The Death Messenger (Matthew Ryan Book 2)(24)

‘Enchanting.’ O’Neil pocketed her phone as she climbed in, not bothering to strap herself in on the private road. ‘You like?’

‘If it was on a beach, it would be perfect.’ Ryan glanced at the mansion again. ‘I’d rather have the remains of Dunstanburgh Castle.’ He could see that historical monument from the tiny front garden of his coastal home. It sat on a remote Northumberland headland with an unparalleled view over the North Sea. Derelict or not, that was one property he wouldn’t mind owning. The image faded from his mind, the mansion in full focus now. ‘I wonder what will happen to this place. Trevathan is unmarried. There are no children to inherit his wealth.’

‘He’s a lawyer, Ryan. I’m sure he’ll have made a will.’

‘Yeah, but in whose favour?’

‘That’s an action waiting for attention right there. I’m pleased I’m not responsible for the death duty.’

‘Maybe we should be looking at the taxman.’ Ryan started the car and pulled away, heading for the house.

It was a relief to stretch their legs after four hours in the car. The air was cold and crisp, the sky clear and blue. Ryan would much rather have taken O’Neil for a walk down to the Loch or a wander through the woods, but he could feel her haste as she mounted the steps to the impressive front door, hobbling ever so slightly. She was keen to get inside and find that briefcase.

Catching up with her, he pressed the bell and heard it ring inside the house. Almost before he’d taken his hand away, Mrs Forbes, Trevathan’s petite and smartly dressed housekeeper, opened the door. Her eyelids were red, her face haggard and lined beyond her forty-nine years.

‘Mrs Forbes?’ Ryan offered up ID. ‘We spoke on the phone earlier. I’m DS Matthew Ryan.’ He gestured towards his guv’nor. ‘This is Detective Superintendent O’Neil. May we come in?’

The housekeeper ushered them inside as if they were under surveillance.

The entrance hall was extraordinary, with centuries-old stone flags on the floor, chocolate-coloured wood panelling adorning the walls, designed to impress visitors. At the same time, it was exceptionally warm and welcoming. At the top of an imposing staircase, life-sized portraits of three judges in ceremonial dress were displayed proudly, testament to the judge’s formidable ancestry and legal credentials.

Pointing out which one was her former employer, Mrs Forbes lapsed into uncontrollable weeping.

Excusing herself, she turned and fled the hallway.

Almost immediately, a tall, sturdy man with a stony face arrived in her place. He introduced himself as Trevathan’s gillie, explaining that he was also Mr Forbes. Apologizing for his wife’s hysterics, he pointed through an open door, inviting them to wait in his master’s study, then disappeared, presumably to comfort or chastise his wife, whose weeping echoed from the passage beyond.

O’Neil rolled her eyes at Ryan, eager to get on.

Two French doors overlooked the garden. O’Neil walked towards them, taking in herbaceous borders and the loch shimmering in the distance, hardly a ripple on the surface of the water. As she turned to face him, Ryan could see she was in awe of the place.

Her eyes settled on something over his shoulder. She pointed at the wall behind him. Ryan swung round to find a second painting of Trevathan hanging over a striking fireplace, this one much less formal. The judge was staring at them, a steely gaze under a green flat cap. Dressed in a tweed shooting jacket, breeks, woollen socks and sturdy black shoes, he was standing beside flowing water, a shotgun cocked over one arm, a gundog by his side.

‘I wonder if that’s the same dog he had with him when he died,’ O’Neil said.

‘It’s a fine dog.’

‘Looks like he’s smiling.’

‘They all do.’

Ryan knew dogs, Labrador Retrievers in particular. Caroline had owned a succession of guide dogs since she was a kid, each one remembered fondly and preserved in photographs she would never see. Ryan was eager to catch up with her. He hoped her case was going well.

A knock drew his attention.

The door swung open and Mrs Forbes entered, apologizing for her lack of self-control. Ryan invited her to sit. She perched awkwardly on the edge of an antique armchair as if she’d never sat down in the study in all the years she was in the judge’s employ. The superintendent took a seat opposite, her DS standing directly behind her.

‘Mrs Forbes, it’s our understanding that Lord Trevathan left Cornwall early to collect a briefcase for an important trial,’ O’Neil began.

‘So I understand. I was on holiday.’

‘We believe it may contain vital information that will aid the investigation into his death. Do you still have possession of it?’

A flash of panic crossed the housekeeper’s face. The detectives had their answer before the woman opened her mouth.

O’Neil pushed her: ‘Mrs Forbes?’

‘No.’ Her voice was croaky, hardly audible, as if her ability to speak was shutting down. ‘It was collected,’ was all she managed to say.

‘By whom?’

‘Someone from his chambers.’

‘Someone?’ O’Neil wanted specifics.

‘They didn’t give a name.’

‘There was more than one person?’

‘Two. One male, one female.’