‘What about the cellars, were they guarded?’ I questioned him.
I waited for an answer, Mullins provided it.
‘No, sir. They were always kept locked, it wasn’t considered necessary.’
‘But Monroe had a key, didn’t he?’ I asked.
‘He did, sir,’ Mullins answered.
‘The cellars connect this part of the house and the old wing where the St Georges live, don’t they?’
‘They do, sir.’
‘The culprit took the key from Monroe when he was killed.’ I concluded, although I couldn’t actually prove it. ‘And used it to sneak out of the back door into the old orchards, they also used it to access Randolph’s rooms.’
‘But Monroe wasn’t killed until after the gun had been given to Sinclair.’ Max had been listening closely and now called out the discrepancy.
‘No, but the murderer knew where the gun was, you’d all gone up there with Lydia. It wouldn’t have been difficult to slip through the house and enter in the afternoon when Sir Bertram and Lady Millicent were taking a nap.’ I walked across the front of the fireplace, then stopped. ‘The ability to leave the house without being seen was important to the final performance of this three-act play. The last act was to lure Sinclair out of the house and down to the lake. It was meticulously planned, one of Randolph’s coats had been removed from his rooms, all that was needed was a misty morning. The murderer didn’t have long to wait; mist is synonymous with autumn. Yesterday morning was perfect, the trap was set and Sinclair took the bait.’
‘But why, what bait?’ Lady Penelope called out, her face pulled with tension.
‘The secret about Randolph,’ I replied. ‘Just as Lydia had always believed – it was all about Randolph.’
‘What about him?’ Max demanded.
‘Sinclair murdered him,’ I replied and stood back to watch the terrible realisation sink in.
Chapter 24
Lydia’s hand shot straight to her lips, her eyes wide. A moment of triumph followed by a gasp of horror as she turned to look at her mother.
Max was faster, he reached for Penelope as she stared in bewilderment.
‘Mama,’ he uttered.
Colour drained from her face, her lips trembled as she tried to form words and then tears seeped from her eyes to trickle down her cheeks. ‘No.’ She let out a long moan.
Swift offered a handkerchief as though he’d been waiting for the moment. She took it to grip it in her hand.
‘What the hell do you mean by that?’ Max yelled.
‘Exactly what I said,’ I replied coldly.
‘Sinclair murdered Randolph.’ Jerome’s diplomatic tact evaporated. ‘You’d better have proof of that or I’ll have you prosecuted for this travesty.’
‘We have proof,’ Swift told him quietly.
Their faces variously showed disbelief, grief and anguish, except for Finn who was lounging in his seat with an arm resting along the back of the sofa.
I turned to him. ‘You knew, didn’t you?’
All eyes flew to the American.
‘Yeah, I knew,’ he admitted with a brief nod of the head.
The atmosphere was tense, the moment of silence stretched like a tightly wound spring.
‘How?’ Max broke in with a snarl.
‘Because your mother still lived in Dawson,’ I prompted Finn.
‘She did,’ he replied quietly, the comic’s mask gone.
‘When you came here to meet your father for the first time, you were curious.’ I watched him as I spoke. ‘Here was the family you never had, and there was much to see and learn. Riches beyond your experience, a life of opulence and ease, and you learned of the strange route Sinclair had taken to dominate Lanscombe Park after the death of Randolph St George,’ I continued. ‘Lydia told you all about Randolph, so when you returned to Dawson to see your mother again, you asked her about him, didn’t you?’
He nodded.
‘Did you tell anyone?’ I asked.
‘No,’ he snapped back.
‘Is that the truth?’ Swift cut in. ‘Because whatever you say here will be used in a court of law.’
That brought a dash of icy reality to the room. This didn’t end here, it was a road to jail, justice, and the hangman’s noose.
‘It’s the truth,’ Finn shouted back.
‘Are you saying Sinclair cut the fuse short on the dynamite in Alaska?’ Jerome asked.
‘No,’ I replied. ‘Randolph never went to Dawson, he never left Lanscombe Park.’
There was a louder gasp, and then they began shouting questions that I wasn’t ready to answer. I returned to the sideboard and another drink while that bombshell hit home. I was tempted by the decanter of brandy, but noticed Billings watching me and decided to stick to water. Persi was sitting quietly some distance away, Foggy on her lap. I caught her eye and she gave a wan smile, although she looked as strained as everyone else.
‘What the hell are you talking about?’ Max demanded when I returned to stand before the fire.
I ignored him and turned to Finn. ‘Tell them the story, Finn.’
He shifted in his seat, uncomfortable under every eye in the room. ‘Kerri, my real mother, never left Dawson.’
‘Kerri hoped Sinclair would look after her?’ I prompted.
‘Yeah, he took a shine to her, she showed me photographs, she’d been pretty. She had Irish charm, and was funny and quick witted; she must have bewitched him.’
‘Until you came along,’ I reminded him.
His face clouded. ‘You’ve all heard that story.’
‘What did Kerri tell you about Randolph?’ I brought him to the point.
He looked beyond me, dropping his eyes. ‘Nothing, she never heard of no Randolph.’
Lydia lifted her hand to cover her mouth.
‘And after you asked her that, did you go and search the records in Dawson?’ I demanded.
He nodded. ‘I did and found out that Randolph had never arrived, I figured Sinclair must have killed him.’
‘And you thought you’d use the information to blackmail Sinclair one day,’ I stated the cold facts clearly.
‘Where is Randolph?’ Lady Penelope cried out, her voice broken with emotion.
‘That’s the question the killer wanted answered,’ I replied. ‘That’s why Sinclair was murdered.’
I think they were beginning to hate me, spinning this tale of terrible truth, ripping away the lies behind the luxurious life Sinclair had built from murder and deceit.
‘I… I don’t understand,’ Lydia stuttered, bewilderment in her voice.
‘Sinclair murdered your father here, in Lanscombe,’ I explained as calmly as I could, although I felt a tremor of remorse as I spoke. This wasn’t the way to break such heartrending news to anyone and yet, if I wanted this murderer exposed, I didn’t have a choice.
‘But where is he?’ Lady Penelope cried out again.
‘There was only one person who could have answered that, and that was Sinclair,’ I replied.
She looked close to collapse. Lydia started crying, Jerome drew her to him and comforted her as she sobbed.
I waited until the room quietened.
‘Monroe was eliminated, Trent was killed, Sinclair was isolated. The killer wanted to know what Sinclair had done to Randolph and where he was buried,’ I stated. ‘Sinclair was lured from this house by a note, he found it in his office yesterday morning at six o’clock. That note pretended to be from Randolph.’ I nodded at Swift, who took it from his wallet and handed it to the chief inspector.
‘Sinclair, I’m at the workshop. Randolph,’ Billings read slowly.
‘Sinclair knew it wasn’t from Randolph, but he realised someone had uncovered his secret,’ I continued. ‘He stalked out, heading for the workshop. There was a figure in the mist. He could barely make it out, but the clothes were Randolph’s. It must have looked like a ghost had returned, but Sinclair wasn’t a fearful man. He followed this apparition down to th
e boathouse where the killer was waiting to cosh him on the back of his head with a fishing priest.’
Swift had that too and proceeded to wave in the air. Everyone watched, mesmerised, as he handed it to Billings.
‘Sinclair was knocked out and man-handled into a life jacket. The killer started the motor boat and threaded the stern line through the back of the jacket. Sinclair was dragged from the dock as the boat took off. His head hit the side as he fell.’
‘How can you be sure of all this?’ Max demanded.
‘A trail of evidence,’ Swift answered, ‘and investigation.’
And a fair amount of guesswork, I thought but didn’t say.
‘We don’t know exactly what happened next. Sinclair may have been dragged behind the boat, or he may have been set adrift. The killer wanted to know where Randolph was buried, what better way to force the truth than circling him in the boat, shouting out the question, demanding answers. ‘Where is Randolph? What did you do to him?’
I paused to take a breath, then continued. ‘Sinclair couldn’t escape, he was trapped in the middle of the lake. The fog was thick, the water freezing, he must have been in total shock. He had a heart attack and died.’
‘Did he tell where Papa was buried?’ Lydia asked from within Jerome’s cradling arms.
‘We assume not, because later in the day some papers were left for us in Sinclair’s office.’
Swift withdrew the passenger list from inside his jacket pocket. He handed it to Billings, who read it with a frown.
‘It was proof that Randolph had never sailed on the ship crossing the Atlantic,’ I explained. ‘Sinclair’s name was there, he had a double cabin to himself.’
‘So it was all for nothing,’ Lady Penelope murmured. ‘All these terrible murders and we still don’t know where he is…’
‘No, it wasn’t for nothing,’ I told her. ‘It was for a very good reason; a cold-blooded logic.’
‘Do you know who did it?’ Billings asked plainly.
‘Yes, it was Max.’ I replied, watching reactions very closely.
That caused an outcry of denial and anger; I waited for the shouting to die down.
‘Max, you found out about the patent, that was the first clue, wasn’t it?’ I aimed the question at him.
Swift took the lawyer’s letter out and waved it. His new coat must have deep pockets, he seemed to have stuffed everything into them.
‘Sinclair took out a patent on your father’s invention the moment he reached New York. That letter of renewal arrived two weeks before Sinclair’s birthday and you found it, Max. You requested the passenger list, it confirmed your suspicions, you began your campaign to find your father.’
‘No, I did not,’ he yelled back.
‘Perhaps you didn’t,’ I replied quietly, causing confusion. ‘Lady Penelope, what would you have done?’
She was shaken to the core. She stared, barely comprehending the question, then she whispered. ‘I’d have killed Sinclair.’
‘Mama, don’t say that,’ Lydia pleaded.
‘In the way I’ve described?’ I continued.
‘No, I couldn’t have done that to Monroe, or Trent.’
‘Would you have asked anyone to do it for you?’ I glanced over at Mullins. His white brows drew together.
‘No, of course not,’ Lady Penelope answered.
‘Lydia?’ I asked.
‘I would have told Max,’ she replied shakily.
‘Max?’ He watched me warily. ‘You knew didn’t you? You tried to force us out of Lanscombe right from the beginning because you knew what Sinclair had done and that someone was seeking revenge.’
‘Yes,’ he admitted.
‘Where did you find the papers?’ I asked.
The room had fallen utterly silent.
His eyes dropped, then rose to gaze defiantly back at me. ‘They were in my workshop. I don’t always lock it. I came in one morning and they were lying on top of my drawings.’ He shook his head, a grim twist to his lips. ‘I barely glanced at them. I had an idea for a fuel pump, I’d been working on it and…’
‘When did you realise what they were?’ I continued.
‘After Sinclair’s party and that package with the gun. I was surprised, there was a lot of tension and I thought about the papers left in my workshop. I went back and read them, I realised what it meant, and what had happened to my father.’
‘What did you do?’ I asked quietly.
‘I considered going to the police, but I decided to confront Sinclair instead. Then Monroe was killed and you two arrived.’ He paused to look at me. ‘Lydia said you’d come to mend fences with Persi. I didn’t believe that, but I suddenly feared my sister could have been behind the vendetta somehow. She’s become so virulent about Sinclair recently…’
Lydia moved to argue with him, but Lady Penelope spoke first. ‘Max, why didn’t you tell me?’
‘It could have been you, for all I knew.’ He raised his voice as the pressure weighed down. ‘I thought someone was inciting me to murder Sinclair, and after I realised what he’d done, I felt like killing him myself…’ He paused. ‘I left the papers on Sinclair’s desk for you to find yesterday.’
‘You should have given them to us earlier,’ Swift snapped.
Max looked away.
‘Why didn’t you?’ I pressed him. ‘Was it because you wanted Sinclair to die?’
‘I didn’t know he was going to die.’
‘Yes, you did. It must have been obvious to you after Trent was killed,’ I shouted.
‘Very well, yes,’ Max admitted. ‘And he deserved it.’
Well, at least that was the truth.
‘Why did you fix the boat the day before Sinclair was killed?’ I asked the question which had been bothering me.
‘Lydia said she and Jerome wanted to go out on a picnic to the island, they were going to take you and Persi as a surprise.’ He shrugged. ‘So, I checked the engine.’
‘Lydia?’ I looked at her.
She nodded mutely.
‘Max,’ I rejoined. ‘Do you know who killed Sinclair?’
‘No.’
Brows drew in puzzlement and all eyes flicked back to me.
I took another pace across the fireplace. ‘Randolph has been at the centre of it all; the mystery of his murder, his missing body… But what if the search for his remains was nothing more than an act of theatre designed to disguise the real motive?’ I turned and paced again. ‘Everything points to you, Max. So what happens when you’re hanged for this crime?’
I turned to look at Lady Penelope. ‘Lady Penelope, you inherit Sinclair’s business. Would you let Jerome continue running it for you?’
She looked confused. ‘Yes… he has to, we don’t know how to do it.’
‘And Lydia would become the sole owner of Lanscombe Park, wouldn’t she?’ I stated
Lady Penelope nodded mutely. I carried on.
‘Jerome will run the company and next year he will marry Lydia. He’ll control the money and become master of Lanscombe Park. With Max out of the way, Jerome will have it all.’
I turned to look at Jerome at the exact same moment everyone else in the room did. He glared back, his dark eyes fixed on mine.
‘Absolute drivel,’ he shouted.
‘Sinclair took you on because you were as ruthless and devious as he was. And you knew exactly how the company was run. You had access to Sinclair’s papers, the blueprints, the accounts, everything. When you saw the letter about the patents taken out on Randolph’s invention, you realised what Sinclair had done. And you were worried, weren’t you, Jerome? Worried that Sinclair would hand the company to Finn, his own son, and a damn good businessman.’ I paced again. ‘So you began to plan. You sent for the passenger list in Sinclair’s name. It would be brought to you first, because you always got Sinclair’s post to sort through. Then you left all the papers in Max’s workshop, thinking he would deal with Sinclair for you. When he didn’t, you acted on his behalf and y
ou made sure to leave clues that would point to him. The copper strip, the boat, even the stick came from the trees near his workshop…’
‘It was you.’ Lydia suddenly shrieked in horror. She recoiled from Jerome and ran to sit with Lady Penelope. ‘He lied the day Monroe was killed in the crash… I saw the clock in the hall when I came in, but he told me it was wrong…’
‘Shut up.’ Jerome shouted.
‘You killed them, Jerome.’ I spoke quietly. ‘You wanted the money, you wanted Lanscombe, you wanted it all.’
‘It’s true.’ Lydia was almost screaming. ‘You wanted to marry me for money, you killed them for money. Mama, keep him away,’ she turned to bury her head in her mother’s arms.
‘Jerome.’ I swung on my heel to face him.
‘You can’t prove anything, I haven’t… I didn’t… you’ve driven her mad with your twisted story.’ He turned to her. ‘Lydia, will you stop.’
‘Will you testify?’ Billings stepped forward to ask Lydia.
‘Yes, yes, I can tell you, he lied about the time and he was the one who talked about the boat and the picnic, it was him…’
‘You framed Max, didn’t you, Jerome.’ I turned the knife. ‘You tried to incite him to kill, when he didn’t, you executed the plan on his behalf.’
‘It was all a sick pretence,’ Lydia cried out. ‘Max would have hanged and he would have watched them do it…’ Lydia burst into heaving sobs. Penelope wept with her.
Persi got up and moved towards them. ‘Oh, you poor…’
Jerome suddenly leapt to his feet and grabbed her. He pulled a gun from his pocket and pointed it at her head. The police lurched forward.
‘Get away. Go on, move back,’ Jerome yelled, his mouth a vicious snarl. ‘I’ll kill her.’
He was a fool to have picked Persi. She kicked back with all her strength.
‘Ahhh,’ he cried out in pain as she caught him on the kneecap.
I pulled my own gun from my pocket and levelled it at his head. He jerked away, trying to catch hold of her again, but a shot rang out and his mouth opened in a silent howl. Blood seeped from his temple, then bubbled and flowed to drip down his face before he slumped to the floor.
I looked across the room. Mullins held a smoking gun, he said he was a sharp shooter, and he’d just proved it.
The Tomb of the Chatelaine: A 1920s Country House Murder Mystery (Heathcliff Lennox Book 6) Page 22