‘Why should that concern your husband? That’s over a hundred years ago. No doubt we’ve all got relatives that have committed crimes, shown weakness in a time of adversity.’
‘The family history of military service. There had been a Montgomery at every major battle for three hundred years before that, an earldom, an estate in the country, wealth and influence.’
‘After the execution?’
‘All gone within five years, ostracised from polite society, reduced to servitude and living in the slums.’
‘Your husband did not grow up under such conditions.’
‘No, but the memory ran deep, the need to hide that shameful past. Stanley is a driven man, not a man to show emotion, but Barry hurt him deeply, and then Matilda not coming home. He became worse, but with me he remained calm, even loving on occasions.’
Larry realised that the woman could not face the reality of her life. He’d leave her with her delusions if it helped to deal with the current situation.
‘The house in Pembridge Mews?’
‘Stanley purchased it for her.’
‘Did you ever visit?’
‘I met Matilda every few months, Stanley never did. In fact, he never saw her again after the problem with Barry.’
‘What about Barry?’
‘Stanley wanted someone to restore the family name. To regain the prestige that it once had. Stanley couldn’t do it, he knew that. He did not have the charisma or the likeability to influence people, but Barry did. Barry was a lovely young man, a true gentleman. He knew the right people, and he would have made a great success of his life.’
‘What happened between your son and his father?’
‘It was the last time with Matilda. Barry was there at the house that she shared. Stanley was insisting that she come home, Matilda resisting. Barry stood up to his father and said no. There was a fight, and Stanley lost. For once Barry had bested him, and my husband could never forgive him, never to allow his name to sully this house.’
‘It was an argument, his son. Surely, with time?’
‘Not to Stanley. To him, Barry was Cecil, the coward, the man who had turned his back on tradition and history, the pariah who had to be expunged at all cost.’
‘Even murder?’
‘I can’t believe that of Stanley.’
‘Why not?’
‘He never raised a hand to the children. He controlled by his voice, his strength of character. He loved Barry, even more than Matilda, and he had been let down.’
‘Had you seen him since?’
‘No. We occasionally spoke on the phone, and Matilda would pass on the news about him. I never saw my son again.’
‘Is there anyone that can stay with you?’ Larry asked.
‘No. Please, I’m fine. I’ve got the television and Stanley will be home later. He’ll be hungry when he comes in. You’ll not keep him for long, will you?’
It was Elaine Sands, the young constable, who spoke first outside the house. ‘The woman’s mentally stunted if she puts up with that,’ she said.
‘Are you convinced that her husband is the saint that she portrays him as?’
‘He’s either Saint Stanley of the Divine Benevolence or the devil incarnate. Personally, I’d go for the latter.’
‘So would I,’ Larry said as he shook hands with the constable. ‘Best of luck, see you around,’ he said. The constable walked back to her police station; Larry got into his car for the drive back to Challis Street.
Chapter 15
Wendy knew she wasn’t going to drive back to London that night. At the head of the table, Geoffrey Bentham was dressed casually, as the butler had said. His wife sat at the other end. Wendy thought that she was the more aristocratic of the two: her high cheekbones, her flawless skin, her elegant figure. In spite of the more than twenty-year difference between mother and daughter, she could have passed as Amelia’s sister.
The butler hovered, ever attentive, ensuring that everyone’s glass was topped up. On the plate in front of Wendy, salmon with all the trimmings. Nothing like the fish and chips she’d sometimes buy on the way home from Challis Street.
‘Best china for you,’ Amelia said.
‘I’m not sure what to say,’ Wendy said. She looked at the array of cutlery, polished to perfection, the tablecloth freshly pressed, the flowers in the middle of the table.
‘Bruce, we can’t stop him,’ Denise Bentham said. ‘We’ve tried enough times to make him sit down with us, but he won’t. Someone’s got to maintain the tradition, I suppose.’
‘I suppose,’ Wendy said, not sure if they did, not caring particularly at the present time.
‘Tell us, Wendy,’ Geoffrey Bentham said. ‘You don’t’ altogether approve of how we live, do you?’
‘It’s not that. I grew up in the north of England. We weren’t poor, not rich either, but it was a loving family. Every day my father would go out into the fields, rain or shine, snow or sleet. And in Yorkshire, up in the dales, most days were not ideal. He never complained, not as long as he could have a pint at the end of the day, a chance to talk about what was wrong with the world, not that he ever saw any of it.’
‘So why the disapproval? If some people have money, either through hard work or being born with a silver spoon in the mouth, would your father have cared, should you?’
‘If a person carves out a good life for themselves through honest hard work, then I’ve no issue. I sometimes wished that my husband had been more ambitious, and I had had the discipline to have educated myself better,
