by Anne Morice
‘Well, she’s number two, and they parted some years ago. The mother of the two boys divorced him and subsequently remarried, so she’s out. Wife number two just seems to have drifted away. There was no legal separation, though, and apart from one major bequest the bulk of the estate is divided between these three.’
‘What major bequest?’
‘He left his art collection to the nation.’
‘You don’t say? Do you suppose he had informed the Prime Minister of the fact and that’s what got him the knighthood?’
‘Most likely.’
‘Does it alter the situation? I mean, the thieves have now got some of the taxpayers’ property on their hands.’
‘I should think the chances are that’s off their hands again by now. And don’t I wish I knew where? In any case, only stuff from his London flat was stolen. Most of the collection was kept down here, so the nation will be doing all right for itself. So will the other beneficiaries, incidentally, and thereby hangs a tale.’
‘Does it? I thought you said that distance lent enchantment to their alibis?’
‘Not that kind of tale. This is something that happened years ago, and it concerns the wife. You remember my saying I thought I had seen Brand somewhere before?’
‘Yes, I do.’
‘Well, I had, but it was in a different context. He was plain Mr Brand then. Must have been before he made the will. I was a humble sergeant in Dedley in those days; long before you came into my life.’
‘And changed all that. Do go on. She wasn’t mixed up in a sensational art-theft, by any chance?’
‘No, although I do remember that the house was crammed with valuables. It was about ten miles north of Dedley and we had to go there one fine day to interview the family about a suicide.’
‘Oh, really? More cyanide in the vodka?’
‘No, this was a hanging job. Suicide, without a doubt, but it was a specially nasty case, because the victim was a schoolgirl. Fifteen or so. She was the niece of the second Mrs Brand and she spent most of her school holidays with her.’
‘Orphan?’
‘No; family split up. There was an older child, in the custody of the father, and this one got planted on her mother, who doesn’t seem to have had much time for her.’
‘That has a familiar ring. Not a thing to bring on suicide, though?’
‘She didn’t leave a note or anything, but the motive was pretty obvious. She was three months gone, which I suppose was a little more cogent ten or twelve years ago than it would be today.’
‘I can see it being fairly cogent, even today, if one were fifteen and in the clutches of that wicked step-uncle. I take it he was the father of this embryo?’
‘Well, as I say, she didn’t leave a note. At least, if she did, someone saw fit to destroy it before we arrived on the scene; but it was fairly clear that Mrs Brand believed her old man was responsible, even though nothing would have made her admit it. She went abroad soon afterwards, which I suppose is about as positive an indictment as one would be likely to get. He never altered his will, curiously enough, so perhaps he always hoped she would come back.’
‘Or he may simply have believed he was immortal.’
‘No, it wasn’t that, because he took the trouble to add a codicil only six months ago. Anyway, the pay-off is that soon after his wife left Brand sold the house and moved down here. Now read on.’
‘Oh, I will; and, if you ask me, it’s: Chapter Two – Anabel. Only there’s a new twist now. We might call it The Hangman Hanged.’
‘You’re still riding that hobby-horse, are you? I must admit that this other girl’s suicide lends colour to your wild allegations; but I have to warn you that you’re on shaky ground if you believe that he was killed because he was trying to seduce Anabel, or had already done so. We’ve interviewed both the Harper Barringtons until the cows came home and there’s not a wisp of evidence that either of them regarded Brand as anything but a jolly, harmless old uncle, so far as Anabel was concerned.’
‘If they thought otherwise, I dare say you would not be the one they would confide in.’
‘I know, but there are tricks to make people betray themselves, often without their knowing they’ve done so, and I promise you that this is the blindest alley you’ve ever trod. The truth is, Tessa, Roger is not her real father. That’s for your ears alone and, for God’s sake, don’t pass it on. And I can’t tell you any more than that because I got my information in the strictest confidence. I just wanted you to know why I haven’t much faith in your paternal-vengeance theory.’
‘Who is her father, then?’
‘I’ve told you; my lips are sealed. Sorry!’
The big trouble with men, it often seems to me is that their principles are either inviolate, or non-existent. They seem unable to strike a balance. However, when he used this tone, I knew there was nothing to be gained by pressing him and that it behoved me, rather, to be thankful he had divulged so much. Indeed, the return to something approaching his normal expansiveness had made me wonder once or twice during the narrative whether all was quite as merry as it had been at the Court of Old King Cole.
Sure enough, just as he was leaving, he remarked that he was growing a little tired of his six-thirty cheese-and-pickles routine and felt inclined to pass it up for once in favour of one of Aunt Moo’s dinners.
This did not suit my book at all and I sternly reminded him that anything less than twenty-four hours’ notice would make the pot so unbelievably chancy, by Aunt Moo’s standards, that she would moan about it for a week.
He appeared to accept this unquestioningly, though grinning at me as he turned to go and saying:
‘Yes, it must be dreadful for you having to be on time for meals and so forth. The wear and tear of it even seems to have dimmed your normal feverish curiosity.’
‘Now, what do you mean by that? Don’t go, Robin.’
‘I must. Cole will be tapping his feet. But I notice you omitted to ask me about that tiny codicil, and who gets what.’
‘Very well. Who gets what?’
‘Anabel,’ he replied. ‘One thousand pounds. In trust till she’s eighteen.’
Eleven
(i)
It was as well that Robin was so ignorant of Aunt Moo’s true nature as to believe anything I might care to dish out on the subject, because, in fact, nothing gave her a bigger thrill than a young man’s hearty appetite, and one of her principal squawks was that Robin was so rarely present at mealtimes.
I had already brought wrath on my own head by announcing that I should be out to dinner and by remaining adamant in this decision even when she had outlined the menu. I explained that there was a flick on in Haverford, which made even a sacrifice on this scale worth while, so stunning and sensational was it reputed to be.
I think it may have been true, too, because the Haverford bus was packed to the roof when I boarded it for the second time that day, and I scrambled into the last empty seat on the lower deck.
I was the only passenger to alight at the bridle path and I plodded along with not a soul in sight, remembering the last time I had passed that way, filled with airy dreams about my new quiet personality. Circumstances had obliged me to abandon that rôle before I had even worked myself into it, but I had dressed in the appropriate style for this occasion, too; and for a reason which was equally romantic, in its way. It is always easier to build up a characterisation, when the trappings are authentic and, having now transformed myself into the cat-burglar rôle, about to make surreptitious and agile flits round a shabby old brown ruin, had put on shabby old brown trousers and pullover, the better to melt into the background, not forgetting a shabby old brown satchel bag in which to stash away the loot.
I had been tempted to wear plimsolls, as well, to add the finishing touch par excellence but had been deterred by the thought that Aunt Moo might find them altogether too unsuitable for cinema-going, and after all I was glad of it. The bridle track was rough and stony and the half
-mile trudge brought discomfort enough, without extra burdens. Furthermore, it soon became clear that the rest of the carefully-thought-out costume was no more than a token to art, since any agile flitting I was able to conduct would have to be carried out with the full knowledge and consent of the law.
A police constable was stationed outside what had once been the main entrance to the barn. His bicycle was propped against a nearby tree and he was seated on the grass, with his helmet beside him. When he noticed my approach, he pretended to have taken it off to scratch his head, and hurriedly replacing it, clambered to his feet.
‘Good evening, Miss.’
‘Good evening, Officer.’
‘Sorry, Miss; no one allowed inside,’ he said sternly, as I continued my inexorable advance.
Naturally, I had expected this, and I said: ‘Oh, but Officer, darling, I only want to go in just for one tiny minute. My husband is Detective Inspector Price, you know, and he was sure it would be all right. I promise not to do any harm, but I’m a friend of Miss Blake and she has specially asked me to check on the state of one or two of her valuable pictures. She can’t ask one of you, because you might not understand which ones she meant. As you know, she’s very seriously ill and I’m terribly afraid all this worry is going to make her worse, unless I can put her mind at rest.’
It had been a forlorn hope all along, and, although he claimed to sympathise profoundly, my heart-rending appeal had not shaken him by so much as a tremor.
‘Very sorry, Madam. I’d be glad to help you, but there’s no one allowed in there without a permit. Those are my orders.’
‘Oh, of course,’ I said gaily, digging around in the enormous bag for my second and more chancy round of ammunition, and trusting it not to blow up in my face. ‘Of course, I have a permit. Fancy forgetting that! I should have shown it to you at once, shouldn’t I? There we are! Does that make everything all right?’
He studied the form for rather longer than it was strictly convenient to hold my breath; but, even to my eyes, the rubber stamp had done an impressive job, and I had gambled on his not detecting a forgery in the squiggled initials. After staring at it for what seemed about ten minutes, he folded it carefully and put it away in his pocket, saying:
‘Well, that seems to be in order, Madam, so I cannot obstruct your entry, but I must warn you that this here barn is in a highly unsafe condition.’
‘And I’ll be most terribly careful, I promise you. What I have to do will only take a few minutes. Oh, thanks most awfully.’
‘Just a minute, Madam,’ he called, as I shot towards the gaping doorway. ‘Just one thing. How long do you really expect it to take you?’
This was an unforeseen hitch, but I tried to sound nonchalant:
‘Oh, not more than ten minutes. Well, fifteen at the outside.’
He removed his helmet again and this time he really did scratch his head, regarding me doubtfully:
‘It’s just that, well, if you could see your way to stopping on a bit longer, say twenty minutes, I might just pop over and have a bit of a chat with my sister, just to break the monotony, like. It’s not far. She’s married to the gardener up at the Court, and that’s their cottage over there, other side of the trees.’
‘Oh, sure! Go ahead,’ I said effusively. ‘Take your time. I’m in no hurry and I’ll keep an eye on everything till you get back.’
I was practically jigging about with joy and amazement, my single regret being that I could never tell Robin about the lax and sloppy attitudes prevailing in the lower echelons of the Superintendent’s staff. No such eventuality had apparently occurred to this simple-minded constable either, for he said, ‘Ta very much, then’, jumped on his bicycle and whizzed off.
I reckoned that the journey would take him four or five minutes in each direction, giving me a minimum of twenty to accomplish my business. This was twice as much as I had hoped for and enabled me to approach the task in a much more scientific fashion than the hit-and-miss method I had envisaged.
It was depressing to see the barn, which had once been a noble building, all of a hundred feet long and fifty wide, in such a desolate state. Most of the solid oak rafters and crossbeams were now mere blackened skeletons, all but one section of the roof had fallen in, and its charred, crumbling tiles littered the ground inside and out. There was a dirty, acrid smell and the cement floor was ankle-deep in water.
Three-quarters of the building was in ruins and I almost despaired of picking my way through the rubble, far less of finding anything recognisable among the debris. Unfortunately, it must have been in the most badly affected part that Christabel had stored the bulk of her pictures, for I could see the skeletal remains of wooden crates and blackened frames strewn among the wreckage. However, there was one small section, over by the stable door, which had escaped the worst of the damage, and I picked my way cautiously towards it. It comprised only a small part of the whole, not more than twelve feet square, and there was a rope fencing it off from the rest, for what purpose I was at first unable to fathom, although the point was soon brought home to me in a disagreeable fashion.
I ducked under the rope and even this slight movement must have set up vibrations of some kind, for immediately great dollops of broken tiles came clattering down and landed only a foot away. I stopped dead, waiting with fascinated apprehension for the shower to cease and, when it had done so, edged slowly forward again, having measured the distance to the end wall, which was still intact, and keeping my eyes firmly fixed on the sagging roof.
I got across without further alarms, but what I had taken to be a pot of gold at the end of the trail turned out to be only half a dozen pictures, stacked in a single row against the wall. Although untouched by the fire, they were mostly too saturated with water to be any use, but there were two which had survived the worst of the hosing and which seemed worthy of inspection.
I squatted down and studied each in turn for several minutes, then pulled out one of Dolly’s kitchen knives, which I had secreted in the bag, and carefully cut one of the canvases out of its damp frame. I was about to repeat the process with the second picture, when a sound from the other end of the barn caused me to drop the knife and twist round in a spasm of alarm.
I was in shadow at my end, whereas the other was streaked with patches of evening sunlight and I could distinguish little of the figure who stood, apparently watching me, just inside the entrance. I concluded it was the constable, returning ahead of schedule, and stood up, with an innocent expression on my face and black curses in my heart for sisters who were either away from home, or totally deficient in small talk.
However, as it advanced stealthily towards me, I saw that it was not the constable at all, but some ghastly mummified creature from outer space, and I let out a wild scream of terror.
A moment later, recovering myself and reverting to normal dialogue, I said:
‘What are you doing here, for Christ’s sake?’
‘A good question. I was about to ask it.’
‘But you’re supposed to be on the danger list. How did you break out?’
‘I have my methods,’ she replied. ‘Which I don’t propose to go into now, because you haven’t answered the question.’
‘Oh, I was just passing,’ I said vaguely, ‘and I thought I’d take a look round. Sad to see the old place in this state, isn’t it?’
‘Very.’
‘Yes, it is; very. And I apologise for screaming at you, Christabel, but I wasn’t expecting anyone and you look so awful, bandaged up like that. I suppose I’m rather sensitive. How on earth did you get here?’
‘By taxi. There’s a rank right outside the hospital and the drivers are quite accustomed to corpses.’
I could hear her plainly, for her voice was growing more distinct all the time, but she had melted into the shadows again.
‘Well, I’m not,’ I said, ‘and I’m sure you ought not to be out of bed. Where are you? Christabel!’
‘Not far off. There is somethi
ng I came to check on. It won’t take me long.’
I, too, had been inching forward during this uneasy dialogue and suddenly she came into view again, only two feet beyond the dividing rope.
‘What have you got in that bag, Tessa?’
I looked down at it, searching for the soft answer to turn away wrath:
‘Nothing much. Compact . . . love letters . . . all that junk.’
‘Look out!’ she called sharply, and a reflex action sent my head jerking upwards and my eyes automatically to the roof. Unfortunately, these vaunted reflexes are not always such a safeguard as they are cracked up to be and the danger, whatever it was, must have come from another direction. Before I could locate, far less avert, it a stinging blow on the back of my head sent me reeling forward, to sprawl, first on my knees, and then face forward like a sack of potatoes, on to the concrete floor.
(ii)
Several years later, I opened my eyes, felt the grass beneath my raging head and saw Robin bending over me, looking almost as wan as I felt.
He said: ‘You’ll be the death of me one of these days. I’m telling you.’
‘I’ll be the death of myself first,’ I replied, giggling inanely at what, in my feeble state, I considered to be a very witty riposte. ‘How long have I been out?’
‘About twenty minutes, I gather. How do you feel?’
‘Terrible.’
‘Well, lie still. Don’t attempt to move. There’s an ambulance on its way.’
‘How did you get here so quickly? It’s just like the Perils of Pauline.’
‘Yes, isn’t it? And the day you stop treating life as one long movie melodrama will be a bright one for all of us.’
My head ached and I was tired of inventing ripostes, witty or otherwise, so I closed my eyes and pretended to go unconscious again. This was quite a good riposte, too, in its way, for he instantly became all solicitude and very contrite, I could tell, for the burst of irritability.
‘What hit me?’ I inquired, cutting through the flow of anxious inquiry.