‘The post, sir,’ he intoned, as he poured three cups of strong-smelling coffee.
‘Thank you, leave it on the table.’ Jerome waved towards the post trays.
‘As you wish, sir.’ Mullins did as requested and left the room on quiet feet.
‘Inspector, these implications are ludicrous.’ Jerome leaned forward to put his elbows on the desk. ‘I showed you the broken security light, I’d hardly have done that if I was involved in anything untoward.’
‘You’d look doubly guilty if we’d found out from someone else,’ Swift replied.
‘And you can’t prove where you were when Monroe was killed.’ I tossed in.
‘What?’ He jerked upright. ‘I was with Lydia, you know I was.’
‘She doesn’t wear a watch, how did she know what time it was?’ I countered.
‘I… I told her, but that doesn’t mean… Are you implying I’m lying?’ he stuttered in outrage.
‘Yes,’ Swift replied.
I ate a biscuit.
Jerome sighed in exasperation. ‘You’re supposed to be helping, not interrogating me, or Sinclair. We’re running a complex business worth millions of pounds and we can’t have our time wasted with these minor matters.’
‘Two murders are hardly minor matters,’ I retorted.
Jerome twitched with suppressed anger.
Swift cut in. ‘What does Sinclair actually do?’
‘He buys inventions and patents them.’ Jerome settled down again, obviously more comfortable discussing business. ‘He has the weapons developed into working prototypes, those that prove commercially viable are sold to armament manufacturers.’
Swift continued. ‘Where are these weapons developed?’
‘In Wiltshire. Sinclair is head of a consortium. They own a research facility located at the military base there.’
‘Does he control this consortium?’ I asked.
‘Yes, he’s the majority shareholder.’
‘And you’ll get his shares,’ I stated.
‘I’ve already told you this.’ Jerome was becoming rattled again.
Swift finished his coffee and put the delicate porcelain cup onto Jerome’s desk-top. ‘Thank you. Come on, Lennox.’
‘Right, erm…’ I emptied my cup in a gulp. ‘Jolly good coffee,’ I told Jerome and gave him a cheery wave. He didn’t say anything, just looked relieved we were leaving.
‘That was illuminating, Swift,’ I remarked as we trotted downstairs.
‘Yes, St George has miscalculated.’
‘Well, he said the family didn’t have any brains for commerce,’ I reminded him.
‘Max may inherit Lanscombe Park when Sinclair dies, but there won’t be any funds to go with it,’ he said.
‘Exactly, Sinclair’s fortune isn’t tied to the lease. He can leave it to whoever he wants to.’ We were walking back through the house towards the old wing.
‘Surely St George must have realised that?’ Swift shook his head in disbelief.
‘He’s hardly worldly, Swift. I doubt it ever occurred to him.’
‘Well, I suspect it’s occurred to everybody else,’ he replied tartly.
Chapter 14
‘We need to change for dinner,’ Swift remarked.
We were returning to the old wing, our minds occupied with the revelation and how significant it may be.
Greggs was in the kitchen. He was sitting by the range with a glass of dark red wine in his hand, staring at the wall.
‘I’ll see you shortly,’ Swift said and parted for his room. ‘I’m going to write to Florence before I get dressed.’
‘Greggs?’
He jerked upright. ‘Sir?’
‘Are you all right?’
‘Yes, sir.’ He looked up at me with eyes vaguely out of focus. There was a dusty bottle at his elbow. ‘Sir Bertram has granted me the key to the cellar, sir,’ he replied ponderously. ‘He has foresworn liquor on account of the gout.’
I picked up the bottle and wiped dust from the label and read Beaune des Aigrots, 1915. ‘Is it any good?’
He blinked. ‘It is outstanding, sir.’
I took a sniff of his glass, it had a tempting whiff.
He snatched it off me, then the bottle, and held them to his chest. ‘Mine.’
I knew better than to come between Greggs and good liquor. ‘Not going to break into poetry, or French are you?’
I knew what he was like once he’d started drinking.
‘If I so wish, I will,’ he replied with dignity, only marred by a slight slur.
‘Right, I’m off to change.’ I left him to it.
I went to my room, realising I should make a few notes before dinner as my mind was a jumble of thoughts. My notebook was brand new, with dark green leather and thick cream pages. I found it in the desk drawer and rummaged about for my pen, it was in my jacket pocket. The room felt damp, so I moved to the fireside and sat poised over a pristine page. Fogg and Tubbs had come upstairs with me and they cuddled on the hearth rug together.
Swift had a habit of lecturing me on proper detecting methods, I tried to remember what he’d said. Motive, method and opportunity, I think? He should have mentioned suspects too, because that was the most important part.
I wrote; Sinclair, Jerome, Max, Finn, Lydia, Penelope, Mullins… I hesitated then added St George and Lady Millicent.
Lydia triggered the investigation, pretending to be Persi. Lydia’s suspicion is anchored in a childhood obsession and further aggravated by the gun and package sent to Sinclair on his sixtieth birthday. The package was from Randolph’s rooms. All suspects could have accessed the rooms…
How? I thought about it. When the St Georges were taking a nap?
Sinclair couldn’t get into Randolph’s rooms, well I suppose he could sneak in at night, but it was hardly in his nature… Damn, we should have considered that earlier.
Maybe not Sinclair, I wrote, sighed and decided to push on.
Both killings were thought out and carefully constructed to appear as accidents. The killer knew the men’s habits; Monroe would buy liquor on Sunday and Trent would reset the electricity when it failed. The stick was taken from the woods near the lake, tests on the fibres didn’t prove anything.
I stopped to refill my pen. It took the usual fiddling about with ink pot and blotting paper. Tubbs jumped up to help, he batted my pen, then sat on the open book. I’d noticed he had a habit of sitting between me and whatever I was trying to look at. I admonished him to his sooty face, he yawned, not in the least contrite. I put him down with Foggy and carried on.
A strip of copper was used to connect the power to the handle. It’s a secret. Only Sinclair knows about it, along with us and the killer.
I paused, trying to think how it was set up.
Method; The killer would have worn gloves, rubber ones probably. They pushed the copper strip into the gap next to the handle of the power-switch. Then they opened the window to let the rain in. They broke the glass on the lantern below a guest room window and poured water into it, sometime during the day.
Whoever did it had a good knowledge of the house and electrical system – which makes it less likely to be Finn.
It seems I’d just discounted Finn and Sinclair, which was a grave disappointment. Should I remove them from my suspect list? No, the killer was clever and sneaky, and they were the two cleverest and sneakiest people in the whole house.
What about opportunity?
Monroe’s accident happened at 5.30pm. The servants were taking their own meal before preparing and serving the family’s dinner. Lydia had gone to the folly for a cigarette, Jerome said he was with her, but he could have lied about the time. So he may have gone to the Dell and back, and he knows the intricacies of the household.
Max said he was at the boathouse or his workshop, but can’t prove it. He was vague, and he’s also bound to know about the electricity.
Sinclair was in his office.
Finn was in his room - Trent was a wi
tness (conveniently dead).
Penelope was in her room.
Where were the St Georges? They say they never go anywhere, but Lady Millicent goes into her gardens and orchard.
I stopped to consider my notes and Swift’s detecting advice. Method and opportunity were all very well, but without understanding the motive we were hunting in the dark.
I wrote…
Reason and logic are vital to an investigation.
And I underlined it because it was true.
I cleaned excess ink from my nib while I thought about why someone would have wanted to murder Monroe and Trent.
Sinclair? Blackmail?
Jerome? Perhaps he did it under Sinclair’s orders, or maybe Jerome was being blackmailed because he’d done something wicked – betrayed Lydia with a femme fatale? (interesting, but unlikely)
Swift said the police had searched the dead men’s rooms and nothing had been found. If they’d committed blackmail, wouldn’t there be some evidence of it?
We should probably give up the idea of blackmail.
Max is behaving badly according to the family, why?
Persi said there’s tension in the house.
That gave me pause for thought, but I couldn’t add to it, so carried on.
Lydia? She loathes Sinclair, but killing his servants is a bit obtuse.
Penelope? No, or at least I sincerely hope not.
I had more questions than answers. I put my pen down and leaned back in my chair. Jerome would be given control of Sinclair’s business. It must be a bitter blow for Max, but was it relevant unless Sinclair was the victim…?
Swift walked in, breaking into my meandering. ‘Are you going to dinner?’
‘Yes.’
‘Like that?’ He was smartly turned out in his city suit with his hair combed and shoes polished.
‘I’m going to change, I was just making notes.’ I put my pen and book on the hearth.
He sat down in the chair opposite. ‘Here,’ he handed over his silver flask.
I shook it; it was full. ‘I thought we’d emptied this?’
‘Emergency supply.’ He gave a grin. His missive home must have cheered him up.
I found a couple of tumblers and poured one each. We raised our glasses and took a mouthful.
‘That’s the best I’ve tasted, Swift.’ It was superb.
‘It’s our oldest malt, I was going to save it to celebrate you and Persi getting back together.’
I stopped drinking. ‘What?’
‘But as you’re making such a hash of it, I decided we’d better just drink it.’ He watched me over the top of his glass.
‘I’m not… look, it isn’t…’ I had another sip. ‘I’ll talk to her tonight.’
He laughed and leaned back in the chair, his legs crossed. ‘Can I see your notes?’ He nodded towards my book.
‘Here.’ I passed it over.
He read through it, it took him less than two minutes. ‘You’ve barely written anything.’
‘I haven’t finished.’
He handed it back. ‘I agree with you about Sinclair, I don’t think he’s behind it.’
‘No, but what the hell is it all about?’
‘I wish I knew.’ He finished his whisky and put the glass down. ‘What did you think about Jerome’s revelation?’
‘It’s not relevant to the case, but it might explain why Max is so angry.’
He nodded. ‘Yes, he’ll inherit Lanscombe Park without any funds to support it.’
‘Lydia comes out well,’ I remarked.
‘You mean Jerome comes out well. He’ll have the controlling hand.’
‘Yes, and it’s a nasty twist of the knife. I suspect Sinclair did it deliberately.’ I sipped the whisky slowly, savouring it. ‘He’s stuck to the lease, but thwarted the principle.’
‘And St George would never have considered it when he agreed to the details,’ Swift replied.
‘I wonder what Penelope makes of it all,’ I mused.
‘If you’d spent less time talking about ancient tombs and more about the case, you might have found out.’
‘I didn’t know about it then,’ I said in my defence.
He threw me a sideways look.
‘Do you think Finn could be Randolph’s son?’ I asked a question that had been niggling me.
‘Randolph’s? Not Sinclair’s?’ He thought about it. ‘I suppose it’s possible.’ He picked up the flask and slipped it into his pocket. ‘You’d better change, Lennox. Drinks will be served shortly.’
I dressed in quick time and we left to make our way towards the drawing room. Persi had said she was coming to dinner, and then she would leave. How was I going to find a way to persuade her to stay?
We spotted her on the upper landing as we made our way to the drawing room. She looked enchanting, her blonde hair shimmering under the chandeliers, the same green frock as last evening.
‘Hello, Persi,’ Swift called.
‘Oh, hello.’ She came to join us.
‘Greetings, old stick.’ I decided to go for broke and gave her a peck on the cheek.
She didn’t object, actually she didn’t take much notice. ‘Heathcliff?’
‘What?’ I smiled down at her.
‘I’m not sure if I should come to dinner.’
‘Of course you should.’ Swift tried to jolly her along. ‘Come on.’
We took a few steps and she stopped again.
‘Have you made your peace with Lydia?’ I offered my arm.
She took it. ‘Not really… and there’s something I’ve just discovered. It’s… well, it’s quite disturbing.’
‘Sinclair’s going to hand over the reins to Jerome,’ I guessed.
‘You knew?’ She stopped and glared at me. ‘Why on earth didn’t you tell me?’
‘We only found out this afternoon,’ Swift explained.
‘Oh… But don’t you see, it’s all going to be lost after all. Max won’t be able to afford to keep Lanscombe. He doesn’t have any money.’ She looked upset.
‘He might marry an heiress.’ I tried a cheery note. It didn’t help.
‘That’s not a plan,’ she replied, and finally walked with us along the corridor.
Champagne was offered as we entered the drawing room, I decided against. The place was almost exactly as it had been last night; servants bustled about, the family were togged out in elegant evening wear, a fire blazing in the hearth. Nothing had changed apart from the expiration of Trent.
Persi spotted Max and went to join him, Swift headed in the direction of Lydia, no doubt to interrogate her further. Finn watched with an amused grin on his face. He was smart in a tuxedo, his red-gold hair neatly combed above his pleasant features.
‘Good evening, sir.’ Mullins bowed. He was on duty by the sideboard – where I’d noticed Burgundy was available.
‘Greetings, old chap.’ I pointed at the bottle. ‘I’ll have one of those.’
‘Certainly, sir.’ He poured it himself with white-gloved hands. He was looking particularly spruce; moustache and sideburns fluffed, snowy hair brushed back and his red and black uniform in very smart order. He sported a black armband, as did all the staff.
‘You haven’t donned the butlering garb yet?’
‘Ah, no, sir.’ His moustache drooped. ‘I’m afraid his Lordship has deemed my years rather too advanced to step into Mr Trent’s shoes. In fact, he has decreed that tomorrow must be my last day at Lanscombe.’
‘What! That’s unfair,’ I exclaimed. ‘Does Lady Penelope know?’
‘She does and is upset. But alas, she has not yet been able to convince his Lordship to amend his decision.’
‘What are you going to do?’ I asked.
He gave a faint sigh. ‘I hope to find some employ for which my military training has prepared me, sir.’
He handed me a glass generously full of rich red wine.
‘And what’s that?’
‘Sharpshooter, sir,’ he replied and turn
ed away to supervise the drinks tray.
That made me raise my brows.
Lady Penelope was sitting with the group around the fire, I strolled over, thinking to ask some question of relevance. I didn’t get very far.
‘I want dinner now.’ Sinclair bulldozed in with Jerome on his heels.
‘Sinclair, please. It’s barely past seven.’ Penelope rose to her feet.
‘Jerome, go and tell chef. Get on with it,’ Sinclair ordered.
Jerome left, almost at a run.
‘Godolphin, I really don’t…’ Penelope tried again.
‘Don’t argue.’ Sinclair wasn’t listening. ‘We missed selling stock on the American market last night thanks to Trent and that bloody fiasco, we’re not missing it tonight. We’ll be working until the early hours and I want dinner now.’
Lady Penelope’s eyes blazed with anger for a second, then she took a breath and calmed herself. ‘Very well. I suggest we move to the dining room.’
‘Where the hell do you think I’m going,’ Sinclair snapped and stalked off, leaving his wife standing.
I stepped forward and offered my arm.
Her lip trembled, then she sighed. ‘Thank you, Heathcliff.’
She paused to ask Mullins to make the announcement and we waited for him to lead us through to the dining room in formal style.
It proved to be the most sumptuous of all the rooms I’d seen in the house. A double-height ceiling, three glittering chandeliers, walnut panelling and a table set with monogrammed linen, silver bowls, crystal goblets, porcelain dishes and gilded cutlery. It was lavish and splendid, and rather wasted on such a small party of people.
Mullins fussed over us, spreading napkins, arranging glasses and all the usual whatnots. I was seated next to Persi, Finn bagged the chair next to her and immediately started chatting.
Sinclair was at the head of table. ‘Have you found him?’
I realised he was talking to me. ‘What?’
‘Don’t play the fool, man.’
I lowered my voice. ‘If you mean the murderer, no, we haven’t.’
‘Well, you’d better get on with it. It’s my life at stake, it’s a damn good thing I’ve got men about me. Twenty-four hours, that’s all I’m giving you, then you’re finished.’ He had a glass of red wine in his large hand. ‘And when I say finished, I mean I’ll destroy your reputation, both of you.’ He glowered at Swift, then knocked his drink back.
The Tomb of the Chatelaine: A 1920s Country House Murder Mystery (Heathcliff Lennox Book 6) Page 13