Kempston Hardwick Mysteries — Box Set, Books 1-3 Read online

  ‘Ah-ha, just in time. For those of you who don't already know him, this young man is Billy Reynolds. Of course, some of you may already know him. Perhaps as an employee of Wellington Pharmaceuticals. Or perhaps, Mr Preston, as your step-son.’

  A number of audible gasps rang around the room. Don Preston seemed resigned to the unravelling ball of lies.

  ‘You see, you had conducted this whole charade so carefully. Oh, it was well thought out, I'll give you that. A step-son with a different surname who worked at Wellington Pharmaceuticals could easily obtain strychnine without anyone noticing. After all, he was in charge of the accounts and IT records, so who better to fiddle a few numbers? Add to that the probability that suspicion would fall directly onto Patrick Allen, with the possibility of a conviction leading to the business and its assets falling directly into the lap of your lover, Marianne Spencer, and you've got a pretty solid motive. Let's not forget that any in-depth audit of Wellington Pharmaceuticals' accounts would reveal the payments made to Marianne Spencer's company, Net Marketing Solutions – money intended to fund your new life together. Am I somewhere near the truth, Mr Preston?’ Don Preston said nothing, and continued to stare at the floor.

  ‘The rest of you need not feel guiltless, though. Although it may have been the poisoned stamps administered by Don Preston which stopped Dave Spencer's heart from beating, it was the web of lies and deceit which killed him. The deceit which led to you, Billy Reynolds, obtaining a deadly poison which you must have at least suspected would be used for no good. The acts through which you, Marianne Spencer, deceived your husband by carrying out an affair with his agent and obtained money through his company. Even you, Miss de la Rue, are not infallible. You knowingly entered into a relationship with a married man. Indeed, this entire sorry saga could be said to originate with that very act. Would Marianne Spencer have begun an affair with Don Preston had she not suspected her husband's own infidelity? Only she can answer that. No, I have no doubt that our esteemed police officers here will find Don Preston guilty of murder and Billy Reynolds of conspiracy to murder, but I don't think any sane man could argue that each and every one of you is, in at least some small way, responsible for the demise and death of Dave Spencer. It seems that bitterness was the killer in more ways than one.’ Hardwick gestured for the two police detectives to begin their procedures and stepped down from the stage to stunned silence. It was Ellis Flint who spoke first to Hardwick.

  ‘I suppose you're right. Everyone had their part to play in the death of Charlie Sparks, be it deliberate or not.’

  ‘Indeed,’ replied Hardwick. ‘All too often we make decisions and carry out actions without any regard whatsoever for the consequences.’

  ‘So what now?’

  ‘Now? Now it's time for us to take a back seat. The situation will resolve itself, as all situations inevitably do. No, I don't imagine Marianne Spencer will carry on with Don Preston for much longer. You surely must have seen the look in her eyes when she realised her lover had killed her husband. As much as a woman scorned can appear not to care, it was plain from the start that Marianne Spencer still loved her husband very much. It's bitter-sweet that the victim's financial complications will quite probably be resolved by his death. It's the unfortunate but familiar paradox that any artist will be infinitely more successful in death than in life.’

  ‘But surely all of his money will go to Roxanne de la Rue?’

  ‘Not so, it seems. The will which we found in his house was never actually filed with a solicitor. I have one or two friends in the bar and one of them confirmed that Dave Spencer's entire estate was to be left to Marianne. It seems, perhaps, that the victim may have been playing his own game in leading us and, perhaps more pertinently, Marianne into believing that she would not stand to gain in the event of his death.’

  ‘But why?’ Ellis Flint asked.

  ‘Who knows? Perhaps he wanted to cause her some temporary anguish. The important point is that it was only ever to be temporary. Only in death would his true feelings and values be apparent. I don't pretend to know all there is to know about human behaviour, Ellis. Detection is a work of instinct and deduction over all else. Human emotion is of very little interest to me.’

  Ellis Flint nodded, unsure of quite what to say in return. ‘Well, another drink, then?’

  ‘I think that would be just the ticket, Ellis.’

  ‘Campari?’

  ‘Oh, no. I think I need something a little less bitter.’

  The Westerlea House Mystery

  1

  The bowl of sweets clinked and rattled as the long, slender digits plunged in to retrieve a handful of sugar-laced goodness.

  ‘Oh, for Christ’s sake!’ the man exclaimed, throwing his treasure back into the bowl with a clink and a clatter. ‘I specifically said no blue ones!’

  The make-up artist peered enquiringly over his shoulder as their eyes met in the mirror.

  ‘Sorry, Mr Whitehouse. It’s not really my remit, but I’ll go and find the person responsible.’

  ‘No, no. Leave it,’ the man replied, his eerie tones reminiscent of Vincent Price, or so she thought. ‘Not much point now. I’ll be on in five minutes anyway. Honestly, the whole thing has been a shambles. I clearly asked them for Belmore Hills spring water, and they gave me Shaffington Falls! I mean, why should I bother requesting a rider if you’re only going to ignore it?’

  ‘Mmmm, I know. Terrible,’ the make-up artist responded, her attention focused purely on the dark powder that she was applying to his eyes. Each time she had met him, he had insisted on being made to look eerie, as he had phrased it. She was quite sure that his un-made-up face looked far eerier than anything she could ever muster with her GNVQs and GHDs.

  ‘Three minute call, Mr Whitehouse. We’ll be starting in just a mo,’ the balding head said as it peered around the half-open door, its face far cheerier than it needed to be.

  Oscar Whitehouse instinctively checked his watch. Although he couldn’t stand being late for anything, he also had a particular dislike for over-exaggeration.

  ‘Right. I think that’s eerie enough, thank you, Charlotte. I’d best be heading through,’ he said to the make-up artist.

  ‘Right you are, Mr Whitehouse,’ she replied. ‘Knock’em dead!’

  He paused briefly. ‘Oh, I’ll be doing far more than that, don’t you worry.’

  He squinted under the bright lights as the black-shirted production staff led him through the darkened wings before asking him to wait at the final door. The speech from inside the studio was now more than audible.

  ‘So please give a very warm welcome to my guest, Oscar Whitehouse!’

  The green lighting effects and creaking door noise, courtesy of the sound department, would have had Oscar Whitehouse convulsing at the sheer galloping insolence were it not for the camera now trained on his face. Turning to feign laughter at what he knew he must accept as absolutely hilarious, he raised his hand in a casual wave to the audience, shook the host’s hand and sat down on the sofa.

  ‘Good afternoon, Oscar. Did you like the welcome?’ the bright orange host asked, his teeth gleaming like two rows of ivory soldiers.

  ‘Oh, yes, absolutely. Very good indeed,’ he replied, the blood now seeping from his heavily-bitten tongue. ‘Very original.’

  ‘Now, Oscar, you’re known all over the country and, indeed, all over the world for your paranormal investigations and insight into the supernatural. What was it that first had you interested in the supernatural realm?’

  Never been asked that one before, he thought to himself, before replying, graciously. ‘Well, I remember one particular experience back when I was a young boy,’ he said, before pausing for dramatic effect. ‘I was lying in bed one night – I must have only been six or seven years old – and I recall having the overriding urge to sit bolt upright. When I did, I saw my grandmother standing at the end of my bed, telling me everything was going to be all right. When I woke up the next morning, my father told me
that my grandmother had died in the night, at the exact time I saw her in my bedroom.’

  The on-cue oohs and aahs from the audience were perfectly timed as Oscar Whitehouse reeled out the story for the hundredth time. He was always amazed that the press hadn’t yet discovered that his grandmother was actually alive and well in a nursing home in Bognor Regis. (If ‘well’ could be used to describe a woman who dribbled constantly and was convinced that Richard Madeley was the devil incarnate.) Seven television sets later, the family had wisely decided that she’d be far better off with a radio, following which, she had taken up the notion that the Shipping Forecast was actually a daily dose of Nazi propaganda.

  The interview carried on in its inane manner, and Oscar Whitehouse continued to discuss his new book, Life After Death: A History of Supernatural Activity in the Afterlife, in a thinly-veiled manner only ever seen on daytime television.

  ‘Now, you’ve been on our screens for a few years, and have taken part in hundreds, if not thousands of paranormal investigations,’ the host continued, shifting to cross his legs the other way for the umpteenth time that minute. ‘And your book focuses almost solely on your belief that our spirits live on after death. Do you expect that this book will convince the nay-sayers that the paranormal world is real?’

  Oscar Whitehouse chuckled as he rubbed at his fingernail. ‘No, I expect there will always be cynics. However, I know that the world will soon have proof of life after death. That much is true. Evil will always live on.’

  The oohs and aahs from the audience were well cued by the school-leaver in the black t-shirt, who flailed his arms at the front when wishing to elucidate any sort of audience reaction. A nervous chuckle from the host ensured that the interview moved on rather swiftly, and he turned to address camera five.

  ‘Oscar Whitehouse, for the moment, thank you. Now,’ the host began his sentence in his well-accustomed way. ‘We’re on the lookout for haunted houses all over the country for a new feature on this programme. Do you live in, or know of, a haunted house anywhere in Britain? Perhaps your house – or your friend’s house – has its very own spooky spectre. If so, give us a call and we’ll get you on for a chat later in the show.’

  The host stood from his interview chair and made his way over to the maniacally-grinning potters whose whirring machinery graced the other side of the stage, ready and waiting for the next ten soul-destroying minutes of television.

  Ellis Flint used to quite like Greensleeves. But, having been kept on hold for an interminable amount of time listening to the piece, he had seriously considered forgetting all about his reason for calling and instead subjecting the other party to an historical diatribe on how Henry VIII had tried (and, with hindsight, hilariously failed) to claim that he had written it. When the phone was finally answered, he decided that plan of action would be a little too heavy for a Friday afternoon, and instead reverted to his initial script.

  ‘Oh, yes, hello there. I’m just calling about the piece you’re doing on haunted houses. It’s about a friend of mine, actually, who lives in a really spooky old house at Tollinghill. Used to be a rectory. The place gives me the creeps.’

  The over-excitement of the production assistant on the other end of the phone seemed to indicate that take-up for this particular segment of the show had been disappointing at best. As a result, Ellis Flint was very quickly assured that he would be put through to the host in the next few moments.

  Ellis smiled and sat back down to enjoy the rest of the programme.

  2

  The soothing and melancholic sounds of Chopin’s Valse Op. 34 No. 2 in A Minor permeated the ears of Kempston Hardwick and danced around his head as he lay back in his armchair and exhaled the last of his Monte Cristo cigar.

  He enjoyed time on his own. There were some who had a certain appeal, but on the whole he wasn’t especially keen on people. The clock in the hallway of the Old Rectory chimed the hour as the lilting cello sounded the minor key, which always evoked such deep relaxation and reflection in Hardwick.

  Hardwick sat bolt upright in his chair and glanced around the room as he tried to re-familiarise himself with his surroundings. The searing light blazed through the curtains as if they didn’t exist, and the muted chattering from outside became apparent. He switched off his gramophone and walked towards the window.

  ‘Well, it’s handy that we happened to be very near to Tollinghill, as it means we could come out and show the viewers the haunted location of the Old Rectory live on the programme!’

  The young lady reporter spoke excitedly into her microphone as she shoved the earpiece further into her outer canal and gestured at the Old Rectory behind her.

  ‘Now, this particular location was reported to us just a few minutes ago by local man, Ellis Flint, who stated in no uncertain terms that the Old Rectory is very haunted indeed.’

  As she spoke, the young cameraman’s face turned white and he pointed over her shoulder at the Old Rectory’s downstairs living-room window. She turned to see the slender Victorian figure appear at the leaded glass.

  The cameraman seized his opportunity and hopelessly zoomed in on the window, the wildly-changing focus sending small portions of the country into epileptic seizures. It was when he turned to tell the young lady reporter that he’d lost sight of the ghost, that he saw her sprinting off into the distance.

  Assuming that his fifteen minutes of fame were over at the end of the original telephone call, Ellis Flint ambled into the kitchen to make himself a cup of tea. He opened the Post-It-note-laden cupboard door and took out his mug before pouring the contents of the freshly-boiled kettle into it. The cupboard door closed and ‘Re-plant geraniums’ fell into the brewing cup followed by ‘Tidy workbench area’ and ‘Get haircut’, which fell onto the Formica sideboard.

  He scrambled to collect the falling Post-It notes as he answered the ringing phone.

  ‘Ellis, it’s Hardwick here.’

  ‘Get a bloody haircut?’ Ellis exclaimed as he examined the Post-It note in more detail.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Sorry, Kempston. Just trying to wade my way through a sea of Post-It notes Mrs F has decided to leave for me.’

  ‘I see. Does she often do that?’

  ‘Oh yes.’

  ‘Right. Well. I realise this may sound a tad bizarre, Ellis, but do you have any idea why there might be a television crew stood on my front lawn?’

  ‘Uh… no,’ Ellis replied, suddenly realising exactly why that might be. ‘Why are you asking me?’

  ‘Just an inkling, Ellis. Just an inkling...

  3

  The long summer afternoon finally gave way to the evening. The sun glowed on the edge of the Greensand Ridge to signal the beginning of the end of another successful day. Oscar Whitehouse’s key rattled in the lock of the front door at Westerlea House before the tell-tale sound of the mortice bolt ratcheting back told Oscar that he was home and dry. As home and dry as he was likely to be with his wife, Eliza, standing a few steps from the bottom of the stairs with a glare of anger and suspicion on her face.

  The long ivory dressing gown cascaded off her curved hips and bosom, her long auburn hair nestled on top of her shoulders.

  ‘Dare I ask?’ she indeed asked, gliding down the last few steps and arriving to meet her husband at the bottom.

  ‘Ask what?’ Oscar replied innocently as he took off his black suit jacket and hung it on the peg on the back of the door before bending down to untie his shoelaces.

  ‘Where you’ve been, Oscar. Your interview was in London and it finished at five. It’s a half-hour journey and it’s now six-thirty. Where the hell have you been since then?’

  ‘Just out and about. I had a meeting with Sandy afterwards.’

  ‘Oh yes, of course. I thought that might have been the case,’ his wife replied, folding her arms and exhaling heavily.

  ‘Jesus Christ, Eliza, she’s my PR girl! We do need to have occasional meetings, you know.’ Oscar shoved his hands into h
is pockets and headed for the solace of the kitchen.

  ‘Just like you needed to have “occasional meetings” with Emma? And Tracy? And Candy?’ she asked, her voice tautening with each mention of her husband’s previous flings as she watched him pop a couple of ibuprofen out of the blister pack.

  ‘Oh, for crying out loud, love. I’ve told you a number of times. There is nothing going on with Sandy! She’s the one who gets me these TV gigs and keeps my career going. What’s so wrong with that? You’d soon have more to complain about if I had no work and you couldn’t go out three times a week to buy new shoes and handbags!’

  Eliza’s body language changed dramatically as she walked the last two steps to face her husband.

  ‘No, Oscar. That woman does not keep your career going. I keep your career going. Now you had very well better remember that, because she might not always be here, and neither will you. I, on the other hand, will.’

  Oscar, clearly in no mood for Eliza’s histrionics, moved her firmly aside, saying: ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to bed. I feel bloody awful and my throat’s red raw,’ and laboured his way up the stairs.

  4

  ‘There really has been some mistake,’ Hardwick finally managed to say as the crucifixes were lowered and the television reporters appeared from behind the rhododendrons. ‘This house isn’t haunted and I’m not a ghost.’

  ‘You look like one,’ said a timid voice from inside the conifer.

  ‘Well I’m not. My name is Kempston Hardwick, I live in the Old Rectory and I have done for a number of years. There are absolutely no ghosts here whatsoever.’ Hardwick walked the few extra feet across the gravel to the rather expensive-looking camera that stood on its tripod on his lawn, knowing that its operator would dash out of hiding to protect it within nanoseconds. He was right.