Blood Ties

by Oliver Davies

  “I’ll make a call about that door,” Dennis muttered, looking worriedly at the heavy contraption.

  “Good. If I had to find a new bagman, I’d be absolutely livid,” I called over my shoulder. I couldn’t see Mills, but I knew what expression would be on his face. Annoyed for being called a bagman, but still a little proud.

  We stopped in the room opposite the portrait of who I had assumed to be Rosemary Hocking.

  “Ah,” Dennis smiled sadly at the young face, “this was painted on her fifteenth birthday. She was a dear little thing, very smart,” he said proudly. “A wonderful singing voice.”

  “You knew her well?”

  “As well as the others,” he answered.

  “Would Selene have known her?”

  “Oh, yes. They got on very well. Selene was good with hair, better than the late Lady Hocking.”

  “She must have been sad when she died.”

  “The whole house was, sir.” He tucked his hands into his pockets, shoulders slumping, the first time I’d witnessed him break posture. “Selene wouldn’t have left long after.”

  “There’s not much of a resemblance between Rosemary and Lord Hocking,” Mills noted.

  “No,” Dennis shook his head, “she favours the other side of the family. As does Rosie, for that matter.”

  I studied the painting, noting the similarity in the pointed chin and high cheekbones. There was something familiar about the girl, but perhaps it was just her resemblance to her niece. I shook my head, the thoughts unhelpful.

  “Why was this painting put into storage?”

  “Lord Hocking’s idea, sir,” Dennis replied. “When the rest of Master Richard’s things were cleared up, as was this. I don’t think he could look at it without thinking of his brother or Selene.”

  Mills and I exchanged a look.

  “Dennis, might we remove the frame and have a look at the back of the picture?”

  He looked up from Rosemary’s face and blinked. “You think Selene left her little clue here?”

  “Might have done,” I said with a shrug, “but it’s as good a place to start as any. There are a few more,” I pointed to the little stack of paintings I had made, “that might be likely candidates too.”

  Dennis breathed in deeply and nodded. “Let me fetch some tools then, Inspector.” He strolled off purposefully, and Mills sat down on the box, flipping the ledger open. I crossed over to stand by his shoulder.

  “There are some patterns,” he pointed out. “Selene would read a book, and a few days later, Richard would read the same one. It’s like they had a little book club going on.”

  “You have the titles?”

  “Just here, sir,” he pointed to the appropriate column, “and I made a list,” he patted his trouser pocket where his notebook sat, “of all the books Selene borrowed over and over again.”

  “Books and paintings,” I muttered, standing up straight and scratching my chin. “Would Selene have left something so important there?”

  “I think you’re onto something with Rosemary, sir,” Mills told me, nodding to the painting. “She was, other than Selene, the only thing the brothers had in common. Maybe Selene would have counted on that.”

  “Check the ledger,” I told him, “see if Rosemary crops up in there at any point.”

  Mills nodded, flipping back to the start of the book as Dennis returned. His jacket was off, his starched sleeves rolled crisply to the elbows, with a small roll in his hands holding a selection of screwdrivers.

  “Together, Inspector?” he asked. I nodded and tugged my collar loose as we bent down to the frame as Mills got back to work on the ledger. I held the frame steady as Dennis loosened it, not wanting to be responsible for any damage that might occur.

  “Does Lord Hocking mind you doing this?” I asked. “You don’t have other duties elsewhere?”

  “I do, but this seems more important. I owe it to Selene, I think.” He looked up at me, one strand of hair falling loose and tumbling into his eyes. “You’ve met the child?”

  “I have.”

  He smiled. “How does he seem?” he asked, turning back to the frame.

  “Well enough, despite all his mother went through. He’s a teacher.”

  “He is?” He looked surprised. “I always thought Selene would have made a good teacher. The way she was with Rosemary. Told her as much when she left, but I don’t think that was the path she went down.”

  “Not in the end, no.”

  “Ah well,” he put down his tool and wiggled the frame, “not much to be done dwelling over what might have been,” he said sadly. The frame loosened, coming away from the painting. Dennis held it steady as I stood and peered down the back, looking for a scrap of paper, an envelope. Nothing. I sank back down, and we slowly replaced the frame.

  “This seems like rather a lot of work, Inspector. I’m not sure when Selene would have done it,” Dennis told me, wrapping the portrait back in its sheet. “Especially doing it alone, sir.”

  Quite right. These paintings were heavy, the frames almost welded in place. Either she had help, or she hid it somewhere else, or we were barking completely up the wrong tree.

  “Lord Hocking should be able to narrow it down,” Dennis told me, standing up and offering me a hand. His own was tough, calloused, years of work marking his skin. “Despite the fallout, he did know his brother well. They were very close throughout their childhood, and he knew Selene well too, as much as he pretends not to have cared for her.” Disapproval tinted his words, and I was surprised to hear him talk out so displeased about his boss. Perhaps all the business with Selene coming into daylight again was enough to turn his loyalty. Whatever it was, Dennis was tumbling lower and lower on my list of suspects, Agatha Christie or not.

  “He’s still upstairs?” I asked.

  “He is, sir. They all are now and,” he checked his watch, “as is Miss Eloise. She should be home by now, too.”

  Henry would need her, I imagined. I turned to Mills, who stood up, tucking the ledger under his arm and gave me a brief nod. We needed more information, a narrower list. If Selene wanted Lord Hocking or Richard Sandow to find some clue she left behind, it would need to be somewhere they’d look. We followed Dennis out of the cellars, through the main hall of the house and towards the sound of shouting voices into the living room. We stood in the doorway, taking in the scene.

  Lord Hocking stood by his chair; arms raised as he argued with Henry. Eloise, her coat still on, sat with Lady Hocking by the window, calmly murmuring between each other. The Lady occasionally looked over to where her son and husband argued, her eyes and nose pink, a handkerchief clutched in her hand. Rupert and Rose were the only quiet ones, lounging on the sofa, watching it unfold, an unopened box of Trivial Pursuit actually on the table before them. There was something a little amusing about that.

  Dennis waved us in. “Tea or coffee?”

  “Tea, please,” Mills requested.

  “And for me,” I added. Dennis smiled and wandered gladly from the raucous family as Mills and I sank down onto the sofa opposite Rose and Rupert. They looked up, turning to Mills.

  “How are you feeling?”

  “Better now, thank you. I take it your brother’s not happy?” he added, glancing to Henry.

  “No,” Rupert drawled, “throws a lot of his plans out the window all this.”

  “Plans?”

  “For the estate,” Rose answered. “He’s got some ideas for when he takes over, good ones.” Rupert nodded in agreement as she continued. “The place needs a bit of a modern touch. And of course, his children are supposed to inherit after him.”

  “Bit of a spanner in the works all told,” Rupert added, “unless the child is Uncle Richard’s.”

  “Couldn’t we just do a paternity test?” Rose asked. “Save all this bother?”

  “He doesn’t want one,” I told them. “He has no interest in being in this family.”

  “But someone is interested in him,” Rupe
rt added darkly, “blackmail.” He drummed his fingers on the arm of the sofa. “Who’d want to blackmail us?”

  Rose shrugged. “Someone who cared about Selene? Did she ever marry?” she asked. I shook my head.

  “What about her parents? Her family?”

  “As far as we know, she didn’t have any.”

  “So, she was all on her own?” Rose asked. “And he knew that?” She turned a disapproving eye towards her father, whose face had turned almost purple as his son raged at him.

  “If we can find what the robber is looking for,” I said to call their attention back, “we can get ahead of them.”

  “Find what Selene left?” Rose asked.

  I nodded.

  “No more robberies?” Rupert asked hopefully.

  “No more robberies.”

  “Well then!” He smacked his hands loudly down on the table, drawing the attention of the rest of the family. “Let’s find this sodding note so we can stop getting robbed and these nice policemen can, with all due respect,” he added politely, “bugger off out of our home.”

  Lord Hocking stuttered, and Henry opened his mouth to speak, but Eloise shot to her feet.

  “Rupert’s right. The sooner this is over, the better. We know what they’re looking for, and since they came back,” she looked to me for confirmation, and I gave her a quick wink, “we know they don’t have it. It wasn’t in your painting, Lord Hocking, so it’s obviously somewhere else.”

  “This house is huge.” Henry sank into an armchair, rubbing his face. “It could take days, weeks to find one little note.”

  “So, we each take a room.” His wife grabbed his arm and hauled him upright. “Anything that your father likes, anything your Uncle Richard cared about, we bring back here and look through together.”

  “Or Rosemary,” I added. “She knew you wouldn’t get rid of anything to do with Rosemary.”

  Lord Hocking was still purple, still looking violently sweaty and unhappy, but he nodded.

  “The music room then,” he straightened his jacket, “that was her favourite.”

  “Mills will take the library,” I instructed, and he held up the ledger in confirmation.

  “I’ll help you in there, sergeant,” Rupert announced, jumping to his feet. Mills looked a little uncertain about that, but Eloise beamed at him.

  “Rupert reads more than anyone,” she told us.

  “You never sign books out!” Rose looked up at him incredulously.

  “Not from my own home.” He kicked her legs aside and led Mills from the room, muttering under his breath about respect and recognition. It seems his own family had been as ignorant to his intelligence as I had.

  Perhaps I owed the boy an apology. Perhaps.

  “I shall go to the music room.” Lord Hocking smoothed his hair back, glancing over his shoulder to his wife and strode away.

  “I’ll do Auntie Rosemary’s room,” Rose announced, and Henry trailed after her.

  “We’ll do down here,” Eloise told me, looping her arm through Lady Hocking’s in solidarity, “all the parlours and everything.”

  “You should try the summer house, Inspector.” Lady Hocking pulled away from Eloise, only to cross to a small desk and pull a drawer open, reaching inside for a key. “There’s a piano in there that Rosemary liked to play, so I’m told,” she added, pressing the key into my hand.

  “Thank you, Lady Hocking. And you have my apologies, for all of this.”

  She straightened her back, squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. “None of this is your doing Inspector. It’s my husband and his brother who have to answer for all of this nonsense. You’re merely doing your duty.” She smiled at me, the expression still tinged with sadness and worry, but she reached behind to take Eloise’s hand and pulled her along through to the next room.

  I watched them go and let out a sigh, flipping the key in my hand and crossed to the double doors that led out into the garden. I supposed it was a good thing that Sharp assigned me to this particular theft, it seemed to get worse the further in we went, like one of those hedge mazes that get narrower the further you go, scratched by thorns. You’d probably get rained on as well, just for good measure. I stepped out into the garden and made my way down the sloping pasture towards the lake, hoping to all hope that there would be something of use here. Or somewhere in that grand old estate. Or maybe, for all we knew, Selene had planned all of this. One last laugh against the family that had caused her so much grief. A wild little goose chase, digging up all their wrongdoings. I’d applaud her for that, but I’d spent too much time in this house now. My feet sank into the soft earth, the grass slightly damp, leaking into the end of my trousers. I could smell the lake as I approached and there, against the grey water, the summer house sat.

  Twenty-Three

  Thatcher

  For all that I heard about the summer house, it wasn’t quite what I was expecting. It was a round building, made of glass, but the windows were covered in a thin layer of dust, and when I unlocked the door and pushed the handle, everything creaked and groaned and was hard to move. I eased the door open and stepped inside. The floor was the same polished granite that ran through the estate itself, the ceiling domed like an Italian church. The walls were painted pale blue, thin curtains draped alongside the windows, dragging on the ground. Against one wall, a small white piano sat untouched, an open book of music left on the stand. The bench was pushed in, and a small pair of gloves were discarded on top of them.

  I crossed over, the space silent and cold and picked them up. They were soft, made of cashmere or alpaca, the fingers small like a child’s. I pulled the wrist back to find a small R.H. embroidered into the wool. Putting them back down on the bench, I looked at the sheet music. Schubert, I liked Schubert, my mother used to play him around the house. The pages were well worn, bent and creased, with a few faint pencil marks scored around here and there. I made a note of the page number before flicking through the rest of the sheets, wondering if I might find something hidden within the pages. Nothing.

  I returned them to the piece they were open to and lifted the seat of the bench. A few booklets sat inside, more sheet music and a beginner’s book on learning scales. I sifted through them all, again, empty-handed.

  Letting out a breath that clouded in the cold room, I looked around. Two wooden armchairs sat to one side, thick fur blankets draped over them, with a small wood stove in between with a kettle on top. The ash lay in a thick blanket inside, the glass completely smudged in black. A basket of logs, covered in dust and cobwebs, was kicked to one side, and a small, narrow desk occupied the other wall. I went towards it, sitting in the uncomfortably cold chair and looked over the desk.

  A few frames, dusty again, sat on the surface, and I wiped them with my sleeve, finding a young Lord Hocking and Rosemary staring out at me from a boat they were in on the lake. Another, of the family dog with a large stick between its jaws and the last one, of the three Hocking children, Richard included, beaming up at the camera. They were very young here, Rosemary held in her eldest brothers’ arms, a rattle clutched in her fists. I popped the frames off one by one, finding nothing on the backs except the dates the photos were taken, and little notes made by, I’m assuming, their mother. There were an old inkpot and fountain pen, a dead flower in a ceramic pot, a glass paperweight filled with small flowers and a little lamp.

  I pushed the chair back slightly to open the drawers. The first was filled blank writing paper and envelopes, a few pens rolling around inside. I pulled the lot out, flipping through the stiff, heavy pages before putting them all back carefully. I wished I’d brought that tea Dennis was fetching with me, I thought as I opened the second drawer. Its contents were random. There was a doll, a dog leash, an empty hip flask with the Hocking insignia engraved into the metal, a book on local bird watching and a box of matches. Right then. I took the doll out first, carefully, since she seemed to be nothing more than delicate china bones and lace. I wondered if she had been
Rosemary’s, and then why she was left out here. Not for me to question though, I decided, placing her gently back into the drawer and pushed it shut, leaning down to open the third and last drawer.

  Maps, I realised, pulling them. Local ones, Ordnance Survey mostly, of the county and a few more close to the home of local walking routes. I flipped through them, finding another of the estate itself and unfolded it over the desk. The house, in comparison to the rest of the Hocking land, was small, they owned more than I realised. The lake, the woods, even the rows of cottages that led down into the village. Some farmlands surrounding the area and most likely all the houses that lived there too. It was a hefty job running this place, by the looks of it, no wonder Henry was in such a state of disarray over all this.

  Poor bloke, I thought, unfolding the map to look at where the Hocking woodlands meet the public woods, and the walking paths that skirt around the border heading down, as Rupert had said, to the local village, coming out just by the pub. A good walk, several miles of woods and hills, and ending with a pint, lovely.

  Where there were local walking routes, as I knew well enough, there would be places to park. There was one opposite the coaching house, Elsie complained about it to this day. Muddy cars and Labradors would pull up, left for a few hours while the owners strode off into the woods. Back when the coaching house was up and running, we made good work from the ramblers.

  There was always a place to park, even if it was nothing more than a trodden down path of dirt that was flat enough and wide enough to pull up on. There’d likely be one somewhere, if not down in the village then further up, nearer the woods themselves. Since no one had seen our intruder with a vehicle anywhere near the estate itself, I’d wager they made use of public land. Nobody would question that, an empty car by a local walking route, not round here anyway. Deciding that it might come in handy, I folded the map back up and put the others away, tucking it into my coat pocket as I returned the desk to normal. The only other things in the sunroom were a small cupboard filled with walking boots and sticks and a little basket filled with firelighters, kindling, and yet another box of matches.