Rooted in Evil:

by Ann Granger

  He paused. ‘I suspect that Alcott made it clear to Carl that he wanted his money back. Back there at the house I got the distinct impression he was anxious to be reassured that Finch didn’t commit suicide, which suggests he’d been pressing for his money.’

  After a few minutes’ silence, Morton asked, ‘What was all that about getting acquainted with him over a book deal? Funny old way to meet someone, and I still can’t believe Alcott let the acquaintance run on without some ulterior motive.’

  ‘I accept that Alcott was keen to buy the books that brought them together in the first place. He is a genuine collector; and the volumes are there, Decline and Fall, in that bookcase,’ Carter told him. ‘I don’t doubt he met Finch at that antiques auction, just as he says, and originally the subject of their conversation would have been entirely about those books. Finch not only wanted to sell, he wanted to sell fast, probably before their provenance came into question. Alcott may have suspected that and taken the opportunity to acquire a bargain.’

  The idea of six thousand pounds being considered a bargain price for a set of old books rendered Morton speechless.

  ‘But, collector’s greed satisfied, Alcott didn’t want to let Carl go,’ Carter continued. ‘We can only speculate as to his reasons. However, whatever they were, they wouldn’t excuse Carl being the cause of Alcott losing a lot of money. Alcott must have kicked up a fuss. Moreover, some of Alcott’s past business ventures may have led him into make acquaintance with, let’s say, the fringes of the underworld.’

  ‘So Carl Finch realised that he was likely to be visited by a couple of guys anxious to apply a little persuasion if he didn’t find the cash? No wonder Finch was worried.’ Morton shook his head sadly. ‘Silly sod,’ he said.

  ‘Finch does seem to have lacked commonsense.’

  As Carter spoke, they overtook a car with a family in it. Memory delivered him a sharp reminder, sending him images of long-ago outings when Millie was small, and wiping Alcott and Finch from his thoughts. They had been a family unit then, the three of them: himself, Sophie and their daughter. As that unit, they’d visited various theme parks. At the time, he’d invariably found them awful places, designed to part parents from their money as fast as possible. But Millie had loved anything like that. Even Sophie had appeared to enjoy them. Memories could be happy and painful. Perhaps he took refuge in police work, shutting out a personal world. Now he felt the pain quite physically.

  Beside him, Morton muttered, ‘I still think Alcott’s interest was in more than the business project.’

  ‘All right, then,’ Carter replied. ‘Perhaps Finch had the kind of male beauty the ancients admired and respected, and which would appeal to Alcott.’

  Morton took the practical view. ‘I don’t know about ancient goings-on. From all I’ve ever seen in films it was pretty well non-stop orgies – with the Romans, anyway. It’s a wonder they had time to build an empire.’ He added, with unexpected shrewdness, ‘Perhaps Alcott lives in his own dream world – you know, the one in which he’s a respected authority on ancient history and all that. But really, he’s just an old pimp and a dodgy businessman. Before he turned legit with those health spas, you can bet he ran a string of escort agencies and the like.’

  While Carter was in Oxford, Jess had returned to the Old Nunnery. She had hoped to be able to find Guy alone. For once, circumstances played into her hands. No one was in the house, but the sounds of raised male voices guided her to the former stables. There she found Guy deep in conversation with a stocky man with bushy, greying hair and a pencil stub stuck behind his ear.

  ‘It won’t work!’ declared this man, in the assured way of one who knows.

  ‘You must be able to fit a small worktop in somehow, Derek,’ argued Guy.

  ‘Not if you want clear access to the en suite,’ said the carpenter. ‘I warned about that, didn’t I? Now then, if you want a little table for a kettle and a tray with teacups, there’s no problem. But a worktop, well, that’s different, isn’t it? That’s got taps. That’s got a little sink. It has to be plumbed in. You’re talking kitchenette.’

  ‘No, I’m not talking any sort of kitchen!’ exclaimed the clearly exasperated Kingsley. ‘I don’t want somewhere the visitors can cook themselves a three-course meal! It’s just somewhere they can make toast or—’

  Neither man had seen Jess approach. ‘Captain Kingsley?’ she said loudly.

  Both turned to face her, looking startled. Then Guy rallied. ‘Oh, Inspector Campbell! Harriet’s not here, she’s gone off to have lunch with Tess Briggs at the Royal Oak in Weston St Ambrose.’

  Derek, the carpenter, eyed Jess up and down as if assessing her dimensions with regard to fitting her into the ground plan of the holiday accommodation. She almost expected him to say it couldn’t be done, not if anyone wanted to open a door. Then, unexpectedly, he asked, ‘Got him yet, have you, the murderer?’

  ‘Making slow progress,’ Jess assured him. ‘Captain Kingsley, can we talk somewhere?’

  ‘Come into the kitchen,’ he said. ‘I could do with a coffee. We’ll sort it out later, Derek.’

  ‘Not if you want a kitchenette,’ retorted Derek. ‘It can’t be done.’

  Guy drew a deep breath and led Jess into the house at a brisk pace.

  ‘He drives me round the bend!’ he said to her as he filled the kettle. ‘He just wants to do everything his way. You’d think I was asking him to fit out a four-star hotel. You can see for yourself the work is basically finished, all the big things. All I want from Derek is built-in wardrobes and little units for visitors to make a cup of tea and a basic snack. But Derek’ – Guy drew a deep breath – ‘Derek – in his judgement – is a master craftsman and a design genius.’

  ‘It’s all costing a lot of money, I suppose?’ Jess remarked.

  Guy, his attention on his coffee-making, grunted agreement. There are noisy kettles and quieter ones, Jess thought, amused. This one sounded as if a small but irritated dragon were trapped inside it. A muffled roar was building up and a column of steam began to escape from the spout in angry puffs. Abruptly, the kettle clicked itself off and the dragon fell silent. Guy set two mugs down on the table and sat down opposite her. Only now did he remember to take off his cap and toss it in the general direction of a coat rack. But he still wore his quilted body-warmer over his disreputable sweater. Jess reflected that kitchens are often the warmest room in a house. If so, the temperature of this one boded ill for the rest of the rooms.

  ‘It’s costing an arm and a leg,’ he said now, in reply to her question. ‘But if I can only hurry Derek up a bit, when he’s done, Hattie and I can paint the walls and ceilings. Then we’ll get in the carpet fitters and some furniture and, all being well, we’ll be open for business by the summer.’

  ‘I understand you’ve a lot on your mind,’ she told him, ‘quite apart from the murder. I’m sorry we have to keep bothering you, but our enquiries do mean we’ll be taking up your time until we establish exactly what happened to your brother-in-law. Stepbrother-in-law,’ she amended. ‘We visited his mews cottage in London yesterday,’ she went on. ‘A nice little place.’

  ‘Find anything?’ Guy asked sharply. He looked taken aback at the idea they had been so thorough.

  ‘Experts are examining his computer.’ She paused for effect. ‘While we were there, a friend of Finch’s arrived, a Natalie Adam.’

  Guy threw up his hands. ‘Damn!’ he said. ‘Is that woman still hanging around? She told you, I suppose, about the visit I paid Carl?’

  ‘She did.’

  ‘Look.’ Guy leaned forward. ‘Harriet knows nothing about that. I’ve never told her I went to see Carl, and I’d rather she didn’t find out. She’s always clung to the belief that she can handle Carl all by herself. But it was obvious to me from the start that she couldn’t. Carl knew exactly how to use her affection for him, pull all the right strings: the shared childhood, the way his mother looked after her, all the sentimental stuff. But you’ve seen for
yourself out there . . .’ Guy gestured towards the building work. ‘We haven’t got money to spend on people like Carl Finch!’

  ‘You and Finch had some sort of a brawl, I understand, while you were in London.’

  ‘Brawl?’ Guy was anxious to dismiss this image. ‘Nothing like that, just a push-and-shove sort of encounter; no blood, no bruises, no black eyes. A chair might have fallen over. Otherwise, neither of us raised a sweat! Natalie being there stopped it being anything more. What was she doing there, anyway, yesterday?’ he demanded of Jess.

  ‘Trying to contact him. He hadn’t been returning her calls or text messages, not even answering his mobile. We still haven’t found his mobile, by the way, or his car keys, or his car.’

  ‘Have you searched those woods? I suppose you have. His mobile and keys could have been pushed into any bit of undergrowth.’

  ‘Yes, we have, and we are as certain as we can be that they are not there. The car is less easy to hide, but we haven’t found that either. Tell me, have you heard of a man called Edgar Alcott?’

  ‘No.’ Guy looked blank. ‘Who is he?’

  ‘We’re not sure, but we believe Finch visited him recently, in Oxford.’

  ‘I can’t imagine why,’ Guy told her. He frowned and shook his head. ‘No, never heard of him. Hattie’s certainly never mentioned anyone of that name. The truth is, Inspector Campbell, that we neither of us had any idea what Carl got up to in London. As for any reason for his going to Oxford . . . I can’t offer you any explanation at all for his going there, I’m afraid.’

  ‘We hope to find out soon. Superintendent Carter is driving to Oxford to interview Alcott today.’

  ‘Whatever the reason is, I just hope it doesn’t involve us – Hattie and me!’ Guy snapped.

  But, as things turned out, it had involved the Old Nunnery. On his return from Oxford, Carter brought Jess up to date on what they’d learned.

  ‘Finch was removing items from the house and selling them!’ Jess exclaimed incredulously. ‘I must say, he didn’t lack nerve. Guy and Harriet surely had no idea. I can’t see Guy allowing it.’

  ‘I suspect it had been going on for a long time. It probably started as soon as that will was read and Finch realised he wasn’t going to get what he felt he was entitled to! He decided to put matters right by helping himself.’

  Jess said thoughtfully, ‘When he was a kid, he probably explored that house thoroughly. He knew where everything was. The attics must have fascinated him.’

  ‘Probably. We’ll go and tell the Kingsleys now, if you’ve got the time to spare,’ Carter said. ‘It’s late, I know, but sometimes it pays to strike while the iron is hot. Your visit this morning telling Guy we know about his dust-up with Carl in London will have unsettled him. We might as well build on that.’

  It had already grown dark when they reached the Old Nunnery. The golden glow from a few windows dotted the massive black bulk of the old house like warning lanterns slung at night around a wooden man o’ war at anchor. Clearly, neither Guy nor Harriet had expected them to return that day.

  ‘Is it me you want to see?’ asked Harriet unhappily. ‘I know I wasn’t here when you came this morning, Inspector Campbell. Tessa thought I needed a break and took me off to lunch.’

  ‘We’d like to see you both,’ said Carter. ‘Because we’ve learned something that might be of interest to you.’

  They received the news of the books Carl had sold in a stunned silence.

  ‘Do you mean to tell us?’ Guy asked, his face a picture of outraged disbelief. ‘Do you seriously mean to say that Hattie and I were struggling to make a going concern of an antiques business, selling some of her old furniture and knick-knacks, which turned out to be worthless junk. Yet, all the time, up there in the attics, there was a set of valuable books . . . six thousand pounds’ worth, at least – maybe more! That blighter Carl stole—’

  ‘I won’t have my stepbrother called a thief!’ Harriet spoke loudly and firmly. Carter and her husband both looked at her in surprise. She was flushed with anger. ‘If Carl recognised those books might be valuable and took the trouble to find out, then it’s right he benefited. We didn’t bother about them.’

  Guy had been scowling in thought. ‘Look here, I’m pretty sure they weren’t up there in the attic when we were hunting around,’ he said suddenly. ‘I’d have seen them. Or you would, Hat! He must have pinched them before that. He must have sneaked up there and had a good look round for something portable. What else did he smuggle out of the house? I wonder. You told me, Hattie, that when you were kids exploring up there you found boxes of china and other stuff. So where did all that go? Don’t tell me to a jumble sale, because I don’t buy it! Carl sneaked it all away a bit at a time. He was waltzing in and out of this house as if he owned the place—’

  Guy broke off abruptly, perhaps struck by the accuracy of his last words. Carl had thought he should own half the house.

  ‘I don’t care,’ his wife said obstinately.

  ‘But Hattie, he stole them. We should try and get them back!’

  Carter intervened. ‘You could consult your solicitor, certainly. But you admit you don’t actually know when the books were taken. As for any other items that might have been stored in the attics, you have no evidence he took any of them or, indeed, exactly what they were.

  ‘You inherited both this house and its contents on your father’s death, Mrs Kingsley. So if the books were still here, then Finch unlawfully helped himself to your property and sold it. But your husband says he’s fairly sure they weren’t there when he was searching the attics. That suggests that Finch may have taken them even before your father’s death, when they were Mr Hemmings’s property, or certainly very soon after his death. If later challenged, Finch might have claimed Mr Hemmings gave the books to him before he died. You may find getting them back a protracted wrangle. You think, Captain Kingsley, that Finch was coming here and searching about over a period of time, so how did he get in? Did he have his own key to the house?’

  Harriet looked startled. ‘Well, yes, he could have still had his key. He had one when he lived here, certainly. I don’t know, is the answer. It’s possible.’

  ‘If he did, he didn’t actually break in. He entered with his own key. He might have taken the view that the books were abandoned, up there in the attics. Consult a lawyer, by all means. But be prepared for a tussle. Finch sold the books on. Alcott bought them in good faith.’

  ‘Carl still helped himself to the damn things without any authority!’ Guy stormed. ‘Why would John Hemmings give a set of old books to Carl? John himself had probably forgotten all about them!’

  ‘I don’t care!’ Harriet shouted. ‘They became my property when Dad died, if they were still here at that time. And I don’t want to pursue the matter any further! Carl is dead. Things are bad enough. I repeat, I won’t have him called a thief!’

  As the echo of her voice died away and her listeners stared at her, startled, she added, ‘I’ve had an awful day. Tessa kept trying to stuff food down me. I now know how those poor geese must feel.’

  In Oxford that evening Edgar Alcott picked up the phone and, having first carefully cleaned it with an antiseptic wipe, called a number written on a notepad beside the instrument.

  ‘Ah, yes, good evening. Edgar here. Oh, no, nothing very much. Just to let you know that they’ve been to see me. What? Superintendent Carter and an oafish sergeant. No, nobody called Campbell, no woman, red-haired or otherwise. Oh, it wasn’t a problem at all, other than the sergeant treading mud into my hall carpet. I don’t expect them back again, but I thought you’d like to know.’

  The person at the other end of the line spoke at some length. Edgar listened, examining the nails on his left hand as he did. ‘Yes, I would,’ he replied at last. ‘I’d be very interested.’

  Chapter 10

  Tom Palmer could have told Jess where Harriet Kingsley had been that day because, by chance, Tom had also lunched at the Royal Oak in Westo
n St Ambrose.

  There comes a point when tinned soup and instant noodles no longer provide a satisfying diet. It must be a sign he was feeling better. For a few days, he hadn’t really cared what he ate – although Jess’s Indian takeaway had been a pleasant surprise. But this morning he had awoken feeling much better, and hungry. If he were to return to work next week, as he planned, he would have to take in some nourishment. He fancied a steak.

  He knew the Royal Oak well because he and Madison had often ended up there in the old days, after a companionable walk. He must be getting over Madison, too, because, frankly, he had avoided that hotel restaurant for some months after she’d taken off for Australia. Now, it no longer seemed to matter that he’d been there with her.

  He hadn’t expected the place to be busy, not at this time of the year. In summer the Royal Oak did good business with tourists and its menu became more ambitious. Although the menu was more basic in the ‘off’ season, the restaurant had a good name for those seeking a quiet meal. Today it was certainly quiet, with just a party of four elderly diners at one table and, over there, by the window, two women.

  It wasn’t until Tom found a table himself and sat down that he identified the two women, and his heart sank. One was that female with the dog who’d turned up in Crooked Man Woods on the day he’d found the body. The other one, he was sure of it, was the demon driver who had nearly forced him off the road on his way to the woods. Jess had told him his description of that driver fitted Harriet Kingsley. So Mrs Kingsley and Mrs Briggs were old chums, were they? The plot thickens, Watson! I wonder if Jess knows? he thought. She probably did, by now.

  He was anxious that Mrs Briggs might spot him; she’d probably recognise him. He hadn’t spoken to her at the scene, only the police had done that, but she had probably noticed him leaning against a tree looking pale and wan and snuffling into a succession of handkerchiefs. Instinct told him she was the sort of woman who noticed everything and had an excellent memory. But he’d promised himself a steak at the Royal Oak and he wasn’t going to be deprived of it by Mrs Briggs. All he needed to do was move to a more secluded table. There was one nearby, in the shelter of a large potted yucca. The Royal Oak was an old place, its dining room poorly lit during the day. Between the natural gloom and the yucca, he should be safe.