Blood-Tied

by Wendy Percival

  Albert turned and peered at the incomer over the top of his glasses.

  ‘Ah, Mrs Q,’ he said, extending his hand.

  ‘Hello again, Mr Jennings,’ said Esme, shaking it. ‘I mean, Albert.’

  He gave no indication as to whether her second visit in such a short a time was an imposition. He received her well enough.

  ‘I’m a bit cleaner than last time,’ he said, indicating the pencil in his hand. ‘Writing labels today.’

  ‘I’m sorry to trouble you for a second time.’

  Albert flapped his hand, giving the impression that he quite liked being in demand. ‘No trouble. Did you forget to ask me something?’

  ‘It’s about Sir Charles’s nephew.’

  The welcoming smile faded and Albert rolled his eyes to the roof. ‘Huh. What d’you want to know about him for?’

  Esme was immediately curious. ‘I take that to mean you didn’t think a lot of him.’

  Albert wagged his finger. ‘Hit the nail on the head, Mrs Q. Nasty piece of work. Made his uncle’s life a misery with all his goings on.’

  ‘You never mentioned him last time.’

  ‘You never asked. I thought you were wanting to know about the young ’un.’

  ‘Yes I was, but when I came before I didn’t know the nephew existed.’

  ‘Pity he does, ungrateful blighter!’ Albert sniffed. He picked up a small piece of rag and began cleaning off some of the grubby labels piled on the bench. ‘When his mother died – that was the master’s sister – the master brought him up as his own. Caused him nothing but trouble.’

  ‘How old was he?’

  ‘When he took him on, you mean?’ Esme nodded. ‘Only a nipper. Two or three, I suppose.’

  ‘And this was when?’ continued Esme. She needed to confirm that they were talking about the same child who’d been in the press photograph which Lucy had found.

  Albert paused and scratched his head. ‘The master was getting on a bit even then. His sister was much younger than he was, you see, and she’d had the baby when she was a bit long in the tooth herself. Let me think.’

  ‘Maybe it’d be easier to say how old he is now?’ suggested Esme.

  ‘Well, he must be about thrity by now, I suppose, but that’s a guess. He’s kept his head down these past couple of years after all the palaver. Haven’t seen hide nor hair of him for a good long time.’

  ‘All the palaver?’

  ‘Police trouble,’ said Albert, pursing his lips. ‘All sorts. You name it, he was in to it. Drugs, gambling debts. Worse, some say.’ He shook his head. ‘The master didn’t deserve that, after all he’d done.’ He put the labels and cloth down and folded his arms. ‘Me and the missis reckoned he was quite tickled to have a son, so to speak. You know having his daughter leave an’ all. He spoilt him rotten, see.’ He pulled a face. ‘Nasty little bugger he was when he was a kid. No nanny’d stay more ‘n a few months. And it got no better as he got older, either. Grew up to be a selfish know-all, and that’s a fact. Bled the master dry, by all accounts.’ So that fitted with Lucy’s information of the impoverished estate and from what Albert had said about him, the nephew sounded like the sort who might be irked that his inheritance was worth a pittance.

  Albert turned back to his labelling. ‘Can’t tell you much more than that though. Haven’t set eyes on him for years, like I said.’

  ‘Was there anything in the press about the “palaver”?’ asked Esme.

  ‘I know they did all they could to keep it out,’ said Albert. ‘There was something about the police wanting to question him about something after they’d arrested some of his pals.’ He shrugged. ‘I think he’d already done a bunk by then.’

  ‘How long ago was this?’

  ‘Like I said, two or three years, I reckon. Time flies don’t it?’

  ‘So before Sir Charles died?’

  ‘Oh yes. Before then.’ He held out a few of the labels he’d been writing. ‘Could you just pop those in the pots behind you?’

  ‘What?’ Esme spun round. ‘Oh, yes, of course.’ She took the labels and glanced down at his spidery writing. She gently slid each label into a corresponding pot on the bench. She really ought to be as organised as this. She was always taking cuttings of plants in her garden, and in friends’ gardens but more often than not omitted to label them. Then they’d die down in the winter and she’d never know what they were. She’d wait for growth to emerge in the spring in the hope that the leaves would give her a clue as to their identity. Rarely did she get it right. Hence her garden was a haphazard collection of misplaced perennials. Sometimes she liked it that way, at other times she wished she could be more orderly.

  ‘Do you have a garden, Mrs Quentin?’ asked Albert, as though he had read her thoughts. ‘It’s a worthy hobby.’

  ‘Yes, I do. It’s good therapy when my brain is scrambled. But I’m no good at remembering plant names, apart from daffodils and roses and the ones everybody knows. I tend to think of them as the white ones with the frilly petals, or the orange ones with a yellow blob in the middle. ’

  Albert chuckled and passed her some more labels.

  ‘Never worry about that, my dear. Enjoying yourself, that’s the most important part.’

  ‘I’m sure you’re right.’ Something was buzzing in her head. Was there something she wanted to ask? An image of being in the pub came to mind but nothing which clarified her thoughts.

  There was one thing she did need to ask, though. ‘Sir Charles’s nephew, Mr Jennings. What’s his name?’

  It seemed as though Albert found difficulty allowing himself to speak it.

  ‘Can’t think why you want be doing with him,’ he muttered.

  She gave a little laugh. ‘Neither do I, after what you’ve told me about him, but nevertheless it would be helpful to know.’

  He seemed reluctant to say anything at first. Esme wondered if he was going to refuse and tried to think of a specific reason why she needed to know, other than the real one. She could hardly tell him she was concerned that he was part of a blackmail conspiracy, not when it was pure speculation as yet. She started to think who else she could ask. Ada was the obvious alternative.

  Suddenly the name seemed to escape unbidden from Albert’s lips, as though he had been striving to keep it confined for fear of what would happen should he allow it to burst forth.

  Esme’s heart gave a sudden lurch. Where had she heard that name before? Then she remembered. It was when the police sergeant came to the hospital to show her and Gemma that artist’s impression of the man who’d been seen arguing with Elizabeth. After he’d shown them the photograph he’d asked, do you know the name Leonard Nicholson?

  *

  Esme knew that she now had something with which she could to go to the police. But first she needed to speak to Polly. Whatever Mary was using against Polly might have to come out in order to find out what happened to Elizabeth. The least she could do was warn Polly what was about to happen. She just hoped that the old lady would understand that there was no other way. Not now. Not after what Esme had learnt from Albert Jennings. And after all, wasn’t Elizabeth her own granddaughter? Surely she also would want to know, if Leonard Nicholson had been her attacker?

  She pulled out her mobile and rang Wisteria House. It was no more than ten minutes drive but it was probably better to give some warning of her imminent arrival.

  The phone rang for an unusually long time. Esme was beginning to wonder whether there was a fault on the line when at last Mrs Rowcliffe answered.

  Esme said who was calling. ‘I was about to drop in on Mrs Roberts. It’s rather on spec, I thought I’d better let her know. Is that OK?’

  Mrs Rowcliffe seemed to hesitate. Esme heard her clear her throat. ‘Well, I suppose so. I’m not really sure what to say.’

  Esme sensed her anxiety. ‘Why? What
’s the matter?’

  ‘It’s all rather alarming,’ said the matron distractedly. Her usual calm authority seemed to have deserted her for the moment. ‘The police have just arrived. They were most insistent that they needed to talk to Mrs Roberts. They’re with her now.’

  19

  Despite her being so close to Wisteria House, the journey there felt painfully slow. Making it more uncomfortable still was the fact that Esme’s brain was churning with questions, seriously reducing her ability to concentrate fully on driving. What did the police want with Mrs Roberts? Did she already know about the ‘ransom strip’ and the true worth of the land? Maybe Esme had stumbled across a different conspiracy with Polly at the centre. Had Polly been implying that she was under pressure to sell in order to conceal the true circumstances? But then why pretend? She owned the cottage and could openly sell it to whomever she chose. Perhaps she felt badly about the sale, given that Daisy had been so instrumental in lining up potential buyers who would ensure protection from developers.

  The traffic lights at the approaching junction turned red two cars ahead of her and she almost slammed into the back of the estate car in front. She told herself to calm down and deal with the matter in hand, to arrive at Wisteria House in one piece. Nevertheless, as she focused on the lights in front and willed them to change, another thought came to mind. What if Mary’s blackmail was about something Polly had done in the past? Something illegal? Perhaps the visit by the police was because her past had finally caught up with her. If that was the case, then warning Polly in advance of Esme speaking to the police was irrelevant. By now the story would be out. There would be no further need for Polly to conceal everything from her. She might yet be prepared to reveal to Esme that which she had been reluctant to do before. Even as she framed these thoughts, Esme felt the whole thing was ridiculous. It couldn’t be as simple as that. Did she seriously think Polly Roberts was a fraudulent manipulator? And then the original question returned to her thoughts. Why hadn’t Elizabeth ever told Esme about her natural family? What had she got to hide? Was she already aware of what was going on?

  The last mile was uneventful and Esme arrived at last at the home. She swept into the drive, spraying gravel in every direction. She didn’t stop to lock the car but bounded across the car park and in through the front door like a woman demented. She stopped to get her breath in the hall. Mrs Rowcliffe was standing at the doorway of her office, no doubt having heard Esme’s noisy approach.

  ‘Where is she?’ panted Esme.

  ‘Visitors’ lounge. But are you sure you should be…’

  The matron’s voice faded as Esme hurried down the passageway and towards the lounge. Several members of staff were near the door, engaged in a variety of superfluous tasks, straightening curtains or rearranging floral displays, no doubt desperate to hover close to the action in case something interesting happened. They turned towards her as she approached. Ignoring the affronted expressions on their faces, Esme brushed past, pushed open the door and marched unannounced into the lounge.

  All eyes in the room turned towards her. It was clear that her arrival had halted the conversation in mid-flow. Esme closed the door behind her.

  There were two policemen, one on a footstool and the other perched on the arm of a chair. They were seated opposite Polly who was poised on the edge of the seat of the armchair closest to the fireplace. She had her right hand upon her walking stick, almost as though she had been about to rise, prompted by something that had just been said.

  Esme glanced from one policeman to the other. Did they look hostile, as though they were interviewing a suspect? If anything, they looked more concerned than severe. She recognised the one on the stool as Inspector Barry whom she had met at the hospital. He obviously recognised her too, and stood up.

  ‘Mrs Quentin, isn’t it?’ Esme nodded. He looked at Polly, implying that he expected an explanation. She obliged.

  ‘Mrs Quentin’s a friend of mine, as is her sister.’

  ‘Rather a coincidence,’ commented the inspector, raising his eyebrows. What did he mean by that?

  Esme moved further into the room and looked at the old lady. Her face was white. She turned towards the inspector. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘They want…’ began Polly but faltered.

  Esme took a step closer and laid a hand on Polly’s arm. ‘Are you all right?’ she asked. Polly gave a little nod.

  Esme turned and looked enquiringly at the inspector.

  ‘We’ve had some information concerning a suspect,’ he said. ‘We need to speak to a particular witness.’

  ‘A witness? Witness to what?’ Esme’s thoughts were racing. Did he mean Polly was a witness? She glanced at Polly for some clarification but she appeared lost in her own thoughts.

  ‘Someone came forward having seen our suspect’s picture in the local press. She’d recognised him,’ continued the inspector. ‘She’d thought he was a taxi driver collecting a client from the solicitor’s where she works, but later realised that he may have been following their client.’

  Esme frowned. ‘What has this got to do with Mrs Roberts?’

  ‘The address that the solicitor had for the client in question was care of Miss Daisy Roberts.’

  Esme struggled to digest the information and make sense of it. It explained in part why Polly was looking so distraught, having had to tell the policemen that Daisy was dead. She felt a surge of sympathy for the old lady. But who was the client for whom Daisy had been the contact?

  ‘We were hoping that Mrs Roberts might be able to tell us the client’s whereabouts,’ explained Inspector Barry.

  ‘Obviously Mrs Roberts will have explained that her daughter sadly died a short time ago,’ said Esme.

  ‘Yes, and I’m sorry that we may have caused Mrs Roberts some distress. We understand it was her daughter who dealt with the lady’s correspondence, so unfortunately she isn’t able to help us. Regrettably the receptionist has only recently recalled the incident, which happened some time ago now, back on the first of December last year.’

  Something suddenly clicked in Esme’s mind. ‘When I arrived you mentioned a coincidence, Inspector. This suspect you’re talking about? Has he got something to do with my sister’s…attack?’ Esme deliberately kept her eyes averted from Polly. Keen though she was to see Polly’s reaction to the question, she didn’t want to bring the inspector’s attention to it.

  Inspector Barry looked at her. ‘Indeed he has, Mrs Quentin.’ He looked surprised at her deduction. Esme noticed that he didn’t challenge her wording, ‘attack’ rather than ‘accident’. So what had happened for them to revert to the original assumption? Had they informed Gemma of this change of direction?

  ‘You had a name for this suspect, didn’t you?’ said Esme. ‘Is he who you thought he was?’

  He was looking at her carefully. ‘We believe it’s likely, given the connection.’

  ‘Connection?’ Now she’d lost the thread. ‘What connection?’

  ‘With the client we are trying to trace, whom Miss Roberts acted as contact for. She’s the suspect’s cousin, Catherine Monkleigh.’

  20

  The moment the police left Polly was surrounded by an enthusiastic inrush of concerned staff. Esme could only watch from the sidelines as tea was brought, cushions were plumped up and words of sympathy were offered. Mrs Rowcliffe arrived and Esme decided it was time to withdraw from the bustle of professional tendering. She escaped into the hall and made her way towards the side door and out into the garden.

  For the moment there was a lull in the showers, though the darkened sky indicated that the respite was to be short. She meandered along the wide paths, appraising the borders. They were well tended and weed-free. She had the urge to rush back home and get out into her own green space which was desperately in need of a complete revamp. Plants had outgrown their allotted spaces and were
flattening one another in a sort of horticultural civil war. She also craved the regenerative benefits that gardening would bestow, to counter the feeling of dejection which descended upon her in unguarded moments. But, even if present circumstances allowed her the time, it was unlikely to stop raining long enough for her to get started.

  As she wandered the paths she reviewed her theories, which had been thrown in to complete disarray with what she had just learnt from the police. She had been convinced that it was Catherine Monkleigh who was responsible for applying pressure on Polly to part with the cottage. Yet now it appeared that Catherine had been in Daisy’s confidence. At least this latest piece of information had confirmed one thing of significance; that there was a loyal, and possibly enduring, connection with the Monkleigh family, as Mrs Rowcliffe had implied. But the reason why Polly was so reluctant to discuss her past association with the family remained stubbornly elusive.

  Esme shivered and decided to return indoors. She re-entered the building the way she had come and made her way down the corridor towards the matron’s office. She heard a door open behind her and turned to see a member of staff emerge from the lounge. Mrs Rowcliffe followed briskly behind.

  ‘Is everything all right?’ asked Esme, turning back towards her.

  The matron hesitated. ‘Mrs Roberts seems a little distressed,’ she said in a low voice. ‘We thought it prudent to ask the doctor to call.’

  So Esme wasn’t going to get her chance to discuss the land values and urge Polly to resist signing any documents. If she was under the doctor, though, at least she wouldn’t be seeing visitors so Mary was unlikely to trouble her for a day or two. That gave them some breathing space.

  Esme and Mrs Rowcliffe began walking down the corridor towards the matron’s office.

  ‘It’s understandable she’s upset,’ said Esme. ‘It was really her daughter the police wanted to talk to, about a friend. They obviously weren’t aware of the circumstances, so she had to explain.’