The Hangman's Row Enquiry (37 page)

THEO ROUSSEL SAT in the now empty drawing room for a long time, thinking about the awful things that had been said and done in his family’s name. When he was a child, his father had been his hero, so lively and dashing. And his pretty mother had been loving, worshipping even, to her handsome husband. Well, the old man had had feet of clay.

But was he, Theo, any better? Money and position, he supposed, had given him licence to behave badly. Poor Miriam Blake. Though, on reflection, she seemed a happy woman. Especially since her old mother died. A thought struck him. But no, he erased it instantly. She wouldn’t have, not in a million years. A very softhearted girl. Always had been.

And now Beattie had been arrested, with that appalling brother of hers. A really nasty piece of work he was, too. He looked up at the portrait of his father, and noted sadly that Keith had quite a look of the Roussels about him. They all had, himself, Beattie and Keith, and Miriam Blake. Ye Gods, what a muddle! He accepted without question that Beattie, with or without her brother, had killed old Mrs. Blake. Some kind of jealousy or envy, he decided, dismissing the whole thing.

“The only good thing that happened today,” he said to nobody, “is meeting that delicious Polish girl from Springfields! What a poppet!” He must find out how long she was staying in England. Then, without a thought for the devoted Beattie, he cheered up at the idea that with the right approach, Katya might well take over the housekeeping job here at the Hall. He would certainly like to get to know her better!

He got up, shook himself, and walked over to the portrait. Maybe he would turn its face to the wall for a bit! But no, the old man wasn’t all bad. Hadn’t he left provision in his will for a memorial seat outside the shop? He’d had a strong sense of duty towards the village, hadn’t he?

But there was something else he would do. He went into the study and lifted the portrait down from the wall. He opened the little safe door with the combination of numbers he had committed to memory. There it was, the lovely diamond ring that in a rush of enthusiasm he’d thought of for Rosebud or Deirdre, but had replaced, biding his time. He held it up to the light, and the fire within sprang to life, all its colours sparkling in his hand. “Yes, it should be worn,” he muttered. “I might need it yet,” he added, and smiled to himself.

He wandered over to the windows and looked out at the dark gardens, silent and reassuring. Continuity, that was the thing, he realised. It was his duty to keep the Roussel family name going here at the Hall. He strode over to the long mirror between the tall windows, and looked sternly at himself. A strict diet for a week or two would smarten him up. He still had a good head of hair, and his skin was good, in spite of years of incarceration indoors. Beattie had been responsible for that. Well, now she was gone, and he could look forward.

He turned and as he replaced the ring, saw something he had never noticed before. An envelope tucked at the back of the safe. He pulled it out, and was alarmed to see his own name. “Theo Roussel—for his eyes only.” It was discoloured, and the flap of the envelope had come unstuck. He withdrew a small sheet of paper, and recognised his father’s handwriting, large and flamboyant.

After he had read it, he walked unsteadily back to his chair and sat down and reread, anxious to make sure he had it right.

“My dear son Theo,” it began, and continued, “I wish you to read this letter and then destroy it immediately. There is no need for anyone but you to know what it contains.”

Theo shook his head, and his hands trembled. He read on. “You are my legal heir, and no one needs to know that my dearest wife was not your mother. Beloved Hermione was sadly barren. The two of us together, in total and loving agreement, decided that I should father an heir to the estate with a sweet orphan girl who worked in the kitchen here. You were taken away from her immediately after the birth, and she was to be handsomely rewarded. Sadly, she did not survive a difficult and long childbirth, and was laid to rest. You have been the light of our lives, Theo, and we could not have loved you more. Your loving father, John Roussel.” After this, he had added the family motto: “Go forth and multiply.”

Theo put back his head and roared with laughter. “The old devil!” he shouted delightedly. “Well, he certainly lived up to family tradition.”

He found a box of matches, and holding the letter between thumb and forefinger, set fire to it until it was burning brightly, then threw it into the great hearth, where the dry paper quickly reduced to ashes.

So that makes us level pegging, he realised with amusement. Me, Miriam, Beattie and Keith. All by-blows of the wicked squire. He shut the safe door and replaced his father’s portrait. “Father, my lips are sealed!” he said, and poured himself what was left of the brandy.

THERE WAS NO chance of keeping the news from the village, and by the afternoon of the next day there were very few people who did not know that Beattie and her long-lost twin brother had been taken to the police station for questioning.

“Who’d have thought it?” Rose Budd said to David. “I mean, we all knew she was an old tyrant an’ all that. But
murder
? Did you ever hear talk of a brother?” Little Simon had dozed off for his afternoon nap, and David was relaxing for ten minutes before going back to the farm.

He shook his head. “Never. He must have surfaced quite recently. Not long out of prison, so people say.”

“But why, David? Why on earth should either of them want old Mrs. Blake out of the way?”

He shrugged. “I called in at the pub before lunch and people were guessing it had something to do with blackmail. Miriam’s old mother was an evil old bag, so they said. The old chaps remembered a time when she encouraged young Theo to pay court, and more, to Miriam. They reckoned the mother hoped to get something out of it.”

“Like what?”

“Like money, Rosie. That’s what this is all about. They were guessing, of course, but there’s usually a kernel of truth in gossip.”

“But Theo didn’t kill her, for God’s sake! We all know that now.”

“Apparently not. No, the old men remembered when Beattie came to the Hall. They reckon she had something to do with the Roussel family. It was all very hush-hush, and no explanations given. She just appeared, and would never talk about herself to anyone, though some of the WI women had a good try.”

“Long time ago, then. O’course, what I saw of Beattie in charge, and her way with Mr. Theo, she worshipped the ground he walked on. Probably had high hopes, even now. Could have been something to do with that? You have to feel sorry for Beattie, I suppose.”

“I don’t,” David said firmly. “She was a dreadful woman, capable of anything. Anyway, all will be revealed in due course,” he added. “I must get back to work. Mr. Theo will be giving me orders from now on, I’m glad to say.”

 

IT WAS ALL round Springfields, of course, in the mysterious way that gossip can travel round residents who have not been anywhere all day, and have talked only to the staff.

“It can’t be Katya,” Ivy said. “She promised to keep her mouth shut, at least for a couple of days until we hear what’s happening to the Bentalls.”

She and Roy had escaped from the lounge after lunch, fed up with all the speculation, and were sitting in Ivy’s room, mostly in thoughtful silence but occasionally talking about yesterday’s events.

“Oh, it’ll be the cleaning women who come in every day,” Roy said. “And don’t forget Miriam Blake. She has eyes and ears permanently tuned to the Hall. You bet she picked up the whole story.”

“Ah, Miriam, yes,” Ivy said. “Gus was going to see her, wasn’t he. She probably wormed the facts out of him. He pretends to be tough, but he’s a bit of a softy, and it wouldn’t take many warm smiles and hot suppers to get him talking.”

Roy smiled. “You’re right, as always,” he said. “Still, it doesn’t really matter, does it? The police are in charge now, and we can retire from the case.”

“Unpaid,” said Ivy sourly.

Roy agreed, and said that next time they must make sure they get the fee up front.

“Sometimes,” Ivy said, smiling in spite of herself, “I forget you’re eighty-six. Have a chocolate.”

 

UNACCUSTOMED AS SHE was to walking, Deirdre nevertheless strode out from Tawny Wings and set off for the village shop. The local evening paper arrived in the afternoon, and she was anxious to see if the Bentalls were in it.

Her head was still whirling from the scenes at the Hall. She had hardly slept, and when she did doze off, horrible dreams woke her up again, sweating with terror. After the last nightmare, when Beattie and Keith, standing like giants over her, brandished a knife and laughed as they forced her into a corner, she jolted awake, got out of bed, made herself a cup of tea and listened to the World Service on radio until it was six o’clock and a reasonable time to get up and start the day. Even the violent situation in the Congo could not alarm her as much as that nightmare.

Now the crisp air cleared her head, and she walked up the steps and into the shop feeling much more cheerful. After all, it was over now. The police were in charge, and Enquire Within could leave it to them.

The shop was crowded, full of chattering women, but when Deirdre walked in, all went quiet. “Morning everybody,” she said. “Morning, Will. Has the paper come?” Then she noticed that all the shoppers had open newspapers. Will took up one from the pile, turned to an inside page and silently handed it to her.

The photograph had been taken as Beattie and Keith, arriving at the court in separate vehicles, had been escorted inside, both in handcuffs and with faces covered. Still in shock, probably, thought Deirdre. She started off for home, but changed her mind and went in the direction of Hang-man’s Row. She needed company, somebody who had been there, someone to read the paper with. Gus was the obvious choice, and as she tapped on his door she hoped he was at home. He was, and beckoned her in with a smile. “You don’t look so good,” he said. “Takes a bit of recovering from, doesn’t it?”

Deirdre burst into tears, and sat down heavily on the sagging sofa. “Sorry, sorry,” she blubbed.

“Primrose wine is what you need,” he said. “I’m halfway through the second bottle. The old witch knew how to make a good brew.” He filled a glass with the golden liquid and handed it to her. “Is that the paper? Let’s look at it together.” He sank down on the sofa beside her and handed her a tissue.

It was a short account, using the formal words of police routine in such a case. The two were remanded into custody, without bail. “Doesn’t tell us much, does it,” Deirdre said, sniffing. “I suppose it’ll be a while before we know the truth of what actually happened.”

“We know quite a bit,” Gus said, taking her hand. “They had motive—money—and the opportunity. Miriam was out, Keith was ruthless and mad, Beattie was dominated by him and destroyed by old obsessions. We don’t know which of them did the deed, held the knife and shoved it into the old woman, and we don’t know if the police have any actual evidence that either of them did it. Fingerprints, that kind of thing.”

“I suppose we’ll just have to wait and see,” Deirdre said, blowing her nose. “Fancy a pub snack this evening? I could do with a real drink later, and not this cat’s pee.”

 

IN HER WINDOWLESS cell, Beattie Bentall, as the police were now calling her, sat staring at a blank wall. None of it seemed real to her. The last twenty-four hours were surely a bad dream, a nightmare. She would wake up soon, wouldn’t she?

She had been given a mug of tea, but when she began to drink, it was stone-cold. Her hands were also stone-cold, and she felt as if her body had turned to ice, frozen into an unfeeling state. She pinched her hand and felt nothing. Was she perhaps dead? Was this it, her punishment for helping Keith to kill Mrs. Blake? But she hadn’t helped him. He hadn’t needed any help. Could she have stopped him? No point in speculating now. Maybe she would have to sit here, alone and with no prospect of any relief, forever and ever. Death would be an escape.

“Now then,” said a harsh voice, and the door opened with a crash. “You’ve not drunk your tea, I see. You must do better with this nice cod and chips. Shall I get you another mug of tea?”

“Yes, please,” Beattie said, and realised it was the first time she had spoken since answering to her name and details in the court. So she was not dead! The smell of fish and chips was so good that she felt a pang of hunger.

Where was Keith? she wondered. He hated fish. Perhaps they would give him something different, though she doubted it. As she ate her cod with relish, she thought about Keith, and decided that whatever happened, when the time came for her to speak, she would tell the whole truth, the real truth. He was on his own now, and if what she had to say incriminated him, then so be it. It was everyone for himself, as she had learned long ago. Surely, after all those years apart, she was not his keeper, not responsible for him.