Silsbury hoped he hadn’t left out any of Lee and Bell’s description of Humphries.
One sailor replied, “Well, now, you could be describing half the men in Whitby except for the age. Not that many men on the ships that old. Sounds a bit like ol’ Charlie Mann to me. What do you think, Henry?”
“Yes. Was thinkin’ the same thing,” another man said with a nod. “Mann’s one of the few that lived that long at sea. I’d need a picture of him to be sure, though.”
Silsbury said, “Of course. I think I can arrange that. Will you men be in town for another two days?”
They said they would and Silsbury arranged a meeting, with complimentary drinks assured, for noon on that day. He immediately walked to the telegraph office and sent off messages to the solicitors and Lord Stewart to have a picture of Arthur Humphries delivered to his office. The solicitors replied quickly that they would soon be in possession of the man’s documents and would see that a picture was taken if the documents themselves did not contain one. Bingham already knew that a passport of dubious originality did, in fact, contain the brother’s picture.
Silsbury’s next task was to meet with the detective tailing Parker.
“Parker didn’t deny a thing to Meath,” the man in black told Silsbury while recounting the meeting, “He actually tried to lay as much blame on Helen Meath as on himself. It’s all about the inheritance, of course, and Stuart insisted that Parker deal with him from now on…or Stuart would kill him, to quote him directly.”
Silsbury chuckled. “Stuart Meath is incapable of murder.”
Then the Inspector looked out the window and said, “And isn’t Helen Meath a very, very interesting young woman.”
As promised, Arthur Humphries arrived at the offices of Lee and Bell with a set of documents that would, in Humphries’ own words, ‘settle the issue.’ The old man sat and watched each solicitor study the documents in turn. Lee and Bell passed the papers between them, lifting them to the light and squinting intently at the text on each one.
“I want to thank you for making these available,” Mr. Lee told Humphries. “You understand, I’m sure, the importance of verifying the validity of the papers. Give us three days to study them more closely and at the end of that time, if all is well, we can begin the legal proceedings of turning over the estate.”
Humphries was visibly displeased with the proposed delay. However, with a nod of acknowledgement, he accepted the offer.
It did not take the veteran solicitors more than an hour or two to convince themselves the documents were questionable, at best. Interested, as they were, in who Arthur Humphries really was, they dispatched the passport and photo to Inspector Silsbury, advising him of the three day timeframe they were working under.
With the passport safely stowed in his coat pocket, Silsbury boarded a train and headed into Whitby the morning of his rendezvous with the sailors. Fog began to enshroud the train as it approached the coastal town and was thick enough to hide most buildings outside of a few hundred yards away by the time Silsbury walked onto the station’s platform.
He pulled his coat’s collar high around his neck and proceeded directly to the inn. It seemed even the inside of the establishment was damp and cold, but Silsbury found the warmest corner he could find and waited for the sailors to begin to arrive. By a few minutes past noon, the group of coarse looking men had congregated in chairs around Silsbury and the promised drinks were ordered.
The Inspector pulled the passport out of his pocket, opened it to the picture of Humphries, and laid it on the table.
“I told you it was Mann,” a sailor proclaimed loudly. “Sure as I’m sittin’ here, that’s Charlie Mann.”
“There’s no doubt about it,” another man said. “What’s he doing with an American passport? He’s lived in Yorkshire ‘is whole life.”
“Tell me about him,” Silsbury said to the group.
One of the older seamen replied, “Charlie’s a rough one, mister. A ruffian of sorts with a temper like I’ve never seen. Been working on the Harrison and Levering ships as long as I’ve known him.”
The others agreed, with one man adding, “Hated Levering, ‘e did. Don’t think he shed a tear when the boss was found dead.”
“When is he set to leave port?” Silsbury asked.
“Saturday, on the Wayfarer. Bound for Barcelona,” a sailor answered. “I’m on that one with ‘im.”
XX. A Proposal
Daphne Bishop was not used to nice things. Life to her was a constant struggle. For as long as she could remember, her surroundings were hectic and ever-changing, void of anything beyond the basic necessities. People entered and exited her life at a frightening clip.
These experiences hardened first the young girl and then the young woman, resulting in her taking nothing for granted and trusting very few. Daphne often heard similar words to those uttered by Lord Stewart the first time they met. Words to the effect of: ‘A pretty girl like you should be married and raising a family.’
Until recently, such talk made no impact on her. But the death of Colonel Humphries, a man she silently adored, and then the shock of a second murder so close to Danby made her begin to think about life and its tenuous nature. Add to that Ida’s grandmotherly advice and Daphne at least acknowledged the idea of marriage.
It was during these times she wondered about her real parents the most, the people who brought her into the world. The parents she never knew and probably never would. The Bishops were her family. They had brought her up with love and caring and had instilled in her the right values, which drove her even harder to make the market a success.
Still, there had been a mother and father who gave her up for some reason and Daphne wondered if they would be proud of her. Faint memories of a large house with lots of children and women who acted as mothers over them occasionally re-entered her mind. Daphne considered it home, until memories of the Bishops replaced the large house and she was the only child again. She considered those first memories of the Bishops as the beginning of her life.
Now Daphne stood in the kitchen of Stichen Manor, considering her future. She lifted a crate of vegetables and carried them to the refrigerator, saying a silent prayer of thanks to Colonel Humphries for spending the money on such a luxury. She knew the market would eventually have to have one to keep up with the competition in the larger cities, but Daphne was leery of change, which brought her mind back to her future.
She wished she had parents to ask.
“You have rhubarb, I hope.”
The voice startled Daphne, who turned quickly.
“Oh, Malcolm,” she exclaimed. “I know you do that to frighten the life out of me. I’ll die a young woman.”
Malcolm’s smile only slightly eased her mind. He walked to her and said, “You will die an old, wealthy matriarch, my dear. Can I help?”
“Help me become an old, wealthy matriarch? I’m not sure,” she replied, returning to the table holding the remainder of the day’s food supply.
Malcolm lifted a box of canned goods and took them into the pantry, saying over his shoulder, “You haven’t had anybody else offer such assistance, I hope.”
Daphne sighed. “Of course not. What would make you think that?”
“Everywhere I go I have men ask me about the beautiful tycoon they have heard about in Danby,” Malcolm said.
“Tycoon has an evil sound to it,” Daphne said, joining him in the pantry. “Tell them I’m an industrialist. Wait. No, that sounds much too masculine. Tell them I’m a…a…vegetable dealer.”
Malcolm heard the discontent in her voice and saw it on her face. He stood next to her and said, “What’s the matter?”
Daphne wiped her hands on the side of her dress at the hips. Her shoulders sagged for a moment and then she straightened her posture as if to hide something from the man.
“Nothing is the matter, Malcolm. Nothing at all.”
He put his hand on her arm. “When was the last time you took a holiday? A
real holiday, away from Danby and the market.”
She looked at him oddly and said, “A holiday? Why, never. I don’t have time to take….”
“Let’s go somewhere, Daphne. Together. Let’s get away from the craziness that seems to have taken over Yorkshire,” Malcolm pleaded. “We can wait until autumn when the market is less busy if you want. But I can’t stand to see you so solemn.”
“Together?” Daphne asked, her eyes widening. It was the only word she seemed to hear.
“Yes, together.”
They stared at each other before Malcolm reached out and took her hands.
“Allow me to make you happy, Daphne. I’m asking you…no, beseeching you…to spend your life with me,” Malcolm said. “You are all I think about. I count the minutes until I can see you again. I’m not asking you to give up the market. I’m asking you to let me watch it grow while I’m at your side. But first, let me take you away to whatever land you want to see for as long as you want to stay.”
She felt his grip tighten around her hands as he spoke. Daphne unconsciously leaned against a shelf while contemplating the first true proposal she’d ever received. She sensed the negative feelings flowing from her brain and fought them in an effort to weigh the options. It was the first time she allowed herself to even consider options and it caused her to falter.
“Malcolm, it all sounds wonderful and…and…I would enjoy you company but…,” she stuttered, “but I can’t commit to that right now. I…I…need time to think.”
“But you will consider it, my dear? You’ll at least give it serious thought?”
“Yes, Malcolm. I will. But give me a while. Please let me think,” she said. “This is so…so…unexpected.”
He kissed her lightly on the cheek and said, “I won’t sleep until I hear from you.”
One floor above the pantry, in Lord Stewart’s sitting room, he and Bingham also discussed important but less life-changing topics. Cigar smoke hovered above them, slowing making its way to the open window behind the butler.
“So Helen Meath and Alistair Cooper met with the man proclaiming to be the Colonel’s brother,” Charles stated. “What do you make of it, Bingham?”
“The reason behind it would be much clearer if we knew which murder—the Colonel’s or Levering’s—the meeting was most closely connected with,” the butler said quickly. “And before you say it, yes it might concern both.”
Charles smiled and said, “Of course it might. In fact, the chances are greater the two murders are connected than not. But don’t rule out another possible connection.”
After a short pause, Bingham asked, “Parker?”
“Very good,” Charles replied, staring at the burning tip of his cigar. “Mr. Parker is never far from my mind whenever a new development arises, although I’m not ready to pin everything on him just yet, like our friend the Inspector.”
Bingham said, “The alleged brother is after the inheritance and you associate Parker with anything having to do with money. So, are Helen and Alistair intermediaries for Parker or adversaries?”
“Indeed,” Charles nodded. “And I noticed you said nothing of anybody in that foursome being involved in murder. Do you believe they are?”
Bingham shook his head. “Not really. At least not Helen, Alistair, and Parker. The brother is more of an unknown.”
“But the brother would have had to get on the grounds, enter the library through the French windows, and exit without being seen or heard,” Charles said. “Oh, and have access to a knife from the collection.”
“Which anyone could have provided,” Bingham quickly added.
“Curse you, Bingham. I’m trying to keep the man out of the hangman’s noose.”
“Because you like him?”
Charles sighed, “Because he had nothing to do with the Colonel’s murder. He has everything to do with the aftereffects of it.”
“But putting money at the bottom of all of it, which you yourself willingly do, seems to implicate these four more than most,” Bingham argued.
“Ahh, but there were many people at that reunion, most of which had either the need or desire for more money,” Charles said. “Besides, Parker uses other means to get his. I’m not convinced murder is his style. And if I can find one missing link, I’ll prove it to you, Bingham.”
XXI. Shopping for Shoes
“Mary Hastings! Your class is completely out of order. I insist that you do something to control them.”
Mary smiled defiantly at the orphanage’s headmistress, just as she had done dozens of times in the past when scolded. She replied, “Oh, Mrs. Murgatroyd. If I don’t let the girls run outside when the weather is good, they become little devils in the classroom.”
“Instead, they turn into frenzied creatures on the grounds, running about like so many frightened grouse,” the white-haired woman said with disgust, her arms tightly crossed in front of her chest. “If a visitor came at this moment, what would they think?”
“If they look closely at the girls’ faces,” Mary answered, “they would see a class of joyful children.”
“They would see dirt and dust,” Mrs. Murgatroyd countered. “Look at Helen Smythe throwing stones at poor Eileen Lytle.”
Mary contained her laughter, knowing that the pebbles her principal referred to as stones couldn’t hurt anyone when thrown by a petite eight year old. As far as the dirt and dust was concerned, she rightly assumed the headmistress ignored her own enjoyment of playing in it sixty years ago.
Hillcrest School for orphaned children was located in Scarborough, twenty miles south of Whitby on the coast. The school consisted of cottage homes, a fairly fresh trend in caring for orphaned, poor, or ‘troubled’ children in Yorkshire. Five cottages, each accommodating as many as twenty children, lined a long village green which was currently dotted with Mary Hastings’ ‘creatures.’
The cottage homes were a welcome departure from the workhouses of the previous century, although Hillcrest did not yet offer education in trades for the boys. Mrs. Murgatroyd was respected in the region for her rigidity and discipline, if not for originality and foresight.
Mary Hastings was hired as a teacher three years earlier. Now in her late thirties, she enjoyed the role of instigator of irritation for the elderly principal. Mary was single, not much taller than the tallest girl in her class, with flowing brown hair that tended to partially cover her cute face. Known by the other teachers as witty and intelligent, she had few close friends by her own choosing.
As always, Mary eventually herded her class back together into a line and inspected each one, using a handkerchief to remove the worst of the dirt on their faces before escorting them back into the two story brick building that housed the classroom. The sound of the girls’ long dresses swishing as they marched would have pleased the headmistress, had she remained long enough to listen.
Mary liked her job. She was good at it, just as she had been in the more traditional schools she taught at before deciding to devote herself to the unfortunate few at Hillcrest. She was known for having an insatiable desire to learn as much as possible about each of her students, comfortably sitting with each girl and discussing their histories, at least to the extent that an eight year old was able to discuss such a thing.
She would make a good mother. However, marriage was not a topic she dwelled on. If it happened, it happened. If not, that too must have been in God’s plan for her.
A topic Mary did dwell on was shopping. Although not rich by any means, she spent as many available hours as she could in search of clothing bargains. The search itself was as enjoyable and rewarding to her as the actual purchase. So, it was not uncommon to find the teacher on a sidewalk in Scarborough, York, Whitby and even tiny Danby on occasion.
It was on such an occasion one Saturday that Lord Charles Stewart was relaxing in the Danby park, contemplating recent developments, when he looked across the street at a particularly attractive, diminutive woman perhaps a few years younger than himself p
eering inside the window of a shoe store. Charles often let his eyes linger on women he admired, but rarely did he continue to stare beyond a few seconds. He found himself essentially unable to look away.
The woman’s hair fanned away from her head when a sudden gust occurred, and then settled back down in slow motion. Charles studied her small frame, invitingly outlined in a lightweight dress that fell to her ankles. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other as she studied the window display and Charles’s gaze endured.
His reason for being in the park completely faded away in the presence of the shopper. It took him another half a minute to think of a few acceptable lines, and then he stood, beginning to cross the street. A single vehicle swerved to avoid him, the driver’s shouts ignored by the man on an apparent mission.
Charles approached the shop leisurely once across the street. He stopped a couple buildings away from her attempting to see her face, and then he advanced in her direction.
Charles was not displeased when the woman entered the shop. He felt like a cat that had the mouse cornered. After a short pause, he also entered the shoe store.
The solitary employee on duty had already engaged the woman in conversation and Charles commenced inspecting a shiny, black boot on display. His back was to the two women, but he clearly heard the shopper proclaim her wish to browse. It took little effort for Charles to also discharge the clerk of any need to assist him and he made his way closer to the woman in the luscious brown hair.
Their eyes met and Charles saw for the first time the appealing charm of her features, adorned with only the tiniest bit of makeup.
“I…I’m a little out of my element, I’m afraid,” Charles said, turning over a high heel shoe.
“That looks much too small for you,” the woman said without a hint of a smile.
“Oh, no,” Charles chuckled. “I’m shopping for my sister. Her birthday, you see.”
The Enemy in Our Midst: A Lord Charles Stewart Mystery Page 13
