The Enemy in Our Midst: A Lord Charles Stewart Mystery

by Conley, John E.

  Silsbury said, “Mr. Parker, have you been questioned by any legal authorities about any of your mining operations?”

  Parker reached out with open palms, the cigar between two fingers, and said, “Inspector, in Africa these days anybody interested in diamonds is a suspect. I’ve met Oppenheimer and I know the De Beers very well. People outside the industry simply don’t understand how it works. Innocent agreements take on sinister aspects in their eyes. I have done nothing wrong.”

  “Did you ask Malcolm Leatherby to invest?”

  Parker shook his head. “Not directly. He doesn’t have the money. But he wrote recently that the day might come when he WOULD be interested, which I found odd. We’ll see what happens, I suppose.”

  The Inspector asked, “What progress had you made with Humphries while visiting the Colonel?”

  “We talked. Humphries was very much still interested, I believe.”

  “Can you account for your activities prior to nine o’clock last night?” Silsbury said.

  Parker grinned. “After dinner I had a drink with some of the men, then found my wife and we strolled over the grounds until it was almost dark. She will confirm that, Inspector. When we approached the manor from the back lawn, we saw Lord Stewart entering by the back door.”

  “Did he see you?”

  “I don’t believe so.”

  Elizabeth Parker did, indeed, confirm her husband’s story to Silsbury. But the forty year old woman seemed the type to Silsbury that would always confirm whatever her husband wanted her to confirm. She was timid, with a hint of intelligence beyond what she was willing to display.

  Silsbury asked her, “How much did you get involved in your husband’s business dealings with the men who are here at the manor?”

  “I do not get involved,” she replied. “I only know what George tells me.”

  “Do you have any reason to believe that any of the men had a motive to kill Colonel Humphries?”

  “That would be the LAST thing I would know, Inspector,” Elizabeth said with emphasis. “George was greatly distressed by the murder. He came here with very high hopes of gaining the confidence of the Colonel and now that opportunity has been taken from him.”

  Silsbury looked at the expression nearing anger on her face.

  “Do you believe one of the men killed the Colonel to spite your husband, Mrs. Parker?”

  Elizabeth stared down at the hands folded in her lap. She started to speak and stopped. Then she said, “Yes. Yes I do.”

  “Who?”

  “Oh, it’s not right for me to answer that without proof, Inspector,” she said, looking directly at him. “That’s your job.”

  Repeated attempts by the Inspector failed to budge Elizabeth Parker from her position. Silsbury eventually added it to the list of items in his notebook to be pursued.

  Malcolm Leatherby seemed very subdued to Silsbury when he entered the den after Elizabeth Parker. Silsbury watched him adjust his glasses and stroke his short beard after pouring a drink. He stood during the entire interview.

  “I understand you are quite familiar with this area, Mr. Leatherby,” Silsbury stated with a smile.

  Leatherby shrugged. “I have had reason to be in the north of Yorkshire many times, yes.”

  “And what were those reasons?” the Inspector asked.

  “I’m a salesman, of sorts,” Leatherby replied. “I represent a relatively new firm near York that would like to offer motorized transport of goods made by local farmers and merchants.”

  “How’s business?”

  Leatherby took a drink. “Could be better, Inspector. The people up here are slow to accept anything new. Especially from outsiders, you understand. But I’ll continue working on them until they recognize that the way business is being done is changing. Very few of them see it coming.”

  “Does Daphne Bishop see it?”

  Leatherby was prepared for the Inspector bringing up the name of the one person in Yorkshire he was seen with the most.

  “Yes, Daphne sees it. She’s a very smart girl for her age.”

  Silsbury said, “Does her market do enough business to afford the services you are offering?”

  Leatherby shook his head. “Not yet. But she has more gumption than most men running a market that size. She’ll find a way to make the money.”

  “What else do you talk to her about, Mr. Leatherby?” Silsbury inquired.

  “Nothing else.”

  “Did you talk to her yesterday, here at the manor?”

  “I did.”

  “In the evening?” Silsbury asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Where?”

  “In the kitchen,” Leatherby said, taking another drink.

  Silsbury asked, “Were you there around nine o’clock?”

  “We were.”

  “The kitchen is very close to the library, is it not? Did you hear anything unusual around nine o’clock last night?”

  “Not a thing. There was the usual clamor in the kitchen and pantry from things being put away for the day,” Leatherby said. “But nothing I would consider unusual.”

  “You’ve been to Stichen Manor in the past, correct?” Silsbury said.

  “Yes.”

  “To see the Colonel?”

  Leatherby replied, “And to talk to Daphne.”

  “About business, I’m sure,” Silsbury said dryly. “Were these discussions in the kitchen?”

  “Mostly, yes.”

  Charles and Bingham had nearly two hours during this time to read the letters found in the Colonel’s desk. Midday sunlight was pouring in through the French windows when they were both done, Bingham having read the bottom half, and earliest, of the letters and Lord Charles the top half.

  “Interesting, was it not, Bingham?” Charles asked, leaning back in his chair. “Dozens of letters from the same woman from forty years ago, spanning about a two year period.”

  “Unfortunate that we don’t have the Colonel’s letters to her,” Bingham said.

  “Yes, very unfortunate,” Charles said. “And she rarely repeated much of what he had written to her. What was the tone in your half?”

  “I would say close friends at the beginning and turning into more, slowly but surely,” Bingham replied.

  Charles nodded. “I can confirm it turned into more. But I wonder just how much? She did an excellent job of not giving details in case the letters were intercepted, I suppose.”

  “Most importantly…who was she?” Bingham inquired.

  “Margaret,” Charles said. “That’s all we know. But clearly she lived nearby and they had met, perhaps often.”

  “Rich men don’t often keep letters from such friends locked up in their drawer,” Bingham said. “Even female friends. Unless….”

  Bingham shrugged and Charles finished the thought, “Unless they were more than friends, Bingham. I know.”

  They sat without speaking for a while. Then Charles said, “Danby is not very large. Colonel Humphries was a very well-known character in these parts. Bingham, I’m going to suggest that the locals know everything there is to know about him. We should talk to them.”

  “You mean I should talk to them,” Bingham said with a smile.

  “Yes, you. I think you should get into one of your get-ups and take a little walk into town. See what you can find out for us,” Charles suggested. “It’s alright if they know you’re staying here. It might even help.”

  The butler beamed at the opportunity to do what he did best and Charles returned the letters to the bottom desk drawer.

  At one o’clock, a nattily dressed gentleman with a hickory walking stick, cap and thick glasses appeared on the dusty road to Danby. He peered over the stone fences that separated one green field from another and exchanged glances with sheep and cattle. Each ascent of a hill was followed by a fast walk down the other side until the tiny homes on the edge of the village came into view. The day was warm and clear with people spotted in all directions in the fields and gar
dens.

  It didn’t take the hiker very long to locate what was almost certainly the only public house in Danby. Furrow’s Inn, as the sign above the door announced, was a two-story wood structure of considerable age, but good upkeep. Bingham would have been inclined to enter even if his present assignment didn’t require it.

  Inside, the dark wood and combined scents of roasted meat and fresh ale immediately comforted the guest. The half dozen men seated throughout the small establishment stared in unison at the unfamiliar gentleman as Bingham made his way to an empty table.

  “Is it food and drink ye want?” the deep voice of the proprietor rang out.

  Bingham turned to face him and smiled broadly. “That it is, sir. The best meat and a tankard of ale for me.”

  The erstwhile traveler removed his cap and glanced around the room, attempting to make himself as approachable as possible. When none of the men seemed inclined to join him, Bingham asked, in his most polite tone, “Is there a local historian in the room?”

  A murmur of voices was quickly followed by the sound of footsteps behind him. Bingham turned to see a man of considerable age and slouching frame walking toward him.

  “Have a seat, my man,” Bingham said, pulling out the chair next to him. “Gordon’s the name.”

  “Aye, Mr. Gordon. I know more ‘bout Danby than any man alive,” the old man croaked. “Buy me a drink an’ I’ll tell ye anything ye wan’ to know.”

  Bingham shouted out the new order to the proprietor.

  “And your name, sir?” Bingham asked.

  “McCart. Andrew McCart. Not a common name in these parts, sir, but everybody knows Andy McCart, isn’t that right boys?”

  The inn echoed with the unanimous agreement of the men, whose collective attitude seemed to be improving. Two tankards were placed on the table and Bingham began the process of surreptitiously gathering as much news as he could.

  “My pleasure, I’m sure, Mr. Andy McCart,” as Bingham took his first drink.

  “On a walkin’ tour, are ye?” McCart asked.

  “That I am. Just up from Stichen Manor this afternoon.”

  The mere mention of Stichen got exactly the response Bingham hoped for.

  “Stichen Manor, ye say. A friend of the Colonel’s then,” McCart said.

  Bingham was sure every man edged closer and listened more intently.

  “Aye. A sad day it is, too.”

  A second man joined in, asking, “You were there when it happened?”

  Bingham nodded. “I was staying in the manor, yes. Of course, nobody saw what happened.”

  Two men moved over to Bingham and McCart’s table, and the remainder took the table next to them. Bingham’s heart raced at the prospects of the conversation to follow.

  “He was havin’ a reunion of some type, weren’t he?” a man asked.

  “He was. Reliving the war days, we were.”

  The man leaned closer and said, “Was it one of ‘is men that done it, ye think? I mean, every ‘un knows the Colonel had the temper of a mad bull.”

  Bingham shrugged and started eating the plate of beef and potatoes placed before him. “Could have been anybody, I suppose. Wasn’t me.”

  “Stabbed in the chest, they say,” a man at the next table said. “Right in ‘is own library.”

  Bingham said, “Did he have any enemies in Danby? Or in the area?”

  A general hum filled the room as the men spoke to each other, and then McCart said, “Not unless it was the husban’ of that woman ‘e knew back in the eighties.”

  Most of the men chuckled at the statement. Bingham smiled and said innocently, “Oh? He had a lady friend, did he?”

  A man sitting behind Bingham said, “Ye might say that. Nobody knows much ‘bout her. They were mighty close, rumors ‘ad it.”

  “C’mon, Peters. Admit it,” another man said. “There’s them that think they ‘ad a child, those two.”

  Bingham nearly dropped his fork. He took a drink of beer and said, “A child, now. You don’t say.”

  “Aye. But t’aint nobody ever proved it,” McCart declared. “You’d think somebody in line to get the Colonel’s money ‘uld claim it, now. So I don’t believe that story, me’self.”

  “You know who could tell best, mister, is Miss Daphne Bishop, that runs the market,” the man behind Bingham told him. “You need another woman to best tell ‘bout them things. It’s been my b’lief that Miss Daphne knows something and ain’t tellin’.”

  “Ah, Peters. There you go ‘gain with that nonsense.”

  “You know what makes me think that?” Peters asked the crowd. “’Cause of that fella Malcolm she sees all the time.”

  “Yeah. Weatherby or Leatherby ‘is name is,” someone added. “Comes to Danby several times a year and always goes ‘round with Daphne Bishop. Not that any man wouldn’t want to be around Daphne Bishop. But it seems like ol’ Malcolm is serious.”

  “I seen ‘im up at the church, too,” McCarty added. “And I don’t mean during service. Don’t know what he’s doin’ up there at all hours.”

  Bingham was done with his meal and didn’t want to raise any undue suspicion of his purpose for being at the inn, so he paid for his lunch, gave the landlord enough extra to buy a round for the men, and bid them adieu. He walked at a hurried pace back to Stichen Manor, rehashing the discussion at Furrow’s Inn in his head, anxious to give Lord Stewart some very interesting news.

  VIII. The Colonel’s Solicitors

  Inspector Silsbury had spent the afternoon speaking to more scholarly, but no less interesting, men—the Colonel’s solicitors. The firm of Lee and Bell in York readily admitted to their dealings with the Colonel, especially in recent months when he had approached them about a possible transaction with Parker. They confirmed the Colonel’s worth of well over one hundred thousand pounds, but gave Silsbury an unexpected jolt when they declared they had never written a will for the man.

  “No, Mr. Silsbury,” Winfrid Lee said as the three men sat in Lee’s office, “there is no will to our knowledge. That’s not to say another firm didn’t draw one up for him, but we were always under the belief that we singularly handled all of Colonel Humphries’ affairs.”

  “Of course, gentlemen,” Silsbury said. “I’m not questioning that. It just seems so strange to me.”

  Lynwood Bell shrugged and tapped his cigar on an ashtray. “My personal experience with military men, Inspector, is that they can be somewhat, uh, shall we say, unconventional. And if you knew Humphries, he was all of that.”

  “And obstinate on top of it,” Mr. Lee added.

  “Yes. Yes. I’ve heard,” Silsbury admitted. “So what happens to the money?”

  “If it’s determined there is no will, it will eventually go to the Crown,” Mr. Bell explained. “Happens all the time, although not usually with this amount.”

  “I see,” the Inspector said, scribbling a note. “I guess I’ll do a thorough search of the Colonel’s papers, which was on my list of tasks anyway, but my hopes are not high.”

  Tea was being served in the Stichen Manor study for Lord Stewart and Bingham as Silsbury made his way back. Bingham recounted his lunch at the inn and Charles listened attentively to every detail. There was agreement between the two that as little as possible would be relayed to Silsbury until they had more time to do their own inquiries, especially regarding the mysterious Margaret, whose existence might have had nothing to do with the murder.

  Soon, Silsbury joined them and cigarette smoke filled the room in which the men settled themselves.

  “Gentlemen, I believe it’s time to review what we have in terms of information,” Silsbury began. “Is that agreeable?”

  Charles and Bingham agreed and the discussion commenced.

  “Most importantly, perhaps, is the new knowledge that the Colonel did not have a will made out by the men you would most expect to do that for him,” Silsbury said with a tone of disappointment. “That makes things far more difficult and puzzling at the
very start. I will need to go through his personal papers this evening and see what I can make of it.”

  Charles said, “So, if we set aside a monetary reason for the murder by someone who might knowingly benefit from it, we are left with a possible motive of carry-over hatred for something during the war, or in the period in between.”

  “Certainly,” agreed Silsbury. “And if that’s the case nearly everyone in this manor at the moment is a suspect.”

  A silent pause followed while the three men recognized the difficulty in that possibility.

  “Of course,” Silsbury continued. “There is another far more common reason for murder, gentlemen.”

  He saw that he had the attention of the others and said, “A woman. Is there, or was there, a woman that one of the men would kill the Colonel for.”

  “You’re not proposing that Humphries was interested in one of the men’s wives, are you?” Charles asked, attempting to keep Silsbury’s train of thought in the present, and not the past.

  The Inspector shrugged. “I’m not proposing anything, Lord Stewart. Simply stating a fact from a great number of murders I’ve investigated.”

  Bingham said, “The Colonel didn’t strike me as a womanizer. Stuart Meath, perhaps. Or even Cooper. But I hardly think Humphries, at his age, was interested in any of the wives.”

  “I’d say Elizabeth Parker is around forty, Bingham,” the Inspector reminded him. “Much older men have been interested in much younger women when they look like Elizabeth Parker.”

  “All in all, Inspector, I would put the motive of a woman far down the list,” Charles said, crushing his cigarette in the ashtray as if to bring that idea to an end.

  “There’s another more likely possibility, gentlemen,” Bingham added. “Blackmail.”

  Silsbury and Charles both nodded without comment.

  “One of the most common motives, indeed,” Silsbury finally said. “It might explain his uncommon wealth long after the passing of his wife. In any case, we’re not left with much based on what we have so far. I’m going to start in on those personal papers.”