by Jamie Probin
There was a knock on the door, and Charles Wentworth poked his head inside.
‘Father, I…’ He broke off in surprise when he noted all the people in the room. ‘Oh I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt.’
Sir George waved a dismissive hand. ‘Come in Charles. You need to know about this anyway.’
‘Know about…? Is it true what they’re saying then? That someone has been killed?’
As Charles entered the room Sir Oliver introduced Crout and then moved aside so that he could see the dead body.
‘Good God above!’ exclaimed Charles. ‘Who is it?’
‘That is, as of even date, the first of many mysteries,’ said Harris. ‘And let me spare you the effort of also asking what he was doing here and who killed him, because we don’t know those details either.’
‘But… when did this happen?’ stuttered Charles, managing to find a question not yet covered.
‘This afternoon,’ said Crout. ‘Apparently sometime between half past three and half past five. You did not, by any chance, come by this room at any time since half past three?’
‘I? No, detective inspector, I’ve been a little busy this afternoon. My wife and I have greeted virtually half the county in the last few hours, and now we are preparing to leave for our honeymoon.’
‘I’m afraid I shall have to ask you to defer those plans for the time being.’
The Wentworths, both father and son, were equally vociferous in their protests:
‘What?’
‘I say, Crout, is that really necessary?’
Crout licked the tip of his pencil delicately, but did not back down from this bluster. ‘I’m afraid it is, sir. With a murder investigation in progress it would be irresponsible of me to allow potential witnesses to leave the country.’
‘But you heard Charles. He didn’t see anything that could help you.’ Sir George turned pleadingly to his friend. ‘Oliver, surely this is excessive? Can’t you do something?’
Sir Oliver looked uncomfortable but supported his subordinate. ‘It won’t be much of a delay, Charles. But it wouldn’t look good if we were to bend the rules for you. Shows favouritism and all that.’
‘If all goes well we should have our initial investigation completed within a day or two,’ added Crout.
‘I shall have to go and tell Andrea,’ muttered Charles indignantly. ‘She will be devastated.’
Harris eyed Charles Wentworth with curiosity. The young man now seemed thoroughly unconcerned with the corpse still lying in an undignified position across the room. The unexpected changes suddenly thrust on his plans had caused him to forget how a Wentworth should behave, and a callous self-interest was emerging. It was an interest glimpse behind the façade.
‘Before you go, sir,’ interjected Crout smoothly, ‘a couple of questions.’
‘I just told you,’ came Charles’ irritated reply, ‘I didn’t see anything.’
‘I mean general questions.’
Harris stood discreetly at the back of the room, looking at the ceiling and tracing imaginary geometric shapes in the refracted beams of late afternoon sun as they bounced off the glass ceiling of the conservatory jutting out below the window. He had not warmed to Crout at all, and held no hopes they would come to share an amicable relationship like the one he had with Hollingsworth. However he had to admire the way the man was neither backing down to the bullying ways of the Wentworths, nor losing his cool.
‘How familiar are you with this particular room?’ continued Crout.
‘Very familiar. I do live here, after all,’ snapped Charles. The affable nature usually projected by the younger Wentworth had yielded to a far less pleasant acerbity in the wake of Crout’s request. ‘My father and I discuss things in here frequently.’
‘And do you notice anything different about it? Anything missing, perhaps, or something that shouldn’t be here?’
‘Particularly photographs,’ added Harris from the back.
Charles cast his gaze around the walls, the furniture and the floor, before shaking his head.
‘And are you familiar with the safe?’
‘Yes. I use it too.’
‘So you know the combination?’
‘Of course.’
‘Then – forgive me Sir George, but a second opinion is always desirable – could you examine its contents and see if anything is missing?’
Charles did as requested, but gave the same response as his father. ‘I can’t see anything missing. Frankly I don’t know that much of this would be of interest to anyone else.’
‘That’s what I said,’ growled Sir George.
‘You’re certain there were no photographs in there?’ piped up Harris.
‘Dr Harris!’ exploded Crout. ‘Could you please explain this obsession with photographs? What do they have to do with anything?’
‘I don’t know. But I intend to find out.’
‘What do you mean, you don’t know? You’ve barely stopped asking about them. Where does this interest in photographs come from?’
‘If you had not been so convinced by this charade,’ Harris indicated the safe, ‘and searched the rest of the room, you would have found this.’
Harris held out his hand. On it was a tiny scrap of paper.
‘That’s evidence!’ exploded Crout. After a pause, he added: ‘What is it?’
‘It is the corner of a piece of photographic paper. It was lying on the floor just next to the desk.’
Crout flew to Harris’ side and peered intently at the small fragment.
‘You think that this is important?’
‘I do now that both Sir George and Charles have confirmed that no photographs are missing from this room. Because that means that someone brought a photograph into the room.’
‘Our mystery man here,’ concluded Crout.
‘Presumably,’ agreed Harris. ‘But since he didn’t leave the room, where is the photo now?’
Crout stared at the fireplace with its charred contents, a dawning look of comprehension in his slender face. Then he looked back at Harris. ‘We should check the room, just to be certain.’
Harris nodded, but merely stood and observed as Crout and PC Smethurst combed the study. They searched thoroughly for ten minutes, but still found no photograph. Sir George declared himself unable to suggest any alternative theories to how the scrap came to be on his floor, and agreed the dead man must have brought it with him.
‘It’s an odd thing though,’ mused Harris. ‘Why bring a photograph with you, and then burn it? I was rather expecting Sir George to find a photograph missing. It would make far more sense if, for instance, our friend had come to find and destroy an incriminating picture. Then he was discovered and some fatal struggle ensued.’
PC Smethurst spoke up. ‘Perhaps the person who killed him then burnt the photograph?’
‘It’s possible,’ agreed Sir Oliver. ‘But it seems an unnecessary act. Surely the murderer would have wanted to leave the scene as soon as possible. Why would he not take the photograph with him, and destroy it later?’
‘People don’t always think that clearly in times of panic or agitation.’
These musings were interrupted by Finchley, who knocked discreetly and cleared his throat.
‘Mr Hollins is here as requested sir. I asked him to wait in the library.’
‘Very good Finchley. Thank you.’
As the policemen prepared to leave, Harris sidled over to Crout and murmured in his ear. ‘Detective inspector, you know that I’m here at the request of the Wentworths, because of the attempts on Charles Wentworth’s life. And we both know this murder may be connected in some way with that matter, so ultimately all the information you find will make its way to me, via Sir Oliver and Sir George. But frankly I would much rather get it directly from you.’
Crout eyed Harris quizzically.
‘You don’t trust them?’
‘Let’s say I don’t trust their ability to notice important facts, and d
istinguish them from opinion. You, on the other hand, seem extremely adept at discerning the essentials of an investigation. I’m not asking you to share your instincts or hunches with me, merely the facts.’
Crout’s face was expressionless but he recognised the truth in what Harris said. Eventually he nodded with a frown.
‘Very well. But on the condition that anything you find, with your more... esoteric approach, is similarly shared with me. Dr Harris, I can’t pretend to understand the way you approach these matters. Frankly it is of no concern to me, so long as it does not interfere with my investigation. But I do warn you to not obstruct the official channels of justice. I will discover who committed this crime, and I have no intention of being hindered by some amateur sleuthing.’
‘I’m very pleased to hear it,’ said Harris politely. ‘But I’m afraid, detective inspector, you won’t find the right answers until you start asking the right questions.’
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘Well, for example, you seem to be missing the point of the open safe.’
‘The point...? But Sir George told us there was nothing missing.’
Harris smiled enigmatically.
‘Precisely.’
Chapter 22
The following morning held a pleasant surprise for Harris. As he descended from his room for breakfast, Mrs Breakwater produced a telegram for him from Hollingsworth. After the avant-garde luxuries of the telephone conversation she seemed disappointed to see Harris resort to such common methods of communication.
The telegram said that, following the murder in Upper Wentham on the previous day, Hollingsworth had persuaded his chief superintendent that a connection may exist with the Metropole murder. He had been granted permission to drive up tomorrow, and would meet Harris in the morning. Also, he had further information for Harris on a number of matters previously discussed.
After the coldly impersonal attitude of Crout, Harris found himself relishing a visit from his friend, especially when combined with the promise of some new clues to shed light on the case. He tucked into his sausage, eggs, bacon, tomato and toast with gusto.
An hour later he arrived at Blackwood Manor and was greeted by Finchley.
‘Good morning Dr Harris. Sir George is expecting you. He asked that you join him in the study.’
The ancient butler accompanied Harris up the huge staircase and along the corridor. As he reached the portrait gallery, Harris paused in spite of himself and admired the four hundred years of history frozen in oil. As he looked at the Wentworth patriarchs of the ages he suddenly appreciated why Sir George took such solace from the portraits.
To Sir George, a Wentworth was more a concept than a person, and in these portraits the concept was distilled and protected. In fact a portrait was more precious than the person it depicted, because portraits were permanent, not subject to threats, either from within or without. They could not disappoint by squandering the family fortune or bring disgrace by fathering illegitimate children; they could not have statues dropped on them or eat poisoned chocolates. Harris was struck by the length of bare wall stretching beyond Sir George’s portrait, provocatively unadorned. He could see that, while the pictures themselves were a source of pride and inspiration to the peer, the barren wall beyond was both a challenge and terrifying prophecy. The future of the family tree, so deeply rooted in the history of England, lay solely in his hands.
Finchley opened the study door ceremoniously.
‘Dr Harris to see you sir.’
‘Thank you Finchley. Good morning Harris.
Finchley coughed delicately, announcing a further contribution before he departed.
‘A call from the mechanic scheduled to examine the car sir. A family emergency has arisen and he has had to postpone I’m afraid. He will be here in two days time.’
‘Very good Finchley,’ Sir George sighed wearily as the butler nodded and left the room, then looked at his guest. ‘Most inconvenient, but I don’t know why I’m surprised. This kind of thing seems to happen more and more. Do you ever find that people are less reliable these days? Anyway, enough of that. Have you solved any of our growing catalogue of murders yet?’
‘I have some definite ideas about who killed the poor man in here yesterday.’
Sir George looked up in surprise. ‘Really?’
‘Yes. Except that they don’t seem to make any sense at all in the bigger picture. Quite the opposite.’
‘Does this mean you know who the dead man was?’
‘No idea,’ admitted Harris cheerfully. ‘Now then, to business. Before we discuss anything else Sir George, I want to ask you once again about photographs. Now that no one else is here I want you to think very carefully and then honestly tell me if you truly know nothing about the photograph.’
As on the previous day Sir George looked profoundly uncomfortable, but shook his head definitively. ‘I do not.’
Harris sighed, wearing his disbelief visibly.
‘You do see how important this is, don’t you? If the photograph was already in here, the object of the man’s visit, it sets a completely different framework to the investigation than if he brought the picture with him.’
‘I can assure you Dr Harris,’ said Sir George, and this time his earnest intensity left no doubt it was the truth, ‘that the picture, whatever it might have been, was not already here. No photograph is missing.’
Harris accepted this with a nod.
Something appeared to catch Sir George’s eye outside the window. He rose and limped to the window. Harris watched his shuffling gait, the relic of his childhood polio, and thought of another man with a limp who had entered this room and never left. Sir George was not a man who could move quickly, or quietly; nor could he sneak up on anybody. However if anyone needed to wait outside a room for him to leave, or listen for him returning, they would not find the task difficult.
Whatever it was that caught Sir George’s eye had obviously lost its interest, and he turned back to Harris.
‘What do you think of this fellow Crout?’ he asked, placing his palms against the windowsill and leaning back.
‘He seems terribly thorough and methodical, and therefore he has no chance of solving this case.’
An expression of amused surprise crossed Sir George’s face. ‘Why do you say that?’
‘Because to men like Crout, procedure is everything. They only work in terms of method and routine. So when they come up against crimes which are developed and executed in what you might call “standard” ways, they will inevitably piece the truth together. Most crimes work like that, which is why Crout has so many successes to his name. But occasionally crimes are committed where the criminal is clever enough to think and plan unconventionally, or whose motives are more tangled and obtuse than common wisdom considers. And when that happens all Crout’s systematic procedure will simply tie him in more and more knots.’
‘And you think that is what will happen here?’
‘My dear Sir George, it already has. Cases don’t come more convoluted than this. A man like Crout has no hope of unravelling it.’
Sir George smiled. ‘It’s funny, I almost hope so. I mean, naturally I want the matter resolved – both for the sake of the poor fellow murdered in my house, and assuming that whoever killed him is also the person threatening Charles’ life. But to be honest I don’t like Crout.’
‘I can’t see that he endeared himself to Charles or Andrea either, forcing them to postpone their honeymoon.’
Sir George shrugged. ‘They’ve been quite philosophical about it to be honest. I think I was more indignant on their behalf. Charles said he saw the reasons for the request, and Andrea agreed. She was very shocked when she heard – stunned almost. Not surprising I suppose, after all it was only a couple of months or so since she found Asbury dead too. I thought she would be upset at the delay, but she seemed more…concerned than anything. But in the end they both agreed it would look bad if they went on holiday so soon after a
murder in the house.’
Harris stood and walked to the spiral stairs winding up to the half gallery, mainly to hide his smile. With such a concern over “what people would think”, Charles and Andrea were on course to make fine Wentworths. He climbed the iron frame and emerged on the balcony, looking down on his host.
‘May I?’ Harris gestured at the bookcases lining the walls.
‘Be my guest.’
Harris cast his eye over the countless shelves of books, and noted their eclectic nature. There were works of fiction, poetry, history, collections of journals on such diverse topics as astronomy, ancient Hebrew and psychology, all these just in the first bookcase. On the next shelf was a complete collection of the Journal of Hamiltonian Mechanics; Harris picked out volume 43 and flicked to an article he knew well.
‘What has caught your eye?’ asked Sir George as he laboriously limped up the last step of the staircase. He looked over Harris’ shoulder and noted the title : “A new substitution for a second order perturbation method” by Samuel Harris, University of Cambridge.
‘My first ever article,’ said Harris, as fondly as a parent regarding their child. ‘More years ago than I care to remember.’
His eyes roamed the algebraic characters, immodestly admiring the beauty of the proof. ‘If only human problems could be solved so easily.’
Sir George looked blankly at the sea of letters, both Greek and Latin. ‘You call this easy?’
‘I do. These symbols represent logic, pattern and a systematic determinism. They can’t lie, or change their minds like people. Their problems are honest and conspicuous, and if you approach them with intelligence, commitment and intuition, you will conquer their challenge. In mathematics, the right question is always obvious, and the answer lies waiting at the end of a tunnel of reason.’
If one of Harris’ colleagues had been present they would have recognised this as the start of a pompous soliloquy on the various characteristics of what Harris liked to call “his mistress, mathematics”, and would have been certain to nip it in the bud before he really got going. Sir George inadvertently accomplished the same effect by observing that Crout would no doubt endorse such sentiments. Harris snorted and abruptly changed the subject.
