A Painted Devil

by Jamie Probin

‘Oh yes. Yes, it was very serious. Why, the front wheel could have come off completely at any time. If that car had been going at speed on the roads around here…’

  Watling left the consequence of such an event to Hollingsworth's imagination.

  ‘It would seem that Mr Finchley called you just in time then. With the Bentley still being repaired from the brake line, and Mr and Mrs Wentworth taking the Daimler to Croydon airport for their honeymoon, the next time Sir George had needed a car he would have been in the Rolls.’

  ‘Well then I’m certainly glad he wasn’t out this morning,’ agreed Watling. ‘That car was a death trap waiting to happen. He’s especially lucky really, because I was originally supposed to have fixed the fault the other day, but I had to postpone. And I almost had to change my trip to repair it for a second time this morning.’

  Once again Hollingsworth’s ears perked up, sensing new and possibly important information.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Mr Finchley originally scheduled me to have fixed the car two days ago, you see, but the day before that I received a telegram telling me that my aunt had fallen ill. She has never married and I’m her only relative, so I thought I should go and visit her, even though I haven’t seen her in years. I called Mr Finchley to apologise, and drove to Northampton, but when I arrived at the hospital they had no record of her admission. I drove to her house and she was as fit as a fiddle, and knew nothing about any telegram.

  ‘Well, when I re-read the note it just referred to Northampton and “your aunt”, and didn’t mention her by name, so I just assumed there had been some mix-up with the telegram and it had been meant for someone else. You know what things are like these days.’

  ‘I see,’ said Hollingsworth, scribbling this new information furiously. ‘And I gather something similar happened yesterday?’

  ‘Another letter,’ nodded Watling. ‘From a legal office in Cheltenham, asking me to visit them urgently.’

  ‘Do you still have the letter?’

  Watling nodded, and buried himself in the drawer of a desk in the corner of the room. After a few moments he held a piece of paper aloft and showed it to Hollingsworth. It was a surprisingly verbose communiqué, giving the address of a Hillis, Woodcock and Woodcock Associates, but not mentioning Watling by name.

  ‘It meant nothing to me,’ said the mechanic, ‘and after the confusion over the telegram I wondered if the post office were somehow getting me mixed up with someone else. Anyway, I stopped at the office at the garage and made a call to this Woodcock place, and they said they knew nothing about any letter, and were not expecting a visit from me or anyone else.’

  Hollingsworth looked at the man shrewdly. ‘Do you have an explanation for all this?’

  ‘I did wonder whether someone was trying to stop me going to Blackwood Manor,’ Watling shrugged. Then he grinned in his endearingly boyish way. ‘But that kind of thing doesn’t happen in real life, does it?’

  Hollingsworth smiled and said it probably did not, before asking if he could take the papers with him for evidence. Watling replied that he had thrown the telegram, purporting to be about his aunt, in the rubbish bin, but that the inspector was welcome to the second letter.

  Hollingsworth was folding this missive into his notebook when Watling suddenly coughed self-consciously, and for once his face looked anxious rather than cheerful.

  ‘I don’t mean to be rude in asking, inspector,’ he said a little timidly, ‘but why would the police be interested in all this? I haven’t done anything wrong have I?’

  Hollingsworth had mellowed towards the mechanic a little. Once talking about cars the man had lost some of his excessive joviality (which Hollingsworth suspected was only something of a front by an insecure man intended to make himself likeable anyway) and furthermore had given new information about sabotage at Blackwood Manor. He gave him a broad and reassuring smile and set his mind at rest. ‘Absolutely nothing Mr Watling. In fact you have been very helpful.’

  The man’s face looked relieved, and Hollingsworth appreciated the concern. Since Watling did not know about Sir George’s death, this visit must seem very arbitrary, without much point. Perhaps he feared that Sir George had called the police to complain; that he had somehow inadvertently done something wrong this morning.

  ‘I really just came to ask you a question,’ added Hollingsworth, trying to further settle the mechanic’s concerns. ‘When you were at the Manor, did you see or hear anything unusual? Perhaps anything that someone might not want you to have seen?’

  Watling blew out his cheeks and raised his eyebrows, shaking his head almost immediately. ‘How very thrilling that sounds! But no, I saw nothing. After all, I was only outside with the car.’

  ‘But you didn’t see anyone enter or leave the house?’

  ‘Actually now that you say that I did see someone come to the house. But they didn’t come from the main gate, and they didn’t go to the front door; they went around the side of the house, which is why I got a good look at them. It seemed a bit odd, come to think of it.’

  A couple of quick questions established for Hollingsworth that Watling was describing someone approaching the French windows of Sir George’s study.

  ‘I was behind the car on the ground at the time, so I don’t think they saw me.’

  ‘About what time was this?’

  ‘Perhaps eleven or eleven thirty? I didn’t have a watch.’

  ‘What happened?’

  Watling shrugged. ‘I’m not sure what you mean. They knocked on the window and someone let them in. I didn’t go and peek in at them if that’s what you’re asking.’

  ‘No, no, of course not.’

  Hollingsworth suppressed a yell of excitement. Finally a lead offered itself. He tried to remind himself that this could be coincidental, and much work would be needed before this could be connected to the murder. But the fact of an outsider going straight to Sir George’s study at about the time of the murder – and, by virtue of the further fact that Sir George opened the French windows to him, that the visitor was known to and maybe even expected by the peer – made this very suggestive evidence.

  With growing excitement Hollingsworth pressed the mechanic. ‘Did you see who the man was? I mean, could you describe him?’

  ‘I’m afraid not. They had a hat and I couldn’t really see their face properly. But it wasn’t a man.’

  ‘A woman?’ asked Hollingsworth, somewhat redundantly.

  ‘Oh yes, I’m certain of that at least. It was definitely a woman.’

  Whilst Hollingsworth was interviewing Tom Watling, Harris had taken a rather circuitous route to the church of St John the Evangelist.

  His original destination had been the home of Douglas and Samantha McKinley, and Joseph Hollins had offered to accompany him. The suggestion was reasonable, since the Hollins and the McKinleys were neighbours, but Harris was not so naive to think that the motivation for this jaunt was the pleasure of his witty repartee, rather than the opportunity to mine for precious information. The editor clearly suspected that the McKinleys were also victims of the blackmailer. If extracting knowledge had been Hollins’ intent, however, he was to be frustrated by Harris, who spent the entire walk grilling his companion for information of his own.

  Joseph Hollins had a good opinion of the couple living next door. Douglas McKinley, in particular, impressed him. In Harris’ experience journalists had an even lower opinion of politicians than the general public, but if this were true of Hollins, he at least viewed his local MP as an exception. ‘A politician that prefers to act rather than just talk,’ was his estimation of the man. Of Samantha McKinley he was less effusive, mainly because despite several years of living next door he still did not really feel like he actually knew her.

  The unanimous opinion of Upper Wentham regarding Mrs McKinley was that she was very pleasant and well-mannered, but kept herself very much to herself, and apparently living next door to her did not grant any special exception to this reticen
ce. Privately this puzzled Harris: blackmail victims were usually respected and high-profile members of their community, people with a lot to lose like Joseph Hollins himself. Of course Mrs McKinley’s husband certainly fell into that category, so perhaps the information ultimately threatened him.

  Harris arrived at the cottage hopeful of solving the mystery, but to his chagrin there was nobody home. It was Joseph Hollins who suggested that he might try St John the Evangelist, as the devoutly Catholic Samantha McKinley was known to spend much of her time there.

  So it was that Harris arrived at the small church, whose new and unblemished walls belied its faux-gothic appearance. Compact, and set back from the road behind thick trees and lush foliage which almost obscured the building from view, he would have missed it if not for the kissing gate set into the stone wall. The imposing wooden doors stood open, something Fr. Thomas would do on all but the coldest days of the year to ensure that his church was welcoming to anyone who needed it.

  Harris stepped inside and felt the sudden hush as he passed through the imperceptible barrier of calm that surrounds all churches of a sufficient size. He was a lifelong protestant, but he genuflected to the crucifix anyway.

  At first he could not see anybody, although two indistinct voices were audible. What strange law of physics operates in these old churches, he wondered, that means the quieter one speaks the greater the amplification of one’s voice? The murmurs came from every direction, and strolling around the nave did nothing to pinpoint their origin, but eventually he passed a small chapel set back from one transept and saw a priest and a woman huddled together in quiet and heartfelt dialogue.

  ‘Mrs McKinley?’

  If the whispers were still loud, then Harris’ booming voice almost shattered the stained glass window, and the two started. The woman turned to reveal a pretty face with sad eyes that studied him fiercely.

  ‘Yes? It’s Dr Harris, isn’t it?’

  ‘It is.’ It no longer surprised Harris that everyone in the village already knew who he was. ‘I’m sorry to bother you here, but there is something I need to ask you which may be very important.’

  For a moment he felt the intensity of Samantha McKinley’s gaze as it bored into him.

  ‘What is it?’

  Harris looked uncomfortably at the priest, who wore a serene and slightly distant expression.

  ‘It, er, may be quite personal in nature,’ he said, pointedly.

  For a moment it seemed that Samantha McKinley did not understand his concern. Then she followed his darting glance at Fr. Thomas, and almost laughed at the idea that a part of her life should be kept from him.

  ‘Dr Harris, I can assure you that Fr. Thomas already knows about anything I could tell you. We can speak freely here.’

  Harris shrugged, but a hint of discomfort remained in the action.

  ‘I have reason to believe that you have recently been the victim of blackmail. Is that the case?’

  For a moment she said nothing, and her expression was an odd juxtaposition, as if the words were both expected and stunning at the same time. Eventually she nodded.

  ‘In a manner of speaking,’ she replied. ‘I have certainly been receiving anonymous letters threatening to reveal information about me. But they have never demanded money.’

  Harris nodded very slightly, but kept his eyes locked on hers.

  ‘What secret does this person know about you?’

  She looked at him, and for a moment her eyes were frightened. But suddenly, unexpectedly, a calm resignation came to her face.

  ‘You have no doubt heard,’ she said, ‘of the incident of the lovers’ leap?’

  ‘I’ve heard versions of it. As to their accuracy I could not say.’

  Harris proceeded to tell the tale he had heard at the library and elsewhere, of the two young lovers who wished to marry, but were forbidden by their families, and so leapt into oblivion from the top of Lookout Point.

  ‘They say that Sir George Wentworth found you both, and whilst Anthony Barnes died instantly you emerged with only a broken bone and a nasty bruise on your head.’

  Samantha snatched a guilty glance at her priest and nodded.

  ‘That is a fairly accurate summary of what happened,’ she agreed, ‘or, at least, what everyone knows. When Sir George found us I was unconscious. I awoke in the hospital to discover my leap into the jaws of death had not exactly been successful.’

  ‘But everybody knows this!’ said Harris in exasperation. ‘I mean, I think literally everyone in Upper Wentham knows this story.’

  Samantha McKinley nodded very gently, as though the motion physically hurt, and her eyes looked sadder than ever.

  ‘But there is more that they don’t know.’ Once again she looked to Fr. Thomas, and this time the glance was for support. ‘Nobody except Fr. Thomas and Sir George knows the full truth about that day.’

  Harris let his gaze flit around the cool stone interior of the church, and on the kaleidoscope of coloured lights refracting through the transept’s stained-glass window.

  ‘On the contrary, it would seem that one other person knows.’

  She smiled humourlessly and nodded. ‘And now you want to know too. And strangely, I want to tell you. Eventually, I think, any secret, no matter how awful, is not as bad as the strain of keeping it.’

  Harris remained silent, and watched her intently. She screwed up her face, eyes down, as though debating internally, and then nodded with decision.

  ‘It is not quite true to say that Anthony and I wanted to get married when we approached our families. In matter of fact, we were already married.’

  Harris nodded. ‘I see. And you couldn’t do anything about it,’ he added as he looked around the distinctly Catholic surroundings.

  Samantha shook her head. ‘Nor could we tell them. They wouldn’t have understood, and they would have forced us apart.’

  ‘But dash it all – sorry Father – did you really need to jump off a cliff? Couldn’t you just have eloped?’

  What could almost have been a smile flicked across Samantha’s lips. ‘Of course looking back now I would say yes. I can’t explain what was going through our heads when we thought of the idea originally. We were young, passionate… and completely irrational. My theory – and my goodness how many times have I thought back to that moment? – is that when you are young, you feel invulnerable. You don’t really think anything can harm you, let alone kill you. I think subconsciously we expected to survive, and then the guilt of our parents at so nearly driving us to our deaths would change their minds and let us be together.’

  ‘I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again,’ said Harris, ‘romance is for the barking mad. But I still don’t see why that makes you susceptible to blackmail? How does the fact that you were married change anything?’

  ‘It doesn’t. It’s what came after that people don’t know. The next thing I knew I was waking up in the hospital with Sir George by my side. He said he had been out walking and found us lying there at the base of the cliff. Anthony was clearly dead, according to Sir George, but he could see I was still breathing and called for an ambulance. The doctor said that I would, miraculously, be fine – just a couple of broken bones and bruises – but that he couldn’t…’ She choked off briefly, but brushed away the offer of a comforting hand from Fr Thomas. ‘He couldn’t save the baby…’

  ‘Baby,’ echoed Harris in a whisper. ‘Ah, I see.’

  She looked at him desperately, eyes glistening with the grief of years.

  ‘I didn’t know. If I’d have known I would never… I didn’t know!’

  In a few moments several previously confusing factors dropped into place in Harris’ mind. He had assumed that the brunt of Samantha’s guilt must have lain in her being the one to suggest the leap, perhaps even pressuring Anthony Barnes into agreeing. But it had seemed odd for that to create such a huge sense of blame, given that he was an adult, and quite responsible for his own decisions. Now things were clearer: Samantha
did not bear guilt – not much at least – for Anthony’s death. But for the death of her unborn child, who had no say in events, she bore total responsibility. Ignorance of her condition was no excuse in her eyes. She, and she alone, killed a child of God.

  Harris could see that this would be a far worse crime in Mrs McKinley’s eyes than the one known in the village, although he doubted very much whether the knowledge would make a jot of difference to the rest of Upper Wentham. Her infamy among the villagers was for the horror and melodrama of the event, not blame directed at her as some kind of criminal. And the predominantly Protestant locals, with a rather different view on unborn life than their Catholic counterparts, would in Harris’ opinion have produced sympathy, not accusation, if the facts emerged.

  ‘And you never told anyone? Not even your husband?’

  She shook her head sadly.

  ‘How could I? The guilt was… is unbearable. I know what they would think, that I killed my own child. I know how they would look at me. I just couldn’t take it. But… I think that they might know now. The whispers, the hushed voices, they are worse now, I know it! Whoever wrote those awful notes must have told them!’

  Harris put a comforting hand on her shoulder, and she raised her chin to look at him.

  ‘But whoever this person is,’ he said, ‘he or she must have found out the truth somehow. From what you have told me the only people who know about this are the medical staff at the hospital and Sir George.’

  ‘And me,’ added Fr Thomas, waving away the beginnings of an impassioned defence of his character from Samantha. ‘But I assure you I have not betrayed my vow of confidentiality, Dr Harris, nor written any letters on the matter.’

  ‘I didn’t think so,’ admitted Harris. ‘And whilst we can’t rule out someone from the hospital, the finger does seem to point squarely at Sir George. I can’t see that he would actually write the letters – it is completely out of character for him, and even if it wasn’t, why on earth would he wait so long before commencing a blackmail campaign? – but he seems indicated as the one who let the proverbial cat out of the bag to our poison pen wielder.’