Stolen (19 page)

“My brother was a pawn in the robbery for the most part. Victor Starkweather came to Philip and convinced him the gold robbery could be done, and that they could also profit from the insurance scam, as well. And so my brother agreed to it.”

“For the money from the art or for the gold?” Michael kept his face impassive.

“Greed makes men reach for things beyond their capabilities, Mr. Graham. It's always been that way. Self-indulgence can bring even the best men down.”

“So Philip Crowe hired Kirkwell to forge the paintings. Once the paintings were transported to Starkweather Mansion, it was probably a simple thing to exchange them for the forgeries he'd commissioned. Starkweather collected his insurance money, the others got what they thought was their art back and Philip and Starkweather sold the originals, the copies he'd had made and the art whose ownership couldn't be identified.”

“Perhaps.” Crowe wore that mocking smile again. “I seriously doubt that will ever be proved. However, for the moment, let's attribute both intelligence and avarice to my grandfather. Let us suppose he thought up his own wrinkle in the scheme to rob that train and found a way to get his hands on several of those valuable paintings and have forgeries made of them beforehand. But you have to wonder why the coal tunnel you followed led to the Starkweather house and not to Crowe's Nest.”

After turning it over in his head for a moment, Michael nodded. Aleister Crowe was right about one thing: it would be hard to establish the story as truth.

“Take away the idea of the robbery, Michael. It's creating tunnel vision, so to speak, and we're losing sight of the murders.” Crowe spoke quietly and confidently. “Open your mind to other possibilities. What else was lost in that train derailment? What else could be at stake even now after all these years? What secret yet remains stubbornly hidden? What would be worth killing over?”

“If you know, tell me.”

Crowe shook his head. “If I had something to impart, I would have days ago when I first visited you and Molly. It would have been easier all around.”

Michael went over everything that had happened over the last week. He kept coming up with one constant that neither he nor Molly could explain.

“Bartholomew Sterling is convinced that your grandfather defrauded his uncle of his paintings.”

“Richard Sterling
was
defrauded. He was the one who owned those paintings. His brother Edward helped in the theft. Richard was a quiet man and not very trusting. Who do you think told my grandfather and Victor Starkweather about Richard's undeclared paintings? For a cut of the profits, of course.”

“Edward Sterling knew your grandfather?”

“Of course. Philip Crowe was a friend of the Sterling family. A good friend.”

“But still a thief.”

A wry smile twisted Crowe's thin lips. “But still a thief. As was Edward Sterling. Bartholomew hasn't the right to be casting stones about the theft of the paintings unless he aims them at his father.”

“Is he aware of that?”

“I believe so.”

“Where are the paintings?”

“Would you believe me if I said I had no idea?”

“Not for a moment.”

“Unfortunate, but that is my answer.”

Ophelia spoke up in a more sedate voice. “As I said, Mr. Graham, my brother was a foolish man. Money found a way into his hands, and it quickly found a way out again. We were blessed that he had such a short life so that he couldn't squander the family fortune.”

Crowe grinned at that, and Michael recalled how Philip Crowe had died in the early 1950s in an automobile accident coming down the mountain from Crowe's Nest. Ac
cording to the newspaper reports, he'd been drinking at the time. Now Michael wasn't so sure.

Casually, Crowe sipped his tea. “Our family has a tendency to take care of its own mistakes.”

Not a cheery thought.
Michael was suddenly colder than ever. He put the tea cup down, then took out his iPhone and opened the photograph files he'd loaded into the memory. He bypassed several of them, stopping only when he had a picture of Edward Sterling.

The man was broad and beefy, with tightly kinked blond hair and malicious eyes. Still, he didn't look like the kind of man who would betray his brother. But if what Aleister Crowe said was true, and Michael didn't have any reason to disbelieve him, then he had.

But to what extent had Edward betrayed Richard?

Michael recalled everything he'd researched about the man. “Edward Sterling lived in his brother's shadow. The family money passed on to Richard because he was the oldest. Edward only had whatever money Richard gave him to live on. Agreeing to the robbery helped him feather his own nest.”

“Exactly.” Crowe nodded.

“But he didn't know about the forgeries your grandfather had made until much later.”

“Edward Sterling obviously wasn't happy about that. If Grandfather had been alive at the time, I very much think Edward Sterling would have killed him.”

“Richard wasn't in on the train robbery. Otherwise he wouldn't have let his daughter ride that train.” Excitement thrilled through Michael as some of the pieces fit together in new ways. It was the same feeling he got when a game scenario started to fall into place.

Crowe nodded again. “Her death was unfortunate.”

“Edward didn't warn his brother about the robbery, or
that the train would be derailed to occupy the military with helping survivors?”

“He probably assumed that his niece would survive. Or maybe he didn't realize she was going to be on board.”

Michael clicked through a few more pictures and settled on one that showed Richard and Constance Sterling together at an event. Then he enlarged a portrait of the couple to check something that had caught his attention for the first time.

In the portrait, Constance Sterling wore a necklace. Michael enlarged the image again until he could see it more clearly. The pendant was a silver rose. It was the same silver rose he had seen Audrey Cloverfield wearing in Kirkwell's drawing of her, and the same silver rose the little girl was wearing in the picture Molly had found. It was also the same silver rose that had been on the cufflinks Bartholomew Sterling had flashed the day he'd met Michael.

Hurriedly, Michael pulled up the picture Simon Wineguard had been so interested in. When he blew it up, he saw that Abigail Whiteshire was wearing the same silver rose-shaped pendant. Or at least one very, very like it.

M
OLLY STUDIED
S
YN
R
ODERICK
and hoped her excitement didn't show. Her mind wouldn't stop playing with all the variables, but she was certain that Syn couldn't have put together everything that Molly suspected. Otherwise the woman wouldn't be here now.
She's on a fishing expedition.

“Why did you come here, Syn?” Molly kept her voice level.

Iris sat up a little straighter, but she didn't say anything.

Syn smiled. “I came here as a last-ditch effort to figure out Simon's secret. You know everyone involved in all this. I decided that if you hadn't figured out what his secret was, perhaps I'd never learn it, either.”

“What secret are you talking about?”

Casually leaning back in her chair, Syn crossed her arms and regarded Molly defiantly. “I'd really hoped we wouldn't be playing games at this point.”

“What do you mean?”

“I'm referring to the significance of the necklace that features so prominently in all those pictures on your board.” Syn's eyes hardened, and for just a moment Molly was afraid of her. Then she pushed the idea from her mind.

“The necklace seems common enough.” Molly's heart beat even faster.

“Does it?” Syn raised an arched brow. “Simon didn't think so.”

“You seem to be more informed than I am. Do share.”

Syn paused. “Simon was…quite reluctant to talk about the specifics of the matter to me. He lured me down here to this backwater town with promises of vengeance and riches. He said he finally had a way to get his revenge on Bartholomew Sterling for his daughter's death. And he claimed that we'd get a payday from it, as well. I was interested in the money, which is why I've funded certain ventures he's undertaken over the last year or so. Bartholomew Sterling has deep pockets.”

Molly remained silent. She thought about the way Simon Wineguard's room had been methodically torn apart, and how his body had been deposited in the bin with a bullet in his head. And Molly thought about the number of people that could have gotten so close to Simon without sending him running for his life. Bartholomew and his bodyguard could never have done such a thing.

“Simon certainly didn't give me any details about any of this.” Molly kept her voice soft, nonthreatening, but she wanted to warn Iris and get the woman out of the room.

“But you know about the necklace.”

Molly shook her head. “I see the necklace in these pictures, but I don't get the significance.”

Syn rummaged in her small bag. For an instant Molly glimpsed the hard metal outlines of a small silver pistol. Her throat dried and she would have bolted from the room if Iris weren't there. Then Syn took a picture from her handbag and handed it to Molly.

The photograph was of a young woman, perhaps in her twenties. She was beautiful and carefree.

“That's Constance Sterling. Do you recognize what's 'round her neck?”

Molly did. It was a silver rose pendant on a chain.

“I don't think Chloe Sterling died that day on the train.” Syn spoke coldly and unemotionally. “Simon was going to give me the evidence. But then he became uncooperative.”

When Molly turned over the photograph Syn had given her, she saw writing across the back. CONSTANCE STERLING, 1938. She recognized the handwriting as Simon's.

“Simon didn't give you this picture.”

“Simon was an idiot.”

“Did he just want the secret for himself? Or did he not trust you?”

Iris rose from her seat. “I should go check the roast in the oven.”

Syn reached into her handbag and brought out the small silver pistol. “Sit back down, Mrs. Dunstead. Or I promise you, I will shoot you. I won't have you spoiling this by calling the police.”

“Iris.” Molly kept her voice calm with great difficulty. “Please do as she says. She killed Simon Wineguard.”

For a moment Molly was afraid that Iris wouldn't sit. The older woman was quite capable of rebellion. Then Iris did as requested.

A mirthless smile twisted Syn's mouth. “You'll never prove that I killed anyone, Molly.”

“Proving a murder isn't my job.” Molly spoke calmly. “That would be the purview of DCI Paddington and his forensics people.”

“I don't think they'll be quite up to the task, actually.”

“Our testimonies might be worth something.” Iris's defiance was like a naked blade gleaming with threat.

“With the barristers I have?” Syn chuckled confidently. “Neither of you would be a challenge to them.”

Molly detested the confidence that the woman exuded.
But something else bothered her. “But you weren't responsible for Abigail Whiteshire's death.”

“The woman killed behind the theater? The one Simon was convinced was Chloe Sterling all grown up?” Syn shook her head. “No. I was on my way to Blackpool at the time.”

“She could have hired the men that killed poor Abigail.” Iris glared at Syn. “It would have been no problem for her to pay a couple toffs to do the job.”

“No. Simon wanted Syn here, but he didn't trust her enough to give her Abigail's name.” Molly was growing more certain of her theory.

“Then who killed Abigail?”

“Someone else.”

“Do you think so?” Syn smiled. “Personally, I wouldn't have put it past Simon. Maybe Mrs. Whiteshire wouldn't go along with him. Or maybe she wanted a bigger cut. Losing his daughter blinded Simon to many things, and it hardened him. He cared for very few people outside his own skin. When he discovered me in his hotel room, I was afraid he was going to kill me. But I was able to get him to follow me out to the alley. That's when he told me he'd gotten Chloe Sterling's identity wrong. It wasn't Abigail Whiteshire at all. But he refused to give me any more information and I realized he was going to cut me out of whatever scheme he had planned. I had crossed the line in his mind.”

“Simon wasn't a murderer. He wanted revenge, but not at that cost.”

“Are you so certain?” Syn's tone mocked Molly.

“Simon didn't try to kill you to protect his secret.”

Syn smiled. “Perhaps, if this ever comes out, that would be a better way to deal with that particular situation. Self-defense. After all, Simon was quite beside himself with grief over his daughter, and he drank more than he should
on several occasions. His toxicology from that morning will show he'd been drinking. I'll check with my barrister—if it should come to that.”

“So why did you come to see me, Syn?”

“Because I still don't know who Chloe Sterling is.” She adjusted the jacket in her lap. “Like you, I went in search of Audrey Cloverfield. I wasn't able to find her as quickly as you did. But I do have barristers that have a way to ferret out information that I want. I'll wager I know things about Miss Cloverfield that you don't.”

Molly said nothing. She wished her mobile wasn't in her desk. She wished Syn hadn't brought a gun. She wished Michael was there, and just as quickly was glad that he wasn't.

“For instance, were you aware that Miss Cloverfield sent money to a barrister here in Blackpool every month after the train wreck?”

“No.”

“Why, do you suppose, would Miss Cloverfield feel compelled to send that money?”

“You mean you don't know? With all those barristers at your beck and call?”

“Unfortunately, the one Audrey used has passed away and no one can quite remember where his records are.” Syn shrugged. “Perhaps, if I had time, I could find someone to locate them for me. Unfortunately, I don't have time. You and Michael have kept pressing, and now—with Audrey Cloverfield's murder—the police investigations have intensified. So I came to you.”

“You have more information than I do.”

Syn shook her head. “Ah, but you can lead me right to Chloe Sterling.”

“That little girl died on the train.”

“No, she didn't.” Syn pointed at the image of Audrey
Cloverfield on the train. “Miss Cloverfield is wearing the necklace there. She'd been hired by Constance Sterling to care for her child. At the time, Audrey had been more or less an orphan herself. She was raised by an alcoholic mother and very demanding grandmother by all accounts. Miss Cloverfield's ties to the Sterling family were deep. She continued to be Chloe Sterling's nanny even after Constance died.”

“Then why would she hide Chloe Sterling in Blackpool?”

“Stop delaying! Take me to her. Three of those women were all adopted orphans from the train. I need to choose the right one, and I have precious little time.”

“I'm not sure where to—”

Syn shifted the pistol over to Iris. “If you don't, I'm going to shoot Mrs. Dunstead.”

“You wouldn't dare.” Iris glared at the younger woman.

“Actually, I would. The economy has been unfriendly of late, and I've not been as careful as I should have with my investments. The money I can get from blackmailing Bartholomew Sterling would offset a great many of those losses.” Syn shrugged. “Trust me. Getting off for murdering your friend—and you—would be much easier than dealing with the financial pressure I'm currently facing.” She focused on Molly but she kept the pistol leveled at Iris. “Now what's it to be, Molly?”

 

“I'
VE GOT TO GO.”
M
ICHAEL
stood and put the iPhone away.

Ophelia Crowe looked confused and slightly miffed. “We haven't finished talking.”

“And I say we have.” Michael kept his voice firm.

“We need to come to some agreement, Mr. Graham.”

“I believe we have, Miss Crowe. I don't care for you, and I doubt you care very much for me. For the moment, that suits.”

Crowe stood, as well. “Where are you going?”

“Out.” Michael left, squishing across the carpeted areas to the main door.

Long minutes later—too long—Michael opened the door of his Land Rover and slid behind the wheel. His breath ghosted out before him in rapid bursts from the awkward run through the woods back to the train station where he'd left his car. He'd fully expected Aleister Crowe to trail after him, but no one did. Maybe the Crowes were ready to concede their losses and be done with things.

The Land Rover started with a twist of the ignition and the thrum of the powerful engine vibrated throughout the interior. Michael slipped the vehicle in gear and drove a mile till he had reception on his mobile. He punched in Molly's number and got her answering service.

“Molly. It's me.” Michael steered across the potholed back trail that led to the area where the robbery had occurred. “We have to talk. I know what's at stake. I know what Simon Wineguard was trying to discover.” He shifted gears and gained speed. Mud from the spinning tires thudded against the tire flaps. “Chloe Sterling is still alive. Or was at some time. It's the pendant, Molly. That silver rose pendant that's in all the pictures. It belonged to Constance Sterling.”

The Land Rover bottomed out in a small creek for just a moment. Michael fought for traction and kept going.

“That's what this is all about. If Chloe Sterling's alive, she's the rightful inheritor of the Sterling fortune. Not Bartholomew. That's why he's come sniffing around. Simon Wineguard must have threatened him with disclosing that.”

Down in a small valley, Michael lost the mobile signal. He cursed and put the phone in the passenger seat, then concentrated on his driving as the Land Rover slewed dangerously near out of control.

It's all right. Molly is fine.
Michael blinked as the windshield wipers fought with the muddy water that exploded up from the potholes.
Just keep it on the road.

But the fact that Molly hadn't picked up when he'd called filled him with dread.