Murder for Treasure

by David Williams

Treasure had prolonged his examination of Anna’s window display far longer than the unremarkable exhibits or his timetable justified. It was his intention now to take the alley down to the harbour, but he lingered in spite of his better judgement to humour the callow fantasy that Anna, sensing his presence, would greet him, all unexpected, from an upstairs window.

  ‘Good morning. Lovely day.’

  The voice was much too deep for Anna, and it came from behind. Treasure turned about and found himself confronting a cheerful postman pushing a bicycle with a sack on the front. Devalera, immensely pleased with the encounter, bounced forward a pace with Treasure, taken unawares, an involuntary leashed appendage.

  ‘ ’Morning, ’morning,’ the banker replied, and then recklessly addressed the dog. ‘Sit, boy. Sit.’ Much to his surprise, Devalera obeyed instantly and proffered a pendulous paw to the postman.

  ‘Got a way with dogs, I can see that, sir. How are you then, Devalera?’ The postman, short and stocky, didn’t have far to stoop to take hold of the paw. Devalera sitting seemed taller than Devalera standing: it was the way he stretched his neck.

  ‘My name is Treasure. Would you be Mr Rees?’

  ‘That’s it, sir. Dai Rees. And you’re the gentleman staying with His Honour. Welcome to Panty. Heard you had a bit of trouble on the train. All right, are you?’ The man looked genuinely concerned.

  Treasure chuckled. ‘It was nothing,’ he offered blandly. ‘I’m more concerned about the trouble Mrs Ogmore-Davies ran into at Easter . . .’

  ‘With that old body in the boat.’ Rees nodded. ‘Funny, that was. Never explained. Well, of course it wasn’t or you wouldn’t be here, would you?’

  ‘I might have been,’ Treasure answered firmly. He was still anxious to establish that unexplained bodies were not his normal stock in trade—particularly with members of that formidable band of citizens privy to the reason behind the Judge’s invitation. Even so, running into Rees was a stroke of luck. ‘I believe Mrs Ogmore-Davies met you that morning.’

  ‘On her way down to fetch Gomer. That’s right. And on this very spot. Not that she used this lane.’ He indicated the alley beyond. ‘Nor ever would, of course.’ Begging dark questions seemed to be a local characteristic—Mrs Ogmore-Davies and Constable Lewin did it all the time. ‘Why not?’

  ‘That’s where the Captain met his tragic and untimely death.’ This bit of narrative was delivered with a rich dramatic emphasis as the speaker pointed to the steps that led down to the house on the right. ‘Terrible thing to happen. Put that light in since, the Council has.’ He pointed to a street-lamp bracket. ‘Too late, of course.’ Treasure pondered this fresh information for a moment, then asked: ‘Did you take this way down yourself?’

  ‘That’s right, sir. But not very far. Not to the harbour. There’s houses to left and right. Proper Hampton Court maze it is down there. Been there I have,’ he added wistfully. ‘Hampton Court Palace, I mean. There’s grandeur for you. Seat of Henry the Eighth. Henry Tudor. See Britain first is my motto. You can have Majorca.’

  Treasure smiled. ‘So you’re not the D. Rees who’s lost his passport?’

  ‘I don’t have a . . . that is, I don’t have much use for a passport.’ Rees paused thoughtfully. ‘Mrs Ogmore-Davies went straight down the main road after she’d told me about the parrot.’ He reverted to the original subject. ‘If you turn right at the bottom then you’re on the flat along the water. That’s the way she went.’

  ‘And you didn’t hear her shouting?’

  Rees shook his head. ‘Powerful voice she’s got, mark you. Mezzo—nearly contralto. Solo calibre when young, so I’m told. But no, I didn’t hear her. Terrible wind there was that morning.’

  ‘And later . . . ?’

  ‘Later, when she came to fetch Mr Lewin I was long gone. Counter-tenor, Mr Lewin,’ he added gratuitously.

  Treasure nodded. ‘Any theory about what happened to the body?’

  ‘None at all, sir. Unless it got up and walked away,’ which, while offered as a joke, was exactly what Treasure was coming to believe it might have done.

  The two men parted ways at the walled southern extremity of Anna’s property, not far down the alley. Here the postman made off to the left past an iron gate to Anna’s small garden and on a path that evidently led to habitations beyond.

  Treasure, with Devalera close to heel, quickly reached the popple-stoned quay, the placid water of the inlet stretching before him from seawards on his right and past him, eastwards, up to the estuary of the tiny River Panty.

  The hill behind him, crowded at the top with cottages, seemed even steeper when viewed from below than it had during the last part of the involuntary swift descent. There the lane had degenerated into an unmade path over rough ground—a short cut extending the paved section between the houses but not a route Treasure would have chosen even sober on a dark winter’s night. He thought of Captain Ogmore-Davies and looked around for the Boatman Inn: it was twenty yards or so further along to seaward, tucked under the foot of the hill.

  Opposite, across the water, ragged cliffs ran sheer down to the inlet. On that side there was no vestige of habitation except for sea-birds in the rock crevices—no human intrusion except the cliff-top walk, its line traced intermittently by the fencing that marked its more dangerous sections.

  On that far side, seawards where the inlet narrowed, curving south, the short section of sea wall that made Panty half-tidal had been built out from the lower cliff face, leaving a narrow channel entrance to the harbour and marina.

  Treasure was surprised, even mildly shocked, to note the virtual absence of yachtsmen about the place. There were boats in plenty, moored in neat lines on both sides of the long wooden pontoons, eight of which stretched out at right angles from the boardwalk below the quay wall. Most owners seemed happy still to be abed, wasting the sun and the blue sky: it was 6.30. Here and there a deck was being swabbed, a mast stepped, or a rope coiled, but still one had to search for such activity—something reemphasizing in the banker’s mind that Mrs Ogmore-Davies could well have been the only human being about at the matching time on a wet, dark Saturday morning two months before.

  Treasure passed the Boatman and the Yacht Club— the first white washed and picturesque, the other incongruously a replica of a Swiss chalet, all log cladding, a high-pitched roof, gable end facing the harbour with a wide balcony on the upper floor. Although obviously a cheap, prefabricated edifice intended for a quite different environment, the Panty Yacht Club still had a kind of impertinent charm about it.

  Devalera was more interested in the far end of the quay. He was tugging at his leash. Treasure, who had been asked only to prevent the animal dislocating traffic flow in the High Street, felt there was no danger in allowing him to take a swim, and so undid the leash.

  It was not the water the dog had been craving. He made off at great speed towards what Treasure guessed was the long disused lifeboat station, a building standing well beyond the others, its seaward end surmounting a stone slipway and its rear cut into the hillside. It had a venerable look and must once have housed at worst a cutter with double banked oars or at best a steam pinnace. Behind and higher on the hill-side were the remains of what might have been a small winding shed. The tarred and slated roof of the main building was saddled at the back almost certainly to allow access for cables from above used to winch the lifeboat up the slipway.

  The dog had scrambled up the hillside and was now standing athwart the roof of the lifeboat station where he had paused to give a full-throated rendering of his penetrating and fatiguingly predictable slow-tempo bark. It was clear he was addressing himself to the winding shed and, much more surprisingly to the watching Treasure, had done so with almost immediate effect.

  The shed had no roof, but its sides had survived. One could just make out a small scowling face that had appeared above the front wall.

  But the voice came from much closer by. ‘Excuse me. Do you think they’re in trouble?’

&
nbsp; The skinny barefoot teenaged girl had diverted Treasure’s attention by calling up to him from where she was standing below on the boardwalk. She put down the red plastic bucket and pointed towards the entrance channel to the harbour. A small fishing-boat with an outboard motor at maximum throttle had appeared and was heading towards the quay.

  ‘Chap in the stern looks a bit agitated,’ Treasure replied.

  ‘The one waving? That’s my brother. They went out crabbing early. Listen, he’s shouting something . . . it’s . . . listen.’ They both did. ‘He’s shouting fetch a doctor.’

  ‘Well, don’t worry,’ said Treasure, ‘he looks healthy enough, and so does the other one.’

  ‘That’s his friend. Do you think . . . ?’

  ‘Why don’t you belt off and ’phone for a doctor as your brother says.’ He could now see into the boat from where he was standing. There was an ominous shape covered in tarpaulin on the centre thwart which the girl could not have seen from sea-level.

  ‘Right,’ she said, dropping the mop alongside the bucket. ‘Won’t be a tick.’

  Treasure called Devalera and without waiting to see if the dog responded took the nearest steps down to the waterside. The young man was heading the boat to come alongside at the old lifeboat slipway. Treasure was there waiting when he did so.

  The two visible occupants of the boat were worried-looking schoolboys of fifteen or sixteen, older and for the moment much paler than the girl. The body of the swimmer under the tarpaulin was icy cold, heavily lacerated, and very dead.

  ‘I don’t think we’ll need the doctor,’ Treasure said gently and re-covered the body.

  ‘We found him in the next bay. It’s very rocky . . .’

  ‘We tried reviving him. I thought a doctor . . .’

  The two lads had begun speaking rapidly at the same time.

  ‘You did all the right things, I’m sure.’ Treasure glanced at his watch. ‘Either of you know where the village policeman lives?’ Both boys nodded, ‘Well, it happens he’s supposed to meet me here in ten minutes. Why not run and ask him if he could come now? Tell him what’s happened and that we’ll need an ambulance. I’ll look after the boat. Oh, and head your sister off, there’s a good chap.’

  The boys left immediately, which gave Treasure the opportunity to lift the canvas again.

  The body clad in swimming trunks seemed to have been terribly beaten about. One arm was hideously twisted, there was a deep gash across the chest, and the lower face was badly disfigured.

  What Treasure needed to re-examine was the small surviving dried-up wound on the forehead—that and the platinum wristwatch.

  CHAPTER 14

  ‘Treasure saw him too.’

  ‘What d’you mean too? We can’t be sure the others did, and we’d allowed for Treasure.’ He was aiming to soothe but it just wasn’t his style with early morning telephone calls. Thank God he’d made the coffee. ‘If he’d told us what day he was coming instead of acting so bloody scared we could have stopped him meeting Treasure in the first place.’

  ‘But you found out . . .’

  ‘When they were both cosied up in the same compartment. You’d warned him about Treasure, for heaven’s sake. Anyway, what’s the point in . . .’

  ‘Probably he thought it was safer to be here the same time as Treasure. The point is he had every right to be scared. He could have been killed.’

  ‘No, he couldn’t. Honestly he couldn’t.’ This needed very delicate handling. ‘All right, so it was a mistake to try frightening him off.’

  ‘It was tawdry.’

  OK, it was tawdry but it could have saved us a packet if it’d worked.’

  ‘We didn’t need to save . . .’

  ‘All right, all right. So last night he’d have got everything he wanted. It was lousy luck you never had the chance to turn him back, and I never knew we needed to. If I’d just found out where he was staying. And with only that dimwit helping you at the cathedral.’

  ‘He may be dim but we should be thankful . . .’

  ‘Agreed. Agreed. Your car was there?’

  ‘Sure. Pity you weren’t. Anyhow, the woman who rang just now . . .’

  ‘I just can’t figure where he’s picked up a woman . . ‘The woman said my American friend would meet me at the gate of New Hall at three to pick up the present, or else send a messenger. If it was a messenger the password was Windsor Castle.’

  He sighed audibly. ‘That’s half an hour after the gardens open to the public?’

  ‘Yes. There are notices all over the village.’

  ‘With the lovely Anna taking the money at the gate.’ He paused. ‘Another crowded place where he thinks we won’t molest him. Hell, he came down here to negotiate, to make a deal. Now he knows he’s getting the lot, passport and all, why run the risk of being seen . . .’

  ‘Because he thinks it’s safer and because he doesn’t trust us.’

  ‘Well, I don’t like the messenger and this fool password bit.’ He paused. ‘Still, if it’s the only way to get him out of our hair short of . . .’

  ‘Short of what?’ The question came too quickly.

  ‘Short of nothing. I’m just kidding. Really I’m sorry for him.’

  ‘I think he’ll be there himself.’

  ‘With a hundred thousand at stake I’d be there too.’

  ‘Treasure could be around, but the others . . . God, there’s someone waiting outside. I’ll have to go.’

  The ’phone at the other end went down with a bang. He shook his head. Perhaps His Honour was paying his respects.

  He drained the coffee cup and went back to gazing at the oil painting propped against the milk jug. It had been worth the night drive to Cardiff and back just to be looking at it, even with everything else that was going on: you could easily get hooked on this art business.

  The strictly unregistered dealer had been genuinely loath to part with this one at bargain prices—but he accepted you had to spread the stuff about: he got so much of it since the advent of the various capital transfer taxes. The picture was so good, though, it seemed incredible the previous owner had dared leave it uninsured and undocumented. Anyway, given a fresh provenance, catalogued as ‘Dutch School’ with an informed and not too outrageous hint about which Dutchman, it would fetch an easy £10,000 in London.

  He smiled to himself: all he had been after was caches of LSD—it was funny how one thing had led to so many others. He looked at the time. It was still only 6.30.

  ‘It’s well placed strategically for a look-out post.’ Treasure believed it important not to talk down to children. ‘What’s strategically?’ asked Nye.

  ‘We play look-outs,’ said Emma.

  ‘And tanks and hospitals,’ Nye added quickly.

  The three were sitting inside the remains of the little winding shed which lacked a back wall as well as a roof. Devalera was asleep on the hill nearby.

  Treasure smiled. ‘You come here every Saturday?’ He was glad the need to define ‘strategically’ seemed to have lapsed: he wondered how the dictionaries put it. ‘Must be jolly cold in winter, and dark too.’

  ‘Not every Saturday. And we’re not supposed to come here at all. You won’t tell?’ She was ‘Alice’ in a junior boiler suit. ‘We’re not afraid of the dark.’

  ‘She is sometimes, but she’s better than most girls. She doesn’t mind spiders. I’ve got a kissing-ring.’

  ‘A chrysalis,’ Emma corrected mechanically.

  ‘In a match-box,’ Nye ended, undeterred.

  It was half an hour since the dead body had been taken away in the ambulance. Constable Lewin treated drowned swimmers with the practised tolerance of the seaside policeman duty bound regularly to note the visibility, legibility and stability of signs about dangerous bathing. It was not a local man, he had said, and most likely a visiting enthusiast for sea bathing, cold water, and rock clambering. The incoming tides were something cruel in the rockier coves.

  The victim had been assigned t
o the nearest pathology unit and Lewin had immediately prepared to leave to make his report and to check on missing persons. He begged Treasure’s pardon for having to postpone their intended further consideration on site of Mrs Ogmore-Davies’s awful experience, adding the loyal parochial comment that it was good there had been so few visitors around to witness the morning’s tragic catch—such things being bad for trade.

  Treasure had volunteered the drowned man had resembled someone he had been involved with on the train the day before, and who had also been wearing a distinguishing platinum watch. The last comment had surprised the policeman who had listed the watch case as aluminium: the point had been duly corrected. No, Treasure had not been able to state with assurance that this was the same man, but if it was, then the Haverfordwest police might have the means to identify him.

  Lewin had recorded all this before leaving, signifying with a pomposity that perhaps belied the truth that he had heard all about Treasure’s train adventure from top police sources, not just through listening to the local radio station. In reply to Treasure’s casual inquiry about whether the passport found at New Hall had been claimed, the constable said no such document had yet been delivered to him. The banker had hesitated to suggest that it could have belonged to the dead man, there being a limit to the elaborations on unsupported supposition he felt entitled to unleash on a village policeman.

  The children had been standing with the small group of people gathered in time to watch the ambulance’s departure. Treasure had guessed their identities through Devalera’s movements: the dog had sat himself between them watching events with an interest that matched their own, and from nearly the same eye level. They were obviously trusted and preferred familiars.

  It was at Treasure’s suggestion that all four had climbed the rocky way up the side of the lifeboat station to the outpost they now occupied, from which, the children had to admit shamefacedly, they had tried to steal down earlier unobserved—an event precipitated and advertised by the barking of their canine associate.

  ‘I’ll bet you were here Easter Saturday morning.’ This was Treasure playing a long shot.