Murder at Standing Stone Manor

by Eric Brown

  Langham sighed. ‘Let’s see how this pans out,’ he said, ‘and take it from there.’

  ‘Thank you, Langham. You know, I feel a little bit better for getting that off my chest.’

  Langham considered the initial blackmail letter. ‘There’s one thing that puzzles me,’ he said, watching the professor closely. ‘In that first letter, the blackmailer wrote: “If you don’t pay up, Nancy will find out.” But why does the blackmailer think that Nancy would be overly concerned – or, rather, why does he or she think that you wouldn’t want Nancy to know about your affair? Surely the person you wouldn’t want knowing is Xandra?’

  The professor pursed his lips as he contemplated the question. He appeared to be genuinely puzzled. At last, shaking his head, he said, ‘I honestly don’t know, Langham. Unless, of course, they meant to write Xandra, not Nancy.’

  ‘There is that possibility,’ Langham said, but didn’t believe it for one second.

  ‘So what now?’ the professor asked.

  ‘As I said, obey the instructions. Go to your bank, withdraw a hundred pounds in used five-pound notes, then leave it at the designated park bench and walk away. Leave the rest to me. We’ll meet up at four o’clock in the public bar of the Old Swan on the High Street in Hemshall. If I’m not there by four thirty, come back here and I’ll contact you later. Understood?’

  The professor nodded. ‘Thank you again,’ he said.

  Langham said he’d show himself out, then left the manor and made his way home.

  Over breakfast, he recounted his conversation with Professor Robertshaw. Maria listened in silence, then said, ‘Be careful, Donald. If this person realizes that you’re—’ She stopped. ‘I’ve just had a flash of déjà vu. That time, two years ago, when you delivered the cash to the blackmailer and received a cosh over the head for your pains …’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll be more careful this time.’

  He assisted her with the unpacking until midday, had a leisurely sandwich and a cup of tea, then set off for Market Hemshall, a small town five miles east of Ingoldby, at one o’clock.

  Langham parked the Rover outside a tea room across the road from the park, facing away from the town centre. He reasoned that if the blackmailer arrived by car, then he or she would desire a quick getaway into the country rather than risk a delay going through the busy town. If need be, he could follow at a moment’s notice.

  The snow had held off and the sun shone, bright but without heat. He left the car and made a casual circuit around the periphery of the park, a journey of perhaps a mile and a half which took him thirty minutes. The park was accessed by three entrances, one to the east, another to the west, and the third from the north. Stone lions guarded each entrance atop high stone pillars.

  He returned to the east entrance and strode into the park, his pace brisk as if he were simply a pedestrian taking the shortest route between two points. A wide tarmacked pathway linked the three entrances, bordered by clumps of hydrangea and rhododendron and empty flower beds. Park benches lined the path on both sides, positioned every twenty yards. He passed the first bench to his left; it was backed by a stand of elm which would provide inadequate cover. However, thirty yards away across snow-covered grass was a desolate-looking bandstand. He wondered if it was too obvious a place for him to lie in wait.

  He could see why the blackmailer had selected this place as the drop-off point. Other than himself, it was deserted. Pigeons vied with crows for scant pickings in the snow, their flurries of activity providing the only sign of movement in the park.

  He emerged from the northern entrance and followed the railings of the periphery around to the east. He consulted his watch. It was just after two o’clock. He would warm himself with a hot drink in the tea room and make his move at two thirty, employ the bandstand as an observation post and await developments.

  He ordered a cup of black tea and sat at a window table, wiping a porthole in the condensation with the cuff of his coat. From here he had a clear view of the road and the eastern entrance to the park, should the blackmailer show himself early. He sipped his tea and kept a lookout.

  Fifteen minutes later, a maroon Vauxhall pulled up behind his Rover and a smartly dressed, middle-aged couple climbed out and hurried back into town. He dismissed them immediately as not having the demeanour of citizens bent on blackmail.

  He kept an eye on the entrance, but not a soul entered the park or emerged from it. Few people passed the tea room, and those that did so hurried with the express intention of getting out of the freezing east wind as soon as possible.

  He glanced at his watch. It was almost half past two. He finished his tea, left the premises and, rather than enter the park by the eastern entrance in case the blackmailer was observing, he walked clockwise around the park and used the northern entrance.

  Ensuring that there was no one about to witness his curious behaviour, he stepped off the path behind a growth of rhododendron and made his way under cover of shrubbery around the inner periphery of the park towards the bandstand. The soil was wet, and he wished he’d thought to wear his gumboots. By the time he came to the margin of the shrubbery and halted, his brogues were caked in mud.

  He had intended to conceal himself behind the bandstand, but better still was an evergreen bush beside it. He slipped from the shrubbery and quickly crossed the snow to the bush, crouched and duck-walked into the boscage. He manoeuvred himself into a comfortable position, lowered a spray of leaves and peered out. He had an unimpeded view of the path and the designated park bench, and was confident that he was perfectly concealed from suspicious eyes. He looked at his watch. It was five to three.

  At one minute to three, he saw movement at the eastern entrance. The shambling figure of Professor Robertshaw, dressed in a Crombie coat and deerstalker, the battered leather valise tucked under his right arm, strode into the park and approached the first bench on the left of the path. The old man looked around, his attitude suspicious, as if he expected the blackmailer to be lurking in plain sight.

  The professor came to the bench, paused, looked ahead and then behind him to ensure that he was unobserved – for all the world like a ham actor playing the part of a spy in a bad B-movie – then placed the valise next to the bench’s iron leg. His duty done, he walked on without looking back and disappeared from sight around the bend of the pathway.

  Watching, Langham was aware of his increased heartbeat as he prepared himself to emerge and follow the blackmailer. He estimated he could cover the distance between his present position and the bench in ten seconds, the snow notwithstanding.

  A minute later, a black Ford Popular passed beyond the park entrance, pulled into the side of the road and parked just out of sight. He heard the car engine cut out and waited, counting the seconds.

  After a minute, the expected figure failed to appear. He inhaled the cold air and steadied his breathing.

  Something moved to his left, entering the park, and Langham tensed. He relaxed immediately when he saw that the newcomer was merely a dog – a medium-sized brown and white foxhound that trotted perkily along the path. He glanced left and right, but there was no sign of human activity. He settled down to resume his vigil, wondering how long it might be before the blackmailer chose to show himself.

  The park was silent and deathly still; even the pigeons and crows had departed. A wind started up, freezing him. He rubbed his hands and willed the blackmailer to hurry up.

  He returned his attention to the dog, which had increased its pace along the path. As he watched, incredulous, it dashed to the bench, grabbed the handle of the valise in its teeth, then turned and sprinted back along the path to the entrance.

  Thus the scuff marks on the handle were explained …

  The dog shot through the entrance and disappeared from sight.

  Langham dashed from his hiding place. He had intended to set off like a sprinter from the blocks, but the reality was somewhat different. Encumbered by shoes clogged with soil, and impeded by
lashing fronds, he fought his way free of the bush and staggered across the snow-covered grass, slipping and slithering as he went. He would admit, later, that he must have presented a comical sight as he chased the canine accomplice to blackmail, but at the time he was both frustrated that in all likelihood the dog had made its escape and annoyed with himself for not foreseeing such an ingenious pick-up.

  He heard a car door slam and an engine gun into life before he reached the stone pillars of the entrance. By the time he swung on to the pavement, the Ford Popular was at the end of the road and turning left, heading out of town.

  Langham sprinted across the road, slipped in behind the wheel of his Rover and started the engine. He pulled out into the road and accelerated, turned left and scanned the road ahead for the Ford. He caught a glimpse of it disappearing around a right turn between rows of houses. He increased his speed, thankful that the road was quiet. He came to the street and swung right. There was no sign of the car on the short road, which terminated in a T-junction. He came to the end of the street, pulled out a couple of yards, peered right and left, and swore heartily. The car had vanished.

  He had two options. The road to the right headed back into town; the road left meandered south into the countryside. He chose to turn south, reasoning that the Ford would be easier to spot in the snow-covered country than in the built-up town – though at this stage he was grasping at straws and trusting in blind luck.

  He accelerated through the outskirts of the town, and presently the semi-detached villas on either side of the road fell away to be replaced by rolling, snow-blanketed farmland. Ahead, he made out the grey ribbon of the road, undulating up and down hill and vale. There was no sign of the Ford Popular. He imagined the wily foxhound standing up on the back seat and peering through the rear window, its tail wagging in glee as its owner made good his escape.

  He swore to himself again, and then had to laugh as he imagined Maria’s reaction when he regaled her with his sorry tale.

  He drove for another two miles and came to the crest of a low rise. He cut the engine and slowed to a halt, then climbed out and scanned the land ahead. Under any other circumstances, he would have admired the beauty of the panorama, with the open land, scintillating under the low afternoon sun, stretching away for miles to the hazed horizon. All he felt at the sight, however, was frustration at the fact that there were no black cars to be seen on any of the narrow lanes that threaded their way through the countryside.

  Reluctantly, he made a three-point turn in the opening to a farmer’s field and headed back into Market Hemshall.

  He would have a consolatory pint at the Old Swan, explain his abject failure to the professor, then make his way home in the hope that Maria had cooked something heart-warming for dinner.

  He parked outside the public house, found an oily rag in the boot and did his best to make his mud-covered brogues half-respectable. It was after four o’clock when he entered the public bar and found Professor Robertshaw ensconced at a corner table with a small glass of sherry and smoking a cherrywood pipe. He ordered a pint of Fuller’s and joined the professor, rehearsing his opening gambit.

  His demeanour obviously forewarned the old man, as the professor said, ‘No luck, Langham?’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ He took a long drink of bitter.

  The professor sank back against the banquette. ‘I take it you caught sight of the blighter, though?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said again. ‘Not even that.’

  ‘But how the blazes—?’

  Langham sighed and placed his pint glass exactly on the centre of a beer mat. ‘Do you know anyone who owns a foxhound?’ he asked.

  The professor regarded him as if he’d taken leave of his senses. ‘Come again?’

  Langham repeated the question.

  ‘A foxhound? What the blazes?’

  ‘Recall those scuff marks on the handle of the valise?’

  Robertshaw lowered his bushy eyebrows. ‘What about ’em?’

  ‘They were made by the teeth of a dog, a foxhound, trained to pick up the valise.’

  ‘You mean to say we were outfoxed by a foxhound!’

  Langham smiled. ‘That’s one way of putting it,’ he admitted. ‘The dog trotted into the park, as happy as you like, snatched up the valise and jumped into a waiting car. I gave chase, but the driver lost me.’

  ‘You didn’t get its registration?’

  ‘Too far away.’

  ‘Well,’ the professor muttered, ‘I suppose you did your best.’

  Langham took another mouthful of ale. ‘I suspect that the driver saw me in his rear-view mirror, so I shouldn’t think they’d use that pick-up ruse again. I’m sorry.’

  The old man scowled. ‘What did the note say? That if I inform the police or anyone else, I’ll pay the price? You think they’ll spill the beans?’

  ‘Hard to tell. That might just have been an idle threat. If they do reveal your secret, then they’re killing the goose that lays the golden eggs – and my guess is that the blackmailer is motivated by greed. I think they’ll lie low for a while, then demand another pay-out.’

  The professor swore and knocked back his sherry.

  ‘So,’ Langham said, ‘I take it you know no one who owns a foxhound?’

  ‘No, not a soul.’

  ‘What about anyone who drives a black Ford Popular – though I suspect the blackmailer was taking no chances and probably stole the car.’

  Robertshaw shook his head. ‘No one springs to mind, Langham. So, what do we do now?’

  ‘There’s not a lot we can do,’ he admitted, ‘other than sit tight and wait.’

  ‘Not to worry, old boy.’ The professor laughed. ‘Who would have foreseen they’d use a bloody dog, hmm?’

  Langham smiled at that and drained his pint.

  He asked the professor if he could stand him another sherry, but Robertshaw said he’d better be making tracks, gathered his deerstalker and left the pub.

  Langham considered a second pint, then thought better of it and drove home.

  Maria was in the kitchen, peeling potatoes at the sink. She turned, smiling, when he entered the room, but her smile faltered when she saw his expression.

  ‘What? The blackmailer got away?’

  ‘I’ll say they did. I was well and truly stymied.’

  She looked alarmed. ‘You’re not hurt?’

  ‘The only thing that’s hurt is my pride,’ he admitted.

  ‘What happened?’

  He sat down on a dining chair, braced his hands on his thighs and laughed.

  ‘Donald?’ she said, laughing also, but a little uncertainly.

  ‘The valise …’ he began, ‘… the valise … was picked up by a ruddy dog!’ And he explained the farrago in the park.

  ‘Oh!’ she said, wide-eyed. ‘Oh, you poor man!’ Then her concerned expression collapsed and she laughed. ‘A dog?’

  It was almost worth the abject failure to witness Maria’s tearful mirth.

  ELEVEN

  ‘What I really like about moving house,’ Maria said the following morning, ‘is meeting new people. There they were, existing before you knew them, with their own lives, cares and concerns, and then you move in and meet them. And it’s almost as if you’ve known them for years and can’t believe that you didn’t know them before.’ She paused. ‘Am I making sense, Donald?’

  They were in the master bedroom, unpacking boxes. Donald was prying open the hardboard lid of a packing crate to reveal folded bed linen. He looked up and smiled. ‘Perfect sense, my sweet. I was thinking just that the other day in the pub with Roy – I felt as if I’d known him for a long time.’

  ‘Take Nancy – I feel so close to her, despite the age difference and everything else.’

  ‘Everything else? You mean despite your worldly sophistication and her gauche naivety? Despite your intellectual superiority?’

  She threw a duster at him. ‘I don’t feel intellectually superior at all. Despite our differences,
we’re still close.’

  ‘Maybe she reminds you, on some level, of your chums at boarding school in Gloucestershire. Where do you want these?’

  ‘In the chest of drawers.’ She laid her head on one side, considering. ‘There is something schoolgirlish about her, isn’t there?’

  Donald slipped the folded sheets into the drawer. ‘She’s led a sheltered existence. Straight from boarding school to looking after her aunt.’ He hesitated. ‘I hope she and Roy hit it off.’

  ‘They’re certainly attracted to each other,’ she said. ‘I just hope the combined forces of Professor Robertshaw and Randall don’t conspire to nip their romance in the bud.’

  ‘The prof’s just a reactionary old duffer,’ he said.

  ‘And Randall?’

  ‘A privileged, arrogant, self-centred …’

  She looked at him. ‘Go on – a self-centred what?’

  ‘I was going to say “egotist”, but that would be tautological, wouldn’t it?’

  She helped him unpack the crate and put the bed linen away in the drawers, considering the other people she’d met, and liked, in the village since the move.

  ‘What do you think of the Wellbournes?’ she asked.

  ‘I like Richard. He seems a solid, dependable, open sort of chap. I can’t say I’ve spoken to Harriet that much. She seems a little … what’s the word? Odd?’

  ‘But in a nice way?’

  ‘Oh, she’s harmless enough.’ He laughed.

  ‘It’s interesting how they seem to have unconsciously replaced their son with Roy Vickers, isn’t it?’

  He looked at her. ‘What makes you think it’s unconscious?’

  She pressed a top sheet flat and pushed the drawer shut. ‘I don’t know. I just assumed it was. Do you think it was intentional, their offering him the caravan? I mean, of course they knew they were offering it, but that they were conscious of replacing their son in doing so?’