by Roger Keevil
“Did you happen to catch anything of the conversation?” intervened Dave Copper. “Oh, purely for corroboration, of course,” he added, at a look from his superior.
“Of course, one doesn't like to eavesdrop,” responded Lady Ellpuss primly. “But as it's in the course of your investigation … it was obviously something medical, because he was saying something about 'not wanting to buy another, the one he had was enough, and he didn't want the Doctor, and not to call again'. He flushed when he saw me, fiddled about with something on the desk, and then sloped off looking rather embarrassed. So then of course I collected my husband's whisky bottle and returned to the dining room.”
“Is there anything else that occurs to you concerning the events of the evening?” asked Constable.
May shook her head. “Nothing, inspector. Some people left earlier, some hung on a little longer, but I think everybody was gone by eleven or quarter-past. And I felt quite tired, so I went straight on up to bed. But my husband said he was feeling rather headachey, so he said he'd pop out for some air. And that was the last time I saw him.” The handkerchief was discreetly wielded once again.
“You weren't aware that he hadn't returned?”
“I went to sleep very quickly, inspector. And we have separate rooms.”
“I see.” Constable rose to his feet. “I won't take up any more of your time, Your Ladyship. I'm sure you have far too much on your mind.”
“Indeed so, inspector. I have a great deal of thinking to do. My life will be so very different in future.” As Lady Ellpuss showed the detectives to the door, there was a speculative look in her eye.
*
Outside in the quad, the SOCO team were packing away the items they had gleaned from the dining room into capacious plastic chests.
“Anything tasty?” Constable greeted them. “Other than stale sausage rolls?”
“Funny you should ask, sir,” said their leader. “Mostly fairly ordinary plates and glasses, which we'll give the once-over to in the lab. We've dusted for prints, and most of the glasses seem to have just the one set, although one of the sherry glasses looks to have two, so we'll take a closer look at that. But there is one little oddment which struck us as a little strange. It's this.” He held up a clear plastic evidence bag. Within it nestled a small miniature cut-glass decanter, only about two inches high, with a tightly-fitting glass stopper, such as might be used to contain a precious perfume. The facets gleamed a warm rose in the watery daylight.
“And what do you find strange about it?”
“Only the fact that it was lurking at the bottom of a waste-paper basket, sir. It looks like Venetian Merano glass to me, probably quite expensive, so not the sort of thing you'd throw away idly. It just gave me a sort of itch in the brain.”
“Any contents?”
“Not really, sir. There's a remnant of whatever was in it coating the bottom. No colour, no obvious smell from a very tentative sniff, so no idea what it is at present.”
“Here's a suggestion,” said Constable. “When you get back to the lab, have a chat with the doctor. You may find it mutually beneficial.”
As the two detectives stood back to allow the investigation team to finish their task, Dave Copper looked expectantly at Andy Constable. “Next step, sir?”
“For no reason at all, sergeant, I am filled with a sudden desire to take a look at this fabled wall painting in the chapel crypt. Why on earth do you suppose that might be?”
Copper shrugged. “Couldn't begin to imagine, guv. Maybe you feel some sort of affinity with the purveyors of the final judgement, meting out justice to sinners – isn't that sort of what we do?”
“That, young David, is an alarmingly profound philosophical comment for this hour of the day. I prefer to think that I just have a healthy amateur's interest in medieval history.”
“You're the boss, sir.” Copper held open the chapel door and allowed the inspector to pass through.
Silently descending a narrow stair to one side of the altar, the detectives found themselves in a shadow-filled crypt whose only light came from two black pillar candles on stands to either side of the end wall, where the expected fresco was displayed. The flickering candlelight seemed to impart the effect of movement to the swirling flames of hell and the bodies which writhed within them. The colours of the work were still strong and vibrant, the expressions on the faces of those depicted ranging from glee to despair. Constable stood contemplating the work for several moments, and then shivered. The chill he was experiencing, he felt, could not wholly be ascribed to the temperature.
“Take a look at this, guv.” Andy Constable's mood was broken by an excited exclamation from Dave Copper. “This lot is obviously what Evan Ellpuss was going on about.” The sergeant drew his colleague's attention to a bench in the corner of the crypt, where a selection of scientific apparatus was laid out. Retorts, test-tubes and beakers mingled with stands, burners, and lengths of glass and rubber tubing, with jars on a shelf bearing labels echoing the style of an eighteenth-century pharmacy, containing liquids and powders of various colours and unknown properties. “And here's an interesting thing.” At one end of the shelf stood an assortment of fancy glass bottles ranging in size from the tiniest phials to substantial flasks. One medium-sized vessel at the front, containing a clear liquid, was prominently labelled 'Grey's Eliminator'.
“Got an evidence bag about you, by any chance?” asked Constable.
“As always, guv.” Copper reached into a pocket for bag and gloves.
“Right. Bag that, and then on your toes and see if you can catch SOCO before they escape. I want to know what's in that bottle.”
As Copper disappeared at speed, Constable cast one last lingering look at the vivid portrayal of the harrowing of souls, and then followed the sergeant back up the stairs at a more leisurely pace. He met his colleague returning through the arch of the gatehouse, puffing slightly.
“Just caught them as they were pulling away, sir. They said they were off now, before we find any more work for them and completely ruin their Christmas,” grinned Copper.
“Whereas we, unlucky devils that we are, have to soldier on through until we're sorted,” rejoined Constable.
Attracted by the sound of voices within his jealously guarded domain, Colin N. Lisson appeared at the door of his lodge, evidently prepared to chase away any interlopers. “Oh, it's you. I thought your lot had all gone,” he grumbled.
“Not quite all, Mr. Lisson,” said Constable cheerily. “We're still here.”
“Well, I hope you're not going to be cluttering up the place all over Christmas, making my life a misery.”
“I would have thought that the dead body of Lord Ellpuss deserves a rather more respectful description than something 'cluttering up the place',” observed the inspector mildly.
“And look at this.” Colin bent down and picked up a crumpled scrap of paper. “Your lot chucking down litter without so much as a by-your-leave. Some of us try to keep this place tidy, you know.”
“I cannot imagine that our Scene-Of-Crime colleagues would do anything of the sort, sir,” said Constable. “May I see, please?”
Constable held out his hand for the paper, which the lodge-keeper handed over. He smoothed it out, and his eyebrows rose. “I very much doubt if this belonged to one of our team, Mr. Lisson,” he remarked. “If it did, I suspect we may be paying them too much.”
“What is it, guv?” asked Copper, intrigued.
“It's a betting slip from Ladhill's. Listing bets on a couple of horses at race meets last week.”
“So, what about it? Obviously, if it's been chucked, the horses didn't come home.”
“Evidently not, sergeant. Because if they had, this thing would have been framed and enjoying pride of place on a wall somewhere. One of these bets is for three thousand pounds, and the other is for a mere thousand quid. And at very tasty odds, I might add.”
“Hell's bells, guv!” Copper sounded impressed. “Who's got that sort
of money to be bunging on the back of some long-odds runner?”
“We know not,” replied Constable. “There's no name on the slip. Just an account number.”
“'EP108',” read Copper over his shoulder. “We could go and ask them who that belongs to,” he suggested.
“Or, sergeant,” retorted the inspector, “we could pretend to be detectives, and try and use our little grey cells to work out possibilities. I think, with the various snippets we have in our possession, it wouldn't be a bad idea to go hawking these around our jolly contestants.”
“Starting out or in, sir?”
“Why don't we reverse our direction of travel, just to add a bit of interest? Let's go and see if Mrs. Wright has finished her cavortings for the photographer and the children. You never know, she may have put some more clothes on by now.”
“Doubt it, guv,” muttered Copper, “but you never know.”
Colin N. Lisson had been standing by, listening intently during the exchange. “Well, if you're going to see Mrs. Wright ...” He dived into his cubicle and reappeared holding a note. “You could give this to her. I noticed it in the post tray last night, but she came through at such a speed when she did arrive that I never got the chance to give it to her. And this morning, what with everything, I clean forgot about it.”
“We'll pass it on, sir,” said Copper, taking the folded sheet of yellow paper and, as soon as Colin had disappeared back into the interior, unfolding it to peruse the contents.
“What's this then, sergeant?” said Constable in mock reproof. “Reading the contents of what we assume to be somebody's private correspondence?”
“I cannot tell a lie, guv,” answered Copper. “I have to confess, I am as curious as the next man.”
“Yes, well, in case it's escaped your notice, I am the next man! So, what does it say?”
“'I don't see why I should be the only one under pressure',” read Copper. “'I'm sure all the 'Splash' readers would love to know all about your 'activities' – so I think a little help is indicated! See you at the meeting.' All in slightly wobbly capitals. And it's signed 'P'.”
“Well, well,” ruminated Constable. “A dainty little attempt at blackmail. And which of our candidates, I wonder, is so coy as to go by initial only? Professor Plump? Mrs. Pocock?”
“Or Petroc Grey?” suggested Copper. “Oh, one thing I forgot to point out, sir – the thing's addressed to 'L.M.' on the outside. Lewis Muskett, do we assume? And if so, why does Colin Lisson think it belongs to Mrs. Wright?”
“I propose we do the sensible thing, which is, instead of standing here speculating, to go and ask her.”
*
“Oh yes, that's addressed to me, all right.” Mrs. Wright, now seated fully clothed behind the mayoral desk, and completing the effect of a sharply-tailored business suit with a pair of heavy-rimmed spectacles which gave her an air of intellectual glamour, was perfectly happy to confirm the identity of the addressee. “Everyone calls me 'L.M.' for Lady Mayoress – all part of the Town Hall love of bureaucracy, I dare say. Haven't you seen the mayoral Rolls Royce? Registration 'LM 1', of course.”
“Would you have any idea who has sent this?” enquired Constable.
Mrs. Wright glanced over the note again. “No, not a clue. I don't recognise the handwriting. It all looks a bit childish to me.”
“And yet evidently your help was expected in one way or another,” pointed out Constable. “Perhaps some sort of approach was intended immediately before the meeting of the Trust, which never took place because your arrival was delayed. But there is a definite threat expressed.”
The Lady Mayoress burst into peals of laughter. “And that, inspector, is the most childish thing of all! I don't care a bit whether I end up all over the papers or not. Actually, Lord E knew all about me – you don't run a Sunday paper without having your ear to the ground, and he was perfectly well aware that I've never claimed to be a saint. But he thought like me – as long as you don't do anybody else any harm, what's to stop you enjoying yourself?”
“I believe Voltaire had something to say on the same subject,” smiled the inspector.
“I don't know that I'd call this the best of all possible worlds,” replied Mrs. Wright, surprising Constable by her recognition of the reference, “but I try not to make it any worse. And Lord Ellpuss was quite sweet about the whole 'scandalous past' thing, really. We laughed about what his old battle-axe of a wife would have said if she'd known it all. Lady Sour-puss, I call her.” A sombre shadow swept across her face. “It's sad really. I did think of trying my luck with him – he'd have had much more fun with me, and I miss not having a real title these days, but it's a bit late now. Oh well, never mind.”
Descending the stairs of the Town Hall, Dave Copper wore a small frown of puzzlement. “Not exactly what you'd call a red-hot motive, is it, guv? Killing His Lordship to stop his paper revealing what he knew all about anyway. She didn't exactly seem fussed.”
“Two things you should bear in mind, sergeant,” said Andy Constable. “One, the lady used to be an actress. Two, when they're on stage, magicians use distraction techniques to make you look at one thing so that you don't notice another. I'm ruling nothing out. But feel free to keep chewing things over – you never know what inspiration may strike. Meanwhile, on to the next.”
*
“So, you see, when you've got incoming fire, what you must never do is give the other johnnie an easy target.” Lewis Muskett was still holding court at the bar, this time to a group of three businessmen whose eyes seemed to be glazing over in unison. “Now General Montgomery, he knew a thing or two, and what he used to say was ...”
“I do apologise for butting in, sir,” said Constable, “but we wanted a further word with you, and since you're on the subject of military history, it seems a perfect opportunity.”
“Oh, join the party by all means,” said Muskett expansively. “I was just telling these chaps ...”
“It's rather more a matter of personal military history, sir. Perhaps it would be more convenient if we were to sit down.” The inspector led the way to a group of club chairs in a bay window, as the businessmen signalled their thanks and ordered fresh drinks to celebrate their delivery from their ordeal.
“We've been having a chat with Lady Ellpuss,” began Constable, “and she seems to be prone to some slight confusion concerning you, sir.” He related the earlier conversation regarding the colonel, as the latter's eyes assumed a steadily more wary expression. “Now, I wonder if you can straighten things out for us.”
“Of course I can,” blustered Muskett. “No problem there, one officer to another, eh? This business about the Catering Corps – simple mistake - very easy to explain. Obviously the chap was thinking about a cousin of mine who was at Aldershot. Distant cousin, of course – much younger, d'you see – didn't really know him. Nothing to do with me at all. Mind you, apparently, in photographs, he did look a bit like me – family resemblance, and all that, so perhaps that's why they're confused.”
“That would certainly explain it very well, sir,” said Constable. “But you must agree, it's still rather puzzling that there should be such an inconvenient gap in the records. I suppose that must happen from time to time, even in the best regulated organisations, and after all, the British Army is a pretty huge undertaking.”
“Course it is, course it is,” agreed Muskett eagerly. He pointed to a row of colourfully-banded ribbons adorning the breast of his jacket. “But you don't get these medals for nothing, you know. So you can see that I had no reason at all to worry about Lord Ellpuss and his Sunday rag.”
*
“That was fun, sir,” smiled Copper.
“Yes, sergeant,” replied Constable, “and an object lesson in making sure that you keep your records up to date, and that all your notes in that little book are watertight.”
“Tighter than a duck's whatnot, guv,” said Copper contentedly. “Quiz me any time you like.”
“Far too busy qu
izzing murder suspects to play games with you, young David,” retorted the inspector, as the two made their way into Cutpurse Lane and headed for Mrs. Pocock's front door. “As far as I can see, the only guilty secrets in your past consist of a procession of young ladies who, for some unfathomable reason, fail to remain captivated by the Copper charm for longer than it takes to say 'emergency call-out'.”
“I blame you for everything, guv,” grinned the sergeant, “but it still doesn't get me anywhere.”
“Well then, here's a treat for you. I'll stay in the background, and you can exercise your considerable talents to charm some more information out of the lovely Mrs. Pocock. In fact, it looks as if we've got the timing just right. Is that not the lady herself now?” Constable nodded towards Mrs. Pocock's house, where the owner could be seen letting herself in. The detectives speeded up and caught her on the doorstep.
“Mrs. Pocock,” Copper hailed her cheerily. “I'm glad we've caught you at home. We wanted a quick word, if you have the time.”
“Oh, sergeant, it's you.” Mrs. Pocock seemed rather put out. “As you can see, I've only just come back. Oh yes, come in if you must. Let me take my coat off and put the shopping in the kitchen. You can go into the drawing room if you like.” She disappeared along the hall towards the rear of the house.
“Now, what is it you want?” she asked on her return, seating herself in her customary chair to face Dave Copper, while Andy Constable remained standing just beyond her eye-line.
“We've been gathering a little more information about what happened last night, madam,” continued Copper, “including a lengthy conversation with Lady Ellpuss.”
“Oh, poor dear woman,” interrupted Mrs. Pocock. “And I haven't had a moment yet to go round and express my condolences to her. I absolutely must do so. How is she taking it? She must be utterly prostrated with grief.”
“Um … not so's you'd notice,” said Copper. “I think Her Ladyship is holding up surprisingly well.”
“She was always a strong woman.”
“Well, she certainly seemed capable of expressing some strong views, Mrs. Pocock, particularly on the subject of some of the other members of the Board of Trustees.”