The Murders at Clarion Castle, page 15
"Someone's been here quite recently," Nigel observed, brushing away a remnant of mortar dust.
Harry nodded, crouching despite the protest from his knees. "Can you remove it?"
Nigel worked his fingers carefully around the edges of the stone, finding purchase where the mortar had been deliberately weakened. With a gentle tug, the block came free, revealing a dark cavity behind it.
"Empty," Nigel said, reaching inside to confirm.
"But recently used," Harry added, noting the absence of cobwebs or settled dust that would indicate long abandonment. "The question is, what was here? And more importantly, who removed it?"
A soft scrape of footsteps from the keep's open doorway caught their attention. Both men turned to see.
Simon Graves stood frozen in the entrance, his normally immaculate appearance dishevelled. The second under-butler's eyes widened at the sight of them. His scarred eyebrow twitched nervously. In his right hand, he clutched what appeared to be a small leather pouch.
For a heartbeat, the three men stared at each other, motionless.
Then Graves bolted.
He darted back into the keep with surprising agility for a man of his age. Harry was on his feet in an instant, years of police work overriding the protests of his aging joints.
Harry sped toward the keep’s entrance. "Circle around the back!" Harry called to Nigel. The younger man nodded sharply, breaking into a run toward the rear of the structure where a second, smaller door might offer Graves an escape route.
As Harry entered the keep's shadow-filled interior, his eyes adjusted quickly to the dimmer light. The ground floor inside was largely empty save for a few wooden crates stacked against one wall and the remains of what might have been a medieval hearth. Shafts of sunlight streamed through the narrow wall slits where, long ago, archers would have been stationed. Dust motes danced briefly in the sunbeams before vanishing into the surrounding shadows.
The sound of hurried footsteps echoed from the spiral block staircase that led to the upper levels. Harry followed, taking the worn stone steps two at a time. The staircase wound clockwise, a defensive design that favoured right-handed defenders. Harry kept his right hand against the central column, using it to pull himself forward as he climbed.
The tower had three levels, with the staircase continuing up to a battlement walk at the top. Harry's breath came harder as he ascended, a reminder that retirement had put more years between him and his prime than he sometimes cared to admit. Still, the thrill of the chase was familiar, awakening muscle memories from decades of similar pursuits through London's back alleys and up to the rooftops of tenements.
"Stop, Graves!" Harry called, his voice echoing against ancient stone. "There's nowhere to go!"
The footsteps above faltered briefly, then continued upward with renewed urgency. Harry pressed on, and finally emerged onto the second level to find another empty chamber, this one with larger windows offering glimpses of the surrounding countryside. There was no sign of Graves, but the sound of shoe leather on stone continued above.
Harry took a moment to catch his breath, listening carefully. The footsteps had reached the top—Graves had climbed the stairs all the way to the battlements. A tactical error, Harry thought with grim satisfaction. Unless the man planned to sprout wings, he'd effectively cornered himself.
The final flight of stairs brought Harry out onto the open roof of the keep. The view was spectacular—rolling Kentish countryside spreading in all directions, the main house of Clarion Castle gleaming in the midday sun, and the distant spire of the village church rising above the trees. Under other circumstances, he might have paused to appreciate the panorama.
But Graves had to be dealt with. The under-butler stood against the far parapet, breathing heavily, his face pale with fear or exertion or both. In his right hand, he still clutched the leather pouch.
Harry positioned himself between the man and the staircase. "Nowhere to go, Mr Graves," he said. Experience had taught him that cornered suspects were at their most dangerous. "Unless you're considering a permanent exit.”
Graves' eyes darted to the edge and back. Harry tensed, ready to lunge forward if necessary, but the man's shoulders slumped in defeat.
"I didn't kill him," Graves said, his voice hoarse. "I swear I didn't kill Vernon."
"I didn't say you did," Harry replied reasonably. He took a careful step forward. "Why don't you hand me whatever you're holding, and we can discuss this like gentlemen?"
For a moment, it seemed Graves might comply. Then a door slammed somewhere below, and the under-butler startled like a frightened animal. He darted suddenly to Harry's left, and made for the staircase.
Harry pivoted, years of rugby and police work guiding his movement, and he managed to catch the sleeve of Graves' jacket. The fabric held for a critical second, slowing the man's momentum. It was all the time Harry needed to step into Graves' path and use the under-butler's own forward motion to unbalance him.
They grappled briefly, Harry's experience compensating for the other man's desperate energy. He twisted Graves' arm behind his back in a standard restraint hold, careful not to apply undue pressure.
"That's quite enough of that," Harry said firmly, as footsteps pounded up the stairs. Nigel emerged onto the roof, slightly winded but moving with purpose.
"Found the back door locked," Nigel explained. "Circled back around."
"And just in time to help escort our friend here downstairs," Harry said, maintaining his hold on Graves, who had stopped struggling.
Nigel quickly took over the restraint as Harry recovered his breath. The older detective bent down and retrieved the leather pouch that had fallen during the struggle.
Inside the pouch was a padlock and a small key. The padlock looked like it might fit the empty hasp Harry had seen earlier. Also in the pouch were several folded papers—handwritten notes in what appeared to be a foreign language, possibly German.
"Interesting reading material, Mr Graves," Harry observed.
The under-butler's face was a mask of misery, his earlier defiance completely evaporated. "It's not what you think," he said weakly.
"I think," Harry replied, fixing Graves with the steady gaze that had broken many a suspect in his Scotland Yard days, "that you have quite a lot of explaining to do."
"I didn't kill him," Graves repeated, more desperately now. "Someone put that knife in my hand..."
Harry's eyebrows rose at this unexpected news. He exchanged a glance with Nigel, whose expression mirrored his own surprise.
"Perhaps we should continue this conversation somewhere more comfortable," Harry suggested. "The library, perhaps?"
Nigel nodded. His firm but professional hold on Graves' arm never wavered as they headed for the stairs.
As they descended through the ancient keep, Harry turned the small key over in his palm, wondering what lock it might open—and what secrets that might reveal. One thing was becoming increasingly clear: Vernon's murder was far more complex than a simple case of wine theft gone wrong.
By the time they reached the ground floor, Graves had regained some composure, though his customary polish remained distinctly tarnished. Harry paused by the open door and looked back at the keep's shadowy interior.
"I think we might just replace the padlock," he observed mildly.
He took the lock from the leather pouch, secured it onto the hasp, and snapped it shut. "Why did you break in?" he asked.
"I didn't break in," Graves replied, a hint of his usual precision returning to his voice. "I have a key to all the outbuildings."
"You're not in a position to bandy words, Graves. What were you doing inside?"
"When I saw you coming, I thought you might be the one who put the pouch in the outside cavity. So I wanted to hide. Then I saw it was you. And then I, well …"
"You panicked?" Nigel asked.
Graves nodded. "I'm not very good at this sort of thing."
"And the loose stone outside?" Harry asked. "Had you just taken the pouch?"
Graves wouldn't meet his eye. "I was going to see what was inside and then put it back."
"Just like that?"
A reluctant nod.
Harry studied the under-butler with renewed interest as they walked back toward the main house, the leather pouch weighing heavily in his pocket.
They reached the library and took seats inside. “Now, Mr Graves," he said, his tone deceptively gentle, "tell us about the last time you saw Mr Vernon."
Chapter thirty-two
Harry
Harry watched as Graves sank back into the library chair. The man's composure seemed to be crumbling further with each passing moment.
"So, the last time you saw Mr Vernon alive?" Harry prompted.
"It was the afternoon before he died." Graves swallowed hard. "He wanted to check the wines for the Prime Minister's visit. For a moment, I thought he was insinuating that more bottles were missing, but he wasn't. We parted on good terms."
"Then what happened?"
A shudder passed over him. He shook his head and lowered his gaze. "I don't want to think about it."
"Mr Graves," Harry said carefully, "We need the whole truth, and we need it now. What happened next?"
Graves stared at his trembling hands. “I’m afraid— "
But at that moment, the library door opened. Glenwood, the butler stepped inside, tall, grey and very properly deferential.
“Inspector, I apologise for the interruption. Some officials from London are here. I thought you might like to join them.”
Churchill’s security detail, Harry thought. “Where?”
“In the Minstrel’s Hall, sir.”
“Please thank them and tell them I’ll join them in a few minutes.”
Glenwood closed the door quietly. Harry turned his attention back to Mr Graves.
“You were saying?”
Graves lifted his head, drew a deep breath, and seemed to have gathered some courage. "I’m afraid that I killed him."
Graves' words hung in the air, stark and heavy.
Harry exchanged a glance with Nigel. "Start from the beginning."
"Mr Vernon caught me stealing wine from the cellar," Graves said, in a quavering voice. "Vintage bottles from obscure corners that I thought wouldn't be missed. He threatened to tell Mr Walker."
"Did he follow through on that threat?" Harry asked.
"No. He promised to keep it quiet if I stopped. And I did stop," Graves added hastily. "That was only three days ago."
Harry leaned forward slightly. "And then?" Harry prompted.
"That was when he brought me down to the wine cellar to check on the supply for our visiting guests. As I said, we parted on good terms."
"And then?"
"I decided to go into town, to the White Horse—to celebrate my reprieve." Graves ran a hand through his hair, disturbing its careful arrangement. "Miss Hartley drove past and offered me a lift. Said she wanted to talk."
"About what?"
"She didn't say at the time. But when we got to the White Horse and ordered drinks, it turned out that she wanted to talk about my drinking." A bitter laugh escaped him.
"She didn't approve?"
"She said it was becoming excessive. So naturally, I had another drink, and then another. Then she mentioned hearing that Mr Vernon was going to speak with Mr Walker about me after all. I felt betrayed. Furious."
Harry watched Graves carefully. "What happened when you left the pub?"
"Miss Hartley said I'd had enough. She drove me back to the castle." Graves looked up, his face pale. "Everything was fine when we left.”
“She’d stopped criticising your drinking?”
He gave an ironic smile “Actually she was taking a different tack about it. She said she'd rely on me to do the right thing.”
“When did she say that, exactly?”
“As she was dropping me off at the castle. I was getting out, and she was going to park the car. So just to spite her, I toasted her with my flask as she drove away. Took a good long pull, I did. Then I went in through the kitchen entrance. After that... nothing."
"Nothing?"
"I don't remember anything until I woke up in the wine cellar. I had a bloody sommelier's knife in my hand and blood on my clothes, and I was lying on the floor alongside Mr Vernon's body."
And you smeared the blood on the wine cellar floor when you got up, Harry thought.
He asked, "The flask was yours?"
Graves' brow furrowed. "Yes, of course it was."
“What did you have in it?”
“Cognac.” He shook his head with another ironic smile, tinged with, Harry thought, both vanity and self-loathing. “My usual solitary tipple. I had the White Horse barman fill it while I was… using the facilities. He brought it back to the table.”
"What did you do after finding yourself beside Vernon?" Nigel asked.
"I panicked," Graves said. "I got out as quickly as I could. I used my key to lock the wine cellar from the outside, made sure no one was around, then ran to the swimming pool. I dived in fully clothed to wash off the blood, then took a terrycloth robe from the pool house. I went to my room and tried to sleep, but that was impossible.”
"What time was this?"
"About two AM. I have a clock in my room and I kept staring at it."
"And the next morning?"
"At breakfast, Mr Glenwood wanted some wine bottles brought up and was wondering where Mr Vernon had gone. I said I hadn't seen Mr Vernon since the previous afternoon. Mr Glenwood said well, then, he'd just have to get the bottles himself, and then..." Graves trailed off. "Then he found the body.”
Harry nodded. "Mr Graves, did you know Mr Vernon kept a notebook? He documented things he observed around the castle."
"I'd seen him writing in it," Graves confirmed. "He always had it with him."
"It was found in his coat pocket," Harry said. "Did you see anyone take an interest in his notebook, or ask him about what he was writing?"
Graves thought for a moment. "Miss Hartley once. I overheard her asking what he was always scribbling about. Vernon said it was wine inventories, but I could tell he was lying."
Harry nodded. “Mr Graves, one last question. Has Miss Hartley had any unusual interactions with anyone that you've observed?"
Graves shook his head. "I haven't noticed anything. Though Vernon did mention her and the lieutenant once.”
“Which lieutenant?”
“I don’t know. The young lieutenant, I think he said. I didn’t catch a name. He said something cryptic about how people ought to behave professionally."
Harry exchanged a meaningful glance with Nigel. "Thank you, Mr Graves. You've been very helpful."
"What happens now?" Fear returned to the man's voice. "I swear I can't remember even going into the wine cellar that night, let alone actually killing Mr Vernon. Do you believe me?"
"I believe there's more to this story than meets the eye," Harry replied carefully. "For now, return to your duties as normal. Say nothing of our conversation to anyone. We’re taking a chance on you, but don’t let us down, or we’ll have no choice but to throw you straight into a cell.”
After Graves departed, Harry opened the leather pouch and took time to examine its contents. The notes were indeed in German, and Harry couldn't read them. He'd give them to—who? He realised he didn't know who among the sleuths—other than Evie, of course—could help. Maybe Blake could. Maybe Alice. Or if not, who? Who could translate, but also be relied on?
"Knockout drops in his flask," Nigel was saying. "That would explain his memory loss."
Harry came back to earth. “Agreed,” he said. “Why don’t you have a chat with the barman at the White Horse.”
He tucked the pouch into his inside pocket. “Meanwhile, I'll join that meeting with Mr Churchill’s security team.”
Chapter thirty-three
Evie
Evie woke slowly. Her body felt heavy, as if she’d been pinned to the mattress, and a bitter, chemical taste lingered on her tongue. She swallowed against the dryness in her throat and tried to understand why, despite the dull fatigue that enveloped her, her stomach was also clenched with a feeling of urgency. She had to wake up. She had to—
What? Her mind felt like a spinning radio dial, with bursts of a broadcast coming in through loud static.
The bare, windowless room.
A glass vial of chloral.
Paul’s face—
Evie sat bolt upright as the entirety of the memory landed in her head with what felt like an almost palpable thunk. Paul. And Gerda and Hans. They’d moved her during the early hours of the morning, away from wherever she’d been held captive before.
So where was she now? And exactly how long had she been unconscious?
Evie rubbed the lingering haze from her eyes, trying to clear her vision enough that she could take in her surroundings. Her previous room had been windowless and plain: four square walls and a single door. Now she seemed to be in a garret. The walls were sharply slanted, crafted of bare, dusty boards without any plaster or paint. There was a single dormer window, though: a grimy square of glass, set high in the wall directly in front of her.
The window wouldn’t do her any good as an escape route; Evie doubted anything larger than a cat could get through. But it did enable her to see that it was still light outside, with the sun just beginning to sink down towards what must be the western horizon. She couldn’t see anything else, though. Just that small patch of sky.
Evie stood up, looking around for something that she could climb on. Also unlike her original prison, the garret wasn’t entirely bare. It bore signs of having been hastily cleared out. There were scuff marks in the dust on the floor and bare patches where boxes and barrels must have stood until very recently. But there was an old-fashioned iron bed frame leaning crookedly against the far wall, its springs rusted and broken, and beside it, a small writing desk sat buried under a stack of yellowed newspapers. A needlepoint footstool that looked as though most of the stuffing had been chewed by mice sat beside the desk, and she could also see a few old hat boxes shoved into the shadows under the eaves.
