by Blake Banner
“Oh.” He sipped his claret and smacked his lips. “The earliest record of a Gordon owning the island dates back to the 13th century. In the parish record it is stated that it was a dispute settled by contest of arms, which was won by one Charles Gordon, who fatally wounded his opponent with a blow to the head, thus rendering the estate his in lieu of moneys due.”
“They didn’t mess around in those days, huh, Major?”
“Quite so. It remained then in the Gordon family for almost seven hundred years, until the 18th century, when they were overtaken by several misfortunes, not least an attack of swine fever which wiped out the pigs on the island and ruined the family. Charles Sr.’s great grandfather, six times over, if you follow me, sold what little possessions he had left and sailed for Boston in 1780 or thereabouts, but it wasn’t until the great drive east, after the Civil War, that Charles, Richard Gordon, began to amass his fortune. He never left Boston, but he invested in cattle farms, mining, gun trafficking… you name it! And by the turn of the century, he was one of the richest men in Boston.”
We had finished our main course, except for Dehan, who was picking up the bones and nibbling at them. She caught a glance from Pam and said, “It’s finger-food, right?”
Pam looked away and Brown and the maids started clearing the table. Ian got to his feet and spoke loudly over Gordon Sr.’s conversation, forcing him and Sally and Bee to turn and look. His accent seemed to have grown stronger with the wine.
“Ut’s late. We need ta be gone. C’mon, Sally, git yer thungs.”
Sally turned to him with narrowed eyes.
Gordon Sr. boomed, “You have not even finished your meal, man! Can’t you at least wait for coffee?”
Ian’s face hardened. “No. We’re gone now. But thanks for a wonderful evening, Charles!”
Just for a moment I saw savagery and hatred in his face. Sally sighed, stood and flounced out of the room. Ian looked at us all as though he knew some shocking truth about us and said, “I’ll wish yiz all a good evening!” Then he left, trailing his self-conscious dignity.
After he had gone, Pam stood too. “Actually, I’m quite tired myself. I think I’ll turn in.” She did something with her mouth that could not be bothered to be a smile and added, “Night all,” and followed Ian out of the room.
Gordon Sr. heaved a big sigh and threw his napkin on the table. “Fine!” he said gracelessly. “If there is to be no entertainment, and my wife is not to attend me, then I too shall bid you all a good night and retire.” He stood and stared at Dehan. “I breakfast and lunch in my chambers, but I shall no doubt see you at dinner tomorrow. Unless of course you care to pay me a visit.” He paused deliberately for a long second, then turned to me, as though pretending to include me in the invitation.
I held his eye. “Goodnight, Mr. Gordon.”
Unlike Ian, he gathered his dignity about him like robes of office and left the room.
Charles Gordon Jr. expostulated breathlessly, “Well!” Then he stammered, “We, we, um, we’re left with our cozy little group then! And, and, and… that’s nice! Who’s for sticky toffee pudding?”
We had sticky toffee pudding, which was astonishingly good, and then withdrew to the withdrawing room to have coffee and whiskey, though Bee had cognac. We settled ourselves by the fire, the major, Dehan and myself, armed with generous measures of single malt, while Charles and Bee took their drinks to a small card table near the French windows and played canasta together.
The major smiled happily, sipped, smacked his lips and sighed. I looked at Dehan. She was examining her drink and I was wondering how long it would take her to ask. It didn’t take long. She raised her eyes to the major and said, “What did Mrs. Gordon mean when she said some people thought Richard Gordon had been murdered?”
He gave a small, comfortable chuckle. “Couldn’t resist it, hey? Well, it was all rather peculiar, to tell the truth. Long time ago now, 1981, I suppose. Old Man Gordon, that’s Charles Jr.’s grandfather, hadn’t long bought the castle. His family were very rich, of course, having made their fortune in the previous century. But his passion, as I told you before, was to return to his roots and reclaim the land that he felt belonged to him and his family by right. When his wife died…” He paused, frowning at the fire, and mumbled half to himself, “Never really sure actually if she died or they divorced, but that’s neither here nor there, really…” He looked back at Dehan and raised his eyebrows. “That’s exactly what he did.”
I sipped. “So he bought it in 1980.”
“That’s right. Of course, Charles Sr. was only in his early twenties at the time, finishing at university in Boston. He read law, or as you would say, he majored in law, and came out to join his father when he graduated, which must have been ’81 or ’82, I suppose. And what he found was a rather peculiar set up.”
Dehan arched her eyebrows. “Peculiar in what way?”
“Well, for a start, it seemed that Old Man Gordon was going a bit… odd! He had started researching all the families that lived on the island, looking into their family backgrounds, finding out how long they had lived here and, above all, if any of them were related to him. It became something of an obsession.”
I frowned. “Aren’t most people in communities like this related to each other?”
He spread his hands. “Well, exactly! But he found one family, the Armstrongs, who were in fact quite closely related, via the mother, who was in fact a Gordon. And he sort of adopted this family.”
“Adopted them?”
He nodded down at his glass. “To the extent that he was considering putting young Robert Armstrong into his will. As you can imagine, Charles Sr., when he arrived at his new home from university in Boston, was quite alarmed at the situation. His father was talking about ‘raising up’ the Gordons once more and ‘re-empowering’ them. He wanted to reunite the clan…” He shook his head. “All sorts of mad stuff. He had clearly lost the plot, as they say these days, and Charles was understandably worried, as he could see his family’s considerable fortune being squandered on some bizarre project and, frankly, pilfered by unscrupulous people claiming to be related to him.”
Dehan shifted in her seat. “So, what happened?”
The major sighed. “Well, at first not very much.. Charles begged his father to reconsider his relationship with the Armstrongs, and to put some kind of financial cap on his so-called project, but his father wouldn’t hear of it. He continued to restore the castle…” He waved his hand around. “Forty years ago this was largely a ruin. He restored it and refurnished it with genuine antiques. That, at least, was an investment. But his increasing closeness with young Robert Armstrong, and the vast amounts of money he was spending on him and his mother, that was cause for genuine concern.” He paused, tipping his glass this way and that. “Then things got much more complicated.”
I raised an eyebrow and smiled. “More?”
“Yes, because Charles Gordon Sr. fell in love.”
“Let me guess,” I said. “He fell in love with a girl who was of the wrong social class.”
The major looked a little startled.
I smiled. “I may be an American, major, but I lived here long enough to learn to distinguish the accents. I know a non-U accent when I hear one. Even if it’s been disguised.”
“Oh!” He stammered a moment. “Well, yes, that was precisely it. She was the daughter of the local publican. Very attractive young woman with a very lively personality. Had a sort of saucy wit, if you follow me. And young Charles was quite captivated by her. Absolutely head over heals.”
Dehan was watching him with narrowed eyes. “This is…” She pointed vaguely in the direction of the dining room.
He nodded, “Pam, yes.” He nodded again. “Well, as you can imagine, Old Man Gordon disapproved violently of the match. He might be sponsoring Robert Armstrong, whom many would consider inappropriate, but at least he was related to the Gordons. But this girl, however delightful she might be, was neither a Gordon nor
an appropriate spouse for a Gordon!”
Dehan both frowned and smiled at the same time. “I think I know where this is going.”
The major chuckled. “Don’t be too quick, Detective. It isn’t as simple as it seems. Nobody knows exactly what happened because Charles Sr. won’t discuss it, but one version of the story goes something like this:
“Things came to a head when Old Man Gordon told Charles that if he persisted in his plans to marry Pamela, he would disinherit him and leave his entire fortune to Robert Armstrong. Charles agonized for a full week. He told Pamela he could not see her and he spent seven days either walking the grounds or locked in his room, brooding. Finally, on the seventh day he went and spoke to his father. They spent over an hour discussing the issue, and when Charles came out he was a different man. He was elated. He ran to the kitchen and embraced the cook and the butler and the maids—remember he was an American—and then he dashed off to tell Pam his father had had a change of heart! It was as though a cloud had been lifted from his mind and he had come down to Earth to realize the error of his ways. He gave Charles his blessing to marry whomever he pleased, and he told Charles he would kill the project and contact his brokers immediately to start reinvesting in solid stocks and shares, as he had done for most of his adult life.”
“That’s quite a turn around.”
The major nodded. “It is. It’s not unheard of, but it was dramatic. And I need hardly say, a huge relief for the entire household.”
I nodded. “I can imagine. So, what happened?”
“Well.” He sat forward. “That’s where it began to get very strange indeed. Refill?”
He went away and came back with the decanter. He refilled our glasses and settled back in his chair.
“As I said, Charles had gone straight away to see Pam and tell her the good news. When he’d returned a couple of hours later, he went to see his father, planning to tell him that he and Pam had set a date. He knocked on the door…”
Dehan interrupted. “What door?”
“Of his study, across the hall, in the tower. He knocked, but there was no reply. When he tried to open the door, he found it locked. This in itself was not unusual, he tended to lock himself in his study when he was working. But he failed to answer when Charles knocked and called to him, despite the fact that, through the window, as he had arrived back home, he had seen his father sitting at his desk.
“Concerned that he might be ill, he kicked at the lock several times until he broke it…” He paused and shook his head, gazing at the flames in the fire. “It defied belief. Old Man Gordon was sitting at his desk with a bullet wound in his right temple, and his .38 service revolver lying on the floor beside him. All the windows were locked on the inside, as had been the door.”
I frowned. “He committed suicide.”
The major nodded several times. “That would be the logical conclusion, and it was what the coroner concluded in the end. But the detective who conducted the initial inquiry was never satisfied. Chap from Scotland Yard, came up because of the high profile of the deceased, and because Charles was convinced from the beginning that something was wrong, and frankly, we haven’t got the forensic know how up here to deal with a complex case.”
Dehan asked, “What was it that didn’t satisfy them?”
“Well, you must remember that in the 1980s, forensic science was still in its infancy, but this chap, Inspector Henry Green, he thought that the angle of the shot was all wrong. If you shoot yourself in the head, the entry wound should be horizontal, and there should be a great deal of scorching because the muzzle is actually touching the head. But in this case, though his prints were all over the gun, the entry wound was at a slight, forty-five degree angle, and there was no scorching, as though he had held the gun at a distance, and at the height of his hip, which would clearly be impossible. There was also the issue of gunshot residue.”
“What about it?”
“There was none on his hand.”
I frowned and studied my whiskey for a moment. “So the inference was that he had been shot from a sitting or squatting position, at a distance.”
“That’s right, but it was clearly impossible because, as I say, the windows were all locked from the inside, as was the door. Charles, as I said, had had to smash the lock when he went in.”
Dehan looked at me, frowning and smiling at the same time. “Son of a gun!” She looked back at the major. “And the cops confirmed that the door had been locked…”
“Oh yes, you could see very clearly where the latch had burst through the wood.”
I said, “You were there?”
He nodded. “I was a friend of the family at the time, part-time PA to Old Man Gordon. There was no question but that the door had been locked from the inside.”
I smiled. “Secret passages? Secret doors…?”
“Not uncommon in these old castles, at all. But the police searched high and low and there was nothing. Two walls give onto the outside, a third onto the entrance hall and the fourth gives onto the ball room.”
Dehan gave a little laugh. “A true locked room mystery, whaddya know?” Then she laughed out loud. “This isn’t something you lay on especially for American detective guests?”
He chuckled. “A police variation on the Canterville Ghost! No, no! I’m afraid not. That is exactly how it happened. You can read it in the John O’Groats local papers. It also made the national press, briefly. You can probably find the papers in the library.” He pointed behind him at a door in the paneled wall. “Through that door.”
Dehan grinned. “I might have a look tomorrow.”
I raised an eyebrow at her, then smiled at the major. “We run a cold cases unit in New York. We specialize in unsolved homicides.” I looked back at Dehan, who was still grinning. “But we’re supposed to be on honeymoon, remember?”
The major laughed. “Oh dear! I should have kept quiet, shouldn’t I?” Then he shrugged. “But of course, strictly, this is not a cold case. It was closed, as a suicide.”
Dehan made a face. “And that’s probably what it was. The absence of GSR and burns may have a perfectly simple explanation. Easier to explain that than how the killer got out of a locked room.”
“And an explanation,” I said, setting down my glass, “that we are not going to provide.” I stood. “Come along, Mrs. Stone. I am dead beat.”
And we went up, arm in arm, to our ancient, Scottish bedchamber.
FOUR
We rose early. It’s hard not to when the sky starts lighting up at 2 AM. Dehan luxuriated in her free-standing bath with clawed feet while I showered, shaved and dressed. She wasn’t done by the time I’d finished, so I went down while she soaked.
I found Brown in the hall and he told me breakfast was served in the dining room and when I went in, the sideboard was set with coffee and tea, and hotplates loaded with everything you’d expect of a British breakfast: bacon, eggs—scrambled, fried and poached—kidneys, mushrooms, fried tomatoes and pork sausages, plus bread and an electric toaster.
I helped myself to some bacon and eggs and some coffee and was sitting down to eat when Charles bustled in.
“Ah! Excellent! Good morning!” He gestured at the sideboard with both hands. “I see you found your way to the grub! An Englishman is never served at breakfast! That is true,” he added as he piled food on his plate, “of all Britons, not just Englishmen. Not true, on the other hand, when we go abroad. When in Rome, what!” He sat and didn’t so much start eating as tackle his breakfast. “What are your plans for today?”
I sipped my coffee. “Not a lot. Take a walk, explore the island, maybe have lunch at the inn in the village.”
“Excellent plan. The grouse is good, as is the duck, though technically not in season.” He laughed. “They claim to have it frozen, but it tastes awfully fresh.”
We ate in silence for a moment. Then he dabbed his mouth with his napkin, took his cup of tea and sat back. “I couldn’t help overhearing the major last n
ight, filling you in on our little mystery.”
I nodded. “I hope you don’t mind. Dehan—Carmen, my wife—was curious. We work cold cases back in New York, so it tickled her curiosity.”
“Not at all. My father always swore Grandfather had been murdered, and the chap from Scotland yard… um…”
“Inspector Henry Green.”
He glanced at me. “Yes, how clever of you to remember.”
“I knew him.”
“Good lord! What a coincidence!”
I shrugged. “Not really. I was there for a year and a half. We did a kind of exchange program. While you guys were trying to make your policing methods more American, Giuliani was trying to make New York policing more British.” I smiled. “Our crime stats went down and yours went up. I spent some time at Scotland Yard. They moved me around a couple of times and I got to know a few people. Henry was one of them. He was a good detective. Very intuitive, but he always followed up with sound methodology.”
He was staring at me with wide eyes. “How fascinating,” he said, then blinked. “Well, he was inclined to agree with father, that there had been foul play. But realistically…” He shook his head. “It was simply impossible that there was anybody else in the room with him.”
I smiled. “Eliminate the impossible, my dear Watson, and whatever is left is the truth.”
“Ah, quite so, Holmes! Yes indeed!”
Dehan appeared in jeans and a white T-shirt with her hair tied in a ponytail. She grabbed a slice of toast and a black coffee standing up and spoke with her mouth full. “You weady, big gumph?”
I smiled at Charles. “Big Gumph, that’s me. You see why I married her.”
He laughed politely. “There is, if you’re in the mood for exploring, a rather splendid stone circle over to the west, near the edge of the cliffs—do please be careful!—and magnificent views of Hoy and Flota, the islands, you know.”
Dehan drained her cup. “Sounds just about perfect.”
We stepped out through the French windows in the drawing room onto the ancient stone terrace. All traces of the threatened storm seemed to have disappeared, except the close, humid warmth. The sky was an intense, rich blue. There were no clouds, and swallows circled and swooped around the house like World War Two Spitfires in the Battle of Britain.