A Painted Devil

by Jamie Probin

  ‘Given that His Majesty’s Police Force are footing the bill for this conversation, would it perhaps be quicker to list the inhabitants of Upper Wentham who actually do like him?’

  ‘Quite probably,’ agreed Harris. ‘But if time is of the essence for His Majesty’s coffers, then there is some further investigation I would like from you. Two persons have emerged that particularly interest me, both of which would in theory have a great motive to do Sir George no good. One is his first wife, Mary Sutcliffe. He divorced her after a couple of years when she hadn’t given him any children, and she remarried a Roger McKellen, before eventually committing suicide.

  ‘The other is Gordon Astin, a lifelong friend of Diana Bowes. According to her sister he was desperately in love with Diana but thought she should marry Sir George for financial security. He was killed in the war, but had never recovered from Diana’s death.

  ‘Obviously both of them are supposedly dead, but I’d like to know for sure. There is an element of hearsay about both accounts, and it’s always possible that reports of their deaths have been greatly exaggerated, as the expression goes. If either were still alive, they would be prime candidates for any campaign waged against Sir George.’

  Harris’ voice trailed off as Mrs Breakwater entered the lounge. She was brandishing a duster, and began flicking it at the furniture in an optimistic yet half-hearted manner. Harris knew his landlady was a solid member of the Upper Wentham library gossip cabal, and suspected the chief purpose of her visit was the hope of overhearing some sensational piece of news. He glared at her defiantly until she eventually shrank back out of the door.

  ‘I don’t suppose,’ began Hollingsworth, unaware of the battle of wills in progress at the other end of the line, and in a voice that suggested he truly did not suppose, ‘that you have found time to investigate my case, during all your time “detecting” in the pub?’

  ‘Actually I have made some inquiries,’ responded Harris with dignity, ‘but without much luck. The unanimous verdict on your Ronald Asbury is that he was charming, intelligent and a bit of a bad apple. No one really trusted him, but everyone seemed to like him to some extent. No one believes he would commit suicide. I certainly haven’t come across anyone with a transparent motive for wanting him dead, but then if they had killed him they wouldn’t go around broadcasting why, would they? To complete our confusing little circle, the only name that did come up in some quarters as having a motive to do him no good was Charles Wentworth. There are so many different takes on our love triangle that some are convinced Andrea Ketterman was ready to change her mind at the last minute and choose Ronald Asbury instead. In that case there may be a motive for Charles Wentworth considering murder.’

  ‘That’s an interesting possibility. I shall have to do further research on his alibi for the day Asbury was shot.’

  ‘You can try,’ agreed Harris, ‘although I have probed his whereabouts that day – with brilliant subtlety of course, don’t worry – and I’m fairly certain it’s watertight. He is the president of some obtuse charity and was in London all day at a board meeting. It sounded as though there were plenty of people who could testify to his presence if needed.’

  Hollingsworth sighed theatrically, determined to take this interminable series of dead ends personally.

  ‘Well, for what it’s worth, we have had some results from one of our leads.’ He told Harris the further discoveries about the mysterious blackmailer. ‘Whoever this person calling themselves Sidney Carter is, they gradually bled Ronald Asbury dry. In the months leading up to the murder at the Metropole, Asbury withdrew hundreds of pounds from his bank, for which none of his papers can account. On a couple of occasions he made a cheque payable to Sidney Carter, and some shares and bonds he owned were legally transferred in Carter’s name too. And then as you know, on the morning of his death, Asbury liquidated his account in Southampton. He literally did not have a penny left to his name so far as documented assets are concerned, but we have no way of knowing what happened to the money he withdrew. It could have been taken from the hotel room by the murderer, or it could have been given to someone prior to his death, but one way or another we know at least some of that money found its way to Upper Wentham. We know for certain that Asbury himself did not have enough time to get to Upper Wentham and back.’

  Harris scratched his chin thoughtfully. ‘It does seem impossible that no connection exists between Asbury’s murder and Upper Wentham. But hang it all, that does complicate matters enormously.’

  ‘I agree. Nevertheless we have made some efforts to trace Mr Sidney Carter, which to be honest just cloud the matter further. It goes without saying that the name is an alias, of course, but that is not too hard to arrange these days. I’ve heard of men using the name and some basic biography of fallen comrades they knew in the war, and sometimes even using papers they salvaged from the trenches. I’m not saying that is what has happened in our case, because there is no record of any Sidney Carter not subsequently accounted for in one way or another. All I mean is that, although the banks want to see some documentation when you open an account or transfer bonds, these things are not difficult to provide.’

  ‘In other words,’ said Harris, ‘all we know as a result is that this person is male, and not a complete moron.’

  ‘Quite,’ murmured the policeman in his dry Yorkshire brogue. ‘I managed to get a few tellers questioned at each branch that held an account in Carter’s name. Two women in different towns actually recalled him closing his account. They couldn’t remember much, but the descriptions were consistent with that from the Metropole.’

  ‘That description would be “consistent” with half the men in the country.’

  ‘True. But at least it gives more evidence that the man from room 315 was the killer, for which we have no actual physical proof.’

  ‘I wonder how much proof we’ll actually see in this case,’ said Harris. ‘It may be that the solution, when I find it, will be based on pure logic rather than physical evidence.’

  ‘Well I’m glad you are so confident that you will solve it,’ responded Hollingsworth acidly. ‘For myself, I can’t see how we’ll ever get any further with Ronald Asbury’s murder itself, let alone how it will shed any light on your affair. The trail was cold when we arrived at the Metropole, and it has only become colder.’

  ‘It seems that way at the moment,’ agreed Harris, ‘because we have gotten hold of the wrong end of the stick.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ demanded Hollingsworth. ‘Stick? What stick? Which end should we have?’

  ‘Excuse me one moment,’ murmured Harris quietly. He gently placed the phone on the side table and walked silently to the door. Dropping to one knee he placed his eye level with the doorknob and quickly opened the door. To her credit Mrs Breakwater, similarly kneeling and now face to face with Harris, did not even blush, despite the fact that her nose was a matter of inches from that of her guest. Instead she adopted a credible expression of surprise and continued to rub her duster on an area of the doorframe Harris suspected had been attended to for the last ten minutes. After a few seconds she stood and, with a shameless smile, rose and departed.

  ‘Now then,’ continued Harris, after re-closing the door and returning to the telephone, ‘the hypothesis we are currently working on simply has too many holes to be the truth. Our premise is that a person calling himself Sidney Carter was blackmailing Ronald Asbury over something, to the extent that the latter eventually left Upper Wentham to avoid his nemesis – and not, as common opinion would have it, because of unrequited love. Asbury then went to London for a few weeks before departing for the Continent. There he spent almost six months, after which time he decided to head for America. His journey took him to Southampton for a night, during which time his nemesis caught up with him, and killed him. Correct?’

  ‘I suppose so,’ replied Hollingsworth warily, as though this may be a trick question.

  ‘Now, you’ve asked your contacts on the continent an
d they have been unable to trace Asbury’s movements once he left England. We may assume he used a different name to lose his blackmailer. But if the police can’t trace him, how on earth could this Sidney Carter have managed it? The only possible way seems to be that he physically followed Ronald Asbury wherever he went. That would, of course, be consistent with what occurred in Southampton: if Carter was also on board the steamer when it docked in Southampton, he could easily have followed Asbury to the Metropole (although we would still have to explain why he waited until then to commit murder). It is also the most obvious explanation of how our blackmailer knew that his victim had returned to England.

  ‘The great problem with this scenario is that the money which had been in Ronald Asbury’s possession eventually was used to pay in Mrs Wall’s shop. This means that Sidney Carter could not have been a stranger to Upper Wentham, since no non-resident visited the shop during the time the note was used. But equally he cannot have been a local, since no one was absent from the village for the duration of Ronald Asbury’s trip to Europe.

  ‘The only possibility in this scenario is that two people are involved – the alter ego of Sidney Carter, living in Upper Wentham, and an accomplice who spent five or six months on the Continent trailing Ronald Asbury.’

  ‘Or perhaps a contact already living there?’ suggested Hollingsworth. ‘Agreed. So why isn’t this possible?’

  ‘Well okay, it’s not impossible, but I’m not convinced it’s the answer. For one thing, whether it’s Sidney Carter himself or an accomplice, I still don’t understand how they could follow Asbury, especially if they didn’t know where he was going. And it still leaves two very curious unanswered questions.’

  ‘Which are?’ asked Hollingsworth with a degree of resignation to his role in this vignette.

  ‘Why a man who had been blackmailed for all he had, and was at this point carrying all the money he owned on his person, should choose to book a room in the most expensive hotel in Southampton. And why a man who has spent half a year trying to disappear would use his real name in the guest book.’

  There was a pause, as Hollingsworth thought about this for the first time. Slowly, finally, he murmured, ‘Almost as if he wasn’t being followed or blackmailed at all…’

  ‘Or not aware that he was being followed, at least. But in that case, why did he continue to give money to Sidney Carter even from Europe? Here’s the thing though, Hollingsworth, if he was being followed then we have a lead – the pursuer must have been on the same steamer to Southampton. If we can get a copy of the passenger list we should be able to compile a shortlist of candidates.’

  ‘That will be hard,’ replied the policeman. ‘I’m still doing all this outside of an official investigation. I don’t have the time or resources to interview everyone from a passenger manifest and eliminate the ninety percent who are clearly unrelated to any wrongdoing. I could try talking to some of the crew though, and see if they remember anything.’

  ‘Good idea,’ agreed Harris. After a moment, he added: ‘You know, there is someone connected with Upper Wentham whom we can definitely place in Southampton that day. Two people actually.’

  ‘Andrea Ketterman and her brother? Yes I had wondered about that. Here we are, desperately trying to find a connection between Upper Wentham and Ronald Asbury’s murder, and they are both right there at the scene. But they can’t be involved.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Well Andrea Ketterman can’t be Sidney Carter, because we know he was a man. And her brother can’t because we know for certain that he sailed for South America the same day that Ronald Asbury was killed – we received a cable from his steamer confirming his presence on board. Therefore he could not possibly have been to three different banks as Sidney Carter to close his account a week later. And regardless of all the circumstantial evidence, what possible motive could they have?’

  ‘Oh come on Hollingsworth, there’s plenty of possible scenarios. What if Asbury was threatening to interfere with Andrea Ketterman’s wedding to Charles Wentworth? I’d say marriage to one of the largest fortunes in England would count as a motive.’

  ‘Make your mind up!’ exploded Hollingsworth. ‘First you have Andrea Ketterman a.k.a. Sidney Carter blackmailing Ronald Asbury, now he is blackmailing her? This is a proper Machiavellian affair. No, Harris, that won’t wash. It might be a motive for a spontaneous act of murder itself, but not as the end of a calculated extortion campaign.’

  Harris groaned. His arm hurt from holding the telephone, his ear was sore from the earpiece, and his frustration with this apparently intractable problem irritated him more than all his physical ailments combined.

  ‘This is getting us nowhere,’ he grumbled. ‘I can’t think on an empty stomach.’

  Hollingsworth enquired how this claim could be substantiated, since Harris’ stomach had not been close to being empty since about 1904. The reply, the rudest that had ever been spoken down the mouthpiece of this particular telephone, served only to widen Hollingsworth’s grin.

  ‘If you’ve got nothing better to do that sit around casting outrageous slurs at those doing you a favour,’ said Harris, ignoring the subsequent snort from the other end of the line, ‘then perhaps you might like to get your fat Yorkshire behind moving and start looking into these areas we’ve discussed.’

  ‘I think I’ll do just that,’ said Hollingsworth, the remnants of a chuckle still underscoring his reply.

  ‘And if you are free tomorrow,’ continued Harris, testily, ‘you are welcome to be my guest at the Upper Wentham wedding of the decade.’

  ‘On a Saturday?’ asked Hollingsworth incredulously. ‘You mean, miss a football match?’

  He reclined contentedly in his chair and enjoyed the sound of Harris hanging up.

  Chapter 20

  No expense had been spared on the wedding of Charles Wentworth and Andrea Ketterman.

  The efforts of Adele Carmichael had turned St. Anne’s church into a passable imitation of the Royal Horticultural Show, and the garden party in the grounds of Blackwood Manor had been decorated and catered in a similarly lavish fashion. Harris looked around the spacious gardens and thought what a fine setting it made. Harold Dunsett might choose to spend his spare time drunkenly disparaging his employer, but he clearly did not shirk his professional duties when it came to tending the estate. Even the glorious August sunshine was perfect, albeit probably the only aspect of the day that had come without substantial cost.

  The marriage ceremony itself had been a charming and smooth affair. The church had been packed to the rafters, as the entire village donned its finest attire and joined in with the enthusiasm that results from curiosity and a genetic memory of the days of the feudal system. It was almost like a public holiday in Upper Wentham, and the villagers were determined to enjoy it for all they were worth.

  Harris had to admire Sir George’s approach to the occasion, and to “his village”. For all his faults he still understood that his position as village squire (in the sense he so desperately coveted) rested on the continued indulgence of tradition by the inhabitants of Upper Wentham. Other nobles in Sir George’s position might have used the day to focus on impressing their peers, and above all else make certain that the locals did not get their common hands anywhere near the celebration, but to Sir George the entire village was integral to the celebration. He may not, mused Harris, treat individual members of the community as he always should, but as a collective entity he held a genuine warmth for the populace.

  As Harris observed the mixture of joy and wonder etched on the faces of those excitedly surging around the gardens he appreciated why Sir George, as pompous and dogmatic as he could be, was still tolerated by the villagers. They could do nothing about his wealth or property, but they held the non-negotiable power to deny him his status in Upper Wentham, which might hold the greatest value of all to the peer. One day this unstable equilibrium would be disturbed, and vanish forever. Perhaps when Charles Wentworth was squire the balance
would crumble, and the title would truly become the token it should, by all contemporary socio-political wisdom, now be. But until that day the people of the village seemed happy to live their role in an archaic system which could be wheeled out from time to time, and enjoy the perks such as were on offer today.

  Harris was finally feeling relaxed. All morning he had been on edge, worried that something would happen. He was convinced that the increase in frequency of the attempts on Charles Wentworth’s life pointed to the fact that not only did someone want him dead, but that death had to occur before his marriage. With such a deadline, a final strike had seemed very likely indeed to Harris, but now that the nuptials were done and dusted, and all legal ramifications were implemented, that threat was gone.

  That was not to say that Harris liked the situation. His intuition was rarely so wrong, which meant that the reality of the situation was still obscure. Perhaps the threat was now over: a calculated gamble by someone in the village, which had failed either by bad luck or a lack of resolution in the face of what it means to take another life. If this were true then Harris’ work was complete: easy money from a case which resolved itself. But whether that was the reality, only time would tell. And Harris hated leaving unanswered questions behind him.

  Another possibility, however distasteful, was that he was completely wrong, and the wedding was immaterial to the plans of the would-be assassin. When quantities of money on the scale of the Wentworth fortune were involved it was hard to look much further for motive, but if in fact this whole business was about something else entirely then perhaps the marital status of the victim was irrelevant.