‘So Nutkin decided he had to do something about Duggan. Murder him. Seems a bit extreme,’ the Dean commented without emotion.
‘Difficult to see what else he could do except wait to be blackmailed or arrested for murder.’ This was Treasure. ‘Duggan could fix him either way, with the petrified Daras obviously ready if necessary to squeal to save his own skin. Unfortunately for Nutkin, Dr Welt saw him on the bridge. Told everybody at the party he’d seen one of us there. Coy about saying which of us at the time.’
‘Seemed he was wanting to imply it was one of the ladies following him, sir. Don’t know why.’
‘I think I do, Mr Pride, and it’s not important,’ murmured the Dean.
‘I see,’ replied the policeman without seeing at all. ‘Anyway, he confirmed to me this morning it was Nutkin he saw. Would have come out in routine investigations even if Nutkin hadn’t died. Leaving him something to explain. Along with other things.’
‘Like the sodium phenobarbitone? Treasure, you haven’t said how you got on to that,’ questioned the Dean.
‘Nutkin suffered from petit mal.’
‘Mild form of epilepsy?’
‘That’s right. Produced general seizures usually lasting a few seconds. The sufferer loses consciousness but sometimes isn’t aware he’s had an attack. Nutkin had one when he was with me yesterday. At breakfast. Not a serious one, but I don’t believe he knew it had happened. I have a cousin who gets similar episodes. He likes people to tell him after the event. I didn’t tell Nutkin. I suppose because I didn’t know him well enough. Thought it might embarrass him. The point is, my cousin carries phenobarb on him always. I believe all epileptics do as a precaution. It’s the specific drug for the condition. It seems Nutkin was no exception.’
‘So it seems, sir,’ said Pride.
‘Can you establish the barbiturate in Pounder’s tea came from Nutkin?’ the Dean asked.
‘Fairly certainly, sir. The lab report had narrowed it down to two brands. Our checks yesterday showed neither had been dispensed by any pharmacist in this area. Not recently anyway. Had us foxed, that did. But it seems when Nutkin developed epilepsy two years ago he went to some trouble to avoid people knowing. That’s not uncommon, they say. He didn’t consult his own doctor about it. Went to someone in Harley Street. Got his prescriptions filled in London, too. His wife knew of course.’ Pride looked at Treasure, then at the time. ‘That’s it, then,’ he declared emphatically. ‘If you’ll both excuse me, I’d best be going. Got a lot to do. Mr Treasure understands the rest of the situation, sir. Thank you for the coffee. I can see myself out.’
The policeman hurried to the door, opened it, but hesitated with his hand on the knob. He turned about and gave the banker a blatantly conspiratorial nod, while producing a cigarette-pack from his pocket with his free hand. Then he left.
Chapter Twenty
‘What got into him? enquired the Dean after the policeman’s precipitate departure.
‘Doesn’t want to be pinned down on some past and future aspects of the business. Matters not yet touched on. Not before witnesses in the plural,’ Treasure replied.
‘I see. But he’s confided in you?’
‘He came to breakfast. Likes kedgeree.’ The last comment was clearly offered as commendation, or perhaps even expiation, for the Detective Chief Inspector’s known shortcomings.
‘So, for instance, did he know who tipped you off about Daras in the first place?’
‘The phone message at the hotel? Sorry, I worked that out for myself last night. It was Olive Merit. She owned up when I faced her with it, too. She’s been sold from the start on my abilities as a sleuth, wanted to lay a scent, but didn’t want to look silly. She suspected the truth when she heard the Magna Carta had been burnt. Knew the Daras family was a possible source of copies . . .’
‘How did she know that?’
‘Through Cindy Larks, who she taught and befriended at the school. Cindy is half-Daras of course. Her mother had told her about the Daras copy years ago. Didn’t mean anything to Cindy, but she’d happened to mention it to Miss Merit.’
‘Cindy won’t be dragged into court over all this? Over Pounder’s death?’
‘To the coroner’s court, I’m afraid. After that it largely depends on the coroner’s verdict. Pride and I both believe he’ll bring in an open verdict on Pounder, and accidental death on Nutkin.’
‘An open verdict on Pounder would mean . . .’
‘Insufficient evidence to establish exactly how the fire was started.’
‘Cindy didn’t start it.’
‘And almost as certainly Nutkin did. However, all the evidence is circumstantial.’
‘He drugged Pounder’s tea.’
‘We assume so. But no one saw him do it.’
‘Duggan saw him going into the cathedral.’
‘But not actually going up to the Old Library. And Pride doesn’t feel any case could survive on the deceased Duggan’s hearsay testimony. In fact he thinks it very unlikely a case would have survived solely on Duggan’s testimony in any circumstances.’
‘And Duggan’s death?’
‘Welt admits he was drunk when he saw Nutkin coming off the bridge. He didn’t note the time, and he certainly didn’t see anything untoward happening. Almost everyone thinks Duggan was drunk and fell in the river by himself. It’s pretty certain the autopsy will show he’d been drinking a good deal. Never a day when he didn’t, apparently.’
The Dean considered for a moment. ‘And where does Pride stand on Nutkin’s death?’
‘It was an accident all right, but how’s it supposed to have happened?’
‘He went to use my bathroom. To clean up before dinner. With my knowledge. He was a long time. You and I went up to check he was all right. The lock had stuck. Before I had the chance to stop him he’d jumped for the fire escape, missed his hold and fell to his death. He’d also had a few drinks, of course. Made him too bold. It’s substantially true.’
The Dean winced. ‘And better than the unembellished truth.’
‘Because it avoids an unnecessary scandal, and more pain for his wife.’
‘Poor woman. No children, fortunately.’ The clergyman nodded his assent to the subterfuge. ‘Two deaths and no compensation for the loss of our Magna Carta. Our fake Magna Carta. A parlous outcome in every way.’ He shook his head.
‘You’re discounting the million pounds in insurance money.’
‘You’re not serious? What burnt was a copy, surely?’
‘It may have been but the hard evidence doesn’t suggest that. It’d be difficult for anyone to prove it was a fake – and that includes the unfortunate insurance company. No one can swear Nutkin switched those parchments. If he didn’t switch them, it meant he’d passed off the fake as the original. That was to his dishonest collector, who we know was already suspicious about what was happening.’
‘Because this fellow Hawker was sent to check?’
‘Precisely. Because it was reported a highly respectable museum was bidding for the Litchester exemplification.’
‘What could the crook collector do in the circumstances? I mean if the present bidder had gone through with the purchase, presumably after having his own validation tests done?’
‘Anything from demanding his money back to having Nutkin roughed up – or worse. Possibly much worse.’
‘You don’t say?’
‘Hawker told me the buyer might have been a rich American hoodlum. The sort of person who might not care to be crossed. It’s only supposition, of course.’
‘But one which must have occurred to Nutkin. So he was in trouble whatever he did?’ The Dean pondered for a moment. ‘Aren’t we forgetting that piece of wax? The wax from the seal?’
‘If it was from the seal. And if it wasn’t an old bit re-used for sealing different documents at different times. Laura Purse says beeswax was always being recycled in that way, and adulterated in the process.’ The banker rose and walked over to a window, which offered a
ravishing view of the cathedral: old stones bathed in the mid-winter morning sunlight. ‘In any case, I’m afraid the lump’s disappeared. I really did leave it in my room yesterday before lunch. And I haven’t seen it since. Of course it looked quite worthless. Anyway, it’s gone.’ He turned about to study his host’s reaction. ‘As I say, the possibility of it actually proving the age of the document was pretty fanciful. You see, I didn’t advertise the caveats that chemist added to what he told me on the phone.’
‘Because you were baiting a trap. And the bait was taken,’ the Dean put in dourly, rubbing his forehead. ‘So, what we know is that Daras sold Nutkin a Magna Carta copy. We don’t know what he did with it, hearsay and possibility not being evidence.’
‘Precisely. What passed as the arrangements for the Magna Carta’s safe-keeping may produce some argument, but I think the onus there will be on the insurance company. Your policy document stipulates the Charter had to be under human supervision when it wasn’t under lock and key. The stipulations should have been sterner, but it seems to me the cathedral authorities obeyed them. And did so to the letter. The company could challenge you over whether they were fulfilled in the spirit. But if they took it to law I think they’d lose – basically because they were too lax.’
‘Because they didn’t believe anyone would want to pinch the thing, any more than we did. You really think they’ll have to pay? And that morally we’ll have the right to accept the money?’
‘Yes. On both counts.’ The banker shrugged. ‘And it’s not a question of morality. Just business.’
‘And you and Pride believe the coroner won’t press for criminal charges over Pounder’s death?’
‘Pretty sure of it.’
The Dean gave a loud grunt of satisfaction. He was to do the same several months later when Treasure’s opinion over the insurance payout proved to be substantially correct. That came after the launch of the Litchester Cathedral Appeal, which eventually raised very nearly the target of two million pounds. Canon Jones had taken charge of the appeal after Clive Brastow and his wife left for West Africa when Canon Brastow accepted an important appointment there.
Treasure and the Detective Chief Inspector were also right about the outcome of the inquest over Pounder’s death.
The Banker was aware some of these legal consequences might not match the facts nearly so well as they did natural justice and sound expediency. But he had known also on that Saturday morning that he was in good company with these conclusions.
After leaving the Deanery, the Honourable Mrs Hitt had reached the Lady Chapel just after the start of the ten o’clock communion service. She hadn’t joined the small congregation. The chapel was raised five steps above the ambulatory – the aisle that went around it at the extreme east end of the cathedral. Below the steps, in a quiet corner of the space behind the cathedral high altar, there were a few chairs set beside a circular iron pricket stand where worshippers who chose could light candles in memory of departed souls. There were no candles burning when she arrived but Mrs Hitt set one on a pricket spike and lit it. Then she sat in one of the raffia-seat chairs watching the candle burn.
She said a silent prayer for Miles Nutkin – poor, misguided Nutkin with his reckless, dishonest schemes that were doomed to fail because his deepest inborn trait was timidity. His end had perfectly illustrated the gap between his aims and his achievements.
There was no doubt in her mind that Nutkin had made the Magna Carta substitution, and none, either, that he had done it primarily for personal gain. She hadn’t known as much when she’d come face to face with him in the cathedral close just before five-fifteen on Thursday afternoon. She had been on her way to give a lecture at the municipal museum in Bridge Street. He had been coming away from the Chapter House.
‘My dear Miles, you look as if you’ve seen a ghost,’ she exclaimed. ‘The Chapter meeting must be over. Where are the others? Are you sure you’re all right.’
‘They’ve gone. To evensong. All of them. Your husband’s idea. To . . . to heal any rifts.’ His commentary had been delivered in a lustreless monotone. He hadn’t replied to her last enquiry, but continued to look pained and abstracted.
‘You’ve agreed to disagree?’
‘The exemplification will be sold. I’ve just talked to Mark Treasure. On the telephone. He’s changed his mind. Could you credit, the man has changed his mind?’ He had seemed to overbalance.
‘Miles, something is wrong with you.’ She had taken his arm.
‘I’m all right. All right,’ he’d repeated as if to convince himself. ‘It’s simply hard to believe.’
Clearly he was taking it badly – losing out over a principle. ‘You feel it’s a betrayal?’ She remembered looking back at the Old Library before quoting: ‘But you shouldn’t be betrayed by what is false within. You know the Magna Carta is a false . . .’
‘I know no such thing!’ he had nearly shouted.
At the time his reaction had been inexplicable. The quotation – from Meredith – had seemed apposite: they had made a false god out of an artefact which was now to be bartered. But Nutkin had roughly pushed away from her – dropping her arm after she had felt the shudder go through him: such a very electric response to the mildest of admonitions. And without another word he had turned on his heel and hurried away from her, back the way he had come.
That chance encounter had stayed in her mind. Soon after it had not been difficult to accede to a conviction that Nutkin had done something outrageous. And she was now sure he had died attempting to purloin the one piece of evidence he believed could condemn him.
Margaret Hitt had told no one of that meeting nor of her growing presentment. But her inner conviction had steeled her through the previous day not so much to see that justice took its course as to see injustice didn’t.
‘. . . unto whom all hearts be open, all desires known, and from whom no secrets are hid . . .’ The voice of Canon Jones, celebrant at this extra saint’s day service, could just be heard from the Lady Chapel altar.
Mrs Hitt had been sure Ewart Jones could fend for himself – as he had done. He had proved himself the boisterous, openhearted, un-secretive extrovert – not just the innocent at large some people had believed. The strength of his defence had ultimately lain in his openness. The same capacity for self or even mutual protection hadn’t applied to Gerald Twist and Laura Purse – which was why Mrs Hitt had volunteered support for the mistiming of their alibi. She had even been prepared to make herself vulnerable in that particular cause. Poor Gerard. She smiled at the thought of his final unintentional blunder when he went to the hotel men’s room after taking that telephone call. His disappearance had momentarily bothered Mark Treasure deeply.
‘. . . give us grace that we may cast away the works of darkness, and put upon us the armour of light, now in the time of this mortal life . . .’ The poetry of the Advent collect being recited at the altar seemed especially apposite. The candle was burning brightly.
Steering Jennifer Bliter away from dark works had been irritating and time-consuming. But it really wouldn’t have done for her formally to have put Donald Welt under suspicion. The same had applied to Welt’s own allegation about his being stalked nightly by a predatory Olive Merit. Happily Gilbert Hitt had stopped that calumny before its implications had burgeoned.
Of course, if the Dean had confided to his wife his belief that Cindy Larks had been with Pounder it would have created another target for her protection. But he hadn’t told her – any more than she had told him about her even more circumstantial and uncharitable theory concerning Nutkin.
‘. . . and make your humble confession to Almighty God . . .’
She listened while Canon Jones abjured his congregation to unburden their sins. Thank heaven the cathedral would stick to the old Book of Common Prayer so long as Gilbert was Dean. She didn’t at all care for the uninspired language of the modern alternative book.
‘Our authorised version’s safe, I think. Public conf
essions won’t be necessary,’ said Treasure appropriately and in a half-whisper. He had just come in and settled in the chair beside Mrs Hitt.
‘Well done.’ She smiled back. ‘Gilbert’s satisfied?’
‘Content, I should say.’
‘That’ll be enough. And you’ve settled Mr Pride the policeman, of course.’ There was no questioning in the tone of this viscount’s daughter whose ancestors had been making and breaking laws – and the keepers of laws – with total impunity through countless centuries, including a good deal of this one. For her it followed that a mercantile princeling as distinguished as Treasure would have had no difficulty directing a detective chief inspector into the right way of thinking.
‘It must have been a great deal of trouble,’ he said unexpectedly as both their gazes went automatically to centre on the candle she had lit: it was very close to burning out but there was enough of it left for the colour to distinguish it as special.
‘Not much trouble really,’ she replied softly. ‘You learn all kinds of useful things at Mother’s Union lectures. Making candles came up during the last miners’ strike. It’s quite simple. You have to remember to keep the wick twisted. That sealing wax melted to a very dark colour. I mixed in some white wax to make bulk. Appropriate it ended up as nearly purple, close to the church’s seasonal colour for Advent.’
‘In fact if the police had got hold of the wax I don’t believe it would have damaged our cause.’
‘After I’d risked my reputation by going secretly to a man’s bedroom to take it?’ She turned to him smiling.
‘Very well. But you could have thrown it in the river instead of . . .’
‘Oh, no, my dear.’ She put a hand on his. ‘That wouldn’t have been nearly so final. So absolutely certain.’
‘You don’t trust the scientists? You think carbon tests could be wrong?’
‘On the contrary, that they could be right.’ She turned her eyes again to watch the flickering flame. ‘Look at our relic expiring with dignity. A symbol, don’t you think? And in the symbolic Presence. Up there in the chapel. The light of the flesh will soon go out, but the old stones stay. To comfort generations to come. Remember our bit of John Betjeman?’
Murder in Advent Page 20