A Painted Devil

by Jamie Probin

  On one occasion she had called Douglas “my lord” and, although he was certain it was just a slip of the tongue, he tried to reassure her that there was no need for such reverence. Unfortunately he had not managed to say more than a few words when Eileen had misunderstood and thought he was reprimanding her. She burst into tears and had to be led away by Samantha. Since then Douglas had generally avoided interaction with Eileen as much as possible.

  The feeling had been mutual, it seemed, for Eileen usually scrambled out of the room as fast as her legs could carry her, once her duties were performed. Now, however, she stood awkwardly in front of Douglas with one foot rolled onto its outside edge.

  ‘Yes, Eileen?’

  She shuffled her feet and looked at a point eight inches to his left.

  ‘I brought you the post sir. I thought you might like it.’

  She stuck out her hand as though delivering a rabbit punch, and a bundle of envelopes lurked within.

  Douglas rewarded her with a beam, took the mail and thanked her. She almost fell over her feet in an effort to return to the kitchen, but he had seen the pleased smile on her nervous face.

  He flicked through the various envelopes, trying to guess the contents of each one. His official mail was all directed to the office, but there were still plenty of letters, most of which were pointless and tedious, that made their way to his home.

  One envelope grabbed his attention. It was completely unlike the others, both because it was addressed by hand in a bold and simple block lettering, and because it was addressed to Samantha. Neither of these in themselves was remarkable, but he had seen two envelopes just like this in recent months, and his wife had never subsequently mentioned either of them to him. Furthermore, on one occasion she had seemed quite upset later in the day the letter had arrived and, whilst he had no evidence the two were connected, a nagging suspicion had tugged at him that the contents of the letter had caused the unhappiness. He had resolved to watch out for further letters before confronting Samantha, but it was she that usually looked through the day’s post first, and no more had passed into his possession. He had no idea how many of these letters might have been received in total, but this was the first he had seen in months.

  It was just like the others: a plain envelope, like the kind sold in every post office; crudely printed handwriting which looked designed to ensure anonymity; and no return address. The postmark was Manhampton, and the stamp was second class.

  The decision took him less than a minute. Douglas McKinley was (for an MP at least) a very moral man. He did not approve of lying, cheating, bribery or countless other activities, opportunities for which came frequently in his walk of life. Included in that list was the habit of eavesdropping, and reading the mail of others was essentially the same thing in his opinion. Nevertheless he tore open the envelope with little hesitation. The desire to know what was within had nothing to do with satisfying his own curiosity; he needed to know if something was threatening Samantha, and he intended to find out.

  Inside the envelope was a single sheet of writing paper, folded once. He opened it and looked at the words within, which were formed in the same crude and indistinct style as the address.

  I KNOW THE TRUTH ABOUT ANTHONY BARNES, AND WHAT HAPPENED AT LOOKOUT POINT. WHAT DO YOU THINK PEOPLE WOULD SAY IF THEY KNEW? NOT THE KIND OF THING SUITABLE FOR THE WIFE OF A CABINET MINISTER IS IT?

  Douglas stared at the letter. He read it again, and then a third time as he tried to absorb the contents.

  The name of Anthony Barnes was well known to him, as it was to everyone in the village. It was that name that made his wife the closest thing to a celebrity that Upper Wentham had.

  When Samantha had been young, perhaps seventeen or eighteen, and long before Douglas knew her, she had fallen in love with a young man named Anthony Barnes from the neighbouring village of Anglewhite. He had been the son of a farmhand and several years older than Samantha. She had introduced him to her parents and stated their intention to marry, and they, with prosaic mindset, banned the union outright.

  Her parents were not actually from the upper-middle class, but they had high hopes for their only daughter, and marriage to a labourer fell far short of those aspirations. Samantha was prepared to indulge the clichéd situation further, by turns crying, screaming, cursing and begging her parents to reconsider, and up to this point the affair was little more than a drama which played out across most towns and villages quite regularly.

  Here, however, events took a turn for the more dramatic. Samantha was a romantic and had read tales of couples in her situation, separated by the tyranny of parents who could not understand their true love, who had considered that the best solution to the problem might not be to simply jump off a high cliff. It was termed a “Lover’s Leap”, which sounded beautiful and tragic, but did not change the fact that it was still, in essence, a jump off a high cliff. Douglas had read of these escapades also, and had always felt that, as strategies went, they did not really address the core of the problem. It would, no doubt, leave the cold-hearted parents ruing their callous decision, but so, felt Douglas, would a tactical elopement to Gretna Green or someplace, which had the added benefit that one did not spend one’s honeymoon being scraped off the main road.

  Nevertheless, Samantha proposed a Lover’s Leap to Anthony, and he agreed. Upper Wentham lay on a plain, which on the Oxford side continued for many miles without great undulation. On the other side, though, the ground rose quite steeply, and part of the landscape twisted back on itself in an unusual way, resulting in a fairly sheer overhang above that end of the village. The curious nature of this geography made it a minor tourist attraction, earning it the nickname of Lookout Point, and those passing through on the way to Oxford or the more famous sights in the area would occasionally detour up the large half-spiral path to look down on the village.

  Samantha and her beau had made their way up to the edge of the precipice and, hand in hand, jumped into eternity. Or at least, that was the idea. In a quirk of fate Anthony Barnes had met his Maker as planned, but somehow Samantha ended the business with only a single broken arm. It had been Sir George Wentworth, out on a stroll, who had found the pair of them: Anthony, now more of a pâté, and Samantha, bruised, bleeding and unconscious, but otherwise remarkably unhurt. After a couple of days in the hospital she was released with a clean bill of health.

  It had, of course, been the talk of the area for a year. The intensity of the interest had waned somewhat, but it was still a great topic of fascination, and visitors to Upper Wentham would usually hear the tale within an hour or so. To this day, eyes would linger a touch longer on Samantha when she passed than they would for anyone else, but both she and Douglas were used to it.

  Douglas read the letter one more time. This saga was anything but a secret in Upper Wentham. So what was this “truth” of which the writer spoke? For that matter, who had written the letter? How could Douglas find out?

  And, most importantly, what was he going to do to the foul devil when he got his hands on him?

  Chapter 15

  Harris had found the maid responsible for his room at the Green Man to be a fount of knowledge regarding the life of Upper Wentham, and had ascertained from her that Miss Catherine Bowes’ daily routine involved being taken to the village green each morning. Hollingsworth had told him that this was an impressive woman, sharp enough to know plenty of information and intelligent enough to discern which of it was important.

  It was for this reason that Harris was also out taking a stroll around the green when the bells of St Anne’s struck ten. What was less explicable was his decision to dress in a beige suit and don a garish panama hat.

  This monstrous headgear he raised respectfully as he passed the heavyset woman, hunched in her wheelchair and gazing at the ducks in the pond.

  ‘Good morning madam. Beautiful weather, is it not?’

  Catherine Bowes slowly raised her eyes and looked at him astutely.

  ‘It’s up
to you Dr Harris. You could spend the next five minutes trying to pretend this “chance” meeting was not in fact carefully planned, or else we could make it less embarrassing and simply jump to the point where I invite you to sit down?’

  The tyrannical Mrs Dale, whose attention had wandered austerely across the green to a young couple holding hands, now turned, ready to pull the plug on this business before anything came of it. A raised hand from Catherine Bowes stymied her.

  ‘Mrs Dale, why don’t you go and fetch me a box of Turkish delight from the bakery? And treat yourself to a nice cup of coffee and teacake whilst you are there.’

  A bitterly impotent expression crossed Mrs Dale’s face, clearly stating that this kind of thing was becoming too frequent, and she would have something to say about it later, but she accepted defeat and stalked off.

  ‘What a charming woman,’ commented Harris as he placed his expansive behind on the bench beside Catherine Bowes. ‘Prop forward is she?’

  A hint of a smile flashed across the other’s features.

  ‘You’re the detective that Charles employed.’

  It was a statement rather than a question, but Harris felt compelled to make some kind of response.

  ‘So he did tell you about me!’ He looked at her ruefully. ‘And yet you still make me start our conversation. Hardly playing the game, is it?’

  Miss Bowes smiled.

  ‘I couldn’t resist seeing the lengths to which you would go to “fortuitously” pass me on your morning stroll. I watched you walk around the green six times before Mrs Dale pushed me here from the library.’

  ‘Well, you were late!’ retorted Harris indignantly. ‘The maid in my room, Joanna, assured me you were here by nine thirty every morning.’

  ‘I usually am. I waited this morning because I was interested to see how long you would keep walking without feeling silly,’ replied Catherine Bowes, with an impish glint to her eyes. ‘Besides, you look like you could use the exercise.’

  A belated sense of propriety plucked the uncouth response from Harris’ lips at the last moment, and he instead shot her a begrudgingly approving glance.

  ‘I was hoping you might be able to help me.’

  ‘I hope so too. I know from your reputation that you are as good as it gets when it comes to detection. How are you coming along with this business of someone trying to kill Charles?’

  ‘I’ve nothing much to date,’ admitted Harris frankly. ‘But so far the only people I have had much chance to talk to are Douglas McKinley and Sir George Wentworth.’

  At the mention of the latter’s name, an expression of disgust flickered across the lady’s face.

  ‘I had heard that you do not like Sir George.’

  ‘To state that I do not like Sir George Wentworth is like declaring that bubonic plague is a bit of a nuisance. I hate Sir George Wentworth with every bone in my body.’

  Harris toyed with the idea of asking her to stop beating around the bush and just come right out and say what she felt, but discretion prevailed.

  ‘Why do you dislike him so much?’

  She fixed him with a frank stare and answered simply: ‘He killed my sister.’

  The statement was so jarring, an effect only amplified by the matter-of-fact manner in which it was said, that Harris gaped at her, feeling he must have missed something.

  ‘He… your sister? What?’

  Catherine Bowes rearranged the blanket on her lap and returned a vindictive scowl. ‘Do you want to know what kind of man Sir George Wentworth is? Let me tell you a story.

  ‘You know by now, I presume, that his father, Sir Alfred Wentworth, was what cheap romance novels would call “a cad”. He was undisciplined, immature and not ready for the money and responsibility that came his way. He frittered his inheritance on alcohol and gambling, and – I believe the phrase is – he knew many women in the area. Whilst George was in his sickbed, being cared for by his mother, and learning about how wonderful the Wentworth family was in every way, his father was out sowing those Wentworth oats with liberal abandon. I wasn’t here then, of course, but one thing a village like Upper Wentham is never short of is reliable gossip. And, although there is no proof of the allegations... well, it’s hard to ignore Arthur Morris at the post office in Anglewhite; his thin, bony face would not look incongruous in Sir George’s precious portrait gallery if you know what I mean.’

  ‘Which is more than can be said for young Charles,’ chuckled Harris. ‘He will stick out like the proverbial sore thumb in there. Perhaps they should use Arthur Morris to sit for the next portrait instead, just to keep things uniform.’

  Catherine shot him a perceptive glance.

  ‘You see the situation? George, the boy, is growing up revering the family history, but also despising his father for what he is doing to the Wentworth reputation.’

  ‘And so,’ suggested Harris, ‘when Sir George succeeds to the title, he sets about restoring that reputation?’

  ‘Exactly. Except,’ added his companion, ‘Sir George Wentworth is a fool. He has in mind this vague, hypothetical segment of society which must be rendered awestruck by his family line. But to do that he ignores the real people, who see him and observe his actions every day. He sits in Blackwood Manor constructing this elaborate façade to impress a nobility that no longer matters; and yet he is unable to see that his precious villagers all loathe him for what he has done.’

  ‘And what has he done?’ enquired Harris, sensing that the real story was about to begin.

  ‘His first and greatest obsession was to provide an heir to the estate. However his wife had to be carefully selected, both for suitability to join the Wentworth clan, and potential to rear a strong and healthy heir. He chose a woman named Mary Sutcliffe, who was the daughter of a mill owner somewhere nearby. From what I gather it was not a happy marriage, but then I don’t suppose George ever intended it to be. If it weren’t for the necessity of an heir I would imagine him to be a certain bachelor.

  ‘In any case four years later there was still no child on the way, and George decided that Mary must be unable to have children. He thought she must have known all along, but hadn’t said anything in order that she might live at Blackwood Manor and have all of life’s little luxuries. Eminently sensible of her, of course, if that was true, but Sir George was furious and divorced her.’

  Harris gave a start as a duck pecked his toe, and he shooed the creature away.

  ‘Couldn’t they just have adopted a child?’

  ‘Adopt?’ repeated Catherine, incredulously. ‘And have the title pass to a child without a drop of Wentworth blood? Evidently you are lucky enough not to know Sir George sufficiently well. No, it was back to the real world for poor Mary Sutcliffe.’

  ‘What happened to her?’

  ‘She moved away. What else could she do? Sir George had humiliated her in the county. This is what I mean about him trying to impress some imaginary fellow knights of the realm, whilst the people who live around him see nothing but a heartless brute. They say she entered into a very ill-advised marriage with another man, who was abusive. She committed suicide in the end.’

  ‘Suicide?’ echoed Harris.

  Catherine nodded. ‘More blood on Sir George’s hands if you ask me.’

  ‘And then, presumably, Sir George resumed his search for a wife?’

  Catherine nodded, and asked Harris if he wouldn’t mind pushing her around the green whilst they talked. Although still sweating from his earlier laps of this common, he stood chivalrously and did so.

  ‘In fact, something quite unexpected happened,’ continued Miss Bowes. ‘Whilst attending a play in London he met a young dancer from Cumbria, and I do believe genuinely fell in love.’

  ‘And that was your sister?’

  ‘Actually,’ replied Catherine, with an inscrutable expression, ‘it was me.’

  ‘You!’

  ‘I know. It’s hard to believe that I was once a dancer. And an extremely good one, if I may be so immodest
. I was young, very fit and healthy, of good stock, all the things George Wentworth was looking for – and he loved me too. We were engaged very quickly.’

  Harris had been unprepared for this turn of events, and was confused.

  ‘Then… what happened?’

  ‘This,’ said Catherine, indicating her wheelchair. ‘I had a fall whilst rehearsing for a play and broke my back. The doctors told me I would never walk again. My career was over, I faced life in a wheelchair – and then my fiancé called off our wedding.’

  Harris stared at her. ‘He ended the engagement? Because you couldn’t walk?’

  Catherine shrugged helplessly.

  ‘Don’t ask me to explain it. I still can’t. Perhaps he thought that my infirmity would somehow be passed on to our child? Or that I would be unable to give birth? I can’t even begin to fathom a man who walks out on the woman he loves the day after her life changes forever.’

  Harris considered this. He knew that Sir George Wentworth was single-minded in his determination to produce an heir, but this conduct was more shocking than even he had expected.

  ‘No wonder you hate the man. I can’t say that I blame you. That’s an appalling thing to do.’

  Catherine asked him to bring the wheelchair to a stop by the pond. She pulled two slices of bread from the depths of her blankets and began to feed the ducks.

  ‘I was very upset at the time,’ she said, ‘and very disillusioned, but surprisingly I didn’t yet hate him. That came after he married my sister.’

  In the torrent of these revelations Harris had neglected to join the dots from Catherine Bowes to her sister, and now his mind boggled at the idea that, with all the history he had just heard related, Sir George could then marry Miss Bowes’ younger sister. He said as much, and Catherine corrected him.