Farrell and Mhairi drove straight through Kirkcudbright. He’d already checked that Lord Merton was in residence. The secretary had sounded reluctant to make an appointment, but he’d been insistent. They carried on for a further fifteen minutes before coming to the imposing grounds of Kincaid House. Driving up through the immaculate grounds, he hoped he was on a wild goose chase and that he would find the housemaid unharmed. However, he couldn’t shake off a feeling of foreboding. The house was magnificent, a relic from a bygone era.
‘If I’d known we were coming here, I’d have dressed for the occasion,’ muttered Mhairi.
He rang the doorbell half expecting to be admonished for not using the tradesman’s entrance. A rather stern woman in a navy suit showed him into the drawing room.
Seconds later, Lord Merton arrived. He appeared to be in his fifties and greeted them politely enough, but he looked pale and strained. A noticeable twitch caused his eyelid to flicker, and he quickly averted his gaze from Farrell after introducing himself. He didn’t invite them to sit.
‘We’ve received a tip-off that a valuable painting may have been stolen from Kincaid House, sir,’ said Farrell. ‘I thought I’d best pop out and see whether such an event has already occurred or might potentially occur.’
The man in front of him swayed slightly like he was about to faint.
‘Good Heavens! I’m afraid you’ve had a wasted trip. That is simply not possible. All of my paintings are present and correct and we have quite stringent security measures to keep them that way. Now if there’s nothing else?’
‘Just one thing, sir. Would it be possible to speak to your housemaid?’
‘My housemaid? Good heavens, man, what on earth for?’
‘I’m not at liberty to say, sir,’ said Farrell.
‘Oh, very well. I’ll get the housekeeper to send her up. I take it you’ve finished with me?’
‘For the time being, sir.’
‘In that case, I’ll bid you both good day,’ said Lord Merton, leaving the room.
***
Ten minutes later, there was a light tap on the door and the woman who had let him into the house entered. She, too, looked strained and was clutching a folder to her chest.
‘Hello, officer, my name is Susan Dawson. I’m afraid the housemaid is no longer with us. I haven’t got round to filling the position yet.’
‘What was her name?’
‘Poppy Black. She left last week. No notice, just sent us a letter saying she was moving on and wouldn’t be back. Why she couldn’t have simply told me to my face, I don’t know.’
‘Did she offer a reason?’
‘She’s eighteen. People come and go all the time in this line of work.’
‘Do you have the letter?’
‘Yes,’ she replied, pulling out an A4 sheet from the top of the folder.
‘Known associates?’
‘Really, I have no idea. I believe she had a boyfriend; staff aren’t encouraged to bring people back to the house.’
‘What about a photo?’
‘Well yes, she had one taken for her security pass.’ She handed him a copy of the pass. Poppy Black had an impish smile and a mass of red hair, caught up in an untidy bun.
‘Do you have her current address, as well as her previous one?’
‘Yes, they should be in here somewhere,’ she said, rifling through the hefty folder. ‘Here we are.’ She scribbled down the addresses on a piece of paper and passed it across.
‘Did you take up references for her?’
‘Yes, of course. She worked in Glasgow before she fetched down here.’
‘May I see them?’
She flicked through the file and produced two sheets of paper in poly pockets. One of them was on cream stationery that resembled the suicide note, purportedly from Monro Stevenson, and the other was typed on plain A4 printer paper.
‘Did you follow these up with phone calls?’ asked Farrell.
Dawson was flustered now, a visible pulse beating at her temple.
‘Well, no. She was only a housemaid. I had no reason to doubt them.’
‘I’m afraid I’m going to need to take these for now,’ said Farrell. ‘I need to trace this young woman to ascertain that she is unharmed.’
‘You think something might have happened to her?’
‘Time will tell,’ said Farrell.
There was definitely something going on in this house but, if he had no evidence that a crime had been committed, he would have to shelf it for now. It was likely that Poppy Black had been a low-level plant, to gain information for a robbery. A robbery that Lord Merton seemed to have no inclination to either report or prevent. The question remained. Had she scarpered, or had she been silenced for good?