A Painted Devil

by Jamie Probin

  ‘Eh? Charles? Oh no, no. A stranger she said. And if Ellie doesn’t know somebody, you can bet they’re not local. She said she saw this fellow earlier in the grounds, walking with a limp.’

  Douglas McKinley was now standing and snapped his fingers. ‘I know who you mean! I saw him! He was walking through the grounds, asking people questions. I’d never seen him around the village before.’

  ‘Nor has anyone else, it seems. They’ve no idea who he is.’

  ‘And he’s been murdered? But why?’

  ‘Well, that’s the question isn’t it?’ agreed Hollins. ‘That’s why Crout has been called in.’

  ‘I wonder if someone mistook the poor man for Charles Wentworth?’ asked McKinley of no one in particular

  ‘What do you mean?’ demanded Catherine Bowes.

  ‘Sorry, I don’t mean to be tasteless. I just can’t think why on earth a stranger would be stabbed in Sir George’s study. And thinking back to when I saw that chap, he did have the same broad build as Charles. If someone saw him in the study from behind he might assume it was Charles. I’m sorry, I was just thinking aloud, what with all these attempts on your nephew’s life.’

  ‘I don’t think that is the case, McKinley,’ interjected Hollins. ‘Ellie said that the man was found lying in front of the safe. The open safe.’

  Catherine Bowes snorted her derision. ‘Mr Hollins, are you quite certain Ellie is not having a joke with you? A complete stranger, murdered in the study of a manor house whilst burgling the safe? Why, it all sounds like the last scene of a melodrama before the halftime curtain comes down.’

  The editor gave a shrug, which said the same thought had been considered, and then dismissed, by him. ‘Ellie is the most reliable source I’ve ever known. If she says it’s true, then it’s true. And it would explain the presence of so many police.’

  Douglas McKinley ran his hands distractedly through his hair. The heat of the day had begun recalling symptoms of his virus, but now his interest was piqued, and all thoughts of fatigue were gone.

  ‘I wonder what the fellow was after?’ When this question was met with thoughtful silence, he continued: ‘You know, there’s something odd about this. Why would a man come to rob a safe on the day that the entire village is in the grounds of the house? And why draw attention to yourself by asking questions of so many people? There can’t have been a guest here who didn’t notice him.’

  He looked at the other two, but they seemed as puzzled by this as he was.

  ‘If this is all true,’ said Miss Bowes, in a voice which implied she was still reserving judgment on the matter, ‘then I am starting to worry about living in Upper Wentham. There have been at least four attempts on my nephew’s life, and now a man is stabbed in the back. Not only that, but I’ve heard strong rumours that young Ronald Asbury was murdered too.’

  ‘I’ve heard those too,’ nodded the MP. ‘But that was nearly a hundred miles away.’

  Catherine Bowes shrugged. ‘He was still from Upper Wentham.’

  ‘I say, Hollins, you really have me interested by this. Any chance you can get further details from Ellie?’

  ‘I’m meeting her again in half an hour.’ A rare smile flashed across Joseph Hollins usually dry and humourless features. ‘But if you want to hear what she says you will have to buy the Telegraph on Monday...’

  Harris was becoming increasingly frustrated at the inactivity in the study. Ever since he and Sir George had discovered the prostrate body – what seemed like five hours ago to him – a maddening lack of action had resulted.

  Barely seconds after seeing the corpse, Harris had been ready to comb the room for clues, until Sir George had asked, rather awkwardly, whether they ought not to wait for the police. Harris had agreed, extremely grudgingly, and had been sulking ever since.

  Sir George had sent Finchley, the butler, to find Sir Oliver Anstruther and bring him inside. At the appearance of the chief constable Harris was once again poised for action, but Sir Oliver had insisted that proper procedure required a member of the constabulary to be present.

  Not long after this PC Smethurst was shown into the room, and Harris had raised a hopeful eyebrow. His optimism was soon dashed again, and ever since the four men had been sitting around in a curious state of silent flux, like strangers in the waiting room of a train station wondering when the 10:17 might eventually decide to put in an appearance.

  At long last the butler announced Detective Inspector Crout, and a lithe, serious-looking man entered the room. Crout surveyed the setting, and nodded a greeting both courteous and businesslike to his chief constable.

  ‘Good afternoon Sir Oliver.’

  ‘Crout. Good of you to come at such short notice.’ Sir Oliver’s voice somehow implied that Crout was doing them a favour, rather than his job. He gestured at the other inhabitants of the room. ‘Sir George Wentworth you know, I’m sure, and PC Smethurst from the village.’

  Crout nodded at Sir George and craned his neck to gaze up at Smethurst’s huge frame, before fixing his gaze on Harris.

  ‘Who are you?’ asked the inspector, gruffly.

  ‘This is Dr Samuel Harris,’ interjected Sir Oliver, to whom Sir George had explained the presence of the don while they had waited. ‘You may know the name?’

  ‘No,’ replied Crout, with what Harris felt was an inappropriate lack of interest.

  ‘Well, I’ll vouch for him. Carry on, detective inspector.’

  Crout merely grunted and shrugged, and diverted his attention back to the room. As if by magic a notebook appeared in his hand and he approached the body. He crouched to his haunches and stared at the dead man. The thin grey hair of the corpse was ruffled and the prematurely aged face stretched into a grimace of pain and surprise. Harris was once again struck by a glimmer of recognition as he looked at the victim’s face. Had he somehow met this man before? Or did he merely have one of those generic faces that always seem familiar?

  Crout turned and looked at PC Smethurst.

  ‘Do we know who he is?’

  The local constable looked uncomfortable at being the one addressed, when both Sir George and Sir Oliver were in the room, but shook his head confidently.

  ‘I’ve never seen him before sir. I don’t think he’s from the local area.’

  Crout looked at the others. ‘No one else recognises him?’

  Both the peers also shook their heads, and Harris repeated his tale about the man addressing him in the gardens, and asking for Sir George. ‘He had already spoken to a few people and I don’t think anyone from the village knew who he was. He was getting that look they give to strangers, you know the one?’ His laconic grin was met with a stonily blank expression from Crout, who noted this down. Chastened, Harris added, ‘Also, his accent was much more Northern. Yorkshire, I think.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Crout. ‘Then a first priority will be identifying the victim.’

  He knelt and felt the skin of the corpse in several places. ‘He’s been dead a couple of hours, I’d say.’

  A tape measure appeared in his hand, as suddenly and inexplicably as the notebook had, and he was soon recording various distances between body, safe, wall and desk. Harris watched with incredulity, then shrugged his shoulders and began examining the floor around the desk.

  ‘Now then,’ said Crout, standing and paying no heed to Harris’ backside projecting from the rear of the desk, ‘the murder weapon.’

  ‘That’s mine,’ spurted Sir George. ‘It’s a letter opener from my desk.’

  His words were hurried, and it was clear that he was distinctly uncomfortable with the intrusion of a murder investigation into such immediate surroundings.

  ‘Was it easily accessible?’

  ‘Well, yes. It was just lying at the front of the desk. Anyone could have seen it there.’

  ‘I see,’ said Crout, peering at the implement. ‘Which suggests that our murderer did not come prepared.’ He ran his fingers in the air an inch from the extravagantly carved hand
le, as though he could sense an electrical field around the murder weapon.

  ‘Do you think there is any chance we might find prints on it sir?’ asked Smethurst.

  ‘I doubt it. There are no smooth areas on the handle.’ Crout glared at Sir George as he said this, appearing to hold the peer personally responsible for obstructing justice in his choice of desk stationery. ‘We might get some from the safe though.’

  Next Crout directed his attention to the interior of the open safe. Again he touched nothing but ran his hands near the surface of the contents.

  ‘Sir George, what did you keep in this safe?’

  Sir George shrugged uncertainly.

  ‘Not a great deal. A few documents, some stocks and bonds. Nothing particularly valuable.’

  Crout looked puzzled. ‘If they’re not valuable why do you keep them in a safe?’

  Sir George was getting visibly flustered. ‘I meant they would not be particularly valuable to anyone else. They are important to me, and I want them kept safe.’

  Harris showed some interest at this, as he finally emerged from behind the desk. Judging from the expression on his face he was finding it hard to believe that Sir George was not omitting something from his safe’s inventory. Meanwhile Crout began delicately moving papers inside the safe, using forceps.

  ‘Sir George, could you take a look inside the safe and tell me if anything has been taken?’

  Sir George did as requested, and after a few moments declared there to be nothing missing.

  ‘Nothing?’ echoed Crout. ‘How curious. Had our stranger not yet taken what he was after?’

  ‘You’re certain nothing has been taken, Sir George?’ asked Harris.

  ‘Quite certain,’ replied his host, although he still looked pale.

  ‘There were, for instance, no photographs?’ pressed Harris.

  ‘Photographs?’ repeated Sir George in a hollow voice, and there could be no doubt now that his face had blanched. ‘No, definitely not.’

  ‘Are there, then, any photographs unaccounted for from this room?’ pressed Harris.

  Sir George was about to shoot a terse reply when he thought better of it and cast a cursory eye around the study. ‘No, I can’t see any missing.’

  Harris raised his eyebrows philosophically and then began rummaging in the fireplace.

  The frown on Detective Inspector Crout’s face suggested he was finding Harris’ unorthodox behaviour increasingly irritating, and he determinedly ignored the bangs and scrapes from the direction of the hearth. His cool manner was tinged with fluster as he resumed his analysis.

  ‘We will, as I said, examine the safe for fingerprints. Now then Sir George, when were you last in this room?’

  ‘Look here Crout, I rather resent all these questions. They sound like you suspect me of being involved in this. I’m the one who found the body you know? I called the police in.’ Sir George’s blustery discomfort was not lost on the other inhabitants of the room, who shuffled uneasily.

  ‘Sir George,’ said Crout smoothly, ‘please believe me when I say that no intention of accusation is implied here.’

  Crout was used to dealing with such witnesses, under stress and liable to read allegations into the most innocent of questions. It was his calm and efficient handling of situations, as well as his thorough methodical approach, which had led to him being so highly regarded, and the man called in by Sir Oliver.

  He continued: ‘But you must see that if we can establish the last time anyone was in here, then we can help narrow down a time of death?’

  Sir George, as mollified and chastened as he was ever likely to get, nodded with unfamiliar humility. ‘Yes, of course. Sorry. It’s just that I’m not used to all this. The cheek of someone, murdering this poor fellow in my study!’

  Crout nodded understandingly.

  ‘Well then,’ continued Sir George, ‘I suppose the last time I was in here was about half past three. I popped up once the speeches and photographs were over, to get something for Charles.’

  A thump came from the fireplace, and Harris emerged rubbing the top of his head ruefully.

  ‘At half past three, you say? It was about a quarter past three when our victim spoke to me in the garden and came this way. He must just have missed you…’

  Harris meditated on this a moment, then disappeared again. Crout, progressively more frustrated by Harris’ bizarre conduct, looked again at the peer.

  ‘Perhaps he waited for you to leave then, Sir George, before entering the room? Did you leave anything important in here after you returned to the garden?’

  Sir George shook his head and said he could not imagine so.

  ‘I see,’ said Crout. Then I wonder -’

  He was unceremoniously interrupted by Harris’ voice, which had a slight resonance as it boomed from the fireplace.

  ‘Sir George? Have you had a fire in this grate recently?’

  ‘In this weather? Of course not! It must have been almost eighty degrees this week.’

  ‘And have you burnt anything in it? Any pieces of paper for example?’

  ‘No, I only tend to do that if the fire is already going. Why?’

  ‘Because,’ said Harris, emerging and holding a charred scrap up to the light, ‘someone has. Very recently too, I’d say.’

  ‘What on earth are you doing?’ asked Crout, his patience finally worn out.

  ‘I might ask you the same question,’ replied Harris.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Harris stood, slightly sooty, and gestured at the body in front of the safe. ‘I mean, surely you aren’t falling for this little tableau?’

  ‘Tableau?’ echoed Crout, coldly.

  ‘Of course! The whole thing is staged for our benefit, isn’t it?’ No one responded, so Harris persisted. ‘What are we supposed to think when we see this scene? That our friend here was found burgling the safe, and someone stabbed him?’

  ‘And according to you we should not accept that? Why?’

  Harris spread his palms and looked to the heavens in disbelief. ‘Where to start? Are we honestly supposed to think that someone intending to loot a safe would show up at the house in the middle of a Saturday afternoon intending to wander in? And then, upon finding the grounds of the house filled with people, he would simply continue with his plan, virtually going so far as to ask some of them where Sir George’s study is?

  ‘For that matter, why didn’t he know these things already? Look at the safe. It hasn’t been forced or tampered with. There is no equipment for safe cracking, or any other kind of tool lying around. If our friend opened that safe then he already knew the combination. Why, then, did he know nothing else, such as the safe’s location?’

  ‘I agree these are puzzling questions,’ said Sir Oliver, ‘but they are purely speculative. They prove nothing.’

  But Harris had found his rhythm and did not intend to be distracted.

  ‘Why,’ he continued, pointing at the results of his exploration of the fireplace, ‘did he first choose to burn something in the grate? And most absurdly of all, how on earth does a man in the process of burgling a safe fail to notice someone enter the room, pick up a letter opener and attack him? I have no great experience in safe cracking, but I know that if I was committing a burglary, I would have one eye on the door at all times.’

  Silence filled the room.

  ‘No, I’m afraid this entire set up is utterly contrived. Someone has created it at very short notice, hoping to distract us from why the man was really here. It seems a very makeshift effort to direct suspicion at Sir George or Charles Wentworth.’

  Sir George stared at Harris. ‘At me?’

  ‘Of course. Who else would have a motive for killing a man burgling a safe other than the owner of said safe? Why would anyone else care to the point where they would kill? There are a dozen holes in this picture, but somebody needed to create something quickly to obscure or replace what presumably was an incriminating detail in the original scene. The que
stion is, what was it?’

  ‘And I suppose you found the answer to that question in the fireplace?’ asked Crout with the faintest hint of a sneer.

  ‘No,’ said Harris cheerfully, ‘I think we’ll find the answer in the contents of our corpse’s right pocket.’

  ‘What?’ exclaimed Sir George, amazement etched on his face.

  Crout looked quizzically at Harris for a moment, and then shrugged stoically before bending down and investigating the man’s jacket pocket. After a few moments the forceps produced one piece of paper, and then another. Sir George and Smethurst stared at Harris as though he were a magician, and then all attention was directed to these new discoveries.

  The first was a clipping from the Times, containing the wedding announcement of Charles Wentworth and Andrea Ketterman and giving details of the service and reception.

  ‘So,’ said Sir Oliver, ‘it appears our man did not arrive here unaware of the wedding. In fact it seems he chose today precisely because of what was happening.’

  The second piece of paper was torn from a notebook, and contained only a handwritten address:

  Joseph Hollins,

  The Paddocks,

  Upper Wentham,

  Gloucestershire.

  Now everyone in the room was staring.

  ‘Joseph Hollins?’ asked Sir George. ‘What on earth does he have to do with this?’

  ‘I think we should find out,’ said Sir Oliver, his intentions to let Crout lead temporarily forgotten. ‘Finchley, would you please go and see if you can find Mr Hollins?’

  The butler disappeared on his new quest.

  Harris, meanwhile, seemed uninterested in this development. ‘You’re certain there’s nothing else in his pocket?’

  Crout checked every pocket once more. ‘Quite certain, Dr Harris. Were you expecting something more?’

  Harris merely shook his head, and remembered the vision of the dead man pulling something out of his pocket and seeming to draw strength from it. Had there been another item in his pockets? If so, where was it now? Or had it been one of these exhibits? Harris could not see what could be so inspiring about a wedding announcement or an address; but then there were many things still unclear about this whole business.