A Skulk of Foxes

PROLOGUE

Exeter – 23rd March 1939

Doors clang shut, keys rattle in locks, heavy booted footsteps resound in the corridor and John Carter sits on his bed, staring into space, into a future which he dare not imagine. His skin is pallid and his young face bears an expression of calm resignation. The air is stale and musty and the dark grey walls glisten with the damp. They are bare of anything other than the few words scratched there by past inhabitants of the condemned cell; the only memorial of their presence on this earth. The massive cell door opens ponderously to admit a prison guard and the prison chaplain. The prisoner slowly rises to his feet. He seems to be bewildered, although he looks calm. The guard withdraws, locking the cell behind him, leaving the chaplain to his ministrations. The chaplain motions for John to sit and he himself sits on the edge of the bed.

‘John’, he begins his voice assuming a tone more suited to the pulpit, ‘This is the last chance to make your peace with God. For your own sake I urge you to confess your sins and pray with me for the salvation of your soul. ‘ The mechanical tenor of his voice underlines the fact that he has said the same words to many other prisoners on many occasions before.

John looks the chaplain in the eyes and in a whisper says ‘I’m sorry sir, but I can’t make confession for something I didn’t do.’

The chaplain sighs; how many times has he heard the same words, although normally most were only too eager to confess their crimes before their last walk to the gallows.

He tries again ‘John there are only ten minutes before your sentence is carried out. If you confess now it will bear you in good stead when you face your Maker.’

Carter stands ‘No’ he shouts, the calm now gone, ‘No I won’t confess to something I didn’t do. I trust in God. He knows I am innocent’ with these words his calm returns. ‘I’m sorry Sir, but I didn’t do it. I didn’t kill her.’

The door opens. Standing outside the door is the Warden of Exeter Gaol with the hangman and an escort of two prison guards to take John Carter to the gallows.

The day suits the occasion –– a miserable drizzle has taken the place of the lovely unseasonable weather of the previous days. There is no trace of sun today – it is a bad day for living, let alone dying.

Before he leaves the cell the prisoner’s arms are strapped to his sides and John Carter is led to the place of execution.

Beresford, the executioner, has arrived in Exeter two days before, and has visited the gaol for the purpose of inspecting the arrangements. He has found everything to be in good working order. The prisoner’s weight and height have been recorded and the executioner has calculated the length of drop required.

The small procession walks to the gallows with the prison chaplain leading the way reciting the burial service;, an unnecessarily cruel and harrowing reminder to a condemned man of his imminent death.

On the scaffold Beresford works quickly and efficiently. He positions Carter and straps his ankles together to prevent any last minute attempt to jump clear. He asks the prisoner if he has any last words, but Carter shakes his head, unable, or unwilling to speak. Beresford pulls a white hood over Carter’s head, adjusts the knot of the noose under Carter’s left ear, steps away from the trap and pulls the lever.

CHAPTER 1

20th April

After cooking and eating her favourite meal of Steak Diane and Sautè Potatoes Carolyn Noble sat at her desk, the remains of a glass of wine in front of her, and picked up the brochure ‘Tracing your Ancestors’.

She had wasted her day off and spent four fruitless hours in the Public Record Office in Islington earlier in the day. To cap it all she’d been barged into on the way into the building by a large man who appeared to be researching the same years as she was. Consequently much of her time was spent waiting for him to finish with a volume before she could get at it. All she had managed to find out was that her grandmother was 77 when she died in 1989. Eventually having had no more success she had asked for help at the Enquiry Desk and been given the brochure she was now scrutinising.

Family History had never really been important until now. Her interest had been triggered by a roughly drawn family tree that she found when she was going through her parents’ papers. They had died in a car crash six months earlier and until a week or so ago she had been unable to bring herself to go through the contents of their desk. It had been bad enough trying to gather all the papers needed for probate .

The family tree was in her mother’s handwriting and showed her father’s side of the family in some detail, but on her mother’s side in the space for the dates of birth and death of her grandfather there were just question marks. Her grandmother’s death was entered but not her birth. Now she knew why. Clearly her mother had been as unsuccessful in finding the records as she now was.

She read through the brochure. ‘Should you come up against a brick wall you might try one of the sites listed below to see if the person you are trying to trace was born, died or was married in another country.’

‘I suppose it is possible that my grandparents weren’t born in England’ she said to herself but nevertheless, without too much hope, she logged onto the website.

Although the website was free, in order to get the information it was necessary to purchase tokens which could then be used to access records. Eventually, after going through the payment process a message appeared on the screen ‘Build your family tree now. Enter what you know into the boxes below’. The boxes were labelled ‘Ancestor’s name’, ‘Birth information’, ‘Death information’, ‘Date range’ and ‘Location’.

Carolyn was stumped for a moment. All she had were names. She took a sip of wine while she pondered this. She didn’t remember either grandparent. They were John and Rosemary Beresford. One thing she knew was that her grandmother had died aged 67 on 3rd March 1989 when Carolyn was seven, so that seemed to be the place to start. She entered her grandmother’s maiden name ‘Rosemary Slinger’ and in the box ‘Date of Birth Range’ she entered 1921 – 1923. She held her breath, then up on the screen came five entries. To narrow it down she began again and input in the ‘Date Range’ box ‘1922’. This brought it down to two entries. She made a note of both entries.

It was a reasonable bet that since she never knew her grandfather he must have died sometime before her grandmother’s death in 1989 and after her mother’s birth in 1954.

She took another sip of wine then she entered the information for her grandfather. Up came pages of entries for John Beresford. She quickly scanned the list. Amongst the entries was one death on 31 March 1961 at age 43 in Glendon, New Hampshire USA. She quickly checked her notes – ‘Yes, one of the entries for Rosemary Slinger was a birth in Glendon’. That would put her Grandfather’s birth at 1918. His occupation was listed as ‘Carpenter’. That seemed to clinch it. Surely it would be too much of a co-incidence if there were two other people in Glendon with the names of her grandfather and her grandmother.

She added the information to her mother’s chart, drained her glass and sat back satisfied with her night’s work, unaware that her research had triggered an alarm some three and a half thousand miles away.

CHAPTER 2

21st April

There was a note from Ben Stewart, senior partner in the law firm Dennison Stewart where she was employed, on her desk the following day when she arrived at work. The note was brief ‘Please see me as soon as possible’.

‘What have I done wrong’ she thought as she hurried along the corridor to his office.

Lined by decades of calf leather bound law books Ben’s office was, to Carolyn’s mind, from another era and reminiscent of the illustrations in Charles Dickens books. There was the smell of cigars which seemed to cling to every surface masking the smell of old leather. The huge partner’s desk dominated the room, its tooled green leather surface absolutely clear; not a paper in sight. The room was saved from being dreary by the large bay window through which the newly flowering cherry blossom merged with the other trees in the garden below lending a pink tone to the fresh greens of the emerging leaves.

Ben beckoned Carolyn to sit down. ‘James Gladstone is merging his company with an American company, Stanton Steels another private company’, he began without preliminaries. ‘Unfortunately I’m going on vacation for the next three weeks so I need you to stand in for me to complete the merger. I briefed your secretary yesterday and asked her to make all the necessary travel arrangements.’ He reached into his desk drawer and took out a file about three inches thick. ‘This will bring you up to date with the situation so far. It should be fairly straightforward. Both sides have agreed the terms, all that remains is to make sure the documentation is all in order.’ With that he handed over the file and she was effectively dismissed. Did he ever draw breath she wondered.

She went back to her office. Sarah Dalton, Carolyn’s secretary since she began to work at Dennison Stewart had, over the years, become more a friend than a secretary. She and Carolyn were about the same age and had instantly taken a liking to each other. She was slightly taller than Carolyn and where Carolyn was best described as ‘slim’, Sarah was more muscular and appeared to be a little heavier. As Carolyn walked into her office Sarah was just setting a cup of coffee on the desk.

‘Thank you Sarah. You must have known I’d need that after seeing Ben.’ She picked up the cup of coffee gratefully. ‘ I gather you know about the trip to America’.

‘Yes. I booked you out of Heathrow to Washington tomorrow morning. That’s where Stanton Steels headquarters is’, she added. ‘And in Washington I booked you at the Watergate Hotel for a week. I wasn’t sure how long you’d be there but you can change the booking when you arrive’. She glanced at the file Carolyn had put down on the desk. ‘I think I’d better leave you to it. It seems you’ve acquired quite a bit of reading matter’ she said dryly.

By the time Carolyn had skimmed through all the documents in the file it was lunchtime. Sarah had ordered a prawn and avocado sandwich for her and Carolyn sat back to enjoy it suddenly remembering how hungry she was. Her mind wandered to the evening before and the thought came to her. Why don’t I take a few days vacation while I’m in America to see if I can find out anything in Glendon about my ancestors.? With that thought she pulled down an atlas from the bookshelf behind her desk and turned to the page for North America. It wasn’t too far to New Hampshire from Washington, she decided, and anyway she had plenty of holiday time left. Decision made, she snapped shut the atlas, replaced it and called Sarah.

‘Sarah, I’ve decided to take a little time out while I’m in America. It’s an ideal opportunity for a few days vacation before I come back.’

‘Good idea. You may as well make the most of it while you’re there’ Sarah agreed ‘It’s a long time since you took time off for a holiday. You could do with a break.’

‘Talking about time off you’ll be taking some when you move, won’t you?’

Sarah frowned and shook her head in frustration. ‘Oh, don’t mention it. I’m so fed up about it all.’

‘Why has something gone wrong with the sale?’

‘No, but I’m being messed about by some people down the property chain.’ She sighed ‘It was originally agreed that the couple buying my apartment would move in tomorrow because their baby is due next weekend, but the people whose house I’m buying now say they can’t move out ‘til the following weekend, so the whole transaction has stalled for a week.’

‘Well at least it’s still going through’.

‘I know. It’s just that I felt awful at having to let down the couple buying my house so I decided to move in with my sister and put my furniture in storage for a week so that they can move in early.’

‘You are a softie Sarah,’ Carolyn teased. ‘Still I know how you feel and I think it’s a very nice thing for you to do. I just hope they appreciate it.’

****

Sarah went back to her own office and Carolyn went back to the file. She had only just opened it when a thought occurred to her. She went to the doorway and leaning on the door jamb said, ‘Sarah, I’ve just had a thought. Why don’t you move into my house while I’m away? It will be easier for you to get to work from Victoria Park than from your sister’s place in Ealing. By the time I get back you’ll have completed on your purchase and be ready to move.’

Sarah looked overwhelmed. ‘Carolyn, that would be wonderful, a real godsend’. Her brown eyes shone with tears of pleasure. ‘Yes, it would certainly be easier, not only the travel part but on my nerves. My sister isn’t the easiest person to live with’ she said with feeling. ‘Thank you so much for thinking of it. If you’re absolutely sure I’ll ring my sister straight away to let her know I won’t be going there. She’ll probably be relieved not to have to move things around to accommodate me.’ She was clearly delighted.

CHAPTER 3

22nd April

At the same time that Carolyn’s aircraft was approaching Dulles Airport Sarah Dalton was letting herself into Carolyn’s cottage in Victoria Park. She fumbled for the light switch in the hall. The light didn’t come on. Damn the bulb must have gone. She set down her luggage and crossed the hall to the sitting room. There was a table lamp by one of the chairs . When she switched it on the room was flooded with light and she breathed a sigh of relief that the problem with the hall light had only been a faulty bulb and not a power outage.

She decided first to unpack and then to raid Carolyn’s fridge to make herself something to eat. She was starving but she knew that Carolyn was a foodie and was sure there would be something wonderful in there to eat; some mouthwatering delicacy. It always amazed Sarah that no matter what Carolyn ate she never gained a pound – whereas she put on weight just by looking at food and only kept it under control by weekly exercise classes..

First things first though she would see if she could find a replacement light bulb for the hall light. The third cupboard she opened contained cleaning materials and stacked neatly at the back, a dozen or so light bulbs. She took one out of its packaging and standing on a small stool reached up to remove the old bulb. As soon as she touched it the light went on. It clearly hadn’t been screwed in properly. She gave it a few turns, then replaced the new bulb in the cupboard and went upstairs lugging her case with her.

There was a walk in cupboard in the guest bedroom and she began to empty her suitcase, hanging her clothes on the rails and filling the shelves. The sound of the clink of metal touching metal made her stop and listen. She could have sworn the sound came from the room next door. Carolyn’s study? She walked to the door and listened again, her heart pounding. Nothing. I must have imagined it. She was about to continue unpacking when she heard a creak, this time definitely from Carolyn’s study. All her senses on full alert she went along the landing to the study and putting her ear to the door listened intently. What a fool I am – hearing noises. Old houses like this always have creaking floorboards. My imagination must be working overtime.

She opened the door and looked in. There was a glass fronted bookcase opposite the door and she saw the vague outline of a man standing behind the door reflected in the glass. Instinctively she smashed the door back. There was a muffled grunt as the door connected. She dashed down the stairs before he could recover and looked wildly round the sitting room for something she could use to defend herself. Her eyes lit on a poker by the fireplace. She grabbed it just as the man came hurtling down the stairs spitting out curses. He was a big man and easily wrested the poker from her hand. Before he had time to use it she kicked out. Her kick landed between his legs. He fell forward, cursing and snarling in agony and clutching his groin. She took the opportunity to escape and fumbling managed to release the security chain on the door. She just needed to turn the door latch but before she could he came at her again. He swung the poker at her head. She moved just in time but the poker glanced off her head, almost ripping off her ear. There was a crack followed by agonising pain and she knew her shoulder was broken. Ignoring the pain, fully aware that she was fighting for her life, she picked up an umbrella from the stand by the door and used it to defend herself, swinging it back and forth and jabbing it in his direction. Whilst he was off balance she kicked out again and connected with his shin bringing him to his knees. He screamed obscenities at her.

Almost blinded by blood from her severed ear she lunged for the door. She managed to get it open before he recovered. She was so close to escape but he was too fast for her.

The last thing she saw before she died was the poker swinging at her head and she knew that she was too late.

****

The intruder quietly pulled the body out of the way and closed the front door. He took a pair of latex gloves from a holdall and pulled them on. Then he took the poker into the kitchen, rummaged in the cupboard under the sink and found a bottle of bleach. He poured the viscous liquid over the poker carefully washing off the blood. There was a washing up brush by the side of the sink. He used it to scrub the poker until he was sure there was not a trace of blood left in any of the minute cracks on the surface. He let the water run while he dried the poker and put it back by the fireplace. Then he poured more bleach into the sink to make sure that there was no trace of blood still lingering in the waste pipe.

Taking a cloth from the same cupboard he went up the stairs into the study where he methodically set about wiping every surface he may have touched. He put the hard drive he had been taking from the computer when he was disturbed into the holdall. On the way downstairs again he wiped over the banister rail as he descended the stairs. Downstairs he wiped every surface, making sure that everything was replaced where it should be. He picked up the umbrella from the doorway where Sarah had dropped it. There was blood on the handle. He wiped it off but then thought he could see more on the fabric. He glanced at his watch. He’d been here longer than he intended so he decided not to take any chances and to take the umbrella away with him. Stepping over Sarah’s body he went back upstairs to re-pack her suitcase and then hauled it back downstairs. In the hall he took a plastic bag from his holdall and wrapped it over Sarah’s head; opened the back door, hoisted her body over his shoulder, fireman fashion, and carried her to his car which was parked in the alley behind the house. He dumped the body into the boot, went back to the house for the umbrella, suitcase and handbag which he also threw into the boot before quietly easing closed the boot lid. Once again he went back to the house and looked round. He took the cloth he’d used to wipe all the surfaces, soaked it in bleach and wiped the Victorian tiled floor of the hall where Sarah’s body had lain. He rinsed the cloth and gave the floor a final wipe. He looked around checking to see if there was anything he had missed. Satisfied that there was no trace of blood or anything else to suggest that he had been there, he put the cloth into a plastic bag and into his holdall, picked it up and let himself out of the back door, locking it behind him and throwing the key to the ground as he walked away. The whole thing had taken less than thirty minutes.

CHAPTER 4

22nd April

Carolyn’s plane landed at Dulles Airport just before three in the afternoon Washington time. The weather was fine and there was just a hint of warmth left in the air. Immigration was a protracted exercise since 9/11 but eventually she was through into Arrivals where she quickly spotted the sign ‘NOBLE’ held up by a uniformed chauffeur. After the introductions he guided her into a private parking area to a black limousine and they were soon on their way for the twenty-five mile journey into central Washington. It was her first visit to Washington and she looked out of the car window taking in all the sights.

The chauffeur dropped Carolyn off at the impressive entrance to the Watergate Hotel, unloaded her luggage which was whisked away by a bellboy and arranged to pick her up the next day. She walked through the lobby which was full of banners embazoned with the face of a man she wouldn’t buy a used car from. Nothing unusual in that though, she thought that of most public figures.

A fresh-faced, smiling, young, blond man greeted her at Reception.

‘Whatever is going on here?’ she asked. ‘It looks like some kind of convention’.

‘Yes, sorry for the disruption’ he replied. ‘There’s a reception this evening to start the campaign for the mid-term elections to the Senate and Congress. The Democrats are using the hotel today and we have the Republicans next week. We have to be even handed you know’, he added with a mischievous grin and a wink.

It took no time for Carolyn to unpack once in her room. She’d long ago realised that clothes travelled best in a hanging suitcase. Once that was done she phoned the offices of Heinrich and Schaeffer, the Stanton lawyers, to let them know she’d arrived in Washington and would be in their offices at 9.a.m. the following morning to get the discussions under way.

By this time it was approaching six in the evening and Carolyn was hungry. She hadn’t eaten the night before – so immersed was she in deciding what to pack for her trip that when she finally thought of food it was already ten o’clock – far too late for her to eat. She rarely ate on planes; miraculously the air pressure or the lack of activity on a long flight seemed to take away her appetite. Despite Dennison Stewart’s rules that permitted travel in Club Class on long haul flights, she had learned from experience that eating made her feel bloated and uncomfortable. So apart from a breakfast of smoked salmon and scrambled egg, which had been delicious, and a glass of Buck’s Fizz, which was even more delicious and which she hadn’t been able to resist, she’d had nothing. In the flight magazine though she’d read an article about the Aquarelle Restaurant at the Watergate and had decided she must eat there. Almost salivating at the thought she rang Reception and booked a table for dinner at 7.p.m.

****

It never ceased to amaze Carolyn that the Americans dine so early, sometimes as early as 6 p.m. so it was no surprise to see that the restaurant was almost full. The tables were all laid with crisply starched, white, damask cloths and gleamed with silver cutlery and elegant candles. On the centre of each table was an arrangement of primroses. Waiters bustled about unobtrusively, diners chatted noisily and there was a general atmosphere of comfort, conversation and contentment which created a marvellous ambience. The Maitre d’ found for Carolyn a table at the edge of the room from where she could see everything that was going on and handed her a menu almost as big as a family bible. Although she ploughed her way through the menu she already had a fair idea of what she wanted to eat. It had all been set out in the In Flight magazine.

A waiter took the order – Panang coconut curried shrimp to start. Then Duck magret with crispy potato gnocchi and a fricassèe of wild mushrooms and to finish Madagascar vanilla bean creme brulèe with caramel apple marmalade and maple walnut compôte. Yum, Yum she could hardly wait.

While she waited for the first course to arrive she sipped the glass of champagne she’d ordered and looked around the room. Lots of well dressed, no doubt well-heeled, people with plenty of flashing diamonds in evidence. She noticed a rather good looking man intently looking in her direction, nodding and smiling.

‘Oh God no’ she muttered to herself ‘that’s all I need – some guy hoping to round off his evening with a quick seduction. Can’t a girl have a meal alone in peace’. It certainly wasn’t someone she knew – apart