by Roger Keevil
“So you resorted to drastic measures?”
“Yes,” admitted James. “That’s why I pinched the dagger. I know, I probably wasn’t thinking very clearly, but I had an idea that it was worth a mint and I thought if I could turn it into cash, I could make things good and sort it all out afterwards. So I took it up to Christeby’s in London that day to be valued for auction. Of course, I was being an idiot – they wouldn’t touch it without proof of ownership or provenance or whatever it’s called, and they sent me away with a dusty answer, so my only hope was to try to sneak it back where it came from before anyone noticed it was missing.”
“And did you?” asked Constable.
“I couldn’t,” replied James simply. “I meant to as soon as I came back that afternoon, but Uncle Richard was there when I got to the house, and he went straight into the library, so I had to hide the dagger in the hall in the hope of putting it back later.”
“And …?”
“I never got the chance. There was always somebody about whenever I tried. Either Pelham was fiddling about in and out of the dining room, or Mrs. Carruthers was going around with flower arrangements. But I finally saw my chance in the evening, once people had gathered for dinner. Aunt Olivia was in the drawing room, and I knew Mrs. Carruthers and Pelham would be busy in the kitchen and the dining room, so I tried to sneak it back into the library then. Trouble was, the old man was in there, and he caught me with the dagger in my hand, realised what I was doing, and had a good go at me. I just chucked the dagger on his desk and ran for it, and went upstairs to my room.” James was left slightly breathless at the end of his recital.
“You didn’t leave the house?”
“No.”
Constable paused for a moment. “Tell me, Mr. Booker-Gresham – I remember when we first spoke, the question of Sir Richard’s will was mentioned. Were you familiar with the provisions of that will?”
“No,” said James. “Why?”
“Because a will was present at the scene of your uncle’s death. I wondered if you might have seen it. Particularly the clause in which he left you one hundred thousand pounds.”
James looked astonished. “How much?” He closed his eyes for a moment, and then muttered ‘Thank god’ almost inaudibly.
“Indeed, sir. A substantial sum. Maybe enough to solve your immediate financial difficulties?” A nod from James. “And probably even more than you were hoping to realise from the sale of the dagger. The dagger which ended up in Sir Richard’s body.”
“But I’ve told you, that wasn’t me. The dagger was lying on his desk when I last saw it. I didn’t stick it into him, I swear it.” A speculative gleam came into James’ eyes. “Mind you,” he said slowly, “for a hundred thousand pounds, I can see why you think I might have done.”
*
“More motives than you can shake a stick at, guv,” commented Copper, as the detectives descended the front steps of the Hall, leaving a rather shaken James Booker-Gresham in their wake. “The means too, whatever he says he did or did not do with the dagger. But you can’t buck the fact that when that shot was fired, he was upstairs, so he couldn’t have done it.”
“I just wish we had that gun,” said Constable. “It’s one of the main pieces in the jigsaw, and I’m sure that wherever it is will tell us something crucial.”
“It’s bound to make an appearance sooner or later, guv,” declared Copper stoutly.
As if in answer to his superior’s prayer, a cry sounded from the corner of the house.
“Inspector Constable! Thank goodness you’re here.” Diggory came into view at a fast shamble, a long object festooned with dripping foliage in his hand. “Look what I’ve just found!” He came to a panting halt in front of the inspector, in his hand the unmistakeable shape of a shotgun.
“Copper, take charge of that, would you,” ordered Constable briskly. “And since Mr. Diggory’s prints are doubtless on it already, you’d better make sure we don’t get any extraneous ones to muddy the waters.”
“Ahead of you, guv,” said Copper, producing a pair of thin latex gloves from a pocket before putting them on and carefully relieving the gardener of his burden.
“So, where was this, Mr. Diggory?” asked Constable.
“That was it, see, inspector,” replied Diggory. “I didn’t see it at first, on account of the muddy water.” His agitation was clear.
“You’ll have to be a little plainer than that, Mr. Diggory,” said Constable patiently. “So calm down and take your time. What exactly happened?”
The gardener took a deep breath, blew out his cheeks, and seemed to gather his wits. “Her ladyship told me about the funeral, inspector. Said as how it is going to be the day after tomorrow, and I thought, if there’s going to be people coming to the house, she’ll want the place looking as spick and span as can be, so I’ll make sure the garden’s all up to scratch. Now everything’s mostly all neat and tidy, but I remembered I still hadn’t finished with the lily pond round on the west terrace. See, I’d made a start getting the weed out of it the day Sir Richard died …”
“Yes, I remember you telling us you were working round there when you overheard the conversation between Sir Richard and Mrs. Baverstock.”
“That’s right, so I was.” Diggory nodded his head sagely. “But after that, what with one thing and another, I never got around to making a proper job of it, so I thought I’d get it done now. And there I am, raking the rest of the weed out with the mud all stirred up, when all of a sudden my rake catches on something. I thought, ‘Hello, what’s this?’, so I give it another tug, and blow me, up comes my gun. And I was just bringing it round to ask her ladyship what I ought to do, and there you were.”
“Extremely fortunate timing, I agree,” said Constable. “For which we probably have to thank Sergeant Copper’s legendary power of positive thinking,” he added, with a wry smile in the direction of his junior. “And this is definitely your weapon?”
“No doubt about it, inspector. I’d know it anywhere.”
“Right, Mr. Diggory.” The inspector became brisk again. “Leave this with us. Copper, we need to get this gun into the hands of SOCO immediately. There’s some plastic wrap in the boot of my car. Let’s get over there straight away.” He unlocked the car and climbed in as Copper dealt with the shotgun, and moments later the car pulled away in a spurt of gravel, leaving a somewhat bemused gardener in its wake.
Chapter 14
“What, all day?” Andy Constable sounded irritated.
“Sorry, guv, but there’s nothing I can do about it. Apparently they’ve pulled the case forward, and I have to give the crucial evidence for the prosecution. And then I’m going to have to hang around in case they need to call me back in.”
“I thought you were looking unusually smart. Is that a new tie?”
“Present for my last birthday, guv,” explained Dave Copper. “I’ve just never got around to wearing it before.”
“Well, I suppose at least it’s preferable to the one with robins and reindeer on it which that girlfriend of yours gave you last Christmas. By the way, whatever happened there?”
“Long gone, sir.”
“The tie or the girlfriend?”
“Both, guv. Not compatible with the job, unfortunately. Either of them.” Copper did not sound too distressed. He checked his watch. “Look, sir, I really ought to get on. Sorry to leave you on your todd, but it’s not as if you probably haven’t got stuff to do.”
“True.”
“Sergeant Singleton said SOCO would get the results from the gun to you as soon as they could. She did ask after you yesterday. I told her you were waiting in the car.”
“I thought I’d leave the field clear for you. As I thought there was a certain something going on when we visited her before, and since you’re evidently unencumbered at the moment …”
“No idea what you’re talking about, guv,” said Copper, clearing his throat in an embarrassed fashion and changing the subject rapidly. “
Didn’t the doctor promise to get his report to you today?”
“He did. I’m hoping for an email at some time this morning. Plus there are all sorts of considerations I need to turn over in my mind.”
“Such as?”
“Things like wills, hip flasks, walking sticks. The rat poison. And mysterious cars which nobody drove. So if you can spare it, I’d like your notebook to pore over.”
“No problem – all my notes on today’s court case are in my old book.” Copper handed over the notebook. “Why – are you planning to fit in some of your usual quiet thinking today, guv?” he enquired with an impish grin.
“If I ever get the chance to,” growled Constable in mock reproof. “Go!”
“I’ve gone.”
The sound of Copper’s footsteps faded along the corridor, leaving the inspector in blissful silence. To a casual observer, he might have appeared to be dozing as he leaned back in his chair with eyes closed. They would have been very wrong.
It was almost an hour later, he was surprised to note on consulting his watch, that Constable was jolted out of his musings by the ping signifying the arrival of mail in his inbox. He checked the screen. The hoped-for report from Dr. Livermore. He clicked a few keys, and the printer in the corner of the office whirred into action. Collecting the pages, Constable settled himself back behind his desk to peruse the contents.
The report went into considerable detail, much of which Constable elected to skip over as either too abstruse and technical, or too gruesome. The meticulous analysis of the victim’s stomach contents was one of the sections which the inspector decided to gloss over, satisfying himself with the not-unexpected conclusion that lunch had been Sir Richard’s final meal, and a confirmation of the doctor’s slightly surprising finding that the trainer had not ingested any of the poison which was found in the whisky glass. But it was not the factors which had not been the cause of Sir Richard’s death that Constable was seeking. What occupied his attention was an explanation of the many things which could have been. How on earth, he had asked himself ever since viewing the body, did there come to be so many injuries?
A sudden thought struck him, and he picked up the phone. “Hello … get me Technical … D.I. Constable here. I’m looking over the evidence in the Effingham case … that’s right. Tell me, can you take a look at the file on the case, make a list of everyone we’ve spoken to, and get access to all their phone logs? … yes, land-lines and mobiles, the lot … from, let’s say, nine o’clock on the morning of the murder to nine o’clock that evening. That’ll cover the whole twelve hours up until our people arrived on the scene … an hour? That long, eh?” A chuckle. “And if you could bring the results up to my office when you’re done … thanks.” He replaced the phone and turned back to the paperwork in front of him.
The doctor’s report dealt with the wounds to Sir Richard’s body in the order in which he had shown them to the detectives at the murder scene. The language was long-winded and technical – the conclusions gave Constable considerable food for thought. Attention had already been drawn by Dr. Livermore to the lack of bleeding from the dagger wound, ‘which leads me to conclude’, he wrote, ‘that this wound was inflicted post-mortem’. Constable frowned in disbelief. How could that be? There would have been no opportunity to stab Sir Richard after the gunshot was heard, even if whoever fired the gun was minded to do so. The time lag was so short before somebody arrived on the scene, and in any event, what would be the point in doing so? He read on.
The doctor’s notes on the shotgun wound again went into meticulous detail, but the result was very much a confirmation of what he had given as a verbal estimate during the detectives’ visit to his lab. The gun had been fired from approximately ten feet from where Sir Richard had been seated. Constable attempted to visualise the murder scene. Logically, with the victim in position behind his desk and facing the window, the only place the shooter could have stood was in the opening of the french windows. That certainly made sense – following the shooting, the gun could obviously have swiftly been disposed of in the lily pond in which it had been found. And with any luck at all, SOCO might manage to lift some fingerprints from it which could identify who last handled the weapon. But Constable was puzzled by the doctor’s failure to state categorically that the shot had been the cause of Sir Richard’s death. There was instead a repeat of the evasive reply he had given to the inspector previously. But if the shot didn’t kill him, the inspector asked himself, what did? And then, why shoot him at all?
The blow to the dead man’s head was the next to be analysed, in tandem with a wealth of technical data and comparative measurements which led to the conclusion that Sir Richard’s own walking stick had indeed been used to assault him. Again, the doctor’s report was larded with caveats, but did admit that such a wound could easily have been capable of causing death, although the precise time-frame was left open to interpretation. No great surprise there, thought Constable. But what did need explanation was the disappearance of the stick from the study and its spontaneous replacement in the hall subsequently. When, and by whom?
The comments on the apparent strangulation of the victim were equally opaque, filled with references to small bones in the throat and the presence or absence of pinpoints of blood in various locations around Sir Richard’s face. I hope the court can make more sense of these than I can when we get this to trial, thought the inspector. Abstruse medical details have never been my forte. But at least the mechanical details were clear enough – careful measurement of the dimensions of the dog lead and a close comparison of these with the marks around Sir Richard’s neck proved beyond doubt that this was the item used in the attack. This answered at least one question in the inspector’s mind – it had seemed implausible that a man like Sir Richard would have casually thrown down the lead to lie where it fell. Which of course left the one crucial question. Who had handled it last? But the final words of the report on this topic were the ones that threw Constable’s mind into turmoil. The doctor concluded that, while an attempt to throttle Sir Richard had certainly been made, it had failed. Strangulation had not been the cause of death. So where on earth did it fit into the pattern of other events?
A tap came at the door. “Sir? The phone logs you wanted.”
The inspector looked up from his musings. An enthusiastic-looking young uniformed officer stood in the doorway.
“That was quick. Your guy said about an hour.”
The P.C. glanced at his watch. “Just under, sir. We don’t like to keep the people at the sharp end waiting.” He held out a folder. “I’m afraid there are quite a lot, sir.”
“I’d better make a start then, hadn’t I? Thank you, P.C. …?”
“Patel, sir.”
“And please pass on my thanks to your team for the quick work.”
“I will, sir.”
Constable opened the folder in front of him and blinked slightly at the contents. They were copious. With a faint sigh, he set to work perusing them. After a few moments, he reached for Dave Copper’s notebook, opened it alongside the first spread of documents, and began to work though what looked as if it was going to be a long and tedious task of comparison.
Some considerable while later, the inspector was absently reaching for the sandwich alongside the cup of tea which he had asked to be sent up from the canteen when the phone on his desk rang.
“Is that Inspector Constable?”
“It is.”
“Can you hold on a moment, please.” Sniff. “I have Miss Robson-Bilkes for you.” Several clicks, followed by Susan’s voice. “Mr. Constable? Good afternoon.”
“Good grief. Is it?”
“It’s certainly afternoon, inspector. Whether it’s good or not is a matter I leave up to you.” There was even the tiniest hint of unexpected amusement in the solicitor’s voice.
“What can I do for you, Miss Robson-Bilkes?”
“It’s more a matter of what I can do for you, inspector. When you came to my offic
e, you exhibited a great deal of interest in the contents of Sir Richard Effingham’s will. So as a courtesy, I am calling to let you know the arrangements for the reading of the will following the funeral.”
“Which takes place tomorrow, I believe.”
“That is correct. The service has been arranged for ten o’clock tomorrow morning at Knaggs End church. I gather that proceedings will be brief, so the reading of the document will take place at ten-thirty.”
“At Effingham Hall, I presume?”
“No, inspector. That would of course be one of the customary options, but when I discussed the matter with Lady Olivia Effingham, she enquired as to who would be present. I explained that it was usual for the legatees to be invited to attend, but when I informed her who these might be, she expressed an unwillingness to have certain … parties under her roof.”
“Ah.” Constable allowed himself a small quiet smile. “I’m guessing that Mrs. Sarah Wadsworth might not have been a particularly welcome guest at the Hall.”
“I’m afraid I could not possibly comment on that, inspector.”
“So what exactly will be happening?”
“I have offered the services of the conference room here at chambers. It is quite large enough, and as we are only a short walk from the church, it seemed the most convenient solution. And it occurred to me that knowledge of the precise contents of the will might be of use to you in your investigation, and that you might like to be present. In a purely informal capacity as an observer, of course.”
There was a note of surprise evident in the inspector’s voice. “That really is extremely kind of you, Miss Robson-Bilkes. I have to say that, after our last meeting, I got the impression that you were rather reluctant to give us any more information than was absolutely necessary.”