The King of Terrors Read online

  But I step ahead of myself. It was 1939, and you probably ask what was so special about Gattenby House that should winkle me from my shell of natural reserve? Well, in a word, friendship. I first met the owner of this massive country pile, Simon Lambert-Chide, as a young man of twenty-four serving as a lieutenant in France. Quiet, generous to a fault, he was the perfect foil to the overly brash, confident character of my youth. Our first meeting was inauspicious; it was in Neuve Chapelle, in the middle of a burrowed-out haystack we were using as an observation post to watch the German trenches. He looked like a scarecrow, with bits of straw attaching itself to his uniform. He politely offered me a mug of tea.

  I soon discovered that he had a solid reputation amongst the men; they respected, one might even say loved him, like no other officer. I beheld it for myself, observing him dreadfully cut up at the loss of any of his men, no matter what mean social strata they hailed from. I saw him visibly shaken when having to write letters to wives, sweethearts and mothers about the loss of a loved one. He was a thoroughly decent chap. After the war, though we earnestly vowed to write to one another, like so many early friendships we lost contact as civvy life, and more pressing matters, overtook us.

  I did follow his progress from time to time, his name cropping up in the newspapers or society journals of the time. He came from a relatively wealthy family, but made his own fortune in the burgeoning petrochemical industry, and as such inhabited an altogether higher and more rarefied echelon of society than did I, what with novelists, artists, playwrights and movie stars turning up at his gates. A lowly and jobbing Detective Inspector was no comparison.

  I naturally thought our two worlds would remain in separate orbits till I received a letter from him, which concluded with a warm invitation for me to attend dinner at Gattenby House. In the letter he told me he had met the most beautiful and sweetest of women, whom he had asked to be his wife. He had heard my exploits on the radio and expressed most fondly that he would love to see me again. I could not resist such an invitation. I had read that, like my own, his first wife Elizabeth had died tragically and I was happy for him that he had found another companion. His letter was undeniably buoyant, one could say bubbling with a kind of unrestrained, youthful excitement, the tenor of which passed to me and helped revive my flagging spirits.

  I had seen photographs of Gattenby House, but I was not prepared for the sheer size or opulence of the place. In one respect I found my memories of the unassuming Simon and the rather stately pile difficult to reconcile, but, I conceded, time and circumstance change us all. He was, though, pretty much as I remembered him, as effusive as ever as he pumped my hand up and down in greeting. He looked desperately concerned about my leg, and asked after my wounds. I told him that I was fine, though it secretly pained me greatly to walk, and he observed this and quietly took my arm and led me slowly and proudly into his house.

  ‘Evelyn is in the shelter,’ he said. ‘It is a spot by the lake where she likes to sit and read,’ he explained. ‘She does a lot of reading; beautiful mind as well, old chap!’ He smiled. ‘Once you are settled you will have to meet her.’

  The shelter, as he called it, was a large open building in white stucco, its portico held up by four massive pillars. There was a long stone seat covered by wooden laths and cushions, and sat on these, in a pool of sunlight thrown in through a glazed arched window, I first saw Evelyn Carter, her attention riveted to the book she was reading.

  She was indeed pretty; dark haired, smooth complexion, slender arms snaking from a light summer dress, her delicate lips bearing just the shadow of a smile. To my surprise she was a good ten or fifteen years his younger, but I could tell instantly why he was so smitten with her. She looked up on seeing us approach.

  ‘Simon, you should have sent word; I would have come to the house.’ She rose from the seat, her eyes glancing at my stick and the way I hobbled over the lawn.

  ‘Thomas wanted to see the garden,’ he replied. ‘Thomas, this is my fiance, Evelyn Carter; Evelyn, I’d like you to meet the dearest friend a man could ever wish for.’

  ‘I am delighted to meet you, Mr Rayne. Simon has told me so much about you.’

  ‘Please, call me Thomas,’ I insisted. She had a quiet air of confidence about her, but I found it rather difficult to read what was behind those alluring eyes of hers.

  ‘Soon to be Evelyn Lambert-Chide, of course!’ Simon piped up, a ring to his voice as he said it.

  He was clearly in love with her and my initial qualms over their age difference melted away; half an hour in their company and their relationship seemed as natural as the air we breathed. She too appeared genuinely besotted with Simon, and I felt they made a real pair of turtledoves. It brought to my mind the many days of happiness shared with my own wife. Other people’s joy, I have discovered, is a double-edged sword.

  I did not meet Simon’s son until later that evening. David Lambert-Chide had been out with friends in his new MG sports car and arrived home late. Simon was most displeased on finding him absent as we entered the dining room.

  ‘I specifically told David we had a very special guest joining us for dinner and not to be late,’ he said, his face sullen.

  Evelyn reached out and put a calming hand on his own. She looked particularly attractive that evening, wearing a gorgeous dress in shimmering light blue that hugged and showed off her elegantly proportioned figure. A beautiful brooch of sapphire and diamonds sparkled against the silk and I commented upon it.

  ‘It is a rather extravagant gift from my husband to be,’ she said, chastising him sweetly. ‘He knows I am not drawn to such things.’

  He shook his head and smiled. ‘She would live like a beggar if I let her,’ he said. ‘Where is that boy?’ he said suddenly, his attention drifting to a large clock by the wall. ‘Any sign of him?’ he asked of one of the servants bringing in the food.

  I said that he should not make a fuss on my behalf, and referred him to the inconsistencies of our own youth. He smiled warmly but I could tell he was still agitated.

  We had all sat down to dinner when he finally turned up, a little worse for wear. Though I had given him the benefit of the doubt and served up a reasonable defence in his name, I was not immediately enamoured of the brash young man. He cast his father the faintest of apologies, and then he introduced himself to me as if I were one of the servants, sitting down and whipping up a napkin with a flourish, declaring he was half starved. I noticed he did not acknowledge Evelyn in the slightest, which I felt was most rude. He had an arrogant air about him that even his tender eighteen years could not excuse, and I rather supposed it was almost inevitable, being immersed in the corrosive acid that is great wealth from such a young age. He sat down to eat as if none of us were present.

  However, Simon, Evelyn and myself chatted amiably, Evelyn eager to know how Simon and I came to know each other, and we shared only superficial insights into our wartime exploits, for in truth a great deal of it would be unpalatable at a dinner table, and much we preferred to keep forever only to ourselves. Evelyn, bless her, tried her best to engage David in conversation, but aside from terse two- or three-word answers he repelled her attempts as if he were an umbrella shedding water. But his ears pricked up when the talk came around to my work in the police force.

  ‘Ah,’ he said, dabbing his napkin at the corner of his mouth, ‘the famous detective from Scotland yard!’ He at once imitated the melodramatic introduction to the broadcasts, doing a pretty fine job I might say. He laughed at his own cleverness.

  ‘Not quite famous,’ I said.

  ‘Not quite,’ he agreed. ‘Evelyn does not listen to the radio, do you, Evelyn?’

  She looked at him, her expression still polite, but her eyes had steeled. ‘That is true; I don’t care for it,’ she said.

  ‘You really must get with the times,’ he said. ‘You are far too young to be living in the past.’

  His father glanced up, none too pleased with the remark, but he kept his calm and cleared his throat as some kind of signal to his son.

  ‘Did you really solve all those crimes?’ he asked. ‘All those gruesome murders? Or did they exercise artistic licence, bend the truth as so often happens with these things?’

  ‘They are all true,’ I said. ‘And yes, I did indeed help solve all those crimes, but I had a very good team around me.’

  ‘All bar one case, of course,’ he said, his chin resting on his balled fist, his eyes, though the spitting image of his father’s, held none of the warmth.

  ‘All bar one, I’ll grant you that.’

  ‘Tell us about it,’ he asked, though it bordered on an order and I could sense this was someone used to getting his own way.

  ‘He has told it once too often,’ interrupted his father. ‘I am sure he is tired of having to relate it, right, Thomas?’

  I politely agreed. I smiled but of course I hated the damn case being dragged up every time, a fact young Lambert-Chide latched on to pretty quick.

  ‘The Body in the Barn,’ he said, undeterred. ‘A man found dead in a Suffolk barn, dismembered.’

  ‘That was pure speculation on the BBC’s part,’ I said hurriedly. ‘I never gave any details about it to them. Facts about the case are still a secret. They took, as you say, artistic licence, for dramatic effect.’

  ‘Come, Mr Rayne, it has been so long ago that it cannot matter now, surely, if you spill the beans; so please tell us what really happened. Why did you never solve this case? Why did you fail?’

  The word failure stung. ‘I cannot do that,’ I said, ‘but with any of the other cases I will be more than obliging.’

  I happened to glance at Evelyn; she had gone dreadfully pale in the face and was staring vacantly down at her plate. The knife in her right hand was tremb
ling ever so slightly. She saw me looking and set it down, her hand going to her lap.

  ‘The murderer left the body to rot,’ he carried on.

  ‘That’s enough, David; can’t you see Evelyn doesn’t like it?’

  She signalled that she was fine but I could tell she was far from it.

  ‘But here’s the strangest thing; a mysterious symbol painted on the barn wall…’

  ‘Speculation,’ I said.

  ‘The farmer said it was so.’

  ‘If you believe it,’ I countered.

  ‘A ritualised murder?’ He was purposely laying it on thick, his voice lowering dramatically.

  ‘Speculation,’ I reiterated.

  ‘That’s enough, David,’ said Simon evenly but firmly.

  ‘A sacrifice, perhaps?’

  Evelyn rose quickly from the table, visibly shaken. ‘Please, you will have to excuse me,’ she said, her large eyes blinking rapidly; she looked as if she might be sick at any moment. I stood as she left the room, Simon excusing himself also and following her.

  ‘How utterly peculiar,’ said David, completely unperturbed and tucking into his food. ‘Why do you suppose she went off so?’

  ‘Some people have vivid and sensitive imaginations,’ I offered.

  ‘And there’s me thinking she was getting upset on your behalf, because you failed and she felt sorry for you.’

  ‘You have much to learn about the meaning of failure, David,’ I said, hardly disguising my irritation. ‘As you have yet to learn many valuable lessons in life,’ I added.

  Simon returned a few minutes later but the meal had been ruined for us and we continued in relative silence. ‘She has a headache, that is all,’ he excused. ‘She has gone to lie down and apologises to you, Thomas, but will see you in the morning when she is feeling better.’ His eyes cast daggers at his son, but David wore impenetrable emotional armour and was impervious to his father’s annoyance.

  Before I left Gattenby House the next day I was summoned by Evelyn to speak to her privately.

  ‘I am sorry for leaving you like I did last night; please forgive me,’ she said.

  I said that it did not matter and that I hoped she was feeling well.

  ‘I am sorry, too, that David brought up that horrid affair,’ she said.

  I shrugged. ‘It happens. I am forever stuck with it.’

  ‘Will they ever find the murderer, do you suppose?’

  ‘I am certain of it, one day,’ I said.

  ‘I do hope so,’ she murmured, her eyes far away and staring on a different, sorrowful scene.

  ‘But don’t let it concern you. Such things are rare.’

  ‘Not as rare as you would think,’ she said cryptically. ‘Thank you for coming to see Simon; I know he appreciates your visit greatly.’

  ‘The pleasure was all mine,’ I said.

  ‘And you will come to wedding?’

  I smiled. ‘Thank you for your invitation; as I said to Simon, I will be honoured.’

  She nodded. ‘I do love him. You do believe that, don’t you?’

  I said it was none of my business whether I believed her or not, but since she asked it I thought they appeared very much in love. They made a fine couple.

  ‘It is not about the money at all, though tongues have been wagging ever since we met. I did not know who he was at the time, I truly did not, and I never meant to fall in love, but we cannot help ourselves at times, can we?’

  I agreed. I thought back to my own wife and how I missed her terribly.

  She fell silent. ‘Is everything alright, Evelyn?’ I asked at length.

  She smiled broadly and wished me well and a safe journey back home; that she looked forward to seeing me again at the wedding. However, I came away feeling there was something left unsaid that day, and that she veered away from it at the last moment.

  I spent the rest of the morning playing a round of golf with Simon, albeit painfully slow on my part and I left Gattenby House warmed by my rekindled friendship with Simon. This time we vowed we would not allow our friendship to lapse. After all, true friends are so very hard to find, he told me. I realised as I was driven to the station that although he had great wealth, Simon was a very lonely man, save for Evelyn, in whom, he confided in me, he put all his trust and love, both of which he felt he’d not been able to dispense in a long time.

  So you can understand how distraught Simon Lambert-Chide was when Evelyn disappeared never to return, two days before the wedding.

  He called me on the phone, so upset he could hardly string two words together. For no apparent reason she had packed a small case with a few things, a selection of clothing, the brooch I saw her wearing, and left early in the morning. Where she went no one knew. She left him a short note, which Simon tearfully read to me, saying that she was immensely sorry but she had to leave; she said she loved him dearly and wished him well. Simon said he needed to see me and would I come over to the house right away? I agreed and went over the following day.

  When I got there the contrast in the atmosphere of Gattenby House compared to that when I first visited was marked. It was now like a mausoleum. I saw the preparations for the wedding that had been made — large bouquets of flowers, white ribbons laced around the banister of the grand staircase, and in the dining room a large, multi-tiered wedding cake sitting on a magnificent table laid out for a good many guests. But the seats were to remain empty.

  Simon was in the drawing room, clutching the crumpled letter. He was disconsolate, as if someone had taken a dagger to his very soul. ‘She may still return,’ he said. ‘That’s why I’m not allowing any of the things to be packed away.’ He rubbed his eyes. ‘Hell, if she doesn’t want the wedding we don’t need it. Why, Thomas? Why has she left me? She told me she loved me, she told me she was happy, and I believed her.’

  I said I could offer no explanation. It was quite bizarre. He then rambled on about her being abducted, forced to write the letter; she’d been kidnapped, and her jewellery taken as well. That was the reason, no matter how preposterous it appeared. He was clutching at any explanation he could.

  ‘Find her for me, Thomas,’ he asked as evening drew in on us. He had calmed down somewhat but he looked desperately beat up. ‘I don’t care what it takes, how much money, how long, just find her for me.’

  I didn’t take him seriously at first. ‘What if she doesn’t want to be found?’ I speculated.

  ‘You were the best detective on the force. If anyone can find her, persuade her to come back to me, then that man is you. Help me, Thomas. I’m begging you, as a friend.’

  I did not have the heart to disappoint him. I caved in to his ardent request. ‘You may not like what I find,’ I warned.

  ‘I don’t care. I simply want her back, good or bad. I’d give all this,’ he said, pointing loosely at the walls around him, ‘in exchange for her. She’s my life. I cannot live without her.’ He went to a cabinet and took out two photographs, which he held out for me to take. They were of Evelyn, sat in the Shelter by the glazed arched window where I’d first seen her. ‘They are copies, old boy.’ He looked on them as if his very soul would crumble into dust. ‘In case you need them.’ When he handed them over he turned his back on me, perhaps to hide the moistness in his eyes. ‘Find her for me, Charles. Return her to me, that is all I ask.’

  Yet it was not that simple. During my short stay all hell broke loose. Simon’s son, David, came with news of a servant’s discovery. It transpired that many more things had gone missing alongside Evelyn. Apart from a significant amount of the former Mrs Lambert-Chide’s jewellery, there were many other valuable objects, including two small watercolours by the Pre-Raphaelite artist Dante Gabriel Rossetti; in truth the Victorian paintings had fallen out of favour with the art-buying public and were not worth a great deal in themselves, but in total the haul was worth many, many thousands of pounds.

  ‘I told you she was a bad egg, father,’ said David Lambert-Chide, wearing a corrosive I-told-you-so sneer. ‘Well, I’ve called the police. They will soon put a stop to this woman’s wicked ways. She was obviously part of a gang, had been planning this for ages. They knew exactly which pieces to target. Preparing for a wedding? She was all along preparing to fleece you, father, taking you for a jolly old ride.’