LS 13 - Murder in a Different Place (14 page)

Chapter Twenty-four

‘I don’t see what that has to do with anything,’ said Harry.

‘Perhaps the Beach House was used by the military during the war?’ suggested Ben. ‘That was why I found the wire there?’

‘Suppose so,’ said Harry, sounding dubious. ‘But still …’

‘Suppose …’ said Peter, who had been frowning at his coffee mug, ‘just suppose there was something going on here.’

‘Spying, do you mean?’ asked Libby.

‘Possibly. When was PLUTO started? And Sea Lion? Oh – Sea Lion was early if the Battle of Britain was part of it, and PLUTO later.’

‘Yes, but suppose people had got wind of this possible invasion,’ said Libby. ‘Could they have been – I don’t know – signalling to the Germans from here somehow?’

‘Possible, but only with dedicated radio,’ said Ben. ‘Let’s see if there’s anything about Sea Lion in any of these books.’

At the end of an hour of reading through the small collection of books and further internet research – ‘Thank goodness for laptops and tablets,’ said Libby – they all knew a lot more about the Island’s military defences, Operation Sea Lion, and the trial for treachery of a local woman.

‘So she was making detailed maps of the defences.’ said Libby. ‘Could she have been something to do with Matthew’s family?’

‘Not likely,’ said Peter, reading his screen. ‘She came from London and was what it says here was a “thoroughly bad lot”. And after her imprisonment she said it was all a joke anyway.’

‘But there’s the book which says she was mentally disturbed,’ said Ben, also still reading.

‘And the row about the lost case files,’ added Harry.

‘But none of it to do with us,’ said Libby.

‘Suppose,’ said Peter, getting up and pacing out on to the deck, ‘suppose someone from Matthew’s family was also a traitor? They’d want that kept secret, wouldn’t they?’

‘Doing the same sort of thing as that woman?’ said Libby, following him out.

‘Makes sense,’ said Harry, joining them, ‘but only guesswork, and what about my gran?’

‘Perhaps it was her?’ suggested Libby.

They all looked at her.

‘That really does make sense,’ said Peter at last.

‘But everything says that woman was the first one to be sentenced to death,’ said Ben.

‘But commuted to – what was it? Fourteen years?’ said Libby. ‘And if Granny was a bit later than that woman they wouldn’t have made much of a fuss about it, would they?’

‘Local newspaper archives,’ said Peter. ‘That’s what we want.’ He strode back to his tablet and began searching.

‘We’re going to have to go to the offices, I think,’ he said after a moment. ‘Not searchable online.’

‘Any other sources?’ said Ben. ‘How about typing in a phrase …’

‘Like “woman arrested for spying Isle of Wight”?’ said Libby.

‘All we’d get then would be more variations on the other woman’s story,’ said Peter, ‘But I’ll try something similar.’

They all did. And all came up with nothing.

‘Bang goes that theory, then,’ said Libby.

‘No, just that it was kept quiet. A lot was during the war. And you know how the Bletchley crowd kept quiet – even not telling their husbands and wives sixty years later,’ said Ben.

‘And those – what were they called? Special operations?’ said Harry.

‘No – I know what you mean,’ said Libby. ‘The Auxiliary Units Patrols. The men who would be the British Resistance if Germany invaded. They didn’t tell anyone.’

‘Could that have been it, then?’ said Ben. ‘Not a traitor or a spy, but a secret resistance fighter?’

‘But that wouldn’t matter if it got out,’ said Peter. ‘No, I think it’s perfectly possible we’re dealing with something like spying, but I must say, the war’s a bit early. I was thinking more of 1950.’

‘So what now?’ said Harry. ‘Do we go searching for people who were around in the war? What about those old people at the funeral?’

‘You know,’ said Ben, ‘the Auxiliary Units Patrols fit in very neatly with Operation Sea Lion.’

‘But relevant?’ said Peter. ‘How do we find out?’

‘You’re the journalist, you ought to know,’ said Libby.

‘Haven’t got all my sources to hand, though. But I’ll give it a go.’ Peter stood up. ‘I shall shut myself up in our bedroom and you can all go and cavort around the Island.’

‘What shall we do, then?’ said Harry.

‘I wish we could talk to the old people,’ said Libby. ‘That Lady Bligh, for instance. I don’t even remember her from the funeral.’

‘I don’t think we could just go up and knock on her door and ask, Lib,’ said Ben.

‘No, of course not. We need an introduction.’

‘Actually, I think we’d be better searching this place,’ said Harry. ‘That’s what we said we’d do. See if there’s anywhere locked or whatever.’

‘Right,’ said Libby. ‘And it’s practically lunch time. What shall we do about that?’

‘Go to the cafe,’ said Harry. ‘Let’s do half an hour here, then break.’

‘And we were up so early this morning I could do with a nap after lunch,’ said Libby. ‘Come on, let’s get going.’

Ben and Harry began on the living room, while Libby searched the bedroom she and Ben were using, before moving on to the one Fran and Guy had used.

‘I bet I know where it is,’ said Peter, emerging from his bedroom. ‘There’s a secondary loft hatch in the communal bathroom, over the shower.’

Harry was already trying to prise the hatch open by the time the other three got there.

‘You were right,’ he told Peter. ‘This won’t open. And I can’t see any handle or lock.’

‘Pressure point?’ suggested Libby. ‘You know, like that one on the secret door we found before.’

‘My arms are aching,’ said Harry. ‘Get me something to stand on.’

Ten minutes later and they had all had a go at finding some sort of opening mechanism. The door had shifted a couple of times, but not opened. They stared at it for a silent minute. Then Libby laughed.

‘What?’ Harry frowned at her.

‘Give it a good shove,’ she said. ‘Push it inwards.’

With a shrug, Harry reached up and pushed. The door swung upwards, revealing a pull down ladder.

‘It wasn’t even locked!’ gasped Peter.

‘Probably no need to,’ said Libby. ‘You expect a loft hatch to open downwards, don’t you.’

‘No, I don’t. Ours has to be pushed upwards and slid aside,’ said Peter. ‘I don’t know why I didn’t think of it.’

‘Because we were all convinced it would be bolted and barred and we would see a lock or something,’ said Libby. ‘Who’s going up?’

‘Lunch, first,’ said Ben firmly. ‘I’m starving, if no one else is.’

‘Without knowing what’s up there?’ wailed Libby. ‘I won’t be able to eat a thing!’

‘How about if Ben and I go and buy sandwiches from the cafe while you and Harry explore the loft?’ suggested Peter.

‘Great,’ said Libby. ‘I’ll have crab, please.’

‘Me too,’ grunted Harry, as he reached up to pull down the ladder. ‘Anyone got a torch?’

Peter and Ben left and Libby found a torch in the kitchen.

‘Can you see anything?’ she called up, after handing it up to Harry.

‘Not a lot. It’s not very big. Hang on.’

She heard a creaking and a bang.

‘Ow.’

‘What’s up?’

‘That was my head on a beam. There are a couple of boxes here. I’ll push them to the hatch.’

‘I’ll come up the ladder to get them, then.’

‘No, they’ll be too heavy. Wait a bit.’

She heard a scraping sound and saw the torch beam swinging wildly across the open hatch. Then Harry appeared and climbed carefully back on to the ladder.

‘Here.’ He handed her the torch. ‘Now, put it down and bring me that chair I was standing on.’

Libby brought it. Harry came down two steps, carefully balancing a cardboard box on the steps above him. Two more, and he was able to place the box on the chair, then back up the ladder to repeat the exercise with the second box. Finally, he went back up with the torch to give the now empty space a sweep with the torch, then shot the ladder back up and closed the hatch.

‘Made a bit of a mess of the shower,’ he said regarding the black marks on the shower tray.

‘Doesn’t matter,’ said Libby. ‘Come on, let’s take these into the living room. Oof! They
are
heavy.’

‘Told you, you silly mare. Come here, I’ll do it.’

At last both boxes were on the large dining table and Libby was able to take off the lids, disturbing at least twenty years’ worth of dust and cobwebs.

‘It’s just copies of his articles in this one,’ she said a few minutes later.

‘Same here,’ said Harry, squinting at a yellowing reporter’s notebook. ‘All old, though.’

‘Any of the actual newspapers or magazines they appeared in? There are no dates on these.’

‘No, but some of these are dated. Go down a bit further.’

Libby lifted out the top third of the papers and notebook and came to some very old typewritten pages.

‘Listen,’ she said. ‘This must be about you. “Have made arrangements for the baby to go to C.” Oh, no – it’s dated 1949. Your father, then.’

Harry took the paper from her. ‘It doesn’t say much else. And it isn’t an article. Why did he type this?’

‘A note?’ said Libby doubtfully.

‘But he didn’t send it?’ Harry frowned.

‘Could be it was sent to him from your granny? And typed to provide anonymity?’

‘Could be. Is there anything else?’

It wasn’t until they reached the bottom of Harry’s box that Peter and Ben arrived back with sandwiches.

‘There was a queue,’ explained Ben. ‘Bloody hell, you’re dirty.’

Harry looked at his hands in some surprise.

‘So what have you found?’ asked Peter, trying to find a clear space on the table for the food.

‘Nothing except this, so far,’ said Libby. ‘I’m just going to wash my hands.’

When she returned, she found the three men on the deck, each reading a piece of paper.

‘This one’s interesting,’ said Peter, handing her a plate. ‘It’s obviously a piece he wrote for a magazine or something about the war on the Island.’

‘Ah!’ said Libby. ‘Success! And what does it say?’

‘Not a lot that we don’t know – it’s mainly about that woman again, but it does include a few details of some of the places she made maps of. Oh, and that there was a radar station at Ventnor. He mentions a few other arrests along the same lines, but no names.’

‘But look at this.’ Harry had been back to the boxes and returned waving a plastic folder. ‘Newspaper cutting. Dated 1949.’

‘That’s the same date as that note,’ said Libby. ‘What’s it about?’

‘The suicide of a former traitor. Alfred Morton.’

Chapter Twenty-five

‘So who’s he?’ asked Libby.

‘Have we come across his name before?’ said Peter. ‘What was the name in the address book?’

‘Andrew something,’ said Ben. ‘And if this person committed suicide in 1949 his address wouldn’t be in the book, would it?’

‘No, I suppose not,’ said Libby. ‘What does the article say?’

‘I’ll read it out. “The body of Alfred Morton was recovered on Tuesday morning from a beach near Overcliffe. Morton was convicted in 1942 of treachery and released two weeks ago as he was no longer considered a threat to the realm.” That’s it.’

‘Google it,’ suggested Ben.

‘Already on it,’ said Peter, whose trusty tablet was already on the table.

‘Which paper is the cutting from?’ Libby pulled it towards her.

‘It doesn’t say, but I would imagine it’s the local one, or there would be more explanation of where Overcliffe was,’ said Peter. ‘Look here – a piece from the
Daily Mirror
.’ He stood the tablet up in its case for them all to see.

“An inquest was held on the Isle of Wight on Monday into the death of Alfred Morton, whose body was found at the bottom of cliffs near his home. Morton was convicted of spying on behalf of the enemy in 1942, and released two weeks prior to his death. The verdict of the coroner was suicide while the balance of the mind was disturbed. Morton’s family did not attend the inquest.”

‘So he lived near here,’ said Libby.

‘That’s the
Mirror
reporting,’ said Peter. ‘It could mean anything.’

‘Anyway, it implies that Morton’s family are Islanders,’ said Harry. ‘Are we supposing this bloke is the secret the sisters are trying to hide?’

‘If so, was he their brother? Is their maiden name Morton?’ said Libby. ‘And anyway, that doesn’t have anything to do with Hal.’

‘Unless he’s Grandfather,’ said Peter. ‘And raped Harry’s gran.’

They looked at each other with sober expressions.

‘Oh, dear,’ said Libby. ‘No wonder they’re ashamed.’

‘If that’s the case, yes,’ said Ben. ‘So what we think is that he was the brother of the sisters, was imprisoned for spying, let out after the war, raped Gran and in a fit of remorse, threw himself off the cliff.’

‘It’s a nasty enough scenario to want to keep quiet,’ said Peter, ‘but we may be leaping to conclusions. Do we test it?’

‘How?’ asked Harry.

‘Confront the sisters?’ suggested Libby.

‘Someone is threatening Harry because they think he knows all, and is going to spread it about. If we tell the sisters, whoever the threatener is will get wind of it. No, I suggest we look up records of Alicia, Amelia, and Honoria Morton. See if that
is
their surname.’

He turned once again to his tablet.

‘The only one who’s come up is Honoria Morton,’ he said ‘and she appears to be a sculptress of note associated with “The Geometry of Fear”, a movement in British Sculpture in the 1950s. It doesn’t say much else. It’s a Wiki entry, but one of those that says it needs verification or something. No mention of family, just the association with this movement and other sculptors, like Frink and Chadwick.’

‘So that’s why she was off the Island in the fifties,’ said Libby.

‘But we want stories from the late forties,’ said Harry.

‘1949 is almost 50s,’ said Ben. ‘Could be the whole family were hustled away to avoid scandal.’

Libby was staring out to sea.

‘What’s up, Lib?’ asked Peter.

‘I’m thinking.’

‘That’s a worry,’ said Harry. ‘What about?’

‘We’ve leapt to an awful lot of conclusions, haven’t we?’

‘Well, of course we have,’ said Ben. ‘This is all guesswork.’

‘But if you think about it, all this is just remnants of Matthew’s work. There are no birth certificates or mementoes or damning evidence. That cutting is just that – a cutting. Just there because it was a bit of a local scandal. It could have nothing to do with Matthew, the sisters or Harry. And those boxes weren’t really hidden, were they? They were in an unlocked attic space. I don’t think this is what the sisters are worried about. And another thing,’ Libby took a breath, ‘why would Matthew have hidden something here? He knew the sisters had access to this place, more than he did, in fact. Surely, if he’d had anything to hide he’d have hidden it in The Shelf.’

‘Yes, but we agreed that he wouldn’t be hiding it from the sisters – they already know the secret – whatever it is,’ said Ben.

‘Oh,’ said Libby doubtfully.

‘Look.’ Peter tapped on the table to bring the meeting to order. ‘Let’s just step back a bit. First, the reason we got involved at all is because the sisters up there think their sister Celia was murdered as a result of something Matthew knew or someone wanted from him. That’s the basic scenario.’

‘And now, the only reason we want to find out is because someone’s after Harry,’ said Ben.

‘And the link is the letter the sisters sent to Harry,’ said Peter. ‘The “young friend” letter.’

‘So they think there was something this person wanted that gave away their precious secret. That’s what it boils down to. In case anyone’s forgotten.’ Harry stood up. ‘So yes, we’re jumping to conclusions – which you’re used to, you old trout – but we don’t have anywhere else to go. The old witches up top won’t tell us, and we don’t know anyone else to ask.’

Libby looked chastened. ‘Sounds simple put like that.’

‘Do we think the Clipping woman and her parents know? And Lady Thing?’ asked Ben.

‘I think they all know. And this Keith Franklin is around again isn’t he?’ said Harry, making a face. ‘My so-called father.’

‘Do you think he’s trying to find you?’ asked Libby.

‘Look – someone
has
found him,’ said Peter. ‘He got an anonymous letter, didn’t he?’

‘And the note here,’ added Ben.

‘So it may be that the original letter to the sisters – the “young friend” one – is from someone different.’ Libby looked from one to the other.

‘Or,’ said Harry, ‘the one I got the other day is from someone different.’

‘Like the sisters,’ said Ben.

‘The sisters!’ said the other three together.

‘Why not? One of them could have come over the day before, popped the letter through the letter box and gone straight back to the Island. Just because they were here when we got back doesn’t mean they’d all been here all the time,’ said Ben. ‘And they’re the ones who are trying to stop us finding anything out.’

‘It doesn’t feel right, somehow,’ said Libby, ‘although I agree, they’d be the obvious suspects. Ian said so, didn’t he?’

‘Fingerprints?’ suggested Peter.

‘Theirs won’t be on record,’ said Ben.

‘But we could get them while we’re here,’ said Harry. ‘You know, the cups, or glasses …’

‘I don’t think we’re on those terms with them any more,’ said Libby.

‘Oh well, if there’s nothing here after all, why are we here?’ asked Peter. ‘There must be something the sisters think gives away their secret. Something they know about but haven’t seen or found.’

‘The most probable explanation,’ said Libby, the thought popping in to her head suddenly, ‘is that whoever killed Celia actually
got
whatever it was.’

‘And hasn’t let the secret out,’ said Peter.

‘No. And whoever wrote the letter to Hal doesn’t know that.’

‘So how many bloody people
are
creeping round behind my back?’ Harry kicked a chair. ‘Look, we’ve searched this place and the Beach House. I vote we pack up these boxes, lock up and go home. I can’t talk about what I don’t know, so unless someone actually comes up with a baseball bat, I reckon we should just forget the whole thing.’

‘Again,’ said Libby.

‘Yes, well …’

‘I agree.’ Peter stood up. ‘Come on, let’s pack up.’

‘I’m going to strip the beds first,’ said Libby. ‘And you’d better find out when the booking is for, as we haven’t left the sisters any keys.’

It was another hour before they left. Harry refused to go and see the sisters, saying he would write when they got home.

‘I’d be interested to see what they do when they see the car’s gone,’ said Peter, as they drove away.

‘Bet they go down and see if they can get in,’ said Libby.

‘If Matthew had a secret from them, separate from the shared one,’ said Ben, ‘where would he have hidden that?’

‘That’s what we were looking for that first evening with the sisters,’ said Libby.

‘Not quite,’ said Peter. ‘We were only looking on the computer.’

‘But they obviously thought there was a secret,’ said Libby.

‘No, I think all they were worried about, as we keep saying, was finding out if anyone knew the secret,’ said Harry. ‘Gawd, it’s like a bad Victorian melodrama.’

‘You know,’ said Libby, as they drove down to the ferry terminal at Fishbourne a little later, ‘we’ve completely forgotten about poor old Lucifer.’

‘Oh, I don’t think he’s got anything to do with it,’ said Peter. ‘He was just a red herring. And we don’t know if he’s alive or dead.’

Ben called Hetty to tell her they would be home early, and then reported that she wanted them all to come to dinner.

‘I expect she wants all the up-to-date news,’ said Peter. ‘Not that there’s much to tell.’

But when they all got to the Manor later that evening, Hetty surprised them.

‘I remember that in the newspapers,’ she said, when they showed her the cutting. ‘Scandal, it was.’

‘But we hardly found any references to it online,’ said Libby, surprised.

‘Hushed up, I reckon.’ Hetty turned to the Aga and lifted a huge enamel pan full of toad in the hole. ‘Here you are, gal. You get serving while I get the veg.’

‘But they couldn’t erase all references to it.’ Peter frowned. ‘And why hush it up?’

It was Hetty’s turn to look surprised. ‘ʼCos ʼe was old Reginald Morton’s son, wasn’t ʼe?’

A stunned silence followed this.

‘You mean – Reginald Morton the
poet
?’ squeaked Libby eventually.

‘Yeah, ʼim. Had hisself a castle built, or something.’

‘Overcliffe Castle!’ chorused those round the table.

‘Arty set, they were. Some – I dunno – movement, I think they called it.’

‘Like St Ives?’ suggested Ben.

His mother gave him a look. ‘I dunno, do I? Never was arty meself.’

Peter got out his phone and also received a look from Hetty.

‘Not now. You’re here to eat. It’ll wait.’

It was the first time Libby had seen Peter look sheepish. Hetty did, however, allow discussion of the situation over the dinner table. It ranged mostly over the astonishing information that Alfred Morton had been Reginald Morton’s son, and therefore, if their assumptions were right, Alicia, Amelia, Honoria, and Celia had been his daughters.

‘It sort of explains Honoria going away to be a sculptress, too,’ said Libby. ‘But why have we never known this?’

‘We might be wrong,’ warned Ben. ‘Just because we found a Honoria Morton it doesn’t mean she was the same one as our Honoria.’

‘That’s true, but it’s all fitting together,’ said Harry. ‘The Castle. They all grew up there, we know that. Perhaps it was a sort of arty commune.’

‘I’ve never heard of one on the Island,’ said Peter, frowning. ‘And we haven’t come across any, have we?’

‘There’s Dimbola Lodge,’ said Libby. ‘You know, where Julia Cameron lived. And all the poets and writers.’

‘Tennyson,’ said Peter.

‘Dickens,’ added Ben.

‘Keats,’ said Harry surprisingly. ‘Well, there’s a Keats Green in Shanklin. It sort of follows.’

‘They were all Victorians, though, not 1950s,’ said Libby.

‘Their parents – Reginald Morton and Matthew’s parents would have been born in the late nineteenth or early twentieth century, though,’ said Peter. He fidgeted with his phone again. ‘Oh, Hetty, please let me look him up!’

‘Oh, go on then,’ said Hetty grudgingly. ‘Impatient bugger.’

The others watched as Peter began the search for Reginald Morton on his phone.

‘Ah!’ he said triumphantly, looking up. ‘There we are. “Reginald Morton, poet and playwright, born 1893, died 1953.” There’s a proper website, but I won’t look at that now.’

‘So he’s the right sort of era.’ Harry was staring into the middle distance. ‘And he might be my great-grandfather.’

‘Golly, yes!’ said Libby.

‘And that does make it more likely that someone wants to keep you quiet, doesn’t it?’ said Ben.

‘But I haven’t known up until now – don’t know for sure anyway. Why would they want to keep me quiet?’

‘We’ve always said, because someone thinks you
do
know,’ said Peter. ‘And if there’s been such trouble taken over keeping the whole Alfred thing quiet for all these years, someone doesn’t want it to get out now.’

‘Someone thinks Matthew told me.’ Harry looked round the table. ‘But he didn’t.’

‘We know,’ said Libby. ‘And I bet there’s only one person he did tell.’

The following morning, Libby was just settling down at her laptop to do more research on Reginald Morton, when her phone rang.

‘It’s me.’

‘Hal? What’s up? You haven’t had another funny letter, have you?’

‘No. What’sisname Deakin just rang me up. He said –’ Harry took a deep breath ‘– he said Andrew McColl wanted to meet me.’

‘Andrew McColl? The actor?’

‘Yes.’

‘But he’s famous! And he was at the memorial service.’

‘I know. And you know what this means, don’t you?’

‘He’s Lucifer!’