‘And what was Mother’s bookmark doing inside her book?’ countered Ovid.
‘How do you know it was hers?’
Ovid showed her the piece of paper with the two bars of music. ‘It was Mother’s tune. Tom remembered her playing it.’
‘I never knew she composed music.’
‘There are lots of things we don’t know about our parents.’
‘Mother must have known Mr Farthing’s wife.’
‘Well, Mr Farthing is the family lawyer. Perhaps she borrowed it from his wife,’ suggested Ovid.
‘But why borrow a book she already owned?’
‘I don’t know,’ admitted Ovid.
The twins fell silent, lost in thought until they arrived at the village police station.
‘It’s a bit small, isn’t it?’ Ovid looked at the tiny building, no larger than a garden shed.
‘Skinner’s inside,’ said Lorelli.
The Inspector was standing, talking to a uniformed policeman who sat behind a desk. Skinner was trying to lean over the desk, but the size of the police station and the position of a filing cabinet were preventing him from doing so.
Cautiously, the twins crept closer to the open window to hear what they were saying.
‘Look, sir, you know the rules,’ said the seated policeman.
‘Come on, Sergeant, what harm will it do?’ said Skinner.
‘Oh all right,’ the sergeant said with a sigh.
‘That’s very good of you,’ said Skinner.
There was a shuffling as the two men rearranged themselves in the minuscule room so that the sergeant could get to the filing cabinet behind Skinner.
‘Ah, here we are,’ said the sergeant. ‘Mrs Ruth Farthing, wife of Bernard, mother of Adam. She jumped off Devil’s Leap. Very sad, but nothing suspicious about it.’
‘Oh yes, I do remember now. Is there anything to connect her with Hedley Bagshaw?’ Skinner peeked over the top of the file.
‘Hedley Bagshaw? That printer chap who died at work?’
‘That’s the one,’ said Skinner.
‘Hold on, I’ll check the file.’ There were some more sounds of shuffling paper and filing-cabinet doors opening and shutting. ‘Ah, here we are . . . No, nothing I can see. It was an accident at work. Fell into the printing press. Nothing untoward . . . Unless you count this.’ He held out a piece of paper.
‘What is it?’
‘A statement made by Father Whelan. Crazy old kook. We only made a note of it to keep the old fool happy.’
‘What does it say?’
‘He claimed to have seen Lord Thornthwaite and an unknown woman leaving the printer’s on the night that Hedley died.’
‘Did no one ever follow it up?’
‘Of course, but the thing was, His Lordship was out of the country at the time on honeymoon with his wife. You’ll remember her, of course?’
‘Lady Thornthwaite?’ said Skinner. ‘Yes, she was my first case here. I was there when she died. What about this unknown woman that Whelan mentioned?’
‘As I say, we never chased it up, sir. Father Whelan is overly fond of the communion wine, if you ask me,’ said the sergeant. ‘Why the sudden interest in all this, anyway? It’s not like you’re a copper any more. You should be enjoying your retirement. That’s what I’d be doing in your place.’
‘Once a copper always a copper,’ said Skinner, opening the door and leaving. ‘Thank you, Sergeant.’
.
SKINNER’S RENDEZVOUS
Ovid and Lorelli followed Skinner down the road, keeping a safe distance to avoid being seen.
‘So he’s not an inspector any more,’ whispered Lorelli.
‘And yet he is still inspecting,’ said Ovid.
Skinner turned right along the path that led up through the graveyard to the church. Lorelli and Ovid followed him, ducking behind the gravestones. Skinner knocked on the door but there was no answer, so he walked around the side to another door and knocked again. This time Father Whelan came to the door.
‘Yes?’ said the priest.
‘Father Whelan, I’d like to ask you a few questions about Hedley Bagshaw. May I come in?’ replied Skinner.
‘Hedley Bagshaw? Certainly.’ Father Whelan opened the door wide. ‘Come in, come in.’
The door shut behind them. Lorelli and Ovid crept closer. They looked through a window, where they could see the two men talking, but with all the windows shut they couldn’t hear what was being said, so they retreated to a gravestone and waited for Skinner to appear.
‘What do you think he’s up to?’ said Lorelli.
‘I don’t know but he seems more interested in Mrs Bagshaw’s husband than the exploding piano,’ said Ovid.
The door opened and the twins heard light classical music. Skinner stepped out and pulled his phone from his inside pocket. ‘Excuse me, Father, I’ll be back in one moment.’
Skinner took several steps away from the doorway and answered the phone. ‘Skinner Investigations,’ he said quietly. ‘Lionel Skinner speaking . . . Ah, hello, yes . . . I’m rather busy at the moment . . . I see, well, yes, I’m in the village . . . Ok . . . If you insist, I’ll meet you outside the church . . . Five minutes? Fine.’ He ended the call.
‘Sorry, Father,’ he said, turning back to address the priest. ‘Something’s come up. I’ll be back shortly.’
‘I’ll be right here working on Sunday’s sermon, my son. It’s about the dangers of greed,’ said Father Whelan.
‘Sound riveting,’ said Skinner, walking to the road, where he found a bench and sat down.
‘Skinner Investigations?’ whispered Lorelli. ‘He’s a private detective.’
‘Then he must be working for someone,’ replied Ovid. ‘But who?’
The twins were by now hiding behind a low wall, from where they could see the back of Skinner’s bald head. Hearing a car approach, they ducked down. They heard it stop and cautiously looked up to see an old, rusty, dust-coloured car. Mr Farthing stuck his head out of the window, banging the top of it against the frame.
‘Afternoon Bernard,’ said Skinner.
‘Hello Lionel,’ replied Mr Farthing, leaning over and opening the door from the inside. ‘Would you mind getting in? I’d like a word in private.’
Skinner sat in the passenger seat and slammed the door shut. Mr Farthing attempted to turn the car around, turning a simple three-point turn into a complex manoeuvre involving seven or eight turns and knocking over a roadside bin in the process, spilling its contents over the pavement. ‘Bother,’ he said, sticking his head out of the window to assess the damage.
‘You’re so useless,’ said a voice from inside the car.
‘Who was that?’ whispered Ovid. ‘I can’t see anyone except those two.’
‘It sounded like . . .’ Lorelli began.
‘Sorry about that,’ said Mr Farthing, easing down on the accelerator again, reversing further over the bin.
‘There was a time when I would have booked you for criminal damage for that,’ said Skinner jokingly.
‘Honestly, you’re such a clumsy oaf,’ said the third voice.
‘It’s Adam,’ whispered Lorelli, spotting the top of Adam Farthing’s fair hair through the car window.
.
THE BAGSHAW CONNECTION
On the bus back to Thornthwaite Manor, the twins discussed what they had witnessed by the church.
‘I think they planted the bomb in the piano themselves in order to fake Adam’s death,’ said Ovid. ‘That’s why Mr Farthing wouldn’t let Nurse Griddle near him.’
‘They were all acting . . . Mr Farthing, Inspector Skinner . . . Adam,’ said Lorelli.
Ovid fought down the urge to gloat that he had been right all
along about Adam. Looking at his sister, he understood that for a few days of her life Lorelli had enjoyed having a friend, someone she believed genuinely liked her without an ulterior motive.
‘But what did they gain from pretending Adam was dead?’ she asked.
‘Well, it gave Skinner an excuse to question everyone.’
‘But about what?’ Lorelli clung to the seat in front as the bus swung around a corner and drove over the bridge, out of the village.
‘I don’t know but it explains why he didn’t ask much about the piano.’
‘It was Mrs Bagshaw he wanted to speak to,’ said Lorelli. ‘He spoke to her for much longer than anyone else and she was upset because he had been asking her about her husband.’
‘You think the Farthings blew up our antique piano just so Skinner could ask Mrs Bagshaw a few questions about her dead husband?’
‘It does sound a little wasteful, but think about it, Mrs Bagshaw never leaves the manor. Alfred shops for her. Hazel signs for deliveries. It can’t be easy to get near her.’
‘But why would anyone want to ask her anything, anyway?’ asked Ovid. ‘She’s only a cook.’
Walking from the bus stop to the manor the twins spotted Tom Paine, driving his red lawnmower.
‘Stay out of sight.’ Ovid ducked down and tugging at Lorelli’s sleeve.
‘But it’s Tom.’
‘We can’t trust anyone.’
Lorelli found it particularly difficult to suspect Tom of plotting against them but she knew her brother was right. Life had changed. Until they found out what was going on they could no longer trust anyone, not even Tom, so they hid until he had passed out of sight.
When they stepped into the hallway, Mr Crutcher greeted them. ‘I hope you have been making the most of this fine weather, young master and mistress. There is a storm approaching from the east.’
‘Which room was Adam staying in, Alfred?’ asked Lorelli, not wanting to spend any more time with any of the servants than was necessary.
‘Master Farthing was in the yellow suite in the west wing.’
‘Thank you,’ said Ovid, following his sister down the corridor.
Inside the room, they set about searching for clues. Ovid looked inside drawers while Lorelli rifled through a suitcase that had been tucked away inside a cupboard.
‘This is that school he was always talking about,’ said Ovid, holding up a glossy brochure with a picture of a stately looking building on the front and the words, Welcome to Saint Swivels, The Finest Schooling Establishment in England, printed in fancy swirly writing. He opened it and read out loud.
Saint Swivels has excellent facilities, including four football fields, eight basketball courts and twenty tennis courts. It has a science lab, a gym, and an Olympic-sized swimming pool. It even has a working farm on site. Every Friday, students can enjoy riding lessons. Our staff are second to none, including a tennis coach, who used to rank eighteenth in the world and a world-class pianist as our principal music teacher.
‘Do you know, I have a feeling that this leaflet is the closest Adam’s ever got to that school,’ said Lorelli, continuing to look through the suitcase. There was nothing in the main compartment, but searching the zipped pockets she found a plastic folder. She pulled it out. Ovid stopped what he was doing and watched as she unzipped it and poured out the various scraps of paper. Some were torn out of notepads, others were corners of magazine pages. Every piece of paper had a line drawing of the same man’s face.
‘Who is it?’ asked Ovid. ‘I don’t recognise him.’
‘It’s Hedley Bagshaw. I saw his picture in the paper.’
‘Mrs Bagshaw’s husband? Why would Adam have drawings of him?’
‘His mum did them. She was an artist. That must have been why Adam suddenly left Bagshaw’s End after he saw the picture. That’s why Skinner was asking Mrs Bagshaw so many questions.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘They think Hedley Bagshaw killed Mrs Farthing,’ said Lorelli.
‘Why would he do that?’ said Ovid.
‘I don’t know but it’s time we spoke to Mrs Bagshaw ourselves, don’t you think?’ said Lorelli..
.
THE KITCHEN
In their entire lives, Lorelli and Ovid had only been into the kitchen at Thornthwaite Manor once. Several years ago, Ovid had ventured down after reading that it was possible to make a bomb out of baking powder. Following him and seeing what he was up to, Lorelli had gone in search of sharp knives to attach to the blades of a windmill she had constructed and placed outside the barn where Ovid had been building his bomb. As it transpired, the bomb had gone off early, when neither twin was in the vicinity, blowing up the windmill and sending its knives flying into the neighbouring trees.
Now, with Lorelli clutching one of Mrs Farthing’s pencil drawings of Hedley Bagshaw, the twins entered the kitchen and found Mrs Bagshaw dicing an onion in preparation for dinner. The cook wiped away the tears that were streaming down her face with a grim-looking dishcloth.
‘Hello my dears,’ she said. ‘These onions that Tom’s grown are far too strong. Look at me. I’m crying like a baby. What brings you down here? Dinner won’t be ready for at least an hour.’
‘We’d like to know what Skinner was asking you about?’ said Ovid directly.
‘Oh, I don’t want to go through all that again,’ said Mrs Bagshaw. ‘Horrible man.’
‘We understand that it’s upsetting for you,’ said Lorelli, ‘but it’s important. What did he want?’
Mrs Bagshaw dabbed her eyes again with the dishcloth. ‘He asked me about poor, dear Hedley. I couldn’t think what that had to do with anything but he seemed to have it in his head that Hedley knew Mr Farthing’s wife. I can’t think why. I don’t think they ever met.’
‘I think they did. This is one of her pictures,’ said Lorelli, handing Mrs Bagshaw the sketch.
‘My darling Hedley,’ she said sadly. ‘Why would Ruth have drawn this? He was never here when she used to come to the manor.’
‘Mrs Farthing came here? Why?’ said Lorelli.
‘For the sitting, of course.’
‘What sitting?’ said Ovid.
‘When she came to paint the portrait of your parents.’
Ovid and Lorelli looked at each other.
‘She painted the portrait of our parents?’ said Lorelli.
‘That’s right, I thought you knew,’ said Mrs Bagshaw. ‘She spent a several weeks here. She seemed like a nice enough lady. She was certainly very taken with the manor. And I thought she did a good job with the painting, quite a good likeness of both of them, but I don’t know much about art.’
‘She jumped off Devil’s Leap,’ said Lorelli.
‘I know. Isn’t it awful? Imagine taking your own life when you have a little child. Adam can’t have been much more than a baby at the time.’
‘And that’s what Skinner was asking about?’ said Ovid.
‘Oh no, he kept asking silly questions about poor Hedley and whether he knew Mrs Farthing and where we both were on the night she died.’
‘What did you say?’ asked Lorelli.
‘I told him the truth, that as far as I know they never did meet.’
‘What about the night she died? Where was he?’
Fresh tears sprang to Mrs Bagshaw’s eyes. ‘He was in the churchyard.’
‘The churchyard?’ said Ovid.
‘He was . . . already dead,’ she managed to say between sobs.
.
THE PORTRAIT
The Thornthwaite twins had gazed up at the painting of their parents every single day of their lives but as they entered the portrait room now, they looked at it differently. They didn’t search their mother’s face for some clue as to why she murde
red their father. Nor did they look at their father and wonder what kind of man he had been. They didn’t look at the picture at all. They looked at the paint, at the broad strokes that made up the background and the fine touches which went into the detail of the faces and clothes and wondered what they said about the artist.
‘It’s all death. This picture, this room, this manor,’ said Lorelli. ‘Everyone in these paintings is dead. Every artist that painted them is dead. We have grown up believing this room shows our family, but all it shows is death. We are thirteen years old, Ovid. Thirteen! We should be out playing with friends. We should be making up games, having fun, living our lives . . . not living in this morbid museum.’
‘We can’t help who we are,’ said Ovid quietly.
‘No, but we can choose who we want to be.’
Ovid remembered how he had walked in on Mr Farthing crying while looking at the picture. ‘Mr Farthing knew that his wife painted this picture,’ he said.
‘Of course I did,’ said Mr Farthing, entering the room. ‘And how I wish I could go back and stop her.’
The twins turned to face him.
‘I remember when she first came to Thornthwaite Manor,’ continued the oversized lawyer. ‘That night at home she was so excited by it all. She had never seen such opulence.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘I wish she had never set foot inside this terrible place.’
‘Why did you hire Skinner?’ asked Ovid.
‘I didn’t come here to answer your questions,’ replied Mr Farthing. ‘I came back to collect Adam’s things.’
‘Poor Adam. You must be awfully upset.’ Lorelli watched him carefully for a reaction.
‘Well, yes . . .’ said Mr Farthing, awkwardly. ‘In fact, because of his death I will be resigning as your lawyer.’
‘Why did you hire a detective?’ Ovid perisisted.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ Mr Farthing turned to leave.
‘We know the truth,’ said Lorelli. ‘We know that Adam isn’t dead.’
Mr Farthing stopped in the doorway and turned to face them. ‘He tells such terrible lies,’ he muttered.
The Thornthwaite Inheritance Page 12
