The Red Dahlia (Anna Travis Mysteries Book 2)

by Lynda La Plante

  “So what is this all about?”

  “Do you mind if we sit down?”

  “Not at all, go ahead. Do you mind if I remain standing?”

  “Not at all,” Langton replied archly, sitting in a wingback chair. He opened his briefcase, as Lewis hovered beside him.

  “DI Travis would like to talk to your housekeeper, if that is all right.”

  “Why?”

  “Just to corroborate a few things. She is here, isn’t she?”

  “Yes, do you want me to call her in?”

  Anna smiled and said she remembered the way to the kitchen.

  Wickenham shrugged. “Go ahead, but remember she is in her seventies. May have all her marbles in the culinary department, but otherwise, she is very vague.”

  “Thank you.” Anna again smiled and walked out.

  She walked along the stone-flagged corridor, passing the laundry room, and then entered the vast kitchen without knocking. Mrs. Hedges was sitting at the pine table with an array of silverware laid out on an old towel.

  “Mrs. Hedges?”

  She paid no attention, but continued to polish away with some rolled-up newspaper. Anna raised her voice and the plump, friendly woman looked up, surprised.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you come in. I’m a wee bit deaf in my right ear.” She took off her rubber gloves.

  “Please don’t let me interrupt you. I just wanted to have a word.” Anna drew out a chair and sat midway down the table.

  “Does Mr. Wickenham know?”

  “Yes, he’s in the drawing room with my superior officer.”

  “Oh, well, if he said it’s all right.”

  Anna opened her briefcase and took out her notebook and the thick file of photographs, which was beginning to get slightly dog-eared.

  “Do you want a cup of tea?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “There’s one made; I’ve just had a cup myself.” Mrs. Hedges fussed around, taking down a cup and saucer, crossing to the fridge for the milk and then back over to the Aga, where a teapot was sitting on the side, a knitted tea cozy keeping its contents warm.

  “I can’t think what you want to talk to me about,” she said as she poured the tea, using a silver tea strainer. She then held up the milk and Anna nodded; next she held up a sugar bowl and Anna smiled.

  “No, thank you, no sugar.”

  Mrs. Hedges took a white napkin and placed it down beside Anna with the tea. She sat back down and Anna could see that she was unsure whether or not to carry on polishing.

  “Please, don’t let me stop you.”

  Mrs. Hedges nodded and put her rubber gloves back on. “I used not to wear them, but it’s the newsprint, it gets my hands so dirty and it’s hard to wash off.” She picked up some scrunched-up newspaper and dipped it into a bowl. “Trick of the trade. I never have to use silver polish, just water and a drop of vinegar, it’s amazing what a shine you can get.”

  Anna smiled but kept her attention on her notebook, not wanting to get into any further discussions about polishing. “Do you recall the ninth of January this year?”

  “Oh, I couldn’t say; what day would that be?”

  Anna spent a good five minutes waiting as Mrs. Hedges yet again removed her gloves and went to a wall calendar. She huffed and puffed, patting her pockets, then taking out a pair of glasses. “I was here, as usual.”

  “Could you tell me about the day itself, if there were any visitors, if Mr. Wickenham was here?”

  “Which one? Mr. Charles or Edward?”

  Anna sipped her tea as Mrs. Hedges went through her day’s routine: how she planned each menu ahead, when the cleaners came in, when the linen was changed, et cetera. She could not recall anything out of the ordinary happening on that specific day, or any houseguests staying, as it was midweek. She said she did not cook, as Charles Wickenham was dining in London. She could not recall what time she saw him return, as she was usually in bed by nine thirty.

  “Unless we have guests and there’s dinner, but we get help in for me, you know, to serve and clear. I mostly just run the house day to day. I have done so for fifteen years. Before him I worked for his father, so all in all I’ve been here for forty years.”

  “So Mr. Wickenham entertains a lot?”

  “Yes, he certainly does; well, a lot more so in the past, when Mrs. Wickenham was here. It was most weekends then, and we needed extra help most of the time. She liked to have big dinners. They used the barn when it was converted: there’s a big entertaining room there now. The dining hall here is not that big and really only seats twelve comfortably.”

  “So these dinner parties were a regular weekend occurrence?”

  “Oh yes, we’ve eight bedrooms. The guests would arrive on a Friday afternoon, leave sometimes on Sundays or even Monday morning.”

  “And the extra help, did they stay as well?”

  “Yes, in a staff flat above the stables.”

  “Did you serve the guests?”

  “No, well, I’m getting on; like I said, I go to bed early. My room is right at the back of the house. It’s very quiet; well, if it wasn’t, I’d not get much sleep.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Well, all the comings and goings and the music, and in summer they use the pool and the spa, and then there’s the stable boys, they have to exercise the horses, and that’s always around seven in the morning when they start arriving.”

  “So they don’t live in?”

  “No, no, they’re local lads, they do all the mucking out and grooming. Mr. Charles is very particular.”

  Anna nodded and then opened her file. “I am going to show you some photographs to see if you recognize anyone. Would you look at them for me?”

  “Yes dear, but you know, I don’t get to meet his guests. Like I said, I prepare the food sometimes, then I’m off to my bed.”

  “But not when Mrs. Wickenham was here?”

  For the first time there was just a flicker of unease. “No, well, she was quite a handful; she was very keen on getting in caterers. She didn’t like my offerings—said they were ‘meat and potatoes’—they wanted this nouvelle cuisine. Well, to be honest, I was happier cooking for the children than running around after the people she had down here.”

  “You didn’t like them?”

  “I never said that; they were just not my type of people. The children were always my priority, and Mr. Charles. You see, before I worked for him, I was cook for his father. I’ve been working at the Hall since I was in my thirties, and I’m seventy-two years old now.”

  “That’s a long time.”

  “It is. My husband died in an accident on one of the farms, so I came to work here. No children of my own, so I really enjoyed…” There was a strange unease about her body language: she seemed to twist and turn in her chair as she rubbed at the silver. “I loved them like they were my own.”

  “So you know Danielle, Mrs. Wickenham’s maid?”

  “Yes, yes, I do, she was here for years and thank God she was, because I couldn’t have run after her ladyship the way she had to. Mrs. Wickenham had a right temper on her; she could be a handful to deal with.”

  Anna first showed Louise Pennel’s picture. Mrs. Hedges shook her head; she also didn’t recognize Sharon Bilkin. Anna was disappointed. She took out the photographs of the sex games in the sauna, which had been doctored so that only the faces of the men they were trying to identify were visible. Although Mrs. Hedges was unable to recall his name, she said she thought that one of them was Spanish, a well-known artist.

  “He was not a very nice man; he used to stay many times, always over at the barn. He used to paint there sometimes.”

  “Was this before it was converted?”

  Mrs. Hedges hesitated.

  “Edward Wickenham’s wife committed suicide in the barn, didn’t she?”

  Mrs. Hedges took a deep breath and then wafted her hand. “Yes, yes, terrible, very sad.”

  Anna was not expecting Mrs
. Hedges to continue, as the mention of the suicide had obviously distressed her very much, but she leaned forward and lowered her voice. “Things have gone on in the house. I’ve learned over the years to do my job and go to my room. What the eyes don’t see…”

  “But if you thought these things were bad, why did you stay?”

  Mrs. Hedges picked up a polishing cloth and started buffing up a silver goblet. “My husband died young, he left me in some financial trouble and old Mr. Wickenham helped me out. This is, I suppose, the only real security I have ever had. I’ve no family, so the girls and even Edward have been like my own. They look after me, treat me very well.”

  “So you must have been very concerned about Emily?”

  Bingo. At last Anna had hit a target that Mrs. Hedges could not polish away, and she became tearful.

  “I made excuses, because of the way he was treated. But not over Emily; that was unforgivable.” Her voice was hardly audible. “I knew there had to be a reason why you were here. If I tell you what I know, and Mr. Charles finds out, then God knows what he’ll do to me. But I’ve saved all my money, I can go somewhere.”

  Anna reached out and gently stroked the elderly woman’s hand, encouraging her to continue. She clasped Anna’s hand tightly. “I should have done something when I knew what was going on.”

  Charles Wickenham was fending off every question like a master duelist. He parried and queried and never at any time appeared fazed or ashamed when asked about his sexual proclivities; in fact, he seemed to relish discussing his house parties. When Langton brought up the accusation of his relationship with his own daughters, he dismissed it with a waft of his hand.

  “Not this again. I have already discussed my daughter’s problems and her overactive imagination; we have doctors and therapists who can also verify that Emily is a dreadful little liar. I did not have a sexual relationship with my daughter.”

  “What about the pregnancy?”

  Langton watched Wickenham closely. There was not so much as a flicker.

  “It was all in her mind. Of course, I questioned the staff: you know, the stable boys and gardeners, whether any of them had been having sexual intercourse with her, obviously I did, as she was underage, but there was no truth in it; all in her addled little mind.”

  “She claims that she had an abortion.”

  He sighed, shaking his head. “Claims! Well, if you have any evidence of this abortion, then I would dearly like to know about it, because it is a total fiction!”

  “So you did not operate on your daughter?”

  “Me! Good God, what do you take me for? I am her father! This is a very serious allegation. You know, I really do think that I should have someone here to listen to all this.”

  “It is just an inquiry at this stage,” Langton said quietly.

  “An inquiry into what, for God’s sake? That I had intercourse with my daughter and operated on her, when I have told you repeatedly that she has mental problems, and you cannot trust a word she says? Next, you ask me for times and dates relating to a murder inquiry, a double-murder inquiry: well, this is all rather preposterous, isn’t it? I mean, are you scouring all the unsolved crimes to give yourselves an excuse to make a pleasant trip out to the country rather than do the work you are paid to do in London?”

  “I do not find any of this pleasant, Mr. Wickenham.”

  “Nor do I, Detective Chief Inspector Langton, nor do I, and I will consider making a formal complaint to the commissioner.”

  “That is your prerogative.” Langton was finding it difficult to maintain control: he wanted to wrap his hands around the audacious, posturing man’s throat. Wickenham stood in front of them, leaning one elbow against the mantelpiece or tucking his hands into his pockets. He kept touching his tie and patting down his collar. He picked off tiny balls of fluff from his pale yellow cashmere sweater, but not one gesture gave any indication that he was unnerved or even worried by the questions.

  Langton displayed the headshots of the men taken with Wickenham in his own hot tub. He casually glanced at each face, said he did know them and they were not close friends, more associates that he occasionally entertained.

  “For sex parties?”

  Wickenham shrugged. “Here we go again. Yes, we do have fun here sometimes, but whatever goes on in the privacy of one’s home is exactly that: private.”

  “Your wife and son also enjoyed these ‘fun’ times.”

  “Yes, yes, they did; again, they are consenting adults. Our sexual fun may not appeal to you, but again that is a matter of choice.”

  “Your daughter Justine?”

  Wickenham sighed with irritation. “She could do whatever she liked. She was eighteen years old; if she chose to join in, that was her prerogative. Nobody ever forced anyone to do anything.”

  “We have a witness who said Louise Pennel was here the weekend before her murder.”

  Wickenham was some actor; he gave no visible reaction whatsoever, but closed his eyes. “I’m sorry; say the name again?”

  “Louise Pennel.”

  “Ah yes, the Red Dahlia, I believe the papers are calling her.”

  “Sharon Bilkin knew your son’s fiancée; did you know that?”

  “Sharon who?”

  Langton was getting tired of the game playing and stood up. “Sharon Bilkin: her body was found just off the A3 in a field.”

  “Not one of mine, I hope.” He smirked.

  Langton knew that nothing he could throw at this man was going to produce the goods: he had an answer for everything. Wickenham had obviously intuited they were here on a fishing trip, and was determined that they would have to leave without a catch.

  “Thank you for your time.”

  Langton glanced at Lewis, who had remained silent throughout. He stood up to join Langton and asked if he could use the cloakroom.

  Wickenham gave a soft laugh. “The cloakroom?” He gestured to the door. “Straight out and down the hall, second door.”

  Lewis hurried out, leaving Langton standing opposite Wickenham. Langton stared hard but he was met with steady eye contact.

  “Bit of a wasted journey?”

  “Not at all, it’s been very informative. We will be checking on your associates to verify what you have said.”

  Wickenham laughed, shaking his head. “By all means, but you know, they are all very wealthy and well-connected people. I doubt if they would want to go into details about their sexual exploits here at the Hall.”

  Langton turned away and looked over the photographs on top of the piano. Wickenham remained standing, watching him; he checked his watch. Neither man said another word until Lewis returned and stood at the open door. “Sir, DI Travis is still with Mr. Wickenham’s housekeeper, she said she won’t be a moment.”

  “I suppose this will mean lunch is going to be delayed.” Wickenham opened a drawer and took out a cigar box; he proffered one to Langton, who shook his head.

  “We’ll wait for her in the car.”

  “Okay, I’ll pass that on.” Lewis hovered for a moment and then disappeared.

  “Cuban,” Wickenham said, holding one of his cigars up, then taking a silver clipper and snipping off the end. “Can’t beat a hand-rolled.” He bit on the cigar; the action gave him a grimace of a smile.

  Langton walked past him, and then turned at the door. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Wickenham.”

  “I wish I could say it was a pleasure. Let me show you out.”

  Wickenham watched from the front door as Langton returned to the car. Lewis was not there.

  “Where’s Mike?”

  “He went to get some air, round to the stables, I think, sir,” said the driver.

  Langton checked his watch again and then lit a cigarette, leaning against the side of the car. He turned when he heard the crunch of the gravel on the drive. Anna was walking toward him.

  “I came out via the kitchen door,” she said.

  “I gathered that. Have you seen Lewis?”
<
br />   “No.”

  Anna opened the passenger door and tossed in her briefcase. “How did it go with Wickenham Sr.?”

  “He knows we’ve not got enough on him.”

  Anna gave a small smile. “His housekeeper was not that forthcoming to start off with, but once I touched the right button, she didn’t stop talking.”

  “What was the button?”

  “Emily Wickenham.”

  There was another crunch of footsteps and they both turned. Lewis, his cheeks flushed, gestured for them to follow him. “Can you bring the photographs?”

  Anna looked to Langton; he bent into the car and took out his briefcase. They followed Lewis round the winding drive toward the stables.

  Lewis was standing by an open stable door; inside was the big chestnut gelding. Langton was irritated. “What, Lewis? You’ve brought us back to see the bloody horse?”

  “No, you need to talk to the stable lad; he’s just checking over something with the vet. He reckons he saw Louise Pennel. He reckons she was here on the eighth of January.”

  16

  The incident room was waiting eagerly for an update. Langton had ordered a briefing for ten minutes after their return. He began with a brief summary of his session with Charles Wickenham. He had the team laughing when he struck up the same pose and mimicked his upper-class drawl. Then he went quiet, shaking his head.

  “He maintained that attitude throughout, denying knowing Louise Pennel or Sharon Bilkin. He was dismissive about any kind of incestuous relationship with his younger daughter, Emily. He said he could provide a doctor’s certificate to clarify his daughter was mentally unstable. There were no charges and we have not as yet reinterviewed his daughter.”

  Langton lit a cigarette and paused; he then looked to Anna and gestured for her to step forward. “While Lewis and I tried to get a handle on Edward Wickenham, DI Travis was interviewing Gail Harrington. So, over to you, Anna.”

  Anna gave a detailed report, referring to her notes. She described Gail’s nervous state and aired her suspicion that Gail was taking some kind of drugs.