by Jamie Probin
McKinley’s face became ashen once again as the memory of the discovery flooded back and Crout intervened smoothly.
‘You didn’t touch anything, of course?’
‘Hmmm? Oh no inspector, I’ve read enough detective novels to know that. I ran and got Finchley and told him what I had seen, told him to call you. He suggested I wait in here and recover from the shock.’
‘And you have been in here ever since?’
‘Quite so, detective inspector.’
Crout scratched his forehead meditatively with the tip of his pencil.
‘Mr McKinley, I want you to think whether you have seen anything that struck you as unusual today?’
McKinley gaped at the policeman. ‘Unusual!’
‘Apart from the body of course. I mean something out of place in the study, someone you didn’t expect to see, an odd conversation overheard… anything at all?’
The M.P. gave a minute’s thought to this question but finally shook his head ruefully. ‘I can’t, I’m afraid. The day has been stressful for me, of course, and perhaps something like that might have happened whilst I was too preoccupied to notice, but I really don’t think there has been anything out of the ordinary. That’s what makes it particularly shocking, coming so out of the blue.’
‘I understand. But if you could give more thought to the question when you have the chance…?’
‘I will let you know if I remember anything abnormal, however slight.’
Crout nodded appreciatively. There was one question he had saved for the end of his interview, which seemed to be at hand.
‘Mr McKinley, one last thing. When you found the body, did you happen to notice anything on Sir George’s desk?’
‘I saw his revolver.’
‘Nothing else?’
The reply was decisive: ‘No.’
The answer satisfied Crout. If the M.P. was telling the truth, and had not seen the letter mentioning a blackmail campaign against his wife, then the matter could wait until later. If not, Crout was confidant he would find out soon enough.
When Crout returned to the study he found that not only had Dr Falkes arrived, but also Sir Oliver Anstruther. The chief constable nodded cordially but his face had a dazed, blank look. Crout knew this was not the result of professional shock: Sir George and Sir Oliver had been great friends.
Dr Falkes was busy examining the scene and taking notes, but looked up at Crout’s arrival.
‘Ah detective inspector, there you are. Not a pretty sight, what?’
‘Not at all doctor. Can you tell me anything?’
Falkes shrugged. ‘Not much to tell. Death came from a single bullet wound, probably between two and five hours ago. It’s hard to tell with such great head trauma.’
‘Was the wound self-inflicted?’
Dr Falkes laughed humourlessly. ‘Even without that farcical suicide note I would have grave suspicions. It’s not impossible, but there are several indications that Sir George was not holding the revolver when it was fired.’
Crout asked the doctor to save the technicalities of the examination for the inquest, and directed his attention to Finchley, who was standing deferentially in the corner.
He briefly recapped the testimony of Douglas McKinley and asked the butler if it agreed with his recollections of the day’s events.
‘Yes sir. Mr McKinley did telephone this morning, at twenty minutes past ten, and afterwards Sir George directed me to send him up when he arrived. In point of fact it was five minutes past two when Mr McKinley actually arrived, and he was kind enough to spare me walking him to the study. He returned with the… the news a matter of minutes later, whereupon I telephoned to you.’
‘I see. And did anyone else come to see Sir George today?’
‘No sir.’
‘Did Sir George call for you at any point?’
‘No sir. And I took the liberty of making enquiries of the rest of the staff. None of them saw Sir George after he retired to the study.’
‘So as far as we know you were the last person to see Sir George Wentworth alive?
‘Yes sir.’
‘Did you hear anything that sounded like a gunshot at any time?’
‘No sir. But the study is some distance from the main area of the house, and the wood panelling has quite a muffling effect. I doubt anyone would have heard anything, unless perhaps they happened to be standing in the corridor outside.’
Crout could see that this was true. It was possible that the shot was overheard by someone in the house, but it probably sounded like a distant crack, and certainly would not raise any alarm.
‘This may seem an odd question, but the gardener’s assistant…’
‘Dunsett, sir?’
‘Yes. You haven’t seen him in or near the house at all today?’
If Finchley did find this an odd question he did not betray it in his manner.
‘He has been in the garden of course, sir, but not particularly close to the house. No more than usual at least. And today is his half day, so he left at noon.’
Crout added this fact to the reams of notes he was making, but with a hint of despair. Another death, but no clues yet, only more mystery. He would stake his house that this was not suicide, but any telling mistake by the killer had yet to make itself known to him.
‘Finchley, how easy would it be, in your opinion, for someone to approach this house, enter and get to the study without being seen?’
‘It’s possible of course, sir. We do have a large staff, but then Blackwood Manor is a large house, and so there are always parts unoccupied at any time. But in my opinion it would be difficult to both enter and leave unobserved.’
‘That’s what I think too,’ murmured Crout, as he looked out the window at the spacious grounds. The distance to the boundary in every direction was substantial, and there was very little cover. A few trees here and there, but anyone trying to reach the house would have to cover at least a hundred and fifty yards in full view, whichever direction they came.
‘Has anyone at all been to the house today? Anyone unusual I mean. Not the postman or anything.’
‘There was the mechanic that Sir George sent for, sir. He arrived just before noon to look at the car.’
‘The car?’
‘Yes sir. We have been having some trouble lately with the Rolls Royce. Jenkins, Sir George’s chauffeur, had tried to repair it, but he couldn’t find the problem. He called a garage in Cirencester and they sent someone over. The mechanic was actually supposed to have come two days ago, but a family emergency came up and he could not get here until today.’
Crout’s shoulders slumped once more. A flicker of hope had appeared with news of a stranger in the house, but this did not sound very promising. Still, he would get details of the mechanic and check.
‘Was this the same car that Charles Wentworth was driving when the brake cables were cut?’
‘No sir, that was the Bentley.’
‘And did the mechanic manage to fix the Rolls?’
‘He identified the problem, but said he would need to find a replacement part, which was not readily available. He said it was a most unusual problem.’
Something in Finchley’s voice attracted Crout’s attention.
‘Unusual?’
‘Yes sir.’
‘In what way?’
‘I could not say sir. The mechanic seemed very surprised by it.’
‘Could the fault have been caused deliberately?’
‘I could not say sir. But I can give you the name and address of the mechanic. I’m sure he could tell you more.’
‘Thank you Finchley.’
‘Very good sir. Will you be needing me further sir? Only I know the staff are taking the news badly, and I would like to be with them.’
‘Of course. One last thing before you go.’ Crout motioned the butler to the letter, which by now had been transferred into a clear plastic bag to be checked for fingerprints. ‘Is this Sir George’s handwriting?�
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Finchley took only a fleeting glimpse of the document. ‘No sir. Definitely not.’
The butler withdrew delicately and Crout turned to PC Smethurst.
‘Smethurst, you’ve been keeping an eye on Dunsett like I asked?’
‘Yes sir. Would you like a record of his movements?’
‘Not an exhaustive one at the moment. I just want to know if he has been out of your sight today.’
‘No sir,’ said Smethurst, ‘he hasn’t. He was working in the garden this morning and I watched him from the gate. Then he went home at noon, and had not left when the chauffer was sent to bring me here.’
‘You’re certain of that?’
‘As certain as I can be sir. He rents a flat from Mrs Green, and his rooms are upstairs. You get to his front door by a staircase up the outside of the house, so it’s easy to watch. I suppose he could have jumped out a back window, but it’s a long drop, and I still think I would have seen him come out from behind the house.’
‘Good work Smethurst. Now, I want you to go and take statements from everyone in the house. Find out anything they might have seen or heard today, and report back to me at the station when you’re done.’
‘Yes sir.’
Smethurst departed on his errand, and almost immediately Dr Falkes pronounced himself done. He asked if Crout required his services further and was dismissed with thanks.
Sir Oliver rounded on the inspector. ‘Now then Crout, we have to make certain that no talk of suicide gets out. I’ll not have George Wentworth’s legacy tainted by rumours.’
‘Naturally I shall make my investigation as swift as possible sir.’
‘Rot!’ stormed Sir Oliver. ‘You know what I mean. Servants talk, gossip spreads. We have to make it clear this was murder.’
‘Surely that is for the inquest to determine sir?’
‘Now look here Crout, we both know this was never suicide. Finchley just told you the handwriting was not Sir George’s, and Falkes said that the shot could not have been self-inflicted.’
‘Actually sir, he said it was highly unlikely to have been self-inflicted. Not impossible.’
Sir Oliver stared at his detective inspector. ‘Crout, are you seriously telling me you are entertaining suspicions that this was suicide? Why, I can’t think of a less likely person in England to take his own life than George Wentworth. And as for all that nonsense in the letter… stabbing that fellow, blackmail, and what have you. It’s preposterous.’
‘The letter does seem questionable,’ agreed Crout, ‘and I understand your concern sir. But we cannot let unusual circumstances dissuade us from standard procedure.’
Sir Oliver caught sight of the desk and the fire in his eyes dimmed. With slumped shoulders he nodded. ‘Of course. You’re quite right detective inspector. I have one request though. I would like to deal with the channels of informing Charles about his father’s death myself.’
An hour later Hollingsworth and Harris were convened with Crout and PC Smethurst in the Upper Wentham police station, their stunned expressions still not fully cleared. The two men had arrived back from their trip to initially find the station deserted. Since the office was little more than a converted room in the constable’s house, they had enquired of Mrs Smethurst where on earth everybody was, but she had been just as mystified.
It was not long before the others returned, and informed them of the revelation of the morning’s events. Hollingsworth’s first reaction, on hearing of the murder of Sir George Wentworth, was to round on Harris, and take him to task for discounting the threat of Harold Dunsett. The absolute bafflement on Harris’ face shook his indignation slightly, but it was only when Smethurst managed to explain that he had followed the gardener everywhere since the early hours, and that Dunsett could not have killed Sir George, that Hollingsworth was calmed and Crout could fill them in on the rest of the evidence.
On Harris’ suggestion they returned en masse to the scene of the crime. By this time Sir George’s body had been photographed and removed, but the bloodstains were still spattered ominously across the desk.
‘I take it we’re not seriously considering suicide for a moment?’ asked Hollingsworth, after Crout had shown them the alleged suicide letter. ‘I mean, the whole thing is a farce. Could anyone honestly think that we would be fooled by that note? Whoever wrote it must be an idiot.’
‘And yet,’ said Harris, ‘if it was not suicide, then whoever did write the note is our killer. And whatever else they may be, they are most certainly not an idiot.’
‘I agree,’ said Crout. ‘It’s an odd situation. There’s no doubt that all the evidence suggests murder.’
‘Let’s look at this thing,’ said Hollingsworth, snatching the plastic bag containing the letter. ‘Where are we? Ah yes, here it is... this part about Sir George leaving his entire estate to Carmichael. Is this supposed to be some kind of will and testament? It’s ludicrous! Why, forget all the missing technical jargon, the damned letter isn’t even signed! It’s just an amateurish attempt to cast suspicion on Richard Carmichael.’
‘And yet, as you say, no one would ever be fooled into thinking that it is a legitimate last will and testament,’ murmured Harris.
‘This business about Sir George staging fake attempts on Charles Wentworth’s life,’ continued Hollingsworth, ‘no one would believe that for a second. And the idea of him waging some blackmail campaign against these, er… Samantha McKinley and Joseph Hollins... Do we know the nature of these supposed blackmails, by the way?’
‘We shall be making enquiries very shortly,’ replied Crout.
‘Not to mention the first bit about Sir George stabbing the man in his study. I mean, this letter is purporting to be Sir George tying everything together and explaining it neatly before he shoots himself, and yet he doesn’t even give the name of the man. It’s quite obvious that whoever wrote this note doesn’t actually know…’ Hollingsworth trailed off, as he realised what he was saying.
‘Doesn’t actually know who the man stabbed here on Saturday was,’ completed Harris. ‘I was wondering when you would get to that.’
There were several moments of silence as the implications of this sank in.
‘You mean our killer wasn’t responsible?’ asked Crout. ‘We have a second murderer?’
‘Only for the man stabbed here during the wedding,’ said Harris. ‘An entirely isolated incident. And one that, frankly, everyone in the village should have been able to work out.’
‘You know?’ asked Hollingsworth. ‘You know who killed the man in the study?’
‘I do. And so should you, especially after our trip.’
‘Who?’
‘Sir George Wentworth, of course, just like it says there in the note. Ironically, the only piece of that suicide note that was written in ignorance is the only part that is actually true.’
Chapter 28
Three faces stared in disbelief at Harris.
‘Sir George Wentworth?’ repeated Hollingsworth. ‘You’re not serious?’
‘You’re surprised? And yet he was strongly implicated from the moment we found the body.’
‘Why?’ asked Crout.
‘I told you not to be taken in by the tableau of the safe,’ said Harris reprovingly. ‘And I also told you that you wouldn’t find the right answers until you started asking the right questions. We agreed at the time that the man had not come to burgle the safe. His choice of day, and the fact that he had no idea where to find Sir George’s study indicated that. And we also commented on the fact that the safe hadn’t been forced open. So whoever opened the safe knew the combination, and if it wasn’t the dead man, who was it? Only Sir George and Charles had that information.
‘The conclusion suggested itself that Sir George had killed the man, and then opened the safe and arranged the body to make it look like the intention had been robbery. At the time, however, I was assuming that whoever killed our mystery man was also the murderer of Ronald Asbury and the person who h
ad attempted to kill Charles Wentworth, and that made no sense if it was Sir George.’
‘Unless Sir George only found the body, and then created the scene with the safe to muddy the waters?’ suggested Smethurst.
‘But why would he do that?’ asked Harris. ‘Besides, information I subsequently learned in the village – and then confirmed on our recent trip north – makes me confident that I’m right, and that the body in the study is unconnected to the other incidents. But we’ll know that I’m right if Scotland Yard has investigated those names.’ He turned to Hollingsworth. ‘I’m sure Finchley won’t mind you calling through.’
Hollingsworth, still a little dazed by recent developments, picked up the receiver and asked to be connected to London.
Earlier, when Harris had emerged from the War Records Office, he had clutched a piece of paper containing five handwritten names. He had given the list to Hollingsworth and told him that one of them was the dead man from the study. The duo had stopped at Scotland Yard and asked for the current whereabouts of each of the men named to be investigated.
Hollingsworth waited for several connections, and finally had a conversation which was largely monosyllabic at his end. Eventually he hung up and turned to the others.
‘You’re right,’ he said to Harris, almost with a touch of irritation. ‘The police in Stoke confirm that a Mr Peter Grantham, matching our body’s description, has not been seen since last Saturday. And he had a pronounced limp.’
After a pause, he added: ‘Now are you going to tell us what the ruddy hell is going on?’
‘It’s just a case of putting two and two together,’ shrugged Harris. ‘Why, according to rumour, did Sir George divorce his first wife?’
‘Because she was unable to have children,’ said Hollingsworth slowly, as the light dawned.
‘And yet we learned that her son, by her subsequent marriage, is now here, calling himself Harold Dunsett. We also know that Sir George had a crippling bout of polio as a youngster. It wasn’t Mary Wentworth who was infertile. It was Sir George.
‘He, naturally, had no idea, and probably would not have accepted it anyway. But for obvious reasons his second wife was proving equally inept at bearing him children, and common opinion was that she would soon be discarded too. However her best friend, her soul mate you might say, was determined she would be provided for. If a child was what she needed for that to happen, then a child is what she would have.’