by Rebecca Tope
‘They have. That’s all I know.’
‘I think she must have been working on something with Hilda Armitage. They were buying up old papers at the auction.’ A thought struck her. ‘I wonder if Josephine tipped Hilda off about what was coming up for sale. She might even have arranged for it to go cheap, if she somehow managed to hide the best stuff. There was a bit of trouble, when Christopher first started doing the actual auctioning.’
‘Slow down. You’ve lost me.’
‘It’s only speculation, anyway. The real point is that Chrissie Harriman told us that Josephine was very much into this project, whatever it was. She stayed up late every night working on it.’
‘But isn’t Hilda Armitage dead?’
‘Quite recently, yes. But her whole family was close to Josephine—’
‘Right,’ he interrupted. ‘Which is why they’re persons of interest and are being kept under close scrutiny.’
‘And they don’t like it. Fabian came here last night again complaining about it.’
‘Was he harassing you?’ His tone had become suddenly sharp.
‘Oh, no – not really. He’s too pathetic for that. I don’t think there’s any real harm in him.’
‘Not a killer, then?’
She laughed. ‘I’m sure you’re not supposed to ask me that. Aren’t there laws against slander?’
He returned her laugh, and after a few more questions, he concluded the call with sincere thanks for her help. ‘Call again any time,’ he said in conclusion.
Christopher had been listening, his expression very thoughtful. ‘Fabian is harmless, isn’t he?’ he said, as soon as she’d finished the call. ‘And I’m pretty close to believing him when he says none of his family are killers. Which doesn’t leave many suspects, does it?’
‘As far as we know, it would focus everything onto the auction house,’ she agreed sadly. ‘It must have been someone she knew, if she let them in – as it seems she did.’
‘Not necessarily. All kinds of criminals con people into letting them in.’
‘And if it wasn’t one of her own knives, then they’d have come prepared. Premeditated. I keep coming back to the same thought,’ said Christopher miserably. ‘I was awake half the night trying to work round it, but it won’t go away.’
‘I think I might know what it is. And I think there’s a chance that Ben will have arrived at the same one. But we probably shouldn’t say it out loud, in case we influence each other. Is that silly?’
‘A bit. I mean – what happens now?’
‘I’ll phone Ben.’
But Ben got there first, with dramatic news. ‘I’ve had a letter from Richmond,’ he said. ‘I haven’t read it all yet, but I think it explains the whole thing.’
Simmy mind clogged up. ‘What? Why you? He’s never even met you.’
‘Says I’m the only independent party he can think of. He thinks you and Christopher might have vested interests. And I guess he doesn’t know your exact address.’
‘What a cheek!’
‘He says it’s all in Josephine’s filing cabinets – unless the murderer took it. Which is possible. But he’s sent copies. It was Randolph Churchill all along.’
‘Hang on.’ Her brain was still barely functioning. ‘Isn’t he dead by now?’
‘Letters, Sim. Five highly incriminating letters from him, saying he took no responsibility for her child and no attempt to blackmail him would have a hope of succeeding. Richmond made copies of them. He was helping Josephine. It’s all here – but I still haven’t had a chance to read it properly.’
‘We’ll have to come down,’ she realised. ‘None of it makes sense over the phone. Do you want me to tell Moxon? Should he be there as well?’
‘Not yet. Help me figure out the implications first.’
‘Right.’ She looked at Christopher, who was listening to her end of the conversation with eyebrows firmly raised. ‘We’ll be there in about an hour.’
The eyebrows dropped and a long breath was exhaled. Simmy thought she detected an encouraging level of excitement along with the more obvious signs of resignation.
Chapter Twenty
Simmy bundled her unprotesting infant into his car seat, and waited impatiently for Christopher to lock the house and join her in the passenger seat. ‘Why are you driving?’ he said.
‘Because I know the road better than you.’
He started to question her about the phone call, but she said, ‘Don’t talk. We need to keep open minds until we see these letters. Richmond thinks we’re biased.’
‘Against who?’
‘Whom,’ she said, in honour of her father. ‘I don’t know. Possibly in favour of somebody.’
‘Can I talk a bit? I keep remembering more to tell you.’
‘If you must.’
‘For a start, when I checked the computer yesterday I finally remembered a bit more about that sale where I had to deputise for Oliver. I remember Oliver arguing with Josephine about it, and not having any idea what was going on. All I could glean was that there was potential trouble over the description of the lot.’
‘Yes, you told me that already,’ said Simmy.
‘I didn’t tell you all of it,’ he persisted. ‘You know there’s a disclaimer, and we make it clear we can’t confirm what the vendor claims about provenance and authenticity and all that. But we’re still expected to get it right as far as we possibly can. It was a few months later, when some more papers came in from the Bolt person. Oliver was quite excited and insisted the stuff was genuine, and put a high reserve on it. I remember him saying “We don’t want a repeat of last time, when Henderson let it go for peanuts.” I was a bit wounded by that, I remember.’
‘What did Josephine say?’
‘I’m not sure, but she wasn’t happy about it. But Oliver was the boss, and I assume they did as he wanted.’
‘How much did it sell for, then?’
‘Nine hundred pounds. For one letter. Hilda Armitage bought it. She had plenty of money, it seems.’
‘That’s a lot. But not exactly enough to justify a murder, surely?’ She realised that Christopher was working on a different level from her and Ben. Obsessing about one small detail, when they were trying to get a hold of a far bigger picture. She wasn’t even certain she was following his logic.
‘I think it must have been one of a string of similar transactions. I didn’t get a chance to go through the whole file – it’s enormous, and I never was much good at finding things on a computer. I was rather hoping that Ben might have managed to hack it, after all.’ He smiled ruefully. ‘That would get me off the hook.’
‘He didn’t.’
‘Pity.’
‘So …?’ she prompted, not quite believing that he was on the verge of taking control of the whole matter. On other occasions she had either left him out completely or chivvied him into taking an interest when he clearly hadn’t wanted to.
‘So I’m not saying any more, because we agreed last night not to make guesses that could influence each other. And you need to concentrate on this ridiculous road.’
Which she did, ignoring with great difficulty the squawks from the back seat as Robin registered the outrageous fact that his mid-morning feed was imminently due and here he was in a pesky car again.
Helen Harkness opened the door to them with an expression that clearly said, ‘Here we go again.’ Somehow it often seemed that the final stages of understanding a crime were conducted in her dining room. Simmy was impressed by her tolerance and nervous of taking it for granted.
‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘This must seem a bit awful to you.’
‘No worse than usual. Although I would have preferred it if Ben had gone back to Newcastle two days ago, as planned.’
That was another unresolved issue, Simmy realised, hoping that Helen didn’t hold her responsible for it. ‘Let’s hope it won’t take long, then,’ she said. ‘It must feel a bit like an invasion.’
‘He’s in the
dining room,’ said Helen, with a shrug that said it all.
Ben had papers spread out across the table and a pad of A4 paper in front of him. ‘I think I’ve got it,’ he said. ‘Come and see.’
‘Let’s park Robin somewhere first,’ said Simmy. ‘I hardly dare mention it, but he’s going to be hungry any minute now.’
Ben waved this away as irrelevant, and hastened to show them the five letters, signed in a scrawl that only gradually came into focus as R. Churchill. Simmy and Christopher each took one and forgot everything else as they deciphered the handwriting. They were stiff in tone, and repetitive. Their dates covered a period of three weeks in September 1962. There was no letterhead or address – just a date. ‘Richmond’s letter explains nearly everything,’ said Ben. ‘Do you want me to summarise?’
Christopher had turned to another of the letters. ‘Did we sell these to Hilda Armitage?’ he asked. ‘If so, they’re dynamite.’
‘Why would she buy them, when they’re addressed to her?’ Simmy asked. ‘She’d have had them all along.’
‘Ah!’ said Christopher, going pink. ‘Silly me.’
‘She wanted to sell them, actually,’ said Ben. ‘Oliver West told her they’d raise a fortune, with the provenance and so forth. But Richmond heard about it and tried to stop her.’
Simmy and Christopher could find nothing to say. The questions were tumbling over each other so fast that words couldn’t keep pace. She spluttered slightly, before waving at Ben to continue.
‘Then Richmond’s son Petrock got involved. Obviously it would be a great coup for his book if he could quote actual letters. He probably fancied the idea that he was Winston Churchill’s great-grandson.’
‘Wouldn’t anyone?’ said Christopher.
‘Listen,’ said Ben, holding Richmond’s letter, which seemed to run to several pages. ‘“There I was, caught between my mother and my son, both of them impatient to make the whole story public, and cast shame on the man they believed to be my father. I became obsessed with it myself, comparing my appearance with photographs of the Churchills. I insisted there should be a DNA test, but could find no way of doing it. I would need something from Randolph or one of his offspring, and that didn’t seem possible. Hilda refused to see me or speak to me – as if I was a mere detail in the story. If it hadn’t been for Josephine, I think I might well have murdered somebody myself.”’ He looked up. ‘As you see, it’s nowhere near as simple as you might think.’
‘I didn’t think it was simple,’ said Simmy, feeling very churned up. ‘The poor man.’
‘Where does Josephine come into it?’ asked Christopher, suddenly pale.
‘Aha!’ Ben sorted the pages of the letter, and selected another. ‘It’s all here. “She came to me, a year ago now, having realised what Oliver and Hilda were trying to do. Oliver was widely regarded as an expert in the authenticity of documents, and he stated with complete certainty that these letters had definitely been written by Randolph. Josephine knew Hilda, of course, and asked if she could have a look at them herself. Well, almost immediately she had doubts. The lack of an address struck her as very strange, for one thing. And the fact that there were no envelopes with them. She accused Hilda of forging them herself. Hilda denied it and begged her to keep quiet. What was there to gain from making trouble, she asked. And so much to lose. Josephine was torn – and then Hilda said she’d leave her the house if she promised not to rock the boat.”’
‘Blimey!’ said Christopher. ‘That’s a bribe and a half.’
‘So she did promise and did get the house,’ said Simmy. ‘Poor Richmond. He must have felt terribly let down.’
‘They were going to get married,’ said Ben, flourishing the letter. ‘And then he was going to find a way of doing the DNA test and the whole thing would be set right, publicly.’
‘Which wouldn’t matter once Hilda was dead,’ said Simmy. ‘And they probably knew that nobody was ever going to take much notice of Petrock’s book. It’s got far too many adjectives.’
‘It would matter to someone else, though,’ said Christopher slowly.
Ben looked at him and nodded. Perched in his chair at the end of the table, Robin gave a little squeal.
‘Oliver,’ said Simmy.
‘To save his reputation,’ said Christopher.
‘Shall I call Moxon now?’ said Ben.
They all went up to the Mortal Man in Troutbeck for lunch. ‘We can confirm the booking for our wedding breakfast at the same time,’ said Simmy.
Bonnie was with them, having closed the shop at twelve-thirty. ‘We owe you,’ said Simmy. ‘You’ve been a star.’
‘Will they have arrested him yet?’ asked the girl, after listening intently to three people all trying to bring her up to date.
‘Unlikely,’ said Christopher. ‘They’ll need to have a chat with Richmond, first.’
‘Maybe not,’ said Ben. ‘They can take him in for questioning at least.’
But nobody really cared. ‘Are we absolutely sure it wasn’t Petrock?’ Simmy worried, just before they got to the pub. ‘Hasn’t he got just as much of a motive?’
Ben laughed. ‘Surely I told you – he’s got a perfect alibi. He spent the whole of Saturday, Sunday and Monday at a writing conference in Aberdeen. There must be two hundred witnesses to vouch for him.’
‘How do you know that?’ Simmy wondered.
‘I googled him,’ said Ben, as if it was obvious. ‘There’s a list of people they call “attendees” which seems a weird word to use. Anyway, he attended it all right. I happen to know someone else on the list and I called to check.’
‘Who?’ asked Bonnie.
‘A student at Newcastle. She’s a writer – already got her first publishing contract. She was on a panel with Petrock.’
Simmy cheered. ‘Ben – you’re wasted on us. Honestly, I think you’ll be Prime Minister one day.’
‘What about Fabian?’ Christopher said later, when they were all seated round a table in the pub. ‘How much did he know about it all?’
‘I never met him,’ Ben reminded them. ‘But my guess is he was completely out of his depth. He never knew Oliver and had nothing to do with Richmond. Aunt Hilda had spurned him, and the cousins probably thought he was a nuisance and an embarrassment.’
‘And Josephine?’ said Simmy.
‘We might never know,’ said Ben. ‘But I can’t see that he had anything at all to do with her death. Nor Uncle Ambrose. But everyone else was right in it. Two factions – Oliver, Hilda and Petrock on one side, with Josephine and Richmond on the other. Fighting over the authenticity of those letters.’
‘You forgot Keith,’ said Simmy.
Ben waved this aside. ‘It all comes down to history, when you think about it,’ he went on. ‘Proper nuts and bolts, brass tacks history. I’ve been thinking that’s the sort of thing I want to focus on. The real stuff. The papers and objects that people used and valued, that mattered in their daily lives.’ He looked at Christopher. ‘Do you think there might be an opening for me at your saleroom?’
Even Bonnie was silenced. Ben laughed uncomfortably, and explained. ‘I’m not saying I want to become an auctioneer – but I want to learn more about things from the past. Just a summer job – okay? Checking provenance, writing catalogue descriptions, that sort of thing. And I can see a few ways your database could be smartened up.’
Christopher sighed. ‘If you do that, either Pattie or Fiona will kill you.’
‘Well, you’re going to be the boss now. You’ll have to tell them not to.’
Simmy went to talk to the pub landlord about her wedding, and Bonnie found herself with Robin on her lap. Christopher’s phone tinkled and he blinked at the screen.
‘It’s Humphrey,’ he said, to the uncomprehending youngsters. ‘He says he’s found a supplier of the ideal stone for our new fireplace, and thinks it’ll work well. He’ll see us on Monday for the final leg of our Big Undertaking.’ He showed Simmy the message when she came back.
>
‘Great,’ she said. ‘But first I need you to undertake to be my lawful wedded husband.’
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About the Author
Rebecca Tope is the author of three bestselling crime series, set in the stunning Cotswolds, Lake District and West Country. She lives on a smallholding in rural Herefordshire, where she enjoys the silence and plants a lot of trees, but also manages to travel the world and enjoy civilisation from time to time. Most of her varied experiences and activities find their way into her books, sooner or later.
rebeccatope.com
By Rebecca Tope
The Lake District Mysteries
The Windermere Witness • The Ambleside Alibi
The Coniston Case • The Troutbeck Testimony
The Hawkshead Hostage • The Bowness Bequest
The Staveley Suspect • The Grasmere Grudge
The Patterdale Plot • The Ullswater Undertaking
The Cotswold Mysteries
A Cotswold Killing • A Cotswold Ordeal
Death in the Cotswolds • A Cotswold Mystery
Blood in the Cotswolds • Slaughter in the Cotswolds
Fear in the Cotswolds • A Grave in the Cotswolds
Deception in the Cotswolds • Malice in the Cotswolds
Shadows in the Cotswolds • Trouble in the Cotswolds
