Mask of Innocence Read online

  Mask of Innocence

  Roger Ormerod

  © Roger Ormerod 2014

  The right of Roger Ormerod to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  First published in the United Kingdom in 1994 by Constable & Company Ltd.

  This edition published in 2014 by Endeavour Press Ltd.

  Table of Contents

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  Extract from A Death to Remember by Roger Ormerod

  1

  The letter lay on the kitchen table, unopened. Nervously ignoring it, Mary was making a major operation of brewing a pre-breakfast pot of tea. Yet the letter was addressed to her. Miss Mary Pinson, The Beeches.

  ‘There’s a letter for you, Mary,’ I said cheerfully, as though she hadn’t realised. But ignoring it wasn’t going to send it away.

  I knew what was worrying her, the fact that it had come from a solicitor. There it was, printed in the top left-hand corner: Russell & Co., Solicitors, Penhavon Magna, Salop. This had to be a long-established and venerable firm, clinging still to the traditional county name.

  There was nothing involved, surely, for Mary to worry about. But it was legal, and therefore had to be treated with nervous apprehension, though the possibility of Mary having become involved with legal iniquities was absurd.

  Amelia was suddenly there at my shoulder. My wife is very astute about this sort of thing, sensing atmospheres, deciding on the action to be taken, and taking it with bland confidence.

  ‘Letter for me? Oh no...it’s for you, Mary. And there was I, thinking all sorts of exciting things! How you can let it lie there...’

  Mary shook her head numbly. I said I would open it for her, and slit it with my penknife, then placed it back on the table. Mary put down the teapot, absently stirred, vacantly popped the cosy over it, and stood there, staring at her letter. I noticed that her fingers were shaking.

  ‘It won’t bite you, Mary,’ said Amelia.

  Mary reached out, withdrew the letter, glanced at it as though covering the complete contents with one wink, and put it down firmly on the table. Then she looked across at Amelia. She was alternating between pallid and flushed. ‘What does it mean?’ she whispered. ‘Have a look at it, please.’

  Amelia then skimmed through it, raised her eyes to mine, and said, ‘Richard knows more about these things than me, Mary. May I read it out loud?’

  ‘Of course,’ Mary said.

  I went and leaned against the wall. The two dogs, Sheba and Jake, came to snuffle at my fingers, aware that it was time for their morning run, and reminding me. I crouched, one hand to each head, pulling their ears.

  ‘You’re not listening, Richard,’ said Amelia.

  ‘Oh yes I am. And anyway, it’s Mary’s letter. Possibly private. I’ll go out, if you like.’

  I smiled up at Mary. She pouted at me, and gently shook her head. Then she returned her attention to Amelia, who had read quickly through it once more.

  ‘Is it...’ Mary hesitated, frowning heavily. ‘Is it serious, Amelia?’ She stood there stiffly, the tiniest quiver to her lower lip.

  ‘Not for you, Mary. On the contrary. Listen. “Dear Miss Pinson, You may not be aware of the death of Sir Rowland Searle, who passed away on the 23rd of September. I am sorry to bring you this news, and regret that it has taken so long to locate you, but I can inform you now that he had not forgotten you.”’

  Amelia looked up, smiling. ‘Well now! Isn’t that nice? Sir Rowland, too. Sorry. There’s some more. It goes on: “In accordance with his instructions, I have arranged a formal reading of his will on the 16th inst. If, as I hope, you can be present, I am sure you will not find your journey wasted.” Inst, Richard? What does that mean?’

  ‘It’s Latin for “this month”. Short for instant. The day after tomorrow, that’ll be. Doesn’t give us much time, does it?’

  I straightened as I said it, and ran my hand down the back of my neck, this to hide the wink I gave to Amelia. My mind had been racing, and I knew that Mary, who had her own little car, would nevertheless dread the idea of a forty-mile run in the weather we’d been having lately, anything from pouring rain to fog, to early-morning frosts. So it was necessary to take the initiative from her, and present it as a settled fact. We would take her. I knew roughly where it was — the far side of Shropshire.

  ‘Oh...but I couldn’t!’ she cried. ‘Oh no. The trouble for you! And I don’t want anything to do with it, anyway.’

  ‘Surely that tea’s brewed now,’ said Amelia with concern.

  ‘Oh yes...yes...’

  And Mary seemed genuinely relieved to turn her attention to a familiar and homely task, such as lifting the cosy and giving the tea a stir.

  ‘We’ll take my Granada,’ decided Mary.

  I agreed. ‘Of course. My Stag...’ I shook my head, smiling. It had been an adventure we’d all three shared. ‘Remember Sweden, Mary? Now, wasn’t that a time?’

  She turned, biting her lower lip, but her eyes were shining with the memory. She had enjoyed it. Now I was offering the present situation as another adventure. ‘How can I forget it?’ she murmured.

  ‘So it’d better be the Granada,’ I insisted.

  ‘But I haven’t decided...’

  ‘Now come on, Mary,’ I said. ‘If you don’t go, they won’t be able to read the will.’

  This was quite untrue, but if she had the idea that her absence would cause difficulties she would break her neck in order to get there.

  ‘There’s more,’ said Amelia. ‘You’re requested to be at Penhavon Park...Park! That sounds a bit grand. Requested to be there at twelve noon for the reading, when you will hear something to your advantage.’

  ‘Advantage?’

  It was a little too much for Mary. She sat at the table, and made no comment when Amelia began to set out the cups and the milk and the sugar, but twisted her hands together and gazed fixedly at them. She was not a stranger to wills, as she’d been a beneficiary in Amelia’s Uncle Walter’s will. Mary had been his housekeeper and he had made certain she would always have a roof over her head by leaving her part of The Beeches, Amelia inheriting the rest. It was fortunate that we had become friends, though Mary had never cured herself of her housekeeper habits, and looked after us meticulously. We didn’t protest; it gave her pleasure.

  Amelia poured the tea. This had become a custom, an early pot of tea, after which I would take the dogs for a walk, and return to find breakfast on the table.

  ‘And what,’ asked Amelia, ‘is your connection with Penhavon Park, Mary? Did you work there?’

  Mary’s eyes became somewhat vacant, the past capturing her. ‘Oh yes,’ she said at last. ‘That was how it was. The girl from the village, that’s what I was. Fifteen when I went there, as an undermaid. I don’t suppose they have such creatures now. Creatures! I wonder why that word came to mind, though I suppose that’s what we were, me and the others. There were two sons...then. Jeremy, he was the elder boy. He’d have been about three, and little Paul one, when I started there.’

  She was silent for a few moments, trying to recapture her youth, not much more than childhood, if she’d been only fifteen.

  ‘I can’t remember exactly when,’ Mary eventually went on, ‘but somehow or other my duties seemed to change, and I became sort of a nanny. Living in, then. Oh...the mistress was all fuss with them, and happy-like, when there w
as only Jeremy to look after, but young Paul was growing into a bit of a handful, so there I was...still in my teens, and the three...three children to look after, eventually.’ She looked down at the table, where her hands were kneading themselves together.

  ‘Three, Mary?’ asked Amelia.

  ‘Jennie. The little girl...my lovely. Why — they’ll be all grown up!’ Now she had a cup poised in front of her mouth, and she seemed not to be aware of it. She was gazing fixedly at the opposite wall. ‘Oh yes,’ she whispered, ‘they’ll be all grown up now. Yes. Jeremy — oh, he’ll be well into his middle forties, and Paul not much younger.’

  ‘Two years, Mary,’ Amelia murmured. ‘You said that.’

  ‘I’d never recognise them,’ Mary decided, nodding her head. ‘Meet them in the street, and walk straight past.’ And there her voice faded, and she stared blindly at her memories.

  ‘But you won’t be meeting them in the street, Mary,’ said Amelia softly. ‘You’ll meet them in the setting you all know.’

  ‘Yes, yes.’ There was a catch in Mary’s voice. ‘I don’t think I can...’ Her voice tailed off. We had to guess what she couldn’t do, which, clearly, was to face them, the children she had loved.

  The fear, I knew, was that they would not remember her, that they might even resent her presence. My experience in the police force had so often brought me into contact with the violence that can arise from a will, that I was a little uncertain myself. Money has a lot to answer for, but there was no reason, in the present instance, to suppose that Mary’s inheritance would be large enough to upset anyone’s expectations. Nevertheless, the situation might prove to be traumatic, and in that case our presence beside Mary would certainly be necessary.

  Then, abruptly, the cup clattered into Mary’s saucer and she put her hands over her face. ‘Oh...’ she whispered. ‘Rowley, poor Rowley.’ Her shoulders were shaking.

  I caught Amelia’s eye, and she nodded. Time to take out the dogs. I reached for my old anorak, hanging from a hook on the kitchen door, and the dogs began to dance. We went out, and I closed the door behind us.

  That morning it was our turn for frost. It made the steep paths down to the Severn quite treacherous, though the two boxers seemed unaware of it. Twice the grip per pound of muscle, they had over me. Jake was now fully grown, and already a little bigger than Sheba. But he clearly appreciated who was the boss around there. You could see the little glances he cast to her — for her approval, for her permission.

  When we got back, Mary seemed to be her usual self. She was chattering excitedly, and I came in at the middle of a sentence.

  ‘And dear little Jennie. She’ll be quite grown up. So pretty, so lively, she was.’ She hesitated. There had been a slight catch in her voice. Then she cleared her throat and reached out a hand in my wife’s direction. ‘Heavens — do you realise, Amelia — Jennie could be married now, and have children of her own. Only...how old...oh, six months old when I left — came away from there. But I could see it, even then. Oh yes, I knew she was going to be quite lovely. If only...’ She stopped, gazing at the wall.

  But there was emotion distorting her voice and she kept her face averted. It was, indeed, going to be very difficult for Mary. I was beginning to believe I’d made a mistake in almost forcing her into this return to her former life. I could possibly have saved her the experience with a quiet few words on the phone to G. Russell, who had signed the letter.

  Too late, though, now. Mary was firmly embroiled in a state of joy at the prospect of reunion, though it was shaded by apprehension at what she might find there.

  The trip required very little organisation. In the intervening period Amelia and I refrained from discussing the peculiar fact that Mary, a servant amongst other servants, most likely, had been selected for hearing something to her advantage. But of course, she had the small distinction of having been a sort of nanny, as she put it. Nevertheless, I would have thought that a simple letter from G. Russell, Solicitor, would have covered it.

  On the morning we set out the weather wasn’t ideal, heavy clouds scudding around, but the worst we could expect was rain, I thought. I calculated an hour for the trip, having consulted my map, though it would be polite to arrive somewhat early, to allow for introductions.

  When we found the village of Penhavon, far off the nearest main road, it was typical of any other Shropshire village — dominated by the river. The Severn, here, was much closer to its source, and might even have been one of its tributaries. We came down to it along a winding lane, the banks high each side. Just before we reached the river bridge, humpbacked and thus hiding the fact that the road shot off to the right abruptly, in order to lay out its shops and cottages with their backs to the river, there was a small and almost squat Norman church, so close to the water that it could well have been a mill at one time. Once over the bridge and into the main and apparently only street, the cottages, the Red Lion, the shops all seemed, to my eye, to be not quite upright. It could have been an optical illusion, as I was lining them up with the church tower beyond. It was possible that the church itself was the one to be leaning.

  The street seemed to be deserted.

  ‘Could we stop a moment, Richard?’ asked Mary, leaning forward. She was in the back with the dogs.

  I drew up. She continued to lean forward. ‘There,’ she said, her voice uncertain. ‘Between the Red Lion and the post office, that little lane. It was up there I used to live. I was born there.’

  ‘Want to go and have a look at it?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh...no!’

  ‘No relatives?’

  ‘I’m sure not. Another family moved in when my parents died. There was a flu epidemic. Terrible, it was. My brother Charles, he’d moved out. Gone and married a girl from Pen Magna. Older than me, he is. He could still be...’

  She paused. Amelia said quietly, ‘You haven’t kept in touch?’

  ‘No...no...’ She cleared her throat. ‘It was a bad...a difficult time. Can we move on, Richard? I...no, stop! Please stop.

  I jerked to a halt again. ‘Mary?’

  ‘It can’t be,’ she murmured. ‘But I’m sure...Look, that man there. He looks like Charlie...I don’t know...Just come out of the post office.’

  She was now in a flutter. How many years since she’d seen him? Forty-two, perhaps? Then she was out of the car as the man rolled towards us. I would have guessed he was drunk, and, just in case, I slid out from behind the wheel and stood quietly beside the car. He came on, apparently not having noticed us, but he was now moving more slowly. I saw, then, that the roll was probably habitual, as he was definitely bandy-legged, and those legs carried a six-foot-two, eighteen-stone man who’d been hardened by the elements and a lifetime of heavy work. Then he stopped, ten yards short of Mary.

  ‘Charlie?’ she whispered.

  ‘By God, it’s Mary,’ he cried, his voice gruff, harsh. Then he came forward rapidly and put huge hands on her shoulders, kissed her on both cheeks, and clasped her close, almost crushing the breath from her. At last he held her away from him, the better to consider her, to assess the changes wrought by the years.

  ‘Y’ never kept in touch,’ he said gruffly.

  ‘How could I, Charlie? After what you said. What you did.’

  ‘Well...I was pressured, see. Pushed. An’ that’s where you’re heading, I reckon. The old bugger’s dead.’

  ‘Hush, Charlie, hush. It’s a long time back, now. I’ve come about his will.’

  ‘Ha!’ He threw back his head. His face was permanently flushed by the north winds that must howl relentlessly down this valley, his eyes the same grey as Mary’s, but his head was nearly bald. I would not have cared to argue with him. ‘Remembered you, has he? I’d reckon so. They’re not going to like that up there. You can bet.’

  ‘Now, Charlie...’

  He suddenly grinned. It transformed his face. ‘Oh — I’d love to be there.’

  ‘Well, you’re not going to be. Behave yourself.’ She slapped t
he back of his hand.

  He released her and stood back. ‘Y’ know where to find me, Mary. Don Martin’s place, up Corrie Lane. Any trouble, an’ I’ll sort ‘em out for you.’

  She hesitated for a moment, then shrugged. ‘You always were a fool, Charlie. I’ll have to be getting along. Look after yourself.’

  ‘And you.’

  I held open the rear door for her, using the other hand to restrain the dogs. They were grumbling in their throats. Mary got in, bringing with her the smell of cattle. I started the car. She might have glanced sideways at her brother; I detected the movement of her head. In the rear-view mirror I could see that he’d raised an arm in salute, and he hadn’t moved when I rounded a bend, which cut him off.

  ‘It’s a turn on the left,’ said Mary. ‘Just along here.’ Her voice was unsteady.

  We had left the village behind, empty apart from Charlie. The road surface was wet, so they’d been having some rain. They proceeded to have some more when I turned into the rising, erratic curves of the minor lane, rain that lashed the car, with scatterings of sleet in it. Mud ran down from the banks each side, and the wheels shuddered over the broken, pot-holed surface. We climbed and climbed. If anything had approached from the opposite direction, we could not have passed each other.

  ‘Round the next bend,’ whispered Mary. She was becoming tense, I could feel, leaning forward and almost breathing into my ear. Then, ‘Right here, Richard.’

  It was no more than a gap between reaching, weeping trees, with a sign nailed to a tree-trunk: Penhavon Park. Now the roadway was more level, but we were on private property, deprived of the benefits of tarmac to surface the winding track; it was not much more than that.

  ‘I don’t remember it so narrow,’ said Mary, her voice dead.

  To the left, abruptly, the trees fell away, and there was a low hedge running beside us. A shadowy shape stood back, a dark and apparently deserted building.

  ‘That’s the old gamekeeper’s lodge,’ said Mary, a dismissive tone in her voice. ‘I always thought of it as being a bit spooky.’ She paused. Her tone changed and softened. ‘Not always, though. The next bit’s quite tricky, Richard, as I remember it.’ But she was using a memory in which she would have been on foot.