The inheritance, p.14
The Inheritance, page 14
‘You mean she tried to get you thrown out?’ He gave a slight shrug at this, as if it was just a small family matter. ‘Did she act alone or were your brother and sister involved?’
‘I never did find out. I strongly suspect Oliver would have been in cahoots with her. I don’t know about Sephy.’
‘You never asked her?’
‘That’s not how we do things in our family. We’re more subtle than that.’
Machiavellian would probably be a more accurate word, thought Sarah. ‘You continued to see Lucy,’ she observed, ‘she continued to stay at Cragsmoor even after she tried to oust you?’
‘It was her home too,’ he said. ‘We just put it behind us and moved on.’
‘You didn’t resent her at all?’ She was finding this hard to believe. ‘Even though she could have ruined you if her court case had come off?’
‘Like I said, it didn’t get very far. I don’t think she was all that serious about it. It was just a shot across the bows.’
‘A warning to get your act together?’
‘If you like.’
‘I must say, you took it very well.’
‘It was all a long time ago now. I can barely remember it.’
‘Some people would have found it hard to forgive,’ she told him, ‘and some might have worried that she could try again. I’d imagine you would have been very keen to prevent that from happening.’
‘I know what you’re implying,’ his voice turned icy now, ‘but you’re barking up the wrong tree. I didn’t kill Lucy. I never even considered her to be a threat. It might have been different if I had, but I didn’t.’
‘All right,’ she said, ‘was there a big family falling-out at the end, when you were forced to sell up?’
Freddie considered this for a moment. ‘Our family came apart over a long period of time. Lucy was already gone and Sephy’s husband killed by the time we finally sold up. What did Oliver, Sephy and I have in common any more, except a lot of unpleasant memories and a fair amount of bitterness at how everything turned out?’
‘Do you still see them?’
‘Oliver and Sephy? No.’
‘I imagine it would be hard to look your older brother in the eye when he was ousted by your father and you lost the estate anyway?’
‘Do you really think Oliver would have done a better job than me? He has been stoned or drunk virtually every day of his life.’
‘What about Sephy?’ she asked. ‘Were you close?’
‘We were,’ he admitted, ‘but that was a long time ago. Sephy is quite an angry person. She never forgave Father for his rather outmoded views on women and thinks her life would have been very different if he’d been more enlightened. She might be right about that. He was a hard man to please.’
‘Did Lucy please him?’ she asked. ‘She had a career in publishing and no husband.’
‘She never married,’ he said, as if he was quoting someone. ‘That’s what all the newspapers said back then, and everyone knew what they were implying.’
‘Do you think that Lucy was …’
‘On the other bus? I never asked and she never told.’
‘And your father?’
‘I don’t think he gave it much thought. Sephy gave him a grandson in the end,’ he laughed, ‘and now he’s the bloody prime minister. Even the old man might have been pleased about that.’
‘Do you ever see Toby?’
‘From time to time.’ He didn’t seem to want to elaborate on that, so she pressed on.
‘You never married yourself or had a family. Weren’t you under pressure to, from your father?’
‘I was too busy trying to prevent everything from falling apart and it was quite hard to start a serious relationship with our family plastered all over the newspapers like that.’
‘Because of Lucy? What do you think happened to her?’
‘I used to hope she had run away for some reason. I clung to that theory for years. She’d show up or we’d find her in the end. Eventually, I had to accept it wasn’t true. Lucy is dead. It’s the only explanation that makes any sense.’
‘Then who killed her?’
‘I would have thought it was obvious, wouldn’t you?’ And when she didn’t reply, he said, ‘David Young.’
‘You think he did it?’
‘The man murdered a girl a week or two before Lucy went missing,’ he scoffed. ‘He was on the run and seen in the area not long before she vanished, so yes, I would say he was the likeliest candidate. Whenever someone goes missing or is found dead, it’s usually the most obvious person who did it, and David Young was clearly the prime suspect.’
‘Actually,’ she corrected him, ‘it’s usually the person closest to the victim that did it; their partner or a family member.’
‘Well, Lucy didn’t have a partner,’ he said, ignoring the reference to family. ‘I don’t think we will ever discover what happened, but obviously I wish you bonne chance and do please keep me informed. If you find anything, I’d like to be the first to know.’ After their interview had concluded, he walked her to the door. ‘You should be careful, you know.’
‘What do you mean by that?’ she asked.
‘It’s cursed,’ he said. ‘The house, I mean. I had a spiritualist look at the place years ago and she confirmed it. She told me it’s because of Lady Alice who died a prisoner there but not before cursing her entire family. Everyone who has inherited Cragsmoor has experienced misfortune. Even Evelyn died before her time. Now the house is yours,’ he concluded, ‘and so is the curse.’
Did he genuinely believe this or was he trying to scare Sarah into selling up? ‘If it carries such bad luck, Freddie, then why ever would you want it back?’
He let out a little embarrassed laugh when he couldn’t contradict her logic. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘Perhaps I’m a glutton for punishment.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Freddie Woodfell wasn’t the most likeable man but, as Crozier had pointed out, just because you don’t like someone, it doesn’t make them a murderer. He’d obviously had a complicated relationship with Lucy, but the same could be said about the other members of his family, though only Lucy had openly tried to have him removed from control of the estate. When Sarah considered this, she couldn’t help but feel that Freddie was trying to make light of that whole situation, but in reality it would have surely caused him some considerable distress. If Lucy’s case had gone against him and he was ousted, then what would he have left? Not much, in reality, and she couldn’t imagine him in a conventional job. He may have claimed to have moved on but must have known that Lucy was hardly going to forget her concerns and let him lose even more money with one high-risk scheme after another. What had he said to Sarah about that? ‘I didn’t kill Lucy. I never even considered her to be a threat. It might have been different if I had, but I didn’t.’
It might have been different if I had.
What if she really was a threat to him? Was that an admission of sorts?
Whether Freddie was a guilty man or not, he had blamed David Young for Lucy’s fate. Sarah had given the convicted murderer a lot of thought but hadn’t yet tried to contact him. She knew she couldn’t delay it much longer, but what normal person would actually want to sit down and calmly discuss a case with a convicted killer, a man who had beaten another woman to death in a jealous rage? Even if it turned out he had nothing to do with Lucy’s disappearance and was able to prove that somehow, Sarah would still have to come face to face with a murderer, but ultimately she couldn’t think of a way to dodge this. David Young was right at the top of a pile of suspects and was the only one who had definitely killed someone before. She needed to look him in the eye to see for herself whether guilt or innocence was written on his face.
Sarah spent some time trying to work out how to get in contact with Young, who was out on licence and back in the community but at an unknown address. The press coverage of his release included condemnation from appalled journalists and alarmed locals, but it contained one detail that was of specific use to her. He was under the care of a Doctor Phillips, who was in charge of a revolutionary new outreach programme for serious criminals. Crucially, offenders were expected never to avoid responsibility for their actions but to embrace it, via interaction with their victim’s family members. Sarah could hardly claim to be one of those but she implied she was to the receptionist at Doctor Phillips’ clinic, convincingly enough for her to be put through.
‘I’d like to speak to David Young,’ she told him.
‘What about?’
She told him the real reason and reminded him of the promise made in his programme’s policy statement. He heard her out then said, ‘The Lucy Woodfell case? I am of course aware of it and we do encourage interaction with the outside world in the outreach programme. We also urge offenders to admit what they have done and take ownership for their actions. That way they become stakeholders in their crimes and the consequences.’ Sarah despised the management-speak he was coming out with, but this sounded hopeful. ‘However, in all the time that I have been dealing with David, he has never admitted to any involvement in that woman’s disappearance.’
‘Why would he?’ she asked.
‘To experience closure.’
‘But he was never convicted of that crime, so he could still be arrested and charged with a second murder, which would probably get him a whole life sentence without the prospect of parole.’
‘Then what makes you think he would admit anything to you now?’
‘I don’t think he would, necessarily, but I’d still like to ask him a few questions.’ Then she added, ‘With your permission, of course.’
‘I will speak to David and put your proposal to him. If he agrees, we can arrange an appointment for you to speak to him.’
‘Where would that take place?’
‘At his home.’
She wasn’t sure she liked the sound of this. ‘Would I be on my own?’
‘He doesn’t have prison warders outside his front door, if that’s what you mean, but I could be present?’ he offered.
‘That would make me feel safer.’
‘You’ve really got nothing to worry about on that score, but I should come along anyway, to ensure fair play.’
‘Fair play?’
‘David has had bad experiences in the past,’ he explained, ‘with journalists trying to trap him.’
Poor, innocent little flower, thought Sarah. Listening to the doctor, one could almost have forgotten that David was a murderer. On the one hand, she was pleasantly surprised that she’d been able to get this far and might actually be able to put her questions to the murderer, but on the other, it appeared that Doctor Phillips would be policing the interview and it sounded as if he was most definitely on David Young’s side.
‘I have no traps,’ she assured him, ‘only questions.’
Cragsmoor Manor was cursed, according to both Freddie Woodfell and Mrs Jenkins. That would make sense. The place appeared to have a will of its own, and the way it seemed to creak, groan and whisper to Sarah made it feel like a living entity. It wasn’t so bad during the day, with Patrick in the house or garden and Mrs Jenkins busying herself going from room to room, cleaning, dusting and hoovering. But when they had finished for the day and gone home, the entire atmosphere of the house changed.
Sarah couldn’t decide if it was the occasional sound coming from outside or sometimes within the house, or if it was the absolute silence that was more disturbing. She would break it by playing music on the radio or her laptop or by streaming a film, but she would always keep the volume low, in case she missed the sound of someone prowling around outside, trying to break in. At night she would leave lights on randomly in downstairs rooms, in an attempt to confuse anyone who might be watching the house, and before climbing the stairs to bed she would obsessively check every door and window to ensure they were all secure, though that hadn’t stopped someone from getting inside before.
She hadn’t forgotten the way Lucy’s portrait had been turned around while she slept, nor the threatening phone call. She was sure that wouldn’t be the end of it and there would be further threats or warnings, but what form would they take? And how long would it be before the person making them lost patience with her continued presence at Cragsmoor and decided to silence her for good? That thought preoccupied her as she climbed into bed and lay there trying to sleep, while night creatures shrieked or hooted outside and the house seemed to moan in reply as its timbers contracted. Occasionally, she would hear a scuttling sound that she hoped was birds on the roof and not rats running around in the attic or worse, along the unused third floor directly above her. Sarah realized that she was in an almost constant state of fear.
It had been weeks since Sarah had had the bright idea of contacting the TV historian, Marcus Fernsby. When an unknown number came up on her phone, he was the last person she was expecting to hear from, but she recognized that mellow, upper-class voice immediately.
‘Sarah Hollis?’
‘Yes.’
‘It’s Marcus Fernsby. You sent me a message.’
‘A while ago now, er, yes, I did.’
‘I was away filming,’ he said by way of explanation, ‘in Budapest and Vienna. I’m very familiar with Cragsmoor, obviously, but I’d welcome the chance to take a look at the property, privately, as you suggested.’
The conversation that followed was short and pleasant. Marcus was quite charming, in fact, and even claimed to be as enthused by the prospect of meeting her as of seeing the manor.
‘Priest holes?’ he said then, as if only just remembering this. ‘You mentioned there’s more than one.’
‘Yes. We have one at the top of the stairs and I know there are a couple of others, but I’ve read that there may be another one tucked away somewhere.’
‘Oh goody.’ He didn’t bother to contain his excitement and said he would ‘swing by soon’, if that was all right with her?
It was.
Having arranged for Marcus to explore the house, Sarah walked into the kitchen in a cheerful mood. There she found both Mrs Jenkins and Patrick. He was on his haunches peering into a toolbox, while the housekeeper busied herself by the draining board.
‘Would you like some tea?’ Sarah asked them both. ‘I’m making some.’
‘No, thank you.’
‘I’ll have one,’ said Patrick cheerfully.
She made the tea and gestured for him to sit with her at the kitchen table while Mrs Jenkins carried on clearing up around them, dropping cutlery into a drawer instead of placing it there, stacking plates and putting them back into cupboards then moving pans from the draining board to corners of the kitchen where they normally resided.
Sarah didn’t think this was a deliberate intrusion, but it was irritating, nonetheless. Having a conversation was impossible while it was going on. After the umpteenth bang of pot against countertop, Sarah looked over at Patrick and they exchanged one of those sheepish smiles you share when someone is getting on your nerves and probably doesn’t even realize it.
When she had finally put everything away, the housekeeper walked out of the room and Sarah seized the opportunity to ask a question she’d felt too foolish to raise before.
‘Patrick? Are you very busy today?’
‘Why?’ he asked lightly. ‘What do you need?’
‘I know it’s going to sound silly, but I’d like a lock on my bedroom door.’
‘Not silly at all,’ he replied. ‘You’re up there on your own at night. I’d say that was a sensible precaution.’ And she was pleased he hadn’t mocked her for being overly cautious. ‘Leave it with me. It’ll be done by bedtime.’ He made that sound like a promise and she could have kicked herself for not asking him sooner.
Mrs Jenkins walked back in then and asked, ‘Are you tending to the garden today, Patrick?’
‘I am.’
‘Very well then,’ she said, as if it was her job to grant him permission to do this, ‘but if you tread mud on to my clean floor, even your combat training won’t save you.’
He laughed but she wasn’t smiling when she left the room.
‘Combat training?’ asked Sarah.
He was immediately dismissive. ‘I was in the army.’
‘When was that?’ She tried to make her tone conversational and not interrogatory because she sensed Patrick didn’t really want to talk about himself.
‘A while back.’
‘What regiment?’ she persisted.
‘Er …’ Then he suddenly dropped an ‘oh’ into the conversation and immediately frowned at his watch, as if they had been carelessly sitting in a pub for hours, not sipping tea for a few minutes. ‘I’d better crack on or I won’t get finished,’ he smiled at her. ‘Evelyn didn’t pay overtime.’ And before she could say anything, he rose from the table, picked up the mug, drained the last of its contents and said, ‘Thanks for the tea.’ He took the mug to the sink, washed it and left it on the draining board, then he was gone.
‘That went well,’ she said aloud, even though there was no one else left in the room.
Sarah took a fresh cup of tea to the library. She planned to spend some time reading the latest extracts from the memoir but first she had a closer look at the library’s contents. As well as a lot of books, it contained boxes of paper and three large chests that appeared to be almost as old as the house. She opened one and started to look through the documents inside. They appeared to be very old and when she tried to read one of them she couldn’t decipher the text. More bloody Latin, she realized, and when she scanned the other papers she could see they were the same. She put the papers back in the box and closed the lid.
There was a glass case that contained a stuffed bird of some kind, possibly a kestrel or a kite, and another beautiful writing desk with intricate marquetry and a series of little drawers. She had noticed it before but now Sarah took the time to open them. She found some blank sheets of headed notepaper in one that looked quite old. Each sheet had a drawing of the manor house on it, along with the Woodfell family name and a Latin inscription she had not come across before: Sit Dormiens Canibus et Mentiuntur. It meant nothing to her, but Sarah carefully folded one of the sheets and placed it in her pocket so she could check it later. Whatever it meant, it had enough significance to be placed on the family letterhead, and Sarah wanted to know why.
