Bright Young Things Read online

  Burton looked uncomfortable but nodded. ‘I was told that he was brought in because the young people were important, belonged to good families, important families, but I imagine those same families would be loath to have too much scandal attached to their names. Bad enough that young Mr Everson might have been drinking and crashed the car, and that killed the girl, but if it looked out of order in other ways then it may be that they’d rather had it covered up and hoped it went away. And it would have done if Miss Moran hadn’t been found and identified.’

  ‘Possibly so,’ Henry said.

  ‘Mr Caius Moran has a reputation for getting his own way,’ Mickey suggested. ‘It’s possible the pressure came from him rather than the Eversons. He believed his daughter to have been killed in very unfortunate circumstances, and she was known to be something of a wild child, wilful and disobedient according to some. Perhaps he did not want anybody looking too closely into his daughter’s life after she had met her death.’

  ‘On balance I find that more likely,’ Henry agreed. ‘But whatever the cause, this was not investigated fully and now we have lost half a year of time.’ He glanced around the barn. ‘Ford Everson said the suitcases were probably here. Ah, it looks as though they are over there.’

  On what was left of the workbench were three objects. A wicker picnic basket, which from the outside looked oddly untouched by its experiences, a small blue suitcase and a Gladstone bag. The suitcase and the bag were open and clothing and other personal items had been rammed carelessly inside, together with twigs and dried leaves. The clothing smelled musty as though they had been soaked in the stream and then pushed back into the bags while still damp. Henry poked about inside and then made a decision. ‘These will come with us,’ he said.

  ‘That won’t please the Eversons,’ Mickey commented.

  Henry shrugged, unconcerned. He opened the picnic basket. Inside were broken plates, cutlery and a selection of small metal sandwich boxes. Mickey withdrew one of these and carefully opened it. The remains of food inside had rotted and mouldered. The two thermos flasks, when he lifted them, rattled, the glass liner broken, though it sounded as though they were still full of liquid.

  Henry and Mickey took a last look at the car while Burton placed the suitcase and Gladstone bag in their own vehicle and then they dropped the key through the letterbox of the gamekeeper’s cottage, as per instructions, and went off on their way.

  A telegram awaited them on their return to the inn. It was from Cynthia. Henry was aware of Mickey watching him anxiously as he read it through. Telegrams too often brought bad news. But this was useful, helpful. ‘She’s somehow managed to arrange for us to see Malcolm Everson,’ Henry said, handing his sergeant the flimsy scrap of paper.

  ‘Just how did she do that?’

  ‘I think she may be acquainted with Everson’s sister but Cynthia has her own networks and methods, as you know. I’m just grateful that she has.’

  ‘Tomorrow afternoon,’ Mickey said. ‘At two, so we’ll need to arrange transport. Best try and get hold of our constable Burton and tell him that his services are required.’

  Vic

  The first time Faun visited Ben’s home, I had collected her in the car from the home of a mutual friend. He could see the frisson of excitement in her eyes, the knowledge that she should not be going unchaperoned and friendless into the house of the bachelor, a bachelor much older than she was and much more experienced. But for her it was an adventure and she was never one to turn down adventure.

  For most of the journey she had settled in the middle of the back seat, though she did not want to be seen and the day had been cold so she had wrapped a blanket around her knees and pulled her coat tight, but as they drove through the gates she moved over so that she could look out of the window.

  ‘What’s the house like?’

  ‘You’ll see for yourself in a few minutes.’

  ‘I know, but tell me.’

  She had looked so anxious that it had made him laugh. It was as though the enormity of the situation suddenly hit her. ‘It’s big, it’s red brick, and was built about 200 years ago, but you’ll be glad to know that the plumbing is modern. He doesn’t use the whole house – it’s too big for one person and so there are rooms that have been covered down with dust sheets and not opened up in about ten years. His father didn’t use them either. It’s a shame. It would be a wonderful house to have parties in, but Ben doesn’t really fancy all of that.’

  ‘He likes going to parties though,’ she objected.

  ‘He likes going to other people’s parties. That way he can leave whenever he wants and does not have to play host. He gets bored easily with all the noise and the chatter and people drinking too much and behaving like complete idiots. It amuses him for a while, I think, but that’s about all.’

  She laughed then. ‘You make him sound utterly frightful and I know he’s not. I even got him to dance.’

  She had indeed, Vic thought. He was saved from the bother of further conversation because as they rounded a bend the house came into view. It was true what he had told her about rooms not being used. An entire wing had been closed down and fires lit only to air the place once a week, but it was still an impressive place and all the lights at the front of the house were on so that it glowed like an exotic piece of jewellery, the stained glass of the upper windows and a large arched window above the door casting broken rainbows out on to the drive.

  ‘Oh, but it’s beautiful,’ she said.

  And he knew that she was imagining herself mistress of such a place. Free from her father, free from anybody that could boss her around. And, he thought, given time she would probably make a good hostess, even a good mother, a good wife. But what she didn’t understand was that Ben Caxton was looking for none of those things. Other women had imagined themselves in this position – Ben Caxton’s favourite, Ben Caxton’s wife – but they had all been disappointed, some far more than others.

  Ben must have seen the headlights sweeping down the drive because he was on the steps waiting for them. He came down, helped Faun from the car and led her into the hall with its marble floor and fine statuary.

  ‘Welcome to my home,’ he said, and Vic watched them both, watched his employer playing his game and innocent little Faun falling for every word.

  NINE

  Faun, November

  My only comfort is little Martha. She is not yet fifteen and is so small for her age and such a little bird, so fragile and timid. She has been told that I am sick in the head, that I don’t know what I’m saying and that my family have abandoned me. That they wanted me committed to an asylum but that HE stepped in and took over my care and protection.

  So completely does Martha believe this tale that it is unassailable. I have done my best but of course anything I say just encourages her belief in my insanity and her master’s goodness. But she is also a kind little soul. The master has told her that I must not tax my mind but I eventually managed to persuade her that if I had pen and paper, so that I could write down my thoughts and what she sees as my fantasies, I might be able to get them out of my head and I might be somewhat healed by this. So, bless her little heart, she contrived to procure what I had asked for and without telling her infernal master.

  She found me a pencil and a stack of scraps and bits of paper which I suspect she has stolen from the wastepaper baskets and the kitchen bins. But I am so very grateful for even this small favour. I know she must have taken risks and that her loyalties must have been so divided. She is such a good little soul. I know she is unable to believe that a man who has always treated her with kindness could be the monster I have claimed.

  She prattles at me. I welcome it. She tells me of life below stairs. Of the cook housekeeper, Mrs Gammon – a very appropriate name for a cook – and how she trains young girls for a life of service. Martha is orphaned as apparently are all the young servants taken into this house. I can’t help but wonder if he takes advantage of this and how many of them actua
lly do end up in other households.

  Martha is a ginger-haired, freckled little thing, with grey eyes and a really lovely smile. It does me good to think about her and not have to think purely about my own situation. She says the cook is kind, that she teaches them well and does not demand to see their blooded clouts each month. Pat, I can’t imagine having to show evidence that I’m not pregnant each and every month. Can you imagine that? Apparently someone told Martha that this might happen and she admits that she was ‘ever so scared’.

  Poor sweet little thing. She can’t imagine what it means to be truly afraid and I hope she never does.

  I am afraid for my very life. When he first suggested this plan I expected to be here, as his guest, only for the shortest time. We planned to give my father a shock, that was all, to let him know that he could not continue to treat me so unfairly. He would be worried if I disappeared, Ben said, then when I appeared again, safe and well, he would just be so relieved that he would … But Ben cheated me and I believed him. Believed him, and now I’m come to this. I do not believe that I will survive, and I have come to believe that I am not the first to have been imprisoned in this house. Perhaps in this very room.

  Martha tells me that she will be leaving for another household just before Christmas. If I am still alive, then I will miss her dreadfully. She tells me that the girls always leave this place with a decent winter coat, three pairs of woollen stockings and a housewife fitted out with darning wool and needles and all the other requisites. She has so little that this all seems like treasure to her and I must admit that I envy her. I would spend a lifetime on my knees scrubbing floors if it meant getting out of here.

  Sunday 12 January

  The previous evening they had spent time examining the contents of the Gladstone bag and the suitcase to come to no firm conclusions as to who the owners had been. The Gladstone bag contained two shirts, a pair of trousers and one of a pair of cufflinks. It also contained a woman’s scarf, green and geometric in design but as the woman’s suitcase contained three pairs of men’s socks – ‘Why three?’ Mickey wanted to know – this was likely to be the result of the speed with which everything had been scooped up and shoved inside one or other of the available pieces of luggage. The quantity of leaves, now dried and shrivelled, clumps of grass and bits of bramble spoke not just of the haste with which everything had been gathered but also probably the breadth of land over which it had been spread. This could have been useful information had it been collected and studied more carefully at the time, Henry thought, but not now.

  The contents of the suitcase were a little more interesting. A dress, suitable for evening wear but not expensive. It was of the sort advertised for mail order in the Sunday newspapers, pretty and respectable but of inexpensive cloth. A pair of slacks made of decent quality wool which had been darned at pocket and ankle. Skilfully and nearly invisibly mended, he guessed, using threads drawn from the fabric turned at the hem, as he recalled both his mother and his sister doing, though whoever had done this lacked such fine skill as Henry’s mother had possessed. Her invisible darns had been just that. Additionally there was a woman’s blouse, another scarf, this one blue chiffon and a lightweight cardigan.

  ‘What strikes you, Mickey?’ Henry asked.

  ‘No nightclothes,’ Mickey said. ‘No underclothes either. While I agree, if this was a romantic liaison, the nightclothes may well have been shed, but most people in my experience at least go through the motions of getting dressed for bed.’

  Both suitcase and Gladstone bag were now back in the police vehicle, ably driven by Constable Burton, and all were headed for the exclusive sanatorium which had been home to Mal Everson for the last six months.

  Willow Haven was some fifteen miles from where they were staying. It was fortunate, Henry thought, that this sanatorium was still in Derbyshire, and he assumed this was because after the accident it had been easier to remove Mal Everson to somewhere close rather than to shift him back to London or the other family property in Hampshire.

  It was close to a spa town, Constable Burton had told them, popular with the ‘rich and weary’ in search of a rest cure. From his tone Henry gathered that Burton had a similar view of the rich and privileged as had Mickey. He had little patience with their complaints.

  Willow Haven had clearly been a family home at some point, one owned by someone wealthy enough and, in Henry’s view, tasteless enough to have added two massive wings to the Georgian frontage. It was set in parkland and here and there Henry spied solitary figures walking slowly and purposefully as though the exercise had been prescribed. In the summer no doubt they sat outside, bathing in the sun and drinking the spa water. Such places had never seemed to Henry to be particularly restful – not that he had encountered one in any meaningful way. He had certainly never partaken of such a rest cure.

  There were four other cars parked outside, spaces defined by white-painted, numbered blocks which sat next to a stern notice informing visitors that they must keep off the grass and please use the path. Burton took one look at the place and fished sandwiches and flask out of the boot. This was not a place where you went around to the kitchen and hoped for a welcome, Henry thought. One of the other cars still had a chauffeur in residence. He was reading a newspaper and Henry guessed that he and Burton would at least become acquainted while he and Mickey were inside.

  In the vast hallway, marble-floored and very chilly, they were greeted by a woman in a formal black dress who checked their names in her book. Two young women sat on a bench seat and one rose when Henry came in. ‘Inspector Johnstone,’ she said and Henry recognized her as Violet Everson, the girl he had glimpsed on the stairs at the Everson residence the day before.

  ‘Miss Everson?’ He shook the gloved hand and looked curiously at the second young woman.

  ‘This is Pat, Pat Moran. She is … She was Faun’s older sister.’

  Pat Moran had dark-brown hair caught up in a knot in the nape of her neck. Her face was pretty but looked pinched and chilled and Henry was not sure if this was the frigid nature of the atrium or grief at what had happened to her sister.

  ‘I asked Pat to drive up with me,’ Violet said. ‘I wanted to be here when you spoke to Mal, but I didn’t really want to be on my own. Pat needs to know what is going on so she said she’d come along. You have to understand our parents don’t know we are here. Pat’s father would definitely not approve and mine would think it was none of my business. He has some funny, old-fashioned ideas about what girls should be involved in and what they shouldn’t. Sometimes he is just too, too overprotective.’

  ‘I believe you know my sister,’ Henry hazarded.

  ‘Cynthia, yes indeed I do. In fact we both do. She called me, I said we’d do what we could to arrange a meeting with Mal, so, here we all are.’

  ‘And when your father finds out?’ Mickey asked. ‘I expect he will, you know.’

  Violet Everson shrugged. ‘Then he’ll blow his top, like he always does. Don’t worry, Sergeant, I’m used to it, and most of the time it’s just a lot of noise. I want to know what happened that day. Faun is dead, and so is that other girl, whoever she was, and my brother got the blame and I don’t think that’s fair. Now, shall we go up, it’s freezing down here. At least Mal’s rooms are kept warm.’

  Violet evidently knew the way and they trooped up the stairs after her. Pat Moran looked unhappy and Henry wondered if she was regretting her decision to come. Violet’s father might merely blow his top and make a lot of noise, but Caius Moran was known to be a man who disliked anyone going against his will. As though reading his thoughts, she said, ‘Don’t worry, Inspector, I’m a married woman and don’t live with my father any more. He can’t even threaten to cut off my allowance now because as of last year I came into my mother’s money and so I can now do what I like. Poor Faun would have had five more years before she could say the same.’

  ‘I see,’ Henry said. He wondered if he should say more but Violet was already knocking on a
door and then opening it. The wall of warm air was welcome and a little overwhelming after the chill of the entranceway, the stairs and the corridor. These places must be hell to heat in winter, Henry thought. He wondered how many layers the woman in the formal black dress needed if she was to remain in her post all day, though her manner had been as icy as her surroundings so maybe she didn’t notice.

  Mal Everson sat in an armchair by the window and at first looked bewildered when everyone came in and Henry wondered if he had actually been expecting them or not. Then the young man’s expression cleared a little and he got up to greet his sister with a hug and, perhaps surprisingly, welcomed Pat with a kiss on the cheek. There was, Henry calculated, a five- or six-year age gap between Pat and Violet. He guessed that Violet was perhaps twenty, and that Pat was probably twenty-five, that being a common enough age at which bequests reverted from trust status. Faun Moran had been not quite twenty when she died. It seemed that the young people from both families, or the sisters at least, had been drawn together by common grief and common anger.

  Mal Everson had two rooms, a bedroom and this small sitting room. A spirit kettle was boiling and Pat, clearly familiar with the establishment, fetched the tea caddy and pot from the cupboard and set about preparing refreshments. Violet settled her brother back in the chair, the excitement of greeting everyone seeming to have worn him out. Malcolm Everson was pale and thin, his face drawn and his frame bony. His clothes seemed to hang from his narrow shoulders, like those on a scarecrow. Looking into his eyes, Henry was reminded of young men he had seen in battle, who had lost all sense of where they were and how they got there. Mal reminded Henry of himself.