‘Which explains why his wife didn’t want the thing sold at all, Chief Inspector,’ said Treasure.
‘Also why she might have thought making a secret plea over anything so important was a wicked thing for her to have done, sir.’
‘Wicked.’ The Dean gave an interested smile as he repeated the policeman’s word.
‘Accepting that the shame at having sent the letter to Mr Treasure was what really drove her to this, sir.’
‘She left a note that seemed to say so, Mr Pride.’
‘That’s as may be, sir. But now we know she was in possession of barbiturates. That alters things, you see? We have to consider whether it was she who might have drugged Mr Pounder’s tea. Or worse. That’s in view of her subsequent actions.’ Pride wasn’t taking notes any more. He was blatantly watching the reactions of the others to this very incautious speculation.
‘That would be a quite unsupportable postulation,’ commented the Dean firmly but without emotion. ‘It’d be like . . .’ He hesitated, then continued. ‘Well, you know it’s now common knowledge that Pounder died a comparatively rich man . . .’
‘Is it?’ Treasure interrupted, surprised.
‘I was told as much in strict confidence. By three separate informants in the course of today.’ The Dean smiled wrily. ‘You’ve heard obviously, Mr Pride?’
‘Yes, sir. Also that someone’s been talking out of turn.’
‘The point is,’ continued the Dean, ‘it’d be quite as credible, though no more practicably tenable, to suppose Pounder’s death was caused by someone likely directly to gain from it. That certainly wouldn’t involve the wife of a member of the cathedral chapter.’ He wiped a hand over his forehead. ‘That’s a red herring, of course, Mr Pride. But no redder than your barbiturate theory. Ursula Brastow couldn’t possibly have been involved in murder.’
‘I take your point, sir,’ said the policeman, but without an inflection to indicate he was anywhere near accepting it. ‘Happens one of the alleged beneficiaries of Mr Pounder’s will has disappeared.’
‘A member of the family?’ the Dean asked quickly.
‘Miss Cindy Larks. Eighteen. Senior girl chorister in the cathedral, I believe?’
‘That’s right, Mr Pride.’
‘Specially friendly with Dr Welt, the organist. Or so we understand.’
‘And to whom do you owe that understanding?’
Treasure was impressed by the Dean’s spirited question as well as the evident sense of loyalty that had prompted it.
‘Dr Welt himself, really, sir.’ The policeman was unchastened by the suggestion of rebuff. ‘He can’t account for her absence, but she has a date with him at seven-fifteen this evening. At his house. For a singing lesson. She hasn’t been seen since eleven this morning.’
‘And Pounder’s left her money? They were friends?’ This was Treasure.
‘We’re looking into that, sir. Seems they must have been.’
‘Someone’s reported her missing?’ the Dean asked.
‘Her mother, sir.’
The clergyman fingered his watch. ‘But it’s only just after five-thirty now. Isn’t she a bit elderly to be reported missing by her mother after so short a time?’
‘We thought the same, sir. Mrs Larks came to the station just after five apparently. Uniformed sergeant on duty told me just now, when I was leaving to come here. The mother mentioned the connection with Mr Pounder.’
‘Over-anxious but commendably concerned for her daughter, I expect,’ said the Dean.
‘Worried about the money, the sergeant said, sir. Wouldn’t stop talking about it.’
Chapter Sixteen
Duggan had made sure the cathedral was empty before he let himself out through the cloister door, locking it behind him.
The police had left at midday. The north door had been in use again and the routine was more or less back to normal, except that the Old Library was closed.
It’s true it was now only five-forty, earlier than the building was supposed to be secured, but Duggan had persuaded himself that without the Magna Carta there was no reason why the place should be kept open after evensong in midwinter. Probably the rules would be changed officially before long, making life easier for him when he was finally confirmed in his appointment as Dean’s verger – an office he was once again confident of securing. Meantime, since there was no one about, he was making his own rules for today because he had other benefits pending that needed his urgent attention.
Hunching his shoulders inside the heavy black overcoat with the extra lining, once the property of a now deceased archdeacon, and pulling the worn Homburg over his forehead, Duggan rounded the Lady Chapel, then headed west along the close, muttering to himself. He was taking a different from normal route. The dark figure in the shadows registered this, at first with annoyance, then with calculated approval, before falling in quietly some way behind.
When he reached Bridge Street the verger turned left. He looked over his shoulder, but not carefully enough to spot he was being followed. He was making for the Jakes house on the far side of the river. It had been a reflex action to check whether anyone might be watching. He wasn’t apprehensive. Simply his conscience was sensitive – not pricked.
The business shouldn’t take long, but it wouldn’t wait – not if he was to make certain of getting Pounder’s job. Jakes would be ready enough to pass it up when he heard that Duggan knew the source of old Pounder’s legacy: well, guessed the source of it at least. He gave the long woollen scarf another turn around his neck. It was much colder tonight. ‘Colder,’ he said aloud to himself, for there was no one within hearing.
The street was nearly empty. Very little through traffic came that way since the new, high bridge had been built two hundred yards up-river to link with the outer ring road. There were no shops with lighted windows in Bridge Street south of the close, and the pavement narrowed where the road dipped beside the Bishop’s Palace. It wasn’t much wider on the other side where a mixed row of refurbished eighteenth-century houses made an attractive terrace. It was on this side that the other figure was now moving, close to the houses, unobserved in the shadows, though nearly parallel to the pursued.
Duggan was pleased with himself for having gone to see Daras. He’d got a lift in a lorry to Much Stratton and caught the bus back. He’d been late returning for duty but there’d been no one to notice. He’d had trouble getting into the Daras house, but he’d expected that, and Daras was being a lot more receptive when he’d left. He’d known how to treat Joshua Daras, another erstwhile friend. You had to realise he told you more in the things he wouldn’t say than in the things he did say: in a manner of speaking – or, rather, not speaking. Duggan chuckled at his own joke.
There were no lights on the bridge, only reinstated gas lamps at either end which had replaced the universally deplored sodium lights installed in the 1950s. The narrow five-arched medieval bridge was a gem of its kind, splendidly intact and much admired, even though the pavements were too mean to accommodate two walkers abreast. Duggan was unaffected by the aesthetic charm of the structure. He stumbled in the bad light as he stepped onto it. ‘Damned kerb,’ he complained aloud, dropping the good humour and peering ahead with narrowed gaze.
The bridge was deserted on both sides in front of him. A van swept too close from behind, reminding him to stay well in on the pavement. When he was halfway across the swollen river a motorcycle surged into view from the south. The rider roared over the bridge with headlamp on high beam, swerved maliciously at Duggan and temporarily blinded him.
‘Rotten bastard,’ exclaimed the verger in what was to be his last ever coherent utterance, for it was at that moment that the figure dogging him seized the looked-for opportunity, ran across the empty road, placed both hands in the small of Duggan’s back, and pushed him hard over the less than waist-high and much admired medieval parapet.
Duggan couldn’t swim, and in any case the heavy coat and the freezing, rushing water made eff
ective movement impossible. He was too astonished to cry out as he fell, and soon he was too full of water – not that there had been anyone to hear. He was discovered quite soon afterwards by someone walking his dog on the river bank, which was well illuminated a bit further on. But Duggan was very dead by then, attached to a mooring post by his long scarf.
Margaret Hitt had been admitted to the New Library some minutes after the despatch of the head verger. Seeing the lights on still, she said, she had stopped in for a private word, and hoped she wasn’t interrupting anything.
‘Not at all,’ Laura Purse offered brightly but appearing somewhat flushed. She motioned the Dean’s wife to the visitor’s chair. ‘I’ve been out. Came back to clear up a few things. Mostly done now. Thought I’d hang on here till it’s time for the Merits’ sherry party. It’s hardly worth going home.’
‘That’s because you’re always so band-box. And young and attractive with it, of course. I shall have to go home first to repair facial ravages and put on something showier.’ Mrs Hitt sighed, plucked at her tweed coat and made a self-deprecating grimace.
‘You’ve been to the hospital?’
‘Mm. Quite early on. Ursula Brastow will survive. But that’s not what I came to talk about. I think Gerard Twist is one of the most agreeable young men I know,’ the older woman continued firmly and now in a getting-down-to-business tone. ‘Strong in spirit and with a refreshing air of . . .’
‘Unworldliness?’ the librarian supplied carefully and with a hint of caution showing in her eyes.
‘I’m sure that’s right. You know him so much better than I. An exceptional man, with a splendid musical talent. I’ve always been concerned that people might take advantage of his good nature. That he’s a sort of innocent at large.’
‘I expect to marry him. Are you here to protect him? To warn me off?’ The gaze was perfectly steady, like the voice.
‘Oh, my dear, quite the opposite. Now, why should you have thought that?’
Laura gave a relieved smile. ‘I don’t know. Because I’m on my guard, perhaps? You’re worried for Gerard’s well-being. His mother’s not wild about me. I thought she might have recruited you against me.’
‘Never met his mother. Expect she’s overfond of him. Most mothers would be. Anyway, in future I shall take greater care about how I express things. Must be getting careless. Probably my age. Almost certainly my age.’ She sniffed. ‘When did he ask you – to marry him?’
‘He hasn’t yet. But he will. When I’m ready.’ The big eyes opened especially wide in a gesture of what could still have been defiance.
‘And you’ll accept him?’
‘Certainly. I’m very fond of him. And he needs looking after.’
‘I hope you’ll stay in Litchester.’
‘Not much doubt of that. Provided Gerard’s job holds up.’
‘I’m sure it will.’ Mrs Hitt paused, looked seriously perplexed, then continued. ‘Also I’m sure Gerard has the interests of the cathedral very much at heart.’
‘We both do.’
‘One shouldn’t allow a . . . a misadventure . . . an upset to mar things. In any circumstances.’
It was Laura’s turn to look puzzled. ‘I don’t really know what you mean.’
‘So please indulge me by hearing me out. Tell me, did you both know last evening that the Magna Carta would probably be sold?’
Laura shook her head. ‘No, we didn’t. We understood quite the opposite.’
‘I thought as much. For those of us who were thinking that way but dearly wanted the thing sold . . .’
‘Like us? Gerard and me?’
‘Precisely. For us the fire came as a blessing. Don’t you think? In a way? Apart from poor Mr Pounder’s death, of course. Incidentally, did you know he wasn’t at all poor in the material sense? Or so it seems. Well, there it is.’ She went on without waiting for a reply to her question. ‘The fact is the fire provided a sort of reprieve – the insurance money being almost as good as a sale.’
‘Except now everybody knows the Chapter would have voted for selling.’
‘Now we know. We didn’t then. Which means any one of us could have considered starting that fire.’
‘But not murdering Pounder? That’d be far-fetched, surely?’
‘And what if his death was really an accident?’
‘But how could it? He was hit on the head.’
‘There are accidents and accidents,’ said Mrs Hitt in a tone that firmly defied challenge.
‘You mean . . . he might somehow have got in the way?’
‘Something of the kind. It’s hard to believe any sane person knowingly meant to kill such a harmless old man.’
‘Not some tearaway even?’
‘Possibly. And if it was one of those it’ll most probably stay an unsolved crime. When there’s no motive, you see, it must be difficult for the police. Meantime, it’s very tiresome for a person to be put under suspicion through another person’s uncorroborated and possibly vague testimony.’
‘I still don’t follow.’
‘Simpletons court celebrity, and that applies to simpletons of all backgrounds and social levels. Litchester’s alive with them. This morning I had someone asking whether some tittle tattle should be retailed to the police. Someone who really should have known better. Then coming out of evensong just now that oily fellow Duggan bearded me. He wanted to know if he should tell the police there was someone other than Canon Jones he saw when he was leaving the cathedral last night. Around six-thirty. Someone important, he said.’
‘Why should he ask you?’
‘Said he’d intended to ask my husband, who wasn’t at the service. I imagine he’s up to ingratiating himself with us by pretending he values our advice. So that he gets Mr Pounder’s job. There’s not a chance. Gilbert simply loathes him. You won’t mention that to anybody?’
‘Of course not. So what did you tell Duggan?’
‘That he should follow his conscience and the Beatitudes. That flummoxed him, I can tell you. That’s not the point, though.’ Mrs Hitt shifted in her chair. ‘I hear two of the choristers thought they saw Gerard in North Street at a . . . at an inconvenient time last evening? At twenty to seven?’
‘And they got it wrong. He and I were at my flat before then.’ The words came with belligerent sharpness.
‘I don’t think schoolboy testimony matters much, but I believe mine would. If Duggan should claim it was Gerard he saw, I’m very happy to witness he couldn’t have.’
Laura looked surprised. ‘Duggan didn’t say it was Gerard?’
‘Didn’t say who it was. I never gave him the chance. The point is I was ringing your doorbell at six-twenty last night.’ The Dean’s wife capped the utterance with a look of great satisfaction.
The librarian coloured slightly. ‘I don’t remember . . . We couldn’t have . . .’
‘Heard the bell? Of course you couldn’t,’ the other emphasised. ‘Something much more important than doorbells being played. One of the Brandenburg Concertos. The Third, I think. Fairly thumping away on your record-player up there. Could hear it quite clearly from the street. I wonder the neighbours don’t complain. ’
The girl grimaced. ‘They do occasionally.’
‘I didn’t ring twice. Shouldn’t have rung at all once I twigged I’d be intruding, but I was passing and wanted to borrow a book. Don’t need it now. Anyway, I saw Gerard. He had his back to your kitchen window.’
‘To be honest, I’m not absolutely sure of the time he arrived. Not the exact time. Not to the minute,’ Laura offered carefully. She studied the other’s face.
‘Well, if necessary I’ll swear you were both there at six-twenty. Don’t suppose it will be necessary. But it might stop other people putting silly times to Gerard’s movements. I’m not the easiest person to contradict. And I have an extremely reliable watch.’
Laura leant forward, her forearms resting on the desk top, hands clasped. ‘You don’t have to do this.’ She was t
rying to make up her mind whether Mrs Hitt was genuinely mistaken about the time of her visit to North Street or whether she was deliberately offering to perjure herself.
‘One does what one sees as right, my dear,’ the Dean’s wife observed, offering no answer to the unspoken questions. ‘I’m hardening to the view the crime was committed by what you call a tearaway. The sooner the police do the same, the sooner we’ll all be left in peace. Until then we must all do our best to support each other’s interests.’
‘But since we didn’t see you last night.’ Now it was dawning on the girl that a quid pro quo arrangement might be intended. ‘I mean, you must have been . . .’
‘At large at the critical time? Don’t worry about me. I’m well enough alibi’d. And, in any case, deans’ wives are traditionally above suspicion.’ She began to do up her coat.
‘I suppose Pounder’s death wasn’t in vain?’ asked Laura.
‘Not at all in vain. And finding whoever brought it about may prove a minor triumph for justice, but it won’t bring him back. Meantime the cathedral is a million pounds to the good. Perhaps directly due to Mr Pounder.’ She paused in her purposeful actions while allowing a finger to trace the outline of her cheek. ‘Do you suppose a police enquiry could in any circumstances be called an administrative sophistry?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘No, I’m sure it couldn’t.’ The brief visionary look had matched the softened tone. Mrs Hitt shook her head sharply, then rose from the chair with a confident sigh. ‘Well, that’s done. I must fly, but I’ll see you again shortly. Tell Gerard we talked. It’s important he knows where he stands. Where you both stand.’
Chapter Seventeen
Treasure replaced the telephone in the Dean’s study. ‘The evening telephonist at the Red Dragon thinks it was a woman who left me the message last night.’
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