by Bill Kitson
Even as I spoke there was a niggling doubt at the back of my mind. Something I’d just said didn’t quite tally with my memory of events. I was unable to identify the discrepancy, so I dismissed the idea. Which was a huge mistake.
Not surprisingly, Hardy was both fascinated and appalled by the story of what Brian had endured before his return to England. At the end, he looked at me, assessing my capability to answer his question, I think.
‘What do you make of his state of mind now? Having been brainwashed and tortured that way has to have a lasting effect, I’d have thought.’
‘I think he’s far more resilient than anyone could possibly have guessed. I’d say his fragility lies in anything that might remind him of those days in captivity, but he’s coming to terms with everyday things such as being indoors. From what he said, a few months ago that wouldn’t have been possible. Being reunited with Barbara has been very good for him, too.’
‘You realize I’m having to rely on your word for almost anything to do with Latimer.’ He jerked one thumb towards the ceiling. ‘Orders from above,’ he explained. ‘The chief constable won’t hear a word against his godson. Latimer certainly won’t be facing any charges. The chief doesn’t want the media latching on to the Great Escape story. He more or less told me I’d to handle Latimer with kid gloves and at the same time look elsewhere for the killer, because there’s no way he could have been responsible. Is he right, or is he being too trusting because he’s too close?’
‘I think the chief constable’s got it right. If you were to ask me if Brian Latimer was capable of killing someone, I’d say yes, in certain circumstances. If he felt his life, or that of Barbara, was in danger, he would act in self-defence. And if he was in action, faced with an enemy, in a kill-or-be-killed situation, then he would certainly be capable of that. But if you were to change that question, and ask instead if I thought he was capable of cold-blooded murder, I would say absolutely and categorically not.’
‘Yes, that more or less bears out my own impression, but you’ve seen far more of him than I have. OK, so if we believe Latimer wasn’t the killer, have you any idea who might be? And what the motive for the murders might be? Given that we’re not dealing with a complete psychopath, of course, which is always a detective’s worst fear.’
‘Why is it your worst fear?’ I asked, momentarily sidetracked by Hardy’s comment.
‘Because they’re far more difficult to catch. With most crimes, there’s a motive, which leads to a suspect. Random killings are another matter entirely.’
‘I have the germ of an idea as to what the motive is and that leads me to a possible suspect, but none of what I believe can be proved. One thing’s for certain: I think you can safely discount the idea of a random killer.’
‘You’ve already mentioned the man Matthews, but I still don’t see the profit motive as sufficiently strong enough a reason for three murders.’
‘There is more that I could tell you, but it isn’t my story. However, one thing I can say. Have you thought that the two later murders might be the consequence of the first one?’
‘In what way?’
‘Go back to Armstrong’s cottage and look out of the bedroom window. You will be able to see the point where Lewis’s car was found, which I presume is where he was killed. What if Armstrong was in his bedroom at the time of the murder and witnessed it? What if he then tried to blackmail the killer?’
‘That would take some proving. The murder happened during the daytime. Why would Armstrong be in his bedroom, unless he was ill?’
‘Or unless he was indulging in a little extra-marital encounter with Veronica Matthews.’
‘What makes you think that happened? Granted, they were obviously lovers, but there’s no proof she was there that afternoon.’
‘Oh yes there is.’ I told him what Zeke Calvert had said about seeing the car on the day of the race.
‘That’s all very well, but we still have to find the person who killed Lewis. Matthews might have had a motive for killing his wife and her lover, but where’s the motive for the first murder?’
‘I’ll leave you to work that out, Inspector. I have shopping to do.’
‘That won’t be easy. If the killer is Matthews, proceeding against him won’t be by any means straightforward. I can’t simply arrest a respected law-abiding citizen on suspicion of three murders without a shred of concrete evidence.’
‘I’m afraid I can’t help you there. Not as things stand, anyway.’
Nor, at that point in time, could I see any way of proving guilt even if we did have a definite suspect. What we needed was some way of getting the guilty party to show their hand. As I pondered how that might be achieved, the saying, ‘be careful what you wish for’ never entered my mind. It should have done.
Chapter Twenty-two
When I collected Eve from Linden House I took the opportunity to tell Brian about my conversation with DI Hardy. I was a little apprehensive as to how he would react to having his most private and personal history exposed to a complete stranger, but fortunately he was more relieved than upset.
‘I suppose one good thing is that it saves me having to go through it all over again. I knew I should have told him it myself yesterday, but somehow I couldn’t face it. The shrinks seemed to believe that talking about my ordeal would help in some way but it doesn’t work that way, at least not for me. Whenever I have, something inside me seems to curl up with shame and embarrassment. The only time it was easy was with Babs. That was another reason I knew everything was right between us.’
Before Eve and I left, we promised to return the following morning to help out in the stables. ‘Not that I’ll be of much use,’ I told Barbara, ‘except perhaps to make coffee. Like I said, I know very little about horses.’
‘Don’t worry about that, Adam, Eve’s got the ideal job lined up for you,’ Barbara told me with a wicked smile. ‘She said you’ll be absolutely perfect for it, given your long career as a reporter.’
I looked at the woman who had promised to marry me; the woman who was wearing my ring. Her expression was one of total innocence. A little too much innocence for my liking. ‘Oh yes, and what might that be?’
‘The loose boxes will need cleaning out. Basically, that means shovelling manure.’
‘Oh, how lovely.’
Any doubt I had about how serious Eve had been was settled the following morning on our arrival. She handed me a shovel and pointed to a large wheelbarrow that was leant up against a wall. ‘Once we have the horses saddled up and out of their boxes you set to work. When you’ve cleaned one of the boxes, swill the floor down and sweep the excess water into the yard. There’s a hosepipe connected to the outside tap over there. Enjoy yourself,’ she added, a trifle spitefully, I thought.
Barbara had taken the opportunity provided by our assistance to exercise all the horses in her care, so it looked like a full morning’s work for me. Once they all disappeared in the direction of the gallops, each riding one of the expensive thoroughbreds, I set to work in my role as equine chambermaid.
I had just finished the last of the empty boxes when the clatter of hooves warned me that my clients had returned. This gave me chance to relax as I watched the riders grooming their mounts before returning them to their en-suite facilities. I even allowed Brian the privilege of spreading fresh straw on the floor while Barbara refilled the hay racks.
Once they had saddled up three fresh mounts, including the bad-tempered Blenheim Boy, it was back to work for me. This time, having learned from the previous three, I had finished the boxes well before they returned, and was contemplating going to the house for a mug of well-earned coffee when I heard the sound of a vehicle on the drive.
Curiosity, combined with the need to ease my aching back muscles, prompted me to walk to the top end of the yard. I was only mildly surprised to see the distinctive nose of a BMW that was parked behind my car.
If Trevor Matthews was mourning his recently deceased wife,
it certainly didn’t show in his apparel. His sports coat was a vivid check one that was loud enough to make me wonder where I’d left my sunglasses, and his multi-coloured tie was on the extreme edge of garish. It clashed violently with the coat–but then I think it would have clashed with anything. It put me in mind of those joke ones men wear at Christmas and I was tempted to ask Matthews to press it so I could hear what tune it played.
‘Where’s Mrs Lewis?’ he demanded. ‘I want a word with her.’
There was a distinct lack of old-fashioned courtesy in his abrupt manner. ‘Exercising the horses,’ I told him, adding, with some reluctance. ‘Can I help?’
‘That’s what I want to talk to her about. She shouldn’t be taking them to the gallops, and she shouldn’t be using that path. She knows we’ve prohibited it.’
‘You’re rather jumping the gun, aren’t you?’
‘What do you mean?’ Matthews was barely paying attention to me. He obviously thought I was one of Barbara’s employees.
‘You don’t own the Rowandale estate. That means you have no right to permit or prohibit anything that happens on the land.’
He dismissed this with a wave of the hand. ‘It’s only a matter of time until we do. The paperwork is in the process of being drawn up. Once we get probate on Latimer’s will, everything will go through on the nod.’
‘That I very much doubt. If you’re placing your hopes on the will Rupert Latimer signed eighteen months ago I’m afraid you’re going to be extremely disappointed. I take it you haven’t spoken to Norman Rhodes in the past couple of days.’
‘I don’t understand. Explain yourself.’
As he was speaking I heard hooves rattling on the concrete apron leading to the stable block. Perfect timing, I thought. ‘I’ll do better than that; I’ll show you.’
I grabbed Matthews by the arm and steered him towards the stables. After a few strides he wriggled free and marched on ahead, walking as if he owned the place. The awakening would come soon, I knew, and it would be a rude one, brutal even. I was looking forward to witnessing it, which I suppose marks me down as a minor sadist. I greeted the returning riders. ‘Barbara, you remember Trevor Matthews. He’s back with some more empty threats.’
Matthews cut me short. ‘You were warned before about using the gallops and the path alongside the forest, but you appear to have taken absolutely no notice. Once the sale of Rowandale Hall goes through we intend to seek to revoke the terms of Rupert Latimer’s will and have you evicted from Linden House.’
The interruption was delivered quietly, which merely added to its effectiveness.
‘There are a couple of problems with that statement. The first of these is that Rowandale Hall is not for sale. The second is that Barbara doesn’t own Linden House, I do. As for that will, forget it. The document is no longer valid. Adam, would you mind explaining why and then escorting this gentleman from my property. I’ve a horse to attend to.’ With that, Brian dismounted and headed for the stable.
Matthews looked at me for enlightenment, clearly stunned by what he must have considered to be a series of preposterous claims. I hastened to explain. ‘If you read Rupert Latimer’s will, the opening clause states that the document is only valid should there be no living relative, and if there is one, their claim nullifies all others. I’m quoting from memory, but I think I’ve got the gist of how it’s phrased.’
‘What’s that got to do with anything? Everyone knows there are no living relatives. And who the devil is that?’ He gestured towards Brian, who was now busy grooming Blenheim Boy. It was obvious that Matthews hadn’t recognised him as the bearded tramp.
‘Correction; everyone thought there were no living relatives. But they were wrong. And as to your other question, that’s Brian Latimer, Rupert Latimer’s son: the rightful owner of Rowandale Hall.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous; Brian Latimer has been dead for years.’
I sighed wearily. ‘Not that Mexican nonsense again. Why don’t you go talk to Rhodes? And whilst you’re at it, get him to explain how the brown-eyed corpse from Mexico could be Brian Latimer, who everyone knows has blue eyes. Now I think you should leave, because I don’t think Mr Latimer will take too kindly to your aggressive attitude to his fiancée.’
‘Thank you, Adam,’ Brian told me when I reported Matthews’ departure. ‘I was having trouble keeping a lid on my temper with the man; the way he behaved was intolerable.’
‘You do realize who he is, don’t you?’
‘I heard you mention the name Matthews. Was that him?’
‘Yes, Trevor Matthews to give his full name.’
‘And he’s the grandson of the man who was with my grandfather in Africa? Now it makes sense.’
‘That’s what we think, but the gravestone should tell us more when we look tomorrow.’
It was another early start for all of us the following morning. Once we’d completed the morning’s work at the stables, which was a far more truncated version of the previous day’s task, we loaded Blenheim Boy into the horse box, which I nicknamed the touring caravan, for the journey to Catterick racecourse. I say “we” but my involvement in the procedure was minimal, matching my knowledge and experience with horses. I’m not scared of them as a rule, but Blenheim Boy had a habit of staring coldly at me, as if to say, ‘I’ll sort you out’–though perhaps that was my imagination.
Once the gelding was installed, Brian and I prepared breakfast whilst the girls took it in turns to shower. Before they left, I handed Eve a small wad of banknotes. ‘Let’s see if The Boy can bring us luck,’ I suggested. After we’d seen them on their way, Brian and I set off on our journey to the West Riding.
As we drove out of the village, my mind was occupied with the impending visit to the graveyard, and the hoped-for confirmation of the family connection between Trevor Matthews and the long dead soldier.
The subconscious mind works in strange ways sometimes–or at least mine does. It was this obscure process that gave me the answer to one of the clues left by Everett Latimer in his memoir. The catalyst was, of all people, Zeke Calvert. As we passed his cottage, I noticed the former gamekeeper standing by the front door, puffing on a cigarette. I thought he presented a rather forlorn figure, and wondered how he managed to fill his days now that he no longer had work to occupy them. I mentioned this to Brian, adding, ‘The evenings are less of a problem, because he can always escape to the Admiral Nelson, away from his nagging wife.’
‘Is she a nag? I never met her.’
‘According to Henry Price she’s always looking for someone to blame whenever anything goes wrong, and Zeke is usually in the firing line. Henry said she has a wicked tongue on her, and never gives Zeke a minute’s peace. It’s no wonder he told us he prefers quiet women.’
As I recounted Henry’s words, I gasped aloud at what I’d just said.
‘Something wrong, Adam?’
‘No, but I’ve just thought of something. It could be important. Give me a minute to think it through, Brian.’
From my eye corner I could see Brian staring at me, his expression one of mild bewilderment. I concentrated on the road ahead, but my mind was elsewhere. We’d gone about ten miles before I spoke. ‘You know the waterfall in the forest?’
‘Of course I do. What of it? I didn’t realize you did, though. Have you been there? Have you been into the forest?’
‘No, but Zeke Calvert told me about it. Can you describe the surrounding area for me?’
‘The waterfall isn’t actually in the forest. Well, that isn’t strictly true either. The falls, and Thorsgill Beck, split the forest in two. There’s woodland to the north of the river, and also to the south, but the gill cuts right through the middle, running west to east. At the top of the falls the river is much wider, but the rock formations channel it towards what is really a force, or foss, I think the Viking word is.
‘At the bottom there’s a wide area of open land. The water tumbles into a huge, deep pool that is supposed to be bot
tomless. It was a favourite place for skinny-dipping when Babs and I were kids. Anyway, the pool forms part of a huge clearing that has never had trees in it as far as I can tell. That may be down to the stony ground, I’m not enough of a geologist to say. There are some depressions in the ground. When I was a kid, Zeke told me they were where people in the Stone Age or Iron Age excavated for minerals. I’m not certain what they were after, it could have been peat for fires, or flint for weapons or utensils, or iron, or coal even. Whatever it was, they dug down quite a long way. Some of the holes are twenty feet deep, maybe even more. Why the sudden interest in that part of the forest.’
‘Remember the rhyme your grandfather composed? Think of the name of that waterfall.’
‘Of course, the Silent Lady: The maiden who seldom sings. That has to be a reference to the falls, but what about the rest of the rhyme?’
‘Those workings you mentioned, they would be more like open-cast mining than deep level, I guess?’ Brian nodded agreement. ‘And I’d also guess they would be roughly circular in appearance, if you looked from above, say from the top of the falls. Am I right?’
‘Yes, but I still don’t see–’
‘If you’d paid more attention in class instead of daydreaming about Barbara you might have twigged it by now.’
He grinned. ‘All right, genius; enlighten me.’
‘Those excavations are known as bell pits. One of them has to be the bell that never rings, don’t you think?’
Our excitement was tempered by a sobering reflection that arose from the remainder of Everett Latimer’s rhyme. Brian gave voice to the disturbing thought. ‘It’s the other part that worries me. The bit about the gold sleeping with those who are free from sin. That sounds to me as if we’ll find something else in that pit, along with the treasure; and I don’t like the idea of what it might be. I don’t like it one little bit.’
