The Monks Hood Murders: A 1920s Murder Mystery with Heathcliff Lennox Page 3

  I returned to my desk and the missive I was trying to pen to Persi. I cudgelled my thoughts, nibbling the end of my pen. What should I say?

  I read her letter again, she sounded disconsolate.

  ‘Dear Persi, I believe your first letter didn’t arrive. Of course I haven’t changed my mind, have you? Write twice in case the next one gets lost too.’

  I paused and read what I’d written. As love letters go it seemed lacking. I sighed, I wasn’t the romantic sort, despite my ridiculous name. I added a ps. I still love you and you can call me Heathcliff if you must want, xxx.

  I folded it, placed it in a thick brown envelope then stopped. Should I add more? But what? I had a signet ring, a token from our adventures in Damascus, I tugged it off my finger. Somewhere in a drawer I had some red sealing wax. It took ages to find. I lit a match and managed to melt a blob onto the envelope and push my ring into it. It made a neat impress of a galleon with a single sail and a cresting horse’s head. I’d managed to drip quite a few red blobs onto the envelope too and it looked as if someone had bled all over it.

  I sat back and looked at it, wondering what she would think when she read it. I’d said I’d go and find her, I promised actually. But then I remembered she was travelling, so I wouldn’t be able to and she was in Egypt, which was a damn long way and… I realised I was making excuses. Was it all too fast? I’d been waiting and waiting for her reply, but now that I had it…

  Greggs finished packing and turned to me. ‘If you’ve finished the letter, sir, Tommy can run to the post office with it.’

  ‘Um, not necessary, old chap.’ I pushed it into my pocket. ‘I’ll send it off myself.’

  ‘We cannot be sure there will be a post office near the monastery, sir.’

  ‘Greggs, I’ll send it when I’m ready.’ I may have sounded rather sharp.

  He went off downstairs in a bit of a huff.

  I followed shortly after to find the hall bustling. Greggs, Swift and Tommy carried the luggage out to the car. Bags, basket, dog bowls and cat hamper, complete with cat, were ferried through the door. Father Ambrose waited beside the stairs looking anxious, his frizz of white hair almost on end.

  Fogg was sitting on the bottom step watching the activity with ears cocked. I bent to scoop him up and tuck him under my arm.

  ‘Right, come on,’ I ordered and walked outside. The sun was emerging between pale clouds and a change of scenery was just the ticket.

  The Bentley took a couple of cranks to fire up and she rattled and coughed as everyone climbed aboard.

  Tommy ran up to me as I slipped into the driver’s seat. ‘Sir, was there a letter? You know, back to the one with them foreign stamps? I can go to the post office for you.’

  ‘So you can see Sally Hastings again?’ I teased him, then handed him a shilling. ‘Here, have the mud guard fixed and buy Sally an ice-cream.’

  ‘Thank you, sir!’ He grinned as his cheeks blushed. ‘And don’t get into no trouble, will you.’

  ‘We’re hardly likely to get into trouble in a monastery!’ I shouted over the noise of the engine, then dropped a gear, spun the wheel and raced the car down the drive.

  The journey was excellent! I left the top down and could hear the roar of the engine all the way. I wore my flying helmet, goggles, scarf and greatcoat to keep the worst of the weather out. I didn’t even notice the occasional spots of drizzle as we wound through Cotswolds lanes and up into the rugged hills and vales of Yorkshire.

  Wooded valleys veiled in umber, rock-cut dales glossed in green, squat white cottages of hand-hewn stone, hump-back bridges and sparkling streams. Yorkshire’s palette of pastoral hues was forged by man in nature to create a rural masterpiece.

  On empty, plumb-straight stretches I tipped seventy miles an hour; racing up and down hills like a roller coaster, it was almost as good as flying. There was the occasional grumble about my speed – mostly from Swift – but otherwise I think they all enjoyed it.

  We drew to a halt in a slew of small stones on the crest of a high hill. I leaned out to read a moss-ridden milestone; it was carved with an arrow and the name ‘Calderstone’ in worn lettering.

  The horizon in every direction was ringed by green hills dotted with sheep and clumps of wind-blown trees. Below us, in a hollowed dale, lay a crescent of land bound by a winding river. A village stretched across the base of the hill. Beyond, on a slight rise, the fortress-like Abbey stood enclosed by high stone walls, the river hooked around its back like a half-moon moat. It looked serene and ancient, as though we’d arrived in a time long gone.

  I slipped a gear to coast down to the neat cottages gathered around a broad green, complete with a set of old stocks, a duck pond and spreading chestnut trees. The black and white edifice of the pub caught my eye, its sign proclaiming it ‘The Calderstone Arms’.

  We passed a general-store cum post-office with a dumpy red letter box, a school and a squat church and braked to a halt in front of the Abbey’s towering gates. No-one moved so I hopped out and opened the door for Father Ambrose. He was in the back, his hands tightly clasped around the picnic hamper securing Tubbs, his eyes were closed and his knuckles were white.

  He tottered a bit when he got out. I took the hamper from his grasp to lighten the load. Tubbs pushed a black paw through a gap in an attempt to escape.

  I turned to Greggs.

  ‘Bring the bags, will you old chap,’ I called. I don’t think he heard because he remained immobile in his seat. Foggy jumped out and chased around the cobbled expanse, barking with excitement.

  Swift had been in the front, he started grumbling the moment his feet touched the ground. ‘Lennox, it wasn’t the damned Monte Carlo rally!’

  ‘You said we were in a hurry,’ I reminded him, but he ignored me.

  ‘Father!’ A large monk in black cassock and clean white apron, squeezed out of a small wicket door cut into the gates. ‘It’s a blessing you’ve returned.’ He spoke in a rich baritone, his voice belying his age because, despite his plump face and red cheeks, his hair was white and his skin creased – if he’d sported a beard he could have doubled for Santa Claus.

  ‘Brother Tobias, has anything happened?’ Father Ambrose asked anxiously.

  ‘Not a thing. I’m glad to see you’re safe back, that’s all.’ Brother Tobias grinned. ‘And you’ve brought the cavalry with you!’ He bent down to fuss Foggy, who was leaping about the monk’s knees in greeting.

  ‘Cavalry, dog and cat.’ Father Ambrose looked relieved as he passed the genial monk and stepped through the gate. ‘Oh, I am so pleased to be home.’

  ‘Come along, you’re all welcome.’ Brother Tobias threw out his arms, cassock sleeves flapping. ‘Let me help you.’ He strode around to the boot, where Swift was tugging at a jumble of bags. The big monk pulled them out one by one and placed them on the ground.

  ‘Thank you,’ Swift picked up his suitcase and followed in Father Ambrose’s footsteps.

  ‘Greggs,’ I called my old butler and he finally shifted himself to climb stiffly out of the car.

  His nose and eyes were all that was visible between his bowler hat and tightly wrapped scarf.

  ‘Sir, this is an automobile, not an aeroplane,’ he admonished in muffled tones, then went to retrieve his own bag and stalked off.

  ‘Greetings, I’m Major Lennox,’ I informed Brother Tobias, as he took the hamper from my arms. I gathered up my own bag, Fogg’s basket, blanket and whatnots.

  ‘Welcome, Major.’ Brother Tobias smiled. ‘Seems your friends are a bit shook up.’

  ‘Can’t imagine why.’ I grinned.

  Chapter 4

  We crunched along a gravel path between clipped hedges bordering neatly tended gardens. Brother Tobias entered a canopied doorway almost hidden below twisted branches of blue-flowering wisteria. I followed him into a stone building which proved to be a kitchen, and stopped to stare. The entire end wall was filled by a huge fireplace blazing with bright flames leaping from blackened logs. Bubbling iron cauldrons hung from chains above the heat of the fire, oozing the smell of beef stew. I caught the scent of fresh bread from a brick oven in the corner, a large copper kettle on a griddle next to it: it seems I’d arrived in culinary heaven.

  The big monk placed the hamper on a long wooden table, filling the centre of the room, and opened the lid. Tubbs looked about, stretched and yawned, then jumped out and down onto the red-tiled floor. He sauntered over to the blazing hearth as if he owned the place and sat down to clean his whiskers.

  Brother Tobias laughed. ‘He’s made himself at home. And I can see by your face that you were expecting thin gruel and a cold cell for a billet.’

  That made me grin. ‘Well, I’ve never stayed in a monastery before.’

  ‘You don’t get a belly like mine on light rations!’ He patted his ample stomach then went to a large dresser which took up another wall. It was lined with white plates and dishes and hung with pewter mugs. He picked up two bowls from a shelf and went to open up a larder beyond the dresser. ‘I’ve got a few titbits in here for the little ones,’ he said and came back holding the bowls heaped with slivers of ham. He gave one to Fogg and one to Tubbs. I watched them eat, feeling rather peckish from lack of lunch myself.

  ‘Lennox?’ A voice called from somewhere above.

  I looked around. ‘Swift?’

  ‘He’s up the stairs, these are our guest quarters. I’ll show you the way.’ The good monk went through a doorway in a far corner of the kitchen. A simple stone staircase wound upwards to open onto a blue carpeted corridor, lined with dark panelling and hung with rich tapestries. I glanced at them in passing, there were saints, angels, martyrs and the like. I preferred horses, cottages and cows myself, but I suppose religious themes were pretty much obligatory in a monastery.

  Swift was standing in an open doorway. ‘Lennox, you’re next to me, Greggs is at the end. I’ll see you shortly.’

  ‘Fine, Swift…’ I began, but he disappeared back inside his room.

  ‘You come along with me, Major Lennox.’ Brother Tobias ambled into the next room.

  I dropped my bags and Fogg’s basket by the unlit hearth. Heavy patterned curtains adorned an ancient four-poster bed, the walls were white, there was a sturdy oak washstand, a wardrobe, a carved coffer and a desk below a mullioned window. Elizabethan in style and probably in age, I thought.

  Brother Tobias waved a hand in the direction of the hearth. ‘We don’t usually light bedroom fires until nightfall, but you’re welcome to do as you please. And there ain’t no electric, so you’ll have to make do the old way.’

  ‘It’ll be just like school.’ I pulled out my fob watch. ‘What time is dinner?’

  ‘You’re too late for that, we had dinner at noon. Supper’s at six.’ He leaned forward and whispered. ‘But you can get a good bite of pie down at the Calderstone Arms if you’re peckish.’ He laughed loudly and went off, shutting the door behind him.

  There was a damp chill in the air and I regarded the unlit fire with arms folded. Should I light it? Was it bad manners? What did one do in a monastery?

  ‘Lennox.’ Swift marched in.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’ve made a list of questions,’ he waved his notebook. ‘We should open the investigation by searching Calderstone Hall.’

  ‘We know the Codex isn’t there, Swift,’ I objected. ‘And we haven’t had lunch yet and it’s almost three o’clock. We could go to the pub…’

  He didn’t listen to a damn word I said. ‘Father Ambrose has given me the key to the house and the strongbox. We have to start somewhere and Calderstone Hall is as good as anywhere. Come on.’

  He wore his trench coat over his suit, I was waiting for him to tighten his belt but he didn’t, he just marched off. Perhaps Florence had finally fixed the buckle?

  We headed down the unmade track leading to the village.

  ‘I’ll go and ask where Calderstone Hall is,’ I offered, breathing in the enticing aroma of beer, tobacco smoke and hot pie wafting from the open doorway.

  ‘No, I won’t be a minute.’ Swift beat me to it.

  I was about to follow him in when Fogg spotted ducks on the pond. I chased after him as he took off.

  Swift emerged just as I returned with my dog under my arm.

  ‘Over yon hill.’

  ‘What?’

  He had already started walking and was a couple of yards ahead of me. ‘‘Yon’ – yonder, it’s the local dialect.’

  ‘I know what it means!’ I countered. ‘I don’t need a damn translation, I need a drink. And food!’

  He pretended not to hear so I followed him across the village green, the grass lush and long under the leafy chestnut trees. Then we panted up the steep hill we’d just motored down and stopped to catch our breath at the top and stare.

  ‘There,’ I said, pointing to a rambling house almost hidden by a belt of trees. It was set to face its overgrown gardens which stretched to the bank of the winding river.

  ‘Calderstone Hall,’ Swift stated the obvious.

  I didn’t bother to reply, just strode in its direction, still stung by the lack of lunch.

  Built in fine Jacobean style, the house had tall windows formed from leaded diamond panes set in stone surrounds. The roof was a medley of pitches and valleys with crumbling pinnacles and slipped slates. We entered the iron gates, half hanging from broken stone pillars, and walked along the weed strewn drive. I noted cracked glass and peeling paint and thought it was a shame to see it rotting because it was a handsome place in pretty surroundings.

  ‘You’re sure there’s no one living here?’ I asked again, as Swift turned a large iron key in the rusted lock of the heavy front door.

  ‘Certain.’ He swung the door open.

  ‘Saluto.’ A husky voice stopped us in our tracks.

  It was a lady. My heart skipped a beat. She had glossy black hair and deep dark eyes. She was standing on the bottom step of a sweeping staircase, one elegant hand on the bannister rail. Her long dress hugged her voluptuous body, it was slit to the knee and red and silky… and…and … ‘What?’

  ‘I said, ‘you are friends of my husband?” She sauntered towards us, her hips swaying. ‘He iz dead,’ she drawled, her every word infused with Italian dramatics.

  I closed my mouth and tried to stop staring. Even Swift was struck dumb.

  ‘I…erm. We thought there was no one here,’ I stammered. ‘We’re investigating… I mean, we’ve been asked…’

  ‘Police.’ Swift suddenly snapped into action. ‘I’m a detective and we’re investigating a theft. You have to tell us who you are, madam, and why you are here.’

  ‘If you are a detective, then you must know.’ She pushed a tendril of long black hair behind her ear, her mouth a pout of disdain.

  I still hadn’t moved, hadn’t taken my eyes off her actually. I guessed she must have at least a decade on me, but her figure, her hair and her lips… they were very red and … ‘What?’

  ‘I said, ‘come to the parlour.” She didn’t wait for a reply, just sauntered off along the hall, her every movement a study in sultry seduction. We hesitated then followed. Fogg clung closely to my heels, his ears drooping, no more sure than I was about the unexpected encounter. It occurred to me that the lady was rather underdressed for a chilly day in the depths of rural Yorkshire.

  The parlour proved to be a lofty room with elaborate cornices, draped in grime and cobwebs. The floor was bare boards with nothing more than a moth-eaten wolf skin for comfort; I stepped across it, not being keen to walk on the dead. The lady dropped languidly onto a gold satin throw that had been tossed over a sofa. I assumed she’d put it there earlier because it was the only thing in the place that didn’t look centuries old.

  ‘I am the Contessa Mirabella Ferranti,’ she pointed a finger for us to sit in front of a smouldering fire.

  We perched on rickety chairs which shed dust and stuffing in equal measure.

  ‘So, you are purporting to be the Italian widow,’ Swift stated bluntly.

  She laughed huskily. ‘Signor, I am the Italian widow.’

  ‘You shouldn’t be in this house until that is proven,’ Swift continued.

  ‘Swift,’ I whispered. ‘Don’t you think we should…?’ I was cut off mid-objection.

  ‘It is proven.’ The Contessa leaned forward, a smile playing on her lips. ‘My lawyer, Danton, he has all the papers. He has gone already this morning. You are too late to do nothing, he gives papers to the lawyer who belongs to my dead husband.’ she waved a dismissive hand. ‘I forget his name.’

  ‘Clarence,’ I blurted out, then realised she meant his solicitor.

  ‘His name’s Fenshaw.’ Swift frowned at me.

  The Contessa fixed me with a direct gaze. ‘You interest me – tall and handsome. I like the blond, it is a good colour with your eyes so blue. What is your name?’ She leaned forward, her red silk dress straining to contain her brimming décolletage.

  ‘I…I…’ I stopped, took a breath, stood up and declared, ‘Major Heathcliff Lennox.’

  Swift sat unblinking for a moment then rose and made a stiff bow. ‘Detective Chief Inspector Swift, retired.’

  I noticed he’d begun using ‘retired’, I suppose he'd taken objection to being an ‘ex’ detective.

  ‘Affascinare. You will call me Contessa Mirabella.’ She leaned back against the stole, her movements carefully casual.

  ‘When did you arrive?’ Swift demanded.

  ‘Yesterday, Danton says it is all fine and legal, and he knows all your laws. But…’ She looked around with a curl to the lip. ‘It is a terrible house. Pasticcio.’ She suddenly snapped her fingers in the air.

  A tall, slim woman walked into view. I hadn’t noticed her before, she must have entered behind us on silent feet. She was older than Mirabella; black hair in a tight bun, olive hued with a thin roman nose and hooded, dark eyes. Her expression could have been fashioned by Medusa.