Maxim Jakubowski - The Mammoth Book of Best British Mysteries 6

Obediently, Dickens trotted after his host as they returned to the drawing room. Pettigrew was tall and erect in bearing and boasted a splendid dark moustache. Dickens could imagine him charming an older woman, if he put his mind to it, but his chin was weak, and a petulant note was apt to enter his voice when he made even the most commonplace remark.

On entering the presence of the ladies, Dickens caught Elizabeth’s eye. She frowned and gave an almost imperceptible shake of the head as he spoke.

“Mrs Pettigrew, may I compliment you? Your garden is as delightful as your charming home.”

Clarissa’s lips twitched; it seemed to be as close as she could come to offering a smile. Her face was deathly pale and her frail body trembled in the brocaded armchair.

“You are – very kind,” she said in a voice so faint that it was barely audible. “To think that we should entertain a guest as distinguished as…”

“Yes, yes,” her husband interrupted. “Dickens, it is good of you and Mrs Gaskell to have stopped off from your travels to call at our humble abode, but as you can see, my wife is dreadfully fatigued. I do believe, Clarissa, that it would be best for you to go to bed. Come, my dearest, remember what the doctor said this morning. You must not tax yourself. It could be dangerous.”

“ ‘Come, my dearest ’,” Elizabeth quoted scornfully when they had repaired to the sitting room at the Royal George. “The man is a hypocrite. He does not care for her one jot.”

To see her old friend in such a sorry state had hit her hard. Dickens was tempted to clasp her hand and murmur words of consolation, but a moment’s reflection persuaded him of the unwisdom of such a course. He would not wish his good intentions to be misinterpreted. Women could be such fearful creatures.

“What did she tell you?”

“Nothing of value. She insisted that she had been mistaken. Her husband was right and the mysterious stranger was indeed a figment of her imagination.”

“What?”

“She apologized profusely for having allowed a momentary nervous turn to summon us on a fool’s errand. However much I pressed her, she remained adamant. As for the note from Datchery, she had dreamed it. Stuff and nonsense! I know Clarissa too well. Something quite dreadful must have happened in order to reduce her to such a pitiable state, to cause her to lie to one of her oldest friends.”

“You are convinced that she did receive the note she described?”

“Most certainly. The question is – what has happened in between her writing to me and this afternoon to prompt such a crisis of confidence that, even when free of her husband’s malign presence, she would not admit the truth even to me?”

“I suspect that…” Dickens began.

“Surely the answer is obvious? Pettigrew has intimidated her into denying the truth. For some reason, he is anxious that nobody should know of the tramp, or of Datchery – although I believe that they are one and the same.”

“There is an alternative hypothesis, Scheherezade. If the tramp does exist, what is his purpose? Could it be that the Major has instructed him to haunt Canute Villa?”

“To what end?”

“So that his wife comes to believe that she is indeed mad?”

Elizabeth passed a slim hand across her face. “Oh, Charles, what are we to do?”

That question remained unanswered as Elizabeth and Dickens drank coffee after dinner that evening. The venison had been excellent, but their appreciation of a fine meal had been dulled by concern for the woman trapped in such unhappiness behind the bleak facade of Canute Villa. Each time Dickens came up with a fresh notion for confronting Pettigrew, Elizabeth dismissed it, pointing out the difficulties of coming between man and wife. They risked making matters even worse for Clarissa, she warned. But when Dickens demanded to know what she proposed to do to assist her friend, she confessed to being at an utter loss.

“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?”