by Jamie Probin
‘I see you haven’t heard the news from Detective Inspector Hollingsworth.’
Sir Oliver repeated the account of the interview with Tom Watling that Hollingsworth had telephoned to him earlier.
‘A woman?’ repeated Crout with feeling. ‘Well that certainly changes things. I’ll look into that straight away. But it doesn’t rule out the possibility of someone else entering Sir George’s study too. The French windows open onto the rear of the house and you can reach that quite easily from the path by the river. It would be perfectly feasible for someone to have walked up to the French windows, knocked and been admitted by Sir George without anyone knowing.’
‘Very true Crout. Once again there are very few people we can actually eliminate from suspicion.’ Sir Oliver inflated his cheeks and blew out. ‘Well, that is admirably summarised. And as you say, it shows us that the whole thing makes no sense. On the face of it there isn’t anyone who could have been responsible for all of these crimes. And furthermore the suspects who seem that bit more likely in one case have cast iron alibis for others.’
‘That struck me too sir. Andrea Ketterman, for instance, was right there in Southampton, but couldn’t possibly have fired the gun in the folly or killed Sir George. Douglas McKinley was around Blackwood Manor – walking on the moors without an alibi – when Sir George was shot, but was speaking at a meeting in front of two hundred people on the same night the brake lines were cut.’
Sir Oliver nodded. ‘It’s as you say Crout. Something, somewhere is wrong with our picture. Where is it? Where are we making our mistake?’
‘I don’t know sir. I wish I did, because I think the whole case may rest on it.’
Chapter 32
A great benefit of a village like Upper Wentham, is that most people’s lives run to a clockwork schedule. When Harris decided he wished to speak further to Mrs Leaworth, Ronald Asbury’s erstwhile landlady, it was easy to learn where she would be during the day, and consequently ensure he bumped into her as she carried her groceries home from Mrs Wall’s shop. Harris greeted her as though their meeting was pure providence and fortune was smiling on his day. Ever the gallant preux chevalier, he offered to carry her bag.
They strolled along the lanes of the village, exchanging light pleasantries about the weather, the plants and other mundane topics that made Harris internally yearn for a merciful end. For the latter part of the stroll Harris spent the time mentally deciding which was more painful: the strain of the groceries on his back or the strain of the small talk on his intellect.
Finally Harris’ prayers were answered and they arrived at the quaint cottage Mrs Leaworth called home, with its lush, flowery garden modestly lurking behind a low stone wall. It was at the very edge of the village proper, and behind the house the moorland rolled spectacularly away to the rugged horizon. It was an inspiring view, and Harris made a mental note that it would be a good location to come and think.
‘Dr Harris, how very, very kind of you to help me with that heavy shopping,’ exclaimed Mrs Leaworth. ‘Now surely you will join me for a cup of tea? And I baked some jam tarts this morning which, if I do say so myself, looked delicious. You will try one, won’t you?’
With absolute honesty Harris said that he would be delighted, and she ushered him in the gate and through the garden. As she fished her latchkey out of her purse Harris noticed the stairs at the right of the house, leading up the outside wall to the door on the second storey. This, then, was where Ronald Asbury had his lodgings after his father had died.
There was an almost girlish enthusiasm to Mrs Leaworth as she bustled him through the front door and into a cosy kitchen which, to Harris’ joy, was full of the rich aroma of fresh baking. Whether it was merely the more remote location of her home, or a lack of relatives, Harris suspected Mrs Leaworth did not get as many visitors as she would like.
Once or twice he tried to introduce a question into the whirl of activity as she brewed him tea, served up a choice of cakes, biscuits and pastries, and generally fussed around him until he had everything she felt he needed. Finally, as he made inroads into his third jam tart, he managed to bring up the topic he had come to discuss.
‘I hope you don’t mind, Mrs Leaworth, but – oh my, these jam tarts are delicious! – but I wonder if I could ask you one or two further questions about Ronald Asbury? It’s clear to me that you are the person who would know the most about him in Upper Wentham.’
Harris knew how to press most people’s buttons, and in Mrs Leaworth it was an easy task to press them all. She was an insider in the village but, he had judged at the library, not quite as much of an insider as she would like. She loved the gossip, but played a less active role in it than she desired. To appreciate her company, ask for her opinion, and tell her she was the most qualified person in the village to answer, all these things were music to her ears and she responded in kind.
‘Oh well, I don’t know about that. But I did know him better than most towards the end of his time here.’
Harris nodded, as if to affirm her comment. ‘Yes, it is quite clear to me that you are the one to ask about his relationship with Andrea Ketterman. I believe you once thought them to be in love?’
Mrs Leaworth fixed him with a stare which conveyed absolute certainty. ‘Dr Harris, everyone in the village thinks they are the one who knows the truth about Andrea and Ronald. But I saw them together. I’m the one who really knows.’
‘And what do you know?’
‘I know she loved him… once. She would come round all the time to see him. One time in the village I heard her tell Master Charles that she was busy that evening visiting her cousin in Manhampton, but I can tell you she was not in Manhampton that night.’
She nodded knowingly with a conspiratorial expression.
Harris’ expected response was obvious: ‘You do? How?’
‘Because that evening she was upstairs, knocking on the door.’
‘I see.’
‘She would bring round things for Ronald to repair,’ continued Mrs Leaworth. ‘His father was a craftsman, you know, and Ronald himself was very handy with tools. Many was the time he would fix a sewing machine or a leaky pipe for me, and it wouldn’t take him a minute. “Give me half a jiffy, Mrs L” he would say – Mrs L is what he would call me – “give me half a jiffy and I’ll have it good as new.”
‘Anyway Andrea would bring things round needing to be repaired, so she would say, but honestly...’ Once again Mrs Leaworth paused astutely, as if Harris should know what came next. He didn’t, but rightly suspected that it did not matter, since even if he had she would have continued anyway. ‘I mean, if that were true then I’ve never known anyone so unlucky with things breaking. And as God is my witness Dr Harris, one time she brought round a pair of scissors to be mended... a pair of scissors, I ask you! Now I’m neither use nor ornament at fixing things but even I could mend a pair of scissors! And I know Andrea herself is just hopeless with anything mechanical, but surely even she could work out what to do with a pair of scissors?’
‘So you think she used these so-called breakages as an excuse to come round?’
‘I do, Dr Harris. When the windows were open upstairs I could sometimes hear them.’ Once again there was no hint of shame in this admission of eavesdropping. ‘And she would really play up to his knowledge of mechanical things. I remember her once asking him how a car worked. It was obvious that she had no idea what he was talking about – she even asked him what a “gear” was – but she still kept saying how clever he was to know such things. She was good with flattery, I’ll give her that. Men love to feel knowledgeable about mechanical things. It makes them feel needed. I used to pretend to my Harry, God rest his soul, that I couldn’t work the heating and I needed him, and you could see him swell up with pride when he’d taken care of it.’
Suddenly Mrs Leaworth broke off. Harris did not know if it was a pang of loss for her husband or simply a realisation that she was giving trade secrets away.
�
��But what you’re saying, if I understand correctly, is that early on, when Ronald Asbury and Charles Wentworth were competing for Miss Ketterman’s attention, she seemed far more interested in Asbury, and actively sought him out?’
Mrs Leaworth nodded sagely. ‘I am. And later she would come round without any so-called reason or excuse at all. In my day a young girl wouldn’t dream of just paying a visit to a suitor, but she showed up here just as if it were quite natural. You mark my words, Dr Harris, a girl doesn’t do that until she knows she has her claws in a man.’
‘In all of this Andrea Ketterman was very forward then?’
‘Exactly. And that’s why I say she loved him once. If it hadn’t been for everyone knowing that Master Charles and Mr Ronald were competing for her attention, you would have thought it was her that had pursued him.
‘And when she was upstairs there was always the sounds of laughter and joy coming out the windows. There’s nothing so heart-warming as hearing young lovers laugh together is there?’ Harris declined to give his honest opinion on this matter. ‘And for weeks they’d spend many an evening strolling on the moors together. I could see them from my window. I don’t mind telling you Dr Harris that, whatever anyone else said, I thought it was only a matter of time until the engagement was announced.’
Harris leaned back and rubbed his belly, already ample in size and now further stuffed with pastries, and groaned in pleasure.
‘Now then, you said you were sure she loved him once. I take it that something changed that opinion? Was it the argument you saw between them on the moors?’
‘That and other things.’ Mrs Leaworth nodded sadly, and Harris sensed that the unhappiness stemmed not from the thought of lost love, but the fact that she didn’t actually know the cause of this change in attitude. He imagined that Mrs Leaworth had dreamed of a coup like this to bring to the library cabal, to toss nonchalantly into the pool of gossip and bask in the admiring stares of Mrs Blackstone and her cronies. He could see the frustration that she had come so close to answering the question on everyone’s lips, and yet was denied at the final hurdle.
‘One day I looked out and saw them on the moors, and something was terribly wrong. Mr Ronald was looming up over Andrea, looking very intimidating he was, and she was almost cowering. He was shaking his fist and shouting at her; well, I say shouting because that’s what it looked like he was doing, but I couldn’t hear a thing, so he must actually have been talking quietly.’
‘But in an aggressive manner?’ suggested Harris.
‘Exactly. When they got back here she was still shaking and looked quite pale. I heard her say something like “I won’t do it. You can’t make me do it.” And he replied, “Yes you will, my girl. By God if you want to marry me you will do it.” And when she walked in front of the house to go home I could see tears in her eyes.’
‘You have no idea what it was that he demanded of her?’
Mrs Leaworth shook her head with a melancholy air. Her whole demeanour answered: “If only”.
‘From then on something was different. I saw them together on a couple more occasions, but each time she looked scared and Ronald seemed to be quite threatening.’
‘Did you ever ask either of them about it?’
‘No. I did think about it, but I do wonder whether they saw me as an old busybody. Once, when everything was still going well between them, they saw me watching them out of my window, and for a few days after that they seemed to talk more quietly and walk further away on the moors.’
Harris looked over at the window in question, currently open onto the self-same moors beyond. It was truly a marvellous view, and such walks would be the envy of courting couples the world over.
‘Mrs Leaworth, did Ronald Asbury ever talk to you about any research he did for newspaper articles? Did he ever ask your advice?’
Mrs Leaworth shook he head. ‘Not really. He would mention things he was writing about on occasion, but he never actually asked my advice.’
‘He didn’t, for instance, ever ask what you knew about marriages?’
She stared at him, confused. ‘Marriages?’
‘Either in general, or about any specific marriage in Upper Wentham?’
‘Oh I see. No, I don’t remember... no, wait. Actually he did once, not too long before he left either, but I don’t think it will be what you are meaning. He asked if I had attended the Hollins’ wedding.’
‘The Hollins? You mean Joseph and Rebecca?’
‘Yes, the newspaper man. Well I hadn’t, of course, as they weren’t married here.’
‘Really? I thought that she was from Upper Wentham?’
‘She was originally. You know, of course, that her mother was once married to Sir Alfred? But she moved away for a time and that was when she met Joseph Hollins. And for some reason they did not marry back in Upper Wentham. I remember some in the village being quite put out at that, and I’m not sure many people actually attended the service in the end.’
‘Mr Asbury didn’t say particularly why he was interested?’
‘No, it was just a passing question. Do you think it is important?’
Harris, chewing absent-mindedly on a fingernail, said that he doubted it. Then he pushed his chair back and stood.
‘Well, I mustn’t intrude on your time any longer, Mrs Leaworth. You have been so kind, and I can say with hand on heart that your cooking deserves praise the length and breadth of the county.’
Mrs Leaworth flushed a deep crimson and gave a very coy smile. ‘Oh Dr Harris, you’re just saying that, I’m sure. But you are very welcome.’
Harris reached the door, and then turned as if suddenly remembering a question.
‘May I ask what people at the library are saying about the death of Sir George Wentworth?’
‘Well, we are all ever so shocked of course. But there hasn’t been much discussion about it. Mrs Blackstone is still very upset.’
‘Yes, she did seem very fond of Sir George,’ agreed Harris.
‘She was more than fond of him, Dr Harris. She loved him still.’
‘Still?’
‘Why yes. They were engaged once, you know?’
‘I didn’t know.’ Harris shook his head, but remembered his suspicions from the library. ‘Why didn’t they marry?’
‘I have no idea,’ admitted Mrs Leaworth, and this time there was no shame in her voice. Harris could well imagine that gossip involving Mrs Blackstone herself would be forbidden. ‘But I’m sure of one thing: she still hoped that one day they would marry. And I, for one, would not have been surprised if it had happened quite soon.’
With this last morsel of speculation ringing in his ear Harris took to the moors and spent several hours walking in the fresh breeze and rolling grass.
It was out there, in nature’s grasp, that an idea occurred to him. A number of comments he had recently heard mingled with some earlier thoughts, and suddenly the ensemble had a suggestive look to it, like a random assortment of clouds which nevertheless suggested a face. And as he rolled that idea around in his mind the other pieces of the jigsaw suddenly fell into place, and the vague suggestion became a clear image of the truth.
As soon as Harris returned to the Green Man he called through to Hollingsworth, only to find that the inspector was away on business. Harris left fierce instructions that Hollingsworth return his call the second he walked back in the door.
Harris merely parked his plump behind on the chair by the telephone in the resident’s lounge and gazed at the device as if willing it to ring. Mrs Breakwater tried her usual technique of floating near the door in the hope of grabbing a scoop of gossip, but the glare Harris threw at her the first time she appeared in the entrance was so terrifying that she retreated to the kitchen for a cup of tea, and then went out for a walk. After an hour of silent contemplation, broken only with half-formed murmurs of ‘Yes, it fits’, and ‘Surely that’s right’, the phone rang and Harris snatched up the receiver.
‘Hollingsworth?�
��
‘Harris, is that you? What the devil are you doing answering the hotel phone?’
‘Enough about that. Where have you been?’
‘Investigating,’ said Hollingsworth proudly. ‘I think I may have something.’
‘Let me guess,’ interrupted Harris. ‘The stewardess you spoke to said there was a young man on the boat who spent time with Ronald Asbury. You’ve found out who he is, but when you tried to contact him the fellow has vanished off the face of the earth?’
There was a silence worth a thousand words from the receiver as the implication of Harris’ question sank in, and Hollingsworth’s enthusiasm was gradually replaced by the spectre of defeat.
‘Damn...’
Chapter 33
Two days later The Cheltenham Flyer, en route to London, eased into Gloucester Station right on time. Sir Charles Wentworth peered out from the window of the first class lounge in the station, searching the crowd of passengers waiting to board. Most of them shuffled off to the second- and third-class carriages, and once they had dispersed his eyes finally found his quarry: Sir Oliver Anstruther. Charles watched as Sir Oliver boarded, and then, through the glass of the carriage, as he walked down the corridor and picked a compartment. Charles waited long enough for the peer to settle into his seat before emerging from the lounge and crossing the platform. As he climbed up the footboard of the same carriage, the guard shrank back into his closet and pulled down on his cap deferentially.
