A Spider in the Cup

by Barbara Cleverly

  “Which company is she appearing with, Mrs. Clarke?”

  “The Covent Garden lot. They start at the end of the month. She’s in rehearsals at the moment.” Her face clouded and she hesitated before continuing. “Well, she was in rehearsals. She left.”

  “Left? Just like that? When was this?”

  “Monday. She had a row with the man in charge. She was always having rows with someone in the company—it’s part of the life. But this time I think it was serious. She resigned. Walked out.”

  “So the company wouldn’t have realised she’d gone missing? They wouldn’t have raised the alarm. As far as they were concerned, she’d packed her bags and left.”

  “That’s right.” She hesitated. “She told me she’d left but … I don’t know … she may have been sacked. I suppose they’d have to, really, wouldn’t they … in the circumstances?” She fell silent and fiddled with her teacup.

  In his most tactful rumble, Orford asked: “Do you feel up to telling us about these circumstances? Don’t fret … we’ve heard it all before, love.”

  “She’d had a bit of a slip-up. I don’t know with who—she didn’t breathe a word. I think it must have been someone quite high up because the someone was paying the bills. Marie never asked me for a penny towards it and I know how much it costs. She was booked in at a swish little place, she said. ‘It will only be for four days, Gran,’ she told me. ‘I’ll be back and dancing again by Friday. See you then! Don’t worry! It happens to all the girls at some time or another.’ But how can I not worry? Something’s gone wrong. I’m sure of it. She never broke her word to me in twenty-two years. If she’s lying ill somewhere I want to know about it and fetch her home.”

  The tears could be kept back no longer. The inspector hurried to produce a large crisp handkerchief and handed it over with a gentle, “Here you are, Missis. You’re very welcome. I always carry a spare.”

  As she sniffed and gulped he remarked quietly: “She’ll be missing her gran’s home cooking, I expect.”

  Mrs. Clarke looked up and managed a watery smile. “She ate like a bird most of the time. But she always tucked into her favourites when she got back home. At least she had a good meal in her when she went off on Tuesday. She had shepherd’s pie and rice pudding for her dinner. Well, lunch they call it these days.”

  “That would be Tuesday, then. Midday. Look, may I take this photograph away with us?” Orford asked. “More enquiries to make but I guarantee I’ll get back to see you by tomorrow morning at the latest.”

  As they walked back to the bus stop, the sergeant asked, “Why didn’t you tell her there and then? You knew, didn’t you, that it was Marie lying dead in the police morgue?”

  “I did. But I have to do this by the book and check it out with Doc Rippon or Sandilands. Death is something you have to be one hundred percent certain about. But I’ll make sure I’m the one who breaks the bad news as soon as we have it confirmed. There’s never a good way to do that but I always think it comes more easily from someone you’ve shared a pot of tea with, Sarge.”

  “However do you find the right words?”

  “Not sure I ever do. I can never remember them afterwards. I certainly don’t trot out any prepared phrases—they deserve better than that. I know if any stranger oozed up to me ‘offering condolences’ and claiming to ‘understand my grief’ I’d poke him in the eye. But they always seem to know anyhow. Like that old lady—she knows. It’s the noises you make that matter—no one needs a fancy vocabulary to be death’s mouthpiece.”

  CHAPTER 18

  The Riley slid over into a passing place and skulked unseen, shaded by the low-hanging boughs of a larch tree with which it blended perfectly. The driver tipped the peak of his grey tweed cap down over his forehead, funnelling his gaze directly at the Maybach Zeppellin yards ahead of him on the road. He found the packet of Woodbines he’d bought in Chelsea. They’d somehow seemed appropriate to the old banger he was driving. The ashtray was full of stinking old stubs. The owner, whoever he was, must be wheezing like a squeeze box. He took out a cigarette and lit it. Just a local man who’d pulled over to have a quiet smoke in a lay-by, if anyone was asking. He puffed twice and chucked it out of the car window in disgust.

  The motor had been easy to nick. Piece of cake. He’d walked around the car park of a modest commercial hotel just off Oxford Street and spotted this unremarkable grey job conveniently parked with its nose pointing out to the street. Couldn’t be doing with that hot-wiring rubbish—he had the technique all right but he was no tuppenny ha’penny car thief. He’d just sneaked unseen into the hotel, nipped into the lift and gone up to the first floor. A minute later he’d clattered breezily down the stairs calling out a greeting to the dozy night clerk who’d looked up, startled, and anxiously checked the clock, waiting for his relief.

  “Can you let me have the keys to my car? Left my shaving tackle in the boot. There they are—second row down.” He pointed. “The Riley.” He gave the registration number. Naw! No need to bother the valet. I don’t want him poking about in my boot.”

  It would be some time before they sorted that lot out. With a bit of luck, he’d have replaced the car before anyone was even aware it had gone missing.

  The occupants of the car in front had no eyes for anyone who might be following them in such god-awful countryside, he reckoned. Back of beyond. Medieval England out here. Only locals would want to be cruising about in these lanes and they were probably all still driving horse-drawn rigs. No, their problems were all in front of them. The big black car had pulled abruptly to a halt and now sat there motionless, filling the road. What was happening?

  Ah—there he was again. The third man—the one in the panama hat with a pink-and-purple band around the crown. He’d caught an occasional glimpse of him on the back seat on the road out of London. There wasn’t much to be seen through that narrow slit of a back window those cabriolets had and the Riley driver wondered why they would choose to leave the hood up on a glorious day like this one. He immediately answered his own question. The man keeping his head down should perhaps have chosen a more discreet form of headgear if he wanted to avoid being noticed. That spanking white straw with flamboyant colours that shrieked posh Rowing or Racing Club made a statement. And what it was saying was: here sits money and influence. Boss man, clearly. Woken up by the sudden stop? He was giving the orders as, immediately afterwards, both front doors burst open, fouling the steep banks on either side and the two fedoras struggled out. They looked angrily ahead of them and began to shout at the uniformed constable who was strolling forward from the bridge to speak to them. Through the open window of the Riley the conversation was perfectly audible. The London men’s loud demands to know what the hell was going on were confidently answered by the large florid bobby in his ponderous Saxon voice.

  “Absolutely no access to the bridge, sir … dangerous condition … couldn’t guarantee safe passage over it. Especially with such a heavy vehicle. Was never built to accommodate such weights and the modern motor it was that accounted for the collapse in the first place. We’re advising traffic bound for Dunsford to approach from the south as a precaution.”

  A diversion was offered with a large gesture. “Only five minutes out of your way and a clear road through to the village. Where did you say you were going, sir?”

  They ignored his polite question and, fuming and chuntering, the two men got back into the car, wrestled the doors free and thundered off in the direction indicated, managing a Maybach backfire of alarming proportions as they passed the constable.

  He grinned with delight at the compliment, shook his head and watched them on their way for a minute or two. Then he picked his bicycle up out of the ditch and wobbled off in the same direction.

  The Riley driver looked at a map, smiled, got out and inspected the road ahead. He moved the diversion sign back into the hedge to occupy the place where bent, yellowed grasses showed it had been recently parked. A bobby out here on a Saturday morn
ing? Supervising the unnecessary re-blocking of a road? Someone with local clout, then, and a damn good information service, and very likely an address in Dunsford, was taking steps to postpone enjoying the company of the Maybach boys. He shook his head and smiled. The poor clowns had no idea they were expected. Or who was expecting them. But this changed his game plan.

  He got back into the car. He calculated he stood to gain ten minutes on the Maybach. Never comfortable operating in unknown territory, he liked at least to know he’d got the drop on the other lot. He briefly settled the .22 pistol more comfortably in his shoulder holster and drove across the bridge.

  CHAPTER 19

  The Maybach crunched its way over the gravel, backed up and parked at some distance from the front door. Two men got out and stared around them. Their startled jump, at the sudden peal of a stable bell, betrayed their tension.

  The expression of the butler who answered the tug on the doorbell was one of polite puzzlement. He was in uniform but the enveloping green canvas apron stained with silver polish, duster hastily tucked into capacious front pocket, spoke of an unforeseen call on his time. He looked from one man to the other and seemed about to give them the frosty “The house does not welcome unannounced callers” speech he reserved for religious fanatics and shoelace salesmen. Until he caught sight of the Maybach. A butler can judge the status of a visitor faster than the editor of Debrett from a glance at his hat and his motor vehicle. Pearson evidently had a problem. Fedoras and foxy faces would normally be sent round to the tradesmen’s side door to run the gauntlet of housekeeper and cook but the foreign car spoke of wealth and power.

  He decided to play this one into the ground and wait for a further sample of their bowling.

  “Gentlemen?” He raised his eyebrows. “Are you expected?” Into the sullen silence that greeted this, Pearson hurried on with his prepared speech: “I do beg your pardon but the shooting party assembled yesterday and everyone went off to the lake at dawn. You’ve missed them.”

  A ragged burst of shots could be just heard in the distance as the bells fell silent. The butler allowed himself a playful smile and cupped a hand to his ear in a stagy way to draw attention to it. “Duck on the menu, I’d say. All the gentlemen are down there in the woods. The ladies are in the kitchen potting strawberry jam. Are there just the two of you, sir?” He stepped across the threshold and glanced enquiringly at the Maybach. “Have you brought your man with you or is he coming down by train?”

  “We’re not here to pot birds,” Onslow said. “Or jam. And there are just the two of us.” They produced their warrants. “Inspector Onslow and Sergeant Cummings, Special Branch.”

  “Specials, eh?” The cards were taken from them, spectacles fished out of the front pocket and adjusted on nose. The cards were subjected to an attentive examination. “Harold Pearson, butler. At your service, sir.”

  “Well, buttle then!” Onslow was growing impatient. “We’re here to see the boss.”

  “Your boss or mine, may I ask?”

  “Ours. The Assistant Commissioner.”

  “Ah!” The butler seemed to relax. “That makes sense. Mr. Sandilands is indeed in residence—but I do wonder if he is expecting to see you? He gave no indication. He’s gone off to the shoot.”

  “He’s not expecting us but he’ll be very glad we’re here.” He tapped the side of his nose. “That’s the name of our game—urgent and hush, hush.” He looked about him, eager to be off. “All you have to do, my man, is stop asking questions we’re not going to answer, point us in the right direction to find him and we’ll be on our way.”

  “I’m sorry, sir.” Pearson shook his head. “That won’t be possible.” Seeing the men’s shoulders flex ominously, he was quick to add, “For your own safety. House rules. No one may just step unannounced into a duck shoot already in progress.” He lowered his voice. “Will we ever forget the unfortunate occurrence in ninety-two when Admiral Henshaw most unwisely loomed, unflagged, over the horizon? No—you too risk having your fore topgallant shot off.”

  “How many guns out there?” Onslow cut through the butler’s jovial verbiage.

  “How many?… Oooh … five shot guns and as many rifles I should say. They’re driving the far lake this morning. East bank. Taking the long reach from south to north. Except for one of the guests who has elected to fish the near lake. The American gentleman.” Pearson’s face melted into an expression of pitying amusement. “Though how he expects to catch anything with that racket going on a mile away, I can’t imagine. Trout do not take kindly to being disturbed. Sensitive creatures.”

  “Probably just wants a bit of peace and quiet,” Onslow murmured. “Got sick of the conversation. We’ll try not to bother him. All by himself is he?”

  “Yes, indeed!” Pearson seemed to approve his perception. “As well as his fishing tackle he did take out a rug, a fishing hat and a bottle of pink wine with him. And called for an Alexandre Dumas novel from the library. I’m not seriously expecting cook will be presented with much in the way of a fish course this evening but we may well be treated to a revelation of the identity of the Man in the Iron Mask.”

  Onslow’s face tightened in concentration as he sieved the nuggets he needed from this swirl of information. The brief details of the armament in play and its disposition seemed gratifying to him. “Sounds like a lively scene out there in the greenwood,” he sneered. “We’ll keep our heads down. We’re used to dodging bullets.”

  “Ah! So I understand!” Pearson was almost waggish. He allowed himself the intimacy of returning Onslow’s nose-tapping gesture. “A necessary skill in the Branch. All the same—if you’ll permit me, sir, I’ll go ahead of you and signal your passage through. Wouldn’t want you to be mistaken for interlopers. There’s a quick way through the stables and past the laundry cottages.”

  Cummings looked questioningly at Onslow who, after a moment’s reflection, nodded.

  Harold Pearson whisked the large and vividly yellow polishing cloth from his pocket, presumably intending to use it to signal with, and set off to walk ahead of them. “Follow me, gentlemen.”

  He stayed his step abruptly, affecting to catch sight of the Maybach, and turned to them with an expression of playful reproof. “Oh my word! Black car, left standing in full sunshine? Any chocolates, flowers or springer spaniels in the back, perhaps? Careless guests have had disasters in the past …” Alarmed by the furious look Onslow threw at him and disconcerted by the abrupt way he rounded on him, blocking his sight of the car, the butler murmured, “If you’ll be so good as to hand me your keys, sir, I’ll park it under the cedar or in the garage if you prefer. It would be my normal practice.”

  “I’ll go check the motor,” Onslow gritted to his friend, ignoring Pearson’s outstretched hand. He left Cummings listening to a burbling account of the near death in similar circumstances of her ladyship’s poodle in ’22 or was it ’23 … that long, hot summer. He climbed in, started the engine and moved off smoothly, driving the car to park in the deep shade of a tree, facing out to the open gates.

  He returned and announced, “Nothing melting in the back but I wouldn’t want the upholstery to bleach in the sun. It’s the best leather.”

  “Indeed!” Pearson said, approving. “Such a splendid motor deserves care.”

  “You’re not wrong, mister. Now—shall we trot on?”

  Judging from the quality of the steely glint in Onslow’s eye that the moment had come to stop wasting time, the butler sighed, gave a slight ironic bow and trotted on.

  ONCE THEY WERE clear of the outbuildings and sheltered from the breeze, the valley drew them down into its green folds, intoxicating with its woodland scents of blossom, herbs and wild garlic. Birds of many kinds set up a cacophony of warning songs following their progress along the track. The well-drained soil was dry and resilient underfoot, the pathway drumming slightly under the heels of the men’s tough brogues. When Pearson turned to smile encouragement he noticed that the two strangers were looki
ng about them, taking in their surroundings, assessing the steepness of the banks under the beech trees and the thickness of the leaf canopy, judging the direction of the shots in the woodland ahead. Checking their bearings. The very professional reaction of killers on unfamiliar territory. Supremely confident? Or ruthlessly uncaring? Pearson shuddered in spite of the buffets of warm air rising from the hot earth.

  He was letting a tiger loose at a children’s picnic.

  “I swear,” Onslow muttered to his companion, “if he waves that bloody duster over his head once more I’ll drop ’im!” He bridled at a sound he heard in the stand of trees to his right. “Someone up there?” he called to Pearson.

  “Probably not … We’re still a good mile away from the scene of operations, sir. That would be a ring dove, I expect. Noisy blighters!” Pearson picked up a stone from the path and lobbed it with a cricketer’s skill at the tallest tree. To his relief a ring dove obliged him by fluttering out with an aggrieved squawk. He reminded himself that in India prowling tigers had their progress telegraphed ahead by the warning bleats and whistles of other wild creatures. Were his companions aware? He flung another glance back at the pair moving sinuously along the path in their black hats and dark city suits and decided: no, he’d got it wrong. This was a cobra he was ushering in.