Flesh and Blood

by Bill Kitson

  ‘I don’t suppose it’s relevant after all this time,’ I remarked, ‘but it would have been interesting to know who the dead man was.’

  Eve was first to catch my drift. ‘You don’t think it was Wharton, do you?’

  ‘I’m damned certain it wasn’t. It’s all far too convenient. Wharton was being hounded on all sides. It was only a question of who got to him first, the police with an arrest warrant, or an aggrieved client with an elephant gun. Either way he was a marked man. Time for him to disappear, and the best way to ensure nobody came looking for him would be to play dead. You can be fairly sure that you’re safe if everyone believes you’re occupying one of the drawers in the mortuary cabinet. It’s a shame those other tests weren’t carried out, though. I’ll bet the victim’s blood would have tested positive for hallucinogenic drugs.’

  ‘Let me get this straight.’ Holmes held up the telex as he spoke. ‘You believe that Wharton set out to fake his own death, making it appear like murder. He did that so suspicion would fall on one of the clients he’d swindled.’

  ‘That’s broadly it, yes.’

  ‘Who would he get to use as his substitute?’

  ‘He’d need someone with no close friends or family. Moreover it would have to be someone who was either out of work or in a lowly paid, menial job. In other words, someone who wouldn’t be missed.’

  ‘It’s all hypothetical, though. There’s no way we could prove that was what happened.’

  ‘There is a way,’ I told him. ‘It wouldn’t prove beyond doubt that Wharton faked his death, but it would make it a near certainly.’

  ‘How can we do that?’

  ‘If it isn’t mentioned in the telex, you might be able to find out via the South African police. Either way, you need to establish whether Wharton emptied his bank account in the days or weeks before his so-called death.’

  Holmes scanned the three-page telex for several moments. ‘Yes, here it is. Wharton withdrew large sums of money, almost the full balance in each case, from four different accounts he had throughout the country. The money was never traced.’

  ‘How much was it?’ Eve asked.

  ‘I’ve no idea. The amount they quote is in rand, but I assume it must be a lot because of the number of noughts after it.’

  ‘He would need a lot of money. First he’d have to buy a car to use for the hit-and-run, and then to obtain paperwork for his new identity with which to make his escape. He couldn’t simply book a plane ticket in the name of Arnold Wharton, deceased.’

  ‘Wouldn’t it be risky for him to set up as a solicitor here?’ Johnny asked.

  ‘Why would it be? He couldn’t have foreseen what was going to happen to him, and if he hadn’t been murdered, none of these questions would have been asked. And if we hadn’t been lucky enough to make the African connection to Kathy King, nobody would have linked a North Yorkshire solicitor to a man who was killed in Johannesburg five years ago.’

  ‘Unless someone did find out and delivered their own form of belated justice,’ Eve suggested.

  ‘Phew! You two are good,’ Holmes said. ‘I’m glad you’re on our side.’

  At that point the station’s clerical officer returned with the statements for signature. ‘There’s a young woman in reception asking for you,’ he told Holmes.

  The young woman in question was Tammy, and once we had signed the witness forms we went to collect her. She was standing talking to Holmes, amid a large collection of carrier bags. Although I couldn’t be sure, it sounded as if Holmes had asked her for a date. I began picking up carriers.

  ‘I’d no idea Mary had ordered as much as this, otherwise I’d have thought twice about volunteering,’ Tammy told us.

  ‘Never mind, I feel sure your efforts will have their reward in due time,’ Eve told her, glancing towards Holmes.

  I made a mental note to take Eve to task about her display of double standards. Calling me a sadist and then making a cruel remark like that was definitely hypocritical. Before we left the station, we received a panicky phone call from Barton Manor. I had just loaded the last of the carriers into the boot when Holmes came out with a message. Mary, it seemed, had seriously underestimated our appetites. We were to return to the butcher where another order was awaiting collection.

  When we got back to the manor, unloading and stowing the voluminous amount of shopping took a fair while. Mary acted as commander-in-chief, directing her troops’ activities between freezers, fridges, larder, and store cupboards. Once the hectic spell of activity was over, we gathered in the kitchen for a well-earned cup of tea.

  Victoria shattered this oasis of calm by flinging the door back and announcing with glee, ‘I’ve done it. I have deciphered the second of the inscriptions.’ Her enthusiasm ebbed faster than any tide as she added, ‘Unfortunately, the message makes as little sense as the previous one, and I still have absolutely no idea about number three.’

  ‘Let’s hear the second message anyway,’ Robert told her.

  Victoria began to read, and as I heard the second sentence, I felt a chill such as I had never experienced before. I’d always considered that the expression, ‘my blood ran cold’ was an exaggeration, until that moment. I looked across the table at Eve, and saw that she was similarly affected. Our eyes met, and I saw the fear in hers. I wondered if it was matched by my own. ‘Would you read that again please, Victoria?’ she asked. Her voice sounded hoarse, which I guessed was due to the emotional impact of one word in that message.

  Victoria read the message a second time. ‘My choice is made, for good or ill. I will follow the way of The Bear. This thing is all too powerful a matter to leave to chance. Let fate rather than the hand of man decide.’

  ‘Are you sure you got that wording correct? Are you absolutely certain it mentions a bear?’

  Victoria was too engrossed in the message to take offence at my question. ‘I am sure. It definitely refers to the bear. Not a bear, but The Bear, which I would guess means that it refers to someone or something in particular. Why do you ask? Is there some significance?’

  Even as she was speaking it seemed as if Victoria had realised what that significance might be. I noticed her expression change, and the look on her face mirrored Eve’s of a few seconds previously. I had been wrong, though. It wasn’t fear that either of them were experiencing. It was awe.

  Taking it in turns, Eve and I explained, beginning with what DI Hardy had thought he’d seen shortly before crashing his car. Then I told them what Frank and I had seen in the woods around the time of his accident. Finally, Eve related her recurring dreams. ‘It would be wrong to call them nightmares,’ she ended. ‘I thought so at first, but then I realised that the bear wasn’t malevolent. Quite the opposite, as with what Frank or Hardy experienced. Had they not seen the bear, neither of them would be alive now.’

  Eve’s remark caused my memory to return to a time years before, when I’d been working as a foreign correspondent. ‘When I was in America,’ I told them, ‘I visited some of the Native American tribes. Their belief is that when you see a standing bear, the animal isn’t preparing to attack or to run away from you, but simply protecting those he cares for. Perhaps the bear is protecting us.’

  There was a long silence after I finished speaking. Finally, Tammy broke this. ‘What can it all mean? Why should a bear suddenly appear to people like that? What is special about the bear and how is it connected to Barton Manor?’

  I was already aware that Victoria was holding something back. Now was the time to encourage her to open up. ‘Out with it, Victoria. You haven’t told us everything, have you?’

  She cleared her throat, and began to speak, her voice low and hesitant. ‘If you hadn’t told me those stories I’d have probably have dismissed it as coincidence; or me being fanciful. However, having seen the supposed Pengelly family tree, I can no longer ignore the possible connection.’ She paused, running her tongue around her lips nervously, before adding, ‘The word I translated from Celtic; the word
that means bear in the Celtic tongue – is Arthur!’

  Chapter Sixteen

  Conversation over dinner that evening was sparse. Everyone seemed immersed in their own thoughts, which I guessed, not unnaturally, would be centred on Victoria’s dramatic revelations. How strange it was that one simple four-letter word should have such a powerful effect. It being Monday night, there was a darts match at the Crown and Anchor, which Tony Bishop, as team captain, was obliged to attend. With Emma also absent, there would have been ample opportunity to discuss what we’d learned, but it seemed that no one was in the mood.

  ‘One thing is plain,’ I said to Eve when we were alone, ‘we’re going to have to revise our thinking about the Pengelly family tree.’

  Eve frowned. ‘The one we thought had to be a fake, you mean?’

  ‘I do, and incredible though it must seem, what little evidence we have, if you can call it evidence, tends to suggest that the family tree might not be fake.’

  Eve followed my line of reasoning. ‘Unless the runes are also fakes, and the plot is far more elaborate than we suspected. Planting the word bear in them, with its translation to Arthur, would lend it the right air of authenticity. Let’s be fair, whatever else people say about Stephen Pengelly, nobody has suggested he was a mug, or the slightest bit gullible, so it would take something really convincing to persuade him to part with enormous sums of money.’

  ‘That might be true, but it wouldn’t account for those random sightings. Nor would it explain your dreams,’ I pointed out.

  ‘I know, and that’s what bothers me. There is absolutely no rational explanation for them. It just seems so far-fetched.’

  ‘What was it Conan Doyle wrote? One of Sherlock Holmes’ pearls of wisdom was something on the lines of, “when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth”. Admittedly this is at the furthest reach of unlikely happenings, but there is just the slim possibility that it might be the truth.’

  Neither of us was at all sleepy, our brains still buzzing with all we’d learned that day. Instead of going straight to bed, we curled up together in the large armchair alongside the fire. Eve held the ledger as I translated more of the journal.

  ‘It seems that our friend Domenico was an Italian priest. No surprise there, the name sort of gives his origin away, plus the fact that few people apart from the clergy were able to read or write in those days.’ I was paraphrasing what the journal contained, both because of my rustiness with Latin, and as I explained to Eve, because of the archaic phraseology. ‘Some of the things Domenico has taken from the English and translated into Latin are as foreign as if they were in another language, such is the difference between what we speak nowadays, and what they spoke then.’

  ‘That sounds very much like an excuse to me,’ Eve said provocatively.

  ‘Don’t push your luck. Remember, you’re in a very vulnerable position.’ As she was seated on my lap at the time, that threat cut both ways, as I soon found out. After a short but enjoyable scuffle, a truce was called, and I returned to the journal. ‘Domenico was assistant to a bishop. I know little or nothing about the offices in the Catholic Church back then, but the word he uses is “cappellanus” which I’m not familiar with, but I guess it sounds very much like chaplain in today’s clergy. Domenico and a small group of other priests were chosen to conduct a special mission. He doesn’t specify what the objective was, not in this part of the journal at least, but it must have been something way out of the ordinary, because those who were picked for the task had to be vetted by a panel consisting of five cardinals and the Pope’s chancellor.’

  ‘Wow!’ Eve exclaimed. ‘That’s some selection committee.’

  Reading on, I told her, ‘It sounds as if the whole mission was fraught with danger. Some of the group never even reached England, let alone their destination here. Domenico was told that he would be the only one who knew the purpose of their journey; the others would only be given directions to the place they had to head for. Each of them had copies of the instructions given to Domenico secreted somewhere in the clothing that had been specially made for them. That way, if anything untoward were to happen to Domenico, the mission could still succeed because the head of the order of monks they were to meet in England had been told of this and would be able to retrieve the information. However, from what I can gather, even he was unaware of what the mission was meant to achieve.’

  ‘It’s beginning to sound a bit like a spy film script,’ Eve said.

  ‘It does a bit,’ I agreed, ‘but there’s nothing new in that. Even in those days there were conspiracies and plots.’

  Eve’s presence so close to me was beginning to affect my concentration. Very un-priestly thoughts were crossing my mind, a fact that Eve was aware of. She put her hand on the back of my neck and began to caress me. ‘Why not leave the journal for tonight and let’s go to bed?’

  That was probably the easiest decision I’ve ever had to make.

  Next morning, Emma had news for us. ‘Last night I was talking to my father and he asked me to tell you something, but I forgot when we got back here. It was to do with a family you were talking to him about. He said that when they left Barton-le-Moors they gave a forwarding address in Newark-on-Trent.’ She smiled. ‘He’ll have found that out from Carrie at the post office. He’s under the impression that I don’t know what’s going on, and the silly man dare not tell me in case I disapprove. Why he thinks that, I’ve no idea. If it makes them content, then good luck to them, I say. It’s far better for them to be happy together than miserable and lonely apart. Anyway, he says he can’t be more specific because it all happened so long ago, but he hopes that it helps.’

  ‘Thanks, Emma, I’m sure it will be useful.’ As I spoke, I glanced at Eve and saw a frown of concentration on her face. I knew that expression. Something Emma had told us had provoked an idea, or a memory. At that moment, however, Robert and Alison entered the room, and my mind switched to more immediate matters. ‘If I could borrow the safe key, Robert, I’d like to take a look at the other parts of that journal and attempt a translation.’

  ‘Of course. Here it is.’

  Eve came along with me as I went to the cellar. As we were descending the steps, I said, ‘Something in what Emma told us caught your interest, didn’t it?’

  ‘It certainly did that. Don’t you remember what Holmes told us about Arnold Wharton?’

  ‘The South Africa bit, you mean?’

  ‘No, it was earlier than that. He said that before Wharton went to Bristol University he lived in Newark-on-Trent. The fact that Annie Flood and her family also moved there is a bit too much of a coincidence, don’t you think?’

  I agreed. ‘Do you think Arnold Wharton might be Annie Flood’s mysterious uncle?’

  ‘I don’t know, but I suppose he could have been. The age would be about right, if he was her mother’s younger brother.’

  ‘Also, if there was a family tragedy, such as his sister and brother-in-law being killed in a road accident, that might have decided him to leave Britain and start a new life in South Africa.’

  ‘Possibly so, but it all depends on what happened to Annie following her parents’ death. If he doted on her as Mr Ellis said, he’d be unlikely to simply leave her to fend for herself, would he? He’d want to know she was being taken care of. That would tend to imply that another relative, perhaps a set of grandparents, might have taken charge of the girl; in which case he might have felt redundant.’

  ‘Of course, we’re assuming an awful lot on very little evidence. Wharton might not have been any relation of Annie’s.’ I paused, before adding, ‘Having said that, I think it’s highly probable that he was her uncle. It’s simply too coincidental otherwise.’

  When we returned from the cellar, we tried to contact DS Holmes, but neither he nor Johnny Pickersgill were available. I learned later that they were attending the latest post-mortem, following which they were going to conduct a detailed search of
the antiques shop.

  Having left a message for one or other of the officers to call us, Eve and I set to work attempting to translate more of the journal. ‘I feel sure somewhere in this manuscript, Domenico will provide us with some clue as to why Stephen had the journal, and why he considered it important enough to lock away,’ I told Eve.

  She was of the same mind. ‘It can’t be from historical value, because it isn’t the original document. Nor, from what we know of Stephen Pengelly, was it likely to be from sentimental reasons.’

  To be fair, opting to spend the day on the journal wasn’t exactly a difficult decision to make. The weather had worsened again overnight, with strong south-westerly winds driving heavy bursts of rain before them. In short, it was what the locals would refer to as a ‘right fireside day’.

  Even by the use of skim-reading, which is a technique most journalists learn early in their career, translation was difficult, and it was mid-afternoon before I closed the first of the ledgers and gave Eve a précis of what it contained.

  ‘A lot of it seems to contain Domenico’s self-recrimination for the failure of their mission, and repining the fact that their task hasn’t borne fruit. What it doesn’t give, unless I’ve lost it in the translation, is any indication of what their objective was. It must have been something extremely important for a party of that size to travel all the way from Rome. They couldn’t exactly hop on an airliner to Heathrow.’

  Eve smiled at my flippancy, but asked, ‘Is there anything else, anything more pertinent?’

  ‘There’s quite a lot about Domenico’s conversations with the head of the monastery where they were staying, a man he refers to as Abbot Henry. That name’s ringing vague bells, sort of, and making me wish I’d paid more attention during my history lessons. Domenico discusses local politics with Henry; all to do with the struggle for the English throne and the disputing factions.’

  ‘Why did the mission fail? Does Domenico give any hint as to the reason?’