by J. R. Ellis
‘It was easy,’ continued Andrea. ‘I told him about Lord Redmire’s plans and showed him a photocopy of the document. He was terrified about losing his pension.’
‘So you devised a plan?’
‘Yes. Robinson went to Redmire and said that he wanted to tell him about the locked room before he died and the secret went with him. He suggested that it might be useful to him in these days when money was tight. He also asked in a careful way for reassurance that his pension would be safe.
‘I don’t think Redmire suspected anything. Of course, he told Robinson his pension would be safe after he’d given this very important information. We had to keep my involvement in revealing Redmire’s plans a secret, so Robinson suggested that, if he wanted to re-enact the trick, Redmire would need an assistant he could trust. I knew he would come to me and he did. I had so ingratiated myself over my time with him that he thought me reliable, maybe even indispensable. I enjoyed that power over him. So, although it was all risky, he took the bait as we planned.
‘I had to tell David who I was, and my mother’s story, in order to explain my motives. But he was sympathetic. I told Redmire that Robinson needed help in restoring the mechanism and that David Morton was the right person to approach. He was capable and reliable. Redmire trusted us all; it was wonderful.’
‘Where did you get the key?’
‘Luckily Robinson had kept one hidden away in his cottage. It was the only one left.’
‘It must have taken a long time to get the whole thing back into working order.’
‘It did,’ said Morton. ‘It took months of greasing and oiling, but it was so well made that it hadn’t deteriorated that much. It was just a bit rusty and some of the wiring needed replacing.’
‘The rooms themselves were in perfect order, just as they’d been left,’ said Jenkinson. ‘We only needed to dust and polish. Redmire himself, of course, did nothing; he would never get his hands dirty. But it was soon completed to his satisfaction and we started to rehearse.’
‘How did you prevent anyone from finding out about both the plans and who was involved?’
‘Redmire closed that whole area off and we were very careful to meet at unusual times. Often I would return to the Hall when people thought I was at home.’
‘And you came in your second car, so as not to be recognised – the VW Polo, which you also used on the night you broke into the office. Your parking place hidden by the trees was spotted and we traced the car to you.’
Jenkinson looked at Oldroyd with a mixture of animosity and admiration.
‘If only you hadn’t been here. I didn’t want Redmire to invite the police to take part in the trick, but he was so insistent that it would be wonderful publicity. Actually I began to warm to the challenge of carrying out a murder right under the noses of the police. We did. And we nearly got away with it.’
‘And how was it done?’
‘I ran things from the side corridor. I turned on the music and operated the switches. He didn’t have much to do, apart from the build-up on the television. He just had to be locked up. He thought he was going to get out through the trapdoor in the second part of the trick, like his father had done, but David was waiting to climb in, finish him off and get out before the rooms moved over again.’
‘I killed him to save my trees and plants. Rather him than them.’ Morton seemed almost proud of what he’d done and showed little emotion about having killed a human being. ‘I knew that when Mr Alistair took over those plans would be abandoned and they’d all be safe.’
Oldroyd looked at Morton’s tough, weather-beaten face and saw no trace of remorse. In his eyes there was no warmth. Only a terrible vacancy.
Alistair Carstairs shook his head in disbelief at the mad loyalty and devotion of the man.
‘So what happened about Harry Robinson? I suspect you kept the real reason for the plan from him?’ asked Oldroyd.
‘You’re right,’ said Jenkinson, also without emotion. ‘The poor man thought we were doing it for him, and to help Lord Redmire make money for the estate, so it must have been a huge shock when Redmire was murdered. We knew we had to get rid of him straight away. I left quickly, so as not to be seen, and David dealt with Robinson.’
‘I went round straight from the Hall,’ said Morton. ‘Strangled him with a length of rope. It was a shame, really. He was a nice chap.’ The matter-of-fact manner of his account was chilling.
‘We found traces of unusual plant residue on the knife, which suggested it had been used in a garden.’
‘I use it to divide iris rhizomes. Blast it. I wanted to get the knife out, but it was lodged in his body and I had to get out of that room quickly.’
‘There was fertiliser on Harry Robinson’s neck, which again suggested a garden origin for the murder weapon.’
‘It was a piece of old rope lying around on the floor – must have picked up the fertiliser there. Well done, Chief Inspector. You don’t miss much, do you?’
‘Well, I’m pleased you missed me,’ replied Oldroyd. ‘It was you, wasn’t it, who took a potshot at me?’
‘Yes. We decided you were asking too many questions and getting too near the answers, so I followed you that night over to the Pear Tree. I was in the other bar when you were talking to Bill Mason and Frank Bridges. I knew they might be telling you dangerous stuff. I knew I had a chance because you’d be walking across the fields alone. I came back to the Hall and got a gun from the gunroom by the stables. I’ve had a key for that cupboard for years. I went back to the field where the footpath goes across and waited for you. But I missed . . . and here we are.’
‘And finally, what about Ian Barden? The poor man who went round telling everyone he’d seen things and maybe knew who the killers were. He never told anyone what he knew and he never spoke to us. Did he know anything?’
Morton answered this question. ‘Probably not, but we couldn’t take any risks. I think he was just a fantasiser, but he did it once too often. I was so irritated by him that I decided to finish him off with one of his precious engines.’
‘So, ironically, although he was warning everyone else, he was the one in danger because he drew attention to himself; a hapless victim who knew nothing.’
Morton shrugged, as if the sadistic killing of Ian Barden had been of no more significance than swatting a pesky fly.
‘You tried a little to incriminate other people where you could, didn’t you?’ continued Oldroyd.
‘Yes,’ replied Jenkinson. ‘I did see Poppy arguing with her father and I thought it wouldn’t do any harm to tell you about it. I tried to direct you towards the people who’d asked Redmire for money.’ She shrugged her shoulders. ‘To no avail, unfortunately.’
Oldroyd looked at her solemnly. ‘I hate to have to tell you this, but in the end it was your mother who gave us a clue as to who you really were.’
Jenkinson frowned at him. ‘How? That’s impossible.’
‘You were right that in her desperation she sent photographs of you and her to Redmire. He kept them and we found them in his study. Of course, you were very small at the time; but when I looked closely at the photograph, I could see that birthmark you have under your ear.’
Her hand went up instinctively to the patch of discolouration.
‘It was only a small detail, but it was another piece of information that enabled us to eventually track you down and to discover that your real name is Andrea Dawson.’
‘It is and I’m proud of it.’
She and Morton remained defiant and unrepentant.
‘So . . .’ said Oldroyd. He was reaching the end of his orchestrated unravelling of the mysteries at Redmire Hall. ‘We’ve seen what an audacious and cunningly contrived plan it was, and also how deadly. I’m sure you both still believe your actions were justified, but the law, I’m afraid, thinks otherwise. Take them away.’
The officers led Jenkinson and Morton swiftly out of the room and to waiting police cars. Morton called to Alistair Car
stairs as he was bundled out.
‘Look after them, Mr Alistair. I know you will.’
Alistair looked away and said nothing. He felt sick. With the exception of Wilkins, who had already left, everyone was slumped and unresponsive in their chairs. The multiple stresses that had afflicted them since the night of the murder, coupled with the intense emotions they’d experienced and witnessed this evening, had left them exhausted. Slowly and without a word, even from Dominic Carstairs, they got up and left, with Antonia helping the dowager.
The thunder had passed and the sound of the rain had died down.
Oldroyd was drained. He was familiar with the feeling of anticlimax that he usually felt at the end of an investigation. The adrenalin flowed during the chase, and then it was a huge let-down when the case was solved. This time it felt even worse after the intense high he’d just experienced in handling the great denouement.
He and Steph returned to their makeshift office for the last time. Oldroyd poured out coffee, but could have done with something stronger.
‘You shouldn’t really have done that, you know, sir.’
Oldroyd glanced up to see Steph looking at him rather sorrowfully. He felt a fleeting anger – she’d no right to reprimand him – but this soon passed because he knew she was right. He also knew that it was a sign of the real strength in their relationship that she felt able to confront him, her senior officer, with uncomfortable facts.
‘Why do you say that?’
‘You deliberately put them through a lot of unnecessary emotional turmoil and you did it because you don’t like them and because . . . I don’t know what else.’
Oldroyd sighed and looked very sheepish. He drank his coffee in silence for a few minutes, sighed again and then said, ‘You’re right – right about what I did and right to say it to me. The truth is I’ve always disliked people like that: the idle rich with their arrogant sense of entitlement.’
‘But they weren’t all like that, sir. The Ramsays and Alistair Carstairs and his wife seemed like decent people to me.’
‘I know. You’re right, you’re right. I just couldn’t resist making them squirm a bit. I suppose I enjoyed the power it gave me over them. And you know I’m a sucker for a bit of theatre. The whole idea of ending the case as we began it, in a dramatic way, was too much, especially in this big-house setting and . . . Oh, you know what I mean.’
Steph laughed. ‘I do, sir, and although it was a bit malicious to reveal to Dominic Carstairs that his wife had had an affair, I must admit it was all worth it to see him outmanoeuvred the way you did it. He was up and down like a jack-in-the-box and utterly speechless by the end.’
Oldroyd had to laugh. ‘I know. Anyway, we’d better get our stuff together and get back to Harrogate.’
He looked round their little office and felt quite sad to be leaving. He could get used to working in a stately home.
As they were packing up, Jeffries came into the room. He was elated that they’d solved the case but also disappointed that his time working with Oldroyd was coming to an end.
‘Sir,’ he said, looking embarrassed, ‘I just wanted to say . . . it’s been a . . . privilege to work with you and . . .’
‘OK, Jeffries. I appreciate that – and thank you for your good work. I shall be sending a report to your inspector and I’ll mention you.’
Jeffries glowed. ‘Thank you, sir.’
Steph suppressed a laugh. ‘He’ll be telling his grandchildren that he once worked with the great Detective Chief Inspector Oldroyd,’ she said when Jeffries had left.
‘Or at least that he was there when the great Locked-Room Mystery was solved!’
Still chuckling, Oldroyd and Steph got all their stuff together and went to the Saab.
Before he started the engine, Oldroyd turned to Steph. ‘I’m proud of you. You were right to say what you did. Never be afraid to state truth to those in authority, whoever they are.’
‘Well, I learned everything I know from you, sir – so, following my boss, I’m not likely to sit there and take it, am I?’
‘I suppose not.’ He sighed. ‘You also said there was another reason why I behaved like that, and you’re right.’ He paused. ‘My wife wants a divorce, or at least she might, and I’m . . . I’m angry about it and . . . sad . . . and I’m by myself, you know.’
Steph gave him a sympathetic smile. ‘I understand, sir.’
The journey back to Harrogate passed in near silence.
When Steph got back to HQ she went to see DCS Walker, as Oldroyd had asked her to report back on the case. She returned to find an envelope by her computer. Inside was a printed message, which read:
It’s lovely having you around, but not so nice when we have harsh words. Remember what I said about being friendlier.
Clearly there was going to be more trouble from that direction.
Next morning, Oldroyd came in rather late to Harrogate HQ, just in time for Tom Walker to call him into his office.
‘Well done for cracking that one, Jim; I’ve already spoken to Stephanie. So you worked out how they used that bloody conjuring trick to commit the first murder?’
‘I did, Tom, and it took a bit o’ doin’, I can tell thi.’ They enjoyed heightening their accents and sometimes using a bit of Yorkshire dialect in these private conversations.
‘I can imagine, but then you did have a front-row seat when . . .’ Tom stopped for a moment and looked away. Oldroyd could see he was finding it difficult not to break into laughter again at the memory of seeing him on television that night. Walker coughed and calmed himself. ‘There’s just one thing. I’ve had a complaint from a Mr Dominic Carstairs – brother of the first victim, I understand.’
‘Yes, I know him. He was difficult all the way through.’
‘Was he? Thought he sounded a snooty bastard. Well’ – he took up a piece of paper – ‘he says you put them “through unnecessary stress because of the way you revealed your findings about the case”. What’s he on about?’
Oldroyd shook his head. ‘I went over the top; you know what I’m like with a bit of drama. I gathered them all together and explained everything, but I delayed telling them who the murderer was – and in fact it wasn’t any of them anyway. I suppose it was a bit . . . cruel, but I have to admit they got to me. All those rich, arrogant . . .’ He shrugged his shoulders. Walker looked at him.
‘I see. That was a bit naughty, I have to admit, but don’t worry. I had a call not long after that one.’
‘Oh?’
‘Yes, from the bloke’s wife. Mary Carstairs, was it?’
‘Yes.’
‘She said not to take any notice of her husband, who is a boring old fart – those were her very words. She said you’d done a magnificent job and the way you ended it was splendid entertainment. What’s more, she was absolutely sure that the other members of the family would agree with her. They were pleased to get it over with and I was to congratulate you on a first-rate effort all round.’
Oldroyd looked at Walker, who, he realised, was trying to suppress a smile.
‘Tom! You’ve been leading me on, you old bugger!’
Walker could no longer contain himself and burst into laughter. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, Jim, but your face again! That’s the second time you thought I was going to have a go at you! Anyway, what can I say, except well done? I’d like to have seen it!’ He laughed some more, dried his eyes on a white handkerchief and then tried to be serious for a moment. ‘Just try not to get carried away. I know things haven’t been too good for you recently, so we’ll say no more about it, eh?’
‘Thanks, Tom,’ said Oldroyd as he realised that Steph had not just been reporting on the case to Walker the night before.
The end of the day was turning into another warm and pleasant evening as Oldroyd left Harrogate HQ and went home. After he’d eaten, he felt restless. He didn’t want to be in the flat by himself, especially when it was so inviting outside. Why not walk over to High Harrogate and see how Lou
ise was doing in The Orphan Girl? He would enjoy embarrassing her, and what fun to be served in a pub by your own daughter!
He walked around the long arc of the Stray from his flat to the Skipton Road. The pub was a low early-Victorian building with the door opening on to the road. It was busy, with drinkers spilling out of the door. Oldroyd made his way to one end of the bar and saw Louise talking to someone at the other end, with her back to him.
‘Service!’ he called out. She looked startled in his direction until she saw who it was and then frowned. She came over.
‘Dad! What are you doing here?’ she said quietly, but she wasn’t angry, as she would have been in her teenage years.
‘I’d like a drink; pint of Nidderdale bitter, please.’
She smiled sardonically at him as she pulled a pint.
Oldroyd passed over the money and took a sip from the glass. ‘Excellent. Very good service; I’ll have to come here again.’
‘Don’t make a habit of it while I’m working here,’ Louise said. ‘What brings you out here anyway? I thought you didn’t have any time to enjoy yourself. Have you finished things off at the big house?’
‘We have indeed, at last – absolutely fascinating. It turned out not to be any of the obvious suspects after all. It was a woman who worked as Lord Redmire’s PA, who was actually his love child and in cahoots with the gardener.’
‘What’s a “love child”, for God’s sake? You’re so quaint sometimes, Dad.’
‘His daughter by one of his lovers, who he disowned; left her to bring up the child by herself.’
‘The bastard! Isn’t that just typical of men? And the wealthier they are, the more arrogant they are and the more they think women are just there for their own amusement.’
‘Yes, well, this woman got her revenge in the end; at least, her daughter did on her behalf.’ He took another drink and looked around at the pub. ‘You coming to work here gave me a bit of a clue about all that.’
‘How?’
‘Just the name of the place: The Orphan Girl. We had evidence that Lord Redmire had an unacknowledged daughter and the mother had tried to get him to support them. The girl wasn’t an orphan at that stage, of course, but it set me wondering. What if the mother had died, leaving the daughter with a terrible bitterness against the father who’d abandoned her and treated her mother badly? She would blame that man for her mother’s death and rightly so. And that turned out to be exactly what had happened.’