He waited for a surprised exclamation but none came. There was a pause.
‘Obviously whoever put them there meant them to be found,’ Lady Boyd-Calthrop commented decisively. ‘It’s useless to ask you what you make of it, I suppose?’
‘At the moment, yes,’ Pollard replied with equal directness. ‘My second reason for making this call is to ask if I may call on you tomorrow morning. Not particularly in connection with these paintings, but I think you might be able to help me in other directions.’
‘Call by all means,’ she replied. ‘It seems most unlikely to me that I can, but I shall be most interested to see you. At what time may I expect you?’
An appointment was made for ten o’clock, and after giving explicit directions for finding the Dower House, Lady Boyd-Calthrop rang off. As Pollard put down the receiver Toye came into the room.
‘Well? Any luck?’ Pollard asked, throwing himself back in his chair and clasping his hands behind his head.
‘All of ’em were in,’ Toye reported, sitting down at the opposite side of the table, ‘and that’s a bit of luck for a Friday evening, I suppose. I took Mr Howlett first, thinking he’d be having a surgery, and so he was. And a cut above our doctors’ place at home the waiting room was, I can tell you. Beautiful pot plants and a tank of fish. Howlett is an earnest young chap who’s just been taken on as a partner, and he’s careful and accurate in what he says. The call from Hayes came through just after eleven last Saturday night, and he went straight off in his car as soon as he’d got what was wanted, getting to Manor Farm at about twenty to twelve, and left again at ten minutes past three. The only bonus point is that as he’d never been to the farm before and it was dark, he hesitated a bit as he got near, and stopped at the gate of Mr Rossiter’s place to read the name on it. He says he didn’t see any car parked inside, only the remains of a haystack and some farm machinery with a tarpaulin over it, but he noticed a light in a building across the field.’
‘Possibly useful, but not conclusive, of course,’ Pollard commented. ‘Rossiter could have got a time clock gadget to switch a light on. What else?’
‘Nothing more from Howlett, except that he didn’t meet or see any car on the Spireford road, either coming or going. I went on to the Cootes next. They’re a pleasant ordinary couple in their fifties, I’d say, and pleased as a pair of kids when I told them their picture had turned up. Seems they bought it on their honeymoon as a souvenir. They’ve got an alibi for the whole of Saturday and Sunday: daughter, son-in-law and baby staying the weekend. I took the name and address, saying it was routine.’
‘What about Allbright, the President of the Wellchester Art Club?’
‘The Allbrights are a cut above the Cootes. They’ve a bigger house in a more classy suburb. He’s a Bank manager. The place was full of pictures, and they both seem to know a lot about them, and were thrilled to bits that their missing one had been found. He said the insurance money wouldn’t have been the same thing at all. They’ve got alibis, too. They stayed until after “Pictures for Pleasure” closed on Saturday, and helped tidy things up. Mr Allbright remembered seeing Basing in the hall just before they left, and made a joking sort of remark about him being dead against the exhibition from the word go. The Allbrights are gardeners and buy plants from him, they said. They left just on six, and gave a couple of friends a lift back to Wellchester and asked them in to supper. I got their names and addresses, too.’
Pollard stretched and yawned.
‘Well, we didn’t expect much from this lot, did we? I rang Mrs Gilmore, who seemed moderately pleased that their two pictures had turned up, and I’ve got an appointment with Lady Boyd-Calthrop for tea tomorrow... Come in!’
A constable entered and saluted smartly.
‘Superintendent Maynard’s compliments, sir, and he’d be glad if you could spare him a few minutes.’
‘Thanks,’ Pollard said. ‘We’ll be right along.’
They found the Superintendent in a state of imperfectly concealed gratification. His men had picked up the trail of George Palmer in two different places. On the strength of his visit to Fairlynch a call had been made at the Wellchester Information Centre. A woman who had been in charge there on the previous Saturday morning was shown the description of Palmer and his photograph, and had identified him without hesitation as the man who had called at the Centre at about midday, saying that he was on holiday in the area and wanted to know of any places of interest to visit. She had given him pamphlets about various houses and gardens open to the public, including one on Fairlynch.
‘Here’s a copy of it,’ Superintendent Maynard said, passing it over to Pollard. ‘Then my chaps interviewed the conductors of all the late morning and early afternoon buses going both to Spireford village and past the Spireford turning on the road to Brynscombe. The conductor of the 2.20 pm from Wellchester says he can remember a bloke in a fawn duffle coat getting off at the turning, which the bus is scheduled to reach at 2.45 pm. And as you’ll see from the Ordnance map there’s a footpath along the river. The bloke could have bypassed the village by following this, if he was up to something shady, and cut up on to the road just beyond Fairlynch. That would explain him not being noticed in the village. And the timing seems reasonable for doing the walk and arriving at the ticket office round a quarter past three. We’ve had no luck about how he got back to Wellchester, but there is a bus from Brynscombe which passes the turning at 5.30 pm, and he could have gone back by the footpath, I suppose, and got in here at five to six. Plenty of time to get some grub and prospect round before pinching the first car.’
Pollard and Toye agreed that this reconstruction of Palmer’s movements held water, and offered tactful congratulations on the results achieved by the Wellchester force.
‘All right as far as it goes,’ Superintendent Maynard replied, ‘but what we want is evidence of some contact Palmer made, since he couldn’t have done the Fairlynch job himself. However, we’ll press on.’
In the corridor outside Pollard and Toye exchanged glances.
‘Basing?’ Toye queried.
‘Could be, I suppose,’ Pollard replied.
‘One of tomorrow’s jobs will be trying to find out if he’s got an alibi for Saturday evening and night. We’ll go out to Spireford as soon as I’m through with her ladyship.’
The Boyd-Calthrop Dower House was on the outskirts of the village of Clearwell St Philip, two miles from Firle, the family’s Palladian mansion in its extensive park. Pollard had expected something more impressive and was surprised at being directed by a local inhabitant merely to one of the large village houses. However, it was, he recognised, very pleasing — two-storied and of grey stone, with mullioned windows. A short drive through a garden full of spring colour brought him to the front door. He got out of his car, glanced round with appreciation and rang the bell. A comfortable-looking country woman in a nylon overall answered the door.
‘That’s right,’ she said, inspecting the official card he presented to her. ‘Her ladyship’s expecting you. Please to step this way.’
He was shown into a panelled sitting room overlooking the garden. An elderly woman with white hair cut short, strong features and sharp dark eyes held out her hand.
‘Forgive my not getting up,’ she said. ‘I’m a bit seized up with the rheumatics this morning. Just Anno Domini, you know. So you’re the Scotland Yard celebrity they’ve sent us? Well, well, I never expected to welcome a famous detective to my house. Take that chair where I can have a good look at you.’
Pollard complied. As they talked about ‘Head of An Old Peasant’ and its recovery he was aware of being keenly eyed.
‘Well, young man,’ Lady Boyd-Calthrop suddenly said, abruptly changing the conversation, ‘I’ve all the time in the world at my age, but presumably you haven’t. What have you really come to see me about?’
‘To get some local colour,’ he replied unequivocally with a smile. A brief cackle reassured him: he had taken the right line.
Pollard rose and walked across the room, feeling, as he afterwards told Jane, that he had stepped back into the Edwardian era. Before he had got back to his chair, the woman who had let him in appeared.
‘Tea, Annie, please,’ Lady Boyd-Calthrop requested. ‘Connoisseur’s Lapsang Souchong or a good sound Darjeeling, Superintendent Pollard?’
He asked for Darjeeling and got an approving nod. ‘Good man. I like tea to taste of tea, not of scent. The Darjeeling then, Annie. Now then,’ she went on as the door closed, ‘I’m at your disposal.’
Pollard decided against any attempt at finesse.
‘The Fairlynch case is an extremely odd one,’ he said. ‘May I take it that you are familiar with the main facts?’
‘You may. I have absorbed every line on it in the local and reputable national newspapers.’
‘In that case I think you will probably agree with me, Lady Boyd-Calthrop, that it’s a curiously unconvincing affair. Please don’t think for a moment that we are taking Mr Peck’s death lightly. However, I am certain that it was never part of the original plan. And as things have turned out, I’m far from convinced that there was ever any intention to steal pictures either. Could the whole business have been planned as a practical joke or a spiteful gesture against Mrs Ridley or Heritage of Britain? This is what I want to discuss with you. I feel that you must be well up in local politics.’
He got a shrewd glance.
‘You are satisfied that someone local was responsible?’
‘I think it’s possible that more than one person was involved although I have no proof of this at present. But the evidence points to a detailed knowledge of the Manor and its grounds, and of the arrangements for “Pictures for Pleasure” on somebody’s part. There is also the matter of access to a key to the library.’
Lady Boyd-Calthrop nodded decisively. ‘I agree. And there is also the matter of Hilary Peck’s absence on Saturday night which could not have been very widely known, surely?’
‘That has occurred to us, too. But on enquiry it seems impossible to discover with any accuracy who the people were who knew that she would be away that night.’
‘Quite.’
The conversation was momentarily held up by the arrival of the tea trolley. There was a pause while Lady Boyd-Calthrop occupied herself in pouring out. When she spoke again her comments were unexpected.
‘In my view,’ she said, ‘a practical joke as objectionable as this one could hardly be distinguished from a spiteful gesture. I take it that what you are asking me is whether I know of anyone in the neighbourhood who would have behaved in this way towards Mrs Ridley or Heritage of Britain. The timing of the attack suggests to me that the target may have been “Pictures for Pleasure” rather than Heritage in general. Why anyone should have behaved in such a fashion is beyond my comprehension, but you know better than I the extraordinary things people do these days. The point I want to make is that although the exhibition was Katharine Ridley’s idea in the first place, a great deal of the work has been done by Hugo Rossiter, and Francis Peck was involved too, of course, as the Fairlynch Warden. There is also Rex Allbright, who organised the Wellchester Art Club’s part.’
Pollard listened with mounting respect for the old lady’s acumen.
‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘The idea of “Pictures for Pleasure” as a kind of catalyst causing an old grievance to erupt into action has begun to take shape in my own mind. As you point out, more people than Mrs Ridley were involved in putting on the show. May I have your views on the likelihood of any one of them being the real target of the attack?’
‘You may,’ Lady Boyd-Calthrop replied, after a pause during which she drank tea with relish from a Crown Derby cup. ‘In my opinion, for what it is worth, Rex Allbright is a non-starter. He only became involved in “Pictures for Pleasure” because the Wellchester Art Club members were invited to exhibit, with the idea of filling up wall space and getting the free loan of the Club’s display screens. Do you agree?’
Pollard agreed that Rex Allbright could be disregarded as an intended victim.
‘What about Mr Peck?’ he asked.
‘He had only been at Fairlynch since the autumn of ’75 , you know. We were all rather apprehensive about the sort of man Heritage would put in as Warden, and I can only say that Francis Peck was liked from the start. And respected. He knew his job and did it. As a person he was delightful: intelligent, sensitive and modest. Never a brash new broom although there was a great deal to be done. I can only say with absolute truth that I’ve never heard adverse criticism of him from any quarter.’
‘From any quarter?’ Pollard queried. ‘That’s a remarkably comprehensive testimonial. Employees are usually highly critical when there’s a take-over.’
Lady Boyd-Calthrop gave another short cackle of laughter.
‘Another cup of tea? I expect you’ve been treated to Tom Basing’s views on “Pictures for Pleasure”. I was myself a few weeks ago. But don’t take them as criticism of Francis Peck for allowing the exhibition to be held, or of Katharine Ridley. According to Tom it was the grasping Heritage Council trying to make money out of Fairlynch. He worships Katharine in his forthright way. He’s known her ever since she came here as a bride before the war, you see. And he and Francis Peck got on like a house on fire.’
Pollard accepted his second cup of tea, and brought the conversation round to Hugo Rossiter. He saw Lady Boyd-Calthrop’s authoritative expression soften slightly.
‘I’ve a soft spot for Hugo Rossiter in spite of his obvious failings,’ she admitted. ‘He’s intelligent — I rate intelligence highly, Superintendent — and most amusing. A very gifted artist, of course, and rather surprisingly, a good business man. His art shop in Wellchester is highly profitable, I understand.’
‘What are his obvious failings?’ Pollard asked.
‘Primarily selfishness, the result of talent and success. He’s inclined to throw a commitment up if he gets bored, however inconvenient to other people. Katharine Ridley was in a panic that this would happen over “Pictures for Pleasure”. There were tiresome delays and he seemed to be getting fretty. And frankly his moral life is not what I can approve of, although I will say that he is discreet about it.’
Pollard concealed his amusement at Lady Boyd-Calthrop’s order of priority over Hugo Rossiter’s failings.
‘Isn’t it rather surprising that an artist of Mr Rossiter’s standing should have given so much time to a modest affair like “Pictures for Pleasure”?’
‘I was a little surprised myself. But he is generous and kind-hearted on impulse, and fond of Katharine Ridley. He’ll do a lot for his friends, provided that their demands don’t become boring to him. And in a rather sardonic way he does a lot to encourage popular interest in art. “Pictures for Pleasure” would appeal to him on that score, you see.’
‘He sounds to me the sort of man who might make enemies,’ Pollard said cautiously, making a mental note to talk to Rex Allbright about the reactions of the local art circle to Hugo Rossiter.
‘He does rile some people,’ Lady Boyd-Calthrop admitted. ‘The stuffier local members of what seems to be known as the Establishment these days. But I wouldn’t say that he makes lasting enemies exactly. He’d get tired of keeping up a vendetta: his sense of humour would come to the rescue. But I can’t think of a single person in this part of the world who would go to the length of doing what was done at Fairlynch to spite him, especially as Francis Peck and Katharine Ridley would suffer from it, too. I have heard rumours,’ she went on after a brief pause, ‘that he has brought off some coups over pictures which other dealers have looked askance at, but I don’t know any details. Temperamentally he’d enjoy taking speculative risks.’
Pollard made a mental note of this information and moved on to another top
ic.
‘We’re interested in the final break-up of the party at Weatherwise Farm on the Saturday night,’ he said. ‘The timing is vital in our opinion. Would you say that Mr and Mrs Gilmore are likely to be time-conscious?’
Lady Boyd-Calthrop glanced at him in amusement.
‘What you’re really trying to get out of me is what I think of the Gilmores, isn’t it? They’re a popular hospitable couple, and I always enjoy an evening there. Mrs Gilmore is an able amusing woman and I shouldn’t expect her to bother much about the time when she’s entertaining. Her husband is a good host but I find him less congenial — rather given to airing his grievances against the government, which is so boring. And obviously his firm is doing very nicely, too. I’m sure he’s highly efficient in his office and organises his time to the minute, but I’ve never seen any sign of this at one of the Weatherwise parties.’
‘Thank you,’ Pollard said. ‘Now I’d like to ask you about the Ridleys. Mr John Ridley died about two and a half years ago, I understand. Were he and his wife liked locally when they were living at the Manor?’
‘Very much. This sounds dated, I know, but they were English landed gentry at its best: public-spirited, charitable and hospitable. And Katharine has been much admired for the way in which she accepted her husband’s death and the good grace with which she stepped down. Here again, I cannot think of a single soul who would have wanted to injure something that she had worked hard to make a success. Not at the present time, that is. I wouldn’t have put it past Alix’s regrettable father if he had lived.’
With a quickening of interest which he could not explain Pollard asked if both Alix Parr’s parents were dead.
‘Yes, both of them,’ Lady Boyd-Calthrop told him. She pushed the tea trolley aside, and leant back in her chair. ‘It’s a tragic story. Briefly the Ridleys made the fatal mistake of bringing up Helen — Alix’s mother and their only child — for the pre-1939 world, not realising that it was going for good. The result was that when she came back from her finishing school abroad she simply kicked over the traces. She had a little money of her own, went off to London, and after various affairs fell madly in love with Geoffrey Parr. She brought him down here. I thought him absolutely beyond the pale: amoral, coolly calculating, and obviously thinking he was on to a good thing. You can imagine the dear static Ridleys’ reaction. I gather that it was made abundantly clear that no settlement would be made on Helen if they married. The pair went back to London, married belatedly, Helen being pregnant, and left for Paris for some alleged job of Geoffrey Parr’s. He deserted her almost at once. She was too proud to admit it to her parents, and struggled on under dreadful conditions, finally dying in childbirth. Two months before her death, Geoffrey Parr’s body was found in the Seine.’
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