The Enemy in Our Midst: A Lord Charles Stewart Mystery

by Conley, John E.

  Daphne rarely knew what to make of this man nearly ten years her senior. His intentions with her were obvious. Her request for more time to think about his proposal was now met by a plea to spend a weekend—maybe more—with him by the sea. For the first time since taking over the market, Daphne permitted herself the luxury of contemplating time away from it. She waited for that voice inside her that always said ‘No’ to speak once more. Daphne never heard the voice this time.

  “Hinderwell’s not far, is it?” she asked him to confirm.

  “We could be back in a matter of hours if necessary. Even less if we didn’t take the train,” he said hopefully.

  She couldn’t explain why this felt like one of the most important decisions she had ever made in her short life. For a moment she couldn’t look him in the eyes, and then she did.

  “I would like to go,” she said softly. “And I would like you to join me.”

  Malcolm leaped from his chair, but caught himself before taking the girl in his arms. Instead, he faced her and said anxiously, “Bless you, Daphne. I’ll get a message to my friend immediately and be back to let you know when we leave. Can you be ready soon?”

  “Can I have a couple days to let Ida know and make sure everything is taken care of at the market?” she asked.

  “That’s perfectly fine. Thank you, Daphne. You won’t regret this, I promise.”

  She smiled as Malcolm rushed from the office and across to the telegraph station to make his plans. Daphne sat on the desk, trying to sort out her thoughts and emotions for many minutes before Ida called for her and Daphne was brought back to the real world.

  Inspector Silsbury, meanwhile, also sat on the edge of a desk in a temporary office he was using and considered his options. Having assured himself that Charlie Mann was aboard a ship bound for Barcelona, soon after being informed by the solicitors that they considered Mann’s documents to be forged, Silsbury shifted his attention to Helen Meath. He knew now of the direct connection between Parker and her and he knew that Stuart Meath was well aware of the connection. Silsbury needed to weed out the bit players from the leading actors before issuing his warrants. He dared not move too quickly on Parker and let his minions escape.

  The Inspector wanted to interview Helen alone, away from the influence of her husband. That would be awkward enough without the additional knowledge that the chances of getting her to speak the entire truth were slim.

  Silsbury would not attempt to keep the interview secret at first. If the cable delivered to their house was rejected, he would seek more official means of talking to her. Fortunately, his strategy of sending the message during the day when Stuart was more likely to be gone worked. Helen replied that her only stipulation be that the Inspector pick her up the next day at her house. In the unlikely case that Stuart was still home, the Inspector could then announce the visit as an unscheduled call.

  All the scheming was unnecessary as Stuart worked as normal and Helen and Inspector Silsbury made the short trip to Whitby without Stuart knowing. As short as the trip was, the interview was even shorter.

  “Mrs. Meath,” the Inspector began once they were seated in an unused office of the police station, “Scotland Yard has been interested in the dealings of George Parker for a long time. It is my understanding that you may have some useful knowledge regarding him.”

  “I doubt it,” she said sharply.

  The Inspector coughed and said, “Let me not waste your time today. Is he blackmailing you, Mrs. Meath?”

  “Certainly not!”

  Silsbury stared blankly at her for a second and then asked, “Would you testify to that under oath?”

  “I would.”

  She heard him sigh.

  “Mrs. Meath, there is a strong belief among many people at the Yard that George Parker killed Colonel Humphries and Archibald Levering. The motive was likely money. If you or anyone you know are being blackmailed by him, you or they are in grave danger. A killer of his type, once or twice successful as he has been, feels confident they can continue to kill without ever being caught. He would not hesitate….”

  “You know nothing about George Parker,” Helen interrupted. “You may know his history in mining, but you know nothing about the man, Inspector. He is driven to succeed through hard work, unlike most policemen I know. George is competitive, as all good businessmen must be. But he is unquestionably not a murderer. I’m not sure how killing off prospective investors is good business, Inspector. Now, if you have someone available who can drive me home, I have more important things I need to do.”

  Silsbury was exasperated, yet somewhat happy he did not have to partake in another silent ride with this impenetrable woman. He wrote the day off as a failure and reflected on new avenues of attack.

  Some thirty five miles away, Lord Charles Stewart hoped to have better luck with another interesting young woman. At about the same time Silsbury was escorting Helen, Charles and Bingham were driving to Scarborough in search of the Hillcrest School. Bingham had been provided very few details of his master’s new friend, but he knew Lord Stewart well enough to know only a special woman would cause him to spend a day traveling unannounced to and from her place of work.

  It wasn’t difficult finding a local resident of the port town who could point them to the school. Bingham drove the Daimler up a short, steep lane until it leveled out and the U-shaped campus of the school lay before them.

  “Drop me off here, Bingham, and be back at this very spot at two o’clock,” Charles ordered as he climbed out of the car. “Have yourself a good lunch and a drink.”

  Charles reached inside the car and deposited a handful of coins in Bingham’s palm.

  “Thank you, sir. Enjoy yourself,” Bingham replied. “And good luck.”

  Charles grinned and, with walking cane in hand, strolled in the direction of the school’s entrance gate. Tall oak trees formed a line on each side of the stone walkway that led straight from the gate to the three-story, ornately designed, red brick main building at the opposite end of the central green. Three cottages housing children were on the right and two more were on the left. To Lord Stewart, these two-story, white stone buildings appeared clean, if not overly spacious.

  Not a sound could be heard besides the birds in the oaks and Charles’ cane on the walk. The peace and quiet was not what he had anticipated, but it was welcome, as he had a lot on his mind.

  Five concrete steps took him up to the giant door of the lodge. Only after pulling the door open did he finally hear voices; a mixture of adult and child voices. Charles removed his hat and inspected the ornate architecture of the space he stood in. It wasn’t quite like the inside of a manor; nor was it an office building. It was an odd fusion of the two.

  A very high ceiling captured the voices and rained them down on anyone in the space below. Footsteps echoed as in a cathedral and people began to appear from seemingly all directions, made possible by the abundance of hallways.

  Charles had not moved since taking his first steps inside, but a voice to his right made him turn that way.

  “May I help you, sir?”

  Charles bowed slightly to the middle-aged woman and said, “Perhaps you can. I’m looking for a Miss Mary Hastings.”

  A grin, almost mischievous in nature, crossed the woman’s face and she replied, “Yes. Of course. I can see if she’s available at this moment, sir. Would you like to take a seat?”

  She gestured towards a long bench behind her, above which hung the portrait of an elderly gentlemen who undoubtedly had something significant to do with the creation of the school.

  The woman began to turn, then looked back at Charles and said, “Should I tell her it’s Lord Stewart to see her?”

  This time it was his turn to grin and he said, “Yes, please.”

  Charles sat on the bench, watching and listening to the bustle of activity up and down the hallways. He was pleased with the fact Mary must have spoken about him to at least one of her co-workers following their first m
eeting. He could only hope it was in good terms that she spoke.

  A couple minutes passed with Charles expecting each set of footsteps he heard in the hallway to be Mary’s. But each time he was disappointed until, finally, she appeared from behind a door in the hall in front of him. She wore a flowery dress with a bow at the neckline and a thin, black belt at the waist. Charles stood and walked toward her, getting a better look at the surprised expression on her face.

  “Charles, how nice it is to see you again. But what on earth brings you to Hillcrest?” she said as they stood in the entranceway.

  “You said all you do is work and shop,” he said. “I’ve already witnessed you shopping so I decided to see you at work.”

  “Well, I’m afraid you chose a bad day for that. All I’m doing to watching over some of the younger girls. It would bore you to tears.”

  “Then perhaps the headmistress would allow you to be free for an hour or so,” Charles said. “You could show me the sights in Scarborough.”

  “But I…I mean…well, I could ask, I suppose. I do have a break for lunch coming up.”

  Charles smiled. “Tell her I will return you in due order. And well fed.”

  “Wait here, please,” Mary said, starting to turn away. “I mean, sit if you wish.”

  She nearly sprinted in the direction of the main office, her hair flowing behind her shoulders as if blown by a gust of wind. Charles watched her, content not to sit until she could return, hopefully with the approval to join him.

  It was a longer wait than the first one, but worthwhile when the beaming teacher appeared again with freshly brushed hair and more makeup than she wore a few minutes earlier. The bag hanging from her shoulder added to Charles’ confidence that she was bringing good news.

  “Mrs. Murgatroyd said I could go with you,” Mary told him. “I still can’t believe you are here.”

  “Only for as long as they will let me keep you. Shall we go?”

  He offered his arm and they walked out into the quietness of the green, with numerous sets of eyes following their every step from inside the lodge.

  “You know they are probably watching us,” she said quietly.

  “Then we should leave their sight. Where do you recommend?”

  “There’s a little café near the Futurist Theatre,” she answered. “Have you ever seen it? The theatre, I mean. It really is splendid.”

  “I have not had the pleasure. Do you enjoy the cinema?”

  “I do, actually,” Mary said. “Especially the thrillers and mysteries, although I suppose that is not very lady-like. I just saw The Passing of Mr. Quin. It was quite exciting despite all the people that kept dying in it. Anyway, Eleanor is happy in the end.”

  The guilty smile that crossed her face pleased Charles until Mary suddenly looked apologetic.

  “Oh, I hope I haven’t ruined it for you,” she said quickly.

  Charles laughed. “If I’m lucky enough to see it, I will forget everything you said. Now tell me, do you like mysteries really?”

  “Yes. I always try to guess who did it as early as I can,” Mary said as they headed down a sidewalk toward the waterfront. “It’s never the most obvious person, is it, Charles?”

  “Not in the films and books,” he replied. “But in real life? I believe sometimes the police make their jobs much more difficult by overlooking the most obvious people. They immerse themselves in motives and when they find one that fits the crime, they look no further than the first person they find that might have that motive. Meanwhile, the murderer goes along their merry way oblivious to law enforcement.”

  Mary glanced up at Charles and said, “You sound quite familiar with the way the police work.”

  Charles grinned. “It’s just a hobby.”

  “How thrilling. Please promise me you’ll include me the next time you know of a good mystery,” she pleaded.

  “It just so happens that when we finish our lunch, I may have an assignment for you, Mary.”

  She clutched his arm tightly and said, “Now I won’t be able to eat for excitement, Charles. The café is right down this street. You can see the theatre from here.”

  Indeed, the sign on the front of the two-story stone building housing the theatre was easily visible. A pair of stubby, pyramid-like structures on the roof made the building quite unique along the block and Charles found himself studying it intently until the bell of an electric trolley forced Charles and Mary to scurry away.

  “The café’s this way,” she said, tugging on his arm.

  Scarborough would never be confused with London, but compared to Danby it was a substantial city and one of the benefits was a plethora of fine places to eat. It was obvious to Charles as they entered the pleasant café of Mary’s choice that this was a step or two above Furrow’s Inn.

  The small round tables were mostly taken by patrons, but the host found them a place along a back wall.

  “Sorry we don’t have a better view, Charles. We came right at their busiest lunch time,” Mary said as she settled into the chair Charles held for her.

  “It’s quite alright. Nothing will now distract me from you,” he said, seating himself.

  “I wish you would stop being so chivalrous,” she told him. “I’m not used to it.”

  “Tell me what you are used to, Mary. I insist on not leaving until I know more about you.”

  Fortunately for Mary, she was delayed while the waiter listed the specials and Charles ordered coffees for both of them. When they were alone again, she said, “I’ve already told you, Charles, there is not much to know about me. I have an older brother and a younger sister who both live close to London. My parents live just north of here. My father was a teacher and I think that is why I wanted to help children so much as I grew up.”

  “But you have none of your own,” Charles said.

  “I believe I need a man for that and there hasn’t been a man in my life who made me want to have children.”

  She looked at Charles with a self-assurance he seldom saw in a woman. He had seen it most recently on the face of Daphne Bishop and thought briefly of the similarities between his two favorite female friends.

  Mary said, “But now it is your turn. Tell me what it’s like being the lord of a manor.”

  “Dreadfully boring, my dear,” he replied quickly. “The staff are all old hags, except for Bingham and there are only so many fish and grouse to keep one occupied. So, I think for now you should spend your time with a foul looking, stubby man who likes mysteries and children.”

  “You are not foul looking or stubby, Charles,” Mary replied. “But you are very secretive about yourself. You refuse to tell me anything noteworthy. And we’ve proven you are a liar. Shoes for your sister, indeed.”

  “I’d prefer that you called me crafty and not a liar,” Charles told her. “And going back to your original request for more information about being the lord of a manor, it gives me ample opportunity to get out and meet fascinating people like yourself. It’s my favorite part of the job.”

  The early lunch crowd began to leave and only those on a later schedule, such as Charles and Mary, remained in the café. The waiter took their orders and vanished back into the kitchen, a rather noisy place with the booming voice of what Charles assumed was the chef barking out orders and blasphemies in equal measure.

  “You’ve probably never had a real job, have you, Charles,” Mary said with a hint of sarcasm.

  “Oh, to the contrary. I was a correspondent for the Daily Telegraph during the war,” he said proudly. “Assigned to the Seventh Battalion from right here in Yorkshire. Went everywhere they did. Got shot at and bombarded on a daily basis, all the while writing my stories with aplomb as if nothing was happening.”

  Mary rolled her eyes. “You are Lord Charles Stewart. You came no closer to the enemy than I did. What a storyteller you are.”

  “Just testing your attentiveness, my dear,” he said. “But you have just reminded me of one of the purposes of my being in S
carborough today.”

  “Yes?” Mary said.

  “Yes. The battalion had a reunion recently and the most unpleasant death occurred in the middle of it. A very good friend of mine was killed and I’ve taken it upon myself to help find the murderer, you see. I believe you can assist me.”

  Mary leaned forward just as the food arrived and could barely hold her tongue until the waiter left once more.

  “Please tell me, Charles. I’d love to help,” she said eagerly.

  Between bites, Charles told her, “I’m trying to find out what happened to a little girl that was given up by her parents at a very young age. This would have been around 1908 or 1909, somewhere around there. If I gave you the name of the parents, would you know where to start looking for information on the child? This almost certainly would have occurred in Yorkshire and most likely in the north. Is that enough information to start with.”

  Mary was already nodding.

  “I know plenty of people in other schools and orphanages,” she replied. “So does my father. Those people can then contact their friends and at some point we’ll find her. You can count on me, Charles. This is awfully exciting.”

  “You realize of course, Mary, that you are looking for a piece of a puzzle that could lead a man to the gallows?”

  “I understand,” she nodded. “Still, it’s very thrilling work.”

  Charles pulled an envelope out of his coat pocked containing a sheet with the names of Archibald and Ilene Levering on it. He handed it to Mary.

  With one mission accomplished, Charles spent the remainder of their time together building a relationship that he hoped would grow in time. The walk back up the hill to Mary’s school was delightful and he truly hated to leave her at the steps to the lodge. But with a wave she was gone and Charles smiled as he turned to keep his appointment with Bingham.

  XXIV. Enough Killings

  Helen Meath sat at Alistair Cooper’s kitchen table with Stuart nowhere to be found outside. Her husband was many miles away and Helen took advantage of it for a daytime walk to see her neighbor about important business.