The Sedleigh Hall Murder

by Roy Lewis

  And now he was farming near Jedburgh.

  It was easy to allow resentment to colour judgement. He himself, now the Force was behind him, could feel anger at that Force simply because his incapacitating illness had rendered him useless in their eyes. With Kenton it was worse. He had been drummed out for brutality, for doing something he had, essentially, believed in. That kind of experience could jaundice a man’s vision, sharpen his resentments to such a pitch that, in a dead-end job outside, he would be prepared to malign his superior officers. Not just prepared... he would feel the need to do so, until trivial incidents were magnified out of proportion and accusations made against honourable men.

  Arthur Egan had killed Colonel Denby. All the evidence had pointed to it, and Egan had himself accepted his punishment quietly and uncomplainingly. There had been no appeal against sentence, it seemed. Whether Kenton was right or wrong about Starling’s planting of evidence, it made no difference either way. Egan had been guilty; he had served his term of imprisonment.

  And now he was dead.

  And Eric Ward’s task was to discover the whereabouts of Egan’s heir, not to wonder about the commission of a twenty-year old crime.

  Chapter Two

  Nevertheless, during the course of the following week Eric Ward found his thoughts constantly returning to the conversation with Kenton. He had plenty of work to occupy his time and his mind but the Egan file hovered constantly on the fringes of his consciousness. He arranged for advertisements to be placed in the northeastern newspapers, calling for any relatives of Arthur Egan, deceased, to make contact with Francis, Shaw and Elder, and he did some more work on the Morcomb case, briefing Paul in one long session on the Wednesday afternoon.

  Paul Francis seemed particularly difficult that afternoon. He had been to a Law Society party the previous evening and had not recovered from his hangover all day. As Eric discussed the Morcomb file with him, he obtained the impression that the young solicitor hardly heard him and it was with a gesture of impatience that Paul finally brought the conversation to a halt.

  ‘Look, it’s perfectly obvious to me that you’ve had time to go into the file in some detail. I haven’t; I’ve just been too damn busy. The best thing will be for you to be present when we meet Lord Morcomb; Joe will be boning up on the file and you can fill in details on the action itself. I’ll just concentrate on the early background and that way we can present a united front and help each other out.’

  Ward stared at him. If Joseph Francis could have heard, the manner in which his son was dismissing such an important matter as the Morcomb case he would have gone white with anger, losing his much vaunted controlled indifference. Ward kept his own temper; he was just the lackey. ‘If that’s the way you want it, Paul.’

  Francis was aware of the veiled contempt in Ward’s tone and it did nothing to mollify his bad humour. ‘You taken out letters of administration on the Egan estate yet?’

  ‘The application is in.’

  ‘What about the assets themselves?’

  ‘I’ve engaged an estate agent to make a professional valuation of the house and I’ve been in touch with the bank holding the money to explain the position to them. They’ll release the money as soon as the necessary searches have been completed and the beneficiaries to Egan’s estate located.’

  Paul scowled; his head was throbbing still. ‘You managed to trace any relative yet?’

  ‘Not yet. I’ve got someone working on it.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Jackie Parton.’

  ‘Oh God, that little runt. What’s wrong with the detective agency we usually use?’

  Ward shrugged. ‘I thought with a case like this — I mean, all we know is that Egan came from Byker — it might be more sensible to use someone with strong local connections.’

  ‘Ah, well, you may be right. Anyway, I’ve arranged with my secretary for you to deal with a couple more conveyances that have been hanging fire on my desk. They’ll come through this afternoon. Anything else?’

  Ward hesitated. ‘I just wondered whether the Egan file would still be here in the office.’

  Paul Francis stared at him, uncomprehending, for a few moments. ‘You mean the old file, when we acted for him on the murder charge? I wouldn’t know, but if it is it’ll be upstairs in the attic by now.’ He paused, eyeing Eric carefully. ‘But you don’t want to go wasting time on old stuff like that.’

  Eric agreed and left the room. Within the hour the two conveyances arrived and he spent a couple of hours on them. It was gone five o’clock when he had finished and his eyelids were puffy. He sensed that another attack might be coming so he went to the washroom, anticipating trouble this time, and applied some of his eye-drops. Back in his office, he put his head back on the chair and closed his eyes, waiting for the drops to take effect.

  Faded photographs flashed before his mind. A man, a boy, a child, a graveyard. Sad, unexplained remnants of a man’s life. A slim file from which to discover a man’s secrets.

  But there might be something in the other file.

  It was five-thirty when Eric climbed the stairs to the attic rooms. The offices of Francis, Shaw and Elder were situated in a large, three-storied house in Gosforth, with reception rooms on the ground floor, and partners’ offices above the typists, on the first and second floors. A small law library took up the largest room on the second floor and at the end of the library a narrow wooden staircase gave access to the attic rooms. The filing system used by the firm could hardly be described as efficient in business terms but it sufficed, and old files were retained upstairs, out of the way, gathering dust.

  As soon as Ward entered the attic he realized there was little chance of his finding the old Egan file. Whereas below the files were kept in cabinets, here many of them had been stacked on the floor, with little regard, as far as he could make out, for logical sequence. Some seemed to be stacked alphabetically; others in an arithmetic sequence he did not understand; yet others piled according to the year on the cover. Some of them went back to 1898.

  ‘We’re quite an old firm, my boy,’ said the quiet voice from the doorway.

  Ward started guiltily. He swung around, his hands dusty, his clothing stained, to see Joseph Francis standing in the doorway, a quizzical smile on his face. ‘It’s unusual to see articled clerks working at six-thirty, particularly up here. What are you looking for? Maybe I can help.’

  Six-thirty. Involuntarily, Ward glanced at his watch.

  He hadn’t realized he’d been here so long. Francis must have heard him moving about above, and come up to investigate. ‘I . . . I’ve been dealing with the Egan administration. I wondered whether there might be anything of use to us to trace his relatives on the old file . . . the file when we represented him previously.’

  Joseph Francis wrinkled his patrician nose and sniffed. ‘It’s over twenty years ago, Eric. And I wouldn’t even be sure we’d kept the file. Civil matters, estates, trusts, these we keep. Criminal matters . . . hardly likely. You’re welcome to look, of course, but ah . . . it would be a long task, and, I suspect, at the end unrewarding.’ He hesitated. ‘Since I gather you’ll be coming in with us on the Morcomb discussions you’d be better employed knowing that file by heart. And now, it’s getting late.’ He half turned, paused, and then said, ‘Come down to my room and have a sherry.’

  There was just enough of a command in the suggestion to make Ward comply. He turned off the lights and followed the senior partner downstairs, pausing only to wash his hands before he joined Francis in his room. It was the largest of the partners’ rooms, containing its own law library, books shining in elegant bindings, and with a window overlooking the distant Town Moor.

  ‘Dry or medium?’ Francis asked, gesturing towards two cut glass decanters. ‘I take it your doctor does allow you to drink?’

  ‘In moderation, sir.’ Ward took a glass of medium sherry and Francis toasted his health. The old man then took a seat behind the desk and gestured Ward to a leather ar
mchair, before asking him about his state of health, and whether he enjoyed working for the firm, and how great were the changes he saw between life in the Force and life in the office. Ward gained the impression the old man hardly listened to his answers; there was something else on his mind. At last, abruptly, he asked, ‘How do you get on with Paul?’

  ‘Well enough.’

  ‘He works you hard?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Too hard?’ Joseph Francis’s glance was perceptive. ‘Too hard by comparison with his own work rate?’

  ‘I’m in no position to make that kind of judgement, sir.’

  ‘Humph . . . I’ll be frank, Eric . . .’ But he thought better of it. If he was about to make any criticisms of his son to an articled clerk, he changed his mind. He was a man who rarely failed to control his conversations, and the momentary aberration confused him. In an attempt to reach even ground again, he· said, ‘This Egan thing. What did you expect to find in an old file?’

  ‘I don’t know. Names, dates, places.’

  ‘Connected with the murder, you mean?’

  Ward hesitated. ‘No, not exactly. Just something that might make the search for the beneficiaries of the estate easier.’

  ‘If you want my opinion, it’ll go to the Crown as bona vacantia,’ Francis spoke indifferently.

  ‘Egan’s letter spoke of a child, and grandchildren -’

  They could have been figments of his imagination,’ Francis said, but then he paused and was lost in thought for several seconds. Ward waited, and at last the old man flicked a quick glance in his direction. ‘I’ve no idea now what might have been on that file, but I recall nothing mentioning family. None came to the trial, you know.’

  ‘He was completely alone?’

  ‘That was the way he wanted it.’ Francis hesitated, toying with his sherry glass. ‘A strange man, you know. I felt I never got to know him really. In a professional or personal way. He remained . . . aloof, indifferent to his fate. He . . . well, I told you we did little for him. That was not entirely our own fault. He did little to help himself. We pleaded self-defence after discussions with him, and the facts of the struggle on the bridge came to light -’

  ‘How do you mean?’ Ward interrupted.

  ‘There’d been witnesses to the struggle, though they couldn’t identify Egan. A courting couple down among the trees; trespassing, of course. After Egan’s arrest they came forward, but a long time after. We had to hurry to concoct his defence. Until then we had nothing to go on; he’d not told us that Colonel Denby had levelled the gun at him. I said indifferent to his fate, but somehow that isn’t the right word. After all these years, I can’t quite recall, but at the time I think I felt he was . . . I don’t know. Maybe he was a religious man, and wanted to atone for his sins. That was his way.’

  ‘What kind of man was he?’ Ward asked.

  Joseph Francis sipped his sherry. ‘Quiet. Reserved. But obviously hot-tempered — beating Denby the way he did. People can be like that. Well-set man; not exactly a handsome man, but he’d a face you’d remember. A woman would, anyway.’

  ‘Was he guilty of killing Colonel Denby?’

  The senior partner stared at Eric Ward in astonishment. ‘Good Lord, what do you mean? The evidence was clear, the jury convinced. He was guilty all right . . . but I had the odd feeling that . . . well, he didn’t feel weighed down by the burden of guilt and yet he wanted to face the penalty for his actions. Strange man.’ He finished his sherry. ‘Now then, young man, home to Wylam. You’ll find out nothing more about the Egan business tonight. Or ever, in my opinion. You’ll be lucky to come across any connection of his, if you ask me.’

  Ward wondered if Jackie Parton was having any better luck.

  * * *

  She was eighty, dark-shawled, huddled over a coal fire with her boots on the fender, but she still liked what she called her ‘bottle o’ Broon’. Above and beyond the terrace in which she lived the Byker Wall soared, bright coloured, built to keep out the clamour of a motorway that was never constructed, and changed in concept to become a warren of homes for the dispossessed of the crumbling terraces below. Most of the terraces had gone now, and open, raw tracks of earth awaited development, but she still clung to the old home and the old ways, an open coal fire, a kettle on the hob, and a bottle of brown ale for her supper.

  Jackie Parton sat in the wooden-armed chair beside her as she waved her glass in one hand and the half-empty bottle in the other and talked of the days she had left behind her. They were anecdotes of people long since dead, names unknown to him, and he had half-forgotten the questions that had prompted them. Uncles, cousins, grandfathers, mothers, they had all come out in a welter of storied incident, mingled with births, deaths and street names.

  ‘Oh, aye, hinny, his mither, I tell ye, she wor a reet hoor!’

  Granny Skipton lapsed into a sudden silence, and Jackie Parton leaned forward. ‘Whose mother, old lady?’

  ‘The feller you was askin’ after. Arthur Egan . . . hey, now, he was a bonny lad.’

  ‘And this is him, in the picture here?’

  She nodded as he showed her the photograph again; this was as far as he had got half an hour ago. ‘Aye, that’s him, and he was a bonny lad, a real bonny lad. But his mither . . . I tell ye, she was up liftin’ her skirts away Scotswood while her man was but weeks in the grave. I was just a wee lass mysel’, then, but I remember it clear. She did away to Byker, chasin’ after first one man t’ other, all the while draggin’ her bairn with her. He was a bonny lad, that Arthur, and good wi’ it.’

  ‘Good?’

  ‘Didn’t he look after the little one when he came along?’ Her voice, querulous, had now taken on a tone of indignation. She waved the bottle in Jackie’s face. ‘That hoor of a mither of his, she was oot most nights, on the toon, aroun’ wi’ the men, and she was leavin’ Arthur to look after the little one. Aye, he wor a good lad, wor Arthur.’

  ‘This little one you’re talking about, Gran.’ Jackie thrust the photograph under her nose again. ‘Would this be him, in the picture with Arthur?’

  ‘Likely. Can’t be certain; moved away, to Henessey Street when I was growed. Looks like him, though, with Arthur. He was a bonny lad, too. A way with the lasses, I heard.’

  Jackie Parton stared at the photograph of the young boy with Egan. ‘What happened to him?’

  ‘Young Tommy? Went for a seaman, when he was growed.’ She began to croon to herself, rocking slightly in the chair, grinning into the glowing coals of the fire. ‘And what about Arthur?’ He had to repeat the question before she stopped her little song.

  ‘Arthur? Don’t know too well. Ye see, when Tommy was aboot sixteen, that hoor, she went and married again, damned fool he was to have her, and Arthur went away then. Got a job Hexham way, they said. He came back a few times, to see how Tommy was gettin’ on; few times, he took Tommy back with him for a few days, but that lad didn’t like the country air. After Tommy left to go to sea, didn’t see Arthur again, in Byker.’

  ‘Did you ever hear that Arthur got wed?’

  ‘Didn’t hear so.’

  ‘While he was around here did he have a . . . a lass?’ Granny Skipton grinned at him, three blackened teeth in a gaping mouth. ‘Had a go at him mesel’ once, ye know. Older than him I was, and been around a bit, but he wouldn’t have me. Bonny lad, though. A lass? No. Kep’ himsel’ to himsel’, as I recall. Up in Northumberland, now, might have been different. Don’t know that.’

  ‘So he didn’t have any children by a local girl around Byker?’

  Granny Skipton hooted, then threw her greasy apron over her head with her forearms, still clutching bottle and glass in her hands. She cackled under the apron for almost a minute before she re-emerged, still grinning. ‘Arthur never got anyone in the family way aroun’ here — if he had, we’d have knowed all about it.’

  Jackie believed it. He hesitated, watching her for a moment. Then, quietly, he said, ‘He’s dead now, Granny.’
>
  She was unmoved. ‘Comes to us all, hinny.’

  Jackie still watched her carefully. ‘Did you hear about . . . about Arthur’s trouble with the police, years back?’

  She grinned again, but it was a sly, conspiratorial grimace, the closing of minds in a closed area. ‘Naw, nivver heard of anything like that aboot Arthur, did we?’ Her attention was caught by a bold cockroach making its way across the fender for the shadows of the table leg. She lifted her foot, brought it down deliberately and slowly on the insect and a whitish yellow pus squirted from beneath the sole of her boot. She stared at it stoically. ‘Naw. Don’t ever know aboot trouble with the polis around here.’

  * * *

  Eric Ward received a telephone call at the office from Jackie Parton next morning. The ex-jockey explained that he had spent his time — and the firm’s money — to some effect at least. Enquiries at the clubs had sent him to several streets in the Byker area and eventually he had met an old lady called Skipton who remembered the family well enough. He explained that Arthur Egan’s father would seem to have died when Arthur was quite young and that his mother had looked to other men for support. One of them had fathered a child on her, then deserted her; Arthur had helped bring up the boy, Tommy, until a seaman called Andrews had married Arthur’s mother. Arthur had then left.

  ‘Where did he go then?’

  ‘It seems he went to work at some stables or other in Northumberland. Granny Skipton said Hexham way, but others say not. There was a farm mentioned in the reports . . . and if it’s not far from Colonel Denby’s manor house, it can hardly be Hexham way. I’ll check, anyway.’

  ‘The boy in the picture?’

  ‘That’s Tommy . . . Tommy Andrews. He took his stepfather’s name. And followed in his steps. Went off to sea; not been heard of since, not Byker way, at least.’

  ‘Hmmm. I got in touch with London, by the way, and got a search done for Arthur Egan’s marriage. There wasn’t one. Nothing recorded.’