by Bill WENHAM
“So, you’re not staying then, is that it?” he said.
Pauline gave him an exasperated glare.
“Have I been talking to myself here, you stupid man? Of course I’m not staying. If you insist on continuing with this madness of yours, you’re on your own.”
Prentiss frowned.
“Then I suppose you expect me to drive you to Cambridge to catch the train now?’ he asked.
“Did you pick me up in Cambridge, Parker?”
“No, you arrived in a taxi,” he said.
“And I’ll leave the same way, thank you very much,” she snapped at him. As if to punctuate her words, a horn blew in the street outside. Pauline opened the cottage door, waved an acknowledgement of his arrival to the taxi driver and picked up her bag.
Prentiss went towards her with his arms outstretched, intending to hug her. She drew back from him.
“Don’t you dare touch me, Parker. Brother or not, I never want to see you again. Have you got that into your thick head as well?” she spat at him angrily.
“But, Pauly…” he started to say but once again she cut him off sharply.
“You are sick, Parker, but not ill. If you were ill, I would look after you and help you get better, but you’re not ill. You are sick in the head and are plain bloody evil and I can’t help you with that. As far as I am concerned, you are as mad as a bloody hatter and I will not let you drag me off to the gallows along with you,” she said. “I object to being questioned by the police too, Parker. That’s the first steps to the gallows,” she added and stalked out to the waiting taxi.
“Goodbye, Pauly,” Prentiss called from the cottage doorway and waved to her.
“Go to hell, Parker,” she retorted and got into the back of the taxi. The driver put the taxi in gear and pulled away. Prentiss stared after it until it turned a corner and was gone, then he went back inside the cottage and closed the door.
Time to make a new plan, Prentiss thought, and promptly forgot all about his angry sister. She didn’t really mean any of that and he would look her up when this was all over. She would forgive him whatever he did. She always had before, so why not now?
Old Joe Turner watched with interest as he saw Parker Prentiss’s sister get into the taxi. Her brother had waved to her but she had looked absolutely furious and hadn’t returned the wave. I wonder why that’s all about, Joe thought.
It had been a very short visit too, only a couple of days, and he’d been told that she’d come to take care of him because he was sick. A very puzzled Joe Turner watched Prentiss, standing bolt upright and watching his sister’s taxi drive away.
That’s strange, Joe thought. That sister of his must be a bloody miracle worker. There was her brother, standing up completely straight, with no walking stick and even from this distance the old bugger looked twenty years younger.
What the hell’s going on over there, Joe wondered, and mentally made a note to find out. A secret was not something that anyone in the parish could keep from Joe Turner for long.
And Parker Prentiss’s secret would be no exception!
Chapter Fifteen
Across the other side of Little Carrington, someone else had just made a stunning discovery - a life, and possibly death, changing one, in fact.
David Bowen, he of the brass rubbings, hand drawn area maps and paintings of village scenes, had been hard at work for some time on a new project. He was researching and writing a history of the parish of Carrington.
When it was completed, he would self publish it and would sell it as a companion item to his other products.
David had always been a history enthusiast ever since he was just a kid in school and a year ago he had decided to write a book. What better place to start than the village where he had actually lived for several years, he thought.
He was a rather nondescript looking man of about five foot ten, with an average build and thin, wispy gray hair. He wore rimless glasses, favoured baggy corduroy trousers, woolen cardigans and sandals and was in his late fifties.
David, originally from Wolverhampton, had been divorced by his wife, Diane, on the grounds of ‘incompatibility’ two years before he had moved to the village. He had not contested the divorce and it had cost him dearly, emotionally and monetarily, since the young typist Diane had caught him in a very compromising situation with, had also wanted nothing more to do with him
In Little Carrington, he now lived alone and with apparently no local relationships of any kind. He did, however, make trips to London a couple of times a month.
He began his research with a very carefully laid out work plan which consisted of both text and illustrations for his proposed book but he didn’t mention what he was doing to anyone in the village. David didn’t take criticism kindly and most of the villagers considered him to be an oddball, anyway.
Despite his manner and his appearance, which was decidedly shabby most of the time, he was a highly skilled artist and illustrator. Over the years, and prior to beginning the research for his book, he had produced hundreds of watercolour paintings of many of the area’s attractions.
He had painted most of the quaint and picturesque cottages, the tearooms, the churches, the pubs, the Manor House, the convent and even the ducks on the village pond. Those were a favourite with the tourists and he had both originals and prints for sale. He planned to use many of them to illustrate his proposed book. Overall, his little business provided him with quite a good income and he was very satisfied with it.
But then he started his research for his book!
His plan was to go back to the Saxon beginnings of the area, the creation of the villages themselves, the influence of the feudal system on the area, the production of the Roman roads and so on. Included in his research would be a detailed ‘investigation’ into the backgrounds of some of the older families in the parish, people like the Merrimans, who had been thatching cottage roofs for centuries, the Harriman’s, who owned the stables and several of the other local farmers as well, whose land ownership went back to before Elizabethan times.
Some of what he discovered raised his eyebrows, such as one of the snooty Miss Hewitt’s ancestors being strung up on the gallows as a highwayman. She may or may not know about that, but she would get a hell of a shock to read about it in his book, if she didn’t.
He had also traced the family history of the various Lords of the Manor over the centuries, including the change in the lineage when the Elizabethan incumbent had lost his head to the executioner’s axe.
From then on he had followed the current Allenby’s lineage. It was during this period of research that David Bowen’s eyebrows shot up in surprise and his whole life changed in an instant.
He checked, rechecked and then checked again just to make sure that he had his facts straight because David Bowen was as detailed a researcher as he was an artist.
What he had uncovered was that neither Sir Archibald Allenby, the present Lord’s predecessor, nor his brother, Basil, had ever sired any children, male or female, legitimate or otherwise!
So, if those two were the last of their line – then who the hell was the present ‘Sir Alfred’, and where had he come from?
David Bowen sat back in his chair, considered the implications of his discovery and reviewed his options. He knew that he was an excellent artist and illustrator and that his book may be a good seller when it was finished, but none of that would make him the big money that he’d had before Diane had taken him to the cleaners in the divorce settlement.
What he was looking at now could make him wealthy again because the present Lord of the Manor quite obviously must have something secret to hide.
He had not received his title by right of lineage so, therefore, he must be a fraud, a fake, and if he wanted his position to continue, it would cost him dearly. It was as simple as that.
His discovery today would develop yet another talent for him, but this would be a criminal one. David Bowen decided, there and then, that he would als
o become a damned good blackmailer as well.
A lot was going on in the village at the moment, what with the three murders, which he was also busy chronicling, and the police were into everything.
Bowen decided to hang on to his little gem of information for a few weeks and to concentrate his efforts on completing his new book. Purely from an ego point of view, and even if he had to pay to publish it himself, it would be good to see his own name on the front cover.
His discovery had actually given him more incentive to finish his book and he realized that, when published, it would cause uproar and maybe become a best seller. Because, whatever the fake Sir Alfred paid him to keep quiet, Bowen still intended to expose him in his book as well!
He began to work feverishly on his text and rarely set foot outside his door for several weeks. Then he decided it was time for Sir Alfred’s wakeup call.
Late one evening, he walked over to the local public phone box to make his call.
The window pane had still not been repaired but Bowen was unaware of the problem it had caused before and this time there was no one around.
At the Manor House Ives answered his call and, without identifying himself, Bowen asked to speak to his Lordship on a matter of very urgent local business.
A moment or two later, Allenby came on the line.
“You are not Sir Alfred Allenby. There were no heirs to the estate.” the voice on it said and hung up.
David Bowen had just taken the first step in his new criminal and money making career. With this call he had made no demands at all. He had merely set the scene for later and he would now give considerable thought as to how he would continue with it and how much he could squeeze out of the fake ‘Sir Alfred’.
As far as Bowen was concerned, his own identity was as safe as houses because no one in the community knew that he was busily writing a book about them all. Also, although he’d seen the Lord of the Manor at various community functions, he’d never actually met the man.
To Sir Alfred, Bowen was merely an unidentified voice on the phone telling him that the owner of that voice knew he was a fraud. But unlike Sir Alfred’s other predator in the village, Bowen didn’t know why he was a fake or that he was actually German or an ex- spy.
It was this lack of knowledge that could kill him if he continued with his current course of action and if Sir Alfred somehow discovered who he was.
Bowen believed that he was as safe as houses, but his house was hundreds of years old and could very easily come tumbling down around his ears if the ex-spy had a mind to do it. With his wartime background, the Lord of the Manor was, by no means, an average man and could also make a plan of action.
Chapter Sixteen
Middleton looked up from his desk as his office door opened. Sgt. Barnett stood in the doorway.
“Lady to see you, Detective Inspector,” he said and stepped aside to allow Middleton’s visitor to enter. Middleton stood up behind his desk to greet her.
She looked absolutely stunning, radiant even. Her hair, grooming and makeup were immaculate and she looked a picture of charm, elegance and poise. A complete reversal from one of her previous visits here, he thought.
“Ms. Donnelly, Good Morning,” he said genially, stepping forward to shake her hand. “And what can I do for you today?”
Rachel Donnelly favoured him with a dazzling smile.
“I do hope that I’m not interrupting anything, Inspector, since this isn’t business. It’s just a social call really.”
Middleton pulled out a chair in front of his desk for her and she sat down in it gracefully.
“A social call, Ms. Donnelly?”
“Yes, Inspector. After I left here the last time I realized how very kind you had been to forgive we ladies our trespasses, as it were, and I wanted to do something personally to thank you,” she said.
Oh, Lord, he thought. Bristow’s been gone all morning and surely she hadn’t set this visit up, had she? I’ll wring her neck if she has and then he wondered what on earth this lovely woman had in mind. He waited patiently for her to tell him.
“I thought, Inspector, that if you had nothing planned for this evening, perhaps you’d like to join me at my tearoom. I would like to prepare a nice dinner and a bottle of wine, to show my appreciation. Well, our appreciation really, since all the ladies were extremely grateful for your understanding.”
Good Lord, the woman can cook too, he thought!
“Oh, no, Ms. Donnelly, you don’t have to do that. I was only doing my job, you know,” Middleton protested.
She gave him another brilliant smile and said, “I know I don’t have to, Inspector, but I would like to do this because I want to.”
Middleton had a momentary flash of the woman scorned phrase run through his mind again. He would accept but he wasn’t going to make it easy for her if Bristow had set it up between them.
“That’s very kind of you, Ms. Donnelly. So what time would you like Detective Sergeant Bristow and I to be there? She knows where you live, I believe.”
Rachel looked momentarily flustered and said hesitatingly, “Er…I…Well…”
Middleton grinned across at her, his blue eyes twinkling.
“Sorry, Ms. Donnelly, that was rather mean of me, wasn’t it, but I just couldn’t resist it. So, let me rephrase my question. What time would you like me to be there?” he said.
She smiled at him.
“Seven thirty would be perfect, Inspector, and please call me Rachel,” she replied, hoping that he would respond in kind. He did, and said, “For tonight then, Rachel, I am Paul and I will be there on the dot of seven thirty.”
“Please don’t bring anything, Paul. I think I have everything we will need,” she said and stood up.
You most certainly do, he thought, you have everything any woman would ever need. He shook her hand and watched her as she left the police station. He was so engrossed in her departure and the upcoming evening that he hadn’t noticed that Bristow was back and standing in the kitchenette.
“Looks good, coming or going, doesn’t she, sir” she said. “Got a date then, have you?”
“How do you know that? Have you taken to listening at keyholes now? Or are you responsible for her being here?” Middleton said, feeling rather embarrassed and foolish.
“Now that’s something for me to know and for you to wonder or worry about. I’m a detective, remember? I look for clues, like the way you were watching her, assess what I find and make logical assumptions according to the book, sir. So, am I right, or what?”
Middleton nodded reluctantly.
“You didn’t….?”
“No, sir, she came here all on her own.”
“In that case, Bristow, yes, I do have a date. For dinner tonight at her tearoom,” he said.
“Just the two of you?”
“Just the two of us and no comments, please,” he said as Bristow started to speak.
“I was just going to say that you’re a big boy now and shouldn’t need me there to hold your hand with this particular assignment – so, I think I’ll just drive on over to Cambridge, wash out my frillies and have a night out on the town.”
“And that’s it? No more caustic comments?”
“No, sir, not right now. I’ve got to know Rachel quite well lately and we’ll do some girl talk and discuss you’re performance in detail tomorrow.”
“Don’t you dare, Bristow! I will not have my private affairs being discussed in public.” he said scathingly.
“Oh, my, affairs, are they, sir? But don’t worry, we weren’t exactly intending to go public with them. Just to a few of the girls, to give them a laugh.”
Middleton blew out an exasperated breath.
“I never know when you’re kidding me, Bristow,” he said.
She grinned at him.
“Well, of course you don’t, sir. You’re not supposed to. It’s called the feminine mystique and it’s not for you gentlemen to understand at all,” she said.
“So, what are we supposed to do then?” he asked.
“You’re supposed to love, cherish, worship and adore us, sir, but never try to understand us. It will drive you crazy if you try. So, tonight, be good, or not, and I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Fortunately for Middleton, Sgt. Barnett and the two on duty constables were out and Mary had gone over to the small general shop for some tea making supplies. She was gone before Rachel had arrived.
Bristow and he were alone in the station.
“Seriously, sir, have a very pleasant evening and do try not to be too stuffy,” she said.
“I’m never stuffy,” Middleton protested. “I just have an old fashioned respect for the weaker sex,” he said and then held his breath.
“That’s very sweet of you, sir, and I’m sure the gorgeous Ms. Donnelly will appreciate it. I’ll take some time to discuss that weaker sex thing with you later on as well. Right now, I’m done here and I’ll get out of your hair.”
She picked up her bag from where she had left it on Barnett’s desk and she was going out of the door, she looked back over her shoulder and said, “Oh, by the way, don’t forget your pajamas – or not, it’s up to you.”
She left laughing and with Middleton blushing furiously.
Chapter Seventeen
“This is very nice,” Middleton said as, at her request, he sat down at a table set for two in Rachel Donnelly’s tearoom. Rachel smiled at him as she came out of her kitchen carrying two dinner plates of food. She pushed the kitchen door closed behind her with her foot.
“It’s meant to be, Paul, and I am so glad you are here with me.”
She placed Middleton’s plate down on the table in front of him and put her own down opposite. Then she sat down herself.
“I hope you like steak and mushroom pie, Paul. I suppose I should have asked you what you liked first,” she said.
“One of my favourites, Rachel, I assure you and it looks and smells delicious,” he said gallantly. He would have liked to have added, “and so do you,” but he just didn’t have the nerve.