Magpie Murders

by Anthony Horowitz

  ‘You’ve got a good point there,’ Chubb said. ‘Some of the entries are a bit vague. She was careful about what she wrote. But if people found out how much she knew about them, she could have had a lot of enemies. Just like Sir Magnus and Dingle Dell. That’s the trouble with this case. Too many suspects! But the question is, was it the same person who killed them both?’ The detective inspector got to his feet. ‘You’ll let me have that back in due course, Herr Pünd,’ he said. ‘I’ve got to get home. Mrs Chubb is cooking her Fricassee de Poulet à l’Ancienne, God help me. I’ll see you gentlemen tomorrow.’

  He left. Fraser and Pünd were alone.

  ‘The inspector is absolutely correct,’ Pünd said.

  ‘You mean there are too many suspects?

  ‘He asks whether the same person killed Sir Magnus Pye and his housekeeper. Everything rests on that. Clearly there is a connection between the two deaths but we are no closer to discovering what it is. And until then, we will remain in the dark. But perhaps the answer now lies in my hands.’ He looked at the first page and smiled. ‘Already the handwriting is known to me …’

  ‘How?’

  But Pünd didn’t answer. He had begun to read.

  FIVE

  Silver

  1

  Detective Inspector Chubb very much liked the police station in Orange Grove, Bath. It was a perfect Georgian construction, solid and serious yet at the same time light and elegant enough to feel welcoming … at least, if you were on the right side of the law. He couldn’t enter it without a sense that his work mattered and that by the end of the day the world might be a slightly better place. His office was on the first floor, overlooking the main entrance. Sitting at his desk, he could look out of a window that stretched the full height of the room and this too gave him a sense of comfort. He was, after all, the eye of the law. It was only right that he should have a view that was so expansive.

  He had brought John Whitehead to this room. It was a deliberate move, to winkle the man out of the false shell that Saxby-on-Avon had provided and to remind him who was in charge. There were to be no lies told here. In fact there were four people facing him: Whitehead, his wife, Atticus Pünd and his young assistant, Fraser. He normally had a photograph of Mrs Chubb on the desk but he had slid it into a drawer just before they came in. He wasn’t quite sure why.

  ‘Your name is John Whitehead?’ he began.

  ‘That’s right.’ The antique dealer was sullen and downcast. He knew the game was up. He wasn’t trying to disguise it.

  ‘And you came to Saxby-on-Avon how long ago?’

  ‘Three years.’

  ‘We’ve done nothing wrong,’ Gemma Whitehead cut in. She was such a small woman, the seat looked much too big for her. She was cradling a handbag in her lap. Her feet barely touched the floor. ‘You know who he is and what he’s done. But he’s left that all behind him. He served his time and he was let out for good behaviour. We moved out of London, just to be together somewhere quiet – and all this business with Sir Magnus, that had nothing to do with us.’

  ‘I think you should let me be the judge of that,’ Chubb replied. Mary Blakiston’s diary was lying on the desk in front of him and for a moment he was tempted to open it. But there was no need. He already knew the relevant contents well enough. ‘On 9 July a certain Arthur Reeve had his home broken into. Mr Reeve used to be the landlord at the Queen’s Arms and is now living in retirement with his wife. A window was broken and he was very distressed to find that his medal collection, including a rare George V1 Greek medal, had been stolen from his front room. The entire collection was valued at a hundred pounds or more although of course it had great sentimental value too.’

  Whitehead drew himself up but next to him, his wife had paled. She was hearing this for the first time. ‘Why are you telling me this?’ he demanded. ‘I don’t know anything about any medal.’

  ‘The thief cut himself on the window,’ Chubb said.

  ‘One day later, on 10 July, you were treated by Dr Redwing,’ Pünd added. ‘You required stitches for an unpleasant cut on your hand.’ He smiled briefly to himself. In the landscape of this particular crime, two minor byways had just reached a crossroads.

  ‘I cut my hand in the kitchen,’ Johnny said. He glanced at his wife who did not look convinced. ‘I never went anywhere near Mr Reeve or his medal. It’s a pack of lies.’

  ‘What can you tell us about the visit Mary Blakiston made to you on 11 July, four days before she died?’

  ‘Who told you that? Have you been watching me?’

  ‘Do you deny it?’

  ‘What’s there to deny? Yes. She came into the shop. Lots of people come into the shop. She never said a thing about any medals.’

  ‘Then maybe she talked to you about the money that you had paid to Brent.’ Pünd had spoken softly, reasonably but there was something in his tone that suggested he knew everything, that there was no point arguing. In fact, Fraser knew this wasn’t true. The groundsman had done his best to cover his tracks. He had said the five pounds was owed to him, perhaps for work he had done. Pünd was taking a stab in the dark. However, his words had an immediate effect.

  ‘All right,’ Whitehead admitted. ‘She did come in, nosing around, asking me questions – just like you. What are you trying to say? That I pushed her down the stairs to shut her up?’

  ‘Johnny!’ Gemma Whitehead let out a cry of exasperation.

  ‘It’s all right, love.’ He reached out to her but she twisted away. ‘I’ve done nothing wrong. Brent came into the shop a couple of days after Mary’s funeral. He had something to sell. It was a silver belt buckle, Roman, a nice little piece. I’d say about fourth century BC. He wanted twenty quid for it. I gave him five.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘I can’t remember. Monday! It was the week after the funeral.’

  ‘Did Brent say where he got it from?’ Chubb asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did you ask him?’

  ‘Why should I have?’

  ‘You must have been aware that there’d been a burglary at Pye Hall only a few days before. A collection of silver jewellery and coins was stolen from Sir Magnus. It was the same day as Mrs Blakiston’s funeral.’

  ‘I did hear about that. Yes.’

  ‘And you didn’t put two and two together?’

  Whitehead drew a breath. ‘A lot of people come into my shop. I buy a lot of things. I bought a set of Worcester coffee mugs off Mrs Reeve and a brass carriage clock off the Finches – and that was just last week. Do you think I asked them where they got them? If I went round treating everyone in Saxby like criminals, I’d be out of business in a week.’

  Chubb drew a breath. ‘But you are a criminal, Mr Whitehead. You did three years in prison for receiving stolen goods.’

  ‘You promised me!’ Gemma muttered. ‘You promised you weren’t going back to all that.’

  ‘Stay out of it, love. They’re just trying to wind me up.’ Whitehead glanced balefully at Chubb. ‘You’ve got it all wrong, Mr Chubb. Yes. I bought a silver belt buckle off Brent. Yes. I knew there’s been a break in at Pye Hall. But did I put two and two together? No. I didn’t. Call me stupid if you like, but there’s no crime in stupidity – and for all I know he could have had it in his family for twenty years. If you’re saying it was stolen from Sir Magnus, then your argument is with Brent, not with me.’

  ‘Where is the belt buckle now?’

  ‘I sold it to a friend in London.’

  ‘And for rather more than five pounds, I’ll be bound.’

  ‘That’s my business, Mr Chubb. That’s what I do.’

  Atticus Pünd had been listening to all this in silence. Now he adjusted his glasses and observed, quietly: ‘Mrs Blakiston visited you before the break-in at Pye Hall. It was the theft of the medal that interested her. Did she threaten
you?’

  ‘She was a nosey cow – asking questions about things that had nothing to do with her.’

  ‘Did you purchase any other items from Brent?’

  ‘No. That’s all he had. If you want to find the rest of Sir Magnus’s treasure trove, maybe you should be searching his place instead of wasting your time with me.’

  Pünd and Chubb exchanged a glance. There was clearly nothing more to be gained from the interview. Even so, the detective inspector was determined to have the last word. ‘There have been a number of petty thefts in Saxby-on-Avon since you arrived,’ he said. ‘Windows broken, antiques and jewellery gone missing. I can promise you we’ll be looking into every one of them. And I’m going to want a record of everything you’ve bought and sold in the past three years too.’

  ‘I don’t keep records.’

  ‘The tax office may take a dim view of that. I hope you’re not planning on going anywhere in the next few weeks, Mr Whitehead. We’ll be in touch again.’

  The antique dealer and his wife got up and left the room, showing themselves out. Ahead of them, there was an upper landing and then a staircase leading down. They continued in silence but the moment they were in the open air, Gemma burst out: ‘Oh Johnny! How could you lie to me?’

  ‘I didn’t lie to you,’ Johnny replied, miserably.

  ‘After everything we talked about. All the plans we had!’ It was as if she hadn’t heard him. ‘Who did you see when you were in London? This silver belt buckle of yours – who did you sell it to?’

  ‘I told you.’

  ‘You mean Derek and Colin. Did you tell them about Mary? Did you tell them she was on to you?’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘You know what I mean. In the old days, when you were part of the gang, if people stepped out of line, things happened. We never mentioned it and I know you weren’t part of it, but we both know what I’m talking about. People disappeared.’

  ‘What? You think I took out a contract on Mary Blakiston to get her off my back?’

  ‘Well, did you?’

  Johnny Whitehead didn’t answer. They walked to their car in silence.

  2

  A search of Brent’s house had produced nothing that related either to the murder or the stolen treasure trove.

  Brent lived on his own in a row of terraced houses in Daphne Road, a simple two-up, two-down that shared a porch with its neighbour, the two front doors meeting at an angle. From the outside, the building had a certain chocolate-box charm. The roof was thatched, the wisteria and the flower beds well cared for. The interior told another story. Everything had a sense of neglect, from the unwashed dishes in the sink to the unmade bed and the clothes thrown carelessly on the floor. A certain smell lingered in the air, one that Chubb had come upon many times before and which always made him frown. It was the smell of a man living alone.

  There was nothing in the house that was new or luxurious and everything had a make-do-and-mend quality, years after those words had gone out of fashion. Plates were chipped, chairs held together by string. Brent’s parents had once lived here and he had done nothing to the place since they had died. He even slept in the same, single bed with the same blanket and eiderdown that must have been his as a boy. There were comics on the bedroom floor, too. And Scout magazines. It was as if Brent had never fully grown up and if he had stolen the entire hoard of Sir Magnus’s Roman silver, he clearly hadn’t sold it yet. He had just a hundred pounds in his bank account. There was nothing hidden in the house: not under the floorboards, in the attic, up the chimney. The police had done a thorough search.

  ‘I didn’t take it. I didn’t do it. It wasn’t me.’ Brent had been brought home in a police car from Pye Hall and was sitting with a look of shock on his face, surrounded by policemen who had invaded the shabby sanctity of his home. Atticus Pünd and James Fraser were among them.

  ‘Then how did you come upon the silver belt buckle that you sold to John Whitehead?’ Chubb asked.

  ‘I found it!’ Brent continued hurriedly as the detective inspector’s eyes glazed in disbelief. ‘It’s the truth. It was the day after the funeral. A Sunday. I don’t work the weekend, not as a rule. But Sir Magnus and Lady Pye, they’d only just got back from their holiday and I thought they might need me. So I went down the hall just to show willing. And I was in the garden when I saw it, shining, on the lawn. I didn’t have any idea what it was but it looked old and there was a picture of a man carved into it, standing there with no clothes.’ He smirked briefly as if sharing a rude joke. ‘I popped it into my pocket and then on the Monday I took it into Mr Whitehead and he gave me a fiver for it. It was twice what I was expecting.’

  Yes. And half what it was worth, Chubb thought. ‘There were police called into Pye Hall that day,’ he said. ‘Sir Magnus reported a burglary. What do you have to say about that?’

  ‘I left before lunchtime. I didn’t see any police.’

  ‘But you must have heard about the break-in.’

  ‘I did. But by then it was too late. I’d already sold what I’d found to Mr Whitehead and maybe he’d sold it too. I looked in the shop window and it wasn’t there.’ Brent shrugged. ‘I’d done nothing wrong.’

  That much was questionable. But even Chubb would have been forced to admit that Brent’s crime was a very minor one. If, that is, he was telling the truth. ‘Where did you find the buckle?’ he asked.

  ‘It was in the grass. In front of the house.’

  Chubb glanced at Pünd, as if asking for guidance. ‘It would be interesting, I think, to see the exact spot,’ Pünd said.

  Chubb agreed and the four of them left together, Brent complaining all the while as he was carried back to Pye Hall. Once again they drove past the Lodge House with its two stone griffins almost seeming to whisper to each other and for a moment Fraser was reminded of the game that the two boys, Robert and Tom Blakiston, had played together at night, the code words that they had rapped out to each other when they were in bed. It suddenly struck him that the game had a significance he had overlooked but before he could mention it to Pünd, they had arrived. Brent called to them to stop and they pulled in about halfway up the drive, opposite the lake.

  ‘It was over here!’ He led them across the lawn. In front of them the lake stretched out, dank and oily with the woodland behind. Perhaps it was the story that Robert had told them earlier but there was something indisputably evil about it. The brighter the sun, the blacker the water appeared. They stopped about fifteen or twenty feet from the edge, Brent pointing down as if he remembered the exact spot. ‘It was here.’

  ‘Just lying here?’ Chubb sounded unconvinced.

  ‘The sun was glinting off it. That’s how I saw it.’

  Chubb considered the possibilities. ‘Well, I suppose if someone had been carrying a whole pile of the stuff, if they were on foot and in a hurry, they might have dropped a piece without noticing it.’

  ‘It is possible.’ Pünd was already working out the angles. He looked back at the driveway, the Lodge House, the front door. ‘And yet it is strange, Detective Inspector. Why would the burglar come this way? He broke into the house through the back …?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Then to reach the gate, it would have been faster to continue along the other side of the driveway.’

  ‘Unless they were heading for Dingle Dell …’ The inspector examined the line of trees with the vicarage somewhere on the other side of the lake. ‘No chance of being seen if they go out through the wood.’

  ‘That is true,’ Pünd agreed. ‘And yet, you will forgive me, Detective Inspector. You are a thief. You are carrying a great many pieces of silver jewellery and coins. Would you wish to make your way through thick woodland in the middle of the night?’ His eyes settled on the black surface. ‘The lake holds many mysteries,’ he said. ‘I believe it has further stor
ies to tell and wonder if it would be possible for you to arrange an inspection by police divers, I have a suspicion, an idea …’ He shook his head as if dismissing the thought.

  ‘Divers?’ Chubb shook his head. ‘That’s going to cost a pretty penny or two. What is it exactly you’re hoping to find?’

  ‘The true reason why Pye Hall was burgled on the same evening as Mary Blakiston’s funeral.’

  Chubb nodded. ‘I’ll see to it.’

  ‘Do you want anything else?’ Brent asked.

  ‘I will keep you only for a few moments more, Mr Brent. I would like you to show us the door that was broken when the burglary took place.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Brent was relieved that the investigation seemed to be moving away from him. ‘We can cut across through the rose garden.’

  ‘There is one other question I wish to put to you,’ Pünd said. As they walked, Fraser noticed that the detective was leaning heavily on his stick. ‘I understand that Sir Magnus had made it known to you that he wished to dispense with your employment.’

  Brent started as if stung. ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘Is it true?’

  ‘Yes.’ The groundsman was scowling now. His whole body seemed to have become stooped, his curly hair flopping over his forehead.

  ‘Why did you not mention to this to me when we met?’

  ‘You never asked me.’

  Pünd nodded. That was fair enough. ‘Why did he ask you to leave?’

  ‘I don’t know. But he was always on at me. Mrs Blakiston used to complain about me. Them two! They were like – like Bob and Gladys Grove.’

  ‘It’s a television programme,’ Fraser said, overhearing. ‘The Grove Family.’

  This was exactly the sort of thing that Fraser would know. And which Pünd wouldn’t.

  ‘When did he tell you?’

  ‘The day Sir Magnus died.’

  In other words, just before the first death.