Corpse in a Gilded Cage

by Robert Barnard

  ‘Hmmm. I suppose there’s no way you could know if there was anything missing from the house? . . . No, silly of me. They would hardly take anything obvious.’

  Superintendent Hickory rumbled off into a mental byway, and remained sunk in thought, like some rural sage asked to pronounce on the turnip crop. Mr Lillywaite left him for some time in meditation, then cleared his throat.

  ‘Pardon me. You mentioned motive. Then there is no doubt . . . ?’

  ‘Precious little.’

  ‘Might one ask how?’

  ‘Karate blow to the neck, then toppled over the banisters, as far as we can see. Medics haven’t pronounced finally yet, but that’s the gist.’

  ‘A man’s crime, it would seem.’

  ‘Not a bit of it. Women take these anti-rapist courses these days. They learn things there that would make your hair curl. Didn’t you read in the papers about this poor bloke who fell foul of that pacifist lesbian commune in Leeds? Never be the same again.’

  ‘Dear me.’

  The Superintendent relapsed into his brown study.

  ‘They’ll all have to stay here,’ he said finally. ‘Family and guests. The thought of interviewing them gives me the willies, but it’s got to be done.’

  ‘Come, Superintendent, they may not be quite the thing, but—’

  ‘I’m not talking about their lack of the Emily Post seal of approval. All I mean is that every one of them is going to say he was asleep at the time, and doesn’t remember a thing till he woke next morning. And in most cases it’ll be true.’

  ‘The crucial time being—?’

  ‘The medics thought early on in the night. Somewhere between midnight and three.’

  ‘So there’s no question of the Earl being on his way to make morning tea, or breakfast?’

  ‘None at all . . . You said the new Earl was at Daintree?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Knowing the security at that place, there’d be precious little to stop him from getting over here and doing it. And back before they’re called with tea and biscuits.’

  Mr Lillywaite coughed.

  ‘On that subject, I should perhaps say I have talked with the prison governor. He was inclined to consider sympathetically the possibility of an early release. On compassionate grounds. He has, after all, only a matter of three weeks to serve before the date set by the parole board.’

  ‘Really?’ said Hickory. ‘Well, perhaps he will be still more prepared to release him into my custody, or one of my men’s.’ He got up slowly, with massive rural dignity, and walked to the windows. Down in the courtyard two policemen were turning very firmly away three battered old cars. ‘Reporters. This is going to be the murder of the year, do you know that? There’s always one, and this is it. I suspect that with the number of police at Chetton, and the number of reporters around it, Phil will be a damned sight better guarded here than he’s ever likely to be at Daintree.’

  CHAPTER 9

  THE BEDROOMS

  ‘And how are things going in there?’ Superintendent Hickory demanded of Peter Medway when, in the middle of the afternoon, they had a chance to compare notes. ‘I suppose their thoughts are zooming in like homing pigeons on to the subject of “What’s in it for me?” ’

  ‘Pretty much,’ agreed Sergeant Medway. ‘The daughter and her husband are rather inhibited by the thoughts of what might be the done thing in the circumstances. The younger boy seemed genuinely upset, but he’s getting the idea that he has to look after number one. The material’s there for a good family bust-up, but with a policeman at either end of the room they feel a bit inhibited.’

  ‘Well, as I told you before, if you can get them so used to you that they hardly notice you’re there, that could change. I gather they all know that the bulk of the loot goes to Phil, after the Chancellor’s had his lion’s share?’

  ‘Yes. I suspect one or two of them are pinning their hopes on his well-known good-nature—hoping he’ll get a bad conscience about it all. But then they’ll have Dixie to reckon with.’

  ‘Not to be trifled with?’

  ‘The thought wouldn’t occur: hard as nails, brassy and direct. Most favoured gambit: a kick in the solar plexus. The Bruce Lee of family life.’

  ‘Sounds just my type. Now, the question is: how are events going to shape up when Phil arrives? I’ve talked to the governor of Daintree, pointed out he’ll be a good deal safer here than at Daintree—what with the hordes of cops and now hordes of reporters. I’ve had to direct men from the house to the grounds, by the by: the men from the Press are congregating around the gate, but the odd fly one is straying: climbing fences, and so on. The fourth estate paying its tribute to the first.’

  ‘I’m not surprised they’re interested: this is the story with everything.’

  ‘Nothing like it since Lord Lucan,’ agreed Hickory. ‘Now, I’m going to send you to get the new Earl. You’re a young man who knows how to mix with your betters. If you need to stay overnight you can, because I want you to check up on—’

  But he was interrupted by one of his army of constables.

  ‘The lawyer chappie’s asked to use the telephone, sir. We’ve got Philips operating the house switchboard. He says he can cobble your phone in on the same line if you like.’

  ‘Perish the thought,’ rumbled Hickory, ‘that I should eavesdrop on a legal gentleman going about his business.’

  He leaned forward and picked up the phone.

  • • •

  Mr Lillywaite gazed around the old Earl’s study with something like complacency on his hard-featured face. It was not that he had any affection for the place, or any happy memories, merely that it put him in mind of the erstwhile status quo. When the young constable had shut the door behind him, and when his footsteps had been heard receding down the creaking floorboards of the passage, Mr Lillywaite took up the phone, got a line from the switchboard, and dialled.

  ‘Sir Geoffrey?’ he said, when he had gone through a layer of flunky. ‘Ahhh—Lillywaite here. I suppose you’ve heard the news?’

  Sir Geoffrey Watton-Payne was Conservative MP for the neighbouring constituency of Courtwold. The member for Meresham, in which Chetton Hall was situated, was also a Conservative, but he was a young Thatcherite of the genus flashy suit, decaying roué looks and messy sex-life. He was not Mr Lillywaite’s type at all, and in all his dealings, business and personal, Mr Lillywaite liked to stick with the known quantity.

  When he and Sir Geoffrey had chewed the cud for some minutes—and what a mouthful of cud there was to chew—Mr Lillywaite came to the point.

  ‘It occurred to me, Sir Geoffrey, that you might be able to help me. I know you have the interests of the County at heart, and I know you love Chetton Hall . . . Quite . . . Well, you realize of course that with two lots of death duties there can no longer be any question of Chetton remaining in the family . . . Yes, indeed, a bitter blow. Even with all the special circumstances, a bitter, bitter blow . . . Yes, quite unsuitable, I’m afraid, but nevertheless I did my best for them . . . I have, as you say, given my life to it, and to the family. To see the house fall into the hands of . . . just anyone would be the final straw . . . Quite. Arabs, Americans, anything is possible. That is why it now seems to me that the best solution—the best of a bad job, if I may put it that way—would be if the State were to take it over as a national treasure . . . perhaps through the National Trust, as you say . . . special grant for upkeep, and so on. There are, as you know, special features which make Chetton quite unique, that cannot be denied . . . I wondered whether the most suitable way to air the question, initially, might not be in the form of a question in the House. Say to the Minister for the Arts . . . Splendid . . . Splendid . . . Tuesday, you say? . . . I need hardly say how grateful I am to you, Sir Geoffrey . . .’

  When, after some minutes of itemizing this gratitude which it was needless to express (for servility has maintained its hold in the legal profession longer than in most) Mr Lillywaite rang off,
he had the self-congratulatory smile on his face of one whose job has been well done.

  • • •

  Superintendent Hickory waited for the click of the other receiver, then laid down his.

  ‘Wheels within wheels,’ he said. ‘How matters get arranged. You and I, Medway, and fifty million others, are about to become proud owners of this majestic pile. Now, as I was saying, you’re to go to Daintree to pick up Phil. Take your time if needs be, because I want you to check up on any alibi he may have.’

  ‘Daintree’s not exactly safe, is it, sir?’

  ‘Tight as a sieve. It’s only for fairly harmless birds in their last few months. They regularly pop over the walls and down to the pub of a Saturday night. Locals accept it. Governor turns a blind eye.’

  ‘What about the Governor?’

  ‘Degree in sociology and naive beyond belief,’ said Hickory gloomily, and he wished Medway God speed.

  As he was driven through the parklands of Chetton, Sergeant Medway began to get for the first time a sense of the immensity of the Earls of Ellesmere’s heritage. House, gardens, outhouses, stables, parklands successively unrolled themselves before his eyes. Halfway to the gate was the Dower House—a substantial, early-Victorian building with some traces of Regency elegance—then more and more parklands. Around the gates, peppering the stolid West Country policemen with questions, was a motley and growing assortment of dusty, thirsty men and women, and a straggling of others was to be seen along the road towards Chetton Lacey, peering over walls, prospecting for gaps in hedges.

  The constable driving him was all for a chat, but Peter Medway sank himself in thought, anticipating his approaching encounter with the new Earl of Ellesmere.

  The Governor, when they arrived, seemed disappointed that the Chief Superintendent had not come himself, but he gave Medway a drink, and (on consideration, since there were no servants’ quarters he could be sent to) gave one to the constable as well. He settled them down in chairs, and was clearly spoiling for a chat. The Governor, in fact, was already relishing his role in the Ellesmere saga, and was thinking of allotting it a chapter to itself in his memoirs.

  ‘Phil is down with the checking-out people,’ he said. ‘We have a certain routine—job prospects, unemployment benefits and so on—though frankly most of it seems pretty irrelevant now. If you want me to hurry them up I can give them a tinkle.’

  ‘No, don’t do that,’ said Peter Medway. ‘The prisoners sleep in huts, don’t they?’

  ‘Men. I prefer to call them the men. Yes, they do.’

  ‘Well, with your permission I’d like a few words with some of the other men in the Earl’s hut.’

  ‘Then hadn’t you better stay the night here and leave early in the morning? It’s a question of alibi, I suppose. What time did the old boy catch his packet?’

  ‘The doctor estimates,’ said Peter Medway stiffly, for he greatly disliked the man’s breezy tone, ‘somewhere between midnight and three a.m.’

  ‘Well, I can vouch for him for part of that time. He was up here until about half past one.’

  ‘Here?’

  ‘Yes. I have the men up here now and then. Little social get-togethers, you know. I don’t have much social life in this job. My wife left—my wife and I are separated.’ (Peter Medway knew this already. So did half the country. His wife had decamped with a newly-released convict, and their collaborated account of the latter’s life and crimes was currently being serialized in the Observer). ‘So it’s good for them and good for me. Last night we had a bit of a meal, then we played cards. Phil’s always the life and soul of the party on these occasions. We played whist, then poker. Apart from Phil and myself, there was Garry Thomson (remember those marvellous Dufy fakes that had the art people in such a tizzwozz?). And Ian Rudge who organized that big insurance swindle in the Midlands. We had a really good time, and they left about half past one.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘He couldn’t really have got there and back in the time, could he?’

  ‘He only had to get there.’

  ‘Oh yes . . . Of course . . . Well, naturally you’ve got to check up on these things, but when you know Phil as I do, you’ll see that it’s quite absurd to imagine him killing anybody. Let alone killing his dad. He was speaking fondly of the old boy only last night.’

  ‘I’ve heard he’s very plausible,’ said Sergeant Medway.

  ‘Not just plausible. He’s one of the best.’

  Sergeant Medway looked up into the shining, guileless, unsuspicious face of the Governor of Daintree.

  ‘I think I’ll talk to the men in his hut,’ he said.

  • • •

  Superintendent Hickory sent a message through to the family that he and his men would conduct a search of the bedrooms, and that they would then be free to go to them, should they wish. Reports from the attendant constables spoke of all being quiet in the Green Drawing-Room. Very quiet. Nobody was saying a word to anyone else.

  Superintendent Hickory heaved himself out of his inadequate little chair and proceeded in a stately way through corridors and Great Entrance Hall, and then up the elaborately carved Jacobean staircase, looking like nothing so much as a Victorian butler bearing bad news on a silver tray. Standing duty at the top of the stairwell was now a WPC, and he decided to take her with him. Superintendent Hickory had considerable faith in the younger policemen, which was a good thing, because he had very little in those of middle age, the intake of the ’sixties. He also had considerable sympathy for the young cops, forced to pay attention to all the conflicting calls of left and right, to steer a middle course between those who expected them to act as untrained social workers and those who nursed subconscious wishes that the police should shoot on sight queers, blacks, pinkos, druggies and any member of any other group that happened at the moment to rouse their spleen. The police were caught in a futile ball game, and he liked to train up the young in the older traditions of the Force.

  So he and WPC Hillier—he sedate and brooding, she light and quick—went through the bedrooms closest to the stairs. The geography of the house was simple, once you got the hang of it. On the side of the house overlooking the courtyard the Long Gallery stretched for half the length of the Jacobean house. A small servants’ passage separated it from the bedrooms, which looked west, overlooking the Dutch Garden and the Countess’s Mile. When the Long Gallery ended, there were bedrooms and retiring rooms on both sides of a gloomy, picture-hung corridor. The Earl and Countess’s bedroom, the State one, was some yards from the staircase, but it was something of a disappointment. Not in itself, of course, for though it had been last redecorated for Queen Charlotte’s visit in the last years of her life, it had a certain immense, musty, cobwebby grandeur (or, if you preferred it, a certain dreadful Germanic heaviness). But when they got down to a closer look, they found little of interest. The dead man and his wife had occupied it for six or seven weeks, but they had left no more mark on it than overnight visitors. One lipstick, one powder compact, one jar of face cream. Toilet bag and hairbrush for the Earl, and a package of Pagan Passion toilet preparations on the immense commode. A minimum of clothes, all nondescript. Wallet with fifteen pounds in it. A letter from their daughter Joan, and one from Phil. These Hickory took for future inspection.

  The children’s bedrooms, which they came to next, were no more interesting. Toys, colouring books, dirty clothes. Very dirty clothes. Even the nightdresses and pyjamas were dusty. But then, Chetton was a stupendously dusty house.

  Dixie’s bedroom was four doors down.

  ‘Not next door,’ commented WPC Hillier. She peered into the bedroom next to the children’s and said: ‘No reason why she shouldn’t have chosen that.’

  Dixie’s room gave many more signs of occupation. For a start the dressing-table contained a formidable array of bottles, jars, compacts and boxes, and enough deodorants to make a polecat fit for polite company. Whereas the Countess, it seemed, was beyond any preservation order, Dixie was not, howev
er much she might be in need of plastering. They went through her wardrobe, and WPC Hillier pronounced Dixie’s clothes ‘a bit much’.

  ‘Flouncy,’ agreed Hickory. ‘Don’t know much about these things, but I’d have thought that with her size . . .’

  They looked at the bed.

  ‘Only one slept here last night,’ pronounced WPC Hillier. ‘Unless it’s been remade this morning, and then got back into.’ She went over and looked at the pillow. ‘On the other hand, I’d be willing to bet there’s been two in this bed at some stage.’

  ‘I wouldn’t be surprised,’ said Hickory. ‘The Countess referred to the West Indian as “Dixie’s boyfriend”, with a great sniff. Still, we aren’t here to discuss their morals, which is as well because it might take an awful lot of time.’

  Superintendent Hickory sent his assistant back to the stairwell and proceeded heavily—groaning, like the Countess, at the distances involved—to the further reaches of Chetton Hall.

  • • •

  When Sergeant Medway reached Phil’s hut, he found his fellow inmates having their supper. They gave him a wry but not unfriendly welcome: it was like old times, they said, being questioned by the fuzz. Inevitably, and probably truthfully, most of them claimed to have been asleep when Phil came in from the Governor’s. Medway had to admit it was perfectly reasonable that they should be. He was more sceptical, in fact, of the two men on either side of Phil who claimed to have woken up.

  ‘Came in at twenty minutes to two,’ said the embezzler in the bed on his left. ‘Caught his toe on the leg of the bed, and was effing and blinding so much he woke me up. He’d had a few.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said the bigamist on Phil’s right. ‘I’d been reading, and I’d only just put my light out.’

  ‘I see,’ said Peter Medway, his serene, boyish face showing none of the scepticism he felt. ‘Did he go straight to bed?’

  ‘Went to the lav. Then we chewed things over for a bit, then he put out his light and went to sleep.’