"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 her, and I agreed. Her train has just departed. I came in to-"
Her glance went quickly to the stationmaster, and back again. "To obtain a new timetable," she said.
"I see," Charles said, surmising from her look that it was a conversation with the stationmaster she had come for, rather than a timetable. He could not believe that her presence here was merely coincidental. She had shown an unusual interest in the murder, had appeared at the dig-without adequate explanation of her presence-and now at the station. Was she following the same trail he was following? His question was answered in the next breath.
"I wonder if I might accompany you on your visit to Mr. Jarrett's wife's second cousin," she said in a serious tone. "I must confess to wishing to meet the man."
Charles took her elbow and drew her outside. "And I must confess," he said in a low voice, "to some curiosity. To my recollection, Miss Ardleigh, we have had four encounters, and in each of them you have evidenced a great fascination for murder. Why is this?"
She turned to face him, her hazel-green eyes clear, her expression straightforward. ' 'I was afraid you would ask me that question," she said, "and I wish that I could answer you. Will you accept that I cannot, Sir Charles, and be satisfied?''
He looked at her for a moment. She was not the kind of woman he could easily persuade to tell him what she did not wish him to know. Perhaps it would be good to have her where he could watch her. By so doing, he might be able to deduce for himself her reason for pursuing this case with such an uncommon interest.
"Very well, then," he said, resigned. He turned toward the street. "You may come along. I have a chaise. It is full of photographic gear, but there is room for a passenger."
"Thank you," she said. She stopped at the carriage stand to ask Eleanor's coachman to wait until she returned, and then climbed into the chaise beside Sir Charles without waiting for his hand in assistance.