by Amy Cross
He paused, before leaning closer. This time, Phillip simply stared back at him with tear-filled eyes.
“Yes,” the old man purred, “you do remember.”
“Why did I do it?” Phillip stammered. “I liked Suzie! She was my -”
“Never mind that right now,” Lord Chesleford continued. “I'm going to look after you, Phillip. Don't breathe a word of this to anyone else, not yet. Let me deal with the situation. You trust me, don't you? I've always been here to look after you, for as long as you can think back. I'm your father, Phillip. No-one else in the whole world is going to look after you the way I'll look after you. You don't have anyone else.”
“Why did I hurt her?” Phillip asked, his voice still trembling with fear. “Why did I hurt either of them?”
“That is a mystery that remains locked up for now in your heart. I daresay you'll tell someone about it some day, but not now.” He reached out and brushed the back of his hand against Phillip's left cheek. “I was so proud of you, you know. Back in the old days, when you were destined to really be someone. I want you to know that, Phillip. You had the whole world in front of you, and I couldn't have been more satisfied. But now, in your own way, you've become useful to me still. Take some strength from that knowledge, boy. It's not a bad thing, to be useful. Most people never -”
Suddenly Phillip broke down again, letting out a series of loud, gulping sobs that quickly became a haunting wail. A moment later he turned and leaned against the wall next to his bed.
“Oh, not that again,” Lord Chesleford said with a sigh, rolling his eyes as he took a step back. “Do you have any idea, boy, how much that awful noise gets on my nerves? There'll be a time for you to let it all out, but for Christ's sake, not now! You'll enjoy prison! You'll have an easy life!”
He waited, as if he expected Phillip to suddenly sit bolt upright, apologize for his lack of manners, and go back to the studies he'd been following before the accident. Instead, Phillip simply curled into a ball on the bed and continued to shake as he wept.
“Lord, give me patience,” the old man whispered, closing his eyes for a moment and clenching his fists. “Give me the strength I require, that I might suffer this wretched boy for a while longer. I should be elevated to sainthood for not throttling him.”
He paused, before opening his eyes and seeing that Phillip was still sobbing on the bed.
“All this disappointment,” he continued, “has been so hard to accept. At least now, there might come a little relief.”
Turning, he made his way out of the room and then paused to look back at his son. Rocking back and forth, sobbing wildly, Phillip seemed consumed by grief, as if he was trying desperately to push through the horrific memories that crowded his thoughts.
“Play-acting,” the old man muttered. “You're not capable of feeling remorse or sorrow. I'm sorry, boy, but you're just not.”
He stared at his son for a moment longer, filled with a sense of disgust, before making his way along the landing and down the stairs. He knew he had to alter his plan slightly, that he still had to figure out how to draw attention to the boy, but he felt certain that he'd find a way eventually.
Heading to the drawing room, he poured himself a glass of whiskey and tried to focus on his thoughts, but a moment later he heard Phillip wailing upstairs. He waited, determined to hold his resolve and keep his temper under control, but after a few minutes he began to feel his blood boiling once more.
“Not now,” he muttered under his breath, before taking a sip as he waited for his son to quieten down. “Just give me one bloody minute of peace and quiet, won't you? You wretched little waste of space!”
He closed his eyes again, trying to ignore the sound and find some inner peace, but his son's agonized cries still found a way to seep into his thoughts. No matter how hard he worked to calm his mind, he could feel Phillip's sobs running through the cracks in his own soul, never letting him forget the intelligent, proud boy he'd lost on the day of the accident. Finally, opening his eyes, he stared down at his whiskey glass while trying to think of some other way he could get a moment's silence. Still, however, the plaintive sobbing filled the house, until he could stand it no longer.
“Oh shut up!” he shouted finally, losing his temper once more and storming through from the dining room, heading toward the staircase. “You stupid little -”
Stopping as soon as he spotted Jo coming through the front door, he paused for a moment before his usual friendly smile returned.
“I'm so sorry,” he said, flustered by her sudden arrival but quickly realizing that he could perhaps turn the situation to his advantage, “but as you can no doubt hear, we are having a rather troublesome morning here at Chesleford Manor.”
Chapter Thirty-One
Today
“And what did those bloody idiots do the very next day?” Lord Chesleford muttered darkly. “They only went and arrested Harry bloody Morgan again!”
“Your murdered Susannah Marriott in order to frame your son?” Jo replied, horrified by the fact this his only reaction appeared to be frustration that the plan hadn't worked.
“I was actually considering going to the police myself,” he continued, “and telling them that Phillip was the killer. I'd tried leading them to his door subtly, but evidently that wasn't working so I thought perhaps I should be blunt. The idiot in charge of the case seemed utterly fixated on the idea of Morgan being the killer. All they had to do was search Phillip's room and they'd have found Deborah's laptop and Susannah's necklace, and there'd have been more than enough for them to figure it out. If the bloody police had just shown a little initiative and actually done their jobs properly, all of this horribleness could have been avoided.”
“Except for Phillip.”
“He'd have been happy enough in jail,” the old man said dismissively. “Probably happier than he was here. People sometimes told me I should put him in a care home. I'm sure our perennially soft legal system would have packed him in cotton wool, the way they do with most criminals these days.”
“But he -”
“Murderers should get life!” he added. “And life should mean life! None of this namby-pamby rehabilitation nonsense that goes on these days.”
“He was your son!” Jo pointed out, still shocked by what she was hearing.
“Oh, he'd have been absolutely fine!” he spluttered, setting his whiskey glass down. “We both know that. I wanted him locked away, but he didn't have to die. That wasn't the plan until the very end. But then the other day he finally cracked and started going on about how he couldn't live with the guilt. It never occurred to me that he might have feelings, not like that. Unfortunately, it turns out that not only did he feel guilt over the deaths of Deborah and the Marriott woman, but he actually remembered Suzie. He remembered enough of their time together, before the accident, to become overwhelmed by what he'd done.”
“What you made him think he'd done,” Jo pointed out.
“They were the same thing in his mind.” He sighed. “I decided to use the situation to my advantage. I phoned you and pretended to be terribly upset and frightened. Phillip was going on and on about how he didn't want to be a danger to anyone. I'm afraid that at that point, I realized I had to do something frightful. I took no joy in the matter. In fact, I felt rather sorry about it, but there was simply no other option.”
“You stabbed yourself in the arm.”
He nodded.
“And you slashed your own face.”
“I had to. To prove a point. It seemed rather extreme but, well, you know what they say about desperate times and desperate measures.”
“And then Phillip went up on the roof?”
“I couldn't believe my luck. For the first time in this whole sorry affair, everything came together perfectly. It was really only then, only when he went up there, that I realized death might be a better option for him. It's not like he had any life ahead of him. He was basically dead after the accident happened anyway, so
this was just a case of his body following his mind. What little was left of his mind, at least.” He paused for a moment, as if thinking back to the moment when Phillip had fallen over the edge. “I didn't push him,” he added finally. “It was still suicide, regardless of the circumstances. I can't be framed for his murder.”
“Nobody's going to frame anyone,” Jo replied.
“And Deborah was an accident!”
“I believe you.”
“I didn't mean to hurt her!”
“You should have gone to the police at the start.”
“They'd never have believed me!”
“They might, if you'd let them hear the recordings from the microphones and cameras you installed at Skellin Cottage.”
“Oh, but...”
He hesitated, before furrowing his brow.
“That never occurred to me,” he said finally. “I had so many... Yes. Yes, you're right. Why did I not think of that?”
“You'd have had to explain why you had the cameras in the first place. The police don't usually take kindly to people who do that sort of thing, but at least you wouldn't have had to set your own son up for murder.”
Chuckling to himself, he headed over to the desk by the window.
“Well,” he muttered, “I certainly see now that I should have done that. It's amazing how blind one can become, isn't it? Once one gets some other idea in one's mind, one can develop a kind of tunnel vision.” He opened a drawer. “But I want to make it very clear, Miss Mason, that technically I did absolutely nothing wrong. I did not murder Deborah Dean, nor did I push Phillip off the roof.”
“You murdered Susannah Marriott.”
“Well...”
He paused for a moment.
“Well, okay,” he added, “I suppose I did. Yes, you're right, but that was... Oh, never mind. The whole thing snowballed a little, but I had my good name to protect. I was simply thinking on my feet every time a difficult situation emerged. If you don't mind the question, might I ask how you became suspicious of me?”
“For one thing,” she replied, “I realized there weren't many other people with a motive. For another, I met Phillip and I was pretty sure he was no murderer. And finally, I'd like to think that I'll always realize if I'm being used. Because that's what you were doing, isn't it? Using me as part of your plan, hoping I'd push the police in the direction you wanted. I'll be sure to pass on your fee for this case to an appropriate charity.”
Reaching into the drawer, Lord Chesleford took out a long-bladed letter opener.
“I don't suppose,” he continued, “that a small payment of, say, ten thousand pounds, might be enough to secure your silence on this matter, would it?” He glanced at her, while still holding the letter opener. “I'm a little short of cash at the moment. You wouldn't believe the heating bills that a place like Chesleford Manor racks up.”
“You're going to be charged with the murder of Susannah Marriott,” Jo told him, “and there'll also be charges relating to the other deaths. Concealing evidence. Manslaughter, maybe. There'll be a whole long list.”
“Will there?”
“You're going to go to jail for a very long time, Lord Chesleford.”
“Am I?” He looked down at the letter opener's blade, and then back at Jo again. “Only if the police find out. It seems to me that, outside of this room, everybody else is quite content with the notion that Phillip was the murderer.”
Jo looked at the blade.
“You live a rather itinerant lifestyle, do you not?” he continued. “I suppose people don't know when to expect you, or where you are at any given time.”
“I've been recording this entire conversation,” she told him, reaching into her pocket and holding up her phone. “It's been uploaded automatically. I also didn't come alone.”
He opened his mouth to ask what she meant, before hearing footsteps in the hallway. Looking toward the door, he saw Detective Inspector Sam Bartleby stepping into view with two uniformed officers.
“Oh,” the old man muttered, glancing back down at the letter opener for a moment longer before gently setting it back in the drawer, as if he'd meant no harm in the first place. “Well, then. I suppose that's that, isn't it?”
“Martin Chesleford,” Sam said, stepping past Jo and heading across the room, “you're under arrest for the -”
“No!” Grabbing the letter opener again, Lord Chesleford stepped back and held the blade against his own wrist. “Stay back! I'm warning you, if you come any closer, I'll do something dreadful! I can't go to jail, I just can't! I'm not that kind of person!”
Stopping in the middle of the room, Sam sighed.
“I'll do it!” the old man continued. “I swear, I'll... I'll cut my wrists and it'll be all your fault!”
Sam tilted his head slightly, as if he was just waiting for the old man to admit that he was bluffing.
“I'll, I'll... I'll do it, I'll... I will! I'll do it!”
Lord Chesleford hesitated, before looking down at the blade as if he was trying to find the strength. Finally he simply set it aside once more, and Sam immediately signaled for the two officers to go to him.
“I'll read you your rights in the car.”
“How long will I have to spend in jail?” Lord Chesleford asked, as the officers began to lead him out of the room.
“Quite a while,” Sam told him. “It's called justice.”
“But how long exactly, do you think?” Stopping for a moment, held on either side by the officers, he seemed momentarily lost in thought, as if yet again he was trying to think of a way out. “The courts are quite lenient on men of my age and position, are they not? I can acquire character references from several titled fellows, and it's not as if I'm a danger to anyone else. I might have to spend ten, fifteen years, maybe even twenty in jail, but then I'd be out probably in my late seventies or early eighties.” He paused, before looking over at Jo. “There'll still be time, then. After I get out, I mean. If Scotty can have children at that age, then I can too. There'll still be enough time for me to find a nice young lady who knows which side her bread is buttered, and to arrange for her to carry a new child for me. One who turns out to be a better heir than Phillip.”
“For God's sake,” Sam muttered, clearly disgusted, “get him out of here.”
“Yes,” Lord Chesleford continued with a faint smile. “With a good lawyer, there'll still be time when I get out. All's not lost! Where there's a will, there's a way!”
As the officers led him away, Sam turned to Jo.
“Are they all like this?” he asked.
“All who?” she replied.
“Toffs. Rich guys.”
“I wouldn't know.”
“Makes my skin crawl, a place like this,” he continued, stepping back to the middle of the room and looking around, before finally stopping to look up at the large, unlit chandelier high above them. “It's so cold. I mean, the 'leccy bill alone must be four figures a month, just to keep it from freezing. Laura keeps on at me, saying she wants a little chandelier in the living room, but I'm dragging my heels. If you ask me, chandeliers are way too poncy.” He stuffed his hands into his pockets. “Give me a nice single bulb with a five quid Ikea shade any day. No-one needs anything more than that.”
He hesitated, before turning to Jo and seeing that she was at the window, watching as Lord Chesleford was helped into a waiting police car.
“If I have anything to do with it,” he added, wandering over to join her, “by the time that old bugger gets out, if he gets out, he'll be well past his shagging days. I mean, he should be past them already, shouldn't he? It's disgusting to think of him wanting to use his money to get some young girl into bed. Makes me want to puke. Then again, I know how the world works. Even if he's pushing a hundred when he gets out, he might be able to scrape together enough money to buy himself a bimbo who'll...”
He paused, and then a shudder passed through his chest.
“Doesn't bear thinking about, does it?”
>
“I have to get going,” Jo replied, turning and heading through to the hallway.
“You don't wanna come back to the barbecue? Might be a good chance to see Jack Byron literally pop a blood vessel when he realizes he was wrong again.”
“Enjoy that.”
“Oh, I will. Sure you're not game?”
“I have to go.”
“Right,” Sam said, hurrying after. “Newcastle, wasn't it? I'd better get the old bastard down the station and charged, anyway. I'm already gonna have hell to pay when I get home, running out from the barbecue like that with you. Laura won't be happy, but Jack... Well, that's gonna be worth seeing.”
He watched as Jo headed to her car.
“Give us a ring, yeah?” he called after her. “Just now and then. Just to let us know you're doing alright out there. Don't be a stranger this time!”
She turned to him and paused for a moment, before nodding and then getting into the driver's seat.
Sam hesitated, as if there was something else he wanted to say, but finally he headed to the patrol car and sat in the back, where he began to read Lord Chesleford his rights. As he did so, however, he couldn't help glancing out the window and watching for a moment as Jo's car disappeared into the distance.
Also by Amy Cross
PERFECT LITTLE MONSTERS
AND OTHER STORIES
A husband waits until his wife and children are in bed, before inviting a dangerous man into their home...
A girl keeps hold of her mother's necklace, as bloodied hands try to tear it from her grasp...
A gun jams, even as its intended victim begs the universe to let her die...
Perfect Little Monsters and Other Stories is a collection of short stories by Amy Cross. Some of the stories take place in seemingly ordinary towns, whose inhabitants soon discover something truly shocking lurking beneath the veneer of peace and calm. Others show glimpses of vast, barbaric worlds where deadly forces gather to toy with humanity. All the stories in this collection peel back the face of a nightmare, revealing the horror that awaits. And in every one of the stories, some kind of monster lurks...
