‘Those, believe it or not, are the cases Warren enjoys most. Strategy and planning are his forte and he admits he was finding life dull back in this country. There’s never any time-limit imposed, and sometimes he plans several “easier” thefts while working on what he regards as a challenging, long-term one. Once, he said, it took him a full year to discover who owned a certain vase and where it was, and then work out the means of acquiring it. Honestly, Dave, to hear him talk, you’d think he was businessman of the year!
‘Once Hardy has stolen the item and delivered it to the Seven Stars, a line is inserted in the horoscope column of the Evening News under “Tomorrow’s Birthday”.’
‘What is this about a horoscope column?’ Webb interrupted. ‘The first time I heard of it was when you mentioned it to Hardy last night.’
Ledbetter explained about Helen Campbell’s visit. ‘If there’s any reward going for nailing this gang, she’s the one who should get it,’ he ended. ‘She spotted the repetitions in the column and she found the lost button at Beckworth. She deserves a gold medal. What puzzled her was why the two parties didn’t simply phone each other, but we now have the answer. Warren couldn’t contact Q, because he didn’t know who he was. The column was the ideal point of contact.
‘Q, who obviously lives within the circulation area of the Evening News, reads “Tomorrow’s Birthday” every day, and when the agreed code appears, phones the following Wednesday with instructions where to take the goods. It’s always a postal sorting office, using the poste restante facility, and always a busy one, where staff aren’t likely to remember one particular transaction.
‘What surprised me is that Warren didn’t express any curiosity about the bloke behind it all. He was happy just to be utilising his strategic skills and being handsomely paid for so doing.’
‘What about the payout?’ Rigby asked. ‘How is it received?’
‘By registered post, in wads of fifty-pound notes. It’s incredible really, the web of secrecy they maintained: Q knows Warren’s identity, but not that of Hardy or Budd.
Warren knows Hardy and Budd but not Q; and Hardy and Budd know of Warren’s involvement, but not Q’s. They didn’t even know about the horoscope column, as we discovered last night. So Warren’s the kingpin round which it all revolves, the only one known to both sides.’
‘What was Cain’s part in all this?’
‘Minimal. He saw to the horoscopes, of course, and took a small — I gather very small — share in the payout. He also delivered the goods; once the object was in their hands, Warren seemed to lose interest. Incidentally, I had one of my DCs go through the column for the last two years and note the dates when this cryptic message was inserted. In every case it was less than a week after a country house break-in.’
Webb moved impatiently. ‘But what happens now, if there’s no way of contacting the bugger?’
‘Ah, but there is! At least, I hope so. As we know to our cost, there was a robbery at Buckhurst last Thursday, and even after the business with Lord Cleverley, the stolen ornament was delivered to the Seven Stars as usual. Furthermore, one of the agreed phrases appeared in last night’s column.’
There was a short silence. Then Webb said, ‘So if all goes according to plan, our mystery man should phone at eight tomorrow evening?’
‘Exactly. The one fear is that Lord Cleverley’s death might have frightened him off, and since the figurine isn’t valuable anyway, he could decide not to claim it. In fact, with a murder hunt in progress, he might well think the game isn’t worth the candle, resolve to be content with what he has, and retire from the scene completely. In which case we’ll never catch up with him.’
‘Don’t even imagine it!’ Rigby said vehemently.
‘We can but hope. We’ve arranged to insert a bugging device in the phone at the guesthouse and with luck the message will come through as usual.’
‘Warren will cooperate?’
‘He hasn’t much option. Our lads will be in a van outside, listening in. The phone-calls are always brief, just the address of the sorting office and the day the parcel has to be delivered.’
‘What kind of voice has he got, this Q? Any clues there?’
‘He speaks in a whisper — impossible to identify and no discernible accent. So there we have it. Would you like to hear the tapes?’
Webb shook his head and got to his feet. ‘You’ve told me all I need to know. Best of luck with the phone-call. You’ll keep us advised?’
‘Of course.’ Ledbetter stood up. ‘I’ll come down with you; there’s nothing more I can do this evening, so I’m off home. Last night’s lack of sleep is catching up with me.’
‘Me too,’ Webb agreed.
They went through the swing doors to discover it was raining.
‘At least there’s no evidence it can wash away now,’ Led-better commented and, raising his hand in a salute, he went on his way.
*
Helen lay in the narrow, unfamiliar bed, thinking over the evening. In the bar at the Barley Mow, with the rain rattling against the porthole beside them, she and Pen had had the frankest conversation of their lives.
It started, of course, with an account of Helen’s visit to the police and the dramatic events that resulted from it.
‘So you were right after all, Miss Marple. Well done you!’
‘Up to a point, but I was quite wrong about the hit-and-run — it was an accident after all. And a particularly sad one.’ Her face clouded.
‘Poor Molly; I learned today why she went running out like that — the inspector asked the policewoman to tell me. It seems she’d overheard them saying some money was missing and wondering if she’d pinched it. The awful thing was that they’d simply miscalculated and discovered the mistake later. Nicholas told the inspector that his main regret in the whole affair was that Molly had died thinking she was under suspicion.’
Gradually, as the evening passed, their talk had become more personal. Helen had been startled to discover how much Penelope, and by definition Thomas also, had known of the tensions between their parents, which she thought she’d successfully concealed; surprised, also, by the maturity her daughter showed in discussing them.
‘We felt so helpless,’ she said, ‘watching you both rub each other raw and not being able to do anything. We’ve been expecting for years to hear you were separating.’
‘How would you feel if we did?’ Helen asked in a low voice.
‘Sad, of course, but it wouldn’t be the end of the world. We love you both and would keep in touch, so don’t stay together simply for our sake. It’s much more important to sort out your lives and do what’s best for you.’ Penelope reached for her hand. ‘You saw that woman on Sunday, didn’t you?’
Helen nodded.
‘I — think I’ve seen her before.’
Helen looked up sharply. ‘Where?’
‘I’ve been trying to remember.’
‘With Daddy, you mean?’
‘Not exactly with him, but on the fringes. Like Sunday.’
‘She must be adept at dodging round corners,’ Helen said bitterly.
‘What about Michael Saxton, Mum? You do like him, don’t you?’
‘I like him, but I don’t suppose I’ll ever see him again.’
‘Would you mind if you didn’t?’
Helen said lightly, ‘I’d be sorry, but after all we’ve only known each other ten days.’
‘What difference does that make? You know something? You were more relaxed with him that I’ve seen you in years.’
‘Only because he’s an outsider and I didn’t have to keep up pretences.’
Penelope laughed. ‘Have it your own way. Anyway, it’s great that you’re thinking of going back to work full time. After being a wife and mother all these years, you’ll be a person in your own right again. And take Sir Clifford up on his offer of help, too. A personal contact like that is worth something.’
Yes, she’d do that, Helen thought, pulling the pil
low into the hollow of her neck. These two weeks had been more traumatic than she’d ever anticipated, but at least she’d established contact with Sir Clifford, which should stand her in good stead. She reached up and switched off the light.
*
Terry Pike settled himself in a chair opposite Ledbetter and commented, ‘I suppose I owe this pleasure to Helen Snoopy Campbell?’
‘We’re interviewing everyone at the Seven Stars, sir,’ Ledbetter said smoothly. ‘I understand you’ve been lodging there for some time?’
‘A couple of months, but I doubt if it’ll be for much longer.’
‘Oh?’
‘My business should be wrapped up shortly.’
‘And what is your business, Mr Pike?’
Pike met and held his eye. ‘I’m a private investigator.’ Ledbetter raised an eyebrow. ‘Engaged by whom?’
‘An insurance company anxious to end the Stately Home break-ins before it goes out of business.’
Ledbetter considered that for a moment. ‘I believe you live in the north of England?’
‘I do, thank God.’
‘I’m just wondering why, since the burglaries have taken place all over the country, you couldn’t have operated equally well from there?’
Pike tapped the side of his nose significantly. ‘I had a lead which brought me down here, Inspector.’
‘And what was that?’
‘A tip-off to keep an eye on Nicholas Warren. I couldn’t believe my luck when I found out he ran a guesthouse.’
‘It would have been a courtesy to have contacted us.’
‘Given time I would have, when I’d something concrete to go on. And I was getting there.’
‘What was the tip-off ?’
‘Only that he’d been seen in the vicinity of a couple of houses that were later robbed. All very vague, but my clients were desperate enough to follow up anything. They’re only a small company, and this is stretching them to breaking point.’
He paused. ‘Then Helen Campbell arrives out of the blue and announces to all and sundry that her husband’s a loss adjuster. I could cheerfully have strangled her. All my softly-softly work gone for a burton. They were going to be very much on their guard after that piece of information.’
‘You hadn’t come across him — Mr Campbell?’
‘No, though I’ve done some work for his firm in the past. I’m told he was up here at the weekend.’
He looked shrewdly at Ledbetter. ‘I know Helen came here on Monday; my office is just along the road and I saw her. What did she have to say?’
‘You know I can’t tell you that, Mr Pike. Sufficient to say that she gave us some very valuable information which might be crucial.’
‘Bloody amateurs! There I am, sweating my guts out month after month, and she waltzes in and hands you the solution on a plate! There ain’t no justice.’
Ledbetter smiled. ‘The country’s police forces might agree with you. We haven’t been exactly idle ourselves.’
‘And is it really all over bar the shouting?’
‘Not quite. We still need one vital piece of information, but we hope to have it by the end of the week.’
‘Well, you’re obviously not going to tell me any more, so all I can do is wish you luck. Meanwhile, presumably, I keep on acting my part of innocent bystander at the Seven Stars.’
‘That would be best, sir.’
As Ledbetter watched Pike leave the room, he reflected that Helen Campbell had again been proved correct: Pike’s ‘innocent bystander’ role had not deceived her. One very astute lady, Mrs Campbell. Pity they couldn’t recruit her into the police force.
*
There was a phone-call for Helen at lunch-time and she hurried to take it. She’d half-thought it might be Pen, but it was Michael’s voice that said in her ear, ‘Helen? Is that you?’
‘Michael! Oh, thank goodness!’
‘Well, that’s a better greeting than I expected.’
‘I wanted to explain, about leaving the Seven Stars so suddenly.’
‘That it wasn’t to escape my evil clutches? With all due modesty, I didn’t really think so. But I was concerned about you. Why did you go and where did you go to?’
She hesitated. ‘As to where, I’m at a somewhat down-market B & B in Steeple Bayliss.’
‘And as to why?’
‘That would take longer to answer.’
‘Such as over dinner?’
‘That sounds a good idea.’
‘I agree; it wasn’t the same without you, last night.’
‘Have the police asked to see you?’
‘Yes, I’m due there at three o’clock. What’s it all about, do you know?’.
‘I’d better leave the inspector to tell you.’
‘All right, be mysterious. Shall I call for you at seven-thirty?’
‘That would be fine. They eat at six at the new place, so I’ll phone and say I won’t need a meal.’
‘And I must let Kate know. What’s your address?’
She gave it to him, and put down the receiver. So after all she would be seeing Michael again, and despite her lukewarm reply to Penelope, her spirits lifted at the prospect.
*
The phone-call came promptly at eight, and the policemen in the van outside tensed as Nicholas answered it.
The whispering voice on the line sounded oddly sinister. ‘Murder was not on the agenda, Warren.’
A hesitation, then Warren’s voice: ‘I agree it was most unfortunate. Not intentional, of course — just an instinctive reaction.’
There was a long silence, and the police exchanged anxious glances. Warren said: ‘Are you there, sir?’
‘Of course I’m here. It must never happen again. No violence of any kind, that was the agreement.’
‘I know. I assure you —’
‘Tomorrow morning, then, at Ashmartin.’ And the phone went dead. A moment later a click indicated that Warren had replaced the receiver.
‘Bloody hell!’ ejaculated one of the constables. ‘The other side of the ruddy county!’
Minutes later, Ledbetter received the information that the call had come from a public call-box in an Ashmartin hotel. There was virtually no chance of identifying the caller.
Ashmartin was the eastern-most town in Broadshire, some fifty miles from Steeple Bayliss. The quickest route was along the M4, and it was arranged that the first in a succession of cars would follow Cain when he left the Seven Stars with the package.
Various plain-clothes men and women would then keep watch on the sorting office, with an unmarked police car standing by round the corner to convey the suspect back to Steeple Bayliss.
The first part of the proceedings went according to plan. Cain delivered the package and drove home, unaccompanied, to the Seven Stars. The police settled down to wait. The morning passed, and then the afternoon. Ledbetter, in constant touch with the police car, was getting restive.
‘No sign yet, Happy?’
‘Not a glimmer, Guy.’
‘There’s no way he could have been and gone without your noticing?’
‘Not a cat in hell’s chance. The place is under a microscope.’ Ledbetter sighed. ‘I suppose we’ll just have to be patient, then.’
At six o’clock Happy Hopkins phoned in.
‘Bad news, Guy. They’re closing for the day and there’s still been no sign.’
Ledbetter groaned. ‘But he’s in the town, dammit. What’s he waiting for?’
‘Perhaps he’s in no hurry,’ came Happy’s lugubrious voice. ‘For all we know, he might always wait a day or two before collecting them — a week, even.’
‘Thanks a bunch, Happy. That makes me feel much better.’ So they’d have to go through all this again tomorrow, the hanging about, the waiting.
He rang Webb to report the lack of progress.
‘Chummie couldn’t have detected anything on the line, could he? Taken fright?’
‘No chance. As Happy says, he might never
collect them immediately. Perhaps he waits till he’s sure no one is hanging around watching the place.’
‘Well, tomorrow’s another day. Let’s hope it’s a better one.’
*
But Friday was equally unproductive for the waiting detectives. The sorting office at Ashmartin, had it but known, had never been better guarded, but nobody came for Cain’s parcel.
Meanwhile, the art and antiques course at Melbray was drawing to a close. The final day was devoted to the Impressionist and Post-Impressionist schools, which were among Helen’s favourites, but again she was finding it hard to concentrate.
She and Michael had eaten together both Wednesday and Thursday evenings, but tonight she’d arranged to have dinner with Penelope. What, she wondered, her eyes on the luminous paintings on the screen, would she say when Pen asked about Michael, as she was sure to do? What, after all, was there to say?
Certainly they knew each other better now, had discussed a wide range of topics including each other’s marriages, but they had avoided mentioning the future. He knew that she needed to see Andrew again, gauge how they both felt after the break and the disastrous meeting in Steeple Bayliss.
As for herself, one moment she was anxious to get home and see Andrew, be with him again, and the next she dreaded it. Added to that, she was unsure of her feelings for Michael, though she suspected they would deepen if she allowed them to.
Impatient with herself, she brought her attention back to the lecture. Whatever she decided, it would not be an easy decision, nor a quick one. Time alone held the answer.
*
But time was given a nudge that evening. At six o’clock, a knock came at the door and the landlady’s voice announced there was someone to see her.
Helen, about to change for dinner, hesitated. She was meeting Penelope at the Barley Mow, and not till seven-thirty.
‘Is it my daughter?’ she called.
‘No, a gentleman. I’ve put him in the front room.’ Michael? But they’d said their goodbyes the previous evening. ‘Tell him I’ll be down in a minute.’
Hastily she put on some make-up, brushed her hair, and went downstairs. The front room, which she’d previously only glanced into, was drab and unwelcoming, furnished in beige moquette and with a thirties-style tiled fireplace. In front of which Andrew stood, looking at her.
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