| |
William Hardy sat on the train. The countryside was rushing by, now and then in a smoky veil as the engine worked its way up an incline. London was already miles behind him. The train was only half-full, possibly because it was midweek, and apart from the sound of the train itself, there was no other noise to distract him in his corner seat.
He leaned back against the padded headrest, resisting the urge to close his eyes, afraid the movement of the train would lull him to sleep, because he needed to think. His financial problems were proving difficult to resolve. This errand for Mr Bray couldn’t have come at a better time. He hadn’t realised just how badly his mother’s portfolio had suffered of late, and now she had died, he was finding all sorts of little discrepancies she had kept to herself. If only his brother’s school would give him more time to pay the arrears on the fees...
Outside a bright sun shone down on a varying view of countryside and towns, farms and factories. In a little while, lunch would be served in the sumptuous dining car. That evening, he would be eating dinner at a hotel in Edinburgh before driving to Lower Bar where he would stay the first two nights, and as many subsequent nights as it took to accomplish Mr Bray’s aim.
He had been to Edinburgh twice before. One day he hoped to go right up to the northernmost point of the country. One day. He had travelled all over the south and the west of the United Kingdom as a boy, and all over the east too. There had been family holidays in the days before the money was gone, trips and outings, visits to his mother’s family in Derbyshire, and his father’s in Kent.
And he’d been to parts of Europe: to France and Belgium, to see where his father had been as a soldier in the Great War, to places still showing the scars and dereliction of those terrible days. As a student, with friends he’d travelled to Egypt, and even to New York and Washington DC in America, on an ocean liner where he’d stayed out on deck all day every day, even in the worst weather, captivated by the ever-changing face of the sea, never tiring of the undulating waves.
Being on a train was a little like being on a ship, he thought, as the carriage swayed on a long slow bend...
‘Now taking the second sitting for lunch, sir,’ the guard said, waking Hardy from a dream of walking by the ocean, Dottie by his side. He was surprised to see it was still daylight outside, he felt as though he had slept all day. He thanked the guard, and rousing himself, slowly shaking off his dream, he got to his feet and made his way unsteadily to the dining car.
They arrived slightly ahead of schedule. He wished he could have stayed the night in Edinburgh. He would have liked to take the opportunity for a walk around the city, perhaps even had a look at the castle brooding on the hill above the streets. If only he’d thought to mention it to Mr Bray... but of course, he wasn’t actually on holiday, he reminded himself for the umpteenth time, he was working, on a mission, not at leisure to please himself.
For that reason he left the platform, gave up his ticket at the barrier and crossed the concourse to exit the grand Victorian building. He made his way, guided by Mr Bray’s written instructions, to the hotel where he ate his dinner in the charming dining room, then as soon as he had finished his coffee, he went along to the garage where he was to collect his rented car. He wondered if he should pause at a newsagent’s to buy a map, but found the garage had provided one. In less than ten minutes, he was edging the unfamiliar vehicle out into the busy evening streets and heading for the coast.
By half past nine that evening he was sitting on the bed in his room, and deciding that it would have to do. The room was small, gloomy, and in need of a fresh coat of paint, but the bed seemed comfortable. There was a window looking out on the front of the hotel. A small wardrobe that wobbled slightly when he opened the door that stuck a little. A tallboy for his clothes, should he bother unpacking. There was a connecting door leading to the next room which he supposed would be useful for family groups.
The ‘hotel’ was in fact merely an inn, and a small one at that, named rather disappointingly, The Thistle. It was one of two public houses in the village, which also boasted: a church with a surprisingly large graveyard, a sprawling patch of cottages, a joint post office and general store, a small shop selling knitting wools, ribbons and such like, and not much else. It was picturesque in the same style as many other Scottish villages, with a typical stone bridge over a typical narrow brown river, and though nice enough in its own way, it was hardly the kind to be featured on the lid of a chocolate box. He had seen prettier places on his drive from Edinburgh that evening.
He had a day and a half until his meeting with the mysterious person Mr Bray had arranged for him to see. Plenty of time for him to get a feel for the area. He went down to the bar to see about the arrangements for meals.
The Thistle had few other guests. It appeared to possess only five guest rooms, to judge by the keys hanging behind the bar which doubled as desk and reception area. Only two keys were absent, presumably his own and that of the stout elderly lady who sat beside the fire, an aged, obese Pekinese sprawled on her lap. The dog yapped loudly and excitedly as Hardy walked by, the sound echoing around the wooden panels and stone floor. The electric lightbulb overhead showed the dust and fur drifting from the dog onto the ground, stirred up by the vigorously wagging top-knot of a tail. The woman tapped impatiently on the stone floor with a walking stick. She peered closely at Hardy when he bid her good evening, curled her lip and turned away without responding, so he felt it was unlikely they would become friends.
Just as he was turning away, a man hurried into the bar, almost bumping into Hardy.
‘Beg pardon, sir,’ he said hastily, without really looking. He leaned over the bar calling out towards the back room. ‘Oi, Nelson! Has the man the man from London arrived yet?’
‘That’s him you almost killed in your rush, Gregg, man.’ The barman, wiping a glass with a white cotton cloth, indicated Hardy with a poke of his head. The new chap, Mr Gregg, whirled round, eyeing Hardy in relief.
‘What, you’re the policeman?’ As if he couldn’t believe his luck. Hardy, with some surprise, admitted he was a policeman, and that he had just arrived from London. He reached for his warrant card to show them.
Gregg and Nelson leaned in to stare open-mouthed at it. They exchanged a look. ‘That’s interesting,’ said Nelson to Gregg.
‘Isn’t it, just?’ Gregg responded, though neither of them saw fit to enlighten Hardy. ‘Oh, sorry sir, but I’ve been sent down to collect you. You’re to come straight away. The laird doesn’t like to be kept waiting.’
Hardy frowned. ‘Oh well, of course, though I’m not...’
‘As quickly as you can, sir, if you don’t mind. We can talk as we go, if there’s anything you need to ask me.’
‘What exactly is the problem?’ They were out of the door now, and into the clear golden twilight of the spring evening. A chill wind blew down off the moors in the north and along the length of the street, down towards the coast, but the glorious sky made up for the temperature.
‘Best I leave it to the laird to tell you all about it, sir. Up you go.’ He assisted Hardy to mount up into a small horse-drawn cart, and almost immediately they set off. After five minutes, they’d scarcely covered any ground, and the picturesque mode of transport frustrated Hardy with its lack of speed.
‘If I’d known,’ he remarked, ‘we could have used my car.’
Gregg immediately pulled up the horse to a standstill. ‘A motor car, sir?’ Clearly, he couldn’t believe it. His voice actually trembled with excitement. ‘Will we go back and get it? I can collect the horse later. I’ll give her a nosebag whilst we’re gone, if you like.’
The hope in his voice was unmissable. Obviously few cars came through the village, though Hardy would have expected someone as high-sounding as a laird would have his own motor, perhaps even a whole garageful of them. Hardy weighed the options and decided that even with the time it took them to turn the cart and go back to the village, it could hardly be as slow as going the whole distance by horse and cart.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘We will.’
Gregg, carried away by his excitement, turned the cart at such a speed that it almost overturned, and he drove back into the village considerably faster than they had come out of it. In less than three minutes they had returned, disposed of the horse and were already in Hardy’s rented vehicle and on their way. Already Hardy was both amused and irritated by Gregg’s round-eyed wonder and incessant questions. Ten minutes later they pulled off the road and onto the long sweep of a gravel drive that curved uphill to a large elegant house. A small plaque on the wall beside the wrought iron gates proclaimed their arrival at Barr Hall. As they came to a halt behind the house, Hardy found himself agreeing to let Gregg ‘have a go’ on the morrow.
It was a relief to park the car, get out and stretch. It had already been a very long day, with the trip up from London. He was feeling drowsy, and his eyes were playing tricks on him. He was convinced he saw his own reflection peering at him through the trees a few yards beyond one of the outhouses. He stumbled, and his brain seemed to freeze for moment. Where was he, behind the tree, or here looking back at it? He shook himself, and pushed the odd fancy away. He just needed a good night’s sleep. Gregg took Hardy in at the back door and introduced him to the butler, a Mr Roberts, who brought Hardy along the hallway to knock on the door of what proved to be the study.
An imperious male voice bid them, ‘Come,’ and Roberts went in. Hardy made out a murmur of conversation, then Roberts reappeared and beckoned him into the room.
Hardy entered the study to see a tall man dressed in evening attire, waiting on the far side of a bearskin rug beside the fire across the vast expanse of the room. The man made no attempt to close the space between them either by stretching out a welcoming hand, or offering a simple greeting. He remained where he was, sipping brandy from a snifter, his free hand hooked negligently into a pocket. He watched Hardy’s approach as if looking down a very long nose.
When Hardy was just a few feet from him, the man finally said, ‘Ah, Inspector Hardy, is it? I’ve been expecting you.’
Irritated both by the supercilious manner and the ridiculous waste of life that had provided the bearskin, Hardy carefully stepped around the dead animal’s head to hold out his hand to the gentleman. The man stared at his hand but ignored it. Hardy’s irritation grew. Usually patient and cautious, on this occasion he allowed his feelings to goad him into saying, ‘I hardly see how you could be expecting me, sir, since I didn’t know myself I was going to be here this evening. I simply happened to be in the neighbourhood on a private matter.’
His host made no response, but sipped his drink. Hardy was aware of an almost overwhelming rage building inside him. He put it down to fatigue following the journey. He looked around the room as he fought to get a grip on his temper. At last he said, ‘I’m not quite sure how I can be of service to you. I’m certain you’re aware that the Metropolitan police have no powers on this side of the border. If you need help with a criminal matter, may I recommend you get in touch with the local procurator fiscal.’
With a loud sound that didn’t bode well for the crystal, his host set down his glass on a side-table. He took several steps forward until he was a bare foot from Hardy. And drew himself up straight as if attempting to match Hardy’s height but failing by a matter of three inches. He stared right into Hardy’s face in a manner designed to intimidate, then said softly between his teeth, ‘Now look here, laddie. Don’t give me any of your insubordination. I am perfectly aware of the legal situation vis á vis English police and Scottish law. I do not need you to acquaint me with the procedures for criminal investigation. I am perfectly capable of contacting the local procurator fiscal as and when I see fit, since that gentleman is my closest friend. In future I would suggest you remember your place before treating your superiors to a lecture. For your further information, I am also perfectly able to contact your superior officer and have you dismissed. Is that clear?’
Before Hardy could comment, not that he had anything to say that wouldn’t result in the immediate cessation of his career with the Metropolitan police, the man continued with, ‘I am Howard Denholme, laird of this estate, and I don’t mind telling you, Hardy, that your conduct this evening is not calculated to impress. I shall be having a word with my good friend, the assistant commander of the Metropolitan police. I may say, thus far, you are a disgrace to the service. An utter disgrace. Therefore, do me the favour of speaking with my butler concerning the ‘criminal matter’, as you put it, before I kick your contemptible backside from here to kingdom come.’
Blushing with embarrassment and unabated rage, Hardy uttered a stiff and largely inadequate apology, but before he could withdraw, someone tapped on the study door, and slowly opened it. An elegant lady, very slender and small, came into the room. She stayed by the door, her hands clasped in front of her.
‘Pardon me,’ she said to Hardy, who offered her a smile and a slight bow.
‘Not at all. I was just leaving.’ He went out, shutting the door behind him very slowly. As he did so, he heard her say,
‘You wished to see me?’
Mr Denholme, still in a temper, began to shout very loudly about something that had got broken.
Hardy turned to the butler who was hovering nearby. ‘The governess? Or the housekeeper?’
The butler gave a derisive snort. ‘That was, believe it or not, the lady of the house, Mrs Denholme.’
Hardy was astonished. Yet he had seen those signs before: the large overbearing husband, the tiny, frightened, birdlike wife. It was an arrangement that never ended well. He shook his head to rid it of the image of her soft anxious eyes, the clasping hands.
The butler was leading him to the back of the house. At the bottom of a flight of dimly-lit, uncarpeted stairs, he stepped aside to wave Hardy into a room.
‘Come into my parlour, said the spider to the fly.’
Hardy smiled at the cliché. ‘Thank you. Tell me, is this an inherited lairdship?’
The butler waved him into a seat, and responded with another snort. ‘Nah, he bought it, didn’t he. When he made his first million from his boot polish empire.’
‘Interesting.’
‘You and me are in the wrong job, mate,’ the butler added. Hardy couldn’t disagree with that.
––––––––
UPSTAIRS, LOUISA DENHOLME came out of the study trembling but resolute. She went to the telephone in the hall. She had to be quick. Her fingers trembled as she held the receiver and asked the operator for a number. At the other end of the line, the bell rang and eventually, as she was on the verge of giving up for fear of being caught, someone answered. ‘Ah, Mr Nelson...’ she began.
––––––––
‘MILK AND SUGAR, INSPECTOR?’
Hardy roused himself from his inner thoughts, going over and over the scene that had just taken place in the study. ‘Er, yes please, one sugar. Thank you.’
Mr Roberts was a Londoner through and through. He added the merest splash of milk and a generous teaspoon of sugar then passed the cup to Hardy. Taking his own cup, the butler came to sit opposite Hardy in a worn but comfortable armchair.
‘Do you miss London?’ Hardy asked. Roberts laughed.
‘What, miss all that noise? Not to mention the dirt, smog and traffic? Of course I do! Stuck up here with the heather and the trees and the hills. It’s like being in the bleedin’ jungle, if you ask me. Eagles the size of a small pony buzzing past every five minutes. I miss the sparrers. You can’t put out breadcrumbs for a bleedin’ eagle, let me tell you! Take your bleedin’ arm off, I don’t doubt.’ He stirred his cup noisily, allowing the teaspoon to clatter into the saucer. Then he took a loud slurp of his tea and sat back with an appreciative sigh. ‘It’s just one of many reasons why the locals hate Mr Denholme. I’ve got to admit, I can see their point. He ought to have given employment to the local people first, then to outsiders. But he never. He’s got some funny ideas. He sees this place as a little slice of English heaven, nestled right in under their Jacobite noses. His words, not mine. My missus is a Scot and I wouldn’t say a word against ‘em.’
Hardy drank his tea, burning his mouth in doing so. He set the cup aside. ‘In what way are his ideas ‘funny’?’
‘Well, he sees it as his duty to be a proud Englishman wherever he goes. He gets peoples’ backs up more than just a bit. He even gets provisions sent up by train and cart from London, and yours truly isn’t the only one here what’s an outsider. I mean, I hope I’m as patriotic as the next man. I done my bit during the Great War, fought for King and country, with my fellow soldiers—many of them Scots, and Irish, or Taffies from the Welsh valleys, even the black fellows what come over from Jamaica and out that way, lots of Caribbean chappies. Then there was Aussies, Kiwis. Like brothers, we all was. Good men all of them, never let me down, knew I could trust them with my life. In fact, I did trust them with me life, and proud to do it. Er—what was I saying?’
‘You did your bit for your country,’ Hardy said.
‘Ah, yes. Proud to do it, proud. But well, it’s just my opinion but what His Nibs takes it a bit too far. Not that I’d be mug enough to say it to his face. He don’t like to be disagreed with, our Mr D. Out like a shot I’d be, if he knew. Plus he’s a bit chippy, if you know what I mean. Because he bought his way in, and he don’t really fit.’
‘Hmm.’ Hardy looked around him. The room was cosy and well-lit, though the wallpaper was somewhat faded, and here and there a corner of the paper curled back a little from the wall. A crack ran up the wall around the doorframe. An attempt had been made to fill it with crushed paper and a touch of paint, but the crack had widened. Beyond the butler’s sitting room, there was the kitchen, not that you’d know it was there if you didn’t see it, there was almost no noise coming from that direction, though now and again he saw a woman in an apron go along the dark hallway. On his left, he could see out into the garden through a large picture window, the light from the house illuminating a patch of grass that he took to be the beginning of a lawn.
There was a lull. Pleasant though it was to be sitting there, especially now his foul mood was starting to evaporate, he felt he’d better get down to business.
‘So what is the problem at the moment here? Why was I needed? I was told you could—er—put me in the picture.’
‘Well, there’s been two break-ins, and there’s been threats. There was nearly a fire though Mr Denholme caught it just in time and managed to put it out. There’s been trouble with vandals, poachers, you name it, it’s been going on for the last month or so. It’s like some kind of vendetta against the family.’
‘Tell me about the fire.’
‘There’s not much to tell. One morning a fire started in the little sitting room. We took it that a piece of wood fell out of the fire onto the hearth rug. Mrs Denholme discovered it, and raised the alarm. Mr Denholme, he just marched in there and stamped it out. A bit risky, that, though I’d have done more damage with me bucket o’ water, I suppose.’
‘Hmm,’ said Hardy, ‘Much damage?’
‘Needed a new hearth rug. A lick of paint on the wall one side of the fireplace. Nothing too serious. Could have been far worse.’
‘What about the other matters? Anything taken during these break-ins?’
‘Spare money in Mr Denholme’s desk drawer. Only about forty quid, a decent amount, but not enough to hang for.’
‘Very true.’
‘A few bits of jewellery. A few knick-knacks, small but pricey stuff. I believe there was a silver cup, one that was awarded to Mr Denholme for some golfing tournament a year or two back.’
Hardy nodded, looking about him again. The thefts had hardly yielded a large haul. The large house was somewhat shabby in appearance. These things together made him suspicious.
‘I see. Did you see or hear any of these threats? What were they, letters?’
‘No, I didn’t see them. I was just told about them. They was notes pushed under the French doors in the study, the doors don’t fit too well. One note came last week, one the week before, and one before that. Mr Denholme did say he burned them to avoid her ladyship or the children seeing them. ‘Vile language’ was what he told me. What was going to be done to him and his lady if they didn’t get out, that kind of thing. ‘Course he got rid of the first one, so as not to upset Mrs Denholme, but not thinking there might be more. But then he got rid of the next two as well. Said they contained the same kind of threat though, ‘You’re for it. Get out or else’.’
‘Do you know of anyone in particular who has a grudge against Mr Denholme?’
‘Got a queue about a mile long, if you ask me. Anyone hereabouts who’s out of work, or one of the masses that’s been sacked or fined or evicted or sent to prison. Oh, he’s been busy locally, has Mr Denholme, and he’s bosom pals with the procurator fiscal. If you ask the constable in the next village, he can probably give you the names of a few local villains. Just stand well back when you tell anyone yours, is my advice.’ He chuckled at that but declined to be drawn into an explanation.
Hardy thanked him for the tea and left, deep in thought. He went through to the kitchen and spent ten minutes talking to the rest of the staff—the butler’s wife who was the cook, and a young girl who assisted her and did some cleaning, under the title of maid-of-all-work. They were still trying to get all the dinner things washed, dried and put away. A stray cloth, dropped on the back of a chair, showed that Mr Roberts had been helping when Hardy had arrived.
‘Is this the whole staff?’ Hardy queried. ‘It’s not many for a house this size.’
‘Aye weel, he let two go last week, said their work wasnae up to scratch. And one last month for the same reason. Then there were three more lost over the previous few months, not that we are privy to the reasons why. So now it’s just us, expected to run ourselves ragged keeping this place together.’ Mrs Roberts told him.
He thought that was curious. But it added weight to his initial idea.
Just at that moment, Mrs Denholme came into the kitchen. He introduced himself now, having not done so on their first meeting. She seemed flustered, which he put down to her being surprised to meet a policeman in her own kitchen. However, she was friendly and personable, unlike her husband, and so small in stature he felt an indistinctive urge to protect her. He explained why he was there, and she thanked him for his help, adding that she realised it wasn’t his province, but that she knew her husband was worried about the general spite against him, and would be glad of Hardy’s assistance. Hardy himself had his doubts, but he simply smiled and promised to do all he could.
He asked her if she had seen anyone hanging about the place at any time, or had any idea who might be behind the incidents. She turned pale at the mention of them, and he wasn’t surprised. She seemed a timid little thing and no doubt she found it all very alarming. But she couldn’t help him.
‘I’m sorry, Inspector, but I keep out of my husband’s business affairs. My sphere is very much the traditional one of home and children. And now, please, do excuse me, Inspector,’ Mrs Denholme said, ‘I’m afraid I only came down to collect a hot water bottle for my youngest son, it’s a little chilly in the nursery, so I must bid you good evening.’
The maid passed over a filled rubber bottle and Mrs Denholme, clasping the bottle to her front, as if it were she and not the child who was cold, turned away and went back upstairs.
‘A very pleasant lady,’ he commented to the cook.
She nodded and smiled, ‘Aye, she’s sweetness herself, that one. How she puts up with that man, I don’t know, but still...’
‘Indeed.’ Hardy made a mental note. He asked the maid and the cook if they had noticed anything out of the ordinary, seen or heard anything at all to give any clue to the identity of the burglars or writers of the threatening notes. But they told him they hadn’t noticed anyone hanging about, hadn’t seen the notes, hadn’t heard any gossip in the village. Unable to think of anything else worth asking just then, Hardy said goodbye and left.
Gregg appeared from nowhere to accompany him back to the village. At first Hardy had been going to tell him there was no need, but then he remembered the horse and cart.
He would have to contact the constable in the morning, as the butler had suggested. Then he would need to try to arrange a meeting with the procurator fiscal as a matter of courtesy to explain his presence, as well as to discuss the concerns of his best friend, the laird. It would be a meeting he would need to handle with the utmost tact and discretion, two resources he always felt he distinctly lacked.
It was just after half past ten when he finally reached his room. He had a bath in lukewarm water and got changed, thinking to go downstairs to find the landlord and see whether he had heard any gossip about Mr Denholme’s problems. But suddenly weary, he lay down on his bed, fully clothed, and at once fell asleep.
He was not allowed to sleep for long, however. Almost immediately, or so it seemed to him, someone began to pound on his door, calling out in a thunderous voice fit to wake the dead, ‘Hardy? Are you there? William Hardy!’
From across the corridor came an answering yap from another guest room.
Drunk with weariness, Hardy stumbled to the door, only managing to call out a quick, ‘Yes, yes, I’m coming, I’m coming,’ as he fumbled with the lock and the handle. The door opened almost of its own volition, and as Hardy looked up, bewildered, he had only time to note a large man filling the doorway before the man’s fist connected with Hardy’s cheek and everything went black.
*
