by Susan Moody
The bedroom allotted to him was impressively large, with plenty of room for a big double bed, a sofa and two armchairs in front of the long window opening on to a balcony, a desk with a straight chair pulled up to it, built-in wardrobes, a television set and a chest-of-drawers. He checked out the en-suite bathroom: high-pressure shower as well as tub, luxury toiletries in a cotton-lined willow basket, thick blue towels. All very nice.
A folder lay on the desk and he opened it, absorbing the information it offered – time of meals, telephone numbers for the various facilities, a guest list. None of them were in any way familiar – until one name, which lunged out at him …
What the hell could have brought Gavin Metcalfe-Vaughn back to this house? How could he even bear to step foot over the threshold? Stonor had reached into the top of his suitcase and brought out the thick file on the Weston Lodge case that he’d brought with him, God knew why. He was well aware that, as a boy, Gavin had regularly spent his school holidays here, that Clio and Harry Redmayne were his legal guardians since his father worked abroad, that Clio had been best friends with his mother, Paula, ever since the two women were children.
He knew, too, that in the aftermath of the tragedy, Gavin had been whisked overseas to live with his parents and that his architect father had resigned from his prestigious job in Nigeria and moved to Australia, taking a job at lower remuneration because it was less demanding in terms of constant relocations and absences from his family. Gavin had been in therapy for a while, in order to help him cope with the inevitable PTSD, but as far as Stonor could determine had otherwise led a normal boy’s life until he went off to university, then on to work in the Asian money markets, before now returning to England and taking a flat somewhere in the Canary Wharf area.
So why would he come to Weston Lodge, where he was bound to be confronted with memories he must have much preferred to leave behind? Stonor poured himself a small whisky from the well-stocked fridge, brushed his hair and put on a tie, and determined that, one way or another, he would make it his business to find out.
Downstairs, at the ridiculously named Mingle, he had identified Metcalfe-Vaughn without difficulty. The boy had hardly changed in twenty-three years: same dark hair, wide eyes, slightly startled expression. Same gangly body and large hands. He was talking to a girl when Stonor arrived, a girl he instantly recognized. Until he caught himself short: that girl had died a long time ago.
The following day, buffed, honed, polished, fifty lengths of the hotel swimming pool achieved, massaged muscles as relaxed as glycerine, Stonor made his way back up to his room feeling as though he had shed ten years. Half an hour until lunch, a walk round the estate, maybe a quick poke about, see what was what, maybe talk to the kitchen staff, see if anyone had been here twenty-three years ago, or knew someone who had.
He opened the door of his room, took in the made bed, the replenished toiletries, the fire newly laid in the grate, window slightly open to let in the soft breeze. This was the life, he thought. Delightful, absolutely delightful. Worth every penny. He glanced at his watch, wondering whether to snatch a half-hour nap after the morning’s labours – after all, he wasn’t a spring chicken any more (if he ever had been) – or to go downstairs to the bar and see if he could find a congenial companion or two to enjoy a pre-prandial drink with. He was about to opt for the latter when he took note of his folder lying on the writing desk beneath the window, neatly aligned with the blotter which lay in the middle of the polished surface.
Buff-coloured, scruffy, with some kind of frayed white octagonal label outlined in blue. The edges of the flap had felted, the back fold was torn. Despite knowing the contents by heart, he approached it with the caution he might have shown towards a man-eating spider which had just dropped from the ceiling. Inside were cuttings from newspapers, the one on top being a ‘think’ piece about the Honourable Clio, the violent murderess who’d been put away for life. A Family Steeped in Blood and Death, the American journalist had called the Pallisers, writing:
… her family and ancestors, the early suicide of her mother, the murder of one brother and the skiing fatality of the other witnessed by her at the tender age of seventeen, the hunting accident which killed her father, must have caused her trauma enough. Add to that the way the women in her family had been used for generations merely to produce an heir before being forced to watch the ruthless philandering of their husbands and the gradual squandering of their own money at the card-table, on horses or other women: were these some of the factors which led inevitably to that bloody evening just before Christmas?
There is the added mystery concerning Clio’s first husband, who disappeared after the birth of his younger son, George, and has never been seen since. Given the number of deaths within the Palliser family, it is tempting to wonder whether he lies undiscovered among the peaceful fields and fruiting orchards of the lush countryside surrounding Weston Lodge. But that is mere conjecture, and there has never been any real suggestions of foul play. Perhaps as a young man wishing to make his way as a creative artist, he found the demands of a family and a centuries-old mansion in constant need of repair to be too much and decided to leave.
Instead of going downstairs, Stonor had fetched himself a beer from the mini-fridge and focused on the question of why he had kept this file of cuttings for so long, why he had never wholeheartedly accepted the verdict brought against Clio Palliser. He didn’t know, though every now and then – he told me as we watched the river heave and churn in the wake of the constant movement of the shipping going by – an idea buzzed briefly in his mind like a lethargic wasp and then was gone. Not even an idea, more of a faint connection which he couldn’t quite grasp. The dinner gong had left him still puzzling over it.
Over the years, Stonor had used his seniority to keep tabs on the Honourable Clio, and had thus been aware of the report received by the Home Secretary, the subsequent acceptance of the Resident Medical Officer’s opinion that there was no longer any danger to the public, the recommendation of her release on a conditional discharge. He had even stood among the people outside the gates as they opened to let out those who’d served their time.
Eventually, a woman had emerged between the big wooden doors. He could only presume it was her although there was not the slightest resemblance to the Clio Palliser whose palely elegant face and slim figure had once featured in newspapers and magazines around the world. All he could see now was a bloated, hollow-eyed, unrecognizable woman who was met by a car and driven away.
‘And since then,’ Stonor said to me now, ‘I’ve found neither hide nor hair of her, despite searching everywhere I can think of, using all kinds of access to Scotland Yard’s files and so on. It’s as if the world had opened and swallowed her up.’
‘She’s probably changed her name,’ I said. ‘Gone to live in quiet obscurity.’
‘Possibly. At one point, I actually thought about hiring a private detective to look for her, until I started wondering what the point would be. Even if I discovered her whereabouts, I’d be no further forward. And the niggle would still be there.’
‘What’s your own view on where she might have gone?’
‘I wondered if she might have gone back to Redmayne, but it’s pretty unlikely,’ Stonor said. ‘After what happened, I wouldn’t have thought so, would you? Besides, back then, the word on the street was that he was a bit of a womanizer. Leopards and spots department: he’s not likely to have changed much, ergo he’s not going to go for a fat old ex-con murderess, when he could still pull nubile young flesh.’
‘Even if she’s his wife?’
‘Was. He divorced her as soon as sentence was passed.’
‘And then what?’
Stonor shrugged. ‘No idea. Like the first husband, he disappeared. Not literally, of course. But from the day sentence was passed, he took off, and so far, I’ve not been able to trace him, either.’
I frowned. ‘Do you think he could have done it?’
‘Believe me, from w
hat I’ve heard about him, he would certainly have been capable of it. By all reports, both he and his wife were given to explosions of rage. And the boys weren’t his, they were hers, so if it was him, he might not have had the same qualms about killing them.’
‘What on earth could trigger that kind of murderous fury?’
Again Stonor shrugged. ‘If you’re that way inclined, could be anything that set you off.’
‘Did the police actually look at him for it?’
‘Of course they did. At first he seemed a more likely candidate than she did. After all, they’d scrawled or scratched an obscenity on one of his paintings. If you’re a collector or dealer, I can imagine you would be incandescent with rage if you encountered that kind of vandalism. I don’t know anything about art restoration, but I imagine the canvas would never be the same, and its value considerably reduced. But whether that would lead you, however fanatical you were about art, to murder your stepsons in cold blood is a bit of a moot point.’
‘And in any case, he had an alibi?’
‘Try as we might, we couldn’t see how he could have driven to Weston Lodge, done the deed and driven away, then reappeared, all innocence, at the station as usual. Besides, the station master thought he recognized him, arriving on his usual train.’
‘Only thought?’
‘Two of the platform lamps had been vandalized for months: the lighting was very dim. Also, it was snowing, and freezing fog was swirling round.’
‘And where was his car? He’s coming home for the Christmas holiday: he’d need his car, wouldn’t he?’
‘It was in the station car-park, as usual.’
‘How do you know?’
For a moment Stonor looked disconcerted. ‘Because that’s what he told us.’
‘Just a minute here.’ I held up my hand. ‘The guy didn’t come home with murder on his mind, I imagine. He wouldn’t have been expecting the damage to the picture. So if it was him, he would have been on the train as normal.’
‘That’s the conclusion we came to ourselves. And believe me, we went into it very thoroughly. And later, I checked it all out on my own. The only theory I came up with was the possibility that he came home earlier than expected, saw the damage the boys had done, did the deed, then went to the station before his own and got on the next train when it arrived, getting off at his usual station as per normal. But in that case, how did he get there? And wasn’t he taking a huge risk of being seen the first time?’
‘Anyone else who could have been responsible for the killings? The locals, for instance?’
‘All investigated, all with unbreakable alibis.’
‘Who were they?’
‘The farmer, Trevor Barnard. Lord Forshawe and his wife, in the nearest house. She’d been out walking the dogs that evening; he’d been staring into the bottom of a whisky bottle, it being Christmas and all. He told us he didn’t often get to fill a glass, so when she went out, as she did every night so the dogs could do their business, he always snuck a nip or two out of his private bottle.’
‘Poor chap. I got the impression she very much wore the trousers.’
‘As well as them, there were a couple of houses on the Forshawe estate. The police even interviewed my poor old dad, as a local. Not as a suspect, of course, but to see if he could shed any further light on anything. Which he couldn’t.’
‘The domestic staff? There was a live-in housekeeper, wasn’t there?’
‘Jill Jones. She’d left that morning. We could trace her up to Manchester, to her sister’s house, where she was spending Christmas. The domestic staff had gone home the night before and weren’t expected back until the day after Boxing Day.’
‘Is it feasible that one or other of them might have some deep-seated grudge against the family?’
‘Not a big enough Christmas bonus, you mean?’
I laughed. ‘You’re hardly going to commit three murders just out of pique, are you?’
Stonor didn’t laugh. ‘Stranger things have happened. Anyway, naturally we interviewed them but, as I said, they were vouched for by numerous family members. We also talked extensively to the villagers, the people at the pub, the couple who’d rented one of the holiday cottages for a couple of weeks over Christmas and the New Year. Nothing.’
‘So all in all,’ I couldn’t resist saying, ‘the police did a pretty lousy job of finding out anything helpful.’
‘They didn’t need to do much, Chantal. To everyone, including me, it seemed obvious what had happened. And even when I started to wonder, I had absolutely no evidence to base my doubts on.’
I shook my head. For some reason, I was beginning to develop a grudging sympathy for Clio Palliser, whose life seemed to have been a sad and sorry one, especially given the hints that Lord Forshawe had let drop. Just suppose she was innocent of the crimes, just suppose she had spent more than twenty years mourning for her butchered sons – let alone my sister. And if she was innocent, did she know who had done it? Surely, it would have been simple enough for her to deny that she had anything whatsoever to do with the murders. Instead, she had withdrawn into self-imposed silence. Following my own train of thought, I said, ‘If she felt she couldn’t speak, wouldn’t she at least have been able to write down her version of events?’
‘Of course she could. But she didn’t. She refused to cooperate or communicate with the medical authorities at Broadmoor. Refused to discuss the case in any way.’
‘So what did she do while she was there?’
‘She read a lot, that I do know.’
‘What sort of books?’
‘Just about everything, from thrillers to mathematical treatises to biography and history. Lots of academic stuff, things she was working on before the murders. She was very bright.’
‘Wasn’t that supposed to have been the trigger, the fact that the boys had burned – or tried to – her manuscript?’
‘That’s right.’
‘But what about the third boy, the one who escaped, didn’t he explain?’
‘Gavin Vaughn, you mean. Explain what? He hadn’t even been there during the early evening; he was having supper with some neighbours, friends of his parents – which we verified, of course – then they brought him back to the house when it was nearly bedtime.’
‘Did she have any visitors while she was in Broadmoor? Her brothers and father were dead, her husband had run off, her sons were gone.’
‘According to my source inside, she didn’t have a single visit during her time there.’
‘That’s rather sad.’
‘I think most people who might have gone to see her were repulsed by what she did.’
‘If she did it.’
I astonished myself. Why had I said that? Or even thought it? All these years I had known how I felt about losing my sister, but now my certainties were being gradually eroded. Did I still believe Clio Palliser had murdered my sister? Yes, I did. But not quite as emphatically as before, though I had no theories to put in the place of the ones I’d always held on to. ‘Farmer Barnard – Trevor – was quite definite about it when I saw him the second day we were there,’ I added. ‘He said categorically that she didn’t do it.’
‘That means nothing at all,’ said Stonor. ‘First of all, what did he know about it? Secondly, interviewing him I got a definite feeling that he was more than a little in love with her, had been ever since they were young. So he would say that, wouldn’t he?’
I frowned. ‘Ever since I’ve started thinking about this again, it does strike me as odd that she never denied that she did it.’
‘My own personal theory? Whether she did it or not, she wasn’t bothered. Partly because, by all accounts, she wasn’t a particularly good mother. Not materially neglectful, but certainly a bit lacking in the warmth and love department. So my feeling is that she felt so guilty that she had no choice but to take her punishment like a man, so to speak.’
‘That’s a fairly bleak scenario.’
‘I know.
But it fits either way, don’t you think?’
‘You said earlier that you had a niggle about it. When you first saw them, you felt that something wasn’t quite right.’
‘And as I also said, I’ve never been able to put my finger on exactly what it was. If I could only …’ He looked back into the past. ‘He was standing in front of the fire. She was sitting in a chair. Both of them were covered in blood. Neither had much expression on their faces, though he did appear to be faintly upset.’
‘That must have been slightly odd.’
‘Yes. You’d have thought one or other of them, or both, would have been registering some emotion, wouldn’t you?’
‘Perhaps they’d done all that before you got there. How long after she’d killed them did he come home?’
‘About three hours, if I remember rightly.’
‘And what do you think she was doing between the … the killings and the time he got back?’
‘Who the hell knows.’ He shook himself. ‘Probably getting rid of the weapon, among other things. Because we never found it. And even if I were now to work it out, it’s far too late for most of the players.’
‘One question, Mr Stonor. Do you in your heart of hearts think she did it?’
There was a pause, long enough for Big Ben to strike four. Then he said, very slowly, ‘I don’t know.’
‘Crunch question then: if not the Honourable Clio, then who?’