EG04 - The Trail of the Wild Rose

by Anthony Eglin

  Next morning, after another unsuccessful attempt to reach Mrs. Leslie, Kingston called the phone company to be told that they could not check if mobile numbers were in service; the phone was either off or disabled. It looked as though the serendipitous receipt, which he’d been pinning his hopes on, was not going to help.

  Midmorning, Kingston caught up with Inspector Sheffield. It came as no surprise to hear that he already knew all the details of Bell’s death and Kingston’s involvement. The Welsh police had given him a full report. This saved Kingston a lot of explaining.

  “I’m not going to ask you how you came to be at the house in Wales, Doctor,” Sheffield said. “With our last and only suspect likely murdered, it hardly seems to matter anymore. For what it’s worth, though, I might as well ask what you make of it all.”

  Kingston was mildly surprised at the question. “Of course,” he replied. “After having thought about it round the clock, I keep reaching the same conclusion. If we assume that Bell’s death is connected to the Mayhew murders—which I believe is the case—then it leaves few suspects, five, if you want to include Kavanagh: the three Chinese and one woman—Sally Mayhew.”

  “Sally Mayhew?”

  “Right.” Kingston wondered if he should mention the drycleaning receipt, deciding it was irrelevant now.

  “I thought you said that she’d gone to France.”

  “That’s what she told me. I had no reason to disbelieve her. Doesn’t mean that she couldn’t have come back, though. Particularly if somehow she’d found out that Bell really did kill her brother. That would certainly be sufficient motive for her wanting revenge, wouldn’t you think?”

  “You’re ruling out the Chinese, then?”

  “For now, yes.”

  “What about the guide they never questioned, the chap who went back to Tibet?”

  “Regardless, I still think Sally Mayhew is the person we should be looking for.”

  “Did she say where she was going?”

  “To St. Émilion, to look after a friend’s house, rent free.”

  “All right. We’ll talk to the French police; see if they can track her down. Our immigration people will be able to tell us if she reentered the country.”

  “Or even left in the first place.”

  “Another possibility. I’ll let you know what we find out, Doctor. Oh, and one thing more—please don’t you go looking for her. If she did murder Bell, she won’t be too happy if you show up. She may still have the weapon, too, a small-caliber handgun.”

  “Where on earth would I start to look for her?” Kingston replied. “I hardly know anything about the woman.”

  “Just a caution,” Sheffield mumbled.

  After putting down the phone, Kingston thought about his answer to Sheffield’s question. Where would he start? he asked himself. The question was rhetorical. He shrugged it off. But he couldn’t shake off the thought of Sally Mayhew on the run with a firearm.

  THIRTY-TWO

  The Times crossword puzzle not only kept Kingston mentally active but also took his mind off other problems. Today, one cryptic clue in particular had him stumped. He was certain that the answer was an anagram, hidden in the clue, which was: One wouldn’t expect to find pink, green rats at an animal enclosure here. (2,7,4). On a pad, he jotted down the words “pink green rats,” shuffling around the thirteen letters in his mind to make the three-word answer. At last, he figured it out: in Regent’s Park, where London’s zoo was located.

  He put down his propelling pencil and looked out the window, thinking. Regent’s Park . . . York Terrace . . . Sally Mayhew’s friend’s house, where the cab had dropped her off that day after their lunch. He remembered the black door with its classic fanlight and brass letter box. It was an awfully long shot, he knew, but if Sally were in Britain, and had killed Julian Bell, where would she hide? She could have rented a place, or might be holed up in a hotel, but the house at York Terrace would be as safe as anywhere and certainly provide the anonymity she would want. It was worth the try, he convinced himself as he tidied up the kitchen, preparing to leave.

  An hour later, Kingston stood at the portico of the Georgian house and pressed the polished brass doorbell set in the shiny black door. After an adequate interval, he pressed again—still no response. He lifted the letter box flap, taking a quick peek. It was blocked from the other side. Disappointed, he turned and walked up the street. He’d have to come back and try again later. About to turn the corner, eyes open for a cab, he noticed an unoccupied bench. He turned and looked back. If he sat there, he would be able to see the house. He had all afternoon with nothing to do. At least he could camp on the bench for a half hour or so, to see if anyone showed up. He sat, crossed his legs, and tried to appear as if this was part of his daily routine. He soon wished he’d brought a newspaper or a book. He would have felt less conspicuous, and the time would have passed more quickly. He stuck it out for forty minutes, finally deciding to give up for the day. As it was, he might be left no choice. The skies had darkened and rain looked inevitable. The elegant limestone buildings opposite stood out in sharp contrast to the pitch-black thunderclouds.

  He took one last look at the place. As he turned to leave, he saw a cab pull up outside the house. A woman emerged. She wore a cloche hat and was carrying a large carrier bag. She rummaged in her shoulder purse for money to pay the cabbie. He started to walk toward her. If he hurried, he figured he could get there before she had time to open the door and disappear, so he could get a close look at her.

  Now only several yards away, Kingston could see that the woman’s hair was dark and short. Sally’s was auburn and shoulder length. It must be her friend, he thought. The cab was leaving, and she was halfway up the steps to the front door, key in hand.

  “Excuse me, miss,” he said.

  Startled, she turned. “What?”

  It was Sally.

  “You look as surprised as I am,” he said.

  She shied away, flustered, fumbling to get the key in the lock.

  “Sally, we need to talk,” said Kingston, standing on the bottom step. It was more of a demand than a request.

  “Please go away,” she said angrily. “I can’t see you.” She’d opened the door, about to enter. “Go away, or I’ll call the police.”

  She was now inside, Kingston on the top step. Just as she was about to slam the door in his face, he stretched out a leg and jammed his size-twelve shoe in the door. “I think you’d better let me in,” he said. “I just came back from the house in Wales. We have a lot to talk about, Sally,” he said calmly.

  She made no attempt to stop him. It would have been futile anyway, and she knew it. She put down the carrier bag and walked into the living room, placing her purse on the coffee table. He followed her in. She stopped by the window and turned to face him. “You have to leave,” she said, now more composed. “Don’t force me to do anything I might regret, Doctor.”

  “What happened in Wales?” he asked soberly,

  She shook her head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’ve been here ever since I returned from France.”

  “Which was when?”

  “About two weeks ago.”

  “So it didn’t work out in St. Émilion?”

  “No, it didn’t.”

  “You don’t know about Julian Bell, then?”

  She frowned. “What about him?”

  Kingston studied her face before answering. “He was murdered.”

  She put a hand to her mouth. “When?”

  “We don’t know yet, but let’s say sometime during the last week.”

  “You said ‘we.’ Are you still working with the police?”

  Kingston nodded. “I am, yes.”

  A pause followed. Kingston waited for her to say something, wondering how long the cat-and-mouse game would continue.

  “How was he killed?” she said at last. “He was shot—in the living room at his brother’s house in Wales. At least that’s where his body was fo
und. Small-caliber handgun, so I’m told.” Kingston decided on an impulse, for reasons he couldn’t explain, not to say that it was he who had found the body.

  She said nothing, simply stared at him.

  “I’m curious,” said Kingston, moving closer. At the sofa, he stopped and leaned on the back of it. “Did Julian tell you about his scheme to steal the bowl?”

  Her impatience was starting to show. “I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about. Would you please leave? Right now!” she snapped.

  Kingston searched her face as he inched toward the coffee table. Was she telling the truth? Had he got it all wrong, been too clever for his boots? He started again. “I’m curious—”

  “You have a bloody nerve coming here, all but accusing me of murder.” She was close to screaming, her face reddening. “That’s what you’re saying, isn’t it? Well, you couldn’t be more wrong.” She took a long breath. “Now just get out of here, damn you.” She started toward the coffee table to get her purse.

  A horrifying thought crossed Kingston’s mind. Did she still have the gun? Was she about to pull it on him? Or was she really going to call the police? He was beginning to wish he’d taken a more conciliatory approach. “Wait. Wait,” he barked.

  She stopped in front of the table, staring at him, eyes smoldering.

  Suddenly she lunged across the table, but it was too late. Kingston scooped up her purse and stepped back.

  “What the hell are you doing?” she screamed. “Put that down! Put it down!”

  “There’s only one way to find out,” he said calmly, rummaging in her bag, his eyes never leaving hers.

  She started to come around the table. She grabbed the bag’s leather strap and started pulling on it.

  Keeping a tight grip on the purse, Kingston glanced into it. There it was. Not a gun, thank God, but her mobile. He took it out, letting go of the purse, which skidded across the coffee table onto the floor.

  Sally Mayhew, still holding the strap, looked petrified. “What in hell’s name do you think you’re doing?”

  Kingston said nothing. Looking at her, he opened her phone. It was off. He turned it on and placed it on the sofa immediately behind him.

  Her face had now gone from flushed to ashen. It was clear that she was confused and at the same time frightened.

  Kingston reached in his pocket, took out his mobile and the cleaner’s receipt. Calmly, he dialed the number.

  He let the phone on the sofa ring four times before picking it up and closing it.

  “What was that about?” she said.

  He held up the receipt. “I found your dry-cleaning receipt at the house in Wales, in your bedroom closet—‘Mrs. Leslie.’ ”

  An unnatural silence followed. Kingston watched the tears welling in her eyes, thinking that her legs might buckle at any moment, but she managed to make it to the sofa. She sat down and leaned forward. Elbows on her knees, she lowered her face into her outspread hands and let out a long sigh.

  Kingston waited, mobile in hand.

  “You wouldn’t understand.” She sobbed, without moving. “You’ve no idea what it’s been like.”

  “I doubt I ever will,” he said as compassionately as he could. He raised his mobile again and punched in 999.

  THIRTY-THREE

  At three in the afternoon, two days after Sally Mayhew had been taken into custody, Kingston heard from Inspector Sheffield. He was calling from Metropolitan Police headquarters, where he’d just finished sitting in on a two-hour interview with Sally.

  “She’s confessed to murdering Bell and has been formally charged.”

  “Will she remain in London?” Kingston asked.

  “No. Because the crime was committed in Wales, it comes under the jurisdiction of the Welsh force and initially she’ll be sent there for questioning. We’ll be interfacing with them, of course. Eventually though—because of her and Bell’s connection to the Mayhew murders—the case will most certainly end up with us.”

  “How is she taking it?”

  “Remarkably well, I’d say, all things considered. She has a solicitor, and everything she’s told us thus far dovetails into what we know already—particularly concerning Bell’s involvement in the case.”

  “So, as the saying goes, the pieces of the puzzle all fit?”

  “It would appear so.” “Look, I know we’ll all eventually learn the full story in the newspapers, but it would be good to know where you and I got it right—and wrong. When you’ve got the time, of course.”

  “You’re reading my mind again, Doctor. The second reason I’m calling is that I’ve got a few hours to spare later this afternoon before I drive back up to Oxford, and I thought perhaps you might like to join me in a beer at your local watering hole. It’ll be on me, of course. I owe you a lot more than that.”

  “I’d like that very much,” Kingston replied, trying not to sound too enthused.

  They agreed to meet at the Antelope at five thirty.

  When Kingston arrived at the pub, Sheffield was already there, sitting at a table off the wood-paneled main bar, with a pint of beer, chatting with Zoe, the landlady.

  “Here’s your man, now,” she said as Kingston approached. “It was nice meeting you, Inspector. Do come back when you’re next in London.” She left with a smile and Kingston’s order for a pint of London Pride.

  Kingston sat and shook Sheffield’s hand, careful not to wobble the table as he pulled his chair closer. “Nice to see you again, Inspector,” he said. “You must feel relieved to have the case more or less put to bed.”

  “Not half as much as my chief constable, I can tell you.” He took a sip of beer and sighed. “But you’re right, Lawrence, it is a weight off the old back.”

  Kingston didn’t know whether Sheffield’s use of his first name signaled a new turn in their relationship, or if it was just the informality of the occasion that had prompted it. He leaned back and shook his head. “When this whole business started— seems like ages ago now—who’d have guessed it would end up the way it did?” he said with a slight smile.

  Sheffield nodded, taking his eyes off Kingston and gazing at his glass. “I know. Thank God cases like this come along only once in a blue moon.”

  “Do I see a promotion in the offing?”

  “Not a chance. In a couple of years, I’ll be packing it in, or taking a civilian job with the force.” He took a long sip of beer. “In any case, you’ve done as much as or more than we have to solve this one. Now that we’ve got a clearer picture of the events— thanks in part from what we learned from Sally—there’s no question that your ideas and theories were, for the best part, correct. She didn’t hold back—she told us everything.”

  “For a while there, at the house in Regent’s Park, I was starting to have second thoughts as to her guilt. She put on a damned good act.”

  “I heard about the dry cleaner receipt, mobile thing. Most ingenious, if I say so myself.”

  “Thanks. Did she say what brought her to kill Bell?”

  Sheffield nodded. “She found out that Bell had a hand in her brother’s death after all. She’s claiming that she killed him after he threatened her with bodily harm. It happened during a violent argument.”

  “Where did she get the gun?”

  “It was Bell’s. She knew where he kept it.”

  Kingston frowned. “How did she find out that Bell had something to do with Mayhew’s death?”

  “From one of the guides. Actually, the one who took off, the chap who was never interviewed.”

  “I’m confused. How did she get to talk with him?”

  “She said that, in the beginning, after the inquest, she began seeing Bell on a regular basis. Soon it blossomed into a close relationship. She was infatuated with Bell and she believed he felt the same. This was about the time she told you that she was moving to France. That, as we now know, was all hogwash. Bell had done a runner and she was living with him Wales. We’ll never know what his true thoughts
or motives were in hooking up with Sally, but she says that their affair gradually soured, and she became increasingly convinced that Bell was stitching her up. She’s convinced that his ulterior motive was to enlist her help in stealing the bowl.” The inspector took another draft of beer. Kingston did likewise.

  “Makes sense. As far as he knew, the real bowl was still in the temple. But he couldn’t go to China to get it.”

  “Right. He knew he’d never make it out of the country. Even if he did, he’d have to get back in. It was far too risky. He needed someone else to do it. Someone he could trust.”

  “Enter Sally?”

  “Right. His plan, as she tells it, was for the guide to make the switch, then hand the bowl off to her, and she would bring it back. A small blue-and-white bowl, claimed as an inexpensive gift, wouldn’t get a second look by customs.”

  “She didn’t go, though.”

  “No. She didn’t want any part of it. By this time, she feared that he might hurt her physically and wanted to get as far away from him as she could.” Sheffield drained the remainder of his beer and continued. “Bell was in a bind. But he decided to go ahead anyway. Time was of the essence. In order to make the switch, he had to give the guide the fake bowl, tell him exactly where in the temple the bowl was located, and what to do with it afterward—in short, to set up the sting. So rather than send the bowl to China by post, he decided to have the guide come to England. Face-to-face, they could go over all the details, which included a hefty payment for the guide’s services.”

  “It sounds as if he didn’t fully trust the man.”

  “He didn’t. According to Sally, he knew the Tibetan guide well. They’d been on other expeditions together. But there was no assurance that he wouldn’t run off with the real bowl, since by this time the guide would have figured out that it was very valuable.” He paused, eyeing Kingston with an amused look. “You’re smiling.”