by Jack Murray
‘Inspector,’ asked Kit in an even voice, ‘What is the meaning of this?’
Stott pointed to some cards sitting on the table beside the framed picture of Robert Cavendish’s battalion. ‘We found these in your manservant’s coat pocket.’
Kit looked down at the cards. He didn’t need to read what they said. He already knew.
Happy Christmas, I’ve killed you.
Chapter 25
It was just after five o’clock. Kit was alone in the library making a phone call. ‘Thank you. If you could let Mr Chadderton know that Kit Aston called and ask him to be available for a phone call tomorrow morning at nine o’clock, I would greatly appreciate it. Yes, if you could leave a note on his desk, thank you.’
Kit angrily replaced the earpiece of the telephone. ‘Damn, damn and damn again’ he uttered between clenched teeth. Rubbing his eyes, he looked out the window. Harry was in deep trouble. If it turned out Lord Cavendish had been murdered, the combination of the threatening cards and the motive uncovered by Mary could be enough to send him to the gallows.
As angry as he felt, he knew it was a waste of precious resource. He needed to be focused on proving the innocence of his friend. The anger would not go away, however. The look of regret on Mary’s face did not diminish the enormous disappointment he felt and the emptiness in the pit of his stomach. Of course, it was inconceivable she should withhold anything material from the police. After all, he conceded, it was her grandfather who was potentially the victim of a murder. She had done what was right, yet he could not excuse her for this.
If her findings proved enough to hang Harry, Kit knew he would never be able to forgive her. Tears of rage welled up in his eyes for the man who had risked his life to cross No Man’s Land to save him. The tears were not just for Harry, though. He felt a stab of guilt at the thought, no matter how fleeting, that this situation was coming between him and a person who was now uppermost in his mind.
Outside the library window, it was evening. The rain was falling steadily, tapping persistently at the window. The snow lay in patches on the grass and the sky was funeral black. Perhaps it was the sound of the rain and the wind, but Kit felt a chill. He tried desperately to concentrate his mind on a plan of action. Unfortunately, his options were in short supply.
There was no question, in Kit’s mind: Harry was innocent. He had not sent threatening cards to Cavendish nor was he a murderer. However, Kit recognized that even if the latter proved untrue, there would still be a case to answer on the former. A clever prosecutor could make it appear that the death of Cavendish, by natural causes, only forestalled an attempted murder. Undoubtedly this could sway any objective judge and might make sentencing harsher.
Another thought added to Kit’s overall mood of dejection. The morning after the death of Cavendish, he had found Harry alone in the library. It was possible Harry had come to the library to retrieve the threatening notes. Just for a moment, doubt crept into Kit’s mind. This intensified as he remembered Miller telling him he’d actually seen Cavendish on Christmas night when he came unexpectedly to the kitchen to retrieve his room keys. Harry was the last person to see him alive aside from the potential murderer. This added to Kit’s sense of gloom.
Hearing a commotion in the hallway, Kit went to investigate. Mary, Harry and the two policemen were standing by the Christmas tree. It pained Kit to see Harry wearing handcuffs. He could not bring himself to look at Mary, but he could sense she had been crying. Stott looked at Kit apologetically and said, ‘I’m sorry, sir, I must follow our procedures. I hope you’ll understand.’
‘I do Inspector Stott. It goes without question that I vouch for this man. He saved my life.’
‘So, I understand, sir. I will make sure he is treated well, sir. You have my word.’ The gravity of the situation was apparent to Stott and, for the first time, he no longer seemed quite so comical a figure.
Kit looked at Miller and said, ‘I’ll get you out of this, Harry. Count on it.’
Miller smiled, ‘I’m not worried sir, we’ve come through tighter spots than this.’
Stott looked at Miller. He was oddly impressed by the little man and was inclined to believe him innocent. However, for this to be true, it would imply a potential murderer remained loose in the Hall. This did not bear thinking about. Sadly, he concluded, it would be better if Miller did prove to be the author of the notes. There was some good news for Miller, however. No poison had been found. Furthermore, it was always possible, even probable, that Cavendish’s death would prove to have been by natural causes.
The police left with Miller. Mary and Kit remained in the hallway looking on. Kit closed the door as they departed. Turning around he looked for the first time at Mary. She wanted to say something, but no words came. She looked down, fighting back tears. There was nothing Kit could think to say to comfort her. It seemed like an eternity to Mary and then she heard Kit say, ‘Mary, I understand. You had to tell them what you’d found out.’
She looked up at him. Desolation was etched across her face. Kit felt his throat tighten. The cavity of his chest seemed to shrink; breathing became shallow and difficult. Finally, he managed to say, ‘I need to think. If you’ll excuse me, please.’
As he went past her up the stairs, she managed to say faintly, ‘I’m so sorry, Kit.’
‘I know,’ he replied resignedly before continuing up the stairs.
-
Henry knocked on the door of his mother’s room. He heard his mother answer then he walked in without answering her. Lady Emily was having her hair arranged by Agnes. Looking up she saw who it was and turned to Agnes saying, ‘Thank you Agnes, I don’t think there’s anything else.’
Agnes set the comb down on the dresser and, with barely a glance at Henry, left the room. Henry sat on the bed and thought about what he would say to his mother. As ever, she pre-empted him and asked him what had happened. With some relief Henry updated her on what he had heard. It didn’t matter to him that he suspected his mother knew all this from Agnes. The thing was to talk. As he spoke, he became shamefully aware how little they talked now. This was not entirely his fault, he knew.
Conversation with his mother tended to be asymmetrical and directed, invariably, towards his instruction. This was understandable given his future role as Lord Cavendish, but the yearning he had once felt to be “normal” had given way to indifference. At some point following his father’s death he had simply stopped listening or caring what his mother said. He was content to go along with what suited him and ignore the rest. He always accepted future tests of their relationship would come in the form of his choice of further education and Jane. However, these matters always seemed to be far away. Now they were upon him. He realized, with a growing uneasiness, that he was incapable of answering the questions they posed.
Emily was as aware of the distance between them as she was uncertain of how to make it better. She was confident she knew best. But this was a message Henry neither understood nor wanted to hear. Henry’s clear preference to participate in the family business and the relationship with a stable girl seemed perverse to her. She could not fathom the appeal of either when the only road he could take was to be the next Lord Cavendish, with all of the highly desirable duties and responsibilities associated with such a position.
The death of Cavendish had upset her more than she realized. It brought home to her that Henry would inherit the title long before he was ready to do so. The responsibilities accompanying the title were significant, but they also brought rank and distinction. Without understanding either of these points, Henry would detach himself from the one thing Emily had craved for him since the early death of John Cavendish.
More unexpectedly, she appreciated Cavendish, himself, had felt sadness at the family breach and was keen to rebuild bridges. There had been a time, long before the death of the brothers, when they had been friendlier, if not friends. When Robert had strayed, he had supported her and done his utmost to save the marriage. Yes, it
had once been better. Now he was gone, she felt his loss in a way she could not measure, never mind articulate. For the first time she truly felt a sense of aloneness. Even at the height of the family breach following Robert’s death, she had never conceived of what her world would look like in the absence of Lord Cavendish. He seemed immutable. His presence both maddened and reassured her. Now his absence was scrambling the sense of certainty she used to cloak both her life and Henry’s.
Over a lifetime Emily had developed an ability to confront emotional challenges with a stoicism bordering on brazen disregard. However, this self-defence was proving unequal to addressing the void she felt as she looked at her son now. She broke down and wept inconsolably.
Henry saw his mother’s face seemingly crumble. His reaction was immediate. He rushed over and held her for what seemed like the first time ever. As the sobs wracked her thin body, Henry became conscious of something he had never before noticed: how frail she had become.
Chapter 26
28th December 1919: Piccadilly, London.
Charles ‘Chubby’ Chadderton awoke from a deep slumber. With some dismay he rapidly became aware of three things. Firstly, he had a headache of life-altering proportions. Secondly, as he fumbled for his spectacles, he realized this was not his own bed. Finally, he became conscious there was a young woman beside him who, at first glance, was of unknown provenance, temperament, and dimension. Upon locating his spectacles, he was able to confirm the woman was indeed, unknown. Deeper inspection suggested she was not as young as first supposed.
This presented a conundrum. It was far from the first time in Chubby’s relatively young life such a situation had arisen. Over the years he had developed a well-practiced routine for dealing with such unwelcome circumstances caused by excessive consumption of alcohol. Being of a pragmatic streak, his solution was either flight, when the lady in question was in a state of happy unconsciousness, or, when not completely insensible, an expensive breakfast with promises rarely kept.
Judging the former to be the best option he quietly attempted to extricate himself from the bed. This was not an easy operation. Despite his moniker, Chubby was, in fact, very tall and quite thin. Consequently, he tended to move in ill-coordinated sections. Sadly, for Chubby, on this occasion the lady he had spent the night with was not such a heavy sleeper as he had hoped. She opened one eye and looked at Chubby. Chubby returned her look with what he hoped was a winning smile. In reality, given the state of his pounding temple, he accepted that it might appear as more of a grimace.
‘Good morning.’ he said in as cheerful a voice as he could muster.
The lady shut her eyes and groaned. She waved her hand in the direction of the door and said in a voice muffled by the bedclothes, ‘Quick, my husband might come back.’
There were few words in the English language more likely to galvanize Chubby than the word ‘husband’. With almost Olympian speed he was dressed, out of the apartment and loping along Piccadilly, past Green Park tube station, towards Whitehall.
A small clock overhead told him it was nearly quarter to nine. Just enough time for a spot of breakfast he thought. It might settle the stomach. Just as this happy thought struck him, he remembered something about needing to speak to Kit Aston at nine o’clock. It all came back to him now. His secretary had left a written message on his desk which he had picked up as he left to go to his club. Thought of the club made him groan as he began to recall the events of the previous evening. It was always the same. ‘Spunky’ Stevens would suggest an aperitif with some chums and before you knew it, this would turn into several bottles of cheerfulness and the rest would be history. If only he could remember.
As Kit was being so specific about time, there must be a good reason. Despite the ability of his long legs to devour distance, he realized his chances of reaching the office, by nine o’clock, in his current delicate state were remote. Fortunately, he was able to hail a taxi and it took him to the door of the War Office. Chubby had worked there since nineteen fifteen after being invalided out of the army. His naturally cheerful disposition meant that the loss of his left hand following a foolhardy charge on a heavily defended German position was accepted without complaint. In fact, he actually considered himself somewhat blessed as he was, in fact, right-handed. His golf handicap had suffered, however.
Arriving at the door of his offices, he bounded out of the cab and up the stairwell and through the front door with a nod to the doorman. The phone was ringing as he burst through the door. It was nine o’clock. Grabbing the telephone, he said, ‘Kit?’
On the other end of the line Kit spoke, ‘Hello Chubby old fellow, thanks for taking my call.’
‘My pleasure,’ said Chubby breathing heavily into the phone. It occurred to him he was somewhat out of condition. The same thought seemed to strike Kit.
‘You sound like you had to make a sprint for the tape, Chubby.’
‘It was a close shave,’ agreed Chubby. At this point, a combination of the excesses of the previous evening and the exertions of the morning combined to distressing effect on Chubby and he began to throw up prodigiously into his wastepaper basket.
Hearing the commotion on the other end of the line, Kit inquired, ‘Are you all right, old man?’
‘Never better, the window is open, some seagulls outside,’ answered Chubby.
‘Were they out on the lash last night also?’ responded Kit sardonically.
‘You know me. Sociable to the last.’
‘All too well, Chubby, all too well. I’ve had a few headaches to prove it.’
Kit went on to explain the nature of his call and what was required from Chubby. Upon hearing the news about Miller, he was surprised, ‘Anything to help - stout fellow that Miller - carried you halfway across France, if I remember.’
‘It felt like it at the time. One more thing, have you any files on Liam or William Devlin, Eric Strangerson and also Doctor Richard Bright? I’d like to know more about them.’
‘Shouldn’t be a problem, Kit, but it may be early afternoon before I have anything for you. I’ll make it a priority and look into this personally. Something is nagging at me about the Cavendish’s also. I’m sure it’ll come back to me. I’ll take a look at their files.’
‘I appreciate it, Chubby.’ Kit was interrupted as Chubby offered up another sacrifice to Bacchus. When Chubby returned to the phone Kit asked him, ‘What on earth were you doing last night?’
Always appreciative of an audience, Chubby gave an uncensored, albeit slightly exaggerated, description of the previous evening beginning with the meeting with their mutual friend Spunky through to the romantic finale.
‘How did you manage to win this young lady’s heart?’ asked Kit after he had finished laughing.
‘Usual line about my wife not understanding me.’
‘Bounder.’ chuckled Kit, ‘You’re not even married. How could you stoop to such naked deception?’
‘All to easily old chap. We’re not all born looking like a Greek God and you’ve a title as well, you scoundrel, as if you didn’t have enough going for you,’ laughed Chubby. ‘How about the girls Kit? Desperately sorry for them, losing their grandad and all that. Don’t break their hearts, old boy. I like them. They’re good girls, both of them.’
‘It’s my heart you should be worried about Chubby. I’m out of my depth here.’
The conversation finished soon after. Chubby went to the window to let in some fresh air. Just as he did so, his secretary, Miss Brooks looked in. She recoiled at the smell in the office and exited immediately.
Chubby popped his head out the door to apologize.
‘Must’ve taken something that disagreed with me.’
‘The third bottle of champagne perhaps?’ said Miss Brooks cynically.
‘It was the Gin Rickey, I believe, but no matter. Actually, while I have you here, Miss Brooks, I need you to find some files for me, if you don’t mind.’
Chubby proceeded to list out what he needed before
finishing, ‘You’ll find my rotting corpse in here.’
‘Very good sir. Shall I bring you a gun to speed things up a little?’
‘Capital idea Miss Brooks. Full bore if you can. That should do the trick, I think.’
Another day had begun in the life of Mr Charles ‘Chubby’ Chadderton.
Chapter 27
28th December 1919: Cavendish Hall
Lord Cavendish’s room was silent save for the persistent pulse of the ticking clock. Esther and Mary sat by the window gazing out at the leaden sky and the wisps of morning fog. More grass could be seen peeking through the remaining snow. The sisters had come here separately. Both felt the need to be in the presence of their grandfather.
After a few minutes when neither had spoken, Mary turned to Esther, her eyes red-rimmed from the tears.
‘You’re not angry?’
Esther reached over and held her hand. She looked at her sister, normally so strong and independent. There was a sense of vulnerability in Mary she had not seen before. Overnight, Mary seemed to have become smaller and, for the first time in recent memory, she felt protective towards her.
‘Don’t be silly,’ said Esther, ‘If I’m angry at anything, it’s that you didn’t tell me before now.’
Wiping her eye with the heel of her hand, Mary shook her head, ‘I thought…’ She left the sentence unfinished.
Esther began to giggle which made Mary frown questioningly. When the fit of giggles subsided, she explained in answer to the unasked question, ‘This is terrible, I can’t believe I’m going to say this.’ Esther took a deep breath, ‘I’m not interested in him. Part of the reason is his name.’
‘Name?’ said Mary mystified.
‘Yes, the name. I just didn’t think Esther Aston sounded right.’ Esther laughed at herself but there was a hesitation, too. It was absurd and at any other time both would have been in fits of giggles for the afternoon.
