This way took them into a courtyard, one of two, Hanken informed him. According to the DI, the imperfect rectangle in which they stood was a relatively modern addition to the older four wings of the building, which comprised the west facade of the house. Relatively modern in the history of Broughton Manor, of course, meant that the courtyard was just under three hundred years old and as such it was called the new court. The old court was mostly fifteenth century with a fourteenth-century central portion that constituted the shared boundary between the courts.
Even a cursory inspection of the courtyard was enough to reveal the decay that Julian Britton was attempting to counteract. But there were indications of occupancy intermingling with those of decrepitude: A makeshift clothesline waving incongruous pink sheets had been rigged in one corner, extending in a diagonal between two wings of the house and tied onto two paneless windows by means of their rusting iron casements. Plastic rubbish bags waited to be carted off alongside antique tools that probably hadn't been used for a century A shiny aluminium walking stick lay near an old, discarded mantel clock. Past and present met in every corner of the courtyard, as something new tried to rise from the detritus of the old.
“Hullo there. Can I help you?” It was a woman's voice, calling to them from above. They looked towards the windows, and she laughed and said, “No. Up here.”
She was on the roof, with a rubbish sack slung over her shoulder, giving her the appearance of a decidedly unseasonal and even more outsized Christmas elf in the middle of a delivery. But she was a particularly dishevelled elf: Her bare arms and legs were streaked with grime.
“Gutters,” she said cheerfully in apparent reference to her current occupation. “If you'll wait a moment, I'll be right down.”
Clouds of filth and decomposing leaves rose round her as she worked, her head turned away to keep the worst of the mess from alighting on her face.
“There. That's that,” the young woman said when she reached the gutter's end. She yanked off a pair of gardening gloves and came across the roof to an extension ladder that rested against the building, behind the line of pink sheets. She climbed down agilely and came across the courtyard. She introduced herself as Samantha McCallin.
In an environment so conducive to historical reflections, Lynley saw the young woman as she would have likely been seen in the distant past: extremely plain but hardy, of peasant stock, a perfect specimen for childbearing and labour on the land. In modern terms, she was tall and well built, with the physique of a swimmer. She wore no-nonsense clothes that were suited to her activity. Old cut-off blue jeans and boots were topped by a T-shirt. A bottle of water hung from her belt.
She'd pinned her mouse-brown hair to the top of her head in a coil, and she loosed it as she observed them frankly. It fell in a single thick plait to her waist. “I'm Julian's cousin. And you, I expect, are the police. And this visit, I imagine, is about Nicola Maiden. Am I right?” Her expression told them that she generally was.
“We'd like a chat with Julian,” Hanken told her.
“I hope you're not thinking he was involved in her death.” She unhooked the water bottle and took a slug of it. “That's impossible. He adored Nicola. He played knight to her damsel and all that nonsense. No distress was too much of a challenge for Julie. When Nicola called, he was into his armour before you could say Ivanhoe. Metaphorically speaking, naturally.” She offered them a smile. It was her only mistake. Brittle, it revealed the anxiety beneath her friendly demeanour.
“Where is he?” Lynley asked.
“Gone to the dogs. Fitting, isn't it, for the environment we're in? Come along. I'll show you the way.”
Her guidance wasn't necessary. They could have followed the noise. But the young woman's determination to monitor their meeting with Julian was an intriguing circumstance that a wise investigator would want to toy with. And that she was determined to monitor that meeting was evidenced in the long, sure stride she employed, charging past them out of the courtyard.
They followed Samantha up the overgrown lane. The branches of unpruned limes overhung it, offering an idea of what the leafy, tunnelled path to the stables had once been like.
The stables themselves had been converted to kennels for the breeding of Julian Britton's harriers. There were dogs in abundance in a number of curiously shaped runs, and all of them broke into cacophonous barking as Hanken and Lynley approached with Samantha McCallin.
“Quiten down, you lot,” Samantha shouted. “You, Cass. Why aren't you with the pups?”
In reply, the dog spoken to—stalking back and forth in a separate run from the others—trotted back to the building and disappeared through a dog-size door that had been hewn into the limestone wall. “That's better,” Samantha remarked. And to the men, “She whelped a few nights ago. She's protective of the pups. Julie'll be with them, I expect. It's just inside.” The kennels, she told them as she swung open the door, consisted of exterior and interior dog runs, two birthing rooms, and a dozen puppy pens.
In contrast to the manor house, at the kennels the accent was on the clean and the modern. Outside, the runs had been swept and the water dishes had sparkled. Inside, the detectives found that the walls were whitewashed, the lights were bright, the stone floor was polished, and music played. Brahms, by the sound of it. The thick walls of the building provided an insulation against the noise of the dogs outside. Because they also intensified the damp and the cold, central heating had been installed.
Lynley glanced at Hanken as Samantha led them towards a closed door. It was clear that the other DI was thinking the same thing: The dogs were living better than the humans.
Julian Britton was in a room identified on its door as “Pup Room One.” Samantha knocked twice and called his name. She said, “The police want a word. Can we come in?”
A man's voice said, “Quietly. Cass's uneasy.”
“We saw her outside.” And to Lynley and Hanken, “Act reassuring if you will. Towards the dog.”
Cass set up a ruckus when they entered the room. She was in an L-shaped run that gave on to the exterior run by means of the door through the wall. At the far end of this—well away from the draft—a box contained her new litter of puppies. Four heat lamps shone over this section of the run. The box itself was insulated, sided with sheepskin, and floored with a thick padding of newspaper.
Julian Britton stood inside the run. He held a puppy in his left hand while he offered his right index finger to the tiny dog's mouth. Eyes still closed, the animal sucked eagerly. After a moment, Julian disengaged him, returned him to the nest, and made a note in a three-ring binder. He said, “Easy, Cass,” to calm the dog. She remained wary though, merely exchanging the bark for low growls.
“All mothers should take such an interest in their brood.” It was impossible to tell to whom Samantha was referring: the dog or Julian Britton.
As Cass settled herself in the nest of newspapers, Julian watched. He said nothing until the pup he'd been examining had found its place on one of the teats. Then he merely murmured to the dogs as the rest of the litter nosed into position to nurse.
Lynley and Hanken introduced themselves, producing warrant cards. Julian looked these over, which gave them time to look him over. He was a good-size man, hefty without being overweight. His face bore the sort of irregular freckles on the forehead that were indications of a life spent out-of-doors as well as the precursors of skin cancer, and an additional patch of freckles across his cheeks gave him the appearance of a ginger-haired bandit. In combination with the unnatural pallor of his skin, though, the freckles enhanced a look of malaise.
After he had inspected the detectives' identification to his satisfaction, he removed a blue handkerchief from his trouser pocket and wiped his face with it, although he didn't appear to be perspiring. He said, “I'll do anything I can to help you. I was with Andy and Nan when they got the news. I had a date with Nicola that night. When she didn't turn up at the Hall, we phoned the police.”
??
?Julie went looking for her himself,” Samantha added. “The police weren't willing to do anything.”
Hanken didn't look pleased with this oblique criticism. He cast a sour glance at the woman and asked if they could have their conversation somewhere where the bitch wouldn't be growling at them. He was, of course, referring to the dog. But Samantha didn't miss the double entente. She gave Hanken a narrow glance and pressed her lips together.
Julian obliged them by leading the way to the puppy runs in a separate section of the building. Here, older pups were engaged in play: The runs were cleverly devised to keep them challenged and entertained, with cardboard boxes to tear apart, complicated multi-level mazes to wander in, toys to play with, and hidden treats to search out. The dog, Julian Britton informed them, was an intelligent animal. Expecting an intelligent animal to thrive in a concrete run devoid of distraction was not only stupid, it was also cruel. He'd talk to the detectives while he worked, he said. He hoped that would be all right.
So much for the grieving fiancé, Lynley thought.
“That'll be fine,” Hanken said.
Julian seemed to know what Lynley was thinking. He said, “Work's a balm at the moment. I expect you understand.”
“Need help, Julie?” Samantha asked. To her credit, the offer was gently made.
“Thanks. You can work with the biscuits if you'd like, Sam. I'm going to rearrange the maze.” He entered the run as Samantha went to fetch the food.
The pups were delighted with this human intrusion into their domain. They stopped playing and gravitated towards Julian, eager for another distraction. He murmured to them, patted their heads, and tossed four balls and several rubber bones to the far end of the run. As the dogs scampered after them, he set to work on the maze, which he disassembled through a series of slots in the wood.
“We've been given to understand that you and Nicola Maiden were engaged to be married,” Hanken said. “We've been told it was a recent engagement as well.”
“You have our sympathy,” Lynley added. “It can't be something you particularly want to talk about, but there might be something you can tell us—something you're not even aware of yourself perhaps—that will help in the investigation.”
Julian gave his attention to the sides of the maze, stacking them neatly as he answered. “I misled Andy and Nan. It was easier at the moment than going into everything. They kept asking if we'd had a row. Everyone kept asking, when she didn't turn up.”
“Misled? Then you weren't engaged to her?”
Julian cast a glance in the direction that Samantha had taken to fetch the dogs’ food. He said quietly, “No. I asked. She turned me down.”
“The feelings weren't mutual?” Hanken asked.
“I suppose they weren't if she didn't want to marry me.”
Samantha rejoined them, lugging a large burlap sack behind her, her pockets bulging with treats for the puppies. She entered the run, saying, “Here, Julie. Let me help you with that,” when she saw that her cousin was wrestling with a part of the maze that didn't want to give way.
He said, “I'm coping.”
“Don't be a goose. I'm stronger than you are.”
In Samantha's capable hands, the maze came apart. Julian stood by and looked uncomfortable.
“Exactly when did this proposal occur?” Lynley asked him.
Samantha's head turned swiftly towards her cousin. Just as swiftly, it turned away. She industriously began hiding dog biscuits throughout the run.
“On Monday night,” Julian told them. “The night before she … before Nicola went out on the moor.” Abruptly, he went back to his work. He spoke to the maze, not to them, saying, “I know how that looks. I'm not such a fool that I don't know exactly how it looks. I propose, she turns me down, then she dies. So yes, yes. I know exactly how it bloody well looks. But I didn't kill her.” Head lowered, he widened his eyes as if by doing so he could keep them from watering. He said only, “I loved her. For years. I loved her.”
Samantha froze where she was at the far end of the run, the puppies cavorting round her. It seemed as if she wanted to go to her cousin, but she didn't move.
“Did you know where she'd be that night?” Hanken asked. “The night she was killed?”
“I phoned her that morning—the morning she left—and we fixed up a date for Wednesday night. But she didn't tell me anything more.”
“Not that she'd be going out hiking?”
“Not that she was going off at all.”
“She had other phone calls before she'd left that day,” Lynley told him. “A woman phoned. Possibly two women. A man phoned as well. No one gave Nicola's mother a name. Have you any idea who might have wanted to speak with her?”
“None at all.” Julian showed no reaction to the knowledge that one of her callers had been male. “It could have been anyone.”
“She was quite popular,” Samantha said from her end of the run. “She was always surrounded by people up here, so she must have had dozens of student friends as well. I expect she got phone calls from them all the time when she was away from college.”
“College?” Hanken asked.
Nicola had just finished doing a conversion course at the College of Law, Julian told them. And he added, “In London,” when they asked him where she'd studied. “She was up for the summer working for a bloke called Will Upman. He's got a firm of solicitors in Buxton. Her dad fixed it up for her because Upman's something of a regular at the Hall. And because, I expect, he hoped she'd work for Upman in Derbyshire when she finished her course.”
“That was important to her parents?” Hanken asked.
“It was important to everyone,” Julian replied.
Lynley wondered if everyone included Julian's cousin. He glanced her way. She was very busy hiding dog biscuits for the puppies to search out. He asked the obvious next question. How had Julian parted from Nicola that night of the marriage proposal? In anger? Bitterness? Misunderstanding? Hope? It was a hell of a thing, Lynley said, to ask a woman to marry you and to be turned down. It would be understandable if her refusal led to depression or an unexpected burst of passion.
Samantha rose from her position at the far end of the run. “Is that your clever way of asking if he killed her?”
“Sam,” Julian said. It sounded like a warning. “I was down, of course. I felt blue. Who wouldn't?”
“Was Nicola involved with someone else? Is that why she refused you?”
Julian didn't reply. Lynley and Hanken exchanged a glance. Samantha said, “Ah. I see where this is heading. You're thinking that Julie came home on Monday night, phoned her up the next day to arrange a meeting, discovered where she'd be that night—which he of course wouldn't admit to you—and then killed her. Well, I can tell you this: That's absurd.”
“Perhaps. But an answer to the question would be helpful,” Lynley noted.
Julian said, “No.”
“No, she wasn't involved with someone else? Or no, she didn't tell you if she was involved with someone else?”
“Nicola was honest. If she'd been involved with someone else romantically, she would have told me.”
“She wouldn't have tried to protect you from the knowledge, to spare your feelings once you'd made them clear to her?”
Julian gave a rueful laugh. “Believe me, sparing people's feelings wasn't her way.”
Despite any suspicions that he had elsewhere, the nature of Julian's response seemed to prompt Hanken to ask, “Where were you on Tuesday night, Mr. Britton?”
“With Cass,” Julian said.
“The dog? With the dog?”
“She was whelping,” Samantha said. “You don't leave a dog alone when she's whelping.”
“You were here as well, Miss McCallin?” Lynley asked. “Helping out with the delivery?”
She caught her lower lip with her teeth. “It was in the middle of the night. Julie didn't get me up. I saw the puppies in the morning.”
“I see.”
“N
o, you don't!” she cried. “You think Julie's involved. You've come to trick him into saying something that will implicate him. That's how you work.”
“We work at getting to the truth.”
“Oh right. Tell that to the Bridgewater Four. Only it's three now, isn't it? Because one of those poor sods died in prison. Call a solicitor, Julie. Don't say another word.”
Julian Britton in possession of a solicitor was exactly what they didn't need at the moment. Lynley said, “You appear to keep records about the dogs, Mr. Britton. Did you record the time of delivery?”
“They don't all pop out at once, Inspector,” Samantha said.
Julian said, “Cass went into labour round nine at night. She began delivering round midnight. There were six puppies—one was stillborn—so it took several hours. If you want the exact times, I have them in the records. Sam can fetch the book.”
She went to do so. When she returned, Julian said to her, “Thanks. I'm nearly finished in here. You've been a real help. I'll manage the rest.”
Obviously, he was dismissing her. She appeared to communicate something to him through eye contact only. Whatever it was, he either couldn't or didn't want to receive the message. She cast a moderately baleful look at Lynley and Hanken before she left them. The sound of the dogs barking outside rose, then fell as she opened and closed the door behind her.
“She means well,” Julian told them when she was gone. “I don't know what I'd do without her. Trying to put the whole manor back together … It's a hell of a job. Sometimes I wonder why I took it on.”
“Why did you?” Lynley asked.
“There've been Brittons here for hundreds of years. My dream is to keep them here for a few hundred more.”
“Nicola Maiden was part of that dream?”
“In my mind, yes. In her mind, no. She had her own dreams. Or plans. Or whatever they were. But that's fairly obvious, isn't it?”
“She told you about them?”
“All she told me was that she didn't share mine. She knew I couldn't offer her what she wanted. Not at the moment and probably never. She thought it was the wiser course to leave our relationship the way it was.”