For once, Hare was agitated. He was on the defensive and Pünd understood why. This was Hare’s last case. He had hoped to retire at the end of a successful investigation with the thanks and congratulations of his superiors. He had not foreseen any further complications and he had been completely unprepared for them when they arrived.
‘It all seems pretty straightforward to me,’ he insisted. ‘Francis Pendleton was a man who had just killed his wife and he’d been found out. You heard what he said. He actually wanted it all to be over.’
Pünd looked apologetic. ‘It is perfectly possible that he strangled his wife. I have said as much all along and it is still the most likely scenario, particularly in light of the fact that he lied about the opera. But there is still the matter of the telephone to consider. You will recall that we discussed this at dinner last night.’
‘Ah yes! The telephone. Why don’t you explain yourself about that? You’ve obviously got a bee in your bonnet about it!’
‘I’m sorry? A bee?’
‘What’s been worrying you about the phone?’
‘Only this, Detective Chief Inspector, and it is something that struck me from the very beginning. You told me that you found no fingerprints on the telephone or the receiver.’
‘That’s right. It had been wiped clean.’
‘But why would Francis Pendleton need to do that if he was the one who had used it as a murder weapon? He was not a stranger to the house. He would have used the phone many times. He had no need to cover his tracks.’
Hare considered. ‘You’re right. Although has it occurred to you that he could have deliberately wiped the phone clean to throw us off the scent?’
‘That to me is unlikely.’
‘What difference does it make, Mr Pünd? Francis Pendleton confessed to the killing! We were both in the room.’
‘I did not hear him confess, Detective Chief Inspector. He said only that he intended to make a full confession.’
‘Exactly!’
‘But a confession to what?’
‘I don’t know.’ Finally, Hare lost his patience. ‘Perhaps he was going to confess to stealing sweets from the village shop or to parking on a yellow line. But since I had just arrested him for murder, I’d imagine that was uppermost in his mind.’ He stopped himself. ‘I’m very sorry, Mr Pünd,’ he said. ‘I really shouldn’t talk to you that way.’
‘Detective Chief Inspector,’ Pünd began again, speaking slowly, ‘you do not need to apologise, and please trust me when I say that it is not my desire to complicate the matter unnecessarily. But I do not believe it is the case that Francis Pendleton confessed to everything. And I can suggest to you three reasons why it is unlikely that he committed suicide.’
‘Go on!’
‘First of all, he left the room to put on his jacket and his shoes. You might think that if he intended to kill himself, he suggested that only as an excuse to be left on his own. But this is my point. He did put on his jacket and shoes. He was wearing them when he died. Why did he do that? If he was about to die, what would it matter to him what he was wearing?’
‘If you’ll forgive me for saying it, maybe you don’t understand the way an English gentleman thinks, Mr Pünd. I investigated the case of a landowner over in Taunton who blew his brains out. He had money troubles and he left a letter explaining exactly what he was going to do and why. But he put on a dinner jacket before he did it. He wanted to look his best when he went.’
Pünd shrugged. ‘Very well. Let us now consider the placing of the knife. It is on a table at the bottom of the stairs. But when Pendleton is seen by Miss Cain, he is several steps above. The knife is now in his chest. So what are you telling me has occurred? He has taken the knife with him to his room? He has then chosen to kill himself on his return as he comes down the stairs? It makes no sense.
‘And there is also the method of his death,’ Pünd continued quickly before Hare could interrupt again. ‘Had Mr Pendleton been Japanese, then perhaps I might have accepted that he would perform on himself hara-kiri! But as you have rightly said, he was an English gentleman and have you ever heard of a person killing himself in this way? There were the razors in his bathroom. He could have hanged himself with a tie. But to take a knife and thrust it into his heart . . . ?’
‘He was desperate.’
‘But not desperate enough to die without his jacket and his shoes.’
‘All right.’ Hare nodded slowly, unable to escape the logic of what Pünd was saying. ‘What do you think happened?’
‘Until we have ascertained the identity of the person seen in the garden, I cannot answer that. But before we leave this house there is one question that must be resolved.’
‘And what is that, Mr Pünd?’
‘In Miss James’s bedroom, why was the wallpaper torn?’
* * *
Phyllis Chandler had gone back upstairs after Madeline Cain had left. She was sitting in her small living room with Eric. They were surrounded by suitcases. Francis Pendleton had told them to leave by the end of the day and they had begun packing at once. Their departure had been interrupted by his death. They had barely spoken to each other since the morning and they weren’t speaking now. Nor did either of them react when there was a knock at the door and Pünd came in with Hare.
‘You are leaving?’ Pünd asked, taking in the suitcases.
‘Yes, sir. To be honest with you, I couldn’t stay one more minute in this house. Not after everything that’s happened.’
‘You do realise you can’t just disappear, Mrs Chandler,’ Hare said. ‘We may have to ask you further questions.’
‘I’m not disappearing anywhere, Detective Chief Inspector. I’m going to my sister in Bude.’
‘And your son?’
Phyllis glanced briefly at Eric, who shrugged. ‘I don’t know where I’ll go,’ he said. ‘I don’t have friends. I don’t have anything. I don’t care—’
Pünd took a step forward. He had seldom met two such unhappy people, trapped in a prison of their own making. But still there were matters to be resolved. ‘Mrs Chandler, there is something that I must discuss with you – and with your son.’
Hearing himself mentioned, Eric Chandler looked up guiltily.
‘Let us start with this morning when Mr Pendleton was attacked. You were here in this room.’
‘Yes, sir. We were packing.’
‘So you had decided to leave before the terrible events that took place today?’
Phyllis swallowed, realising that she had given away more than she intended. ‘As a matter of fact, Mr Pendleton had already given us our notice,’ she said. ‘He intended to sell the house and had no further need of our services.’
‘It was still rather sudden,’ Pünd suggested mildly.
‘It was his decision, sir. I’m sure he knew what he was doing.’
Hare cut in. ‘You must have heard Miss Cain cry out. Were you together at that time?’
Phyllis Chandler hesitated. She didn’t want to tell the truth but she knew she had no choice. ‘I was in here. Eric was in his bedroom.’
‘I was packing,’ Eric said. ‘I didn’t see anything.’
‘Neither of us did.’
‘You didn’t look out the window? You didn’t hear anyone go past?’
‘Why do you keep asking me that?’ Phyllis Chandler snapped. ‘I’ve already told you that I’m hard of hearing. All we knew was that there were police in the house and we’d been told to stay in our rooms so that’s what we did!’
‘Why did Mr Pendleton want you to leave?’
‘I’ve already told you—’
‘You have told me a lie, Mrs Chandler.’ Now it was Pünd’s turn to become angry. ‘And there can be no more lies. There have been two murders in this house and even though I understand completely your desire to protect your son, you can no longer deceive me!’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, sir.’
‘Then I will show you.’
Before anyone could stop him, Pünd walked determinedly out of the room. Hare went with him. Eric Chandler and his mother glanced at each other, then followed.
Pünd knew exactly what he was looking for. It was a strange coincidence that the wallpaper in Melissa James’s bedroom had reminded him of the house in Knightsbridge where he had investigated the theft of the Ludendorff Diamond – but it had led his eye, at once, to an identical clue: a tear in the wallpaper. It still might have made no impression on him but he remembered what Simon Cox had overheard. ‘She said something about the Moonflower being crooked.’ That made no sense. The Gardners might be crooked. There might be crooked activity taking place inside the hotel. But in what way could the hotel itself be crooked?
He did not go into the bedroom. Instead, he turned into the corridor that ran alongside it, still in the servants’ wing of the house. Even as he went he was measuring distances and he came to a halt in front of the photographs that he had noticed before. They showed views of Tawleigh: the lighthouse, the beach and the hotel. With Eric and his mother watching him in silent horror, he lifted the picture of the Moonflower off its hook to reveal a hole that had been drilled through the brickwork behind.
‘It is exactly as I expected,’ he said.
Hare stepped up and put his eye to the hole. He found himself looking into Melissa James’s bedroom. He remembered the patterned wallpaper on the other side, and knew that the hole would have been practically invisible. He looked back. Phyllis Chandler was on the edge of tears. Eric Chandler was fighting for breath, his face completely white.
‘What’s the meaning of this?’ Hare demanded.
‘It is what I believe is called a peephole,’ Pünd said.
Hare looked at Eric with distaste. ‘You’re a peeping Tom!’ Eric was unable to talk. Hare turned back to Pünd. ‘How did you know about this?’ he asked.
‘You will recall the argument that the film producer, Simon Cox, overheard. Mrs Chandler said that she knew what her son had been up to. She had noticed that the Moonflower was crooked and she added that she had seen through it. She was referring, of course, to the hole drilled in the wall. Mr Cox did not hear everything that was said, but this much, you will agree, makes complete sense.’
Hare gazed at Phyllis with disgust. ‘Did you know about this?’
The older woman nodded, her face utterly grim. ‘I lifted the picture off the wall. That was the same day that it happened – the death of Miss James. I went down to look out of the window and I noticed it wasn’t hung properly. That’s why we were in the kitchen and didn’t leave until later. How do you think I felt? I was shocked. My own son!’
‘Did you also say that you would kill Melissa James if she found out?’
‘No, sir!’ Phyllis Chandler was horrified. Then she remembered. ‘I said it would kill her if she found out the truth. That’s what I said! And it would have. She trusted Eric. She had no idea he’d been spying on her.’
‘I didn’t . . .’ Eric tried to say something but the words wouldn’t come out.
But now Phyllis was merciless. She continued: ‘Then, just this morning, Mr Pendleton told me that someone had been into his wife’s bedroom and taken some of her things.’
‘What things?’ Hare demanded.
‘Personal things. Underclothes. From the drawer near the bed . . .’
‘That wasn’t me!’ Eric cried.
‘Of course it was you!’ His mother turned on him, furious. ‘Why are you still lying? You’re fat and you’re lazy and you’re sick in the head and I wish you’d never been born. God knows, your father would have been ashamed!’
‘Mum . . .’
It was a horrible sight. Eric was wailing, tears coursing down his cheeks. He had staggered backwards, his shoulders hitting the wall as he slumped down. Pünd and the detective chief inspector hurried over to help him, and together they managed to get him back into the sitting room. They sat him down on a sofa and Hare got him a glass of water. But he was unable to drink. He was sobbing helplessly. His mother was standing by the door, watching him with no pity in her eyes, and Pünd could not help feeling how much better their lives would have been if she had loved her husband a little less and her son a little more.
‘What will happen?’ Mrs Chandler asked. ‘Are you going to arrest him?’
‘It’s clear that you have broken the law.’ Hare sounded uncomfortable. ‘You could be placed under arrest . . .’
‘I just liked to look at her!’ Eric sobbed, the words almost incomprehensible. ‘She was so beautiful. I would never have hurt her. I never took anything!’
Hare glanced at Pünd, who nodded. ‘But as the two of you are leaving and as both Mr Pendleton and Miss James aren’t around to bring charges, it’s probably best that you continue on your way. Just make sure we know where we can find you. And Eric . . . I think you should talk to Dr Collins and find someone who can give you some help. What you’ve done is very wrong.’
‘I didn’t—’
‘I’ve got nothing more to say.’
Hare and Pünd left. Mrs Chandler stepped aside to allow them to pass. Neither of them looked back.
‘I hope I’m doing the right thing,’ Hare muttered as they went back downstairs. ‘If Francis Pendleton was murdered, Eric Chandler may well be the most likely suspect. In fact, he’s the only suspect. He was in the house – and you heard what his mother said. He was in one room. She was in another. Which means that, actually, she had no idea where he was. If he thought Pendleton was going to shop him for stealing his wife’s knickers or whatever, that would have given him a motive.’
‘What you say is true,’ Pünd agreed. ‘He is damaged. His life has, I think, been unfortunate in many ways. And yet he does not strike me as a violent man. In his own, twisted way, he adored Melissa James. Would he kill the man to whom she was married?’
They had reached the hallway and a uniformed police officer approached them, coming out of the living room. He had been looking for Hare. He was holding a handwritten letter that had been placed in a transparent evidence bag. ‘Excuse me, sir,’ he said. ‘I thought you ought to see this. We found it in the living room, tucked away in the bottom of a bureau. It was hidden among a whole load of old papers, obviously somewhere it wasn’t meant to be found.’
He handed the letter to Hare, who read it carefully. ‘Well, this might change your mind about things,’ he muttered. ‘Maybe I was right after all.’ He showed the letter to Pünd. The paper was crumpled. The letter had been thrown away before it was finished.
13th February
My darling darling,
I can’t go on living this lie any more. I simply can’t. We have to be brave and tell the world our destiny . . .
‘Melissa James was having an affair and she wanted Francis Pendleton out of her life. He couldn’t bear the thought of losing her so he killed her and when he got found out he killed himself.’ Hare took the letter back. ‘Can you really think of another explanation?’
‘I agree with you that it does seem, on the face of it, unarguable,’ Pünd agreed. ‘But even so, Detective Chief Inspector, there is one piece of information that we require before we can consider the investigation to be complete.’
‘And that is?’
‘Melissa James was having an affair. That much is evident. But with whom?’
Fourteen
Hit-and-Run
‘What are you doing here?’ Dr Collins asked.
‘Actually, I was waiting to see you,’ Algernon replied.
The doctor had come into the kitchen of Church Lodge to find his brother-in-law sitting at the table, smoking a cigarette. Samantha was helping the vicar with preparations for the next service and had taken the children with her. She liked them to spend time with her at the church. Mrs Mitchell wasn’t due in to clean until later in the afternoon. Dr Collins had thought he was alone.
He was not fond of Algernon Marsh. He knew too much about his activities both past and present and resented
having him stay in the house. But in this, as in so many other things, he had allowed himself to be overruled by Samantha, who had, he knew, a much more forgiving nature. He couldn’t make her see that Algernon was trouble and had been since the day he was born. His parents might have been prescient. They had christened him with the name of a villain straight out of melodrama and he had certainly grown into it.
Seeing him now, Dr Collins felt a stab of annoyance. In a way, the two of them were complete opposites. He had been a doctor for fifteen years, first in Slough, then in Tawleigh, working for his patients around the clock for a salary that barely allowed him to support a wife and two children. He had never complained. Medicine had been his calling: even during the war years he had served with the Royal Army Medical Corps. Algernon, of course, had kept well clear of the action, with a desk job in Whitehall. With his expensive suits, his French car, his devious business schemes that were surely designed to benefit only himself, he epitomised the new generation that was dragging the country into an era of selfishness and hedonism.
Even the way Algernon was sitting at the table – his table – filling the room with his cigarette smoke came across as deliberately offensive. Dr Collins hadn’t invited him here. He had simply arrived and now he was behaving as if he owned the place.
‘I’m sorry. Are you waiting for me?’ Dr Collins asked. For Samantha’s sake, he was trying to be polite.
‘Yes. I thought we might have a little chat.’
‘I can’t imagine what you think we might have to chat about, but anyway, I’m going to have to disappoint you. I have my case notes to study.’
‘I’m sure they can wait.’
‘I’m afraid they can’t.’
‘Sit down, Leonard. We need to talk.’ It wasn’t an invitation. It was a threat. There was something in his voice and the silken smile on his face that warned Dr Collins not to leave. Against all his better instincts, he took his place at the table.
‘Thank you.’ Again, Algernon managed to say the words in a way that utterly distorted their meaning. His eyes were pitiless as they took in the man sitting opposite him.
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