by J. R. Ellis
‘Yes, it’s terrible, Ian, but don’t you think it’s all best left to the police?’
‘Maybe, but they don’t know this place as well as I do.’ He leaned forward. ‘And I’ve seen things.’
‘What things?’
‘I can’t say yet.’ It all sounded very mysterious.
‘You should go to the police, then.’
‘Yes, but will they move quickly enough? I mean, who’s next on the list?’
‘Probably no one. I expect they’ll find it was someone with a grudge against Lord Redmire – and I think there were quite a few of them.’
‘Let’s hope you’re right. Anyway I’d better be off,’ he said, to Andrea’s relief. ‘Just take care of yourself.’
‘I will, Ian.’
Oldroyd and Steph found Richard Wilkins alone in the estate office. His staff were still on stand-down.
‘Please, take a seat,’ he said. ‘Are you getting everything you need? Is that room OK?’
‘Yes, everything’s fine,’ replied Oldroyd. ‘You look very tired. I expect it’s been very stressful and demanding for you.’
Wilkins sighed. ‘Yes, Chief Inspector. I’ve just been on the phone to Lord Redmire’s solicitors. A representative’s coming over tomorrow to read the will. Someone has to take charge of these things and no one in the family can do it. They’re not used to organising anything practical – they don’t know where the cutlery drawer is, so to speak. They leave it to their minions.’
‘I see. You sound a bit resentful about that?’
Wilkins looked at the two detectives and frowned. He sat back in his chair. ‘I’m going to be frank with you: I don’t particularly like it here, and I didn’t like Lord Redmire either.’
‘Why was that?’
‘My last job was with the National Trust. They were good to work for; it was a team effort, and everyone cared about what they were doing. Redmire was very demanding and really wasn’t interested in the estate except in so far as it could make money. I really couldn’t warm to him at all.’
‘Were you aware that he had any enemies, other than yourself?’
Oldroyd smiled at his little joke, and Wilkins laughed. ‘Well, I didn’t dislike him enough to kill him, Chief Inspector, and I can’t think of anyone who would, although there were lots of people he didn’t get on with, even in his close family.’
‘Who in particular?’
‘I’ve overheard some angry phone calls between him and his brother. There was no love lost between them.’
‘What were they arguing about?’
‘I think Dominic Carstairs had a big chip on his shoulder about being the younger brother who had to earn his living. From what I could gather, his business has not been doing that well recently, and he was asking Lord Redmire for help.’
‘It seems as if it was no big secret that quite a number of people were out to get money from him.’
‘Yes, but the problem was he didn’t have any to give.’
‘He hoped the locked-room performance would be a money-spinner, then?’
‘He did – that and his plans for the estate.’
Oldroyd sat up. ‘Yes, I was just coming to those. Andrea Jenkinson seems to think you may know something about them.’
‘Sorry to disappoint you. As I said, I was just a minion. He never consulted with me about important things like that.’
‘Who did he speak to about it?’
‘I assume it was some firm of property developers.’
‘Do you know who?’
‘No, but he kept documents in the safe here, sealed up.’ He pointed to a heavy metal safe on the wall. ‘I never saw the contents but one of them had something written on it like “Estate Development”.’
‘We need to see those.’
‘Of course.’
Wilkins got up, took some keys from a drawer and walked over to the safe. He removed a pile of papers and began to sort through them. After a while he stopped, and looked puzzled.
‘Well, that’s very strange. They’re not here.’
Oldroyd glanced at Steph. ‘When did you last see them?’
‘I don’t remember – some time ago – but I’ve had no reason to get them out.’
‘Who else has a key?’
‘Only Lord Redmire. He must have taken them.’
‘According to Katherine Carstairs, you had a break-in here a few months ago.’
‘Yes, she reported seeing someone in this office during the night. It was investigated but nothing was missing.’
‘Did you check the contents of the safe?’
Wilkins looked a little sheepish. ‘Actually, no. I didn’t think about it. It hadn’t been tampered with and I thought, even if there had been someone in here, they would have been looking for something accessible: money or equipment.’
‘Maybe, but it seems that if there was an intruder, those documents are what they were looking for, unless Lord Redmire had a reason for removing them. I assume these consultants, whoever they were, will have a copy.’
‘Yes, I’m sure they will,’ replied Wilkins. He sounded distracted, and his expression was suddenly anxious.
‘Are you OK?’ asked Steph.
‘Yes, fine. I’m just shocked that those documents have gone. It just seems to be one thing after another at the moment.’
‘Did you know Harry Robinson?’ asked Oldroyd. Wilkins’s face brightened.
‘Yes, nice old chap. He retired just after I came to work here. I used to see him quite a bit, as he lived on the estate. He was often in the pub too. No one has any idea who would have wanted to kill him.’
‘Which pub was that?’
‘The Pear Tree. It’s in the local village, Little Aldington. It’s just a walk over the fields from here. I sometimes call in there after work. It’s the Redmire Hall local, if you like. Harry must have been going in for years; there must be a lot of people in there who knew him.’
‘Well, thank you for that, and we’ll leave you to it.’
‘Not at all.’
Ian Barden was working hard on his mission to warn everyone of the danger at Redmire Hall and, with the gardens and the railway shut, he had plenty of time to go round the estate speaking to people. When he left Andrea Jenkinson, he wandered over to the house to see if he could get a word with Celia Anscomb. The visitors’ entrance was open, so he went in quietly. He spotted Celia looking at the visitors’ book in the hall and came up noiselessly behind her.
‘Anyone interesting been here lately?’
Celia gave a little scream and jumped round. Barden laughed a little too loudly.
‘Ian! For goodness’ sake, don’t ever do that again.’ Celia gripped the table to steady herself. ‘Don’t you know we’re all as jumpy as anything after what’s happened?’
‘Oh, yes, and with good reason,’ replied Barden, leaning forward in his serious manner. ‘You shouldn’t be here by yourself, you know. They could strike again even in broad daylight.’
‘And who are “they”, Ian?’
‘I couldn’t say at the moment, but I’m letting everyone know that I’ve seen things.’ He nodded enigmatically.
Celia decided to humour him. ‘Well, it’s good to know that you’re looking out for us, Ian. I’m sure everyone’s told you that you must go to the police if you know something important.’
‘Yes, maybe. All in good time.’
‘So you’ve no customers today, then?’
‘No, but it gives me a chance to do a bit of work on the Duchess.’
‘The what . . . ? Oh, the engine! Yes, well, I’m sure she needs your attention, so you’d better be getting back to her.’
‘Yes, you’re right, but you just be on your guard.’ He pointed at her, then turned round and left.
Celia sighed, shook her head and continued to peruse the visitors’ book. It always fascinated her to see where visitors came from, especially those from distant places such as New Zealand and California.
‘
Good morning!’
For the second time she turned around startled.
Steph hadn’t intended to startle Celia, but the woman certainly acted like Steph had appeared from nowhere.
‘Oh! Hello. They said you’d want to talk to me; please, come in.’
Celia led Steph into her small office, and they both sat down. Steph looked around appreciatively at the stylish artwork on the walls and the orchids on the window ledge. ‘This a very nice office.’
‘Thank you.’
‘You’re obviously a very arty person. Do you use those skills in your work here?’
‘Oh, yes. I don’t just organise cleaners and tour guides; I’m responsible for conservation too.’
‘What does that involve?’
‘I regularly inspect the internal fabric of the house and the paintings and furniture for signs of wear and decay, and then I organise a programme for the specialists to come in and do the work.’
‘That sounds expensive.’
‘Yes, it can be.’
‘So, in light of the financial difficulties here at Redmire, have you found it difficult to have this work funded recently?’
‘It hasn’t been easy.’
‘Has it caused conflict between yourself and Lord Redmire?’
‘Not particularly, but I was worried about other things, which I might as well mention now as I know you’ll find them out.’
‘What were those?’
‘He hinted that some of the paintings and furniture I look after might be put up for sale. He even asked for me to arrange a valuation on one painting, our most valuable. Obviously that was a shock. It would have degraded my position; I would have had fewer things to conserve and it would have broken up the great collection we have here.’
‘So were you very angry with him?’
‘His ideas hadn’t come to anything and I was hoping that he’d change his mind.’
‘How long have you worked here?’
‘Five years. I used to work in London; I had a very lowly position at the V&A. This is much more responsibility. I have a lot of freedom.’
‘How did you get on generally with Lord Redmire?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I understand he could make women feel uncomfortable. He had a reputation for womanising, didn’t he?’
Steph noted Celia’s expensive clothes, slim figure and air of sophistication. She could imagine her being a target for Redmire’s attentions.
‘You had to be used to him and know what to expect. It was obvious that he was appraising you and he made comments. I spoke to Andrea Jenkinson about it. We agreed that if you were firm in not responding, he would give up.’
‘As he was the boss, I suppose there was no one higher up to call him out to, was there?’
‘No.’
Steph appreciated Celia’s difficulty in coping with unwanted sexual attention from a superior. She’d never experienced anything from Oldroyd but she was wary of certain officers back at Harrogate HQ. She went in for the kill. ‘So, did you dislike Lord Redmire enough to want to see him dead?’
Celia looked shocked. She was a less worldly character than the tougher Andrea Jenkinson, or at least that’s how she appeared to Steph. ‘No, of course not. Anyway, I don’t know anything about magic tricks,’ she added lamely.
‘But you had a motive in protecting the collection?’
‘Maybe. I can see why I’m on your list, but I didn’t kill him.’
Steph was inclined to believe her, but just how miserable Lord Redmire had made Celia Anscomb’s working life remained an intriguing and relevant question.
DC Jeffries was getting on everyone’s nerves at Ripon Police Station. He paraded around jauntily, with a Cheshire-cat smile on his face, missing no opportunity to remind people that he was working for Chief Inspector Oldroyd.
He was pleased with himself for having compiled all the information DCI Oldroyd had asked for about employees at the estate. Now his task was to contact the Red Hot Poker Club in London to enquire about the gambling activities of Lord Redmire and Tristram Benington.
He called the number, spoke to a very snooty receptionist and was passed on to an even more ostentatious official who declared himself the manager.
‘What can I do for you, Constable?’ the manager drawled.
‘We’re investigating the death of Frederick Carstairs, Lord Redmire, who I understand was a member of your club.’
‘Yes, well, obviously we’ve seen the news and we’re extremely sorry about the death of Lord Redmire, but I’m afraid Red Hot Poker policy prohibits staff from entering into any discussions about club members.’
Jeffries took some satisfaction in asserting his authority while remaining as scrupulously polite as the man to whom he was speaking.
‘Sir, I’m afraid I have to remind you that this is a murder enquiry and that your cooperation is required regardless of any club rules that may normally apply.’
He was proud of that and it proved effective.
‘Very well,’ said the manager reluctantly.
‘So can you first of all confirm that Lord Redmire and Tristram Benington are members of the Red Hot Poker Club?’
‘I can.’
‘And were you aware that both of them had accrued debts?’
‘I couldn’t comment on that, Constable, for the simple reason that debts are private matters between club members, and the club has no knowledge of the details.’
‘But surely, sir, the club must take an interest in such things? You must be reluctant to allow people, even if they are members, to take part in high-stakes games if you are aware that their finances are unsound. It could cause serious problems, couldn’t it, if people are playing who are unable to honour losses?’
‘Maybe . . .’
‘So, do you have any information on this that might have a bearing on the case?’
There was a pause, and Jeffries could sense that the manager was trying to decide what to do.
‘This is strictly confidential, Constable. If it ever emerged that someone in my position had discussed the private matters of club members with someone outside the club, it would cause a terrible crisis here. And, of course, my position would be in jeopardy.’
‘OK, I understand.’
‘Lord Redmire has been a member for many years and we were aware that he’d lost a great deal of money and had incurred debts, but how he was dealing with them was his own concern. As far as Mr Benington goes, we knew that he also was in debt and recently . . .’ He paused again, clearly finding this extremely difficult. ‘Mr Benington and Lord Redmire were overheard arguing about money. It appears that Lord Redmire was refusing to help Mr Benington pay off his debts. I have to say that it is part of the code of people who play at the table that any debts have to be honoured in person – so Lord Redmire was quite right to refuse assistance.’
Jeffries smiled as he considered how much discreet ‘overhearing’ went on in these institutions.
‘I hasten to add, Constable, that I’m sure that this altercation had no bearing on the recent unpleasantness at Redmire Hall.’
Jeffries didn’t comment on that final remark but thanked the man for his help and rang off, very pleased with how he’d handled the interview. He beamed to himself at the prospect of informing Oldroyd that Benington had asked Redmire for financial help and clearly been angrily rejected.
It was early evening, and Oldroyd had released Steph for the day. She set off for the drive back to Leeds, while Oldroyd decided to stay and pursue the lead Wilkins had given them. What better tip-off than one that involved going to a pub?
He decided to walk the short distance to Little Aldington from the estate, as it was a pleasant July evening. The path from the estate ran along the edge of a field of barley. Oldroyd thought that this was a route that would have been very familiar to Harry Robinson. Looking across the green, whiskery crop, Oldroyd could see the narrow spire of the local church protruding above a group of majestic
copper beech trees. In the distance the squat shape of Ripon Cathedral was visible and, further away still, the fells of Wensleydale.
The footpath entered a lane enclosed by weathered stone walls, over which Oldroyd glimpsed a paddock with sheep grazing under large sycamore trees. He emerged from the lane on to a quiet road. There was a wide village green bordered by picturesque rosy-brick cottages with gardens full of roses, delphiniums, hollyhocks and carnations. An inn sign with a picture of a fruiting tree hung outside the pub, a black-and-white building that formed part of a long terrace of small cottages. A black sandwich-board sign on the footpath announced that food was being served and that there was a beer garden at the back.
Oldroyd entered to find what he’d hoped for: a number of people who looked like locals were gathered at the bar. Some of them were rather elderly. They must have known Harry Robinson, he thought. He walked up to the bar and gestured to the barman, who came over intending to serve him. Oldroyd held up his identification.
‘Chief Inspector Oldroyd, West Riding Police. I’m investigating the murders at the Hall. I’m here to talk to anyone who knew Harry Robinson. I assume I’m right in thinking he was a regular here.’
This announcement silenced the conversation at the bar.
‘I see,’ said the barman, a portly middle-aged man. He turned to the group of men propping up the bar. ‘Bill, Frank, you knew Harry a long time, didn’t you?’
Two of the older men in the group, both wearing flat caps and holding pint glasses, turned to look at Oldroyd. ‘Aye,’ one of them said. ‘We’ve known Harry for donkey’s years. What the bloody hell’s going on over there?’
‘Let’s sit down.’ Oldroyd indicated a vacant table. ‘I’ll have a pint of bitter, by the way,’ he said to the barman. He knew he shouldn’t really drink on duty, but then, he worked so many hours that he lost track of when he was officially working and when he wasn’t – so stuff it.
The two sat down, eyeing Oldroyd rather suspiciously. The barman brought Oldroyd’s pint over to join the other two on beer mats.
‘So you are . . . ?’ began Oldroyd.
‘I’m Bill Mason,’ said the man who’d spoken at the bar, ‘and this is Frank Bridges.’