Blood Ties

by Oliver Davies

  “Made you feel on edge?”

  She nodded, tightening her grip around herself.

  “Well, Nadia. I’m going to give my card to Ms Russo. So, if there’s anything you think of, anything you remember, feel free to call, alright?”

  “Alright.” She gave a shrewd smile and headed over the others, getting a comforting arm draped around her shoulder by Will.

  I turned to Mills, who looked as mixed up as I felt. “What was it you said about Agatha Christie?”

  Six

  Thatcher

  As we headed back round to the front of the house, the butler was waiting, hands folded patiently behind his back. He had a face that somehow both kind, and yet extremely stern. I imagined that for the children growing up here, he was the man who helped when you fell over and skinned your knee, and also the only person you didn’t want to catch you stealing treats from the kitchen or messing up the furniture.

  “Detective Inspector Thatcher,” he greeted me, “Lord Hocking has returned. I’ve been asked to take you to the gardens.”

  “Thank you. Mills,” I turned to him, “go in and have a chat with some of the permanent staff, the cook and the maids. See if there’s anything they know.” Or suspect, I hoped my tone of voice conveyed. Mills nodded, casting a wary look in the direction of the butler as he turned and led me through the front doors, down the winding halls.

  “I hear you’ve worked for the family for some years,” I said casually, looking at his greying hair.

  “Since Master Henry was a child,” he informed me proudly, “and since Rupert and Rose were born.”

  “Must be difficult for them to get by without you.”

  “They are rarely without me, sir.” His voice was toneless, hard to read.

  “And your father before you,” I recalled.

  “Indeed.”

  “Though I hear,” I stated carefully, watching him closely, “that your daughter is not likely to take over the post.”

  His face didn’t change, didn’t shift from the impassive, stoic, professional face he must have plastered on from dawn to dusk.

  “I don’t plan on retiring for some time yet,” he eventually said.

  “Still, a shame to have such a rare, loyal kinship come to an end.”

  “Time’s change,” he replied coolly.

  “They certainly do. Must be a lot of work,” I remarked as we walked through the dining room, the table still littered with silverware and half-burned candles. “Cleaning up after a party like this.”

  “We have gotten used to it, sir. A system has been developed.”

  “What do you do yourself? Whilst it’s all kicking off?”

  “Whatever I am needed to do. Last night,” he said, finally looking at me with an unreadable, blank face, “it was mostly ensuring that nothing got broken, or destroyed.”

  “Or stolen?”

  A slight twitch between those bushy eyebrows, annoyance. “Lord Hocking is very adamant on handling his study himself. He lets few people in except for Lady Hocking, myself, the cook and the maids; and only,” he added as an afterthought, “if they’re bringing tea with them.”

  “He has the only key?”

  “He does.”

  “Seems risky. Only having one key for a room with so much importance.”

  “It’s not my place to question Lord Hocking,” he stated in a tone of voice that led to believe it wasn’t my place either. Though, given my job description, it was exactly my job.

  “Were any other place off-limits to the guests?” I asked, and he came to a stop by a set of doors. “The kitchen, cellars?”

  “The private rooms were off-limits, but not locked. Some of the bedrooms were, mostly the children’s rooms. And I can’t think why any of them would want to go down into the cellars or the kitchen.”

  “Did you go down there?”

  “Of course,” he opened the doors, “it’s where Lady Hocking’s favourite wine is stored.” He walked away dismissively, leading me into a large glass room that led out into the gardens.

  A man was strolling along the grass in a long coat, a hat pulled down over his ears and hands linked behind his back. The butler fixed his jacket, squared his shoulders and led me from the room, down the steps towards the man, who looked up as we joined him and smiled.

  “Ah, Dennis. Is this he?”

  “Detective Inspector Thatcher, sir. Inspector Thatcher,” he addressed me, “Lord Hocking.”

  We shook hands, and the butler, looking somewhat reluctant, headed back inside to continue with the mammoth task of cleaning up.

  “It’s good to meet you, sir,” I told him. “I’m sorry for the circumstances.”

  He shook his head and began pacing up and down the grass once more. I joined him, sticking my hands in my pockets. “A favourite of mine, that painting,” he told me as we walked. “Had it since I was a young man.”

  “You didn’t inherit it with the rest of the house?”

  “Not that one. Picked it myself, I did. You will be able to get it back, won’t you?” he asked, peering around at me.

  “I sincerely hope so, sir.”

  “Good man. Now, you have questions?”

  “We’re trying to figure out the window of time that this happened, it might help to narrow down who was where. We understand from your wife that you locked the door to your study at around seven in the evening, and that everything was as normal?”

  “Completely normal,” he confirmed. “I had spent an hour or so in there, a little alone time before everyone arrived.”

  “And you didn’t go into the room again until this morning?”

  “I did not.”

  “Your butler tells me that there is only one key, and that it remains in your possession?”

  He patted his pocket. “Always,” he said with a wink.

  “Lord Hocking,” I began, “given the fact the thief in question broke into your study and stole a very personal painting from your collection, my suspicion is that this is a personal attack. Not anything to do with profit.”

  “I quite agree,” he cuffed my shoulder good naturedly. “They could have stolen all sorts from that house, and I’d never had noticed it was missing. Some of the older rooms in the attic and such. Not in our own rooms.”

  “Your son tells me you’re quite the stickler when it comes to belongings.”

  His eyes narrowed, a brow rising. “Which son?”

  “Rupert.”

  “Made a quip about lightbulbs, did he?” He laughed. “Some things still fall under even my very impressive radar, Inspector, I’m sure that’s something you might understand.”

  “I do indeed.”

  “A personal affront then?” He puffed out his chest. “Makes sense. A random criminal would have stolen something bigger, wouldn’t they? Not my measly little landscape.”

  “Someone who knows the emotional value of the piece. Is there anyone, Lord Hocking,” I came to a stop, and he followed suit, “anyone who would want to harm you in this way?”

  “Not that I can think of, my boy.”

  I scratched my jaw. Either the thief was going to sell the piece or use it to get something else from the ruddy-faced Lord. Families had personal effects; families had secrets. This man, Lord of the land, patriarch over the lot of them, would be the one to know. Perhaps what he knew, his butler did too.

  “I noticed that amongst the family portraits,” I said hesitantly, joining him in walking once more, “that there was something of a leap. It went from, I presume your parents, to you recently with your own children.”

  He gave a low hum.

  “It looks as though a generation has almost been skipped,” I trailed off.

  “Getting children to sit for a painting is a very difficult business, Inspector. Do you have any children?” he asked me suddenly.

  “No,” I replied, nor did I have many plans to, not that I would tell Elsie that. She’d thump me over the head with a spoon.

  “Can be a chal
lenge, especially when you have a few. Siblings.” He shook his head and tutted. “Always squabbling. Especially my boys,” he added, “Henry and Rupert. Something about brothers, I believe. They never have an issue with their sister. Have you a brother?”

  “I don’t,” I looked out the fields beyond the wall before us, “but I was very close to a friend growing up. We’ve known each other since we were babies. I think of her as a sister.”

  “And could you ever despise her?”

  “Never,” I said instantly, Sally’s face flashing through my head.

  “Nor I.”

  “You have a sister?”

  I knew, vaguely, that he wasn’t the only son of his late father, but I never did bother to find out how many of them there were. He was the Lord, the one with the house, and the land and the money.

  “I did. Passed away, dear thing, when we were teenagers.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “Named Rosie after her,” he told me brightly. “The people we love live on, in some way or another. I’m rambling.” He laughed heartily and patted me on the arm.

  “I’d like to hear more about the house,” I told him, “places such as these often have some good stories.” We stopped, leaning against the tall wall, looking back up the sloping garden to the house. The many windows and pointed roofs leered down over us, glinting in the sunshine.

  “Elizabethan,” he told me, “can’t recall the exact year, mind you. Passed down generation to generation. And it was used as a hospital during the war, of course.”

  I nodded, most houses like these were.

  “My grandfather left it to my mother,” he surprised me there. “She was an only child, poor dear. And then it came to me.”

  “Was it only you and your sister?” I asked.

  His face seemed to freeze slightly, eyes boring up at the house like a sailor staring at land. Hands still linked behind his back; he took a long, shallow breath through his nose.

  “No,” he said after a long pause, in a calm, toneless voice. I didn’t press. I’d been asking people personal questions long enough now to know when not to press. And there were some things I could find out myself, with a good bit of digging.

  “And the house will go to Henry?” I asked.

  He brightened instantly, turning to me with a grin. “That it will. The boy is more than ready for it. Already now he handles most of the business with the tenants, and the staff in fact.” He gave another hearty chuckle. “Almost puts Dennis out of business with his efficiency.”

  “Oh?”

  “Of course, I’d be lost without Dennis,” he added. “He’s as dear a friend to me as any.”

  “What will you do when he retires? I understand he has a daughter.”

  “Camilla,” he sighed, “lovely girl. As smart as her old man is, of course. We’ve known her since she was born. My wife, though, doesn’t seem terribly keen at the thought of having her to be a butler.”

  “Call her a housekeeper,” I shrugged.

  Lord Hocking laughed again. “Good man! Why not, eh? Now, back to business. My painting.”

  “We’ll be keeping an eye on the market, if anyone tries to sell it, we should be able to catch it before they do. It’s usually the way we go about situations like this,” I said.

  “But?” He caught onto my tone.

  “But if this is a personal matter, it may be that they have other plans in mind. Lord Hocking,” I turned to him seriously, “it would be my advice to tread very carefully for a while. Keep the family close, ensure that all your security is running.”

  “Heavens, man. You think so?”

  “Purely precautionary, sir. But I’d rather give that advice than none at all.”

  “Quite right.” He nodded, and we set off back up to the house. “My Rosie will be home later today,” he announced. “She called me just before you joined me out here. I shall heed your advice, Inspector.”

  “Thank you, Lord Hocking. My sergeant and I are working hard on this.”

  “I appreciate that,” he told me, taking me back through the house, “given that I imagine handling a robbery is a little below your pay grade, hm?” He raised his eyebrows at me.

  “I’m usually given more grisly cases, that’s true.” But something about this case wasn’t quite right. Something was nasty about it, only it hadn’t yet come to the surface.

  We reached the foyer of the house where Mills was bidding farewell to Lady Hocking.

  “There you are, darling.” She reached for her husband, who joined her by the door.

  “Please don’t hesitate to call us,” I shook his hand once more, “if anything comes to mind that might be useful. In any way,” I added meaningfully. Lord Hocking looked down at his shoes briefly before listing his head back up to me, a bright, easy-going grin stuck to his face. One that didn’t match the worried glint in his eyes.

  The butler opened the door, letting us out, and we collapsed into the car, Mills very quickly roaring it into life and taking us away from the foreboding shadow of the house.

  “How did you get on?” I asked him.

  He fished into his pocket awkwardly, eyes fixed on the road, and passed me his notebook. I opened it to the page his pen was stuck between and glanced down. A few, brief lines that would mean more to him than anyone else who read them.

  “Lara and Rupert,” I read aloud, “with about seven question marks. Mills?”

  “I think there’s something between them. I doubt it’s important.”

  “You never know,” I muttered, looking back down at the page.

  Maids somewhat at odds with family, he had written, but not so far. Not so far as to commit a crime, I completed the sentence in my head.

  Cook no problem. Cooks very rarely were in my experience.

  “Nothing from any of them that caught your eye, then?”

  “No, sir. None of them was there last night, either. Lara was the last one in. She lit the candles and was gone by the time the guests arrived. They all came back-” He broke off with a curse as we clattered over a nasty pothole. “They all came this morning, their usual time, to find the place a crime scene.”

  “How exciting,” I muttered.

  “Any word from SOCO, sir?” he asked.

  I closed his notebook and dug into my pocket for my phone, hitting the button. “Nothing yet,” I told him, “I doubt we’ll get anything useful.”

  “Few fingerprints might be nice,” he said.

  “Always are. Don’t get your hopes up too high, Mills.”

  “Sir?”

  “Sharp did the right thing giving this one to us.” I put my phone away, leaning my chin on my hand, peering out the window. “Something’s not right about it.” I turned to look at him. He was frowning out at the country roads, looking at me through the corner of his eye every now and then. “I want to learn more about the family. Lord Hocking had siblings. I want to know what went on.”

  “Maybe that’s why there’s a missing painting,” he suggested. “You know, in his study?”

  “The skipped generation?”

  “Yes.”

  “My thoughts, exactly, Mills,” I praised him.

  There was work to be done on this. The family looked into, the artist of the painting themselves, and something about Lord Hocking’s attachment to that one, in particular, caught my interest. Something happened in his youth, I suspected, something that wormed its way into all of this.

  Seven

  Thatcher

  Research was not my forte. It was one of the many reasons I was so fond of having Mills around; he could happily sit and plough his way through books, papers and articles, fishing out dates and times and details. I could do it, Sharp had made bloody sure of that, but it didn’t half bore me. There were cases though, where it was unavoidable; when there weren’t trails to follow or clues to link up.

  We got back from the house, handing off everything we had found to Sharp, who’s worried stern face hadn’t changed from this morni
ng. As we filled her in, word came up from SOCO via Dr Crowe; she’d found nothing to help us. No fingerprints, no hairs or anything. It appeared to be that our thief had been clever and worn gloves. It was a thought-out robbery then, which ruled out any lingering suspicions of over-rowdy party guests, such as the young ones that had been spotted down the hallways by the waitress; and helped to cement my theory of this being a personal matter. A theory, which thankfully, Sharp echoed.

  After making sure people were tracking various art dealings going on around the country, I ended up in the office with Mills, looking into the ancient Hocking family. It seemed that Lord Hocking’s mother had kept her name upon inheriting the house, a fairly bold move of the time, going so far as to give her children the same name, rather than their father’s. Children plural. It seemed that there had been three of them.

  Lord Hocking and the aforementioned Rosemary he had told me about. I found an image of her obituary from the local paper at the time; it seemed she had only been sixteen when she had died, a long illness that the doctors couldn’t do anything about. And there had been another brother, a middle child, whose name popped up infrequently, pictures of him even less so. Richard Hocking, who after the death of Rosemary seemed to slip off the face of the earth at the age of twenty-one.

  “He changed his name,” Mills called over to me, staring at his laptop. “Took his father’s name after his sister died.”

  “What’s the name?” I asked, snatching up a pen.

  “Sandow.”

  I scribbled the name down, sticking it up on our still very bare board. We’d strung together a loose timeline of the night, a somewhat poorly drawn outline of the ground floor of the house, trying to figure out where everyone had been at each given time.

  We’d handed the guest list over to Smith, who obediently trudged her way through, taking statements and any useful alibis as she went; not that there were many. Everyone was too drunk to have extremely clear, and indeed reliable, recollections of the night. And most of them, she told us when she stuck her head into our office, shared the opinion that the staff were the likely culprits. All of them, and the permanent staff at the house, were too loyal, too friendly to commit such a, and she quoted, a heinous act.