The estate manager had claimed he hadn’t any worries about the Devil’s Disciples the day before – in fact, he’d expressed his complete confidence in them – and he was only allowing himself the luxury of admitting his earlier doubts now because they had been proven to be groundless.
She wondered what the earl would have to do before Bell would feel entitled to criticize him.
Mow down the entire adult population of Whitebridge and district with a sub-machine gun, perhaps?
No, even then, Edward Bell would probably do his best to find extenuating circumstances!
They had been walking around the perimeter of the enclosure as they talked, and Bell suddenly came to a halt.
‘Look at that,’ he exclaimed.
Paniatowski crouched down to examine the section of the fence he was pointing at.
A vertical cut had been made in the chain link to a height of about two feet, and another – perhaps eighteen inches long – made horizontally from the top of the vertical one. The result was a flap which could be pushed outwards to allow a man – or woman – to crawl through, but which would spring back into roughly its original position once there was nothing to impede it.
‘There’s no chance that was done accidentally – or on a whim – is there?’ Bell asked hopefully – although it was clear he already knew what the answer was going to be.
‘There’s no chance at all,’ Paniatowski replied. ‘You’d need industrial cutters to get through that wire, and since no one habitually carries tools like that around with them, we can assume that whoever cut through the wire came here with precisely that intention in mind.’
‘Oh my God!’ Bell said.
He was starting to panic, Paniatowski thought. This man – who she was sure would face a bayonet charge without turning a hair – was starting to panic at the thought he might have let the earl down.
True, the festival had not been his idea, and true, it had not been his decision to hire totally untrained security men. None of that mattered. His role in life was to see that everything went smoothly for the earl whatever the circumstances, and on this occasion he seemed to have failed.
‘Did the Devil’s Disciples search the visitors as they came in?’ Paniatowski asked.
‘No,’ Bell said. ‘It would have taken too long. Even if they’d started early in the afternoon, half of the audience would still have been on the other side of the wall by the time the concert began.’
‘And I take it there was no metal detector on the gate?’
‘I never thought to have one installed,’ Bell said, in what was almost a moan. ‘Why would anybody have done this?’
And what he meant was – how dare anybody do this? Didn’t the man with the wire cutters know that the earl was special? Didn’t he understand there was never any excuse for disturbing the earl’s peace of mind?
‘You need to calm down,’ Paniatowski said firmly.
‘Yes,’ Bell agreed, taking a deep breath, ‘that’s what I need to do. I need to calm down.’
‘My first guess would be that the intruder is a burglar,’ Paniatowski said. ‘The rock concert will have provided the ideal distraction for him. Everybody’s eyes – and all the lights – will have been concentrated on the stage. Nobody will have noticed him cutting through the wire. And once he had cut through it, he’d have access to the whole estate.’
‘What do I do now?’ Bell asked.
‘The first thing is to get the Devil’s Disciples to search the grounds to make sure the intruder isn’t still here,’ Paniatowski said. ‘The second is to get the staff to check and see if anything has been stolen – because if something has been taken, you’ll need to inform the police. And once you’ve got those two jobs out of the way, we’ll take a look at the security tapes.’
‘The security tapes!’ Bell gasped, as if he’d been drowning, and Paniatowski had just thrown him a rope. ‘I’d forgotten all about them!’
There were some women who could detect the smell of tragedy from a mile away, Beresford thought, and the slightly faded blonde woman who answered the door of number thirty-two Elsden Avenue, Manchester – her eyes already wide with fear, her body starting to tremble – was definitely one of them.
‘Are you Mrs Lewis?’ Beresford’s companion asked, holding up his warrant card for her to see.
‘Yes, I …’
‘I’m DI James from the Manchester Metropolitan Police, and this is my colleague, DI Beresford. May we come in?’
Mrs Lewis wiped her hands nervously on her apron, and then brushed some imaginary hair away from her eyes.
‘Yes, of course,’ she croaked. ‘Please follow me.’
She hadn’t asked them what this was all about, because she already knew she wouldn’t like the answer, Beresford thought.
Mrs Lewis led them into a living room which was almost rigorously neat and tidy, and yet still managed to exude an air of quiet desperation.
‘I think it would be best if you sat down before I say anything, Mrs Lewis,’ James told her, indicating one of the armchairs, which was patterned with yellow and red roses.
‘I can’t go doing that,’ the woman protested. ‘I’ve still got a lot of housework to do.’
‘Please,’ DI James said softly, ‘it won’t take a minute.’
He put his hands on her shoulders, and gently steered her to the chair. He pressed down on the shoulders a little, and she sank on to the cushion.
‘Do you know where your husband is, Mrs Lewis?’ James asked.
‘He’s … he’s in Whitebridge.’
‘And what’s he doing in Whitebridge?’
‘He’s a journalist.’
‘Yes, I know.’
‘Well, that’s why he’s there – he’s covering a story up there.’
‘What kind of story is it that he’s working on? Do you think you could give me a few details?’
Mrs Lewis shook her head. ‘I don’t know any more details. I asked him what the story was about, but he wouldn’t tell me.’
‘Would his newspaper know what the story was about?’
‘He doesn’t work for the paper any more. He … he resigned over a matter of principle.’
James nodded, as if he quite accepted as the absolute truth what was so obviously an outright lie.
‘I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but I’m afraid your husband has had an accident,’ he said.
‘Is he … is he …’
‘Yes, I’m afraid he’s dead.’
‘But he can’t be,’ the woman said – and by now she was almost in tears. ‘He … just … can’t … be.’
The phone rang in the hallway.
‘I’ll get that,’ Beresford said, before Mrs Lewis had time to become distracted by the ringing.
He stepped into the hall, closed the door tightly behind him, and picked up the phone.
‘Could I speak to Mr Lewis, please?’ asked the man on the other end of the line.
‘Who’s calling?’
‘My name’s Meacham. I’m the assistant manager at the local branch of the Whitehall Bank.’
‘I’m afraid Mr Lewis isn’t here.’
‘Then could I speak to Mrs Lewis instead, please? It really is rather important.’
‘She is here, but she can’t come to the phone at the moment. Can I give her a message?’
‘Well, no, not really,’ the bank manager said awkwardly. ‘It’s rather a confidential matter, you see.’
‘I’m from the police,’ Beresford said. ‘My name is DI Colin Beresford, and I regret to inform you that Mr Lewis has been murdered.’
‘Oh, good heavens!’ the bank manager gasped.
‘It might help us in our inquiries if you could tell me now exactly what this confidential information of yours concerns.’
There was a pause on the other end of the line.
‘Look, I’m not doubting that you actually are a policeman, Mr … Mr …’ Meacham said finally.
‘Beresford. DI Beresford
.’
‘… but in matters of this nature, Mr Beresford, we have to be absolutely sure we know who we’re talking to.’
‘I understand that,’ Beresford said. ‘Call Manchester Central Police Station, and ask them where DI Henry James is at the moment.’
‘Henry James? But I thought he was—’
‘A novelist who most people have never read. Yes, there is certainly that Henry James, but this Henry James is a detective inspector with the Manchester Metropolitan Police.’
‘I’m sorry, I must sound like a babbling idiot, but it has all been rather a shock to learn that—’
‘When you ask them where DI James is, they’ll tell you he’s here – and the moment they’ve done that, I’d like you to ring me back.’
‘Yes, of course,’ Meacham said.
It had been over an hour since Paniatowski and Bell had discovered the gap in the wire-netting fence, and, in that time, the servants had searched the house and the Devil’s Disciples had scoured the grounds.
The results had been encouraging. The servants had found no signs of a break-in, and reported that nothing of value seemed to be missing. The Devil’s Disciples, for their part, had found no evidence of an intruder.
But it was still far too early to be complacent. In a mansion so stuffed full of treasures, it was possible that the servants had overlooked the fact that one of them was no longer where it should be. In grounds as vast as those belonging to Stamford Hall, it was not impossible that a man might have succeeded in keeping his presence hidden from the motorcycle gang.
Even so, it seemed unlikely that the burglar – if that was, indeed, what he had been – had achieved anything during his clandestine visit, and by the time Paniatowski and Bell reached the surveillance control room, the estate manager was finally starting to relax.
‘When did the cameras first start rolling?’ Paniatowski asked, looking at the bank of monitors.
‘I had them all switched on the moment the gates were opened for the visitors.’
‘Then that’s when we’ll start watching. I don’t think the intruder will have cut the fence until much later, but if he did, we don’t want to miss it.’
An image of the enclosure appeared on the monitor. The camera had been set up outside the wire, so everything happening inside the wire was framed by the diamond shapes of its mesh.
Bell set the tape at review speed, and they watched as the fans came through the turnstiles at a speed only previously seen in old Keystone Kops movies.
The tape ran on. The angle of the camera didn’t allow Paniatowski and Bell to see the stage, but it was plain from the audience’s reaction that the first group had arrived.
The clock at the bottom of the monitor recorded the passing of time.
One hour … two hours … three hours …
It was when the clock said three hours and forty-five minutes that the man approached what was now a flap in the wire – but certainly hadn’t been at the time of the recording.
The man was wearing the sleeveless embroidered sheepskin jacket of the sort which was much in favour with the hippies a few years earlier, and a pair of jeans. He had long dark hair, which partially covered his face.
‘Is that the man?’ Bell asked, whispering like a child caught halfway between fear and excitement.
‘I don’t know,’ Paniatowski replied, in her normal voice. ‘We’ll have to wait and see.’
The man was carrying a duffle bag, and now he reached into it and produced a pair of long-handled wire cutters. He worked quickly, snipping a section of wire, straightening up and checking over his shoulder to make sure he had not been observed, bending down and cutting some more, then straightening up and checking again.
Judging by how far his head was from the top of the wire when he was upright, it was likely that he was somewhere between five feet nine and five feet eleven, Paniatowski thought.
She wondered if she would recognize him if she passed him in the street – and decided she probably wouldn’t.
It took the man less than a minute to finish his work, then he slipped the cutters into the bag, looked around once more, got down on his hands and knees and crawled through the flap.
‘I wish we had a clearer view of his face,’ Bell said.
‘So do I,’ Paniatowski agreed.
The man stood up and began to walk quickly away from the fence.
‘He’s not heading towards the Hall,’ Bell said, surprised.
‘That proves nothing,’ Paniatowski replied. ‘He may have decided to skirt it, and then go in from the back.’
Someone coughed in the doorway, and turning around Paniatowski saw an old woman who was wearing a long, black, silk dress and leaning heavily on a carved walking stick. At the sight of her, Bell immediately hit the stop switch, and the screen went blank.
‘Who is this person?’ the old woman demanded.
‘She’s Detective Chief Inspector Paniatowski from the Mid Lancs Police, my lady,’ Bell said. ‘She’s advising us on security. DCI Paniatowski, this is the dowager countess.’
‘I’m pleased to meet you,’ Paniatowski said.
‘You didn’t tell me about all this,’ the dowager countess said, ignoring Paniatowski completely and staring at the row of monitors. ‘Had it not been for a remark made by one of the other servants, I would not have even known it was here. Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘I didn’t think that you’d be very interested in this sort of thing, my lady,’ Bell replied.
‘So now you presume to know what will interest me and what will not, do you?’ the dowager countess demanded.
‘No, of course not,’ Bell said contritely. ‘You are quite right, my lady – I should have told you it was here.’
The dowager countess was still looking at the monitors.
‘It seems like a great deal of unnecessary expense,’ she said.
‘It wasn’t really that expensive at all,’ Bell said. ‘We haven’t paid anything yet, and if we do eventually decide to buy it, we’ve been offered a very good deal by the installers.’
‘In my day, one did not make deals with tradesmen,’ the dowager countess said. ‘One told them what one wanted, and how much one was prepared to pay for it, and they provided it and were glad of the patronage.’
‘And it wasn’t unnecessary,’ Bell said, sounding almost desperate to say something that would meet with the old woman’s approval. ‘It’s designed to keep the Hall safe.’
‘I want to see how it works,’ the dowager countess said.
‘If that is your wish, my lady, of course I will show it to you, but there really is very little to—’
‘Do it now,’ the old woman said firmly.
It was over ten minutes before Mr Meacham, the bank manager, called Colin Beresford back.
‘I’m sorry if I’d appeared to doubt your word,’ he said.
‘That’s quite all right,’ Beresford assured him. ‘It’s always better to err on the side of caution.’
‘It came as such a shock to all of us here at the bank. One of the junior cashiers actually started crying when she first heard the news, and even the senior cashiers—’
‘Now that you’ve had it verified that we actually are police officers, could you tell me the nature of this important information that you had for Mr Lewis?’ Beresford interrupted.
‘What? Oh yes, of course, I’m so sorry. I was ringing to tell him that we’ve had to stop paying out the standing orders for gas, electricity, rates, et cetera, because there’s no money in the account.’
‘So Mrs Lewis, who’s only just lost her husband, can expect all her utilities to be cut off soon, can she?’ Beresford asked accusingly.
‘Well, given the circumstances, I suppose that we might be able to grant her some leeway in the matter, but only if there was a reasonable chance of her being able to pay—’
‘There’s a large insurance policy on her husband’s life,’ Beresford interrupted. ‘A very large one.’
‘I’m holding it in my hand, even as we speak,’ Beresford said, glancing down at his empty palm.
‘Oh, well, in that case, there’s no need to bother Mrs Lewis at all,’ the bank manager said.
‘I’m sure she’ll appreciate that,’ Beresford told him.
And he was thinking, she’ll have to face up to the problem of having no money eventually, but at least I’ve bought the poor woman a little space in which to come to terms with her grief.
‘Well, if there’s nothing more …’ the bank manager said.
‘They’ve been struggling to meet their bills for quite some time, have they?’ Beresford asked.
‘No, not at all. Their savings account has been gradually going down since Mr Lewis lost his job, of course, but until a few days ago, they still had quite a healthy balance.’
‘And what happened a few days ago?’
‘Mr Lewis wrote out a rather large cheque.’
‘How large?’
‘Five thousand pounds.’
Beresford whistled softly to himself. That was a lot of money – especially for a man with no job.
‘You don’t happen to know, offhand, who the cheque was made out to, do you?’ he asked.
‘As a matter of fact, I do. You see, before ringing, I made sure I had all the details at my fingertips, and—’
‘Who was the cheque made out to?’ Beresford interrupted.
‘To Mr Harold Elton, who, as chance would have it, also has his account in this branch.’
‘And do you know what this Mr Elton could have done to have merited such a large cheque?’
‘No, not exactly. Not in any detail. But according to our records, he’s a private detective.’
TEN
‘It’s very simple really, my lady,’ Edward Bell said to the dowager countess. ‘There are cameras set up all around the grounds, and they transmit pictures to the monitors which are also recorded on video tape.’
‘So you’ll be able to look at what’s happening now at some later point, will you?’
‘Exactly, my lady.’
‘Why is that tree moving?’ the dowager countess asked, pointing to one of the monitors.
‘It’s not the tree that’s moving, it’s the camera,’ Bell explained.
Supping with the Devil Page 13