Deadly Inheritance

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Deadly Inheritance Page 29

by Janet Laurence


  Belle seemed struck by this. She took the handkerchief Ursula offered and wiped her eyes. ‘You mean, I can get together with William while Helen gets on with … well, whatever she has to get on with?’

  Somehow Ursula managed not to sigh. ‘He obviously finds you very attractive,’ she said encouragingly. ‘You can make him laugh and men love that.’

  ‘Oh, you are right, Ursula! And I do make him laugh. And he loves horseback riding with me. Helen won’t have time for that.’

  It took a little more time but Belle was at last more cheerful and Ursula sent her off to find William Warburton.

  With her hand on the doorknob, Belle turned back for a moment. ‘You do not know, Ursula, how determined my sister can be. I do not think there is anything she would not do to gain her way. But she is not going to get William.’

  * * *

  Ursula walked slowly through the rose garden. Looking towards the belvedere, she saw the coroner and the Chief Constable talking with Colonel Stanhope. As she watched, the three men started towards the Dowager’s apartment. Ursula retreated.

  She went to the library and found a couple of sheets of paper and a pencil. The sun slanted in through the windows, motes dancing in its rays. The atmosphere was calm and peaceful and Ursula longed to stay there but the Colonel would almost certainly bring the two officials in for further discussion.

  She went to the hall and asked Albert, the footman on duty, if there was a quiet room where she would not be disturbed.

  She was shown into the smoking room. Square, permeated with the aroma of cigars, the walls badly discoloured and hung with hunting scenes, it was furnished with more leather chairs. The harshly masculine atmosphere made Ursula feel uncomfortable.

  Shivering and telling herself that it was lack of sleep that made her feel so cold, she sat in a chair that caught the sun. Her head throbbed with tension. So many unacceptable details fought around her mind and she wanted to deny them all.

  There were the various facts and suppositions that had been thrown at her by Thomas Jackman. There was the suspicion that the Colonel was so willing to accept the detective’s vision of events because he could not bear to believe that his brother may have shot himself. There was the unpleasant feeling she had experienced in Helen’s boudoir that morning. And there was Belle’s distress.

  Ursula put aside the problem of Belle and Mr Warburton for the moment and tried to consider the trustworthiness of Thomas Jackman. Why, she wondered, had he left the police force? Surely the Colonel must have been given a solid reference for him by whatever senior Scotland Yard official had produced the recommendation. Apart from that, she had to admit that there was a quiet confidence about the man that suggested he was not someone who would lay claim to a competence he did not have.

  Ursula turned her reluctant mind to consider the possibility that the Earl really had committed suicide. Quite apart from the shock and the shame, it was no wonder the Colonel did not want to accept that his brother had been in such a desperate state that he found death a more attractive option than life. Why would the Earl not have turned to him for help? He would read suicide as a bitter rejection of himself. But why should the Earl kill himself? He seemed to have everything: a magnificent, if decrepit, home, a beautiful wife and a gorgeous son. How could he want to leave all that?

  Ursula began to make brief notes, supporting her paper on some hunting magazines.

  As she worked, the quiet of the room and warmth of the sun began to calm her. Her pencil moved increasingly slowly. Gradually it stopped. Almost without her realising it, Ursula’s eyes closed.

  She had no idea how long she dozed or what woke her but when she opened her eyes she saw that, sitting opposite, was the Colonel.

  He smiled at her. She felt a curious lethargy and wished they could go on sitting quietly together like this, ignoring the world outside.

  He raised the piece of paper he held. ‘I hope I did not disturb you. Albert told me where you were hiding and I found you sleeping so peacefully. This paper was on the ground by your chair. Forgive me, I have been reading your notes.’

  She would not have chosen to show him what she had written but perhaps it was for the best.

  ‘“Possibilities”,’ he read. ‘“One: the Earl did commit suicide despite Mr Jackman’s expertise. Questions: Why would he? Is there a farewell note? Two: He suffered an accident with his gun. How likely is this? Does the Dowager really believe it? Three,” your pencil has dug into the paper here as though you had to force yourself to contemplate this possibility. ‘‘Three: Someone else shot him. Again, why? And who?”’ He looked up at her. ‘A stark but efficient summing up of the situation. You have saved me from making a similar list of points. But I do not understand what you have added at the end.’ He frowned. ‘Here is William Warburton’s name with two arrows, one pointing towards Belle’s name and the other to Helen’s. Then below that you have written: ‘‘Polly’’.’ He gave her a keen look. ‘Would you be prepared to share your thoughts with me?’

  Ursula pulled herself upright and forced her mind to concentrate.

  ‘I’m not sure I can,’ she said slowly.

  His eyes narrowed. ‘You do not trust me?’

  She shook her head. ‘It’s nothing to do with trust.’

  ‘Ah, a matter of keeping confidences?’

  She felt a small jolt of pleasure at his quick understanding but said nothing.

  ‘Let me see.’ Another frown as he studied the paper again. ‘Miss Seldon has formed an attachment to Mr Warburton. Is that it?’

  Again Ursula said nothing.

  ‘But surely you aren’t suggesting that Helen has also formed an attachment?’

  He sounded as though that was impossible. For the first time Ursula realised that Helen’s widowhood might encourage the Colonel to think he could comfort her. Marriage was forbidden between such close relatives but Helen would not let that stop her forming a liaison, if that was what she wanted. She dismissed the thought.

  ‘Belle, poor girl, is desperately in love with Mr Warburton and has formed the idea that now her sister is a widow, she will want to marry him.’

  ‘Has she – or you – seen or heard anything to suggest that that would be the case?’ His voice was perfectly even.

  ‘No, nothing,’ Ursula said firmly. After all, she told herself, she might have misread that morning’s atmosphere. ‘At least, not as far as I am concerned. And Belle couldn’t tell me why she believes it.’ She paused for a moment. ‘She is a girl who seems to follow instinct rather than rational thought.’

  The Colonel went back to studying Ursula’s notes. ‘And you have added Polly’s name because?’

  Glad to have moved on from the subject of Helen, Ursula said, ‘Two violent deaths within such a short space of time must surely give rise to speculation that they could in some way be connected.’

  ‘Hmmm.’

  Ursula waited.

  Then, ‘Let us consider each of your points in turn. First, I have no reason not to trust Jackman but no proof that he is so experienced in these matters that he can be considered a true expert.’

  ‘Why is he no longer serving at Scotland Yard?’

  ‘A good question. I understand it was a matter of a personality clash between him and his superior officer. Jackman preferred to resign rather than be demoted. Which could mean he failed in some way. However, he was recommended to me by someone whose judgement I respect.’ He returned his attention to the paper. ‘You are quite right to ask if Richard left a note.’ He felt in his pocket. ‘I found this poking out from beneath one of his feet.’

  Ursula took the piece of paper with a slight shiver. Even in the depths of his shock, the Colonel had been in control of himself enough to notice this scrap – it was no more than that: Charles, forgive me. I have no other option.

  ‘Is it your brother’s handwriting?’

  ‘I have had few letters from him; he has never been a good correspondent, but, yes, it looks like his.
However, he might well have started a note to me and been distracted. Maybe he changed his mind and threw it into a waste paper basket – from where it was rescued by someone else.’

  ‘That would mean they had access to his study.’ Ursula shivered again. The unlikely possibility that the Earl had been shot by another hand than his own was gradually beginning to look as though it should be seriously considered.

  ‘And why should,’ the Colonel continued, ‘Richard put it underneath his foot? Surely if he wanted to leave a note apologising for his action, he would have said more and left it in his bedroom or study?’

  Ursula suddenly thought of something. ‘Did you not take your brother in your motor vehicle to Salisbury yesterday afternoon?’

  He nodded.

  ‘How did he seem? Depressed? Moody?’

  ‘You mean, could he have been considering shooting himself? Far from it. He seemed almost light-hearted, like he was when we were growing up together.’ He smiled reminiscently. ‘He even said motoring was a damn, forgive me, a damn good way of getting about and he’d go out and get a vehicle like mine!’

  ‘No wonder you are so sure Mr Jackman is right. What about the coroner and, what did you call him, the Chief Constable? To be called a constable doesn’t suggest a very high rank but I suppose put ‘‘chief’’ in front and it becomes more respectable.’

  ‘He is the titular head of this area’s police force, a man of considerable standing. Neither he nor the coroner will allow Jackman’s theories to hold much water. It was probably a mistake to mention his name. Then the coroner announced that my mother had insisted they relate their findings to her.’

  ‘Did she tell them that she believed it was an accident?’

  He nodded, his face blank. ‘Nothing would shake her from that view.’ He pocketed the piece of paper and leaned forward. ‘Forgive me for what I am about to say. I do not think for one moment it is the truth but you have to understand it is what my mother believes. Last night she told me we must ensure a verdict of death by misadventure is returned because she is certain Richard shot himself because he could no longer live with the fact that his wife was being unfaithful to him with a series of men. When I challenged her to produce some proof, she told me I was a romantic fool.’

  Ursula drew a sharp breath. ‘That is the last thing I would call you.’

  He smiled ruefully. ‘I’m not at all sure that is a compliment.’

  Ursula moved swiftly on. ‘Surely, though, your mother is desperate to prove your brother’s death wasn’t suicide because of the slur on the Mountstanton reputation, rather than because she doesn’t want your brother’s motives for suicide questioned.’

  ‘It appears she has succeeded. Both the coroner and Chief Constable left here stating that the inquest would find that Richard’s death was due to accidental causes.’

  Ursula was astonished. ‘I find that hard to believe.’

  He looked at her steadily. ‘Any other verdict would mean the Mountstanton name spread all over the gutter press, and newspaper men haunting the area; every aspect of the family would be dug up and displayed for the common man to salivate over. When my mother invokes the full power of the Mountstanton name and status, it takes an extraordinarily strong and independent man to stand against her.’ His tired eyes held hers in a compelling way. ‘I was told that the inquest is to be held in private. It will be a rubber-stamping exercise.’

  ‘Surely, if there is any possibility that someone killed your brother,’ Ursula swallowed painfully, ‘surely every effort must be made to discover whether that is, in fact, the truth and, if so, who it was that shot him?’ Ursula was suddenly very angry. She rose and stalked to the other end of the room.

  Charles rose as well.

  She turned and faced him, hands on hips. He said nothing but his eyes continued their steady gaze. ‘You are the senior Mountstanton male. You are the strong and independent man you said was needed to stand up to your mother. It seems to me this is now a battlefield. You are a soldier, you must know exactly what has to be done. You can make those officials do the right and proper thing. You did it for Polly, what is preventing you doing it for your brother?’ Her breath coming fast, she finally stopped, too angry to be appalled at her behaviour.

  ‘Thank you, Miss Grandison. It was what I had decided must be done but I needed someone else to believe it as well. Richard must have justice.’

  Ursula sank back into her chair. ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered. ‘You have your mother and Helen – and Harry – to consider. I had no right to say what I did.’

  ‘You were absolutely right to speak so!’ He took her hand and kissed it. ‘You are an Amazon and I am grateful to you.’

  Ursula felt a rare blush staining her neck and face as he sat down again. She sought a return to solid ground. ‘What of the possibility that your brother’s death could be connected with Polly’s? That was why you brought Mr Jackman down, to investigate how she had died. Maybe his questions in Hinton Parva alerted someone to the possibility of something regarding Polly coming to light. Though why that should mean the Earl had to be killed, I can’t imagine.’

  ‘Now surely you can understand why I need your help? You are not entangled with the bloody, forgive my language, the bloody Mountstanton way of doing things. Our family’s autocratic way of viewing its position can be poisonous. I told you once that I had tried to escape its influence. Now it appears that it is up to me to see that Harry grows up unencumbered with false ideas of what and who he is.’

  Ursula thought of the little boy whose shoulders now bore such a burden. Would an investigation of his father’s death mean his life would forever be scarred with scandal?

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  The May afternoon was gliding smoothly towards evening. Its warmth and beauty were lost on Thomas Jackman as he plodded up the hill and along the wooded path that would take him to Mountstanton.

  Frustration ran through his veins like a rat through a run. He’d had no sleep the previous night. Colonel Stanhope’s message had reached the Lion and Lamb as he and Sam Fry, the landlord, were ending a quiet session discussing the locals over a pint of Sam’s Special Ale.

  Soon after Thomas had arrived at the Lion and Lamb, he had discovered that the landlord had a dearly loved nephew in the Metropolitan force. To learn all about police work from someone who knew it from the inside was joy to Sam. He had produced jugs of his ale that first night and on subsequent evenings. During their conversations, it was not difficult for the former detective to extract a wealth of information about the villagers of Mountstanton – and about the family up in the big house.

  The family up in the big house …

  For a moment, as he negotiated the woodland track, Thomas wondered exactly what he had got himself into. When Colonel Stanhope had first approached him, it seemed a heaven-sent opportunity. Now it looked more like a lifeline turning into a rope that could strangle him.

  Losing his job in the detective section of the Metropolitan force had been devastating. His ability as a constable on the beat to search out evidence and assemble cases against various East End villains had quickly produced an offer to join the elite team of detectives. Thomas had soon realised he’d found a totally absorbing career. The cases mostly involved petty thieves, fraudsters and such like, but he had grown increasingly involved with the process of winkling out the truth. Once facts had been collected and witnesses found and interviewed, most cases proved simple enough. The villains he dealt with possessed a certain low cunning rather than high intelligence. Even the craftier type of rascals, making a good living from crime, were no match for Thomas. He learned to disguise his appearance with different outfits, sometimes using a wig or false moustache; nothing too blatant. He learned the value of subtlety. He gained a reputation for being able to crack the most difficult of cases and put what were sometimes called ‘master minds’ behind bars.

  It was only later he realised how naive he’d been not to see how eaten-up with jealousy h
is superior officer was becoming.

  The cases Thomas found most difficult were those that involved the upper classes. Humble policemen, even detectives, were not expected to point the finger of responsibility at those who were so far above them in the social scale.

  It was a case not unlike the one he was involved with at the moment that had caused the final showdown with his boss. A maid in the home of a marquis had been strangled. Her body had been found in Green Park, no more than a stone’s throw from the back garden of the house where she was employed.

  Initially, such evidence as there was had pointed at one of the marquis’s footmen as her killer. He had pleaded innocence, and swore that the girl had been seduced by a member of the household. One of the other maids said the girl had told her she was with child. She had been very cut up, she said, and had declared she would make the man who had brought about her ruin ‘do right by her’.

  What was mainly circumstantial evidence had convinced Thomas that the seducer was a nephew of the marquis and that he had most probably killed the girl to protect his reputation. Thomas wanted to take him in for questioning in the hope of extracting a confession. That was when the power of the aristocracy had been brought into play. Thomas was told that one of the down-and-outs, in the habit of sleeping in the park, must have killed the maid. When he asked what evidence there was to support this theory, his boss told him, ‘The case stops here.’

  Suddenly Thomas had recognised not only the inspector’s jealousy of the attention his junior officer was receiving as he closed case after case, but also his ambition, the obsequious manner the man used to the upper classes. Thomas respected those in authority but his mission was to see justice done. The vision of the dead girl’s face, the eyes bulging, tongue swollen and lolling out, haunted him. He had pressed for a warrant to bring the man in.

  Perhaps if Rose, his wife, had still been alive, Thomas would not have reacted the way he had. Rose had always listened to his worries, shared in his problems, his triumphs. With a few soft words she had the knack of removing pressures and making any difficulty easier to deal with. But Rose had died of a fever.

 

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