People Say I'm Different: A Lord Charles Stewart Mystery

by John E. Conley

  Willis’ office was a rat’s nest of yellowed newspapers that might once have been of importance to the man, but now represented a mess too great in volume to clean up. Visitors stood when they were called into the editor’s office for no chair was exempt from serving as a receptacle of more newspapers.

  However, Humphrey Willis had a virtue: his memory. Willis could remember nearly anything he ever read or saw, and as soon as young Clifford Rothwell’s story was wired in, Willis contemplated something he had read in the past. He immediately called Frank McBurney into his office. McBurney was a veteran reporter who Willis trusted with the few really important stories that arose in and around Newcastle. He was a tall, thin, overly nervy man who believed a news story should never waver from the known facts.

  “McBurney, I want you to jog your memory for a moment,” Willis said from his rickety desk chair. “Do you remember a story out of tiny Alnmouth…oh, maybe twenty years ago…about a man found dead in the hotel there?”

  McBurney stood straight as a tree trunk while he thought, and then said, “Alnmouth. Yes. It was murder if I recall.”

  “It was,” Willis confirmed. “Tell me if I’m recollecting this right. A city official of some type was…”

  “He was the bank manager, sir,” McBurney interrupted.

  “Quite so. You’re right,” the editor said. “The bank manager was murdered on the top floor of the hotel by a woman who had a connection to him.”

  “It’s a small place, Willis. Everybody is connected to everybody in some way,” McBurney said. “The jury didn’t even take long enough in deliberation for the crowd to leave the building. They hung her a few days later.”

  “Yes, it always struck me as sad,” Willis replied. “She was fairly young and had a child. Plus, they never came up with a convincing motive. Only the most circumstantial evidence. Do you recall anything else?”

  McBurney shook his head. “That’s the essence of it, I think. It stuck in most people’s minds because of the remote location, and the fact it was a woman that did it. Is this related to the recent doings up there that the kid Rothwell reported on?”

  Willis shrugged and said, “Pure coincidence, I’m sure. Just wanted to get the facts straight in my mind.”

  But the editor thought the facts were important enough to relay them to Clifford via a direct phone call within half an hour. The call was made to the hotel desk, which took a message for the reporter and passed it on when they saw him.

  “It was the same hotel and on the same floor,” Willis told Clifford when they finally connected. “Twenty years ago, like I said before. I’ll try to track down the particulars from here and you do the same with the police up there. They hung a woman for the first murder. That seemed to be the end of it…until now. Rothwell, I’m just giving you this as background. It may be nothing. Use your instinct on how far to chase it.”

  Without much to go on, Clifford made a note to question Constable Simpson the next time he saw him. At the moment, the reporter’s hunger for food was greater than his yearning for news. He was headed to the café when Charles and Mary crossed his path. They quickly decided to lunch together.

  There was an uncommon buzz in the diner that didn’t go unnoticed by the three of them, even though Charles succeeded in obtaining a corner table farthest from the door.

  “This is the most noise I’ve heard in Alnmouth since we arrived,” Mary offered.

  “You didn’t spend much time in the hotel lobby then,” Clifford replied. “What have you two been up to?”

  Charles answered, “Trying to convince the police and Witherspoon that the rooms on the third floor need to be entered by someone that knows what they are looking for.”

  “What is that?” Clifford asked.

  “Any indication of use in the recent past.”

  “Use by two people?” Clifford said.

  Charles nodded. “Or more. But at least two.”

  They ordered their meals before Clifford asked, “What do either of you know about the Brampton?”

  Mary replied, “We’ve just heard little bits here and there about ghosts. Most people recommend avoiding the place.”

  “Nothing about any previous disturbances?” Clifford wanted to know.

  Charles said, “Such as…?”

  Clifford leaned forward slightly, lowered his voice, and said, “Another murder. Twenty years ago. Same floor.”

  Neither Charles nor Mary reacted with the vigor Clifford expected, but Charles did say, “You don’t say. Tell us more.”

  “Not much to tell, yet. A man was killed. A woman was hanged. End of story.”

  “And you suspect the two are related?” Charles asked.

  Clifford shrugged. “Don’t know. I’m to find out.”

  “Don’t forget your good friends when you do,” Charles said with a wink.

  After the meal, as he left the café, Clifford’s intent was to track down Constable Simpson. He was nearly to the hotel when he felt a tap on his shoulder.

  “Excuse me, young man. Are you the reporter with the Evening Chronicle?”

  Clifford turned and said, “I am.”

  “My name is John Clarke,” the man said. “May I have a word with you. Perhaps on the bench in the park?”

  The reporter agreed and the men crossed the street before seating themselves under the large oak. Clifford had a tendency to judge people quickly on first appearance, but he was unsure of the nondescript man in the beard and round glasses.

  “I’m the headmaster of the school and, as such, I have interactions with the people of Alnmouth on a year-round basis,” Clarke told him. “I must say that in the short time I’ve been here I haven’t seen them as troubled as they are now.”

  “I believe murder would have that effect on any population, Mr. Clarke.”

  “Yes, yes. Of course,” Clarke said. “But…well, have you heard any news that might affect any of them? I mean to say, in your dealings with the police, have they identified a suspect? It would help the people to know the killer will be behind bars soon.”

  “I’ve had virtually no dealings with the police, Mr. Clarke,” Clifford said. “That was my intent when you approached me. You, sir, most likely have more information than I do at this stage.”

  “No. That would not be the case,” Clarke assured him. “But I know most of the people of Alnmouth and it’s my belief the list of suspects and motives is substantial.”

  “Do you mind expanding on that?” Clifford asked. “Not for purposes of writing a story, but for my own benefit.”

  Clarke’s facial expression showed a willingness to do just that.

  “Dorothy Dunne is incapable of murder, but she loathed Irene Hall as much or more than anyone in the village,” Clarke began. “She and the ladies she talks to most have always been suspicious of both Irene and her husband, who they say does not act in their behalf as Alderman. I never heard a civil word between the two women in the time I’ve been here.

  “Donald Hall may, in fact, have also had reason to be suspicious of his wife. There are plenty of people here who think Irene was seeing Edward Williams for things other than household supplies. Now, if Donald had happened to follow Irene into the hotel…or was waiting for her…and saw her with Williams….”

  Clarke did not finish the thought and Clifford acknowledged him with a nod, adding, “Who else?”

  “Well, I suppose you have to wonder about Margaret Williams…Edward’s wife,” Clarke said. “She’s such a quiet, shy woman. Seems nice enough, but what if, in fact, Irene was seeing Edward and she knew about it? Nobody knows if she’s capable of murder, of course. But who isn’t capable of it under the right circumstances, eh?”

  In the end, Clifford Rothwell wasn’t sure if he was happy or not that his assignment had changed so much. He had almost nothing to go on in either matter and wondered how the police, or Lord Stewart and Mary, could possibly prove their case without a confession. Time would have to tell.

  Third Floor Ro
oms

  It took very little convincing by Charles to get Witherspoon and Constable Simpson to permit himself and Mary entrance into the rooms on the third floor of the Brampton. The manager and police officer were both certain that nothing of consequence would be found and, if pressed on the issue, Charles or Mary might have agreed. Still, Charles felt it was a necessary search and keenly accepted the keys from Witherspoon.

  The first room the couple entered was the one closest to the closet door, across the hall from the stairway. Charles put his hand on the knob and removed it to show Mary the dust.

  “I don’t expect to find much in here,” he told her, turning the key in the door.

  It opened with a groan. Mary leaned to one side to peer around Charles and was not the least bit surprised to see a dark and foreboding interior. Charles did not immediately enter, looking down, instead, to determine the status of the floor.

  “Not a single footprint, Mary,” he said, finally stepping inside.

  The layout of the furniture, the wallpaper, and the carpet matched the rooms on the second floor. Mary stepped over to the dresser on the right side wall and ran her finger across the top, collecting an ample volume of dust.

  “Nobody’s been staying in here for quite a while,” she confirmed to Charles.

  “Yes, and the bed covers show no sign of recent use,” he replied. “Check the closet, if you don’t mind, and then we’ll move on.”

  Mary delicately opened the door with two fingers to avoid the accumulation of any more dirt and found the musty closet empty.

  “Nothing.”

  “OK. Let’s go,” Charles said.

  The room next to the stairway across the hall had been used to briefly keep Irene Hall’s body and was of no use to Charles now. He reached for the knob on the door of the next room over.

  Charles inspected his fingers and said, “Ah! Quite free of dust. We won’t step inside just yet.”

  He opened the door and they both immediately stared at the floor. As soon as their eyes adjusted to the relative darkness, it was apparent that a path in the dust had been formed. Charles dropped to his knees and slowly inched his way forward.

  A couple feet inside the room, individual footprints began to spray out, but primarily in the direction of the bed.

  “Irene’s been here,” Charles said, still kneeling. “Many of the prints are on top of each other, but this one clearly matches the one in the photos Bingham took in the hallway. The others are larger. Likely one or more men, but nothing about the prints strike me as exactly matching the photos.”

  Charles rose to his feet and strode towards the bed. Mary went to the dresser with the mirror.

  “Someone’s been using the top of the dresser,” Mary said. “It’s not wiped clean, but something’s been on it.”

  “The bed, too,” Charles said, leaning over the cover until his face was within inches of it.

  He moved up to the pillows and leaned even closer. Mary saw his hand methodically slide over the surface of a pillow before squeezing his fingers together.

  “A hair,” he said, picking up the strand. “A very long hair. We’ll have Bingham take a look.”

  Charles deposited the strand inside a coat pocket and continued his inspection with no new discoveries. However, his conviction that the dust-free bed had been recently used was stronger than ever.

  When it seemed to Mary that Charles was ready to leave the room, she said to him, “Charles, I talked to Anna today and what she said is of interest, knowing what we know now about this room.”

  “I’d like to hear it,” he said eagerly.

  “Anna goes into the attic at night by way of the closet,” Mary began. “I didn’t ask how she found out about it, but that might not matter. She told me she has seen Dorothy Dunne and Donald Hall up here, separately, and Irene and Edward Williams…together.”

  Charles frowned. “Fortunate for Edward that it was Anna who saw them.”

  “I know, Charles. But I trust her completely.”

  “Oh, I do, too,” Charles said quickly. “She can’t be used as a witness, however. I’d love to get confirmation of the sighting from somebody else. Dorothy Dunne will be the most likely candidate to provide it, if you can trust she isn’t making it up.”

  “What do you make of Donald Hall going into the attic by himself?” Mary asked.

  “Is that what Anna saw?”

  “Yes.”

  Charles nodded and said, “Add that to our to-do list, my dear. There’s something of interest to Donald in the attic…or he is putting something of interest into it.”

  “So, what is Dorothy Dunne doing up here?” Mary asked.

  “What, indeed,” Charles muttered.

  In Alnwick, a meeting was taking place involving Constable Oliver Simpson, one of ten members of the Alnwick police force. The affable man spent most work days walking the city streets and chatting with acquaintances, which were many. In his fifteen years of work the most serious crime he witnessed was a theft at O’Reilly’s Jewelers. Pure coincidence found him that day exiting the market across the street when the perpetrator of the jewel theft ran out of O’Reilly’s. Being a man of considerable athleticism in his youth, Simpson tackled the thief several blocks later. Over years of retelling the story, the chase had been shortened to where Simpson made the tackle in the same block as the store.

  Simpson never expected to be the first officer on the scene of a murder and certainly never expected it to be in Alnmouth. Now, the Chief Inspector, an Inspector, and a Sergeant were working alongside Simpson on the biggest case in Northumberland in two decades.

  Simpson didn’t know what to make of Lord Charles Stewart, who seemed knowledgeable on police proceedings, but could also be no more than a meddlesome gentleman intent on extending his holiday with a bit of investigating. The Chief Inspector instructor Simpson to treat Charles with respect, but not to let him interfere.

  Chief Inspector Holcolmb, a sixty-year-old veteran of police work, but relatively new to Alnwick, was not a fan of amateurs prying into the official affairs of local police. He had experienced it before, with disappointing effects.

  Sitting now in his Alnwick office with Simpson, Inspector Ward, and Sergeant Taylor, Holcolmb laid the groundwork for their investigation into Irene Hall’s murder.

  “Ward, you spoke with Donald Hall?” Holcolmb asked.

  “That’s correct, sir,” Ward replied. “He was quite calm. Surprisingly so, I would say, considering his wife was just found stabbed in the back.”

  “Could he account for his whereabouts during the night?”

  Ward said, “Claims to have been at home, waiting for Mrs. Hall to return. Said he slept off and on in a chair. I asked him if it was unusual for her not to return and he was hesitant to answer, but eventually admitted it was not unusual. He said he went out soon after daybreak and was told of the discovery of her body by an acquaintance he met on the street.”

  Holcolmb shook his head and said, “That’s a preposterous story. No attorney would ever let him tell that to a jury. Unfortunately, we’re dealing with a County Alderman and a wife of some repute. This case won’t be resolved on inferences.”

  “Hall was quick to point fingers,” Ward said. “He told me to quit wasting my time with him and to talk to Edward Williams, the shop owner.”

  “That’s a start,” Holcolmb replied. “Who else can we put on the list?”

  “Margaret Williams,” Simpson chimed in. “I’ve met her before. If her husband and Irene Hall were….”

  “Yes. Yes, of course,” Holcolmb interrupted. “Mrs. Williams. We’ll also want to include other financial officials in the county if these confounded rumors of Donald Hall’s shady dealings have any truth to them.”

  “Better include the hotel staff,” Taylor added. “Nobody sees and hears more than they do in a hotel.”

  “Very good,” Holcolmb said with a sigh. “Ward, start in on the interviews. If you need to bring in more men, do it. I want this thin
g settled as quickly as possible. I’m too old for this.”

  Ward wasted no time driving into Alnmouth and parked as near to Edward William’s shop as possible. The Inspector stepped into the shop and a bell above the door rang out when he entered.

  He asked the first clerk he saw if Edward Williams was available.

  The clerk replied, “Oh, he’s still at home. He’ll be in later, I’m told.”

  Inspector Ward was provided directions to Williams’ stone home, one street east and within a stone’s throw of the shoreline. Ward walked the distance in five minutes and knocked on the solid wood door upon arrival.

  “Good day. Can I help you?” Edward Williams said upon opening the door.

  “Good day, sir. My name is Inspector Ward of the Alnwick police. You are Edward Williams?”

  “I am.”

  “Sorry to bother you, sir. But may I have a word with you?” Ward said.

  “Of course. Please come in.”

  “Are you alone?” Ward asked.

  “No. Margaret, my wife, is here,” Edward answered.

  “Then may we speak somewhere in private, sir? Perhaps your office at the store.”

  Williams appeared somewhat flustered, Ward thought, and asked the Inspector to wait. From the front step, Ward could not hear the discussion between the husband and wife. Soon, Edward reappeared and they began the short walk back to the store.

  “How did you find out about Irene Hall’s death?” Ward asked.

  “Margaret told me this morning,” Williams said. “She was at the market when she heard.”

  “What did you think when you found out?”

  Williams hesitated and then said, “I thought it was unfortunate that somebody that young should have to die.”

  They came to the back door of the store. Williams opened it and preceded the Inspector up the stairs and into his office.

  Ward sat, waited for Edward to take his chair, and then said, “Did she have to die?”

  Williams stared harshly at Ward and replied, “Of course not, and that is not what I meant. Irene was a young woman. She had a long and happy life in front of her.”