by Cathy Ace
‘I see that landlord at the Coach and Horses is from Bethnal Green,’ said Annie brightly as they reached the topmost landing. ‘Small world, innit?’
Wayne laughed. ‘Yeah, now that was a turn up for the books. Never knew him back in London, but he seems a decent sort. Jacko, right?’
Annie nodded. Decent sort?
‘This is ours,’ said Wayne opening a double door. ‘It’s worth taking a look just for the view,’ he added as Annie peered inside.
She stepped into a sumptuous room in which a king-size bed was dwarfed. Trying to ignore the massive television, the two chaises and the open door which showed her a marble-clad en suite bathroom, she walked to the floor-to-ceiling window which looked out from the back of the house, in the same direction as the floor-to-ceiling windows in the kitchen area. Because of the three-story height, the view was quite different. Instead of looking into the delightful garden of the house, here she had a view from the crest of the hill toward what she guessed must be Chellingworth Hall. Set to one side of the main edifice was a smaller building on a lower hillock. She guessed that must be the Dower House. Neither building was floodlit, but she could clearly see lights at windows, suggesting life inside the buildings. She imagined Mavis and Christine working hard on their investigative tasks and a chill of guilt ran down her spine.
‘What’s that?’ she asked innocently. ‘Or should I say where’s that?’
‘Chellingworth Hall on the left, the Dower House on the Chellingworth Estate on the right. Owned by the idiot duke. Henry Twyst. Nut job.’
‘A duke? Have you met him?’ Annie feigned excitement.
‘Yeah, a few times. Mainly at charity things they have there. You know the sort of thing – marquees in the grounds. God forbid we’d be allowed to actually eat inside the hallowed place itself. They open it to the public, but they never welcome people with open arms. They’re sitting on a gold mine, if only they knew it. The things I could do with that place, given half a chance.’
‘Like?’ asked Annie, feeling truly curious.
A light began to shine in Wayne’s eyes as he gazed into the deepening darkness. ‘Not just events, like weddings and so forth, but a wonderful hotel and country club. Six thousand acres they’ve got and none of it used much. They’ve got a bit of farming there, you know the sort of stuff, with wild boars, goats for fancy cheeses, that sort of thing, but it’s so underused. All they’d have to do would be get a bit of planning permission here, and put up a few temporary structures there, and they could really rake it in.’
He looked at Annie and said, ‘Got no kids, he hasn’t. Not likely to either. He’s a weird one. His sister’s one of them artsy types and his mother’s as daft as a brush. Batty as hell the lot of ’em. And when they go, well, I don’t think there’s anyone left of their lot. The title will die and I’m betting they’ll sell off the estate.’
Annie smiled. ‘They haven’t got some distant cousin somewhere who’ll get the lot? You know, like on Downton Abbey?’
Wayne looked puzzled. ‘Why’d you say that?’ he asked, an edge to his voice.
‘’Cos I watch Downton Abbey,’ said Annie in as matter-of-fact a tone as she could muster. She wondered why he’d bitten her head off.
Wayne shrugged. ‘Ah, right. Not my cup of tea, that. Haven’t got any long-lost relatives that I know of. Though that type breed like rabbits, don’t they?’
‘Well, not the present ones, by the sound of it,’ replied Annie, smiling. ‘Really mad, are they? Or just, you know, posh barking?’
Wayne grinned. ‘What’s the difference? The old one’s the worst. But I reckon the son’s not far behind.’ Wayne walked away from the window and added, ‘But that’s enough about the Twyst family, come and see my sports room. It’s just across the landing.’
Annie smiled politely, though she couldn’t imagine it would be very interesting. Wayne marched across the landing that straddled the entire top of the staircase and threw open another set of double doors. This time, clever lighting revealed what Annie could only imagine was a male paradise: a billiard table, dart board, large button-backed leather chairs and the biggest TV screen she’d yet seen in the house, plus a well-stocked bar.
‘Doesn’t Merle mind you having this on the same floor as your bedroom?’ Annie was genuinely puzzled.
‘One of the reasons Merle and me got together was because she loves all this as much as I do. Besides, we neither of us want to risk having to go up or down any stairs when we’re done in here and want to hit the hay. So it’s perfect.’
Annie wandered around the room making suitable noises. She looked at the photographs and trophies that lined the walls, of which her host was obviously very proud. Some of the team photos were old enough that she could spot Wayne in his football-playing days. Others were clearly more recent.
‘Look, there’s someone I recognize,’ said Annie, pointing to the toothsome vision of Tristan Thomas.
Wayne laughed. ‘Oh, yeah, that Thomas bloke from the antiques shop in the village. He’s always around,’ he said wearily.
Annie did a double take at one photograph, then looked back at another. ‘Is this bloke in two different teams?’ she asked.
Wayne joined Annie in front of the photographs, looked at where she was pointing and said, ‘Oh, yeah. That team’s the one I sponsor in the village, and that’s one I sponsor at the Hoop and Stick in Mile End. You know it?’
Annie shook her head.
‘Nah, probably not,’ he replied. ‘They did it up and renamed it. It used to be The George. On Bancroft Road.’
‘The one along from Mile End hospital?’
Wayne nodded. ‘They managed to keep most of the character of the place and the football team there brings people who work at the hospital together with the local community – such as it is these days. I bung ’em a few quid now and again and they all buy me a drink when I drop in.’
‘So who’s the bloke who’s in both teams? And how’d he manage that?’ asked Annie.
Wayne peered at the photos. ‘Well, you’ve got sharp eyes, I’ll give you that. It’s Mickey James. Son of the landlord at the place you’re staying. He used to play here. Now he plays there.’
‘Oh right. Jacko mentioned something about him having cousins around Bethnal Green and his son being there these days. You got anyone still living in that neck of the woods now, Wayne?’
Wayne shook his head. ‘Nah. Little Connie, my girl that I was telling you about earlier, she lives in the States. Me brother’s dead and his wife remarried some bloke out in Essex. His kids are still somewhere in the old place, but I don’t hear much about ’em. Anyway, enough about all that, let me show you the guest facilities on the floor below. Pretty swish they are, even if I do say so meself. Merle’s to thank for all the decorating, of course, not me. She’s good at it, ain’t she?’
Annie nodded as Wayne closed up his surprisingly fascinating sports room, and tried to think of how she was going to get out of Wayne Saxby’s house and back to the Coach and Horses as quickly as she could, so that she could tell Carol that there was a pub football team in Mile End that wore black tracksuits and black woolen hats sporting blue bobbles.
FOURTEEN
FROM: CH
TO: MM, AP, CW-S
REF: RESPONSE TO ALL YOUR DAY ONE QUERIES
1. ANNIE QUERIES:
NOTE TO TEAM: ANNIE NOW LOCATED AT HOME OF WAYNE SAXBY, UNTIL SHE RETURNS TO COACH AND HORSES PUB OVERNIGHT SATURDAY/SUNDAY
a) John James (Jacko) 57, landlord of Coach and Horse pub in Anwen-by-Wye, Delyth James (wife) of same address: he’s been in trouble for receiving stolen goods, but not since he turned twenty. An electrician employed by a sub-contractor in Tower Hamlets for ten years. Nothing on her. Business seems clean, but reduced profits in past three years. No local news stories, except when the pub hosts charity or fundraising events. Delyth James, 52, is the daughter of Mr Stanley and Mrs Florence Davies, of Hay-on-Wye. (NB: Newspaper story about him buying the pub
for his daughter. He made his money in haulage into and out of the port of Manchester. He sold up in 1963, when the port was the third largest in the UK, and ‘retired’ to Hay-on-Wye.) Jacko and Delyth have a son, Michael James, 23. Left school at 16, been in trouble a lot with the Dyfed-Powys police. A few drugs charges and problems with causing a fracas – three times, but never at his father’s pub. The lad seems to have a temper. He’s also been in court in London; he seems to spend a good deal of time back in his father’s old haunts in the East End with some members of extended family. Not a good family. They pop up all over east London. Checking a range of names I’ve uncovered, as a family group they seem to be into all sorts, including petty theft and some semi-organized shoplifting. The son’s not been pulled in in connection with any of that.
b) Tristan Thomas, 46, antiques dealer with a shop in Anwen-by-Wye. Interesting man. Seems to have had a wide variety of jobs, none of which had anything to do with art or antiques until about ten years ago. He holds a lease on the shop A TASTE OF TIME in the village for another five years. It’s owned by the Chellingworth Estate. Looks like a marginally profitable business, but turnover is down in last five years to about a third of what it was before. No qualifications of any sort that I can find. Just popped up and started calling himself a valuer. Often questioned by police about stolen goods (maybe to be expected in his line of business?). Never charged with anything. Originally from Cardiff. Ex-wife still lives there. Divorced and single now.
c) Wayne Saxby, 54. Originally from Mile End, London. Owns house in Highridge Estate, which is made up of new executive homes on land just outside Anwen-by-Wye. Married to second wife, Merle Saxby. He made a pile in real estate, as one of the moving forces behind the gentrification of London’s East End. Sounds like a lot of his old ‘friends’ weren’t sorry to see him move to Wales. Newspaper and online stories about him sticking to the letter of the law, but not to the spirit of it, nor being a good or trustworthy neighbor. Seems he bought up a lot of properties very cheap, then either developed them himself, or flipped them to others to do the same thing. ‘Community displacement’ is a phrase people use when they write about him. One daughter from first marriage, Connie Shulman married an American property developer Stephen Shulman and lives in Miami. Two kids. Doesn’t visit her family much. Wayne’s mother, Olive Saxby, lives with him at the Welsh house. He met his second wife when she became his personal assistant, at the property development company. He was still married to wife #1 at the time, but not for long. She didn’t wipe him out, due to some clever legal footwork on his part, and now she’s remarried. They don’t keep in touch. From local Welsh press clippings I gather he’s a pillar of the local community around Anwen-by-Wye. He supports a lot of charities and sends money to, rather than taking part in, local fundraising efforts. Seems to be a pretty big supporter of local football clubs. Still owns a fair amount of property in the Mile End/Bethnal Green area, mainly rentals. Not known as a slum-landlord, but not far from it. Multi-millionaire, solid investments, property speculation.
2. MAVIS’S QUERIES
a) Photos of the bobble hat (thank Her Grace for taking photos of the label as well as the hat!) mean I’ve been able to track it. Good news – it’s made in the UK. The manufacturer is near Birmingham. I will talk to them on Monday – there’s no one there who can help me until then. Their website says their smallest order is for 250 items, but they can make thousands. Will get back to you when I find out more. Let’s hope they didn’t make thousands of this design!
b) The information about the alarm system at the Dower House is available on the website of the manufacturing company (which I find odd, but there you go!), but here’s what you need to know. It’s a good system and the information you gave me about the installers, Mavis, tells me it was well installed. No cowboys involved. I’ve studied the specifications. There is no easy way to disarm the system without the codes, or significant knowledge of electronic circuitry. However, can you please check and send photos of how the power is hooked up to the system? It’s supposed to have a back-up battery, which should kick in if the power goes off, but the website suggests a few ways of using a back-up generator as well. I’m going to check with the installation company on Monday about the specific people who installed the system. Not impossible to bypass, with the right knowledge, it seems.
c) Jennifer Newbury is telling the truth. I’ve identified her correctly and she has an online CV that tallies with her work at an old folks’ home and before that. Nothing else on her right now. No red flags. Social media suggests she had a boyfriend during her pre-old folks’ home years, but not since.
d) Ian Cottesloe has received every clearance required to work with at-risk youth and appears in local press as a keen supporter of, and volunteer with, local youth groups, scouts, football, rugby and cricket teams. No other apparent interests. All social media activity seems to be linked to these groups. No apparent girlfriend.
e) Mary Wilson, cook, has a CV that goes back about thirty years and is accessible through the website of the agency that found her for the Dower House. I’ll speak to the agency on Monday morning.
3. CHRISTINE’S QUERIES
I need some feedback, Christine! Annie and Mavis have checked in. It’s seven on Saturday evening. I’m going to phone you. What are you doing?
MORE:
Having just spoken to Christine I will send this email to you all anyway. NOTE TO TEAM: Christine is dining with our client and will check in via email tonight. My mobile will be beside me – now I’m going to put my feet up. I wish you all a very pleasant and productive evening. Call me if you need me.
FIFTEEN
Christine Wilson-Smythe picked up the Waterford crystal champagne flute and toasted Henry Twyst. It was quite clear to her that he’d made special arrangements for their pre-dinner drinks, because a fire was roaring in what was obviously an underused fireplace in the paneled library.
The evening light was all but gone beyond the windows of Chellingworth Hall and there was a definite chill in the air.
‘Daddy’s always moaning about how much it costs to keep our place in Ireland warm, but you do a splendid job here, Henry. My room is delightfully cozy and this fire’s a treat.’
Henry glowed with more than the warmth of the flames behind him. Christine noticed, as he stood at the hearth, that his suit was a little tight around his middle and he couldn’t move his arms as easily as she suspected he’d been able to when the suit had been new and had fitted him.
She perched comfortably on a delightful example of Jacobean needlepoint upholstery and observed, ‘You seem to have very effective staff, Henry. The place is very well kept. I adore the flowers. From your borders?’
Henry nodded. He didn’t seem to be blessed with the ability to converse at all, which worried Christine. If she was to draw him out about the people on his list, she needed him to open up to her. Noticing that he’d already drained his glass, Christine said, ‘Don’t wait for me to finish before taking some more, Henry. I like to see a man enjoy himself. Go ahead, please.’
As she’d suspected, Henry gleefully replenished his glass and refreshed hers by half an inch. Christine wondered if she’d found the way to loosen his tongue. After yet another glass of champagne, dinner was announced and Henry took Christine’s arm to lead her to the dining room. Using the seat at the head of the table, and the one to its right, Christine noted from the setting that several courses were to be served, and she hoped that none of them would be too heavy.
As the first course arrived, then the second, Christine tried to enjoy the ambience of the green brocade-walled room and the small talk that she managed to winkle out of her host. Eventually her ploy of encouraging Henry to drink more than herself began to bear fruit. After the fish course, by which time Henry was well into his second bottle of total consumption, Christine began to list names and Henry began to react.
Responding to her first query, he sounded flustered as he began, ‘I cannot believe that B
ob Fernley has anything to do with my mother finding a wretched bobble hat in her dining room. He managed the estate for my father and I trust him totally. He runs the entire farm business for heaven’s sake. And his wife, Elizabeth? She’s a pillar of the local community. Without her doing what she does – much of which is what would be expected of my wife, if I had one – the whole fabric of estate and village life would start to unravel.’
Christine couldn’t help but wonder how much pride Elizabeth Fernley might derive from being seen in such a flattering light within the local environs.
‘And your housekeeper, Violet Davies?’ pressed Christine.
Henry looked flabbergasted. ‘You met her when we visited the office. What on earth would a woman like that be doing in possession of a bobble hat?’
Christine had to admit that Henry made a valid point. Mrs Violet Davies was in her late fifties and built on the classic Welsh chassis, styled after a cottage loaf. Her nylon, belted housecoat was anything but flattering and Christine had noticed that the woman had a very small head. She was convinced that this wasn’t an illusion created by the girth of the rest of the woman’s body, and recalled that Carol was always bemoaning the fact that no hats ever fitted her because they were always too big for her. Christine wondered if there was some strange Welsh gene that endowed people of that race with particularly small heads, then decided that was foolish. In any case, the bobble hat found by Henry’s mother had been a medium size, and she was sure it wouldn’t have fitted Mrs Davies, even if she could have come up with some bizarre reason for the woman wanting to don such an item.
As Henry rattled on about how no one in his household could possibly come under suspicion for whatever had happened, Christine began to become more convinced that, in all probability, the bobble hat had belonged to the disappearing corpse. She hoped that Mavis was having better luck than she at finding out if anyone inside the Dower House might have been likely to disarm the alarm to allow an intruder, or intruders, to enter the premises.
