‘So, you don’t think the Boers were involved in Everett’s death?’ he said.

  ‘No, sir,’ said Smith. ‘From what we’ve heard from Wilson, I tend to agree with him that Everett was a crook. It’s my belief he spun the tale about the Boers to get money. It was a confidence trick, pure and simple.’

  ‘So, who did kill Everett?’

  ‘Possibly one of his victims, but there will be no official police investigation into his death. Officially, the Oxford police are describing it as suicide.’

  ‘But this man Wilson and this Fenton woman are still poking around.’

  ‘Officially, to see if they can find out why Everett killed himself.’

  ‘But unofficially?’

  ‘They are trying to find out who killed him. The evidence of the gunshot, the lack of powder burns around the wound – all point to him having been murdered.’

  ‘But that won’t come out in public?’

  ‘No, sir. And, even if it did, it wouldn’t affect us. As I say, I’m confident the Boers weren’t involved in any way.’

  ‘What about this Lord Chessington? The man who killed Grafton?’

  ‘As we say in our report, sir, he believed that Grafton was a burglar, and shot him to defend himself and his property.’

  ‘Did you talk to him while you were in Oxford?’

  ‘No, sir. We felt the least that was known about our presence in the city the better. The police seemed fairly satisfied with the explanation. This Lord Chessington seems to be a man of good character.’

  ‘And wealthy,’ commented Atkinson.

  ‘Yes, sir. And with important contacts in Parliament.’

  Atkinson looked thoughtful, then he produced a telegram from beneath the papers on his desk, which he passed to Smith and Jones.

  ‘I sent a telegram to a diplomatic contact in South Africa asking for any information about Chessington.’

  The two men read the reply.

  Chessington has business interests in the Transvaal over goldfields. Ten years ago, he killed a man called Benjamin Wildman in the Transvaal, after which he left and returned to England. No legal action was ever taken against him. No warrant over the death exists.

  ‘Who was this Benjamin Wildman?’ asked Smith.

  ‘I’ve sent another telegram asking for more information,’ said Atkinson. ‘As yet, I’ve had no reply. But this suggests that Chessington is – or was – a dangerous man, capable of killing. Could he have been the person who shot Everett? They both have a South African connection. Perhaps Everett discovered about Chessington killing Wildman in South Africa and tried blackmailing him. Everett was obviously a crook and quite capable of it, by all accounts.’

  ‘It’s possible, sir,’ said Smith. ‘But without further investigation, it’s just conjecture. Do you want us to return to Oxford and interview Lord Chessington?’

  ‘No,’ said Atkinson. ‘Our task was to find out if there was a Boer connection that might put this nation at risk. You’ve done that and found there is none. Anything else is of no interest to us. Now we have to ensure that this whole business is closed so that there is no chance of what happened to Grafton becoming public knowledge.’

  Esther looked out of the window towards Whichford Hall as the hansom cab journeyed down the long drive. As had been the case when she’d arrived at Charlbury Court, she felt slightly overawed at the vastness of the mansion she was approaching, and the huge area of the lands surrounding the house. In her hand, she clutched the letter she’d received at the Messenger offices from Baron Whichford, which had been addressed to her, not to Mr Pinker, inviting her to come to the hall to meet the baroness.

  She wondered how they would be towards her. Would they be cold and sneering in a superior way, as the duchess had been?

  As she stepped down from the hansom, a man came down the steps to meet her. But this wasn’t a footman, as had been the case at Charlbury; everything about him said ‘gentleman’, from the cut of his clothes, his riding boots, his whole bearing. He smiled at her as he drew near and held out his hand.

  ‘You must be Esther Maris,’ he said. ‘I’m Baron Whichford.’

  Flustered at the baron himself coming to greet her, Esther took his hand and at the same time dropped into a curtsey.

  ‘My Lord,’ she said.

  He chuckled. ‘There’s no need for that. Richard, please. You are our guest, after all. And may I call you Esther?’

  ‘Indeed, My Lord … Richard. That’s very kind of you,’ said Esther, straightening up.

  ‘I trust your journey out here was pleasant? Some parts of the roads are in need of repair and the journey can be quite bone-shaking.’

  ‘The journey was fine, thank you.’

  He gestured towards the huge house. ‘I’ll take you in and introduce you to Deborah – that’s the baroness, my wife – in a moment. But before I do, I hope you don’t mind if I mention one or two things.’

  ‘Not at all, Richard,’ said Esther. ‘I’d be grateful for any pointers you can give me when meeting the baroness.’

  ‘The thing is, she didn’t want to do this, at first, but I thought it would be good for her. Help to get out of herself, lift her spirits. You see, a short time ago, a cousin whom she was very close to died in a tragic accident.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Esther. ‘I am sorry.’

  ‘As a result, Deborah has rather gone in on herself. So, I’d be grateful if you could keep the topics you ask her about … you know … on happy things.’

  ‘I promise,’ said Esther earnestly. ‘I’ll do my best to keep our conversation light. Do you have any suggestions for topics which might interest her?’

  ‘Well … clothes. And the decor of the house. She’s been the key person in turning this rather imposing and large house into a home.’

  ‘Your children?’ suggested Esther.

  The baron gave her an unhappy look.

  ‘I’d rather you didn’t, if you don’t mind. Sadly, we have been unfortunate in that respect too. My wife has been with child twice, but – alas – both times something … went wrong.’

  ‘I understand,’ said Esther. ‘And please accept my sympathies. I’ll avoid any talk about children.’

  ‘By all means you can talk to her about the children of the workers on our estate. She’s been very active in that area, doing a lot of charitable work for the less fortunate.’ Then he frowned as he thought it over, and added awkwardly, ‘On second thoughts, it might be better to stick to clothes and decor. And her sewing. She does wonderful cross-stitch. And, of course, the paintings in the hall. She’s very much the art connoisseur.’ He gave her an apologetic smile. ‘I hope you don’t mind my saying all this to you, but my wife’s well-being is the most important thing to me.’

  ‘Of course, Richard. I absolutely understand, and I promise I’ll make sure I do nothing to upset Her Grace.’

  As the baron led the way towards the hall, Esther reflected how different her reception was at Whichford to that she’d received at Charlbury, the kindness and friendliness of the baron, and she fervently hoped that the baroness wouldn’t turn out to be the guilty one.

  The rural village of Stanton St John was too small to merit an actual police station. Instead, the police house where Sergeant Jasper Mills lived with his family served that purpose. Daniel and Abigail had caught a hansom to the village and hoped they would find the sergeant at home before he set out on his rounds. They were in luck. When they knocked at the front door, Mrs Mills directed them to the rear of the house where her husband was hard at work fixing one of the wheels of his small two-wheel cart.

  Sergeant Mills studied the letter of introduction from Inspector Pitt that Daniel handed to him, then studied Daniel and Abigail.

  ‘Daniel Wilson,’ he said. ‘Would that be the same Daniel Wilson that was with Abberline?’

  Daniel nodded. ‘Indeed.’

  Mills put out his hand. ‘May I be permitted to shake your hand, Mr Wilson.’

  ‘It’s my pleasure, Sergeant Mills,’ said Daniel.

  Mills then turned his attention to Abigail. ‘Bradley says in his letter that you’re an investigator too, Miss Fenton.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Abigail. ‘That is correct.’

  The sergeant obviously had difficulty computing this concept, because his face became a frown, and he asked, ‘Are women coming into the force now? Is this a London thing?’

  ‘We’re private investigators,’ explained Daniel. ‘But I can assure you that Miss Fenton is as qualified as I am to investigate the kind of situations we look into.’

  ‘What would those be?’ asked Mills.

  ‘So far we’ve investigated murders. Now, we’re investigating an allegation of fraud.’

  ‘Oh? Who against?’

  ‘A man named Josiah Goddard. He’s the brother of Jenny Woodman. We understand that she and her husband have a farm here in Stanton St John, and we think he might have taken refuge with them.’

  Mills nodded.

  ‘Joe Goddard,’ he said. ‘Yes, he grew up here. Always a bit troublesome. You think he’s hiding out at Toby Woodman’s place?’

  ‘It’s a possibility. If he is, he needs to be taken to Oxford for questioning, but Inspector Pitt and the Oxford police have no jurisdiction here, and Miss Fenton and I, as private investigators, have no authority to arrest him, which is why Inspector Pitt suggested we came to see you.’

  ‘Yes, well, as you can see, I’ve got a bit of a problem with transport,’ said Mills, indicating the broken axle of his cart. ‘But we’ll soon sort that out. I was about to go and see Jeb Pick, our village blacksmith, who also happens to be a deputy constable. He’s a good man and I’m sure we can use his wagon. If you’ll wait here while I put my uniform jacket on, just so we make this official.’

  The sergeant disappeared into the house, and Daniel and Abigail walked back to the front of the house to wait for him.

  ‘I note we haven’t been offered cake,’ observed Daniel.

  ‘This is a different situation,’ said Abigail. ‘We know Inspector Pitt and were invited to his house. Also, we arrived in the late afternoon. Here, we’re on an official errand and we have no relationship with the sergeant and his family. Also, it is too early for cake.’

  ‘So, there are rules for when cake is served?’ said Daniel.

  ‘Of course,’ said Abigail. ‘At least, so I’m informed by Bella.’

  ‘It’s been a while since we’ve seen your sister,’ commented Daniel. ‘In fact, the last time was at her wedding to Dr Keen, and that was some months ago. Do you think we ought to pay them a visit?’

  ‘I’m not sure if Bella approves of us.’ Abigail sighed. ‘She considers you have made a fallen woman of me, living in sin as we do, in her eyes.’

  ‘Perhaps we should visit them, even if only to show her that we are not at all sinful, but very happy together.’

  ‘I have thought of it,’ said Abigail. ‘Perhaps I’ll write to her and suggest it, and we’ll see what she says.’

  Mills reappeared from the house, now properly attired in his sergeant’s uniform.

  ‘I’ve told my wife we’re off on official business,’ he told them. ‘It’s not far to Jeb’s forge.’

  They set off along the road, passing other houses and an inn, the Flying Cow.

  ‘You say Joe Goddard used to live in the village and that he was troublesome,’ said Daniel. ‘What sort of trouble are we talking about?’

  ‘Just silly stuff, mostly, when he was a kid. But there was a bit of thieving.’

  ‘Did he ever go to prison?’

  Mills shook his head. ‘His sister, Jenny, always appealed for him, said it would be the death of him – and of her – if he went inside. She swore she’d get him to mend his ways. Not that he did, but he never did anything big enough to warrant sending him for trial. No one ever got injured by him, although I think that was because he was a bit of a coward and was frightened that if he tried robbery he’d get hurt. And everyone had too much of a soft spot for Jenny to want to cause her grief. She brought him up from when he was tiny after their parents died. In the end, he went off to the city, which was a relief to most of us here in Stanton St John.’

  ‘Does he come back much?’ asked Daniel.

  ‘No,’ said Mills. ‘It’s like now he’s in the big city he’s shaken this village off. He’s come back a couple of times, but not for long. I suspect it was to borrow money off his sister.’

  ‘How does he get on with his brother-in-law, Toby Woodman?’

  ‘Toby can’t stand him. But he stays quiet about him because he knows how much Jenny cares for her brother, and Toby loves his wife and wouldn’t want her upset.’ He gestured at a wooden hut from which they could hear the banging of metal on metal, and from whose chimney dark smoke belched.

  ‘Here we are, Jeb’s forge,’ he said.

  They walked along a short path and into the wooden hut, whose interior walls were blackened, and encountered a fierce heat from the glowing coals in the forge. A giant of a man wearing a stained undervest was hammering a piece of metal into shape on an anvil, and he stopped as they entered and nodded in greeting.

  ‘Jeb, these people have been sent by Inspector Pitt from Oxford,’ said Mills. ‘He wants us to go with them to Toby Woodman’s and see if Joe Goddard’s there, and if he is, we’re to arrest him and take him to Kemp Hall. The trouble is, my cart’s broken its axle, so I was going to come to see you anyway to ask for your help with it, but now I need you in your role as constable to see if we can find Joe. Are you available for that?’

  ‘Ar.’ Pick nodded.

  He took his off his leather apron and walked to a hook where his constable’s tunic was hanging. As he pulled it on, Mills added, ‘We’ll need to take your wagon.’

  ‘Ar,’ said Pick again.

  He buttoned his tunic, then went to a cupboard, from which he took his police helmet and a long, stout truncheon, which he hung from his belt. That done, he left the forge and made his way round the back. Daniel and Abigail followed Mills, who followed Pick. There was a horse grazing in a small meadow next to the forge, and Pick whistled it over, then led it towards a four-wheeled wagon and hitched it up.

  ‘Does the truncheon mean he’s expecting trouble?’ asked Abigail.

  ‘No, but he’s had dealings with Joe before, when Joe lived in the village.’

  ‘What sort of dealings?’

  ‘Just enough to know not to trust him.’

  Esther sat in the drawing room studying Baroness Whichford, who sat near her on a chaise longue, and thought she’d never seen anyone so nervous. The baroness had been kind in her welcome, very different from the cold, superior sneers of the Duchess of Charlbury. The baroness had taken both Esther’s hands warmly in greeting before guiding her to the chair she now sat in, and had smiled, but Esther could sense that the smile – although it appeared genuine – hid an inner turmoil. She was unhappy, deeply unhappy, and the way her hands twisted a piece of chintz she had picked up showed she was battling against agitation.

  ‘Thank you so much for seeing me, Baroness,’ said Esther. She looked admiringly around the room, taking in the portraits that adorned the walls. ‘You have such a beautiful house, and in such a wonderful setting.’

  ‘Yes, we have been very fortunate,’ said the baroness. ‘But at the same time being the current inhabitants of Whichford Hall is a huge responsibility. Mainly for my husband, of course. The years of history here make demands on him.’

  ‘And on you, I would suggest,’ said Esther. ‘The lady of the manor has her own responsibilities. The estate workers and their families.’

  ‘My husband looks after them, along with his general overseeing of the estate.’

  ‘But you give him support. You know what they say: behind every great man is a woman.’

  ‘My husband is indeed a great man. Certainly, the greatest I’ve ever known.’

  ‘You’ve been married for a long time?’

  ‘Twenty years,’ said the baroness. ‘The happiest twenty years of my life.’ She gave a wistful smile as she added, ‘For me, my husband was my salvation.’

  ‘In what way, My Lady?’ asked Esther.

  The baroness hesitated, then said, ‘In the way it is for any woman when a good man enters her life.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Esther. She gave a rueful smile. ‘For some of us, we are still waiting for that moment.’ The baroness gave a kind but weak smile in response. Esther pointed at one of the portraits. ‘That’s by Gainsborough, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes,’ said the baroness, turning to look at it. ‘One of Richard’s ancestors, but I can’t remember which number baron he is. I’m sure my husband will know.’

  ‘This house must have seen many famous people in its time,’ said Esther. ‘Like Thomas Gainsborough. Artists. Musicians. Writers?’

  ‘I’m sure,’ said the baroness.

  ‘Do you know who might be the most famous who was here?’ asked Esther.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Inspector Pitt pulled at the brass handle of the bell beside the front door of Stevens’ house. The door was opened almost immediately by the maid, Vera, who looked nervously out at the inspector and the constable with him.

  ‘Good morning. Is Mrs Stevens at home?’ asked Pitt.

  ‘Yes, sir. I’ll tell her you’re here.’

  The maid disappeared into the house, returning a few minutes later.

  ‘The missus says for you to come in. But only you, sir. She’d prefer it if the constable came inside but waited by the door.’

  ‘Of course.’ Pitt turned to the constable and said, ‘Did you hear that, Constable?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Pitt left the constable waiting inside the front door while he followed the maid into the same drawing room he’d met Mrs Stevens on the previous occasion.

  ‘Well, Inspector. Have you found my son yet?’ Mrs Stevens demanded.