A Painted Devil

by Jamie Probin

  ‘Cancel our trip?’ Charles repeated, staring at the man incredulously. ‘Why on earth…? What is it? What’s happened?

  ‘I’m afraid I have some bad news for you monsieur.’ M. Carré sadly passed a sheet of paper to Charles, and he slowly read the telegram.

  Charles stared at the sheet for several minutes, unmoving. Andrea could not see the contents of the communication, but it was obviously not long enough to require this much time, even if read twice. Eventually she realised that the letter had shifted slightly, falling in the loosened grip of Charles’ thumb and forefinger. Although in the same position, Charles was no longer looking at the telegraph, but staring blankly at the deep pile carpet. His lips were parted and his face was ashen.

  ‘Darling? Charles, what is it?’

  For a moment her husband seemed uncertain where the sound was coming from. His unseeing eyes eventually found her, and she could almost feel his gaze gradually focus on her. They revealed an awful depth of despair, and his face had a desperate, pleading expression, as though begging her to save him.

  ‘It can’t be.’

  ‘What’s happened?’

  Slowly he passed the telegraph to her.

  ‘It’s my father. He’s been murdered.’

  Chapter 29

  ‘All this time we’ve been assuming that whoever killed Ronald Asbury was also at work here,’ said Hollingsworth. ‘Now we find we have two murderers out and about in Upper Wentham. Maybe it’s actually three, and Asbury’s death has nothing to do with it?’

  Crout, Hollingsworth, Harris and PC Smethurst were still in Sir George’s study. They had pulled the chairs into a circle for a council of war.

  ‘No, I don’t think so,’ replied Harris. ‘For one thing Ronald Asbury was connected to Upper Wentham, and we have discussed many times the extremely unlikely possibility that his death is independent of subsequent events here. And for another, the death of Peter Grantham had very different characteristics all along to the attempts on Charles Wentworth’s life, and the death of Ronald Asbury. But those crimes all show the same trademark qualities, and this death does too.’

  ‘That’s true. After all, someone tried to make both Ronald Asbury and Sir George’s deaths look like suicide.’

  ‘At least this murder has brought our two investigations together,’ added Crout. ‘But all our real evidence was related to the death in the study. I thought when I was called to Sir George’s body this morning that our killer had struck again, and we would have some new clues. Instead it just neatly closes the case on the death of Peter Grantham. All our evidence and leads on him are worthless now. This puts us right back to square one.’

  ‘Would you say we have no new clues?’ asked Harris.

  ‘I knew he was going to say that,’ grumbled Hollingsworth to Smethurst.

  ‘I’ve been waiting for this murderer to make a mistake,’ continued Harris, ‘and I do wonder if he has just made it.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Crout.

  ‘This letter. It might be a little too clever for its own good.’

  Harris paused for dramatic effect; Hollingsworth inwardly groaned at the naiveté that led PC Smethurst to unwittingly play the stooge and ask what Harris meant.

  ‘I think we agree that its writer never expected it to be taken seriously as a suicide note. So what, then, is its purpose? It seems to me to be the latest in a long series of efforts to scatter suspicion over as wide an area as possible. Our murderer never seems to want to do anything without providing one or more suspects to go with it.

  ‘For Ronald Asbury’s death there was no one from Upper Wentham on hand to indicate, so the shady figure of Sidney Carter was invented. I wonder if the incident involving the statue falling was originally supposed to implicate Rev Johnson, out in the graveyard; and one of the staff, quite possibly Harold Dunsett, for the incident in the folly with the gunshot. Charles’ friend was indicated for the poisoned chocolates, and it could have been anyone in the Anstruther house who cut the brake lines on the car.

  ‘But with this letter that gambit of lobbing suspects our way has been elevated to a whole new level. We have Samantha McKinley and Joseph Hollins, both the victims of alleged blackmail campaigns; Charles himself the target of these so-called “tests” of his character; and of course the extraordinary suggestion that Richard Carmichael might think he stands to inherit the entire Wentworth estate.

  ‘If these are not genuinely intended as possible motives for murder – and at least in Richard Carmichael’s case that seems unfeasible – then they are simply smokescreens to cloud our view of the case.’

  ‘I’m quite sure you’re right, Dr Harris,’ said Crout, taking out his pipe and stuffing tobacco into its bowl, ‘but how does that help us?’

  ‘Well, it struck all of you immediately that whoever wrote that letter was ignorant of the identity of Peter Grantham. But the reason it stood out was that the rest of the letter was an effort to quite specifically wrap up the threads of our various cases – in addition to casting the net of suspicion far and wide. And to do that the writer must have been the one behind the various allegations. It is surely impossible that he or she could have known of two independent blackmail operations without actually being the blackmailer. Once we know the nature of these we will know that our mysterious killer must have been in a position to obtain access to certain delicate information.

  ‘Perhaps more important is the question of motive. Why is he doing it? True, we could be dealing with a Machiavellian genius, who enjoys chaos and red herrings for their own sake, but it seems unlikely. This continual effort to thrust suspects at us rather implies that his motive might be quite basic, and he hopes to bury it under a mound of false leads.’

  Crout eyed Harris intelligently and nodded.

  ‘You mean by confusing us with an array of suspects and motives we might fail to notice that someone very clearly benefits from at least one of these deaths? That’s possible, Dr Harris. Yes, that’s quite possible. The problem is that we don’t know which of the murders was the “key”. You would think that it is the first murder that is the crucial one, but it is hard to see who benefited from Ronald Asbury’s death. Charles Wentworth – well, at the time of the murder attempts he wasn’t worth anything, although I suppose he is after today. Now with Sir George Wentworth a motive couldn’t be more obvious. The Wentworth estate is worth millions. But I’ve already checked with Croydon airport, and the beneficiary – well, beneficiaries, I suppose, now that Charles Wentworth and Miss Ketterman are married – were both sat on a plane above the English Channel during the time Sir George was shot. I’m not willing to rule out many people in this, but they definitely didn’t do it.’

  ‘You might want to add Agatha Stretham to that list,’ added Hollingsworth sardonically.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Never mind. Look this is all speculation. I’ve had enough of sitting around and talking,’ said Hollingsworth, irritably. ‘What I want to know is: what are we going to do about it? What is our plan of action?’

  ‘We should start by asking the house staff what they saw and heard this morning.’

  ‘Smethurst has already done that,’ interrupted Crout. ‘Anything interesting Smethurst?’

  The constable pulled out his notebook self-consciously and opened it to the correct page.

  ‘Nothing more than what Mr Finchley told us really sir. Sir George went to his study mid-morning and stayed there all day. He told Finchley he did not want any lunch. Apart from the staff the only people who came to the grounds were the postman, the milkman (both before the time when Sir George took breakfast, and was definitely still alive), the mechanic that came to look at the car, and Miss Bowes.’

  ‘Catherine Bowes was in the house?’ asked Harris, with interest.

  ‘Yes sir. She comes over on most days at some point, to use the library. But, er…’ He tailed off uncertainly.

  ‘She couldn’t have reached the study because you need to climb a few step
s,’ completed Crout.

  ‘Exactly sir,’ said Smethurst, a little uncomfortably.

  ‘Was her pet dragon with her?’ asked Harris.

  ‘Mrs Dale did accompany her,’ Smethurst grinned in spite of himself. ‘Mr Finchley said she doesn’t always come, but she did so today.’

  ‘Well we need to check with her if she saw anything – don’t worry Smethurst, I’ll do that – and we need to speak to this mechanic in Cirencester… what name did you get Smethurst?’

  Smethurst, whose attention had been caught by something out of the window, hurriedly reached for his notebook and began flicking the pages.

  ‘Er, Tom Watling, sir. He works for Reeds Garage on Grange Road, Cirencester.’

  ‘Well I have to get back to Southampton,’ said Hollingsworth, ‘and I’ll all but drive through Cirencester, so I can talk to him en route. Crout, I need you to talk to Sir Oliver and get him to call my chief constable. If he can persuade the CC to give me greater resources I might be able to make some progress regarding Ronald Asbury’s death, and perhaps find some leads on this Sidney Carter fellow.’

  Harris nodded his head approvingly

  ‘An excellent plan, which leaves me to go and discreetly investigate…’ He broke off to glare at Hollingsworth, who had just snorted. ‘Discreetly investigate this issue of blackmail.’

  At the word blackmail a heavy crash sounded from the doorway. The four men turned and saw Finchley, accompanying another man who had just knocked over a small table containing a vase of chrysanthemums.

  Without missing a beat the butler announced: ‘Mr Hollins would like to see you, Inspector Crout.’

  A number of differing emotions met this statement.

  Hollins, who had come intending to score the details of Sir George Wentworth’s death, now turned ashen upon hearing the word blackmail. A strong believer in the efficiency of the justice system, he had come with no fear. He was sure Ellie’s news about his name being connected with Sir George’s death was the result of Chinese Whispers. He knew he was innocent of any possible crime, and had marched in ready to play the hardened journalist. At the mention of blackmail a sickening possibility occurred to him, and his editorial bravado evaporated.

  The policemen, having read Hollins’ name on the “suicide note”, were intrigued by his suspiciously providential appearance. This was the second time in a matter of days that a note found with a dead man had named Joseph Hollins, and it seemed odd that a man they were so keen to talk to should suddenly appear.

  As for Harris, when Hollins nervously cleared his throat an immediate wave of recognition washed over him. In all the deaths and car journeys and interviews of the last few days the overheard conversation at the wedding had quite slipped his mind. Now, recognising that distinctive throat-clearing, he suddenly tied together the discussion about a conscientious objector overheard in the folly, and the mention of blackmail in connection with the man standing at the doorway. In light of the “Let’s Be Ready!” campaign he had read in Hollins’ newspaper, the man’s fear of exposure made perfect sense.

  ‘Yes Mr Hollins?’ asked Crout, with a hint of terseness to imply that it was not the journalist’s place to come intruding on police time.

  Hollins tried to recover his nerve, but still stammered slightly.

  ‘I, um, came to ask you some questions about Sir George Wentworth’s death.’

  When he had mentally practised on the way, the latter part of the sentence had sounded dramatic, but now it came across as more of an afterthought or clarification.

  ‘How do you know about that?’ demanded Crout.

  ‘I, er, have my sources.’

  Again the line, planned to sound so enigmatic, was delivered more like an excuse.

  Crout beckoned Hollins into the room sharply, and motioned him to sit. With Crout himself now standing this had quite an intimidating air, and Hollins found himself on exactly the opposite end of an interrogation than he had intended.

  ‘Mr Hollins, I am going to ask you a question, and I advise you to answer it candidly, however uncomfortable that might be for you.’

  At this, Hollins’ nerve gave way entirely, and with it went any sense of boldness. He nodded miserably.

  ‘Have you recently been the subject of a blackmail campaign?’

  Another pathetic nod.

  ‘Yes. At least, a kind of blackmail.’

  ‘A kind of blackmail?’

  ‘The letters haven’t actually demanded any money, you see.’

  ‘And what was the nature of the campaign?’

  Hollins’ crushed spirit was inscribed in his slumped figure, as he put his head in his hands and shook it disconsolately.

  ‘I think I can tell you what it is,’ said Harris from the back of the group.

  They all stared at him, Hollins included.

  ‘I believe someone has been threatening Mr Hollins here with the revelation that he served time in jail as a conscientious objector in the war.’

  Harris’ statement received a variety of reactions. Joseph Hollins stare intensified with disbelief; Hollingsworth unconsciously allowed an expression of repugnance to cross his features; Crout impassively made a mental note of the fact; and Smethurst looked at Harris as though he were a sorcerer.

  ‘Is this true?’ asked Crout.

  Hollins’ response was a pause followed by a miserable nod.

  ‘But… everything you say in your newspaper,’ said Smethurst, finally.

  Hollins looked utterly wretched.

  ‘I know what I say in the Telegraph. Do you imagine I ever stop thinking about it?’ He turned to Harris. ‘How did you know?’

  Whilst Harris was enjoying the moment he saw no mileage in pretending he was some kind of psychic.

  ‘Honestly? I heard you and your wife discussing your blackmail letters after the wedding.’ He explained what had occurred in the folly. ‘Frankly, you were lucky it was me that overheard you and not another local, or your secret would be all over the village by now.’

  ‘Why didn’t you mention it?’ Crout demanded of Harris.

  ‘Because I only heard the voices, I couldn’t see who was talking. It was only when I heard Mr Hollins here speak, and recognised his voice, that I put two and two together.’

  ‘Still,’ said Hollingsworth with a reproving look, ‘with blackmail so strongly connected to the death of Ronald Asbury you might have mentioned it.’

  A little life came back into the shoulders of Joseph Hollins and he raised a weary head.

  ‘So it’s true then? Asbury was being blackmailed too? Over what secret?’

  ‘We have no idea,’ admitted Hollingsworth. ‘We haven’t seen any letters. We just have a trail of money and assets paid from Mr Asbury to a Sidney Carter. I don’t suppose the name Sidney Carter is familiar to you by any chance?’

  His woes temporarily forgotten, Hollins shook his head slowly.

  ‘No, there have been no names connected in my case. But surely the fact that money was demanded from Asbury suggests a different blackmailer?’

  ‘We don’t know how long Mr Asbury was blackmailed,’ said Hollingsworth. ‘It may be that his early letters didn’t demand money, just as yours don’t. But we have evidence suggesting at least one other person in Upper Wentham is in a similar situation to you, and it would be quite a coincidence if the incidents were unrelated. It seems that somehow someone in Upper Wentham has found a way of unearthing secrets about its inhabitants.’

  Harris replaced a small figurine of St. Peter he had been absent-mindedly tossing from hand to hand back on the mantelpiece and turned to Hollins. ‘Did you know Ronald Asbury?’

  ‘Asbury? I knew him reasonably well I suppose. He did a good amount of freelance work for the Telegraph, so I had a professional relationship with him.’

  ‘Did you like him?’

  For the first time since entering the room something approaching a smile crossed Hollins’ face.

  ‘I don’t think I did, to be honest. Not t
hat I was called upon to like him, so far as his freelance work was concerned, of course. But I always felt there was something… more about him. I felt like he was always laughing at those around him, and saw himself as superior to everyone else.’

  ‘What kind of freelance work did he do for you?’

  Hollins shrugged.

  ‘A variety of pieces, really. Many of his articles were investigations. Asbury had a real talent for ferreting out secrets…’

  Hollins voice tailed off as the implications of his statement settled over the room. The detectives met each other’s eyes with inquisitive glances.

  ‘Surely not?’ said Hollingsworth. ‘Asbury was being blackmailed.’

  ‘Can we be certain of that? The trail could have been faked,’ suggested Crout.

  ‘But Mr Hollins received a letter only days ago,’ pointed out Smethurst. ‘Ronald Asbury has been dead for months.’

  ‘Let’s not leap to conclusions,’ admonished Harris, mainly because if there was any leaping to be done he liked to be the one to do it. ‘Just because Asbury was good at finding out secrets does not make him a blackmailer.’

  ‘No,’ agreed Hollingsworth,’ but it might give someone a motive to kill him. And they could then feasibly have taken some of his research and either started or continued blackmailing Asbury’s other victims.’

  ‘That sounds somewhat speculative to me.’ Surprisingly this came from Joseph Hollins, whose journalistic instincts recognised unsubstantiated conjecture and eschewed it like the plague.

  ‘Thank you Mr Hollins,’ said Harris, ‘at least someone is not allowing their imaginations to run away with them.’

  Hollingsworth and Crout both looked less convinced, possibly because their jobs involved solving this crime, and the dearth of promising leads was a great frustration to their professional pride.

  ‘Mr Hollins, what was the last thing you worked with Ronald Asbury on?’

  Hollins moved his forefinger back and forth along his chin as he thought about this.