Robin Paige - Death at Bishops Keep

"Thank God," Kate breathed fervently. "But why did he not let her come back with you?''

" 'E's gone off t' check 'er story wi' Sir Charles." He took off his bowler hat and held it in his hands. "She'ud like t' know whether ye plan t' send th' carriage, miss."

Kate could not help smiling. She had overstated the case

to Mr. Laken when she claimed Mrs. Pratt as a friend. But as Aunt Sabrina's secretary, she had felt a fraternal sympathy for all the servants and an outright concern for the two youngest. As mistress, she felt the same compassion but with an added sense of obligation, for she was now responsible for the well-being of the staff. Still, she had to admire the irrepressible Pratt, and she hoped that even in the changed circumstance, a mutual friendship was not out of the question.

"By all means," she told Mudd, "send the carriage." She turned to go back into the house, then turned back. ' 'You said that the constable is speaking with Sir Charles. Why is that?"

"Mrs. P. ses 'twas a gypsy 'oo brought th' mushrooms t' th' kitchen door. Sir Charles saw 'em talkin' t'gether, afore th' lad took to 'is heels."

Kate stood still. A gypsy! Yes! At luncheon, Sir Charles had mentioned taking the photograph of a gypsy boy who had turned tail and fled when he saw the camera. Well, Tom Potter was slender enough to be thought a lad. If the picture were clear enough, it might confirm or contradict her suspicion of his guilt. She turned toward the house. Had not Sir Charles called with photographs yesterday? Had not he left them in an envelope on the table beside the chair where he was sitting?

Kate went swiftly back to the library. Yes, there was the envelope. She picked it up. In it were a number of photographic prints-several of her in various casual poses; two of Bradford and Eleanor, unaware of the concealed camera; the one taken by Mudd of the self-conscious quartet at the luncheon table. She laid the photo aside to study later, and turned eagerly to the last one. Yes, this was it! The slender gypsy boy at the kitchen door, face turned full to the camera, hat slipped to the back of his head.

Kate stared at the photograph for a long moment, puzzled. No, the figure was not that of Tom Potter, nor the face. It was too finely featured, too symmetrically drawn. But there was something familiar about that face, something about the eyes, the mouthSuddenly her fingers felt cold and her knees began to tremble. She knew the face in this photo! It wasBut that was impossible!

She swallowed. No, not impossible, only improbable. But why-?

She stood still, thinking rapidly. Outside in the hallway a cuckoo clock began to announce the hour of eleven. By the fifth cuckoo, her thoughts began to make a kind of muddled sense. By the seventh, Kate could see how it might have happened. By the eleventh and last, she thought she knew who and how, and even why. Her conclusion seemed improbable, very nearly impossible, but it made sense. It had to be the truth.

But she had to admit to an uncomfortable degree of doubt. She looked down at the photograph again, at the face, the clothing, the hat. The picture was not as clear as she would have liked, and her identification could not be absolutely positive. Still, she was almost sure she was right.

But what should she do? The first and most obvious step was to find Edward Laken and show him what she had discovered-what she thought she had discovered. But the constable was the one who had insisted so vehemently, despite her protests, on taking Mrs. Pratt in for questioning. What was more, he had infuriated her by staring when she ordered the carriage for the cook. No. It might be petty, but she would not allow him the satisfaction of making the arrest-or, if she was wrong, the satisfaction of laughing at her.

Then what? Should she show the photograph to Sir Charles and beg his assistance? For a moment, she was tempted. It would be quite pleasantly gratifying to show that arrogant man that he did not have a monopoly on hypotheses: she too could formulate a theory of the crime and provide the evidence to validate it. And it would be delightful to correct his incorrect conclusion that Mrs. Pratt was the killer.

But here the same nettlesome difficulty arose. If she was wrong, she would have made a fool of herself in Sir Charles's quite critical eyes. It would be far better to obtain definitive proof-a confession before a witness, if at all possible-and then turn the matter over to the proper authorities.

But it was not Kate's unwillingness to accommodate Constable Laken or risk Sir Charles's critical judgment that

proved to be the definitive factor. What decided Kate was her quite natural impulse to face down the wicked person who had killed her aunts, and Beryl Bardwell's interest in hearing a confession from the criminal's own lips.

But this was obviously not a matter that she could take entirely into her own hands. She would need help. She stood quietly for another minute, sorting through various possible strategies. Then she made up her mind. She knew what she would do. But it had to be done quickly. Time was of the essence.

Laken was frowning thoughtfully as he mounted his bicycle. But instead of riding out in the direction of Mars-den Manor, he rode toward the vicarage. An important matter wanted clearing up before he spoke to Charlie Sheridan.

The vicar was among his roses. "Ah, Edward," he said, straightening, a basket of late blossoms in his hand. ' 'Perhaps you would care for a cup of morning tea? A biscuit? I am sure Mrs. Mills can find us a little something."

"Thank you, sir," Laken said, "but I fear I am in a bit of

a hurry. I came to ask you to enlighten me as to the Ardleigh inheritance."

"Ah, yes." The vicar seemed burdened by the thought. "It is very simple, really. Miss Ardleigh-Sabrina Ardleigh- recently made a new will. Her sister Bernice was her previous beneficiary. Owing to difficulties between them, Miss Ardleigh determined to exclude her from inheritance. In her place, she named her niece. There are some minor bequests, of course, but the bulk of the estate goes to Kathryn. As it should," he added. "She is the last Ardleigh."

"I see," Laken said. He kept his face carefully blank. "Do you know, sir, when Miss Kathryn Ardleigh learned of her good fortune?''

The vicar looked at him, a slight frown puckering his forehead. "As a matter of fact, I told her yesterday, after her aunt's death. It was a great shock to her."

"You are sure?"

The vicar's tufted eyebrows rose. "Why, man, you're not suggesting… Of course it was a surprise!" His face filled with consternation. "You can't possibly suspect that young woman of causing the deaths of her aunts!"

"Thank you, sir," Laken said. It spoke well of Miss Ardleigh that the vicar would rise to her defense so readily. But of course it was his business to think the best of any soul. It was Laken's business to think the worst.

Charles folded the telegram and replaced it in his coat pocket. It had arrived just after breakfast this morning, in reply to the letter he had posted immediately after copying the inscription. Having read it, he asked for a horse and set out for Colchester, his mind greatly unsettled.