Blood Ties

by Oliver Davies

  By the evening, with the sun down and only candles lighting the house, it was hard to make much sense of the place. People flitted about in sequined dresses, sparkling like disco balls. The alcohol steadily poured, each floor of the grand country estate a cluster of music, laughter, glasses and dancing.

  People could make out whoever they were talking to, if they stood close enough to their face and not too much wine had been consumed, but the rest of the place was shadowed. Perfect, for why he was here.

  Dressed in an uncomfortable starched suit, he walked around the house for a few hours, using the drifting groups of people to go unseen, room to room. As he walked, the place mapped out in his head. The corridors, the doors and windows, the ones that interlinked, the ones that led to nowhere. The house was strange, decorated over the years so that it had things from every century. A Victorian painting on a wall beside a flatscreen TV, or the sweeping, noble staircase that had crudely drawn children’s crayon drawings framing the wall alongside.

  The doors from which the serving staff emerged and vanished were the ones of the most importance to him. People didn’t pay attention to them, save for when they needed a fresh glass or a small morsel of food to soak up the copious amounts of gin they were putting away. People didn’t pay attention to him either; a stranger, whose face couldn’t quite be placed well enough to engage in a conversation with, whose clothes were unremarkable, whose expression didn’t invite society.

  He slunk from the bustling room he was, some elegant parlour or another where people were sharing stories from a recent holiday they had in some Riviera or another. He drifted towards the only room that was locked in the whole house, saving a few bedrooms. But down here, it was the only one. A lock that was as old as the house, easily picked. Nobody saw as he eased the door open, his gloved hands leaving no trace, and slipped through the doorway, into the old study. Closing the door behind him, he looked at the room he was in, stumped. It was bigger than his flat. Stupidly big, even the fireplace was as tall as he was.

  The walls, half panelled in a deep cherry wood, were painted red; the same wood flowed seamlessly down onto the floor, a large Turkish rug dominating the floorboards from the fireplace to the windows. Large windows, great arching things that squealed when they were opened, were framed with heavy, scarlet curtains. Windows that looked out onto the garden, where a few of the guests escaped for the cooling night breeze, laughing and half-tumbling over the flowerbeds. Smoke from their cigarettes spiralled around them, and they were no more aware of the busy rooms behind them than they were the one he was in. Nevertheless, he didn’t turn on any lights as he walked further inside.

  A large oak desk sat before the glass panes, the kind that could almost belong in a Bond film. A bronze globe sat atop it, crystal bottles of port and whiskey, untouched, on a silver tray with two glasses. Anything in here would be valuable, and anything in here would make him rich. Even the fancy pen looked like it could pay a month’s worth of his rent. But he looked away from the trinkets and treasures, scanning the walls, his attention honed on the large oil paintings that hung from the picture rails. Portraits and landscapes, one of a rather upset looking horse. Images of the family throughout the centuries, in large, uncomfortable dresses and cravats, all the way down to the mustard-coloured sixties and the current inhabitants in their modern, avant-garde apparel. A proper painting of them, not just a photograph, the whole family, smiling dimly out from their golden frame. He stared at their faces for a moment, scowling up at them, and tore himself away, trying to focus.

  He spotted the one he wanted, not as large as the others, thankfully. A small landscape of the lake that lay just within the estate’s grounds, simple, unnoticeable. He dragged a chair over from the desk and stood on it, reaching up, and took the painting carefully off the wall. It was heavier than he thought it would be. He climbed back down and flipped it over, trying to see how to get into the frame.

  As he fumbled with it, the clock chimed throughout the house, eleven tolls. The party would be over soon, the guests dwindling away as the lights came back on, and the clean up began. Not long enough, he realised, shoving the painting under his arm. He’d just have to take it home, wouldn’t he?

  But strolling through the house, a painting in hand, wouldn’t go unnoticed. He shrugged his jacket off, wrapping it around the painting, and dragged the chair back over to the desk, opening one of the decanters. Sticking his fingers in, he splashed some of the red liquid onto his shirt and jacket, letting it stain, letting the smell of it cover him. Hopefully, they would see the shirt, see the splatters, and come to the conclusion that he was just another clumsy drunk who spilt his drink all down himself. No need to look any closer at why he bundled his jacket close to his chest or why his jacket was vaguely rectangular.

  Replacing the glass stopper, he sidled back over to the door, opening it a fraction to peer out, and cursed internally. A small cluster of people was in the corridor, leaning against the walls, laughing together.

  He ducked back, looking around the room. Only the one door in this place, and the windows were a no go, not with the growing crowd that filtered out into the fresh air.

  Sweat pooled under his collar, running cold down his back, the heady smell of the port filling his nose. He adjusted his grip on the painting, hands clammy, and snuck another look out of the crack in the door.

  They were still there, lingering, quite at ease, looking like they had no mind to move anytime soon. Some of them left their glasses on the floor, looking like they might fall down there themselves. He debated, briefly, just walking out, stumbling a bit like a drunk and hoping they wouldn’t think too much of it. But they’d remember that; remember him, and they weren’t supposed to.

  As he watched, panicking slightly and running an internal argument through his head, a waitress rounded the corner in a little black apron, a tray of empty glasses balanced in her hand. She looked at the people, down towards the door, over her own shoulder, and then back to the crowd.

  “Lord Hocking asked that nobody come down this hall,” she told them. “Says it’s off-limits for this evening.”

  Well, he definitely couldn’t emerge now that they knew that.

  One of the men pushed himself off the wall, towering over her. He had the clear-faced, smartly dressed appearance of a man who came from a long, wealthy line. They must get quite hard to tell apart, really, all smug-faced and probably somehow related.

  “You’re down here,” he pointed out to her, his clipped voice smooth as he regarded her like a cat watches a bird.

  “Heard the noise as I was picking these up.” She hefted her tray. “Came to see what it was. I can fetch him,” she offered. “Lord Hocking, y’know, if you’d rather hear it from him?”

  “No need,” one of the women drawled. “Come along, Humphrey, leave the poor girl be.” She drained her glass, dropping it onto the girl’s tray and sauntered away, the rest of the pack trailing after her, chuckling and grinning. Only the young man, Humphrey, stayed, still staring down at the waitress.

  “You’re very pretty,” he told her quietly, in a slightly slurring voice.

  “Thank you, sir,” she answered shortly, staking a step to the side to let him pass. He didn’t move, only stepped closer, tilting his head to one side.

  “You’re a waitress?”

  “Only on the weekends.”

  “And not on the weekends?”

  “A student, sir, university.”

  “Oh!” He stuck his hands in his pockets and took another step towards her. She took a careful step back, readjusting her hold on the tray of glass, and from where he watched in the office, he debated going out there now and helping her. But she looked up at the man with enough venom in her eyes that he doubted she'd thank his input. Plus, he wasn’t about to lose out on all this now. He pulled at his collar, his skin hot as he watched, and waited.

  “What do you study?” Humphrey was asking her.

  “History.”

  “I stud
ied history,” he told her, “at Cambridge.”

  “Good for you. Lord Hocking does wish to keep this hallway out of bounds,” she reminded him. “If you’d like to make your way back now. Your friends will have gone off without you.”

  “I don’t mind that.” Another step forward, another step back. “I can make new friends.”

  “I’m working,” she said bitterly.

  “When do you finish?”

  “When you’ve all gone home.”

  He smiled unpleasantly. “What if I waited?”

  “Humphrey!” the shrill voice of the woman he had been with came hollering over the music. He looked up, his expression going from surprised to bored in a matter of seconds.

  “Coming!” he called back.

  He returned his gaze to the waitress and chortled, shaking his head and walked past her, eyes sticking to her like a hawk.

  She didn’t move until he had passed, disappearing around the corner, then she picked up the few glasses they had left behind, looked once more at the door with a frown, before turning on her heel and heading back into the main bustle of the party.

  She had handled that well. Although a pretty girl in a place like this, serving drinks to men like that, he had little doubt in his mind that this was her first time having to deal with these sorts of encounters.

  And now, at last, the hallway was empty again. The noise of the crowd distantly faded into the general ruckus beyond. He waited for a breath, in case any of them came back, and when they didn’t, he collapsed against the wall, letting his heartbeat settle. Relieved, he gathered his nerves again and quickly left the room, locking the door behind himself. Yanking his collar loose and mussing up his hair, he put on a stumbling walk, making his way from the study, back to the crowded rooms. Already the party was dying down. People stood in the entrance, pulling on shining fur coats to brace the growing chill outside.

  The Lord of the house stood at the front door, red-faced and boisterous as every good man of aristocracy seemed to be, even in this day and age. The front door might not be the best way out, he considered, watching as Lord Hocking shook hands and kissed everyone that bid him goodnight, tumbling outside, still laughing.

  “Bugger,” he muttered under his breath.

  There were always other ways out in houses like these. Old, ancient houses where servants were never seen or heard, where they could get in and out, move around from room to room without the genteel having to look at them. You wouldn’t get a scullery maid waltzing through the front door, would you?

  He headed for the small, barren hallway that led to the kitchen, stumbling passed the waiters that lolled about, tired eyed and rubbing their feet. A small set of stairs ran down to the cellar and, checking to see that no one paid him any mind, he went down them, into the cold stone labyrinth that ran beneath the house. Storage rooms now, but they probably would have been something more interesting once. Butler’s rooms or something. Along the damp hallway, a small door with a glass window led outside into the side of the house. It was the servants’ entrance. The Lord of the house would never pay it any mind. Most of the supplies for tonight probably came through here, if the muddy footprints were anything to go by.

  Securing his grip on the painting, he pushed the door open, stepping out into the night. The music spilt out from the open windows, rays of light falling over the little courtyard. Sticking to the wall, to the shadows, he inched his way around the house to where the catering vans lay idle, a few of the waiters lounging about with cigarettes in hand. A few of them scrolled on their phones, bored, a few playing a game of cards.

  The waitress from before came out, taking the cigarette from one of them and slumping against the van. Most of their eyes now on her, and her colourful description of the type of people that were inside. He safely crept away from the house, the painting in his possession, and none of the idiots inside ever the wiser. A good night’s work, all told.

  Two

  Thatcher

  I had spent my day off in the coaching house, re-plastering walls and receiving mild verbal abuse and the odd cup of tea from Elsie as I worked. The place was now, at least, not falling down completely. The closer I got to finishing it, the stranger I felt. Once it was done, then what?

  My body ached from the work, muscles strained, joints complaining as I hit my alarm and rolled up to sit on my bed. It had been a cold night, but now the spring sunshine was drifting through the curtains, spirals of dust in the air. I pushed myself up and walked to the window, pulling the curtains aside and lifted my face to the warmth coming in. I took my time showering and dressing, slumping over my kitchen table with a coffee and some toast, waiting for Mills to show up.

  He wasn’t late, he was never late, knocking on the door a few minutes early, in fact. I headed outside, locking up the house, and joined him in his car. His black hair was swooped back, eyes bright for the morning as he smiled and pulled away from the house.

  “Morning, Mills.”

  “Morning, sir.”

  “You seem cheery today.”

  “I’m glad winter’s over. Nice bit of sunshine.”

  I nodded, looking out of the window as the city blurred past. People were out and about already, making the most of the break from the rain.

  “Be summer before you know it,” I mumbled.

  “Not a fan of summer, sir?”

  “Not particularly.” It was the heat I wasn’t fond of, that and the mosquitos.

  “Did you enjoy your day off?”

  “I did, all told. Anything interesting happen whilst I was gone?”

  “Nothing interesting happens when you’re gone, sir, you know that.”

  We arrived at the station, heading up to our office, when Sharp shouted for me over the busy room.

  “Thatcher! My office.”

  Mills looked surprised. “How can you have done something wrong? You weren’t even here yesterday.”

  “Bring Mills!” she added, poking her head out from her door.

  I shrugged and gestured for him to follow as we weaved through the desks and milling officers to where she waited in her doorway, foot tapping on the carpet. She waved us in towards the chairs opposite her desk, closed the door and sat down herself.

  “Morning.”

  “Morning, Ma’am.”

  “Good day off yesterday, Thatcher?”

  “Yes, Ma’am, thank you.”

  “Straight back into it today,” she told me. “We’ve had a robbery.”

  “A robbery?”

  “Yes,” she folded her hands on her desk.

  “Since when do you put me on robberies?”

  “Since this is a very high-profile robbery, and I’m putting my best detective on it before HQ comes swarming in.”

  “How high profile?”

  “You’re familiar with Lord Hocking?”

  “Used to be an MP, right?”

  “Father was. They’re an old family, own a large estate, still private. He had a party last night, an annual affair I’m told, during which a very valuable painting was stolen.”

  “A painting?”

  “From a locked room, with nobody seeing who went in or came out. Or for that matter,” she added, “who wandered about with a great big frame in their arms.”

  “I see.”

  “SOCO’s been on the scene, looking for any prints that might be useful, but this is going to be slow going, Thatcher and I need someone there who will think creatively if need be.”

  “I don’t have a say, do I?”

  “No.”

  “Right.”

  “Do we know how many people were at the party?” Mills asked her.

  “I’m told the guest list was very tight knit and closely monitored. I wanted you here,” she told me, “because I need you to treat this properly. I know it’s not a homicide, but it’s important, got it? Be professional and polite.”

  “I’m always professional.”

  “Not with cases you think are beneath you.”<
br />
  “And this one isn’t?”

  “A painting stolen from a locked room with nobody coming in or out in a crowded house?”

  “Hard to see anything specific in a crowd,” I pointed out. Especially in a big house like that, no doubt, with all the booze that would have flowed throughout the evening.

  “I’m counting on you, boys,” she said sternly. That was a face I knew better than to argue with.

  “We had better get going then, Mills.”

  We stood up, Mills taking the address of the estate that Sharp handed to him, and left her office, returning to the car.

  A robbery, I thought as Mills navigated our way from the city. Couldn’t remember the last time Sharp had assigned me to work a robbery. She had seemed a little frantic, almost, and I couldn’t really blame her. It was always a high-profile case when lords and ladies were involved, and they weren’t always the easiest people to deal with.

  I glanced over at Mills, who was frowning at the road. He hadn’t been called in.

  “Must be a very valuable piece to call you in for it,” he muttered as he drove.

  “Men like Lord Hocking can throw a lot of weight around. He’s got political connections,” I told him. “That can make life tricky for Sharp. Better to give him what he wants, play ball and get it all over and done with as soon as possible.”

  “Putting the best foot forward.”

  “Something along those lines.”

  “Doesn’t explain why I wasn’t called in,” he said. No, it didn’t, nor did I have much of an explanation for him on that one.

  “Sharp probably just waited for the two of us,” I suggested. “Uniforms would have been called out, and then it turned out that this was a tricky case to navigate. Take it as a compliment.”

  “How’s that?”

  “We make a good team.”

  He turned his head to me, surprised. “A compliment from you?”