Probably not.
With a sigh, Natalie headed back downstairs. It was only as she walked into the sitting room, she realised she was still holding Will’s Enid Blyton book.
39
Alicia was taken to Calahurst Police Station, shown into the CID office and given a pile of fashion magazines to read while she waited for someone to deign to interview her. An hour later and she was about to leave, when the door opened and in walked the officer she’d met earlier.
He sat down behind the desk, introduced himself as DCI Douglas Bloom and, without giving her a chance to speak, added, “I’m sorry to have kept you waiting. I had a few things I needed to clarify.” He took a notebook from his pocket and opened it. “You are the legal owner of Hurst Castle?” he asked, pen poised for her reply.
She forced herself to concentrate. “Yes, I inherited it because my father didn’t have a son. A distant relative inherited the title.”
“Why not the castle?”
“My father owned several properties all over the country, most of which were entailed onto the head of the Vyne family. Hurst Castle was not entailed. It’s not old, it’s not special - it’s basically an overgrown folly, built by someone with more money than sense or taste. My father could leave the castle, as well as all of its contents, to whomever he chose. I suspect that if he’d had a son, he would have left it to him. My father was very traditional.”
“When the time comes, will you leave the castle to your son, or to both your children equally?”
Alicia shifted in her seat, uncomfortable at the way the questioning was going. “It’s a bit difficult to divide a castle in two. My son will inherit. My daughter will receive the financial equivalent and probably the house we live in now.”
“Is this something you promised your father you would do?”
“My father died before Will was born. Why is this relevant?”
“You haven’t answered the question.”
“My father explained that if an estate such as ours was divided, it would be to diminish it. It’s common sense. I fail to see what any of this has to do with the skeleton I found down the well.”
“Consider it background information,” he shrugged. “Now, your father was still alive when Sarah was killed?”
Alicia stared at him. Why on earth had he said that? Surely he wasn’t suggesting -
“Mrs Fitzpatrick?”
“Yes, my father was alive. Sarah did part-time work at the castle. She helped to catalogue his books and, when she died, he went to her funeral. I thought you knew that?”
“Were you living at the castle at the time?”
“I was a year older than Sarah and had already left home. I was sharing a flat in Norchester with James. We were supposed to be going to university together but I became pregnant and couldn’t go. We were struggling financially so my father gave us the Old Vicarage. It meant I could stay at home with the baby.”
She trailed off, wondering if she was talking too much - although the DCI was writing everything down in his notebook, so presumably he thought it was relevant.
When he realised she was watching him, he smiled. Like a shark, she thought, and began to feel nervous all over again.
“Your mother is currently in residence at the castle? With her personal assistant, Robert McKenzie?”
Did he have to make the word ‘assistant’ sound like ‘gigolo’?
“My mother has the use of the castle during her lifetime, but she also has to pay for its upkeep.”
DCI Bloom did not appear to care for specifics. “Tell me about the well.”
“There’s not much to say. It’s only a well.”
“How old is it?”
“I have no idea. We have several plans of the estate, going back to the 1400s, although those ones are kept at the County Archives. I think it’s medieval. I’m certain I remember my father telling me that.”
“It seems a strange place to sink a well - outside a castle?”
“The present building is only two hundred and fifty years old. It is built on the site of a much older building, of which some still remains - the library, the old watch tower and the cellars. The original castle was built on top of the hill, for maximum viewpoint, with a wall which enclosed the entire area.”
“The ruined chapel and the well were originally inside the castle wall?”
“Yes, but only the foundation of the wall remains and that’s hidden beneath the garden. Like the rest of the original castle, it was destroyed during the Civil War. For many years it lay in ruins; much of the stonework was taken to reconstruct the houses in the village, which had also been destroyed. Then an ancestor of mine married an heiress and a new, grander castle was built.”
“How long has the gate been fitted over the top of the well?”
“Since before I was born, although I’m not certain that it is the same one. It would be in the archives. I’ll ask the Estate Manager to look it up for you.”
“Not to worry; I’ll arrange for one of my DCs to check the records.”
“The Estate Manager is a very straight, honest kind of person. If the information is there, he’ll find it for you.”
“It was not my intention to imply otherwise.”
Of course it wasn’t.
“Is that everything?” she asked coldly.
“Almost. I wanted to clarify that the gate, as you call it, has been in place for over thirty years?”
“Yes - but not necessarily the same gate.”
“I understand that, Mrs Fitzpatrick. I’m not trying to catch you out. Has the gate always been padlocked?”
“Yes. It’s level with the ground, as you’ve seen. Anyone could fall in. It was always kept locked - else what would be the point of having a gate?”
“You were able to break the lock quite easily.”
“The stone it was bolted to came loose from the rest of the well. The padlock is still in place. You can check.”
“We already have.”
How many pointless questions would he ask, when he already knew the answers?
“Was there anything else? I’d really like to get back to my family.”
“One last thing.” DCI Bloom opened up a folder and took out two large black and white photographs. He lay them on the desk, one at a time. “Do you recognise either of these men?”
The overhead light reflected on the glossy surface of the photographs and Alicia had to lean over them to get a better view. They were police mugshots, not the most flattering of photographs, of two men who were perhaps in their late teens or early twenties. Both had too-long hair and handsome faces, which were marred by defiant expressions. Something stirred in her memory.
She jabbed her finger at the photograph of the younger man. “I remember him,” she said. “That’s Geraint Llewellyn. He’s the fairground boy everyone said killed Sarah but he disappeared around the same time.”
“You’re quite right. How about the other one?”
“Can I pick it up?”
He nodded. “Take your time. This is important.”
Finally she was doing something worthwhile. “There is a slight resemblance between them,” she said. “Are they brothers? They have the same shaped forehead and high cheekbones, but this man is older, harder - as though he’s seen too much of life.”
The DCI’s lips twitched. “Yes … but have you seen him before?”
“Never,” she said confidently, handing him back the photograph. “And I would remember. I’m good with faces.”
The DCI placed the photographs back into the file. “That is most illuminating.”
Alicia realised she’d made a mistake. “Why?”
The DCI stood up. “Thank you for coming in, Mrs Fitzpatrick. I’ll get someone to drive you home.”
“Oh, no. You can’t leave me hanging like that! Who is the man in the picture? Is he Sarah’s killer?”
“I don’t know - and that’s the honest truth.”
“You must know who he
is though? That’s a police mugshot!”
“I’m sorry, I misunderstood your question. Of course I know who the man is. His name is Bryn Llewellyn - he and Geraint were cousins.”
“That’s Bryn? You mean, the new head gardener? Natalie’s new - er, friend?”
“Yes.”
“But it can’t be him! It looks nothing like him!”
The DCI’s smile broadened. “Exactly!”
40
Natalie regarded Will’s book with a frown. How could she have forgotten she still had it in her hand? She certainly couldn’t take it back upstairs to him. What if he woke up? She could be reading Enid Blyton all evening. Not that there was much of the evening left, she realised, glancing at her watch. Surely Alicia couldn’t still be at the police station?
She sank onto the couch, flicking aimlessly through the pages of Will’s book, wondering if she should seek out some sticky tape and repair the torn cover. Something had been written on the flyleaf, in dark spidery handwriting, and she tilted it towards the light to read it more clearly. It said:
To my darling Alicia
Happy Christmas
with love
Father
X
Sir Henry Vyne. It made her nauseous seeing his handwriting after all these years, as though his ghost had reached out a cold hand from the grave. It stirred up her memory of him, sat behind that huge desk in the castle library, puffing on his disgusting pipe, which had always turned the surrounding air bitter and foul. The way those cold blue eyes would constantly watch her, as she sorted through the estate paperwork and filed it away. Sometimes she’d pick something up with a sense of déjà vu. It made her wonder if the papers had been deliberately taken out of the filing cabinet and scattered about before she’d got there, particularly as Sir Henry never seemed to do any work. Or was there another girl, just like her, who spent the earlier part of the day creating the mess she had to tidy up?
Perverted bastard.
At least he had never touched her. Or would that have come later, when she’d been lulled into a false sense of security, thinking he was only a harmless old duffer? At the time she had grit her teeth and thought of the money - money that would allow her to leave Calahurst and her cold-hearted mother for ever.
She’d been stupid, stupid, stupid!
Had Clare Vyne known what happened in the library? How about the staff? Natalie had always been terrified someone would come in and catch her with no clothes on. It would have been humiliating to say the least. Strangely, no one ever did - which, with hindsight, was suspicious in itself.
Natalie closed the book and dropped it onto the coffee table, feeling an overwhelming desire to wash her hands. It was then she noticed the outside security light had come on.
The curtains of the sitting room were still drawn back and she had a clear view of the driveway. Someone was outside. Was it Alicia?
Natalie entered the hall the same time as the door swung open. Due to the combination of poor lighting and the fact that she had been expecting Alicia, it took a moment to realise the figure standing with his back to her, quietly closing the door behind himself, was James Fitzpatrick.
There was nowhere to hide; it would have looked decidedly odd should she have tried to. Instead she stood completely still, watching as James moved from the shadows into the centre of the hall before he saw her. Even though she was several feet away, standing at the foot of the staircase, she heard his sudden intake of breath.
“What the hell?”
Thankfully she’d had the advantage of an extra few seconds to compose herself.
“Hello, Jamie,” she said languidly, knowing he hated to be called by his old nickname. “Lovely to see you too!”
His thick dark brows settled into a frown. “Where’s my wife?”
“Out.” Natalie wondered whether to explain about the well and the skeleton - but to hell with it! He’d been a complete pig the last time they had met, so why should she be anything less than obtuse?
“She asked you to look after the children?”
It was an effort to keep a hold on her temper. “Yes.”
He took his time unbuttoning his coat. Beneath it he wore one of his usual dark-blue suits. She’d forgotten how tall he was; how he could fill a room with his presence. Some of her confidence ebbed away.
“I’m here now,” he said, glancing up, as though surprised to see her still standing there. “You can go.”
As though she were staff?
“Thank you,” she said coldly. “I think I’ll wait for Alicia to return, if it’s all the same to you?”
He continued to stare at her, with eyes so dark she couldn’t read their expression. “Your presence is no longer required,” he said, now speaking slowly, as though she was an idiot.
“I promised Alicia I would stay with the children until she got back.”
“Why do you persist in being difficult? Do you get some kind of kick out of making a scene? Do you want me to physically throw you out of the house? Is that it?”
“It’s not your house.” The words were out before she could stop them. He’d always had that power to bring out the worst in her.
“One mistake,” he said slowly. “You’re never going to let me forget it, are you?”
“It’s hardly likely to be something I would forget either.”
“If you won’t leave, then I shall - because I’m not staying in the same house as you.”
“Now you’re being stupid.”
“I’ve had a long day, and a long drive, and I’m not in the mood for your crap. You can tell Alicia what you like.”
Incredibly he had called her bluff. “It’s late. Where are you going to go?”
“To my sister-in-law’s. I was heading there anyway. It’s why I came back from London.”
She regarded him blankly. Which sister-in-law? She knew James had four brothers - hell, everyone in Calahurst did. The Fitzpatricks were one of the local families.
“Has something happened?” she asked curiously. Perhaps Charles’s wife had finally got wind of his proclivities and left him. It was a bit late for James to be providing a shoulder to cry on though.
Instead of answering her question, he was heading towards the door.
Infuriated, Natalie hurried after him, catching hold of his arm. “What are you talking about?”
He shook her off. “The fire at Rose Court? I would have thought that was obvious.”
“The fire was yesterday, what does it have to do with - ” She broke off as a series of images flashed into her head. Rose Court in flames. DCI Bloom telling her they’d found the body of her father. John Grove, alive and well, holding a gun to her head - a gun which had been registered to Charles Fitzpatrick.
And all those unanswered telephone calls she had made to Charles’s phone.
“Charles? He’s dead?”
James inclined his head.
For the first time, she realised how uncharacteristically dishevelled he was - his smart suit creased and rumpled, with more than a discernible dark stubble marring his handsome face.
“It has taken the police this long to identify the body,” he said and she realised his odd, stilted way of speaking was his way of keeping his emotions in check, not because he was furious at her. “It would have taken longer but, as he was the only one missing, it has to be him. They’ve retrieved his wedding ring and watch. Next step will be dental records.”
It had been Charles’s body in the wheelchair. Did that mean her father had been the one who had killed him and set Rose Court ablaze - to hide the fact he’d absconded?
Suddenly she felt quick sick and leant back against the wall for support. “Oh God … ”
“Quite. My brother has died, in the most horrific way imaginable. My sister-in-law, as you can imagine, is beside herself with grief. If you are willing to remain here with my children, at least I can drive over there and be with her.”
“Of course I will … ” Oh why had she been suc
h a bitch? “James, I’m so sorry - ” she began, but he had already pulled open the front door. There was a distinct blast of cold air, in direct contrast to the snug warmth of the hall.
“Shouldn’t you have something to eat?” she called after him. “There’s pizza in the fridge.”
“I didn’t drive over a hundred miles to eat pizza,” he said, and then he was gone.
Natalie stood alone in the centre of the hall, hardly able to believe what had happened. Charles Fitzpatrick was dead. It had been his body strapped into the wheelchair and left to burn.
Meanwhile, her father had miraculously survived.
A little too miraculously.
41
As DCI Bloom had promised, a patrol car took Alicia home. It was now the early hours of the following morning and Alicia was thoroughly tired and fed up. Wary that the sound of the car on the gravel might wake the children, she asked the police car to drop her at the end of the drive and told him she’d walk the rest of the way. There were still clouds above, which meant there was little in the way of moonlight to illuminate her way, but as she drew nearer to the house she could see the light in the sitting room was still switched on.
There was a dark-coloured BMW parked outside the study window. She assumed the car belonged to Natalie, until she drew closer and recognised James’s number plate. Why was he home? And why hadn’t he called her? Presumably Natalie had explained everything, but he could have given her a call to check she was all right. Had he even noticed she wasn’t home? Would any of her family miss her if their meals were still produced on time?
The security light flashed on, almost blinding her. The heavy velvet drapes of the sitting room were tied back, giving anyone who passed an excellent view inside. Alicia remembered the previous night, when the prowler had turned up. Perhaps they needed to rethink their security.
Speaking of which -
There was a little statue of a frog set in the corner of the portico, half-hidden behind a leafy fern in a terracotta pot. She moved the fern aside, lifted up the frog and groped around for the key - just as the security light flickered off, leaving her in the dark. Typical. She took a step back out of the portico to wave her hand in the direction of the light, but a movement on the other side of the window caught her eye and she hesitated.
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