Blood Ties

by Oliver Davies

  “Did she ever mention another maid’s name?” I asked him, leaning forward.

  “Maura?” He scrunched his face in thought, looking not too dissimilar to Rose. “Moira or something.”

  “Maud?”

  A nod. “Yeah, that’s it. Maud. She always liked Maud.”

  I made a mental note of that, deciding that it might be more fruitful to talk to the maid away from the estate. “But she never thought about going back?”

  “Never. Not even when we were struggling,” his face turned sour and his grip on his mug tightened, “she wouldn’t face it there. Not after she heard they were both married.”

  I frowned at that. From what I had gathered from Richard Sandow, he had married after hearing that Selene was dead.

  “Sebastian,” I treaded carefully, “can I ask when your mother passed?”

  “Would have been nine or ten at the time,” he answered, “ten. I remember the first birthday cake at the foster home. Eleven candles.”

  That was interesting.

  “Can you remember when your mother learnt that they were both married?”

  “She knew about Lord Hocking from the off.” He waved a dismissive hand. “It’s why he never helped her, because he was starting his own family. The other one, whatever his name was, I don’t remember exactly.” He frowned, deep in thought. “We were living in the flat,” he murmured to himself, “and we moved from there not long after. Only lived there five years, I think.”

  “You would have been five?”

  He nodded in confirmation.

  A visit to Maud the maid, and another chat with Richard Sandow loomed in my horizon.

  “Thank you, Sebastian. I think that should be it for now. I might have some more questions for you though, at some point.”

  “No problem. But I’m back at the school next week.”

  “I’ll bear it in mind,” I answered, pulling my card from my pocket and handing it over as we both rose from our chairs. “In case you need anything.”

  He took it with a grateful nod and walked me back to the front door. As he opened it, I paused on the threshold.

  “Sebastian, if they wanted to meet you, would you allow it?”

  “Honestly?” He sighed again. “I really don’t know, Inspector. But I’ll let you know if I decide. Just don’t arrest me if I punch them and call them bastards.”

  I chuckled. “I doubt they’d press charges anyway,” I told him.

  He smirked and shook my hand and I headed back to my car, returning to the station, somehow, even more unsure about the case then I was last night.

  Sixteen

  Thatcher

  Things weren’t adding up. From what I had understood from Richard Sandow, he had tried for some time to find Sebastian after Selene had died and only then had he moved on to find himself a new family. But according to Sebastian, Selene didn’t die until after both brothers were already married. Timeline aside, other things eluded me. I drove back to the station, with plans forming in my mind to have another chat with Mr Sandow, and also with Maud.

  She had been there, when all of this happened, she had known Selene and the brothers, might have even been the one to tell them about Selene’s pregnancy. And her perspective would offer something new. No loved scorned brothers in a rivalry or, rightfully, bitter Sebastian who probably didn’t pay all that much attention to the details in his mother’s life before he came along. But Maud, Maud would have seen both romances, if that is indeed what they were, and she’d have seen the aftermath. She had probably even been there when that painting was hung up in the bloody study. And not just any painting, Selene’s painting.

  Maybe Sebastian was bitter, maybe he wanted to take something from the man he blamed for her difficulties in life, wanted to take the only thing they had left of her, the only thing he should be the one to own.

  Maybe Richard Sandow had never gotten over the loss, had never forgiven his brother for what happened those years ago.

  Maybe the butler knew all of it and was using it as leverage, a weakness that he could twist like a knife to ensure his family keeps their position at the house.

  Or maybe I’d been following the wrong trail altogether. Maybe a drunken party guest had got lucky with opening the door and had simply liked the painting. Or perhaps the drunken guests were all correct, and a waiting staff looking for extra money took a chance. It was a small painting, maybe they didn’t think that it would be missed.

  The questions, the doubts, the maybes went round and round in my head, fogging and distracting. I made it back to the station though, feeling detached and tired as I made my way back upstairs. Luckily, I managed to get to our office without anyone stopping me, collapsing at my desk and burying my head in my arms. I craned my face to the side, peering at the photograph of my mother between the gap in my arms. I got the feeling she’d have known which trail to follow. She was good at that, at people, better than I’ve ever been.

  The office door opened, and someone stalled in the entrance, then it was shut hastily, and feet ambled over towards me.

  “Sir?” Mills quietly placed something down on my desk, the smell of coffee drifting towards me. I sat up, rubbing my face, and looked at him. He looked better than I did. Fresher in the face, but maybe that was his age. He gave me a crooked smile and pushed the mug closer towards me with a finger.

  I took it gratefully and Mills dragged a chair round, sitting opposite me, his own mug in hand.

  “How d'you get on, sir?”

  “Interestingly,” I began, and delved into what I had learned from Sebastian Whitlock. Mills frowned several times as I spoke, making little notes and comparing them to my account of Richard Sandow. When I finished recounting my morning, I slumped back, cradling my mug as Mills’s face scrunched up with thought.

  “I thought Richard Sandow didn’t marry until after Selene had died,” he muttered.

  “That’s what he said.”

  “But Sebastian said that she died after he was already married.” I nodded, and he looked more confused, leaning back from the desk with a sigh. “Well, one of them is lying!” he exclaimed.

  “Which is why,” I told him, “I’d like to speak to Maud.”

  “The maid?”

  “Yes. She was there, maybe she’ll be able to clarify a few little things for us.”

  Mills nodded and rubbed his eyes. “I got a schedule sent in from Dennis,” he told me. “Today’s her day off. We can catch her away from the estate.”

  I was pleasantly surprised at that. At Mills for having the foresight to get a schedule, and at Dennis the butler, for being more compliant with all of this than I had originally anticipated.

  “Do we have an address?” I asked.

  “We do. She lives just outside the city, a town halfway between here and there.”

  “What about a number?”

  “We have that too,” he said, a little confused.

  “Give her a call, ask her to meet us somewhere in the city,” I told him, standing up and draining my cup empty.

  “Why?” Mills asked after a hesitant pause.

  “Mostly, because I want some lunch. But also, we don't have much cause to turn up at her door, and I don’t want Sharp clicking her tongue at us.”

  “Fair enough,” Mills stood up too, finishing his own coffee. I left him in the office to find the number and make the call and headed out to Smith’s desk, where she was frowning at the image from the security camera at the Hocking estate.

  “Smith,” I greeted her, and her face lifted up.

  “Sir. I have the number plate you wanted to run,” she told me fishing out a sheet of paper. “It’s registered to a William Carmichael. Mills said he was one of the waiters at the party.”

  Will, I recalled, with the cigarette. I gave her a nod to continue.

  “We spoke to him. Apparently, Nadia doesn’t have her own car, so she borrowed his to pick up those few things left behind. Seemed a bit on edge to tell us but I think that’s
more to do with insurance. I told him it would all be fine,” she added demurely.

  Another nod from me, it would be. I had more on my plate than to go around dealing with cars and insurance, could barely figure out my own truth be told.

  “Thank you, Smith. If you can, check out an alibi for me.” I handed her the slip of paper Sebastian had given me, and the rough outline of the time and place. She took it with a faint scowl, and I grinned down at her, looking to the office door as Mills emerged.

  “She can meet us in half an hour,” he said as he walked over, both of our coats in hand. “I’ve got the name of the café.”

  “Plenty of time for lunch then,” I said happily, taking my coat and heading out into the city.

  We ate on the go, wandering along the grounds of the Minster, dodging groups of tourists and pigeons until it was time to meet Maud.

  She bustled into the small café not long after we did, collapsing down at the sofa opposite us, looking a whole sight different to yesterday. Her hair was let down from its neat bun, her clothes were bright and colourful, a knitted jumper and a blue coat. No longer a maid, she looked like any other granny in the city.

  “Detectives,” she greeted us as she settled herself down.

  “Thank you for coming to meet us, Mrs Paisley,” Mills replied.

  “Just Maud,” she waved a motherly hand, “please.”

  “We wanted to ask you a few questions,” I began evenly, “about Selene Whitlock.”

  She looked from myself to Mills with wide eyes, her cheeks flushed, but quickly gave a small little nod and sat back. “I suppose you’d have to know about her, given the business that brought you to us.”

  “Do you remember her?” I asked.

  “Oh, yes,” she nodded, “Selene was a lovely girl. Utterly lovely. Pretty girl, smart, very hardworking.”

  “And she became involved with Lord Hocking and his brother.”

  “I didn’t know,” Maud said, “and I know that’s hard to believe but you must believe me, Inspector. I simply didn’t know. I knew that they all got on, that they liked her, but not that there was any romance between them. I spent most of my time looking after her Ladyship and Rosemary back then, in her last few years.”

  “When did you find out?”

  “After Selene left. I knew she was having a baby, and that she wanted a new place to raise it. But I didn’t know whose it was. And then one day those boys were having an awful row,” she shook her head with a tut, “so I go to set things right. Blaming each other, they were, for her being gone. So, I told them,” she lifted a finger, “it’s nowt to do with you boys, she’s having a baby is all.” She rolled her eyes. “Well, you would think I just told them they’re having cabbage soup for dinner the way set off.”

  She spoke of them with a tired sort of affection. A woman who has known them all for so long, who can’t help but treat them like a mother. Perhaps she treated Selene like one too.

  “And after that?”

  She sighed sadly. “Well, it’s a bit of a blur. Another row, this one worse. And then Richard left, and I’ve not seen him since. Lord Hocking married her ladyship of course, and Henry came along. That was lovely, the house was so full of life again.”

  “Did you stay in touch with Selene?” I asked.

  “Not at first,” she admitted, “but when I learnt about what happened with her and those boys, I reached out. She wouldn’t take help from anyone, of course she wouldn’t, but I did the odd spot of babysitting she’d let me do. Course when I was there, I’d clean the place and get a pie in the oven for her.” She winked. “Last I saw her was not long before she died, they’d moved from that flat and I was telling her about the Lord and Richard. She’d asked after them.”

  “Maud,” I interrupted her, leaning closer to her, “did Selene pass away before or after Richard Sandow was married?”

  “Before,” she told me, “I was there to tell her he was engaged. Marriage happened a few months after she died.”

  I could feel Mills looking at me. So perhaps Mr Sandow had held off the wedding until she was gone, and any chance of her returning was gone too.

  “What about Sebastian?” he asked Maud as I thought. “Do you keep in touch with him?”

  She looked away, studying the other people in the café. “From time to time. I wish I could have done more,” she said softly, her face drawn with sadness.

  I nodded and waited a moment. “He doesn’t know who his father is,” I stated.

  “No,” she agreed with the shake of her head, “nothing to do with him.”

  “What about you?” I asked her. “Do you suspect who it is?”

  She hesitated, thinking for a moment, but chose to shake her head again and fold her hands in her lap.

  “Thank you, Maud,” I said, “you’ve been very helpful.”

  She nodded and smiled at us both, standing up and shuffling away, back into the busy streets outside. Mills and I leant back in our respective chairs.

  “So, Richard Sandow,” he mulled aloud, “was engaged, but didn’t marry until after he learnt that Selene was dead?”

  “Makes sense. Holding out hope, but once she knew he was engaged, that would be what Sebastian recalls,” I added.

  “They were discreet,” he pointed out, “discreet enough that Maud didn’t know. And nobody else interfered at the house, did they?”

  “She might not have known but others may have,” I said.

  “The butler?” Mills twisted in his seat. “Sir, he’s been nothing but helpful.”

  “I know.”

  “But you still suspect him?”

  “Until we have a clearer lead, Mills, I’ll suspect everyone. I’ll suspect Lord Hocking himself, if I bloody well choose to.”

  He smiled at that and then turned away, looking thoughtful. “What about the children?”

  “Henry’s children? They’re infants, Mills.”

  “No,” Mills shook his head, “Henry himself. Rupert and Rose. Maybe they learnt about it, maybe they dug into why they never knew Uncle Richard, started poking around and learnt about their father’s past. Learned about Selene.”

  “It’s not uncommon for parents to have past loves, Mills.”

  “But what if they learnt about what happened to her, how she was treated? Maybe they learnt about Sebastian. About the half-brother they might have, or the cousin they might have and how he’s been treated!”

  “So, they steal the painting they know their father loves,” I hopped onboard his train of thought, “knowing full well nobody in that house would stop and question them.”

  “The annual party,” Mills added, “the perfect cover for them to do it. Maybe they had help from someone like Dennis or Maud.”

  “So, what to do with the painting? Why take it if not to sell it?”

  “Just because?”

  “People very rarely do things just because, Mills. They want this to stew. They want him to think about Selene and Sebastian, think about what he did, relive it, even. Him and Richard both.”

  “And the threatening note?”

  “They knew the angle of the camera,” I pointed out, “knew that the family would all be inside, knew that we would be there and see them, knew that a car would be arriving to pick up some forgotten things.”

  “By the staff who were top of their suspect list.”

  “They knew how their mother would react to all this,” I added.

  “We never did see Henry. He was out for the day but maybe that’s just what he told them.”

  “And Rose,” I added, “we didn’t see her until she joined her father and myself in the garden. She’d been outside for a while, and she knows those grounds well, you said as much yourself. It could have been either one of them.”

  “And having it discovered whilst we were there,” Mills held up a hand, “keeps them in the clear.”

  “Someone would have told them,” I countered, my voice slowing. “They would have had to learn about Selene and Sebas
tian and the painting. From someone. I doubt it was Maud.” I gestured to the doors that the brightly coloured maid had just slipped through.

  “Dennis?”

  “Possibly. Working together, they get to punish Lord Hocking, guarantee his daughter takes over when he retires.”

  “Seems a little convoluted,” Mills admitted. “Why not just confront their father about it?”

  “Why indeed?”

  “And why hold on to the painting? Why not destroy it, let him see it with an actual knife through it, not just a photograph?”

  “There’s something about the painting itself. A message could have been left in the study, a knife, like you said. And if there was something in the painting itself that they wanted to see, a photograph. But they took it. From a crowded house, they lifted it from the wall and took the whole thing with them.”

  “But not to sell.”

  “But not to sell,” I confirmed.

  “Maybe once they find what they need from the painting, they’ll do something else. Maybe,” Mills suggested, “the threat on the doorstep was just to make sure everyone stayed scared. After the burglary, they were all on edge, leaving the bloody picture keeps them that way.”

  I got the feeling he was right. “But what exactly are they hoping to get from that painting?”

  Seventeen

  Thatcher

  I went home that night via Mills’s home, to arm myself with a small library of art history books he had bookmarked and made notes of. I was surprised by his house. It was nice, small, but clean and ordered, personal. When I was his age, my house was a litter bed of empty wrappers and half assembled furniture. I wondered if the infamous mother of his had something to do with the neat house. I looked around as he fetched the books, glancing at a picture of him with two small boys.

  “Your nephews?” I asked.

  “Charlie and Sam,” he replied, “they’re good boys. Slightly wild. I take them about once a month for a day, give my brother and his wife some time to themselves.”

  “That’s good of you.”