With Intent to Murder: An Inspector Max Hamilton Mystery

By Xlibris US

It was in the early spring of 1938 in the township of St. Basil when Inspector Maxwell Hamilton was summoned to Hemstead Manor, the large estate of the Hemstead family. Squire Cyril Hemstead was found in his bed with multiple stab wounds. The ivory-handled carving knife was still protruding from the dead mans back when he was discovered by the housekeeper.

The conversation in the homes and pubs took an abrupt turn from the fear of an upcoming war to the fear that someone was living among them who was a murderer. The good people of St. Basil all agreed: it had to a stranger. No one they knew would do such an evil thing.

Max Hamilton began his investigation with the unfortunate duty to find the killer even if it was one of them. It was as if the roof of Hemstead Manor was torn off causing the walls to collapse leaving everything exposed, all the scandals and secrets buried long ago were unearthed for all to see.

Miss Heloise Hemstead, the spinster daughter of the squire, Cora Brown, a distant cousin who was a constant companion of the middle-aged squire, Dorothy Hemstead, a.k.a. Kate Purcell, a successful businesswoman and the estranged wife of the deceased, Harry Morgan, proprietor of The George, a pub and inn, the center of social life in St. Basil, and lastly, Robbie Pitts, the gardener and handyman for the Hemsteads and Mrs. Brown are the characters in this tragedy. They play their roles while Inspector Max Hamilton tries to discover how he can put an end to the mystery.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jun 3, 2014
• ISBN: 9781499028249

Book preview

With Intent to Murder

An Inspector Max Hamilton Mystery

A Novel by Arlene Rubens Balin

Copyright © 2014 by Arlene Rubens Balin.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 08/21/2014

Xlibris LLC

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

619375

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Epilogue

I

dedicate this book to my six children and their spouses and my eight grandchildren, John, Lucia, Greg, Kathleen, Paul, Izumi, Phyllis, Marc, Richard and Kit, Patrick, Emily, John, Zoe, Sidney, Cooper, Hayato and Marshall. I thank my husband, Kon for his patience and those who read the first drafts of this book, Joanna Pitts in London, Marian Walsh and Karen Collins, dear friends in northern California and Diana Tolpegin. A special thanks to my editor, John Matthew Rubens, a better writer than I will ever be.

St. Basil is a small township in the West Midlands close to Sheffield and about two hours by train to London. On April 15, 1938, a mystery unfolded that would be remembered for many years by the residents of the pretty little village.

Chapter One

Three days of heavy rain had cleansed the cobblestone streets, washed the leaves of the trees, and started life anew. Everything sparkled as the morning sun rose.

Chief Inspector Max Hamilton decided to walk on such a fine day and left for the station on foot. Constable Will Kane, who was manning the telephone, was speaking excitedly as Max entered.

Calm down, Miss, the inspector just arrived, he said to the caller. Inspector, it’s the housekeeper at Hemstead Manor. She says the squire has been murdered!

Max took the receiver. This is Chief Inspector Hamilton.

Chief Inspector, this is Ellen Kelly, the housekeeper for the Hemstead family. You have got to come right away! Squire Hemstead is dead! Murdered in his own bed, he was. Terrible. I went up to wake him, and there he was lyin’ there with a knife stickin’ out of his back. Poor Miss Heloise is in a state of shock.

I’ll be right there, Miss Kelly. Don’t touch anything. Stay out of the squire’s room.

Will, come with me. I’ll call Dr. Woodhouse to meet us at the manor. What are you looking at? Hurry up, man.

Constable Kane put on his hat and hurried out to get the police car.

Let’s go, laddie, and step on it.

Hemstead Manor was about two kilometers from the center of town.

I will never understand the human condition, said the inspector, thinking aloud. Look around us, Will. Why would someone find it necessary to kill another human being in a place such as this? I don’t understand it and I never will, never.

Set back from the road on a knoll with Italian cypress trees lining the driveway, the stately red brick manor house loomed. It was designed and built to look like it has been there for centuries, but in reality, it was built less than a hundred years ago.

The land surrounding Hemstead Manor was not as sizable as the really important country estates of the English upper class because the Hemstead clan was not quite in that tier of English society, but all the trappings of wealth and prestige were still there. The kennels were now empty and the carriage house near a large barn had been converted to garages. The outbuildings were situated in the back of a high, carefully trimmed privet hedgerow.

Now that a murder has taken place, the Hemstead family’s privileged privacy was a thing of the past. It was as if the roof had now been torn off, leaving everything inside exposed for all to see. Murder has a way of collapsing the walls that separate the upper class from the rest of us.

Miss Kelly who had called the station opened the paneled oak door and led the two policemen into the drawing room. Heloise Hemstead sat on one of the dark green settees flanking the cavernous fireplace in which a fire was softly burning.

Miss Heloise, Chief Inspector Hamilton is here, announced the housekeeper.

Heloise turned her head and rose to meet the policeman. She said nothing.

I am so sorry for your loss, Miss Hemstead. Dr. Woodhouse, will be here any minute. I know this will be most difficult for you, but would you direct me to your father’s room?

Heloise Hemstead was a woman who looked like a child, but she was well into her twenties. Small in stature with a boyish figure, she was what most people would consider a plain woman. Her light brown hair was straight and parted to the side and held back with a tortoiseshell clip. She wore a tweed skirt with an ecru silk blouse under a brown cardigan jumper. On her small feet were heavy brogues. Her thin lips barely opened as she answered the policeman.

Of course, Chief Inspector. Heloise stood. She walked slowly out of the room into the hall and up the broad staircase followed by Inspector Hamilton and Constable Kane and stopped at the first door on the left side of the corridor. The door was closed, and Heloise hesitated before opening it. She then turned the doorknob, and as the door opened, a bright blast of light flooded the hallway.

Miss Hemstead, it is not necessary for you to come in. Constable, follow me. The two men walked into the sunlit bedroom and saw the body of Squire Cyril Hemstead, an ivory-handled knife protruding from his back where several other knife wounds were visible. His skin was drained of natural color and replaced with a yellowish waxy sheen contrasting with the dark-red blood stains on the white bed linen. Max took out his notebook and began to write. No sign of struggle. The dead man’s eyes are closed, and the expression on his face is peaceful as if he were having a pleasant dream. Not much blood for this kind of attack. Odd.

At that moment, Dr. Woodhouse arrived. Who would have imagined the mighty Squire Cyril Hemstead ending up like this? His assistant was taking photographs of the scene while he examined the body.

Andrew, when do you think the man was killed? He is cold as marble.

It’s hard to tell, but from the degree of rigidity, I would guess between one and five in the morning. That is just an estimate at this point. I am afraid I am not an expert on deaths of this sort. I will know more after the autopsy.

I will leave you to do your work, said Max and left the crime scene.

The two policemen went back downstairs to question Miss Hemstead and her housekeeper. They found the two women back in the main parlor. Ellen was setting up the tea service with three cups and a plate of scones. When she was finished, she started to leave the room.

If you would please remain, Miss Kelly. Thank you. Miss Hemstead, began Max, unfortunately I must ask you and Miss Kelly some questions. I understand Miss Kelly discovered your father. Is that correct?

Heloise glanced at her housekeeper. That is correct, Inspector. Ellen, perhaps you should tell the inspector what you saw.

Ellen Kelly began speaking slowly, The squire was usually still in his bed when I arrived, and today was no different. He was always awake by eight o’clock and expected his mornin’ tray of tea and muffins to be brought up to him. I was at his door as usual and knocked, and surprised not to hear his permission to enter, so I knocked again, this time a little louder, still no answer. So I opened the door and entered the room, which was dark because the curtains were still closed. That in itself was unusual as the squire opened the curtains himself before I brought in his tray. He liked the room to be open to the mornin’ light. Well, I saw he was still asleep, or so I thought, and put down the tray and opened the curtains. That is when I saw him lyin’ in a puddle of blood. Horrible! I must have screamed because Miss Heloise came runnin’ up the stairs and told me to call you, Chief Inspector.

Thank you, Miss Kelly. It will be necessary for you to come down to the station house to sign a written statement. I am sorry to have to ask you to stay close to home until all this is sorted out. You have been most helpful.

The middle-aged housekeeper turned, pulled her large handkerchief out of her apron pocket, blew her substantial nose, and left the room.

Would you care for some tea? The scones are fresh, asked Heloise.

Yes, thank you, said the inspector.

And you, Constable?

That would be nice, Miss. Thank you.

Noting the fact that the daughter of the murdered man had not shed a tear and was calmly offering tea as if he was a social caller, Inspector Hamilton took a breath. He then continued, Where is your bedroom in relation to your father’s?

My room is on the other side of the corridor at the end.

And you heard nothing at all?

Nothing. I was not feeling well, and I retired earlier than I normally do. Cora Brown, a distant cousin and a close friend of the family, was kind enough to give me a sleeping powder so I could get a restful night’s sleep. She has been most helpful since my grandmother died. I suppose you already have heard that Cora has been a companion of my father for some time.

I am afraid I do not spend much time with those who would tell me such things, said the inspector.

You must be the only person in St. Basil that does not relish gossip. To continue with the answer to your question regarding my father, he made it his practice to go out after we finished our evening meal. He did not like to listen to the radio or read as I did. He preferred going to The George where he could talk about politics and such.

What time did he usually arrive home?

Different times, but almost always after I was asleep. It was upsetting to me that he sometimes, well most of the time, would have a bit too much to drink and would forget to set the latch. He always entered through the servants’ entrance. No matter how many times I asked him to check the lock before he went to bed, he would forget. I suppose that is how the person that killed my father got into the house.

It would seem so. Is Miss Kelly your only servant? If you do not mind my saying, this is quite a large house for one person to maintain.

My father thoroughly disliked servants living in the house. We used to have a full staff of servants living in the manor when my grandmother was alive, but after her passing, my father let them all go and told me to hire outside help only when needed. Ellen comes in every day from seven in the morning until seven in the evening. She is a decent cook and most of the rooms in the house are not used, so there is normally not a lot of daily cleaning required. We have a crew of gardeners, but I tend the roses. Robbie Pitts, who is my special gardener, has put together a wonderful mixture of compost from our kitchen and cuttings and fertilizer. We have the loveliest roses in this part of the country. The Dainty Maid and the Belle Isis are two of my favorites. They are just starting to bud. Do you like roses, Chief Inspector?

I do, but I am afraid I do not have the patience or the time for serious gardening. Max Hamilton again paused thinking how strange this little person was speaking about roses when her father lay in a bloody bed upstairs.

He cleared his throat and continued, I assume your father had business interests and investments. We will need to look into his finances as part of our investigation.

Would you like me to show you my father’s study? He spent most of the day there. It was his inner sanctum. He was never to be disturbed while he was working.

I would appreciate all the help you can give.

The three walked across the foyer and into a wood-paneled room with bookcases floor to ceiling on three sides. The fourth side was a large bay window looking out to a wide expanse of rosebushes and lawn. The late squire’s desk was in front of the window facing