by Plum Sykes
“Did you ever ask your husband why he had that address?”
“No . . . at the time I wondered if, you know, he was up to something, an affair . . . it seemed better to leave it alone. But looking back now, knowing Ian—he wouldn’t have been up to anything. I think he went that day and saw where Mary’s child lived.”
“Can you remember the address?” asked Nancy.
“Oh, yes. I’ll never forget it,” said Mrs. Crimshaw, “because at the time I remember thinking it was so odd that Ian would go all that way down south to Oxford without telling me. We didn’t know anyone who lived there. But what has all this got to do with poor Lady India?”
Chapter 35
Thursday: Evening
No. 4 Penny Farthing Place—the address that Mrs. Crimshaw had scribbled on a piece of notepaper for the girls—was a twee two-up, two-down cottage located midway along a tiny cobbled alley that ran along the back of St. Ebbe’s Street. A Victorian streetlamp just outside the dwelling lit the narrow pavement.
It was dark, almost eight o’clock that night, by the time Nancy had parked the Reliant Robin opposite the house. While Horatio snored away in the backseat, she and Ursula sat, watching the little house, waiting. What for, they weren’t quite sure. But they were absolutely, definitely waiting for something.
“You really think a ruthless throat-slashing killer would have such a cute house?” whispered Nancy, peering at the cottage.
“Where am I?” whined a distressed voice from the backseat.
“Ssshhhhh, Horatio,” ordered Nancy from the driver’s seat. “We don’t want the murderer to know we’re out here.”
“Murderer?!” he whimpered, sounding petrified. “What are you talking about?”
Ursula explained the state of play. The adoptive parents of Lord Brattenbury’s illegitimate heir had, possibly, once lived in No. 4 Penny Farthing Place. She was hoping against hope that they still did, perhaps with the adopted baby, who would now be twenty-two years old.
“Oh my God, someone’s coming out,” Nancy said. “Quick, hide.”
The three of them shrank as low as they possibly could in the car while still managing to see out.
“It can’t be!” gasped Ursula.
“That is insane!” chimed in Nancy.
“Surely not,” added Horatio.
The trio watched, mouths agape, as the Christminster night porter, Nick, and his mother, Mrs. Deddington, spoke briefly on the doorstep of the house. He soon left and she retreated back indoors.
Ursula whispered, astonished, “Look, Mrs. Deddington’s still in her funeral clothes. They must have just got back.”
Horatio was completely flabbergasted. “Am I to understand that you are saying, Ursula, that the Christminster College night porter is the illegitimate son of Lord Brattenbury? That Nicholas Deddington is the missing heir to the Brattenbury estates? Forty farms, two villages, ten thousand acres, and a garden square in Chelsea? Are you sure, Ursula?”
“Well—” she began.
“It’s definitely him,” Nancy interrupted her, an indisputable certainty to her tone.
“How can you be so certain?” asked Horatio.
“Oh, that’s super-easy,” she said confidently. “It’s all about hotness.”
“What?” guffawed Horatio.
“Look, the minute I met the night porter, I said he was literally as hot as JFK Jr. Remember, Ursula?”
“What on earth,” asked Horatio skeptically, “has the undisputed hotness of JFK Jr. got to do with all this?”
Nancy continued, “Lord Brattenbury had this photo by his bed probably from when he was in his twenties. He was on a boat, all breezy and tan. He looked exactly like JFK when he was young. I even said it out loud today. Lord B. and Deddington Jr. are literally identical when you really think about it. They’ve got the same sexy cheekbones, same thick Kennedy-ish hair. Gorgeous.”
“It’s true,” said Ursula. “Deddington Jr. does look incredibly similar to the handsome young Lord Brattenbury in that photograph.”
“So . . . are you saying you think the night porter killed India?” asked Horatio. “What a delicious twist that would be.”
“He certainly had motive—a huge inheritance, a grand title,” Ursula replied, “and opportunity. Nick Deddington claims he was in college all night on Sunday, working. It’s the perfect alibi.”
“It’s true that if he was prowling around the grounds at the dead of night, no one would have suspected anything,” agreed Horatio. “It’s his job, after all.”
“But wait,” interjected Nancy. “If he’d killed India, what would he have done with his bloody clothes when he had to go back to the lodge?”
“Easy enough to get rid of them,” said Ursula, “if someone was helping him.”
“You mean . . .” Nancy’s eyes drifted over to the Deddingtons’ house.
“Maybe,” replied Ursula.
“Sounds like Wenty’s off the hook,” said Horatio.
“I think it’s a little more complicated than that,” said Ursula. “He’s still got an awful lot of explaining to do. Geraldine Ormsby-Leigh insists he wasn’t with her. We still don’t know exactly where he was that night.”
“Maybe we never will,” said Horatio. “Wenty probably doesn’t even know where he was that night. He’s too drunk to know where he is most nights, after all.”
“Come on, Ursula,” said Nancy. “Mrs. Deddington’s at home. Let’s seize the moment.”
Before Ursula could do a thing about it, Nancy had sprung out of the car and was knocking on the door of No. 4 Penny Farthing Place.
“Go with her, Ursula,” said Horatio. “This could be the key to the story. I’ll keep a lookout.”
Ursula joined her friend on the Deddingtons’ doorstep. Nancy knocked, and a few moments later, Mrs. Deddington opened the door. She was in stockinged feet and looked tired, her black funeral dress only exacerbating the shadows beneath her eyes. When she saw the pair of them, she looked thoroughly spooked.
“What are you doing here, girls, in the dark?” she asked, her voice wavering.
“May we come in?” Nancy asked.
“Well, all right . . . but I’ve only just arrived back from the funeral.”
Frowning anxiously, Mrs. Deddington ushered the girls inside. They squeezed along a narrow corridor and into a small, neat sitting room. There was a bulky TV set in one corner, and the room was furnished with a matching three-piece suite upholstered in cheap flowery fabric. Ursula noticed various framed pictures of the family on the mantelpiece. There were snaps of Mr. and Mrs. Deddington with their son as a baby. There was Nicholas, smiling, gap-toothed, in school uniform. As a teenager, he was athletic-looking in football gear, his handsome features now apparent. The fact was, he didn’t look the slightest bit like either of his parents, thought Ursula. There was no denying it. He did have those Brattenbury cheekbones.
“I’m sorry to disturb you so late tonight, Mrs. Deddington,” she said apologetically. “But I want to talk to you about India.”
“I already told the police. I wasn’t in college on Sunday night,” replied Mrs. Deddington. Ursula thought she detected a guilty look come over the woman’s face as she added, “I was here all evening. Dynasty* was on.”
Dynasty? Hadn’t Mrs. Deddington said that she was watching Dallas, not Dynasty, when they were having Marmite on toast in the scouts’ mess? And when Deddington had said he’d spent Sunday night at the Eagle and Child, hadn’t he said it was because he hated Dallas? Ursula would have to check her notebooks when she got home tonight.
“It’s not about you, Mrs. Deddington,” Ursula told her.
“You might have said so,” she answered, looking suddenly relieved.
“It’s about your son.”
“Nicholas? What’s he got to do with any of this?”
“How old is Nick?”
“Twenty-two. Why?”
What an awkward thing to have to ask, Ursula thought to herself. She took a
deep breath, then said, “Does Nick know who his . . . It’s just, I was sort of wondering . . . does he know who his real mother and father are?”
Mrs. Deddington paled. She sank down onto the arm of one of the chairs.
“How do you know my boy is adopted?” she asked sharply.
“Long story . . .” said Nancy.
“He doesn’t even know he’s adopted,” said Mrs. Deddington.
“Really?” asked Nancy.
“We decided right from the start he’d never know. No point in complicating life for a young lad, is there?”
“Is there any way he could have found out?” asked Ursula.
Mrs. Deddington paused for a long moment. Finally, she said, “No one in our families ever knew. I lost my own baby, and Nicholas was . . .” She trailed off, sadly. “He came to us at the right moment. No one knew he wasn’t mine. But if Nicholas had somehow discovered he was adopted, he’d have told us, I’m sure of it. We’re a close family. But I can’t think how he’d ever have found out. No. It’s impossible, really.”
“So you don’t think he’s ever known who his real parents were?” asked Ursula.
“No. How could he? We don’t even know who they were. We weren’t allowed any information about them when we adopted him. Now, what has this all got to do with poor Lady India, anyway?”
“I’m not sure,” said Ursula. “I think I’ve made a mistake. I’m sorry we bothered you tonight.”
“So am I,” huffed Mrs. Deddington angrily. “Remember, Nicholas must never know about any of this. Ever.”
* * *
“If Deddington Jr. doesn’t know that Lord Brattenbury is his real father, how could he have a serious motive for killing India?” asked Nancy.
They were sitting cross-legged on the floor of Ursula’s room later that night, drinking tea and trying to warm up by the electric fire. Ursula had taken her notes about the murder from her folder and spread them out on the floor. Occasionally she wrote down a new thought.
“Maybe he does know,” she said.
“How?”
“I don’t know . . . Or maybe Mrs. Deddington does. Maybe she’s lying.”
“I can’t see it,” said Nancy. “She wasn’t even here on Sunday night, we know that.”
“The thing is, I’m starting to wonder about Mrs. Deddington’s story about Sunday night,” said Ursula.
“Why?”
“When we first spoke to her about the night of the murder, she said she was at home that evening watching Dallas. Just now, she said she was watching Dynasty. Dynasty’s not even on TV on Sunday nights.”
“That’s weird,” Nancy agreed. “I mean, how could anyone confuse Dallas and Dynasty? The clothes are completely different.”
“Exactly.”
“So, are you saying,” said Nancy slowly, “that you think that Mrs. Deddington is lying about Sunday night? That she wasn’t home after all? You think she does know who Nicholas’s parents were? That she killed India?”
Just then, there was a rap on Ursula’s door.
“Come in!” she called.
Both girls were startled to see Deddington Jr. pop his head around the door. Ursula covered her notes with her arm as subtly as she could.
“Evening, Miss Flowerbutton,” he said, smiling at her. “Actually, I’m looking for you, Miss Feingold—thought I might find you in here. There’s a telegram for you.” He handed a brown envelope to Nancy.
“That’s very kind of you,” she said.
“Good night, ladies,” he said.
The girls listened in silence as his footsteps faded away down the stairs.
“That was really weird,” said Nancy. “Do you think he could have heard what we were saying about his mom? Ugh. Spooky.”
“I know. Who’s the telegram from?” asked Ursula.
“Hopefully it’s Frank replying to mine,” Nancy said, tearing open the envelope.
She read the missive, then handed it to Ursula. The telegram contained just two words:
rubber glove
“I don’t get it,” said Ursula.
“The sodium dimethyl-whatty,” replied Nancy. “Frank’s saying it’s something to do with a rubber glove.”
“May I keep this?” said Ursula. Her mind was whirring. “I think it might be useful.”
“Sure.”
She tucked it inside her folder. “I think we need to get in to see Wenty tomorrow. We can’t properly rule him out unless we get the real truth from him about where he was late on Sunday night.”
“Do you think Detective Trott will let us see him?” said Nancy.
“I don’t know, but it’s worth a try.”
“It’s already nearly eleven,” said Nancy, getting up to go to her room. “I need to get some rest.”
After her friend had gone to bed, Ursula added to her notes, writing:
—Is Mrs. D. lying to cover up for her son? Or her husband? Was Mr. D. really at Eagle and Child on Sunday night? Deddington Snr. would, potentially, have had just as much motive as his wife to dispose of India.
—And, as if I am not confused enough already, what on earth is significance of “rubber glove”?
Chapter 36
Friday, 22 October, 1st Week: Morning
Wentworth Wychwood managed a tired smile when Nancy and Ursula walked into the interview room to which he had been brought that morning. Having spent the last couple of days in a cell in Oxford police station, he was unshaven and looked disheveled. The girls sat down on two uncomfortable plastic chairs at a table opposite Wenty while a constable remained by the door.
“Flowerbutton,” Wenty said gratefully to Ursula, “I knew you’d sort everything out.”
Ursula shook her head sorrowfully. “I have not sorted everything out. Your story about Geraldine doesn’t stand up.”
“What!” exclaimed Wenty. “But—”
“Wenty, Trott’s only allowing us twenty minutes with you,” Ursula interrupted. “We need to go over the details of your story again, as quickly as possible.” Then she dropped her voice, hoping the constable couldn’t hear. “There’s another lead.”
“What kind of lead?” asked Wenty.
“There’s an illegitimate heir to the Brattenbury fortune,” Nancy explained. “Lord Brattenbury told us when we were up in Derbyshire yesterday at the funeral. He called him ‘the illegit.’ Which I thought was really mean, by the way.”
“Are you saying that an illegitimate heir to Lord Brattenbury killed India so that he could inherit?” Wenty seemed dumbfounded.
“I wish it were that simple,” said Ursula.
“Trouble is,” added Nancy, “the illegitimate heir doesn’t know he’s the illegitimate heir. Or at least we don’t think he knows. Which means he wouldn’t have a motive for removing India.”
“So India had a brother?”
“Half brother. Before he married India’s mother, Lord Brattenbury got a local girl pregnant. Her name was Mary Crimshaw. She was the daughter of the village shopkeeper. But she died in childbirth and her baby boy was adopted. India never knew him,” explained Ursula.
“Actually,” pointed out Nancy, “that’s not quite true. India did know her half brother, but she didn’t know that she knew her half brother. In other words she had no idea that the guy who was her half brother was her half brother.”
Wenty looked exasperated. “You’ve lost me. Let me get this right. You’re saying that the illegitimate heir didn’t know he was the illegitimate heir, and that India knew the illegitimate heir but that she had no idea he was the illegitimate heir?”
“Exactly,” said Ursula.
Wenty shook his head. “I don’t see how I’m going to be any help in proving this theory of yours.”
“Let’s just go over what happened on the night of the party,” said Ursula.
“If I must,” he sighed.
“Wenty, you haven’t been telling the complete truth,” Ursula said.
“What do you mean? I’ve told you every
thing, even the embarrassing stuff,” he pleaded.
“You lied about Geraldine Ormsby-Leigh. She was on the sleeper from Edinburgh on Sunday night,” Ursula continued.
“Geraldine. Geraldine Ormsby-Leigh?! I didn’t say Geraldine, I said Gwendoline. Gwendoline Something-or-Other,” said Wenty. “Yes. That was it. Gwendoline Orr-Little. They all sound the same.”
“I’m sure it was a Geraldine you mentioned,” insisted Ursula.
Wenty looked sheepish. “Look, Geraldine and I—Okay. I think we did it once. But not on Sunday. Sunday was Gwendoline. I swear to God I didn’t spend that night in college, murdering my girlfriend.”
Nancy and Ursula looked at each other doubtfully.
“Wenty, if this turns out not to be true . . .” warned Ursula. She paused for a moment, allowing her words to sink in. She couldn’t help Wenty unless she knew he was telling the truth. “I think we need to go over the towel incident. I mean, the police are using it as their main piece of evidence against you, right?”
Wenty ran his hands through his hair. He looked frustrated.
“They’re saying that I killed India, in a fit of jealousy, with a champagne glass from my own party; that I then returned to my rooms, collected a towel with my initial on it, went back up to Dr. Dave’s rooms—without another soul seeing me, incidentally—where I mopped up the blood from India’s neck and then stuffed the towel up the chimney, hoping it would be burned the next time Dr. Dave lit his fire. I did explain to the police that, having been brought up in a freezing-cold country house heated only by open fires and a pathetic broken Aga, I am well aware that if you want to burn something you put it on the fire, not up the bloody chimney, where it has not a chance of burning to ash.”
“How did they take that?” asked Nancy.
“They said I was a fibbing toff,” he said despairingly. “But if I was going to kill my girlfriend, why would I do the deed and then go all the way back to my rooms—presumably covered in blood—to fetch a towel that identifies me? Someone put that towel there. Someone’s trying to frame me.”