A Painted Devil

by Jamie Probin

  The feud had lasted for centuries, stoked by an increasingly firm deadlock and further fired as industrial progress rendered the twenty mile separation of the homes less and less significant.

  The enmity eventually dissipated when the two families acknowledged that the immaterial prize over which they had fought no longer existed. The old feudal system had metamorphosed into a different social structure, and the two clans could now not only co-exist, but even strengthen each other. Competition had become detrimental to both, and security in the face of social revolution was found in cooperation.

  The dispute had officially ended some seventy years ago when Richard Anstruther married Helen Wentworth, great aunt of Sir George Wentworth, and merged the bloodlines. Since then the two families had been close knit, and it was said that, should anyone take the time to analyse the complicated genealogies, the family trees were now all but a single entity. Nevertheless, old jealousies die hard, at least insofar as perception is concerned. Any troubles within the walls of the respective homes would be kept quiet and handled discreetly; the Wentworths and the Anstruthers were no longer foes but both were still fiercely proud of their heritage.

  Sir Oliver and Sir George had, in particular, become great friends, especially in later life after the former retired. Sir Oliver had once been a justice at the Old Bailey, but several years ago had hung up his wig, and subsequently taken over the role of chief constable for Gloucestershire. The two men enjoyed each other’s company and found a rare empathy over the increasingly anachronistic positions they occupied. Sir Oliver’s son and daughter were both close to Charles, although the son, Christopher Anstruther, had chosen to go and live full time in the French Riviera several years ago.

  When the engagement of Charles Wentworth and Andrea Ketterman was announced, a dinner invitation from Sir Oliver Anstruther had soon followed. It was an opportunity for the Anstruther family to invite the cream of Cirencester society and give the happy couple their best wishes without having to compete with the masses. The dinner was particularly warranted since, in addition to the bond with Charles, Andrea was a close friend of Sir Oliver’s daughter, Sarah. The two had met when very young and discovered a camaraderie which defied all expectations of class. Andrea had become a familiar figure in Anstruther Hall during her youth, and although her presence was less frequent these days it was still welcome. At one time, in fact, it seemed that Andrea’s presence as a bride-to-be would be in a very different capacity, as Christopher Anstruther fell in love with her – according to some in the area he even proposed – but the union was quickly dismissed as a non-starter.

  In the event this celebration dinner made perfect sense, since both the bride and groom were good friends of the Anstruther family, and equally comfortable in their present surroundings.

  The meal served up by Sir Oliver’s chef had been magnificent, four courses of exquisite fare that some of London’s finest restaurants would have sold their souls to offer. Andrea swallowed the last mouthful of dessert and leaned back with a groan. ‘I will never eat again. That was absolutely delicious.’

  Sarah Anstruther dabbed at her sides of her mouth with her napkin and sighed her agreement. ‘I know. Coleman is a wonderful chef, but this kind of thing is not good for the figure.’

  Charles patted his already quite rotund stomach and grinned. ‘I think if I lived here I would settle for being fat and happy.’

  ‘Make the most of it darling,’ said Andrea. ‘Once we are married I shall be keeping an eye on that waistline. It shall be a diet for you if I see too much growth!’

  Charles rolled his eyes at his host’s daughter. ‘Maybe I should marry you instead Sarah?’

  Sarah shook her head. ‘I’m already planning to marry Coleman.’

  Charles roared with laughter. ‘Oh you are?’

  ‘Absolutely. If only to make certain you two don’t poach him from our staff, once you are settled at Blackwood.’

  The meal was the final event of the day’s activities. Charles and Andrea had been at the Hall for most of the afternoon, and much of their time had been spent on social duties with Sir Oliver’s visitors. At last, towards the end of the feast, the novelty of their company seemed to have waned, and the invited guests had taken to competing for Sir Oliver’s favour, leaving the betrothed couple to relax with their friend. Charles had always respected and admired Sarah Anstruther, and it was nice to know that he would enjoy being in the company of at least one of his wife’s friends. He knew it would soon be time for the female contingent of the party to leave the room and do whatever it was they did, whilst the men boosted their physicians’ business by smoking and drinking their way through their host’s stockpile. He would have to endure one last bout of upper class small talk for the evening – but then such duties would one day be his frequent responsibility as head of the Wentworth family.

  As the ladies departed the dining room, leaving the men to indulge their egos over port and cigars, Andrea and Sarah whispered and giggled together like schoolgirls. Charles was watching them leave with a smile when he became aware of Sir Oliver Anstruther at his shoulder. This peer of the realm was a bony man whose limbs had a tendency to arrange themselves into curious angles with each other. The effect was that of a man standing in a room whose ceiling is six inches too low. Even his features were geometric oddities, with his hooked nose and protruding ears adding to the general angular theme. Nevertheless, what struck one the most about the man was not his appearance but a strength of personality. In the days before his retirement from the bench Justice Anstruther could dominate his courtroom without saying a word. With his lean frame hunched over his gavel and his green eyes giving everyone present the impression that he was inspecting their souls, Sir Oliver struck fear into not only the defendants and counsels, but often the innocent spectators as well.

  Barristers in West London were known to dread their cases being assigned to the Hinckley Street court where Anstruther had reigned early in his career. They would no doubt be amazed to find that in his retirement Sir Oliver was considered not only a popular chief constable, but also a fine host, and that invitations to Anstruther Hall were craved throughout the county.

  ‘That chap Ronald Asbury,’ said the erstwhile judge, ‘he was a friend of yours wasn’t he?’

  A mild look of distaste ghosted across Charles’ face. He had no wish to speak ill of the dead. ‘At one time we were close. Our relationship became a little strained before he left the country and of course it’s some time since I last saw him. I’m rather sad he’s dead though. It doesn’t seem real somehow.’ He looked at his host. ‘I didn’t realise you knew him...’

  Sir Oliver shook his head. ‘Oh I didn’t. The reason I mention it is that I was just chatting with an old friend of mine the other day, Henry Neville, who is now the chief constable down in Hampshire, and he told me that the case is still bothering him.’

  ‘Case?’ replied Charles, puzzled. ‘Hardly that, surely? I mean, one never would think that a person one knows would commit suicide, but I wouldn’t have thought the police would still be interested.’

  ‘Ah but that’s the point. It wasn’t suicide. Asbury was murdered.’

  Charles gaped at Sir Oliver.

  ‘Murdered?’

  ‘That’s what old Neville told me. He said they had no leads at all and the whole thing was something of an embarrassment.’

  Charles shook his head in disbelief. ‘Andrea was down in Southampton when they discovered the body. She said it was suicide.’

  ‘That’s the official line they’re giving out, to cover up the fact that they have no earthly idea of what happened. He was discovered in a room of the Metropole Hotel, shot in the head, with the gun in his hand, the door locked and by all accounts no clues or motive. You can see how they could pass it off as suicide, and yet Neville privately assures me it was murder.’

  Charles shook his head once again, as though unable to grasp what he was hearing. ‘I just can’t believe it. Who would want to
kill Ronnie?’

  Sir Oliver ran his hand slowly along the mahogany sideboard and cast his eye over a small marble bust which stood on it. ‘I think that is the question baffling the Southampton police. They simply can’t find any explanation for the crime. I told Neville I would have a word with you, in case you could think of something no one else knew.’

  ‘You mean, do I know a reason for someone to murder Ronnie? Of course not! The whole thing is preposterous. The police must be mistaken. I’m not saying that everyone liked Ronnie – he could certainly rub people up the wrong way sometimes – but I can’t imagine anyone actually hated him.’

  Sir Oliver raised an interrogative eyebrow. ‘There were rumours that you did, you know?’

  Charles declined any pretence at shock or outrage at this comment. He had heard enough tales of his host’s courtroom manner to know that a bluff was ill-advised. ‘After he tried to steal Andrea, you mean? I think “hate” would be too strong a term, although heated words were exchanged between us. I considered his behaviour reprehensible, and I said so. He implied that Andrea loved him, and would have chosen him if it had not been for the Wentworth fortune.’

  ‘Was he right?’ asked Sir Oliver, with a surprisingly blunt lack of tact.

  Charles shrugged.

  ‘I hope not,’ he replied candidly. ‘I don’t think so, although I don’t mind admitting he got into my head with that idea. But she did choose me. Her reason for doing so is irrelevant. I don’t mind admitting I felt great antipathy towards Ronnie for a while, but only because I feared Andrea might prefer him; once she chose me… well, I had no reason to dislike him anymore. It was more like pity than anything.’

  ‘I can understand that.’

  ‘But none of this is germane to the issue,’ said Charles. ‘We’re talking about someone with a motive to murder Ronald Asbury – and I can’t believe that any such person exists.’

  ‘Ah but then we’d all say that about you, and yet someone sent you those poisoned chocolates.’

  Charles did not know what to reply to that comment. The word “tactless” was not quite apropos for Sir Oliver; the connotation it carried, that its subject was naïve or ignorant of etiquette, did not apply to the man. He understood propriety and could conform to it when necessary, but had no use for it in his own house. He simply said what he was thinking, feeling that it was the most efficient way to conduct matters.

  Nevertheless, Charles had no wish to discuss the attempts on his life in the present company. He doubted that Sir Oliver knew the whole history of the affair – news of the poisoned chocolates incident had inevitably spread, but the earlier efforts in the church and in the folly were less well known – and the idea of elaborating on the situation held little appeal. A careless shrug and a few desultory remarks moved the conversation on into more indifferent matters.

  Eventually Charles decided to take his leave, and bid his host farewell.

  ‘Shall we retire and find your betrothed?’ asked Sir Oliver.

  ‘Didn’t you know? Andrea is staying here tonight with Sarah. You would think that it was too late to change anything about the wedding now, but I believe they plan on discussing every last detail anyway,’ smiled Charles. ‘However I would like to say goodbye to them both.’

  The men left the dining room and found that the ladies had already broken up their social gathering. Andrea and Sarah were curled up in a large leather sofa near the fire, discussing something in whispers punctuated by the occasional giggle. Andrea jumped up when she saw Charles.

  ‘Are you leaving?’

  Charles nodded and they all walked to the front door. He shook Sir Oliver’s hand and thanked him for a wonderful evening, pressed Sarah’s hand and finally kissed his fiancée lightly on the cheek, promising to see her the next day.

  He climbed into his car, pushed the starter and slid the engine into gear. The car slowly rolled away, and as it did so a patch of fluid on the ground caught the reflection of the pale moon.

  For a moment Andrea let the image dance over her eyes, mesmerised by the rhythmic undulation of the ripples. Suddenly those eyes widened and she bolted after the car.

  ‘Charles!’ she screamed. ‘Charles! Stop!’

  The sudden cry alerted Charles and he saw his fiancée in the rear view mirror, stumbling along as she tried to run in a dress not designed for the feat. Immediately he stamped his foot on the brake pedal, but it felt no resistance and the pedal sank limply to the floor. Although the speed of the car was not great, it showed no signs of decreasing.

  For an instant Charles felt a wave of irrational panic wash over him, born of the knowledge that his fate was no longer in his own hands. Then the calmer, more logical side of his brain took over, telling him that his car was on a flat and gravelled private drive, travelling barely fifteen miles per hour. He oscillated the wheel several times to ease the speed down and then angled onto the grass where the increased friction brought the car to a standstill.

  Charles emerged from the car, a little shaken. It was not the experience itself which had distressed him, so much as the thought of what might have occurred if he had joined the road back to Upper Wentham, which dropped quite steeply with several sharp bends. Andrea reached him and threw her arms around his torso.

  ‘Darling! Are you alright?’

  Charles nodded unconvincingly as Sarah and Sir Oliver arrived at the car.

  ‘What happened?’ cried Sarah.

  Sir Oliver showed them his finger, which was covered in the slightly green-tinged liquid that had been on the ground.

  ‘Brake fluid,’ he said. ‘And a lot of it.’

  Andrea looked at Charles with fear written large in her eyes.

  ‘They’ve tried again, haven’t they Charles? They’ve tried to kill you again.’

  Chapter 18

  Douglas McKinley entered the living room, and the discomfort on his face was not purely owing to the aches still wracking his body. He had awoken that morning feeling barely better than the previous day, but no amount of protestation from his wife was going to prevent him at least telephoning to his office. Samantha had been unhappy at his determination to do so, but like most wives who lived in the knowledge that they ruled the homestead, she knew the occasions on which to concede.

  ‘What is it Douglas?’

  He grimaced and shook his head, which only increased the discomfort he felt. He really needed to stop doing that.

  ‘Bad news from the office.’

  ‘What kind of news?’

  ‘If the bill for the factory doesn’t pass… well, let’s just say it will be held against me.’

  ‘They said that?’

  ‘Well, not in so many words,’ admitted Douglas, ‘but nobody ever says what they actually mean in Westminster. Trust me, I can read between the lines. Don’t forget that the home secretary’s constituency borders ours, and some of the jobs involved would go to his constituents. I gather he has taken a rather personal interest in the matter.’

  Samantha frowned. ‘So if the bill passes you will have Sir George making things difficult for you, and if it doesn’t it will be the home secretary?’

  Douglas answered with a humourless smile. ‘Damned if I do, damned if I don’t.’

  ‘What will you do?’

  Douglas took the cup of coffee his wife proffered him and drank gingerly.

  ‘Well the home secretary won’t budge, that’s for certain, and you know how he holds the prime minister’s ear. I suspect that if I disappoint him I can wave goodbye to my cabinet role. No, my only hope is to talk to Sir George and convince him to change his mind.’

  ‘But not today,’ responded Samantha, firmly. ‘You’re not well enough to deal with that, and Sir George has the wedding to worry about. Wait until next week, when he has less on his plate and is in a better mood.’

  Douglas acknowledged the wisdom in this suggestion and drank his coffee in silence. Gradually Samantha realised that her husband’s intense brooding was not entirely due t
o problems at work. On the second occasion she caught his concerned gaze focussed on her she demanded to know what was wrong.

  ‘There’s something else too, isn’t there? Something as well as the bill?’

  Douglas’ uncomfortable expression answered the question, and Samantha knew that the trouble concerned her.

  ‘Tell me, Douglas.’

  Her husband faced the moment he had postponed since yesterday. Ever since the anonymous letter had arrived he had considered how to deal with the situation. By the time his wife had returned the previous evening from her trip to Oxford he had debated himself to an impasse. Should he confront her with the letter, or say nothing? He had found good arguments for and against each position, and he also realised that the issue was being further clouded by the knowledge that confronting Samantha with the note must inevitably reveal the fact that he had opened her letter.

  Just as it seemed he would never resolve his dilemma, a sudden certainty descended on him. He stood and walked to his desk, where he opened a drawer and removed the letter. He walked silently to his wife and placed it gently in her hands. Samantha read the short message slowly, a growing look of despair flooding her features. After several moments her shoulders slumped and she buried her face in her hands.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Douglas. ‘I had to open it.’

  Samantha raised a tearful face to him, and there was no recrimination in the gaze – only shame.

  ‘I hoped…,’ she paused, choking on her tears, ‘I hoped the letters had stopped coming.’

  ‘How many have there been?’ asked Douglas, his gentle voice disguising a growing alarm.

  She shook her head. ‘I’m not sure. Six or seven maybe?’