“My brother and I were always close,” he told me, “our sister too.”
“Rosemary,” I supplied.
“He told you about her?” he asked, seeming surprised.
“He did.”
“Rosemary. The family wasn’t the same after she died. Of course, it wasn’t. But we were still brothers. And we had her,” he said wistfully. “I've never been sure which one of us met her first, but we both loved her. A great, great deal. Rosemary did too.”
“Who, Mr Sandow?”
“Selene,” he said the name almost reverently. “Selene Whitlock.”
“Who was she?”
“A maid. Classic old story, that one, isn’t it?” he chuckled.
“You were both in love with her?”
“We were. Only mother wanted my brother to marry someone more, of our own circle, if you like.”
I nodded in understanding. “What about you?”
“I could hardly marry the girl my brother also loved, could I? And live in the same house? My plan was to leave. Marry Selene and move out somewhere else, at least until he was settled himself with someone new. He didn’t think that was fair. That he didn’t get to be with her, but I could.”
“What did Selene say?”
“She refused to come between two brothers,” he sighed. “Said she wanted no part in it. She handed in her notice and was gone. It was only after she was gone, that one of the other maids told us she had been with child. Pregnant.”
I inhaled slowly. “Who was the father?”
He smiled sadly. “Never knew. She never said. I tried to persuade my brother to bring her back. Said that we needed to look after her, figure out who fathered the child, that she was family.”
“But?”
“He had just gotten married and Henry was on his way,” he scratched his jaw, eyes almost tearing up, “so he refused. Had all the support of the rest of the family. We had a row, a nasty one. And I couldn’t be there anymore. So, I took my father's name, and left.”
“Did you look for Selene?”
“She died,” his voice cracked, “a few years later. The child,” he shrugged, “I tried to get the welfare state to tell me about the child, but they wouldn’t let me. I wasn’t the father, nor was my brother, not according to her.”
He slumped back in his chair, his gaze moving to the photograph of his wedding on the wall, “I went to Wales for a while, met my lovely wife. Haven’t looked back since. Haven’t said her name aloud since. It was her,” he added suddenly. “She loved the painting, so my brother did too.”
“It was his only memory of her,” I said quietly.
Richard scoffed. “His own bloody fault,” he snapped. “It was him who sent her away.”
I looked away, my eyes wandering around the room again. They landed on the bookshelf, scanning the various titles, and to the coffee table, where a few books laid on the surface. One caught my eye, and I leant forward. The Works of Brynmor Ragsdale.
He knew his art.
“I understand Ragsdale came from the estate village,” I said conversationally.
He looked up, surprised, and shook his head. “A common misconception, Inspector.” He flipped open the book and pointed to the name of a village. “Close to the land, but not quite.”
I nodded, acting interested, and closed the book. “Mr Sandow,” I asked him carefully, “where were you two nights ago? Whilst the party was on?”
“I was home. Family dinner, we had the son and granddaughter over. They’ll vouch for me,” he waved a hand, “I’m sure.”
His face had fallen, the brightness in his eyes dimmed. He was angry at his brother, he knew about Ragsdale, he knew about the party, and he had good cause to make such a move. But as I looked at the man, grey-haired and small in his armchair, I couldn’t imagine it to be him. Selene was gone, and there was nothing he could do now.
But Selene’s child was something else entirely. Selene Whitlock, I hastily scribbled it down on an old receipt in my pocket and tucked it safely away. Sharp had mentioned welfare, something about Sandow. He’d gone looking for the child. The child would be grown up now, the same age as Henry, grown-up enough to care about who fathered them, grown-up enough to be mad about it.
“Thank you, Mr Sandow. You’ve been a big help.” I stood up as he did, shaking his hand once more.
“I haven’t been to that house since the day I left,” he told me, almost regrettably. “Not even when my niece and nephews were born. I’m told Henry has children himself now.”
“He does.”
“Time flies, doesn’t it?” He walked me back to the front door, opening it up. I handed him my card, just in case.
“Never too late to make up for lost time,” I told him.
He smiled faintly, and I headed back to my car, watching as he shut the door. I recalled what Sharp had said earlier about the butler.
“Why now?”
As I drove back to the city, I wondered that myself.
Twelve
Thatcher
I drove slowly back to the station, my encounter with Richard Sandow playing over and over in my head. I couldn’t shake the image of his face from my mind. The sadness there, the almost shameful way he had spoken about Selene and his nephews and niece. It was one thing, I supposed, to turn your back on your brother, but the children were innocent, something like must weigh heavily as the years drift past. I couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like to get them all in one room, let the past untangle itself.
Either way, with all my deliberations and wondering, there was little in me that suspected Mr Sandow to be behind this. None of it fit, not the timing, nothing. The butler remained at the top of my list, and tomorrow, I’d head back out to the estate and have another long chat with the family and their loyal servant.
I’d go now if I could, but Sharp had made her orders clear, and I was in no mood to have to do battle with her today. Not after that. It was rare that an interview with a suspect left me feeling drained, but bugger me if Richard Sandow hadn’t managed it. Some small, cynical voice in the back of my head made me question if he had done it on purpose, if he was still in some way involved. Perhaps what was going on with the butler gave him the motivation he needed, after hearing about another servant being poorly treated by the family.
But the thought had no legs, and other than sharing it with Mills when I next saw him, I could do not much more than stash it away for some other time.
I drove back into the city, heading directly to the station. Upstairs, Mills and Smith had finally trawled their way through the guest list and now sat slumped at Smith’s desk. Mills’s hair was mussed all over his head, his tie loose and collar unbuttoned, sleeves rolled to his elbows. A cup of coffee hung in his hand as he listened to Smith with a brightness in his eyes that hadn’t been there when I left. Eyeing them for a moment, I headed to Sharp’s office, rattling the door with a few heavy knocks.
“Enter,” she called.
I opened the door and stepped in, kicking it shut before dropping into the chair opposite her. She was typing furiously, glaring at her screen which reflected slightly in her glasses. I waited patiently, leaning back in my chair and looked around her office. It hadn’t changed much in all the years we’d worked together. A photo of her son and husband sat on the desk, a few brightly coloured children’s drawings tacked to the wall. She had books left all over the place, the shelves themselves taken up mostly with potted plants.
“Thatcher.” She looked away from her computer at last and took her glasses off, rubbing her eyes with her fingertips before looking at me fully.
“All well, ma’am?”
She snorted a laugh and waved her hand dismissively. “Bloody politics,” she told me, clearly annoyed. “How d'you get on?”
I shared with her my visit to Richard Sandow, from the names he had shared, the way his face looked, and his voice sounded, to the photographs that hung on the wall. Sharp listened carefully, her level gaze never l
eaving mine until I finished, then she breathed in deeply and leant back.
“Well,” she muttered, “I wasn’t sure what I was expecting.”
“Nor me, ma’am.”
She picked up her mug, swirling the contents curiously. “You don’t think it was him?”
“Not unless he’s working with someone else, but honestly, ma’am?” I shook my head. “I don’t see it.”
“You still want to pursue the butler trail?”
“I think it’s our best bet right now, yes, ma’am.”
“I was right about one thing, though,” she said triumphantly. “Sandow and the welfare. I knew there was something there.” It wasn’t quite the welfare system, but I let her run with it.
“How did that make its way to you?” I asked, surprised that she would have been involved.
“It was back when I did some family liaison work. He called them often enough that one of the girls, a social worker, got in touch with me. Just in case things went south.”
“Did you ever learn about the child?”
“No. Classic case, though, Thatcher. After the mum died, they’d have gone into the foster system.”
“Even with the possibility of a father?” I asked.
“If Selene never named the father,” Sharp rested her elbows on her desk, “not on the birth certificate, then yes. And it might well be that the child doesn’t want to know either.”
“Seems wrong,” I muttered.
“Well, it was about twenty years ago,” Sharp said, “and when it comes to family law, Thatcher there’s a lot I don't know. A lot I don’t want to know either.” Her gaze flicked to the photo of her son.
“How hard would be to track the child down?”
“Somewhat. As they are no longer a child, they won't be in the system anymore. We’re talking archives, Thatcher.”
I smiled at her, the best, bright, please-do-this-for-me smile in my arsenal.
She met my gaze with a deadpan expression and sighed. “I’ll make a few calls and see what I can do. It’ll be a few days, most likely though.”
“That’s fine. I wanted to head back to the estate tomorrow. Have another chat with the family.”
“You’ll tell them you met Richard Sandow?”
“Might as well.” I lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “Maybe it’ll inspire them to open up a bit more too. I know that secret, they can share a few more.”
Sharp gave a short dry laugh. “Fine.”
“And I want to check the land itself,” I added. “Some of the exit routes through the gardens and things. Mind squaring that for me? I don’t really want to have to navigate that with the family.”
“I’ll get you what you need,” she assured me, “but there’s always some resistance.”
“You’d think people would be more cooperative,” I said, crossing my legs, “given that they very much want their belongings back.”
“You and I have been in this game too long to start wondering about that now,” Sharp told me. “Off you go. I want what you told me written up.”
“Really?”
“Yes,” she said sternly. “We’re dotting all the I’s and crossing all the T’s on this one. And take Mills with you. I think he almost withered away to nothing going through those alibis.”
“Seems to be enjoying himself,” I noted, peering through the blinds on the glass wall to where he and Smith sat talking. Sharp followed my gaze and glowered.
“They’d better be careful,” she muttered. “The last thing I want is a HR complication.” She let out a heavy sigh as her phone started to ring. “Get out.” She waved me to the door.
I grinned at her, but headed out quickly, her voice vanishing as I shut the door and crossed the room to Mills.
“How’d it go, sir?” he asked, scrambling to his feet.
“Interesting. Come on.” I jerked my head towards our office. “We have some work to do.”
With Mills helping, it all got done very quickly. We polished up all the paperwork Sharp required of us, and I told Mills about Sandow as we did. He shared my thoughts, thankfully, and Sharp got through to the social worker who was setting about looking into the necessary files to find our mystery child. She’d even acquired what I needed for tomorrow to go without a hitch, the family aware of our arrival in the morning. All that, and then she had to go home and look after her son, who was apparently still suffering from his stomach bug, throwing up left, right and centre.
When the last document was done, I pushed myself back from my desk and yanked my coat on. “Come on, Mills,” I called to him. “We’re going to the pub.”
He didn’t need to be told twice. He turned off his computer and pulled his coat on with awkward haste, half falling through the door as we strode out.
It was a nice evening, a cool breeze keeping away the spring heat. Thunderstorm season soon, so I was enjoying the lack of humidity whilst it was still here. We headed down the street, rounding the corner to The Bell. The old Victorian pub was wedged between two tall buildings, its doors wide open to the street. Mills headed to a table over by the window as I headed to the bar.
Paul, the landlord, leant against the bar, his back to me, looking up at the television in the corner where a game of football unfolded.
“Evening, Paul,” I called. He turned around, quickly heading over, snapping to attention.
“Inspector Thatcher. How’re things?”
“Same old, can’t complain. What about you? That hip of yours any better?”
He chuckled and gave his hip a light rap with his knuckles. “Getting a new one soon,” he told me.
I wasn’t sure how to respond to that, so I smiled and nodded. “Best of luck,” I told him.
“The usual for you?” he asked, reaching down for a glass.
“Please.”
“Your sergeant, too?”
“Him too.”
Paul nodded and set to work, tossing a packet of crisps my way too. I handed him a tenner and carried it all over to Mills, the bag of crisps between my teeth.
I slid onto my chair and took a long sip of lager, shrugged my coat off and sighed happily.
“Maybe I’ll do this when I retire,” I told him. Turn the old coaching house into a local again, spend my days pouring pints. It was the chatting to people I wasn’t so fond of.
“Own a pub?” Mills asked, opening the crisps.
“Why not?”
“Seems a lot of work,” he said. “Kind of defeats the point of retiring, doesn’t it?”
I scratched the back of my neck. “Sort of. Gives you a good reason to spend all day in a pub though, doesn’t it?”
“Some might host an intervention for that,” he said.
“Who? You?”
“Someone has to.” He took a sip. “Maybe Jeannie can help me. And Dr Crowe.”
“Bit of a sorry crowd,” I noted.
“I don’t know any of your other friends,” he told me, “that is unless I’m your only one?” He grinned and popped a crisp in his mouth. I imagined him meeting Sally, and a shiver almost went down my spine. Dealing with one of them was enough, the two of them together would certainly send me into an early retirement.
“You won’t be allowed in my pub,” I told him. “You’re barred.”
Mills laughed and leant against the wall, his leg crossed over the other at the knee, glancing out the window. “So,” he began, “we’re heading back to the estate tomorrow?”
“We are,” I confirmed. “I want to have another little chat with the family, see what Lord Hocking might tell me about Selene and his brother, and see what the butler knows about all of this.”
“I’d wager he knows a lot,” Mills said. “They often do, don’t they? That’s kind of the point.”
“I’d wager the same thing,” I agreed.
“Do you think Lord Hocking ever suspected that the child was his?” Mills asked in a lowered voice. “I mean, he might have just written it off as being Richard’s?”
&n
bsp; “Potentially. He was married at this point,” I added. “Henry on the way.”
“This mystery child would be older than him?” Mills said carefully. “And if they are Lord Hocking’s, that would technically make them the heir to the estate.”
“Easy, King Henry. I don’t know if that’s quite how these things work these days.” But it was likely, from what I had seen of the family. Tradition like that, would make quite the splash amongst them all. “And anyway, we don’t even know if the child knows who its father is. And if they did know, why would they steal a painting? Why not confront the family?”
“Nobody’s done anything yet though, sir,” Mills reminded me. “Nobody’s tried to sell it yet, nobody’s left a threat or blackmail. Maybe it’s more a souvenir than anything else.” He spoke quickly, the ideas coming out of his mouth as he thought them up. “I mean, if it was Selene’s favourite painting, why wouldn’t they take it? Have a small piece of her after what the family did to her?”
It made sense, and I nodded encouragingly to him.
“Timing-wise,” he went on, “maybe they’ve only just found all of it out themselves. Used the party as the perfect time to head in and take it. And since nobody knows what they look like, they could have gotten about fairly unnoticed.”
“The brothers look very much alike,” I added, “as do the other children. Maybe, the child has enough of a resemblance to them that nobody took notice. They were too drunk to tell if it was Henry, or a stranger, or some distant relative. Either way, they wouldn’t be sure enough to stop and demand an explanation.”
“Unless Selene had very distinctive features,” Mills had to argue. “For all we know the child is mixed race. Or very possibly, not the child of either of them. Maybe that’s why Selene never told them about it, more than just not wanting to come between them.”
“None of their business.” I took another long sip of beer, nodding approvingly to Mills. He really did have a good brain. He’d make a bloody good Inspector when the time came, and it was no wonder he went from constable to sergeant so quickly.
“Well, until we find out who the child is,” I murmured, “we can only speculate. But it’s good to have a few theories under our belt.” I took a crisp. “For now, I want to figure out more of the how’s. We know they got in using the cover of the party, and likely got out through the cellars. But somehow, they made their way through the estate with an oil painting in hand, in a heavy frame that is unlikely they took apart. I want to see the routes from the house where they could have parked a car, if indeed, they needed to.”
DCI Thatcher Yorkshire Crime Thrillers: Books 1-3 Page 36