The Case of the Missing Bronte

by Robert Barnard

‘Who—Miss Wing? No.’

  ‘Jason Curle. The little blackie.’

  I didn’t like Bradley’s racial attitudes, but I met them often enough day by day to ignore them.

  ‘We haven’t a chance of getting at her will,’ I said. ‘How do you know?’

  ‘That’s what they say in the village,’ he said, with his dull obstinacy.

  ‘That’s what who says in the village? People say all sorts of things in villages in my experience, and only about twenty-five per cent is anything like truth.’

  ‘Everybody’s saying so. I think it was Mrs Hebden as let it out. Her as was Miss Wing’s friend around here.’

  ‘No reason why she shouldn’t leave it to him, anyway,’ I said.

  ‘Nor why she should, if you ask me. Wasn’t any relation — just came in to do the garden.’ Getting no change out of me, he just looked ahead with that bullish expression on his unintelligent policeman’s face (I mean, of course, his unintelligent-policeman’s face), and said: ‘I just think it’s funny.’

  He sounded like the Reverend Macklehose’s pearl of great price. If Jason Curle wasn’t careful he would find himself the possessor of a tidy little fortune, with everyone for miles around muttering ‘I just think it’s funny,’ and looking at him with gallows in their eyes.

  I said: ‘The woman hasn’t got any relatives, her best friend was the one who left her all this stuff. She just likes the boy, that’s all.’

  ‘It’s a motive.’

  ‘If he knew. I bet she didn’t tell him. She’s too sensible to give him ideas that could only unsettle him. And she could so easily change her mind. Anyway, can you see that sort of injury being inflicted by a thirteen-year-old?’

  ‘None of the blows was especially hard,’ said Bradley. If he did get an idea into his head, no power on earth was going to get it out again. ‘And he’s pretty spry.’

  ‘You’d need to be more than spry,’ I answered, with comparable obstinacy. But I wasn’t as sure as I sounded. You can’t be dogmatic about injuries like that. I bet no one thought Lizzie Borden could wield an axe to such good effect.

  I chewed over this, and the conversation I’d had with Jan, and I came to two decisions: one, to go to Bradford; two, to drop in on the way on Mrs Hebden. When she opened her front door to me her aspect was very different from what it had been when we were looking for a room. She was, not to put too fine a point on it, flurried.

  ‘Oh — Mr Trethowan. Oh dear, I thought you might call. I feel so guilty. You’ve heard — ?’

  ‘My constable just told me. Is it true you let something slip about Miss Wing’s will?’

  ‘Oh, the will. Oh dear — I’m afraid I did. Awful of me, but you see Miss Wing did tell me, just after she’d made it. That she was leaving the cottage to little Jason, and a bit of money too. Of course she swore me to secrecy, but somehow with the attack . . . and fearing she would not be coming back . . . I really am sorry. The last thing I’d want would be to cause trouble.’

  ‘Nothing to be done,’ I said. ‘I think it might help, since it is round the village, if you made it clear to everyone that Jason Curle knew nothing about it.’

  ‘Oh, you don’t mean they’re saying — ?’

  ‘If Constable Bradley is anything to go by,’ I said, turning to go, ‘that is precisely what they are saying.’

  I chewed over this as I drove back to Bradford, and I chewed over the American millionaire I had decided to go and see. I’d bought the Yorkshire Record, but it had little more information in it than Jan had already conveyed, though one did get the distinct impression that the man was rolling in it. And, as a consequence, a very natural person for the thief to get in contact with, assuming that what the thief was after was money. The Yard wasn’t much help, though. I had a message over the car radio that the FBI had no sort of file on James L. Parfitt — quite the reverse: the only time he had swum into their ken was when he had come forward voluntarily, when he suspected he might have come into possession of stolen property. Quite the lily-white boy. I told the Yard to cable for all possible details on this episode. I don’t trust lily-white boys, when they’re millionaires.

  Still, I had nothing to go on, as far as Mr Parfitt was concerned. (How incredibly drab that sounds, for an American multi-millionaire: why don’t they follow the logic of their society and introduce titles?) He was a collector, he was in Bradford. Now I came to think about it, away from Jan’s eager insistence, it didn’t sound ridiculous at all. The North Country has plenty of old family homes, full of old family pictures, old family silver, and old family debts. In economic times like the present there were even more upper-crust gents than usual pathetically in need of the ready. I had no grounds at all for connecting him with the Brontë manuscript. Nor was I enamoured of the figure much loved in fiction of the rich collector who stores up hot property to gloat over it in some private hideaway. Most millionaires like their treasures to be on display. Very much on display, in most cases, to reinforce their millionairedom, so to speak.

  On the other hand . . . The Brontë manuscript was not all that hot. If Miss Wing were to die, or never regained consciousness, there would be practically no one around who could identify it with any certainty. I could not, that was for sure, from my brief glance at one page. In two or three years the manuscript could be produced, with a fictitious pedigree . . .

  I consulted the AA Book for the two or three best hotels in Bradford, pretty sure that James L. Parfitt would not put up at an overnight joint for commercial travellers. By luck I hit on the right one first time. It was called the Royal Edward, and for once it lived up to its name. The foyer was all white and gold and plush pink, with spotty mirrors in gilt frames; scattered around were pink and gold velvet sofas, on which one could imagine Royal Edward perching his ample frame, perhaps placing his hand on a not-unwilling knee the while, or pinching a be-bustled bottom while whispering an assignation. Through the door to the left I caught a glimpse of an oak-panelled dining-room, where one could imagine him eating one of his piggish meals. It was all rather daunting — as if I’d strayed on to the set of one of those BBC historical serials for television. I mustered what courage I possessed and strolled up to the desk.

  ‘Er — Mr James Parfitt.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said the spruce young picture of efficiency behind the desk, to my surprise. ‘Just take the lift — there — ’ he pointed to the far corner of the foyer — ‘up to the third floor.’

  I had a feeling I’d been mistaken for somebody else, but not wishing to kick my luck I simply did as I was told. As soon as I emerged from the deep padded silence of the lift I realized I was right. I seemed to have barged in on the early stages of some kind of party. Mr James L. Parfitt had apparently taken over the whole of the third floor of this wing of the hotel. The great wide corridor, hung with prints of dogs and horses and jockeys, was peopled with maids and flunkies, and as I stepped out, more than a little embarrassed, a pretty little thing dressed in apron and starched cap came up with a sweet smile and a drinks tray. This time I felt as if I’d walked into Upstairs, Downstairs.

  ‘Whisky, sir? Or sherry? This is dry.’

  ‘Yes, I’ll have a sherry. Er — ’

  ‘Mr Parfitt is through the doorway there, sir, at the moment. I’m sure he’d like you to introduce yourself. It’s the sitting-room of the Rose Suite.’

  I gulped, and went in the direction she pointed. The sitting-room of the Rose Suite (which was very rose) was beginning to get rather crowded, and being both an impostor and an intruder I hung back by the door until I could be sure which of the well-dressed drink-clutchers was Moneybags Parfitt.

  It was quite a collection of people he’d got together there: an immense lady with a voice like a foghorn who had obviously tied her horse to a parking meter and was wondering whether its time was running out; a North Yorkshire Duke with a minor post in the government and a stately home twice the size of Sandringham; an Earl with property in West Yorkshire who had sold the land on w
hich the University of Milltown was built — a gaunt, joyless individual who was reputed to smile only when he went over the estate books which dealt with that transaction; various scions of the local squirearchy — portly, doggy, genial, rather awkward; and a squad of local business smoothies trying to look as if brass had not the remotest connection with muck.

  ‘Hello, thinking of selling the family pictures?’ said a voice from beside me.

  ‘They’re not mine to sell,’ I said automatically, and then looked round to see a man in his forties — gentryish, friendly, with a nondescript face and a sardonic downward turn to his mouth.

  ‘Well, I can’t see your getting much for your old dad’s manuscripts,’ he went on, digging further into my sore spot.

  ‘Have we met?’ I asked, in a dowagerly way.

  ‘Long, long ago. You were just out of short pants. Witteringham’s the name. Frank Witteringham. Frightful name, what? With most people you forget the name and remember the face. With me it’s the other way round.’

  I remembered, dimly, Frank Witteringham, and shook him by the hand. His people had property near the Co. Durham border of Northumberland, twenty miles or so from Harpenden.

  ‘Of course,’ he went on, with that sublime ignorance of tact so characteristic of his type, ‘I didn’t really remember you. I just recognized you from your pictures in the paper.’

  ‘Yes,’ I muttered, internally wriggling.

  ‘What are you hoping to get out of this gravy-train, eh?’

  ‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘Are most people?’

  ‘Of course they are. Why do you think they’re here at two or three days’ notice? Look at that chap — Duke of Hull. Oh, you recognized him. Should be in the Lords, speaking on the new Rates Act. He’s junior minister, after all. ‘Stead of which, he’s here. Got something to sell, smells a good buyer. That’s why we’re all here — what?’

  ‘Really?’ I said. ‘And how did you all know? Were you invited?’

  ‘Not in so many words. It went round on the grapevine. He’d been snuffling round at Christoby’s, and the other big places, and he let it be known that he’d be in Bradford, happy to see anyone with anything of interest — etcetera, etcetera. Jolly good network most of us have. I heard it from my kid brother who works in the City, and he heard it from a chap who works on Debrett, who heard it from a chap who’s one of the buyers for Christoby’s. So Bob’s your uncle, here I am.’

  ‘What have you got to sell?’

  ‘Hmmm. Highly dubious Reynolds, and a bit of family silver. He won’t bite, and I wouldn’t blame him. Still, I thought I’d pop along. Look at them — they’re streaming in. We’d better get a bit closer if we’re going to have a word.’

  And so they were — or at least, they were coming in a steady trickle, with alternately brazen and slightly embarrassed airs. All grades and styles of gentry and near-misses were there, and coming on for twenty-five in the room already. I followed my guide, and as we began edging our way to what was obviously the focus of attention, Frank Witteringham muttered:

  ‘What are you selling, then?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘What the hell are you here for, then?’

  ‘Official. I want a word with him.’

  ‘Oh, great. That’ll put him in a splendid mood, won’t it? I’m going first, young Trethowan.’

  And it seemed only right I should let him. Particularly as I wanted to get a good look first. I stood by, watching Frank Witteringham do his piece, and taking in the setup. It all looked so casual and spontaneous. There was James L. Parfitt, standing there, glass in hand, all geniality, as if he were an ordinary man like the rest of us. He was dressed in a superb light-weight suit, and a sober tie; his hair was highlighted silver, and his tan was coffee-cream and even all over. He was tall, distinguished, with the remains of handsomeness about him, and a supremely confident and relaxed manner. But there was also something unreal, as if he were an actor, already made-up, and beginning his performance.

  He listened to Frank Witteringham like a Renaissance prince lending an interested and concerned ear to the tale of a loyal peasant. As the meagre extent of Frank’s offering became clear, I caught his eye shifting from him and wandering round the room, but only when he knew Frank was not looking. In no time Frank was passed on to a young man standing casually near — a dark-suited, bespectacled young man, no doubt a secretary, rather resembling those young men in the Watergate saga who were always telling you about their Methodist upbringing, and how they and their wives went down on their knees each night and prayed on either side of the matrimonial bed. He took Frank’s name with an appearance of interest, and then he was handed on to say hello to Mrs Parfitt, who had collected a little group of prime notables around her. He said hello, but he was not collected, and he then drifted off into the outer darkness. By then I was myself talking to the Great Man, and feeling as if I’d barged into a Neil Simon play.

  ‘I’m afraid I’m here under false pretences,’ I opened. ‘I wanted to have a couple of words with you, and I was sent up by the receptionist under the impression I was one of the guests.’

  ‘No harm done, no harm done,’ said James L., with limitless geniality. But I registered that his eyes were beginning to stray. ‘Was it something we could get through fairly quickly?’

  ‘By all means,’ I said. ‘I’m from Scotland Yard — ’

  ‘Scotland Yard! Well! This is an event! You’ll have to have a word with my wife. She’s mad about your English detective stories.’ He suddenly lowered his voice. ‘But, say now, I hope there’s nothing wrong with anyone here?’

  ‘No, no,’ I said hastily, to dispel the idea of a spectre at the feast. Nothing but upper-class sharks here. ‘No reason to think that at all. It’s just that — well, some publicity has been given to your presence here, as a collector . . . I wonder, by the way, why you came to the North of England?’

  ‘Well, there’s no mystery about that.’ He lowered his voice, though. ‘Just keep it under your hat. I’d heard that the big houses in the North were great untapped sources of the sort of thing I’m after. And the people not so — well, so grasping as those down South. Not so in touch with the market.’

  Mugs, he meant. I felt like saying I wouldn’t bank on it.

  ‘Ah — I see. What I wanted to ask was whether you’ve been offered, while you’ve been here, a manuscript — ’

  ‘Several, naturally — ’

  ‘By the Brontës. By one of the Brontë sisters.’

  He didn’t bat an eyelid. But I noticed that his eyes had stopped straying too.

  ‘Regretfully no. Nothing so interesting, as yet. Mind you, there’s a mountain of that stuff around in the States. Mostly bought years ago, and a lot of it finding its way into libraries by now.’

  ‘You haven’t got any Brontë material yourself?’

  ‘Nothing to speak of, Inspector. It’s a big collection, you understand, and I don’t have it all in my head . . . There’s a poem by Emily Brontë, I remember, bought by my father, back in the ’twenties, I’d guess. Oh, and one of those little childish books. I guess that’s about it.’

  ‘You haven’t been interested in that sort of stuff yourself?’

  ‘I’m interested in everything, Mr Trethowan. But especially interested? Well, no. My father had a nice little collection of manuscripts that I inherited, and when I came to enlarge it, I decided to go for the Romantics. I guess you can say I went for the best. But that’s certainly not to say I wouldn’t be interested . . .’

  ‘But you’ve had no offer of that kind to date?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘We’d be most obliged to you if you’d get in touch with us if you should be approached — either the Yard, or the local police.’

  ‘Indeed I will. I’m very careful about that kind of thing, as the New York police will testify, if you get on to them. But tell me, Mr Trethowan, you’ve raised my interest now, and you’ll have to appease it — what is the precise nature of
this manuscript? I’ll need to know, won’t I, in case I’m offered it. Is it one of the juvenile manuscripts?’

  I went carefully. ‘I think not, though it looks very like them. It’s a work of prose . . . It could be a novel, or part of a novel . . .’

  He whistled. ‘You mean a mature work, then. Wow! That would be something big.’

  ‘Well, I won’t take up any more of your time, Mr Parfitt — ’

  ‘Do you have any more details, I mean — ’

  ‘Let’s just say, sir, that we’d be glad to be told if you hear of anything in that line.’

  ‘Cagey, Inspector. Well, I surely will have you informed.’ He smiled a cool but friendly smile. As I was shunted forward to the secretary I noticed an almost imperceptible shake of the head from Parfitt, caught by the secretary’s sharp little eyes. He shook my hand with excessive bonhomie, but he did not take my name. As I was handed down the conveyor belt to Mrs Parfitt, her husband called out:

  ‘You must talk to Mr Trethowan, darling. He’s one of your Scotland Yard detectives.’

  ‘Oh really?’ said Mrs Parfitt, turning aside from one Duke, one Countess, and a couple of knights of the shire. ‘How fascinating! I can see you must be. Just my idea of Roderick Alleyn!’

  I thought Roderick Alleyn a bit of a stick. I became stick-like.

  ‘Are all the policemen at Scotland Yard gentlemen of the old school, like they are in detective stories?’ asked Mrs Parfitt. She obviously read an old-fashioned sort of detective story, but everything else about her was bang up-to-date. She was twenty years younger than her husband: a highly desirable thirty-five, with immaculate hair, immaculately made-up face, immaculate figure, but with a touch of steel-plating about it.

  ‘Not all of us,’ I answered. ‘Most of us even have a bit of trouble with our French, like Fox.’

  ‘Oh, you read them, then!’ She turned on one of those special for-you-alone smiles that Americans are so good at. ‘I thought you’d be sure to despise them. And what are you doing here — are you checking up on His Grace?’ She smiled in the direction of the Duke of Hull.