The Murder at Redmire Hall

by J. R. Ellis

  Turning his attention to the walls, he prodded and probed but everywhere the plaster was smooth and gave no possible indication of a door or recess.

  He sighed. ‘What about the ceiling?’

  Steph, who’d also been poking around without success, frowned. ‘It doesn’t look likely, sir. I’d swear this place has no way out except the door we came through.’

  ‘That’s what it’s meant to look like. Remember, a specialist team came from Italy to construct this illusion, and it seems to have taken them some time. Finding the answer is not going to be easy.’

  He climbed on to the chair, and pushed and tapped at the ceiling. Then he fiddled with the light fitting. Nothing.

  ‘Let’s have another look at that trapdoor,’ he said.

  He pulled the door up by the brass handle and got down to look into the cavity, just as Vivian Carstairs’s friends had done many years before. It was just the same: wires and junction boxes, concrete floor and walls, no way out.

  ‘Go outside and shut the door,’ he said to Steph. ‘Let’s see if closing it causes anything to happen.’

  Steph went out and closed the door behind her. Oldroyd sat in the chair like Redmire had previously, and felt a tingle of fear. It was claustrophobic and strange to be alone in the locked room itself. The last person who’d done so had not emerged alive. But nothing happened.

  ‘Turn the key, Steph!’ he called out. ‘Maybe the lock activates something.’

  Steph again obliged – again with no result.

  ‘Open up. Nothing’s happened.’

  Steph re-entered the room to find Oldroyd still sitting in the chair, deep in thought.

  ‘Well, it beats me,’ he said. ‘We’ll have to contact the Italian police and see if we can find anyone connected to the Italian illusionist who invented this thing – Count Mazarini, I think he called himself. I don’t know whether he was a real count or whether that was just a stage name. I doubt if he’s still alive, but someone over there might know something. I’m going to research him myself when I get the chance. We also need to find out more about Harry Robinson; see if he ever spoke to anyone about this trick.’

  ‘Do you think if we can find out how it was done, it will lead us to the killers, sir?’

  Oldroyd looked round the room again with a mixture of frustration and admiration. ‘Who knows? It’s another double-puzzle case, isn’t it? We don’t how or who, but you can bet that the identity of the killer is linked to the secret of the illusion.’

  Suddenly he had an idea.

  ‘Let’s go and have a look at things from the outside. It might give us some ideas.’

  They left the room and the lobby and crossed to the nearest external door, which opened at the end of the east wing of the house. It was then a short walk round to the rear. Oldroyd peered at the building. They were standing in a small courtyard with three sides. Part of the main house formed one side and a low wing ran parallel on the other. Between them, at right angles, ran another section of the house, which formed the third wall. On this section an extension had been built out with wide stone pillars at either end.

  Oldroyd pointed to the extension. ‘Right. Well, that must be the back of it. That’s the window and that extension looks about the size of the room. I think . . .’ He looked carefully and it seemed to fit but something didn’t seem quite right. What? He shook his head and went to the window. Sure enough, he found himself looking into the locked room. He could see the desk, the books and the chair. He tried to look at the roof but couldn’t get a clear view. ‘We’ll have to get people on to the top of that to confirm there are no trapdoors and suchlike, but there was no evidence of anything on the inside.’

  Steph was looking hard at everything in an attempt to find something of significance, but without success.

  ‘I can’t work it out, sir,’ she confessed. ‘Maybe Lord Redmire’s study will tell us more.’

  Oldroyd frowned at the building, as if he felt he almost had the answer but it was eluding him. ‘You’re right. Let’s go and have a look and hopefully speak to his secretary.’

  At the Hall, people were dealing with the tension in different ways. Douglas Ramsay and James Forsyth were playing chess at a small table in a corner of the large living room. Poppy and Tristram had gone riding. Dominic Carstairs had stomped off angrily for a long walk around the estate.

  Alex Davis and Mary Carstairs were walking down the long borders towards the river. The weather had settled again. A warm breeze blew huge white clouds across the blue sky and the flowers were in their high-summer splendour. Tall mauve delphiniums were mixed in with pink roses, purple echinacea, white phlox and blue campanulas. The scented air hummed with bees, and butterflies moved between the flowers.

  Alex dragged nervously on a cigarette. ‘Look at this place.’ She waved with her free hand at the borders. ‘Freddy had everything going for him. Why couldn’t he keep away from the bloody gaming table?’

  ‘I know, darling. He had all that charm and influence over other people, and absolutely no self-discipline.’

  ‘None. I have to admit he treated James very badly, left him all the work to do; no wonder their business failed. There’s the idle rich for you. Still, we’ve got room to talk.’

  ‘Well, speak for yourself, darling,’ laughed Mary. ‘I wouldn’t say we were filthy rich at the moment. That’s why Dominic’s always so grumpy: he can’t upgrade his Merc. But, First World problems, as they say!’ When she’d laughed again, Mary looked more seriously at Alex. ‘Do you think James was still angry with Freddy? You know, enough to . . .’

  A spasm of anxiety crossed Alex’s face. ‘No,’ she said without conviction. ‘They’ve never been reconciled, but James is not violent.’ They’d reached the river and stopped walking. ‘Actually, I was going to ask you the same. Dominic never seemed to get on with his brother, did he?’

  ‘Oh, no,’ replied Mary breezily. ‘He could never accept Freddy inheriting the estate – thought it was terribly unfair, Freddy didn’t deserve it and so on – but Dominic would never sully himself with any nasty murder schemes; he’d consider it ungentlemanly and beneath him. Do you fancy a row out on the water?’

  Where the long borders reached the river there was a small landing stage and a rowing boat was moored at the water’s edge.

  ‘Yes. Why not?’

  Mary held the boat while Alex climbed on board and then she pushed off and rowed upstream. She’d done quite a bit of rowing at her boarding school near the Thames. The boat moved through the calm water, past the drooping branches of the weeping willows. Mallards and red-beaked water hens swam near the bank, shepherding their offspring, which were paddling desperately to keep up with the adults.

  Alex lay back in the boat and trailed her hand in the water.

  Mary looked at her. ‘How do you – did you – feel about Freddy?’ she asked tentatively.

  ‘How do you mean?’ murmured Alex without opening her eyes.

  Mary turned the boat around and let it slowly glide downstream. ‘Did you still have . . . feelings for him?’

  ‘Of course. I told the police. There was always a spark between me and Freddy.’

  ‘And with me too,’ said Mary quickly.

  Alex sat up and opened her eyes. ‘What? Oh my God, I didn’t know that!’

  ‘No one does, darling. I’ve never told anyone. But now he’s gone I feel I’ve got to tell someone, and I thought you . . .’ Tears were welling in her eyes. Alex turned round and saw that the boat was drifting towards the weir, which was downstream from the gardens.

  ‘Mary, row to the side and let’s pull in.’

  In a few moments, the boat was moored at the bank and the two women were sitting together under the shade of a tree.

  ‘I thought you would understand,’ Mary said.

  ‘How long had you been seeing him?’

  ‘For the last two years, but not often. Sometimes we met in London when I visited my sister, and we tried to arrange something
when we came here. In fact . . .’ She started to cry again. ‘I must have been the last person to see him – you know, intimately. We met up in a room by the stables before we all had dinner on that last evening.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Do you hate me now?’

  Alex smiled. ‘Not at all. Freddy was a very alluring man. My time with him was over, though; there’s no jealousy or anything. I’m glad you told me, if it’s made you feel better.’

  ‘It has. Dominic is, well . . . Oh my God, he’s as boring as hell!’ She laughed with relief. ‘There, I’ve said it! But don’t breathe a word to him about anything. It’ll be more than my life’s worth – because of the shame, you understand, not because he really cares for me, and especially as I did it with his despised brother.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I won’t say anything. But how do you cope with being married to him? It must be ghastly.’

  ‘Marriage of convenience, darling. He keeps me in reasonable style; at least, he has until now – as I said, things aren’t so good. His recruitment consultancy is not doing well, actually. He’s too old-fashioned, wants to operate through the old boys’ network, doesn’t like helping to promote women and people from ethnic minorities to good positions. I think he hoped that Freddy would help him out at some point. Too late now. I didn’t tell the police – didn’t want them to give them a reason to suspect Dominic.’

  Two white swans glided elegantly past, scarcely disturbing the smooth surface of the river, and cows were grazing in a field on the opposite bank.

  ‘It’s a funny old business and it all makes you think.’ Mary turned to Alex again. ‘Do you worry about James – you know, that he could be involved in all this?’

  ‘No,’ she replied, though a shadow passed fleetingly across her face. ‘I don’t think any of us is involved, and anyway, James didn’t dislike Freddy enough to want to kill him.’

  ‘I hope you’re right, darling. The problem is, too many of us had some kind of motive to want to get rid of Freddy, despite how we might protest our innocence. There’s one thing I didn’t tell you: I got to know that Freddy was seeing someone else as well – a woman in London that he’d met through his gambling somehow. Not that I didn’t expect it – I mean, it was par for the course with him – but if the police find out, that gives me a motive: the woman scorned.’

  ‘Hell hath no fury . . .’

  ‘Exactly, darling. And I’m afraid that goes for you too.’

  Oldroyd and Steph found Andrea Jenkinson alone in Redmire’s office.

  ‘Come in,’ she said, and gave a wan smile as she opened the door for them. ‘I’ve been expecting you.’

  There was an expensive-looking wooden desk facing the window, which Oldroyd took to be Lord Redmire’s. Andrea’s desk was smaller and placed near the door. The room was quite compact, so Oldroyd sat on Redmire’s swivel desk chair and Steph squeezed into a chair by the side wall.

  ‘Obviously we’d like to ask you a few questions, and then have a look at what he had in the office here.’

  ‘Of course, but I doubt you’ll find any important documents. Those are all kept in the safe in the estate office.’

  ‘So we need to talk to Richard Wilkins about that?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Oldroyd looked at Andrea. She was conventionally dressed in a blouse and skirt. Her accent was London.

  ‘How long have you worked for Lord Redmire?’

  She faced him confidently. ‘Two years next month.’

  ‘Where were you before that?’

  ‘In London; I was PA to a chief executive of a finance company.’

  Oldroyd raised his eyebrows. ‘That must have been well paid. Better than this. Why did you leave?’

  ‘I was fed up of London and the job in that awful world of money. Yes, I did earn more, but I was sharing a house miles out of the City, and commuting for hours every day. I fancied a change, and this came up, which was so different that I thought, why not?’

  ‘And how have you found it? How was Lord Redmire to work for?’

  ‘Fine. The work is less stressful and high-powered; sometimes I feel underused but it’s been restful. I rent a lovely apartment in Ripon overlooking the River Skell.’

  ‘Did Redmire ever try it on with you? He had a reputation as a womaniser, didn’t he?’ asked Steph.

  ‘No. He was always professional – although you sensed he was sometimes looking at you in a certain way. But I can cope with that; I’ve had plenty of it from men in the City, believe me.’

  ‘I do,’ replied Steph. She still occasionally had to put a male police officer in his place, despite all the training given in sexual harassment and equal opportunities. ‘How much did he involve you in the preparations for the night of the illusion?’

  ‘My role was to organise the invitations and liaise with the media. Richard was responsible for the logistics.’

  ‘He didn’t tell you anything about the illusion itself?’

  ‘No, that was all kept highly secret.’

  ‘What were your movements on the evening of the murder?’

  ‘It was a hard day working with Richard to finalise the arrangements. When everything was completed I went home. I didn’t want to stay and see it; things like that don’t interest me. Richard stayed on duty.’

  ‘Had anything unusual happened recently: any telephone calls, letters? What kind of a mood was Lord Redmire in?’

  ‘He was actually very upbeat. He seemed very confident that the locked-room business would be a success and he was looking forward to it. He loved being at the centre of things like that. I don’t recall any calls or letters that affected him, but I know that members of his family had requested money from him.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘His daughter, Poppy, and his brother, Dominic.’

  ‘Did he discuss any of this with you?’

  ‘No, but as a PA you inevitably see letters and emails, or you overhear conversations, so you pick up a lot of sensitive information.’

  ‘Were you aware of any enemies Lord Redmire might have had?’

  There was a brief pause while she considered. ‘It was common knowledge that he was a gambler and, as you said’ – she nodded to Steph – ‘a womaniser who’d cheated on his wife. I also knew about his failed business venture with James Forsyth. I’m sure you know about all this already, and I’m not saying I thought anyone in particular was capable of murdering him and the other poor man.’

  Her answers were clear and efficient. Her expression conveyed nothing of her inner thoughts. She had the manner and demeanour of an efficient PA who maintained a detachment and objectivity in her professional life.

  Steph got up to examine Redmire’s desk and its drawers while Oldroyd continued his questioning.

  ‘We’ve been told that Lord Redmire had plans for the future of the estate, plans that may have been controversial. What do you know about those?’

  ‘Again, very little. He told me that there were some changes to the estate and the business coming up because there was a need to increase revenue, but he didn’t tell me any details.’

  ‘Did you interpret this as his need for money to finance his gambling?’

  ‘Yes. As far as I know, there were no other pressing financial problems; the estate was doing well. But, again, Richard might know more.’

  Steph had finished looking through Redmire’s desk but had found nothing. ‘How well did you know Harold Robinson?’ she asked as she sat down again.

  ‘Harry – we called him Harry. Not well personally. He retired before I came to work here. I used to see him walking round the grounds. He introduced himself to me; he was a charming old man. I can’t imagine who would want to kill him. However, I got the impression that, like so many other people, he didn’t like Lord Redmire.’

  ‘Any idea why?’

  ‘No. It was just that he made a few snide remarks about him, and he never came to the office.’

  ‘I see. Well,’ said Oldroyd, ‘from what
you’ve told us it seems that Mr Wilkins is the person we need to speak to next.’

  He and Steph got up to go, but Andrea suddenly stopped them.

  ‘Just before you leave, I did see something just as I was leaving that evening.’

  Oldroyd sat down again. ‘Go on,’ he said.

  ‘I went out of one of the back entrances towards the staff car park and I heard raised voices. It was Lord Redmire and Poppy. They were standing near the door, behind some bushes, but I could still see them. All I heard was Lord Redmire saying something like: “You’re getting no more out of me.” And then Poppy shouted, “You’ve never liked him, have you?” and she started to cry. I pretended I hadn’t seen them and walked on to my car. I assume she’d been asking him for money for Tristram. It was common knowledge that he also had gambling debts.’

  Oldroyd nodded. ‘I think you’re right,’ he said. ‘Well, thank you for your help. It’s OK to carry on with your work here, though I suppose your main purpose has been suspended for the moment.’

  ‘Yes, until I speak with Mr Alistair.’

  ‘Of course.’

  Oldroyd and Steph left, and Andrea returned to work. After a few minutes there was a knock on her door.

  ‘Come in.’

  Ian Barden opened the door and Andrea’s heart sank. Ian was one of those well-meaning but tiresome people who were often hard to get rid of. He usually had some notion in his head that he was keen to explain in tremendous detail but that made no sense to anyone else. He was dressed, as ever, in his blue overalls. She didn’t invite him to sit down, as he might get oil on the chair.

  ‘Ian. What can I do for you?’

  ‘Well, I’m going round talking to everyone about what’s been goin’ on.’

  This didn’t bode well; it sounded like he’d appointed himself to DCI Oldroyd’s team.