‘And don’t forget the Rosalinds,’ added Dankton archly. ‘Those boy players appear to have thrived on country air.’ Treasure noted that this single light aside was the only fresh indication from Dankton that Thelma Goodbody’s theory might have substance. Since Dankton, in her own words, had first set Thelma on the trail she was following, Treasure found it incongruous that the bibliographer seemed now to be pouring cold water on all the girl’s conclusions. Nor could he have been aware that Dankton was present at Elizabeth Moonlight’s table for the express purpose of establishing at that time his own scholarly disbelief in the theory that Shakespeare ever graced Mitchell Stoke with his presence.
Mrs Wringle studied her wristwatch with some ceremony. ‘Forgive us, Elizabeth, I think we ought to be going. It’s well past Clarence’s bedtime.’ There was no refuting this statement since the Bishop had suddenly gone to sleep, holding Miss Goodbody’s hand; the full coffee cup before him was the only container for liquid he had left undrained during the course of the meal.
There followed a general movement away from the table and into the hall, with more comment about the lateness of the hour from Trapp, who had an early morning service in mind, and from Thelma Goodbody, who was relying on Trapp to transport her across the Thames on the chain ferry – the mechanics of which did not invite manipulation by a lady in evening dress.
‘The rain’s stopped,’ observed Moonlight from the porch after seeing off the Wringles in their dilapidated Mini. Dankton had already disappeared into the night. ‘I’ll walk down to the ferry with you both – and we’ll go through the churchyard. I’ve got a key to that wretched gate, and Timothy can protect us from marauders,’ he added lightly.
‘Good evening, sir, sorry to disturb you at this hour,’ said Chief Inspector Bantree. Treasure had answered the door bell after emerging from the kitchen of the Dower House. He had been dutifully assisting Elizabeth in doing those things that Aggie had left undone before retiring. ‘I wonder if we might come in for a moment?’
‘Certainly, Inspector. I’m afraid Sir Arthur is out, but he should be back soon.’ Treasure opened the door wider.
‘That’s all right, sir, it’s you we’ve really come to see.’ But Treasure hardly heard the words. His attention was fixed not upon Bantree nor Sergeant Wadkin, but on the equally familiar figure that entered the hall with them. The tousled, blond hair was now brushed and neat. The casual, blue jean suit and jewellery were not in evidence, for the man was dressed in a black gaberdine raincoat, of good quality, buttoned at the top. His trousers and shoes were also black. He wore thickly framed spectacles which added to his studious, respectable appearance. Yet there was no mistaking the man who had so abruptly barred Treasure’s way that afternoon, and then subjected him to dire threats.
‘This is a little unusual, sir, even a bit irregular, but in the circumstances …’ The Inspector hesitated because of Treasure’s astonished expression. ‘Do you recognize this gentleman, sir?’
‘I certainly do, Inspector – and I shall be extremely surprised if he doesn’t recognize me.’
‘No question about it,’ opened the man in black with a smile. ‘This is the gentleman I spoke with across from the Hall earlier today. Nice to get properly acquainted, Mr Treasure sir, my name’s Happenwack – sounds kinda funny I know, but that’s what it is, Dale Henry Happenwack.’
Treasure was positive he recognized the man, yet the clothes, the bearing, and above all, the distinctly American accent were completely out of character. Happenwack continued to smile as he undid his coat to reveal a clerical collar and black stock.
‘We called on the Reverend Happenwack earlier this evening, sir. He immediately confirmed having met you. Indeed he’s been to Mitchell Stoke twice today …’
‘Sure,’ Happenwack interrupted the Inspector. ‘I was hoping to catch up with the Rector, or Vicar, is it? Guess I ran out of luck, though. He wasn’t at the clergy house mid-morning, and, as Mr Treasure himself told me, he had a burial service going on when I called round after lunch.’
‘I told you the Vicar was conducting a service?’ Treasure asked incredulously.
‘Why yes, sir,’ replied Happenwack earnestly, ‘don’t you remember? I explained I was staying nearby and wondered whether I could help with services tomorrow. I’m an Episcopalian.’ He turned to the Inspector. ‘That’s the same as Church of England back home.’
Treasure considered and dismissed the possibility he was suffering from delusions. The man before him was certainly a liar and probably an impostor. He decided the inevitable exposure should take a logical order, at least for the benefit of the policemen. ‘Has Mr Happenwack told you how he was dressed when we met, Inspector?’
‘Yes, sir, and the description of his clothing tallies exactly with the one you gave us.’
‘Gee, come to that I guess I did look a little unpriestly,’ put in Happenwack. ‘You see, Mr Treasure, I’m here rubber-necking around Oxford and the churches in the locality, which is why I was dressed for comfort.’
‘Mr Happenwack has a furnished cottage just the other side of Pangbourne, sir,’ said Bantree.
‘Has Mr Happenwack told you what he said to me this afternoon, Inspector?’
‘Yes, sir, and that’s the problem. The account you gave of the conversation and the one Mr Happenwack gives just don’t tie up …’
‘Conversation!’ exclaimed Treasure. ‘There was no conversation. This man treated me to a series of threats and left me speechless.’
‘Heck, Mr Treasure, I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ said Happenwack with wide-eyed innocence. ‘I asked you about the Vicar, you told me about the service, and that was it. I didn’t threaten you, sir; I’d never seen you before; I didn’t know who you were; why should I have threatened you? I didn’t threaten the lady at the clergy house or the gentleman I met at the Hall this morning.’
‘That’s true, sir,’ Bantree confirmed. ‘When Mr Happenwack was here this morning, he spoke with Mrs Banquet at the vicarage and also with Mr Dankton. We’ve interviewed both parties – Mr Dankton just a few minutes ago – and both confirm that Mr Happenwack was simply enquiring about the Vicar.’
‘So what possible explanation is there for my having told you that Mr Happenwack, as he calls himself, threatened me?’
‘That’s precisely what we were wondering, sir. Could it be you’re confusing Mr Happenwack with someone else … er …’
‘Oh, come off it, Inspector, either I’ve told you a pack of lies or else this man is lying.’
‘Yes, sir.’ The Inspector’s tone was noncommittal.
Treasure swallowed firmly to suppress his anger. He tried as coolly as possible to see the situation from the policeman’s viewpoint. Here were two men offering entirely different versions of the encounter that both admitted had taken place. One of the men was a priest – or purported to be one – the other was, dammit, an affluent merchant banker; God and mammon personified. Faced with the kind of dilemma now confronting the Inspector, Treasure realized how he himself would react. He also recalled the coolness in Bantree’s manner when, before dinner, he had listened to Treasure’s account of what had taken place – an account overdue by the three hours that had elapsed since their first meeting outside the vicarage. Treasure fought to suppress the sweat he felt breaking out on his forehead. If Bantree had found his delayed story of the episode fishy when he had first heard it, what was he thinking now: probably that the whole thing had been cooked up to draw suspicion away from the Moonlights. But the situation was preposterous. Treasure knew that he, Treasure, was telling the truth – somehow he had to prove it by discrediting the all too credible Happenwack.
‘Inspector, how do you know Mr Happenwack is who he says he is?’
‘A very proper question in the circumstances, sir, though we already have the answer. We’ve been in touch with the American Embassy, sir. Mr Happenwack is listed in the Episcopal Church register as assistant priest at the church of St John the Divine,
Roundtop, Westchester County, New York State. His passport is in order, and he arrived here two weeks ago.’
‘You did say Roundtop, Inspector?’ The policeman nodded as Treasure went on. ‘Does Mr Happenwack have friends here, anyone who can confirm his identity?’
‘Not exactly, sir …’
Happenwack intervened. ‘Heck, Mr Treasure, I’m a tourist. I’ve saved up for three years to make this trip. I’ve never been to this country before. No, I don’t have friends here – why should I have, but why should I tell lies?’
‘And you deny having told me about an accident?’
‘What’s there to deny? I don’t know of any accident. The Inspector here tells me there’s been what sounds like a murder – and that’s a very shocking thing – but if I knew anything about an accident or a murder I guess I’d have told the police.’
Treasure was conscious that Bantree and Wadkin were content with being silent observers of this interchange. ‘Mr Happenwack, who is Stacey?’ he asked quietly.
‘The Inspector already asked me that one, and as far as I know she’s a figment of your imagination, sir.’
‘She?’
‘Well, the only Staceys I know are girls – but they’re all back in the States.’ Happenwack glanced around the group. ‘Isn’t Stacey a girl’s name over here?’
‘It’s not a common name in this country, Mr Happenwack,’ offered Bantree.
Treasure sighed. ‘So you’re not involved in any fifty-fifty deal with a Stacey?’
Happenwack shrugged his shoulders and directed a look of blank incomprehension at the Inspector. The question remained unanswered.
‘Assuming Mr Happenwack admits he’s been tearing around this village in a yellow Volkswagen, is the car his?’ Treasure addressed this question to the Inspector.
‘He does admit driving the car, sir, and it belongs to the owner of the cottage Mr Happenwack is renting. The estate agent acting for the owner confirms that the car goes with the cottage. Sergeant Wadkin talked to the gentleman concerned in person an hour ago. The lease was arranged last week – references were waived in view of Mr Happenwack’s … er … profession, though he does have impressive letters of introduction from church dignitaries in America.’ The Inspector paused, looking from Treasure to Happenwack, and back again; neither appeared to have anything to say. ‘There were, of course, no witnesses to this … er … conversation, sir?’
The question had been directed at Treasure, but it was Happenwack who replied. ‘No, worse luck, and I’m the foreigner so I guess if there’s any doubt, I don’t get the benefit.’
In some unaccountable way this remark hurt Treasure almost as much as the challenge to his own verity. ‘In that supposition, Mr Happenwack,’ he said stonily, ‘you are entirely wrong. Were it not for the complete impartiality of the British legal system your situation at this moment would be a good deal more uncomfortable than it is.’
In the unlikely event that Happenwack was a priest, Treasure felt that he had missed his true vocation as an actor. The performance was flawless. He also came to the conclusion that it was purposeless to continue the interview. ‘Inspector, if it’s all the same to you I’d like to go to bed. I appreciate your problem, but you’ll accept that it’s your problem and not mine. I’ve told you all I know. Mr Happenwack has given you his version. As I see it, you have to use your own judgement on who is telling the truth. I have no doubt Mr Happenwack has accounted for his movements during today, just as he has satisfied you on the matter of his credentials.’ The Inspector nodded, and made as if to say something, but Treasure continued, ‘That being the case, I wish you a very good night.’
The vice-chairman of Grenwood, Phipps was unused to having his word questioned, and to suffering the further indignity of having its reliability debated. Equally he did not intend to allow any provincial policeman to get away with false precedents in either context. A plan had formulated in his mind, triggered by a piece of information supplied by the Inspector, and the sooner he could be rid of the present company the sooner he could begin to execute it. Time was of the essence, and the time in New York was six-thirty in the evening.
Chapter Sixteen
‘And how’s it going to sound when I say I spent the night with the Vicar?’ asked Miss Goodbody primly but a shade more lightly than she would have posed the same question when cold sober. The steady flow of wine at dinner had induced a liberalizing euphoria which she was finding entirely agreeable.
‘I should say that would depend upon the Vicar,’ said Trapp with mock solemnity. ‘D’you want some more coffee?’
The two were seated in separate armchairs in the living-room of the vicarage. Miss Goodbody had eschewed the sofa – but only just – and was curled up comfortably, shoes discarded as an act of conscious abandonment. Trapp was sprawled opposite her, absent-mindedly stroking Bach’s head while the recipient of his favours dribbled contentedly on to his master’s best pair of trousers.
Moonlight had found the evening air chilly and had excused himself to return to the Dower House before the three had reached the river. Trapp and Miss Goodbody had later discovered that the chain ferry – a large punt attached to a submerged length of continuous chain – was moored and secured on the opposite bank of the river. They had returned to the vicarage intending to telephone the landlord of The Jolly Boatman with the request that he unlock the ferry. This plan had been abandoned after they had come to assess the degree of jollity likely to be displayed by even the best-tempered of boatmen summoned from bed at a quarter to midnight. It was then that Trapp had suggested Miss Goodbody should sleep at the vicarage.
The girl declined the offer of more coffee, and avoided the sobering gaze of Bach, who, in the manner of his breed, was affecting the expression of a not entirely approving elder statesman. In truth he was simply rather sleepy but unwilling to miss the bonus of unaccustomed human attention at so late an hour.
‘I can hardly attend eight o’clock Communion dressed like this.’
‘Oh, I don’t know, you might set a trend, and anyway, I think you look rather fetching.’ Miss Goodbody wished she had chosen the sofa after all.
‘I suppose I could pop back to The Boatman early and change. Geoffrey said he’d be here at ten to look at the picture. I hope the newspaper works.’ Miss Goodbody’s curator friend, though frankly sceptical about the provenance of the painting, had advised spreading newspaper on the treated part to sop up any residue of white spirit.
‘If you intend creeping away from my vicarage in evening dress at seven o’clock in the morning, I’ll be able to sell tickets for Matins. Tell you what, I’ll give you a hand-bell to ring when you go down the drive!’
Miss Goodbody looked genuinely concerned. ‘Timothy, I think you should take me back in the car.’
‘What, and have Constable Humble apprehend me for driving under the influence?’
‘You’re not under the influence.’
‘Yes, I am – yours … Thelma, will you marry me?’
‘Timothy, are you serious?’
‘I’ve never been more serious in my life.’
‘You’re sure you’re not a tiny bit tipsy … I mean, you don’t look serious.’
Bach was following this exchange like a spectator at a tennis match with a stiff neck, his eyes moved from Trapp to Miss Goodbody, and back again, but his head continued to rest on Trapp’s knee.
‘Thelma, will you marry me?’ repeated Trapp slowly and distinctly.
Her euphoria increasing to something approaching sheer ecstasy, the girl rose from the armchair and progressed shoeless but with dignity to the sofa. Thelma Goodbody was a romantic at heart. This was her moment, and she did not intend to have the memory of it spoiled by the confines of an armchair. Arranging herself in the centre of the sofa in a pose she considered suitable for the acceptance of a proposal of marriage – as well as for whatever it was that came after – she smiled demurely at Trapp. ‘Come here and I’ll tell you.’
Th
e answer Miss Goodbody gave Timothy Trapp, bringing contentment to him, (as it did later to his mentor the Bishop of Oxford) should have marked the end of a perfect evening.
Mark Treasure waited patiently in the study of the Dower House, the telephone held close to his ear. Transatlantic ’phone calls were common enough events in his business life but he had never broken the habit of listening harder and talking louder on intercontinental telephone lines. The stage-doorman at the Grant Theater on West 43rd Street, New York, had evinced no particular surprise at receiving a call for Miss Forbes all the way from England. Yes, Miss Forbes was in the theatre but she was not in her dressing-room; ‘curtain up’ was in fifteen minutes so he guessed she must be around somewhere. If Mr Treasure would hold his horses the call-boy should locate her any minute now.
‘Mark, darling, are you all right?’
Treasure assured his wife that the accident, illness, fire, or comparable dire event she invariably assumed preceded a long-distance telephone call from him had been staved off once again. There then followed the familiar endearments, the explanation that he was not in Kuwait but staying with the Moonlights, and his promise to transmit messages of affection to Arthur and Elizabeth.
‘Molly, are you going up to Alan and Jill’s at Roundtop tonight?’ Alan Foster, an expatriate English actor, was in the cast of another Broadway play. He and his wife were old friends of the Treasures, and Molly spent most of her weekends with them at their home in New York State when she was playing in New York.
‘Yes, Alan’s picking me up after the show.’
‘Good, I want you to do something for me on the way. There’s an Episcopalian church in Roundtop called St John the Divine, at least I think there is …’
A few minutes later Treasure replaced the telephone with the largest sense of achievement he had experienced all day. If the Reverend Dale Henry Happenwack had wanted to provide Treasure with an open opportunity to check on his background and origins he could hardly have done a better job. Roundtop might have no particular significance for Inspector Bantree, nor would it have had for the vast majority of serving officers in the police forces of Great Britain. It so happened, however, that Molly Forbes, the actress wife of Mark Treasure, was currently spending most of her weekends there.
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