by Bill Kitson
Alison deftly fielded the cushion that was heading my way with all the force Eve could hurl it, and returned the projectile to the sofa. ‘Go on, Robert, be brave. Who knows, you might be descended from royalty. Come to think of it, the way you burn things when you’re cooking, the most likely candidate would be Alfred the Great.’
Family trees, it seemed, bring out the worst examples of humour. We waited, watching Robert as he pored over the opening pages of the Pengelly family line. ‘This is a bit confusing, to say the least. My family speciality seems to be to give their children names that are designed to baffle everyone.’ He pointed to the page he was inspecting. ‘On this bit alone there’s someone called Aelfgar, another called Aelfgifu, and a third one called Aelfnod.’
‘Those are Saxon names,’ Tammy told him, the prefix “Aelf” means elf, surprisingly enough.’
Robert continued, ‘That’s not where the confusion ends, though, there’s also a Hild and a Hildraed. I don’t know how ordinary people are expected to follow this.’ He turned the page and smiled. ‘Now here’s someone I approve of. One of my ancestors was apparently named Wine.’
‘That’s not quite what you think,’ Tammy told him with a smile. ‘Wine is the Saxon word for friend. Hence Godwine means a friend of God.’
‘It’s still appropriate, though,’ Robert told her, ‘wine and I have been friends for years.’
‘How far back does that document go?’ Alison asked.
‘I’m not sure yet. The names are beginning to change. If anything, these are even more difficult to pronounce.’
‘They’re probably Celtic, I’d guess, which means you’ve gone back a heck of a long way,’ Tammy observed. ‘This is beginning to get really interesting. You probably don’t realise how lucky you are, Robert. There aren’t many people who can trace their lineage back to the Celtic Age.’ Her tone reflected her excitement, but then, this was her specialist subject.
‘Go to the end, Robbie,’ Alison urged him, ‘I can’t stand the suspense. See who is at the head of the tree.’
Robert obeyed, skipping a couple of pages to reach the last entries in the book. He began to trace the names with his finger, then stopped suddenly, his expression one of astonishment.
‘What is it, Robbie? Who have you found? Julius Caesar? The Emperor Hadrian?’
He passed the book to Alison and pointed to the entry that had shocked him. ‘See for yourself.’
We saw Alison’s face change, her reaction mirroring that of Robert a few seconds earlier. ‘That can’t be correct, Robbie. No way can that be true. It simply isn’t possible.’
‘Who is it? Come on, tell us, what name have you found?’ Tammy and Eve were almost beside themselves with impatience.
‘You’d better show them, Ally, they won’t believe us if we tell them. To be fair, they won’t believe it in any case.’
That was certainly no exaggeration. When we found the name, we didn’t believe it. We discounted the entry as fictitious, and the remainder of the family tree was immediately under suspicion. ‘Do you honestly believe that your brother thought that this was true?’ Eve asked him.
‘I don’t know,’ Robert replied. ‘I certainly don’t believe it.’
‘There must be something else,’ I told them.
‘What do you mean, Adam? Isn’t that enough?’ Alison pointed to the ledger.
‘No, I mean there must have been some back-up information, some research papers, that led Stephen to even contemplate this being accurate. Just think of our reaction. No matter how naive or gullible Stephen Pengelly might have been it would have taken something truly convincing to persuade him that he and Robert were descended from King Arthur.’
Prompted by the seemingly incredible discovery in what purported to be the Pengelly family tree, my thoughts turned to the likely source of that highly suspicious document, and the only person left alive who could vouch for its authenticity, or, far more likely, confirm that the whole thing was a fabrication, designed to relieve Stephen Pengelly of a large chunk of money.
I pointed to the ledger. ‘I bet that is what Stephen paid all that money to Overtring Ltd for.’ I paused and thought for a minute. ‘This, together with the accompanying documentation.’
‘What accompanying documentation?’ Tammy asked.
‘There must have been something to back this up, and quite a lot of it, I’d suggest. What’s more it must have been extremely convincing to have taken Stephen in so completely. I admit that half the art of a successful confidence trick is to tell the victim what they want to know, but I can’t for one minute believe that Stephen Pengelly was gullible enough to pay out a sum that was well into six figures without a huge amount of supporting evidence.’
‘It might not have been the family tree he was paying for,’ Eve suggested. ‘It might have been something entirely different. I admit that the existence of that document and the amount he paid do suggest it was the tree he paid for, but we can’t be certain.’
‘We can’t find out now, can we,’ Tammy said. ‘The other paperwork hasn’t been found, and everyone who might have been able to tell us the truth is dead.’
‘That’s not strictly correct, there is one person still alive who could tell us the truth, if he can be persuaded or cajoled into talking.’
‘You’re referring to Graeme Fletcher, aren’t you, Adam? What makes you think he would tell us anything when the police couldn’t get him to talk?’
‘That’s a very good question, Evie, and at this precise moment I can’t think of a way, unless we were able to tempt him, to offer him something that would persuade him.’
‘I’m not happy at the thought of shelling out more money on top of what Stephen paid,’ Robert told us.
‘I wasn’t thinking of a monetary bribe. Perhaps if we could offer him immunity from prosecution for the fraud in exchange for information and the return of some of that money, he might be tempted to spill a few beans.’
‘How do you suggest that approach should be made, and by whom?’
I considered Robert’s question for a moment or two. ‘It might be worth having a word with DS Holmes before we decide to make a move. Besides, I wondered if he’d had any success looking into the background of the victims. Wharton, Kathy King, and Fletcher didn’t simply dream up this fraud overnight. It would have taken a lot of preparation and planning, and that argues that they must be experienced, and therefore that they might be known to police forces elsewhere.’
‘Except that Fletcher isn’t a victim,’ Eve pointed out.
‘Now who’s being pedantic? I have an idea in mind, and I think it merits further thought before I put it to Holmes.’
‘I have this strange sensation that comes over me when Adam utters the words, “I have an idea”,’ Eve told them. ‘I think people usually refer to it as dread.’
Chapter Thirteen
There was only one main topic of conversation when we foregathered in the entrance hall before dinner that evening, and it was the revelation in the family tree. It foreshadowed even Victoria’s continuing fruitless struggle to interpret the runes, and the Latin manuscript, if not completely forgotten, certainly didn’t rate a mention.
I was particularly interested to hear what Professor Riley, as a professional historian had to make of what the rest of us considered an outlandish claim. On hearing that the Pengelly family tree purported to show a direct line of descent from the legendary King Arthur, her refusal to dismiss the claim out of hand surprised everyone. In defence of her stance, Victoria pointed to the lack of proof, which seemed contrary until she explained. ‘It is a historian’s job to record only those facts that can be verified in full, and with incontrovertible evidence to back them up. If there is conflicting material, it is also the historian’s task to point to that divergence. In the instance of King Arthur, where there is absolutely no evidence either for his existence, or to prove that he did not exist, then a historian cannot prejudge the issue by declaring one or the other to be
correct. There are theories enough to support either point of view, but that is all they are, theories.
‘If however someone has stumbled across proof that Arthur did exist beyond the pages of popular fiction and Hollywood productions, that would bring about a massive change to the way we view the Dark Ages. I would have said that it was impossible after all this time to discover such evidence, were it not for Edwin Gladstone’s tale. If Arthur did exist, and if he fathered children, someone, somewhere will be descended from that line, and I can see no reason why it is any less likely to be the Pengelly family than anyone else.’
She paused, before adding with a flash of humour, ‘Before you consider calling a press conference to announce the fact to the world’s media, though, I suggest you attempt to discover what grounds your brother had for believing such an astonishing claim.’
I found what Victoria had to say fascinating, even though I was left feeling as if I’d just wandered into one of her lectures by mistake. It was only later, when Eve and I were alone in the Rose Room, that she suggested a line of enquiry we might have overlooked.
‘We all seem convinced that the motive for the murders must be linked to the historical research, that manuscript, the runic inscriptions, and the family tree, that we’ve ignored another piece of possible evidence.’
I had to admit that I didn’t know where she was leading me until she explained, ‘We know that Stephen spent most of his time and energy chasing one woman after another, so isn’t it just as likely that the reason Stephen Pengelly was killed was the one the police believed originally?’
‘That doesn’t explain the other two murders,’ I pointed out.
‘It would if there was someone else vying for Kathy King’s affections, but with no success. Or if it was connected to another female in Stephen’s life, one from a much earlier time?’
‘You’re thinking of the girl in that letter, aren’t you?’
‘I am, and I think it well worth spending a bit of time trying to discover who she is and what happened to her.’
‘You could be right, Evie, but it might not be easy trying to find someone who could identify the girl after all these years; we only have the name Annie.’
‘I still think it worth a try, if only to eliminate that line of enquiry.’
It was at that point that I came up with what could be charitably called a radical theory; or, as Eve referred to it, one of my wild ideas. ‘What if the reason we’re failing to make any headway is that we’re thinking in compartments rather than looking at the overview?’
‘I don’t get you.’
‘What if they’re all connected; the girl’s letter, the family tree, the Latin manuscript, and the runes?’
‘How on earth can they be?’
I had absolutely no idea. The clues might all have been there, but attempting to string them together was a bit like Victoria’s efforts to decipher the runes. The only result was a headache.
We both slept soundly once our sentry duty was over. This surprised me a little, in view of the startling revelations of the day. When we awoke next morning, we discovered that the weather had taken a dramatic turn for the worse overnight.
For the previous week there had been clear skies, long periods of sunshine, and sharp overnight frosts. Now, with the wind having changed direction, it had picked up and was driving in from the west, bringing with it heavy rain.
The near-gale-force wind was buffeting the old manor house, the rain, almost horizontal, lashing the windows with angry force. Whereas on previous mornings it had been possible to look across the valley, beyond the grounds of the house and the arable fields towards the slopes of Barton Moor, that view was now strictly curtailed. I could see little beyond the lawns, waterlogged already, and even the lower slopes of the hills were shrouded in a curtain of grey.
This wasn’t exactly ideal for what I had in mind to do that day. My plan had been for Eve and me to visit Barton-le-Dale to meet up with Holmes and Pickersgill. The only positive thought induced by the weather was that it might persuade the villains to remain indoors.
When we joined the others, Robert had good news for us. ‘I had a call from the locksmith a few minutes ago. He’s hoping to get here this morning and will change the locks on all the outer doors, plus see what he can do towards fitting an alarm. The only proviso is that he’s unsure what time he’ll be able to get here. Apparently there’s a big tree blown down the far side of Barton-le-Dale and the Dinsdale road is completely blocked. He thinks it should be cleared before lunchtime though.’
‘That’s excellent,’ Eve responded, ‘if only because we might be able to get a full night’s sleep now.’
‘I also got a phone call from DS Holmes. He and your friend Constable Pickersgill are visiting us this morning. They should be here in an hour or so. He told me there have been developments he wants to discuss, but he wouldn’t go into detail. I told him Alison and I would be busy, but he seemed more interested in talking to you two.’
‘That saves us a job,’ I told him. ‘Eve’s been having ideas she wants to put to Holmes.’
‘It isn’t just me,’ she protested, ‘you wanted to talk to them too.’
‘Yes, but mine was just a standard procedural thing, whereas yours was a really constructive theory.’
She eyed me with deep suspicion, but eventually seemed satisfied that I wasn’t being sarcastic. Instead she asked Robert what he and Alison were going to be busy with.
He grimaced slightly. ‘There was a third phone call. I thought at one point we might have to get a second line installed. The caller was Nigel Alderson. He needs an inventory of the house contents before applying for probate, and it’s fairly urgent, so Ally and I are making a start this morning. It’s going to take a few days, I reckon, given the size of the place. He turned to Eve and smiled. ‘So if you walk into the Rose Room and find a strange man in there, don’t worry, it’ll only be me.’
‘That won’t be a problem,’ Eve smiled at me sweetly, ‘I’m used to having a strange man in my room.’
I smiled just as sweetly back. ‘I’d carry a whistle, Robert; then you can summon help. She usually locks me in to prevent me escaping.’
Ignoring Eve’s withering glance, I turned to Victoria. ‘Are you going to continue the battle of the runes?’
I saw Robert wince, but it seemed Victoria was in an upbeat frame of mind. ‘I am,’ she replied, ‘and hopefully the idea I had just before I went to sleep last night might help me achieve a breakthrough. I’m not going to say anything at this stage, though, I’ve been disappointed too often to make rash statements. I’m still relying on guesswork, but at least this time it will be educated guesswork.’
Seeing Robert and Alison getting up to leave, Eve asked, ‘Where will we find you? In case the locksmith arrives, I mean.’
‘We thought we’d make a start in the attics and work down from there. It’ll be a novel experience for me, as I wasn’t allowed up there as a kid. The rooms were always kept locked, but for what reason, I’ve no idea.’
‘Perhaps we’ll find your brother’s deranged wife up there, along with her alcoholic nurse,’ Alison suggested.
‘I doubt that, anyone less like Edward Fairfax Rochester than my brother I can’t imagine. Nor, by what I’ve heard about her, did Kathy King sound at all like Jane Eyre.’
Eve and I lingered over our breakfast, aware that we had nothing else to occupy us as we awaited the detectives’ arrival. Tammy also took her time drinking coffee. She too seemed interested in DS Holmes’ visit, but for a completely different reason, I guessed.
The police officers soon pulled up outside the house, their car followed by a white van bearing the logo of the local locksmith. Tammy went to summon Robert and Alison, while I checked the craftsman’s credentials. Holmes and Pickersgill watched the precautionary measure with approval. Once I had introduced the locksmith to Robert, Eve and I adjourned to the drawing room for our meeting with the officers. Tammy had also joined the discuss
ion group, principally to ask if the officers wanted tea. Not a bad excuse, I thought, given Johnny’s immense capacity for the beverage.
‘Robert told us there has been some development you’re keen to share with us,’ I prompted them.
‘Actually, that’s going a bit far. What we do have is some information that is puzzling us.’
‘Oh goody,’ Eve exclaimed. ‘A puzzle, just as things were becoming so clear.’
I saw Johnny wince at Eve’s sarcasm before she asked hastily, ‘What’s the information and why is it puzzling you?’
Keeping a wary eye on Eve, Holmes explained, ‘Once we’d finished at Wharton’s house we went to his office to search it and to talk to his secretary. It was obvious that the lady isn’t a great fan of Wharton. She was happy to tell us what she could, which admittedly wasn’t much. The firm is called Campbell and Price, but Mr Campbell died a few years ago, and soon after that, Price retired and sold the partnership to Wharton. He began practising there three years ago, and when we asked the secretary where he had been working before then she said she didn’t know, which we found a bit odd. We checked with the Law Society, and they had no record of Arnold Wharton having practised law in this country prior to his acquisition of Campbell and Price.’
‘Does that mean he wasn’t qualified?’ Eve asked.
‘No, his law degree is genuine enough, that much the Law Society was able to confirm. When he graduated from Bristol University in 1964, he was based in Newark, but where he was living and working prior to his arrival in Barton-le-Dale is a complete mystery.’
Holmes paused and Pickersgill took over. ‘Interestingly enough, at around the same time as Wharton took over at Campbell and Price, Graeme Fletcher opened his antiques shop, and within a couple of months, Kathy King signed the lease for her flat, so it seems that all three arrived here pretty much simultaneously. As you know, Fletcher is being exceedingly tight-lipped about anything and everything, and we haven’t been able to find out anything about his background, or that of Kathy King.’