The Punishment She Deserves

by Elizabeth George

  Barbara saw the logic in this and was embarrassed that in going through Ian Druitt’s belongings, it hadn’t occurred to her to ask a single question about the technology the deacon might have used. She said, “I reckon Mr. Spencer’s the one to ask first, Inspector. The vicar. He doesn’t have an oar in this race, if you know what I mean. I expect he’ll tell us the truth straightaway: computer, laptop, tablet, mobile, and what-you-will.”

  “We’ll speak to him tomorrow morning, then.”

  It was late when they finally reached Griffith Hall. Lynley manoeuvred his treasured motor through the narrow gate to the car park and found a place for it suitably distant from any other vehicle as well as from the random passerby who might lay a finger upon it. They collected their belongings, and in very short order Peace on Earth was welcoming Barbara back to Ludlow and introducing himself and his ear gauges to DI Lynley.

  “I’ve put you back in your original rooms,” he told them helpfully. He said to Barbara, “I can show you the way if you don’t remember . . . ? Or if you need help with the bags?”

  Barbara wanted to say it wasn’t likely she would forget either the way to or the luxury offered by her room. She said to Peace, “I expect we can manage. Follow me, Inspector,” and she went for the stairs.

  When they reached her room first, as they’d done before, Lynley politely swung the door open. He said, “Ah,” before he placed his own bag on the floor.

  She said, “Oh, Inspector, this one’s mine. You’re meant to take the other.”

  He said, “I can cope, Sergeant. It’s only a place to sleep.”

  “Are you sure? I mean . . . DCS Ardery had a different room. A bigger one. This one . . . To be honest, I think she more or less wanted me to suffer.”

  “When the Met is paying, we all suffer, Sergeant. Shall I help you with your belongings?”

  “I can manage,” she told him. “You’d never find your way back once we get there. It’s all corridors, stairs, and fire doors from this point on. But . . . are you sure you don’t want the room that DCS Ardery was given?”

  “How different could they possibly be?” he asked.

  “Well . . . there is that,” she said.

  17 MAY

  LUDLOW

  SHROPSHIRE

  As soon as Barbara saw DI Lynley wince as he politely rose from the breakfast table, she knew that she should have insisted. On the previous night, she’d taken a quick tour of the suite—she didn’t know what else to call it—that Ardery had been given on their earlier stay, and sheer guilt had compelled her to retrace her route to Lynley’s room directly, her bag in her grasp. Of course she wanted the Ardery room. It wasn’t likely she’d ever be able to afford to stay in those kinds of digs with her own money anytime soon. But she knew that she didn’t belong there.

  Lynley had answered the door with his toothbrush in hand. It held a quite thick linear glob of toothpaste. His dentist, she thought, would have been proud. He blinked and said, “Sergeant? Something wrong?”

  She replied with, “We have to switch rooms, Inspector.”

  “Must we? Why?”

  “You’ll know when you see it. You haven’t unpacked, have you? I mean, aside from the toothpaste. And I s’pose the dental floss if you’re a good boy and I reckon you are when it comes to your oral hygiene.”

  “I’m delighted you’ve noticed.”

  “Right. Anyway, collect your clobber and I’ll show you the way.” She plopped her own bag on the floor and shoved it into his room with her foot.

  He said, “Again, why?”

  “Why do we have to switch rooms? Because the other’s more grand. It’s more suited to your . . . your worshipfulness or whatever.”

  “Don’t be absurd, Sergeant,” was his reaction. “We’re both of us using the rooms for sleeping. We’re not here for anything else. At least, I’m not. And if you are—perhaps meeting up with some dashing devil in tap shoes that I’ve not learned about from Dee Harriman—then you’re best to remain where you are. I shall see you in the morning.”

  She reckoned he’d regret it, and when she saw the wince, she knew she’d been right. But he refused to speak of how he slept—or didn’t sleep—and once they were finished with their breakfast, they got on to the vicar.

  They found him just coming out of St. Laurence Church, perhaps in the aftermath of a morning service, as he was in the company of several elderly women carrying similarly shaped and bound books in their hands. Rather a depressingly small congregation, but as it was midweek, perhaps that was the reason, Barbara thought.

  As Christopher Spencer bade the women farewell, he caught sight of Barbara and Lynley. He walked to join them just the other side of the wrought-iron fence that marked the grounds of the church.

  “Sergeant Havers,” he said in a friendly fashion. “Are you still in town or have you returned?”

  Barbara was pleased he remembered her name, although since he was probably charged with recalling the identities of his parishioners, she expected he’d long ago come up with a way to keep people’s names in his head. She said, “Returned,” and she introduced him to Lynley. Then she said, “We’re hoping to have a word with you if you have time.”

  “Of course. Would you like to come to the vicarage with me? I can’t offer you anything save coffee, although I can probably dig up a digestive of dubious freshness.”

  Barbara demurred, as did Lynley. She said to Spencer, “We’ll only need a moment.”

  “Shall we, then?” He indicated the door of the church, saying regretfully, “It’s perfectly private inside if you’d like to talk there. Morning services aren’t well attended any longer. Nor, actually, are Sunday services unless a terrorist attack sends people to church.”

  They indicated that inside the church was fine with them, so Spencer led the way, taking them to what he called St. John’s Chapel. Barbara recognised it from the last time she’d been here: its great stained-glass Perpendicular window unforgettable because it had escaped destruction.

  Spencer spoke first, saying, “You must be back because of Ian. I’m not sure what I can tell you beyond what I told you at our last encounter.”

  Lynley took up the issue. “Matters turn out to be not quite settled with regard to his death. We’ll be prowling round a bit more.”

  “Are you starting your prowling with me?”

  “We did some yesterday.”

  “Did my name come up?”

  “Only in that there are a few questions that weren’t asked first time round.”

  “I see. Well, I’m not sure what help I can be, but I’m completely happy to have a go.”

  Lynley thanked him in that urbane way he had. He nodded at Barbara. She said, “Last time I was here, Mr. Druitt’s dad handed over the deacon’s possessions to my guv. We sorted through them and they all seemed on the up and up and logical, if you know what I mean.”

  “Logically the belongings of a man of God, I presume.” Spencer pushed his spectacles up the bridge of his nose. They immediately began to slide south again.

  “Right,” Barbara said. “But me and the inspector here . . . ? We’re thinking that there might be a few things that got left out and we wanted to check with you. He lived with you and your wife for a bit, didn’t he?”

  “For a bit, yes. But I assure you that neither Constance nor I would have kept something belonging to Ian. We would have noticed at once that he’d left it behind. It would have been returned to him. As for our children and grandchildren—”

  Barbara hastened to reassure him that they were not there to accuse one of his offspring of kleptomania. She said, “We’re only wondering if you might have seen him with any of the missing items. Actually, we’re not sure they’re missing at all because he might not ever have had them in the first place.”

  “I see. What are these items?”

  “A mo
bile phone, a PC, a tablet, or even a desktop computer.”

  Spencer nodded and took no time before he replied with, “When he was with us, he used the computer at the vicarage. It’s a bit of a beast—I mean quite large and rather out of date—but it serves our needs. I’m assuming he picked up his email on it and otherwise used it to contact the various individuals he met with. Of course, I can’t speak of what he had at his other lodgings. He might have purchased something when he began to live elsewhere. When he was with Constance and me, though, he had no other device aside from our computer. At least I never saw anything in his possession.”

  “Not even a mobile?”

  “Oh sorry. I wasn’t including a mobile in that. Yes, indeed, he had a mobile. One of those smarty phones or whatever they’re called.”

  Barbara cast Lynley a bingo! look. She said, “There wasn’t a mobile with the lumber we had off his dad. Flora Bevans—that’s the woman he had a room from—didn’t have one belonging to him, either. Can you think where his mobile might be?”

  Spencer said as he glanced between Barbara and Lynley, “That’s quite odd, isn’t it. I can’t think why it wasn’t amongst his things, unless it simply got left out somehow. Was it perhaps taken into evidence when he died? I ask because he was very good about keeping it with him, so he would have had it that night. There was always someone trying to contact him. He was needed here, then needed there, and he didn’t like people to ring and not be able to reach him. I mean, by phoning the vicarage or his lodgings.”

  They were all silent for a moment considering this. Lynley said reflectively, “As I recall from the paperwork, he was taken from this church, wasn’t he? He was doing a service or dressing for a service or just finishing a service?”

  Spencer smiled. “Of course. The vestry. He would have left it there when he put on his vestments. Force of habit, and he wouldn’t have wanted the distraction of it buzzing or going off or whatever during prayers. Do come with me.”

  Spencer led them out of the chapel and back into the nave. They walked up the middle aisle and into the chancel, where a heavy oak door set deeply into the church’s stone interior took them into the vestry. There, Spencer flipped on a set of bright overhead lights, which shone down upon closed cupboards as well as a bank of drawers and locked glass-fronted cabinets. These last held the requisite items for a church service: chalices, patens, crosses, and the like. The rest was kept in the cupboards and the drawers.

  “Now,” Spencer said to them. “It must be here somewhere. I suggest the drawers rather than the cupboards. Those hold cassocks, surplices, and the chasubles. The larger vestments. The cassocks have pockets but it isn’t likely he would have put his mobile into a cassock he intended to wear for the service, is it? Let’s check the drawers.”

  The wider drawers held, Barbara saw, the starched white dressings for the altar. Further down the row of them, seasonal banners appeared to be stored. There was nothing else in any of them, but on either side of these was a row of narrower drawers holding neatly folded stoles, candles, printed histories of the church, postcards to sell, and as it turned out, a mobile phone and a set of keys.

  “Here we are, my friends,” Christopher Spencer said. “This must be Ian’s because it isn’t mine. And these would be his car keys as well.”

  Of course, Barbara thought. Ian Druitt would have had a bloody car! He wouldn’t have taken public transport into town from Flora Bevans’ home, and he certainly wouldn’t want to rely on public transport to get him to his various commitments. It was one more thing she hadn’t thought to bring up with Ardery, and she was furiously embarrassed about this fact. She looked at Lynley to measure the level of his irritation with her and the guv, but he merely looked thoughtful.

  He said to Spencer, “Any idea where his car might be?”

  Spencer pulled at his upper lip before saying, “It’s restricted parking in the immediate area. Residents, deliveries, that sort of thing, although here and there one can find two-hour spots. I’d think Ian generally used one of the car parks because he would have been here longer than two hours, you see.” He gave the subject a bit more thought before adding, “There’re two that would have worked for him. One’s behind the college—West Mercia College, just off Castle Square?—and another is quite near the library. That’s on the other side of Corve Street—up from the Bull Ring?—and it’s easy enough to reach the church from there. However,” and here Spencer looked, if anything, deeply apologetic as he said, “the trouble is that he would have been towed by now. They wouldn’t have used the clamp. They generally don’t.”

  “Might his father have come for it, with an extra set of keys?” Lynley asked.

  “It’s possible. Providing he knew where to find it, of course.”

  “He hasn’t asked you about it?”

  Spencer shook his head. “Only you have.”

  “D’you know what kind of motor he drove?” Barbara asked him.

  “Oh Lord. I’m so sorry. I’m wretched at cars. I saw it but didn’t think to register what it was, aside from blue. And it was old. That’s all I can tell you.”

  LUDLOW

  SHROPSHIRE

  Before they left the vicar, Lynley told the man that he and Havers might have to take his desktop computer for a forensic specialist to have a go with. He explained that, since Ian Druitt had use of the computer during the time he lived with the Spencers, he may have left some sort of trail upon it that would assist them in their investigation. Spencer looked concerned when he heard the word trail but he didn’t ask what sort of trail Lynley meant, and he assured them that he would be ready to hand over the computer if that was required of him.

  They went on their way. Their first objective was to find a charger for Druitt’s mobile, which was at this point dead. Lynley reckoned that the hotel would have a supply of chargers for hapless residents who showed up without theirs, so he and Havers began to retrace their steps in that direction.

  At this hour, the market stalls were up and running. It appeared to be clothing, bedding, and bric-a-brac day. Lynley was surprised to see that the affair caught Barbara’s interest, less surprised when she said, “There’s Harry, Inspector,” and led him not to one of the stalls but rather to a line of five individuals offering wares from blankets they’d laid out on the cobbles that edged the square’s east end.

  Harry, Lynley saw, was a late-middle-aged bloke accompanied by an intimidating Alsatian. The man wore clean but otherwise wrinkled clothes: a pair of trousers that seemed too short for him and a golf shirt with St. Andrews embroidered on its left breast. He had Birkenstock sandals on his feet and a droopy straw hat to protect him from the sun. He swept this off when he spied Barbara approaching him, and he got to his feet and made an antique bow. The Alsatian did likewise, minus the bow, plus some considerable tail wagging. She was apparently called Sweet Pea, Lynley heard, and she was friendly as a kitten, according to Havers.

  “What’re you flogging today?” Havers asked the man. “And how long do you expect to sit here before the PCSO runs you off again?”

  “How I do try to win over Officer Ruddock,” Harry said in a voice that came very close to the real Voice and was something of a shock to Lynley. “I find it a source of profound sadness to be at such odds with the man. I honestly don’t intend it.”

  “So why d’you do it?”

  “One does so hate to see the waste that occurs in modern society.”

  Lynley saw that he was referring to the items he had on offer upon his blanket. These consisted of a pair of tarnished grape scissors, two leather dog leads, four porcelain cups without saucers, two sandwich plates in very good condition, an ancient slide ruler, a protractor, a compass, and a Swatch. There were also three cardigans, neatly folded.

  “Additionally, of course,” Harry went on, “there’s the prospect of conversation with people walking by, which I very much enjoy. That doesn’t
happen whilst one merely sits on the pavement and plays one’s flute in front of a shop, you see. I’ve noticed over time that people tend to avoid someone who appears to sleep rough. I expect it’s due to their belief that something might be asked of them and they won’t know how to cope. And, of course, Sweet Pea doesn’t help matters. Aside from yourself, Sergeant, no one else has ever approached me when I’m in a doorway. Who is your companion, if I might ask?”

  “DI Lynley,” she said. “Also from the Met, like me.”

  “Might one enquire what you and DI Lynley are doing in Ludlow?”

  “Just now we’re looking for a phone charger. We’ve managed to come up with Ian Druitt’s mobile.”

  “Have you indeed? Is this something of a coup?”

  “We won’t know till we charge the phone. You don’t have one, do you?”

  “A phone, yes. Long ago I caved in to my sister’s anxiety about my sleeping habits and other elements of my lifestyle. I have no charger, though, being without the means to use one. My banker charges mine whenever I hand it over to him for an hour or two, however.”

  Another surprise. One could hardly picture this scarecrow of a man having a banker. He let Havers continue.

  “Any interesting business going on round town that you care to share?” she asked him. “Binge drinking and the like? Riots in the square? Cheesemongers deciding to go on strike?”

  Unconsciously, Harry lifted his golf shirt and scratched his fish-flesh stomach. He said, “They’re setting up for the annual Shakespeare Festival on the castle grounds, but I doubt that’s what you mean, although someone did break a leg when she fell through the platform’s trapdoor yesterday. Hadn’t been fastened properly. Let me see, what else . . . Ah. Two days ago we had a tour coach fail in front of the concert hall, and thirty-eight elderly women in twinsets and brogues were left waiting on the kerb three hours for a replacement. One would think elderly women—having seen so much of life—would have had more patience with the problem. But there was a great deal of walking stick waving and at least one Zimmer was shaken in a threatening manner. Officer Ruddock had to have a chat with them. If he hadn’t done, a blue-haired riot might well have broken out.”