by James R Benn
“What?” Edgar said. “You mean the maid who married the groundskeeper and went to America? Ah, now it becomes clear.”
“Mr. Farnsworth, please continue,” Great Aunt Sylvia said. “And excuse the interruption; this has been most difficult for us all.”
“Understandably, Lady Pemberton,” he said. “Sir Rupert came to me most distraught. He had tried for years to communicate with Miss Greenshaw, or I should say Mrs. Wiley, by that time. She never responded to his letters, and he gave up hope of any news from America. When young Peter Wiley came here recently, he said it was his last chance to do right by the boy.”
“Right by him?” Helen said. “What about Meredith? He left her nothing. Is that right?”
“My role here is not to pronounce upon morality, Mrs. Martindale. All I can do is communicate Sir Rupert’s instructions. If there is any evidence at all that would indicate his paternity, then the estate goes to Peter Wiley. He left it to my discretion, with the understanding that paternity need not be proved legally, but simply to my satisfaction.”
“Peter Wiley is dead,” I said. It was about time someone said it.
“I am sorry to hear that,” Farnsworth said. “But it does not matter in regard to the will. I am obligated to carry out the wishes of my client. Captain Boyle, have you any evidence to suggest that Sir Rupert Sutcliffe was the father of Peter Wiley?”
“No, I don’t,” I said. “There is a family resemblance, but I had no time to look into the matter or even speak to Peter about it. I’m sorry.”
“I don’t see how it matters, but I can give you some proof, if you like,” Meredith said. Every eye in the room swiveled in her direction. “I knew Peter Wiley was Father’s offspring with that maid. I have known for years. I shall be right back.”
The room went silent. The sound of Meredith’s heels clattering through the foyer and up the stairs echoed in the stunned silence. Helen looked to David as if he might be able to explain what was happening, but all he could do was shake his head. Only Edgar shook off the shock of Meredith’s announcement and stood to speak.
“I think, Williams, that you and the rest of the staff may return to your duties. Congratulations on your good fortune,” he said with a good deal of graciousness, which was noteworthy considering his own lack of good fortune. The four of them dutifully trooped out of the library as Meredith hurried down the stairs and back into the room. She sat and took a deep breath, composing herself.
“I dislike airing family issues like this, but it does seem necessary to clear this matter up, distasteful though it may be,” she began. “It’s no secret Father and I did not get along. The state of our relationship is obvious from his will alone. The source of our discord was his dalliance with Julia Greenshaw. I was only a young girl when Father came home from the last war, but I was not ignorant of the ways in which it had changed him. There was nothing of the carefree mother and father I remembered from before the war. Even though Helen was born within a year of his return, there was a sadness in the house. I have memories of laughter and gaiety before the war, although perhaps they are merely a child’s delusion.”
“Do you have some proof of the paternity in question?” Farnsworth asked, giving the clock on the mantel a quick glance.
“I’m getting to that, Mr. Farnsworth,” Meredith said. “This is quite difficult, you know.”
“My apologies,” he said. “Proceed.”
“I believe it began while Mother was carrying Helen,” she said. “I would see Father and Julia together at odd moments. He was never one to interfere with the running of the household, so it was puzzling to me, even as a small child. One day I followed them into the garden, my curiosity piqued. They kissed. I ran away before I witnessed any more. It was horrible, quite shattering.” She dabbed her eyes with her handkerchief. “Later he and Mother apparently had a major row. I can still hear them screaming at each other. Do you recall, Great Aunt Sylvia? I remember seeing you in the hall when I ran to find out what the matter was.”
“Yes, dear,” Lady Pemberton said. “I remember quite clearly. An unhappy time. Even when Helen was born, it did not bring them closer.”
“I know,” Meredith said. “In my childish way, I had thought it would. But a few months later, Mother said she needed a rest and went to stay with a friend in the Lake District. I begged her to take me, but she said it was peace and quiet she required. Father stayed in London for a while, I think.”
“He did,” Lady Pemberton said. “We hired a nursemaid for Helen and a tutor for Meredith. We felt it best that they did not witness their parents quarreling or bickering about each other. And Rupert began work with the Foreign Office in London at that time.” That jibed with what Sir Rupert had told me the day he died.
“Do you concur that this affair between the maid and Sir Rupert took place?” Farnsworth asked Lady Pemberton.
“Sadly, I must,” she said, and gestured to Meredith to continue.
“Mother returned at some point, though I cannot say when,” Meredith went on. “That is when Julia Greenshaw discovered that she was with child. Father must have arranged a rendezvous or two during Mother’s absence. As I understand it, the marriage between her and Ted Wiley was arranged with a substantial gift of money and on condition that they leave for America.”
“Why was the maid not simply sacked?” Edgar asked.
“We wished to avoid a scandal,” Great Aunt Sylvia said. “To work things out, discreetly.” I’d bet Lady Pemberton was very good at that, then and now.
Farnsworth leaned forward, waiting for Meredith to continue. He’d dropped his impatient demeanor and was caught up in the story Meredith was weaving, as were the others in the room. Kaz idly raised an eyebrow in my direction, which for him meant he was riveted as well.
“Several months later we were preparing for our voyage to India. It was all rather exciting, and I hoped that the adventure of it all would bring Mother and Father closer together. I had lost respect for him, but I still wanted a normal family life, if only for Helen. And I wanted Mother to be happy as well. I could see that she was distraught over the affair.”
“When was this?” Farnsworth asked.
“Early 1921,” Meredith answered. “I know because this letter came days before we were due to depart.” She held up the yellowing envelope with the three-cent stamp. “I was the first to see the post, and I noticed the letter from America, with the name Wiley on the return address. It looked like a woman’s writing, so I took it. I couldn’t bear the thought of that Greenshaw person writing to Father. Or worse, the possibility that he might answer.”
“You kept it all this time?” Edgar asked, leaving unsaid the fact that she had never told him the story.
“I don’t know why I did. I don’t even know if I should be telling you all about it. Once we arrived in India, I told Father that I had taken the letter and burned it. He was livid. He didn’t have their new address, and of course he couldn’t ask the servants for it. I taunted him about it, never letting on that I had kept it safe. We fought and of course grew distant. I suppose today I got my reward for being so horrible to him.”
“May I see the letter?” Farnsworth asked. Meredith nodded, the handkerchief now held to her face, and handed it to him. Farnsworth withdrew the flimsy airmail paper and scanned the two sheets. “I will not read it all. There is no need to disclose words of a highly intimate nature.” He shook his head, as if the mail had been meant for something other than personal messages. “It is from Julia Wiley to Sir Rupert, whom she addresses as ‘my dearest Rupert.’ There is a return address in New York City, and the postmark is visible. I would say that the critical statement for our purposes is, ‘Baby Peter will always remind me of our time together at Ashcroft House, brief as it was.’ She also refers to a sojourn in London, but I see no need to go into details.” He handed the letter back to Meredith.
“So what does this mean, exactly?” David asked, looking uncomfortable with such revelations.
&nb
sp; “First, let me ask when Peter Wiley died,” Farnsworth said, turning to me.
“We are trying to determine exactly when,” I said. “It was during a training accident, and his death likely occurred in the early hours of the morning on April twenty-eighth.”
“After the death of Sir Rupert,” Farnsworth said.
“Yes,” I said. “The baron and I saw Peter after Sir Rupert died, in the hallway. And then briefly after we came back from the pub, later that night. That was the last time I saw him. Apparently he left early the following day.”
“Are there others who can attest to that?” Farnsworth asked, looking at the group. David, Kaz, Meredith, and Helen all concurred.
“I saw him later that evening,” Edgar said. “After Captain Boyle and the baron went off to the pub. He was in the library, looking for something to read. He was apologetic about being a houseguest under the circumstances. Perhaps that is why he left so suddenly.”
“All that matters for our purposes is that Sir Rupert predeceased Peter Wiley,” Farnsworth said. “Whether by minutes, hours, or days, does not matter. Lady Pemberton, can you attest to what has been said here? You are the only other family member who could do so.”
“Yes,” Great Aunt Sylvia said in a restrained voice. “The affair did occur, and I had suspected that Rupert continued it in some fashion while he was in London. I recall that Miss Greenshaw asked for time off to visit her mother in Taunton. That may have been the case, or she may have gone on to London.”
“And the arrangement for Julia and Mr. Wiley to marry and emigrate to America?” Farnsworth asked, his pen poised over his papers.
“I do not recall all the details,” Great Aunt Sylvia said, her chin held high. “But I do know there was a payment made.”
“Presumably to give the child a name and a decent start in America,” Farnsworth said.
“What other reason could there be?” Great Aunt Sylvia said.
“The arrangement was a surprise to Sir Rupert?” Farnsworth said.
“It was,” Great Aunt Sylvia said. “But he finally came to see the wisdom of it.”
“I take it the child was not born here,” Farnsworth said. “Did Julia Greenshaw and Ted Wiley marry before they left?”
“The marriage was recorded in the village church,” Great Aunt Sylvia said. “I was not privy to Julia’s giving birth. They left immediately after the marriage ceremony.”
“Rather abrupt,” Farnsworth said.
“That was the point, wasn’t it?” Great Aunt Sylvia said, the ghost of a smile on her lips.
“Very well then,” Farnsworth said, jotting a final note. “In the light of what has emerged this morning, I conclude that Peter Wiley was indeed the illegitimate son of Sir Rupert Sutcliffe. Therefore, he inherited the bulk of the estate upon Sir Rupert’s death.”
“But Peter is dead,” Helen said, glancing at the others with a confused look. “What happens now?”
“What happens, Mrs. Martindale, is that most likely you and your sister inherit from Peter Wiley,” Farnsworth said. Helen looked startled and Meredith gasped. Hard to blame her, with all that dough falling into her lap when seconds ago she’d had nothing. “As half-siblings, you each stand to inherit an equal share from his estate.”
“Most likely, you said?” David asked, his hand holding Helen’s.
“We must determine for certain that Peter Wiley was not married and had no children or other siblings,” Farnsworth said. “From what Sir Rupert told me, that seems to be the case, but we must confirm the facts. We must know whether he left a will himself, although in my experience young men do not consider such things, especially since his mother was still alive when he left America. It will be a simple matter for an attorney in New York City to investigate. Barring any unforeseen developments, the ownership of the property should be established within a matter of weeks. In the meantime, I can provide access to the accounts for any necessary expenditures. I imagine the upkeep of Ashcroft House to be no small matter.”
“Yes,” Helen whispered, a trace of surprise and shock in her voice. She looked to Meredith, who covered her mouth with the handkerchief, maybe to keep from gasping out loud again, or maybe to keep the whoops of joy contained until the elderly solicitor left. Farnsworth gathered up his papers and said his goodbyes, as somber as an undertaker. I had the feeling he’d found all this talk of love affairs and American bastards upsetting. Not your usual last testament.
Great Aunt Sylvia walked him out, and I heard Farnsworth tell her she could rely on his discretion. No one need know the convoluted route the inheritance took to end up with Helen and Meredith. Hushed tones and dirty secrets, all part of the service.
With some difficulty, I steered David away from the group after giving my congratulations.
“Last night at the pub, you mentioned seeing tire tracks,” I said. “Motorcycle tracks, right?”
“Yes,” David said. “What of it?”
“Could you show me where? It won’t take a second.” He agreed, shaking his head in puzzlement. He led me out the rear door and along a lane leading to a large barn with a stone foundation and several oversize doors. A greenhouse jutted out at a right angle, and there was a fenced-in garden nearby.
“Here,” he said, pointing to a depression between the lane and an open door to the barn. “You can still make them out, but not as clearly as I saw them just after that heavy rain.” He was right. The soil was crumbling, but the tread marks were clear. Inside, he showed me faint oil stains were the motorbike had been parked. “What’s this all about, then?”
“You didn’t see anything else? Anything odd or out of place?” I asked, avoiding the question.
“No. As I said, I was simply puttering about, looking at what was left in the barn. It was too much of a jumble to bother with, so I gave up.” He was right. This section of the barn was filled with junk: broken pieces of furniture, rusted machinery—there was barely enough space for us to stand in.
“Now I must get back, Billy,” David said. “This has all been quite a surprise.” He didn’t know the half of it.
I found Kaz and brought him to the barn to show him what was left of the tire tracks.
“It rained after Peter left here, quite hard,” Kaz said. “Perhaps he returned?”
“Or never left,” I said.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
WE DROVE TO Greenway House, and I filled in Colonel Harding on Meredith and Helen’s windfall and the discovery of the motorbike tracks.
“It could have been anyone,” Harding said. “Maybe a visiting local.”
“Petrol is pretty hard to come by,” I said, taking a seat in Harding’s cramped office. “Most folks use bicycles for short trips.”
“An overloaded bicycle could have made those impressions,” Kaz offered. “Maybe Crawford is selling off produce.”
“I don’t give a good goddamn about produce,” Harding said, slamming his fist on his desk. “Or bicycles or motorbikes. What I care about is that an American officer with the highest security clearance has been killed. Murdered, if Dawes is right about him being suffocated. We’re right back to where we started when I first sent you here. We have a single dead body in a top-secret area and too many unanswered questions. Where and why was Peter Wiley killed?”
“One possibility is he returned to Ashcroft House for some unknown reason,” I said. “That would explain the tire tracks being intact after the rainstorm.”
“It is logical,” Kaz said. “But it does not explain how he ended up in the Channel. We should talk to Lieutenant Siebert about the manifest.”
“Go ahead,” Harding said, lighting a Lucky Strike and tossing the matchstick into an overflowing ashtray. “When you’re done, head to Dartmouth. General Montgomery decided he needed his own investigation and sent an officer to question surviving personnel.”
“Montgomery? Why is he sticking his nose in?” I asked. General Bernard Law Montgomery was famous for his disdain for Americans and his extre
mely high self-regard.
“He’s got a right,” Harding said. “The landing force will be under his command during the invasion, so he wants to get to the bottom of what went wrong. At least he sent an American officer. You’ll find Major Brian McClure onboard LST 289 in Dartmouth harbor.”
“There is one other thing we should do,” Kaz said, bringing up the subject he and I had discussed on the drive over here. “We need to thoroughly search Lieutenant Wiley’s office.”
“I told you; I looked and saw nothing out of the ordinary,” Harding said. “The same as when you searched his room.”
“His room was not a secure location,” I said. “If he had anything to hide, something that would be a clue as to where he was, his office would be the safest place to leave it.”
“And you think you can find it when I couldn’t?” Harding said.
“It’s my job,” I said. “A cop is naturally suspicious of everyone. You’re probably too much of a gentleman to do a proper search anyway.”
“Okay, cut out the brownnosing, Boyle. Have a chat with Siebert, then get back here. I’ll take you in.”
“Thanks, Colonel. Is Big Mike around?” It would help to have another bluecoat in khaki in on the search, if only to distract Harding if he didn’t like us pawing through top-secret stuff.
“I had to send him to London earlier this morning with some reports. He should be back in a few hours. Now get out of here. I have more on my plate than one dead naval officer.”
Siebert was ensconced in an upstairs room that served as his office, bedroom, and dining room, by the looks of the dirty cups and dishes scattered about. It was even more of a mess than the last time we’d been here. Add hospital room to the list, thanks to the white bandage around his head and another wrapped around his wrist.
“What do you want this time?” Lieutenant James Siebert said. He had files stacked on files on the table in front of him. Wads of carbon paper filled a wastepaper basket, and his hands were grimy with the stuff. He’d evidently rubbed his eyes at some point, and he had the look of an injured raccoon.
