‘No, give me a minute, will you.’ I opened the bedside cabinet to discover my gun. I took the little pistol and slipped it into my inside pocket, not with anything particular in mind, but if everyone else in the place was armed…
‘Lennox,’ Swift had gone to the window and now held up the magnifying glass. ‘It was on your dresser.’
‘Why did you ask me to look then?’ Really, he was always so damn precipitous.
He found the stick where I’d left it and laid it on the low table in front of the fire. ‘We should have worn gloves.’
‘Well, we didn’t.’ I sat down to watch as he played the glass along its length. ‘Would we be able to see fingerprints on a stick?’
He considered it. ‘Probably not, but we should try. We’ll need to make some powder, unless you’ve brought any.’ He sounded hopeful.
‘Of course I haven’t brought any.’
He moved the lens closer to the forked ends of the stick. ‘There are fibres.’ He broke into a grin and indicated the fine filaments caught in the splintered ends.
‘You hung your coat on it,’ I reminded him.
‘Ah, um, yes.’ He looked a bit crestfallen.
‘Ha,’ I laughed. I was the one who usually spoiled the evidence.
He went to the desk-top and picked up an envelope. ‘Do you have tweezers?’
‘Probably.’ I dug around in drawers, trying to discover where Greggs might have squirrelled things away, and found the tweezers on the washstand.
‘I’ll send them to London for analysis. There’s a laboratory specialising in forensic testing.’ He teased tiny fibres from the broken splinters and carefully placed them in the envelope, which he tucked into his jacket pocket. ‘If I add some fabric from my coat lining, they can exclude them.’
‘Are you sure it’s worth checking for prints?’ I looked again at the stick on the table. It was wet, grimy and distinctly lacking in promise.
‘Yes, we must be thorough, Lennox. We can make powder with soot and talc, I’ve got some talc in my room.’ His enthusiasm had returned.
‘Fine, I’ll scrape some soot from the chimney.’
We gathered our ingredients and he mixed them in a bowl in front of the fire.
‘I’ll brush it on.’ Swift offered and carefully stroked the grey powder with a shaving brush over the stick.
I followed his movements with the magnifying glass. It took ages. He was finicky and pedantic, as usual. We sat back in our chairs once he’d finished.
‘Nothing.’ His face fell.
‘Last night’s storm could have washed it away,’ I reminded him. ‘We need to find the sweet chestnut tree it came from.’
‘It could have been carried by anyone.’ He was becoming despondent.
‘Nonsense. Why on earth would anyone carry a stick into a forest?’
‘I don’t know, to walk with probably.’
‘With a stick shaped like that?’
He ran fingers through his dark hair. ‘What if there isn’t anything, Lennox? Even if it was murder, we may not be able to prove it.’
My heart sank. The contretemps with Max had unsettled me, and all we’d really found were puddled footprints and a stick in a wood. Perhaps we were seeking things that weren’t there? I knew I’d come in the hope of seeing Persi, and I was certain Swift had been cajoled into coming by his kind-hearted wife. Perhaps we really were deluding ourselves.
I gave a sigh of exasperation. ‘You’re the professional, Swift. What does your training tell you?’
A clock on the mantlepiece ticked while he said nothing, but then he raised his dark eyes. ‘That it’s only circumstantial evidence and supposition… And yet, I believe it was an act of premeditated murder.’
‘Ha!’ That cheered me up. ‘So, we’re not on a fool’s errand.’
‘Well, I wouldn’t go that far.’ He grinned.
The little clock suddenly chimed the hour.
‘Food, Swift,’ I remarked and headed for the door.
He muttered something about the investigation having priority, but followed me downstairs anyway.
Fogg greeted me with excitement when we reached the kitchen. I made a fuss of him, as Gregg placed two plates of delicious cold cuts, slices of pork pie, apples, nuts and freshly baked bread with pats of butter, on the table. There was a glass of claret each too.
‘Marvellous, old chap,’ I congratulated him.
‘Aren’t the St Georges here?’ Swift asked as he sat down, his eyes on the meal.
‘They are taking an afternoon nap, sir. Would you like tea?’
‘No, thank you. Claret is exactly what we need,’ I told him as I tucked in.
Greggs pootled around the place while we ate. He wore an apron made for a girth of lesser proportions. Swift droned on about procedures and the like, I nodded in the right places. The claret was rich and warming and I looked about for more.
‘Ah, sir, I forgot to inform you that Mr Trent returned.’ Greggs paused while drying dishes at the sink. ‘Lord Sinclair has been asking for you again.’
‘Well, he can wait until I’ve had another glass of claret,’ I replied, placing my knife and fork on my cleared plate.
‘No, Lennox, we need to go.’ Swift was already on his feet.
‘Wait…’ I called, but it was too late, he was heading for the corridor. I strode to catch up. ‘Swift, we don’t need to jump at the snap of Sinclair’s fingers.’
He wouldn’t listen, despite my objections. We lost our bearings at one point, which didn’t help. Swift found a footman to point the way and we reached the grand hall with tempers frayed. Well, mine was anyway.
‘Lennox, Swift, I’ve been waiting for you.’ It was Jerome, the perfectly polished professional. He led us upstairs and back to the office where we’d met Max earlier in the afternoon. He knocked at the door.
‘Come,’ a voice called.
I’d half expected another paper plane, but there was no such light-hearted nonsense. Sinclair didn’t look up as we entered, he was reading a document, it looked like a legal contract.
‘Please sit down,’ Jerome whispered, indicating the same chairs we’d occupied earlier. There was a silver sixpence on the floor. Someone must have dropped it, so I picked it up and placed it on the shiny black surface of Sinclair’s desk.
Jerome left, closing the door quietly behind him. We watched Sinclair, or rather his hair, it was silver grey, plenty of it, lightly oiled to keep it in place. I didn’t find it particularly interesting and was about to say so.
‘Ah, gentlemen, apologies.’ Sinclair stopped reading and straightened up. ‘My lawyers had spotted some tricky wording in the small print and wanted my opinion.’ He picked up the contract and crumpled it with large, workman-like hands, then tossed it into a waste bin. ‘That’s what I think of it.’
We watched him without a word.
‘So, you’re Lennox, and you’re the other one.’
I almost laughed. Swift wasn’t amused. The flush to his lean cheeks gave him away.
‘I’m…’ Swift began, but was cut off.
‘You’re previously of Scotland Yard, a fact you omitted when you barged into my house.’ Sinclair reached for the silver sixpence and pocketed it. ‘Drink?’
‘No, thank you,’ I answered, because I didn’t want to accept anything from the man. Swift didn’t reply, he was frowning with his lips closed in a thin line.
Sinclair poured himself a glass of whisky from a decanter on the desk, then sat back to regard us. Well built, fleshy about the jowls, pale blue eyes, light tan and a look of steel about him. His jacket fitted him loosely, made for a man on the move, not a stuffed shirt putting on the style.
‘Now, you’re here on some pretext about Monroe,’ Sinclair said, as though it were somehow amusing.
I shifted in my seat.
‘Not just Monroe, there’s the gun too,’ Swift glowered. He obviously didn’t like Sinclair any more than I did.
‘It was a nasty trick, but th
at’s all it was.’ Sinclair sipped his whisky, watching us over the rim of the glass. He put the drink down in one quick movement and assembled a smile. ‘Peace, gentlemen. I don’t mind the pretence, I sincerely hope for a happy outcome.’
‘This isn’t a pretence.’ I was stung at being taken for a lovelorn sap. ‘Someone murdered Monroe.’
His eyes narrowed. ‘Can you prove it?’
I sat back. ‘Not yet.’
His lips curled with contempt. ‘Then don’t take me for a bloody fool.’
I wasn’t going to be intimidated. ‘Why did the gun unsettle you?’
‘Because the packaging had Alaskan stamps,’ he replied. ‘Even you must realise the implications. Randolph St George died there.’
‘And you were with him at the time,’ I added.
He sat upright in his seat, regarding us coldly. ‘I was in Alaska, but I wasn’t anywhere near him. If I had been, I’d have died too.’
There was an aura of absolute confidence about Sinclair. He was in control and afraid of nothing, or so it appeared.
‘How did it happen?’ Swift asked curtly.
‘I imagine he cut the fuse too short.’ Sinclair shrugged. ‘He was blasting with dynamite, it was a common way to remove boulders from a buried seam. He must have been too close when it went off and was blown into the river. The body was never found.’
I watched him closely, his expression and tone were devoid of emotion. It sounded as though the tale had been repeated often and his answers were almost mechanical.
‘Was there an investigation?’ Swift continued.
‘Of course there was,’ Sinclair replied, then suddenly gave a bark of laughter. ‘You really are determined to play the detective. Very well, gentlemen, if you want to embark on a wild goose chase, I have nothing to hide.’
‘What invention had Randolph devised?’ Swift questioned.
‘It was a mechanism to search for gold. Rather clever actually, but then Randolph was a clever man.’ Sinclair took a swig of whisky.
‘You just said he blew himself up,’ I remarked.
Sinclair’s brows drew together.
‘How did the mechanism work?’ Swift carried on.
‘It was a variation on George Hopkins’ Induction Balance for detecting metal.’ Sinclair resumed an indifferent manner. ‘Randolph found a way to make it more sensitive to gold. The theory was to exclude other metals and save time. It wasn’t as useful as we’d hoped, the gold was in river beds or buried deep in the ground.’
‘Did Randolph patent his work?’ I asked.
‘No, it was merely an improvement on an existing design.’ He leaned back in self-satisfied ease. ‘I’ve been fortunate to live through a new age of invention and it moves very quickly, gentlemen. These are exciting times, there is much to be made from it.’
‘What were Monroe’s duties?’ Swift switched tack, attempting to throw Sinclair off balance.
‘He was my chauffeur.’
‘And your bodyguard?’ I added, recalling St George’s words when he told us that Monroe went everywhere with Sinclair.
Sinclair shrugged, he seemed bored by the conversation. ‘He was a military man and I travel in dangerous places. I always took Monroe with me.’
‘Have you ever been attacked?’ I asked.
‘No.’ He picked up his glass. ‘I take precautions, just as anyone in my business would.’
He was too complacent, so I sought to rattle him. ‘Who do you think pulled the trick with the gun?’
‘Bertram St George, of course.’ Irritation rasped in his voice as his temper broke. ‘I saved this house. I gave his entire family a roof over their heads. I succeeded where he failed and he’s never forgiven me for it.’ He stopped abruptly. ‘Enough of that. My wife has given you permission to play your game, I’ll give you one more day, then you leave my house.’
It seems we were dismissed.
‘Fine,’ I stood up.
Swift was less inclined to go quietly. ‘Where were you at five thirty on Sunday evening?’
I thought Sinclair would explode with anger, but he snapped an answer. ‘I was here, you impertinent dog. Now get out.’
We left without another word.
Chapter 6
‘Sirs,’ an elderly footman hailed us. He’d been standing near Sinclair’s office door. ‘I was asked to intercept you.’
‘What is it?’ Swift asked.
‘Lady Penelope would like a private word.’ He was a dignified chap with kindly eyes under bushy white brows and a white moustache. He probably wasn’t as old as the white hair suggested as he was trim and upright with a resolute air. ‘May I escort you?’
Swift didn’t bother seeking my agreement. ‘Lead on.’
We walked the length of the very long corridor, then rounded a corner and went on some more. The house was huge, with portals and passageways going off to who knows where.
The elderly footman stopped to tap at a door, it was probably as far away from Sinclair’s office as it was possible to get.
‘Come,’ Lady Penelope called.
She looked up as we were ushered in. There was a chap with her. They were seated in the window seat, lit by a weak sun trying to break through the storm clouds.
‘M’lady,’ the footman bowed stiffly.
‘Thank you, Mullins.’ Lady Penelope rose to greet us.
‘Hey there.’ The young man came with her. He spoke with an American accent.
‘Greetings,’ I replied, I bowed over Lady Penelope’s hand. Swift followed suit.
‘This is Finn.’ She indicated.
‘Finn Patrick, a yank abroad, at your service.’ He was good looking, confident and breezy with red gold hair brushed back from an open face.
‘Chief Inspector Swift.’ He was courteous. ‘Retired.’
‘Lennox,’ I mentioned out of politeness.
Finn Patrick grinned at me. ‘You’re the guy Lydia was talking about, she said you’d come to act the sleuth and win back your fair maiden.’
‘Now, Finn,’ Lady Penelope scolded him.
‘Nonsense,’ I was becoming less amused. ‘We’re investigating Monroe’s murder.’
‘Sure you are.’ He laughed, unabashed. ‘Well, I hope you get your gal. I’ll see you all at dinner.’ He gave a causal wave of the hand and strolled from the room.
I swore under my breath, I was sick of being taken for a bloody chump.
‘Should I bring tea, m’lady?’ Mullins stepped into the breech.
‘No, we won’t be long,’ she replied, then became flustered. ‘Unless you gentlemen would like something?’
‘No, thank you,’ Swift replied without asking me.
She showed us to a sofa near the fire. We were in a pretty day room, elegantly decorated in feminine fashion in pale blue and cream. I suspect she spent quite a lot of time in it.
‘Please do sit down.’
We sat.
‘We’ve just had an interview with your husband,’ Swift began.
‘Yes, I am aware.’ A frown creased her forehead. ‘Was he reasonable?’
‘He thinks we’re here on a romantic ploy,’ I replied, trying and failing, to keep the anger from my voice. ‘So does everyone else, apparently.’
She glanced at me, but didn’t digress. ‘Did he order you to leave?’
‘He gave us until tomorrow,’ Swift answered.
‘Will that be enough?’ she asked.
‘I’m afraid not,’ Swift continued. ‘We haven’t even spoken to the local police yet or taken statements, or…’
I cut in because he was becoming obsessed with details. ‘Do you believe the death was merely an accident?’
She paused before replying. ‘I really don’t know, but it has made me uneasy.’
‘Can you tell us anything about what happened that day?’ Swift moved into investigative mode.
‘I’m afraid not. Mullins came to inform me that Monroe had been killed. The police arrived sometime later.’ She seemed
distracted.
‘Who is that American fellow, Finn Patrick?’ I asked her.
Colour rose in her fine cheekbones. ‘He is my husband’s illegitimate son.’
That brought a hush to the room.
‘He’s obviously accepted here,’ Swift remarked.
‘Finn was born while Sinclair was in America. He was adopted, but I… we have kept in contact.’ She was choosing her words carefully. ‘I don’t think this has any bearing on Monroe’s death.’
That put us in our place. I was wondering why she’d asked to see us.
‘Do you think there’s a threat to your husband?’ I asked the question.
Some moments passed before she spoke. ‘It’s possible. First the gun, then Monroe’s death… he was my husband’s bodyguard.’
‘Yes, we know.’ I replied. ‘But if someone wanted to kill Sinclair, why not just do it, why start with his bodyguard?’
‘I… I don’t know.’ She lowered her eyes. ‘Do you think I’m being ridiculous?’
‘Of course not, it’s a very understandable concern,’ Swift was quick to reassure her.
‘Well, thank you.’ She stood up, a sign that the interview was over. ‘I look forward to seeing you both at dinner.’
We were on our feet.
‘Yes, and thank you.’ Swift gave a bow.
Mullins escorted us out into the passage and closed the door behind us.
‘What the devil was all that about?’ I said to Swift as we trotted downstairs and through the grand hall.
‘She was sounding us out.’ He didn’t seem perturbed by it.
We made our way towards the old wing. ‘She was worried that her husband’s life was in danger. Do you think it is?’
‘Time will tell, won’t it,’ he replied with equanimity.
Running feet were heard behind us and we both swung around to look. It was the spotty hall boy.
‘Sirs, I’ve been searching for you.’ He was breathless. ‘The police are here. They’re gathering everyone in the servants’ hall.’
Swift perked up. ‘The police?’
‘Yes, sir,’ the boy replied. ‘Mr Trent said to come and get you, I’ve been looking everywhere. Then I just bumped into Mr Mullins and he said you’d been up with her ladyship, and you might be going back to the old wing, and I told him that was where I started off.’ He took another breath. ‘Been running round in circles, I have.’
The Tomb of the Chatelaine: A 1920s Country House Murder Mystery (Heathcliff Lennox Book 6) Page 5