HE DIDN’T MAKE IT ALL the way to the gatehouse. Brodie was standing in the middle of the driveway, looking up at the castle, and he cut quite a sinister figure. He had his feet shoulder-width apart, and he was completely immobile. The sky was a dull leaden grey with thick cloud hanging low, and the air seemed cooler than it had done previously. The smell from the swampy areas was especially marked today, the sewer gas tinged with the rotten, foetid smell of dank vegetation. If the smell had a colour, the colour would have been an unpleasant brownish-green.
And in the middle of the oppressive atmosphere was Oscar Brodie, like a curious sentinel, dressed in a dark mustard suit and hatless. Was he watching, waiting, or simply seized by some fit of paralysis?
Theodore found that his steps faltered as if he did not want to approach the young man. Again he was struck by his own antipathy to the lad, and was perfectly aware that his dislike of Brodie’s strangeness made him more inclined to jump to conclusions about his possible part in the murder. That made him swing too far the other way, overcompensating for his prejudices by ignoring the evidence that pointed directly at Brodie: his lack of alibi, the lie about the alibi, the way he lurked around.
But there was one problem. While Theodore still believed that Brodie could have killed Hartley Knight for motives as yet unknown, there was no reason to think that he would want Lord Buckshaw – a man he idolised – dead.
Unless it had not been mistaken identity at all, and Brodie really did want to pick off Percy’s male servants, one by one.
That was a new and terrifying thought.
Theodore had almost stopped walking by that point. He forced himself to pick up the pace and approach the waiting Brodie.
Brodie did not smile in greeting. When Theodore was close enough, he nodded, and said, “Good evening, sir. What news from the house?”
“The police have left.”
“I saw them go. Have they made progress?”
“I don’t think so. Lady Buckshaw is recovering and the household is making everything straight again. Did Inspector Wilbred come to the gatehouse and talk to you?”
“Mother is dreadfully upset,” Brodie replied.
“So they did come and speak with you both?” he asked again.
Brodie gazed past him, not really listening to Theodore at all. “They are such brutish men, don’t you think? Not at all the pattern of manhood that they ought to be.”
“Perhaps not, but they do a brutish job for the most part, so their manner is appropriate. How did they upset Lady Katharine?”
“Oh, with their words and their insinuations.”
“And you?”
Brodie turned his flat, cold eyes on Theodore, and smiled suddenly, an expression that came out of nowhere. “Oh! I am never upset. They talked to me and then they left. I watched them go. And then I came here to ask what was happening in the house.”
“But you didn’t come to the house. You were just standing here.”
“I hoped someone would come out for a walk.”
“You could have come up and spoken to us inside.”
“I do not like to intrude. It is hardly my place.”
“You are family to the Seeley-Woods. Lord Buckshaw is your uncle. The Countess is your great-grandmother. You are surely always welcome in the castle.”
“I suppose that I am,” he said.
“You are a part of the family,” Theodore insisted. “Did you not write to Lord Buckshaw soon after the death of Knight?”
Brodie flared his nostrils a little. “Yes, I did, of course. It seemed the polite thing to do.”
“Do you keep up a correspondence with him?”
“No.”
The abruptness of his reply made Theodore suspicious all over again. “Have you written other letters to him?”
“No.”
Again, a curt response. Theodore pressed it home. “Did you, in fact, write to Lord Buckshaw before the death of Knight, expressing concerns about the state of his wife’s health?”
“No. Why would I?” he burst out, clearly needled.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. Who signed it?”
“No one did. That’s why I’m asking you.”
“It wasn’t me. Maybe she wrote it herself.”
“What?” Theodore cried.
Now, Brodie was all sudden and effusive explanation, his words tumbling out in a rush. “Yes, consider that, sir! She is unwell and no one can pretend otherwise. But she is often lucid, too. She must be aware of her own condition, at least from time to time. Is it so unbelievable that she might recognise her illness and write her own letter of warning to Lord Buckshaw? She must be scared of what she knows she is capable of!”
“Warning?” Theodore said. “I only said the letter expressed concerns.”
“Concerns about health are warnings, are they not?”
“Hmm.”
“What do you mean by hmm?” Brodie demanded wildly.
“I mean that I do not believe you, Oscar Brodie. What are you not saying?”
“I have told you everything, sir, everything! But I do understand,” he went on, speaking more calmly with a great effort. “The day has been a trying one. It has affected us all. The weather is turning – can’t you feel it? I do wonder if the ball will go ahead.”
“Are you going?” Theodore asked, remembering that he and Adelia had discussed the possibility of getting into the gatehouse to search for evidence.
“Oh, no, it is not the sort of thing I would like to go to, even if I had been invited.”
“We can organise an invitation, all the same. Would your mother like to go? You could be her escort.”
“She would hate it.”
“All the same, I am going to speak to her. It is only polite.” Theodore began to head past Brodie towards the gatehouse.
Brodie burst out, “No, you must not disturb her tonight! The police have upset her so very much. Please, sir, I beg you; ask her tomorrow, if you must.” There was genuine concern in the young man’s eyes, and a true flash of emotion. Theodore relented. Brodie might have been telling the truth, at least in this one particular matter.
Anyway, Adelia would
