by Jamie Probin
‘Oh I did not resent the marriage. Quite the opposite in fact. I encouraged it along. George had met Diana of course, and she shared all the attributes of mine that had impressed him. Sometime I shall show you a photograph of Diana, and you will see that she was incredibly pretty into the bargain. I soon saw that George could be persuaded to marry her.’
Harris tried to ignore the multitude of ducks, who seemed to resent his refusal to join in the charitable bread strewing and pecked petulantly at his shoelaces in protest.
‘Miss Bowes, are you telling me that, after all George Wentworth had done to you… after the man he had shown himself to be, you not only tolerated his marrying your sister, but in fact urged it along? That seems unbelievable.’
‘It can be explained quite easily Dr Harris. You see my sister and I were alone. Our parents were both dead, and whilst the Bowes were the type of old family that George Wentworth approved of, there was next to no money left. I had found success as a dancer, and our plan was that I would earn the money whilst Diana kept the home. But of course after my accident, all that changed. I could foresee times becoming very hard. Diana was a beautiful, giving and lovely girl, but she was not blessed with brains or initiative. She could not support the two of us. I realised that our best chance still lay with that odious man. On the one hand I never wanted to see him again, but on the other the thought of still living off his fortune appealed to me.’
‘And what did Diana think of all this?’
A look of shame settled on Catherine’s face.
‘I… I was always able to influence Diana. I rather induced her to go through with it,’ she said defensively. ‘She was my responsibility, and I had to look after her. I thought this was for the best.’
‘And after what Sir George had done to you, she did not object?’
‘As I said, one could deceive Diana quite easily, especially when you knew her like I did. I persuaded her that the reality was a little different than it looked. No, convincing Diana that Sir George was a respectable proposition was easy. The greatest stumbling block was Gordon Astin.’
‘Gordon Astin?’
‘A young man from the village in the Lake District where the two of us grew up. He and Diana were the same age, and together since they could talk. They were clearly in love, the best of friends and inseparable. Basically, they were absolutely perfect for each other. They were talking about getting married, when this all came along.’
‘And this Gordon Astin of yours raised no objections to your, excuse me, Machiavellian scheming?’
Catherine shook her head.
‘Again, quite the opposite. I had imagined his hostility to the idea would be the greatest obstacle, but he agreed with my plan wholeheartedly. He loved her, you see? Really, honestly loved her with everything he had, and that meant he wanted what was best for her, even if it wasn’t a life with him. He was not a man likely to go far or climb socially, and he recognised that marriage to Sir George Wentworth would provide infinitely better for his Diana than he ever could. It was the kind of selfless love that, if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes, I would not believe actually existed.’
‘I’m pretty dubious myself. I thought that kind of chivalry went out with King Arthur. How did he get over your sister?’
‘I don’t know he ever did. He never married, and continued to write to her every week. They remained best friends.’
‘What happened to him?’
‘What happened to every great young man of that generation?’ asked Miss Bowes, with a smile utterly devoid of humour. ‘Cut down by German bullets in a muddy field. Another blossom of unlimited potential snuffed out in a second.’ She trailed off, and a moment of silence hung over the two of them. ‘By then, however, Diana was already dead, and I wonder if the soul of Gordon Astin had not died a year before his body.’
‘And,’ Harris paused, still unable to believe he had heard correctly earlier, ‘you said that Sir George killed your sister?’
‘She and George were married in 1911. I was given the lodge to live in – perhaps you’ve seen it? – and Diana looked after me. For two long years we waited to hear that Diana was pregnant, but no news came. We both knew well – too well – the tale of Mary Sutcliffe, and wondered if we too would face eviction from Blackwood Manor. Then, just as things seemed desperate, we found that Diana was expecting, and for the first time life went well in the house. George was like a new man, with a smile and a good word for everybody, and Diana couldn’t wait to have her baby.
‘Then, just as the date was nearing, it became obvious that something wasn’t right. The baby’s position was wrong, and the doctors said it would be very dangerous for her to have the child. They could remove it from her with reasonable safety, but it was very likely the infant would die during the surgery.
‘And George… that bastard – he made her have the baby. He had learnt the same trick that I had, about how to persuade Diana to do something, and he convinced her that everything would be fine, and she should go ahead and let the baby come. I tried to change her mind, but he banned me from the room. And so she decided to have the baby. And she died right there on the operating table.’
A natural silence washed across the conversation, as Harris reflected on everything he had heard of this modern-day tragedy.
‘That’s quite a tale,’ said Harris at last. ‘It sounds like the kind of thing Shakespeare might have thrown together on one of his more melancholy days. May I ask a delicate question?’
‘Certainly you may. I might even answer it. When you live life in my condition you learn to be thick-skinned.’
‘If my arithmetic is still in working order, then all this happened twenty two years ago?’
‘That’s correct. Is that a delicate question?’
‘Well, with all that water under the bridge, it is surprising that you are still living in the lodge. Given that Sir George threw out his first wife simply because her reproductive system wouldn’t cooperate, I’m amazed that he continues to let a woman who makes no secret of the fact that she hates him continue to live on his property.’
Catherine gave him a conspiratorial wink.
‘Not only that, he even pays for Mrs Dale to look after me. Why? I’m not entirely sure myself. Sometimes I think it may be guilt, other times I wonder if he still doesn’t love me in some way, even after everything.’
Harris eyed her suspiciously.
‘And you continue to stay, living off the charity of a man you despise?’
‘Why not?’ retorted Catherine defiantly. ‘I have a wonderful house with all the comforts I need, and someone – however dictatorial she might be – to care for my needs. Anywhere else my life would be incomparably worse. Besides, Charles is my nephew, and my only living relative.’
It only happened for a moment, but Harris suspected it was an extremely rare event: a single tear rolled down Catherine Bowes’ lined face.
‘I loved Diana so much. She was everything to me. George Wentworth took her from me, but part of her lives on in Charles, and I love him too.’ She fixed him with an intense stare. ‘And that is why nothing must happen to him.’
Harris looked up and saw the figure of Mrs Dale marching resolutely towards them. He suspected that his tête-à-tête was facing imminent termination, and even the formidable Catherine Bowes could not overbear a Mrs Dale who had spent thirty minutes sulking in the teashop. He judged one more question could be asked.
‘What is your opinion of Charles and Andrea Ketterman’s wedding?’
The woman in the wheelchair, whose body looked so much older than her years, whilst her eyes shone so much younger, smiled back at him.
‘I think they both chose well. I did not trust Ronald Asbury. Not one inch. I don’t think Andrea is repeating an old mistake.’
At this cryptic remark, Mrs Dale reached them, slightly out of breath but wearing a determined grimace. She bid Harris a farewell that could have frozen lava, and pushed the wheelchair back in the direction
of the Green Man and Blackwood Manor.
Catherine Bowes waved goodbye, and Harris raised his panama again, still reflecting on her last remark. Then he noticed the startling similarity between Andrea Ketterman’s impending admission to the Wentworth family, and that of Diana Bowes. Catherine’s sister had loved another man, but married a Wentworth for money and security. According to some locals, Andrea had chosen the same course, abandoning love with Ronald Asbury, for the benefits of Blackwood Manor. Yet evidently Catherine did not see her sister’s “terrible mistake” being repeated; in her opinion, Andrea’s choice of Charles Wentworth was nothing to do with money. Unlike Diana Bowes, she was marrying for love.
Increasingly Harris wished to know whether that was true or not. Precisely why did Andrea choose Charles Wentworth over Ronald Asbury? He could not shake the feeling that in the answer to that question lay a clue about both one murder that had already happened, and another that might very soon.
Chapter 16
Joseph Hollins looked around his office and tried to focus on the task at hand. The latest exposé being crafted in the depths of the Gloucestershire Telegraph was close to completion, and should go to press within a week.
As usual, it was Joseph’s idea. A chance remark overheard in the Gloucester County Court had implied that more than one local judge was involved in unethical activity, with money changing hands as a result of certain verdicts being passed. It was said that Joseph Hollins had an uncanny gift for seizing on an innocuous sentence or overhearing a casual phrase, and sensing a clandestine truth hidden beneath. Some of his most successful exclusives had resulted not from any tips or informers, but merely an intuition which rarely failed.
Once a suspicion was in his head, he would follow it like a bloodhound, and his intuition would further lead him to the evidence he needed, however obscure it might be. With the current investigation, the financial records had been extremely difficult to locate. The parties involved had gone to great lengths to submerge their activities in paperwork, and then even to keep those records as far from the mainstream as possible. It had not been easy to follow their trails, and on several occasions Joseph had thought the story would have to be abandoned for lack of evidence. He had never been sued for libel in all of his scoops, and intended to maintain that record. Whilst some had compared him to the crassly sensational journalists that were becoming sadly prevalent in the national dailies, he considered there to be a huge chasm between them and himself. He was a serious reporter, interested in exposing illegal, immoral and underhand dealings about which the public had a right to know. He was conscientious about proving his allegations, not only for personal pride but because he did not want any person unfairly accused of breaking the law under his editorial watch. No article went to print unless Joseph Hollins was entirely convinced of its veracity.
In this case his tenacious sleuthing had finally unearthed the documentation for which he had searched, and clearly demonstrated the financial irregularities in the judges’ dealings. The manner in which the paperwork had been concealed only convinced him further that illicit activities had occurred.
Until yesterday, this story had been dominating his thoughts and his forthcoming schedule. The success of his “Let’s Be Ready!” campaign had occasioned him some satisfaction, but Joseph Hollins was not a man who basked in the glow of gratification. The most important column, he would say to his staff, is the next one you write. Most of the background for the article was prepared, and his expectation had been to focus his attention entirely on constructing the story.
In the event, however, he could not think of anything but a white feather.
There was a hesitant knock on the door and his secretary, Janet, nervously hurried in to place a file on his desk. She eyed him cautiously as she scurried out. This morning when he had arrived his expression must have plainly spoken of his distress, and she had asked him if anything was wrong. He had snapped unceremoniously at her, which answered the question more clearly than any words, for he never snapped at anybody. Pompous he might be, but he made a point of respecting others, especially anyone subordinate to him. He had apologised to Janet at the time (although even that was short) and he considered doing so again now. But the fact was he had wanted her to hurry out the office. He needed to be alone with his thoughts.
What a fool he was. He had spent his adult life following trails and unearthing the unpleasant secrets of others. How could he have been so naive to think that his secret would remain buried? He was not a superstitious man, but the poetic justice of the situation struck him like a blow. What was the saying? People in glass houses should not throw stones.
The providence of the situation was suddenly stifling. All this time he had ruthlessly exposed others as liars, cheats and hypocrites, and yet never acknowledged that he was as flawed as any of the subjects of his investigations. Not only that, but he had manoeuvred himself into a situation where the truth would be at its most damning. He almost retched when he thought of himself yesterday, so smug with the success of his enlistment campaign, secretly imagining the glory which would come his way when his prescience eventually meant the difference between an England prepared for war and an England sitting vulnerable and defenceless.
And now somebody, somewhere, knew the truth. That he, Joseph Hollins, whom the home secretary had quoted in the House, and who was known throughout most of the country as the man crusading for the army, had preferred the ignominy of prison to fighting for his country. He knew what the result would be: from one end of the country to the other he would be branded a coward and, worse, a hypocrite. And trying to explain that it was not cowardice but philosophical objection would merely exacerbate the situation. Not only would the public not care, but it was not even his philosophy anyway.
The inevitability of what would result when this came out could not be ignored. Someone out there knew the fact which would destroy his work, his reputation and his life.
Rebecca had spoken glibly of finding the person, but how could they do that? Motive was not a viable path to pursue; in the course of his work Joseph had ruined the careers and lives of hundreds of people. They may have deserved it, but it was hard to believe that such a justification would lead them, their families and their associates to forgive. No, Joseph was under no illusion that he was a popular man – there were a great number of people throughout England who would dance for joy when Joseph Hollins was publicly exposed, humiliated and ruined.
The thought sent a surge of icy dread down his spine. Rebecca was right. He did not know how it could be done but the only way to prevent this was to find the person who sent the letter. Surely he, with all his journalistic instincts, could track down this mysterious tormentor?
As for what he did then, well, he would worry about that when the time came.
Adele Carmichael loved three things in life: flowers, detective novels and gossip. The first of these was amply catered for in her garden and her shop, and the quest for the latter two were frequently combined in a visit to the local library.
In most towns a library is a singularly distinctive place. A solemn, resonant environment that, however small it may actually be, always manages to suggest a cavernous dimension.
Certain properties seem common to almost all libraries: the silence that seems all the greater for the way it magnifies the slightest cough or footstep; the inexplicable feeling that the interior of the building is somehow lagging a hundred years behind the outside world; the sensation that the countless millions of words in the countless thousands of books have somehow leaked into the air, saturating it with knowledge and imagination, and that one might become cultured and erudite by merely breathing in that potent atmosphere.
The Upper Wentham branch of the Gloucester County Library, however, was the prodigal son of such establishments. Mrs Blackstone, the head librarian (in fact, the only librarian, but she took great pride in her official title) ran a ship which the more charitable might term “relaxed”, and the more censorious mi
ght describe as “a shambles”. She had dispensed with some of the antiquated traditions of the business, such as sorting books into alphabetical order, and generally had little idea who exactly was in current possession of what, so far as the library’s inventory was concerned.
This hardly mattered to the building’s frequent customers though, since what drew them more than the attraction of literature was the fact that Mrs Blackstone knew everything there was to know about local affairs. Most customers left the library with some brand new gossip – and often a book of which they had never previously heard. (No regulars would dream of visiting the library with the intention of finding a particular book, since the chances of locating it were slim in the extreme. The best one could hope for was to tell Mrs Blackstone the title and she would keep an eye out for it).
The quaint notion of maintaining silence was largely a nominal one here, although it would be paid lip service on occasion; if, for instance, the news of what Miss Keighley paid for her new dress received a piercing “Ooh, she never!” it might be shushed, but usually with a playful wink.
Adele opened the garishly modern door and greeted Mrs Blackstone enthusiastically. The grapevine which wound around the branch operated on a give-and-take honour basis, with customers expected to contribute gossip as well as learn it, and Adele Carmichael was a particularly rich and reliable source. Thus it was that the greeting returned by Mrs Blackstone was equally ebullient.
With some of the newer and less seasoned gossipmongers of the area a degree of customary small talk was observed before the latest rumours were exchanged, as though the participants were in a Chicago speakeasy, each ensuring that the other was trustworthy, and the commodity on offer were something more sinister and illegal than idle speculation. Adele, however, was a veteran of the system, and well-established in the inner circle, and no opening pleasantries were required; after a brief compliment of Adele’s dress, Mrs Blackstone launched into the only topic really worthy of discussion at the current time.