DEADLY DECEPTIONS

by Bill WENHAM

  As it happened, and not unexpectedly, after eight years of co-habitation of a sort, that’s exactly what did occur. Peggy Mayberry met a tourist, a wealthy older man, was smitten by him and when the man moved on, so did Peggy. Her aunt, a gaunt and severe looking woman in her seventies, came up to live in her cottage.

  As soon as she had the opportunity, she told Bowen that she totally disapproved of the way he had carried on with her niece and that he should be ashamed of himself. She never spoke to him again and would cross the road rather than pass him on it.

  Bowen had never ventured into those waters again but he’d had the occasional two or three day fling with willing visiting female tourists. When they were out of sight, they were also out of his mind just as he was with them.

  For the most part his little business had occupied all of his time until he had become interested in the Carrington parish history. His discovery of the Lord of the Manor’s secret origin was about to change his whole life. It would certainly change it but not in the way David Bowen would have expected at all!

  Sir Alfred Allenby was not a stupid man. When he had first begun his deception, it was by the direction of the German Abwehr, who had prepared his documents. He had birth and baptismal certificates, plus an identity card and ration book, all attesting to who he was – and he still had them. Since then, soon after the end of the war, both he and Gerda had obtained genuine British passports based upon those documents. Until she had died, they had both traveled extensively together with them.

  Allenby knew that the original documents had been faultlessly produced and had stood up under scrutiny from numerous officials. He realized that he was faced with two simple choices.

  He could either capitulate and lose everything he had or he could challenge his accuser to prove what he was saying in public and in court.

  Allenby decided on the latter course of action and was sure he could pull it off. The next time his blackmailer called Allenby said calmly, “Don’t be so bloody ridiculous, man! If you insist on continuing with this farce of yours, then stop these cloak and dagger antics of yours and I’ll see you in court with whatever proof you think you have.”

  Then, without waiting for an answer, his Lordship slammed the phone back down in its cradle.

  Bowen stared at the phone in his hand in astonishment. He had thought that this would be easy, but did he have his facts wrong, perhaps? Were they really facts or were they just wishful thinking on his part.

  The record he’d checked had said that Sir Archibald and his brother, Basil, were both childless. But how accurate were they? Maybe other records existed somewhere that proved otherwise and as a blackmailer he could hardly ask for a DNA test, could he?

  David Bowen was not a very happy man once again.

  Chapter Twenty One

  Old Joe Turner believed that something very different was going on in David Bowen’s life and he naturally wanted to find out what it was. He wouldn’t ask David directly though because that wasn’t Joe’s style. Gossip was so much more effective if it came back and bit the culprit in the arse without them even knowing that it was even out there.

  As was his usual method, he would go about finding his information in a roundabout way. He would watch, listen and wait. Eventually he would discover what he wanted to know and then he would quite happily broadcast it around the entire community.

  Everything finally comes to he who waits, Joe frequently told himself, but this time he hadn’t been quite specific enough. In one sense, he was probably right and all things do come to those who wait. All things! Both good and bad things, and what was about to come to old Joe would be very, very bad indeed!

  Joe, who frequently loitered in the post office, noticed a bulky envelope on the counter. It was addressed to David Bowen and was awaiting delivery. Joe’s entire reason for being was made up of a constant series of ‘what’s, where’s, who’s, where’s, why’s and how’s’.

  Why was this envelope being delivered to David Bowen? What was in it? Who had sent it?

  Joe’s nose for gossip was fairly quivering like a bloodhound’s as he stretched his neck to read the name of the sender of the envelope. It was on the top left corner and easily visible.

  It had been sent from the Cambridge Historical Society.

  This knowledge started Joe off on another series of silent questions. What would David Bowen be receiving a package from them for, he wondered and his interest was immediately piqued. His next question was how could he see the contents of David’s envelope?

  Another thing that interested Joe was that David Bowen, in all the years he’d spent in Carrington, had never been the source of any gossip. Even his relationship with Peggy Mayberry had hardly been gossip-worthy.

  Joe grinned to himself and sauntered back out of the post office. Never leave any rock unturned and every dog has its day, doesn’t it, he grinned to himself, and now its David Bowen’s turn.

  Unfortunately for Joe, he should have Bowen’s rock left well enough alone because what was hiding under it would turn out to be fatal for him.

  Two evenings later, Joe sidled over to Bowen at the Black Bull’s bar. It had been at least a couple of weeks since Joe, a Black Bull regular, had seen Bowen in the bar.

  Bowen glanced at him, didn’t like what he saw and looked away again. Joe was not to be put off that easily.

  “I see you’re doing something with the Historical Society in Cambridge, Dave,” he said to Bowen’s back. Bowen turned on his bar stool and stared coolly at him.

  “It’s David, not Dave, and why would you think that?” Bowen asked.

  “I just happened to see a big envelope addressed to you in the post office. It had their logo on it as well.”

  “Just happened to see it, did you, Joe? Seems to me that you took a bloody good look at something that was none of your bloody business,” Bowen snarled at him.

  “I’m always very interested in what goes on in the parish and I thought I might join the Historical Society as well,” Joe replied, unperturbed by Bowen angry comment.

  “Why?”

  “What?”

  “Why would you want to join the Historical Society, Joe? You’re no more interested in the history of this place than this glass of beer is.”

  He thumped his fist down on the bar top hard enough to make everyone else’s glasses rattle as well.

  “You’re just interested in the present, you sneaky bloody creep – in who’s sleeping with who and in how fast you can spread that news around the whole bloody neighbourhood. You make me sick.”

  “I was just curious and…”

  “Just bloody nosey, more like. You should remember that it was curiosity that killed the cat, Joe. It could quite easily kill other things as well, I’m sure,” Bowen snapped back at him.

  Old Joe Turner’s eyes gleamed and he licked his lips.

  “Are you threatening me, Dave?” he asked in a loud enough voice for everyone in the bar to hear him.

  Bowen replied in an equally loud voice.

  “I’m just telling you to mind your own bloody business for once in your miserable life and to keep your snotty nose out of mine.”

  Bowen was gratified to hear a chorus of ‘Hear, hear,’ ‘Bloody right,’ and ‘Amen to that, David,’ from several other bar patrons.

  He turned away from Joe and completely ignored him, but inside he was trembling with anger. A moment later, Joe slid off his barstool and left the bar.

  Bowen thought angrily, that if Joe Turner even got a sniff of what he was up, there was no telling what might happen. Joe’s appetite was insatiable when juicy gossip was concerned.

  Just how big a step is it to go from blackmail to murder, Bowen wondered as he sipped at his beer and tried to calm himself down. Suddenly he grinned at his own reflection in the mirror behind the bar. It wouldn’t actually be murder, though, would it? In Joe Turner’s case it would even be considered to be justifiable homicide.

  Judging by the chorus of comments just no
w, he’d even be doing the community a favour if Turner was no longer in their midst. He knew a jury made up of Carrington victims of Joe’s malicious gossip would never convict him. They’d be more likely to give him a bloody medal for it instead!

  Then, although he was by no means intoxicated, a sobering thought hit him. He realized that, once started, Joe Turner would be relentless in his quest for David’s own personal bit of gossip. He knew, without a doubt, that if he continued with his potentially lucrative blackmail scheme, Joe Turner would eventually uncover it, as he had with everything else.

  But also, for David Bowen, this was a chance of a lifetime and he’d never get another even remotely like it. It was his chance to make some major money and he wasn’t about to give it up.

  On one hand, he had this incredible opportunity and on the other he had a meddlesome old man who could quite easily ruin it all for him. Admittedly, it was only a ‘could’ at the moment, but that could change very rapidly. By then it would be too late.

  So far David Bowen had only made his initial demands upon his Lordship. The Lord of the Manor had flatly refused, as was to be expected, and had hung up on him. But that didn’t mean a thing, did it? The man wasn’t going to just roll over and play dead right away now, was he? Of course not and Bowen had expected that.

  Now, what about Joe Turner, Bowen thought? He was an old man and would probably kick the bucket from natural causes soon anyway. Just not soon enough, though, Bowen thought, and he could do a hell of a lot of damage before that occurred as well. And what was a couple more years of Turner’s life worth compared with his chance at a life of luxury for the rest of his own.

  The more he thought about it, the more he realized that his decision was a no-brainer. If Joe was going to go anyway, it made sense to give him a little push to help make it happen a lot sooner.

  Then a brilliant thought hit Bowen like a thunderbolt. There had already been three murders recently in the village, plus the death of that old Prentiss bloke from London. But he’d died of a heart attack apparently, or so Bowen had heard, and that didn’t count.

  All three of the murders were said to be without a motive and a senseless waste of life. So, why not do one more and add it to the mystery murderer’s tally as well?

  The murder of Joe Turner would appear to just as senseless and without motive as all the others and he, if his threat against Joe Turner hadn’t been taken seriously in the Black Bull, would not be a suspect. Hell, he’d heard dozens of people tell old Joe that they’d kill him if he ever spread around anything like that about them again. None of those threats had ever been taken seriously so why should this one. He immediately answered his own question. The answer was very simple.

  Old Joe hadn’t actually been killed after any of the others, which was why they weren’t taken seriously. And that was also why he, David Bowen, would have to make it look as though the mystery murderer had done it.

  The Cambridge police Inspector was getting nowhere at all with the three murders and, thanks to Joe Turner, everyone in the entire parish knew how each of the murders had been committed and what the murder weapon was in two of them. Doc Brewer had probably even been killed with one of his own scalpels, since one had been found beside Annie Siggers. Both victims had had their throats cut.

  So, I don’t have a scalpel, Bowen thought, but I do have my grandfather’s old and well worn straight razor. Bowen grinned to himself. A ‘cutthroat’ razor, they used to call them, so how appropriate was that? He even had his grandfather’s old leather strop to sharpen it on. It would do the job beautifully.

  If he planned this carefully he could get rid of Joe Turner, get rid of all his worries and get very rich, all at the same time.

  That was what David Bowen planned to do but surely he didn’t expect a man like Sir Alfred Allenby to just sit back and simply allow a blackmailer to bleed him dry.

  Chapter Twenty Two

  Heinrich Schaeffer, alias Sir Alfred Allenby, even after all these years, hadn’t forgotten one single thing of what he’d been taught as a spy. It was just like riding a bicycle, once learned and possibly a little shaky to begin again, it was never, ever forgotten.

  After the phone calls, and knowing that he’d only put the man off temporarily, his first plan of action was to be fully and as physically prepared as possible. Commonsense also told him that, at eighty seven, he would be no match for a man who could be less than half his own age.

  As a matter of course over the years, and even though age had deprived him of much of the muscle mass of his youth, he still worked out and could move both easily and usually, painlessly. He had told Prentiss otherwise but he had lied, in case it had been necessary to physically challenge his intruder. However, fate and Prentiss’s weak heart had intervened.

  He still rode whenever the weather allowed, shot the crows that were a nuisance in the summer and swam regularly in the pool at the rear of the Manor House. He also did a half hour of calisthenics each day, timed and supervised by his valet, Ives. Overall, he had the body and fitness level of a man of only sixty.

  He had already figured out three things about his caller. The first was that his blackmailer was male. Second was that he was probably local, since he had no definable regional accent and lastly, he was sure that he had no connection at all to Parker Prentiss.

  This one was just an enterprising independent!

  Then Sir Alfred began to wonder where the man had got his devastating information from – then it hit him like a ton of bricks. He had built his own false background based upon documents that had been beautifully and successfully forged for him in Germany. They had never been questioned and he had believed that they were the only documents in existence – the only forged ones, that is!

  But what about the real ones? What did they say about the Allenby family? In all these years, because the forged papers had never been questioned, Allenby had never thought to check for any real ones. Maybe it was time for him to do just that, he decided.

  At first, despite who he was, he got nowhere. He looked into Sir Archibald’s background and then his brother, Basil’s, with no success. The official records naturally showed no mention of an Alfred Allenby, Basil’s supposed son.

  Then Allenby realized what it was that he was looking at. This wasn’t proof that Basil had a son, as his forged documents stated, but that he hadn’t had a son!

  “That’s it!” he said aloud and triumphantly as he pumped the air with his fist.

  Because he had registered his ‘existence’ locally with all of the necessary bureaucracy of the war years back in 1944, no one had thought later to question his documents any further. To add to the authenticity required at the time, he had been accompanied by the existing Lord of the Manor, Sir Archibald Allenby, his ‘uncle’.

  So, Sir Alfred now wondered, who had been looking into looking into the Allenby family history recently?

  Once again, using his position a Cambridge magistrate, he contacted the London records office at Somerset House and was told that a copy of both Sir Archibald’s and Basil Allenby’s records had been sent to the Cambridge Historical Society.

  Sir Alfred was both shocked and relieved at the same time since he had been asked to become a member of the board of directors of the Society back in the mid-eighties. It would now be a very simple matter to obtain the information he required.

  He would also get seemingly angry and insist that the discrepancy be rectified immediately, using his own documentation as reference. Sir Alfred paid a personal visit to the Society’s offices in Cambridge. It was with a sense of barely concealed excitement that he asked who had requested the copies of the documents to be sent up from London.

  A thin, balding and bespectacled man of about forty five, named Ernest Sharpe told him that the request had come from a Mr. David Bowen, a resident of Little Carrington in his own parish.

  “And did Mr. Bowen say exactly why he was interested in my family history, Mr. Sharpe?” Sir Alfred asked in a very irritat
ed tone.

  Sharpe was not a man to be easily flustered.

  “According to Mr. Bowen, Sir Alfred, he is writing a history of the parish of Carrington, going right back to its early origins. Your family would naturally be featured in it, Your Lordship,” Sharpe said.

  “Would it, indeed?” Allenby snapped. “And you thought that to send him details of my family would be perfectly acceptable, did you?”

  “I did, sir. I thought it was a reasonable request under those circumstances,” Sharpe replied.

  “And if it been your family history, would you have been just as eager to give it out to perfect strangers, Sharpe?” Allenby shot back. “You think it is acceptable and I think it is bloody preposterous. Have you never heard of such a thing as identity theft, man? You should have called and advised me that there was such a request before you arbitrarily sent out details of my family. To make matters worse, that record isn’t even correct. How dare they suggest that I was never even born?”

  He slammed his bundle of documents down in front of Sharpe.

  “Good Lord, man, I’m standing here right in front of you and I want this error rectified immediately, or believe me, someone’s head is going to roll over this. Do you understand me, Sharpe?”

  “Yes, your Lordship,” a now suitably subdued Sharpe replied.

  “Correct it then and no more will be said about it,” Sir Alfred said benevolently. “My man, Ives, will pick these documents back up from you first thing in the morning and now, in the light of what has occurred here, I need to ask you a small favour, Sharpe,” he added.

  “Of course, your Lordship,” Sharpe now said deferentially.

  “If Mr. Bowen, or anyone else for that matter, inquires whether anyone has been looking into these documents, apart from himself, you know nothing. Agreed?’

  “Of course, sir,” Sharpe said.

  “Its been my experience, Sharpe, that some of these writer chappies can really get their knickers in a knot if they think that someone has been examining their project before it is published. I got my own into a knot for a similar reason, and it’s best not to upset him unnecessarily, eh, Sharpe?”