‘Before you do anything, you will need to meet my mother,’ he said over his shoulder as he entered the manor. He turned sharply to his right, swivelling on his heels, and with boots clacking on the stained oak floorboards he marched into a sombre sitting room. Despite the large windows, Kite didn’t immediately see the figure who was submerged in the deep armchair until Captain Walker came to a halt right next it.

  ‘Mother, this is Inspector Kite. Inspector, this is Lady Beatrice Walker.’

  ‘Detective Sergeant Kite,’ he said, suppressing his irritation. Was the captain deliberately making a point? That a family of their standing should be dealing with someone of a higher rank.

  Kite hovered in front of the tiny figure, uncertain if he should say anything more. Maybe it was better to wait for her to respond. Despite his own ambivalent feelings about the upper classes, he knew the importance of gaining Lady Beatrice’s co-operation and thereby the co-operation of her household. He might have been exiled to Lincolnshire, but this was an opportunity, not just to solve a case, but also to win back some favour, which he badly needed.

  ‘You are far too tall,’ she said with a wave of her hand. ‘I shall get a terrible crick in the neck if I have to stare up at you.’

  Kite looked around and located a matching armchair several feet away and immediately opposite her. He sat down heavily into its comforting shape, sensing the tell-tale sweat on his forehead and a feeling of light-headedness. God knew, it had been a long time since he had eaten. The family would no doubt have eaten a hearty breakfast, whereas he had eaten nothing since his rushed and meagre meal in his digs. He tried to focus his attention on Lady Beatrice. She was clothed in black, a full-length dress, a shawl round her shoulders and a lace veil over her face. He could sense rather than see her eyes, peering birdlike at him through the fine material.

  ‘As I have already informed Captain Walker, I would first like to express my sincere commiserations for your very sad loss.’

  ‘Pah! I do not want your commiserations. It is not as if my husband or I have ever met you before. I merely want you to do your job and arrest the thug who murdered him.’

  ‘Of course. I understand.’

  ‘And how do you intend to achieve this?’ Behind the veil was a sharp and commanding tongue. She was a woman used to issuing orders and expecting them to be carried out.

  ‘I would like to start by interviewing everyone who was in the house at the time of Sir Wilfred’s death.’

  ‘He was killed outside, sitting in his car, which he kept in the old stable block. Perhaps you should concentrate your efforts on outsiders. A house like this is bound to attract the attention of ne’er-do-wells, envious of our good fortune. The last thing they would have expected was to find my husband sitting in his car…’

  ‘I can assure you, Lady Beatrice, that my constable and I will leave no stone unturned outside or inside.’

  She raised her hand suddenly. ‘I really need to go and lie down. I have delayed my afternoon rest sufficiently. If you have any questions for me, I suggest you ask them at four o’clock, before I have my cup of tea.’

  Kite nodded. He had been dismissed like a servant, but saw no point in resisting. As he stood up a wave of light-headedness swept through him, more intense this time. He tried to steady himself, stretching his right arm out towards the arm of the chair, but his left leg buckled beneath him and he felt himself falling. Somewhere in the far distance he heard the sound of Sparrow’s alarm: ‘Sir, sir!’

  ‘I think he’s stirring.’

  It was a woman’s voice, earthy and firm. ‘You alright, my dear?’

  Kite opened his eyes and found a round face framed by dark curly hair staring down at him.

  ‘I’m Rose. I think you’ve had a bit of a turn.’

  ‘Lady Beatrice has offered to send for her doctor, sir.’ It was Sparrow, also looking down with concern on his face.

  ‘No.’ Kite forced himself to sit up. ‘I just need to eat something. This happens sometimes. A cup of sweet tea and something to eat and I will be fine.’

  ‘Don’t you worry. The constable has just told me that neither of you have eaten since breakfast. We can soon put that right.’

  Sparrow helped him to his feet and escorted him along the corridor until they reached the kitchen. They sat him at the end of the long table which was oak, old and worn smooth from many years of service. Kite let his hands caress its surface and shut his eyes. When he opened them again, there was a platter of food in front of him. Sparrow ate alongside him, meat pie and potato, washed down with deep mugs of strong sweet tea. Gradually he began to feel more like his normal self, although what had just happened to him – not eating for a long time and then collapsing – was for him not entirely abnormal.

  ‘What now, sir?’ Sparrow was full of energy.

  ‘I think we should go and view the scene of the crime.’

  ‘Let me show you, sir.’ Rose gave the impression of someone who was rather enjoying having a role in the drama which had enveloped the house. ‘This way.’ And she led the two men down a corridor, then left and right until they emerged outside in the gloomy December light.

  ‘There,’ she said with a flourish of her hand, pointing rather unnecessarily to the blackened remains of what had once been a building. Grouped round them were four men.

  Kite advanced towards them, barely able to control his anger. ‘What on earth is going on?’

  Four pairs of eyes turned to towards him.

  ‘Are you recovered, Sergeant?’ It was Captain Walker, as calm as Kite was not.

  ‘I am fully so. But what are you doing?’

  ‘Isn’t it obvious? We are having the remains of my father gathered up. I couldn’t bear to leave them there in all the fire debris. They need to be gathered up respectfully, so that we can lay them to rest as is only right and proper.’

  ‘Don’t you worry, sir.’ A short man in dark clothing and a bowler hat on his head stepped forward. ‘Mr John Lamyman of Lamyman and Son, undertakers. We are very used to dealing with dead persons, in all sorts of conditions. Let me assure you that we will take great care to collect only the bones and other body parts. We will leave everything else in position for you to inspect at your leisure. However the afternoon is already well under way and I would like to complete the task before night falls.’ He bowed his head in what was no doubt a well-rehearsed routine. ‘Lamyman and Son are most expert in such matters.’

  Kite nodded agreement, though in truth he would rather the undertakers had never been summoned by Captain Walker. He looked around. Any tracks which the killer might have made the previous evening had already been well and truly obliterated by the boots of these three men and of Captain Walker himself and presumably also by the various inhabitants of Crowthorpe Manor who had tumbled out of the house when the alarm had been raised.

  ‘I have some tarpaulins,’ Mr Lamyman said. ‘I like to be prepared for all situations. We could lay them over the ash and fire-debris when we have finished if you so wished?’

  ‘No. Just let me know when you have finished,’ Kite said, wishing he had got a better control of the situation, as well as his own temper. ‘But perhaps you would leave your tarpaulins for my constable and myself, to make use of when we have completed an initial examination of the site.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. That seems a very sensible plan.’ He gave another bow and issued another obsequious smile as he backed away. ‘In that case, we will continue.’

  ‘And might I suggest,’ Captain Walker said in a tone he probably used with his junior officers, ‘that you come inside and start your interviews, until such time as Mr Lamyman has finished.’

  ‘Thank you, but my constable and I will be making a full survey of the grounds while there is still daylight.’ Kite looked up at the sky, conscious of the lowering clouds approaching ominously from the east. ‘And before it starts to rain.’

  ‘Very well,’ he said, though his tone suggested he didn’t think it was very well at all. He turned towards Lamyman, who was holding his hands together like a priest about to offer a prayer. ‘Carry on then, man.’ And he marched off back to the house, invisible steam pouring out of his ears.

  Sparrow chuckled as he and Kite headed off towards the main gateway. ‘Plenty of officers like him in the trenches. He’d have had you on fatigues, sir.’

  But Kite’s mind was elsewhere. ‘Did you notice what the captain said? Told me to concentrate my efforts on the village, that I should be looking for a burglar. And Lady Beatrice called the killer a thug, a ne’er-do-well.’

  ‘She has a point, doesn’t she?’

  ‘It could be one of the family.’

  ‘What makes you think that?’

  ‘Because it often is.’

  ‘Is it?’

  Sparrow’s doubt was obvious, but Kite wasn’t interested in continuing the conversation. When they reached the main entrance, there were plenty of signs of people and horses who had come in and out of it, and the fresh tracks of Sparrow’s motorbike. But none of that proved or disproved anything as far as Kite was concerned.

  ‘So, let’s suppose you’re a burglar, Constable. What would you be hoping to steal, and would you come on foot or by horse?’

  ‘Whatever you could find, I guess. Food, drink. I expect they shoot game here in the winter. Maybe there’s pheasants hanging in one of the outbuildings. Or stuff you can sell. Saddles and bridles for example from the stable area. Cans of petrol for the car. I expect there’s a black market for that if you know the right people.’

  ‘So heavy stuff to carry. You’d want something like a horse and cart to take it away, and to get away quickly if you were discovered. And you wouldn’t come charging in by the main gate if you could avoid it because anyone looking out their bedroom window might spot you. So let’s walk round the outskirts of the grounds and see what we can see.’

  Walking the outskirts initially meant walking along the top of a ha-ha, designed to keep any animals in the grass field at the front from entering the garden. Currently there was only one horse, a big hunter wearing a thick rug. There were no signs of attempted entry there or of a horse and cart being left out of sight in the dip to await stolen goods. Kite pressed on, alongside the outside of a tall garden wall which looped round to the back of the house before it gave way to a series of buildings – a large wooden barn, various brick structures, stables and sheds – before they found themselves back at the main entrance.

  ‘So what do you make of that, Constable?’ Kite stopped and leaned against the gate post, glad of a rest.

  ‘Well no evidence of an intruder, though I guess someone on their own who knew the property wouldn’t leave many traces. Sneak in by the front gate, keep to the shadows.’

  ‘By intruder you mean a thief? Or someone intent on killing Sir Wilfred?’

  Sparrow scratched the side of his face while he considered this. ‘I suppose I’m thinking of a thief. He comes in hoping to steal something he can eat – a couple of pheasants maybe – or something he could sell. He sees the garage door open and slips inside not realising that Sir Wilfred is sitting in his car. He is startled, panics and hits him with something, sploshes petrol around and sets fire to the car before escaping.’

  ‘But why do that when it was bound to alert the household?’

  Sparrow frowned and scratched his cheek again. ‘To make sure he was dead, I guess.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Kite took another sweep of the area. As theories go, it was pretty good. And if that was the case, then identifying that intruder would be difficult. And yet there was something that was bothering him. He nodded. He didn’t want to discourage Sparrow by sharing his doubts. It was too soon for that. He glanced up at the darkening sky. ‘Well, the truth is we need evidence. You go and check the inside of the gardens for traces before those rain clouds let rip. I’ll go and see how Mr Lamyman and his men are getting on.’

  But they weren’t rain clouds. By the time he had limped his way to the remains of the burnt out car, large flakes of snow were drifting down through the fading winter light.

  ‘We’ve just finished.’ Lamyman was watching his two men strap down a coffin which, Kite assumed, contained the remains of Sir Wilfred Walker. Lamyman looked up pointedly at the sky. ‘I reckon we’re in for a fair old blanket of the white stuff. What shall I do with the tarpaulins?’

  ‘Please, it would be very helpful if you could just lay them out across the site. And weigh them down.’

  ‘Of course. As you say, sir.’ By which he meant, as I originally suggested. There was a self-satisfied edge to his voice. A man of the country putting a big city policeman right. Kite tried not to care, but the fact was that there was already a thin white covering forming on top of the ashes and the snow in the air was intensifying.

  ‘One more thing,’ Kite said firmly, ‘I’d like to look inside the coffin.’

  Lamyman started. ‘Why on earth…?’

  ‘Just do it.’

  ‘But we’ve just sealed it.’

  ‘So unseal it. It’s evidence.’

  The tension was palpable. Lamyman’s two men had stopped strapping the coffin onto the cart and were watching this stand-off with undisguised fascination. Kite turned towards them. ‘Now, gentlemen, if you don’t mind. The sooner I take a look, the sooner you all get home.’

  Lamyman made a grunting sound and the two men undid the strapping and levered the lid up and removed it. Kite stood on the spokes of one of the wheels, using it as a step to clamber up. The bones were laid out in no real of order, though the skull – still attached to part of the spinal column – was positioned at the front end of the coffin. He levered himself up onto the cart and stretched out his arm to pick it up.

  ‘I don’t think the captain would like that.’ It was obvious where Lamyman’s loyalties lay. Kite glanced across at him and smiled.

  ‘In that case, make sure you don’t tell him. Then you won’t upset him.’

  ‘It’s about showing respect.’

  ‘It’s about investigating a brutal murder in a methodical manner in order to find the truth.’ Kite’s gaze was fixed on the skull as he examined it. There was a crack in the back of it; a fine one admittedly, but distinct enough. He rubbed at it, clearing some of the ash away from it. In the midst of the crack was a slight indentation where a small piece of bone had been dislodged. He had studied skeletons during his time in London. He had talked to a sawbones or two as well. He had never seen a dead man reduced so spectacularly to a pile of bones and sinew, but he reckoned he knew how this had begun, with a blow to the back of the head. The killer must have set him alight after killing or knocking him out with that blow. That much was clear.

  ‘Well, have you investigated enough?’ Lamyman was growing more impatient by the second. ‘I want to get home, not end up stuck in a snow drift.’

  ‘All done, Mr Lamyman. Thank you. That’s all I need to see for now.’

  There was nothing to be done until the morning – at best. Kite trudged off, walking anticlockwise until he met up with Sparrow coming the other way.

  ‘Nothing, sir. I thought maybe that gate in the wall, but it’s securely bolted from the inside and there’s no sign of it having been forced, or even used recently.’

  ‘I didn’t think so.’ Kite liked it that his own theory had been – if not proved – then at least half proved. In his own mind it was almost certainly an inside family job. But it seemed tactful to keep that thought to himself – for the time being at least.

  They had barely entered the house before they were intercepted by Captain Walker. Kite had already taken a dislike to him, so he was surprised by what he had to say. ‘Inspector, I mean Sergeant, my mother says that you would both be most welcome to stay the night. Looking at the weather, getting to the village might be a bit tricky, and by the morning who knows how thick the snow will lie. There are two small rooms at the top of the west wing for guests. Mary and David Graves inhabit the lower floors, but I am sure they will not object. In the meantime my mother will happily receive you in the study.’

  The First Interviews

  Lady Beatrice was sitting at a large desk. There was a pile of papers in front of her and for several seconds she didn’t look up. Kite waited silently. He knew what she was doing, establishing her aristocratic superiority. There was a time when it would have annoyed him immensely, but now he was older and, he hoped, wiser. Instead he took the opportunity to survey the room. Behind Lady Beatrice the wall was lined with shelves. These contained on the lower levels numerous files which, Kite presumed, held the paperwork of the Crowthorpe Jam Company. On the higher shelves by contrast were a series of trophies and two-handled silver trophies with coloured ribbons hanging from them. On the wall to Kite’s left – and indeed on the wall behind him – were a selection of framed posters, each an advertisement for Crowthorpe’s produce – strawberry, raspberry, blackberry and apple jams, marmalade, as well as various chutneys. He had eaten their chutney more than once. It went very well with cheese and bread.

  ‘So I suppose you want to ask me some questions?’ Lady Beatrice snapped.

  Kite had briefly been elsewhere. When he turned towards her, she was skewering him with her eyes. ‘If you don’t mind,’ he said.

  ‘What if I do mind?’

  ‘Just a few questions. I will keep them as brief as possible.’

  ‘Am I a suspect then? Do you think that I killed my husband?’

  ‘No I do not.’ He tried to sound as emphatic as possible. ‘I am trying to solve your husband’s tragic murder, and to do that I really need to find out what happened yesterday evening. So all I am asking is that you answer a few questions.’

  ‘If you must.’ Lady Beatrice pursed her lips and then coughed. She removed a handkerchief from her sleeve and held it to her mouth, then picked up the glass of water on her table and took two sips.

  ‘I would also be most grateful if you would allow me to question everyone else in the house.’ Allow? Had he really said that? Allow! Kite hated himself for letting the word pass his lips, for giving her the power to say ‘Yes’ or ‘No’. Of course, if she refused to give her blessing, then he would have to insist, but that would create tensions and problems. If he had to doff his hat and touch his forelock to get her co-operation, then that is what he would do.

 

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