In fact, having heard what she had in the kitchen, it was clear to Kate that the servants blamed Aunt Jaggers for Jenny's disappearance and her death.
But even though Aunt Sabrina would not discuss the details of Jenny's story, its sad outline was not hard for Kate to reconstruct. The girl must have become pregnant. Aunt Jaggers, discovering the fact, would have heaped recriminations on her head and discharged her on the spot, with no hope of a character. Penniless, despairing, she had found her way to the Chelmsford workhouse, where her newborn baby had died and she shortly after.
Jenny's tale was the stuff of Beryl Bardwell's novels, and under other circumstances, Kate might have pursued the details with a writer's interested curiosity. But echoing in her mind was Amelia's tortured cry and Cook's impassioned consignment of Aunt Jaggers to hell. And when she saw Mudd the next morning, face impassive, eyes hooded, arranging the creamed eggs and kidney on the breakfast sideboard, Kate remembered his ominous threat with a shiver of cold foreboding. She was too practical for presentiment, but even she could not escape the certainty that something dreadful was going to happen at Bishop's Keep.
20
'The reputation or Scotland Yard was unfortunately sullied by corruption during the latter eighteen-hundreds. One day trie superintendent met a stranger who resembled a former Yard official. 'Were you not on our stair?' he inquired. To which the stranger replied, 'No, thank God, I have never sunk that low.' '
On the day following his call with Eleanor at Bishop's Keep, Charles was once again taking photographs at the dig. It was interesting, and he enjoyed chatting with Fairfax, who was a curmudgeonly old fogey but for all that, a dedicated archaeologist. After Kathryn Ardleigh's unauthorized incursion, he had instituted an entire set of new regulations that constrained horses, police, and women from straying onto the site of the dig.
Kathryn Ardleigh. Charles could not think of her without smiling, remembering the sight of her in the doorway of Sir Archibald's field tent, neatly garbed in what the dress reformers called 'rational attire,' a divided skirt actually suited to freedom of movement. And the next day, appearing in front of callers in a rumpled shirtwaist and inky cuffs. Of course, as a man, Charles did not know much about women's costumes. But he knew what he liked: dress with a practical bent. He admitted to thinking that the bustle (before it went out of
fashion a few years before) was the most absurd appendage a woman might strap onto her derriere, and the corset almost as ridiculous. He had the suspicion that Kathryn Ardleigh would be loath to wear either, especially if she spent much of her time, as it seemed she did, at secretarial labors. It appeared that she was a woman who resisted the dictates of fashion and made up her own mind about the way she dressed. He wondered if this unconventionality reflected her general outlook on life, and he hoped she had not been too deeply offended by Fairfax's misogynistic tirade.
In addition to photographing the dig, Charles also called from time to time at the police station in the center of town. There, he began to perceive that Inspector Wainwright, while an intelligent and dedicated policeman, was handicapped by a lack of trained assistants. Battle, Trabb, and two other inexperienced PCs were the whole of the force in his ward, and their efforts were chiefly dedicated to patrolling the streets, dealing with rowdy soldiers from the nearby army barracks, and directing carriage traffic. As a result, any investigation was necessarily limited to accumulating basic facts from cursory examination or direct interview. Given this situation, Charles thought, any criminal who found himself in the Colchester jail probably got there through his own criminal stupidity or through sheer bad luck. His suspicion was confirmed by the paucity of evidence offered at the coroner's inquest, which returned a verdict of unlawful killing by person or persons unknown.
So it was that after several unsatisfying discussions with the pessimistic Inspector Wainwright, Charles concluded that, if it were left to the Colchester constabulary, the unfortunate victim's identity would never be known. And without that, the murderer's identity would remain undiscovered. True, PC Trabb had been sent round with the photos of the dead man to the stationmaster, the cabbies, and all the inns, but his circuit was to no avail. No one would admit to recognizing the dead man. And while the Colchester Exchange regaled its readers with the lurid details of the killing and pleaded for information from the public, no informants came forward. Sensing that Wainwright had arrived at a dead end, Charles
tentatively advanced the suggestion that perhaps this was a case for the Criminal Investigation Department of the Metropolitan Police-Scotland Yard.
Inspector Wainwright bridled. 'The Defective Department?' he snorted. Charles recognized the reference to an infamous Punch cartoon of a few years before that had expressed the commonly held view that the CID was at bottom corrupt, as well as incompetent. 'Had the Yard in on a killin' three years ago,' Wainwright added gloomily. 'Didn't come up with a bloody thing. Waste of time. Won't do it unless I'm ordered to.'
Charles was sympathetic to the inspector's dilemma, but that did not take them any farther toward solving the crime. Concluding that the floundering Wainwright was not going to ask for a helping hand, he determined on his own private course of action. So the next morning, instead of driving as usual directly to the dig, he took copies of his photographs and began to retrace the steps of PC Trabb, going first to the railway station, where he hoped to meet someone who remembered the dead gentleman.
'Nope, never seen 'im,' was the stationmaster's reply to the question Charles asked when he presented the full-face image of the deceased through the painted metal of the grille window. 'When'd yer say 'e come?'
When Charles mentioned the date, the stationmaster cocked his head. 'Well, I never seen 'im,' was his reply. He leaned his elbows on the wooden counter and adjusted his green eyeshade. 'But that's 'cause I wudn't at work that partic'lar day, which I'd've cert'nly said t' the PC if he'd had th' wit t' ask. Goods wagon rolled over me foot an' laid me up proper. 'Twas Jarrett wot was here in me place.' He turned and raised his voice over the hiss and clatter of the departing train. 'Fetch Jarrett.'
When Jarrett was fetched, he proved to be a tall, thin man with a bulbous nose, bright red, and a bumpy chin. He stared at the photo for a moment. 'Yep, I seen 'im,' he allowed helpfully. ' 'Cept 'is eyes was hopen at th' time.'
The stationmaster gave Jarrett a scornful glance. ' 'Course his eyes was open, Jarrett. This here's a pitchur of a corpse.'
'Can you recall anything special about the man?' Charles asked. 'How do you come to remember him?'
Jarrett stretched his lips over teeth as yellow as antique ivory. ' 'E cudn't speak th' queen's English. Frenchy fella, 'e was, all slick talk an' smiley unner that waxed mustache. Wanted a 'orse to 'ire.'
Charles frowned. 'A cab?'
Jarrett wagged his head from side to side. 'A 'orse to 'ire,' he repeated emphatically. 'An' a carriage, a-corse. Said 'ee'd drive 'isself. Said as 'ow 'e didn't trust cabbies. 'E's right, too, 'if I am th' one wot says. 'Alf th' cabbies cheat, partic'larly if th' fare's a for'ner. Drive 'em ten miles at ten pence a mile, jus' t' get t' th' pub around th' corner. Bucks is th' worst, a-corse,' he added confidentially. 'Them wot lost their license an' only drive at night, when they c'n rob th' fares wot 're drunk or asleep.' He laid a grubby finger beside his nose, so flagrant it seemed to glow with its own light. 'Know fer a fac', I do. Me brother-in-law's a cabbie. Many's th' story 'e tells 'bout bucks an' baddies, chargin' 'xorb'ant fares an' givin' short change. An' racin', an' hac-cidents, an' sick 'orses, and-'
'Which jobmaster'd yer send th' bloke to?' The station-master intervened, bringing Jarrett's recital to a full stop. 'Edge or Prodger?'
'Prodger,' Jarrett replied. He looked at Charles. 'On North 'ill. Tell 'im Jarrett sent yer,' he added. ' 'E'll treat yer right. 'E's me wife's second cousin.'
'I see,' Charles said thoughtfully. 'Perhaps I should visit Prodger.'
'Indeed, Sir Charles.' The female voice, deep and rich, came from behind him. 'I think that would be a fine idea.'
Charles turned, removing his hat. 'Good afternoon, Miss Ardleigh,' he said. 'How coincidental that we should meet again.' She was not wearing her rational dress today, he noticed, merely a dark suit and sensible boots.
'Yes,' she said. 'Miss Marsden has gone to London for a day or two. She invited me to ride to the station with
