A Painted Devil

by Jamie Probin

  Many similar houses around the country had left their days of majesty behind. Some had fallen victim to their owners’ weakening means, as new laws of taxation had drained coffers that once seemed limitless; suddenly the cost of maintaining these palatial homes was an impossible luxury, and the buildings began to deteriorate drastically, all the while containing family members who would not face the reality that they might have to live a different lifestyle than their ancestors. In other cases, that reality had been faced and accepted, and so the houses had been sold and converted into hotels, private hospitals, company headquarters and so forth.

  Both ideas seemed equally abhorrent to Sir George Wentworth, and he was glad neither of these scenarios lay in the future of Blackwood Manor. The thought that families like his could have allowed their fortunes to stand unprotected and wither in the wake of the new post-war world, that they could proudly sit in their ancestral home as it collapsed around them, had a profound effect on him. It made him appreciate the fact that the Wentworth riches had been buried deep in a fantastically complicated legal system by some of the country’s finest accountants, not only safe from the government’s grasp but also earning interest at an extraordinary rate. It was a fitting witness for a family like the Wentworths, he thought, and also the kind of intelligence and foresight that gave the Wentworth name its reputation.

  Sir George had never once thought of abandoning the altruistic and charitable nature with which his family name was long associated, but equally he had sworn to first stabilise, and then increase, the Wentworth fortune. One of the first things he had done, upon inheriting the estate from Sir Alfred Wentworth, had been to place the family finances in the hands of a friend of his from Cambridge, now one of London’s top auditors. The initial analysis had confirmed what he had expected: that in a single generation his father had almost ruined the Wentworths. In fact if Sir Alfred Wentworth had lived even another ten years, it was possible that life would be irrevocably different for his descendants.

  Sir George had acted on the expert advice of his friend, and now the financial outlook was very healthy, but Sir George had never forgiven his father for that, or numerous other inappropriate actions.

  Sir Alfred Wentworth had not been raised for the position he had inherited. It should have been his elder brother who became lord of the manor, but he died of tuberculosis when Alfred was fifteen. It was, considered Sir George, an appalling lapse on the part of his grandfather to not have raised both of his sons in preparation for the title of which they were heirs, but the reality was that Alfred had been ignored and spoiled in equal measure by his parents, whilst they focussed their attention on their elder son. After his brother’s death they tried to cultivate in Alfred some ideas about suitable conduct and etiquette, but he was already an irresponsible and crude child, and it was too late to change him.

  So it was that when Alfred Wentworth inherited the title and Blackwood Manor in 1882, he was already known throughout the area as a gambler, a drinker and a womaniser. The local residents feared for the future of their nobility, but in an apparent burst of maturity, Alfred chose a wife, Caroline Thompson, not long after succeeding to the title and settled down. Within a year she had given birth to a son, George.

  Unfortunately the novelty of fatherhood and family life soon wore off for Sir Alfred, and rumour had him quickly returning to his womanising ways. He was never such a scoundrel as to openly conduct an affair, but it was a fact that he had less and less to do with Caroline. The care of the young George was left to her, and that kept the pair of them out of Alfred’s hair. With George being such a sickly child, Caroline had plenty to devote herself to, and she spent hours reading her son stories and teaching him about history and geography.

  When George was ten years old, Caroline fell gravely ill, and barely survived. She emerged from the sickness an invalid, and was no longer able to care for her son. Sir Alfred employed a nurse for a time, and then sent his son to Harrow. George had been the only real source of love and purpose in Caroline’s life and without him her mental health soon declined with her physical. By the turn of the century she was placed in a sanatorium where she lived the last thirteen years of her life.

  Some of the efforts made by his parents to instil Alfred with a sense of honour must have left a mark, because all the time his wife deteriorated he at least kept his philandering ways discreet enough that they remained the province of rumour and gossip. Nevertheless Sir George was certain that his father had more than one illegitimate child living locally, and the thought of these bastard sons and daughters, with their illicit Wentworth blood, made him nauseous.

  Once Caroline died – and, soon after, the war began – the situation worsened further. The ageing but still extremely charming Sir Alfred Wentworth launched himself on the women of the entire area with gusto, and with the war creating vulnerable widows by the week, the supply was almost limitless. He was also prone to erratic and bizarre behaviour; on more than one occasion, when expecting a guest he had never previously met, Sir Alfred would dress in tails and pose as the butler when they rang the bell. He said this was to observe how they treated those in lower orders, and thus see what kind of person they were, but George suspected the motivation was far less rational than that. Those kinds of whims were in danger of making the Wentworth name a laughing stock.

  Combined with a neglect of his responsibilities and a recklessly extravagant lifestyle, these actions had placed the Wentworth fortune in mortal peril, and Sir George had to reluctantly admit that his father’s sudden and unexpected second marriage to a young widow named Adele Carmichael, and her stabilising effect, had probably saved the estate from eventual bankruptcy.

  This was, thought Sir George, the only good thing to be said about that union. Adele Carmichael’s first husband had died in Flanders in 1916 and she was left alone with two young children, Richard and Rebecca. No one knew why it was that Sir Alfred decided to marry her, rather than just do what he did with the other women, but George rued the decision passionately. At age thirty six, as he was preparing to take his role in the village and surrounding area, he suddenly found himself with a stepmother four years younger than himself and two teenage stepsiblings, all living in his house and treating it as their own. George had detested them, especially Richard Carmichael, who had acted as though it was he who was the heir to the estate and treated George with a galling familiarity. Each of them had seemed to smirk at him around the house, as though they had orchestrated the whole drama in order to infuriate him. He hated them almost as much as the illegitimate siblings – abominations to the Wentworth line – he knew were somewhere outside his walls, and yet the fact that the Carmichaels had faces made them easier to despise.

  It was George, though, who had the last laugh: he could still remember the look on their stupid, common faces when the will was read after Sir Alfred had suffered a massive heart attack and died. George – by that point, Sir George – was sure the Carmichaels expected to be left half the estate, and had planned to wrest control of the rest from him by sheer weight of numbers. When the executor had revealed that the sum total of Sir Alfred’s provision for his wife and her two children was a meagre monthly allowance, and no entitlement to live in Blackwood Manor, George could have laughed out loud. An almost insignificant part of the Wentworth estate was to be invested, with the interest going to Adele. She could not touch the capital, and at her death it would return to the estate. After all, it seemed, Sir Alfred had shared his son’s view that Richard and Rebecca Carmichael were not Wentworths, and were entitled to no part of the inheritance. Perhaps George had been too busy loathing the Carmichael children to notice that they had equally irritated his father.

  In any case he lost no time in expelling them from Blackwood Manor, and the hatred they had expressed to him had merely made the process more enjoyable. In retrospect Sir George grudgingly admitted that Rebecca Carmichael had in fact been quite pleasant and reasonable with him, and that his opinion of her had been clouded
by association with her brother. He had since given her one or two donations at times money was tight, although now she was married to Joseph Hollins she seemed to be doing very nicely for herself. At least they could maintain a civil conversation when their paths crossed.

  Thoughts along these lines always ran through Sir George’s mind whenever he walked by his father’s portrait. In general, when walking along the gallery, he swelled with pride at the eminence of his ancestry but, like an unfortunate chip on a priceless sculpture, the face of Sir Alfred Wentworth awaiting him at the end of the gallery was a stain on the family. Sir George hated the dichotomous sensation that passed through his stomach when he saw the picture: he both revered his father for being a Wentworth, but loathed him for the indignity his life had heaped upon that heritage.

  The name and the person of Sir Alfred Wentworth stood at very different ends of the spectrum for his son, and somehow the portrait had managed to unite both in a confusing tension. Years ago Sir George had decided to use the painting as inspiration to prove worthy of his lineage, and to produce and raise an heir who would do the same.

  Saturday’s wedding would be another milestone in that mission, and Sir George should have felt satisfaction at the thought of it. But the knot in his stomach, which had grown tighter each day since the statue almost crushed Charles, refused to grant him the comfort he craved, and he shuffled down the corridor as though a great weight rested on his frame.

  Detective Inspector Hollingsworth arrived at his desk that morning to find some very welcome news. Whilst he had spent the previous day in Gloucestershire, on a seemingly fruitless mission to trace a single five pound note, he had contrived to send Sergeant Davies up to London on a dubious pretext. He trusted Sergeant Davies enough to know he would play along with the scheme, and Sergeant Davies respected Hollingsworth enough to trust that there was good reason for the ruse. The real purpose of the trip was for Davies to spend the day at the headquarters of the National Britannic Bank. He had used a combination of his credentials, charm and good looks to persuade a young lady in the records department to show him the full archive of Ronald Asbury’s account with the bank.

  Hollingsworth’s eyes widened as he skimmed the summary of the findings. Whether Davies had some hidden financial skills, or whether he had wooed another female into helping him translate the multitude of records into a basic synopsis, the outline was clear and concise. Ronald Asbury had inherited a decent amount of money from his parents and was comfortably off. It was insignificant in comparison to the Wentworth estate, and from what he knew of the fairer sex it did not really surprise Hollingsworth that Andrea Ketterman had chosen the latter, however much she might have cared from Ronald Asbury.

  However Asbury’s account had begun haemorrhaging money around a year ago. Frequent withdrawals of large sums became commonplace in the last twelve months, and the balance of the account had steadily plummeted. In some cases the withdrawals were in cash from a variety of branches around the area, but many resulted from cheques drawn on the account. Furthermore the records showed that the bank had been used to help transfer assets such as stocks and bonds, and even property. But what really caused Hollingsworth to catch his breath was the name of the beneficiary in almost every case that was recorded: Sidney Carter. The same name that had been recorded in room 315.

  The mysterious Mr Carter had bled every last penny from Ronald Asbury, and then killed him when the well had run dry. The reason seemed obvious to Hollingsworth; with no money left to buy Carter’s silence, Asbury had nothing to lose by reporting his tormentor to the authorities, and so it was his silence that had to be ensured – permanently.

  It looked as though there was a particularly malicious and dangerous blackmailer lurking in Upper Wentham. Hollingsworth thought back to his visit to the village and the people he had seen. Could one of them be in league with – or, for that matter, be – the mysterious Sidney Carter?

  Douglas McKinley was not feeling well. He had awoken with a temperature, and the large majority of his joints ached in one way or another.

  ‘How do you feel, darling?’

  Samantha leaned across the bed and wiped his brow with a damp towel.

  ‘Worse,’ muttered Douglas. ‘Touch of flu, it feels like, although how that can be going around in summer I don’t know.’

  She tucked in the blankets around his prone figure and buffed his pillow.

  ‘Are you sure you don’t want me to stay at home? It’s really no problem. Mildred wouldn’t mind if I changed our plans. We can always go to Oxford next week instead.’

  Douglas shook his head, and then wished he had not done so as pain racked his aching skull.

  ‘No darling, don’t worry. You and Mildred have been looking forward to this trip for ages. I’ll be right as rain by lunchtime.’

  ‘You will not!’ declared Samantha, with vehemence. ‘You are going to stay in bed all day, Douglas McKinley. I know what you’re like, and I know you hate missing work, but I’m not having you overdo things. In fact if I have to stay here to make sure you -’

  ‘Alright, alright,’ interrupted Douglas, with the attitude that King Canute no doubt exhibited when walking along the beach in his later years. ‘I promise I will stay at home and recuperate. Although how you expect me to get better if I have to eat Eileen’s cooking is beyond me. I still have my suspicions that shepherd’s pie the other day was made from real shepherd.’

  ‘I will grant you that her culinary skills are a work in progress,’ admitted Samantha, ‘but she certainly cleans better than the last girl. Anyway, you are staying in bed and that’s final. The political world will not collapse without your presence for a day.’

  Douglas admitted defeat, with one final attempt at compromise.

  ‘I might at least telephone Sir George later.’

  Samantha was on a roll, and forbade that too.

  ‘You know what talking to Sir George Wentworth will do to your blood pressure. How are you going to get better whilst talking to him? Even when you are feeling in rude health he gives you a headache.’

  ‘I know, I know, but I simply have to get this business about the new factory cleared up.’

  ‘What needs clearing up? It’s a wonderful idea. The factory will bring dozens of jobs to the area.’

  ‘I know that, and you know that, but it’s Sir George we have to convince.’

  Samantha snorted.

  ‘Sir George is an ass.’

  ‘I know that too, but it doesn’t really advance the issue much. Sir George has made it abundantly clear he does not wish to see a factory, or “abomination” as he calls it, built within twenty miles of Upper Wentham. He says it would ruin the beauty of the countryside, and what do we need any more jobs for anyway?’

  ‘How nice to know his finger is so firmly on the pulse of his adoring peasants.’ Samantha’s muffled voice drifted from the closet, where she was choosing a pair of shoes for her day out. ‘Can’t the factory be built closer to Manhampton?’

  Douglas had learnt his lesson and opted not to shake his head this time, especially since the action would be lost on his wife.

  ‘No, the company has found the site they want. It’s that or nothing. They also have a possible location in Yorkshire, and whilst they would prefer to build here, they’ll be off like a shot if Sir George makes things difficult. And the bill is due for consideration next month.’

  Samantha emerged from the closet clutching a pair of black shoes which, so far as Douglas could tell, were identical to the other five pairs she had just rejected.

  ‘I still don’t see what the problem is. Sir George can’t stop the motion from passing can he?’

  ‘No, of course not. But you know politics isn’t as simple as that. He can use his contacts to persuade the company’s board to change their mind. And guess who ends up looking like the idiot then? Besides, the fact of the matter is that Sir George might not have any direct political say in the running of this constituency, but we both know he can
ensure a candidate’s selection or otherwise. If I cross him on this, then I suspect there will be a different name on the ballot paper come the next general election.’

  ‘He couldn’t do that,’ cried Samantha, with indignation. ‘Everyone knows you’ll be in the cabinet by then. One newspaper last week mentioned you as a future prime minister.’

  ‘Don’t be silly darling.’

  ‘Why is that silly? You deserve it. And then perhaps you could strip George Wentworth of his knighthood!’

  A faint smile crossed Douglas McKinley’s pale face.

  ‘That’s a thought. I might employ him as our butler. Eileen can stick to cleaning and old GW can be the one to rustle me up a steak and kidney pie. But seriously, I need to talk to him at some point, and see if I can convince him to get on board.’

  ‘Alright,’ nodded Samantha, ‘but not today.’

  She leaned over to kiss him, but he protested.

  ‘I don’t want you to catch this flu.’

  She pushed his arms down and planted a firm kiss on his forehead.

  ‘I don’t care. I hope you feel better soon, my darling. And promise me you won’t call George Wentworth, or anybody else for that matter.’

  ‘Aye, cap’n.’

  Douglas winked as she closed the door.

  The bedroom was situated in the top corner of the house, which faced east, and so sunlight splashed liberally through the windows on both exterior walls. Douglas tried to sleep some more, but even the drawn curtains could not prevent daylight from bathing his face.

  Eventually he gave up and tottered out of bed, gingerly pulling a dressing gown about his aching body. He descended to the sitting room, and imposed upon the maid, Eileen, for a cup of hot lemon. She returned with the steaming mug, and gave it to him, performing a half-curtsy as she did so. Douglas tried not to laugh. This maid was an adenoidal girl of seventeen from the village, to whom nature had not been kind. This was her first post and she was overawed by most aspects of it. She was apparently unaware of the correct way to act in the presence of her employers – especially Mr McKinley, whom she had heard was the prime minister, or something like that, and intimidated her immensely – and generally overcompensated when in doubt.