The Property of Lies

  Contents

  Cover

  A Selection of Recent Titles by Marjorie Eccles

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Prologue

  Part One

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Part Two

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Epilogue

  A Selection of Recent Titles by Marjorie Eccles

  The Herbert Reardon historical mysteries

  BROKEN MUSIC

  A DANGEROUS DECEIT *

  HEIRS AND ASSIGNS *

  THE PROPERTY OF LIES *

  Novels

  THE SHAPE OF SAND

  SHADOWS AND LIES

  LAST NOCTURNE

  THE CUCKOO’S CHILD *

  AFTER CLARE *

  THE FIREBIRD’S FEATHER *

  AGAINST THE LIGHT *

  * available from Severn House

  THE PROPERTY OF LIES

  A Herbert Reardon historical mystery

  Marjorie Eccles

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  First published in Great Britain and the USA 2017 by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

  19 Cedar Road, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM2 5DA.

  This eBook edition first published in 2017 by Severn House Digital

  an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited

  Trade paperback edition first published

  in Great Britain and the USA 2017 by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD

  Copyright © 2017 by Marjorie Eccles.

  The right of Marjorie Eccles to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8720-7 (cased)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-827-9 (trade paper)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-895-7 (e-book)

  Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

  This ebook produced by

  Palimpsest Book Production Limited,

  Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland

  PROLOGUE

  She hadn’t meant to come back here – not ever. The people. The place itself. What it has come to mean … Don’t go, every instinct had screamed when she got the note. But she has been drawn, totally against her will. The note wouldn’t have been sent without purpose – would it? And yet, that inner voice won’t go away, repeating itself over and over, like a gramophone record with the needle stuck in the groove, scratchy and insistent, setting her teeth on edge. Run, get away, go, go …

  It is a wild night, intermittent rain, scudding clouds driven across a gibbous moon, the wind roaring, protesting trees moaning and waving demented, shaken heads. Buffeted and unsteady, she picks her way gingerly among the rubble on the ground, through the whipped-up storm of grit, dust and builders’ detritus, towards the half-demolished structure that rears up in front of her. It’s different, now that more of the ancient building has been knocked down. And very confusing. As she enters, the wind howls down the tall chimneys and whistles through glassless windows and along empty passages. Outside, a tarpaulin, caught by the wind, cracks like a pistol shot.

  Eventually she locates the staircase. A rope is stretched across the foot, meaning the way ahead is forbidden, and perhaps dangerous. Her heart is going like a pump engine, but she ignores the warning. The passages upstairs creak and groan with every footstep. It’s really dark up here and her torch when she switches it on gives out only the weakest of glimmers. Stupid, stupid mistake! In her frantic hurry to leave, it had never occurred to her to check the battery. It flickers once or twice then goes out.

  She thrusts the useless thing into her pocket, but there is no turning back now, having come so far. It can only be a matter of time until she finds her night vision and her eyes adjust to the dim outlines around her. She pushes on, each footstep echoing. She stops. Was that an echo? No, just the scrabble of a mouse, or some other night creature. Still disorientated without her torch, she stumbles on, and crashes into a heavy ladder propped against a wall, painfully barking her shins and bringing her to a full stop. A minute to steady herself, before edging past it and moving a cautious few steps forward, trying to regain her sense of direction. Then she hears the sound again and this time she is certain the footsteps behind are real.

  ‘At last! I thought you weren’t coming.’

  There is no reassuring answer. Panic strikes. But her eyes are becoming more adapted to the dark and she recognizes where she is now – trapped in a narrow corridor with only one exit, the outlines of a door dimly visible at the end. Another rustle behind her, and she runs headlong towards it, wrenches at the knob and sobs with relief as it turns. It opens on to nothing but yawning pitch-blackness.

  For a second or two she teeters, blind with terror, her hand scrabbling for purchase on the rough wood of the doorframe, struggling for balance. Before she finds it she feels hands safely grasping her upper arms. Then a mighty shove forward.

  She pitches out and the night swallows her scream.

  PART ONE

  ONE

  June 1930

  The sign is large, still newish and shiny: MAXSTEAD COURT SCHOOL FOR GIRLS, it says, gold on dark green. It looks more welcoming than the deserted old lodge situated at the side, or the large, wrought-iron gates, which have a slightly forbidding look, and are indeed shut tight, if not locked. Ellen gets out of the car and tries them, but they won’t budge. She mutters, having no desire to make any attempt at manhandling them open, but then she notices a smaller gate to one side, also of wrought iron, presumably for the convenience of people on foot, and tries it. At least that’s open.

  She goes back to her car, where there’s plenty of room to park on the grass verge on the opposite side of the narrow country road, leaves it among the cow parsley and buttercups, and admits herself into the school grounds through the smaller gate. It probably isn’t the best idea for the prospective French teacher to arrive at the doors in a smart little car anyway. The new, bull-nosed Morris is supposedly a shared convenience for both herself and her husband, although she knows it’s really an inducement not to attempt solo-riding his big BSA motorcycle again. As if she ever would. The one and only time she’d attempted that, a journey into Shropshire she’d known was foolhardy by the time she was halfway there, makes her go hot and cold whenever she thinks about it.

  She begins the walk towards the school. Trees line the long drive and give welcome shade on a day that promises to be hot. It has been a freak month or so, high winds and ra
in, bitterly cold spells alternated with periods of near heat waves, but that’s English weather for you. Maybe last night’s thunderstorm and today’s rising temperature heralds a real change now that June is here.

  Halfway down the drive she looks at her watch and sees she is ten minutes early for the appointment. She has a feeling that Miss Hillyard will be a stickler for punctuality, meaning neither too late nor too early an arrival, so she has time to take in the view of what she hopes might soon become very familiar to her.

  At this point the drive begins to dip and the whole of Maxstead Court is visible. The building is new as a school, though ancient as the ancestral home of the Scroope family, who had owned it for generations before increasing taxes, death duties and a general lack of funds for maintenance had forced them to sell. It still looks rather grim, to tell the truth, even on this beautiful day. Grey and square, it rises like a fortress against the dark background of Maxstead Forest. That, too, had once belonged to the Scroopes, as had the hundreds of surrounding acres, and the village of Maxstead itself, come to that, until it was all sold off. The house – what is now the school – stands at one end of grounds that stretch out to its side. The large gardens have been retained, both ornamental and kitchen; new tennis and netball courts installed, and a playing field provided. A tidy sum it must have cost, to turn the large, draughty rooms of the ancient pile into suitable classrooms, dormitories and so on for the privileged young ladies who are boarders at the school, but the eye-watering fees are surely large enough to compensate. And presumably they’ll bring in a profit, in time. The school hasn’t been open long and scaffolding – just visible at one end of the building – is evidence that structural work is still going on. As yet, as Ellen was told at her first interview with the principal, it does not have its full complement of pupils; only about seventy girls in all, ranging in age from twelve to nearly seventeen.

  Ellen is eagerly looking forward to taking up her career again, at last able to follow the work she was trained for and loves, though marriage and teaching don’t go hand in hand, at least not for women. It’s a ruling she considers outrageous and outmoded, but it’s one that still applies, though it was conveniently waived when women were needed to step into the breach during the war and fill the gaps left, with so many male teachers away in the army. Women who now at last have the vote and have equal rights, in theory, with men. But this is a school run by a woman who once fought for women’s rights and was later driving ambulances on the front line in France, and since she also owns the school, she is at liberty to scorn such views. Ellen smiles, looks at her watch and then continues her walk down the drive, feeling free at last from what she considers her long years of servitude, only able to use her skills for work as a private tutor or translating for a publisher – when she could get either. It’s a long time since she has felt that everything is so well with the world.

  But when eventually she comes to where the drive emerges on to the gravelled forecourt, a parterre with lozenge-shaped beds filled with a blaze of bedding plants, she sees that all is far from well with the world. Or not with the world of the man and woman who face each other angrily at the foot of the steps, not bothering to lower their voices.

  The row appears to have been going on for some time and, even as Ellen registers what’s happening, Edith Hillyard, that calm and dignified figure who had interviewed her a week ago, raises her arm and delivers a swingeing blow to the man’s face. He is a well-built man, but she is almost as tall as he is and is no lightweight herself, and he rocks on his feet when it connects. Ellen, brought stock-still in her tracks, and feeling distinctly de trop by now, expects him to retaliate and gets ready to intervene – although what she, five foot in her stockinged feet, can do against such a pair is not immediately clear. Fortunately, there seems to be no need for her to do anything. The man simply stands there while Miss Hillyard turns contemptuously away and walks back up the steps and into the school.

  He stares after her for a moment, then spins round and begins striding furiously up the drive. There is no way for him to avoid meeting Ellen, unless she darts away to find undignified shelter under the trees, but she doesn’t see why she needs to do this. His quarrel isn’t with her. All the same, as he passes her, scarcely taking in the fact that she’s there at all, his face still contorted with self-absorbed rage, she feels an instinctive shrinking. Edith Hillyard may have won the fight, but Ellen doesn’t think she has by any means won the battle.

  She lingers as long as she can before reaching the door and ringing the bell, so as to give the headmistress time to pull herself together and regain her composure. She need not have bothered. Miss Hillyard, tall and stately, comes unruffled into the small room where Ellen has been asked to wait, with her hair freshly combed and perhaps a trace of powder on her calm face. ‘Good afternoon, Mrs Reardon.’ She smiles and offers a steady hand (the one which had nearly felled the man). It feels firm and cool.

  Ellen is led into her study next door and tea follows almost immediately, brought in by the same rather nervous young maid who had answered the doorbell. ‘Thank you, Ivy, you can leave it there on the small table. It looks very nice,’ Miss Hillyard adds, smiling approval at the starched, lace-edged white tray-cloth, the shining silver teapot, pretty cups and saucers all nicely set out. Ivy blushes and departs.

  ‘She’s new, still learning,’ explains Miss Hillyard, pouring tea and offering digestive biscuits.

  Ellen is glad to see the headmistress is a woman who recognizes the value of encouragement. Despite what she has just witnessed outside, she feels her original judgement of her as a pleasant, even-tempered woman, firm but kind, wasn’t entirely misplaced. She is distinguished and middle-aged, with a host of qualifications behind her. Her thick dark brown hair, drawn unfashionably back into a bun low on her neck, shows no signs of grey. She is brisk and businesslike, and when they have drunk their tea, she immediately begins a discussion of the details and conditions of Ellen’s employment that were put forward at the preliminary interview. Now that Ellen has had time to consider and has agreed to them, Miss Hillyard says she would like her to start immediately, although it’s mid-term. She will be working here three days a week – with occasional extra duties, perhaps, when called for?

  Ellen hadn’t really needed time to consider the terms offered – she’d jumped at the opportunity to work here – though she doesn’t tell Miss Hillyard that; and the salary which has been offered is generous enough for her to comply with the request for extra duties, though not so eagerly that she doesn’t stipulate certain limits and conditions of her own. One of which is that she might be allowed, on very odd occasions, to bring her dog with her. ‘My neighbour’s delighted to look after him while I’m here, but in case there happens to be a time when it’s not convenient for Mr Levett to have him … If there’s somewhere he can be accommodated, that is?’

  ‘Of course,’ says Miss Hillyard smoothly, after only the slightest hesitation. ‘I dare say the domestic staff will be delighted to do the honours.’

  A glance at the headmistress’s liquid-eyed cocker spaniel bitch, sitting quietly obedient in a basket by the fireplace, causes Ellen a slight qualm, wondering how this pretty little dog, whose name is Goldie, will respond to an exuberant Jack Russell, but there has been no suggestion of the two fraternizing, which is just as well, although Tolly has learnt a few manners and rules since his ownership was transferred to Ellen.

  But Miss Hillyard has evidently felt it expedient not to object to the request. ‘Of course, I understand, you have your private life to consider.’ She refills their cups. ‘Your husband is a policeman, I believe?’ she asks after a pause, looking thoughtful.

  ‘A detective inspector. That’s what brought us to Folbury. They’ve recently opened a dedicated detective branch here and he’s in charge. It’s still quite small.’ Consisting, to be precise, of Herbert Reardon himself, Detective Sergeant Joe Gilmour and two newly fledged detective constables. Neither a detective superintend
ent nor a detective chief inspector has so far been deemed necessary. Ellen hopes, against present evidence to the contrary, that this might soon prove to have been a mistake that will be rectified, confident that her husband is more than able to fit the bill for either position. If that happens, and with her job here, and the lovely little house they now have near the town centre, with a garden sloping towards a view of the River Fol, she can ask for no more.

  ‘Well, I’m very glad you did come to live here, and that Mrs Ramsey remembered you. I can’t be without a French teacher any longer. A reliable teacher,’ the headmistress adds.

  ‘Mademoiselle Blanchard was French, I understand?’

  ‘Precisely,’ says Miss Hillyard.

  French, and therefore untrustworthy, is the implication. Not at all what Ellen had intended to suggest. But Miss Hillyard is evidently still smarting at the abrupt departure of Mademoiselle Blanchard. If she had been the sort of woman who sniffs, she would certainly have done so.

  ‘I meant that a Frenchwoman might be a hard act to follow.’

  ‘I can understand you might feel that, of course, and Mademoiselle was excellent as a teacher of French,’ she admits, ‘but I have no fears about your own abilities, Mrs Reardon, and Mrs Ramsey speaks highly of you. It was fortunate she could recommend you, and that you could come at such short notice.’

  ‘Kate and I go back a long way. We taught together for some time.’

  ‘So she told me. I’ve known Kate a long while, too.’

  A bell rings and there are sounds of the school emerging from its classrooms. Miss Hillyard stands up to terminate the interview. ‘I’m extremely glad you have decided to accept the position, Mrs Reardon. I’m sure you will be happy with us. I’ll introduce you to the other teachers now, and then, if you wish, perhaps a quick tour round to familiarize you with everything? There wasn’t enough time for either when we last spoke to each other, but since it’s break now, I’m free for a while.’ Although her reserved manner prevents her from showing it, it’s evident she can’t wait to show off her school.