The Murder at Redmire Hall Page 9

  ‘No – probably because they knew I wouldn’t be the slightest bit interested in it. I’m a practical man; I’ve no time for magic, illusions and other such piffle. If the gullible public want to pay to see someone apparently disappear when of course they haven’t, that’s entirely up to them. The trick seems to lie in getting people’s money out of them for nothing.’

  ‘Well, as a businessman, wouldn’t you be interested in it from that angle? Obviously your brother was: he clearly thought it would be an excellent money-spinner.’

  Carstairs grunted with contempt. ‘Some of us, Chief Inspector, have more self-respect than to make fools of ourselves trying to con people by getting locked up in some so-called “magic room”, or whatever it’s supposed to be. Typical of Freddy, of course. A scheme to make money that didn’t involve any work.’

  ‘You don’t appear to have a very high opinion of your brother.’

  ‘He is – was – an idler and a spendthrift; people like him give our class a bad name. What’s more, he was a serial philanderer and he caused Antonia a lot of distress; never deserved to have her in the first place.’

  ‘I wonder if there’s any long-standing bitterness here? Do you resent the fact that your older brother inherited the estate and the title?’

  ‘Yes, I bloody well do, as a matter of fact. It was completely undeserved and it left me having to struggle to earn a living. At least it’ll now pass to my nephew, who’s a sound sort of chap. He won’t gamble it away. It would be nice, though, if I could have relied on that kind of inheritance to pass on to my children. They have to work for a living, like me. Still, I suppose it doesn’t do them any harm.’

  Oldroyd felt no sympathy. Carstairs didn’t exactly look poor, yet here he was bleating on because he’d not got the lion’s share of the family fortune when clearly he’d had so many other advantages all his life.

  ‘Did you know Harold Robinson?’

  ‘Yes, vaguely. He’s been here a long time. He was the estate mechanic when I was a teenager here, but I never had much to do with him.’

  ‘Did he have any enemies?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know.’

  ‘When you arrived yesterday, what did you do?’

  ‘After we settled in, I went for a walk and Mary stayed in the room until we all met for dinner.’

  After these routine questions, Oldroyd decided to go in for the kill. ‘Did you dislike your brother and his good fortune enough to want to murder him?’

  Carstairs laughed derisively. ‘Much good that would have done me: the estate would still have gone to Alistair. Hardly worth the effort.’

  ‘Maybe not in financial terms, but if you hated him badly enough there would have been the satisfaction of destroying him.’

  ‘So I’m not only jealous but a sadist too, who takes pleasure in murdering his own brother.’

  ‘So did you?’ persisted Oldroyd, pressing for a clear denial.

  ‘No, I did not!’

  Mary Carstairs seemed the most composed of the interviewees so far. She relaxed in the chair and smiled at Oldroyd and Steph.

  ‘Nasty job you’ve got, I must say,’ she remarked. ‘I don’t envy you trying to find out who’s committed these murders.’

  ‘Why’s that?’ asked Oldroyd.

  ‘Well, they were obviously well planned, weren’t they? A very efficient job.’

  ‘I agree and I’m sure you want to help us in this difficult task.’

  ‘Of course. Fire away, Chief Inspector.’

  ‘First, according to your husband, after you arrived you stayed in your room on the afternoon before the murder.’

  ‘Yes.’ Oldroyd picked up on a moment’s hesitation.

  ‘Did you know Harold Robinson?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘How would describe your relationship with Lord Redmire?’

  She smiled again. ‘Freddy and I got on well. He was always very charming, a good laugh, and knew how to enjoy himself.’

  ‘Did he ever tell you anything about the locked room?’

  ‘No.’

  Oldroyd looked at her closely. ‘You don’t seem very upset, despite the fact that you’ve lost someone you were close to.’

  ‘I wouldn’t say we were that close, Chief Inspector; I didn’t see Freddy that often.’ She sighed and her tone became more sombre. ‘Anyway, what’s the use in moping about? That never brought anyone back. But yes, I will miss him. I don’t think I speak for everyone, though.’

  ‘And why’s that?’

  ‘Well, there were too many . . . Oh, Lord! I was about to say “too many knives out for him”, but that’s hardly appropriate, is it! Too many people had issues with him. I’m sure you don’t need me to tell you: James and Alex and all that love-triangle stuff. The car business with James. The long-suffering Antonia . . . Poppy forever after his money and so on . . . to say nothing of my bitter husband. Mind you, don’t get me wrong: I’m not saying I think any of them would have bumped him off, nor that other poor chap.’

  ‘Should we add you to that list?’

  She laughed out loud. ‘Me? Why ever would I want to kill poor Freddy? I was his only real ally in the family.’

  David Morton, deadheading roses in one of the rose gardens, saw Richard Wilkins storm out of the house with a face like thunder and march back through the gardens to his office. This time he did not come over for a chat, and the gardener wondered what had happened. Maybe the stress of being in charge in these unusual circumstances was proving too great. He felt glad that he was well out of the trouble. All he had to do was organise his team and maintain the gardens. It was a specialist area and no one interfered much with him, especially as he clearly did an excellent job.

  Suddenly a voice called out. It was Lady Antonia. He still called her that, even though she wasn’t the mistress of Redmire anymore. She was coming from the direction of the house and wearing an elegant pale-green trouser suit.

  ‘David, how nice to see you again. Please carry on.’

  ‘And you too, Your Ladyship.’

  Morton didn’t exactly touch his forelock, but came very close. He carried on carefully applying his secateurs throughout the conversation.

  ‘I see the Jacques Cartier have bloomed well this year,’ she said, looking at the pink rosettes of the old rose and smelling its fragrance.

  ‘Yes, I think we’ll get a second flush in September if we’re lucky.’

  ‘Wonderful! I have some of these in my rose garden, but they never flower as well as these. The gardens here are special, and it’s mostly down to you, David.’

  ‘Well, thank you, but I don’t think it’s just me: there’s something in the soil and the air here. It’s a very special place.’

  ‘I agree, but I also think you’re being over-modest; the work you’ve put in over the years . . .’ Her tone changed. ‘By the way, I’m sure you’re shocked by what’s happened, like everyone else, but I know my son will want you to stay on when he inherits, so don’t worry.’

  ‘Yes, I’ve no worries there, Your Ladyship – I get on well with Mr Alistair. He’s going to make a good master of Redmire; he really cares about it.’

  ‘Quite,’ replied Antonia, but she hadn’t missed the subtle implication, probably shared by most of the estate staff, that her ex-husband had not really cared for Redmire.

  After Antonia had walked on, another person approached Morton. Ian Barden had the unusual job of maintaining and driving the miniature railway engines, which he did with skill and care. He was also an obsessive character, lacking in social skills and apt to talk at people for lengthy periods about obscure details of model engines or some odd fanatical, paranoid notion he’d got into his head, such as his fear that radiation from electrical appliances was going to kill everyone.

  The shed where the engines were housed was near the rose garden. As Redmire Hall was closed, Ian had time on his hands and had spent the morning overhauling the reserve engine, a scale model of the Duchess of Hamilton, the famous Princes
s Coronation Class steam locomotive, complete with streamlined casing. Barden was a thin man with staring eyes. He was dressed in blue overalls and his hands were oily. He was wiping them on a rag as he came over.

  ‘Morning, David.’

  ‘Morning, Ian. How’s the Duchess?’

  ‘Fine. I’ve been stripping her pistons and greasing round.’ Unusually, he went no further on this topic. ‘It’s a right bloody carry-on, isn’t it, these murders?’

  ‘Aye, it is,’ replied Morton as he continued with his deadheading. He didn’t particularly want to hear Ian’s thoughts on the matter.

  ‘It’s bad enough that t’gaffer’s been done in, but Harry, he were one of us, like, and a good mate o’ mine too.’

  ‘He was.’

  ‘Word’s going round that Harry knew something, you know, about Lord Redmire’s murder. What do you think?’

  Morton stopped and turned. ‘Harry? Maybe, but he would never have hurt anybody.’

  ‘No, I reckon not, but all the same there must have been a reason he were done in an’ all. It’s very fishy, if you ask me, and it’s not nice thinking there’s a killer around, is it? I mean, who’s next?’

  ‘Ah, I wouldn’t worry about that. Unless you know something . . .’ Morton laughed.

  ‘Well, there’s a point, but I’ll say no more for the moment,’ Barden whispered conspiratorially. ‘Anyway, better get on. See you later.’

  Morton watched him go, and shook his head.

  Barden walked back to the little engine shed. He’d meant it when he said that Robinson had been a good friend of his, and he wanted to know who’d killed him. In fact, he intended to conduct an investigation of his own and already had some ideas. This had to be stopped before anyone else was killed. Where would it end? Maybe the whole of Redmire Hall would be wiped out by some terrible serial killer, like the ones he’d seen on television. Admittedly they were usually in the direst neighbourhoods of big American cities and not in small Yorkshire villages, but who knew? He was going to leave nothing to chance.

  Poppy was shaking as she entered the room and sat down.

  ‘I know this is going to be difficult for you,’ began Oldroyd. ‘You were obviously close to your father. We just need to ask you some questions and some might be a bit upsetting – OK?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Can you tell me what you did yesterday when you arrived?’

  She looked as if it was a difficult question.

  ‘Tris and I spent some time in our room, and then I went out for a while, just for a walk, then we had dinner and then . . .’

  ‘OK. Can you think of anyone who would want to harm your father?’

  She shook her head. ‘I know not everybody liked him, but I don’t know anyone who would have harmed him.’

  ‘Did you always get on well with him yourself?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How did you feel about him being unfaithful to your mother?’

  ‘He behaved badly, I’m not saying he didn’t, and Mum suffered because of him, but that wasn’t everything about him. He was my father and I know he cared for me. We had lots of fun together when Alistair and I were little and he helped me a lot and now . . .’

  She broke down in tears, and Steph handed her a tissue.

  ‘Thank you,’ Poppy murmured.

  ‘When you say he helped you, do you mean financially?’

  She hesitated. ‘Yes. Daddy was very generous, because he always believed in me. He understood that the academic route wasn’t for me and I had to . . . sort of . . . try different things.’

  In other words, you dropped out of school and Daddy financed his little girl in every scheme you’ve come up with since, thought a cynical Steph. She recognised some envy in herself, as her own drunken and violent father had abandoned his family when she was a young girl and her mother had always struggled with lack of money after that.

  ‘I see,’ continued Oldroyd. ‘Did his generosity continue or did he refuse you money in recent times?’

  Poppy looked startled. ‘How did you know?’

  ‘I don’t know anything. I’m just asking.’

  She looked a little sheepish. ‘Well, he did turn me down not long ago, but it wasn’t really for me; it was for my boyfriend, Tristram. You see, he’s got into debt – he gambles. Daddy said he would have to pay his gambling debts himself. It was a matter of honour or something.’

  ‘Was he angry?’

  ‘Not with me; I think he disapproves of Tristram’s gambling but he likes Tristram otherwise. He introduced us in London.’

  I’ll bet he regretted that, thought Oldroyd. ‘Did your father ever talk about this locked-room trick to you?’

  ‘No, never. To be honest, I haven’t taken much interest in the Hall since I left for London as a teenager. That’s all Alistair’s thing. He’s always lived here, and now he’s going to inherit it.’

  ‘And what about you? Do you think Alistair will be as generous as your father if you run into . . . difficulties?’

  ‘Probably not; he’ll have the estate and his family to consider. But Tristram and I will be OK if he can stop his gambling. Tristram earns a good whack from his modelling and my photography business is . . . developing.’

  Oldroyd looked at her, realising she was too young to appreciate the joke she’d just unwittingly made.

  ‘Did you know Harold Robinson?’

  ‘Not really. I know he worked for Daddy.’

  ‘So you have no idea who’d want to kill him?’

  ‘No.’ She looked upset again. ‘I grew up here and I was happy. Now it’s a place where people get murdered. I don’t understand it.’

  Tristram Benington looked cool as he sat with the poise and composure of the professional model.

  ‘You arrived here yesterday, went to your room, stayed there until dinner, and Poppy went for a walk by herself.’

  ‘You’ve got it.’

  ‘We understand that Lord Redmire introduced you to his daughter, Poppy, and that was the start of your relationship with her?’

  ‘Yes, he did, but it was just a casual thing. We were coming out of the Red Hot Poker in Soho – that’s a gambling club – and Poppy was there; she’d come to meet her father, so he just introduced us.’

  ‘Did you know Lord Redmire well?’

  ‘No, only through the club. You get to know all the regulars, all ages and professions, and you talk about your strategies and your winnings and losings and so on – mostly losings.’ He sounded very jaded with the whole business, thought Oldroyd.

  ‘Do you think he regretted introducing you?’

  Tristram shrugged. ‘Maybe. He probably didn’t want his daughter to be in a relationship with a gambler like himself.’

  ‘Was he hostile to you in any way, or threatening?’

  ‘No. He knew I earned plenty of money and I treated Poppy well; it would have been hypocritical of him to come down heavily on my gambling, wouldn’t it, given his record?’

  ‘Miss Carstairs said that he refused to pay off any of your gambling debts.’

  ‘That’s true. I never asked him to do it, though; it was Poppy who thought she could get round him. I would never ask a favour like that.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I tried to explain to Poppy: it’s an honour thing; you have to pay your own debts when you’re gambling with people. It’s frowned on if it gets around that other people are having to give you money.’

  ‘Why does it make any difference?’

  ‘You just get a bad reputation. If you’re borrowing to pay, you’re just transferring your debt. Then people won’t play with you, won’t risk it in case you can’t pay if you lose. Then, if it continues, you’ll be thrown out of the club.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘It would also have reflected badly on Lord Redmire – he would have been breaking the code too.’

  Oldroyd tried to imagine this high-risk world of gamblers: tuxedos, playing cards, tumblers of whisky and money, money, mon
ey.

  ‘Did Lord Redmire make any enemies through his gambling?’

  ‘Not to my knowledge, but I only knew him through the Red Hot Poker; he was a member of other clubs too.’

  ‘So you didn’t know anyone who would have wished him harm?’

  ‘No, and to be honest I liked him. I know he felt protective about Poppy, but I think he liked me too. We both enjoyed having a good time, you know. I was hoping that Poppy and I would get married soon and he would have been at the wedding. Now he won’t be.’

  Oldroyd found it difficult to gauge exactly what Benington felt about this prospect.

  ‘OK, then, what did you think of all that?’

  Oldroyd and Steph were having a working lunch, eating some very good-quality sandwiches with salad and fruit organised by Richard Wilkins. There was also a large cafetière of coffee.

  They were just beginning to analyse their questioning of the family and guests.

  ‘I can’t say anyone in particular stood out as more suspicious than the others, sir,’ Steph said through mouthfuls of a smoked-salmon sandwich. ‘But they all had some form of motive.’

  ‘Yes. What about a crime of passion? Could James Forsyth have plotted to kill Lord Redmire through jealousy?’

  ‘Or because of the business failure – two possible motives there.’

  ‘We’ll need to check the details of what happened with that business, although it doesn’t look as if Forsyth was actually ruined; he seems to be doing fine now.’

  Oldroyd popped the last piece of an excellent mature-Cheddar sandwich into his mouth.

  ‘On the passion side of things,’ continued Steph, ‘Alex Davis was pretty candid about her feelings. I wonder if Redmire’s affairs left her with a deep sense of hurt, and so she planned to get her revenge?’

  ‘Rather unwise to be so frank with us, then. But of course that could have been a double bluff.’ Oldroyd eyed the sandwiches greedily. He’d already eaten three and knew he should stop, but they were so good he decided to have another: this time bacon and avocado. ‘I’d like to know a little more about her background. Did she ever have a job or has she always been a wealthy socialite?’