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

by John E. Conley

  Clifford spent a good portion of the next several hours speaking to the police and submitting a story to the paper. There were no new developments and Inspector Ward was mum on what interviews, if any, had taken place. By late afternoon, the reporter was ready for tea and a snack.

  It did not surprise him that Charles, Mary, and Bingham were already in the dining room. Nor did it surprise him when he was invited to join them.

  “Any progress?” Charles asked.

  “Not on my end and it also sounds as if not on the police end,” Clifford replied. “How about you?”

  Charles shook his head. “Same here. Bits and pieces of talk about sour interactions between people, but nothing that likely would send anyone to the gallows.”

  “I do have something I wanted your opinions on,” Clifford said to the group. “It involves Dorothy Dunne, initially, so it may be easy to discard the importance, or even truth, of the matter. But here it is.

  “She told me of seeing Donald Hall taking a package into the attic of the hotel and coming back down without it. She claims to have looked for it without success. It was of little interest to me until just now, when I saw John Clarke scurrying out of the hotel with a package that exactly fit the description of the one Mrs. Dunne said Mr. Hall put in the attic.”

  Clifford stopped and waited for a reply. Bingham was the first to offer one.

  “Would one be likely to run out the front door of the hotel with a package containing, let’s say, a bribe or misappropriated funds?”

  “Well, he wasn’t running, exactly,” Clifford explained. “But he was in a hurry.”

  Mary said, “Would it look any less suspicious if he ran out the back door?”

  Charles smiled and said, “Exactly, my dear. Would you go out the front as if on routine business or sneak out the back?”

  “What routine business does John Clarke have in the hotel?” Bingham asked. “Particularly one that he otherwise has an aversion to.”

  All four exchanged glances without a word being said until Charles offered, “So, we have a number of people that may have habitually visited the upper floor and attic of this hotel. We have Irene herself, her husband, Dorothy Dunne, Anna. Am I forgetting anyone? Oh, and by the way Rothwell, Mary and I had a chance to inspect the rooms and there was nothing of value found. I expected as much. It now appears the attic is the center of interest up there. That will be our next location to examine. However, your sighting of Mr. Clarke adds a new wrinkle that is worth contemplating.”

  The Housekeeper

  Lord Stewart tried not to judge people too quickly. One’s personal like or dislike of an individual often hindered the search for truth in a criminal case. At the moment, he was attempting very hard not to judge Dorothy Dunne. The aging teacher certainly had her nose everywhere in the village and that was a good thing. The fact she was so opinionated was not. Also, there was her fascination with ghosts. Charles feared it clouded the woman’s perception of reality and he was only interested in reality at the moment.

  Charles couldn’t help but deliberate on the multitude of facets in which Dorothy was entangled in the murder of Irene Hall. She had been a constant thorn in Irene’s side. She was familiar with the third floor and attic of the hotel. She had knowledge of Irene’s past.

  It was the latter detail that most fascinated Charles because this murder did not appear to him to be one of sudden impulse. Something in Irene’s past—recent or otherwise—provoked her killer. While the police concentrated on what little physical evidence they had, Charles would probe the mind of at least one potential suspect.

  That afternoon, he and Mary walked the short distance north on Northumberland Street, away from the river, to Dorothy Dunne’s cottage. It was a steeply roofed, stone structure typical of the area. Two pointed arches on the front gave the otherwise rectangular home a small amount of attractiveness. The door was on the far right side with one large window at the same level and two smaller ones on the second floor. A waist-high stone wall enclosed the tiny front garden.

  Charles knocked on the door and waited a short time for Dorothy to answer.

  “My goodness. Hello Lord Stewart and Miss Hastings. Do come in,” she said with delight. “What a nice surprise on this lovely day.”

  Charles and Mary entered the tidy living room and were immediately offered seats.

  “I hope you have just a few spare moments for a chat with us,” Charles said.

  “Of course. Of course,” Dorothy exclaimed. “It’s not every day I have a real gentleman such as yourself to entertain. Nor such a lovely lady as Miss Hastings.”

  Charles and Mary sat on the couch and Dorothy was about to settle into a chair when she said, “Oh, gracious. What a bad hostess I am. Let me warm the tea.”

  “No. No, please don’t bother,” Charles told her. “We’re just fine. We won’t stay long.”

  “If you say. But, if you want anything, don’t hesitate to ask,” Dorothy said, finally seating herself.

  Mary’s eyes were scanning every inch of the immaculate room and she was more amazed at each new discovery. Every small ornament or object—and there were many to be seen—was perfectly placed on a shelf. Each shelf was ostensibly free of dust, including the ones closest to the fireplace and the mantle itself. Not being the meticulous type herself, the entire room captivated her.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Dunne,” Charles replied. “We wanted to talk to you about the sad and sudden loss of Irene Hall. I understand you knew her fairly well and might be able to provide some background for me. I’m informally assisting the police, but you need not fear any direct involvement yourself. This would be for my use alone.”

  “Not for that young reporter from Newcastle?” she asked.

  “Oh, heavens no. He’s on his own, I dare say,” Charles said with a smile.

  Charles and Mary watched Dorothy mentally mull over the situation. They each expected her enjoyment of gossip to win out, and they were promptly rewarded.

  Dorothy coughed quietly and said, “Yes, of course. I knew Irene Hall quite well. Better than most, I might say. Excluding, of course, that awful husband of hers. I first met Irene when she was a housekeeper at the Brampton, before the war. She was quite pretty, naturally. She always was.”

  The guests couldn’t distinguish between a tone of disdain or jealousy in the older woman’s voice.

  Dorothy continued: “From my first recollection of her, I remember her making it her business to know everyone in the village. At least, everyone of importance. The men were more than willing to give the pretty girl their time and God only knows what they might have told her. When you also consider her role as housekeeper at the hotel, you have to assume that she could have easily seen and heard things that could…shall we say…be used to her benefit.”

  Charles reassured Dorothy with a knowing nod of the head, saying, “Yes, quite. Did she live above her means?”

  Dorothy tittered and said, “Don’t you believe she always wanted to. That girl wanted to be rich from the moment she was born and it wasn’t going to happen through hard work. No, she was looking for the right man.”

  A particular portrait on the mantle of a rugged-faced sailor caught Mary’s eye. Dorothy noticed, and said, “That’s my dear William.”

  “Your husband?” Mary asked.

  “Yes. Died of a bad heart. Too many years on the sea. I asked him to quit the year he died a young man, but he’d never listen to me.”

  Charles admired the woman’s brashness, but speculated on just how many people she had made enemies of over the years for the same reason. Certainly, Irene Hall would have found her to be an annoyance.

  Charles asked Dorothy, “Do you walk the village very much at night, Mrs. Dunne?”

  “Oh, occasionally,” she replied. “Last minute shopping. I never do it just for the air or exercise, you understand.”

  Her grin was returned by Charles and Mary. Charles said, “Did you ever see Irene Hall out at night?”

  �
��Of course. I saw lots of people. Her and I would stop to talk sometimes.”

  “About what?” Charles inquired.

  Dorothy thought for a second before replying, “I won’t deny it, Lord Stewart. I confronted Mrs. Hall on more than one occasion about the financial affairs of the village. I’m not alone in being displeased with how her husband is representing us, and that wasn’t the only thing I’d say to her.”

  “What else?” Charles said.

  “I think a married woman’s vows are holy and should be kept without question,” Dorothy replied with vigor.

  When she didn’t go on, Mary said, “You think there was another man?”

  “There was always another man with Irene Hall.”

  Charles and Mary stayed less than twenty minutes without gaining any further insight.

  “What do you make of her?” Mary asked Charles as they walked back to the hotel.

  “I don’t believe we’ve heard everything Dorothy Dunne has to tell,” Charles replied. “She’s not going to divulge the whole lot to two relative strangers, but I think she’s a harmless enough woman. At least we didn’t have to listen to any ghost stories. Our next task, Mary, involves young Mr. Rothwell. He knows something about the hotel murder twenty years ago and I’d like to hear more. It could be nothing, but let’s not yet completely dispel the possibility the two murders are related.”

  They left a message for Clifford at the hotel’s desk and then sat in the lobby for several minutes. Bingham joined them in due time and heard a review of the interview with Dorothy Dunne. They moved out to the park bench at Mary’s suggestion and within half an hour were joined by Clifford.

  “You wanted me?” the reporter asked the group while he sat.

  “We do,” Charles answered. “I am quite interested in knowing if you can lay your hands on a copy of the stories that ran after the Alnmouth murder you mentioned to us once. The one from twenty years ago.”

  Clifford was already nodding. “I believe so. Mr. Willis should be able to track those down. I’ll ask for the copies right away.”

  Bingham added, “In the meantime, I’ll ask around in the hotel. I’m sure they aren’t anxious to advertise such things, but they could have copies in a drawer somewhere.”

  “Excellent,” Charles said. “Let me know what either of you find.”

  Clifford phoned in his latest story on the police’s progress, which was now centered around what Irene Hall might have known of Donald’s financial dealings and who would care enough to kill her, and added his request to have the previous stories read to him if found.

  Bingham had much quicker results during a conversation with Clive Witherspoon in the manager’s office.

  “Lord Stewart is interested in any newspaper stories that might have appeared following the Brampton murder some years back,” Bingham told him. “Might you have those?”

  Witherspoon grinned drolly and seemed to sigh with a tone of resignation.

  “I knew it would happen someday,” Witherspoon replied. “I expected it to be that young reporter first. In fact, I searched for them myself yesterday so I’ve got them here.”

  He pulled open a desk drawer and withdrew two yellowed and frail looking pieces of newspaper, cut from the original sheet. Witherspoon offered them to Bingham without comment. The butler determined which of the articles was the earliest and began to read.

  Under the heading ‘Grisly Death in Alnmouth’, came the words: ‘Residents of the upper floor of the Brampton Hotel in Alnmouth exited their rooms this morning only to find the body of a man stabbed in the back during the night.’

  The story went on to explain that Arthur Comstock, manager of the Alnmouth bank, was the unfortunate victim and that there were no witnesses to the crime. Occupants of the rooms on the third floor were said to have heard various ‘thumps’ during the night, but no sounds of distress.

  Bingham learned that no arrests had yet been made and that the knife was being examined by police. The remainder of the brief story detailed Arthur Comstock’s history at the bank and mention of a wife and children.

  The second article, almost twice as long as the first, contained the heading ‘Alnmouth Woman Hangs for Brampton Murder.’

  The article began: ‘Justice prevailed in Alnmouth today as Elizabeth Goldsworthy was hanged for the murder of bank manager Arthur Comstock in the Brampton Hotel earlier this year.

  ‘The murderess was unable to account for her whereabouts the night of the murder during her trial and police were able to associate the murder weapon—a kitchen knife—with the suspect. Police received information from various sources pointing to Mrs. Goldsworthy, this reporter learned early in the investigation.

  ‘The jury returned a guilty verdict after a short trial.’

  The remainder of the story was background information and did not interest Bingham

  Clifford’s success came later in the day, but provided no additional information beyond what was found by Bingham. Neither paper gave the slightest hint of any doubt as to the murderess’ guilt and no further stories were written. Indeed, it seemed the lasting legacy of the whole affair was a perpetuation of the frightening nature of the upper floor of the hotel itself.

  That evening, after dinner, Lord Stewart, Mary, and Bingham sat at the table in Charles’ room with the two yellow newspaper articles laid out in front of them.

  “Rather sloppy investigative techniques by the locals, I would say,” Charles suggested while sipping a brandy.

  “Perhaps even sloppier reporting,” Bingham said. “There are many gaps here that they either didn’t pursue or found the information unattainable. Hard to tell in these small villages.”

  “What’s your impression, my dear?” Charles asked Mary.

  She immediately pointed to the bottom of the second article Bingham obtained.

  “I wonder what happened to Mrs. Goldsworthy’s child?”

  Charles nodded and smiled.

  “Of course you would notice that,” he said. “Unfortunate, indeed. No name given, but we have an age. He would be a man now…with very unhappy memories.”

  “I’m sure he would have moved as far away as possible,” Mary said. “While not at fault, the family name has been disgraced forever.”

  She looked at Charles and asked, “So what is your impression?”

  Mary recognized his expression, which seemed to say ‘Thank you for asking.’

  “My impression is that the local police were no better at their job twenty years ago than they are now,” he began. “Is that because they are incompetent or because of other factors in play, such as bribery? In either case, they were quick to pin the first murder on an innocent woman.”

  He watched for a reaction from his cohorts, but as he expected they showed almost none.

  He continued, “And if we assume Mrs. Goldsworthy was innocent, it sheds much light onto the second murder. Add to that what we learned from Bingham’s excellent photographs of the most recent murder scene and a theory can be formed. No, I’m not ready to discuss the theory, so don’t ask. We have many gaps to fill in before I can point you to the guilty party. Also, it will require a short side-trip, Mary, if you are receptive to that.”

  She nodded her head in acceptance.

  Charles leaned forward and said, “I simply ask that you keep one thing in mind. Whether you believe in them or not, ghosts come in many forms.”

  Excursions

  The next morning, while eating a very late breakfast in the hotel dining room, Clifford Rothwell considered his precarious position. He had yet to file a story that duly impressed his editor and, although Willis had not said as much, Clifford sensed that his patience for substantive news was wearing thin considering the cost of keeping the young reporter boarded and fed in Alnmouth. Clifford needed a lead to follow and the sooner the better.

  He checked his notes for names he intended to interview but had not yet approached. Among those listed was Edward Williams. He knew little of the shop owner, othe
r than repeated references by others to a close relationship between himself and Irene Hall. Clifford recalled his conversation with John Clarke and the headmaster’s mention of Margaret Williams. Like Clarke, the reporter pondered the extent of her knowledge of her husband’s relationship with Irene.

  A quick inquiry at the front desk after his meal provided Clifford with the Williams’ address and a short walk brought him to the house’s front garden, which was sparsely populated with nondescript flowers. The outside of the house presented no evidence of any particular interest in making it look more attractive than it already was. Clifford stepped onto the porch and knocked lightly on the door. He was greeted by a petite, plain woman in her mid-forties.

  “Mrs. Williams?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Excuse me, but my name is Clifford Rothwell and….”

  “Yes, I know,” Margaret said quietly. “You’re the reporter from Newcastle. Won’t you come in, Mr. Rothwell.”

  The unexpected welcome pleased Clifford and he gratefully entered the home. The interior was no more extravagant than the exterior, portraying to Clifford residents who were reserved and tasteful.

  “Would you like some tea?” Margaret asked.

  “Certainly. Thank you.”

  “Take a seat here in the kitchen,” she told him, pointing to the small corner table. “You want to talk about Irene Hall, don’t you?”

  Clifford watched her begin to prepare the tea while only once looking at him in a shy manor.

  “Yes, if you don’t mind,” he replied. “I won’t take notes.”

  She smiled and said, “Oh, it’s all the same, I’m sure. Whatever I say is likely to appear in the paper, isn’t it?”

  “Not if you insist, Mrs. Williams.”

  Margaret sat across from him and studied him for a moment before saying, “You are very young, Mr. Rothwell. You have much to learn about the world. It can be both a wonderful and cruel place.”

  There was wisdom in her brown eyes, but the voice seemed filled with regret.