‘What are you implying? That my Master was somehow involved?’
‘Your Master abused her, both physically and mentally, to the point that she was so scared of him that she felt she had no choice but to run away. She hid from Dominic, by changing her identity and starting a whole new life, but he refused to let her go.’
‘No, that can’t be right.’ He slowly shook his head. ‘The Master loves her.’
‘I believe Dominic found out where Emily was and who she was with, and he went there and murdered her lover in front of her.’
‘No.’ Withers hands were visibly trembling. ‘I refuse to believe it.’
‘Did you refuse to believe it when Dominic brought her back here, you must’ve seen her hurt, traumatised, or did you turn a blind eye to it, like I suspect you’ve always done.’ Withers fell quiet but there were tears welling up in his ice blue eyes, maybe a memory came to him, possibly feeling regret for not interfering. ‘Dominic hunted her down, brutally murdered her boyfriend in front of her, and then brought her back here, against her will, a prisoner in this gilded cage.’
Withers glared at me. ‘I don’t believe you. You’re making this all up. What proof do you have?’
I took out Emily’s brooch from my jacket pocket and placed it on the table. I could tell that he recognised it. He spluttered out, ‘That’s my Lady’s brooch. W-where did you find that?’
‘Next to a dead body.’ I pressed on, trying to strip his loyalty, ‘It must’ve come off in the struggle, probably when Dominic was knocking her around the room.’ I let that settle. ‘Now tell me, what did Dominic and Mrs Sterling discuss that night?’
Withers stared into the dark brown liquid of his mug, and said nothing for a while. I thought maybe that he was processing the information of Dominic’s sadistic personality and Emily’s mistreatment at his Master’s hand. The old man then spoke, quietly, ‘The study has sliding doors. I only overheard a part of their conversation, unintentionally. They were talking about some place down in Devon. That’s all I know.’
‘That’s all I need to know.’
‘I would like you to leave now.’ I stood up, ready to leave, but he suddenly ordered, ‘Wait!’
I obeyed his command. ‘What’s up, Grandpa?’
Withers asked, ‘How...How did this man die, one you said the Master killed?’
‘He had his head opened with a poker. Why?’
The butler just sat there, with his cocoa, gawping at me.
‘What’s wrong?’ I asked him.
Withers stood up, wordlessly, without acknowledging me, and went towards the window. At the window, he knelt down, I heard the painful cracking of his bones at work, and pressed a button, located out of sight underneath the sill. This sprung open a panel in the wall, revealing a secret hiding place. Withers groaned as he rose, went to the panel, reached inside and removed something long wrapped up in a white towel. The old man carried and placed the concealed object down on the table in front of me. He slowly pealed back the towel and revealed a bloodied poker.
‘Is this?’ I looked down at what must be the murder weapon and then up at him expectantly, awaiting an explanation.
‘That night, the night Mrs Sterling came here, Dominic departed the house, unexpectedly. He didn’t tell me where he was going. He instructed was for me to fetch Tian, and to tell him to get the car ready.’
‘So Tian drove Dominic that night.’
Withers nodded. ‘They didn’t return until the early hours, before sunrise. Dominic, he-he looked so, I don’t know how to describe it…alive, I suppose, he looked so alive. I greeted him at the door, with Lady Emily.’ Withers paused. ‘I-I-I was surprised to see her, after so long...He told me to look after her, and I did. She was in a state, drifting in and out of consciousness.’ The butler shuddered. ‘It took me a while to calm her down...I ended up having to administer a sedative. Later, when I came down to my quarters, Tian was here, looking nervous. He had this, wrapped in the towel, on the table, and asked me to hide it for Dominic, handing it to me…And I did, I helped him hide it...I-I-I didn’t know, I would’ve never have...’
I was amazed by his story, ‘Didn’t you ask why he’d want you to hide this?’
‘It is not my place to ask questions,’ Withers replied quickly. ‘I don’t know what to do now.’
‘Call the police, ask to speak to DCI Mark Cosgrove, and give this to him. Tell him that you found it in Dominic’s study, or wherever, I dunno, make something up, tell him that you’ve never seen it before but you thought that it might be important.’ He was looking at me as if I was speaking a foreign language. ‘You got that, Grandpa?’ He nodded. ‘Good.’
‘My poor Lady. If only she’d confided in me…’ Withers slowly shook his head.
Looking at him, shaking his head, I wondered how much the butler really knew, for all of his protests of denial, declarations of obliviousness surrounding the domestic abuse his Lady had been subjected to, which he must have, living here, either overheard or witnessed, on probably numerous occasions, over the years, seemed unrealistic.
How deep does your denial have to be? I wondered.
I gestured to the poker and said, ‘You may not have been able to protect her in the past but you can make it up to her now. Do your part and help put this monster behind bars.’
Withers sat down, nodded, hands in his lap and quietly promised me he would. I left the butler hunched over the table, trying to hide his tears, but the telling convulsions of his frail body gave him away.
Chapter 23
With my mind whirling, I walked aimlessly along the streets of London, winding up in Hyde Park. I passed through the Italian Gardens and proceeded to the Speakers’ Corner, choosing to head north at Marble Arch, and wound up wandering around the Marylebone area, when it occurred to me to check out something else.
Standing outside Daunt Books on Marylebone High Street, I took out my mobile and typed in Palais de Fleur into Maps, and got the directions to the restaurant.
I went inside the restaurant, designed for romance, with its elegant interior, piano music and flower-filled conservatory, and approached the maître d’.
As you would expect in such an establishment, the maître d’ was a preened man, somewhat ageless in appearance, elegant-looking, pretentious and reeking of musky cologne. His gold plated name badge read Jacques but he looked more like a Kevin to me.
Jacques, who was stood behind a podium, looked up at me as I entered, automatically smiled and quickly gave me the once over, skilfully combining both a welcoming and superior air.
‘Bonsoir monsieur. Bienvenue à Palais de Fleur. Do you have a reservation?’ I detected the phoney French accent and called him on it straight away.
‘Drop the act, what I need is information.’
‘Je ne sais pas! What act?’ Jacques facial contortion seemed to suggest he was offended by my directness but I was in no mood to pussyfoot around.
I handed him my business card, which Jacques looked at briefly. ‘I want to know about a couple who dined here last week, on Friday evening, the reservation would be under the name of Kingsley or Sterling.’ He just stared at me blankly in response. I produced the photograph of Rachel and Grahame. ‘Do you recognise either of these people?’
He took the photograph from me, looked at it and I noticed that there was a little glimmer of recognition in his eyes as he examined the two faces.
The Maître d’ handed back the photograph and then waved his hand flamboyantly in the air, saying, ‘Friday is ze busiest night of ze week, monsieur. I see lots come and go, it’s très difficile to recall ze customers like zis…’
I saw where this was going and decided to interrupt him, ‘Maybe this will jog your memory, Frenchie.’ I brandished a £50 note in between my fingers, figuring he wouldn’t be paid enough to be so scrupulous about dishing dirt on the restaurant’s patrons. Funnily enough, I was right.
‘Ah, oui oui monsieur, Jacques, he remembers now, oui, he does!’ Jac
ques, whilst speaking - and worryingly referring to himself in the third person - discreetly pocketed the money in a smooth fashion, probably practiced at having frequently taking backhanders to “find” last minute tables. ‘A beautiful woman such as ‘er, is hard to forget, n’est-ce pas?’
‘Skip it, Frenchie,’ I grunted, tiring of the trite French lingo he was spewing. ‘What do you remember about them?’
‘I remember zat they had an argument, a very loud argument. As you can imagine, zis upset the other patrons, very much so.’
‘Do you know what the argument was about?’
Jacques shrugged. ‘Je ne sais pas.’
‘You’ll have to do better than that?’
‘Je suis désolé. All Jacques remembers is ze word “Hooxlies”, zat is all. Ze beautiful one. She kept shouting it.’
‘Hooxlies,’ I repeated aloud. Huxleys, I reckoned it must’ve been. ‘What happened after the argument?’
‘Zut alor! Ze beautiful woman she was so outraged, she stormed out of ze restaurant before ze appetisers had been served.’
‘They didn’t leave together.’
Jacques shook his head slowly. ‘But ze blonde, she went out after ‘er…’
‘A blonde?’ I interrupted.
‘Oui oui, the reservation was for trois. Ze man, ze beautiful woman and ze petite blonde with ze diamond ring on ‘er finger.’
I took out my mobile and showed him a picture of Emily. ‘Was it this woman, the blonde?’
‘Mais oui, monsieur, zat is ‘er. Zat is ze petite blonde.’ He poked his long, manicured finger at my mobile screen.
‘Thanks. That’s all I need to know.’ I commented dryly, ‘Role of a lifetime, huh?’
Jacques looked around and then leant a bit over his podium, in a thick, Geordie accent, said, ‘T’punters seem ta getta kick outta of it, like.’
‘Keep it up the good work.’ I winked at him.
‘Absolument,’ Jacques said, reverting to his faux French persona. ‘Au revoir, monsieur.
Chapter 24
Grahame’s funeral was held on a balmy morning inside St Peter’s Church. I did not attend the service but sat in my car outside the church, smoking and using my mirrors to keep a watch.
The hearse, followed by a procession of cars, transported the coffin to Huxley House and, as Rachel had told me, he was buried in the family burial plot.
The burial plot was due east of the grand house, hidden from sight, in amongst the acreage of woodland. A well-trodden dirt path snaked its way to a fenced-in clearing full of tombstones, all bearing the name of Kingsley. There, amidst the dead, was a small gathering of the living, dressed in black, standing around Grahame’s resting place.
I was watching from afar with the aid of my binoculars, as the mourners paid tribute to the deceased’s memory as the coffin was lowered down into the ground.
There was a middle-aged, bespectacled woman with shoulder-length, wiry, brown hair and a reddish-brown complexion, holding an open book in her hands. She was reciting what sounded like a poem. Her loud voice carried well on the quiet air - the strong Scottish brogue was unmistakable. I presumed she was Grahame’s aunt. Once she had finished, the mourners, slowly, one by one, left and walked back along the path to the house for the wake, until there was only one person who remained.
I did not go to Rachel straight away but decided to observe her for a little while longer. She was standing motionless, staring down at freshly turned soil that buried her beloved six feet under.
I came out from my hiding place, behind an oak tree, and stood alongside her but she did not acknowledge my presence.
Rachel wore a sleeveless, black, knee-length dress, black high heels, and black pillbox hat with a birdcage veil, which covered half of her face. She was holding a single red rose in her gloved hand.
I remained quiet as I watched her as she slowly crouched down and tenderly place the flower upon the grave.
It was Rachel who eventually broke the silence. She spoke but did not look at me as she did. ‘It’s so peaceful here, so quiet. Listen to the birds singing. They sound so happy, don’t you think?’ She closed her eyes. ‘It’s so different from being in the city, all the noise, chaos…I always enjoyed coming down here with Grahame. We used to have picnics out in the gardens during the summer holidays. We would lie on the blanket together and look up at the sky, talking about our lives, our futures, hopes and dreams...’ Rachel trailed off lost in her memories.
‘Where’s Lawrence?’ I asked abruptly. I had noticed that her husband had not been amongst the mourners.
She shrugged her shoulders and put, almost rhetorically, ‘Did you know Grahame had made no will? He died intestate. The house, the land, all that money, everything, goes to his next of kin.’
‘His aunt.’
‘She read a poem by William Wordsworth, Grahame’s favourite poet…’ Rachel sighed. ‘I was hoping I could have one or two of his things to remember him by, but after speaking to her earlier, I don’t think she is going to make me any such provisions. All I have left of him now are the memories of our time together...’
‘You really did love him, didn’t you?’
‘I do love him.’ Rachel laughed, a singular laugh, a high, ugly sound. ‘Love. Such a simple word to say, isn’t it, in fact, people say it quite often, without thought, and sometimes without even truly meaning it...’
‘I suppose you’re right.’
She continued, ‘I don’t expect you to understand this but before I met Grahame…I’d never felt strongly, one way or another, about anyone, I wasn’t happy…and I wasn’t sad…I just, I was just existing. Then when we met at university and we got to know one another, I began to experience feelings I had never felt before, and they grew every day that we spent together. It surprised me and overwhelmed me, it took me up to the point that I wanted to have a monopoly on him. Or whatever it is that people have, when they don’t want anyone else to have any part of somebody…’
‘You know it didn’t have to end this way, Rachel.’
‘Why did you come here?’ She looking at me for the first time, there was an intensity in her green eyes, which were flecked with red veins from crying.
‘I have some unfinished business to take care of.’
‘I didn’t think I needed to make myself any plainer than I already have but clearly you need reminding. I do not wish to discuss it anymore.’
I pressed on regardless, ‘There was just one thing that I couldn’t figure out about the crime. I don’t know how I overlooked it. I guess I was blinded.’
‘Do you think this is the appropriate time or place.’ Her glare was unrelenting.
‘On the contrary, I think it couldn’t be more appropriate.’
‘If you had any human decency you would leave, now.’
‘Not until I say what I came to say,’ I insisted.
‘Please leave. I won’t tell you again.’ She folded her arms and turned her back to me.
‘The one thing I overlooked, the one thing I took for granted, which I didn’t even question until that night at Dominic’s house.’ I said to her back, ‘I didn’t know how Dominic knew where to find them that night, Grahame and Emily.’
‘Maybe one of his private investigators’ found her.’ She put dismissively. ‘He hired so many, remember, I told you, in the beginning, when she disappeared.’ Rachel paused. ‘Maybe one of them found her, found out where she lived, followed her and cashed in.’
‘I think it happened quite differently, Rachel.’
‘I hired you, and you found them easily enough, didn’t you.’
‘I think somebody told Dominic, someone who he knew and trusted, who happened to know both of them, someone with quite a different agenda altogether. Somebody who knew exactly where Grahame was going that weekend and, more importantly, who with.’
‘I don’t like what you are insinuating.’
‘No, people don’t often like facing up to the truth.’
Rachel
turned around. ‘And what is it that you think you know?’
‘That Friday, the last time you saw Grahame, you went to the restaurant to meet him, but he wasn’t alone, was he, he’d brought someone he wanted to introduce you to, his fiancée, who he knew as Imogen Alderney, but you recognised as Emily McIntyre.’ She slowly shook her head. ‘The maître d’ remembers you and the scene you caused that night.’
Rachel unfolded her arms, a gloved hand went to her forehead, and she gave a heavy sigh, before saying, ‘I don’t know what I expected that night, but I wasn’t expecting that. It caught me completely off-guard. Grahame hadn’t told me he had met anybody. I should’ve guessed. Things had been strained between us over the last couple of months but I didn’t know why, I thought maybe his aloofness was due to his writers block or that battle-axe Hyacinth had finally got into his head and turned him against me. When he invited me to the restaurant that night, I stupidly thought it was his attempt to apologise for his standoffish behaviour...’ She shook her head. ‘When I arrived, she was there, sitting next to him, they were holding hands, with a ring on her finger. Of course, I recognised her right away, and she knew that I knew who she was, but she carried on pretending regardless, maybe she thought she could pull it off. They sat there talking at me, smiling away, happily announcing their engagement, not realising my heart was shattering into a thousand pieces with every word of their future together. He told me that he was planning on taking her down to Huxleys that weekend to show her the estate and that they were intending to live there after they were married and use all of his inheritance money to restore the house to its former glory and reopen it to the public. Apparently, that had been his plan all along. Well, I couldn’t quite believe it. The life I’d dreamed of for so long, in that moment, could no longer be and she, she, was going to live out my dream instead. I don’t know how to describe it, but it was like a mist of red descended upon me, I became so consumed with anger, till I couldn’t stand it anymore. I yelled at them, I can’t remember what I said exactly, but it wasn’t pleasant, and then I ran out of the restaurant. I’ve never felt so angry in my whole life.’
The Hollow Woman Page 13
