Which meant everything rested on Loxley and the Telephotography machine.
And time was running out...
19. The Final Hours
An hour later, and Kat emerged from the cells, none the wiser, Harry beside her, shaking his head.
Sure, Davis had listened politely to each question – and then declined to answer. And all the time, as Kat had sat opposite him, he had held a half-smile on her, as if mocking their inability to get him to talk.
Kat looked around the main station room: Timms still sat by the fire, a mug of tea as ever by his side.
But now, on the desk, stood the Telephotography machine. The same size as the devices that she had herself used in the past, but this one, a newer model, shaped more like a radiogram.
Loxley stood to one side, screwing in a cable, and he looked up when she and Harry approached.
“How are you getting on?” said Kat.
No way to hide the hint of desperation in her question.
“Just fine-tuning it,” said Loxley.
“And you think it will work?”
Loxley picked up a piece of paper, handed it to her.
“Tested it already,” he said. “Called a pal in Fleet Street just now. Here – this is the front page of tomorrow’s Times.”
Loxley handed Harry some pages.
“I say,” said Harry. “Extraordinary.”
“What about Newcastle?” said Kat. “They all set to send?”
“They were,” said Loxley. “But now they’ve got a problem with their damned machine.”
Kat fired a look at Harry. To be this close. And more minutes ticking away.
“Oh no.”
“They’re trying to locate another. But with this same weather up north – not so easy.”
Kat nodded, then said the obvious...
“So, all we can do is wait and hope they manage it.”
And Harry added solemnly: “All before dawn.”
To which Timms replied.
“I’m afraid so.”
Kat looked up at the clock again. Nearly four.
Constable Thomas appeared from the kitchen, making himself useful by bearing a tray with mugs of tea and a plate of biscuits.
She took one eagerly, realising that neither she nor Harry had eaten since lunch the day before.
As she put down her plate, she saw the metal box that Davis had taken from Blackmead Farm, the lid now open, the box overflowing with papers.
“I forgot to ask – what was in there?” she said.
“Old receipts, invoices, mostly,” said Timms. “Last century, would you believe. American, some of it.”
Kat walked over to the table, and began to shuffle through the contents of the box, the papers dry and dusty, as if untouched for years.
“Funny thing for Davis to want to steal,” continued Timms. “All looks pretty worthless to me.”
Kat took out a roll of papers, tied with legal tape, slid the papers out and opened them up gently, careful not to tear them.
And for a second – she couldn’t quite believe what she was reading...
Standard Oil Stock issue, 1838...
“Harry,” she said. “Look.”
And Harry came to join her, peering at the papers in her hand.
“What is it?”
“If I’m not mistaken,” said Kat, “it’s a motive for murder.”
And at that, even Timms stood up.
She opened the papers further, skimmed through the others.
“Jeremiah said he’d been to Texas, years ago, right?” she said. “But he didn’t tell me he’d bought shares in oil. Standard Oil no less. Bought, then forgotten – or maybe he thought them worthless. But – if I’m not mistaken – these stock certificates, today? Must be worth a fortune.”
“Too right. With the current oil boom in Texas? These could be worth more than blocks of gold. Davis must have found the papers while he was pilfering,” said Harry. “But why get involved with Connie? Why not just con the old man? Steal the stock?”
Kat looked away for second. But then – it was there.
“I know. Because Connie’s in Jeremiah’s will. She gets a third of the estate.”
“Sorry, Lady Mortimer. But exactly how is that a motive for murder?” said Timms, scratching his ample stomach.
“Ben Carter and Oliver Brown are the other two beneficiaries,” said Kat. “Two birds, one stone, don’t you see? Davis kills Ben, and Oliver hangs for the crime. Then as Connie’s spouse, he picks up all three shares of the inheritance in one go.”
“And then disposes of Connie some time down the line...” said Harry.
“Well, that is certainly one nasty piece of work,” said Timms, now clearly persuaded of Davis’s guilt. “Question is – have we uncovered this all too late?”
Kat looked at Harry. The question devastating.
Had they come this far only – in the end – to fail?
As she looked up at the clock again, and its relentless ticking...
*
Timms snored at his desk. Loxley kept circling the Telephotography machine.
Harry, more than once, walked over to her.
“How you doing here, Kat?”
“Well, Sir Harry. I’ve had a few late nights in my time. Things at stake and all. But one like this?”
She shook her head.
The clock on the wall had slowly ticked off the hours, and now it neared six.
“Thinking,” Harry said, his face set, “that if it gets too late, they will stop looking for a machine till morning. Weather horrible up there, too.”
“And I’ve been trying to not think that.”
She saw Loxley look over. She realised that if Oliver Brown did go free, it would be due as much to Loxley as the two of them.
But with the minutes slipping away like the sands in an hour glass, that prospect seemed less and less likely.
More than once, amidst this waiting, Kat thought of Ollie’s wife, Mabel, and his little girl. No sleep happening at that home she guessed...
Must be such torture, Kat thought.
Then there was the bulky Telephotography machine itself, silent, with a phone line snaking into it.
But it might as well be sleeping, just like the sergeant himself.
And Kat said: “I can’t stand this.”
Harry gave her one of what had been many hugs, “I called the Governor at Pentonville. Told him what was happening.”
“And?”
“If the photograph fits – he’ll take my authority to stop the execution. Timms can call up to the very last second – he’ll be right by the phone.”
Kat nodded, understanding.
There was nothing more they could do.
*
Kat stood by the window. She had decided to force herself to not look at the clock anymore. It was no friend, but rather a grim adversary mocking them every time the second hand went click, click, click.
Outside, she saw that the sky was already beginning to lighten. Dawn coming.
A life with barely minutes left to live.
The snow had kicked in again, and she thought how she had teased Harry about English winters versus the blizzards and Nor’Easters of New York.
Won’t do that again, she thought.
And then, with the clock and Timms making the only noises, there was another sound.
A small buzz. And for Kat, a not unfamiliar sound. She was almost afraid to turn around and look at the machine.
But she did. As did Harry.
Both their breaths held.
Then the buzz was joined with the clackety noise of things inside the miraculous Telephotography machine... working.
They walked over to it.
*
While Kat wanted to go stand right in front of the machine to see what was about to be spewed out, she backed away, as an eager Loxley rose from his seat, planted himself there.
Timms had stirred, and now that he regarded himself as the leader of this cutting-ed
ge investigation, had moved alongside Loxley.
The machine seemed to take forever to roll out what – even when only halfway printed – was clearly a face.
Another few tense moments and then Loxley reached out, seeming – Kat thought – to be almost hesitant to look at the photograph in his hand.
He took one glance then turned, with what could only be called the most relieved smile, and handed it to Kat. Harry at her shoulder looking down.
And all Kat could say was: “And there he is...”
It was a formal police identification photograph, but all the details came together...the narrowed eyes, the half-smile on the face, tell-tale wrinkles at the eyes suggesting someone who held a lot of secrets.
But no doubt at all.
The photo of this man who had killed before in Newcastle was that of the same man, sitting only yards away in a jail cell.
Will Davis – or whatever his real name was.
She saw Harry turn to the policeman in charge. “Sergeant Timms. Best we call London immediately.”
Timms, his face grim with this revelation, nodded.
Harry put a hand on the stout sergeant’s back.
“And since you may need help with that. Stopping things,” Harry said, “I’ll stay right here.”
To which Kat added.
“And so will I.”
She waited and watched as Timms dialled the number, which Harry had already handed to him.
The seconds ticking, ticking away...
“The Governor please, Sergeant Edgar Timms here, Mydworth Police.”
Silence for a few more seconds.
Then: “The photograph came in, sir. It’s Davis,” said Timms. “No doubt about it.”
Another pause, Timms staring at them, nodding, the phone to his ear.
“Thank you, sir,” he said. “And a very good morning to you.”
Then he put the phone down – and smiled.
“We did it!” he said.
And Kat forgave Timms the “we” – knowing that at the last second, Oliver Brown had been saved.
She turned and wrapped her arms around Harry.
20. The Valentine’s Day Ball
Kat watched Harry return with two delicate glasses filled with a punch that Lavinia had simply pronounced as, “Bit of this, bit of that – but quite pleasant.”
“Here you go, Lady Mortimer.”
Kat took her glass and a sip. The band, a lively group of musicians who were playing all the hits of the day – from the West End to even the latest from the States – were on a break.
She clinked her glass against Harry’s and watched him look around the hall, festooned in pink and white, with giant paper hearts and coloured lights lining the walls.
“Must say, the committee did a bang-up job in our absence.”
Kat smiled. “Looks wonderful. Magical, even.”
At which point Lavinia appeared beside them.
“You two. You must be completely exhausted. And yes, Harry we could have used your decorating help but as you can see, we all managed.”
Kat saw her husband grin at that.
“I will definitely be on duty for the take down.”
“Wonderful.”
Then Kat noticed a hesitancy in Aunt Lavinia as she took a step closer.
“Harry, this latest adventure of yours and Kat’s – well done, I say.”
“It wasn’t easy, Aunt Lavinia, I admit.”
Kat nodded. “We nearly lost Harry on the roof of that farm.”
“But you know, I had – well – more than a few questions,” said Lavinia.
“So, did we,” Harry said. “Think we still may do, eh, Kat?”
Kat was curious what Lavinia was going to ask.
“What I don’t really understand – I mean, just being a regular person and all that – is why this Davis man didn’t just, one night, steal the stock? I mean – at the end, that’s what he tried to do, didn’t he?”
Harry looked at Kat.
“Aunt Lavinia, that had me thinking too. Then I realised. The stock was worthless not being in his name. A man like Davis would know all about forgeries. And he also must have known he could use it for a scam and still make a pretty penny.”
“What a fiend.”
Kat smiled at that. “Perfect word. You know, when they showed Davis the photo – with him knowing there was all this evidence connecting him to the other killing – he actually bragged about nearly getting away with it all.”
“And the housekeeper, Connie? Her role?”
Kat nodded at that. “Gave Davis’s knock-out pills to Jeremiah, but he told her they were vitamins. All the while, Davis took advantage so he could explore and steal. So she’s blameless,” Kat said.
“And we’re guessing that those pills were probably used to put Oliver Brown out for the count on the night of the killing,” Harry added.
“I just hope,” Lavinia said, “that poor man is free soon. Really free. And Mydworth gets back to normal.”
“Never thought you’d catch me saying this, Lavinia, but me too! Oh – look, they’re coming back.”
And Kat turned to see the band, “Lester Noble’s Rascal Cats” take their position on the Town Hall stage.
“Oh, good. Music’s about to start,” Kat said. “Maybe,” she said downing her punch, “I can get a dance out of your nephew now.”
“Absolutely,” said Harry.
And as soon as the band started in with a bouncy version of “You’re the Cream in My Coffee”, Harry took the punch glasses, set them down on a nearby table, and wheeled Kat out to the dance floor.
*
It was on their third dance that Kat heard a commotion coming from the other end of the Town Hall.
People making noises, a crowd gathering.
The band stopped mid song.
“Harry, is something—?”
And she saw that Harry wore a smile. What he would undoubtedly call a “cheeky” one – and he stopped high-stepping the Charleston with Kat, as she turned towards the entrance to see...
Mabel Brown. And beside her – large as life, towering over his wife – Oliver Brown. People came up and clapped him on the back, some onlookers applauding, others cheering. Mabel Brown’s smile – as big as could be.
Ollie held, in his powerful right arm, Elsie, who clapped gleefully along with the crowd.
But Kat saw that, despite all his well-wishers, the newly freed man did not stop.
Instead, he walked with his wife directly towards Harry and Kat.
Kat leaned into Harry.
“Pulled some strings to get him released today, did you?”
“That I did. Wasn’t sure it would work, you know, bureaucracy and all.” He took a breath. “Glad to see it did.”
And then Oliver Brown and his family stood before them. He gave a big smile – but in his eyes was something deeper. That awareness of what might have been, and how the two people he now faced had been able to change it.
He stuck out his hand.
“Lady Mortimer, Sir Harry, I can’t tell you how much—”
Ollie stopped. Looked at his wife. Words obviously not his forte.
Then with a firm grip, he shook Kat’s hand, then Harry’s, and uttered the simplest but truest words.
“Thank you, both.”
FIN
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Mydworth Mysteries Episode 8
When Harry and Kat head south to the French Riviera, they look forward to dazzling parties, a shimmering sea, and wonderful food. But once they step off the legendary Paris-Nice train, Le Train Bleu, things start to be anything but restful. Asked to assist in a dangerous case of blackmail — they soon find that the streets and alleyways of the Cote d’Azur hide not only cafes and bistros...but also secret
s and danger of a most deadly sort.
Secrets on the Cote d'Azur
MYDWORTH MYSTERIES
by Matthew Costello & Neil Richards
BASTEI ENTERTAINMENT
Digital original edition
Bastei Entertainment is an imprint of Bastei Lübbe AG
Copyright © 2021 by Neil Richards & Matthew Costello
Copyright for this edition © 2021 by Bastei Lübbe AG, Schanzenstraße 6 – 20, 51063 Cologne, Germany
Written by Matthew Costello and Neil Richards
Edited by Eleanor Abraham
Project management: Kathrin Kummer
Cover design: Guter Punkt, München
Cover illustration: © Andy Udall / Getty Images; bksrus / Getty Images; Mumemories / Getty Images; gjp311 / Getty Images; PJ photography / Shutterstock; Anastasiya Nedohonova / Shutterstock
E-book production: 3w+p GmbH, Rimpar (www.3wplusp.de)
ISBN 978-3-7325-6959-5
For information about the authors and their projects please visit: www.facebook.com/CherringhamMydworth
Mydworth Mysteries--The Wrong Man Page 11
