The Murder at Redmire Hall Page 3

  Douglas was snoring – then suddenly woke up with a jerk, sat up and looked at his watch. ‘Well, dear, we’d better start getting ready soon.’ He yawned.

  ‘Plenty of time,’ replied his wife, with her gaze fixed on the long banks of flowers.

  ‘I suppose so.’ He looked towards her, uncertainly. ‘You are sure you wanted to come this evening?’

  She turned to face him. ‘Of course. I wouldn’t miss an opportunity like this to see Poppy and Alistair and the grandchildren all together.’

  ‘Well, I know, but . . . well, here, in this house where he used to make your life a misery? That can’t be easy. I can’t ever forgive him for that, you know.’

  She smiled at him. Of course he had no idea what it had really been like, but he cared about her and he was so dependable and reliable: just the opposite of Freddy. ‘I know, darling; that’s very sweet of you. But don’t worry: I can cope.’

  ‘Very well. As long as you’re happy.’ He got up and went into the bathroom.

  She returned her gaze to the herbaceous borders. Her expression was sombre; she couldn’t forgive her ex-husband, either. Douglas returned and she remained lost in thought.

  ‘I think I’ll just go for a short walk around,’ she said after a while. ‘I’d like to see one or two of the estate workers if I can, say hello. I know some of them miss me. Douglas?’ She looked over, but her husband had fallen asleep again and begun snoring loudly.

  In the gardener’s house, Alistair Carstairs and his wife were having a glass of red wine as they sat in armchairs by the Aga stove before getting ready for the family dinner. The children were playing upstairs. Alistair was tall and thin with a perpetually worried air.

  ‘I’m dreading this,’ he sighed. ‘The air is poisonous whenever the family gets together.’

  ‘You’ll survive,’ replied Katherine as she picked dog hairs off her expensive gilet. ‘You need to stick in there and fight for our interests and those of the children.’

  ‘It’s not just about us, or the children; it’s the future of Redmire itself and the family inheritance down all the generations to come.’ He twirled his wine glass nervously, an earnest look on his face.

  ‘Surely you don’t think he’ll completely ruin the estate?’

  ‘Why not? He won’t show me the books, just tells me not to worry. But I know he’s spent vast amounts over the years, one way or another. And what has he ever done to earn anything? One failed business venture, which actually lost money! Plus my sister’s getting cash out of him all the time. How do you think they manage to live in Chelsea? I know lover-boy earns a fair amount, but not that much. And he gets through plenty with his gambling too.’

  ‘Do you think that’s why he’s putting on this television-show thing?’

  ‘Of course; it’s an acknowledgement that things are bad.’

  Katherine shook her head, drank her wine and then got up as the children came into the room. Alistair gazed at the floor, still fiddling with this glass, then sneaked a glance at his wife. There were other matters that were worrying him, but he decided not to tell her about them yet.

  When Frederick had returned to the house after seeing his mother, he hadn’t gone back to his office but to the secluded, long-neglected lobby that contained the door leading to the locked room. Preparations for the event had begun earlier in the week: the area had been generally spruced up and comfortable chairs arranged in rows facing the famous door. At the moment all the doors leading to this area were locked. A final rehearsal was taking place. The trick could not be performed alone, but it was vital that no one knew who his assistants were.

  After the rehearsal, Redmire pronounced himself satisfied. His assistants left, taking care not to be seen and returning discreetly to their places among the many groups of people now assembled at the Hall. Redmire in turn left the house: he had an appointment to keep.

  DS Stephanie Johnson sat in the passenger seat in her boss’s shabby but comfortable old Saab, enjoying the drive through the countryside between Harrogate and Ripon. At the wheel, DCI Oldroyd was humming melodies from Strauss waltzes and admiring the mature horse-chestnut trees that lined the road. His side window was down, letting in cool air on the warm late afternoon. It was the most relaxed Steph had seen him for a long while.

  ‘It’s nice to see you in such a good mood, sir.’

  ‘Well, why wouldn’t I be?’ replied Oldroyd genially, while casually easing the car round a bend. ‘Here I am in the glorious Yorkshire countryside on my way to a beautiful stately home with marvellous gardens to see some kind of trick performed and no doubt also eat some good food. What’s not to like?’

  Steph smiled. She’d known her boss a long time, having worked with him since she joined the police force virtually straight from school. He was known for his informality and jokiness, and their relationship was often like father and daughter. They both had family problems, which served as a kind of bond between them: Steph had grown up with a violent father who’d left the family and Oldroyd was estranged from his wife, whom he still loved. All this was rarely spoken about but was understood, and it never interfered with their professional work. Steph’s partner, Andy Carter, was another DS at West Riding Police, Harrogate Division, and the three of them formed a very effective team.

  ‘I wonder how Andy’s getting on,’ said Oldroyd.

  Andy had taken leave to visit his family in the capital. He’d been brought up there, although he now regarded himself as an honorary Yorkshireman.

  ‘He called last night. He took his little nephew swimming in the Serpentine; said it was so crowded you could hardly see any water.’

  Oldroyd grimaced. ‘I don’t envy him; I can’t stand big cities in weather like this.’

  ‘No,’ agreed Steph as she looked out over the fields and hedgerows, across the Vale of York to the hillsides of the distant North York Moors, where she could just pick out the chalky smudge of the White Horse of Kilburn on the hillside. She turned to her boss. ‘Sir, I’m very curious about this thing we’re going to. Can you tell me any more about it?’

  Oldroyd had called her into his office late in the afternoon and said enigmatically that they were going out to Redmire Hall near Ripon later on to see a magic trick. It didn’t sound like police work, but as she was on duty that evening she couldn’t say no – and it promised to be more interesting than routine duties at Police HQ. It was typical of Oldroyd to leave her guessing. He’d told her to go home and put on some smart clothes, so she was wearing a long dress and high heels. Oldroyd had turned up in his tuxedo.

  ‘I knew you wouldn’t be able to contain your curiosity,’ he said, laughing. ‘I expected you to break before we got to Killinghall; well done for lasting until here. Well, I got a call from Frederick Carstairs, Lord Redmire – sort of a local aristocrat – asking if someone from the force could come out and witness an illusion he’s going to perform at Redmire Hall. He said it would add authenticity to the event in case anyone thought it was a put-up job. You know, people would believe the police and all that.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘At first I thought it was an odd request – and a bit arrogant, you know, thinking we had time to come and help him with a bit of entertainment.’

  ‘It is, really, isn’t it? Does he think we’ve nothing better to do?’

  ‘Quite. But I like a bit of magic myself, and so I began to think, why not? No doubt there’ll be some good hospitality. And I’ll take Steph with me, I thought, as it will distract her from the loneliness she’s no doubt feeling, with Andy in London.’

  ‘Well, thank you, sir,’ laughed Steph. ‘What kind of an illusion is it, anyway?’

  ‘Ah! Now, that’s where it gets interesting, at least for me. You see, he mentioned it was something to do with a locked room and of course I immediately remembered the story of his father’s famous trick in 1980.’

  Oldroyd briefly outlined the legend of Vivian Carstairs’s locked-room illusion. ‘It was never explained, alth
ough some people have speculated about how it might have been done. If Frederick Carstairs is going to perform that illusion again after all these years, it will be quite sensational.’

  ‘Right,’ said Steph, sounding a little sceptical. She’d never been drawn to magic shows on television: magicians producing rabbits out of hats or making birds in cages disappear. Nor did she approve of female assistants in skimpy outfits.

  ‘But if that’s not your thing, I’m sure that the people there will be very interesting. There’ll be plenty of opportunity to see how the other half lives. By the way, don’t say anything to DCS Walker. I’m sure he’d agree with our initial reactions and not consider this outing as a good use of our time.’

  ‘It could get back to him, sir.’

  ‘I don’t think so – and we certainly don’t want it to. We get on fine but he’s not a man given to frivolity. It’s bad enough if I want to get away to a concert sometimes. Well, here we are.’

  A brown tourist sign saying ‘Redmire Hall’ pointed to a country lane. Oldroyd swung the car down. After a few hundred yards’ driving between high hedges full of honeysuckle and wild roses, they came to the formal entrance through ornamental gates. Then they proceeded down a long drive next to fields grazed by black-faced sheep. In the distance there was the spire of a church surrounded by magnificent copper beech trees. The drive curved and then they could see the house: mellow Regency-style stone and brick with ancient Cedars of Lebanon on the gravel area in the foreground. Above the house was blue sky with fleecy white clouds. It was all sublimely serene and beautiful.

  Oldroyd smiled and shook his head. You had to hand it to the aristocrats of old: they knew how to live and insisted on the highest aesthetic values. Some of their fortunes may have depended on the slave trade, but at least they commissioned the finest architects and landscape gardeners to create estates of outstanding quality still enjoyed and admired today.

  As they approached the car park, Oldroyd caught sight of the lorries and vans emblazoned with ‘Ridings Television’ in large letters on the sides.

  ‘Oh bugger!’ he swore loudly. ‘That blasted Redmire said nothing about television. I was hoping to keep our presence here discreet; no hope of that if we’re live on bloody TV.’

  This seemed to actually make it more exciting to Steph, who had always fancied being on telly. ‘I’m sure it’ll be fine, sir, but I suppose you could just back out; tell him you weren’t prepared for this.’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Oldroyd glumly, ‘but I was looking forward to it, and such a lovely evening. Damn!’ He slammed the steering wheel. ‘We’ll stay and risk it and just try to keep out of the limelight. Are you OK with that? I’ll take responsibility if Tom Walker kicks off about it.’

  ‘Fine, sir. I’m getting quite intrigued myself now.’

  Oldroyd parked the car. ‘OK,’ he said with a gleam in his eye. ‘Let’s go and see what’s happening.’

  Frederick was slightly behind schedule, and found he had to hurry a little in his final preparations. However, he appeared his handsome, suave and confident self at the family dinner, dressed in dinner jacket and black tie.

  Despite the fact that many of the assembled group had not seen each other for a while, there didn’t appear to be much in the way of friendly catch-up. The atmosphere in the elaborate red dining room was tense, and conversations were strained. Each of the guests had a different agenda with Frederick, who enjoyed playing them off against each other. He savoured the unspoken hostilities between them.

  Usually the partners and non-family members tended to remain judiciously quiet during these family meals, but today it was Alex who eventually broke the awkward silence.

  ‘It’s a wonder to me that you manage to keep this place going, Freddy,’ she remarked as she sipped delicately at a spoonful of lobster bisque. ‘Of course, everything’s just as splendid as ever.’

  ‘Don’t worry your pretty head about it, my dear,’ replied Redmire, and James Forsyth glowered into his soup bowl. ‘I have plans in hand to make the finances secure.’

  Both Dominic and Alistair looked up sceptically.

  ‘Such as?’ asked Dominic.

  ‘All in good time, little brother. All shall be revealed. But part of the plan is tonight’s entertainment. The publicity is going to be huge.’

  Dominic gripped his soup spoon a little tighter.

  ‘In that case, I hope it goes well,’ said Alistair. ‘I’m not sure I agree with the idea that there’s no such thing as bad publicity. We don’t want the Hall to become a laughing stock.’ Like his uncle and grandmother, Alistair thought the idea of the trick was ridiculous.

  ‘Does it matter? Wouldn’t the punters still come if everything went wrong?’ asked Poppy. ‘They’d still want to see the place they’d seen on television. I think Dad’s brave to do a thing like this.’ She was clearly trying to stay in favour. Her father knew what she was up to and smiled at her efforts.

  Alistair’s sour expression showed that he was also aware of his sister’s machinations; he knew from experience how she could wheedle money out of their father.

  ‘Don’t you think the whole thing is going to downgrade the place?’ he said. ‘I’d rather people come here to see the gardens, the architecture and the artwork rather than to gawp at some cheap trick or other.’

  ‘Alistair, you’re such a snob,’ said Poppy. ‘Why does it matter why people come here if they’re paying good money?’

  Katherine Carstairs, who had so far maintained a judicious silence, gently kicked her husband on the leg beneath the table as a sign that he should shut up and not provoke any more arguments.

  ‘Poppy’s right.’ Frederick had finished his soup and, after a quick check, he nodded to the staff to remove the plates. ‘We’re not the National Trust. We need to make money.’

  Yes, to finance your gambling, thought Dominic.

  ‘People want more than herbaceous borders, pieces of mouldy old sculpture and a few grand paintings these days. We need to attract more families.’

  ‘In that case, why not just turn the place into another Alton Towers? Grub up the gardens and bring in the roller coasters?’

  The suggestion of a wry smile on Redmire’s face, unseen by his son, suggested that Alistair’s angry comments were nearer to the truth than he imagined.

  Antonia sipped her wine, an excellent Bordeaux. ‘I’m sure your father would never go that far, Alistair,’ she said. ‘He wouldn’t want to ruin Redmire; it’s his children’s inheritance.’ She looked pointedly at her former husband, whose blank expression conveyed nothing.

  ‘Huh!’ snorted Poppy in disgust. ‘How do you work that out, Mummy? We all know it goes to Alistair. I get nothing.’ Non-family members looked down at the table in embarrassment, as it seemed that another family dispute was about to explode.

  The Carstairs family had always had an aristocratic indifference to whoever might overhear them bickering, treating people outside the family like servants whose presence could be ignored.

  Dominic’s wan smile expressed some sympathy with Poppy.

  ‘Poppy, I’m sure that’s unfair,’ said Mary. ‘Your father has made very good provision for you, haven’t you, Freddy?’

  Frederick nodded to a waiter, who topped up his glass.

  ‘Let’s move on from this, shall we?’ he said in his languid style, refusing to be drawn. ‘It’s not the time – and anyway, it makes me feel uncomfortable. You’re talking as if I’m about to depart, but I can assure you I’ll be around to torment you all for a while yet.’

  There was polite laughter from Tristram and Douglas, but everyone else remained silent.

  While Lord Redmire and his family dined in the luxurious red room, the rest of the guests were enjoying a rather sumptuous buffet in the large entrance hall. These visitors comprised various representatives from local businesses and tourism, politics and the media, along with DCI Oldroyd and DS Johnson.

  ‘It’s at times like this that I’m always so thank
ful we dress in plain clothes for detective work,’ Oldroyd whispered to Steph as he sipped a glass of champagne and tucked into a large plate of canapés. ‘Can you imagine how we’d be the centre of attention in uniforms?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ replied Steph. ‘But I’m surprised there aren’t people you’re familiar with here, given that you’re well-known in this area.’

  The hubbub of numerous conversations, along with the tinkle of plates and crockery, echoed up to the high ceiling.

  ‘Well, so far, so good. I’ve recognised one or two and I’m keeping away from them. That bald chap over there with the big belly, he’s a shocking bore from the Chamber of Commerce in Harrogate. Tom Walker introduced me to him; he’s one of his golfing chums. Mind you, I’m not surprised he’s fat if he regularly comes to eating dos like this.’ His eyes roved over the sumptuous pâtés, giant roast ham and whole poached salmon.

  ‘True,’ replied Steph as she nibbled bits from a much smaller plateful. She raised her eyebrows at Oldroyd. ‘But go easy yourself, sir. You know you’re always complaining about putting on weight.’

  Oldroyd sighed. ‘Yes, you’re right, blast you. But at least I can manage a few glasses of this.’ He twirled his champagne flute and looked at her mischievously.