Chapter 16 #3
“Yes. They are quite old, from before I came to work for his lordship.”
“Are they usually kept in the dressing room?”
“No. Usually they are kept near one of the side entrances, along with his Wellington boots, for when he wishes to walk about the estate.”
“Were you not concerned they were no longer there?”
“Boots that are never worn in public do not fall under my purview, Chief Inspector. The hall boy has the responsibility of cleaning them. I check on them once in a while, to make sure he has done them properly. But I usually inspect only one of the side entrances at a time, and there are several in this house. If I don’t see a pair of boots at any given point in time, I assume that they have been stowed near one of the other doors. ”
“Why do you suppose these boots have been stowed in the dressing room?”
“I can’t say, Chief Inspector.”
“You are responsible for Lord Ingram’s wardrobe, which means the dressing room should fall entirely under your purview. You didn’t think to ask his lordship about the appearance of these boots at a place they didn’t belong?”
“I might have, if they’d been put on my side of the dressing room,” said Cummings.
“The innermost quarter or so of the dressing room is where Lord Ingram keeps his letters, journals, portfolios, and such. I do not venture into that part of the dressing room. My instructions are clear. Even if I see something on his side that has clearly been misplaced, say, a necktie or a comb, that should have stayed on my side of the dressing room, I am to leave it alone and let his lordship sort it out in time.”
“So you have seen this boot box in the dressing room but not gone near it.”
“That’s correct, Chief Inspector.”
“How long has the boot box been in the dressing room?”
“Years.”
“Years?” Fowler frowned. “I see, let me ask a different question. When did it move to Lord Ingram’s side of the dressing room?”
Cummings bit his lower lip. “Two or three weeks ago. Three, most likely.”
“And of course you didn’t ask why.”
“No, indeed.”
“The boots have a great deal of coal dust encrusted on the soles. Where do you think they have been worn to?”
“I can’t imagine. The coal cellar would be the only place in the house where there might be some coal dust to be found.”
“If he goes to the coal cellar and comes back, surely you would have seen coal dust in the dressing room?”
Mr. Cummings hesitated.
“May I remind you, Mr. Cummings—”
“I understand I am to speak truthfully, Chief Inspector.”
“Has Lord Ingram demanded otherwise of you?”
“No. When Sergeant Ellerby came, his lordship asked the entire staff to be forthright and helpful when questioned by the police.”
“Then why the reluctance, Mr. Cummings?”
“I don’t know, Chief Inspector. But you are right, I’ve noticed coal dust lately in the dressing room.”
“Did you ask Lord Ingram about it?”
“No, I cleaned up and carried on with my duties.”
“Now, Mr. Cummings, has there been anything else about his lordship’s ambulatory habits of late that is out of the ordinary?”
Mr. Cummings hesitated some more. “About a fortnight ago, I checked on the boots by one of the side doors in the morning, instead of in the evening, as I usually do, and saw a pair of Wellingtons that were encrusted with mud. I had a word with the hall boy. He swore that he had not been neglecting the boots. That at the end of the previous day, they’d all been scrubbed, brushed, and set to rights.
“He told me that he’d been finding the boots used overnight. That he’d been cleaning them first thing in the morning. But that morning, Mr. Walsh had some other tasks for him and he hadn’t got around to the boots yet.”
“I see,” said Fowler, a gleam in his eyes. “Anything else, Mr. Cummings?”
The valet shook his head.
Fowler dismissed him and studied a detailed map of the estate, an exact copy of the one that hung in the library. Then he looked up. “Inspector Treadles, care for a little outing?”
Before they left, they spoke to the hall boy, who confirmed that indeed, every morning for the past few weeks he’d found a pair of Wellingtons that needed heavy cleaning.
The policemen rode out, accompanied by Mr. Platts, the estate manager. Treadles saw little of the passing scenery. Scotland Yard’s progress was accelerating. What was Miss Holmes doing? Was she finding out anything that could save Lord Ingram?
They reached the gate Lord Ingram had mentioned the night before, the one the reconstruction of which had given him much trouble and negligible pleasure.
From the gate, after five minutes on foot, they came to a clearing, with a cottage at its center.
The cottage occupied only a little more area than a town coach, but it was two stories tall, with a gabled, deeply pitched roof, round dormers, and window boxes full of pink and purple sweet alyssums.
And while he had my attention on the matter, my estate manager brought up a whole slew of other deficiencies near the gate, everything from a derelict woodsman’s cottage to footbridges that were too rotted for safe crossing.
Treadles had not seen any new footbridges, but the once derelict woodsman’s cottage had certainly been restored to a state of glory.
Had Treadles encountered such a scene as a child, he would have thought he’d wandered into a fairy tale.
Even as a grown man, he would have felt a swell of wonder and delight—under any other circumstances.
Now all he felt was an inchoate panic. If this was the place Lord Ingram had visited at night, resulting in those muddy boots, then he was sure Lord Ingram wouldn’t want Chief Inspector Fowler to know about it.
“Very nice,” said Fowler to Mr. Platts.
“I concur,” said the estate manager. “It’s my understanding that the children quite adore it.”
The children. Dear God, the children.
“May we see the inside?” asked Fowler.
“Of course.”
The inside of the cottage was decorated with yellow gingham curtains, baskets hanging from ceiling beams, and rustic furniture built for small people.
Fowler examined every square inch of the interior. Treadles had no choice but to do the same.
To the experienced eye, there was no question that until quite recently there had been people inside.
The policemen found strands of fine dark hair, in two different lengths, on the beds in the loft.
The small stove on the ground floor had been used less than two days before, judging by the lack of dust on its surfaces.
And a jar on the shelves above the stove contained several ginger biscuits, which according to the housekeeper—Treadles remembered this with a plummeting heart—Lord Ingram had been fetching from the stillroom in the middle of the night, even though he didn’t care for them.
As they started the walk to where they had left the horses, Fowler asked, “Mr. Platts, can you tell us if there is anything interesting or different about the coal cellar at Stern Hollow?”
“It’s certainly an amply proportioned one. And I’ve always appreciated the dumbwaiter that Lord Ingram had installed, so that the servants needn’t carry coal up and down the stairs. But beyond that—”
He stopped for a second. “How silly of me. I’ve become so accustomed to the estate’s various oddities—all great houses have them—that I didn’t think of it sooner. You see, Stern Hollow boasts a magnificent kitchen garden, one of the finest I’ve ever seen, and I try to visit them everywhere I go.