by K. J. Frost
“He’s not been in to work since the death of his daughter,” the man explains after I’ve told him who I am.
“So when do you expect him back?”
“He said the beginning of next week.” I feel a shiver down my spine and thank the man, ending the call. Amelie told me that her uncle returned to London on important business, and yet he hasn’t been into work since Beth’s death. My mind is racing and, all of a sudden, I feel unaccountably nervous. What if Beth’s murder is related to him, or his work? What if guilt over that has got the better of him? I pick up the receiver again and ask for the number of his London flat. This time, there’s no reply and my nerves intensify.
Of course, he may have just gone out to the shops, or he might be indisposed. But there’s a nagging doubt in the pit of my stomach and it’s not going anywhere until I can be sure that Gordon Templeton is alive and well.
It takes me less than five minutes to reach the apartment block. There’s an elderly concierge, who opens the door and directs me to the third floor, but I eschew the lift and take the stairs, arriving outside number thirty-seven, feeling just a little breathless, trying to convince myself that I’m not going to find a body on the other side of the door. The way this case is going though, nothing would surprise me.
I ring on the doorbell and wait, counting to ten. Then I ring again, wondering if I have just cause to break down the door. I don’t know for certain that anything has happened to Gordon Templeton, but…
“Yes?” The door opens a fraction, stopping when it reaches the extent of the safety chain. Through the thin strip of open doorway, I can see a young woman, probably not very much older than Amelie, with similarly coloured light brown hair and hazel eyes. She looks as though she’s just got out of bed, which is surprising, considering that it’s gone ten o’clock in the morning.
“I’m terribly sorry,” I say. “I think I must have got the wrong flat.” I check the piece of paper Amelie gave me. It definitely says ‘37’, so I look up at the woman again. “Does Gordon Templeton live here?” I ask her.
“Yes, he does.”
“And is he at home?”
“He’s in the bath.”
I just about manage to hide my astonishment and pull my warrant card from my inside pocket, my earlier fears forgotten. “I’m Detective Inspector Stone, and I need to speak with Mr Templeton, so do you think you could go and get him out of the bath?” Her mouth drops open at the sight of my identification. “Don’t worry,” I say quietly. “As far as I’m aware, you haven’t done anything illegal. Nothing that I’m interested in, anyway… assuming you’re old enough to be here with Templeton.”
“Of course I am,” she replies tartly.
“Fine. Then perhaps you could let me in and go and tell him I’m here?”
She nods her head and closes the door, then I hear her detach the chain, before she opens it again, much wider this time, to let me inside. Now that I can see her properly, I notice she’s wearing an almost see-through negligee.
“Wait here,” she says and walks down the hall to the last door on the right. From the back, her gown leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination, and judging from her leisurely pace and the amount of wiggle she’s putting into her walk, I assume she expects me to watch. For that reason alone, I don’t. Besides, there’s something rather artificial about her which reminds me of Victoria, and I look away, taking in my surroundings instead. It’s light enough in the hallway, considering there are no windows, although there are five doors, the first one clearly leading to a kitchen, as I can see a cabinet through the open aperture. I imagine there’s a living room, probably two bedrooms, and the bathroom into which the young lady has just disappeared.
Within a few minutes, the door opens again and Templeton comes out, wearing a bath robe. His hair is damp and combed back and he looks significantly more embarrassed than his female companion.
“Please come in,” he offers, standing by an open doorway to his left.
“Thank you.”
I pass through, ahead of him, entering a large sitting and dining room, with a floral patterned, silk brocade sofa and two matching chairs. There are book cases either side of the fireplace, and in front of the window is a circular walnut dining table, with four high backed chairs surrounding it. It’s a simple and tasteful room, not dissimilar in style from the drawing room at Cavendish House, although the furniture itself is newer and lacks the heritage of the pieces displayed in the family home.
“Take a seat,” he says, sitting himself in one of the chairs. I take the other, facing him. “I—I probably should explain,” he continues, without any prompting on my part. “My wife, you see, has been a self-imposed invalid for nearly half of our marriage, and for a while, I thought that was my lot and I put up with it.” He pauses. “But for the last seven years, I’ve been seeing Abigail.”
“The young lady who answered the door?” I ask.
“Yes.” He nods his head in confirmation.
“Seven years?” I reiterate. “Was the young lady old enough to enter into an intimate relationship seven years ago?”
“Yes, she was. She’s older than she looks.” He’s clearly put out by my question, but I’m not giving up that easily.
“Would you mind calling her in here?” I ask him.
He hesitates for a moment, but then sighs and gets to his feet, going over to the door and calling her name. He comes and sits back down, just as she enters the room. She’s more suitably dressed now, in fashionable wide trousers and a tight sweater, her long hair combed and hanging in loose curls around her shoulders. She sits on the sofa, nearer to Templeton’s chair than to mine.
“Can you give me your name?” I ask her.
“Abigail Foster,” she replies, looking from me to Templeton. He smiles at her.
“And your date of birth?”
“The eleventh of June, nineteen-fourteen.”
I quickly work it out in my head. She’s now twenty-five, which means she’d have been eighteen when she started her relationship with Templeton. I’m still reminded of the fact that Amelie is just one year older than that now, and in turn I’m haunted by the sight of Gordon Templeton’s close attentions to her. I don’t like the way in which my mind is wandering. The man sitting in front of me may have a taste for younger women – as do many of his age – but surely he couldn’t harm his own daughter. Could he? And why would he? No… I have to stop thinking like that. It’s revolting. It’s repulsive.
“Would you mind showing me your identity card, Miss Foster?” I ask her, getting back to the matter at hand.
She doesn’t reply, but gets up, going out into the hall and returning a few moments later with a small leather handbag, which she opens, producing her identity card. She hands it to me, standing over me, while I peruse it. I notice immediately that the address is the the same as the flat where I’m now sitting.
“You live here?” I query.
“Yes.”
This is a little more than an affair then. “All the time?” I ask.
“Most of it. When Gordon goes home to his family at weekends, I sometimes stay here by myself, or I might go and see my mother. She lives at High Wickham.”
Part of me wants to be shocked, but I’m beyond shocking these days. Abigail Foster clearly knows that Templeton has a wife and family in East Molesey, and that knowledge doesn’t bother her in the slightest, and neither does the fact that he is at least twenty years older than her. She also must have realised that Templeton hasn’t divorced his wife in the seven years they’ve been seeing each other, and is therefore unlikely to, so unless Millicent Templeton should die all of a sudden, there probably isn’t much of a future for this relationship.
“Why are you here?” Templeton asks from the other side of the room. I look up to see he’s glaring at me, just about holding his temper now. Gone is the shame-faced man of a few minutes ago. He’s back to bullish bluster now.
I hand back the identity card to Miss Foster a
nd return my gaze to Templeton. “I needed to ask you some more questions,” I tell him. “But you weren’t at home. So, I came up to London to find you.”
“You could have telephoned.”
“I tried. There was no reply.”
A look passes between him and Miss Foster, and I think I can work out for myself why neither of them answered the telephone earlier this morning. “Very well,” he says. “What did you want to know.”
I sit forward. “Can you think of a reason why your daughter might have spoken to Daniel Milton on the day of her death, and told him that she’d changed her mind about him, that she should never have trusted you?”
His face pales and his mouth flaps open. “She… she did what?” he whispers.
I know he doesn’t expect me to repeat myself, so I sit and wait for him to gather himself.
“Well?” I ask, after a moment or two.
“I have no idea,” he replies. “I forbade her from seeing Daniel Milton because, in my opinion, she could have done a lot better for herself. We argued about it, but she agreed with me in the end and told me she was going to break it off with the boy.” He looks away, staring at the mirror above the fireplace. “As far as I was aware, that was an end to the matter. If she subsequently changed her mind, I know nothing about that.”
I’m fairly certain there’s something he’s not telling me, but whether it’s to do with their original argument, or Beth’s change of heart, I’m not sure. And I doubt that pursuing that line of questioning is going to make him any more forthcoming.
“Did you pull any strings to get your daughter and Miss Cooper their jobs at Hawker’s?” I ask him on impulse, noting how he jumps at the change of subject.
“Yes,” he replies, candidly, and then relaxes just a little too quickly, which is interesting. “But not through my parliamentary position. I was at school with John Pickford. I asked him as a favour.”
“He didn’t mention that when I interviewed him,” I point out.
Templeton smiles just slightly. “I’d be surprised if he had done. He’s meant to choose the best, most suitable candidates for vacant positions, not give them to the daughters of his old school chums. As it’s turned out, everything worked very well. Amelie’s thriving, and Beth did well enough in her post to be offered a promotion, entirely on merit.”
“I assume Pickford could get into trouble if this came out?” I ask.
“The girls were employed before the war. It mattered less then. But now… well, everything’s different. I doubt it would look very good though…” He focuses on me. “Are you going to tell anyone?”
“No. It’s just useful to know the character of the people involved in a case,” I explain. This reply applies to Templeton as well as Pickford, being as I’m sure neither of them is too worried about using the ‘old boy network’ when it suits them. Speaking of which…
“Why did you leave Molesey so suddenly yesterday?” I ask him, my brain whirring.
“I explained to Amelie. I had work to finish.”
“Really? Then why aren’t you finishing it? I spoke to your office this morning and they told me you haven’t been seen there since your daughter’s death. That’s not surprising, in the circumstances, but it doesn’t make sense with regards to your flight from home…”
“It wasn’t a ‘flight’,” he says, sounding worried now.
“Then what was it?”
He stares at me, then looks away. “Oh, very well.” His shoulders drop. “I got a telephone call from Jack Meredith. He told me you were asking questions. He knows about me and Abigail and thought I should get back here, just in case you came snooping around and found her on her own.”
“Chief Superintendent Meredith contacted you?” I clarify.
“Yes.”
“Don’t tell me… you were at school with him too?”
“Yes.”
I let out a long, slow sigh. There’s no point in showing Templeton how livid I feel. I’ll save that for Meredith.
I glance at Abigail. She’s sitting back at the end of the sofa again, her feet tucked up under her, which reminds me of the position Amelie was in yesterday when I called on her with Ellis.
“Your… situation,” I say as delicately as possible. “Is that something your daughter was aware of?”
“You mean my relationship with Abigail?” he asks, and I nod. “No,” he replies.
“And Miss Cooper?”
“No. I’ve always been very careful to keep it from them both. I wouldn’t want to hurt my family, and I can’t afford the scandal. It would ruin my career.” He runs his fingers through his hair and I wonder which of those considerations weighs most heavily with him.
“Has anyone ever blackmailed you over this?” I ask him.
“Good Lord, no,” he replies, clearly shocked by my question.
“Has anyone ever tried to use a knowledge of your relationship with Miss Foster in any way against you?”
“No.”
It’s strange. Although I still think he wasn’t telling me everything about Beth and Daniel, this time, I believe him.
I pause for a moment, taking in the information I’ve gained. Aside from the fact that I now know that Gordon is being unfaithful to his wife, to the extent of living a double life, I also know that he’s got something worth being blackmailed over – even if no-one’s seemingly tried it to date. In addition, I’ve discovered that he’s hiding something from me regarding Beth and Daniel, although I don’t yet know what, or whether that even matters to the case…
“Is there anything else?” he asks.
“Not at present,” I reply, getting to my feet. “I will have more questions though.”
“You will?” I’m not sure whether it’s fear or anger that I see crossing his eyes. It’s one of the two though. “Why?” he asks.
“Because I’m not finished yet,” I reply. “When will you be back in Molesey?” I ask him.
“Either tomorrow evening or Saturday morning,” he says, taking Miss Foster’s hand and giving her a rakish grin, the meaning of which is obvious and doesn’t interest me in the slightest.
“Very well. I may call on you over the weekend.”
He doesn’t reply, but huffs instead, and Miss Foster stands and shows me out of the flat, in silence.
On the drive home, my imagination starts going into overdrive. I wish it wouldn’t, because I don’t like where it’s taking me. I remind myself, over and over, that Templeton’s affections towards Amelie are those of a father-figure, nothing more, and that I should stop reading anything sinister into them, just because I’m jealous of the fact that he’s allowed to touch her and I’m not. My affections for her are clouding my judgement with regard to Beth, and I need to think more clearly, more rationally… because surely, no man would do that to his daughter. Would they? Would they? It’s no good. No matter how much I try to convince myself that they wouldn’t, there’s the small voice in the back of my mind, which keeps reminding me of how depraved the human soul can be.
Could Gordon Templeton really have murdered his daughter because she found out something about him? She said she didn’t trust him; that photograph which Amelie gave me showed she didn’t trust him. Could Templeton have used the earlier killing of Ursula Franklin as a cover to throw us off his scent, taking the details from the newspaper and copying them to make us think we’re dealing with a serial killer, when – in reality – they’re two separate, random killings? Both disgusting, both sickening, but one significantly more perverted than the other.
It can’t be, can it?
Dear God… what’s wrong with me?
It’s lunchtime when I get to the outskirts of Kingston and, while I could go straight into the office, I decide I need to clear my head, and go back to Aunt Dotty’s instead.
She’s nowhere to be seen in the house, but I find her in the back garden, as expected. Instead of clearing the borders though, she’s sitting in a canvas chair with a low table beside her, sketc
hing. She looks up and smiles as soon as she sees me. “You see?” she says. “I told you I was too easily distracted.”
“Yes, you did.”
“Have you had lunch?” she asks.
“No.”
“Would you like a sandwich?” she offers.
“I’d love one.”
She picks up a small silver bell from the table beside her and rings it. Within a minute or two, Ethel appears at the door to the sunroom.
“Yes, madam?” she says, respectfully.
“Bring us some ham sandwiches, would you, dear,” Aunt Dotty asks.
“Right away, madam,” Ethel replies, and disappears again.
“So, how was your morning?” Dotty asks, looking up at me and shading her eyes from the autumn sunshine.
“I had to go up to London to interview Gordon Templeton,” I tell her, leaning up against the nearby apple tree. I didn’t explain this before I left, for fear of upsetting her again.
“Oh,” she replies. “And?”
“You want to know?” I ask.
“Yes.”
I pause for a moment, uncertain how much to tell her. I can’t reveal the depth of my fears, but I can maybe hint at them and see what she thinks. She told me she – or at least Uncle Sam – was acquainted with the man. Maybe she can give me some insight.
“I’ve discovered that he’s having an affair.”
She laughs lightly. “That’s hardly a discovery, Rufus,” she says.
“Is it common knowledge?” I enquire.
“No. But Samuel knew. I imagine quite a few of Gordon’s friends either know, or have guessed, over the years.”
“And what did Samuel think about it?”
She sighs. “He didn’t entirely approve,” she replies eventually, “especially given the extreme youth of the young lady in question. But then, he did once remark to me that if he’d been married to Millicent Templeton, he’d have been tempted to take a mistress too.” She chuckles.
I smile. “She is very young. Well, she’s not so young now, perhaps, but seven years ago…”
“Is that how long it’s been going on?” she asks, evidently surprised. “Gordon’s always had an eye for young girls, you know.”
