The Case of the Missing Bronte

by Robert Barnard

  ‘Real little Falklands conflict in there,’ he said.

  ‘Have you got the manuscript?’ I asked.

  ‘Manuscript? Was that the paper they were all clutching? Oh yes — that constable over there’s got it.’

  I went over to a police van, where a young constable was throwing the dripping sheets any old how into the back.

  ‘Here, give that to me,’ I said. ‘It’s valuable.’

  ‘Could have fooled me,’ said the constable, looking at the sticky mess with scepticism.

  ‘Could be worth a million,’ I said, accepting Amos Macklehose’s valuation. Who better to put a price on things than a Californian man of God? I took the miserable bundle in my arms and went back to talk to the inspector.

  ‘You look like you need a trip to the field hospital,’ he said, in that nice, flat, Yorkshire way.

  ‘I came lightly off the field of battle,’ I said. ‘In comparison with this lot, anyway.’

  I went to the pool of light and looked them over. They stood in a row, shivering, handcuffed. Amos was still sobbing — great, gurgly sobs that suggested he still had a lot of bathwater inside him. The son with the great gash was snivelling too, and to be fair he had good cause. Rolf Tingvold looked straight ahead, as if he were on guard duty. But Knut Ratikainen looked me in the face, unflinching, until suddenly he narrowed his eyes and spat — a fast, vicious and accurate gob.

  On top of it all it didn’t seem to matter. I didn’t even bother to wipe it off.

  ‘Nice lot,’ said the inspector. ‘Especially that one. I don’t know if you saw but he gave one of my boys a nasty injury when we took him in. Kicked like a stallion.’

  ‘Assaulting a police officer,’ I said. ‘One more charge. Not that we’ll need charges with that one. This — ’ I pointed to my belly — ‘comes under a similar heading, though I can think of a lot nastier words than assault that would fit it. Anyway, we’ll be preparing a whole string of charges for this little lot as a whole — it’ll keep your men down at HQ tap-tapping away at their typewriters for hours.’

  ‘Good,’ said the inspector. ‘They look like the kind that ought to be put away for some time. What do we begin with?’

  ‘Oh, burglary, intimidation, grievious bodily harm — that kind of thing. By the way, I’m afraid Leeds will be losing one of its churches.’

  ‘I beg your pardon, sir?’

  ‘This gentleman is pastor, or leader, or something, of the Tabernacle of the Risen Moses.’

  ‘Can’t say I know the show. Not part of the Established Church, I suppose.’

  ‘I certainly hope not, but anyway he’s a pastor, and I can’t see his wife carrying on the good work.’

  ‘It doesn’t sound like a body-blow to the religious life of the community, I must say, sir. Funny, it’s usually a quite different sort of charge we get clerical gentlemen on.’

  ‘Well now, these three are all the one family, and you can charge them with breaking and entering for a start. They broke and entered this house tonight, and I’m a witness to it. Keep them at the station tonight and I’ll give them a good going-over in the morning.’

  ‘I’m sure you’ll enjoy that. And these other chappies — German, are they?’

  ‘Norwegians. The Viking spirit turned nasty. Do you remember they had that Exhibition a few years ago, and kept going on about how the Vikings were really only peaceable farmers and traders?’

  ‘Now you mention it, I did see something about them on TV.’

  ‘Well, I’ll need a lot of convincing about that after my dealings with this little lot. You can do the GBH routine with them — again, just for a start. You’ll have my evidence, for one. I’ll get a doctor to look at this little minor operation they did on me, and get him to send you a report. I should think, now, we might be able to get something out of Tetterfield.’

  ‘Who, sir?’

  ‘Tetterfield. A stark raving librarian in a profession that tends towards the drab. If it hadn’t been for Tetterfield — ’

  You know, that was one time in my career when real life did things on cue. The name was no sooner out of my mouth than, rounding the corner from Cardigan Road into the Parade, and coming immediately under the flood of street-light there, there appeared the figures of Tetterfield and Timothy Scott-Windlesham. Walking tentatively, with almost exaggerated caution, they advanced a few steps. A reconnoitring expedition, by God! Perhaps another little amateur break-in! They advanced, stopped, and gaped into the circus of police activity in the Parade. Tetterfield was slow. He squinted into the lights as if he had suddenly found himself in a television studio. Timothy rapped out some words, and then did an abrupt full turn and started back to the main road.

  ‘Get them!’ I shouted to two of the constables. They stood for a moment, astonished, and I shouted again: ‘Get them!’ and started after them myself.

  But after a few steps I left it to the constables. They were much younger and lighter, and didn’t have gaping wounds in their bellies. Mine had opened up again, and I had to sit down on the bonnet of the police car, clutching my pain.

  It wasn’t much of a chase. Tetterfield was hardly in condition to keep his lead over the young policeman, and he gave up without a struggle. Timothy was faster, but the constable got him just as he was hailing a passing taxi fifty yards down Cardigan Road. When the two of them got back Timothy was in a great wax of grievance, but the constable was grinning like a Cheshire cat. He obviously hadn’t enjoyed an arrest so much since joining the force.

  ‘Will you tell this young oaf to release me, and tell me what you think you’re doing?’ piped Timothy in his high-pitched whine, addressing the inspector. ‘I’ve been manhandled by him while going about my perfectly lawful business. If things go on like this, we’ll be like America, unable to walk the streets at night. Will you tell me what you think all this is in aid of?’

  ‘Perhaps you’ll tell me first why you started to run,’ suggested the inspector, who had a very good line in impassivity.

  ‘Run? Is it a crime to jog? I run for my health.’

  ‘You looked more to me as if you were running for your life. And you’re not really dressed for jogging, are you, sir? Well, we’ll go into that down at the station.’

  ‘The station? This is ridiculous! You haven’t a thing to charge me with. What am I supposed to have done?’

  ‘What you are supposed to have done,’ I said, getting up from the bonnet of the car, ‘is attack Miss Edith Wing in her cottage on the evening of June the eighth.’ He saw me for the first time, recognized me, and cringed a little. ‘And I’m going to see that we charge you, and make the charge stick. And if this gentleman here — ’ I turned to Tetterfield — ‘isn’t more co-operative than he’s been so far, he’ll find himself up as an accessory before and after the fact, and sent down for a very long period. That I can promise him. Not a very peaceful way to spend your twilight years.’

  They were bundled into the police car, Timothy blustering, but without conviction, Tetterfield thoughtful.

  ‘What a horrible little twerp,’ said the constable who had taken Timothy. ‘But the other one didn’t look like a crook.’

  ‘A silly man,’ I said. ‘For all I know certifiable. But I hope not.’

  ‘He’ll talk,’ said the inspector. He and the constable and I were now standing by the gate of No. 45. The constable nodded his agreement.

  ‘Looked like it,’ I said. ‘I certainly hope so. When he hears the manuscript is safe in some bank vault or other, what’s left of it, he’ll probably come clean as a whistle, given the right sort of inducement.’

  ‘Is it important?’ asked the inspector.

  ‘Vital, if we’re going to nail that feeble twit who attacked Miss Wing. I doubt we’ll get much other evidence. It’ll be useful with the two Scands too — help to get them on a double charge, and bring a really nasty sentence down on them, given the right judge.’

  ‘All your chicks in one fell swoop,’ said the young constable. T
hen he blushed, and muttered: ‘Did it for “O” level.’

  ‘I only wish it were true,’ I said. ‘I shouldn’t be ungrateful — it’s one hell of a haul of villains. But there’s one golden chick, the biggest of the brood, and him I haven’t got.’

  ‘Who’s that, then?’

  ‘The man behind the whole thing — or at least behind the two Scands. An American millionaire called Parfitt.’

  The inspector shook his head dubiously.

  ‘Funny, isn’t it, how the biggest fishes always slip through the net.’

  ‘I netted some once,’ I said reminiscently. ‘But not this time. He’ll be out swimming in the big ocean by now, I’m afraid. Those two Scands would have to talk, for us to get him now.’

  ‘And they won’t?’

  ‘No. Not if they run true to form. They behave as if they’ve taken some kind of thugs’ Masonic oath. Anyway, I’ll be sending a nice little report on our suspicions to the FBI. It’s something. Mr James L. Parfitt won’t have quite such a lily-white record in the future.’

  ‘It’s not the same, though,’ said the constable.

  ‘Not the same at all. In this job you have to settle for second best most of the time, and think yourself lucky. Ah well, I’d better go back in.’

  ‘Into the house?’ said the inspector. ‘What for?’

  ‘Clean up,’ I said laconically.

  ‘Do you want a guard on the house?’

  ‘No. I’ll be here all night. That’ll be enough. I might manage a couple of hours’ kip on the sofa, if I’m lucky. Could you send someone for me early in the morning? Then we can have a good session going over these villains.’

  ‘Will do.’

  So I went, almost reluctantly, back up the front path to the door. Behind me, the police began packing things up, and driving away. The neighbours, I imagine, started disappearing behind their unlighted windows to prepare themselves milky nightcaps, resolved to find out in the morning what it had all been about. Steeling myself, I opened the front door and turned on the hall light. It was a grisly sight. Paper, sodden and trampled, was strewn all the way down the stairs. A great trail of water stretched from the landing down to the door, mingled with blood from the Macklehose buttocks. There was a musty smell to the house, probably its habitual odour, and I left the door ajar. This looked like an all-night job. I dumped the bundle of manuscript retrieved from the villains on the floor and crept gingerly round the trampled sheets on the stairs, up to the bathroom.

  What a scene of blood and desolation! The mess was indescribable, and somehow unreal, like the set for a Dracula film. There in the pink waters of the bath were three pages, floating forlornly. I retrieved them cautiously. They were so saturated that the writing had all but disappeared. In the great wash on the floor I picked out a further wad of sheets — nearly as wet, and clinging together. Under the basin was a single, limp leaf.

  I took them out to the landing. Then I went into the bedrooms, switched the lights on, and laid the separate sheets out over the bedroom carpet, cautiously separating those in the sodden bundle. I wasn’t sure I was doing the right thing, but when I surveyed the scene I felt pleased with myself.

  Then I went down the stairs, taking up the damp, torn, crumpled and boot-dirtied sheets and laying them out carefully, a few on each stair. They were hideously damaged, but not, I thought, irretrievably. Then I got to the large bundle I’d placed in the hall, pulled from the fat, greedy fingers of Amos Macklehose, and the leaner fingers of the Scands. I put the lights on in the study and the front room — the house had probably not been so well lit since its great Edwardian days — and started separating the sheets, blowing dust and dirt off the dry ones, laying the wet ones out carefully. It was quite quiet outside, and I sat, cross-legged, on the hall floor, suddenly feeling oddly happy.

  ‘Perry!’

  I jumped a foot, and swung round to the front door.

  ‘Jan! How in hell — ’

  ‘Oh God, Perry — look!’

  I looked down at my gory shirt and the bloodsoaked towel.

  ‘Oh, it’s not as serious as it looks.’

  ‘Not you. The manuscript. Oh God — it’s ruined.’

  ‘Some of it. I think we can save a fair bit. Jan, if you want to be useful, sit down and help dry these out. What the hell are you doing here, anyway?’

  ‘I got worried. When you said you were going in. Well, you were a fathead, Perry, to do it on your own. You needn’t expect me to sympathize with your wounds. So I left Daniel in charge of Aunt Kate, and got in the car.’

  ‘Really, Jan. Do you think I can’t take care of myself?’

  ‘Yes, I do. Obviously you can’t. Anyway, when I finally found the place, all hell was loose in the house. I was terrified — it was like there was a herd of elephants penned up in here. So I went to the phone-box and dialled the police.’

  ‘Oh Christ, Jan! You didn’t! What’s it going to look like? The great man from Scotland Yard with the little wifey who follows him round to make sure he doesn’t get hurt.’

  ‘I didn’t give my name,’ said Jan demurely. ‘I was tender of your bloody amour propre. I said it was a neighbour. Though all the real neighbours were glued in front of the late-night movie, and I don’t think they noticed a thing until all the police started arriving.’

  ‘Well — ’ I said, mollified. ‘That was bright of you.’

  ‘Don’t condescend,’ said Jan. ‘You should be bloody grateful to me. I’ve had a good case. Whereas you, Perry . . .’

  ‘Don’t rub it in. I’ve had my good cases.’

  ‘This wasn’t one of them.’

  ‘I suffered in the cause,’ I said, nodding down to my midriff.

  ‘What is it? Obviously not a bullet.’

  ‘The Finn put his knife in. And twisted it.’

  ‘Hmmm. No woman who’s had a baby is going to be very impressed by that.’

  ‘Thanks very much. You’re having a dampening effect on me, Jan. I was feeling good before you came.’

  ‘Well, you may think you’ve done a fabulous job, but I don’t. I mean, you came up here to get the manuscript back — ’

  ‘Well — and didn’t I?’

  ‘But in what sort of condition? And the fact is, if I hadn’t rung the police, the whole lot of them would have got away, and the whole thing would have been practically scattered to the four winds.’

  We laid out the last two pages, and stood up and surveyed our work.

  ‘Oh, Perry, it’s awful! It makes me weep. OK — it’s probably all there — but look at it!’

  ‘I don’t know. Scientists can work wonders these days.’

  ‘Well, they can’t work miracles. Some of it’s obviously gone forever. It was difficult enough to decipher before, and no whatsitoscope is going to get it back now. That’s what’s so terrible. There’s going to be this great book, with big gaps where they have to say that the manuscript is indecipherable. It’ll be like the Elgin Marbles — all chipped about, and bits fallen off.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ I said.

  ‘You’re just being stupidly optimistic.’

  ‘Come through here,’ I said, leading her into the back room. I pointed to the desk.

  ‘See those piles. Macklehose grabbed the biggest pile when he started the whole fracas. That’s what’s out there. That’s the bit that’s already been transcribed. Here’s Miss Boothroyd’s typescript. This small pile is the rest of it. She must have been working on the top page of this when I came calling. See — there’s still a page half-finished in the machine. If Emily Brontë finished the novel, then we’ll have all of it.’

  Jan looked at it, and swallowed. Her spirits, always a bit mercurial, rose, and she looked at me and smiled. Then she went towards the piles on the desk.

  ‘Oh, Perry — it’s incredible. Then this is it.’ She took up the typescript. ‘This is the novel no one living has read.’

  ‘Except Miss Boothroyd.’

  ‘I don’t begrudge
it her. She doesn’t sound as if she’s had much fun. Look at it. She’s done a marvellous job.’

  We peered together at the typescript. Jan sat down in the desk chair, and I swung one over from the table. We put on the desk light and gazed at the neatly typed first page.

  That summer, the summer of my twenty-second year, was the last summer of my content. July and August had been hot, with blazing sun and heavy air, presaging storms that never came. The only breeze vouchsafed us fluttered listlessly over the moors, and I ranged them, gun in hand, at peace with myself and all else, except the creatures of nature that I coveted for my supper. It was in that frame of mind, one day in the first week of September, that I climbed to the top of Mendith Crag, to gaze down on the drear, blank-windowed spectacle of Lingdale Manor.

  I stopped short, and clung to the solitary stripling ash that braved the winds of the crag. The windows were curtained, the chimneys were smoking. Three carts, loaded with furniture, stood in the yard, and the farm cats that had used to dispute the tenancy with each other were now scrutinizing angrily the human intruders.

  The Thornleys had returned, as my father had always predicted.

  Indeed, as I watched, there came round the corner from the ruined kitchen garden, a young woman, drably dressed in grey cotton, but so striking of face and bearing that I clung more tightly to the stripling ash. This was my first glimpse of Marian Thornley.

  We settled down to a long night’s reading.

  by the same author

  A LITTLE LOCAL MURDER

  DEATH AND THE PRINCESS

  DEATH BY SHEER TORTURE

  DEATH IN A COLD CLIMATE

  DEATH OF A PERFECT MOTHER

  DEATH OF A LITERARY WIDOW

  DEATH OF A MYSTERY WRITER

  About the Author

  Robert Barnard (1936-2013) was awarded the Malice Domestic Award for Lifetime Achievement and the Nero Wolfe Award, as well as the Agatha and Macavity awards. An eight-time Edgar nominee, he was a member of Britain’s distinguished Detection Club, and, in May 2003, he received the Cartier Diamond Dagger Award for lifetime achievement in mystery writing. His most recent novel, Charitable Body, was published by Scribner in 2012.