by Jamie Probin
‘Is all this building up to you telling me that you were a Bolshevik or a Communist or some rot in college? Who cares? People do all sorts of nonsense as a student, and no one thinks twice about it once they have left.’
Joseph shook his head sadly, and something in his demeanour told her that she had underestimated the forthcoming revelation.
‘It’s worse than that. You see, when war was declared, everyone was on fire, falling over themselves to enlist and go to do their bit to give the Kaiser what for. Deep down I think I wanted to do that too, more than most. But my damned desire for eccentricity saw a way for me to be superior to everyone else. If the other fellows were all off to war, then I would be a pacifist.
‘I had no moral grounds for the objection, so I created highbrow political ideas that, in my mind, invalidated the reasons for the war. I was editing a college newspaper at the time, and I filled it with tripe about how the whole thing was organised by the regimes to control the working man, or else how we were no better than the Germans, or a hundred other stupid opinions. I was so pleased with myself for being more... enlightened than the rest of the men. Even when reports kept flooding back of good and decent chaps who had been killed, I continued with my pompous pacifism.’
He paused and banged his fist down on the desk with distress.
‘What a bloody idiot I was! And of course, there were plenty of others who actually did feel that way. Can you believe that? Supposedly intelligent men who actually thought the war was some bourgeois conspiracy? Anyway my paper became something of a cause célèbre in their circles. Truthfully I despised them, but I suddenly found I was the voice of a group, and if there was one thing I enjoyed more than being an individualist, it was speaking on behalf of a group who looked to me for leadership.
‘Then, of course, along came January 1916, and conscription. Previously people had looked on us non-fighters with suspicion and disapproval, but now we were being called up. Some of the men from our pacifist group soon lost their little ideals and trooped off as they were told; but others became conscientious objectors, and of course with my position as leader… so did I.’
Rebecca gave a slight and involuntary gasp. She had not meant to make a sound, and she quickly recovered her composure, but even that brief noise compounded her husband’s misery.
‘I know. A coward of the worst kind. And yet the worst thing was that it wasn’t even cowardice! I really, genuinely wanted to fight for my country, but I’d painted myself into a corner by then, and you know I’ve never been good at swallowing my pride.
‘And as if things weren’t bad enough, in the court martial, whilst everyone else was there on moral or religious grounds, our little group had to talk arrogantly about the politics of the situation, and explain to the whole military tribunal how the whole war was a farce and a sham. God, the nauseating drivel I came out with...’
He trailed off and stared unhappily at the white feather taunting him from the desk. He knew what she must be thinking. Jacob, the cousin she had adored, had enlisted at the outset of the conflict and was the victim of a German mine before his nineteenth birthday.
‘Rebecca, I’m so sorry.’
For an instant he thought he saw revulsion in her eyes, and he would not have blamed her. Then her businesslike manner returned. She briefly leaned over to kiss him on the cheek, and then took her seat again.
‘So how is it that none of this has ever come out before? We’ve been married for fifteen years. Why is this the first I have heard of it?’
‘I didn’t think anyone knew,’ mumbled Joseph, almost in tears. ‘There had been one saving grace to the affair. Throughout my whole time at Durham I used a different name.’
‘A different name?’
‘Yes. You see, my brother Harold had read at Durham too, and had only just graduated when I arrived. He had played rugby there and was very popular. Of course I didn’t want to be known as Harold’s younger brother – far too gauche – so I came up with the idea of using my middle name, and adding my mother’s maiden name to double barrel my surname.’
Rebecca stared at him and was amazed that she was not tempted to laugh.
‘You were Augustus Hollins-Smith?’
‘Augustus Smith-Hollins,’ he corrected her. ‘And of course I was perfectly entitled to use it legally. No one ever connected me with Harold. I thought the double-barrelled name was particularly clever in the early days when I was being Bolshevik – the idea of a gentleman supporting the revolution appealed enormously to my pretentious, asinine mind.
‘Anyway, the name stuck, and when I came to the conchy trials I kept on using it. It wasn’t actually a false identity, and everybody knew me by that name. By then my parents were dead, and legal administration was not strong in the war years. I had already realised that going through with the conscientious objection idea would have repercussions for my future, but I was such a supercilious little devil...’
‘And so no one ever knew afterwards that you had been a… that you had done it?’
Joseph flinched at her unwillingness to say the words, and shrugged helplessly.
‘I thought not. I realised after college that things had gotten out of hand. I dropped all the radical ideas. I was still maddeningly pompous – let’s face it, I still am - but at least I was conventional. I went back to being Joseph Hollins. When I met you I was terrified it would come out and you would tell me to go to hell. I couldn’t bear confessing, so I just waited and waited to see what would happen. But nothing ever did, and I gradually came to realise no one had ever connected me to the ex-prisoner that was Augustus Smith-Hollins. It was there in the records somewhere, but I came to understand that with the madness of that war there must be countless millions of records which would never see light of day again. I really thought I was safe. Until now.’
‘And this,’ said Rebecca, indicating the note and feather, ‘is the first intimation you have had that anyone knows the truth?’
There was a substantial pause, before Joseph nodded.
Rebecca stood, and once again the strength seemed to throb in her form.
‘In that case, we need to discover who sent this and what they know.’
‘And then what?’ asked her husband, miserably.
‘Then we take care of it.’
Chapter 13
The Hon. Douglas McKinley, Member of Parliament for Manhampton North, watched the familiar Gloucestershire countryside roll slowly past the window as the train eased towards Upper Wentham station. The train journey to and from London was not particularly quick or convenient, but whenever he spent the day in the House of Commons this was his chosen method of transport. He found the travel time perfect for both analysing the day’s proceedings and relaxing after the tension of whatever debates had dominated the House.
These days McKinley was spending more and more time in Westminster. He missed the time spent in his constituency, where his open-door office was very popular, but the progress was inevitable for someone as young and ambitious as Douglas McKinley.
His career so far had been exactly as Douglas’ father had intended, due in no small part to the fact that the senior McKinley had made it quite clear that his son’s allowance would increase in proportion to the latter’s compliance with his wishes.
John McKinley had been a popular MP for years, and organised an apprenticeship for Douglas as a secretary to one of his colleagues in the House. Although his father did not live to see it, his son eventually stood against the incumbent MP for Manhampton North, a popular but somewhat ageing ex-military man. Douglas won the seat easily and quickly established himself as a solid and reliable backbencher. His fresh yet slightly grizzled good looks and athletic frame made him a good public face, and his name was becoming known in the right circles. As his reputation grew, rumours began to circulate that a cabinet post might soon be a realistic possibility.
The train ground to a halt at the platform with a scream of mechanics, and Douglas climbed down from the ca
rriage into a thick cloud of steam. A few other people had also left the train and he waited to hand his ticket stub to the stationmaster. The station was a mile from the centre of Upper Wentham, but it was a pleasant, sunny evening with a fresh breeze, and he decided to walk home. The journey was more direct by a footpath which followed the river past Blackwood Manor, and so it was that ten minutes later Douglas was passing the Green Man. The breeze had subsided and a walk in the sun had made the evening seem far sultrier than it had at the station platform. Suddenly the idea of a cold beer seemed irresistible to Douglas and he ducked inside the pub.
Two minutes later, in the cool and dim building with a long draught of the local ale inside him, Douglas felt much better. His intention was not to stay long, because he knew Samantha would have his dinner ready soon, but as he looked around the quiet bar, he saw a plump, older man at a nearby table and recognition struck him.
‘It’s Dr Harris isn’t it?’
Harris, lost in a distant daydream, started as though two hundred volts had run through him.
‘Hmmm? What’s that?’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Douglas, ‘you don’t remember me I’m sure. We only met once, but I don’t forget faces. It is Dr Harris isn’t it?’
Harris grudgingly admitted that it was he, wondering if this was a prelude to some spurious acquaintance stinging him for a free beer.
‘I’m Douglas McKinley, MP for Manhampton North. We met last year at Scotland Yard; some function or other.’
Harris peered through his empty spectacles at the man, and recognition registered on his face.
‘So we did. Yes, I do remember you. Sit down, sit down. Oxford man weren’t you? Still,’ he added philosophically, ‘we all have skeletons in our closet.’
Douglas grinned. ‘What brings you to Upper Wentham? Surely not detective work?’
‘Perhaps. Either that or accommodating a paranoid fantasy, I’m still not sure which. Is this your neck of the woods?’
‘Yes, I live just down off the main road. This is my constituency. So, who’s our resident criminal then?’
Harris was about to give a non-committal answer, when an idea struck him.
‘If I told you that someone here was a murderer, who would you think it was?’
Douglas threw his head back and laughed heartily. Then he sensed this had not been a joke.
‘A murderer? You’re not serious? I assumed you were talking blackmail or poison pen letters or something. My dear fellow, I don’t think we have any psychopaths unaccounted for in Upper Wentham.’
‘My client thinks someone is trying to kill him.’
Douglas smiled good-naturedly as he took another long mouthful of beer.
‘Are you pulling my leg Harris?’ When the don made no response, he continued: ‘Who is it that thinks they are a marked man? Sir George Wentworth?’
Harris looked at the man with interest.
‘Why do you say that?’
Douglas shrugged.
‘If one of our old dears is secretly a crazed killer, Sir George would likely be their first target. He’s not the most popular man around the place.’
‘Actually it is his son, Charles Wentworth, who employed me.’
Douglas stared at his drinking companion.
‘Charles Wentworth told you someone was trying to kill him? Come on now, is this the God’s honest truth?’
‘Absolutely it is. You must have heard of his various brushes with death?’
‘You mean the incidents with the statue and the chocolates? Accidents, surely? Who on earth would want to kill Charles Wentworth? He can be a pompous ass from time to time, that is true, but generally he’s a fine chap. I can’t imagine he has an enemy in the world.’
‘Do you know him well?’
‘Well enough. We’re not best friends or anything, but in a village like Upper Wentham you can’t help but know people fairly well. And we frequently attend the same functions. I’ve always found him a pleasant young man.’
‘What about his fiancée, Andrea Ketterman? Do you know her?’
McKinley shrugged.
‘Again, I know her to talk to. She and my wife, Samantha, are friends.’
Harris foraged on without waiting for the theme to develop.
‘And what about Ronald Asbury?’
McKinley whistled. ‘You seem to know everyone in Upper Wentham!’
‘Did you know him back when he lived here?’
The MP sipped his beer thoughtfully.
‘Not really. He wasn’t my kind of chap at all. I never trusted Ronald Asbury. Or his father when he was alive.’
‘Why not?’
The MP considered this for a moment.
‘Something I could never put my finger on. You know how it is? Sometimes you just get the wrong feeling about a person. Call it intuition if you like, but I always felt he was a bad lot.’
‘So in your opinion Andrea Ketterman chose wisely in picking Charles Wentworth rather than Ronald Asbury?’
McKinley drained the remains of his pint and shot Harris a piercing glance.
‘That’s an interesting question, Harris. In fact that question divided the village at the time.’
Harris looked across the table with renewed interest.
‘Oh yes?’
‘Half the village thought that she had chosen Charles because she decided that Ronald Asbury was a wrong one. Handsome devil, very charming and all that, but she saw through him.’
‘Well possibly,’ mused Harris dubiously, ‘but in my experience if you give the average young woman the choice between a fine, upstanding gentlemen and a good-looking rogue she’ll make a fool of herself every time.’
‘Perhaps,’ agreed McKinley. ‘The other half of the village maintained that she really was in love with Asbury, but the idea of marrying Charles’ money and position, and becoming lady of the manor was too tempting.’
‘And so greed won over love? That would be more like human nature, sad to say. What do you think?’
‘I’m not sure. Samantha thinks it was definitely the latter option, and that Andrea’s head ruled her heart. She wouldn’t be the first woman to put money before love would she? All I will say is that I think if Ronald Asbury had not died, there might have been considerable drama before the wedding.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, women have changed their mind before, haven’t they? In fact in my experience,’ added Douglas with a grin, ‘it’s a rare day when they don’t. Talking of which, I had better get home before my good lady changes her mind about dinner, and decides to feed it to the dog. Goodbye Harris, it’s been a pleasure to see you. Feel free to drop in if you are passing. We live just off the Manhampton Road. Our cottage is the Laburnums.’
Later that evening, Harris retired to his room. It was surprisingly pleasant, for the exterior of the Green Man did not suggest it held secret luxuries within. True to his word, Charles Wentworth had arranged the best on offer for Harris, and the spacious and tastefully decorated room could not be faulted. The large window faced west and the late evening sun shone gently on Harris’ face as he sat at the desk, considering the case.
What did he know for certain? Or, at least, almost certain?
Well, there was definitely someone who had poisoned the box of chocolates sent to Charles Wentworth, and also fired a bullet at him. It seemed, therefore, reasonably certain that the incident in the church with the falling statue was also an intentional act rather than an accident. The conclusion, therefore, seemed to be that someone wished Charles Wentworth dead.
Hollingsworth had assured Harris that Ronald Asbury’s death had unequivocally been murder, not suicide, and that multiple banknotes in Asbury’s possession the day before his death had been used in Upper Wentham. In Harris’ mind this was enough to be convinced that Asbury’s killer was either living in Upper Wentham, or was close to a resident of the village.
He was not yet prepared to state positively that the same person must be r
esponsible for both Asbury’s murder and the attempts on Charles Wentworth’s life, but realistically it had to be the most likely option. It also seemed likely that the motives for the actions would be connected, and so far two connections between the men had been found: They had been friends, and worked together researching past events, in particular ones located in the parish records; and they had both fallen in love with the same woman, and quarrelled.
In Harris’ mind each explanation gave a separate frontrunner for the motive. Either the pair had discovered something from the past about a person which was compromising; or that a third person did not want Andrea Ketterman to marry either Charles Wentworth or Ronald Asbury.
The latter theory had initially seemed unlikely, given that Asbury had been murdered after Andrea had rejected him and become engaged to Charles; but if the half of the village that thought Miss Ketterman truly loved Ronald Asbury, and may yet change her mind, had been correct in their thinking, then perhaps a lovelorn suitor did lurk in the streets of Upper Wentham. Harris groaned at the possibility. A love triangle was bad enough – he did not think he could cope with a love quadrilateral.
If this were the case, he must be prepared for further developments before the wedding this Saturday, possibly even another attempt on Charles Wentworth’s life. And yet he was not here as a ruddy bodyguard; he could not trail his client’s every move waiting for some irrational criminal to make his next eccentric assassination attempt.
All he could do is find out information quickly, and try to make sense of it as soon as possible. He climbed into bed, swearing to himself that tomorrow he would talk to every person he could find from Charles Wentworth’s list.
After a good breakfast, of course.
Chapter 14
The sun broke magnificently the following morning, promising yet another day of beautiful summer weather. Its nascent rays glistened on the dew-laden grounds of Blackwood Manor and bathed the enormous house in a golden glow. The sprawling building was a testament to both financial and social status, built in a time where the symbols of a family’s position were paradoxically both the result of that position and the justification for it.
