The Enemy in Our Midst: A Lord Charles Stewart Mystery

by Conley, John E.

  Finally the woman grinned and Charles felt his heart pounding.

  “Is she tall? That’s a long heel for a tall girl,” she advised.

  “No. No, rather short like me,” Charles said. “We dream of being tall.”

  “Don’t we all.”

  “Perhaps you could try this on so I can see how it looks,” Charles appealed. “If you don’t mind, of course.”

  The woman easily slipped off her pump and slid her foot into the shoe Charles provided. He watched every move she made and marveled at the ease with which she made the switch. The shoe brought her up to his height exactly and Charles forced himself to look down from her adorable face.

  “Yes. That would do her quite nicely, I think,” he said. Only I’m not sure of the size. I’ll need to come back, I’m afraid. Meanwhile, I’m keeping you from shopping. I’m so sorry for intruding."

  “Not at all,” she said. “I’ve all day to myself.”

  “Then you are free to have lunch with me,” Charles said without hesitation. “I owe you at least that much for modeling.”

  “Not without an introduction first. I’m Mary. Mary Hastings.”

  “Lord Charles Stewart, Ms. Hastings. My pleasure, I’m sure,” he said with a bow and tip of the hat. “Is Furrow’s Inn satisfactory?”

  Mary was not often speechless, but she recovered quickly from hearing the title of the oddly engaging man.

  “It is. Yes,” she replied. “Lead the way Lord Stewart.”

  “Call me Charles, if you will, Ms. Hastings.”

  “And Mary, if you will.”

  The pair left the amused clerk behind and exited the store in the direction of the inn, which had become a regular destination for Charles. A day that he had previously determined as near perfect in weather was quickly becoming near perfect in all regards. Mary rejoiced silently in her sudden change of fortune, finding herself escorted by a seemingly pleasant, not disagreeable looking, gentleman.

  “Furrow’s Inn is a bit rustic, if that’s the right word,” Charles told her. “Have you frequented it before?”

  “I have not.”

  “Then if you find it unsuitable, we’ll move on,” he said.

  “You’re from Danby, then.”

  “Not actually,” Charles replied. “Just visiting.”

  By then they were entering the inn and the owner ushered Charles and Mary to a table by the front window.

  “Tea for both of us, sir,” Charles told the proprietor.

  When they were left alone, Mary asked, “Are you visiting friends or family?”

  Charles grinned and replied, “Friends, mostly. It began as a reunion of old war buddies, but…well, it’s a very long story that I won’t bore you with, Mary. Instead, tell me where you reside and what you do.”

  A pot of tea and cups were delivered, with Charles pouring his new friend’s portion before letting her answer.

  "I’m from Scarborough. I’m a teacher at Hillcrest School in that city,” Mary said. “You may not have heard of it. It’s for orphaned and poor children.”

  The interest he showed surprised Mary a little and then he said, “Orphans, you say. Then you are an expert in some ways about how that system works.”

  Mary finished taking a sip of tea and put the cup down. “In some ways, I suppose. But I’m not an expert. My duties are confined to teaching.”

  “I will want to talk to you again in the near future on the subject, Mary. But today is not the day. Tell me about you.”

  “You really do want this to be a short lunch, don’t you,” Mary answered, “because there is very little to tell. I’m not married. I teach. I shop. That is my life.”

  Charles smiled. “I believe you are not telling me everything. You are pretty and intelligent and likely have hobbies that would put the rest of us to shame.”

  Mary laughed for the first time and it delighted Charles to see her blush. “Thank you for the compliments, Charles. I don’t meet many thoughtful gentlemen at Hillcrest and my only true hobby is reading what few books I can afford or can get my hands on otherwise. You, on the other hand, can likely fill the afternoon with stories of what you have done and where you have been.”

  “I could fill a lunch, perhaps,” he said. “Speaking of which, what would you like to eat?”

  “Soup would be good, if they have it,” Mary said.

  “Charles! The soup of the day and cottage pie,” Charles announced.

  “We have a fish soup, sir.”

  Charles looked at Mary, who nodded, and the soup was ordered.

  “I live at Balfron Manor, a bit south of here,” Charles told her. “I dabbled some in reporting during the war, but it’s not a profession for me or any other sane person. Now I golf and hunt and pester the local police whenever an interesting case arises.”

  “It must be nice to have that much money,” Mary said. “I don’t begrudge you, please understand. But my life is much different.”

  After a short pause, she asked, “Have there been any interesting cases lately? I’ve heard people in Scarborough talking about the awful murder of a young man in Whitby who was in shipping.”

  Charles nodded. “Yes, poor Mr. Levering. I’m only faintly familiar with it.”

  He chose not to use this first meeting with the charming teacher to divulge his true involvement. Hopefully, there would be plenty of opportunity in the future for that.

  “He left a wife, but fortunately no children, I understand. Murder is such a dreadful thing,” she lamented. Then with a more cheerful tone, she said, “Tell me about your family. You have a sister at least.”

  Charles chuckled. “Actually, I do not. But how else was I to get you to try on that shoe and pay even the tiniest attention to me?”

  “Ah!” Mary gasped. “So you lied to me from the very beginning. Now I won’t believe a word you say, Charles. Tell me other lies about your family.”

  He recognized her teasing tone and replied, “My parents live in Yorkshire and I have cousins scattered through England and Scotland. I live by myself, except for my man Bingham, who keeps me in line at all times.”

  “I’m sure it’s a full time job,” Mary said mockingly.

  “I shall not let him meet you because he is young and handsome and in wonderful shape. He’s much too tall for you, however.”

  Mary giggled and said, “If I eliminated all men taller than me, I would be single forever.”

  “Do you plan to marry?”

  Mary shrugged. “Perhaps. I’m happy now and am in no hurry.”

  “Good for you,” Charles told her. “But keep an open mind, especially when it comes to older men.”

  Mary was still smiling as their lunch was delivered.

  XXII. Growing Suspicious

  Mary Hastings may have wanted to have a conversation with Elizabeth Parker before committing herself to any man of any height or age. Elizabeth spent the past twenty years obeying her husband and remaining quiet despite an ever-growing compilation of George’s transgressions. She was with him when he plotted against Stuart Meath’s father. She was with him when he trampled the hopes of other well-intentioned businessmen who stood in his way. She was still with him now, as he fearlessly blackmailed acquaintances.

  It was taking a toll on the timid woman. She had heard Stuart’s angry words to George that night in the house and she was afraid. The thought of living without George, despite his faults, was too much for her to bear.

  For the first time in her life, she was going to confront him; question him; and, demand answers. Two days passed before she summoned up the courage, but finally she faced him.

  George sat in the study of their home, a room heretofore reserved for his sole use and seldom the scene of a serious talk with Elizabeth. But his head turned when he heard the door open and she entered. Without a word from either, she closed the door and approached the desk he sat at.

  “George, how long do you think it will be before we return to South Africa?” she inquired with an unce
rtain voice.

  George looked up and calmly answered, “I have work to do in Yorkshire, Elizabeth. I wasn’t planning a return trip soon.”

  She had both hands on the back of an extra chair across the desk from George.

  “How much money do you believe is enough for us?”

  He looked at her with surprise and said, “What on earth makes you ask that, dear?”

  “Why do you insist on blackmailing people that can’t harm your business, even if they wanted to?” Elizabeth said.

  George was staring at his wife with an expression she had never seen before; a look of complete astonishment. Then, it turned into something she had seen before. Pure anger overtook him and his cheeks turned red.

  He pounded the desk, saying loudly, “What right do you have to come in here and accuse me of that, Elizabeth? My business dealings keep you in this comfortable home, plus others on two continents. How dare you question how I provide for you.”

  “I heard Stuart Meath. I believe he is not the only one you are extracting money from with force,” Elizabeth said. “Call it what you will. I’m asking you how much longer it will go on. Why can’t we simply move back to Johannesburg where the money we have now will last us forever?”

  She was nearly in tears and George’s anger had not lessened. He rose from his chair, pushing it backward with such force that it nearly toppled over. George walked around the desk and grabbed Elizabeth by the arm while she leaned away from him.

  “We’ll leave this country again when I say we’re ready. Do you understand? Until then, I suggest you keep your personal beliefs to yourself,” he said indignantly.

  Every ounce of her being told Elizabeth to leave the room. But she knew she may never build up the courage to confront him again, so she asked, “Who were you with that evening when the Colonel was killed, George? And that man in Whitby. Where were you that night? What do you expect me to think when you won’t tell me what you are doing and I see and hear these things happening all around us. Blackmail is bad enough, but….”

  George struck her with his open hand so hard she would have fallen had she not clutched the back of the chair at the last second. Her tears began to flow.

  “You can accuse me of taking the money rightfully owed me as part of my business. You can accuse me of bullying people that deserve to be bullied. But when you accuse me of crimes I had nothing to do with, I will not tolerate it,” he hissed. “You can leave me any time you wish, Elizabeth. Find a nice, quiet failure like Leatherby, who will never amount to anything, and live your comfortable life on the moors. In fact, he seems rather desperate to find a wife. Go to him if you aren’t happy with me. But don’t ever again blame me for murders I didn’t commit.”

  “Tell me where you were, George,” she sobbed.

  He turned from her, fearing what he would do if he didn’t. George took three steps, stopped, and faced her again.

  “Elizabeth, I will tell you this just one time. Do not interfere with my plans. I won’t let anybody get in my way this time, including you. That is my final warning. Now, get out of my study!” he demanded.

  Elizabeth would have never provoked George in such a way had she not convinced herself it would help and she would feel better afterwards. Neither of those things happened. She spent the next day alone, deep in thought, realizing her marriage was now in jeopardy and her suspicions of George’s involvement in the two murders was no less resolved.

  It was no use going to Inspector Silsbury without evidence, but she believed Lord Stewart would listen and offer sound advice. She cabled him and he gladly invited her to Stichen Manor for a meeting the following day.

  It was a gloriously warm and sunny day when Elizabeth arrived at the manor. She allowed Charles to take her arm as they strolled down the hill behind the mansion to sit at a table in the shade. Calvert brought a supply of refreshments as the friends chatted and soon Elizabeth brought up the reason for her visit.

  “Lord Stewart, you are the only one I trust with this information and I’m asking for your advice,” she said. “It concerns George and his business, but might be so much more. I need your help. Can you assure me this conversation will remain confidential?”

  “That depends on the information you provide, of course, Elizabeth,” Charles replied. “But understand that I have no more obligation to the police than any other citizen. Tell me what you desire to tell me and we will discuss what to do. Is that fair?”

  “Most certainly. Thank you,” she acknowledged.

  Charles saw her demeanor become more comfortable as she leaned back in her chair. Elizabeth seemed to take a deep breath and then she began.

  “George is not an evil man. I’m thoroughly convinced of that,” Elizabeth said. “But he takes the mining business very seriously and he doesn’t let anything or anyone get in the way of his success. He speaks of plans he has for the future. Lord Stewart, what more do we need? I asked him ‘how much money is enough’ and he told me I have no right to question him.”

  “Besides the profits from the mines, how does he make his money?” Charles asked her.

  Elizabeth fidgeted with her sleeve and did not look up at Charles for a considerable time. Then she said, “This is where I ask your indulgence, Lord Stewart. I don’t trust that all of his money is obtained legally. I have reason to believe he is blackmailing people we know. How many, I can’t tell you?”

  Charles nodded.

  “You realize the Inspector was ordered to investigate that even before the death of the Colonel, don’t you?” he said.

  “Of course,” Elizabeth replied without pause. “At least, I do now.”

  She leaned forward and said with renewed energy, “A life without him is unimaginable. When things are going well, which is normally the case with George, he treats me royally, lavishing me with gifts or instructions to shop to my heart’s content. But his anger is showing more and more lately, as if he’s approaching a breaking point of some type. It frightens me, Lord Stewart, and I don’t want more people to get hurt, nor for our life together to end.”

  Charles said, “Do you have knowledge of his involvement in the murders of the Colonel or Mr. Levering?”

  Elizabeth nearly gasped. “Oh, no. I didn’t mean to imply that at all, Lord Stewart. I simply meant he seems intent on ruining people’s lives for no good reason other than greed. I’m begging you to help me find a way to make it stop.”

  Charles nodded, convinced of Elizabeth’s sincerity in her belief that George was innocent of murder. Charles did not consider her a good enough actress to falsify her last statement without giving herself away. Elizabeth Parker was not a complicated woman, he thought to himself.

  “Mrs. Parker, I think I can help with that,” Charles said calmly. “Perhaps I can have a private meeting with him. I’ll weigh the advantages and disadvantages of including the Inspector in that meeting.”

  Elizabeth said with a look of concern, “Thank you, Lord Stewart, but is it really necessary to bring the Inspector into it? Can’t you talk to George as a friend?”

  Charles smiled. “Let me think about it.”

  The pair walked the grounds after that, discussing much less delicate topics before Elizabeth Parker went home to George.

  XXIII. Hillcrest School

  Malcolm Leatherby was not known as a man of rash decisions or erratic behavior. Just the opposite: the people who knew him best considered him deliberate and persistent. He set goals and pursued them until they were met or he determined them to be unreachable. Daphne Bishop’s recent rebuff of his proposal no more made him give up the thought of marrying her than a bad batch of berries would shut down her market. It was a setback, not a catastrophe.

  Just as Daphne would find new berries to sell, Malcolm devised a new approach to changing her way of thinking about marriage. He planned to get her away from Danby and the market and her customers. Malcolm was certain that sufficient time alone with her would convince Daphne the rest of her life should be spent with him.


  It was a Wednesday morning when he found her at the market, attending to a goodly number of customers. Malcolm slipped into the back room and impatiently waited, anxious to make his appeal and get her approval. The old, wooden chair he sat in was uncomfortable and grew more so as the minutes passed.

  Finally, she entered the office, wiping her hands on an apron.

  “Sorry to make you wait, Malcolm, but we got unexpectedly busy,” she apologized.

  “That’s the best reason to make me wait,” Malcolm replied. “Can I bother you for a moment now?”

  “Yes. Ida said she would listen for anyone new coming in.”

  “Good. I have a proposal for you and it’s not at all like the last one,” Malcolm told her with a smile. “So, there is no need to kick me out just yet.”

  “I didn’t kick you out,” Daphne protested. “Now tell me what you have to propose.”

  She leaned against a desk and crossed her legs at the ankles, supporting herself with her hands beside her on the desk. She blew a wisp of hair away from her face.

  “I propose that you take a vacation,” Malcolm said. “To a cottage by the beach in Hinderwell, overlooking Runswick Bay. Do you know the place?”

  A surprised Daphne replied, “I do.”

  Malcolm continued, “Just a few days, you see, as I know you’ll be concerned about the market. And since it is a friend of mine that will be supplying the cottages, I can rent two cottages at a reasonable cost and join you…if you’ll permit me, of course.”

  Daphne tried unsuccessfully to suppress a giggle. “You feel obligated to join me because of the savings involved. Of course.”

  “It only seems logical, don’t you think?” he said.

  She laughed. “Oh, quite. And what if I suggest I can save you even more money by accepting your offer of the single cottage and enjoying a few days to myself?”

  “I would sit in this office until you returned, imagining all the fun you could be having if I was with you,” Malcolm said. “I would see images of you sitting alone along the cliffs, your knees folded up to your chin, and a look of despair on your pretty face. Don’t put yourself through that, Daphne. Allow me to join you.”