A Spider on the Stairs

by Cassandra Chan

  A Spider

  ON THE

  STAIRS

  ALSO BY CASSANDRA CHAN

  Trick of the Mind

  Village Affairs

  The Young Widow

  A Spider

  ON THE

  STAIRS

  CASSANDRA CHAN

  MINOTAUR BOOKS NEW YORK

  Table of Contents

  Title

  Copyright

  Dedication

  1 In Which Bethancourt Contemplates the Awfulness of Christmas

  2 In Which Gibbons Gets a Christmas Surprise

  3 In Which a Complication Arises

  4 In Which a Deluge Occurs and Grants Bethancourt a Reprieve

  5 In Which Bethancourt Encounters a Flash from the Past

  6 In Which Bethancourt Goes A-Wassailing and Wee Willie Winkie Chases Gibbons Down

  7 In Which Bethancourt and Gibbons Discover Two Many Obligations and the Spectre of Aunt Evelyn Arises

  8 In Which Gibbons Looks to the Past, and Bethancourt Has An Awkward Morning

  9 In Which Bethancourt and Gibbons Receive a Late-Night Summons

  10 In Which Bethancourt Is Rudely Awakened, Gibbons Reaches the End of His Endurance, and They Both Take Naps

  11 In Which the Investigation Becomes Waterlogged

  12 In Which Aunt Evelyn Graciously Contributes

  13 In Which the Detective Superintendents Take a Break for a Good Meal and Are Served a Solution Instead

  14 In Which Brumby Gets a Good Night’s Sleep

  15 In Which Gibbons Watches the Snow Fall

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  A SPIDER ON THE STAIRS. Copyright © 2010 by Cassandra Chan. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

  www.minotaurbooks.com

  ISBN 978-0-312-36940-8

  First Edition: August 2010

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  To Crissie and Carol Tucker. It’s not always easy to live with a

  writer who hasn’t met her deadline, but you two didn’t seem

  to mind at all. In fact, you helped. Or sometimes distracted.

  Anyway, I’m grateful for it all.

  A Spider

  ON THE

  STAIRS

  Spider Lore

  Never kill a spider in the afternoon or evening, but always kill the spider unlucky enough to show himself early in the morning, for the old French proverb says:

  Araignée du matin—chagrin;

  Araignée du midi—plaisir;

  Araignée du soir—espoir

  (A spider seen in the morning is a sign of grief; a spider seen at noon, of joy; a spider seen in the evening, of hope.)

  1

  In Which Bethancourt Contemplates the Awfulness of Christmas

  The twenty-third of December was a grey, cheerless day, with black clouds scudding across the sky and spatterings of rain. Phillip Bethancourt, looking out the window of his parents’ house in Yorkshire, felt it suited his mood exactly. It had been many long years since the exciting scent of the Christmas tree with the brightness of its ornaments and the munificence of the presents spread beneath it had been enough to ameliorate the essential awfulness of the holiday at Wethercross Grange. Attendance, however, was not optional, and every year saw him making his way grudgingly northward, resigned to sacrifice.

  It was not that his family did not celebrate the holidays with enthusiasm; quite the contrary, the Grange was decked out for Christmastide. The old manor house was filled with the mixed scents of evergreens, candle wax, and the burning Yule log, along with the fainter aroma of cooking; the mantels were all draped with evergreens and holly, and the Christmas tree in the drawing room was ablaze with lights and colored ornaments. There were even Christmas carols playing softly on the old stereo system. No, it was not that the Grange lacked anything in the way of Christmas cheer, it was Bethancourt’s place in it that caused his gloom. On these occasions, there were invariably endless criticisms of his lifestyle, of how he spent his money, of his lack of a proper job or a proper wife. It was no fun, he reflected, being the black sheep, though for the life of him, he had never meant to be. He had taken a first at Oxford, and he had shepherded the money he had inherited carefully, investing wisely and conservatively; he really did not see why he should not now be left alone to do as he liked.

  He was in his bedroom at the Grange, dressing for dinner and admittedly dawdling over the process. In the mirror he saw the reflection of a tall, bespectacled young man whose normally shaggy fair hair had been recently trimmed in anticipation of parental criticism, his lean frame dressed in a perfectly tailored dinner jacket made for him by Redwood & Feller. A jacket that he had not worn, to his recollection, since last Christmas.

  He was disturbed from the contemplation of his image by the ringing of his mobile phone. Glancing at the caller ID, he recognized the number as that of Scotland Yard and his mood immediately plummeted further. His friend, Detective Sergeant Jack Gibbons, had just come off a long sick leave during which he had continually fretted over his enforced inactivity, and he was now conversely cheery despite having pulled the Christmas holiday shift. In his present mood, the last thing Bethancourt wanted was to talk to someone giddy with joy, but Gibbons was a close friend and he answered the call nonetheless.

  “Hullo, Phillip,” said Gibbons happily. “How is the weather in the Dales then?”

  “Dreadful,” answered Bethancourt morosely.

  “Raining?”

  “Buckets,” affirmed Bethancourt.

  “Well, maybe it’ll clear up,” said Gibbons with what Bethancourt viewed as an overly optimistic air. “Or perhaps it’ll turn to snow.”

  “Don’t say that,” begged Bethancourt. “If it starts snowing the way it’s raining, it’ll block all the roads and I’ll never get out of here.”

  “Oh,” said Gibbons. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

  “So,” said Bethancourt, endeavoring to change the subject, “what are you up to? Have they given you a case yet?”

  This was mere masochism on Bethancourt’s part, as he was an avid amateur detective who followed Gibbons’s cases closely and would only be disappointed if an interesting case was to come up now, just when he could not take part in it.

  “There is a case,” affirmed Gibbons sunnily. “I just got the call and I’m on my way over to the Yard in an hour to meet with Superintendent Brumby.”

  “Splendid,” said Bethancourt, although there was a slightly hollow tone to his voice. He sat down in the chair by the window and lit a cigarette.

  “I’m to get briefed on the Ashdon killer,” said Gibbons. “And then run up to see if this new murder is connected.”

  Surprise shook Bethancourt momentarily out of his doldrums. “The Ashdon killer?” he repeated. “There’s been another victim?”

  “Possibly,” said Gibbons. “Anyway, another girl’s been found dead in a shop.”

  Bethancourt sighed. “I hate it when they’re young and innocent,” he said. Then a thought struck him. “Wait a moment,” he added. “They’re sending you off on a serial-killer case?”

  “Just to confirm or rule it out,” answered Gibbons. “If I think it really is Ashdon’s work, the superintendent will come up and take over. But, Phillip, it’s in Yorkshire.”

  “What?”

  “This new murder,” explained Gibbons. “It’s in Yorkshire.”

  For the first time since he had arrived in the Dales, a gleam o
f hope showed in Bethancourt’s eye.

  “That’s brilliant, Jack,” he said. “Where in Yorkshire?”

  “In York,” answered Gibbons. “A body turned up this morning in a little shop called Accessorize in Davygate.”

  “But York’s just up the road,” said Bethancourt. “You could drive over for Christmas dinner—won’t take you an hour.”

  “Thanks, Phillip,” said Gibbons. “I’d like to do that if I can. I’ll have to see how it all goes, though. Will your mother mind a last-minute guest?”

  “Not at all,” responded Bethancourt. “She’s got one of those expandable dining-room tables. Er,” he added as another thought occurred to him, “you’d better pack a suit, just in case. We’ll be dressing for dinner.”

  “Oh,” said Gibbons, sounding a little nonplussed by this. “Will do, then. I’ll ring you again once I’m on my way, although I don’t expect I’ll know anything till I get there and see the scene for myself.”

  “Of course,” agreed Bethancourt. “Er—are you feeling up to a long trip? I mean, you were only pronounced fit last week, after all.”

  “I’m tip-top,” replied Gibbons. “Never better and all that.”

  Bethancourt suspected this was not entirely true, but let the remark pass at face value; there would no doubt be time later to remind his friend not to overdo it.

  “That’s good then,” he said.

  “I’d best ring off and get changed,” said Gibbons. “I’ll let you know when I find out my schedule.”

  “Yes, do,” said Bethancourt.

  He sat silently for a moment after he had rung off, a slow smile spreading over his face. He looked over at the large borzoi hound curled on the carpet and said, “Well, Cerberus, this mightn’t be the worse Christmas ever, after all.”

  Cerberus thumped his tail in agreement.

  Gibbons knew of Detective Superintendent Ian Brumby although he had never met him before. The superintendent was the Yard’s authority on serial murders, heading up the division that investigated such crimes, and his expertise was greatly respected. Gibbons was curious to meet him.

  Serial killings being fodder for the tabloids, Gibbons had seen Brumby’s picture occasionally and knew well enough what the man looked like: a trim forty-five, average height, close-cropped grey hair. But in person the superintendent’s face had a drawn look, the lines etched more deeply than forty-five years should account for, and his grey eyes were intense and hollow at the same time.

  Gibbons could not help but wonder what Brumby made of him. He knew well enough what the older man saw: a young man with short reddish-brown hair and bright blue eyes, whose recent convalescence had left his normally stocky frame a little pudgy and given his complexion a slightly pasty tinge.

  Brumby’s manner was quiet and serious.

  “These are the photographs they’ve sent down from York,” he said, pushing an open folder across the glossy surface of the conference table. “The body doesn’t conform in several instances to what we’ve come to expect of our Ashdon killer. For contrast, here’s his latest work, in the bath shop in Kettering.”

  He pushed over a second folder, open like the first, and Gibbons bent over the two sets of color photographs. He was by this time tolerably accustomed to the gory scenes such photographs generally depicted, but there was something in these that sent a shiver down his spine.

  Both of them portrayed the body of a young woman lying on the floor of a shop: in the first instance, a clothing boutique, and, in the second, a shop specializing in scented soaps and bath salts. Both women had been carefully arranged in coyly suggestive poses, and the fact that they were obviously dead made the positioning grotesque.

  “You can see the obvious discrepancies,” said Brumby, though in fact Gibbons had not got beyond his initial horror. He hurriedly tried to make a better assessment.

  “There’s an artistic quality to Ashdon’s work,” continued Brumby in his even, dispassionate voice, “and a certain care displayed which is lacking in the York murder. Here’s another set from the second of Ashdon’s killings—I think you can see what I mean.”

  Another girl, another shop—this time a stationer’s—and another deliberately arranged body, the scene for it set with scatterings of brightly colored Post-it notes and a greeting card pressed open against her bosom. Gibbons’s eye ranged over the photographs, picking out the details, and he began to have an inkling of what the superintendent meant.

  “I’ll go over all the fine points with you,” said Brumby. “Because although this doesn’t look very much like Ashdon’s work on the surface, these things are never consistent. His plans for this particular body might have gone awry, or he might have had to hurry for some reason. And,” he added, a note of exasperation coming into his tone, “most of the Yorkshire detective force is down with the flu, so I’ve not been able to contact the detective on duty. But if you get there and have any reason to think this could be another Ashdon murder, don’t hesitate to ring me at once.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Gibbons automatically, the larger part of his attention still focused on the photographs before him.

  “Let’s make a start, then,” said Brumby, opening yet a fourth folder.

  Bethancourt had finished dressing and was idling in his room, putting off joining the company downstairs for as long as possible, when there was a knock on the door.

  “Open up,” came a familiar voice. “I’ve brought you a drink.”

  Grinning, Bethancourt swung open the door and beheld Daniel Sturridge with a glass in either hand.

  “Happy Christmas,” he said, taking the proffered glass and adding, “Ta very much.”

  “Happy Christmas to you,” said Daniel, raising his own glass.

  The Sturridge family lived in Burnsall, and Bethancourt and Daniel Sturridge had grown up together, attending the same local prep school and then going off to St. Peter’s at age eight. They had grown apart thereafter, Bethancourt going on to Oxford while Daniel got a law degree at York University, but they were still on good terms and were accustomed to join forces to withstand their elders at Christmastime.

  “Ah,” said Bethancourt, setting down his glass on the bureau. “That’s just what was needed—I haven’t had a drop since the sherry this afternoon.”

  “God, I hate sherry,” said Daniel, collapsing into the armchair as though the very thought of the liquor wore him out. “Scotch for me every time. So what’s this I hear about you dating Kate Moss?”

  Bethancourt gave him a severe look. “I am not dating Kate Moss. I have never even met Kate Moss.”

  Daniel shrugged, unrepentant. “To hear my mother tell it, you’ve been disporting yourself all over London with the most notorious women and have probably taken up heroin as well.”

  “Dear God,” said Bethancourt mildly, and took a drink.

  “Yes, but what’s all the fuss about then?” asked Daniel. “My mother couldn’t have dreamed that up herself—she’s not that imaginative.”

  “The fuss,” said Bethancourt, “began because my cousin Neil is apparently going out with some baronet’s daughter.”

  Daniel let loose a whistle. “Neil found someone to date him?” he asked. “Are you sure?”

  “As unlikely as it seems, it appears to be true.”

  “Well, pigs must be flying tonight is all I can say,” said Daniel, shaking his head and taking another drink of his whisky. “But where do fashion models come into it? The baronet’s daughter isn’t one, is she? Because you’ll never get me to believe any respectable model would date Neil.”

  “No,” admitted Bethancourt. “So far as I know, the baronet’s daughter has no aspirations to a modeling career.”

  “Probably just as well,” muttered Daniel.

  “Possibly, although not having seen her, I couldn’t say,” replied Bethancourt. “Anyway, the model came up because my sister Margaret couldn’t stand the thought of having to congratulate Neil on his coup in catching a member of the aristocracy, so
she nicely diverted attention from it by announcing that I was dating a fashion model.”

  “Ah, the light dawns,” said Daniel. “Margaret was always very good at diversions.”

  “Age has only improved her abilities,” Bethancourt told him glumly.

  “Shall I call her ‘Mags’ all evening for revenge?” offered Daniel.

  Bethancourt sighed. “Let’s not provoke her further. I shudder to think what other bits of my personal life she might drag out for public examination.”

  “Speaking of your personal life,” said Daniel, “let’s get back to the model. Are you actually dating one then?”

  “I was,” admitted Bethancourt. “But she’s nothing like Kate Moss. She’s not notorious or a drug addict or bulimic or anything like that. She’s just a very pretty girl from Kent.”

  “It’s probably better that she’s not a drug addict,” opined Daniel. “And bulimia is so off-putting. Well, my hat’s off to you, old man. I always said, if ever anyone of us is going to date a fashion model, it will be Phillip. It was a pity they didn’t have that as a category in the yearbook.”

  Bethancourt laughed. “I like to fulfill my friends’ expectations when I can,” he said. “But honestly, the entire thing’s been blown out of proportion.”

  “I’ll be sure to tell my mother that,” said Daniel dryly. “I’m certain she’ll see your side of things if I can only get her drunk enough. Oh, by the way, be sure and tell her how nice she’s looking, will you?”

  “Of course,” said Bethancourt, surprised. “Any particular reason?”

  “Well, she is looking nice,” said Daniel. “She’s been on some new diet recently, and she’s dropped at least a stone. She’d never admit it, but she’s hoping everyone who hasn’t seen her for a while will notice and say something.”

  “I’ll be sure to say something then,” said Bethancourt. “Coming from a connoisseur of fashion models, possibly it will have some impact. Wait a moment, is this the same diet my aunt Evelyn’s been on? She’s lost a good bit of weight lately, too.”