A Shadowed Livery

by Charlie Garratt

  ‘And Miss Parry helped you “work it out”, as you put it?’

  ‘I went to see her and asked what she thought of Mr Jervis, if he’d ever be a violent sort of person or anything like that. Miss Parry told me off for thinking so badly of such a nice man and how kind he’d been to Mrs Veasey who was still really upset, and she said to tell you everything and...’ She gulped. ‘I thought and thought about this and still couldn’t decide what to do. In the end it felt right I should tell you and I came to as soon as I could, sir. I’m really sorry I didn’t come sooner. What does it mean, Mr Given, the envelope and the attack on you?’

  ‘I don’t know yet, young lady, but I’m hoping what’s in here will make it all a bit clearer in the near future. Now, back to your work and don’t be keeping any more secrets.’

  Jervis and I were sitting in the morning room. He looked perfectly relaxed, his hands resting on the table in front of him, fingers entwined, in the toadying way servants have when addressed by their masters. It made my skin crawl.

  ‘I have some more questions for you, Mr Jervis, do you mind?’

  ‘Of course not, Inspector, how can I help?’

  ‘How long have you been at Grovestock House?’

  ‘For about twenty years, I came here soon after Sir Arthur took over.’

  ‘So you didn’t work for his father, then?’

  Jervis shook his head. ‘No, sir, I didn’t.’

  ‘Tell me something. I’ve often wondered how a man gets into being a butler, always imagined it’s handed down father to son. Is that how you came into it?’

  ‘It wasn’t quite like that, sir. My father was a farmer but I was the fourth eldest and was put into service. I’ve three older brothers so there was never any chance of me taking over Dad’s land. I worked as footman for Lord Gresham over near Snitterfield but when the war started I joined up, like his Lordship and many on his estate. Sadly he lost his life on the battlefield, as did lots of my friends. I served all the way through, mainly in France, but when I came back the Gresham estate had been closed up, the family having moved to their other home on the south coast. I asked around and heard that Sir Arthur was in need of a butler. When I approached him, and he heard of my army service, he offered me the position.’

  ‘Did you already know him, then?’

  ‘Not really, sir. He’d visited his Lordship on a couple of occasions and I’d served them at dinner but he wasn’t a regular visitor. I believe they may have had business connections.’

  ‘Can I take you back to the day of the shootings? You told me you were in the lift at the time when Mr Barleigh and Lady Isabelle died. Can anyone verify that?’

  ‘I don’t think so, sir. I’d carried the linen through from the store cupboard on the landing and into the lift. I heard Miss Parry speaking to one of the maids in Mr Barleigh’s room but I don’t think she saw me.’

  ‘And later, you weren’t with the others in the kitchen. You said you were waiting for Miss Bamford to return. Is that correct?’

  ‘Yes, it is.’

  ‘You spoke to no-one other than Miss Bamford herself?’

  ‘No, sir, not after Sir Arthur asked me to wait for her.’

  ‘Now, I want to ask you about an envelope. One that’s been found.’

  ‘An envelope? What envelope? And found where?’

  ‘Well, that’s the point, isn’t it, Mr Jervis? Found where? Found in your cupboard upstairs.’

  I watched his face for any signs of recognition but saw none.

  ‘I don’t know of any envelope which could have been in there. Really, Mr Given, I don’t.’

  ‘Come on, man, it was a large, brown envelope, hidden beneath a box of rags at the back of your cupboard. How could it have got there if you didn’t put it there?’

  Jervis didn’t respond immediately. When he did he was calm and measured.

  ‘It could have been anyone, Inspector. All the staff know I keep lots of things in there. The family would probably know as well. But all I can tell you is, it wasn’t me.’

  The butler had shown on more than one occasion that he could be a cool customer but what motive would he have to kill? He had no alibis, but there was no firm evidence to connect him with any of the deaths and even the link with the assault on me was tenuous. Anyone could have put the envelope in his cupboard, as he’d said.

  ‘I don’t know if I believe you, Mr Jervis. Three people dead and possible evidence stuffed away in your cupboard. Evidence which was so important, you could have felt the need to take the risk of hitting me on the head to stop me from finding it. Well, the envelope will be dusted for fingerprints, and if they find yours, I’ll be back to speak to you again. And next time I won’t be going so gently.’

  Twelve

  I’d been delayed by my questioning of Jervis but now I pulled out the wad of documents with all the ferocity of a tramp coming upon an unexpected meal. The pile lying on the table in the morning room appeared to consist mainly of stuff relating to Tom Barleigh’s interest in his family’s history. Much the same as the items on his desk. But why was this particular material important enough to be separated and hidden at the bottom of his wardrobe?

  I gave the envelope one last shake to be sure I’d removed everything. A small package, wrapped in tissue paper, dropped on to the mound of documents. Inside were two small hexagonal discs of what appeared to be coloured leather, held together by a thin strip, also apparently of leather. There was a name and initial stamped on to each disc and I knew one of the names very well. I carefully laid these to one side to return to them later.

  I picked up each item in turn, noted what it was and placed it face down on a second pile. At the top were three certificates, two for marriages and one for Tom’s birth. A quick glance told me something no-one had revealed so far. Tom Barleigh wasn’t Isabelle’s son.

  Below these certificates was another, smaller envelope, addressed to Tom Barleigh. The letter inside, which comprised a number of pages, was folded several times and the ink had soaked through the cheap paper, leaving dark blotches all over the back. It was signed in different, shakier, handwriting by Fred Turner, who, the opening paragraphs revealed, had been George Perkins’ predecessor as head gardener at Grovestock House. It was dated a month before Tom was shot.

  It opened with an apology and an explanation that Turner had not replied earlier to Tom’s enquiry because he’d needed to wait for his daughter, who was a secretary, to visit and read it, and then write down his reply. It appeared Tom had contacted Turner during the summer with a number of questions relating to his research into the family history. The former gardener explained he knew little but did offer a few bits and pieces about Tom’s grandfather. A gentleman, always polite, a credit to his title, and so on. I began to think the letter was going to be of little use until I scanned the last couple of pages, where I finally spotted something. I paused briefly to double-check the names on the tags I’d put to one side before returning to the letter.

  I well remember your father as a child. He, like his father before him, was gentle and softly spoken, with no airs and graces, unlike his friend Harry Stenson. Arthur and Harry were like brothers, together all the time they were growing up and so similar in many ways. The big difference was their attitudes. Harry was often bad-tempered and rude to the servants, even though he himself was of no great station in life. I couldn’t really understand why Arthur stayed friends with him, but he did. Right the way through school and even joining the army at the same time. Even the same company and the same battles, Arthur as captain and Harry one of his lieutenants. It was a real shock to Arthur when Harry was killed in action, coming so soon after his father’s death. I think it changed him, that and the horrors he’d seen on the front line.

  There’s not much I can tell you about the family after the War because I wasn’t there for long afterwards. While your father was recovering from his wounds I carried on trying to keep up the gardens, which had fallen into a terrible mess. We’d had to
make do with myself, one other gardener who since died a year or two back, and boys from the village. At this time, Sir Arthur, as he now was, always seemed uncomfortable with me around. Perhaps I reminded him of happier times before the War or perhaps he was unhappy with my work. He was especially cross with me if I mentioned Harry Stenson for any reason and even cursed me once, shouting that I shouldn’t ever speak his name again. He let me go soon after that, saying he had plans for the gardens and would want a new, modern man. He said he felt I’d be too old to manage such a project.

  The letter closed with the usual good wishes and the offer to answer any more specific questions Tom might want to put to him. Beneath the letter were news-cuttings. Several from local papers covering Sir Arthur’s injuries, his bravery under fire and his return home. There were also a few cuttings relating to the friends of Sir Arthur mentioned by Miss Leeming and by Fred Turner. Two were the brief announcements in the London Gazette of their deaths in action. The others were their obituaries, again in a local newspaper. The remaining items were photographs, mainly of someone I assumed to be Sir Arthur in his younger days. A couple showed him in uniform and the others were with friends, playing tennis, rowing or relaxing in the sunshine. One other item of interest was an unsigned brief message in what appeared to be a woman’s hand.

  My dearest T.

  You know you have to get rid of her soon. If you don’t, I’ll have to do it for you.

  I was almost certain the ‘T’ in question was Tom Barleigh. Was this the message from Trudi Collinge which Alan Haleson had referred to?

  Before I could consider this much further Jervis came in to tell me Sawyer had telephoned to say he’d found Elizabeth’s brother hiding out in the village and was bringing him down to see me.

  Michael Parry had his sister’s good looks, though his time in prison had added a few lines and a wary, sullen expression. I judged him to be about seven or eight years older than Elizabeth. This surprised me because she had spoken about him as though she was looking out for a younger brother. The hair at his temples and in his moustache was tinged with grey and his skin carried the paleness caused by a shortage of sunlight. His clothes were creased and he hadn’t shaved for several days.

  ‘Been living rough, have we, Mr Parry?’

  He shrugged. ‘Why would I hide? I’ve done nothing.’

  ‘I didn’t say you were hiding. Were you?’

  Another shrug.

  ‘Listen, we know you’ve been in prison. Bit of a bad temper, we hear. We also know you met your sister in the village shortly after three people died. So why did you meet Elizabeth, and why run away?’

  At the mention of his sister’s name Parry flinched.

  ‘This is nothing to do with her. All she’s done is try to help me.’

  ‘And how exactly was she helping you?’

  ‘She knew you fellers would come after me if you knew I was in the area. Try to pin something on me just because I’ve been inside. Lizzy only came to warn me to lie low until it had all blown over.’

  The fact that he hadn’t run far, he’d been picked up in the village, suggested he was telling the truth. At the time they’d met, Elizabeth wouldn’t have known all the circumstances surrounding the deaths so could easily assume we’d be looking for a possible murderer.

  ‘Could you tell me where you were before you met your sister?’

  ‘You know where I was, I’d just come out of Shrewsbury prison. She’d written to me every week I was inside so I made my way over here to see her. It took me about a week.’

  ‘What about the day she came to meet you?’

  ‘I was hanging around in the village for a couple of hours waiting for Lizzy to arrive.’

  ‘Anyone see you there? Did you talk to anybody?’

  ‘I don’t know. There were one or two about. Someone might remember me but I can’t see why they would. Do I need an alibi, then?’

  I told him he didn’t. I decided I’d let Parry go and just have him checked out along with everyone else.

  ‘But you stay nearby, you hear me? I may want to talk to you some more. Stay in contact with your sister every day and make sure she knows where you are at all times. Clear?’

  Parry nodded. As I was seeing him out of the door I glimpsed a frown on Sawyer’s face. He wasn’t happy about something.

  ‘And these were in with the papers?’ Sawyer held the leather straps by the end so the two discs dangled in the light of the window. ‘They’re not leather, you know, sir.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Leather, you said they were leather discs. In fact they’re some kind of cloth with asbestos, so they don’t burn. My dad has one like them, except his has a serial number on it, so I think these must have belonged to officers. Really proud of it, he is. Always says it was a comfort that he’d got through the War unscathed. Whenever he’s going on any journey he’ll take it out of the drawer and wear it like a St Christopher. Hopes it’ll keep him safe after all they’ve been through together.’

  I took them back and turned them over in my hand.

  ‘There’s a story here, Sawyer. I can see why Tom might keep his own father’s army identification tags but why those of his father’s friend, Harry Stenson? A man he’d never met in his life.’

  ‘Perhaps Sir Arthur just had them as a token to remember his dead friend, then passed the whole package over to Tom at some point.’

  ‘That’s a possibility. I’ll ask the good baronet next time I see him.’

  ‘Do you remember it, sir? The War? My only memory is of Mum crying a lot while Dad was away. When I was older, Dad told me the conditions were awful. Right chaotic, as though no one understood what was going on or how to handle it all.’

  ‘I was old enough to understand that if I went out there my chances of survival would be slim. Frighteningly it looks like we might be heading that way again before too long.’

  ‘My dad was in the same regiment as Sir Arthur, you know. It might be worth you having a chat with him, see if there’s anything from that time would lead to what’s happened.’

  I asked him to arrange it and was once more envious of his links though the generations. I could understand why he’d be reluctant to give all that up and replace it with the anonymity of urban life.

  I told him I’d discovered from the birth certificate that Tom Barleigh wasn’t Isabelle’s son.

  ‘So Lady Isabelle was Sir Arthur’s second wife? What happened to the first — divorce?’

  ‘No, she died when Tom was born. According to the certificates in the envelope from Tom’s room, Sir Arthur married Beatrice, his first wife, in early 1914, then Isabelle when he came back wounded from the Front. It seems the boy was brought up by his grandfather, or more likely the servants, whilst his father was away. Doubtless he was packed off to boarding school after that.’

  This seemed like a good point to tell Sawyer about my little episode with Mitchell and Spencer. He was as shocked as I’d been about Haleson’s treachery.

  ‘So this puts Haleson high up on the list of suspects, does it, sir?’

  ‘I’m not sure. He strenuously denied any involvement in murder, even though he’d admitted passing secrets to the Russians. I have to say he seemed pretty broken by the time I saw him, so I think he’d have come clean if he’d had anything to do with the killings. He can only be executed once. We’ll leave him on the list for now, but perhaps not near the top.’

  ‘And you’re in the clear — sorry, sir, I mean you’re no longer under suspicion?’

  ‘As far as I can tell. Mitchell let me go after they’d had words with Dyer and made a couple of phone calls, though you never know with those boys. Anyway, let’s get back to this stuff in the envelope.’

  ‘Did you find anything else interesting, sir?’

  ‘I went through these papers from top to bottom and I couldn’t get much else from them. I’d say they were to do with Tom’s genealogy research but I still can’t work out why they’d be kept apart from the r
est of the things on his desk? What is it about them that’s so special? There seemed to be quite a few items about his father’s dead comrades. Photographs and news cuttings about their deaths, that kind of thing, but I can’t see any connections.’

  I knew we might be chasing a red herring with the envelope, although if someone tried to keep the information from us by bashing me over the head it must be worth something.

  ‘Speaking of photos, do you have any more you took in the garden or Tom’s room?’

  There’d been something niggling me in the ones of Lady Isabelle. I’d looked at them over and over and knew I was missing something. Like a bird flashing past the corner of my eye, it was there, yet I couldn’t describe it.

  ‘I do have some more, sir, but they’re a bit grainy so I didn’t put them in with my report. I thought they might not be good enough.’

  It was nice to think he was proud of his work.

  ‘Well, you’d best let me have what you’ve got and I’ll go through them with the others. You never know, there might be something there. Drop them down to me as soon as you can.’

  Sawyer sent the extra photographs over to me, using some village lad as messenger, and I put them on the table with the others. Each row focussed on a different victim, starting with Tom at the top, Jenny at the bottom and Isabelle in between.

  There seemed to be nothing new in those of the murdered young man. The angles were slightly different in the ones Sawyer had hung on to but that was all. The flash had worked its magic on the indoor pictures, so there were only two new ones of Jenny and both were virtual copies of some I already had.

  In those of the mother he’d included a close-up snapshot of her face, her expression captured at the precise moment of her demise. Her eyes wide and lips held in a perfect circle, almost as if she was surprised. Even though she was in her late forties I could see she would have been a beauty in her youth. Certainly quite a catch for Sir Arthur, whose good looks had been burnt away by the time they married.