Cursed Inheritance (29 page)

woman’s fmgerprints were taken they were checked against

the computer. Her real name’s Brenda Varney, alias June

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Wheeler, alias Beatrice Carmody, alias Wendy Felton, alias Mary Thorpe. Brenda Varney. Recognise the name?’

Heffernan grinned smugly. ‘The cleaner who stole Mary Harford’s necklace and brooch. She’s on Evans’s list.’

‘Looks like her fondness for jewellery hasn’t faded with the years. I wonder if Emma Oldchester recognised her.’

‘We can ask her.’

They walked out into the hall, where Jeremy Elsham was hovering anxiously, whispering to his wife. ‘By the way, Mr Elsham,’ Heffernan spoke at full volume, ‘remember your guest, Mrs Carmody? We’ve just arrested her for theft. It was her who pinched Mrs Jeffries’s money and ring. Paid her bill in cash, did she? Or has she given you a bouncing cheque?’

Jeremy Elsham’s mouth fell open. ‘But … but she couldn’t walk … she was in a wheelchair. How did she … ?’

It was Wesley who answered. ‘The wheelchair was her alibi. How could she possibly steal anything from upstairs when she had no way of getting up there?’ He paused while this sank in. ‘Interestingly enough she used to work here as a cleaner when she was young.’ He. addressed Pandora. ‘Perhaps you met her, Mrs Elsham. Brenda Varney?’

Pandora shook her head. ‘I’ve never seen her before in my life.’

‘Can we have a word with Mrs Oldchester?’

‘She’s meditating,’ Elsham said p!;,otectively.

‘And we’re investigating a murder,’ Heffernan hissed. ‘Just get her, will you.’

They spoke to Emma Oldchester in the conservatory again and she admitted that she had thought she recognised Brenda Varney and had tried to speak to her. But the woman had told her she was mistaken so that had been that. Emma had withdrawn before she made a fool of herself.

Wesley noticed that Emma looked pale and drawn but she wore a stubborn expression that told him she wouldn’t change her mind: she was determined to stick it out at the

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Hall, probably in the hope that Elsham would agree to take her back once more to her childhood. Wesley didn’t know whether she was brave or foolish. In view of Evans’s death, possibly the latter. But she was breaking no law so there was nothing they could do.

Before they left, Wesley gave her his business card, with strict instructions to ring any time if she was worried.

‘Think she’ll be OK?’ he asked Heffeman when they were out of earshot.

‘I reckon she’s tougher than she looks.’

Wesley said nothing. Somehow he couldn’t share his boss’s optimism. If the killer knew that Emma was on the verge of remembering that dreadful day, she would be in grave danger.

‘What do you make of our Pauline-Pandora then?’ Heffeman asked as they walked to the car.

‘I think she’s telling the truth.’

Heffeman was keeping an open mind. ‘We’ll have a !

word with Gibbons when we get back. And there’s another person on Evans’s list we need to see. Dylan Madeley, Gwen’s brother. Nobody’s been able to fmd him yet. He’s a familiar face at Morbay nick apparently. In and out of I

drug treatment centres and several convictions for robbery and possession. Not like his sister, eh?’

‘I’ve got a bad feeling about her, Gerry. If she was expecting Arbel, she’d hardly just take off like that. I think we should make finding her a priority.’

Wesley drove back to the station. He wanted a word with Dylan Madeley himself. He had a nagging suspicion that when they found him, they might find Owen. But where were they hiding?

When they walked into the CID office Trish Walton was on her way out, heading for the ladies. The sight of her reminded Wesley of the phone call he had received the previous night.

‘Trish, can you do me a favour?’

Trish looked at him warily. Favours usually involved

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extra work. And she was busy enough already.

‘Can you meet Patrick Evans’s widow this afternoon? Take her for a cream tea and have a chat. Can you ask her whether she’s remembered anything else her husband mentioned about the trip he made up to North Yorkshire? Anything at all, however trivial it seems.’

Trish grinned. This one would be easy.

As soon as they had checked whether anything new had come in, Wesley and Heffernan headed down the stairs to the interview room, disappointed with their lack of progress.

As he drew up outside Max’s house, Neil Watson’s heart was beating fast. The Stars and Stripes still fluttered from the gleaming white flagpole and the birds still sang in the tall trees surrounding the house but somehow things seemed different now. Spoiled. And he wasn’t sure whether he was still a welcome visitor.

At least there was no sign of Brett’s car. If there had been he would have driven straight past. Neil had never been one to court trouble.

The door opened slowly and Max said nothing when he saw Neil standing there on the threshold. He walked back into the house, as though he expected Neil to follow.

‘I didn’t know whether to … ‘

The old man slumped down in his rocking chair. He looked tired - and somehow older than he had done when he and Neil had first met. ‘Now don’t you go paying no heed to Brett. He’s always been one to punch first and ask questions later, even when he was a kid. Nasty bruise. You OK?’

‘Got a few funny looks down at the dig. Nothing 1 couldn’t handle,’ Neil said bravely, trying to make light of it for Max’s sake. He didn’t like to mention that Hannah Gotleib had avoided him since Chuck had mentioned in passing that someone had landed a punch on him. Hannah probably didn’t go for the type of man who gets involved in brawls.

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He rummaged in his pocket and drew. out a couple of pictures. ‘A friend in Devon emailed these pictures to me. It’s Potwoolstan Hall. The Selbiwood family seat.’

Max donned the spectacles that were lying on the table beside the rocking chair and studied the pictures Pam had sent. He nodded earnestly, as though they confirmed something he already suspected. ‘So tlult;s what Edmund left behind.’

He said nothing for what seemed like a long time and Neil waited patiently. He felt that Max had something momentous to say … some dreadful knowledge that he had never shared with anyone. ‘You know about history, stories from the past and … ‘ He paused, as though weighing up what Neil’s reaction was likely to be. ‘If you found out that you were descended from a murderer, how would that make you feel?’

Neil stared at the fireplace. There were logs in the grate, although the weather was too warm for a fire. Photographs stood on the mantelpiece: Brett and presumably Brett’s children in graduation robes: one of them, a boy, looked rather like him. It was almost like seeing a slightly altered version of oneself in the mirror. There was a woman too, a black and white studio portrait. Probably Max’s late wife … the girl he had left Neil’s grandmother behind in England for. She was pretty … probably prettier than Jean.

For the first time Neil wondered what he was doing there digging up old loves, old pain. And for the first time he looked at Max and saw a man who’d betrayed his grandmother; who’d left her pregnant and alone while he went back home and got on with his life. He tried to push this thought to the back of his mind.

‘You’ve not answered my question. How would that make you feel?’

Neil shrugged. ‘I suppose there are villains in every family. People hanged for stealing sheep, highwaymen, murderers. I don’t think it would bother me that much. Unless it was recent, of course.’

From the look on Max’s face he knew he’d given the

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right answer. The old man stood up stiffly. ‘Those papers I mentioned. The ones for the museum. You will hand them over for me, won’t you?’

Neil nodded. If he had his hands on old family documents he’d find them hard to resist. Max swayed slightly and steadied himself.

‘Are you OK, Max? You look a bit tired.’

The old man managed a weak smile. ‘I didn’t sleep too good last night, that’s all. Come back here tomorrow, won’t you? Same time. I’ll have everything ready.’

‘You’re still planning to come over to England, aren’t you?’ Somehow Max’s words seemed so final, as though he was trying to say goodbye.

‘Sure. Brett can’t stop me.’ The words were defiant but the voice sounded weaker somehow. ‘Next time you call England, tell Jean I’ll be there soon. Will you do that?’

Neil touched the old man’s hand, noticing the skin stretched like thin parchment over the bones and protruding veins. ‘Sure,’ he said before taking his leave.

Richard Gibbons had given cigarettes up long ago on his mother’s insistence. But he longed for one now.

He remembered police interview rooms from the times he’d had his ‘little spot of bother’, as he always thought of it. The small matter of a few CDs stolen from a record shop in Morbay. The police had been quite unreasonable. And they’d no business coming round and upsetting his mother.

‘You’re entitled to have a solicitor present,’ the young black man said politely. Richard Gibbons hated him, not so much because of the colour of his skin but because of his well-spoken voice and his educated manner. Gibbons had the feeling that Wesley Peterson was looking down on him. But then he had that feeling about a lot of people. Even Brenda at times.

‘You remember me, don’t you, Richard? I came to your house to ask about a man called Patrick Evans. Do they call you Richard?’

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‘Of do you prefer Dick … or Ricky?’ the big Scouse one said. He was nothing like his colleague. He had twinkling eyes that had seen it all. No airs and graces. Gibbons wondered how these two got on together, working so closely.

‘Richard.’

‘That what your mother calls you?’ the big man said with a grin.

Gibbons didn’t answer. He was being laughed at. It always happened.

The younger man leaned forward, looking him in the eye. ‘You might as well give us a full statement about the stolen jewellery. Brenda’s been very cooperative. I must say it was a clever scam. Brenda goes to a residential course or health spa pretending to be unable to use the stairs for one reason or another. Then she steals from the upper floors and hands the goods over to you immediately to dispose of so if her room’s searched she’s always clean. Do you split the proceeds fifty fifty or … ?’ Wesley !

Peterson tilted his head to one side, awaiting an answer.

Gibbons took a deep breath. ‘Brenda gets most ‘cause she does most of the work, takes the risk. I get my cut.’

‘How did you and Brenda meet?’

‘I knew her from when we both worked at the Hall. I used to be sweet on her then she upped and left. They said she’d nicked some jewellery but I never knew nothing about that. I met her again in a pub in Morbay about a year ago. I recognised her at once. She asked me if I wanted to make a bit of money. Said she had this idea.’

‘And you just couldn’t say no,’ Heffernan muttered.

‘Brenda can be very persuasive,’ Gibbons said earnestly. ‘And she’s a very attractive woman. ˇ

‘So it was sex as well as greed,’ Heffeman observed with a wide grin. ‘Why go back to Potwoolstan Hall?’

Gibbons shrugged. ‘We looked for places where Brenda could keep track of the guests - not just hotels where they could come and go. And places without lifts.’

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‘So the Hall fitted all your requirements?’

‘Something like that. Brenda did all the research. She’s very thorough.’

‘Didn’t it bother her going back to Potwoolstan Hall?’

‘Brenda’s not superstitious,’ he answered, almost proudly.

‘Did you and she ever talk about what happened there … the murders?’

‘Sometimes. ‘

‘And?’

Gibbons shrugged. ‘Nothing much to talk about really. That housekeeper killed them. She was a funny woman. Stuck-up. Mad eyes. ‘

It was funny how, with hindsight, all murderers have mad eyes, Wesley thought to himself.

‘Brenda had a lucky escape, leaving the Hall before it happened. If she’d been there, Martha Wallace might have killed her as well.’

‘Suppose so.’

‘What about Victor Bleasdale, the gardener? You must have known him quite well.’

‘Not really. We only ever talked about work.’

‘He left just before the killings, didn’t he?’

‘He got a job up north.’

‘And nobody saw him again after that?’

‘I think the police saw him … interviewed him, like.’

‘What was Bleasdale like?’

‘He was a hard worker; liked to keep me on my toes.’ He gave a sly grin. ‘And he was one for the girls. Good-looking bastard,’ he added with envy.

‘How did he get on with the Harfords?’

‘OK, I suppose. Mrs Harford used to come down to discuss the garden with him and he used to be all “Yes, Mrs Harford, no, Mrs Harford, three bags full,’ Mrs Harford. ” The Harfords were OK as long as you knew your place.’

‘Did he talk about the job in North Yorkshire?’

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Gibbons screwed up his face, trying to retrieve a half-forgotten memory. ‘I can’t remember. It was a long time ago. But I think he left quite sudden, like.’

Gerry Heffeman had been watching Gibbons intently but now he leaned forward and stared him in the eye. ‘Would you recognise him if you saw him now?’

‘Dunno. People change.’

‘What about Brenda? Would she recognise him?’

‘You’d have to ask her.’

‘Is there any chance Bleasdale could have shot the Harfords?’

Gibbons snorted. ‘Nab. He’d left by then. He was miles away. No, you can count him out. And the same goes for me and Brenda before you try and fit us up. ‘

He sniffed loudly. He was an unpleasant little man, Wesley thought. But that didn’t mean he was a murderer.

‘Is there anything else you can tell us about Bleasdale? Anything at all? Did he have a girlfriend or … 1’

‘There was someone,’ Gibbons said with a twinkle in his small eyes. ‘I never saw them together, mind, but she left messages for him in the shed and that.’