The Murder at Redmire Hall

by J. R. Ellis

  Although he was forced to confess that there was some truth in that, he could never convince his pragmatic brother that the estate actually possessed far fewer financial resources than he thought. Frederick watched unseen as Dominic got out of the car wearing a tweed sports jacket, brown trousers and a tie. God! How suffocatingly old-fashioned the man was. Dominic turned towards the house, frowned and went round to help his wife out of the car. Mary was wearing a shortish skirt with an expensive-looking cashmere cardigan, a silk scarf around her neck and dark glasses. She was very attractive and far too good for his dull brother. She looked up in the direction of the study, as if she knew Frederick would be watching, and smiled. Could it be that on this visit they might . . . ?

  The next to arrive was Redmire’s daughter, Poppy, and her boyfriend, Tristram Benington, in a sporty Mini. Redmire had spent a fortune on his daughter’s education at expensive private schools, but to no avail. She’d left without gaining any qualifications, and now swanned around in London supposedly working as a photographer. But she never seemed to earn anything, despite the fact that he’d shelled out for some very expensive equipment. She was currently living with Tristram, a male model, in a ridiculously expensive flat in Chelsea – and guess who was helping her with her share of the rent? Frederick smiled sardonically to himself as he watched them get out of the car. They were both wearing designer jeans and leather jackets, and seemed to be arguing as they walked up to the house. He had to confess that she was her father’s daughter: expensive tastes and a liking for the high life. He could see a great deal of himself in her, and in her boyfriend. They were well matched in many ways, not always positively. But, ironically, it had been Frederick who’d introduced them, so he’d only himself to blame.

  Not long after, an older but equally glamorous couple arrived: Alexandra Davis and her current partner, James Forsyth. They roared up to the house in an open-topped sports car. Alex was wearing dark glasses and a headscarf; she looked like Audrey Hepburn. James was tanned, and sported a trim moustache.

  Frederick had had a long and passionate affair with Alex. This was the affair that finally destroyed his marriage. But then Alex’d gone off with James, his former business partner. Frederick frowned at the memory. Most unsatisfactory – especially as, by then, he and James had already parted acrimoniously. Their venture, a dealership in luxury vintage cars, had gone bankrupt and James blamed Frederick for this failure. James now ran another, more successful business dealing in sports cars, but the wretched man was still a thorn in Frederick’s flesh. Alex, though: so many wonderful memories! He would never meet another woman like her. Maybe someday they could . . .

  Finally, a BMW moved slowly up the drive and crunched to a halt on the gravel. Frederick’s former wife, Antonia, daughter of the Earl of Wensley, got out of one side and her new husband, Douglas Ramsay, the other. Frederick looked at Antonia carefully; she was what he called a ‘handsome’ woman, immaculately dressed and made-up but lacking that special sense of style and excitement that he’d found so irresistible in Alex. Douglas was a fat, balding businessman who sold furniture. Very successful by all accounts, and they lived in a massive converted farmhouse in Wensleydale, but just about as boring as Frederick’s brother.

  Douglas and Antonia completed the arrivals, which left Frederick’s son, Alistair, and his wife, Katherine, as the final invited guests. They did not need to travel as they lived on the estate with their two little daughters, Caroline and Emily, in a comfortable, attractive house that had in more prosperous times accommodated the head gardener. The house was actually built into one of the walls of the old kitchen garden, and had had a large extension with a conservatory built on to the back. Alistair was more like his mother and indeed his Uncle Dominic: steady and sensible with a strong sense of the traditions of the house and family. Frederick suspected he would be a very worthy successor to himself; indeed, far better in terms of conserving the estate and spending money wisely. At last there would be a Carstairs who was neither eccentric nor a spendthrift. But how dull!

  Frederick had sent a message to his people on the door that he was not available to speak to any of the arrivals. There were too many distracting and conflicting agendas among them, when he needed to concentrate on the main event of the day. He had instructed that all the family and special guests should be shown to their rooms with an assurance that he would see them for an early dinner at 6.30 p.m. He had no intention of revealing anything then either; that could all wait until tomorrow. He did, however, decide to see one person: his mother.

  The dowager Lady Redmire, now well into her eighties, but very alert and active, lived in a self-contained flat on the ground floor of the house. She had a small sitting room with French windows that opened on to a small formal garden not open to the public. Her adjacent bedroom afforded views of the same garden, which she liked to maintain herself with help from the Hall’s gardening team.

  Frederick found her on the small patio outside the French windows, sitting in a deeply cushioned cane chair and drinking tea. He sat in an identical chair opposite.

  ‘How are you, Mummy?’ There was not a close relationship between them. Frederick had spent his childhood away at various boarding schools and he knew that she disapproved of his behaviour since he’d reached adulthood.

  She gave him a sulky glance. ‘As well as can be expected. I take it you’re still going ahead with this wretched thing?’

  Frederick responded with a smile. He’d pondered long and hard about whether to tell his mother about his reconstruction of his father’s trick. He had known she wouldn’t approve. For much of her long-suffering adult life, she’d had to cope with her husband’s whims and obsessions, often being whisked around the world when she would have much preferred a quiet life at the Hall developing the gardens. She hadn’t been the slightest bit interested in her husband’s stunts, and her son’s recreation of one of them merely reminded her of exasperating times in the past. But not to have told her would have invited trouble. She was bound to have become aware that something was happening, with all the activity and big television vans arriving. Then she would have been angry with him for concealing things. She retained a kind of proprietorial attitude to the Hall and the estate; although her son was now in charge of it all, she still regarded it as fundamentally her residence and didn’t like anything happening without her knowledge.

  ‘Yes, Mummy, but don’t worry about it; you don’t have to be there. You’ll see everyone at dinner and then you can come back here.’ It felt like reassuring a child.

  ‘But I don’t like to think of all of these people swarming around the place, prying and interfering – especially television people. Why do they have to come? They’re bad news, you mark my words.’

  ‘They’re the main reason I’m doing this, Mummy. People will flock here afterwards to see where this amazing trick took place. You’ll see.’

  ‘Humph! More people trampling over the grounds.’

  ‘But, Mummy, it’s the only way we can generate the revenue we need.’

  She gave him a filthy look and didn’t reply. He knew she was aware of his extravagances, and strongly disapproved of his gambling. He decided it was time to go.

  ‘Well, Mummy, I’ll have to be off; it’s going to be a very busy evening.’ She gave him another nasty glance. ‘I’ll see you later. You are coming over for dinner, aren’t you?’

  ‘No,’ she replied. ‘I couldn’t bear to sit round the table with all those people, most of whom hate each other. I shall have a tray sent over. Tell Poppy to look in and see her grandmother but without that dreadful boyfriend. And Antonia: I should like to see her. They should come over together.’ She looked at her son with contempt. ‘Antonia was far too good for you, you know. What on earth possessed you to go off with that preposterous little tart Alex, I’ll—’

  ‘Mummy.’ Frederick interrupted his mother calmly but firmly. ‘Let’s not go through all that again, shall we? There’s no real point.’

&nbs
p; Lady Redmire turned her face away from him. Frederick sighed, got up and left.

  The day of his boss’s grand illusion was proving very difficult for Richard Wilkins, Redmire’s estate manager. He was a large, prematurely balding man with a perpetually harassed look. His suits tended to be a size too small and tight, and consequently he sweated a lot and often went red in the face. He’d been delighted, five years ago, to secure the job at such a prestigious place as Redmire Hall, but had soon discovered that it was very demanding. His previous position had been at a National Trust property, where the job description had been very clearly delineated. At Redmire, however, he found that he was expected to take charge of a whole range of things that had never even been mentioned at his interview. He was responsible for the house and the estate, with teams of people under his authority, some of whom had been at Redmire for years. They were not always very effective, but had been kept on like old retainers. The only area not under Wilkins’s control was the gardens, which were managed independently by the head gardener and his team. Mr Carstairs – as Wilkins thought of Lord Redmire – was a demanding employer but also disengaged from the day-to-day business. He wanted the Hall, the estate and its farms to turn over a profit, but he didn’t appear to have the slightest interest in how. Wilkins actually despised the man. He was the worst kind of aristocrat, with his profligate spending and his arrogant, lazy sense of entitlement.

  Wilkins was at his desk in the estate office. This was in the former stables, which had been converted into offices, a gift shop and a café. He sat back in his chair and closed his eyes for a moment, reflecting on his situation. The stress of the job was affecting him: he was sleeping badly and also putting on weight, as he snacked too much on chocolate bars to try to keep his energy levels up during the day and had no time for exercise. And then there was this ludicrous stunt that Redmire was performing on live television. Guess who he’d put in charge of organising things? This had involved considerable extra work in coordinating with the television company, but there was little sign of appreciation from his employer.

  Wilkins looked at his watch: four o’clock. He would have loved to lie down and have a nap but just at that moment the phone rang from reception at the Hall. He was needed. Wearily he prised himself out of the chair. He had a lot to do.

  Meanwhile Frederick’s family and friends had been making themselves at home in their rooms and speculating about what was about to happen.

  Dominic Carstairs lay on the bed while Mary unpacked her clothes.

  ‘I still don’t understand what Freddy thinks he’s up to,’ he said moodily. ‘How can he possibly have found out how my father did that trick? Who on earth’s told him and why has he invited all of us?’

  ‘Who knows how he’s found out?’ replied Mary, hanging up various outfits and still contemplating which one to wear for the evening. ‘But you know how Freddy likes the limelight. He wants us all there to admire his achievement. There we are, his family and friends, supporting him live on television. And he knows we can’t resist coming here to Redmire and staying in this marvellous old place.’

  Dominic grunted. ‘You might feel like that about Redmire, but it’s not the same for me. The youngest son always gets kicked out of the family home; it leaves you with a bad feeling, especially when a man like Freddy has it all given to him on a plate. Do you know, I don’t think he’s ever done a proper day’s work in his life except at the bloody gaming table. I don’t like to contemplate how much money he’s gone through over the years.’

  Mary was adjusting her hair and make-up at the antique walnut dressing table.

  ‘No point being bitter, darling; you’ve not had a bad deal in life, after all. You’ve done well up to now. He’s just a different kind of character. It takes all sorts to make a world.’

  Dominic looked at his wife. She always seemed to find excuses for Freddy. He suspected that she was quite attracted to him – and that the feeling was mutual. This had hardly endeared his brother any further to him but unfortunately there were reasons why he couldn’t afford to antagonise Frederick at the moment, and why he’d agreed to come to take part in this ridiculous business: he was hoping for at least a loan from Freddy.

  He stretched his legs and got up from the bed. ‘Well, he’s up to something, if you ask me. Anyway, I’m off for a walk round the gardens, kill a bit of time before dinner.’

  When Dominic left, Mary waited a moment and then picked up her phone. She tapped out a text and sent it, then put on a low-cut strappy top, a tight skirt and a fitted jacket that clung to her shapely figure. She opened the door, glanced up and down the corridor to check there was no one about, and then left the room.

  Poppy rolled off Tristram and lay beside him in the bed. She caressed his sweat-soaked chest while she gained control of her breathing.

  ‘I love these old rooms and these big beds; there’s something luxurious and sexy about them.’

  Tristram laughed. ‘You find everywhere sexy. That’s one of the things I like about you.’

  She picked up a pillow and hit him with it. ‘I do not.’ She laughed. ‘You make me sound like some nympho tart.’

  ‘Sounds good to me!’

  She hit him with the pillow again and they had a play-wrestle and pillow fight on the bed. ‘Anyway, it’s time I made a move if I’m going to corner Dad.’

  She got into her underwear, and then pulled on her expensive jeans and top.

  ‘How are you going to do that? He’s told everyone he’s not available – getting ready for this trick or whatever it is.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll find a way. I know he can’t refuse me; he’s like all dads with their little girls.’ She looked at her boyfriend’s handsome body, naked on the bed. She was completely infatuated with him, but was not blind to his faults. Tristram was a gambler, like her father. In fact it was when she’d visited one of his clubs that Frederick had introduced them. Tristram was a successful male model and made a lot of money. Unfortunately, he also had a habit of losing large sums at the gaming table – and at the moment he had some debts outstanding to people well known to Redmire and his circle. Poppy believed she could persuade her father either to speak to Tristram’s debtors and get them to reschedule the payments, or even to pay off some of the debt himself. Lord Redmire had already refused this once.

  Tristram was sceptical. ‘I really don’t think you’ve any chance on this one.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I’ve told you: it’s a matter of honour in gaming circles. You have to pay your debts, otherwise you get blackballed and you won’t get into any gaming club ever again.’

  ‘Well, that wouldn’t matter anyway, would it? Because you’ve promised me that after this you’re giving it up: no more card-playing for money.’ He looked down sheepishly. ‘I mean it, Tristram. I don’t care how good you are in bed. I’m going to get you out of this mess, but if you let me down again it’s all over. I’m not staying with a character like my father who’s gambled away half of his estate.’

  ‘That’s why he won’t listen to you: he’s had gambling debts himself and had to honour them, so why should he be sympathetic to me?’

  ‘You leave it to me to speak to him.’

  Tristram shrugged his shoulders. Poppy left the room without another word.

  Alex Davis lay on the bed smoking, having cast off her expensive shoes. James Forsyth sat in an armchair by the window looking uneasy. He was also smoking. The window was open. They had been silent since their arrival.

  ‘God knows why we’ve come here,’ James eventually blurted out.

  ‘Freddy puts on a good dinner and plenty of top-class wine. What more do you want?’ replied Alex languidly.

  ‘But why did he invite us, for God’s sake? His former business partner and his former mistress? It’s not as if we all parted amicably; he knows I blame him for our business going under. He never did a stroke of work, and look at me now: I’m succeeding without him. Shows who the weak link was. Anyway, I’m
still going to make him pay.’

  ‘Relax, it’s all in the past. Maybe he’s forgiven you. And what do you mean, “make him pay”?’

  James laughed scornfully. ‘Never mind. And I doubt he’s forgiven me – not that he has anything to forgive me for; more the other way round.’ He looked over at her. ‘I think it’s you he wants to see. I think he’d have you back in a jiffy, the old goat.’

  This time Alex laughed. ‘Now, now. No jealousy or bitterness. We can’t have you two fighting over me; that would spoil the trick. Whatever it is.’

  ‘Well, who knows. It’s all a bit weird, if you ask me. But I mean it: if he tries anything on with you, he’ll have me to reckon with.’

  She was going to laugh again, but then she saw the look on his face. ‘Good Lord, you’re serious, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes, I am.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. Anyway, I’m going down to get a drink.’

  ‘Well, I’m not coming; I don’t want to run into him. I’m going for a walk round the gardens.’

  ‘Suit yourself, but remember we’re having dinner early, at half six, so don’t get lost in the herbaceous borders.’

  She went out, leaving James staring moodily at his phone.

  As he was doing so, the phone pinged and the newly arrived text brought a smile to his face.

  Antonia Ramsay stood at the window of her bedroom, which offered a view of the long borders down to the river. Douglas was lying on the bed, taking a nap. Her feelings about being here were very conflicted. She missed being the mistress of such a grand and beautiful property as this, but being here at Redmire again brought back some very painful memories of her husband’s infidelities. Of course no one had any sympathy for you when you lived at a place like Redmire, but despite the material luxury of her life there she’d always felt miserable. Not only had she had to deal with the personal sense of betrayal, but she’d also had to hide her feelings from Alistair and Poppy, who witnessed the arguments and their father’s long absences. Luckily she’d had an ally in Lady Redmire, who to this day always took Antonia’s side against her son, and who was very fond of the children. Antonia knew the solidarity came from shared experience. Not of infidelity in the case of Vivian Carstairs, but of unreliability and being left with the offspring and domestic matters. It hurt, even if there were servants and nannies around to lighten the physical load.