The Scandal At Bletchley (Hilary Manningham-Butler Book 1) by Treby Jack

Author:Treby, Jack [Treby, Jack]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Tags: mystery, spy, Bletchley, Bletchley Park, 1920s, whodunnit, crime, Murder Mystery, country house, Traditional British, MI5, thriller
Publisher: Carter & Allan
Published: 2014-07-22T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Fourteen

I recognised the black brogues sticking out from beneath the shroud. It is surprising how somebody’s shoes stick in your mind. I had seen them before, when I had dragged the corpse into the dining room some hours earlier. But I had not expected to see them here. I flipped back the other end of the sheet, just to be sure. The pallid face of Anthony Sinclair stared back, oddly reassuring after the many surprises I had endured over the last few hours. Two murders in one day was more than enough to be getting on with. How he had come to be lying here in the cottage I had not the faintest idea. Well, no, in fairness, it was obvious how he had come to be lying here. The body had been carried from the house, presumably by Samuel Jenkins himself. The question was, why?

When I’d first seen Sinclair’s valet crossing the stable yard my initial thought had been that the master himself was still alive but injured, and was intending to come back to the mansion later on to expose me in the grandest and most theatrical way imaginable. That possibility had thankfully proved unhinged. But if his valet had discovered the body, why would he keep it to himself and drag Sinclair over here on his own? Assuming, of course, that he was acting alone.

It was possible that some of the other servants were involved. Perhaps they were all involved. It might be some kind of grand conspiracy. My head was suddenly filled with cartoon images of sinister Russians trying to infiltrate the catering staff...

I shook myself. I was losing my grip on reality. In all probability, Jenkins had discovered the body on his own, by accident. The valet might then have informed somebody, or he may have moved the body on his own, for reasons as yet unknown. From a practical point of view, I wondered, would he have been capable of shifting Sinclair without help? I knew from experience what a great lump the man was, and Jenkins was not exactly muscular. In fact, he was a rather slender fellow, perhaps five feet eight or nine in height. But if there was a pressing reason, I suspected even he would be able to drag his master a few hundred yards. There weren’t any scuff marks outside the dining room doors, however, which meant that the body had been carried rather than dragged. Could Jenkins have lifted the man across his shoulder, like a fireman?

I pulled the sheet back over Sinclair’s face. The bruise on his forehead seemed, bizarrely, to be on the mend. Perhaps the valet had cleaned it up, as a last gesture of respect towards his master. Who knows what goes on in the mind of a servant in a situation like that. Maybe they act like dogs, refusing to leave their masters’ side. I could just imagine Hargreaves standing sadly over my grave, digging his heels in and refusing to go home.

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