A Painted Devil

by Jamie Probin

  Why – not to mention how – the man came to have Joseph’s name and address in his pocket was a complete mystery. The likely explanation was an intention to contact him about some business with the newspaper, but Hollins had never had anyone pay him a personal visit before, especially not at home and at the weekend. And while finding his home address would not be that difficult, it was surely easier to use the address of the printing offices found in every edition of the paper?

  Natural curiosity in the mystery would have aroused Hollins’ interest anyway, but knowing that the police must inevitably be considering a link between him and the crime demanded his unequivocal attention. And with all this coming on top of the White Feather Campaign (it was a professional habit to dub all incidents with catchy epithets) Hollins’ nerves were thoroughly frayed. He wondered for the umpteenth time if there were any connection between the two incidents. In his more hopeful moments he even wondered if the dead man were the blackmailer, and someone else had solved his problem with a swift stab of a knife.

  The servants’ door opened and the pretty, petite figure of Ellie stepped out. She caught his eye, but her expression showed that this would not be an ordinary meeting for either of them. Normally Ellie giggled as she imparted any worthwhile morsels of information, whilst Hollins came as close as he possibly could to flirting with her in return. There was never any hint of impropriety between them, and most men would not have recognised his demeanour as anything resembling playful, but it was still more relaxed and less serious than Joseph Hollins was in any other situation.

  Today, however, there was reticence in Ellie’s eyes. Perhaps some of it was a reflection of the unusual worry etched on the journalist’s face, but it was also apparent that the servants had been talking, and as was to be expected they had put a great deal of weight on the discovery of Hollins’ address in the dead man’s pocket.

  ‘Hello Ellie. How are you?’

  ‘Fine thank you Mr Hollins.’

  For a young woman Ellie was normally very confident around him, but now he could sense a degree of trepidation in her manner. He tried to calm himself, hoping that the change would be echoed in the housemaid too. It was an odd situation; normally he was here to glean any information that might make worthy news for the public. Today he was here on personal business, trying to discover how much suspicion, if any, was really being directed toward him.

  He had thought for a while about how to approach the situation. Ellie was downstairs purely because of the social circumstances of her birth, but her intelligence was unquestionable. She would not be fooled by any effort to pretend this visit was routine, nor that his interest was impartial. It would be better, and hopefully more disarming, to explain his position to her truthfully.

  ‘How are things downstairs?’

  ‘Fine. Well, as fine as can be expected, given the circumstances.’

  She was definitely being guarded.

  ‘I understand. It must have been a terrible shock to everyone hearing about that poor man.’

  ‘It was, sir. Awful. My mum thinks I should leave.’

  Hollins felt a twinge of horror at this, and the accusatory voice of his conscience suggested this might not be a purely professional reaction.

  ‘That’s a daft idea, of course,’ continued Ellie. ‘It’s not as if people getting stabbed is suddenly going to be a regular thing in the manor, is it?’

  ‘No,’ smiled Hollins. ‘At least let’s hope not.’

  She smiled back, and the normal Ellie returned.

  ‘I don’t know if you heard, but the dead man had my name and address in his pocket.’

  A visible relief washed over Ellie, as though she had desperately wanted to raise the subject, but was scared to.

  ‘We did hear, sir. It was all over the servants’ quarters. Some said you had something to do with it. But I told them not to be so stupid,’ she added defiantly, and a proprietary feeling coloured her words.

  ‘Thank you Ellie,’ said Hollins, to whom the housemaid’s loyalty penetrated deeply. ‘I appreciate that very much. I have spoken to Detective Inspector Crout about the matter and explained that I have no idea who the man was, nor why he should have my name.’

  ‘That’s what I said!’ exploded Ellie. ‘I knew you had nothing to do with it.’

  Even the purest part of Joseph Hollins’ journalistic nature, which would normally convulse at hearing such statements made with no evidence or justification, passed over the report without comment.

  ‘If you get the opportunity I would be grateful if you would pass that information on to your colleagues.’

  ‘I will, Mr Hollins. I definitely will. You can rely on me.’

  Further questioning established that, at least within Ellie’s sphere of influence, no mention of him had been made upstairs either. The way she reported this gave the impression that, if she had overheard Sir George or Charles Wentworth suggest anything untoward about Hollins, she would have confronted them there and then.

  Even with all his anxieties of the last days, even with all the uncertainty over how to proceed, and even with all his lack of social perception, Joseph Hollins could recognise the hero worship in the housemaid’s gaze.

  He did not understand its source, nor did he fully comprehend the emotions it stimulated inside him. But he knew enough that they were wrong, and needed to stop. This situation was not good for him or Ellie.

  With a melancholy that was alien and incomprehensible he awkwardly ended the conversation and hurried away from the Hall.

  Detective Inspector Crout thought jealously of the police car that Hollingsworth had been careful to parade in front of him a couple of days ago. That magnificent specimen of automotive engineering would have purred powerfully had he depressed its accelerator the way he now pumped that of his own car. But in contrast his vehicle only sputtered and grumbled uncooperatively as he tried to race it to Blackwood Manor.

  The telephone call he had received from Finchley some twenty minutes earlier had sounded important. Crout had little experience with butlers of the old school, but enough to know that they only sounded flustered when something was seriously wrong, and there had undoubtedly been a strain of panic in the old man’s voice when he asked Crout to come urgently. Of course nothing could have agitated Finchley enough to actually explain the matter by telephone – that would be simply too coarse – but Crout could only think it could be something concerning Sir George.

  Once more he cursed his aging motor as he floored the pedal to little effect. In truth he was already pushing a dangerous speed on the winding country roads, but he was desperate to arrive as soon as he possibly could. He had the notion common to all police detectives that the ordinary man or woman simply could not help but contaminate a crime scene. However much they knew not to touch anything, somehow their very presence was a threat to any latent clues waiting within.

  Finally he tore through the gates of Blackwood Manor and was met at the front door by a visibly shaken Finchley. In a matter of seconds his instincts were proven correct: the butler directed him to the study, and as he reached the door his eyes were inevitably drawn to the centrepiece of the scene.

  Sir George Wentworth lay slumped across his desk, and part of the side of his head was missing. His right hand, sprawled close by on the desk, still loosely held a Webley Mark IV pistol and his neck was twisted awkwardly, so that lifeless eyes stared dully at the doorway.

  Chapter 27

  A shockwave ran through Crout as his eyes drank in this image, and it was not just the shock of seeing a personal acquaintance dead. Crout had met Sir George on a number of occasions, although only beyond brief formality in the last few days, but Sir George’s status in the area brought with it celebrity which always amplifies the impression of familiarity, at least in one direction. Crout felt like he knew Sir George, in the same way that he felt like he knew the king. But there was also professional shock, quite separate to any personal relationship he felt with the dead man; as a detec
tive, he simply had not seen this development coming. Crout liked to feel that he had a case pegged to some degree, and his instinct had told him the deaths were over in this inquiry. He certainly had not envisioned a threat to this peer of the realm, even after Hollingsworth had called with the information regarding the true identity of Harold Dunsett.

  Almost immediately he shook such thoughts from his head. There would be time enough later to dwell on the magnitude of this development. His task at hand was to analyse the crime scene and determine as much of what preceded it as possible.

  There was no point even touching the body. The procedure of verifying death, often a first attention, was futile here. The bullet had wrought a sickening toll on Sir George’s skull and death must have been instantaneous. Crout had seen many gruesome scenes in his career, but the open wound displayed on the desk caused a wretch in his gut which he had to actively fight.

  He turned his attention to the study. His last investigation at the Manor had been in this very room and so he already had the location clear in his mind. A practised glance told him that very little seemed to be disturbed. The safe that had drawn such attention last time was sealed, the furniture was untouched, and there was no sign of disturbance around any windows, the grate or, indeed, the desk itself. He noted a letter lying close to Sir George’s body on the desk and knew that it would be important, but could also wait. Once the scene was controlled and items could not go anywhere, the important thing was to obtain facts from people before they became confused or forgotten.

  ‘Who found the body?’ he demanded of Finchley. The notebook snapped into his hands.

  ‘It was Mr McKinley sir.’

  Crout’s high forehead raised further as his brow creased in surprise.

  ‘McKinley? What was he doing here?’

  Finchley’s face remained impassive but his voice sounded ready to break.

  ‘He came to see Sir George for a meeting about some… some parliamentary business sir.’

  ‘And where is he now?’

  ‘I left him in the drawing room sir. He was in shock and felt quite nauseous.’

  ‘I’m not surprised,’ muttered Crout. ‘Ask him to come here would you?’

  Finchley inspected his feet in the manner practised by all good butlers who are about to speak out of turn, but know they are right.

  ‘I think it would be unwise to bring Mr McKinley back to this room so soon sir. It took some minutes – and a couple of brandies – to calm him down.’

  Crout considered this. ‘Perhaps you’re right. But I do need to speak to him as soon as possible, and I don’t want to leave this room unattended. I tell you what, call Smethurst and tell him to get here immediately. When he arrives send him up and he can guard the room.’

  ‘I have already sent for PC Smethurst sir. He should be here in a few minutes.’

  ‘I also need you to call the local doctor… what’s his name?’

  ‘Dr Falkes, sir. He is also on his way.’

  Crout nodded approvingly. ‘Excellent Finchley. Thank you.’

  ‘Not at all sir.’

  The butler withdrew delicately, and Crout scanned the room once more. Again nothing drew his eye as remarkable, except for the letter on the desk, and since he had a few moments during which he could do little else he strode over to examine it.

  The letter was pushed to the far corner of the desk, and had avoided being spattered by blood, unlike most of the desktop. No pen was visible. The words on the paper mocked Crout as he read them:

  I, Sir George Wentworth, am about to take my own life. The consequences of my recent actions have become fully apparent to me, and I can no longer live with them.

  It was I who stabbed the man found in my study during the wedding reception. I have also waged blackmail campaigns against Samantha McKinley and Joseph Hollins. And I have arranged a number of “murder attempts” on the life of my son Charles, to test his worth as my heir. I have found him wanting, and not the man to take forth the proud name of Wentworth. I hereby bequeath my title and estate to Richard Carmichael.

  I wish to apologise to all who are disappointed in me and feel I have not lived up to my calling. I can only assure you that I had my reasons.

  Crout read the short missive through twice more, but still the words stubbornly refused to change and become statements which could be rationalised. Surely none of this could be true? It was impossible!

  ‘Sir?’

  PC Smethurst’s deferential salutation drew Crout back into a world of coherence, a world where peers of the realm do not insanely kill strangers, fake murder attempts on their own sons, wage blackmail campaigns on their villagers and then blow their own brains out.

  ‘The butler said you needed me up here?’

  ‘Yes, thank you Smethurst. Come in.’

  The frame of the door was high, but Smethurst still ducked automatically as he stepped through, with the instinct of one who has struck his head on more than one low lintel in the past. He absorbed the scene with his usual stoicism. If the shock of Sir George’s death, or the sickening sight of his ruined head had any effect on Smethurst it did not show on his face. Crout had expected to spend a few minutes talking Smethurst through the traumatic scene and explaining as much of the situation as he understood, but it seemed the constable was taking it all with a stronger constitution than his superior.

  ‘As you can see we have a situation here,’ continued the inspector with an impressive dose of understatement. ‘I need to go and conduct some interviews, and I need you to make sure no one touches anything in here.’

  ‘Yes sir.’

  ‘Whilst you’re here, make yourself useful and note down as much as you possibly can about the scene. Dr Falkes will be here soon, so help him with anything he needs.’

  Again Smethurst nodded complacently. Crout felt annoyed by this, wishing the young man would show a bit of appropriate turmoil, rather than nodding like a parent patiently hearing out a young child as they show off what they know. He felt vaguely patronised as he departed the room.

  It only took one glance at Douglas McKinley, once Crout reached the drawing room, to see that Finchley was astute in his advice against bringing the MP back to the study. The man was pasty white and his hands still shook slightly. He looked at Crout but his eyes had a glassy veneer, as if he were really seeing a different scene, and Crout could guess which one.

  ‘Mr McKinley?’

  ‘Hmm? Yes, er… detective inspector Crout isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes sir. I realise you have had a great shock, but I wondered if you might answer one or two brief questions?’

  McKinley nodded vacantly, and Crout could not shake the sensation that he only had about fifty percent of the man’s attention.

  ‘I understand it was you who found the body?’

  ‘Um… um, yes, I believe I was.’

  ‘You’re not sure?’

  ‘Well I have to assume that if anyone had found it before me they would have raised the alarm.’

  Crout nodded, quite surprised in the circumstances by the lucidity of the response.

  ‘And what brought you here today?’

  Almost imperceptibly McKinley’s shoulders straightened slightly and his eyes cleared. Having questions to consider seemed to be helping his shock, giving him something on which to focus.

  ‘I wanted to talk to Sir George.’

  ‘I see. Was he expecting you?’

  ‘Yes he was. I had been planning to meet with Sir George for some weeks now. There was a matter we needed to discuss, but finding a convenient time had been difficult. I had been ill with a flu of some sort, and then Sir George had the wedding. Finally I called him today and we agreed to meet.’

  Crout scribbled furiously in his notebook.

  ‘So you spoke to Sir George earlier?’

  ‘By phone, yes.’

  ‘What time was this?’

  McKinley blew out through his lips and thought about this.

  ‘Quite early. P
erhaps around ten thirty? I wasn’t sure exactly when I would get here, so I simply said I would come later. Sir George said that any time was fine.’

  ‘I see,’ said Crout. ‘And would anyone else have known what business you had before coming here? In other words how long you would be?’

  McKinley shook his head. ‘I’m afraid not. I had no other business, as you put it. I just walked for a few hours to prepare myself for the meeting. You see, this was to have been quite a major discussion over an important parliamentary bill.’

  ‘Oh yes?’

  ‘I’m pushing for a new factory to be built nearby, towards Manhampton, which would bring many jobs to the area. Sir George opposed the idea, and I was hoping we could reach a compromise on the matter. I had been dreading the meeting to be honest. One doesn’t speak ill of the dead, of course, but Sir George could be quite a formidable opponent.’

  Crout looked down at the cuffs of his jacket and thought he could imagine that quite easily. A fleeting image of Sir George lying sprawled across his desk shot into Crout’s mind and he hurriedly forced it aside.

  ‘And so you arrived here… when?’

  ‘About two I think. My watch has broken, but I’m sure Finchley could tell you exactly.’

  ‘So Finchley greeted you and showed you to the study?’

  ‘No, I knew the way and Finchley is about ninety eight so I told him not to worry and I would show myself there. I came up, knocked on the door and got no answer. That seemed odd at the time because Finchley had said his master had been in his study all day, so I knocked harder. Well, the door was not quite fully closed, and when I knocked the second time it actually opened. Not by much, but enough for me to catch a glimpse and know something was very wrong. I went in and… and…’