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Toby drove in through the wrought iron gates of the Southwold estate. He was late for his appointment, and he had not even prepared the documents for Vera Malloy to sign. He knew that he would never prepare them. Perhaps someone else would do it, but it would not be someone from Champion and Company, not if he told Edwin Champion what he knew.
Flexible? No, he had no intention of being flexible.
This time he was not going to knock at the front door and confront Mrs. Pearson’s disapproval. He was not going to talk to Lady Sylvia. He was not even going to seek out the mysterious Vera Malloy. He was going to find Carol. He had seen two people in the back of the Bentley, and he was convinced that one of them was Carol.
He assumed that the Bentley would be garaged somewhere behind the house, probably in the old stable yard. He took the winding driveway around to the back of the house and came to a halt in the cobbled enclosure in front of the converted stables. A muscular young man, short, squat, and slack-faced was washing the Bentley with a bucket and sponge while Price, the chauffeur, lounged on a seat by the back door. He saw no sign of the passengers.
Price rose from his seat and stepped forward to lean in through the car window.
“Mr. Whitby, what are you doing back here? You can park out front, sir, if you have an appointment.”
Toby pushed the car door open and the chauffeur stepped back.
“You should use the front door, sir. No need to go through the tradesman’s entrance.”
“I’m not going inside,” Toby said. “I want to talk to you.”
“Me, sir?”
“Yes, you. When I saw you in the village, you said the post office was closed because of illness in Miss Elliot’s family.”
“Yes, that’s what I said.”
“And who told you to say that?”
“I don’t understand.”
Toby surprised himself and the chauffeur by squaring his shoulders, thrusting out his arm, and grabbing the front of the chauffeur’s tunic.
“You understand perfectly well. Who told you to say there was an illness in the family? She doesn’t have any family. You’re a local man. You know she doesn’t have any family.”
Price attempted to remove Toby’s hand, but Toby held fast. “Who told you?”
“My passenger.”
“Your passenger?”
“Yes.”
“And who was your passenger?”
“I’m not at liberty—”
Toby tightened his grip. “Who?”
“Vera Chapman, that was. I was told I was meeting a Mrs. Malloy from America; took me a minute or two to recognize her.”
“You met her at the airport?”
“Came over by plane,” Price said, “and very full of herself, if I may say so.”
Toby could feel indignation radiating from the older man. He had not been happy at being asked to pick up a local girl, and Vera had done nothing to make the situation any easier for him. For the moment at least, he was on Toby’s side.
He released his hold on Price’s tunic and waited while the chauffeur smoothed out the wrinkles. “Why did Vera go into the village?” he asked. “Why didn’t she come straight here?”
“I don’t know, sir.”
“She must have said something. What did she say?”
“She said to take her to the village shop.”
“Did she say why?”
“No.”
“So you took her to the shop and she went inside?”
The chauffeur dropped his gaze and stared uncomfortably down at the cobble stones.
“Did she go inside?”
“I can’t rightly say.”
“Yes, you can.” Toby wanted to make another attempt at grabbing the chauffeur and forcing an answer from him, but he managed to restrain himself.
“Did she go inside?”
Price shrugged his shoulders. “Yes, she went inside. I suppose she had to buy something.”
“So the shop was open and she went inside?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“And when she came out, it was suddenly closed.”
Price said nothing.
“So,” Toby continued, “your passenger then told you to tell me that the shop was closed because of illness in the family.”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“And didn’t that strike you as strange?”
“It was none of my business, sir.”
“Who was your second passenger, the one you picked up after the shop was so suddenly closed?”
“I didn’t have a second passenger.”
“Yes, you did. I saw her with my own eyes.”
“You’re mistaken, sir. I only had Vera, Mrs. Malloy.”
“You’re lying. Why are you lying?”
Price looked up for a moment and stared into Toby’s eyes. “You shouldn’t ask so many questions. Employment’s not easy to come by, not for chauffeurs, not even for solicitors.”
Toby recalled that this was the second time he had been threatened with the loss of his job. First the Earl had made the threat, and now the chauffeur, although Price was probably more concerned with his own employment. The Earl’s remark had been a definite threat, but the chauffeur’s was more of a friendly warning.
“You’ve been told not to talk to me, haven’t you?” Toby asked.
Price glanced around the stable yard. The boy was still washing the car and paying no attention to them. “She went inside the house.”
“Who did?”
“Carol Elliot. She went inside the house with Mrs. Pearson.”
They both stepped back as the back door opened with a bang, and Mrs. Pearson herself hurried across the yard.
“What are you doing out here, Mr. Whitby? You’re late, and why didn’t you come to the front door?”
That’s a new approach, Toby thought. Last time she had looked distinctly displeased at his temerity in ringing the front-door bell; now she wanted him to go to the front door, or maybe she just didn’t want him to go to the back door and talk to Price.
She gave him no opportunity to speak. “You’d better go inside. Wait for me in the kitchen and I’ll show you in.” She waved him away like a disobedient child and turned her attention to the chauffeur. “Why are you still here? You were supposed to go back to the village.”
“You told me to wait for, you know, her ...”
“Yes, you were to take her back to the village.”
“She hasn’t come.”
Mrs. Pearson stared suspiciously at the chauffeur. Toby knew she wanted to say more, but she couldn’t, not in front of Toby.
“Maybe she walked,” said Price.
Mrs. Pearson sniffed. “Maybe she did. Take the car to the petrol station. You can look for her on the way. Hurry up.”
The chauffeur hesitated a moment longer, his eyes fixed on Toby, and an expression of helplessness on his face. Toby gave him a barely perceptible nod of the head to let him know he understood. Carol had been here. The chauffeur was supposed to make sure she was returned to the village, but Carol had other plans.
Mrs. Pearson poked Toby’s arm with a commanding finger. “Come inside. Do you have the papers?”
“I have some papers,” Toby replied evasively.
Mrs. Pearson pushed the back door open and stepped into the vast kitchen. Toby was too worried about Carol to take in more than a faint impression of blackened pots and pans hanging from ceiling racks, white-tiled walls, and a dingy linoleum floor. Beyond the kitchen a door stood open revealing a wood-paneled butler’s pantry, and beyond that he had an impression of sunlight shining through stained-glass windows and reflecting on the polished surface of a long dining table.
“What do you mean by ‘some’ papers?” Mrs. Pearson demanded.
“I have some papers that will be of interest to Mr. and Mrs. Harrigan.”
Mrs. Pearson stepped in front of him, her angular figure barring his way, a scowl on her pale face. Anger flashed at him from her dark eyes, and Toby saw a sudden resemblance to Lady Sylvia. In repose their faces were quite different, but in anger he could see similarities.
The housekeeper’s tone had lost any trace of subservience. “Vera Chapman is here. Did you bring the papers for her to sign?”
Toby looked down at her. She was shorter than him by at least a head. Perhaps she had managed to intimidate Price, but she was not going to intimidate him.
“I want to see Mr. Harrigan alone.”
“Why?”
“I don’t think that’s any of your business, Mrs. Pearson.”
Mrs. Pearson bit back a response as the back door opened and admitted the boy with the bucket.
“Is it time for tea, Aunt Nell?”
“Not now, Robbie.”
“But I’ve finished washing the car. You said I could have tea when I finish washing the car.”
“Later, Robbie. Not now.”
Robbie set the bucket down and pulled a cigarette stub from behind his ear. Mrs. Pearson glared at him. “Not in here, Robbie.”
The boy nodded agreeably and shambled toward the back door. “I’ll be outside if you need me.”
“Don’t go far away.”
“I won’t.”
Mrs. Pearson turned back to face Toby. Her quick anger seemed to have dissipated, replaced with an expression that Toby could only interpret as cunning. But what could she do? She was the housekeeper. He was the solicitor. He had the birth certificate from Dorking and he had the upper hand. He thought about the wall of lies that had been built up around the birth of the disputed child, and how the wall was now crumbling.
The Earl was dead, Nurse Tierney was dead, Ruddle was very nearly dead, but whoever was behind this couldn’t kill everybody. Safety for everyone, and especially for Carol, lay in getting the birth certificate out into the open. Safety lay in letting Harry Harrigan know that the little girl from West Virginia was not his grandchild. The sooner he went home and took his millions with him, the sooner everyone else would be safe, because there would be nothing to gain by perpetuating the lie.
But what about Carol, he wondered. Where was she?
“You want to see Mr. Harrigan,” the housekeeper repeated.
“Yes, I do.”
“Alone?”
“Yes.”
Again the sour expression and the cunning glance. “You can wait in the conservatory. I’ll fetch him for you.”
Toby started toward the butler’s pantry and the daylight he could glimpse, presumably from the windows in the dining room.
Mrs. Pearson diverted him. “This way.”
They left the kitchen through a side door and along a narrow passage with a single door at the end.
“You can go through here and into the conservatory. I’ll see if I can find Mr. Harrigan.”
Toby twisted the knob but the door was locked. He turned around. The housekeeper was no longer in sight.
“Mrs. Pearson, it’s locked.”
Her voice came to him from the kitchen. “I know. I’m bringing the key.”
She was beside him in a moment, handing him a large brass key. He turned back to the door and inserted the key. The door opened onto darkness and a sense of a deep underground space.
He took a step back. His thoughts came fast and furious. Nurse Tierney, pushed off the cliff, Sam Ruddle, struck over the head by a woman. A woman! He heard a rush of sound behind him. Before he could turn and face his attacker, a blow landed on the back of his head and he was swallowed up by darkness.