by Jamie Probin
It occurred to Harris that neither Samantha, nor Fr Thomas would know about Sir George’s murder this morning, and wondered whether he should tell them. He thought probably not, but Samantha cut across him anyway.
‘No, he would never have told anyone. If anything he wanted it kept more secret than I did.’
Harris stared at her with confusion. ‘Why would you say that?’
But even as she looked away unwillingly, the words of Mrs Blackstone and Mrs Leaworth from the library returned to him, about Anthony Barnes and his resemblance to Sir Alfred, and it all made sense.
‘Ah!’ said Harris. ‘Because Anthony Barnes was one of Sir Alfred’s indiscretions wasn’t he? Actually an illegitimate half-brother to Sir George himself. And so your child would have had Wentworth blood, a grandchild of Sir Alfred Wentworth, albeit one with no legal claim on the Wentworth title or estate.’
Samantha nodded her confirmation of this.
‘Sir George wasn’t sure how to feel about it, I think. On the one hand, he worships his ancestry, and two people with Wentworth blood died that day. But on the other he seems to live in the constant fear that somehow one of his grandfather’s “indiscretions”, as you call them, will one day turn up with some evidence of legitimacy. For someone who wanted an heir so badly, he was determined that no other real Wentworth be allowed to appear on the scene.’
Harris wondered how many other “Wentworths” there were out there, and whether there was any chance of Sir George’s fears being fulfilled. For years Sir Alfred Wentworth had been single and a philanderer following the death of his first wife. Everyone had been surprised when he suddenly married Adele Carmichael. But could they be certain there had been no other marriages in the intervening years? Ones that remained secret? He suddenly wondered if it were possible that one of Sir Alfred’s indiscretions might not be illegitimate after all.
Harris thought back to Ronald Asbury’s research into marriage records, and also into matrimonial law and its technicalities that could nullify a marriage; then suddenly, his mind still on that visit to the library, he remembered standing at the main desk and flicking through a recently-returned book on inheritance law.
Did someone in the village know, or at least suspect, that some legal loophole may exist that might alter the circumstances of the Wentworth estate? If so, it might be a blessing that Sir George did not live to see his worst fears realised.
But it might be a very unpleasant surprise for Charles Wentworth…
Detective Inspector Crout was in the kitchen of Blackwood Manor, talking to the cook, when a piercing screech of tyres echoed down the passageway. Almost simultaneously Wilson, the under-footman, tore down the stairs, shouting with a morbid excitement:
‘Mr Charles and his lady are back!’
He tailed off in embarrassment when he saw Crout, but the latter quickly excused himself and returned to the main house.
He was by the door, just behind Finchley, when the new Sir Charles and Lady Wentworth strode in.
The pair had very contrasting airs; Charles’ face had a pinched and rigid expression, looking almost inconvenienced, whereas Andrea was dabbing at tear-stained cheeks and trailing her husband helplessly. It was evident that she had taken no black clothing for the trip, but a black scarf was draped around her neck.
‘Is it true Finchley? Has my father been murdered?’
Charles’ voice was almost aggressive, challenging the butler to deny the fact.
Finchley, looking even older than usual, opened his mouth to answer but his voice cracked and he merely nodded as his shoulders slumped.
In that instant something drained from Charles’ Wentworth’s frame. The hostility, as though he were the one bearing the news of his father’s death and daring anyone to repudiate it, evaporated to nothing. He still stood tall, but somehow suddenly seemed hollow.
It was at this moment that Crout noted the eyes of the couple, and was struck by a curious reversal. In appearance both played their roles admirably: the distrait son and heir keeping his shoulders straight and his upper lip stiff, and the dutiful wife free to show sufficient emotion for the two of them. And yet the eyes betrayed a different story. Although Charles’ manner was more angry than upset, his eyes looked to be barely containing the grief which threatened to burst through. And whilst Andrea’s attentive pose and stained makeup spoke of great distress, her eyes were cold and blank.
It was interesting, thought Crout, how naturally (and, in Andrea’s case, quickly) these outer personas came to the upper classes. Of course Charles was devastated at losing his only male relative and the man who had raised him, and of course the loss meant far less to Andrea. But that was not how things were done; the man bore up and the woman shed the tears.
Was it healthy, mused Crout, to always repress true feelings and play the expected part? Was this why so many of the upper class ended up “a bit funny in the head”, as his wife put it? In the moment before addressing the newlyweds he found himself wondering how they had behaved in their recent car journey from Croydon. Had they spoken freely of what they truly felt, or did these social constraints even extend to occasions when they were alone?
‘Mr Wentworth... oh, excuse me, Sir Charles,’ Crout corrected himself, ‘may I express my sympathy for your loss? And the inconvenience that you were forced to cancel your honeymoon.’
‘Who cares about holidays Crout? I want to know what happened.’
‘I understand Sir Charles...’
‘Stop calling me that!’ yelled Charles.
The awkward silence that followed was broken by, of all people, Finchley, who found his voice.
‘But Master Charles, that is your title now. We all...’ his voice nearly cracked again but he recovered, ‘we all regret the circumstances which have brought this fact about. But you are the head of the Wentworth family now, and your father would want you to treat that title accordingly.’
Charles nodded, and for the first time his shoulders slumped a little. Crout was struck with the idea that what Charles Wentworth wished more than anything was to run to the butler, have his back patted and be told that everything would be alright.
‘You’re quite right, of course Finchley. Thank you. I’m sorry Detective Inspector, please forgive me.’
Crout nodded and said he understood. ‘I’ll be happy to give you further details Sir Charles, but perhaps...’
He left the end of the sentence dangling delicately, not wishing to presume, and Sir Charles completed the suggestion. ‘Yes, we should sit down. Finchley, would you show Inspector Crout to the library and prepare him a drink if he wishes. I will escort my wife upstairs. She has had a great shock and needs to lie down.’
Ten minutes later Charles rejoined Crout, and the latter explained the circumstances of the previous day. Charles snorted derisively at the mention of suicide, and then gaped at the account of the new “will”.
‘Surely none of this is being taken seriously?’
‘Not at all,’ Crout assured him. ‘We are definitely treating your father’s death as a murder investigation.’
‘Of course it was murder. And surely by the same man who stabbed that poor chap in the study?’
Crout had no intention of being the person to detail all Harris’ suggestions regarding the identity of Peter Grantham’s killer as Sir George. That could not come without the further revelation of Charles’ true parentage; and, technically, was still only speculation until ruled in a court of law. Harris deduced the truth, thought Crout with just a hint of jealous petulance, so Harris had earned the pleasure of telling the new lord of the manor.
Instead the policeman directed the conversation towards one of the topics discussed earlier in the council of war.
‘Sir Charles, I realise you are in shock, grieving and no doubt exhausted. I don’t want to intrude upon your time any more than is necessary, especially given that you are unable to tell us anything about events on the day your father died. If I could just ask you a couple of
questions I will be on my way and leave you in peace.’
Charles nodded, and Crout continued: ‘Firstly, is there anything you can think of, any event or conversation from the time before you left for France, which you think, in retrospect, might have any bearing, any bearing at all, on what happened? It needn’t be anything major, just something out of the ordinary which grabbed your attention.’
Charles thought for a brief moment, hardly enough to skim his memory, before shaking his head. ‘I can’t inspector, but to be honest I really am not thinking straight. I promise I will give the question further thought and inform you if I remember anything.’
‘I appreciate that very much sir. The second question is more specific, and not directly related to the murder of your father. We are still investigating the other events, as we believe that the previous murders, attempts on your life and so forth must be connected to your father’s death.’ Charles nodded his understanding. ‘Could you tell me, when you and Ronald Asbury were in the church the day the statue fell, what is it that you were investigating?’
Charles’ face registered surprise at this enquiry. For a moment he looked baffled, as though the act of remembering back to a time before his father’s murder was like casting his mind back decades rather than months.
‘It’s funny how hard it can be to remember things, isn’t it? It was only last November and yet it seems so very long ago. I suppose it’s not always about how much time has passed after something happened, but how much has occurred since.’ Charles shook his head sadly, seeing a glimpse of those multitude events between then and now. The incident with the statue had been the first attempt on his life; in retrospect it was the moment his entire life changed. That morning, on the way to the church, he knew nothing of threats or intrigue. The most worrying strain in his life was the burgeoning romantic attraction he felt to Andrea Ketterman, and the equally burgeoning – but at that point still friendly – rivalry with his companion Ronald. ‘We were searching through the marriage records, inspector.’
‘Looking for what?’
‘Now that is a good question.’ A rueful expression cracked briefly through the sadness on Charles’ face. ‘I’m dashed if I can remember. To be honest I’m not sure I even really knew then. It was Ronald’s idea, certainly. He took me along and told me what to do, just said to be on the lookout for some particular words or phrases – but offhand I can’t remember what they were.’
‘You don’t recall the purpose of this? Was there, perhaps, a particular marriage Mr Asbury was interested in? Or a particular type of marriage?’
Charles was silent for a moment, thinking. Then he snapped his fingers. ‘Yes, I remember now. He was interested in marriages where one or both of the parties had been previously married. I was to look out for parties who were widowed or divorced.’
‘Why?’
‘That I don’t know. I simply made notes of each marriage I found that fit the criteria. I presume Ronald had some follow up research to do, but then the statue fell and...’
Charles tailed off, and the memory of his own brush with death seemed to refocus him on the loss of his father. He screwed up his eyes and buried his face in his hands.
‘I... I just can’t believe he’s gone.’
Crout sat for a moment, facing the supreme awkwardness men experience when in the company of another man showing raw emotion. He hoped that a convenient hole might open in the ground and swallow him; when no such geological fault occurred he rose, murmured a brief farewell, and departed.
Chapter 31
Having arrived back in Southampton, Hollingsworth was at his desk and sorting through a quantity of trivial paperwork as fast as possible, in order to then devote himself to the Metropole case once more. True to his word Sir Oliver Anstruther had contacted the Hampshire chief constable, who had directed the chief superintendent to give Hollingsworth more leeway in his investigation. The superintendent had not looked any too pleased about this, and Hollingsworth felt he needed a breakthrough soon, if only to justify himself.
More than that, he wanted to be the one to solve the case. With the number of fellow policeman involved, not to mention Harris of course, his professional pride was challenged. Above all he wanted the case solved and justice served, naturally, but it would be pointless denying that he had daydreamed on his return journey of being the one to piece the clues together and explain everything to a room full of awestruck peers. Front and centre of that group in his daydream had been Harris, looking both impressed and annoyed that Hollingsworth had stumped him, and that image more than anything was all the motivation Hollingsworth needed.
True, Harris looked to have solved a portion of the case by identifying Sir George as the man who murdered Peter Grantham, but ultimately that was a tangent to the big picture. The real case, which had originally drawn both Hollingsworth and Harris into the world of Upper Wentham and had begun long before someone plunged a paper knife into the back of an unfortunate war veteran, remained as elusive as ever.
Hollingsworth hoped that the circumstances might favour his investigation over the others. It may be wishful thinking on his part, but the more he thought about it, the more he felt certain that the key to everything lay in the murder of Ronald Asbury. That murder had been the first, and it seemed likely that it precipitated everything that followed. If he could solve the murder at the Metropole then hopefully everything else would fall into place. And he certainly was in the best position to solve that murder: he was the only one who had been on the scene, and also had first-hand experience of the investigation, however scarce the leads had proven to be.
And now, this afternoon, he had managed to arrange a meeting with the stewardess who had served Asbury’s cabin on the boat from France. When he had first tried to find her she had been at sea again, still on duty, and with no official sanction to the investigation he had been unable to request her absence from the ship. She had sailed for America and back, and had finally completed her marathon journey. As of yesterday she was on a week’s leave, and agreed to meet him in the Empire Tea Rooms at half past two.
Until then he wanted to look over the facts again. The last few days had moved his focus to Upper Wentham, and now he wanted to refresh his memory about the events in the Metropole.
He looked down at the notes he had compiled, detailing the events of the previous May 21st:
11:45am The boat on which Ronald Asbury is a passenger docks at Southampton harbour.
1:30pm Asbury checks into the Metropole. He leaves his suitcase and goes out again. Whereabouts unknown, but presumably this is the period when he left the note for Andrea Ketterman at the Regal Hotel.
3:15pm Asbury returns to the Metropole (and, as far as we know, never leaves again)
4:30pm The man calling himself Sidney Carter checks in and specifically requests room 315. (No record of him leaving the hotel anytime later that day, but the rear doors are still unlocked. Someone could leave and return that way.)
7pm Rear service doors are locked. The only access to the hotel is now through the front door, which is always in sight of the desk clerk.
7:30pm Andrea and John Ketterman call and ask at the front desk for Mr Asbury in room 314. The evening clerk calls the room and sends them up.
7:50pm The Kettermans come back down to the lobby. Asbury telephones down and John Ketterman returns to the room to receive the letter for his sister
7:55pm John Ketterman descends again, and he and his sister leave
8:20pm The Kettermans arrive at their hotel and go to their rooms. Neither appears to have left again.
9:15pm Asbury (or someone purporting to be him) telephones and requests to be woken at nine the following morning.
7:15am The next day, Sidney Carter checks out without eating breakfast.
8:45am John Ketterman boards the steamer for South America.
9:00am The maid knocks at room 315 and receives no answer. Eventually she calls the desk clerk, who calls the manager, and they discover
the body. The manager calls the station.
9:10am Sergeant Davies and I arrive.
9:15am Dr Hyatt arrives. He estimates Asbury to have been dead between ten to twelve hours.
9:45am Andrea Ketterman returns to the Metropole.
Doing a quick mental calculation using Dr Hyatt’s assessment and the Kettermans’ evidence, Hollingsworth took his pen and scrawled at the bottom of the page: Death occurred between 9:15pm and 11:15pm. Then, wishing to err on the side of caution he crossed out the 11:15pm and wrote midnight instead.
He read over the timeline a couple more times, in the forlorn hope it would suddenly give him some inspiration, but there was nothing here he had not known for months, and it still produced nothing in the way of ideas.
If he could only work out how Sidney Carter had come to know that Asbury was staying in the Metropole he might finally have a lead to follow. And it was that hope, above all, that he clung to as he took his coat and left for the Empire Tea Rooms.
Janet Lamb perched on her chair in the corner of the tea room, scanning the people around her and wondering how she would recognise Detective Inspector Hollingsworth. She was a slender woman with a very unassuming air, and she felt out of place.
Oddly, when on duty on the Ocean Star liners, she exuded confidence and competence; and yet when just herself – Janet Lamb, rather than “Janet Lamb, stewardess” – these traits evaporated and left a timid figure who looked awkward even when sitting. It was, said those who saw both sides of her, as though when she boarded the ship she began playing a role like an actress stepping on stage.
The Empire Tea Rooms were not a usual haunt of hers. In fact this was only the third or fourth time she had visited. Neither the consciously pompous atmosphere nor the prices were really suited to her. But when Detective Inspector Hollingsworth had contacted her and asked if they could meet, it was the only place she could think to suggest. She had not wanted a policeman visiting her house nor did she wish to go to a police station, and for some reason she had the idea that her local tea shop was beneath a member of His Majesty’s Police Force.
