Blood From a Stone

by Dolores Gordon-Smith

  Mrs Mountford gave a distracted sigh. ‘It’s very sad for him, isn’t it? Mr Leigh, I mean. It was even sadder for poor Mrs Paxton, of course, but Mr Leigh is convinced his cousin – Terence Napier is Mr Leigh’s cousin, isn’t he? – is innocent, but James is certain Mr Leigh is barking up the wrong tree.’

  That, in Mrs Mountford’s view, was clearly the last word on the matter.

  ‘I think it’s very nice of Mr Leigh to be so loyal to his cousin,’ she continued, ‘but, as James says, you can’t alter facts. Mr Leigh’s employed a private eye, hasn’t he?’ She pronounced this term very dubiously. ‘James spent quite a long time with him. He’s a Mr Wood, a Mr Aloysius Wood.’

  Mrs Mountford screwed up her face doubtfully. ‘He said he was a detective but I always thought detectives – real detectives, I mean, not policemen or Sherlock Holmes and of course not you, major – were greasy little men in shabby overcoats, but this one was a real gentleman. I know that since the war, people do all sorts of things they wouldn’t have dreamt of doing before, but I was surprised to find he was a detective. He doesn’t think Terence Napier is guilty but, as I said to James, if Mr Leigh’s employing him, he more or less has to think that, doesn’t he? Because if Terence Napier isn’t guilty, who is?’

  She paused for breath and Jack leapt into the miniscule conversational gap.

  ‘Have you any ideas, Mrs Mountford?’

  She drew back. ‘I hardly like to say. Mr Wood thought the servants might know more than they’re saying and, of course, it’s hard not to think of the servants when something like this happens, however unfair it might be. I’ve never known such an uproar in all my born days. The entire village was set by its ears. Nothing else but Mrs Paxton was talked about morning, noon and night. It was enough of a sensation when her nephew turned up and whisked her off to Paris, but this is beyond anything. I’m just thankful that if she had to be killed so dreadfully, it was her nephew who did it and not someone we’d known in the village. An outsider makes it easier to understand, you know? I know everyone has to come from somewhere, but I’d hate to think we’d nurtured a murderer in our midst. James didn’t like Terence Napier at all and nor did anyone else who came across him.’

  ‘He was an artist, I understand,’ said Jack, who’d had a glowing, if partisan, account of Terence Napier from Francis Leigh.

  Mrs Mountford sniffed. ‘That’s what he said. Or, at least,’ she amended with scrupulous honesty, ‘that’s what Mrs Paxton said. She was terribly proud of him, although I couldn’t see he was anything to write home about. Florence, Mrs Paxton’s maid, described him to our cook, Mrs Abbot, as a great thin streak of nothing, who looked down his nose at you in a sneering sort of way as if you weren’t fit to breathe the same air as him. I must say, that’s what James thought too, although we never guessed what he had planned, of course. James,’ she said indulgently, ‘wouldn’t say a word about why she went to Paris with her nephew, as Mrs Paxton had told him in confidence. Bless him, it was all round the village!’

  ‘How exactly did the news get out?’ asked Jack curiously. It wasn’t, he thought, necessary to pump Mrs Mountford. She wasn’t a pump so much as a tap.

  ‘Mrs Paxton’s maid, I expect,’ said Mrs Mountford. ‘Mrs Henderson, I think it was, broke the news and her Mavis was very friendly with Mrs Paxton’s Florence. You know how hard it is to stop talk from getting round and Florence was a great one for keeping up to the mark.’ She leaned forward confidentially. ‘I can’t see someone like Florence Pargetter letting an opportunity like that pass her by. She was shrewd as well, and never minded putting two and two together.’

  ‘That often makes five,’ said Ashley with a smile.

  ‘As a matter of fact, where Florence was concerned, it usually made four,’ said Mrs Mountford. ‘It was positively uncanny, sometimes, the way she hit the nail on the head and she was never backwards in coming forwards, as they say, with what she thought.’

  Florence, thought Jack, sounded like somebody worth talking to. ‘Where is she now?’ he asked. ‘Florence, I mean. Is she still at Mrs Paxton’s old house?’

  ‘Why, no,’ said Mrs Mountford, her eyes circling. ‘She’s gone. The house has been shut up and instructions given to the house agent. If I was Mrs Leigh – she owns the house now, of course – I’d have wanted the servants to stay on, to keep it aired and fresh, but Mrs Welbeck, the housekeeper, she went back to Leeds, so I believe, almost immediately. Mrs Leigh wanted her to stay on, but she only offered to pay board wages, so she upped and left. She wasn’t even here for the inquest. The coroner was very annoyed about it and said the police should have made it clear to her she was expected to attend, but there was nothing much they could do. Florence gave evidence, of course, as did James.’

  ‘How was it known that Mrs Welbeck had gone to Leeds?’ asked Jack. ‘Florence, perhaps?’

  Mrs Mountford nodded. ‘That’s right, but she didn’t leave an address, so that wasn’t much help. I think,’ she said doubtfully, ‘that she might have had a little nest-egg tucked away, so she might not have needed another position, not right away at least.’

  ‘Why d’you think that, Mrs Mountford?’ asked Ashley. ‘That she had some money, I mean?’

  Mrs Mountford hesitated and looked at the door. ‘It’s just as well James isn’t here. He hates me repeating gossip. I know I shouldn’t really, but Florence said as much to Mrs Henderson’s Mavis who told Mrs Beeding’s Doreen who mentioned it to our cook. Actually,’ she added parenthetically, ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if that’s why Mrs Welbeck left as quickly as she did.’

  Jack looked a question.

  ‘John Bright,’ said Mrs Mountford as if that explained everything.

  ‘Who?’ began Ashley, but Mrs Mountford cut him off.

  ‘John Bright was Mrs Paxton’s outdoor man. Bright’s

  lived man and boy in the village, apart from when he was conscripted during the war, but I never cared for him. He had far too much of an eye for both girls and money. His father was just the same, a real old reprobate and didn’t his wife let him know about it! The rows they had were an absolute scandal. Saturday nights, regular as clockwork – the pair of them drunk as lords, of course – and all on the public street as well, so everyone knew their business. They’re long gone, of course. Bright’s been at The Larches ever since the war and he had enough sense to make sure that he always kept on the right side of Mrs Paxton, but it was absolutely disgraceful how he behaved and I can’t blame Mrs Welbeck for taking umbrage.’

  ‘What did he actually do?’ asked Jack. ‘To put Mrs Welbeck’s back up, I mean?’

  As Mrs Mountford stopped, flushing, he wondered warily if the answer would strain her sense of propriety to breaking point, but Mrs Mountford gathered up her forces and continued.

  ‘Well, not to put too fine a point on it, Florence caught him kissing Mrs Welbeck.’

  That wasn’t too bad.

  ‘And ... er ... his attentions were unwelcome?’ asked Jack delicately.

  ‘I should think they were! And really, there’s no reason why she should be expected to tolerate that sort of thing,’ said Mrs Mountford with stern reproof. ‘Florence said Mrs Welbeck stormed in from the outside, with her cap disarranged and all her teeth off to one side and she was furious with Bright, banging pots and pans about and generally in a real temper. Well, I don’t want to be unkind, but she wasn’t the sort who’d attract the John Brights of this world or any man, really. Florence thought it was screamingly funny, and I suppose you can see why, but it isn’t, really. Florence said – and it sounds like sheer cattiness but you can see her point of view – that the only reason anyone, including Bright, would want to kiss Mrs Welbeck is money. That’s why she thought she had a bit tucked away. Florence,’ she added, somewhat unnecessarily, ‘and Mrs Welbeck never really got on.’

  ‘That sounds like an understatement,’ said Jack.

  ‘Mrs Welbeck was much older than Florence, of course,’ said Mrs Mountford, pursin
g her lips, ‘and mind you, I don’t think anyone did get on with Mrs Welbeck much. She hadn’t been here long – only a matter of a few weeks at the most – and she was a bit stand-offish.’

  ‘Where’s Florence now?’ asked Jack once more.

  ‘I told you, she’s gone,’ said Mrs Mountford. ‘Nobody knows where, either, which is very mysterious. Florence wasn’t at all like Mrs Welbeck. She did have friends but none of them have heard a word from her.’

  ‘When was this, Mrs Mountford?’ asked Ashley.

  Mrs Mountford screwed up her face in remembrance. ‘It must be three weeks ago now. She did give evidence at the inquest and thought herself very grand in consequence. She didn’t want to stay on at Mrs Paxton’s after Mrs Paxton died, because, as I say, it was only board wages and Florence could do a great deal better for herself. She had talked about going up to London and leaving service altogether – becoming a waitress or some such – but you’d have thought if she had done, she’d have let one of her cronies know. I don’t know if she had a new position in mind, but she was excited about something, that’s for sure.’

  ‘Is John Bright still at Mrs Paxton’s old house?’ asked Jack.

  ‘No,’ said Mrs Mountford. ‘No, he isn’t, and no one knows where he’s gone either. He hasn’t been seen for the last week or so but where he’s got to, I really couldn’t say.’

  ‘He’s missing?’ asked Jack slowly.

  ‘I wouldn’t call it missing, exactly,’ said Mrs Mountford, ‘but it’s about a week since anyone’s seen him. His wages had been cut, of course, so he might have gone to find another job. I doubt if anyone in the village would employ him.’

  Jack’s mind was racing. About a week? And, less than a week ago, an unidentified body of a man was found on a train ...

  ‘Has he gone off before?’ asked Ashley.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said Mrs Mountford. ‘No, never. He was always careful to keep on the right side of Mrs Paxton. She wasn’t the sort of person people felt easy about confiding in, so I imagine she never got to hear what the general opinion of Bright was. Not that,’ she said judiciously, ‘I suppose it would have mattered to her much.’

  Mrs Mountford’s voice faded into the background. Was there any way of establishing if it was Bright? Jack thought of the mangled remains at Charing Cross and shuddered. He couldn’t ask anyone to look at that body. Beside that, there was no point. As well as being absolutely hideous the remains were completely unrecognisable.

  ‘That’s why Mrs Welbeck seemed to suit her so well,’ continued Mrs Mountford, blissfully unaware of his inattention. ‘In a small village like this, it’s accounted as rather unfriendly if someone wants to keep themselves to themselves, although it’s a virtue in a way, I suppose. Mrs Paxton thought it was a virtue, according to James.’

  No, he couldn’t ask anyone to look at the body in the train. Not only did he shrink from the idea, Bill and the police would never confront a member of the public with that unless there was a more than racing certainty they could identify him.

  ‘If Mrs Paxton talked to anyone, it was James. She was never what you would call a chatty woman, but she trusted James. She told James that although Mrs Welbeck wasn’t anything much to look at – bad skin and rabbit teeth, poor woman – that was a good thing, as she wouldn’t be likely to be off dallying with followers, unlike Florence, who, I must say, always did attract attention.’

  Hang on! Evie and Frank Leigh had seen the man at the house. If there was a photograph of Bright, that would do the trick.

  ‘Mrs Mountford,’ he said, cutting across her flow of words, ‘I don’t suppose you know where I could get a photograph of Bright, do you?’

  ‘A photograph of Bright?’ she said, brought up short in astonishment. ‘Whatever ...? No, I can’t think who’d have a photograph of him. There’d be one of Florence, I imagine, as she always went on the Servants’ Church Outing, organised by Mrs Billington, the vicar’s wife – they usually have their photo taken on the charabanc or by the sea – but that’s ladies only, so Bright wouldn’t be in that. No, I can’t help you there, major, I’m afraid.’

  She put her head on one side, listening as the grandfather clock in the hallway geared up with a series of clunks and whirrs before it wheezily donged out the time.

  ‘Eleven o’clock,’ said Mrs Mountford. ‘I’ll just go and see James knows we’re going to have coffee in here instead of the surgery. If you can just excuse me for a few moments ...’

  She bustled out of the room, leaving Ashley looking quizzically at Jack.

  ‘Why d’you want a picture of Bright?’

  Jack hesitated. The idea which had seemed so compelling when it had occurred to him minutes before now seemed, as he had to say it out loud, full of flaws.

  ‘It occurred to me that, as Bright disappeared about a week ago, he could be the man on the train,’ he said reluctantly. He saw Ashley’s startled expression and held his hands up dismissively. ‘It’s just an idea. I know there’s a lot of problems with it.’

  Ashley sat back, his brow furrowed. ‘I should think there are.’ His frown deepened. ‘You and Rackham worked out that the man on the train was an associate of Parsons. That can’t be Bright. He’s a village lad born and bred. He doesn’t sound like much to shout about, I grant you, but he could never have been the associate of a real crook like Parsons. Besides that, he lived here until he was conscripted, and conscription didn’t come in until 1916. Parsons was dead by then, or was thought to be, at any rate.’

  ‘I know, I know,’ said Jack.

  ‘Add to that, whoever the man was, he was an expert safe cracker, otherwise he couldn’t have got hold of the sapphires in the first place. I can’t see any jobbing gardener having that sort of knowledge. Not and continue to be a gardener, I mean, and Bright had worked for Mrs Paxton since the war, according to Mrs Mountford.’

  ‘I know,’ said Jack. ‘I thought of that almost as soon as I asked about the photo. My idea was to show it to Mr and Mrs Leigh and see if they recognised him as the man who stole the sapphires. It was just the coincidence of dates that got to me.’

  Ashley shook his head doubtfully. ‘If his wages had been cut, Bright would want to move on. A handyman and gardener can find work almost anywhere and, from the sound of it, he’d made himself none too popular roundabout.’

  ‘You’re absolutely right,’ said Jack as Mrs Mountford came along the hallway, her voice clearly audible.

  ‘Here’s James,’ she announced, sweeping into the room ahead of her husband in the manner of a tug-boat towing in an ocean liner.

  ‘I hope we’re not disturbing you, doctor,’ said Jack.

  ‘Not at all. It’s a pleasure to meet you.’ Dr Mountford hitched his trousers up at the knee and sat down in one of the shabby armchairs, his eyes crinkling indulgently as he looked at his wife. ‘Mildred’s been on pins ever since we received your letter. Milly, shall we have coffee?’

  ‘Yes, dear,’ said Mrs Mountford ringing the bell. ‘That’s all arranged.’

  An elderly parlourmaid brought in the coffee promptly and Mrs Mountford, who was obviously bursting with pride, managed to contain herself until she had poured it out. When the parlourmaid had gone, Mrs Mountford wriggled forward in her chair. ‘Of course, no one knew it was a murder until James spotted it. James was commended by the coroner.’

  ‘That was very acute of you, sir,’ said Ashley warmly.

  Dr Mountford’s weather-beaten face became slightly more coloured. ‘I knew Mrs Paxton,’ he said simply. ‘She was the sort who clung to life.’

  He stirred his coffee thoughtfully. ‘There’s another thing, too. When I met Terence Napier, I thought he was a thorough-going rotter. Long haired with an affected way of speaking, and, for all Mrs Paxton’s obvious affection for him, I didn’t think he had any affection for her. To say I was expecting a murder is to put it far too strongly, but I was expecting some sort of trouble. I told that chap, Wood, Mr Leigh’s private detective, as mu
ch.’

  ‘Did you know Mrs Paxton had a son?’ asked Jack. ‘Before Terence Napier came on the scene, I mean?’

  The doctor nodded.

  ‘You never said anything to me!’ interrupted Mrs Mountford indignantly.

  Dr Mountford smiled sheepishly and contented himself with a murmur of ‘Ethics, dear,’ before continuing. ‘Yes, I knew she had a son. She kept his photograph in the parlour. The question is, granted Mrs Paxton told me they were going to Paris to find him, was he in on the scheme with Terence Napier?’

  ‘It’s an intriguing thought,’ said Ashley cautiously. ‘However, what I will say, that whether Napier was working alone or in cahoots with Sandy Paxton, he’d have been lucky to have got away with it, even if you hadn’t realised it was murder and not suicide.’ He put his head on one side and looked at the doctor. ‘It was you who spotted the will was false, wasn’t it, sir?’

  ‘I suppose it was,’ said Dr Mountford, rubbing the side of his nose in an embarrassed sort of way, ‘but anyone who knew anything about Topfordham would’ve seen it. That was sheer bad luck for Napier. I suppose he just copied the signatures from the previous will and left it at that. If he’d known more about

  the village he wouldn’t have made the mistake of having two witnesses who were dead.’

  Mrs Mountford wriggled in her chair. ‘I don’t understand, James. Surely if Sandy Paxton was behind the plan – although it seems a very wicked plan indeed – it would’ve been easier for him to come home and charm his mother into altering her will.’

  ‘You’re forgetting who Sandy Paxton is, Milly,’ said Dr Mountford. ‘He’s a deserter. That, by itself, wouldn’t matter in this day and age and that’s what I told Mrs Paxton. However, not to put too fine a point on it, he is or was a crook and that does matter. With that black mark against his name, he wouldn’t be offered amnesty. He’d have every chance of going to prison for desertion and there’s probably other offences outstanding as well.’ Dr Mountford sucked his cheeks in. ‘I’d say it would be very awkward for our Mr Paxton to claim anything his mother left him in her will.’