A Painted Devil

by Jamie Probin

  Whatever the reason for the lack of another attempt at murder so far today, the likelihood of crime now seemed remote, and Harris felt the pressure and tension dissolve.

  In thinking that death would not visit Upper Wentham this day, however, he was very wrong.

  Harris delicately placed his ample behind on a wrought iron bench and surveyed the crowd. Already he knew many names and faces, and was interested to see their interaction. Adele Carmichael received an almost continuous stream of congratulations for her floral artistry in the church. Her son Richard moped around, scowling at all and sundry. Douglas McKinley chatted with those around him with the easy charm of a natural politician, whilst his wife clung to his arm, looking uneasy. A man whom Harris had learned was Joseph Hollins, the editor of a local newspaper, surveyed proceedings with a journalistic eye. Catherine Bowes sat in her wheelchair with an inscrutable expression, occasionally having to placate the dictatorial Mrs Dale as the latter fussed over her patient. A series of tents and marquees had been erected around the grounds, serving teas, coffees and extremely good pastries. In one of these, Mrs Blackstone had convened an extra-ordinary meeting of the library cabal, and they huddled around a table swapping morsels of gossip picked up during the day’s events.

  Many guests were little more than vaguely familiar faces as yet to Harris, previously seen walking on the green, or in Mrs Wall’s shop, but he still cast astute glances at them, noting which people spoke together, registering looks of animosity, and so forth. He enjoyed this stage of an investigation, as his mind processed, filtered and analysed the social web around him. After a while one face struck him for the fact that he had never seen it before. Harris’ memory was very visual, and rarely was a face forgotten – and this face was definitely new to Harris. Moreover it quickly became obvious that it was new to everyone else too. In a community as insular as Upper Wentham, newcomers were even observed in a distinctly different manner. The man was not dressed for a wedding, and was moving with the uncertainty of one who does not know the local terrain. The limp which hindered his mobility merely gave him more time to look around and betray his unfamiliarity with his surroundings.

  Harris watched as the man approached a couple of guests and doffed his hat. It was an awkward gesture, done in a manner which indicated he was more trying to imitate a technique he vaguely recalled, rather than an action he was used to doing routinely in his daily life. He appeared to be asking a question of the guests, and as much as their polite but firmly reserved manner in pretending to not know the answer showed the man’s status as an outsider, it was the lingering looks they gave his back as he shuffled on which spoke loudest of this man’s alien origins.

  Intrigued by the newcomer, Harris stood and manoeuvred himself into his path, trying to look as approachable as possible. Sure enough, the man caught Harris’ eye, and a hopeful glint appeared in his gaze. He altered his direction towards Harris and limped over, dragging his right leg slightly. For a moment Harris wondered if perhaps he had seen the man somewhere before after all, but the stranger’s face showed no light of recognition.

  ‘Excuse me, I wonder if you could help?’ The man’s accent was ambiguous, but did not sound local. ‘I’m looking for Sir George Wentworth. Do you know where he is?’

  Harris cast an appraising glance at the man. The slightly shabby clothes had once been a moderately expensive outfit, and one that had fit better than it did today. Similarly the man’s face, now somewhat lined, had once been very handsome. The general impression was of a person who had in an earlier time been used to more than life now held. Not ever of the upper classes, Harris thought, from which it is almost impossible to fall; but once of upper middle class and now sliding. The ageing remnants of wealth, the limp, the man’s slightly anaesthetised gaze, all spoke of a not uncommon story in this day and age: one who returned from the war, too damaged to return to his old life, and too conventional to forge a new one. For a time his veteran standing, his family and his money would have been enough, but families die away, money is spent and the world can only view the heroes of an old war with a practical, rather than abstract, sympathy for so long, before life must go on. The Great War, thought Harris, had claimed many, many victims over its four-and-a-half years, but it was still reaping helpless casualties nearly twenty years on.

  ‘Well,’ said Harris, ‘this is certainly his house, but as to where he might be right now I couldn’t say. You know, I presume, that his son married today, and that this garden party is in celebration of that event?’

  At these words a very curious expression flickered over the man’s face, and something resembling a grim smile twitched the side of his mouth.

  ‘I do know that indeed,’ replied the man. ‘In fact I hope to pass on my congratulations, although he is not expecting me.’

  ‘You might try his study,’ suggested Harris, giving directions from the entrance to the manor. ‘I have not seen Sir George, nor the happy couple, since we left the church, and it may be they are taking care of some business before making their appearance for the masses.’

  The man thanked Harris and limped away. Harris watched him go, and realised he was giving the same lingering gaze that the other villagers had. The insularity of Upper Wentham was infectious. As the man moved towards the open door of Blackwood Manor, however, Harris noticed him reach into his pocket, pull out a piece of paper and look at it briefly, before stuffing it back in his pocket. For a moment the limp seemed less of a hindrance, as if the man had drawn some strength from whatever he had just seen or read.

  Harris watched the man for a few moments more, and then dragged his attention back to the crowd. He returned to the eye of the social hurricane, and once more sauntered aimlessly, casually listening to snatches of conversation, and lingering innocently if any sounded interesting.

  After a while, the novelty of the occasion began wearing off, and the villagers started to gather into their regular groups. The heat of the day had reached its oppressive zenith, and Harris remembered the shaded folly where the gunshot incident had occurred, lurking out of sight behind the thick foliage bordering the house. It was virtually invisible from the grounds, and the thought of this quiet and cool haven was balm to his soul. He wound his path behind the large bushes lining the path and was soon relaxing on the stone bench hugging the interior circle of the folly. The white décor and stone circular roof had held fort against the summer sun, and the air itself was a tonic to Harris’ jaded body. As he gently leaned his head on a column he noticed the hole where the bullet had struck, narrowly missing Charles Wentworth, and a slight spasm of guilt jolted his system. He would just take a few minutes to recharge, he thought, and then back into the breach…

  Whilst the heat and the sight of the crowds were excluded from this refuge, the hum of conversation mingled with the air, an indistinct drone of a hundred insignificant comments and opinions. And somewhere in there, thought Harris ruefully, is the one crucial piece of information that I need. The person carrying it perhaps has no idea of its importance, giving it no more attention than the countless other trivialities drifting through their minds.

  At that moment there was a rustle of bushes, and two voices broke through and shattered this haze of conversation. Harris did not recognise the voices, but he realised that the people to whom they belonged had entered the secluded clearing which backed on to the folly. The pair were just feet away yet, Harris realised with a thrill of guilt-free delight, they had no idea he was in a position to hear every word. In general couples only sought out secluded spots for two reasons, and this particular couple sounded far too fraught and anxious for it to be the first.

  ‘Did you see that?’ demanded the man. It was an educated, public school voice, clipped and enunciated. ‘Did you see the way Henry Caruthers just looked at me? He knows.’

  ‘Nonsense. How could he know?’ asked the female voice.

  ‘How?’ repeated the man incredulously. ‘How? Hang it all, isn’t it obvious? Because that blackguard h
as told him, of course! It must be common knowledge. Everyone in the village knows what I did. The fellow writing the letters obviously doesn’t want money to stay quiet. He just wants to ruin me. Why? What have I done to him?’

  Harris regulated his breathing with effort and focussed on staying quiet. Ever since the possibility of a blackmailer in Upper Wentham had reared its head he had been searching for evidence of further blackmail, with no luck. Now, finally, he had something suggestive.

  ‘Darling, be logical. Do you really think, if people in the village knew, that it would not have come back to us? You must know that Upper Wentham is not the kind of place where everyone knows something except the person about whom they are talking. And I guarantee you that if Henry Caruthers thought you were a conscientious objector…’ (The man’s voice desperately shushed her, but she continued firmly) ‘…then he would say something to your face. If the story comes out – and I say if – then we will know about it, you can be certain of that. But until then, let’s worry about working out whoever this person sending you white feathers is. I’m sure that, sooner or later, he will demand money. It makes no sense to write anonymous letters with no ultimatum.’

  Harris desperately wanted to talk to this couple and find out more, but he wanted to do it on different terms. If he emerged from the folly now they would know he had overheard everything, and would be liable to react badly. He needed to approach them and coax the information out voluntarily. Unfortunately he did not even know what these people looked like, let alone who they were. They were immediately behind him but obscured from view by foliage, and close enough that any movement on his part would create sufficient noise to alert them. Instead he held his breath and waited for them to leave.

  ‘I can’t let people know the truth. I just can’t. It would ruin me. I would be the laughing stock of the country. No one at the club would speak to me again.’

  ‘Darling, you need to calm down. We can’t take care of this if you keep rushing off in a panic. You’re more likely to spill the secret yourself.’ Harris admired this woman’s firm, cool manner. He sensed he would like her – when he knew who she was. ‘Come on, let’s get back to the gardens.’

  Further rustling of bushes indicated that the couple had made their exit, but Harris waited a few moments to be certain. Finally he exhaled loudly, and disgorged himself of a beetle which had been resolutely climbing his leg on a quest for adventure.

  He hurried back to the crowd, scanning it hopefully for a man and a woman walking from his direction, but the swirl of activity had already swallowed the pair. Harris accepted the setback philosophically. Sooner or later he would come across them in the village, and he felt confident he would recognise their voices, especially the man’s clipped, Oxbridge accent and the affected way in which he cleared his throat before almost every sentence.

  The thought did occur that Sir George might recognise the description of the man’s voice, and the further thought occurred that he might discuss it in Sir George’s study over a brandy.

  It did not take long to find his host. In fact Sir George seemed to be as keen to speak to Harris as vice versa.

  ‘Harris, just the man. I’ve been hoping to speak to you.’

  ‘And I you, Sir George. Shall we retire to your study?’

  A look of gratitude crossed Sir George’s face and he led Harris towards the house. Villagers still greeted the squire, and thanked him for his hospitality, but Sir George’s replies had lost their genuine delight of earlier, and were more perfunctory now.

  ‘There was a gentleman looking for you earlier. Older fellow with a limp. I directed him to your study. Did he find you?’

  ‘No.’ Sir George looked puzzled. ‘I was there briefly earlier but nobody came.’

  ‘Ah well,’ said Harris philosophically. ‘I’m sure he will find you.’

  ‘A bit of peace and quiet will be nice,’ said Sir George as they passed through the door and into the cool air of the hall. ‘I haven’t even seen Charles or Andrea for an hour. I’m sure there are three times the number of people here today than actually live in the village.’

  They reached the study door and Sir George pushed it open.

  ‘I hope your supply of brandy has not been exhaust…’

  Harris’ words tailed off as the men gaped at the scene before them. Across the room the door of the safe stood wide open. In front of it, lying spread-eagled and face down on the floor, was the stranger with the limp with whom Harris had spoken earlier. And protruding from between his blood-soaked shoulder blades was the handle of a large silver letter-opener.

  Chapter 21

  The vast grounds of Blackwood Manor were lined by dense trees and the river on two sides, with a high brick wall surrounding the rest. The main gates were set into this wall, and beside them the Gate House, now the residence of Catherine Bowes, emerged almost organically from it . Owing to its original function there was no front garden to speak of, beyond a few flowerbeds, and so at the rear of the cottage a low stone wall separated a very small area of the grounds of Blackwood Manor from the rest, creating a back garden. Although this rear wall was only waist-high the arrangement usually provided effective privacy (since the Manor was several hundred yards away, and shielded by a small copse of trees), but today it overlooked the social event of the year, and half the village seemed to pass by at one time or another.

  Late in the afternoon Miss Bowes had retired there for a cold drink, and soon found herself chatting to Douglas McKinley. She had been a close friend and staunch supporter of McKinley’s father, and now took a great interest in his son’s political career.

  ‘I hear that Sir George has been making difficulties over your bill for the new factory.’

  Douglas smiled ruefully. ‘How did I know that you would already have heard that news? Nothing eludes you does it?’

  ‘When you get to my age you know where to listen. You also learn to recognise when someone is avoiding a question.’ She looked pointedly at him. ‘Especially politicians.’

  McKinley’s smile widened and he looked fondly at the old lady.

  ‘I’m sure my father would not have been half the MP he was without your support. Well, you’re right, I won’t deny that the bill is not going smoothly, but I’m hopeful I can talk Sir George round.’

  ‘I admire your optimism. Are we talking about the same Sir George Wentworth here?’

  ‘Oh it won’t be easy, I know that. Well, I hardly have to tell you about Sir George do I? But I can be very persuasive you know.’

  ‘Well I hope so Douglas. You realise the importance of this in your career, I’m sure.’

  From anyone else this comment might have drawn irritation from the MP, but coming from Catherine Bowes it garnered only an appreciative smile.

  ‘He’s just so damn obstinate once he’s made up his mind. Now, if I could find some historical evidence that a previous Wentworth had built a factory to great public acclaim I would have no problem,’ he laughed. ‘Anyway, enough talking shop, let’s enjoy the occasion.’

  They both looked out over the wall at the thronging masses of Upper Wentham milling around the tables and marquees erected on the vast lawns.

  ‘I remember once commenting to Sir George,’ murmured McKinley as he sipped his lemonade, ‘that you could fit the entire population of the village into his grounds. I did not realise at the time I was being so literal.’

  ‘It’s not just Upper Wentham,’ replied his hostess. ‘I think half the neighbouring villages are here as well. No doubt the lord of the manor is enjoying every moment.’

  A large black car pulled through the gates to their right and up the driveway, as though to emphasise her point.

  Douglas grinned as he watched it go. ‘You could be right. His son finally gets married, and most of the county show up to enjoy his hospitality. The old boy must think he’s died and gone to heaven.’

  ‘I rather think,’ said a new voice, with the clipped accent for which Harris had earlier sea
rched so desperately, ‘that it is somebody else who has died. Although without knowing his religious preferences I wouldn’t like to speculate about his going to heaven.’

  Joseph Hollins leaned his arms on the low wall and looked over. Douglas McKinley and Catherine Bowes both turned to stare at him.

  ‘What’s that Hollins?’ demanded the former. ‘Are you saying that someone has died in the grounds?’

  ‘Not just died – murdered.’ The journalist jerked his head in the direction of the Manor. ‘At the house.’

  ‘Murdered!’ exclaimed Catherine Bowes. ‘When?’

  Hollins shrugged. ‘In the last couple of hours I suppose. They’ve just found the body.’

  ‘Just now?’ The old lady gaped in disbelief. ‘You must be mistaken. We’d have heard about it, surely?’

  Hollins unlatched the gate and invited himself into the elegantly manicured garden. ‘About thirty minutes ago I saw the butler find Sir Oliver Anstruther and accompany him inside. Ten minutes later he did the same with Constable Smethurst.’

  ‘So that’s the local bobby and the chief constable of the county,’ said McKinley.

  ‘And do you know who that was?’ added Hollins, pointing in the direction the car had just gone. ‘Detective Inspector Crout. Summoned on a Saturday all the way from Branningham.’

  ‘That’s certainly a good proportion of the local law and order on the spot,’ agreed McKinley. ‘Something must be up. But where do you get murder from?’

  ‘The housemaid, Ellie. Nothing happens in Blackwood Manor without her knowing. She’s given me plenty of information for the Telegraph in the past. She said they found a body in Sir George’s study, stabbed in the back.’

  Throughout this exchange Miss Bowes had gone sickly white and swallowed awkwardly. Now she found her voice.

  ‘It… it’s not... Charles, is it?’