Change For The Worse

by Elizabeth Lemarchand

  ‘You told Inspector Rendell that you heard Mr Gilmore’s car come back from the Manor after dropping Mr Peck, I think. You’re quite sure it was Mr Gilmore returning, and not some other car?’

  Here Alix was definite. She knew the sound of the Gilmore car, and it had come back very soon. She had hardly stowed away the food and started going to bed when it went past.

  ‘Besides, if the car I heard was another one, I’d have heard Malcolm’s too,’ she argued. ‘I’m sure I didn’t hear two.’

  Asked about any sounds of a passing car, footsteps or Terry barking during the night, she shook her head emphatically.

  ‘I was flat out. It was late and I’d had a few drinks, actually,’ she added a shade self-consciously. ‘The first thing I heard was poor old Tom Basing at the door next morning. And it was an awfully windy night. The wind was making a terrific noise in the drive trees, and I remember wedging my window before I got into bed.’

  Feeling that there was nothing more to be learnt from Katharine Ridley or Alix at the moment, Pollard thanked them both for their help, and asked when it was planned to reopen the gardens and “Pictures for Pleasure”.

  ‘On Monday, all going well,’ she told him. ‘Heritage of Britain are sending someone down to act as temporary Warden. He’s going to live at the pub until poor Hilary is ready to move out. Mr Rossiter is up at the Manor at the moment, getting “Pictures for Pleasure” straight. He did the actual hanging, you know. I’m going along to lend a hand presently.’

  ‘It would be a saving of time if we went up for a word with him now,’ Pollard said. ‘We’ll go at once. Perhaps you wouldn’t mind waiting for a short time before you come along?’

  ‘Not in the least,’ she assured him. ‘We haven’t had our tea yet.’

  The two cars that they had noticed before were still parked on the terrace outside the Manor. To avoid disturbing the Pecks in their meeting with Heritage of Britain representatives, they walked round to the windows of the library and looked in. A man in light-coloured slacks and an open-necked shirt was scrutinising the picture he was holding. He glanced up, made a gesture of recognition and came to the window.

  ‘I’ll let you in at the front,’ he called to them.

  As they arrived on the terrace a key turned in a lock, and a tall well-built man with crisp black hair and strong, rather heavy features eyed them shrewdly.

  ‘I’m Rossiter,’ he said. ‘You’re the Yard, I take it? Come in. I’m trying to pick up the pieces.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Pollard said, as they followed him across the hall and down the short passage to the library. He saw that the Ridley portrait had been re-hung. A number of smaller pictures were scattered about, propped on chairs and lying on a small table inside the door.

  ‘Finding possible paintings of the right size to fill the gaps is like doing a bloody jigsaw,’ Hugo Rossiter commented, clearing some chairs. ‘Take a pew, won’t you? I don’t know that I can be much help to you.’

  ‘Perhaps you’ve heard that anyway some of the stolen pictures were found this morning, Mr Rossiter?’ Pollard asked.

  ‘Good God, man! Where? Can we have ’em back in time for reopening on Monday?’

  ‘I’m afraid not, until the enquiry is finished. They’re being tested for fingerprints at the moment.’

  ‘You’ll find ’em smothered in mine. I did most of the hanging.’

  ‘We realise that, and one reason for coming along to see you is to ask for a set of your prints to help the dabs experts.’

  ‘Sure. Go ahead. When and where did the pictures turn up?’

  While Toye went into action Pollard once again gave an account of Bill Manley’s discovery.

  ‘I can’t tell you if all five have turned up,’ he concluded. ‘Naturally I didn’t investigate the contents of the bag before they were tested by the dabs chaps at Wellchester.’

  ‘The only one worth recovering is the Boyd-Calthrop “Head of An Old Peasant”,’ Hugo Rossiter replied emphatically. ‘Extraordinary business, isn’t it? Sheer lunacy from start to finish, with a perfectly ghastly outcome which I’m certain was never intended.’

  ‘What is your personal interpretation of the whole affair, Mr Rossiter?’ Pollard asked.

  ‘As I’ve just said: sheer lunacy. It isn’t an art robbery in the real sense of the word. No one with even a minimal knowledge of art would set out to steal this not particularly good and quite unsaleable portrait —’ he indicated ‘The Young Heir’ — ‘and still less would a sane person try to pull off the job up here where there’s at least basic security. Perfectly simple to break into the lodge when Mrs Ridley was away. And it equally obviously isn’t a homicide. How could whoever did it have known that a north wind would make that bloody boiler house a death trap?’ he asked bitterly.

  ‘Whoever it was managed somehow to get hold of a key to this room,’ Pollard said.

  Hugo Rossiter stretched out his legs in front of him and thrust his hands into his trouser pockets in a relaxed manner.

  ‘Francis Peck was a careful type,’ he said, ‘but nobody’s infallible. After the exhibits started coming in he locked the door, and put the key on his keyring with his ignition and safe keys, so what? Did the poor chap never leave his ignition key in the car when it was standing on the terrace out there? We’re all human. He could have heard the telephone ringing, for instance and dashed into the house. Or let me offer another line of enquiry. Who fitted the mortice lock in the first place, in John Ridley’s day? Was there originally a third key?’

  ‘Your first suggestion supports the strong probability that someone local is involved,’ Pollard remarked.

  ‘I couldn’t agree more.’ Hugo Rossiter raised his eyebrows interrogatively and grinned with a touch of mockery. ‘Any hopes you have of trapping me into a confession are misplaced.’

  Pollard declined the bait.

  ‘Do you know of anyone locally who has a grudge — real or imaginary — against Mrs Ridley? Or had one against Mr Peck as representing Heritage of Britain?’

  ‘I’m as certain as one can be that I should have heard of anything of the sort, and I never have. I drop in at the pub several times a week, and my business in Wellchester brings me into touch with a lot of people round here. You’ve thought of rabid anti-conservationists, I expect, who might have it in for HOB? Here’s Katharine Ridley. She’s come up to help sort things out for reopening on Monday...’ He broke off to acknowledge her arrival outside the window, and indicate the direction of the front door. ‘Is there anything more I can tell you?’

  ‘Did you notice any car on the road, or one parked alongside on your way back from the party on Saturday night?’

  ‘No. I can be quite definite about that. I remember thinking that it was unusual for a Saturday night. I’d left while the others were still stowing some food for the lodge into the boot of Malcolm Gilmore’s car, and it hadn’t caught me up by the time I turned into my gate.’

  ‘Did you by any chance hear a car on the road later in the night? After twelve, say?’

  ‘If I did, I’ve no recollection of it. As soon as I got in, I settled down to work on an article for an art journal, a job that involved the hell of a lot of concentration. I didn’t get it finished and typed out until nearly one, and then turned in. I’m a fair way off the road, you know, and it was blowing quite hard into the bargain.’

  ‘Well, thanks very much for your help,’ Pollard said, getting to his feet. ‘We’ll notify both you and Mrs Ridley when we know which of the missing pictures have been found, and also their owners. And they’ll be kept under suitable conditions, of course.’

  Katharine Ridley and Alix were waiting at the front door, and after a few minutes’ conversation went into the house with Hugo Rossiter, while Pollard and Toye got into their car.

  ‘That chap’s no fool,’ Pollard remarked. ‘That’s what makes me feel we can count him out, although we’ve no evidence that he drove straight home and stayed there: simply his word for it.’


  ‘You mean he might have driven to the Manor ahead of Gilmore, and gone in with Peck, saying he wanted to do some job in the exhibition?’ Toye asked; letting in the clutch.

  ‘Yes, but take it a stage further. Can you imagine him suddenly knocking Peck out, trussing him up and locking him in the boiler house, not to mention mucking about with the Ridley portrait and the other pictures? It would have been a bit awkward the next morning when Peck returned to the scene, wouldn’t it? No, whatever the answer is, it isn’t that.’

  As the car approached the lodge, frenzied barking was audible.

  ‘Your four-legged pal again,’ Pollard said. ‘Would you — hold it!’

  Toye braked sharply. A young man who was peering through the sitting room window swung round defensively. Pollard registered under-average height, a tendency to overweight straining a grey suit, full cheeks, red hair, and spectacles in pale frames.

  ‘Are you looking for Mrs Ridley?’ he enquired coolly.

  ‘I’ve come to see Alix Parr.’ The accent was slightly flat and nasal.

  ‘Miss Parr is not in,’ Pollard informed him, ‘and won’t be for some time.’

  The young man gave him a resentful look, muttered something about it not being worth waiting, and headed for the drive entrance and the road.

  Following slowly in the Rover, Pollard and Toye watched him get into a Mini parked close to the hedge. He ignored them pointedly as they drove past. In their driving mirrors they watched him turning the car, presumably to follow them in the direction of Wellchester.

  ‘Reckon she can do better than that,’ Toye remarked.

  Chapter 8

  During the drive back to Wellchester it was settled that while Pollard conferred with the fingerprint and photographic experts, Toye should check Mr Hayes’s alibi for the previous Saturday night with Mr Howlett, the veterinary surgeon.

  ‘And you can go on from him to call on some of the people whose pictures have turned up,’ Pollard said. ‘The Allbrights and a Mr and Mrs Coote live in Wellchester. Watch their reactions, and see if you can get on to anything, especially the arty Allbrights. I’ve been wondering what we’d better work on next if we draw a blank over the dabs. My idea is to call on Lady Boyd-Calthrop early tomorrow, and get her going on local history. I only hope old Chilmark’s right about her being a mine of information on the subject. I’ll give her a ring and try to fix a time. Then I’m sure we ought to see if it’s possible to get any confirmation of two people’s unsupported statements: Rossiter’s and Basing’s.’

  ‘Meaning that there was no witness to Basing finding the body?’ Toye asked.

  ‘That’s one thing. And at the moment we’ve simply his word for it that he went home on Saturday evening after paying in his money from the sale of plants to Francis Peck. In theory he could have hidden in the Manor. And by the way, up to now we’ve simply accepted from him that the Fairlynch car park was empty by about 5.45 pm. We may come back to your idea about a get-away car being left there after all. I wonder if the local chaps have managed to get on to George Palmer’s trail yet? If they’ve had any luck, that would give us another line to work on. After all, he was obviously blackmailing the ex-Lady of the Manor, and it seems quite on the cards that he was the bloke thrown out for doing an unauthorized tour of the house.’

  They discussed possible programmes for the next day, Pollard admitting that he was not hopeful of getting fresh information from Bill Manley’s find. Within half an hour of returning to the police station he was proved right. The Wellchester technicians had worked enthusiastically on the polythene bag and its contents, enjoying the opportunity of co-operating with a famous Yard Super, but from the standpoint of establishing the thief’s identity nothing had been achieved. All five paintings had been in the bag, and all had been extensively handled by Hugo Rossiter, obviously during their hanging for ‘Pictures for Pleasure’. Superimposed on his prints were others made by some wearing rubber gloves. These were identical with the prints found in the library, and on the boiler house and side doors of the Manor. Over these again were those made by Bill Manley during his inspection of the bag’s contents. Prints on the polythene bag itself were exclusively the rubber glove variety and Bill Manley’s. Of Tom Basing’s there was not a single trace.

  The Wellchester fingerprint and photography experts were crestfallen. Pollard assured them that their labours had not been in vain.

  ‘At any rate,’ he said, ‘I think we can take it that the chap who did the job in Fairlynch Manor was the same one who dumped this little lot in the shed.’

  The photographer scratched his ginger head in bewilderment.

  ‘Reckon the bloke was barmy, sir,’ he commented.

  ‘It certainly looks like it at the moment,’ Pollard agreed. ‘All the same, when we get to the end of the road I shan’t be surprised to find that there was method in his madness. I expect I shall be coming back on you boys for some more help soon.’

  They went off cheered at this prospect, and he decided to examine the pictures in case they provided some unexpected clue, either collectively or individually. He extracted Inspector Rendell’s notes from the file, and propped the five paintings on convenient ledges and chairs. Collectively all that they appeared to have in common was modest size, making them a manageable load. They were, in fact, a very varied assortment. Thanks to his art education by Jane, Pollard could see the technical weaknesses in Lady Boyd-Calthrop’s ‘Head of an Old Peasant’ that Professor Chilmark had mentioned. But the wrinkled weather-beaten face with its knowing eyes was likeable and convincing. One could live with it. Next to it on the mantelpiece was ‘Inspiration’, an oil by Ann Bilton of the Wellchester Art Club, for which Lydia Gilmore had astonishingly paid £25. Pollard gazed at it in bewilderment. Running vertically down the dead centre of the picture was an irregular zigzag of dirty grey. It ricocheted from side to side of a vivid emerald green trough, gnawing at steep rocky slopes. Finally he decided that the painting could symbolise the evolution of the Spire Valley down the millennia, and probably quite a lot in the artist’s subconscious. With a shudder at the bright scarlet frame, he moved on to ‘Oleanders on Lake Lugano’. The glass of this watercolour’s frame was broken, so it was probably the picture hung below the Ridley portrait which seemed to have been knocked down or dropped, the noise of its fall possibly bringing Francis Peck downstairs. Unlike ‘Inspiration’ it was purely representational. Grey-green oleander trees on the lakeside were in full pink bloom. There was no focal point and no statement about anything. According to Inspector Rendell’s notes it was the work of Henri Legrand and the property of Mr and Mrs Coote of Wellchester, who had valued it modestly at £5. Pollard turned it over. It was inscribed on the back ‘Our Honeymoon. Jim and Joy’.

  I’m becoming an art snob, he thought, and picked up Malcolm Gilmore’s ‘Flight into Egypt’, described in the notes as ‘oil painting, 12x6 inches, after Lecci, by Alfred Gilmore, great-uncle of the owner. Family interest only: of no monetary value’. Dull browns and greens predominated, and a ruined castle, a lake and a small boat distracted attention from the Holy Family’s precipitate flight from Herod. Putting the little painting down again, Pollard turned with relief to the last of the five, and decided at once that he would like to own it. This one, ‘Frosty Morning’, was also an oil but full of light. Snowdrops in a glass bowl on a window sill echoed the whiteness of rimed grass and plants seen through a misty window. Rex Allbright, the owner, valued the painting by someone called L.G. Hanford (1910) at £350. Pollard make a mental note to ask Jane about L.G. Hanford, and then, feeling guilty at having spent time on art criticism instead of pure detection, he collected the paintings and took them back to Inspector Rendell’s office for safe keeping.

  On returning to his room he put through a telephone call to Weatherwise Farm. It was answered by Lydia Gilmore.

  ‘Superintendent Pollard here, Mrs Gilmore,’ he said. ‘I’m ringing to let you and your husband know that both your exhibits in “Pictures for
Pleasure” have been recovered undamaged.’

  She exclaimed in surprise, and asked the inevitable question about where and when they had been found.

  ‘Fantastic!’ she reacted on hearing the details. ‘Honestly, this business gets crazier every day! What can it all add up to?’

  Pollard replied that the lead given by the recovery of the pictures was being followed up, and that in the meantime the paintings were perfectly safe and being kept under suitable conditions until they could be returned.

  ‘Oh, we shan’t lose any sleep over what’s happening to them,’ Lydia told him breezily. ‘I only bought “Inspiration” on a public-spirited impulse to encourage local talent, and that pathetic effort of Malcolm’s great-uncle just takes up space on the wall. Our children are simply ribald about it. Has Lady Boyd-Calthrop’s “Head of An Old Peasant” turned up too? She’s so fond of it.’

  Pollard reassured her on this point and shortly afterwards brought the call to an end. He then rang Lady Boyd-Calthrop at the Dower House of Firle. A harsh confident voice informed him that she was speaking.

  ‘Good morning,’ he said. ‘This is Detective Chief Superintendent Pollard of New Scotland Yard. You may, perhaps, have heard that I am conducting the enquiry into the late Mr Francis Peck’s death?’

  ‘Of course I have, my dear man,’ the voice replied, now less abrasive. ‘It’s the talk of the neighbourhood. How do I come in, may I ask?’

  ‘In the first place as an exhibitor in “Pictures for Pleasure”, Lady Boyd-Calthrop,’ Pollard told her. ‘Your “Head of An Old Peasant” has been recovered unharmed and is being kept at Wellchester police station. It will be returned to you at the end of the enquiry. It was found this morning with the other four missing pictures in the shed at the top of the Fairlynch woods.’