Rupert folded the letter carefully and tucked it into the inside pocket of his jacket as he helped his wife clear the table. It was a chilly but dry November morning and, leaving Laura to occupy their daughter with some building bricks in the cosy morning room, he went into the village, ostensibly to pick up some fresh eggs from the corner shop, but actually with an interest in walking past the house to which the solicitor’s letter had referred. Claresby wasn’t a large village and from the manor house – which stood on the eastern corner, close to the church – it was only a brisk walk into the centre, which incorporated a few shops and a pub next to the village green, and out the other side to where The Red House stood in a rather isolated position. It was a handsome rather than a beautiful house, taking its name from the red bricks with which it was constructed. It had a Victorian appearance, large windows and an imposing front door with a stained glass panel in a tiled porch. As would-be proprietor, Rupert took the liberty of opening the little gate and walking up the path, taking in the overgrown garden and dilapidated appearance of the main building. The former occupant had given the impression of being rather eccentric, and the whole place exuded an air altogether unwelcoming. The only thing that struck Rupert favourably was the pleasant view which the house commanded across the lane and over the fields to the low hills beyond.
As it happened, on the way back from his visit to The Red House, Rupert encountered Veronica Dahl. She gave him a friendly smile.
“Good morning, Rupert. It’s a nice day for a stroll. I’ve been doing my parish rounds. Carrie Floyd has a new baby: a little girl called Tiffany.”
Rupert fell into step with his friend whose beauty and feminine appeal were undimmed by the fact that she wore a clergy shirt and dog collar with plain black trousers. After a brief exchange about the weather he asked,
“What do you know about Gordon Hodge, former resident of The Red House? I’ve just been taking a look at the place.”
“Very little: he was private to the point of being reclusive. When I held his funeral the only people present, apart from myself, were Keith, Bernie Smith – his solicitor – and old Annie Hart, who has attended almost every Claresby funeral for the last thirty years. Oh, and Vince, who had done the digging.”
“Laura mentioned that you and Keith visited him in his last months.”
“Well, Keith was his GP, so his visits were mainly professional, although I know he did do a few jobs about the house – Gordon got very upset if things weren’t just-so. My visits were professional too, but I tried to keep an eye on him and took a bit of shopping in from time to time. He was a very courteous gentleman and seemed grateful for the help. I even got the odd cup of tea out of him, but he never opened up to me as some people do, particularly in a final illness.”
“He never mentioned any family, then?”
“No. There were a couple of photographs in the house, but I think they were of the previous owner; or so he said.”
“Is there anyone in the village who might know anything about his past? – he must have been living here for decades.”
“Well, as it happens, I’m just calling in to see Annie. She’s lived in Claresby all her life and never misses a thing. She’d be absolutely thrilled if you asked her to delve into her memories. Why the interest, by the way? – there wasn’t the slightest hint of his death being anything other than nature taking its course.”
“Just that I’ve learned that he left me his house: I rather wonder why.”
Veronica raised a quizzical eyebrow. “I didn’t know that you were acquainted with him.”
“I wasn’t,” admitted Rupert, “other than bumping into him on the occasional walk. That’s why I am curious about what made him tick.”
“Well, let’s see what Annie has to say. She’ll be delighted to have you drop in on her.”
Annie’s little cottage looked out onto the village green and was as near to the centre of Claresby as it was possible to be. For someone of Rupert’s stature the low beamed cottage presented all sorts of hazards and, other than when he was sitting down in one of the sagging settees in the crowded little room, he was virtually stooped double. There was a merry fire blazing in the grate, and a couple of tabby cats came to wind round their legs and present their ears to be tickled. A quick glance around revealed a collection of ornaments and a number of magazines; but although the old lady had a radio, there was no sign of a television – Claresby village provided her with all the entertainment she needed. It was as well that Rupert had the insatiable appetite of a young man with a large frame and very little flesh to fill it, so that the two slices of Dundee cake and a scone lavished with jam which accompanied the cups of tea he was given proved no problem, despite his having eaten a full English breakfast little more than an hour before. Talk revolved around the more good-natured end of village gossip as Annie insisted that Tiffany Floyd, whom she’d seen the previous day, was the image of her great grandmother, who had been at school with Annie. At some point Veronica skilfully entered the name of Gordon Hodge into the conversation. This was all the encouragement Annie needed to divulge everything she knew.
“I remember Gordon from the bank over in town – he was cashier there for many a year, always polite, but never friendly. Kept himself to himself. You could see him every week for years and he’d still keep you at arm’s length. And he was a neighbour of mine to begin with – had the cottage two down from me for twenty years or more, but I hardly saw him, except when he would come and go to work. Took the bus every day, he did. Not a Claresby man, he moved here – oh, it must have been mid-sixties. I think he was in his thirties, but looked older. He always had a pale, washed-out look to him. Little, insignificant man he was, who never made his way up in the bank, although I don’t doubt that he was clever enough. He was the kind of person who would always be overlooked and was too mild-mannered to make a fuss about the fact. He never married. Of course, the really interesting thing about him was that he was bequeathed The Red House. It belonged to Janice Lacey – real beauty, she was – but no one knew much about where she came from either. She must have moved to Clarebsy in about 1980. Didn’t know that the two of them were friends, although there were rumours that he would slip up to visit her from time to time. Couldn’t see it, myself: why would a woman like her take a fancy to a man like him? Still, there must have been something in it, because when she died, the house was his.”
“Did he get many visitors to The Red House?” asked Rupert.
The old lady shook her head. “No: only those in Claresby who felt a duty. Your lovely wife’s father would pay a visit once in a while – old Mr Mortimer was a real gentleman. Used to bring produce from the manor gardens to all sorts, although we all knew he didn’t have much money himself back then. The only time Gordon seemed to come out of his shell was when we started an art club once a month in the old village hall. A group of us used to get someone in to demonstrate how to do a watercolour – that sort of thing. Sometimes we’d bring our own bit of work along and have a practical evening. I used to do watercolours; until my hands became too unsteady.”
There was a brief interlude as Annie selected a few little framed pictures of beautifully executed botanical studies and Veronica and Rupert showed that they were suitably impressed. Then the old lady picked up a miniature to show them. It was an oval of no more than at inch long at its widest and showed a delicate profile like a cameo brooch.
“This is exquisite!” exclaimed Veronica. “And I do believe that this is you, Annie.”
Annie smiled happily, “So it is,” she said. “And that was drawn in pen on paper by Gordon one evening at our art group. An amazing talent he had for working in tiny detail. He could have carved into a pinhead. Just worked on that quietly one evening, and handed it to me before I went home. The group folded not long after – not enough interest in the village – and I don’t think he ever spoke one word to me again. I went to his funeral, though. Of course Bill Smith recently revived the club, but I no longer a
ttend.”
Annie soon went to unearth some more of her paintings and tried to ply them with yet more cake and tea, but eventually Veronica and Rupert had to offer their thanks and leave the slightly stuffy cottage for the brisk air without.
“What did you make of all that?” asked Veronica.
“Nothing to tell me why he should choose to leave me his house, other than the fact that he appears not to have had any particular friends – and also, I suppose, that he had come across it somewhat fortuitously himself. I wouldn’t mind knowing a little more about the original owner – Laura might even remember something from her childhood. Also, when I have the keys to the place, the contents might tell their own story.”
“Looks like you’ll have something to occupy your winter evenings,” smiled Veronica. “Well, I‘d better be off; I’m meeting Keith for lunch.”
The two parted and Rupert continued his walk back to Claresby Manor deep in thought.
Rupert was unable to make any further progress in discovering why the elusive Gordon Hodge should have bequeathed his property to him until he was given the keys to The Red House. The only snippet of information which had been added to what Annie had said was that Laura vaguely recalled Janice Lacey as a very pretty lady who had died quite young. So it was with a considerable sense of anticipation that Rupert opened the front door to the empty house. The first thing that struck him was the chill. This, of course, was inevitable given the time of year and the fact that the place was uninhabited. Someone had been in since the former occupant’s death – perhaps at the behest of the solicitors who were the executors – so that everything was in order, the fridge empty of food, dirty laundry removed, and all signs of a final illness swept away. There was a small heap of post on the doormat, but most had already been set on a neat little side table in the entrance hall.
The house was grand but rather formidable, with heavy staircase and gallery with oak banisters. In contrast all the furnishings, pictures and ornaments that met Rupert’s eyes as he entered the downstairs rooms one by one had a rather feminine feel to them. Ornaments were dainty, the upholstery pink and floral and the paintings obviously chosen to match the decor rather than for any intrinsic artistic value. The main upstairs bedroom was similarly feminine in feel with lots of lace and ruched pink curtains. Clearly this was the room inhabited by Gordon Hodge, the other bedrooms showing signs of having being locked up and discarded for a long period of time, but he had left no mark upon it. Even the towels still hanging in the bathroom were pink. Other than a wardrobe of men’s clothes, there was no suggestion of male habitation. Indeed, the little collection of trousers and jumpers clearly belonging to Gordon Hodge paled into insignificance against the larger wardrobe which contained a fine array of designer dresses and the long racks of high-heeled shoes. Not only had Gordon inherited the house from Janice Lacey, but he had moved into it virtually as a camper, leaving her personal effects in place for over twenty years. The house had more to say about the long-gone Janice than the recently deceased Gordon.
It was perhaps indicative of Rupert’s personality that he did not stop at taking a look around the reception rooms and bedrooms on this, his first visit to The Red House, but took the trouble to pull down the loft ladder that gave access to the wide, draughty, boarded space above. Fortunately, for the purposes of his investigations, there was a light switch and a single light bulb rigged up, which produced a dim, shadowy light. As well as a functioning water tank, and an old one which had been too bulky to remove, there were three suitcases and a couple of items of broken furniture. There was also a very old perambulator which must have belonged to previous occupants unknown.
The three suitcases proved to contain a selection of paper bags and carrier bags, all carefully folded and saved as if by a thrifty person who thought they might prove useful. Rupert was reminded of his maternal grandmother who, at Christmas, had always removed the wrapping paper from her gifts with extreme care, smoothed it out, folded it up and preserved it for reuse the following year. Rupert had put this down to a frugal wartime mentality which she had developed and never shaken off when more profligate and comfortable times had come. He rather thought that the meticulous and prudent Gordon might have shared this attitude. Having assured himself that there was nothing more than paper bags in the cases, he took a quick look in the pram, vaguely expecting more of the same. Sure enough, there were a number of carrier bags containing what looked like more paper. Rupert opened one up to examine it further and was presented with bundles of crisp new banknotes. A rapid search through the other bags in the pram revealed the same – bundles of unused notes, mostly for ten, but some for twenty pounds. In the last bag of all he also found an envelope. It was addressed quite clearly to “Rupert Latimer” in a very small but clear hand. Rupert opened it with eager interest and read the note inside.
Unusually, Laura has set out their dinner that night on the big oak table of the Great Hall. Even with a fire blazing in the broad stone fireplace, the place could never be cosy. It didn’t help that the carved gargoyles of the musicians’ gallery above looked faintly sinister in the shadows created by the fire and the candles that Laura had lit. There was an unwritten understanding between them that this was the anniversary of when they had become friends, exchanging their troubles during a difficult first term at university over a formal dinner at Rupert’s Cambridge College. In fact, in contrast to the medieval grandeur of the setting and the fine old goblets into which Laura poured the champagne, the rest of the table was strewn with the boxes containing a takeaway Chinese meal – Rupert’s favourite. They sat in the tall backed, carved oak chairs and tucked in to the food whilst discussing Rupert’s visit to The Red House that day.
“Were there any documents or photographs that told you anything about the background of Gordon Hodge or Janice Lacey?” Laura was asking as he ladled steaming rice onto her plate.
“No,” replied Rupert. “Nothing so obvious. In fact I think that Gordon had gone to pains to destroy any useful documents. The only two items which he seems to have been uncharacteristically sentimental about were two photographs – one of a young Janice standing outside a pub, and one of an old lady, perhaps his mother, standing outside a rather run down Victorian terraced house. There were some more recent pictures of Janice too; but always on her own, never with Gordon. She was a very pretty woman with fair hair and blue eyes. There was also Janice’s death certificate carefully folded in an envelope. She died in 1990 of lung cancer. It gave her place of birth as Rotherhithe. She was only forty-five.”
“But you said that he had left a letter for you explaining why he gave you the house: aren’t you going to read that to me now? I don’t know why you were being so mysterious about it earlier.” There was a slight scowl on her face which did nothing to mar her delicate features and natural prettiness.
“Simply because of where I found the note,” explained Rupert, his chin jutting out as he shovelled large forkfuls of food into his mouth. “Considering that he could have left an explanation in his will or even a confidential letter to me with the solicitor, it indicates quite a tricky turn of mind that he hid it in an old pram up in the attic! Also, I didn’t tell you everything when I got in – partly because I was still processing the facts myself. The pram in which I found the letter also contained a small fortune in brand new bank notes.”
Laura stopped with her fork midway to her mouth. “Bank notes? – stolen from the bank?” she asked in surprise.
“Well, he was a cashier,” admitted Rupert, “but he spent most of his working life in our own local branch, and if there had been a big scandal or theft there, it would have been talked about in Claresby for years to come. Of course, I can’t rule out that possibility and I will make some inquiries.”
“You still haven’t told me what the letter said,” continued Laura.
“Oh,” Rupert reached into his pocket and unfolded some paper whilst finishing his mouthful of food, “it says – With your reputation for inve
stigatory skills, you should be able to unravel my story. I would like the satisfaction of the details being made public. After that you may dispose of my wealth as you see fit. It’s signed by Gordon Hodge.”
“Interesting. And yet you say he seems to have destroyed most of his personal papers? Why would he do that if he wants you to find the truth?”
The Claresby Collection: Twelve Mysteries Page 21