The Wages of Desire

by Stephen Kelly

  Lamb also had an assignment for Vera; she was to track down Lilly to see if Lilly confirmed the story Miss Wheatley had told Lamb. Then she was to return to the incident room and await his return from Lower Promise.

  “But who is going to drive you to Lower Promise?” Vera asked.

  “I’ll drive myself,” Lamb said.

  “But what about your ankle?”

  “I think I can make it. A bit of a trial run.”

  Vera looked surprised, and Lamb thought he understood its source. She was enjoying her time as his driver and was not yet ready for it to end. “I shouldn’t wonder that by the time I’ve driven to Winchester and back it will be acting up and I’ll need you again,” he said, hoping to assuage her disquiet.

  “All right,” Vera said.

  Lamb smiled at her. “I’ll see you a bit later.” He turned to Wallace. “In the meantime, I suggest you and Cashen get moving.”

  TWENTY-NINE

  THE HAMLET OF LOWER PROMISE AMOUNTED TO LITTLE MORE THAN a northeastward extension of Winstead, Lamb thought, as he eased the Wolseley down the narrow street that served as its main artery, his ankle smarting a bit each time he depressed the clutch. It lay roughly a half-mile from Winstead, on the opposite side of a gently sloping wooded hill that formed the western bank of a narrow, swift stream. The road that led into Lower Promise followed the stream, which was to Lamb’s right as he entered the hamlet. After a hundred meters or so, the road took a sharp left, turning into a kind of market square that contained a pub, a small general merchandise shop, and a post office. The central green was small but well kept and contained a black granite obelisk to Lower Promise’s war dead—a monument that struck Lamb as unusually large for such a small place. Just beyond this square, on the village’s eastern end, stood a small church and cemetery. The church looked at least a century older than Saint Michael’s, and seeing this caused Lamb to realize that Winstead likely had been an outgrowth of Lower Promise, rather than the other way around. First had come the hamlet, hard by the deep, dark little stream, and then had come Winstead on the opposite side of the hill. For whatever reasons—likely its closer proximity to the coast and the port cities—Winstead had prospered and grown larger and more robust than had Lower Promise.

  Fifty meters beyond the church lay four nearly identical stone cottages, each well preserved and each with identical green wooden doors and small, tidy flower gardens in front. The last of these was the one in which Sylvia Markham, the widow of former constable John Markham, lived.

  The drive from Winstead, as brief as it was, taxed Lamb’s sore ankle more than he had expected it to, and he was suffering a mild, dull pain there by the time he pulled the Wolseley to a stop. He exited the car and, with a slight limp, moved up the stone path toward the Markham cottage, past a garden of fading red and white peonies, to the green front door. He was about to knock on the door when it suddenly opened and Sylvia Markham loomed in the doorway. Incredibly—or so Lamb thought—she was just as he imagined she would be. Short, portly, slightly bent, wrinkled, iron-haired, and dressed in a green housecoat, though with a clear glint of vigor in her eyes—that vigor, whatever its source, which had allowed her to continue breathing well into her old age.

  “Good afternoon, sir,” she said before Lamb could introduce himself or inquire as to whether she was, indeed, Mrs. Markham. “Wipe your feet, please,” she added, before abruptly turning from the door and moving deeper into the house.

  Lamb did as directed, wiping his feet on a rattan matt just outside the door, before following Mrs. Markham into her small, neat sitting room. She sat on a red couch and gestured for Lamb to take the pink chair that faced it from across a well-polished mahogany coffee table. A bone white ceramic tea service arrayed with delicately painted cornflowers sat on a silver tray in the middle of the table. Lamb noticed immediately that the house was spotless and that everything within it seemed to be in its proper place. Not so much as an ashtray appeared askew.

  Lamb sat in the chair.

  “Milk and sugar?” Mrs. Markham asked. Lamb still had not yet had a chance to speak.

  “Yes, thank you,” he said.

  Mrs. Markham poured his tea and carefully placed the cup and saucer on the table in front of him. “Thank you,” Lamb repeated. “And thank you for contacting me. I’m very anxious to hear what you have to say.”

  Now that she had poured tea and arranged things in a way that obviously made her feel comfortable, Mrs. Markham seemed to relax, Lamb thought.

  “As I said, when I saw the story about the boy with the clubfoot, I had to call.” She glanced away from Lamb for a second, and he sensed her discomfort. He said nothing, though, and allowed her to compose herself and continue in the manner that made her most comfortable. “I’ve kept silent about it long enough, though I did so only for my husband’s sake—for John’s sake,” she said after a few seconds. “I had to—we had to—or else John would have lost his job and reputation. Ned Horton would have seen to that as sure as you and I are sitting here. But John is gone now, and so I’ve no reason, nor any wish, to protect the others involved in this story.” She looked hard at Lamb. “In fact, the rest of them can burn in hell, so far as I’m concerned. They should do.”

  “I see,” Lamb said, speaking as little as possible so as not to sidetrack Mrs. Markham from relating her long-held secret.

  “The thing really started in the spring of 1919, you see, not long after Olivia Tigue came to the farm with those sons of hers and no father with them. Almost from the beginning, Algernon Tigue developed a reputation as a hellion and troublemaker, which is how John came to know the Tigues. Algernon was the type of boy who stole trinkets from the shops and the like—for the thrill of it, I think—and would lie about it, pretty as you please, when someone confronted him. Most children, when you catch them out red-handed in something, will show some shame and fear of punishment. But Algernon Tigue was different from most boys. As John used to say of him, Algernon Tigue would as soon spit in your eye as tell you the truth.

  “A few months after the Tigues came to the farm, someone strung up a cat from a lamp post on the High Street in Winstead, just by the pub. It was quite a terrible thing, as you might imagine. John immediately suspected that Algernon might be the culprit, given the cruel nature of the thing. Then a man in the village told John that he had recognized the cat as one of the strays that had regularly loitered about the Tigue’s barn and farm, looking for rats and other vermin.

  “But John never really was able to pin the deed for certain on Algernon, and soon enough, it was forgotten. Then, a month or so later, two more cats were hung up from the same post in Winstead, and within just a couple days of one another. The Mail got hold of the story then—the ghoulishness of it. In turn, the Hampshire police decided it was worth looking into and so sent a detective out here to investigate. And that detective was Ned Horton.”

  “And had your husband spoken to Algernon Tigue and his mother about the cats by then—by the time Ned Horton came onto the case?”

  “Of course. Or, I should say that he tried to. But Olivia Tigue put him off. Each time my husband went to the farm asking after Algernon, Olivia told him that the boy wasn’t home. John very quickly came to believe that Olivia knew that her son had killed and displayed the cats and was protecting him from the consequences.”

  “So Ned Horton took over the inquiry after the third cat was found?”

  “Yes. And ‘took over’ is exactly what he did. My husband believed that he might give Horton some assistance in the inquiry, but Horton made it clear that he wanted nothing from John. He thought John beneath him.”

  “Did Ned Horton share your husband’s suspicions of Algernon Tigue?”

  “Well, if he did, he dismissed them and very quickly concluded that Algernon had nothing whatsoever to do with the matter. That’s when Horton told my husband that he needn’t bother Olivia or Algernon Tigue any longer. That was the word he used—‘bother.’ As if he believed John to ha
ve been guilty of something, rather than the Tigues. I’ve no doubt that Olivia Tigue presented the matter to Horton in exactly that way—that John had harassed her and her blessed little boy. In the end, Horton threatened John, told him that if he ‘bothered’ the Tigues again that he’d see to it that John would lose his posting here in Lower Promise.”

  “And what happened with the case of the cats?” Lamb asked.

  “After the third cat was found, the hangings stopped and the whole thing was forgotten. John was angry about that. He used to say that Ned Horton came in and shut down the case but never solved it.”

  Lamb believed Sylvia Markham’s story. Indeed, Horton’s actions in relation to the cats seemed to fit hand-in-glove with his later shoddy investigation of the O’Hares’ disappearance.

  “And you believe that these events are connected in some way with the death of the boy whom we’ve found in the farm’s foundation—the boy with the clubfoot?”

  “Oh, yes,” Mrs. Markham said. “Him and the O’Hare boys both, I daren’t say.”

  “You believe then that someone on the Tigue farm, or connected with the farm, killed the clubfooted boy and the O’Hare twins?”

  “Not ‘someone,’ Chief Inspector. Algernon Tigue. That would be my bet.”

  “But you’ve no proof of that?”

  “Unfortunately, no, though I daresay that Ned Horton discovered proof and hid it away.”

  “And why would Horton do that?”

  “For sex, Chief Inspector. Some men will do anything for it, as I’m sure you’ve found in your work. Some will throw away everything they’ve got for it. They become obsessed with a certain woman, and there’s an end to it.”

  “With whom was Horton having sex?”

  “Olivia Tigue, obviously.”

  This assertion surprised Lamb. And yet it explained the seemingly shoddy job that Horton had done on the O’Hare inquiry. Also, Mrs. Markham seemed to be implying that Horton had some knowledge of the boy with the clubfoot. But Lamb had no knowledge that Horton ever had had anything to do with such a case. In any event, Lamb could recall no case of a young boy with a clubfoot having gone missing in Hampshire.

  “Are you saying that you believe Ned Horton also assisted the Tigues in covering up the matter not only of the cats, but the killing of this boy with the clubfoot?”

  “Oh, yes. Olivia Tigue had Ned Horton wrapped around her little finger, as they say. That is the main reason why I had no doubt that Horton would have made good on his threat to John if John continued to investigate the Tigues—to ‘bother’ them, as Horton put it.”

  “Tell me what happened, please.”

  “The problem with the cats happened in the summer. During the following October, Olivia took her sons to visit her sister in the village of Four Corners, in Cornwall. Her sister ran a farm that, I eventually came to learn, was in the family and that she and Olivia had run together for several years before Olivia moved to Winstead. While Olivia and her sons were in Four Corners, a very young boy from the village there—his name was Tim Gordon, which I shall never forget—went missing on the very morning that Olivia and her sons left the farm to return to Winstead. Olivia’s sister had a motorcar, which she lent to Olivia and which Olivia used to return to Winstead. Then Olivia turned right around, quick as you please, and drove the car right back to Four Corners and from there took the bus home again straightaway. All of this came to light later, when the detective from Cornwall who was investigating Tim Gordon’s disappearance came to Winstead to interview the Tigues about Tim. Tim had lived with his parents on a farm in Four Corners that neighbored the Tigues’ place, and this detective was suspicious of the fact that Olivia Tigue and her sons had left Four Corners—and it seemed, rather quickly—on the very day of Tim’s disappearance.”

  “Do you remember this detective’s name?”

  “Of course. I shall never forget it, either. Fulton. Inspector Charles Fulton.”

  “Continue, please,” Lamb said.

  “The whole matter struck Fulton as suspicious—this matter of the Tigues suddenly scurrying to Winstead in the sister’s motorcar and then Olivia turning right around and driving the thing directly back to Four Corners. Fulton wanted to know why they all hadn’t simply returned home by train or omnibus the first time around. When Fulton came to Winstead, he had the decency to call on my husband and request his assistance, and he shared his suspicions with John, who told me that Fulton originally had his eye on Lawrence Tigue, as Lawrence was of a more fitting age to have committed such a violent crime than was Algernon. But John told Fulton that if either of the brothers had harmed that little boy, it would have been Algernon.”

  “And did Ned Horton attempt to steer Fulton away from the Tigues, as he had turned away your husband?” Lamb asked.

  “Yes, exactly so, Chief Inspector. Fulton shared his suspicions with Horton, too. After all, why wouldn’t he? He believed that Horton and he were on the same side in the matter. But of course they weren’t. Horton was on the side of the Tigues—their protector. Before he returned to Cornwall, Fulton told my husband that Ned Horton had assured him that the Tigues couldn’t have been involved, but that Fulton remained unsure. Unfortunately, though, that was the end of it. Fulton never returned to Winstead, and John heard later that the matter in Four Corners had withered on the vine there. That’s why I had to call when I saw the story in the Mail this morning. I’ve kept the secret too long—for John’s sake, as I said. But now my conscience won’t allow me to continue to be silent on the matter. I believe that Fulton and John were right all along and that Tim Gordon’s body has been lying in the basement of that wretched house since the day he disappeared.”

  Mrs. Markham suddenly brought her right hand to her mouth in an attempt to stifle herself from dissolving into tears. Lamb immediately reached across the table to touch her hand. He’d used the method many times—touching someone who was about to cry—and it always had worked in delaying them from doing so until he’d finished questioning them.

  “You’re right to have spoken up,” Lamb said. “For your sake and for John’s. And I promise you that if Ned Horton did act in the way that you’ve described, I’ll do my best to see that he pays the price, and I’ll see that John’s reputation and memory are not tarnished in any way as a result.”

  Mrs. Markham looked at Lamb. “Thank you,” she said.

  “But I must ask you to tell me a bit more before we’re finished,” Lamb said. “I need to know about your husband’s involvement in the O’Hare case. Ned Horton’s files mention that John was the first policeman on the scene of Claire O’Hare’s suicide.”

  Mrs. Markham put her hand on her forehead and was silent for a couple of seconds before she answered.

  “Yes,” she said. “John found her and, of course, called the constabulary to notify them that an inspector was required on the scene. And once again the man who showed up was Ned Horton. The coroner ruled Claire O’Hare’s death a suicide and everyone accepted that, just as they accepted that Sean O’Hare had abandoned her and taken their sons with him.”

  “I take it that John was not among those who accepted the coroner’s verdict,” Lamb said.

  “John never saw the suicide note that Ned Horton claimed he’d found in the O’Hare place and which he came to believe was counterfeit. Horton shut John out of the O’Hare case just as he had the matter with the cats. I wish that we had stood up to Horton, but it was just after the war and we couldn’t afford to lose John’s posting. It would have come down to John’s word against Ned Horton’s, and Ned Horton had the rank and the power.”

  “Did your husband ever discover the identity of the person who called and alerted him to the fact that Claire O’Hare was dead?”

  “No.”

  “Did John have any reason to believe that the Tigues might have had any connection to the events that took place at the O’Hare cottage?”

  “He suspected them, yes. He suspected them because of what he believed about Alge
rnon and because he knew what Olivia was capable of when it came to protecting Algernon. And so he was suspicious of them. But he had no proof that any of them had had anything to do with the O’Hare matter.”

  “I’ve heard that a rumor had gone ’round the village at the time that Sean O’Hare might have been having some sort of dalliance with Olivia Tigue. Did John also believe or suspect that?”

  “He believed it possible and even likely. But again, he had no proof of such an affair.”

  “Did you know the O’Hares, Mrs. Markham?” Lamb asked.

  “Only by reputation.”

  “What can you tell me about them?”

  “Sean was a reprobate and drunk—though he was good-looking and could be charming, a ladies’ man, or so I heard on many occasions. He was one of those men who seemed to have a hold over a certain kind of woman, and Claire, I suppose, was one of those. She was a local girl, you see, and Sean O’Hare was a man of the world, and an older man, twenty or so years older. Claire also drank heavily and was by everyone’s account an utter failure as a mother.”

  “What do you believe became of Sean O’Hare and the twins?”

  “I don’t know.” She shook her head.

  “How about John? Did he have an idea?”

  “He came to believe what most people around here came to believe—that Sean had gone away with the boys. It was easier for us to believe that, I suppose—easier on our consciences.”

  Mrs. Markham again looked away from Lamb.

  “He was never proud of that, was John—of his giving in to Horton’s threats.” She turned back to face Lamb, with a look of beseeching in her eyes. “But he didn’t want to lose his job.”