by Eric Brown
She looked up and smiled sadly. ‘The brazier, the ashes and the glove … They brought back a lot of unpleasant memories.’
Mallory looked at her. ‘Of what?’
Annabelle sighed. ‘Well … it might have been the first of my father’s … the first of his – I don’t really know what you’d call them – cruel, unthinking acts?’
Langham glanced at Maria, bemused. ‘What might?’
‘Annabelle?’ Mallory said, reaching across the table and touching her hand.
‘Uncle Monty told me this years ago,’ she said. ‘He was in London, just back from Africa. He’d never before told me exactly how he received his injuries, but he’d had a few to drink and he opened up.’
Langham murmured, ‘What happened?’
‘Monty was nine or ten at the time. One weekend during the summer his father built him a ramshackle tree house in the oak behind the house. He was understandably proud of it, and wouldn’t let my father anywhere near it. They’d just had one of their many arguments … Then one night my father decided to take revenge. He stole a canister of petrol from the garage, doused the creepers at the base of the oak, and set it alight.’
Langham glanced at Maria, who was wincing in anticipation of what was to come.
Annabelle went on quietly, ‘What my father didn’t know was that Monty had decided to spend that night in the tree house. Or … or perhaps he did know. At any rate, the fire engulfed the tree house and Monty was lucky to escape with his life, but he suffered horrendous injuries.’ She shook her head. ‘He was in hospital for months, undergoing a series of operations and skin grafts. My grandfather hushed it up, put it around that it had been a terrible accident. My father was beside himself with remorse, according to Monty.’
‘And Monty himself?’ Mallory asked.
Annabelle smiled. ‘My uncle is a good man,’ she said. ‘He told me he hated Denbigh at the time, but that over the years he’d come to terms with what had happened – and he even claimed that it had made him the man he was. It would have destroyed many people, but not my Uncle Monty.’
She paused, regarding her drink, and then looked up with tears in her eyes. ‘But, you see … the sight of the brazier and the ashes … and that glove, lying there like a burnt hand – it made me think. You see, I can’t help but ask myself if my father did it intentionally, knowing that Monty was in the tree house – and if that was the first indication that there was something … something malicious, even psychotic, in my father’s make-up that manifested itself in his various acts of unkindness down the years.’
She took a sip of her gin and tonic. At last she said, ‘About the brazier, Jeff. I was about to tell you about the glove before Donald and Maria arrived.’
He said, ‘You recognized it as belonging to Wilson Royce?’
She looked surprised. ‘But how did you know?’
Mallory glanced at Langham and said, ‘There’ve been certain developments on that front. I’ll be questioning Royce when I get back.’
‘Do you think …?’ Annabelle began.
He hesitated. ‘Were you aware that Wilson Royce was blackmailing your father?’
She opened her mouth, for a moment lost for words. ‘Blackmailing? No, I never … But why?’
Mallory told her about the accident in Islington back in 1934 that had killed Wilson Royce’s father, and Connaught’s subsequent ruse to place the blame on Haxby.
Annabelle reached into a pocket, pulled out a handkerchief and pressed it to her eyes. She shook her head. ‘I never knew.’
Mallory murmured, ‘I’m sorry.’
Bemused, Annabelle said, ‘But why would Royce kill my father if he was blackmailing him? It … it doesn’t make sense.’
Mallory said, ‘You didn’t know that Royce was stealing your father’s watercolours and replacing them with copies?’
She looked shocked. ‘God, no.’
‘Your father promised Lady Cee her pick of the collection, and we presume Royce learned of this and feared the thefts would soon be discovered.’
She stared at the detective inspector. ‘So he …’
Maria reached out and touched her arm.
Annabelle smiled. ‘I’m fine. It’s just … I knew there was something not quite right about Wilson Royce, but I never guessed …’
They drank in silence for a minute, then Mallory drained his glass. ‘I’ll drive you back to the house, Annabelle. Then I’ll find Greaves and we’ll question Royce.’
Annabelle gathered her handbag, slipped her sunglasses down from their perch in her hair and murmured goodbye to Langham and Maria.
Langham watched them cross to the Humber and drive away from the quayside.
Maria said, ‘Poor Annabelle …’
He nodded. ‘Drink up,’ he said, indicating her glass. ‘I think there’s time for a quick one before dinner.’
TWENTY-EIGHT
Maria glanced across at Donald as they climbed into the car and drove back to Connaught House. ‘You’re quiet.’
‘Just thinking,’ he murmured.
She’d seen him like this before, when working out the twists and turns of his latest thriller. He would sit in his study with his empty pipe jutting from his mouth, a frown creasing his forehead. On other occasions he’d fall into an impenetrable silence, while at dinner or reading the paper, and stare into space. She knew, then, to leave him well alone and he’d return to his normal self in time.
As they drove through the woods, he said, ‘Dash it all, there’s something very wrong.’
‘What?’ she coaxed.
‘I don’t buy it for a single minute,’ he said. ‘Everything about the murder is just plain wrong.’
‘Wrong?’ she said. ‘In what way?’
He gripped the apex of the steering wheel, his pipe clenched in his jaw. ‘Maria, when we get back to the house, will you come for a walk with me?’
‘Of course,’ she said, surprised.
‘I need to think, and talk … and I think best either when I’m in the bath or walking. And as I don’t feel like taking a bath right now …’
She laughed. ‘I don’t know … I could scrub your back.’
‘No, I need to stretch my legs,’ he said, and the fact that he’d taken her seriously indicated how abstracted he was.
He steered through the gates and up the drive, braking beside Mallory’s car.
Maria climbed out and followed him around the side of the house and across the lawn. She slipped an arm through his and matched his stride. As they passed the drawing room, she noticed Mallory and Greaves through the French windows. Wilson Royce was seated in an armchair, staring at the detectives like a frightened rabbit. Mallory strode back and forth, firing questions at the young man.
Donald led her past Connaught’s study and the constable still stationed outside.
Up ahead, Monty Connaught was striding towards the cliff path that led down to the jetty, his rucksack slung over his right shoulder.
Donald called out, and Connaught turned and lifted a hand in greeting. He came towards them, smiling. ‘I’m about to push off in the next hour or two. I would have come to find you and say goodbye. Inspector Mallory gave me the all-clear.’ He gestured towards the cliff. ‘I had Sam and Ginger bring the ketch around to the jetty – Morocco, here I come.’
‘We never did have that drink,’ Donald said.
‘No, I’m sorry to say we didn’t, did we?’
‘Maybe some other time.’
‘Look here,’ Connaught said. ‘I’ll be back in Blighty for Christmas, staying at my club, the Travellers on Pall Mall, from the twentieth. You’re in London, aren’t you? What say we meet up and go out for dinner? I’ll tell you all about my North African adventures.’
Donald nodded. ‘That sounds like a good idea. I’ll be in touch.’
Connaught lifted his claw in a farewell salute. ‘Till then,’ he said, and moved towards the cliff path.
‘What a nice man,’ Maria said, ‘compared
with his brother.’
‘Yes,’ said Donald, ‘isn’t he?’
They continued across the lawn and came to the walled garden. Donald pushed through the timber door and led the way along the gravelled path. He seemed miles away.
‘Donald?’
‘Mmm?’
‘A penny for them?’
He smiled at her. ‘Oh, I’ve been thinking about the way Denbigh Connaught was murdered. To cut through flesh like that, to inflict such a severe injury … it’d take quite some strength. Jeff came up with a working theory back in the pub: he wondered if the killer had first cut Connaught’s throat, and then arranged the piano wire to make it appear that he’d been garrotted.’
‘But why would anyone do that?’
Donald shrugged. ‘To make it seem as though someone with phenomenal strength had killed him? I know; I don’t buy that, either. I think the forensic bods will discount the possibility pretty damned quick.’
‘Also,’ she pointed out, ‘if he was attacked with a knife, then surely there would have been signs of a struggle, and lots of spilled blood.’
‘You’d make a good detective,’ he said. ‘That’s exactly what I told Jeff.’
‘So it’s back to square one,’ she said. ‘Connaught was strangled with piano wire.’
He shook his head, frowning. ‘So the killer enters the study and chats with him. There was no sign of a struggle, so the chances are that Connaught knew his killer. He turned his back on whoever it was, and the killer takes his opportunity and loops the wire around his neck. But Connaught was a big man. He’d put up one heck of a struggle, fight like an enraged bull. However, there was no sign of a struggle in the study itself, or on Connaught’s person: no bruises on his hands or face, or cuts to his fingers – nothing to indicate that he’d put up the slightest resistance. And there was also the fact of where he was when he died.’
‘Behind the piano?’
He came to a halt. ‘But why was he there, Maria?’
She frowned at him, then tugged his arm and set him walking again. ‘Well … he had to be somewhere—’
‘But dash it all, girl, the gap between the piano and the window was about two feet wide. A big man like Connaught wouldn’t choose to walk behind the piano. It was almost as if he’d been placed there.’
‘But why would the killer have put him there of all places?’
‘That’s the blasted question I’ve been asking myself ever since I saw the body. Why was it behind the piano like that?’
She pursed her lips, contemplating the riddle. ‘Donald … how was the body positioned?’
He looked at her. ‘On its side.’
‘Facing the piano,’ she asked, ‘or the wall?’
‘Facing the wall, lying with its back hard up against the back of the piano.’
‘And the head? Was it projecting a little way from the end of the piano?’
‘Ye–es … Yes, it was. What are you driving at?’
She turned, gravel crunching underfoot, and looked at him. ‘I don’t know,’ she said slowly. ‘Perhaps the killer attacked Connaught elsewhere in the study, asphyxiating him before he had time to struggle, rendering him unconscious. And then he placed the body behind the piano, with his head projecting, and exerted the necessary force to cut through the flesh, with the piano acting as a kind of counterweight?’
‘Still, the force needed to exert the requisite pressure …’ He stopped, staring at her aghast.
His expression alarmed her. ‘Donald?’
‘You genius,’ he whispered. ‘But if you’re right …’
As she stared at him, she could almost see the thoughts ticking over in his head, one by one, as he reached an awful conclusion.
‘Donald?’ she repeated.
‘Let’s take another look at the study,’ he said suddenly, taking her hand and almost dragging her along the path.
‘Donald,’ she laughed, ‘what have I said?’
‘If you’re right, Maria, and the killer placed the body behind the piano deliberately … My word, but that’s terrible.’
They crossed the lawn to the study. Donald was withdrawing his accreditation to show the constable, but the young man waved him on. ‘That’s quite all right, Mr Langham. Inspector Mallory said you’re working on the case.’
Donald pushed open the study door and they stepped inside.
Denbigh Connaught’s presence seemed to haunt the place. He had been larger than life while alive, and now, in death, he exerted a strange and powerful influence. Maria felt, irrationally, that he was watching them as they attempted to piece together the conundrum of his final minutes.
Donald crossed to the piano, knelt and examined the parquet floor just in front of the piano’s small brass wheels. She crouched beside him.
He pointed. ‘Look.’
A small indentation showed in the polished wood directly in front of the left-hand wheel. He indicated the wheel on the right. ‘And there’s another.’
She shook her head. ‘What?’
‘Dents made by the wedges,’ he said, ‘placed there to prevent the piano from moving.’
He stood and stared down at the rug in the centre of the floor.
‘Now, if I’m right,’ he said, ‘there should be a trapdoor concealed beneath the rug.’
He knelt before the settee and made to roll up the rug. Belatedly realizing that she was in the way, she stepped back off it and watched as he took the tasselled edge and folded the rug over little by little.
‘And what do we have here?’ he said, rolling the rug the rest of the way and revealing the outline of a trapdoor in the parquet flooring.
He knelt beside the trapdoor, pulled a handkerchief from his trouser pocket, then stopped. He pointed to the coffee table before the settee. ‘Pass me that paper knife, would you? I don’t want to risk smudging any fingerprints.’
She passed him the knife and he slipped it in the gap between the boards and the trapdoor and levered. He created a gap, then inserted his fingers and opened the trapdoor the rest of the way.
He peered into the hole; Maria joined him.
He pointed. ‘Look,’ he said. ‘The study sits on an X-shaped crossbeam or chassis. See that girder, there?’
She lowered her head and peered into the shadows at the girder.
‘And do you see those markings on the rust?’ he asked.
In the shadows, she made out two sets of silver lines, nine inches apart, on the facing plane of the girder. ‘Yes. But what does it mean?’
Donald stood up and pointed to the frame of the trapdoor. ‘Note the cuts in the edge of the wood, parallel with the left-hand side of the piano.’
She nodded, peering at the double lines scored in the timber, perhaps a quarter of an inch deep. ‘Yes, but—’
He sat down suddenly on the settee. She noted, with alarm, that his hands were trembling. He shook his head and swore quietly to himself.
She felt a moment’s panic. ‘Donald, I don’t understand.’
He said, very quietly, ‘This answers everything, old girl. Or almost everything.’
‘But how? How does it, Donald?’
He stared at the piano, then at the trapdoor, shaking his head.
She sat beside him and gripped his hand. ‘Donald?’
He smiled at her bleakly and found his voice at last. ‘The killer came here in the morning, Maria, as casual as you like, and engaged Denbigh Connaught in conversation. Then he rendered Connaught unconscious – I’m not at all sure how, maybe drugged him – and manoeuvred him behind the piano with his head projecting, wedging chocks under the wheels to ensure the piano didn’t move when pressure was exerted. Then the killer slipped a length of piano wire around the unconscious man’s neck, led it across the study and through the trapdoor, and climbed down to attach the ends of the wire to the girder. Then the killer left the scene of the crime-to-be, locked the door and crept away.’
Maria squeezed his hand as a terrible understanding swept ov
er her. ‘And then …’
‘And then,’ Donald went on, ‘a few hours elapsed, and the revolving study turned, and little by little, as the study moved slowly around, the piano wire tightened and gradually sliced through Denbigh Connaught’s throat – and cut into the frame of the trapdoor as it did so – eventually severing his jugular and killing him.’
‘But,’ Maria began, her mouth very dry, ‘why … why would someone arrange such an elaborate method of murdering him?’
‘This was set up in the morning,’ he said, ‘and the wire eventually sliced through his throat and killed him hours later, in the afternoon, between two and four o’clock – just as the killer had planned. And between two and four, the killer was a long way away, doing something else with witnesses who could testify to his whereabouts. All this,’ he finished, indicating the piano and the trapdoor, ‘was a very elaborate means of setting the killer up with a cast-iron alibi.’
He rose suddenly, pulled open the door and stepped from the study.
TWENTY-NINE
Langham crossed the lawn to the edge of the cliff and peered over, a tide of vertigo pressing against his chest and compelling him to lie down.
‘Donald?’ Maria sounded alarmed.
Down beside the jetty, its sails furled, Monty Connaught’s fifty-foot two-master rode a slight swell. Its skipper stood on the deck, speaking to someone in the cabin.
Maria joined Langham and gripped his elbow. ‘Donald …’
Langham waved down to Connaught. ‘Monty! I’d like a word before you go.’
Connaught raised his maimed hand to his brow, shading his eyes from the glare of the sun, and peered up the cliff face. ‘Langham?’
‘A quick word …’
Connaught nodded. ‘Very well.’
He stepped from the deck of the boat on to the jetty, and for a second Langham assumed he was about to ascend the precipitous stairway. His stomach turned as he watched Connaught sit down on the capstan and light a cigarillo.
‘Donald,’ Maria said, ‘you’re not going down there!’
‘I’ll be fine,’ he said, wishing it was true.