by Jamie Probin
Harris snorted. ‘Dunsett hasn’t killed anyone!’
Once again Hollingsworth gaped, and once again Harris beseeched him to watch the road.
‘But surely… it all makes sense, doesn’t it? He hated Sir George for driving his mother into the arms of Roger McKellen in the first place. He probably killed his father for all we know. He no doubt thinks Sir George should have been his father, and so he should have been the heir of the Wentworth estate. He moves down there to get a job in the grounds where he can plot his revenge. He could have pushed the statue, fired the shot, sent the chocolates, cut the brake fluid. He could have stabbed the man in the study. You said the person who did it might be trying to frame Sir George. Maybe he’ll try to kill Charles again, or maybe just go for Sir George next time. It all fits, Harris, you must agree?’
‘I am quite certain some such fanciful ideas were swimming around Billy McKellen’s brain when he forged some references, moved to Upper Wentham and called himself Harold Dunsett. But Dunsett – I shall keep calling him that or I’ll get confused – is a classic case of all talk and no action. He no doubt went to Upper Wentham intending to exact some terrible revenge on Sir George, and yet the reality is that he has spent months and months slaving in the gardens of Blackwood Manor for what is probably a pittance of a wage. It’s hardly getting the last laugh is it?’
Hollingsworth looked unconvinced, and yet the speed of the car slowed slightly.
‘How do you know he hasn’t done anything yet? He might be behind all of the things we’re investigating.’
‘He isn’t,’ said Harris with confidence. ‘I know his kind, and for all their bravado they don’t have the courage to see their plans through. Besides, the person we are dealing with is clever, and clever people don’t move to a village to work for their intended victim, and then get drunk and rant to everyone in the local pub about how much they hate them. If anything ever did happen to Sir George there would be a good thirty men who could attest to hearing Dunsett’s threats in the Green Man. I haven’t seen idiocy like that since I taught a class on analytic geometry.’
‘And you would stake the life of Sir George or Charles Wentworth on that?’
‘There is nothing special about today Hollingsworth. It may be the day we discovered the truth about Dunsett, but he couldn’t know that. There is no deadline or ticking clock. Even if I were wrong, why should tonight be the night, when he hasn’t managed anything in nearly a year?’
‘But it’s possible.’
‘It is possible,’ agreed Harris, ‘but highly unlikely. And clearly we are not going to get all the way back to Upper Wentham tonight, maybe not ever if you keep driving like a lunatic. But if it makes you feel any better why don’t you stop at a police station and telephone to Crout to keep an eye on Dunsett?’
Hollingsworth opened his mouth to reply, then closed it again, wondering why he had not thought of this.
He stopped at a small town and found that the rural police station there had just had a telephone installed three weeks earlier. The local constable showed him the technology proudly and with a touch of awe, as if it contained some power he could not hope to understand. Hollingsworth thanked the man and, once he had gone, rolled his eyes. With such scientific breakthroughs it wouldn’t be long before they had discovered fire as well. This kind of thing only heightened the prevalent attitude he found in the south that northern England was some primitive backwater, and he resented it. Hollingsworth used that stereotype as a great motivating factor to be the best at his job, being the only northerner in the Hampshire police force.
With the call made, and Crout saying he would set Smethurst to keep a constant watch on Dunsett, the drive back resumed at a far more leisurely pace.
‘Well Harris, I hope you haven’t made a terrible mistake in writing off the threat of Harold Dunsett.’
‘Hollingsworth my dear fellow, I don’t make mistakes. I’m surprised at you, forgetting that.’
The policeman snorted in what Harris considered a tactless manner.
‘I hope Dunsett does turn out to have something to do with all this,’ said Hollingsworth, ‘if only to mean this trip has not been a complete washout.’
‘Would you say that?’ asked Harris.
‘Oh don’t start with your cryptic clap-trap,’ groaned his friend. ‘If you mean you picked something else up, then just come out and say it. Wait, don’t tell me, you now know who the murderer is?’
‘Well I would say that one person is very strongly suggested by the circumstances, at least for one of the crimes, but…’
‘But what?’
‘It just doesn’t make any sense at all.’
Harris’ face wore a genuinely worried expression. Then he brightened slightly. ‘But we’ll know if I’m right when we stop in London.’
‘In London?’ repeated Hollingsworth incredulously.
‘Yes. It’s a big city down south, with lots of palaces and cathedrals and things. Surely you’ve heard of it?’
‘I know geography is not your strong suit Harris, but which part of the journey from Yorkshire to Gloucestershire do you think passes through the middle of London?’
Harris waved airily. ‘A minor detour. It will be worth the extra miles, and we can stay there overnight.’
‘Any particular reason, or you just fancy a stroll down Piccadilly?’
‘I wish to visit the Office of War Records.’
‘Oh do you? And what, pray, do you think you will find in there?’
‘The name of the dead man in Sir George’s study.’
Chapter 26
Many people had tasks to complete the following morning.
Douglas McKinley, for instance, was in his living room, preparing himself for an interview with Sir George Wentworth.
‘I still don’t think you are well enough,’ said his wife. ‘You should wait another day or two.’
The MP shook his head firmly, and hoped she did not notice him wince from the resulting burst of pain.
‘This business with the new factory bill needs to be sorted out as soon as possible. It was your idea to wait until after the wedding for me to go and see him, so that he would be more relaxed and in a better mood. And then a ruddy dead body showed up in his study. He’s hardly relaxed now, is he?’
‘It’s not very fair blaming me for that darling. How could I have known that would happen?’
‘You couldn’t,’ admitted Douglas reasonably. ‘But it doesn’t change the fact that I have to somehow go and persuade Sir George Wentworth to change his mind. Not the easiest task at the best of times, and certainly not when there is a murder investigation going on under his damn nose.’
‘When you are a senior minister you are going to have to deal with people like Sir George Wentworth, and make them see reason all the time. Think of this as a challenge.’
‘I do think of this as a challenge! A ruddy great challenge. I have to persuade him that the factory is a terrific idea for Upper Wentworth and Manhampton, when he thinks it will be an eyesore.’
‘But it is a terrific idea! All those jobs that will be created; all the business that will be generated. He’s wrong and you’re right, and you have to make him see that.’
‘Tell me,’ said Douglas as he straightened his tie,’ have you ever met Sir George Wentworth?’
Samantha smiled and kissed him on the cheek him. ‘I have every confidence in your diplomatic talents.’
Somehow through her proximity he could detect the anxiety still lurking just beneath the surface. Years of practice had allowed her to develop the skill of hiding her angst under a veneer of normality, yet Douglas always knew. He was wrapped up in the factory bill, but it was thoughtless to imagine his wife could just put the anonymous letters to one side and focus on his concern. He knew the worry was eating her from within. He silently berated himself for being so selfish with his own stress, not only ignoring hers, but expecting her to make the factory her chief concern also.
He gra
sped her shoulders and moved her far enough away to look firmly in her eyes.
‘Once I’ve taken care of the factory bill, we will sort out this business with the letters once and for all. Don’t worry, darling, I will take care of you. I promise.’
McKinley walked out the house and felt his stomach churning. For all his talents he still suffered from nerves when faced with major challenges. Thus far his brilliant career had come with a minimum of fuss. His charm and brains had carried him far, and luck had often played a role as it must in any success story. Potential confrontations and contentious issues had had a way of dropping into the right places around him.
Not that his success was undeserved. Many of his triumphs during his rise up the parliamentary ranks had been the direct result of the right words or an ingenious compromise that had come to him on the spur of the moment. But the result was that he still did not feel in control of those situations. It was not enough to go into a meeting with someone like Sir George Wentworth with the hope that his guardian angel would once again supply the magic phrase when the time came. Sir George could be a smiling monster, and the fear of sitting there gaping like an idiot in front of the man terrified Douglas.
Realistically the issue of the new factory was an important step for him. Impressing the home secretary would open all sorts of doors, but disappointing him could be a disaster. And in his mind McKinley had managed to build the forthcoming bill into an even larger obstacle, the one by which his entire career would be defined. From his perspective, at least, this afternoon would send him to the front bench or the back.
His stomach gave another lurch at the prospect. Maybe it would be a good idea to take a walk for an hour, and clear his head. He wanted to be thinking soundly when the interview came.
Across the country, at Croydon Airport, the new Mr and Mrs Charles Wentworth were being invited to board their flight for Le Touquet.
They left the plush décor of the departure lounge, with its looming columns and cavernous ceiling, and made their way across the tarmac to the Handley Page H.P. 45 sitting majestically on the runway. For a moment Charles lagged behind his bride, admiring the sleek engines and massive girders supporting the wing array before pulling himself up onto the steps and squeezing through the curved door. Inside Andrea had already settled into the leather-backed seat and he smiled down at her. The difference in her demeanour in the last couple of days was dramatic. She had visibly relaxed, and the lines of anxiety had transformed into lines of happiness. Somehow her entire body looked lighter. It was quite a surprising and pleasing sensation to realise how much she had been worried about him. Despite four attempts on his life, he had never truly been scared. Pressure from his father had led him to employ Dr Harris, of course, but he had done so in the same way people purchased insurance: done because it had to be, rather than the expectation it will ever be needed. Intellectually he had known the fear of his unknown enemy, and yet some gut feeling had always made him think that he would emerge unscathed. He could not know how near the attempts had been to success, or how close he had brushed with death, but when he looked back at the incidents now there was more a sense of realised expectations than relief. Perhaps it was his good fortune in life, born into wealth and prosperity and never wanting for anything, which had forged a sense of security in his subconscious. He wondered if his outlook was unusual in this regard, or whether other men would similarly have clung blindly to the childish certainty that everything would turn out well in the end? Perhaps they would – after all, it was, by definition, the experience of all living souls that death had not yet caught them in his snare. Nevertheless, other men were injured and killed every day through accident, illness or criminal intent, and Charles still lived; and not only alive, but now married to the most wonderful woman on earth. Why would Almighty God have brought him this far if he were not destined for greater things?
Even now, he could even see in the eyes of Andrea and his fellow passengers that visceral fear of flying that all humans have, and which cannot be vanquished by mere knowledge of aerodynamics or statistics; for him, however, a sensation of invulnerability numbed the fear.
Had Andrea truly thought he might be killed? The idea seemed inconceivable to him, and yet her anxiety in recent weeks had been palpable. Nevertheless, despite his certainty of physical safety, the psychological vulnerability that he had never manage to completely suppress still niggled at him as he settled into the seat next to his wife. Had her fear been for his life as that of the man she loved, or was it the fear of losing her prize as mistress of Blackwood Manor, and all the trappings that came with it? Was it him she loved? Or his position?
‘How do you feel darling?’
Andrea smiled weakly. ‘Nervous. I’ve never flown before.’
‘It’s as safe as houses,’ Charles reassured her. ‘Nothing to worry about. And the same goes for all this business about… well, you know what.’
She nodded, and both guilt and relief were written in her face.
‘Everything will be alright now, won’t it?’
‘Yes, my darling, everything will be alright now.’
He leaned back as the four Bristol Jupiter engines began to whine and the plane taxied towards the runway. A contented smile spread across his features.
All was well.
North of Croydon, in central London, Rebecca Hollins was feeling considerably more anxious. It had taken some courage to come here, and an unfamiliar sense of dishonesty in misleading her husband. She had not exactly lied about where she was going, but he had no clue she had come so far by train and would be amazed if he did. The idea to come to the war records office had been stewing in her mind for some time, but she was not used to travelling, especially alone.
Since discovering the situation involving Joseph’s wartime behaviour a bloody-minded determination to protect him had seized her thoughts. The instantaneous shock at the revelation had not even lasted as long as the rest of the subsequent conversation. It made no difference to her what he had said or done in the past – she knew him. She knew what a good and kind and moral man he was now, and how much he could do for the country with his newspaper. Whoever was sending these awful notes would pay, but would not be allowed to hurt him.
Yet the question remained: who was sending the notes? Joseph had kept his secret well. Not even she had had an inkling of the truth, and she was a very perceptive woman. It was not easy to keep things from Rebecca Hollins. If someone knew, then it could only have been either from personal knowledge of Joseph from his university days, or from study of the war records of his trial. The former was certainly possible, although it seemed odd for anyone to have waited so long before acting. She had mapped out a plan to compile possible names of any suspects if necessary; but the idea of tracing anyone who might have studied the War Office archives seemed a more practical place to start.
Now that she was here, though, in front of the imposing building, a strange apprehension seized her. She had paced around the street for several minutes, afraid of entering. It was not as if there were anything to fear from the act of looking at the records herself; more a fear of what she might find. She was the kind of person who liked to read the last page of a book before she began it, to be sure of what would happen. Tension and uncertainty bothered her immensely, and she deplored that one could not “read ahead” in life.
Just as she had calmed herself and resolved to enter the building she had been surprised to see a heavy-set man emerge who looked just like Dr Harris, the man in Upper Wentham they were saying was involved with the police. She was sure he was still in the village, yet if the man she had seen were not him, the two were twins. He even wore the same lens-less spectacles, which she had noticed even though he sped past in a hurry.
Rebecca passed through the main door and into the reception hall. It was quiet, and she only needed to wait a few minutes before the visitor’s book was left alone. Casually she approached and took the pen, scanning down the most recent names entered.
The last name written was indeed “Dr Samuel Harris, University of Cambridge” (Not a policeman then. How odd.) and she wondered if he could possibly have come on the same mission as her. For a second she even considered whether he could be the blackmailer she sought, but the idea seemed ridiculous.
As quickly yet as thoroughly as she could, she ran her eyes over the names, reading upwards to see the guests in reverse chronological order. There was obviously the possibility that she did not know the blackmailer, or at least would not recognise his name, and yet her instinct told her she would. Her eyes roamed the pages, going back one week, then two, three…
Suddenly a familiar name caught her attention and she gasped. The shock of it actually gave her a physical reaction, a slight recoil from the desk. She looked away and then back, as if to check it was not some trick of the eye, but the name remained, written in the clear and unwavering handwriting she knew well:
Richard Carmichael, Upper Wentham, Glos.
At the same time that Rebecca Hollins was reeling from her discovery, her husband was hovering around the servants’ entrance to Blackwood Manor. It was not entirely unusual for him to be doing this around lunchtime, as it was the time of day when Ellie the housemaid would often be sent into the village with some chores and he would occasionally get some information from her about the household. This side of journalism, both the nature of the news and the manner in which it was obtained, was not to Hollins’ taste. He felt that a newspaper should contain only serious or important news, and disliked the growing public craving for what amounted to social updates on the rich and famous. However he also realised that a newspaper needed to sell if it was to survive, and so some concession was required. In the Manhampton area the name that sold was Wentworth, and so it was that he made these occasional trips to see his trusted source.
Today, however, Joseph was looking anxious and a little haggard. The reason his wife had so easily avoided telling him of her trip to London was the multitude of recent events on his mind. Inspector Crout had declared himself satisfied with Hollins’ innocence after his recent interview, but Joseph was no idiot. He knew of Crout, and knew that the policeman played his cards close to his chest. In the absence of any other developments Hollins must remain extremely suspicious in the eyes of the police.
