Chapter 5 #2
The boy frowned. ‘Black hair wi’ bits o’ grey in – ‘is face looked like he’d already kicked the bucket. If I’d bumped into ‘im on a dark night, you’d not ‘ave seen me fer dust.’
‘Would you recognise him again?’
Billy pulled a face and nodded. ‘I felt like I’d seen ‘im somewhere before, but e ‘ad one o’ them faces you ‘member from yer nightmares when yer wake up sweatin’, so I reckon it wos that. It weren’t that ‘e were ugly, just…’ he paused and frowned. ‘It wos jus’ like ‘e wos dead.’
‘Do you think the man could have been him?’ Charlotte frowned. ‘Could he have been Jacob?’
There was a short silence, finally broken by Henry.
‘I believe it’s a little early to jump to any conclusions just yet,’ he counselled matter-of-factly.
‘We cannot know if the man Muriel Pemberton was speaking with was Jacob, and no matter how similar, Pembroke is not the same as Pemberton.’ He looked over at Alex, adding, ‘We could indeed be clutching at straws.’
‘But the note…?’ Arabella burst out.
Henry put his hand up. ‘I am merely suggesting caution. However, we clearly need to pay an urgent visit to Twenty-three, Lower Warberry Road before Miss Pemberton realises she’s been recognised.’
‘Shouldn’t we be informing the police?’ Bella quizzed. ‘At the end of the day, they’ve been looking for Muriel Pemberton since she disappeared.’
‘We will, of course, inform Chief Inspector Hartley as soon as he acquires Sir Drayton’s seal of approval regarding our involvement in this case.’
‘Do you think it’s possible that… that… mudsill might yet try to put a spoke in the deuced wheel?’ Charlotte bit out, hardly able to contain her ire. She slammed down her sherry cobbler.
‘I believe it very likely,’ Henry sighed.
‘No matter how reasonable Benedict Hartley believes his request, Charles Drayton has considered me a thorn in his side for far too long. He knows I’m fully aware of his son’s duplicity and having taken such great pains to destroy my reputation, he will not wish to risk me publicly regaining it – no matter how much he wants this case solved. ’
Benedict Hartley stalked through the police station, his stony face warning everyone in his path of his foul mood. On reaching his office, he slammed the door behind him and threw himself into the chair behind his desk.
Drayton – that pompous cabbage-head.
In what world did he ever imagine the beetle-headed idiot would actually be reasonable? Benedict gritted his teeth, shaking his head as a timid knock sounded on the door.
‘Come,’ he yelled, leaning back in his chair. Seconds later a head appeared round the edge of the door.
‘Would you like some tea, Sir?’ Benedict took a deep breath, intending to tear a strip off the hapless constable, but a mere second later, let it out again, nodding wearily.
‘Thank you, Bridges, that would be most welcome.’ The constable gave a sympathetic nod and backed out.
Sliding the chair closer to his desk, Ben opened up the file on the Torquay jewellery thefts. In truth, there was very little in it. If they were as good as they were reputed to be, the Shacklefords likely knew as much as the police did – possibly more.
And yet he’d been forbidden to consult with them on the case – all because of Sir Drayton’s bloody arrogance.
Sighing, he picked up his pen, intending to write a note of apology to Henry Shackleford. No doubt the ex-chief inspector would be expecting it.
Selecting a blank sheet of paper, he dipped the pen into the inkwell, then stopped, his mind unaccountably conjuring up a picture of Arabella Shackleford.
What would she think? He was so certain he’d be able to persuade Sir Drayton to his point of view.
He recalled her doubtful features – and not just hers.
All three sisters knew the Commissioner of old.
They must have thought him living in Aristophanes’ cloud-cuckoo land.
Grimacing, he laid the pen down on the paper, ignoring the blot of ink now ruining it.
Was there any way around the Chief Commissioner’s edict?
Drayton had forbidden him to use Shackleford and Daughters as consultants on the case – but had not expressly prohibited him from answering any questions they might have – or indeed listen if they wished to speak.
The agency had been employed by Lavinia Pettigrew – the Exeter police force was not paying its wages.
Gritting his teeth, Chief Inspector Benedict Hartley pulled out a clean sheet of paper and set about writing a very carefully worded note to his predecessor.
‘I must say I had not imagined any houses in Paignton were possessed of such a fine view.’ Benedict Hartley murmured, stepping out of the open French doors onto a large terrace overlooking the distant sea.
‘Torquay, yes. There are many large houses with envious views in the Warberries and the Lincomes for example. But much of Paignton has been built on reclaimed marshland.’
‘It’s obvious you have never visited Cliff House,’ Alexandra countered. ‘One can see as far as Dorset on a clear day. It puts our view here to shame I’m afraid.’
‘Nonsense, my love. I simply consider the view from Simla House to be more… personal.’ Rhys raised his wife’s hand to his lips and smiled.
‘Cosy,’ suggested Alexandra, smiling back at her husband.
Ben watched the exchange with something approaching envy. ‘It’s exceedingly kind of you and Lady Tavistock to invite me for dinner, my lord,’ he declared, turning away from the expansive view.
‘We were delighted to do so,’ Rhys responded with a faint grin, handing Benedict a brandy, just as the doorbell rang.
Baron and Baroness Tavistock’s invitation to dinner had arrived a mere day after Ben had penned his letter of regret to former Chief Inspector Shackleford - for the following evening.
In the letter, Rhys mentioned being a business acquaintance of Viscount Lavenham, and on learning that his lordship’s brother was now living and working in South Devon – well, dinner was the very least he and Lady Tavistock could do to welcome him to the area.
Rhys ended the invitation with the hope that it would be the first of many, declaring that both he and his wife were looking forward to many evenings of stimulating and wide-ranging conversation…
Ten minutes after Benedict’s arrival, Mrs Dobbin, the housekeeper, introduced the other guests – Arabella, Beatrix, Bernice, Daisy, and Florence.
Looking at their collective grins as they walked into the room, Ben had the uncomfortable feeling that the conversation might possibly be stimulating enough to the point of keeping him awake at night.
Indeed, his suspicion was borne out with Bernice Shackleford’s first words, referring to her father’s absence.
‘I’m afraid you gentlemen are a little outnumbered this evening.
Still, I daresay the conversation will be a little livelier. ’
Benedict raised his eyebrows but said nothing. Bending his head and smiling politely at each young lady in turn, he couldn’t help wondering where Henry Shackleford had found the time for police business. But perhaps he’d simply enjoyed the escape…
At Bernie’s words, Alex gritted her teeth and closed her eyes momentarily, giving brief thanks that they hadn’t invited anybody they were desperate to impress. She doubted Beatrix or Bernice possessed a refined bone in both of their bodies put together.
Arabella found herself hanging back slightly, content for her younger sisters to monopolise the pre-dinner conversation.
Self-consciously smoothing down her dress – the very same dress she’d taken a ridiculous amount of time to decide upon – she sipped a glass of lemonade and wracked her brains for something witty to say when she was finally forced into a conversation with Chief Inspector Hartley
It didn’t help that, dressed for dinner, he’d gone from undeniably attractive to breathtakingly handsome.
Looking down at her sage green gown – also the very same gown Bernice had earlier declared looked as though Aggie had thrown up on it – Bella tried hard to tell herself that since she no longer had any interest in whether a man was eligible or not, it didn’t matter if the Chief Inspector was of the opinion that her gown looked as though someone had cast up their account on it.
Unfortunately, the very fact that she was wondering whether she could surreptitiously pour some gin into her lemonade indicated that she cared very much.
Gritting her teeth, she kept repeating under her breath, ‘This is a professional dinner,’ every time she was tempted to make a run for it.
In the past, Arabella Shackleford had lived for even the smallest of social occasions, thriving on small talk and lively conversation.
On spying an attractive, eligible man, she would simply have navigated a position by his side and flirted unashamedly.
Yet, here she was, cowering in a corner. Grimacing, she looked down at her feet.
‘You are particular quiet tonight, Miss Shackleford, dare I say the case is occupying your mind – or perhaps the company is not to your liking?’ Bella’s head snapped up at the deep voice coming from mere feet away where the object of her confusion was regarding her quizzically.
Immediately, she felt the same irrational urge to snap back at him, indeed, she even got as far as opening her mouth to voice a scathing retort, but before she could say something she would undoubtedly regret, he added, ‘I cannot help but notice you do not appear well disposed towards me, my lady. I realise I was particularly ill-mannered at the beginning of our last meeting and can only apologise if my behaviour offended you.’ He paused and smiled, entirely unaware that the action caused her stomach to do a complete backflip.
‘It is my sincere hope that we can eschew the events of the last forty-eight hours and begin again.’
Arabella took a deep breath, her heart hammering most peculiarly.
When she finally let it out, she felt as though the weight she’d been carrying, suddenly lifted.
In all honesty, there was no pressure to be the old Arabella Shackleford, desperate to impress.
This really was a business dinner, and it absolutely didn’t matter what Benedict Hartley thought of her.
Her uncertainty vanished, and with it, her need to push the chief inspector away.
After a few seconds, she managed to nod her head.
‘I would like that.’ She actually felt giddy with relief.
‘Dinner is served…’ Mrs Dobbin’s announcement from the door ended the strange moment, as Chief Inspector Hartley held out his arm.
‘May I escort you to dinner, Miss Shackleford?’
She looked up at him with a teasing smile – the liveliness that was usually part of her personality finally bubbling up. ‘If we are to begin anew, Sir, I suggest we start by addressing each other by our given names.’ She took his proffered arm. ‘Certainly, you may escort me… Benedict.’
‘I must say it doesn’t have the look of a domestic agency,’ Charlotte commented doubtfully. ‘In truth, the house looks empty.’
Henry nodded, looking up at the dark windows. ‘There certainly doesn’t appear to be anybody in residence at the moment if the lack of light is anything to go by.’ He glanced around. The narrow road was deserted in the early evening light.
‘We need to have a look round the back,’ Charlotte declared, pushing open the gate and stepping through.
Henry Shackleford gritted his teeth as she marched up the path.
One of these days he’d simply let her jump off a deuced cliff.
He’d been about to suggest they return the following day when the dark was not closing in.
The houses on either side had lamps shining in most windows.
He really didn’t want to draw the attention of the neighbours at this hour.
Getting information would be difficult if they were spotted skulking around in the dark before they got a chance to ask questions.
Naturally, it hadn’t been Henry’s idea to take the carriage to Torquay while the rest of the family were attending the dinner party at Simla. Indeed, he’d done his best to persuade Charlotte to go along to the dinner too.
Unfortunately, his sibling was more eager to do some actual sleuthing, declaring that the girls were more than capable of handling Chief Inspector Hartley. Though she didn’t say it, Henry was well aware that Charlotte’s biggest fear was that he might go without her…
Henry sighed. Short of yelling at her to come back, his only alternative was to follow.
Stepping through the gate, he shut it carefully behind him and walked towards the front door.
By now, his sister had disappeared out of view, following a narrow path around the side of the house.
Before going after her, the former chief inspector continued up to the front door where he quickly ascertained that there was no commercial sign on either side – no indication that this was anything other than a private house - and an empty one at that.
Grimacing, he turned and hurried after Charlotte, realising he’d not heard a peep out of her for nearly five minutes - a truly ominous period of time when it came to his sibling.
The path leading to the back garden was almost completely invisible, overgrown with weeds and bushes. It took him a couple of minutes to fight his way through before he suddenly broke free, out onto a weed-choked terrace…
… only to catch sight of his idiot sister hanging three-quarters of the way up a rickety ladder propped up against the wall - two feet short of a half-open window on the top floor.