by Jamie Probin
‘Did he seem depressed?’
‘Yes, he was very upset.’ Mrs Leaworth seemed puzzled by the question.
‘No, I mean did he seem at all likely to be considering suicide?’
Mrs Leaworth looked shocked, and Harris realised that she would not recognise a suicidal tendency unless the person actually had the gun barrel in their mouth, and even then would probably think it was all some great misunderstanding. ‘Oh dear me, no! He talked about going to Europe, or perhaps America, and starting over.’
‘Which, as I understand it, is exactly what he did do,’ said Harris, ‘or, at least, tried to. From what you told me he went to the continent for three months, came back with a ticket to the USA, met Andrea Ketterman and her brother the night before he was due to sail, and then committed suicide. It doesn’t sound right at all.’
Mrs Blackstone retook the lead, with a particular facial expression that Harris had already realised preceded the imparting of some revelation.
‘Ah, but it turns out that the police think he was being blackmailed, and that had something to do with his suicide.’
Harris had many thoughts about this line of reasoning, and had no expectation that listening to Mrs Blackstone’s speculation would advance any of them. He took the opportunity to turn the conversation back toward Upper Wentham.
‘Now it is interesting you should say that, because blackmail is another of those sins that occur much more frequently in small village life. It is harder to keep a secret, and more devastating if it gets out.’
‘I don’t see that Ronald Asbury could have been blackmailed by anyone in Upper Wentham…’ Mrs Blackstone was reluctant to abandon the Ronald Asbury motif.
Harris privately agreed with the sentiment, but chose to deliberately misunderstand her.
‘Ah yes, but the only way a blackmailer can be successful is if nobody thinks that they could be a blackmailer. If you told me that you suspected it might be so-and-so, then I would say that is probably one person we could eliminate from suspicion. But I do know,’ Harris pointed vaguely upwards with his index finger, now in full lecture theatre flow, ‘that one characteristic of a successful blackmailer is that they rarely stick to only one victim.’
‘Really?’ asked Mrs Leaworth, fascinated. ‘I didn’t know that.’
‘Absolutely. Now if there were a blackmailer at work in the village then there are probably other victims too.’
Harris saw a significant look pass between the women, and felt a flash of adrenaline. For the first time it seemed Mrs Blackstone might not be about to voluntarily spew informed gossip like a geyser, so Harris decided to press on.
‘Have you heard of anything that would indicate anyone being blackmailed?’ Then, pretending to realise how prying he sounded: ‘Goodness, listen to me! I’m being so nosey!’
Harris’ perfunctory protestation was unnecessary. Getting Mrs Blackstone to speculate about Upper Wentham was like getting Jane Austen to knock out another story about a young girl faced with a stern father and a series of romantic stumbling blocks.
‘Well I haven’t actually heard anything, and I’m not one for gossip, but the other day Mrs McKinley was in here and when blackmail was mentioned she started acting very strangely. Dropped her books, she did, and got all flustered.’
‘Mrs McKinley?’ mused Harris. ‘That’s the local MP’s wife?’
‘Yes, that’s her. Samantha McKinley. Quite an odd woman anyway, if you ask me.’
Harris pondered this. Clearly if this Samantha McKinley were being blackmailed, it represented a different case than the one he overheard in the folly. The man’s voice had definitely not been that of Douglas McKinley, who was too young to have been a conscientious objector anyway. But it was true what he had said to Mrs Leaworth, that blackmailers often targeted multiple victims, so this seemed positive news.
‘Do you know of anything that might make her the object of a blackmail campaign?
Once again the look appeared in Mrs Blackstone’s eyes. She considered Harris with much the same expression that the Israelites must have observed the manna as it dropped onto the desert sand. She embarked on the tale of the frustrated young lovers, Samantha Dickson and Anthony Barnes, and their prohibited union. She detailed the ill-fated romance, its finale in a lovers leap, and finished with the ghoulish coda of Samantha surviving to walk daily with her troubled conscience. If the librarian had not persuaded Harris of her reliability before telling the story, he might have thought that she was attempting to pull his leg.
‘You do quite a line in melodrama round here, I must say.’
‘I thought you expected as much in a small village,’ replied Mrs Blackstone, with just a ghost of a smile. ‘Yes, Mrs McKinley definitely has what you might call “a past”.’
‘But that can’t be the source of blackmail. You just told me that everyone and their dog knows that story. It’s local folklore.’
Mrs Blackstone’s face fell. ‘Oh yes, I see what you mean. Something else then?’
‘Perhaps,’ said Harris, ‘but how much history can one woman have? Could there be something more to the story than people know? Or maybe the mention of blackmail startled her not because she is the victim, but her husband? After all, he is an MP. He might have been involved in some shady business.’
The thought that there may be some startling secret in the village unknown to her did not sit well with Mrs Blackstone, and she admitted her ignorance unhappily.
Harris idly picked up a book from the return pile on the desk, a pile which rivalled that in his Cambridge digs in giving the impression of procrastination. He flipped through it, to find that it was a dull-looking treatise on the vagaries of inheritance law. He wanted to keep the librarian content and talkative, and considered little business was going to result from further enquiry along these lines anyway. Instead he returned to the saga of the lovers’ leap.
‘Tell me, after the death of Anthony Barnes, what was the reaction of the parents?’
‘Samantha’s parents moved away soon after. They were wracked with guilt, feeling responsible for what happened. They could not have known the result of their banning the wedding, of course, and one hardly blames them for their actions, but it must be so hard to live with oneself afterwards I imagine.’
‘I would certainly think so,’ agreed Harris, ‘but I was more thinking of the young man’s parents. Surely they would have good reason to hold a grudge against Samantha McKinley?’
‘Well, he wasn’t actually from the village,’ said Mrs Blackstone, and it was evident this fact clearly diminished his worth to the greater picture. ‘His family lived in Anglewhite, twenty miles away. His mother still does, in fact, and quite a nice woman too. His father died in the war.’
Mrs Leaworth, who had faded reluctantly from the conversation, gave a knowing snort at this comment. Mrs Blackstone glared darkly at her, and Mrs Leaworth shrank further into her misery. Harris read the stare like one of the books sprinkled chaotically around the front desk: some items of gossip were simply too scandalous, and not to be shared with strangers, however friendly and interested they may be. Nevertheless, it was not hard to guess the origin of the scepticism.
‘There was some question over the identity of Anthony Barnes real father then?’
Mrs Blackstone’s glare blackened further still, and Harris almost felt sorry for the pitiful-looking woman to his right. Now that Harris had asked the right question the information would have to come, but Mrs Leaworth had just made a huge social faux pas.
‘Well you see Dr Harris, we in Upper Wentham are proud of our heritage, and of the fact that a family as noble as the Wentworths live here. Sir George Wentworth is a fine man.’ Harris wondered to himself why Sir George had never married Mrs Blackstone; it seemed an ideal match. The devotion in her eyes whenever his name cropped up told him that no objections would come from her end. He could imagine the effusive mealtime conversations about how wonderful the Wentworths were. ‘But I’m sorry to say that his
father, Sir Alfred, was less reputable.’
‘From what I’ve heard the man was a downright scoundrel,’ said Harris, encouragingly.
‘Well, yes, I could not disagree with that sentiment. He neglected his first wife, and his son, and carried on in terrible ways. He wasn’t, you know, obvious about it, but everyone around here knew about the alcohol and, of course, the women.’
‘So he, ah, “knew” many of them, as I believe we say in polite company?’
Mrs Blackstone inclined her head solemnly. Mrs Leaworth, apparently thinking that since her stock could sink no lower she may as well make the most of things, joined in.
‘There’s more than a couple of young men in the area that look not unlike Sir George. There’s Billy Archer at the baker’s, for one, and Anthony Barnes was a ringer for him too. If a son takes after his father, you can always see it in their face if you ask me.’
Harris was eager to return to the point. ‘So Sir Alfred was not an ambassador for the Wentworth name?’
‘I’m afraid not,’ replied Mrs Blackstone. ‘Sir George would never say so, of course, but I believe his father almost ruined the family financially. And his second marriage to poor Adele Carmichael was a farce too. He seemed to think his carrying on was somehow less scandalous if he had a family life in the background.’
‘Not a nice man.’
‘Actually that was the funny thing. He was such a nice man when you met him. He was kind, funny, generous… just his morals were lacking.’
‘Quite the opposite of his son then? One wonders how Sir George grew to be the man he is.’
‘He was raised almost exclusively by his mother, before she was too ill, and then by a governess. I don’t think Sir Alfred had any influence on him at all. And a good job too.’
‘You like Sir George then? Not many in Upper Wentham seem to.’
‘Well they should!’ replied an indignant Mrs Blackstone. ‘He is the lord of the manor, and a good and moral man.’
‘You don’t find him a little… pompous?’
‘Sometimes a peer of the realm needs to maintain a dignity and decorum that others cannot,’ came the frosty reply. Harris felt that if Sir George were to have ever proposed to the librarian she would have said “yes” faster she could tell someone about the vicar’s new housekeeper.
‘The story I heard in the Green Man was that Sir George divorced his first wife because she could not have children. And he was considering the same for his second before she became pregnant. And then he made her have the baby even though he knew she might die.’
‘You should not believe everything you hear in the Green Man,’ said Mrs Blackstone, haughtily (and, so far as Harris could detect, with no awareness of any irony).
Harris felt the time had come for a conversational gambit. His time in the library was up, and he decided to risk incensing Mrs Blackstone for the possible return of furthering his search for the man in the folly.
‘I also heard that Sir George was a conscientious objector in the war.’
This time Mrs Blackstone’s equanimity vanished on the spot. ‘Who said that? That is an outrageous slur! Who was it who told you? Someone at the Green Man?’ Fortunately her anger was directed at the phantom gossiper rather than Harris, and he claimed a mixture of ignorance and amnesia over the identity of the perpetrator. ‘Sir George is a brave and courageous man. He was devastated when he was declared unfit for active service, but it was hardly surprising with his limp. He had a terrible bout of polio as a child you see. A conscientious objector indeed! The very thought!’
Harris tried to look suitably apologetic. ‘I’m sure you’re right. And it’s quite possible that I have my wires crossed and it was someone else they were referring to. Were there any known objectors in the area?’
‘There were not!’ thundered Mrs Blackstone, and now her anger was turning on Harris. ‘The men of Upper Wentham did their duty with courage, and we lost more than our fair share, I may tell you. You should go and see their names on our war memorial, Dr Harris, and whilst there you might notice those of my husband and my son.’
For once Harris could find no words.
Chapter 24
Harris trudged down the high street with his head a little bowed. Despite her inflated ego, and her bullying of Mrs Leaworth, he had taken a liking to Mrs Blackstone, and felt unhappy that his efforts to uncover gossip of a conscientious objector should have turned out so inadvertently personal. He went so far as to follow her suggestion and detour past the war memorial to look at the names. He saw those of Albert and Harold Blackstone, and other surnames that were now familiar: Wall, Carmichael, Halford, Breakwater. So much potential, all reduced to stone. In fact, thought Harris, not even stone; the names existed only because fragments of stone had been removed. They were an ethereal illusion, visible only because something once firm and strong had been carved away, leaving empty space behind. It was quite apt, really, each life represented by absence: nothing where something used to be.
Harris wondered if it bothered Sir George that no Wentworth appeared here. Probably not, given how fragile the recent family line was. But if Sir George had had more sons, or a younger brother or two, Harris pondered, would he rather have seen their names tragically yet heroically enshrined here? He suspected that to Sir George a dead, gallant Wentworth was the most perfect Wentworth imaginable: forever a testament to his family and beyond taint or reproach.
He looked at the clock above St Anne’s and realised that he had spent far more time in the library than he had intended. He was due to meet Hollingsworth and Crout in ten minutes. His plan to visit Joseph Hollins would have to wait until after they had returned from whatever excursion Hollingsworth intended.
Hollingsworth was still absent when Harris arrived at the station, but Crout greeted him and, true to his word, was ready to share the results of an impressive amount of investigation since the murder in Sir George’s study. Unfortunately those results did not amount to much in the way of further leads. Enquiries at the train station had verified that the dead man had arrived via that particular mode of transport, but tracing the previous steps of his journey was proving difficult. The station master confirmed that a man answering a description of the victim had asked for directions to Blackwood Manor. No fingerprints had been found in the study, and despite extensive questioning no one in the village had given any positive identification of the man. Crout had yet to speak to anyone who had failed to notice the man, but none had ever laid eyes on him before.
As Crout completed this briefing the sound of a car pulling up signalled Hollingsworth’s arrival. Harris took Crout outside to meet his colleague.
In Harris’ experience most police cars were pushing the boundaries of what constituted a vehicle at all. It seemed that the only kind of criminal who could be caught by one would be pedestrian, preferably over the age of fifty and hampered with some respiratory problem; it was a calculated gamble to sound the siren and not expect the whole ensemble to collapse.
The Hampshire police, however, were either doing rather well for themselves, or else Hollingsworth had persuaded someone in the higher echelons to entrust to him the crème de la crème of their fleet. The vehicle that stood outside the station was one of the finest specimens that Harris had seen, and certainly finer than any he had travelled in; Hollingsworth tried not to look too pleased with himself, and failed dismally. Crout observed the car with sickened envy. The long drive north that Hollingsworth had promised, first to the Lake District and then to Yorkshire, suddenly did not look so bad after all.
Crout and Hollingsworth introduced themselves, and the latter – having already driven several hours – campaigned for a break and a cup of tea, but Harris pestered him to get in the car like an eight-year-old schoolboy and they were soon on the road.
For the first half hour Hollingsworth took a proprietary delight at the boyish fascination Harris showed with the car. Eventually though the latter’s insistence on pushing every button and pulling ev
ery lever he found, and persistent questions as to whether the car “could go any faster”, began to be annoying and worrying in equal measure, and Hollingsworth directed the conversation to the case.
He filled Harris in on the developments – such as they were – from Southampton, listing a couple of minor elaborations on the trail of the elusive Sidney Carter; and two telegraphs from the embassy in Rio De Janeiro, one confirming that John Ketterman did indeed disembark there and the other from Ketterman himself, corroborating the details that Andrea had given them about the day of Ronald Asbury’s death. In particular he had confirmed his sister’s story that Asbury had seemed perfectly normal during the time Ketterman returned to room 314 to collect the letter for Andrea.
‘So, do you have any further news on this murder at Blackwood Manor? Have you any leads on who the victim was?’
‘As far as his name goes, no,’ replied Harris enigmatically.
‘Eh? What the ruddy hell is that supposed to mean? “As far as his name goes, no”? But what? You have a strong suspicion about what size of hat he wears?’
‘Hollingsworth, I miss your blunt northern wit. This trip will be therapeutic to me.’
‘I wish I could say the same.’
‘To return to your excellent question, I feel the identity of the victim is not so important as his relationship to his murderer.’
‘Oh you do?’ said Hollingsworth. ‘So once you know who the murderer is you’ll be pretty close to solving the case then?’
‘Ah but it’s not as ridiculous as it sounds Hollingsworth. Don’t you see, we now know for certain what we have suspected all along: that the murderer is from Upper Wentham. Or, at least, its environs.’