Bewton Hall’s proportions were indeed impressive. Two wings sprouted from a central section fronted by a magnificent classical
portico with five graceful pillars. A study in perfect symmetry.
‘Do we use the tradesmen’s entrance or what?’ Gerry asked as they got out of the car.
Wesley said nothing. He wasn’t really sure. All the confidence he had felt a few minutes earlier now began to drain away.
But he supposed that was the point of buildings like Bewton Hall – to impress social equals and to intimidate social inferiors.
But he strode up the steps to the grand front door. There was no way they were going to be relegated to the tradesmen’s entrance
if he had anything to do with it. There was an old-fashioned bell push at the side of the door and Wesley pressed it hard.
He could hear a jangling inside the house. The thing worked – he’d been half afraid that it wouldn’t.
It seemed an age before the door was opened by a tall woman dressed in black. She had short brown hair and it was hard to
guess her age. But she looked like a senior member of the domestic staff – a housekeeper perhaps. When Wesley introduced himself
and his boss, she stood aside to let them in.
‘I’ll let Eva know you’re here, gentlemen,’ she said calmly as though a visit from the police was a routine event.
‘And you are?’
‘Jane Verity. I’m Sir Martin’s housekeeper. If you’ll excuse me.’
The woman disappeared up the graceful staircase –
the sort of staircase many women dreamed of sweeping down in a Scarlett O’Hara gown. But Jane Verity showed no such romantic
inclinations.
Gerry sat down heavily on a delicate-looking Regency sofa which, fortunately, held up under his weight. Wesley winced at the
potential disaster, then he sat down beside him, very carefully.
It was a full five minutes before another woman appeared on the stairs. She was small with steel-grey hair, sharply chiselled
features and intelligent grey eyes and she introduced herself as Eva Liversedge, Sir Martin’s PA. Jack Plesance had described
her as a prize cow and Wesley thought he could see why. In spite of her diminutive size, she looked formidable. Even Gerry
Heffernan would think twice before arguing with the likes of Eva Liversedge.
‘I believe you wish to see Sir Martin?’ There was something in her voice that suggested they’d have a long wait.
Wesley answered in the affirmative and the two officers showed their warrant cards, not that Eva Liversedge looked particularly
impressed. There was a distinct sneer in her voice as she told them that Sir Martin was a busy man. And the sneer almost turned
into a snarl when Ian Rowe’s name was mentioned.
In the end it was Gerry Heffernan who almost lost his patience. He had never, to Wesley’s knowledge, uttered the clichéd words
‘This is a murder inquiry, madam’, but he spoke them now, glancing at Wesley as though he expected him to issue a groan.
The cliché, however, seemed to work like a magic spell. For the first time Eva Liversedge looked uncertain of herself, and
she said she’d have a word with Sir Martin.
‘You do that, love,’ Gerry said to her disappearing back, emboldened by his success. Wesley thought this was pushing his luck
but he remained silent.
Ten minutes later they were being shown into Sir Martin’s inner sanctum. His panelled office on the first floor overlooked
the gardens and was the size of a tennis court. The man himself sat behind a monumental mahogany desk at the far end of the
room and they had to cross what seemed like an acre of antique Turkish rug to get to him. This, Wesley guessed, was calculated
to give the great man a psychological advantage. But he wasn’t falling for that one.
Most of the population knew what Sir Martin Crace looked like – his face was familiar from TV and newspapers. But in the flesh
he looked smaller, less impressive. He had a shock of white hair and his tanned face was less lined than Wesley had expected.
He was in his early fifties – they knew that much from looking him up on Google – but his flesh showed no sign of sagging.
Whether this was because of cosmetic surgery or a fortunate genetic inheritance, Wesley couldn’t tell. But Sir Martin looked
good. Fit and glowing with health – and something else … intelligence.
The great man stood up as they approached, a charming smile fixed on his lips. ‘Gentlemen, please sit
down. Coffee? Tea?’ His finger hovered over the intercom on his desk.
‘Tea for me,’ said Gerry Heffernan cheerfully. ‘The cup that cheers and all that.’
‘Tea would be fine. Thank you,’ said Wesley formally. If Gerry was going to accept the offer of refreshment, he thought, he
might as well benefit too.
Once Sir Martin had ordered the tea, he looked at the two men expectantly. ‘Now then, gentlemen. What can I do for you?’ He
oozed openness and cooperation – the upright citizen with nothing to hide doing all he could to help the police.
It was Wesley who spoke. As he was a privately educated graduate, he knew the DCI usually left it up to him to deal with the
upper echelons of society. ‘We’re very sorry to bother you, sir, but we’re investigating the death of a man called Ian Rowe.
I believe he had an appointment to see you today.’
Sir Martin arranged his features into a suitably solemn expression. ‘That’s right. He’d arranged an appointment through Eva.
I’m very sorry to hear he’s dead. How did he … er …?’
‘His body was found in a burning cottage near the village of Whitely. The post mortem found that he was knocked unconscious
and died of smoke inhalation. We think whoever attacked him set the place alight, which means we’re treating it as a case
of murder.’ Wesley watched Sir Martin’s face closely but there was no crack in the mask of polite concern.
‘That’s shocking. I did hear about the fire on the local news but they didn’t say who …’
‘We haven’t released his name to the press yet. The next of kin have to be informed first and we’re still in the process of
tracing them.’
‘Of course. If there’s anything I can do to help.’ He picked up a gold pen and began to turn it over in his fingers.
The tea arrived on a silver tray and when Eva had handed out the cups she retreated back to her office.
‘You knew Ian Rowe well?’ Wesley asked as soon as she was out of earshot.
‘I would hardly say I knew him well, Inspector. He worked for me for a while. He was my driver.’
‘Was he a good employee?’ Wesley asked, suspecting that Sir Martin would be reluctant to speak ill of the dead. Perhaps he
should have asked his questions before breaking the grim news. But it was too late now for regrets.
Sir Martin hesitated for a few moments and Wesley watched his face, suspecting that he was trying to choose his words carefully.
‘I’m afraid I had to let him go, Inspector. He became unreliable, you see, and in my position I need reliable staff. He began
to turn up late and on one occasion Eva said that she smelt alcohol on his breath. That’s when he was asked to leave.’
Wesley glanced at Gerry who was listening intently. At least it seemed that Sir Martin was being honest with them.
‘Do you know what happened to him after he left your employment?’ Wesley asked.
‘I believe he went to France. But that’s all I know.’
‘A woman called Nadia Lucas used to work here.’ Gerry finally broke his silence.
Again Sir Martin’s expression gave nothing away. ‘That’s right. She worked for Eva for about a year, I believe, but then she
decided to resume her academic career. I believe she went to work for a professor … in Toulouse, I think.’
‘Were Nadia and Ian Rowe close? Is he the reason why she went and got a job in France?’
Sir Martin gave Gerry a patient smile. ‘I wasn’t aware of a close relationship between them but I suppose it’s possible, even
though I wouldn’t have thought it likely. I’m a busy man and I don’t take much interest in gossip about my employees’ private
lives unless their work is affected.’
‘Of course,’ said Wesley quickly. ‘Do you know why Ian Rowe wanted to see you today?’
‘I’m sorry, I’ve no idea. But as he’d worked for me, I felt obliged to give him an appointment.’ Sir Martin smiled. ‘I rather
suspected he would ask for a handout. My charitable activities are well known, Inspector, and people assume that I’m a soft
touch.’
‘Would you have given him anything if he’d asked for it?’ Gerry asked, genuinely curious.
‘That depends. If he’d genuinely fallen on hard times through no fault of his own … if he’d been a victim of circumstance,
then … It would have been a loan, of course.’
‘Of course,’ echoed Wesley. Sir Martin Crace hadn’t become a multimillionaire by throwing his money down drains.
‘When did you last see Ian Rowe?’
‘I haven’t seen him since he worked for me.’
Something about his answer made Wesley uneasy, but he wasn’t sure why. Perhaps it was just his suspicious mind.
‘And Nadia Lucas – when did you last see Nadia Lucas?’
There was a slight hesitation, barely noticeable – unless you were looking for it, as Wesley was. ‘After she left my employment
I never saw her again.’
‘Did Eva see her again?’
‘You’ll have to ask her.’
‘What was your relationship with Nadia?’
This made Sir Martin sit up. ‘I don’t know what you’re implying but—’
‘I’m not implying anything, sir. I merely asked what — ’
‘I assure you, Inspector, there was nothing improper.
She was an efficient employee and I had no reason to be dissatisfied with her work. That’s all. And before you ask, I know
nothing about her private life. As I said, I don’t pry into … Look, why don’t you ask Nadia herself ? She’ll tell you …’
‘We would, sir. Only she’s disappeared. Strange, that. Ian Rowe’s murdered and Nadia Lucas disappears and the link between
them is that they both worked for you.’
Sir Martin looked slightly exasperated. ‘Look, Inspector, if two of my employees meet while they’re working here and keep
in touch, I can hardly be held responsible for what they get up to, can I? They’re adults, after all.’
Wesley knew the man was right. But somehow, he couldn’t let the matter rest. Sir Martin was the link between Nadia and Ian.
Ian had made an appointment to see Sir Martin before he died and all his instincts told him that this was relevant. But, rather
than risk upsetting a National Treasure, he knew he had to leave it be for the time being.
He smiled at Sir Martin, who was still fidgeting with his gold pen, impatient for the interview to end. He sensed that no
more information about Ian Rowe or Nadia Lucas would be forthcoming so he thought he’d ask a question of his own, quite unconnected
to the case. ‘We passed a cottage on the way in. It was next to a copse of trees to the left of the drive. Looked rather uncared
for. I was just wondering who lived there.’
Sir Martin visibly relaxed. ‘My aunt, Bertha Trent, lives there – well, I call her an aunt but she’s actually my mother’s
cousin. A couple of years ago she returned to this country from Zimbabwe and turned up here one day out of the blue. In fact
I’d never actually met her until then but I knew of her existence, of course – bit of a family legend.’ He smiled. ‘She offered
to catalogue some books and antiques for me in return for the cottage – she said she wanted to keep working even though she’s
over retirement age. Her face is disfigured thanks to an unfortunate incident when she was defending her farm from the violence
of Robert Mugabe’s regime. But she shows remarkable courage – never complains.’
Wesley nodded sympathetically but he was losing interest. The woman in the cottage was another of Sir
Martin’s charity cases. Nothing to do with Ian Rowe or
Nadia Lucas.
‘Bertha’s rather an eccentric lady,’ Sir Martin continued. ‘And very independent so I don’t see much of her. I’ve offered
to do some work on the cottage but she says she likes it how it is.’ He shrugged. ‘If it suits her, that’s fine by me.’
Wesley stood up and Gerry Heffernan struggled to his feet.
‘I think that’s all for now, sir. Thank you for sparing us some of your valuable time.’
After they’d shaken hands and taken the long walk across the Turkish carpet to the door, Gerry Heffernan whispered in Wesley’s
ear. ‘Thank you for your valuable time, sir. Crawler.’
Wesley grinned. ‘Let’s have a word with Eva before we go. I bet she knows everything that goes on around here – and more.’
They found Eva Liversedge in her spacious office off the corridor leading to her boss’s inner sanctum. Like his vast office,
it was oak panelled with a sumptuous red Turkish carpet and her desk was a miniature version of Sir Martin’s. When they entered
she was typing onto a computer. She looked up and smiled with her lips – but not with her eyes.
‘Can I help you, gentlemen?’ she asked, tilting her head politely to one side.
Gerry Heffernan didn’t stand on ceremony. He crossed the room and sat himself down on one of the chairs in front of the woman’s
desk, wriggling his backside to make himself comfortable. Wesley knew this
meant that he intended to stay where he was until he was satisfied with the answers she gave to their questions.
‘We’d like to ask you about Ian Rowe,’ Wesley said, taking a seat beside the DCI. ‘You made an appointment for him to see
Sir Martin, I believe.’
‘That’s right.’ She pressed her lips tightly together.
‘And did you have any idea what he wanted to talk to Sir Martin about?’
‘No idea at all, I’m afraid.’
Wesley caught Gerry’s eye. Somehow he found the woman’s answer hard to believe. Surely someone of Sir Martin’s standing wouldn’t
see just anyone without having some notion of what they wished to discuss. He had hardly been on friendly terms with Ian Rowe
– in fact Rowe had left his employment under a cloud – so he owed his former driver nothing.
‘Presumably you asked him why he wanted to see your boss?’ Heffernan said. ‘Secretaries like you usually keep unwanted visitors
away – the dragon guarding the gate and all that.’
Wesley watched Eva Liversedge’s face. She didn’t look pleased. Perhaps it was because the DCI had called her a dragon … or
perhaps it was because he’d lowered her status to secretary.