Chapter Two

 

“Stiles?”

Randolph and Serena both started at the name. Randolph instinctively rubbed a contusion on the back of his neck, a constant reminder of that vicious attack. Both he and Montgomery had been positive that Stiles was the perpetrator but, without proof, could not charge him with the crime. Nor could they prove that he acted on orders from the man under investigation for fraud, Douglas King, whom Stiles shot and killed.

Randolph remembered how Stiles brushed past him and Montgomery after that incident in the most insolent way. His jaw tightened. He heard the slow, steady thump of his blood in his ears as he remembered that single shot. A shot meant to kill rather than stop King from escaping and which prevented them from bringing King to justice.

The room fell silent as they each ruminated over the past events and how they might affect the present.

Serena looked up at Montgomery with an expression of understanding on her face. “So you turning up and asking questions about these deceased partners would have already put Stiles on his guard?”

“Exactly.”

“And then Stiles finding out that Sir Hilary and I are friends might rattle him even more?” she continued.

“In a nutshell.” Montgomery paused to formulate his thoughts. “If Stiles knew that you and Sir Hilary are friends, as well as the connection we already have, I wouldn’t put it past him to do something rash.”

“You mean he might be a danger to Hilly?” A knot of worry formed in Serena’s stomach.

“That’s a strong possibility.” Montgomery rolled his whisky tumbler between his palms. “But if you both decide to accompany me, Stiles can’t fail to realize that we are all connected.”

Serena looked gloomy as she considered the possibilities. “Isn’t he likely to view Randolph’s presence as a threat to his freedom and maybe make another attempt on his life?”

Montgomery caught the unsteady timbre in her voice. His first reaction was to allay any misgivings she might have but he opted, instead, for honesty.

“Unfortunately that can’t be ruled out,” he said softly.

“So you think my head could be on the chopping block again, so to speak?” A tone of incredulity framed Randolph’s words.

“I certainly hope not,” Montgomery replied. “And we will do everything we can to prevent you coming to any harm.”

“What happened to the rest of Stillwater’s investors?” Randolph heaved himself out of his chair and Serena slipped into the space he left.

Montgomery wished he could make space for Serena anywhere, at any time but brushed that covetous thought aside and, as if he were counting on his fingers, said “One drowned. Two died in an automobile accident. The fourth hung himself and it was his wife who contacted the Pinkerton Agency. The police, you see, did not believe that Elliott Thompson was murdered but Mrs. Thompson did.”

“And you think Stiles is behind all those deaths?” Serena asked.

“By all accounts Arthur Hannet was a reasonable swimmer. It was ruled an accidental death. But who do you suppose was in the boating party that day?”

“Stiles.” Randolph’s tone held a grim edge.

Montgomery nodded. “Then Chester Watson and Edward Emery died when their car lost traction on a sharp bend during a mountain road race. Stillwater was behind them on the road with Stiles as his co-driver. That was also deemed an accidental death. How could Stiles be responsible when he was following them down that road? The mechanics who checked the car found the steering linkage had snapped. Which begs the question, had it been tampered with prior to the race?” Montgomery spread his hands as if he expected the answer to drop into them. “There was no evidence suggesting it, but my suspicion is that the steering linkage was replaced with one that was so worn it simply could not stand the rigors of the terrain the race was run over.”

“And Mr. Thompson?”

“From the records and what was described to me, Thompson could not have hung himself nor was there a suicide note. The officer in charge of the case considered Mrs. Thompson too distraught to question her at the time the body was found and then, when he did go to speak to her, he didn’t believe her. She insisted that her husband was in sound mind and would never have committed suicide, so must have been murdered.”

“And where was Stiles when this supposed suicide took place?” Randolph asked.

“Well, funny you should ask that,” Montgomery said with a wry smile. “Just like in Cold Creek the day you were spirited away, Buxton, no one saw Stiles or knew where he was. When questioned about his whereabouts for that day, he simply said he was ‘here and there around the airfield but nowhere in particular’.”

“That’s a bit vague,” Serena commented.

“To say the least.” Montgomery scowled with displeasure as he recalled his interview with Stiles. “It was all quite plausible. He checked out of one hangar, walked across to another, walked part of the perimeter and checked the front gates, then went back to his office in the administration building. No one recalled seeing him, apart from when he arrived at work in the morning and again when he left about seven o’clock in the evening.”

“And during that day Mr. Thompson supposedly hung himself?”

“That’s about it,” Montgomery told Serena. “I keep thinking how Stiles could possibly have left the plant, rigged the suicide, and got back again without anyone seeing him.”

“Could he have left in a vehicle?” Serena asked. “Surely, the security personnel would have a record of all traffic that went in and out that day?”

Montgomery nodded. “Stillwater and your friend, Blenkinsop-Brown came and went. There were a couple of materials and parts deliveries, but none of those times were feasible for Stiles to have come in and out.”

“What if he went out hidden in one vehicle, and then came back in the next?” Randolph suggested. “Where do those vehicles go within the perimeter of the airfield?”

Montgomery fell silent as he considered Randolph’s idea. “That might be a possibility.”

“Well, possibility or not, here are Daniel and Frances.” Serena opened her arms to hug the children who ran into the library. “My goodness, I hardly recognized you, you are so clean.”

Frances, her cheeks pink and her glossy dark curls tied up in a sky-blue ribbon, giggled. Daniel sighed, as if being clean was a huge inconvenience to him. He held out his hands for his mother’s inspection and stood very still while she checked behind his ears. Serena caught Stuart’s quizzical glance.

“Now we are five years old,” she explained, “we have become very independent but aren’t always thorough and don’t pay attention to Nanny Rachel as much as we should.”

Daniel started to squirm under her attention and Stuart grinned. He was not entirely unfamiliar with the habits of small boys, having two lively nephews he saw far too infrequently.

“An’ Rachel made sure we cleaned our teef,” Frances chirped.

“I’m sure she did.” Serena smiled at her daughter and then turned to Montgomery. “I hope you’ll excuse us, Stuart. We always read stories before bedtime and are at quite an exciting chapter in our current story.”

“Of course.” Montgomery stood and smiled at the children who observed their visitor with suddenly somber expressions.

“Randolph will show you to your room,” Serena called over her shoulder as the children hurried their mother out of the room. “Dinner is at eight o’clock and the dinner gong sounds ten minutes in advance. You can’t possibly miss it. Hobart is slightly deaf and bangs it far harder than necessary. It can be heard all over the house.”

Montgomery thanked her and then followed Randolph up the wide staircase.

 

*~*~*

 

He was shown into a room tastefully decorated in shades of blue that could only be a gentleman’s room. Handsome paper striped in shades of indigo and sapphire, with a very narrow white stripe to relieve the darker tones, covered the walls. A dark blue silk counterpane covered a large four poster bed piled with pillows. Velvet drapes in deepest navy hung at the almost floor-to-ceiling windows. Two deep midnight-blue leather chairs, either of which Montgomery would have liked nothing better than to collapse into, faced each other across the fireplace.

“The bathroom’s through here.” Randolph crossed the floor and opened a door beside the head of the bed. “The water geyser’s pretty efficient, but you do need to let it run for a bit before it gets hot. Makes a bit of a racket too, but don’t worry, that’s normal. You just turn this gas tap here. The matches for lighting it are on the washstand.”

Montgomery glanced over the marble washstand, already set with towels, shaving soap and fresh razors.

“Thank you, Buxton. Your hospitality is much appreciated.”

Randolph waved as he left the room.

Montgomery went to the window, which looked out over a lawn as perfect as the green baize on a billiard table. Beyond the lawn a garden, exact in its geometry, spread regally beneath his gaze. Blue and pink flowers radiated outwards from a circular bed at the centre of the garden like the spokes of a wheel. Low, clipped box hedges enclosed each bed. Gravel paths surrounded and intersected the garden, all interspersed with what he knew to be topiary.

With a scant understanding of the niceties of English gardening, Montgomery supposed this to be the parterre garden in which, Hobart had informed him on his arrival, Lord and Lady Buxton were walking. When faced with new facts to learn, Montgomery learnt them quickly and never forgot them.

He returned to the bathroom and read the instructions on the side of the geyser before attempting to light it. He grinned as the geyser clanged and banged and water gushed out of the faucet in sudden spurts. Buxton was right, it was noisy. But, as he had been warned, it was also hot. He undressed as the tub filled, folded his clothes and placed them on a chair beside the washstand. As he turned to get into the bath, he noticed a blue robe hanging on the back of the door.

“Every convenience,” he said appreciatively as he took it down. “Not bad, Buxton. Not bad at all.”

He stepped into the bath, added some cold water and carefully sat down. With a sigh he relaxed against the sloping back of the tub. He closed his eyes and gradually began to relax. It had not been his intention to stay here, he would have been quite happy at the Wagoner, but he couldn’t deny the benefits of accommodation at Buxton Hall. Not the least of these being Lady Serena and now Montgomery’s conscience reared its ugly head.

If he convinced Randolph and Serena to return to America with him, how could he live with himself if all he did was put them, and Serena in particular, in danger?

She was everything he had ever hoped to find in a woman. Lovely to look at, sophisticated yet with a lively sense of humor, an apparent love of travel and urge for adventure. He remembered her as he had last seen her in Cold Creek, dressed in a blue dress with a many-flounced skirt and performing music hall songs for her supper. Too bad for him she was completely and utterly in love with her husband.

He scrubbed a hand over his face and sighed.

He sensed a maturity in the Buxton’s relationship, a maturity he suspected due to the fact of them now being parents. He couldn’t condone burdening Daniel and three-year-old Frances with the confinement of transatlantic travel, yet would their parents leave them for what may be a lengthy period of time? Buxton had assured him of their help, yet how could he seriously ask them to go up against Stiles again? They all knew the threat the man posed. The more Montgomery thought about it, the more he came to realize that what he intended asking of them was a huge imposition.

With a sigh he heaved himself out of the now cooling water, shrugged on the robe and quickly shaved. When he emerged into the bedroom he found that, at some point during his soak in the tub, his luggage had been delivered and unpacked. He had not heard a thing. Either his normally fine-tuned instincts were becoming dull, or Buxton’s staff was inordinately efficient.

He selected a clean white shirt and three-piece navy blue suit and then considered the sartorial effect of a plain blue neck-tie or a burgundy silk bow-tie. Suspecting that Buxton would most likely be attired in full dinner dress, he chose the bow-tie. Just as he finished tying it, a great crash of sound made him jump. There was no mistaking the dinner gong. The vibrations from it reverberated around the house, travelled through the floorboards and almost made his teeth rattle.

“Wouldn’t want to test Hobart’s arm,” he muttered. He gave his reflection one final inspection in a large mirror on the wall and went down to dinner.