The Red Dahlia (25 page)

At last, they came to a manicured hedge, over six feet high, with few gaps to see what was beyond it. The hedge went on for at least two more miles of the narrow lane, then joined up with a wall: six-feet-high old red brick. As they turned a blind corner in the road, they saw the pillared entrance to Mayerling Hall.

They turned left through the massive open gates, but still could see no property. Thick hedges fringed the drive which led into a much wider, fine gravel pathway, edged with white-painted bricks. As the pathway curved round, it became shaded with massive oak trees that overhung on either side, forming an arch as their branches entwined.

‘This is some drive,’ Lewis said, looking around, but Langton and Anna stared ahead in silence at the Hall itself.

It was a massive sprawling monster of a house, with griffins high up on the edges of the many roofs. It was originally Tudor, with low hanging roofs and at least eight tall chimneys. The velvet lawns swept down to a lake; statues were dotted around, and a small maze of neat one-foot hedgerows surrounded a fountain where Neptune held up a mermaid, watched by other strange stone creatures. The water spurted high and cascaded down onto the water lilies floating on the large circular pool. On either side were ornate gardens with manicured roses and rhododendrons.

‘Wow, this is some place; you would never know from that lane what was here, would you?’ Lewis’s jaw was open at the opulence: it was like a House & Garden glossy centrefold. ‘Need plenty of gardeners,’ he continued. There was no one in sight; the silence was only broken by the fountain’s gush, punctuated by birdsong.

They pulled up outside the Hall’s wide front steps. Planters potted with ivy and blooms were placed on each shallow stone step, and the double front door was studded, with an old iron knocker and large handle.

They stood for a moment, looking up at the ornate building with its myriad stained glass-and-lead windows, many featuring knights in armour. Langton looked to Lewis and Anna, gave a brief nod and walked up the steps. There was an old iron bell pull, but neatly hidden was a modern doorbell; he pressed and waited. It was almost a minute before they heard footsteps, and then one of the studded doors swung open.

The housekeeper was about seventy, rotund, with flushed cheeks and an apron. Langton showed her his ID and asked if he could speak to Dr Charles Wickenham.

‘Is he expecting you?’ she asked, pleasantly.

‘No, but I believe he is at home.’

She nodded, and then stepped back to open the door wider. ‘I’ll tell him you are here; this way, please.’

They trooped after her into a rather dark, oak-panelled hall, festooned with paintings. The honeycombed ceiling was yellowish in colour; and there was a suit of armour whose right hand rested on a vast umbrella stand containing many big black umbrellas and some bright golfing ones. Above them hung a huge iron chandelier, and on the oak table were stacks of books and a big wide bowl of fresh flowers.

They were led into a drawing room; it had a low ceiling and wide polished wood floorboards. Precious Persian silk throw carpets were placed around the vast room. The dark red velvet sofas and chairs were positioned comfortably around a brick fireplace, its stacked logs ready to be lit. Again, there was a profusion of oil paintings and, on a large grand piano, many silver-framed photographs. Langton was heading over for a glimpse of them but turned as he heard footsteps.

All three listened to the housekeeper speaking to someone outside the room.

‘It was not the housekeeper calling in, by the way,’ Anna said quietly. ‘The woman sounded much younger; well spoken.’

She stopped abruptly as Edward Wickenham walked in. Over six feet tall, he looked very fit in jodhpurs, boots and a bottle-green sweater. His hair was dark like his eyes, but his cheeks were flushed very pink.

‘I’m Edward Wickenham. Did you want to see me?’

He had a deep, aristocratic tone. He looked to Langton and then to Lewis.

‘Actually we wanted to see your father. Is he home?’

‘Yes, somewhere. It’s not about this ruddy congestion charge, is it? I can’t believe it! I mean, I have said I would pay the fine, and yet every day I seem to get another letter telling me it’s doubled.’

‘It’s not about any congestion charge. I am Detective Chief Inspector James Langton.’ Langton went on to introduce Travis and Lewis.

‘Why do you want to see my father?’

‘It’s a personal matter, sir. If you could just get him to come and see us.’

‘To be honest, I am not sure where he is; he could be over at the stables.’ After a moment’s hesitation, he turned abruptly and walked out.

Langton turned to Anna, his voice low. ‘Well, he’s dark-haired, and he’s got quite a nose on him. What do you think? Could it be him?’

Anna shrugged; she was looking at the family lineup on the piano top. Countless silver-framed photographs of young children, some on horses or ponies, and various women, but she couldn’t see any of the man they had come to talk to.

Langton came to her side. ‘Any tall, dark, handsome, hooknosed middle-aged…’ He stopped as he heard a door open and close in the hall. They waited, but whoever it was walked away. It was another five minutes before Edward Wickenham returned.

‘I’ve paged him, but he might have gone out with one of the horses. Can I get you some coffee?’

‘No thank you. Maybe you could walk us over to the stables?’

He hesitated, looking at his watch. ‘I suppose I could do, but as I said, I am not sure he is over there.’

‘Why don’t we go and see?’ Langton said firmly.

Edward Wickenham opened a studded oak door leading to the kitchens and gave a rather apologetic smile.

‘It’s a bit of a maze, but this is the quickest route; we’ll go through the kitchen to the back door.’

The kitchen was huge, with two Agas and a vast pine table with matching chairs. The stainless steel equipment was immaculate and the glass-fronted dressers were filled with china. The housekeeper was peeling potatoes at the sink; she smiled as they trooped past. They entered a small narrow corridor with a laundry room off to their left, then came to another studded door with an array of Wellington boots lined up beneath a set of old raincoats, hanging on hooks.

The back yard was surrounded by a very high wall and still retained the sixteenth-century cobblestones. The gate at the end was painted green. Edward Wickenham pulled back the heavy bolts to open it.

‘We could have walked around the house; this way’s far shorter but it might be a bit muddy on the other side. We’ve had such bad weather lately.’ He gestured for them to follow.

There was a vast barn with ivy covering the roof, old carts and rusted machinery resting against it. Edward Wickenham paused.

‘Let me check he’s not in here; one moment.’

Wickenham walked in, leaving the door open behind him. They could see an indoor pool with an electric cover; beyond the pool were steps leading to a gymnasium, with ultra-modern equipment and floor-to-ceiling mirrors, showers and changing rooms, all empty.

‘No; let’s hope he’s at the stables,’ he said, as he shut the door behind him and checked his pager again.

They followed him around the barn through another gate which led into a large stable with stalls for at least ten horses. Only three were occupied. Two men were mucking out, using hoses to swill down the yard.

‘Is my father around?’ Wickenham called out. They shook their heads.

‘I’m sorry I have no idea where he could be. Unless …’ He turned back to one of the men. ‘Is he out on Bermarsh?’

“Yes sir, he was over in the paddock, maybe gone up to the woods.’

Wickenham waved his thanks and looked at his watch. ‘Was he expecting you?’

‘No, he wasn’t.’ Langton was beginning to get tetchy.

‘I’m afraid I have to go out; in fact, I am going to be late, so I suggest we go back to the house.’

‘Let’s just try the paddock,’ Langton said.

The ground was muddy and they all had to sidestep deep puddles as they followed Edward Wickenham who strode ahead, obviously annoyed.

Almost on cue, a rider emerged from the wood that ringed the paddock, taking the fences on a seventeen-hand chestnut gelding. If he saw them waiting, he gave no indication, but continued to wheel the horse further away to take the jumps.

Edward Wickenham waved and the rider pulled in the reins. They could not see his face as he was wearing a riding hat, the collar of his tweed jacket turned up. He wore cream jodhpurs and black boots. He leaned down to talk to Edward then sat bolt upright as he stared across to them. He nodded and heeled the horse forwards.

They stood together in a line as the horse slowly approached. Charles Wickenham looked down at them. ‘My son says you wished to see me.’

Langton showed his ID and looked up into the man’s face. Dark, dark eyes, a hooked nose and a thin, cruel mouth. He slid from the horse and handed the reins to his son.

Langton introduced Anna and Lewis, but Charles Wickenham paid them hardly any attention, turning to his son. ‘Get Walter to check him out: he’s got a slight limp to his right foreleg; it may be just a shoe troubling him.’ He patted the horse’s rump. ‘Getting on, but he was very slow this morning.’

‘Will do.’ His son swung up into the saddle and kicked the horse forward.

Wickenham eased one of his leather gloves loose as he stood in front of them, looking from one to the other. ‘What’s this about?’

‘Could we please return to the house?’ Langton said, quite pleasantly.

‘Of course, but I would like a shower first, if you don’t mind.’

‘It won’t take a moment.’

‘Whatever; follow me then.’

Charles Wickenham did not lead them back through the kitchen gardens but round the entire house and back to the front of the Hall. He eased off his riding boots using a grille by the front door. He glanced down at their muddy shoes but said nothing as he opened the door and walked inside.

‘Please go through. I’ll just take my jacket and hat off.’

He walked off towards the kitchen, removing his riding hat.

They stood in the drawing room waiting; after about five minutes, Charles Wickenham returned. He had combed his hair and his riding hat had left a red rim across his forehead. He was wearing a checked shirt beneath a pale yellow cashmere sweater, and monogrammed velvet slippers.

His cheekbones were high and his hooded eyes were unfathomable, but his white, even smile made him more attractive. His hair was greying at the temples. He bore a close resemblance to their drawings of the tall dark stranger.

‘I don’t know about you, but I need a drink. Can I offer you something?’

‘No, thank you,’ Langton said.

Wickenham ambled over to a heavy oak chest on top of which stood a high top cupboard, and swung open the doors to reveal that it had been made into a drinks cabinet. He picked up a cut-glass decanter and poured a measure of whisky into a tumbler, then turned casually towards them and raised his glass.

‘So what’s all this about? Please, please do sit down.’ He settled himself in a chair.

Anna could see on the little finger of his left hand a large gold and cornelian signet ring. She went and sat down on one of the velvet chairs, opened her briefcase and took out her notebook to jot this down. She showed her pad to Langton, who had sat on the arm of her chair, but he made no acknowledgement.

‘I am leading an enquiry into the murder of a young girl called Louise Pennel.’

Wickenham didn’t seem to be listening; he was frowning at a cushion cover which he flicked at with his fingernails and then tossed aside.

‘The newspapers have given her the nickname of the Red Dahlia,’ Langton continued.

Wickenham nodded and sipped his drink.

‘We are also investigating the murder of another girl, Sharon Bilkin, possibly killed by the same person.’

Wickenham suddenly stood up, placed his glass down on a side table and walked over to the door; he called down the hallway to the kitchen. ‘Hylda, I won’t want a big lunch, just something fight!’

Anna looked at Langton who gave a half-smile, shaking his head. Wickenham strolled back in and sat down again, picking up his scotch.

‘Sorry, but if I don’t warn her, it’s a meat and potatoes job.’

Langton held up the photograph of Louise Pennel. ‘Do you know this girl?’

Wickenham leaned forward and stared at the photograph. ‘No.’

‘What about this girl?’ Langton held up a photograph of Sharon Bilkin.

Wickenham stared, cocked his head to one side and then smiled. ‘Sorry, no, I do not.’

Langton didn’t appear to be in any way put out; next, he selected the drawing that had been made of their suspect. ‘Would you say this is a good likeness?’

Wickenham leaned even closer. ‘Of me?’

‘Yes, of you, Mr Wickenham.’

‘Could you explain to me why you are showing me these photographs and that… drawing, is it?’

‘We have made many requests via the press and television for this man to come forward. He does look very similar to you.’

‘I do apologise. If I had seen it, quite frankly I would not have thought that it was me, so I would have had no reason to make contact.’

‘Did you ever visit Louise Pennel? The girl in the photograph I first showed you?’ Again Langton held up the photograph.

Wickenham drained his glass and shook his head. ‘As I have said, I do not know her, so it would not really be logical for me to have visited her.’

Langton persisted, returning to Sharon Bilkin’s photograph. ‘Did you ever visit this girl?’

Wickenham sighed. ‘No.’

Langton shuffled his photographs and sketch like a pack of cards. ‘Do you have any idea how we came to have this drawing of a person who does, even if you do not agree, bear a very strong resemblance to yourself?’

‘None whatsoever.’

‘A witness, two witnesses in fact, working with a police artist and a Photofit expert, and without conferring with each other, produced this profile: tall, hooknosed, dark eyes, dark-haired, with slight greying at the temples. Contrary to what you say, I think it is an exceptional likeness; perhaps the best solution is if you agree to take part in an identity parade.’