by J. R. Ellis
‘Love you too.’
The next morning, as Oldroyd predicted, he was called in to see DCS Tom Walker. Walker valued Oldroyd’s skill and experience and was quite willing to protect him against higher authorities – especially the despised Chief Constable Matthew Watkins. They also shared a strong Yorkshire identity. Nevertheless Oldroyd was expecting trouble after his unapproved appearance on television, but as he sat down he was surprised to see that Walker was smiling. He looked at Oldroyd with an inane grin on his face and nodded. He seemed to be struggling to speak.
‘Sit down, Jim. I . . .’ He couldn’t continue, and suddenly burst out laughing.
Oldroyd sat speechless with astonishment as the laughter continued.
‘Oh dear!’ Walker took out a big handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his eyes. ‘Sorry, Jim; it’s just that I was watching it last night – me and the wife – and I saw you pop up unexpectedly on camera and then examining that room. My wife said, “Isn’t that Jim Oldroyd?” and I said: “Yes, it is.” I was flabbergasted to begin with. I thought, what the bloody hell’s he up to? And then the door was opened and the chap was dead and . . . and, well, the look on your face when you saw the body . . . I’ve never seen anything so bloody funny in my life!’
With that he collapsed into further paroxysms of laughter. Oldroyd was relieved that he was clearly not going to get a dressing-down, but had to admit he found the super’s sense of humour rather inappropriate, however hapless he’d looked at that awful moment. It was a while before Walker could settle himself down again.
‘I’m sorry, Jim; I shouldn’t be laughing when someone’s been killed, but honestly, if you could have seen yourself . . . Anyway, I’ve had Watkins on the phone asking what the hell’s going on. He wanted me to discipline you, but I said why? It’s worked out well, you being there: you were a witness, and Stephanie. It means you’re well placed to move the investigation on quickly. I told him you’d had a tip that something might happen so you accepted Redmire’s invitation. He swallowed the whole bloody lot, the fool! So you’re in the clear; just make a good job of it.’
Oldroyd saw the relish with which Walker had put one over Watkins; it was clear that providing this opportunity, as well as some comic entertainment, had put him in his boss’s good books. Walker didn’t even ask him for the truth about why he and Steph had been there.
‘Anyway, Jim, I presume you’re off back there today, taking charge. Afraid I can’t spare you any detectives: we’ve got a lot on at the moment. You can take Stephanie, of course, as your sergeant. I’ve been on to the Ripon station and they’ll provide some help. I’ve also made it clear that you’re leading things.’
‘Thanks, Tom. Steph and I will manage as long as we can take some DCs from Ripon. There’s going to be a lot of legwork; lots of people to question, you know.’
Walker agreed and Oldroyd went back to the office. Steph was ready to leave for Redmire Hall, rightly assuming that she would be Oldroyd’s second-in-command on this investigation. Oldroyd explained to her about Walker’s unexpected reaction to the events of the previous evening. Steph laughed at this.
‘Well, sir, at least it’s better than the bollocking you were expecting.’
‘I suppose so,’ agreed Oldroyd, ‘but it was a bit annoying that he found me such a ridiculous figure when that body appeared. I wonder how many more people in the TV audience thought the same.’
‘It’s not like you to worry about what people think about you, sir.’
‘No, I suppose not. Anyway, let’s get off.’
They left the building, with Steph still laughing to herself about her boss’s wounded dignity.
The atmosphere in the breakfast room at Redmire Hall was extremely grim. The family members slowly appeared, except Alex Davis and Poppy, who were still in their beds, completely distraught, and had declared themselves unable to eat anything.
Antonia ignored the tureens of food on the long sideboard, poured herself a strong black coffee and sat silently at the table, lost in thought.
James Forsyth sat opposite her with another black coffee. He fidgeted, desperate to have a smoke. After a minute or so he got up from his place, mumbled ‘Excuse me’ to Antonia, and walked through some French windows on to a terrace, where he was able to light up. Tristram came in, looking very nervous, and sat at a corner of the large table, quietly eating some toast. Only Dominic Carstairs and Douglas Ramsay began piling their plates with the eggs, bacon, sausage and other breakfast items. They took their seats in the centre of the table.
Dominic looked around. ‘Well, it’s bloody depressing in here,’ he declared.
Antonia looked up sharply. ‘What on earth do you expect, Dominic? Have you forgotten what happened last night?’
‘Of course not, but it won’t do us any good moping around.’ He sliced off a piece of the thick sausage on his plate, dipped it in egg yolk and thrust it into his mouth. ‘The police are on the rampage and we’ve got to have our wits about us. I don’t like the look of that chief inspector.’ He waved his knife in the air. ‘I think he’s probably a socialist and he’ll be delighted if he can pin the murder on one of us and get one over on the rich set.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, darling.’ Mary Carstairs had entered the room and was standing behind her husband, pouring some tea. ‘You’re talking as if poor Freddy’s murder might be the start of a Bolshevik revolution.’ She sat down next to Antonia. ‘The police are only doing their job. I thought they were very nice, that detective and his glamorous assistant. Very polite and understanding.’
Dominic glared at his plate, rolled a rasher of bacon around his fork and stuffed it whole into his mouth.
‘You’re always so gullible; don’t let them take you in. They’re still the police, however nice they seem.’
‘Well, I’ve nothing to hide, so it doesn’t concern me.’
Dominic bridled at this. ‘What on earth are you implying? You don’t . . .’
Douglas Ramsay, who was tucking in to kippers and scrambled eggs, laughed. ‘She’s pulling your leg, Dominic. Calm down, for goodness’ sake.’
Dominic scowled and, without another word, continued to eat aggressively.
‘Do you really think the police believe it’s one of us?’ They all turned to Tristram, who’d spoken for the first time since he entered the room.
‘Well,’ said Douglas, ‘as the inspector told us last night, it’s the logical place for them to start their enquiries. Whether we like it or not, we have to accept that, at least for now, we are the main suspects.’
Tristram shook his head, and Dominic muttered something into his plate.
Mary turned to Antonia. ‘How are you feeling, darling? It’s much worse for you than for some of us; I mean, you were married to him for all those years.’
Antonia gave her a weak smile. ‘Yes, it was all so sudden and shocking. Freddy and I had our disagreements, but I wouldn’t wish that on anybody.’
‘Of course not, darling; it was absolutely hideous, seeing him fall over with that knife in his back. I don’t think—’
‘Good God, I don’t believe it!’ James Forsyth suddenly came rushing back into the room.
‘What’s going on?’ asked Douglas.
‘One of the police officers came over, gave me a message – said could I tell the rest of you . . .’ He stopped, as though he couldn’t bring himself to finish the sentence.
‘Well?’
‘There’s been another murder.’
Antonia let out a little cry.
‘What the—!’ Dominic threw down his knife and fork with a clatter.
Forsyth continued. ‘A man who worked on the estate – a mechanic, retired, name of Robinson. Found him this morning in his cottage, strangled.’
Horrified glances were exchanged, but no one seemed capable of any further comment.
While Oldroyd and Steph were on their way, HQ radioed the news that another body had been found at Redmire Hall. Steph took the call.
‘An old chap in one of the estate cottages?’ said Oldroyd after she reported it all to him.
‘Yes, sir. Looks like he was strangled; there are marks round his neck. Forensics are on their way.’
‘Right. Well, it can’t be a coincidence.’
‘You think it’s connected?’
‘Surely. I mean, is it plausible that some random robber or madman breaks into a cottage and kills someone on the same night that the owner is also murdered?’
‘It’s possible.’
‘Yes, but my instinct tells me that it’s not the case. I think that person was probably killed because he knew something, and it will be very informative to find out what.’
Oldroyd turned off the main road and on to the approach to the Hall. It was still beautiful but had lost the glamour lent by last night’s excited anticipation before the horror of the unfolding events. The sky was glaringly bright but overcast. As they reached the house, they could see yellow-and-black tape across the door of one of a row of pretty red-brick terraced cottages.
‘We’d better go in there first,’ said Oldroyd as he drew the car to a halt.
Police officers from the Ripon station were on guard and a young detective constable from Ripon met them at the door. He was energetic-looking and had a brisk, efficient manner.
‘Good morning, sir; DC Jeffries. The deceased’s name was Harold Robinson, known as Harry. He was seventy years old; wife died a few years ago. A retired mechanic – worked on the estate here for forty years maintaining the family’s cars and other odd repairing jobs. Found this morning by the chap who lives next door, John Cooke, concerned he hadn’t seen the deceased out and about early on, which apparently was his habit.’
‘Any sign of a break-in? Anything taken?’
‘Nothing obviously stolen, sir. Television set, et cetera, all in place and no signs of forced entrance. The front door was unlocked, suggesting the victim may have known the attacker and let him or her inside; then this assailant simply closed the door behind them when they left.’
‘Indeed. Thank you. Let’s take a look inside, then.’
Oldroyd and Steph went through a narrow entrance hall and into a small sitting room decorated in a rather old-fashioned manner, with a chintzy sofa and heavy curtains, but everything seemed of good quality. On the floor was sprawled the body of the victim, face down on an expensive-looking Persian carpet. Oldroyd examined the room.
‘Well, I can’t think the motive was robbery. There are some quite expensive things here – pottery, ornaments, silver candlesticks – all of which would be worth a bit and easy to carry away.’
‘Unless there was one particular item they wanted and they just took that,’ suggested Steph.
‘Of course, but given that this chap was an estate mechanic all his career and wouldn’t have earned a great deal, he seems to have acquired some valuable stuff – unless he had some other means of income.’
‘Sounds like a job for me, sir; I’ll investigate it,’ said Steph.
‘Good,’ replied Oldroyd. ‘See if there’s any kind of inventory anywhere that might include something that’s now missing, and look into his accounts. Ah, here’s Tim.’
Tim Groves appeared, his lanky frame ducking through the low doorways of the cottage. ‘Good morning,’ he announced breezily. ‘So I take it last night’s operation was part of something more complex than you thought, or do you think these murders are not linked?’
‘On the contrary, Tim: I’m pretty sure they were. No sign of robbery here, nobody forced their way in. I think he knew something.’
‘Killer lost no time in shutting him up, then. It’s the old “S” murder in your taxonomy. Right, let’s have a look.’
‘S’ stood for ‘Silencer’, referring to someone being murdered because they knew too much. Oldroyd had a habit of inventing these acronyms for deaths, maybe as a way of bringing humour to a subject he found difficult to contemplate despite his regular contact with its brutal reality. There was MTAP, ‘Malignancy of Time and Place’, which mainly applied to the unfortunate victims of serial killers who’d just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. BM stood for ‘Blackmail’, KFTM for ‘Killed for Their Money’, LJ for ‘Lust and Jealousy’, and so on.
Oldroyd’s current favourite was NBI: ‘No Bloody Idea’, applied when there was no obvious suspect and the investigation was slow. At least these acronyms were more creative and humorous than the dreary stuff produced by management.
‘And what do you think he knew?’ asked Groves as he deftly carried out his examination, peering closely at the red marks on the body, which Steph had already noticed.
‘Well, given that he was a mechanic, I’d say he may well have known something about how Carstairs’s trick worked. There’s a way in and out of that locked room, and it’s concealed in an extremely clever way. Sometimes illusions like that are breathtakingly simple, but often the mechanisms behind them are very complicated. Given the victim’s age, he was probably involved when the old Lord Redmire had that room installed. The story is that an illusionist came from Italy to set it up, but someone based here on the estate with technical knowledge would have had to know how it worked in case anything went wrong or needed repairing. I’ll bet it was this man and that he knew the secret of the trick.’
‘I didn’t know until last night you were a magic-and-illusion buff,’ observed Groves with a smile.
‘Yes! I think it’s because magic tricks are puzzles, a bit like crimes, and I like to try to work out how they’re done.’
‘Same for me sometimes,’ replied Groves. ‘But not this time, I think. Fairly straightforward: throttled by some kind of thick cord; probably a man – quite a bit of force, judging by the depth of these marks.’
‘It might be important to know what kind of cord, Tim. Any chance of finding out?’
‘Well, I’ll have a closer look back at the lab, see if I can find any fibres. I’ve still got to examine the knife that killed His Lordship, by the way – see if there’s anything interesting about it.’
‘Good. Well, let me know as soon as you can. We’ll have to start questioning them all today up at the Hall.’
‘Good Lord!’ chuckled Groves. ‘It’s a real old Agatha Christie “murder at the big house” job, isn’t it? Maybe it was the butler! People are often not who they appear to be in her stories, are they? Maybe someone’s a Russian agent or has a secret past.’
‘You can laugh, but Agatha had a fine brain. I’ve learned a lot about how to think about difficult cases by reading her novels,’ replied Oldroyd, and then suddenly went thoughtful.
‘Mais oui, Hercule. I’ll be in touch.’ Tim Groves went off laughing to himself as his assistants prepared to move the body.
‘Sir?’ asked Steph, who’d been listening to the conversation. ‘Do you think Robinson could have carried out the murder himself if he knew how the trick worked?’
‘Quite possibly, but it’s more likely that he provided the technical know-how. But I think there were more ruthless people than him involved, and now they’ve got rid of him because he knew too much; I think they were probably the ones who actually killed Redmire. But it’s all supposition until we get some actual evidence. Ah, Jeffries!’
The keen young DC was still there, waiting for his next job.
‘I want you to prepare a portfolio for tomorrow, containing as much information as you can about Redmire’s family and friends and also a list of all the people who work here. You can get the latter from that estate manager, Wilkins, and I want all his background information on the employees too.’
Jeffries’s eyes brightened. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘And tell your superior at Ripon . . . Inspector Parsons, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘I’m going to need you to work with me until this case is finished. If he doesn’t like the idea I’ll have a word with him.’
A broad smile filled Jeffries’s face. ‘Yes, sir!’ He practically r
an off to complete his task.
Oldroyd turned to Steph. ‘Well, he’ll be very useful, I think.’
‘I think he’ll want your autograph at the end of the case,’ laughed Steph.
Oldroyd laughed too. ‘Come on. We’d better get cracking up at the house.’
Oldroyd and Steph left the cottage, which was still being guarded by uniformed officers. Everything was strangely quiet as they strolled along the gravel paths towards the Hall. Instead of the usual steady stream of visitors exploring the grounds, everywhere was deserted.
Oldroyd reflected on what Tim Groves had said. Some people among that group of friends, family and estate workers were playing roles, nurturing deceits, their own personal illusions as deadly in their way as the locked room that had proved a deathtrap for Lord Redmire. It was his and Steph’s job to unmask whoever it was and to solve the mystery of the trick.
He frowned. This was starting to seem a tall order.
‘Harry Robinson – I remember him,’ said Antonia. ‘He was a mechanic. He serviced the cars and things like that; he did all sorts of odd jobs. He was a really nice man, very loyal. He retired just before I left. What on earth’s going on?’
Most of the family were still in the breakfast room, trying to absorb the shocking news of the second murder.
‘It seems a coincidence,’ said Douglas. ‘But I would imagine the police will think the two murders are linked.’
‘The whole estate’s under attack,’ said Dominic. ‘Who knows what’s behind it? Freddy may well have borrowed money from some gangster types in London and when he couldn’t pay back they decided to come here to take revenge and whatever loot they could put their hands on.’
‘That’s a bit wild, old boy,’ said Douglas. ‘I mean, I can’t imagine why such people would attack a retired estate worker.’
‘Those types always go for the most vulnerable, mark my words.’
‘Anyway, the plot thickens,’ observed James Forsyth. ‘I’m glad I don’t have to get to the bottom of it.’
‘First Freddy and now this,’ said Mary Carstairs. ‘It’s a nightmare.’