The Lost Empress (8 page)

Chapter Eight

It was mid-morning and the sun was already high over the River Medway as DI Bishop drove up to the gates of Hamberley in his unmarked black Audi saloon. Tayte was sitting beside him in the passenger seat. His briefcase was in his lap, and he was already glad of the air conditioning; with a hazy sky and no discernible breeze, it promised to be a hot day. Bishop, who had called ahead to arrange the visit with the elderly Lord Reginald Metcalfe, lowered his window, reached out to the intercom, and pressed the call button, glancing up at the security camera as he did so. A couple of seconds later, the gates eased open with a metallic squeal, and Tayte wished he felt more welcome. This wasn’t at all how he liked to go about his business, but given that he knew so many answers must lie beyond these gates, and especially because someone had potentially tried to kill him the day before, he was glad to have any opportunity to talk to this particular family.

‘I shouldn’t expect too much from our visit this morning,
Mr Tayte,’
Bishop said as the car headed along the drive, which was flanked by tall poplar trees.

‘Sure,’ Tayte said. He figured that any information the Metcalfes could give him about Alice Stilwell would be a bonus after the reception Raife Metcalfe had given him.

‘I’ve a few lines of enquiry to follow,’ Bishop added. ‘I’ll introduce you, and when it’s appropriate, I’ll give you a nod, and you can ask a few questions. Other than that, you’d best leave the talking to me.’

‘You won’t know I’m there,’ Tayte said, and Bishop turned to him and eyed him up and down in his bright tan suit, as if to suggest there was no way anyone could miss him.

When they came in sight of Hamberley, Tayte drew a deep breath and held on to it for several seconds, thinking that the late nineteenth-century mansion was very stately indeed. It was bathed in sunlight, which was reflected in the many stone-mullioned windows that formed a shimmering matrix three rows high by at least a dozen across.

‘How the other half live, eh?’ Bishop said.

Tayte nodded and wondered how many of the current Metcalfe family members lived in such a vast dwelling. ‘Do you know much about the family?’

‘The Medway area’s been my patch long enough to learn a little about most of them over the years. They’ve always given their support to the community, I’ll say that much for them.’

‘Do you know who else lives here, apart from the current Lord Metcalfe and his grandson Raife?’

‘Not as many people as you’d think,’ Bishop said. ‘Lord Metcalfe lives here with his second wife, Vivienne, and their son Alastair. He’s a good few years younger than Raife, and there’s plenty of rivalry between the two of them. It’s no secret that Alastair is likely to inherit the estate, if not the titles, when the current Lord Metcalfe dies, and I’m sure Raife’s none too keen on becoming a penniless lord. The first Lady Metcalfe died some years ago, as did her son Robert—Raife’s father. He was a naval man, as most of the Medway Metcalfes have been, although not Raife.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘Who can say? Maybe it was because he lost his father during the Falklands War. Raife would have been a young boy then. I can see how that might have influenced his decision not to follow in his father’s footsteps. Or perhaps it was his mother’s influence. Maybe losing her husband to the Royal Navy was enough. Either way, Lord Metcalfe doesn’t seem to hold a very high opinion of his grandson because he didn’t “man up and join up,” as it were.’

‘So, what does Raife do?’

‘He manages the estate with his wife, Miranda, and that’s about it, as far as I know. Mind you, I’m sure it’s a full-time job, not that any of the family needs to work. There’s a lot of money tied up in all this.’ Bishop waved a hand in front of him, indicating the house they were now almost upon. ‘Raife and his wife must do well enough out of it. I suppose that’s one of the perks of managing the place. Their two boys are both away at university, last I heard. Raife’s mother lives locally, but not at Hamberley.’

Bishop turned the car around a stone fountain, where four oversized verdigris fish were spouting water back into the pond from which they appeared to have leaped. Tayte thought the inspector was about to stop the car, but the roar of an engine to the right of the house drew their attention, and Bishop kept going.

‘Sounds like someone’s in one of the garages,’ he said. ‘Might be a good opportunity to take a look. Although, as I’ve said, I wouldn’t expect to find the car we’re looking for here.’

They approached a block of garages that had been sympathetically built to blend in with the architecture of the house, and then the sound came again. It was a deep, rough sound, rising and falling in pitch as if someone were revving an engine.

‘That motor’s not firing on all cylinders,’ Tayte said.

‘Something of a mechanic as well as a genealogist, are you, Mr Tayte?’

‘I’m more of an enthusiast really. I’ve picked up a thing or two keeping my old ’55 T-bird on the road. I guess if you spend enough time around old cars like that, you develop an ear for what sounds right.’

As Bishop pulled the car up alongside the garages, the revving suddenly stopped, and a man Tayte recognised stepped out into the sunlight. It was Raife Metcalfe in blue overalls. He was holding a rag, which he was wiping his hands on as he came out to meet them.

Bishop began to open his door, but he paused and turned to Tayte. ‘As I said, Mr Tayte—let me do the talking.’

‘Don’t worry—he’s all yours,’ Tayte said as he followed the detective out.

‘Good morning, Mr Metcalfe,’ Bishop said.

Metcalfe nodded back. ‘Morning, Inspector,’ he said, making it clear to Tayte that the two men knew one another enough to need no further introduction. ‘What brings you to Hamberley?’ he added, eying Tayte with a narrowing of his eyes and more than a hint of displeasure.

‘We have an appointment to see your grandfather this morning,’ Bishop said, ‘but I’m glad to find you home. I’d like to speak to you as well, if you can spare a few minutes.’

‘What’s
he
doing here?’ Metcalfe said, flicking his nose towards Tayte, his sour expression deepening into one of blatant disdain.

‘Mr Tayte is assisting me with a murder investigation.’

‘Is he now?’ Metcalfe said. ‘Well, well. Fancy that.’

‘I’d appreciate your cooperation,’ Bishop said before the other man could protest. ‘It shouldn’t take long.’

Tayte set his briefcase down beside the Audi and stepped closer, smiling slightly, as if to suggest there was no ill feeling on his part. He peered into the garages, looking for the car that had run him off the road the day before. He saw several expensive-looking cars, and the only silver vehicle in the garage was a two-seater Mercedes that was too low and altogether too sleek and sporty to be mistaken for the car that had hit him. His eyes were quickly drawn to the vehicle Raife Metcalfe was working on. Its bonnet was up, engine idling roughly, as if it might cut out any minute. Tayte recognised it as an Aston Martin DB4, forerunner to the car Ian Fleming had given to his character James Bond in
Goldfinger
.

‘Hobby, is it?’ Bishop asked, indicating the Aston.

‘More like a challenge,’ Metcalfe said. ‘It’s something I’ve always fancied having a go at. She’s never run well, and I’ve become too bloody-minded about fixing her up myself to call a mechanic in.’

‘I hear that,’ Tayte said, gravitating towards the open engine bay and the gleam of polished Racing Green coachwork. ‘I’m the same with my old motor. It’s like you can’t let it beat you—man versus machine.’ He looked in at the straight-six engine as it rocked back and forth on its mounts. ‘Very nice,’ he said. ‘Is it the GT model or the Vantage?’

‘Both,’ Raife said. ‘And it’s rare and quite valuable, so don’t touch anything.’

Bishop pulled Metcalfe’s attention back to his enquiry. He indicated the silver Mercedes, and Tayte discreetly shook his head. ‘Is that the only silver car you or your family own, Mr Metcalfe?’

‘The Merc? Yes, it belongs to Alastair—my grandfather’s son by his second marriage. Don’t ask me what relation he is to me. I’m still trying to work it out.’

‘He’s your step-uncle,’ Tayte called from beneath the Aston’s bonnet.

‘Yes, well, the Merc belongs to him. Nice birthday present it was, too, not that he shows much gratitude.’

‘And are these the only garages at Hamberley?’ Bishop asked.

Raife smirked. ‘Not enough horsepower here for you, Inspector?’

‘No, it’s not that. I just wondered if there were any other cars on the estate, or perhaps they’re not all here just now. I see one of the bays is empty.’

‘This is the only garage block at Hamberley,’ Metcalfe said. ‘That’s the Landrover’s space. It’s in regular use, so it’s rarely there. My groundskeeper’s out on the estate with it now. Why are you interested in our cars?’

‘It’s just a routine enquiry, Mr Metcalfe. Mr Tayte here was run off the road after he left Hamberley yesterday.’

Metcalfe laughed to himself. ‘Just routine, eh? You think I had something to do with it because I didn’t want to talk to the man about my family history?’

Tayte heard ‘the man’ and felt as if Raife Metcalfe had forgotten he was there, despite still having his head buried in the Aston’s engine bay. He was studying the ignition and timing components. He picked up a rag and reached in and pulled one of the high-tension leads from the spark plug it was attached to. The idling engine maintained the same rough beat.

‘I think everything and I think nothing,’ Bishop said. ‘As I just told you, it’s just a routine enquiry for now. Primarily, I came here to talk to your grandfather about your family history because there’s a chance it might be connected in some way with the murder of Lionel Scanlon three weeks ago. I wanted to talk to you because I’ve heard that you and Mr Scanlon had recently fallen out over something. Can you tell me what that was?’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. Who said we’d fallen out?’

‘Mrs Scanlon, with whom you and your wife were at dinner the night her husband was murdered. She said she believed this falling out was the reason Lionel was in his workshop that night, rather than out having dinner with the rest of you. She said you’d asked them to source some antique furniture for you and that Lionel didn’t want to go along because of you.’

Raife Metcalfe turned away. ‘Well, I can’t think why Lionel would have said that. If he had a reason, he didn’t share it with me. Families don’t always get along, do they?’

‘No, they certainly don’t,’ Bishop agreed. ‘I just wanted to ascertain whether the two of you had argued about anything specific recently.’

‘No,’ Metcalfe said. ‘Maybe he just didn’t like me.’

Tayte scoffed to himself.
I really can’t think why.
He pulled another high tension lead, and this time the engine note became rougher still, letting him know that this cylinder had been firing okay. He quickly reattached that lead in place of the first one he’d pulled, and the engine returned to its former uneven idle.

‘Well, thanks for your time,’ Bishop said. ‘Is it okay to leave the car here while we go in to see Lord Metcalfe?’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘Mr Tayte,’ Bishop called, and Tayte came back out into the sunlight.

As he passed Raife Metcalfe, whose scowling eyes were on him again as soon as he turned away from the Aston, he handed him the high tension cable he’d removed and said, ‘You’ve got a bad plug wire. I’d get a whole new set if I were you, and it’s probably worth replacing the timing belt, too.’

Tayte felt the cable tear from his hand as Raife snatched it from him. The man’s features began to twist, and Tayte thought he was about to say something unpleasant, when Bishop called to him again, this time with more urgency.

‘Mr Tayte!’

Tayte turned on his heel and collected his briefcase. He quickened his step to catch up with Bishop, and they made their way towards the house.

Tayte and DI Bishop were met at the entrance to Hamberley by a thin woman in a black dress, who introduced herself to them as Mrs Tenby, the housekeeper.

‘I’ve been wondering what was keeping you,’ she said as she led them across a white marble floor to the main staircase. ‘Lord Metcalfe doesn’t like to be kept waiting.’

She spoke quickly in a precise manner and with such an air of superiority that Tayte felt as if they were being told off, but he figured her attitude and general lack of emotion was just part of the job.

‘Please remove your shoes,’ Tenby said, and Tayte slipped his loafers off while Bishop untied his laces. Then they began to climb the stairs. ‘When you meet Lord Metcalfe,’ Tenby continued, ‘you’ll have to speak up. His Lordship’s hearing is not what it was.’

Tenby led them to the upper landing, where she indicated a small settee. ‘Wait here,’ she said. ‘I’ll let Her Ladyship know you’ve arrived.’ Then she left along a poorly lit corridor, her black dress quickly fading into the shadows.

‘I wouldn’t like to get on the wrong side of her,’ Tayte whispered as he sat back and took in the austere surroundings: the oak panelling and the twinkling chandeliers, the period furniture and the myriad family portraits of people whom Tayte supposed were past generations of the Metcalfe family. His eyes flitted from one painting to another as he wondered whether Alice’s image was among them—although, given what he’d heard about her, he very much doubted it.