A Painted Devil

by Jamie Probin

  ‘Did you hear any of the interview with Joseph Hollins?’

  Sir George shook his head. ‘No, but Oliver Anstruther told me all about it later. He said that Hollins seemed bewildered by the whole thing. He’d seen the dead man in the grounds earlier in the day but had no idea who he was. He could not imagine why the man would know his name or have his address. All very convenient if you ask me.’

  ‘You don’t believe Hollins then?’

  ‘Well of course he would say that wouldn’t he? Even if he knew something about the dead man he’s not going to admit it.’

  ‘You have an impressively cynical outlook.’

  ‘Well come on Harris. It has to mean something that a man shows up with Hollins’ address in his pocket, and is then found murdered. What innocent reason could there be?’

  ‘Hollins is the editor of the local newspaper. Maybe that’s why the man wanted to speak to him?’

  ‘Well possibly,’ said Sir George, in a voice that implied the total opposite. Harris made no reply, suspecting that this grudging compromise was actually a rare honour. Sir George seemed like the kind of person for whom agreeing-to-disagree was a poor relation to bullying into submission.

  He cast his gaze through a picture window set between two bookcases. The view beyond looked west, across the grounds and over the curious geology of Lookout Point. The strange elevation, with its rough granite twisting around on itself, towered impressively above the village and dramatically dominated the vista.

  ‘It’s a beautiful view,’ said Harris, with genuine appreciation.

  ‘Yes it is,’ murmured Sir George. ‘They call that Lookout Point. The view from the top is breathtaking.’

  ‘It’s fascinating. I’ve never seen anything like it.’

  ‘It’s quite famous around these parts, and it’s taken a role in a good many dramas over the years. In fact some call it the Lover’s Leap.’

  The concept of love as an inspiring and noble cause was an anathema to Harris at the best of times, but the thought of it driving two people to jump off a cliff was beyond comprehension. Actually the very fact that they might consider this a good idea probably made the result for the best. Maybe there was something in this theory of natural selection after all.

  Wisely he decided not to share this opinion, and instead used the opportunity that had opened before him.

  ‘Tell me about Diana.’

  ‘Diana? You mean my second wife?’

  ‘Yes. Her sister has told me a bit of her story, but…’

  Sir George snorted. ‘Oh I know what Catherine Bowes will have said! You might as well paint me red and stick a pair of horns on my head by the time she has finished with her tales.’

  ‘It wasn’t the most complimentary narrative,’ admitted Harris. ‘In her version she has you leaving her in the lurch after her accident, and then all but signing Diana’s death warrant just to guarantee yourself an heir.’

  ‘Well I won’t pretend I emerge from the whole thing blameless,’ admitted Sir George, his gaze still far off through the window, ‘but I’m not a total cad. I fell for Diana hook line and sinker, which was a rotten thing to do I know, but it had nothing to do with Catherine’s accident. I had already decided I wanted to marry Diana before then. For goodness sake, what kind of man would leave his fiancée because she was paralysed?’

  Harris wondered if Sir George was aware he was echoing the same question posed by everyone else.

  ‘Nevertheless, you did.’

  Sir George’s face fell.

  ‘Yes. It was heartless and I do regret it now. But I really, truly loved Diana.’

  ‘According to Miss Bowes, you did not care for her as much as you did for producing an heir. She tells people that you were preparing to divorce Diana if she had still not become pregnant after two years.’

  ‘That is a monstrous slur!’ cried Sir George angrily. ‘An heir had always been a big concern to me, but I knew Diana would provide me one eventually. And as for what she says about me forcing Diana to give birth even though I knew it would kill her, why, it’s outrageous. The doctor told me the procedure was safe. He said there was every chance that mother and child would be fine. If I’d have known that Diana wouldn’t survive…’

  His voice tailed off in silent contemplation, and Harris found himself believing that there might be two sides to this history after all.

  ‘Do you think you might ever re-marry?’

  Sir George shook his head. It was not a resolved gesture, but there was no hint of uncertainty to it.

  ‘My time is past. Charles is the future of the line. It’s all about him and Andrea now.’ He turned and fixed Harris with a piercing, desperate look. ‘Just so long as you keep him safe.’

  In the other wing of Blackwood Manor the new Mr and Mrs Charles Wentworth were looking ruefully at their suitcases, now half-unpacked on the bed.

  ‘I’ve spoken to Crout, and he said it will be okay if we leave in a couple of days. I’ll call the travel agent first thing tomorrow and see if he can find us a flight to Paris.’

  ‘Two days!’

  ‘Yes darling I know. But you can see his point. It would look dashed bad if we were off having fun whilst… well, you know.’

  ‘The body isn’t even cold?’ completed Andrea glumly.

  ‘I say! That’s a bit callous.’

  ‘I know, I’m sorry. But honestly, it’s a shock and all, but does anyone actually expect us to grieve? We’ve never met the poor man, and nobody even knows who he is.’

  ‘Very true,’ agreed Charles, ‘but the thing about our position is that you really must do and say the right things, even if you don’t mean them. It’s rather expected, you know. Nobody else in the area is mourning the fellow, but they still expect us to show all the right expressions if you know what I mean? It just comes with the position. Especially since he died in our house.’

  ‘Well, I certainly know how important it is for the Wentworths to do things right,’ muttered Andrea. ‘Your father made that very clear to me.’

  Charles, unsure of what else to say, picked up a silver brush and polished it vigorously on his sleeve. After a few moments he sensed something change in his wife’s demeanour. Turning to her he saw that her look of frustration had gone, replaced by one of sickened concern.

  ‘Andrea, what is it?’

  She looked at him with wide, frightened eyes

  ‘Aren’t you worried, Charles?’

  ‘Worried?’ He sat beside her. ‘About what?’

  ‘All these attempts to kill you of course. Someone around here wants you dead, and I’m terrified he will try again.’

  ‘Nonsense! I’m sure that’s all over now.’

  ‘You’re just saying that to reassure me, but you know I’m right. If we were hundreds of miles from here, on the Riviera, you’d be safe. Whoever this awful man is, he couldn’t hurt you there.’

  ‘We’ll be there in a few days…’

  ‘In a few days you might be dead! You should ask Inspector Crout... demand that he let us go! Every hour we stay here puts you in more danger.’

  ‘Darling, I honestly am not worried.’

  ‘Well I can’t understand why not. He’s tried four times now, Charles. Four! What makes you think he would give up?’

  A slight firmness entered Charles tone, as if to emphasise that this would be the final word on the subject. ‘Nothing will happen, I promise you. Now let’s hear no more about it. Look outside, the weather is beautiful. Let’s go for a drive.’

  Chapter 23

  It was the middle of the afternoon when Harris entered the Upper Wentham public library, and the interior was pleasantly cool after a stroll in the July sunshine. Although he had come on the understanding that the library was home to the foremost authority on rumour and gossip, albeit without the guarantee of truth, he decided to browse the library’s collection a little first. He stopped at the shelf labelled “Fiction – A” and was bemused to find that of the first three books he saw
, one was a recipe book, one a beginner’s guide to origami and one a history of the Norman Invasion, none of whose authors had names beginning with “A”.

  An unusual hush had descended in the building upon Harris’ entrance. He had noticed nothing; after all, the resulting silence would, in most libraries, be the norm. Yet Mrs Blackstone and Mrs Leaworth who, moments before, had been discussing the possibility of Mr Morley, the dentist, remarrying, now stood and mutely watched the newcomer. If gossip in the presence of a non-initiate was discouraged, it was positively forbidden in the rare event that a stranger visited the library.

  To describe Harris as a stranger to the library would be something of a misrepresentation. No one could stay in Upper Wentham for several days and remain a mystery to the village grapevine, especially if they were guests at the Green Man. Mrs Breakwater was a valued member of the inner circle.

  It was known that Harris was a Cambridge don, and someone had heard that he was a friend of Sir George Wentworth. There was a consensus opinion that he had a vague connection with the police, although no one quite knew how. This was, however, their first chance to see him up close, and they now studied him much as a safari hunter might gaze at some big game.

  After a few moments Harris dispensed with the browsing and approached the desk.

  ‘Good morning. Do I have the honour of addressing Mrs Blackstone?’

  ‘Well I don’t know so much about it being an honour!’ chuckled the librarian with a rather artificial-sounding girlish laugh, ‘but I’m Mrs Blackstone. And this here is Mrs Leaworth. She is our local WI lady, and runs a boarding house in the village.’

  Harris nodded politely to Mrs Leaworth. ‘And what a very charming village you have here. Upper Wentham is delightful.’

  ‘I’m glad you think so,’ beamed Mrs Blackstone. She studied Harris’ face, trying to glean some knowledge of his personality. The spectacles with no glass in the frames smacked of eccentricity, but the eyes glowed with a strength of character she admired. ‘And you are Dr Harris, I think? Forgive me but word travels fast around here. You’re a friend of Sir George Wentworth, I understand?’

  ‘More of an acquaintance than a friend, really. We have met once or twice through business. I was taking a short holiday in the area and he very kindly invited me to Charles’ wedding.’

  ‘Ah, wasn’t it a beautiful day?’ asked Mrs Blackstone wistfully. ‘Simply perfect. Apart from that poor man being killed, of course. Do they know who did it?’

  ‘I’m afraid they wouldn’t tell me if they did, madam.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Mrs Blackstone, a trifle crestfallen. ‘We thought you might be something to do with the police.’

  ‘I am sorry to disappoint you, but my professional activity is entirely in the academic world,’ replied Harris, with technical truthfulness.

  ‘I’m sure it will turn out to just be an accident,’ continued the librarian. Harris wondered what kind of accident resulted in a man impaled on a letter opener in front of an open safe. ‘I mean to say, murder is just not the kind of thing that could happen in Upper Wentham.’

  ‘Exactly. Murder is what you hear about in “London”.’ Mrs Leaworth, finally contributing to the conversation, said the word as though it were the name of some faraway land, which may possibly exist but was most likely mythical.

  ‘But what about all these attempts on Charles Wentworth’s life that I have heard about? Don’t they prove that someone in the village could be a killer?’

  ‘If you ask me accidents is just what they were. Murder attempts, my foot! That’s just people letting their imaginations run wild.’

  Harris had been well-briefed on the library, and so realised the astonishing irony in these comments. The Upper Wentham library positively thrived on taking minor incidents and letting wild imaginations run amok on them. Yet when real criminal drama entered the fray they preferred to dismiss it as speculative hyperbole. Apparently gossip was one thing, and murder very much another.

  ‘Very true Mrs Blackstone,’ said Mrs Leaworth, sycophantically.

  ‘But Sir George himself told me about them. He seemed sure they were acts of criminal intent.’

  Mrs Blackstone, whose eyes shone at every mention of Sir George, was unwilling to denigrate the opinion of the peer as readily as she was that of everyone else, but she still did not concede the point.

  ‘The kind of people that would murder don’t live in the country,’ she said firmly.

  ‘Forgive me,’ said Harris, ‘but on the contrary, I would say you are far more likely to find a murderer in a village such as this. In the big cities people can avoid those they don’t like. But in a small village you can’t choose your neighbours. You are stuck with them, for better or for worse. And if there is animosity, or resentment, it simmers away. In my experience small villages are where the most savage aspects of human nature can be found.’

  ‘Well really Dr Harris, you may be right. But such things do not exist in Upper Wentham! We may have the occasional argument, but I would say that we are generally all friends.’

  Harris peered dubiously at her.

  ‘But sometimes the situation builds so gradually that those in the village don’t even notice the pressure cooker of ill-feeling that develops. Two enemies living side by side, on each other’s doorsteps so to speak. In a big city they can avoid each other, but not in village life. The resentment can build so slowly that one day, without anyone noticing, you have sheer hatred in your midst.’ Harris slipped into his lecture theatre manner, which he usually found allowed him to lead conversations where he wanted without anyone realising. He removed his glasses and waved them demonstratively. ‘Let me give you a classic example: two young men in love with the same girl. In a place like London such situations resolve easily. The rejected suitor fades into a different social strata and life goes on. But in a small village there is no good solution. The situation cannot end well. Whoever loses will have their defeat rubbed in their faces every day.’

  Mrs Blackstone swelled importantly.

  ‘It just so happens that we have had exactly that situation in Upper Wentham.’

  Harris made a credible show of amazement.

  ‘How extraordinary! What are the chances?’

  ‘Yes. In fact you won’t know this but Saturday’s wedding was the end of quite a saga. People might think that Charles Wentworth and Andrea Ketterman were one of those inevitable marriages, but until a few months back we had no idea who she would marry. Charles and another young man named Ronald Asbury both courted her no end. The two boys were great friends once, but it drove a huge wedge between them.’

  ‘From what I’ve heard of the Wentworth estate I shouldn’t have thought the decision was a difficult one,’ said Harris. ‘This Ronald Asbury must have been quite the charmer to have stood a chance against that kind of wealth.’

  ‘Well, a charmer is definitely what he was, and a very fine looking young man too. There’s some who say,’ she looked pointedly at Mrs Leaworth, ‘that Andrea loved Ronald Asbury, and just married Mr Charles for the money.’

  ‘But you don’t think so?’

  ‘I don’t say that,’ protested Mrs Blackstone, unwilling to commit herself definitively, ‘but I do think Ronald Asbury was a bad sort.’

  ‘In what way?’

  Mrs Blackstone shook her head, as if to say that it was not that easy. ‘I can’t put my finger on it. Call it women’s intuition if you like, Dr Harris. He was always very polite and obliging, but…’ She trailed off significantly, as though her unfinished sentence was more incriminating than any actual allegation.

  Harris turned to the other woman. ‘But Mrs Leaworth, you thought Andrea Ketterman loved this Ronald Asbury?’

  ‘For a time I did.’ Mrs Leaworth looked guiltily at Mrs Blackstone. ‘Ronald had his rooms with me you see, so I saw a good deal of him.’

  ‘Oh, you were his landlady?’ Harris tried to keep an edge out of this question. It was the first new piece of information he had lear
ned.

  ‘Yes, I lease the upstairs rooms of my house and he lived there for several years, after his parents died. From my window I have a good view of the moors. I would sometimes see Ronald and Andrea walking out there, and they looked happy to me. And I always say, love is more important than money. I thought maybe Andrea believed that too. But then one evening, after dusk it was, I heard voices and when I looked out they were arguing about something.’

  ‘Arguing? Could you hear what it was about?’

  The question was taken at face value. In the Upper Wentham library there were no qualms about the idea of listening to another conversation.

  ‘No, no words or anything. But it was obvious that Ronald was very cross. He was shouting and seemed to be threatening Andrea. I saw her walk past the house on her way home and she looked scared. And then, not two days later, she accepted Charles Wentworth.’

  ‘Quite a drama you’ve had!’ chuckled Harris. ‘But it proves my point, I think? This Ronald Asbury can’t escape his defeat, can he? Charles and Andrea will be here in front of him all his life.’

  Harris considered himself expert at directing conversation, even in difficult circumstances, but this situation was as easy as they came.

  Mrs Blackstone was almost salivating at this opportunity to share the next chapter of the story. She recounted the whole episode, from Ronald Asbury’s flight to Europe, to his return and suicide in a Southampton hotel room. It was an admirably accurate and succinct précis of what Harris already knew, and gave him confidence in Mrs Blackstone’s reliability as a source of information. Once or twice Mrs Leaworth tried to contribute her own additions to the summary, but with the defeatist attitude of one who knows they are doomed to failure. Nevertheless it was to her that Harris turned at the end of the tale.

  ‘And what did Mr Asbury say to you when he vacated his rooms? Was it very sudden?’

  ‘Oh yes, it was. Only a day after the engagement was announced he came and told me he would be leaving Upper Wentham. I wasn’t surprised of course, Ronald was a proud young man. But he was awfully good about it. He offered to pay up his full notice on the spot. I could have used the money too, but somehow it didn’t seem right. He seemed shattered, if you know what I mean? I’ve never seen anyone look so broken and empty. Even if it was his own fault, with that temper of his, I still felt sorry for him.’