by J. R. Ellis
‘Dad?’
‘Sorry, that just made me think of something.’
‘What did? The pub? Dad, you’re so funny.’
‘Yes, I’m sure I am, but I’d better be off.’ He drank the last of his tea and put on his jacket. ‘Have a good day. Concentrate; turn your phone off – no distractions.’
‘Yes, if only.’
‘Well, I’ll help you, then.’
He made a lunge, grabbed her phone from the table and ran to the door with it.
‘You’ll be better off without it.’ He waved it teasingly in the air.
‘Dad! No way! Bring it back!’
She pursued him, laughing, and managed to prise it out of his grasp before he shut the door behind him.
Eight
Andrea Jenkinson felt that the moment had come to tell Alistair Carstairs about her resignation. She had agonised about it for several days, but as she was on her early-morning drive to Redmire from Ripon she came to a decision. She’d spent quite a bit of time with the new Lord Redmire, bringing him up to speed with a variety of matters, and he was now able to function on his own until a new PA was appointed. She would also be there for the duration of her notice, so her conscience was clear that she wasn’t letting her employer down. She didn’t want to do that: she was fond of Redmire Hall and respected the new lord.
Alistair Carstairs was already there when she arrived at the office. ‘Good morning, Andrea.’
‘Good morning.’ This was the awkward moment. ‘Before we start work, I have something I want to say.’
He turned to face her. ‘Yes?’
‘I’m resigning; I want to leave Redmire. In fact, I’ve already handed in my notice to Richard, as he’s my line manager. I told him not to say anything until I’d spoken to you.’
‘What? Really? You don’t need to worry about your job here long-term: it’s absolutely secure.’
‘Yes, I know; you’ve been very kind, but I think I’ve been here long enough. I need a new challenge and the fact is, I’ve realised that I’m not really a country person. I’m going to go back to the city.’
‘I see. Do you have a job lined up?’
‘No, but I’ve started a job search and I’m hoping to get something in Leeds so I can commute to begin with.’
‘Well, this is bad news, for me at any rate. I was hoping to keep you as a continuity person; it would have been useful at a time like this.’
‘I know, but I think the time is right for a change and you can start afresh with a new PA. I’m probably too used to the old ways of doing things. I’ll be forever saying to you “Oh, we used to do it this way” and so on.’ She laughed to try to lighten the mood.
‘Well, you may be right, but I don’t think it would have been a problem for me. Are you sure I can’t get you to change your mind?’
‘No, it’s made up. Also, to be honest, after all that’s happened, I don’t find it pleasant to work here anymore. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to feel the same again about the place, though I’ve enjoyed working here and . . . I’ll be sad to leave in many ways . . . It’s just that . . .’
‘It’s OK. I see what you mean, and I can’t blame you, especially as you worked so closely with my father. It must have been a terrible shock.’
‘It was.’
‘Of course, it’s bad for us too, but we’ve no choice; we have to battle on here. But people like you can make a new start elsewhere. I quite understand.’
‘Thanks.’
Andrea settled down to work, feeling very relieved.
Alistair, however, was not only disappointed to lose a good worker but also found himself reflecting on how many other employees might be feeling the same way. There was a hard core of loyalists like David Morton, but what about the rest? Who would actually want to work at a place where three people had recently been murdered?
After work, Tristram had to relax. He was worn out. People thought that being a model was easy: just stand or sit in nice clothes while photographers click away. They didn’t realise the effort of standing around for hours and having to keep up the smile. Your jaw felt paralysed after a while and the boredom was crippling.
Unfortunately for Tristram, ‘relaxing’ meant going to the club for a spot of poker-playing. For money, of course. He had considered resigning from the Red Hot Poker, as the subscription was quite weighty, but the opulent gentlemen’s-club atmosphere allowed him to indulge himself in the illusion that his activities there had a certain gravity about them – which in reality they didn’t. It was a gambling den like any other on the street corner, despite the attendants dressed like butlers. And where players won and lost (mostly the latter) large sums of money.
He walked down the street to the tube station but didn’t notice that he was being followed by a sinister-looking character in dark glasses. When he took the tube to Soho, the man sat near him on the train. When he emerged into the warm London evening, he headed through a series of narrow streets towards the club, still followed by this man. His pursuer took out a phone. Tristram arrived at the club entrance feeling a sense of excitement as he saw the old-fashioned club sign in red lights on the side of the building. He approached the steps but suddenly his way was barred by a burly individual.
‘I don’t think you want to go in there, sir.’
Tristram was astonished. ‘What do you mean? Who are you?’
‘Just come with us, please, sir.’ This came from the man who’d followed him from the studio and was now standing right behind him.
‘What are you talking about? Where?’
‘Nothing to worry about; just come with us.’
They stood at either side of him and frogmarched him away, holding him firmly with their muscular arms. Tristram struggled to no avail.
‘Are you police officers or what? What’s going on?’ There was no reply.
Just round the corner was a bar and Tristram was hustled inside, where Poppy was waiting for him at a table, drinking a cocktail.
‘Thanks, boys. I’ll be in touch.’
Without a word, the two men manipulated Tristram into a seat at the table and left. Tristram was relieved but irritated. ‘Poppy, what the hell’s going on?’
She leaned back in the chair, crossed her legs and smiled.
‘I told you that you had to kick the habit, Tris, and I meant it.’
‘Who the hell were they?’
‘Private detectives I’ve hired to follow you.’
‘What?’
‘You should be pleased that I care enough to try to save you and our relationship. I could just dump you, like I said at the Hall. I can afford to hire these people now in order to help you stop gambling. I’m not going to allow you to squander money like my father did. You promised me you’d stop but I know you’ve been coming to the club since we got back to London. They called me about it. This club, of all places, where my father lost a big part of his fortune – my fortune, I should say. It’s a good job it came to me when it did, isn’t it? Even if poor Daddy had to die.’
‘Yes. But . . . I’m . . .’
‘There are no “buts”, Tris. This is happening my way. You’re going to be followed until I’m convinced that you’ve genuinely broken the habit.’
‘But I’ll recognise them.’
‘It’s an agency; they send out different people each time. They’re not going to allow you to enter any gambling establishment and I’ll be informed if you try to.’
‘I can go online.’
‘I’ve taken your laptop and your smartphone.’
‘Bloody hell. I thought I’d lost it!’
‘Here, take this: it’s a phone without internet access.’ She put a small, old-fashioned-looking phone on the table. ‘Of course, if you’re really determined to carry on I can’t stop you, but that will be the end, Tris, after I’ve done all this to help. You’ll be showing that you value the gambling more than me.’
Tristram shook his head. He was speechless and completely outmanoeu
vred, but he was moved by the fact that she was doing all this for him. Her hardness both impressed and shocked him. He shrugged his shoulders and smiled at her. ‘Well, there’s no doubt who’s in control here. I’ll have to take my nasty medicine, won’t I?’
‘You will.’ She smiled back, and drank some more of her cocktail.
Richard Wilkins was restless and miserable. The house and estate were slowly getting back to normal, but he was still struggling with the shock of Andrea’s rejection and there was no sign that she was having any kind of rethink. He and his wife were not happy and he’d tried to play a double game in order to keep some stability for his children while enjoying an illicit affair. It had been very convenient for him, neatly separated between home and work. But now everything was unravelling and maybe this was all he deserved.
He was sitting in the café near the white garden. It was lunchtime, and he knew that Andrea often came over to eat here. It was a pleasant spot away from the office. He sat waiting with a mug of coffee and an uneaten sandwich and saw her arrive at the little cafeteria-style servery. She took a tray and chatted with the staff before someone handed her a bowl of soup with bread and a cup of tea. She still hadn’t noticed him and took her tray out on to the terrace, which overlooked the white hydrangeas, buddleias and roses. He scooped his food on to a tray, followed her out and came up behind her at a table.
‘Mind if I join you?’
She put her tray down, turned to him and frowned. ‘Richard. I’m not sure this is a good idea.’
Ignoring her, he placed his tray down and sat at the table. ‘Please, I just want to talk to you.’
‘There’s nothing more to say. It’s over. I’ve handed in my resignation and I’ve spoken to Alistair. I’ll be away from here soon.’
‘Where to? Where are you going?’
‘I told you, I want to get back to the city. I’m looking for a job in Leeds to start with.’
‘So you’ll commute to that?’
‘Yes.’
‘So couldn’t we still see each other? You know you want to really. It’s been good, hasn’t it?’
She looked at him quizzically, shook her head and continued to eat her lunch.
‘You don’t get it, do you? You expect me to continue to be your old-fashioned mistress, your bit on the side, and off you go back to the wife.’
‘It’ll be a lot better here now that Alistair’s taking over. You won’t have to work with that old roué anymore. It’s going to be different, exciting.’
‘You’re wasting your time. I’m just not cut out for working on a country estate. I’ve done everything I can here and now I want to do something different. I know you’re only thinking of me,’ she added sarcastically.
‘But surely . . .’
‘OK, I’ve had enough of this.’
She picked up her tray and left the table, leaving him to contemplate his still-uneaten sandwich.
Oldroyd was in the office at Redmire when his phone rang.
‘Hello. Are you that detective chap who was talking to us in t’Pear Tree t’other night?’
It was the voice of an old person with a strong accent. Oldroyd was momentarily puzzled and then he recognised it as belonging to Bill Mason, the friend of Harry Robinson’s whom he’d interviewed in the pub that night he’d been shot at. ‘Ah, it’s Mr Mason, isn’t it?’
‘Aye, that’s right, Bill Mason.’
‘What can I do for you?’
‘You were asking about poor old Harry and that locked-room carry-on.’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, I’ve remembered something that Harry once said to me. It’s a while back now, but it was when we’d had a few pints one night, at Christmas I think it was, and we got talking about that locked room and how people got out of it; I can’t remember why. Anyway, Harry was laughing and he said, “Bill, the point is, they don’t get out.” Well, I’d no idea what he meant and he wouldn’t say any more. He never wanted to get on t’wrong side o’ t’family up there at th’ouse and he probably shouldn’t even have said that to me. Anyway, afterwards he never mentioned it again; I think he’d forgotten he’d told me and I thought he was just drunk and talking rubbish, you know, because surely t’thing about that locked room is that people do get out, so what he was saying seemed daft. Anyway, it just came back to me last night so I found your card and I thought, I’ll just give him a ring and let him know.’
Oldroyd had listened intently. ‘Thank you very much, Mr Mason. So, just to be clear, he said “They don’t get out” and he meant that room?’
‘Aye, that’s right, but it still doesn’t make any sense to me.’
‘Well, it’s starting to make a bit of sense to me, at last. Thank you very much.’
Steph had been busy organising the investigation into the circumstances of Barden’s murder. Questioning witnesses had so far revealed very little: no one had seen anything. The crime had occurred so late that the estate had been almost deserted when it occurred. There had still been some officers performing a night patrol following the attack on Oldroyd, but they had stayed around the house and were too far away from the train track to have heard anything.
Barden appeared to have had no enemies, but was universally thought to have been a fantasiser and often a nuisance. He didn’t appear to have told anyone any details about what he allegedly knew about the case, although he’d hinted at something to a number of people.
Steph was by the entrance to the house on her way back to the office to report these matters to Oldroyd when she was surprised to see her boss running towards her.
‘Sir?’
‘Come on: follow me back to the locked room. I think I’ve got it.’
‘Got what, sir?’
‘The answer, I hope.’
She followed him down the corridor towards the locked room. He stopped halfway to send her back for the key, which he’d completely forgotten in his excitement. When they finally made it, she unlocked the room and they went in. It was all eerily the same as ever.
‘Now,’ announced Oldroyd, enjoying the sense of drama, ‘we’ve been looking at all these things for clues – the chair, table, windows, bookshelf, walls, floor, ceiling and all – without success. What we really needed to do was this.’
To Steph’s astonishment, her boss stood in the middle of the floor and started to jump up and down.
‘Sir? What . . . ?’
‘Yes!’ shouted Oldroyd. ‘I can just feel it. Get Jeffries over here and between you organise another search, but this time I’ll tell you what you’re looking for. And when you’ve organised that, come back to the office; I’ve got something to show you. Things are really moving at last.’
Before Jeffries received the call from Steph he took an unexpected call at Ripon station.
‘You’re a private detective in London? I see . . . The Red Hot Poker Club? . . . Did they? . . . Yes, I’m involved in investigating the murders at Redmire Hall. And what do you wish to report?’
Jeffries was silent for some time, listening to some very interesting information.
‘Yes, I can see why you thought that; definitely a suspect, yes . . . Don’t worry, you did the right thing . . . Yes, I’ll take your number. And thank you.’
When Jeffries eventually ended the call, he reflected on the shady life of a private detective: following adulterers, wayward offspring and crooks. But they did often prove useful.
Steph and Oldroyd were in the office, feeling much more relaxed about the investigation. A second, more focused search of the locked room had taken place, finally making the discoveries that Oldroyd had expected. At last they were reaching the point where everything was coming together. One person had been identified as needing further investigation and Jeffries was undertaking the task at that very moment.
‘I can’t believe we’ve finally discovered the secret of that locked room – at least, you did, sir.’
Oldroyd was on his laptop as he talked. He looked up. ‘Not without clues a
nd a bit of luck. But if you stay rational and think hard, eventually you’ll get there. It’s made me think about Arthur Conan Doyle.’
‘The man who wrote the Sherlock Holmes stories?’
‘Yes. Holmes was famous for his rational powers of deduction; everything was based on evidence. Ironically, though, his creator could be a very credulous man who allowed his beliefs to affect his thinking.’
‘How?’
‘He was a Spiritualist, and he believed in mediums, psychic powers, ectoplasm and all that. He even believed in fairies. Do you know the story of the Cottingley Fairies?’
‘No.’
‘It was near Bingley. Some children took some photographs of themselves with fairies and it caused a sensation. Conan Doyle thought they were genuine, though when you look at the pictures they seem obviously fake, and years later it was revealed that the girls cut the figures out of a children’s book and supported them with hatpins.’
‘How come he believed them?’
‘He wanted to. And he wasn’t the only one. People look for evidence to support their beliefs. He also knew the escapologist Houdini and this is even more interesting. Doyle claimed that Houdini had psychic powers that enabled him to perform illusions. Houdini, who was a rationalist and often exposed the fakery of mediums, denied this and told Doyle that all his illusions were just tricks. He warned him not to believe in supernatural accounts for things just because he couldn’t explain them. They fell out about it.’
‘So the moral is: don’t allow anything to interfere with your reason. Magic doesn’t exist and if we persist we can find the rational explanation,’ said Steph.
‘Exactly.’
‘What will happen to it – you know, that room – now that we’re going to reveal its secret?’
‘Good question; never thought about it. I expect it’ll just go back to being forgotten about again.’
‘That’s a shame, in a way, isn’t it? After all the skill and effort that went into it.’
‘Maybe the new Lord Redmire could sell the idea to someone. Or I suppose it could become a visitor attraction. It has a ghoulish fame now, doesn’t it?’ He looked at his laptop again ‘Ah! At last. Tim Groves has sent me something.’