The Snuffbox Murders

by Roger Silverwood

  The Snuffbox Murders

  An Inspector Angel Mystery

  Roger Silverwood

  Contents

  Title Page

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  By the Same Author

  Copyright

  ONE

  129, Bradford Road, Bromersley, South Yorkshire, UK.

  2100 hours. Sunday, 10 May 2009

  ‘Is everybody here?’

  ‘Yes, boss.’

  ‘Right, well close that door and listen up. I’ve got another job.’

  There were mutters of approval and enthusiasm from the five men.

  ‘Right, now settle down. You will have heard of Jack Prendergast. He’s the chairman of Frescati Fashions. He’s Sir Jack now. Well, Sir Jack and Lady Prendergast will be at the Fashion Award dinner in London next Saturday evening, May 16th. Their country place, Fanbury House, Lower Widdop, Bucks, will therefore be unoccupied. It is quite isolated, about half a mile from their nearest neighbour, which is a farm. The house and grounds are well covered by CCTV, heat-sensor-operated lights and alarms, so it’s balaclavas, gloves and overalls, all the way, as usual. All right?’

  There were mutters and nods of understanding and agreement.

  ‘Lower Widdop is on a loop road just off the B98406. The west end of that needs blocking up after you have entered, to slow down any approach of police traffic from the nearest police station, which is Beaconsfield. I will get Irish John to blow the road up. It pays two grand, and he keeps his mouth shut. It will give us fifteen minutes’ start in the unlikely event of anything going wrong. We will, of course, when leaving the house, turn right out of the gates and travel eastwards before turning up north, but we’ll have a rehearsal of all of that before the night.

  ‘It’ll need someone to climb the telegraph pole that leaves the telephone exchange on the south side at Lower Widdop and cut the main telephone wire at nine twenty-five to block the automatic alarm signal reaching the security company. They’ll get a signal that the connection has been broken, but they won’t know why. They might think it’s the weather, or even that it’s the telephone company pulling the wrong plug out, but they won’t know that you are emptying the place. Get that man we used on the Lord Line job, Peter Queegley. Tell him it pays a grand and he keeps his mouth shut, as before.’

  ‘Right, boss,’ a man said.

  ‘The time to enter the house is at nine-thirty. Now you may have to saw through a chain securing the main gates to open them, so be there by nine-twenty-five, but don’t attempt to enter the house before nine-thirty as the phone line may not be cut. You’ll go in by the front door. I have had made a copy of the key to the main lock. There’s also a Yale lock to which I haven’t a key. The safe is in the drawing room, behind a dummy screen in a false fireplace under a painting of King Charles II. It’s a Phillips Mark II. Made about 1960. Can you handle it, Alec?’

  ‘I think so. But I’ll have to blow the lock.’

  ‘I believe that it’s full of twenty-pound notes. Try not to set them on fire.’

  Several members of the gang sniggered.

  ‘You may already have heard that the house contains all kinds of treasures including a valuable collection of antique gold snuffboxes. I want you to be sure of getting all of them. I’ve got a punter waiting. They are in a very special thick glass case separately alarmed in the library. Second door on the right as you go in by the front door. The house is full of very valuable paintings both downstairs and up. Fill that van. We will have to work quickly. We have only an hour. To be safe we must be out of the house by ten-thirty. Whatever we haven’t loaded by then, we must leave behind. Remember, everything you took to carry out the job, hammers, knives, the gelly wrapping-paper, expired fuses, even toffee papers must be brought back with you. On return, all number plates to be changed before the engines are cold. Old plates to be taken to pieces, spoiled beyond recognition and buried. Vehicles to be re-sprayed white this time. Also there’s to be no smoking, eating or drinking throughout the job. I know that I always say that, but it keeps us out of prison, doesn’t it?’

  There was silence.

  ‘Doesn’t it?’ he bawled.

  He waited until all five men had replied in the affirmative, then he said, ‘And no talking to anyone. Keep absolute stumm! Especially wives and girlfriends. If there’s so much as a whisper and I find out who it is, they’ll know about it, I can tell you. You understand? You know that I mean it. Do exactly what I tell you and you don’t get caught. All right? Rehearsals, every night this week here at 8 p.m. Next week, Tuesday at 8 a.m. for a dummy run, then at 12 noon, the day of the job, for rehearsals and final briefing. Remember, even for rehearsals, leave all items that can identify you at home, as well as your keys and your mobile phones. You will all be issued with clean mobiles the day of the job. The two outsiders, Peter Queegley and Irish John, will be briefed separately at a place to be arranged, but not here. They are not to be told of the existence of this place, or the target address until you’re on your way there. All right? Secrecy is also our security, so all of you, watch your tongues, or I’ll personally rip them out. Any questions?’

  A caravan in Jubilee Park, Bromersley, South Yorkshire, UK.

  1330 hours. Bank Holiday Monday, 25 May 2009

  Shirley Vance giggled. ‘There’s no need for this charade, Alec really,’ she said. ‘If you want to see me in the all together, I suppose I … well,’ she said putting her head on one side and smiling, ‘I don’t suppose I really mind.’ She maintained the smile and then giggled again.

  Alec Underwood might have been titillated by the forwardness of the young woman, but he had a serious plan in mind. He was fifteen years older and in all ways he considered that he was superior to her.

  He breathed in noisily through his teeth and shook his head. ‘It’s not like that at all,’ he sniffed. He spoke in an indignant way, as if his adenoids needed extracting. ‘There’s a time and place for everything. You have no artistry in your soul, Miss Vance. I really do want to take a mould of your body.’

  She liked the thought of that. ‘What for? And when?’ she said, still smiling and looking in the long mirror at herself in the tiny bra and bikini bottom. She liked what she saw and smiled again at the reflection. Alec Underwood looked heavenward for an answer. ‘For posterity,’ he said. ‘But not now, anyway.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘I’ll tell you when. It’s time you got ready for the parade. They’ll be picking you up at a quarter past two. You will be second after the mayor’s open-top car, on the brewery dray. Look at the time. I’m going to the church to watch the slaughter of the donkey.’

  She pulled a face. ‘How horrible. They’re not going to do that, are they?’

  He blew out to signify his surprise at her ignorance. ‘They don’t actually slaughter it. They drop it off the top of the church tower.’

  She screamed and put her hand across her mouth.

  He smiled. He didn’t smile often. He smiled when he heard women scream.

  ‘Alec,’ she squealed. ‘Don’t say that.’

  ‘It’s symbolic,’ he said. ‘No. No. No. They don’t throw a real donkey nowadays.’

  ‘Why? What harm has a donkey ever done to anyone?’

  ‘You must read about it for yourself, Miss Vance,
in the carnival programme. It tells you all about it.’

  She put her beautiful chubby lips together and pouted. ‘Don’t call me Miss Vance. Call me Shirley,’ she said, posing suggestively for him.

  He looked at her. He was tempted. His hand almost came out to touch her leg, but he stopped and stood up.

  She smiled knowingly. She reached out for a bright pink dressing-gown with a big fluffy white collar.

  ‘I must go,’ he said. ‘Peter is picking me up in the car. We’ve a bit of business to see to.’

  Shirley Vance’s smile went.

  ‘You haven’t finished telling me about that poor donkey.’

  His eyebrows came down. His mouth turned downwards. ‘It’s all in the programme. You should read it. Today is Saint Marmaduke day,’ he began patiently. ‘This is the day Bromersley celebrates the death of Septimus Marmaduke of Lebanon, whose parents it is said originally lived here. And in the twelfth century the date of his death, this day, was celebrated by pushing a donkey off the top of the church tower. That’s all.’

  ‘Oooo,’ she said, pulling a face of horror.

  He smiled.

  ‘Anyway, these days it’s a symbolic donkey.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘What’s what?’

  ‘A symbolic donkey?’

  ‘A sack of carrots tied up in a leather strap. They’ve used the same strap for two hundred years. Then they say prayers for the protection and forgiveness of all donkeys.’

  She put her hand to her chest and sighed. ‘Thank goodness. I simply love donkeys. But I’m going to miss all that symbolic stuff,’ she said. ‘And what’s the bit of business you and that Peter Queegley have to see to? You know, I’m not too sure about him. I don’t think he’s altogether honest.’

  Alec Underwood smiled knowingly. ‘You’re missing nothing, I assure you,’ he said. ‘Now, as the winner of the pageant, you’re going to be looked at and admired by all the young men in the town.’

  She blinked, then smiled. ‘Ooh yes,’ she said with a giggle.

  ‘They’re going to look at you and wish they were … your lover,’ he said with a twist of the lips, the best he could manage for a smile.

  ‘Ooo!’ she shrieked. Then she screamed again and suddenly said, ‘I have to go to the loo.’ She rushed away.

  There was the sound of a car horn. Alec Underwood looked out of the caravan window. ‘Peter’s here now.’

  He made for the door.

  She turned back quickly. ‘Where shall I see you?’ she said crossing her legs.

  ‘I’ll see you back here when it’s all over, say six o’clock.’

  Her eyes saddened. Her jaw dropped. ‘Won’t I see you before?’

  ‘Enjoy yourself,’ he said with a big dramatic wave of his arm. ‘You’re their beauty queen. They’ll feed you and fête you. You’ll be all right. Enjoy your Marmaduke pie.’

  ‘What’s Marmaduke pie?’

  ‘Carrots à la croûte.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  He shook his head impatiently. ‘Just eat it,’ he said. ‘I’m off. Just make sure that crown doesn’t fall off and break. See you later.’

  She clenched her fists by her side and pulled a sulky face. ‘Oh, Alec.’

  ‘You’ll be all right. The driver knows you’re in this caravan.’

  ‘But, Alec,’ she said, her bottom lip protruding.

  ‘Stop whining. All you got to do is sit there and look demure.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  He sighed. ‘Pleasant, wholesome, innocent.’

  She nodded then suddenly smiled and said mischievously, ‘Sexy?’

  ‘No. Well, yes, if you like.’

  He opened the caravan door. A big car was standing there with the engine running. ‘I’m off.’

  He slammed the door.

  Shirley dashed off to the tiny cubicle in the corner of the caravan. But she wasn’t happy.

  Jubilee Park, Bromersley, South Yorkshire, UK.

  1600 hours. Bank Holiday Monday, 25 May 2009

  The auctioneer, Mr Pinsley Smith, rose to his feet on the raised platform and looked round the marquee, which was crammed full of people; all the one hundred chairs were occupied and at least another sixty hopeful and curious would-be antiques buyers were standing at the back. As the proceedings began, another twenty or thirty men and women crowded in from the entrance.

  Pinsley Smith tapped lightly on the microphone with a finger, heard the drumming, nodded his approval and then said, ‘Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. May I have your attention, please?’

  The chattering mostly stopped. A few more people came in through the two entrances. All faces turned to stare at the man in the smart checked sports jacket.

  ‘I bid you welcome to this very special Marmaduke Day catalogue antiques auction with some very interesting lots. Now today, the first sixty-six lots are on the instructions of the trustees of the estate of Mrs Robinson, late of Hellensmere House, Tunistone, who are clearing the house before offering it for sale. I will have the honour of conducting the sale of that most imposing Georgian house for the trustees sometime in June. Most of the items today are – I think you will agree – quite remarkable. Lot number one is the life-size gold modelled figure of Dorothea Jordan, actress, 1762 to 1816, mistress of the Duke of Clarence, later King William IV, who incidentally bore him ten children. She was reputed to be the most beautiful woman of the day, and on her death in 1816, the duke had a life-size gold-plated figure of her made and placed on a couch in his bedroom. It remained there for the rest of his life, including the period of his reign from 1830 until his death in 1837. Thereafter it was bequeathed to Elizabeth, one of his daughters by Dorothea Jordan, Lady Elizabeth Acton Fitzclarence, and it was later removed to Hellensmere House, Tunistone where her ladyship lived with her husband Lord Acton, until her death in 1856. The gold-plated figure has been there ever since.’

  Two men in brown overall coats carefully tilted the shiny gold life-size nude statue of a female figure towards the crowd.

  Smith held out an arm graciously in the direction of the statue.

  A few people stood up and leaned forward.

  There were several camera flashes.

  Smith was surprised. He paused a few seconds while he recovered and said, ‘So where do we want to be with an opening bid for this unusual historically interesting figure? Twenty thousand pounds? Ten thousand pounds?’

  There were mutterings among the crowd, but nobody seemed much interested.

  Smith surveyed the crowd. ‘Five thousand?’

  Still nothing. ‘One thousand?’ he called.

  There was a girl wearing specs on Smith’s staff, listening on a mobile phone seated just below him at the table. She waved a hand.

  He looked down at her. She nodded towards him and muttered something.

  Smith’s face brightened. ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘On the phone, I have a thousand pounds.’ He glanced round the marquee. ‘Two anywhere?’

  Silence.

  ‘I’ll take eleven hundred….’

  Still no response. He sniffed.

  ‘Well, it’s here to be sold. Last call. I’m selling.’ He gave a long last look around the crowd then banged down the hammer and said, ‘Sold to the bidder on the phone. The maiden bid of one thousand pounds.’

  TWO

  Empire Studio, Fish Box Passage, London WC2, UK.

  2200 hours. Bank Holiday Monday, 25 May 2009

  The night sky was as black as a policeman’s boot.

  A voice in the dark called out: ‘Car for Miss Razzle.’

  ‘It’s here, sir,’ the man at the studio door called.

  The stage exit door suddenly shot open into the dark lane, and a tall leggy blonde in the four-thousand-pound dress and twenty-thousand-pound necklace stepped out into the night.

  ‘Goodnight, Miss Razzle.’

  A group of eight or nine young people rushed up to her, waving books and pens.

  ‘Can I have yo
ur autograph, please, Miss Razzle?’ a young man in a duffle coat said.

  She made a squiggle in his book. Then a flurry of other books appeared under her nose. Her eyebrows lifted. The corners of her mouth turned downwards. She sighed. She scribbled into some of them whilst still progressing towards the Bentley, the door being held open by a driver with a peaked cap.

  There were a few whoops of delight and happy chattering as the fortunate autograph hunters drifted away.

  ‘Straight home, miss?’ the driver said.

  She nodded, slumped into the back of the limo and closed her eyes.

  The car sped away through the city northwards to Staples Corner, the M1 and on to Bromersley in South Yorkshire.

  It was half past midnight when the driver pulled on to the drive of The Manor House on Creesforth Road.

  ‘Here we are, miss,’ the driver said, ‘in record time I think.’

  He rushed out of the driving seat, opened the rear door, then opened the boot and took out a small suitcase.

  She climbed out. She shivered in the night air and made a dash for the front door. The driver followed with the suitcase. Heat sensors activated a bright light over the steps.

  ‘I can manage, thank you,’ she said.

  ‘Right, miss. Goodnight.’

  Rosemary Razzle fished in her clutch bag and took out a small bunch of keys. She unlocked the front door, picked up the case and went in as the Bentley purred quietly away.

  She closed the front door. ‘Charles,’ she called. There was no reply. ‘Charles, darling, I’m back. Where are you?’

  There was a light in the kitchen. She went down the hall into the room. He wasn’t there. She called again. Then she opened the door to the basement steps to the cellars. The light was on. There were two cellars. One was very small and was empty. The other was sealed off with a steel-covered door with a large combination lock screwed on to it. She tried the door handle but it was locked. Next to the wall was a telephone. She quickly snatched up the receiver and tapped the figure 9 on the dial pad. She could hear it ring out in the earpiece. She let it ring and ring. There was no reply. She knew something dreadful had happened. She put a hand to her chest. Her heart was pounding. Despite the cold, she felt hot. Her face was red and she was perspiring. There was no reply. At length, she pressed the cancel button on the phone and tapped in 999.