The Longest Shadow

by R. J. Mitchell

  “Get in there!” answered Thoroughgood out loud.

  Questions fired off in his head. Not least, how had Macintosh come by the hugely valuable Roxburgh family heirloom. Why had he chosen to use it to escape his failed attempt to blow Robert Roxburgh’s brains out? But the DS did not have time to let the magnificent machine prove a time-consuming diversion from his real quarry.

  Moments later, having reluctantly left the Brough, Thoroughgood smashed the back door open with a combination of spade work and several boots from his size tens.

  ‘Where do I begin?’ asked the voice in his head helpfully. ‘Think man, think,’ he told himself, surveying the front room. ‘Come on, Gus, he’s the estate manager so he must have an office in his place.’

  “Upstairs,” said the DS aloud and took the steps two at a time.

  Sure enough there was an office nestled under the eaves. A paper-strewn desk had a laptop peeking out from under a pile of correspondence. However, despite rifling his way through all the paperwork and desk drawers, and searching for any secret compartments, Thoroughgood drew a blank. The rest of the office was similarly disappointing.

  He made his way into the main bedroom and continued to systematically rifle his way through Macintosh’s wardrobes and cupboards. Nothing.

  ‘What about the toilet cistern?’ he asked himself. It was a favourite with drug dealers and if the diary was kept secure and watertight in a plastic container then it was as good a hiding place as any.

  Thoroughgood charged into the bathroom, his anticipation growing by the minute. He snatched at the cistern lid and almost dropped it in his haste. He needn’t have bothered, it was empty. The spare bedroom also yielded nothing and Thoroughgood bounded back down the stairs and stood in the hall, running his hand through his hair as his frustration grew by the minute.

  Looking through the glass door into the lounge, he observed a shotgun cabinet. Quickly, Thoroughgood retrieved the spade from the kitchen and returned to the locked cabinet. He swung the spade in a precise arc and the doors burst open.

  Behind three padlocked and secure shotguns lay a canvas shoulder bag. Thoroughgood grabbed it by the strap and removed it from the cabinet. As he ran his hands over it he could feel a rectangular outline emerge. ‘Probably a sandwich box,’ said the voice in his head. Thoroughgood sat down on a large armchair and unbuckled the bag, emptying the contents onto the carpet in front of him. With a thud a faded, navy blue book fell out. He flipped it over and read its title aloud, “LVR War Diary Vol III: 1942/43. Gotcha!” said Thoroughgood triumphantly.

  But before he could scrutinise its contents the DS noticed the letters ‘TLM’ stitched on the inside of the canvas bag’s flap.

  “Thomas Ludovic Macintosh,” he said out loud.

  Leafing through the diary, Thoroughgood took a deep breath and tried to slow himself down and introduce some methodology to his search. He knew that what he was looking for was the revelation of what had happened to Ludovic’s paramour, Jill, but he was in no doubt that the outcome would prove to be her murder. What he didn’t understand was why the contents of those pages would resonate with such lethal effect some 70 years or so later?

  Thoroughgood began thumbing his way through the pages and it was clear that some strain was evident in Ludovic’s relationship.

  Have just had word that we will be leaving for Dieppe in May. Must get things patched up with J if I am to be able to think clearly and focus on the job in hand, LVR, Feb 18/42.

  Thoroughgood fingered his way through the next few pages taking care to miss nothing of import. His eyes locked on the entry for April 22, 1942:

  Now the truth is out I still cannot believe it. J is with child. I have been made a laughing stock and have no one to blame but myself, LVR.

  “Bloody hell!” said Thoroughgood.

  Checking his watch he realised he had now been away from the Hall for almost 45 minutes. He pulled his mobile out of his pocket and picked out Hardie’s number. Pressed call. It went straight to voicemail.

  Concern swept through Thoroughgood. The one thing that could be guaranteed about Hardie was that his mobile was on and attached to him as if by an umbilical cord. He picked up the landline, called directory enquiries and tried to reach the Hall, but the number rang out.

  “Shit,” said Thoroughgood, and clutching the diary tight, he ran out of the back door and made straight for the outhouse. Flicking the bike stand up with his right foot, he wheeled it out into the open. It was then that the words spoken by the immortal Lawrence about the machine he would meet his death upon came back to Thoroughgood.

  “A skittish motor-bike with a touch of blood in it is better than all the riding animals on earth,” repeated Thoroughgood. Offering a silent prayer, he applied an easy swing to the kick-starter and fired the low-compression motor without drama. His relief palpable, the DS swung Ludovic Roxburgh’s pride and joy onto the estate road.

  Moments later, having enjoyed the ride of his life, he approached the Hall. Lacking rear drive to steady the machine, Thoroughgood dabbed at the spongy rear footbrake for stability, as he came to a halt outside Roxburgh Hall. Exhilarated by his union with history, his resolve to face whatever the immediate future would throw at him strengthened.

  49

  THOROUGHGOOD CHARGED up the steps and ran under the stone archway, grabbed the wrought iron door handle, turning it with a vicious yank, and was relieved to see the oak door open invitingly. Standing in the entrance foyer, feeling the chill of the flagstones seeping through his brogues, he saw no point in restraint, “Hardie!” shouted the DS.

  Silence.

  “Here we go again,” he muttered and made his way into the Scott lounge, but there was no sign of life there. Retracing his steps he came back out into the entrance hall and this time strode into the library. As he entered he saw the back of a greying head he would recognise anywhere, peeking up above the back of a massive leather settee.

  “Hardie, for crying out loud, are you asleep on the job?” asked Thoroughgood as he walked round to face his friend. Hardie’s eyes were indeed shut, and the DS gripped his mate by the shoulders and gave him a shake, but the only response was a groan. Hardie’s breathing was short and shallow and Thoroughgood glanced over at the coffee table to the left of the settee and spotted a half-empty whisky glass.

  “Bastard’s poisoned him,” said Thoroughgood as a panic swept over him that his mate would meet a similar fate to Alexander Roxburgh.

  Quickly he ran through a mental checklist of the key indicators of cyanide poisoning, ‘cherry-red lips, almond breath, nope – neither of them.’

  Immediately the DS grabbed the jug of water next to the whisky glass and slung some of it over his colleague. Hardie’s eyes opened drowsily and Thoroughgood gave him two mild slaps on either cheek to try and speed his return to consciousness.

  “What the feck . . .?” muttered Hardie as he began to register who stood in front of him.

  “It’s me, faither. You’ve been drugged, old mate. I don’t have time to help you shake it off. I’ve got the diary and although I haven’t had time to read it, the fact it was locked inside Macintosh’s shotgun cabinet is all the proof I need that he is behind this. The whys and wherefores of the diary’s contents can wait. What can’t wait is, where are the Dowager and Vicky?”

  “I dunno,” said Hardie, wiping the water away from his world-weary coupon, “Last I remember was Macintosh bringing me the whisky, and that’s it.”

  “Where did you last see them? Is Vanessa with them?”

  “Nope. Vanessa stayed down at the marquee to supervise the cleanup. When we came up here the Dowager headed for her bedroom and Victoria went up with her to make sure she was fine. When she came back downstairs she said something about wanting to visit her old man’s grave at the bluebell wood, wherever that is. I told her she should stay put and then . . . the whisky and I’m caput,” summed up Hardie.

  “Can you make it onto your feet, Kenny?” asked Thoroughgood and as H
ardie attempted to stand up the DS was forced to grab his arms as his friend almost buckled at the knees.

  “Look, Kenny, I need you to check on the Dowager while I go and find Victoria. By the way, where’s your mobile?” asked Thoroughgood.

  The DC stuck a hand in his suit jacket and fished it out, “Feck, I put it off when we were in the marquee for the launch.”

  “Well, get it on, call Tomachek and get us back-up as soon as you can, old fella. The bluebell wood’s halfway towards the boathouse and a left fork. So once you have checked up on the Dowager, get your arse down there, pronto. I might need help.”

  “What do you mean, Gus?”

  “I mean, that bastard Macintosh has murdered two of the Roxburghs already, so what is to stop whatever is motivating him making it a hat-trick? Just make sure the Dowager is okay and text me to confirm. I would help you have a scout about the hall for Macintosh, but I don’t think there is much doubt where he is now. Okay, I’m off, mate.”

  “Take care, Gus,” said Hardie as the DS walked out of the library.

  Victoria Roxburgh had barely been aware of her surroundings as she walked from the Hall to the bluebell wood where her father was buried. She had made sure her mother, already self-sedated, had gone to bed and left.

  Victoria wanted to be alone with her grief. Wanted time to try and work it all out, to understand what this all meant for her family and where they went from here. Cheung’s arrest must surely mean that the whole deal with the Gwai Lo would collapse. If that happened, financial ruin awaited the Roxburghs.

  As she reached the footpath that would take her down to the heart of the wood and her father’s grave, the tears began to well up in her eyes and pour down her cheeks, just when she thought she had no more left. It was the end of the Roxburghs – the end of everything that she knew, loved and cherished. Robbie and Alex had lost their lives for nothing. But why? She felt anger burn inside her although she knew it was futile.

  Stopping just short of the clearing where her father was buried she picked some fresh bluebells, as she always did, before replacing the withered flowers at her father’s grave as more tears ran down her face.

  Finally, she reached the bench her mother had erected at the grave. She sat down and stared at the headstone, reading the words embossed on it: “Here lies William 5th Viscount Lomond, beloved father of Robert, Alexander and Victoria, much loved husband of Elizabeth. He maybe gone but he will never be forgotten.”

  In the distance she heard what she thought was the sound of a motor bike engine although it seemed to lack the abrasiveness she would normally associate with one.

  She spoke into the silence, “What now, Papa?”

  The crack of a twig snapping sent a shiver of fear down her spine. She looked up, startled, but was immediately reassured by Thoroughgood’s presence. Sitting down next to her he looked into her molten brown eyes, “Hey, Vicky, how you holdin’ up?”

  Despite her determination not to cry any more Victoria was helpless to stop a huge sob escaping her and buried her head in Thoroughgood’s jacket. He quickly fished out a handkerchief and after a couple of minutes she managed to regain enough composure to smile her gratitude and said, “Ever get a feeling of déjà vu, Gus?”

  As he looked into her eyes Thoroughgood could feel his self-control deserting him. He managed an awkward smile, but just as he was about to open his mouth Victoria kissed him and Thoroughgood gave in to the moment.

  They parted seconds later and Thoroughgood couldn’t help himself, “Jeez,” he said.

  “I’ve been wanting to do that for a while now and I guess, what with everything that has happened today, my inhibitions left me. I could say I’m sorry, Gus, but that would be a lie.”

  “Snap,” said Thoroughgood.

  An awkward silence enveloped them as a tremor of guilt rippled through their minds.

  Thoroughgood took the bull by the horns. “I’m sorry, Vicky. The timing is not great, but I have found your grandfather’s missing diary and I’m beginning to put together who is behind the murder of your brothers and the framing of Raymond Cheung.” With that, he pulled the diary from his pocket and placed it on his knees as Victoria’s eyes widened in disbelief.

  “Where did you find it?”

  “It was in a canvas satchel hidden behind shotguns which were snugly locked up in a cabinet at Macintosh’s place,” said the DS.

  “Dear God,” said Victoria.

  “There’s more, Vicky. Under a dustsheet in his outhouse, I found a Brough SS-100 motorbike.”

  “Grandfather’s pride and joy. Did it have . . .?”

  “LVR engraved on the silver chrome petrol tank? Yes it did. I’m afraid I’ve taken the liberty of riding it up here and it’s parked at the start of the way through the wood. You told me that Robert had been shot at and his assailant had escaped on a motorbike. I suspect that can mean only one thing, and that is that Macintosh is behind all of this, the threatening letter, the murders of your brothers and Cheung’s wrongful arrest. But now, at last, I have a good idea why.”

  “Please go on.”

  “Macintosh’s newfound affections for your mother – how long have they been evident?” asked the DS.

  “Robbie found out when he walked in on them in the stable. I don’t blame Mama, she’s been so lonely and she has not been short of suitors, but for some reason she rejected them all in favour of Macintosh’s advances. Maybe it was a case of better the devil you know,” said Victoria, clearly struggling to come to terms with the unfolding scenario.

  “I think Macintosh is using his growing place in your mother’s affections to manoeuvre himself into a position that will not stop at mere estate manager. He wants to be lord of the bloody manor. The best way for him to achieve that is by wooing your mother, Vicky. The bad news is that I watched them earlier in the marquee and they were fairly public in their show of affection for each other. With what has happened to Alexander and Robert, and Cheung’s arrest, the way is clear for Macintosh to play the strong man at your mother’s side in her hour of need. I would wager that the ultimate reward for all of that will be marriage to Lady Elizabeth,” said Thoroughgood, staring balefully at William Roxburgh’s grave.

  “But if my mother’s feelings for him are growing like that, then why murder my brothers?” asked Victoria.

  “In Robert’s case that’s an obvious one, Vicky, as you know. As for Alex, I’m afraid he just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. The cyanide in the whisky was intended for Robert. He had discovered Macintosh’s liaison with your mother and, as we know, had already warned him his days at the hall were numbered. Unfortunately, Alex got in the way. With Macintosh’s original plan for Robert thwarted, the perfect way to get rid of him was to frame Cheung for his murder, making it look like Robert had been the target all along and thus kill two birds with one stone. Leaving Macintosh indispensable to your mother. But there is more Victoria – it’s all here in the diary.”

  “What do you mean? How can there be more?” asked Victoria.

  “Macintosh wanted revenge on your family. I couldn’t quite comprehend the meaning of the threatening letter but ask yourself – what is the oldest sin or sins? And why would it cast the longest shadow?”

  Victoria’s face went blank.

  “Try infidelity. It haunts your grandfather throughout his war diaries. It’s ironic, because the investigation I have just completed was sparked by a similar case of infidelity, just not one that’s 70 years old. Vicky, ask yourself, why does it cast the longest shadow?”

  “I’m sorry, Gus, I can’t work it out,” said Vicky.

  “Because there was a child produced from Ludovic’s affair with this woman Jill. Macintosh may well be the illegitimate grandson of Ludovic, Lord Roxburgh, and his mistress Jill. I have no doubt he is of your blood, just from the wrong side of the covers. I haven’t had the time to read through the third diary as thoroughly as I need to discover all the answers, but something happened between them. Mo
st probably it was her pregnancy, which I chanced upon in an entry in April, and Ludovic’s refusal to accept it. I reckon that some sort of nasty little blackmail situation developed, leading to Jill’s demise. I just need time to fit the rest of the pieces together, but I believe that Macintosh has, and is, the answer to all this,” said Thoroughgood.

  “Dear God!” blurted out Victoria.

  Thoroughgood grimaced, “I’m afraid there were three letters stitched inside the flap of the bag that contained the diary: ‘TLM’. Thomas Ludovic Macintosh is the longest shadow cast by the oldest sin.”

  “No, it can’t be true,” said Victoria, her agitation obvious.

  “Oh, but it is true, cousin,” growled a voice from the other side of the grave.

  Out of the birches and the shadow of the fading light strode Macintosh.

  In his right hand a revolver was levelled at them.

  50

  MACINTOSH WALKED around the grave and stood five feet away to their right, keeping Thoroughgood nearest to the handgun.

  “So, you have it all worked out Thoroughgood, almost.”

  The DS forced himself to remain calm, “Maybe not all of it. Part of me is wondering just how you thought you would get away with it? But now that we are finally getting to the bottom, let me introduce you properly.”

  “Be my guest,” said Macintosh, the revolver now at waist height.

  “Victoria, I would like you to meet Thomas Ludovic Macintosh . . .” Thoroughgood let the silence at the end of the sentence draw out deliberately.

  “Buchan was my grandmother’s maiden name. It was her name when Ludovic Roxburgh murdered her to avoid losing his place in Churchill’s government and bringing disgrace on the House of Roxburgh. You got it right. I was given his name as a reminder of him,” snapped Macintosh, the revolver wavering slightly as emotion surged through him.

  “But Roxburgh didn’t abandon his daughter, did he Macintosh? Your middle name is surely proof of that. For God’s sake. Surely your presence ‘boy and man’ was down to the fact that you were raised here, just like your mother before you, I’d guess, in an estate worker’s cottage, or even raised in service at Roxburgh Hall? Born in ‘42, sometime between April and May, before Ludovic left on the disastrous Dieppe raid. She would be 66 now, if she was still alive. What about your father?” asked Thoroughgood.