by Eric Brown
Langham shook his head. ‘Why leave it so long? And if he did arrange a hit man, why would the colonel risk being on the scene at the time? It doesn’t add up.’
‘I think we all agree on that,’ Mallory said. ‘I don’t know about you, but watching the colonel down his whisky made me thirsty. How about a quick one before we haul Wilson Royce in here?’
They moved to the bar and Greaves poured the Scotch.
TWENTY
Ryland drew up along the lane by Rowan Cottage, Smarden, at one o’clock. Minutes later, a short, grey-haired, dapper man left the cottage with a Jack Russell terrier on a lead and walked towards the village. He couldn’t have been going that far, what with the dog, so Ryland lit a cigarette and waited.
Framed in the windscreen, the cottage and its leafy surroundings looked like something from an old painting – which would be entirely appropriate if Ryland’s suspicions were correct: that Signor Venturi was the middleman in some dodgy fine art scam.
The cottage was located on the outskirts of the village, surrounded by orchards and hop fields. The area brought back memories. In the twenties, when he’d been a nipper, his ma and pa had come hop picking during the summer holidays. It’d been a right lark for a boy of ten, and he’d loved the countryside then. Now, the country was fine for the occasional holiday – but give him the Smoke any day. He didn’t understand Donald and Maria’s desire to buy a cottage in the sticks, especially as they had that luxurious pad in Kensington.
Still, as long as Don didn’t decide to jack it in at the detective agency, everything would be rosy. Ryland had big plans on that front: they’d been doing well of late, and he’d been mulling over a move from Wandsworth. He’d go over the finances with Annie when he had the chance.
The church bell had just struck one thirty when the little man reappeared at the end of the lane, a folded paper tucked under his arm. He walked up the garden path, unlocked the front door and disappeared inside.
Ryland climbed from the car and approached the cottage.
The way to play it with foreigners, he’d always found, was to be very correct and polite: play the English gentleman and speak clearly, as some of those from abroad didn’t have a firm grasp on the lingo.
He walked up the garden path and rapped on the door.
The dog yapped. A shape appeared beyond the stained glass set into the upper half of the door. It opened a fraction and a thin face, topped with grey hair, peered out. ‘Can I help you?’ the man said in excellent English.
Ryland smiled. ‘I’m awfully sorry to bother you, Signor Venturi.’ He showed his private investigator’s accreditation to the bemused old man, then went on, ‘I’m working on a murder investigation and I would be grateful if you could assist me with a minute of your time.’
‘A murder investigation?’ The man was in his seventies, with sad eyes and a lined face. Ryland wondered at Venturi’s experiences during the war, and what might have brought him to Britain.
‘I understand an acquaintance of yours might have been involved … as a witness. If I could come in?’
‘Of course, of course.’ Venturi opened the door and Ryland stepped into a small, neat hallway. The old man spoke to the dog in what Ryland assumed was Italian, and the dog sat obediently on its haunches and watched as its owner led Ryland into a cosy front room hung with an array of watercolours depicting English country scenes.
‘This is most upsetting,’ Venturi said. ‘Please, take a seat.’
Ryland lowered himself into a chintz-covered armchair, and Venturi sat on the opposite sofa. Everything about the man, from his gently retiring manner to his cosy chocolate-box cottage, suggested that he was far from being the middleman in some nefarious art racket. But if there was one thing Ryland had learned over the years, it was that appearances, more often than not, were deceptive.
‘Would you care for a cup of tea, or perhaps coffee?’
‘I won’t bother you, Signor Venturi, and I won’t keep you long.’ He looked around the room. ‘A very nice place you’ve got yourself here, if I may say so.’
Venturi smiled. ‘It is the culmination of my dreams, Mr Ryland. During the war, when my country was invaded by the Germans, and I was imprisoned, I dreamed of coming here and living in the countryside. I studied here in my twenties, in London, and came to love England.’
‘Your country was invaded? But I thought you were Italian.’
Venturi smiled. ‘My grandfather was Italian, but he moved to what later became Yugoslavia in the 1880s. In 1941, when the Nazis invaded, I worked against them in my little way, forging papers and documents for the Resistance.’ He shook his head. ‘And then I was betrayed in ’forty-four, captured and imprisoned. I would have been executed, I am sure, but the end of the war came just in time.’
‘Close shave.’
Venturi smiled. ‘As you say, a close shave,’ he said. ‘The thought of a cottage in the English countryside, Mr Ryland, sustained me throughout those dark days.’ He waved all this away, dismissing the past. ‘But how might I be of assistance? You said that an acquaintance of mine …’
‘I understand that you have a business partner, a certain Mr Wilson Royce?’
The man blinked. He looked bemused for a second. ‘I know Mr Royce, yes, but I would not call him a business partner.’
‘What would you call him, then?’ Ryland asked.
‘Mr Royce put some work my way – a lot of work, I must say.’
‘Work?’ The more he listened to Signor Venturi, the more convinced he was that the little foreigner was no criminal.
Venturi gestured around the room, indicating the watercolours that adorned the walls. ‘All these, Mr Ryland, are my own work.’
Ryland stood and examined the closest paintings, country scenes depicting open fields, distant villages and church spires.
‘All scenes of rural Kent,’ Venturi said, ‘my adopted home.’
‘Very nice. You’re very talented.’
‘You’re too kind. I dabbled in watercolours in Yugoslavia, where I worked as an illustrator for various journals in the thirties. I fled to England after the war, when the Communists came to power. I began painting watercolours again and sold them to a small gallery in London.’
‘Let me guess,’ Ryland said. ‘A gallery owned by a certain William Harker, right?’
Venturi beamed. ‘But you know him? Mr Harker was just starting out, in ’forty-seven, and sold contemporary artwork before he began to specialize in fine art of the seventeenth century.’
‘I see,’ Ryland said. ‘And I’m guessing again, but was it Mr Harker who introduced you to Wilson Royce?’
‘That is correct, Mr Ryland.’
Ryland frowned. ‘And Royce wanted to sell you some paintings?’
‘Sell me …?’ Venturi looked puzzled. ‘No, not sell. You see, he wanted me to copy certain eighteenth-century painters whom he admired. He was interested principally in the work of John Varley and John Robert Cozens. He would supply me with high-quality art books containing plates of the originals, and he said he would pay me handsomely – five pounds per picture – for copies.’ Venturi held up a warning hand. ‘And before you say that this could be construed as far from legal, let me assure you that I ensured that I signed the back of each watercolour with my own name, so that they could not be passed off, years down the line, as originals.’
‘I see,’ Ryland said. ‘And how many copies did you produce for Wilson Royce?’
‘Perhaps fifty, over the course of the past year.’
‘And did Royce tell you what he intended doing with the copies?’
‘Why, they were for his own pleasure, Mr Ryland, although he did say that he might give away one or two as presents.’
‘When was the last time you made a copy for him?’
‘A month ago,’ Venturi said. ‘I haven’t seen him since then.’ He hesitated. ‘But you mentioned a murder …?’
‘Wilson Royce worked as the business manager for a writer,
Denbigh Connaught, who was murdered at the weekend.’ Ryland paused. ‘Now, did Royce happen to mention anything about Connaught or his work to you, Signor Venturi?’
The old man shook his head. ‘He said very little about himself. He discussed, mainly, his passion for eighteenth-century watercolours. Mr Royce isn’t … is not in trouble, is he?’
Ryland smiled. ‘That remains to be seen,’ he said. ‘We’re eliminating suspects, as the police say.’
‘I cannot imagine Mr Royce being involved,’ Venturi said. ‘He was such a pleasant young man. I felt like a father to him.’
‘You did?’
‘I could not help myself,’ Venturi said. ‘And I also felt sorry for him.’
‘And why was that?’
‘You see, his father died when Mr Royce was just five years old. Such an unpleasant story. He was knocked down in the street by a speeding car, and, what is worse, young Mr Royce saw it all happen, right in front of his eyes. It must have left a terrible mental scar on him.’ He smiled sadly. ‘We are all haunted by the events of the past, are we not?’
Ryland returned the old man’s sad smile and rose to his feet.
‘Thank you for your time, Signor Venturi. I’d better be making tracks.’
‘Are you sure you wouldn’t care for a cup of tea?’
‘’Fraid not, but thanks all the same. Duty calls, and all that. Appointment back in the Smoke.’
Venturi saw him to the door; Ryland thanked him once again and returned to his car.
He sat there for a while, lost in thought.
‘Fishy,’ he said to himself. ‘Ve–ry fishy.’
Why had Wilson Royce paid Venturi a fiver a time to make copies of old paintings? A passion for eighteenth-century watercolours? Likely story! A desire to help out the old boy with regular commissions? Poppycock. Ryland didn’t have Wilson Royce down as a patron of the arts. Far from it …
He started the engine and drove back to London.
He thought that another visit to Mr Harker might be in order.
TWENTY-ONE
‘So, according to your chappie Ryland,’ Mallory said, ‘Wilson Royce is up to something shady in the art market? How do you think we should play it during the interview?’
Langham added a touch more soda to his whisky. ‘Keep mum on that score, I think. It might not have anything to do with Connaught’s murder, and we don’t want to tip our hand at this stage. I’ll contact Ralph later and see if he’s come up with anything further on Royce.’
Mallory nodded. ‘Right you are.’
‘I’ve heard all about Royce from people in the village,’ Greaves said. ‘Fancies himself as a bit of a charmer with the girls. From what I hear, he doesn’t get very far.’
‘Probably tries too hard,’ Mallory said. ‘Believe me, the way to play things with the ladies, Greaves, is easy does it.’
‘So that’s how you’re approaching Annabelle Connaught is it, Jeff?’ Langham asked.
Mallory winked. ‘Just you watch.’
‘Now there’s a beauty and no mistake,’ Greaves said. ‘You’re setting your sights high there, sir.’
‘That’s as maybe,’ Mallory said. ‘What’s the village gossip on her, Greaves?’
‘Local girl made good,’ the younger man said. ‘And she likes to let everyone know the fact. She has the reputation of being a bit remote and superior, like.’
Mallory sipped his Scotch and asked casually, ‘Do you know if she’s seeing anyone?’
‘A couple of years ago she was engaged to a local landowner’s son, but apparently she broke it off.’
‘Do you know why?’
Greaves shrugged. ‘Word in the village was that young Peters didn’t like her gadding off to London every month and seeing the Chelsea set up there. So she gave him the old heave-ho.’
Langham thought back to what Maria had told him at Kittiwake Cove: that Annabelle had had an affair with Wilson Royce.
He asked Greaves, ‘And since then? I heard that she had a fling with Royce when he first came here.’
Mallory looked up. ‘With Royce?’
Greaves was dubious. ‘I haven’t heard that, sir. Annabelle Connaught likes men, not boys. She’s way out of Royce’s league.’
‘Where did you hear about him and Annabelle, Don?’ Mallory asked.
Langham shrugged. ‘It was something she told Maria. Annabelle said that she’d had a brief fling with Royce, before she saw through him.’
Mallory nodded and drained his Scotch. ‘Right, shall we get back to it? Toddle along and fetch Royce, would you, Greaves?’
When the sergeant had left the room, Mallory said, ‘So … what if Connaught didn’t like his daughter messing about with Royce, and he warned Royce off?’
Langham frowned. ‘You mean, if that were so, then Royce would have a grievance against Connaught?’
‘I’m just suggesting the possibility, however remote it might be.’
Langham adjusted his dining chair before the window. ‘Something about Royce suggests to me that he wouldn’t be cut up that much about being either dumped or warned off. He’d just try his luck on the next available woman.’
The door opened and Wilson Royce entered the room.
He had changed from his golfing tweeds of the other day but, continuing the sporting motif, was wearing cricket whites and a blazer, along with his old school tie. His blond fringe flopped over his eyes, and from time to time he flicked it back into place with a negligent gesture. He gave a wolfish smile, his eye-tooth showing.
Then he saw Langham across the room and his eyes narrowed slightly, as if with suspicion.
Langham wondered, for a second, if Royce had suddenly recognized him from the previous Thursday – or whether he was merely wondering why he was sitting in on the interview.
‘I’m sure you’ll appreciate that we must speak to everyone who was on the scene yesterday afternoon,’ Mallory said. ‘Just to build up a comprehensive picture of where people were at the time.’
‘Of course.’
Mallory referred to his notebook. ‘I understand that from just after lunch until a little before five you were attending to papers in Denbigh Connaught’s old study in the west wing?’
‘That’s right. I was having a clear-out, on Mr Connaught’s instructions. Over the years he’d accumulated a lot of papers which he didn’t wish to keep.’
‘What kind of papers?’
Royce shrugged. ‘Old letters from readers going back years. Leaflets and circulars that he’d never thrown away, old magazines and newspapers he’d kept for research purposes.’
‘What did you do with them?’
‘Burnt them. There’s a brazier in the cobbled area at the back of the house where the dustbins are kept, beside the kitchen garden.’
Mallory leafed through his notebook, then leaned forward and said, ‘I sketched a map of the house earlier. If you could show me where the kitchen garden is located, and the brazier.’
Royce studied the drawing and pointed with a long finger to an area beyond the west wing. ‘Just there.’
Mallory nodded and thanked him. ‘So you carried the papers through the front door, around the house, past the French windows here and along the back of the house to the kitchen garden?’
‘That’s right.’
Mallory studied the map, frowning. ‘But surely there’s a door in the kitchen, and it’d be quicker for you to have used that from the study in the west wing?’
‘It might appear so, sir, but actually there’s a back staircase from Mr Connaught’s study to the entrance hall; there was not much in it, but the route I took was slightly shorter.’
‘Quite. So … How many journeys to the brazier would you say you made that afternoon?’
Royce thought about it. ‘Perhaps a dozen. In between times I was going through the papers to ensure there was nothing Mr Connaught might have wished to keep. All in all, it took me a good five hours.’
‘And I see from the map that
going by this route, along the back of the house, you would have passed close to the hedge that shielded Connaught’s study.’
‘That’s right.’
Mallory allowed a silence to develop as he studied his notebook. ‘You could, had you so desired, have slipped around the hedge and crossed to the study?’
‘If I had so desired, yes, sir.’
‘And did you?’
Royce gave another lazy vulpine smile. ‘I knew better than to disturb Mr Connaught. It was one of the first things he impressed upon me when I started the job. He was not to be interrupted, for any reason, while he was working.’
‘And I take it you saw no one else approach the study, either a guest or a stranger?’
‘That’s right. As far as I was aware, no one went near it.’
‘And yet, manifestly, someone did.’
‘Manifestly,’ Royce said.
Mallory flipped through his notebook, found what he was looking for and leaned back. ‘How did you come by the post of Connaught’s business manager, Mr Royce?’
‘I wrote to Mr Connaught, offering my services.’
‘Wasn’t that a rather … unconventional approach?’
Royce shrugged lazily. ‘Perhaps. But I don’t like to be conventional, sir. I find that one must take every opportunity that life affords, and that to go by the book leads one nowhere.’
Langham wondered if there was a faint note of mockery in the young man’s words.
‘Why specifically Connaught?’ Mallory asked. ‘Or did you write to many of the great and the good, offering your services?’
‘No, just to Mr Connaught,’ Royce replied. ‘I admired his books. I considered him one of our finest writers. I must admit that I didn’t expect him to take up my offer, and I was flattered when he called me down for an interview, and then offered me a modest stipend.’
‘And this was a year ago?’
‘A little over.’
‘And you have been content in the post?’
‘Very.’
‘And you spend your free time …?’
‘Quite often in London, seeing friends.’
Mallory nodded, paused while reading his notes and then said, ‘Shortly after your arrival here, Mr Royce, I understand you conducted an affair with Connaught’s daughter, Annabelle?’