Murder in Advent

by David Williams

‘You knew that Ethel the sister and . . . and the other one, presumably a daughter, that they were unmarried?’

  ‘Mm. There was a second daughter, that’d be Beryl. She left to get married. Which obviously didn’t please her father.’

  ‘And she had a daughter. Her husband died. Pounder seems to have been involved with them. You don’t know the husband’s name?’

  ‘No, but I can find out.’

  ‘Clever of you to be so informed on the Dorset Horns and the . . . the . . .’

  ‘The Frieslands? Keeping sheep for milk isn’t so uncommon these days. They’re a lot less trouble than cows, and far cheaper.’

  ‘Well, I reckon your knowing about that got us in. And that dining room!’ He shook his head incredulously.

  ‘Some of the stuff was good?’

  ‘Not just good. Magnificent. Most of it. I’d swear two of the landscapes were Constables. The big nymphs-and-shepherds canvas looked good sixteenth-century Italian. Possibly a Veronese. The silver was gorgeous. The furniture certainly worth a fortune.’

  ‘Makes you wonder why the old boy’s so hung up on money. Except . . .’

  ‘If a recluse is hung up on money, it’d have to become a fixation. That and the prospect of making more money without parting with anything important.’

  ‘You mean he’d sell a rough old Magna Carta copy but not his Constables?’

  ‘That’s about it. And could be just what he’s been doing. Except the Magna Carta proved less rough than he first thought. ‘Can’t tell the difference,’ he said. ‘I wonder if he’s right?’

  ‘I don’t see . . .’

  ‘Neither did I, but I’m beginning to. He’s sold one – the only one – I’d think for a great deal of money. To someone who he believes still has it. From whom he figured he could get it back. But that someone pretty certainly isn’t Pounder.’ Treasure fell silent after they had got over the gate to the road. ‘You said Pounder and Daras were army friends. And stayed so after the war?’

  ‘Not according to the locals. Daras dropped all outside contacts after his wife died.’

  ‘But the family must have had some relations with the outside world. What about schooling, medical treatment, shopping? What about officialdom? The Inland Revenue, for heaven’s sake? Government departments? Nobody gets away from them entirely. Life’s too complicated. Too busy.’ He looked for confirmation along the totally deserted highway, and, finding none, frowned at a grazing cow for not being a herd.

  Glynis smiled. ‘You can get away from a lot of things if you persevere. And deal with the rest by post. Plenty of country people never see a doctor.’

  ‘And schooling? They don’t do that by post. We’re not in outer Mongolia.’

  ‘I’d guess those girls had the minimum schooling. Like their mothers. Teachers don’t complain if the class dimwit goes sick more often than anyone else. Plays truant more often. Leaves at the lowest permitted age.’

  ‘Nobody would mind? Or care?’ The tone was accusing.

  ‘People – teachers and the like – would care up to a point. But that family is not just uninvolved. It’s anti-social. They didn’t just reject help. They spurned it. After a while people spurned them. All of them.’

  ‘Tragic,’ he exclaimed, taking her arm as they moved over the crossroads towards the car: it remained the only car in sight. ‘But I’d still have thought they needed someone on the outside, as it were. An accountant or . . .’ He stopped speaking and pointed ahead. ‘Good Lord, I’d quite forgotten Hawker.’ He quickened his pace. ‘You all right?’ he called.

  The corporate investigator struggled up from where he’d been sitting on the wet verge beside the car. He made to come towards them but succeeded only in doing a sort of wobble on the spot. He was red around the eyes – as though he might have been crying. His clothes were dreadfully dishevelled. He was holding a shoe in one hand and he had been massaging an ankle with the other. Now he was standing on one leg. ‘Think I’ll survive,’ he offered without conviction. ‘Wanted to thank you. Much obliged for what you did. Saved my life.’ He sighed deeply. ‘Thought this must be your car. Wondered if you’d consider giving me a lift? Back to town?’ He looked from one to the other. ‘Terrible scare. Don’t know why I came. Weak heart, you see?’ Then slowly he sank again on to the verge.

  ‘Of course we’ll give you a lift,’ said Glynis, dropping beside him. ‘Twisted your ankle, have you? Let’s have a look.’

  Even Treasure, who didn’t much care for Hawker, felt sorry for him. ‘Don’t believe you were in any real danger. It was sensible to get you out, though,’ he said, watching Glynis’s ministrations. ‘Daras certainly seemed to have taken against you. But isn’t that kind of thing in the normal line of work for a private detective?’

  Hawker looked up, wheezing on the cigarette he had just lit. ‘Very likely. But it’s not my normal line of work. Betting-shop manager is what I am, Mr Treasure. Or was. Redundant, you see? Sleeping partner in Hawker & Bowles. But, like I told you, Bowles died. On Monday. Left me in a proper fix.’

  ‘I see.’ The banker’s eyebrows lifted. ‘Well, if we can get you in the car perhaps you’d like to tell us exactly what brought you to Litchester, and then out here? Take his other side, Glynis.’

  ‘Not sure I can tell you that, Mr Treasure,’ the other replied uncertainly.

  ‘Well, I think it’s time you tried,’ said Treasure briskly. ‘Come on.’ He grasped one arm and tugged – a fraction before the girl was ready.

  There was a tearing sound.

  ‘Oh God!’ whimpered Hawker, falling back on the swollen ankle, his other foot deeply embedded in the hem of his russet overcoat.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Duggan squinted at the boiled kipper his wife had just set before him. Then, motionless, he continued to stare at his plate as though expecting the eyes in the divided fishhead to stare back in sympathy. He didn’t at all enjoy kippers in the middle of the day, or at any other time for that matter, but he had given up saying so. Admitting he loathed what his wife gave him to eat on Fridays only enriched the vicarious satisfaction she took from being the instrument of his penance. He hoped that if he stopped complaining she might one day forget and give him something else. It was a forlorn hope, though – like the one about her accepting he’d been truly converted into the Church of England.

  Bridget Duggan was still an old-fashioned Catholic. As far as she was concerned, her husband was only lapsed in the same faith and had enduring obligations. Although she had grown to suffer Mass in the English language, at least she could still ensure her family respected the fast days – as she was quite sure His Holiness the Pope did, too, whatever Father O’Connor said to the contrary.

  ‘Is Rory not in yet?’ Duggan frowned, focusing – with some difficulty – on the third place laid at the kitchen table. ‘Isn’t it two o’clock already?’ The vergers worked a variable shift system. It was his month for late starting and finishing, with a two-hour lunch-break.

  ‘It’s twenty past two. You were late yourself,’ she put in to forestall criticism of her favourite offspring. ‘He went down to the Job Centre, looking for work.’ So he could hardly be faulted by someone who had stayed too long in his favourite bar drinking too many Guinness and who was now half-asleep as a result. She sat down herself, bringing the teapot and her own plate over with her from the gas cooker.

  ‘He wasn’t long looking for work.’ Duggan lowered his head, bringing it closer to his plate. He had begun tentatively separating fish from bone. ‘Wasn’t he at the cathedral trying to borrow five pounds from his poor old dad at noon?’

  She sighed inwardly as she poured their tea. Rory had borrowed the same sum from her before he’d left at ten. ‘Did you give it him?’

  ‘I did not.’

  ‘His dole money is precious little for a grown man to be living on.’

  ‘Especially when he’s the sole support of a dozen three-legged horses, not to mention a whole pack of bandy whippets.’

>   ‘That’s not fair, Patrick. You might have helped him.’ She was thinking of the winnings he’d owned to the night before.

  ‘And who’s going to help us when I’m put on the scrap heap? Which is any day now.’ He filled his mouth with kipper and took a draught of the hot tea to help it down.

  ‘But you’ve got Mr Pounder’s job to go to when you retire. Before you retire. You said yesterday.’ But there was already apprehension in her tone. ‘Something’s gone wrong?’

  He swallowed hard. ‘There’ll be no Pounder job. I got the word from the Commander. Straight after matins this morning. He’s sorry. It was a mistake. And not his only one,’ he added darkly. ‘He’d been ticked off by the Dean. I could tell that.’

  ‘I said the Dean wouldn’t approve.’

  Duggan snorted. ‘Been all right if I hadn’t said I’d seen Canon Jones. I can tell you that. If I hadn’t told the policeman. That’s what did it all right. That and bloody Harry Jakes crawling again.’

  ‘Well, they say he was promised the job. Not that he’s going to need it at all. Not with all this money they’re after coming into.’

  ‘What money would that be?’

  ‘Mr Pounder’s. He’s left thousands.’

  ‘How many thousands?’

  ‘That I don’t know. Except it’s a lot. And I got it from Mary Saggs across the road, who’s Harry Jakes’s sister and ought to know. But we’re not to say anything.’ She drank some tea. ‘And didn’t you have to tell about Canon Jones? When you were asked?’

  His glaze clouded. He hadn’t had to tell about anyone. At the time of the police interview he’d been hung-over, as well as irritated with Canon Jones. ‘Well, they’ll not be looking to me to cover up for Pounder’s paraffin heater. Not any more,’ he asserted adamantly, and ignoring her question. ‘And another thing: I haven’t told all I saw. Not yet. I haven’t said who else was there when I left last night.’

  ‘Who was that?’

  He adopted a look of sly caution. ‘That’s best kept to me own self for now, Mother.’ Then when he saw her hurt expression he added: ‘We don’t want them troubling you for the information, do we?’

  He was sorry already he’d brought up the subject and which he’d only done through vexation. This was the day she went to confession and he didn’t trust that Father O’Connor. He wasn’t going to risk having a negotiable confidence handed gratis to that loudmouth. Because wasn’t that as good as sending the same intelligence for publication to the Catholic Herald, not to mention the Police Gazette – and all before he, Patrick Duggan, had even tested the market? He needed to see Commander Bliter again soon. He’d realised that with his fourth pint of Guinness. Maybe they’d change their minds on Pounder’s job again if he hinted at what he hadn’t told the police – not yet. It was a situation calling for extreme delicacy in the handling, of course.

  ‘But how can they trouble me for information when they don’t . . .’

  ‘Sorry I’m late.’ Rory sidled into the room. He still had on the black imitation leather jacket he wore outdoors. The back was streaked with mud. So were his trousers.

  ‘You get terrible dirty sitting in that Job Centre,’ sniggered his father.

  ‘I slipped. Thanks, Mum.’ Bridget Duggan had been quick to fetch his kipper from the oven. ‘Marvellous.’ He smiled at her: kippers were his favourite.

  ‘And where’ve you been, leaving your mother’s cooking to spoil?’ Duggan demanded sourly before beaming a sickly, ingratiating smile upon his wife.

  ‘Couldn’t help it.’ Rory roughly pulled his chair in closer. The action rocked the table on which his father was resting both elbows while bringing his second, over-full cup of tea to his lips. What remained of Duggan’s kipper was in consequence generously annointed with the hot liquid. ‘Want to watch it, Dad,’ said Rory quickly, believing always in taking the initiative. ‘Say, did you see a short, fat guy in the cathedral this morning? With a bowler? Asking questions? I saw him after I spoke to you. Wanted to know about anyone called Daras.’

  ‘So what if I saw him?’ Duggan pushed away his big plate and reached for the cheese. ‘You didn’t give him anything?’ It was nearly a point of honour with Duggan menfolk that so far as was humanly possible information of that sort was something paid for and never ever actually given away.

  ‘Wasn’t me he was asking. Not at first,’ Rory answered carefully: he could be quite as devious as his father. ‘Didn’t know he’d been to you. Saw him talking to that young verger. Smith, is it? The one with acne? I was having a word with him later.’

  ‘You weren’t after borrowing money from Smith?’ Duggan put in sharply and with inward deep concern. He usually owed Smith money himself.

  ‘’Course not. Him and me go to the same boozer. Play darts sometimes. We was just passing the time of day. Anyway, he says this character’s wanting to trace a Daras. Ready to pay. Except Smith never hard of any Daras.’

  ‘The man didn’t say he was paying. Not when he asked me,’ Duggan lied.

  ‘Probably didn’t want to insult you. ’Cos you look so bloody old and respectable. Well, I knew where a Daras lived. You showed me years ago. So I go after the guy. Catch him up at the Queen’s Head. His name’s Hawker.’

  ‘And you gave him the information,’ said Duggan in disgust.

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘That’s my business.’

  Duggan disagreed. He’d stalled Hawker himself by telling him he’d make enquiries. Got him to leave his card. Told him to come back before evensong. He’d intended to go out to see Daras after lunch. Find out what it was worth not to give Hawker the Daras address. Then the whole thing had slipped his mind because of the other business with Bliter. Rory had most probably undercharged Hawker. On past performance Daras paid well for little services, and strictly on a business basis, too, because he and Duggan had stopped being friends years ago. Not so many people in the town had ever heard of the family nowadays. ‘What happened after?’ Duggan demanded.

  ‘He took the bus out to Much Stratton and got shot at.’

  ‘Go on?’ said Duggan.

  ‘You were there?’ Rory’s mother questioned in alarm.

  ‘Not for long, I can tell you. Not after this crazy old man came up behind Hawker. In uniform he was. With a shotgun. Double-barrelled. Let it off right in Hawker’s ear. Then stuck it in his back and marched him round the yard. That was when I come away.’

  ‘Did Hawker know you were there?’ asked the older Duggan.

  ‘No. Nor any Daras, either. Only went out of curiosity. Got the same bus back after the shooting. Not taking chances.’ He had been involved with the police a few months before, on suspicion of housebreaking, but there hadn’t been enough evidence for a charge. Since then he’d avoided anything that could conceivably damage his entitlement to state welfare benefits. ‘Crazy people. Must be. Tell you who was out there,’ he put in as an afterthought, ‘Glynis Jones.’

  ‘Canon Jones’s daughter?’

  ‘That’s right, Dad. Recognised her car. Soft-top Japanese job. Like a small Jeep. It was parked near the bus stop when I came back. Sure it was hers. She’s a farm secretary.’

  ‘Not for the Daras farm, she isn’t,’ said Duggan firmly. ‘And keep out of her business. Stay right away from the cathedral clergy and their families. Daras, too, if you don’t want more trouble.’ He was already thinking of the money Pounder had left, putting two and two together, and wondering how he could get to Much Stratton and back before he was on duty again.

  The Dean put down the telephone as his wife came into his study with a tea tray. ‘That was Ewart Jones,’ he said. ‘He and his lawyer left the police station at two-thirty.’

  ‘But it’s nearly four now.’

  ‘I know. He forgot to let me know.’ He frowned, putting the braille sheets he had been reading into a drawer. ‘Couldn’t imagine why we were worried. You see, he just doesn’t consider his position as at all serious
.’

  ‘And the fingerprint on the key?’

  ‘He says the police seemed to accept he put it there the first time he attempted to get in and steal the Magna Carta,’ he ended with a touch more acerbity.

  ‘Don’t you start talking that way. It’s bad enough having Clive Brastow gunning for the Precentor.’

  ‘Not to mention the wretched Duggan. I’m not gunning for Ewart. Just trying to get him to face the facts of the situation. If it hadn’t been for Duggan, of course, Ewart need never have admitted that first visit.’ He sniffed. ‘Except, I suppose, he’d have owned up anyway. But there really is no call for cathedral servants to be volunteering other people’s business to the police. Or interfering in mine,’ he added with feeling. ‘I’ve put a flea in Bliter’s ear, I can tell you.’

  ‘Poor Commander Bliter. Perhaps his wife unnerves him. She does me. This was over Duggan?’

  ‘Certainly. Damned impudence overriding Jakes’s claim to Pounder’s job. At least he should have consulted me first. Frankly, I find the whole business sinister. Chap reeks of booze all the time.’

  ‘Bliter?’

  ‘No, Duggan. You must have noticed. Booze or peppermint.’

  ‘Not everyone has your acute sense of smell, darling.’

  ‘Well, you can’t have the Dean’s verger blowing alcohol fumes at all the communicants.’

  ‘As senior verger he must be doing it at all the tourists.’

  ‘That’s different. Only slightly, I admit. And anyway he’s retiring soon. Not to be resurrected in another guise. Not while I’m Dean.’

  Margaret Hitt looked at her watch. ‘Dr Welt is late. Shall I pour your tea?’ As she spoke the doorbell rang. ‘Ah, that’ll be him.’

  A few minutes later Welt was sitting on the edge of the chair in front of the Dean’s desk looking vulnerable. Mrs Hitt had retired to her workroom.

  ‘Donald, I asked if you could call . . .’

  ‘It’s about my job? Winding down the musical establishment? I thought with the insurance money for the Magna Carta we’d be OK.’ The words came with a rush.