From there she took at least two wrong turns before she finally spotted a tilted, sad-looking sign announcing “Blackmead Farm” – just a dirt road with deep, snow-filled ruts, giving the Alvis a steady stream of nasty shakes as it rumbled up to the house.
And the house...?
As a girl, Kat had a time where she enjoyed reading scary books, especially late at night, with a Hudson Valley thunderstorm roaring outside, sending lightning streaking across the summer sky.
She’d be curled up with Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, or – even more amazing, more terrifying – Bram Stoker’s Dracula.
And often, when done reading – or strongly urged to go to bed by her father – she used to wish that maybe her room light could stay on.
Now, seeing this house here, she was reminded of those books. Probably quite grand in its day, the farmhouse now looked ominous; signs of neglect and decay everywhere.
Paint visibly peeling – and any paint that remained, faded to the dullest of browns. The front garden – if that was what it was – even though covered in snow, showed the signs of being let go; odd clumps of ragged vegetation shrugging through the white.
Not the cheeriest place for Ben Carter to live, she thought.
She slowed the car, pulling it close to the front door. No sign of any other vehicles and – at first – no sign of anyone living here at all.
Kat wondered if she might possibly have the wrong place. The house looked completely abandoned.
There was only one way to find out.
*
She stood on the top step and rapped on the door, its splintery wood in dire need of repair.
No answer. She knocked again, hearing the sound echoing through the eerie old house.
She was about to give up when the door opened, creaking on rusty hinges.
A woman stood there, the same age as Kat – give or take – wearing the demure and drab costume of a housekeeper.
Her hair pulled back. No makeup that Kat could see. The dress, a pale grey, falling to the mid calf, and with severe black shoes that matched the role and look.
“Yes? Can I help you?”
Kat smiled, and hoped this surprise visit didn’t bring about a quick rejection of her request.
“Yes. Hi. I’m Lady Mortimer—” thinking that might help “—and I was hoping I could have a word with the owner of the house?”
“Can I ask what it’s about?” said the woman, eyeing Kat suspiciously.
“It’s to do with Ben Carter.”
The woman didn’t allow her face to register anything.
“Ben Carter is dead. Has been for some months now.”
Kat nodded as if what the woman said made perfect sense.
“I know,” she said. “I need to talk to the owner of the house. Is he at home?”
“Mr Urquhart’s always at home.”
Kat waited, the woman still peering intently at her around the half-open door, fresh flakes of snow now beginning to swirl about them both. Then, finally, Kat saw the woman hold the door open wider.
“You’d better come in.”
Kat did as she was told, stepping into a dark hallway, the interior barely any warmer than the outside.
She took in the place: bare stone-tiled floor, dark wallpaper peeling from the walls, brown-painted doors firmly shut, a corridor leading to the rear of the house where, Kat sensed, perhaps a warmer kitchen lay.
“I’m Connie Price, the housekeeper,” said the woman, pushing the door shut and turning to her. “Mr Urquhart’s up in his rooms, but – I must warn you – speaking to him can be quite a challenge.”
Kat kept smiling, adding quickly, “I do like challenges. And thank you.”
“This way then,” said the housekeeper, cutting her short.
Kat followed her across the hall to a flight of stairs.
Those stairs, covered by the darkest maroon carpets, were wide enough to support a parade of family traipsing down, perhaps to see what good old Santa had left under the tree. Kat had the feeling this grim place maybe didn’t host so many festive events any more.
She noted that the place had electricity, but it wasn’t being put to an extensive use. A single lamp with tassels lit the staircase.
Connie walked steadily ahead of her, and as they reached the top of the stairs and turned to go down a long, dark corridor past more brown-painted doors, Kat heard a muffled voice ahead of them.
“Who’s there?” came the voice, plaintive, strained. “I hear you! Who is it? Connie? Is it you?”
The housekeeper stopped at the end of the corridor, and opened the last door to reveal a sitting room, lit only by another dim floor lamp in the corner.
“Mr Urquhart,” said Connie, stepping into the room while Kat paused behind her in the doorway.
Most of the furniture in the room was covered with once-white cloths, all now turned dingy. Just a table and an old desk, scattered with papers, stood uncovered.
On the floor was another thick carpet – ancient, colours faded – with sprawling swirls that looked either like dragons or exotic plants.
A door at the far end of the room stood open. Through it, Kat could see a single bed, and next to it a washbowl and a table crammed with bottles of ointments, medications.
The paraphernalia that goes with caring for the elderly, the same the world over – so familiar from her own father’s last years.
Back in the sitting room, caught in the flickering light from a spluttering fire, Kat saw the old man himself, propped up in a wing chair, wrapped in a faded blanket, a tattered, quilted hat on his head like a Victorian gentleman.
Kat watched him slowly peer round the side of the armchair and croak at the housekeeper: “Connie! It is you! Wherever have you been? I heard voices! Can’t you hear them as—”
Then the man noticed Kat standing in the doorway.
“Who’s that? There! In the darkness! Step forward. Show yourself!”
Kat walked into the room, wondering...
Could this timid old man somehow help her uncover a hidden truth about Ben Carter’s death?
Or was she just wasting time?
The hours to the hanging, ticking away.
5. Ben Carter
Mr Urquhart took out a pair of glasses from the top pocket of his dressing gown, wiped them on his sleeve, put them on and peered at Kat.
“All right then. Who exactly are you?”
Kat thought, The old man’s faculties wobbly, and his eyesight clearly none too good.
She took some steps forward, and stretched out her hand.
Urquhart might be over 80 years old, but Kat saw the faint flicker of a spark in his eyes as if picking up a glow from the coals in the fire. Frail or not – he still maybe had some of his wits about him.
“This is Lady Mortimer,” said Connie.
“Lady Mortimer eh? You can’t be here soliciting for war bonds, yes? All that nonsense is over. So, m’lady...”
“Mr Urquhart—”
“Jeremiah, please!”
Kat smiled, encouraged by his unexpected liveliness. “I was hoping to—”
“And Lady Mortimer – an American, to boot? Didn’t even know my country allowed such things. I went to America once you know! Texas!”
“It’s a beautiful state,” said Kat.
“Towns are nice. But that countryside? Just desert and oil far as the eye can see. And tumbleweeds everywhere!”
“Did you live there?” said Kat, smiling at the old man’s strange recollections.
“Good Lord no. Are you mad, Lady Mortimer? Too hot! Far too hot! Didn’t stay long. Came home soon as I could.” He leaned close to Kat. “Now sit, sit! We can have a nice chat. Connie fetch us a pot of tea. Cups too.”
Kat saw the old man grin at his own witticism.
She looked around for an uncovered chair, finally seeing a straight-backed chair, the wood covered in peeling gilt, the seat a tattered red brocade.
It would do just fine as she told Jeremiah
exactly why she was here – if he would give her the chance.
*
“I see,” the old man said when Kat finally was able to explain what she was looking into. And amazingly enough, after all this time, she saw two small wet pools in the corner of the man’s eyes.
“Loved that lad, I did. Like he was my own son.”
Kat saw him look up now to the mantelpiece – to a framed photo of a man in officer’s uniform.
“That’s my own brave boy, Arthur,” said Jeremiah. “Lost him in ’16. So, after the war, I needed help running the farm – some of the village lads came to work for me. Ben was the best, though. But then, he moved on. Made something of himself, you know?”
Kat took a sip of the tea. She noticed her cup had the smallest of chips, though she was sure that an inspection of its underside would reveal that it was once a very fine and pricey cup.
“That is why, when he came back to Mydworth, it made me so glad.”
Kat nodded as the man talked. He dabbed at his eyes. “And what happened to him... terrible. I just don’t even know what to—”
Kat put up a hand, gently, simply signalling that the two of them didn’t have to go into all that.
Instead, she had another question.
“He lived here for a while, yes?”
“Well, even when he moved away, he always used to pop back to visit every now and then. Checking up on me, he said. And then he came home to the village, got himself a proper job – a good job – was looking for a place to stay, just a room, he said. Well—” Urquhart laughed. “Got plenty of those here. He insisted I take the rent money. Think he knew how difficult things were. Helped me pay dear Connie. She’s such a good sort too, you know. Ha! Just to put up with me, Lady Mortimer.”
Another conspiratorial lean forward towards Kat.
“And that is no easy task. But I’ll see her right. When I’m gone. She deserves it.”
Kat nodded, but from the dire state of the house, she couldn’t imagine there would be more than pennies to leave to the young housekeeper.
The house... probably worth less than the old man’s debts.
She waited while he stared into the flames.
“We all go, in the end, don’t we?” he said. “But I have nothing to complain about. So many are taken too early.”
Kat nodded. “You miss Ben.”
Another long pause and, despite his irascible nature, the man’s face fell. “I do. I do indeed.”
Then he turned back to her, his voice suddenly brighter.
“Sometimes, you know, I think I hear him. Still here, in the house! Wandering about downstairs. Talking. Laughing. Must be imagining things.”
“Really?” said Kat, trying not to sound disbelieving, and saddened at Jeremiah’s confusion. “Old place like this, must creak and groan a bit.”
“Yes. Right. That’s what Connie says. But – here’s the thing – I’m not ‘mad’. I know what I hear. Saw him too one night, with my own eyes, in this very room.”
Kat just nodded. There was no doubt he believed what he had seen.
As the man spoke, he became more agitated. Then he reached out and touched Kat’s hand.
“Listen to this. I was in bed. I heard a noise out here. It was so dark, but, in the firelight, there he was! By the desk. Right... right there! Clear as day! I called out to him – Ben! I said, Ben my boy! – but he turned away, hurried downstairs, too quick for me. I was going to follow – but the stairs, ha! Connie says I mustn’t use them. Doctor too. My condition they call it. Bah, condition! Just because I’ve tripped up a couple of times.”
Kat could imagine the young housekeeper having trouble looking after this old gentleman.
She decided not pursue any questions about the sighting of Ben’s ghost.
“Jeremiah, did Ben ever have any enemies?”
“Enemies? That boy? Never! Everybody loved Ben. Good old Ben, they’d say. Generous to a ‘t’, steady and dependable as they come!”
Kat smiled.
“Yes. That’s what I’ve heard too,” she said. Then, seeing the old man slump back in his chair she quickly added: “Wondering... do you think I could look at his chambers?”
“His room? Just along the corridor there. Nothing’s been moved. I told Connie – leave it just the way it is.”
Kat smiled and leaned forward to pat the man’s right hand. There was something special about that hand, looking like something painted by Rembrandt.
Aged, fragile, and yet, Kat thought, precious. Even beautiful.
Then the man turned, and shouted as best he could: “Connie!”
*
Connie pushed open the door to the room at the far end of the long dreary hallway. Again, it was lit by a single lamp, the shade stained yellow, struggling to provide some way to light the path.
But Ben Carter’s room had a window facing south, and – with the sun rising higher – that sun had filled the small room, making it seem almost cheery. Out of the window, Kat could just see the distant buildings of Mydworth, the tall church steeple.
And laid out in front of them, snow-covered fields, probably once home to herds of cattle and sheep.
Those days clearly long gone.
She also thought: How will Urquhart be able to stay on, afford Connie, with Ben’s rent gone?
“Do you mind me asking, m’lady, what you got to do with Ben?” said the housekeeper, still standing in the room behind her.
Kat turned.
“My husband, Sir Harry Mortimer and I are looking into the case, for a friend, you see. Put them at ease that nothing was missed.”
And this seemed to spark something in the dour woman before her.
“Missed? What do you mean – missed?”
Interesting reaction, that word hitting a nerve.
But why?
“Yes. You know how people think. Worried that, somehow, they didn’t get all the facts. So yes—”
Again...
“—missed.”
The woman nodded, but stayed, hovering, as Kat looked around the room.
“His things?” Kat asked.
“There wasn’t much. Some clothes. A book he was reading. Notebooks related to his work in the electrical shop. Packed it all up and sent it to his next of kin, some cousin in Manchester.”
“Ah,” said Kat, sliding open an empty drawer – then another.
Apart from a crucifix above the bed, and a faded print of Brighton seafront, nothing remained in this room of Ben Carter.
It was as if the place had been... scoured.
Strange...
“Mr Urquhart told me that nothing in here had been touched,” said Kat, opening a small wardrobe bare even of hangars.
“He forgets things. Gets them wrong. I told him what I had done.”
Kat nodded. “No other family?”
She had a feeling that she had to press Connie. The woman was – for some reason – reluctant. But why?
“Lost his dad in the Great War. His mum, well, she couldn’t go on without him. Jeremiah took him under his wing. Gave him work, sure. Was like a dad to him as well.”
So – Jeremiah lost his own son, and then this young orphan had turned up on the farm to help out. No wonder the two had a special bond.
Kat paused. The next question, a difficult one.
“Connie, can you think of any reason someone would have wanted Ben Carter dead?”
“But Oliver Brown did it, didn’t he? They convicted him – so he did it, right?”
Bit of an edge there, thought Kat. She’s acting like she’s got something to hide.
Kat looked around the spartan room. The narrow bed, the simple chest of drawers.
“Everybody liked Ben,” said Connie.
“No enemies, then? That you know of?”
“I said ‘no’, Lady Mortimer.”
Kat smiled. “That you did. Just wondering if maybe something came to mind. Some encounter?”
“Ben Carter had no enemies.”
<
br /> If there was one thing Kat knew, it was that anyone, anywhere, might have an enemy.
So why was Connie so confident?
“Can I ask you one more question?” Kat said. Connie stood there, and without giving her assent, waited. “Mr Urquhart... will he be able to get on? I mean with Ben and that rent gone?”
“Long enough,” said Connie. “The doctor told me that he hasn’t got long. Every day could be his last.”
“He doesn’t know?”
“Suspects maybe. But that’s it.”
“He talked about his... condition?”
“Makes him wobbly,” said Connie. “Confused. Tired. Imagines things, as you see. What’s ahead for him is maybe for the best – know what I mean?”
Kat wondered how the old man’s passing would affect this woman?
She seemed to have affection for Urquhart. But, without the financial support, how long could she hang on here, working?
Kat took one last moment to look in the woman’s eyes.
Funny thing about secrets, she thought.
Try as you might, somehow there is always that tell-tale sign of something not being said. Not being revealed.
And that secret?
Time to dig deeper, she thought.
“Have you worked here long, Connie?” said Kat, softening her tone.
“Since school,” said Connie, with a shrug, as if there had never been any other options for her.
“And you and Ben were here for years together?” said Kat. “Were you close?”
“Like family, we were.”
“Must have been a busy farm, back in the day?”
No answer, though Kat felt she saw in the woman’s eyes, perhaps some longing for those times.
“And now... just you and Mr Urquhart? Not easy, hmm?”
“It’s what I do, m’lady. I’m happy with my own company. And taking care of the dear man.”
“I’m sure Mr Urquhart is very grateful.”
“I can’t complain.”
Kat could sense Connie wanting to close this conversation. Time to change tack.
“That night – the night Ben died – do you remember much about what happened?”
But before the young housekeeper could answer, Kat heard Urquhart calling from his room, his voice panicky.
Mydworth Mysteries--The Wrong Man Page 3
