by Jamie Probin
Charles shook his head firmly. ‘Absolutely not. It was one of the first things I thought of. After the gunshot in the folly I wondered whether this might be a prelude to demanding money, “send us one thousand pounds or next time we won’t miss!” that kind of thing. But there has never been any sign of a demand, or any indication I could do something that would stop the attacks. I’m sure if that were the case the culprit would have been very clear in his expectations of me.’
Harris acknowledged the truth of this. ‘I suppose one doesn’t go to such lengths to intimidate a person without making it obvious what their demands are. Ah well, I had hoped for some results from that angle. It certainly might have helped explain the lack of success of these various attempts.’
‘Lack of success...?’ Charles looked surprised by the phrase. ‘You mean, if this man was trying to scare me rather than actually kill me?’
Harris nodded. ‘It would have accounted for an aspect of this business which is bothering me immensely. But of course it does conflict with my other idea, that the motive for Asbury’s murder was his intentions for Andrea Ketterman. After all, either our criminal is out to scare, or he genuinely is prepared to kill, but I can’t have it both ways.’
‘Not necessarily,’ commented Charles, after a slight pause. In response to Harris’ raised eyebrow he clarified his comment. ‘I’m not saying I think you’re right. But the notion that someone might murder Ronnie but not want to kill me is feasible. You would be amazed at the depth of loyalty people round here still feel to “the Manor”. They don’t want to let go of the feudal system like the rest of the country. I could believe that someone might shrink from the idea of killing a Wentworth.’
Harris declined to say what he thought of this, but his facial expression stated clearly enough that he was not impressed. Sir George’s rhetoric had obviously rubbed off on his son.
‘Either way, we are agreed that the attempts are most likely genuine efforts to kill you.’
‘I’ve never doubted it,’ replied Charles, pointedly. ‘If Andrea hadn’t noticed that brake fluid I think there is every chance we would not be having this conversation.’
Harris considered this at length, then nodded.
‘The question is, will he try again before the wedding?’
Charles gave a wry smile. ‘I know most men find their wedding stressful, but this is ridiculous!’
Harris looked out the pub window into the dusky evening for a moment.
‘Tell me about you and Andrea Ketterman.’
Charles shrugged. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, marriage as a whole fascinates me, the way most men seem to enter it so voluntarily. But I’m particularly interested in a situation like yours, where a man who is rich – or at least will be one day – becomes engaged. How do you decide that your fiancée loves you and not your money? Don’t you get paranoid about it?’
A deep chuckle bubbled up from Charles.
‘I know some who do. In fact “paranoid” doesn’t even begin to cover it. But in my experience it tends to be the father who obsesses over that. Take Sir Oliver Anstruther for example: every time there has been even the remotest indication that Sarah might be thinking of marriage, he has investigated the entire life history of the fellow within a week. There was a time it seemed like she and Richard Carmichael might become… have you met Carmichael? Awful chap to be honest, and I don’t know what Sarah was thinking. Anyway, once her father found out, and after he all but had an apoplexy, he simply banned the idea outright. In that case I don’t think it was primarily a worry about the money issue, but usually it is. That’s why children of wealthy families so often marry other children of wealthy families. Sometimes it’s snobbery, but I’ve known plenty of examples where it was simply the security of knowing that money wasn’t a motivation.’
‘But that was not the case with Sir George and Andrea?’
‘You’ve met my father.’ Charles said. ‘He would let me marry a female Raffles if she could guarantee him a legitimate heir or two.’
Harris decided he would never get a better chance to ask tactfully.
‘So there was never a question that Andrea chose to accept your proposal over Ronald Asbury’s because of the Wentworth fortune?’ Fire glinted momentarily in Charles’ eyes, and Harris clarified: ‘In your father’s view I mean?’
It was obviously an allegation Charles had heard levelled on multiple occasions. After taking a long breath he opted for a good-humoured response.
‘I’m quite certain it was the second question he asked himself, right after assessing her child-bearing potential. But unlike everyone else in the village, he seems to have the faith that I can make that judgement for myself.’
‘Quite right too,’ agreed Harris in a conciliatory manner. ‘You seem very perceptive to me. So when did you know that Andrea Ketterman was the one for you?’
‘Well, it wasn’t love at first sight, or anything as romantic as that. I mean, growing up I must have seen Andrea hundreds of times around the village over the years, and I’ll be honest with you Harris, I barely noticed her. Then one day something was just different. I don’t know what it was, but it was like seeing her – really seeing her – for the first time. I knew immediately that I had to marry her.’
‘And what about Ronald Asbury?’
‘What about him?’
‘When did he feel that way about Andrea?’
For once Charles’ usually genial brow darkened as he thought about this. ‘I would say that Ronnie became interested in Andrea about two days after I did.’
‘A competitive gesture?’
‘You mean, did Ronnie really love Andrea, or did he just want to beat me?’ Charles shrugged. ‘I doubt I’ll ever know that for certain. But it does seem quite a coincidence that the pair of us should simultaneously fall in love with a girl we had both seen regularly for most of our lives. Ronnie was a good chap in many ways, but he never liked to be outdone. Not in anything. Anyway, enough of this, one more drink?’
Harris said that was a good idea, so long as they ordered in person this time. The two stood and walked towards the busier area of the tavern, where the men of Upper Wentham thronged around the bar. Many nodded deferentially at Charles and moved aside, but just as they were about to give their order, one man, staggering slightly, emerged from the far side.
‘Look who it is! The next lord of the manor himself!’ The words were slurred by indulgence of the establishment’s fine ale, but Harris had no trouble in recognising the junior gardener with whom he had spoken at Blackwood Manor. ‘Come to mingle with us common folk.’
‘Dunsett?’ Charles was clearly surprised by this address. ‘Are you alright?’
‘Oh, he knows my name!’ exclaimed Dunsett, the alcohol making his Yorkshire accent even more pronounced. He spoke to those around him at the bar, but to a man they all tried to ignore him. ‘More than his father does, I’d wager. Sir high-and-mighty George Wentworth, sitting on his throne, lording it over us peasants.’
He spat the last word and grabbed at a table to regain his balance.
The landlord was looking progressively more uncomfortable, and the attempts of the other clientele to pretend nothing untoward was occurring were failing.
‘Come now Harold,’ said the barman, ‘that’s enough.’
‘He thinks he is such a benevolent ruler,’ continued Dunsett, ignoring everyone and growing more belligerent, ‘thinks we are all so grateful for the opportunity to live in his village. Well, let me tell you something: Sir George Wentworth is a devil. He uses people, sucks them dry and then tosses them aside like a piece of rubbish. All for the sake of his precious family name.’
By now the landlord had emerged from behind his bar and grabbed hold of Dunsett’s collar, ready to eject him from the building. Charles held his hand up to stop him. His mind was racing with Harris’ earlier warning about the possibility of someone poisoning his drink, and the realisation that this man Dunsett had been in t
he pub all along was sobering in the extreme, but the young peer was determined to maintain his dignity.
‘Don’t worry Halford,’ he said to the landlord with a distinctly frosty edge to his voice, ‘we must be taking our leave.’
There was a horrified relish to the silence as he and Harris departed. Halford, the landlord, looked livid with Dunsett, not surprisingly given the words that the latter had just spoken to Halford’s most important customer. Charles’ expression was icily aloof, and Harris’ was slowly falling as it became apparent his last pint would not be forthcoming after all.
The two men exited into the crisp evening air and walked back along the riverbank to Blackwood Manor in quiet contemplation.
Chapter 19
‘I tell you Hollingsworth, ancient Rome had nothing on Upper Wentham. It’s a proper nest of intrigue.’
‘These little towns and villages usually are.’ Hollingsworth’s sage social commentary sounded tinny as it emerged from the telephone. The local exchange was not used to dealing with such cosmopolitan requirements as a connection with the south coast, and the detective inspector’s voice rang dissonantly from the ageing earpiece.
Earlier Mrs Breakwater, the landlady of the Green Man, when asked by Harris if he might use her telephone, had looked at him as though he were about to perform ancient magic. She had gasped in awed astonishment when he had asked the operator to connect him with Southampton, breathed an audible sigh of relief when a request to reverse the charges followed, and she continued to peer at him through the lounge door on occasion as if to check she had not imagined the whole thing.
‘Have you found anyone with a motive for wishing Charles Wentworth dead?’
‘Not a single one so far,’ admitted Harris with frustration. ‘No one seems to benefit from his death – not at the moment at least – and no one seems to dislike him particularly. The only indication of any acrimony I’ve come across was from your man Ronald Asbury. Local opinion is divided on the issue, but many believe that Andrea Ketterman fell in love with Asbury, and Charles stole her away from him with the lure of the Wentworth fortune.’
‘So the only person who might have had a motive for these murder attempts has himself already been murdered,’ summarised Hollingsworth. ‘Is that a contradiction, or a clue?’
Harris shook his head helplessly. ‘I honestly have no idea. Sometimes I start thinking, against all my instincts, that Ronald Asbury’s murder is just a coincidence. See, it turns out that he fancied himself as a freelance journalist, particularly those kinds of articles where it is revealed that old Dr Wetherby down the road was once the King of Sweden or whatever. Anyway, to that end he did a lot of ferreting around old stories. The reason that he and Charles were in the church when the statue fell on the pew was something Ronald had discovered in the church records. If he had discovered a secret that somebody wanted kept quiet…’
‘But it would still be about someone in Upper Wentham!’ exclaimed Hollingsworth. ‘Then we’re back to two killers in one village, which I thought we both agreed was a non-starter? And besides, that doesn’t solve the problem of no one wanting to kill Charles Wentworth.’
‘I know that,’ grumbled Harris, who always preferred to be the rain rather than part of the parade. ‘But if we could somehow separate the incidents, and treat Asbury’s murder as completely unrelated to these attempts on Charles Wentworth’s life... it might allow me to follow up an idea.’
‘What idea?’ demanded Hollingsworth suspiciously.
Harris had always managed to rile his good friend Chief Inspector Rogers by pretending to have very specific inspirations on a subject about which in fact he merely had a gut feeling. It was a ruse he frequently enjoyed, roaming around with an astute expression and giving the impression that he could see the whole picture but wished to keep his idea private like all good amateur detectives. The misgiving timbre of Hollingsworth's voice as it made the last comment suggested that he too could be a victim of this strategy.
Maybe all professional policemen had this Achilles heel? Doubtless they all read detective novels and complained to each other about how ridiculous the presentation of the constabulary was, deriding the outrageous notion of an amateur always tumbling to the truth first, whilst the dull-witted policeman bumbled around, either in the dark or completely on the wrong track. They surely agreed with each other that, in reality, their training and perception would always trump the nosey little old lady sitting in her cottage.
Nevertheless, suspected Harris, they were sensitive to the stereotype and always ready to bristle at any hint that the likes of him were getting above themselves – which to Harris was the equivalent of dangling a carrot in front of a donkey.
‘What idea?’ demanded Hollingsworth again, in an aggravated tone that merely confirmed Harris’ suspicion.
It would probably have been little consolation to the policeman to know that Harris only teased those of whom he was fond, and he had taken a renewed liking to Hollingsworth after their recent reunion. Since Harris did not actually have any specific details to mete out sparingly he decided instead to offer up his entire idea as though it were a cunningly vague token gesture to the clueless inspector, like a bone tossed to a dog.
‘It just occurred to me,’ he said, trying to sound as offhand as possible, and even giving his shoulders an exaggerated shrug in the hope that some of his feigned nonchalance would rub off in his voice, ‘that whilst no one seems to dislike Charles Wentworth, you can hardly move for people who dislike his father.’
‘Sir George is not popular in Upper Wentham?’ asked Hollingsworth in surprise.
‘“Not popular” doesn’t even begin to cover it. Dysentery could be described as “not popular” in Upper Wentham. Sir George Wentworth has trailblazed an entirely new standard of animosity.’
‘So you’re suggesting that someone might be threatening the life of Charles Wentworth, in order to intimidate his father?’ asked Hollingsworth sceptically.
Harris had actually been thinking along different lines, but the merits of the idea struck him.
‘Why not? It would certainly explain why the attempts on Charles’ life were so weak. If the perpetrator never intended to kill him, but rather scare Sir George, then they would deliberately fail.’
‘But why not actually kill Charles Wentworth? Surely that would cause more distress? For that matter, if someone hates Sir George, why not just kill him, rather than go to all these lengths?’
‘Hollingsworth, you’re talking as though everyone is a potential murderer. I know that’s how you policemen see it, but believe it or not most people don’t have it in them to kill another person. Besides, considering the obsession Sir George has with having an heir and continuing the family line, it might almost be crueller to continually threaten Charles’ life and stretch out the anguish.’
Hollingsworth gave a doubtful sniff.
‘I have to say, Harris, that seems extremely far-fetched to me.’
‘You were the one who suggested it,’ grumbled Harris in a sulky voice.
Hollingsworth opted not to correct this claim which, whilst technically true, was rather misleading, and instead asked for specifics. ‘So who are these people who hate Sir George Wentworth?’
‘I’m not exaggerating when I say a high percentage of the village. Sir George sees himself as the benevolent squire with the best interests of Upper Wentham at heart, but doesn’t seem to realise that the way he treats people is more important to them than his intentions. He thinks the ends justify the means, and the people of the village will understand. But when it comes to the Wentworth family and name, he loses sight of everything else.’
‘How so?’
‘Well for example, let me tell you about his history with Catherine Bowes.’ Harris recounted the tale he had heard earlier at the village pond.
At the end of the story Hollingsworth whistled in disbelief. ‘So first he broke off the engagement because Miss Bowes was paralysed, then he married her sister,
and finally he made her sister go through labour even though it threatened her life?’
‘That’s the abridged version,’ agreed Harris. ‘You can hardly blame her for regarding Sir George as a louse.’
‘Not at all. In fact I’m surprised she hasn’t taken some revenge on him. Maybe your idea of punishing Sir George by threatening his son would not be stretching plausibility in her case.’
‘No,’ said Harris firmly. He explained how devoted Catherine Bowes was to her nephew. ‘I’m certain she wouldn’t do him any harm. I wouldn’t put much past her when it came to punishment for Sir George Wentworth, but she wouldn’t let Charles suffer.’
‘Well, if you say so,’ responded Hollingsworth, with a slightly incredulous air, as if to imply that such an assumption were the folly of an amateur. Evidently he intended to give Harris a taste of his own medicine.
‘And I have first hand evidence that the junior gardener at Blackwood loathes Sir George. Charles Wentworth and I had a drink together in the Green Man last night, and the fellow went on a drunken tirade against his employer. He calls himself Harold Dunsett, but I have my doubts as to whether that is his real name. In fact I’d like you to explore his background if you get chance. The head gardener is about ninety eight and wouldn’t recognise a forged reference if it tap-danced on his petunias.’
‘I’ll look into it,’ promised Hollingsworth, his earlier petulance forgotten as he scribbled down the details Harris had received that morning from Charles Wentworth. ‘Who else?’
‘The local MP, Douglas McKinley. From what I’ve heard he has a very promising political career, but for various reasons he has come a cropper with a bill over some new factory or other. He is expected to ensure this bill passes, but Sir George is opposing it for all he’s worth and making things very difficult for Douglas. I’ve met young McKinley before, and he’s a nice fellow, but I could tell that this is a real thorn in his side.
‘Then there’s the Carmichael family. Adele Carmichael was Alfred Wentworth’s second wife, and thus Sir George’s stepmother, although she’s actually younger than him. She has two children from her first marriage, Rebecca and, of course, our friend Richard Carmichael, whose warm hospitality we recently enjoyed so much. When Alfred died the will left them nothing, and they suspect that it was owing to Sir George’s influence that they were cut out. Richard Carmichael in particular hates Sir George’s guts.’