Ten Lords A-Leaping: A Mystery (Father Christmas)

by Benison, C. C.

  “We’ve lived for some few years knowing that David wasn’t my brother’s killer. But we’ve also lived looking over our shoulders. A red-haired man clocked David that day at Tullochbrae. We never knew if a moment would come when …” He let his hand caress a Chinese vase as he drew nearer to Tom. “But Oliver as Boysie’s murderer never, ever entered our minds. And now he’s David’s killer, too.”

  “Are you certain—?”

  “Would I have been justified in killing Oliver, do you think, Tom?” John seemed not to hear.

  “You know the answer to that.”

  “But on the moor you thought I might have.”

  “I did. And, I’m sorry to say, for more than that moment. Anna told us about your mood. She said you frightened her terribly. And then, of course, you vanished. You wouldn’t have been justified, but only a pious idiot would see that you weren’t horribly provoked.” Tom paused over a new thought. “Anna’s known where you’ve been all along, yes?”

  “She knows I go to Hexham Priory, of course she does. We live together, but I need solitude and private prayer from time to time. She was protecting me, that’s all. And”—his blond eyebrows arched—“in this instance I’ve not been good in protecting her. I left her in the village with a bloody killer, didn’t I?”

  “Oliver.”

  “Pure selfishness on my part. But I was filled with … with a sort of loathing and fury I’ve never known, Tom. Not even after Anna visited me at Ford Prison and I learned I’d gone to prison to protect … a stranger, a ginger-haired man. I had to get away from Abbotswick before I lost my mind. It’s really only chance that I came upon you and my brother and Jane by Hryre Tor. Father Harrowell, the abbot at Hexham, knows my story. Silence is the rule, as you know, but as abbot he gets some word of the world outside the walls and will share it if he feels it necessary. After radio reports of a second suspicious death at Eggescombe, he came and told me.” John looked to a bronze clock on a sideboard as it struck half past the hour. “I was praying for the courage to … take on Oliver, which would mean shattering my family—again—but that chance has gone. Perhaps I should be grateful, relieved, that this cup has been taken from me.”

  “What cup?” Jamie stepped into the room with Jane, who was slicking damp hair back behind her ears. Tom was pleased to see he was wearing a dark lounge suit, the one he’d worn to the Old Salopians do in Exeter.

  “We were talking, Tom and I, about restorative justice, I suppose you could say.” John frowned at his brother’s attire. “At Hexham I had been praying for guidance. We’ve lived in welcome anonymity for a long time, Anna and I, but if I brought accusations against Oliver, it would change our lives utterly. We’d have to give up any hope of a private life, at least for a time. All the unhappiness of the past would be dredged up. It would appall and shock our family further. You know what Father can be like. And there would be enormous doubt. Because an accusation would be based on what? A text message between a mentally challenged man and a well-known—what was Oliver? an impresario of sorts? A lie about attending a funeral? Flimsy stuff, on the surface of it. Oliver would be a formidable enemy.”

  “You know how Mummy and Father suffered over Boysie’s murder and your confessing to it. In sacrificing yourself, you also sacrificed them—all of us, really, me, Jane—”

  “It was my choice at the time, Jamie.”

  “But your choice also meant Oliver could go on being the bloody murderous bastard that he is! Was, rather.”

  “Jamie.” Jane put her hand on his arm. “Not now. The prodigal’s returned.”

  “Then where’s the bloody fatted calf? I could use some supper. And where is everybody? I thought Bliss wanted us here sharpish.”

  “And what did you decide, John?” Jane ignored her husband.

  “To recant my confession of years ago to Boysie’s death. To make a charge, and take the consequences.”

  “Good.” Jane put her arm into John’s. “And you would have had our full support. You know we never believed you responsible for Boysie’s death. It’s more than a dozen years ago, but there will be records, witnesses—something that places Oliver at Tullochbrae in the days after our wedding. And David’s death: It’s fresh. We have a lead. It seems impossible this crime can’t soon be traced to Oliver.”

  “But we’ll never see Oliver in the docket.” Jamie walked over to the drinks table. “I’m helping myself. Hector won’t mind.”

  “Not seeing Oliver in the docket is what I was saying to Tom.”

  “You can’t leave this undone,” Tom said. “Take heart. You have your loving family’s support.”

  “So incredibly good, such a great relief, to have you back.” Jane transferred a wide smile from Tom to her brother-in-law. “You’re so brown! All that outdoors! Your mother will approve.”

  “I almost called Mummy to tell her the good news.” Jamie brandished a whisky decanter. “Anyone else? But—”

  “But I stopped him.” Jane interrupted. “I thought—”

  “Thank you,” John said.

  “Was that to a whisky?”

  “No, Jamie, to your wife. But I will have a drink. I need to speak to Anna before I—”

  “Yes, where is Anna?” Jamie let the whisky splash into the glass. “And, I repeat, where is everybody?”

  “But will we ever know why Olly did such an unforgivable thing to Boysie?” Jane asked. “That’s what’s so incomprehensible. Jamie, you’ve always said they were like brothers when they were at school.”

  “I think I know.” John took the glass from his brother. “It’s quite simple. Oliver always had a passion for music, didn’t he? Couldn’t play a note, I don’t think—”

  “Not at all,” Jamie snorted, pouring another drink. “Tom? Are you sure? Darling? Jane? Drink?”

  “I need a clear head,” Jane replied, glancing at Tom, who thought to echo her sentiments, but changed his mind: Dutch courage.

  John frowned. “Clear head? Why? And Jamie, why are you dressed like that?”

  “I’ve run out of things to wear.”

  “No you haven’t.”

  “It’s my wife. She tells me what to wear.”

  “If only,” Jane remarked.

  “Never mind! My wife has an important question, and you seem to have the answer.”

  “Yes, as I was saying, Olly and music—”

  “He thrashed about on a guitar, I recall, that year he was living with us at Bridgemary.” Jamie handed Tom his drink. “I always suspected Father of tying the bloody thing to a rock and drowning it in the pond. It seemed to disappear one day.

  “I suspect the real attraction of music, at least of that sort, for Oliver was—what would you call it, the scene?—the women, the excitement, the drugs. He was sent down from Oxford for some sort of disgraceful behaviour, and I think he only suffered the military to please Uncle Fred. Once he was discharged, he was off like a rocket into the thick of whatever it was in those days—organising parties at various clubs, sound-system raves in the woods, pilgrimages to dance on the beach in Brighton and in disused film studios in London, and that sort of thing. I remember Father saying to me once that Olly was a gamekeeper who wanted to be a poacher.”

  “I’m not sure I understand,” Tom said, sipping at the amber liquid.

  “He meant—and you must understand, Tom, that our father’s very much from an older generation—that he thought Olly was sort of a traitor to his class.”

  “That’s a bit strong, Jamie.” Jane frowned.

  “I don’t think so. Not where Oliver was concerned. Father thought Olly should be giving his attention to the Morborne Trust, building it back up, instead of involving himself in clubs and raves. I don’t know why Father was so disappointed because … John?”

  “Yes?”

  “Do you recall what Father used to say about the family Aunt Chris married into?”

  “Ah, yes.”

  “ ‘The fforde-Becketts,’ ” the brothers intoned, “ ‘are a bad l
ot.’ ”

  “Of course,” Jamie continued, “Father would say this at breakfast from behind The Times, which had printed something in a diary column that met his disapproval, forgetting that Olly was at the table working his way through his muesli. Mummy would have a fit. But Father was right, in his way, wasn’t he? Oliver is a bad lot. Was, rather.”

  “But Oliver did well enough for himself on his own,” Jane pointed out. “Opening Icarus, carving out an impresario role—managing pop groups, arranging concerts—”

  “You’re not defending him, darling?”

  “No, no. I’m only pointing out that he wasn’t as profligate as his father and grandfather had been. He had some business sense, I think.”

  “I have no issue with how Olly got his money.”

  “Then perhaps you should.” John raised an eyebrow. “Because I would more than wager that money lies at the heart of Boysie’s murder. Do you remember, Jamie, about the time you and Jane were to be married, that Oliver was manoeuvring to buy that old theatre club on Villiers Street and turn it into that enormous nightclub?”

  “Icarus. We were talking about it yesterday, oddly enough, Jane and I—Tom was with us. Boysie and Kamran were to be his partners in the venture, weren’t they? I know Father didn’t approve of it. I’m sure he got Boysie to renege. Boysie came into this money about that time, but you know Father—he wasn’t going to have Boysie throw good money away or use the family name to raise capital all for some foolish scheme.”

  “But Icarus is a great success,” Jane demurred. “It’s one of the most consistently popular clubs in London. And Oliver was going to expand, with similar clubs on the Continent and the United States.”

  “But how did Oliver finance Icarus in the beginning? Uncle Fred’s hotel scheme on Baissé drained much of what was left liquid in the Morborne Trust, didn’t it?” John looked to his brother.

  “Yes,” Jamie replied. “The Morborne name was manure in capital markets in those days. How would Oliver have financed his share of the scheme, you ask? I expect much depended on the soundness of his two partners. The Arouzis are enormously rich—but quite conservative socially. I can’t imagine Kamran’s father wearing the notion of his son owning a nightclub, but it didn’t matter in the end anyway, did it? Kamran took his own life, and that killed that goose and his golden egg.”

  “So where did Olly turn next, Jamie?”

  “Boysie, I should imagine.”

  “I’ve had time to think about this at Hexham Priory. I’m sure you may be right, Jamie. Either Father got Boysie to renege on the scheme or Boysie had already forwarded moneys that he wished returned or Oliver wanted Boysie to loan him more money—or some financial doodah that made Oliver desperate. Perhaps Oliver owed money to criminals.”

  “But he wouldn’t have got it from Boysie, would he? Father would have noticed any funny business in Boysie’s estate after he died.” Jamie paused to take a sip of his drink. “How, then, did Olly get Icarus off the ground?”

  Tom held up a hand, as if he had been called upon in school. “I think I know.”

  Both brothers looked at him. “Really?” Jamie said.

  “Dominic accused Oliver of selling works from the collection at Morborne House. I understand that their great-great-grandfather was an early collector of Impressionist paintings.”

  Jamie frowned. “But surely word would get about. Those paintings are treasures.”

  “Apparently, under the guise of cleaning and restoration and new framing, Oliver had the paintings sent out and copied, returning the copies to Morborne House and selling the originals on a black market.”

  The Allan brothers were silent a beat. “The devil!” Jamie finally exploded.

  “I gather he’s done it again over the years whenever he’s needed an infusion of cash. And if he was having trouble getting financing from the usual sources for this new business venture of his, the Icarii …”

  “Probably one of the reasons he’s wanted Lucy and her mother out of Morborne House,” Jane said. “Someone among their friends and allies might begin to notice. But,” she continued impatiently, “surely Oliver alit on that scheme after things went pear-shaped with Boysie.”

  “Well.” Jamie stared into his whisky as if it yielded secrets. “David Corlett—or Phillips—identifies him at Tullochbrae shortly after our wedding.” He frowned. “It’s hard to think he went up with murder on his mind.”

  “I don’t believe he did. Or perhaps that’s what I want to believe.”

  “Why, then, didn’t he want anyone to know he was travelling to Scotland? Why did he lie about being at Kamran’s funeral?”

  “I expect he didn’t want any of the family to know why he was coming—all about grubby money. And it would have looked strange to appear after a wedding he had declined to attend. He’d been to Tullochbrae a few times when he was a teenager. He’d remember the private roads and paths. Aird Cottage is very near a public road. I don’t think he travelled with stealth, I think he was simply being very discreet. Probably wanted to avoid Father.”

  Jamie made a dismissive grunt.

  “I think whatever Olly asked for, Boysie refused,” John continued. “They argued. And in a blind moment of rage, Oliver took the poker by the fireplace and struck Boysie a fatal blow. There was nothing to be gained by deliberately killing Boysie. There was more to lose, but it was done, and he thought he’d got away with it. Only he didn’t realise he’d been witnessed by a mentally handicapped boy—”

  “Whom you moved to protect—an astonishing act of sacrifice, John,” Jane said.

  “If there had been a proper investigation—” Jamie paused to drain his glass. “—then I suppose Oliver’s being in Scotland would have been winkled out eventually. For example, he must have hired a car at Aberdeen. There would be a record. But as you had confessed to Boysie’s murder, John, that ended that.”

  John didn’t respond to the provocation. “What is difficult to understand is why it ended with such violence,” he said instead. “What could Boysie have said or done that would have driven Oliver to … manslaughter?”

  Tom and Jane exchanged glances.

  “I think Tom has an idea,” Jane said regarding him speculatively. “It goes—does it not?—back to a horrifying event in Shropshire more than a quarter century ago.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  “Did you know Kamran Arouzi?” Tom asked Jamie.

  “Only a little. I was a fair bit younger and excluded from Boysie and Oliver’s circle at school. But Kamran would come to tea sometimes at Bridgemary. He boarded. We Allans were day boys.” He looked over the rim of his glass. “You say Kamran was witness to this ghastly act on The Wrekin?”

  “Gaunt’s certain. But only as a witness.”

  “It’s hard to imagine Kamran any way involved. I think of him as a sensitive boy. I wondered even then that he was such fast friends with the likes of Boysie and Olly. They bullied him a bit, I recall—perhaps teased is the word—they were champion at it—but maybe he was glad of the friendship. I’m not sure how kind people were to him at school, because he wasn’t, you know, English—I mean, by birth. I remember Mummy once giving the two of them, Boysie and Olly, stick for calling him a Paki, which was ridiculous since he was Iranian—Parsi, actually.”

  Jane said, “Tom thinks Boysie was involved.”

  “But Gaunt saw only two boys, darling—Oliver and Kamran.”

  “Something Gaunt said to me, as we waited for help this afternoon, which suggests Oliver had taken your older brother”—Tom addressed Jamie and John—“into his confidence.”

  “All boys together, sharing secrets, that sort of thing,” Jane added.

  “What an appalling idea. And Boysie keeping such a dreadful secret?”

  “If he kept it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Something you could hold over someone, don’t you think?”

  “I expect so,” Jamie replied after a moment’s thought, adding, “Surel
y Oliver must have been … shaken in some fashion by the monstrous thing he had done. I would have been too young—you even younger, John. Did no one take notice?”

  “Oliver’s always seemed the height of lordly self-assurance to me, Jamie,” Jane responded. “He probably was then, too. But for Kamran, perhaps it wasn’t water off a duck’s back. It was the beginning of a life of—”

  “Inspector.” Jamie interrupted his wife as Bliss lumbered into the room followed by his sergeant. “Any more news of Gaunt?”

  “We’ve despatched Mrs. Gaunt to Torbay Hospital, which should give you an indication of the seriousness of his condition.” Bliss wore a harried frown. His eyes landed on John. “I’ve had an interview with Miss Phillips—”

  “May I see Anna?” John interrupted.

  “All in good time.” Bliss gestured impatiently to his partner, who pulled a notebook and biro from his jacket pocket. “You were last seen in Abbotswick on Saturday evening around ten, having words with Lord Morborne. And then, Mr. Allan or Phillips or whatever you call yourself, you disappear for the best part of two days.”

  “I thought Gaunt was the—” Jamie protested, but Bliss cut him off:

  “I’m leaving no stone unturned, sir. Mr. Allan, can you account for your—”

  “Inspector,” Tom interrupted, turning from contemplating the fireplace overmantel, the Triumph of Death, which had drawn his attention two nights before. “It doesn’t matter.”

  “What?”

  “It doesn’t bloody matter where John’s been the last two days.”

  “Would you care to lead this investigation, Vicar?”

  “I would not.”

  “Then—”

  “Look, if this were some sort of Jacobean drama, John here would do nicely on the playbill as the peer’s son seeking to avenge a murder. He spent years in prison, sacrificing his youth to protect a vulnerable, mentally challenged young man and the woman he loved, when all along he was protecting a scoundrel. Who hearing his story mightn’t imagine the outrage, the anger, the betrayal he might experience when he learned the truth? Who mightn’t suspect him of murdering his cousin? Some, I expect, would hardly blame him.