Turning to the Chief Constable he explained that Forbes had found a lot of other stuff as well as the camera. The next moment a dusty but still inflated air cushion was thrust through the opening in the panelling, followed by a camera, a powerful electric torch, an almost empty whiskey flask, some sandwiches, an illustrated guide to Brent and a small rucksack. Inspector Diplock whipped open the latter, and extracted a nylon rope ladder, strips of mica of various sizes, a screwdriver and sundry other tools found useful by the housebreaking fraternity.
“So what?” demanded Major Egerton. “It’s exactly the same technique as that coins robbery at Wonbridge Castle in the spring. The chap came in as a tourist, hid up somewhere in the house, and came out and did his stuff when they’d closed down for the night.”
Inspector Diplock whistled. “Looks like the same chap, all right. I wonder what happened? Could he have had a coronary, shinning up those steps?”
“He could have, but he didn’t.”
They turned round quickly. Keen professional interest had replaced Dr. Ross’s disgruntled boredom.
“I clambered down into that bloody death-trap myself this morning. It was obvious that the man had gone clean over backwards, fracturing his skull and breaking his neck when he landed at the bottom. So I can’t see how he got this hefty bruise on his chest. Take a look.”
The four policemen crowded round.
“Are you saying someone landed him a hefty wallop in the chest which sent him over?” Major Egerton stared at the doctor.
“Off the record, it looks rather like it. Officially I’m saying that the bruise is compatible with a violent blow in the chest. The experts will tell you if it was made by a fist or a weapon of some sort. I’d say the latter.”
There was a startled silence, broken only by the heavy breathing of Sergeant Green, who had edged nearer to get a better view.
“Well, this clinches it.” The Chief Constable was suddenly decisive. “Here’s an assault with fatal results — perhaps by an accomplice — on a chap who’d come here to commit a robbery. And the robbery technique’s the same as that used in other country house break-ins lately. I’m sorry if you’re going to be disappointed, Diplock, but this is a job which needs the Yard’s facilities. As soon as I’ve contacted the Super, I’m going to ring them.”
“OK by me, sir,” replied Inspector Diplock in a tone of relief.
CHAPTER FOUR
“Of course, the pathologist’s report may knock the bottom out of the case,” the Assistant Commissioner remarked to Detective-Superintendent Tom Pollard. “At the moment we’ve only the police surgeon’s opinion that the bruise on the chest couldn’t have been made by the fall. But all the same, the chap was all lined up to bring off a carefully planned robbery, and if the passport they found on him is really his, he’s normally resident abroad. It was issued by our consulate in Buenos Aires. An overseas link might come in useful if it transpires that the business was meant to be another of these country house thefts. I think you’d better go down and see what you make of it, Pollard. You’ll be on the spot if the pathologist decides somebody landed this Raymond Peplow a hefty wallop, and if he doesn’t, you can look into the robbery aspect. You haven’t anything important on hand, as you’ve only just got back — having had a rattling good holiday, from the look of you. Where did you go?”
“Down to our old haunts, sir: a farmhouse in the Wiltshire Downs. We had super weather, and a real let-up. The emotional appeal of twins paid dividends — the farmer’s wife would have taken them over altogether, if we’d let her.”
“Nature’s compensation to their parents, I imagine. Well, you’d better get off to this Stately Home with the usual support, as soon as you’ve set the obvious enquiries in train. Good luck.”
Pollard withdrew decorously, but once outside the room his brow furrowed, and he strode along the corridors to his own office with an energy indicating exasperation. Others, he reflected, got scooped up out of their home life at the drop of a hat. Doctors, for instance, emergency service workers. Politicians if a crisis blew up. But if whatever it was went on for any length of time they’d be relieved, whereas he’d be saddled with this affair until it was either cleared up or shelved… Only yesterday morning they’d been having a normal family life down on the farm.
“I’m off to Midshire,” he told his secretary briefly. “A place called Brent. Get Sergeant Toye, will you, and rustle up anything I ought to do before we start?”
Toye, pale and impassive, materialised like magic, was briefed and disappeared again to alert Detective-Constables Boyce and Strickland, the technicians of the team, and see about a car. Pollard grabbed a pad, and drafted requests for information about Raymond Peplow to be sent to Interpol and the British Consul in Buenos Aires. He then read through and signed the papers put in front of him, and sat in thought for a few moments.
“Get me a copy of Who’s Who, will you, Blake?”
As the secretary vanished Pollard dialled his home in Wimbledon. The Italian au pair answered.
“Soprintendente!” she exclaimed enthusiastically. “I fetch Signora Poll-llarrd for you.”
He heard clicketty heels and flying footsteps, and then his wife Jane running lightly down the stairs.
“Not already?” she asked, dismay in her voice.
“Afraid so, darling. We’re just off to Midshire. Shall I quit? I feel like it at the moment.”
“It helps one along to know there’s always the option, doesn’t it? Any idea if it’s likely to be a long job?”
“Not a clue. It’s begun like an improbable stage thriller, but could tie up with other things. There may be a para in the evening paper. A Stately Home called Brent.”
“Well, that sounds a bit less repulsive than a back street in a slum, anyway. The local colour could be quite intriguing. Take care, though, won’t you?”
“Take care yourself, Mrs. Pollard, mother of twins. All well?”
“Very well. We’re just bedding them down. One thing, there isn’t much time for repining when you’re away.”
“I’ll ring sometime tomorrow. I ought to have some idea of what I’m in for by then. Blast and damn everything! Here’s Blake coming back. Bless you.”
Pollard flicked hastily through the pages of Who’s Who.
“SETON, 8th Earl of, c. 1762,” he read. “Roger Delamotte Tirle … Coldstream Guards … b. Oct. 1st 1919 … eldest surv. s. of 7th Earl … two ds … served 1939-45 war … Deputy Chairman Colett-Winthorpe Construction Co … Director Forrest Foods, Houseware Amalgamated … Clubs … Recreations … Heir: bro. Hon. Giles Tirle … Residence, Brent, Midshire.”
He shut the book as the expected summons came from the box on his desk, picked up his overnight case and murder bag, and made for the door.
Familiar with slightly resentful and even suspicious receptions from local forces, Pollard was agreeably surprised by the business-like atmosphere at Crockmouth police headquarters. He learnt that the area pathologist had nearly finished the post-mortem, and would look in to make a brief verbal report before leaving. Inspector Diplock was introduced by Major Egerton as the chap who had been in on the affair from the start.
“I hope he’s going to stay in on it, for the moment at any rate,” Pollard said, liking the Inspector’s air of solidity and common sense. “The Yard may have wide facilities, but we depend entirely on you local people for the set-up.”
Inspector Diplock looked surprised and gratified, and replied that he would be glad to be of any assistance he could.
Dr. Netley, the pathologist, appeared as Pollard and Toye were tackling the beer and sandwiches thoughtfully provided by Superintendent Perry. Tall and thin, with a curiously narrow face and intent unemotional eyes, he seemed the very embodiment of objective observation and deduction, and proceeded to make a series of considered statements.
The dead man, he reported, appeared to be of about the age indicated on the passport, forty-four years, in good health and well-nourished. It was his
opinion that the bruise on the chest could not possibly have been caused by the type of fall described by Inspector Diplock. As far as he could tell it had been caused by a violent kick, the imprint of the sharp edge of a shoe sole, probably of some kind of synthetic rubber, being clear almost beyond question. No doubt the Scotland Yard photographer would establish the fact.
There was a temporary interruption while Detective-Constables Boyce and Strickland were given instructions and dispatched to the mortuary.
“I take it that this kick or blow was not the direct cause of death?” Pollard asked, when the discussion was resumed.
Dr. Netley folded his hands in the attitude of prayer, and then rested them horizontally on the table in front of him.
“Your conclusion is correct, Superintendent,” he replied in his high brittle voice. “The immediate cause of death was a severe fracture of the base of the skull, compatible with a backward fall of the type described to me. There were also compatible subsidiary injuries, including a broken neck.”
“Were there any signs of a struggle having taken place?”
“If you refer to a struggle with an assailant, none. A deposit under the fingernails, two of which are broken, suggests that the dead man may have struggled to escape from his confinement. I have taken a sample of this deposit for laboratory analysis.”
Pollard glanced enquiringly at Inspector Diplock, who was looking worried.
“As far as I could ascertain, sir,” he said, “nobody touched the sliding panel over the entrance to the priest’s hole after Lord Seton helped the American lady to shift it this morning. I thought it was better to leave it till you came down.”
“That’s fine,” Pollard told him. “We’ll tackle it as soon as we get out there, and find out how it works from the inside, among other things. Did Peplow try to break his fall, Dr. Netley?”
“Judging from the absence of abrasions on the hands, not at all.”
“It looks as though either he was suddenly attacked by someone he trusted, an accomplice, say,” suggested Superintendent Perry, “or when his reactions were slowed down, by lack of oxygen in the hole, perhaps?”
“Or by whisky,” remarked Major Egerton. “We found a practically empty flask down there,”
The pathologist was showing signs of restlessness. “The contents of the stomach and viscera will be analysed,” he said shortly.
“We mustn’t detain you, Dr. Netley,” Pollard interposed tactfully, “but before you go, here’s the inevitable question. What about the probable time of death?”
As he expected, Dr. Netley was extremely reluctant even to hazard an opinion, on the grounds that the temperature conditions in the priest’s hole had not yet been established. Finally, he agreed that death was unlikely to have taken place earlier than nine o’clock on the previous evening, or later than five o’clock that morning.
After the pathologist’s departure and a brief discussion with the Chief Constable and Superintendent Perry, Pollard went over to the mortuary with Inspector Diplock. Boyce and Strickland had finished their fingerprinting and photography, and Pollard stood looking down on Raymond Peplow’s face with interest. It struck him that the immobilisation of death had failed to cancel out a suggestion of daredevilry.
“Any distinguishing marks on the body?” he asked.
“He seems to have taken a few knocks, but there are no operation scars,” Inspector Diplock replied. “Good teeth. He’s kept the lot, with only a few fillings. Everything he had on him’s been listed and put over there. One thing’s certain: robbery from the person didn’t come into it.”
Pollard fingered the good-quality clothes of foreign make. There was a well-filled wallet, and travellers’ cheques to the value of three hundred pounds. A cheque book on a Buenos Aires branch of an Argentine bank was brand new. There was a bunch of keys, and the return half of a first-class rail ticket from London to Crockmouth, issued on the previous day, but no personal papers except the passport. Pollard examined this carefully. It had been issued a year earlier, replacing a previous one. The photograph and personal description tallied with the appearance of the dead man, who had been born in London. His occupation was described as “realtor.” Turning over the pages Pollard found that Raymond Peplow had visited New York in the previous spring, and entered the UK at Heathrow eight days earlier. It ought not to be too difficult to find out where he had stayed.
“We’d better make tracks for Brent,” he said, looking at his watch. “It’s after eleven already. Lord Seton knows we’re coming over tonight, I take it?”
Driving out in the first car with Inspector Diplock, Pollard concentrated on filling in the skeleton biography of Who’s Who. The eighth Earl took shape as a prominent local figure and a good landlord and employer, but a certain lack of warmth was apparent. Pressed, Inspector Diplock admitted that some thought that Lord Seton was a bit too much of a business man for an earl. Unreasonable for these days, maybe, but that’s what they felt. He’d made a good thing out of opening Brent to the public, and was on company boards up in London, too. And his sister, Lady Arminel, was the same with the market garden on the estate.
Pollard noted with amusement that the benevolent father-figure and Lady Bountiful image of the nobility appeared to linger on in Crockmouth minds.
“Lord Seton hasn’t a son, has he?”
“No, sir, nor ever will have, unless the Countess came to die, and he took another wife. They can’t have any more family. She had a bad illness after the second little girl was born, and there was an operation. Sad for them. A very nice lady, the Countess, and well liked by everyone, for all that she’s shy and retiring. A real good-looker, she is.”
“Who’s the heir, then?” Pollard asked.
“His lordship’s brother, the Honourable Giles Tirle. He’s a professor, up at Oxford, and writes books about old houses. He’s married, with two boys, and lives at Brent, the same as Lady Arminel does.”
“Good heavens! They’re not all one household surely?”
“Oh, no, sir. Quite separate. When the present Lord Seton came in for the title, he had flats and maisonettes made for them all. Sensible: it’s much better for these old places to be lived in. Saves them all money, too, I don’t doubt.”
“How long has Brent been open to the public?”
“This is the third summer. They close down for the winter.”
Pollard relapsed into thought, his imagination moving from one aspect to another of this unexpected and unwelcome concentration of family on the scene of the mysterious death of Raymond Peplow. He foresaw with dismay the umbrage-provoking enquiries he would have to make about whereabouts and movements on the previous night. Even more hideous was the prospect of one of these Tirles being involved. Of course, at this social level there would be some resident staff, surely, especially as there seemed to be money around?
The north-western quadrant of the sky was still faintly luminous, and enshrined an evening star of startling brilliance. There was little traffic on the road, and waves of cool air swept in through the open windows of the car, carrying the lingering fragrance of a summer day. They began to slow down, and came to a halt before closed gates, whose supporting pillars were crowned by heraldic beasts looming overhead in the dusk. A uniformed figure stepped into the path of the headlights and saluted. After a brief colloquy with Inspector Diplock he opened the gates, and they drove on into the park, followed by the second car.
“That’s Brent,” remarked the Inspector unnecessarily.
Pollard caught his breath at the sight of the house, silver-filigree in the moonlight against a backdrop of night-shrouded hills. Pure theatre, he thought, echoing Maurice Corden of Stately Homes Limited, on his initial visit. The scatter of lighted windows suggested actors poised in the wings for their entrances…
As they drew nearer, the great facade became increasingly dominant, dwarfing the cars to insignificance as they drew up in the forecourt. As they did so the front door opened, letting out a long shaft of
light in which another uniformed figure stood silhouetted, a tiny mannikin in a dramatic context.
Pollard followed Inspector Diplock through a screens passage, their footsteps echoing in apparently limitless space. He at once identified the composite smell of an old, inhabited and cared-for house: slowly crumbling stone, wood treated with preservative, furniture polish and flowers. He forced himself to concentrate on the lie of the land. A great oak staircase with a series of half-landings led up to a rather narrow passage. They turned left along this, and he caught glimpses through windows of an inner courtyard on his right. At the end of the passage a door barred further progress, carrying the notice STRICTLY PRIVATE.
“Lord Seton’s quarters,” indicated Inspector Diplock. “This is us.”
He stopped at the last door on the left, examined and broke a seal, and produced a key from his pocket. For a split second Pollard saw a bright rectangle at floor level on the far side of the room now opened to them, an Alice-in-Wonderland entry into the bizarre world where the case had originated. Then switches clicked, and there was a flood of light glancing off carved panelling, and hinting at a host of tiny elegancies behind the glass of showcases.
Inspector Diplock strode forward and stared at the opening, clearing his throat loudly. “Getting the chap up out of there was a proper picnic,” he remarked.
Pollard lowered himself to the floor, thrusting his head and shoulders through the entrance to the priest’s hole. The grim little cavity below, excavated in the immensely thick outer wall of the fifteenth-century house, looked about five feet high and four feet wide. It ran back into shadow, but surely not far? He sniffed the musty air thoughtfully, as he remembered that the sliding panel had been open for the past twelve hours. It seemed impossible that two men could have hidden in so cramped and badly ventilated a space for long. But if Peplow hadn’t brought along an accomplice, it was going to look uncomfortably like an inside job. Pollard groaned inwardly as he extricated himself and stood up again.
Death on Doomsday Page 4