“Hocking Estate,” I answered simply. His breath caught and his eyes widened, understanding clear on his face. It vanished into a grimace and a sigh, and he gave a reluctant jerk of the head, opening the door to let me in.
The house was as simple inside as it was outside, like an Ikea catalogue of basic furniture with the occasional artwork making it more homely.
He showed me up the hallway to the open-plan kitchen and living room,
“Tea?” he asked, already setting to fill the kettle.
“Please,” I replied, letting him busy himself. I waited quietly, sitting at the table as he filled the kettle with water and set it to boil, popping tea bags into mugs. He kept his back to me as he waited, his shoulders tight, hands gripping the surface with white knuckles. I kept quiet, looking around the 70s style house, the collection of books on the shelf, the admirable collection of DVDs by the television and the scattering of photographs. Only one was close enough to see; of him as a child in the arms of a very beautiful woman whose eyes and hair he shared. Selene Whitlock.
He slid a cup of tea over. “Sugar?”
“No, thank you.”
He gave a nod and sat down, cradling his mug. “So,” he began slowly, “you know who I am?”
“I know you’re the son of Selene Whitlock,” I answered. “I don’t know who your father is.”
He laughed humorlessly. “That makes two of us. But you know,” he met my gaze, “who the candidates are?”
I nodded, and he seemed to relax a little, slumping down in his chair.
“Why?” he asked simply. A small word, a lot of questions. Why was I here? Why did I know?
“I’m investigating the robbery of a painting from the Hocking estate,” I told him, “a very important painting to the Lord of the estate. One that your mother I am told was very fond of.”
Sebastian let out a long sigh through his nostrils, glancing at the photograph on the dresser. “Sebastian Hocking Whitlock,” he said, “not that I ever use the whole thing.”
“You knew it was one of them?”
He nodded sadly. “She never did say who. Sometimes I wonder if she even knew.”
“But you never cared to find out?”
He looked up sharply. “Why should I? They never bothered to, did they? Why would they? They’ve got proper families now. They didn’t help her. D’you know how many jobs she had to have?” His tone grew bitter. “How much work she had to do, how much she had to scrimp and save and starve just to raise me? Just to keep me?”
“More than she should have,” I answered. His expression softened in my direction, hopefully realising I was more his sort of person than theirs.
“She died, without anything. And I went into a strange home, into the foster system.” He drank his tea.
“You have good reason to be angry at them,” I told him. “All I want to find out is how angry you are.”
He looked back at me. “I want nothing to do with them,” he said slowly, evenly, “nothing at all. Not even a stupid painting.”
“Can I ask where you were, the evening of the eleventh?”
“Parents evening,” he told me. “I’m a teacher at a primary school.” They were on half term now, most of them. That was lucky timing. “Last one before we broke up. I was there till after eight, helping to clean up. And was home by nine. Stayed in.”
“Can anyone vouch for you?”
“The school,” he answered, “but I live alone. Unless you want to ask the pigeon that steals all the food I put outside.”
“How much easier my job would be if pigeons could confirm alibis,” I joked.
He grinned. “My neighbour saw me in the morning. Next door on the right. I bumped into him when I picked up the milk. Around six, if that’s any help.”
It wasn’t really, but I nodded all the same. “What about yesterday morning?” I asked.
“Here,” he gestured around, “trying to get some lesson plans done so that I can enjoy the next few days.”
“Again, can anyone vouch for that?”
“I had a friend over for a brew,” he said. “She came at around eleven. I can pass on her details.” He pulled out his phone and a scrap piece of paper, copying her name and number down. I took it, sticking it in my pocket.
“Do they know?” he asked me quietly. “About me?”
“They know you exist,” I told him, “but they don’t know who you are. One of them tried to find out, but no luck.”
He shook his head. “She wouldn’t have wanted them to know, I don’t think. At first maybe, but as the years went by,” he shrugged his bony shoulders, “she said we only needed each other.”
I studied his face, so conflicted in emotions and couldn’t help but feel sorry for him. “My mother raised me,” I told him, “with my grandparents, granted. But my father was never in the picture.”
“Did you ever meet him?”
“Only once. At her funeral,” I recalled darkly. “Called him a bastard, punched him in the face and never saw him again.” I took a sip of tea, smirking slightly at the memory. Still had the faint scars on my knuckles if I angled them right.
Sebastian smiled too. “I don’t think I’m the man you’re looking for,” he said, “however angry at them I am. However, much I blame them for what happened to her,” he gave a slow shake of the head, “what would I get from it?”
“That’s what I’m trying to figure out, Mr Whitlock. Someone’s getting something from it. What do you teach?” I asked him abruptly.
“History,” he said proudly, “year eight.”
“A good subject,” I acknowledged, “I imagine you pick up all sorts,” I thought of Mills and his bizarre collection of facts. “Probably random bits of Greek and Latin, eh?” I took another sip of tea.
Sebastian angled his head, curiously. “Here and there. Inscriptions,” he said, “on tombs and documents.”
“Any local history?” I asked. “Around the war or anything?”
“The war yes, but nothing local really. I’m afraid most of my students are only interested in Henry the Eighth and all his blooming wives.”
“Isn’t everyone?” I remarked. “Mr Whitlock. Did your mother ever talk about her time at the estate? About the painting or the land, itself?”
“A little,” he said, “but not often. She said she missed the lake sometimes, missed the early mornings there. Missed the other maids, too and the steady pay-check.”
“Did she ever mention another maid’s name?” I asked him, leaning forward.
“Maura?” He scrunched his face in thought, looking not too dissimilar to Rose. “Moira or something.”
“Maud?”
A nod. “Yeah, that’s it. Maud. She always liked Maud.”
I made a mental note of that, deciding that it might be more fruitful to talk to the maid away from the estate. “But she never thought about going back?”
“Never. Not even when we were struggling,” his face turned sour and his grip on his mug tightened, “she wouldn’t face it there. Not after she heard they were both married.”
I frowned at that. From what I had gathered from Richard Sandow, he had married after hearing that Selene was dead.
“Sebastian,” I treaded carefully, “can I ask when your mother passed?”
“Would have been nine or ten at the time,” he answered, “ten. I remember the first birthday cake at the foster home. Eleven candles.”
That was interesting.
“Can you remember when your mother learnt that they were both married?”
“She knew about Lord Hocking from the off.” He waved a dismissive hand. “It’s why he never helped her, because he was starting his own family. The other one, whatever his name was, I don’t remember exactly.” He frowned, deep in thought. “We were living in the flat,” he murmured to himself, “and we moved from there not long after. Only lived there five years, I think.”
“You would have been five?”
He nodded in confirmation.<
br />
A visit to Maud the maid, and another chat with Richard Sandow loomed in my horizon.
“Thank you, Sebastian. I think that should be it for now. I might have some more questions for you though, at some point.”
“No problem. But I’m back at the school next week.”
“I’ll bear it in mind,” I answered, pulling my card from my pocket and handing it over as we both rose from our chairs. “In case you need anything.”
He took it with a grateful nod and walked me back to the front door. As he opened it, I paused on the threshold.
“Sebastian, if they wanted to meet you, would you allow it?”
“Honestly?” He sighed again. “I really don’t know, Inspector. But I’ll let you know if I decide. Just don’t arrest me if I punch them and call them bastards.”
I chuckled. “I doubt they’d press charges anyway,” I told him.
He smirked and shook my hand and I headed back to my car, returning to the station, somehow, even more unsure about the case then I was last night.
Sixteen
Thatcher
Things weren’t adding up. From what I had understood from Richard Sandow, he had tried for some time to find Sebastian after Selene had died and only then had he moved on to find himself a new family. But according to Sebastian, Selene didn’t die until after both brothers were already married. Timeline aside, other things eluded me. I drove back to the station, with plans forming in my mind to have another chat with Mr Sandow, and also with Maud.
She had been there, when all of this happened, she had known Selene and the brothers, might have even been the one to tell them about Selene’s pregnancy. And her perspective would offer something new. No loved scorned brothers in a rivalry or, rightfully, bitter Sebastian who probably didn’t pay all that much attention to the details in his mother’s life before he came along. But Maud, Maud would have seen both romances, if that is indeed what they were, and she’d have seen the aftermath. She had probably even been there when that painting was hung up in the bloody study. And not just any painting, Selene’s painting.
Maybe Sebastian was bitter, maybe he wanted to take something from the man he blamed for her difficulties in life, wanted to take the only thing they had left of her, the only thing he should be the one to own.
Maybe Richard Sandow had never gotten over the loss, had never forgiven his brother for what happened those years ago.
Maybe the butler knew all of it and was using it as leverage, a weakness that he could twist like a knife to ensure his family keeps their position at the house.
Or maybe I’d been following the wrong trail altogether. Maybe a drunken party guest had got lucky with opening the door and had simply liked the painting. Or perhaps the drunken guests were all correct, and a waiting staff looking for extra money took a chance. It was a small painting, maybe they didn’t think that it would be missed.
The questions, the doubts, the maybes went round and round in my head, fogging and distracting. I made it back to the station though, feeling detached and tired as I made my way back upstairs. Luckily, I managed to get to our office without anyone stopping me, collapsing at my desk and burying my head in my arms. I craned my face to the side, peering at the photograph of my mother between the gap in my arms. I got the feeling she’d have known which trail to follow. She was good at that, at people, better than I’ve ever been.
The office door opened, and someone stalled in the entrance, then it was shut hastily, and feet ambled over towards me.
“Sir?” Mills quietly placed something down on my desk, the smell of coffee drifting towards me. I sat up, rubbing my face, and looked at him. He looked better than I did. Fresher in the face, but maybe that was his age. He gave me a crooked smile and pushed the mug closer towards me with a finger.
I took it gratefully and Mills dragged a chair round, sitting opposite me, his own mug in hand.
“How d'you get on, sir?”
“Interestingly,” I began, and delved into what I had learned from Sebastian Whitlock. Mills frowned several times as I spoke, making little notes and comparing them to my account of Richard Sandow. When I finished recounting my morning, I slumped back, cradling my mug as Mills’s face scrunched up with thought.
“I thought Richard Sandow didn’t marry until after Selene had died,” he muttered.
“That’s what he said.”
“But Sebastian said that she died after he was already married.” I nodded, and he looked more confused, leaning back from the desk with a sigh. “Well, one of them is lying!” he exclaimed.
“Which is why,” I told him, “I’d like to speak to Maud.”
“The maid?”
“Yes. She was there, maybe she’ll be able to clarify a few little things for us.”
Mills nodded and rubbed his eyes. “I got a schedule sent in from Dennis,” he told me. “Today’s her day off. We can catch her away from the estate.”
I was pleasantly surprised at that. At Mills for having the foresight to get a schedule, and at Dennis the butler, for being more compliant with all of this than I had originally anticipated.
“Do we have an address?” I asked.
“We do. She lives just outside the city, a town halfway between here and there.”
“What about a number?”
“We have that too,” he said, a little confused.
“Give her a call, ask her to meet us somewhere in the city,” I told him, standing up and draining my cup empty.
“Why?” Mills asked after a hesitant pause.
“Mostly, because I want some lunch. But also, we don't have much cause to turn up at her door, and I don’t want Sharp clicking her tongue at us.”
“Fair enough,” Mills stood up too, finishing his own coffee. I left him in the office to find the number and make the call and headed out to Smith’s desk, where she was frowning at the image from the security camera at the Hocking estate.
“Smith,” I greeted her, and her face lifted up.
“Sir. I have the number plate you wanted to run,” she told me fishing out a sheet of paper. “It’s registered to a William Carmichael. Mills said he was one of the waiters at the party.”
Will, I recalled, with the cigarette. I gave her a nod to continue.
“We spoke to him. Apparently, Nadia doesn’t have her own car, so she borrowed his to pick up those few things left behind. Seemed a bit on edge to tell us but I think that’s more to do with insurance. I told him it would all be fine,” she added demurely.
Another nod from me, it would be. I had more on my plate than to go around dealing with cars and insurance, could barely figure out my own truth be told.
“Thank you, Smith. If you can, check out an alibi for me.” I handed her the slip of paper Sebastian had given me, and the rough outline of the time and place. She took it with a faint scowl, and I grinned down at her, looking to the office door as Mills emerged.
“She can meet us in half an hour,” he said as he walked over, both of our coats in hand. “I’ve got the name of the café.”
“Plenty of time for lunch then,” I said happily, taking my coat and heading out into the city.
We ate on the go, wandering along the grounds of the Minster, dodging groups of tourists and pigeons until it was time to meet Maud.
She bustled into the small café not long after we did, collapsing down at the sofa opposite us, looking a whole sight different to yesterday. Her hair was let down from its neat bun, her clothes were bright and colourful, a knitted jumper and a blue coat. No longer a maid, she looked like any other granny in the city.
“Detectives,” she greeted us as she settled herself down.
“Thank you for coming to meet us, Mrs Paisley,” Mills replied.
“Just Maud,” she waved a motherly hand, “please.”
“We wanted to ask you a few questions,” I began evenly, “about Selene Whitlock.”
She looked from myself to Mills with wide eyes, her cheeks flushed, but quickly
gave a small little nod and sat back. “I suppose you’d have to know about her, given the business that brought you to us.”
“Do you remember her?” I asked.
“Oh, yes,” she nodded, “Selene was a lovely girl. Utterly lovely. Pretty girl, smart, very hardworking.”
“And she became involved with Lord Hocking and his brother.”
“I didn’t know,” Maud said, “and I know that’s hard to believe but you must believe me, Inspector. I simply didn’t know. I knew that they all got on, that they liked her, but not that there was any romance between them. I spent most of my time looking after her Ladyship and Rosemary back then, in her last few years.”
“When did you find out?”
“After Selene left. I knew she was having a baby, and that she wanted a new place to raise it. But I didn’t know whose it was. And then one day those boys were having an awful row,” she shook her head with a tut, “so I go to set things right. Blaming each other, they were, for her being gone. So, I told them,” she lifted a finger, “it’s nowt to do with you boys, she’s having a baby is all.” She rolled her eyes. “Well, you would think I just told them they’re having cabbage soup for dinner the way set off.”
She spoke of them with a tired sort of affection. A woman who has known them all for so long, who can’t help but treat them like a mother. Perhaps she treated Selene like one too.
“And after that?”
She sighed sadly. “Well, it’s a bit of a blur. Another row, this one worse. And then Richard left, and I’ve not seen him since. Lord Hocking married her ladyship of course, and Henry came along. That was lovely, the house was so full of life again.”
“Did you stay in touch with Selene?” I asked.
“Not at first,” she admitted, “but when I learnt about what happened with her and those boys, I reached out. She wouldn’t take help from anyone, of course she wouldn’t, but I did the odd spot of babysitting she’d let me do. Course when I was there, I’d clean the place and get a pie in the oven for her.” She winked. “Last I saw her was not long before she died, they’d moved from that flat and I was telling her about the Lord and Richard. She’d asked after them.”
DCI Thatcher Yorkshire Crime Thrillers: Books 1-3 Page 39
