Murder for Treasure

by David Williams

  ‘How intriguing, and of course I’ll come. Am I not to know what we’re seeing?—Oh, and can we go in your buggy, not my limousine? Just wait till I get a scarf, not that it really matters so long as I’m back here for my hair appointment at eleven.’

  So it was that half an hour later Devalera was to be found ready to defend his moveable home in the car park of the Withybush Hospital which lies a mile beyond Haverfordwest on the Fishguard road.

  CHAPTER 17

  Anna Spring had been out when Treasure called and he was surprised to find the gallery closed. He had scribbled a message on a card and pushed it through the letter-box.

  He had better luck with his next quarry, Dai Rees the postman. After dropping a perplexed and thoughtful Patience Crabthorne back at the hotel in good time for her hair appointment, he had noticed Dai in the churchyard as he had been driving the Mini Moke in to New Hall.

  ‘I thought you were the choirmaster not the head gardener, Mr Rees.’

  Dai latched the door of an inconspicuous toolshed that stood along the north wall of the church. He was holding a pair of edge-clippers. ‘There’s three of us give a bit of time Saturday mornings. I’m finished my own work by now and every little helps.’

  Treasure couldn’t help thinking of those twelve thousand bodies. It was small wonder graveyards generated such abundant greenery though he now considered the fact in a new light. ‘A labour of love, Mr Rees. The Vicar was singing your praises when he showed me the church earlier.’

  The postman gave a broad grin. ‘Saying them anyway. He’s tone deaf. Funny for a Welshman and with the Christian name of Handel.’ His expression changed to one of concern. ‘Hear you were still down the harbour when that body was brought in. There’s terrible. First one this season. Not local, Mr Lewin says. Nasty for you, though.’

  ‘It was a bit. Violent death too. Not a pretty sight.’ He risked taking the slender opportunity offered. ‘Mr Wodd told me you’re an active pacifist. It’s not a word one hears much these days.’

  The other man chuckled. ‘Very behind the times we are down here, Mr Treasure. Yes, I’m a pacifist. My Dad was too—drove an ambulance all through the last war and got blown up more times than most. Suppose I’d do the same if the need came.’

  ‘D’you get involved with anti-nuclear demos?’

  ‘Not in my line, and I wonder if they do much good. No, it’s more personal with me. Helping people like me who won’t bear arms for conscientious reasons.’

  ‘Not in this country. I mean we don’t have conscription . . .’

  ‘No, but in others. Mind you, people think you’re cracked bothering these days when there’s so much else wrong with the world. For me, though, being made to carry a gun . . . well, I just couldn’t do it.’

  ‘And you’ve a fellow feeling for others with the same loathing without the same liberty.’

  ‘Exactly, Mr Treasure. Take deserters. There’s a dirty word for you.’ He shook his head. ‘There are still unpardoned deserters, thousands of them, in so-called civilized countries whose only crime is one of conscience. Their cause can be helped. People in this village help deserters in many countries.’

  ‘Bit difficult to organize, I should have thought.’

  ‘That’s right. Not like your big national causes. More personal—individual, that’s the word.’

  ‘Petitions and . . . ?’ Treasure, eyebrows raised, waited for further enlightenment.

  ‘Yes, and money for legal fees . . . oh, and other things. If you’d like to know more, Mr Treasure, I can send you . . .’

  ‘To be honest, I’m weighed down with good causes already,’ the banker said apologetically, adding as though as an afterthought. ‘Does Mrs Spring help?’

  ‘Power of strength—even from the days when she was here before, as a young girl. Not so active then but keenly interested.’

  ‘And she remembered your crusading efforts when she came back.’

  ‘Got involved in similar work in America. There’s help needed there still.’

  Treasure was not prepared to argue the point but he was fairly certain that amnesties had been provided for US servicemen who had deserted for reasons of conscience from Vietnam and earlier wars. He looked at his watch. ‘I mustn’t interrupt you any longer, Mr Rees.’ He was hoping there might be a message from Anna waiting for him at New Hall.

  ‘Welsh-cakes we call them. Bake-stones some people say. Nice, aren’t they?’ Mrs Evans gazed approvingly at Treasure who, in defiance of his dietary rules, was seated at her big, scrubbed kitchen table consuming coffee and a second of the flat, rounded, curranty delicacies with the powdered sugar coating.

  Treasure had found his way to the kitchen a few minutes earlier in search of information not refreshment. There he had come upon the housekeeper stacking pyramids of freshly made Welsh-cakes in readiness for the afternoon. There had been no message for him and he had been reliably informed that Henry Nott-Herbert, having locked himself in his bathroom for the purpose of ‘serious rehearsal’, would be unlikely to appear before he was scheduled to meet Trteasure at 11.30 unless especially summoned.

  It was the banker’s adamant refusal to have a man bidden from the hallowed privacy of his own bathroom— whatever he might be doing there—that had created the hiatus for ‘elevenses’.

  ‘I’ve spoken to Ethel Ogmore-Davies.’ Mrs Evans delivered this intelligence with a conspiratorial overtone. ‘Marvellous what you’ve done for her peace of mind, and that’s a fact.’

  ‘She’s told you . . . ?’

  ‘Nothing except what can be officially released.’ There followed a knowing nod. ‘It’ll make things easier for Anna, too. Have another Welsh-cake, Mr Treasure.’

  ‘I don’t understand?’ He was also trying hard not to yield to proffered further indulgence.

  ‘Well, p’raps I shouldn’t say, except His Honour asked you down just to look into Ethel’s terrible fright. There’s been atmosphere since the engagement. I’ll say no more than that. Atmosphere.’ More nods. ‘But His Honour putting himself out . . . well, it makes for good-will all round.’

  If it had not been for a mouth full of Welsh-cake Treasure might have been prompted mildly to protest that the only person remotely inconvenienced so far had been himself. After a moment or two more of pleasurable gluttony he was content with: ‘Mrs Ogmore-Davies has something against Mrs Spring marrying the Judge? I thought it was through the Ogmore-Davieses that the two met.’

  ‘Years ago, yes, when Mrs Nott-Herbert was alive. Ethel thinks His Honour’s, well. . . far too old for Anna.’ There had been a degree of uncertainty—even lack of conviction—in the last comment. ‘Then there’s Nye, of course. Nye and me. Nothing to do with her really though, as I’m always telling her.’

  ‘You mean she thinks Mrs Spring’s marriage to the Judge will affect any . . . er . . . any expectation you and your grandson might entertain . . .’

  ‘When His Honour passes on. That’s about it, Mr Treasure, but there’s no foundation. I happen to know His Honour’s made provision for us out of kindness because he’s told me. But there’s no obligation. He’s not Nye’s father or anything like that.’

  ‘Good heavens! Has it ever been suggested he might be?’ Treasure was so dumbfounded he had blurted out the question without thinking—an uncharacteristic response which he immediately regretted.

  ‘Not in so many words, and it’s all the fault of my Doreen for not saying.’

  ‘Not saying what?’ There was no avoiding following through in the belief that the outcome would be less indelicate than the hang-fire implication.

  ‘Who the father was. Wild horses wouldn’t drag it out of her. She was of age too, so what could I do?’

  Treasure accepted that a stampede of demented stallions might not have forced the tight-lipped Doreen to tell all. ‘But you tried to establish who it wasn’t?’ he demanded. To extend the metaphor, one trained donkey could surely have elicited the fact of the Judge’s noncomplicity.


  Mrs Evans had deserted the Welsh-cakes and, as at breakfast, had taken up her preferred position standing beside her seated, captured-by-comestibles audience. ‘Wouldn’t utter about it. Still won’t. She was living here at the time but working as barmaid in local hotels. His Honour and Mrs Nott-Herbert were ever so good. Insisted she stayed on after the baby was born. That was why the gossips put two and two together and made sixteen and a half. Case of drat-the-senior . . . Employer’s rights, like.’ Treasure was grateful for the loose translation. Clearly it was from his grandmother that Nye inherited his predisposition toward phonetic approximations. ‘Ethel wasn’t one of the tarry tiddlers, but when I told her about His Honour’s will, after he’d said . . .’

  ‘You told her he was providing for you and Nye?’

  ‘That’s right. Well, she did imply.’ There was a meaningful pause. ‘Not spiteful, mark you . . .’ another pause . . .’ more like suggesting His Honour was only doing what was proper. We had words, I can tell you . . . at the time, that was. Over now, of course.’ Mrs Evans leant forward a fraction, dropping her voice. ‘More to it, though. You see, it was well known the Captain had an eye for the girls, my Doreen being one.’

  ‘You mean it was suggested he might have been Nye’s father?’

  ‘More than once, I’m sorry to say.’

  ‘So the idea of the Judge . . . ?’

  ‘Very convenient for Ethel. Trouble is, Nye’s the spitting image of the Captain. Which could be through family connections,’ Mrs Evans added enigmatically. ‘Who’s to know except my Doreen, and sometimes I wonder if she does. She was going through a very permitted stage at the time.’

  With evidently an advertised bent for older men, Treasure thought. ‘But now she’s happily married,’ he said aloud.

  ‘So you can see why Ethel’s not keen on Anna marrying His Honour in case it affects Nye’s expectancies. She wouldn’t admit it, but that’s what’s behind it.’ Mrs Evans was clearly disinclined to change the subject. ‘Then there’s that old business of Anna and the Captain—not to speak ill of the dead,’ which she was now doing, ‘but it came up again when he fell to his death outside Anna’s front door. Well, nearly. Although Mr Lewin bore witness it was an accident.’

  Minutes earlier Treasure had determined to end this slanderous narration—fascinating as it had proved: now he changed his mind. ‘Surely Anna was a family friend of the Ogmore-Davieses? I believe she came to help in the house.’

  ‘Well, there were nasty rumours after she’d left that the Captain had been sweet on her all along. Very upsetting for Ethel, true or untrue. Then when Anna came back . . .’

  ‘I thought she’d been welcomed by all and sundry.’

  ‘By most, yes, and even Ethel was sorry for her. But there’s no great love lost between those two, appearances not always being what they seem.’

  Mrs Ogmore-Davies’s question about whether her husband had fallen or been pushed was still fresh in Treasure’s mind. ‘I can see it must have been especially difficult, his having died outside Anna’s house.’

  ‘Compromising it could have been, Mr Treasure. Who was to know what had happened if Mr Lewin hadn’t been passing on his beat within seconds.’

  ‘He saw the Captain fall?’

  ‘Not exactly but nearly. And near enough to know there wasn’t anyone else involved. Mark you, Ethel blames Mr Lewin for starting the rumour the Captain was drunk and incapable.’

  ‘Which wasn’t mentioned at the inquest.’

  ‘Quite right too, Better that, though, than the accusation he always went home that way hoping to force his attentions on Anna.’

  ‘Who would say such a thing?’

  ‘Between you and me’ —and Treasure sincerely hoped this and the rest of the conversation would remain exactly that since he had no desire to figure as a party to an action for defamation—‘between you and me,’ Mrs Evans repeated even more sotto voce, ‘Mrs Pugh from the Boatman for one. It’s terrible what people will pass on.’ She sighed despairingly.

  ‘I consider the humour of Laurel and Hardy must have been mostly visual.’ The Judge was sitting on a sofa in Treasure’s room. He gazed without enthusiasm at the ventriloquist’s dummy which he was balancing on one knee. ‘Anyway, I think it’s going to rain which means no one will come. If they do I’ll manage with card tricks in the big greenhouse.’

  Treasure remembered the coloured pasteboard: he had left it on the tail-boy the night before. ‘Lhope this wasn’t part of an important trick. I rescued it from Devalera yesterday. He’s chewed one end.’ He handed it to Nott-Herbert. ‘It’s a double-sided card.’

  ‘No, it isn’t. It’s two cards stuck together with evaporating glue. Just feels like one card. Comes apart at the magician’s command. Presto!’ What the Judge had in his hand appeared still to be one double-sided card. The volatile adhesive had acquired enduring properties. ‘I expect Devalera’s ruined it. Actually, it’s the magician’s aide who’s supposed to do the unsticking.’

  ‘The conjuror’s proverbially pretty assistant?’

  ‘Beg your pardon? Oh. Magician not conjuror. Professor Popov, you know. Nomenclature. Yes, it ought to be Anna but she’s doing the gate today. I’ve had to recruit the Vicar. He’s no good at card tricks,’ which seemed to place him in good company, ‘so he’s doing voices off. Not singing voices . . .’

  ‘Because he’s tone deaf.’

  ‘How very perceptive of you, my dear Mark. Now why is it I wanted to see you? Ah, the dress rehearsal. Well we’ll scrap that. May not be necessary to have a performance.’ He paused for thought. ‘I know, Mrs Evans said you had news about . . .’

  ‘About Mrs Ogmore-Davies’s body.’

  ‘Good God! It wasn’t her they fished out this morning . . . ? No, of course not, you mean her Easter Saturday body.’

  ‘It was all a mistake.’

  ‘Thought as much. And you’ve sorted it out? Good man. Tell me . . .’

  Treasure told the Judge as little as possible and was mildly surprised not to be pressed for more. What pleased the older man was Mrs Ogmore-Davies’s solemn undertaking not to raise the matter ever again. ‘Of course I’ll speak to Lewin,’ he replied to the banker’s request. ‘Tell him the whole thing was a ghastly error. No names, no pack drill, as you said. You see, he never reported it properly in the first place. I happen to know because he told me. He’s looking for promotion—don’t blame him, but he won’t get it. Putting in daft reports about nonexistent bodies hardly helps. He called it something else—suspected accident being investigated, something of the sort, then dropped it. Mrs Ogmore-Davies would be furious if she knew.’

  ‘Well, if Lewin promises never to raise or discuss the matter again that’s the end of it.’

  ‘Most grateful, Mark. Anna should be too. Could have been compromising as she whispered to me during tea yesterday. Never thought of it myself. Some time before she promised to marry me, and all that.’

  ‘What was compromising?’

  ‘The daffodil business.’ The Judge continued in answer to Treasure’s look of deepening mystification. ‘You said yesterday the police might not have asked enough people about seeing the body. Anna made a joke of it. Said she could have been down at the quay for all anyone knew.’

  ‘I remember her saying it.’

  ‘Well, she couldn’t have . . . been at the quay, I mean. And if the police had started to ask everyone who was up and about the village at six-thirty that morning I’d have had to say I was. Taking Anna flowers. In bed.’ The Judge reddened. ‘Perfectly innocent action.’

  ‘She was ill?’

  ‘Not at all. I sometimes get up early. There was a new picture in Anna’s gallery I wanted to look at in morning light. I have a key to the place. Thought I’d trot down without disturbing anyone. Picked some daffodils on the way through the garden.’ He seemed to lose the thread of the narrative.

  ‘To leave for Anna. A pleasing gesture,’ Treasure volunteered encouragingly.

  ‘T
hat’s it. Nothing to it really, but not anything you’d want to explain to some busybody policeman.’ He chuckled. ‘And certainly not the end of the story. It seems I made a hullabaloo opening Anna’s front door. When I went up the stairs to leave the flowers I’d woken her. She came out of her bedroom thinking I might be a burglar. Caused quite a commotion I can tell you.’

  ‘I know,’ said Treasure involuntarily before adding hastily, ‘I mean, I’m sure you did.’

  CHAPTER 18

  Mark Treasure owned a modest disposition. He needed no pressing to explain the reason for his unusual, early and continuing success in his chosen profession of banking. He genuinely believed his abilities were overestimated by everyone save himself. This, he would argue, had always provided an enormous spur—a need to try harder in order to justify the faith of other people. Personal achievement has been founded on many less commendable premises.

  This is not to say that Treasure would humbly countenance being taken for a fool—or the unwitting tool of someone else’s unworthy fabrication. This is why, on balance, he found himself doubly irritated: it was becoming fairly obvious not only that sight unseen he had been taken for a fool but also that after introduction he had been duped by flattery. This last was the unkindest cut. ‘Flattery is good for you,’ said the venerable Rector of St Bride’s Church in Fleet Street, ‘so long as you don’t inhale.’ Treasure had been inhaling deeply.

  On the commendation of an agreeable, retired bishop he had been charged by a charmingly ingenuous old Judge to exercise his wholly overrated powers of criminal detection. This much was acceptable. That he had actually been charged in the process to attempt exposing the nefarious activities of persons directly or indirectly responsible for encouraging the Judge to appoint him to the task was an insult even to an amateur. It was also a clear enough indication that those same persons had used his advertised employment to discourage others from inviting the continuing interest of an obviously more competent authority—namely the police force.