When Gemma takes the sharp left onto Willingdon Old Road, I wonder whether she’s taking me to meet Richard. As a solicitor, he could probably afford one of the grand houses. Or maybe he lives with his parents.
“Colonel Witherington’s expecting us,” she says, easing off the accelerator.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Would you have come?”
I smile. “Of course not.”
“Aren’t you in the least bit curious about what happened to his wife?”
I’m relieved she’s not going to ask me if I’m hopelessly in love with her. “I’m curious to know why you are,” I say.
She drives slowly, checking the illuminated houses, set back from the road. While many have security lights along their drives, not all of them have nameplates at the roadside.
“We have a list of mobile caterers on our database.”
So that’s what the Colonel meant by catering. “He thinks his wife ran off with someone who cooks burgers?”
Gemma taps her nose a couple of times. “I thought you weren’t interested.”
Three
I’ve passed ‘Belmont’ many times on my runs over the Downs, but I didn’t know Colonel Witherington lived there. Though it sounds palatial, it’s a modest house tucked among the trees to isolate it from the newer properties. Flint walls fortify either side of the garden to stop people and dogs wandering through. At the front, security lights spring into action as we drive onto the gravel. They’re mounted on a two storey annex, which has a double garage on the ground floor. I doubt if the gleaming Nissan Micra parked there belongs to the Colonel.
We walk the few yards to the house, which has solid flint walls, reinforced at the corners with earth-red quoins, which also run around the Edwardian-style casement windows. Bars, painted white, protect the windows against intruders, or people jumping out of the first floor. Tall chimneys, crowned with pots, thrust through the orange roof tiles like shotgun barrels. Even the sweet scent of a climbing rose can’t disguise the rugged oak beams of a robust porch, protected by small cannons on either side of the sturdy door. With its huge iron hinges and studs, it looks like it came from a castle.
The ‘No cold callers’ sign seems rather ironic.
Gemma runs her fingers along the rough oak. “Richard showed me details of a house not far from here with six bedrooms, a games room and an indoor swimming pool.”
“He must be doing well if you’re thinking of living out here.”
She laughs. “He was doing the conveyancing.”
“You mean his articled clerk was.”
“Just like me, doing all the paperwork and running around,” she says, tugging an imaginary forelock. “Would you like me to ring the bell, master?”
Moments later, a thin woman, right out of an Agatha Christie novel, opens the door. Dressed in a Tweed suit and sensible shoes, she’s in her 60s, with silver hair wound into a bun and eyes that miss nothing. She studies us over the top of half-moon spectacles.
“I’m Miss Hewitt, the Colonel’s housekeeper,” she says in a mellow Scottish accent. “You must be Mr Fisher and Miss Dean. The Colonel’s in the conservatory.”
We brush past the Barbour jackets and coats on the oak hooks, and sidestep the walking boots and wellingtons that nuzzle up on a mud-free rack. Unless the Colonel has small feet and a taste for pink wellingtons, the footwear can’t be his.
“I get enough exercise managing this place,” Miss Hewitt says, noticing my interest. “They belong to the mistress of the house.”
She guides us into a vast reception area that leads to a magnificent staircase lined with carved newel posts and balustrades. It doglegs to a gallery that runs around all four walls. On either side of the room, open panelled doors reveal glimpses of spacious rooms, decorated in Georgian reds and yellows, with polished parquet floors and oriental rugs. The plush oak and mahogany furniture reeks of polish.
“Awesome,” Gemma says for the third or fourth time.
It’s a good word to describe the chandeliers that seem to float above us. They cast an even light, which leaves few shadows on the white walls, framed with oak beams and enhanced by family portraits and pictures of battle scenes. I run my fingers along a dust free oak dresser with chunky drawers, pierced by solid metal handles. Even the suit of armour gleams like it was polished this afternoon.
Gemma peers into the dining room, dominated by a long mahogany table with seating for twelve people. “Awesome.”
“Och, we had some dinner parties, I can tell you.” Miss Hewitt smiles as she remembers. “Your father came here on many occasions, Mr Fisher. I was saddened to hear of his passing. He was a gentleman. One of a kind.”
I wonder what she’ll think when the truth comes out.
We follow Miss Hewitt past the staircase and through a door that leads into a lounge, which overlooks the rear garden through casement windows and French doors. An inglenook fireplace, large enough to accommodate a rugby team, dominates the wall opposite. Beneath the soot-stained oak beam stands a wood burning stove, flanked by symmetrical pyramids of chopped logs. The pots of pampas plumes and a sturdy aspidistra attempt to disguise the emptiness of the inglenook, but it still beckons me across the polished floorboards. They creak and groan like old sinews as we walk past plush armchairs, arranged in a semicircle to face a large flat screen television. Smaller chandeliers cast their even glow over walls lined with more portraits and battle pictures. All we need is a grand piano for a sing song.
“Awesome.”
I whisper in Gemma’s ear. “Just like the electricity bill for all this lighting. It must come to more than my salary.”
“I didn’t know you were that well paid,” she says.
A door to our right leads into a smaller room, filled with stuffed animals and birds in glass cabinets and a stag’s head mounted on the wall. I inch around the tiger skin on the floor, glaring at the muskets and rifles that inflicted cruelty and death in the name of sport.
“Not now,” Gemma says, tugging my arm.
She leads me through more French doors into a huge conservatory, built around a framework of oak beams that wouldn’t look amiss in a Tudor cottage. Earthenware pots host sprawling Swiss cheese plants, bayonet–sharp Mother in Law’s Tongue, and a small lemon tree with polished leaves.
The Colonel rises from a cane sofa, disturbing the sleeping Bassett hound beside him. His velvet smoking jacket, trimmed with black collar and belt, hangs loosely over the open neck shirt and cravat he was wearing earlier. His black trousers wrinkle over shiny shoes.
He gestures to the sofa opposite. “Tea for our visitors, Miss Hewitt.”
“Do you have a preference?” she asks. “Earl Grey, Darjeeling, chamomile?”
“Builder’s tea for me,” I reply.
“And me,” Gemma says, going over to the Bassett. “What’s your name then?”
Surprisingly, the dog doesn’t reply. He looks at her through bloodshot eyes and then settles his head back on his front paws.
“Monty’s antisocial.” The Colonel sits and pats the dog on the head. “Ignored me for 14 years now. Probably slept for 12 of them.”
His clipped military sentences suggest he’s more at ease delivering reports than engaging in conversation. I suspect he spends most of his time alone, based on the lack of family photos or anything to suggest his wife, Daphne, ever lived here. I wonder how she felt about such a masculine environment, maintained by the organised and efficient Miss Hewitt.
Gemma sits beside me and places her small white handbag on her lap. When her knee brushes against mine, I ignore the tingle of electricity and look out at the garden, illuminated by ground lights. “You have a fine show of anemones, Colonel.”
“Keen gardener, are you?”
“Kent loves digging around,” Gemma replies. “Was your wife a keen gardener?”
The Colonel plucks a manila folder from a small glass table beside him. “Everything you need to know is here.”
&
nbsp; I shake my head when he thrusts the folder at me. “I haven’t agreed to help.”
“Agree terms first, you mean? Good man. Bring Daphne’s killer to justice and you can name your price.”
“That’s a job for the police and Crown Prosecution Service, as you well know.”
“Then just find the man, dammit, and name your price.”
“I don’t want your money.”
“Payment in kind, you mean?” He strokes his moustache the way Blofeld strokes his cat. “Consider your problem at work resolved.”
I shake my head. “I’ll sort my own problems, thank you.”
“Will you?” His back becomes ramrod straight, his voice domineering, as if he’s addressing an insolent squaddie. “Seen the evidence against you?”
Why am I surprised that he knows more about my disciplinary than I do?
He counts on his gnarled fingers. “Illegal entry into an empty property. Taking a member of the public on an official inspection. Breach of confidentiality. Failing to attend briefings,” he says, chuckling at this one. “That’s the single-mindedness and tenacity I want you to apply to my problem.”
“I haven’t said I’ll help.”
“Then why are you here?”
“You mentioned catering,” Gemma says, easing the folder from his fingers. “What did you mean?”
Miss Hewitt enters, pushing a small trolley that bears a teapot and some delicate looking cups with blue floral designs. There’s a matching bowl with sugar lumps, two small jugs containing milk, and a second, smaller pot of tea. Royal Worcester, I guess, having watched too many editions of the Antiques Road Show on Sunday evenings.
How sad is that?
“Yorkshire’s finest for our guests,” she says, picking up a strainer. She pours the dark tea into the cups and looks to Gemma. “Skimmed or semi-skimmed milk?”
“Dammit, woman, you can’t offer our guests coloured water.”
“Skimmed,” Gemma replies. “I rather like the taste.”
“And me,” I say. I rather like the absence of fat.
Once tea is poured and the cups passed around, Miss Hewitt leaves, saying she’ll pop back shortly to see if we need anything further. I’m delighted she brewed the tea strong. I’ve never understood people who dip their teabag into milky water for a few seconds.
“Catering,” the Colonel says, settling back with his cup and saucer. “Classic case of fingers burned. My Daphne set up a business with a man called Colin Miller. My contribution was £20,000.” His hand shakes, spilling tea into the saucer. “He ran off with the money and my wife.”
“What kind of catering?” Gemma asks.
He shrugs. “Your domain not mine. You have records.”
If Daphne or Miller registered the food business with the council, we have. “You can check on Monday, Gemma.”
“Yes, master. Would you like to scrutinise the file now?”
While we drink our tea, we flick through the contents of the manila folder, which contains letters and reports from Sussex Police and a few short cuttings from the Tollingdon Tribune. The details are factual and minimal, with only a physical description of Daphne Witherington. Apart from her walking boots, I’ve seen nothing in the house to suggest she lived here.
“Colonel, was there anything unusual or different about the day your wife disappeared?”
He jerks out of his reverie, spilling more tea. He places the cup and saucer on the table and stares at the damp patch on his trousers. “Golf club on Tuesdays. I don’t play anymore, but I’m treasurer. Had lunch there as per, came home about four.”
He rubs at the stain on his crotch. “My Daphne played bridge. Usually came home between five or six. At seven, I rang Dorothy Forsythe,” he says, looking up. “Daphne cried off. Tummy upset. Never saw her again.”
“Didn’t you realise she’d gone when you got home and found her things missing?” I ask.
His face creases with pain as he coughs. “She only took her handbag and the clothes she was wearing.”
The coughing intensifies and he doubles up, rousing Monty. Miss Hewitt rushes in with some kind of spray. Though he tries to fend her off, she talks him round as if he’s a little child. The spray seems to have some effect, but the Colonel’s pale with pain. Monty drops to the floor and slinks off to the study. Gemma and I follow.
“I can cope,” the Colonel protests between rasps.
“You need to rest,” Miss Hewitt says. “Let me see your visitors out and then I’ll settle you down.”
“Leave me alone, woman!”
I hear something thud against the double glazed window and drop to the floor. Miss Hewitt joins us, explaining how he gets frustrated and short tempered because of his poor health.
“Let me take your cups,” she says.
“Why don’t we bring them to the kitchen? You can tell me about Daphne.”
Miss Hewitt glances back. “I need to make the Colonel comfortable.”
“We’ll only take a minute.”
“Do you really think you can find her, Mr Fisher?”
“With your help,” I say, ushering her around the tiger skin. “Maybe you can show me her room.”
“I’m not sure I should do that.”
“You want us to help the Colonel, don’t you?”
“I want to know that Mrs Witherington’s all right.”
She leads the way to the kitchen. Maybe it’s the heat from the Aga, but there’s a warm, homely feel that’s absent from the rest of the house. Dried hops hang from a dado rail that runs around the room. Their golden foliage complements the oak of the cupboards and Welsh dresser and the rich lustre of the parquet floor.
The kitchen at Downland Manor looked like this when I arrived from Manchester. After ten years in a damp basement flat with my embittered mother, the manor seemed vast. While it had a cold, efficient feel like this place, the kitchen smelt of hot buns and cinnamon. Flour coated the table, the worktops and Niamh. She was 24, married to a politician over twice her age, and as sexy as hell to my 17 year old eyes.
With a smile, I stroll over to the bookcase. It’s too much to expect a copy of Mrs Beeton’s Book of Household Management, but there’s a healthy collection of English cuisine.
“You have a delightful kitchen, Miss Hewitt.”
She places the crockery beside the enamelled Belfast sink. “Please, call me Alice.”
“Because you’re a wonder?”
“That’s what my parents said.” She blushes and coughs into her hand. “They had me late in life, I mean. They thought they’d never have children.”
“How sweet,” Gemma says, peering through the window. “Is that your car?”
“Yes, I live above the garage. I asked Colonel Witherington to convert it into an apartment when Mrs Witherington came to live here.”
Gemma turns her attention to the fridge magnets. “How did you feel about the marriage?”
“I was pleased Colonel Witherington had found someone at last.” Alice checks the temperature from the tap and pushes a bowl under the flow. “I didn’t feel threatened, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
The lady’s protesting too much. “How long have you been with the Colonel?”
“Nigh on 40 years. I was housekeeper to the previous owner and the Colonel kept me on. I’ve lived here since I was eighteen.”
And never married, it seems. “Did you ever feel tempted to spread your wings?”
“I’ve always preferred the company of a good book.” She laughs as she washes the cups. “Men want to make plans for you, don’t they? That would never do.”
“Maybe you could take us to Daphne’s room,” I say, before she gets too immersed in the washing up.
She nods, dries her hands on a tea towel, and then leads us up a steep, narrow staircase at the back of the kitchen.
“Alice, were you here on the day Mrs Witherington went missing?” Gemma asks.
“I go shopping in Eastbourne on Tuesday mornings. She was here when
I left and I assumed she was playing bridge when I returned.”
“Did she have a car?”
Alice shakes her head. “The Colonel took her everywhere, but on Tuesdays she got a taxi.”
There was no reference to checking local taxi companies in the folder.
She opens a door that leads to a short landing. The door on the right hides a bathroom, I imagine, judging by the smell of disinfectant. The corridor leads onto the gallery that overlooks the reception area. Up here, close to the chandeliers, I’m amazed at how clean they look.
“Maybe Mr Miller gave her a lift,” Gemma says.
Alice gives her a cold stare. “He never visited. Well, not to my knowledge.”
“Not even to collect the money the Colonel offered him?”
“He gave the money to Mrs Witherington.” She stops at a door painted pastel blue, her hand on the knob. “I suggested we could run the business from here, using my kitchen.”
“Why didn’t she?” I ask.
“Regulations, Mr Fisher. Your province, I believe.”
Pastel heaven greets us when we step into the room, dominated by primrose walls and carpet. From the wisps of net curtains to the trims around the bedding, lace adds a delicate edge to the soft tones. With teddy bears on the pillows and an easel by the window, it could be a young girl’s room. But the watercolour paintings of local Downland scenes were painted by Daphne Witherington, not a child. I count at least 20 paintings that include views of the Seven Sisters on the coast and landscapes along the Cuckmere River, winding like a blue ribbon between the chalk headlands. Familiar scenes from Alfriston and Jevington High Streets contrast with the fields of poppies or the stark quiffs of the hawthorn bushes in winter.
“She’s talented,” I say, studying the unfinished painting of a flint barn and paddock on the easel. The bristles of the brushes on the windowsill have set solid with paint. The paint box and rest of her brushes are spotless, reclining in a jam jar.
“Mrs Witherington was an art teacher once.” Alice straightens one of the paintings on the wall. “Colonel Witherington organised an exhibition at the Towner Art Gallery in Eastbourne for her.”
No Bodies Page 3
