He gave the driver a generous tip and watched him leave, then used the stone wall as an aid to make his way toward the lodge gates. The magnificent house loomed dark and silent as he walked to the kitchens, counting each step. He made it into the house and up to his bedroom, then lay down on the French quilt, his head resting on the rolled satin cushions with their gold tassels. The pink cherubs danced on the ceiling above him, their fingers outstretched. A white marble bust of his great-great-great-grandfather stood at the window. Lord Alexander Westbrook, his periwig curling to his shoulders, stared down at him with his sightless eyes. Westbrook gave a soft sigh of satisfaction. He was home, just in time to die.
Westbrook’s body was discovered the next day by an elderly cleaning lady. By the time the doctor was called, two family retainers, now hired as cleaners by the commercial ice-cream company who rented the estate, had removed his soiled clothes and washed his body. They had called the police, who arrived with sirens screaming, as the doctor finished his examination.
The body was taken to the mortuary and an autopsy performed. The cancer that had been seeping through him had rendered his heart and lungs useless. When the body was released, one of the old retainers provided the funeral home with his lordship’s uniform and sword. They felt it only fitting that he should be laid out in his uniform, even though he had been disowned by his regiment. He was Lord Westbrook, after all. His dress uniform had been on display in the hall for visitors. His family was summoned to England for the funeral. His soiled garments were taken by the police to be examined, and the retainers were questioned but released without charge.
Westbrook made headlines again, but he had left the police without clues. He had thrown away anything that might link him to the robbery or to Pamela. He died knowing that the Colonel would be impressed by his tenacity and care. But then he had always been a true gentleman.
De Jersey lowered The Times and allowed himself an appreciative smile. The article stated that Westbrook had died of natural causes, and his death was not being treated as suspicious. He had heard no word of Sylvia Hewitt, and nothing had appeared about her in any of the papers. He took this as a good sign. In fact, although the newspapers still carried front-page articles about the hunt, he sensed that they might be in the clear. He was not stupid enough to think everything the police uncovered would be handed to the journalists, but at the same time, five days after the robbery, they had not arrested anyone and did not appear close to doing so. Still, the daily requests for information regarding Philip Simmons, the artists’ sketches and computer pictures posed some risk to him. He just hoped that all links between him and Simmons had been destroyed.
De Jersey continued his usual business on the estate, exercising the horses and discussing the future racing programs with Fleming. He was attentive to Christina, who seemed less anxious about their situation now that he was at home with her. As in the rest of the country, there were many discussions in the yard about the robbery, but eventually interest died down as the flat season got under way.
After going through a gamut of emotions, Helen Lyons had decided to telephone her sister. For all her faults, Sylvia was the only family she had, and Helen was lonely. Her friend in Devon had suggested that she try to sort out her finances and visit her sister, hinting that Helen had overstayed her welcome.
Sylvia, however, appeared to be away, or at least was not answering her phone. The office confirmed what Christina de Jersey had told her, that Sylvia was still possibly in New York. When she had not heard from her sister after a week, Helen caught a train from Devon, then took a taxi to St. John’s Wood. She still had her own key to Sylvia’s apartment. She unlocked the front door. “Sylvia,” she called, “… it’s Helen.”
She entered the apartment and stepped over a stack of mail. As she walked into the drawing room, she noticed a pungent smell. Sylvia’s body lay on the sofa. Helen ran to the caretaker’s apartment. The caretaker didn’t know what to do. Sylvia was obviously dead and had been so for some time, but they called the doctor anyway.
When the doctor turned up, he confirmed what they already knew and said that they would not know how she had died until a postmortem had been conducted. He called the police, and a young, uniformed officer took a statement from him and Helen. There was no sign of a break-in, and no items were missing or disturbed.
Helen had to wait for the body to be removed to the mortuary. She opened all the windows to get rid of the stench. There seemed no real reason for her to leave, and she discovered all the documents regarding the insurance on her home neatly stacked in a drawer of Sylvia’s desk. She also found Sylvia’s will and learned that she was the main beneficiary. The apartment was now hers, but until she took it over legally she would stay in the spare room where she had slept before.
There were some unanswered questions in the police investigation into Sylvia Hewitt’s death, and the case remained open. The suspicion of suicide seemed to be confirmed when the postmortem revealed a heavy presence of morphine. What perturbed the pathologist, however, was the additional presence of ketamine. Helen was dumbfounded by this and collapsed in tears. The young sergeant sitting opposite her had to wait a considerable time before he could continue to question her.
Helen told him that it was incomprehensible that anyone could have wanted Sylvia dead, but it was possible she had taken her own life. “In the last couple of days, before I left her, I’ve learned that she lost a considerable amount of money on a bad investment deal,” she said. “It was connected to my husband.” Then the story of the affair tumbled out. Perhaps Sylvia had taken her own life after losing David, her savings, and her sister. She had also told her employers that she would not be coming into work.
Helen was asked if she knew of anyone who had seen her sister during the past two weeks, but she did not. The police, still dissatisfied, began to check phone calls Sylvia had made or received on the evening of her death. They also questioned friends and work colleagues. No one else they spoke to felt that Sylvia would have taken her life, and they told the officers of her trip to New York. This tallied with the last phone call Sylvia had made, to a private detective named Matheson in New York City. When Detective Sergeant Jon Fuller contacted him, Matheson was shocked. He explained that he had been hired by Miss Hewitt to trace a man called Alex Moreno, who they believed was involved in a fraud. He was also aware she had lost a considerable amount of money.
“Did she sound depressed?” Fuller asked.
“No, far from it,” he told them. “She was very positive because she had traced the man she believed could help her regain some of her losses.”
“Did Miss Hewitt give this man’s name?”
“Philip Simmons.”
“Did you know him?”
“I never met him, but I knew he had been in New York recently. In fact, we thought he was still here. He was Moreno’s business adviser. Miss Hewitt also said everything was going well and she no longer needed my services.”
“Do you have any idea where Simmons would be?”
“No. As I said, I never met him, but I think he was Canadian.”
Fuller’s report was passed to his superior and placed on file. He had concluded that, although it was probably suicide, Miss Hewitt’s death still seemed suspicious. Why would a woman committing suicide with morphine and ketamine bother to clean her kitchen before she died, leaving no trace of how she had consumed the drugs? Why was there no suicide note? He also wanted to speak to the person who may have been the last to see her alive: Philip Simmons, the name entered and underlined three times in her desk diary for a 6:00 P.M. meeting on the day she died. As yet they had found no trace of him in her address books or office files.