by Dilys Xavier
‘That’s fixed the bastard,’ he gloated, ‘he won’t cause any more trouble.’
At that moment, a red Vauxhall Cavalier came around the bend and slid to stop just short of the bridge. The driver poked his head out of the window.
‘What’s happened?’ he asked, as Murphy peered at him suspiciously. ‘Anyone hurt?’
‘My mate’s a bit shook up, we just missed running into that Jag,’ Murphy said, pointing to the partially submerged car. ‘We were about to see if there’s anyone in it.’
Frankie Butterfield hesitated before climbing out of his car. The smashed Landrover was obviously the one stolen from behind the industrial estate just before the van blew up in a ball of fire. Brucie prised himself off the railing and turned to look at the Cavalier.
For Butterfield, there was no mistaking that face – it was a perfect match to the recent police mug shot of the bullet headed brawler they knew as Brucie Strauber. So the other man had to be Murphy. For a brief moment he toyed with the idea of calling assistance, but he knew that would play right into their hands. It would be better to pretend he was just a passing motorist.
‘Come on, let’s have a look.’
The young detective was half way across the bridge when a sudden noise made him stop and look around, just at the precise moment that Murphy swung a piece of broken railing at his head. He ducked down and raised a protecting arm, but it was too late. The glancing blow knocked him off balance and he crumpled to the decking as other man’s fist caught him behind the ear. As he lay on the bridge decking, one of them aimed a well-placed kick to his stomach before jumping into his car.
Frankie raised himself up on his elbow and pulled out his handset as the Cavalier disappeared from view.
‘This is DC Butterworth calling all units. The suspects are heading back along Sudbury Lane in the direction of the industrial estate in a red Vauxhall Cavalier, registration number Foxtrot 9 zero 3 Alpha Romeo Sierra.’ He cursed softly as he nearly dropped the instrument and then continued. ‘I’m at the scene of an accident and it appears that the occupant of one the cars is still trapped inside the submerged vehicle. You’d better call for an ambulance.’
By the time he had dragged Peter Hamblyn from the car, Frankie was soaked to the skin. Although it was quite obvious that the man was dead, the detective still went through the motions of trying to resuscitate him. After a few minutes he dug the handset out of his pocket and called in again, but there was no response. With a wry grin he tipped it upside down and watched the water drip out of the casing. He searched through his pockets for his mobile, but in vain. It was probably in the submerged Jaguar. There was nothing to do, but wait for someone to come and pick him up.
Meanwhile, Murphy hurled the Vauxhall down the lane as fast as it would go. He had just convinced himself that they were safe when he careered around a bend and saw two police cars straddling the road ahead, effectively blocking any escape. Slamming on the brakes he slithered to a stop just short of the vehicles. But as he shoved the car into reverse, another police car came out of a farm track to block his retreat. At that moment two armed police officers appeared on either side of the vehicle.
‘Out of the car,’ they yelled at him. ‘Get down on the ground and lie face down with your hands behind your back.’
It was only when they were shackled and placed in the back of a police car that George Howells thought about his off-sider. Unable to raise him on the radio, he tried Frankie’s mobile number– there was no response to that either. Jumping in beside a uniformed driver, he urged the man to hurry. When they arrived at the bridge he found the young detective leaning disconsolately against the Landrover, one hand clasped to his neck. Across the road, the lifeless body of Peter Hamblyn lay on its back, his sightless eyes staring into the clear blue sky.
‘You all right, Frankie?’ George asked, when he reached the younger man’s side.
‘Yeah, guess so, but it’s more than I can say for that poor fellow.’
‘Well, we’ve got Murphy and his mate banged up.’
‘Pity we didn’t nab them before he caught up with Hamblyn.’ He squeezed a stream of water from the hem of his coat and gave a hollow laugh. ‘Another suit ruined.’ Then he gestured at his shoes. ‘Old Jonesy is going to get a bill for this lot, I can tell you.’
*
Catherine lay still until the sound of galloping hooves faded then she struggled painfully to her feet. She grasped the stable door with both hands in an effort to keep her balance as she fought to overcome her fear. Gingerly testing her weight on her right leg she hesitated before hobbling across to a wooden bench to sit down with a sigh of relief. The pain was excruciating, but her leg was evidently not broken. A few moments later Misty trotted back into the yard looking wild-eyed and spooked, reins trailing over her neck while the stirrups banged against her sides.
The mare stopped when Catherine called her name.
‘It’s all right, Misty,’ she said, rising to her feet and grasping the loose reins. She stroked its neck and muzzle and she spoke soothingly to the horse until calmed it down, then she undid the saddle and slid it off the mare’s back. Where was Sally she mused, she should be here somewhere. Then she recalled the young stable attendant wasn’t due to start work for another half-hour.
Still talking to the mare, Catherine urged the horse back into its box again and removed the bridle. Then she hobbled back to the corner of the stables and peered across the fields. There was no sign of the man who had pulled her off Misty and assaulted her. Who was he and what had he wanted? Did it have something to do with Peter?
An overwhelming fear flooded her whole being; it was so intense that it felt like a blow to the solar plexus. Hurriedly digging out her mobile she dialled the local police station and asked to speak to Sergeant Howells. When told he was not available she told the officer that she believed that her fiancé’s life was in danger. She went on to explain what had happened earlier and gave the constable a description of the man who had assaulted her. Snapping shut the mobile, she made her way, slowly and painfully, back to the manor.
The maid took one look at her as she came inside and let out a small cry of alarm.
‘Oh, Miss Lowestoffe, what’s happened? Are you all right? She helped her mistress into the sitting room. ‘Shall I get you a brandy or make a cup of tea?’
Before Catherine had time to answer the phone rang. She snatched it up. The caller identified himself as DS Howells and explained that he was phoning to see if she was okay.
‘Yes, I’m all right, Sergeant, but I’m very concerned about Mr Hamblyn. I think the man who assaulted me was looking for him.’
‘We have the person who may have attacked you in custody,’ the detective said quietly. ‘You may be required to identify him at a later date. In the meantime I’d like to come over to see you straight away.’
Before Catherine could press him for details Howells had hung up. He arrived fifteen minutes later accompanied by a young uniformed policewoman and was shown into the sitting room. Although Catherine had made some effort to tidy up, her riding clothes were still dusty. She brushed aside the detective’s concern and asked why he wanted to see her. George Howells twisted his hands nervously before speaking.
‘I’m sorry, to have to give you some bad news, Miss Lowestoffe.’ He halted for a moment when Catherine gave a gasp. ‘I’m afraid that Mr Hamblyn was involved in a motor accident and he didn’t survive.’ He paused and then he went on to explain briefly what had happened. ‘We have apprehended two men who may have contributed to the incident, but of course we haven’t been able to question them yet.’
‘Dead? Peter’s dead?’ The words seemed to have formed in her mouth by themselves and uttered against her will. She stared at the two police officers as if they were a couple of aliens from another planet. When DS Howells gave a nervous cough she managed to concentrate on his face.
‘We’ll need someone to identify the body,’ he said. Then he gestured at his compani
on. ‘Constable Denning will call for you if necessary.’
It wasn’t until after the detective had taken down the particulars of Murphy’s attack on her, and left the house that the full impact of Peter’s death had its affect. She bowed her head and began to weep pitifully.
‘Oh, Peter,’ she sobbed, over and over again.
The maid hovered uncertainly in the background, and then asked if she should phone for a doctor. Catherine shook her head and then picked up the phone and punched in the first numbers that came to her mind. She let out a gasp as she recognised the familiar voice of Josie Billings and realised that she had unwittingly dialled her friend’s number. The older woman listened to her sob out the details of what had happened.
‘Stay quiet, Catherine. I’ll get someone to run me over straight away.’
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Richard took the opportunity to catch up on the backlog of work while Cecile was visiting her mother for a few days. He had spent Saturday morning in the office, and it was after midday when he closed the door and left, picking up an Indian takeaway on his way home. There was a heap of mail of letters lying on the floor behind his front door; most of which was junk mail. He dumped it on the bureau and made his way into the sitting room and switched on the television.
The news presenter’s voice sounded sombre as the screen filled with a picture of a Jaguar, nose down in a running stream. ‘... and the police are treating it as a homicide,’ he said. The camera angle changed to include a full shot of a bridge. It panned past the gaping door of a battered old Landrover that was impaled on the broken railings and then swung back to the partially submerged sedan. The announcer continued to enlarge on the story as the camera homed in on the investigating officer: ‘The deceased was engaged to marry Miss Catherine Lowestoffe, of Langley Hall.’
‘Peter Hamblyn dead?’ Richard spoke the words in disbelief. He stared absent-mindedly at the television as the news finished and the weather forecast was given. Who would want to kill Peter? He was a harmless enough guy; not the sort of man who you would expect to make enemies. Then he thought of Catherine and gasped, ‘Oh, dear, she’ll be devastated. I must call her.’
A woman who identified herself as Mrs Billings answered the phone.
‘Miss Lowestoffe is not taking any calls,’ she said, firmly. ‘She is very upset and wishes to be allowed to grieve in private.’ She listened to Richard’s condolences and then said. ‘I shall pass on your message. Thank you for calling.’
Not willing to sit around the house speculating about what effect it would have on everyone concerned with Langley Hall, Richard decided to drive down to the Wheatsheaf Inn. He was still in a sombre mood when he walked into the pub. Marc Dalzel was propping up the bar as usual, and he gestured to the empty barstool beside him and offered to buy Richard a beer.
‘Cheers,’ Richard said picking up the glass.
‘Here, I just saw the bad news about that Hamblyn fellow. Dreadful thing; I mean who’d want to kill him? The fellow was one of nature’s gentlemen.’ Marc peered over the rim of his glass a look of concern crossing his face. ‘It’d have to be a road rage thing wouldn’t it?’
‘I didn’t know him very well, but he seemed a nice enough chap,’ Richard said.
‘Well, I reckon that’s the end of the line for the manor, don’t you?’ Marc said, and then went on to predict a dire future for Langley Hall. He prophesied that after all the recent tragedies, Catherine would surely never stay at the Hall, and she would probably renounce her claim to the estate and it would be sold. He predicted that another part of Britain’s heritage would be lost forever. Unwilling to listen to his companion’s mournful predictions, Richard was about to excuse himself, when the man looked at his watch and then at the clock behind the bar. He drained his beer in one swallow and stood up.
‘I had no idea it was that late,’ he remarked, replacing his empty glass on the bar. ‘I promised to take the missus out so I’d better get going.’ He slapped Richard on the shoulder. ‘See you later.’
‘Sure, Marc.’ Then as an afterthought Richard added. ‘Have a nice time.’
Left alone with his own thoughts, he wondered what would happen to Catherine now that Peter was dead. Although he did not believe she had really intended to go ahead with the marriage, she wouldn’t be able to cope very well without him. The estate required a full time manager and he did not think she would be capable of running the place without some professional help.
‘Same again, sir?’ The barman reached for Richard’s empty glass as he spoke. The man’s question jolted his mind back the present. He nodded and pushed some change across the bar. As he sipped a fresh beer he thought about his own situation. Nicole had sent off fresh letters to obtain the various copies of the death, birth and marriage certificates he required, but of course he was conscious of her admonition; ‘Don’t expect them to drop everything to deal with your request’. However, time was running out. Catherine’s birthday was imminent and then the estate would be legally hers.
Although Richard was convinced he had a legitimate claim to the estate he knew it would not be appropriate to present her with the news that he was actively pursuing that end. He recalled the evening she had given him a tour of the manor. He had wondered at the time if it would be wiser, and kinder to her, to leave things as they were. But he knew she was quite wealthy in her own right and would not suffer financial hardship if she lost the inheritance.
Half an hour later he pushed himself away from the bar said, goodnight to the barman and drove back home. He dropped the keys into an ornamental bowl on the bureau and was about to go through to the sitting room when he stopped. The sight of the antique writing desk reminded him of Tom Clancy. Should he go ahead with the alterations or not, after all he could be moving out shortly and then it wouldn’t matter. He was tempted to ring the builder to say he had changed his mind and was going to put the house on the market. But even as he reached for the phone, he knew that was not a good idea. The work would open up the lobby, enhance the entrance and would undoubtedly make it more attractive to a potential buyer.
When he finally climbed into bed that night, Richard’s mind returned to his conversation with Marc Dalzel. The man’s predictions had upset him for some reason or other, and he tossed and turned for some time before slipping into a troubled sleep full of dreams.
He pictured himself driving up to the front door of the manor and banging on the lion’s head knocker until Catherine appeared, hair dishevelled and clutching a thin gown to her throat. Ignoring her anguished plea for mercy he pushed a sheaf of papers into her hand and brandished the Williams’ coat of arms in her face, claiming it was all his birth right, not hers. When she fell onto her knees in supplication, he gestured theatrically at the door and warned her never to darken his doorstep again. Then he jerked awake.
‘Thank goodness that was only a dream,’ he muttered, punching the pillow back into shape.
*
DCI Jones looked up as Sergeant Howells came into the room. He pointed his pipe stem at the empty chair and waited for the detective to sit down.
‘Well, that was a good result, George,’ he said, with a touch of pride in his voice. ‘My counterpart in Dunedin has grabbed another member of the gang and banged him up. Now we just have to wait until the other two show their faces.’
‘We can put someone in the industrial estate for a few days. They’ll probably go back to the lock-up out of habit.’
‘Hmm, yes I suppose you could do that, but let’s see if we can persuade Brucie Strauber to shop his mates.’ He peered at the detective sergeant for a moment and then continued. ‘He might be willing to play ball, especially if he thinks he’s going to go down as an accessory to murder.’
‘That’s a good idea, guv.’
‘But in the meantime it won’t hurt to keep an eye on the industrial estate. Who knows, we might just pick up a few of their contacts as well.’
‘And what about Hamblyn?’
; ‘We’ll play down that side of things,’ Jones said, fiddling with his pipe. ‘I’ll give out a press statement to the effect that he had given us certain information that helped with our enquiries.’ He glanced down at his pipe again as if to hide his feelings. ‘There’s no need to cause that young woman at Langley Hall any more distress.’
‘So we’ll just say that Hamblyn was going to inform us about Murphy’s activities and the guy tried to warn him off?’
‘Let’s not complicate things,’ Jones said, with evident embarrassment. ‘I know how to handle those newspaper fellows. I’ll make sure they don’t implicate Hamblyn in any way. Just leave it to me, okay?’
‘That’s very decent of you, sir.’
‘Well, there’s been enough heartache around that place. What with Sir Hugh’s daughter running off like she did, and then refusing to accept the old man’s offer of forgiveness.’ He jabbed his pipe stem at George Howells as if to reinforce his words. ‘Then the woman he married died suddenly, and he was such a pig-headed man that he upset most of the nannies he employed to bring up young Catherine. No, it hasn’t been a very happy place.’
‘But she’s such a charming woman.’
DCI Jones continued as if the sergeant had said nothing.
‘And now she’s having her own share of misfortune,’ he said, filling his pipe from a leather pouch. ‘Her cousin John Sinclair has just been laid to rest and now her fiancée has died. It’s almost as if there is a shadow hanging over Langley Hall.’ He tamped down the tobacco energetically. ‘No, we don’t want to add to the woman’s problems by implicating Hamblyn in any way. We’re here to up hold the law, but it doesn’t hurt to bend the rules now and again.’ He struck a match and then gestured toward the door. ‘Right, off you go.’
George walked back to his desk with a look of bewilderment. Who would have thought old Jonesy had a soft spot. Wonders will never cease. He related the episode to Frankie Butterworth, and repeated the DCI’s instructions not to answer any questions from the media.