Ghosts of Mayfield Court by Norman Russell Read Free Book Online Page A

for the pristine state of the bones – that, and the gnawing by rats.’
    Venner treated Jackson to a wry smile. ‘I know that neither of you likes my playing detective,’ he said, ‘but I would see this as the illegal concealment of a dead body – a felony at law – following a natural death, or, as you have suggested, Bottomley, the coming to light after a lifetime of a wicked murder, probably for gain.’
    Venner carefully adjusted his silk hat to the rakish angle that he favoured, and picked up his Gladstone bag.
    ‘I’ll go back to Warwick now, Jackson,’ he said, ‘and arrange for a closed van to come here to remove these remains to the police mortuary. It’s a sad business, when I am called to view the mortal relics of a child. So much lost, so much potential unfulfilled. I’ll send you a written report, but there’s not much that I can say.’
    As soon as Venner had gone, Jackson knelt down in front of the fissure and began to rake out the mulch of vegetation that had enshrouded the skeleton. He did not end his task until the cavity in the wall was completely empty. Bottomley watched him as he sifted through the dense mass of leaves and stems. He was searching for clues, but he’d find precious little of interest in that tinder-dry accumulation of withered plants.
    ‘There’s another skeleton here,’ said Jackson, ‘but it’s only a rat. And there’s this piece of cloth – a strip of something – some kind of cotton fabric. You can see fine cords on its surface, made of raised threads.’
    He handed the piece of fabric to Bottomley.
    ‘It looks like dimity to me, sir,’ he said. ‘This bit may have been coloured at one time, to judge from that little pinkish patch at the top. It’s used for bed upholstery – and nightgowns. So maybe that little one was still wearing her nightgown when she was placed in that makeshift tomb. Poisoned, or smothered, or strangled in her bed, and carried out here in the night….’
    Bottomley walked away into the trees, and Jackson saw him fish in the ample pockets of his overcoat until he found hisbattered silver flask. A swig of gin will restore his spirits, he thought. Herbert Bottomley had eight daughters, all living. Two were married, two were in service, and the four younger ones were still at home. One of them Judith, was a little girl of ten. Maybe she, too, wore a dimity nightgown….
    It was time to confront the elusive man who was staying in the tumbledown house. Bottomley had met him, but had only exchanged a few words with him before he had flitted away. Maximilian Paget and his niece Catherine must be kin of the child called Helen Paget who had stayed for one night in that house thirty years ago. Why did he show no interest in the discovery of a skeleton in the garden of the house that he had apparently inherited?

    ‘They’ve gone, sir!’
    Mrs Doake, besom in hand, paused in her task of sweeping the kitchen floor to answer Inspector Jackson’s question.
    ‘They left just after twilight yesterday, the two of them, and their luggage, sitting in the back of a cart from the village. Not what you’d expect gentlefolk to do, but he was in a tearing hurry to get away. Mr Paget, I mean. He looked very pale, and didn’t say much, but he seemed to be inwardly excited, if you get my meaning. It was that sweet girl who had to see to the house, and tell me what to do as regards shutting the place up. It was Miss Catherine who paid me my due, and gave me a half-sovereign to show her appreciation, which was very generous—’
    ‘And where did they go, Mrs Doake?’ Jackson interrupted.
    ‘They went back to London, sir. I’ve got the address over here, written on this bit of paper, because, of course, the gentleman wrote to me before he came down here. Here it is. “M. Paget Esquire, 11 Saxony Square, London, W.” A bad-tempered, surly gentleman, very abrupt with his niece, especially when she fancied she’d seen the little ghost, and all the time it