Four secrets kept, p.1
Four Secrets Kept, page 1
Four Secrets Kept
A Secrets of Hartwell Novel
H L Marsay
Four Secrets Kept
Copyright© 2023 H L Marsay
EPUB Edition
The Tule Publishing, Inc.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
First Publication by Tule Publishing 2023
Cover design by Erin Dameron-Hill
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
ISBN: 978-1-959988-15-1
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Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright Page
Epigraph
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Acknowledgments
The Secrets of Hartwell series
More Books by H L Marsay
About the Author
The human heart has hidden treasures,
In secret kept, in silence sealed;
The thoughts, the hopes, the dreams, the pleasures,
Whose charms were broken if revealed.
Charlotte Brontë 1816–1855
Yorkshire
Chapter One
It was a beautiful summer’s day. The sky was cornflower blue and there was barely a cloud in sight. Detective Sergeant Jo Ormond stood in the shadow of a yew tree, a little apart from the mourners. Lord Rupert Hanley was finally being laid to rest in the family plot in the graveyard of Hartwell church. However, unlike everyone else present, Jo had never met his lordship.
Standing by the grave was Lucy, Rupert’s widow. Her tall, slim frame was elegantly dressed in black. Jo wondered what thoughts were going through her friend’s mind. It was impossible to see her face beneath the veil attached to her wide-brimmed hat, but Jo could see her knuckles gleaming white as she clutched tightly on to the hand of her son, Freddie. The little boy was wearing a dark suit and tie that made him look far older than he was. His pale, serious face stared straight ahead of him except for the occasional glance up at his mother. On his other side stood Caroline, his paternal grandmother. Although she wasn’t wearing a veil, her expression was just as impossible to read as her daughter-in-law’s.
Jo’s eyes scanned the rest of the mourners as Reverend Davenport continued to address them in his ponderous monotone. Surrounding Lucy, Caroline and Freddie were a collection of smartly dressed men and women with similar hawklike features that Jo took to be other members of the Hanley family. Lined up opposite them were villagers, local dignitaries and tenants of the Hartwell estate. They had all come to pay their final respects to a man Jo knew many of them disliked.
Nora Parkin, the local shopkeeper and village busybody, had elbowed her way to the front of the mourners and was straining her neck to read all the notes attached to the many floral tributes. Rob Harrison, the local boy who had returned to Hartwell after making a fortune in property stood at the edge of the group. His handsome, chiselled features were impassive, but Jo noticed his deep blue eyes remained firmly fixed on Lucy.
Rachel, a teacher at the village school and Lucy’s best friend, was standing alongside her mother, Mary. With her brown hair tied in a long plait down her back, her face looked pale and drawn and there were dark circles beneath her eyes. They were surrounded by other members of the vast Foxton clan. Their family had been farming in the village for centuries.
The only Foxton who wasn’t part of the group was Becky, Rachel’s sister. She was married to Max—the agent who worked for the Hartwell estate. They had positioned themselves behind the Hanleys on the other side of the grave, clearly hoping to blend in with the aristocracy. Max was the biggest social climber Jo had ever met. He even tried to turn the flat vowels of his Mancunian accent into an upper-class drawl. It was probably just as well he and Becky weren’t standing near Rachel. There certainly wasn’t any love lost between the two sisters.
Colonel Marsden, the retired soldier and head of the parish council, stood to attention directly opposite Caroline and Lucy. The medals attached to his chest glinted brightly in the sun. Jack, the burly, bear-like landlord of the White Hart was standing between the colonel and his mother, Shirley, who had dyed her hair jet black in honour of the occasion. As soon as Jack had spotted Jo, he’d smiled and beckoned her over to join them. She’d shaken her head and remained under the tree. She was an outsider. She didn’t really belong here, but professional curiosity had got the better of her.
Rupert had disappeared on the night of the first lockdown, but his remains were only discovered a few weeks ago in a cave on the moors. Jo had hoped investigating his death and finding his killer might have been her ticket out of North Yorkshire and back to the metropolitan police. However, the coroner had returned an open verdict and her superiors had informed her that the case was closed. Jo was certain Rupert hadn’t died of an overdose as most people seemed to think, but she was starting to doubt if she’d ever find out the truth. Hartwell might appear to be a sleepy, quaint little village nestled between the moors and the dales, but if Jo had learnt one thing since she’d been here, it was that Hartwell’s inhabitants were very good at keeping secrets.
As the Rev continued to drone on, Jo stepped farther back into the shade and leaned against the large headstone that marked the final resting place of Joseph Baxter Tarrant, a young archaeologist who had died nearly thirty years ago. She began to absent-mindedly fiddle with the silver coin pendant that she always wore around her neck. Since Jack had told her the story of the Hartwell nobles, she’d found herself thinking about it more than she had in years.
According to legend, the coins had been minted and presented to local families to try and lift a curse that had plagued the Hanley family since they built Hartwell Hall on sacred Druid land. It was the only thing she’d been left with when she was abandoned as a baby, and Jack was convinced it must mean she had some sort of connection to Hartwell. Letting her eyes travel away from the mourners and wander over the old moss-covered gravestones, she wondered if some of her own ancestors might be buried here. Then she gave her head a firm shake. She didn’t like dwelling on her past; it did no good. The funeral must be getting to her more than she’d thought.
Finally, Reverend Davenport finished speaking. Jo watched as Caroline bent down and with a gloved hand picked up some earth and, after the briefest pause, tossed it onto the coffin. Lucy followed her before helping Freddie to do the same. Then the three of them turned and slowly made their way past the floral tributes and down the path to the waiting cars. The other mourners waited a few moments before drifting after them. They spoke in hushed, respectful tones, but Jo noticed that not one of them had shed a tear.
She waited until they had all left the churchyard and watched as the gravediggers appeared and began shovelling the earth over the coffin. The soft rhythmic thuds combined with the wood pigeons cooing in the trees and the bees buzzing around the flowers. To Jo the countryside could be every bit as noisy as London. This was the longest she’d been away from her home city, and the way things were going it didn’t look like she would be returning anytime soon.
“Jo? Why are you here? Has something happened?”
Jo spun around. She’d thought she was alone, but Rachel was standing behind her. She must have come back.
“No. Nothing,” said Jo, quickly. “The chief constable thought the police should be represented, so I volunteered, but I didn’t want to intrude.” This wasn’t strictly true, but then Rachel hadn’t always been totally honest with her either.
“So, the investigation is definitely over? It hasn’t been reopened?” Rachel persisted, her face full of concern.
“Yes, I told you,” replied Jo lowering her voice. “There is nothing for you and Lucy to worry about.”
Rachel studied her for a second, then nodded.
“Are you going up to the Hall?” she asked, sounding a little more relaxed.
Jo shook her head.
“No, I have to get back to work. What about you?”
“No. I’m going to take Mum home. I’ve left her talking to Jack and Shirley, but she seems a bit upset. I think today has brought back memories of when we buried Dad.” She nodded down the path to where the gravestone of Alan Foxton stood. “That was the last time we were all here together. I’ll see you later, Jo.”
Jo waited for her to leave, before following her a few moments later. She had parked her car on the road outside the church. Most of the mourners seemed to be heading back to Hartwell Hall where the wake was taking place. Personally, Jo thought entertaining a bunch of Rupert’s relatives was the last thing Lucy needed. She had been through enough in even the fairly short time Jo had known her. When Rupert had disappeared, she had she been left alone to look after Freddie and the Hartwell estate, whilst all the time blaming herself for Rupert’s disappearance. The discovery of his body and the following inquest had put her under further strain.
Then she had discovered Guy Lovell, the local MP and someone she considered a friend, had in fact been secretly stalking her. His obsession had led to him threatening her with a gun at Hartwell Hall until Rob, Jack and Jo had arrived just in time to rescue her. Jo had arrested Guy and now she was focusing all her attention on his case. Surely, securing the conviction of a senior member of parliament would be enough to get her transferred back to London.
She drove out of Hartwell and headed towards Northallerton, but her progress was slow. She drummed her fingers on the steering wheel as the queue of traffic she was stuck in crawled along. It was always the same when the Tour de France was on television. Middle-aged men in Lycra clogged up the narrow country lanes with their bikes, all convinced they were Mark Cavendish. It didn’t help that the queue was headed by a rumbling tractor.
“No chance of being involved in a high-speed chase around here,” she muttered to herself, taking a drag on the cigarette in her right hand and blowing the smoke through the open window. Finally, almost an hour later, she arrived at North Yorkshire’s police headquarters.
“The chief constable wants to see you,” called out the uniformed sergeant behind the reception desk as soon as he saw her. Jo nodded and hurried up the stairs and down corridor. It must be about the investigation into Guy Lovell. She only hoped it was good news. She knocked loudly on the chief constable’s door.
“Come in,” called out a deep voice in a broad Yorkshire accent. Jo stepped inside.
“Good morning, sir,” she began. The chief constable looked up and smiled. He was a large man with thick grey hair and glasses, who looked more like a kindly grandfather than a senior police officer.
“Ah Sergeant Ormond. I have news about the Lovell case,” he said tapping the file on the desk in front of him. “The psychiatric reports have come back, and it seems unlikely that Guy Lovell will be declared fit to stand trial.”
Jo stood and stared at him.
“So, he’s going to be allowed to get away with what he did, sir?” she asked incredulously.
“Not at all, Sergeant. There can still be a trial, but without the defendant being called to give evidence. We still need to provide the prosecution with as much information as possible. Which brings me to my second bit of news. The magistrates have agreed to grant a search warrant for the Grange.” He beamed. It’s about time, thought Jo. The warrant had been subject to delay after delay.
She suspected pressure had come from Guy’s political friends who were keen to avoid bad publicity. One of the Home Secretary’s special advisers had made several visits to Northallerton since Guy’s arrest. In his official car and his pinstriped suit, he’d insisted he was only there to offer assistance, but Jo didn’t trust him. However, all she said to the chief constable was: “Thank you, sir. I’ll get on with it straight away.”
She left the chief constable’s office and had to stop herself from slamming the door behind her. The case against Guy looked as if it was going to be buried in legal procedure, along with her hopes of returning to London. Another thought suddenly occurred to her, and she groaned out loud. How on earth was she going to explain this to Lucy? She gave her head a shake. There was still a chance she might be able to get justice for her friend, and now they had finally been granted a warrant to search Guy’s house, she didn’t want to waste a second. She went down to the canteen and dragged her deputy, Detective Constable Dawson, away from his tea and crumpets and requested some support from uniform, before heading back to the car park.
*
Hartwell Grange was an imposing, elegant Georgian house, built of mellow York stone, on the edge of the village. There was a columned porch over the front door and shuttered sash windows surrounded by twisted boughs of wisteria. Despite being granted a warrant, nobody on Guy’s team had handed over any keys. After a quick recce, Jo decided the back door was the weakest point of entry.
“Come on, put your back into it, Dawson,” she ordered, cheerfully grinding the butt of her cigarette beneath her toe as her bulky constable threw himself against the back door for the third time. After more huffing and panting he finally splintered it out of the frame on the fifth attempt.
Jo sent her colleagues to search the reception rooms and Guy’s bedroom, while she headed straight to his office. The place appeared to be exactly as Guy had left it. The calendar hadn’t been turned over; there was a pile of stamped, addressed, but unposted envelopes and an empty coffee cup.
Jo pulled on her gloves and paced around the room, pausing to open desk drawers and flick through the filing cabinet, although most of the folders she found were empty. She did discover several bank statements and household bills, but other than an old Christmas card “from Rupert, Lucy and Freddie”, there was nothing to link the MP to her friend.
Several Victorian sporting prints lined the wall. She nudged the side of each one and smiled. Behind the one of a spaniel with a pheasant in its mouth was a safe built into the wall, but trying to get the combination from Guy’s lawyer would take forever. Jo put her hands on her hips and surveyed the room. She’d only met Guy a few times, but he’d never struck her as someone with much imagination. She went to the desk and yanked open the top right-hand-side drawer. She dropped to her knees and peered up at the underside. There it was. Taped to the bare wood. Not only the combination of the safe, but a list of various passwords for his laptop and email accounts.
Jo tutted to herself. To think he had been trusted with matters of national security. She went over to the safe and entered the combination. The door swung open and she peered inside. There was a stash of photographs, some black and white, some in colour, but all of Lucy. Jo began to flick through, then stopped abruptly when she came to last three images.
They were grainy and in black and white, but they quite clearly showed Lucy and her husband, Rupert. They were on the building site next to the village hall that was now the Hayloft, the property Rob Harrison had converted. In the first, from their expressions and the way Rupert was pointing at Lucy, it looked as though they were arguing. The next one showed Lucy holding a spade while Rupert’s face was sneering, and in the final image the spade was raised above her head and there was no sign of Rupert.
Jo groaned out loud. Lucy and Rachel had told her what had happened that night. How Lucy had hit Rupert in self-defence before running away. Rachel had returned to check on him and, finding him gone, got rid of the spade her best friend had used. The two of them had kept what happened a secret. Telling only Jo and their other friend Meera. What Jo hadn’t known until now, was that Guy had been there too. His obsession with Lucy must have been consuming him even all those months ago. More importantly, he’d seen what had happened between Lucy and Rupert and he had evidence.
Jo carefully placed most of the photos into evidence bags but kept the ones of Lucy with Rupert separate and slipped them into her pocket. Then without much hope they would have found anything else, she returned to her colleagues.
Several hours later, her prediction had been proved correct. Even though they had searched every inch of the house, they hadn’t been able to find anything except the photos, not even the receipt for the camera Guy had planted in Lucy’s room. Despite the place looking untouched, her instincts told Jo someone might have been there before them. Guy was a prominent backbench MP and served on the defence committee. She was sure Special Branch or the interfering government adviser would have done a sweep of his house before she and her team had been given permission to enter. It would certainly explain the empty files. Feeling dejected she dismissed the others and drove home.
