JACK OF DIAMONDS

Chap4 - Pt2 (ARE SEETHING FOR CONTENTION...)

ii

The roads were a boggy mess. Niles was grateful to have taken the Triumph rather than using Charlie’s Austin under the circumstances. There were times he’d had to get off the bike and push it out of the mud, reminding himself of his time at the Front serving as a motorcycle courier. It had been much the same as this on a good night, he told himself. He couldn’t imagine what the trip out would’ve been like in the Austin. He hoped the doctor wouldn’t have any troubles. The man was far too old and frail to be pushing his auto out of the mud. Still, the night was clear, and any threat of the rain they’d been having for the past three days was blown out to sea by a calm wind coming up from the south. A waning moon hung above the horizon, lighting his way as if it was a dull street lamp lost in the distance. The soft light enabled him to see and avoid the larger puddles and potholes, and he wondered how long it would take the current government to deliver on their promise of an extensive roadway connecting all of England. It was a project that would literally be years in development, and would cost millions, but a cost well worth it, he thought.

He crested a low rising hill and saw the manor house standing in the distance, swathed in a pool of pale moonlight. How anyone could even consider calling such a massive monstrosity a home, was beyond him. He shut the motor down for a moment, taking his muddy goggles off just to take in the sight. The silence was noticeable. It was the kind of silence you only find in the countryside, where a murmur is nothing more than the humming of cicada. He could see that many of the lights in the manor were on, and he supposed whatever clues he may have sought would be gone by the time he got there.

I should’ve told her not to let anyone touch anything.

He kick-started the Triumph again, feeling the vibration of the machine through his arms before he sat down back in the saddle, pulling his muddy goggles down and readjusting his hat. He wondered if the vibration in his arms was a possible factor leading to the motoritis the medical journals were clamouring about—all brought on by riding, of course, a totally ludicrous proposition as far as he was concerned. Where were all the medical specialists when he was riding during the war?

All the same, I’d like to ride these hills when the weather clears.

The countryside was wide open, much as the fields of France were before the big guns desecrated the landscape. The trees that skirted the horizon appeared as dark shadows against the moonlit sky behind them, the stars a brilliant cascade of lights that ran as far away as forever. There was something enchanting, almost romantic, (as if he knew anything about romance) looking up at the night sky. It was beyond enchanting when one considered how the ancients had mapped out the skies with gods and goddesses; it made one wonder. All the myths of Mankind are in the night sky, his father used to say; teaching him how to read the stars. He’d used the stars when he was alone at night and lost in the fields looking for some obscure location to deliver a message.

It always seems to come back to the War, doesn’t it?

He supposed it was only natural for his generation to think about the Great War. After all, it had played such a big part in everyone’s life. Dubbed as The War To End All Wars, it had failed to accomplish its task, but certainly hadn’t failed to make an impact. So many of his friends were gone—friends from here, as well as the ones he’d made over there. His own brother had been killed flying over Flanders—shot from the ground, no less—back in 1917. That was the year both sides were making their big push, thinking the other would break at any moment. Thank Christ he wasn’t in the Trenches and never had to go over the top.

It must’ve played Hell on your nerves waiting—waiting to die no less—like my brother.

He turned onto the circular path of a cobblestoned drive, and shut the engine down. For a moment, he simply sat on the bike and took in the magnificence of the structure as it rose into the night sky. The mansion was done with a Gothic touch Charlie told him as he was leaving; he said he should keep that in mind. Nigel couldn’t picture it in his mind’s eye, but clearly saw what Charlie meant by ‘Gothic touch.’ He stepped off the bike, pulling it up on its stand. He slowly took his goggles off, laying them on the saddle; then took his hat off—a flat-cap he stuffed into his back pocket—and tried to straighten his hair.

He turned to look up at what he assumed was the front entrance, looking at it with a sense of awe, not at the architecture with all its ghoulish figures, but at the idea that a man could climb to such dizzying heights without the aid of a rope. And even though he had a rope, he didn’t use it, she claimed.

Well, that’s what she said. How true it is, I guess we’ll have to see.

He walked along the front of the drive, looking at the ground for any signs of evidence the thief may have left behind. It was too dark to see properly, and he told himself he'd probably have to come back in the morning. He ran back to the motorcycle and opened the saddle bags, which he knew always carried a spanner for emergency, and hoped he'd remembered to pack a torch as well. He laughed to himself when he found it. He turned it on, hit the casing once or twice, and then snapped his head back when the beam bit into his eyes. He waited for his sight to recover and started to walk back to the side of the house when he noticed a man standing on the front entryway, watching him.

“I take it you're the police inspector?” the man asked.

“I’m with the police, yes, but hardly an inspector,” Nigel said as he stopped, offering the man a smile. “I was on the phone talking with your Mrs…I’m sorry, I can’t remember her name without referring to my notes,” he added, pulling his notebook out of a pocket. He cradled the torch in the nook of his shoulder and began flipping through the pages.

“I believe you spoke with Mrs. Ashcroft,” the man said with something of a severe tone.

“Yes, that’s her,” Nigel laughed, snapping the notebook shut, but keeping his finger in it to save the page. “I see the doctor made it?”

“He arrived shortly before yourself, sir.”

“So tell me, were you at the fair tonight, with everyone else?”

“I was.”

“And you came home by which way?”

“Which way?” the man asked, taken by surprise at the question.

“I’m sorry, what’s your name?”

“Berry. I’m the Senechal, here.”

“The what?” Nigel asked; it was his turn to be taken by surprise.

“The Senechal. I’m in charge of—”

“I know what a Senechal is, or was,” Nigel smiled, looking up as he wrote the man’s name in his notebook. “It's just a little archaic, isn't it? I didn’t know they still had them in this day and age. So that’s Barry…? You have another name I assume?”

“Murray,” the man replied, rather stiffly.

“Barry Murray?”

“Murray Berry, sir,” he said. “That's Berry with an E, sir. And your question?”

“My question?” Nigel asked, scribbling in the notebook. “Oh yes! Yes. Which way did you come home? By that, I mean, did you come down the lane, over did you walk over the grass?”

“The lane, of course, sir.”

“So, presumably, any footprints I may find in any hedgerow, or garden, will belong to our thief?”

“That may well be a possibility, sir,” he conceded.

“Well luckily, if we can see where he stepped, all we need do is retrace his steps to the window he entered by—”

“Mrs. Ashcroft says he came in through the upstairs balcony.”

Nigel pointed the torch up the wall, searching until he got to the open balcony. The lace curtains were partially hanging outside, blowing in the gentle breeze as Nigel stepped underneath the window, thinking he might see something from a different vantage point.

“Who’s room is it?” he asked

“Unoccupied at the moment, sir,” Berry said.

“And she says he climbed up this way?”

He started to look at the ground where they were standing. He shone the light along the manicured lawn where he could almost picture the man in his mind’s eye running across the lawn and leaping up the wall. He’d seen it done once or twice before in exhibitions at county Fairs. But nothing like this. He looked at the dirt and then stopped, holding his arm out in case Berry should be following too closely.

“There’s a foot print,” he said, pointing it out.

“I see nothing, sir.”

“It’s an indentation. Hard to see, but there all the same. Do you have a rag in your pocket?”

“A rag, sir?”

“Something I can mark it with and then come back later, tomorrow in the day light, hopefully see it a little better. We may have enough to make a cast of his foot.”

“And what would be the purpose of that, sir?”

“We can determine his height and weight.”

“And Mrs. Ashcroft? She did see the man. Will you not be asking her for a description, sir?”

“Will she see me?” Nigel asked, looking down at his muddy clothes. His riding boots were splattered with mud; at least his jodhpurs were somewhat clean, he thought, well, for the most part.

“We’ll go in through the kitchen and wash your boots off if that’s what would make you feel more comfortable, sir? And maybe your coat while we're at it?”

“My coat? What's wrong with my coat?”

“I’m almost certain I can find you a replacement if you’d wish, but you do not want to go in there wearing that, sir. Most embarrassing for you, I should say, sir.”

“Why? What’s wrong with it?”

“The back is covered in mud, sir.”

“And you’ll give me another to wear?”

“I may have something.”