‘If we could prove they’d engineered what could have been a fatal bicycle accident for you, that could be added to the charges against them.’
‘I keep thinking about that. It had to be something they thought I had seen, something that threatened them with discovery, and although I was unaware of it, there was the possibility I might remember.
‘So where had I been? I remember being caught coming out of the gunroom room as they came back from the garden. Their consternation and then being asked back to meet Lady Adeline the following day. I remember I had a sneezing fit as I rode home and that Edgar found my handkerchief that I had dropped in the gunroom. It was the acidic smell of stuffed animals that made me sneeze, something like the formaldehyde they use in the mortuary.’
I stopped and gave him a triumphant look. ‘The gunroom, Peter. That’s where she is.’
We drove out, down the drive and I was wondering how we would get into the house. It looked deserted, silent, with no sign of Angus, who had probably made off with the guard dog before the police had calculated his role as accessory to the Worths’ criminal activities.
The front door with its access by the front steps looked as if it had not been opened since the last tourists paid their entrance fee. Our arrival was heard and a uniformed figure appeared from the direction of the kitchens.
Saluting Clovis smartly, he said there would be continual police presence to ensure that the house was protected from vandals. He shook his head, so many valuables, sir, in a mansion this size. He understood that the sergeant was here to have a look round and see that all was in order, and if he did not mind entering by the kitchen premises, he could produce keys for the locked rooms.
And so we walked in and I opened the door to the gunroom. The acrid smell was stronger than ever and Peter sniffed the air. I sneezed while he regarded the armoury and the stuffed animals with their glassy stare.
‘What a collection, the souvenirs of many generations of big-game hunters.’
I wasn’t interested in the menacing gaze of lions and tigers, only the robes of past Vantrys, in particular the coronation robes of Lady Adeline, with its accompanying photograph, importantly in a glass case on its own.
‘This way,’ I said to Peter.
It was sealed. Lady Adeline, in magnificent ermine and velvet, her face hidden under a large wig and an elaborate headdress.
Peter turned to me. ‘You think?’
I nodded and he looked for the door. There was no door, this exhibit was sealed in glass and meant to be kept that way.
‘How do we make sure? We can’t carry it away.’
‘A moment,’ he said and returned from the kitchen with a large hammer and two large towels one of which he handed to me.
‘We break the glass – to make sure.’
He gave it a mighty blow. It shattered and we were gasping for breath, the towels to our mouths overwhelmed by the sickening stench of decay.
We had found Lady Adeline, or what remained of her – a mummified skeleton. As glass tombs go, she was a less attractive sight to us than Snow White must have been to the seven dwarfs.
But the story wasn’t quite ended. I telephoned Jack to tell him I had to delay my departure for another day. Andrew answered. He sounded cautious and said Jack was out but promised to give him the message. I sighed with relief at not having to give the lengthy explanation Jack would have wanted.
As for the Worths. It wasn’t just fraud, it was murder this time. Beatrice was in jail. Edgar had run off and left her to face the music. She had screamed when they told her he had been seen scrambling aboard the ferry. The police in Glasgow would be alerted, and of course he would be brought back.
Beatrice called him all the names she could think of and it so transpired that eager to tell the truth now, she wasn’t his sister. They had met in England when he was having financial troubles and intending a visit to Vantry as a last resort to endear himself once more to his elderly, reclusive aunt. He needed someone, a female preferably, who could do the cooking, to accompany him. An actor friend with the local repertory company had just introduced him to Beatrice, a good actress but not quite from the right class to be acceptable as his wife by his snobbish aunt. He decided he could overcome this hurdle by persuading her to appear in the role of his young sister.
She maintained that Lady Adeline had died of natural causes soon after their arrival and in desperate need of money, they had panicked and Edgar had decided that she should impersonate his aunt on those quarterly appearances to collect her considerable pension. Beatrice also swore that she had never heard of Mavis Boyd and as for Quintin Vantry Elder she merely shrugged. Edgar had told her he wasn’t welcome and said he had send him packing.
I felt that when it came to a trial, this would make interesting hearing, but I had almost forgotten Sadie in all the excitement. She said the hotel was buzzing with it. ‘A real murder. Incredible! Harry says it will do wonders for the tourist trade.’
Sarah Vantry had been forgotten. Wilfred Godwin’s death safely dismissed as an accident. I thought ‘safely’, with relief. At the back of my mind was the scene on the stairs that evening, and the unworthy thought – had this accident on the eve of Godwin’s intention to cut his nephew out of his will been engineered by Harry and Gerald? Had any suspicions been aroused, then they could point to Sarah Vantry, who would be remembered as a murderess with a not-proven verdict.
I told her I was going tomorrow, but it was not a happy thought. I felt uneasy regarding my suspicions about these two and leaving her future in their hands.
When I promised to send the rest of her clothes and possessions she had left in Edinburgh she assured me that she didn’t want them as Harry was to provide her with a complete new wardrobe as well as a housekeeper’s uniform.
Just a few hours more and I would be on my way home. Jack and Meg and Thane too would be happy and we would be faced with the prospect of finding someone to take Sadie’s place.
It was not to be. Next morning, ready to leave, I was surprised to open my door to her. I held out my arms. She had come to say goodbye.
‘Not so, Rose.’ And indicating her suitcase at the door: ‘I am coming with you.’ Closer, it was clear she had been crying.
‘A row with Harry? There, there,’ I said consolingly – probably something trivial about the uniform.
‘No, not with Harry.’ She said indignantly. ‘With both of them.’
And so it came out, the whole sad story. She had always believed that Harry would marry her but she had reckoned without Gerald, and Gerald objected in no uncertain terms – as the love of Harry’s life. They had been together for years and while Gerald did not mind Harry having an occasional fling he was not prepared to take second place permanently.
I listened to as much as I could decipher, between bouts of sobbing, and realised what I had always suspected but for her sake had never put into words. And again they returned, my thoughts from yesterday, of how Uncle Godwin’s death had been accepted as accidental but with Sadie’s presence a precaution, a premeditated and grim insurance policy.
She had dried her eyes and said wearily, ‘Let’s go, Rose.’
And so we returned to Solomon’s Tower, to all intents and purposes Rose and her housekeeper companion Sadie, after two weeks’ extended holiday in Bute, receiving an overwhelming welcome from the family, particularly Meg and Thane. My fears for him had been groundless, he having thrived in his role as an indulged domestic pet at the Macmerry farm but remaining my guardian angel where any dogs – fierce guard or otherwise – were concerned.
Had we enjoyed Bute? asked Jack’s parents, preparing to return home once more.
‘Did you have a lovely time, even without us?’ Meg asked wistfully.
I said yes but it had not been without its incidents, delayed ferries and influenza, but here we were back again, grateful to her grandma for looking after everything in our absence.
This should be the end of the story but fate had a fi
nal card to play.
A month passed and I was busy with a couple of new cases. Sadie seemed happy enough, looking after us with her usual efficiency. Jack was glad to have her back, her ironing was splendid too. I smiled. This was one murder case I wasn’t prepared to discuss with Jack. Sadie Brook was invaluable and her past would stay our secret.
‘We would never have found a replacement,’ he said. ‘Glad she changed her mind about that fellow.’
She never mentioned his name, or Bute. Both they and Sarah Vantry might not have existed, and then one day, I was looking out of the kitchen window and watched a handsome young man striding purposefully towards the gate.
I opened the door to a captain in the Merchant Navy.
‘Good morning, madam. Is Sadie—’
Footsteps behind me.
‘Robbie!’ And Sadie rushed forward, to be taken into his waiting arms.
As they kissed, I knew another chapter had ended, and another was about to begin.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Bute is a beautiful island. I fell in love with it on my first visit some years ago and I also knew that it ticked all the right boxes for a crime novel. An apology however is needed to the residents for some fictional locations, such as Vantry, an author’s necessary invention for a tale set more than a century ago.
Invaluable sources of information were ‘History of Bute, Rothesay’ (D. N. Marshall and A. Spiers, 1992); ‘Bute: An Island History’ (I. MacLaggan and A. Spiers, 2002); ‘An Archaeological Landscape of Bute’ (George Gesses and Alex Hale, 2010).
My grateful thanks are first to the McKenzies for their ever-welcoming hospitality at Ardbeg; to George, for this book could never have written without his unfailing encouragement, providing essential material and drives around the island; to June, an incredibly kind hostess and a superb cook; and to my dear friend Alex Gray for those memorable ferry crossings from Wemyss Bay.
In Rothesay, thanks to the staff of the Museum and Library, always at hand and ready to answer queries, give directions and useful information, and to Bute’s own author Myra Duffy. Here in Edinburgh, thanks to my good friend and agent Jenny Brown and in London, to my publisher Susie Dunlop and her excellent team at Allison & Busby. At home, to the Knight family, Chris and Lucie, Kevin and Patricia, enraptured by their first visit to Bute and always ready with encouragement and support.
Only one final word remains. For the joy in writing this book, thank you, Bute.
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ALANNA KNIGHT has had more than seventy books published in an impressive writing career spanning over forty years. She is a founding member and Honorary Vice President of the Scottish Association of Writers, Honorary President of the Edinburgh Writers’ Club and member of the Scottish Chapter of the Crime Writers’ Association. Born and educated in Tyneside, she now lives in Edinburgh. Alanna was awarded an MBE in 2014 for services to literature.
alannaknight.com
By Alanna Knight
THE ROSE MCQUINN SERIES
The Inspector’s Daughter
Dangerous Pursuits
An Orkney Murder
Ghost Walk
Destroying Angel
Quest for a Killer
Deadly Legacy
The Balmoral Incident
Murder Lies Waiting
THE INSPECTOR FARO SERIES
Murder in Paradise
The Seal King Murders
Murders Most Foul
Akin to Murder
The Darkness Within
THE TAM EILDOR SERIES
The Gowrie Conspiracy
The Stuart Sapphire
COPYRIGHT
Allison & Busby Limited
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London W1T 6DW
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First published in Great Britain by Allison & Busby in 2018.
This ebook edition published in Great Britain by Allison & Busby in 2018.
Copyright © 2018 by ALANNA KNIGHT
The moral right of the author is hereby asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All characters and events in this publication other than those clearly in the public domain are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent buyer.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN 978–0–7490–2214–3
Murder Lies Waiting Page 23