by Bill Kitson
‘I don’t have one. I don’t drive,’ Chloe told us. ‘I was hoping to start taking lessons but I can’t obtain a licence without evidence.’
‘Couldn’t this simply be a clerical error?’ Eve asked.
‘No,’ Michael replied, ‘they insist it’s a forgery.’
‘Is there nothing to give you a clue? No written records, or family gossip, perhaps? Something your aunt or uncle might have heard, possibly? Even a comment that might have seemed irrelevant at the time might enable us to look in the right places.’
It was obvious that Eve had decided she wanted to help, and was going to get involved. I agreed with her, because having tied the knot so effortlessly ourselves, my heart went out to this couple, who were obviously keen to do the same but had hit this appalling barrier.
It was a moment before Chloe replied, and when she did I was intrigued by the way she phrased her response. ‘I’ve tried asking them, time and again, but they can’t tell me anything. Either they can’t or won’t.’
‘Does that mean you believe they might know something, but that they are unwilling to share it with you? That would be rather cruel, wouldn’t it?’
‘I don’t know for certain ... they might do ... they wouldn’t be cruel, though. That isn’t at all like them. It isn’t easy talking to them. And now they’re dreadfully upset by this terrible murder.’
‘Are they upset because they believe the police think they’re involved, or for some other reason?’
Chloe responded quickly to Eve’s question, leading me to think that she and Michael must have discussed the matter beforehand. ‘They’re behaving very oddly. It started long before the murder. They hardly talk, even to each other, and if you start a conversation they answer you, then stop immediately. Not only that but if you enter a room suddenly they react as if you’re a ghost or something. When they do talk to each other it’s usually in whispers, as if they’re afraid someone might be listening in, eavesdropping. Not only that but they are obviously scared. All of that is very unlike them.’
‘What Chloe says is true,’ Michael backed her. ‘I went to collect her this morning and, although it was broad daylight, the curtains at the front of the house were half-drawn, and the doors were locked and bolted. I suppose that might seem understandable, with David being in custody, but it is unusual at Elmfield Grange. I feel sure it isn’t the murder that has caused it, but neither of us can be certain what the reason for their fear might be.’
‘That is definitely strange behaviour. We had a visit from the officer in charge of the inquiry earlier this morning. He told us that everyone was refusing to talk to the police.’ I looked at Chloe. ‘And he seemed to imply that the silence included you.’
She looked uncomfortable, and her explanation left us even more puzzled. ‘I was doing as I was told. Before I was interviewed, my aunt and uncle insisted that I say nothing, that the best way would be to remain silent. The way they said it was strange, too. They said that if we were to talk to the police, any of us, we could be putting the whole family in great danger. They stressed that, over and over, and made me promise to remain silent.’ She spread her hands in a gesture of frustration and helplessness. ‘I don’t know why they were so concerned, because I couldn’t have told the police anything, because there was nothing to tell. I don’t know anything.’
‘You can understand our predicament.’ Michael slipped his arm around Chloe in a comforting gesture. ‘We want to get married, in fact we hoped to be married by now, but we can’t because of this identity thing. We’ve had to cancel the ceremony and the honeymoon, which has proved very expensive.’ He paused for a moment. ‘I suppose that sounds very selfish, but it isn’t the money, or the inconvenience that concerns us, it’s the fact that we can’t begin our married life together until this is all sorted out.’
‘What Michael is trying to say is that no matter how difficult our position might be, it must now take second place to making sure my aunt and uncle are not going to be unfairly accused over something they didn’t do, and weren’t involved with.’
‘What about the rumours we heard about your aunt supposedly having an affair with the dead man? Is there any truth in them?’ Eve asked the question I had been longing to put, but my courage had failed me.
‘That is total nonsense.’ Chloe reddened slightly with anger, her voice emphatic as she continued, ‘I suppose outsiders might believe that to be possible, but that’s because they don’t know my aunt. Nor do they know Uncle David, because if they did, they would realise that he is incapable of such a wicked act. They would also know within minutes of seeing them together that they are totally devoted to each other.’
I glanced at Eve and saw that, like me, she was impressed by Chloe’s statement. It wasn’t only what she said but her vehement defence of her aunt and uncle that convinced me. ‘What exactly do you want from us?’ I asked.
It was a simple enough question, but the answer was far from straightforward. Michael replied, accompanying his opening words with a rueful smile. ‘Apart from a miracle, you mean? To be honest, we don’t expect anything, because expectation is too strong. We hoped you might give us a bit of advice. We’re stuck as to how to proceed with finding out anything to do with her true identity, so we thought with your background and expertise you might know where to begin looking and what sort of questions to ask, that sort of thing. I know it all sounds a bit woolly, but we’re at a bit of a loss, to be honest.’ He paused, before adding another compelling reason for needing to find out about Chloe’s background. ‘There is one other great concern that Chloe has. Because her mother died so young, and with nobody apparently able to tell her the cause, she is dreadfully worried that what killed her mother might be some form of hereditary condition, and that Chloe might have been passed the same genetic problem.’
‘I can see that you want to begin asking around, and I believe Chloe’s family would be the best starting point, but I can understand that is not practical with the murder hanging over their heads. We don’t want to get involved there, and to be honest we couldn’t without more information. Perhaps once the police investigation gets into full stride they might find out more and that would release your family from possible implication.’
As I was speaking I saw Eve looking at me, but I was unable to gauge what she was thinking from her expression. Although her next question of Chloe seemed to confirm my appraisal of the situation, it was only later that I learned exactly what was in her mind.
‘Thinking about your problem, is there anything you can tell us; anything you can recall being told of the time before you came to Elmfield Grange? It doesn’t have to be a major event, it could be something trivial or seemingly irrelevant that might provide a clue as to where you were, or what was happening.’
Chloe shook her head, and by her reaction I knew she had been asked the same question before, probably more than once. ‘No, I only wish I could. The trouble is I was only a baby when I came to Elmfield. By then, so I was told later, my mother was already ill.’ She paused and I could tell even discussing what had happened with strangers was emotionally trying. ‘After mother died, from what Uncle David and Aunt Valerie told me, my father became very depressed and started drinking heavily. I mean really heavily, not just a little bit. They seemed to suggest that he was more or less permanently drunk, and it wasn’t a long time afterwards when the drinking and the stress of grief brought on the heart attack that killed him. Uncle David told me once that he believed that although the coroner’s verdict was natural causes, uncle thought that my father drank himself to death deliberately, because he could not face a future without my mother.’
‘That is so very sad,’ Eve told her.
I was in the middle of reflecting that wealth and position were meaningless and immaterial in the face of such tragedy, when out of nowhere a random thought occurred to me. ‘Who gave you your birth certificate?’ I asked.
‘It was in the shoebox.’
‘Shoebox?’
‘Oh, sorry, Uncle David gave me a shoebox when I was in my teens. Inside it were just bits and pieces – mementoes, I suppose you’d call them – things that had belonged to my parents. It was in there.’
‘What else was in it?’
‘A small jewellery box, which contained a gold bracelet, some earrings, a locket, and a pearl necklace. There was also a man’s wristwatch and a fountain pen, which he said had been my father’s, and my parents’ marriage certificate. I’m not even sure if that’s genuine.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Because they married abroad, supposedly, but it’s for a registrar’s office in London. I contacted them and but they didn’t have a record of it. They suggested I was in the wrong district.’
Eve and I glanced at each other.
‘What was your mother’s name?’
‘Her first name was Deborah, but she was always referred to as Debbie. As to her family name’ – Chloe shrugged – ‘that could have been anything. It’s listed on the certificate as Hunter, and as far as we know that’s a forgery too. So whether Hunter has any resemblance to the truth is anybody’s guess.’
‘I still think the best way forward will be through your family, but I appreciate that’s impractical at present. However, there is a good side to having to wait, and that is that the delay might give us chance to think of what questions we ought to ask to try and discover the secret of your birth, because right now I, for one, have no idea where to start. Is there nothing that could give us a starting point, other documents, family photos or anything?’
‘The only thing I have is the locket,’ Chloe told us. ‘But my aunt and uncle don’t know where it came from. They said they found it in my father’s room after he died.’ Her hand went to the gold chain around her neck and after a second, she passed the pendant to me. I opened it to reveal two tiny black and white photographs. One was of a young girl, possibly eleven or twelve years of age, and the other a boy who would have been little more than seven. The resemblance between the children was obvious. ‘If that’s your mother, it suggests she might have had a younger brother. If that’s so, I wonder what happened to him.’ I showed the contents to Eve and as I snapped it shut, noticed the design etched on the back and initials DJ. I made no comment as I returned it to Chloe.
‘We don’t actually have any proof that it is Chloe’s mother in this photograph,’ Eve pointed out.
‘Give us a few days and we’ll try to think of some way we can help. I don’t want to get your hopes up, though. It sounds like a well-nigh impossible task.’
I wanted the couple to be under no illusions that we might be able to perform miracles, and I could tell Eve was of a similar mind. When the troubled young couple left, it was on the understanding that we would help as much as possible, and in whatever way we could think up, if any. Before leaving, they gave us contact phone numbers for both Elmfield Grange and the vicarage.
‘It’s very uncharacteristic of you not to become involved in a murder investigation. Are you feeling unwell?’ Eve asked, once we had waved them goodbye.
‘I’m fine, but I do think it is grossly unfair for people to come around here in droves. I think they’re expecting a lot for us to want to meddle in their affairs. I would rather be here alone with you than solving other folks’ problems.’
Eve kissed me gently. ‘Sometimes you say the nicest things, Adam. Can you do it more often, please?’
‘I’ll do my best, Evie.’
I noticed a slight grimace before she spoke again. ‘So what should we do now?’
‘What’s wrong?’ I looked at her, concerned.
‘Do you mind awfully not calling me Evie? It irritates me a bit.’
‘I picked it up from Charlie. He’s always referred to you as Aunt Evie.’
‘Yes, and I let him get away with it because he’s my nephew and has been doing it ever since he could talk. I should tell him I don’t like it, I suppose.’
‘OK, I’ll promise to try and avoid using it. I guess I’ll have to think up something else to irritate you with.’
‘You could avoid irritating me altogether.’
‘If I do that, you’ll think I’ve stopped caring.’
I was treated to one of Eve’s coldest stares. The sort I imagine a black widow spider might have when contemplating her lunch.
‘I asked you what we should do now,’ she reminded me.
‘Let’s get out of here and do the shopping. With luck this time we’ll make it to the car before someone else decides to lean on the doorbell.’
Chapter Six
Although we liked to support the village shop wherever possible, the range of products they stocked was limited. We compromised by visiting the larger stores in Dinsdale once a month, topping up locally in between times.
We completed most of the shopping by late afternoon, with only the frozen food still to buy, having left that until last for obvious reasons. As we were walking towards the specialist outlet, I noticed a poster in an adjoining shop window, and drew Eve’s attention to the event being advertised.
The poster was headed “DINSDALE MUSEUM AND ART GALLERY”, followed by the announcement “Grand reopening ceremony to be conducted by renowned art historian Phillip Dyson”.
Normally, I would have passed such a sign without a second glance but, in view of what we’d learned that morning regarding the murder of the museum’s former curator, it commanded my attention. As we were peering at it, I noticed someone else examining the sign. It took a few seconds before I recognised the man. It was the stranger who had alighted from the same train as us when we returned from our honeymoon; I recognised his mode of dress. Once again I was struck by how out of place he appeared. This time, with leisure to study him for a short while, there seemed to be something vaguely familiar about him, but I was unable to put my finger on what exactly it was.
It was clear that those in charge of publicising the museum’s reopening were not prepared to leave the task of attracting the public only by posters in shop windows, for, next morning as I went to collect my paper, I noticed workmen had erected signs on both sides of the road to inform those travelling in either direction through the village of the forthcoming event.
Not content with that, our postman delivered a flyer advertising the date and time, plus offering anyone who was interested the chance to meet the celebrities who would be there, to mingle, partake of the buffet – for a small additional fee – and to view an exhibition of some of the art gallery’s more treasured works, as well as the museum exhibits.
‘I think a well-known local author ought to be seen at things like that,’ I informed Eve.
I really ought to have learned by then not to even try to deceive her. Eve gave me a long, serious stare before replying. ‘Well-known local author? Don’t give me that; well-known local Nosy Parker would be closer to the mark. You only suggested going because you suspect that Detective Sergeant Holmes will be there and that he will give us an update on the course of the investigation.’
I could have protested, but I knew I’d be wasting my breath. ‘OK, I admit it,’ I confessed. ‘However, I do have one small update to report already. I was stopped by the police a few minutes ago, and was treated to some inside information.’
‘By that, I suppose you mean that Johnny Pickersgill stopped his Panda car and the two of you have been gossiping.’
‘Something of the sort,’ I admitted. ‘Johnny told me that David Kershaw has been released from custody without charge. He added that Kershaw is still on their radar, but that they have as yet insufficient evidence to proceed. He seemed to imply that we were responsible for that. Anyway, I thought it would be an extra incentive to go to the opening, if Kershaw and his wife are going to be present.’
Eve grinned with malicious glee. ‘Good, because if you hadn’t brought the subject up first I was going to mention it and suggest that we go.’
The one thing about Eve is that she is almost invariably honest, even w
hen she’s in the wrong. Not that she ever is wrong, of course, but there has to be a first time for everything.
Two days later we set off for our tour of the new building. The recently completed art gallery that would be housed within the new part of the building naturally drew most of the attention, and much of the comment that I heard was favourable. A temporary stage had been erected in front and slightly to the side of the main entrance. This would house the official party, and had been positioned so that the audience could get a good view of both the dignitaries and the impressive new structure.
Those controlling the publicity machine had obviously done their job as well as they could but, in spite of their efforts, there were fewer than a hundred people gathered on the lawns and the drive in front of the museum, with its new extension, on the morning of the reopening ceremony.
In stating the number of attendees, I’m not suggesting that the rest of the local populace was culturally challenged, but I don’t believe something seemingly lacking in drama and excitement came high on their list of priorities.
If that was so, their judgement turned out to be extremely misguided.
As we’d predicted, DS Holmes was amongst the gathering, with Johnny Pickersgill in close attendance. Eve nudged me. ‘Starsky and Hutch are over there,’ she gestured towards the officers.
‘I don’t see much resemblance between Johnny and David Soul, or Paul Michael Glaser for that matter,’ I objected.
Eve snorted with laughter, which caused several of those in our immediate vicinity to turn and stare at us. Their actions caused them to move slightly, giving me a glimpse of the vicar, who, with his mother and Chloe Kershaw, was in conversation with a couple I guessed to be Chloe’s aunt and uncle. Or possibly not, I thought, given what we’d recently learned. With Chloe’s past now in doubt, David and Valerie Kershaw might be no relation for all we knew. That thought disturbed me enough for me to puzzle over the dilemma for a few minutes. I wondered if the attendance of the Kershaws might imply that they would prove more receptive to a meeting and perhaps to discuss the problem – if only with Eve and me rather than the authorities.
