by James R Benn
“That’s a good way of putting it, Mrs. Mallowan. He had a lot to look forward to.” His artwork, not to mention a sizeable and unexpected inheritance.
“It’s suddenly very close in here, Captain Boyle. Would you care to walk in the fresh air with me? I would like to hear more about Peter’s death, if you’re willing.”
I was. Who better to consult with than the creator of Hercule Piorot?
We sat on a bench, overlooking the sloping lawn of Greenway House. In the distance, a flight of Spitfires roared their way to the Channel, the snarl of engines echoing off the banks of the River Dart.
“They are so graceful, those devices of war,” Mrs. Mallowan said. “It is sometimes hard to imagine how terribly lethal they are.”
“That applies to people as well,” I said.
“Yes. And of course we make the hardware of war in our own image, don’t we? A combination of beauty, brutality, and efficiency. Now, tell me how young Peter died.”
“First, I need to tell you about his parents,” I said. Her sadness about Peter notwithstanding, I saw a gleam of fascination in her eyes. She understood this would be no ordinary story. I began with Peter showing up at Ashcroft House, shocking everyone with his ring. Went on to Sir Rupert’s request for me to determine if Peter was his son. Then I gave her a sanitized version of Operation Tiger, and asked her to keep mum about what little I did tell her. I described the Sutcliffe clan and Lady Pemberton, told her about Sir Rupert’s death and all that followed, including the revelations at the reading of the will. I finished up with the discovery of Peter’s body among the dead and the missing ring. When I was finished, she remained silent, her brow furrowed in thought.
“The death of Sir Rupert,” she finally said. “Nothing suspicious?”
“It doesn’t seem so. His daughter Meredith was not exactly heartbroken, but there’s nothing to suggest she killed him. The doctor confirmed his heart was bad, had been for a while. He should have been resting, not working.”
“It would seem that there are strong emotions lurking within Meredith,” she said.
“She wasn’t happy being left out of the will,” I said.
“No, that’s not what I mean,” Mrs. Mallowan said. “When she was an impressionable young girl, she discovered her father’s betrayal. That left a mark upon her. The proof is that she held on to that letter all these years. What rational reason would she have to do so?”
“To use it against Sir Rupert at some point?”
“No, Captain Boyle. She wanted to keep her anger and hatred alive. Time does heal the wounds of youth, and I’d say Meredith kept that letter to make certain hers never healed. I’d wager she was very close to her mother, which is where her loyalty lay. When her mother died, perhaps she feared a reconciliation with Sir Rupert, which would be a betrayal, and of course betrayal was the very thing she hated her father for. That made it all the more important for her to hold on to her loathing for him.”
“I had wondered if she’d taunted him with it the night he died. It wouldn’t be murder, but close to it.”
“Perhaps the question is, why did she bring it out that night, of all nights?”
“Good question,” I said. “She had told him she’d destroyed it years before, so there had to be a point in bringing it out now.”
“That may be,” she said. “But from the way you described their raised voices, it sounds like a serious argument. And a woman has very few weapons to bring to a fight with a powerful man. Of course, it is easy for me to come up with ideas. That is what I do. The truth, of course, is much more difficult to discern.”
“You’re right about it being an argument,” I said. “She was enraged. I think she said something about not standing for whatever he was doing to her when she stormed out of his office.”
“Perhaps he told her she would inherit nothing,” Mrs. Mallowan said. “But then what good would the letter do? She couldn’t blackmail him with it if he was intent upon acknowledging Peter Wiley as his illegitimate son.”
“Then we’re back to rage and revenge,” I said. “He must have been hurt to know that she’d kept the news from him all those years. But what does any of this have to do with Peter Wiley dead in the Channel?”
“That is a mystery, Captain Boyle,” she said with a pleasant smile. “My detectives always look for the small things. Little inconsistencies that lead to the truth. I’ve no idea how useful that is in a real murder investigation, I must say. But lies are actually quite difficult to maintain, don’t you think?”
“Lies and secrets, Mrs. Mallowan. Like Paris of Troy in Lord Edgware Dies.”
“Exactly! But remember what happened to the young man who realized what that meant.”
“I haven’t got there yet,” I said. “But I get the idea. I’ll be careful.”
“Please do, Captain Boyle. I’d like you to catch whoever was responsible for this foul deed. There’s death enough in the world today without violence being done by one of our own. Tell me a little more about the men in the household.”
I told her about David and his burn scars, and the desire he showed to serve again, which disappeared fairly quickly after Sir Rupert’s death. And Edgar’s principled stand in India, which cost him his position, not to mention his sobriety.
“But they’re only visitors,” I said. “Roger Crawford is the estate manager, very efficient at it too. Sir Rupert left him a decent sum.”
“But?”
“But he’s arrogant. Walks through the house like he owns the place. Apparently Ashcroft House is quite egalitarian, but he always strikes me as having a smirk on his face.”
“You don’t like the man,” Mrs. Mallowan said.
“No, I don’t, perhaps because he has a chip on his shoulder about Americans. He had a house in the South Hams, which the government took over. I’ve seen what’s left of it after all the live-fire exercises. Hard to blame a guy for being sore after the American army uses your place for target practice.”
“And Edgar—Meredith’s husband—takes refuge in the bottle, you said?”
“Pretty much. Booze and Shakespeare seem to be his two passions. I think that one decent act in India was all he had in him. He’s planning on writing a book about Hamlet, which is the only thing I’ve seen him get excited about,” I said. “David’s wife, Helen, couldn’t look at his face when I first arrived. But now she manages it, and they seem to be getting along. I tried to get him a position here so he could stay in uniform, but his eyesight is too badly damaged. I thought he’d take it hard, but he shrugged it off soon enough.”
“All this after the death of Sir Rupert?”
“Yes,” I said. “The doctor saw no signs of poison, and confirmed Sir Rupert’s heart condition. A matter of time, he said.”
“Hmmm. Let me think,” she said, tapping her finger against her lips. A ship’s horn sounded in the distance, beyond Dartmouth harbor. A couple of minutes passed. “Let me venture a guess about this Meredith woman. Once Peter Wiley left the house, she voiced her displeasure with him in some way, perhaps even saying he would not be welcome again. Am I correct?”
“Yes, you are. How did you know that?”
“Because it is obvious that she knows more than she lets on. Her argument with her father behind closed doors tells me that. Perhaps she sincerely disliked Peter Wiley, and saw no reason to hide the fact after her father’s death, or from the moment Sir Rupert told her about Peter being in the revised will. But it is Helen who interests me. You described her as somewhat sensitive, which would make her reaction to her husband’s injuries understandable. It’s the change in demeanor that is hard to account for.”
“Like her husband’s?”
“No. That is easily understandable. A disfigured veteran might well worry about how he will make his way in the world and earn a living. Sir Rupert’s death may have seemed heaven-sent to a man with half a face, so it is entirely natural that he would no longer wish for employment. He certainly had reason to believe
that Helen would receive a decent inheritance, since she and her father got along. But I wonder what drew Helen closer to David, following her father’s death? Mourning, or something else?”
“Are you saying I should treat Helen as a suspect? She doesn’t seem the murderous type,” I said.
“With your knowledge of the real world of criminals and killers, I should bow to your expertise. But based only on the sketch of Helen you have given me, I note the change in her attitude. Why, I ask? What would cause a young woman who is repulsed by her husband’s scars to alter her behavior suddenly? Do you have an answer, Captain Boyle?”
“I understand criminals, and that includes female criminals, Mrs. Mallowan. But women in general? I need all the help I can get.”
“That’s refereshingly honest of you, Captain Boyle. But she bears watching. Is Lady Pemberton a factor in this mystery?”
“I think she knows more than she lets on,” I said. “She’s still sharp, and she’s seen everything that’s happened at Ashcroft House since the Great War.”
“Ah,” Mrs. Mallowan said, tilting her head back and letting the sunlight fall on her face. “Why does the matriarch keep any secrets at all? Her silence must have a purpose. If you discover that, you will then know what the secret is, and why she keeps it hidden.”
“Are you sure?” I asked, after thinking through what she’d said.
“Goodness, no, Captain Boyle!” Mrs. Mallowan laughed, turning her face toward mine and clapping her hands together. “I am sure of so little. These are merely ideas, based on what you have told me. When I am planning a book, I sketch out concepts and characters and let them take me where they will. This is much like that process. I am extrapolating from what you’ve told me. But if I spent five minutes with poor Helen or ferocious Meredith, I might form an entirely different opinion of them. I only know them at second hand, through your American eyes, after all.”
“Fair enough,” I said. “You’ve given me a different way to look at these people, and that’s a big help. It’s been fun talking shop with you.”
“Remember to watch for those small inconsistencies, Captain Boyle. Now, is there anything you’ve forgotten to tell me about? Something so minor you left it out?” I didn’t think so, until I thought of the motorcycle tracks.
“Peter arrived on a motorbike. It hasn’t been found. But we discovered tire tracks leading out of a barn at Ashcroft House. The only thing is, it was after that heavy rain. They likely would have been washed away if he’d left when everyone said he did.”
“Oh dear,” Mrs. Mallowan said, rising from the bench. “That is not good, not good at all.”
“We thought it might have been a bicycle, actually, carrying a heavy load.” As I watched the worried look on her face, I began to feel guilty for not pursuing this clue more thoroughly.
“It could be. But don’t you see? If it isn’t, you are in some danger, Captain Boyle.”
“I can handle myself,” I said, somewhat defensively.
“I’m sure you can, but this is an unusual business. Have you thought about the implications?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean the motorbike may have been used to spirit away the body of poor Peter Wiley, which means the killer is definitely someone from Ashcroft House. Do you have any idea where the motorbike is now?”
“It could be anywhere. In the river, maybe.”
“I don’t think so, Captain. You mentioned that an inexpensive watch was stolen from Peter’s body, as well as the gold ring. That tells me that the thief—and I assume that the thief and the killer are one and the same—is not one to waste anything. A man—or woman—who knows the value of things, and who has perhaps gone without in life.”
“We looked through the barn,” I said. “I guess we could do a better search of the property.”
“Where do Meredith and Helen live?”
“London. But they’d never get enough petrol to drive a motorbike there, not that I can envision either one of them on one.”
“Then that leaves Crawford, the estate manager,” she said. “I have two recommendations for you, Captain Boyle. First, check his house in the South Hams. A restricted area makes a fine hiding place.”
“Good idea. What’s the other?”
“Move out of Ashcroft House immediately. This affair is not yet concluded.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
“WHO WERE YOU speaking to?” Kaz asked as I started up the jeep to drive to Dartmouth. Big Mike was stuck with Colonel Harding, doing something hush-hush, and we were detailed to check on Monty’s spy. Or liaison officer, depending on how diplomatic I felt.
“Agatha Christie,” I said.
“No, Billy, not the voices in your head,” Kaz retorted. “The lady on the bench.”
“Don’t believe your pal, eh?” I accelerated going into the curve leading to the main road, and Kaz held on to his hat and his seat.
“You read enough detective novels that it’s easy to imagine you carrying on imaginary conversations with the authors,” Kaz said. “Didn’t I once see you throw a book against the wall and curse the writer?”
“Yeah, because it was a lousy book,” I said. “But it just so happens that Agatha Christie, or Mrs. Mallowan, as she prefers to be called, owns Greenway House. It was taken over by the government for the duration, and she was back to look for some business papers.”
“Really?” Kaz asked. “Did you discuss the case with her?”
“Yeah. I gave her the basics. She’d met Peter and was upset to hear the news.” I went over what we’d talked about, taking it easy on the curves so he could concentrate.
“Those are interesting insights into Meredith and Helen,” he said. “But a bit of a stretch concerning the motorbike. Not impossible though. It’s too bad Diana isn’t here. She may have come to the same conclusion about the two women.”
“That’s some other news I have,” I said, and told Kaz about Diana’s letter.
“Good for you both,” he said. “Now, what do you think about the advice to leave Ashcroft House?”
“I think it’s time,” I said. “We have a lot to look into, and I’d prefer not to investigate people whose roof I’m staying under. Let’s find this Major McClure and see if he’s come up with anything. I doubt it, but orders are orders. Then we’ll pack up and say our goodbyes.”
“For now,” Kaz said.
“Right,” I said. “And I want to put some gentle pressure on Great Aunt Sylvia. She is definitely hiding something. She’s afraid of scandal and what it would do to the family’s reputation. The Pemberton family, that is.”
“Do you think her recent illness was real?”
“She seemed genuinely disoriented, and worried about it too. That’s hard to fake.” We crossed the river and drove through the small villages on the outskirts of Dartmouth. British Tommies were on the march today, single file on either side of the road, their hobnail boots raising a racket as they double-timed it while carrying full packs and rifles at ports arms. I almost felt guilty as I sped past them.
As we wound our way into Dartmouth through streets choked with bicycles, sailors, military vehicles, and GIs searching for girls, Kaz and I talked about the ring and the likelihood of its simply having been purloined by any of the soldiers or civilians recovering bodies. It wouldn’t be the first time greed won out over decency. But I was coming around to the notion that it was somewhere in Ashcroft House, hidden by one of its denizens.
“Why?” Kaz asked when I spoke of my hunch.
“Because of everything Mrs. Mallowan said. Meredith keeping the letter all those years. Helen suddenly getting lovey with David.”
“You are suspicious because a wife treats her wounded husband well?”
“No, I’m suspicious because her behavior changed,” I said. “I think Meredith is up to no good, and Helen is going along with it. That’s why she’s leaning on David; she knows she’s wrong and wants some comfort from him. I don’t think she’s made
of the same stuff as Meredith.” I pulled over near the docks, where the grey warships and transports were lined up like a wall of steel.
“Do you think David is involved in Peter Wiley’s death?” Kaz asked, his voice low and his eyes drilling into mine.
“No,” I said, after a few seconds. “It doesn’t add up. He did drop the idea of going back on active service pretty quickly, but that could well be because he saw a future for himself at Ashcroft.”
“Remember, he was turned down by Harding at Greenway House,” Kaz said. “He didn’t give up, necessarily.”
“No, but he didn’t seem disappointed, did he? We both expected him to take it hard.” We got out of the jeep and walked to the embankment, looking for LST 289, where Major McClure was running his investigation. Sections of wharf ran out into the harbor, some long and wide enough for trucks to offload supplies and men. Others were smaller, with destroyers, Motor Torpedo Boats, and other craft tied up alongside. The tide was out, and the smell of rotting fish wafted up from the muddy flats.
“No,” Kaz said. “I must admit I was surprised by his behavior before the reading of the will. Helen could have been left nothing at all. It would have been very English of Sir Rupert to leave everything to the nearest male blood relative, no matter how distant.”
“I hadn’t thought about that,” I said, then pointed to LST 289. It was easy to spot, with its battle-damaged, blackened hull and the bright pinpoints of light as welders worked the steel. The mooring next to the 289 was empty, and three English kids, maybe ten or eleven years old, ran along the water’s edge and climbed up a wooden ladder on the wharf, freezing when they saw us approaching. They were carrying all manner of muddy debris that had washed up at high tide, and by their wide-eyed looks I guessed they’d been chased out of here before.
They were about to turn and bolt when I saw what one of them had slung over his shoulder.
“Hey, wait, want a Hershey bar?” I yelled. They put on the brakes.