The Murder at Redmire Hall

by J. R. Ellis

  ‘Right, come with me.’

  As Scott was being marched off, Steph appeared. ‘Who was it, then, sir?’

  ‘False alarm – just a poacher silly enough to trespass here at a time like this. It was the bloke who told me about the hidden car. We’re all getting very nervous, unsurprisingly. Anyway, come on. I think it’s time we paid another visit to Alistair Carstairs, see how he responds to the plans his father had for the estate.’

  Alex and James lived in an apartment in an immaculate Georgian terrace in St John’s Wood. This was within walking distance of James’s sports-car showroom, which was discreetly situated at the corner of a street, with its windows and doors in art-deco style.

  While the false alarm with Scott Handley was being played out at Redmire, Alex, stylishly dressed as ever, in three-quarter-length trousers and a white silk blouse, was about to leave the house. It was ten thirty in the morning.

  ‘Are you going to the office, darling?’ she called to James, who was in the high-ceilinged living room, which looked out upon the street.

  ‘In a while, although I’d rather go to the cricket.’

  There was a Test match about to start at nearby Lord’s, where James was a member.

  ‘I’m sure you would, but you need to keep an eye on Graham and the team, don’t you? You’ve always made a big thing about working for your living compared to your aristocratic friends and customers, so off you go. See you later.’

  The door closed, and seconds later James heard the sound of a sports car revving up and moving off sharply. Alex had gone off to meet her friends for coffee in a swanky new café that had recently opened in Knightsbridge.

  Lucky for some, thought James as he stretched, yawned and tossed the Times he’d been reading to one side. He tried to summon up the energy to pop into work, but was seriously drawn to the cricket. He had a manager, Graham Sturridge, and a sales team working for him, so there was not a great deal for him to do. Nevertheless, having been away for a time, it would be prudent to go in and check that all was well. First, however, he needed to make a call. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and dialled a number.

  ‘Hi, yes, it’s James Forsyth . . . Yes, we’re back. It’s been bloody awful, I can tell you. We were holed up for days in that place . . . Yes. I got your text, but it doesn’t matter now; it’s all over, isn’t it? . . . Goodness knows – no, of course not . . . Yes, don’t worry: I got my legacy and you’ll be paid. That will be the last time, I’m afraid . . . Soon, yes. Bye for now.’

  He ended the call, got up, put on an Irish-linen jacket and left the house. Unfortunately he failed to notice that, when he’d pulled the phone from the pocket of his chinos, he’d also pulled out a business card, which was now lying on the chair.

  Over coffee, Alex regaled her friends with her account of the gruesome events at Redmire Hall.

  ‘Poor Freddy,’ remarked one rather languidly between mouthfuls of croissant. ‘And even more poor you, seeing your old amour murdered like that.’

  ‘Nothing ever surprised me with Freddy.’

  ‘It must have been sort of thrilling, though, being there when it was all on television,’ giggled another.

  ‘Arabella! That’s not very nice,’ remarked a third.

  ‘Oh, I know what she means, but actually it wasn’t; it was ghastly.’ Alex closed her eyes and shook her head.

  ‘I’m sure it was – dreadful,’ observed a fourth vaguely as she stifled a yawn. ‘By the way, shall we try Carabini’s for lunch? Marie went there and she said it was excellent.’

  Alex considered telling them about the silver lining of James’s legacy but, having observed the yawn, decided against it.

  ‘Well, you haven’t missed much here. It’s been a dull month; there are so many people away. The only thing that’s happened is we know that Cordelia’s definitely having an affair with that man from the publishing company. They were seen together in a restaurant in Kensington and she . . .’

  Gossip and chatter continued for a while and the group progressed to a saunter around some exclusive boutiques, and lunch at the recommended Carabini’s.

  Alex returned home in the late afternoon to find James still out. She dropped her bags, made a cup of tea and went to sit down in the living room. Almost immediately she noticed the card that had dropped out of James’s pocket. She picked it up, began to read it and froze.

  James had made a brief visit to the office, but had then found the lure of the Test match irresistible. He stayed until close of play in an exciting encounter between England and the West Indies.

  ‘Hi, darling!’ he called breezily as he took off his jacket in the hall. There was no reply. He wondered if she was still out, but then was surprised to discover her sitting silently in an armchair in the living room.

  ‘What are you doing in here?’

  She turned a withering glance at him and held up the card.

  ‘I’m sitting and wondering why my partner might need the services of a woman like this.’

  The new Lord Redmire was occupying his father’s seat in the office with Andrea Jenkinson for the first time. So far it had been another terrible day at Redmire Hall. Richard Wilkins had rung him early to tell him about Barden’s murder, and mentioned the black BMW seen near the estate. Alistair was glad Wilkins had done this, as it had given him time to tell his mother before the information got to the police. How paranoid they were all becoming! There must be hundreds of black BMWs around but he knew this might throw suspicion on Douglas. Douglas, of all people! The mild-mannered man who had made his mother happy. The atmosphere was electric with tension and suspicion.

  Andrea had not yet said anything about handing in her notice. The plan had been for her to brief him about his new role but the terrible news about Ian Barden had overwhelmed this task for the moment.

  ‘Did you know him well?’ asked Alistair.

  ‘No. He was one of those people you tended to avoid, unless you wanted to know about valves and steam pistons, but he always seemed harmless.’

  ‘Yes, I know. I spoke to him recently; he had these ideas about knowing something about my father’s murder and he was going on about warning people. I told him not to scare them.’

  ‘He said the same to me. I think he was saying the same thing to everybody, but I don’t think anyone took it seriously.’

  ‘No. I take it Richard is handling the fallout with the police. We’ll have to close again, no doubt.’

  ‘They’ve allowed him to open the house and the gift shop but not the gardens or café.’

  ‘OK. Well, at least that’s something. We might as well get on with what we were going to do.’

  Andrea moved her chair next to his at his desk and opened some files on the computer to show him. ‘Your father’s day-to-day role in relation to the estate was very light-touch. He oversaw the work of Richard Wilkins and his team, but spent most of his time talking to business people, the media and other stately-home owners trying to drum up money and support. He’d agree to something like the vintage-car weekend and then hand it over to Richard to arrange the details. It was my job to look after his diary and make appointments, arrange transport, accommodation and so on.’

  ‘He spent a lot of time in London, didn’t he?’

  ‘Increasingly so in the last year. It was often difficult for people to get to see him. We lost a few opportunities because he wasn’t around.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Well, there was a company that wanted to mount an exhibition of their camping equipment in the show area of the grounds. They were prepared to pay a good price, but your father kept putting them off and eventually they went elsewhere.’

  ‘Damn,’ said Alistair. ‘Well, it won’t happen again, I can assure you.’

  At that moment Oldroyd and Steph arrived.

  ‘Good afternoon, Chief Inspector, Sergeant,’ said Alistair. ‘Dreadful news again. I can’t believe it; you’ll continue to have our full cooperation.’

  ‘Than
k you,’ replied Oldroyd. ‘Can we have a word in private?’

  Andrea left the office. Oldroyd took out his copy of the plans from the property developers and placed them on the desk.

  ‘I’d like you to take a look at these, sir.’

  Alistair looked solemnly at the documents. ‘I presume these are my father’s plans for the estate?’

  ‘They are.’ Oldroyd watched Alistair very carefully as he looked at documents.

  ‘So I take it these shaded areas are the parts he was preparing to sell off?’

  ‘Correct.’

  Alistair whistled. ‘Good Lord, that would have been terrible; it would have significantly diminished Redmire. What was he thinking of? Do you know how far advanced these plans were?’

  ‘I don’t think anything had been finalised, but you’re free to contact them now and discuss it. So this is the first time you’ve seen these proposals?’

  ‘Yes. I told you: my father wouldn’t discuss them with me. All he did was hint that there were going to be changes to the estate – although I have an idea he might have been intending to reveal things after the performance of the trick, while everyone was together. That didn’t happen very often.’

  ‘Wasn’t it rather odd to keep it all to himself like that?’

  ‘He could be very secretive and I’m not surprised he didn’t tell me about these plans; he knew what I would have said. And not just me: I can’t think of anyone who would have supported him over this.’

  ‘So I suppose we could say that it’s a good thing they were stopped?’

  Alistair looked sharply at Oldroyd. ‘Yes, Chief Inspector, I’m glad these plans were never implemented; but I think your implication is that they gave me a motive to get rid of my father, and that’s not true. I repeat: I knew nothing about what his intentions were.’

  ‘But is it true to say that any major “changes”, as he put it, would have antagonised you even if you didn’t know the detail?’

  Alistair seemed a little nonplussed. ‘Well, yes, I suppose so, up to a point. I mean, I’d never have used any violence to stop him – obviously.’

  ‘That story that you and your wife told us about the break-in at the office. Are you sure that wasn’t a cover for you breaking in yourself? Because we know that your father’s copy of these plans was stolen, most probably that night. Did you take them from that safe, sir? Maybe you managed to get your father’s key. And when you saw what he was proposing . . .’

  ‘Hold on, Chief Inspector! None of that is true. Katherine and I told you the truth – and I’m not the kind of person who would kill their own father, whatever he was planning for the estate.’

  Oldroyd was unrelenting. ‘And what about your grandmother? I imagine she would have felt the same way as you if you’d told her. Maybe she knew more than she’s told us about how the trick works, and you and she planned it together, with more help.’

  Alistair laughed. ‘This is getting ridiculous, Chief Inspector.’

  Oldroyd looked at Steph. ‘Maybe, but we can’t discount you, sir. After all, you had the most to gain from Lord Redmire’s death.’

  ‘I can see that, but you’re wasting your time. It wasn’t me.’

  ‘Very well, we’ll leave it there.’

  The detectives left, and Alistair sank back exhausted into his chair. There was another knock at the door. Bloody hell! What a day! He badly needed a break. Who was this?

  ‘Come in.’

  The shabby figure of David Morton pushed his head around the door. ‘Sorry to disturb you, Mr Alistair; I just wondered if I might have a word.’

  ‘Yes, of course, David. Come right in.’

  Morton shuffled uneasily into the room. In his boots and dirty trousers, he looked completely out of place in the office. He wore soil-encrusted gardening gloves.

  ‘I just wanted to say that, well, I know these are bad times, Mr Alistair – bad times for your family – but I hope that nothing is going to happen to the estate. We’re all so keen to keep everything as it is.’

  Alistair couldn’t stop himself smiling. It was Celia Anscomb all over again. It was quite touching to see how many people cared about the integrity and wholeness of Redmire.

  ‘Don’t worry, David. Whatever my father might have had in mind, I can assure you that the estate will not be broken up. I care deeply about this place, as I think you know.’

  Morton grinned from ear to ear. ‘I do, Mr Alistair, but it’s still good to hear you say it. And all the precious plants will be safe. It would have been a terrible shame if there’d been any damage done.’

  ‘It would. Now, if you don’t mind, it’s been a difficult day and I’m busy, so off you go to tend to your charges.’

  ‘I will, Mr Alistair, and thank you.’

  He turned round and lumbered out, leaving Alistair to reflect that it wasn’t difficult to get the staff on your side if they felt you shared a common purpose with them. It gave him a lot of hope for the future.

  At the flat in Chelsea, Poppy was taking a call. Her black-and-white cat, Rosie, was asleep on her lap and through the window the leaves of the plane tree in the street outside were visible. Tristram was at a photo shoot for Crazy Pants fashion house.

  ‘No, there was no alternative. It had to be done . . . OK, keep me informed.’

  She ended the call and gazed abstractedly at the window, watching the movement of the leaves for a while as she stroked Rosie. Then she called another number.

  ‘Hi. Yeah, it’s me . . . Not too bad, thanks . . . Yeah, I got it. Not as much as I’d hoped for, and I was pissed off about it to begin with, but actually it’s not bad as long as my father’s debts don’t start eating into it . . . I’m going to start my own photography business . . . Yeah, I’m sure Tris can get me some contracts with some of the fashion houses . . . Thanks. Yeah, it’s been bloody awful; I’d never go to that place again if it wasn’t for Granny – and she was pretty bad too, to be honest . . . Oh, she goes on about Tris all the time; basically she doesn’t like him . . . I know. What can you do? Mum’s up there too, plus my darling brother and his family, no doubt revelling in their new wealth . . . No, I’m not really jealous. I couldn’t stand it, hidden away in a place like that, looking after mouldy old furniture and paintings and trying to keep the tourists happy . . . I know, can you imagine me doing that? I’d tell the first person who complained about anything to piss off somewhere else if they didn’t like it! Anyway, how are you and Jack? . . . Good. That’s great; I bet that was fantastic! . . . I don’t know when Tris and I’ll be able to get away – the police say we’ve got to stay in the country until they’ve solved the case. I know that means we’re still all suspects . . . Terrifying, isn’t it? Yeah, anyway, we must meet up at the weekend. I’ll talk to Tris and get back to you. He’s got a busy schedule now because I gave him the hard word about work . . . Yeah, I did. I’m not keeping him, whatever he thinks . . . Oh, he’s been OK, I think, but he needs watching and I’ve given him a warning about that too . . . Yeah, I did. I’m working on it. I’ll tell you all about it sometime . . . OK. Bye.’ She put the phone down.

  ‘Now then, madam, down you go.’ She lifted Rosie off her lap, much to the cat’s meowing disgust, and brushed some black hairs off her jeans. She stood up and began to get ready to go out. She felt a spring in her step. She was taking control and things could only get better, as the old line went.

  Later that day Oldroyd, sitting alone in the makeshift office at Redmire and trying desperately to get some new angle on the locked-room conundrum, was conducting some obscure research. He was exploring the internet for information about magicians and their tricks to see if he could find anything about an illusion similar to the locked room or anything about Count Mazarini himself. The man must have been famous in his time, but that was back in the sixties and seventies. There would probably be little on the internet unless things had been archived and digitised. As Oldroyd formulated various searches, he thought about the eccentricity of Vivian Carstair
s, bringing a whole team of Italian craftsmen over to England, presumably at great expense. However, it had proved a success in that the trick remained unexplained. Two of the people who knew how it worked had been murdered. The murderers might well be the last people alive to know the secret.

  His doggedness was eventually rewarded when he found an obscure site devoted to ‘Great European Magicians of the Twentieth Century’. The home page consisted of a clunky cartoon figure of a magician in a cloak holding a glowing wand. The foreword explained: ‘Here we celebrate the now vanished era of great illusionists. No longer are they mesmerising audiences; they have hung up their cloaks and magic wands . . .’ The material was arranged alphabetically, so Oldroyd scrolled down to the ‘M’s and, yes, there was an entry for Mazarini:

  Mazarini, Count (actual name: Roberto Mazzola), 1920–1995. Born in Turin; father and uncle were also magicians. Mazarini first performed on stage at the age of fifteen, at a Fiat car workers’ social club in Turin; he came to prominence in the post-war years and toured Italy extensively with a wide repertoire of tricks and illusions. He became renowned for a locked-room illusion in which he disappeared from a small room and then reappeared, despite there being no apparent exit. This illusion was never explained or duplicated by any other illusionist and remains one of the most mysterious tricks ever performed. Mazarini would only perform the trick after extensive preparations in highly secret conditions, which gives a clue as to the complexity of the mechanisms involved. He died in Turin in 1995. He had no family.

  Interesting, but not particularly useful – although it confirmed that there was a considerable amount of engineering involved in the illusion. Why? And what did this mechanism do? Did the room come apart somehow and reveal an exit? If so it was bafflingly well concealed as no one could find a crack or a hinge anywhere. The website entry was, of course, wrong. The trick had been performed by two other people: Vivian and Frederick Carstairs. What a price Vivian must have paid for Mazarini to part with his secret and send a team to construct it in Yorkshire! It was probably because Lord Redmire was not a professional magician, and would thus not be a rival to Mazarini, that the latter consented to sell the trick to Redmire for him to entertain his friends with in private. No wonder that, even in those days, the estate had always been short of money.