by J. R. Ellis
‘Why do you say that?’
‘They mostly don’t really appreciate their gardens. They expect them to be there, because it’s what you have if you’re part of the landed gentry. They also like them to make money when they’re open to the public, but they don’t understand them and their beauty and what’s involved in maintaining them.
‘Now, old Mr Charles Carstairs – he was Lord Redmire in my father’s time – he was different. He designed the gardens; he was an expert. He knew what he was doing and where to get some rare plants. Wealthy chaps were still making long trips abroad to far-off places and bringing specimens back. We’ve still got some of them here, like that big magnolia against the wall near the abutilon. It’s been here eighty years; my father helped to plant it when he was a young lad.’
‘So he worked here as well?’
‘Oh, yes. He was the head gardener before me, and my grandfather worked here as well.’
‘So you must’ve been brought up here and you’ve lived here all your life?’
‘Aye. In the old days we used to live in that house where Mr Alistair lives now. I had to move out when he got married, but I didn’t mind. I’ve always liked Mr Alistair.’
‘So where do you live now?’
‘One of the cottages near to poor Harry.’ He frowned. ‘I’ve known Harry a long time; I hope you find t’bugger who killed him.’ Morton’s anger seemed to make his speech broader.
‘I’m sure we will. By the way, can you tell me where you were on the night of the murders?’
‘I was at home for a bit, got away from the noise and crowd. Those television people were a pain in the arse, laying their cables over the lawns and churning things up. Later on I went for a drink at the Pear Tree. The news came through while I was there, and we were all talking about it. They don’t have a television in the bar or I suppose it would have been on, but someone came in and told us what had happened.’
‘You didn’t fancy staying in and watching it yourself, then?’
Morton shook his head. ‘Naw; I don’t like all that magic stuff, and I didn’t want to see Lord Redmire make a fool of himself. I mean, he was no magician, was he? Couldn’t see how he was going to pull it off, but apparently he did – until it all went wrong. Sorry, I’m forgetting, you were there and saw it all.’
‘I did,’ replied Oldroyd, avoiding any further detail. ‘You don’t know how he found out how to perform this trick?’
Morton shrugged. ‘No idea. It’s been a secret for years; I was here when Mr Vivian did it first, though we weren’t invited then either. It was common knowledge that Harry knew something, but he was sworn to secrecy. I expect he must have told someone – I don’t know who or why – and that was why he was killed. Am I right?’
‘It appears that way.’
‘He should have kept his mouth shut, poor bugger.’
‘Do you know of anyone who might have been trying to find things out?’
‘No. As I said, it’s been a secret for ages and people had just about forgotten about it. No one round here expected it to be done again.’
Oldroyd had to agree with that. It was strange how the whole thing had been resurrected and then used for murder. He sensed that something very dark was at work.
Shortly after lunch, a BMW drove slowly up the drive and parked near the entrance, before a fat, balding man in spectacles got out and heaved himself up the steps to the house carrying a briefcase. This was Irvine Sidgwick, Lord Redmire’s solicitor. He was part of a family business in Ripon that had been solicitors to the Carstairs for many generations.
The family were gathered together in the drawing room to hear the will, and once again there was a tense silence. No one wanted to catch another person’s eye, let alone say anything. Frederick had been an unpredictable man and they were nervous about the contents of the will.
A small table and a chair had been positioned by the fireplace. Sidgwick, already sweating, was brought in. He shuffled across the room, plonked himself down in the chair and opened his briefcase. For few moments he fussed around with his papers and then, after clearing his throat, he began to speak. ‘Before I proceed to the reading of the will, I would just like to offer my condolences and those of everyone at the firm for your sad loss and—’
‘That’s very kind of you, Sidgwick,’ interjected Dominic Carstairs, ‘but can you just get on with it, please.’ One or two people rolled their eyes with disgust at this rudeness, but no one could be bothered to rebuke him.
‘Very well,’ said Sidgwick, looking rather crestfallen. He picked up the document he had extracted from his briefcase. ‘I won’t read it out word for word, in order to save you the legal jargon; I’ll give you the main points and I’ll obviously leave you a copy. You are also aware, I’m sure, that due to the ongoing murder enquiry, a copy of the will has been sent to the police.
‘So, in terms of the estate, comprising the house and land, this has been held in a trust, of which the sole beneficiary is Mr Alistair Carstairs. Lord Redmire was very keen that the old tradition of entailment was continued so that the estate remained whole.’
Sidgwick paused at this point and looked rather apprehensively at his audience. ‘Lord Redmire intended to make financial provision for his daughter, Miss Poppy Carstairs, and for others named in the will from his personal estate, including a sum for Mr James Forsyth. However, I have to inform you that, having been contacted by Lord Redmire’s accountants, it is clear that debts had been accrued, resulting in significant financial claims on his estate, which will need to be settled prior to it being divided.’
‘How much?’ asked Alistair. Poppy had turned white. A number of people shook their heads.
‘I cannot say at the moment. As executor, I am placing a notice for creditors. Miss Carstairs is to inherit the whole of Lord Redmire’s personal financial assets, but it is from these that the creditors will have to be paid in the first instance. If this is not sufficient, other assets may have to be sold.’
‘Such as what?’ asked Alistair.
‘Maybe some of Lord Redmire’s possessions, which I’m coming to in a moment, but I think it unwise to speculate too much and I don’t want to be alarmist. From my discussions with the accountants, I think it unlikely that it will come to that; but, as you were all aware, Lord Redmire was fond of, er, what is often called the, er, gaming table, and I’m afraid there was a cost.’
Poppy burst into tears and ran out of the room. Sidgwick continued with a list of items that Redmire had left to individuals: cars, one or two paintings, riding equipment, guns, bits and pieces of jewellery. Uncharacteristically, he seemed to have remembered almost everybody, as if, when considering his own demise, he was suddenly moved by a spirit of generosity.
When Sidgwick had finished, he bundled his papers back into his briefcase and left in his BMW. The meeting in the drawing room broke up. Mary Carstairs and Antonia Ramsay were left in conversation.
‘It’s a bit hard on Poppy, isn’t it?’ observed Mary sympathetically.
‘I suppose so. I always expected something like this to happen. Given time, I think Freddy would have gambled all his money away. At least Alistair was partially protected from that.’
‘It doesn’t seem fair, does it? All the estate and the house goes to one sibling and the other gets whatever crumbs are left.’
‘Well, I’m in two minds about it. On the one hand you’re right: it’s all part of these wretched aristocratic traditions to treat the next generation so unfairly. On the other, it’s no bad idea for Poppy to have to earn a living. I can’t see how it’s good for young people to inherit piles of money so that they’ve no incentive to work for anything. At least for Alistair the wealth is all tied up in the house and grounds and he has the responsibility to maintain it. If Poppy were handed a lot of money she’d probably just spend it.’
‘Me too!’ laughed Mary. ‘But I see what you mean.’
‘Do you think Dominic was expecting anything?’
&n
bsp; ‘I shouldn’t imagine so, darling, given how they got on. Although I’m sure he’d have welcomed a little windfall to help him with the business.’
‘Yes. I wonder why he left that money to James? Maybe he did have a conscience about leaving him in the lurch.’
‘Perhaps. I think he expected the rest of us all to be happy with the little bits and pieces he’s left and grateful that he remembered us at all. Come on, let’s get a drink; we deserve it after that.’
Steph Johnson had found nothing of significance in Redmire’s desk in the small office he shared with Andrea Jenkinson. But Oldroyd had higher hopes about what there might be in the private study, which was adjacent to Redmire’s bedroom and connected by an internal door.
The study was quite small and so similar in size and layout to the locked room that Oldroyd wondered if Vivian Carstairs had used it as the model. Bookshelves above an expensive mahogany writing desk contained expensive hardback volumes on country sports, horse racing and a history of famous poker players. The desk itself was highly polished but virtually empty apart from a curiously designed, lascivious pen holder in which the pen was held in the cleavage between a pair of female breasts. A wastepaper bin was empty. The whole effect of the room was ornamental; it was clear that literary concerns had not interested Lord Redmire.
As expected, the drawers were locked, but Oldroyd was armed with a set of keys that had been found in the pocket of the jacket Redmire was wearing on the night of the murder. As he began his methodical examination, Oldroyd reflected that he found Redmire a very unpleasant victim with whom it was difficult to empathise. Everything Oldroyd had discovered about the man suggested an unsavoury character: a lazy, arrogant, gambling waster and philanderer. Maybe there would be something among his private things that would render him a little more attractive.
Oldroyd always found it a poignant experience to go through a murder victim’s private possessions and find the little personal things: a birthday card, a train ticket, an old passport, a still-wrapped sweet, a supermarket receipt. The sad, ordinary reminders of a life being lived in ignorance of the fact that it was about to be cut short. Oldroyd could never comprehend how quickly a person could go from vibrancy and animation to the inert state of a carcass. It depressed him if he thought about it too much.
He tried to divert himself with a bit of lugubrious humour, attempting to apply one of his famous acronyms to Lord Redmire’s strange demise. None of his existing ones seemed appropriate so he invented a new one: POM, which stood for ‘Planned Own Murder’.
It was clear from the little Oldroyd found that Redmire had been an unsentimental man and not a hoarder of any kind. The drawers contained writing paper, a collection of expensive pens, some geometrical instruments he’d probably had since boyhood and unopened packs of playing cards. As expected, there was no sign of any of the papers that Richard Wilkins said had been in the estate office safe, confirming that it was unlikely that Redmire himself had removed them. There was only one drawer in which the contents conveyed anything of the human heart.
In a small compartment near the bottom Oldroyd found a letter and a brown envelope that contained photographs. The letter was handwritten and was really not much more than a note. The address was a flat in Paddington, London. There was no date but from the contents it must have been written around Christmastime, and the faded appearance suggested some years ago.
Dear Freddy,
I hope this finds you well and you like the picture. Don’t they grow up fast? Things have been very hard recently, as work has been hard to come by. I wonder if you could see your way to giving us a bit of help in the New Year?
Anyway, Merry Christmas,
Jane
It certainly seemed that he’d found something relating to a part of Redmire’s past that he’d kept secret, but there were very few clues as to who this person was. He turned to the photographs and spread them out on the desk. It was clear that they ranged over a long period of time. There were some faded black-and-white shots of solemn-looking Victorian aristocrats, presumably Redmire’s ancestors, and some early colour prints of the man himself as a boy with Dominic and his parents, posing together on a lawn with the Hall in the background. Oldroyd sorted through pictures of Poppy and Alistair as babies, along with various people who were clearly relatives, until he came to one that seemed different.
This picture showed an attractive young woman holding a toddler in her arms. Both were smiling into the camera. On the back was written in pencil ‘Merry Christmas from us both’ and two crosses. This could well be the author of the letter.
And then Oldroyd came to another; it was a small school photograph of a child of about seven, clearly the same one but a few years older. There was nothing written on the back. Oldroyd sat down deep in thought. These seemed like fragments of a story, seemingly one of abandonment. Even the cruel heart of the deserter had been affected, as he’d kept these mementoes. Oldroyd looked again at the second photograph. It somehow stirred a recognition in him, but of what? As yet, that eluded him.
It was not the most opportune moment for Steph and Jeffries to interview Poppy Carstairs for the second time, but they had their instructions from Oldroyd. They waited until the family came out of the room where the will had been read and then went to find her. In the corridor they ran into Tristram Benington.
‘Mr Benington. Do you know where Miss Carstairs is, please? We need to ask her some questions on the matter I mentioned to you earlier.’
Benington looked at her with contempt. He still felt angry about their confrontation.
‘She’s just had a very unpleasant experience in there listening to the will, apparently, so I don’t think it’s appropriate for you to be asking her questions at this moment.’
‘I’m sure Miss Carstairs is tougher than you think, sir.’
An exasperated Benington saw that Steph was not going to back down, so he decided that he’d better cooperate so as not to make it more difficult for Poppy.
‘There’s a place she used to go to when she lived here. She’s there now and wants to be left alone. She won’t welcome you intruding, but follow me.
He took them outside and along a maze of paths that led through the various sections of the gardens where Oldroyd had walked earlier: rhododendrons and azaleas, fuchsias, Victorian fernery and rockery. They eventually reached the white garden, which at that moment was full of white roses, white buddleia and white agapanthus, the latter growing in large terracotta pots. Tucked away round a corner, almost concealed from view, was a small summerhouse. Benington walked up to the door.
‘Poppy, darling, the police are here and want to ask you a few questions.’
‘Shit, Tristram, tell them to go away; I can’t talk to them now. I want to be by myself for a bit.’
‘Poppy, I don’t think that’s wise. Just talk to them and get it over with.’
‘Oh, fuck it!’ came the cry, and the door crashed open. ‘What the hell do you want?’ She looked very dishevelled compared to her normal appearance, and had obviously been crying.
‘I’m sorry, Miss Carstairs; I understand things haven’t been pleasant.’
‘You can say that again. It sounds as if my bloody father has gambled away half my inheritance.’
‘Poppy, don’t!’ urged Benington. ‘Look, I’ll leave you with them. Come back up to the house straight away afterwards; don’t stay here by yourself.’
She gave him a filthy look and then turned to Steph and Jeffries. ‘Come in.’
The detectives went into the summerhouse, which was just big enough for them all. There were three chairs and they all sat down.
‘Mr Benington’s right. It’s better if we proceed as quickly as we can and then the investigation will be over sooner.’
‘OK.’
‘So,’ began Steph, ‘we have a report that you were seen arguing with your father on the night of the murder, not long before he was killed.’
‘Who told you that?’
/> ‘That’s not relevant. Is it true?’
‘Yes, and I wish I’d given him more shit now that I realise how bad his behaviour was. I mean, he wasn’t thinking of me, his own daughter, when he was losing all that money, was he?’
No, he was thinking about himself, very much like you do, thought Steph. ‘So what happened?’
‘He refused to see any of us before the dinner that evening, so I sneaked out and tried to find him. I know the Hall and estate well and the ways you can get around without being seen. I found him coming into one of the back entrances. I don’t know where he’d been.
‘Anyway, I’d been promising Tris that I would ask Daddy to help him pay off his debts – just a loan while he earned the money. Tris could earn a lot of money if he got off his arse more and it would be a good incentive to get him to work. Daddy would have accepted instalments for the repayment. But no chance: he flatly refused me, said I wasn’t going to get any more out of him. At the time I thought it was incredibly mean; now I realise he probably didn’t have the money because of his own gambling debts. How ironic is that? Not only does he introduce me to someone who’s a gambler like himself, but then his own gambling ruins his daughter’s prospects!’
‘How long had you been angry with him? Has he refused you money before?’
‘Sometimes, but he’s always given me plenty of, you know, spending money.’
I’ll bet he has, thought Steph. ‘So were you angry enough to want to harm him?’ she asked, moving abruptly to the point.
Poppy looked pityingly at her. ‘I feel sorry for you, having to go round making terrible accusations against people like that. No, I didn’t kill my own father because he wouldn’t give me enough money.’
‘What did Mr Benington think about your father’s refusal?’
‘Tris didn’t expect anything; he always said that it was some kind of code at the club that you had to pay off your own debts. He didn’t want me to ask Daddy for money.’