An unsolvable crime, p.13
AN UNSOLVABLE CRIME, page 13
Then, her attention focused on what was in the lord’s other hand.
He was holding a goblet!
Someone had given Lord Hardwick another drink, after he’d finished the stirrup cup at her stall, and only a couple of minutes before the race itself had begun.
Nobody had known about this, or even mentioned it, in the commotion before the start.
And now, Mary felt certain that she was looking at the killer’s handiwork.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Mary was in shock as she stared at that photograph. The evidence was clear. The murder weapon was in the lord’s very hand. What a lucky coincidence it was that the patient photographer had waited for such a good shot and captured the perfect picture.
Lucky for him, and also for them. Now, they needed to find out who had given him this cup.
“Look at this!” With a trembling finger, she pointed it out. “Someone gave him this. Just before the race? If we can work out who handed it to him, I’m sure will have found the killer.”
“Good heavens!” Lucas said. “None of the other riders got a drink when they were awaiting starter’s orders. That’s most unusual.”
“It was the killer! He, or she, took that opportunity knowing that everyone would be distracted,” Mary said.
“Right. First thing first,” Detective Sherwood’s voice was authoritative. “This photographer most likely won’t have taken just one shot, but many.”
Mary nodded in understanding as she saw where the detective was going with this theory.
“He will have taken a whole sequence and chosen the most impactful one. The only problem is that this photo is dynamite. Once people see it’s been published, we’re going to have the opposite problem to what we do now.”
“What’s that?” Lucas asked curiously.
“Right now, the killer thinks that he or she is undiscovered, and they are laying low. When this newspaper is circulated, the killer is going to realize that their doings are visible on the back page for the world to see. They’re going to go on the run. So, if we have any hope of capturing this killer, then we must act tonight!”
“Will the newspaper offices still be open?” Mary asked.
Sherwood checked his watch. “They should be,” he nodded, stuffing the last of his sandwich into his mouth and crumpling the wrapper. “They were still busy packaging up the papers when I was there, and the village is just a five-minute drive away. I’m going there now!”
“And I’m going with you,” Mary said firmly. It was better than walking into Bellamy Hall, where Constable Higgins was most likely waiting to arrest her. She stood up and took the extra sandwich out of her pocket. “I won’t have a chance to give this to Hannah,” she told Lucas. “Please, will you?"
“I – er – so I’m not coming, too?” he asked.
“My car’s a two-seater,” Sherwood reminded him confidently. “And Mary’s been a huge asset in this investigation so far. I’ll be glad to have her with me!”
“Of course,” Lucas said in a small voice. “Of course.”
What a turnaround from the first time she’d asked to accompany him. Mary felt buoyed that she’d managed to earn the great detective’s respect. Handing the sandwich to Lucas, she headed out of the summerhouse.
Detective Sherwood wasn’t wasting a moment. He broke into a jog as soon as they were off the grass and on the paved path, and Mary followed him, her legs still protesting from the pedaling earlier.
“I may have exaggerated slightly when I said we’d be in time,” Sherwood confessed, as they piled into the car. “The newspaper offices were starting to close up when I left. We’ll have to drive like the wind if we’re going to catch anyone still there!”
Flattening his foot on the accelerator, he sped off, tires hammering on the paving as he powered down the driveway, Mary clutching the dashboard as he veered into the road and hit the gas. The two-seater rocketed forward in a burst of speed. Within a few fast heartbeats, the lights of the village swirled into view through the evening mist.
Sherwood swerved down the side street where the newspaper offices were located and screeched to a halt outside the main doorway.
A man in a cheap gray suit, with a bunch of keys in his hand, was standing outside the black-painted door, busy locking it.
“Might have to use some persuasion,” Sherwood muttered under his breath, as he leaped out of the car and raced up the stairs.
"Good evening, good evening," he said warmly to the harassed-looking man, who Mary guessed must be a sub-editor, last to leave the office and having to lock up, shouldering a lot of responsibilities for meager pay. “I was here earlier, looking for information on this murder.”
“The murder, yes.” As Mary hurried up the stairs to join the detective, she thought that the sub-editor sounded as if he was sick of the murder already.
“We identified some crucial information from the photo on the back page!” Sherwood’s voice resounded with hope and excitement. It would be impossible for anyone listening to him not to feel a thrill of anticipation at those words, Mary thought. Even the sub-editor looked cautiously curious.
“You did?” he asked.
“Thanks to your renowned publication, the identity of the murderer is within reach! And you – you, personally, can play a key role in this now. You will be able to help us at a moment when our need has never been greater.”
“I will? What do I have to do?” he asked, but not in an unwilling tone.
“Simply open the door for us. We need to go through the series of shots that your photographer took before the start of the point-to-point race. In one of those shots, we should find the clue we need – the identity of the killer himself!” Dropping his voice, Sherwood added, “And here’s five pounds, so that you can treat yourself to a late dinner at the pub, as a thank you for your generosity in helping us.”
“Ah. Well, that’s very kind of you. Very kind,” the sub-editor said, his eyes lighting up at the thought of the cold pint of beer, and the sausages and mash, that now awaited him courtesy of Sherwood. He didn’t ask any more questions or ask Sherwood if he was working with the police. Going forward, it was quite clear that he was a trusted person. “Anything to help fight crime. Let’s go inside and see if we can find this – this miscreant.”
He unlocked the door again and turned on the light in the small lobby, and they all stepped inside. The offices smelled musty, as if centuries of newspapers had infused their scent into the walls. There were stacks of papers in the lobby, some wrapped with paper and labeled, scheduled for an early morning pick up.
The sub-editor led them into a back room where a series of large steel filing cabinets stood against the side wall.
“Now,” he muttered. “Let’s see if we can find those photos. I saw the photographer doing his filing today.”
He opened the bottom drawer of the cabinet, and began rummaging through, while Mary watched, her heart thrumming hard. Would he find what he needed? And would there even be other photos? If there were not, then the killer could have got away scot free, unless a witness had happened to see something. At such a time, before the start of the race, Mary was not pinning her hopes on that.
“I can’t find the photos,” the sub-editor said reluctantly, straightening up, and Mary stared at him in consternation. This was turning into a pulse-pounding rollercoaster ride, and she wasn’t certain she could take any more of its swoops.
“Is it possible,” she asked politely, “that the photographer didn’t put them away?”
“But his tray’s empty.” The sub-editor gestured to an in-tray on a desk in the corner of the room. The tray on the right hand side was, undoubtedly, free from any photos. All that was in the tray was an invoice for film developing services, no doubt ready to be submitted as expenses.
“If necessary, we can examine the negatives,” Sherwood suggested, though his voice held a modicum less confidence than usual. Examining the negatives, and picking a face out when the colors were reversed, would be a lot harder – and time was ticking by. Desperately, she looked around the room. Surely they had to be hidden somewhere?
“What are those?” Mary’s sharp eyes had picked up a black and white photo, with a white frame, sticking out from under a couple of typewritten pages, on the room’s other desk.
The sub-editor looked at her in surprise, and then turned to peer at the desk she was indicating.
“Well, they’re there!” he said. “That was observant of you. The editor must have been choosing the one he wanted, and put them back on the copyeditor’s desk. Yes, these are the right shots.”
It didn’t mean the day was saved, but things felt a little more hopeful, as he took the sheaf of large, clear photos from the tray, and laid them out on the desk.
Instantly, Mary could see that they told a story, in reverse.
The topmost one was of Lord Hardwick turning his horse away, ready to head to the start. He had both hands on the reins, and there was no cup in sight.
The one before, and the one before that, both showed him with the cup in his hand. The one that had been picked for the paper was obviously the best one. In the other, he was actually quaffing its contents.
Drinking the poison, Mary thought with a shiver.
And then, the two before that showed him receiving the cup from somebody who was standing just behind the horse’s head.
“That’s it. He’s actually being handed the cup!” Sherwood said, in fascinated tones. “And look. You can’t see the face of whoever it is, but you can see they are wearing gloves.”
Mary wasn’t looking at the gloves. She was looking at the boots.
And in a flash of insight, she realized she’d seen those exact boots, just a couple of hours ago, when she’d set out on her quest to find Lord Johns.
“Those boots were outside the Bellamy Hall stable yard this afternoon,” she said. “I recognize the loose buckle, and the sole that’s coming away on the right hand side. They look old and worn. I think they belong to the groom. Lord Hardwick’s groom handed him that poisoned drink!”
She and Sherwood stared at each other for one excited moment.
“We’ll go straight to the police with this,” Sherwood said loudly, and Mary looked at him in concern as he turned to the sub-editor. “Please, sir,” he entreated, “not a word about this. The police will need to conduct a difficult and dangerous search operation to find this man. One careless comment from you could compromise the operation. Say nothing until the newspaper is called to cover the arrest. I guarantee you, you will be the first to know.”
The sub-editor looked at him dubiously, and then patted his pocket.
“I’ll be off to the pub in the meantime,” he said, “but please, make sure we’re the first to know.”
“I will,” Sherwood promised, already heading for the door.
As soon as they were in the car, Mary asked, “Are you sure it’s wise to call Constable Higgins right now?”
Starting up the two-seater, Sherwood shook his head. “You’re absolutely right,” he said. “There’s no time to call the constable now. At any moment, this groom might learn that the picture’s been published, and he will be on the run. We can call the police later. Right now, we need to chase this man down.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The stable barn was quiet and still as Mary approached, stealthily following Detective Sherwood, who was picking his way silently along the cobbled path. It was a moonless night, and the darkness was almost total down here, but the detective wasn’t turning on any lights.
“The grooms usually live above the stables,” he whispered to Mary as they approached the stable block. “I’m going to guess that his rooms are up there, and that there’s a stairway behind the yard leading up to them.”
Mary looked up, feeling worried. The room above the stables seemed very dark. Had this stable hand already retired to bed early? Or had he heard that the photo had been published, and already fled?
Doubt twisted her stomach as she followed the detective around the stables, now hearing the sounds of horses – a stamp of a hoof, a swishing of straw as one of them lay down in the large, comfortably bedded boxes, the rhythmic munching of hay. But not a sound from upstairs, as Sherwood climbed up the wooden stairway. No radio, no sound of somebody moving around, and no lights on at all.
Reaching the top stair, Sherwood raised his hand and knocked softly on the door.
He waited and listened.
Then, he grasped the door handle and turned it, before stepping inside.
Only now did he turn on his flashlight, shining it around the small room. It lit up Bailey, the stable cat, curled on the bed and blinking irritably in the sudden light.
The single bed in the corner was roughly made, the blanket pulled up as if in a hurry. Mary noted that a few clothes were strewn on the bed and the floor. The table in the corner of the room was empty of personal possessions, and she couldn’t see a travel bag anywhere. With a mounting sense of horror, Mary was concluding that the groom had realized the trouble he was in, and that he wasn’t waiting for the police to arrive.
“Definite signs of a hasty departure. Most likely, he’s disposed of that cup somewhere. Now, we need to track him. Where would he have gone?” Sherwood stopped, sniffing the air. “I smell a definite hint of fresh cigarette smoke. I don’t believe he’s been gone long. I think, if we follow his tracks, and have a bit of luck, we might be able to find him.”
Stopping, he picked up a scrap of paper on the floor.
“An old bus pass,” he said. “Not much use to us now, except that it tells us he travels by bus. His name, according to this pass, is Godfrey Jones.”
“Godfrey. Yes, that sounds familiar,” Mary said, now remembering she’d heard that name in passing before, when the Hardwicks had moved in.
Turning, he left the room and rushed down the outside staircase, with Mary close behind. Whatever it took, she was up for the challenge.
“Are you on board with this, Mary Adams?” Sherwood asked.
“I am, yes,” she replied. “I’ll help you chase him down.”
“We need to think.” Stopping at the bottom of the stairs, he turned, as if orienting himself in the darkness.
“Now, I doubt this fugitive would have told anyone in Bellamy Hall that he was leaving. And as a murderer, he wouldn’t stay in the village itself. So, that means he would need to get to the bus stop, or the train station, on his own. I’m guessing he’s going to go to one of the bus stops, as he seems to like the bus. Now, how can we find out when these buses leave?”
Mary drew herself up proudly, pleased that she had local knowledge on that topic.
"This night bus comes past the village at nine p.m. exactly," she said. "There are other stops Godfrey could use. There's a bus that passes through the village two miles east of here at ten p.m. And another a mile north of here, that comes by at eight-thirty."
“Excellent work,” Sherwood said. “Now we know he has a number of different options to choose. We just have to see where he’s headed.”
“Wait!” Mary said. After what Sherwood had deduced, her own brain was going at full speed. She had personal experience of being a fugitive, very recently, as she and Hannah had fled from Lord Johns’ manor house. That had taught her how exposed a person felt on these roads and how thick those hedges actually were. She’d seen precious few hiding places on her way back.
“Whichever route he chooses, I think he will have taken a shortcut and be sneaking through the woods,” she said. “He won’t walk along the road. It’s too exposed. There are paths through the woods to all the nearby villages.”
Sherwood paused, and in the glow of his flashlight, Mary saw he was frowning in a thoughtful way.
“You’re absolutely right,” he concluded. “Good thinking. The woods represent the shortest route, with ample cover along the way. Let’s head there.”
Striding off at a tangent from the stables, Sherwood headed confidently toward the thick, dark woods ahead.
Mary followed, hoping that her logic had been correct, because if the groom could not be found, then they might just decide he’d abandoned his job following the death of his employer. Not an unreasonable conclusion to reach, given that the horses would be sold. Sherwood was absolutely right. They needed more proof. At the very least, they needed to find the groom himself.
Sherwood shone the flashlight onto the track ahead of them.
“There are recent footprints here,” he said. “Look. In places, the mud is still thick enough to hold them. This might indicate he fled this way. I’m not sure for how long we’ll be able to see these prints, though.”
Already, the ground was looking drier as they traversed the lower-lying section. Soon there would be no more prints to be found, and then, if the track branched in two, Mary knew this pursuit would become ten times as challenging. But the prints did look like they had been made by work boots, and they were deeper than average, which she guessed might mean the stable hand had been carrying his bag with him.
They needed to find him before he got on the late bus, but Mary was worried that he might have made different plans. Perhaps he was changing his plans as he ran. What if he decided that the bus was too dangerous a choice and that it left him too exposed? He might be walking the whole way through the woods to take the other night bus, which left from the village a few miles away. Or he might even be walking further than that, with the intention of taking a morning bus or even a train. Walking through the night, through the woods and fields, would mean he had several choices open to him by morning.
There was only one solution to avoid catastrophe, and that was to find him as soon as possible.
"Hmm," Sherwood said, pausing and flashing his light in both directions. "The trail splits here, and there’s no sign of any footprint to give us a clue which way he’s gone,” he said softly.
Glancing at him for the first time, Mary felt a flash of friendship for the man. It was as if he suddenly revealed his more human side at this time of pressure and uncertainty. That confident veneer was lowered, and behind it, she saw a man who was genuinely invested in the outcome of the case, and who was now racked with doubt over making the correct decision.
