Silent as the Grave

by Bill Kitson

  Chapter Twenty-two

  I waited in silence, staring at the killer. Neither of us spoke. I blinked a little in the light after so long in the oppressive darkness of the crypt. I willed the pain in my leg to lessen. Freed from any distractions or counter irritant it refused to listen to my request. Time passed slowly. If I’d thought it had dragged during my captivity; these last minutes before help arrived seemed like an eternity. The silence was oppressive, for I knew that when help arrived I would be able to provide answers to every question hanging over Mulgrave Castle. I would be able to prove the existence of the Rowe family curse; the truth of the inherited madness that had plagued the Rowe family for centuries; and I would be able to identify those who had carried out the killings of Edgar Beaumont, the butler Ollerenshaw Rathbone, and finally Russell Rowe.

  When Eve returned she brought Tony and Harriet, together with a string of strangers. Two of the men carried a stretcher; another carried a doctor’s bag. Tony introduced the others as Detective Constable Tom Pratt and his boss, Detective Inspector Hardy.

  The doctor made a fleeting inspection of Russell Rowe’s body before pronouncing him dead; which by that time we all knew. He transferred his attention to me. I pleaded for a pain-killing injection, but he insisted on examining me thoroughly first. Eve had come to stand by me and held my hand as I went through ordeal by triage. When he had done with me I had an additional reason for needing the injection.

  ‘You’re lucky the ambulance and doctor were here,’ Harriet told me. ‘They were just about to set off with Charlie when Eve burst in demanding they come over here for you first.’

  ‘I don’t suppose Charlie will mind waiting a bit longer,’ I said. ‘He’s waited long enough already. I’d like to get this over and done with though before I go.’

  ‘Only if you feel up to it,’ Eve said.

  I smiled at her. ‘I’ll manage.’ To be honest the effects of my ordeal; the various injuries I’d sustained and particularly the damaged knee were beginning to tell; but I was keen to let the police know what I’d learned, or most of it at least.

  ‘To start with,’ I began, ‘the legend of the Rowe family curse; the legend of inherited madness is true. If you need proof, all you need to do is take a look in that crypt where Eve and I were kept prisoner. In there I think you will find several sets of human remains. The ones I feel certain you’ll find are those of Lady Elizabeth Rowe and her lover Sir Robert Mainwaring who were murdered by Lady Elizabeth’s husband three hundred years ago. Sir Richard Rowe was murdered by his younger brother, Hugo, two hundred years ago, and Lady Amelia Rowe was murdered a hundred years ago, along with an extremely unlucky gentleman by the name of Ralph Aston. Her husband, Sir Frederick Rowe, killed them in the same way as his predecessors disposed of their victims; by leaving them in that foul place to die. There you are, Inspector; that’s five murders already solved and you’ve only been here a few minutes.’

  I wasn’t sure whether elation at our freedom, a return of my concussion, or the pain-killing injection was having the effect of making me light-headed. ‘That was what was supposed to happen to us. But, due to a combination of inefficiency and bad luck, the plot went sadly wrong. For a start, it wasn’t supposed to be Eve who was imprisoned in the crypt, but her sister, Lady Harriet.

  ‘Unfortunately for the killers, Eve and Harriet look very much alike and they both own a distinctive – not to say garish – plaid jacket. In the half-light of the library it would be easy to mistake one for the other; particularly for someone whose sight was less than perfect.

  ‘Harriet was the intended victim; or should I say one of the intended victims. I was the other. When the idea of getting me to Mulgrave Castle was brought up, it was done during a family discussion and nobody seems able to remember whose suggestion it was. The plan was simple. Harriet and I were to be entombed alive in the crypt and left there to die. Charlie would also be killed in a rigged accident and when Tony was killed, it would be made to appear that he had done away with his wife and her lover, much as his ancestors made a habit of doing. Then, in a fit of remorse over our deaths and that of his son, Tony would have taken his own life.’

  I paused, took a deep breath and continued, ‘I have no doubt the police would be given “clues” to enable them to discover the crypt, but by then it would be too late. All very well, but in practice it went horribly wrong. It didn’t help when I foiled the murder attempt on Charlie, nor did it help when Rathbone discovered part of their secret and attempted to blackmail them. There had been three plotters in the first instance. Edgar Beaumont was one of the three. Whether he got greedy for a bigger share of the spoils or whether the others decided a half-share was better than a third I don’t know, but Beaumont was disposed of. He was lured to the chapel on Christmas Eve, perhaps by Polly, who seems to be good at that. When he got here, one of them, probably Russell, smashed his skull in with the shield from William Rowe’s tomb. Unfortunately, although the plotters knew about the entrance to the crypt via the chapel, they only discovered the other entrance – the one somewhere in the library – in the last day or two. That meant they had to sneak out of the castle. I had a look at Rathbone’s pantry and noticed there was a system of signal bells so whenever anyone went in or out of any of the castle entrances, Rathbone knew of it. He must have confronted them and paid the price for it. We found blood on the shield after his death, and it hadn’t dried sufficiently for it to have belonged to Beaumont.

  ‘I think the idea behind the scheme was that with Tony and Charlie dead, and Beaumont too, all the wealth of Tony’s business interests, the castle and the estates, and a five-million-pound life insurance policy would go to the remaining plotters. Not a bad motive for murder, I suppose. As I said, they were very clumsy and inefficient. When I saved Charlie, one of the plotters tried to kill me out of anger. That was a huge mistake. What they didn’t know was that whilst Becky was careering down the slope on her toboggan she looked back and was able to see the one person near enough to her brother to push him over the edge. When I asked Charlie about the hands on his back he said they were small; like a woman’s hands. They belonged to Polly Jardine, who was in league with Edgar Beaumont and her lover to murder their way to a small fortune. Beaumont’s motive was greed; for although he had a half-share in the business he wanted it all. Polly’s was money, to a certain extent believe she coveted Harriet’s status. But it was more likely passion for her lover.

  ‘That was another piece of bad luck for the plotters. They weren’t aware that Eve had recruited two personal and highly efficient bodyguards for me, and it was Becky who spotted Russell Rowe leaving Polly Jardine’s room early one morning and sneaking back to his own room. Russell was the one who hatched the plan, I guess. He used to insist he stay in the room I was allocated. He must have found the family journal there, just as I did, and learned of the existence of the crypt. The journal contains a sickening record of the appalling crimes committed by some members of the Rowe family over the centuries. The victims in that crypt are just a few of the unfortunates who fell foul of the insanity that ran through the generations. I’m guessing, but I believe he was the one who suggested inviting me here to spend Christmas investigating the curse. The plan being to set me up as Harriet’s paramour.’

  I looked across at Tony. ‘Can you remember who first brought up the subject of the curse? And in particular, who drew your attention to the fact that it recurs every hundred years?’

  Tony didn’t even pause as he replied, ‘It was Russell, I’m absolutely certain of that.’

  ‘Hang on; are you saying Russell Rowe and Polly Jardine were plotting all this? If that’s the case; who killed Russell Rowe? Was it Polly Jardine?’ Inspector Hardy asked.

  ‘No,’ I confessed. ‘You could say I killed Russell Rowe. Or at least, that I was his murderer’s accomplice.’ I looked round my audience and saw they were open-mouthed with shock.

  Pratt was the first to recover. ‘Who did murder Rowe? Whose accomplice were yo
u?’ he asked.

  I smiled. ‘Someone you will never be able to charge,’ I told him. I pointed across the chapel. ‘There’s the killer: William Rowe.’

  Everyone stared at the effigy. ‘Would you mind explaining?’ Pratt sounded baffled.

  ‘It was the act of our escaping that was responsible for Russell’s death. You have to understand this part is purely guesswork, but I think when I slid the bolt out of its slot, Russell was here in the chapel. That’s why the lights were on. He must have guessed what was happening and panicked. I think he bent down with the intention of pushing the marble bolt back in place when I shoved the tomb lid open. Several tons of marble were sufficient to crush his skull like an eggshell.’

  I stopped at that point. I could have added more but I felt it better to omit one or two other facts I’d learned during my stay. Besides which I was beginning to feel extremely unwell. As the ambulance men put me on a stretcher I passed out.

  I learned later that the concussion had been so severe I’d been sedated for over a week for my own safety. Not that I was going anywhere. From my hospital bed I saw one or two vaguely familiar faces from time to time; people I felt I ought to recognize, but everything seemed blurred, as if I was looking through a bathroom window. In any case, everything seemed too much of an effort. Added to my other troubles there were severe complications with my leg. It wasn’t broken, but I had a dislocated kneecap and torn ligaments. I’m not sure what the pain level from a broken leg is, but the injuries I had were bad enough. When the hospital eventually released me I was handed over to an expert in the art of torture; who introduced himself as a physiotherapist. It was late February before I was pronounced fit enough to drive again. I would have to go to Mulgrave Castle once more to collect my car and belongings.

  Tony picked me up from Netherdale station and we drove to the castle in reflective mood. Tony told me the police had got a full confession from Polly Jardine. They had also removed a total of nine sets of human remains from the crypt.

  He seemed a bit gloomy, so I asked him what was troubling him. ‘To be honest, Adam, it’s this family insanity business. You said yourself: it’s as potent now as it was centuries ago. We’re all worried Charlie or I might have it.’

  I smiled gently. ‘Don’t worry, Tony, I might be able to set your mind at rest on that score as well.’

  My welcome at the castle was a hero’s one. I fielded all the questions about my health and was relieved to find Charlie fit and well and a dab hand at using crutches for his severely sprained leg. We sat down to a superb lunch cooked by Cathy Marsh and served by the new butler, a young Swede whom, Charlie told me with glee, was gay and had a boyfriend in Netherdale he visited whenever he had a day off.

  After lunch we adjourned to the sitting room. Tony produced a box of cigars and passed me one. Not any old cigar but a Romeo y Julieta. I removed it from its cylindrical foil container and put my hand into my gilet inner pocket. I removed a piece of paper and folded it into a spill, went over to the fire and lit the edge of the paper. I waited until it was burning and lit the cigar. I dropped the paper into the grate and turned to face the Rowe family. I smiled at them. ‘Tell me about Eve,’ I asked Harriet, ‘how is she?’

  ‘I think she’s pining for you, Adam. She tells me she’s fed up with London, fed up with her job, and fed up with life in general,’ Harriet told me with a smile. ‘She’s been on the phone almost every day asking after you; but I’m not supposed to tell you that. I suggested she rang you but I don’t think she’s got the courage to, after what she went through in the past. She did tell me how much she misses you; but I’m not supposed to tell you that either.’

  I smiled with genuine pleasure. I felt in my gilet pocket for the rail ticket I’d bought. The last train for London was at 6.00 p.m. ‘OK, I’ll have to be going soon, but before I do I want to tell you something. It’s something that must never go outside this room. Tony, you don’t have to worry about the family insanity. Neither you nor any of the children could possibly be affected by it.’

  ‘How can you be sure, Adam?’

  I smiled at him, at Harriet and Charlotte, at Charlie and last, at the twins; my two personal guardian angels. ‘Because when I found the journal, I also discovered a letter hidden inside the spine of the book. It was addressed to Lady Amelia from her lover, and was dated shortly before her disappearance. It is obvious to me that Lady Amelia must have found the journal and secreted the letter inside it. The letter proposes that they elope together; taking her elder son with them. The writer acknowledges that the child is his, not Sir Frederick’s.

  ‘The writer uses the telling phrase, “you must escape as soon as possible from that place, now that you have discovered the evil that lies within”. That suggests to me that Lady Amelia not only found the journal, but that she read it and told her lover of the sickening catalogue of vice it contained.

  ‘I feel certain that Sir Frederick never discovered the whole truth. He must at the very least have suspected that Lady Amelia had a lover; even that she planned to elope, but I am sure he could never have lived with the knowledge that the heir to Mulgrave Castle wasn’t his son, but the illegitimate child fathered by his wife’s lover.

  ‘Possibly the bitterest irony in all this is that Lady Amelia should have chosen that journal of depravity in which to hide the letter, only to fall victim to another member of the Rowe dynasty carrying the curse of insanity. Anyway, as a consequence, although Russell undoubtedly inherited the family insanity; you couldn’t have done, and nor can Charlie; because your grandfather hadn’t a drop of Rowe blood in his veins.’

  ‘This is dreadful.’ Tony cast a look around. ‘That means I’m not really entitled to all this.’

  ‘I shouldn’t worry about it,’ I told him cheerfully. ‘If you were able to go back through most aristocratic family histories you’ll probably find the same thing has happened; in some cases probably more than once. The ironic part is that if Russell had found that letter when he was examining the journal, he could have simply produced it and demanded blood tests or this new-fangled-DNA which everyone is talking about, and none of this whole mess would have been necessary.’

  ‘But I can’t simply ignore it. What about the letter?’ Tony objected. ‘That proves it surely. What if someone gets hold of it and makes it public? The whole sordid business will come out.’

  ‘They couldn’t do that,’ I told him calmly. ‘I’ve just lit my cigar with it.’

  ‘So you’re telling me that I’m actually descended from Ralph Aston?’

  ‘No, that’s not true either. Do you remember that day in the chapel? I referred to Aston as being extremely unlucky. He wasn’t Lady Amelia’s lover. The signature on the letter wasn’t Aston’s. Sir Frederick murdered an innocent man.’

  ‘Who was her lover?’

  ‘A man by the name of Bradley. He was the estate manager. I got DC Pratt to do a bit of digging whilst I was in hospital, but he couldn’t find out much about him.

  ‘What happened to Bradley?’ Charlie asked.

  ‘He quit his job, or was fired by Sir Frederick. After that, there seems to be no record of him. One other thing that I was pondering whilst I was laid up was the irony that if Tony had got his way over the library and had converted it to a rumpus room, you’d have discovered the entrance to the priest’s hole and connecting passage to the crypt behind the panelling.’

  ‘It’s all been bricked up now, Adam,’ Lady Charlotte informed me. ‘Tony got a firm to bring one of those big mobile mixers on the back of a wagon and they filled the whole of that dungeon with concrete. After that we removed the effigies of William and Roland Rowe and had them smashed to pieces. Finally, we got a priest in to re-consecrate the chapel and hold a mass for the souls of the departed. It seemed the right thing to do.’

  ‘Have they held the inquests yet?’

  ‘No,’ – Tony leaned forward in his chair – ‘I got a phone call from DC Pratt the other day. Apparently, they have to wait for
an expert to establish how old the remains are before they can hazard a guess at their identities. Some, of course, we will never know, but hopefully we can put a name to five of them. They will all be buried in the consecrated ground alongside the chapel where the rest of the family are. It seems the least we can do.’

  It was almost 9 p.m. when I rang the doorbell of Eve’s flat. I was carrying a bottle of wine and a bunch of flowers. She stared at me in astonishment.

  ‘Hi, Evie,’ I said with a smile that reflected a confidence I didn’t feel.

  ‘Adam, what are you doing here?’

  ‘During the time I was in hospital, all I could think of was you, how much I missed you, and how desperate I was to see you again.’

  ‘In that case, you’d better come inside and we’ll talk. I don’t want my neighbours seeing you there.’

  Typical of Eve, I thought. Her less-than-rapturous greeting seemed at odds with what Harriet had told me. It left me wondering what her reaction would be to the question I’d come to London to ask her …

  End

  Other Accent Press titles you may enjoy:

  For more information about Bill Kitson

  and other Accent Press titles

  please visit

  www.accentpress.co.uk

  Published by Accent Press Ltd 2014

  ISBN 9781783755578

  Copyright © Bill Kitson 2014

  The right of Bill Kitson to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  The story contained within this book is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, electrostatic, magnetic tape, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the written permission of the publishers: Accent Press Ltd, Ty Cynon House, Navigation Park, Abercynon, CF45 4SN