Murder at Standing Stone Manor

by Eric Brown

  ‘So your lovely wife told you about our little contretemps, did she?’ Randall grinned. ‘Some woman you’ve got yourself there. Feisty? I’ll say!’

  Langham indicated the house. ‘Your uncle seems to have shut up shop for the day.’

  Randall peered at the darkened windows. ‘That’s odd.’

  ‘He might be ill.’

  Randall nodded absently. ‘He’s not a well man, Langham. Suffers periodic blackouts. If he knows what ails him, he’s never told me.’

  Langham wondered if Randall knew of his uncle’s addiction but was covering for him.

  ‘It’s odd that he told me he had a busy surgery this morning, and yet the place is closed. There’s a light on upstairs, round the back.’

  Randall followed Langham down the drive. They rounded the end of the house and peered up at the window. ‘That’s his apartment,’ Randall confirmed. ‘I wonder if he’s all right?’

  ‘I tried rattling the panes with gravel. No luck.’

  The young man looked worried, but he had no qualms about alerting the neighbours. He cupped his hands around his mouth. ‘Spencer!’ he called. ‘Come on, Uncle, open up!’

  ‘If he’s passed out …’ Langham began.

  ‘You’ve tried all the doors?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Mrs Greaves,’ Randall said. ‘She opens the waiting room every morning, so she’ll have a key.’

  ‘Do you know where she lives?’

  ‘Just a few streets away – I gave her a lift home once.’ He hurried down the drive to his car. ‘Back in a jiffy,’ he called.

  Langham watched him reverse from the drive and race away.

  He turned his collar up against the fierce wind as the snow assumed blizzard proportions. He paced the drive in a bid to keep warm, wondering if Dr Robertshaw would be in any fit state to prescribe the requisite medication if he was, as Langham suspected, suffering from the effects of his addiction.

  A few minutes later, Randall turned into the drive, jumped out and rounded the car to the passenger door. ‘Mrs G insisted on coming back with me,’ he explained as he assisted the woman from the car.

  ‘I was ever so worried this morning,’ Mrs Greaves began, then saw Langham and stopped. ‘Oh, it’s you.’

  Randall said. ‘I can vouch for Langham, Mrs G. Give me the keys, would you?’

  She passed him a bunch of assorted keys and followed him to the front door.

  Langham said, ‘I understood that Doctor Robertshaw had a full surgery today?’

  ‘He did,’ Mrs Greaves said, ‘but he took badly at nine o’clock. One of his funny turns. He said it might be wise to close for the day, which is just what I did, then contacted all the patients who had appointments. They weren’t best pleased, I can tell you.’

  ‘Has this happened before?’

  ‘We’ve never had to close like this, no,’ she replied. ‘For some reason, Doctor Robertshaw’s dizzy spells tend to occur later in the day.’

  Which, Langham thought, made admirable business sense.

  Randall unlocked the front door and led the way inside. A brown linoleum passageway led to a flight of steps. Randall ascended the stairs two at a time and Langham brought up the rear.

  ‘Spencer!’ Randall called out as they emerged on to a carpeted landing. He pushed open a door to reveal a cluttered living room, the stereotypical ill-kempt abode of a bachelor. There was no sign of the inhabitant.

  ‘Spencer!’ Randall called again, and Langham detected concern in his voice.

  Across the corridor, the bedroom was also vacant. Randall led the way to another room and opened the door to what was obviously the doctor’s study.

  The young man stepped inside, then quickly backed out.

  ‘Mrs Greaves,’ he stammered, ‘I … I don’t think …’

  ‘Oh!’ the woman said, ignoring Randall’s advice and peering into the room. ‘Oh, my!’ A hand pressed to her mouth, she backed moaning from the room. ‘Holy Mary …’

  Langham took her weight and assisted her to the living room, easing her into an armchair and looking around the room. He found a drinks cabinet, poured her a stiff measure of brandy and pressed it into her shaking hands.

  He returned to the study.

  Randall was still on the threshold, leaning against the woodwork. Langham placed a solicitous hand on the young man’s shoulder and eased past him.

  Dr Robertshaw sat at his desk, slumped back in a chair. His left arm, its shirtsleeve rolled up, hung over the arm of the chair and a hypodermic syringe was stuck in the crook of his elbow. The man’s face was bloodless, his mouth open and his eyes closed. Langham was unable to tell if the expression on his face was one of ecstasy or agony.

  He felt for a pulse and was surprised to find that the doctor was still alive.

  ‘Is he …?’ Randall said from the doorway.

  ‘Ring for an ambulance!’ Langham snapped. ‘He’s alive – just.’

  Randall snatched up the receiver on the desk, dialled 999 and stammered a request for an ambulance. He answered a series of questions, becoming increasingly upset, and he was shaking when he slammed down the phone.

  ‘They’re on the way. Is there anything we can do?’

  Langham had loosened the man’s tie but was loath to move him from the chair and arrange him in the recovery position on the floor.

  ‘It might be best to wait till the experts arrive.’

  Randall stared at the syringe hanging macabrely from the sunken vein. ‘What …?’ he said, pointing to the syringe.

  Langham looked at the young man. ‘You didn’t know he was addicted?’

  Randall hesitated, then shook his head. ‘No … No, I didn’t. Addicted to … to what?’

  ‘I suspect heroin or some such.’

  ‘Good God, no. I knew he wasn’t well, but I had no idea …’

  The sound of sobbing reached them from the living room. ‘Go and see to Mrs Greaves, would you?’ Langham ordered. ‘I’d better phone the police.’

  The young man stumbled from the room. Langham picked up the phone and got through to the station and Detective Inspector Montgomery.

  ‘How can I help you, Langham?’

  ‘It’s Doctor Robertshaw – Professor Robertshaw’s brother. We’ve just found him, and he’s in a bad way.’ He briefly outlined what he and Randall had discovered at the surgery.

  ‘Right, I’m on my way.’

  Langham replaced the receiver and paced the room, then moved to the window and stared out. The snow was coming down in great, inflated flakes, obscuring the view of the town’s grey rooftops. He heard Randall’s voice from the next room as the young man did his best to comfort the distraught Mrs Greaves.

  A little later, he heard the sound of engines, then the front door opening and footsteps on the staircase.

  He stepped on to the landing. ‘In here,’ he said as a balding man he assumed was a doctor appeared at the top of the stairs, followed by two ambulance men carrying a stretcher.

  Langham ushered them into the study. The doctor took Robertshaw’s pulse, conferred with the ambulancemen who eased the unconscious man from the chair and on to the stretcher. The hypodermic needle had been removed, and a thread of blood trickled down his arm and dripped from his fingers. Langham stepped out on to the landing.

  He heard footsteps on the staircase and Montgomery appeared. The detective nodded to Langham, saw the activity in the study and joined the medics.

  Langham moved to the end of the landing where a window overlooked the street. He was in the process of lighting his pipe when Montgomery stepped from the study and joined him. ‘The medico is hedging his bets: he’s not saying whether or not it was a deliberate overdose, but it was a massive injection.’

  ‘Will he live?’

  ‘Touch and go,’ Montgomery said. ‘To be on the safe side, I’m treating it as a crime scene. I’ve called out the team. Forensics are on their way.’

  ‘Randall Robertshaw and the doctor’
s receptionist are in there,’ Langham said, indicating the living room.

  The ambulancemen edged from the room with the loaded stretcher and eased it through the door at the top of the staircase.

  Randall Robertshaw stepped on to the landing, watching the ambulancemen as they carried the stretcher down the staircase. He saw Montgomery and said, ‘I’d like to accompany my uncle, if that’s …’ He gestured toward the departing stretcher.

  ‘Off you go,’ Montgomery said.

  ‘A quick word,’ Langham said to the young man. ‘I advise you to take your mother to a hospital and explain the situation about the painkillers, sooner rather than later.’

  ‘I’ll do that,’ Randall said. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘And I’m sorry about …’ Langham said, nodding towards the stairs. ‘If you need to talk to someone, you know where to find me.’

  Randall thanked him again and hurried down the stairs after the ambulancemen.

  ‘What’s the situation with Richard Wellbourne?’ Langham asked Montgomery.

  The detective swore. ‘I sent Bruce in to give him the hard word.’ He shook his head. ‘He’s sticking to his story. He admits he was there that night and had an altercation with the professor, but that’s it. And he’s adamant about the fingerprints on the gun – says the professor showed him the ruddy thing weeks ago.’

  ‘So you’re letting him go?’

  ‘I’ll let him sweat for a while, and then he can go – for the time being.’

  ‘Would it be all right if I drop by and give him a lift back to Ingoldby?’ Langham hesitated. ‘You never know, he might say more in the car.’

  Montgomery thought about it. ‘Good idea. I’ll ring Bruce from the telephone downstairs and tell him you’re on your way.’

  Below, a door opened and heavy footsteps sounded on the staircase. Montgomery greeted his forensics team and led them into the study.

  Langham moved to the living room and found Mrs Greaves crying quietly on the settee.

  ‘Oh, Mr Langham!’ she said. ‘I saw the syringe, stuck in his arm! Do you think …?’

  ‘I honestly don’t know what to think, Mrs Greaves,’ he said. ‘Come on, I’ll drive you home.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you, Mr Langham. Wait till I tell my hubby about poor Doctor Robertshaw, God bless him.’

  He assisted the weeping woman down the stairs and out to the car.

  After dropping Mrs Greaves at a small, terraced house half a mile from the surgery, he drove to the police station. He found Richard Wellbourne, incongruous in his farm-soiled overalls, sitting in the waiting room.

  The farmer smiled when he saw Langham.

  ‘Am I glad to see you!’ Wellbourne said. ‘I thought they were planning to keep me locked up all day. That Bruce chappie got all Gestapo earlier, then the desk sergeant was as nice as ninepence when he came in and said I could go.’

  ‘Come on, let’s get you out of here.’

  ‘Am I looking forward to seeing Harriet’s expression when I walk into the room!’ Wellbourne said.

  They hurried from the station to Langham’s car.

  TWENTY

  Maria soon discovered that Harriet Wellbourne had a prodigious capacity for imbibing tea. She made a second pot, carried it back into the living room and poured the farmer’s wife what she estimated must be her sixth cup, strong and black.

  They sat side by side on the sofa and watched the dancing flames of the fire.

  ‘Time seems to slow down in situations like these,’ Harriet said. ‘Do you have any idea how long they might keep him?’

  ‘I’m not at all sure, but I do know that Donald will be doing his best to talk sense into Inspector Montgomery.’

  Harriet was silent for a time. ‘I’ve been thinking, Maria – my thoughts have been swirling round and round. Richard did go over to see the professor on Tuesday night, as he wasn’t at all happy with what he’d discovered at his solicitors. So I couldn’t help thinking … what if Richard and Edwin argued, then tussled, and in the heat of the moment the professor drew his gun and … and Richard had to defend himself.’ She stared at Maria with wide eyes. ‘What if my Richard did shoot the professor?’

  Maria shook her head. ‘Harriet, I think if it did happen like that, then Richard would have done the sensible thing. He would have gone to the police and told them exactly what had happened, like the honest man he is. Anyway, it looked to me as if the professor wasn’t killed accidentally during a fight – the wound was to the side of his head, aimed precisely by the killer. I know it’s difficult, but try not to worry.’

  Harriet hugged her cup. ‘This is a nightmare …’ She was silent for a time, then went on, ‘At least Roy’s at the farm; he’ll look after things while Richard’s gone. It’s reassuring that I can depend on him. He’s a good boy, all things considered.’

  Maria looked at her questioningly. ‘“All things considered”?’

  ‘You’re an intelligent woman, Maria. You must have wondered about … about Roy, his story.’

  Maria smiled. ‘Well, Donald and I have discussed him—’

  ‘I know that he wasn’t in the RAF,’ Harriet said, surprising Maria. ‘As soon as he came to the farm, asking Richard for work, I knew his story didn’t quite add up. I knew, up here. My sixth sense, as Richard would call it.’ She tapped the side of her head and smiled. ‘Roy’s stories, the way he told them – they weren’t convincing.’

  ‘So …?’

  ‘So I checked. I have a friend in Bury whose husband is a military buff. Roy said he’d been stationed at Waddington, a rear-gunner with the Forty-Four Squadron, flying Lancasters. My friend checked the squadron records, and no one by the name of Roy Vickers ever flew for them – nor was he on the ground staff, an engineer or a technician or the like.’

  ‘But he did work at the quartermaster’s stores in Lincoln during the war?’

  Harriet sighed. ‘Not even that. My friend’s husband contacted people who worked on the base at Lincoln, and no one knew anyone by the name of Vickers.’

  ‘So he lied? Do you think it was deliberate; he knew that you …?’ she faltered, staring down at her cup.

  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t have countenanced anyone who had deliberately lied and taken advantage of us like that, knowing about Jeremy. That would have been unconscionable, Maria. No, what happened was that he came to the door one day a couple of years ago and asked Richard if he needed anyone to help around the farm. He said he had experience, having worked on a farm in Norfolk for years. As it happened, we’d let someone go just that autumn, and Richard was working all hours to get things done. So he took Roy on for a few hours a day and let him live in the caravan in the meadow. And you see, young Roy was wearing that dirty RAF greatcoat and squadron tie, and Richard just assumed, without asking questions, that he was an ex-flier. As time went on, well … Roy never lied, outright, so much as never really told the truth, and it got to the point that everyone in the village assumed he was ex-RAF, so he played up to the part. I suppose he did lie, then, to keep up appearances, as it were.’

  ‘But you knew the truth?’

  Harriet nodded. ‘Very early on. The way he looked uncomfortable, especially when the war was mentioned in Richard’s company. I believe Roy felt uneasy at pulling the wool over Richard’s eyes.’

  ‘So Richard doesn’t know?’ Maria asked.

  Harriet shook her head and smiled. ‘My husband has many attributes – trust and loyalty among them – but imagination is not his strong point. He would find it hard to understand why Roy found himself forced to perpetuate the lie. He wouldn’t understand the … the psychological pressure the young man must have found himself under for the past couple of years.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘So please don’t tell Richard anything about Roy. He would only be hurt, and Roy in turn would suffer. Things have been … well, for the past two years things have been going along very well.’

  Maria sipped her tea, then smiled at Harriet. ‘You mus
t have known about Roy and Nancy?’

  Harriet laughed. ‘I saw the change in Roy last autumn. He’d always been very quiet, almost uncommunicative, and he’d rarely smile. Then, all of a sudden, he seemed to blossom, come out of himself. He was even quite chatty from time to time. “Harriet,” I said to myself. “He’s found a girl.” Then I saw that young Nancy had changed the route of her walk and detoured down Crooked Lane, and five minutes after she passed by with that daft dog of hers, Roy would finish what he was doing and shoot off. Then Nancy started getting bold and meeting Roy some evenings at the caravan. Richard and I laughed about it.’

  ‘You didn’t disapprove?’

  Harriet laughed. ‘How could we? We were young once, Maria!’

  ‘It’s a pity others couldn’t have been so understanding.’

  ‘Oh, you mean the professor and that son of his?’ Harriet said, sniffing. ‘Nancy lived in fear of her uncle finding out. He was a miserable old soul, and no mistake. The girl’s twenty, for heaven’s sake – a young woman. He treated her like a child.’

  ‘What about Xandra?’

  ‘Despite the villagers hereabouts thinking her a bit snooty, I have a lot of time for Xandra. She’s never fitted in, despite her being here for ten years. I suppose it’s because she’s from London and an actress. But I’ll say this much for her – she treats Nancy like a human being; they get on well.’

  Maria refilled Harriet’s cup. ‘I must say, I don’t understand Randall’s animosity towards Nancy. She thinks it’s because she’s friendly with Randall’s former wife – and knows what a cheat Randall is.’ She shook her head. ‘But even so, his treatment of her seems excessive.’

  Harriet smiled and tapped Maria’s hand. ‘There’s more to that than meets the eye, believe you me,’ she said.

  ‘Go on,’ Maria said.

  ‘Well, I think Randall is thinking about the future. When he left his wife – or whatever happened – the professor was enraged. He knew Randall wasn’t the innocent party he claimed to be. I suspect Randall feared being cut from the professor’s will – and what with Nancy looking after Xandra …’