The Murder at Redmire Hall

by J. R. Ellis

  ‘Good. So how well did you know Harry Robinson?’

  ‘I went to the village school with him when we were kids,’ said Bridges. ‘We’ve lived round here all our lives. School’s gone, though, now – shut years ago.’

  ‘I was brought up in Ripon,’ said Mason, ‘but I’ve lived here more than forty years.’

  ‘Did he have any enemies, as far as you know? Anyone who’d want to harm him?’

  ‘Harry? Never in this world,’ said Bridges. ‘He was a nice chap – never wanted much in life. He was happy with his steady carry-on up at the Hall. Him and his wife had a nice little cottage there. No children. She died a few years ago.’

  ‘What did he do up there?’

  ‘Just a handyman, wasn’t he, Frank? On the mechanical side. He used to say he’d done his apprenticeship in a garage in Ripon. He maintained their cars and did other odd jobs: electrics, plumbing, stuff like that.’

  ‘Another drink?’ asked Oldroyd, noticing that the men’s glasses were empty.

  ‘Aye, thanks.’

  Oldroyd went to the bar and returned with two pints of bitter, which he set down on the table.

  ‘Did Harry ever tell you anything about this locked-room business? We know he was involved in setting it up originally, back in the seventies.’

  The two men looked at each other. Mason replied, ‘It wasn’t long after I came here. I remember there was a great palaver about it. It was in the local paper.’

  ‘Harry was full of it,’ said Bridges. ‘I remember him saying it was very clever, but we couldn’t get him to tell us anything – said he’d been sworn to secrecy and he’d been rewarded.’

  ‘Rewarded how?’

  ‘He never said.’

  ‘So he never revealed anything about the trick?’

  ‘No, however much we tried to get it out of him.’

  ‘Did Harry say anything recently about the trick being revived?’

  ‘No,’ said Mason. ‘He hadn’t talked about it for years and we were as surprised as anyone else when it was suddenly announced that Lord Redmire was going to perform it again after all this time.’

  ‘Is there anything else you can remember about Harry and the locked room? You see, we’re pretty sure he was murdered because he knew how it worked.’

  ‘Bloody hell,’ said Mason. ‘Well, no, I don’t think so. He was in here the night before. He wouldn’t say anything about it, but he did seem quiet, as if he had things on his mind. Wasn’t he, Frank?’

  ‘Aye. He didn’t seem to be looking forward to it; I don’t know why, because he always seemed proud of it before,’ replied Bridges.

  ‘Do you think he knew what was going to happen?’ asked Oldroyd.

  ‘What? You mean Lord Redmire getting stabbed? Harry?’ Bridges shook his head.

  ‘Can’t see Harry involved in killing anybody – though I will say he didn’t like Redmire,’ said Mason. ‘He often said stuff about him in here. Said he was a mean bugger, not a patch on his father to work for.’

  ‘Aye, but that’s different from saying he helped to bump him off.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Oldroyd, intervening before things got heated between the two men. ‘Well, thank you very much for your help; it’s been very useful. If you remember anything else please contact me.’ He gave each of them a card.

  The bar was starting to fill up with evening drinkers and diners. Oldroyd made to leave and was about to go out through the door when someone called to him. ‘Can I have a word?’

  Oldroyd turned to see a tall, thin figure wearing a hoodie. It was a young man with an untidy moustache and a swarthy complexion.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You’re investigating those murders up at th’all, aren’t you?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘I saw something.’

  ‘Right. Let’s go in here.’

  Oldroyd led the way into the small bar at the back and sat down. The young man joined him, looking uncomfortable, slouching back with his hands jammed into his pockets.

  ‘Can I get you a drink?’ asked Oldroyd.

  ‘No. I’ve got to be off in a minute.’

  ‘So what did you want to tell me?’

  ‘Old Harry, he was a friend of mine. He was a nice old bloke; he knew me dad when he was around and he used to show us round th’estate, you know. I grew up in t’village. I used to go with him trapping rabbits and stuff.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘I want you to catch the bastard who killed him.’

  ‘Right, so what was it you saw?’

  ‘So, on that night, I was in those woods behind th’all.’

  Oldroyd refrained from asking what he was doing there, so as not to put him off. It was most probably a bit of poaching on estate land. Harry Robinson would have taught him about the best places.

  ‘And I came across this car. It was hidden in t’trees; there’s an old track that leads in from t’drive up to th’all. There was nobody in it and I thought nowt about it at the time. I saw all t’posh people going in and all them TV vans and it was a good time to . . . do what I was doing.’

  Again Oldroyd maintained a judicious silence about what the man may have been doing. ‘So you think this car was hidden for a reason?’

  ‘Yeah. Well, someone bumped off His Lordship, didn’t they? And Harry. They could have got in that car and driven off.’

  ‘Yes, it’s suspicious. So what make of car was it, and did you get the number?’

  ‘No, I didn’t get t’number, but it was a VW Polo: quite old, red. I know me cars.’

  ‘Have you any idea how long it stayed there?’

  ‘No, but I went back yesterday and it was gone. One other thing I saw was that there was more than one set of tyre tracks; another set that were old, so I thought maybe that hiding place had been used before.’

  Oldroyd smiled. ‘Well done – very observant. Have you ever thought of joining the police?’

  ‘What, me? That’s a joke.’

  ‘Never mind. Thank you anyway. If you see anything else, give me a call.’ He gave the man another of his cards. ‘And your name is?’

  ‘Scott Handley, but . . .’

  ‘Don’t worry: I’m not going to check your name against our records. It’s not relevant.’

  The young man looked relieved. ‘I’m off, then,’ he said abruptly, and walked out of the bar, leaving Oldroyd with plenty to think about.

  Oldroyd decided to stay in the pub and try the food, opting for a steak-and-kidney pie with chips and peas. As he ate he considered the new information.

  Despite the protestations of the man’s friends, it seemed even more likely that Robinson had indeed been involved in setting up the murder of his employer. Why did he dislike him so much? It was clear that Redmire was not a pleasant character, but there must have been a deeper reason if Robinson was prepared to see him dead.

  Oldroyd paid his bill and continued to ruminate as he left the pub. The light was fading as he retraced his steps across the field. It was a beautiful warm night and he stopped for a moment to gaze up at the stars. A tawny owl floated silently past between two large trees. A gentle breeze rustled the barley. Was this car Scott Handley had reported of any significance? They would have to check car ownership among the people at the Hall. It would—

  Oldroyd had reached the edge of the field, where two hedges joined and there was a stile, when suddenly there was a crack and a bullet narrowly missed him, burying itself in a tree by the hedge. Stunned and alarmed, he leaped over the stile and hid behind the hedge, panting, with his heart racing. He tried to get a view of the field while calming himself.

  Halfway across the empty stretch of grass was a large horse-chestnut tree and Oldroyd could see a figure peering round it in his direction and holding a rifle. Oldroyd moved away carefully, remaining out of sight behind the foliage until he was able to make a dash towards the shelter of a copse of trees by the house.

  He waited to see if anyone would appear, but everything remained still
and eerily silent. Eventually, he made a run for the house, and round the front of the building to where his car was parked, feeling that at any moment he might hear another crack and feel the impact of a bullet. Here there was a PC on duty, who was startled by Oldroyd’s sudden appearance.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Someone’s just taken a shot at me,’ Oldroyd blurted out. ‘In the field at the back.’ He pointed back to where he’d run from. ‘They may be following me. Let’s get into the house, quick.’

  Inside, the PC locked the door and radioed for help. More officers appeared and quite soon were joined by armed officers from Ripon. There were no more shots from anywhere and a search of the immediate vicinity revealed nothing.

  Oldroyd took some time to recover. When it was deemed safe, he left his car at the Hall and was driven back to Harrogate in a police van, reflecting that whoever was behind these crimes was clearly more ruthless and determined than he’d realised.

  Five

  Oldroyd slept in a little next morning. He’d opened a bottle of wine when he got back to Harrogate the previous night and listened to some late Mozart piano concertos on his headphones in order to calm down after his experience with the shooter.

  It was a long time since he’d met personally with violence in his investigations, not since a seemingly mild-mannered man who’d in fact killed his own wife had suddenly produced a knife and lunged at Oldroyd when the latter had cornered and exposed him. Oldroyd had moved deftly to one side, grabbed the man’s arm and forced it back. The elbow joint had cracked and the man screamed as he dropped the knife. Oldroyd could look after himself if he had to, but people hiding and taking potshots at you was hard to defend against.

  He slouched, yawning, into the kitchen to find a note from Louise and a little package.

  Hi Dad

  Got up before you, that’s a first! Looks like you were hitting the wine last night!

  Gone to see Ben and Clare, may stay overnight. Hope you like your pressie!

  L xxxx

  Oldroyd filled the kettle, put a couple of slices of bread in the toaster and then sat down to open his present. Inside the wrapping was a wooden doll of the Russian type, clearly meant to be Beethoven. Inside Beethoven was Mozart, and inside Mozart was Schubert. They were all quite small but very well made.

  It was a lovely present, although again he found himself wondering what she’d used for money, as it didn’t look cheap. He examined the intricate detail of each figure and then, as happened so often with Oldroyd, something clicked unexpectedly in his mind. He gazed into the distance. No, it couldn’t quite be that, but . . . maybe. For a while he was lost in thought while the kettle boiled and the toast started to smoke.

  Steph Johnson got into the Harrogate station early as she wanted to make progress on tracking down Olivia Pendleton, the dowager Lady Redmire’s niece, but she couldn’t resist a quick call to Andy first. He was a long time answering and sounded extremely woozy.

  ‘So who’s been out on the piss, then? I thought you were only having a sober do with Jason?’

  ‘God, I wish it had been. I feel like shit.’

  ‘Serves you right – no sympathy. You bought it, as my granddad would have said.’

  ‘Too right. God, I feel sick!’

  Steph had to laugh.

  ‘Well, great – I ring my boyfriend up and he threatens to vomit down the phone at me. Nice to speak to you, too!’

  ‘Don’t talk so loud – it hurts my head!’

  ‘Oh dear me; the poor thing. Anyway, those of us who are working have jobs to do and as a punishment for enjoying yourself without me, you can help.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘I’ve got to track a woman down. Olivia Pendleton – she’s a cousin of the murder victim, Lord Redmire, and she’s a fashion designer in London.’

  ‘I don’t know anything about fashion designers.’

  ‘No, but you’ve got mates at the Met who do. They can do a quicker search than I can, so give them a quick ring and get them to send me the information when they find it.’

  ‘I’m supposed to be on holiday.’

  ‘Yes, but I know you won’t mind doing this little thing for me. That is, when you’ve sobered up. The boss’ll be really pleased you helped, and you know how you like to impress him.’

  ‘OK. What was the name again?’

  Steph gave him the details. ‘So, when are you coming home, then?’ she asked.

  ‘In a couple of days. I want a bit of time back in Leeds before I go back to work.’

  ‘OK, well, get on with this job, then. I’d like to have something to show the boss later today.’

  ‘Today! That’s asking a bit.’

  ‘Get away! Those old mates of yours will get it done for you in no time. So I’ll leave you to it. Bye.’ She grinned as she ended the call.

  ‘Is he missing you, then?’

  Steph looked over to the door and her grin died. Detective Inspector Derek Fenton was watching her with an unpleasant smile on his face. He was a plump middle-aged man who wore clothes that were too tight. He often had sweat stains under his arms. Steph felt uncomfortable in his presence. He made personal remarks and sometimes stood a little too close to her, but had so far done nothing further.

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘He ought to be, lucky man.’

  ‘Would your wife like to hear you say that?’

  The words were out of her mouth before she had time to think of the consequences.

  Fenton walked into the office and shut the door behind him. ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘You heard me.’

  ‘I did, Sergeant; and just because you’re using DCI Oldroyd’s office, don’t think you can speak to me as if you’re him.’

  Steph went bright red with anger and frustration. ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ she mumbled, unable to look him in the face.

  Fenton sat down in a chair next to her and lowered his voice. ‘You’re very pally with the chief inspector, aren’t you? We know he took you out with him all dressed up to Redmire Hall, where he made a fool of himself. The dirty bugger – old enough to be your father. What do you do for him, then, in the back of that old Saab of his? Anything for a promotion, is it? Does Carter know about that?’

  ‘There’s nothing like that going on,’ she said, and then added, ‘Sir.’

  ‘I’ll bet. Well, rumours travel quickly, don’t they? And if you don’t want them to, you’d better be a bit friendlier.’

  He got up and walked out of the office.

  Steph felt hot tears behind her eyes. She had a strong urge to shout ‘Bastard!’ after him, but was able to resist. She sat for a while, trying to control her breathing. It had all happened so quickly and had hit her unexpectedly. She went to get a glass of water and returned to the office. There was no sign of him.

  She considered whether she should report what had happened but decided against it. It would be a serious allegation against her superior and she had no evidence to support her. She was going to deal with it herself.

  Another tense and dreary day of waiting had dawned at Redmire Hall. After breakfast, Poppy and Antonia walked over to see the dowager Lady Redmire, Poppy with some reluctance.

  ‘I hope she doesn’t go on about Tristram again, Mummy. Last time she never stopped making snide remarks about him: when was he going to get a proper job? Was I supporting him? He earns more than me, you know! The problem with Granny is she has no tact at all; she says the first thing that comes into her head and she doesn’t mind her own business.’

  ‘That’s what old people can be like. My mother was the same. They’ve got past the age of caring what people think. People from your grandmother’s generation often have fixed views about things to do with families and the roles of men and women, and they won’t shift.’

  They reached the garden entrance to the dowager’s flat and found the old lady sitting in a cane chair on the patio. It was a warm morning, but she was wearing a cardigan as usual.

  ‘Oh!
It’s you two,’ she said. ‘Well, thank you for coming over; it’s nice to see you, especially as things have been so absolutely beastly.’

  ‘How are you feeling?’ asked Antonia.

  Lady Redmire frowned and shrugged her bony shoulders. ‘What can one say? I told that young woman detective: I always thought Freddy would end up like this.’

  Poppy was shocked. ‘What do you mean, Granny? Murdered!’

  Lady Redmire turned a hard face to her granddaughter. ‘Your father was a reckless and selfish man, Poppy. He had something bad coming to him. That’s all I’ll say.’

  ‘Well, we all know about Freddy’s bad points.’ Antonia moved in to calm the conversation. ‘But what happened was terrible and we’re all shocked. We must just try to support one another.’

  ‘Well, he didn’t treat you very well.’

  ‘No, that’s true, but one has to try to forgive and move on.’

  Lady Redmire gave her a look of admiration. ‘You were always such a good woman, Antonia. You were far too good for Freddy. I told the police as much. I told Freddy, too, more than once.’

  Gratifying as this was to hear, Antonia tried again to move things on. ‘Anyway, Poppy wants to tell you about her photography.’ Antonia gestured to Poppy behind Lady Redmire’s back.

  ‘Oh yes?’

  ‘Yes, Granny. I’m freelance, but I get commissions from all kinds of people. I got one from an upmarket estate agent last month to take pictures of their properties in St John’s Wood. That was really interesting.’

  ‘Does it pay well?’ said Lady Redmire abruptly. ‘You’ll need it to if you’re still keeping that boyfriend.’

  Antonia winced. Poppy looked angry and deflated.

  ‘What’s his name again?’ continued Lady Redmire, seemingly oblivious of any offence she might have caused.

  ‘Tristram,’ sighed Poppy.

  ‘Yes, well, I’d never trust a man who was a model. What is he a model of, anyway?’

  ‘Clothes, Granny – expensive clothes. He earns more than me, as I keep telling you.’

  ‘Just for wearing clothes? Well, it’s not much of a job for a man, is it? And you can’t be doing well with your photography if he earns more than you. Mark my words, no good will come of it. Now, your brother, Alistair—’