“Have you found the blackmailer?”
Silsbury frowned. “I haven’t given up on that motive, Stewart. I suppose Parker could be a good liar. That would help in his business, wouldn’t it?”
Charles nodded. “It would. So, what motive is at the top of your list now?”
The Inspector waited while a decanter of port was put on the table and the men watched Calvert walk away. Once all the glasses were filled, Silsbury said, “I’d like to know what dealings the Colonel had with a Mr. Archibald Levering, a shipping magnate in Whitby. Parker is somehow mixed up with him and I’m wondering now if Humphries was in the middle of it.”
“This Levering chap wasn’t in the war with the Colonel was he?” Charles asked.
“Nobody has said that he was.”
“Any thought of Malcolm Leatherby being involved?” Charles said, taking a drink and looking over the top of his glass for a response from Silsbury.
He wasn’t disappointed when Silsbury’s face showed a definite reaction to the mention of the name. “As a matter of fact,” Silsbury said, interrupted by his own long sip of wine, “Mr. Leatherby has been seen in Whitby, asking about Levering.”
Charles contained his interest the best he could, but Bingham saw the familiar signs of excitement in his boss’s eyes.
“Really? Leatherby seeking out Levering. Intriguing,” Charles said.
The next day, Inspector Silsbury was in Danby on what he thought was going to be a day of relative leisure. He found himself eating lunch inside Furrow’s Inn, at a table in the corner that apparently was not reserved for one of the regulars, of which there were many. Silsbury listened without success for any gossip pertaining to the Colonel’s murder. On this day, at least, the health of the crops was more important.
He had almost stopped paying attention when the sound of a familiar voice made his head turn towards the door with cat-like quickness.
“Good day, gentlemen. Wonderful summer’s day, is it not?” the voice rang out.
“Afternoon, Leatherby,” the proprietor answered. “The usual to drink today, sir?”
“Thank you, Charles. That would be fine.”
Malcolm Leatherby was seated at the bar before his eyes met the Inspector’s. A smile came to Malcolm’s face, but Silsbury was certain there was more than just surprise in his initial reaction. Malcolm rose and walked toward the corner table, with Silsbury noting the dust on the bottom of Leatherby’s dark suit pants and shoes.
“Been making sales calls in town, Mr. Leatherby?” the Inspector asked, pointing to an empty chair that Malcolm quickly used.
“That’s right Inspector,” Malcolm replied.
“And how’s Miss Bishop?”
“Haven’t talked to her today and I’m not sure time will permit,” Malcolm said.
A mug of beer was delivered to Malcolm and Silsbury took the final bite of his lunch.
“When was the last time you were in Whitby?” Silsbury asked tersely.
Malcolm took a drink and said, “It’s not a regular stop, Inspector, but I would like it to be. I’m sure there’s some potential there for my business.”
“And who do you think would be the most influential people in Whitby at the moment, Mr. Leatherby?”
The mug was quickly emptied by one third before Malcolm replied, “Oh, heavens, I haven’t been there nearly often enough to know the answer to that. I hardly know anyone in the shipping industry, so….”
“Perhaps Archibald Levering?”
Malcolm’s expression gave not a clue of his reaction to the name.
“Levering, you say?”
“Archibald Levering. Owner of the largest fleet in Whitby,” the Inspector said calmly.
“He might be the fellow I was told about by a local over there,” Malcolm said. “Never met him face to face, though. Are you saying I should?”
Silsbury pushed his plate aside and laid his napkin on the table, saying, “A salesman should be familiar with all the men in his territory who have money, Mr. Leatherby. Particularly if the man with the most money was also being pursued by other individuals who wanted him to invest it with them.”
“You know that to be true?”
“I suppose that to be true,” Silsbury said. “And George Parker is likely one of them.”
With neither man anxious to let the other in on just how much they knew, it was inevitable that one of them would end the conversation. Malcolm took the lead.
“Well, of course,” Malcolm said with a chuckle. “Old George can smell money like a hound. But I do appreciate the possible lead to a contact, Inspector. I’ll look this Levering fellow up the next time I’m over there.”
Malcolm shook the Inspector’s hand, acknowledged Mr. Furrow, and exited in the direction of Bishop’s Market. Silsbury paid for his meal and was on the sidewalk a moment later. Malcolm was nowhere in sight, but another pedestrian did catch the Inspector’s eye.
On the other side of the street, near the intersection with the high road, Silsbury watched Helen Meath enter the old hotel. Silsbury instinctively hugged the front wall of the Inn, trying to make himself as inconspicuous as possible while he continued his lookout. A couple minutes passed. Silsbury was still contemplating the possibilities of what he just saw when a second familiar face appeared from around the corner of the hotel, and George Parker walked briskly inside.
“Well, I’ll be,” he murmured to himself.
Silsbury purchased a newspaper and sat himself on a bench in the village’s central park, within view of the hotel entrance but sufficiently far enough away to remain unobtrusive. There, he waited.
In a small sitting room off the lobby of the hotel, made available to Parker at a moment’s notice via phone call or telegraph message thanks to a small gem gifted to the manager the previous year, Helen and Parker talked in hushed tones.
“Is your wife suspicious of where you were the night Colonel Humphries was murdered,” Helen asked.
Parker lit a cigarette and said, “Elizabeth knows better than to ask about that. She’s too frightened to question me.”
“You owe Alistair a huge favor, whether you know it or not.”
“Was he your excuse?” Parker questioned with a grin.
“And now he’s yours, too,” Helen replied.
After a short pause, Parker said, “Do you have the money?”
Helen played nervously with the material of her dress, stretched across the knees of her crossed legs, and then said. “I need to talk to our friend again.”
Parker saw the tension on Helen’s face and applied more pressure by saying, “Do the best you can. You, of all people, know the consequences of falling behind. And you don’t want anyone to get hurt, do you? If he causes any more trouble they will be using the money to pay for his funeral.”
“I’m not sure how much longer I can do this,” Helen said with a quivering voice.
“Be strong, my dear. But I’m running out of time.”
“I know,” Helen sniffled. “I know.”
“Now, how much longer can you stay?” Parker asked in a deliberately lighter tone.
It was half an hour before Silsbury saw Helen Meath leave the hotel and another five minutes until George Parker calmly strode around the same corner from which he appeared.
XIV. Out of Bounds
Bingham found Lord Stewart in the Stichen Manor study, intently studying a map of Yorkshire.
“Planning a trip, sir?”
“Actually, yes,” Charles said without looking up. “And you’re driving.”
“May I ask where to?”
“Bingham, we’re not going to solve the Colonel’s murder by roaming the grounds of this estate,” Lord Stewart said, finally raising his head. “We need information and we’re not going to find it here. Margaret is either a key to opening more doors for us or those letters have less significance than we both assume.”
The butler nodded. “Am I correct you also feel there’s a connection between the Inspector�
�s burnt page and her.”
“Don’t you?” Charles said.
“Not necessarily. Do you disregard Silsbury’s idea that the document could be related to his bribery theory?”
“I have reason to believe I am more correct,” Charles said, “but I need proof. I must admit, however, that the prospects of one of the guests that week holding something against another is pretty substantial. Does Levering fit into that puzzle? We need to find out.”
“Where do you plan to begin, my Lord?”
Charles tapped the map.
“Here’s Middlesbrough and here’s Whitby,” he said, moving his finger from left to right. “Here we are, right in the middle. It’s thirty miles from Middlesbrough to Whitby. We are going to visit churches; lots of churches, using Stichen Manor as our home base.”
“Very good, sir,” Bingham replied. “Looking for what?”
“Records.”
Bingham nodded.
“Oh, and be sure to put my golf clubs in the car,” Charles said as he folded the map. “We may need a break from the routine if we see some links along the way.”
Middlesbrough was a county borough northwest of Danby on the south bank of the River Tees. The nearby discovery of ironstone around 1850 resulted in mills and foundries dotting the horizon and shipbuilding soon joined the production of pig iron as part of the borough’s economy.
The working class town spawned churches, of course, and in the middle of the morning after Charles pronounced his plans, he and Bingham set off to visit them. They chose to start with the Cathedral Church of Our Lady Of Perpetual Succour, which had been standing some fifty years.
Once their desire to view birth, death, and baptism records was relayed to the proper authority by a kindly maintenance man, Charles and Bingham were led to a dimly lit, musty room in the lower level.
Charles asked for the books from 1880 to the present, and within a handful of minutes, the pair of visitors were browsing through frail pages.
“We’re looking, of course, for references to Humphries, Levering, or any appropriate name you believe may apply, Bingham,” Lord Stewart explained. “You know the major players. Don’t rule out any possibility.”
“You think the Colonel and Margaret were married?”
Charles flipped a page and said, “It seems likely, after reading the letters. But what happened? And when?”
“It would take a strong woman to live with the Colonel,” Bingham said.
Charles chuckled. “She’d have to have more of a backbone than me. I’d like to meet the woman who could tame him.”
It took over an hour to complete their review, without success. Two additional stops at smaller churches outside Middlesbrough proved just as fruitless. They called it a day by late afternoon and drove back to Stichen Manor.
The next morning was gray and foggy and a chill hung over the moors of north Yorkshire. It was a good day to be inside churches searching for unidentified clues, which Charles and Bingham did until lunch time. By then, they had travelled southeast as far as Glaisdale.
There was a single church and a single pub in tiny Glaisdale, and when Charles spotted the ivy-covered stone walls of the pub, he ordered Bingham to park the Daimler. The one lane village appeared deserted, so the jovial innkeeper that greeted the pair as they entered was a welcome sign.
“Gentlemen! Welcome! Passing through our fine borough today?”
“That’s correct,” Charles replied. “We were told we can’t be near Glaisdale without stopping at the Red Hen Inn.”
The short, rotund innkeeper chuckled at what he correctly presumed to be a total fabrication by Lord Stewart and directed his guests to a table closest to the fire. Then, he offered servings of veal and ham pie.
“That would be marvelous,” Charles agreed. “And there’s no need to tell the cook to hurry. The fire is refreshing.”
Glaisdale was eight miles from Whitby. For some residents of a village like Glaisdale, eight miles was farther than they would travel in a lifetime. But an innkeeper that close to a major seaport, in the business of running a pub and greeting new people, may very well have knowledge that a normal resident would not have. Lord Stewart and Bingham took a chance that it was their lucky day.
“Ask him if he knows Archibald Levering next time he’s here,” Charles said quietly to Bingham. “You’re much better at playing the part of the inquisitive traveler than I am. And since we’re alone in here, he might be more willing to gab.”
Moments later, when the innkeeper brought two plates with thick slices of the crusty, meat-filled pie, Bingham said, “Excuse me, sir, but we’re on our way to Whitby after lunch and wondered if you knew where we could locate a Mr. Archibald Levering.”
“Levering, ye’ say,” the man replied. “Yes. Yes, there is an Archibald Levering in Whitby. By the docks. Just ask any of the men down there. They’ll know. Everyone in Whitby knows Levering. Quite the history he has, from what I can tell.”
“How so?” Bingham asked. “Have a seat, if you’d like. We have time.”
The innkeeper dragged a wooden chair from the next table and sat while his guests ate.
“I knew the young man’s father better,” the innkeeper began. “Or at least the man married to Archibald’s mother, Maisie. Not real sure, now, whether he was the boy’s father or not, to be honest.”
“I think that marriage only lasted a short time. Dorothy could tell us if she was here. That’s my wife, ye’ see. Today’s market day for her. Anyway, Maisie and this Levering man weren’t married long. I heard once he didn’t want any part of raising a son.”
Neither Charles nor Bingham needed to prompt the proprietor. The story flowed just as fast as they devoured the meat and bread.
“Now, the old man’s death has been the talk of little Glaisdale ever since it happened. You gentlemen probably never heard of Beggar’s Bridge, have ye’?”
“Is that the one over the Esk?” Charles offered.
“Exactly!” the innkeeper beamed. “Just east of here. Built in the early sixteen hundreds by Thomas Ferris. Young Ferris was poor like most of us, but wanted to marry the daughter of a rich squire. He got on a boat in Whitby and sailed off to make his fortune.
“Now, the story goes that on the night he was to leave, there was one of our normal downpours of rain and the Esk got so high he couldn’t cross over to see his lover one last time. Well, Thomas Ferris DID make his fortune and returned to Glaisdale to marry the squire’s daughter.”
The innkeeper paused to make sure Charles and Bingham duly approved of his story, and then said, “So, he built Beggar’s Bridge so they would never be separated again.”
“Bravo!” bellowed Lord Stewart. “Intelligent chap, this Thomas Ferris.”
“So, where were we?” the innkeeper inquired with a perplexed look.
“Archibald Levering’s father,” Bingham offered.
“Oh, yes. Yes. Old man Levering, you see, was found dead one day floating in the Esk. Drowned, they say. But aught nobody here who thinks he wasn’t pushed off of Beggar’s Bridge.”
The innkeeper leaned back with satisfaction and Bingham looked at Charles. “How’d you miss being in on that one?”
“I think I am now,” Charles replied to the mystification of their host. “So somebody might have had reason to send Mr. Levering to an early demise?”
The innkeeper shrugged. “It was never solved. Treated like an accident. Poor Maisie raised the child by herself.”
Charles and Bingham waited until they were back in the car, driving to Stichen Manor, before Archibald’s name came up again.
“’Not real sure, now, whether he was the boy’s father or not,’” Charles said. “Those were his words and I tend to think he believes the old man wasn’t the father.”
“Or hopes he wasn’t the father,” Bingham added. “It makes for a much more interesting story.”
“Indeed. Indeed it does,” Charles said, staring out the window at the rolling landscape.
Charles’s demeanor was surely sour by the following afternoon when visits to three good sized churches containing adequate records turned up nothing of value.
“I have to apologize, my good man,” Charles said to Bingham on the outskirts of Whitby, “for making you sit in those dungy rooms, squinting at faint records that have nothing to do with why we are here.”
“It’s considered part of the job,” Bingham replied as cheerfully as he could. “There were plenty of reconnaissance missions during the war that gained us no new information.”
“Bingham! Stop the car! Isn’t that our friend Malcolm crossing the street?”
Bingham nodded. “Yes. It certainly is.”
“Hail him down,” Charles ordered.
A blast of the horn and a hearty shout brought Malcolm Leatherby to Charles’ side of the car. Charles lowered the window and said, “Good day, sir. Small world.”
“Indeed it is,” Malcolm answered, straightening his glasses. “What brings you to Whitby?”
“The fresh sea air. The smell of dead fish. All the things I miss inland. And you?”
Malcolm laughed. “Always the same. Prospective customers.”
“You work too hard, Mr. Leatherby. You need a hobby,” Charles said.
“Actually, sir, I recently took up golf and found a new links course along the coast just north of town. Do you play?”
“I play…but not well. Shall we try out the course tomorrow?” Charles inquired.
“My thought, exactly,” Malcolm said. “Is noon fine with you? It shouldn’t be crowded.”
“Splendid plan. We will meet you there. Just north along the coast, you say?”
“Follow the main road a couple miles. You can’t miss it.”
The dejection of failing in the churches was brightened considerably by the knowledge of an afternoon on the links, especially with a man Charles had plenty of reason to chat with. A more perfect scenario couldn’t have been planned, as far as he was concerned. And golf brought out the competitive nature in Lord Stewart like very few other endeavors. Hunting was similar, but he was much better at golf. He took more pleasure in defeating another man on the course than a defenseless animal.
The Enemy in Our Midst: A Lord Charles Stewart Mystery Page 9