once or twice he’d seen Shelmadine in a nasty temper. Suppose they’d quarrelled—perhaps over the dog … But even trying that story over in his own mind made him recoil. Gentlemen attacking one another with carving-knives in parks at night … no, no, that would never do. It had all the elements of a first-class scandal, and in these revolutionary times that must be avoided. Sir Edward was regarded as revolutionary himself: he was in favour of a fair wage for a fair day’s work; on the Bench he was looked upon as the poachers’ friend because he could see what a temptation it was for a hungry man to ‘knock off one for the pot’; and he was a ridiculously indulgent employer—but he was a member of the upper class and loyal to his kind. No scandal, no betrayal at any price, he thought stoutly. Even if there were evidence of a quarrel —which, thank God, there seemed not to be—one would have been bound to disregard it, if only for Lady Shelmadine’s sake. Poor lady, the shock and the bereavement were quite enough without any scandal. Accidental death in both cases and the whole thing hushed up as soon as possible.
‘It’ll be a nine days’ wonder, I’m afraid,’ he said aloud. ‘We must try to see it through with as little fuss as possible—for Lady Shelmadine’s sake.’
‘Yes, indeed,’ Hadstock said, and hoped he had not spoken too heartily.
PART FIVE
Afternoon
of an Autocrat
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Sally and Mrs Fuller were waiting supper for Danny. He still rode daily to and fro to Mr Thurlow’s office, for he had not yet succeeded in hiring or buying any more land; and anyway they were under notice to quit the house again at Christmas. It had been a shattering blow when, just before Michaelmas, they had been given a quarter’s notice and for no reason. Mrs Fuller, too desperate to care whether she gave offence or not, had asked straight out and the new Squire had said, ‘I’m not giving reasons, I’m giving you notice!’ His death so soon after brought no hope. They’d been through all that before; Sir Charles had given them notice and Sir Charles had died and they’d hoped … but somewhere, obviously, records were kept and Mrs Fuller was certain that notices to quit were written down before they were delivered, otherwise how would anyone have known that Sir Charles had given Steve notice that afternoon.
Danny had said, ‘There’s a curse on us. Seems we aren’t meant to live in Clevely.’ He’d talked of selling Cobbler’s Corner and all his bullocks and the horse and the furniture and going somewhere farther afield— America even. And Mrs Fuller had cried and said she couldn’t face another move. So then the hunt for land, with or without a house, had become frantic. So far it had been fruitless. But tonight, with the mid-December wind howling about the house, the dumplings gently bumping against the lid of the pot, the babies both asleep, Mrs Fuller and Sally allowed themselves just a little hope as they worked away at a quilt. Tonight, on his way home,
Danny had gone to call on Martha Bowyer.
Martha had, in the end, fenced the land that was her heritage. To do that and pay her share of the commissioners’ expenses she had been obliged to sell everything else she possessed; every bit of stock, old Clem’s plough and wagon and tools, every stick of furniture in the house, and even the gold ear-bobs which her grandmother had left her. And there she was with her neatly fenced barren acres, with not so much as a chicken to run over them, and her snug clodhouse without so much as a stool in it. She’d left them just as they were and gone away one morning, walking to Nettleton to catch the coach, with all the portable goods that she possessed tied up in one of Clem’s red handkerchiefs. That had been in June. Then, two days ago, she had appeared again, carrying the same bundle, and gone to her little farm and lighted a fire, borrowed a scythe from the Wellmans and cut down the nettles and docks about the house, and when darkness fell had gone and hired a room at the Black Horse. The news spread about the village, accompanied by the obvious explanation—she was tidying up the place preparatory to selling it. So tonight Danny had gone to make her a bid.
It was no good; they knew that before they saw him. He’d have shouted as he rode into the yard. He came quietly, and when he dismounted his footsteps were as heavy and springless as those of the old, cheap horse. Sally got up quickly and ran to the door. ‘I’ll see to it You get into the warm,’ she said as she joined him. It was her delight to wait upon him now.
‘Now, you go in, Sal. It’s going to snow.’ ‘I’ll help,’ she said. ‘You didn’t get it, did you?’ ‘No,’ he said, shortly; adding after a moment, ‘you’d never guess why!’