Change For The Worse

by Elizabeth Lemarchand

  Pollard grinned. ‘Are you suggesting that we start hunting for a missing heir, sir, who finds that the non-entailed estate has been made over to Heritage of Britain and decides to annexe the best remaining chattel?’

  ‘Missing heirs have been rather overdone,’ Professor Chilmark replied. ‘Readers tend to be on the look-out for them. Seriously though, Superintendent, this Fairlynch business is so odd that it’s difficult to see it as a straightforward art robbery with an unintentionally tragic outcome.’

  ‘Two possibilities that have occurred to me,’ Pollard said, ‘although I haven’t had time to follow them up, are that the whole thing was a rag that went wrong, or that it was the work of a rabid anti-conservationist. More or less a crackpot, I mean.’

  ‘I think that second idea is perfectly tenable in theory. I can tell you from my connection with HOB how intense anti-conservationist feeling can be. It’s usually involved with commercial interests, of course, but sometimes politically motivated.’

  ‘And in the individual it arises from psychological maladjustment sometimes, doesn’t it? There was that chap who took a hammer to the Pieta in St Peter’s, for instance.’

  ‘Quite. I suppose it’s possible that there’s somebody who had a violent irrational objection to an art exhibition at Fairlynch. Or somebody who has been nursing a deep-seated grievance against Mrs Ridley for years.’

  Pollard experienced a sharp mental jolt. The relationship between Mrs Ridley and the man in the duffle coat which had dropped out of his mind abruptly reinstated itself. Not that the chap could have attempted to steal the portrait himself...

  Professor Chilmark had got up to refill their glasses.

  ‘I expect there are quite good collections of pictures in some of the stately homes in these parts?’ Pollard asked suddenly with apparent irrelevance.

  Professor Chilmark glanced up enquiringly. ‘Yes, there are. At Earlingford, for instance, and at Firle Hall.’

  ‘You’ve seen them, and met the owners?’

  ‘I have. On several occasions at Firle, the Boyd-Calthrops’ place.’

  Pollard sat for a moment frowning in concentration.

  ‘I’m thinking about your suggestion that somebody with a grievance against the Ridleys might possibly be involved in this affair. It would be useful to get the low-down on the family history of recent years. Unobtrusively if possible, in the course of conversation with a chatty member of their social set.’

  ‘Well, of course, if that’s what you want, old Lady Boyd-Calthrop’s heaven-sent,’ Professor Chilmark replied, returning once more to this chair. ‘She’s the dowager, and lives at Firle Dower House. What she doesn’t know about the gentry and nobility of the neighbourhood could be written on a postage stamp. And you’ve got a perfectly adequate pretext for calling on her.’

  ‘On the grounds that her exhibit in “Pictures for Pleasure” was one of those the chap carried off? That’s quite true. What does it say about it in Inspector Rendell’s report, Toye?’

  “‘Head of an Old Peasant”,’ Toye read, after a brief search in the case file. ‘“Arthur Cadell. Oil. c. 1890. Property of the Dowager Lady Boyd-Calthrop. Estimated value £500 10x8 inches approx.”’

  ‘She’d be lucky to get it,’ Professor Chilmark remarked. ‘I remember her showing it to me. The technique was mediocre, but the artist had managed to convey a bucolic quality — sagacity, and robustness. She picked it up for a tenner in a sale somewhere, she told me.’

  ‘That’s briefed me nicely,’ Pollard said. ‘Many thanks, and for all your help. Very good of you to see us on your last evening here.’

  ‘Not at all. I’ve been most interested to meet you — I was in the Wrexham Gallery last week, and stopped to have a look at the ‘Blue Bonnet” which you retrieved so neatly just as it was about to board a plane for the us at Heathrow.’

  They reminisced briefly about Pollard’s first big case before he got up to leave with renewed thanks.

  Toye, whose strong preference was for material clues and their methodical investigation, was openly sceptical during the drive back to Wellchester. He pointed out with perfect truth that apart from showing that she was unwilling to discuss the chap in the duffle coat, there was nothing whatever so far to link Mrs Ridley with him, discreditably or otherwise. Anyway, he was dead, and the idea that he had commissioned somebody to steal the portrait while he himself cleared out in stolen cars wasn’t supported by one single known fact.

  ‘All right, old Feet-on-the-Ground,’ Pollard retorted amicably, ‘but you’ve got to admit that known facts are a bit sparse at the moment. Apart from questioning all the people at the party on Saturday night, which we’ll do tomorrow, there’s not a single definite lead to follow up. We’d got it all worked out to ask for help from the local force in tracing Duffle Coat’s movements after he left Fairlynch, and then dropped the scheme when we knew he was dead. We’ll simply resurrect it on chance.’

  Toye fair-mindedly if reluctantly admitted that at least this step could do no harm. On arriving at the police station Pollard put in his request, to be passed to Superintendent Maynard on the following morning, and they compiled a report on the enquiries so far made before deciding to call it a day.

  Before turning in Pollard rang Jane and conveyed by an agreed code that the going was sticky. The brief contact with home was cheering and his hotel bedroom comfortable, but unusually for him it was some time before he could detach his mind sufficiently from the case to get to sleep. The problem of the library key kept presenting itself, and when he succeeded in ousting it he was at once confronted with the enigma of Katharine Ridley’s behaviour. Was her chill genuine, he wondered? Was it essential for her to be on her home ground on Saturday night as a result of Duffle Coat’s appearance? And — the two problems suddenly coalesced — was it possible that she had a key to the library, retained from when she was living at the Manor, and had somehow been forced to hand it over? His feeling of relief at having at least visualised further lines of enquiry was so great that within a few minutes he was asleep.

  Thursday morning was off to a good start. Superintendent Maynard was cooperative over the matter of enquiries by his men, and Malcolm Gilmore was going to be at his office all the morning and would see Superintendent Pollard at any time.

  The premises of Gilmore Constructions were at a new industrial estate on the outskirts of Wellchester. The buildings gave the impression of a successful business but one without any attempt at pretentiousness, and Pollard and Toye were impressed by the orderly appearance of the area used for storage of basic building materials. Inside the main block they found light and airy conditions and an attractive if workmanlike decor. Their arrival was reported by telephone, and within a few minutes they were escorted to Malcolm Gilmore’s office by a brisk pleasant young woman who introduced herself as his secretary.

  It was a moderately large and sunny room, with wall-to-wall carpeting, a knee-hole desk and comfortable leather armchairs. There was a vase of daffodils on the desk flanking a photograph of a woman and two boys in their early teens. Photographs of a variety of buildings presumably erected by Gilmore Constructions hung on the walls, and there were plans on the table in one of the windows. As Pollard and Toye came in, a tall fair man, very spruce in appearance, got up from behind the desk and came forward with hand outstretched.

  ‘Chief Superintendent Pollard?’ he said. ‘I’m sorry you had to wait. It was a phone call. Do sit down.’

  ‘I’m afraid this must be an inconveniently early call, before you’ve had a chance to deal with the morning’s mail,’ Pollard said, as he and Toye took a couple of armchairs facing the desk, and Malcolm Gilmore occupied his own chair in a relaxed, unofficial manner.

  ‘Please don’t apologise,’ he said. ‘It’s up to the public to give you all the help it can at any time. I needn’t say that anybody who knew Francis Peck is absolutely knocked flat by what has happened.’

  ‘I can believe that from all I’ve heard about him,’
Pollard replied. ‘We’ve come along to you, as I expect you’ve already realised, because barring whoever tied him up and put him in the boiler house, you appear to be the last person who saw him alive.’

  Malcolm Gilmore shrugged unhappily. ‘Yes, I realise that. It makes me feel quite ghastly, in case I might have done something to prevent it. What can I tell you that might be useful?’

  ‘Did you go to “Pictures for Pleasure’ on Saturday afternoon, Mr Gilmore?’ Pollard asked.

  ‘Yes, I did. My wife and I looked in for a short time, say about a quarter of an hour.’

  ‘We’d like you to think back and tell us everything you can remember about this visit, especially the people who were there at the time, and anything in the least out of the ordinary that may have struck you.’

  Malcolm Gilmore abruptly pulled open a drawer and brought out a silver cigarette box.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I seem to be missing out on even the most basic hospitality. You don’t? Neither of you? Neither do I. Well now,’ he went on, sitting back in his chair with his arms folded. ‘Let me think. I know we left home just after half-past two. We live about a couple of miles from Fairlynch, so we must have arrived in the car park about a quarter to three. We were surprised to find Alix Parr in the ticket office instead of Mrs Peck. By the way, have you met Alix yet, and her grandmother, Mrs Ridley?’

  Pollard nodded affirmatively. ‘Yes, both of them, thanks.’

  ‘Right. Alix explained about Hilary Peck having had to go off to London because of her mother’s accident. We were both disappointed, as we’d invited the Pecks and one or two other people to supper to celebrate the opening of “Pictures for Pleasure” — some damned hard work had gone into getting the show ready, I can tell you. I suppose we talked to Alix for two or three minutes, and then went on up the steps into the house. Am I giving you too much detail?’

  ‘No. This is just what we want. Carry on as you are.’

  Malcolm Gilmore paused for a moment, tilting his head back a little. Pollard studied the long narrow face and strong chin, and waited.

  ‘I can’t swear to it, but I don’t think there were new arrivals right on our heels at the ticket office, or following on. The library was quite well-filled. There must have been two dozen people going round looking at the pictures. We collected our catalogues — duplicated sheets, actually, to save expense — and chatted to people we knew as we went round ourselves. Lydia — my wife — fell for a picture put in by a member of the Wellchester Art Club, and bought it. Club members were allowed to sell their stuff. I didn’t think much of it myself, but it’s a good thing to encourage local talent. She wrote a cheque for £25, and gave it to the woman in charge of the catalogues. Bad luck, really, as it was one of the pictures stolen that night. Purchases can’t be removed until the end of the exhibition, you see... Well, we saw everything, and did a bit more nattering, and then left. We went straight home without going round the gardens. It was hellishly cold, and they aren’t at their best yet, and as we’re so near, we can go anytime.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Pollard said, ‘you’ve given us a very clear picture. Did you know most of the people who were there?’

  ‘Not most of them, no. People come from far and wide to see the gardens. Do you want the names of the people we talked to?’

  ‘Any that you can remember, yes. There could be a matter of timing here.’

  ‘Well, Francis Peck, of course. He was there, and so was Hugo Rossiter, the artist, and Rex Allbright, the current President of the Art Group. A couple we know called Haversham from here, and another called Bright from Spireford village. I think that was all ... oh, I’d forgotten Mrs Ridley. She came in from the gardens where she’d been showing people round, just as we were leaving.’

  ‘What time was that?’ Pollard asked as casually as he could.

  ‘Just on a quarter past three. I’m sure of that as I wanted to get back for a programme on the box, and had been keeping an eye on the time.’

  ‘Did you see anyone — either in the library or the car park or anywhere — who struck you as a bit of a misfit? A rather down-at-heel male?’

  Malcolm Gilmore looked interested, and on the point of asking a question, but apparently thought better of it. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I’m quite sure I didn’t.’

  ‘May we go on to the evening now?’ Pollard asked. ‘We’d like the same sort of detailed account of that.’

  ‘The meal was planned for eightish, with drinks first. I left to collect Francis and Mrs Ridley and Alix at about a quarter past seven, and drove up to the Manor first... Now wait a bit, just let me think. I drew up outside the front door and gave a couple of toots on the horn to let Francis know I was there, and then went on about twenty yards to where you can turn. As I came back he was coming out of the door. I can see him quite clearly in my mind, slamming it shut, and then locking it and putting either a key or a key ring into an inside pocket... I’m prepared to swear this. I mean there’s no question of him having left the door on the latch by mistake.’

  As he spoke Malcolm Gilmore glanced at Toye who was making entries in a notebook on his knee.

  ‘Inspector Toye’s getting all this down,’ Pollard reassured him. ‘Just carry on, giving us all the details.’

  ‘Well, then we drove down to the lodge to pick up Katharine Ridley and Alix. Alix came out and told us about Katharine’s chill, and we talked about it for about a minute as she got into the car, and then I drove off. We must have arrived at the farm about a quarter to eight, and —’

  ‘Just a minute,’ Pollard interrupted. ‘What other guests were there?’

  ‘Only one. Hugo Rossiter, and he’d already arrived. It was really a small celebration for Katharine and him. They’d done practically all the work over “Pictures for Pleasure’, as I said just now. Both he and Lydia were naturally very disappointed about Katharine. It was a bit damping to be two short, especially as Lydia had made a special effort over supper, and Katharine’s vitality would make anything go. However, Hugo’s good fun, and so was Francis in a quiet way, poor chap, and we had quite a successful evening.’

  Pollard asked if Francis Peck had seemed in any way preoccupied or worried.

  ‘Not in the least. He was in very good form, and jolly pleased at the way the Fairlynch summer season had started off.’

  ‘He didn’t seem anxious to get home?’

  ‘No, I’m sure he didn’t. It was Alix who said she didn’t want to be late back because of her grandmother being under the weather. She’s a jolly nice kid. A bit over serious, perhaps, but it’s not a bad failing these days, is it? We began to move about ten. My wife wanted to pack up some of the food for Alix and Francis to take home as there was a lot left over, so that took a few minutes. Hugo Rossiter said he’d plenty of grub on hand, and went off ahead of us by about five minutes. Then I drove back to Fairlynch, dropped Alix at the lodge and saw her in, and then ran Francis up to the Manor. We talked for a couple of minutes about the work —’

  ‘What work, Mr Gilmore?’

  ‘The alterations and extensions this firm is doing at Fairlynch. Then he got out, and I turned the car as I did before. When I passed the door he’d got it open and was just going in. He gave me a sort of mock salute, and — well, that was that. I drove straight home.’

  There was a brief silence as Pollard thought over the facts he had heard.

  ‘About the work, Mr Gilmore, that your firm is doing at Fairlynch. You’ve had men up there for some time now?’

  There was a flash of anger in Malcolm Gilmore’s eyes. ‘On and off for about eighteen months,’ he replied curtly. ‘Heritage of Britain are having a good deal done. But if you’re suggesting that any of them could be involved I can only say that I sent hand-picked men up there. In any case, I’ve so far managed to keep a damn good work force together in spite of the bloody unions.’

  ‘I’m making no suggestion whatever that any of your men are involved,’ Pollard replied equably, ‘but we’re up against an
extremely baffling situation about access to the library last Saturday night. Let me explain...’

  As Malcolm Gilmore listened the aggressiveness in his face gave place to concentrated attention. Finally, he abruptly shifted his position, resting his elbow on the desk and cupping his chin in his hand.

  ‘It’s a snorter, isn’t it?’ he said thoughtfully. ‘Surely there must have been another key somehow? But all I can say is that I simply can’t see any of our chaps seeing far enough ahead to take an impression of the new library key before the pictures started arriving, and Francis started carrying it round on him. I mean, they just aren’t in the careful planning criminal class, and wouldn’t have known what to do with the Ridley portrait if they’d got it. I could get a list of every man jack who’s worked at Fairlynch since Heritage took over, if you like, but quite honestly, I think this is a nonsense, Superintendent.’

  ‘I’m inclined to agree with you,’ Pollard said, ‘but as you say, this problem of the key is a snorter, and we’ve got to look into every possible explanation. We’d be grateful to have that list. If it should ever seem necessary to check up on anybody on your payroll, we’d inform you, of course.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Malcolm Gilmore replied. ‘That’s an attitude I appreciate. Is there anything else I can do? By the way, can I offer you a cup of coffee? I usually have one about now.’

  Pollard declined politely on the grounds of other commitments before lunch, and shortly afterwards brought the interview to an end in a relaxed and friendly atmosphere. Back in the Rover which they had left in the Visitors Only section of the car park, they studied Toye’s notes of the conversation with Katharine Ridley on the previous day.

  ‘Let’s recap,’ Pollard said. ‘Alix Parr, who seems a reliable lass, gave Duffle Coat’s arrival at the ticket office as a quarter past three or a bit later. After she had said this, Mrs Ridley stated that soon after leaving the picture show she came over queer and went home, arriving at ten minutes past three. Now we have Gilmore, who had his eye on the time because of a telly programme, saying that Mrs Ridley came into the show just on a quarter past three. Presumably they at least passed the time of day, and he didn’t say that she left with them, or on their heels. So what?’