By Death Possessed

by Roger Ormerod

  ‘I can change my mind, can’t I?’ she demanded.

  ‘If you wish.’

  ‘And he says—’

  ‘An opinion.’

  ‘He says he’s certain the eighty-one are not Frederick Ashe works.’

  I allowed a pause to build up, trying to recover my equanimity.

  ‘Tony?’

  ‘Margaret, I’ve got what we were after. Six photographs of Coombe’s set of Frederick Ashe. We can check the business of the right or left viewpoints, and at least—’

  ‘You got in there? Inside the gallery?’

  ‘Yes. How else would I do it?’

  ‘And that’s all you’ve got to say?’

  I didn’t understand what she meant. ‘What else is there? Oh yes, I’ve got those six, but I’ve lost the set of photos of the eighty-one. So ... to save reprinting the lot, wouldn’t it be better to check against the original canvases?’

  There was a slight pause, then: ‘Do you think that would be a good idea, Tony?’

  ‘It’s the best one.’

  ‘Correct me if I’m wrong, but you’ll surely have had difficulty getting into Coombe’s gallery.’

  ‘You could say that.’

  ‘And he’s not pleased about it?’

  ‘Not noticeably.’

  ‘Then he’ll certainly have you followed, and it wouldn’t be sensible to lead him straight to the canvases.’

  ‘I can’t see that it matters, if you’re so certain they’re not by Frederick Ashe.’

  There was a snap to her voice. ‘Don’t be foolish. They’re worth something ...’

  ‘I was forgetting—school of Frederick Ashe. But what happened to the idea of selling them as genuine?’

  ‘Now ... I ask you! One expert, that’s all I’ve needed to go to, and he said, without a doubt, they’re not by Frederick Ashe.’

  ‘Quick on it, wasn’t he? It took you days ...’

  She didn’t like that, but I wasn’t in any mood to be considerate of her sensibilities. ‘Never mind that. It was only a suggestion.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I see,’ I said. Which I did. It had been a suggestion that made it unnecessary for me to visit Coombe. But I’d done that, and I was safe. Nothing much had happened. ‘Coombe would still be in the market for them,’ I suggested.

  ‘He wouldn’t expect to pay, he’d just take them,’ she said acidly. ‘By force, or whatever was necessary.’

  ‘Not if we can prove to him they’re not Frederick Ashe.’

  ‘Why are you being so difficult, Tony?’ she asked, her voice wearily conversational. ‘Everything I say is sensible, yet you do nothing but quibble.’

  ‘Shall we say I’m tired.’

  ‘Then do get some rest.’

  I was about to ask where, but she didn’t give me the chance. ‘I’ll be in touch. Goodbye for now.’

  And she’d gone before I had time to ask for her number, her new address, anything. It was highly unsatisfactory, and it seemed clear to me that her interest had died the moment she decided the loft set were not by Frederick Ashe. Her interest in the paintings and in me.

  So now I was committed to another stint in the darkroom, to produce prints of the six Coombe shots and of the six they matched from the loft set. If I could locate them.

  But first ... I locked up, and went to the meter where I’d left the Metro. Then I drove home. By home, I mean Evelyn’s house. I drove a roundabout route, using every device I’d ever read about to avoid being followed. Only when I was certain I was not did I head for Evelyn’s.

  I was playing a hunch on the way Aleric had said it. His meaning could have been taken at face value, that the house might be entered from the rear. This I had to test. I needed somewhere to lay my head.

  The motorbike was in the drive, as Aleric had said. I went round the back and tried the french window into the living-room. She might well have changed the lock on this, too—though I had never carried a key to this door—but, as Aleric had claimed, it opened. The relief was immense.

  I had brought along all my photographic equipment, the workplace being too vulnerable in my opinion. With this unloaded from the car I felt better. After that, the first thing was to get a bath and a change of clothing ... and decide the next move.

  The advantage of this place as a refuge from Coombe was that Evelyn would have told him she’d changed the locks, so it was the last place he would look for me. I would have to be careful not to show a light after dark, though.

  Evelyn’s departure had been so abrupt that she’d left the immersion heater switched on, controlled by its thermostat. So I enjoyed a glorious, blissful soak, and felt much better for it. And, unfortunately, sleepier. I’d lost a night’s sleep, and the reaction was setting in. I went down and raided the deep-freeze and cooked a decent meal, by which time the thought of bed was so overwhelming that I went out into the garden hoping that fresh air would revive me. It had begun to rain. That helped. I turned my face up to it.

  It was three o’clock in the afternoon. I decided I had wasted too much time; Coombe’s men could be closing in from all directions. I went up to Aleric’s room and searched the drawers in which he kept items I cared not to linger over, and found the spare keys to his bike. I discovered his leathers inside his wardrobe, and his boots and his crash-hat. A disguise. The bike would also be difficult to catch, if I needed to use evasion. And if I could handle it.

  I unloaded the film cassette from the Ricoh and put it in my pocket, shut the french window, and clumped round to the front.

  It had been nigh on twenty years since I’d ridden a motorcycle, and that had been a 250cc BSA. They had changed. This thing was a 1000cc V-twin, with a self starter, and shaft-drive instead of a chain, and a whole seat of control buttons on the handlebar console that I had to sort out. It was heavy, but Aleric and I are about the same size, so the seat height seemed correct and, straddling it, my feet were firmly on the ground, and the weight disappeared.

  I did what I thought to be the right things, and the engine thrummed into life with a strangely off-beat pulse. I engaged gear. We were moving.

  It felt like a dream, and at once became part of me. All the old joy of being on a bike flowed back. The acceleration took my breath away.

  One advantage of a motorcycle is that you can park it almost anywhere. I left it in the yard behind a nearby pub and walked to my photo-lab, looking, I hoped, very unlike Tony Hine. I went in as though I were a customer, though having to use the key spoiled the image a little. Once inside the darkroom, I shut the door and wasted no time. Off with the leathers and into the tank with the film, and while that was proceeding, in the intervals between solution changes, I got out the loft canvas negatives, and tried to discover, from memory, which ones might duplicate the six from the Coombe gallery. I was working in white light at this stage, but the task was near impossible.

  I now had the negatives cut into lengths of six frames, but for colour it’s not just the black and white that’re reversed, but also the colours. This makes identification difficult. I put aside the strips that had possibles on them, completed development of the film, and hung it in the drier. You can’t rush these things. I needed prints of the Coombe gallery six before I could proceed further.

  In practice there were twelve Coombe gallery prints, as I’d run through them twice, thirteen if you counted the spoiled one. This one I printed, too, before I realized what I was doing, which is an indication of how tired I was. My concentration was failing. What with having to work now in near darkness, and the lack of ventilation, my head was throbbing and my eyes were going out of focus. Aware that I was rushing it, not taking my usual care on colour control and density, I knew it was probably a botched job.

  While they dried and glazed, I opened the door for a breath of air, but I didn’t dare to go as far as the street.

  With the six best Coombe shots to go on, I managed to find the matching six from my original photos of the loft set. That there were six that matched was an
advance in my knowledge of the situation. It confirmed there had been two sets of eighty-one canvases, and that out of one of the sets, only seven now existed.

  I slapped the six loft-set prints into the glazer, switched everything off, and lit my pipe. Home—Evelyn’s—and bed, that was the next thing on the programme. Comparison of the prints could wait until later.

  At first I thought it was my pipe burning rank. It couldn’t have been the enlarger overheating, because I’d turned it off. It was burning I could smell. Of necessity, a darkroom door has to have a good seal but, now in white light again, I saw that smoke was seeping from under and round the edges of the door.

  Without thinking—I was long past considered thought—I opened the door ... and slammed it again. Outside there, where my tiny reception office had been, there was an inferno.

  Coughing already from the smoke, sweat streaking my face, I switched off the glazer, peeled off the prints, and crammed the day’s production into my pocket. I scrambled, falling twice as I raised one leg from the floor, into Aleric’s leathers, put on his crash hat and his driving gloves, and slammed down the visor.

  Then I opened the door again. Even through the helmet I could hear the roar, through the visor I could feel the heat striking my face, and already there was the smell of scorching riding kit, before it became overwhelmed by the choking smoke. There was no other way but through it. I tried to avoid the counter, not simply because it was beneath it that the fire seemed to be centred. Coughing and choking, and rapidly losing my sense of direction, I fumbled towards where the door should have been. There was no light from the windows, which were blocked by my show prints. I came up against something solid. Flames ran up it, so that the chance was that it was a wooden door. Heat pounded at my back, and I thought the overtrousers were alight. I grabbed for the latch and turned it, and pulled. The door would not move. The heat—or something else—had wedged it.

  Inside the helmet there were whimpering noises. I could see nothing, as the smoke was in there with me. Forcing myself to the effort, and against the pain of retreating towards the centre of the heat, I took a pace backwards and kicked out with my foot, flat on. Futile, of course. The door opened inwards. Then, with fury and panic, and a reserve of energy I didn’t realize I possessed, I attacked the door, kick after kick. Pain racked me. My breath caught, and I drew in fumes and smoke. I kicked, and a panel gave way. Air rushed in. I fell to my knees, reaching for it.

  It was what the fire had craved. Air. It sucked it in, and what had been a roar became an explosion, and with my face to the gap, aware that through it was coming not just air but the wail of sirens, I lost consciousness as a rush of water flung me on to my back.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  It is a good way to catch up on your sleep, but not one I would necessarily recommend. I regained consciousness in a hospital bed, remained awake long enough to discover I was suffering from an intake of smoke and fumes, and minor burns, then apparently slept for twelve hours under an oxygen tent. With a little help from a needle, no doubt.

  A policewoman was waiting for me. She smiled. The nurse smiled. My face was stiff and sore, so I didn’t. A doctor came and checked various things and said I was doing fine, and that the policewoman had a few things to ask, if I was up to it. I had things to ask, myself, but kept them for later.

  It appeared that the fire had not been accidental. How could it have been, with nothing to start it in the reception area? Did I know anything that would help the police? Had I enemies? Had I offended anyone recently?

  Oh yes, and yes, and yes, but I wasn’t going to say so. Would they send a local bobby to arrest Renfrew Coombe? I could just see it. I shook my head only once, a painful process, and afterwards said no, sorry, to every question.

  The young policewoman, who had started off all smiles, finished with annoyance on her face and a shake of the head that indicated sadness for me. Enemies who projected such fear in their victims were just the ones the police wanted to interview.

  I was alone. Carefully, I assessed the damage. The visor had not given full protection. The lower half of my face was stiff, and burned even now. My calves were bound and padded. I touched one, and even through the padding it hurt. My hands were fine. My chest ached when I breathed in too heavily.

  That was me, physically.

  But the damage in other directions would not mend. My darkroom, its equipment, my records and my filed negatives, had all been destroyed. That meant a large hole in my career. It meant I no longer had the negatives for the eighty-one loft paintings. Nor—until I became active—could I reach the paintings themselves. Not even then, come to think about it, because I could not reach Margaret, and the only phone number she had for me was now extinct.

  All I did have, and these had been placed on the bedside cabinet for me, was the set of photos from the Coombe gallery, and the matching six from the loft set. As there was nothing else to do, I sorted them out.

  I chose the best six of the Coombe shots, and laid them beside the other six. It was easy to tell which were which, because Coombe’s paintings had been framed, and this was just visible round the edges of the prints.

  The position was at once clear. The Coombe paintings, as in the case of my own original one, were in all cases right-biased viewpoints. It told me that mine and his had been painted by the same hand. No, I’ll qualify that. The odds were that they had been painted by the same hand. And, if Margaret’s search of the archives had to be considered valid, Maurice Bellarmés painting of Frederick Ashe indicated that he was left-handed. Therefore, he had most likely sat to the right of grandma Angelina.

  So I’d progressed not one iota. It simply confirmed what Margaret had said, that the eighty-one loft paintings had been done by my grandmother, and the other seven by Ashe.

  I put them aside, and lay a long while trying to recapture my enthusiasm for the truth. Proof positive. That was what it had been. A kind of crusade. But even the crusaders must have felt a similar lack of enthusiasm when they’d had the stuffing knocked out of them.

  It was true that the paintings had already brought about too many deaths. Arthur Hine, Angelina, Grace Fielding. But all I was doing was keeping the legend alive by trying to add my own to the list.

  Then I thought of Coombe, the acquisitive Renfrew Coombe, who had obtained most of his paintings by theft, and was prepared to maintain their inviolability by murder. He could not afford even the suggestion that his might not be genuine Frederick Ashes, and needed to destroy anything that might be used as a questionable comparison.

  I thought of Coombe, and a spark of anger grew. He was unassailable. His arrogant assumption of this was infuriating. He assumed, now, that I would surrender the paintings gladly. Gladly? I’d see him in hell first. Angelina Footes or Frederick Ashes, to me that no longer seemed relevant. Their possible value was an issue not even under consideration. They were mine, to do with as I pleased, and if what I did in some way annoyed him, then I would do it twice, and twice as vigorously.

  Thus musing, I fell asleep, and awoke to find Detective Sergeant Dolan at my bedside.

  ‘They’re going to let you out tomorrow,’ he said, shaking my hand as though I was an old friend long lost. ‘We’ll probably be taking you in.’

  ‘Protective custody?’

  He didn’t think that was amusing. ‘That’d be a good idea. It’d save a lot of argument.’

  ‘Who’s arguing?’

  He drew up a chair, and took the question seriously. ‘The Super and the Chief Inspector. The CI’s all for charging you on what we’ve got.’ He stared at my flaming chin. ‘You feeling all right?’

  ‘I was. Keep to the subject. Charging me with what?’

  ‘Murder. Your grandmother and Grace Fielding.’

  He made the whole issue sound a bore. If there was something better he could be doing, he would be elsewhere.

  ‘And you?’ I asked. ‘What do you think, Sergeant?’

  ‘Me?’ He shrugged. ‘Who cares
what I think?’

  ‘I care.’

  ‘Well, if you must know—and if it matters—I think you’re a prize idiot, but not a murderer.’

  ‘And nobody cares what you think?’

  ‘Not at the office, where it counts.’

  I wondered where that left me, and wondered why he’d come. He seemed to read my mind. ‘But that isn’t why I’m here,’ he admitted.

  I waited, but he wasn’t ready, seemed distrait and wouldn’t meet my eyes.

  ‘Why am I a prize idiot?’ I asked quietly.

  In answer, he reached over to the bedside cabinet and picked up the pack of photographs I’d been looking at. He flipped through them as though they were holiday snaps.

  ‘The car in your drive,’ he said, ‘was hired in Lynton. That’s a hundred and eighty miles from here. A long way to go in order to hire a car, especially when you already had one on hire.’

  ‘I lost it.’

  It seemed not to register. ‘But Lynton is only a few miles from the home of Renfrew Coombe, art collector and well-known anonymous philanthropist, one of our richest and dirtiest crooks, and the owner of two Frederick Ashe paintings.’ He jutted his lower lip and tilted his head, examining the quality of my photography. ‘At least two,’ he amended.

  ‘I’ve heard about him.’

  He flapped the pack of prints against his other palm. ‘And it’s Frederick Ashe paintings you’re interested in, Mr Hine, if I’m not mistaken, so the coincidence gets a bit too much to take.’

  ‘That’s an opinion, Sergeant.’

  ‘Mine.’ He nodded. Not the Super’s, nor the DI’s. Just an idea of mine.’ He switched topics again. ‘Had a word with the doc on the way in. He says there’re contusions and bruises and scratches not involved with any fire. This is your body we’re talking about.’

  ‘It sounded like me.’

  ‘So I’ve got this feeling you’ve been tangling with our friend Coombe. Just a feeling. And that’s not healthy, Mr Hine. We want him. Want him badly. Got anything to say to that?’