The Red Chairs Mystery

by L. D. Culliford

  Holly thought she detected more than a trace of resignation in his voice. ‘Your sister was the favoured one?’ She was guessing. ‘The one who got all the attention?’

  ‘My father dotes on her, always has’, Baum said, confirming her hunch. ‘I don’t think mother takes sides, but dad’s the force in our family. He’s always very intense, very serious; and when he makes up his mind about something, that’s it! There’s no arguing with him.’

  Holly opened the passenger window an inch. It was warming up in the car.

  ‘When Nat shifted to Sussex, to move in with Gayle a few years ago’, Baum continued, ‘Dad immediately sold the shop and made plans to follow. It’s less than two hours by car, but he just couldn’t bear to be parted from her, even by a few miles. That, of course, meant my mum had to stop working at the school, which she loved. I also had to move out of the house. It was one of the things that helped me decide to join the force. Accommodation was available. I could live in as a probationer.’

  ‘It was a good move, then’, said Holly.

  ‘Yes’, Baum agreed, pausing to take a deep breath. ‘By then, you see, Dad had a profitable sideline. He’s a real expert on antique long-case clocks, what people call “grandfather” clocks. Say your name was Chandler and my father met you, maybe at an auction house, which he used to frequent deliberately. You’d get chatting, and my dad might tell you that he knew of a clock made by Timothy Chandler in 1820, and that it might be for sale. Then he’d locate such a clock, or maybe did already know of one. He would offer to buy it, let’s say for three thousand pounds. Mr Chandler would then be offered it at dad’s ‘bargain price’ of five thousand, and he would pocket the difference. In fact, he’s still doing that caper now. It helps boost his pension, he says.’

  ‘It isn’t a crime’, Holly advised.

  ‘No… But it’s not that admirable, is it?’ Baum seemed more sad than disgusted. ‘What my sister is doing is not so great, either’, he added, after another pause.

  ‘What do you mean?’ enquired Holly.

  ‘Having a baby by artificial insemination… Picking the father from a catalogue! Two women bringing up a boy without a father-figure in his life! It simply doesn’t seem right to me.’

  ‘Maybe that’s where you come in…’ Holly suggested. She didn’t see anything wrong with the arrangement. ‘You can be his role model. Is that why you followed your parents?’

  ‘I came here mostly because of Mum’, Baum replied. ‘She’s unhappy… My father doesn’t seem to understand how much he made her give up when they left Ashford. It wasn’t just the school. All her friends were there… And me, I suppose. I just wanted to be a bit nearer for her.’

  ‘Okay, thanks’, said Holly, reflecting that her psychology training might have been of some use after all. Closing the window again, she repeated, ‘Thank you for telling me about all that, Richard. I do appreciate it… Now, let’s go back to Greenings! I don’t promise, but maybe I’ll tell you all my troubles one day.’

  ‘And remember’, she said finally, ‘Every silver lining has a cloud.’ She laughed. ‘That’s what my Dad always says, anyway… Maybe this saga about your family has brought you here for a reason, to help solve this crime… Maybe it’s all meant to be!’

  Baum, much mollified by the conversation, refastened his seat belt and started up the car. Before releasing the brake, though, he paused. ‘It’s Rich, Detective Angel, by the way’, he said. ‘People call me “Rich”, not Richard.’

  ‘I see’, replied Holly, jokingly. ‘You’re not wealthy, but you are Rich… That’s perfectly okay with me… And, in return, I think you better start calling me Holly.’

  ***

  The incident room was in a hubbub when they got back. Holly asked Rich to help out with calls to local stables and so on, while she phoned the only person she knew who had experience with horses. Monica Kidd’s voice, at the other end, was as robotic as always. ‘Please hold’, it said. Moments later, Georgina Royle was on the line.

  ‘I’m sorry to trouble you again’, Holly began.

  ‘It’s no trouble at all.’ Georgina sounded genuinely pleased to hear from her. ‘How can I help?’

  Holly got straight to the point. ‘Do you know of any vehicles for transporting horses that come equipped with a hoist?’

  ‘I’ve never seen one’, was the disappointing reply. ‘It wouldn’t be very stable, would it?’

  Holly could not help herself from remarking, ‘It wouldn’t be very stable in the stable, you’re right.’

  ‘I suppose there could be some kind of counter-weight system’, she added to redeem the situation when her little joke seemed to fall flat. ‘Would you have a think about it, and maybe ask around, please?’

  Georgina said cheerily enough that she would speak to the folk from ‘Riding for the Disabled’ right away, and call back later if she discovered anything. Holly remembered then to thank her again for her hospitality at Rose Cottage, and for her gift of the ‘Martsey Damsel’, still giving off a beautiful fragrance from a small vase on her living room table. She had just put the phone down again when Rich Baum came up and said he’d like her permission to follow up his idea about contacting local vets.

  ‘I was thinking about how horse blood got on the underside of that red chair’, he said.

  ‘Do you truthfully think a vet would be involved in this kind of thing?’ Holly asked.

  ‘Not really, I suppose’, Baum responded, ‘But farmer’s vets might have the kind of vehicle we’re looking for, don’t you think? And someone else might have borrowed it from one of them.’

  ‘Okay, then’, said Holly. ‘Off you go and phone a couple of vets. I’m going to try and get hold of Patrick Gryllock. He should be back in his office by now.’

  ***

  Lunch with the Chinese had been tricky. Gryllock had found himself having to defend Queen Elizabeth and the institution of the monarchy, which his guests – as politely and inscrutably as possible – had suggested was inequitable, outmoded and therefore ridiculous. He had always been a staunch royalist. Through his charity work, he had been fortunate enough to meet Her Majesty on two occasions, both at Buckingham Palace garden parties. The second time, learning the name of his company, Her Majesty had charmed him by remarking wittily that she, too, was the head of some regal enterprises. ‘I hope you won’t bid for a takeover’, teasingly, she had warned him. ‘We still hang people for treason, you know.’ Now, loyal subject to the core, he was growing increasingly irritated with his Asian guests..

  Although he suspected that all three visitors spoke, or at least understood, English well, fortunately, he was using an interpreter, and she – Miss Welsh – had proved a valuable ally. Tempers were kept rather than frayed, mainly through her entirely unruffled demeanour and her frequent calming interventions. She was very good at downplaying the acidity of everyone’s remarks around the table, so that by the time the Chinese finished their expensive haute cuisine meal and were setting off back to their luxury South Kensington hotel, Gryllock was much less flustered than he had been an hour earlier.

  He was terribly grateful afterwards to the unflappable Miss Welsh, who told him her first name was Grace, and wondered briefly about his chances of seducing her that afternoon. In the end, though, he decided against pushing his luck. Regal Enterprises was going to need her again, the very next day, in fact. His mood had undoubtedly improved by the time he was alighting from the taxi in Holborn. The last thing he would have chosen next, however, would have been a phone call from the police.

  Holly could sense his impatience down the line. Fortunately, Madeleine Smith had warned that her boss was not in the most tranquil frame of mind. She decided to try and humour him by, on this occasion, avoiding too much directness.

  ‘Thank you so much for agreeing to speak to me’, she said after introducing herself. ‘I’ve met your sister, Georgina; and she has been
so very helpful… Such an admirable person!’

  Gryllock, although saying nothing, made a sudden grunting noise, which Holly found hard to interpret.

  ‘Have you heard anything – from her, or from any other source – about the recent events at the Sussex Royale Golf Club?’ she enquired as innocently as possible.

  ‘No… Nothing’, was the accurate response. ‘Royle takes care of all that… My brother-in-law.’

  ‘Yes. I know’, Holly replied, ‘But he’s away at present, and I also know that you and he have been friends for many years.’

  She explained about the two red chairs, and then about the body of Jane X, before asking if he could think of anyone who bore a grudge, or any other reason why anyone would want to make what seemed like such a truly vengeful statement in this way.

  At the mention of the chairs, Patrick Gryllock had blanched, and an icy cold feeling had suddenly gripped his most private of parts. Thankfully, he noticed that his office door was shut, and the interior blinds closed, so that no-one could see him. Making an effort to sound normal, he repeated that he knew nothing about any of it.

  ‘You’ll have to wait and speak to Mr Royle’, he told Holly. ‘He’ll be back in a couple of weeks.’

  Ending the call, Holly’s antennae for wrongdoing were fully on the alert. She was certain that Gryllock had been lying deliberately to protect his friend and business partner, unaware that she already knew Royle was due back the following day. His trickery made her angry, and even more determined to get to the bottom of what was still a very deep and dark mystery.

  Putting the phone down, Gryllock made straight for the drinks cabinet across the room, helping himself to a good sized dram of the 1996 Distillers Edition Lagavulin he kept for special occasions. The first gulp of the fiery golden Scottish “Usquebaugh”, the “water of life”, burned his throat, almost painfully, without improving his mood, but he knew to give it time to work its habitual magic. Sitting back down, raising the tumbler once more to his lips, the troubled man closed his eyes and felt the welcome alcoholic glow travelling down through his trunk and limbs. A minute later, even his fingertips tingled; but he knew he wouldn’t feel fully safe again until his protector was home. ‘Jamie, Jamie, Jamie’, he thought, ‘What on earth have we done?’

  ***

  Holly was still musing about the businessman’s perfidy when Rich Baum returned from the other room where he had been working. Normally a somewhat lugubrious fellow, he seemed rather more animated than usual.

  ‘What is it?’ said Holly, as he appeared. ‘Sit down… You make me nervous, standing there like a beanpole.’

  The eager young rookie sat awkwardly down. ‘I’ve just spoken to a vet’, he began. ‘He says we need to look for a knackerman.’

  ‘A knackerman’, repeated Holly. ‘What’s that exactly?’

  ‘Someone who collects dead, dying and injured farm animals’, said Baum. ‘I remember now, there used to be a knacker’s yard in Ashford. I never went there, but my father told me about it; somewhere to keep away from.’ He gave a theatrical shudder to illustrate the point.

  ‘Anyway’, he added quickly, ‘I’ve just looked it all up on the net. It’s a trade that began almost two hundred years ago. In the early days, of course, they used horse-drawn carts; but now, it says, they have specialized vehicles with sealed floors and electric winches. A 35 hundred-weight lorry can carry up to three cows… or horses, I suppose.’

  ‘Or a couple of red leather armchairs and a corpse’, added Holly. ‘Well done, Rich… Let’s see if we’ve got any near here.’

  ‘Since the dreadful 2001 foot and mouth disease outbreak’, continued Baum, ‘All dead farm animals have to be incinerated. This means knackers have to be approved by local authorities and the government department, DEFRA. They would keep records, but it might be quicker to check with the Licensed Animal Slaughterers and Salvage Association. LASSA is the trade association representing knackers in the UK, and I’m sure they’ll keep an up to date list.’

  Holly was delighted. ‘See what you can find out’, she said.

  As Baum turned to go, almost immediately, Holly’s phone came abruptly to life. It was Georgina Royle calling back.

  ‘Hello Holly’, she said sweetly. ‘I think I might be able to help now… When one of the ponies died, a couple of years back, Riding for the Disabled organized a kind of memorial cremation for her, so that some of their riders could attend and pay their respects. I didn’t get to the service, unfortunately; but they told me all about it afterwards; and it turns out they used a firm from Lewes that specialize in that kind of thing. Apparently, they came and collected little Bagpuss’s carcase from the RfD stable using a specially equipped lorry with a hoist of some kind. I can get you the details, if you like.’

  Holly thanked her without letting on that she and Rich had already worked out the likely form of transportation they were now investigating. She said she would contact Mrs Royle again if she needed any more information.

  Meanwhile, Rich was discovering several businesses in the Kent, Sussex, Surrey and Hampshire areas that were offering “compassionate animal disposal”, or, “fallen stock, equine and pet cremation services”, including the company at Ashford. There was one at Plumpton, near Lewes, presumably the one used by RfD. The other two closest to Graffham were in West Chiltington and Romsey. He made a note of the names, addresses and website details but, it now being just past five o’clock, he failed to get through to any of them by phone.

  ‘Do it in the morning’, Holly said when he told her, ‘And follow up the calls with visits if anything promising turns up… Or anything suspicious! I’m going to be at Heathrow.’

  ***

  At five o’clock in Sussex, it was eleven in the morning in the Chicago area, and Jamie Royle was out on the golf course with Chuck. He had stayed up late, joining in the Ryder Cup celebrations where, to his astonishment, he had even received a friendly hug and slap on the back from the man who had gestured him to back off in so cavalier a fashion a day earlier, Ian Poulter. It was all ‘forgive and forget’. He had chatted, laughed, danced, sung karaoke songs, and drunk far too much champagne into the small hours, and had to be driven back to the house in the buggy by Gary Brooker, who was not in quite such an advanced state of inebriation.

  Despite the revelry, by force of will power, Jamie was up for his Eggs Benedict breakfast at the Medinah clubhouse in good time for the grudge match. He and Chuck had agreed on “double-or-quits” for the bet, so now there would be one hundred thousand US dollars riding on it. Accordingly, this had become very personal. Jamie therefore suggested they should dispense with their playing partners and take on each other, man to man. Gary and Rob Girt could go out after them and play a friendly game, deciding for themselves whether to play for money, perhaps just a sensibly low stake, enough to make it interesting. Chuck, having instantly spotted Jamie’s hangover, and having himself spent the previous evening sober, was quick to agree.

  It would be just the two of them, out there, with their caddies. No-one else had permission to play; but it was going to be difficult concentrating because there were workmen everywhere, busily – and noisily – taking down the spectator stands and television towers all around the course. Partly for this reason, the two men also agreed to use the forward member’s tees, rather than the championship gold tees. The Ryder Cup course measured over 7,600 yards. From the white tees they were using, it was almost 1,000 yards shorter, but still a stiff test for ageing golfers. Another option; the green tees, another five hundred yards shorter; they decided would be too easy, only for cissies.

  Predictably, Jamie got off to a poor start. He was already two-down after two holes, but then rallied slightly. One-down at the turn, he played the 550 yard par-five tenth particularly well, drilling his third shot to the heart of the well-defended green while Chuck found one of its thick necklace of bunkers. They were level, and the ma
tch stayed that way for the next hour or so as the two men went hammer and tongs at each other, with neither prepared to give way.

  ***

  When he got to the airport with Catherine, they found that the flight to London was delayed, but even that was not sufficient to dampen Jamie Royle’s spirits. It was not so much winning the money that pleased him as the simple fact of beating Chuck, and the sublime manner in which he had done so. Waiting in the first-class lounge at O’Hare, reliving the round in his imagination, he was still feeling exceptionally satisfied about it that evening, particularly the finish.

  The drama had been almost as exciting as at the Ryder Cup itself, a day earlier. Who was going to win, Europe or America? Standing on the final tee, he and Chuck were still level. He had experienced bad luck on the previous hole, fouled by a freak gust of wind that forced his well-struck tee-shot down into the lake. Fortunately Chuck had then mishit a low ball, which bounced on the water, but had no hope of rising above the five-foot retaining wall in front of the green. They both had to reload and play from the drop zone.

  After escaping with a half there, Jamie recalled feeling surprisingly calm teeing off on eighteen. His shot had flown straight, carrying a good distance, before coming to rest on the final fairway about 170 yards short of the target, leaving a long, testing uphill shot to the green. Chuck hit well too, his ball just short of Jamie’s, a little to the right of it.

  They both wanted to win outright, of course, so what would they do in the event of a tie? Jamie asked the question. Brooking no argument, Chuck tersely replied, ‘We carry on… Sudden death’.

  ‘Okay’, Jamie was thinking. ‘I’d better try and finish you off right here then.’

  Chuck’s shot made the distance, but drifted slightly right, and then rolled to an unenviable spot, close to the front bunker, leaving a tricky steep shot up and over it. It was Jamie’s turn. Normally, he made his own decisions about club selection and reading the putts, but this time he turned to his caddy, Dave. ‘Rescue club or four-iron?’ he asked. Displaying complete confidence, his man soundlessly handed him the hybrid. Jamie had been hitting that club brilliantly from the fairway on the longer holes all day. Now, he did it again.