by Roy Lewis
There was a short silence, as though each waited for the other to speak, to say what lay in both their minds. It was Parton who finally said it. ‘This feller . . . he was in Warkworth that night. He could be Tommy Andrews, Eric.’
Eric Ward’s lips were dry. ‘I think that’s taking our suppositions too far — and it doesn’t make sense, anyway.’
‘All I’m saying is, it could be,’ Parton insisted. ‘So we ought to go a bit canny, you know? I got a pal checking the car registration, but he’s having some difficulty. Weekends is awkward, He did get a quick look at the file, and he thinks it’s a company registration, but he’s going to let me know by Monday. Now where can I contact you?’
‘First thing Monday I’ll be driving to Sedleigh Hall. If it’s urgent, try me there — but I’ll be back late afternoon I expect.’
‘Living high these days, Eric, hey? All right that’ll be okay — but . . . er . . . stay tight, you know what I mean?’
I know what you mean.’
Parton rang off and Eric tried to finish the newspaper but his mind kept drifting off at a tangent. Tommy Andrews. He could hardly believe the man he had seen was Egan’s younger half-brother — but it was possible. They would be of the same age . . . but what would he be doing at Warkworth, and near Vixen Hill?
He kept coming back to the same problem. But if there was a link between the past and the present Tommy Andrews might be that link. And if he was, Eric remembered, the man might well have killed once — now perhaps, twice.
At Vixen Hill and Warkworth.
Vixen Hill.
He was sure the key lay there, and yet last night he had wondered whether it might be in the churchyard photograph. He wandered through to his study and looked at the photographs again, then, deciding suddenly he went back to the phone and dialled the Newcastle City Library. They prided themselves on answering any reasonable question. His was relatively simple.
‘I want to get in touch with anyone who is regarded as an authority on local churches — in Northumberland that is.’
To range more widely would be foolish. This enquiry, at least, was going to be finite, and if there was no answer forthcoming that would be the end of it all.
The library rang back an hour later. They could suggest a name — someone who actually worked in the library itself, and he would be quite happy to see Mr Ward on this Saturday provided he presented himself before four o’clock.
Ward called at John Dobson Street at precisely half past two.
The librarian was tall, fair, immensely enthusiastic about his specialism and nonplussed for perhaps half an hour. While he sorted through a box of files he kept in his small, claustrophobic workroom he kept up a flow of chatter, directed towards informing Eric that in his opinion Northumberland had perhaps the finest heritage of churches in the country. There were those who might extol the virtues of other counties, the Midlands, the South West, but in his view Northumberland was prime, with its peel towers, its Norman arches, its castle chapels. ‘Ovingham,’ he said, interrupting himself. ‘Or . . . maybe Hartburn.’ He was holding a small collection of sketches in his hand. ‘Eighteenth-century, these sketches — the originals, that is. These are copies, of course. But that tower in the photograph . . . Ovingham, Hartburn . . . or, just possibly, Ogle. I think, Mr Ward, that’s as near as I could get. And I would have loved to come out with you to look — any excuse, you see, to visit such delightful buildings, but this weekend I’m booked to visit, yet again, the cathedral at York. Makes a change, you know? And they’re doing such interesting work there . . .’
Ward thanked him, and left.
Ovingham, Hartburn, or Ogle.
They were all within striking distance of Newcastle and armed with the photograph he drove straight out on to the Jedburgh road.
Two hours later he found the church he was seeking, at Hartburn.
* * *
The setting was delightful. A cluster of cottages adorned the hill, some tastefully modernized, near the tiny square and the neat sward leading down to the church. The road dipped sharply past the church and swung into a bend that rose steeply once it crossed the stream that meandered through the meadows below the church walls. Ward walked past the vicarage, strangely reluctant to enter the churchyard itself, not knowing what he might find there, and in some odd way afraid both of success and disappointment. Either way, he feared a sense of anti-climax and he was emotionally unprepared for it. It had only been a matter of weeks, but his obsession with Arthur Egan had become so intense that now its possible end stretched his nerves in an inexplicable manner.
Then, telling himself he was foolish, he turned back and walked through the lychgate into the churchyard.
He walked along the narrow path and realized that some of the tombstones were very old: lichen sent grey roses over the lettering, making it almost indecipherable and on some of the older stones the action of rain and frost had split the surfaces until long sections of stone had simply peeled away. Eighteenth-century naval captains lay beside child victims of the cholera and on one group of stones a skull and crossbones appeared, a Masonic trademark, Ward assumed.
He looked again at the blurred photographs and sought the cypress trees. They lay in the west corner of the churchyard so he walked towards them and then, turning his back to them, made his way down the sloping ground to the far corner of the churchyard. In the corner a hedge of wild rose barred the way to the steep scarp slope down to the stream below, and in this corner, where the late afternoon sun shone, the graves were more recent than those which appeared at the front of the church. He looked at the photograph again, then turned. The sun was in his eyes and he raised a hand, shading against the glare.
It would have to be near here, according to the photograph that Arthur Egan had kept in his wallet as a remembrance. The grave of a child, perhaps, or of his half-brother . . . Soon, Eric Ward would know, and there was a constriction in his chest as he walked slowly among the tombstones, reading the inscriptions, searching for one that would have significance for him.
Yet when it came, for perhaps three seconds it had no significance. He stopped, stared at it, and puzzlement distorted logical thought. He checked with the photograph, stepped back, crouched down as the photographer must have done to take the picture, and then he rose and walked close to the stone again. There could be no doubt; it was the stone that appeared in the photograph.
Eric Ward stood there for almost twenty minutes thereafter, thinking. Gradually, logic reasserted itself, and he pieced it all together, the loneliness, the hurt, the painful longing felt by the quiet, reserved man in Westerhope. The years in prison and the years thereafter, they would all have been the same for him, and when he had been released he had come here, to take this photograph. It was all he had left to him — that, and a lock of blond hair.
And Vixen Hill. Eric Ward could understand Vixen Hill now, and perhaps the twenty thousand pounds too. It all fitted, all pieced together, as soon as he saw the tombstone.
He remembered what ex-Detective Inspector Kenton had said: all they needed against Egan, to put him away, was the clinching evidence, and it was Arkwright who had supplied it, under Superintendent Starling’s direction.
Eric Ward had had the pieces of this puzzle in front of him for days. He hadn’t been able to recognize them for what they were, or fit them together, until this one clinching piece of evidence had reached him. The one thing that made sense out of it all, that tied it all together.
He did not know the truth about Arthur Egan, but he could guess. And he knew now how to find the truth, and where it lay.
Chapter Six
They sat in the library, around a polished mahogany table and coffee was served. The maid moved softly, discreetly, dispensing the coffee from a silver service, and the late morning sun slanted through the mullioned windows, sending a bar of light across the table, picking out the gold lettering on the spines of the books scattered in front of Joseph Francis and the man on his left. Eric Ward
sat opposite them, to one side of David Penrose, and once again he was struck by the contrasts that his professional life involved him in: the quiet, expensive elegance of Sedleigh Hall, and the narrow, cramped terraces of the Scotswood Road.
‘You seem preoccupied this morning, Mr Ward,’ David Penrose said quietly.
Ward managed a smile. ‘I was really just enjoying being here. It’s a world away from Newcastle.’
‘You don’t need to tell me that,’ Penrose replied. ‘Don’t be fooled by my accent — I had to work at it. When I was a child this wasn’t my kind of scene at all. But I’ve been lucky, and I’m here — and it certainly is my intention never to go back.’ He glanced at Ward suddenly, as though aware that he might have communicated something he should not have done. ‘This is the summit of my ambition, you see — to live and work at Sedleigh Hall.’
Ward thought about Anne Morcomb and wasn’t so sure. He sipped his coffee, and said, ‘That’s nice, anyway, to reach the summit of your ambition at your age.’
‘Aren’t you achieving yours?’ Penrose asked.
Ward shrugged. ‘I don’t know that I have much ambition any more. A secure future in the law: that’ll do.’ His eyes strayed to Joseph Francis, carrying on a desultory conversation with the man sitting near him. A secure future . . . even that could not be certain.
The clock chimed eleven, and the doors to the library opened as though they had been awaiting this moment. Lord Morcomb stood in the entrance, leaning on his daughter’s arm. ‘You will forgive me, gentlemen, but I am advised I should not join you this morning.’
He was ill. The skin of his face, which had seemed leathery to Ward, now possessed a translucent pallor; the colour seemed to have faded from his pouched eyes and with the colour had gone the hard coldness that had so impressed earlier. The line of his jaw seemed to have slackened, folds of skin hanging loosely at his neck, and the hand on his daughter’s arm was ridged with veins that ran stiff under tightly stretched skin.
They rose; Joseph Francis setting the example, the others following. ‘My lord, if you think this conference should be postponed—’
‘No.’ Lord Morcomb’s voice was soft and husky, but positive enough. ‘This thing’s been going on too long. I want decisions today . . . get it resolved. Anne . . . my daughter will join you in a few minutes. It’s as much her concern as mine, so her presence will suffice and she can report to me later. Now, if you’ll excuse me . . .’
Anne Morcomb was looking at Eric Ward. Her glance was shadowed — she had caught something in his eyes, something he had not wanted to express. Then she was turning away with her father, and the doors closed behind them. Eric sat down. ‘He looks very ill,’ he said.
‘Yes.’ Penrose was staring at Ward speculatively. ‘I think he’s dying. He’s not been well for some days . . . and he’s getting weaker. I think this whole Inland Revenue thing has got him down. Certainly, since the last time you were here, he’s hardly left his room. Getting weaker steadily. And this is the first time he’s ever missed a meeting as important as this.’ He paused, pushed aside his coffee cup. ‘Have you met Anne yet?’
Ward was not deceived by the casual tone of Penrose’s voice. ‘A few times. Michael Denby introduced us, in the first instance, at Vixen Hill.’
‘Ah yes,’ Penrose replied absently. ‘I do recall her telling me, now. She . . . she’s very worried about her father.’ He looked at Ward almost challengingly, but the question remained unspoken, and then Joseph Francis broke in to suggest that they might set aside the coffee cups and prepare for Anne Morcomb’s return.
She came in some minutes later. She moved, a little self-consciously, towards the seat her father would have taken at the head of the table and then, gaining in confidence, asked if they had all met each other. She formally introduced the bespectacled man on Joseph Francis’s left as Mr Henried, her father’s financial adviser and member of a stock-broking firm in Newcastle. ‘Now, the purpose of the conference today is, essentially, to discuss the estate duty issues. I assume we’ll be here for some hours, so I’ve arranged for lunch to be available. Do you wish to start, Mr Francis?’
He was happy to do so. He began, for the benefit of Mr Henried, by covering ground familiar to several of them: the position of the Morcomb estates prior to 1970, the land and shareholdings of the previous Lord Morcomb were detailed, and schedules were produced to distinguish between those properties which came to the present Lord Morcomb as of right, and those which fell in to him as a result of the will of his uncle. With some questions from Mr Henried, and some interventions from Eric Ward, the morning wore away. At one-thirty Anne Morcomb suggested they adjourn for sherry, and lunch.
Having abjured the sherry, Eric felt he could accept a glass of white wine that was served with the cold collation; afterwards, as they all stood on the terrace in the sunshine, taking some fresh air before they returned to the library, Eric walked down into the sunken garden, among the rose-bushes, alone. His head was aching, and he feared he might have another attack today. It was not due merely to the work he had done on the Morcomb file: he still had questions to ask, decisions to make. It all amounted to tension, and pressure.
Anne Morcomb was standing on the terrace when he returned. She was alone. She stood watching him as he walked towards her and when he reached the terrace, she said ‘The others have gone into the library. Are . . . are you all right, Eric?’
He smiled. ‘Of course. Why do you ask?’
She wasn’t fooled. ‘You seemed preoccupied this morning. And . . . tired. You’ve been working hard at our business?’
‘Hard enough.’
‘And the Arthur Egan thing?’
He looked away from her, at the terrace, at the lawns and meadows beyond, at the quarry scarring the hillside, and he nodded. ‘It’s all but finished now.’ He turned back to her dismissively. ‘Your father isn’t well.’
Anxiety shadowed her eyes. She nodded. ‘The doctor’s seen him several times. There’s nothing specifically wrong, he says — rest should cure him. But I get the feeling it’s as though he doesn’t really want to recover. Like a machine wearing out, you know? The parts don’t function any more, not properly, and Daddy, seems almost . . . reconciled to just drifting away. I don t understand it, Eric.’
He hesitated. ‘Would it be possible for me to see him?’ She was startled. She stared at him for several seconds.
‘Is it important?’
‘I think so.’
‘I don’t really know whether . . . I’ll speak to him. The doctor will be calling again at four — I’ll have a word with him, too. What . . . why do you want to see him?’
He pursed his lips and avoided her glance. There was a short silence. Coolly she said at last, ‘We’d better go into the library to join the others.’
When he took his seat he was conscious of the fact that David Penrose was very aware that Anne had waited for him on the terrace.
Joseph Francis began the afternoon session by calling upon Eric Ward. ‘We have now received counsel’s opinion, and perhaps Eric could put it into suitable language and perspective.’
Eric nodded. ‘Counsel refers to the authorities of Ellesmere v Inland Revenue Commissioners; the Marr’s Trustees Case; and the Duke of Buccleuch v Inland Revenue Commissioners, but I won’t go through the detailed exposition of principle that he deals with in those cases. Instead, I’ll attempt a brief summary of what he says, and let you have a few of his quotations.’
‘That’s right,’ David Penrose murmured. ‘Remember we’re no lawyers.’
‘The basic facts in issue between Lord Morcomb and the Inland Revenue concern the method of assessment for the purposes of calculation of estate duty. Counsel points out that the words of section 7(5) of the Finance Act 1894 are quite clear and explicit. I quote:
The principal value of any property shall be estimated to be the price which, in the opinion of the Commissioners, such property would fetch if sold in the open market at the time of
the death of the deceased.
It is the contention of the Commissioners that they have done precisely that. Lord Morcomb, in turn, raises two counter arguments. He suggests, firstly, that the sum should be reduced to take account of the impossibility of offering for sale at the time of death all the property as individual estates.’
Joseph Francis turned to Mr Henried. ‘It’s an argument about reasonableness — if the sale were negotiated, it would have to be at a reduced price, to allow for speculation and profit taking and so on.’
‘Yes, I see, I see,’ Henried replied, making notes as Eric went on.
‘The second argument Lord Morcomb has raised concerned the sale at time of death — that is, the death of the previous Lord Morcomb in 1970. He contends this ought to be construed as a reasonable period after the time of death — once again, because such a hypothetical sale would be a practical impossibility for the simple reason sales of such magnitude could not be achieved — at least, not without some considerable loss to the estate.’
‘I understand that,’ Henried said.
Eric turned to look at Anne Morcomb; she was watching him, and there was a shadow of anxiety still in her glance. ‘I won’t give you the detailed analysis counsel has raised in his opinion, nor will I use the references he makes to specific points in the Act and in the decided cases. I’ll simply summarize what, in effect, he says. And essentially, it’s quite simple. If the Inland Revenue Commissioners were to take the steps advocated by Lord Morcomb, they would be acting in disobedience of the clear directions of section 7(5) of the 1894 Act. Words of an Act of Parliament cannot be paraphrased so as to take on what would be, essentially, a new meaning. Accordingly, counsel is of the opinion that the hypothetical sale of the Hardford Estate is quite consistent with the criteria for valuation laid down in section 7.’ He paused, glanced around the table to make sure they were all following the argument. ‘In other words, Lord Morcomb’s arguments are unlikely to be supported in the House of Lords; the Commissioners have acted correctly; the basis for valuation of the Hardford Estate is correct — and the liability for death duties is properly based on the figure of three million plus, and not the lower figure proposed by Lord Morcomb.’ He sat back, folded his arms, and waited.
