A Painted Devil

by Jamie Probin

  He looked at Hollingsworth. ‘Bill Raynor told us that Diana Wentworth came back to the Lake District in 1913 and informed them of her fear that Sir George would divorce her. Then she returned to Upper Wentham and only a few weeks later announced she was pregnant.’

  Hollingsworth’s eyes looked like they were about to leap from their sockets.

  ‘You’re saying that Charles Wentworth…’

  ‘Is not Sir George’s son, no. Frankly it is obvious when you look at the portrait gallery. He looks nothing like any of those thin-faced ghouls lined up out there. He is the son of Diana Bowes and Gordon Astin, and neither of them told a soul.’

  ‘But what does the dead man, this, er, Peter Grantham have to do with any of that?’ asked Crout.

  ‘Well Charles’ parentage could really have been guessed by anyone in the village who had bothered to think about it,’ said Harris. ‘For the identity of the dead man I got into a bit of speculation. We heard in the Lakes that Gordon Astin went to mass every Sunday. As a devout Catholic, the guilt must have hung heavily on him. Whatever his motives, fathering a child out of wedlock, and with another man’s wife, was still a grave sin. My guess is that when the bomb hit his trench in Ypres, and he realised he was dying, he felt like he had to confess what he had done to one of his comrades. It would surely have been Bill Raynor had he been available, but we know that he was in the field hospital, so it must have been another man. Now if that man then fell on hard times, like so many have, and if he saw in the paper that Charles Wentworth, the so-called son of Sir George Wentworth was getting married, he might see the chance to be paid for his silence.’

  ‘That was twenty years ago! Why wait so long?’

  ‘Maybe seeing the name recalled the conversation, buried with his memories like the rest of the war. Or perhaps blackmail was a last resort for Peter Grantham. Not every blackmailer is evil. Some are just desperate.

  ‘This was all speculation on my part, as I said, but if I was right then the dead man must have been one of Gordon Astin’s comrades. I went to the War Records Office and got the name of every surviving member of his regiment.’

  There was silence as the others thought about this.

  ‘So the reason he had Joseph Hollins’ name and address was in order to sell his story if Sir George did not pay up?’ said Crout.

  ‘Or at least give credibility to the threat. Grantham had no proof of his allegation, so he wrote to Bill Raynor and asked for a photograph of Gordon Astin.’ He looked at Hollingsworth. ‘You remember Raynor had just recently sent a photo to someone from his old regiment? It was, I assume, exactly what Grantham hoped for: to wit, a picture of a man who looked far too like Charles Wentworth to be a coincidence. He then came here, found Sir George’s study and confronted its occupant. He showed Sir George the photo and demanded money to keep quiet or he would take the picture to the Gloucester Telegraph.

  ‘He banked on Sir George being prepared to pay a small amount to keep such an embarrassing secret quiet. What he didn’t know was how obsessed Sir George was about an heir, and the Wentworth line. When it simultaneously dawned on Sir George that he actually had no legitimate heir, nor could he ever have one, he decided that the information could never be revealed. Whether Charles was a legitimate Wentworth or not, as long as everybody believed him to be then the line would continue. Maybe Sir George thought about it and reasoned it was too risky to let the man live, or maybe it was simply an instinctive reaction. My guess is that he told the man that the money was in the safe, and as Grantham walked to it he plunged the letter opener into his back.’

  ‘And Sir George then burned the photograph,’ said Crout bitterly.

  ‘Quite so. As for the corner of paper I found under the desk, I imagine when the photo was first revealed Sir George snatched it from Grantham, and the corner was torn off in the process.’

  Crout absently tapped his pencil on the desk and nodded slowly.

  ‘I take my hat off to you Dr Harris. That must be exactly what happened. And I completely missed the importance of the open safe. We’ll need to get official confirmation of our corpse’s identity, of course, but I think it will be purely a formality.’ He stopped for a moment, and then shook his head incredulously. ‘I still can’t believe it. Sir George Wentworth a murderer.’

  The other men murmured their agreement with this sentiment.

  ‘But a quite different kind of killer from the one we are still seeking,’ said Harris. ‘Sir George’s crime was impulsive, on the spur of the moment. Almost a crime of passion really. I do not think he would have been likely to kill again. Our other murderer, however, the person who killed Ronald Asbury and Sir George, is far more calculating and ruthless… and very likely still dangerous.’

  Joseph Hollins, sitting in the small bedroom he had converted into an office, had slipped into the reverie that often overcame him when searching for journalistic inspiration. He was dragged back to his surroundings by the sudden, frantic pounding on the front door. He left his typewriter irritably and walked through to the small entrance hall. Before he had reached the door a second bout of knocking began, and he pulled it open angrily.

  When he saw that his visitor was Ellie, the parlourmaid, the annoyance faded from his face, replaced by sheer surprise. Why this girl should be at his house at all, especially panting with exhaustion and looking terrified, was a total mystery to him.

  He invited her in and told her to sit and calm herself, but even after a few minutes of deep breathing the fear was still palpable.

  ‘Ellie, what is it? What’s wrong?’

  ‘It’s…’ Another wave of shock crossed her eyes, and for a moment Hollins feared she might be sick. ‘It’s the master sir.’

  ‘Sir George?’

  ‘Yes sir. He’s… he’s dead sir.’

  Hollins stared at her. ‘Dead?’

  She nodded vigorously, and continued in a stage whisper. ‘They say he was... murdered.’

  Now it was Hollins’ turn to look staggered. ‘Murdered? Are you certain?’

  In response Ellie merely burst into tears and buried her face in her hands. Hollins discovered an odd combination of emotions unleashed in the face of this. An urge to comfort Ellie, and tell her everything would be okay; a curious guilt at the thought of his wife catching him in such an act; shock at the idea of Sir George Wentworth dead; and towering over them all the innate journalistic reaction to such a momentous piece of news. It was impossible, even with all these other responses to the information, to not think about the implications of the Gloucester Telegraph being the first to publish this news.

  After a few moments Ellie managed to speak, and words came tumbling out of her mouth.

  ‘They’re… they’re saying you had something to do with it. They’re saying the master wrote a letter about you before he died.’

  Instantly all Hollins’ other emotions were swept away by a tide of terrified self-preservation.

  ‘Me?’ He stared at her, open-mouthed. It was hard to believe human eyes could widen as much as Joseph Hollins’ did now. ‘Who said that?’

  Ellie wiped furiously at her eyes and curled her legs underneath her. The sofa seemed to be swallowing her petite form.

  ‘I heard it from Joanne, who heard it from cook. I think she was told by Mr Finchley.’

  In any other situation Hollins would have dismissed such a trail of whispers and gossip as worthless speculation, but this was no impersonal news story and Joseph Hollins was not thinking like a journalist anymore.

  ‘What did this letter say? Did it accuse me of anything?’

  Ellie continued to cry, and said she didn’t know.

  ‘Did it say I killed him?’

  Again Ellie shook her head. ‘I don’t know anything more than I’ve told you sir. I haven’t seen the letter.’

  Hollins had many more questions, and it took an effort of will to see that Ellie was not in a position to answer any of them. Even with his stomach churning he realised that it had taken
great courage for the parlourmaid to come here, and saw the distress she was suffering. He reached down awkwardly to pat her shoulder, and she looked up at him with wide, devoted eyes.

  ‘Tell me what you want me to say to the police sir. Do you want me to say I was with you all morning? Do you want me to tell them you didn’t come to the house? I’ll tell them anything you want.’

  ‘Tell them…? No, Ellie, I... Wait! Ellie, do you think I did it? Do you think I killed Sir George?’

  If it were possible Ellie’s face fell even further, and a fresh batch of tears erupted.

  ‘Look, Ellie, just tell the police the truth. Tell anyone who asks the truth. There’s nothing to worry about. Look, let me take you back to the Manor. I’ll go and see the police myself and clear this up.’

  And while I’m at it, he thought, get the story.

  His inner journalist could not be suppressed for long.

  Rebecca Hollins stepped off the train at Upper Wentham station and strode purposefully back towards the village. The long journey had done nothing to palliate the seething fury in her features, and she answered the couple of greetings she received from villagers with a distracted nod.

  All her life she had defended her brother. She was fully aware of his faults, his supercilious attitude, his condescending mannerisms and downright obnoxious opinions on the war, but she had nevertheless tried to see something deeper and honourable, and stayed true to their sibling bond. She had spoken up for him when his name had been mentioned in conversation, and defended him when that mention had been derogatory. Even when it felt like everyone else disliked Richard Carmichael, she had maintained that sense of reverence a younger sister has for an older brother.

  The revelation of Richard’s betrayal had pierced her deeply. She had always thought that her loyalty meant something to her brother, and that he valued the unconditional devotion she showed him. She went so far as to think he felt protective of her and would always keep her from harm, even now she was married.

  Rebecca reached the junction with the Manhampton road, but instead of turning left for The Paddocks, she turned right without hesitation. Tears were welling in her eyes when she reached her brother’s cottage and banged on the door, in a manner not dissimilar to the treatment her own front door was receiving from Ellie about the same time.

  There was an expression of both surprise and pleasure on Richard Carmichael’s face when he opened the door. His wonder at who could be knocking so insistently at his cottage gave way to concern when he saw the anguish on his sister’s face. That also faded quickly, replaced by shock as she pushed into him, hammering her fists into his chest and crying freely.

  ‘How could you Richard? How could you do that to Joseph? How could you do it to me?’

  ‘Do what?’ He stared uncomprehending, and grabbed her fists to stop her relentless, albeit rather weak assault. ‘What are you talking about? Will you please calm down Rebecca?’

  ‘Don’t tell me to calm down Richard! You know what I’m talking about. The letters and the white feather.’

  ‘Letters? White feather? Rebecca, what on earth has gotten into you?’

  She gave up trying to hit him and pointed an accusing finger instead.

  ‘Don’t deny it Richard. I went to London. I saw your name in the War Records Office.’

  ‘The War Records Office?’

  ‘Yes, do you deny it?’

  Carmichael gripped her shaking shoulders and tried to guide her to a chair. Grudgingly she allowed him, all the while locking her condemning eyes on his.

  ‘Do I deny that I went to the War Records Office? No, of course not, but that was months ago. And I still have no idea what you are talking about.’

  ‘How could you do that to Joseph? How could you do that to my husband?’

  ‘Do what? Rebecca, you have to calm down and tell me what you think I’ve done, because there is some mistake here.’

  Although the tears had stopped flowing her angry cheeks were still streaked with moisture. Somehow it looked terrifyingly tragic.

  ‘Must you pretend Richard? You found Joseph’s conscientious objector files. You’ve been sending him those awful letters.’

  Carmichael had kept his hands clutched on his sister’s shoulders, trying to pacify her. Now his grip relaxed and he recoiled, stunned.

  ‘Joseph was a conchy? Are you serious?’

  She saw the amazement in his face, and the realisation of what she had done began to sink in.

  ‘You… you didn’t know?’

  If Richard heard the question he showed no sign.

  ‘But what about his stuff in the newspaper? All this ‘Let’s Be Ready!’ rhetoric? That would ruin him.’ He shook his head, as though trying to clear it and come to terms with what he was hearing. ‘Hold on, you’re saying that someone has found out about this? And they are sending you letters? Are they blackmailing you?’

  ‘Not yet. Not for money anyway. But I’m sure it will come.’

  The implications of her earlier attitude sank in, and Richard looked reproachfully at his sister.

  ‘Why on earth would you think I had anything to do with that?’

  ‘I thought whoever was doing it must have found the information from the War Records Office.’ Rebecca wiped her cheeks with the palms of her hands. ‘I went this morning and looked through the guest book. I saw your name!’

  For a moment the accusatory tone returned to her voice and Carmichael quickly put his hand on her arm.

  ‘I went a few months ago. I thought I might find some dirt on Sir George Wentworth.’

  ‘Dirt? What do you mean?’

  ‘You know. Some skeleton in the closet. I’ve always wondered about that story of his during the war. You know, how he claims that he wasn’t allowed to fight for medical reasons, because of the limp? I thought maybe that was just an excuse to not fight and stay safely here instead. I thought if I could show that Sir George Wentworth was a coward who refused to defend his country… well, people might see him for who he really is. A bully and a fraud.’

  Rebecca stared at her brother. For a moment even her other concerns faded temporarily to the background. She had never understood the depth of bitterness he held for their ex-stepfather, and the magnitude of his obsession could still surprise her.

  ‘Oh Richard, you have to let this go. If you think there is a battle between you and Sir George, then he is winning it. Until you forget about him and get on with your life, you are the only one suffering. You can’t bring down the Wentworth family, and what’s more, you don’t need to in order to be happy.’

  Carmichael ignored this protestation and returned to her problem.

  ‘Look, does anybody else know about this thing with Joseph?’

  ‘Nobody, so far as I know.’

  He stood, grabbed his hat and gestured to the door.

  ‘Then let’s go and make sure it stays that way. Come on.’

  At Le Touquet airport, the Handley Page touched down on the runway with a puff of burning rubber and a squeal of protest from the suspension. As the aeroplane braked hard Charles took Andrea’s hand in his and smiled reassuringly. Her face could not hide her apprehension, but as the momentum settled and the strain of the seatbelt eased she found a smile to return.

  The plane coasted to the terminal and the movable staircase was brought to the doorway, a smooth and seamless routine born of endless repetition. As Charles showed Andrea to the door the steward stood smartly to attention and wished them a pleasant trip, pocketing a generous tip from Charles as the latter passed through the doorway.

  The bright blue skies of France greeted them, and they had to shield their eyes for a moment as they adjusted from the dim cabin to the glorious sunshine. Charles was beaming amiably when he reached the tarmac and headed toward the arrival hall. Just before he reached the entrance however, a small, dapper man with a clipped moustache approached him and coughed deferentially.

  ‘Monsieur?’

  ‘What is it?’ Charle
s looked at the man and a sense of foreboding swept over him.

  ‘You are Monsieur Charles Wentworth?’ asked the man in excellent English.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And your bride, Madame Wentworth?’

  ‘How odd that sounds!’ exclaimed Andrea. ‘Yes, that’s me.’

  The man extended an arm to invite them to one side.

  ‘My name is Jacques Carré. I am the manager of the airport.’ He gently ushered them into the cavernous building as they spoke. ‘I wonder if you would accompany me to my office for a few moments.’

  ‘Is anything wrong? What is all this about?’

  M. Carré merely continued to guide them towards a door in the far wall of the arrivals hall, discreetly anonymous in the epic grandeur of the room and the vibrant bustle of travellers.

  ‘I will explain everything sir. But I think it would be easier to do so in the peace and quiet of my office.’

  Reluctantly Charles allowed the airport manager to steer them to his office. The room was surprisingly large and sumptuously decorated, with oak panelling and divan chairs around an ornate fireplace.

  ‘Perhaps you and your wife would like to sit down, monsieur?’ M. Carré gestured to the lush upholstery of the chairs. ‘May I get you a drink?’

  ‘Look here, get to the point M. Carré. Is there a problem with our documents? We’re on our honeymoon and we are already delayed.’

  An imperceptible flicker of irritation passed over M. Carré’s face, perhaps bemoaning the English lack of refinement.

  ‘There is no problem monsieur, not of that kind.’ He sighed, and once again delicately indicated the chairs. ‘I really do think it might be better if you were to take a seat.’

  Charles looked at him oddly, then slowly seated Andrea first before himself.

  ‘I received a telegraph from Sir Oliver Anstruther two hours ago. You know this gentleman?’ Charles nodded. ‘It suggested I made arrangements for you to cancel your trip and book you two seats on the return flight to Croydon.’