by Eric Brown
‘Not forgetting Edgar Benedict,’ Langham said, and recounted what Constance Merriman had told him about Benedict’s cheating in relation to the West End production.
Hunched over the wheel and peering into the slanting rain, Mallory shook his head. ‘And these are sufficient reasons to kill people?’
As the question was rhetorical, Langham remained silent.
They left London in their wake and proceeded at a steady forty miles an hour into the country. Darkness descended rapidly, and the rain became torrential. The wipers beat a regular, metronomic rhythm, and the heat of the car lulled Langham to the edge of slumber.
Mallory was saying, ‘And speaking of Fenton’s health, mental and physical … I’ve arranged to meet with Doctor Bryce’s partner at Oldhurst later today. I want to take a look at Fenton’s medical records. I know there was a rumour that he was seriously ill – but was it any more than that?’
Langham recalled the bedroom at Winterfield, equipped with a hospital bed, oxygen tanks and medicines. ‘It was all set up at the house to give the impression that he was on his last legs. And Edgar Benedict was certainly made up to appear grievously ill.’
‘All part of the charade to put us off the scent?’ Mallory said. ‘We’ll probably find that he’s as fit as a fiddle.’
London gave way to the low hills of Essex, and the quiet road climbed and dipped through rolling countryside. A gibbous moon raced through the clouds, and as they approached the small market town of Oldhurst an hour after setting off, the rain eased and then stopped altogether.
Mallory found St Michael’s Church on the edge of town, and the patch of unconsecrated land adjacent. It looked to Langham’s unpractised eye like a farmer’s unploughed meadow, until he made out half a dozen headstones in the moonlight.
A navy-blue police van was parked in a gravelled area next to the church, along with several police cars. As they walked over the tussocky field towards a screened-off area, Mallory explained that half a dozen officers had started digging at three o’clock when the exhumation order came through.
Langham followed the detective around the side of the screen. Half a dozen paraffin lamps, hanging from metal skewers, illuminated the scene with a ruddy light that brought to mind a painting by an old master. A silent group of men stood around the open grave, and Mallory pointed out a police dentist, a fingerprint expert and a local coroner. Two sweating officers in boiler suits had just finished digging, supervised by the detective sergeant Langham recognized as Venables.
Mallory conferred with the coroner, then nodded to the boiler-suited officers. Langham watched them climb into the grave – utilizing rough steps especially dug for the purpose – and with crowbars tip the coffin so that they could gain a handhold and lift it the rest of the way.
In due course the soil-encrusted coffin sat on a pair of scaffolding boards to one side of the grave, and Mallory give the signal for the officers to unscrew the lid.
Everyone edged a little closer to the coffin. An air of expectation hung over the gathering as the officers laboriously removed the screws. They lifted the lid, set it on its edge beside the coffin, then stood back.
The undertaker in charge of the corpse had bound the dead man’s shattered skull with a length of bandage so that it resembled an outsized turban. The material covered the right eye, and Langham was surprised to see that the left eye was open and staring from the coffin as if in posthumous accusation.
The dentist knelt beside the corpse and, with the aid of a torch held by one of the boiler-suited officers, opened the dead man’s jaw and inspected the revealed dental work.
At the same time the fingerprint specialist inked the forefinger of the corpse’s right hand and took a print.
‘I had forensics lift some dabs from Benedict’s rooms in Forest Hill,’ Mallory explained. ‘The dental comparison should prove conclusive, but just to be on the safe side …’
While the examination was going on, several people lit up cigarettes and smoked. Clouds periodically obscured the moon, giving the scene the appearance of an old black-and-white film – a horror film, Langham thought, in which all present are startled when the corpse comes to life and sits up in the coffin.
He moved away from the grave and Mallory joined him, lighting up a cigarette.
‘I have a team over at Winterfield, going through the place,’ Mallory said. ‘I don’t think for a minute that Fenton was stupid enough to leave any clues as to his present whereabouts, but you never know. This afternoon a team scoured the grounds, and they’ll start again in the morning.’
‘Looking for?’
Mallory drew on his cigarette. ‘It struck me that the little charade with the guests and their subsequent murders might not be the only time he’s indulged his homicidal tendencies. If so, then the grounds of Winterfield would be the obvious place to dispose of bodies.’
Langham was sceptical. ‘Good luck, but I think you’re barking up the wrong tree. Why would Fenton all of a sudden change his modus operandi – from casually killing his enemies and burying them in the grounds of his house, to carefully planning and carrying out these latest murders?’ He shook his head. ‘Mark my word, these are his first and only killings.’
Mallory grunted. ‘I hope you’re right, Don.’
Langham stared up at the moon racing through the clouds. ‘I wonder where it all went wrong. He was feted in the thirties, regarded as a rising star in the art world. His canvases sold for hundreds.’
‘From what I’ve heard, what he saw at Treblinka did for him. He was never the same after that.’
Langham shrugged. ‘Hundreds of British personnel saw the aftermath of what happened at the death camps, and they didn’t become killers.’
‘He was an artist – a sensitive soul and all that.’
‘I’ve no doubt that his experiences during the war might have contributed to the man he became,’ Langham said, ‘but there was something deeply flawed about him way before that, back in the early to mid-thirties. He couldn’t take criticism or opposition. He treated men and women appallingly – especially women. And yet he had what many people would kill for.’ He winced at his inadvertent choice of words. ‘He had looks and a certain charm, bags of artistic talent, wealth – back in the thirties, that is – and men and women falling at his feet. And yet look what happened.’
Mallory nipped out his tab end and flicked it into the long grass. ‘In all my years with the force,’ he said, ‘I’m constantly surprised by man’s propensity to sow the seeds of his own psychological destruction. It’s almost as if certain individuals, affected by their good fortune, react by subconsciously devising their compensatory downfall.’
Langham peered at his friend. ‘You’ve been reading too much Freud, Jeff.’
Mallory laughed. ‘All my cheap philosophizing will be scuppered if this chap turns out to be Fenton after all, hmm?’
On cue, Detective Sergeant Venables appeared from behind the canvas screen. ‘They’re ready when you are, sir.’
They returned to the graveside and approached the police dentist, who nodded and referred to his notes. ‘It’s Edgar Benedict all right,’ he said. ‘Evidence of a maxillary molar extraction, and we have three lower mandibular fillings.’
‘Good work.’ Mallory turned to the fingerprint specialist hovering behind the dentist. ‘Yes?’
‘The prints match those we took from Edgar Benedict’s rooms, sir. The corpse is that of the actor.’
The process of reinterring the coffin began, and Mallory strode from the graveside and lit up another cigarette.
‘What kind of monster are we dealing with, Don? To set up Benedict like that, to string Bryce up, slit the throats of the Goudges …’
‘I wonder …’ Langham began.
Mallory peered at him through a cloud of cigarette smoke. ‘What?’
‘That little charade the other night at Winterfield, with Benedict playing the part and putting the wind up the guests, and then blowing his bra
ins out. It wouldn’t surprise me in the least if Maxwell Fenton had been present, you know, watching everything from a place of concealment.’
‘It’d certainly fit with the kind of man he seems to be,’ Mallory said. He looked at his watch. ‘It’s almost five thirty. I’ve arranged to meet Bryce’s colleague in five minutes. The surgery’s just across town.’ He called Venables to accompany them in his own car, and he and Langham returned to the Humber.
‘I’ve been wondering,’ Langham began as they drove along the quiet high street of the market town, ‘whether I should take Maria and get out of London altogether until all this blows over. On the other hand, that’d feel like running away. I want to nail Fenton before he kills again.’
Mallory shrugged. ‘Combine the two. Find Maria a quiet place somewhere in the backwoods, and you continue working on the case.’
Langham nodded. ‘Ralph’s taking Maria and Pamela to a guest house in Greenwich tonight, but it’d make sense to get Maria well away from London. It’d be a weight off my mind.’
They pulled into the driveway of a detached Victorian villa that served as the town’s medical practice. A light burned behind the bay window of a front room.
They were joined by Venables and met at the door by a tall, gaunt, silver-haired man in his sixties who introduced himself as Dr Frobisher.
‘We spoke on the phone, Inspector. I have Maxwell Fenton’s medical records ready, as you requested.’
Mallory made the introductions, then followed Frobisher into a spacious surgery with a large mahogany desk in front of the window and an examination couch against the far wall.
‘Terrible business all round, Inspector; first that Mr Fenton should take such a ghastly way out, and then poor Doctor Bryce.’
‘Did you have occasion to treat Maxwell Fenton?’ Mallory asked.
‘Only once or twice, when Doctor Bryce was indisposed,’ Frobisher said. He moved to the desk and picked up a fat buff folder stuffed with papers.
Mallory took the folder and, before opening it, asked, ‘And what did you make of the artist?’
Frobisher leaned against the desk, crossing his long legs at the ankles. ‘As a person?’
Mallory nodded.
‘I judged him to be embittered and self-piteous.’ Frobisher gave a grim smile. ‘But then, in the circumstances—’
‘The circumstances?’
The doctor indicated the folder. ‘As you’ll see.’
Mallory leafed to the back of the records, read the most up-to-date sheet, then looked up. ‘So he is ill?’
‘Was,’ Frobisher corrected. ‘He was suffering from acute myeloid leukaemia. It’s my professional opinion that, rather than allow the disease to run its course, Fenton took the easy way out.’
Mallory speed-read the notes. ‘He was diagnosed a year ago and given two years. When did you last see him?’
The doctor considered the question. ‘Professionally, perhaps a month ago. I could check my records, if you like.’
‘That’s OK; no need,’ Mallory said. ‘When you saw him, how was he? Physically able, debilitated?’
‘He was surprisingly robust, given his condition, but prone to tiredness.’
Langham asked, ‘And how long would you have expected Fenton to have survived?’
‘That’s very difficult to say in the circumstances. He was in remission at the time, though there’s no telling how long that might have lasted.’
‘In your professional opinion, approximately?’ Mallory pressed.
‘I would say that he would have been expected to live for between six months and a year.’
‘With increasing debilitation and lack of physical wherewithal, I take it?’
‘Towards the end, the last few months, yes, that is so.’
‘But for the first few months, he would continue to be, as you said, robust?’
‘Notwithstanding the possibility that he would suffer a relapse, Inspector.’
‘And medication?’ Mallory asked. ‘Was that self-administered?’
‘We prescribed painkillers and Chlormethine, the latter to treat the disease. He was seen at Broomfield Hospital in Chelmsford every three months.’
Mallory pored over the artist’s medical records. ‘And when did Fenton receive his last prescription of these drugs?’
His frown increasing, Frobisher said, ‘Let me see.’
He took the folder and flipped through the records. ‘Here we are. Doctor Bryce prescribed him his usual dosage just over a month ago, and the medication would have lasted six weeks.’
‘So, had he lived, he would have had sufficient medication to last him another two weeks?’
‘That’s correct, Inspector,’ Frobisher said, looking even more mystified.
‘And,’ Mallory went on, ‘we’re speaking theoretically here: how long might he have continued to function, in reasonable physical health, without the medication – had he lived?’
Dr Frobisher blinked at the question. ‘Why, that’s quite impossible to say.’
‘At a guess?’
The doctor’s grimace indicated his displeasure at being pressed to speculate. ‘At a guess, a few weeks. And then, without the drugs, I think his deterioration would have been rapid.’
Mallory smiled and handed him the folder. ‘You’ve been extremely helpful, Doctor. We won’t keep you any longer.’
Frowning, Frobisher watched the trio leave his surgery.
As they were crossing to the cars, Langham said, ‘So if Frobisher’s right, Fenton had enough medication to last him a fortnight.’
‘Always assuming,’ Mallory said, ‘that he hasn’t been able to source it from elsewhere. Which, knowing the man’s cunning, wouldn’t surprise me in the slightest.’
Venables hurried across to his car, from which the sound of a crackling voice could be heard on the two-way radio.
He reached in through the open window and spoke into the receiver.
Langham and Mallory joined him.
‘That was Sergeant Welland,’ Venables said, lowering the receiver. ‘Holly Beckwith has been attacked.’
‘Fatally?’
Venables shook his head. ‘Too early to tell, sir. The medics are with her now.’
‘Let’s go,’ Mallory said.
TWENTY-ONE
As Mallory raced back to London, ignoring both the speed limit and the occasional traffic light, Langham thought back a day to his meeting with Holly Beckwith. The fact that Maxwell Fenton – or his red-headed accomplice – had attacked her in order to right some perceived wrong committed more than twenty years ago filled him with rage.
It was not knowing her fate, he thought later as they tore through Romford, that was so excruciating. He was sure that she was as dead as Fenton’s other hapless victims, a life cut needlessly short by the egotistical vengeance of a psychopath.
Fifty yards ahead, Venables led the way in his squad car, its rotating beacon filling the night with a lapis lazuli light.
‘There’ll be hell to pay,’ Mallory muttered to himself as he hunched over the wheel and accelerated.
‘What’s that?’
‘The incompetent fools who were supposed to be guarding Beckwith,’ the South African said. ‘What the hell were they doing? I spoke to them myself just yesterday. I told them what they were up against. They’re experienced men. Two of my best. I can’t see how they’d let this happen.’
‘Fenton’s ingenious if nothing else,’ Langham said. ‘He or the redhead must have followed Beckwith at some point.’ He looked across at Mallory. ‘The sooner I get Maria out of London, the better.’
‘To our advantage,’ the detective said, ‘is the fact that they’re going about this meticulously – literally by numbers. Beckwith was fourth on his list, and Proudfoot is next up. Maria was number six, right?’
Langham nodded. ‘Scant consolation,’ he muttered.
‘It buys us a bit of time – for you to get Maria securely holed up somewhere and for us to ensure that
Proudfoot is placed beyond Fenton’s reach. So far Fenton and Co. have limited themselves to a murder a day. Let’s hope they stick to that.’
He swore and rammed the heel of his hand against the horn, angered at a lorry dawdling along at twenty miles an hour. He accelerated, overtook the truck and settled back to an even fifty miles an hour when he caught up with Venables.
They reached Dalston and slowed down along Queensbridge Road, then turned right and drove on for half a mile. A police car and a taped cordon blocked off the next left turning. Mallory wound down the window and flashed his badge. A uniformed constable waved him through.
Along the quiet street of terraced houses, an ambulance, four police cars and a forensics van were drawn up outside a house in which every window was illuminated. A gaggle of curious neighbours pressed in on either side, kept at bay by more police tape and four overworked constables.
Mallory screeched to a halt and leapt out. He crossed to the gate of the house and spoke to a plainclothes officer, joined by Venables. Officers in blue boiler suits moved to and from the house. Langham felt his stomach turn as he climbed from the car.
‘Donald!’ a familiar voice called out to him.
Incredulous, he turned and saw Ralph’s Morris Minor parked behind the forensics van. Maria jumped from the back of the car and ran across to him.
‘Maria? What the—?’
She sobbed against his shoulder for a few moments, and then he held her at arm’s length, staring at her tear-streaked face.
‘Donald, it was terrible! Holly phoned us. Ralph had just driven us back to Pamela’s place to pick up a few things. We were in the house when the phone rang. Holly … she was trying to contact you. She’d phoned the police, but they hadn’t arrived. So she rang your office, but you weren’t there. Then she remembered that you’d given her Pamela’s number.’
Behind her, in the back of Ralph’s car, he saw Pamela holding her head in her hands. Ralph was beside her, attempting to console the young woman.
‘Holly was desperate,’ Maria went on. ‘There was someone trying to get into the house. The police … the men who were supposed to be protecting her’ – she shook her head – ‘they were unconscious or dead, and someone was trying to get in through the front door. She pleaded with me to help her, Donald! I promised we’d be there as soon as possible. I raced out and told Ralph and the police. There was no way we could just drive straight off to Greenwich, Donald, so he agreed to bring us here.’ She gestured pathetically to the house. ‘We got here just as soon as we could …’