Suspicious Death

by Dorothy Simpson

  ‘Thank you. Be glad to get back to civilisation.’ Mallard picked up his bag, brushed snow off the bottom.

  ‘Just one thing, Doc,’ said Thanet.

  Mallard twinkled at Thanet over his half-moons. ‘Thought you wouldn’t let me get away without asking. Time of death, right?’

  Thanet nodded.

  ‘Well I’m afraid you’re going to be disappointed. In these particular circumstances it’s virtually impossible to hazard a guess.’

  ‘All the same …’ pressed Thanet.

  ‘Really, Luke … Well, I suppose the best I can do is to say that it must have been some time last night. Say, any time between six o’clock and …’ Mallard shrugged. ‘What time did the snow start, do you know?’

  ‘Around half-past twelve, in Sturrenden. Could have been earlier here, of course.’

  ‘Well, you’ll have to check. But it’s obvious that most of the snow fell after the body went into the ditch. Say between six o’clock and four a.m., then, to be on the safe side. Not much help I’m afraid. Sorry, but I have to allow for the fact that it might not have been the accident that killed him. He could have died of hypothermia.’

  Draco was shifting from one foot to another in his eagerness to be off. ‘Right, then, Thanet. Keep me informed – in fact, you’d better report in at about five. Interesting to get back to grass roots for a while.’

  ‘Let’s hope he’s had enough of grass roots,’ said Lineham, gazing after the departing Land Rover. ‘What now?’

  ‘Better call in for those reinforcements. Tell them to come up to the hotel.’ Thanet beckoned to PC Yeoman who had kept well away from Draco and was now patiently waiting near the entrance to the hotel drive. ‘I hope you’re not frozen stiff.’

  ‘No sir, I’m fine.’ Yeoman didn’t look it. His narrow face was pinched with cold, his nose red-tipped, eyes watering.

  ‘You did well here, before we arrived.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’ A faint flush warmed the pallor of his cheeks.

  ‘I gather Mrs Hamilton’s brother, if that’s who the dead man is, was a stranger to you.’

  ‘I knew she had a brother but I’ve never set eyes on him before. I’ve only been here two years and he left the village ages ago; everyone assumed he was dead.’

  ‘Black sheep of the family, was he?’ Thanet scented an interesting story.

  ‘I believe so, yes. Pretty unpopular generally, from what I can gather.’

  ‘Why was that, do you know?’

  Yeoman shook his head. ‘Not specifically, no. It’s just the impression I’ve got.’

  ‘Part of your job will be to find out, listen to the gossip. There’s bound to be a lot of talk in the village after this. Meanwhile, nip up and fetch Mr Hamilton, would you? We’d like him to identify the body. Afterwards, if the SOCOs have finished you can come up to the hotel with us and have a hot drink.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’ Yeoman set off up the hotel drive at a brisk pace, slipping and sliding on the snow.

  Thanet glanced around. ‘You finished here, Trace?’

  ‘Almost, sir.’

  ‘Right. Get those paint samples to forensic as soon as you can, won’t you?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Twenty minutes later the Range Rover returned. Hamilton jumped out and the ambulancemen slid the stretcher out and uncovered the dead man’s face. Tight-lipped, Hamilton nodded. ‘That is my brother-in-law.’

  ‘Leo Martindale,’ said Thanet.

  Hamilton looked startled. ‘How did you …? Oh, I suppose he had identification on him.’ He sighed and shook his head. ‘The last of the line.’ He grimaced. ‘Sad, isn’t it? There have been Martindales at Longford Hall for over two hundred years.’

  ‘He was unmarried, then?’

  ‘So he told us.’

  ‘You had any reason to doubt him?’

  Hamilton looked uncomfortable. ‘Oh no. No. It’s just that … Well, I suppose you’re bound to hear. He wasn’t exactly the most reliable of men.’

  ‘I see. We’ll need to talk to you and your wife, of course, so perhaps we could now go up to the house.’

  ‘Of course.’ Hamilton glanced at the Land Rover into which the SOCOs were loading their equipment. ‘You seem to be without transport at the moment, Inspector. I assume that will shortly be remedied but meanwhile may I offer you a lift?’

  Thanet would have liked to take his first look at the Hall in his own time, but it would have seemed churlish to refuse and he didn’t want to antagonise the man. Besides, the thought of getting out of the cold more quickly was enticing. ‘Thank you.’

  They climbed into the Range Rover and set off up the drive, which was fenced on both sides and wound across open parkland. Before the great storm in October 1987 this would no doubt have been graced by stands of mature oak and beech, but now it was virtually bare, only the odd solitary survivor lifting its branches into the winter sky. Here and there broken and splintered trees still lay about in disarray, testament to the devastation suffered by the whole of this south-east corner of England on that one night. It was said that it would take three generations for the landscape to recover. Hamilton was evidently doing his bit to ensure that it would. An extensive programme of replanting was obviously under way, in the shape of groups of young saplings protected from the depredations of rabbits and livestock by square enclosures of wood and close-meshed wire netting.

  ‘I suppose you lost a lot of trees in the storm?’ said Thanet.

  Hamilton sighed. ‘Like everyone else, yes. Around eighty per cent, actually, and, as you see, we still haven’t got around to clearing away all the casualties. It’s a mammoth task and is costing a fortune so we’re doing it bit by bit. We’ve tended to concentrate on replanting.’

  The house had just come into view and Thanet was aware of Lineham behind him leaning forward to take a better look. If they’d been alone he knew exactly what the sergeant would have said. ‘They can’t be short of a penny!’

  And it would have been true, of course. Longford Hall was not exactly a stately home, but it was certainly the house of an English Country Gentleman; built, he would guess, at the end of the seventeenth or early in the eighteenth century, the rich rose-red of its brickwork enhanced by the mantle of snow which now surrounded it. Its proportions were perfect: the rows of white-painted sash windows, the flat-topped, steeply pitched roof with dormer windows, the stone balustrade running around the roof ridge all combining with the graceful flight of steps leading up to the front door to create a perfect harmony of shape and form often striven for but rarely achieved.

  ‘What a beautiful house,’ Thanet murmured.

  Hamilton lifted an eyebrow, as if surprised that a policeman should appreciate architectural genius. ‘It is, isn’t it. Built by Hugh May in 1675.’

  And now a Country House Hotel. Thanet wondered how it must feel to have to turn the house that has been your family home for generations into a haven for rich tourists and tired businessmen. He knew that a number of these Country House Hotels now existed but he had never been inside one before. Should be interesting.

  They had arrived. Hamilton pulled up in front of the steps, which were being brushed clear of snow by a tall, thin man wearing a padded anorak and a navy blue woollen cap below which his ears stuck out like those of a garden gnome. He gave them a curious glance as they passed, breaking the rhythm of his movements and straightening up to pull out a handkerchief and blow his nose.

  ‘Who was that?’ said Thanet in an undertone when they had gone by.

  ‘Byfleet, our handyman-cum-chauffeur.’ Hamilton pushed open the front door with a proprietorial air and, after stamping the snow off their boots, they followed him into a broad inner lobby that bore no resemblance to the entrance to any hotel Thanet had ever been in before. If he hadn’t known it was one he would have thought that he had stepped into a private house. Ranged along the right-hand wall was an orderly litter of gumboots, croquet hoops, umbrellas, walking sticks; exactly as if at any
moment members of the family might come out and equip themselves for whichever outdoor activity they had in mind. To the left, a long wooden rail screwed to the wall sported a row of hooks from which hung an assortment of well-worn Barbours, Burberries and tweed caps and hats.

  There was no time for more than a quick glance around. Hamilton kicked off his boots and the three policemen followed suit. Hamilton slipped on a pair of shoes he had left beside the door and Thanet, shooting an apologetic glance at Lineham, unwrapped the parcel containing his shoes, which he had removed from the Land Rover before Draco left, and put them on, glad of his foresight. He wouldn’t have fancied conducting an investigation in a place like this in the indignity of stockinged feet. Lineham was no doubt wishing he’d done the same.

  Hamilton flung open the inner door and led the way into a spacious hall from which a graceful staircase curled up to the first floor. Thanet blinked, overwhelmed by the assault on his senses. The scent of potpourri and burning applewood hung on the warm air, Persian rugs glowed on the stone-flagged floor, antique furniture adorned with elaborate flower arrangements gleamed with centuries of polishing and everywhere was a profusion of fine paintings, decorative objects and porcelain ornaments. In the distance someone was playing the piano. It was like stepping back in time to a more leisured and gracious way of life.

  ‘Just a moment,’ murmured Hamilton, and he left them to speak to a young woman seated at a leather-topped desk in the left-hand corner of the room. The hotel receptionist, presumably, the first discreet indication that Longford Hall was a commercial undertaking. As if drawn by a magnet the three policemen moved in the direction of the log fire burning in the huge stone fireplace in the right-hand wall. Two women, one young, one middle-aged, were sitting on the long chintz-covered settee in front of it.

  ‘Say,’ drawled the older woman, ‘you poor men look frozen to the eyeballs. Come right on over in front of the fire, and warm yourselves up.’

  American, by the sound of it. A guest, presumably.

  Thanet smiled. ‘You’re certainly in the best place, on a day like this.’ The warmth of the fire on the backs of his legs was sheer bliss.

  The girl pouted. She was in her late teens, small and dark, with the beautifully white even teeth Thanet for some reason always associated with Americans. ‘Just our bad luck, you mean. We’d planned a trip to Canterbury today. How long d’you think it’ll be before the roads are clear?’

  Thanet shrugged. ‘Sorry, I don’t know. Could be this afternoon, could be –’

  Hamilton approached. ‘If you’d like to come this way, Inspector, I’ve arranged for some coffee to be brought. You could do with a hot drink, I expect.’

  The two women exchanged glances. ‘Inspector!’ said the younger one, scenting diversion. ‘Does that mean …?’

  Hamilton turned on all his charm, gave her a melting smile. ‘I’m sorry. There’s been an accident …’ And, like a sheepdog herding a small flock of wayward sheep, he urged the policemen towards a door to the right of the stairs. ‘If you’d like to sit down …’

  It was a small sitting-room, elegant in blue and gold.

  ‘When you’ve had coffee I’ll fetch my wife.’

  ‘Is she very upset?’

  ‘Depends what you mean by “upset”. Shocked, yes, grief-stricken – well I don’t think she would pretend to that. After all, until this week she’s thought her brother dead for many years now, so you could say she’s had time to get used to the idea.’

  There was a knock at the door and a girl in housemaid’s uniform of long black dress, frilly white apron and cap entered with a tray of coffee. Gratefully they all accepted the proffered porcelain cups of steaming liquid. Thanet waited until she had gone, then said, ‘When, exactly, did she learn he wasn’t dead after all?’ His fingers and toes were aching now as they thawed and it took considerable self-control not to betray the fact. He didn’t want to do anything to distract Hamilton’s attention from the conversation.

  ‘Day before yesterday.’ The muscles of Hamilton’s face tightened, betraying the tension their unexpected visitor had caused. He and his wife had obviously not been exactly overjoyed at her brother’s resurrection.

  An interesting thought crossed Thanet’s mind. What if Leo had been the rightful heir to the Longford Hall estate …? Here was a motive for murder if ever there were one. Questions crowded into his mind. He flicked a glance at Lineham. Take over. He wanted to think.

  ‘He just turned up out of the blue, without warning?’ said Lineham.

  Hamilton seemed surprised by the change of questioner. ‘Yes.’

  ‘After – how long?’

  ‘Twenty, twenty-five years. I lost count long ago.’

  Why come back now, after all these years? Thanet wondered.

  ‘Why come back now, after all this time?’ said Lineham.

  Hamilton shrugged. ‘He’d been living abroad for some time, apparently, only returned to England a week ago. Went to the barber’s and saw an article on Country House Hotels in one of the Sunday supplement magazines. Longford Hall was featured in it.’

  Hamilton’s tone had subtly changed. Suddenly he had become guarded.

  ‘I saw that article,’ said Lineham. ‘Chilston Park was in it too.’

  This was another well-known Country House Hotel in Kent, notable in that it was owned by the Millers, publishers of the famous Antiques Price Guide.

  ‘That’s right.’ Hamilton was obviously relieved to be distracted from the direction the conversation was taking.

  But Thanet wasn’t going to let him get away with it so lightly. By now he was sure he was right. Leo had been the heir. Another glance at Lineham. I’ll take over again. They had been working together for so long that this unspoken communication had become second nature to them.

  ‘How long has the Hall been a hotel, Mr Hamilton?’

  ‘Two years.’

  ‘What made Mrs Hamilton decide to make the change?’

  He was rewarded by the answer he expected.

  ‘Her father died four years ago and there was no way she could have kept it on without making it pay its way.’

  ‘Was Mr Martindale aware that his father was dead?’

  This was delicate ground. Hamilton’s tone was carefully casual as he shook his head. ‘Apparently not. As I say, he’d been living abroad for a number of years, in the South of France, although we didn’t know that at the time. Everything possible was done to try and trace him, without success. Apparently the villa in which he was … staying, was very secluded, up in the hills. His hostess was French and they had very little contact with the local community.’

  For ‘hostess’ read ‘mistress’, Thanet guessed.

  ‘So it must have been a considerable shock to Mr Martindale, to learn that his old home was no longer a private house.’

  ‘I suppose so. Though he didn’t seem at all put out by the fact.’

  ‘Really?’ Now if true, that was interesting. Had Leo hoped to cash in on all the hard work his sister must have put in to make this place into the going concern it presumably was?

  ‘And of course to learn of his father’s death,’ said Thanet.

  ‘Yes.’

  An uncomfortable monosyllable. Hamilton must know what was coming next.

  ‘The estate was left to your wife, not her brother?’

  ‘No.’

  Even more terse.

  ‘So,’ said Thanet delicately, ‘there must have been a certain problem of inheritance.’ He awaited Hamilton’s reaction with interest.

  But he was disappointed. Hamilton must have prepared himself for this moment for he simply smiled, a bland, meaningless stretching of the lips, and said, ‘Not at all, Inspector. Sorry to disappoint you, but I’m sure we could all have come to some amicable arrangement. To put it baldly, it’s a good-sized cake, there was plenty for everybody.’

  It depended, Thanet thought, on how large a slice Leo Martindale would have wanted to cut for himself. ‘How large,
exactly?’

  ‘Two thousand acres.’ Hamilton smiled, the lazy, replete smile of the predator who has caught and eaten his prey. ‘And the house, of course.’

  Not to mention its contents, thought Thanet. They alone, from what he had seen of them, would be worth a pretty penny. He wondered how Hamilton’s wife had reacted to all this.

  As if on cue the door opened and a sleek dark head appeared. ‘Ah,’ said Delia Hamilton, ‘there you are, darling. Sorry to interrupt, but there’s a minor crisis. The butcher’s just rung to say his van is stuck in the snow. D’you mind if Byfleet borrows the Range Rover for half an hour to go and collect the meat?’

  THREE

  At Thanet’s request Delia Hamilton returned after giving permission for Byfleet to borrow the Range Rover. She sat down beside her husband with an embarrassed laugh. ‘I suppose you think I’m very unfeeling, Inspector, to be worrying about such trivial matters after what’s happened. But the fact remains that I’m still responsible for the running of this place and we do have guests. Not many at the moment, fortunately, but still …’

  She had changed from her outdoor clothes into an elegant tweed skirt, pearls and a smoky-green cashmere jumper the colour of her eyes. Her dark hair was now folded back into a smooth pleat. Immaculately groomed, she looked every inch the country lady, an image no doubt carefully calculated to impress her guests. Of grief there was no sign.

  ‘How many, exactly?’ said Thanet, ignoring the spurious apology.

  ‘Only eight. It’s usually pretty quiet at this time of the year.’

  ‘And they are …?’

  ‘Four Americans – a married couple and a mother and daughter – then there’s a family of three and a single man, all British.’

  Should make the task of interviewing easier, thought Thanet. If it had been a bank holiday weekend, now … ‘We understand from your husband that your brother arrived unexpectedly the day before yesterday, that until then you had thought he was dead.’

  ‘Which is why I can’t pretend to be devastated now. Leo was dead to me for so many years that it was his being alive I found difficult to take in.’ The embarrassed laugh again. ‘I suppose you think I’m pretty hardhearted, but there’s no point in being hypocritical about it, is there?’