In The Shadow of Evil

by Frank Smith

  ‘Tregalles will be out there to give you a hand,’ Paget told him. ‘I’m sure the two of you will find a way around it. Now, have you had a chance to read the interview with Mrs Etherton?’

  ‘About the fire in the stables seven years ago? Yes, Forsythe left a copy on my desk last night, and I looked at it first thing this morning,’ Ormside said. ‘Do you think there’s anything to it?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Paget said, ‘but that’s what I want you to find out. I want you to look into the investigation that took place at the time, and get back to me as soon as you can. You might start by getting hold of Sergeant Naismith in B Division. He’s the one who investigated the fire seven years ago. See if he still has any of his notes left. Find out what his thoughts were about it at the time. Any suspicion of foul play; you know the drill. I’ve cleared it with his boss.’

  ‘Even if there was, I don’t see how it could have anything to do with Toni Halliday’s murder,’ Ormside said.

  ‘Nor can I,’ Paget admitted, ‘but I can’t help wondering why Mrs Etherton thinks there is.’

  ‘Please come in, Chief Inspector,’ Mrs Farnsworth said. ‘It’s good of you to come.’

  She looked tired but she moved more purposefully, Paget thought, and there was a new assertiveness in the way she spoke. Perhaps a new Harriett Farnsworth was beginning to emerge now that she was no longer in the shadow of the major.

  She indicated the same chair he had occupied before, then settled herself comfortably in its twin on the other side of the fireplace

  ‘I know you must be very busy,’ she said, ‘so I won’t keep you very long. But I did think it my duty to ring you. Graham, that is Graham Cairns – he’s my nephew – didn’t think I should. He said the less said the better, but I didn’t take his advice.’ She smiled suddenly. It was a funny little smile; a strange mixture of satisfaction and surprise at her own temerity.

  ‘It was Graham who brought me home from Worthing yesterday,’ she went on. ‘And since I knew he’d always been interested in guns, I asked him to dispose of Adrian’s collection for me. It’s not much of a collection, really, but I wanted them out of the house.’

  Mrs Farnsworth rose and took a cardboard box from the table. She held it in her hands for a long moment as if wondering if she was doing the right thing before thrusting it into Paget’s hands and returning to her seat.

  ‘While Graham was going through the gun cabinet, he came across those,’ she said quietly. ‘They were hidden beneath the ammunition. They’re diaries of a sort; diaries Adrian kept of his . . . Well, you’ll see for yourself. I suppose he kept them there because he knew it would be the one place I would never go.’

  Paget opened the box and removed the contents. ‘It’s the top one you want,’ she said.

  There were five books; notebooks rather than actual diaries. Paget opened the top one. It was more than half full of small, neat handwriting, presumably the major’s.

  The major’s affair with Gwyneth took up twelve pages.

  It was all there in lurid detail. In such coarse and vulgar detail that even Paget, inured as he was to such things, felt his skin begin to crawl. Farnsworth seemed to have taken special pride in demeaning the women he seduced, and his contempt for them was manifest in every line. Obviously proud of his own prowess, he described each conquest in minute detail, together with his own innermost thoughts at the time.

  The last entry was dated the day of Toni Halliday’s death. ‘Meeting G at 20:00 hours. Try Van before that. Hope she’s up for it as well, because I am. Could be a storm. Thank God for the barn.’

  He went back through the pages; checked the other books. There were references to other women, many other women, but, with the exception of Gwyneth, Vanessa King, and a brief encounter with a Clunbridge woman he’d met in a pub, the affairs had all occurred prior to the move to Lower Farm.

  He looked up to find her eyes upon him. ‘Why?’ he asked softly. ‘Why didn’t you just throw these on the fire, Mrs Farnsworth? Don’t misunderstand me; I’m very glad you didn’t, but the temptation must have been very strong.’

  Harriett Farnsworth lifted her head to meet his gaze.

  ‘I was tempted to do exactly that, because that’s where they belong. But then I thought about that poor girl who is missing. She must be terribly afraid, and it was Adrian’s fault that she was there in the barn, so if there is anything in there that will help . . .’

  Paget hardly knew what to say.

  ‘I take it you haven’t spoken to anyone or heard any local news since you came back yesterday?’ he said.

  She shook her head.

  ‘Then, of course, you wouldn’t know. I’m afraid Gwyneth is dead. We found her yesterday. Killed, we believe, by the same person who murdered Toni Halliday.’

  Mrs Farnsworth stared at him. ‘Oh, my God!’ she breathed, and a tear rolled down her cheek. ‘I’m so sorry. So terribly sorry.’

  Later, as he took his leave, Paget thanked her once again. ‘I’ll make sure these books are returned to you as soon as we have finished with them,’ he assured her, but she was shaking her head even before he had finished speaking.

  ‘Burn them,’ she told him. ‘I never want to see them again!’ ‘They found Gwyneth Jones’s bike,’ Ormside said by way of greeting when Paget called in on his way back to town. ‘It was round the back of Vanessa King’s caravan.’

  ‘Was she the one who found it?’

  ‘No. We did. She says she has no idea how it got there. There’s a high grass bank behind the caravan, and if we hadn’t found it, it might have stayed there for a long time, because she rarely goes back there.’

  ‘Still . . .’ Paget frowned into the distance. ‘Perhaps we should be taking a closer look at Ms King,’ he suggested. ‘From what we know so far, the only connection she has with the events around Toni Halliday’s death, is with the major, but perhaps there’s more. Where’s the bike now?’

  ‘Gone to Forensic,’ Ormside told him. ‘As for Ms King . . .? I can’t see it myself. She seemed straightforward enough when she came in to tell us about the major, but I’ll have someone look into it.’ He pulled a pad toward him and scribbled a note.

  ‘Now,’ he continued, ‘I’m still working on the investigation into the death of the first Mrs Bromley, but it’s beginning to look like it was a smoke and mirrors job all the way. I spoke to DS Naismith, and he said he was as good as told to make it look good on paper; file his report and forget it.’

  ‘Who gave him those instructions?’

  ‘DI Hawthorne.’ Ormside’s tone of voice said it all. Hawthorne had been shunted off to one side some years ago to mark time until his retirement – a condition some of his less charitable colleagues maintained he’d been in ever since he’d joined the force.

  ‘Are you saying there never was an investigation?’ Paget asked.

  ‘All the right forms were filled in,’ Ormside said, ‘but some of the stuff Naismith handed in never made it into the final report.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Such as the state of the electrics in the stables. He was told that Mrs Bromley was using a paraffin lamp because the old wiring in the stables kept blowing fuses. But it turned out that the wiring wasn’t that old; it had been re-done about ten years before. Mind you, several people said there had been some trouble with the lights down there, including Thorsen, so I suppose there could have been a fault. On the other hand, someone could have been making it look as if the wiring was bad as an excuse to use the paraffin lamps.’

  ‘Who told him that the wiring was old?’

  ‘Paul Bromley. When Naismith found out that it wasn’t old, and tackled Paul about it, Paul said it must have been re-wired when he wasn’t there – which is possible, I suppose, but that man tells so many lies, everything he says is suspect now.’

  ‘Was arson suspected?’

  ‘Ah, now that’s interesting,’ Ormside said. ‘There was this volunteer fireman by the name of Bright from Clunbridge. He
was one of the first on the scene. He said that when he first got there he was able to get inside almost as far as the loose box where Mrs Bromley and the horse were later found. He said there was a timber wedged across both the upper and lower doors of the box. Unfortunately, just as he spotted it, the fire burst through the walls and he had to run for it. Of course, that whole end of the stable was destroyed, and there was nothing left to support his story. But he was so insistent at the inquest that it was given to Hawthorne to look into. He handed it off to Naismith and gave him the nod at the same time.’

  ‘So Naismith did a whitewash job?’

  ‘Not exactly. His original report mentioned all the things he wasn’t happy about. He wanted to have an engineer look at the electrics, and he had questions about Paul’s story. Paul told him he sometimes went for a ride alone, but Thorsen said he’d never known Paul to go out by himself before. According to him, Paul only went out when Mrs Bromley was riding. And then there was the matter of the paraffin.’

  ‘What about the paraffin?’

  ‘Thorsen told Naismith that the old lamps hadn’t been used for years, so he had to buy fresh paraffin when the lights started acting up. He said he bought a couple of four-litre containers. He filled the two lamps and put the rest away – away from the part of the stables destroyed by the fire, that is. But when Naismith had a look, one container was empty and the other had no more than a litre left in it.’

  ‘The inference being that the rest was used to start the fire?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Was that ever followed up?’

  ‘No. Hawthorn told Naismith he wanted only facts, not speculation, in the final report. He said that Bright, the fireman, had admitted at the inquest that he’d only been inside the stables for a few seconds, and his vision was impaired by smoke, so his testimony about the doors being barred was worthless. As for Paul’s testimony, Hawthorne said it came down to Paul’s word against Thorsen’s, and the old man admitted that he wasn’t always around at that time in the morning. As for the paraffin, he said Thorsen could have been mistaken. And there was no physical evidence to suggest that the fire had been anything but a tragic accident. On top of that, the Chief Fire Officer appeared to be satisfied.’

  ‘But if paraffin was used as an accelerant, surely that would have been detected by the investigator?’

  ‘There wasn’t one, according to Naismith. Investigator, I mean. Not necessary, he was told. Sounds to me like the Bromley name might have had something to do with that,’ Ormside said heavily, ‘but maybe that’s just my suspicious nature.’

  ‘Did Naismith have anything else to say?’

  ‘No, except it just didn’t feel right to him. He still thinks that if he’d been allowed more time he could have found evidence to support a case for arson – if not for murder.’

  ‘For murder we need a motive,’ Paget said. ‘Did he have anything to say about that?’

  ‘Yes, he did,’ Ormside said, ‘but he was told in no uncertain terms that he’d exceeded his remit by digging into things that had nothing to do with the investigation.’

  ‘Namely . . .?’

  ‘The state of the Bromley finances, which were at an all-time low, according to him. So, as far as motive was concerned, his first choice was Charles Bromley. But Charles was miles away at the time, and there were witnesses to prove it, so that information was dismissed as irrelevant.’

  The interview was not going well. As Ormside had predicted, Nina Morgan refused to admit that she had been out that night as long as her mother was there, so it wasn’t until he managed to separate the two by offering Nina’s mother a cup of tea and biscuits, that Tregalles was able to persuade Nina to talk.

  ‘Now, then,’ he said, ‘let’s cut out the fairy tales, shall we, Nina? Let’s have the truth. And I don’t mean that load of rubbish you gave us while your mum was here. I haven’t mentioned Cyril Ridgeway yet, but I will if I have to, so I suggest you stop lying and talk to me. I don’t care what you and Ridgeway were doing, but I am interested in anyone who saw Gwyneth Jones that night in Manor Lane, so let’s have it now before your mother comes back or I will drop you in it. Understand?’

  Nina glowered. ‘My dad always said coppers were cunning bastards,’ she said sulkily, ‘but you’re a first-class shit!’

  ‘Nina knew Gwyneth well,’ Tregalles told Molly later, ‘and she saw her going into the manor that night. She said she and Ridgeway were at the top end of Manor Lane when they saw Gwyneth coming toward them on her bike. She spoke to Gwyneth as she was opening the side gate, but Gwyneth didn’t reply. She pushed her bike through and closed the gate behind her. Nina thought it strange at the time, because Gwyneth was usually quite friendly and chatty.’

  ‘What about the time?’

  ‘She thought it was about quarter to nine when she got home, but she said something else that fixes the time quite accurately. She told me that she was passed by a police car at the bottom of Manor Lane, and that had to be the car that was taking Mrs Farnsworth to the hospital.’

  ‘It always comes back to the manor, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Always,’ Tregalles agreed.

  There was an e-mail from David waiting for Molly when she turned her machine on just after seven that evening. It was actually directed to Reg and Ellen Starkie and several others, whose names Molly didn’t recognize, but her name was on the list as well. Meilan, he said, died of her injuries shortly after midnight Friday morning. Conscious of the time difference, Molly looked at the clock. That would have been about three hours ago local time, but it was already Friday in Hong Kong.

  He went on to say he didn’t know how long he would have to remain in Hong Kong, because Meilan had named him as sole executor of her will, and he would need to familiarize himself with local laws regarding probate. The hospital in Broadminster had agreed to hold the job offer open for thirty days, and he hoped to meet that deadline.

  But there was also the future of his daughter, Lijuan, to consider, coping with her loss, her education, and whether she should remain in Hong Kong with her grandmother, or come back to England with him.

  Molly read the message several times. Judging by the content, the message was for family members or very close friends, but it pleased her that he had thought to include her, even though they had only known each other for such a short time.

  He had closed with, ‘Love to all, David.’ It was the sort of sign-off anyone might use under such circumstances, but Molly chose to think that, just perhaps, he had been thinking of her when he typed it. She caught a glimpse of herself in the hall mirror and made a face at her image. ‘Idiot!’ she muttered sternly as she turned away. The man had more on his mind than a woman he’d met only recently.

  But it was still a nice thought.

  She sent a brief note of condolence, hesitating for some time over how to sign off, then quickly typed, Sincerely, Molly.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Margaret Bromley entered her room and closed the door behind her. It was only nine o’clock, but she was desperately tired. She felt as if she hadn’t slept for weeks. The tablets Steven had given her had helped, but she’d been having such violent dreams – and she’d had another lapse of memory that she felt sure had lasted more than a minute earlier in the evening.

  She went to the dressing table and sat down. A crumpled slip lay on the floor beside the chair, but she couldn’t be bothered to pick it up. She’d been mending a broken strap earlier in the day, and thread and scissors and needle case from her sewing basket were still there on the dressing table. She pushed them aside, then stared at her image in the mirror as she took off her earrings and necklace. Her hands shook as she set them down, and she had an almost uncontrollable urge to cry. Her reflection stared back at her, pale and hollow-eyed.

  ‘God, but I look a mess!’ she said aloud.

  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t say it’s as bad as all that.’

  She whirled to face the speaker. What little colour there was drained from her
face, and she felt as if her heart would explode any second. She fought for breath as Paul emerged from the shadows and stood there, smiling down at her.

  ‘Paul! You scared the hell out of me,’ she gasped. ‘What are you doing in here? Get out!’ She turned her back on him and began to comb her hair with shaking hands.

  ‘I’ve been waiting for you, my love,’ he said silkily.

  ‘Get out!’ she said again. ‘I’m tired, and the last person I want to talk to is you.’

  ‘You used to be very happy talking to me,’ he said as he moved closer to stand behind her. He put his hands on her shoulders and rested his chin on the top of her head as he spoke to the image in the mirror. ‘And we have so much to talk about, you and I.’

  ‘Such as?’ she said icily, but the tremor in her voice betrayed her.

  ‘Such as what you and Steven Lockwood were doing in his car the night Toni was killed.’

  Margaret twisted in her chair to face him. ‘Who told you that?’ she demanded.

  ‘No one told me,’ he said. ‘I was there, waiting for the rain to ease up before returning to the house, and I saw you get out of the car. I saw the way you kissed him. Very tender, very passionate. It brought back memories. But he really should do something about that overhead light when he opens the door. So careless of him. I wonder what Charles would say if—’

  ‘Kissing him? Is that the best you can do?’ Margaret cut in scornfully. ‘I think you need you’re eyesight tested, Paul. I leaned back in to say thanks and that’s all! So don’t think you are going to make Charles believe otherwise. He’d never believe you anyway, because he knows you for what you are. So leave me alone and get out.’ She pulled away from him and started to stand up, but Paul’s hands circled her throat as he forced her back into her chair.

  ‘Oh, I think he will,’ he said quietly. ‘You really should be more discreet, my love. You’ve been lucky so far, but even poor old Charles is going to catch on sometime – with a little help from me, of course. Unless . . .’ His hands caressed her shoulders and casually slid down beneath the material of her dress.