The Enemy in Our Midst: A Lord Charles Stewart Mystery

by Conley, John E.

  “What was Lord Stewart doing when you saw him?” Silsbury asked.

  “He was at the Colonel’s big chair, by the desk. He looked at me as calm as ever and said the Colonel had been murdered. Then I think he asked me if I had seen anybody come or go from the library, if I remember correctly,” Calvert said.

  “It’s OK, Calvert. I know it’s been a while and things happen quickly that you might remember differently.”

  “No, I’m actually quite certain now that is what happened.”

  “And then?” Silsbury prompted him.

  “Then he asked about a doctor and the police, I believe. He ordered me to contact them and I said I would. So I left the library to make the calls.”

  “Go on,” Silsbury urged.

  “On the way to make the phone calls I saw Mr. Parker in the hall, sir, and I…I…well, I told him what had happened. Maybe I shouldn’t have, but….”

  “George Parker was in the hall? What was his reaction when you told him, Calvert?”

  “Oh, he looked surprised, to be sure,” Calvert said. “Then I went to the phone and I think he went towards the library. Oh wait, I remember that Lord Stewart also wanted me to get his man and send him to the library, so I did that first. Then I made the phone calls. My mind was spinning, sir. I’m sorry if I can’t remember everything just right.”

  “Things are hectic at first, Calvert. I’ve talked to eyewitnesses in other cases that couldn’t remember a single thing because they were so flustered. You did fine.”

  In fact, Calvert had cemented the Inspector’s new theory so well that by the time Silsbury was back in his office, he was prepared to issue the warrants. But he chose to wait until he had time to more closely consider how to approach his superiors with the news that he might have to arrest the son of a Duke and Duchess for murder. Or, he thought to himself, he could arrest Parker first and get him to implicate Lord Stewart, taking the onus off the Inspector completely.

  ‘That could work,’ he thought silently.

  Mary Hastings was also in silent meditation in an empty classroom of Hillcrest School. She was dejected over news recently received from an elderly friend employed at a nearby orphanage that nobody, including herself, had any recollection of the Levering’s child. Mary’s disappointment over failing at what was surely an important task assigned by her new acquaintance was very real. She hated the thought of having to tell Charles she had no news for him.

  Then she began to consider why she was so despondent to begin with. What caused her to care so much? Mary had been courted before. She had very much liked a man before. But this was different. She desperately wanted to please Charles with her investigative abilities. And she had nothing.

  Like Charles, Mary Hastings was born with more than a little effrontery. A roadblock was meant to be skirted gracefully while the progress continued. Mary didn’t have a cohort like Bingham to assist her, so she would have to do all the hard work herself. Soon, her dread was replaced by determination and she was able to plot a new course of attack in search of the orphan.

  As Mary knew from experience and as Charles had been told by Solicitor Lynwood Bell earlier, adoption was mostly unregulated, particularly before the war. Children were given up and reclaimed without a single record being kept. If a credible orphanage was involved, there was a greater chance that documentation existed. Quite often the rich preferred no paperwork. Other times, underprivileged children were abandoned at the doorstep in the middle of the night.

  She would begin by widening her search. She would call or wire messages to orphanages and schools from Whitby to Hull. Within a few days, she concluded, the word would be spread that the likeable teacher in Scarborough needed help.

  Unbeknownst to Charles and Mary, time was of the essence.

  Time was not immediately important to Daphne Bishop. After completing a filling, if not necessarily gourmet, dinner at the tiny pub near the Runswick Bay beach, she and Malcolm strolled along the sand of the half-moon shaped bay. The sun was setting behind the steep hill that held the cottages and a handful of other buildings. The sea was uncommonly calm, as was the young woman herself.

  Already she sensed in herself a releasing of tensions caused by the endless tasks of running a market. They chatted casually while walking, eventually turning back toward the cottages when the sun disappeared behind the hill, although plenty of light remained. The air was noticeably cooler when they got to Daphne’s porch and she invited Malcolm to join her in the chairs overlooking the sea.

  A single boat could be seen heading to the safety of Whitby. One or two other people were outside within their sight, but otherwise they were alone.

  Daphne wasn’t sure what made her think of the Colonel’s murder at that moment. Maybe it was never far from her mind. But in the quiet of Runswick Bay, she asked, “Malcolm, who do you think would ever want to kill poor Colonel Humphries? And Mr. Levering? Do you think the murders are related?”

  Malcolm stared at the sea for a short while before answering, “I’m afraid, Daphne, that someone from the Seventh Battalion has to be guilty of at least the Colonel’s murder. I don’t see how anybody else could have gotten in or out without being noticed. Of course, one of the servants could have done it, but that seems unlikely.

  “No, I believe one of the men that was there for the reunion is hiding a dreadful truth. Humphries was easy to dislike, you understand. I suspect you never saw him at his worst. He was always kind to women, especially young, pretty ones.”

  Daphne grinned but didn’t respond.

  Malcolm continued: “Cooper took the brunt of the Colonel’s anger during the war, but I must say that George Parker is a strange bird. I wouldn’t doubt for a second that he’s pushing several people to the limit in his quest for money. Parker doesn’t have Cooper’s temper, but he’s cunning in a dangerous way.

  “As far as the Levering chap, that’s really an odd one. It’s hard to imagine the murders aren’t related considering there hadn’t been one in this part of the country for years and years. And now there have been two. But why? Why would anyone outside his fleet want to kill him?”

  Daphne said, “I didn’t know him, of course. I feel sorry for his wife and children. I think Ida heard he had a wife. That would be an unthinkable thing to have to overcome so early in life. Well, at any age I suppose.”

  The conversation turned to lighter topics and soon Malcolm wished Daphne good night and returned to his cottage. Daphne went inside and quickly got ready for bed. It had been a long day. And, she was anxious for tomorrow to come with its promise of rest and relaxation by the seaside.

  XXVI. Opportunity

  “I have a nagging urge to look at those letters from Margaret again,” Charles told Bingham in the second floor sitting room of Stichen Manor. “I could be wrong, but maybe there’s something in them that makes sense now that didn’t at the time. Am I crazy to think that?”

  “It can’t hurt, sir. In fact, I think it makes sense to do just that,” the butler replied. “A word or two might trigger something now that didn’t then. It happened to us in the war quite a bit. We’d be looking at a report from one of our scouts for a second time and something jumped right out at us.”

  Charles nodded. “Yes, I think it’s time we visit Silsbury and have him pull the letters out of the evidence file for an hour or two.”

  Inspector Silsbury was more than happy to approve of Lord Stewarts’ official request to see the letters. Silsbury’s most recent theory on the murders had grown more favorable in his mind as the days passed and this would give him an opportunity to see Lord Stewart’s reaction to even the slightest hint of it. The Inspector had solved many a case using just such a technique and then watching the guilty party panic into saying or doing something that gave him away.

  Silsbury was all smiles and handshakes when Charles and Bingham arrived.

  “Welcome, gentlemen. Have a seat,” the Inspector said as they congregated in his office. “It’s been too long since w
e’ve put our heads together to solve these murders. Do you have anything new to report, Lord Stewart?”

  “Not a thing,” Charles replied, crossing his legs and leaning back in his chair. “Truth is, I haven’t spent much time on the cases and thought maybe I’d get back into them a bit. Unless you’ve already solved them, that is.”

  Silsbury didn’t believe Charles for a second and Charles knew as much.

  “You know how I feel, Lord Stewart,” Silsbury said. “Nothing has occurred that would sway me from believing Parker is our man. We’ve been watching him very closely—who he talks to and where he goes. He’s trying to squeeze every dime out of half of Yorkshire. Certainly, most if not all of the people at that reunion. I hope you are an exception, Stewart.”

  Charles smiled and replied, “I have no money to give him, Silsbury. I am the proverbial turnip.”

  “Hogwash,” Silsbury mumbled. “So, despite your alleged lack of efforts in the case, who do you think we should pursue?”

  “The person with the best incentive to commit murder.”

  Silsbury gazed at Charles for a long time after his response, waiting for more, which never came.

  The Inspector finally said, “And opportunity.”

  “Of course opportunity,” Charles acknowledged. “Combined, they are a powerful force.”

  “Who do you believe had the best opportunity in both cases?”

  Charles shrugged. “In the Levering affair, it’s impossible to say. He was likely killed in the middle of the night and put on the beach. The Colonel, on the other hand, has a limited list of suspects, supposing no stranger snuck in from outside the library who had previously obtained a knife from Meath.”

  Silsbury said, “Supposing that, they came in through the library door.”

  “Or someone the Colonel knew came in through the French windows,” Charles countered.

  “But you saw no one as you entered the house?”

  “I did not.”

  Silsbury said, “Lord Stewart, when I examined the library the French windows were locked. You are under the impression that the murderer exited that way. Both facts can’t be true.”

  “I can assure you I heard the banging shut of a door or a drawer upon my knocking,” Charles told him.

  “You had one exit covered and the other was locked.”

  It was Charles’ turn to stare. The Inspector did not flinch.

  “Inspector Silsbury, what exactly are you proposing?” Charles asked.

  “Opportunity, Lord Stewart. Opportunity.”

  Charles rose so abruptly from his chair that Bingham nearly had to catch it to keep it from toppling over.

  “Do you suspect ME? Tell me, Inspector! Do you?”

  “I suspect anyone in that manor at nine o’clock that evening, sir. That’s who I suspect. Any number of people had good reason to kill the Colonel. But how many had the opportunity, Lord Stewart?”

  Charles stepped forward and put both hands on the edge of the Inspector’s desk, leaning forward as he did.

  “You, sir, are a disgrace to your profession. A very good, personal friend of mine, who had no reason to die, was murdered in his own home and you have the audacity to accuse me,” Charles barked. “You have no idea what these cases are about and you are clearly at a loss at who to blame. I will finish this job for you, Inspector, and you can thank me later. Keep the letters. They will be needed in the trial of the murderer, during which I will be a witness and not the defendant.

  “Let’s go, Bingham. I believe we are through here,” Charles declared before storming out of the office.

  An irritated Lord Stewart telephoned Hillcrest School the following morning, finding that the mere prospect of speaking to Mary Hastings greatly improved his demeanor. As happy as Mary was to accept his call, she was worried about having to tell him that little or no progress had been made in finding the Levering child.

  “That’s alright,” Charles assured her after her initial admission. “I still want to have lunch with you and talk. New circumstances have come to my attention that affect what you are doing. Can we meet at the café?”

  Mary readily agreed, not even attempting to get Mrs. Murgatroyd’s approval until after the call was over. Despite the scowl on the principal’s face, Mary saw a gleam in her eye that made her confident the old woman would approve of almost anything Mary asked if it involved Lord Stewart.

  It was a particularly gray, rainy, and blustery day in Scarborough as Mary walked down the hill under an inadequate umbrella, leaning into the wind coming in off the sea. Her hair fluttered behind her until it got too wet and began adding to the water dripping off her coat. She was almost embarrassed to enter the café by the time she arrived.

  Indeed, Charles had to withhold a chuckle when he saw her lower the umbrella and reveal her true condition.

  “I must look like a lost dog,” she moaned. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Don’t fret. I’m a little soaked just like everybody else,” Charles exclaimed in his attempt to appease her. “It can’t be avoided today. Of course, you could have denied my wish to lunch with you, but that would be worse than drowning.”

  Mary smiled and said, “So I get to lunch with you and drown. Lovely.”

  Charles held her seat and then took his own across the little table from her.

  “Jest if you must, my dear, but we have serious business to discuss today,” he told her.

  They were interrupted by the waiter and Mary could sense Charles’ impatience through the ordeal of ordering. Once the server was dispensed with, Charles began again, leaning forward with his hands together in front of him.

  “You’ve heard me talk of Inspector Silsbury of the Yard, I believe.”

  Mary nodded.

  “Well, the man is an ass. Excuse my language, but he is. He has it in his head that Parker and I acted together to murder Colonel Humphries and Mr. Levering.”

  Mary gasped loudly. “Charles! You can’t be serious?”

  “I am. And he is. Mary, it’s because he cannot solve the murder with the facts he has right now,” Charles said. “That’s where you come in. It is exceedingly important that we confirm what happened one way or the other to the child the Leverings gave up. I’m asking you to redouble your efforts to find out anything you can. Reach out to anybody you know who might have even the slightest link to the adoption of that child. Ask them twice to think…to try to remember anything that might help.”

  Mary’s face showed the anxiety she was feeling in the pit of her stomach. She had wanted so much to be a part of his sleuthing, but she never expected the pressure to be this overwhelming. It had sounded like fun. Now it was serious business.

  “Charles, you know I will,” she replied. “But I think you understand there simply may not be any records.”

  “I don’t need a piece of paper, Mary, if we can find someone who was there. Even someone who knows someone who was there that can provide us with any information about the girl,” Charles said. “Otherwise, an innocent man…or two…could hang.”

  “I’ll start on it this afternoon when my classes are done.”

  “Excellent,” Charles said cheerfully. “Now, tell me what else you have been doing.”

  Mary told him of new shows she had seen and a book she was reading. The meal was served and eaten much too quickly for her liking as Charles proved to be an excellent listener and she hated for their time together to end. But he promised her another visit in the near future and she returned to the school with a new assignment and a better appreciation of the man.

  A flurry of phone calls from Mary to every orphanage and school she could think of concluded her long day. She contacted friends long-since removed from the teaching profession, asking them to reach her if they could recall anything helpful. She called former masters of orphanages open at the turn of the century. It was nearly dark by the time she got home.

  The next day was hectic with several classes and problem children. Mary was more than a little
frazzled when she heard her name being called from the opposite end of the hallway containing Mrs. Murgatroyd’s office.

  “Mary. Mary Hastings. There’s a message for you,” the voice rang out.

  She was met halfway by one of the school’s volunteers who handed Mary a sheet of paper.

  “This woman said to call her. Something about a missing child.”

  Mary looked at the paper.

  “Did she say anything more?” Mary asked eagerly. “Did she give the child’s name?”

  “No, miss. Just her name and a number.”

  Mary nearly ran to her room where she could talk on the phone in private.

  XXVII. Runswick Bay

  Peter Renshaw cared very much about the satisfaction of the renters of his cottages. His attention to them rose even more dramatically when they were young, single, and attractive women. Daphne Bishop met those criteria, but she came with a limitation most other women like her did not. She was accompanied by a man who Peter might need as a friend in the future. It was a game he was going to have to play very carefully.

  Malcolm had told him about Daphne’s somewhat unique role as operator of a good size market, at least by North Yorkshire’s standards. But that was all Peter knew about the industrious girl.

  His plan, on the first full day that Daphne and Malcolm were there, was to make as many visits to the cottages as it took until he saw her and could talk to her. Instead, Daphne came to him.

  She arose that morning not long after the sun appeared over the North Sea. It was chilly, but calm. There was no sign of Malcolm and, being used to eating breakfast at home, she decided to make the walk up the hill to the hotel’s dining room. Daphne didn’t go with the sole intention of meeting Peter, but wouldn’t be disappointed if it happened.

  Daphne slipped on a coat over her sweater and wool skirt and headed out onto the dirt road leading up to Hinderwell. Scrub and rocky outcroppings kept her on the narrow path created by the few cars that used it. Old row boats with gaping holes in the hulls sat like monuments next to stone shacks. Except for the gulls and her shoes crunching the sandy dirt, hardly a sound could be heard.