A Painted Devil Read online

  A

  PAINTED

  DEVIL

  A Dr. Harris Mystery

  A PAINTED DEVIL

  JAMIE PROBIN

  “The sleeping and the dead

  Are as but pictures; ‘tis the eye of childhood

  That fears a painted devil.”

  Macbeth, Act 2 Scene 2

  A PAINTED DEVIL

  Copyright © Jamie Probin, 2019.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and events are either the products of the author’s imagination or else used fictitiously.

  Cover design by Katherine Martinez

  CONTENTS

  PART ONE

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  PART TWO

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  PART ONE

  May 1936

  Chapter 1

  The Metropole Hotel stood proud and imposing on the promenade at Southampton, facing out to sea and challenging the elements to bring whatever assault they could muster. It was as though the building was unashamedly revelling in its starkly Victorian design; as if its increasingly dated façade only served to underline its resilience.

  For almost a hundred years the Metropole had catered to a myriad visitors passing through one of the busiest ports in the world. Some were coming home, others were about to begin new lives, but most people using Southampton had a story to tell. Countless guests in the Metropole of years past were at some kind of nexus in their lives, and the more fanciful modern visitors considered that these moments of significance had soaked into the very walls of the hotel, imbuing the building with a sense of drama.

  Walking through the doors of the Metropole was like stepping back in time, and the management liked it that way. In the Metropole the things that mattered fifty years ago still mattered, which was exactly the attraction for the clientele. Mr Harwood, the manager, took great care to ensure that his guests would find everything that they wanted, and nothing they did not. It was for this reason he was most perturbed on this particular morning, owing to the police car outside his hotel, the policemen currently in his office, and most of all the dead body in room 314.

  On the promenade Andrea Ketterman walked uncertainly toward the Metropole and looked once again at the crumpled note in her hand. Her preoccupation was such that she did not even notice the police car, and Mr Harwood would have prayed that all people passing the hotel this morning would be equally inattentive to detail.

  After a moment’s preparation Andrea pushed the piece of paper into her bag, before walking up the steps and through the gilded glass doors, held open by an impeccably-dressed doorman. Once inside, she approached the reception desk. Had so many other burdens not been clouding her mind she may have become aware of the muffled but clearly concerned voices leaking from the office behind the reception, especially since the concierge on duty was not concealing his attempt to eavesdrop on the conversation as successfully as he might have hoped. Nevertheless his professional duty drew him from the discussion within, to attend to Andrea.

  ‘May I help you miss?’

  ‘Yes,’ Angela smiled absent-mindedly. ‘Could you call Mr Asbury in room 314 and tell him Miss Ketterman is here.’

  The request seemed clear and lucid yet the desk clerk gaped at her in a rather impotent fashion, as if she had just asked him to perform alchemy.

  His stammering uncertainty was relieved when the overwrought face of a distinguished-looking gentleman appeared at the door to the office. The eager expression on this man’s features was tinged with desperation, the look one might imagine on the face of a sinking ship’s second in command upon discovering that the captain had not been washed overboard as previously feared: the ship was still going down, but it was now someone else’s duty to go down with it.

  The new arrival approached Andrea.

  ‘Excuse me, Miss…?’

  ‘Ketterman. Andrea Ketterman.’

  ‘Did I hear you enquire after Mr Asbury?’

  ‘Yes, I wished to speak to him.’

  ‘My name is Reginald Harwood and I am the manager of the Metropole. Perhaps you would just step into the office Miss Ketterman?’

  Andrea looked confused and somewhat unwilling, but she allowed Mr Harwood to usher her inside the plush yet functional room and offer her a seat. Also inside the room were two men, one of whom was wearing the uniform of His Majesty’s constabulary.

  ‘This is Detective Inspector Hollingsworth and Sergeant Davies of the Hampshire police force.’ He turned and addressed the policemen. ‘Miss Ketterman might possibly, I think, be the young lady our evening clerk told us about.’

  Detective Inspector Hollingsworth was a gruff, lower middle class Yorkshireman who had earned every stripe of his rank. He was broad shouldered, and his black hair and moustache were flecked with the grey of late forties; the established journey of his waistline on the road to plumpness also spoke of middle age.

  ‘Miss Ketterman,’ began Hollingsworth in brusque tones, ‘am I to understand that you are acquainted with Mr Ronald Asbury?’

  ‘What? Yes, yes of course I am.’

  ‘And I understand you visited him in his room yesterday evening?’

  ‘My brother and I came to see him, yes. He left a message at my hotel asking me to come. What’s all this about?’

  ‘Miss Ketterman, I’m afraid I have some bad news.’

  ‘About Ronald? What is it? Has something happened to him?’

  ‘I’m afraid that Mr Asbury died last night.’

  Andrea looked at the detective inspector with sad eyes.

  ‘Oh no!’ Her shoulders slumped as she spoke.

  Hollingsworth looked at her curiously. It was an extremely odd reaction – more of resignation than shock, as if the news saddened rather than surprised her.

  ‘He was murdered,’ added Hollingsworth.

  Andrea’s shoulders jerked as her whole manner changed instantly; she now stared in disbelief at the policeman. In the background Mr Harwood murmured a strangled word which sounded very like ‘murdered!’ and then groaned as though the Book of Revelation were coming to pass in his lobby.

  ‘Murdered?’ The sudden and absolute incredulity in Andrea’s voice permeated the room. ‘I… I don’t understand.’

  Detective Inspector Hollingsworth looked thoughtfully at the young woman. When Mr Harwood had called the station earlier to report the discovery of a dead body in one of the rooms of the Metropole, and proceeded to describe a man and a woman who visited the victim on the previous evening, Hollingsworth instantly felt suspicious. Speaking to these visitors was top of his priorities, and the sudden appearance of one, whilst serendipitous, sharpened his senses further. Yet he would swear the expression of sheer di
sbelief now on Andrea Ketterman’s face could not be faked.

  ‘Miss Ketterman, we have some questions to ask you, which we hope will shed some light on this business.’

  Andrea stared at him, her mind still grappling with the news.

  ‘But first there are one or two formalities. I’m sorry, I know this must have come as a great shock to you. Would you like a drink or something?’ Hollingsworth made a conscious effort to replace his naturally gruff manner with a gentler one. When Miss Ketterman declined the offer, he continued: ‘Would you tell me your full name and address?’

  With an effort Andrea gathered her wits.

  ‘Andrea Ketterman, Eagle’s Nest, Upper Wentham, Gloucestershire.’

  ‘And Mr Asbury, was he from Upper Wentham too?’

  ‘Yes. Well… at least, he was. He left there some months ago. He moved to live abroad.’

  ‘And how did you know Mr Asbury?’

  The emotion choked Andrea’s voice as she tried to answer.

  ‘We were, ah, friends,’ she eventually said. ‘Look, you might as well know the situation. I had recently… refused Mr Asbury. That’s when he left the village.’

  ‘Ah, the jilted lover,’ murmured Hollingsworth.

  ‘Nothing of the kind,’ said Andrea frostily, her emotions now in check. ‘He asked me to marry him, and I declined.’

  Hollingsworth’s eyes wandered to Andrea’s left hand, where a gleaming diamond ring sparkled on her third finger. Andrea followed his gaze and spoke defensively.

  ‘Yes, all right, I accepted someone else if you must know.’

  Hollingsworth swallowed a smile. People always offered up more information when they were indignant.

  ‘And yet you came to his hotel to visit him? Forgive me, Miss Ketterman, but that seems rather an odd way round.’

  ‘Really detective inspector, it’s none of your business. But since I have already told you once, I will repeat that Ron… Mr Asbury left a message at my hotel yesterday. My brother and I were visiting Southampton for the day and Mr Asbury had heard I was here. He asked me to call at the Metropole to see him. I had no idea he was back in the country. Naturally I would not have come to his room alone, but my brother agreed to act as chaperone.’

  ‘Very proper,’ agreed the detective inspector, in what he hoped was a conciliatory manner. ‘I realise you must have had a great shock Miss Ketterman, but we need you to describe the events of yesterday, if you would?’

  Andrea composed herself for a moment, and nodded.

  ‘John and I – John is my brother – John and I took the train here yesterday and went to our hotel.’

  ‘Which hotel is that?’

  ‘The Regal. We left our suitcases and went for a walk. When we returned around half past four, there was a note at the desk. I was rather surprised by this since we were only staying for a day, and I was not aware that anyone knew which hotel we were using.

  ‘The note, as you know, was from Ronald. This was very surprising, since I had heard nothing from him since rejecting his proposal three months ago. The day after I refused him his rooms were empty, and his landlady said he had left to go to France. Until yesterday, to my knowledge, no one had heard from him since. The note said that he was back in England for just one day, staying overnight in Southampton ready to take the boat to New York. He intended to live in America, it said, and wished to see me one more time.’

  ‘But how did he know you were here?’

  ‘That’s just what I wondered. He explained that after he got off the boat from France he had called my aunt, with whom I live, and asked to speak to me. She’d told him that John and I had left for Southampton. Somehow he got the name of our hotel out of her and had written to me there to request my visit yesterday evening.’

  Hollingsworth looked at Andrea. Her surprise when she heard that Ronald Asbury had been murdered had been tangible, but since then she had shown none of the classic signs of grief or shock, at least not outwardly. He could see that she was reigning in some extreme emotions, trying to project apathy, and he thought he knew why. She was overcompensating. She felt guilty for feeling so upset over the death of the man she did not choose. He wondered why she said no to Ronald Asbury – and to whom she had said yes.

  ‘Did you consider refusing the request to pay him a visit?’

  ‘That would have been the proper thing to do, I suppose you think?’ Andrea tilted her chin with a hint of defiance. ‘Reply with some guff about how we mustn’t make things harder? No detective inspector, I was fond of Ronald and the decision to choose my other suitor was not an easy one. I turned him down late one evening and by next morning he had left Upper Wentham for good. I never had the opportunity to explain to Ronald why I said no.’

  Hollingsworth said that he understood.

  ‘If I had been by myself then I think I would have had to decline,’ added Andrea. ‘But with John to chaperone me the whole thing was quite appropriate I assure you.’

  ‘I have no doubt about that Miss Ketterman.’

  A light leapt into Andrea’s eyes – the light of one clinging to a hope.

  ‘You are… certain it is Ronald aren’t you? Couldn’t there be some mistake?’

  Hollingsworth shook his head with true regret.

  ‘I’m afraid not Miss Ketterman. The evening clerk remembered the gentleman checking in – the staff here are trained to remember names and faces. Besides, Mr Asbury’s passport clearly identifies him. I’m sorry.’

  Andrea nodded sadly, and in that instant Hollingsworth felt his heart go out to her. He saw how difficult this was. Even with the complete phobia of emotional issues common to all well-bred Yorkshiremen he could see that, whatever her reasons for rejecting Ronald Asbury, she had considerable feelings for him. She wanted, as far as he could see, to break down and cry, but even without her fiancé present, tears over a rejected suitor were inappropriate to a well-mannered lady.

  ‘Perhaps,’ he said, speaking more gently than Sergeant Davies had ever heard his superior, ‘you could tell us how Mr Asbury was acting during your meeting?’

  ‘He was a little…’ Andrea paused, looking for the correct word, ‘erratic. At first he was very formal and businesslike. He offered us drinks, and I asked about France, and it was all terrible small talk. Then, suddenly, Ronald just leapt up from his seat and begged me to change my mind and marry him. I said I couldn’t, that I was in love with Charles and I was sorry. Then he prowled around the room almost as if he was in pain. Finally he asked me if that was my final word and I said it was. I tried to explain why things had worked out as they did but he wouldn’t listen. He just put this stiff upper lip on the thing and wished me all the best with Charles.’

  ‘He asked you to leave?’

  Andrea shook her head.

  ‘No, nothing like that. It simply reverted back to the formal chit chat of strangers. There seemed little point in staying so after a few minutes John and I said goodbye. It was terribly awkward.’

  ‘And that was the last time you saw him alive?’

  Andrea choked slightly, and nodded.

  ‘With that as you say, Miss Ketterman, I must ask you why you have returned to see Mr Asbury this morning. It seems an odd decision in light of last night’s events.’

  ‘Well you see, that was the last time I personally saw him alive. But as we came through the lobby on our way out, the desk clerk asked if I was Miss Ketterman. He said that Mr Asbury in room 314 had just telephoned reception and asked if I would go back up and receive a note from him. I was very upset by that point, and asked if it was alright if John went back for the letter. The clerk checked and said that was fine. John went upstairs for a minute and came back with the letter.’

  ‘So your brother was in fact the last person to see Mr Asbury alive?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  This much was true. The evening clerk had repeated the same story, and said that Miss Ketterman had remained in the lobby whilst her brother had returned upstairs. It add
ed nothing to the investigation but corroboration was always a good thing.

  ‘Where did you go after you left here?’

  Andrea looked surprised by the question.

  ‘Why, straight back to the Regal. The whole thing had drained me and I just wanted to get to bed.’

  ‘You and your brother remained in your hotel the rest of the evening?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Hollingsworth paused, and looked around the tidy but busy office, replete with brass furnishings and restrained pieces of art. Today was not turning out as he had hoped. Not much work had been planned for the day and the hope of a free afternoon had seemed reasonable; the sun was shining and the local links had been calling to him as a father mastodon to his son across the wild plains. Now, instead of golf, he had a murder case with no leads, inside the most prestigious hotel in the city. A number of important people would soon be pressuring him to solve the case quickly and quietly, and his instinct was telling him that neither of these options would be possible.

  As if sensing that his superior was taking a few moments of self-pity, Sergeant Davies spoke for the first time.

  ‘If it’s not too personal a question miss, what did the note say?’

  Sergeant Davies was a young man, with thick blond hair and a heavy set, friendly face, and Andrea looked at him with appealing eyes.

  She pulled a crumpled page from her bag, smoothed it out and handed it to Davies.

  It was a piece of hotel notepaper, headed with the address of the Metropole. Below, scrawled in an untidy hand which spoke of haste, were the words:

  My dear Andrea,

  We shall not meet again, but please know that I shall go to my grave loving you,

  Yours ever,

  Ronald.

  Sergeant Davies flushed slightly. Over time he himself had penned some sickening slush to his fiancée, Ethel Galloway, the housemaid up at the Ferns, and he imagined the shame he would feel if another man were to read any of those letters.

  Detective Inspector Hollingsworth left his utopian daydream and focussed his mind back to the matter in hand. Without asking he reached over and plucked the note, reading it quickly.