The man squeaked again. “Please… I never meant no harm, just trying to make a living. Bin using my own money to fund everything, so I’m well out of pocket.”
“That is a good point,” Katy said gravely. “I have had a pleasant visit to York, which I have never seen before, so I am not minded to be harsh. But you must never do anything like this again… what is your name, anyway?”
“Jim Baring,” he whispered.
“Where are you from?”
“Lancaster.”
“Where the newspaper article was printed,” Kent said. “Well, Jim Baring, if you will write a confession detailing who you are, how you and your cousin came by the idea and admitting that it was all a take-in, we shall let you both go.”
He nodded eagerly. Kent produced the paper, pen and ink laid out ready for this eventuality, and Baring laboriously wrote his confession, while Kent leaned over him, watching every word and suggesting additions. When he was satisfied, he nodded.
“Very well. Off you go, and get your cousin out of the cellar. You will want to get back to Lancaster as soon as may be, I dare say, but remember to pay your shot before you leave the hotel.”
With a quick nod, he scuttled away.
“An excellent day’s work,” Kent said in satisfaction. “No blood spilt, not a penny piece lost to the fraud, Katy unharmed, and a confession extracted from the villain of his own free will. Captain Edgerton would be proud of us.”
26: Good News And Bad News
Michaelwasfullofenergy all of a sudden. For the first time in weeks, he had a potential murderer to investigate. On the blackboard in the old schoolroom, he wrote‘Kent Atherton’in flourishing script, then meticulously added‘Esq’afterit.
“It is all circumstance, Michael,” Pettigrew Willerton-Forbes said, with a rueful shake of his head.
“Yes, but so many circumstances. He was here at the castle before the murder, with plenty of opportunity to hide the axe in the urn. He was here on the night of the murder itself. He slept alone, so there was no one to notice if he crept from his room. He was one of the first on the scene, and he told us he saw a man running away down the main stairs, which no one else noticed. That in itself is not particularly suspicious. But now we find out he is running a smuggling ring, he found signs of an intruder at the tower, most likely Miss Peach, and he could easily have returned the next day, discovered her, strangled her and carried her body away to Tonkins Farm, to throw us completely off the scent. He would have disposed of the green bag, of course, and substituted that dilapidated old woollen bag, which Miss Peach would never have used, in the hay barn, which she never entered in her life, I would swear. If we can find this mule that Miss Peach was riding in the field next to the tower, we shall know she was killed there, and then it will be all but certain. Sandy is taking the mule’s owner there today.”
“Butwhy, Michael?” Pettigrew said firmly. “Why would Kent Atherton murder Nicholson?”
“Because of the smuggling,” Michael said triumphantly. “You know how Nicholson got his sticky fingers into every shady venture, so why not this one, too? He threatened Atherton with exposure, and not gentlemanly Sir Hubert Strong, who will happily turn a blind eye, but His Majesty’s Customs and Excise, who certainly will not. Perhaps Atherton was paying him off, but Nicholson got greedy, and Atherton decided to get rid of him once and for all. Miss Peach knew what was going on, so she had to be got rid of, too. It all makes sense, Pettigrew.”
“You do realise that any half-decent barrister could tear a story like that apart in five minutes? Son of an earl, blameless life, only used the tower for star gazing — he loves that telescope. And, as I keep pointing out to you, it is all coincidence. Yes, he could have murdered Nicholson, but so could anyone. Walter Atherton was the first to arrive at Nicholson’s murder, so why not him? And Eustace Atherton could have found Miss Peach at the tower and strangled her.”
“Walter had no quarrel with the chaplain, so why would he? And Eustacestillhas an alibi,” Michael said. “If you want him to be Nicholson’s murderer, he had to have crept out of his house, ridden to Corland and then back again afterwards, and got himself back into the house with no one any the wiser. It defies credibility, Pettigrew. I am more and more convinced that the murderer came fromwithinthe castle, and that means Kent.”
“Without evidence that there was blackmail or something of the sort, it will never stand up in court.”
“If my half-decent barrister were to speak for the prosecution, he could convince a jury in five minutes.”
Pettigrew chuckled. “If you mean me, probably I could, but you will have to convincemefirst, my friend. Did you check Miss Wilkes’ story?”
Michael frowned. “I did. The baronetage confirms that there is a Sir Reginald Wilkes at Warriston Hall, that he married a Miss Maria Winfell, having issue two sons and three daughters. Rosamunde is the middle daughter, aged twenty-two.”
“So that all tallies.”
“Yes, and yet it is very convenient, do you not think?”
“Do you want me to go to Northumberland? Or I can write to the Duchess of Dunmorton. She will know the family, I imagine. A description of the girl, and confirmation of the existence of the aunt in Scarborough, would do it.”
“Scarborough…” Michael muttered. “Yes, write, if you would, Pettigrew. It seems legitimate, but I am still cross with Mr Eustace Atherton for lying to me, so by all means, let us check every last little detail of his story. And when Sandy is finished mule-hunting, I might send him to Scarborough to find the aunt.”
“What do you want me to do, Michael?” James Neate said.
“Decode Miss Peach’s notebook, if you can. You will need to go to Pickering to examine the books in her room. One of them will give you the code, I am sure. I doubt it will be anything complicated.”
“I can leave today if—”
The door burst open to reveal an excited Sandy Saxby. “Yer a genius, Michael! Mrs Markley picked out her mule in an instant.”
