The Sedleigh Hall Murder

by Roy Lewis

  That left only the letter; a single page, it told Eric Ward very little.

  ‘Dear Arthur, I’ve managed to do what I said could be arranged. The job is yours if you want it. I’ve already phoned the owner and told him to expect you on Tuesday. Take this letter with you and show him. That’ll be all that’s necessary. So, watch how you go, lad, and good luck. And no more nonsense, hey? Yours sincerely Fred.’

  * * *

  ‘It’s not much to go on.’ Jackie Parton squinted at the photographs and read the letter again, then shrugged his narrow shoulders. ‘Doesn’t even give me anything to start with.’

  Ward smiled, rose, and bought the little man another pint of Brown. As he waited for his change he glanced back to the table where the ex-jockey sat. Jackie Parton had never had much trouble with his weight as a jockey, riding mostly at Newcastle and the northern racetracks at York and Ripon, and it seemed as though his liking for brown ale did little to affect his weight now that he had retired. He looked as lean and weathered as he had during his riding days, and his grey eyes were as sharp as ever. He looked up and caught Ward’s glance; he grinned, a cheeky, infectious grin that was now slightly lopsided because of the scar along his lip. ‘I think this one could cost you, Eric,’ he called.

  Ward carried the drink back to the table and set it down carefully. His own lemonade was still half full. He sat down and smiled at Parton. ‘How’s your luck these days, anyway, Jackie?’

  The little man shrugged and reached for his glass. ‘Going well enough, considering. I don’t make nothing like I made in the good days, of course, but I pick up a bit of training down Harrogate way from time to time and then there’s the occasional . . . commissions like this.’ His glance wandered to the lemonade. ‘And how’s yours?’

  ‘Let’s say I hope to . . . survive. You . . . er . . . you get no work up around this way then, with the horses?’

  Jackie Parton scratched his lean cheek, then took a long drink. ‘You blow the gaff on a couple of people up here and it’s not so easy to make a living afterwards. Oh, I’m not saying the trainers and owners are scared to employ me, or even intimidated, but, well, I guess they consider life is likely to be more peaceful if they have nothing for me.

  ‘But you’ve still got your contacts?’

  ‘That’s why you’re employing me.’

  They were unrivalled. Jackie Parton was a product of the Scotswood Road who had clawed his way out of the slums to cross the river and, horse-crazy, obtain employment at a stables in Durham. Within two years he had made a reputation for himself as a promising rider and a free spender. By the time he was twenty he was wellknown in every club in Newcastle, Durham County and down to the coast. His circle of acquaintances widened and he visited the clubs and brothels in Byker; he gained his own following at the Newcastle races, not only from the racing fraternity itself, but from a large number of working-class people to whom he became an idol matching those who bestrode the fields at Roker Park and Gallowgate. Then, when he was thirty, a steward’s enquiry at York was followed by another at Newcastle and it was said that he had been involved with an illegal betting syndicate. His racing career fell apart, and one night he was found in a back street near Dog Leap Stairs, with broken ribs, a pulped face and a scarred mouth. There were no more offers of rides thereafter — but his friends had not forgotten him.

  ‘Well, you can make a start in one of your old haunts,’ Ward suggested. ‘I’ve not yet had time to do much checking, but Arthur Egan hailed from Byker in the first instance, that much I know from the newspaper reports.’

  ‘Newspapers?’

  ‘A murder charge, years ago.’

  ‘Egan . . . ahhh.’ Parton’s eyes narrowed with memory; he also recalled something of the case. ‘Yeah, all right, there’s people I can see in Byker might give me a lead.’ He hesitated. ‘There’s . . . er . . . there’s nothing dicey about this job, is there, Eric? I need to know; people will ask, and I’ll have to tell them straight.’

  ‘No problems, Jackie. It’s a simple administration matter. He left some money, and I need to trace his family to distribute that money. That’s all. There’ll be ads in all the local newspapers soon, asking for information and so on, inviting the heirs to contact us. It’s straight stuff.’

  ‘And these photographs?’ Parton asked.

  ‘Take them. Show them around. I don’t know who the young lad is, but maybe you can find out. And the baby — could be that’s the son we’re looking for. Or daughter, whichever it is. As for the letter, you’d better leave it with me. It’s possible it was his letter of introduction to the market gardener job, but I can check on that.’

  Jackie Parton grimaced. ‘And that’s all there was, hey?’

  ‘Apart from a lock of blond hair.’

  ‘A sentimental killer?’

  The words jarred on Eric Ward in a manner that surprised him. He knew that Arthur Egan had been a killer; the law had said so. In fact, that was almost all he did know about the man, and yet having visited his house, and gone through the dead man’s possessions, he now felt a certain resentment that Parton should use the word killer in referring to Arthur Egan.

  The ex-jockey was watching him closely. ‘What’s the matter, Eric?’

  Ward stared at him, not realizing he had allowed his feelings to show in his face. He managed a faint smile. ‘I don’t know, really. It’s just that . . . well, Egan’s paid whatever debt he owed.’

  Parton nodded slowly, his eyes not leaving Ward’s face. ‘I take the point . . . Anyway, I’ll make a start tonight — I intended going over to the Acorn Club and that’s where I make one contact to start with. I . . . er . . . I don’t suppose you’d be wanting to join me?’

  Ward shook his head, grimacing at the lemonade. ‘I’d likely as not be thrown out.’

  Parton laughed. ‘They’re very understanding in Byker. They’d just think you were a poof.’ He stood up, drained his glass. ‘I’ll be in touch, Eric. See you.’

  The little man walked away on bow legs, hands deep in the pockets of his hacking jacket and a couple of men at the bar called out to him as he passed. He stopped briefly to speak to them and left them laughing loudly.

  It was Jackie Parton’s kind of pub. The lounge bar of an establishment that just hovered on the sleazy side; the kind of city centre house that contained a balance of thuggish young men and prosperous, well dressed middle-aged men of consequence. Few women; sporting talk; a lot of beer drunk; but never any trouble. The young hooligans who brought the patrol cars down in droves to Northumberland Street on a Saturday night stayed away from this hostelry. They were out of their class.

  Ward finished his lemonade and rose, glancing around. There was one man sitting alone, a little distance apart from the bar and there was something familiar about the set of his broad shoulders. Ward hesitated, then, recognizing him, decided to leave without greeting him. Just as suddenly, he changed his mind.

  He walked across the room and stood in front of the big man with the piggy eyes and belligerent mouth. ‘Hello, Dick. It’s been a long time.’

  The piggy eyes. Flicked an uninterested glance up to him and then looked away again. ‘It has. Saw you across the room but you seemed to be having an earnest. Funny company.’

  ‘Jackie Parton’s all right, Doing some work for me.’

  ‘Parton, a grass?’ The little eyes betrayed a weary surprise. ‘Never knew that.’

  ‘You’ve got it wrong. I’m not with the Force any longer. I’m working with a solicitor, and Jackie’s making some enquiries for me.’

  ‘Ah yes, come to think of it, I’d heard.’ A certain bitter irony crept into his voice. ‘We got that much in common then, hey, Eric? Forced retirement,’

  Eric Ward stared at the pudgy features of ex-DetectiveInspector Dick Kenton and wanted to disagree. In his book, there was a great difference between being forced to retire on grounds of ill-health and a retirement made necessary by the kicking of a drunken prisoner almost to death in a
night cell in Whitley Bay. But he did not say it. Instead, he offered to buy Kenton a drink The ex-detective drained his pint glass by way of answer.

  When Ward returned with the pint refilled, Kenton raised his eyebrows. ‘Not drinking, yourself?’

  Ward shook his head. ‘Doctor’s orders,’ he said shortly. ‘How are things with you?’

  Kenton took a long swallow. ‘Bloody. Security officer at Marshall’s. Damn all to do because they won’t put out the money to do anything as far as security is concerned. They just rely on the villains knowing I’m around, and at nights too. That’s enough to scare off any of the scrubbers around here, you reckon?’

  Ward managed a grin and nodded. He could understand the viewpoint — if Kenton ever did catch anyone breaking and entering at Marshall’s the matter would hardly be referred to the police authorities. ‘And you,’ Kenton was saying. ‘You’ve gone and joined the bloody enemy. But then, you always was an intellectual bastard. While I sweated my inspector’s exams you sailed on to take a law course at the poly. No substitute, you know; no substitute for the beat, and the chat in the clubs and the hard graft.’

  ‘I know it.’

  ‘That’s how I came to grief, you know. Made too many enemies — and old Ironguts Starling didn’t have the courage to back me up when I was only . . . ah, the hell with it. So what you working on at the moment, then? Affiliation proceedings?’

  Ward ignored the sneer. He hesitated. ‘Just an administration matter. Chap called Egan’s just died. You might remember him. I seem to recall you were on the investigating team at the time.’

  Kenton repeated the name to himself, several times, then lolled back in his chair. He had been away from the Force for four years now, and the period had bloated his body, fleshed out his face, made his eyes seem piggier than ever, but they had not affected his card-index mind, and he was thinking back now, not because he had difficulty recalling the name but simply because he wanted to bring back all the important details. ‘Egan . . . yeah, I got him now. Dead, is he? Huh. Haven’t heard of him in years.’

  ‘He dropped out of sight, virtually. Took a job. Lived quietly.’

  ‘I reckon’ Kenton nodded, as though something was being confirmed for him. ‘He was never your usual kind of villain. In fact. . .’

  As Kenton paused, thinking, Ward asked, ‘How exactly did the charge arise, Dick?’

  Kenton remained silent for almost a minute as, with his eyes half closed, he went back over the case in his mind. Then he looked at Ward, who was surprised to see the resentment in the man’s glance. ‘Starling was a bastard, wasn’t he?’ When Eric made no reply, Kenton went on, ‘He railroaded me, you know. That little sod from Whitley Bay, he was my fixer on a factory job at Team Valley, but he ran out on me. I got him down at the Bay, and the lads gave me the use of a cell. Hell, we all did it, and still do! But he was scared, the little bugger, and I had to put the arm on him.’ He paused, reviewing old injustices, and he shook his heavy head. ‘All right, maybe I went too far, but you expect your Chief to cover. He had done in the past, when it suited him. Not this time: he was near retirement, wasn’t he? So I got the chop. And I’m a security officer at Marshall’s when I could have been a super in a cosy office job. Starling . . . you know what he’s doing? Farming. Bloody farming, up Jedburgh way.’

  Ward was puzzled. Kenton grinned maliciously. ‘Starling was a Chief Superintendent in those days, when Egan got put away. Didn’t remember that, did you? Need a memory like mine, for that.’

  ‘Starling was in charge of the investigation?’ Ward asked.

  ‘Right. And I was dogs bodying, along with a lad called . . . wait a minute . . . Arkwright . . . Yorkshire lad, right twit. It was him that found the clincher.’

  ‘Against Egan?’

  ‘Right. Well, one of the clinchers, anyway. There were others, and it was a pretty tight case.’

  ‘Reduced to manslaughter.’

  ‘Way of the world and our revered judges. You don’t remember much about it, do you, Eric? Well, as I recall, it would have been a straight enough burglary in the first instance. Colonel . . . Colonel Denby, some manor house up in Northumberland. Trouble was, you know what these damned retired colonels are like. Still think they’re in the bloody army. Egan broke in, got disturbed and ran for it. Denby ended up getting shot. Robbery with violence, burglary, murder. But seems the shotgun was Denby’s, he had already fired one shot, and when he was prepared to let Egan have the other right in his face, Egan clubbed him with a handy iron stanchion from the bridge they were standing on. Self-defence, his lawyers claimed. The jury said manslaughter. And he got . . . ten years?’

  ‘He did seven.’

  Kenton shrugged indifferently. He sipped his beer, thoughtfully. ‘No prints on the bar, of course.’

  ‘So how did they catch Egan?’

  ‘Egan walked away, leaving Denby dying. He was carrying some jewellery and silver ornaments. Stupid fool tried to fence them with Tiggy Williams. One of the first places we tried. Picked up some pieces and Tiggy hauled him out of a line-up.’

  Ward frowned. ‘Did Egan have a previous record, then?’

  ‘You mean how come he was put in the line-up in the first place? Ah well, no previous record, but other evidence linking him with the crime. To start with, as I recall, they used dogs which pointed them towards Egan’s place. A cottage, not too far from Denby’s residence. And then there was the clothing Egan burned — there was some woman who came up with evidence of that.’

  ‘His wife?’

  ‘Wife?’ Kenton bared his teeth in a thoughtful grimace. ‘Lived alone, as I remember. Didn’t have a wife on the premises. No, this biddy was, I don’t know, dairymaid or something, working around the stables, something like that. It’s what Egan was doing I believe. Anyway, she shopped him — though we couldn’t get much from it. I mean, forensic sifted the furnace he used and got buttons and such like, but only her word it was bloodstained clothing. The jury believed her, anyway. She was a good witness. Positive, like.’ He hesitated again, staring at his beer. ‘They was all so positive, in fact.’

  ‘But that was the case?’

  Kenton nodded. ‘Apart from Arkwright’s clincher. Don’t get me wrong. Egan was guilty. He pulverised that old bastard all right. I mean, he never even raised anything other than self-defence at the trial. Say that for him; he took his medicine. But Starling: I should have known even then what a bastard he was. You know, Eric, whatever I did in the Force I always played fair. I used my muscle, I put in the boot, but only when I knew I was dealing with a villain. And I always played fair, didn’t I?’

  There was a maudlin appeal in the man’s little eyes.

  Ward had no liking for Kenton and had always detested his methods but he knew what Kenton meant, and he was forced to agree. Kenton had been a rough, aggressive and brutal enforcer of what he saw as the law — but he had never been described as anything other than straight. He nodded. I’ve never heard otherwise, Dick.’

  ‘Well, that wasn’t Starling’s way,’ Kenton said bitterly. ‘And I should have been more careful when I was down at Whitley Bay that night. I should have known Starling wouldn’t back me when it came to it. He was always a main chancer — I knew that from the Egan case, anyway.’

  Ward leaned forward. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Hell’s flames, you know how these things work as well as I do! Look, the dogs pointed us towards the stables and Egan’s cottage. It wasn’t easy, there’d been rain, and it took us several days, but we managed to pull out the story of the burned clothing, and then we got the lucky bit from Tiggy Williams, so we pulled Egan in to face him. But even that might not have been enough. So Starling sent us out to do a second search of Egan’s cottage. And Arkwright came up with the clincher.’

  ‘Which was?’

  ‘A silver brooch. Hidden in the drainpipe outside the cottage. It was identified as belonging to Colonel Denby’s wife. So there we were. Burned clothing. Possession of stolen ar
ticles. Identification from a fence. Starling had his case.’

  Ward had an idea what Kenton was trying to say. ‘Spell it out, Dick,’ he said quietly.

  ‘This was a second search, my friend. We’d gone over that cottage with a fine-tooth comb because we were certain, from Starling down, that Egan had hammered old Denby. And we had some pretty good evidence against him. But we needed a clincher. And — happy days — there it was after Starling sent us in again. Thing was,’ Kenton scowled, ‘I searched that bloody drainpipe on the first time round. And there was damn all in there the first time!’

  ‘Egan could have put it in there between the two searches,’ Ward suggested.

  Kenton’s contemptuous glance told Ward what he thought of that theory. ‘I was assigned a different part of the cottage. Starling was there personally for the second search. He sent that twit Arkwright to search outside. And when I said there had been nothing there first time we looked Starling called me an incompetent bastard, and did I know that I could have cost them Egan’s head? The way he spoke, you’d have thought it was his head on the block.’

  * * *

  And perhaps Chief Superintendent Starling had seen it that way: on the promotional block, at least. As he lay in bed that night, thinking back over his conversation with Dick Kenton, Eric Ward considered the career of James Starling. A rapid rise in the Northumberland force, then from Chief Superintendent he had moved south, to an Assistant Chief Constable post; a second move to hold a Deputy’s job for five years had led to a triumphant return, eventually, to become Chief Constable with the force in which he had started his career.