“Not much,” called Bliss, already retreating into the corridor.
Chapter Five
The Dauntsey house radiated an air of neglect that had spread beyond its boundaries, even infecting the twisting lane that took them off the main road. Patterson had failed in his attempt to find a plausible excuse and they bumped their way toward the entrance gate as water-filled ruts snatched at the steering wheel under Bliss’s hands, flinging globs of liquid mud high into the hawthorn hedgerows either side.
A stockade of tall poplars and old oaks surrounded the garden, though a number had been pushed over in past storms and lay, still attached to roots, like guardsmen fainting on a parade ground. A couple of sandstone lions guarding the gates had succumbed to decades of damp and frost and their fierce features had softened like butter on a warm Sunday.
“Is this the right place?” enquired Bliss, fruitlessly searching the brick gate-pillars for a nameplate, correctly guessing that, like the Colonel, the house had no need of a name amongst the locals.
“Yup,” nodded Patterson, and Bliss pulled up just inside the gates to survey the sad looking building.
“Bit of a mess,” he said, summing up the peeled paintwork, spalled brickwork, dislodged slates and overgrown vegetation.
Patterson declined comment as he went off on foot in search of the constable who was supposedly guarding the property, leaving Bliss to insert the heavy iron key in the ancient lock and let himself into the entrance hall.
A treacly layer of combed brown varnish had stuck tenaciously to the woodwork since the 1930s and, as far as Bliss could tell, was the only thing keeping the place glued together. Weakened joists had sagged under the stress of age and screeched in pain as he tiptoed across the desolate hallway in search of the main rooms. Realising he was treading softly, he paused, and stood silently in the middle of the vacuous hall trying to pick up vibes, attempting to assimilate something, anything, from the house’s aura. But, with a slight shiver, he concluded that any warm memories of happier times had dissipated, leaving a physical coldness.
“What warm memories?” he laughed to himself as he moved forward into the house, recalling the few minutes he had just spent with Jonathon Dauntsey in the cell.
Dauntsey’s appearance had degenerated. Two days of stubble darkened his chin and the paper boiler suit had picked up the grubbiness of his cell. Nevertheless, Bliss still found himself ill at ease dealing with the man. It was, he reasoned, a bit like finding your accountant has taken a Saturday job clearing tables at McDonald’s. What on earth would you say? How much should you tip?
“We’d better get you some proper clothes,” started Bliss in a genuinely concerned tone, waving Dauntsey back onto the bare wooden bench.
“Are you trying to soften me up?”
“What?”
“You know the routine, Inspector, surely – good cop, bad cop.”
“You didn’t tell me your father was disabled,” he began, ignoring the jibe.
“Didn’t I?” replied Dauntsey. “I suppose I was always somewhat ashamed of the fact.”
“Ashamed?”
Jonathon Dauntsey buried his face in his hands as if shutting out disturbing memories, then he slowly spread his hands like drawn curtains and revealed a face which was shadowed in pain. “My father couldn’t speak,” he explained. “Not real words – animalistic grunts mainly. Mother seemed to understand him quite well, but it was more a question of mental telepathy and familiarity – like knowing when your dog wants to go for a walk or the cat’s thinking of spewing on the carpet.”
“But he was still your father ...”
“Father,” Dauntsey echoed in a far-away tone. “He was never really a father. He was ...” he paused, scouring the bare cell as if seeking somewhere to hide. “Never mind,” he said eventually and veered off on another tack. “They said he was a hero but you’d think he lost us the bloody war the way the locals treated him. No-one ever came to the house, only the postman and delivery boys. I’d sometimes catch them trying to peep in the windows like we were a freak show. I’d throw pebbles at them as they went down the driveway and make howling noises to scare them off – just revenge.”
“You still haven’t told me what you thought of your father.”
Dauntsey gave him a hard stare. “He was always very angry.”
“Wouldn’t you be if someone had blown half of you away?”
Dauntsey buried his face again.
“You made the reservations at the Black Horse,” said Bliss eventually, realising that Dauntsey had clammed up.
“Did I?”
“That’s what the landlady says.”
“I must have done then.”
“You’re playing games again. Yes or no, Jonathon?”
“Alright. Yes. I made the reservation – so what?”
Bliss bristled at the other man’s smug arrogance and swung on him viciously. “Come on, Jonathon, stop pissing us about. This isn’t a game of hide and seek. Where’s the body? Where is your father?”
“What are we, the bad cop now?”
Forget the decent clothes, thought Bliss, annoyed with himself for allowing Dauntsey to get under his skin. “If that’s the way you want to play it,” he said, then pulled the mangled mounted soldier out of his pocket. “Do you know anything about this?”
Dauntsey hardly glanced at it. “Inspector, there are times when the dead are best left buried. Digging up old skeletons only causes trouble.”
“Trouble or not. That’s what I’m paid to do.”
Jonathon rounded on him. “Well, go and dig up somebody else’s if you don’t mind.”
He’d had enough. “Are you going to tell us where your father’s body is?” he said, his face an inch from the other man’s.
“You really don’t need to know, Inspector. I am fully conversant with the law and I can assure you that the absence of a body does not preclude the successful prosecution of a murderer – go right ahead, charge me.”
Bliss was unprepared for the extent of desolation as he moved through the house. It was much less opulent than he had expected, certainly less than Daphne had led him to believe. Less grand, less stately, less imposing, almost as if it had shrunk with age. He had assumed that Dauntsey may have sold off some of the best pieces, but rectangular splodges of lightness hung on the walls and patterned the floors, poignantly marking the total absence of pictures and furniture. It was, he decided, not unlike visiting a neglected maiden aunt for the first time in years only to discover she’s lost everything – her mind, her looks, her deportment, even her teeth – and has become just a frazzled shell.
Leaning against the fireplace in the main room he ran his fingers meditatively along the ornately carved mantel, viewed the moulded ceilings and panelled walls, and wondered if they retained memories of the more affluent times in which they had been created. Then he circumnavigated the room, tapping the mahogany panelling, speculating on the possibility of hidden doorways or concealed priest’s holes where a body might lurk.
Only the huge old-fashioned kitchen displayed evidence of occupation, where a couple of armchairs, a small television and a nest of tables had been drawn up to the black range and a few other pieces of furniture lined the walls.
Returning to the entrance-hall, Bliss took the grand staircase, marvelling at the turned spindles of the balustrade and the width of the oak rail, but, as he reached the upper landing, he paused warily and checked back down the stairs. “Nothing there,” he said to himself, but couldn’t shake off the feeling