by Jamie Probin
‘How’s that? It sounds to me like the entire village was in the grounds of Blackwood Manor that day. Just about anybody could have snuck up to the library and killed the poor man.’
‘Exactly! Just about anybody from the village. But a stranger, someone from outside the community, could not have hoped to go unnoticed. Think about it: every single person we’ve spoken to noticed our victim that day. He stuck out like a sore thumb, because he wasn’t a local. The failure to identify the dead man is only complete so fast because almost every person at the reception saw him, and didn’t know him.’
‘I see. So you’re saying that if whoever murdered him had been from outside the village, he or she would have been noticed too?’
‘Exactly. In a village like Upper Wentham it would be quite literally impossible for someone unknown to sneak through the crowds and into the house unnoticed, let alone leave again. In fact the circumstances are both a curse and a blessing. They leave an enormous pool of suspects, but with a very definite boundary. But the fact remains that someone in the village is a murderer. They have killed Ronald Asbury, tried several times to murder Charles Wentworth, and now stabbed someone who might well have been a complete stranger to them.’
‘Eh? A complete stranger? That sounds unlikely. Besides, you just said before that it was the relationship between the murderer and the victim that mattered. You can’t have it both ways.’
‘Perhaps,’ agreed Harris, ‘or perhaps not.’
Hollingsworth decided he was no longer going to rise to these obtuse attempts at inscrutability, and would instead fight back with a serene disinterest. Instead of responding, he returned to an earlier theme.
‘Going back to these murders and attempted murders, I’ve had an idea about that. You were saying that it bothered you how ineffectual these efforts to kill Charles Wentworth have been. Now the business with the statue seems like it might have been a reasonable plan to me, but I have to agree that the gunshot and the poison are either a bluff or the work of a complete bungler. But notice that in the case of the statue, both Charles Wentworth and Ronald Asbury were both there.’
‘I know. So what?’
‘And Ronald Asbury is now dead.’
‘I know that too Hollingsworth. Do we have to sit here telling each other things we already know, like the first chapter of some bad romance novel?’
‘So maybe,’ said Hollingsworth, gritting his teeth, ‘the statue was actually meant for Asbury. We’re assuming it was meant for Charles Wentworth because of the subsequent attempts, but maybe Asbury was the intended victim all along? What about this: someone had it in for Ronald Asbury and tried to knock a statue on his head, hoping it would be chalked off as an accident? Very well, that fails, but somehow the opportunity arises to travel to Southampton and do him in there. The murderer arranges – or at least tries to arrange – the impression of suicide, and so has even managed to direct suspicion away from Upper Wentham. But just in case the police think to connect this with the suspicious accident in the church, he tries to muddy the trail by going back and pretending to try and kill Charles Wentworth. That way any suspicion of foul play over the statue would be directed towards an attempt on Charles Wentworth and not Asbury, thus entirely isolating Asbury’s death from the place where the killer lives. But of course he had no reason to kill Charles Wentworth, and so he made sure these subsequent attempts failed.’
‘And what about this chap in the study?’
‘Well I don’t know about him yet,’ admitted Hollingsworth, ‘but that doesn’t rule the theory out. We’ve no idea who he was. Maybe he is connected somehow to Ronald Asbury. Maybe he saw something that made him dangerous to the murderer. For instance he could have been on the same boat as Asbury that came back from France? Or he may have been a guest in the Metropole that night, and seen something.
‘In fact,’ said Hollingsworth, speaking faster and excitedly as ideas tumbled through his mind, ‘he might even be the missing man from the room next door to the one in which Asbury was shot!’
‘Except for the fact that he doesn’t match the description.’
‘Well, that’s true.’
‘And we agreed that the man from next door was the murderer.’
‘Well okay, it’s not exactly perfect, but there may be something in it. At least it explains some things,’ he finished defensively.
‘It does indeed. A fine and valiant effort my friend,’ replied Harris in a tone that might have been a touch condescending.
Hollingsworth grimaced.
‘Do I hear the distant footsteps of the words “except for the facts that…” charging resolutely towards this conversation?’
Harris tried to make his face look more like a sympathetic doctor about to give bad news, and less like a smug academic.
‘Well, except for the facts that the second attempt on Charles Wentworth’s life – the gunshot – occurred before Asbury was dead. And it ignores the fourth attempt – the brake fluid – which, although elaborate, could easily have been successful.’
‘You’ve got a point there,’ admitted Hollingsworth, grudgingly. ‘Just because something seems daft doesn’t make it ineffectual. Alright then, let’s accept the fact that someone wanted Ronald Asbury dead, and now wants Charles Wentworth dead too, but for some reason is being far less efficient about the latter. The question we have to answer is why.’
‘Wisely put, my friend.’
‘I suppose you have your suspicions?’
‘One or two.’
‘But you won’t say.’
Harris tried to look hurt and offended.
‘I don’t know that any of my ideas are worth articulating at the moment. The fact is, I could hypothetically conceive a motive for just about anyone in the village, but few are really convincing.’
‘Give me an example.’
Harris pondered a moment.
‘Well, just off the top of my head: It seems that Sir George’s father, Sir Alfred Wentworth was something of a rogue, and it’s common knowledge that there is more than one illegitimate son out and about. Maybe one of them has somehow got it in their head that if Charles were removed from the scene they might stand to inherit as heir.’
‘Hmmm, I see what you mean.’
‘About what?’
‘About it not being convincing.’
Harris ignored this.
‘If I had to commit myself I would say there is something connected to blackmail in the motive. We know Asbury was being blackmailed and I have very suggestive evidence that at least two more villagers are victims too. Now I have to say that blackmail is not uncommon in a village environment like Upper Wentham, and I would be prepared to believe that it could be going on and yet entirely unconnected with our case. That is not too great a coincidence to ignore. But I do want to investigate further when we get back.’
‘And how would that relate to Messrs Asbury and Wentworth?’
‘Well they were known to do research into local affairs, especially Asbury. He even sold stories as a freelance journalist. And don’t forget they were examining parish records of local marriages at the time of the first attempted murder. They could have found a secret that someone would kill to keep quiet.’
‘You surely don’t think they were doing the blackmail?’
‘Probably not,’ agreed Harris, ‘but it might be a part of a much bigger picture.’
‘It’s amazing in villages where so much gossip goes on that people still have so much to hide.’
‘It is indeed,’ said Harris. ‘And it makes our job so much harder. Ninety five percent of it is probably worthless knowledge to the case, but I can’t help feel that somebody, somewhere knows something crucial.’
He recounted the scene in the study, and detailed the business over the scrap of photograph.
‘There’s a classic example. I’m convinced that Sir George wasn’t telling me something about a photograph, either the one now burned or another. Even when I asked him again this mo
rning, and there was no one else present, he wouldn’t admit anything. It may be absolutely nothing – it probably is – but how are we to find the important clues, if people guard their business so tightly?’
‘I suppose they think that if they tell us, the information will be common knowledge within a day. After all, that is the way it works if they tell anyone else.’
‘But surely they realise we don’t care about their petty secrets? They can’t honestly think the first thing we would do, on finding out their husband’s peccadilloes, would be to get out our soapbox on the green and broadcast it to all and sundry?’
‘People are funny sometimes,’ said Hollingsworth, sounding like Confucius. ‘And I suppose in their defence that if the information were to be critical, and came out in trial, then it would become common knowledge.’
‘Well, perhaps our interviews today may shed some light. Are we nearly there yet?’
Samantha McKinley had never felt more alone.
She was by nature a person who enjoyed her own company, not known for an outgoing personality, and in a village like Upper Wentham such a love of solitude, especially for a housewife, was frowned upon as a major character flaw.
It was not that she did not like the other people in the village; she always had time for a friendly greeting, but unlike the other women in the village she never knew the right words to start a deeper conversation.
And, of course, over all that hung the spectre of Anthony Barnes.
It was hard to chat casually with the same people who, just moments before, were talking about you in hushed whispers, and would do so again once you departed. Even once the novelty of this celebrity had worn off, and ceased to bother Samantha, it still imposed a certain seclusion upon her.
Throughout it all the fact that no one had known the whole story about the “Lovers’ Leap” had provided a cushion of protection to the hard and painful truth. Recently, however, she had felt the cracks appearing in the dam. Ever since the letters began arriving it seemed that the eyes were prying a little harder, the voices becoming more hushed.
They know! They must know!
Even the people she felt most comfortable around now seemed to look at her in a peculiar way. The gazes to which she had become so accustomed as she walked around Upper Wentham now seemed more pervasive, and the whispers more poisonous. The world was getting heavier, weighing down her shoulders, crushing her…
She opened the door to Mrs Wall’s shop and tried to smile at the owner’s greeting.
‘Good morning Mrs Wall.’
‘What can I get for you my dear?’
Samantha pulled a piece of paper from her handbag. The shopping list was very short, but recently she had found her mind unable to recall simple items.
‘Some flour, some vanilla and some headache powders please,’ she read.
Mrs Wall, a veteran of the village store business, had an uncanny ability to deduce from such vague statements the precise quantities desired, and soon had the flour and vanilla extract, but was less sure about the final item.
‘How much headache powder would you like dear?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Samantha faintly, rubbing her forehead. ‘A lot.’
A look of concern appeared on Mrs Wall’s face. ‘Are you alright, my dear?’
‘Hmmm? Oh, just… you know? Feeling a bit under the weather.’ Samantha tried to smile.
Mrs Wall began to spoon some powder into a jar, with a degree of reticence. For a moment she wondered if she were doing the right thing.
‘Thank you so much,’ Samantha said finally, after she had paid and received her change.
‘My pleasure, dear.’ Mrs Wall paused a moment. ‘Is there… anything I can do?’
A profound look crossed Samantha’s face, a complex mixture of gratitude, understanding, helplessness and sorrow.
‘No. No, I’m quite alright. Goodbye Mrs Wall.’
She gathered her purchases into her shopping bag and turned to go. There were two other women in the shop, Mrs Alnthorpe and Mrs Leaworth, and as Samantha opened the door the ubiquitous brief whisper was shared between them. Over the tinkle of the bell, only two words were audible, and they were hardly surprising: Anthony Barnes.
Samantha had heard them so many times before, but somehow today they sounded more ominous, more poisonous than in the past. A wave of acute nausea washed over her, and she wheeled round to face the women, almost keeling over in the process.
‘Stop it!’ she screamed. ‘I didn’t know, I tell you! How could I? If I had known I would never have…’
She broke off sobbing as if she had unburdened an almighty weight, although the cryptic ranting implied nothing to Mrs Wall and her customers, save for the possibility that Samantha was having a mental breakdown.
Eventually, between gasping sobs, she uttered something which sounded very like ‘forgive me’, before turning and fleeing from the shop.
To Hollingsworth's relief Harris finally dozed off around Birmingham. To his subsequent chagrin the don began snoring loudly as they passed through the Potteries. He considered poking his passenger awake, but on consideration decided that the snoring was still preferable to being asked how far they had left to go every ten minutes. They passed through Lancashire, and gradually the gentle undulation of the countryside became more rugged and imposing as the Lake District came into view.
As they passed through Kendal and Windermere the roads became narrower and more winding, and before long Harris had awoken to claim he was feeling nauseous. The thought of explaining to his superior that his passenger had vomited in the car made Hollingsworth feel quite ill too, and it was with great relief when they finally arrived in Kingsmere.
The village was an impossibly compact arrangement of small cottages and terraces, all juxtaposed in an apparently random manner. The pair wandered through the tiny streets, which intersected with no rhyme or reason. There were a couple of tiny shops, a small school, a nondescript door which turned out to lead inside the smallest church Harris had ever seen – barely bigger than a front room with eight small pews shoehorned in around a disproportionately large pipe organ – and a couple of public houses.
They wandered up yet another narrow street, which vanished to almost nothing, leaving only a small ginnel between two ancient houses. When Harris passed through this ginnel he was astonished to find himself back where they had started. How was it that in such a tiny village one’s sense of direction was so inadequate? The whole place was basically a circle around the much larger parish church built atop the raised motte in the centre, yet Harris lost all sense of position as the haphazard streets and passageways crossed each other.
Hollingsworth, far more familiar with the typical Lake District hamlet from his youth, drank in the crisp air and surveyed the village with an approving eye. He noted that only one of the pubs also provided accommodation, and went inside to take two rooms.
‘Just one night, is it?’ asked the landlord. He peered at Hollingsworth's entry in the guest book. ‘Southampton, eh? That’s a long way to come for a single night.’
‘Actually we’ve driven up from Gloucestershire today, and we’re only heading across to York tomorrow,’ replied the policeman. Harris noticed how his friend’s northern brogue thickened further in the company of similar accents. He also noted that Hollingsworth chose not to give his occupation. ‘We’re not on holiday, which is a shame because I’ve always loved the Lake District. In fact we’re in Kingsmere on business, in a manner of speaking. I was hoping to find someone who remembers some old inhabitants of the village, Gordon Astin and the Bowes sisters, Catherine and Diana. Do you know of anyone who could help me?’
‘Ah,’ said the landlord stoically, ‘just about anyone over the age of forty would remember all of ‘em I reckon. They were all popular, especially Gordon.’
‘Is there someone who would remember him particularly well? A close friend perhaps?’
‘Aye, that would be Bill Raynor.’
Ha
ving ascertained directions to the Raynor residence, Harris and Hollingsworth ordered a couple of lamb chops for dinner and washed them down with a pint of local ale before making their way to the indicated cottage. It was a tiny-looking part of a row of similar residences, clad in white stone with flowers of all colours growing everywhere a window box would fit. Hollingsworth knocked on the low wooden door.
Bill Raynor turned out to be a stocky man of about fifty, with greying hair and a face that looked as rugged and pitted as the hills surrounding his home. He opened the front door and looked inquiringly at the two strangers on the doorstep.
‘Mr Raynor?’ said Hollingsworth. ‘My name is Hollingsworth and this is my colleague, Dr Harris.’ He thrust his right hand out, before realising with horror that Raynor’s own right arm ended at the elbow. Before the policeman had chance to even look embarrassed, Raynor shrugged the incident off.
‘Don’t worry about it,’ he muttered gruffly. ‘Happens all the time. I haven’t shaken a hand since 1917.’
‘The war?’ asked Hollingsworth, somewhat redundantly.
‘Dodgy grenade, would you believe? Went off in my hand with the pin still attached. Fortunately it was so dodgy that only half the explosive worked – otherwise I’d be dead.’
Without actually inviting them, he still shepherded the two visitors inside. The front room was as cramped as the outside of the cottage suggested it would be, and was filled with ornaments, vases of flowers of all kinds, books and photographs. One photograph, prominently displayed on the mantelpiece, showed a younger Bill Raynor in full uniform saluting smartly to the camera. It seemed to Hollingsworth that the right hand tipped to the forehead must be a constant reminder to the man of what the war had taken from him. Perhaps that was the point.
Standing at the far side of the room was a small, shrewish woman with thin lips and piercing green eyes, whom Raynor introduced as his wife. She looked suspiciously at Hollingsworth and Harris for a few moments, before going to make tea.
‘Mr Raynor,’ said Hollingsworth as he sank awkwardly into the old sofa, ‘forgive us interrupting your teatime, but I hope you might be able to help us. We were told you were the person to talk to about Gordon Astin.’