Chapter Seven: The Lucifer Hunt – Part Three
On leaving the family wing, Holmes, Miss Thurlow, and I made for the front door, stopping outside to look at the ridge in the distance where Holmes and I had earlier spotted Mrs. Lynley walking alone. Dressed in pale blue, she had been an easy target to see on this bright day, moving as she did against the hills; now though, there appeared no sign of her.
"Holmes," I said, looking from the ridges overlooking the estate back to him, my tone slightly incredulous, "you don't think such a quiet timid little thing as Mrs. Lynley would consider shooting her husband in plain sight of an entire hunt? She would be hung for certain."
"If shooting him is what's on her mind," he replied. "I doubt that the idea of being hung bears so much as a featherweight's importance to her considerations, Watson." And with that, he began to walk purposefully towards the hills, his new gaiters being employed for the first time in earnest. "Her life is a misery...and unless I miss my guess, from the broken shards of chinaware, the spilled perfume, and the bandage around Mr. Lynley senior’s hand, last night, it was made more miserable still after her husband's return."
I heard Miss Thurlow's sharp inhalation of breath beside me, and could see as she struggled to keep up with us, that her face had darkened and grown even more set at the thought of what Holmes was describing. "What if…" she queried as she ran along with us, "I mean I may just be conjecturing, but seeing as there are two who share those rooms, what if Claire was not the one who took the revolver? What if it was her husband? He was after all, as you just said, in a foul mood last night."
"Unlikely, for it does not fit with what we know," Holmes concluded after a moment. "Apart from myself, George Lynley’s most likely target, after last night humiliation, would be Martin Yeates. And Lynley’s vindictiveness and cowardly streak would far more likely take a longer lasting and more personal avenue of revenge. Namely, he would merely destroy Yeates’s life with the information he has on him. He has no need to kill him when he can ruin him. No, Miss Thurlow, not Lynley…but there is another suspect for our missing weapon..."
Her mind did a rapid calculation, before she glanced sharply over at him. "Phillip Lynley!" she exclaimed. "He was not at the preparations for the hunt!"
"No, he was not...” my friend agreed with a nod. “And who would have been more likely to check upon the welfare of Claire Lynley this morning in her rooms, knowing better than all others what she suffers at the hands of her husband. After seeing his brother's manner last night, he would, I'd venture to say, have known that something would have occurred behind closed doors. What if he arrived at her rooms this morning to find that his brother's excesses with his wife had reached new depths?"
Moving swifter still, he continued, "Philip Lynley is undeniably in love with his sister-in-law...we have seen it before time and time again. A man in love, especially a young and earnest one, will smite anyone for the protection of the woman he loves, heedless of his own safety. Mrs. Lynley should, as etiquette demands, have been helping to host the breakfast this morning; instead, she was out wandering the hills. Hiding her injuries? Or seeking the one who plans to avenge them?"
"Perhaps..." I paused, glancing at our companion. "Holmes, perhaps with guns in play, it might be best for Miss Thurlow to remain here?" I suggested.
"No..." he disagreed with a quick shake of his head. "I'm loathe to bring any woman into danger, Watson...but on this occasion with Mrs. Lynley involved one way or another, I believe it will be advantageous to have a gentler, more feminine hand at our side. Miss Thurlow may be able to reach and comfort her in ways we, as members of the gender she must by now mistrust greatly, may not."
"I would very glad to assist you in any way I can, Mr. Holmes," she replied with a grateful tone, her expression showing that she would not have gone so easily.
Walking quickly onwards, we climbed the steep ridge that Cuddy had brought us in by yesterday afternoon. From the top, all of us a little winded, we stopped and gazed around. "Look," I pointed, "the hunt has begun!" Away to our left, we could clearly see the large mass of horses spill outwards from the stable yards, the sound of hunting horns echoing across the verdant landscape, as the hounds led the way in search of a scent, the trotting riders behind them.
"Yes, and nary a sign of our own quarry," Holmes returned, searching around the area for any sign of Mrs. Lynley. "Lucifer's Playground..." he said quietly after a moment, staring from the end of the ridge to the next one, below which the blasted piece of earth was located.
My brow furrowed at that. "But Holmes, why should either she or Philip Lynley go there, if they meant harm to his brother that is? The Viscount clearly stated that the hunt was not to go through there...even if the fox did."
“Because both Mrs. Lynley and her brother-in-law know Lynley better than anyone else alive,” my friend responded. “They know his petty, vengeful mind and how it works.” His eyes narrowed and glinted in the cold sunlight an instant, before he set off quickly. “Hurry, Watson, Miss Thurlow…one way or another, George Lynley will be at Lucifer’s Playground this morning, and if he is there so shall they be…I’ll wager twenty guineas on it!”
Crossing the ridge and beyond to the secondary one, we moved to the area above the blasted piece of twisted desolation that was Lucifer's Playground and peered down upon it. Even now with the full beam of a bright sun shining down upon it, it seemed bleak and unfathomable beyond words. The sound of the hunt was now in full flow with the hounds baying, and shouts carrying the distances to us easily on the early afternoon air, as the hounds and riders wheeled across the countryside towards us. "They have the scent of the fox..." I noted, "and it's coming this direction."
We watched as the hunt followed the red dash of the fox, clearly visible to us out in front leading them all a merry dance as it shot ahead of them. At first, it seemed as if the fox was to head straight for the Playground, but as it reached the ridge on the far side, it veered off taking the following swarm around with it. I noted that Miss Thurlow's expression as she watched the red furred animal fly by was one of sympathy, and with a shake of her head she caught my eyes on her. "The other reason I am not fond of riding in hunts, I fear, Dr. Watson. My sympathies lie too much with the animal," she explained, as we began to move towards the desolate patch of land.
The hunt poured past the mouth of the small narrow valley, containing the hunt as we carefully descended into the steep vale. No pathway down existed here, so while we moved as fast as we could, we had to keep in mind the terrain and Miss Thurlow's skirts. And so it was when we were but halfway down and still overlooking the area, Holmes stopped, and pointed with a frown. "Look!" he called to us, as we halted behind him. “Look, there!”
As the tail of the hunt moved past, two riders broke from the ranks, veering off in our direction. The horses were almost wedged together, so close were they...almost as if they had been glued together.
"What are they doing?" and an aghast Miss Thurlow asked.
"Fighting," my colleague replied, his eyes narrowing at the sight. “No doubt the culmination of much baiting.”
Peering closely, I could plainly see he was right. The two riders were locked, free hands wrangling and batting at one another with crops and fists...as the horses broke apart at last and barrelled on in the direction we were in. We did not even have to wait to see their faces to know from the size and shape of both men who it was thundering towards the wasted wood.
"Lynley and Yeates." I shook my head, stunned at their foolishness and at how Holmes had read his man right once again.
"Dear God, they are going to get themselves killed," our friend breathed, her grey eyes wide with worry.
"Whatever provocation was simmering last night has risen once again tenfold, doubtless well planned by our Mr. Lynley. Father’s decree or no, he intended to force Yeates hand and have his way. It’s rare to encounter so petty a mind…even amongst spoiled aristocracy," Holmes murmured, watching as the two riders thunder onwards. Before we could move even another ten feet down the slope, they were at the Playground's mouth, and, shouting obscenities at one another, crashed into the gnarled wood and were obscured from view. Holmes immediately took off...but not downwards, rather across the slope, heading for the far end of the blasted area, leaving us to follow as quickly as we could. However, by the time we reached the edge, nothing had emerged.
With a furrowed brow, my friend peered down at the bramble enclosed covert. "The terrain inside must be tightly packed and overgrown," he commented. "Far more than I would've thought. Even given for poor terrain, horses under such expert riders surely would have..." However, before he could finish, a horse and rider burst from the end of the wasteland, and ploughed onwards, the rider tossing flotsam from him as he went.
"Yeates!" I exclaimed with no small pleasure. "Well..." I continued with a smile, "Lynley’s lost his God forsaken wager!"
"Lavinia will not be pleased all the same," Miss Thurlow said softly beside me. "She was most adamant that her husband not go into the Playground."
I could not help but chuckle, so pleased was I to see the arrogant man proven wrong. "Well, he's emerged none the worse for wear it seems, and he's proven his point to Lynley...and taken his money to boot no doubt. That is if the bounder lives up to his word...she may let him off lightly."
"Where is he?" Holmes voice intruded on us, his hawkish eyes watching the ground below avidly as he ignored our chat.
In the distance, at the far end of the narrow valley, the hunt hoved into view again, having wheeled around to the other entrance on the discovery of the loss of two of their riders...and precisely which two riders they were. We could see Mr. Yeates riding on towards them, before gradually slowing up and stopping upon meeting them, no doubt engaged in some kind of conversation as to what happened. And yet while all this occurred, his co-rider and challenger still failed to emerge.
"I have a very foreboding feeling about this," Miss Thurlow said anxiously beside myself and Holmes, and as if to punctuate her words, an instant later, there was a rustling noise, and the sound of hooves, followed by a horse breaking through and free of the waste ground.
Unlike before, however...there was no rider aboard.
Holmes was gone like a bullet from a gun...leaving me to help Miss Thurlow down the steep slope as best I could. Scrambling downwards, half slipping and sliding his way, and even tumbling once or twice, my colleague reached the bottom and made for the clearly spooked horse, which was darting around wildly, its whinnying loud and aggressive. Seeing the hunt beginning to start down the narrow valley floor towards us, he left the animal to their imminent care and turned, before moving into the undergrowth, and calling us on after him.
Finally reaching the bottom of the rift, and on entering the Playground, we were immediately struck by the halving of the light, so dramatic it was that we both stopped completely, our eyes needing to readjust themselves to the other worldly twilight we had just stepped into. The twisted canopy of branches which looked so impenetrable from above had precisely the effect we thought they would have under them. The end product inside was one of constant dusk with the sun only penetrating here and there in bright lines of sunlight striking the ground here and there. In those spots would grow tiny spots of greenery amongst the blackened earth...for everything else was either bare black ground, walls of woody brambles, or rocks and boulders covered with mosses and lichens as such a gloomy place would dictate.
There was no sound to speak of...no birds that we could hear. The silence was such that when a rustling in the undergrowth that mostly consisted of the twisted briars occurred, it was a slightly unnerving sound. Despite myself, Cuddy's words came back to me and as they did I could easily imagine this place being full of malign spirits and creatures. Beside me, Miss Thurlow swallowed and tried to keep a brave face, but I could see this place did not sit well with her either.
We could see the churned up ground where first Yeates’s horse and then Lynley's had passed through the narrow gap in the briary undergrowth, obviously having to leap a boulder further back to do so...and as we made our slow way through the uneven, rocky, thorny terrain, I shook my head at the madness of racing through here. "I withdraw my earlier remark..." I said to Miss Thurlow, as much to hear a sound in that dead place as anything. "Lavinia Yeates was perfectly right to be as concerned as she was...to ride through here is sheer folly!"
"Indeed," she agreed in a low voice.
We had taken but five more steps, when Holmes’s cry echoed through the shaded, unpleasant wood, bouncing off the boulders and distorting the direction terribly. "Watson!" he called again, and, taking hold of Miss Thurlow’s hand, I moved as quickly as I could...now wishing I had brought my own revolver into this blighted place. Our progress was hampered by the briars, which almost seemed to reach out and grab hold of our clothes, with Miss Thurlow's dress by far the worst affected, so that we were both cut and torn by the time we arrived into something of a clearing, and skidded to a halt at the sight of Holmes kneeling over the prostrate, woody debris strewn body of George Lynley, lying face down on the ground.
"Oh no," Miss Thurlow breathed at the sight. "Is he...?"
"Dead." My friend stood, wiping the earth from his hands. "Quite dead...a wound to the neck...the jugular vein...he lost consciousness and bled to death while we waited for him to emerge."
That our lady companion neither gasped nor swooned at that came as no surprise, as I, and indeed my companion, had learned early on in our associations with her that she was made from sterner mettle. "He was a horrid man, but I would not wish this fate on anyone," she murmured with a slow shake of her head, as she moved forward to join Holmes with a sad but resigned look on her face.
My colleague regarded the floor of the clearing with a frown. "Watson, examine the wound, will you? I'd be interested to know what you think, he asked, his eyes moving around the place. "You'll note he's face down. Raise him up if you must, but leave him back where he lay...the police will no doubt appreciate it."
With a nod, I moved across the forest floor, as off to our left there was the sudden sound of horse’s hooves taking off. A moment later, we could hear the rumble of yet more as the bulk of the hunt arrived at the entrance we had come in by. Ignoring it, I crouched down to the young man’s body, and raised it up to peer down at the mangled throat of George Lynley.
"What say you, Watson?" Holmes asked after a moment. "No bullet wound, eh?"
"Indeed not..." I concurred with a shake of my head, "if anything, it appears to be a stab wound."
"From what? Can you tell?" Holmes paced across the ground, before bending down again, his hand skimming the ground without touching.
"Hard to say..." I responded, examining the wound closely and noting it was relatively clear of blood, as most of it had dripped to the ground. "It’s deep but it is a torn, jagged wound. It passed right through the neck of his cravat…it could have been made with a broad serrated knife, I suppose."
"A hunting knife?" he quizzed, still peering the ground.
"Perhaps..." I concurred, as I lowered Lynley back to his resting place. "But whoever did it was obviously taller than our man here. The blow was deep…very deep and straight in, so the assailant must have stood in height a good deal over him. The tearing is lighter, indicating it came on being drawn out. There is the beginning of bruising on either side where the hilt must have landed…it was a most violent strike, Holmes."
"That accounts for most of the men here," Miss Thurlow pointed out. "And indeed, Mr. Yeates was taller than Mr. Lynley as well."
Holmes rose quickly to his feet. "Miss Thurlow is perfectly correct. Given the size of Mr. Lynley that unfortunately hardly narrows our field much." His eyes took in the ground and the body again. “And our friend was not stabbed upon his horse, so there is no balancing of height to be gained that way.”
We both stared at him for a moment, before Miss Thurlow enquired, “How do you know he was stabbed upon the ground?”
Holmes pointed to the ground he had been examining. “The ground is soft here, as it is with most wooded earth…there is an indentation, a fresh one, and one consistent with the fall of a man Lynley’s size…which would explain the forest debris upon the back of his hunt jacket, when he lying dead upon his front, exactly where he fell.”
I nodded, as I pictured the events that occurred. “So a struggle, a fall, and then the stabbing.”
“It would seem so…” he replied with a frown. “Except….” His eyes fell to the floor, again searching for something amongst the scuffed up ground. "Watson...Miss Thurlow," he said after a moment, "the hunt is upon us...I'd be obliged if you would inform them of what has occurred and keep them from trampling over everything here." Bending his head, he perused the dented, hoof torn ground again, pointing again at the indentation some few feet away from the body of Lynley. "There are things here I don't want disturbed...not yet. Let only his father, wife, and brother enter...though I somehow doubt the latter two will be amongst our visitors."
On hindsight, I should have expected what followed next. As, as soon as we emerged and word broke as to what had occurred, and after the Viscount had fled into the copse to confirm the dire news, the hounds were not the only things baying for blood. With the large following of Lynley's friends in the group, and the shocked and distraught Alexandra de Courcy, it was not long before the accusations flew, and Martin Yeates was wrested from his horse by irate men claiming him a murderer.
It took the intervention of the Duchess of Monmouth and the timely re emergence of the diminutive rotund Viscount from the wood, smaller seeming even than before and ashen faced on seeing his dead son, to restore order to proceedings. “Your Lordship, please!” Yeates called out, as he struggled against those who held him. “I swear to you George lived when last I saw him.”
“Be silent!” Lynley’s friend Parry, one of those holding him, barked at him. “You have done enough!”
“I have done nothing!” Yeates railed. “I have no clue what might have happened to him! Lavinia will tell you! George taunted and barracked me every step of the hunt when it started…he threatened...” he paused, “he forced my horse into his as we reached the valley, and veered us in here. He struck me…taunting me until finally I gave him his way!” He gazed around wildly at the gathered crowd. “Once we were inside, we jostled again, for the wood is narrow and difficult to navigate, and were neck and neck, until we burst into a clearing and collided once more. George lost control of his horse, and it reared…he fell…I rode on…when I looked back, he was on his feet. He was fine…I swear it!”
Miss Thurlow and I exchanged glances as Holmes’s preliminary deduction proved in keeping with Yeates’s words, but even as Martin Yeates pleaded his innocence and ignorance of what had happened, after that, his wife in tears beside him, he was roughly trussed by the hands, and ridden back to the house on the orders of the Viscount, where the police were to be called.
Miss Thurlow spent much of her subsequent time calming the now almost hysterical Mrs. Yeates, who firmly stated over and over that her husband could not possibly have hurt Lynley. That he was competitive when provoked yes, but that to hurt someone was simply not in his character.
The Viscount, visibly keeping himself restrained, took note of Mrs. Yeates’s state, and turned to her comforter. "Miss Thurlow," he said, his voice low and shaking, "perhaps you might be...be so good as to take...my son's horse..." He glanced at the now contained animal. "And ride with Mrs. Yeates back to the house?"
"Of course, Your Lordship," she acquiesced with a soft, consoling smile, before gazing warily at the horse, as Mrs. Yeates got back on her steed, and then over at me askance.
With an encouraging nod, I walked over with her to the horse, which had quieted down considerably, and glancing at its rump, I could see that it had taken quite a thrashing, as could Miss Thurlow. "It seems..." I said quietly, "that Lynley was set on winning this duel...and was no more successful with his heavy handed tactics then the last time." I gave her an encouraging smile. "The horse should be fine," I told her, and stood back to help her mount it.
She continued to appear most unsure, as she climbed onto the animal, her lack of recent experience riding rather obvious, as was her expression, which clearly showed her desire to be off the animal. However, for a moment, her expression flickered as she fingered the reigns, holding her thumb and forefinger outwards and peering at them keenly, even going so far as to bring them to her nose.
"Are you well, Miss Thurlow?" I solicited of her state, looking from her to the weeping Mrs. Yeates again.
She glanced down as though distracted from a deep thought, and nodded. "Yes, everything is fine...well...almost..." She paused, glancing down at the horse, and then over to her charge, before returning her attention to me once more. "I shall see you both when you return?"
"Straight away, I'd warrant," I replied with a nod. "Ride slowly and safely, and you'll be fine."
"I shall," she murmured, and after gingerly nudging the horse into motion, both she and Mrs. Yeates headed back to the house.
I waited with Holmes for a while, until he sent me on my way, saying that the police would be swarming here soon enough, and he required some solitude as he felt strongly there was something he was missing. On heading back to the house, I was in time to see Martin Yeates be manhandled into the stables by George Lynley’s friends, and was only barely so to stop what was sure to have happened next, reminding the group of fellows with sundry sticks and whips in their hands that the police would shortly be there and would be interested to know how Mr. Yeates got into any…difficulties…should he show up the worse for wear.
There were some tense moments, choice words, and leery looks, the latter passing especially amongst Mr. Cobb and Mr. Parry, but common sense prevailed, as did I upon a few stout, local yeomen, who were there for hunt, and had no grudge against Mr. Yeates, when I asked them to guard his makeshift cell. On returning from the stables, I saw Holmes make his way back down the slopes and across the gardens towards me. His hands in his pockets, his shoulders hunched, a cigarette lit and leaving a trail of smoke behind him, he was the picture of contemplation, and it was plain to see that whatever it was he was missing, he had not found it.
On glancing up and seeing me, his expression turned to sheer exasperation. “Watson, it is the most annoying thing in the world to place all parts of the jigsaw neatly in order, but to miss the final one that would complete the puzzle. Far better to have it half finished then missing that one small item.” He sighed and turned his full attention to me. "Where have they put Yeates?"
"In the stables," I said, before recounting to him Yeates's words about what had occurred within Lucifer’s Playground with Lynley, and how events seemingly fell in line with his theory, as well as informing him of the lynch mob that had been forming.
Taking this in, my friend slowly nodded. "Well done," said he, patting me on the shoulder. "And the police?"
"They are on their way, Mr. Holmes," the soft, melodious voice of our friend answered him, and we turned to see Miss Thurlow emerge from the house. "They were called for immediately upon our return."
"And Claire Lynley?" I asked of the still missing pair. "Or Philip…have they been sighted?"
She heaved a great sigh, as she joined us, shaking her head in the negative. However, there was a slight light in her eyes. "No...they have not been sighted, however, Claire's maid was most forthcoming. It seems the pair have...run off."
"Run off?" I repeated with astonishment.
"I told you, my dear fellow, that I thought it doubtful we would see either of them," Holmes said, seeming unsurprised, before turning his eyes back to Miss Thurlow for the rest of what she had to say.
She sighed once more. "Where to start...well, it seems our assumptions on whether Mr. Lynley took his...frustrations...out on his wife last night were well founded. For he beat her, the worst beating she's had, her maid said. So after her husband left early this morning, she fetched Philip to see to her mistress...and it seems Claire finally agreed to his suggestion to leave with him. So while the women packed, Philip apparently took the gun for protection, well that is what he told her maid, and then left to get his horse. Her maid said before he departed she heard them speaking of something they had to do before they left."
She paused and took a breath. "Now that the maid has heard of Mr. Lynley's death...she fears that perhaps the torment and fear was too much and that either her mistress or Philip may have...well...found a more permanent solution."
"Perhaps…" Holmes nodded. "There was no doubt they were at Lucifer's Playground."
"They were?" I asked. "But we did not see them."
"No...but we heard them...or rather the horse they were on when they bolted for home," my colleague replied.
"Ah..." I breathed, before nodding as well. "The single sound of hoof beats before the hunt arrived in earnest."
“No doubt heading to where they had stashed their belongings, as the events at the Playground affording them the chance to slip away unregarded," Holmes agreed. "The question remains though as to what hand they had in this...if any? It seems more likely than ever they made their way to Lucifer's Playground to confront Lynley...for they must have known with his nature, he would never have rested while they were out there. But..." He slid his hands back into his pockets with a frown. "If they did do this, then they did not use a gun...and showed all the fleetness of foot of one of Mr. Cuddy's Will O The Wisps. For I could find no trace of another’s footprints save George Lynley’s on the ground…all though the earth was badly churned up by hoof prints."
He paused for a moment, before turning his eyes to me again. "Watson, was Yeates in possession of a knife of any description when taken in?"
"Nothing on him," I answered. "He was well searched by that mob, of that I can assure you. Nor did I see any traces of blood on him when he was taken, besides a few scratches to the face which were clearly caused by the thorns in the wood.” I paused for a moment. “Of course, he may have discarded the knife.”
"Mr. Holmes?" came the respectful voice of the butler behind us. "His Lordship would very much like to speak to you."
"I expected as much," my friend intoned, before turning to us. "Watson, Miss Thurlow, when they arrive, exercise all your considerable powers of diplomacy and persuasion to keep the police from taking Mr. Yeates into custody if you can. Tell them to keep a detail guarding him if they must, but that I asked them to concentrate their efforts on the fleeing Lynleys. There are stones yet to overturn in search of this one final piece of the puzzle..." he instructed, as he moved up the steps.
Due to length of the chapter, it is continued in next post...