Blood Ties

by Oliver Davies

  “Enjoy it because I shan’t give you another. Not until we’re done gallivanting around Lord Hocking’s place.”

  “You know about him?”

  “A little. The family’s been in the area for centuries, I believe, old money. Do well for themselves, though, have a lot of fingers in a lot of pies. Don’t go aggravating any of them,” I warned him. “It can backfire immensely.”

  “You’re the one who does the aggravating, sir, not me.”

  I ignored that, turning the radio up as we passed fields and paddocks.

  “Is that it?” Mills asked incredulously as a large, sweeping house came into view.

  “That’s it.”

  “Bloody hell,” he muttered, pulling up outside the front steps. We climbed out and stood outside for a moment, looking up at the place.

  “Looks like something from a period drama,” Mills scratched the back of his head.

  I walked up to the front door, ringing the bell that chimed in the house like church bells. Mills hopped up to stand beside me as the door opened, a well-dressed gentleman standing there in a black suit.

  “Yes?”

  “Detective Inspector Thatcher,” I introduced myself, “and Detective Sergeant Mills, North Yorkshire Police. We believe Lord Hocking is expecting us?”

  “Lady Hocking is waiting for you in the drawing room,” he announced, standing back to let us in. Mills let out a quiet whistle as the man closed the door. Period drama indeed. The foyer rose up several floors, a large chandelier hovering above our heads. The stairs led up to the multiple floors, the bannister of ornately carved wood.

  “This way,” the man, the butler I imagined, led us down one of the long corridors, lined with the tall windows to a room that looked out over the gardens. It looked like it had been designed three hundred years ago and barely touched since. Purple wallpaper lined the walls, stiff-looking sofas draped with blankets by the fireplace. Paintings hung on the walls, and a large bookshelf sat behind us.

  “Detective Inspector Thatcher and Detective Sergeant Mills, Ma’am,” the butler announced us before withdrawing, shutting the door behind himself. The family had gathered in the room, dotted about. A young man stood at the writing desk, dishevelled from the evening before. A couple sat together on one of the sofa’s, hands clasped together, and two more people stood behind the opposite sofa from which a woman arose. Her silver hair was neatly pulled back, and she was dressed plainly, the residue of makeup still clinging to her eyes.

  “Lady Hocking, I take it?” I walked towards her, taking her outstretched hand.

  “Yes. Thank you for coming,” she replied, indicating the chairs for us to sit.

  “My son,” she nodded to the young man at the desk who came closer now, “Rupert. My eldest boy Henry and his wife Eloise,” the couple on the sofa, “and our dear friends,” to the people behind her, “Marjory and Philip. They have been staying with us these last days.”

  “You all attended the party last night?”

  “We did,” Philip nodded.

  “We never miss it,” his wife added enthusiastically.

  “If you may,” I asked Lady Hocking, “could you run us through the events of last night and this morning?”

  “We’ve done this already,” Rupert scoffed, “with the uniformed officers.”

  “These are detectives, Rupert, and we will do it again if need be,” his mother scolded, grabbing his arm and pulling him down beside her. He lounged back in his evening suit, watching us.

  “When was the painting last seen?” I offered as a place to start.

  “Last night. As the guests started to arrive, at around seven, my husband went into his study before locking it up. He swears it was there. He likes to check.”

  “Father is something of a control freak,” Rupert threw in. “Should ask him how many lightbulbs there are in the place.” Lady Hocking tutted at him and turned back to me.

  “This morning,” she continued, “as everything was being cleaned up, he went in as usual to drink his tea and read the paper. And it was gone.”

  “And what time would that have been, Lady Hocking?”

  “Around half seven.”

  “Like clockwork,” Rupert muttered.

  “If you can’t be useful, go somewhere else,” his mother snapped. “Go and have a shower.”

  “You asked for me to be here, so I’m here!” he protested.

  “Rupert,” his older brother leant forward, “it has been a trying enough morning for us all.”

  Rupert scoffed, but didn’t move, only slumped further down the sofa, his arms folded across his chest.

  “Where is your husband now, Lady Hocking?”

  “He’s been walking the grounds. He is very upset,” she said carefully. “We all are. Having your home, your sanctuary, violated is a very horrible feeling.”

  “Are we sure we want to use the word violated?” Rupert asked. “Rather extreme.”

  “Are you telling me that you feel safe in this house right now? Knowing we have been robbed?”

  “It was one painting,” he groaned.

  “One very important painting.”

  “If I might interrupt,” I leant forward, drawing her attention, “it would be useful for us to know how many people were here last night, and to take a copy of the guest list.”

  “Oh, none of our guests did this,” she said surely.

  I leant back, surprised. “No?”

  “Certainly not.”

  “Must have been some of those youngsters,” Philip weighed in, “the ones hired to serve the drinks and such like.”

  I raised an eyebrow at that, folding my own arms, blaming the staff, how original.

  “Yes, it must have been,” his wife agreed.

  “We shall be investigating every lead,” I assured them. “We like to be thorough in high-profile cases such as these.”

  It had the right effect. Lady Hocking straightened up in her seat, her shoulders squaring, lifting her chin.

  “Certainly, I should think so. I shall find the guest list for you. The contact details are included.”

  “Thank you. Has anyone else been staying here? Or just your friends here?”

  “We had a few others staying for some nights. A bit of shooting and such. They’ve all gone home,” she told me. “They have children, and most of them need looking after.”

  “When did they leave?”

  “Last night, if I recall.”

  I turned and glanced at Mills, who was looking back at me, mid pause in writing in his notebook.

  “They would have had luggage, I presume?” Mills said slowly.

  “Of course, they would,” Rupert scoffed again.

  “But they would not steal from us,” Lady Hocking insisted. “They are our friends. They know how much my husband’s collection means to him.”

  “Are any of your guests still here, Lady Hocking?”

  “Yes. We had a few ending up staying the night. Too much gin, on their half. But we’re not exactly short of rooms.”

  “No, I imagine not. Your husband’s study,” I asked, “how many ways in and out are there?”

  “There’s only the one door,” she told me. “He likes his privacy. A few windows but they lead out onto the terrace in the garden, and there were people out there almost all night.”

  “The corridor that it lies down is out of the way,” Henry added. “Father made it very clear to all the guests that it was off-limits.”

  I nodded to Mills, who made a small note, and looked around the room.

  “Do you have much security here? Any cameras? Alarms?”

  “We have security cameras at the front door, the garages, and in the garden. None of the doors are alarmed, unfortunately, else they’d be going off all the time. Every hour of the night,” she added with a sour look to Rupert.

  “Would it be possible for us to get access to the footage?” I asked.

  “I think so. Henry?”

  “Dennis will know abou
t that, mother. The butler,” he told us, “who showed you in. He handles all of that.”

  Probably handles a great many things, I thought to myself. Knows the ins and outs of this place better than the family themselves, I would imagine.

  “How long has he worked for you?”

  “Oh, Dennis has been part of the family for years.” Lady Hocking waved a dismissive hand. “His father was our butler before him. When he retired, Dennis took over. Shame he doesn’t have his own son, to carry on the tradition.”

  “He has a daughter,” Rupert pointed out.

  “And?”

  “You can have female butlers, mother.”

  “Do you have any other permanent staff?” I quickly asked before they fell into another spat. “Besides the people you hired specifically for last night?”

  “A few maids.” Lady Hocking seemed to think very carefully. “Maud, Daria and who’s the other one?”

  “Lara,” Rupert provided quickly.

  “Them,” Lady Hocking continued, “and our cook, Ellen. She has been with us a great while too.”

  “We, of course, have all the information from the catering staff,” Henry added. “The ones hired last night. We use their company every year for this, sometimes over the New Year too.”

  “We might have to find somewhere new now though,” Eloise spoke at last.

  “Yes,” Marjory agreed, “I wouldn’t want them back here after all this.”

  “Well,” I breathed, “if we may, Lady Hocking, my sergeant and I would like to have a look around the property? The study, in particular.”

  “Oh, of course. Henry, show them where to go. I will talk to Dennis and get those lists for you.”

  “Much obliged, Lady Hocking.”

  I stood up, nodding politely, and followed the eldest son from the room, Mills quickly at my heels.

  There was something to be said for blaming the staff, but it was never clear exactly which ones to blame.

  Three

  Thatcher

  Henry led us back down the bright hallway into the entrance, across the marble floor and down another set of halls, taking a sudden turn and ending up in a long, narrow hallway, at the end of which a single door was blending itself into the wooden walls.

  “Dad’s study. Nobody was supposed to come round here, and there’s not really anywhere to hide.” He fished into his pocket and pulled out a key. “I’ll be in the foyer. Do whatever you need to do.”

  “Thank you, Henry,” I answered sincerely, taking the key. He nodded, strolling back along the corridors, his hands tucked into his pockets.

  “You can’t exactly sneak in or out, can you?” Mills remarked, looking down towards the door.

  “You might, if enough people were around.”

  “Apparently, they were very well informed not to come down here.”

  “Because drunk people are notorious for following directions,” I mused, looking down at the rug that ran along the wooden floors.

  “Someone came down here,” I murmured, walking towards a stain on the woven rug. I bent down, running my fingers over it. It had long since dried, hopefully not damaging the rug beyond repair, the stain dark against the green fabric. I bent down closer, smelling the rug. The faint, lingering traces of vodka rose up to meet me.

  “Spilt drink?” Mills suggested, hovering over me.

  “Most likely.” I stood up, lifting the key. “Shall we?”

  It was an old key, for an old lock, the kind that would be all that difficult to break into, from a first glance. I opened the door, pushing it widely aside before walking in. Another little time capsule of old furniture, paintings and heavy fabrics.

  “Nice room,” Mills commented as we strolled inside, “lovely books.”

  I hummed in agreement, walking to the large arched windows that let in the warm spring sunshine. The garden sprawled out beyond, flowerbeds and neatly trimmed hedges lining the patio that led down towards the seemingly endless lawn. A woman was outside with a bin bag, picking up rubbish left behind, sweeping up cigarette butts and trailing strands of confetti.

  Behind me, stood what resembled an old school master’s desk, complete with a shining metal globe and tray of crystal bottles and glasses. One of them was askew, off centre from the others. Lord Hocking was a control freak according to his son, and from the state of the rest of the room, no doubt had every book, pen and lamp centred exactly where he wanted it. It was the port that had been moved slightly, the stopper faintly stained red; but the glasses were both in place, both spotlessly clean.

  “This must be it,” Mills called out. I joined him where he stood, looking at the paintings. A collection of the family throughout the ages, though there was a sudden leap from the sixties to now. A few landscapes and some animals, all very lifelike and expertly done. The frames all looked to be rather heavy, ornate and gilded.

  I followed Mills’s gaze to an awkward space between the paintings, a faint square lined by dust.

  “I thought it would be bigger,” I murmured. The blank space seemed not much larger than an A4 sheet of paper.

  “The Mona Lisa isn’t very big,” Mills told me, “still valuable though.”

  “And easier to sneak off with,” I replied, stepping closer to the mark on the wall and looking up. It would have hung from the picture rail with the rest, an empty hook rattling along the top.

  “Either our thief is a giant,” I declared, “which would’ve been very noticeable, or they climbed up there.”

  “Used a chair?”

  There were a few armchairs in the study, firm, stiff things with high armrests. The only regular chair was at the desk.

  “Few scuff marks,” Mills pointed at the rug beneath our feet, “must have dragged it over.”

  “They’re not going to be happy about the state of their rugs in all of this, are they?”

  “One disaster after another,” he replied humorously.

  I smiled at that and walked to one of the lower hanging pictures, lifting it from the hook, and nearly dropped it.

  “Heavier than they look,” I grunted, hoisting it into my arms. Mills came over, helping me to hang it back up.

  “Rather heavy to lug through the house,” he agreed, ensuring it was straight before stepping away. “Maybe they took it out from the frame?”

  We split up, searching the room for any sign of a discarded frame under the furniture or behind the curtains. I looked under the desk, finding it strangely clean underneath and sat back on my haunches, running a hand through my hair with annoyance.

  “Maybe they’re used to handling paintings like these,” I muttered.

  “How so?”

  “Well,” I pushed myself back, “from moving them, dusting them, polishing them, I don’t know.”

  “The staff?”

  “Permanent members of staff would know their way around this house like the back of their hand. And none of the party members would pay them much notice, would they? Especially the respected, well-known members of staff.”

  “The butler,” Mills realised. “It’s always the butler, if I’ve learned anything from Agatha Christie.”

  “Have you read any Agatha Christie?”

  “Honestly, no. But my mum used to watch a lot of Poirot when I was growing up.”

  “People trust a butler. Nobody would dare question him, would they? The ones that even noticed he was there.”

  “And moving a painting? He could say that he was asked to move it, and no one would be any the wiser.”

  “Certainly not so much as to check it with Lord Hocking or their other hosts.”

  “But why take a painting? There are plenty of valuables in this house,” Mills said, “plenty in this room alone. Look at the crystal!”

  “Something personal was taken from Lord Hocking’s private collection,” I reminded him. “Remember what Lady Hocking said? A violation of privacy. This is about more than making a profit, I’m sure of it.”

  “A personal agenda?”


  “His father was their butler,” I recalled, “and then himself. Maybe he was hoping his daughter would take over, but it seems that Lady Hocking has little to no interest in making that happen.”

  “Enough to make someone resentful, their daughter being overlooked like that.”

  “Enough to make it personal,” I added, “something other than the silverware or some random ornament in the many hundreds of rooms that the family wouldn’t even notice was gone.”

  “It makes a statement, that’s for sure.”

  “That’ll be why Sharp wants us on this,” I realised. “If this is a personal vendetta, then I’ve worked enough of them to know how ugly they can turn and how quickly they can do so.”

  “You think it’s worth talking to the butler?”

  “Certainly is. As well as the guests that are still here and the staff from last night.”

  “Some of them are still here, sir,” Mills told me. “There was a van to the side as we drove in.”

  “We’ll chat to the Lady of the house once we’re done here. So,” I clapped my hands together, “they came in, dragged the chair over, took the painting down and left through the doors. Those windows don’t look like they've been opened since they were put in, and then they left the room, locked the door again, and somehow made it through the corridors and the foyer?”

  “Going through the front door seems a bit hapless. Surely someone would have noticed that?”

  “No doubt about it, Mills. So how did they get out?”

  “Places like these have more than one door,” he answered, putting his notebook.

  “Places like these have loads. Servant doors, escape routes, Maybe even a priest hole.”

  I turned around, walking slowly from the room.

  “He’d have walked back up the hallway,” I muttered to myself, “back up where the foyer is and stopped.” I stopped myself, peering around the wall.

  “Sir,” Mills called my attention and pointed down. Another scuff on the skirting board, a little black mark. “Could be from anything,” he amended.

  “Let’s say that it’s our thief. They stopped, checked to see if it was clear.”