In The Shadow of Evil

by Frank Smith

  ‘Julian was away at Cambridge, and Helen was bored stiff,’ she said. ‘She was looking for something, almost anything to break what she had come to see as the sheer monotony of her life here. I’m sure she never intended to let things get out of hand, but Helen had always been somewhat naïve, and she was certainly far too trusting, especially when it came to Paul. You see, Paul used to spend quite a lot of time down here. Usually it was when he’d run out of money, which was quite frequently. He would come down here, sponge off Charles and Helen for a month or two, then disappear again. He was forever in debt. Gambling has always been his downfall, as it is this time, I’m sure. I certainly don’t believe the cock-and-bull story he fed Charles. But then, Paul always did have a flair for making up stories. But, he was Charles’s younger brother, and I know Charles used to give Paul money from time to time. Not that he ever mentioned it, of course; that would have been bad form, and Charles has always been a stickler for form. For his part, Paul resented Charles’s success, but he was quite willing to profit by it.

  ‘I suppose,’ she continued, ‘given the circumstances, it was inevitable that Paul should take advantage of the situation. Helen was bored and Paul was attentive, but I don’t think the idea of an actual affair ever entered her head. She just wanted someone, anyone, to take an interest in her, and Paul happened to be there.’

  A wry smile had touched the corners of Mrs Etherton’s mouth. ‘I was there for her, of course,’ she said, ‘and we did a number of things together, but it was hardly the same as the attentions of an attentive male. And Paul could be very charming when he wanted something. And believe me, he did want something.

  ‘I tried to warn Helen, but she wouldn’t listen. She thought I was much too hard on Paul. She didn’t see him for what he was, a schemer with his eye on the main chance. He was after her money, plain and simple, and if, in the process, he could take her away from Charles, so much the better. He and Charles have always been at odds, even as children.

  ‘But Paul was impatient – perhaps his debts were mounting up again; I don’t know – and he started pressing Helen for money. I think she gave him some, but he came back for more, and when she balked he threatened to tell Charles that they’d been sleeping together.

  ‘It wasn’t true, of course, but Helen came to me in a panic. She said she was sure that Paul would make good his threat if she didn’t do as she asked. I told her the only thing she could do was to spike Paul’s guns by telling Charles what she had told me. He knew what Paul was like, and if she told him the truth, I felt sure he would believe her. This was on the Thursday, and Charles was coming home for the weekend on the Friday. I suggested that she meet him at the train as one of us usually did, and take him somewhere quiet where they could talk. I didn’t say it, of course, but I rather hoped it would make Charles finally realize just how much he’d been neglecting her.’

  Pausing, Molly recalled the sadness in Mrs Etherton’s eyes as she said, ‘But he never had the chance, because Helen died in the fire the following morning.’

  Paget had given her a few moments before he’d said, ‘I know this must be painful for you, Mrs Etherton, but tell me about the fire.’

  ‘There isn’t much to tell,’ she said. ‘Mrs Lodge was the first one to see the smoke – her room is at the back, you know – and she came along to my room to wake me. I told her to ring for the fire brigade, and she said she’d done that, so I dressed as quickly as I could and ran downstairs. As soon as I stepped outside, I could see the smoke pouring out and drifting across the fields. I ran toward the stables, but the fire literally exploded through the roof just as I got there. It was an inferno. The heat was so intense I couldn’t stay there. I knew Helen had probably gone for an early morning ride, and I hoped and prayed that she’d left before the fire started. I knew nothing could survive in there. I ran back to the house and met Mrs Lodge at the back door. She said the fire brigade was on its way.

  ‘It was too late, of course. The Clunbridge men got here first, but the fire was out of control by then. A fire engine came from Broadminster later, but all they could do was to try to stop it from spreading. More than half the stables were destroyed.’

  Mrs Etherton took a deep breath. ‘They found what was left of Helen and Broker later that day,’ she said almost inaudibly.

  ‘You say Mrs Lodge came along to your room to wake you when she saw the fire,’ Paget said. ‘Did she also wake Paul Bromley? I assume he was still in the house?’

  ‘No. Paul was out riding himself. In fact, he came riding up just as the fire brigade got there. He said he’d seen the smoke from some distance away and he’d come back immediately. I asked him if Helen was with him, and he said no, he hadn’t seen her.’ Mrs Etherton shuddered. ‘That’s when I realized she might still be inside.’

  ‘Are you suggesting that Paul had something to do with setting that fire, Mrs Etherton?’ Paget asked.

  Elizabeth Etherton had met his gaze head on. ‘All I’m saying is that I did wonder why Paul had gone out alone that morning,’ she said. ‘He wasn’t all that fond of riding to begin with. He only went because Helen did, so I couldn’t see him riding off alone ahead of her that early in the morning. He claimed that he’d gone before she arrived, but it would have still been dark, and even Helen wouldn’t have left in the dark. It would be far too dangerous. And it would have been just like Helen to tell Paul that she intended to tell Charles about his threat when he got home, so Paul would know that he could forget about asking Charles for money ever again.’

  ‘Do you have any evidence to support your theory, Mrs Etherton?’ Paget had asked.

  ‘Not a scrap, Chief Inspector,’ she said, ‘and I know I could be wrong, but as I told you, I felt compelled to speak, because I don’t want anything to happen to Margaret.’

  Paget had looked perplexed. ‘I’m afraid I still don’t understand the connection,’ he said. ‘Why does what happened to your sister seven years ago have anything to do with the present Mrs Bromley?’

  Mrs Etherton had hesitated at that point, Molly recalled. ‘It’s just that . . . I heard them talking – Paul and Margaret – in the dining room the other morning. I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but I was about to go into the dining room when I heard them talking on the other side of the door. They were speaking very low, so I stopped, not wanting to interrupt, and that’s when I heard Margaret accuse Paul of killing Toni. He denied it, of course, but I don’t think she believed him. Yet she hasn’t said anything, and that struck me as strange. It’s as if she’s protecting him, and I don’t understand why, unless he is threatening her with something as he did with Helen.’

  ‘You mean blackmail,’ Paget said bluntly.

  Mrs Etherton took a deep breath. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘and I think it is because Margaret is a lot like Helen in many ways, and I’m so afraid that if she gets mixed up with Paul she’ll regret it. If Paul did have anything to do with Toni’s death, and Margaret knows it, she could be in grave danger.’

  Mrs Etherton sat back in her chair and sighed heavily. ‘You probably think me very foolish,’ she said, ‘or worse, a meddler. But I’d rather be thought a meddler, and be proved wrong, than remain silent and be proved right.’

  ‘Have you ever mentioned your suspicions about your sister’s death to Charles Bromley, Mrs Etherton?’ Paget asked.

  ‘No. I had no proof to offer Charles, and it would have meant telling him the whole story for it to be believable at all. That would have tarnished Helen’s memory, so I said nothing.’

  ‘You say he was in London when it happened? The fire, I mean.’

  ‘Yes. As I said, it happened on the Friday morning. Charles used to catch the nine twenty-five out of Paddington each Friday morning, and he got into Broadminster at twelve twenty. Helen and I took it in turns to pick him up at the station each week. Then, on Sunday night, one of us would drive him back to Broadminster to catch the seven twenty. He liked to get back on Sunday night to be ready for what he called his “Monda
y morning ops”.

  ‘But that day, of course, only Paul and I were here, apart from Mrs Lodge and one of the girls who were here before Gwyneth. The police sent someone down to meet Charles off the train in Broadminster. I was prepared to go myself, but the police wouldn’t allow it.’

  Molly closed her notebook. What Mrs Etherton had told them confirmed some of her own thoughts about Paul, but what Mrs Etherton did not know – at least Molly assumed she didn’t know – was that Margaret Bromley knew Paul very well indeed. She would be the last person to be taken in by him unless, as Mrs Etherton had hinted, he was blackmailing her.

  The light was fading by the time Molly got home. She set her handbag down on the hall table and wandered into the kitchen. She hadn’t eaten since lunchtime, and not very much then, but she didn’t feel like preparing a meal. She opened the fridge and stood there, one arm draped over the door as she looked inside.

  Meat loaf. Three slices left over from supper on Monday. It had been quite good then but didn’t look very appetizing now. She should have put it in the freezer, because if she didn’t eat it now it would have to go into the bin. Frowning, she took out a plastic bowl, lifted the lid and wished she hadn’t. She snapped the lid back in place. Cauliflower and broccoli soup from . . . was it last week or the week before? She couldn’t remember.

  A half bowl of custard didn’t look too bad, but she would have to make something to go with it, and it didn’t appeal anyway. There was all the usual stuff, eggs, butter, cheese and so on . . .

  Molly closed the door, and it was only then that she noticed the light blinking on her answering machine. She turned it on and heard David’s voice. ‘Hi, Molly,’ he said, sounding as though he were talking from the bottom of a barrel, with others talking in the background, ‘Sorry about our date, but everything happened so fast I didn’t have time to call you before I left. And things have been a bit hectic here ever since I arrived. I’ve only got a minute before I head back to the hospital, so can’t stop to explain, but I’ve asked Reg to fill you in, so please give him a call and he’ll give you a full report. Hope to see you soon. ‘Bye, Molly.’

  Molly pushed the button and listened to the message twice more before shutting it off. Suddenly she was hungry. She picked up the phone and punched in a number. Something with a bit of bite to it. Something to go with that half bottle of Portuguese wine.

  ‘Hello. Pizza Express . . .?’

  They’d avoided talking about the case during dinner, but now, as she started rinsing off the plates and Paget was stacking them in the dishwasher, Grace broke the silence. ‘Did Charlie tell you we’ve searched through everything in the barn, as well as everything in the immediate vicinity, but there’s no sign of Gwyneth’s bike?’

  Paget nodded. ‘He did. And no murder weapon, either.’

  ‘I’m afraid not,’ Grace said, ‘and believe me, we looked very hard and we will go on looking tomorrow and the next day if necessary.’

  There was something particularly sad about the death of Gwyneth Jones, and Paget had found it hard to rid himself of the image of the young woman sitting in front of him a few short days ago, so young, so naïve, and so afraid that her guilty secret would be discovered. Would she still be alive if he had pressed her harder? He’d sensed that she was holding something back, but he’d thought there would be time to talk to her again.

  How wrong he’d been. Grace had said he’d done what he’d thought was best at the time, and he shouldn’t blame himself, but that was easier said than done. He changed the subject.

  ‘You’ve met Mrs Etherton, haven’t you?’ he said. ‘What did you think of her, Grace?’

  ‘I have, but only briefly when I spoke to her about her car that first day. She struck me as a very down-to-earth sort of person, but I really can’t say beyond that.’

  ‘But not a fanciful person?’

  Grace shrugged. ‘I shouldn’t think so,’ she said cautiously, ‘but as I said, my only contact with her was very brief. Why do you ask?’

  ‘She seems to be convinced that there is some sort of connection between what happened to her sister, the first Mrs Bromley, seven years ago, with what’s been happening recently, and she sees Paul Bromley as the link between the two.’

  ‘What did happen to her sister?’

  ‘She died in a fire in the stables. It was ruled an accident at the inquest, and Mrs Etherton said she never questioned it at the time, but she began to have doubts about the verdict some time after. Her story is that Paul was trying to get money out of Helen by threatening to tell Charles that they were having an affair. Mrs Etherton claims that Helen was going to tell Charles about his brother’s scheme, but she died in the fire before she had a chance to talk to him.’

  ‘Convenient if nothing else,’ Grace observed. ‘What evidence does she have?’

  ‘Absolutely none, but it’s clear she doesn’t like Paul. Not that I blame her for that; I don’t like him either, but she only had her sister’s word for it that she wasn’t having an affair with Paul Bromley. And I came away with the impression that, while her sister wasn’t happy about Charles spending so much time and money on the house, Mrs Etherton herself rather admires Charles for his dedication to the cause.

  ‘I suppose it’s understandable in a way,’ he continued. ‘I gather she’s been working with him now for a good many years, so perhaps she appreciates more than anyone how hard and how costly it is to maintain a place such as Bromley Manor.’

  Grace raised a questioning eyebrow. ‘She admires him . . .?’ she probed gently.

  Paget chuckled. ‘You and your suspicious mind,’ he said. ‘No, I said “admired” and I’m sure that’s all it is. And why not? He’s been very good to her, letting her live there all these years. Hardly surprising, I suppose, considering that the Bromleys, the Ashcrofts, and, come to think of it, the Chadwicks have known each other since the year dot. And let’s not forget the Wyckhams.’

  ‘Speaking of the Wyckhams,’ said Grace, ‘how does he feel about all this? Or, more specifically, what does Chief Superintendent Brock say Sir Robert thinks about it all? You said you were talking to him this afternoon.’

  ‘The subject never came up,’ Paget said innocently as he swilled his hands at the sink and picked up a towel.

  ‘So what were you and he chatting about?’ Grace was curious. Neil rarely looked happy after talking to the chief superintendent, but he’d been quite cheerful this evening.

  ‘It wasn’t so much a chat as a confrontation when I told him I’d applied for a search warrant for Bromley Manor. You know how pale he is at the best of times; it’s as if he’s just donated blood and they forgot to turn the tap off, but he actually turned red when I told him, if you can imagine it.’

  ‘I can’t,’ Grace said, ‘but I wish I’d been there. Do you still have a job?’

  ‘I did when I left, but I suspect it may be hanging by a thread.’

  ‘What’s the warrant for?’

  ‘We’re looking for clothing with green paint on it. Whoever wore that coat after it had been hanging on the peg may have traces of green paint on whatever they were wearing when they put it on. We’re probably far too late – whoever hid Paul’s hat and coat, whether it was Paul himself or someone else, would be a fool to leave anything with green paint on it lying about – but you never know your luck, they may not have realized it was there, so we’ll be out in force first thing tomorrow morning to turn the place over.’

  ‘Is there any chance that Brock might let the Bromleys know ahead of time? You know what he’s like.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t think so,’ Paget said, ‘especially after I told him I intended to launch an investigation into who leaked the information about the murder of Gwyneth Jones to Charles Bromley, a potential suspect, within an hour or two of the discovery of Gwyneth Jones’s body this morning.’

  ‘But you know who did that,’ Grace objected. ‘You said Charles Bromley told you it was Sir Robert himself.’

  ‘That’s t
rue, but Brock doesn’t know that I know who the culprit is, so he went to some lengths to persuade me to let it go, and concentrate on finding the killer – which is how I got my search warrant.’

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Thursday, September 15th

  ‘Got a message for you from a Mrs Farnsworth,’ the duty sergeant told Paget when he came in the following morning. He handed the DCI a page stripped from a memo pad. ‘She wants you to give her a ring. Her number’s on there, sir.’

  ‘Did she say why?’

  ‘I did ask, but all she would say was she had something she thought you should see.’

  Paget glanced at the number. ‘Did she say if it was urgent?’

  The sergeant shook his head. ‘But she did say she thought it might be useful.’

  ‘Right. Thank you, Sergeant.’ Paget tucked the memo in his pocket and continued on up the stairs to his office, where he found Tregalles waiting for him, a mug of coffee in his hand. The phone began to ring as he reached his desk. Paget scooped it up. ‘Yes, Len?’ he said when he heard the sergeant’s voice.

  ‘We’ve identified the two kids Thorsen disturbed on the downs the night Gwyneth went missing,’ Ormside said, ‘and there’s a good chance that they saw Gwyneth in Manor Lane that night. The boy couldn’t be absolutely sure it was the same girl when we showed him the photograph of Gwyneth, but he says his girl-friend spoke to her as if she knew her. His name is Cyril Ridgeway, and the girl is Nina Morgan. She lives here in Hallows End.’

  ‘Have you spoken to her?’

  ‘No. She’s still at school, but she and her mother are coming in this afternoon. The thing is, Ridgeway says Nina wasn’t supposed to be out that night, so she may not want to cooperate if her mother’s with her.’