By eight, I’d cleared all of my papers onto the floor and was dealing hand after hand of patience, increasingly frustrated with my lack of success until I grabbed the deck and hurled it across the room. Almost before I knew what was happening I was out of my front door and occupying a stool at the bar of the Queen, the landlord pulling me a second pint. After a third I moved on into town. Another pub, another pint, then a rum chaser. Then it was just the rum. Doubles. With each glass I told myself I’d have one more and stop. Like it used to be.
I vaguely remember borrowing a car from some low-life who owed me a favour and within half an hour was stumbling down the drive of Grovestock House, the car in a ditch somewhere nearby. Blood seeping from my forehead kept running into my eye no matter how many times I brushed it away. I took another swig from the half bottle I’d picked up along the way and collapsed onto my knees on the damp grass. The stucco frontage of the stately home shone bright even under the waning moon, but there were no lights to be seen in any windows as I threw back my head and roared at the house. A stream of obscenities poured out, venting all of my frustrations until I was left gulping for breath. I wanted to storm across the grass, beat on the front door and demand to know what had happened in there. Instead, finally beaten, I turned away down the hill to the lake, a silver blade of moonlight aiming across the water at Grovestock House. I shivered and took a gulp of rum. Then I passed out.
I dreamt I was in a police car, hurtling down a country road alongside a railway line. Elizabeth and Sir Arthur waved from the train, and the engine driver was Benito Demma. Lady Isabelle, with half of her head missing, stood at a door scattering rose petals from an open window. I bellowed at the policewoman behind the wheel to go faster but she turned and laughed; it was Trudi Collinge. The car somehow passed the train and swung onto a level crossing, stopping dead. The engine thundered towards us. For some reason the police bells were still ringing.
Twenty-Three
The first thing I saw when I opened my eyes was a fabulous pagoda rising out of the mist on the hillside beyond the lake. A giant duck stood in its entrance. I closed my eyes again and shook my head to make sure I wasn’t still dreaming. As I gained focus I could see it was merely the duck-house, not on the far shore but only a few feet from where I lay on the grass. An illusion, like everything else here, not what it seemed.
Then one image from my dream came rushing back into my head.
It was six o’clock, I was freezing cold and I felt sick.
Two aspirin and a strong cup of tea later the nausea was still with me but my head felt like it might now manage to avoid exploding. Back on my desk lay the photos I’d been examining the night before. I didn’t need the magnifying glass to see the difference between Miss Leeming’s nephew, Graham Cox, and his two friends. He was short, blond and overweight. The others were almost peas in a pod and if I’d been told they were brothers I’d not have been surprised. Dark haired, slim and very good looking, they were smiling out at the world with not a hint of the horrors of war they were soon to face.
The lens magnified the bare forearm of one of the young men and I whistled as I finally saw what Tom Barleigh had discovered. What I’d thought was an imperfection in the print was now clearly a tattoo, a stylised rose with a single word across its middle. In my dream I’d unscrambled the picture to make me see that the teardrops on Tom’s drawing were, in fact, rose petals.
It was well after nine o’clock before I could get over to Priors Allenford. I was beside myself with anticipation as I pounded on Barbara Leeming’s door. It was an age before she slid back the lock and cautiously peered out wearing her dressing gown.
‘Why, Inspector, whatever’s the matter?’
I quickly explained I needed her help in identifying the men in the photograph.
‘I told you before, Inspector, they’re Graham Cox, Harry Stenson and Sir Arthur Barleigh. But it’s written here on the back, did you not see it?’
‘No, no, Miss Leeming, I need to know which is which. Who’s the one with the tattoo?’
She pushed her glasses further up the bridge of her nose and peered at the photograph again.
‘It’s been such a long time, Inspector, but I’m fairly certain that would be Harry Stenson.’
Miss Leeming filled me in on everything she knew about Harry Stenson and his two friends and, luckily, was able to dig out the negative of the photos she’d passed on to Tom Barleigh. I returned for my file in the car then waited for Sawyer to come over and join me. He brought some interesting news.
‘The fingerprint results on the two weapons are finally back, sir. They’re only what we might have expected. The shotgun has those of Perkins and Billy Sharp and the revolver has Tom’s, Jenny’s and Sir Arthur’s. We already know all of these would have handled the guns at one time or another, but why aren’t Lady Isabelle’s on the shotgun?’
‘And why isn’t there at least one set of prints the same on each gun? It can only mean, in at least one case, the killer wore gloves and we know Isabelle wasn’t wearing any by the time you arrived because they’re not in your photographs.’
I shared my own findings of the morning with Sawyer and asked him to pop back home with a little job for me.
The retired teacher and I shared a breakfast of boiled eggs, toast and tea until Sawyer arrived back with the enlargement I’d asked him to make. I took one look at it and laughed at the name now so clear on Harry Stenson’s skin. Sawyer nodded.
‘I think we need to go up to Grovestock House, John, don’t you?’
‘What in hell’s name...?’
Sir Arthur’s eyes narrowed as Sawyer and I walked through his study door. Jarvis had let us into the house but we’d instructed him not to try to warn his boss we’d arrived.
‘Morning, Sir Arthur, please don’t get up on our account.’
The man settled back into his chair and, in a clear attempt to gain some control over his situation, beckoned for us to be seated as well. I gestured to Sawyer to take up a position standing beside Sir Arthur and I sat across the desk from them. I’d hoped the constable at his full height and in police uniform would provide sufficient intimidation to loosen Sir Arthur’s tongue.
‘What’s this all about, Inspector? Why do you feel you have the right to force yourself into my private rooms without the decency of being announced? As soon as this is over I’ll be telephoning your superiors.’
‘There’ll be no need for that, Sir Arthur. If this interview goes the way I want it to, you’ll be seeing my superiors before too long at the police station. So, for the time being, just sit quietly and answer our questions, rather than trying to be so high and mighty.’
His scarred features hid his expression well and he might be terrified or might be laughing at us, it was impossible to tell. A flush at his neck, and his knuckles tightening momentarily on the handle of his chair were the only indication I got of his anger.
‘How dare you speak to me in such a tone! Do you know who I am?’
‘I think I’d need to ask if anyone, other than yourself, knows who you are? Who you really are, I mean.’
‘What are you talking about, man?’
‘I believe you’re no more Sir Arthur Barleigh than I am. Your real name is Harry Stenson and you stole Sir Arthur Barleigh’s identity when he was killed on the Western Front.’
Barleigh forced a laugh and turned to Sawyer.
‘Is your inspector all right, Constable? He seems to be under the impression I’m someone else.’
Sawyer maintained a stony silence.
‘I’ve never heard such nonsense, Inspector, but, for the sake of argument, if it was true, what would it have to do with you?’
‘Oh, I’m sure I could charge you with a number of crimes on that count alone. Fraud and theft being two of the most obvious ones, but you’re right, they’d not interest me at all. What do interest me are the murders you committed to keep your secret. Firstly your wife, then Tom and Jenny, and finally the unfortunate B
illy Sharp.’
‘My, my, Inspector, you do seem to have fabricated some strange ideas about me, don’t you? Why on earth would I do all of this? Why would you suspect me of killing my own son, let alone the others?’
‘For a long time I’d asked myself the same question but that’s the crux of what this matter is all about. Tom Barleigh wasn’t your son, he was Sir Arthur Barleigh’s and Tom discovered your charade so you had to silence him. The rest all follows on from there. Tom was carrying out research into the family and came upon a few discrepancies when he started looking at documents concerning you.’
‘This is totally preposterous! What do you imagine he could possibly have found?’
‘Only minor things. The colour of your eyes, for example. Blue on some of the papers but really they’re brown. Signatures on certificates, dissimilar enough to indicate they might belong to different people. Your interest in archaeology. Not much on its own but one you hadn’t displayed before you joined the army, although your friend Harry had. This also implied something wasn’t quite as it seemed.
‘The sad thing in this entire affair is Tom hadn’t any concrete proof of your deception, only a series of inconsistencies which led him down a particular path. But when he confronted you with his suspicions you knew you had to take some action. You waited for your opportunity, stole the gardener’s shotgun, then waited until the time you thought Tom would be alone in the side garden where you’d have no chance of being observed.’
‘I’ve had enough of this, Inspector. If all you’ve got are some vague ideas that an incompetent clerk somewhere recorded my eye colour incorrectly and I picked up a hobby from my friend then I think you’d better leave now.’
He made as if to rise from his seat and Sawyer gently but firmly placed his hand on the man’s shoulder to force him back down.
‘We’ll be leaving soon enough, hopefully with you under arrest in the back of a police car, but for now you’ll sit and listen. As I said, all of the small points come together to make a bigger picture. Like those paintings by George Seurat. You’re an educated man, you must know them. Up close all you see are lots of individual dots but step back and the whole scene emerges. It’s what Tom did, and it’s what I do all the time. He was given some photographs and then spotted the crucial detail, just as I did. All his life he may have felt deep down there was something different about you when you came back from the War, and not merely your injuries. Even if he’d mentioned it to anyone he would have been laughed at. After all, children have these kinds of fantasies all the time, don’t they?’
‘But if I wanted to get rid of Tom’s accusations why would I murder Isabelle? And Jenny?’
‘Come along, Sir Arthur, or should I call you Stenson now? It’s no secret you and Isabelle weren’t in a happy marriage. I suspect Isabelle knew all the time you weren’t who you were pretending to be. After all, she and Harry Stenson had been going out together for a while and she’d also had a fling with Arthur Barleigh before you both joined the army. That’s where Jenny came from. Isabelle would have seen any minor differences straight away. I think she saw it as a path to a better lifestyle than she might otherwise expect and blackmailed Stenson — you — into marrying her.’
There are some murderers who crumble when faced with the facts. Unfortunately, Harry Stenson didn’t appear to be one. He’d kept up the facade for too many years to be broken down by unsubstantiated allegations.
‘That’s all very interesting, Inspector Given, but surely it’s evidence you need. And the evidence indicates Isabelle shot Tom whilst her mind was deranged, then she shot herself. The coroner, and even your own constable here, confirmed as much.’
This time I did see the flicker of a smile cross his face and knew, right away, he was guilty. It was now coming down to the final game of cat and mouse.
‘The coroner’s a friend of yours, isn’t he? Not that he’d divert the truth for you, but he might err on the side of caution where an acquaintance and respected member of the community is concerned. And it looked much like you’ve described it. You staged the scene well, stealing Perkin’s shotgun rather than using one of your own, then sending Mrs Veasey out to buy fish. Extremely clever.’
The man I believed to be Harry Stenson now said nothing. He stared at me, unblinking.
‘What you didn’t expect when you hid in the shrubs to attack Tom was Isabelle storming in with her final bit of evidence to stop the wedding. I think you had to grab her and, to keep her quiet, you had to put the barrel under her chin. Tom couldn’t get up to prevent you and whether by accident or intent, you shot your wife. I believe you intended to kill her to put an end to all the years of bad feeling between you. I can see it’s possible she could have struggled and you pulled the trigger by accident. But what happened next was entirely intentional and will see you with a noose round your neck.
‘With Lady Isabelle dead on the ground you had no option now other than to despatch Tom. In a final misguided attempt to stop you, he said your secret was already out because he’d confided in Jenny, little knowing you’d go after her next. You turned the shotgun on the poor man and blasted a hole in his chest. It was no problem at all to slip back through the shrubs to the back wall of the house where you wouldn’t be seen, then through the kitchen and up the side stairs to your room to clean yourself and wait for Jenny to return.’
‘So now you’re saying I sat there, biding my time, and when Jenny came back I somehow enticed her into Tom’s room, finished her off with his revolver and made the whole thing look like suicide? You are quite unbelievable, Inspector, with this fanciful story you’ve concocted. You’ve not provided one shred of evidence so far, only theory and conjecture. And what about the young gardener, Billy Sharp? Do you think I simply got a taste for blood and roamed the countryside looking for new victims?’
‘Oh, the evidence was all there, Stenson, I only had to look for it and piece it together. I think that, with Jenny, you did exactly as you’ve described it. As for Billy, he was just an unlucky young lad who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. He was weeding alongside the hedge which borders the side garden when he heard raised voices and shots, panicked and ran away. Through the gate he saw a figure disappear into the kitchen and you saw him from the landing window when you were half-way up the stairs. You went looking for him later in the day, and several days afterwards, but couldn’t find him. One of the staff must have told you he was hiding over by Pardow’s farm and you went there to get him. Again, it might have been another accident when your horse reared up and kicked the boy but, either way, you had planned on killing Billy if you caught him.’
Stenson simply shook his head and smiled to himself. It was beginning to unnerve me that he was reacting so calmly in the face of the accusations. After a few moments he looked up.
‘I think I’d like you to leave now, Inspector. If you can’t come up with any more than your wild fantasies you’d best go and look for someone else to suspect.’ He glanced round at Sawyer. ‘And take your pet poodle away with you.’
Sawyer flushed but, to his credit, didn’t react.
‘I will go now, but I already have enough to convince my superiors to give me more officers to examine this place with a fine tooth comb. I’ll be back with them later. And, don’t worry; I’ll continue digging until we have enough on you to see you hang. In the meantime, my “pet poodle”, as you put it, will stay around, just to make sure you don’t try to make a run for it. I think you might find he’ll turn out to be more of a bulldog than a lapdog if you do.’ I thought I’d make one last effort to unsettle him, to throw something on the ground and gauge his response. ‘You may also want to know that this morning I’ve made a formal request for the army records of Harry Stenson and Arthur Barleigh. Those should provide us with evidence of who you really are. Now, could you please roll up your sleeve?’
‘What?’
‘You heard me. Roll it up or I’ll get the constable to do it for you.’
&
nbsp; Even though his arm was badly scarred the remains of a tattoo were still evident. What was left resembled the drawing I’d found on Tom Barleigh’s desk, just two letters, ‘B’ and ‘E’, followed by three teardrops. Most of the design had been burnt away with the rest of his skin but from close up it was obvious the other letters had been removed later. I’d have little problem showing in court that the name had been Isabelle, not Beatrice, and the teardrops were actually the petals of the rose in Harry Stenson’s tattoo.
I finally got the reaction I was hoping for. It was only a small thing, a slight intake of breath, but I’d hit the mark and he knew it was all over. He tried to continue with his bravado by ringing his bell for Jervis to show me out. As I left the room and turned back to look at him he fixed me with a glare mixing hatred and fear in equal measure. I couldn’t wait to report back to Superintendent Dyer.
Twenty-Four
Faced with the material I’d gathered, Dyer had no hesitation in sending a group of men over to make a detailed search of Grovestock House. Stenson was either extraordinarily arrogant or simply very careless, because they soon found proof guaranteed to put him away.
The charred remnants of his blood-spattered clothing still lay in the garden incinerator where he’d tried to burn them. Stenson must have thought further fires would get rid of anything he’d left but, luckily for us, the season and the weather meant there’d been nothing burnt recently. With the cook’s testimony, I’d be able to put together a pretty good case that he’d done this when he returned from killing Billy Sharp. The rain-drenched clothes hadn’t burned well and their protection had preserved the contents of Stenson’s pockets. One of the items in there was a screwed up letter addressed to Gerald Bamford. The top corner was missing and it matched with the fragment recovered by Sawyer from Lady Isabelle’s hand. Stenson had ripped it from her grasp and stuffed it into his jacket when he stepped out from behind the rhododendron. This, without a shadow of doubt, tied him to the scene of the crime.
A Shadowed Livery Page 23
