“The most urgent matter is Aunt Alice,” Walter said firmly. “Kent, pray get her out of this room… to her sitting room, perhaps, and send for her maid. And someone must go to the village for Little.”
“Yes, yes, the apothecary,” his father said, distractedly. When Aunt Alice had been led away, unresisting, by Kent, Lord Rennington turned to his son and heir. “This is very bad, Walter. How could someone break in andmurderNicholson in his bed like this? He was an inoffensive man, I should have thought — the chaplain, too. A man of God. Who would want to kill him?”
Walter hesitated, then said firmly, “Father, when I first arrived here, Aunt Alice was standing beside her husband’s dead body, that axe in her hand and, as you saw, coated in her husband’s blood. You do not think that—?”
“Alice?Alicemurder her husband? Nonsense, boy. She adored him, and she would never hurt a fly. Besides, how could a blind woman wield an axe? No, it was an intruder. It must have been. I hope I know my sister well enough to say with absolute conviction that she did not murder her husband.”
“I only report what I saw. It will be for Sir Hubert to determine the truth of it.”
His father’s face brightened. “Yes, Strong will unravel this mystery. He is very dependable. We must send for him at once.”
***
Sir Hubert Strong was only two years younger than Lord Rennington, but in somewhat better condition. He brought with him his younger brother, Alfred Strong, a genial man who held a government office. He had also brought the coroner, a physician called Ashbridge, from Helmsley.
The three men pored over the body, gradually lifting away the remnants of the bedding to examine the wounds more fully.
Walter could not bear to look. He, Kent and their father huddled in a corner of the room, looking at the window, their feet, the clock on the mantelpiece — anything but the desolate remains of Arthur Nicholson, aged fifty-five, ordained clergyman and chaplain to the earl and his family at Corland Castle. Nicholson had lived at the castle for thirty years, and had become a member of the family when he married the earl’s sister, Lady Alice Atherton. He was generally well liked, had no vices, kept no low company, had no known enemies. It was incomprehensible that anyone would want to murder him, and especially in such a violent way.
Eventually, the magistrate and coroner had finished their examination of the body and they all withdrew to the earl’s study to discuss their findings. Walter explained all that he had seen, and Sir Hubert immediately denounced the idea as impossible.
“Lady Alice murder Nicholson? Absolutely not,” he said robustly. “Undoubtedly, she found the axe on the floor, just as she said.”
“I like the idea as little as you, Sir Hubert,” Walter said. “I only tell you what I saw.”
“And that is very proper of you, Lord Birtwell,” Alfred Strong said. “However, we are all too close to the persons involved to judge impartially what might have happened here. I think this is a job for outsiders.”
“Not Bow Street Runners!” the earl said, in horrified tones.
“No, no! Nothing so public,” Alfred Strong said. “There is a man who has some experience of such matters, very discreet, who might be able to help us. He has a group of people who devote themselves to such cases. Do you remember the Hartlepool Hatpin Murder?”
“I do!” Kent said. “A brilliant piece of deduction. Edge… something.”
“Captain Edgerton,” Alfred Strong said. “Now known as Edgerton, Alexander and Associates. Very well known amongst my friends in town. May I make enquiries as to whether he would be willing to assist us?”
“Please do,” the earl said wearily. “If he is discreet. It is the least we can do for poor Nicholson. By all means, send for this captain, and let us see if he can work out what happened here.”
“Excellent,” said Ashbridge. “I know of him by reputation, and he is a stickler for detail. To be sure to meet his exacting standards, I shall review the body once more, and make a thorough analysis of all the wounds, with diagrams and measurements. Everything must be analysed and recorded.”
He went off happily, spending the rest of the day at the castle, measuring and making notes.
Late in the afternoon, Walter’s other brother, Eustace, arrived. Eustace was the younger by two years at twenty-seven, but he had had the good fortune to inherit a modest estate from a neighbour who had taken a liking to him, and now had his independence. Walter’s inheritance would be far greater, and include the earldom, but still he envied his brother his freedom.
Walter, Kent and their father were huddled in the earl’s study when Eustace walked in.
“Eustace? Were we expecting you?” the earl said distractedly.
“No… no, I was just passing.” His gaze passed from one to the other, puzzled. “The servants are all of a twitter… has something happened?”
“The most damnable thing,” the earl said. “Nicholson has been murdered in his bed.”
“Nicholson?”
“It is unaccountable, is it not?” Walter said. “Who under the sun would want to murder Nicholson?”
But Eustace was speechless. The four of them sat round the brandy decanter, sunk in gloom and despondency, with only the faint hope that a captain from Hartlepool might be able to help.
***
