Maxim Jakubowski - The Mammoth Book of Best British Mysteries 6

“You’re a man of the world, sir, so you won’t mind my saying that I’d wager he’s already laid his hands on that young lady a time or two. Of course, she won’t admit it, any more than Bowden will confess his guilt. But that’s where the truth lies, sir, you mark my words. The fellow is a hot head, this would not be the first time he has been involved in a brawl.”

“A crime of passion?”

“Indeed.”

“Mr Tompkins tells me that Pettigrew had been strangled.”

Rowley frowned. “Extraordinary how fast news travels in this town! And how exactly did he know that?”

“He has a friendly rivalry with the landlord of the Lord Eldon and had called upon the fellow to discuss a business proposition.” While they were talking, a lad started shouting outside. They went to see the cause of the commotion to find him standing over Pettigrew’s body.

“Have you traced the ligature?”

“Not yet. We believe that the crime was committed with a thick cord or rope of some kind. It was pulled viciously around the Major’s neck, cutting into the flesh so much that it bled.”

“Did you find such a cord on Bowden?”

“No, but he’ll have disposed of it somewhere.”

“So you are adamant that the man is your murderer?”

“Oh, he reckons to have an alibi. Claims he was drinking at the Angel, and has half a dozen witnesses to prove it, but the Angel is only five minutes from the Lord Eldon. It’s my belief that he slipped out while no one was looking.”

“And do you suppose the Major would have agreed to make an appointment with the man whom he had given notice?”

Rowley drew himself up to his considerable height. “Rest assured, it is only a matter of time before the details emerge. It is my belief that Bowden lured the Major out there on a pretext, perhaps under a false name.”

Dickens looked at him sharply. “Do you have any evidence of that?”

“As yet, sir, none. But we’ll find it, you mark my words.”

“The fellow is an ignoramus,” Dickens said to Elizabeth an hour later.

“I take it that he has never read one of your books?” she replied demurely.

Dickens snorted. “He has a single idea in his head and is determined to stick to it. I have been speaking to Tompkins and he tells me that young Bowden is well-liked in the town. Sergeant Rowley may find it more troublesome than he would wish to break that alibi.”

“I have been talking to the staff here during your absence.” Elizabeth nodded. “They describe the young man as a hothead. His temper has got the better of him more than once and he has given one or two other fellows in town a bloody nose. But nobody believes there is real harm in him. So you think that he is innocent?”

“I can accept that Pettigrew wished to seduce the housemaid, and thought the task easier to accomplish with her young man banished from the house. And I can imagine that Bowden might resort to violence. But would he commit murder by strangulation? I would have thought a blow to the head was more likely. Besides, if Bowden is guilty – what of Datchery?”

“Perhaps Datchery is a nom de plume?”

“No doubt. The name is uncommon, though frankly appealing – I may steal it for a character one day. There is much here that makes little sense. Suppose the message which Clarissa told you about was intended for her husband, not for her. Why should the Major fulfil the rendezvous twenty-four hours late? Why, indeed, should he wish to meet the mysterious Datchery at all? These are real puzzles. Was Clarissa able to cast any light upon them when you called on her?”

“Naturally, she is deeply shocked by her husband’s death and I did not think it right to interrogate her. Do you have a theory that will explain the mysteries?”

Dickens leaned closer to her and whispered. “Certainly.”

“Tell me.”

He chose his words carefully. “Consider this. What if Datchery were the pawn in a wicked plot on the part of the Major to drive your friend insane? But something went awry with the scheme. Before the day is done, I shall endeavour to discover the truth of the matter.”

“Charles, please. The Major was murdered in a most terrible fashion. Promise me that you will have a care.”

He beamed, relishing the tremor in her voice and the hint of admiration it conveyed. “Never fear, Scheherezade. If I succeed in identifying the Major’s nemesis, think what a story we will have to tell!”

It was easier said than done. Dickens scouted around the Heath methodically for an hour or more, but could find no trace of the mysterious stranger whose appearance had so distressed Clarissa. None of the people he spoke to had seen a man answering Datchery’s description and, as the minutes ticked by, Dickens began to lose heart. The theory he had formed – and which he had taken good care not to share with Elizabeth – was outlandish and he could find no evidence to support it. Reluctantly, he found himself wondering if the tramp had any existence outside Clarissa’s imagination.

As night fell, a chill settled on the town. Even wrapped in a heavy coat, he could not help shivering as he strode towards the Moor. For all its proximity to the bustle of King Street, it struck him as an uncommonly lonely place. Squelching along the soft, muddy track that people had trodden between the tall reeds, he could hear the rustle of wind in the trees and the scuttling of a fox. Otherwise the Moor was graveyard-quiet.

He regretted his lack of candour when speaking to Elizabeth, but he felt he had no choice. Her sole concern was for her friend’s well-being and it would never do to voice his suspicion that Clarissa might have played a part, however unwitting, in the death of her husband. Besides, even if he was right, the chances of learning the precise truth were slim. Tomorrow, he must return to the capital, and make arrangements to spend a few days with Ellen. If he failed to find Datchery tonight, he would have no choice but to leave the Mystery of Canute Villa – as his good friend Collins might like to term it – to be solved by others.

It was slow going with the pathways – such as they were – so treacherous underfoot and visibility fading. Much as he enjoyed walking in the darkness, the terrain was unfamiliar and he needed to take care to avoid slipping into a ditch or streamlet. Every now and then a branch would graze his cheek. It would be so easy for one of them to put an eye out. He found himself yearning for the lights of London at night-time and the warm, reassuring consciousness that, even though invisible, teeming humanity was always close at hand. The countryside was so isolated. Who knew how much wickedness lurked here?

Suddenly, as he trudged towards a small copse, he thought he heard something. A cracking of twigs, succeeded by a cough. Dickens froze, straining his ears. Within a few moments came another sound. A low, painful groan.

Was this a trap? Did someone intend him to suffer the same fate as the Major? He peered through the gloom and thought he could make out the faintest shape amongst the trees. Perhaps it was wishful thinking; too often his imagination mastered him.

Another groan, louder this time, and then another, quite prolonged. He did not believe this was a hoax. Nobody, surely, could counterfeit such a noise of pain and despair.

“Who is there?” he hissed.

No answer. He advanced to the edge of the copse. The darkness was quite impenetrable and a branch grazed his cheek, making his eyes water.

“Datchery?”

This time he heard another sound. Was it a man, dragging himself through the undergrowth? Dickens took a stride forward.

“Datchery! I am a friend of Clarissa. We must speak.”