A Painted Devil

by Jamie Probin

  ‘Yes yes yes,’ interrupted Harris testily. ‘I can see where you’re going, Hollingsworth. You don’t have to beat the thing to death. Give me details of everything you have so far and I’ll look into your murder too.’

  The policeman’s entire bearing lightened with relief at this. As much as he was already remembering the many ways Harris could infuriate him, he was also recalling how perceptive the don could be. Hollingsworth would never admit it, but there was no one else he would rather have investigating the background of Ronald Asbury’s murder. Such was the weight off his mind at this unexpected boon he even found himself offering to buy Harris another drink.

  ‘I can help you out with any official information of course,’ continued Hollingsworth, returning from inside the Green Man with two pints of bitter, as though he had not even stopped talking. He trailed off with a puzzled expression. ‘Wait. There was something I meant to ask you earlier… Damn. I’ve completely forgotten what it was.’

  Chapter 9

  Hollingsworth continued to bemoan his sudden amnesia as the pair made their way to the last person on the list of those who paid a five pound note to Mrs Wall during the previous week. Now that he had Harris’ company, Hollingsworth had given PC Smethurst leave to return to the other duties demanding his attention. By now the constable had grudgingly accepted that this case was not the work of a homicidal lunatic as he had hoped, and accepted his dismissal. With his departing words he had warned his superior not to expect great results from the forthcoming interview with Richard Carmichael.

  These words had turned out to be prophetic. Squeezed into a cramped and untidy sitting room, Hollingsworth looked doubtfully at his host. If the policeman had harboured any hopes that his last lead might break open the case, they were being more firmly dashed with every non-committal grunt.

  Richard Carmichael was a surly man in his early thirties, for whom the effort of living seemed almost too much to be worth it. The only thing that seemed to rouse him into any state of energy was an occasional burst of cynicism. Slouched in a decrepit armchair, he had already sneered or sighed nearly all his answers to Hollingsworth’s initial questions.

  ‘Now Mr Carmichael, Mrs Wall tells me that you paid her with a five pound note during last week.’

  Hollingsworth paused, but received no response.

  He continued: ‘Do you recall the incident?’

  ‘Not really,’ came the bored reply.

  Hollingsworth shot a rueful look at Harris, who remained resolutely impassive.

  ‘Do you recall from where you obtained the five pound note?’

  ‘I really have no idea, detective inspector. Is it important?’

  ‘It might help catch a murderer,’ said Hollingsworth through gritted teeth. He was becoming irritated by the insolent young man in front of him.

  ‘Ah well,’ said Richard Carmichael, with all the regret of a man who had just ruined a tie he had never liked.

  Another spell of silence settled over the room.

  ‘So,’ said Hollingsworth eventually, ‘if you remember anything about last week…’

  ‘I’ve already told you,’ interrupted Carmichael, ‘I don’t remember anything.’

  The almost affected obnoxiousness of the responses might have seemed suspicious if Hollingsworth had not received the impression that his host showed the same attitude to everyone. He imagined there was little that Richard Carmichael considered worthwhile. There was something rather pitiful about the shabby young man in front of him, and yet it was hard to find sympathy when faced with such sardonic contempt.

  Without warning Harris spoke for the first time.

  ‘Tell me about the Wentworths.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The Wentworths,’ repeated Harris slowly and clearly, as if addressing a child. ‘I think you know them. Rich family. Live in a big house down the way. Your mother married one. Ring any bells?’

  ‘I know who you mean,’ scowled Carmichael, bristling at the patronising tone. ‘Why are you suddenly thinking about them?’

  ‘I’ve been thinking about them all morning. It’s what you think of them that interests me.’

  ‘Why should I tell you?’

  Harris shrugged. ‘No reason at all.’

  ‘I hate them,’ spat Richard Carmichael. Suddenly the dam burst. Gone was the wall of surly silence, breached by a river of vitriol. ‘I hate them all! I hate pompous Sir George Wentworth, and his stupid fat son Charles, but most of all I hate Alfred Wentworth, and I hope he is rotting in Hell.’ He paused, for a moment, breathing hard. ‘It could have been me, you know? Living in that manor house. Not wanting for anything.’

  Harris, who knew this torrent of venom had only been a matter of time, interjected: ‘Alfred Wentworth married your mother, I understand?’

  ‘Yes he did, that bastard. He decided he wanted her, and that was that. She gave him everything, and he just took her and used her and tossed her aside. And then he died and left her nothing. Nothing!’ Fire burned in the previously bored eyes, and Harris was not even sure their host was aware they were still in the room. He ranted as though he was reciting an angry soliloquy, rather than talking to another person. ‘She was lonely and afraid when they met, but all Alfred Wentworth saw was easy prey. She was helpless, and he took her soul.’

  Harris felt this was becoming a little too much like a Russian melodrama, and brought the conversation back to more practical matters.

  ‘What happened to your father? Another victim of the Great War?’

  ‘Killed at Ypres,’ nodded Richard Carmichael, and for a moment his hostility waned. ‘They had only been married a few years when the news came through. My mother was young and desperate. She had two young children to support. And for some reason Alfred Wentworth decided he would have her. She gave him her best years. She put up with all the drink, all the other women… she stayed with him until the end and he left her nothing.’

  ‘And you think he should have left her Blackwood Manor?’

  Carmichael brought his fist down on the arm of his chair.

  ‘He should have left her… left us something. Look at that house! Look at the money they have! Don’t you understand? We... got... nothing!

  ‘And do you know why? Because we’re not Wentworths.’ He spat the name with loathing. ‘That’s all they care about – the name.’

  ‘Well, it is a famous old name,’ commented Harris. Hollingsworth glanced at his friend. This was not how Harris normally spoke. He seemed to be pushing every button he could find on Richard Carmichael. ‘The Wentworth family is one of the oldest and most renowned in the country.’

  ‘And don’t they know it!’ said Carmichael with a short, humourless laugh. ‘It’s all we ever hear about from old George. How rich they were, how famous they were, how much the kings and queens loved them. I’m his family too, but I’m not a Wentworth! Oh no, I’m a Carmichael. And what value is that? Nothing!

  ‘All that matters is more Wentworths! More lines on the family tree to carry the name forward. And the pathetic thing is, the name he loves is mud to those who knew Alfred Wentworth! My beloved stepfather, with his affairs, and the abuse of his position, the womanising… What honour did Alfred Wentworth have? How could anybody be proud to share the name of that bastard?’

  Both Harris and Hollingsworth rightly assumed that this was a rhetorical question, and said nothing as Richard Carmichael continued with his tirade.

  ‘You would think George would have some shame over the antics of his father, but he just pretends they never happened. Instead he talks about one of his ancestors who fought alongside George II, as if events of two hundred years ago are more important than those of twenty!’

  The disgust on Richard Carmichael’s face showed no signs of fading. Harris and Hollingsworth had only met this young man fifteen minutes ago, yet they intuitively knew this topic dominated his entire life. The words weren’t the natural product of impulsive conversation, but well-worn speeches of pure hatred.
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br />   ‘You talk as if everyone knew Sir Alfred to be an unapologetic womaniser.’

  ‘They did. Ask anyone around the village. If they’re honest they’ll tell you the truth. He was shameless.’

  ‘Why do you think he married your mother then? Why not just let her be another one of his women?’

  Carmichael gave a forlorn shrug.

  ‘I’ve no idea. But frankly I wish he had. That marriage teased us with so much, then snatched it all away.’

  The fire finally died, and now a look of painful melancholy suffused their host’s face. Ten minutes ago Hollingsworth was sick of the man’s sneering expression, and was desperate to wipe it off. But then had come a burst of sheer bitterness and now he looked almost ready to cry, to the point that the policeman almost longed for the sneer to return. It was clear that no leads about the five pound note would be forthcoming from this confused and unpleasant young man, and Hollingsworth felt as morose as the other looked. He just wanted to leave as fast as possible.

  Harris considered Richard Carmichael for a moment.

  ‘Have you ever asked Sir George Wentworth for any money?’

  A thunderous expression crossed Carmichael’s face.

  ‘I have not! Who are you anyway, asking all these questions? You’re not with the police.’

  ‘You’re right,’ agreed Harris, ‘I have no right at all to be bothering you. Come Hollingsworth, let’s be about our business and leave Mr Carmichael to his.’

  Richard Carmichael stared as they suddenly stood. For the entire visit he had looked as though he wished the men would leave his house. Now, though, the abruptness of this movement nonplussed him. His mouth moved as though he were willing it to say something, but no words emerged in response to Harris’ swift “good day”, and he looked almost angry as they walked out the front door and along the small path back to the street.

  ‘Nice chap,’ murmured Hollingsworth as they walked back towards the train station.

  ‘Capital,’ agreed Harris, ‘I feel sure we shall become like brothers during my stay in Upper Wentham.’

  ‘My stay, on the other hand, is at an end,’ commented Hollingsworth with chagrin. ‘My lead with the banknote proved to be as useful as a pogo stick to Agatha Stretham.’

  ‘Agatha Who?’

  ‘Oh I forgot, our paths hadn’t crossed at that point. Well, take it from me, you can cross her from your list of suspects. But don’t make any sudden noises around her, unless you want a corpse on your conscience. Come on, let’s speed up. I might catch the express back to London if I can get to Bristol in two hours.’

  The two men arrived at the station and, despite Hollingsworth’s pessimistic predictions, the local Bristol train was right on time. As Harris cheerfully thrust his friend into a carriage the latter turned and spoke through the window.

  ‘I’ve just remembered what I meant to ask you at the pub. You said it wasn’t the length of time between the attempts on Charles Wentworth’s life that struck you as odd.’

  Harris nodded.

  ‘So what was it then?’

  ‘It seems to me that the attempts were singularly incompetent,’ said the don. ‘They didn’t fail through bad luck, so much as bad planning and downright ineptitude. However the masonry trick with the statue was arranged, surely it can’t be that difficult to knock the thing off whilst your victim is actually sitting underneath?

  ‘And as for the bullet… it’s hard to believe anyone could miss a shot from that range.’

  ‘It could just be bad luck. For the murderer I mean…’ began Hollingsworth, but Harris ignored this interruption.

  ‘And the poisoned chocolates were the most incompetent attempt of all. I ask you, what could possibly be the point of only putting a fraction of a fatal dose in each chocolate, so that the victim needs to eat four or five before being poisoned? If I wanted to kill someone that way – which, incidentally, I never would because it’s a ridiculously convoluted idea – I certainly wouldn’t go sparingly with the arsenic. More and better arsenic in every chocolate would be my motto.’

  ‘So what is your point?’ asked Hollingsworth, but his question was drowned by the scream of the whistle. As the train began to ease out of the station he attempted a form of mime intended to convey his desire that Harris keep him abreast of any development.

  With a broad grin and a cheery wave, Harris ignored him completely, and began thinking about where to eat dinner.

  Chapter 10

  With a sacrificial determination that did him credit, Harris walked right past the window of cakes and pastries thoughtlessly paraded by the tea room adjacent to the train station, and back towards the riverside path. He patted his stomach apologetically and marvelled at his professionalism as he made his way back past the Green Man and continued to the gates of Blackwood Manor.

  The gates, oversized like everything associated with this house, towered above Harris but stood open. He walked confidently through and followed the driveway as it wound toward the house. The grounds were immaculately tended, with lush green lawns complemented by kaleidoscope flowerbeds and occasional statues and topiaries, just few enough to add a touch of interest.

  On one flowerbed the figure of a young man was crouched low, toiling in the sun with his trowel. Harris saluted the gardener.

  ‘Excuse me, my good man,’ beamed Harris, who had a tendency to use such effusive greetings when in a good mood, ‘do you by any chance know if Sir George Wentworth is at home?’

  A brief but definite scowl crossed the man’s face as he looked at Harris. Then he turned to look at the house with a meditative air.

  ‘I think he is, sir.’ His accent was broadly northern. ‘Leastways I haven’t seen him go out, and I’ve been working on this garden all morning.’

  ‘You’re the head gardener?’

  The young man shook his head sullenly.

  ‘No sir, that would be Mr Kilgallon. I’m his assistant. Dunsett is my name.’

  ‘Well Mr Dunsett, allow me to compliment you and Mr Kilgallon on a beautiful landscape. I’m much obliged to you for your time.’

  Dunsett tipped his hat and begrudgingly flashed something approaching a smile.

  Harris continued toward the house and finally reached the large porch. He stood and looked at it for a moment, the rough-hewn concentric arches receding to a massive double door. It seemed vaguely ridiculous to simply walk up to this monolith and knock, and yet with no alternatives presenting themselves, he decided it was as good a strategy as any.

  The main entrance still used an old-fashioned bell-pull, on so large a scale that Harris required two hands to produce a ring. He heard the sound reverberate into the depths of the house. After a time the door creaked open to reveal a butler of the classic mould.

  ‘May I help you sir?’

  ‘Yes, my good man,’ beamed Harris once more, ‘you can. At least, I hope so. I would like to see Sir George Wentworth. My name is Dr Samuel Harris.’

  Perhaps Sir George’s habit was to have his door open to any passer-by; more likely, reflected Harris, the butler had been alerted to the possibility of this particular visit, and instructed to allow him entrance. Either way it was not long before he was shown through the hall and into a drawing room to be greeted by a tall, gangling man with slightly grizzled features and streaks of grey running through his thinning black hair. An angled nose tapered to a dramatic point, making his face look permanently annoyed. He rose and walked across the room, a pronounced limp hindering his progress.

  ‘Dr Harris. I’m George Wentworth. Pleased to meet you. Charles told me all about you and what you are doing for him. I’m very grateful.’

  Harris waved a dismissively regal hand, as though it were he who was the peer of the realm, and his host a lowly subject.

  ‘Think nothing of it Sir George.’

  ‘I am familiar with your name, of course. I know Lord Peversham and he spoke of you in glowing terms after you solved that business of the two heads at Peversham Hall. Said the
police would still be looking for clues today if you hadn’t worked the whole thing out.’

  ‘Oh no, no,’ demurred Harris, in a perfunctory and thoroughly unconvincing protest.

  ‘Don’t be modest. They say you’re the best, and I’m banking on it.’ Sir George fixed Harris with a piercing scrutiny. ‘Can you keep my son safe?’

  Harris eyed the peer astutely.

  ‘Do you think he’s in danger?’

  Sir George gave this question more consideration than Harris expected.

  ‘I keep hoping not. Trying to persuade myself they were just freak accidents. But deep down I don’t see how they can be anything other than deliberate attempts on his life.’

  ‘If that is the case, then I shall do everything in my power to stop them.’ Harris looked admiringly around the room. ‘This is a magnificent house you have here.’

  ‘Thank you. It is considered one of the finest examples of its type left in the country, you know. Can I get you a drink?’

  Harris answered that he certainly might, and his host approached the decanter lurking temptingly on the sideboard.

  ‘Blackwood Manor has housed eleven generations of the Wentworth family since it was built in 1683,’ he said as he poured, apparently feeling that Harris, as an honoured guest, should not have to make do with some abridged version of the house’s history. ‘Prior to that we owned an Elizabethan mansion on this same land.’

  Sir George Wentworth opened the French windows and the two men wandered onto the patio. He continued with further details of the house, moving on to talk about the role it, and the village of Upper Wentham, played in the Civil War. It seemed that Oliver Cromwell had spent a night in the previous family home. It also seemed possible, as he proceeded to recount some tale about an Archbishop of Canterbury who had once graced the current building, that Sir George intended to list every guest since.

  ‘You have an extensive knowledge of history, Sir George,’ commented Harris, hoping to stem this tide.