The Enemy in Our Midst: A Lord Charles Stewart Mystery

by Conley, John E.

  The match couldn’t arrive fast enough to suit Charles, but when it did it was a marvelously sunny and crisp day. Bingham cleaned Lord Stewart’s bag of clubs after breakfast and the pair chatted in Stichen Manor’s study before finally packing the clubs in the back of the car and heading for Whitby. Charles had spent a good portion of the night mentally preparing a list of questions for Malcolm Leatherby. Sufficient time had passed since the murder, Charles presumed, that perhaps Malcolm would be more inclined to discuss circumstances surrounding the unpleasantness.

  As predicted, Bingham had no difficulty in finding the golf course. The splendor of the seemingly endless North Sea to the east made each of the men think separately that, no matter how the golf game went, the day would be a wonderful respite from scouring through church records.

  Being a new course, and directly on the seacoast, there were few trees in sight. It reminded Charles more of the Scottish links he had visited, with rolling mounds, deep pot bunkers and greens that were hardly distinguishable from the fairways. The clubhouse was an old farmhouse converted for its new purpose and Charles and Bingham entered after placing Charles’ bag of clubs next to a row of others outside the door.

  They had barely taken a step inside when they heard, “Stewart! Over here. Come have a seat.”

  Malcolm motioned for the men to join him at a round table near a window on the far wall, facing the sea.

  “Perfect day for golf, is it not?” Malcolm added.

  “Indeed,” Charles agreed. “No excuses for a poor score today.”

  Malcolm laughed and introduced the man standing by his chair, the owner of the course. Greetings were exchanged, the owner welcomed the Lord and his guest and left the three men to attend to other customers.

  “A drink before we begin?” Malcolm asked.

  “Not for me. Perhaps for Bingham,” Charles replied.

  “No thank you, sir. After the round for certain,” Bingham said with a grin.

  “I can tell you that no finer links course can be found in Yorkshire, Lord Stewart,” Malcolm proclaimed. “It will challenge you on every hole and I predict you will use every club in the bag before we’re done.”

  “Your local knowledge should mean I get a few shots in my favor then, correct?” Charles said.

  Malcolm laughed again and said, “Maybe the next time we play the course we can lay a wager or two. I’ll give you this first time around without the added pressure of money on the line.”

  “That’s fair,” Charles replied. “You probably know every roll and hidden hazard by now.”

  “Not quite. I do work for a living you understand,” Malcolm answered.

  Which was precisely one of the items on Charles’s list that he wanted to talk to Leatherby about in more detail; the nature of Malcolm’s business and his dealings with people like Parker and Levering.

  But for now, their minds were on golf and after a few moments of warming up, they stood on the first tee. Bingham was used to caddying for his boss and had not lost much of the athleticism and fitness required in his job with the Secret Service Bureau during the war. Malcolm employed one of the club’s young caddies, a boy hardly taller than the bag of clubs he carried.

  Although Malcolm pushed his tee shot to the right and Charles pulled his to the left, both players managed to survive the hole with bogeys. Charles had little opportunity to talk to Malcolm, which was fine. He did not wish to make it appear the game was merely set up for Charles to conduct an inquiry of his playing partner.

  However, as they stood on the tee for the second hole, Charles was prepared to open the discussion. The fairway stretched out in front of them with a slight dogleg to the left, to avoid the overhanging cliff on the right that led straight down to the beach. The sound of the North Sea’s waves rolling ashore surrounded the men as Malcolm prepared to drive.

  With a massive swing, Malcolm struck the ball with a whack. It immediately curved to the right and was clearly headed for the out of bounds markers along the cliff.

  “Oh, good heavens,” Malcolm declared. “We’ll never retrieve that one.”

  “Don’t despair,” Charles told him. “I’ve seen Bingham find balls in the most despicable locations.”

  Charles put his drive in the left center of the fairway and the foursome walked together in the direction of Malcolm’s shot.

  “Have you been in the Whitby area for a few days?” Charles asked Malcolm.

  “Yes, sir. Re-visiting some of the local farmers who had previously expressed even the slightest interest in our products. They are still a challenging group of people to convince. Things change slowly out here on the moors, Stewart.”

  They approached the cliff before Charles could pose additional questions. It was an ominous drop to the beach, but a break among the low bushes hugging the hill formed a tricky, but passable path.

  “Bingham, how about you heading down that way while the rest of us go up a few yards and find another way down,” Charles suggested.

  Bingham laid down the clubs and began his descent. He turned to slide down the dirt path backwards so he could use his hands on the slope to slow himself down. After almost forty feet, the terrain flattened out just enough for him to walk the remaining distance to the beach.

  Above him, Charles and Malcolm located another way down, while the young caddy went another ten yards forward to find his own. All three were midway down the cliff when they heard Bingham’s voice.

  “Lord Stewart. Over here,” the butler hollered.

  “Ahh, good man. He found the ball,” Charles assured Malcolm. “What did I tell you?”

  A moment later, the men, closely followed by the scurrying lad, approached Bingham.

  “Mr. Leatherby’s ball is still missing, sir. But I found this,” Bingham said, pointing to where the sand met the brush.

  Charles, Malcolm, and the boy leaned in to peer over a nearly six foot long log that lay parallel to the start of the vegetation.

  “It’s a body!” the boy shrieked.

  “Don’t touch anything,” Charles warned the group. “Can we see his face?”

  The fully clothed body lay on its stomach with the head pointed toward the cliff. Malcolm stepped around just enough to see it.

  “Levering! It’s Archibald Levering!”

  XV. High Tide

  “Bingham, check for a pulse,” Charles said.

  The butler put his fingers around Levering’s right wrist, but began shaking his head almost immediately. After a few seconds, he looked up and said, “Nothing, sir. Cold and lifeless.”

  Charles turned to the boy and told him, “Young man, I need you to go and tell someone in the clubhouse to contact Coroner Morris and the chief constable in Whitby. Can you do that for us?”

  The scared youngster nodded. “Coroner Morris and Chief Constable McHugh. I’ll get them quick, sir.”

  As the boy scampered up the embankment, Lord Stewart surveyed the surroundings. Ten feet of smooth sand, except for their own footprints, separated the men from the farthest reach of the waves. The log that partially hid Levering was at the beginning of the course scrub that climbed the cliff up to the fairway of the golf course. In both directions, as far as Charles could see, the scenery did not change.

  “How did he get here?” Malcolm asked, almost to himself. “And how did he die?”

  “Important questions, Malcolm,” Lord Stewart said. “The first question will be much more difficult to answer than the second. There are no footprints besides our own. Levering’s face and hands show no sign of injury, such as having been pushed down the hill.”

  “Shall we check his pockets or wait for the constable?” Bingham asked.

  Charles hesitated, and then replied, “I see no harm in checking his coat pockets.”

  Bingham lifted Levering only enough to slide his hand inside the right side of the coat and found nothing. Moving to the other side, he did the same and pulled out a small leather case. He handed it to Charles.

  “It’
s wet, of course,” Charles told the others as he opened it. “There’s money…about what you’d expect a man in his position to carry. No other papers of interest.”

  He handed the case back to Bingham, who replaced it into the left pocket. Charles pulled out his pipe and began to prepare it, saying, “Might as well relax, gentlemen. Nothing we can do now except wait for the authorities. Bingham, we went a long time without anything of interest to sleuth. Now we have two.”

  “Do we, my Lord? Or do we have just one?”

  Charles looked down at the lifeless body.

  “Indeed, Bingham. What exactly do we have?”

  Sooner than the men expected, the boy reappeared at the edge of the cliff, joined by the unmistakably tall, thin figure of Coroner Morris. The Coroner wiped the dirt from his coat after a less than graceful slide down the hill. At the bottom, he looked with surprise at the three men.

  “Lord Stewart,” he proclaimed. “We meet again. You realize, of course, it is not always a good thing when you are constantly meeting with the Coroner.”

  “I, too, would much prefer a social visit,” Charles replied. “But we keep stumbling upon deceased friends.”

  Morris was already studying Levering’s face.

  “You knew Mr. Levering?” Morris asked.

  “Not I. But I believe Malcolm did,” Charles said.

  “Yes. Oh, yes. I knew Levering,” Malcolm confirmed. “We were not friends. I mean, I only knew him as part of my business.”

  “Of course,” the Coroner said disinterestedly as he tilted the body onto its side. “Dead for some time, I’d say. At least twelve hours and perhaps eighteen. If he was here overnight, in the cold, the rigor would have come on more slowly.”

  Morris spread open Levering’s coat and then slowly lowered the body onto its stomach again. He pulled up the bottom of the coat and everyone present saw the dark stain on the shirt and the hole in the middle.

  “Stabbed in the back. A narrow blade, most likely extremely sharp based on the clean cut. And perfectly placed for the heart,” Morris said with assurance. “The autopsy will tell us more.”

  Charles looked down the beach to see two constables approaching in their long tunics and distinctive helmets. The middle-aged man, with a thick mustache and burly build, would almost certainly be the Chief Constable,. The younger man, in his twenties, had the look of a raw recruit not used to the excitement of a murder on the local beach.

  “Hello, Morris,” the older man said, upon reaching the scene and gazing down at the body. “Anyone we know?”

  “Yes, Mr. McHugh. It’s Archibald Levering.”

  “You don’t say,” the Chief Constable said. “Running a fleet the size of his isn’t easy, you know. If the sea doesn’t kill you the enemies you make along the way will.”

  Introductions were made, including young Constable Middleton, who, along with his boss, made a quick examination of the body and fatal wound. Chief Constable McHugh took possession of Levering’s leather case, keys, and miscellaneous coins from the dead man’s pockets, dropping them into a bag provided by Middleton.

  “Does his wife know yet?” McHugh asked Morris.

  The Coroner shook his head. “Don’t believe so, unless word has already spread from inside the clubhouse.”

  “OK. Middleton, it’s an ugly part of the job, but if you would, go find Mrs. Levering and talk to her,” the Chief Constable told him. “Then meet me back at the station so we can write our report.”

  Lord Stewart asked McHugh, “Any suspects immediately come to mind, Chief Constable?”

  McHugh suppressed a laugh, saying, “The list is too long, I’m afraid. Archie Levering had dozens of people who had reason to kill him. No, this one isn’t going to be easy. We’ll need a bit of luck to crack it. But, how he got here in the first place would be helpful to know.”

  With virtually no evidence at the scene to disturb, Levering’s body was removed and taken to Whitby for the autopsy. At the same moment, Inspector Silsbury was reading a cable informing him of the murder. He was on the next train to Whitby, after having sent his own cable to the owner of the golf course, asking that Lord Charles Stewart and Bingham be advised to stay until his arrival.

  The three men were provided a room on the second floor in which to meet.

  “Levering’s wallet looked routine to you, Lord Stewart?” Silsbury asked after they were settled around a small, wooden table.

  “In every form, Inspector. A reasonable amount of money was inside. Not a lot.”

  “Robbery as the primary motive seems remote, but we can’t rule it out,” Silsbury said.

  “Correct,” Charles agreed. “But I personally wouldn’t put any weight on it at all.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “The motive behind this goes far beyond a few dollars in a man’s pocketbook.”

  Silsbury adjusted his glasses. “Is there a connection with Colonel Humphries?”

  “Of course there is. A close one,” Charles said.

  “I agree, but I suspect for a completely different reason than you have in mind,” the Inspector said. “Levering got caught up in the dealings between Parker and the Colonel. Once I find the link, two cases will be solved.”

  Charles shook his head and said, “There’s something else going on. There are actors in this play that we are overlooking. I agree there’s a link between the two murders, but it isn’t blackmail or bribery.”

  Inspector Silsbury looked at Bingham and asked, “What struck you about the body this time, Bingham? You have a good sense for these things.”

  Bingham nodded his appreciation and replied, “It was the lack of bruises around the head, neck, and hands that interested me. There appeared to be no struggle. Now, if the fatal blow had been struck in front, you could argue that Levering knew his attacker. But being from the rear, he may have been taken by surprise. In any case, he wasn’t murdered on the beach.”

  “You think not?” Silsbury said.

  “No. Not unless we have an eyewitness, which I think is very unlikely,” Bingham added. “He was brought to the beach and had been there some time. The blood on his shirt was diluted, as if water had been rushing over it. My first inclination was that he was put there during low tide and the high tide pushed him up to the brush. But then there’s the matter of the log. It may have been placed there to hide the body for as long as possible.”

  The other men nodded.

  “I’ll talk to somebody about the tides last night,” Silsbury offered.

  “So, it’s too dangerous being seen carrying him on the golf course and taking him down the cliff,” Charles said. “Just as it is too dangerous to lug him along the beach. That leaves….”

  “By boat,” Bingham finished the thought.

  The autopsy of Archibald Levering revealed only one new fact during the inquest: that he was drowned as well as stabbed. Neither Coroner Morris nor another doctor that examined the body would say which occurred first. The jury was quick in proclaiming murder by a person unknown.

  Lord Stewart allowed two additional days to pass before visiting Ilene Levering. He found her in a black mourning dress at her Whitby home and the melancholy in her eyes matched the mood of her apparel. She admitted him after Charles explained his desire to assist with finding her husband’s murderer.

  Ilene sat in a chair by the fire and, based on the sewing materials and blankets close at hand, Charles determined this was her customary location. He sat near to her.

  “I’m so sorry for your loss,” Charles began solemnly. “It’s not my intent to prolong your suffering. And I assume the police have been in to talk to you.”

  “Yes. Particularly an Inspector from York. Silsbury I believe he said his name was,” Ilene said with more strength than Charles expected.

  Charles nodded. “He’s to be trusted. May I inquire what he asked you?”

  Ilene seemed to think for a moment, and then said, “He asked what I knew about Archie’s relationship to Mr. Parker and a
Colonel Humphries. I’m sure he was disappointed when I said I knew nothing of the men other than Parker…perhaps…having heard the name once or twice in bits of conversations me and Archie had. The Inspector wanted to know about money that may have been exchanged between the men and I told him the truth…that I knew nothing. Maybe I wasn’t a good wife in that regard, but the fleet didn’t interest me much.”

  “What did interest you, if I may ask, Mrs. Levering?”

  A faint, fleeting grin crossed her face.

  “Living a normal life interested me, Lord Stewart,” Ilene replied. “Having Archie home as much as possible after his poor mother died. And planning for the future. That interested me. Now I have no future.”

  Her voice faltered and Charles waited.

  “Tell me about his mother, please,” Charles said softly.

  He saw the strength in Ilene’s face and supposed it had seen a lot in her short life. She didn’t strike him as a woman who would lie or otherwise hide the truth.

  “Her death was so sudden and so unexpected,” Ilene began. “It hit us both very hard. The doctor said he’d never seen anything like it. One day she was fine and the next she was gone.”

  Ilene shook her head and then continued: “She was very quiet about her past, Lord Stewart. I’m not sure even Archie knew everything. But, we’re all allowed some secrets in our lives, aren’t we?”

  Charles grinned and nodded.

  Ilene said, “I’m going to tell you something I’ve never told anybody, Lord Stewart. But they are both gone and if you think it might help find who killed Archie, well….”

  She took a second to compose herself once more.

  “Archie never knew his father, you understand. His mother would never talk to him about it. He asked and she refused, but I’m certain it was not the Mr. Levering she married. There was another man, Lord Stewart, and it wasn’t fair never telling him who it was.”