“That’s fine,” I answered, taking a seat at the huge wooden table, the surface nicked and grooved over years of use.
“What’s this about, sergeant?” Maud asked me cheerily. She looked different, back in her stiff, severe uniform, hair tightly smoothed into place, shoes shining like a new penny.
“Selene Whitlock.”
“Lovely girl,” Dennis sighed. He looked, for once, human. His face drawn with sadness, wrinkles forming on his forehead as he sat down beside Maud, who shook her head, troubled.
“She really was. A little ray of sunshine.”
“You knew her well?” I asked Dennis.
He gave a nod. “She was only a young thing when she came. All nervous and bright eyed. Not much older than my own. We all cared for her like our own, didn’t we?” he asked Maud, who nodded enthusiastically.
“We were sorry to have her leave.”
“Did you ever meet her?” I asked Daria.
“I came a few months before she left. She was great. Helpful, took the blame for me a few times,” she said sheepishly towards Dennis, “when I broke one or two things.”
“They talk about her,” Lara told me, “all the time. I love the stories.” She smiled. “She sounded great. It’s quite the shoes to step into.”
“You’re doing terrific,” Maud assured her, taking her hand. Even Dennis nodded, but there was a wariness in his eyes. He’d seen what happened when a maid here got caught up with the family, if Rupert and Lara were as close as I suspected, he’d be likely keeping a close eye on her.
“We know that she was fond of the painting in Lord Hocking’s study,” I explained, “the one that’s been stolen. But we were wondering if there was anything else in the house she was fond of. Any paintings belonging to Richard, for example?”
“All of Master Richard’s things were taken down into the cellar,” Dennis told me.
“There were a few things she was fond of,” Maud said, “but she never made mention of them. Not once.”
“Did she ever talk about leaving a message behind? A message about who it was that got her pregnant?”
“A message?” She scrunched her face in thought. “I don’t believe so. Why?”
“We think that it might be why the painting was stolen. If Selene left some indication over whose child she bore, somebody might have the notion of using that against the family.”
“She never did say.” Dennis shook his head. “Don’t think she wanted the attention that would come with it all, you know?”
“Was there anything she and Richard particularly had in common?” I tried. “Any places on the estate? Any views or books, anything?”
“They both read a lot,” Maud recalled. “It’s what they bonded over at first. Spent some time in the library together.”
“Course there're hundreds of books in there,” Dennis pointed out. “If she left him a message in one of them, it’d be a nightmare to figure out which.”
I nodded. “There might have been a favourite of hers?”
“You could check the old ledger,” Lara suggested.
“Ledger?”
She nodded. “In the library. Lord and Lady Hocking let us read anything, save the special editions, so long as we log it in and out. If you go back far enough, maybe you see which ones she took out.”
“Are they in the library?”
Dennis shook his head. “They will also be in the cellars, I’m afraid. After Master Richard left, Lord Hocking more or less erased him from the house. The library was almost swept clean. His favourite chair, his blanket.”
“Any paintings?”
“I believe so,” Dennis thought, “but you must excuse me, sergeant. I’ve worked here for several decades and have seen numerous paintings come in and out. I don’t think I could tell you just how many are even in the house as we speak.”
I smiled. “That’s alright. Just any way we can narrow it down, would be a huge help.”
“She liked the view from the library,” Daria piped up. “I remember she told me once when we were cleaning. She stood at the window and just stared out. Said it was one of the best views in the world.”
“Where does the library look out to?”
“Down towards the lake,” Dennis informed me, “and the sun house.”
“Like the painting?”
He smiled. “She was fond of the lake.”
I nodded and made a small note in my book. “Well then, I suppose I’ll have to check the cellars.”
“You’ll need her Ladyship's permission,” Dennis informed. “I’m afraid I would feel uneasy taking you down myself.”
“No problem,” I said, standing up. “I’ll fetch Inspector Thatcher too. Get another pair of eyes. Please let me know if you think of anything else that might be useful.”
They all nodded and gave Dennis a swift smile, making my own way back up to the house, finding my way to the living room. Luckily, a chorus of shouts led the way. I suspected Thatcher had filled them in.
I made my way to the living room as it died down, Thatcher’s voice calm as ever.
“It’s my suspicion that Selene left some confirmation. Somewhere important, where it was likely you might find it.”
“In the painting?” Rupert’s voice.
“Only, we’re not entirely sure which one,” Thatcher replied.
I entered the room then, to a weirdly pleased looking Thatcher. Rupert sat, open mouthed, staring at his mother who had sunk back like a wilted flower. Henry sat with his hand bunched up to his head, somewhat in pain. Lord Hocking was standing, face flushed and also somehow grey looking. Rose sat on the floor, staring at the fire.
“The art that Richard Sandow liked best is down in the cellars,” I told Thatcher.
“In storage,” Lord Hocking said. “You think they took the wrong painting?”
“It’s possible,” Thatcher confirmed, “if they picked the wrong brother. May we search the cellars?”
Lady Hocking nodded, Rupert holding her close. “By all means, Inspector. Put this nasty business to an end.”
Thatcher nodded in thanks and we walked from the room, down the hallway where our thief likely escaped, and into the cold, dusty maze of cellars.
“How’d that go then, sir?”
“Better than I thought it would,” he answered. “They didn’t seem all that surprised.” He froze, glancing back over his shoulder to the steps with a frown.
“Sir?” I followed his gaze, not seeing anything.
“Thought I heard something,” he muttered. He shook his head and carried on. “The maids?”
“A few useful bits. Richard and Selene spent some time in the library together, the view from there looks down over the lake.”
“To the sun house?” he asked.
“Yes. Apparently, they kept a ledger for when books were removed so if I can find the right year, we can see if there are any particular favourites Selene or Richard had.”
Thatcher nodded, looking pleased with the result. “You do that then, might take a minute. I’ll start on the paintings.” We stopped in front of a fair-sized room, stacks of sheet-wrapped paintings leaning against the wall. “I’m guessing anything to do with the lake or the library.”
“Better place to start than any other,” I answered.
He nodded, scratching the back of his neck. “On your bike then, Mills.”
I nodded and carried on down the draughty hall, glancing in and out of rooms, looking for the sort of storage that looked like it came from a library.
I opened one door, the heavy door scraping against the flagstones, a cloud of dust whirling with the motion and peered in. A few boxes stacked one atop the other, and a large armchair, covered in a grey chest. Must be it, I thought. The door was heavier than it had any right to be, and there was no window in the small room. I held the door open, reaching forward for a large box and dragged it across the room to prop it open.
I stepped back and looked at it, then added another box. Once
I felt sure that it wouldn’t slide shut, I walked deeper into the stuffy, air starved room and started rifling through. It was a nasty room and reminded me vaguely of one those old priest holes houses like these used to have. Or a bomb shelter. Sure enough, I doubted there was any way out from the inside, no handle in any case.
Most of the boxes were labelled, which seemed good, but then I realised that they were labelled with complete disregard to what was actually in them. One box, claiming to be filled with doll clothes, actually housed a rather nice clock and table lamp. Seemed a shame to be keeping them down here, but I was grateful for the absence of creepy dolls.
I rolled my shirt sleeves up, hoisting boxes around in puffs of dust that left me coughing and sweat started to gather down my back. It felt like I was moving to a new house, only it was Mrs Havisham’s house and I wouldn’t be all that surprised if I came across an old wedding dress or a horrid mountain of spider webs. A shudder went through me, I never liked spiders. Too many legs and eyes for something so small, what did they need all of them for? Other than scrabbling round in the dead of night terrifying little boys when they find one on their favourite teddy bear.
I shoved one box aside and pulled another towards me, the tape several layers thick. I wish I had a knife on me but no such luck. It took me a while to find purchase on the corner and ripe the tape back, peeling off a layer of cardboard as I did.
The box was fairly full, and heavy, and lying on the top was a small painting of a dog. A bloodhound, I think, with a little bow tie on around its collar. Cute. I put it aside and let out a small cheer when I looked down into the box. Ledgers. Nice ones too, red leather bound, the years engraved in gold. I wonder how far back they went, if we could trace the Hocking family down the centuries through the books they chose to read. I picked them out one by one. Selene would have been here just under thirty years ago, so I discarded the most recent ledgers until I found myself in the right decade, at least.
I settled down on the cold floor, flicking through year by year. It seemed Richard certainly was an avid reader, and I found it humorous that he checked out books from his own home. With so many of them though, it made sense to keep track on where they all were at any given time. Insurance, most likely. It usually came down to insurance.
I stumbled across Selene’s name eventually, only here and there for the first few pages, but as the months went by, and she got more at ease, her name appeared constantly. More than any other. There was one page where only her name and someone called ‘Sticks’ appeared. I pulled out my notebook and started to jot down the titles that she and Richard shared. There were several, and then the ones she read over and over again. There were several of those as well.
It was sad to think of her. A young woman, a good job, clearly with passions and interests, and all of it snuffed away just because of those brothers. I’d never say it aloud, but it wasn’t hard to imagine why someone might want revenge for that. Thatcher thought so too, he’d yet to say it, but I could see it on his face. Clear as day when he looked at Lord Hocking.
I pulled out the next ledger and flicked through, finding more of the same books borrowed again and again. I wondered why she didn’t just buy her own copy. A pattern was emerging though. She’d borrow a book, and a few days later, Richard would borrow the same one. Maybe they had a little book club between them. Or maybe it was something else. I underlined those books in my notes.
Something outside in the hallway scuffed, and I glanced around. I couldn’t see anything.
“Is that you, sir?” I called. “I might have something here.” I turned back around to my notes.
The shuffle came again, louder this time, a thump, a scrape, and I turned to see the boxes in a pile before me, the door swinging shut. I scrambled up to catch it, but as my fingers brushed the door, it shut itself with an ominous thud. Bloody hell. No handle, no window. The room was built like a bloody bomb shelter and already everything started to settle, the dust fell back in thick heavy blankets, the wind was shut off in deafening silence. I licked my finger and held it up. No air. There was no air.
I hammered on the door, pounding it with my fists.
“Thatcher!”
No handle. No way out. No air.
Shit.
Twenty
It wasn’t there; for all the effort I had just been through to get the sodding painting, and all that work to get the ancient old frame off, it wasn’t there.
I pushed myself back on the chair, wheeling from the desk, and looked up to the ceiling, letting out an enraged shout. Wrong painting, I realised morbidly. The thought was unpleasant, a bitter, bile like feeling at the back of my throat. We’d have to go back.
“What’s wrong?” came a soft voice from behind me. I craned my neck back and spotted her there, upside down in the doorframe.
“Not there,” I muttered, lifting my head back up. Her feet clipped across the concrete floor as she walked to look over the painting on the desk. Her hand rested reassuringly on my shoulder.
“I thought you said that was the one,” she muttered accusingly.
“I thought it was,” I snapped back, standing up and raking my hand nervously through my hair. “Should have been,” I muttered, glaring out of the smeared windows.
“So,” she began carefully, “it’s still in there?”
“It is.”
“And they might still find it?”
“They might,” I spat through gritted teeth.
“Okay then.” She took my arm and steered me over to an armchair, sitting on her own with her legs curled up underneath her. “Think. There must be something else, some other painting or object she mentioned.”
“I thought it was that one,” I groaned, again head falling into my hands. “She never mentioned any other one.”
“She must have done! It can’t have been the only interesting painting in that bloody house. Any one of them would be worth our rent until we’re sixty.”
“And then some.” I nudged her with my elbow. “Could be a good retirement scheme.”
“If you want to retire in Paraguay, then absolutely.”
I smiled at her and then leant back against the sofa, staring up at the tall ceiling. “Can you fetch us a brew, if I’m to be doing all this thinking?”
She rolled her eyes but stood up anyway and punched me on the arm. “Don’t spend too long thinking. The police are still looking for that.” She nodded to the dismembered frame. “Might not be too hard for them to put two and two together.”
I sent her a withering look. “Because the British police are so well known for their astounding intellect?”
“That Thatcher is,” she reminded me. “If he can figure out why someone would kill another person, he can bloody well figure out why someone would steal a painting. Especially after that extra little stunt you left on the doorstep.” She hadn’t liked that, my going off-book with the blood.
“It did what I needed it to,” I shouted after as she wandered over to the kettle.
“Oh yeah?”
“It did.” I got up from the sofa and followed her across the room. “They should be wary of us, need I remind you?”
“Won’t have much to be wary about though, will they? Not if we’ve got the wrong painting.”
I reached up and scratched the back of my head. She was right. It was annoying when she was right. She calmly kept her back to me, drying some mugs as the kettle boiled noisily by her elbow.
“Think,” she repeated. “Where did she like to go?”
“The summer house.” I dropped my arms to my side. “I’ve told you this a hundred times! The summer house and the lake, they were her favourite places.”
“She couldn’t have gone there all the time.” She turned around, arms folded across her chest. “What about rain?”
“When it rained?”
“Yes, you stupid pillock. When it was cold and rainy, there must have been some other place she liked to spend her time. The kitchen?”
“No, she never much liked the kitchen,” I answered quietly, hopping up to sit on the table. “Always smelt a bit too garlicky in there for her.”
“The parlour? Or the dining room?”
“No, nothing in there to do. They’re not the sort of family who keeps books and things in the living room.”
I froze. Of course. Books.
“The library,” I muttered. She had turned back around to fill the mugs, but she glanced over her shoulder at me.
“The library?”
“She would have liked it there,” I carried on excitedly, slipping down from the table, “anywhere there were books. She loved books.”
I was on a roll with this, but she didn’t look impressed. She passed me a mug of tea and scratched her nose, grimacing.
“What?” I asked her. “What is it?”
“How are we going to get into the library?”
“Same way we got in last time,” I reminded her, taking a swig of tea, “through the cellars.”
“Last time, there was a party, and the house was full of drunks. This time, it will be empty, and thanks to your pig blood, everyone will be on rather high alert. Won’t they?”
I hadn’t thought about that. They’d all be shaken up, that much I had counted on.
“Maybe they won’t even be there then?” I said with a shrug. “Maybe they’ll all be sticking to a few rooms, not wanting to traipse around too much.”
“In their own home?” she murmured. “That’s a bit sad.”
I glared at her over the top of the mug. “That’s a bit sad?” I parroted back/ “I think you and I have a better understanding of sad than those people.”
“I know,” she sighed.
“Because of those people,” I grunted, “and so did she.”
We looked at each other for a long moment, and then she sighed and lowered her mug.
“We should go soon,” she decided. “They’ll be less on edge during the day, and there will probably be more people coming and going, anyway.”
I nodded and drained most of my still fairly scalding tea. “I’ll drive.”
DCI Thatcher Yorkshire Crime Thrillers: Books 1-3 Page 42