by Jamie Probin
‘It is my passion, Harris. History in general, but the history of my family in particular. I read it at Pembroke, you know. Charles tells me that you are at Cambridge.’
‘That’s right. Magdalene. But I’m a mathematician, strictly a numbers man. History was never my thing I’m afraid.’
‘I just find the whole thing so utterly fascinating. When one sees where one came from, one understands better who one is.’
Harris diplomatically kept his thoughts on this to himself.
‘I’ve been enthralled by history since I was a child,’ continued Sir George. Harris was not aware he had given any indication he wished to know more about his host’s reasons for loving history, but apparently he was going to get them anyway.
One characteristic Harris had noticed in many of the aristocrats he had encountered in his career was a belief that others had the desire to know their opinions on everything. It was not so much manners as a sense he would need Sir George’s full trust to successfully complete his mission, which motivated Harris to dutifully play the role his host had clearly assigned to him.
‘An unusual passion for a young boy.’
‘Ordinarily,’ agreed Sir George. ‘But I was a sickly child, forever contracting one disease or another. Mumps, measles, chickenpox... you name it, I had it. I had quite a severe bout of polio which left me unable to walk for several months. In fact I still have a limp as you can see, and I failed the medical when I tried to enlist for the War. Well anyway, my mother cared for me during my many illnesses and she would tell me about events from history and bring me books whilst I lay in bed.
‘By my teenage years I enjoyed good health, but I was completely smitten with history and devoured everything I could find on it.’
Harris, by now thoroughly bored of this anecdote and fearing he would be expected to continue his stooge role indefinitely, made a conversational gambit to change the topic.
‘I must say, these gardens of yours are magnificent.’
He had correctly judged that Sir George would never object to a new subject that glorified his family or home.
‘Thank you,’ he beamed. ‘I think so too. They are probably my favourite part of the estate.’
In the distance stood the gardener, Dunsett, with whom Harris had spoken earlier. He was leaning on a spade, wiping his brow and surveying his latest work.
‘I spoke to that young fellow on my way up the drive. Surly little beggar, but you can’t argue with his results.’
‘Yes, I find him rather truculent, I must admit,’ agreed Sir George. ‘He’s only been here a year. Before that Kilgallon, the head gardener, managed alone, but he’s getting older and I thought some help might be in order. The gardens create such an important first impression.’
‘They are breathtaking,’ said Harris, truthfully.
‘And it is especially important they look their best now, with the wedding on Saturday.
For a moment Harris had forgotten about the imminent nuptials of Charles Wentworth and Andrea Ketterman.
‘That will be here?’
‘The service will be at St. Anne’s, naturally. There will be a lunch in the banqueting hall afterwards for close friends and family. But after that the reception will be out here.’
‘Are many people invited?’
‘The whole village is invited to the service and reception. This is a celebration for all of Upper Wentham.’
It was clear that, although the notions of country squire, lord of the manor and similar roles had long since faded into the realms of the nominal, Sir George still saw his position in Upper Wentham as a very real and practical one. He took his place seriously and, for all his pomposity, was genuinely fond of the village.
‘The gardens are a place where the villagers can come and enjoy the view. Blackwood Manor has always had an open gate to the locals, a tradition I have upheld.’
There it was again, this obsession with what “The Wentworths” had “Always Done”. Harris’ thoughts had strayed back to his visit with Richard Carmichael. He began to see that Carmichael had not exaggerated when he spoke of the value Sir George put on his family line. Harris thought it would be wise to pander to that esteem for a while.
‘I’ve heard so much about Blackwood Manor, and the Wentworth family,’ he commented. ‘They both clearly deserve their reputation. It’s an honour to see your house and its grounds.’
Sir George swelled at these words.
‘Why don’t we go upstairs? I’d like to show you something.’
He ushered Harris back inside and together they walked back through the wide panelled corridor to the grand entrance hall. Harris peered through open doors on the way, each revealing a room that was magnificent in its own way. Opulent furniture and lavish sculptures sat on tastefully chosen Persian rugs. Every room had carved wooden wainscoting running around the entire perimeter, giving each an air of both money and history. Yet for all the grandiosity of design, all the splendid art and furniture, the house remained somehow impersonal. Even in his bachelor ignorance Harris could sense that Blackwood Manor lacked a female touch.
In the great hall an ornately crafted central staircase snaked up to an open gallery which ran around all four sides of the hall. Sir George led Harris towards this and the two men climbed the wide steps. At the top of the stairs curved beams of wood formed archways along the perimeter of the gallery, creating the effect of windows giving onto the magnificent entrance hall below. Corridors projected from each corner of the square, winding away into the depths of the house.
Sir George selected one of the corridors, entirely panelled in oak and dimly lit by recessed lamps, and Harris saw that it was lined with paintings.
‘See these? These are portraits of every head of the family since Oliver Wentworth was first knighted in 1537.’
Harris surveyed the series of pictures lining the gallery. Each portrait was an enormous oil-on-canvas, and it seemed to him that there was no hereditary inferiority complex running through the Wentworth genes. There seemed equally little fashion sense, judging by the third incumbent on the wall, whose ruff was so outrageously large it looked as though he were sticking his head through the top of a millstone. As Sir George led Harris down the shadowy corridor, he found that whilst the panache of the family improved over the years, their judgement over what constituted a suitable pose for a picture became erratic to the point of absurdity. Several had abandoned the traditional head portrait, in order to depict themselves in action; and one, if Harris were not vastly mistaken, seemed to wish that history should remember him rescuing a small child from some unknowable menace lurking just out of the picture.
‘It is a tradition that each portrait be painted by a Dutch artist,’ said Sir George, ostentatiously. ‘This one, my great grandfather, was painted by a young Vincent Van Gogh, and must now be worth a fortune.’
The pair walked the remainder of the gallery, finally coming to rest in front of the portrait of the current head of the family. Harris had to admit it was a fine piece; although portraying a much younger Sir George it showed a fair depiction of the man standing by his side, but whereas the real peer was by no means handsome, the picture had managed to instil a dashing and chiselled aspect to his features.
Harris moved his attention to the portrait to the left of Sir George’s, the penultimate painting, and peered at the engraving.
Sir Alfred Wentworth. 1860-1927.
The man portrayed was very like Sir George, with the same thin features, high cheekbones and aquiline nose. Nevertheless there was a different aura about this picture and Harris realised it came from the eyes. Whilst Sir George’s portrait had eyes as dull and stoic as the originals, Sir Alfred’s shone with a roguish tint. It struck Harris that the portrait was the work of a truly great artist. Maybe not one capable of dramatic statements or visionary invention, but then the task of the portrait painter is not to create, but to depict – and the anonymous Dutchman who had worked for Sir Alfred had imbued his pigments w
ith an impish and wicked essence. Even this two-dimensional likeness radiated a likeable and yet inherently untrustworthy gentleman.
‘Your father?’ asked Harris, rhetorically.
Sir George nodded briefly, but Harris caught his expression from the corner of his eye. It was a curious mixture of respect and distaste. The very fact that Sir George did not use this opportunity to gush forth another chapter of the illustrious Wentworth family history told Harris all he needed to know.
He changed tack.
‘Is there no portrait of young Charles?’
‘Not yet. It is considered bad luck to have a portrait commissioned before the son has actually inherited the title.’
Harris thought of Charles’ round face, full features and fair hair. His portrait would certainly add much-needed warmth to the unbroken chain of angular, grey faces currently lining the gallery.
‘His picture will stand out a mile in here,’ chuckled Harris.
Sir George smiled tightly but seemed to find little humour in the observation.
‘I will never know,’ said Sir George, fatalistically. ‘He will not accede to the title until my death.’
Suddenly, from nowhere, the truth dawned on Harris: Sir George did not really like his son. In fact he barely looked on him as a living, breathing man at all. Charles Wentworth was primarily a vessel to carry the name of Wentworth on its journey into the future. The person of Charles Wentworth was much less valuable to his father than the portrait that would one day hang next to Sir George’s.
The actions of his father had left a deep scar on Sir George’s psyche, one that coloured his outlook on everything to do with his family. Whilst they were still living, a Wentworth represented an unknowable threat, a myriad different possibilities that could bring ruin onto the glorious line. Only when they were dead, and their image hung on this wall, did all those terrible possibilities collapse, and another branch on the family tree was safe. It was like some bizarre version of Schrödinger’s Cat, the odd thought experiment of quantum mechanics he had read about the previous year. Schrödinger's Ancestor perhaps? A relative that, while alive, might simultaneously be both an integral part of a dynasty but also its downfall.
Somehow his host had become so obsessed with his lineage that the Wentworths themselves meant nothing as people, but everything as links in a very distinguished chain.
In that moment Harris appreciated what Charles had meant when he spoke of his father considering having only one son as a tremendous risk. To be the last of the Wentworths (or, more accurately, the penultimate) would, to Sir George Wentworth, be an unpardonable sin.
It suddenly occurred to Harris that his host looked older than his fifty-three years, and he thought again of the recent events. Three times his only heir had cheated death in the last year. Would there be another attempt? And would it be successful? When he looked at Sir George again he could now see the stress etched into his skin, and he realised that this was no mere case of ordinary paranoia. If Sir George could have hired someone to mould an heir from Charles’ rib he would have happily paid half of his estate to do so; but in the event he was doing everything he could to keep his son alive. But not out of love, thought Harris, not out of paternal affection. Instead it was out of guilt at his own failure to adequately populate Blackwood Manor with a bounty of little male Wentworths. Once the new Mr and Mrs Charles Wentworth started producing bouncing baby boys Sir George would breathe much easier. He wondered who had suffered the most from those various murder attempts. It was Charles’ life that was being threatened, but Sir George who was being tortured.
Sir George led Harris further along the corridor and down different stairs into the east wing of the house. The passages were uniformly panelled in fine oak and a deep velvet carpet cushioned their every step. Pieces of art were discerningly placed along the mutely lit corridors and an atmosphere of sophisticated serenity lay over the whole place.
Presently Sir George opened a door and gestured Harris into a room so cavernous he momentarily lost his perception. The only similar room Harris had ever seen had been a ballroom, but this seemed to be nothing more than an enormous study, with a small library at one end. The room had its own gallery hugging the perimeter halfway to the ceiling, with a spiral staircase snaking up from the library end to reach it. As his eyes accustomed themselves to the sunlight streaming through the window, Harris saw that this gallery was lined with bookshelves too.
‘I keep my more precious books and documents in here, rather than the main library.’
Harris nodded knowingly, as though he had much the same problem.
At Sir George’s invitation he sank into an extremely comfortable leather armchair, and suddenly wished he could be left alone to doze and think for hours. The warm sunlight bathing his face, the distant birdsong, the sound of the river gently winding along its ancient path, all combined to lull Harris into a soporific trance. Sir George, now immune to these calming effects, ripped through Harris’ peace with a roar of frustration.
‘Damn this wedding to blazes!’
Harris opened his eyes with surprise at this outburst.
‘Have you ever organised a wedding, Harris?’
Harris shook his head and shuddered at the prospect. He had carefully avoided being involved in a wedding of his own, and had no intention of accidentally finding his way into someone else’s.
‘I never thought I would either,’ grumbled Sir George. ‘That’s a benefit of only having a son. But Miss Ketterman’s parents are dead and her aunt is not well off. It seemed only right that I should take over the duty.’
‘Very noble,’ agreed Harris. ‘You approve of your son’s fiancée?’
Sir George nodded slowly.
‘I do. She is not, perhaps, of the stock I had desired, but I hope I am broad-minded enough to acknowledge she is a fine young lady, and just what Charles needs. She managed as an orphan from a young age, you know. She is quite a survivor.’
Harris smiled to himself at the glint that accompanied this last word. In Sir George’s eyes, any female who could pass good survival genes to his grandchildren was invaluable.
‘She’s very practical, if you know what I mean. Not in a mechanical sense – I doubt the girl could hammer a nail into a wall – but she makes sure that things which need doing get done. Credit where it is due, she has taken care of virtually all of this blasted wedding.’
‘Well, it will soon be over.’
‘Yes, thank goodness. You, of course, are welcome to attend. I think you may find it a good opportunity to observe some of the people involved in our village life, especially during the garden reception.’
‘That will be useful,’ agreed Harris, ‘although I can’t wait until Saturday before starting to investigate. I have virtually nothing to go on as yet, and I need to start talking to people. That’s how crimes are solved, you know? By talking to people – or, rather, by listening to them. Every fact and clue one needs will be known by somebody, somewhere; you just need to ask the right person. Of course, there is usually more to start with than in this case.’
‘Such as?’
‘Well, an actual crime for one thing, rather than a back-catalogue of unsuccessful attempts. The occasional witness too. Yes, it’s hard to know where to start in this case, or where it will go. I hope you are ready for the unpredictable, Sir George. In my experience the only guarantee of a murder investigation – and therefore, I presume, an attempted murder investigation too – is that it will turn up more than you ever expected. You may find yourself learning things you would prefer not to know.’
‘If it keeps my son alive, Harris, that’s all I care about.’
‘I may remind you of that later. The only thing I feel certain about with this case is that there will prove to be much more than meets the eye. After all, our prospective murderer seems to have an outlandishly elaborate technique. If I wished to kill someone I’m sure I could find fifty easier and more reliable ways than dropping a statue on them or s
ending poisoned chocolates. Why don’t they just lure Charles out one day and knock him over the head with a vase?’
‘Just for clarification,’ said Sir George, in an acid tone, ‘your task here is to keep my son alive, not to constructively criticise his assailant’s methods.’
‘Oh you know what I mean. I feel that when we know why such frankly preposterous methods of murder were tried, we might know a little more about our aspiring killer.’
‘Shooting someone with a revolver is hardly outlandish,’ protested his host.
‘It is if you can’t hit a stationary target at fifteen feet under no pressure,’ argued Harris. ‘Almost anyone could make that shot.’
Suddenly Sir George leaned forward.
‘You have to stop them Harris!’ There was a wild, desperate glint in his eyes. ‘Don’t let them kill my son.’
Though he said no more, the implication hung manifestly in the choice of words. “Don’t let them kill my son”, rather than “don’t let them kill Charles”. There was no doubt that he was thinking more about the termination of the Wentworth line than the life of Charles Wentworth himself. Harris allowed the idea to linger before posing a question:
‘Who do you believe is responsible for these attempts?’
Sir George pondered this with interest, as though the query had never entered his mind before.
‘Honestly, I have no idea. For a time I wondered whether Ronald Asbury… I could imagine him as a murderer. Yes, if he wanted something he wouldn’t balk at murder to get it. And towards the end there was real hatred there between him and Charles. But I can’t for the life of me see how he could have managed the first affair, he was out of the country for the second and dead by the third.’
‘That’s quite a collection of alibis,’ agreed Harris. ‘Besides, Sir George, there is something you don’t know. Ronald Asbury did not commit suicide. He was murdered.’
A vague recollection nagged at him, of Hollingsworth saying that the death of Ronald Asbury was officially recorded as suicide, and begging Harris not to compromise that position unless it was absolutely necessary. Something like that anyway; he would worry about it later
