by Jamie Probin
His conversation with Joseph Hollins had gone nowhere. The man had seemed genuinely and completely baffled by the presence of his name and address in the victim’s pocket. He had, he said, no idea who the man was. Crout had asked if Hollins had been in any kind of correspondence lately with anyone whose face he would not recognise, either at the Telegraph or at home, but another negative reply came.
It looked certain from a procession of evidence that Charles and Andrea’s movements were accounted for around the time of the murder, and they were given permission to depart on their honeymoon.
Crout had even, against his better judgement, devoted some time to a search for Dr Harris’ much vaunted missing photograph, and had once again found nothing, although lab tests had confirmed that the charred scraps in the grate were indeed photographic paper. Not that it helped much.
The only positive evidence of any note had come from PC Smethurst, who had impressed Crout with his thorough check of the train network. The stationmaster had recognised the victim from his description, going so far as to provide an account of the man’s clothing and his limp. Although more people than usual had alighted at Upper Wentham station on Saturday for the wedding, the stationmaster knew most of them by sight and the dead man had stuck in his mind. Although he could not now identify the exact ticket the man had handed in, he remembered paying attention to it at the time, wondering where this stranger was from. The ticket had been purchased at Oxford, and although the steward on the train could not recall anyone matching the man’s description, a porter at Oxford did remember helping an older man with a limp onto the Bristol train. He knew the man had been making a connection at Oxford, but then the trail ran dry. All that was known for certain was that the man had come a reasonable distance to get to Blackwood Manor, and probably began his journey very early. It would seem that this was no casual, impulsive visit.
Sighing, Crout finished bemoaning his lack of providence, and returned his attention to the poky, cluttered room. Richard Carmichael’s name had not originally been on his list of interviewees, but he had asked everyone whom they thought disliked Sir George Wentworth, and whilst many names had been offered, those of Catherine Bowes and Richard Carmichael had featured among every single response. Nearly everyone had made some expression of having a bad taste in their mouth when mentioning Carmichael, and it was easy to see why. The man was interesting to Crout simply because he seemed to be the only person in the village who had not attended the reception on Saturday, but he had a surly and defensively belligerent manner which made Crout wish he could find a reason to arrest him.
‘You were gone from Upper Wentham all day on Saturday Mr Carmichael?’
‘Yes, I took the 11:43 train to London.’
‘For what reason?’
‘One that has nothing to do with your investigation.’
‘How can you be so sure?’
‘You will have to trust me, won’t you?’
‘Can anyone confirm your movements?’ asked Crout, a little petulantly.
‘I’m sure they could if needed.’
The response was tauntingly open-ended, but Crout chose not to react. The man was infuriating, but he had little doubt that Carmichael’s actions on Saturday were indeed irrelevant to the current issue. Instead he returned to the case
‘So you didn’t recognise the man who was killed?’
‘My dear chief inspector,’ drawled Carmichael, ‘I’ve just told you I wasn’t at the festivities. Did you forget to write that down?’ He gestured at Crout’s ubiquitous notepad.
‘No sir,’ replied Crout with a hint of a growl, ‘but I know that the man walked from the train station to the Manor. You walked to the station along that same path. I thought possibly you might have seen him at some point.’
‘But how would I know it was him?’ The question could have been valid had it not been asked with amused insolence. ‘I don’t know what he looks like! Surely asking me if I recognised a stranger is an oxymoron? If I recognised him, he wouldn’t be a stranger would he?’
Crout controlled his voice but the violent snap as he closed his notebook belied his temper.
‘Mr Carmichael, what I am asking – and I think that you know this – is whether you saw anybody on Saturday, in the village or at the train station, who was unknown to you. You are clearly not a stupid man, and I am sure it amuses you to affect such detached disinterest in the situation, but I have a murder to solve and I do not take kindly to the obstruction of justice.’
Carmichael spread his hands compliantly, but his face could not lose its smug smile.
‘Detective inspector, I am obstructing nothing. If I had seen anyone or anything suspicious you would be the first to know.’
‘Good, because there is a murderer somewhere in this village, and there is every chance they may strike again.’
Hopefully starting with you, added Crout to himself.
Carmichael slung one leg over the other with a nonchalance that, like everything he did, seemed deliberately chosen to be mocking.
‘You will have to excuse my flippancy, detective inspector. I’m sure this is a very serious case, and if I knew the man or his family I’m sure I would feel sympathy for them. But from my point of view all that has happened is Sir George bloody Wentworth has found scandal at his doorstep – or, even better, in his study. He parades around the village as if he is bestowing a gift on us merely by sharing his presence, reminding one and all of the majesty of the Wentworth name. I’ve dreamt of finding some incriminating disgrace to humiliate the man, some skeleton in the closet which would tar the Wentworth name. You don’t know how long I’ve hoped for that.’
‘And now the skeleton turns up on the study floor,’ said Crout, dryly.
Carmichael smiled, and the policeman thought it was the first genuine act he had seen from the man. ‘Well put, detective inspector, well put. If I’m honest I rather hope you don’t solve the case; I had even thought of inventing some story to confuse you, but reconsidered. I can see you’re not as stupid as most of the people around here.’
‘That was very wise of you sir. But I’m afraid I intend to solve the case.’
Carmichael stood and walked carefully through his cramped living room. Animated enthusiasm had chipped away his sneer and made him more expansive.
‘Well you have to try, I suppose. But it would be wonderful if it went unsolved. Imagine when word got round his circle that a dead body had been found in Sir George Wentworth’s study! They might even wonder whether he had done it! For the rest of his life the Wentworth name would not be associated with all its history, but with the murder of some poor unfortunate tramp.’
‘The man was not a tramp.’
‘It doesn’t matter. The point is, it’s a profoundly unsavoury episode, and I guarantee you that in Sir George Wentworth’s world, that is like having to wear a bell around your neck and go about shouting “unclean!”’
Genuine pleasure lit up Carmichael’s face, and afforded Crout a glimpse of the bitterness that had eaten away at the man’s soul. For a moment he almost felt pity for Richard Carmichael.
Harris was having a similarly distasteful morning many miles further north. The trip from the Lake District to York took the police car across the Pennines and the Yorkshire Dales, and the roads were a far cry from the relatively large, flat and straight carriageways they had travelled the previous day. As the car swung around yet another of the interminable sharp bends of the winding country road Harris let out a sickly groan and begged the Good Lord to take him now and put him out of his misery. Hollingsworth (who, despite priding himself on his granite constitution, was not feeling much better himself) ignored him and wondered how much more of the country could be left. England was barely a hundred miles wide at this point. He felt like he should have reached the North Sea hours ago. They were nearing his birthplace of Leeds, but when he had lived there in the past his travels had generally been north-south, along the Great North Road (or A1 as they were calling
it these days). This cross-country travel was much harder on the stomach.
Finally the countryside flattened and the road widened, and in time the towering presence of York Minster loomed into view. For this visit Hollingsworth had an address: 16 Wiley Crescent, the supposedly final residence of Mary McKellen, once Mary Wentworth and originally Mary Sutcliffe. As they made their way to the Bootham area of the city Hollingsworth stopped to get directions, and Harris noted once more the easy, informal manner he used. There was no mention of his position or official tone to his voice, and his accent had thickened even further. It seemed the closer he moved to his roots the more relaxed the man became.
They eventually found Wiley Crescent, a cul-de-sac in the shadow of the city walls.
‘We’re not having much luck with this trip,’ declared Harris, as he stared at the charred shell of building which, by virtue of its position between numbers 14 and 18, was presumably the remains of their quest.
Hollingsworth locked the car and joined him forlornly. Together they gazed at the blackened walls. It was a testament to their builder that, even though the fire had gutted much of the inside, the structure remained intact.
‘A terrible fire that was,’ came a voice behind them. ‘Raged half the night it did.’
They turned to find a plump woman, probably in her fifties, looking with them at the house with a gloomy relish.
‘Did you know him?’ she asked.
‘Know who?’ asked Hollingsworth, a little taken aback.
‘McKellen, the fellow that lived there.’
‘Roger McKellen?’ asked Harris.
‘Yes.’
‘No, we didn’t.’
The woman paused to think about this exchange and check it made sense, and while she was quiet Hollingsworth introduced himself and his companion.
‘Mrs…?’
‘Pergille. Ada Pergille.’
‘Mrs Pergille, do you live on this street?’
‘Of course I do. I live here with my husband and my boy. This one is ours.’ She gestured behind her at number 15, directly opposite the burnt out remains.
‘So you knew the McKellens?’ asked Hollingsworth.
‘Oh yes, as well as anyone I expect. It’s been a while since there was more than just Roger McKellen living there though, and he wasn’t what you’d call a sociable man. He could be quite unpleasant at times, to be honest. He was a drinker, you see.’
Mrs Pergille nodded sagely, as though she could not have drawn a more thorough picture of the man. Then suddenly realising her manners she invited the men in for tea. They tried to decline, but it was not an invitation so much as a demand, and they were soon sipping from cheap china teacups in a busy front room.
‘How long ago was the fire?’ asked Hollingsworth.
‘Ooh, well now, let’s see. It must have been seven months ago… can it really be that long? It hardly seems like yesterday that the fire engines were outside.’
‘Do they know what caused it?’
‘He did, of course. Came home drunk and must have tried to light a fire. They found him face down in the grate, so he must have passed out from the drink. Disgusting I call it, although I don’t like to speak ill of the dead.’
‘So McKellen is dead?’ interjected Harris.
‘Oh yes. I watched them carry his body out,’ said Mrs Pergille, proudly. ‘Burnt to a crisp he was. The smell was terrible.’
‘Was there any suspicion of foul play involved?’
‘Foul play?’ she echoed. ‘You mean like someone doing him in? Oh I don’t think so. Quite natural for it to happen when you think about it. The man came home drunk from the local every night after closing, often shouting or banging into things. My Alf once told him to keep the noise down and he was ever so rude and threatening back. No, there’s not many will miss him I wouldn’t think.’
‘It sounds like he might have had enemies,’ said Hollingsworth. ‘It wouldn’t be too hard to hit a man over the head and start a fire to make it look like an accident.’
‘Well possibly,’ agreed Mrs Pergille stoically. Harris wondered if she would ever ask them who they were and why they were interested in such matters, but she seemed quite content with the status quo.
‘We’re actually more interested in Mrs McKellen,’ continued Hollingsworth. ‘Did you know her?’
‘Mary? Oh yes, I did know her, much better. She was a nice enough woman, but she suffered terribly.’
‘Her husband abused her?’
Mrs Pergille nodded sadly. ‘She never admitted it, but sometimes she couldn’t hide the bruises. And when she were alive and he came back drunk you could sometimes hear him screaming at her, even from across the street. It was a tragedy what happened to her.’
‘She, ah, committed suicide, I understand?’
‘She did. Bought some arsenic from the chemists, saying she had to treat her geraniums. Geraniums! Honestly! She didn’t even have a garden!’ Mrs Pergille shook her head in amazement, stunned at the lack of scrupulous investigation into such matters by the chemist before dispensing the poison. ‘It was the day after a particularly brutal-sounding night. He had still been screaming at her at midnight, and we’d heard some crashes. She came home from the shops and drank the lot.’
‘And she definitely died?’ queried Hollingsworth.
‘I watched as they carried her body out,’ confirmed Mrs Pergille. It appeared that the never-ending conveyor belt of corpses emerging from across the road broke up the monotony of daily life for their hostess.
‘How long ago was this?’
‘I suppose it was about three years now. Very sad it was.’
‘How long had the McKellens lived here?’
This required more thought and Mrs Pergille paused for some mental calculation. ‘Just after the war it was that they moved in, so about eighteen years I’d say.’
‘Mrs Pergille, this may seem an odd question,’ said Hollingsworth, ‘but does the name Sidney Carter mean anything to you? Anything at all?’
Mrs Pergille stared blankly and shook her head, saying she had never heard of the man, and added that she never forgot a name. Hollingsworth nodded stoically. He had not hoped for much, just as when he had posed the question to the Raynors in the Lake District, and the response had been equally negative.
For a few moments there was a lull in the conversation. Harris munched thoughtfully on a biscuit and then spoke up.
‘Did Mrs McKellen ever speak to you of her life before she moved here?’
Mrs Pergille shook her head in shame, feeling she had failed a basic duty. ‘Not much. I know Mary had been married before. She had… you know…’ She mouthed the word “divorced”. ‘It was obvious that she didn’t want to talk about it. She always seemed very upset if the subject came up. Someone said she was from a village down near Bristol I think, but she never left to travel anywhere or see anyone, so she obviously didn’t have family down there. Not any family that she wanted to see leastways. As for where they were before they moved here, I think they had lived out near Tadcaster when they first married. I know that’s where Billy was born.’
‘Billy?’
‘Their son.’
‘They had a son?’
‘Of course. He and my boy Jack were great friends growing up.’
Harris sat up straight, suddenly alert.
‘Can you describe their son?’ A fire was burning in Harris’ eyes all of a sudden. ‘How old would he be now?’
If Mrs Pergille had noticed the urgency in his demeanour she showed no signs. ‘He was about Jack’s age so I suppose he would be about twenty two. He left home a couple of years back. Very fond of his mum, he was. He hated his father for how he treated her.’
‘But what did he look like?’ persisted Harris.
‘I’ve got a photograph, if you’d like to see it? One of Jack with Billy McKellen at school. It’s a bit old now, of course.’
Harris said that he very much wanted to see it.
Oblivious to
the restless anticipation emanating from her guest Mrs Pergille shuffled to a large dresser, and began rummaging through some old boxes. As she did so she continued her monologue.
‘It’s funny, he looked more like his mother than his father, did Billy, but not in a, you know… effeminate way. It’s often the way that a son can look like his mother, and yet one is definitely female and one male. But when a boy looks like his father… well, then they usually look very alike don’t they?’ Finally, just when a bemused Hollingsworth thought his friend was about to burst, she pulled a slightly tattered sheet from the box. ‘Ah, here it is. He must look a bit older now I suppose…’
But Harris was not listening. He snatched the photo, despite already knowing what he would see. On the left was a blond haired boy with a missing front tooth that was presumably the absent Jack Pergille. But as he stared at the darker haired boy on the right Harris found himself looking into the younger eyes of the man now using the name Harold Dunsett.
‘You knew,’ said Hollingsworth, as the car tore south along the Great North Road, barely missing terrified cyclists and farm vehicles. ‘About Dunsett. You knew. How?’
‘I only knew for a few moments before she found the photograph. It suddenly made sense. Tell me Hollingsworth,’ added Harris, trying to peel his white knuckles from their death grip on the passenger seat, ‘do they offer you a bonus for breaking the land speed record in your on-duty hours?’
Hollingsworth stared at Harris in bafflement, and Harris begged him to please keep his ruddy eyes glued to the road if he must impersonate Malcolm Campbell.
‘But obviously we need to get back and arrest Dunsett. If he’s killed already he’ll try again.’