by J. R. Ellis
The Duchess was still steamed up after a full day taking excited children and their parents around the gardens. He was polishing the green cab of Mallard, a model of the famous A4 Gresley Pacific that still held the speed record for a steam engine. Outside it was very quiet. Doves cooed in the branches and there was the distant shriek of an owl. A gentle breeze rustled the leaves. Then suddenly there was a louder noise: it sounded like the branch of a tree falling. Barden stopped work and went outside to investigate.
‘Hello?’ he called, looking out of the door. But there was no answer.
A large branch was lying across the track out of the shed and he went to move it, looking up curiously to see where it could have come from. He was not to know that the branch had been thrown there – by someone who now scuttled silently out from behind a copper beech and hit him over the head. He slumped forward and the branch hit him again. This time he lost consciousness.
When he came round, he couldn’t move his arms or legs; they were fastened to something. A gag was stuffed in his mouth. It was one of his oily rags. He opened his eyes to see that his limbs were roped to a stone pillar that supported the little railway bridge above a large pond and stream. Part of the line had been removed and his head was jammed in this gap just above the track. He heard a noise. It was the tooting of an engine.
An engine was coming down the line towards him!
He struggled against the ropes, without success. Then he saw a flash of red as the Duchess of Hamilton turned a corner and came down the track towards him. The pistons that he had so recently greased were pummelling away at high speed; someone had jammed the throttle lever on full. The scale model of the Coronation Class careered along, steam and smoke streaming from the funnel and valves. Barden had a final close-up view of the lovely red curved streamlining before it hit him in the face. The engine was very small compared to the full-size version, but it was heavy enough and travelling at sufficient speed to almost decapitate its unfortunate erstwhile custodian. At the collision, the engine was hurled off the track and fell into the pond. There was a roar of steam as water, some of it reddish in colour, poured into the smoke box and extinguished the fire.
Quiet and stillness returned to the night garden. An inquisitive duck paddled around the wreckage but decided that there was nothing there of interest.
‘Well, this is becoming the Hall of Horrors, isn’t it, Jim? Are you turning it into a murder theme park or something?’ Tim Groves grinned at his own sardonic comment.
‘Very funny,’ replied Oldroyd. The detectives were grouped together at the edge of the pond, surveying the gruesome scene. Barden’s head was hanging down to the side, loosely attached to his body, which was still roped to the pillar. The red funnel of the Duchess of Hamilton was just visible in the now blackened and oily water of the pond. The alarm had been raised by one of David Morton’s team on his way to work in the nearby rockery. Yellow-and-black tape surrounded the scene and it didn’t look as if there would be any more trips on the Redmire Hall railway for some time. Oldroyd had shut the Hall and grounds again following this discovery, much to Richard Wilkins’s despair.
‘I hardly think you need me this time for an explanation. Nearly beheaded by a model railway engine. I’ve never encountered that as a murder method before. I must say, whoever’s behind this certainly has some very novel ideas. I’ll do the tests to make sure he wasn’t bumped off beforehand and placed here for effect, but it doesn’t look like it. There are lacerations to the wrists consistent with him struggling to break free from the ropes. There’s also a wound to the back of the head, so my guess is he was knocked out somewhere else and then placed here for the coup de grâce.’
‘The engine shed’s been left open, sir,’ said Jeffries, who’d arrived on the scene very early. ‘There are clear signs that he was working in there and was probably disturbed. His jacket, a flask of tea, some sandwiches . . .’
‘Right. And you say his name was Ian Barden?’
‘Yes, sir. He ran the model railway.’
‘He hasn’t featured in our investigation, sir,’ remarked Steph.
‘No. I wonder why.’
‘Chief Inspector!’ It was Richard Wilkins, looking extremely harassed and out of breath as he jogged over to Oldroyd. ‘Chief Inspector, one of the staff has reported seeing a black BMW near the estate last night. The person lives nearby and was walking across the fields. I don’t know whether it’s important.’
‘Thanks for the information.’
Wilkins hovered, looking uncertain. ‘The other thing is,’ he said, ‘I know what you said about this being a crime scene, but I was wondering if you could reconsider and allow us to at least open the house today with the café and the gift shop. Celia Anscomb, who runs the house side of things, is going demented. It’s nearly opening time and there’s already a queue outside. Surely that’s not encroaching on anything?’
Oldroyd looked at the poor man and relented. ‘OK, you can open the house and the gift shop, but not the café, I’m afraid; that’s too far into the gardens and near to what happened. Maybe tomorrow.’
Wilkins looked relieved. ‘Good. Fair enough; I understand. That will be a big help anyway.’
‘While you’re here: what do you know about the victim, Ian Barden?’
Wilkins glanced at the little bridge and looked away quickly. ‘God, that’s awful! Whoever would do such a thing? Poor Ian. I’m sure you already know he ran the model railway. He wasn’t always an easy person to deal with. One of those people who get an idea into their head and go on about it – when he wasn’t going on about steam engines, that is. Often you just wanted to get away, if you know what I mean.’
‘I see. Has he been getting ideas about what’s been going on here, then?’
‘Yes, and that must be why he’s ended up like this. Ever since the first murders he’s been going round warning everybody to be careful. Ironic, isn’t it? And also saying he’d seen or heard things. People were telling him to go to the police, but I take it he didn’t?’
‘No. What sort of things?’
‘He’d never say, which made me doubt whether there was anything. Sometimes people like him say things to get attention, don’t they? They want to feel important.’
‘As he’s become the next victim himself, maybe he did know something.’
‘Yes. Actually, the last time he spoke to me he was hinting about blackmail – saying it would be good to have information about people – but I didn’t take it seriously.’
‘Presumably that’s why he never came to us. Did he mention any names?’
‘No, but if he did try to blackmail someone that would be dangerous, wouldn’t it?’
‘Indeed it would. Thank you for that.’
Wilkins jogged back to inform his staff that at least the house would be open for visitors.
‘Well, again the family must have good alibis: presumably they’re all far away from the Hall by now,’ observed Steph. ‘Unless one of them has sneaked back.’
‘Maybe, but somehow we can never pin anything on them, can we? Which means that either there is nothing to pin on them or that at least one person among them is extremely cunning and is controlling what’s happening here at the Hall from a distance.’ He took a deep breath. ‘OK, Tim, we’re going to leave you to it. Let’s go back to the office, Steph; it’s time we had a case review.’
Tim said, ‘Before you go, Jim, I’ve got some news. I’ve been examining the knife used in the first murder and I’ve found a tiny amount of material on it, which I can’t identify. It might not mean anything, but I’ve sent it off to the lab in Leeds to get a more detailed analysis. Sorry it’s taking some time, but I’ll let you know as soon as I have anything.’
‘OK.’
The three detectives walked back to the house, where they made coffee and assembled their papers in the incident room.
‘Right,’ began Oldroyd. ‘So, Steph, you take charge of investigating what was going on last night – who wa
s around on the estate; did anyone see anything; who was the last person to see Barden alive – OK?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Now, where are we up to with the rest of it?’
‘As far as that locked room goes, sir,’ said Jeffries, ‘we’ve had teams of people looking outside at the walls and roof, and double-checking every part of the interior for moving panels, hiding places and everything you could think of. Nothing, I’m afraid. There doesn’t seem to be any way a person could either hide in there or get out.’
‘OK. I’m starting to think we need to approach the whole thing differently.’
‘How, sir?’
‘I’m not sure, but the assumptions we’re making about that room are wrong. I’m not sure how, but I’ve got some ideas.’
Jeffries listened for more, but Steph knew that Oldroyd would often refuse to share his ideas until he knew his theories were correct.
‘As for this latest murder, the victim may have known something or he may have just been a crank, but it confirms the ruthless nature of the people we’re pursuing.’
‘Do you think anyone else is in danger, sir?’
‘Who knows? I don’t think so, unless they know something and fail to tell us, which may have been the case with Ian Barden. Are we any further on with our list of suspects? Have we any further evidence? Is anyone starting to stand out?’
‘Forsyth and Benington weren’t very cooperative,’ said Steph. ‘I think they had some of the strongest motives in terms of money and revenge, especially as we’ve now discovered that they’ve both benefitted from the will.’
‘Yes. It’s strange that Redmire left that money to Forsyth. It seems out of character.’
‘Also, both Benington and Poppy Carstairs were definitely seen arguing with Redmire regarding Benington’s debts.’
‘The person who had most to gain from Lord Redmire’s death was actually his son, Alistair, wasn’t it, sir?’ suggested Jeffries.
‘You’re right. Especially as we now know from our meeting with the property consultants that Redmire was planning to sell off sections of the estate to raise cash. I think Alistair would have strongly disapproved of that, as would his mother and grandmother.’
‘He claimed not to have known anything about his father’s plans, didn’t he?’
‘He did, but we don’t know if that was the truth. If he had found out then he may have wanted to get his father out of the way before the plans were put into action.’
‘Of course,’ said Steph. ‘That story of the person breaking into the office to steal the plans may have been made up to conceal the fact that he and his wife took the plans themselves. They may have staged the burglary.’
‘I looked at the report of that break-in at Ripon station, sir,’ said Jeffries. ‘It was all routine stuff: no suspicious fingerprints anywhere, including the window itself, and nothing stolen. That was the odd thing at the time. But we now know that the plans were most likely taken, but not missed until you spoke to Wilkins.’
‘Exactly, so we need to go back to him with what we know and see how he reacts. What about any of the others?’
‘Dominic Carstairs obviously felt he had a better chance of getting some financial help from Alistair – and that’s aside from his general resentment of his brother,’ replied Steph. ‘Also, if there was anything between his wife and Redmire and Dominic had found out, there’s another motive.’
‘Yes. And then there’s Redmire’s ex-wife and his mother: they both wanted Alistair to succeed his father as soon as possible, so there could have been some sort of alliance there, unlikely as it sounds. There’s something else that came to me the other night,’ continued Oldroyd. ‘Someone we’ve forgotten about, and it might prove important. I’m going to pursue this myself and . . .’
At that moment a police constable burst into the room. ‘Sir, we’re tracking an armed individual out there. I think you’ll want to see this.’
‘Oh my God. Not another!’ Antonia Ramsay gasped and put her hand up to her mouth. She was standing in the large kitchen of their house above the village of Wensley. From the window she could see the flat bottom of the dale, with sheep and cows grazing in the fields divided by drystone walls. In the distance was Castle Bolton, the medieval home of the Scropes, and beyond that the fells of Askrigg Common separating Wensleydale from Swaledale.
The majestic beauty of the view contrasted with the horrible news she had just received in a phone call from Redmire Hall. Alistair had rung to tell her about the murder of Ian Barden, though he’d spared her the gruesome details.
‘Oh, the poor man!’ said Antonia. ‘But what did he have to do with anything? He just drove the little train, didn’t he? He always seemed harmless to me.’
‘No one knows, Mummy. He was going round saying he knew things about what’s been going on and presumably that’s what did for him. Whether or not he actually knew something’s another matter.’
‘For goodness’ sake, take care of yourself and Katherine and the girls. Who knows who might be next? I don’t like to think of you in that place. It’s like a haunted house to me now.’
‘Don’t worry, Mummy. I still think this is all about getting rid of Father for some reason. I think whoever’s behind it doesn’t mind me inheriting the estate. Anyway, it’ll all settle down when the police find the culprits.’
‘And when’s that going to be?’
‘I don’t know, but I think that chief inspector is a clever chap. Where’s Douglas, by the way?’
‘He’s gone to the York shop – left early this morning.’
‘Right, but he was there last night?’
‘Last night? Of course he was. Why?’
‘Oh, nothing; it’s just that someone reported to Richard Wilkins that they’d seen a black BMW near the estate late yesterday evening. I wondered if Douglas had driven over here for something. The police will no doubt get on to it, so you’d better warn him.’
‘But Alistair, you surely don’t mean . . .’
‘Of course not, Mummy. Look, I have to go, so I’ll speak to you later. Bye.’
Antonia closed her eyes as she put her phone down. This whole thing seemed to be getting worse, expanding to engulf the whole family. She thought for a moment: no, she wouldn’t even consider it. Nevertheless, she found herself going upstairs. She and Douglas had separate bedrooms at the moment because his loud snoring kept her awake. She went into his room in a panic, and was relieved to see that his bed had been slept in the previous night. She sat on the bed feeling weak. What was she thinking of? This terrible business had so completely unsettled her that she didn’t know what to think anymore.
Treading very carefully, a muffled figure moved through the outer part of the Redmire Hall estate. The person appeared to have a keen sense of purpose and was carrying a rifle. They cleverly evaded all the official entrances, and instead made for the Hall while staying under cover in the woods.
Security at Redmire Hall had been increased since Oldroyd had been shot at. There were now low-key armed patrols around the grounds. While the detectives were in their case meeting, two officers had spotted someone crouched in the undergrowth at the edge of the woods, not far from the main entrance to the Hall. When they edged closer under cover and used binoculars, they could see the figure had its head covered with a hoodie and they could see a rifle. It was important not to scare the person away. DCI Oldroyd would want an arrest. They spoke on their radios to the commanding officer.
Oldroyd arrived quietly at a second surveillance point that had been quickly established on the second floor of the house. He looked through the binoculars.
‘They certainly seems to mean business,’ he said.
‘Yes, sir,’ replied the commanding officer. ‘We were particularly concerned that from the position they’re in they could take a shot at the entrance to the Hall, which is where your car is parked and the detective sergeant’s too.’
Oldroyd looked from the woods to where he could se
e his car and Steph’s, and then back at the armed intruder. ‘I see; you’re right. OK. Well, I’ll leave it to you to organise a move in. Obviously try to avoid any exchange of fire. If they are after me, I want to question them. It might mean a breakthrough in this case.’
‘Sir.’
The officer spoke into his radio. Oldroyd stayed in position and monitored what happened next. Slowly and quietly the armed figure was surrounded by the police officers. The person had been still for a while, but just as Oldroyd was expecting the officers to move in, they raised their rifle and fired straight ahead, apparently at nothing in particular. This triggered an immediate response. Police officers jumped up from their hiding places and aimed their pistols at the figure.
‘We’re armed officers; put down your weapon!’
As Oldroyd left his position and ran out of the building towards the scene, the figure stood up, glanced around and dropped the rifle. When Oldroyd arrived, the shooter was being bundled out of the woods. An officer pulled off the hoodie to reveal a very startled Scott Handley. Oldroyd didn’t know whether to feel relieved or frustrated.
‘OK, OK; I know this person and I think I also know what’s going on. You were firing at a rabbit, weren’t you, Scott?’
Scott scowled at the officers who held him. ‘Yeah, I was, and I got it, too. Tell them to let me go back to collect it. What’s goin’ on? It’s a bit heavy, in’t it, for killing a rabbit?’
Oldroyd had to smile. ‘I suppose so. What you don’t realise is that after we spoke that night at the pub, someone took a shot at me when I was coming over the fields back to here.’
‘Well, it wa’n’t me!’
‘No, I never said it was, but you can see we’re a bit jumpy if we see someone sneaking around here with a rifle. OK?’
Scott looked sullen. Oldroyd spoke to the officer who’d pulled off the hood.
‘He’s a poacher; let him off with a caution. He’s helped us with the case and I don’t think he’s any danger.’ He turned to Scott. ‘Look, just keep away from here. There’s a murder enquiry going on. Do you want to get mixed up in that? There must be other places you can shoot rabbits.’ He gestured to one of the officers, who came forward.