‘The one about Daras.’ The Dean nodded from the small drinks table behind the desk. ‘Only sherry here. Amontillado. Like some? Or I can get you the Scotch from the drawing room?’
‘Sherry’s fine. Thank you. Shall I pour it?’
But his host was already doing so – precisely, with a liquid-level indicator, a small ball which he balanced in turn on the edges of the glasses. The device had two metal prongs of different lengths protruding from it to calculate short or long drinks. ‘It’s electronic. Makes a bleep when I’ve given us enough,’ Hitt explained. ‘Takes some of the fun out of life, but also reduces wastage.’
The two men had been delivered to the Deanery in the Chief Inspector’s car. This was the first time they had been able to converse alone since meeting at the hospital. Treasure had joined Hitt there in response to a message from Mrs Hitt.
‘You don’t know this woman’s identity?’ The Dean placed a glass and coaster on the desk in front of Treasure, then settled himself in his leather swivel chair.
‘Unfortunately, no. I do know she was steering me to the source of the Magna Carta copy. Can’t be much doubt of that. You’d never heard of the Daras family?’
‘Not that I recall. We’re still comparative newcomers here, of course. Eight years. But, from what you’ve said already, our ignorance does us credit.’ He took a sip of his drink. ‘Interesting that Pounder knew Daras. Fits with his telling me there were Magna Carta copies to be had in the area.’
‘How long ago did he tell you that?’
‘Hard to remember. Five, six years. Certainly more than four. Does it matter?’
‘It could be significant. I’d better tell you the rest of what happened at Much Stratton this afternoon.’
A few minutes later the Dean was shaking his head in continuing surprise as he said: ‘And did this Hawker chap come clean on the way back?’
‘Nearly. He was hired to come here and check the authenticity of our Magna Carta.’
‘By whom?’
‘That he still won’t say. He leads one to assume it’s the American bidder. Except he’s such an unlikely agent for a respectable museum.’
‘He’s not a specialist in some aspect of antiquarian scholarship?’
Treasure chuckled. ‘I’d forgotten you haven’t met him. He used to work in a betting shop. Now unemployed and the sleeping partner in what I suppose you’d call a detective agency. Unfortunately for him, the working partner just died. He wasn’t a scholar, either. Ex-policeman. Good at the job, or so Hawker insists.’
‘How did he die? He wasn’t killed?’
‘Nothing sinister. Burst appendix, poor chap. Hawker felt obliged to take over the current work. Seems to have arrived here with very little to go on. He did know I’d come to Litchester, and he picked up the Daras lead from reading my message at the hotel last night.’
‘Which he pinched?’
‘No. He was handed it by mistake. Gave it back after noting the contents. He got the Daras address from a fellow in a pub. Probably Duggan the verger’s son. I told you he was out there, too?’
‘Mm. But you don’t know why.’
‘Glynis Jones says he’s naturally into other people’s business.’
The Dean snorted. ‘Like his father.’
‘Hawker went to Much Stratton, he admitted, because he had no other lead. I think he came to regret that.’
‘And where does a Magna Carta copy come into all this?’
‘It doesn’t at the moment. Not unless one attaches importance to the miserable Hawker and his mission, and the ravings of the unmentionable Daras. There may have been a trade in fake Magna Cartas at some time, but I don’t see its significance in relation to the fire.’ The banker paused, then continued half to himself: ‘Not unless, of course . . .’
‘I’m still perplexed.’ The Dean had not intended to interrupt but since he had, and thereafter continued speaking, he had the effect of delaying Treasure’s fresh train of deductive thought by about an hour. ‘No one could have wanted the Magna Carta destroyed for personal gain,’ the Dean went on. ‘But no one who cared deeply enough about the cathedral to be going for the insurance money could have contemplated murdering Pounder. In the main we’re talking of devout clerics. Or their equally devout womenfolk.’
‘None of whom would rate a clergyman’s job as more important than Pounder’s life? No, of course not,’ Treasure answered his own question but without really deep-sounding conviction.
‘Oh, it’s possible in theory,’ came the Dean’s bland rejoinder. ‘We have potential martyrs amongst us.’ He sniffed at his sherry while evidently considering the candidates. ‘Martyrs basically have to dismiss the significance of this life on earth. In theory, I suppose, they might feel justified in applying the same dictum to other people’s lives. In a sound cause. In practice, though, none of the clergy jobs here is really at risk.’
‘The Minor Canon . . . ?’
‘Twist? He might have felt the need to move on. Yes, we might even have had to encourage him to. In certain circumstances. But I can’t see such a mild fellow taking a life in order to protect his livelihood. Nor even the Litchester musical tradition. Not sure that applies to Welt, of course.’
‘That’s the fiery organist you were interviewing this afternoon? Who gives the missing Cindy Larks singing lessons.’
The Dean nodded. ‘Curious chap. Pretty good musician. Better perhaps than we deserve for what we can pay. Not that the Lord doesn’t deserve the best, and fortunately there’s a glut of good organists at the moment. Welt is also a developing composer, which is good for our public relations.’
‘But he has what you termed a tiresome private life.’
‘Yes. Ruthless in that connection, I’d say. He’s not in holy orders of course. Nor is he a professing Christian.’ The Dean stopped speaking but his deepening expression indicated he hadn’t stopped counting the number of Welt’s deficiencies.
‘You weren’t serious about Pounder being polished off by his relatives? For the money?’
‘Certainly not. Simply endeavouring to take that policeman’s attention off the community living in the cathedral close.’ Dean Hitt shook his head. ‘Ewart Jones’s fault, you see. For making himself so vulnerable. Spoiling the clerical mystique. Clive Brastow was right about that. In a way. Wouldn’t do to tell him so,’ he added frowning. ‘But Ewart’s frolics really have made us all look too fallible.’
‘They were intended in what you’d term a good cause.’ Treasure’s now practised defence of the Precentor worked in an almost reflex way.
‘Accepted. But he wasn’t the only one ready to adopt stern measures. Or to have his acts mirror his conviction, for that matter. Tell you something in strictest confidence to indicate how much people care.’ The Dean took a draught of sherry, smacking his lips before tabling the actual revelation. ‘So far as I know, Nutkin is only moderately rich, but he’s certainly our biggest single recent benefactor. Donated fifty thousand pounds to the Fabric Fund a few years ago. Anonymously. I knew, but nobody else does. It covered the cost of some absolutely vital work. You won’t mention that to anyone?’
‘Of course not.’
‘Illustrates my point, don’t you think?’
‘What point, darling?’ asked Margaret Hitt, who had just entered the room. ‘Don’t get up, either of you. What’s the latest news of Ursula?’ she continued, without waiting for an answer to the first question.
‘Condition satisfactory,’ the Dean replied.
‘Good.’ She eyed the two glasses. ‘You’ve not forgotten we’re all overdue at the Merits’ sherry party?’
‘I don’t believe I am,’ said Treasure.
‘Yes, you are. We were deputed to invite you, but Gilbert’s obviously forgotten.’
‘Quite right. Sorry, Treasure. Knew there was something. You’ll come, won’t you?’
‘Delighted.’
‘You won’t be really,’ put in Mrs Hitt. ‘But it’ll certainly delight Algy and the others t
o have an eminent outsider present. Mr Pounder’s death and Ursula’s antic will have shed a blight on the proceedings, of course. What exactly did she say in that letter to you?’
Treasure told her, adding: ‘The Chief Inspector seemed less concerned about the letter than he did about her having phenobarbitone handy.’
‘Ursula couldn’t have laced Mr Pounder’s tea, if that’s what he’s thinking. Nor done anything else to him,’ said the Dean’s wife firmly. ‘Much too timid.’
‘I really believe she regarded writing to me as much worse than just a mistake. I also blame myself for telling her this morning I’d intended voting for the sale.’
‘Making her feel spurned, you think?’ Mrs Hitt questioned without conviction.
‘Or worse. An embarrassment to her husband perhaps,’ offered the banker.
Mrs Hitt frowned at him. ‘So that she needed to take the blame?’
‘Or advertise her guilt?’
‘Or cover his?’ the Dean put in. ‘I mean his shortcomings generally. As a husband. At least, I think that’s what I mean.’
‘Glad you could come.’ Canon Algy Merit greeted Treasure, steering him further into the crowded drawing room at the Chancellor’s house. ‘Unfortunate day for a party, as it’s turned out. But it is my birthday. And we can’t alter that.’
Justification was implicit not only in the words but also in the benign gaze the Canon spread over the assembled company. He was affirming that, unpredicted murders and suicide attempts notwithstanding, birthdays were feasts of obligation observed for the very reason that they were predicted. His stout person was positively shining in the silk cassock and cape, as were his cheeks and the dome of his head. Only what was left of the curly hair, plastered down for the occasion, exposed a recalcitrant element. It had become decidedly springy at the sides.
The room was grand and elegant and immediately impressed with its double walnut doors in a pedimented casing and its original fretted friezes. What the visitor could see of the furnishings he found equally to his taste. The colours of the walls and drapes were fresh and new, but well fitting to the period of the house.
‘What a gorgeous room.’
‘Good of you to approve,’ said Olive Merit, who was now standing before Treasure holding a small silver tray with some filled glasses on it. ‘Dry or medium sherry?’
He helped himself to a glass of the paler liquid. ‘Not difficult to see highly creative minds have been at work on the decorations,’ he offered tactfully, not knowing which of the Merits might have been responsible.
‘It helps to have the basics designed or at least inspired by Christopher Wren,’ the Canon replied, the satisfaction in the tone suggesting the further inspiration had been provided by himself.
‘Hasn’t helped much next door,’ said his sister flatly. ‘One regrets the Brastows have quite lost the sense of style in the Treasurer’s House. They practically live in the kitchen. Give the rest over to good works, garish posters and trestle tables. Poor Ursula. She really made an effort converting the basement into a flat for fugitives, but once people see it they seem to prefer staying on the run.’
‘Let me introduce you to someone you haven’t met,’ put in Merit. ‘The Lord Lieutenant of the County isn’t here yet,’ he added airily, as though that luminary had delayed an earlier appearance for reasons any member of the cognoscenti would perfectly understand.
‘Surprisingly, there aren’t many here I don’t know,’ smiled Treasure, looking about the room. ‘I’m sure I can look after myself.’
He could see the liberated Canon Jones talking earnestly with Miles Nutkin and Laura Purse. On the edge of the same group Glynis Jones, who waved to him, was standing with Gerard Twist and Mrs Nutkin, who Treasure had been introduced to on the doorstep as he was arriving. The Dean and his wife, who he had come with, had quickly been buttonholed by the woman standing beside Bliter and who Treasure guessed would be Mrs Bliter. It was this quartet the banker joined.
‘Mr Treasure, don’t believe you’ve met Jennifer Bliter,’ Mrs Hitt offered, without wasting much time on formal introductions. ‘Commander Bliter has been telling us the head verger’s just been found drowned. In the river. It’s quite a shock. I was speaking to him at five-thirty.’ The normally serene woman was clearly disconcerted by the news.
‘I was going to ask, was he . . . er . . . ?’ Bliter punctuated with a cough. Was he quite himself then?’
‘What Percy means is was he blotto?’ put in Mrs Bliter with a slight slur suggesting she wasn’t entirely sober herself. ‘I mean they’re obviously going to think he fell over the bridge drunk.’
‘He smelled of peppermint,’ said Mrs Hitt.
‘He usually did,’ her husband commented. ‘You say he went in over the bridge?’
‘One of the bridges, the police think,’ Bliter affirmed. ‘Probably the old.’ He turned to Treasure. ‘It’s not that uncommon, I’m afraid. Dangerously low parapet for the unwary. They rang me to find out what time he went off duty. I didn’t know for sure.’ He looked at his watch. ‘I shall have to leave shortly, to see his family. In case there’s anything we can do.’
‘Good of you,’ muttered the Dean.
‘I think he was all right when we spoke,’ Mrs Hitt said, and now in a normal firm voice. She glanced at Treasure, who she’d told earlier about her exchange with Duggan. ‘I suppose there’ll be an examination. Perhaps he had a giddy spell?’ There was a momentary embarrassed silence.
‘If he was crossing the river, he wasn’t on his normal route home,’ Bliter broke in.
‘It’s almost as though there’s a curse on Litchester vergers,’ said Laura Purse gravely. She had just appeared beside Treasure. ‘Very sad for his wife. Come and circulate,’ she added, putting an arm through his and leading him away after exchanging nods with Mrs Hitt ‘We have to share out important strangers in our closed society. Everyone’s expected to avoid the subject of Mrs Brastow, but Duggan hardly makes for light relief.’
He smiled. ‘Has Glynis mentioned the Daras family still exists and is . . . ?’
‘Busy terrorising Much Stratton?’ Laura completed. ‘Yes, she just told me. Daras himself sounds pretty awful.’
‘Daras? Isn’t that the family . . . ?’ began Mrs Nutkin, who was just within hearing.
‘They started out as d’Aras. Old Border County family. Came over with the Conqueror. Good evening, Mr Treasure.’ This was Nutkin, who had turned about to speak.
‘Means they’ve been here nearly as long as you, dear,’ added Mrs Nutkin with a deep chuckle. She was a jolly woman, a little dumpy, but loosely elegant, and younger than her husband. ‘Weren’t they clients of your grandfather’s, Miles?’
‘Probably. I gather you’ve been to see them?’ Nutkin asked.
‘Put on to them by someone who assumed I’d be interested in a Magna Carta copy, and probably knew Daras might have one,’ the banker answered.
‘As well as some quite unmentionable habits,’ Glynis Jones observed loudly from the far side of a widening circle.
‘Did they show you a copy?’ asked Mrs Nutkin.
‘No. But Daras himself suggested the local seventeenth-century ones were impossible to tell from the real thing.’
‘Might be difficult, certainly,’ offered Laura slowly.
‘In which case it’s been pointless using the expensive kind. Could we get a couple on the cheap? One to sell, and another for the cathedral? To replace the old one?’ Amused, most people turned towards the speaker, Gerard Twist, who reddened slightly at his own boldness.
‘Good idea. Who’d care anyway?’ agreed Mrs Nutkin jovially.
‘Almost anyone who’d been conned into paying over a million pounds for a copy,’ declared Canon Jones.
‘More sherry?’ Olive Merit was at Treasure’s side, holding a decanter. ‘And does one gather you’ve been acting the detective on our behalf today?’
‘No, one doesn’t,’ the banker replied, although it so happened the answer
s to a number of vexing questions had just become plain to him. ‘Of course, I’ve been given charge of an invaluable relic which, with the Dean and Chapter’s permission, I propose to have properly examined and dated.’
‘You mean that lump of wax?’ This was Canon Jones again. ‘The wax from the seal on our Magna Carta?’
‘That’s right. I’m advised by an expert it contains enough carbon to allow for accurate dating.’
‘So at least it will re-authenticate our dear but destroyed exemplification of 1225,’ said Laura.
‘How exciting,’ enthused Mrs Nutkin. ‘Do you have the wax with you?’
‘Sorry, no. It’s in my room at the Red Dragon. I suppose I should have . . .’
Treasure’s words were drowned by the noisy verbal explosions at the door. A thoroughly dishevelled Welt was standing there in what seemed to be a very drunken condition. ‘Evening, all. Evening, comrades. Come to say happy birthday to Algy. Where’s Algy?’ he called, swaying on the threshold. ‘Here to prove my innocence as well. Not invited. Still, thought you’d like to know I’m up to no harm.’ He roughly pushed away a male guest. ‘Not staying. Don’t worry. Thought you ought to know I haven’t ab . . . ducted Miss Larks. Only been thrown out of the lounge bar of the Bridge Hotel for being pi . . . sozzled, begging the ladies’ pardons.’ He looked about him, waving a hand as a further general greeting and rocking on his heels. ‘Saw one of the honoured guests at this . . . at this august assembly crossing the bridge. Very su . . . su . . . superior. Didn’t deign to see me. Didn’t want to know someone being asked to leave the . . . the lounge bar of the Bridge Hotel. Just as well. No condition to be ack . . . nowledged. Had a little snooze since then. But haven’t ab . . . ab . . . ki . . . dnapped Cindy. She’s just been run out of town, or out of her tiny mind, by Christian gossip. Frightened out of her wits. By charitable and loving kindness. Like Ursula Brastow and a few others who haven’t survived this hothouse. Like that poor bloody outsider Welt, is what you’ll be saying next week.’
‘Disgusting!’
‘I think so, too, Mrs Commander Bliter. Or should it be Commander of the Bliters? Captain of the Snoopers? Ay, ay, Mrs Commander. Don’t worry, I’ve been to the cops. When I worked out you’d fingered me. So I’ve owned up. Nothing left on your conscience.’
Murder in Advent Page 17