Points of Danger

by Edward Marston

  ‘I wouldn’t go that far,’ said Lydia, ‘not least because I can’t see it fitting in with paintings I already have on my walls. But I like it.’ She turned to him. ‘How rare are female artists?’

  ‘Oh, they’re not as rare as you might imagine. Including the work of this artist, I sell paintings by five or six women. One of them is a talented portrait artist and another specialises in landscapes.’

  ‘I’d be interested to see some of them.’

  ‘Then you’ll have to come into the storeroom. Space is limited out here,’ he said with a broad gesture, ‘so I have to be very selective.’

  ‘Is it easy to sell the work of the other women?’

  ‘In some cases, it’s very easy; in others, alas, the paintings take longer to find an admirer. But I have one customer who has a preference for the work of female artists.’

  ‘That’s unusual, isn’t it?’

  ‘This gentleman is very unusual,’ he confided. ‘Follow me.’

  As soon as he’d finished his breakfast in the cottage, Colbeck drove to the railway station to read the telegraph sent from Scotland Yard. He composed his reply and had it despatched there and then.

  When he came out on to the platform, he was ambushed by Pryor.

  ‘Good morning, inspector,’ said the railway policeman.

  ‘Good morning.’

  ‘I was wondering when Sergeant Leeming will return?’

  ‘He’ll be back before too long.’

  ‘Will that be this morning, this afternoon or this evening?’

  ‘Who can tell?’

  ‘Don’t you know where he is, sir?’

  ‘As a matter of fact,’ said Colbeck, ‘I don’t.’

  ‘But he’s supposed to be assisting you.’

  ‘There’s more than one way of doing that, Pryor.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘Work it out for yourself.’

  ‘All I want to know is where he went,’ complained Pryor.

  But he was talking to thin air. Colbeck was already striding quickly away without even a backward glance. In his frustration, Pryor spat on to the platform. Duff came out of the shadows.

  ‘I’ve warned you about doing that,’ he scolded.

  ‘I’m sorry, Bart.’

  ‘What did he tell you?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Did you ask where the sergeant was?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Pryor. ‘He told me that he didn’t know.’

  Duff looked angrily after the retreating figure of Colbeck.

  Since he’d be warned that Tallis might have a lie-in that morning, Wardlow was not disturbed by his friend’s failure to come down for breakfast. As time went by, however, he did slowly begin to worry. It was all of fourteen hours since his guest had gone to bed. Could he possibly still be asleep after that length of time? His anxiety intensified. On his arrival in Canterbury, the superintendent had drawn back in fear at the sight of the cathedral. Because of the memories it revived, it was a source of terror for him. Wardlow began to wonder if Tallis was not simply slumbering in his bed. What if he’d taken impulsive action to rid himself of the terror? Was it possible that he might never wake up?

  In spite of the pain from his arthritis, Wardlow went upstairs as fast as he could. Casting decorum aside, he flung open the door of the guest bedroom and stepped inside. It was empty. Tallis had gone.

  Madeleine had been waiting some time for her friend to arrive and was delighted when she heard Lydia being admitted to the house. The next moment they were locked in a warm hug. Lydia explained where she’d been.

  ‘You went to the art gallery?’ asked Madeleine in surprise.

  ‘I was the first customer through the door,’ said Lydia. ‘Not that I really was a customer, of course, but I pretended to be one.’

  ‘What did Mr Sinclair say?’

  ‘He was very complimentary about you.’

  ‘What about other women artists?’

  ‘Oh, there are a handful of them, apparently. You’re not the only one with an urge to paint, though your subject matter sets you apart from the others.’

  ‘That’s hardly surprising.’

  ‘Mr Sinclair sells work by some of the other women. He showed me some examples of their work. It has real promise.’

  ‘Did he mention Mr Fairbank?’

  ‘He referred to him but not by name.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He told me about a customer with a marked preference for paintings by female artists. That corresponds with what Alan Hinton found out. Some of those women live together in that colony he discovered. It’s clear proof that Mr Fairbank sponsors them in some way.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You’ll have to ask him.’

  ‘I’m not sure that I want to,’ said Madeleine. ‘I’m beginning to wish that I’d never met Mr Fairbank. Underneath that charm, there’s something about him that disturbs me.’

  Getting ashore in Jersey was an exercise in slow torture. Seated in the tender with the other passengers, Leeming was soaked by salt water and tossed about in all directions. His one advantage over the others was that he wasn’t impeded by a large amount of luggage. He could keep both hands firmly on the edge of the boat instead of holding down a trunk to prevent it being catapulted into the sea. When he was finally on dry land again, his legs were like rubber.

  The first thing he did was to find a port official who spoke good English. He was in luck. The man remembered the recent arrival from Cherbourg of the Flying Fish, bound for Yarmouth. Only six people had disembarked. Two of them were women. Of the four men, three were middle-aged. The youngest of the quartet, Leeming was told, was a surly young man with a black beard. It was a good start. Leeming’s hopes revived.

  When he’d recovered from the shock of Tallis’s disappearance, Wardlow had been able to take comfort from the fact that his guest had left all his belongings there. It might indicate that he was not running away and intended to return. Having ordered that the horse be harnessed, Wardlow drove off towards Canterbury in the dog cart, convinced that was the way Tallis must have gone. As the horse trotted briskly along, he was high enough on the driving seat to see over the tops of the hedges and could scan the fields on both sides. Hampered by carts and other traffic on the way, it took him the best part of twenty minutes to reach the city. He went straight to the police station to raise the alarm.

  The duty sergeant wrote down the details then looked up at him.

  ‘Edward Tallis?’ he said. ‘That name is familiar.’

  ‘He was kidnapped just before Christmas,’ explained Wardlow. ‘Your men joined in the manhunt.’

  ‘Oh, so you’ve lost him again, have you, sir?’

  ‘He left the house during the night of his own accord.’

  ‘Losing him once was bad enough,’ said the other. ‘Letting him escape for the second time was even worse. If you get him back again, I suggest you put a ball and chain around his ankle.’

  Wardlow growled, ‘We can do without your pitiable attempt at humour, Sergeant,’ he said. ‘I want your men out there looking for him.’

  ‘Do you know where he might be, sir?’

  ‘No, I don’t. What I tell you is that he’s on foot and needs to be found quickly. It may be a question of life and death.’

  Leaving the station, Colbeck tried an experiment. In the hope that he might attract attention, he ignored the trap and instead walked. Within minutes, he knew that he was being followed. Someone had been lurking in readiness and trailed him from a safe distance. Walking along, Colbeck gave no indication that he knew he was being shadowed. At one point, he went into a newsagent’s shop to buy a newspaper. When he came out again, he felt that the man was still there, albeit invisible. It was not long before he left the road and turned into a lane, walking to the end before swinging right. He immediately sought a hiding place. Tucked away in a doorway, he waited patiently. Minutes ticked by. He then heard footsteps.

  Someone wa
s approaching stealthily. Colbeck was ready for him. The moment he caught sight of the man, he jumped out, grabbed him by the shoulders and threw him against a wall. It took all the breath out of his stalker. Though the man tried to escape, he was up against a far stronger opponent. Turning him round swiftly, Colbeck tugged back his arms and pulled the handcuffs from his pocket before clipping them on to his prisoner’s wrists. Colbeck spun him around again and pushed him hard against the wall again to stifle his protests. He found himself looking at a rather nondescript individual in his forties.

  ‘Who are you?’ demanded Colbeck.

  ‘I’ve done nothing wrong,’ bleated the other.

  ‘You followed my colleague to Yarmouth and today you kept watch on me. If you won’t give me your name, I’ll find it for myself.’

  Ignoring the man’s indignant yell, he searched his pockets and found his wallet. Inside was a card with a name and address printed on it in bold letters. But it was something else that interested Colbeck.

  ‘Ah,’ he said with a note of irony, ‘so you’re a private detective, are you? Well now, Jack Noonan – if that really is your name – what are you up to?’

  ‘I’m trying to solve a murder, that’s all.’

  ‘Do you have any training as a detective?’

  ‘Well, no, to be honest,’ conceded the other, ‘but I know how to gather information. We were slowly building up a picture.’

  ‘We?’ repeated Colbeck. ‘Who’s your partner?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘Oh, yes it does. You had someone helping you, didn’t you, and I have a very strong feeling that his name was Sergeant Duff.’ Noonan shook his head. ‘No wonder he was so keen to be part of the investigation and keep abreast of any developments.’

  ‘The reward money was very tempting, sir.’

  ‘So you decided to get it by any means at your disposal.’

  ‘No, sir, I swear it. I told Bart that we had to play fair.’

  ‘Is that how you describe following the two detectives who were summoned to solve this crime? Do you really think that stealing what we found by dint of hard work was an example of fair play?’

  ‘We know things about this city that you don’t,’ said the other with a touch of aggression. ‘Bart works for the ECR and nothing escapes his eyes. Also, he knew Mr Swarbrick well whereas you’ve never set eyes on him. We had lots of advantages over you.’

  ‘I’ve heard enough,’ said Colbeck, taking him by the scruff of the neck. ‘If you want to see how a real detective operates, you can come with me to the police station and wait in a cell until I drag Sergeant Duff there to join you.’ Noonan began to yelp and plead. ‘It’s no good begging for mercy now. You and Duff only hampered our investigation. Your chances of getting that reward money have just vanished for good.’

  The address he’d been given was near St Brelade’s Bay at the western end of the island. Having hired a driver, Leeming was able to forget about the horrors of the voyage and enjoy the scenic beauty of the coast road. Warmed by the sun and with the rhythmical sound of the waves in his ears, he felt that he’d stumbled upon an island paradise. Wherever he looked, there was something to delight his eye. When he reached the house, he gaped in amazement. Perched on a rock above the bay, it was an arresting sight, a dazzling white castle with an imposing tower rising above the crenellation topping the walls. Stone steps had been hacked from the rock and curved down to the jetty where a boat was moored. The Hern family evidently lived in great style.

  Leeming was relieved. He would be making contact with people who knew the island intimately and whose advice would save him a great deal of time. There was also the promise of refreshment. Leaving the carriage, he walked to the front door and rang the bell. It was opened by a manservant. Leeming smiled at him.

  ‘I’d like to speak to a member of the Hern family,’ he said.

  ‘Nobody of that name lives here, sir.’

  ‘Are you quite sure?’

  ‘Yes, I work for Monsieur Fauvel.’

  ‘But I was told that this was the right address.’

  ‘Leave this to me,’ said a voice with a heavy French accent.

  The servant disappeared and was replaced by a tall, dark, lean man in impeccable attire. He looked Leeming up and down suspiciously.

  ‘Who are you and what do you want?’

  ‘My name is Sergeant Leeming,’ said the other, ‘and I’m a detective in the Metropolitan Police Force back in England. I’m in pursuit of a man wanted for a murder in Norwich. I was told that this was the house owned by Michael Hern.’

  ‘Nobody owns it. We rented it for six months from an agency. My name is Gaston Fauvel. I have never heard of this man you talk about.’

  ‘There must be some mistake.’

  ‘You are the one making it, Sergeant.’

  ‘But I was told that Mr Hern and his family lived here. That’s why a letter was sent to this address to break the news to him that his brother-in-law had been killed.’

  ‘Ah,’ said the other, ‘now I see. You are right, Sergeant. A letter did come a few days ago. I can’t remember the name on it. One of the servants took it to the agency. Other people have rented this place before us. I think maybe that the letter was for one of them.’

  Leeming shuddered. He felt that he’d been completely cut adrift. Patently, he was working in good faith on false information. Counting on cooperation from the Hern family, he was hit by the frightening thought that they might not actually exist.

  Madeleine Colbeck and Lydia Quayle were chatting in the living room when they caught sight of a cab drawing up outside the house. A passenger alighted from the vehicle and paid the fare. It was only when he turned around that they realised who it was. Lionel Fairbank had returned yet again. Both of them got immediately to their feet.

  ‘Have him sent on his way,’ advised Lydia.

  ‘Oh, no, I intend to speak to him.’

  ‘But you told me that you were going to refuse his commission.’

  ‘And I will,’ promised Madeleine. ‘But I’d like the satisfaction of telling him why. Nothing will rob me of that.’

  They waited until he was let into the house and shown into the room. When he saw the two of them standing side by side, he smiled.

  ‘Ah!’ he cried. ‘A welcoming committee – how touching!’

  ‘You are not welcome here, Mr Fairbank,’ said Madeleine, sharply, ‘and I propose to tell you why.’

  He was taken aback. ‘What is going on? I only came to make a second appeal to you to accompany me to Windsor so that you can make some preliminary sketches.’

  ‘I have no intention of working for you, Mr Fairbank.’

  ‘Is it a question of money?’ he asked. ‘If that’s the problem, I’d be happy to increase your fee.’

  ‘The money is irrelevant,’ said Madeleine. ‘When I told you that my husband was away on business, you seemed pleased. What I didn’t tell you was that he’s a detective inspector in the Metropolitan Police, presently leading an investigation into a murder in East Anglia.’ His face clouded. ‘Were he here, our relationship would never have got this far. He’d have seen through you at once.’

  ‘What on earth are you talking about?’

  ‘Miss Quayle will explain.’

  ‘The last time you visited this house,’ said Lydia, taking her cue, ‘Mrs Colbeck was troubled by your manner. She was worried about your motives in offering to commission her.’

  ‘She’s a fine artist. Why shouldn’t I commission her?’

  ‘Because of her disquiet, we asked a friend to find out a little more about you. A police officer went to the house in Belgravia that you claimed belonged to your son.’

  ‘It’s true. He does own it.’

  ‘Then why does one of the neighbours say that the only occupants of the property are a group of women artists?’

  Fairbank’s voice hardened. ‘What are you getting at?’

  ‘You’ve been lying to Mrs Colbeck.’r />
  ‘You tried to employ me under false pretences,’ said Madeleine. ‘Miss Quayle called at the Red Gallery this morning and asked how many paintings by female artists are sold there. Mr Sinclair told her that one customer seemed to have a preference for them. That person was you, Mr Fairbank.’

  ‘This is intolerable,’ said the old man, testily. ‘Sinclair had no right to discuss me or my tastes. I won’t go near his gallery again.’

  ‘Who are those women of yours?’ demanded Lydia.

  ‘I’m a patron of the arts,’ he declared, ‘and I have the good fortune to possess sufficient wealth to sponsor the work of talented artists.’

  ‘But why are they always women?’ asked Madeleine.

  ‘I happen to like female company. Is that a crime?’

  ‘I’ll leave it to my husband to decide that.’

  ‘There’s no need to do that, Mrs Colbeck. If you have any doubts about me, let me take you to that house right now so that you can meet the occupants. They are not as fortunate as you. Without my help, they’d never have been able to become painters.’

  ‘How many of them are there?’ asked Lydia.

  ‘You’re welcome to see for yourself, Miss Quayle.’

  ‘I’m not sure that I’d care to.’

  ‘Good heavens!’ he exclaimed. ‘You behave as if you think I’m keeping a harem in that house. If the idea were not so ludicrous, I’d find it quite insulting.’

  ‘You deliberately deceived me, Mr Fairbank,’ said Madeleine, eyes blazing, ‘and I’ll never forgive you for that. You may actually help some other artists, but I don’t like the way you go about it.’

  ‘That’s a shame. I’d have felt honoured to have that painting of yours hanging in my house.’

  ‘It won’t happen now. I’d rather work for customers who are completely honest with me – and you were not. My husband will be in touch with you.’

  ‘I look forward to meeting him,’ said Fairbank, smiling. ‘He’s married to a very special woman. Good day to you both!’