The Carlswick Affair (The Carlswick Mysteries Book 1)

by SL Beaumont

  “No, that’s Ok – don’t tell him I called. I was just going to see if he wanted lunch. Does he still have his foreign visitor with him?” Stephanie said.

  “Yes and more coming. We will have half of Israel here soon,” Emily said. “Steph – you might have to call your Dad on his mobile if you need to talk to him today as they are all driving down to Carlswick straight after the meeting. I’ve had to organise five estate cars and book a whole lot of rooms at the hotel.”

  “Are they?” Stephanie said. She couldn’t keep the surprise out of her voice. “Well, I hope he doesn’t make you work too long today.” She said goodbye to Emily and hung up.

  Anna returned with coffee, which Stephanie gratefully grabbed as she was dialling her grandmother’s number. It rang four times before it was answered. Ellie was delighted to hear from Stephanie.

  “Grandma, there is something that you may be able to help me with. You mentioned the other day that your brother David conducted his own investigation into Sophie’s death. Did he make any notes – leave anything written that you might have?” she asked.

  “I don’t have anything, dear. But the library in the village has his memoirs,” Ellie said.

  Stephanie gave a sharp intake of breath. Have I caught Dad in a lie? She clearly remembered her father telling her at dinner, that David didn’t write a memoir. Stephanie felt a sharp pang of guilt. She shouldn’t be suspecting her father of anything untoward. It was possible that he didn’t know that David had written anything. Although the thought felt false, especially as she knew what a history buff her father was. Where else did I learn to love the subject?

  “Now, when are you coming home dear? It’s very quiet without you coming and going,” Ellie asked.

  “Later today, I think,” Stephanie said.

  Stephanie ended the call and stared at the phone for a few moments. Funny that Dad failed to mention yesterday that he was heading to Carlswick this weekend. And David did leave a memoir. This is getting stranger all the time. One thing’s certain; I need to get hold of that memoir, she concluded.

  She scrolled through the phone book on her mobile phone and pressed the telephone symbol beside Michael’s name.

  After a brief conversation, he agreed to drive into the village and see if the library would allow the memoir to be loaned out, and hold it for her until she got home later in the day. She couldn’t guarantee that she would get back to Carlswick, before the library closed, what with British train services being as unreliable as they were.

  “Can I read it?” he asked.

  “Of course if you have time – I’m keen to know what it says about his investigations into the Knox’s and my aunt’s death,” she said.

  “Ok. So this is what you’ve been looking into. But I don’t see what your Sophie’s death has to do with old paintings?” Michael mused, mentally linking the internet search he ran with Stephanie’s current request.

  “I am hoping the memoir will shed some light on that,” Stephanie replied.

  “Ok,” he replied. “Hey, I’ll pick you up from the station. Text me when you’re on the train.”

  Stephanie thanked him and said goodbye, clicking her phone shut and gulping the last of her coffee.

  “Anna - that foreign guy at Dad’s office yesterday was Israeli. And there is a meeting scheduled at midday with more of his colleagues and then they are all driving down to Carlswick. I’m going to do a little research here this morning and then do you fancy coming back down to the country with me for a few days?”

  Anna grinned. “Yeah. Apparently, there’s a great coffee shop in your village that I must try.”

  Stephanie laughed and curled up in a comfy armchair with her iPad and continued reviewing the websites that Michael had identified which mentioned Hoffman. What had become of him? Her mind wandered to her father. What was he up to? She was beginning to wonder if he wasn’t somehow involved with the painting too. Trips to Carlswick with Israeli military types – maybe they were looking for stolen Jewish art? No. That would be too coincidental. But then again her father was relieved that she was in London which was strange given how delighted he was that she was spending the summer with her grandmother. It was all very confusing.

  Anna’s mobile phone ringing interrupted her thoughts.

  “Sorry Steph,” Anna said after she ended the call. “I can’t come back with you. That was my agent. I have an audition for that movie, tomorrow morning.”

  “That’s great,” Stephanie said. Anna had been actively campaigning for an audition for a role in what was touted as the next blockbuster, ever since the production company had announced their intention to make the movie. “Why don’t you come down after the audition? I’m sure Andy would love to see you,” she added suggestively, waggling her eyebrows.

  Stephanie spent a little longer surfing the web. It appeared that in 1941 Hoffman had been replaced as curator of the Nationalgalerie in Berlin. But she could find no reference to him after that time. I am missing something here, she thought frustrated. I need Michael’s computer wizardry. She closed her iPad and quickly packed her things.

  “There’s a train back to the village at 1:30pm so I’d better go now, if I’m going to make it. See you tomorrow?” Stephanie said, hugging her friend goodbye. “And good luck for the audition or break a leg or whatever it is that you say.”

  “Thanks. I’ll text when I’m on my way,” Anna replied, returning her hug.

  “Great. I’ll pick you up. Thanks for last night. Sorry I had to spoil it with all this,” Stephanie said waving her hand vaguely at her iPad.

  “It’s fine. We just need to get to the bottom of it. I have a feeling that whatever your Dad is up to will resolve this,” Anna reassured her.

  Unfortunately Stephanie was not sure which side he was on. She shivered feeling icy fingers running down her back. Surely he was not involved with the stolen painting?

  Chapter 22

  A little while later, seated on the train, she sent Michael a text to let him know that she would be arriving at 2:45pm.

  He didn’t reply, but she guessed that maybe he was still at the library. If they hadn’t allowed him to borrow the memoir, he may have had to stay there to read it. She sighed and closed her eyes, only opening them again when the driver called her stop over the intercom. Quickly gathering up her things, she jumped off the train as the doors opened. She looked up and down for Michael, as the train pulled away, but she was the only person remaining on the platform.

  She walked through the little station waiting room out to the car park. Being a Saturday, there was no commuter traffic, so only a few cars were parked there. Michael’s wasn’t one of them.

  Strange, she thought, he must have forgotten the time. She pulled her phone out of her pocket and sent him another quick text. A few minutes later, she still hadn’t heard from him and was about to walk up the hill to the library, when Matt drove past and screeched to a stop.

  “Hello. You look like you are waiting for someone?” he called opening his passenger window. “Do you need a lift?”

  “Actually I’m waiting for Michael to pick me up, but he seems to have gone AWOL,” she said.

  Matt’s face fell. “You haven’t heard,” he said.

  “Haven’t heard what?” She responded slowly, a knot forming in her stomach.

  “Michael had a car accident earlier this afternoon. He was run off the road. The other driver didn’t stop,” he said.

  Stephanie gasped and put her hand over her mouth, feeling nausea rising. “Oh my god! Is he…?

  “He’s still unconscious from what I understand. He’s up at the hospital. Do you want me to take you to see him?” Matt said.

  Stephanie’s hand was already opening the passenger door. “Yes please.” She lifted her bag onto the back seat before climbing in the front. They drove quickly to Carlswick Memorial Hospital.

  Michael’s mother was sitting on a chair outside his hospital room looking pale, when they walked down the corridor
towards her several minutes later. She stood and gave Stephanie a hug.

  “How is he?” Stephanie asked in a whisper.

  “They are just running some tests. He’s still not conscious, but otherwise appears to be uninjured,” Mrs Morgan explained.

  “It’s my fault. He was on his way to pick me up,” Stephanie could feel her eyes filling with tears.

  “It’s not your fault dear,” Mrs Morgan said patting her arm kindly as Michael’s door opened and the doctor came out and explained that there was no change, but he was stable and they could sit with him.

  Matt offered to drop Stephanie’s suitcase at their grandmother’s house, and said he would come back later to visit. She hugged him goodbye and followed Mrs Morgan into Michael’s room. He looked peacefully asleep and without his glasses, a lot younger. She felt a huge stab of guilt. This was too much of a coincidence - first the SUV last night in London and now this. She reached out and took Michael’s hand. The back of it was covered with superficial cuts, probably from broken glass, Stephanie guessed.

  “Sorry mate. I would never have asked you to help if I knew I was putting you in danger,” she whispered, before sitting on a chair beside the bed.

  “What did the police say, Mrs Morgan?” she asked.

  “They don’t really know. He was sideswiped and spun off the road just outside town and the other driver didn’t stop,” she said. “There were no witnesses apparently, but his car has black paint down the side and is a real mess”.

  “Poor Michael. He will be upset about the MG,” Stephanie said.

  “I know,” his mother agreed. “But it can be repaired.”

  They sat in silence for a few minutes. Stephanie looked around the sterile hospital room. On the cabinet beside the bed were Michael’s belongings – his glasses, wallet and a single piece of paper. Stephanie’s eyes picked up on the writing. It was a receipt from the Carlswick Library for a copy of Lt. David Cooper’s Memoir.

  So he had got it. Stephanie picked up the receipt and showed Michael’s mother.

  “Do you know if Michael left this at your place?” she asked.

  Mrs Morgan looked at the receipt. “Is that for your great uncle’s book? Michael showed me. He was very excited about it and he was bringing it to give to you.” She looked around the room. “It’s not here is it? The police emptied out the car and brought his jacket and iPad, but there was no book,” she frowned. “I wonder if it was thrown from the car?”

  Or stolen from the car, Stephanie thought grimly.

  But to Michael’s mother she said, “It’s not important now. We can look for it once Michael is back on his feet.”

  A thought suddenly crossed her mind. The receipt was for a copy of the memoir, which meant that the original must still be at the library.

  Stephanie glanced at her watch. It was 4 o’clock. Hopefully, the library would still be open.

  “Mrs Morgan, I’m going to have to go – Grandma is expecting me at home. I came straight here from the station as soon as I heard. But I will pop back in after dinner, if that’s ok,” she said.

  “Of course, Stephanie. Give me your number, so I can let you know if there is any change,” Mrs Morgan said pulling her mobile phone from her pocket.

  They exchanged phone numbers and Stephanie hugged her goodbye and gave Michael’s hand a squeeze.

  She hurried from the hospital, down the hill to the library. It was still open. She had guessed correctly. Michael had checked out a copy, but the original was still available to be read. She sat in the library’s tiny reading room, wearing cotton gloves, so as not to damage the fragile book.

  David’s writing was hard to read. She quickly scanned through the early sections on his childhood, education and airforce training – she could come back and read those later. Her heart began to race as she reached the section entitled World War II. She had to force herself to slow down and read carefully. He mentioned that his sister Sophie was seeing his friend Edward Knox and several dinners they shared whilst on leave. She and David had begun to suspect that all wasn’t right with the Knox family and their many foreign house guests. Other people had obviously noticed too, as the Ministry of Defence launched an enquiry into the family. Edward had been livid and he and David had argued.

  Stephanie looked at her watch. It was 10 to 5 – she would get thrown out of here shortly. She flicked over a few pages; an entry dated June 1946 caught her attention:

  I do believe that old man Knox is storing artworks stolen by the Nazis, but as yet I have been unable to prove it! All of the visitors before and at the start of the war had one thing in common – they were wealthy Germans and we now know for a fact that Hilter was forcibly confiscating art works, particularly those belonging to Jews or by artists he deemed to be Degenerate. And of course, we were to find out after the war, that he would also plunder all the major galleries and cultural institutions of Europe.

  Stephanie gasped. Oh my god – I have come to a similar conclusion about the Knox’s, so there is something going on here. She kept reading. There were more pages on the subject, covering his investigations and conclusions. However, at that moment the librarian came into the room and told her time was up and they were closing. She was welcome to come back when they were open again.

  Stephanie looked longingly at the memoir. She felt it still had more to tell her. In fact she hadn’t read anything on Sophie’s death and from what her grandmother had told her, it was David who believed that it wasn’t an accident, so he was sure to have written a lot about that.

  Stephanie sighed and reluctantly handed the book and gloves to the librarian. It would have to be Monday now, as the library was closed on Sundays, but she checked with the librarian, just in case that had changed.

  “No, we are closed now until Monday,” the librarian confirmed. “It must be a good book. You are the third person to enquire about it in as many days”.

  “It’s my great uncle’s memoir,” Stephanie replied. “My friend Michael borrowed a copy of it for me, as I was out of town, but who else wanted it?”

  The librarian went back to the front desk and tapped on the computer. “It doesn’t say who requested it, I’m afraid. I wasn’t here, but I know that when I went to retrieve it for Michael, it had already been brought out of the archive and was waiting to be put back. It was only when I scanned it for him to take into the reading room, that I noticed that there was a copy, which is the one that I loaned out to him,” she explained. “We have started copying the old memoirs as some of the pages are deteriorating.”

  “Ok. Thanks,” Stephanie said, the cold feeling engulfing her again. She seemed to be several steps behind whoever else was looking into events in the village during the war.

  Chapter 23

  Dusk was beginning to fall when the librarian locked the door behind her. Stephanie walked back up the hill to the taxi stand outside the hospital and took a taxi back to Wakefield House.

  The Fiat, parked in front of the house, was dwarfed by half a dozen black estate cars. Stephanie was relieved to see that the windscreen had been repaired. The garage must have returned it, while I was in London, she thought giving it a welcome home pat.

  There were lights on in the guest house, but the blinds were drawn, so she couldn’t see who was inside.

  Ellie had left a note stuck to Stephanie’s bedroom door, letting her know that she was visiting friends and would be back later. Stephanie’s stomach suddenly rumbled. It had been a long time since her coffee and bagels at Anna’s. She cooked herself a quick plate of scrambled eggs on toast and washed it down with a glass of orange juice.

  After dinner, Stephanie wandered restlessly around the house studying the various photos that her grandmother had hanging on the walls and in frames on the piano in the sitting room, hoping they would give a clue to the family mystery. But the faces simply smiled back at her, retaining their secrets behind the glass.

  Bored, she decided to drive back into the village and visit Michael again. Sh
e packed a small container of muffins and grapes to take for Michael’s mother, in case she hadn’t managed to get any dinner. The hospital café was sure to be operating on similar hours to the library in a village this size.

  Her mind was still going over all the events of the last few days as she drove down the lane. If Dad and his guests are planning on ‘dropping in’ to the Knoxs, then I wonder if the Knoxs are expecting them? She puzzled over this for a few minutes. It just didn’t sit right that her dad would be working with Alex, especially if it was to do with art of questionable provenance. I wonder what’s happening at Knox Manor? An idea began to take shape in her mind as she parked at the hospital. Once it was dark I will pay Knox Manor a visit and see what is going on there. Maybe I’ll see Dad arrive for whatever meeting he was planning.

  There was no change with Michael. His mother was grateful for the food and they sat and chatted quietly for a while, with Michael sleeping peacefully beside them. A nurse bustled in and checked on Michael at regular intervals, each time pronouncing that he is doing just fine and giving a reassuring smile.

  After about an hour, Stephanie said her goodbyes and promised to visit again the next day.

  She drove out towards Knox Manor and turned into a farm gateway about a kilometre from the house. Pulling a small flashlight from the glove compartment, as she jumped out, she carefully locked the car. She shrugged her long jacket on over her jeans, buttoning it up to the neck. The evening was still, crisp and clear and the stars were scattered across the sky like a sprinkling of glitter. She shivered slightly and could feel her heart starting to beat a little faster as adrenaline kicked in. The old wooden gate shuddered and creaked as she climbed over it.

  Switching on the flashlight and pointing it at the ground, she walked across two gently rising fields until the chimneys of Knox Manor came into view. Quickly crossing the next two fields, keeping close to the hedgerows that served as fences, she stumbled once or twice on the uneven ground. She came to the tall stone wall which bordered the gardens of the Manor and skirted along it a little way looking for an opening. Her breath was coming faster and forming condensation in front of her. A little way along there was a break in the wall. The gap was filled by a rusty looking metal gate and she gave it a gentle push with her foot. To her surprise it swung open, but made a loud creaking noise. She froze and flattened herself against the outside of the wall, desperately listening in case the creaky gate had attracted attention.