Neil Watson had finished his work at Varley Castle and after the affair of Andrew Beredace – or rather Ben Kitchener – he
felt he could no longer trust his instincts.
The nights were growing lighter now and the weather was improving, although he had lived long enough in the south-west to
know that this didn’t necessarily presage a good summer.
After saying goodbye to Caroline and promising to visit the castle again in a couple of weeks to see how things were going
with the National Trust’s renovations, he decided that he couldn’t face returning to his empty flat in Exeter. As he hadn’t
had any contact with Wesley and Pam for a week or so, he took the road south to Tradmouth. Now the case was cleared up, with
any luck he’d find them in.
It was Pam who opened the door. She looked well. But then it was half term and Pam always tended to blossom when she didn’t
have to go into school every day. It seemed
that she had recovered completely from her brush with death as she invited him in, exchanging news and pleasantries. When
Neil had found out what happened the thought of what might have been had kept him awake at night. He stepped into the hall
and gave her a hug and a kiss on the cheek. Life is fragile and friends can be lost so easily.
Pam told him that Wesley was in and as she began to shepherd him towards the living room a black kitten shot across his path,
stopping suddenly when it saw its intended route was blocked and looking up at him with huge green eyes.
Pam scooped the kitten up in her arms just as Wesley came out into the hall. From the solemn look on his face, Neil guessed
that something else must have happened. Something bad.
‘What’s up?’ Neil said, absent-mindedly leaning over to stroke the kitten’s head.
Wesley hesitated before answering. ‘I’ve just had some bad news.’
Neil glanced at Pam but it was hard to read her expression.
‘Remember that old colleague of mine who came down to investigate the Egyptian antiquity scam?’
Neil nodded. He remembered Ian Petrie but in all the fuss surrounding the arrest of Ben Kitchener, the antiquity-smuggling
racket had been pushed to the back of his mind.
‘His ex-wife’s just called me. He’s dead. He was ill – cancer – but I didn’t realise he had so little time.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Neil couldn’t think of anything else to say.
Wesley turned and disappeared back into the living room. Neil caught Pam’s eye.
‘He’s upset,’ she said in a whisper. ‘Ian was the first boss at
the Met he got on with and he thought a lot of him. Wes reckons he really wanted to clear up that Egyptian antiquity case
before he was forced to retire through ill health. He came here for dinner, you know. I had no idea …’
She reached out her free hand and gave Neil a gentle push towards the door. ‘Go and cheer him up.’
Neil smiled. He didn’t feel particularly cheerful himself. He’d become rather attached to life at the castle and he knew that
next week he’d be starting a rescue dig near Honiton, seeing what lay beneath the soil before a close of new houses was built
on the land. Maybe his new-found liking for the indoor life was a sign he was getting old.
The kitten started to wriggle and Pam put it down on the floor. ‘We’ve finally named her. We put it to the vote and she’s
now called Moriarty. Wesley’s suggestion – something to do with Sherlock Holmes.’
‘His nemesis.’ Neil laughed and the kitten began to scamper up the stairs with a youthful energy that made Neil slightly envious.
He took a deep breath and walked into the living room. Life had to go on.
Guy Kitchener sat in his office at the university. He’d closed the door, always a signal that he didn’t want to be disturbed,
and taken the copy he’d made of his great-great-grand-mother Eleanor’s journal out of his briefcase. Now it lay open on the
desk in front of him, out of place amongst the emails and students’ essays. There was also a photograph of Eleanor that he’d
found slipped between the pages of the journal, posed in sepia, staring into the distance, her lips slightly parted as though
she was recalling a pleasing encounter with some past lover.
He put his head in his hands. All his training told him that it was mainly nurture and upbringing, or maybe some abnormality
of the brain, that made a killer. But maybe evil did exist, passed down through the generations like any other inherited trait.
Maybe there was such a thing as bad blood. Eleanor had had no real reason to kill; she could have bided her time until Charles
was old enough then revealed her true role in his life, as indeed she did. The pretext for killing those innocent women was
to avenge herself on Frederick Varley by bringing about his son’s arrest and execution – a fate which was pre-empted by John’s
unstable nature. But none of it was necessary … just as Ben killing the homeless man for a dare and then killing those
women as a smokescreen for his elimination of Isobel Grant hadn’t been necessary.
Both Eleanor and Ben had enjoyed the act of murder. And there were times when Guy wondered whether he too was capable of such
things, whether he was tainted with the same genetic inheritance. But he dismissed the idea. The very thought of killing made
him feel slightly sick.
He stood up and walked over to the window. Mary had been charged with perverting the course of justice and when she’d been
released on bail, Guy had moved in with her for the time being, just so that she wouldn’t be alone. He had imagined that recent
events would have rendered her broken and contrite but, in spite of the act she had put on in court, Guy knew that her spirit
remained uncrushed. And if there was anything she could do to save her beloved younger son from a life of incarceration in
some cold cell – a living death – Guy knew she’d do it.
The previous evening Guy had met Ben’s lawyer who’d said that if they could establish that Ben was mentally unstable,
obsessed with the 1903 case and liable to confess to anything, there was still a chance he might get off. Even the attack
on Wesley Peterson’s wife might be explained as a coincidence if they twisted the facts somehow to suit their purpose.
After the meeting Guy had hit on an idea so bold that it might just work. If there was another death – if everything was planned
carefully so that none of their family could possibly be implicated – there was always a chance they’d be able to get Ben
released. There must be somebody, an impressionable and unstable student perhaps, who’d be willing to kill for a substantial
fee. Money was no object to Mary where her younger son was concerned. She’d always protected Ben like she protected weak puppies
and kittens. Only he was her own blood, part of her, so she would defend him to her last breath.
If another murder would ensure Ben’s freedom … Guy stared out of the window, wondering just how far he’d go for his brother.
He’d kept his secret all those years and this was just one more step. Besides, he knew his mother would agree to anything
that would win Ben’s liberty.
Sometimes love can be far more dangerous than hate, he thought, as he watched a lone young man walk across the windswept quadrangle
below. A loner. Maybe even a potential killer.