by Roy Lewis
THE
SEDLEIGH HALL
MURDER
A gripping crime mystery full of twists
(Eric Ward Book 1)
ROY LEWIS
Revised edition 2019
Joffe Books, London
www.joffebooks.com
FIRST PUBLISHED AS “A CERTAIN BLINDNESS” IN 1980
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organisations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental. The spelling used is British English except where fidelity to the author’s rendering of accent or dialect supersedes this. The right of Roy Lewis to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
We hate typos too but sometimes they slip through. Please send any errors you find to [email protected]
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©Roy Lewis
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THERE IS A GLOSSARY OF ENGLISH SLANG IN THE BACK OF THIS BOOK FOR US READERS.
CONTENTS
NOTE TO THE READER
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
ROY LEWIS BOOKS
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Glossary of English Slang for US readers
NOTE TO THE READER
Please note this book is set in the late 1970s in England, a time before mobile phones and DNA testing, and when social attitudes were very different.
Chapter One
The pain came for him again, cat claws scratching at the back of his eyeballs, exquisite darts of agony searing through his head, and he stumbled to his feet, reaching into the desk drawer for the bottle of fluid. The washroom lay at the end of the corridor, and he lurched through the doorway as the sharp lances ripped at the tissue of his eyes. He gripped the bottle tightly in his hand and opened the door of the washroom, locked it behind him and the cat was stretching, hungrily, unsheathing its claws again as he peered through a red haze at the phial, twisted off the top, inserted the dropper and brought up a quantity of the pilocarpine.
Head back, he allowed the fluid to drip into the corner of his eye and his nerve ends screamed with pain as the tension increased. The light was dim in the washroom — he had not turned on the light — and he closed his eyes, put his head back against the wall. His hands were trembling; it would not be long before the shuddering began, part hysteria, part pain. It wouldn’t last long; he knew that from experience. But while it did, it was so unacceptable. In a sense, it was worse than the pain, his body’s reaction. It denoted a weakness he refused to recognize in himself, and yet it was there, every time.
As he stood there, waiting for the attack to pass, he could remember George Knox’s hands. He had been surprised by their softness and their deftness, for Knox was a heavy, awkward man with a snarling voice. But as Knox had moved his face under the light his fingers had been as light as a woman’s.
‘How long have you been having these headaches?’ he had asked.
‘Hell, I don’t know. Months, I suppose.’
‘Not very specific, for a jack.’
‘What I mean is, I’ve always been a bit bothered, but who isn’t, with the kind of paperwork and overtime we do?’
‘But more severe of late?’ Knox had asked quietly.
‘You could say that.’
‘Worse during the day, or night?’
‘Night, usually.’
‘Hmmm. But your vision has been impaired, hasn’t it? And there have been occasions when your eyelids have been red and swollen. And at night . . . lights seem to have coloured haloes around them.’
‘I didn’t tell you that!’
‘You didn’t need to. Any more than you need to tell me you’ve noticed a certain greenish discolouration of the iris, and a hardness about your eyeballs. They’re classical symptoms, along with headaches, pain in the eyes, nausea and vomiting at night—’
‘Symptoms of what?’
‘Glaucoma,’ George Knox had said, simply.
There had been more, later. A lecture, almost, on how glaucoma was caused by the pressure of fluids within the eye — local congestion pushing the iris forward until it blocked the canal of Schlemm at its junction with the cornea, where the fluids normally escaped. Knox had told him how there was the possibility that the pressure could build up until it eventually destroyed the ends of the optic nerves. He’d also explained how acute glaucoma could be treated by iridectomy: the removal of a small section of the iris, allowing the fluid to escape. And in the case of chronic glaucoma a filtration procedure was possible to establish a new drainage path for the fluid.
And then, finally, the diagnosis.
‘Chronic glaucoma, I’m afraid. That means the results of surgery would be less than certain. And it also means an immediate discharge from the Force.’
Eric Ward peered in the washroom mirror. His eyelids were swollen and red, but the pain was easing. After a little while he washed his face in cold water, and made his way back to his room.
* * *
There was a certain irony in it all, he thought as he sat down behind his desk and pulled the volume of Halsbury’s Statutes towards him. He had reached a turning point in his career with the Force. In his own time he had struggled through a law degree, part-time at the polytechnic, and had toyed with the idea of leaving the police. And Knox had told him that tension, strain, overwork had exacerbated the illness. What he had thought was the result of reading law books late into the night, combined with a great deal of work as a detective-inspector, had in reality been something different — the worsening of an illness that Knox claimed could have been dealt with more easily, earlier — an operation to reduce the tension on the nerve ends. But now, he had his law degree, glaucoma, a pension at forty and no job.
So the decision was, in a sense, made for him. A few approaches to law firms in Newcastle, and finally an offer from Francis, Shaw and Elder. With his degree he’d need to undertake an articled clerkship for two years, and complete his Law Society Finals, and though he was rather old to start a career as a solicitor, well, there were clients who didn’t care to have their cases handled by young fledglings.
Joseph Francis, the senior partner in the firm had put that rather nicely, in fact, and had seemed to understand some of the problems that Eric Ward faced personally in making this change. He had showed little understanding in placing Eric under the control of his son, Paul Francis, however. But then, what man knew his own son well?
Ward frowned, rubbed his eyes gently, and read again sections 48 to 56 of the Mines and Quarries Act 1954. He’d promised to get the papers to Paul Francis before three o’clock so he’d have half an hour with them before the client claiming compensation called for advice on his projected action against the National Coal Board. How had he described himself? A ‘market man’ — an experienced underground worker who had trained in different types of underground working.
It wasn’t a bad description for an articled clerk, either, Ward thought sourly. You worked at a whole range of things, underground, for a pittance, while the solicitor supervising your articles took the fruits of your work and charged fees at his own rates. If only young Francis did it more graciously.
He shook his head, replaced the bottle of pilocarpine in h
is desk, and applied himself with more assiduity to the market man’s complaint against the safety measures taken in his pit.
‘Section 52,’ he wrote, ‘states that no person shall withdraw support from the roof or sides of any place in a mine otherwise than by a method or device by which he does so from a position of safety. . .’
At three o’clock precisely he had finished the report and made his way along to the office on the first floor occupied by Paul Francis.
* * *
The junior partner in Francis, Shaw and Elder knew about Eric Ward’s glaucoma; they all did in the office. But it was not something he could easily handle.
Sympathy was out of the question, expressed or unexpressed — this was a business and there was no place for sentiment. Money had to be made and every man must pull his weight.
Not that Ward didn’t pull his weight; indeed, after a year as an articled clerk he had learned so fast that he effectively operated as another assistant solicitor, only occasionally requiring advice and assistance. He could work largely unsupervised, but in a sense that rather nettled Paul Francis. He was unable to rationalize his irritation; not that he tried very hard. It was a compound of several things: the vague sense of insecurity he felt in Eric Ward’s presence; a feeling of intellectual inferiority because of his own lack of a degree; the calm, phlegmatic manner in which Ward refused to react to slights; the efficient manner in which he discharged the numerous tasks that Paul Francis thrust upon him. And then there was the older man’s physical presence. Against Ward’s six feet, Paul was very conscious of his own slightly built five-feet-seven frame. Nor did Ward move like the archetypal policeman: he was a big man, but still lean and soft-moving, light on his feet.
And clients liked him. It was perhaps the most irritating thing of all — on the occasions when Paul Francis had allowed Ward to remain with him when interviewing the client, somehow the control had always seemed to pass to the ex-policeman.
No, Paul Francis thought as Eric Ward entered his room, it isn’t the most irritating thing about him, after all. What really niggles is that Ward knows, he bloody well knows what I think about him.
‘Have you got the report?’ Paul Francis asked, glancing at his watch as though to check the time of arrival of the file. It might, on the other hand, be his usual initial nervousness when Ward entered his room.
‘Yes, it’s here.’ Ward placed the file on Francis’s desk and then walked across to stand near the window, leaning against the radiator as Francis picked up the file and began to read it. He knew the young solicitor would want to discuss it, as soon as he had got tired of reading, ploughing through the detailed authorities Ward had raised. He folded his arms, and waited. The pain in his eyes had receded now and while the redness of his eyelids remained, the puffiness had also disappeared.
‘So what do you think, then?’ Francis asked, riffling through the sheets in the file.
‘I think your client has a case. From what I can see of the facts he raises, the Board could well be in breach of statutory duty under section 53 of the 1954 Act.’
‘His injuries came from a fall,’ Paul Francis muttered. ‘What about the manager?’
‘I take it from the authorities that a manager is not automatically guilty of a contravention if a fall occurs, but a fall itself is evidence of some breach.’
‘We’ll take counsel’s opinion, of course,’ Paul Francis said.
‘Of course.’ Ward smiled inwardly. Francis had made the· statement as though to suggest some doubt as to Ward’s checking of authorities. In fact, it was old Joe Francis’s dictum within the firm that on any case of difficulty or magnitude counsel’s opinion was always to be taken. It was the obvious way to avoid any claim of negligence — pass the burden to a barrister, who couldn’t be sued, and charge the client extra for doing it. It always amused Ward: the client paid extra for the privilege of being unable thereafter to sue.
‘Okay,’ Paul said, tossing the file aside and leaning back in his chair. ‘Give me a quick rundown on the authorities and the advice you suggest.’ Ward did so, smoothly and easily, relying largely on Cough v National Coal Board and Stein v O’Hanlon, and grimly amused at the irritation in Paul Francis’s narrow features as Ward made no check of the file itself.
‘Right, Eric,’ Paul Francis said when he had finished, ‘the client will be in to see me in about half an hour, and I’ll go over these papers now. You needn’t stay. What have you got on your desk at the moment?’
‘Couple of conveyances. Two county court matters. A few other things which—’
‘Yeah, all right,’ Francis interrupted him as though he had hardly heard him. ‘Well, look, I’m pretty snowed under right now, so there’s a couple of things you can relieve me of. One of them is a big one, and we’ll have to work in harness over it. Joe—’ he always referred to his father as Joe, though not in his presence—’ Joe will be handling it in person, probably, but will want the background work dealt with before the next series of meetings. Ah . . . here it is.’
As he spoke he had been rustling papers in the large wooden filing cabinet beside his desk. Now he extracted a bulky file tied with pink ribbon, and weighed it thoughtfully for a few moments before passing it to Ward. ‘As you can see, it’s a pretty hefty matter.’
There were dates written in Joe Francis’s spidery hand on the cover. Ward looked at them, and frowned. ‘This been running for six years?’
‘Seems so. And while Joe’s been handling it, he doesn’t regard estate duty as his strong suit, exactly. He was being backed up by Robinson, you know, but since he’s set up as a partner in Northampton, Joe’s been left a bit high and dry. Which is how we come in.’
Eric Ward nodded, understanding. Father and son had that much in common at least. Joe Francis might be a sound lawyer, but he still liked to have someone else to do the work for him, while he fronted with the client. Ward looked at the name on the cover of the file: Morcomb v Inland Revenue Commissioners. A six-year run, already. Soothing bedtime reading, no doubt.
‘All right, I’ll get started on this tomorrow morning, once I’ve cleared those conveyances.’
Ward turned to go, but Francis was back at the filing cabinet again. ‘Hold on, don’t go yet. There’s another one I’d like you to deal with. The Morcomb file is due for discussion early next week when Lord Morcomb—’
Lord Morcomb?’
Paul Francis sniffed, managed a grin. ‘Oh yes, we get the best kind of clients here, you know. His lordship is leaving his Northumberland estates to pay us a visit next week — unless he calls us out there — so you’ll need to hone up that file, then meet me for a discussion on Friday. But first, you’d better get hold of this thing. It’s been on my conscience, a bit.’
Ward took the file held out to him. On the cover was stated, simply, EGAN, ARTHUR (deceased).
* * *
Back in his own office, Eric Ward received a cup of tea gratefully from the typist/receptionist who trebled up as his secretarial assistance, and opened the Egan file. A quick glance showed him why the file had been on Paul Francis’s conscience. It must have been sitting in his filing cabinet for weeks — maybe two months — and nothing had been done about it. Details on the file were scant and it looked like a simple administration matter, but though Francis could have dealt with· it fairly quickly it was obvious it had been thrust aside as relatively unimportant. Fees for completing an estate administration on intestacy were not high — though Joseph Francis held the view that all fees were fees, and not to be sneezed at.
Ward sipped his tea, checked the address given in the file. Westerhope. That was useful. It was more or less on the way to Wylam, where Eric Ward had bought a small house near the river, and he could conveniently call on the way back this evening, take a look at the property, see what had or had not been done. He pushed the file to one side and picked up the Morcomb file, undid the pink ties, and started at the beginning. Ten minutes’ reading and he fanned through the papers to later
stages, then pulled a face.
It was going to be heavy work, and he could understand why Paul Francis would want a résumé. And Joseph Francis, too. The valuation of a landed estate in Northumberland, and a barrage of arguments based on readings of the dreaded Finance Acts. He scowled, and finished his tea.
At least, he could say he’d be getting a fine training at Francis, Shaw and Elder, even if it was very much sink or swim.
He closed the file, retied the tapes and got to work on the conveyances. Yet as he worked for the next hour or so his mind kept drifting away in a manner uncharacteristic of him. There was something fluttering at the back of his mind, an echo, a whisper he could not place or define. He leaned back in his chair, stretched, came back again and tried to concentrate, succeeding for a while, but the niggling puzzle returned, unformed, shapeless as a thought, but there in his mind.
It was five-thirty before he finished the work already on his desk. He put the Morcomb file in his filing cabinet, to look at first thing in the morning, and then rose, empty cup in one hand, the administration file he was taking home with him in the other.
It was only after he had returned the cup and walked out to his car that he knew what was bothering him. He got into the car, turned on the ignition, then glanced again at the file lying on the passenger seat.
Arthur Egan.
Somewhere, he had come across that name before.
* * *
The traffic was fairly heavy in town, as usual, but he avoided the centre, driving up through Gosforth, then cutting across Town Moor until he reached the Jedburgh road. Past the Cowgate roundabout it was only a matter of minutes to Westerhope, and he had no difficulty finding the house. One enquiry of a woman emerging from an off-licence with curlers under her headscarf and beer bottles in her shopping-bag sent him into two left turns, and he found himself in Kitchener Avenue.
No. 17 was an unpretentious, red-brick, semi-detached house near the curve in the avenue; there was a green, carefully painted gate barring access to unwelcome visitors, and Ward was surprised to note that the tiny garden and hedge in front of the house had been carefully kept, even though Egan had been dead for several months. He frowned, hesitated, fingering the key in his pocket. According to the file, there was no one living in the house. He opened the garden gate, walked up to the front door and rang the hell.
