‘She remained in Dawson?’ That surprised me.
‘Yeah, lots of people live there, just not as many as during the gold rush.’
‘Did you go and see her?’
‘I sure did.’ He relaxed and leaned back in the cushions. ‘My folks sent me with their blessing. Mom, Kerri, wasn’t well. The cold in Dawson eats away at you. I took along blankets and mittens for her, and she sat in a rocking chair and told me about her life.’
‘And your father,’ I prompted.
‘Yeah, I was real curious about this Godolphin I’d been named after. She said she’d fallen in love with him and, well, you know how that can end. Anyway, when she told Sinclair she was gonna have a child, he turned nasty, called her names and denied it was his.’ His lips twisted as he spoke. ‘He cleared out before I was born and Kerri blessed me with her own surname, Patrick. They all called me Finn Patrick, because no-one had ever heard such a godawful name as Godolphin.’
‘Sinclair said she was a street walker,’ I said bluntly.
‘That’s a damn lie,’ he swore. ‘She worked in a bar, that didn’t make her no street walker.’
‘She was certain Sinclair was your father?’
‘There couldn’t be no other. She swore on the Bible in front of the magistrates, not that it did no good.’
‘Because Sinclair had already moved to Boston and didn’t leave an address?’ I knew that Finn’s mother had written to Lanscombe Park. ‘And then Penelope stepped in?’
‘Yeah, I told you, she helped as much as she was able. Kerri was destitute. She’d lost the job with the bar, the gold rush was finished and folk was leaving Dawson in their droves. She was desperate to keep me; her last hope was to get some money out of Sinclair; it didn’t work. Penelope sent what she could, but it wasn’t enough and so I was adopted.’
‘Do you believe he was your real father?’ I asked the question.
‘I’ve no doubt on that, but I take no pride in saying it.’
This was a moment of truth. His friendly relationship with Sinclair had been a sham.
‘You understand that you have no rights of inheritance under English law.’
‘You mean because I was born out of wedlock.’ He gave a grim smile. ‘Someone else was at pains to explain that to me.’
‘Who?’
‘Jerome.’
‘Ah, yes, well he would, wouldn’t he.’ A thought occurred to me. ‘Did your real mother, Kerri, ever mention Randolph?’
‘No, why would she?’
‘When did you first meet her?’ I questioned.
‘Back in 1918.’
‘Six years ago,’ I calculated.
‘Yeah.’
‘You first came here when you were 21?’
‘End of 1918. There was a war on before then, I couldn’t come.’ He frowned. ‘What are you getting at?’
I wasn’t inclined to answer and was interrupted anyway.
‘Heathcliff,’ Persi came into the room. ‘I’ve been looking everywhere for you. You must come quickly?’
Chapter 19
Foggy was with her, he ran about yipping in excitement.
‘Swift is waiting in the hall.’ She told me as we paced along the corridor and reached the stairs.
‘What is it?’
‘I was upset and went out for some fresh air.’ She was breathless. ‘I went to the castle. I could see the island from the top of the tower and thought about what Swift had said about how Sinclair died. I decided to take a look in the boathouse, and found blood on the dock wall and I’m certain there’s something in the water.’
Swift was in the hall, keen to go. ‘Come on, Lennox.’
We headed for the front door, a footman sprang into action and opened it.
We made quick time round to the formal gardens and reached the folly. Lydia was there with Jerome, they were watching a couple of swans drift by on the water. Lydia threw her cigarette away when she saw us.
‘Where are you all going?’ She called out.
‘I asked you to stay indoors.’ Swift went straight on the offensive.
‘Really, is there any need for this?’ Jerome replied.
‘Why shouldn’t we be out here?’ Lydia objected. ‘You are.’
‘We’re hunting down a murderer,’ Swift retorted.
‘So you can to send one of us to the hangman.’ Lydia’s tone was cool. ‘You too, Persi?’
Persi’s cheeks flushed, but she held her tongue.
‘That’s enough,’ I told Lydia.
‘Now look here, old man…’ Jerome stepped forward.
‘Go back to the house and stay there,’ Swift requested coldly.
Lydia looked mulish, Jerome stood beside her as though on guard.
‘Lydia, please,’ Persi pleaded.
‘Oh, very well.’ An angry flush rose in her face and she turned away. Jerome took her hand and spoke quietly to her.
We waited for them to go, before striding through the trees, heading for the boathouse. It seemed dark below the broad roof, due to the contrast with the bright sunshine outside, although my imagination may have been lingering on the events of that morning.
Persi pushed the stern of the boat aside and knelt on the concrete dock to point towards the waterline. ‘Down there on the stonework, look. It’s quite clearly blood.’
Swift pulled out his torch and shone it along the wall. ‘Yes, I can see. Lennox, do you have any chalk?’
‘No, of course I don’t.’
‘I’ll see if I can find some,’ Persi offered. There was a cupboard in the corner. She opened it to reveal fishing tackle; rods, baskets, hooks, lines and all the usual whatnots.
I took her place next to Swift. The surface of the dock was concrete, slightly roughened to prevent slipping, the wall below was built of large stones, one of them was smeared dark red about a foot above the water.
Swift was lying flat on the floor, his torch aimed at the stain. ‘How did you find it?’ His voice was muffled.
Persi returned with some green wax and handed it to me. ‘I wondered how anyone could possibly bundle Sinclair into a life jacket? He’d fight back, he was a strong man – a cosh to the temple was an obvious answer. So I came here to have a look, and that’s when I saw the blood.’
‘A cosh would cause swelling, it wouldn’t break the skin,’ I said as I marked a large arrow on the dock with the wax.
‘No, but I remembered Swift saying there was swelling to the temple and a graze to the skull. I thought that if the life jacket was tied to the stern, then Sinclair would have been dragged from the dock when the boat took off. The back of his head probably struck the side wall and caused the graze.’
I was impressed by her logic, and realised that this meant either a man or woman could have done it.
‘There could be hairs on it.’ Swift had focused his magnifying glass on the bloody mark.
‘Was there a priest in the cupboard?’ I asked.
‘A what?’ Swift twisted around to ask.
‘It’s for killing fish, it looks like a cosh,’ Persi told him. ‘I think it’s down in the water, I was looking for it when I saw the blood on the wall.’
We all leaned over as far as we could.
‘Could you find a keep net?’ I asked her.
She returned to the cupboard and came back with a long-handled net. ‘I’m not a handmaiden, Heathcliff.’
Swift took it from her and dug about in the mud below the boat.
I gave her a grin. ‘You’re awfully clever, old stick.’
‘Got it,’ Swift announced. He pulled the net up, it was smeared with mud and weed, and weighted down by the priest.
‘Could there be fingerprints?’ Persi sounded excited.
‘Unlikely.’ Swift upended the net to let the priest roll onto the dock. ‘It’s too wet and the killer’s been careful not to leave any clues.’
‘Until now,’ I reminded him.
Persi raised her brows.
‘The life jacket had
n’t been removed from Sinclair’s body, and he’d been clawing at it,’ I told her. ‘It clearly marked his death as murder.’
‘Oh, of course. I should have thought of that, I was so caught up in the details.’ She smiled at me, which gladdened my heart. ‘But why didn’t they remove it?’
I didn’t have the answer to that.
Swift pulled on gloves and picked the priest up. It was turned from solid ebony, similar in shape to a policeman’s truncheon and just as effective.
‘The perfect weapon for knocking someone out,’ I remarked.
‘And the killer didn’t even have to bring it down here with them,’ Persi added.
Swift dropped it into his pocket. ‘They knew where to find it.’
‘That’s pretty obvious,’ I remarked.
We rooted around the boathouse, being much more thorough this time, but nothing else turned up.
‘We’ll open the workshop, we haven’t searched inside there yet.’ Swift was in full investigative mode.
‘Right,’ I agreed. He led the way and Foggy bounded along with us, tail up and tongue out.
‘Do you have the key?’ Persi asked as we passed below the sweet chestnut trees.
‘No, but I have my lock picks.’ I jangled them in my pocket, keen to show off my favourite piece of detecting kit.
We arrived at the workshop, the mud outside was beginning to dry in the sun.
Swift examined the lock then tried the door handle, the door swung on its hinges. ‘It’s open.’
‘Oh.’ That pricked my pretensions. We walked in unhindered.
I recalled Lady Penelope’s words; it had been built as the village church before the castle was attacked by King John and his army. Despite the horrors of history, it held an atmosphere of peace. Slates covered the roof, the joists looked to be only a few centuries old, windows were cleaned, the frames newly painted. The walls were in their original state and bore faded frescos in flaking red, yellow and blue paint; St Christopher, a parade of haloed saints, Adam and Eve, a writhing serpent, a host of Angels. A gaunt Christ dominated the whole.
On one side of the church, trestle tables were weighed with mounds of mysterious shapes, hidden under dust covers. The other long wall held similar tables showing signs of frequent use. Tools placed where the hand had left them and models in metal and wood stood between sheets of drawings. There was even a small generator in the corner, rather incongruous next to a stone font, carved in simple country style.
‘It must be eight hundred years old,’ I muttered.
‘It is,’ Persi replied. ‘Or rather, the walls are – the roof and floor were rebuilt in Elizabethan times.’
I kept forgetting she’d been familiar with Lanscombe since childhood.
Fogg discovered something interesting beneath the generator and scrabbled about, raising dust.
Swift sneezed.
Persi went to the opposite wall and pulled aside one of the covers on a nearby trestle table, causing more dust to fly into the air. ‘Oh, these are Randolph’s drawings.’
I went over to join her.
She traced a finger over one design, it was something complicated with wheels and cogs. ‘It’s a centrifugal separator.’
‘How do you know?’ I was impressed.
‘It’s written here,’ she pointed to a line of neat copperplate script.
‘Ah.’ I began turning pages over. ‘There should be blueprints for Randolph’s metal detector here. That was his last project.’
‘What would it look like?’ Persi watched me.
‘It depends, there are different designs,’ I told her. ‘There were large ones used to clear minefields in the war, they had round detection plates, like cart wheels suspended on a pole. Smaller types were designed to be held by hand and had a metal cage attached by a cable to a box. The cage could be swung over the ground like a pendulum. We tried one once.’
‘Really?’ Persi gazed up at me. ‘Did you find anything?’
I laughed. ‘Yes, horseshoes, spent bullets, and a hobnailed boot.’
‘Where were you?’
‘France, one of the aircraft mechanics was keen on new technology. He’d found an article in a magazine on how to manufacture a metal detector and cobbled one together. We found all sorts of gubbins and then the farmer turned up and threatened us with his shotgun.’
That made her laugh. ‘So no buried treasure?’
‘Not a bean.’ I grinned.
Swift had come to join us. ‘These drawings should have been preserved.’
‘They are.’ Persi turned serious. ‘The St Georges had the place closed up, they refused to let Sinclair touch it when Penelope married him.’
‘And it’s Max’s domain now,’ I mentioned.
She glanced over at the other part of the building. ‘Yes, but it looks as though he’s never disturbed this side.’
Swift was more interested in the investigation. ‘If Max did it, there may be something here.’
‘Like a strip of copper,’ I suggested.
‘There’s plenty of that.’ Swift pointed to a heap of metal scraps.
‘Anyone could have come in here and taken it.’ Persi turned on him. ‘It doesn’t mean Max did it.’
‘He was fixing the boat yesterday, Persi,’ I reminded her.
‘That doesn’t make him a murderer,’ she retaliated.
‘No,’ I agreed, ‘but it makes him a primary suspect.’
‘Persi, if you can’t remain objective…’ Swift cautioned.
She bit her lip. ‘But why Max? Why not Jerome, or Finn? Max doesn’t inherit his company,’ she countered. ‘One of them will.’
‘No, they won’t. If Sinclair died intestate, then Penelope will inherit the company,’ I said. ‘And she will almost certainly give it to Max. The estate will be saved and the St Georges’ fortunes restored.’
I felt a bit of a heel. I knew it upset her, but it had to be said.
She turned pale, though wasn’t about to concede. ‘That doesn’t explain why Monroe and Trent were murdered, or why Sinclair was tortured.’
Which was true, actually, and neither Swift nor I had an answer to that.
‘Sir, Inspector Swift, sir.’ Billie ran in, his pimply face bright red. ‘I’ve been looking everywhere for you.’ He panted for breath.
‘What happened?’ Swift was instantly alert.
‘Nothing actually happened sir, but Mr Mullins found these papers. He said they had to come to you and no-one else. It’s dead secret. He even said it was dangerous.’
‘What?’ I asked as we crowded around him.
‘Show me,’ Swift demanded.
Billie handed the sheaf of papers to him. ‘They were on his Lordship’s desk, just as if he’d put them there himself. Mr Mullins went in to lock the office and he saw them, clear as day.’
Swift was unfolding the first page. ‘I was in there myself before lunch, I would have seen them.’
‘Mr Mullins said they must have been put there after that. The door was shut, but it weren’t locked.’ Billie was trying to read the papers in Swift’s hand. So was I, until Swift realised and folded them over.
‘Inform Mr Mullins that we’ll take appropriate action.’ He stared Billie in the eye and spoke gravely. ‘He must not tell anyone, and nor must you. And I mean no-one. Not Sir Bertram, or Lady Millicent or Lady Penelope, not even if you are directly confronted. It’s very important that you understand this.’
Billie nodded anxiously. ‘I understand, sir. I’ll keep out of the way, I’ll stay with Mr Mullins, sir.’
‘Right, off you go,’ Swift dismissed him.
Billie turned and ran as fast as his legs would carry him.
Chapter 20
‘It’s a design which has been lodged with the patent office.’ Swift opened the papers out on the nearest trestle table. We looked over his shoulder.
‘For what?’ I asked.
‘A machine devised for the detection of gold.’ Swift read out the title, ‘A
n Induction Balance.’
‘You mean Randolph’s metal detector,’ Persi stated the obvious.
Swift handed me the application and scanned the next page. ‘It’s from America, a lawyer called Sprague, based in New York.’
He carried on reading to himself.
Foggy came bounding up, he’d found an old rag and was shaking it, shedding dust into the air and causing Swift to burst into a fit of sneezing.
‘Let’s go outside,’ I suggested.
They agreed and we walked out to stand in the bright sunshine.
‘Here,’ Swift handed over the next page between blowing his nose. ‘Read it out would you, Lennox.’
‘Dear Sinclair…’ I skipped the effusive remarks about how honoured he was to be Sinclair’s representative and came to the meat of the matter. ‘We have continued to renew your Patent numbered US, 387,562 B. May I enquire if you would like the Patent to be extended further? As you know the United States Government is disinclined to allow patents to continue for excessive periods, and any further application may not be successful. Given the age of the original device, I beg your consideration as to the efficacy of renewal…’
‘That invention belonged to Randolph.’ Persi’s eyes flew to mine.
‘Sinclair said it was merely a modification and wasn’t patented,’ I said.
‘Here.’ Swift passed me another sheet of paper.
‘It’s a copy of the Patent Certificate. It’s in Sinclair’s name.’ I reread it, checking the number against the one listed in the lawyer’s letter.
‘Look at the date.’ Swift told me.
Persi moved closer to read it with me, I could feel the warmth of her shoulder against my arm, smell the scent of her hair…
‘What?’
‘I said ‘May 1896’,’ Persi repeated.
‘That was the date they arrived in New York to travel over to Alaska,’ Swift said.
‘Wait,’ I turned back to the lawyer’s letter. ‘This is dated three weeks ago.’
‘And there’s this…’ Swift handed me a sheaf of papers. ‘It’s a handwritten copy of the second-class passenger list for the SS Umbria, that’s the ship they travelled on from Liverpool to New York.’
The Tomb of the Chatelaine: A 1920s Country House Murder Mystery (Heathcliff Lennox Book 6) Page 18