by S M Hardy
Thinking about it, I hadn’t seen Mrs Walters since breakfast. We’d been late down to lunch and unusually there had been no servants hanging around, as was their habit. Maddy hadn’t even appeared to clear the plates by the time we’d left the table.
‘Perhaps you can sweet-talk Maddy to find out what’s going on.’
He gave a grunt. ‘I don’t want to encourage her.’
I crossed my arms and leant back against the wall. ‘Really?’
He must have noticed my expression. ‘You don’t know me, so don’t be so quick to jump to conclusions.’
‘She seemed interested in you, but now Laura’s come along – a young, vulnerable woman who’s just inherited a fortune – what am I supposed to think?’
‘I don’t need money.’
‘Everyone needs money, even me.’
He pushed past me to check outside the stall, then looked back at me. His eyes narrowed to stare at me for a moment longer, as though coming to a decision. His shoulders slumped and, mind made up, he gave a jerk of the head that I should follow him and, without waiting to see if I would, strode out of the stall. Levering myself away from the wall, I patted Satan on the head and left, closing the door behind me.
Dan was already disappearing out into the yard as I hurried after him. It did cross my mind I could be wrong about Dan and he was leading me into a trap. I hoped not, for his sake. I didn’t like being taken for a fool.
I caught him as he rounded the outside of the small, walled garden and immediately understood why he’d brought me here. We couldn’t be seen from the house and it would be nigh on impossible to overhear what we were saying without being seen. He stalked along in silence with me by his side until we reached the furthest point from the house, where he stopped so abruptly I had taken a few more steps before I realised he was no longer beside me.
He pulled himself to his full height, his eyes almost level with mine. ‘My name is Daniel Foley,’ he said, any hint of his Irish drawl gone and replaced by something similar to upper-class Cambridge. I tried to hide how much he’d surprised me; I failed miserably. His lips curled into a grim smile.
‘So, Daniel Foley,’ I said when I’d regained my power of speech, ‘what are you doing here at Kingsmead?’
His smile died away and all I could see was pain. ‘Ten years ago, my sister Suzie was meant to be coming here to a party and she hasn’t been seen since. According to the Pomeroys, as far as they were aware, she never arrived. I came here to find out what happened to her.’ His shoulders slumped. ‘Now Simon Pomeroy’s dead I doubt I ever will.’
A lump formed in my throat. Suzie – they called the girl in the poolroom Suzie. I swallowed. ‘Where was she last seen?’
‘Her flatmate dropped her off at the station. The guy on the ticket barrier recalled seeing her getting the train to Clapham Junction. I think he was a bit sweet on her, so he remembered, and that was it.’ He paused, his eyes pleading. ‘I thought maybe you … Maybe you might be able to contact her if something did happen to her here. I know it’s a long shot, but I need to know, my family needs to know.’
‘What did she look like?’ I asked and prayed he said she was a buxom redhead. I didn’t want to have to tell him the truth. I didn’t want to have to break this young man’s heart.
He reached for his back pocket and pulled a wallet from his jeans. He flipped it open and offered it to me. I stretched out my hand and reluctantly took it from him. I knew in my heart what I would see. An old photograph of a pretty girl standing on a seaside promenade was slipped inside one of the credit card sleeves. Seeing Suzie like this, the family resemblance was obvious. She had the same deep blue eyes and dark curls, and for a moment I could see her face, her imploring eyes and her hair floating out behind her like seaweed.
He must have seen something in my face. ‘What?’ he asked.
‘I’m really sorry,’ I said, handing him back his wallet.
‘You won’t help me?’ he said, but he was clutching at straws, he knew what I meant.
‘She …’ I struggled to find the words. I’d given bad news before, but nothing like this. ‘She died in the poolroom,’ I told him. ‘She drowned.’
He stared at me, his mouth slack as all hope drained away to be replaced by despair. ‘How?’
Now I had an inkling why she had called to me that night. Dan had dived into the pool to save Emma. She wanted me to know what had happened to her so I could tell him. ‘I saw it.’ I leant my back against the wall. ‘She woke me a couple of nights after Emma almost drowned. She showed me what happened. Don’t ask how, I’ve never had a vision like it before.’
He frowned at my face, struggling to take it in. ‘Was …?’ His voice broke and he looked away while he composed himself. ‘Was it an accident?’
Did I tell him the truth? What purpose would it serve? Then I thought of Edward’s gentle yet creepy smile as he pushed her head beneath the surface.
‘No,’ I said. ‘Edward Pomeroy killed her. There was a second man, but I couldn’t see him clearly. I think it might have been Oliver.’
He rubbed his face with the palm of his hand. ‘So, it’s all been for nothing,’ he said. ‘I can’t get her justice, however much I try.’ Then his face creased into a frown. ‘Hang on – Edward died’ – he blew out through pursed lips – ‘almost forty years ago,’ and I could see his hope rekindling as he questioned what I’d told him.
I felt for him, I really did, but it was kinder he knew the truth – and safer. ‘Here’s the thing – he didn’t. As a teenager he was put away in a mental institution.’
‘But everyone says he died.’
‘That’s what everyone was told. Even Simon thought he was dead until a few days ago.’
‘So Oliver Pomeroy knew he was alive the whole time.’
‘He knew all right. He visited him regularly and apparently used to bring him home once a month.’
‘So, the staff must have been in on it,’ Dan said, with an angry sneer.
‘It’s possible,’ I said and, to my mind, it was getting likelier by the minute.
‘So where is this Edward now?’
‘We don’t know,’ I admitted.
‘Jesus Christ, you’re telling me this psycho’s wandering around loose somewhere?’
I hesitated. ‘Not somewhere – here,’ I said eventually. ‘The way Oliver and Brandon Fredericks both died makes me think he’s somewhere around and possibly holed up here on the estate.’
‘Shit,’ he said. ‘Shit!’
‘Which means someone on the staff is helping him.’
His eyes went to mine. ‘Why would they? The man’s a monster.’
He had a good point. ‘Perhaps they’re scared.’
‘I’ll start poking around.’
‘If you do, be very careful.’ I rested my hand on his shoulder. ‘I don’t have to tell you how dangerous he is.’
‘No,’ he said. ‘No, you don’t.’
‘Dan, I mean it. I don’t want your death on my conscience too.’
He frowned at me. ‘Too?’
I closed my eyes for a second. I’d given myself away. ‘It’s a long story,’ I said.
Emma had finished in the shower by the time I returned to the room. Her expression was relieved when she pulled open the door to let me in.
‘Where have you been? I’ve been worried.’
‘I had a very long conversation with Dan, which I will tell you about later,’ I whispered.
Her forehead creased into a frown and she was about to say something, but I put a finger to my lips, which had her raising her eyebrows and moving in close to me.
‘You can’t think …?’ she murmured into my ear.
‘I don’t know what to think any more.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The following morning, while Emma was in the bathroom, my mobile unexpectedly went ping, announcing I had a message. The only person who ever texted me was Emma and she would hardly do that from the shower, unles
s, of course, my luck was in and it was an invite for me to join her. Ever hopeful, I crossed the room to scoop my phone off the bedside table. Disappointingly the message was from an unidentified number and was of the short, sweet and somewhat mysterious variety. Check the passenger seat of the Jag.
‘What the f—?’ I stared at the screen for a few seconds trying to figure out what the hell the message meant and who could have possibly sent it. ‘Only one way to find out, I suppose,’ I muttered to myself.
Knowing Emma would be at least another ten minutes or so I was tempted to slip downstairs and out to the car, but then my suspicious nature kicked in. What if the message had been sent to get me out of the way, leaving Emma alone and vulnerable? It wasn’t something I was about to chance. Consequently, by the time Emma left the bathroom, wrapped in a bathrobe and rubbing her hair with a towel I was pacing the floor.
‘What do you make of this?’ I asked, sticking the mobile under her nose.
She pulled back a bit squinting at the screen. ‘It’s no good,’ she said. ‘You’ll have to read it out.’
‘It says for me to check the passenger seat of the Jag.’
‘And have you?’
‘Of course not.’
She continued rubbing at her hair and sank down onto the bed. ‘Then perhaps you should.’
‘I didn’t want to leave you on your own,’ I grumbled.
She stood and dropped the towel on the bed. ‘I’ll lock the door behind you if it makes you feel better.’
I waited until I heard the click of the lock before hurrying, car keys in hand, along the corridor, down the stairs and out of the front of the building, all without seeing a soul. I crunched my way across the gravel to the Jag, half-wondering why I was bothering. I had the keys to the car and the only other set were in the safe at home.
Even so, I wasn’t surprised to find a large ivory-coloured envelope, with my name scrawled in black ink across the front, lying on the front passenger seat. I had broken into a fair few cars in my time. It wasn’t particularly difficult if you knew what you were doing. Whatever was inside the envelope was fairly thick and weighty. I suspected it was a file and best inspected back in the bedroom out of the way of prying eyes.
I locked the car and started back towards the house, then stopped. The back of my head prickled ice-cold. It had been chilled for days, and I didn’t need the reminder, I knew we were in danger. I swung around and returned to the car and went to the rear to open the boot. Inside, right at the back, partly hidden by raincoats, wellingtons and other paraphernalia was my old toolbox. Not one of those metal or plastic things you get these days, a good, old, solid wooden one with brass fittings. Resting the file on top of a box containing assorted car parts, the sort that were always useful to have on hand when driving an old car, I pushed the other junk out the way and made enough space to drag the toolbox to me. I took a quick glance around to make sure I wasn’t being watched, but there were so many windows I could never be sure. I would just have to hope they couldn’t see what I was doing.
I opened the toolbox, the top two layers extending out to leave two removable trays beneath it. Lifting them both out carefully, I laid them to one side and had another furtive look around – so far so good.
At the bottom there was a band of brass edging the box. I pressed down on the heads of the screws at either side and there was a soft click. Pushing the extending trays back together, I lifted the box leaving behind a hidden tray and the varnished mahogany case that had been concealed within it. I lay the palm of my hand on the lid − I had hoped I’d never have the need for it again, and hoped I still wouldn’t, but one thing Simon, Reggie and I agreed on – always have a backup. This was mine.
With one more quick look around, I took out the case, slid it beneath the ivory envelope, so it wasn’t immediately evident, and put my toolbox back together. Once reassembled, I shoved it to the back of the boot, rearranged the coats and boots around it and, with the envelope and case under my arm, hurried back into the house.
‘What’s that you’ve got there?’ Emma asked, eyeing the envelope as she let me in. I had already hidden the wooden case beneath my jacket. It was something she didn’t need to know about.
‘I’m not sure,’ I said, sitting down on the bed very carefully so as not to dislodge the case pressed between my side and my right arm.
I peeled the flap of the envelope open. Inside was a Manila file. Muttering an obscenity under my breath I slipped the file out of the envelope and onto my lap. Even in death Simon was still having things all his own way. A ministerial compliment’s slip was paper-clipped to the top left-hand corner. Written in small, neat, tight letters was the message ‘Forwarded under the instructions of Sir Simon Pomeroy due to his hospitalisation’. ‘Sir’? When had that happened? No one had said. And again I wondered who had put the envelope in my car and whether it had been delivered in such a clandestine manner because Simon’s ‘people’ didn’t trust someone at Kingsmead? I suppose they had good reason not to, though by the looks of it the file had already been on its way before Simon had died.
Emma sank down next to me. ‘Is that what I think it is?’
‘Probably,’ I said, not sure whether I really wanted to open this particular can of worms.
Emma gave a little shiver and pressed a kiss to my cheek. ‘I’ll leave you to it,’ she said and hopped to her feet to go and sit at the dressing table. ‘I’ll finish getting ready while you read.’
As soon as she started to rummage around in her make-up bag, I slipped the case from beneath my jacket and slid it under my pillow. Another quick look her way assured me she hadn’t noticed my furtive behaviour and with a sigh I slipped on my reading glasses and flipped open the file’s cover. As I thought, it was a copy of the crime report for Laura’s parents’ murder. I ran my finger down the text. It didn’t tell me anything I didn’t know already – until I reached the transcript of an interview with the four-year-old Laura. The poor little thing must have been terrified.
After several questions, where it became clear she didn’t remember waking in the morning and finding her parents’ bodies, they asked her whether she’d heard or seen anything after going to bed for the night. She said, ‘I woke up and wanted a glass of water. Mummy always leaves the hall light on, but it was dark. I got up and went to the bathroom and had a drink from the tap. I heard a noise in the hall and it scared me so I stayed in the bathroom. I waited and waited, but I didn’t hear the noise again. I was still scared, but Mummy and Daddy would be cross if they found me out of bed, so I ran back to my room and jumped into bed and pulled the covers over my head. There were feathers in my bed. They got in my mouth. It was horrid, but I was too scared to get out. Then I must have fallen asleep.’
The investigating officers concluded it was going to the bathroom that had saved Laura’s life. The feathers had come from the duvet. It had been slashed multiple times with a very sharp knife and either the perpetrator didn’t have the stomach to check he’d killed her or didn’t have time to search for Laura once he realised the bed was empty. The image of the child’s room and feathers floating around me like snowflakes came to mind. Was this what Oliver was trying to tell me? That he hadn’t killed Laura when he was supposed to?
Apparently, it was the postman who reported the murders. He had found a blank-faced Laura sitting on the doorstep in her pyjamas with her hands covered in blood.
I took off my glasses and massaged the bridge of my nose. Poor little kid, it didn’t bear thinking about her coming downstairs in the morning to find her butchered parents. I skimmed the rest of the contents until I reached the crime scene photographs. Somehow the clinical and professional pictures of the murdered couple were worse than the ones I’d already seen.
I closed the file and shoved it back in the envelope. Had it helped? No, not really. There had been no leads, no evidence, nothing other than they thought the murders were ritualistic and possibly revenge crimes and meant as a message – but to whom
they didn’t know.
Oliver had of course been interviewed, but he had a cast-iron alibi; he had been holding a party attended by thirty or more people, some very influential and beyond reproach. As Edward had committed murder during his own birthday party it didn’t fill me with any confidence that allegedly being surrounded by a crowd of people was any kind of alibi at all – as far as I was concerned they could all be part of this cult.
Emma swung around on her seat to find me staring into space as I mulled on the conundrum of the Pomeroy family and their very secret lives.
‘Did it help?’ she asked, gesturing at the file.
‘Nope. Not at all. Apart from making me more depressed than I am already.’
She got up to come and sit beside me. ‘I can’t get my head around Simon being part of all this, but still asking for your help.’
‘After he believed Edward was dead, he changed. He told me that. He began to hate Kingsmead. Said it had been like living in a mausoleum and he couldn’t wait to leave.’
‘Would a cult just let a person leave?’
‘Maybe they didn’t consider him a threat.’
‘Until now,’ she said.
‘Until now,’ I agreed.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
There was a strange atmosphere over breakfast. Mrs Walters was conspicuous by her absence, although I supposed even she had the occasional day off, and Maddy appeared preoccupied and jumpy.
‘So once tonight is over you will have fulfilled one of the main conditions of Oliver’s will,’ Emma said to Laura.
Laura took a sip of her tea and gave a relieved smile. ‘Then I just have to live here for two years and it’s all mine.’
‘That wouldn’t be much of a hardship, I’d imagine,’ Emma said, reaching for a slice of toast.
Laura laughed. ‘Not when I was as close to living on the streets as I had been. I have a little money that Auntie June left me, but with no job no one would give me a mortgage and with no fixed abode no one would give me a job. I was going to have to start begging nights on friends’ sofas until I found something semi-permanent.’
