Page 24 of The Mistress of Ashmore Castle

William’s voice rose a pitch. ‘Look, I didn’t kill him! I went out after him – I – I wanted to talk to him – but I never saw him. I never saw anybody!’

Holyoak consulted his notes again. William was beginning to hate that notebook. He wanted to grab it, tear it to shreds and stamp the bits into the ground. ‘You told me, when I spoke to you before, that you didn’t see anyone that evening, not man, woman or child.’

The fatal hesitation, before William answered. ‘That’s right.’

‘Yet someone gave you a black eye.’

‘I told you, I fell into a ditch.’

‘No doubt you could take me to that ditch and show me exactly where you fell in?’

‘I don’t – it was— I can’t remember. It was dark. I mean, it was just a ditch. I don’t know what one.’

Holyoak put down the book. ‘Here’s what I think happened. You’d just found out that Mr Speen had been seeing your girl. You were very angry, as a man would be. You ran out after him. You caught up with him on the way down the hill, and accused him. You tried to hit him, and there was a scuffle, but he was a better fighter than you, and he blacked your eye. Then he turned away and walked on – perhaps he laughed at you. He wasn’t afraid of you, Mr Sweeting, and that made you madder than ever. So you grabbed a rock from the ground, and you hit him on the back of the head. Perhaps you didn’t mean to kill him. Probably you didn’t – I don’t think you’re a murderer at heart. But kill him you did. You were horrified when you found what you’d done – and terrified. You rolled his body into the ditch and pulled some bramble sprays over it to conceal it. That was when you got the scratches on your hands and face. And then you went back to the Castle, hoping he would never be found.’ He looked straight into William’s eyes. ‘That’s what happened, isn’t it?’

‘No! It’s not. I never— I didn’t! I never saw him!’

‘Then how did you get the scratches and the black eye?’

‘It was nothing like that!’

‘So what was it like? Somebody gave you those injuries. If not Mr Speen, who?’ William was silent. ‘Don’t be stupid, boy. If it was someone else, they can vouch for you.’ Silence. ‘But there wasn’t anyone else, was there? You lost a fight with Edgar Speen and hit him on the head as he walked away. That’s what happened, isn’t it?’

William turned sullen. ‘I’m not saying any more. You don’t believe me anyway, so what’s the point? I didn’t kill him, that’s all.’

Holyoak looked at him for a long time, while William stared at the floor. Then he said, ‘I’m afraid I shall have to keep you here.’

‘Lock me up?’

‘Lock you up. William Sweeting, I arrest you for the murder of Edgar Speen on the night of the fourth of November 1903, which is against the King’s Peace.’

William put his face in his hands and sobbed.

Sergeant Mayhew was disconcerted to receive a visit from Richard. In all the years the police station had existed, no member of the Stainton family had ever entered it. The gentry way was to send for the police if they wanted them. The old lord had once stopped in front in his carriage, and sent the footman to fetch the sergeant out, and had spoken to him through the carriage window, but that was the closest they’d been.

Mayhew was happy for it to be that way. The distinctions of rank ought to be maintained. That way, everybody knew where they stood. It made for an orderly world. Excess friendliness between people of different stations in life led to impertinence, erosion of manners, lax behaviour, and eventually to unrest and revolution. You only had to look at France.

Mr Richard Tallant should not be standing in the station room, looking around with interest, and smiling. It was laudable he should be concerned about his footman, but there were ways, and there were ways, of showing that concern.

‘I’m sure there must be some mistake somewhere,’ Richard said. ‘I’ve known William for years, and he’s a quiet, meek, blameless sort of chap. Not the sort to go doing violent murders.’

‘Every man has his snapping point, sir,’ Mayhew said. ‘And it’s often the quiet ones that surprise us.’

Richard shook his head, smiling. ‘I can’t believe it. Not William.’

‘We’re doing our job, sir,’ Mayhew said stiffly, ‘and I’d be obliged if you’d let us get on with it.’ Just because a member of the Family smiled and unbent and twinkled at him, he wasn’t going to deviate one inch from his duty, which he carried out without fear or favour, no matter who. If it was Lady Stainton herself – the dowager, he meant – standing before him, he’d say the same thing. Though her ladyship would never have lowered herself for to do such a thing. She was a proper lady of the old school. She’d have sent for him, not turned up in person like this.

Richard read the grim expression, and said, ‘Oh, I would never stand in the way of your duty, Sergeant, but perhaps you could tell me what makes you think William is guilty. I mean, I know he went out of the house that evening, but—’

‘There are serious inconsistencies in his account of himself, sir,’ said Mayhew, and recounted them. ‘He’s lied, sir, and gone on lying. And he had a serious beef with deceased. We have one or two things still to check, but we feel we’ll have a strong case against him, to present to the magistrate.’

‘Well, can I take him home until you’ve finished your investigations?’

‘No, sir,’ Mayhew said sternly. ‘He has to stay in custody. This is a capital matter. And there’s always the chance that he’ll cut – hook it – run away.’

Richard saw it would be no use to argue with this monolith of the law. ‘May I at least see him, Sergeant?’ he asked politely. ‘I feel a responsibility for his welfare. In the absence of my brother.’

‘That you may, sir,’ said Mayhew, and unbent enough to say, ‘If you have any influence with him, sir, perhaps you can persuade him to come across – tell the truth. It’d be in his best interests.’