Unholy Writ

by David Williams

  Wadkin made off into the twilight. Before re-entering Mitchell Hall, Bantree paused to wonder why anyone killed by a fall should then be mutilated, transported twenty miles, deposited inside a cabin cruiser, and set alight. ‘Camouflage,’ he said to himself. ‘The real question is did he fall or was he pushed?’ Which, despite the Inspector’s experience and acuity, wasn’t the question at all.

  Chapter Eleven

  Treasure hurried into the Dower House at ten minutes to six. Speke-Jones had lost the match at the seventh hole, and the banker had no difficulty in persuading him to abandon the game at that point.

  Scarbuck had not reappeared on the golf-course so that there had been no opportunity to raise the subject of his parting with Mitchell Hall. Concern on this account served to deepen Treasure’s unease as he now reconsidered events he had tried to put out of his mind until he had the opportunity to confront his host. He had cut short any discussion on the subject of his becoming banker for the Forward Britain Movement by explaining it was a rule at Grenwood, Phipps that no director of the bank would serve any political organization as an honorary officer in a financial capacity – a factually true statement. He had gone on to suggest that if the Movement was in need of the advice normally provided by merchant bankers, then a formal approach should be made by an authorized agent of the group to his board in the City – and not, he had implied, to one director of that board, by an unaccredited politician on a golf-course.

  In ordinary circumstances Treasure would have been perfectly happy broadly to entertain the proposition Speke-Jones had made to him – notwithstanding the house-rule he had quoted. Simply, in this instance, he had erected a corporate barricade behind which to take refuge. He was fairly certain that this was one piece of business Grenwood, Phipps could do without, but he was concerned not to be precipitate in the matter. Deep down, he also admitted to himself a certain curiosity about the financial affairs of Forward Britain, which a formal approach would almost certainly assuage without commitment.

  Treasure had not pressed Speke-Jones to support the surprising statement that the politician’s presence at Mitchell Stoke was accounted for entirely by his own decision to spend the weekend with the Moonlights. Twenty-four hours before he had not been aware himself that he would be visiting Oxfordshire the next day. He took this episode as yet further evidence of Speke-Jones’s penchant for instant opportunism.

  ‘Is that you, Mark darling?’ Elizabeth Moonlight appeared on the first-floor gallery that spanned the width of the hall where Treasure was standing. ‘Heavens, I must look a mess.’ One hand patted some slightly dishevelled hair, then went to smooth the folds of the long white lace negligee that elegantly enveloped the small slim figure.

  ‘I’ve done what I can for Worple’s daughter,’ Elizabeth continued, ‘but one feels so inadequate confronted by real tragedy. Then I was interrogated, my dear, by a rather attractive young police sergeant. Anyway, he seemed satisfied that I didn’t murder poor Mr Worple – and that Arthur couldn’t have either. I suppose they have to begin by suspecting everybody. Now I must get dressed for dinner.’ She continued in a stage whisper, ‘Aggie insists on helping which means everything will take longer.’

  Aggie was the sole surviving Moonlight family retainer. Now well into her seventies, she had long since been officially retired, but having no home of her own had been invited to stay on in the household. Almost deaf and extremely decrepit, her well-intentioned desire to be of assistance at dinner parties resulted always in her being of more hindrance than help. Even so, it was not in Elizabeth Moonlight’s nature to deny her the satisfaction of making some return for the kindness she received.

  ‘Oh, one other thing, Mark.’ Elizabeth returned to the balustrade as Treasure went to mount the stairs. ‘There was a ’phone call for you about an hour ago – nice man called Jumbo Cranton with a deep brown voice; said we’d met at Henley years ago. I think I remember him … isn’t he a builder?’

  Treasure laughed aloud. ‘Well, you could call him that, and you did meet him five years ago when his son was in the Shrewsbury Eight – though I recall his paying more attention to you than he did to the rowing.’

  ‘Flatterer! Anyway, will you ring him? I put the number on the pad by the ’phone in the study – Arthur’s not back yet. Now I must fly.’ She disappeared in a flurry of lace.

  Sir James Crib-Cranton was chairman of the biggest civil engineering and construction group in the country – and, for that matter, in practically any other country as well. He was one of Treasure’s closest friends, though this was not the reason why Treasure went to telephone him on the instant. Crib-Cranton’s company was one of Grenwood, Phipps & Co.’s largest clients and Treasure doubted he was being sought out on a Saturday in the country for a friendly chat.

  ‘My dear Mark, a thousand apologies for breaking into your tête-à-tête with the delectable Lady Moonlight. Molly’s still away, I assume!’ The good humoured innuendo in the opening was no less than Treasure had expected. Crib-Cranton had been divorced three times and had convinced himself, if no one else, that this was singular proof he was no secret philanderer – a role he ascribed to all those males of his acquaintance who, in his terms, gave the appearance of remaining faithful to one wife.

  ‘I’m enjoying a bachelor weekend with Arthur and Elizabeth, if that’s what you mean,’ replied Treasure woodenly. ‘By the way, Elizabeth had some difficulty remembering who you were.’ The deflating of his friend’s ego was the surest way of stemming his banter.

  ‘Well, none of them is perfect,’ said Crib-Cranton, undefeated, and then, changing the subject, ‘You know, it’s the most extraordinary coincidence your being where you are. I rang you at home this morning after reading in The Times that the Kuwaiti talks have been cancelled – needed your advice and thought you’d still be about. Your housekeeper said you were at Mitchell Stoke. Extraordinary coincidence.’

  ‘Why, Jumbo? – weekend advice is expensive.’ Treasure was used to humouring captains of British industry but he knew this one well enough to bring him to the point without too much ceremony.

  Crib-Cranton took the hint. ‘We were approached yesterday to rescue an outfit called Scarbuck Construction – land-bank, plant, existing contracts, mile high tax losses, the lot, going for a song if we act before the banks put the bailiffs in on Tuesday. It looks interesting from our viewpoint, and for reasons I won’t waste time on now. We’ve had full disclosure of the relevant bumf – my people worked all night on it. Usual cash flow problem, nothing out of the ordinary for a middle-sized concern these days, and potentially very profitable if they can hang on for a year or so. The two directors who came to see me last evening seemed competent, but there’s a problem.’

  Treasure had a suspicion he had met that same problem earlier in the day. ‘Go on, Jumbo,’ he said.

  ‘They – the other directors, that is – are in open rebellion against the chairman; want to ditch him.’

  ‘Because he spends too much time organizing the Forward Britain Movement?’

  ‘Ah, you know about him. Well, partly that, but more important the fellow’s a crook.’ Treasure gave an inward sigh at the familiarly incautious way in which Jumbo Cranton transmitted highly slanderous comments on open telephone lines.

  ‘Jumbo, you shouldn’t say such a thing.’ An automatic comment from a prudent financier.

  ‘Well, I’ve said it, and don’t be so bloody prissy because I’ve got proof of misappropriation of funds right here in my hand.’

  ‘Misappropriation for personal use?’

  ‘Good as. In the last nine months he’s siphoned off nearly half a million quid in unsecured loans to Forward Britain Enterprises, Ltd – a private company which he personally owns outright.’

  ‘But he couldn’t have done that without at least his chief accountant knowing, and what about the auditors?’

  ‘Fiddlesticks! You know what some of these autocratic company chairmen get away with short term. And that’s the trick
. The whole thing’s been rigged inside one financial year. The loans were to be repaid this week in time for the annual audit which begins next week – purposely delayed by Scarbuck, I might add. The financial director’s beside himself because he thinks he could be implicated … complicity and all that. He and the other directors knew about the loans, but they’re all Scarbuck’s creatures – or they have been up to now – and they hold only about two per cent of the equity between them … frightened they might lose their jobs if they hollered. Now, of course, some of them at least are more frightened at the prospect of going to jug. Incidentally, Scarbuck has a majority holding in the show.’

  ‘How much does the company owe the banks?’

  ‘Oh, about fifteen million, but that’s a separate matter. Most of the money is well enough secured against land, work in progress, and so on, and there are perfectly legitimate reasons for their applying for another three or four million – the banks won’t play though, and worse still they’re calling in some of the money they’ve already advanced. It’s the usual story – Bank of England’s got the jitters about the pound and the Big Four are reacting by clobbering corporate customers. We can pick the thing up all right … might mean a rights issue for us, but the institutions will play when they see the quality of the merchandise – Scarbuck’s have some very impressive contracts, and no fixed price stuff either. But we don’t want to pick up a scandal in the process.’

  ‘And the other directors don’t believe Scarbuck himself will repay the half million in time for the audit?’

  ‘Well, he’s running it bloody close, old boy. No, they obviously don’t think he can pay up or they wouldn’t be panicking, would they?’

  ‘You know Scarbuck lives here?’

  ‘That’s why I rang … extraordinary coincidence your being where you are. Have you met the chap?’

  ‘Yes, this afternoon. Listen, Jumbo, if your people like the look of Scarbuck Construction, keep them studying the paperwork over the weekend. I’ll be in the office on Monday and if you’re still of a mind to take on the company, from what you’ve told me I would guess we can hold off the banks for a week or two. If Scarbuck controls the company, obviously he has to consent to its being taken over, but if the banks are threatening to put in receivers I don’t see he has any option, unless there’s another bidder. The loan to Forward Britain is a quite separate matter. I’m guessing, but Scarbuck may be in a position to repay sooner than his colleagues think – but I’m only guessing.’

  ‘You know something?’

  ‘Not for certain. Is there a Speke-Jones on the board of either Scarbuck Construction or Forward Britain Enterprises?’

  ‘Hang on, I’ll look.’ Treasure could hear Crib-Cranton shuffling papers at the other end of the line. ‘You mean the MP chap? Nasty bit of work.’ Treasure sighed audibly. ‘No, he’s not on the board of Scarbuck’s and there are only two directors of the other outfit, Scarbuck himself and Anne Emily Scarbuck, probably his wife.’

  ‘Right, I’ll call you first thing Monday morning.’

  ‘Thanks awfully, Mark. I really am sorry to have burst into your weekend. Don’t neglect the lady now!’ Crib-Cranton replaced the receiver before Treasure could parry this parting shot. He put down the telephone, then stared at it for a moment while he wove the story he had just heard into the web of information and conjecture in his mind already.

  If Speke-Jones had been telling the truth, then the Forward Britain Movement had funds considerably in excess of half a million pounds. If this was the case, then Forward Britain Enterprises, Ltd – obviously some kind of management company the wily Scarbuck had set up to provide services to the Movement – would have little difficulty in finding funds to repay Scarbuck Construction. But if this was so, why had the money been borrowed in the first place? Could it be that Scarbuck had already gone through the Movement’s funds, which Speke-Jones had suggested might exceed one and a half million? Or were the officers of the Movement – amongst whom Speke-Jones was presumably included – less co-operative about shifting money into Forward Britain Enterprises, Ltd than were the directors of Scarbuck Construction, Ltd – until recently an evidently obedient group of Scarbuck pawns? And what about the three million pound ‘expectancy’ referred to by Speke-Jones? Scarbuck himself had exhibited none of the forebodings and depression that would normally assail a man whose company was in imminent danger of foreclosure – nor the typical apprehension of someone facing a possible criminal charge in the fairly near future.

  ‘Mark, Elizabeth said you were anxious to see me. What’s all this about Worple being murdered?’ Arthur Moonlight was standing in the doorway to the study. He looked grave and worn – graver and far more worn than the instant intelligence of Worple’s fate could possibly have made him.

  The American took the telephone from its cradle the moment it began to ring. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Les, what went wrong? They’ve found the body; the place is alive with police.’

  ‘We got landed with a dead body, that’s what went wrong. But it must have been in ashes – how did they trace it back here so fast?’

  ‘It wasn’t ashes, Les, and why did you start a fire anyway – it wasn’t necessary. We agreed …’

  ‘Because the gasoline was there, and it seemed like a good idea at the time. Burned-up corpses are harder to trace than whole ones.’

  ‘Les, everybody’s being questioned …’

  ‘So what? They’ve got nothing on you. You saw nothing; you know nothing. So don’t panic; they’re a day ahead of us, that’s all, and by this time tomorrow I’ll be half way to the States. There’s enough to keep them guessing till then. Are the Flips out of the way?’

  ‘I don’t think so … there’s one missing. The police think he did in the gravedigger.’

  ‘Great, that’ll keep the cops occupied. Let’s hope he stays missing. Are the others allowed to leave?’

  ‘I’m not sure … Les, the police are getting an interpreter.’

  ‘Who speaks Sulu? – they’ve got to be kidding. There can’t be anyone in the Embassy with ten words. Say, I guess they’re opening the grave?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, that follows, but if you did it right they’re not gonna figure it. What time are you going in?’

  ‘Around midnight – that’s if the police have gone.’

  ‘They’ll have gone – what can they find after dark? Anyway it’s raining. Just go carefully. Are you sure you don’t want me there?’

  ‘Quite sure. I can manage – the last bit’s easy, and I’ve got all night. I’m telling everybody the good news before lunch tomorrow. I’ll put your stuff in the car tonight.’

  ‘OK – but our side gets half the price of the manuscript as well. I’ve seen Scarbuck. He’ll split fifty-fifty or everybody’s going to know where the thing was really found. Has he said anything to you about it?’

  ‘You’ve seen him? No, he hasn’t said anything. Les, when did you see him?’

  ‘This afternoon; but don’t worry, baby. I know we agreed I shouldn’t meet him, but what’s the difference at this stage? So I’ll expect you here at the cottage; around seven-thirty in the morning as arranged. If the cops are back, you’re going to the eight a.m. mass at Pangbourne.’

  ‘Yes … Les, I’m worried that Scarbuck …’

  ‘Well, stop worrying; just get the stuff out, and make sure that raft comes down when you exit. Bye.’

  Chapter Twelve

  Timothy Trapp and Thelma Goodbody knelt together in the cellar of the vicarage gazing fixedly at one corner of the large canvas. Bach sat reverently – and more comfortably than the others – at his master’s side waiting for something to happen that would mark the end of these devotions. Since nothing did – and since it was a time in the day when no one ever invited him to take exercise – he slowly let his eyes close and quietly went to sleep – no mean accomplishment while remaining in an upright position.

  The painting still lay face upwards in the centr
e of the cellar floor. Familiarity had done nothing to improve Trapp’s opinion of the piece as a work of art. In fairness, rubbing away one part of the picture was hardly the way to enhance the appearance of what remained, but the perplexed expressions on the faces of the two were not caused by any sense of vandal guilt.

  During the course of the day Trapp had twice worked white spirit into the same small section of the canvas. Wiping away the first dose had revealed a whitened surface beneath the brown paint removed on the cloth. The second application, administered just twenty minutes before, had dissolved what appeared to be a solid white undercoat but failed to uncover the bare canvas Trapp had expected would lie beneath. On the contrary, paint of various hues now stood revealed, under a thick, resistant varnish, on the twenty-or-so square inches of the treated canvas, and at the top of the patch some clear, black script spelled ‘eques fecit’.

  ‘Does it mean a horse did it?’ enquired Trapp, who had no illusions about his lack of classical scholarship.

  ‘No, not a horse,’ said his companion, ‘but it could mean a mounted person … or a knight. I’m not absolutely sure, Timothy, and I ought to be … sorry. I’ll bet there’s a proper signature above that inscription.’

  ‘Well, let’s clean off a bit more of the top coats then,’ suggested Trapp heartily.

  ‘Timothy –’ Miss Goodbody was suppressing the excitement she felt but she spoke loud enough to prompt Bach into opening one eye – ‘I want you to promise me you won’t put any more of that spirit on this picture. People didn’t put Latin inscriptions on paintings much after the seventeenth century, and painters who were knighted were mostly good at it – very good.’

  ‘You mean you think we could be on to something hot?’

  ‘Jolly well boiling, if you want my guess – and it’s not entirely a guess either.’ Miss Goodbody had spent the previous several weeks reading up the history of Mitchell Hall and the Moonlight family to some purpose. She was now experiencing alternate pangs of horror and elation that the Vicar of Mitchell Stoke might have been employed that day in attempting literally to liquidate the work of Sir Anthony Vandyck. She briefly explained to Trapp the story of the Sarah Moonlight portrait and its disappearance in 1645.