Murder On A Summer's Day Part 2

'Two miles.'

'And did he call on his old school friend?'

'He did not. Mr Presthope has joined the search, around Embsay Moor.' Upton made a circle with his hand around the map. 'This is the area we've searched. Of course, he could have gone beyond. His highness is a young man, and a fine horseman, but accidents happen.'

'How many men are searching?'

'The local constable has a team of men and police dogs on the moors. Everyone from the estate who can be spared is out there. The head forester has a group combing woodlands. The water bailiff is searching every bend of the river. Gamekeepers are tramping the moors. The works manager and his men are inspecting every building. I felt sure we would discover him before nightfall. At eleven o'clock last night, I notified his lordship. We continued searching with lanterns, and began again at dawn. It's a mystery, Mrs Shackleton, a mystery.'

In spite of the seriousness, I almost smiled. I could hear James hymning my praises to the powers that be. My cousin, Kate Shackleton, has solved the most difficult of cases.

The stuffed shirts of government would be only too happy to pursue the matter quietly, to avoid turning a crisis into a news story and a political embarra.s.sment. But the nagging doubt returned. Why me? India Office tentacles must stretch across the land; retired colonials who know India better than their own county, who are acquainted with the personalities and speak the languages.

'I'm told that the prince is a practical joker.' I turned away from the map. 'Is there a possibility he could have taken the train, or be paying another visit and enjoying himself at his lady companion's expense?'

Upton scratched his head. 'I doubt that. No one has left by rail. His Rolls-Royce is still here. There was one little oddity, but it amounted to nothing.'

'All the same, Mr Upton, do tell me. I want to have as full a picture as possible.'

Upton leaned against the edge of his desk, betraying his weariness. 'One of the men said that the coal merchant from Embsay, Deakin, saw an Indian on Bark Lane yesterday. When I asked Deakin about it, he said it was a mistake.'

I made a mental note to talk to this man. After all, James had mentioned a rival Indian state. Mrs Sugden may have been indulging in her usual flights of fancy when she suspected all Indians of carrying knives and being excellent stranglers, but an Indian wandering the lanes of the estate would hardly be mistaken for a local yokel.

'It's an odd thing for the coal merchant to have said.'

'He's an odd man. Some people will say anything to be stood a drink.'

I glanced at the map again. 'It's a huge area, Mr Upton.'

Upton's hands made fists. 'You'll be taking over I understand.' The words almost choked their way through his dry lips. 'I suggested we contact the barracks, but his lordship said to give it a few more hours.'

'Please telephone to his lordship, Mr Upton. Add my voice to yours regarding the need for troops to widen the search. You have done everything you can and you are the expert on the countryside.' He brightened a little at my praise. 'I want to find out a little more background by speaking to those in the royal party. He may have given some hint as to what was in his mind. Also, I want to see the men who accompanied him on his ride yesterday.'

He nodded. 'I'll have Osbert and Isaac sent to you. Will you work from here?' He glanced about the converted carriage in something like dismay.

'I'm sure you need this room yourself. I'll speak first to the prince's companion. Who else travelled with him?'

'His highness drove here with just his companion, Lydia Metcalfe.' As he spoke the woman's name, Upton's nostril twitched, betraying a powerful hint of disdain.

'How many servants?'

'Just one valet. The valet travelled by train, arriving before them with the bulk of the luggage.'

From what little I had heard of Indian royalty, it surprised me that the prince travelled with only a single servant. 'Isn't it a little unusual for someone of his rank to travel without an entourage?'

He sighed. 'It certainly is. Prince Narayan must be cut from a more modern cloth. When the prince's father and younger brother, Prince Jaya, were guests at his lordship's shooting parties the retinue would have populated a large village.'

'I take it that Miss Metcalfe and the valet are at Bolton Hall?'

A coughing fit stopped Upton from answering me. He picked up a stained pint pot and took a swig of cold tea.

I gave him time to recover.

'The prince is staying at the hotel, the Devonshire Arms.'

'Is Bolton Hall shut up?'

'In part. There is a skeleton staff. His lordship and her ladyship are expected on 9 August, with guests arriving on the tenth, in advance of the shooting.'

Neither of us voiced the thought that the duke may well need to change his plans, and soon.

There was something Upton was not saying. It puzzled me that Indian royalty was being accommodated at the hotel, not the Hall. I waited. Silence often prompts a fuller explanation than a demand.

'How can I put this delicately? Normally the prince would be a guest at the Hall, as his father and younger brother have been before him. But given that he is travelling with an unsuitable woman who cannot be received they occupy a floor at the Devonshire Arms.'

So, Miss Metcalfe was a person the establishment did not intend to acknowledge. Bring in the outsider. Bring in Kate Shackleton.

'I see. And does Miss Metcalfe have a maid?'

'No. Apparently she insists on looking after herself.' Having almost ventured into the territory of opinion, Upton's eyes lit with a sudden understanding. 'I expect they have asked a lady to come believing you might persuade Lydia Metcalfe to sling her hook.'

'She must stay put, Mr Upton. Everyone must stay put. You say the maharajah arrived by Rolls-Royce?'

'Yes. He drove himself.'

'Have the Rolls put under lock and key. Instruct the stationmaster not to issue Miss Metcalfe or the valet a railway ticket. This is not to suggest blame attaching to them, but any information they have could be vital.'

He nodded. 'I'll send word straight away.' He opened a drawer and took out writing paper. Then he turned to me. 'It ought to come from you. His grace said that you would be directing the investigation.'

He placed paper on the blotter and pushed the gla.s.s inkstand towards me, inviting me to use his pen. Ignoring his touch of resentment, I dipped the blunt nib. I wrote two brief notes, one to the hotel manager ordering the Rolls-Royce to be impounded. The second, I addressed to the stationmaster, asking that no one be issued a ticket to leave Bolton Abbey station without my permission. This seemed to me a draconian but necessary order.

When I had finished writing, Upton opened the door and called to Joel. He gave the lad careful instructions about delivering the notes.

Joel repeated the instruction. Having a multiple errand brought a mist of confusion to his eyes. He bit his lower lip, and mumbled.

'Go to the station first. Hold that note in your hand. Give it to the stationmaster. Put the other in your pocket. Go to the hotel second. When you get there, take the note from your pocket and give it to Mr Sergeant.'

Joel released his lower lip from his teeth, leaving a livid mark on his pouting lip. Carefully, he slid one envelope into his pocket, and then he left.

'Tell me, Mr Upton, apart from this mysterious sighting of an Indian or not an Indian on the road, have any strangers arrived in the area recently?'

He opened a tobacco jar that stood on the table, and filled his pipe. 'I thought of that. We had the usual crop of day trippers last Sunday, but they all left by evening. There is just the normal round of deliveries.' He struck a match to light his pipe. 'I was hoping his disappearance would turn out to be a prank, because of the reputation he has as a practical joker. You never know when a creature like Miss Metcalfe is concerned. He may have it in his mind to teach her a lesson for something or other. Give her a fright.'

This seemed to me unlikely, but not impossible.

We talked for a few more moments. I studied the map on the wall, trying to get my bearings. The River Wharfe snaked its way through the countryside. The places vaguely familiar to me were Strid Wood, and the Strid the point at which a person with long legs and a brave but foolish heart might leap across the river. Down from the priory were the stepping stones, where Gerald and I had crossed.

Just then, the door flew open. Joel stood there, his mouth opening and closing as he struggled for words. He still gripped the letter to the stationmaster in his hand. 'He's got a st.i.tch. He can't run any nearer.'

As if feeling the need to demonstrate, Joel grabbed his lower abdomen and leaned forward, groaning.

'Who's got a st.i.tch? What's happened?'

Joel stared with wide, frightened eyes. 'Matty's took a st.i.tch from running with his message. They've found him. Drowned.'

Three.

Sitting on the iron step outside the estate office I pulled on my boots. I felt hollow inside. The man was drowned. I had come too late; failed before I had begun. Upton and Joel had hurried to fetch horses.

I heard them before I saw them; the clip-clop of hooves.

Upton was mounted on a brown mare, leading a white pony. Joel hurried along behind.

It is a long time since I have ridden. I mounted the pony clumsily, sensing Upton's impatience.

'We're going about a mile beyond Bolton Bridge, where the river bends before Paradise Lathe.' He turned and called to Joel. 'Stay here. If anyone comes, tell them where we are, and to wait.'

The gentle pony trotted quickly, needing little encouragement. I looked to my left, across the river. The ground rose steeply and became dark with trees. The slight breeze did not stir the leaves. Only the river rushed, as if determined to join our race as it noisily whooshed across boulders. The air smelled of gra.s.s and wild garlic.

Upton was a little way ahead. He called to me, his voice scattering, so that I had to lean forward to catch his words.

'I don't understand. We searched the river yesterday.'

Wildflowers bowed under his horse's hooves; b.u.t.tercups, daisies, wild pinks, poppies and meadowsweet.

I urged the pony to catch up.

A few moments later, Upton spoke again. 'The poor man must have been submerged, the Wharfe playing her tricks.'

A couple of ducks sailed sedately along the river, looking about them. A curlew dipped and called.

'How did it happen?' he asked, without expecting an answer from me. 'Maybe he stopped to let his horse drink, and scooped water for hisself. Being a stranger, he wouldn't know the river's treachery.'

'But he was young, and a fine horseman.'

Upton pulled ahead of me again, muttering. It sounded like, 'How could it come to this?'

Not far off, by a drystone wall, were two men. As we drew closer, I saw that they were standing a few feet from something on the ground. The something turned into someone, covered by a blanket. The searchers had come prepared.

Upton and I dismounted. I patted the pony. A creature alive in the face of death can be rea.s.suring, and need rea.s.surance.

I looked first at the men who had found the body. One was of medium height, with wiry sandy hair and a sun-freckled complexion. He looked shocked and bewildered, as if someone had hit him and taken the breath from his body. The second man was older, tight-lipped, with one of those grit-stone faces that is hard to read. His shoulders slumped. His arms hung heavy. As Upton drew near, this man bobbed onto his haunches and turned back the corner of the blanket that covered the head, and then turned it back a little more.

He revealed a deathly pale young man with luxuriant black hair that had begun to dry in curls. He was so slender that his ribs showed themselves one by one, a perfect cage, the river having stolen his shirt. In a painting, he would have been a shepherd boy. This was no Indian prince.

Upton dropped to his knees and stared.

After a long moment, he turned to me. 'It's...o...b..rt Hannon, the groom I told you about. He went riding with the prince.'

'He's not much more than a child.'

'He's twenty-one, married these seven months, and his wife expecting. His two older brothers were lost in the war. He's his mother's only son.' Upton gulped and turned away. 'Was her only son.'

I spoke to the older man, the one with a face of stone. 'He wasn't missing, was he? Osbert I mean.'

The man shook his head. 'He searched last night with the head gamekeeper. This morning him and Isaac was to ride about again, where they'd been with the Indian.'

'When did you last see Osbert?'

'About midnight, when some of us gave up the search, to start again at dawn this morning.'

Upton covered Osbert's face, and stood up.

The sandy-haired, bewildered man looked at me blankly when I spoke to him. 'I'm sorry to question you when you are so upset. I'm Mrs Shackleton, asked by the duke to represent the India Office. Did you see Osbert this morning?'

The bewildered man stared at me for a long moment, as if my words had to enter his brain, be translated into another language, and spoken back to him. Then, he shook his head.

Upton picked up a stone and slung it into the river with great force. He wheeled round, turning on the two men. 'Why didn't you say who you'd found? I thought it was the Indian.'

The stone-faced man said quietly, 'Matty knew it were Osbert. He went running to find you, and then to get a stretcher.'

'G.o.d help Osbert's mam, sir,' added the other. 'And he's no sight for a la.s.s in his wife's condition.' He ran his fingers through his wiry hair, making it stand on end.

Upton did not answer. He turned his back.

I stared at the horizon. White clouds scudded hastily across the blue sky; the world hurrying to mock the quick and the dead.

We spoke no more, until the fellow they called Matty came into view, carrying one end of a canvas stretcher with wooden rods.

Behind him came Joel, holding the other end.

They placed the stretcher on the ground. Upton picked up Osbert Hannon's body, as gently as if he were about to nurse a baby. As he did so, I noticed a nasty wound on the back of the young man's head. This could have been from the rocks on the riverbed, or it may have been inflicted before he entered the water. Upton laid Osbert on the canvas and covered him, as though tucking him in for the night.

'Matty, Joel, go on searching along the river.'

Matty nodded.

Joel looked blank. 'What for?'

'For an Indian, dead or alive. What do you think? I'm not sending you on a b.l.o.o.d.y fishing expedition. Go as far as the weir. And keep your traps shut about Osbert till I say open 'em.'