The Mitford Murders

by Jessica Fellowes

  ‘Don’t bother,’ said Nancy and marched out.

  Louisa watched the flashlight bob into the distance until it was extinguished altogether.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  On that night, while Louisa was trying to persuade Nancy to help them trap Roland, Guy was at home. As soon as supper had been cleared, he sat down at the table in the front room and laid open the bank books before him. These had to be clues. He didn’t know how or why but if there was something there, he was determined to find it.

  Guy rolled up his shirtsleeves and folded his arms on the smooth wood. One book was dark green leather with BANK OF SCOTLAND ESTABLISHED 1695 embossed in gold across the front. Inside, it detailed an account number in the name of Roland O. Lucknor. The second was dark red card, with KENT & CANTERBURY BUILDING SOCIETY in black, which belonged to Alexander Waring.

  Inside both books were several pages filled with densely packed details inscribed by various bank tellers, with transactions that dated back to 1910 for the green book, 1907 for the red. Guy noticed that few payments in or out were made during the war years. This was all he could make out. The figures jumped about on the lines and the writing was unintelligible, no matter how frequently he polished his glasses on his shirt.

  Guy’s mother was sitting by the fire, her apron still on and slippers on her feet. She stared into the flames and was meditatively quiet. The spell was broken by his brothers coming back into the room, on their way out to the pub. Walter had moved out since his marriage a few months previously, and Guy did not miss his overbearing presence. Ernest swaggered in. He’d sloughed the brick dust off and slicked his hair down with water, ready for a few jars at the Dog & Duck. He came over and picked up one of the books.

  ‘Don’t,’ said Guy, reaching up to grab it back.

  Ernest jumped backwards, laughing, holding it in the air and waving it. ‘What’s this, then? Filthy pictures? You dirty boy.’

  ‘No,’ said Guy, going red. ‘Just give it back. It’s evidence.’

  Ernest stopped hopping about and looked at it. ‘Evidence of what?’

  Guy snatched it back and put it on the table. ‘It’s for a case I’m working on.’

  ‘But you’ve been sacked,’ said Ernest. ‘Hasn’t he, Mother?’

  Their mother didn’t reply, only turned back to the fire. She’d never liked to show any kind of favouritism and never took sides when the brothers fought.

  Bertie came in, head swivelling around. ‘Has anyone seen my comb?’ he said, then saw Ernest’s smooth head. ‘You. Have you got it? Give it back.’

  ‘Give over,’ said Ernest. ‘Here, Guy’s looking at evidence. Even though he’s been sacked. What do you suppose that’s all about, then?’

  ‘I am right here,’ said Guy. ‘I can hear what you’re saying.’

  Bertie didn’t respond but walked to the table and looked over Guy’s shoulder. ‘Bank books? You laundering money now?’ he said and started snorting at his own joke.

  Mrs Sullivan stood up. ‘I’ll make you a mug of cocoa, Guy,’ she said and padded out of the room. Perhaps she did allow herself to take sides on occasion.

  Guy gave a heavy sigh, polished his glasses one more time and opened both books before him again. He decided to look at the most recent pages of Xander’s account. He was looking intently for a few minutes when he became aware of something happening behind him and when he looked up, both Ernest and Bertie were peering over each of his shoulders, hands behind their backs, mock seriousness on their faces.

  ‘Shove off!’ said Guy. ‘Or make yourself useful. Would you like to look at it for me, Ernest?’ He picked up the book and pretended to hand it over.

  ‘Ooh, touchy,’ said Ernest, but he walked off and sat in their mother’s chair.

  ‘Thought not,’ muttered Guy. Ernest could not read.

  Bertie had lost interest, too, and wandered off into the kitchen, probably to try and persuade their mother into giving him another slice of ham.

  Guy squinted and looked again. He had already seen that although Xander Waring was dead by 1918, there were payments and withdrawals noted in 1919 and 1920. How was that possible if he was dead? Roland Lucknor must have been impersonating him in order to get money out of there. There was something curious, though. There was never very much in the balance; cash was sporadically paid in and only small amounts of cash were paid out now and then. Why would Roland go to the trouble of impersonating someone for one or two pounds here and there?

  Guy looked again. His brain ached with the frustration. The different inks and handwriting of the different tellers made it hard to see what patterns there were, but then he saw that there was a regular payment made, on the third of every month, to something annotated as ‘BHHI’. The sums varied slightly but were fairly substantial, around twenty pounds or thereabouts. What could that be?

  Guy’s mother put the mug of cocoa beside the bank books. ‘There you go, son,’ she said.

  ‘What’s the BHHI?’ said Guy.

  ‘What’s that, dear?’ said his mother.

  ‘The BHHI. Have you ever heard of it?’

  She stood, her hands on her lower back and looked down. ‘Do you know, I think I have. It’s the British Home and Hospital for Incurables. Your great-aunt Lucy went there when she lost her mind.’

  ‘Is that where you’re off to, Guy?’ shouted out Bertie.

  ‘Shut up,’ said Guy, and Bertie, discombobulated to hear his brother answer back, pulled a face and carried on eating the ham. ‘Do you know where it is?’

  ‘Yes, of course. I used to go and visit her; took you with me once or twice I think, when you were small. It’s in Streatham, Crown Lane. How funny I remembered that. I haven’t thought of it for years.’ Mrs Sullivan walked over to her chair and Ernest leapt out. ‘Why are you asking, anyway?’

  ‘It’s in this bank book,’ said Guy. ‘I’m trying to work something out.’

  Guy picked up the green leather book. It felt more substantial in every way and the sums were just as hefty. On the first couple of pages there were occasional deposits of cash and then withdrawals made only now and then. But in the more recent pages, there were cheques paid in and the amounts were big. They weren’t paid in regularly or even particularly often, but they were large. They seemed to have stopped in April of this year. The writing was difficult to read and Guy picked out the odd letter here and there – then suddenly he filled in the gaps. Baron Redesdale.

  Baron Redesdale? Redesdale was the Mitford title. But there wasn’t anyone called Baron, was there?

  Like a light switching on, Guy understood. Of course, that was his title. It meant Lord Redesdale, Nancy’s father. The money they suspected that Roland had been extorting from him was now in black and white.

  Guy read it all again clearly. The large deposits were cheques cashed from Lord Redesdale, then there were large cheques written out once those had cleared, annotated by a PO box address. The sums were almost the same as those payments to the British Home and Hospital for Incurables. There had to be some connection, given that Roland had had both the books in his possession.

  ‘I think I’ve cracked it,’ he said out loud.

  ‘What?’ said his mother, and his two brothers looked up.

  ‘I’ve been looking for a connection between two men, and I’ve found it. It’s taken me ages but I got there in the end.’ He was beaming.

  ‘Does that mean you’ll get your job back, then?’ said Ernest.

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe. There’s more to do, first.’

  ‘Proper police work,’ said his mother, an admiring tone in her voice. ‘Well done, my boy.’

  ‘Thank you, Mother,’ said Guy, and for once, he felt he had earned the acclaim.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

  Not wanting to stay at the Swan Inn, Louisa had sought out Ada’s sweetheart, Jonny at the blacksmith’s, to see if he knew anybody who could give her a room for a few nights. He was quick to help her – ‘Any friend of Ada’s is a friend of
mine,’ he said kindly – and once settled at his mother’s, she left a note for Nancy at the post office as she had said she would, letting her know where she could be found. After that, she could only wait and hope.

  Although those hours dragged by, it was, in fact, as soon as the following afternoon, when Louisa was sitting in a somewhat spartan bedroom trying to read her book but finding it hard to concentrate, that she heard a shout coming up the stairs to say she had a visitor.

  Louisa ran down, hope billowing in her chest like a sail in the wind. Jonny’s mother was standing in the hall, holding on to the bannister.

  ‘They’re in there,’ she said, pointing to the parlour. ‘I’ve never had the likes of them in my house before. That’s our room for Christmas best but I don’t know I’ve dusted it since last week …’ She trailed off, her face pinched with nerves.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Louisa, ‘they won’t notice.’ She walked towards the door, took a deep breath and pushed it wide. What she saw made her mouth fall open. ‘My lord,’ she said, ‘I beg your pardon. I wasn’t expecting to see you.’

  Lord Redesdale had been standing in front of the modest mantelpiece, peering at the porcelain ornaments that stood on it. He turned around at Louisa’s voice and she saw that his face was just as incredulous as hers, though he covered it up.

  He did not address her but instead spoke to Nancy, who had been watching all this with a smile playing at the edges of her mouth. ‘Koko? Explain yourself.’

  ‘Can we all sit down?’ said Nancy, and she swept her skirt smoothly beneath her and perched on the sofa.

  ‘I’d really rather stand,’ said Louisa. A servant never sat down in front of their masters. Nanny Blor had made the point repeatedly when she first arrived and this was certainly not the moment to start breaking protocol.

  Lord Redesdale pointedly remained where he was, too.

  ‘Very well,’ said Nancy, ‘we’ll go on like this. Farve, please listen closely and do try not to jump in and start barking.’

  Lord Redesdale grumbled and muttered under his breath but waited for Nancy to speak.

  ‘Louisa, I’ve thought about what you’ve said and I’ve realised you’re right. We need to explain it now, to Farve, and then the three of us can consider how we will resolve the … difficulty.’

  Louisa was still too amazed to speak.

  ‘Will you just get to the point?’ spluttered Lord Redesdale. ‘I thought we were here to visit my tenant.’

  ‘Farve, you remember the sad story of the nurse, Florence Shore, who was killed on a train, on the Brighton line?’ began Nancy.

  ‘Yes, yes. A friend of Nanny Blor’s, wasn’t she?’

  ‘A friend of her twin sister,’ said Nancy. ‘Now supposing I was to tell you that there was an officer out there, at the same time as you, whom you did not know, who was found to have known Florence Shore in Ypres, though he had denied it.’

  ‘Must you be so cryptic?’ said Lord Redesdale.

  ‘Yes,’ said Nancy. ‘Just listen. Florence Shore’s friend, Mabel Rogers, telephoned the police a few days ago because she was burgled. Only, when they got there, they discovered nothing had been taken except for a bundle of letters that Florence had written her over the years. However, there was one letter in that bundle they did not have because it had been kept separately with Florence’s things, which weren’t discovered. In this letter, Florence Shore described a night in which the officer’s batman was supposed to have shot himself.’

  ‘At Ypres?’ said Lord Redesdale. ‘It was so ghastly there,’ he added, almost to himself.

  ‘Yes, at Ypres. But Florence saw the officer that night and she had reason to believe that he killed the batman. She wrote this in the letter that Mabel Rogers had.’

  Lord Redesdale took a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his top lip with it.

  ‘What’s more, shortly before the day of the attack on Florence Shore, a lady was seen arguing with this officer at his flat. The lady was wearing a fur coat.’ Nancy paused. No story she had told before had ever had such a dramatic effect. ‘Florence Shore was wearing a fur coat when she was killed.’

  Lord Redesdale put a hand on the mantelpiece. ‘I’m still not quite sure where this is going.’ But he was pale. He possibly had guessed.

  ‘Keep listening, Farve. I do wish you would sit down, though; I’m getting a crick in my neck,’ complained Nancy. Nobody moved. ‘The officer has not been seen at his flat since that row. What we do know about him is that he has in his possession two bank books – or rather, had.’ She stole a look at Louisa, who did not return it. ‘One is in his name and the other is in the name of the dead batman. Alexander Waring.’

  ‘I don’t see what this has to do with me, or you, for that matter. Louisa, is this your doing?’ Lord Redesdale fixed a look on Louisa, who shrank under the fierce gaze.

  ‘Oh, darling old man, don’t be dense,’ said Nancy. ‘It has quite a lot to do with you. It’s why we think you can help the police. That officer is Roland Lucknor.’

  CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

  There was a long walk along Crown Lane from Streatham train station the following morning, but there was no mistaking the British Home and Hospital for Incurables when Guy came upon it. An imposing red-brick building, its name was writ large across the side. The name chilled Guy. Abandon hope all ye who enter here.

  There were grounds at the front behind the tall railings but these were empty of people. Inside had the feeling of a large chapel, with a dampness in the air and the kind of quiet that only descends when hundreds of people have their heads bowed in prayer. A young nurse, in a hat that was almost a wimple, sat behind a leather-topped reception desk, a vase of rather forlorn pink carnations beside her, which looked improbable and out of place.

  ‘May I help you?’ she said, as Guy approached.

  Guy knew what he was about to do was a white lie at best, against the law at worst, but he had to do it if he was going to solve this mystery. ‘Good morning,’ he said. ‘I’m from the London, Brighton and South Coast Railway Police.’ He could only hope she did not ask to see his badge; it had been handed in, along with his uniform.

  ‘Goodness,’ she said, ‘has something happened?’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘That is, I’m afraid I can’t tell you the details but I need to see your visitor’s book. I’m trying to trace the movements of a couple of people – Alexander, or Xander, Waring and Roland Lucknor.’

  ‘Right, I see,’ said the nurse. She looked to be barely out of school. ‘It’s just here. I’m afraid I don’t know the names myself.’

  Guy saw the book was, in fact, open on the desk before him. He started to rifle through the pages but saw that, like the bank books, he’d have to sit there for some time before he could decipher the hieroglyphs and scribbles.

  ‘I wonder,’ he said, pointing to his glasses, ‘might you help me? I’m afraid my sight …’

  She smiled sympathetically. ‘Of course,’ she said and turned the book around to face her, reading back through the pages. After a few minutes, she gave a small exclamation. ‘Ah, here!’ she said. ‘Not too long ago, last month, the seventeenth. Roland Lucknor. He came to see Violet Temperley. See?’ She pointed to the entry.

  ‘Is she here?’ he asked. ‘May I see her?’

  The nurse looked unsure. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘but you’ll have to take your chances as to whether she remembers anything or not. She has her lucid days now and then but her memory is almost gone, except for things that happened a long time ago.’

  ‘I understand,’ said Guy, ‘but I’d still like to talk to her, if I can.’

  The nurse rang a small bell on the desk and another young sister, with a similar look of a noviciate, came hurrying out of a door at the side of the hall. The situation was explained and soon Guy was following her, walking along long, cool passageways and up two flights of stone stairs, his feet clumping awkwardly in the wake of her noiseless steps. She showed him into a large, light room that
was dressed like a drawing room, with a mantelpiece above a lit fire and oil paintings of Constable-like landscapes on the walls. The ceilings were high, with dusty chandeliers hanging beneath like relics from a forgotten palace. There was a soft green carpet but no rugs, and the residents sat in either wheelchairs or armchairs, each at some distance from the others, as immobile as statues, their eyes seeing anything but what was in the room.

  Violet Temperley was in a wheelchair positioned to face the window, overlooking the empty grounds below. The grey skies outside offered little in the way of a palliative view. She was straight-backed like a paper doll, wrapped in a fine-wool shawl, her cheekbones curiously smooth and her eyes pale cornflower blue. The nurse touched her gently on the shoulder.

  ‘Someone’s here to see you, Mrs Temperley.’ She gave Guy a little shrug and left the room.

  Guy found a wooden chair and put it next to the old woman. She turned to him and whispered, ‘Has she gone?’

  ‘Do you mean the nurse?’ asked Guy.

  Violet gave a nod.

  ‘Yes,’ he whispered back.

  ‘Thank goodness. They’re very kind here but they do treat one like a child.’ She gave him a look of complicity.

  ‘Mrs Temperley,’ he said, ‘my name’s Guy Sullivan. I hope you don’t mind but I’ve come here to ask you if the name Roland Lucknor means anything to you.’

  To his consternation, the old lady’s eyes immediately filled with tears. ‘My darling godson,’ she said. ‘Such a sweet boy. He had the most golden curls.’

  ‘He’s your godson?’

  ‘More like a son. His mother was my greatest friend and she died when he was at school. She had been away for five years even then. She was a Christian missionary.’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘Her husband’s influence. Ghastly man. Put the milk in first. Do you know, even when his wife died, he didn’t return to see Roland? He stayed in Africa because, he said, it was too much trouble to come back. One can’t blame poor Roly for running away to Paris but I do miss him. He used to stay with me every holiday when he was still at school and I became very fond of him.’ She paused and stared at the window. ‘I have no children of my own, you see.’