by Bill Kitson
My words echoed back along the corridor, but provoked no response. I tried a second time, and then a third, but with no more success. ‘I don’t like this. I don’t like it at all,’ Eve muttered.
Neither did I. I was reminded of the previous occasion, only a few days earlier, when we had entered a property via an open door. That was when we had found Kathy King’s body. I hoped this wasn’t going to be a repeat of that grim discovery.
We inched our way cautiously inside, aware that if Fletcher was somewhere on the premises, he might not take kindly to strangers invading his shop uninvited, and that if it had not been Fletcher who’d left the back door open … well, an intruder would have been even less kindly disposed to those who had disturbed him.
The corridor led to the back of the shop, and was flanked on one side by a storeroom, and on the other, by an office and toilet. If the shop had been in pristine condition, the same could not be said for the office. I pushed the door open, and was greeted with a sight reminiscent of the study at Barton Manor. Papers were strewn throughout the room; the desk had been smashed to little more than firewood, and the safe was wide open, its interior empty.
My suspicion that something untoward had happened to the antiques dealer hardened to near certainty. His car was outside, therefore he should be about, but our initial inspection of the shop, the office, the storeroom, and even the toilet had failed to discover Fletcher, either alive, or as I was becoming increasingly sure, dead.
It was only when we were standing in the storeroom on our second tour of inspection that Eve noticed a small, dark stain on the wooden floor. She grasped my arm and pointed to it. ‘Adam, is that blood?’
It certainly looked like blood. An irregularly shaped patch, about the size of a dinner plate, had pooled alongside one corner of a very large blanket box, an ottoman. It might well have been Fletcher’s blood, but if so, where was he? I moved closer and lifted the lid of the ottoman; then closed it hurriedly.
‘Eve,’ I gulped for breath. ‘Eve, go back to the main street. There’s a phone box near where we parked the car. Ring DS Holmes and tell him Graeme Fletcher won’t talk –ever. Not without the aid of a Ouija Board.’
‘Fletcher’s dead? In there?’ Eve pointed to the ottoman.
I nodded, and took another breath. ‘The same as the others, I reckon. I couldn’t see much. I didn’t want to. There was blood all over the place.’
If DS Holmes was upset that we’d jumped the gun and attempted to interview Fletcher before he gave us the go-ahead, it certainly wasn’t apparent from his opening remarks. Having viewed the grisly crime scene, he told us, ‘It’s as well you found him when you did. If his body had remained in that confined space for a few more days, it would have become really unpleasant in here.’ He paused and added, ‘It’s bad enough having to look at what’s in there, without the smell we’d have got if he’d not been found until after the weekend.’
Holmes appeared tired and stressed, I thought, and no wonder, given the circumstances. I felt immensely sorry for the young detective. The tally of victims was increasing with little to show by way of a motive, let alone a killer. I thought of my former colleagues in the media, knowing the sensational way they would treat the news of four people being slain by someone wielding a mysterious weapon. If they got wind of what was happening, Holmes’ stress levels would go into hyper-drive. If ever a police officer needed help, Holmes certainly did.
As we watched the pathologist and the forensics officers preparing to enter the building, I remembered my thought about the company Fletcher had been partly instrumental in setting up. As much to distract Holmes from his current woes as to provide a way forward, I mentioned my idea to him. ‘Have you any news about the victims? Anything back from South Africa, for instance?’
‘Not yet, but given the fact that it’s the weekend that doesn’t surprise me. Added to which, I doubt whether an enquiry about someone who was murdered thousands of miles away will be high on their list of priorities.’
‘That’s true, but if and when you discover anything about Fletcher, or King, or Wharton, I would be very interested to know if any of them had an interest in, or had expertise in, genealogy.’
Holmes frowned. ‘Why do you want to know that? Is it relevant to the case?’
‘It might be, if their objective in setting up that company Overtring was to defraud Stephen Pengelly. Let’s assume that was their intention, and to do so they compiled a fictitious family tree. From what we know of Pengelly, he was nobody’s fool, so the document would have to be really convincing, and have a lot of equally genuine-looking back-up paperwork to prove what they were selling was the genuine article.’
‘OK, I’m with you there, but can’t see where you’re going with it.’
‘Whether the Pengelly family tree we found in is real or bogus, it would need someone with a deep knowledge of how genealogy works and the right places to research it, how to prepare it, and what to provide as back-up. And if none of them had the relevant expertise to do that –’
‘They’d need someone else to do it for them,’ Holmes finished my sentence for me. ‘Now why didn’t I think of that? If there was someone with that knowledge, they might either be the killer, or be able to lead us to him.’
‘Or her,’ Eve interjected. We stared at her in surprise. ‘I know you’ve been busy with other aspects of the case,’ she told Holmes, ‘which is why you missed the connection Adam has just made. However, while you were talking, I started to wonder if we’ve had tunnel vision about the murderer all along. Thinking about Stephen Pengelly’s unsavoury reputation as a womaniser, isn’t it just as likely, perhaps more so, that the killer might be a woman? Certainly if revenge over his sex life is the motive.’
Holmes looked stunned by Eve’s suggestion. Hardly surprising, because the more I thought about it, the more sense I could see in her argument. ‘That’s something else I didn’t stop to consider,’ he admitted. I could see by his crestfallen expression that self-doubt was creeping in.
‘Nobody has a monopoly on ideas,’ I told him. ‘Eve could well be right, but I certainly didn’t think about the killer being a woman. That’s one of the reasons major investigations involve a team of detectives. You don’t have a team; all you have is Johnny Pickersgill and a couple of interfering busybody amateurs.’
‘Gifted amateurs, I’d say. And please believe me; I’m glad of your help. I need all the help I can get, and I’m not too proud to accept it from wherever it comes. I’m dreading my next step, which is to report this,’ –he indicated the antiques shop –‘to my superiors.’
It was almost dusk by the time we returned to the manor. The news that the killer had struck again left everyone horrified, and re-awakened the fear that had lessened with the tightening of security around the old house. I don’t think my graphic description of how I’d discovered Fletcher’s body did anything to allay those fears, which made broaching the subject of a jaunt to the Crown and Anchor even trickier than previously.
‘Eve and I were thinking of going to the pub tonight,’ I told them, ‘but it seems a bit unfair to leave the manor without adequate protection. This killer seems prepared to strike wherever and whenever he wants, and appears unconcerned about being challenged.’ That’s right, Adam, I thought as I was speaking, you go ahead and cheer everyone up.
Tony Bishop, who had spent the whole day closeted with Robert and Alison, provided a solution that quelled everyone’s concerns –and offered the opportunity for me to have a couple of pints too. Not that the thought of beer was a prime consideration, of course. ‘If you want, I could stay at the manor for the time being. Would that help? If there’s a spare room, and you’d like me to, I could ask Emma to join us, that way there will be two more people here most of the time. I think that should deter even this murderer.’
Robert glanced at Alison, who nodded. ‘Brilliant idea.’
‘OK, I’ll phone Emma and let her know. She works on the bar at the Crown and Anchor, s
o if I drop Adam and Eve off, then Emma can phone me when they’re ready to return, and I’ll collect all three. That means nobody has to go without a drink, and the manor will only be at risk for a few minutes. Overall, the more people there are seen to be here or hereabouts, the less likely anyone is to try and force entry.’
‘I think that makes perfect sense,’ I agreed.
With our trip to the pub in mind, Alison had asked Mary to serve dinner earlier that night. As we assembled, Victoria emerged from the study, waving a piece of paper triumphantly, rather in the style of Neville Chamberlain’s return from Munich. ‘I’ve done it,’ she announced. ‘I’ve translated the first of the runes. However, I have absolutely no idea what the message means. Do you want to hear it?’
That had to be one of the most rhetorical questions of the century, I thought.
‘OK,’ she said. ‘Here goes: My time is almost at an end. I have passed to my sons the secret that has been handed down through the generations. It will be for them to carry it and in the end, they must decide whether it is prudent to reveal it or let it rest. I have counselled them to think long and choose wisely. That’s all it says.’ Victoria lowered the paper and looked around.
We had listened to the translation, and at Robert’s request, we listened to it a second and third time, and to ensure we had absorbed every nuance, each of us in turn examined the paper containing the translation, but, like Victoria, the meaning of the message was totally lost on us.
Fortunately, Bishop was insured to drive the Mercedes, so we were able to complete the short journey to the village in luxury. ‘Emma will be behind the bar,’ he told us as he negotiated the last band before reaching the houses at the end of the single street that comprised Barton-le-Dale. ‘The landlord and his wife are taking care of a shooting party, so Emma has been deputised to look after the regulars.’
The Crown and Anchor was typical of so many country inns in the county, a long, low, stone building set back from the road. Behind the pub, the ground rose steeply towards the moor that gave the village its name. Inside proved to be as traditional as the exterior; with low, oak-beamed ceilings that had been darkened by centuries of cigarette and pipe smokers. A dark-haired young woman I guessed to be Bishop’s girlfriend was pulling a pint for a middle-aged man as we entered the bar. I waited then placed my order, adding, ‘You must be Emma? Tony Bishop asked me to make myself known to you. I’m Adam Bailey.’
‘I sort of guessed that.’ She shook hands and smiled. ‘And you must be Eve.’ Once the formalities were over we looked around as Emma got our drinks. Apart from two young couples seated at tables in front of the bow windows, the room had only one occupant, the man Emma had just served. ‘There don’t seem to be many people in for a Saturday night,’ I remarked as I pocketed my change.
Emma glanced at the clock. ‘It’s early yet; wait until ten o’clock, the place will be heaving then. If you’re really desperate for someone to talk to; there’s always my dad.’ She indicated the gentleman she had just served, who was inspecting a notice advertising a darts tournament.
‘Why not,’ Eve said, ‘it’ll make a nice change to have someone different to chat to, and we can catch up on all the village scandal.’
‘You’ve certainly picked the right man for that job,’ Emma said.
I knew Eve’s comment was an excuse to get talking to someone who might be able to tell us more about the mystery girl in the photo. Who better than someone whose daughter categorised them as a gossip. As Emma had been sorting our drinks out, Eve had been staring at a series of framed photos that were hanging on the wall alongside the bar counter. Barton-le-Dale, it seemed, was proud of its cricket team.
Emma introduced her father, whose name was Chris Ellis, and explained that we were guests at Barton Manor. ‘I recognised your face from one of the cricket team photos,’ Eve told him. ‘It was taken twenty years ago, but you hardly look any older.’
I admired Eve’s strategy. Not only had she flattered Ellis, but she had immediately established his long-term residence in the village. That, together with his natural tendency to discuss local characters and events, made him the ideal person to extract information from. And so it proved; Ellis was more than happy to discuss the village and its past, but first we had to prime him with information regarding the current spate of murders. He’d heard of two, it seemed, that of Stephen Pengelly and his mistress.
‘I’m not surprised that Pengelly came to a bad end. No more than he deserved, I reckon. He was just like his father; a nasty piece of work who thought he was God’s gift and above everyone else.’ He paused and looked at us. ‘What’s the brother like? Not another from the same mould, I hope? That would be a shame, because as I remember him, he was a nice, polite little lad; but scared of his own shadow. Can’t say that surprised me, knowing what he had to put up with up there at the manor.’
He saw my look of surprise and smiled. ‘It was no secret the way he was treated. The gardener and the cook used to come in here regular away and tell such horror stories. Folk felt really sorry for him, losing his mother the way he did. But when they heard how Stephen and his father treated him, I tell you there were some who wanted to get a lynch party together and string Stephen and his father from one of those oak trees in Home Wood.’
Eve told Ellis that we liked Robert. ‘Whatever they did to him hasn’t embittered him. He’s a really nice bloke, engaged to a lovely girl.’
‘That’s good to hear. They say that breeding will always tell in the end, and I reckon it must have done in this case. By that I mean Robert must take after his mother. She was a lovely woman, beautiful in looks and with a caring nature. A real lady.’
Having told him all we dared about current events, I let Eve broach the subject of the letter, which she did by mentioning the rumours surrounding Stephen Pengelly. ‘We heard he was a real ladies’ man,’ Eve suggested, ‘especially in his younger days.’
‘I don’t think his age altered his behaviour one bit,’ Ellis told her. ‘Stephen was exactly the same as his father. He’d chase women until his dying day.’ He suddenly realised how inappropriate that remark sounded and added hastily, ‘I mean, if he’d lived to be eighty he’d still have tried it on if the chance arose.’
‘Were there any girls in particular that he was involved with when he was younger?’ Eve asked. ‘Someone from the village, perhaps?’
‘Knowing Stephen, picking one girl from his conquests might be harder than looking for a needle in a haystack.’ But Chris Ellis was astute enough to spot Eve’s fishing expedition. ‘You have someone particular in mind, don’t you?’
‘The trouble is, we don’t know anything about her. All we have is a letter that was at the manor. We were hoping we might find someone who had lived here long enough to know of her, a girl called Annie.’
‘Well, well, well,’ he said. ‘It just shows you never know with people. I’d have thought he would have burned that letter at the first opportunity. I know his father would have done if he’d caught Stephen with it.’
‘Why? Who is it, and what’s so special about that girl?’
‘Her name is Annie Flood. Her father used to be gamekeeper on the Barton estate. He and his wife were from the Midlands somewhere. Nottingham, as I remember. They moved up here when Joe Flood got the keeper’s job. The girl would have been about three or four then.’
‘Was Annie their only child?’
‘Yes and the locals reckoned she was spoilt rotten because of it. She thought herself a cut above the rest of the village kids. She was a pretty girl and knew it. Used to flaunt herself and everyone said she’d get into trouble, if she didn’t mend her ways. Not that she’d let any of the village lads near her. They weren’t good enough for her.’
‘I take it she and Stephen were in a relationship?’ I asked.
My question seemed to tickle him. ‘I reckon that’s the understatement of the year. At it like rabbits they were, by what I was told. Of course, they couldn’t do it in
his house or hers, so they had to find other places to get together. Unfortunately, a couple of the places they chose weren’t quite as private as they thought, and word got round like wildfire.’
‘We did hear that old man Pengelly had to fork out a lot of money because of a young girl Stephen was involved with,’ Eve told him. ‘Do you think that might have been Annie Flood?’
‘That sounds right to me. People reckoned she had an eye to the main chance, which was why she was only too happy to let Stephen have his way with her. The gossip is she thought he’d be bound to do the right thing by her; maybe even engineered things in the hope that if she fell pregnant he’d be compelled to marry her.’
‘Is that what happened? Did she become pregnant? Is that why Stephen’s father had to pay her off?’
His answer surprised me. ‘Not that I’m aware. I mean, it’s possible, I suppose, but I’ve never heard anyone suggest she was in the family way. What caused the bother was that someone let on to Annie’s father what she and Stephen were up to and he hit the roof. What father wouldn’t in the circumstances?’
‘I can understand anyone getting upset if he heard that someone had seen his daughter misbehaving like that, I suppose.’
Ellis shook his head. ‘That wasn’t the only thing that got Joe riled. It was the fact that Annie was only fourteen at the time. To hear that she had lost her virginity while underage was bad enough, but when he knew that the man who had deflowered her was someone with a reputation as bad as Stephen’s, he was livid. Rumour has it that it was only his wife who stopped him going looking for Stephen with his shotgun.’
Ellis saw the look of distaste on Eve’s face and nodded, as if in agreement with something she’d said. ‘Aye, when his wife got him calmed down a bit, Joe was all for involving the police, but she told him that would mean a lot of scandal, and their name being dragged through the mud, so in the end they packed Annie off out of harm’s way while Joe dealt with old man Pengelly. I can’t swear to what happened between them, but local rumour at the time was that Pengelly paid Joe a lot of money on condition that they move out of the area and stop Annie having any further contact with Stephen. The story was that they moved back to Nottinghamshire. Much good it did them, from what I was told.’
