D. Mitchell: The King of Terrors

My troubles increased when my poor wife succumbed to cancer, and though I had a daughter at this time, the loss of my wife was hard for me to bear. I was in danger of slipping once again into remorse and self-pity, traits I abhor in myself but which lurk like twin beasts forever behind me waiting to pounce.

What helped me climb out of the slough of despond I was slipping into was an approach by the BBC to dramatise a number of cases I had worked upon throughout my career. I had many successful cases to report and was glad of the opportunity to set the record straight. The resulting serialisation was entitled The Casebook of Inspector Rayne of the Yard , and I was thrilled to hear it for the first time on the radio, though I do feel they rather gave my achievements, and even my voice, a touch too much of the heroic. But if I am to be honest I fancied I basked quite self-indulgently in the brief but glorious limelight. In truth the fees did help pad out the old pension.

Yet even to the last the Body in the Barn bedevilled me. I had been careful not to make the same mistake twice and hadn’t divulged anything to the dramatists about the case but that which was officially sanctioned at the time. No one had ever been brought to trial for Jimmy Tate’s murder, so effectively it was still open. I assumed with so little to go on they’d simply omit it from the run. Yet my radio series ended upon this very case. They used whatever material they had to hand, some of it total balderdash and used for effect rather than accuracy. They included the accounts of local villagers to pad out the so-called facts, and as they were as ignorant of the majority of these as the rest of the population it proved to be a sad end to a rather gratifying series, not least because it finished with my dismal failure to solve this one crime. I felt it wiped away my other career successes, though the BBC pointed out that it added a touch of drama; people do like a mystery that remains a mystery.

I cursed Jimmy Tate for ever soiling my life with his death. It was, and still remains, the bane of my life, the one thing I am remembered for not doing.

At the height of my radio fame (and alas, as is the way with fickle fame it burnt brightly for but a short interlude in my life) I was asked to attend numerous parties and functions. Most of these I kindly declined as it is not in my nature to position myself at the centre of attention, but one in particular I graciously accepted and that was to dinner at Gattenby House. As it transpired the invitation would have curious consequences, and not least because of what happened afterwards to Miss Evelyn Carter and how this prompted me to revisit the case of The Body in the Barn, with surprising, and one might say astonishing and bizarre conclusions.

But I step ahead of myself. It was 1939, and you probably ask what was so special about Gattenby House that should winkle me from my shell of natural reserve? Well, in a word, friendship. I first met the owner of this massive country pile, Simon Lambert-Chide, as a young man of twenty-four serving as a lieutenant in France. Quiet, generous to a fault, he was the perfect foil to the overly brash, confident character of my youth. Our first meeting was inauspicious; it was in Neuve Chapelle, in the middle of a burrowed-out haystack we were using as an observation post to watch the German trenches. He looked like a scarecrow, with bits of straw attaching itself to his uniform. He politely offered me a mug of tea.

I soon discovered that he had a solid reputation amongst the men; they respected, one might even say loved him, like no other officer. I beheld it for myself, observing him dreadfully cut up at the loss of any of his men, no matter what mean social strata they hailed from. I saw him visibly shaken when having to write letters to wives, sweethearts and mothers about the loss of a loved one. He was a thoroughly decent chap. After the war, though we earnestly vowed to write to one another, like so many early friendships we lost contact as civvy life, and more pressing matters, overtook us.

I did follow his progress from time to time, his name cropping up in the newspapers or society journals of the time. He came from a relatively wealthy family, but made his own fortune in the burgeoning petrochemical industry, and as such inhabited an altogether higher and more rarefied echelon of society than did I, what with novelists, artists, playwrights and movie stars turning up at his gates. A lowly and jobbing Detective Inspector was no comparison.

I naturally thought our two worlds would remain in separate orbits till I received a letter from him, which concluded with a warm invitation for me to attend dinner at Gattenby House. In the letter he told me he had met the most beautiful and sweetest of women, whom he had asked to be his wife. He had heard my exploits on the radio and expressed most fondly that he would love to see me again. I could not resist such an invitation. I had read that, like my own, his first wife Elizabeth had died tragically and I was happy for him that he had found another companion. His letter was undeniably buoyant, one could say bubbling with a kind of unrestrained, youthful excitement, the tenor of which passed to me and helped revive my flagging spirits.

I had seen photographs of Gattenby House, but I was not prepared for the sheer size or opulence of the place. In one respect I found my memories of the unassuming Simon and the rather stately pile difficult to reconcile, but, I conceded, time and circumstance change us all. He was, though, pretty much as I remembered him, as effusive as ever as he pumped my hand up and down in greeting. He looked desperately concerned about my leg, and asked after my wounds. I told him that I was fine, though it secretly pained me greatly to walk, and he observed this and quietly took my arm and led me slowly and proudly into his house.

‘Evelyn is in the shelter,’ he said. ‘It is a spot by the lake where she likes to sit and read,’ he explained. ‘She does a lot of reading; beautiful mind as well, old chap!’ He smiled. ‘Once you are settled you will have to meet her.’

The shelter, as he called it, was a large open building in white stucco, its portico held up by four massive pillars. There was a long stone seat covered by wooden laths and cushions, and sat on these, in a pool of sunlight thrown in through a glazed arched window, I first saw Evelyn Carter, her attention riveted to the book she was reading.

She was indeed pretty; dark haired, smooth complexion, slender arms snaking from a light summer dress, her delicate lips bearing just the shadow of a smile. To my surprise she was a good ten or fifteen years his younger, but I could tell instantly why he was so smitten with her. She looked up on seeing us approach.

‘Simon, you should have sent word; I would have come to the house.’ She rose from the seat, her eyes glancing at my stick and the way I hobbled over the lawn.

‘Thomas wanted to see the garden,’ he replied. ‘Thomas, this is my fiance, Evelyn Carter; Evelyn, I’d like you to meet the dearest friend a man could ever wish for.’

‘I am delighted to meet you, Mr Rayne. Simon has told me so much about you.’

‘Please, call me Thomas,’ I insisted. She had a quiet air of confidence about her, but I found it rather difficult to read what was behind those alluring eyes of hers.

‘Soon to be Evelyn Lambert-Chide, of course!’ Simon piped up, a ring to his voice as he said it.

He was clearly in love with her and my initial qualms over their age difference melted away; half an hour in their company and their relationship seemed as natural as the air we breathed. She too appeared genuinely besotted with Simon, and I felt they made a real pair of turtledoves. It brought to my mind the many days of happiness shared with my own wife. Other people’s joy, I have discovered, is a double-edged sword.