I gazed in stunned silence. I was holding an icon, very beautiful, very old. For a moment I wondered if it was Greek. Then I smiled, as I realised with absolute certainty, that it wasn’t Greek. It was Russian.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
On the phone Inspector Ford sounded almost impressed. ‘Well done, Miss Browne, on finding the icon. It has some interesting prints on it …’
I’d taken the icon over to police headquarters the next morning, feeling very proud of myself, but the inspector hadn’t been around and I’d been forced to hand it over to Cruella DeVille. Her little mini-mouth had worked furiously.
‘Oh?’ I said, trying not to sound excited. I let Bill make himself comfy on my lap.
‘The prints of Albert Evans, for one,’ the inspector went on, ‘and also your friend Sergei Zhotahyehski. In fact, Mr Zhotahyehski has been occupying my attention for most of the weekend.’ The inspector sounded weary.
‘He’s confessed?’
‘Well, he’s talking,’ he went on with a sigh. ‘He knows he’s going to serve time and he’s concerned about where he’s going to serve it. He thinks if he co-operates, it might give him some bargaining power. We’ve enough evidence from the abandoned car to convict him of the murder of Ilya Pietrov, and he’s admitted to his part in the manslaughter of Albert Evans.’
‘Manslaughter?’ I echoed.
‘He claims Evans died of a heart attack, they didn’t intend to kill him, only meant to frighten him.’
‘And Nick?’ I persisted. ‘Has he confessed to killing Nick?’ I felt impatient, wanted to wind the inspector up, like a watch that was ticking too slowly.
He paused before he spoke again. ‘Let me tell you what we’ve been able to piece together so far. It seems that the icon first came into the possession of Mr Evans, possibly legally, although it had certainly been stolen from Mother Russia at some point, maybe as far back as the Second World War. Anyway, knowing that Nick had Russian connections, Evans offered him a share of the proceeds if he could sell it for him.’
‘And he tried to sell it to Vlad? I mean … Zhotahyehski?’
‘Shall we agree to call him Vlad?’ the inspector suggested. ‘It’s a lot easier. According to Vlad, Nick approached his employer, who we have to assume is a Russian national, probably living in London.’
‘Don’t we … I mean, you … know who he is?’
‘I could make an educated guess, several, but Vlad is not prepared to identify him; he’s worried about who might be able to get at him while he’s inside. But whoever this man is, he was very interested in the icon and sent Vlad down to look at it and report back. But Nick wasn’t prepared to let him see it without a down payment. He claimed there were others interested in the icon and Vlad’s boss would have to secure his own interest with cash, as it were. This is not uncommon practice, apparently. The down payment was agreed and handed over, photographs of the object taken, our friend returns to London and reports back to his boss who puts in an offer for the icon, which is accepted. All fine so far.’
‘But?’ I asked as the inspector drew breath.
‘But then it seems that Nickolai and Evans claimed they’d had a better offer from someone else. We have no idea whether this was true or just an attempt to force the price up, but Vlad’s boss was furious. The price had been agreed and he was not prepared to get into a bidding war. He sends Vlad and Pietrov down to Ashburton to get his deposit back … and I think this is where you enter the story, Miss Browne.’
‘That’s why they were going to beat Nick up that day,’ I said quickly, ‘because he didn’t want to return the money.’ I could just imagine Nick trying to tell Vlad and Igor that the deposit was non-returnable. ‘And that must have been the money that Nick gave back to them in front of Paul. But if the money was returned, surely that should have been the end of it?’
‘Ah, but Vlad had lost face,’ the inspector went on. ‘The whole episode was viewed as a humiliation, a failure. The only way he thought he could salvage his reputation in the eyes of his boss was to obtain the icon himself, preferably without having to pay for it.’
‘But at this point, surely, he wouldn’t know if Nick still had the icon,’ I objected, ‘or if he’d sold it to one of these other interested parties.’
‘He claims that since their encounter with you, Nick had contacted him, privately, told him the icon was still in his possession, and he was still prepared to do a deal.’
I couldn’t believe it. I could have wept at Nick’s stupidity, at his greed. For the first time I felt he deserved what had happened to him. But when it came to money, Nick just couldn’t help himself. ‘The old fool!’ I cried bitterly.
‘Quite!’ the inspector agreed. ‘Unfortunately for Vlad, his boss decides to send him back to Russia on some dirty work, so he has to wait his time.’
‘And then he came back and murdered Nick,’ I completed for him.
The inspector gave one of his long, thoughtful pauses. ‘Well, now that is the really interesting thing, Miss Browne. Vlad claims that when he and Pietrov returned to England, several weeks later, and came down to Ashburton, Mr Nickolai was already dead and his property was a crime scene.’
‘But that can’t be true,’ I protested.
‘They decided this was not a good place for them to hang around and they … er … persuaded Mr Evans that it was in his best interest to break in to Nick’s and steal the icon for them.’
‘But he didn’t.’
‘No, he didn’t, and that’s how he ended up floating among the fishes.’
I chewed this over for a few moments. ‘But we know that Vlad killed Nick.’
‘There’s no forensic evidence connecting him to the murder scene.’
‘But his prints are on the icon,’ I insisted.
‘So are yours.’
‘Meaning what?’ I asked.
‘Meaning that, like you, he once handled the icon. So what? It’s circumstantial. It doesn’t put him in Nick’s living room on the night of the murder.’
‘Shit,’ I muttered angrily.
‘My sentiments exactly, Miss Browne.’
When I thought about it later, what the inspector had said made perfect sense. If Vlad and Igor had murdered Nick, why wouldn’t they have searched for the icon at the time, torn the place apart, as they had Albert Evans’s place? The police had also been able to confirm that Vlad and Igor had flown back from Russia on the date he said they had, after Nick was murdered.
So that was that. For so long I had nurtured my conviction that Vlad was Nick’s murderer, that now I was at a loss. I didn’t know what to think. Richard and Helena were the only other suspects and they both had alibis. I felt a terrible sense of anti-climax. And my mood wasn’t improved by the fact that I had attracted the attention of the local press. A spotty youth from the Dartmoor Gazette had been round to the house to interview me about my exploits in Paul’s workshop. I made it to the front page of the next edition: LOCAL HEROINE CATCHES KILLER. It was so bloody embarrassing. I’d caught a killer all right. He just turned out to be the wrong killer.
Needless to say, Ricky and Morris found all this hilarious. Unfortunately, I was booked to work for them the day after the newspaper came out, so there was no dodging the issue, if you’ll forgive the pun. After an hour or so of remorseless roasting, I threatened to go home if they didn’t shut up. They promised to be good and I sorted out returned School for Scandal costumes, unmolested, until it was time for tea, when the subject of the murder inevitably came up again.
‘Did you ring your solicitor,’ Morris called out to me, as I dumped an armful of frilly shirts that needed washing into the laundry hamper, ‘about who witnessed Nick’s will?’
‘Yes,’ I replied, sitting at the breakfast-room table. ‘I tried Mr Young again on Monday. It was Albert Evans.’ It seemed quite weird to me, that Bert Evans had known that Nick had left his property to me long before I did. Perhaps that’s why he had wanted to find out about me from the Smith
sons: he fancied pursuing a woman of property. The thought made my stomach churn.
‘And who else, did he say?’ Morris asked, passing a cup to me. ‘There must have been a second witness.’
‘Ooh. I hadn’t thought of that!’ Ricky declared, excited. ‘You mean another suspect, someone who didn’t like the fact that Nick was leaving the place to Juno.’
‘Well, who was it?’ Morris asked, a biscuit poised halfway to his parted lips.
I beckoned them closer, lowering my voice to a confidential whisper. ‘Mr Singh.’
They both burst out laughing.
‘Can you imagine it?’ Ricky demanded. ‘Nick, ringing poor old Mr Singh, asking him to pop round with a packet of biscuits and would he mind witnessing a signature while he was there.’
I could. Poor, dear Mr Singh. I imagined that is exactly what happened.
‘Well, there you are,’ Ricky went on, eyes dancing. ‘Mr Singh, he’s obviously the murderer.’
‘Never!’
‘When you have eliminated the impossible,’ Ricky quoted Conan Doyle, miming having a pipe to his mouth, ‘whatever remains, however improbable, must be the—’
‘Oh, belt up, Sherlock!’ Morris advised him.
‘Mr Young did mention one thing I found interesting.’
They both looked at me.
‘He told me the date the will was witnessed. I worked out it wasn’t long after Richard had last visited his father, which made me wonder if they had quarrelled. If that was the reason Nick had decided to alter his will in my favour.’
‘Which made you wonder if Richard killed his father,’ Ricky said. ‘Except that Richard has an alibi.’
‘I know,’ I sighed. ‘I just keep going round in circles.’
‘You know, darling,’ Morris took my hand, his round face serious. ‘Sometimes we never find out the answer to things. Sometimes we just have to accept that we’ll never know.’
Ricky nodded in agreement. ‘You should stop tormenting yourself about the murder, sweetheart. Let it go.’
Morris patted my hand anxiously. ‘He’s right, Juno. You know he’s right. Let it go.’
I knew they were right, of course, just as I knew it was impossible.
I told Paul as much that evening, when I took him out for a pint. It was the least I could do after the havoc I had wrought in his workshop. He listened, but he agreed with Morris and Ricky. ‘Nick had been in business a long time. You can bet that Vlad wasn’t the first person he tried to cross. Over the years there may well have been other people who had a motive.’
‘For killing him?’
‘For quarrelling with him, perhaps,’ he said unhappily. ‘All I’m saying is, I expect he’s made enemies.’
‘Well, there’s Verbena Clarke …’ I began.
Paul groaned and put his face in his hands. He gave a muffled cry. ‘Juno, please, enough!’ After a moment he looked up and gave me that dark, direct stare of his. ‘Enough. OK?’
‘I’m sorry.’
There was a moment’s silence then he changed the subject. ‘I got on with draining the tank today,’ he told me, leaning back in his chair and picking up his pint, ‘and I’ve put new locks on the doors. I don’t want anyone else poking around in there. When I think what might have happened to you’ − he flashed a grin − ‘famous local heroine.’
‘Oh, don’t you start!’
‘Actually,’ he added, serious again, ‘now that I’ve done that, I won’t be coming down here again.’ He looked down into his glass for a moment, hesitated. ‘This is my last visit.’
I hope I didn’t look as shocked as I felt. My head told me this was a good thing, but my heart still sank. ‘So this is goodbye, then?’
‘I’ve still got some work to finish and some packing up to do, but in a day or two I’ll be heading back.’
‘I see.’
‘We’ll get together again,’ he promised, ‘before I go.’
I summoned up a smile and held up my glass in a toast. ‘Here’s to Henry Wain and Arnold Bishop,’ I said. ‘May they never run out of Darkolene.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
I finally got around to clearing out Nick’s kitchen. I’d been putting it off. I didn’t know what to do about Nick’s flat, knew I wouldn’t feel comfortable living there, so I’d put off giving the place the thorough blitzing that it needed. I should have done it weeks ago. Now, it had become part-therapy, a way to get through the weekend, and part-penance. I scraped away at the tiny, frosted-up icebox of Nick’s ancient fridge, which had been chugging away valiantly for months because no one − not me, nor the solicitor, nor Nick’s family − had thought to turn it off. The contents, in various stages of decomposition, were resting in black plastic refuse sacks en route to the bins outside, along with well-wrapped bottles of various nasty substances cleared from the cupboard under the sink.
After hacking away with a knife, struggling to unjam a packet of fish fingers set solidly into a block of ice, I decided to abandon the fridge, let it get on by itself, leave the ice to defrost naturally, although the polar ice caps would probably have melted before it released its hold on the fish fingers. I spread newspaper on the floor to sop up any wetness and turned my attention to the kitchen cupboards. They were packed with such a weight of tins, jars and bottles I was surprised they’d stayed up on the walls.
Nick had either never heard of sell-by dates or he collected antique food. I threw away ancient tins of tongue and corned beef, packets of dried peas and pudding rice, jars of old pickle and congealing Worcester sauce, bottles of Camp Coffee Essence and tins of mustard powder. I junked the lot.
As I cleared my way to the back of the shelves, I came across an enamelled tin flour shaker and a sugar sifter, old-fashioned kitchenware, quite collectable now. I decided to ditch the contents, wash them out, and put them downstairs with the stock for the shop. As I reached for them, the fridge let drop a chunk of ice, startling me into dropping the flour shaker. The lid came off in a puff of flour and the contents spilt across the worktop. I let out a suitable expletive and grabbed a dustpan and brush.
As I was about to sweep the whole lot up, I saw something glisten. There were lumpy objects in the white powder. I picked one up, blew on it, and a little red eye shone up at me through a dusty coating. I picked up the two other objects, holding them in my cupped palm, and ran them under the kitchen tap, washing the flour away. They came up shining. Three rings: a cluster of tiny diamonds, a row of three rubies, and a square cut emerald.
‘You sly old toad,’ I said aloud to Nick.
I had to admit it was a good hiding place. I would take the greatest of pleasure in returning the rings to Mrs Helena Burgoyne. I tried them on. I quite liked the emerald, but it was made for daintier fingers than mine and so, reluctantly, I dried the rings off, wrapped them carefully in kitchen paper and stowed them in my bag.
‘I don’t suppose there are any more in here,’ I said aloud to myself as I rattled the sugar sifter. I heard the clunk of a solid object. There was more in there than sugar.
Unlike the flour shaker, the lid of the sugar sifter was stiff, rusty around the rim, and I had to bang it on the edge of the table to force it off. It was about two-thirds full of sugar. As I tipped out the sparkly little granules I could see the top of a pale, rounded object breaking through the surface. I poured the sugar down the sink, watching the object in the bottom slowly reveal itself. Then I slid it out from the sifter and held it in my hand.
I knew now why Old Nick had been murdered. And I knew who had killed him. A cold feeling of dread settled inside me. I knew who the murderer was now. And I wished I didn’t.
CHAPTER FORTY
‘Hello, Juno.’ He looked up from his work, surprised. ‘I wasn’t expecting to see you today.’
‘Hello, Paul. I wasn’t sure if you’d be here.’
He had an upturned table on the workbench and was delicately gluing a sliver of thin veneer on to one of its legs. He smiled. ‘Just let me get
a clamp fixed on this and I’ll be with you.’
I watched him silently, watched his strong, clever hands. Why didn’t I just walk out again, forget the weighty little object in my pocket, walk away, let Paul go back to his family unchallenged, live his life? Because Nick, lying dead on the rug, wouldn’t let me.
He wiped his hands down over the hips of his jeans. ‘There.’ He looked at me, brows raised enquiringly, and his smile faded. ‘Are you all right?’
I swallowed. There was a lump in my throat, hard as a boiled sweet. ‘I think this belongs to you.’ I pulled the object from my pocket and placed it on my palm, holding my arm outstretched. For a moment his eyes widened, lighting up with relief and joy. He reached out as if to take it and then faltered. His eyes looked into mine, all the colour in his face draining away. Even his lips looked bloodless. He knew that I knew.
‘Where did you find it?’ he asked softly.
‘In the kitchen,’ I answered. ‘He’d hidden it in a sugar sifter.’ We both gazed at the object on my palm: the figure of an old Japanese man, exquisitely carved, carrying a staff, his bald head slightly elongated, a rippling beard flowing down his front. ‘Ivory netsuke, eighteenth century, signed by Shugetsu,’ I said slowly, ‘current value at auction between fifty and fifty-five thousand pounds. I’ve been doing my homework.’ I smiled sadly. ‘I never asked you if you’d found the one you lost. It is yours, isn’t it?’
Paul couldn’t take his eyes off the little figure, but he nodded, slowly picking it up in his fingers and holding it reverently. ‘I bought it in an auction, in a box of bric-a-brac.’ He shook his head with the irony of it. ‘The whole box cost me five pounds. I only bought it because there were a few brass drawer handles that I thought might be useful. I didn’t realise this was in there, left the box lying around for months before I sorted through it.’
‘Did you realise how valuable it was?’ I asked.
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