‘You were keeping watch for Abel Paskins,’ said Bale, grimly, ‘while he was stabbing Sir Martin in the back.’
‘You’ll have to come with us, Mr Kidbrooke.’
Bale took the man’s arm. ‘You’re under arrest, sir.’
‘I can’t leave now,’ yelled Kidbrooke, trying in vain to shake his arm free. ‘I haven’t seen Araminta yet.’
‘You disgust me,’ said Christopher, hotly. ‘How can you dare to come to her husband’s funeral when you were the agent of Lady Culthorpe’s distress? She’ll hate you for what you did.’
‘So will every decent human being,’ said Bale.
‘But I was not involved in the murder,’ protested Kidbrooke. ‘I’d swear that on the eyes of my children.’
‘Do you admit that you were at the house on that day?’
Kidbrooke was shamefaced. ‘Yes, Mr Bale.’
‘Then your guilt is clear.’
‘No,’ said the other with passion. ‘I’m only guilty of wanting to see Araminta so much that I lay in waiting near her house for hours. I went there to look at her, not because I had murderous designs on her husband. I worship her,’ he went on, piteously. ‘I wouldn’t harm Araminta for the world. The last thing I’d even think of doing is to have Sir Martin killed. What could I hope to gain by such cruelty?’
The speech had such a ring of truth about it that Bale let go of his prisoner. Christopher had the same reaction. Much as he disliked the man and the Society of which he had been a sworn member, he had to accept that Jocelyn Kidbrooke’s argument was a strong one. Inciting someone to murder Araminta’s husband would not bring her any closer to him. She would retreat into mourning and be out of his reach. He remembered the gardener.
‘We thought that you poached Abel Paskins so that he could tell you about Sir Martin’s household,’ he said. ‘You knew that he’d once worked as a gardener there.’
‘I did,’ confessed Kidbrooke, ‘and I pumped him for every detail I could. But I wanted to learn about Araminta and not her husband. I also recognised that Paskins was an exceptional gardener.’
‘And a practised thief, by the sound of it.’
‘I found that out to my cost.’
Bale was confused. ‘If you didn’t instruct Paskins to commit the murder,’ he said, running a hand across his jaw, ‘then who did?’
Elkannah Prout arrived on horseback and reined in the animal not far from the church. As he dismounted and tethered his horse, he found that Abel Paskins was waiting for him. The gardener stepped out from behind a tree and touched the brim of his hat in deference.
‘Did you do as you were told?’ said Prout.
‘Yes, sir,’ replied Paskins with a smirk. ‘I hit him with a spade.’
‘Good man.’
‘That’s one of them you don’t have to worry about, Mr Prout.’
‘Bale was only the assistant,’ said the other. ‘The person who troubles me is Christopher Redmayne. He’s much more acute and he’s the kind of gallant fool who never gives up.’
‘I’ll take care of him, sir.’
‘It’s the one sure way to stop him,’ said Prout. ‘It’s a pity — I rather liked the fellow. But we can’t have anyone finding out the truth. Christopher Redmayne is all yours.’
‘How much will I earn?’
‘The same as I paid you for Sir Martin’s death.’
‘I’d have killed him for the pleasure of it,’ said Paskins with a curl of his lip. ‘Sir Martin was a tyrant in the garden. Everybody thinks he was such a fine man but he could be vicious if you crossed him. He was always picking on me and making me look like a fool in front of the other gardeners. I loathed him.’
‘I was grateful to be able to harness that loathing.’
‘What happens next?’
Prout silenced him with a gesture. The funeral cortege was approaching and he craned his neck along with the other bystanders. First in line was the funeral cart, draped in black, pulled by black horses and containing the coffin that held the body of Sir Martin Culthorpe. Hats were doffed on both sides of the road. It was the carriage bearing the chief mourners that interested Prout. He could just see Araminta through the window as the vehicle rolled past and the sight made him sigh with a mingled sadness and joy. Grieving with her now, he hoped one day to be sharing her happiness.
‘What happens next?’ repeated Paskins.
‘I want you to kill Christopher Redmayne.’
Christopher waited until the cortege had gone past and until the coffin had been carried into the church. Replacing his hat, he used the telescope to look along the line of people on the other side of the street. When a familiar face came into view, Christopher paused.
‘That looks like Mr Prout,’ he said.
‘Impossible,’ declared Jocelyn Kidbrooke, standing beside him. ‘Elkannah went to Newmarket to watch the races. He swore that he would not come anywhere near the funeral.’
‘Then he must have changed his mind.’ He handed the telescope to its owner. ‘I’m certain that’s him.’
‘Let me see.’ Kidbrooke peered through the instrument. ‘By thunder,’ he exclaimed. ‘It is Elkannah! And do you know who the man beside him is?’
‘No,’ said Christopher.
‘It’s Abel Paskins.’
‘Paskins?’ echoed Bale with interest. ‘Where?’
It was his turn to look through the telescope. When he picked out the gardener, he studied him for a long time. His head began to pound at the memory of the fearsome blow it had received.
‘Well?’ asked Christopher. ‘Is that the man who attacked you?’
‘I don’t know, sir — it could be.’
* * *
As befitted the solemn occasion, everything moved at a slow pace. Mourners arriving in the cortege entered the church sedately. Those who had gathered outside now began to file in. Elkannah Prout decided to follow them. He had seen Sir Willard Grail join the queue of mourners but Jocelyn Kidbrooke was nowhere to be seen. Prout surmised that his friend must already be in the church. Of Henry Redmayne, there was also no sign at all. It appeared that he had elected to stay away altogether.
Prout intended to sit at the rear of the nave where none of his friends could see him. As far as they were concerned, he was at the races in Newmarket. It was a ruse that had to be maintained. Prout shuffled on behind the others. Before he got anywhere near the church door, however, he saw Christopher Redmayne bearing down purposefully on him. The moment their eyes met, he knew that his villainy had been discovered. Prout had to get away at once. While everyone else was moving forward with an unhurried tread, he broke into a trot in the opposite direction.
Christopher went after him, his youth and superior fitness allowing him to make ground easily on the other man. Prout, however, had his accomplice. Abel Paskins was still standing near the horse.
‘Stop him!’ yelled Prout. ‘This is Christopher Redmayne.’
‘I’ll handle him, sir,’ said the gardener.
Pulling out his dagger, he brandished it at the oncoming figure, forcing him to slow down. Paskins advanced on Christopher, intent on using his weapon, but he was suddenly deprived of it. Jonathan Bale came up behind him, felled him with a blow to the neck then kicked the dagger out of his hand. Paskins rolled on the ground.
‘Remember me?’ said Bale, removing his hat. ‘This is what you did when my back was turned. It’s not turned now,’ he went on, grabbing the man by the throat and lifting him to his feet. ‘Let’s see what you can do in a fair fight.’
Paskins roared with anger and threw a punch at him. Blocking it with ease, Bale plunged his fist hard into the man’s midriff, knocking the breath out of him and making him squeal in pain. The gardener soon recovered and grappled with his opponent, getting in some sly punches to the ribs and trying to crack Bale’s nose open with a jerk of his forehead. The constable had quelled too many tavern brawls to be caught by the manoeuvre. Pulling his head back, he took the blow on the chin before pushing Paskins away from him.
The gardener responded by aiming a kick at his groin but Bale was too quick for him. Moving adroitly sideways, he caught hold of the flailing foot and yanked Paskins off his feet. The man hit the ground with a thud. Before he could move, he had Bale on top of him, using his weight to subdue him and punching away with both fists. The gardener’s face was soon running with blood and his strength was draining fast. Nothing he could do could get his opponent off him. Fired by the need for vengeance, Bale pounded on remorselessly until resistance finally stopped.