Treasure by Degrees

by David Williams

  ‘She nicked the bottle or filled a flask from it — or went back for a quick one before the fireworks. I’m going to have to see Miss Stopps. What did you get out of her this morning?’

  Treasure explained his failure to track down the lady, but in compensation he was able to clear up the mystery of the disappearing pig swill.

  Bantree was not much interested in pigs. ‘If Miss Stopps is here now, I’ll have someone find her. She told Treet they never came into the building again – she and Mrs Hatch, I mean – after they left at five-thirty. He didn’t ask her whether the old girl had another drink outside.’

  ‘Is it all right to touch these things?’ Treasure indicated the handbag contents.

  ‘Sure,’ said Bantree. He looked across at Treasure. ‘We still haven’t found the hat and coat – or a scarf that belonged to Miss Stopps.’

  Treasure was examining a wallet. ‘Amelia hated taking her coat off . . . Good Lord!’ He was staring at a faded photograph of a very old man. It was housed behind a piece of transparent plastic on the inside of the wallet.

  ‘What have you found?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’ The likeness was remarkable. ‘Have you seen Witaker this morning?’

  ‘Yes – and better acquaintance doesn’t endear. I’ve got a copper’s hunch about that one. He’s sticking to his story, and while he can’t prove it with witnesses, I can’t disprove it. The Pittsburgh police have seen his doctor who confirms he’s never had chloral hydrate prescribed – for what that’s worth. It doesn’t mean he didn’t get some here, of course.’

  Treasure interrupted. ‘But from what Treet gleaned from Miss Stopps, Witaker was nowhere near the rum bottle from the time it was brought in to the time Amelia helped herself.’

  ‘But he had plenty of opportunity to lace it afterwards — so if she took a slug later . . .’

  ‘He wouldn’t have had time to cut her throat. Remember he was with me in the hall just after the helicopter arrived.’

  ‘What if she had the second drink at six – as Witaker might have figured she would. He follows her into the Common Room after the fireworks, locks the door, kills her, arranges the suicide scene . . .’

  ‘And leaves by the terrace, taking her hat and coat with him – for no reason that’s clear unless he thinks people usually take off their outdoor clothes before committing suicide. But what did he do with the hat and coat – drop ’em in a dustbin?’

  Bantree shook his head. ‘Every kind of receptacle was searched last night. But it’s all possible, Mark – the hat and coat aren’t that important.’ He picked up the internal telephone and dialled a number. ‘Bantree here. Miss Margaret Stopps is somewhere on the premises. I want to see her now – give it top priority.’ He replaced the receiver. ‘At least we can find out if Mrs Hatch was out of Miss Stopps’s sight at any point.’

  ‘She’s already said she wasn’t.’

  ‘Yes, but she might not count going to the loo, for instance – and that cloakroom Witaker claims he hid in is right next to the Common Room and the north entrance to the Hall.’ Bantree drummed the desk with his fingers. ‘Witaker wants to leave at midday and he’s taking a plane to the States at five.’

  ‘You can hold him for questioning . . .’

  ‘But not indefinitely, and unless something turns up . . .’

  As though on cue, a knock at the door heralded the appearance of the ample Inspector Treet. He nodded at Treasure, then turned to Bantree. ‘Somebody at the lab gets E for effort, sir. Some of those drinking-glass fragments we collected from the porch last night held traces of rum and chloral hydrate. Oh, and I gather you wanted to see Miss Stopps in a hurry. I’m afraid she left a few minutes ago – she passed the time of day with the local bobby – told him she was going to market. Shall I have her fetched back?’

  Although it was following these words that the pieces seemed to fall into place for Treasure, they were not yet in a neat enough pattern for displaying to Bantree: ‘Colin, will you tell Witaker he can leave for town at noon?’ he asked slowly. ‘I want to run into him as he’s leaving – outside, and off his guard. If he thinks you’re letting him go, then he will be.’

  Bantree gave his friend a quizzical look. ‘Solved the crime that has the coppers baffled, have we? Tell me more.’

  ‘On condition you keep your promise to let me have first go at Miss Stopps.’

  The Superintendent agreed.

  CHAPTER XIX

  ‘FLY – ALL is discovered,’ said the singsong voice on the house telephone.

  ‘Who is it, for God’s sake?’ Witaker’s unguarded, fearful reaction to the disquieting injunction was well above average, even for a professional man.

  ‘Call it your conscience.’ This was followed by some heavy breathing. ‘Before you go, though, we want you to make a promise to the Dean. You must tell him that you will arrange a donation of half a million dollars from your funny foundation to the College — provided he accepts no money from the Arabs.’

  ‘I have no authority . . .’

  ‘We know that, you blithering idiot. All you need do is make the promise – otherwise those candid camera shots will receive the widest possible advertisement. Come, we are not asking much of you in return for peace and comfort. We know far more than you think. I repeat, all has been discovered.’

  ‘Can I have the photographs . . . and the negatives?’

  ‘They will be destroyed – you have our word on it, and we are honourable men. If we were not, don’t you think we’d be asking for more than a mere promise ? Think what you’re getting away with, Witaker – think hard.’

  There was no point in holding on to the receiver; the line had gone dead.

  Witaker fumbled in his pocket for the pill box, then stumbled to the bathroom for a glass of water. He had closeted himself in the guest suite to avoid people and publicity while he waited for official permission to leave. As he swallowed the third tranquillizer of the morning there was a loud knock on the bedroom door. Although this increased his sense of impending doom, in fact it announced the arrival of a messenger from Bantree to say he could go when he chose.

  In another part of the College, the Senior Tutor sat back with a satisfied air, ‘You don’t think I overdid the Pakistani accent?’

  ‘I thought it was meant to be Welsh.9 Peter Gregory smirked at his celebrated friend.

  ‘The difference in the cadences might not be perceived by a Colonial such as yourself.’ Goldstein was sensitive about his abilities as a mimic.

  ‘D’you think he’ll play?’

  ‘If he’s as crooked as I think he is – he’ll co-operate. What has he got to lose? He makes the promise, which by itself puts Ribble in a hell of a spot. Witaker thinks he’ll have to explain later that the Funny Farms Trustees or beneficiaries won’t play . . .’

  ‘By which time I shall have established my right to a tenth of the loot – half of which I’ll give to the College.’ Gregory had reached a compromise on scruple and adopted a plan that satisfied his conscience and funded his future with Fiona.

  ‘Mm, I wouldn’t be in too much of a hurry on that. I imagine friend Witaker may have more exploitable goodwill than even he credits with the other nine grateful beneficiaries. If he makes a public promise they may well feel obliged to make it stick, assuming he gets out of this scot free – especially if the tenth recipient – that’s you, my boy – presses the point. Anyway, the main thing is to have him throw our Eric off balance before he confronts the Arab League.’

  ‘If five million adoring viewers knew what a Machiavellian character you are . . .’

  ‘It would endear them to me even more,9 Goldstein observed loftily. ‘Your allusion is, in any case, inapposite. Machiavelli never used the telephone; it wasn’t invented. Even so, I doubt he could have employed it to better effect if I say so myself. I retract any aspersion on your perception.’

  ‘The bomb scare was going a bit far.’

  Goldstein’s large frame shook with silent laughte
r. ‘How was I to know they’d bring in the ruddy armed forces? I thought Al Haban would just send down his bodyguards to have a look-see – I’m sure he regards them as expendable.’

  ‘You’re not kidding about that other phone call to the SCR – the one I took?’

  ‘There are limits to my perfidy – even in a good cause. I repeat, it was not I. Anyway, you’d have recognized me by whatever phoney accent I adopted.’ The Senior Tutor was getting his own back.

  ‘There was no discernible accent — and I’m still sure I’ve heard the voice before.’ Gregory pondered the point, then shrugged his shoulders. ‘What are you going to do with the photographs? Gan I see them?’

  ‘Shame on you – and your vulgar, salacious curiosity. I shall destroy them as I promised. They are two in number incidentally. One of Witaker going into a Euston brothel and another of him coming out. The private investigator I employed to dog the footsteps of the late Mrs Hatch and her lackey had neither the initiative nor the influence to produce anything more damning.’

  ‘You old fraud.’

  ‘Not at all.’ Goldstein effected an expression of offended innocence. ‘Anyway, hiring the private eye was a brilliant stroke. If he hadn’t tipped off the newspapers about the Funny Farms story and the whereabouts of Mrs Hatch our cause would have enjoyed a good deal less celebrity and support, don’t you think?’

  Gregory nodded. ‘Faisal says his father is going to move heaven and earth to get in, now the other business is over.’

  ‘But the “other business”, as you call it, had a good deal of support. Charming as your pupil may be, there are few here who want his family to be exerting undue influence in our affairs. The elimination of the Arabs should cause us a good deal less trouble than Mrs Hatch.’

  ‘D’you still think Witaker is the murderer?’

  ‘Let’s just say I hope he isn’t so careless as to get himself arrested before our worthy Dean accepts his promise and sees off Al Haban.’

  At a few minutes before twelve, Witaker and Ribble came down the steps of Itchendever Hall deeply engaged in conversation. The Bursar was bringing up the rear, but at a discreet distance. Treasure watched them approaching him in the car park area. He was standing between his own car and the hired Daimler which had arrived to collect Witaker. The engine of the Rolls was running on a rich mixture. As a result, fusion of the exhaust fumes with the chill outside air produced a foul-smelling fog that virtually enveloped the car. As Treasure had earlier observed, similar if lower horse-powered effects could be obtained with the exudations of Shetland ponies. The Daimler driver cast a disapproving glance in Treasure’s direction, considered moving his vehicle, but on catching sight of his passenger decided to endure the affront to his lungs for the moments that remained before he could depart.

  Treasure stepped forward. ‘So, you’re leaving?’

  Witaker, crumpled and bowed, gave a short nod. ‘The Superintendent doesn’t need me any more.’ There was less satisfaction in the voice than might have been expected.

  Ribble, at least, seemed to have recovered his normal bounce. ‘Mr Witaker has made us a most generous promise . . . indeed, in the circumstances, a most magnificent promise.’

  ‘I can’t guarantee anything . . .’

  The Dean smiled warmly. ‘He naturally cannot commit his new fellow Trustees to the Funny Farms Foundation, but he has promised to use his influence to obtain an Amelia Hatch memorial donation to UCI – the figure of half a million dollars has been mentioned.’

  Treasure nodded approvingly at this unexpected, and in the circumstances, inappropriate intention. The form of Amelia’s passing hardly justified memorizing. ‘I sincerely hope you can push it through.’ He glanced about him as though conscious for the first time of the clouds of smoke engulfing the party. ‘I say, I’m sorry about the fug. Hang on a second.’

  Treasure hurried around his car to the driver’s door, and thrusting his hand through the open window, switched off the ignition. Witaker was standing near the front passenger door of the Rolls as the exhaust haze began to disperse on the light breeze.

  ‘I think you’ve met my passenger.’ Treasure addressed Witaker over the roof of the car. Andy was sitting in the front seat; his face appeared, wraith-like, through the wafted smoke. Witaker stared at the boy in frightened disbelief. All colour drained from his face. His mouth opened, but no words emerged. ‘Spitting image, isn’t he?’ continued Treasure jauntily. ‘But you haven’t been seeing ghosts, old chap – this is Andy Stopps, a lad who lives here in the village.’ He walked around the car and proffered his hand to Witaker. ‘Well, in case I don’t see you again, cheerio, and a safe journey.’ He looked over Witaker’s shoulder. ‘Hello, Colin, you look very purposeful.’

  Superintendent Bantree had joined the group. He motioned Witaker towards the rear of the Daimler. ‘If we could have a word alone, sir. Excuse us, gentlemen.’

  Ribble and the Bursar remained where they were standing, looking decidedly perplexed. What had taken place had all the appearances of a set piece, and it was disquieting to have been unrehearsed participants.

  After a moment’s hesitation Hunter-Smith followed Treasure who, after a nod to the Dean, was ambling unconcernedly back to his car. ‘Mr Treasure.’ The Bursar spoke in a near whisper. ‘Something I should have mentioned to the police perhaps.’ He nodded towards the lonely passenger in the Rolls. ‘Bad form to get a lad like that into trouble unnecessarily – may be nothing in it, too – leave you to be the judge, what? Fact of the matter is, I saw young Andy there hanging about outside the SCR – that is, on the terrace – just before the fireworks started last night.’ He gave a short sigh as though to indicate he was glad to have relieved himself of a responsibility – even if it was one he owed to his wife’s insistence rather than to his own conscience.

  ‘I think you’ll find the police have that information already. Anyway, I should certainly let Inspector Treet know what you’ve told me. Can you remember the exact time you saw Andy?’

  The Bursar looked embarrassed. ‘You probably know I’d had a few – no, I can’t be exactly sure of the time. It must have been four or five minutes before the fireworks started.’ He paused. ‘Well, if you feel I ought to speak up.’ Hunter-Smith wheeled about, military style, and marched back to rejoin the deserted Ribble.

  Treasure headed the car for the village glancing from time to time at the boy sitting beside him so obviously overwhelmed and delighted by the ride. The Bursar’s sentiments were clearly the right ones. Andy deserved as much protection as Treasure or anyone else could provide. Fate had dealt him some bitter blows – his disfigurement and retarded mental development were proof of that. If Treasure’s hypothesis was correct – and he now had no doubt that it was – a stubborn if understandable sense of respectability and pride had deprived the boy of vast riches: of course, love and care had been provided in ample compensation, and it was interesting to speculate on the possibility that the riches were still not beyond claiming. For the moment, however, there was a consideration that took priority over all material matters. Through a misguided application of rough justice Andy stood in danger of being arraigned as an accessory to murder.

  Miss Stopps was arranging herself to mount the bicycle after pushing it up the hill to The Trout. Tottle settled himself more comfortably – as forward look-out – while marking the progress of the Rolls. Instead of descending the hill, Treasure steered the car to the side of the road, and stopped.

  ‘Auntie, Auntie, look at me!’ Andy called through the open door as Treasure alighted.

  The banker turned. ‘Andy, why don’t you run on down and tell Uncle Marcus I’ll be there shortly – you can be getting Gertrude ready for showing, and you can come for another ride with me later.’ The first look of disappointment was replaced by one of eagerness at the last promise. Treasure joined Miss Stopps on the far side of the road as Andy jogged away towards the village.

  ‘He’s a great credit to you.’

  ‘One d
oes one’s best, Mr Treasure. Now I fear I am far too decrepit and useless . . .’

  ‘The Vicar explained. I’m sure no . . . no grandmother could have done more.’ Treasure offered the title so that it might have been construed as a convenient simile. Miss Stopps displayed no visible reaction. ‘Mr Witaker was much taken with Andy’s likeness to someone else. It quite unnerved the poor chap.’

  ‘How very strange and . . .’

  ‘Unexpected? Perhaps. Witaker insists that Andy’s the living image of Cyrus Hatch. The old chap was quite bald apparently – that was, in his later years.’

  ‘Indeed.’ Miss Stopps gave no more than a well-mannered show of interest. Other people’s coincidences, she might have been indicating, were on a par with other people’s dreams as subjects for third-party fascination. ‘Mr Treasure, I haven’t thanked you for your note – most thoughtful. I took your advice and left the College immediately.’

  ‘I’d assumed . . .’

  ‘That I should be awaiting you at my cottage?’ Miss Stopps interrupted, and, after consulting her watch, continued. ‘You are a trifle earlier than I had expected, so having put our house in order, Tottle and I decided on a quick spin.’ She paused. ‘The possibility that Mrs Hatch committed suicide has been ruled out?’

  ‘That will depend on the inquest.’

  ‘Quite so. For my own part I had judged appearances would indicate suicide.’

  ‘The post-mortem showed large quantities of a soporific drug in the body – chloral hydrate. The police have concluded Mrs Hatch was unconscious when her . . . when the dagger was used.’

  Miss Stopps nodded. ‘I know the substance. Marcus has it prescribed -1 borrow some from time to time, I must confess, often without his knowledge. The Hassocks keep a commendably open house.’ She waited long enough to ensure these last remarks had registered before continuing. ‘The authorities are very conscientious.’

  ‘You mean confronted with such obvious evidence of suicide one wouldn’t have expected them to dig any deeper? They’re usually pretty thorough in these matters — and the circumstances were odd.’