***
The Rivenby Constabulary was buzzing with activity when Thomas arrived the next morning. All the desks were occupied, as uniformed constables set about the various tasks assigned by DCI Kent. Thomas had been charged with the sole objective of discovering the identity of Lucy Bardwell’s lover. Every single student at Emmeline Hinch-Billings’s secretarial school needed to be interviewed, with their stories double checked. Although Thomas had never participated in a murder inquiry before, he was duly impressed with DCI Kent’s organised assignment of tasks. He compared the process with the casting of a net over Lucy Bardwell’s entire life. Once everything was covered, the police would reel the net in, hopefully with a murderer ensnared in its centre.
DCI Kent wove through the throng of men, his coat over his arm. When he saw Thomas he nodded, pointing at the door. Thomas met him there. ‘You’re with me.’
‘Where are we going?’
‘Hendleigh. We are going to speak with Ambrose Bardwell.’ DCI Kent tossed Thomas the keys. ‘You drive.’
Ambrose Bardwell lived on a quiet street, in a row of detached houses with small swathes of lawn in front. The houses were all neatly kept, the only incongruity the occasional vegetable patch. Other than an old woman carrying a shopping bag, Thomas didn’t see a soul and reckoned most of the residents were at work. They approached the cottage and knocked on the front door. Nothing happened. Thomas knocked again, and called, ‘Police, Mr Bardwell. We need to speak to you.’
They heard movement inside. Out of the corner of his eye, Thomas saw a curtain flutter. He knocked again. ‘Mr Bardwell? Please. We must speak to you.’
‘All right. Give me a minute,’ a voice growled behind the door.
They heard shuffling, the sound of something being knocked over, followed by a mumbled curse. A man on crutches opened the door.
‘Ambrose Bardwell?’ DCI Kent stepped forward. ‘DCI Kent. Rivenby Constabulary.’
Ambrose Bardwell gazed at Thomas and DCI Kent through red-rimmed eyes. Thomas was struck by the sense of utter defeat he saw there. Dark stubble covered his face. When he spoke, his voice was surprisingly cultured.
‘How can I help you?’
‘We’re here about your sister, Lucy,’ DCI Kent said.
‘Lucy? What’s she done now? Better come in.’ When he moved out of their way, Thomas noticed Ambrose Bardwell’s right leg was missing from the knee down. As if reading Thomas’s mind, he said, ‘Lost it at Dunkirk. Nearly lost my life. Follow me.’
DCI Kent and Thomas fell into step behind the man, who led them down a dark hallway and into a well-lit, spanking clean kitchen.
‘Tea?’
‘Thank you,’ DCI Kent said.
Thomas took out his notebook, knowing DCI Kent would expect him to play amanuensis, despite his utter lack of shorthand skills. They waited while Ambrose made tea. Despite using a crutch with one arm, Mr Bardwell moved around his kitchen with quiet grace. He put out milk, sugar and a plate of what looked like fresh biscuits. Thomas took in the row of copper cooking pans, all polished to a high gleam. A row of tins containing flour and sugar were arranged in an orderly fashion on the shelves. It struck Thomas this was no ordinary kitchen.
‘Did you bake these yourself?’ DCI Kent bit into a biscuit. ‘They are delicious.’
‘I did. Had to find something to do with myself. I’ve been experimenting with biscuit recipes, thinking I might start a company. When the war’s over, of course.’ Ambrose poured himself a cup of tea. ‘Now why are you here? What sort of trouble is my sister involved in now?’
‘When was the last time you saw your sister, Mr Bardwell?’ DCI Kent asked.
An unnameable emotion flashed in Ambrose Bardwell’s eyes. ‘Where’s Lucy?’
‘Please answer my question. I need to know the last time you spoke to her and what she said,’ DCI Kent said.
‘Why? What’s Lucy done? I’m not going to answer any questions until you tell me what’s happened. Where’s my sister?’
Although it seemed a bit cruel, Thomas understood the logic of questioning Ambrose Bardwell before he knew of his sister’s death.
‘I’m afraid your sister is dead, Mr Bardwell.’
Thomas observed Mr Bardwell’s face as it paled in shock. For a moment he thought the poor chap was going to faint. DCI Kent caught his eye and gave his head a subtle shake. They both waited for Ambrose to collect himself. ‘Would someone please get me a glass of water.’ Thomas jumped up and fetched it for him. Ambrose Bardwell took it, raising it to his lips with a shaking hand. Pulling a rumpled handkerchief from his pocket, he held it to his face for a few seconds. Still they waited. When he finally tucked the handkerchief away and met their eyes, Thomas had a flash of insight. He didn’t kill her. Thomas knew this in an instant.
‘How did she die?’ Ambrose finally asked, his voice tremulous as he fought his tears.
Unsettled by the raw emotion, Thomas couldn’t bring himself to look Ambrose Bardwell in the eyes.
DCI Kent cleared his throat. ‘I’m afraid she was murdered.’
Ambrose didn’t move. He sat in his chair at the table, looking straight ahead. He didn’t blink. It seemed as though he barely breathed.
‘I say, are you all right?’ Thomas ignored DCI Kent and moved over to Ambrose Bardwell, whose skin had turned ashen grey. His breathing became shallow and fast. When he wobbled on his chair, Thomas grabbed him.
‘I beg your pardon, gentlemen. I’m going to be sick.’
‘He needs medical attention,’ Thomas said. ‘Mr Bardwell, can you tell us how to reach your doctor?’
‘Number is by the telephone. Hallway.’
‘Take care of him, Thomas,’ DCI Kent said. He hurried into the hallway.
‘I’m going to move you to the floor, Mr Bardwell. Can you put your arms around my neck?’ Once Thomas had arranged Mr Bardwell on the floor, he moved back into the front room and grabbed an old throw rug along with a pillow off the couch. By the time he returned to the kitchen, Mr Bardwell was shaking so hard his teeth were chattering.
‘I’ll be all right in a minute,’ Ambrose said. ‘Not the first time.’
Thomas put a hand on the man’s shoulder, a feeble effort to provide comfort.
By the time the doctor arrived, Ambrose Bardwell had stopped shivering. He lay quietly on the floor, eyes closed, his breathing laboured.
The doctor, a stooped elderly man with a lion’s mane of white hair, squatted down as he took Ambrose’s pulse. ‘This isn’t the first time this has happened. He’s still recovering from his battle scars. Help me get him to bed, would you?’ Thomas and DCI Kent, with the doctor’s close supervision, moved Ambrose Bardwell to his bed. Once he was situated, they waited in the hallway until the doctor finished.
‘I’ve given him an injection. He’ll sleep and wake up fine. I’ll send a nurse over to stay with him over night. He’ll be right as rain tomorrow.’ The old man put the leather case, which held his syringe and his stethoscope, back into his medical bag. He looked at DCI Kent. ‘I know you. You’re a policeman, correct? I testified at one of your cases. Dr Towers? You probably don’t remember me. It was years ago.’ His mood sobered. ‘Why are you here? Why is Ambrose involved with the police?’
‘It’s Lucy. She’s been murdered,’ DCI Kent said.
Thomas saw the sadness wash over the doctor’s face. ‘Oh, that’s terrible. No wonder Ambrose was so shaken. He’s been worried sick about his sister since she left.’
‘Why was he worried about his sister?’ Thomas asked.
The doctor hesitated for a moment.
‘Dr Towers, Lucy was murdered. The more we know about her, the quicker we can find out who killed her. Please. If you know of anything, we’d appreciate it if you would tell us,’ DCI Kent said.
‘I delivered Lucy in that bedroom.’ Dr Towers nodded towards the closed door. ‘She was a feisty one from the day she was born. Her parents and her brother doted on her, spoiled her. Some children quickly learn ho
w to get what they want, if you take my meaning. Lucy was no exception. Ambrose and Lucy lost their parents when Lucy was just 8 years old. Ambrose was 18 at the time, a young man just starting out in life. But he insisted on keeping Lucy himself and taking care of her. The child should have been sent away to school, but Ambrose wouldn’t hear of it. He did his best, but a young girl needs a woman’s influence, especially in their developmental years. When Lucy turned 15 she fell in with a bad crowd. Ambrose did his best …’ Dr Towers let his words trail off.
Out of the blue, DCI Kent asked, ‘Could Ambrose have killed his sister?’
‘God no,’ Dr Towers blurted. He took a deep breath and shook his head. ‘I understand human nature, DCI Kent. Seemingly good people commit murder when pushed to their limit. But Ambrose Bardwell went through hell at Dunkirk. Do you know how he lost his leg? He refused to leave his injured men. He went back into danger four times to retrieve his injured comrades. Slung them over his shoulder and carried them out, surviving the ordeal by divine grace. He got shot in the leg while he was carrying the third man to safety. Despite his injuries, he went back for the fourth man, and nearly died trying to save him.’
‘That will change a man,’ Thomas said.
‘It will indeed,’ Dr Towers agreed.
‘What about Lucy?’ DCI Kent persisted.
‘I’m betting that Lucy had a lover,’ Dr Tower said. He hesitated for just a moment, as if he wanted to say something more. ‘Forgive me if I’ve shocked you, but she was the type. Spent her money on fancy clothes and garish make-up. Tried to make herself look like a film star. Lucy had a penchant for married men. She liked the chase.’
‘Do you happen to know who Lucy’s lovers were?’
Dr Towers shook his head. ‘I’m sorry. A bit out of touch.’
DCI Kent shook Dr Towers hand. ‘Thank you, sir. We may need to speak with you again. Meanwhile, if you can think of anything else, I’d appreciate a telephone call.’
‘Very well.’ Dr Towers followed them out. They watched as he headed down the hallway and out the front door.
‘Now all we need to do is find Lucy’s lover,’ DCI Kent said.
‘Possibly,’ Thomas agreed.
***
When Thomas and DCI Kent returned to the constabulary, they discovered three constables working at the desks, transcribing reports from the notes they had taken during the countless interviews and leads they had followed. George Hinks sat off by himself, reading the newspaper.
‘Excuse me while I find something to occupy Hinks,’ DCI Kent said, his voice laced with sarcasm.
One of the constables noticed them coming in, picked up a piece of paper from his desk and headed over to Thomas.
‘Sir, there’s a message for you.’
‘Thank you.’ Thomas read the message. It was from Stephen Templeton.
‘He said it was urgent,’ the constable said.
Heart pounding, Thomas walked back to his desk and returned Stephen’s call.
‘Thomas, is that you?’ He didn’t give Thomas a chance to answer. ‘Oh, Thomas. I’ve made a dreadful mistake. It’s Evan Fletcher, the lad who accompanied me when I delivered the chalice. He came today to make the delivery.’
‘What?’ Thomas cried out, causing everyone to look in his direction. ‘What do you mean?’
‘The real Evan Fletcher – and I’ve checked his credentials, of that you can be certain – showed up at my door two hours ago. He said he received a telegram changing the date of the transport. It seems the young man whom I thought was my security detail was a fraud.’
‘You sound awfully calm about this,’ Thomas said.
‘I seriously doubt anyone could get into your safe, Thomas. Just continue to be diligent. I am sure all will be well.’
‘And if it isn’t?’ Thomas snapped. ‘Never mind. I’ll call you back.’ He hung up the phone, grabbed his coat and ran all the way home.
By the time he turned up the drive, sweat dampened his shirt. His lungs felt as though they were about to burst, and his regret at agreeing to guard the chalice grew by the second. He burst through the front door of his house and hurried to his study, knowing what he would find from the minute he received Stephen Templeton’s news.
The missus sat at his desk, her head bowed as she wept. ‘This is all my fault.’
Thomas hurried over to her and put a comforting hand on her shoulder. He didn’t need to look at the safe. Didn’t need to see the door hanging open and the empty inside of it taunting him, like some ill-timed jape.
Chapter 12
Dusk fell just as Hugh stepped off the bus, the rucksack slung over his shoulder. Any curiosity he had about the mysterious thing his wife had stolen was overcome by his utter exhaustion. He trudged back to his cottage, mindful of his aching back and sore feet, knowing tomorrow he would pay for the hours he spent sitting on the ground. Eventually the pain would be better. Even though he wasn’t sure what Margaret had stolen, or how it would help him get vengeance for Martin’s suicide, he felt smug pleasure at besting his wife. He would have paid dearly to see the look on her face once she discovered her treasure had been stolen. Although he may not have any evidence for the police, he was surprised at how much joy he took in thwarting the woman who had made him so miserable for so long.
Now he longed for Vera’s kindly ministrations. How lovely it would be to go right to her cottage, put his feet up, and have a drink while she puttered around the kitchen. He had been tempted on the bus ride home to peek at the contents of his rucksack, but it only seemed fair to share the revelation with Vera. After all, she had encouraged him to find out what Margaret was up to and take control of his life.
Hugh trudged up the stairs and soaked in a hot bath until the water turned cold. As he lay in the tub alone with his thoughts, he wondered how long it would take Margaret to discover her parcel was missing. When the keen pleasure at the day’s shenanigans crept up, Hugh pushed it away. This was not the time for arrogance or over-confidence. He had poked the proverbial hornet’s nest. The situation required caution, lest he get stung. He dressed quickly and had just come downstairs when Vera knocked on the kitchen door. Through the window Hugh could see she carried a basket of food.
He let her in, overwhelmed with the joy he felt at seeing her, and stood watching as she unloaded half a roasted chicken, potatoes, green beans and carrots. His stomach rumbled.
‘I’ve brought dinner. And dessert. Fresh apple pie.’ She set the food on the worktop while Hugh got dinner plates and cutlery out of the dresser.
‘George is home tonight.’ Vera spoke nonchalantly, but something in her voice gave Hugh pause. ‘He’s trying to be kind to me. It’s all very odd.’
‘Have you asked him if anything’s wrong?’
‘No,’ Vera said. ‘He wouldn’t tell me if there were. We don’t talk much, and we certainly don’t share our day-to-day woes. When I grabbed this basket of food and headed over here he wasn’t too pleased. I left him home, eating the lunch leftovers. Would you think me presumptuous if I unpacked this lot and set the table?’
‘Not one bit,’ Hugh said as he brought the rucksack into the kitchen.
‘What have you got there?’
‘I spent my day sitting on the ground in the woods, watching the house Margaret went to yesterday. My back will pay for it tomorrow, let me tell you. In any event, Margaret stole this’ – Hugh nodded at the rucksack – ‘from the house, with the help of her lover. After they buried it in the woods, I dug it up and brought it home.’
‘What’s inside?’ Eyes sparkling, Vera set the plates she held on the table and stood next to Hugh.
‘I don’t know. Let’s find out.’
Hugh pushed the cutlery aside and opened the rucksack. He placed the object, wrapped in the blue velvet scarf he had bought Margaret for Christmas the previous year, on the table.
‘Go ahead, Vera. You do the unveiling.’
Vera unwound the scarf to reveal a faded velvet sack with a drawst
ring. Her hands were those of a worker, with short nails and callouses, so unlike those of his wife, which had never done a day of work. Vera untied the drawstring and peeled the velvet wrapping away. ‘It’s heavy.’ As she held up a heavy gold chalice, they both gasped.
‘My god,’ Hugh said.
‘That’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,’ Vera whispered at the same time. She gingerly touched the rim of it, running her hands over the encrusted jewels, a look of reverence on her face. ‘Do you think this is real gold? This is a religious chalice, Hugh. I’m sure of it. This came from a church somewhere.’
Hugh pulled the velvet wrap back over the chalice and tied the drawstring. What if the police found him in possession of this precious relic? There wasn’t a shred of proof of Margaret’s involvement. The police would think he was the thief and send him to prison. Margaret would have the last laugh after all.
Vera put her hand on his arm. ‘Hugh? What is it?’
‘I can’t believe what an idiot I’ve been. Do you know what will happen to me if the police discover this in my possession? I’ll go to prison, that’s what. For a crime my wife committed.’
‘No. You could return it to its rightful owner and explain what happened.’
Hugh Bettencourt was a man of average intelligence. As a child, he did moderately well at school, but he learned from an early age he was no super intellect, like his older brother and his mother. As an adult, Hugh had always been disgusted by the manipulative games people played as they jockeyed for position in the business world. Whenever Hugh set out to engage in manipulative shenanigans – and he had been forced to try on more than one occasion, thanks to his mother and brother – he always found himself on the losing end of the proposition, the brunt of the joke. Despite this disadvantage, he knew Vera’s idea made perfect sense. As far as Hugh could see, only one thing could go wrong.
House of Lies Page 12
