The Haunted Lady (12 page)

There it was again, another brick wall. The only useful information we’d got had been from Zeke Calvert. I was dwelling on this after Johnny left, when I was distracted by Eve’s slightly waspish remark.

‘I don’t know about you but I’m getting a bit fed up of doing the police work for them. It seems that every time something major happens they reach out to us. It might be flattering but it’s getting to be a bore.’

‘On the other hand, at least we know that the pressure is off David and Valerie, and through them, off Michael and Chloe – and who knows – we might see or hear something useful. People might say or do things in front of us they wouldn’t if they thought the police were watching. I also wondered if David and Valerie might say something now they know they’re not under suspicion.’

‘They already knew that when we talked to them at their house,’ Eve pointed out.

‘That’s true, so why are they still reluctant? I can’t honestly believe that they’re shielding the truth about what Chloe’s father did for a living. Not after all these years. But if that isn’t why they won’t talk, I have no idea what the reason might be.’

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D
espite Eve’s reluctance for us to act as police spies, we duly attended the funeral service. I had a moment of doubt when we reached the entrance to St. Mary’s, but was reassured when I saw the number of people already inside the church, plus those queuing to get in. If the ghost was going to make an appearance, at least the apparition would be witnessed by a good many others.

During Michael’s eulogy, he extended an invitation on behalf of Mark Bennett’s widow Susan for everyone to attend the wake that would follow the interment. It was a generous invitation, given the number of mourners, and I was even more surprised when Eve suggested that we should attend.

‘Didn’t DS Holmes tell us Bennett was separated from his wife?’ Eve asked me as we left the churchyard.

‘He did, but I suppose someone had to make the arrangements.’

We reached Bennett’s house, but it was some time before we were able to find a parking space. ‘It’s going to be a real bun fight inside,’ I commented as we walked back along the road. ‘I only hope they’ve ordered plenty of ham.’

‘Why ham?’ Eve asked.

‘It’s a Yorkshire tradition. You always have ham sandwiches at funerals. It’s more or less compulsory. If it’s a really posh do they cut the crusts off the bread.’

We greeted Michael, who had recovered well from the assault. Chloe was there too, hovering close by, as if afraid the attack would be repeated. Michael confirmed that apart from the wound on his scalp, everything was as normal. ‘The medic said I was lucky, some people come off far worse when hit with a blunt object.’

After a few minutes chatting to them, we moved on towards the dining area. There seemed to be plenty of food for everyone, and my fears over the ham running out proved groundless. As we waited our turn to attack the food, I looked around. Bennett had obviously used his knowledge and experience to collect some interesting and potentially valuable furniture and ornaments. Once again I was forced to wonder how he’d managed such an affluent lifestyle on a museum curator’s salary. It was his widow who provided a possible explanation, or possibly even two, perhaps without realising what she was saying had a vaguely sinister connotation.

We had accepted a drink of something vaguely resembling tea and were munching our way through an assortment of sandwiches, when a slim, good-looking woman in her late forties approached us. I recognised her as the chief mourner, and guessed her to be the dead man’s estranged wife. ‘Thank you for coming,’ she began. ‘I’m Susan Bennett, Mark’s widow.’

Eve introduced herself, then me, and sympathised with Susan for her loss, and in particular the dreadful way that Mark had died. Her statement, simple as it was, elicited feelings from Susan Bennett that took both of us aback.

‘Mark was lovely. He was a truly gentle person, who wouldn’t hurt anyone. He couldn’t help his weakness.’ She smiled sadly. ‘He loved women, and they adored him – in droves. I should have known better when I married him, but like so many others I hadn’t the will to resist him.’

‘Do you think that had anything to do with why he was killed? Could it have been someone he angered or let down? A jealous husband, perhaps?’ Eve added. ‘Or a woman he jilted?’

‘I heard the rumours about Valerie and David Kershaw if that’s what you’re referring to, and they’re all stuff and nonsense. For one thing, they’re totally in love with each other, and for another, although Mark had a lot of faults, fooling around with married women was taboo. No, I think it might have had more to do with his association with Casper Harfleur.’

‘Were they close friends?’

‘Yes and no. Sorry if that sounds confusing, but they were that sort; different in many ways, but both lovable rogues. It was impossible to dislike them, or to stay angry with either of them.’

I refrained from pointing out that someone had obviously been angry with both men, and instead listened as Eve led Susan to reveal more.

‘Why do you think Casper had something to do with Mark’s death? Is it because he was killed the same way?’

‘I don’t really know. It’s a shame Mr Kershaw can’t tell us. He was close to both of them.’

‘Really? I didn’t know David Kershaw knew Casper Harfleur.’

‘No, I don’t mean David. I was referring to poor Andrew. He was thick as thieves with both Mark and Casper at one time. But that was before his wife died so tragically. He went to pieces completely after that.’

Eve put on one of her sympathetic expressions and nodded before asking, ‘What was their common interest? Art, I assume?’

‘I think so, but Mark was very secretive about it. I wouldn’t swear to this, but I believe Mark might have used his contacts to sell one or two paintings for Andrew Kershaw. I could be wrong, though. Mark did buy and sell a few items, paintings, figurines and smaller things.’

‘Was there ever any trouble about them?’

I left Eve to it, as she was doing quite well without my help. I continued to admire the house contents while devouring a large piece of gateau, which I felt I strongly deserved.

‘You’re referring to Casper’s problems? I didn’t hear of any, but that doesn’t mean there wasn’t a time when Mark sold something Casper had forged. I don’t think even Mark would have tried to pass off Casper’s work as a Titian or a Van Gogh, though – it would have had to be something far less valuable, and therefore less likely to arouse suspicion.’ With that, she excused herself to mingle with the other mourners.

‘How did I do?’ Eve asked.

‘Not bad. But looking at this lot’ – I gestured round the room – ‘I imagine Susan Bennett will soon become a very merry widow.’

Eve shook her head in dismay and selected a slice of quiche from the table.

Also among the mourners was Tom Fox and, as things transpired we found ourselves close to him. He recognised me, and I introduced Eve. ‘I understand you’re writing about crime as well as solving it,’ the councillor said lightly. ‘That must be fun. Did you know Bennett well?’

‘Not at all,’ I replied, ‘it was one of your former colleagues who suggested we should come here, acting as police spies.’

The word ‘spies’ seemed to upset Fox, but after a moment he said, ‘Would that be Johnny Pickersgill by any chance? I saw you talking to him at the museum just before Casper’s body was discovered.’

‘That’s correct,’ I agreed. ‘He’s our village bobby, when he’s not playing at detectives with DS Holmes,’ I added by way of explanation. ‘Did you know Bennett well?’

‘Not really, and certainly not professionally. Bennett was more of a friend of a friend.’

I looked at his enquiringly, but Fox seemed unwilling to elaborate.

Later, as we returned to Eden House, I voiced an opinion that I thought would be difficult to answer. ‘I’ve not heard anyone mention that Andrew Kershaw had the slightest interest in art, have you? Not only that, but going on from what we heard about Valerie Kershaw’s interest, can you explain why there are no paintings on display at Elmfield Grange? You’d think there would be something to show for such professed passion for art.’

Eve gasped. ‘You’re right, Adam, and I’ve just realised what’s been troubling me ever since we visited Elmfield Grange. I knew there was something wrong with that drawing room. All the time we were talking to Chloe’s aunt and uncle, I had the feeling there was something amiss, but I couldn’t place it. Not only were there no paintings on the wall, but the ones that had hung there had been taken down. Why, I’ve no idea, unless the family is harder up than they will admit and have had to sell them.’

‘That would tie in with their possible dealings with Bennett,’ I agreed, ‘but what makes you sure the paintings have been removed?’

Eve gave me a pitying glance. ‘It’s easy to tell you don’t do the cleaning around here. The wallpaper surrounding where the paintings hung has faded over the years with the light, but in the places where it was protected by the pictures the pattern and colours were stronger. I could understand if they were planning to redecorate, but there was no sign of that happening.’

Despite talking about it for some time, when we retired to bed, the missing paintings were yet another unsolved mystery.

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T
he following morning, we had just finished breakfast when the phone rang. Eve answered it, before passing me the receiver. ‘It’s your friend from the newspaper, Simon Baines.’

I was puzzled as to the reason for his call, but his opening sentence cleared up the mystery. ‘I had a visitor yesterday,’ Baines told me. ‘He
said
he was from the Foreign Office, and wanted to know more about why I’d been asking about Andrew Kershaw. He was extremely insistent, and I’m afraid I had to give him your name.’

‘You don’t think he was from the Foreign Office?’

‘No chance, I reckon he’s more likely to be from one of the MI numbers. What have you got yourself into, Adam?’

‘I have absolutely no idea, Simon. All I’m trying to do is establish a young girl’s identity so she can obtain a birth certificate and get married. I hardly think that counts as infringing the Official Secrets Act.’

‘Obviously somebody doesn’t view it in that light. Unless, of course, it’s another case of state-sponsored paranoia.’

I told Simon I’d inform him if I turned up anything of interest, but as I was no wiser than before, I doubted whether this was more than an empty promise.

I was determined to get on with writing the plot notes for my next masterpiece. I had only just positioned myself behind my desk when any hopes that I would remain undisturbed were shattered. The doorbell rang. I let Eve answer it and she came into the study with a complete stranger hard on her heels.

I only had time to notice that the man appeared to be in his late thirties or early forties, and that he was well, but not ostentatiously, dressed before Eve introduced him. ‘This is Mr Cooper – he says he’s from the Foreign Office and wants to speak to you.’ Although Eve’s tone was non-committal, I was struck by her phraseology. It seemed obvious that she didn’t believe Cooper’s claim.

‘How can I help you?’ I asked, although I had a shrewd idea what Cooper was going to say.

‘You’ve been asking questions about Andrew Kershaw.’ He made it sound like an accusation. ‘I’d like to know why you’re interested in him.’

‘Before I answer that, perhaps you would do me the favour of showing me some credentials. We only have your word for it that you’re from the Foreign Office.’

He looked mildly affronted, but produced a photo identity card. That alone interested me, as I’d never seen a government official carrying anything that sophisticated. Having examined it carefully I handed it back. It certainly looked genuine enough, but then I was no expert. ‘That does appear to be in order on the face of it,’ I remarked. – I can do implicit accusation just as well as Cooper. ‘However, I still can’t answer your question, because as far as I’m aware, anything regarding Andrew Kershaw is no business of yours.’

His lips tightened with angry frustration. With some effort he restrained himself from a barbed retort, realising that this wasn’t going to be as easy as he’d hoped. ‘Why do you say it’s none of my business?’

‘According to what my informant told me, when he asked
your colleague
,’ I stressed the last two words, ‘he was informed that Kershaw had never worked for the Foreign Office. Therefore, what I wanted to discover about him has nothing to do with your department. Of course, Simon Baines might have been misinformed for all I know. You can’t have it both ways. Either Kershaw did work for the Foreign Office or he didn’t – which is it?’

It was abundantly clear that I had done nothing to appease his anger, but he managed to keep a tight rein on his emotions. He took a deep breath before replying, which I guessed was mainly to give himself chance to think. Even when he did answer, he spoke slowly, as if examining every word before uttering it.

‘Andrew Kershaw was not a diplomat as such, and so was not directly employed by the Foreign Office. He was used as a courier, delivering messages and other documents to and from diplomatic posts abroad. I trust that answers your question. Now, would you mind answering mine, please?’

I explained about Chloe’s dilemma, and assured him that there was no deeper, more sinister motive behind our inquiries than simply to help the girl obtain details or, better still, documents that would allow the marriage to go ahead. I ended by asking if there was any way he could help in that respect.

‘I’m afraid not, Kershaw had left our service by the time returned to England and married Deborah.’

‘What I find intriguing is that your department is apparently so interested in Kershaw after such a long time. Why is that, if he was nothing more than a low-level courier?’

‘We always follow up when someone expresses interest in our employees, whether current or former,’ he replied. ‘There is nothing you could discover that would warrant involving your friend Baines.’ He smiled and allowed himself a small joke. ‘I thought if I told you that it would save you the trouble and expense of a long-distance phone call.’