House of Lies

by Terry Lynn Thomas

  ‘Didn’t hear talk, but I saw her in the woods with a gentleman. They was carrying on, kissing. It was right embarrassing, I’ll tell you. And I’d recognise him if I was to see him again. Older man, much older than Lucy.’ Bede shook her head. ‘I reckon the poor lass thought the man would marry her.’

  Thomas took down a few more details and assured Bede he would look into Lucy Bardwell’s disappearance. Anxious to get away from prying ears, he walked her outside. Once they were away from the building, he spoke.

  ‘I’m going to marry Cat.’

  Bede patted his arm. ‘You two are good for each other. If I may say so, Mrs Carlisle should be married. She needs a husband to keep her out of trouble. I’m not judging you, Mr Charles. It’s not like Cat hasn’t been married before. And a man like you – well, I’m sure you’re no stranger to love. But Rivenby is a small village. You’d best be careful. Both of you. People do like to talk.’

  ‘Thank you, Bede. We’ll heed your advice.’

  ‘Good day. Thank you for helping with Lucy Bardwell.’

  Back inside, George Hinks was on the telephone, busily writing a message. Not trusting Hinks, Thomas read over his shoulder. A Colin Whittaker had reported his car stolen. Hinks wrote down the man’s address.

  ‘Got it, sir. I’ll be right over to take your report.’ Hinks hung up the phone and stood. ‘Right. I’m off.’

  ‘No,’ Thomas said. ‘When a call such as this comes in, you wait for DCI Kent to decide how to proceed.’

  ‘Where do you get off telling me what to do?’ Hinks stood, eyes blazing.

  ‘I’m pulling rank on you, Hinks. You’ll wait for DCI Kent.’

  ‘And if I don’t?’

  Two constables who had just arrived on shift noticed the tension between the two older men. Not wanting to set a bad example, Thomas stepped close to Hinks and spoke in a soft voice. ‘You don’t want to fight with me, Hinks. You won’t win. Now stand down and wait for DCI Kent.’

  George Hinks stepped away from Thomas just as DCI Kent arrived.

  ‘Good morning,’ DCI Kent said. With narrowed eyes, he looked at Hinks and Thomas. ‘What’s happened?’

  Hinks spoke first. ‘Colin Whittaker called, sir. Said his car had been stolen. Mr Charles was going to go and speak with him, but I thought it would be best to wait until you arrived.’

  Thomas closed his eyes, took a deep breath. ‘Morning, sir,’ he said to DCI Kent before he turned on his heel and walked back to his desk. He picked up the report he had taken about Lucy Bardwell and had just tucked it into the top drawer of his desk, when DCI Kent called out to him.

  ‘Thomas, you’re with me. We’ll go to Colin Whittaker’s. Hinks, I’d like you to go the file room and start getting things in order.’

  Ignoring Hinks’s glare, Thomas followed DCI Kent out of the building. ‘I’ll pay for that, you know,’ he muttered as they made their way outside.

  ***

  DCI Kent slowed down the car, waiting for two boys as they chased a ball into the roadway. He rolled down his window and called to them, ‘Good thing I was able to slow down. Look before you run into the road, lads.’ The boys saluted him, and ran off, tossing the ball between them.

  ‘Am I correct in assuming Hinks didn’t quite relay the facts correctly this morning?’ he asked Thomas. ‘And I know you’re reluctant to speak ill of a colleague, loyalty and honour and all that. But if you think he’s doing more harm than good, I’d prefer to know. I can’t watch all my officers every minute.’

  Thomas had learned early on in life the best course of action was to keep out of trouble and keep your mouth shut. But DCI Kent deserved to know Hinks wasn’t quite up to the job.

  As if to encourage Thomas to speak, DCI Kent said, ‘I don’t trust him, either, Tom. He seems to be lazy. Probably won’t last another month, between the two of us. Wouldn’t have hired him at all, if I weren’t so desperate.’

  ‘He doesn’t respect the job. And he certainly doesn’t understand the chain of command,’ Thomas said. ‘If I were you, I would be reluctant to put him out in the field. He’s the type who acts without thinking things through. Makes me nervous.’

  ‘Agreed.’ DCI Kent downshifted around a tight corner, only to speed up as they hit the open roadway. ‘What’s on your mind, Tom? You’ve been distracted all week. Is it something to do with the job?’

  Thomas and DCI Kent were cut from the same cloth, both were stoic and both had seen their fair share of human suffering. They had worked together over the past year and even though DCI Kent was Thomas’s superior, Thomas trusted Kent and knew that he could be discreet.

  ‘Cat Carlisle and I are going to marry.’

  ‘Congratulations!’ DCI Kent looked at Thomas out of the corner of his eye. ‘And that has you worried?’

  ‘No, sir,’ Thomas said. ‘She’s opened a refuge – for a lack of a better word – for women who have been battered by their husbands. These women she’s helping live at Saint Monica’s while they train for a job at Emmeline Hinch-Billings’s school. When they graduate, Cat helps them get situated in a new city.’

  ‘A noble endeavour, but a bit risky.’

  ‘I know. I’ve offered to find men to work as security guards, but she won’t hear of it.’

  ‘But that’s not what’s troubling you,’ DCI Kent said. ‘Come on, old boy. Let’s have it.’

  ‘Alice Grenville is currently in residence.’

  ‘What? Good god, man, does Cat know who she’s dealing with? That’s just what we need while we are so short of men. Bloody Michael Grenville in Rivenby. I swear, Tom, that woman is going to drive me to an asylum. She is like a match and a can of petrol, all wrapped up in one tidy package.’

  ‘You need to be discreet, sir,’ Thomas said. ‘The security of Saint Monica’s is in the secrecy.’

  ‘How did Alice Grenville manage to find Cat?’

  ‘She wound up in Cliff’s garage, barefoot and beaten. Cat and Cliff are childhood friends, in case you’re wondering. A lorry driver found Mrs Grenville on the side of the road on the outskirts of London and drove her here. Of course, Cliff called Cat, who took her in. To make matters worse, for the past couple of days, I feel as though I’m being watched.’ Thomas wanted to tell DCI Kent about the figure in the shrubs but decided against it.

  ‘Okay. Thank you for telling me. I’ll trust you to monitor the situation, and I’ll expect complete candour from Mrs Carlisle. If there is so much of a hint of Michael Grenville’s presence, I’ll expect to be told.’

  ‘Understood,’ Thomas said.

  ‘You’ve heard of Colin Whittaker, I take it?’ DCI Kent asked.

  ‘The novelist? I wondered if that was the same bloke. I read all of his books as a young lad,’ Thomas said. He knew that the famous author lived around Rivenby, but rumour had it the old man was a recluse and didn’t much like visitors, so Thomas had never met him in person. DCI Kent turned down a narrow lane, obscured by an overgrowth of shrubs and wild climbing vines that wove around the thick tree trunks like so many serpents. They bumped along the rutted road for half a mile, before Colin Whittaker’s house came into view. Named after Colin’s first novel, Raven’s Glass was an old stone house, with chipped paint and even a boarded-up window on the second floor. Someone had attempted a vegetable garden, but only half of it had been cleared and some sorry-looking cabbages were all that managed to grow.

  As they rolled to a stop, Colin Whittaker – trailed by three Labrador Retrievers – came from around the back of the house, moving rather quickly in spite of his cane. One of the dogs saw a squirrel and took off after it. In a frenzy of gleeful barking, the other two dogs followed.

  ‘DCI Kent.’ He waited while the men got out of the car. ‘Thank you for coming so quickly. And you are?’

  Thomas extended his hand. ‘Thomas Charles, sir.’

  The old man squinted at him. ‘Are you the same Thomas Charles who writes about the religious houses?’

  ‘Yes,’ Thomas said.
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  ‘I enjoy your writing style. I’m afraid your trip was wasted, however.’

  ‘Was your car stolen, sir?’ DCI Kent asked.

  ‘Yes, it was. Follow me.’

  They followed him around the back of the house to a separate building, which served as the garage, to see a blue Vauxhall parked out front, a young boy polishing it.

  ‘This young man is Blue. Arrived from London three weeks ago. He’s been staying with me, helping me out around the house. We’re starting a garden, but Blue here prefers to take care of the car.’

  The young boy stopped polishing long enough to grin at Thomas and DCI Kent. ‘He’s going to let me drive it someday.’

  DCI Kent laughed in spite of himself.

  ‘The car was gone this morning, wasn’t it, Blue?’ Colin asked.

  ‘Yes, sir. We was going into Hendleigh today, but the car was gone.’ The boy tucked his polishing rag into his back pocket and leaned against the car. Thomas guessed him to be about 12 years old. He had a thick thatch of blond hair and bright inquiring eyes. ‘And then after breakfast, I came out and here it was.’

  ‘Was anything taken or damaged?’ Thomas walked around the car.

  ‘Not a thing,’ Colin said.

  ‘It smelled though,’ the boy said.

  ‘What do you mean?’ DCI Kent said. ‘What did it smell like, Blue?’

  He squinted in disgust. ‘Smelled like a girl.’

  ‘Interesting, isn’t it, lads? Seems a woman stole my car.’ He laughed. ‘I’d like to meet her. Wonder what she did with it? I would bet there’s intrigue afoot.’ He rubbed his hands together. ‘I feel a new novel coming on. Always wanted to write about a female spy.’

  ‘Girls can’t be spies,’ Blue said. ‘They’re stupid.’

  Thomas opened the door of the car and sat down in the driver’s seat. The boy was right. The car smelled of perfume, a heady combination of roses, vanilla and something else – orange?

  ‘Could the car have been stolen last night?’ Thomas asked.

  Colin shrugged. ‘Could have. Haven’t driven it for a couple of days.’

  ‘It was there yesterday,’ Blue said.

  ‘We can take a report, Mr Whittaker, if you’d like,’ DCI Kent said. ‘But I advise you to keep the car in the garage, with the door locked for the time being.’

  ‘You think the thief will come back?’ he asked.

  ‘We’ll be ready for her next time. Won’t we?’ Blue turned and looked up at the old man.

  ‘We will indeed,’ Colin said. He extended his hand first to DCI Kent and then to Thomas. ‘Sorry to bring you out here on a fool’s errand.’

  ‘Not a fool’s errand, Mr Whittaker,’ DCI Kent said. ‘Call us any time.’

  Neither one of them spoke until DCI Kent turned onto the main road. ‘Well, what do you think?’

  Thomas let out his breath. ‘This morning I noticed a figure crouched in the shrubs near my house. I gave chase, but they drove off in what looked like a blue Vauxhall.’

  ‘Colin Whittaker’s blue Vauxhall?’ DCI Kent asked.

  Thomas shook his head. ‘Not sure. Could be. But now that I think about it, it wasn’t a man who jumped in the car.’

  ‘A woman?’

  ‘Yep,’ Thomas said.

  ‘That’s curious. The bad news is that we may have a car thief in Rivenby. The good news is that in all likelihood she doesn’t have anything to do with Michael Grenville. Wonder what she was doing at your house. Trying to steal your car? Your Hornet Coupe would be quite a treasure to a car thief.’

  ‘During the course of my travels, I met an historian who has made it his life’s work to help his friends in the occupied territories keep their historic and religious art safe. My attic has been hosting an assorted collection of interesting but not too valuable pieces. I’ve recently acquired a solid gold medieval chalice. I’ve been wondering if someone is out to steal it. God knows, Beck – my valet – is sure we are going to be robbed. Up until yesterday, I had dismissed his fears, thinking he was just enjoying the excitement of guarding something valuable. But something doesn’t feel right.’ Thomas sighed and rubbed his eyes. ‘And there you have it. I can’t be certain that Colin Whittaker’s car was the same blue car in front of my house. And why not leave the car somewhere for the police to find? I don’t understand why the thief would return it back to Whittaker. It makes no sense,’ Thomas said.

  ‘Doesn’t make sense yet, but I imagine it will at some point. And I trust your instincts, old boy. You’re not the sort who’s given to superstitions. If someone’s watching your house, Tom, someone’s watching you. Let’s keep our wits about us. In due time we will know who.’

  Chapter 9

  The frigid morning air brought Hugh out of his drunken sleep. When he opened his eyes, blinding shards of white searing pain shot through his body. He sat up, took in the empty bottle of Scotch on the floor and remembered drinking the last of it straight from the bottle. He had never made it up to bed. His neck hurt, and he knew his lower back would chime in with pain at some point within the next few hours. The curtain fluttered from the window he had foolishly left open. The news clipping about Martin’s suicide had wedged itself under one of the cushions. Hugh picked it up and with fumbling fingers tried to smooth it out, the agony of his friend’s death heavy on his heart.

  And then he remembered Margaret and her role in Martin’s suicide. The rage that he had tried so hard to obliterate by getting drunk returned, worse this time, like a bad rash. It thrummed in his belly. Damn his mother. Damn his wife. He had to do something to avenge Martin. On standing, his knees wobbled, and he sat down before he collapsed. This wasn’t the first time he had drunk himself stupid. Clenching his fists until his fingernails dug into the soft flesh of his palm, he waited for the pain to sober him. Today he would pay for last night’s self-pity, but he would take the hangover as a form of penance. He stood again, waited until the floor stopped moving, and by sheer willpower closed the window. It took him an hour to rouse himself long enough to splash cold water on his face and dress for a day of outdoor activity.

  Desperate for any information about Martin, Hugh searched Margaret’s room once more. Determined to be more thorough, Hugh opened the wardrobe and was taken aback for a moment at the two shimmering evening dresses she had left behind, gowns that would have no place whatsoever in Rivenby society. He ran his fingers along the top shelf, but didn’t find anything. Turning, he faced the room, his eyes lighting on the writing desk. Rifling through the drawers, he found nothing. A tablet of expensive linen paper lay on the top, words pressed into the blank page. Margaret always had a heavy hand with a pen. Thinking of his childhood etchings from long ago, Hugh tore the page off and took it down to the kitchen. Ignoring his desperation for tea, he took a pencil and rubbed over the remnants of Margaret’s scrawling penmanship. Saint Monica’s. Rivenby.

  Hugh had never heard of Saint Monica’s. He imagined it was an old church and wondered why his wife had written it down. He kept the paper on the table as he prepared his eggs and toast, glancing at it every once in a while, as if waiting for some revelation. Once he had eaten and cleared up the breakfast things, he grabbed the paper and his coat and headed to Vera’s.

  Vera. He’d ask her for help. If nothing else, he’d tell her about his situation. Even if she couldn’t help him, at least he would get a wee bit of sympathy from her. Hugh’s life had been very short on sympathy of late.

  The frosty grass crunched under his feet as he walked across the lawn to her house. This morning smoke curled from her chimney, a promise of warmth and good smells in the kitchen. Yesterday she had cleared a space in her greenhouse and together they had started cabbages, shallots, broad peas and a myriad of other vegetables that would stay tucked away over the cold winter months.

  ‘This patch can be yours to care for and use. I’ll show you how to tend to it.’ At the end of the day, Hugh’s muscles ached from all the bending. The simple life suited him, and he had every
intention of settling into it. After he avenged Martin’s death.

  Vera opened the door and greeted him with a smile before he had a chance to knock. ‘Good morning. Come in. Have you had breakfast? Are you quite all right?’ She put a cold hand on his forehead. ‘You look a bit rough.’

  He inhaled the scent of apples and spice and Vera herself.

  Best be honest and get right to it. ‘No, I am not.’

  ‘Would you like breakfast?’

  ‘No, thanks. I’ve already eaten. I’m hoping for some advice, actually.’

  ‘Have a seat. I’ll be happy to listen as long as you don’t mind if I peel apples while we talk.’

  She sat across from him, took an apple from the pile and started to peel it. When she was finished, she set the peeled apple in a bowl and reached for another.

  ‘My wife blackmailed my best friend. He committed suicide.’ Hugh let the words hang in the air. Vera stopped peeling for a moment. She watched him, a spiral of apple skin hanging from the blade.

  Disgusted with himself, he regretted every minute of his marriage to Margaret. ‘I’m in a mess, Vera. I feel like I should go to the police.’

  Vera set the apple peeler down and reached across the table, covering Hugh’s hand with her own. ‘Start from the beginning. You’ll feel better for the telling of it, promise.’

  For the first time in twenty-seven years, Hugh Bettencourt spilled his troubles. He spoke of Margaret’s underhanded financial dealings, the blackmail of Martin Shoreham and Martin’s suicide. ‘We’ve basically led separate lives for the past few years. I’ve let her have her freedom. That was easier than taking her in hand. We would go months without seeing each other. I thought – hoped, if I’m honest – maybe she had died or had ran off to America with someone. She’s always talking about going to America. I found this.’ He pushed the paper from Margaret’s blotter across the table. ‘I smudged it with a pencil. Do you know anything about Saint Monica’s? I’ve no idea what she’s up to. Apparently, she’s after an inheritance of some sort. She manipulated me into coming here.’ Hugh looked at Vera, meeting her eyes. ‘I’m glad she did, be sure of that. We’re divorcing. It can’t happen soon enough, as far as I am concerned, but I have to avenge my friend’s death. I’ll never forgive myself for what Margaret’s done.’