A Painted Devil

by Jamie Probin

  ‘The last article he submitted would have been some time ago. If I remember rightly it was about some possible conflict of interest in the Gloucester city council, quite low key stuff to be honest. But he did approach me a few weeks before he suddenly left the country, proposing some new piece that he said would be good.’

  ‘Did he say what it would be about?’

  ‘Not really, which was odd because he was normally quite talkative about articles he was researching, especially ones he was excited about. He mentioned something about marriages, and some ways in which they can be invalid, if I remember rightly, but I don’t recall anything specific.’

  Harris turned to Hollingsworth animatedly.

  ‘When the piece of masonry nearly fell on Charles in St. Anne’s, he and Ronald were researching some parish records. I wonder if they were marriage records?’

  ‘We can ask Charles Wentworth when he returns. Does he know about his father, by the way?’

  ‘Sir Oliver has cabled him,’ said Crout. ‘I believe he is on his way back now and should be here by tomorrow.’

  ‘We could always ask Rev. Johnson about it too,’ added Smethurst.

  ‘An excellent idea,’ agreed Harris. ‘I can do that as well as talking to the McKinleys.’

  ‘The McKinleys?’ echoed Joseph Hollins. ‘Why would you… are they the other people being blackmailed?’

  It occurred to Harris that, contrary to his rather passive demeanour, not much eluded the newspaper editor.

  ‘Mr Hollins,’ said Crout, ‘I realise that you have a duty to report news, but we have a duty to catch criminals, and we have an extremely dangerous murderer somewhere in the village. Perhaps we can come to an unofficial agreement that no unnecessary mention of your, ah, unfortunate unpleasantness need appear in our case records…’

  ‘If I stay out of your way and don’t mention any of this in print?’ finished Hollins. ‘Not a very professional attitude is it, detective inspector? For either of us. But perhaps it is a good idea. In the public interest, of course.’

  ‘Of course,’ replied Crout, with a ghost of a smile.

  Chapter 30

  Detective Inspector Crout had the easiest journey of the group, with the front door of Catherine Bowes’ house being a matter of a few hundred yards from the Manor.

  He had been warned by the others about Mrs Dale, and the enthusiasm with which she usually set about protecting her patient from the perceived threat of the outside world. Strangely, however, Crout’s particular brand of formal authority seemed to quell the otherwise-redoubtable Mrs Dale. Upon answering the door she had hardly produced her first scowl when Crout’s introduction stemmed the tide. She could barely bring herself to demand he not excite Miss Bowes, before retreating to the safety of her kitchen.

  Crout had given much thought to his approach with Catherine Bowes. The news about Sir George Wentworth’s death would certainly break soon, especially given the number of servants who knew, but every hour that passed without the resulting sensation sweeping the village allowed his team to work with fewer hindrances. If his luck held then the news that would ultimately emanate from the downstairs of Blackwood Manor would be of suicide, since that seemed to be the word that had travelled the servants’ quarters, but Crout doubted that Sir Oliver would allow that misconception to endure for long.

  Nevertheless something told him that honesty would be the best policy in Miss Bowes’ case. He had to ask her questions about anything she may have seen or heard that morning, and the shrewdness about which Harris and Hollingsworth had warned him – and he himself could sense – made him sure she would see through any deception.

  ‘Miss Bowes, thank you for seeing me.’

  ‘I’m not entirely sure I had any choice.’ The lady in the wheelchair smiled wryly. ‘I’m getting quite used to visits from the constabulary. Although I note that young Matthew Smethurst still dares not darken my door. Does he really think I am so bitter?’

  Crout smiled briefly, and assured her it was simply that he had pulled rank in this visit.

  ‘I’m afraid I have some news which may come as quite a shock…’

  Instantly Catherine Bowes’ face blanched. ‘Has something happened to Charles?’

  ‘Charles? Oh no, not Charles Wentworth. It’s Sir George Wentworth actually. I’m afraid he died this morning.’

  Crout imagined that the formidable woman facing him was very rarely lost for words, but the expression on her face as her jaw dropped slightly was a model of speechlessness.

  ‘George Wentworth? Dead?’ she finally managed after several moments. ‘I can’t believe it.’

  Crout said nothing, and for a few moments more she silently digested this information. Suddenly she looked back at him.

  ‘You said this morning? In the Manor? I was there! I was in the library this morning.’

  ‘Yes. In fact that is why I am here. I wanted to know if you saw or heard anything unusual.’

  ‘No, nothing.’ Miss Bowes shook her head in a daze, still unable to fully process the bombshell that Crout had just dropped. Suddenly she stiffened. ‘Wait! Why would you want to know if I heard anything? What relevance could that have? Unless... do you mean his death wasn’t natural?’

  Crout appreciated that Harris and Hollingsworth had not exaggerated the mental sharpness of the woman, which somehow seemed even keener when compared to the physical fragility suggested by her wheelchair.

  ‘You are correct Miss Bowes. The evidence seems to indicate that Sir George committed suicide.’

  For the first time the shock on Catherine Bowes’ face faded, replaced by a different emotion.

  ‘Balderdash!’ she snorted. ‘You’ve made a mistake inspector. There is simply no way on earth that Sir George Wentworth would have killed himself.’

  In spite of himself Crout smiled. The woman was stunned by his news, but that had not dulled her instincts. He was beginning to understand why PC Smethurst was so anxious about being in her presence.

  ‘Pardon me, Miss Bowes, but I said it seems to indicate suicide. In reality we strongly suspect murder.’

  ‘Murder!’

  ‘And I would personally appreciate it if you would keep that information to yourself for now.’

  ‘Somebody killed George? Who?’ She shook her head again. ‘What am I saying? You don’t know who did it, of course. You wouldn’t be here talking to me if you knew that. But how can I help you?’

  ‘Well, you were in the Manor. As I said, I wondered if you saw or heard anything unusual this morning?’

  Miss Bowes gave a little more thought to the question this time, but still shook her head eventually.

  ‘Absolutely nothing at all. But then I was in the library, and with all those books and panelling you can’t hear anything from outside the room. Mrs Dale went to have a cup of tea in the kitchen while I read, so you might want to ask her too.’

  ‘I will certainly do that before I leave, thank you. What time did you arrive at the Manor?’

  ‘Ten o’clock,’ came the brisk reply. ‘I go and use the library there on most mornings. And I usually leave around noon.’

  ‘Did you leave at noon today?’

  ‘Perhaps a few minutes later. No more than that certainly.’

  ‘Did you see Sir George at any point during the morning?’

  ‘I did not!’ She seemed to realise that the emphatic way she had spoken, as though the idea of seeing Sir George was to be avoided at all costs, seemed a little tasteless in the circumstances. ‘I’m sorry inspector, I don’t wish to speak ill of the dead, but you have probably heard that my relationship with Sir George Wentworth was not amicable. It was gracious of him to let me have free reign of his library, I will admit, but neither of us sought out the other’s company. I could count on one hand the number of times we have seen each other during my morning visits this year.’

  ‘He didn’t use his own library?’

  ‘If he did, he would wait until I had left! It was his habit to s
pend the morning in his study. I heard that he was writing his memoirs…’

  Once again Miss Bowes’ voice trailed off as the next wave of realisation washed over her. She shook her head in amazement.

  ‘I still can’t believe it. Even with all the deaths and accidents we’ve had around here.’ She suddenly stiffened. ‘Charles! Does he know?’

  ‘Sir Oliver Anstruther has cabled to him,’ replied Crout. ‘I understand he is returning as we speak.’

  ‘He will be devastated.’

  She rolled her wheelchair to a side table where a framed photograph of her nephew rested. It was a good picture, and Crout was struck by the disparity of which Harris had spoken, between the round features of Charles Wentworth and the long angular faces adorning the gallery in Blackwood Manor.

  ‘He’s a sensitive young man, just like his mother.’ Miss Bowes picked up the frame and looked fondly at her nephew. ‘He has her eyes. Whenever I look at him, I get to see Diana too.’

  As Catherine Bowes thoughts wandered into the past, something about her words struck a chord with Crout. He mulled them over for a few moments, and suddenly the truth dawned on him.

  ‘You know! You’ve always known!’

  She looked at him quizzically, but it was more with challenge than bemusement.

  ‘You knew Gordon Astin! You must have known he was Charles’ father.’

  Catherine Bowes smiled viciously.

  ‘Of course I know! I’ve always known. Charles may have Diana’s eyes, but in every other way he is the living embodiment of his father. And if you had known Gordon Astin, you would realise that is a good thing. A very good thing,’ she repeated with emphasis. ‘Gordon was everything that Sir George Wentworth was not.’

  ‘Does Charles know the truth?’

  ‘About his real father? No one has ever told him, and he has never seen a picture of Gordon... but sometimes I wonder if he suspects that something is not right. But either way he certainly loved George as a father, and he will be crushed by the news of his death.’

  ‘Of course.’

  Catherine Bowes replaced the frame on the table and rolled gently towards Crout, fixing him with a piercing glance.

  ‘So you finally worked it out then? I always knew somebody would eventually.’

  ‘To give credit where it’s due,’ said Crout honestly, ‘it was Dr Harris who tumbled to the truth.’

  She nodded at this news.

  ‘I intend no offence, inspector, when I say I suspected as much. He is a very astute man, and I think Charles chose well when he asked Dr Harris to work for him.’

  ‘He hasn’t solved the case yet,’ pointed out the policeman, but his tone was matter-of-fact, not malicious.

  ‘True,’ shrugged Miss Bowes, ‘but then he was hired to keep Charles alive, and he has succeeded in that. We will never know what might have happened if Dr Harris had not come to Upper Wentham.’

  ‘Possibly the identity of Charles’ real father would never have become known, for one thing. Although I find myself wondering why you kept the information to yourself. Knowing how important an heir was to Sir George, and how much you, ah…’

  ‘How much I hated him? Let’s not beat around the bush, inspector. I did hate the man, and the thought of destroying his world by telling the truth about his only “son” was enormously tempting. Nothing could have crushed Sir George Wentworth more thoroughly than people discovering that he had no heir, and the Wentworth line was at an end. But my first responsibility was to Charles. He is my only living relative – and I his – and he stood to inherit one of the largest fortunes and most prestigious titles in the country. If I had divulged the fact that Charles actually had no Wentworth blood in him, and humiliated George, then Charles would have lost everything too. George would never have allowed him to remain at Blackwood. Charles would have represented treachery and, more importantly, a trick that had fooled George Wentworth for thirty years.

  ‘And on a selfish note I would have lost my meal ticket too. George let me live here because I was Charles’ relative, and I effectively raised him, but that would have been over faster than you can say “no more Wentworths” once the real facts were known.’

  Crout nodded. He could see that, in the circumstances, both Charles and his aunt benefited greatly from the situation, even if the former was ignorant of the truth. It struck him that they too would have had a motive to kill Peter Grantham, had they known who he was and what he knew.

  ‘To be honest,’ continued Miss Bowes, ‘there was a time, when Charles was still a young boy, that I toyed with the idea of telling George the truth. Only him, you understand, no one else, so he would always wonder if I would speak out. I thought if he had that knowledge hanging over him like the sword of Damocles… well, just the idea was pleasing to me. He had caused me such pain, and the threat of revenge could be as sweet as revenge itself, especially when I knew I would never actually sacrifice Charles’ future. I even went so far as to write a letter telling George the truth, but I never dared to send it. I know it sounds ridiculous, but it crossed my mind that it might be dangerous.’

  ‘Dangerous?’

  ‘Well, you know. I know it sounds silly, but I thought if I was the only person who knew, then if I were silenced…’

  Miss Bowes trailed off in an embarrassed tone, as if even the thought was absurd. Crout, whose mind was still on Peter Grantham, and the letter opener plunged between his shoulder blades, wondered whether this was actually a very legitimate fear. When Catherine Bowes almost sent that letter so many years ago, had she nearly signed her own death warrant?

  It did not take Hollingsworth long to reach Grange Road in Cirencester, and find Reed’s Garage. Upon enquiring at the front desk he was told that Tom Watling was not at work today, but that he only lived a few minutes away. A couple of short questions established that Watling had worked at the garage for six or seven months, was well-liked and a good worker, and in the owner’s opinion would make a very astute and reliable witness.

  Hollingsworth asked directions to the mechanic’s lodging, and before long was knocking on the door of a tidy, compact cottage.

  The call was answered promptly by a plump man, who introduced himself as Tom Watling. Despite being quite young the mechanic was already balding, although this hair loss did not hinder the luxuriant moustache perched above his lip, which rode up and down as frequent smiles punctuated the man’s speech. If any entrepreneur decided to release a dictionary using only pictures, then a photograph of Tom Watling could have been the entry for “jolly”.

  Hollingsworth explained the reason for his visit and the young man ushered him into a neat living room that was surprisingly sparsely furnished.

  ‘Yes, indeed, inspector, that was me at Blackwood Manor this morning. What a house that is! My word. Although I suppose you’d expect someone like Sir George Wentworth to live like that, wouldn’t you? I met him once, you know, at a charity dinner. He’s quite a celebrity in these parts.’

  ‘So I’ve heard. You didn’t meet Sir George when you were there this morning?’

  ‘Goodness no!’ Another broad grin crossed Watling’s face. ‘I hardly think Sir George Wentworth would have time for socialising with mechanics. I doubt he was even at home. Probably out and about at some important function, or whatever it is knights get up to, eh inspector?’ The man laughed heartily at this and, to Hollingsworth’s horror, actually winked at him. ‘No, it was Mr Finchley, the butler, who asked me to come up.’

  ‘Why you?’ interrupted Hollingsworth. This verbose and jovial mechanic made for a very unlikely suspect, but his presence at the Manor was an anomaly and there were precious few leads to be ignoring any. Besides, Hollingsworth was already finding him irritating, which always predisposed him to more easily suspect a person. ‘Surely there are mechanics closer to Upper Wentham?’

  ‘I dare say,’ agreed Watling. ‘But I’m friends with their chauffeur, Jenkins, you see, so he recommended me. You know what they say, inspector, it
’s not what you know, it’s who you know,’ added the mechanic with another booming chuckle. Hollingsworth saw that his initial impression was correct, and that Tom Watling was one of those irrepressibly chirpy men he could not stand at any price.

  ‘Last week in the pub he mentioned to me that they had been having trouble with their Rolls, and he couldn’t find what was wrong. I’m not surprised either, because it was a very odd problem. Very odd indeed.’

  ‘Oh yes?’ Hollingsworth looked up with new interest, his irritation waning.

  ‘Yes, a fault with the front axle, but not in any of the usual places. This was a crack right at one end, almost inside the wheel. Not something you would ever think to look for, if you didn’t know what you were doing. Frankly it’s hard to imagine how it could have gotten that way. It was only when Jenkins described the way the car was handling that I even thought of the idea.’

  ‘It’s not a fault that happens often then?’

  ‘Hardly ever,’ said Watling. ‘It’s not a wear and tear problem, you see, and I can’t see how a loose rock or anything like that could cause it. In fact the crack was so clean it almost looked deliberate.’

  With these words Hollingsworth’s attention was riveted to the young man.

  ‘Are you saying it might have been interfered with?’

  The mechanic looked surprised.

  ‘No, I didn’t mean that it…’ Watling’s voice trailed off as his eyes narrowed. ‘Now wait a minute! Didn’t Jenkins say that the other car, the Bentley, was damaged? A severed brake line wasn't it? Are you suspecting that someone is trying to sabotage the cars at Blackwood Manor? A severed brake line and an axle fault are both critical matters.’

  ‘I’m not saying anything of the sort, sir.’ Hollingsworth had no intention of sending this young man back into the public houses of Gloucestershire armed with sensational gossip. ‘You’re the one who suggested sabotage. But to be clear, you are saying that this business with the axle you fixed this morning was a serious problem?’