‘Of course, and I’ll cooperate fully. Whatever you want to know. I’m an open book.’
‘We’ll need to talk to Ethan if he was the last person at Chidlow House to see them,’ Morgan said.
‘Ethan said he thought they were heading to the local pub, but they didn’t want him to tag along. He doesn’t know if they were meeting anyone. I’m sure you’ll get more out of him, but that’s the basic gist of things. They were all dressed up, lots of makeup, that sort of thing.’ He paused, then sighed again. ‘It really is most unfortunate.’
‘We’ll need to talk to the owner of the property,’ Karen said.
‘Oh, I see. We’ve only just managed to persuade Lord Chidlow to open up his amazing venue to us. I’m not sure he’ll want to continue at Christmas now. We had another week of intensive study planned then.’
‘Lord Chidlow is the owner,’ Morgan clarified for Karen’s benefit.
‘Yes, that’s right. Lord Edward Chidlow. His family have owned the house since the fifteenth century, or at least the land the house is now built on. Of course, it’s changed quite considerably over the years.’ Doyle gestured around. ‘The current house was constructed in 1712. Some of it was pulled down in the 1890s but renovated in the same style as the original.’
‘And is Lord Chidlow here?’ Karen asked.
‘He is. I’d prefer we didn’t disturb him, or at least minimally if that’s at all possible.’
‘We will need to talk to him, Mr Doyle,’ Morgan said.
‘I fully appreciate that. It’s just, well . . . he’s a busy man – an important man – and I’d really like this whole mess to disrupt things as little as possible.’
‘I’m sure you would, but as we’ve already said, our priority is locating the girls – and to do that we’re going to have to talk to everybody who was here last night,’ Karen said, losing patience with Graham Doyle.
She didn’t care about the profitability of the programme. Two seventeen-year-olds could be in trouble and they had been missing for ten hours before anyone noticed.
Doyle looked at Karen as though she’d asked him to walk into a lion’s den. His face screwed up, and he pressed a hand to his forehead. Why was he so reluctant for them to talk to the owner of the house? Was Edward Chidlow some kind of tyrant?
‘Perhaps you could talk to him later, after I . . . I’ve had time to explain things to him,’ Doyle said, stuttering. ‘I think he’s very busy at the moment.’
Karen narrowed her eyes. ‘Actually, I’d prefer we spoke to him right now please, Mr Doyle.’
He was clearly worried about the future of his course, and probably rightly so. Would anyone want to send their teenagers on another study course when two previous attendees had gone missing and a teacher had died? She doubted Chidlow would like the publicity, either.
Doyle’s shoulders slumped. ‘Very well. We can go and see him now. I think he’s in his study. Although don’t blame me if he’s upset at being disturbed.’
‘We won’t,’ Morgan said curtly.
They followed him along a dark wood-panelled hallway. Karen looked up and noticed the intricate plaster patterns on the ceiling were crumbling in places. In the past this must have been a very grand house indeed. And at first appearances it was still breathtaking. But on closer inspection, the signs of wear and tear and a general lack of upkeep were clear to see. It must cost a fortune to keep the place going.
‘I’ve asked DC Sophie Jones to do a background check on all the adults who’ve been working at Chidlow House this week,’ Morgan said to Karen.
‘She find anything?’
‘Not yet.’
‘She won’t,’ Doyle said with a sniff. ‘I can assure you all staff had criminal record checks before they were employed.’
Karen sent a message to Sophie, asking her to check social media accounts for both young women and start the procedure to request their phone records.
Doyle stopped beside a door which had angels carved into the decorative panels. He rapped on the wood. A muffled voice sounded from within, and Karen assumed the person had said to enter because Doyle took a deep breath and opened the door.
A man she assumed to be Edward Chidlow was sitting behind the desk. The portrait hanging in the entrance hall was a good likeness. Even seated, he looked tall. He had a long narrow nose and close-set eyes, reminding Karen of a bird of prey. His slim build suited his expensive clothes. He probably had his own tailor. His thick white shirt showed no sign of creases.
Karen stood a little straighter and smoothed the crumpled front of her jacket.
Chidlow watched them with an impassive expression. His fair hair, lightly flecked with grey, was brushed back from his long face. His sharp blue eyes fixed on Karen as both she and Morgan approached the desk.
‘I’m very sorry to trouble you, Lord Chidlow,’ Graham Doyle began, pressing his hands together as though begging forgiveness. ‘The police officers insisted they speak to you. I’m afraid it’s about the two teenagers who’ve gone missing.’
Chidlow eased back in his chair and said in a bored tone, ‘The course is being held at my property, but I’ve never met either girl.’
He bowed his head, looking back at the paperwork on his desk, effectively dismissing them.
Morgan moved closer, leaning over the desk and looking down at Chidlow. ‘We have a few questions for you, sir.’
Chidlow looked up again, annoyance showing on his face. ‘I really don’t see how I can help you.’
‘I told them it was nothing to do with you but . . .’ Doyle trailed off.
‘Very well.’ Chidlow stood up with a sigh and moved to the French windows, gesturing for them to take a seat beside the small table in front of the floor-to-ceiling bookcase. He remained standing beside the window.
Karen knew the type. Selfish and shallow, Chidlow thought the world revolved around him. From his point of view, the police weren’t here to help, but to make his life difficult.
The windows were large, but the heavy velvet drapes and grey sky outside made the room dark and oppressive. A small lamp sat on Chidlow’s desk, and there was a fire behind his chair, but it was unlit.
Chidlow tugged absently at one sleeve of his shirt. Karen took a seat beside the small ladder attached to the bookcase. She scanned the books. They were leather-bound and in dark colours – burgundies, navy blues and forest greens – nothing like the brightly coloured paperbacks Karen had at home.
Morgan began the questioning by asking Chidlow about the course. Chidlow looked at Doyle, who was hovering next to the door looking increasingly uneasy.
‘To be honest, I have nothing to do with the course. It wasn’t even my idea, rather my accountant’s suggestion. It’s expensive to run a house like this and he thought it would bring in some extra funds. If I’d known the trouble it was going to cause, I’d never have agreed to it.’
‘The teacher who died, Alison King—’ Morgan began.
Chidlow cut him off. ‘An absolute nuisance. Why she had to pick my roof to jump off, I don’t know.’
Karen raised an eyebrow. She wanted to remark on his callousness, but he was already being difficult, and if he decided not to cooperate, he could make their investigation very challenging. ‘Was it suicide rather than an accident?’ she asked, overlooking his cold comment.