Murder Comes To Call: three Inspector Constable murder mysteries (The Inspector Constable Murder Mysteries Book 4)

by Roger Keevil

  “Really? What sort of views, sergeant?” A tone of reserve entered Mrs. Pocock's voice.

  “I'm afraid she did mention the word 'fraud', madam. Oh, I believe she was speaking generally,” continued Copper hastily, seeking to stem the sudden reaction from the other. “It was a question of behaviour and social graces, I think.”

  “Yes, well, she would say that, wouldn't she,” retorted Mrs. Pocock, all trace of sympathy now vanished from her words. “Her and her much-trumpeted county up-bringing. She always looked down on everyone else. I'm sure if she'd been invited to a Buckingham Palace Garden Party, she would have criticised the catering. But for Lady Ellpuss to suggest that some of us are frauds is most offensive. Let me tell you, I happen to be a very good accountant, and Lord Ellpuss and I had a perfectly happy working relationship. In fact, I think it's fair to say that he relied on me for all the financial matters relating to C.A.S.H.”

  “As witness his request for you to provide a full list of cheques and donors for the meeting.”

  “Exactly, sergeant. And of course, I would be only too delighted to prove that to you, except that I don't happen to have those records to hand immediately, and I'm not sure it would be appropriate, even if I did. Matters of confidentiality, you see. But I can assure you, everything balanced perfectly – I made quite sure of that.”

  “I believe Lady Ellpuss did mention that you were an accountant with Ladhill's Bookmakers at one time. No doubt that helped you to develop your skills.”

  “Perhaps, but I don't quite see the point of your question. The fact that I used to work for Ladhill's is no secret.”

  “No, no, I'm sure it isn't,” said Copper. “I was just hoping that you might be able to shed a little light on something which has come into our possession.” He fished from his pocket the betting slip, unfolded it, and passed it across.

  Mrs. Pocock surveyed it for several moments, her face devoid of expression. “Yes, sergeant, that comes from Ladhill's. I must have seen thousands of those in my time. I can't see that there's anything unusual about it.”

  “It just seemed to me, madam, that what was unusual was the size of the sums being staked.”

  “I'm sure it's no crime to enjoy a little flutter from time to time,” said Mrs. Pocock with a light laugh. She stood. “And now, if you will excuse me, sergeant, I have a great many things to do. And I really must go to see Lady Ellpuss – despite her rather disparaging words about me and my colleagues. Some of us,” she concluded, “do have a sense of obligation.”

  *

  “Left or right, guv?” enquired Copper as the detectives re-entered the main quad. “Grey or Scarlatti?”

  “The lady said she might not stay around all day. We'll try her first.”

  “Righty-ho, guv – right it is.”

  “Concrete??” Donna Scarlatti's reaction to Constable's opening remark was a burst of incredulous laughter. “What on earth did he mean by that?” She frowned in a puzzled fashion.

  “All I am doing,” said the inspector, “is repeating a remark which Evan Ellpuss believed he overheard during a conversation between yourself and his father. 'Nothing was set in concrete yet' is the way he put it, I think.”

  “Oh, that!” Miss Scarlatti's brow cleared. “Oh, no, Mr. Constable, that was perfectly innocent. Of course, it was all in the aftermath of what we'd been talking about at the Trust meeting, wasn't it? You see, as it happens, some members of my family have building interests – you've probably seen the signs along the roadsides. Very often it's just the foundations for motorways and flyovers, so not exactly the glamorous side of the business. But there were plans afoot to change all that.”

  “I don't quite see what that would have had to do with the Trust, madam.”

  “Absolutely everything, inspector. You see, what Mr. Ellpuss must have overheard was talk of a proposal concerning the possibility of tendering for the construction of some new buildings for the college, financed by the Trust's money. Which would have meant such a beneficial boost to the reputation of the family.”

  “As well it might, Miss Scarlatti. I can understand that.”

  “I'd invited Lord Ellpuss to my house to see the sort of work my family can produce. That was a family project, you see. And an impressive new science building would have enhanced everyone's prestige,” continued Donna, warming to her theme. “Of course, the sums involved could be enormous, but I was very anxious to do whatever I could to help, and I said that I would ensure that my nephews who are in day-to-day control of the firm made Lord Ellpuss a very attractive offer – one that he'd find hard to resist. That's the beauty of family relationships – my nephews usually do as I suggest. But for some reason, Lord Ellpuss's reaction seemed very dubious, and he said he would make sure that the matter was thoroughly looked into.”

  “That all seems very clear, madam. I just hoped that your final conversation with Lord Ellpuss might have revealed some detail of which we were unaware.” Constable turned to leave. “Oh, just one thing before I go, Miss Scarlatti. Was there some talk of you leaving the college precincts after the party last night?”

  “No, inspector. I told you, I spent the night here last night. I haven't been off the premises.”

  “Obviously some sort of misunderstanding,” said Constable easily. “Well, we'll keep you no longer. We'll see ourselves out.” As the front door closed behind the detectives, a calculating look came into Donna Scarlatti's eyes, and she reached for the telephone.

  *

  “All very plausible, guv,” remarked Copper, as the two trudged across the quad once again in the direction of the chapel.

  “Oh, highly so,” agreed his superior, “except for possibly one tiny inconsistency. I'm not quite sure how we square talk of a financial crisis within the Trust with talk of an expensive new building programme. Something is jangling quite loud bells in the back of my mind.”

  “It's the ecclesiastical influence,” grinned Copper, as he pushed open the chapel door.

  “Oh, inspector! Sergeant! I didn't expect to see you again so soon.” The Reverend Grey looked up in surprise from his position on his knees in front of the altar, where he seemed to be hard at work imparting an impressive shine to an already gleaming memorial brass of a medieval knight set into the floor of the nave. He scrambled to his feet, wiped rather grubby hands on the front of his cassock, and advanced to meet the detectives. “Were you looking for me, or were you hoping for some sort of divine inspiration in your efforts?” He chuckled.

  “Isn't that a rather risqué joke for a man of the cloth, Reverend?” commented Constable. “But yes, as it happens, we did want a further word with you, in the light of various pieces of information which have come our way.”

  “Ask away,” said the chaplain. “My life is an open book.”

  “How pleasant to meet someone with nothing to hide, Reverend. Do you know, that's very rare in our profession. In yours too, I imagine. I would think that a lot of your time would be taken up with the business of confession. Being good for the soul, and all that.”

  “Oh no, inspector. You're thinking of our friendly rivals in the Catholic chapel at St. Ethelburga's College around the corner. Confession isn't really very big around here. We're not all that given to revelations.”

  “More's the pity,” muttered Copper under his breath.

  “Except the Book of, I assume,” said Constable. “Revelations? Number of the Beast, final judgement, and all that. Which reminds me, Reverend, that is an extremely fine wall painting you have in your crypt.”

  “Oh. You've seen that, have you?”

  “Sergeant Copper and I were admiring it a little earlier, sir. And it puts me in mind of something which you were heard talking to Lord Ellpuss about at the party which followed the Trust meeting. I think there was mention of a new discovery, and young Mr. Ellpuss had an inkling that it might be another painting here in the chapel. Was he right?”

  Reverend Grey shook his head. “Sadly not, inspector. When the restoration
of the chapel was carried out and the first painting was found, the archaeologists conducted a very thorough investigation, but concluded that there was nothing else concealed. But for a medievalist like myself, the one treasure is more than enough. It provides me with constant inspiration. I feel myself so much in tune with those who built this place.”

  “Really, sir?”

  “Oh, indeed, inspector. The intellectual activity of the Middle Ages is fascinating,” enthused the chaplain. “The philosophers investigating alternative religions, and the alchemists with their experiments. Did you know that the word 'science' wasn't used at all – they called it 'natural philosophy'. In fact, and here is a confession if you like, I have been tempted to dabble somewhat myself. I've set up a little laboratory down in the crypt, and I've attempted one or two of the recipes I found in an ancient Grimoire in the university library.” He gave a little snort of mirth. “I haven't actually managed to turn lead into gold yet, though. The best I've managed is a rather neat little weed-killer which I use on my allotment out by the river. That's where I grow all the herbs for my concoctions, you see,” he explained.

  “And is that where the goat comes in?”

  “The goat?” Reverend Grey seemed considerably taken aback at the question.

  “Yes, sir, the goat. A goat has been mentioned. Have you any idea why?”

  “Oh, that goat.” The chaplain gave a nervous laugh. “Sorry, inspector, but I didn't quite understand you for a moment. Yes, as luck would have it, some friends in my congregation do keep a goat, which they graze on my allotment from time to time. I happen to be allergic to cow's milk, you see, so they let me have the goat's milk in exchange. Nothing strange about it at all.” He laughed again. “So, was there anything else, gentlemen?”

  “I don't believe so at this stage, sir,” said Constable. “Oh, speaking of stages, did I hear aright that you sometimes hold concerts here in the chapel?”

  “Concerts?” Reverend Grey seemed baffled. “The occasional choir recital, but I'm not sure you could actually call them concerts. Why do you ask?”

  “Oh, it was just some remark that was made about the possibility of Ozzy Osbourne coming to sing here, sir.” A blank look was the chaplain's reaction. “A singer, sir, with what I believe is known in judicial circles as 'a popular beat combo' – quite a famous one.”

  “Sorry, inspector,” smiled the chaplain. “I know nothing about pop culture. Sorry I can't help you there. But do please come back if there's anything else you require.”

  “I'd like to do that, Reverend. I'd be quite keen to take a closer look at your famous fresco, but perhaps next time I'll bring a torch. Those black candles in your crypt don't give out a great deal of light, do they?”

  “Those? No, you're right, inspector, but they were simply ordered by mistake. One of the many things on my to-do list.” Continuing to smile, the Reverend Grey escorted the detectives to the door, closed it behind them, and then leaned against it with a huge sigh.

  *

  “Listen to that.” Andy Constable halted unexpectedly as he and Dave Copper entered the small private quadrangle, and stood stock still.

  The sergeant obediently cocked an ear to his surroundings. “What, guv?” he said, after a few seconds' pause. “Can't hear a thing.”

  “That's just it. Not a sound. No people, no traffic, no aircraft, nothing. Not a hint of the twenty-first century. These walls shut it out completely. We might as well be standing here when this place was first built, four or five hundred years ago. Just soak up that atmosphere.”

  “Take your point, guv,” replied Copper. “Love to and all that, but my problem is that this atmosphere is starting to freeze the end of my nose off. Isn't there any chance we could absorb some historical atmosphere indoors, where I stand less chance of developing frostbite?”

  “You have no soul,” growled Constable, but nevertheless made for the front door of the Vice-Chancellor's House, where he delivered a resounding knock. After a few moments, Professor Plump stood again in the doorway.

  “There have been a few questions thrown up during the course of our investigations, sir,” began the inspector, ensconced once again in the professor's sitting room. “And there have been suggestions that, shall we say, not everyone and everything are as they seem.”

  “I'm afraid I don't follow you, Mr. Constable. What exactly are you driving at?”

  “Well, let me illustrate it with a particular instance. We know you took a telephone call from America, and you were kind enough to relate the gist of its contents to us. But that conversation was in part overheard by another person, and seems to have had an entirely different meaning. And at the end of it, we were told of a certain discomfort in your demeanour - one might almost say furtiveness. I'm troubled by the inconsistency, sir.”

  “Lady Ellpuss!” snapped Professor Plump. “I knew that blasted woman was snooping! Pretending she had business in the study while I was engaged in a private conversation.” The professor was beginning to sound monumentally offended. “Let me tell you, inspector, that it is outrageous for Lady Ellpuss to suggest that I have anything to hide. I have had a long and distinguished career in academic administration, and for you to imply otherwise is utterly intolerable!”

  “The implication doesn't come from us, sir,” Constable pointed out. “We're merely seeking to clarify a few points.”

  “Of course, I have never actually taught,” admitted Plump, calming down a little, “and my title of 'Professor' is an honorary one, but my qualifications are impeccable.”

  “I did notice that you have quite an impressive selection of diplomas and certificates,” said Constable, rising and strolling across the room to examine the framed documents on the wall. Behind him, the professor began to fidget. “And from some pretty far-flung institutions. 'The English Academy of Dhaka',” he read, “'Institut International Anglophone de la Republique Malgache', 'British University of the Federation of Micronesia' – very impressive indeed, sir.” He scanned the display once more. “I don't see anything from the Collegiate University of Gary, professor – do you not have some sort of a link with them?” He turned to face the professor with a bland smile.

  Edwin Plump cleared his throat. “Ah, yes, as it happens, inspector, my first degree was awarded by an American establishment, but with the passage of time, one forgets details so easily. But as you can see, I have had relationships with colleges all over the world since then – Nigeria, India, Romania – all of them perfectly respectable institutions.”

  “And after all those travels, your journey has finally come to an end amongst the ancient traditions of Camford. Come home to roost, as one might say.”

  Professor Plump looked uncomfortable. “I suppose you might say that, inspector.”

  “Sorry if I'm being thick, guv,” said Dave Copper, as the detectives slowly made their way back to the main quadrangle, “but I don't quite see what all that was about. If I had all those qualifications that he's got, I wouldn't be slogging my brains out behind a desk at the station as a humble sergeant.”

  “You're right there, Copper,” smiled Andy Constable grimly. “You'd find yourself somewhere entirely different.”

  “So what now, guv? Back to the station to chew over what we've got?”

  “I've got quite a few thoughts swirling about at the moment, but I can't say they're forming a completely coherent pattern yet,” said Constable. “Although some of the fog is starting to clear. I just need a little while on my own in a darkened room. But I suppose we ought to check in with Lady Ellpuss before we go, just to say goodbye as a matter of courtesy.”

  The door to the Master's House was opened once again by Eileen Maggs. “Oh, you've just missed them both,” she said in response to the detectives' enquiry. “Master Evan's gone off to that bar where he meets all his friends, for a good gossip no doubt, and Lady Ellpuss has gone out to buy a new hat.”

  “A hat?” echoed Dave Copper, bewildered.

  “For the funeral, sir,�
�� explained Eileen with a disapproving downturn to her mouth. “Said she didn't have a thing to wear that was suitable to go with her black Russian sable coat. She likes to be well prepared for everything, does Her Ladyship. And look at me, keeping you talking on the doorstep, and you both look absolutely perished. Come in and have a cup of tea in the kitchen.”

  “That is an offer nobody could refuse,” said Constable, and followed the housekeeper as she bustled towards her domain at the rear of the house.

  As the detectives began to thaw in the copper-gleaming warmth of the kitchen, a thought occurred to Andy Constable. “Mrs Maggs,” he ventured, as she placed a steaming mug before each of the officers, “do you suppose I could take this through to your dining room? I'd like to have another look around in there, if I may.”

  “I don't see why not, inspector,” she replied. “If I know Her Ladyship, she won't waste the opportunity to play the tragic widow for all she's worth in every shop in town, and as for Master Evan, I'll expect him when I see him. I don't know if you'll find whatever it is you're looking for, because I've been in there and put everything to rights, but you go ahead and help yourself.”

  “Do you want me too, sir?” asked Copper.

  “No, you stay where you are. I dare say Mrs. Maggs can bring you up to date with any of the local gossip we've missed.”

  “Away with you. As if I'd do such a thing,” protested Mrs. Maggs, but there was a twinkle in her eye which indicated that the inspector's prediction might not be so very far from the truth.

  After some thirty minutes, fortified by two mugs of impressively strong tea and a pair of home-made buns to accompany them, Dave Copper began to wonder as to the whereabouts of his superior. Entering the dining room, lit only by the modest glow of a single table-lamp in the gathering gloom of the afternoon light, already beginning to fade, Copper found his colleague seated in a carver chair at the head of the dining table, his eyes closed, his tea gone cold at his right hand.