Murder for Treasure

by David Williams

  ‘I’m here like I said I’d be here.’ He was speaking from the ’phone-box outside the little Post Office. ‘I’m disappointed in you, but we’ll let that pass. Let’s just say my price is now the whole hundred grand plus the return of my passport.’ There was an intake of breath at the other end of the line, but he was not waiting for words. ‘I’ll call back in an hour with a time and a place—a public place. You be ready, and remember who has the most to lose.’

  Some distance back along the road into West Wales, Edgar J. Crabthorne and Patience, his bride for thirty-two wonderful years, were observing the passing scene without enthusiasm from the rear seats of a hired Daimler limousine.

  There is a stretch of the Motorway skirting Swansea and Llanelli where the landscapers have given up hope of improving the vile industrial outlook on all sides and left it to the engineers to maintain the smoothest and safest possible road surface. Motorists thus proceed in comfort and at speed buoyed by the knowledge that some of the most ravishingly beautiful sea- and landscapes lie directly ahead. If they happen to be turning off for Swansea or Llanelli, then of course different kinds of compensations apply—probably to do with making money.

  The chauffeur of the limousine, name of Ernest Grouch, appeared unmoved by aesthetic gloom and unaware of pending joys that would pend less if he drove faster. Unlike Castrol Lloyd, he spoke only when spoken to: in any case he was insulated from his passengers by an electrically controlled glass screen which for some reason was operating only from the switch next to the driver. This had involved Crabthorne in several times having to clamber across the intervening space to rap on the glass, indicate to Grouch that this should be lowered to allow for the issuing of orders, to make the necessary pronouncements, and then to clamber back again, each time forgetting to stipulate that the screen should be left in the lowered position.

  ‘This man’s a fool,’ the President of the Hutstacker Chemical Corporation confided to his wife. ‘Hasn’t he ever heard of a bathroom? And I told him way back to move faster and leave that glass down. I simply said we needed to use the bathroom. He said there’d be one in the hotel. That’s seventy miles from here. At the speed he’s driving . . . Hell, we should have taken the train.’

  ‘We were too late for the train, Edgar, and anyway, dear, you never liked trains.’ It wasn’t Mrs Crabthorne who needed the bathroom. An American matron of sound upbringing, she deplored circumlocution. ‘Tell him to stop at the next gas station that has a john.’

  ‘Crutt said a car would look more as though we were on vacation. It’ll be handy if I need to run over to the plant, too.’ The American’s tone was grudging.

  ‘Edgar, we are on vacation and you’ve seen the plant. You saw it months ago and you weren’t impressed. In any case, Mr Crutt said it would be closed from lunch-time today until Tuesday.’

  ‘And that’s another thing. They take too many national holidays in this country.’

  ‘Not as many as we do, dear.’

  ‘And they strike too often.’

  Patience Crabthorne gave an understanding smile. ‘I expect they have their reasons.’

  Crabthorne sometimes suspected Communist tendencies lurked behind that impeccable Daughter of the American Revolution facade. ‘Maybe I should have tried harder to reach Treasure. He may be offended.’

  Ten days had gone by since Lord Grenwood’s luncheon-party at the Perceval Club, time for Crabthorne to have completed his fast, fact-finding tour of Hutstacker European offices and factories. His wife had not accompanied him beyond London, having no taste for one-night stops in Milan, Lyons, Rotterdam, Frankfurt and Helsinki.

  Patience Crabthorne’s notion of civilized travel had to do with steamships, Pullman coaches, large, tastefully furnished apartments, especially in Venice, and the absence of haste—all due less to experience than to a lifelong regard for the works of Henry James. She had been compromising with a riverside suite at the Savoy Hotel and a series of fresh visits to those cathedrals, fine houses, and picture galleries that lay within a day’s march or ride of that estimable establishment. She was now looking forward to a week of discovery further afield and accompanied by her husband.

  The spring trip to Europe was a regular event in the Crabthorne calendar. On balance, Edgar gained less new information about his business than Patience gathered deepening understanding of Vanbrugh facades and Van Dyck portraits, but each drew satisfactions from their experiences.

  Patience had been planning a round trip to Chester and York, but a telephone call late the night before from an agitated Albert Crutt had prompted Crabthorne to forswear pleasure and personally intervene in the matter of Judge Nott-Herbert and Rigley’s Footbalm. He had been unable to reach Treasure that morning, but had learned the banker was actually en route for Wales. This was something of an embarrassment, since the American hesitated to begin his intervention without counselling with his adviser, even though time was short. It was his wife who had provided the tactful solution. The cathedral at St David’s sounded quite as enthralling as the ones at Chester or York and provided ample reason innocently for Crabthorne to Find himself within close calling distance of the Judge.

  ‘Mark Treasure won’t be in the least offended. It was Molly his wife who told me we ought to take in Wales at this time of year.’ Patience Crabthorne was reinforcing her point.

  ‘Crutt was pretty firm the Judge needed the kind of reassurances only I could give him.’ Crabthorne paused. ‘Personally.’ He needed no convincing about his capacity to make a blurred situation crystal clear: Crutt had been counting on this.

  ‘Say, there’s a gas station, and it’s advertising toilets. Edgar, tell Grouch to stop the car.’ Crabthorne sighed and began to clamber forward.

  ‘Thank God you’ve called. He’s here. He rang me from a call-box. He’s very angry.’ The voice was agitated. ‘He was attacked and robbed on the train. I think also hurt. Did you arrange—’

  ‘Just relax. Everything’s under control.’

  ‘But he’s calling back later. He wants the whole hundred thousand and he won’t come here. Says he’ll name a place and—’

  ‘Relax. You’re not listening. There’s been a bit of a foul-up, that’s all. But I can straighten it out.’

  ‘He says he wants his passport back. Who took his passport?’

  ‘Whoever took it, pretty soon he’s going to learn the police got it. Then we’ll see who’s calling the tricks.’

  ‘The police have it! But that’s worse . . .’

  ‘I told you I can straighten it out but you have to trust me. Now just take some deep breaths or something.’ The caller chuckled. ‘When he rings again, make sure he knows the police got his baggage.’

  ‘From the train? I don’t understand. You said you’d see him on the train—reason with him. Thank God I told him to avoid this Treasure. They must have been on the same train.’

  ‘Actually they travelled together.’

  ‘Oh no! So now they know each other?’

  ‘No—not really. It’s complicated. Just do as I say. Tell him the police got his bag, but say we can get the passport back without him being involved. He’ll go for that.’

  ‘He won’t believe me.’

  ‘OK, tell him—tell him we’ve got his passport already and he can have it along with the hundred thou—’

  ‘You were mad to think—’

  ‘The whole hundred thou. No bargaining.’

  ‘That’s better.’

  ‘He knows the let’s-stay-friends bit was a sham.’

  ‘Because you’ve had him mugged or something.’

  ‘I don’t want to go into that now, but he started it by upping the ante in the first place.’

  ‘Justifiably.’

  ‘I just thought some re-negotiating with the passport back on our side . . .’

  ‘Where is it?’

  ‘OK. Listen carefully. You have to move quickly . . .’

  CHAPTER 7

  New Hall, Panty, home of Judge H
enry Nott-Herbert, had been fashioned in the style Mark Treasure—without hesitation or disparagement—dubbed Milwaukee Gothic: phoney but functional.

  A confident residence of moderate size for a gentleman of better than moderate means, the banker dated it no earlier than the turn of the century. Central heating and basically sound plumbing would almost certainly have been original features and, with any luck, private bathrooms and water-closets for favoured guests.

  The design, in stone, was two-storied with a dormered, battlemented attic. The northern facade presented pairs of mullioned bays rising through both floors on either side of the crenellated porch. The entrance was graceful— drop-arched, marble-shafted, and hung with half-glazed screen doors: the visible white-washed interior was fan-vaulted: the oak, pointed door to the main hall beyond stood open.

  The whole edifice though created with integrity and taste lacked sympathy and originality. The architect could have been George Gilbert Scott—but hurriedly, on the back of a handy envelope. Wrong, Treasure mused, it was too late for Scott even though he was employed at St David’s. One of the sons, perhaps . . . ?

  ‘My dear Treasure. My apologies. Er . . . it is Mr Treasure? Nnn . . . Nott-Herbert is my name.’

  The banker nodded confusedly. He had been too involved with his favourite sort of postulation, his gaze elsewhere, to have noticed his host’s sudden appearance in the porch.

  The Judge had thrown open the screen doors and made a theatrical advance to the threshold. Of middle height, he was a standfast, upright figure evidently and determinedly defying wear-and-tear arthritis in the upper neck joints: head movements tended to stem from chest level.

  The elegant double-breasted tweed suit was as much out of style as out of season: a flamboyant silk handkerchief blossomed from the topmost pocket. The voice was earnest and concerned: there had been nervous hesitancy only in the opening phrases. The facial expression was all eager anticipation. Fine hands reached out in welcome. Then, as Treasure began his audible response to the greeting, the expression changed dramatically.

  The Judge’s gaze moved sharply to the right, fixing in the middle distance over Treasure’s shoulder. ‘Bless my soul. Did you hear that?’

  The banker turned. There was a group of outhouses to the east. Nott-Herbert now had one arm outstretched pointing at what looked like a garage door. The other hand half covered his mouth.

  ‘Help! Help! Save me! I’m being kidnapped. In the garage.’

  The voice was a convincing soprano and lacked nothing in urgency and drama. The weakness was that it evidently did not emanate from the garage but from the throat of Judge Nott-Herbert. Treasure found himself momentarily at a loss. Clearly he was in the presence of an amiable lunatic. Already the Judge had started in the direction of the garage. Should Treasure indulge the idiotic whim by going with him or else seek out whichever familiar acted as keeper—assuming there was such a person.

  As Treasure stood irresolute, the Judge halted, turned about and let out a great sigh. ‘Didn’t work, did it?’ The shoulders drooped forlornly, the hands dipped into the ample side pockets of the jacket. ‘Weren’t taken in for a second, were you? D’you see, I haven’t got the knack of it at all.’

  ‘I’m so sorry, I don’t quite . . . ?’

  ‘Ventriloquism, my dear fellow.’ The Judge was now regarding the doll, where Treasure had placed it, but in a detached kind of way. ‘Would you say I failed on projection or on illusion? Professor Popov is very strong on the importance of illusion. He wrote the instruction book. Don’t suppose he’s a Professor really.’

  ‘No, I don’t suppose so either.’ Treasure was considerably relieved. ‘I’ve brought the doll,’ he added with a touch of apology.

  ‘The dummy.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘The Professor is very strong on nomenclature. It’s a dummy. Remind you of anybody?’

  ‘Stan Laurel.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The Laurel of Laurel and Hardy. Isn’t that who it’s supposed . . .’

  ‘Yes, yes, I believe so. How very kind of you to have brought him. Have any trouble getting here?’ The question was rhetorical, suggesting that so simple an expedition could hardly have presented obstacles. ‘Davenport’s, they’re the people who make them up—dashed clever—said they’d deliver to the train. Rang them, you see. Said it was urgent. Very accommodating.’

  The Judge was absently stroking the few silky strands of white hair that springing from around his left ear traversed the broad, balded pate—a credit to careful husbandry and effecting a coifed illusion that even Professor Popov might have considered laudable.

  ‘Curious they didn’t pack the thing more thoroughly.’ Nott-Herbert was now considering the dummy close to. ‘Must have been something of an embarrassment to you. ‘Not at all,’ Treasure replied lightly, continuing with equal lack of accuracy, ‘The original packing was better, but we did have a slight accident on the way. I think you’ll find Stanley the Dummy and adjuncts intact.’

  ‘Most kind of you.’ The reference to the accident seemed not to have registered. ‘Well, come in. Come in. Tea will be ready soon outside in the garden.’

  The Judge had tucked dummy and box under one arm without ceremony and, grasping Treasure’s case with his free hand, was thrusting through the porch and into the hall. Impervious to well-mannered protest from his following guest, he placed both encumbrances on a broad untidy table.

  ‘Welcome to my humble abode. Interested in architecture, are you? Of course you are. Clarence told me as much.’ The Judge paused and looked about him leaving Treasure to identify the Clarence of mutual acquaintance. ‘1896. John Oldrid Scott, Gilbert Scott’s younger son, not the one who went potty. Built it for my grandfather. Now he was potty, but he liked his comforts.’

  ‘A keen organist?’ The hall was impressive in its size and trappings—marble floor, angled stone staircase, wide upper gallery, pictures everywhere. What most impressed however, was the three-manual pipe organ against the rear wall. Treasure was gratified at having guessed the provenance of the building so nearly accurately. He wondered now whether to add the suggestion that Andrew Carnegie might have been a frequent and grateful guest.

  ‘No. no. The organ’s mine. Bought it three years ago. Came from an abandoned nonconformist chapel. Otherwise it was going for scrap. Shame.’ The Judge contemplated his acquisition with pride. ‘D’you play?’

  ‘I’m afraid not . . .’

  ‘Neither do I. Thought I’d take it up sometime. Haven’t got round to it yet, though. Applied to join the Magic Circle.’

  The last fact was clearly intended to offer the definitive reason why the speaker had put aside competing ambitions. If the voice-throwing performance earlier was typical of the standard of magic and illusion so far achieved, Treasure considered it might be less fanciful of the Judge to concentrate on a musical career.

  ‘Remind me to show you a trick or two. Ah!’ Nott-Herbert had swivelled ninety degrees to greet a breathless and red-faced, well-upholstered matron. Short, grey-haired but still comely, she had virtually blown in, the green baize door still flapping in her wake. ‘And this is Mrs Evans, Mrs Blanche Evans my estimable housekeeper, from whom all . . . er . . . all pleasures flow . . . er . . . yes.’

  The Judge and the object of his flowery misquotation appeared mutually satisfied with the aptness of the introduction.

  Mrs Evans was enveloped in a starched white overall of ankle length, hands clasped prayerfully and resting on her ample, heaving middle. Her costume, joyous countenance and invocative posture suggested a winded acolyte gathering strength for a loud Amen.

  ‘Came quick as I could.’ The voice was indeed musical, as was the native cadence. ‘Nye, that’s my little grandson, saw you arrive, but I was down the garden. Oh, it is so good to see you, Mr Treasure. His Honour’s come up trumps as per usual.’ She glanced approvingly at her employer. ‘The Bishop said you’d help, too.’

  ‘I’m delighted to mee
t you.’ Treasure offered his hand. He was charmed if a little surprised at the evident warmth of the greeting. He was also certain he was not acquainted with the Bishop of St David’s: he had checked in Crockford’s Clerical Directory the night before.

  Mrs Evans gave a little bob as they shook hands. ‘And lovely manners too.’ she offered disarmingly. ‘Wait till Ethel Ogmore-Davies meets him.’ This was added in a knowing sort of aside to the Judge.

  ‘Yes, well, if you’d show Mr Treasure to his room . . Nott-Herbert was obviously as uneasy as his guest was baffled by some of the housekeeper’s outpouring.

  ‘This way then, sir. There’s thoughtless I am. Dying for a cup of tea you’ll be and wanting to wash up first.’

  Mrs Evans, pausing only to throw an enigmatic grimace at ‘Stan Laurel’, had firmly grasped Treasure’s bag and was halfway up the first flight of stairs while still engaged on these newest observations. Already she was breathing heavily again, partly from the pace at which she moved and partly because she attacked each stone step as though it were several inches higher than it actually was.

  ‘Let me take the bag.’

  ‘Not a bit. Tired you’ll be after that nasty old journey.’ Mrs Evans, straight-backed if listing slightly bagwards, was continuing her high stepping progress ahead. ‘Came by train and taxi I expect, did you?’ Then, without waiting for confirmation. ‘Quicker than car, they say, even with the new road. The Bishop and his wife came last month in their Mini. Took ever such a long time. From near Oxford,’ she added with a sort of reverence. ‘From Mitchell Stoke?’

  ‘That’s right, and this is your room, sir.’

  So it was that Clarence, Bishop Clarence Wringle, another retired Colonial, who had been proffering information on Treasure’s interests to the Judge as well as the banker’s predisposition to help as relayed by Mrs Evans. For the first time Treasure wondered whether his presence in Panty had been altogether occasioned by his involvement with the Hutstacker Chemical Corporation. The last time he had been closely concerned with the diminutive Bishop the subject had been neither religious nor commercial: it had been murder. [1]