The Murder at Redmire Hall

by J. R. Ellis

  ‘Did you notice anything unusual about your father when you saw him? Did he look worried or anything?’

  Poppy thought about this for a moment. ‘No. He looked like he always did: self-confident and suave. I might have been the last person to see him privately and it was the last time I saw him by myself. I wish we hadn’t argued.’ She looked away from the detectives, and Steph knew that she was crying.

  ‘That’s fine, Miss Carstairs, thank you. And I think Mr Benington was right: don’t stay here by yourself.’

  Poppy managed a wan smile, but she remained in the summerhouse as the two detectives returned to the house.

  Late in the afternoon, the detectives were looking at their copy of the will in their office at the Hall.

  ‘Nothing very surprising,’ remarked Oldroyd. ‘Except that legacy for James Forsyth. That puts him in the frame again, as he stands to gain from Redmire’s death, though the amount’s not massive. They won’t like the erosion of Redmire’s legacy through having to pay off the debts. The solicitor told me they’re quite substantial.’

  ‘It’s Poppy Carstairs who stands to lose the most, isn’t it? Everybody else just gets bits and pieces,’ replied Steph.

  ‘Yes.’ Oldroyd looked at her with his head on one side. ‘You don’t sound very sorry; don’t like the little rich girl, do we?’ His teasing rather overlooked the fact that his own attitude to these rich aristocrats was very similar to hers.

  ‘I can’t deny it. Poor thing will have to continue to work for a living – won’t do her any harm. How old is she? Twenty-three?’

  ‘Something like that.’ He looked at the will again. ‘Not much help to us in terms of providing motives.’

  ‘Maybe Poppy got him bumped off before he could lose any more of her legacy playing poker. She admitted that she rowed with her father just before he was murdered. She did seem genuinely upset about his death, though.’

  ‘Dissembling is an important skill for criminals in a premeditated murder,’ continued Oldroyd, ‘and not as unlikely as you might think. Or it could have been Benington, who stood to benefit from anything Poppy inherited and had debts of his own to pay. He was in a good position to see the way things were going. Maybe he knew that Redmire was losing it at poker: losing his touch and losing his money.

  ‘There will be other people, like Dominic Carstairs and maybe James Forsyth, who may have hoped for more, but how murdering Redmire would have helped their cause is difficult to see.’ Oldroyd tossed the will aside. ‘No, the documents we really need to find are the ones containing Redmire’s estate plans. Someone stole those for a reason. I’ve got Jeffries on the job of tracking the firm of property developers that Redmire used and he should be here soon. While we’re waiting, what do you think of this?’

  He showed her the photographs he’d got from Redmire’s desk, along with the letter.

  ‘Who is this woman, sir? Do you think she’s the author of the letter? It sounds like Redmire had a mistress somewhere, and a child.’

  ‘I’m sure he had plenty of mistresses and maybe children too. I’ve no idea who she is and I don’t know how relevant it is to the case, but we need to track her down and find out. Ah, here’s Jeffries.’

  The young detective, with his ever-bright face, entered the room.

  ‘Well, any luck?’

  ‘Yes, sir, I’ve cracked it. It’s a firm called Ripon Developments. Luckily it was only the third one I tried. I spoke to one of the partners; they were very cagey about telling me anything, said it was all confidential and I would have to go to the office with a warrant, but they did confirm that Lord Redmire had discussed and agreed a development plan for Redmire Hall with them. They said he was very keen that everything remained a secret.’

  ‘I’ll bet he was,’ said Oldroyd. ‘I’ve got an idea that he may well have been going to unveil his plans to the family while they were all gathered together for the performance. It’s always struck me as strange that he would make such an effort to get them all to come just for the trick. He didn’t really need them for that but it was a good excuse to get them here. Right.’ He got up purposefully. ‘We need to get over to Ripon.’

  In the part of the house that was normally open to the public, Alistair Carstairs was discussing the future with Celia Anscomb. He was still finding it difficult to register that he was now Lord Redmire and that all these wonderful buildings, grounds and works of art belonged to him. It was a sobering responsibility, and it was now his duty to preserve it all and, in his turn, hand it on. He knew that Celia Anscomb, like many of Redmire’s valued workers, was anxious about the future. He also knew that, despite offering her condolences to him, she was actually pleased that his father was no longer around to run things. She was not the only one to feel this way either.

  ‘It’s just that there’ve been so many rumours going round about financial difficulties and we knew that Mr Frederick was . . . a bit of a . . . you know . . .’

  ‘A gambler. It’s all right, you can say it. He was; he lost a lot of money and it will have consequences.’

  She looked alarmed. ‘That’s what I was afraid of. Will it mean that you’ll be selling things off?’

  ‘Absolutely not if I can avoid it. I’m not in the business of breaking things up. I want to keep all the art, the furniture and the other things that you look after intact as a collection.’

  Her face brightened with relief. ‘Oh, that’s so good to hear. I couldn’t bear the prospect of any of these wonderful works of art and craftsmanship being taken away from here.’

  ‘No, well, there will be some debts to clear, but I’m sure it won’t come to that.’

  After further reassurances, Alistair went back to the gardener’s cottage to get his Labrador, Lucy, and then walked with her on the path by the river. He tried to clear his mind. So many people were going to have high expectations of him: it would be his job to save Redmire from the ruin his father had inflicted. Of course, he and Katherine had been aware that these responsibilities would be coming to them, but not so soon and so suddenly. As he was reflecting on things, he heard a voice behind him.

  ‘Hello, Alistair. I thought I might find you out here with the dog.’

  His heart sank; it was Dominic. Although he had a certain respect for the way his uncle had established his own business, he’d always found him a difficult person to warm to: far too reactionary and totally lacking humour. Alistair had an idea of what Dominic might want to talk about, too.

  ‘Do you mind if we just have a word?’ Dominic was trying his best to be jovial and even smiled at his nephew. The effect was rather unnerving.

  ‘Not at all, Uncle. What can I do for you?’

  They continued along the path between the gardens and the river. On the opposite bank, anglers sat by their rods with the lines in the water. A mallard with a family of quickly growing ducklings paddled past.

  ‘Well, first I just wanted to say congratulations on becoming the next Lord Redmire,’ Dominic said.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I think the succession has come to exactly the right person.’ Alistair was finding his uncle’s fawning tone very embarrassing. Dominic lowered his voice. ‘I don’t wish to say bad things about your father – after all, he was my brother too and a member of the family; a family must stick together – but we all know about his, er, his . . . indiscretions. With money, I’m thinking about, not the, er, the other stuff.’

  ‘Quite.’

  ‘Yes, well, I know that you will handle things much better, with probity and with care. You won’t waste the estate’s assets.’

  ‘I shall certainly do my best, Uncle.’

  ‘I know you will; that’s exactly what I’m saying. And I know you value our family too, and if anyone was in difficulty you’d want to help them.’

  ‘I’m sure I would.’

  They’d reached the edge of the estate and turned round to head back the way they’d come.

  Lucy shot off into a copse of trees in purs
uit of a squirrel.

  ‘Lucy! Come on, girl!’

  The dog came bounding back, barking with excitement. Dominic struggled on with what he was trying to say. ‘So what I’m saying is that things are a bit difficult for me at the moment. It’s a very competitive environment we’re in and I was wondering if, obviously after you’ve sorted everything out and it’s all in order, you might see your way to giving me a little support. Just a loan, you understand. I shall pay it all back as soon as I’m able.’

  Alistair tried to respond in the most judicious way he could. ‘I see. Well, look, Uncle, I’ll certainly bear what you’ve said in mind. But I’m sure you’re aware, after what we’ve heard today, that things are going to be very tight for a while.’

  ‘Good answer! Yes, that’s exactly what I would have said. I know you can’t promise anything, but I also know that the family is important to you, and the moment you—’

  ‘Yes, Uncle. Let’s leave it there for the moment, shall we?’ They’d walked around the edge of the main borders and were near the gardener’s cottage.

  ‘Absolutely. Well, it’s been good to talk to you.’ He put his hand out to shake with Alistair. ‘Don’t get me wrong,’ he said, lowering his voice again, ‘but I think what’s happened is going to be better for us all. Cheerio for now.’

  He strode off back towards the house, leaving Alistair wondering what exactly he meant.

  Alistair decided to walk through the rose garden before going home. As he crossed the little railway, he saw Ian Barden.

  ‘Ah, Mr Alistair. I’m very pleased to see you.’ He came over to the new Lord Redmire and, like Morton, almost tugged his forelock. ‘It’s a pleasure to see you, the new Lord Redmire, like.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I know it’s only happened to you because of a lot of nastiness, but I want you to know that I’m working on finding the killer with the police. Well, not with the police, exactly, if you see what I mean, but I’ve got some ideas about what happened.’

  ‘I see. And who have you been talking to about this?’

  ‘Oh, everyone I see. I think it’s important that they’re warned to stay on their guard. We don’t know where they could strike next.’

  ‘Right. Well, I don’t think you need to scare us all and I’m sure everyone else has told you that if you know anything you should go to the police.’

  ‘Aye, they ’ave, but I’m just doing my bit, Mr Alistair, because, you see . . .’

  ‘OK. Well, thank you, Ian, but I have to be off and I really do think that it would be better if you stuck to looking after and driving the train – you do it so well – and let the police get on with their work.’

  ‘Oh, well, thank you very much for that, Mr Alistair, much appreciated. I do my best to keep the Duchess and Mallard in good working order and presentable, you know.’

  ‘You do.’

  Barden walked off grinning, seemingly having forgotten about his ‘mission’ for a moment. Alistair was left shaking his head.

  Oldroyd contacted Ripon Developments, who had an office in Kirkgate. This ancient street led to the cathedral and always reminded Oldroyd of the many winding medieval streets in York. Oldroyd managed to park in the Market Place, and he and Steph walked across the cobblestones and past the tall obelisk.

  ‘Someday I’m going to play a trick on Andy,’ said Oldroyd with a mischievous smile. ‘I’m going to bring him here for a drink in one of these pubs on the Market Place here, and then, on some pretext, I’ll bring him out on to the square at nine p.m. He won’t be able to believe it when the wakeman comes out in his costume and blows the horn. He’ll think he’s had too much beer.’ Oldroyd chuckled at the prospect. ‘The Ripon Hornblower. Do you know it’s one of the oldest traditions in England?’

  Steph smiled. Oldroyd could never resist giving you a little lecture about some aspect of Yorkshire history or culture. Some people might think him a pompous mansplainer, but it never came over like that. It was just that his enthusiasm boiled over. Besides, what he said was usually quite interesting.

  ‘During the period of the Viking raids, after Alfred the Great had granted the city a charter in 886, the tradition started of appointing a wakeman, who would patrol at night and keep watch. The sounding of the horn signified that the watch was set and it was safe to go to sleep. They’re still doing it thirteen hundred years later and claim not to have ever missed a night.’

  ‘How many times is that, then, sir?’

  ‘What?’ Oldroyd appeared nonplussed by this unexpected question.

  ‘Oh, sir, I’m really disappointed; I thought you’d know.’

  ‘Get away with you!’ cried Oldroyd, realising he was being teased.

  They’d crossed the square and were heading down the beautiful old street. They saw the name Ripon Developments on a brass plate on the door of a half-timbered building.

  ‘This is the kind of place I like to pay a visit to during my investigations, not some dreary office park on the outskirts of a town. You expect it to be Dickensian inside – the sort of place that could be the setting for a good ghost story.’

  Inside, the office was surprisingly modern, with state-of-the-art workstations and contemporary décor. Oldroyd looked disappointed, as if he really had expected old clerks dressed in black and wearing spectacles to be pulling dusty volumes on to high desks from ancient shelving and scribbling away with quill pens.

  ‘Never mind, sir,’ whispered Steph. ‘I’m sure you could have a ghost story with computers in it. They didn’t stop with Dickens, did they?’

  Oldroyd frowned at her archly. She was getting far too cheeky!

  A receptionist showed them into an office, where they were met by a tall, serious-looking woman who then sat down at a desk with a portfolio in front of her. After welcoming them and introducing herself as Judith Hammond, one of the senior partners, she said, ‘This is all quite irregular, Chief Inspector.’

  ‘And this is a murder enquiry,’ cut in Oldroyd quickly; he wasn’t going to waste time on this confidentiality business. ‘A double murder, to be precise, so I am expecting full cooperation from you. Anything less could be construed as obstructing a police investigation.’

  The woman sighed. ‘Very well.’ She opened the portfolio. ‘Lord Redmire came to us about a year ago. He was exploring the possibility of selling part of the estate to raise capital.’

  Oldroyd and Steph exchanged glances. Redmire’s financial difficulties must have been pretty severe.

  ‘We discussed various options with him and he eventually decided to sell one of the estate farms to a company that builds golf courses, and other smaller areas of land to a housing contractor.’

  ‘How advanced were these proposals?’

  ‘Very far from completion. We had begun to put feelers out to companies that might be interested. Lord Redmire was insistent that this was done discreetly and in confidence; no adverts or anything like that. He said he would need to inform his family but he would do it in his own time.’

  ‘I assume this would have raised a large amount of cash.’

  Hammond wrinkled her nose at the use of the word ‘cash’, which was far too crude for this world of high-class developers.

  ‘Yes, a great deal of capital. Of course, we understood Lord Redmire’s reluctance about the whole matter. It’s not the done thing for the owners of historic estates like Redmire Hall to sell off land. It usually only happens in extreme circumstances.’

  And not usually because the present steward has gambled his money away, thought Oldroyd. No wonder even Redmire was embarrassed by it. And he knew he was going to have a very difficult job presenting it to the family.

  ‘Can you show me a map indicating which parts of the estate were to be sold?’

  Hammond passed a document to Oldroyd, who looked at it and then whistled.

  ‘I see. That’s very interesting. Can you photocopy this for me, please?’

  ‘Really, Chief Inspector, is that absolutely—’
>
  A look from Oldroyd silenced her and she took the sheet out to a photocopier.

  As they were walking back to the car, Oldroyd handed the photocopy to Steph.

  ‘That’s dynamite,’ was all he said.

  Six

  At Redmire Hall things were at last returning to normal, at least in terms of tourism. Oldroyd, in response to an urgent request from Richard Wilkins and the new Lord Redmire, Alistair Carstairs, had given permission for the Hall to reopen to the public. Certain parts remained cordoned off, to the disappointment of any visitors who had specifically come to see the ‘murder room’, but the grounds, gardens, café and other attractions were open.

  Luckily there was pleasant weather for the reopening. A stream of cars came steadily into the estate and the gardens filled up with people ambling around, admiring the borders and comparing them favourably with their own seemingly paltry efforts. The café did a brisk business and the children’s playground, complete with model steam railway and paddling pool, was a riot of laughter and enjoyment.

  Richard Wilkins, out on his rounds, observed all this with satisfaction. Redmire had had a very strained atmosphere since that awful night and it was wonderful to see it back to normal. Redmire was that kind of special place which inspired affection and loyalty. The people who ran it thought of it as theirs, and in a sense it was. All the things that visitors flocked to see – the gardens, playground, café, shop – had been created and maintained by people like himself, David Morton and their predecessors. Of the owners in living memory, only Charles Carstairs had really taken a personal interest in the estate. No wonder the people who actually worked at Redmire felt a need to protect it.

  Of course, Wilkins felt much more optimistic about the future now. Not only would Alistair Carstairs be a different kind of employer – much more hands-on – but he actually cared about it all too. He wouldn’t fritter money away on crazy, self-indulgent whims, or lose it all at the gaming table.

  Wilkins wanted to check with everyone that they were OK after the traumas of what had happened, and the enforced break. He also wanted to reassure them that they would be paid for the time off.