Unholy Writ

by David Williams

  ‘Yes, I did, around ten-thirty,’ said Trapp. ‘Tell me, where did you find Worple?’

  ‘I didn’t find him, Vicar, it was Windsor Police …’ He paused, looking from Trapp to Treasure and Miss Goodbody, and back again.

  ‘Come on, Vincent, out with it, these people are trusted friends, and we shan’t tell anyone if it’s an official secret.’

  Treasure nearly protested that it very probably was, and that it was unfair to press this obviously inexperienced young policeman to divulge more than he had done already. Then his curiosity got the better of him.

  ‘Well,’ said Humble, reserve evaporated, youthful excitement replacing it, ‘Mr Worple was found dead in a burning houseboat just below Old Windsor at noon today. His back was broken and there’s thought to be knife wounds in his chest.’ There was a pause while Humble gathered breath to give the right effect to his gravest announcement. ‘Foul play is suspected.’ Having delivered this blistering news, the young policeman bit his lower lip. ‘And I’ll be in awful trouble if you tell anyone, Vicar.’

  Humble’s afterthought had been offered none too soon. As he spoke, a grey Ford car drew up in the Vicarage drive. Its sole occupant, a tall, slim man in early middle age, was dressed in a brown sports jacket and grey flannel trousers. His dark hair was cut short, and he wore a fisherman’s trilby hat adorned with sufficient coloured flies to offer proper earnest of its owner’s genuine piscatorial involvement. As the man alighted from the car Constable Humble drew himself to attention and delivered a salute that would have done justice to a Colour Sergeant confronted by the Colonel of the Regiment.

  The man nodded approvingly at Humble, and treated the other three to a broad smile, raising his hat in the direction of Miss Goodbody. ‘Lovely afternoon,’ he observed in a soft tone and accent that Treasure involuntarily placed as educated Oxfordshire yeoman. ‘My name’s Colin Bantree, your friendly neighbourhood Detective Chief Inspector, CID. Sorry to barge in like this, but as I expect you’ve learned from Constable Humble, we’ve got a spot of bother.’ He beamed at the Vicar as if to signify that clergymen and policemen, at least, were no strangers to bother of one kind or another. ‘Mr Trapp, I presume?’ He held out his hand. ‘Don’t think we’ve met before. How’s the new safe holding out?’

  It had been at the suggestion of the Thames Valley Police, warmly supported by all members of the Parochial Church Council, that a safe had recently been installed in the vestry of St John’s, Mitchell Stoke, to house those few remaining church valuables that had survived the first few months of Timothy Trapp’s incumbency, plus some replacements provided by a reluctant and admonishing insurance company. The two keys supplied had been left in the keeping of the Vicar’s Warden and the People’s Warden who, much to Trapp’s delight, had thereafter been obliged to attend, one or other of them, every service held in the church. Since, with the exception of Holy Communion, which he celebrated daily, Trapp was not much in favour of the lengthier, statutory observances as laid down in the Book of Common Prayer, he had already recruited the support of those two important members of the parish in his aim considerably to shorten the number and the length of such observances. Thus, Trapp wholly approved of the safe for reasons entirely unconnected with its function. ‘It’s an admirable safe, thank you, Inspector,’ he replied before introducing Treasure and Miss Goodbody.

  Constable Humble coughed loudly. ‘Are you in urgent need of medication, Humble,’ enquired Chief Inspector Bantree, smiling, ‘or is that your way of discreetly attracting my attention?’

  ‘The latter, sir. Begging your pardon, sir, this gentleman –’ he indicated Treasure – ‘is staying with Sir Arthur Moonlight, sir.’

  ‘Then I shall show him due deference, Humble, have no fear of that.’

  ‘No, sir, what I mean, sir, is that he indicated he might be able to throw some light on the … er … crime, sir.’

  ‘Nothing so useful, I’m afraid, Inspector,’ Treasure interjected. ‘Just before you arrived I offered the reasonable conjecture that Worple might have met with a fatal accident.’

  ‘Reasonable conjecture, Mr Treasure?’ The Inspector repeated the phrase slowly.

  ‘Yes, reasonable in the sense that Worple appears to have been a conscientious sort of man. He had a job to do this afternoon and any accident that prevented him from sending word about his non-appearance would have needed to be a pretty serious one.’

  Treasure appreciated that this explanation was less than perfect, and just as he already regretted his incautious comment to Humble, he had no intention of volunteering more information for the time being, and for his own reasons. He was nevertheless aware that as a good citizen he should take this instant opportunity to recount the story of his meeting with the driver of the yellow Volkswagen. Already there was little doubt in Treasure’s mind that the man who had threatened him outside the gate of Mitchell Hall was in some way involved with the disappearance of Worple – if not with his death, accidental or otherwise. Even so, other events during the day prompted him to keep his own counsel until he could be sure that the curiously perturbed Arthur Moonlight was in no way involved. In mitigation the man had very firmly stated that he intended to remain in Mitchell Stoke and had indicated he had pressing reasons for doing so.

  ‘The accident was certainly serious, Mr Treasure.’ The Inspector appeared to be weighing his listener more than his words. ‘We have reason to believe … sorry, one drops into the jargon so easily. We know that the late Mr Worple died of a broken back or of knife wounds, or a combination of both. What we don’t know is where he died and how he came to be transported, presumably dead, to a private boat shed near Windsor, and deposited in a cabin cruiser which was subsequently set on fire.’

  Constable Humble let out an audible sigh of relief.

  ‘I understand you saw Mr Worple this morning, Vicar?’

  ‘Yes, and spoke’to him where he was working in the churchyard. That would have been at about ten … er … twenty. He seemed very well.’ Trapp realized too late the limpness of this last remark, had Worple really been suffering from a broken back and stab wounds at the time of their encounter.

  ‘Now that’s a thoroughly useful bit of information,’ said the Inspector encouragingly, referring presumably to the statement about time and not the one concerning the health of the deceased. ‘I’ll ask you later to be as exact as you can about the time you left Mr Worple; it may be critical. My guess is you may have been the last person – innocent person, that is – to see him alive.’ Trapp was grateful for the qualification, but too soon. ‘I imagine you’d have no difficulty establishing your whereabouts between ten-fifteen and, say, one o’clock today, Vicar?’

  ‘None whatsoever, Inspector.’

  ‘Good … Yes, well, as I say, you were probably the last person to speak to Mr Worple. He left his home – that’s Arden Cottage’ (Miss Goodbody looked up in surprise) ‘just up the road, at eight-fifteen. He lives, or rather lived, with his married daughter and her husband. He was a widower. My sergeant’s with the daughter now, we called there first.’

  ‘Inspector –’ this was Treasure – ‘may I ask how you came to identify the body so quickly? Windsor is some distance away …’

  ‘Quite easily, sir. Mr Worple had an unposted football pool coupon in his pocket. It was filled in, complete with name and address. No postal order though, or stamp. I expect he was a bit short of money this week, aren’t we all.’ Bantree smiled at Trapp and Miss Goodbody before returning a more serious gaze at Treasure as if to indicate that he might be the only one present who was not currently feeling the pinch. ‘There’ll be the matter of formal identification, of course,’ he continued, ‘but I’m afraid there’s no doubt. I viewed the body myself an hour ago and comparing it with photographs I’ve just been looking at in the cottage, it’s Mr Worple all right.’

  ‘Was the fire a serious one?’ Treasure asked.

  ‘Fire? Did I mention a fire?’ Treasure suspected he was being made to feel unde
servedly guilty. He was getting the measure of Inspector Bantree’s disarming technique.

  ‘Yes, you did,’ Trapp put in firmly.

  ‘Of course I did.’ Bantree smiled. ‘Well now, there we were lucky. The owner of the boat-shed is away on some archaeological expedition abroad. If whoever put the body in there knew this, he might have assumed the place would have been deserted. In fact, quite by chance, the owner’s son came down from London with his girl-friend to give the boat a spring clean – favour to the old man, I suppose. They must have missed our body-snatcher, or dumper, by minutes. If he started the fire – and we have to assume he did – he made a rotten job of it, and the young people put it out before the brigade arrived. Not much damage, and certainly none to the remains of Mr Worple.’

  ‘The whole thing sounds a bit amateur,’ said Trapp. ‘I mean, if the idea was for Worple to disappear without trace, leaving identification on him was a bit daft.’

  ‘I quite agree, Vicar. If the fire had taken a hold there wouldn’t have been much left of the body, or the identification for that matter. Of course we’d have found out eventually who it was, but it might have taken some time. No, my first impression is that our … murderer … was in a tearing hurry, and that time was more important to him than eventual discovery of his victim or the chap’s identity. Strange. There are certainly more permanent ways of getting rid of a body, but in daylight, and with no time to spare …’

  ‘Do you know the name of the owner of the boat-house, Inspector?’ asked Treasure in as casual a voice as he could manage.

  ‘Yes, I’ve got it here somewhere,’ Bantree fished in his pockets. ‘Here it is. Canwath-Wright, a Colonel Canwath-Wright, ex-Royal Engineers I gather, and a big-wig in the archaeological world. Know him?’ He looked at Treasure keenly.

  ‘No,’ said Treasure truthfully, and he was not in the least tempted to add that he knew someone who did.

  Being excused further interlocution by Inspector Bantree, Treasure left the group but attempted not to display undue haste in the matter. The Inspector required further information from Trapp concerning the time and detail of his conversation with the ill-fated Worple, and as Treasure returned to the churchyard he was pleased to see, from a backward glance, that the party was disappearing into the vicarage. Thereafter, he made all speed to reach the Dower House for an urgent conversation with Moonlight.

  Elizabeth Moonlight was arranging flowers in the hall. ‘Arthur’s gone into Oxford to hunt for something in Hertford College library.’ She sighed. ‘If he hadn’t made that grand gesture and given so many books away we’d still have a proper reference library here – the saving in petrol would have been enormous.’ She stood back, head on one side, assessing the pleasing results of her efforts with a handful of daffodils and a great deal more of greenery. ‘Still,’ she continued ruminatively, ‘he enjoys his little chats with the odd don he runs into. I’ve always thought he’d have been happier teaching at a university than he was as a soldier. Though one never really knows.’ She smiled at Treasure resignedly. ‘Did you want him urgently – is it about this Scarbuck business?’

  ‘How do you mean?’ asked Treasure guardedly.

  ‘Oh come on, Mark darling, my wits are not in total decline. Arthur wants the Hall back and he’s using you as an intermediary.’

  ‘Has he told you this?’

  ‘No, he hasn’t, but you don’t live with a man for more than twenty years without twigging when he’s bothered about something, and knowing when he’s doing something about it. After he’d ’phoned you last night he was like a dog with two tails – and he’d been depressed most of the week. I knew he hadn’t asked you down just because I love you so much. I do all the same.’ She gave Treasure a light kiss on the cheek. ‘Heaven knows why Arthur wants the Hall back, though I think the unspeakable Scarbuck may be reason enough. We’re not all that well off, you know.’ Treasure did know, and more about the Moonlight family finances than he suspected Elizabeth knew herself.

  ‘Any idea when Arthur will be back?’

  ‘Yes, he said six o’clock, and you know how pedantic he is with timing. So if you want to ravish me before my husband returns –’ Elizabeth glanced at her watch – ‘you have exactly two and a half hours. On second thoughts you’d better find something else to do because I have the dinner to prepare – so you can stop looking so worried!’

  Treasure took both her hands in his. ‘Elizabeth, this is important. Were you and Arthur in the house all this morning?’

  She thought for a moment. ‘Yes, we were.’

  ‘Together?’

  ‘Most of the time. We read the papers in the study after breakfast … oh, and then I cleared off to the kitchen because Scarbuck was coming by appointment at half past ten. Actually, Timothy arrived with him.’ She paused. ‘Then you came. But why is it important?’

  Treasure ignored the question. ‘So neither you nor Arthur were in the churchyard? You didn’t see this fellow Worple?’

  ‘No, we didn’t. But you know Mr Worple’s disappeared? Has something happened to him?’

  ‘He appears to have been murdered.’

  Chapter Eight

  Treasure decided to keep his appointment with Scarbuck and Speke-Jones at four o’clock. He had told Elizabeth Moonlight all he had learned about the fate of Horace Worple – information which, despite her planned domestic programme, had sent her hurrying round to Arden Cottage with words of comfort for Worple’s married daughter. The Worples were ‘old village’.

  Arthur Moonlight would certainly not return before the hour he had stated. Treasure knew and enjoined his classically firm attitude to the ordering and allocation of time. In the circumstances Treasure would have no opportunity before six o’clock to discuss with his friend the various aspects of the day’s discoveries and events that disturbed him – chiefly on Moonlight’s account. Equally, he was now more than ever determined to progress his commission to beard Scarbuck on the subject of selling Mitchell Hall during the game.

  Treasure had driven the half mile to the Mid-Stoke Golf Club in the Rolls. The Club House was half this distance approached on foot from the Moonlights’ garden, the boundary of which marched with part of the eighteenth fairway. Treasure nevertheless took the car, reflecting – as would many golfers in the same circumstances – that walking to a golf-course was an inexplicably unacceptable chore in contrast to the pleasure of walking on a golf-course, ball in play.

  Treasure was a ‘country member’ of Mid-Stoke, despite the fact that his home was in Cheyne Walk, Chelsea. This did not suggest that the Club Secretary was peculiarly ill-informed about the shortage of green fields in the South West London postal districts. The Club rules specified simply that any member living more than forty miles from the course was entitled to pay a reduced subscription. Membership of Mid-Stoke at any price was something of an extravagance for Treasure since he seldom played there. Even so, Moonlight was Life President of the Club, and having been made a founder member, initially at Moonlight’s expense, Treasure had always felt that to resign might have appeared disloyal.

  Mid-Stoke is not a challenging course. Laid out in 1948 on a limited budget, its composition had been governed, more than anything, by the need to create saleable house-building sites at strategic points along its length. The resulting architectural atmosphere of the course was Norman Shaw traditional, and bland to the point of boredom. Nevertheless, since most of the residents and members qualified for a similar description, in a sense, horses had been found for courses – although, in this instance, there was only one course.

  The Club House, a Lutyens-sized version of the houses nearby, was sufficiently close to both the ninth and the eighteenth greens to make taking one’s ease upon its substantial terrace a hazardous pastime. Golf-balls tended to land, full toss, amongst the tables or upon the members seated there without warning, though so far without fatality. The building’s situation did, however, offer compensation in the sense that both the first and the tenth tee lay
close by. Thus, those members who wished to play only nine holes were at liberty to do so without the inconvenience of finding themselves in open country at the finish. Although half a game of golf provides only proportional satisfaction to most golfers, an hour and a half of recreation is often better than no recreation at all.

  It was not this last thought that Treasure had in mind as he stood, practising his swing, on the first tee. The time was ten minutes after four and the half-hour safety margin he had earlier estimated he had in hand to play the game and return to the Dower House before Arthur Moonlight was fast reducing. It was with some relief, then, that as he looked up from his watch he observed Scarbuck and his party rounding the side of the Club House. The sight also appealed at once to his sense of comedy.

  To Treasure’s immense relief, Scarbuck had forsaken all the bizarre garments he had been wearing earlier, save for the cap. He was now dressed in a white polo-necked sweater, blue plus-fours and red stockings over blue golf shoes. He succeeded in looking no less conspicuous than he had earlier, but somehow the red, white and blue combination was less embarrassingly obtrusive. He was followed by a diminutive Filipino with a worried expression, and an immense golf bag which seemed to dwarf its bearer. Close behind came Speke-Jones, pulling a golf trolley. The politician, like Treasure, was casually but properly attired for golf.

  ‘We’re all ready then,’ said Scarbuck heartily and in place of the apology that Treasure had been expecting. ‘I’d have brought you a caddy if I’d thought. I call this one Fred – that’s not his real name, but he doesn’t speak English and I don’t speak Filipino so what’s the difference? The Vicar crocked him this morning, but he’ll do for carrying a bag.’

  ‘I can manage thank you.’ Treasure nodded at Speke-Jones. ‘Shall we make a start? I’m playing off six.’

  ‘Twenty-four,’ said Scarbuck, as though proud of possessing the highest permitted handicap in golf.