A Shadowed Livery

by Charlie Garratt

  Then the lights went out.

  Five

  I think I must have been out cold for around fifteen minutes before I was dragged from my stupor by the screaming of the witless Marion Clark. I told her in no uncertain terms to shut up and fetch the butler to give me a hand. He helped me up and then brought me some sweet tea, along with Elizabeth to tend to my wounds.

  The coldness Elizabeth had displayed when we’d parted in the garden seemed to have evaporated. At one point she turned to make sure Jervis wasn’t watching and squeezed my hand. I shook my head but she continued for as long as she dared in the butler’s presence. It seemed to me that she was willing to continue our relationship where it left off. I was torn. My affection for Elizabeth was still strong, perhaps too strong, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to be dragged back into it, to be at the mercy of her whim. What’s to say she might not disappear again?

  Once they had left me to my own devices I looked for the envelope I’d spotted earlier but, with little surprise, found it gone. I was still feeling a bit groggy but I’d completed my search of the room so went back to my lodgings where I tried reading for a while but developed an almighty headache, so took a couple of Aspirin and fell asleep.

  The first part of my next morning was spent in my room at the Victory nursing my bruises, drinking tea, reading the newspaper and dozing. Every time I moved my head started throbbing again. I’m not an idle man by nature but the events of the night before had knocked me back a bit. However, by lunchtime I was fed up with lying around so began to organise the case evidence and consider its validity. Small inconsistencies and questions were starting to creep in, and it made sense to double-check it now before going too far down the most obvious paths.

  I love sifting the tiny details which come up in a case and spotting the tenuous links between them, trying to see both the wood and the trees at the same time. I’d normally carry out this exercise in my office, with a desk and tables to spread everything around. Here, I had to make do with considerably reduced space. On my bed I laid out several piles, my interview notes in one, Sawyer’s in another. A further one held the photographs and plans, and then a list of the documents I’d found on Tom’s desk. On the bedside table, I arranged my scribbled thoughts and questions. Two questions were already jotted down: who hit me on the head, and why?

  After sifting through what I’d gathered I wasn’t sure I’d moved further forward. I’d identified nothing concrete to indicate the deaths weren’t just as they’d appeared to Sawyer, Gleeson and the Coroner. We’d found no witnesses to the killings so far. Billy Sharp, Nurse Collinge and Jenny Bamford’s father were missing, and both Marion Clark and Elizabeth Parry were not telling me the truth. We’d also a stranger in the woods looking over the wall close to the time of the shootings but, again, it might be a coincidence. The strongest evidence that things were not as they seemed was that I’d been hit over the head and the material I’d discovered in Tom Barleigh’s wardrobe had been taken. Who might have done it? Sawyer was checking where everyone was when I was attacked but I suspected he’d come up with nothing.

  Cudlip popped his head round the door then stepped inside.

  ‘There’s a letter for you, Mr Given. Says “Urgent”, so thought I’d best bring it up straight away.’

  Cudlip handed me the letter but then stood waiting for me to open it.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Cudlip, I’ll call you if I need anything else.’

  He nodded and left, clearly disappointed.

  The envelope was of good quality, the address written in a fine hand, and there was no stamp or postmark so it must have been personally delivered. It was from Tom Barleigh’s friend, Alan Haleson.

  5th October 1938

  21 Montague Place,

  Bloomsbury, London

  Dear Mr Given

  I hope this letter finds you in good time as I did not have an address for you and had to trust it would be passed on by the landlord of the Victory.

  As promised, I have laid out below what I recall of last Tuesday, but, firstly, may I apologise for my abruptness in the bar. I was already feeling under stress because I should have been in Munich with the Viscount Halifax.

  I told you that my friend had been in poor humour on the evening before his death and I had been concerned for him. However, when I joined him at breakfast the next morning, his spirits seemed to have lifted somewhat. We soon settled into easy chat regarding the weather, the quality of the kippers and so on. After a few minutes of this I could contain myself no longer and ventured to ask him about the events of the previous night.

  ‘Oh, that,’ he replied, ‘nothing to worry you. Just the old black dog pulling me down a bit.’

  I pressed him and at last he told me the wedding wouldn’t be going ahead. ‘Certain issues have come to light,’ was all he’d say on the matter.

  Tom had always been besotted with Jenny, even before she’d agreed to marry him, so this news came as a complete shock to me. If it had been she to call off the wedding I would have been much less surprised; he was confined to the wheelchair for life, she is an outgoing, good-looking young woman.

  For my own part, I believe it was the accident itself caused Jenny to consent to be Tom’s wife in the first place.

  Perhaps I should explain about the accident. Eighteen months ago, Tom, Jenny, Suzanne Hughes and I had driven out for a picnic for the day. Suzanne came along to make up the numbers. Tom drove us out to near Cleve Prior, around twenty miles from Grovestock House, where we found a nice spot by the river. I’m ashamed to say there was a lot more drinking than eating done and we were all a little sozzled at the end of it. When the time came for us to leave for home Jenny insisted on driving. She had driven before, but not after drinking. A mile before Grovestock House, a deer ran out onto the road; Jenny swerved and before I knew what was happening we were turning over in the ditch. Jenny and I must have been thrown clear. We were lucky to escape with a few cuts and bruises. Suzanne was killed outright, and Tom ended up in a coma at the hospital for months. Jenny visited almost every day, sitting by his bedside. Once he returned home, she agreed to marry him.

  I would never have said this to Tom, but I think she wasn’t able to forgive herself for what happened.

  I fear I may have digressed, but I thought the background might help.

  After breakfast, Tom called for his nurse to take him out to the garden, leaving me to my coffee and newspaper. A few minutes later I heard the crunch of the wheelchair on the gravel path, followed by Tom telling Nurse Collinge to leave him where he was. I heard her walk away and then I heard a woman’s steps coming down the path again. At first I imagined it was the nurse returning but it wasn’t.

  I heard Tom tell his mother that he was going to call off the wedding; his words, as far as I can recall were: ‘Come along, Mother, let’s not pretend that you’ve not been doing everything in your power to dissuade me. And now I know why.’

  There was some brief protest from his mother, which he cut short with: ‘Get out of my sight and think about what a mess you and he have caused.’

  With that, Lady Isabelle seemed to leave. I left the morning room and made my way out to the garden, hoping I could make it look as if I’d stumbled on Tom by chance. When I reached the spot where he must have been sitting, however, he was nowhere to be seen.

  I never saw him alive again. I was in the library when I heard the first shot at approximately ten past eleven, and was then rushing down the hall when the second one rang out. When I ran from the front door I could see Jervis and Miss Parry just ahead of me on the drive. I dashed straight out in front and Jervis went towards the other corner until Miss Parry cried out that we were going in the wrong direction. Jervis then overtook her but stopped at the gate. He called us over to him, where we saw Tom and his mother lying on the lawn. At this point we also saw Perkins, the head gardener, running towards us from the vegetable gardens.

  When Sir Arthur arrived he took charge and did everything necessary prior
to Constable Sawyer arriving.

  I went into the kitchen and grabbed a cup of tea to steady my nerves then returned to the library. A short time later the third shot rang out upstairs. I dashed up and joined Sir Arthur in the doorway of Tom’s room, where Jenny was lying on the bed. She had killed herself.

  I hope the above assists you in your enquiries. I’m in Birmingham soon for a couple of days, so if you think I can help in any way perhaps we could meet there.

  Your faithful servant,

  Alan Haleson

  Six

  It had been a damp journey over to Warwick and made much worse by a freezing wind. The weather had turned with a vengeance. Inside police headquarters I’d been happy to spend a few minutes with the desk sergeant, Tommy Burns, toasting my toes by the blazing fire in his office. He filled me in on a few cases that had been underway in my absence, as well as digging for information from me on the Grovestock House shootings. Most of this went in one ear and out the other until he dropped a nugget.

  ‘I hear a friend of his lordship’s been on the phone.’

  ‘Which particular “lordship” are you talking about, Tommy?’

  ‘Sir Arthur bloody Barleigh — that’s who! His mate Jack Sumner rang up and gave the boss an earful.’

  ‘On the phone? How do you know? And he’s not a lord, just a baronet.’

  ‘Well, lord or no lord, one of his pals called up and, according to that pretty young WPC, he’s been throwing his weight about with the boss. She reckons she couldn’t help listening in for a bit but I think she does it all the time. I’m always a bit careful when I know she’s on the switchboard.’

  I knocked at Dyer’s door, like a naughty schoolboy heading for the headmaster’s cane.

  ‘Enter!’ the Superintendent’s voice boomed out. He certainly likes to make his presence felt. I’ve never asked him but I’ve an idea he must have been a Sergeant-Major at some point in his career.

  ‘Thanks for coming in, Given.’ He made it sound like I’d had a choice. ‘Take a seat.’

  I decided not to let on I knew why he wanted to see me.

  ‘Is it an update you want, sir? On the Grovestock House case?’

  ‘Well, it is and it isn’t. I’ve had a telephone call.’

  ‘A telephone call, sir?’ I did my best to sound mystified.

  ‘From Jack Sumner, a friend of Sir Arthur Barleigh. He says you’re getting in the way.’

  ‘Does he, sir? And how exactly am I getting in the way?’

  ‘Now, wait a minute, Inspector. Before you start getting on your high horse, just remember I’m the one who has to jump when one of these buggers starts pulling in favours up above. Don’t think it won’t happen, because it will. So before we go any further, you’d best fill me in on why you’re hanging around out there and haven’t tied this case up already.’

  On the way upstairs I’d been expecting to be hauled over the coals and now here was the boss giving me a fighting chance. The problem was I didn’t have anything tangible I could use to convince him.

  ‘You know the basic facts of the case, sir?’

  ‘Of course I do, what kind of police officer do you think I am?’ He was still on a short fuse so I needed to be quick on my feet.

  ‘Just rhetorical, sir — and I know how busy you are, so not likely to have read every file.’

  ‘Quite so, James, quite so. But I’ve plenty of pressure on me to get this one sorted out. Let’s see what we know.’

  The Superintendent rose from his desk and walked over to a blackboard in the corner. Picking up a piece of chalk he drew four columns, then divided these into three rows. In the boxes down the left hand side he wrote the names Tom Barleigh, Lady Isabelle and Jenny Bamford. At the top of the second column Dyer placed a single word, ‘Why?’ following this by ‘How?’ on the third and ‘Who?’ for the fourth. He was evidently enjoying this.

  ‘These are the questions we need to answer, James, aren’t they? So fill me in on what you’ve got.’

  ‘The problem I’m having, sir, is I can’t figure out the “why”. Before I do that I can’t get anywhere near the “who”. As far as we’re aware, there were no witnesses to any of the deaths so any number of “how”s would be possible.’

  ‘So why isn’t it just as straightforward as it was reported? Seems to me quite logical the old girl didn’t want the marriage to go ahead, for whatever reason, so shoots the lad and then herself. Girlfriend so overcome with grief she takes the revolver and puts a bullet between her own eyes. Never read Romeo and Juliet, Inspector?’

  ‘It just doesn’t feel right, sir. I can buy the first two, though most likely as an accident, just, but not the fiancée. From what I hear she’d have been glad not to have to marry Tom Barleigh so why should she top herself just because he’s no longer on the scene? Then, she uses a revolver. Not really the suicide choice for a woman, is it, sir? Now if it had been poison, or a drowning…’

  ‘Wait a minute. The future mother-in-law shot herself and she was a woman — unless I’ve been seriously misled.’

  ‘But, if she did shoot herself, she did it with the shotgun she’d just used on her son, so that would be less of a surprise. Jenny Bamford had to go to Tom’s bedroom and root round to find his revolver. Even if she knew where it was she couldn’t have been certain it would be loaded, or have ammunition nearby.’

  ‘Very well, I’m ready to run with that idea. What else have you got?’

  ‘Well, you said yourself Lady Isabelle didn’t want the wedding to take place “for whatever reason” but it would have to be a pretty serious reason to push her into killing her son. Who would do such a thing?’

  ‘All of this is true, but stranger things have happened, James. You know, as well as I do, murders are seldom logical. If they were, we’d have fewer problems solving them, don’t you think?’ At this he laughed gently and I could see he was only playing devil’s advocate, helping me think through the case. I pushed on.

  ‘Then there’s the attack on me.’ I rubbed the back of my head. The bump had gone down but the embarrassment at being caught out still stung. ‘I think someone was trying to warn me off — and the envelope I found was taken.’

  ‘Well, it’s obvious whoever bashed you didn’t know you well. You’re the most stubborn officer I’ve got and the attack would only guarantee you’d keep digging.’

  ‘Stubborn’s a bit strong, sir. “Tenacious” is the word my mother would use.’

  ‘Ha! I think I was right the first time. But you do have a point. It’s unlikely anyone would have knocked you out unless you were on to something. I’m more inclined to see that as evidence of wrongdoing than most of the other stuff you’ve come up with.’

  Dyer turned and tapped the blackboard.

  ‘You say you’re not sure who could have carried out the killings, so let me hear who the front-runners are. Forget for a while you haven’t got a motive. Who are the most likely culprits?’

  I could see this wasn’t quite settled in the Superintendent’s mind.

  ‘First off, sir, I believe it’s got to be someone in the household. As far as I can see, there were enough people around the place for a stranger to have been spotted. There’s a man been hanging around in the village and in the woods outside Grovestock House but he’s not been seen anywhere in the grounds. No-one’s mentioned any visitors so far, apart from Haleson, the chap who was supposed to be best man, so I’d say it’s a strong bet for family or staff to have been involved. I’m not completely sure about Haleson — I did have some sense he was hiding something. Maybe he was sweet on the girl. Unfortunately, only a few of the staff were able to confirm the whereabouts of anyone else at the precise time of the shootings. The head gardener, George Perkins, seems to be in the clear because he was with some of the other gardeners and they heard the first shot together.’

  ‘Come on, James, who could have done it? I’m not interested in who didn’t do it.’

  ‘The only family member there, well, the o
nly one still alive anyway, was Sir Arthur. I interviewed him and he’s explained what happened but he’s no witnesses to where he was when his wife, son and future daughter-in-law died, so he has to be considered a possibility.’

  The boss looked worried. ‘You watch your step there, son. I don’t want this whole episode exploding in our faces. Who else?’

  ‘I can’t see it being the butler or the cook, but neither of them have cast iron alibis for the first deaths so they’ll have to stay on the list. Likewise Trudi Collinge, Tom Barleigh’s nurse, there’s been no word on her yet.’

  I hated to admit it but this process was clarifying my thinking. Dyer must have been a good detective in his day.

  ‘What about the lad? Sharp, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, sir, Billy Sharp. He’s a bit of a strange one. George Perkins tells me he was always getting into scrapes. Nothing serious but enough for me to wonder. And he had been told off for playing with the shotgun in the past, including on the morning of the deaths. And he did a runner; no-one has seen him since shortly after those first shots but that’s not to say he wasn’t still around at the time of Miss Bamford’s death. He did give a story to Alf Nash that he’d seen someone take the shotgun from the shed but he could have been lying. As a result he’s also got to be in the frame. I can’t see why he’d do it but, for the life of me, I can’t see why anyone would have done it.’

  ‘Right, I think you’ve shown me there might be more to this than first appeared.’ The relief tumbled through my insides. ‘So,’ he said, nodding towards the board, ‘if you can get anything sensible in those boxes in the next few days, I’m prepared to give you a bit more time to get it sorted out. I can’t say fairer than that now, can I?’

  ‘No, sir. But what about Mr Sumner?’