The Rest Is Silence

by James R Benn

  The hallway was empty, the echo of footsteps fading in another part of the house.

  “I guess I’m hearing things,” I said, shaking my head in frustration.

  “Just as long as you don’t start seeing them too,” Big Mike said.

  “I DON’T KNOW what came over me,” Great Aunt Sylvia said when we gathered for drinks before dinner a few hours later. “I can’t quite recall the past few days. It was terribly confusing.”

  “I’m glad to see you up and about,” I said, sharing the couch in the library with her.

  “I do not mind saying, Billy, that I was a bit worried,” she whispered to me. “I must have had a fever and been a bit delirious. But I think I’ve snapped out of it. I was still a bit groggy earlier today, but I feel much better now. I am grateful to have a clear head for a change.”

  “Maybe it was a side effect of some medication,” I offered.

  “Medication? I haven’t been ill a day in my life, young man, and I am not about to let a doctor fill me with drugs now. That is not how I got to this age, I can tell you that.”

  “Sherry, Great Aunt Sylvia?” Edgar asked. She nodded, and he filled a dainty glass.

  “I wonder if they’re waiting for me to die too,” she said as soon as Edgar was out of earshot. “Then they can sell Ashcroft and be done with it. Get their flats in London or wherever is fashionable these days.”

  “Ashcroft House would be a poorer place without you, Lady Pemberton,” I said.

  “You Irish have a way with flattery, don’t you? How much longer will you be with us, Billy? I shall miss our talks when you’ve gone.”

  “Perhaps a day or two more, ma’am. We’ve taken care of most of our business here, but we still have one matter to clear up. It’s been very kind of everyone to let us stay on.”

  “Well, the baron is David’s friend, and nobility of a sort. One doesn’t deny the aristocracy, even Polish aristocracy. But I must say, I am surprised—but not disappointed—at Meredith’s hospitality. It was her, you know, who insisted you all stay on as long as necessary.”

  “She wasn’t of the same mind about Peter Wiley, was she?”

  “Oh, no,” Great Aunt Sylvia whispered. “Quite the opposite. Odd, don’t you think? But then the Sutcliffes have never been straightforward about much of anything.”

  “I’m afraid I have some bad news about Peter, Lady Pemberton,” I said. Glancing around, I saw that everyone was in the room and decided this was the best time and place. Great Aunt Sylvia put her hand to her mouth and gasped, perhaps sensing what I was about to say.

  “Excuse me,” I said, rising from the couch. “I wanted you all to know that Lieutenant Peter Wiley has died. We received confirmation today.” A little white lie to buy me time as I scanned the faces gathered close. Edgar wagged his head and gave a tch tch before downing the rest of his drink. Meredith sat down, oddly affected by the news, her hand going to her head. Helen took David’s hand, and I wondered if the look on her face was sorrow or worry about how her husband would take the news of another death. David looked at her, the burned side of his face giving me no clue as to what he was feeling.

  Williams moved through the room clearing drinks, his face a stone. But his hand trembled and he dropped a sherry glass, which bounced on the thick carpet.

  “That’ll be all, Williams,” David said. “Perhaps you should inform Alice and Mrs. Dudley. They will know of anyone in the village who should be told.” Williams bowed and left, and the room remained silent with discomfort. To some, Peter Wiley had been an unwelcome guest, a naïve American who didn’t know his place, and now Meredith and perhaps others didn’t know how to react. He might not have been one of them, but he had been part of Ashcroft House, even if he’d come from downstairs.

  “What happened to him?” Lady Pemberton asked, her face ashen.

  “Are you all right, Great Aunt Sylvia?” Meredith said, going to her side. “Do you want to lie down?”

  “I certainly do not,” she replied. “I would like an answer to my question.”

  “He was on the ship that sank in the Channel,” Kaz said. “Evidently he was not expected on board, which led us to believe he’d gone off somewhere.”

  “Perhaps that’s why he left in such a hurry,” Meredith said, patting Great Aunt Sylvia’s hand.

  “He had such promise,” David said. “But then so have so many.”

  It was hard to argue with that. As we filed out of the room to dinner, Crawford stood in the hallway, hands respectfully held behind his back, eyes darting back and forth, as if he were checking for reactions too. Had he been standing there the whole time?

  The meal was subdued. There’s nothing like a death notice to put a crimp in the dinner conversation. We had cod, fresh peas, potatoes, and carrots, washed down with a French white wine. Kaz complimented our hosts on the selection, and I wondered if the keys to the wine cellar were getting more of a workout now that Sir Rupert was no longer in charge. Why not? If Meredith and Helen were the big losers tomorrow, they might as well drink up while they could.

  Big Mike sat next to Lady Pemberton and kept her amused with his stories of Detroit. But she barely ate, and when Big Mike was busy with a mouthful, her smile vanished. Of the whole bunch, I’d have to say she displayed the most emotion over the news of Peter Wiley’s demise. Maybe the death of the young was even more of a tragedy for the old; they know how much of life there is to be missed.

  As the dishes were cleared, David announced he was off to the village pub and asked if any of the men would like to come along. “Drinks on me,” he said. “It will be either the beginning of a tradition or a farewell to North Cornworthy.”

  Edgar declined, which was not in character as far as free booze went; maybe he had to reread Hamlet. Big Mike stayed behind as well, and I thought he was becoming as protective of Lady Pemberton as I was.

  THE HUNTER’S LODGE was cheerier than the Ashcroft House dining room, but only because no death had been announced recently. Crawford was there, sitting at a table with Michael Withers. On our last visit, Withers hadn’t liked my asking questions about Roger Crawford, him being an “honest fisherman” and all. If Withers thought Crawford honest, then I had reason to doubt anything he’d told me. They raised their glasses in greeting, but then turned their heads away, no friendly invite to join them.

  I recognized Evan, the fellow who’d had fun with us last time using the local dialect. There were about ten others, all workingmen to judge by their clothes, probably from the nearby mill. David asked if he could buy a round for everyone and the resounding cheer told him the answer was yes. The publican began to draw pints, and David chatted with Evan and a few others. No one mentioned his potential as a new squire, but it didn’t seem as if anyone would mind.

  “Captain, ’ow be?” Evan said, raising his pint.

  “I be fine, Evan,” I said, taking his meaning. “ ’Ow be thee?”

  “Oh, you’ve got it down proper,” Evan said, laughing. “Are you done counting bodies now? That was a terrible business, it was.” On this serious subject, Evan made himself easily understood.

  “Yes,” I said. “War’s full of bad business. How’d you hear about it?”

  “Crawford, who works up at the house. He told us how he’d heard from his cousin on a shore battery. Seen it all, he said. Took his own boat out to see if he could find any lads before Jerry or the cold finished ’em off. But the navy turned him back. Too dangerous, they said. Too secret, I say. Who wants to admit to a disaster like that, eh?”

  “I can’t say I would, Evan. But Crawford’s cousin may have exaggerated things a bit. It wasn’t as bad as the rumors say.”

  “Well, Crawford can be a spuddler sometimes,” Evan said in a whisper.

  “Pardon?”

  “Sorry, old butt. Means a troublemaker. He that stirs the pot, understand?”

  “All too well, Evan. And if you’re ever in Boston, don’t call a guy in a bar an ‘old butt,’ okay?”

  �
��Good one! An old butt’s a fine friend,” he said with a laugh, clapping me on the back. “And you’re one as well, Captain Boyle. Now go and get your pint.”

  I did, and David was right behind me. As befits the temporary squire, he waited for his until everyone else was served, then raised his glass in a toast.

  “To the dead.” A dozen voices responded with the same, each with their own memories from the last war, this war, the hard times and grueling mill work, whatever served to put the dead in the ground. The toast put me in mind of the two basic motives for murder: love and money. Both seemed in short supply, but there was no shortage of the dead.

  After the conversation faded and men were faced with the prospect of paying for their next round, the room thinned out. David, Kaz, and I got another round and sat by the fire.

  “Whoever ends up with Ashcroft will have a lot of work to do,” David said. “From what Helen tells me, Sir Rupert wasn’t much for upkeep. The outbuildings are in need of repair and filled with useless junk.”

  “Mrs. Dudley did mention Ted Wiley kept them filled with machinery in the old days. She said he always enjoyed a tinker,” Kaz said.

  “Probably why he opened a hardware store in New York,” I said.

  “I think Helen mentioned they had a lot of rusted junk hauled away some time ago for the scrap drives,” David said. “I looked around in there yesterday and I did see where a motorbike had been stored. It must have been Peter’s.”

  “That is likely,” Kaz said. “But how could you tell it was a motorbike?”

  “By the tracks leading out of the barn,” David said. “A motorbike leaves a tread mark like a bicycle, only deeper on account of the weight, and slightly thicker. And there were oil stains where it had been parked in the barn. Probably an older model. Lots of people making do with what they had before the war, as we do.”

  “You ought to be a detective,” I said. “You’re more observant than most.”

  “A pilot has to be. Hun in the sun and all that,” David said, and then went quiet, perhaps contemplating a life less observant.

  The evening at the pub wrapped up not long after, and I was glad to climb into bed after a long day. On the way back, David had asked Kaz if he’d sit in on the reading of Sir Rupert’s will as a friend of the family, solving one problem for us. I doubted if anyone would mind my tagging along.

  I picked up the Agatha Christie puzzler I’d started and tried to read. Lord Edgware’s wife wanted a divorce. Hercule Poirot pleads her case, but Lord Edgware says he’s quite ready to grant a divorce. Then someone plugs him, and everyone is stumped as to why. Images of Sir Rupert and his daughters drifted across my mind, until the book fell against my chest, startling me awake.

  Why is it you can fall asleep reading with the lights on, but when you awake and turn them off you toss and turn? I was dead tired—no, I take that back. The dead were in for a real solid sleep, and I didn’t want to tempt fate. I let my thoughts wander, hoping whatever was keeping me awake would simply fade away.

  It didn’t. There was a gnawing feeling in my gut. I began to think that I’d heard something tonight that should have set off alarm bells but hadn’t registered. I went over the conversations I’d had, trying to recollect the exact wording of each.

  I finally gave up, remembering what my dad always said. Trust your unconscious mind. If you don’t understand something in the light of day, let your subconscious work on it at night. Generally being in favor of cutting ZZZs and letting another guy do the work, I punched the pillow and called in the third shift for the heavy lifting.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  MATTHEW FARNSWORTH LOOKED every inch the country solicitor. From the last century, which was when he probably started his practice. The wing-tip collar was from the same long-ago era, but it suited him. He’d asked the servants to be present, and said it would be useful for Kaz and me to attend as witnesses. No one seemed to have a problem with that. Big Mike had gone off to Greenway House to check in with Harding and let him know our plans. Not that there was much to tell.

  My subconscious had worked overnight, and I planned to talk to a few people after the reading. Since everyone was a bit on edge this morning, I’d decided it could wait until after the main event, which was about to get underway. Williams, Mrs. Dudley, and Alice Withers filed in to the library and stood behind the family members seated in chairs facing Farnsworth. He had his papers spread out on a small writing table and was busy cleaning his glasses, which gave him an excuse not to look directly at any one person. Crawford had taken a straight-backed chair in a far corner, once again slightly presumptuous without quite overstepping the bounds. Kaz and I leaned against the bookshelves, which afforded us a good view of all concerned.

  “I apologize for the necessity of this reading,” Farnsworth said, placing pince-nez glasses firmly on his nose. “However, Sir Rupert stipulated that his will be presented, and explained if necessary, in this fashion.”

  “His will be done,” Edgar said, which earned him a few nervous chuckles, as well as daggers from Meredith.

  “If there are no objections, I will dispense with a full reading of the Last Will and Testament of Sir Rupert Sutcliffe, and summarize the disposition of his estate.” Farnsworth peered over his glasses at the two daughters, their husbands, Lady Pemberton, and the servants. No one had the slightest interest in waiting any longer.

  “The first point I was instructed to make was that the stipulation regarding Lady Pemberton’s ongoing residence here is to stay in force. This was Sir Rupert’s wish and also an obligation of the previous inheritance. To ensure that Lady Pemberton’s final years are spent in comfort, he left the sum of five hundred pounds to supplement her income and investments.”

  Farnsworth looked up and nodded to Great Aunt Sylvia, who smiled and returned the gesture.

  “As for the servants, Sir Rupert left the sum of five hundred pounds each to Roger Crawford, Charles Williams, and Beryl Dudley. One hundred pounds is to go to Alice Withers, the lesser amount due to her shorter tenure at Ashcroft House.”

  “Oh!” Alice exclaimed, then clapped her hand over her mouth. Williams frowned at her, but the two thousand or so bucks he was getting had left him in a good mood, and he reverted to his usual stone face. Crawford smiled, but his expression had a bitter edge to it, as if he’d expected to be remembered with a bit more cash.

  “The sum of five thousand pounds shall go to Helen Sutcliffe Martindale,” Farnsworth said, giving Helen a polite smile and avoiding eye contact with Meredith.

  Farnsworth read off a few smaller sums to go the village church, library, and some local charities. Meredith was kneading an embroidered handkerchief in her hands, and I waited for the stitching to come loose as she became more and more impatient. Helen gripped David’s hand, her eyes riveted on the solicitor.

  “That concludes the smaller items,” Farnsworth said. “The bulk of his estate, Ashcroft House with adjoining properties, and the remaining bank accounts total slightly over two hundred forty-six thousand pounds after the aforementioned dispositions. There is also an annual income from rents totaling six thousand pounds.”

  “Oh!” This time it was Meredith. She must have been startled at the amount. I was. It was nearly a million dollars, if my arithmetic was right. Oh indeed.

  “Sir Rupert’s original will stipulated the following,” Farnsworth said, clearing his throat and fiddling with his papers. He looked nervous, adjusting his glasses before continuing. I wondered why he’d referred to the original document. If there was a new will, why not skip it? Had Sir Rupert known more than he let on about Peter Wiley?

  “Original?” Helen said, looking to Meredith with confusion written over her face.

  “Yes, that is why I am here, to be certain that the new will is understood and to clarify the circumstances under which it is to be carried out,” Farnsworth said. He took a deep breath and began again. “The previous will had Ashcroft House going to the government for whatever purposes it d
eemed necessary. The monies in Sir Rupert’s accounts were to be used for its maintenance. The only stipulation was that any usage was to be appropriate to Lady Pemberton’s continuing residence.”

  “The bastard!” Meredith exclaimed.

  “Yes, ahem,” Farnsworth said, soldiering on. “However, shortly before his death, Sir Rupert came to me and had a codicil added. The long and the short of it is, he directed that instead of the government being given title to the estate, it should go to Peter Wiley, an American, should it be demonstrated reasonably that the young man was the issue of Sir Rupert, the legitimacy of the birth notwithstanding.”

  “What? Reasonably? What the bloody hell does that mean?” Edgar said, his face red and his voice tight with rage. Around the room, other voices were raised in confusion laced with anger.

  “Please,” Farnsworth said, holding up one hand. “I will explain as soon as there is quiet.”

  “Don’t tell me to be quiet!” Edgar said, but he managed to nonetheless. I was ready for him to stalk out of the room, but his curiosity overcame his anger, and he relaxed back into his seat. Now I understood why Farnsworth had been eager to have Kaz and me present as witnesses.

  “Please, Mr. Farnsworth,” Helen said, leaning forward, eyes brimming with tears. “Please tell us what this means.”

  “It’s obvious, isn’t it?” Meredith said. “Father had an affair with the maid. Such a cliché.”

  “How do you know that?” Helen said, turning to Meredith in a fury. “What a horrible thing to say!”

  “Wake up, darling,” Meredith responded. “Aren’t you listening to Farnsworth? When Peter Wiley showed up here, Father must have realized, or at least seen the resemblance. And don’t forget the ring the American was wearing. Why else would Julia Greenshaw give it to her son?”

  “Be that as it may,” Farnsworth said, “Sir Rupert asked Captain Boyle to look into the matter for him, to determine whether Peter Wiley was in fact his son, born of Julia Greenshaw.”