by Roz Goldie
“Oh, Jack, would you?” she pleaded without a trace of shame. “Can you do that?”
“You know you should take any information to Emily Brown. I should tell her.” He watched her reaction.
“I suppose so.” She dropped her head in disappointment. “I just wanted…” Her voice trailed off.
“Just wanted to outsmart the cops. Veronica Pilchard, you are incorrigible!” Jack chuckled quietly. “However, on this occasion, I will indulge you. I can make a few calls.”
Astonished that she had managed to persuade him, Veronica squealed in delight. “Jack Summers, you are such a star!”
“No, just feeling a bit reckless – and this goes no further. I can make enquiries off the record.”
“Fine. I won’t breathe a word – promise.”
In less than two hours, the travel arrangements and journeys taken by Peter Saunders in the last days of September were known to Jack Summers, if not yet officially by the police. Inevitably, Jack knew, the matter would have to be dealt with by the proper authorities, but it might be helpful if there was some evidence pointing towards the murderer, if not also the creature who had imprisoned Nico.
* * *
Nico started his search for Mrs Stock as soon as he got the phone number. He arranged for her to come and claim anything that she wanted from her former home. Although he was not concerned that the house had been the scene of a violent murder, he was superstitious about making a good start in the place where he was to bring his grandparents.
Mrs Stock was a tall woman in her late 70s or early 80s. She had a strong voice and a slight Antrim accent, although she had been born in Belfast. Nico greeted her at the front door and ushered her inside. “It is strange to invite you to your own home but as I said, I wish to make the proper start here. There are photographs and things that must be yours and which you should have.”
“Thank you. I am very grateful. When I left, I was so confused that I only took a picture and my clothes.” She looked around the industrially cleaned hallway. “Of course, I heard about the murder. Dreadful business altogether!”
“Where would you like to start?” Nico asked.
“In the basement. There is a hidden storage space there, and I kept letters there and some jewellery.”
Nico followed her as she stepped, sure-footed, down into the basement. She stood by the window, from which Nico had cried for help. It was now clean and light poured into the enclosed space. She reached up and pulled on a coat hook on the wall. A trap door rose from the flagstones on the floor, opening into a chamber underneath.
Nico gasped in awe, “A secret cave!”
“Yes, Nico. It was built when our men were being hunted down by the police. It was a hiding place and no one spoke about it.” She shrugged. “Those days are over now, but that was a bad time.”
She looked puzzled. “Someone has been here. I can’t remember if I told Eliza about this, but you can see my letters have been disturbed.” A heap of envelopes lay in the corner. Whatever jewellery had been there was now gone.
“Oh, I am so sorry.” Nico was angry that some thief had taken her treasure.
“That is not important now. I am old, and they weren’t worth much.” Her voice was steady. “If you look you can see where something has been dragged over the dust.”
Nico bent down and picked up the envelopes, carefully placing them on the clean floor of the basement above their heads. “At least, we can save these.” At the bottom of the heap was a scrap of paper. It was not part of the consignment of old letters. It was the stub of a boarding pass with a flight number on it.
Thinking himself rather melodramatic, but still wondering if it might belong to Leo Richards, he took out a paper handkerchief and carefully retrieved it.
Mrs Stock saw this and fumbled in her handbag. “Take a plastic bag.”
“You don’t miss a trick, do you?” Nico laughed.
“I heard about your stay in the basement – I still get the gossip from Desmond Charles. He visits me, you know.”
“Then, you will know more about what’s going on than I!” Nico liked the woman and thought his grandmother might get along with her. “Now, let’s have a look at books and anything you want from the kitchen. I understand that you are going to move out of the nursing home, so you will need some of your own things back.”
“You are very considerate, Nico. There are a few small things I could use, but I never was much of a cook.”
Mrs Stock did not want many things. She looked through the kitchen cupboards and drawers and took out some old china and cutlery.
“Is that all you want? I have several boxes for you to pack as much as you need.”
“Oh, this is quite enough. I will buy some new things.” She opened at the last cupboard and took out an MP3 recorder. “This certainly isn’t mine!”
“It must have been Eliza’s.” Nico noticed a small blood stain on the play/record button. He took the small machine and put it back, carefully but firmly, closing the cupboard. “All very unpleasant.”
Mrs Stock was not sure whether he was referring to Eliza or the murder, and did not comment.
* * *
Wild Fern Alley won the City Flowers Award – being the only entrant in its category that had made such a dramatic transformation of three adjoining alleys. Their inclusion of bird-friendly measures and the partially restored old cobblestones added to its merit according to the three judges. Marianne and Thaddeus were informed by letter and invited to the award winning ceremony at City Hall, along with up to seven other members of their group.
The prestige of this event was an important political device for rising local representatives – and Councillor Cobbles in particular. His ambitions for the mayoral seat drove him to accept the invitation to present the trophy to Marianne Kelly.
Chapter Seven
Margaret was satisfied that her judgement had proven correct. The National Gallery authenticated the le Brocquy painting as the genuine article. Unfortunately for Frederick Stewart, the expert’s eye had also fallen on the John Luke and William Conor paintings. These had all been deemed counterfeit.
As she reread the official communication, she thought of Sir John Colliers. He would find his nemesis – both in the failed art deal and in upcoming divorce case. Should she tell Cressida? Certainly, she would tell Veronica!
She texted a terse: “le Brocquy genuine. Others are fake!” She snapped her phone shut with a smile that verged on malicious. Oh, she hated that pig Colliers!
Within minutes, she got a reply. “Must meet up and decide further action. V.”
Margaret texted back, “Can u make afternoon tea at 4?”
* * *
Veronica only knew Cressida Colliers from the pages of the Ulster Tattler, and was therefore unsure if it was the same woman she met leaving Margaret’s home as she arrived.
“I don’t think you have met,” Margaret smiled. “Veronica, this is Cressida Colliers. Cressida, this is Veronica Pilchard.”
The two women shook hands and exchanged greetings. Instinct told Veronica not to mention Richards or Saunders – or engage Cressida in any small talk. Instead, she remarked on her appearance. “I think the pictures I’ve seen of you in the Tattler don’t do you justice.”
“I’ve had a bit of a makeover. That’s all,” Cressida said with reserve, but trying to look cheerful.
“And she has been to Curl up and Dye!” Margaret added.
“Desmond is one of the best. He never fails to work miracles on my hair – but he also manages to make me feel so much better and confident!” Veronica spoke with sincerity, as she trusted Desmond more than nearly anyone – and now, this included Margaret.
“Well, I must be on my way. Good to meet you at last. Margaret has told me so much about you.” Cressida had a social manner similar to Margaret’s.
Veronica wondered if that was due to their common experiences in school or just a generational thing. “And you. I hope we will meet again.”
Cressida lifted the last of her possessions into the boot of her car, nodded to Margaret and got into her Jaguar. She waved and drove away. Today, she was taking ownership of her new life. She was moving into her flat and had Jessica Joyce start divorce proceedings. She had released herself from the bonds of a long and unhappy marriage. On the passenger seat, a silver sugar bowl gleamed. It was her house-warming present from Margaret and she treasured it as a token of her newfound freedom. Neither John nor Belinda knew where she was going.
“Your friend looks a good deal more relaxed and happy than the pictures of her that I have seen.” Veronica could not resist prying.
“Now, Veronica!” Margaret admonished. She was not about to reveal her friend’s personal and as yet secret affairs.
“Sorry,” Veronica said without a trace of regret. There was more to Lady Colliers than met the eye. “Now, tell me your news.”
“The paintings that Colliers bought and passed on the Frederick Stewart are, as I suspected, fake – with the exception of the le Brocquy.” Margaret Beightin asserted with vigour. “I wouldn’t trust that Gallery, and I think that now is the time to take this further.”
“How can you do that?” Veronica was genuinely bewildered.
“I think the Fraud Squad would be interested in these authentication documents from the National Gallery.” She held out a sheaf of papers in a theatrical gesture – grinning widely. She had demanded that she receive copies at the same time as Frederick Stewart. “I think they will want to ask some very searching questions.”
“Oh? And do you have any contacts there?” Veronica Pilchard was being upstaged yet again by her astute friend, but she took it in good humour.
“As a matter of fact, I do.” Margaret tried not to sound smug. “Let that pig Colliers put that in his pipe and smoke it!” she spat the words out.
“Remind me not to fall out of favour with you, Margaret!” Veronica snorted. “Well done! He will get his comeuppance.” Veronica Pilchard felt their friendship was on increasingly thin ice.
* * *
Nico was unsure how to proceed with the scrap of card from the secret chamber beneath the basement in Seven Montague Road. That evening, he told Jack about it.
“Ah, now we may be getting somewhere!” Jack was enthusiastic. “Have you touched it? I mean, are your fingerprints on it?”
“No. I picked it up with a tissue. Mrs Stock gave me this bag. I thought it might belong to Leo Richards, but I am not sure what to do with it.”
“It should go to the police – to DCI Emily Brown. She will get forensics onto it,” Jack paused. “Could I take a note of the flight number?”
“Sure. Here.” Nico opened the bag, and Jack noted the details he needed. With the seat and flight numbers and the dates of Nico’s incarceration, he could check if it was Richards. That would not interfere with the official investigation, but it would help his own.
“Now, this is in confidence so keep it to yourself, okay?” Nico nodded and Jack went on, “I now know that Leo Richards and another man were involved in an art deal – which may itself be suspect – and we both know Richards was in Eliza’s house. The police may get somewhere with this new piece of evidence.” Jack wanted Nico to take in the evidence so that he could avoid direct contact with DCI Brown and the possibility of having to lie to her.
Nico agreed to hand in the stub and make a statement to the detectives.
“Now, Nico, was there anything else? Was anything strange or out of place that you noticed?” Jack had his investigator’s voice on, “Even a small detail might give us a lead.”
“Not a thing.” Nico mentally retraced his steps during the visit from Mrs Stock. “No, there was something. Someone stole Mrs Stock’s jewellery from the chamber. It’s not worth much, but it was stolen.” He thought on and remembered the MP3 recorder. “There was a recorder in the kitchen cupboard. I put it out of sight, as it had a small blood stain, and I didn’t want Mrs Stock to see it – it might have upset her.”
“If that stain is blood, then the recorder couldn’t have been in the cupboard when the murder was committed,” Jack pondered. “It must have been tidied away when the industrial cleaners did their work.” Unused to the ways of academics, he asked, “Why would Eliza have a recorder? Is that standard for scholars?”
“No. I don’t use one. Some people record presentations and lectures instead of taking notes. Maybe that’s what she used it for.”
“Could she have recorded herself for any reason?”
“None that I know of but it’s possible.” Nico said. “It’s odd because she had a more modern recorder. I found it in her office.”
“I think it would be worth having a look at what if anything is recorded on both of them – and can you see if she downloaded recordings to her computer?”
“I can try and make time for that tomorrow.” Nico was thinking about the work he had to get done on his new home and the amount of time he had to spend with his grandparents. He would make them his priority.
* * *
Wild Fern Alley was peaceful. The autumn tidy-up was complete and delicate plants were about to be brought in under glass before the first of the early frosts. The last of the back wall doors was finally painted – at Seven Montague Road. The yarn bombing colours were washed and put back in place.
Television cameras and press photographers were recording scenes to be included in features on the City Flowers Award. Finally, Wild Fern Alley was getting positive publicity untainted by criticisms and allegations from local landlords – who had arranged to meet together that afternoon.
* * *
Frederick Stewart was not at the clandestine meeting of the landlords. Cobbles, McVeigh and O’Doherty called themselves the Big Boys’ Club. They sat at a table, where they made a habit of meeting – in McVeigh’s office, or Poison Corner as Marianne called it – from where the alley and its residents could be secretly viewed. Shappie had heard the news about Stewart’s predicament and happily shared it.
“Colliers will go mad! Freddy boy has been questioned by the fraud Squad about fake paintings in his gallery – all of which came from dear Sir John.”
“And he spilled his guts, I suppose?” Councillor Cobbles was not known for his elegance of speech.
“So I hear.” McVeigh was reluctant to reveal the source of this information. Although all four had common cause in opening access to Wild Fern Alley, they were bound in mutual distrust in all other matters. “Now O’Property, my man, tell us what you have got for us tonight.”
Seamus O’Doherty had been expected to find an official, who would do their bidding in the hope of stopping further developments in restoring the missing 19th-century cobblestones in Wild Fern Alley.
“I came across a guy I was sure we could persuade, but he turned out to know that Kelly woman. He said he was going to report me for attempted bribery and corruption.” His voice was plaintive and he looked worried.
“That bloody woman! She’s a Nazi! She’s everywhere and getting people to do all sorts of things – ruining the area.” McVeigh spluttered in rage and frustration.
“Maybe we can turn this to our advantage. You say he knows Mrs Kelly. Then, we can quietly make it known that she has been unfairly favoured by a friend in the department.” Brendan Cobbles gave a twisted smile of malice.
This was to be a very big mistake, as the official in question was a church elder and brother of a senior police officer in the Fraud Squad.
McVeigh had his own motives for wanting open access to the alley. He was refurbishing some old flats and completing a wing of new apartments in his unfinished block. He used illegal immigrants for the unskilled labour and persons who wished to remain under the radar for the skilled work. They came and went under cover of darkness and often slept in squalid conditions between long shifts. He paid them badly, but fed them well.
Councillor Cobbles had equally venal but different reasons for opposing Wild Herb Alley. He was happy to put up with
anti-social activities in the alley so long as he could ferry his own tarts in and out of his latest acquisition – a run-down terrace house, which he had bought by gazumping a young family. Rising house prices did not suit any of these landlords – they aimed to buy up property for as little as possible.
That afternoon, the good Councillor had to inform his counterparts that he had the duty of presenting the City Flowers Award to that Kelly woman.
“Sticks in the throat – and more! I have to do it!” His distaste was genuine, but not as strong as he let them think. He might gain from the political leverage and publicity.
Back in Councillor Cobbles’ office, a young man was writing his speech – noting the importance of this development in the city to the Conservative Catholic Party
* * *
Frederick Stewart had told the police all he knew – which did not amount to much. He had known Sir John Colliers for many years and trusted him. Colliers had supplied the paintings and documentation on provenance. He had taken temporary custody of them for the purposes of selling them to some important clients.
He did not know how Sir John had come into possession of the pictures and assured the officer that Sir John was a man in whom one could have faith. “He is President of the Royal Art Society and held in high esteem!” Stewart declared robustly.
The investigating officer did not look at all convinced. “Is that a fact? Well, we’ll be having a word with Sir John. In the meantime, I must have your written agreement that these pictures will not be sold.”
With that, a somewhat shaken Frederick Stewart was dismissed. He left the station in a state of agitation. He had not had any option but to admit the source of the fake paintings, but he knew that Colliers would be furious.