Unhappy Returns

by Elizabeth Lemarchand

  ‘Sorry, Inspector, but I can’t help you at all over this. I’ve only been here since March, and the situation up here was — well, decidedly unusual, in the previous incumbent’s time. Do you know all about it, or shall I fill you in?’

  ‘Please do, sir.’

  ‘Would you say Miss Ridd was of sound mind?’ Frost asked, when Robert’s statement came to an end.

  ‘That’s a dicey question about quite a lot of people, isn’t it? My reaction is to say, yes, she was. Eccentric, certainly, and a figure of fun in the parish, but she was perfectly capable of coping with day-to-day life, and taking on a small job like caretaking at the vicarage. Her eccentricity arose from the fact that she’d become infected by Mr Viney’s obsession with his church’s past. I think she saw him as a sort of twentieth-century reincarnation of the Tadenham Abbey monks who built the church, and herself as a sort of lay brother, if you get me.’

  ‘Sounds a rum sort of set up to me,’ Frost commented, looking baffled. ‘Still, I catch your drift, I think. Going back to Miss Ridd, had she any personal enemies that you know of?’

  ‘None that I know of. As I said just now, people were indignant at her remark in the Consistory Court that this chalice she declared she’d seen must have been stolen. But it’s fantastic to think that anybody would feel strongly enough about it to murder her. Surely —’ Robert paused briefly — ‘it points to some down-and-out who’d got into the vicarage, and lost his head when she walked in on him? One of those rootless unstable types.’

  ‘I’ll grant you that it could well be,’ Frost conceded, ‘but we can’t just write off the locals, you know. There must be quite a few people who knew her routine, for instance. We’ll have to check up on where everybody was on Wednesday afternoon and early evening. Seeing you’re here, sir, and we’re both busy people, perhaps we might start off with yourself?’

  Robert Hoyle was fleetingly outraged. Then he grinned cheerfully.

  ‘Fair enough, Inspector. I was at the Consistory Court hearing in the Marchester Cathedral Chapter House from two o’clock until about a quarter to six. The Chancellor rose at a quarter past five, but I stayed for a word with the Archdeacon and one or two other people. Mr Morse, our PCC secretary, gave me a lift both ways, and I got home at about twenty to seven. He lives at the Old Forge in Pyrford.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. That should be two residents crossed off the list. Who else local was in court up to the end of the proceedings?’

  As he jotted down names the sound of an approaching car made Frost look up.

  ‘First of the press gentlemen,’ he remarked sardonically. ‘Ted Joynt of the Westbridge Evening News. Wonder he’s been so slow off the mark. Leave this one to me, sir. About the inquest, it’ll be Monday morning, in Westbridge. I’ll ring you when the time’s fixed. It’ll be adjourned, of course, but the coroner’ll issue a burial certificate. If no relatives turn up, it’ll be up to the people of the parish if they want to make the funeral arrangements, seeing that the deceased’s a parishioner of long standing.’

  ‘I’m quite sure the parish will want to be responsible,’ Robert said. ‘I’d better attend the inquest myself, and say so officially.’

  At Ambercombe Barton he was warmly received by the Gillards and reflected that Eric Lacy had been right about the reconciling effect of local disasters. The controversial issue of the sale of Ambercombe church plate had apparently shrunk to insignificance. It was settled that Margaret Gillard should accompany him to the inquest.

  ‘As to expense, we don’t want any Social Security taking over the poor thing’s funeral,’ she said decisively. ‘We’ll have it all done properly. People’ll be glad to give. The WI’ll go round for subscriptions, if she didn’t put by for her burial in her lifetime, that is, and there’ll be a wreath, of course. You leave all that to me, Mr Hoyle. You’ll have plenty else to see to.’

  Somewhat heartened by this evidence of good emerging from evil, Robert Hoyle shortly afterwards started for home. On the way down he had to draw in to let the mortuary van pass, and this brought back his sense of incredulity. Why, only a few hours ago he and Jean had been enjoying a good lunch with old friends. In retrospect it seemed like another world.

  A strange car was drawn up at the front door of the Rectory, and he was seized with foreboding, immediately realised by finding Jean being cornered by a reporter. Firmly resisting an impulse to kick the man and his notebook out of the house, he was deliberately friendly and co-operative. But while he made considered replies to loaded questions, he realised only too well that nothing he said would prevent the whole tragic affair being grotesquely sensationalised. This was borne out by a series of telephone calls from various parishioners in the course of the evening. These confirmed his worst apprehensions. It appeared that the bar of the Seven Stars was so crowded that patrons had to overflow on to the village green. The press had turned up in force, and memories were being stimulated by free drinks on expense accounts.

  ‘Believe it or not, my dear chap,’ Hugh Redshaw reported in a tone of sophisticated amusement, ‘they’re muck-raking about Ethel Ridd and old Barny Viney. Rich, isn’t it?’

  ‘Nauseating to my mind,’ Robert replied briefly.

  ‘Of course, dear boy, of course, but it’s these chaps’ living, poor devils. We literary hacks, you know… And if you’d ever seen old Barny…’

  In the middle of a late supper Robert suddenly put down his knife and fork and stared at his wife.

  ‘George Aldridge didn’t come round or ring while I was up at Ambercombe, did he?’

  Jean shook her head.

  ‘He couldn’t have. I was in the whole time.’

  ‘It’s just struck me that he simply hasn’t surfaced. It’s extraordinary, when you think how he tries to blow up the smallest thing to do with the parish into a major issue, and always with a sort of power-sharing implication.’

  ‘It is odd,’ Jean agreed. ‘I suppose he can’t be ill, or anything? He could have rung, anyway. I wonder if —’

  The Rectory telephone rang yet again. This time, however, it was the unexpected excitement of a call from their son Thomas, in his first term at Oxford. This welcome distraction and the need to reconsider various parish arrangements for the weekend temporarily drove George Aldridge’s unusual behaviour from Robert Hoyle’s mind. In bed that night, however, it recurred to him. Didn’t Christian charity require a call at the Village Stores to see if anything was amiss with the Aldridges? He was almost asleep when another thought which had been niggling unnoticed suddenly surfaced. What was the Archdeacon thinking during his lengthy silence on first hearing the news of Ethel Ridd’s death? Sleep finally supervened, putting an end to speculation.

  At an early hour on Saturday morning a full-scale police investigation got underway and was to pursue its relentless course throughout the weekend. One aspect was a thorough search for any report or trace of vagrants in the neighbourhood of Pyrford and Ambercombe during the week. There was a house-to-house enquiry. Special attention was given to outlying farms, and barns and other outbuildings were searched. Bus drivers and other known road users were questioned. Requests for information went out from the local radio station and were conspicuously displayed by the Westbridge Evening News and other regional newspapers.

  Simultaneously the checking of people’s movements on Wednesday afternoon and evening was carried out. Under Inspector Frost’s methodical direction, the information gathered was carefully analysed and listed, in readiness for a conference with the Chief Constable and Detective Superintendent Canning after the adjourned inquest on Ethel Ridd on Monday morning.

  The three men met in the Super’s office at Westbridge police headquarters, all looking decidedly jaded. Ethel Ridd’s murder had by no means been their sole preoccupation over the weekend.

  ‘Well, what does all this stuff of yours add up to, Frost?’ Colonel James Greenaway, Chief Constable of Whiteshire, asked wearily.

  Red-eyed from lack of sleep, Inspector Frost wa
s succinct.

  ‘Precious little, sir, I’m afraid. We’ve combed the district without finding a sign of a vagrant around. Every adult in both villages has been interviewed about his or her whereabouts from midday last Wednesday and we’ve got ’em all down on one of these three lists.’

  The CC put out a hand for the typewritten sheets.

  ‘List A: persons known to have been away from the area,’ he read aloud. ‘List B: persons in the area with their movements vouched for. List C: persons in the area giving unsupported statements of their movements… God, I’d no idea there were so many people in those ruddy villages… A good effort of yours and your chaps in the time, Frost.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. That’s as far as we got, I’m afraid. For what it’s worth, we haven’t found a shred of evidence that any of these people had what you might call a personal link with the deceased.’

  ‘Did you get the feeling they were holding back on you?’ Superintendent Canning asked.

  ‘No, we didn’t. Trouble was to stop ’em talking. She seems to have been a character. But there was a bit of feeling about her saying somebody’s pinched a chalice from Ambercombe church.’

  ‘Well, unless there’s a homicidal maniac in the parish, she’d hardly have been bumped off for that,’ the CC remarked. ‘Added to which, it seems the chalice doesn’t exist according to the official records… So what? It certainly looks like some drop-out going berserk. We’ll keep the publicity going: something may still come in, especially from neighbouring areas. And I suppose we’d better follow up those people who can’t produce supporting evidence on where they claim to have been at the time of the murder. Though how we’re going to find the manpower, I don’t know. We’re overstretched as it is. I —’

  The buzzer on the desk suddenly interrupted him. Superintendent Canning flicked a switch.

  ‘What is it?’ he barked.

  ‘The Archdeacon of Marchester’s here, sir. He wants to see Inspector Frost, or someone in authority who’s on the Ambercombe case.’

  The three men exchanged surprised glances.

  ‘Better have him up,’ the CC said, on being appealed to. ‘What it’s in aid of, God only knows, but the chap’s not a crank: I can vouch for that.’

  A few moments later Eric Lacy, carrying a folder, was ushered in.

  ‘Do sit down, Archdeacon,’ Colonel Greenaway said, after carrying out introductions. ‘We’re actually discussing this business at Ambercombe at the moment.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Eric Lacy replied, accepting a chair brought forward by Inspector Frost. ‘I expect you’re wondering why I’ve come in person, instead of ringing you. Well, the short answer is that I thought I’d have a better chance of being listened to… Shall I go ahead?’

  ‘Please do.’

  ‘Can I take it that you know about the late Ethel Ridd’s outburst in the Consistory Court last Wednesday morning?’

  ‘You can,’ Colonel Greenaway replied. ‘We’ve got what we’re taking to be an accurate report from the Reverend Robert Hoyle and others, and we also know that there’s no official record of this chalice she was referring to.’

  ‘This is really what I’ve come along about,’ Eric Lacy told him, crossing his legs and leaning back in his chair. ‘In my opinion the chalice did exist, and still does, I sincerely hope, unless some vandal’s melted it down by now.’

  His audience stared at him blankly.

  ‘Of course!’ Colonel Greenaway reacted suddenly. ‘I’ve got there! You’re an antiquarian, aren’t you? An authority on church plate? Do you mean that you’ve got tangible evidence that this chalice is — or was — a reality?’

  ‘It’s like this,’ Eric Lacy replied. ‘The moment that unfortunate woman leapt to her feet and challenged the Chancellor, I knew that somewhere and at some time I’d come across a relevant fact. Ever since, I’ve been trying to track it down, but I didn’t succeed until last night. It was a footnote in a book on the dissolution of the monasteries under Henry VIII. Tadenham Abbey was one of them, of course, and Ambercombe was one of its manors. The monks built the church, in fact. Tadenham surrendered to the Crown in 1538, and according to established procedure the Abbey valuables were listed, as a preliminary to being deposited with a chap called the Master of the King’s Jewel House. These takeovers weren’t a free-for-all, by any means. Careful records were kept, although there are occasional gaps. Tadenham’s greatest treasure was a medieval chalice.’ Eric Lacy paused, and surveyed his attentive audience. ‘It was listed as five and three-eighths inches high, of silver-gilt, and set with precious stones. Well, you can see what’s coming: it never reached the King’s Jewel House. An immediate enquiry was ordered, but unfortunately one of the few gaps in the records occurs here — perhaps significantly — and there’s no further reference to the matter.’

  A complete silence of several moments’ duration followed, during which Colonel Greenaway directed a long hard look at Eric Lacy.

  ‘Is it likely that either Mr Viney or Miss Ridd had come on this reference to the chalice, and that she could have imagined seeing it in use?’ he asked.

  ‘A fair question. I posed it to myself. I can only say that the book containing the footnote wasn’t on Barnabas Viney’s shelves. I went to the sale of his things, and had a good look at his library, such as it was. I’ve never seen the reference anywhere else, and he certainly never mentioned the chalice to me.’

  ‘If Miss Ridd hadn’t merely heard of it at second-hand, then I suppose it must follow that she actually saw it, or one very like it,’ Colonel Greenaway propounded cautiously. ‘Just what’s in your mind, Archdeacon?’

  ‘I think it’s quite likely that the Tadenham monks buried it, hoping for better days. If they did, their own land at Ambercombe would have been a suitable place, perhaps very near the church. We don’t know what heads rolled, if any, when the chalice wasn’t forthcoming, but the record of the hiding place may well have been lost.’

  ‘And the late Mr Viney may have dug it up, you suggest?’

  Eric Lacy was unperturbed by the note of cynicism which he rightly interpreted as a defensive measure.

  ‘This is speculation, I admit, but in the light of Miss Ridd’s remarks, I think it’s a possibility that he did find the chalice. That he froze on to it in complete secrecy seems quite in keeping with his outlook. He would have realised that it was a pre-Reformation piece, and seen it as a tangible link with the past that he practically lived in.’

  Superintendent Canning shifted on his chair, frowning heavily, and struggled to establish some definite fact.

  ‘This chalice, sir, if it’s still around somewhere, would it be a very valuable piece?’

  ‘Very valuable indeed, Superintendent, assuming that the description in the archives is correct. An interesting point is that the jewels are not described as counterfeit, as was often the case, so presumably they were genuine… Well, gentlemen, I hope you don’t feel that I’ve been wasting your time. But quite apart from this Ambercombe tragedy, it has occurred to me that there could be some link between the Tadenham chalice and these two other plate robberies in the diocese.’

  The Chief Constable stiffened slightly.

  ‘Which the police have so far completely failed to clear up, in fact?’

  ‘No criticism was intended, Colonel. Well, I’ll be getting along. Thank you for listening to me so patiently.’

  When Inspector Frost returned from escorting the Archdeacon to his car, he found the Chief Constable hunched in thought, and Superintendent Canning tactfully silent. He returned unobtrusively to his own chair and waited.

  ‘Where we left off,’ Colonel Greenaway said suddenly, ‘was wondering how the hell we were going to find the chaps to follow up your List C, Frost. Now we’ve got these bloody plate robberies surfacing again. If there’s anything at all in this yarn of the Archdeacon’s, I don’t see that it can possibly link up with the woman’s remarks in court. Nobody would have dashed straight off on the strength of them to start searc
hing for the chalice in Ambercombe vicarage on the off-chance, and then smashed her head in when she turned up. It’s nonsense. But there could be a link with the plate robberies.’

  ‘Two jobs instead of one,’ Superintendent Canning observed gloomily.

  ‘Exactly. But there’s a way out for us, you know.’

  ‘Push the murder on to the Yard, sir?’

  ‘Just that. How do you chaps feel about it? Nem con, judging from your faces.’

  Chapter 4

  Whistling softly, Detective Superintendent Tom Pollard returned from being briefed by his Assistant Commissioner to his room at New Scotland Yard, and buzzed his secretary. ‘Get me Inspector Toye, will you?’ he said. Within a few minutes Toye presented himself.

  ‘We’re for the midnight from Paddington to Westbridge,’ Pollard told him. ‘As far as I can make out, we’ve been detailed to track down the Holy Grail. There’s an old woman with her head bashed in for good measure,’ he added hastily, sensing some reservation at this flippant treatment of a sacred topic.

  ‘They must be a poor lot down there if they can’t clear up a run-of-the-mill job like that,’ Toye commented severely.

  Pollard hoisted his feet on to his desk.

  ‘Sit down,’ he said, ‘and I’ll pass on what I’ve just had from the AC, though it doesn’t add up to a lot. What there is of it is right up your street as PCC stalwart, so take that snooty expression off your face. The murderee is a spinster of seventy-five, called Ethel Ridd. She’d been housekeeper to the late Barnabas Viney, who was vicar of Ambercombe, a minute village in Whiteshire, for fifty-two years, and who died in June 1974.’

  Toye expressed further disapproval. ‘It shouldn’t be allowed, staying in one living all that time,’ he said warmly. ‘I don’t hold with the parson’s freehold, as they call it. Parsons ought to move on, like nonconformist ministers. What’s happened to the Paul Report, I’d like to know?’