In outline, it confirmed what I had already heard from Mary. He had been at the great house when one of the gardener’s boys had run into the stable-yard to say that Mr Carteret’s black mare was trotting through the Park, but that there was no sign of its rider. With darkness now coming on, Brine and the two grooms had at once mounted up and ridden out, the grooms heading towards the South Gates, Brine veering west towards the woods.
Brine had found him lying face down amongst the trees, a little way off the track, not far from the Western Gates.
‘Had he fallen where he was attacked, do you think?’ I asked.
‘No,’ said Brine, ‘I don’t think so. The track bends sharply at that point, just before the gates. I believe they were waiting for him on the far side of the bend, just within the trees. He wouldn’t have seen them until it was too late. After he’d fallen, I suppose they’d sent the horse off and then dragged him into the trees – you could see the flattened grass. He was still breathing when I found him, but I couldn’t rouse him.’
‘And his bag?’
‘Bag?’
‘The bag he had across his chest.’ ‘There was no bag.’
I then asked him where they had taken Mr Carteret. ‘William Hunt rode back to the great house and they brought up a cart. We took him back on that.’ ‘To the great house, not here?’
‘Yes. Lord Tansor insisted. He said he should be kept as quiet as possible until Dr Vyse could be brought from Peterborough. Robert Tindall was sent straight away.’
‘What time was this?’
‘Around eight o’clock.’
‘But Mr Carteret died before the doctor arrived?’
‘At about half past nine, or thereabouts. Miss Carteret was with him, and Lord and Lady Tansor.’
I held out my hand, which he took after a little hesitation. I was determined to get the fellow on my side, though he seemed somewhat dull-witted and morose.
‘Thank you, Brine. I am grateful to you. Oh, Brine,’ I said, as I was about to leave, ‘where is Mr Carteret now?’
‘In the Chapel at the great house. Lord Tansor thought it would be best.’
I nodded. ‘Indeed. Yes. Thank you, Brine. Oh, by the way, could you arrange for this to get to Peterborough, in time for the midday railway mail?’ I handed him the second account that I had written for Mr Tredgold, describing the reported circumstances of the fatal attack on Mr Carteret.
‘You will need some money,’ I added, taking out some coins. ‘This should suffice.’
He made no reply, but merely nodded as he took the proffered money.
I retraced my steps to the garden, and then walked across the lawn to the gate-house. As I stepped out onto the roadway, I noticed something dark lying on the ground and stooped down to examine it more closely. It was the remains of a half-smoked cigar, sufficient for me – by now a seasoned connoisseur – to recognize one of the premier Havana brands, Ramon Allones no less. Miss Carteret’s lover was a man of discernment. I threw the stump on the ground, and proceeded on my way.
A little before gaining the point at the summit of the long incline from where the great house could be seen, I stopped and turned to look back. Below and behind me were the turrets of the gate-house; to the right, the Plantation, with a glimpse of the Dower House beyond. Further to the right was the boundary wall, on the other side of which could be seen the roof of the Rectory and the spire of St Michael’s and All Angels. The irresistible swell and spread of pure fresh morning light was breaking along the distant line of the river; to the west the great arc of woodland that clothed the higher ground towards Molesey and Easton stood in silent half-shadow.
I turned and resumed my trudge up the remainder of the long slope. The road here begins to swing through a gentle curve, flanked on either side by a short avenue of oaks, and then levels out before descending to cross an arched bridge across the Evenbrook, which can be seen making its sinuous way eastwards through the Park. I emerged from the trees and stopped.
The house was spread out below, its magical splendour even more dizzyingly captivating in the misty October light than I remembered it from my first visit in high summer. I proceeded down the slope, across the bridge, and at last found myself standing in the inner courtyard. Before me were the main doors to the house, on each side of which two elegant Doric columns supported a pediment carrying the Tansor arms and an inscription: ‘What thing so Fair but Time will not Pare. Anno 1560’. A little further off, to left and right, abutting into the forecourt, two of the many cupola-topped towers for which Evenwood is celebrated soared into the brightening air; a little way beyond the southernmost of these was a small archway, through which I could discern a cobbled courtyard.
I did not stop to consider what I would say or do if I encountered anyone. I had laid no plans, had no alibi or excuse prepared. Without thinking, I found myself walking through the archway and into the courtyard beyond, heedless of the possible consequences. I was simply intoxicated by the grave beauty of the building, which seemed to drive away all calculated and rational thought.
I had entered one of the oldest parts of the house. Three sides of the court consisted of open-arched cloisters, unchanged since the Middle Ages; the fourth, forming the outer wall at this point and containing the Chapel, was a closed-in range, altered in the last century, with four rectangular windows of painted glass, two on each side of an ogee-arched door standing at the top of a little semicircular flight of steps. Surmounting the roof of this range was a magnificent clock of brightly coloured wood within an intricate Gothic housing, the gilded panels of which were now catching the first gleams of the early morning sun.
As I ascended the steps, the bell of this instrument tolled the half-hour. I looked at my pocket-watch: half-past six. The household would already be about its business, but still I paid no heed to the prospect of being discovered while creeping uninvited about the building. I pushed open the door and entered.
The interior of the Chapel, wainscoted in dark wood and paved in white marble, was cool and silent. I noted, with approval, the pretty little three-manual pipe-organ of the last century, which I knew from my researches had been made by Snetzler.* On either side of a central aisle, three or four rows of ornately carved chairs stood facing a simple railed-off altar, above which hung a painting of the Sacrifice of Isaac. Before the altar, placed on trestles and lit by four tall candles in massive golden holders, stood the open coffin of Mr Paul Carteret.
