“Do you believe the man running from the burning shed was Donald Hall?” Charles asked.
Dorothy’s eyes squinted, deep in thought. She slowly shook her head.
“No, sir. I don’t believe it was,” she said.
“Why’s that?”
“Why…I can’t say for sure now, Lord Stewart.”
Charles changed the topic to more mundane matters and, when the food arrived, Dorothy bid them adieu.
“What a convenient happenstance finding Dorothy Dunne here,” Charles said to Mary with glee.
“I never knew you enjoyed talking to her so much,” Mary said.
“I don’t always. But when she can all but solve Irene Hall’s murder for us, I’m more than happy to talk to her.”
Mary’s look of astonishment pleased Charles.
“Did she really?” Mary asked.
“Very nearly. I am quite certain I have the answer, my dear. I need Clifford to verify one more fact for us and I think we can soon be back in Yorkshire.”
The moment they returned to Alnmouth, Charles tracked down Clifford Rothwell. Luckily, the young reporter was in his room writing and Charles was permitted entrance and offered a seat.
“Clifford, I have a task for you whenever you can get to it,” Charles said. “The sooner the better.”
“I’m free in about an hour. I need to submit this story about the police focusing on the theory that Irene was killed to silence her,” the young man replied. “What’s the task?”
“I need you to interview the County Aldermen. Find out everything you can about their impressions of Donald Hall. When did he arrive? What was he like then versus now? Anything you can learn from them will be helpful.”
Clifford nodded. “I can do that. He’s still a suspect in your mind?”
“One of only a handful,” Charles said with a grin. “Your information will go a long way in letting us both go home.”
“I’m all for that,” Clifford said with a note of disdain.
The task meant it was Clifford’s turn to spend time in and around Alnwick, which he initiated early the next day. It was a blustery, rainy morning with streams of water flowing down the sides of the road. Hunched over in his heaviest rain coat and wide brimmed hat, Clifford made his way to the law offices of Alderman Thomas Roark.
The reporter stomped off the bulk of the rain in the office’s foyer before stepping up to the receptionist.
“May I help you, young man?” the elderly woman asked.
“Is Mr. Roark in, please?” Clifford said. “I have no appointment. My name is Clifford Rothwell of the Newcastle Evening Chronicle.”
The woman rose and said, “Please wait, Mr. Rothwell.”
She disappeared down a hallway. Clifford heard the rap on a door, a voice followed by the door opening, muffled voices and then the woman reappearing.
“This way, Mr. Rothwell,” she told him from the hallway.
She led Clifford to the door, which was open. Clifford made his appearance and the burly Alderman of nearly sixty years of age rose to meet him.
“Thank you, Mr. Roark, for the privilege of seeing you without an appointment,” Clifford said during the handshake.
“I’m always available,” Roark said, offering Clifford a chair. “Now how can I help you.”
“I’m with the Newcastle Evening Chronicle, sir, currently covering the unfortunate incident at the Brampton Hotel in Alnmouth.”
“Ah, yes. Poor Mrs. Hall’s murder. What a sad affair that is,” Roark said.
“Yes, sir. Very sad. I wanted a few minutes of your time to ask you about Donald Hall, if I may.”
Clifford pulled his notebook and pencil out of his coat pocket.
“Donald Hall. There’s a lot to talk about,” Roark said, settling back into his chair. “What exactly do you need to know?”
“His background, sir. And your impression of him now.”
“His background. Yes. I was here about fifteen years ago when Donald Hall arrived,” Roark said. “He was very rich and very single at the time. That’s about all any of us knew about him, but he quickly became popular in the county and seemed a natural to be an Alderman.”
“And Irene Hall?” Clifford asked.
“Well, now. That’s where the perplexing part comes in, Mr. Rothwell. She was just a housekeeper at the Brampton, you understand. Donald most certainly could have had any single woman he wanted in all of England. But he chose her.
“She was quite beautiful, of course. Nobody can deny that. But she was such a child and seemingly so below Donald’s standing. I always thought it was a bad match for both of them, to be honest.”
Clifford caught up on his notes and asked, “Were they unhappy?”
Roark shrugged.
“Who knows what goes on behind closed doors, Mr. Rothwell. In public they gave the impression of a normally married couple. The occasional disagreement. Irene was very high strung. Donald has always been obstinate in many ways. But they never outwardly fought, if that’s what you mean.”
After a pause, Roark added: “They married so quickly after Donald arrived. Many of us shook our heads over that. Love at first sight is one thing, but that just never sat well with many people.”
“Was she seeing anybody else at the time?” Clifford asked.
Roark laughed.
“Good heavens, lad. Irene Hall was never without a man. There wasn’t an important man in all of Northumberland, excluding myself, that wasn’t suspected of being with her at one time or another.”
“Did you see any changes in Donald Hall over the years you’ve known him?” Clifford said.
“We all change in some ways,” Roark replied. “But Donald has always been a man interested in climbing the social ladder and making a success of his life. That will never change. I don’t want to sound callous, but I’m not sure the death of Irene will affect him in that regard.”
Clifford’s next stop was to the office of Dr. Arthur McClain and he fully expected to be turned away by the pretty young woman in the reception area. Clifford identified himself, explained that he wanted to talk to the Alderman about a non-medical issue, and was asked to wait.
Within ten minutes, a tall, thin man in thick spectacles entered the waiting area and introduced himself to Clifford. Dr. McClain told the receptionist to close the office for the day and escorted the reporter to his office.
Clifford learned that the doctor had a low esteem for Donald Hall, who came to the county as a stranger and immediately assumed power long sought by local residents. His short courtship with Irene Hall had raised still more eyebrows. Donald Hall, it seemed, was a marked man from day one, although Hall showed no signs of being offended by it.
“There’s another matter, of course, that is assumed by all, but proven by none,” the doctor told Clifford.
“Oh? And that is?” Clifford asked.
“The rumor for years is that Donald Hall is embezzling money. When I approached him privately about it, he got exceedingly annoyed and denied everything. It’s the only time I’ve ever brought it up. Do with it what you may, young man.”
Three additional interviews that day and next produced identical accounts. Clifford left Alnwick convinced he had as complete a summary of Donald Hall’s standing in Northumberland as he would ever have.
He reported his findings over dinner with Charles, Mary, and Bingham. Charles did a lot of nodding without interrupting or asking questions. Mary quizzed Clifford for more details on the relationship between Irene and Donald, but the reporter couldn’t add more than he was told.
“I’m afraid we know as much as we need to know,” Charles finally said. “Of all the motives we have collectively discussed since Irene’s death, there is one none of us has dwelled on. Isn’t it odd that it will prove to be the solution to the murder, which I am ready to propose to the Alnwick police in another day.”
“Really, my Lord? Do tell us,” Bingham implored.
“I will tell you only the motive,
” Charles said. “The identity of the murderer must remain my secret until I’ve told the police. The motive will prove to be revenge.”
Confrontation
Donald Hall paced the floor of his living room as darkness neared. The time of day was irrelevant to him. The matter he was considering was far too important to be delayed due to nightfall.
Hall was about to threaten someone with words and his mind was filled with phrases he might use. He would have one shot at making his point clearly, distinctly, and with finality. Failure was not an option.
Not far from the Hall residence, Anna slipped through the alleys of town with the intent of making one last stop before returning home. It would be a short visit. She would enter quietly through the rear door as she often did.
Donald Hall walked out of his house, down Northumberland Street, and onto Pease’s Lane. The air was chilly and damp and the surf pounded in the distance as Hall came within sight of John Clarke’s small cottage. Perhaps another fifteen minutes of daylight remained.
“What is it Hall?” Clarke said when he answered the knock.
“We need to talk. Let me in.”
Clarke stepped aside and Hall entered quickly with the door slamming shut behind him. They moved into the living room, having played this scene out many times in the past.
Likewise, the back door of the home swung open silently as Anna entered. She left it open at the sound of voices. She made herself small and crept forward until she could hear.
“Drink?” Clarke asked curtly.
“This is not a social call, Clarke,” Hall said, falling into a chair with his large overcoat still on. “I’ve had it with your blackmailing, John, and I’m here to discuss terms to end it.”
Just as Hall had practiced his lines, John Clarke had been waiting for this day and was equally prepared.
“Terms? The only terms we need to discuss are whether or not we stay the course with the present arrangement or raise the ante,” Clarke said.
“It has to stop, Clarke. I can’t continue to steal from the village funds without getting caught,” Hall said. “With all the police around from Irene’s murder, it’s too risky. What you’re asking me to pay is beyond my means any other way. I’m offering a lump sum payment to put a stop to it.”
“Yes, how unfortunate that Irene had to leave us,” Clarke said. “Do you expect the police to catch you embezzling before they charge you with the murder?”
“I did not kill Irene! I’ve told you that before.”
“And I still don’t believe you,” Clarke said. “Jealousy is such a wicked sentiment, isn’t it? What jury wouldn’t believe Edward Williams when he testifies that he was seeing Irene and you killed her in a jealous rage. Ironic, isn’t it? A man with reason to kill her giving the testimony that hangs you.”
Hall pounded the arm of the chair and shouted, “Damn it, Clarke. I can’t keep paying you. Tell them about the embezzlement if you must. They aren’t going to hang me for a murder I didn’t commit or put me in jail because you blackmailed me.”
“I’ll deny it,” Clarke said calmly. “What proof do you have?”
“People had to have seen us together. In the Brampton. At your school,” Hall said.
“I’m the headmaster. You’re an Alderman. Why wouldn’t we meet occasionally?”
Anger rose from the pit of Donald Hall’s stomach and John Clarke could sense it.
“A thousand pounds. It’s all I’ve got in cash, Clarke. Take it or leave it.”
Clarke smiled and said, “You can do so much better than that, Donald. I have no reason to accept that.”
“Two thousand,” Hall bellowed.
“Irene knew you were embezzling,” Clarke said. “She’s found dead and Margaret Williams will testify Edward was home all night. Dunne will say she saw you on the third floor. That’s how it will play out, Hall.”
Donald Hall sprang from the chair like a lion, reached into his coat pocket as he crossed the room toward Clark’s chair, and pulled out a short iron rod.
“I’d rather see you dead than…,” Hall began to shout.
Anna sprinted from her hiding place in the kitchen and lunged at Hall as the rod began its journey. A thud echoed in the room as metal hit bone.
Anna Walker uttered a rasping groan and fell in a heap on the floor, clutching at her upper arm. Hall was staggered, but remained on his feet.
Both men seemed frozen in place at the sudden turn of events. Hall stared down at the girl with his weapon at his side.
“Anna. Anna!” Clarke roared. “Good Lord, Hall, you might have killed her.”
Anna rolled onto her hands and knees, tears flowing down her face.
“How long have you been here?” Hall screamed at her.
Anna stood up, pain etched all over her face. She didn’t reply.
“What did you hear?” Hall asked in anger.
Years of experience with Martha shut down her brain. She simply shook her head in confusion.
“We can’t let her go,” Hall told Clarke in a panicky voice. “She heard it all.”
John Clarke stared at the girl he knew so well and thought silently. Everything he knew about her told him Hall was right. She’d repeat back every single word she heard to anyone who asked.
Donald Hall was no longer his biggest problem. Without saying a word, Clarke extended his hand in the direction of the iron rod. Hall released it to him.
The moment Clarke’s eyes met Anna’s, she turned and ran. By the time Clarke joined the chase, Anna had several steps on him. She raced through the kitchen and out the open door. Clarke ran out but saw only the outline of a figure disappearing into the darkness.
He returned to the house.
Anna ran as fast as she’d ever run towards home. To her left she saw the lights of the Brampton and she veered in that direction, speeding past Edward Williams’ shop. She crossed Northumberland Street and into the lobby of the hotel in full gallop.
Anna never heard the clerk. She sprinted up the stairs to the second floor, only then looking back in the direction from which she came.
From the middle of the hallway she cried out, “Mary! Mary! Help me!”
Mary jumped out of bed and flung on her dressing gown while on the way to the door. She opened it and the frightened teenager ran inside. Mary slammed the door shut at the same instant that Charles and Bingham opened theirs. Together, they went to Mary’s room and were let in, only to find Anna sitting on the side of Mary’s bed, bent over in pain and holding her arm.
“What is it, Anna? What has happened?” Mary asked.
“Mr. Hall tried to hurt Mr. Clarke, but I stopped him,” Anna said breathlessly.
“Anna, are you hurt?” Mary said with alarm when Anna winced in pain.
“My arm.”
Mary rolled up the sleeve to see the sizeable black and blue bruise.
“Bingham, go get the doctor,” Charles said. “Anna, tell us more of what you saw.”
“I was in the kitchen of Mr. Clarke’s house,” she said. “I went to visit and he didn’t know I was there. He was talking to Mr. Hall and Mr. Hall got angry at Mr. Clarke. They were talking about money. When Mr. Hall tried to hit Mr. Clarke, I stopped him. They talked about hurting me and it looked like Mr. Clarke was going to hit me, so I ran. I was going to run home, but then I came here.”
“You did the right thing, Anna. We’ll make your arm feel better,” Mary said, hugging the child.
“Why would Mr. Clarke want to hit me? I’ve done everything he ever asked me to do,” Anna said between sobs.
Charles had already asked himself the same question, but with far different answers than Mary offered as she continued to comfort Anna.
After the doctor came and took Anna to his office to treat her arm, Charles met with Mary and Bingham.
“Tomorrow, Clifford and I have to act,” Charles told them. “I just hope it isn’t already too late.”
Revenge
Charles was in the lobby of the Br
ampton very early the next day, hoping to catch Clifford Rothwell should he make an unlikely appearance before nine o’clock. When he did not, Charles had the clerk ring the reporter’s room and advise him to meet with Lord Stewart in the lobby at his earliest convenience.
Clifford rightfully sensed something of import in the offing and he was down in less than fifteen minutes.
“Do you have your notepad?” Charles asked.
“I do.”
“Good. We are going to make a visit to Mr. John Clarke and you will want to take notes,” Charles said sternly.
Clifford only nodded and put on his hat while walking out the front door with Charles. They crossed Northumberland Street and turned in the direction of the school.
“Let me ask the questions and do the talking,” Charles told Clifford. “I need a witness, but you may also end up with the story you’ve been waiting for. This could be the start of a career, my son.”
Clifford’s heart raced as they neared Clarke’s school. News had been hard to come by in recent days and he was anxious to send Willis something of substance.
There was little sign of activity at the school, which suited Charles just fine as long as Clarke was there. They entered the front door and marched in the direction of the office. The light was on and the door open. Charles furtively patted the pocket of his overcoat, assuring himself the small pistol he carried was still there.
John Clarke welcomed them with his usual smile and charm. One of Charles’ fears—that Clarke was in danger in the company of Donald Hall the previous evening—was allayed.
“Gentlemen, have a seat. What’s the occasion?” Clarke asked, seated behind his desk.
Charles and Clifford sat. Charles said, “Mr. Clarke, were you aware of an injury to Anna Walker last night?”
“I was not,” he replied. “When she left my house right around the time it was getting dark she was uninjured. What happened to the poor girl? I hope she didn’t fall running home. I’ve told her a hundred times not to run everywhere.”
“Anna told myself, Mary, and Bingham that she witnessed a confrontation between you and Donald Hall in your house, in which she was struck by Mr. Hall and physically threatened by you,” Charles said.
People Say I'm Different: A Lord Charles Stewart Mystery Page 13