I jotted Sinclair made a toff.
‘What about Finn?’ Swift asked.
‘I told you, his mother thought I’d be fool enough to fall for blackmail. I soon put her right on that score, she was nothing but an Irish bog hopper.’
Well, that explained Finn’s red-blond hair.
‘Is she still alive?’ Swift asked.
‘How the hell would I know,’ he barked back.
Swift wasn’t intimidated, he continued fact finding. ‘How did Penelope hear about your son?’
‘Is this really necessary?’ His patience had long run thin.
‘Yes,’ Swift replied calmly.
‘It was after I left Dawson.’ Sinclair began twisting his watch round his wrist. ‘The woman must have run short of money, she didn’t know where I’d gone and she pestered the immigration service for my British address. Randolph and I had registered Lanscombe Park as our domicile, so that’s where she sent her threats.’
Swift nodded, his face thoughtful. ‘Penelope must have believed the mother?’
‘She doesn’t know the world as I do.’ He calmed down. ‘She wrote to me, I’d stayed in contact after Randolph died, so she knew my address in Boston. She was incensed that I’d abandoned the child. I replied, trying to explain, but she declared she was sending money.’ Sinclair shrugged. ‘I knew she didn’t have any. After some fairly terse exchanges, I agreed to support him. The boy was eventually adopted, he never went short.’
‘Were you always in contact with him?’ Swift asked.
‘Penelope kept in touch, sending him Christmas cards and pocket money. Then, when he was twenty-one, he came here all the way from New York on his own. He walked up to the front door and knocked on it. And you know what?’ Sinclair leaned forward. ‘He’s one of the brightest young men I’ve met. I’ve no idea if he is my son, but he’s got business in his blood.’
Did Sinclair kill Randolph to woo Penelope? I wrote, as an afterthought.
‘How long did you remain in Boston?’ Swift probably had the same thought.
‘Six years. That’s how long it took me to make my first million. I swore I wouldn’t return to England until I’d made a fortune.’ He grunted in satisfaction.
Swift was still thoughtful. ‘And you came here?’
‘No,’ Sinclair was abrupt. ‘I lived in London for a few months. Then I heard Lanscombe Park was coming up for sale and I decided to have a look. Penelope was here with the twins, they were living like paupers. I renewed my acquaintance, realised what a fine woman she was, and married her.’
‘Lanscombe Park was for sale?’ I sat up. Nobody had mentioned that before.
‘The family had nothing,’ Sinclair riled. ‘Generation after generation had squandered the finances. This place was a wreck, you couldn’t even call it a house. I bought it, I could have thrown them all out. As you can see, I didn’t.’
I drew a line through my last note. Did Sinclair kill Randolph to woo Penelope? Six years waiting to win over Randolph’s widow hardly spoke of a passion fervent enough to kill for. I added, Sinclair bought Lanscombe Park and everybody in it.
Swift rose from his chair and turned to me. ‘Lennox.’
‘Right.’ I passed him the notebook, he read the few lines I’d written, and the crossing out, frowned and slipped it into his inside pocket.
‘Don’t forget what I told you,’ Sinclair pointed a warning finger. ‘Not a word to the police. No-one is to cooperate with them, I’ve already given instructions to the men. It’s an unfortunate spate of accidents, that’s the line. And you’d better find who did it.’
We left without a backward glance.
‘What do you think?’ I asked Swift as we trod down the stairs to the grand hall.
‘I think Scotland Yard should investigate.’
‘Really?’ That surprised me. ‘Why?’
‘Many reasons. They have the resources to make a proper search, run forensic tests and check the background of the people here.’
‘Including Jerome and Finn.’
‘Exactly, we can’t just assume they’re who they say they are,’ Swift said as we reached the grand hall.
‘Sinclair would have had them investigated, Swift,’ I reminded him. ‘He was quick enough to find out about us.’
‘Inspector Swift, Major Lennox, sir.’ Mullins appeared to have been waiting for us. ‘The police have arrived, they are expecting your presence.’
‘Right.’ Swift cheered up. ‘Where are they?’
‘They are with Mr Jerome, sir,’ Mullins said. ‘In the control room.’
The venerable gentleman led off, Swift followed. I hesitated, letting them gain some distance, then turned on my heel and headed in the opposite direction.
I hadn’t any particular plan in mind, except to explore and seek out whatever was to be found. I reached the kitchen to collect my little pets. Foggy was all for it, Tubbs had curled up under the kitchen range and refused to move. I told Greggs that I was going to search for clues, hoping it would mollify Swift when he came looking for me.
‘Very well, sir.’ Greggs had adorned himself with an embroidered apron and was scrubbing a copper pan in the sink. ‘Lady Millicent is collecting eggs. We are planning a special dish for lunch.’
‘Excellent, old chap,’ I replied. ‘You don’t happen to have seen Persi?’
‘I’m afraid not, sir.’ He straightened up, paunch to the fore. ‘Perhaps you could gather some flowers, or…’
‘I think it will require more than that, old chap,’ I replied.
‘Perhaps a poem, sir? Lady Millicent enjoys Shakespeare.’ He raised a hand. ‘Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day, Thou art more lovely and more temperate: Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May…’
‘Greggs, have you been drinking?’
He stiffened. ‘I have not, sir. Lady Millicent and I merely thought to aid your romantic quest.’
‘I’m not on a romantic quest. I’m looking for a damned killer,’ I retorted. ‘And what’s more…’ I shouted, then couldn’t think of anything suitable to say, so I stomped out.
The mist had lifted to unveil a beautiful day. The air was fresh under a clear blue sky, it smelled of autumn; damp leaves and woodsmoke. Foggy ran ahead, even though he didn’t know where we were going, I walked behind, hands in pockets my mind on Persi and the nonsense Greggs’ was spouting. Persi wouldn’t want poetry. She was a practical girl, down to earth – delving about in it quite frequently. My mind tumbled over as Foggy and I negotiated the orchard, vegetable plots and whatnots. We didn’t spot either Lady Millicent or any chickens, and entered the formal gardens to find it peacefully free of people. There were a few late roses in bloom, I considered plucking some of them, but decided it could wait.
I bypassed the marble folly and headed towards the trees in the direction Lydia had indicated the castle lay.
It was a pretty affair, enclosed by ancient walls with four stone towers; three were stubby and broken, the fourth was intact and stood on rocks jutting into the lake. A thicket of red leafed shrubs almost obscured the entrance of the tumble-down keep, I passed beneath its archway to stand and stare in silence. The curtain wall enclosed an expansive courtyard, green grass swathed the centre, hemmed by jumbled heaps of fallen stones and roofless buildings.
Foggy caught wind of something and sniffed his way into the largest structure. I followed into what must have been the banqueting hall back in medieval days. Delicate stone frames were cut into walls at least eight feet thick and two storeys high; nothing was left above that level, no roof or rotted joists, just jagged stones, white against the blue sky. My footsteps echoed as I crossed the hall and went to peer into a huge fireplace halfway along the wall. There were piles of twigs and feathers in the old hearth, sure signs of crows nesting in the chimney. Dust encrusted the eroded carving above the mantle; I brushed it away to reveal a dragon writhing and roaring above a weathered sword and shield.
I returned to the central courtyard to
gaze at the tallest tower. Steps had been cut into the rock upon which it stood, they led to a door set in an ornately carved surround. I went to try it, but it was locked or jammed and there didn’t seem to be another entrance from the ground. It didn’t take long to spy an opening high on the curtain wall.
I discovered the rampart steps beyond the banqueting hall and paced up and onto the battlement running around the top. It took some careful negotiation to pick my way along the worn walkway and reach the chamber at the top of the tower. It proved to be a guardroom with thin arrow-slit windows giving onto the lake, presumably in case of aquatic attack. There was another set of stone steps inside, so I carried on climbing to find a flat roof surrounded by a waist-high wall. It was the perfect place to lean out and gaze across the still water.
The lake lay in a long expanse the shape of a lozenge; the island in the distance, coloured by autumnal shrubs and laced with weeping willow. The shore of the lake was formed into shady inlets, perfect for fishing below the lofty trees overhanging the banks.
Some distance over to the right was a boathouse, modern and freshly painted in cream and maroon, built into a deep-cut opening which gave onto the water. Just beyond that was another building marked ancient by its form; narrow and tall under a steeply pitched roof. It looked like an old church and lay in a hollow beyond a copse of sweet chestnut trees. I’d been wanting to find the source of the stick and decided to investigate.
It didn’t take long to reach them. Spiky green balls, stuffed with brown chestnuts, hung from thick boughs, and a quick walk amongst them soon revealed the broken stub of a branch. I considered returning to the house to tell Swift, but I thought I may as well take a look about while I was here.
‘Come on,’ I called Foggy, and he bounded alongside me, ever ready for adventure.
Chapter 11
Max was working on a sleek motor boat. Everything in the place was modern and new, a concrete deck surrounding a deep dock perfectly protected a range of tethered craft. A simple rowing boat was tied alongside the motorboat, and four sailing dinghies of different sizes filled the other bays.
The place smelled of fresh paint and wood varnish. Leather buckets, life jackets and coils of rope hung from hooks on the lapped-wood walls. Small fish darted about in the clear water below the boat hulls. I felt a sudden pang of envy for the playthings money can buy.
‘What do you want?’ Max called out. He had the engine bay of the motorboat open and was wielding a spanner above it.
‘Sinclair has asked us to investigate,’ I said, just to annoy him.
‘He must be desperate.’ He put the spanner down and picked up a screwdriver lying in a toolbox on the seat next to him. The engine was in the stern and he was kneeling over it from the cockpit.
‘He thinks he’s next.’
That resulted in a bark of laughter. ‘He would. Everything’s about him, even another man’s death.’
‘There are two deaths,’ I reminded him.
‘And I’m sorry for them both.’ His voice became muffled as he leaned further into the engine.
I walked over for a better look. ‘What’s wrong with it?’
‘She wouldn’t start.’
‘Not firing?’ I admired the engine, someone had kept it in good clean order.
‘I’ve checked the electrics, there’s plenty of spark. I think the filters are clogged.’
‘Dirty fuel,’ I suggested.
‘Probably.’ He put the screwdriver aside and tugged carefully at a hose.
‘I have the same problem with my car.’
‘I heard you have a Bentley.’ He looked over, a smear of grease on his cheek. ‘That’s a car I’d like to own. I worked on Bentley’s aircraft engines during the war, clever design, the man’s a genius.’
‘You were an air mechanic?’ I asked, knowing the breed well from my days in the Royal Flying Corps.
‘Yes, until the last year of the war, then I was upped to an aircraftman when we all became the RAF.’
I laughed, Max couldn’t be all bad if he was one of the chaps who kept our kites airborne. ‘I flew Sopwith Camels. They had the first Bentley engines.’
‘The BR1s.’ He gave a grin. ‘I wanted to fly, but they wouldn’t let me. Eyesight wasn’t up to scratch, besides I know how to build engines and they needed mechanics on the ground.’
‘Where were you based?’
‘Larkhill initially, then out to France. I ended up in Colombey.’
‘Near the front line,’ I remarked. ‘That must have been lively.’
‘It was.’ He smiled grimly. ‘I was roped in with the Yanks, I don’t think they knew what hit them, but they were Trojans, took it on the chin. Good men.’
‘Yes, I spent time with them in Epiez…’ I trailed off, reluctant to go on and switched subject. ‘Do you invent, like your father?’
‘I try, but it’s not as easy as you’d think.’ He paused in his tinkering to regard me with intelligent brown eyes.
‘Someone said he had a workshop?’ I was fishing for information.
‘The old church, I use it now.’ He indicated the building just beyond the copse. ‘You’re serious about playing Sherlock?’
‘Someone killed those men,’ I replied calmly.
‘It wasn’t me.’ He leaned back over the engine bay and resumed his work.
‘Where were you when Monroe died?’
‘Here, or in the workshop. I wasn’t keeping track. It’s where I come for peace and quiet, away from the house and the hangers on.’
‘Like Jerome?’ I suggested. ‘Or Finn?’
He sighed. ‘They’re jockeying for favour with Sinclair. I understand why, but I think it’s demeaning and sometimes I needle them.’ He glanced out beyond the bow of the motorboat and into the lake. ‘Mama hates it when I do it. Anyway, I come here to let off steam.’
‘Jerome’s going to be your brother-in-law,’ I stated.
‘Yes, they get shackled next Easter.’ He turned to look at me ‘I assume you’re still hoping for a happy outcome with Cousin Persi?’
That caught me off guard. ‘Erm… I’d like to. I’ve talked to her, but…’
‘Don’t worry, I know every shade of the story.’ He suddenly grinned. ‘Lydia’s the great romantic in our family. Never stops talking, or meddling. You’ll regret marrying into the St Georges the minute you slip the ring on Persi’s finger.’
‘If she’ll have me.’
‘Look Lennox, I’ve known Persi all my life.’ He was suddenly serious. ‘She’s straight as a die. Just tell her what you feel, she’ll understand.’
‘I have… it just comes out the wrong way.’
‘Well, keep telling her until you get it right.’ He returned to the boat engine. ‘And try to avoid sending any of her favourite cousins to the gallows.’
I grinned, although it wasn’t really funny at all.
I called Foggy and left the boathouse. I’d like to have explored the old church, or workshop as it had become, but it was mid-morning and Greggs would be serving tea. I rather hoped Persi would be there.
Max’s words reverberated around my mind as I retraced my steps through the trees. I was considering how the evidence might implicate Finn when Fogg suddenly rushed off into the castle grounds. I shouted and whistled but he didn’t reappear, I swore to myself and re-entered the courtyard.
The door to the tall tower was ajar, Fogg dashed in, then out again, yipping in delight. He galloped up to run around me twice, with ears flying, then back to the tower. I gathered he wanted me to follow. I strode over to find Lady Penelope barely discernible within the unlit interior.
‘Greetings,’ I offered a smile from the threshold.
‘Hello, Heathcliff, would you like to join me?’
‘Um, what?’
‘I’ve come to say prayers for poor Trent.’ She waved an elegant hand to indicate a stone altar. ‘This is the Lady Chapel. I often pray here.’
‘It’s…’ I walked in. I hadn’t bee
n able to see very well from the doorway, but my eyes were quickly adjusting to the faint light. The ceiling extended into darkness, the circular walls depicted faded murals, medieval in design, with haloed saints and winged angels, monks, nuns and a heavenly choir. The altar was little bigger than a coffer, heavily carved from red sandstone, two candles were in place either side of a large brass cross.
‘If you pick up your little dog, I will light the candles.’ She held a vesta case of matches. I noticed she was dressed for walking, in a hacking jacket and mid-length skirt, her hair tied under a navy scarf.
‘He’s called Mr Fogg.’ I grabbed him. ‘If I’m intruding, I’ll take him away.’
‘No, I’m pleased you’re here, and Mr Fogg. We don’t have dogs, Sinclair doesn’t like them. I’ve always thought it such a pity.’ She sparked the match to light the candles with a steady hand. ‘There, isn’t that better?’
‘Yes, erm, very nice.’ The colours in the murals warmed in the candlelight, I could make out the faces of the saints and angels, pink with rosy cheeks and golden halos. The tower had thick walls, typical of a defensive structure, the interior was around twelve feet across and reached up about twenty feet into what looked like the interior of a steeple, painted in blue with gilded stars.
She followed my line of sight. ‘It’s a tromp l’oeil, the ceiling is actually flat.’
‘It’s enchanting.’
‘Will you kneel?’ She sank to her knees on the dark-tiled floor.
I knelt down beside her as she raised her hands in prayer. I found it more difficult whilst holding a dog, but managed as best I could.
She murmured the Lord’s Prayer. I joined in, then she asked God to gather up the dead, including Trent, and begged forgiveness for those who had sinned. She didn’t specify who they were, which was a shame because it might have made our detecting easier.
The Tomb of the Chatelaine: A 1920s Country House Murder Mystery (Heathcliff Lennox Book 6) Page 10