Murder in Advent

by David Williams

  After exchanging nods, Treasure and Gerard Twist had begun threading through the guests towards Welt.

  ‘Well, Happy Christmas to all. Thank you for having me. And, before the heavies get to me, may you all rot in hell.’ Roaring out the last words, Welt swung around, swayed and would have fallen if he hadn’t managed to throw his arms around the neck of the Lord Lieutenant, who an astonished Algy Merit was just ushering into the room.

  Chapter Eighteen

  ‘Dr Welt got in because Canon Merit had left the front door open. He was showing the Lord Lieutenant where to park his car,’ giggled Glynis Jones, waiting with Laura Purse and Gerard Twist in the busy front hall of the Red Dragon. ‘It really was an outstanding performance.’

  ‘Well, Olive didn’t think so. I thought she was going to bring the salver down on his head,’ said Laura. ‘She was beside herself with fury.’

  ‘And not without cause,’ agreed Treasure, who had now rejoined them. ‘I’ve fixed the table and ordered our food, so if nobody wants a drink I suggest we go in.’ He had invited the three to dine with him. He had extended the invitation to others at the Merits’ party but all of them had already made dinner arrangements, some at this hotel. ‘I see the Nutkins are in the bar with Mrs Bliter,’ he added.

  ‘I spoke to them as they came in,’ said Twist. ‘They’re waiting dinner till the Commander gets back from seeing the Duggan family.’

  ‘Funny, I thought I saw him just now,’ offered Glynis to Treasure as they trailed the others into the restaurant. The banker glanced at the pigeon-holes beside the reception desk as they passed. He had done the same earlier.

  The head waiter guided the group across to the table Treasure had requested. From the seat he was taking the banker had a clear view through the open doorway to the single lift entrance in the hall, as well as the stairs beside it. ‘Sorry your parents couldn’t join us,’ he said to Glynis as he held out her chair.

  ‘Mummy’s not back yet. Dad said they both might join us for coffee later. If that’s all right. He’s got an extra sermon to get ready for the weekend.’

  ‘And wasted the time he should have spent writing it in the police station. He told me,’ said Laura, smiling. ‘He really is very conscientious. I wouldn’t miss a good dinner to write a sermon.’

  ‘It’s more than that actually,’ Glynis offered. ‘Accumulation of business. And his tummy’s upset.’

  ‘There’s Mrs Hitt with Canon Brastow.’ Laura nodded towards the door, and following Treasure’s interested gaze.

  ‘Good of the Hitts to take Brastow under their wing tonight,’ said the banker. ‘I suggested they join us if they found him in, but they thought he’d probably rather avoid company. I’m surprised they got him to come here. Hope he lasts the course.’

  ‘Wonder what’s happened to the Dean?’ remarked Twist, head turned to see what was going on.

  ‘Somewhere about on his own,’ said Glynis. ‘He likes coming here because he knows the layout so well. With his white stick he moves round the place like a sighted person. As he does in the cathedral. And the close.’

  ‘The more time I spend with your Dean, the less conscious I become of his single disability, and the more aware I am that mine are legion.’

  ‘He has that effect on most thinking people, Mr Treasure,’ Laura acknowledged. ‘He’s immensely well informed. Did you notice he knew more about carbon dating than I did? Bit deflating for an antiquarian.’

  ‘Not for me, though. I never heard of it till tonight,’ admitted Glynis.

  ‘Principle’s quite simple,’ said Treasure. ‘Most substances can be dated through analysis of their carbon element. Beeswax is one of them.’

  ‘Fancy your knowing that.’

  ‘I didn’t, Glynis. Not for sure. But when we got back this afternoon I rang a friend. An industrial chemist. He said my bit of wax could probably be dated within a hundred years. Good enough, one would think, to establish if it had been the seal on a thirteenth-century document.’

  ‘Proving the Litchester Magna Carta couldn’t have been a fake?’ asked Twist.

  ‘It was genuine all right,’ said Laura with spirit.

  ‘Though you weren’t sure how scientific the authentication was four years ago. And before that whether the thing had just been accepted as genuine because it had been around a long time,’ Treasure observed.

  ‘With plenty of evidence about its location through the centuries,’ rejoined the librarian. ‘Unlike the Salisbury Cathedral Magna Carta. That disappeared without trace for a whole century before turning up again in 1814.’

  ‘But there’s nothing to prove the Litchester copy couldn’t have been swapped at any point? For instance, the Dean told me there’s a story one of your predecessors used to take it home for safe-keeping every night. Hid it under her bed because she was convinced the current Dean was planning to sell it without telling anyone.’

  Laura nodded with a wan smile. ‘True, I’m afraid. That was before the last war. When our librarian was unpaid. I’m told she was a maiden lady of impeccable virtue if no great physical attraction. Her bed was probably the safest place in England.’

  ‘Hm. But carrying the thing backwards and forwards must have had its hazards. It just illustrates . . .’ Treasure, whose gaze had strayed to the door again, nodded a greeting to a couple who had just entered. ‘Isn’t that the cathedral architect and his wife? They were at the Merits’, too.’

  ‘That’s right. The Smithson-Bows,’ said Glynis, breaking up a bread stick. ‘You probably think this restaurant is a sort of cathedral annexe.’

  ‘The party certainly seems to have moved on here. Almost en masse. Except for the Merits themselves.’

  ‘They’ll still be coping with hangers-on,’ Twist put in. ‘The cathedral hierarchy get a discount from the Red Dragon management. Arranged by the Commander. Friday night we tend to take advantage of it. If at all. It’s still pretty pricey.’ He looked up in surprise at the head waiter, who had appeared at his side.

  ‘Telephone call for you, Mr Twist. In the box on the right in the hall, sir.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Twist seemed embarrassed. ‘Sorry. Shan’t be a moment.’ He got up and hurried out.

  ‘It’s a pity the discount Gerard was talking about doesn’t apply to our visitors, even very important ones,’ remarked Glynis seriously.

  ‘Never mind. I expect we’ll get out without having to do the washing-up,’ joked Treasure. He tried the Chablis the wine waiter had just poured for him to taste. ‘Good. Very good.’ He looked up at the man and nodded. ‘This should see us through the smoked salmon when it comes. Meantime would both you ladies excuse me for a minute? Something important I’ve forgotten in my room. Do drink up. There’s another bottle cooling.’

  He crossed the room, acknowledging a wave from Mrs Hitt. Instead of going straight to the lift, he crossed the hall. Mrs Nutkin and Mrs Bliter were still at a table in the bar as he passed. He didn’t need to go right up to the reception desk to see his key was missing, nor did he ask the porter if he knew who had taken it. The telephone box was empty.

  There was no one else waiting for the lift, which was already on its way down. It arrived almost as soon as Treasure pressed the button. The doors slid open to reveal Len Hawker standing alone inside looking miserable and clutching a hotel key. He made to get out but the banker pushed him back, pressing the button and barring his way until the doors shut again and they were on their way up to the third floor.

  ‘That key, please,’ ordered Treasure, holding out his hand.

  ‘This one? It’s mine.’ But the other handed it over nervously all the same. ‘You’ve heard about the verger? Duggan? I spoke to him this morning. In the cathedral. It was his son put me on to Much Stratton. I’m going to the police. I don’t want to be mixed up in any of this. Not any more. I’m . . .’

  The doors opened at the third floor. Treasure thrust the key back at Hawker. It was the key to room 216. ‘You’re very wise. The police will wan
t to know the name of your client. If I were you, I’d tell them. And I’d go right now.’

  He pressed the ground-floor button and stepped out of the lift, watching the doors close on the bewildered private investigator, who was winking without cease. He turned the corner into the carpeted corridor, trying but failing to stop his footsteps reverberating through the old timber joists. There were eight bedrooms on the left-hand side facing on to the courtyard at the rear of the building. His room, number 320, was at the end. He could see the key hanging in the lock. He didn’t stop outside the room but went past it through a swing door labelled FIRE PROTECTION.

  The Dean was standing to the left on the other side of the door. His back was half-turned away from Treasure. He was pressing against the release bar of the door to the outside fire escape. Now he spun about sharply, grasping his folded white stick in a clenched fist.

  ‘It’s Treasure.’

  ‘Well, that’s a blessing,’ whispered the Dean in a relieved voice.

  ‘We were right?’

  ‘I think so. From the sound of the walk. Went into your room a minute ago. Don’t believe he’ll be leaving this way. Bar’s stuck. Can’t try shifting it without making a racket. Told you this place was a comfortable death-trap.’

  ‘Leave it. Just stay against the wall through here.’

  The two went back to the main corridor. Treasure pressed his ear to the door and listened. He could hear sounds of movement inside the room – of cupboards and drawers being opened and shut.

  Taking hold of the key, he turned it in the lock. The door didn’t move. ‘Bolted on the inside,’ he said over his shoulder. He rapped on the door, shouting ‘Open up,’ and rapped again, adding: ‘This is Mark Treasure. You won’t find what you’re looking for. Just open the door, please.’

  The noises stopped abruptly. Then came the sound of someone moving quickly through the room. Something was overturned, then came a hammering, followed by the distinctive screech of a window being thrown up.

  ‘Not possible,’ said Treasure. ‘It must be a forty-foot drop.’

  ‘Is the fire escape within reach of the window?’ asked the Dean.

  ‘No. I looked earlier. No ledge, either. You could try jumping, but I don’t think I would.’

  ‘You might if you were desperate,’ cautioned the Dean, pushing back through the swing door. ‘We’ve got to get this door open.’

  ‘Let me.’ Treasure lifted a foot and began jabbing it at the bar: the door sprang open at the third attempt. The cold air smote him as he rushed out on to the metal platform, but what he saw froze him in a different way. ‘Don’t. You won’t make it,’ he cried – but he was too late. The unathletic figure was already in the air.

  The grip of the outstretched fingers destined for the staircase railing was never tested. The awkward sideways leap had lacked the needful thrust to match its boldness. The reach was shortened in a move of despair, it seemed, even before its aim was certain of missing. Inanely the hands had been drawing back to protect the terrified, well-fed face – a face fixed with the look of terror that was to stay in Treasure’s mind. There was no scream, but a second later the body hit the top of a parked car with a sickening thud.

  ‘It was the Dean who knew you were here,’ said Treasure. ‘He even borrowed a key from Canon Brastow.’

  ‘He didn’t say I’d broken in?’ Cowering in a big old armchair in the Brastows’ empty basement flat, Cindy Larks for once looked younger than her age, very frightened, and a good deal less alluring than the last time Treasure had seen her. In this dishevelled state she also bore a remarkable resemblance to two other young women he’d become acquainted with during the day. Her arms were clasped around her body. It was cold in the room. ‘I came in when they was all fussing over Mrs Brastow, you know? When the ambulance was outside? I didn’t mean no harm. It was just somewhere to come. To hide.’ She looked appealingly from Treasure to Olive Merit, who was also seated opposite her.

  ‘What did you intend doing next?’

  ‘Don’t know really. Except I been waiting so I could see a friend.’

  ‘Dr Welt?’ Miss Merit put in quietly.

  ‘That’s right, miss.’

  ‘You had an arrangement to see him at seven-fifteen?’

  The girl’s face took on a cunning expression. ‘Couldn’t go then in case the police knew. In case they was waiting.’

  ‘Were waiting. You could have come to me in the first place, Cindy.’

  ‘Didn’t like to, miss. Not in case I got you in trouble, you know?’

  ‘I gather you’re related to the Daras family?’

  She nodded in answer to Treasure’s question. ‘Miss Merit knows. Old Mr Daras is my grandpa. Only I couldn’t go there. He chucked my mother out years ago. And he could have known about me and Mr Pounder. He’d taken against Mr Pounder, too.’

  ‘D’you want to tell us about you and Mr Pounder?’

  ‘That I killed him? Is that what you want me to say? Well, I did, see? I didn’t mean to. And I didn’t know about the money then. Not about him leaving me money.’

  ‘Tell us about your relationship with him, Cindy. Were you his mistress?’

  ‘I didn’t go to bed with him, miss. Nothing like that. He paid me.’

  ‘To do what?’

  The girl swallowed, glancing at Treasure. ‘To lie on the table. Every Thursday in the Old Library. For quarter of an hour. After ten past six.’

  ‘That was all?’

  ‘No, miss.’ She had lowered her voice and her gaze. ‘I had to . . . to lift my skirt, like, and . . . He never touched me. Just looked at me. And held my scarf. Or my hanky. Up to his chest.’

  ‘But he talked to you?’

  ‘Sometimes. Not always.’

  ‘And he paid you for that?’

  ‘Twenty pounds. Cash. Kinky really. Didn’t ever fancy doing anything else with him, though. Wouldn’t have, I don’t think. He was so old. And last night, when he went mad . . .’

  ‘How d’you mean – mad?’ This was Treasure.

  ‘Real mad. Like someone crazy. Something upset him. About selling the Magna Carta. At first he was talking to himself. Not taking no notice . . . any notice of me. Kept going on about people being too greedy. Not having values or something. Spoiling things for other people. It didn’t make sense, you know? And he was getting redder in the face all the time.’

  ‘You didn’t say anything?’

  ‘In the end I said you had to make allowances like, and he jumped up and stood over me all angry. Said I was like the rest. Ungrateful. Then he went to strangle me. God’s honour. He wasn’t being sexy or anything like that. Just violent. He was strong, though. I thought he was going to kill me. That’s when I hit him.’

  ‘You hit him with the mace?’

  ‘No, with my fists. We were struggling, and when he fell the mace came down on top of him. Off the table behind me. I wasn’t meaning to kill him. Just wanted to get away. He kind of slipped under the table the first time. Then when he tried getting up the mace fell on him. I thought he was getting up again. I just rolled off the table and ran.’

  ‘You pulled the door behind you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And locked it, taking the key with you?’ Miss Merit pressed.

  ‘Yes. I thought it’d stop him coming after me. By that door. Except he couldn’t have, could he? He died when the mace hit him, didn’t he?’ She sunk her head in her hands. ‘Oh God, and I didn’t care. Not then. Not till today. I was numb, see? Then when I heard about the money.’ She let out a sob. ‘He meant well. Lost his temper the once, that was all.’

  ‘Is that why you ran away today? Because you were ashamed?’

  ‘Not exactly, miss. It was the money. The police know I killed him. I had the motive, see? Like on the telly. Except I didn’t know about it.’

  Miss Merit looked appealingly at Treasure, who gave a negative shake of his head.

  ‘You didn’t cry “Rape” or anything when you were g
etting away? When you got down the stairs?’ he asked.

  ‘Why should I? He didn’t try to rape me. I didn’t want people knowing what I’d been doing. For money. If it all came out. People wouldn’t have believed it was just . . . well, you know.’

  ‘I think so. Tell me – the paraffin heater in the library, was it between you and Mr Pounder?’

  The girl looked up. ‘No. Behind him.’

  ‘And he fell..?’

  ‘Under the table, like I said.’

  ‘That’s where his body was found, Cindy. How d’you suppose he tipped the fire over?’

  ‘He couldn’t have. It was too far away.’

  ‘So how d’you suppose the fire started?’

  ‘The heater must have been leaking. It was old.’

  ‘It was doing that all right. It had been tipped over and the reservoir cover had come off. It may have been purposely unscrewed. Did you do that?’

  ‘’Course not.’

  ‘Well, if Pounder died where you left him, he couldn’t have, either.’

  ‘Does it make any difference?’

  ‘Quite a bit.’ Treasure nodded at Miss Merit.

  ‘Cindy, Mr Pounder died of asphyxia. Breathing in smoke. He wasn’t dead when you left him. Stunned probably. Somebody else caused his death. The person who started the fire and left him there. A person with a much better motive than yours.’ She waited a moment before continuing. ‘Any idea who we’ve been talking about?’

  The girl had burst into tears while Miss Merit was speaking. Now she dried her eyes and swallowed. The relief on her face was evident. When she began speaking her expression seemed guileless enough, but because it again recollected the family resemblance Treasure couldn’t help steeling himself to allow for Daras natural duplicity.

  ‘There’s nobody I can think of,’ she said, tight-lipped. And for the first time the innocence didn’t wholly satisfy.

  ‘You didn’t see anyone? Anyone you haven’t admitted seeing already?’