Celia May held the envelope in her hand and when he came close enough she tossed it on the floor at his feet.
‘You are the most disgusting man.’
‘I don’t feature in the photograph. I’m merely the messenger.’
‘And no less disgusting for that. I told you I don’t wish to speak to you. I told my servants to say I was out.’
‘And then you changed your mind.’
‘Something I am now regretting.’
Henry had not been invited to sit down but he did so anyway, seating himself on a high-backed chair which he pulled out from the wall.
‘I don’t wish to distress you but I am conducting a murder investigation and I do believe your husband to have been involved.’ He held a hand to silence her as she began to speak again. ‘No, please wait. Your husband had an affair with Mary Fields. Mary Fields arranged for them to be photographed in flagrante. We have reason to believe she also intended to use these photographs for blackmail, though whether things progressed that far we have no way of knowing. It’s likely she told your husband that this is what she planned to do – perhaps threatened to send the pictures to you or to your father. He must have known that the pictures had been taken. I don’t imagine Walter Fields would have been discreet and anyway, from the look on his face in that one he must have been very much aware.’
She got up and drifted across the room to a little side table, the yellow silk of her dress floating about her. It was the kind of dress that Cynthia would have liked, Henry thought. Soft and light and expensive looking. His sister enjoyed being rich but she also enjoyed being generous. Celia May took a cigarette from an ivory box and inserted it into an amber holder. She didn’t offer one to Henry. And she didn’t light her own either. He guessed she just wanted something to do with her hands.
‘My husband made a mistake,’ she said. ‘He became involved with that woman and yes, I can accept that she tried to blackmail him. I can even accept that he must have been glad when she was killed and was no longer a problem. But you are accusing him of a triple murder. Can you imagine, can you understand how absurd that sounds? A man like Charles?’
‘Men like Mr May kill all the time. There is no group within society that is exempt. Murderers are found everywhere, in all classes and places.’
‘I pity you,’ she said. ‘You spend your life mired in such filth you cannot believe that there is anything clean.’
‘I think your husband is far from clean. I think your husband is far from innocent. I think your husband believes himself to have an adequate alibi but that with sufficient probing we can break it. You were with your husband at the party on the night Mary Fields died?’
‘We were all there – you know that already.’
‘I didn’t ask if you were there, I asked if you were with him. If you can account for his movements for the entire evening.’
‘You’re being ridiculous,’ she said. But he could see the beginnings of doubt in her expression. ‘He played billiards for a while and he spent time with his friends. We all did. Charles doesn’t like to dance and I do, so no, I wasn’t with him every minute. But there were plenty of other people who will tell you where he was every second of the night, I’m sure. We left after breakfast the following morning. And none of us had much sleep, I can tell you that.’
‘Did you drive there in your car?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘And your husband drove himself. You don’t have a chauffeur?’
‘No, we’ve never bothered. He likes to drive and so do I. If we need to go any distance and need someone else to drive then I borrow one of my father’s people.’
She finally lit her cigarette and waved it in Henry’s general direction. ‘I would like you to go now. You should also know that I’m leaving for a few days. I’m spending time with friends. I’d rather not be here until this awful business is out of the way.’
‘And is your husband going with you?’
She exhaled a long stream of smoke and then pursed her lips. ‘No,’ she said. ‘We talked about it last night and decided we had better have a little time apart. You must understand that I am … very angry with him.’
She rang a small silver bell that was set beside the cigarette box and a servant appeared in the doorway. ‘The inspector is leaving now. Please see him out.’
As Henry exited, Charles May crossed the hall. He scowled when he saw Henry but did not speak to him. Instead he went into the morning room.
The manservant was holding the front door open but Henry paused before passing through. From the morning room issued raised voices, and it sounded to Henry like an argument that had simply picked up where it had left off earlier. The door was closed so the words were muffled but he could guess what was being said. He’d left the photograph, in its little envelope, lying on the floor. He had no doubt this was now being used as further ammunition.
I keep thinking about Haydn Symmonds and his reasons for finally admitting his guilt. What will it take to break our Mr May? We are beginning to build our evidence – the affair, the blackmail – but the final resolution depends upon our ability to destroy his alibi and that may be more problematic.
May’s social circle will protect him – for a time, at least. They will believe, as a matter of course, that no one in their circle could commit such a murder – certainly not to kill a child, but the doubts will surface, I hope, and May’s unease will grow.
Rather in the way that Symmonds could not agree to confess his guilt until his confederates had been found guilty and were sentenced, when that final objection had been removed, only then did he feel he could acknowledge his own guilt. It was almost a matter of principle on some very twisted level.
May, I feel, will slowly disintegrate – if he is in fact guilty. It won’t be a simple case of gathering the evidence and laying it out and hoping that he will crumble under the weight of it. The disintegration will come about by other means, from the slow withdrawal of support and belief. His wife has left him – how long before his friends desert him too?
FIFTY-SIX
It took several days to obtain a guest list and several more to begin the interviews of those who had been present at Willingsby Hall on the night of the murders. In all, including servants, both those who resided at the house and those who had been brought in, there were almost eighty people on the list. And a good number of those were not local but had travelled for the party.
Henry managed to hive off some of the interviews to police in the areas from which they had come, and others he and Mickey conducted themselves.
The story was consistent; yes, many of them knew Charles May, if only in the sense that he was a friend of a friend and a good number recalled seeing him on that night, but the evening had been fun, chaotic, a little lively and it was impossible to know where anyone was at any given time.
To be truthful, Henry had expected nothing else. He and Sergeant Hitchens had faced a great deal of resentment from those that they interviewed. A common complaint was ‘Why on earth are you asking us? You can’t possibly think that any of our set would have anything to do with those murders.’
The most common response that Henry got was, from those who actually knew Charles May well, ‘I’m sure I saw him about. He was with …’ Followed by a list of guests who had, at some point in the evening, been seen chatting to or drinking with Charles May.
The interference with the county’s rich and influential had of course upset a great many people, including Chief Inspector Carrington, and had also duly been noted in the local newspapers.
Inspector Johnstone was asked to give an interview; he declined.
Mickey had observed that it was likely that the murderer would have had blood on his clothes even though he’d strangled Mary Fields. It seemed like a safe bet that he’d traded blows with Walter before delivering the final killing strike, and it was entirely possible that there would have been cast-off blood from that. The party had been informal, many of the g
uests being in fancy dress, and Charles May had apparently been wearing a dark blazer. Someone recalled an incident when wine had been tipped over him in the crush and he’d been forced to change. A maid remembered offering to take his jacket and sponge it down but he’d declined; he’d simply taken it off and cast it carelessly into a corner of the room.
Was that significant? Henry wasn’t sure. He applied for a warrant to do a forensic search of Willingsby Hall but it was slow going. It was also likely that all traces of blood that had ever been on the jacket, and had been transferred to anything in the room, would have been cleaned away by now.
He felt he had been clutching at straws. He had not even been able to take Charles May’s fingerprints because, despite him having brought May in for questioning with as much possible noise, the man had never actually been charged. Henry had known that he was overreaching himself and that it was now coming back to bite him. The great and the good of the county were, as predicted, closing ranks.
He’d had Sergeant Hitchens take a photograph of Charles May’s car and then show it around the streets close to where Mary Fields had died, but nobody remembered seeing it at all and certainly not on the night of the murder. It was a substantial car; it would have been noticed.
‘If he left the party,’ Henry concluded, ‘it was not in his own car.’
Finally, the owners of Willingsby Hall announced that they were going down to London and that the police could therefore ‘wander around their estates to their heart’s content as they would no longer be in the way’.
‘And as there will no longer be anything to find,’ Mickey said acidly.
‘Robert Hanson’s funeral is scheduled for tomorrow,’ Henry said. ‘We will attend that and then go on to the hall.’
‘I’m sure we’ll receive a warm welcome at both locations.’
Once again they had made use of Dr Fielding’s car but this time Dr Fielding himself was present and in the driving seat. He had decided that he ought to go and pay his respects but Henry also realized that he was curious. Henry had agreed that Dr Fielding should drive them out to Willingsby Hall; he knew the countryside around and he might be useful.
It was a bright morning when the car turned down into the little valley and parked some distance away from the church. The coffin was being carried down from the Hanson farm on the broad shoulders of half-a-dozen farmworkers. Elijah Hanson and his wife walked in front and Ted behind. Villagers lined the route, watching one of their own brought home and put into the ground.
Henry saw the Samuels standing outside their cottage and the Lees a little bit apart. When the funeral procession had passed he crossed the road to talk to Dar Samuels.
‘I take it you’ve had no news or you would have been in touch with me.’
‘I’ve heard nothing. And I’m glad of it.’
‘We are leaving here, after the harvest is in,’ Mrs Samuels said. ‘This is no longer a home to us.’
‘The Hansons want you to go?’
‘The master never said that but it’s for the best. He has asked about and found us a position with a cottage up at Boggle Hill. It’s sheep up there. Not much call for horses but I can handle sheep and the cottage is solid enough. And it’s off his land. Seems right, that.’
‘And Helen Lee? What becomes of her?’
‘Frank Church did what he should have done months ago – spoke up for her. It’s been agreed. They’ll be married in a couple of weeks’ time. That’s for the best too.’
‘And will they be leaving?’
Dar Samuels shrugged. ‘Frank’s mother won’t want to share her kitchen. I doubt Frank will want to move in with the Lees. I’ve not asked what they are going to do. Not my concern now, is it?’
His wife nudged his arm. The procession had gone into the church. The Samuels drifted away to join the other villagers standing in the churchyard. Not family able to go and witness the funeral service but close enough that they must be present when the body was put into the ground.
‘I think we should leave now.’ Dr Fielding came across to join him. ‘I had a quick word with Ted and he was polite enough to suggest that we go up to the Grange and have a bite to eat after the funeral. But we’re not wanted there – not if he’s honest about it. So we should get about our other business.’
Inspector Johnstone nodded. Fielding was probably right and there was nothing to be gained by hanging around in the village. They waited until the rest of the villagers had gathered in the churchyard, Henry noticing that the Lees were not among them, then they drove away up the steep hill out on to the Croxby road.
‘The Samuels are leaving the village,’ Henry said. ‘Sometime after the harvest, he said. For somewhere called Boggle Hill?’
‘Out Caistor way, I think,’ Dr Fielding said. ‘Going to be a shepherd then. I imagine it’s going to feel like a long time before Michaelmas.’
‘Michaelmas?’ Henry asked.
‘When the labourers traditionally move farms. Twice a year, Michaelmas, and usually around Candlemas, though some switch to Easter and get moved in before Good Friday. Round here Good Friday is their day for getting their garden started. Most of the farmers still keep to that tradition. If Samuels doesn’t stay until Michaelmas he won’t get paid what has been agreed for the year. No one would expect him to leave until then, not even the Hansons, not even after what’s happened. It would make them look bad in the eyes of the wider community and that matters. At least the Samuels have a place to go to – they won’t need to visit the hiring fairs.’
‘What are the hiring fairs?’ Mickey asked.
‘Pretty much what they sound like. Men wanting jobs – usually their families too. They go and stand in the market square. Places like Louth and Spalding. Those who want workers go round and choose the best. I’ve seen men standing with placards round their necks, saying what skills they’ve got and where they worked before. Looks like the pictures you see of slave markets but many don’t have a choice. It’s that, travel elsewhere or go to the parish for help. An increasing number are heading for the towns or off to sea like young Ethan. If it keeps on like this the countryside will be empty within a generation.’
They drove in silence for a little while and then Henry said, ‘It feels like parts of this county have not yet reached the twentieth century.’
‘I sometimes wonder,’ Dr Fielding nodded, ‘if parts of it have even reached the nineteenth.’
The house was built in a mix of old red brick and mossy grey stone. Lighter stone framed the windows and the large front door and a gravel drive circled a lawn at the front of the house. It was not a particularly grand house but it did look solid and settled in the landscape. They were escorted through to the housekeeper’s room. She was seated at a table going through her ledgers but she set them aside when Dr Fielding and the police officers came in. It was clear that she knew Dr Fielding and welcomed him enthusiastically. Inspector Johnstone was glad that he had decided to bring the doctor along; anything that could break down the barriers and get people talking to him.
‘Well, bring us all some tea,’ she told the maid who had brought them in. ‘Gentlemen, are you comfortable enough here …’
‘This is a lovely room,’ Mickey said with a broad smile.
‘Mr and Mrs Saltby said you could have the run of the place now they were gone,’ she told them proudly. ‘And anything you want to know, I’ll do my best to tell you.’
She turned her attention to Dr Fielding and began to ask about mutual acquaintances. Mickey raised an eyebrow. ‘Mrs Haddon,’ he said, ‘I wondered if you’d mind us maybe having tea afterwards, and we could leave Doctor Fielding here to have a chat while we get business done. We don’t want to inconvenience you any further than we have to.’
She looked momentarily doubtful and then pleased. It seemed, from the conversation, that Mrs Haddon was well acquainted with Dr Fielding’s family. Sergeant Hitchens and Inspector Johnstone took themselves away.
‘According to eyewitn
ess statements,’ Mickey said, ‘our Mr May tossed his jacket into the corner of the red billiard room. Do you suppose that means they have two billiard rooms – one in another colour?’
‘I would guess this house is big enough to accommodate two billiard rooms,’ Henry said, ‘but what anybody would want to do with two billiard rooms I couldn’t guess.’
It turned out that the red billiard room was just off the hallway. Everything was covered down with white dust sheets, the family being away, and what servants were left were busy scrubbing and polishing and cleaning every surface to within an inch of its life. Henry’s heart sank; the small hope he had of some tiny scrap of forensic evidence remaining had diminished to nothing. In the red billiard room the table was set on a deep maroon carpet, laid on broad wooden boards which were exposed round the edges of the room. He could smell at once that they had been newly polished.
‘So,’ he said, ‘we talk to the servants, we see what recollections they have of that night and if any of them know Charles May and could shed more light on his whereabouts. If I take care of that, Mickey, you go out and see if you can find the chauffeur. Unless he’s gone with the family to London, of course.’
Mickey nodded and wandered away, and Henry took himself on a tour of the hall. He soon understood that it would have been impossible to keep sight of anybody for a full evening. Rooms led off to other rooms, broad steps led down on to a lawn. There had been a marquee pitched on the lawn, on one side of which was a small coppice, on the other the entrance to a walled garden which led in turn to another gate down to the river.
He returned to the housekeeper and asked if he could speak to the servants. They were duly lined up ready to be interviewed but after another hour it was clear that most of them didn’t even know who Charles May was. He was not a regular visitor – just another of the gentlemen that had been there that night.
The Murder Book Page 23
