A Killing in the Family

by David W Robinson

  A pair of wrought iron gates, their stone pillars topped with rampant lions, appeared on the left. Joe braked sharply.

  “Wrong place,” Sheila said.

  “You’re sure?”

  “He said it was on the right.” Sheila pointed ahead, where a high stone wall could be seen, less than a hundred yards away. “That looks more likely.”

  Checking the map, Brenda shrugged. “I think Sheila may be right.”

  “Naturally,” Joe replied tartly. “God forbid that I would get it right.”

  He put the car in gear and drove on, keeping his speed down. With trees overhanging from the inside, the wall ran parallel to the road, blocking off any view of what lay the other side. In full leaf, it seemed to Joe that the oak, larch, beech and elm also blocked out much of the sky, and he dreaded the thought of what it would be like driving along here during the short, dark days of winter.

  Then the wall split for tall, wrought iron gates. A faded bronze plaque on one pillar read, ‘The Sorting House’ while on the other pillar was the mailbox Sir Douglas had told him of, and beneath it, the entry-call system. Nosing into the gateway, Joe stopped at the closed gates, killed the engine and climbed out of the car.

  Near silence greeted him. From some distance away came the sound of sheep bleating. Birds twittered nearby, insects buzzed at the wildflowers growing on the wayside, but there was not a breath of wind to rustle the leaves or break the heat of the summer’s day, and there was not even the sound of a tractor or any other vehicle to cut the silence.

  It was the paradigm of an English idyll; a green and pleasant land, unsullied and unhurried in the face of 21st century bustle, but to Joe, who had been born into and lived all his life in the industrial heartland of West Yorkshire, it was as if he had come to the end of the Earth.

  Feeling like a fish not just out of water, but a million miles from the sea, he suppressed his discomfort and pressed the entry call buzzer.

  There was a long delay before it crackled. “Yes?”

  Joe pressed the button again. “Joe Murray and friends. We’re expected.”

  Above Joe came a familiar, soft whine. He looked up to see a CCTV camera turning slightly right and down to focus on him.

  “Don’t press the button again. Just speak,” came the voice from the speaker in a thick, Scottish burr. The electronically generated harshness made it sound as if the owner was even more irritated than his words had already intimated.

  Obeying the instruction, Joe repeated, “Joe Murray and friends. We’re expected.”

  “Oh, aye? And who’s expecting you?”

  “Sir Douglas Ballantyne, you idiot. Who do you think?”

  “Wait there a minute while I check. Who did you say you were?”

  “Joe Murray. Are you deaf or just daft?”

  “I’m neither, laddie. I’m just not used to you bloody foreigners. Wait there.”

  Silence fell again. Joe looked back at the car and shrugged at his two companions. Almost immediately both doors opened and the two women got out.

  “Too hot to sit in there for hours at a time,” Brenda complained.

  Joe checked his watch and read 12:50. They had left Sanford just after eleven. “Less than two hours,” he told them. “It’s not that long, and the car is a damn sight cooler than The Lazy Luncheonette’s kitchen.”

  “So what’s the problem?” Sheila asked, wafting a Spanish lace fan in front of her face and pointing at the entry-call.

  “Dunno. Whoever I was talking to, he’s gone off to speak to Ballantyne. Called me a bloody foreigner. Damn cheek.”

  “Maybe he doesn’t like Yorkshire folk. Being a Lancastrian and all that.”

  Joe shook his head. “He’s a Jock by the sound of him.”

  Still waving her Spanish fan before her, Sheila tutted. “Politically incorrect, Joe. You mean he’s Scottish.”

  “It’s the same thing, isn’t it?”

  “No it is not. How would you like it if someone called you a Yorkie?”

  Brenda chuckled. “Well he is a bit of a terrier.”

  “Yes, dear, but it’s demeaning to identify people like that.”

  Joe would have picked up the debate to defend himself, but the entry call buzzed again. “Aye, his nibs is expecting you. Get yersel’ back in your car and come on in when the gates open. And don’t fool about, man. The gates shut automatically after a minute.”

  They hurried back to the car, Joe, jumping behind the wheel and starting the engine.

  With a deep whirr, the gates swung slowly open, and he drove through onto a straight, tree-lined avenue. His eyes straying constantly to the mirror to see if the gates really did close automatically (they did) he plodded along the gravel drive, trying to take in the land beyond the trees, but it was almost impossible to see anything thanks to the overhanging, leafy branches. All he got was an impression of open, finely tended grass and woodland beyond.

  The house was situated at the end of the drive, but off to the left, and the trees once again blocked their view. His imagination still running riot with images of a large and imposing British mansion house, he was surprised when he finally turned into a wide, open parking area.

  In his mind’s eye, the imposing manor house was possessed of a flight of concrete entrance steps leading up to huge double doors. In fact, The Sorting House was a long, low building with a ground and upper floor, and its length was all out of proportion to the height. It reminded him of a bunkhouse. Along the upper floor, a line of narrow, leaded windows, some of them with frosted glass, hinted at bedrooms and bathrooms, while below them were larger panes set either side of the single door.

  The building was isolated in the midst of expansive areas of grass and a hundred yards away was a thickly wooded copse. Joe wondered briefly how far the old man’s estate spread. He could see no sign of any other retaining walls.

  The only car parked there was a navy blue Mini-Cooper, and Joe wondered idly about Sir Douglas’s Rolls Royce. A drive led off around the far end of the house, where, presumably, there would be garages, and he guessed it would be there. Scanning the gutter line of the building, Joe noticed CCTV cameras at either end, both trained on the doorway. As he pulled up near the door, and they climbed out of the car, the nearest camera tracked to look at them.

  At ground level, there were concrete and terracotta planters providing a riot of colour along the wall, and behind them Joe noticed a ladder.

  “Too tight to pay a window cleaner,” he commented. “I’ll bet he has the staff do them.”

  “The way we do them at The Lazy Luncheonette?” Brenda asked.

  “You only do the inside. I don’t make you climb ladders outside, do I?”

  The dark, timber door, broader than an average front door, opened and Sir Douglas came out to greet them. He looked cool in a pair of white, casual flannels and an open-necked, pale blue shirt, with a white panama hat to keep the sun at bay. Behind him was a tall, sombrely attired, portly and sour-faced manservant.

  Approaching Joe, he removed the earphone of his mp3 player. “Led Zeppelin,” he said and then shook hands with each of them. “Joe, Sheila, Brenda. So glad you could make it. Alistair, my man, will show you to your rooms. Alistair. Take our guests’ bags, please.”

  “Do I look like a bloody pack mule, man. They’ll carry their own.” Joe recognised him as the voice on the entry call.

  Sir Douglas smiled apologetically. “You’ll have to excuse Alistair. He’s getting a bit arthritic.”

  The heavily-set Alistair, whom Joe judged to be in his sixties, scowled by return. “Aye, and you’ll have to excuse Doogie. He’s getting a bit senile. All that Led Zeppelin and Black Sabbath rotting his brain. Trust me, you’d be better off staying at the local pub.”

  “Ignore him,” Sir Douglas said. “He’s just a crabby old bugger.”

  “Better crabby than crackers,” Alistair retorted.

  “If you want to get yourselves settled in, I’ll see you on the end terrace in abou
t a quarter of an hour and we can have a bite to eat and a natter, eh?” Plugging his earphones back in, Sir Douglas waved vaguely towards the far end of the building, then ambled off in that direction.

  Joe picked up his own small suitcase and Sheila’s, and notwithstanding his earlier refusal, Alistair took Brenda’s and led them into the house where a spacious hall cut off in three directions to parts of the ground floor. Set awkwardly in the centre, was a staircase, which turned through ninety degrees half way up.

  “Used to be separate houses,” Alistair explained, “but the old eejit had it all converted into one large house. Easier for him to keep an eye on his brats at the time. Now it’s just more walking around for me and the missus.”

  He led the way up the staircase.

  “The missus?” Brenda asked.

  “Aye. She’s the cook. I’m the bottlewasher.”

  To Joe’s surprise, the landing was one long corridor running from end to end with doors on both sides. Showing Sheila and Brenda to their room near the far end, the butler then doubled back and led Joe to a room just to the right of the staircase.

  “The silly old bugger wants you in here, right opposite himself.” Alistair gestured at a door on the other side of the corridor, and slightly to Joe’s left. “God knows why. You don’t look much like a bodyguard.”

  Having had enough of Alistair’s offhand attitude, Joe fought back. “You don’t look much like a butler come to that. They’re usually more respectful to their employers and guests.”

  “Aye, but if anyone thinks I’m gonna bow and kowtow to the likes of him or you, they’ve another think coming. I tell it like it is, man.”

  “So do I,” Joe promised and dragging his small suitcase behind him, stepped into his room. “Who told you I was a bodyguard?”

  “Considering you’re the famous detective, I’ll leave you to work it out.”

  If Joe described his suitcase as small, it was a description which would fit the room, too. A double window, one side open to admit fresh summer air, also let in light, cast onto a single divan bed. An ageing, G-plan wardrobe stood against the wall alongside the window, and next to it, at right angles was a three-drawer dresser. Alongside the bed was a wooden, dining room chair on which stood a bedside lamp.

  “I told you, you’d be better off in the pub, didn’t I?”

  Determined to derail the cynical manservant, Joe shook his head. “No. This is just fine.”

  “You’re easily pleased, too,” Alistair noted. “When you’re ready, the end terrace is out through the drawing room or the dining room. Get to the bottom of the stairs, double back on yourself, and they’re on the left.” With that, he left and closed the door behind him.

  Joe crossed to the window and looked out. His view was of the rear of the house, a small courtyard with three garages to the left and two other sheds to the right of an open gateway. The white Rolls Royce, which Joe had wondered about when he parked out front, stood in the centre of the yard, and the driver, wearing overalls rather than his chauffeur’s uniform, was vigorously washing it down with a large sponge. Through the open doors of the other garages, Joe could see the front grille and bonnet of another limousine, a black modern Jaguar this time, and what looked like an old, E-type Jaguar.

  The sheds on the other side were closed, but as he watched, a middle-aged woman came out carrying a basket of laundry, and after calling something to the chauffeur, stepped into one of the sheds.

  Looking further out, above and beyond the roofs of the garages and outhouses, all he could see was a narrow strip of the same finely tended lawns as he had seen out front, where a gardener’s ride-on mower stood idle, and beyond that, more woodland.

  Coming back, perching on the edge of the mattress, which sank beneath his meagre weight, Joe examined his early impressions.

  It seemed to him that Sir Douglas had everything. Land, flash and expensive cars, staff to look after him, and a life in an unspoiled, rural setting. Their exchanges so far had led him to conclude that despite Alistair’s cynical conclusions, the old man was no fool. He was getting on in years, he would probably contemplate death on a regular, if not daily basis, and he would undoubtedly have made provision for his family and staff.

  Why then, would anyone want to murder him? Why would anyone threaten him with murder?

  He had spent the last three evenings poring over the A4 sheets Sir Douglas had left with him, but they told him nothing. There were no spelling errors – often a useful device for comparison purposes – the messages were unambiguous if a little esoteric with mentions of a pagan festival. The reason they had been formed from letters cut from newspapers was obvious to Joe, if not to Sir Douglas. Printed through a computer, they could be traced. Clipped from what were probably the daily newspapers delivered to the house, no one would be any the wiser unless they were caught in the act of taking scissors to them.

  He tossed his suitcase on the bed, unzipped it, and began unpacking. There were questions he had to ask, and now, while Sir Douglas was alone, was the time to ask them.

  Chapter Three

  The construction of the house was even stranger than Alistair had hinted.

  Reaching the bottom of the stairs, turning back on himself as the butler had instructed, he passed through the first door on the left, and found himself in the drawing room, a spacious area, dotted with comfortable, Chesterfield armchairs, a couple of settees, a card table, occasional table, and a large sideboard with an impressive array of decanters. The French windows were open to the summer air, and walking out through them Joe found himself on the paved side terrace. Facing roughly south, the sun blazing down. After the cool of the interior, the heat hit him like a hammer.

  The terrace was dotted with several sets of white tables and matching chairs. Sir Douglas sat with Sheila and Brenda at one of the nearer ones. Joining them, Joe looked back at the house and was surprised to find that this side was at least as long as the east-facing one which overlooked the parking area.

  “Alistair was right,” Sir Douglas explained. “The place is the result of linking several houses. In fact, these were all tied cottages at one time. The farm was way over there, somewhere.” He waved vaguely up and beyond the house. “They’d been empty for some time when my father bought the land, and I suggested turning them all into one giant building.” He pointed specifically at the upper floor on this south side. “Those are the staff quarters: Alistair and his wife Marlene, Dennis, the chauffeur gardener, and the others who help about the place.”

  “I didn’t notice the upper landing turning any corner,” Joe said.

  “Glad to see you’re as observant as I’ve been led to believe. It doesn’t. The staff and family don’t mix on the upper floor, Joe.” Sir Douglas chuckled and placed his mp3 player on the table, next to his smartphone. “A bit snooty, I know, but it wasn’t my doing. My old dad was a dyed in the wool, tub-thumping, religious zealot, and he believed that the servants should never be allowed to mix with their masters in case it led to, er, forgive me, ladies, fornication, so he had the access bricked off at this end of the staff accommodation.” He laughed again. “Old Alistair plays hell about it. To get from his room to mine is a walk of about ten yards, but he has to go down the stairs, through the kitchen, and back up the stairs at the front of the house.”

  Joe approved. “It should be good for his arthritis.”

  “He doesn’t see it like that.”

  “So how much of this is yours, Sir Douglas?” Brenda asked, gesturing at the land.

  Joe followed her pointing fingers and all he could see was pristine lawn, interspersed with an occasional solitary magnolia or small oak. The tractor-mower he had seen at the rear of the house had now come to the side, the driver, the same man he had seen washing the Rolls Royce, guiding it along from left to right and vice versa.

  Further over, towards the main gates, he could see another man swinging a golf club.

  Sir Douglas extended his right arm and, palm flat, ran it from le
ft to right until he had covered all the lawn and woods they could see. “Round the back and the other end, too. All up, it comes to about five hundred acres.”

  Sheila pursed her lips. “All belonging to you?”

  Joe had heard that tone from Sheila before, and it signalled her disapproval.

  If Sir Douglas noticed her annoyance, he ignored it. “In fact, Sheila, it’s listed as part of Ballantyne Mail Order’s assets. I’m simply the figurehead; the chief executive.”

  “What’s the other side of the woods?” Joe asked in an effort to ward off any potential political argument with Sheila.

  “The retaining wall. There’s also a stream that runs through the woods. Joins the Calder a bit further west of here, and if you know your geography, the Calder eventually joins the Ribble near Whalley. You have to be careful not to step into the stream. The water’s not deep, but damned cold at the wrong time of year.” Obviously relishing the opportunity to explain, Sir Douglas licked his lips. “As I said, my father bought the place and the land, and the story he used to tell was the local wildlife was at the mercy of poachers, and the local hunt. He walled the place in to stop that. Those woods are given over to the animals that live there: fox, badger, small rodents and mammals, God knows how many different types of bird, and there’s even a rumour of fish in the stream. Not being a fisherman, I couldn’t swear to it, mind.”

  “You don’t consider that a security hazard, obviously,” Joe pointed out, eager to come away from the not-so-interesting family history.

  Sir Douglas pointed again at the nearest trees. “On the perimeter here, the woods are not so dense, but as you get further in, it’s like trekking through the Burma jungle. No one in his right mind would try to breach the property from those three sides. The only safe way onto our lands is from the main gates. We call in a lumber company every ten years or so and have a bit of a clear out, but other than that, as I say, the woodland belongs to the wildlife.” Facing Sheila directly, his candid gaze fixing hers, he said, “You see, Mrs Riley, we may be hardened capitalists, and one of the wealthiest families in Great Britain, but we’re not complete ogres. We like to see the company in the black, and some people would call our profits obscene, but we plough much of it back into the community and the environment.”