The Murder at Redmire Hall

by J. R. Ellis

  OTHER TITLES BY J. R. ELLIS

  The Body in the Dales

  The Quartet Murders

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2018 by J. R. Ellis

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas & Mercer are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781503904941

  ISBN-10: 1503904946

  Cover design by @blacksheep-uk.com

  To Colin

  Contents

  Prologue

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Prologue

  Redmire Hall, June 1980

  At Redmire Hall, set in the countryside around Ripon in Yorkshire, there was a tangible sense of excitement as the wealthy guests assembled for a weekend party. It was a warm June evening. Bentleys and Rollers swept up the long drive through the grounds. Their host, Vivian Carstairs, Lord Redmire, had promised something extraordinary. His guests knew that that phrase usually meant it was worth travelling hundreds of miles to the home of the eccentric lord.

  Redmire Hall was a Regency-style house, built in a beautifully weathered rosy-red brick. It had extensive gardens, laid out by the present lord’s father in the 1930s, that were still lovingly maintained by a team of devoted gardeners. There were, however, rumours that Lord Redmire would soon be forced to open the doors of his grandiose pile to the paying public in order to make ends meet. Monetising one’s property, along with covenanting it to the National Trust, had become a growing trend among the aristocracy in order to avoid the crippling death duties introduced by ‘disgraceful’ Labour governments.

  Couples sipped champagne at the reception party held on the manicured lawn near the house, looking over the double herbaceous borders leading down to the River Ure, and remarking how dreadful it would be if all manner of Tom, Dick and Harry types were allowed to tramp around the lovely rose gardens, the white garden, the rockeries and the wisteria walk.

  An excellent dinner was served in the long dining room and anticipation grew as the guests reminisced about other stunts and remarkable experiences their host had organised in the past. Such as the time they’d had dinner floating down the river, seated at a table that stood on lashed-together wooden rafts being steered by servants with long poles, like something going down the Amazon. When the wine had run out, Redmire had dived into the water and swum to the bank to collect some more from other servants waiting with bottles.

  Or the time he’d purchased some lions from a circus, and turned them loose in the grounds for his guests to pursue with rifles. Tales of that particular stunt had got to the animal-rights people and the police, but Redmire had fobbed them off with his usual charm and apologetic self-deprecation.

  At last, the host rose at the head of the table to speak. Lord Redmire – a handsome but rather outlandish figure in a sequinned red tuxedo – beamed at his guests. He was a bumptious, Mr Toad-like character, extrovert, gregarious, given to extravagant gestures of all types, and would constantly switch his attention from one all-consuming obsessive interest to another.

  His latest craze was altogether more mysterious and secretive: magic. He was fascinated by the world of the illusionists, those mysterious men who could apparently make objects and people disappear in front of astonished audiences. After cultivating the acquaintance of some prominent British practitioners of these arts, he’d spent several months in Italy at the sumptuous palace home of Count Mazarini, who was, like him, a wealthy socialite, but also an accomplished illusionist who’d dazzled audiences all over Europe. When His Lordship had returned to Redmire, there were rumours of strange goings-on at the Hall. He was said to be working on an illusion of his own, helped by people sworn to secrecy.

  And now, it seemed, he was ready for a performance before this specially invited audience.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he announced in his rich baritone voice, with its aristocratic drawl. (There was no hint of a Yorkshire accent.) ‘Tonight I crave your indulgence. You know me and my little hobbies.’ Here, there was some knowing laughter. ‘It is my special pleasure to present myself to you transformed. I am no longer merely Vivian Carstairs, Lord Redmire, but the great illusionist Carzini!’

  There was a chorus of facetious ‘ooh’s and ‘aah’s from the guests, who were now well lubricated with alcohol and ready for some entertainment. Redmire’s face assumed a self-satisfied smile and he held up his arms for quiet.

  ‘I understand you will find it hard to take me seriously, as so many of you have humoured me in the past in my many other transient manifestations, but this . . .’ He paused for emphasis and held up his hand. ‘. . . is the real thing.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I have perfected what I believe to be a truly remarkable magic trick.’ He paused once more. When he spoke again his voice was bolder, emphasising each phrase. ‘You will see me disappear completely from a locked room, which you may examine before and after my disappearance. I will then reappear in the same room. And then, ladies and gentlemen, I will disappear from the room for a second time and materialise outside this same room.’

  This extraordinary announcement silenced his guests. It sounded so preposterous that they were unsure whether or not it was a joke. Redmire was famous for his practical jokes. There were one or two stifled giggles among some of the slightly tipsy women.

  ‘Is this one of your jokes, Viv?’ asked a louche-looking character lounging back in a chair and smoking a cigar.

  Redmire turned to him. ‘Certainly not, Roger; I promise you this is real.’ He turned back to the table. ‘However, I sense scepticism, so without any further ado let us proceed to the locked room. Please follow me.’

  With that he strode off down the dining room and out of the door, followed by his guests. They exchanged many questioning gestures and glances, but were prepared to humour their host. Redmire took them through the large entrance hall and then to the back of the house, which had formerly been part of the servants’ quarters. A section had been opened out to form a lobby area, freshly decorated and carpeted but empty of furniture except for lines of chairs facing a door in the wall. Standing by the door was a glamorous young woman dressed in a sparkly, skintight costume. Redmire stood next to her as his guests took their seats.

  ‘This is my assistant, Esmeralda.’ The girl flashed a smile and bowed. ‘Now, the next part will take some time and preparation because I want you all to examine the room into which I will enter and from which I will disappear. Please come forward.’

  Redmire opened the door to reveal a small room, about twelve feet square, furnished like a study, with a chair, a wooden desk and bookshelves. There was a patterned rug on the bare floorboards, and a small window with a view of an area to the rear of the house.

  ‘Please examine everything. You will find no secret panels or passages. There is a trapdoor here.’ He indicated a small door cut into the wooden floor, with a brass handle that folded into a recess so that it was flush with the boards. ‘But that i
s only for access to the wiring. A man can get down into it, but no further. And you will not find me hiding there when I have disappeared.’

  This trapdoor was duly investigated, and found to lead, as Redmire had said, to a small cavity where there were wires and junction boxes attached to the floorboards. There was just about room for a person to fit into the space, but the base and walls were solid concrete, and there was no way of exiting other than back into the room.

  The guests were now entering the spirit and prodded, poked and examined everything. But they were all thwarted. They checked the floors and ceiling, the door, the window and the furniture. In the end they all agreed: there was no way out of the room other than by the door through which they’d entered.

  Redmire watched their exploration with a self-satisfied smirk on his face. He then drew attention to the door.

  ‘Before we start, ladies and gentlemen, please have another look at this door.’

  He showed them the lock with the key in place and the two large bolts that secured the door firmly from the outside.

  ‘You may have heard of illusions where locks are false and can be opened using wires and other tricks; but, as you can see, this lock and these bolts are ordinary and there is no way they can be opened from the inside. In any case, if I came out of the door you would see me straight away – and you won’t.’

  The lock and bolts were tried and pronounced sound.

  ‘So now, ladies and gentlemen, lock me in.’

  He sat in the chair, all the guests filed out, and two of the guests locked and bolted the door.

  ‘Are you still in there, Viv?’ one of them called out.

  ‘Yes.’ Redmire’s voice was clearly heard coming from inside the room.

  When everyone had assumed their seats, Esmeralda, in a theatrical manner, twirled around and pulled a curtain across the door. Suddenly, loud music – Wagner – filled the room for about fifteen seconds. When it stopped, Esmeralda pulled back the curtain to reveal the bolts still in place on the door. These were shot back, the key turned in the lock and the door flung open. The room was empty; Lord Redmire had vanished. There were exclamations among the guests.

  ‘Good Lord!’

  ‘Where on earth is he?’

  With some caution and incredulity the room was examined again, including the space under the trapdoor; even a little girl popped her head through the door and seemed to be looking for something before her mother called her away. There was no sign of Lord Redmire anywhere.

  ‘Lord Redmire will now reappear,’ said Esmeralda, in a foreign accent that sounded rather fake. ‘Please come out of the locked room.’

  Obediently, everyone went back to sit on the chairs. The atmosphere was now more serious. It looked as if the beggar was going to pull it off! Esmeralda drew the curtain; the music was heard again, after which the curtain was drawn back and the lock and bolts reopened to reveal Lord Redmire, sitting in the chair and beaming! This time there were loud gasps from the guests and the curious little girl looked into the room once more.

  ‘I say, Viv, jolly good show! How on earth did you do that?’

  Redmire laughed and there was applause from the guests.

  ‘It’s not over yet. Shut me in again.’

  The whole procedure was repeated and Redmire was discovered to have disappeared again; but now, when the door was opened for the second time, he still wasn’t there. As his audience made another search of the room, they heard a voice.

  ‘No point looking in there.’

  It was Redmire, sitting in a chair behind them. Everyone was stunned, amazed and full of admiration.

  ‘What the devil!’

  ‘Good Lord, but that’s incredible!’

  ‘Bravo, old boy!’

  The whole party burst into applause. Redmire, grinning from ear to ear, lapped it up.

  The rest of the weekend passed somewhat anticlimactically, without further excitement. Despite the strenuous efforts of many to persuade him, Redmire would not perform the trick again and would say nothing further about his methods. He was clearly enjoying the tantalising mystery and speculation into which he’d plunged his guests. There was much intense discussion about how Redmire could have performed his feat, but it came to nothing. The trick was never explained.

  True to form, and despite what he’d said, Redmire soon lost interest in magic. He became fascinated instead by the military campaigns of Julius Caesar. As expected, Redmire Hall underwent some interior refurbishment and was then opened to the public, bringing in much-needed revenue for its eccentric, spendthrift owner. There were tours around the Hall, but only of the big formal rooms with their sumptuous furniture and decorations. The gardens gained a nationwide reputation for their excellence.

  The door to the locked room remained locked and bolted, and the key soon went missing. Redmire moved on but remained proud of the trick and would never divulge the details. The evening became legendary to those who’d been there; but, in the course of time, most of them died, including Redmire himself. The story faded and the locked room seemed to be forgotten. Until one day someone saw its potential for something more sinister than entertainment.

  One

  Frederick Carstairs, the latest Lord Redmire, sat at the desk in his study overlooking the famous double herbaceous borders of Redmire Hall, which stretched down from the house to the River Ure in a glorious sweep of colour. They were looking particularly fine on this July day and Redmire couldn’t help admiring them, although he had no great regard for the wonderful gardens of his ancestral home except in so far as they earned revenue from visitors. These gardens had been bequeathed to him by his father along with the house and a debt that he’d never got under control.

  He had never been quite sure how he felt about his father. He admired him for being a brilliant eccentric. While Frederick was growing up there had never been a dull moment, as the cliché went. He’d been on expeditions with his father to South America in search of undiscovered Inca cities; helped maintain a fleet of early Rolls-Royce cars; and dived for sunken treasure off the coast of Spain. The late Vivian Carstairs had involved his sons in some of his obsessional pursuits and Frederick’s memories of those years were vivid. On the other hand, he realised how his father’s reckless spending – albeit on fascinating and exciting endeavours – had almost ruined the estate and placed enormous stress on his mother, who was usually left at home to manage things.

  However, it would have been unfair to place the entire blame for the estate’s financial problems on his father; the new Lord Redmire had not been exactly careful with money either. His tastes when he was younger had been more conventional than those of Vivian Carstairs: fast cars, partying and womanising. He was now in his sixties and, although the more energetic of his pursuits had diminished, his increasingly costly gambling – mostly card games online, but also at various private clubs when he was in London – meant that money seemed to melt away almost as soon as it was generated.

  There was a knock at the door and Andrea Jenkinson, his PA, came into the room with a coffee tray. She was in her late thirties and smartly dressed in a formal style. She placed the tray on Frederick’s large mahogany desk.

  ‘Cheers, Andrea. Have you and Richard double-checked everything for this evening?’

  She gazed out at the stunning view. ‘Yes. It’s all in order; there’s nothing to worry about.’

  ‘I never do when you’re in charge, my dear.’ Frederick sat back in his chair and smiled at her. His face was somewhat wrinkled and haggard after a lifetime of decadence, but the outlines of his handsome features were still there. ‘What’s the running order?’

  ‘The television people set up yesterday; they’ll be back soon to check everything. Paying guests are allowed in at seven; family, friends and special guests need to be in position by seven thirty, and we go live at seven forty-five.’

  ‘Good,’ replied Frederick. ‘We’re all set, then.’

  As Andrea left the room, Frederick smi
led as he thought of the truly astonishing trick he was going to recreate later that day. Secrecy was of the utmost importance in all magic tricks. He remembered being a young man and witnessing his father perform the locked-room illusion to a private audience. Nothing would persuade Vivian Carstairs to repeat the trick or divulge any of its secrets – even to members of his own family, including Frederick. He’d thought the secret had died with his father but he was wrong: he’d recently rediscovered the locked room and learned how it worked. And he’d seen its potential to make him some money.

  His father’s performance had certainly impressed those who saw it. People wrote about it later in their memoirs. Articles had appeared in newspapers and magazines over the years, recalling the famous occasion and speculating about how it might have been done. The incident fitted beautifully into the wider legend of Vivian Carstairs and his fascinating eccentricity.

  But now his son intended to take matters to a daring new level. Frederick had called in the media and was going to replicate his father’s trick live on television. The benefit to the estate would be immense: afterwards people would flock to see the famous locked room. He intended to open it to the public as a kind of challenge: examine the room and explain the trick. He was even considering the offer of a substantial prize to anyone who could solve it, being very confident that nobody would. And, to further ensure the trick’s credibility, he had persuaded a prominent member of the Harrogate Division of the West Riding Police to be present when it was performed.

  From his study, Frederick was able to see the long road through the deer park up to the house and the steps up from the gravel drive past the fountain to the large front door. He watched with satisfaction as a succession of people arrived. Redmire had other, more personal matters to deal with, and inviting family and friends to this event was a good excuse to get them together.

  First his brother, Dominic, and his wife, Mary, drove up in a Mercedes. He’d got on well with his sibling when they were both children and in awe of their father, but Dominic had turned into a huge bore when he reached adulthood. He was much more sensible and practical than his elder brother and ran a recruitment consultancy in York. Frederick knew that Dominic resented his lot as the second son, not inheriting the estate and the title and having to work for a living. He also knew that Dominic regarded him as a wastrel who had squandered the wealth of the estate.