by Jamie Probin
‘Murdered?’ echoed Sir George, incredulously.
‘Yes. And for reasons which we need not go into right now it seems likely that his murderer is connected with Upper Wentham.’
Sir George gaped at him.
‘A murderer in Upper Wentham? Impossible!’
‘What do you mean, impossible? You’ve just been telling me that it’s a rare day indeed when your son and heir doesn’t get the undivided attention of the local assassin. You can’t complain if the fellow occasionally decides to give someone else a go.’
Sir George made a series of strange faces as he assimilated this information.
‘Are you saying that the same person who has tried to kill Charles also killed Ronald Asbury?’
‘It certainly seems more likely than the alternative, which is that one would be hard pressed to swing a cat in Upper Wentham without clocking a passing psychopath. No, I think we have to assume that the same person is behind both acts. The only difference being that in young Asbury’s case our murderer seems to have been considerably more efficient.’
‘Good Lord!’ exclaimed Sir George. His face looked stunned. Somehow this information changed matters. For months he had brooded over the attempts on his son’s life; yet to hear of actual death, of real and successful murder, gave an entirely new complexion to the affair. The idea that someone in the village – his village – could actually have killed…
‘Now,’ continued Harris, ‘this could drastically alter the context in which we must treat these attempts on Charles’ life, so think hard when I ask you this: is there any reason you can think of why someone should wish both Charles and Ronald Asbury dead? Any link between them?’
Sir George shook his head slowly, as though his neck needed oiling.
‘I can’t. It’s just unbelievable. I mean,’ he corrected himself, ‘of course there were plenty of links between them. The two of them were best friends for years during their youth and knew each other inside out. It was only really when Andrea came along that the two of them parted ways. In fact they were even working together on something during the first attempt on Charles’ life, when they were in St Anne’s and the statue fell.’
‘Ah yes,’ interrupted Harris, sharply. He leaned forward with a renewed interest. ‘I’ve been interested in that. Working on what, exactly? Do you know?’
An uncomfortable look passed across Sir George’s face, and he stood and wandered to the window. Silently he peered out at the countryside stretching away beneath the golden sun.
‘Perhaps “working together” is a misleading term. Charles and Ronald... I suppose it is inevitable in a village like Upper Wentham that boys of a similar age will be grouped together, and Charles and Ronald in particular had much in common. They both had a real investigative instinct, and they loved reading through old history books and documents. No doubt some of my love for history rubbed off on Charles. He saw it as more of a hobby, but I think Ronald wanted to make a career from it, some sort of journalistic research presumably. Joseph Hollins became editor of the local newspaper some years back and he loves printing those kinds of articles, historical revelations and that type of thing, so Ronald had done some freelance work for him I believe.
‘Anyhow, Ronald was very excited about some records he had found somewhere – in the church registry maybe, I’m not sure – and he wanted Charles to help him do some research. However this was also around the time when they began to argue over Andrea Ketterman. Charles was a little reticent about getting involved in a project with Ronald. He told me he planned to say no, but the next thing I knew the pair were off to St Anne’s.’
‘Intriguing. I wonder what young Asbury said to change his mind? Perhaps there was something particularly interesting in those records? At any rate it needs further investigation. Now then, how did this situation arise over Andrea Ketterman?’
‘With Charles and Ronald, you mean? I’m not sure which of them fell for her first, but before we all knew it they were fighting over her tooth and nail.’
‘But Miss Ketterman was not new to Upper Wentham was she?’
‘Not at all. She has lived here all her life. But you know how these things are with young men. One day a girl is just another face in the crowd, the next she is suddenly a modern day Helen of Troy. That was the way it was for Charles and Ronald with Andrea Ketterman.’
‘And so one day they both just suddenly fell in love with the same girl? That seems a little unlikely. Do you think any of it was competition between the pair of them?’
‘Oh I’m quite sure it was – to some degree, at least,’ agreed Sir George. ‘Young men like that find it hard to resist getting the upper hand don’t they? And Charles and Ronald were both as competitive as they come. They loved playing games together, but they both hated to lose. Anyway for a few weeks once this business over Miss Ketterman began there was a period of courtship like a Keystone Cops feature. One of them would invite her to dinner, the other would try and cadge an invitation or drop by speculatively; one of them would plan a picnic, the other would buy her tickets to a play on the same day.
‘Eventually it seemed that every meeting concluded with one of them tendering his application for the post of husband, and the whole thing became the village drama. I heard they were even placing wagers at the Green Man on who Miss Ketterman would choose. I told Charles that I felt the affair was unbecoming of our family name, but you know what young men can be like when the fairer sex is involved. Eventually she accepted Charles’ proposal of marriage. Ronald was furious and said it was only Charles’ money that had stolen her, whilst Charles responded that he had fallen in love with Andrea first, and Ronald was only wooing her to put one over him.’
‘I see. Well, it’s certainly hard for a friendship to survive that.’
Sir George laughed shortly.
‘The day when the statue fell in the church was quite early on in the affair. Relations at that point were showing strain, but it was still a friendly rivalry to some extent; it wasn’t long after that the two were no longer talking. Charles’ later refusal to help Ronald with his research only stoked the fire further, and within a week the two of them as good as loathed each other. They were both proud young men, and neither could stomach the idea of losing the battle.’
Harris nodded.
‘Yes, that’s not a situation with an amicable resolution, especially in a small village. However magnanimous the victor might be, there will be a fallout. So, how did Ronald Asbury react to the engagement?’
‘Well he didn’t rush out to buy them a fish slice,’ responded Sir George, dryly. ‘He left Upper Wentham the next day, and we subsequently heard that he had gone abroad. From what we were told, he returned not long ago and shot himself, but now you tell me he was murdered! Poor chap.’
Harris was surprised to hear his host express such sentiments; it seemed a little less reserved and more heartfelt than his usual cold and detached exterior. The sympathy passed in a heartbeat and Harris spoke again.
‘So you don’t know what it was that Ronald Asbury was researching?’
‘I’m really not sure. I had an idea that it was something to do with marriages perhaps, but that may simply be an association of ideas with the fact that I overheard him mention the church records. I imagine Joseph Hollins would have a better idea; he sometimes commissioned pieces from Ronald, so the article might have been his idea in the first place.’
The sense of martyrdom that Harris had enjoyed upon placing his duty above his stomach was beginning to wane, and an insistent appeal from the vicinity of his abdomen grew ever stronger. His next comment was, therefore, a somewhat brusque segue into the last business he needed to discuss.
‘Now then, Sir George, I want you to tell me everything you remember about the incidents on Charles’ life. Do not omit any detail that comes to mind, however insignificant you consider it.’
George Wentworth stretched his legs out and composed his thoughts for a moment, before speaking.
> ‘The first incident, as you call it – although I prefer the word “crime” – was the business in the church, last... October, was it? Or maybe early November? But I’ve already told you pretty much what I know of that. Charles and young Asbury were in the church researching the parish records, when a gargoyle or something similar fell from the balcony and smashed through a pew, right where Charles had just been sitting. Charles said he saw a figure running down the balcony stairs and out, but I think the others thought he was imagining things and if I’m to be honest, so did I at the time.’
Harris nodded approvingly.
‘For the second crime I was more on the spot, so to speak. Charles and Andrea were sitting together in the folly – one of those rather over-elaborate constructions of the Victorian era that my grandfather commissioned in a fit of eccentricity; you can just see the top of it over the trees.’ Sir George pointed out the window to a white, rounded roof projecting above the lush foliage. ‘It’s a circular affair with Corinthian columns and stone seats. Anyhow Charles and Andrea were there together, discussing the wedding. I was in here at the time, when I suddenly heard a very loud crack. Afterwards Charles told me he assumed it was the sound of a car engine backfiring, but Andrea said she saw movement in the bushes, as though someone close by had started running.
‘I came out to see what was going on, and found the pair of them coming back to the folly. Charles said that they had rushed off in the direction of the movement but couldn’t see anyone. Then we noticed the revolver lying in the grass; it was one of those service-issue army pistols, the type that almost everyone kept after the war.
‘When we returned to the folly, we all saw, almost at the same time, that in the column behind the seat where they had been sitting was a small bullet hole. The shot must have missed Charles’ head by inches, although I remember him being amazed to find that a bullet had passed him so closely without him feeling the air movement.’
‘Was the bullet in the column?’ asked Harris.
‘Yes, we extracted it. And, of course, it was the service-issue bullet that would be fired by the revolver.’
‘I assume you called the police?’
‘Naturally. The chief constable himself came over and his sergeant took statements, but what could they do? The pistol had no fingerprints except those left by Charles when he picked it up, and was untraceable. Inquiries were made after anyone spotted running from the estate but no one had seen anything. In the end it was put down to some kind of accident.’
‘Accident?’
‘A game hunter perhaps? Someone with no right to be there, anyway. He fired the gun accidentally and bolted for fear of discovery.’
Harris wrinkled his brow, and looked pityingly at Sir George.
‘That doesn’t sound very likely, if I’m honest.’
‘I don’t think that, damn it!’ cried Sir George hotly. ‘You’re preaching to the choir Harris. Of course it was no accident. The police seem to believe my grounds to be teeming with bumbling, yet well-meaning young men who carry firearms they can’t use.
‘Why would anyone be there with a gun? And if by some far-fetched set of circumstances they did fire it by accident, would they really wipe it of all fingerprints and drop the blessed thing? The whole thing is nonsense. Not that I entirely blame the police though; what else could they have said? At the end of the day all they have is a pistol with no fingerprints and a shot that hurt no one.’
‘In fact a shot that the intended victim, if you are correct, did not even realise was a bullet.’
Sir George nodded ruefully.
‘I could hardly expect them to make it their number one priority, could I?’
‘And the last inci… er, crime?’
‘Again, I wasn’t really on the spot, just came in at the death – or, rather, not as it turned out, thank the Lord. I had been out for a round of golf, and returned to find Charles in convulsions, retching and sweating and groaning like the dickens. I called John Falkes over – he’s the local doctor – and he said it was poison, probably arsenic! Arsenic! He called the ambulance and they rushed Charles to hospital. Fortunately he hadn’t consumed a fatal dose. The police analysed the chocolates and found the whole top layer to have been injected with the stuff. If Charles had eaten another three or four it would have been too late.’
Sir George continued for some considerable time giving the details of the police investigation, interspersed with his opinion of the methods of the Belgian police, but none of his monologue added anything to the account Charles had already relayed, and soon Harris had taken his leave with much to occupy his thoughts.
Chapter 11
Samantha McKinley paid for her shopping – a loaf of bread and a copy of the Daily Express – and left the Upper Wentham Village Store. As she did so, Mrs Wall and the other two customers currently in the shop gazed at her retreating back with a morbid interest. Samantha was aware they were looking at her, and knew the thoughts that were racing through their minds, and in some ways she enjoyed the knowledge.
She was no longer sure whether she could in any way “feel” the stares that were still commonplace after all this time, or whether the ubiquitous whispers and furtive looks were now just so predictable that she expected them.
She walked along the main street of Upper Wentham, pausing for her customary moment of tribute at the memorial to the thirteen men of the village who had gone to the Great War and never returned. All of them had been known to her and several had been dear friends, and she still felt a surge of anguish when she saw their names carved into the rock, and into history. Upper Wentham was the kind of place where people were born, lived a content and comfortable life, and died. The cemetery was full of familiar names. There was little to attract newcomers to the community, although some new houses further down the Gloucester Road towards Manhampton had brought a few strangers to the area. In most cases, however, the villagers were lifelong residents and well known to each other. Secrets were a rare currency indeed in the roads and houses of Upper Wentham.
Samantha McKinley’s past was anything but secret, yet it bought her the notoriety which granted celebrity status in a small village. She was glad the knowledge was public; for one thing even the thought of trying to keep her skeleton safe in its closet was exhausting; and for another, there was no denying that the infamy brought with it some occasionally enjoyable attention. The novelty was beginning to finally wear thin though. More and more she found herself wishing people would stop noticing her.
She continued down the main street, and turned into the narrow lane where she and her husband had their cottage. Her thoughts continued along their usual paths until she reached the white-painted gate. As she was about to push it open, she was suddenly struck by the same emotion that always lurked behind such memories: guilt.
It was a rare day where some memory of Anthony Barnes did not ambush her conscience. The recollections seemed to perennially lurk in the darker parts of her mind, waiting for an unsuspecting moment to strike; and when they did, a wave of contrition would inevitably wash over her.
Samantha closed the gate and instead retraced her steps to the main street, continuing further down the road. As usual when the guilt struck, she made her way to the church of St. John the Evangelist.
St. John’s church was a compact but beautiful building of a couple of hundred years. It was the only Catholic church for quite a distance, but seemed to recognise that it played second fiddle to the parish church of St. Anne and was content to exist out of the way, tucked down a small, leafy lane off the Gloucester Road.
Samantha wandered meditatively through the decaying graveyard and entered the cold building. She genuflected to the image of Christ on the cross and took a pew, allowing the howling silence to roll across her consciousness, sweeping her thoughts away. St. John’s was sometimes the only place where she could find true peace – the peace that comes, not from comforting or positive thoughts, but from no thought whatsoever; a mental void where nothi
ng is important enough to matter.
‘Hello Samantha.’
Father Thomas’ rich brogue sliced through her tranquillity, but she did not mind. It was the only sound more beautiful than the silence. To Samantha, the priest’s gentle and wise words were like the voice of God, speaking into the darkness of her world.
She turned to him and smiled.
‘Hello father.’
Father Thomas was a small, balding man, with a plump frame and a genial face. He looked at her with a mixture of love and frustration.
‘Back again are we?’
Samantha tried a mischievous smile, but somehow the pathos snuck its way into her expression.
‘You can’t get rid of me father.’
‘I would never want to get rid of you Samantha. You are my most frequent companion these days. If I charged for entrance to the church I should be rich and you would be penniless.’
‘I find peace here father. I know God is everywhere, but somehow it’s hard to believe He isn’t here more than elsewhere, if you see what I mean.’
‘I do see what you mean,’ smiled the priest, ‘and it’s why I love spending my days here. If it were only peace you came for, I would not worry so much.’
Samantha fumbled unconsciously for her rosary.
‘I sometimes wonder whether one day you will refuse me confession.’
‘You know I can never do that,’ replied Father Thomas, ‘but that doesn’t mean I won’t advise against it.’
‘How can confession be wrong?’ asked Samantha. ‘We’re all sinners aren’t we? I sin every moment of my life, and I need forgiveness.’
‘And if you were asking forgiveness for actions since your last confession then I would agree. Although at the rate you confess it’s hard to see how you have the time to sin in between. But it has been ten years Samantha!’
‘It was so wrong,’ whispered Samantha. ‘I need God to forgive me.’