Death on Doomsday

by Elizabeth Lemarchand

  The second plan presupposed that news of the missing car suddenly came in. It could not even be formulated until the circumstances of the discovery were known.

  As Pollard had expected, there was no news. Accordingly, at nine o’clock he settled down to a stint of telephoning, with Toye listening in and taking notes.

  Admiral Miller of Great Loveridge House took the call himself. Hastily moving the receiver several inches from his ear, Pollard introduced himself and explained that the police were following up a fresh lead in the country house robberies, and were interested to know if the Admiral had ever considered opening his house to the public.

  “M’ wife did,” bellowed Admiral Miller. “Damn silly idea, too. Told her so from the start. Not enough here to attract people. We had a fellow down she’d heard of who called himself a consultant. Every Tom, Dick and Harry’s a consultant or an executive these days. Charged a colossal fee, and then said just what I had.”

  Asked for the consultant’s name, the Admiral proceeded to consult his wife. After some confused shouting he reported that neither of them could remember it, but the fellow’s set-up had been called Stately Homes.

  “What I want to know is when you chaps are going to get me my little Constable back. I wish to God I’d stepped up the insurance. Look at these picture sales at Sotheby’s and Christie’s…”

  Massaging his ear, Pollard dialled Corridon Manor, and asked for the Honourable Mrs. James Crabtree. After a lengthy delay a rather elderly voice came over the line. Mrs. Crabtree was delighted to hear that the police were still trying to find her little icons. They were great family treasures, apart from their value. They had been given to her great-grandfather when he was our ambassador at St. Petersburg, by the Tsar himself.

  Pollard made suitable comments, and brought the conversation round to the opening of Corridon Manor to the public.

  “I see that you were advised by a firm called Heritage Houses,” he said. “Did you by any chance consult any other in the first place?”

  “I did, as a matter of fact.” Mrs. Crabtree sounded surprised. “I had been recommended to a Mr. Corden of Stately Homes Limited. He came down here, and was very taken with the place. He went into everything thoroughly, and felt that there were distinct possibilities. Well, to be frank, I didn’t take to him personally, or feel that we should see quite eye-to-eye about things, so I paid his initial fee, and then called in Heritage Houses.”

  Pollard thanked her, and expressed the hope that the icons would soon be recovered.

  Colonel Potter of Wyndhays Court was short. He failed to see how any idea he had entertained of opening the Court to the public could be relevant to the theft of his valuable collection of coins. Pollard was polite but insistent, and finally extracted the information that about two years previously the Colonel had been advised against opening by a firm of consultants called Stately Homes. An insufferable bounder had come down, called Cotton, or Cording or some such name…

  “Well, I suppose it’s encouraging to have one’s hunches confirmed,” Pollard remarked, “but the car’s the thing. Get ours round, will you, while I ring Brent and fix to see Lord Seton after the funeral. We’ve got to get working on these bloody keys.”

  Crowds had gathered at the cemetery. In the chapel Pollard and Toye slipped into seats in the back row kept for them by Inspector Diplock. On running his eye over the crowded pews Pollard was astonished to see Lord Seton and Robert Tirle near the front. Was it the done thing, he wondered, even if the chap found dead on your premises had come to rob you? Or some atavistic assertion of the unadmitted blood tie? Or a gesture of confidence, to cock a snook at the police?

  The arrival of the coffin under a mountain of flowers distracted his attention. The little procession moved up the aisle with George Snell as sole mourner. He watched the congregation, but there were no reactions of interest to him. After a time, however, it struck him that Robert Tirle was very intent on the proceedings, and he began speculating again. The young man could never have met Lambrooke, of course… Was it remotely conceivable, though, that the conversation in the maze had set him thinking? If so, and he had worked things out for himself, would youthful idealism lead him to speak out? And would he have confided in that forceful young woman, the Lady Caroline Tirle?

  At the end of the short service the police officers went out quickly to be present at the graveside. Here, too, a crowd had collected. As George Snell stepped forward, prompted by the undertaker, to scatter earth on the coffin, Press cameras clicked busily. Everything was soon over, and people turned their attention to the flowers.

  “Where on earth did all these come from?” Pollard asked Inspector Diplock.

  “Crazy women,” replied the Inspector. “Except for Mr. Snell’s, that is. Look at this little lot.”

  He pointed to a huge flamboyant sheaf. The attached card read “To the Unknown, from Lonely Heart.”

  Pollard shook off sudden distaste and compassion, and joined George Snell. As they walked back to their cars they discussed the legal position in relation to the dead man’s estate. Finally George Snell got into his taxi and was driven away.

  “Now for Brent,” Pollard said, getting in beside Toye.

  Brent was showing signs of considerable activity. There were several cars standing in the forecourt, the great front door was open, and voices were audible. Pollard had to ring twice before anyone appeared. On stating his business he was hustled unceremoniously along the passage with Toye, in the direction of Peggy Blackmore’s office. As they passed the hall Felicity Tirle’s instructions to presumably newly-recruited guides could be heard. In the office Peggy Blackmore was regretfully informing someone that no more tea bookings could be taken for the following Saturday. She was dishevelled again today, but clearly from pressure of work, not anxiety.

  “We’re being simply inundated!” she assured Pollard, apologising for keeping him waiting. “Yes, Lord Seton’s back from the funeral. I’ll tell him you’re here.”

  It’s almost, he thought in astonishment, as though they’ve forgotten the whole affair…

  Lord Seton received them urbanely, with barely a trace of wariness in his eye.

  “I’m afraid I’ve come with rather a long story,” Pollard said. “In fact, with two interlocking stories. One of them starts so far back that it’s most unlikely that we shall ever unravel its beginning. The other, we think, starts with the idea of opening Brent to the public, and this is where we’re hoping you may be able to give us valuable information.”

  Lord Seton regarded him impassively.

  “May we go back,” Pollard continued, “to the evening of Tuesday of last week? You, Lady Seton, and Mrs. Giles Tirle were dining over at Fulminster. At about twenty minutes to ten a call came through on your private line. Mrs. Pringle answered it, and a man’s voice apologised for having dialled the wrong number. Immediately afterwards she heard the telephone ringing in Mrs. Giles Tirle’s house.”

  Pollard went on to deal with the barking dogs, the Emmetts’ admission of Dick White’s visit, and the presence of the car in the sandpit which had scraped the van. He broke off the narrative to put in a plea for Bill Emmett.

  “Silly chump,” Lord Seton said impatiently. “The girl twists him round her little finger. He’d only got to ask if the boy could park — but I suppose he thought the stop-off might somehow leak out. What’s all this leading to?”

  “We now know who owns the car.”

  Lord Seton looked puzzled. “Well, what of it? There’s no proof that the owner was involved in what happened here.”

  “No direct proof at present,” Pollard agreed, “but rather an odd thing has happened. He has reported that the car has been stolen. And in the meantime we have unearthed certain facts which suggest that he may have been involved in the earlier country house robberies.”

  Lord Seton nodded abruptly. “Sooner or later I felt sure this would come out.”

  “Reverting to the alleged Peplow’s death, the person who k
icked him down those steps must either have been a resident of Brent or someone with the means of getting in — and out — without trace. If a resident, the field narrows to yourself, Emmett and possibly Mrs. Giles Tirle. I don’t think we need concern ourselves with Lady Seton, Mrs. Pringle or Mrs. Emmett and her daughter.”

  There was a fractional pause.

  “Quite,” Lord Seton replied tranquilly. “Naturally I realised from the start that anyone with access to the public rooms that night was a potential suspect.”

  “But,” said Pollard, “what was completely out of character in each case was the ludicrous attempt to cover up what was almost certainly an accident. You and Mrs. Tirle are far too intelligent and knowledgeable, and Emmett too simple.”

  “A trifle backhanded, Superintendent, but I won’t dispute the assessment.”

  “We should, of course, have regarded the situation differently if any motive for the man’s death could have been established.”

  Pollard looked Lord Seton squarely in the face, and detected the faintest flicker of amusement. A silver cigarette box bearing the Tirle crest was pushed towards him.

  “Thank you,” he said, helping himself, and passing the box on to Toye. “To resume, if a resident wasn’t involved, we had to look for an outsider. Our original idea — and I think yours — was that Peplow, as we’ll still call him, had brought someone with him. We’re now quite certain that the two men who were illegally in Brent that night had no connection whatever with each other.”

  “Pretty incredible,” Lord Seton remarked, “but presumably these million-to-one chances do come off sometimes.”

  “They do. I can’t give you details at the moment, but we are quite sure about it. As you know, Peplow came in as a visitor, gave his guide the slip, and made his way to the miniatures room without being spotted. He must, of course, have had previous knowledge of the house. The man who attacked him was almost certainly the one who made the wrong number telephone call. He knew about the dinner at Fulminster, and was checking up as a precaution. Let’s call him X. It seems probable that he came in through your brother’s part of the house, having the necessary keys. Our reconstruction is that he was examining the case containing the King Charles miniature, wearing rubber gloves, when Peplow heard him, started coming out, and threatened him with a gun. X kicked out in self-defence with unintentionally fatal results, slammed the panel shut — his prints are on it — and cleared off in a panic. He was further rattled by finding that a van had appeared in the sandpit, and he drove carelessly, scraping it as he went out.”

  “If your reconstruction’s correct,” Lord Seton said thoughtfully, “X must have had both the key to my brother’s place, and the one to the door leading into the public rooms. Only my sister-in-law has both these, apart from the emergency set in the safe. Are you suggesting that someone has managed to get at her key ring?”

  “I think it’s a possibility. Everyone puts down a key ring on a desk or a dressing table now and again, and in theory somebody with criminal leanings could have been around just then. But when we begin thinking on these lines it struck us that there was a period when keys could have been at risk. I mean the time when Brent was being got ready for the opening. Weren’t there workmen and others about who needed access to different parts of the house? One can picture keys circulating pretty freely at this stage.”

  To Pollard’s astonishment an expression of utter exasperation came over Lord Seton’s face, not unmixed with triumph.

  “I suggest you discuss this with my brother,” he said, reaching for the house telephone. “Fortunately he got back from the States last night.”

  Giles Tirle’s study was in chaos. His desk was heaped with opened and unopened mail, and coils of galley proofs. Every chair was piled with papers and books, and a suitcase half-full of typescript lay open in the middle of the floor. Robert Tirle, who had escorted his uncle and Pollard and Toye from the front door, began to clear a space for them to sit down.

  Giles Tirle greeted the visitors with barely concealed annoyance. He was wearing a dilapidated pair of slacks and a faded shirt, his thick dark hair wildly ruffled, and he gave the impression of having been dragged out of intense preoccupation.

  “Bit of a muddle in here,” he said shortly. “My publishers raising hell for these proofs. You’d better clear off, Robert.”

  “Not on our account,” Pollard interposed. “I’m sorry to disturb you, Mr. Tirle. I merely want to ask you a few short questions. We’re following up the possibility of skeleton keys having been used on the night a man was killed in the priest’s hole. Lord Seton tells me you were in charge of work going on in the house during the August before the opening. How did the workmen get in and out?”

  Giles Tirle stared at him frankly for a moment, as if trying to recall the events which had resulted in a police enquiry at Brent.

  “Emmett — the caretaker — coped with all that sort of thing,” he said impatiently. “We employed a reputable local firm that’s worked for us for years. I strongly deprecate this tendency to go straight for the working man when a crime’s committed —”

  “For God’s sake spare us your political bias,” Lord Seton interrupted. “If you’re not interested in getting this mess cleared up, the rest of us are.”

  Pollard was conscious of Robert in the background, an unobtrusive figure leaning against the door.

  “So you’re quite sure, Mr. Tirle,” he resumed, “that you didn’t personally hand over a set of keys to any of the men during this time? Or to anyone else?”

  “Certainly not to any workman. I let Corden have the set, naturally, when he was down here drawing up the guidebook.”

  “You mean that you let Corden have the emergency set of every damn key in the place, for which you were personally responsible?” Lord Seton demanded in tones of ice.

  “Don’t talk like a bloody schoolmaster,” exploded Giles Tirle. “Here I was sweating my guts out trying to arrange the rooms accurately, and get the Tudor kitchen reconditioned after it had been allowed to go to rack and ruin. How the hell could I keep breaking off to unlock rooms and showcases for Corden?”

  “It strikes me that the reconditioning of the kitchen raises an interesting point,” Robert remarked.

  They all turned to look at him.

  “What the devil d’you mean?” demanded his father.

  “Well, after the walls were treated for damp, you had them replastered, didn’t you? And the chaps who did it covered over the small ventilation holes belonging to the hole? I’ve wondered why on earth the bloke who was killed came blundering out, just asking to be copped. If he heard a noise in the room, you’d think he’d have lain doggo. Partly sozzled, perhaps, but my theory is that he hadn’t realised there was no ventilation, and was dopey from lack of oxygen.”

  “Are these priest’s holes usually ventilated from outside?” Pollard asked.

  “Frequently,” Giles Tirle began eagerly, in the confident tones of an expert. “Quite often they led off chimneys, so —”

  “So,” his son took up, “the chap probably took an air supply for granted. He might have read up our hole. There are a couple of pages on it in a fairly well-known book on the subject of priest’s holes. Or, of course, he might have been in ours before the kitchen was done up.”

  There was a silence. Pollard observed that Robert Tirle was looking fixedly at his uncle.

  “As the house wasn’t open to the public before the replastering was done, that hardly seems likely,” Lord Seton replied coolly. “Well, Superintendent, if my brother has given you the information you require…?”

  “The area of the UK,” remarked the Assistant Commissioner, who had a penchant for statistics, “is 88,745 square miles. Say a tenth of this is the maximum area in which Corden could have cached his car, assuming, of course, that he wasn’t able to hand it over to a mobile pal. Roughly 8,874 square miles. Think of the available cover. Still, there are a lot of people around in the south of England at this time of y
ear. Are you still dead against a broadcast appeal for information?”

  “I don’t want Corden to slip through our fingers, sir,” Pollard replied, not very happily. “He must know that the car is bound to turn up in the end, and have got his escape route — or routes — open. I’d rather not precipitate matters until we’ve got our hands on the car.”

  “Fair enough, as long as you’re fully aware of the risk you’re taking. It’s up to you. There’ll be a black mark against us for supposedly not having solved the identity riddle, of course. I’ve been taking soundings, by the way, and I think sleeping dogs will be let lie, provided we can establish whodunit. What’s your next move? I don’t imagine you’ll be content to sit on your bottom until the car turns up?”

  “No, sir,” Pollard replied. “I feel the time’s come to concentrate on Corden — as a person, I mean. You’ll remember I’ve only seen him once, for about ten minutes, when he was talking to Lord Seton the whole time. Assuming that he committed these four robberies, and attempted the one at Brent, he’s plunged in up to the neck. There may be further thefts, which haven’t come to light. Nor has any of the loot. I want to find out what the motive is behind it all, and how he plans to cash in on the stuff. A chap who’s got so many tracks to cover must be pretty well stretched, and might very well give himself away in conversation, for instance. I’ve been working out a plausible pretext for calling on him.”

  “Any theory about motive?”

  “Corden’s a blatant social climber, sir. I got the impression that he’d sell his soul to get a footing in the landed gentry class. It could be that he wants cash to pull it off. He’s doing quite well professionally, but I shouldn’t think he’s got capital.”