The Truth-Seeker's Wife

by Ann Granger

‘My job here, Mr Harcourt, is to ask questions, not to answer them. I have reason to suspect Sir Henry’s will was mentioned during that last meeting.’

  He didn’t like that. He drummed the fingers of his left hand on the marble seat, and eyed me with a mix of caution and annoyance.

  ‘Very well,’ he agreed at last, reluctantly. ‘It was mentioned, of course, because he had just signed a new will. The main part of that was unchanged, Beresford was – and is – his heir. It was the legacies to members of the household that had to be brought up to date.’

  ‘And you, Mr Harcourt? Do you know if you are mentioned in this will?’

  Harcourt hesitated before replying. Then he said, ‘Sir Henry’s man of law is a fellow called Pelham, with an office in London.’

  ‘You should perhaps know I have met Mr Pelham in the past,’ I said. ‘In connection with other matters.’

  ‘Then you will know that he is a clever man. He knew of my relationship to his client. He had suggested to Sir Henry that I be left a reasonable legacy, as his estate manager. It should not be a sum that would attract comment. But it should be fairly generous. I believe Pelham’s argument was that, provided I were left a respectable sum, I would not be in a position to— make trouble. It would also be a condition of the bequest that I cease, in Pelham’s words, “to make unsubstantiated claims of being Sir Henry’s natural son.”’

  An almost savage scowl crossed Harcourt’s face as he told me this. He paused and regained his self-control. The scowl faded but grim determination remained.

  ‘I told Sir Henry I would decline any such legacy. I would not be “looked after” like any other long-time servant. Nor would I deny the truth of my parentage, even if Sir Henry chose to do so.’ He gave a brief, mirthless smile. ‘They were both astonished when I said I wouldn’t take the money. Pelham thought I was trying to beat up the price; that I believed I was worth more. There was a very unpleasant scene. I thought I was going to be dismissed. But Pelham calmed Meager down. To turn me out would be to give me a free hand to tell my tale to anyone who cared to listen.’

  Harcourt drew a deep breath. ‘You are right. The matter was raised again at our last meeting, just before the dinner party. Pelham was back in London, of course, and it was intended to discuss only estate business. That led to plans for the future. Pelham had convinced Sir Henry I could be bought in time.

  ‘Beresford probably thought so too, though I think my claim of kinship worried him less. He didn’t care about it, frankly, and made it clear at that last meeting before the dinner party. It made no difference to him, he said. As to my birth, it was written in the register of baptisms that Edward Harcourt was my father. Beresford himself was the designated heir, son of Sir Henry’s sister, and that was that. I could remain as estate manager if I wanted, when the time came. Or not, as I pleased.’

  Checkmate! I thought to myself, as I looked at Harcourt’s flushed features. Beresford was a clever fellow. He had handled the situation far better than Sir Henry or Pelham. But, in effect, for Harcourt to have been told to keep quiet and stop making a fuss, as one might say to a child? Oh, that must have enraged Harcourt at the time.

  The man himself got his emotion under control now. ‘I think eventually I got it into Meager’s head that I didn’t want more money. I wanted nothing! But he sulked, to put it mildly. If he’d lived to meet Pelham again, I am sure the lawyer would have persuaded the old chap I was playing some deep game. Of course that next meeting never came.’ Harcourt’s mouth twisted into a wry grimace. ‘Fate plays strange tricks, doesn’t it?’

  I waited. Eventually, Harcourt turned to me and said in a cold voice, ‘Meager’s view was that I’d insulted him, you see. He said that I was ungrateful. He had “always looked after” me.’

  Harcourt leaned back against the stone blocks of the wall and stared ahead of him through the Gothic arch of the entry, towards the fringe of trees beyond. When he spoke, the impression I got was not that he spoke to me, but to the ghost of the late Sir Henry Meager.

  ‘All those years at school,’ he said. ‘After the death of my mother, I had no one. Oh, the school fees were paid, but I never had so much as a letter from Sir Henry, or from anyone on his behalf, not even whoever his solicitor was at that time. Most of the boys had families or guardians who took an interest of some sort. They received letters from time to time. Occasionally the luckier ones received visits from a parent. I had no one, no family, and no guardian that I knew of. I suppose Sir Henry filled the role, but if so, no one took the trouble to explain it to me. No one, Inspector Ross.’

  Harcourt turned back to me. ‘He paid my fees, and he took me into his estate office, where I eventually became estate manager. He considered he’d done his duty. Most people, I dare say, would agree that he had. But he wanted my gratitude, Inspector Ross. That he would never have.’

  ‘Because you hated him?’ I suggested quietly.

  ‘I suppose I did,’ he agreed, as if we spoke of trivial matters. ‘Yes, I dare say I did. And I wasn’t the only one, because someone hated him enough to blow out his brains for him.’ Harcourt smiled without humour. ‘But I was not the person whose finger was on the trigger.’

  Chapter Ten

  Elizabeth Martin Ross

  It was as well that I decided to return to the house and not linger on the heath. When I arrived back, it was to find Aunt Parry in some agitation.

  ‘Thank goodness you have come back, Elizabeth! It was very inconsiderate of you to wander off in that way.’

  ‘I did not “wander off”!’ I protested. ‘I told you I was going to walk on the heath.’

  ‘And while you have been gone,’ continued Aunt Parry, ignoring my defence, ‘a message has come from Mrs Beresford at Oakwood House. A groom rode over with it and has just left. We are invited to take tea with her this afternoon. She will send a carriage for us. I have been practising walking with the stick and I am sure my ankle will hold out.’

  ‘That is kind of her at this time of mourning for her family,’ I said. To be honest, I was surprised. ‘She must be very much occupied with necessary arrangements.’

  ‘I dare say it is because she is embarrassed,’ retorted Aunt Parry frankly. ‘After all, it was not to become involved in scandal and murder that I came here. But yes, yes, it is good of her. What will you wear, Elizabeth? Mrs Beresford will be in mourning, of course. We must do our best.’

  I had feared we might have to travel in the berlin again. But the carriage sent for us that afternoon was a landau with a smart coachman. We were taken in style to Oakwood House. That, and the prospect of an outing, had put Mrs Parry in a very good humour. I, on the other hand, was apprehensive. Mrs Parry could, on occasion, be what is called ‘a loose cannon’.

  As expected, Agnes Beresford was in full mourning. She wore a long-sleeved gown of black taffeta, with a ruche at the hem, and a short train, the bodice trimmed with black velvet. On her head was a cap of black lace. The gown and cap must have been in her wardrobe from an earlier sad occasion, or held in reserve against sudden need, because there had been no time, since Sir Henry’s death, to have them made.

  Although the death had not actually taken place here, the house itself was also observing conventions. The curtains were drawn; mirrors were veiled. Even the piano was draped in a black shawl. But at least the curtains in the drawing room, into which we were shown, were not fully closed, only partly so. The room was therefore shadowy, but not so gloomy we could not see. Agnes, in her black gown, was of a piece with it. She was very pale. When she stood to greet us, it was as though we had entered the Underworld, to be welcomed in by some antique draped spectre. I couldn’t help but feel embarrassed at being there, although we’d been invited.

  ‘It is very good of you to ask us to take tea,’ I said awkwardly. ‘Both Mrs Parry and I are deeply conscious of what a sad and difficult time this must be.’

  ‘You have my most sincere condolences,’ said Aunt Parry, perfectly at ease. ‘Sir Henry was a charmi
ng man and must be much missed.’

  Agnes replied somewhat mechanically, ‘Yes, of course. Thank you.’ She then looked at the waiting butler and added, ‘You may bring tea, Tompkins.’

  She turned back to us. ‘Please don’t feel you are intruding. Andrew is so busy with everything and I am left sitting here. I am quite desperate for company.’

  She gestured at the chairs and we all sat down. I had been wondering quite how the conversation would progress once the opening exchanges had taken place, but Agnes was so eager to speak that I believed she had spoken the truth. She was deeply shocked and anxious to unburden herself. Yet, somehow, I sensed a curious absence of grief. She seemed more to be frightened than distraught.

  She continued now: ‘I am very pleased to welcome you both here; and deeply appreciate that you have taken the trouble to come.’ She hesitated again. ‘You see,’ she burst out suddenly, ‘the only other company I have here when Andrew is away, is him!’ She pointed at the window.

  We both turned to look at the window but no face peered in at us.

  ‘Who is he?’ asked Mrs Parry cautiously.

  ‘Why, Sir Henry! He is lying in his coffin in the old icehouse, out there in the grounds, until we can bury him in the churchyard, in the family plot. Of course, we are told not to believe in ghosts. But I do feel most strongly that he wanders about out there. I even feel that sometimes he is in the house. He cannot rest, I believe, until his killer is found.’

  So that, I thought, explains why the house is in full mourning. Sir Henry did not die here, but he is dwelling here in death. I felt a rush of anger towards Andrew Beresford. Had he not considered the effect on his young wife of being left here alone with the servants and a body in the icehouse? No wonder the curtains were all drawn. Agnes feared to see Sir Henry’s ghastly countenance, with bloodstains, looking in on her.

  ‘It’s not pleasant to have Sir Henry’s remains so near,’ I said. ‘But I urge you not to give way to your imagination, although I perfectly understand it.’

  ‘It is not just my imagination, you know,’ Agnes answered energetically. ‘Things have been happening.’

  ‘What kind of things?’ I asked.

  Agnes hesitated. ‘You will think me foolish.’

  We assured her jointly that we would not.

  ‘Well, there are the flowers. You see my piano over there? I have not played since Sir Henry died because I did not think it would be seemly, not with him lying… lying out there. And also because,’ she hesitated. ‘Because I had a ridiculous fear that, if I did begin to play, I’d turn and see him standing behind me, listening. He liked to hear me play, you see.’

  ‘You do play beautifully, my dear Mrs Beresford,’ Aunt Parry assured her.

  ‘I begin to think I shall never play another note,’ said Agnes despondently.

  ‘What about the flowers?’ I asked, impatient to know what had happened.

  ‘Well, I came down here the morning Sir Henry was discovered dead in his bed – that is to say, the morning after the dinner party – and there was a white rose lying on the piano. Of course, we did not then know what had happened at the Hall during the night. I thought Andrew had placed it there, because we have roses like them in the garden. But when I thanked him, he denied it. We asked the servants but none of them could explain it. Then Robert Harcourt came with the dreadful news. Andrew rushed off to the Hall and, well, he has hardly been at home since.

  ‘Yesterday, it happened again, only this time the rose was pink. Again I asked the servants; and again they couldn’t tell me how it got there. I didn’t like to mention it to Andrew because he has so much to worry him just now. But this morning there was something else on the piano, a small painted fan, the kind a lady might take to the theatre. I had never seen it before. The servants swear none of them placed it there. I didn’t quiz them any further because, if they thought Sir Henry was trying to contact someone here, they would all leave at once. After he denied knowledge of the first rose, I haven’t dared tell Andrew about the rest, because he’d be so upset.’

  ‘Well, I suppose there are more things in heaven and earth…’ mused Mrs Parry tactlessly. ‘Perhaps you should ask the vicar to call and carry out some sort of ceremony?’

  I glared at her. She flushed and fell silent.

  ‘He’s called already, to express sympathy and discuss the funeral, when we can hold it. I didn’t tell him about any of this – the flowers on the piano,’ added Agnes in despair. ‘How can I? It’s sounds so – so improbable. You are the only two people I’ve been able to talk to about it.’

  ‘It’s quite unnecessary to involve the vicar!’ I said briskly. ‘These are malicious tricks, Mrs Beresford, and the joker is alive, not dead. I do believe you should tell Mr Beresford. Perhaps I should tell my husband.’

  Agnes turned to me and was speaking again, more calmly. ‘Tell Inspector Ross, if you think he should know, but please ask him not to tell Andrew…’

  ‘I can’t guarantee that he will not. But I will explain how you feel about this.’

  Agnes smiled nervously. ‘Mrs Ross, both Andrew and I are greatly relieved that Inspector Ross has come to take charge of the investigations. Please tell him so. The inspector who came before – his name was Hughes and he came from Southampton – was very courteous and thorough, but— I felt he was ill at ease. That may have been because we are all under suspicion, or he made us feel so. Also, if I may be frank?’

  Mrs Parry and I assured her she could be quite frank.

  ‘Inspector Hughes seemed somewhat out of his depth. I don’t intend any criticism of him; I’m sure he’s done his best. But my husband is already acquainted with Inspector Ross and respects him. We are indeed all of us “out of our depth”. To have someone here who already knows us gives us all confidence.’

  ‘You cannot do better than have Inspector Ross investigate!’ stated Mrs Parry, in a surprisingly enthusiastic tribute.

  I wasn’t quite sure what to say next. But the tea arrived at that moment and there was a natural interruption during which tea was poured and cake handed out.

  Agnes then began to speak again. ‘Things are very awkward, due to the manner of Sir Henry’s death. The family solicitor, Mr Pelham, is travelling down from London today. I understand Mr Ross knows him?’

  I replied cautiously that I believed Ben had had dealings before with Mr Pelham but I had never met him.

  ‘He is a rather frightening man,’ said Agnes frankly. ‘He never smiles. I suppose the matters in which he deals are serious and one ought not to expect to be light-hearted in his manner. And now, of course, he is dealing with the death of a client and the bereaved family.’

  She paused and looked a little flushed as if embarrassed. I thought I understood. This was not the usual kind of bereaved family. So far I had not heard a word of regret spoken. Agnes had not liked her husband’s uncle, so much had been clear to me on the evening of the dinner party. But even if the deceased had not been popular, it is usual to find something good to say. Shakespeare had Mark Antony find something to say about Caesar, after all. Agnes was clearly struggling and eventually gave up the attempt. Her nature was to be honest. She couldn’t find anything good; but she would say nothing bad. When she began to speak again, it was in a practical tone.

  ‘Due to the manner of Sir Henry’s death, as I was saying, final settlement of the will may be delayed. Mr Pelham wrote to say there should be no funeral until the police give their permission for it, or the coroner, one or the other. Pelham will discuss all that with Andrew when he arrives.’

  ‘He will be staying in this house?’ asked Mrs Parry.

  ‘Oh, no!’ Agnes told her quickly. ‘We offered him hospitality, naturally. But he declined. He felt in the circumstances he should stay independently of any of the persons mentioned in the will. Also he has some other business to transact, in Southampton. That has nothing to do with us. He has therefore taken a room at the Acorn Inn, where, I believe, Inspector Ross is staying?�
�

  Oh, my goodness! I thought. I don’t think Ben knows that.

  Agnes burst out suddenly, ‘We cannot imagine who could have done such a thing!’

  She did not have to say the word ‘murder’ for us to take her meaning.

  ‘It will turn out to be some vagabond,’ declared Mrs Parry firmly. My earlier glare at her had only quenched her temporarily. She was back on form. ‘Depend upon it, my dear Mrs Beresford, it will be some rogue who broke into the house with intent to steal.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Agnes doubtfully.

  ‘Forgive me,’ I said hesitantly, ‘but it is absolutely certain nothing was taken from the house?’

  ‘Nothing has been taken,’ Agnes confirmed. ‘There is no sign that anyone searched the Hall, other than in the library, where the drawer to the desk was forced open…’ Her voice tailed away.

  ‘And the wretch saw the pistol!’ Mrs Parry made a dramatic gesture, as of someone seizing something and pointing it across the room.

  Agnes flinched and I thought that I might, after all, murder Aunt Parry one day.

  ‘He would have seen both pistols,’ I began loudly. ‘But he appears only to have taken one. I don’t think a burglar—’

  ‘Of course he was a burglar! He meant to search the house and took the one pistol to protect himself, should he be confronted,’ insisted Aunt Parry, overriding anything I might want to say. ‘Tragically, that is just what happened. In the course of his search, seeking valuables, he entered Sir Henry’s bedroom. Sir Henry awoke and the miscreant fired. But for that, the intruder would have returned to the library, helped himself to the other pistol and anything else that took his eye. Has the silver all been accounted for?’

  ‘There was no sign of anyone breaking in,’ said Agnes, in a very small voice. She had become, if possible, even paler. ‘The silver is all there. Warton, the butler, made a most thorough check. He has been in charge of the silver for many years and would have noticed if even the smallest item were missing.’