People Say I'm Different: A Lord Charles Stewart Mystery

by John E. Conley

  “Oh, and let the young man Rothwell onto the scene, as well,” Charles said over his shoulder as they climbed the stairs. “He’ll be valuable in the long run.”

  Lord Stewart was not often quick to use the advantages of his title, but crime scenes were at the top of his list of places where he would use it without hesitation. Upon reaching the third floor via the center stairway, Charles, Mary, and Bingham saw a small cluster of people at one end of the hallway. They approached and saw the subject of all the attention on the floor.

  Irene Hall was sprawled out, face down, and with a medium sized knife handle protruding from the center of her back. A darkened blood stain on Irene’s dress encircled the knife.

  “Lord Charles Stewart,” Charles said as way of introduction to a middle aged constable wearing thick spectacles.

  “Constable Oliver Simpson,” the man said. “I’m down from Alnwick. We include Alnmouth in our area of coverage. Normally not much need for us in this village, sir.”

  “There is now, I’m afraid. Have you kept the scene as it was when you arrived?”

  “Yes, sir,” Simpson confirmed. “Nobody has gotten any closer than we are now.”

  The ten feet of distance between the men and Irene Hall wasn’t what Charles would consider ideal, but it did allow himself and Bingham to quickly notice what little evidence there was in the dust surrounding the victim, including three distinct sets of footprints: two larger sets and one smaller.

  Charles glanced briefly at the faces of the others in the small crowd and presumed they were hotel staff members, including a young woman who was clearly a housekeeper.

  “Who found her…and when?” Charles asked the group.

  The housekeeper quickly replied, “Oh, I did, my Lord. Betty Taylor’s the name. I came up this morning to get supplies and…and found poor Mrs. Hall just as she is now.”

  “Has Mr. Hall been notified?” Charles inquired of the constable.

  “Yes. He’s down in the manager’s office with the Inspector,” Simpson replied.

  “And the coroner?” Charles added.

  “He’s on his way,” Simpson said. “You’ve done this before, sir?”

  Charles nodded and said, “A few times. I should also disclose that my man Bingham is a former agent of the Secret Service Bureau and has more instruments with him than you might own at the station. Please allow him access whenever he requests it. We’ll want to take pictures as soon as possible to start with.”

  “Of course, sir,” Simpson replied. “We appreciate any help we can get.”

  Unbeknownst to the gathering on the third floor, a sizeable crowd had formed in the hotel’s lobby. In fact, history would show it was the most people ever congregated at one time in the lobby of the Brampton. John Clarke mingled among them, using his inevitable calm demeanor to reassure everybody. Everybody, perhaps, except Dorothy Dunne, who was nearly in a trance-like state, exclaiming over and over that ghosts were at the heart of it all.

  At one point, the great murmuring dimmed and a lane opened among the people to allow a portly man with a leather case to pass through. The coroner disappeared quickly and the crowd reformed and the muttering began anew.

  At the murder scene, Clifford Rothwell arrived with his notepad in time to meet the coroner. Introductions were made and the doctor adjusted his glasses before kneeling at the side of Irene Hall’s body. Charles had always found most rural coroners to be honest, hardworking men who could cure livestock of any illness, but knew virtually nothing about crime. His cursory review of the victim would be summarized before the audience at the inquest and do nothing to solve the mystery.

  “She’s been dead perhaps six to eight hours,” the man said upon standing. “I wouldn’t let Donald Hall too far out of your sight. Put the body in a room for now, please. I’ll have it transported to the morgue later.”

  With that, he and Constable Simpson left the area with Rothwell in tow asking questions as fast as he could speak.

  Charles told Bingham, “Get your pictures now. Concentrate on the footprints and that knife. Let me know when they are developed.”

  After separating themselves from the others, Charles asked Mary, “What do you think?”

  “I think we need a list of frequent visitors to this floor,” she said. “And we need to check each of the rooms up here, although one will be eliminated from inspection when Irene is moved into it. Most importantly, I need to go find Anna. How about you?”

  “The footprints are interesting, Mary. They will certainly match the list of visitors you suggest. If not…well, then. We’ll be on to something, won’t we?” Charles said. “What we need first is permission from the manager to enter the rooms. That constable may balk, but I can handle him.”

  Mary descended the stairs in her customary rapid manor and weaved through the throng in the lobby. When she saw John Clarke, she raised her hand to get his attention and made her way over to him.

  “Hello, Mary,” John said. “Anything of interest to report?”

  “Irene Hall is quite dead,” she pronounced, and then said, “John, Anna told me you thought the hotel was a ‘bad place,’ I believe is how she put it. Did you ever tell her that?”

  “I did.”

  “Why was that?”

  John looked around before taking Mary by the arm and pulling her into the relative seclusion of the dining room.

  “This hotel has a history, some of which you may have already heard,” he said quietly. “Add to that the rumors of ghosts and it’s not the proper place for a girl of Anna’s mindset to be visiting.”

  “Have you seen her?” Mary asked.

  “The last time was on the sidewalk outside when I came in,” he replied. “She won’t come into the lobby with this many people here. She likely went to her shed at the end of the street, by the river.”

  Mary dashed out of the lobby, turned toward the river, and soon found Anna sitting in the shed, her knees pulled tight against her body. It was a very rare daytime visit to Anna’s safe place, but one her mind told her was necessary on this strange day. Anna looked up at Mary with uneasy eyes.

  “What is it, Anna? What’s the matter?” Mary said, sitting in the dust next to her young friend.

  “The ghosts are back, aren’t they?”

  “What do you know about ghosts, Anna?”

  “Mr. Clarke said they are bad, but I’ve never seen one,” Anna said quietly. “I go up there, Mary, but I’ve never seen a ghost. Are they mad at me for going into the attic?”

  “You go into the attic of the hotel, Anna?”

  The girl nodded and said, “There are steps I pull down in the closet. I play up there and dance with the shadows. I don’t think they are ghosts, are they?”

  “No, Anna, shadows aren’t ghosts and I don’t think you need to worry about any in the attic,” Mary told her. “Especially if you haven’t seen any.”

  “I’ve seen people in the hallway, Mary.”

  “On the third floor, Anna? By the attic?”

  “Yes. I’ve seen Mrs. Dunne and Mr. Williams and Mr. Hall…and Mrs. Hall.”

  “All together? At the same time, Anna?” Mary asked her.

  Anna shook her head, saying, “No.”

  “Where are you when you see them, Anna?”

  “In the closet, by the ladder to the attic.”

  “They don’t see you?”

  “No,” Anna replied.

  “Who have you seen together up there?”

  “Mr. Williams and Mrs. Hall a few times. They talk and then go into one of the rooms. That’s when I leave. Real quiet with my shoes off.”

  “You saw Mr. Hall up there, too?”

  “Yes. He was going into the attic when I got to the top of the stairs. I went back down. Real quiet with my shoes off.”

  Mary didn’t ask any more questions of Anna and soon the teenager felt safe enough to re-enter the world.

  Back at the Brampton, Betty Taylor walked with her head down on the second floor,
carrying her housekeeping equipment and thinking about the morning’s events. The forty-five-year-old woman had vivid memories of the day Arthur Comstock was found murdered and she was certain she would never experience that again…until today.

  The sound of footsteps behind her made her turn just in time to see Bingham about to enter his room.

  “Good day, sir,” Betty said. “Sad day, actually, isn’t it?”

  “Indeed it is. Must be quite a shock to you,” Bingham replied. “You found Mrs. Hall, didn’t you?”

  “I did, and I thought I’d never live to see another one. Murder, that is.”

  “You were here for the other?” Bingham asked.

  Betty was slowly making her way back toward Bingham after setting down her supplies, saying, “Yes. Not working as a housekeeper. But I lived in Alnmouth, yes.”

  Bingham listened, but, at the same time, was studying the delicate lines of the woman’s face; the piercing nature of her eyes; the quiet intelligence she purveyed.

  “My name is Bingham, by the way,” he said to her. “I have a first name, but it’s not necessary.”

  Betty smiled and said, “I understand. I’m Betty.”

  Bingham opened his door.

  “Can you come in and sit?” he asked.

  It was certainly against protocol, but an opportunity to sit with a gentleman’s butler—one as handsome as Bingham—didn’t come her way every day. Knowing that Witherspoon and the rest of the staff were occupied, Betty replied, “I’d love to.”

  As they sat in chairs on opposite sides of the window, Bingham said, “What are your recollections of that first murder, Betty?”

  She sighed and replied, “Oh, mainly how dreadful it was and then all the rumors about how it happened and who might have done it.”

  “What were the rumors?”

  Betty’s reluctance to discuss the delicate matter with a stranger clung to her, but she answered, “Mr. Comstock was considered a powerful man in Alnmouth. As manager of the bank…and I’m telling you this from what others have told me, not my own knowledge, you understand…as manager of the bank he decided who had access to loans and so forth.”

  She fiddled with her sleeve and said, “Of course, there was always the talk of his being a lady’s man. He was somewhat attractive, I guess. Lots of women would have been drawn to him.”

  “And you?” Bingham asked with a grin.

  “Oh heavens, no,” Betty quickly countered. “No man of his importance would be interested in me, Bingham.”

  “You’re far too self-doubting,” he said. “Do you believe he was seeing any particular woman?”

  Bingham skillfully studied the woman’s face and movements, just as he had done so many times in the war with prisoners. She was clearly torn in deciding how to answer.

  “I couldn’t say,” she finally responded, looking up at him with shy eyes.

  Bingham chose not to pursue the matter. Instead, he asked, “Are you married, Betty?”

  “No, sir.”

  “You certainly must have had offers of marriage,” he told her.

  She blushed and said, “A couple. I…I am far too finicky, I suppose, Bingham.”

  He chuckled and said, “The right man will find you, Betty. But one more question, if I may, about the Comstock murder. Who did they suspect killed him?”

  “Oh, there was no doubt,” she said. “Elizabeth Goldsworthy was seen with him just prior to when the police said he was killed. They questioned her immediately and she could not, or would not, account for where she was at the time. She lived out in the country and only came into Alnmouth to work. No one came to her defense and, besides, there was evidence given of her quarreling with Comstock days before his death…at the bank. She was a short-tempered woman, Bingham. Nobody doubted she was capable of murder.”

  Bingham nodded.

  Betty said, “Now, tell me about you. What is it like working for a gentleman?”

  “Lord Stewart is a saint,” Bingham said. “We met during the war. He was working for the Daily Telegraph, although he’ll tell you it was more of a sideline than a profession. He wanted to be close to the front, but nothing to do with fighting. I gave him news whenever I could.

  “I was a butler prior to the war and when Lord Stewart proposed that I work for him afterward, I eagerly accepted. Balfron Manor is the perfect size home for him and the small staff. He’s very forgiving of any mistakes we make and is quite generous in pay.”

  “That sounds so tranquil, working in a manor in the middle of the country,” Betty said wistfully. “Not that Alnmouth is akin to London, you understand.”

  Bingham laughed and said, “No, it is not. But the roads are less congested.”

  “We like it here, despite the occasional raucous on the third floor of the Brampton,” Betty said. “I believe I heard Lord Stewart say something about pictures. Do you have work you need to do for him now?”

  “Yes. He’s somewhat of a detective and I assist whenever I can,” Bingham told her. “I take pictures and develop them using the materials I take with me everywhere we go. I’ve also been known to put on a disguise and meander around villages seeking out clues.”

  “Oh, my,” Betty said with wide eyes. “How exciting.”

  “You can help, Betty, by letting me know if you hear or see anything related to Mrs. Hall’s death. Are you willing to do that?”

  “Of course! I must get back to work now, though. We can talk again, I hope,” Betty said, standing and fixing her dress.

  “I look forward to it,” Bingham said with a bow.

  Once Bingham was alone, he spent an hour in the darkness of the bath, processing the photos he had taken of the crime scene. There was no other evidence to inspect on this occasion, as the murder weapon was an ordinary kitchen knife found in every home in Alnmouth. Constable Simpson would undoubtedly check for fingerprints, but the carving in the handle would make a complete print impossible to find.

  At noon, Charles, Mary, and Bingham were gathered around a table in Charles’ room with a dozen photos spread out in front of them.

  “The footprints still intrigue me,” Charles said, pointing to the photo closest to Mary. “I think we can agree there are three sets of distinct prints, but which of them belong at the scene at the same time the murder took place? If you look at the photo of the bottom of Irene’s shoes, I think we can match her with this set of prints.”

  Charles pulled a picture directly in front of him and brought his finger down on the footprints closest to her on the floor.

  Mary said, “Yes, the shape in unmistakable. The other set, to me, indicates a larger shoe, probably a man’s.”

  “Without a doubt,” Bingham said. “He’s my leading candidate as the guilty party at this point. But what about the third set, Lord Stewart?”

  “Yes, the bare feet. Do we all agree on that fact?”

  Mary and Bingham nodded, with Mary saying, “And smaller, but that’s to be expected of bare feet.”

  She grudgingly repressed the urge to relay her conversation with Anna to Charles and Bingham.

  “They only appear very close to the closet door,” Bingham added, “as if the person was coming or going in that direction. Unless Irene was in the closet, I tend to give the bare feet a lesser status in the overall scene.”

  Each of them studied separate pictures until Charles broke the silence by saying, “I want to see the interior of the rooms on that floor. If we can match Irene’s shoes and the man’s prints with those in one of the rooms, I think it would be significant. Then we can isolate that room and look for the other clues we need. I’ll talk to Witherspoon and Simpson.”

  Change in Assignment

  Clifford Rothwell was none the wiser after interviewing Constable Simpson and the coroner, other than obtaining a rough schedule of what would happen next, highlighted by an inquest in a few days. His attempt to gain access to the room containing Donald Hall was met with repeated denials. Deciding to wait outside the door, he scribb
led the gist of a story that he would soon send via cable to his editor in Newcastle.

  Crime was rare in Newcastle and even if there had been anything as serious as a murder, the twenty-five-year-old reporter would be one of the last men sent to cover it. In Alnmouth, he had no competition. For the time being, he would be the source of virtually all news surrounding the death of Irene Hall. At the same time, financial transgressions by Donald Hall, if any, would be set aside.

  Clifford’s writing came to a quick halt as the door to the manager’s office opened and the tall, handsome figure of Donald Hall strode quickly out. He was pulling his wide brimmed hat down over his forehead.

  “Mr. Hall. Mr. Hall,” Clifford bellowed as he caught up, “A word, if you may.”

  “Not now,” Hall retorted.

  “Who would have reason to kill your wife, Mr. Hall?”

  Hall walked briskly toward a back door, away from the lobby crowd.

  “When did you last see her?”

  Hall’s silence seemed inexorable and Clifford trailed him only until Hall was in the alley outside, a short distance from his home. The reporter then turned toward the nearest telegraph office, located in the rear of Edward Williams’ general store, and walked hurriedly, writing the story in his head the entire time.

  The banner headline in the Newcastle Evening Chronicle the following day read, ‘Shadowy Murder in Alnmouth Hotel.’ Clifford was proud of his first scoop of a major story, although he understood being in the right place at the right time had something to do with it. His value to the paper would be in the feeding of daily news to them building on the groundwork he laid.

  Humphrey Willis was editor of the Evening Chronicle. He was in his thirty-fifth year with the paper and knew the north of England as well as any man alive. Willis was a crotchety old man with a craggy face that told of the many years of pressure he had been under as reporter and editor. He swore like a sailor and drank even more.