The Enemy in Our Midst: A Lord Charles Stewart Mystery

by Conley, John E.

  “Mr. Parker, I know we previously discussed your business dealings with the Colonel, but I wish to ask you again, what made you approach Colonel Humphries about investing in your business?” the Inspector said.

  “Cash. I knew Humphries had cash through his marriage,” Parker said. “When his wife passed away…and I knew they had no children…I thought he might be looking for someplace to keep his money other than the local bank.”

  “You knew how much money he had?”

  Parker shrugged. “Not exactly. I just knew his wife had inherited quite a bit of money and property. I’m a speculator, Silsbury, and it’s not always possible for me to do my business entirely with my own funds.”

  Silsbury said, “Do you currently have sufficient capital to continue your mining operations?”

  Parker looked at him closely, trying to determine the reason for the question. “I’m doing very well, thank you. I’m not in the habit of inviting old friends to invest in losing propositions. It’s not a good method of keeping them as friends.”

  “What do you offer your investors in return, Mr. Parker?”

  “Shares of the profit, of course.”

  “And if the mine doesn’t bear fruit?” the Inspector asked.

  Parker took a long drink. “That’s why it’s called speculating.”

  Silsbury paused to watch the other man for a moment. Then he said abruptly, “Was Colonel Humphries blackmailing you, Mr. Parker?”

  “Good Lord, no!” Parker exclaimed immediately. “Why on earth would he do that?”

  “Was anybody in your battalion blackmailing the Colonel, to your knowledge?”

  Parker wasn’t as quick to answer that question. He flicked ashes from his cigar and considered his reply before saying, “Now, I can’t say with any certainty whether they were or were not. Lots of things happen during a war, Inspector. You get to know men pretty well.”

  He paused, and then added, “I made my money by workin’ hard and making smart deals. But there might be other men from that battalion that would want to find, shall we say, easier ways to earn a living.”

  “Do you have any personal knowledge of that happening?”

  “I do not.”

  Silsbury had always hated dealing with professionals like Parker. By the nature of their business alone, they were always excellent liars. They made a living convincing people of the facts as they knew them, or wished them to be. Silsbury would need hard evidence to crack Parker, if in fact there was anything to crack.

  Not long after Parker and Silsbury had parted, Charles and Bingham joined the Inspector, who had retrieved the parched paper and was scrutinizing every inch of it.

  “A new clue, Silsbury?” Charles asked once he and Bingham were settled into chairs.

  “Perhaps. Found it in the library fireplace quite by accident.”

  Charles allowed the man a few more minutes to study it in silence. Then Silsbury said, “I’m pretty sure it’s from a book of accounts, but there’s not enough readable text to make anything out. Maybe the people in London can do something with it.”

  “If I may make an offer, Inspector, Bingham here has quite an array of tools at his disposal, such as magnifiers and a chemical or two that might assist in bringing out the writing,” Charles told him.

  “With him? Here at Stichen?” Silsbury asked.

  Bingham nodded and bowed. “At your service. I don’t go anywhere with Lord Stewart without them.”

  “Why, certainly. Please try your magic on it. But be careful. It’s the only sample we have.”

  Charles stood, walked over to the table and bent over the paper. In a matter of seconds he was done and he watched Silsbury carefully hand the burned document, now back in its protective cover of the other sheets, to Bingham, who immediately headed upstairs with it.

  “What do you make of Parker?” Silsbury asked Charles when they were alone.

  “He’s shrewd,” Charles replied, returning to his seat. “Not to be trusted. Perhaps nothing more than a man trying to make a deal with the Colonel. Perhaps much more than that.”

  “Is he capable of murder?” Silsbury inquired.

  Charles tilted his head to one side and said, “Isn’t everybody? I think George Parker would do anything for money, and to protect his wife.”

  “Really?” the Inspector said. “Do you think she enters into this?”

  “I think she knows a good deal…about her husband and about the people he deals with,” Charles said. “She’s very timid, Inspector, but that makes for a good counterbalance to George’s flamboyance. As a team, they could gather lots of information from all types of people and not raise an ounce of suspicion. And, by the way, I wouldn’t bother asking her about any blackmail. She would never tell the truth one way or the other.”

  Silsbury’s eyebrows rose in unison. “What makes you mention blackmail?”

  “Isn’t that why you were after Parker initially? And when the Colonel was killed it made you believe it even more?”

  “If that is a guess on your part, Lord Stewart, it is a very good one. We had other angles to follow, but the murder moved blackmail to the top of my list. I didn’t want to give my hand away when we spoke before and, if you remember, when Bingham brought it up, I found a reason to drop the subject and move on. I now must consider the possibility that that charred document contained the Colonel’s records of it and the murderer destroyed it…or most of it, anyway.”

  “You just aren’t sure who was blackmailing who,” Charles replied. “Or is it whom? I always get that wrong.”

  “I have a good idea, but I’m not sure.”

  They sat without speaking until Charles said, “I think you are chasing the wrong fox, Inspector.”

  Silsbury shrugged. “It is early in the hunt. But I know this, Lord Stewart. Money is at the bottom of it.”

  It was another half hour before Charles joined Bingham in the upstairs sitting room. By the odor, he knew that the butler had sprinkled the paper with enough chemical to draw out the ink on it. The look on Bingham’s face, however, was not encouraging.

  “Anything noteworthy?” Charles asked.

  Bingham shook his head. “Unfortunately, just a few names and a date or two. Not all of them complete. Certainly not enough to draw firm conclusions.”

  Charles smiled and Bingham knew from experience that his employer had an idea he was going to keep to himself.

  “Ahh, but Bingham all your chemicals can’t tell us everything there is to know about that single scrap of paper. The words on it, alone, may not be all that is significant.”

  The next morning after breakfast, when the men from the battalion, minus Charles, were off to fish in the nearby river until it was time for the inquest, Helen Meath and Elizabeth Parker sat at a table behind the manor. They were not unhappy when he joined them, as topics of mutual interest were few between the women. Still, Charles was intent on finding one or two of those topics.

  It was not as warm a day as the previous few and a light breeze blew across the lawn. The ladies wore sweaters and their hair fluttered in the air.

  “Ladies, it has been an eventful few days, has it not?” Charles began.

  They agreed and Helen said, “Dreadful. Will we be allowed to leave today, do you know, Lord Stewart?”

  “I believe so. It is not in my hands, but the Inspector hinted that the local authorities may not need your presence much longer.”

  Elizabeth said, looking at Helen, “You are eager to escape Alistair, Helen?”

  Helen saw the grin on the other woman’s face, but wasn’t smiling herself when she replied, “Somewhat. But he’s not as bad a man as many people think. He’s just…well, how can I put it…he’s a….”

  “A pest?” Charles suggested.

  Both women laughed. “Yes, he’s all of that,” Helen admitted. “But I don’t know that he means any harm.”

  “He has a crush on you, Helen,” Elizabeth offered.

  “He does not! How can you say th
at, Elizabeth?”

  “Everybody noticed it, including Stuart, of course,” Elizabeth said. “It was so good of him to stand up to Alistair like he did. What Alistair said was disgraceful. I think he’d had too much to drink.”

  “Mr. Cooper asked me a lot of questions about what Stuart had done after the war, but it was nothing unwarranted, in my opinion,” Helen said. “They were probably both to blame a little for the outburst.”

  Charles asked the women, “Does Cooper strike either of you as being capable of murdering anybody?”

  They looked at each other and waited for the other to answer. Helen spoke first, “Probably. But who knows what makes people do awful things like that. He has always been kind to me.”

  “Because he has a crush on you,” Elizabeth reiterated, resulting in a mocking glare from Helen. “Malcolm Leatherby is the one I can’t understand.”

  Helen, glad to change the subject, leaned up in her chair and said eagerly, “Yes! Malcolm is truly a peculiar man. Why would a man of his age be so interested in Daphne Bishop? Alistair insists Malcolm wants to marry her. Can you imagine? She has no money. Yes, she is rather attractive, I guess. But what future does she have? And what does she see in HIM?”

  Elizabeth nodded. “He practically stalks her, George says. Follows her all over Yorkshire.”

  Lord Charles stared blankly at the distant hills…thinking…and only barely heard the ladies as they continued their discussion. He was thinking of charred fragments of paper in the Colonel’s fireplace.

  XI. The Inquest

  Prior to the mid-nineteenth century, English Coroners were very much on their own when a suspicious death occurred within their jurisdiction. They had to inspect the body for signs of violence, counting and classifying wounds in the process. As soon as that review was concluded, an inquest was held. In medieval times, all males over the age of twelve from the four nearest townships had to be present.

  When Coroner Morris convened an inquest at Furrow’s Inn in Danby into the death of Colonel Peter Humphries, all he needed were twelve good men. His inspection of the body had been brief and the findings were simple: one stab wound through the heart had killed the Colonel instantly. These facts were known by the jury of twelve long before the inquest was convened in the oppressively hot interior of the inn, which was packed to the gills with people attending the first inquest in Danby in decades. For many of them, it was the first and maybe the only inquest they would ever attend.

  Most of the public’s attention was directed to two rows of chairs reserved for those residing in or visiting Stichen Manor at the time of the Colonel’s death. Farmers, tradesmen, and wives pointed and whispered, certain that the killer was sitting in one of those chairs.

  It was not Coroner Morris’ job to prove guilt and the jury’s sole responsibility, as the tall, thin official advised them, was to return a verdict as to the cause of death. Nobody in the large throng questioned what that verdict would be. However, the proceedings did produce a moment or two of unexpected suspense.

  Lord Charles Stewart was the first name called. Charles enjoyed the attention and strode gracefully into the witness box, dressed in his best dark suit with a colorful poppy adorning the left side.

  “Please tell the jury where you were around nine o’clock on the night the Colonel died,” Morris said.

  Charles coughed quietly and straightened himself in the chair.

  “Certainly. The Colonel and I had arranged to meet in the library around nine o’clock. When the time came…,” Charles began.

  “And what was the purpose of that meeting?” Morris interrupted.

  Charles, not expecting the question, faltered for an instant before saying, “It was personal business, Mr. Morris.”

  The coroner fully grasped the meaning of Lord Stewart’s facial expression and voice, knowing better than to further inquire into the personal affairs of the son of a Duke and Duchess.

  “Very well. Go on, sir,” he said calmly.

  “When the time came, I entered the manor through the back entrance and walked to the library. The door was closed so I rapped on it. When I got no answer, I believe I knocked again. With still no reply, I found the door unlocked and opened it.”

  Charles purposely paused and glanced around at the townspeople’s eyes fixed on him with keen attention. Suppressing a smile, he continued: “The chair at the desk, which I assumed contained the Colonel, was turned away from me somewhat. So, I walked in calling the Colonel’s name, but without a reply.”

  Another pause. Not a sound could be heard among the host of onlookers.

  “As I rounded the desk, I saw the Colonel slouched in the chair.”

  “What else did you see, Lord Stewart?” Morris asked.

  “A knife was in the Colonel’s chest, Mr. Morris.”

  A gasp filled the room and ladies raised their hands to their mouths.

  “During this time, did you see anybody else, Lord Stewart?”

  “I did not. Not until Calvert, the doorman, entered the library a minute or so later,” Charles explained.

  “Thank you, my Lord. That will be all,” Morris told him.

  Doctor Owens gave an excessively long and technical description of the wound and its consequences, apparently reveling in the effect each new detail had on the audience. He replied positively when asked if the Colonel had died quickly and if the Colonel had died where he sat, resulting in a rapid exchange of glances between Charles and Bingham.

  When Coroner Morris asked the doctor if suicide was a possibility, Owens’ quick reply was, “Oh, no. Heavens no. That’s out of the question.”

  When asked why, the doctor coughed and fidgeted in his chair before saying, “Well, because…because the wound appeared to be a thrust upward. And,” the doctor said with emphasis, “and there was no blood on the Colonel’s hand. No, no. This was not suicide.”

  Constable Stanhope, undoubtedly perceiving the opportunity of a lifetime to prove his worth in Danby, was quick to liven up the proceedings when he was called.

  “What can you tell us about the weapon used in this case, Constable?” Morris asked.

  Stanhope leaned forward and replied, “Well, Coroner Morris, it is my understanding that the knife belonged to an individual visiting Stichen Manor at the time of the murder.”

  “I must remind you, Constable Stanhope, that we cannot say with certainty…just yet…that this was murder,” Morris said sternly. “Now, do we know who that individual is?”

  “Yes, sir. The knife belonged to Mr. Stuart Meath.”

  A loud murmur arose and all eyes swung to the two rows of chairs. Stuart Meath sat like a statue, staring at Stanhope without a single sign of emotion.

  “I call Mr. Stuart Meath to the stand, please,” everyone heard the Coroner proclaim.

  Helen loosened the grip on her husband’s hand as he rose from his seat. The handsome, gray-suited man felt the eyes of the entire room follow him to the raised seat in front of the jury. Like each witness before him, he gave his oath and awaited the coroner’s inquiries.

  “Mr. Meath, have you been shown the weapon that caused the death of Colonel Humphries?” Morris asked.

  “I have.”

  “Have you seen the knife before?”

  “I have.”

  Morris said, “Does it, in fact, belong to you?”

  “It does.”

  “Can you give us a history of the knife, Mr. Meath, and how it came to be at Stichen Manor this week,” Morris told Meath.

  “I began gathering knives and bayonets in the war, Coroner Morris,” Meath stated without hesitation. “Throughout the duration of the war I added to the collection. It seemed natural to bring them with me to the Colonel’s when I got his invitation to the reunion. Never, in my wildest dreams, did I imagine one of them being used in such a manner.”

  “Did you give the knife to anyone while you were at the manor?” Morris asked.

  “I did not,” Meath stated. “But I allowed anyone who wanted
to see them to do so. Everyone knew where they were. Anyone could have entered our room when Helen and I were out.”

  “You routinely left the room unlocked?”

  “Actually, yes. We did.”

  Morris looked at his notes and asked, “Were you in your room between dinner and nine o’clock?”

  “Some of the time,” Stuart replied.

  “And Mrs. Meath?”

  Stuart Meath’s countenance hardened and he said, “I was alone.”

  Morris excused Stuart Meath and called no other witnesses. As was often the case in such inquests, the Coroner left little doubt in the minds of the members of the jury of his own conclusions as he explained their options in returning a verdict. Thus, nearly every head in the room nodded a few moments later when the jury proclaimed a verdict of ‘murder by a person unknown.’

  XII. Whitby

  The River Esk winds its way from west to east in north Yorkshire, eventually emptying into the North Sea at Whitby. The town emerged as a fishing port in the Middle Ages, being situated in a deep valley at the mouth of the river. Modest houses of brick and stone lined the narrow, steep streets.

  It was in Whitby, twenty miles east of Danby, that young Archibald Levering grew up in the late nineteenth century. He never knew his father. His mother, Maisie, spoke little of him and Archibald learned at an early age not to ask questions, as it would upset her to the point of tears.

  Archibald spent much of his time at the docks, watching and listening to the fishermen. He overheard their stories of whaling trips in the North Sea and he snuck into the back of the dilapidated, smelly taverns to catch their tales of adventure…and women. Left to herself, Maisie cried in the loneliness of their cottage at the prospect of losing her son at an early age, just as she had spent far too few years with his father, the only man she ever loved.