by Tessa Dale
He considered sacking the stupid oaf, but if he finished every one of the useless cretins who made up his staff, he would be occupying the estate almost alone. He was just about to walk around to the separate stable block to see what the hold-up was, when a black car came sweeping up the drive.
Sir Simeon glared at the men who had arrived, unannounced at his stately home. The one with glasses looked like some shambolic Oxford Don, but dispersed the notion immediately, by holding up a warrant card.
“Simeon Arthurson? Detective Chief Inspector Clever, Castleburgh CID. This is Detective Sergeant Jones. May we have a few moments of your time please?”
“You may not!” Simeon Arthurson snapped. “And it is Sir Simeon to you. Now, get that damned police car off my property at once, I have urgent business in town.”
“Really, Sir Simeon? That wouldn’t be a meeting of your Masonic Lodge, would it?”
“I beg your pardon?” Arthurson fought to control his rage. “Are you deliberately trying to infuriate me?”
“I am investigating a suspicious death,” Clever continued. “It may be that you hold information that can help our investigation.”
“What suspicious death?” Sir Simeon seemed to be suddenly aware of the serious nature of the visit. “Why didn’t you say so in the first place, Chief Inspector? You best come in to my study.”
He led them inside, just as his Rolls Royce made its belated appearance. Sir Simeon spoke to the driver for a moment, and the sleek motor swept off on it’s errand. He returned to the grand entrance hall, and took them into a walnut panelled room that smelled of leather, polished wood and great age.
“Take a seat, officers,” he said. “I must apologise for my initial rudeness… but I was in a frightful hurry. My wife is in town, and hates to be kept waiting. Brown will collect her instead. Can I ring for a maid and have refreshments brought for you?”
“Not on our account, sir,” Richard Clever told him. “Can I ask if you knew anyone called Peter Kerr?”
“Kerr, you say? No, I can’t say the name rings any bells with me,” Sir Simeon replied. “Should it?”
“What about Peter Catesby, does that name mean anything to you at all, sir?”
Sir Simeon placed a hand inside his jacket pocket, took out a leather cigar case and, having opened it, offered the two detectives a dark, hand rolled panatela. They refused.
“Peter Catesby? Let me think now. There was a chap at my club called… no, I tell a lie. The fellow’s name was Gaitsby, not Catesby. Stupid of me. You say this chap is dead?”
“I thought it a long shot,” Clever said. “It’s just that your lovely home was mentioned during our investigation. I wondered if the deceased man had been a staff member, or some such thing.”
“I see. I could check with my estate manager, I suppose.” Sir Simeon lit his cigar and drew on it deeply. “Was he a local man, Chief Inspector?”
“No, I don’t think so,” Richard Clever replied. “We found him in a barn. It’s always a bad business.”
“What, suicide?” Sir Simeon said. “It sounds like he topped himself from what you say.”
“Why, yes. That was our conclusion too. Still, we needn’t bother you any further, Sir Simeon.” the DCI stood as if to leave, but paused in the door. “There is one thing, if I may. Just to satisfy my own idle curiosity.”
“Yes?”
“This house, Sir Simeon, didn’t it once belong to the Earl of Castleburgh?”
“It did. I bought it, and the estate along with it, twenty odd years ago.”
“A brave move,” Clever replied. “Taking on a house with such a gruesome history. Is this the very room?”
Arthurson stiffened, as if slapped, then relaxed. The question had, after all, been asked simply to quell the policeman’s idle interest. He gestured to the broad desk, and smiled.
“The very desk, in the very room, in the very house, Chief Inspector,” he said. “You refer, I take it, to the murder of Charles Vancleur, the third Earl of Castleburgh?”
“I do, sir, I do,” Clever said, almost gleefully. “Before my time, of course, but a case of great local interest, I believe. Is that why you bought the property?”
“No, not at all,” Sir Simeon said. “I was a close, personal friend of Charles Vancleur. We had various business dealings together. Then, one morning, he was found dead.”
“That’s right, sir,” the DCI continued. “Wasn’t it the children’s nanny who found him?”
“The old housekeeper,” Arthurson said, quickly correcting the policeman. “She raised the alarm, and the culprit was arrested, even as he spent poor Vancleur’s cash. The evidence was strong against him, but I was able to help convict the scoundrel by clearing up a few misconceptions.”
“Simeon Arthurson. You hadn’t received your knighthood back then. Yes, it all comes back to me now. You testified at some length about the will, I believe?”
“Correct. Fornell claimed that the will was to be changed in his favour,” Sir Simeon said, warming to his story. “It was my duty to tell the court that, during my extensive business dealings, and management of the Earl’s affairs, he never once mentioned such a thing. Charles hated what his son had become.”
“Bravo, sir. Many men would have shrunk away from the task,” Clever said. “It isn’t an easy thing to put a noose about a man’s neck.”
“Quite, but it had to be done.”
“Without a doubt. Although the real guilt was established by the housekeeper’s testimony,” the DCI said. “She heard them arguing, I believe.”
“I think so.” Sir Simeon confirmed. “Although that was not uncommon. It was the next morning that she found poor Charles. He was the best of friends, and a damned fine fellow.
“What ever became of the woman?”
“What woman?”
“Daphne Leighton.”
“Who?”
“The housekeeper, Sir Simeon.”
“Oh, was that her name? She immigrated to Canada with her mistress, I believe,” Sir Simeon said. “Now, if there’s nothing else, Chief Inspector?”
“No, that’s all, sir.” the DCI stood and put his hat on. “Let me apologise once again for the intrusion.”
“Not at all, Chief Inspector” Sir Simeon Arthurson said, magnanimously. “The wheels of justice… what?”
“Yes. They do often grind exceedingly slow, sir. Good day to you. Come along Sergeant Jones, we have things to do.”
Detective Sergeant Jones drove away from the grand house in morose silence, and they were half way back to the station before he finally spoke. He ventured the opinion that the trip had proven of little use, and even hinted that his DCI had been a little too subservient in his dealings with a pompous business tycoon who had bought his title.
“Do you think so?” Clever replied. “Oh, dear, and I thought I’d lived up to my name, Dan. Though I must say one thing in my defence, if I may?”
“Yes, Guv?”
“I asked him if he knew Peter Kerr, then I asked about Peter Catesby. He responded by talking about them as if they were one and the same person. ‘You say this chap is dead’, are the exact words he used to me.”
“They are one and the same person though, Guv,” Dan Jones replied.
“We know that, Sergeant,” Clever said, “but he shouldn’t have. He knew that they were one and the same person.”
“Of course. I should have picked up on that,” Jones responded.
“Then there was that business about the nanny, or the old housekeeper testifying against Peter Fornell.”
“But he corrected you, Guv,” Dan Jones said, a little perplexed. “He said that it was the old housekeeper, didn’t he?”
“He did,” Clever confirmed. “The only problem is, the housekeeper was only thirty two at the time. I wonder when she became ‘old’ in Sir Simeon’s eyes?”
“Then he’s lied on two counts.”
“Yes, but we don’t know why,” Richard Clever told his sergeant. “What
is he trying to hide from us - financial malpractice, perverting the course of justice, or murder?”
“My bet is that Arthurson has a good alibi for the night Peter Fornell’s father died,” Jones said.
“I’m sure he has, Dan, and we will check, but if he conspired to have Peter Fornell wrongly convicted, that is tantamount to murder, isn’t it?” Clever knew he needed time to sit and think. The two cases were like the layers of an onion, where skin after skin would have to be peeled away if they were to get down to the truth of things. “Drop me back at headquarters, will you? Then find out how our Stanton is getting on.”
“Okay, Guv. It would be nice if he’s turned up someone who knew Peter Kerr. A relative or friend would do nicely.”
The DCI retired to the quiet of his office, and Dan Jones went off to find his new detective constable. He located him, nursing a cup of black coffee, in the station’s drab little canteen. The paint on the walls had not been freshened up since Queen Victoria’s reign and, some claimed, the food on offer was almost certainly from the same time period.
Dan Jones ordered a bacon roll and a cup of tea, then went to join his man, who was looking very forlorn, sitting in one of the quieter corners. He sat himself down and bit into the greasy food.
“Cheer up, Stanton,” he consoled. “This job is ninety percent leg work, and usually without any luck. We didn’t expect you to turn up a relative, you know.”
“Nor did I, Sarge,” Stanton replied. “Then I found his wife.”
“What!” Dan Jones almost tipped over backwards in his chair. “Why the glum face then?”
“At least, she claimed to be,” Stanton said, deflating Jones’ happy mood. “It was Old Ginnie. She was pushing her pram along Talbot Road, and asked me what I was up to. The poor old girl still thinks she works in a grand house, despite being addled as long as I’ve known her. The town council should find her somewhere decent to live.”
“Her sad plight touches me deeply, Stanton,” Jones said, sarcastically, “but what did she say?”
“I told her I was looking for anyone who might have seen a man we were interested in, and she sets off telling me that she couldn’t find her husband… Peter.”
“You’re pulling my leg.”
“No, Sarge. The coincidence was too much to swallow, so I sat her down with a tea and a slice of cake at this café, and asked her to tell me about it. It seems that a young man, calling himself Peter had been asking about Castleburgh House. She approached him, and told him that she had worked there as a maid, years ago. He was interested, asking all sorts of stuff.”
“Like what?”
“She got pretty vague about it, but he seemed interested in the staff, or any comings and goings whilst she was there. She left about a month before the murder, so must have been fairly well informed about below stairs activity. Then, she told him about all the staff being sacked, without warning. He suddenly became very excited, kissed her on the cheek, and said he’d marry her, if what she said proved to be correct.”
“Hence her thinking he was coming back to her,” Jones guessed. “She sounds a little naïve, to say the least.”
“Yes, Sarge. The poor old girl is as dotty as they come, and took him at face value, I’m afraid. She thinks he’ll be back in a few days to whisk her off. I didn’t tell her what has happened to him, of course. She’ll forget soon enough, and go back to pushing her old pram around the streets.”
“What does she keep in it?”
“The pram? Oh, just some smelly bedding, and a few old mementoes,” Stanton replied.
“I hope you gave her a couple of shillings.”
“I paid for the food, and slipped her ten bob.”
“Good lad. You’ll make a decent CID man. What could she have told him that made him so happy, do you think?”
“I chatted to her for a full hour,” DC Stanton told him, “but her mind was clouded over. The best I could get out of her was that he was interested in who worked there with her. I wondered if it was to do with the housekeeper, but she just stared at me blankly when I asked. She said her special friend was Ellie. I tried to open her up on the subject, but she just stared at me, as if she had no idea what I was going on about.”
“Well, it does seem odd that the Earl sacked all of his staff, except for his housekeeper,” Dan Jones said. “Maybe the Guv’nor has a few ideas on the subject.”
“It all seems to be very complicated to my mind, Sarge,” DC Stanton said. “Everyone we’ve come across, in either case, seems to have something to hide.”
“Everyone has secrets,” Dan Jones replied. “To be frank, we don’t actually care about any historical fiddles, or the odd back hander twenty years ago. The Guv’nor will be quite happy to nail whoever killed Peter Kerr. Even if Arthurson did pervert the course of justice, we’ll never pin it on him.”
“I suppose the same goes for the Chief Constable too,” Stanton said. “He’ll get off with his ancient sins.”
“I guess from what you say that the rumour mill is at work about him,” Jones told his DC, “but if I were you, I’d close my ears to the stories. Even thinking he was bent could end a junior officer’s career, stone dead. Understood?”
“Got it, Sarge. Hear no evil, see no evil, speak no evil.”
“That’s it, Stanton. Be like the wise monkey, and you’ll survive long enough to get your pension.”
Chapter Twelve
Vincent Morant was even more nervous than usual as he stared at the little black book bequeathed to him by his late uncle. It contained lists of what had once been useful contacts, but was now more like a book of remembrance for villains past. Most of the names were either dead, retired, or in prison, and held nothing but historical interest.
One name, and one telephone number stood out from the rest. Vinnie clenched his fist, then, summoning up all of his nerve, he dialled the local number. The line crackled with static, then it cleared, and he could hear it ringing at the other end. The voice that answered was gruff and cautious.
“Who is this?”
“Vincent Morant speaking, please don‘t hang up,” Vinnie said, hurriedly. “We have some urgent business to discuss, Chief Constable Herbert. Can we meet?”
“No.”
“Before he died, my uncle told me a strange story.”
“Archie always was a gossip,” Chief Constable Herbert said, none commitally.
“He was good enough to write it down for me,” Vinnie replied. “He told me how you tried to threaten him over a certain matter. Then he said as how he was bribed. Ten grand. A king‘s ransom back then.”
“Lucky him.”
“Not really. It seems that you and he became quite close, and he made ‘donations’ to your private pension each year. Ten grand in total. To be fair, he said you proved to be very good value for the money.”
“Is this going somewhere, Mr. Morant?” Herbert was thinking fast, wondering what Black Archie’s nephew was after.
“One of your officers is sniffing around where he shouldn’t,” Vinnie said. “Clever Dick is on your case, Mr. Herbert. Perhaps you might want to nip his investigation in the bud?”
“Thank you for that,” Herbert said. “Am I supposed to be suitably grateful?”
“Nothing too much. I’m having trouble with some creeps calling themselves The West End Lads. Perhaps if you had a word with them?”
“If my force decided to crack down on certain undesirable elements, could I expect to receive your uncle’s ramblings?”
“Delivered by hand, sir. The moment the West Enders are convicted.”
“From your lips to my ears, Mr. Morant,” the Chief Constable said. “Now, I suggest you forget this telephone number. If I hear from you again, I might have to turn my attentions to your gaming activities. Is that quite clear?”
“As crystal,” Vinnie said, and hung up.
One hour later, DCI Richard Clever received a summons to County Police Headquarters. The interview with an Assistant Chief C
onstable lasted less than ten minutes, during which he was hauled over some very hot coals.
“You were assigned to investigate a suicide by hanging, Chief Inspector,” the ACC said, studying a file in front of him.
“Which turned out to be a murder, Sir.”
“I can read, DCI Clever. The forensic report is most concise, which is more than I can say for your actions.” The ACC cleared his throat, as if ready to make an important pronouncement. “Your remit was to investigate the possible murder of Peter Catesby.”
“Kerr, Sir. His real name turns out to be…”
“I don’t give a tinker’s damn what his real name was!” The ACC was turning slowly purple. He had been descended on by the Chief Constable, and was intent on passing on at least some of his senior officer’s fury. “Now I find out that you are going off, half cocked, investigating a case solved over twenty years ago. You will cease, forthwith. You, and your team will investigate the death of Peter Catesby… or Kerr, if that is his name… and nothing else. Is that clearly understood?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Good. Now, get out and get on with your job, Chief Inspector.”
“Yes, Sir.” The DCI turned to leave, only to be halted by the ACC’s voice, now much softer.
“Should you, by any chance, choose to disobey my instructions, and carry on looking into the Fornell case, and discover evidence indicating some form of malpractice by Chief Constable Herbert, you will inform me, directly. Corruption is ingrained in this force, and I intend stamping it out, no matter whose reputation has to be destroyed. Is that also clearly understood, Clever?”
“Yes, Sir,” Clever replied. “Not that I would dream of disobeying your orders, Sir!”
“Quite so. The latter part of this conversation never took place, Richard. One squeak about it, and I’ll have your team broken into pieces, and thrown to the wolves.”
“I’d expect nothing less, Sir.”
“What’s up with the Guv’nor?” Dan Jones asked DC Stanton. “He was whistling when he went into his office.”
“Maybe he’s starting to piece things together, Sarge.” DC Stanton stood up and reached for his hat. “If it’s all the same to you, Sarge, I was thinking of getting off now.”