EG04 - The Trail of the Wild Rose

by Anthony Eglin

  The phone rang shortly after five. Kingston picked it up, putting down the book he was reading.

  “It’s Sheffield,” the inspector said curtly.

  “Good news, I trust?” Kingston replied.

  “’Fraid not. Looks like he gave us the slip.”

  “Really?”

  “The French police think it was doubtful that he ever got on the train at Waterloo. They had police swarming all over the platform when it arrived, and went through it, stem to stern, after everyone disembarked. He must have got wind somehow that he was being followed.”

  There was a moment’s silence.

  “Damn!” said Kingston. “Why on earth didn’t I think of it before?”

  “What?”

  “It’s the only answer. I’m positive he wouldn’t have spotted me. It had to be his brother. The minute I escaped from the house, he must have called Hobbs’s mobile. Told him that I was chasing him.”

  “Of course. He only had to watch you leave the terminal, wait until boarding time to make sure you didn’t come back with a ticket, then leave. Everyone has a bloody mobile these days, even my seven-year-old nephew.”

  “Convenience and a curse.”

  “Right. Well, I think we’d better have a word with this brother of his. He tried to hold you in the house against your will. Is that right?”

  “It is.”

  “That’s unlawful imprisonment.”

  “You might also want to ask him if he owns a motorcycle and, if he does, impound it.”

  “Motorcycle? You know something that we don’t, Doctor?”

  “Just a wild theory,” Kingston replied. Now wasn’t the right time to tell the inspector that, at last, he had come up with a plausible, all-inclusive hypothesis as to how the murders were committed and why. That was going to require more than just a phone conversation.

  “All right, we will. I won’t ask you why now, but if it’s not too much trouble, it would be most appreciated if you could fill me in when we next talk—Doctor.”

  There was no doubting the insinuation in the inspector’s tone.

  The next day’s post brought the usual junk mail and bills, as well as a small pale blue envelope with Kingston’s address in neat cursive handwriting. The letter inside, on matching paper, was from Sally Mayhew.

  Dear Lawrence,

  You will remember, I’m sure, my saying that, given the right opportunity, I might consider moving abroad. Well, out of the blue, that opportunity has presented itself. A friend, whose husband passed away recently, has offered me the use of their farmhouse in a village close to Émilion. She doubts she will use it much now and plans to sell it eventually. In the meantime, she said that if I agree to maintain it, I can live there as long as I like. My French is awfully rusty but I’m sure it will come back after a while.

  I’d hoped that we could meet again so that I could tell you my good news over a glass of wine, but this has all happened so quickly, and I must leave in the next few days, or she’ll have to rent it. Once settled in, I may try to find a temporary job in St. Émilion before looking for something better-paying in Bordeaux, which, as you may know, is only about a half hour away.

  When I’ve found my feet, I’ll give you a call and let you know how things are working out. At that time, perhaps you will have more news on Peter’s death and the other wretched business, though I doubt it. Thanks again for the wonderful lunch, and for being so kind. I wish you well.

  Fondest regards,

  Sally

  Kingston was pleased at Sally’s good fortune, even a trace envious. For a moment he was lost in a distant memory of a sublime weekend once spent at a small villa in the vineyards of St. Émilion, during the vendange. Glancing at her letter again, an unexpected sense of disappointment dislodged his first thoughts. But as quickly as it came, the flicker of self-pity evaporated. If she were agreeable, perhaps he could go over for a visit once she’d got herself established. He could picture Andrew’s reaction already.

  What was going on? he wondered. Suddenly everybody was skipping out of the country, or trying to. First Bell, then Hobbs, now Sally. In Bell’s case, maybe not the country, but there was no doubt now that he’d gone underground. The way Kingston now had it figured, Arthur Hobbs had murdered David Jenkins. Whether or not this was done at Spenser Graves’s bidding was a big question mark. The idea of Graves being involved in such a heinous act seemed out of character. He might have been able to irrationally justify stealing the bowl, but murder was another thing entirely. That is, unless Kingston had completely misjudged the man.

  With his alibis, Julian Bell’s role in the murders was equally perplexing. Disappearing the way he had strongly suggested that he wasn’t prepared to face any more questions from the police, either about the hijacking of the bowl or as a possible murder suspect. Then again, giving him the benefit of the doubt, there was always the long shot that he had been called away for good reason. Kingston pulled on his earlobe. He didn’t believe that for one moment, though. Once again, he appeared to be up against the proverbial brick wall. Perhaps he should go over the alibis again.

  Kingston wasn’t expecting a call from Inspector Sheffield quite so soon. Only two days had passed since their last conversation. When the inspector announced himself, Kingston’s immediate thought was that he might be calling about Ben—if he’d been arrested— and about the motorbike. He couldn’t have been more wrong.

  “Well, Doctor,” said Sheffield. “I’ve got bad news. Bad, depending on how you look at it, I suppose.” He paused. “Arthur Hobbs is dead.”

  “Good grief! When did that happen—how?”

  “His body was pulled out of the Thames last night, at Wapping.”

  “Drowned?”

  “No, blunt-force trauma, according to the SOCO. What you might call fatal whacks to the head. No water in the lungs.”

  “A homicide, then?”

  “Could be. Or a botched robbery.”

  “Any witnesses?”

  Sheffield’s sigh was unmistakable. “In answer to your question— which I do hope will be your last—no. Not yet, anyway. The only eyewitness accounts, according to the Met, are a barmaid and the inebriated patron of a nearby pub. Both confirm that a man answering Hobbs’s description was drinking with another man that night, a bigger man. They left the pub together, apparently.”

  “Not much to go on,” said Kingston, the inspector’s stern admonition still in mind. He risked a rhetorical question. “I wonder if Hobbs was involved in the theft of the bowl? If he knew what Graves and Bell were up to?”

  “I know where you’re going, Kingston, but until we catch up with Mr. Bell, I doubt those implicit questions of yours will be answered.”

  Until now, Kingston had been ready to tell Sheffield about his theory: who had murdered Jenkins and how it was accomplished. Now, with Hobbs dead, he needed more time to figure how this might alter things. Now that Sheffield had ruled out further questions, nothing remained to be said. He would just have to save all his questions and thoughts for the next time they talked—or the next time they met face-to-face, which was much more likely.

  The inspector must have been reading his mind. “I think you’d better come to Oxford again.” He was using the policemanlike tone that Kingston had come to recognize so well over the past few years. “We need a formal statement on this Hobbs business, and perhaps you and I should compare notes.”

  “I’d be happy to come up,” Kingston replied. “There’s a lot I want to discuss with you.”

  “You’ll be hearing from me, then. You might want to keep the next couple of days open.”

  “I will.” He hesitated, recalling his earlier thought. It was on his mind anyway, so he might as well say it. “This is becoming like Ten Little Indians,” he remarked.

  “The similarity hadn’t escaped me.”

  “The fifth got dumped in the river, and then there was one.” Knowing how touchy Sheffield could be, Kingston hoped the mild humor would be apprecia
ted.

  “One being Julian Bell.”

  “Exactly,” said Kingston, relieved.

  After they’d hung up, Kingston realized that he’d forgotten to ask about the motorcycle. He presumed that Sheffield had been preoccupied with the grim news about Arthur Hobbs, and it had slipped his mind to say whether the police had arrested Ben yet. Unlawful imprisonment sounded like a serious charge. Ben was surely under lock and key by now, he assumed.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  To start, Doctor, why don’t you give us an account of your meeting with Arthur Hobbs and his brother, at the house in Shepherd’s Bush, and what followed as a result.”

  The two were seated across from each other in an interview room. The inspector had taken Kingston aside earlier, explaining that unlike their first meeting, this one would be formal. Sheffield had stressed that it was as much for convenience and comfort as anything else.

  A plainclothes policewoman, introduced as DC Underwood, sat next to the inspector, a cassette recorder in front of her. The room, though sparsely furnished, had the intended calming effect: comfortable, upholstered chairs, designer-color walls, and Berber carpeting.

  Kingston knew the drill, having been through it years earlier, when he’d been helping the police solve a crime in Somerset. Paradoxically, he enjoyed these exchanges. There was something about them that was perversely appealing to him, a sense of noble purpose about being on the side of justice and the law, observing the thought processes and dynamics of police investigation and procedures. That aside, he knew that he had to be careful not to come off as being overconfident or give the impression that he was matching wits with them. Above all, he must forget that he was once a professor and not assume the authority or language that he’d used in the classroom.

  This interview would be different. Unlike his first face-to-face with Sheffield, this time he was close to having figured out how the murders were committed—at least Jenkins’s—and by whom. His hypothesis wasn’t entirely unassailable but it was sufficiently cogent and persuasive to be credible. It would be interesting to see whether Inspector Sheffield and his team of investigators agreed.

  “I will,” said Kingston, in answer to Sheffield’s question. He allowed Underwood a modest smile, glanced at the red Record light on the recorder, and started. For the next ten minutes he related, in detail, how he had obtained Hobbs’s Shepherd’s Bush address from Alexandra Graves, described his confrontation with the Hobbs brothers at the house on Evelyn Close, how he had managed to escape, and the ensuing chase through the underground, “where,” Kingston said with an apologetic smile, “I met my Waterloo.”

  Sheffield either didn’t get the humor, or chose to ignore it. He leaned back and folded his arms, eyes leveled at Kingston.

  “Well, Doctor,” he said at last. “This case is going from bad to worse. We’ve now got four deaths and one suicide, all linked to this damned plant-hunting expedition. Two—possibly three—of those deaths are homicides.”

  “Not including the Chinese villager,” Kingston added.

  “Right. Because we’re a nation of gardeners, and this case involves well-known people in that world, every Tom, Dick, and Mary in the country is glued to the telly and the newspapers. My people upstairs are wondering why the hell we don’t have someone in custody by now. Or at least have viable suspects.” He paused, eyes leveled at Kingston.

  Kingston knew that from now on he’d better adopt a play-by-the-rules attitude. “Let me speculate on Jenkins’s murder,” he said. “Doing so may provide clues or motives for Lester’s murder, too— even Hobbs’s death, perhaps. One thing I’m sure we can agree on is that they’re all connected.”

  “Very well, why don’t you proceed, Doctor?”

  Kingston took his notes from his inside jacket pocket, unfolded them, and laid them on the desk, smoothing them with his hand.

  “To begin, let’s focus on Arthur Hobbs. How, in my opinion, he conspired to murder David Jenkins at Jenkins’s house in Cornwall. Because of his alibi—which we judged good enough to go unchallenged—I had ruled him out as a suspect. Graves testified that Hobbs was at Audleigh the weekend of the murder. If you recall, he remembered well, because Hobbs was sick at the time. The same goes for the housekeeper. She actually saw him in bed. He even talked to her. Plus, if my memory serves me correctly, one other staff member said that Hobbs was present at that time.”

  Kingston referred briefly to his notes, encouraged that he now had Sheffield’s undivided attention. Then he continued.

  “I don’t think Hobbs was at Audleigh that weekend.”

  “Then who was?”

  “His brother, Ben. When you meet him, you’ll see that he looks remarkably like his brother. Not to the point where they could pass as twins, but close. Their voices are similar, too.”

  “Are you suggesting that Graves was in on the conspiracy?”

  “Not necessarily. But even if he were, that wouldn’t change things. Under normal circumstances, it would’ve been impossible for Ben to masquerade as his brother at Audleigh—not even for a few minutes, let alone the several hours that, in fact, he did. Feigning sickness was ingenious. It kept Ben out of sight, and even if someone entered the bedroom, he could easily pass as his brother under the bedcovers with a faked head cold.” Kingston pinched his nose. “Speaking like this,” he sniveled.

  “We get the idea, Doctor.”

  “Which, in fact, is what he did with Maud, when she took soup up to his room. To set it up, Arthur likely complained to Graves and others of feeling under the weather. He then retired to his room, instructing that he not be disturbed.”

  “Is this why you asked me about Ben having a motorcycle?”

  “Yes. Speed was crucial. Also, for obvious reasons, Arthur Hobbs’s car had to remain at Audleigh, so he borrowed Ben’s bike. Ben most likely rode it up to Leicestershire, parked it out of sight near Audleigh, then took his brother’s place in bed— sometime on Friday evening. Arthur then took off on the bike for Cornwall, killed Jenkins, and hightailed it back, changing places with his brother early Saturday morning.”

  “So you’re saying that Ben needed to be at Audleigh only during the time that it took Arthur to drive to Cornwall, kill Jenkins, and return?”

  “Correct. Allowing Hobbs time to locate Jenkins’s place at night and carry out the murder, I calculated that he could be back at Audleigh within about nine and a half hours, with time to spare. It’s about a five-hundred-mile round-trip but mostly Motorway. The M5 goes all the way from Birmingham to Exeter in Devon.”

  “That could account for the farmer’s wife hearing a motorbike after midnight, early Saturday morning.”

  “It would,” Kingston replied, glancing at his notes.

  “Well, your theory sounds plausible. We’ll have to go over our notes and transcripts to see how it all checks out.”

  “Before getting to Lester, can we talk briefly about the way Jenkins was killed?”

  “Is that relevant?”

  “It could be.”

  “Go ahead, then.”

  “Chloroform and blunt-force trauma, you said?”

  “Correct.”

  “I’m sure you know, Inspector, that chloroform is a dangerous chemical compound, employed mostly for pharmaceutical and industrial purposes. It was once used as an anesthetic, but too many patients were dying of cardiac arrest, and it was abandoned in favor of ether. Because my scant knowledge was based solely on what I’d read in whodunits and seen in the movies, I did a little research. How did Hobbs obtain the chloroform? I asked myself. I discovered that, because of its solvent properties, one of its principal uses is to prepare organic tissues for testing. Research laboratories store gallons of the stuff. In most cases, the lab would be a biochemistry outfit. However, these places are well guarded, requiring passes and other identification before entry is permitted. So whoever acquired the chloroform had to know someone who worked in such a lab, or worked there himself—or herself. Or got it elsewhere, of course.�
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  “So how do you propose he obtained the chloroform? Broke into a research lab?”

  “Doubtful. It’s much more plausible that he got it from someone on the inside, or someone who knew a lab employee. You could check all labs for break-ins, though.”

  Sheffield didn’t look too convinced, but he said nothing.

  “So, once having got his hands on the chloroform—most likely through a second party—would he have sought instruction on how to handle and apply it? I asked myself this, because I also discovered that contrary to common belief, disabling an able-bodied person with chloroform is no easy task. It can take a minute or so to render even a passive victim unconscious.”

  Sheffield’s expression had changed. He looked fidgety, less interested in what Kingston was saying. “Look, Doctor,” he said at last, “I appreciate the encyclopedic knowledge you’ve dug up on this stuff, but unless it’s relevant, could we please get on with it?”

  Kingston nodded. “I’ll hurry it up.” With a tug of his shirt cuffs, he continued. “I’ve concluded the following: Hobbs likely surprised Jenkins and tried to kill him with a lethal dose of chloroform. When Jenkins, who we know was a fit man, put up an unexpected struggle, Hobbs was left with no choice but to beat him to death. That would explain the burns on Jenkins’s mouth. Chloroform applied to the skin for a few seconds will leave no trace. To burn and blister, it must be left on longer.”

  “This was all discussed with our forensic chaps. We’d requested that the Metropolitan police pathologist check Hobbs’s hands and arms for burns. I was told there weren’t any.”

  “No fingerprints at the crime scene?”

  “None.”

  “Not surprising.”

  Sheffield looked dubious. “I must confess it’s the first time I’ve run across chloroform used in a crime.” His expression changed to puzzlement. “You said you thought that Hobbs might have obtained the chloroform from a second party. You had Bell in mind? Right? He’s a doctor. He could probably lay his hands on it easily.”