‘What are you even doing here?’ she asked, honestly puzzled. ‘You can’t possibly be friends of my son’s. Why is this weekend party being attended by two uninvited policemen?’
‘We’re escorting Mr Hatton-Jones.’
Lady Beatrice looked as if her worst concerns had just been confirmed. ‘I knew that man was up to no good. Is he under arrest?’
‘No, he’s testifying for the prosecution in a criminal case. We’re here to keep him safe.’
‘From whom?’
‘I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to say, your ladyship.’ He could hardly tell her that he had no idea where the danger might be coming from.
‘Very well.’ Lady Beatrice had been taught never to reveal her emotions. Her sangfroid was such a daunting reminder of the hall’s past that she seemed more and more like the last of a lost species. ‘If we were all in that room together at roughly the same time, how could somebody have murdered Mr Burke? Have you spoken to my son’s layabout friends? I’m quite sure some of them have criminal records.’
‘We’ll talk to everybody in due course,’ said May. ‘First I need to ascertain everyone’s movements. I’m afraid nobody can leave the house until we’ve completed some enquiries.’
‘We all loathed him,’ she said, almost to herself. ‘One hates to speak ill of the dead, but there it is.’
‘Mr Burke? Why?’ asked May.
‘Oh.’ She waved the thought aside. ‘Because he wants what we have, but hasn’t earned the right to it. He didn’t want anything to do with us. People like Mr Burke live for the acquisition of things, not people. He simply couldn’t be bothered with anyone unless they were useful. This house is not some kind of relic to be collected into a portfolio, it is a part of England’s history. You can’t just buy it. You have to be born into it. I should never have agreed to sign over Tavistock Hall to him.’
‘It seems to me that you had no other choice.’
She opened the glass face of the grandfather clock and absently corrected the minute hand. ‘Tell me, Mr May, why do you think Donald Burke was so desperate to get his hands on Tavistock Hall? He was purchasing a background for himself. A man like that, without breeding or class, thinking he could simply snap up good stock and fit himself in as if it were a new overcoat.’
This, felt May, was more than a little disingenuous. ‘Yet you still agreed the sale,’ he pointed out.
‘The property had passed to Harry, and he was adamant. I had no say in the matter.’
‘What will happen to the hall now?’
‘I dare say it will have to find its way back on to the market,’ she said. ‘I cannot afford to have it repaired. One understands that London is awash with wealthy buyers these days. I suppose I shall end up living in a poky little flat in Knightsbridge.’ She turned to him, faltering. ‘I thought I saw someone this morning – but I don’t …’
‘Please,’ said May, ‘if you can help us in any way—’
She glanced back at the door. ‘Vanessa Harrow. I’m sure I saw her going down towards the barn just before luncheon. I remember wondering what she was up to. Check her shoes if you don’t believe me. She tracked mud into Lavender when she returned.’ She gave a sudden wry smile. ‘I suppose you know we have a ghost?’
‘No, nobody’s mentioned that.’
‘The fourth lord. If an unforeseen calamity befalls the ancestral home he’s supposed to appear at the top of the main staircase just before taking bloody revenge. I’d say buying the hall and kicking us out would be enough to bring him back, wouldn’t you?’
‘The event was hardly unforeseen,’ replied May. ‘Besides, it’s your home once more, now that Mr Burke is dead. Unless Mr Stafford can find a way to honour his client’s wishes.’
‘I hadn’t thought of that,’ said Lady Banks-Marion.
‘Right now, your ladyship, I’m more concerned with finding out why he died just a few minutes before he was due to sign the ownership papers.’
‘A coincidence, surely.’
‘Does it feel like one to you, your ladyship?’
She rested her hand on her embonpoint, alarmed. ‘You’re right. How naïve of me. Can you do something? I mean, before anyone else arrives. We cannot have a scandal.’
‘The fact remains that a man is dead,’ said May. ‘I’ll do what I can.’
He took his leave and was heading up the hall when Monty Hatton-Jones grabbed his arm. ‘What if the murderer thought it was me?’ he asked anxiously. ‘Donald and I looked rather alike. He was older, obviously, and had greyer hair. And was a terrible dresser. His suits looked as if they’d been purchased from Woolworths. What if this assassin realizes his mistake and comes after me again? Look at me, I’m still bandaged up from his last attempt. You’re supposed to be protecting me. You’re not doing a very good job, are you?’
‘You’re still alive,’ said May, pulling his arm free.
‘You don’t understand what you’re dealing with,’ Monty called after him. ‘This has all been carefully planned. The house is cut off. The road is closed. The phones aren’t working. I’m a sitting duck. If I don’t make it to that courtroom on Monday the trial will collapse and it’ll be on both your heads. Chamberlain has the weight of the establishment behind him.’
‘But don’t you?’ asked May. ‘Oh, I suppose he outranks you.’ Part of him was happy to see Monty disconcerted and less cocksure.
As most of the guests were still filling out their postcards, conferring with one another and working as intently as pupils in an examination, May decided to risk his shoes once more and head off down the garden to the ashram. The tents looked sad and sodden in the rain, more like a refugee camp than a spiritual hermitage.
One of the girls emerged from her tent as he arrived and raised her hand in a twin-fingered greeting of peace. The others were barely visible under piles of Afghan coats and Indian blankets.
‘I’m Melanie. I saw you at the barn earlier.’ She wore a purple silk kaftan covered in chains of plastic marigolds. There were daisies woven through her hair and large red cold sores on her lips. She smiled sleepily at him and beckoned him inside. ‘Please, come in, you’re getting wet.’
She seated herself before him in a maelstrom of discarded clothes, food packets and blankets. The rain suddenly increased in force, drumming so loudly on the nylon roof that he could hardly hear her. She produced a ragged little joint and tried to light it. ‘You have such a kind face. Can you play a musical instrument?’
‘The recorder,’ said May. ‘I only got as far as “Come into the garden, Maud”. It was meant to calm me down.’
‘Did it work?’ Melanie dragged hopelessly at the joint.
‘Only after I broke it. Did you see anyone enter or leave the barn?’
She drew on the joint, held her breath for an age, then coughed out smoke, wiping her eyes. ‘Which?’
‘I don’t know – enter.’
‘Yes.’
‘Who was it?’
‘Where?’
‘By the barn.’
‘I’ve forgotten the question.’
May sighed. ‘We’re not on the same planet, are we?’
‘I really have no idea.’ She took another puff.
Exasperated, he pulled her to her feet, opened the flap of the tent and dragged her outside, pointing to the barn behind them. ‘Did you see anyone going into that building over there this morning?’
‘I thought I told you,’ said Melanie, frowning. ‘A chick, one of the guests, long blond hair.’
‘Did she go in or come out?’
‘Well, one state would suggest the other, wouldn’t it? If you go up towards the clouds you have to come down again. That’s physics. If you work for the Man and take his bread you turn into a pig. Cause and effect. “When I get to the bottom I go back to the top of the slide.” “Helter Skelter”, man.’
May looked about in exasperation. ‘Is there anyone else I can talk to?’
She grabbed his hand. ‘Wait, let me
think. Both. She went in, then came out.’
‘At what time?’
‘Seven minutes past twelve.’
‘How could you know that?’
‘Watch.’
May waited. Nothing happened. ‘What?’ he asked finally.
‘Watch.’ Melanie held up her left hand and showed him her wristwatch. ‘Then the machine started up.’
‘Didn’t you think that was odd?’
‘Everything is odd, don’t you think?’ She offered him a toke but the joint was dead. ‘It’s odd that we don’t just fly off the face of the earth and tumble away into space. We’re glittering specks of light surrounded by unfathomable darkness. Doesn’t that give you goose-pimples?’
‘Melanie, somebody was killed in that barn this morning.’
‘Who?’
‘A rich old man with long grey hair and white gloves and a scar on his left wrist.’
‘He should have checked his horoscope. It’s just one less capitalist pig.’
‘You can’t think like that,’ said May. ‘You have to care about people.’
‘I don’t see why. Nobody really cares.’ Her sweet smile faded a little and she gripped his hand more tightly. ‘I think Harry loves his pig more than he loves me. Nobody cares if I live or die. He’ll be remembered, that old man. I wish someone would remember me.’
Then she turned and fled back inside her tent, leaving May standing in the rain. She’s lost, he thought. Perhaps they all are. Arthur could be right after all.
25
* * *
DO YOU WANT TO KNOW A SECRET?
Arthur Bryant ducked behind an elm tree just as a mortar bomb landed in the next field and threw clods of black earth into the sky. The air pulsed, stinging his ears. A burning mole landed at his feet.
Half a dozen soldiers in French uniforms dashed past with their rifles raised, vaulting over the hedgerows and across the road, only to vanish as quickly as they had appeared. A few moments later the birds returned to the tops of the trees and everything was as it had been except that there was now a ragged crater of mud in the pasture.
‘Hi – wait for me, sir!’ Fruity Metcalf appeared behind him, puffing and weaving from side to side, his good left arm pumping back and forth. ‘It’s not safe out here until they’ve finished chasing each other about. Twice a year this happens.’
He clumsily tried to light a Woodbine as he was walking. Bryant lit the cigarette for him and returned it, although the rain threatened to put it out. ‘First somebody tries to flatten Monty,’ he said. ‘Then they kill the millionaire.’
‘Why would anyone do it? I thought they were all here to see him.’
‘Exactly my thought, Fruity.’
‘Is Monty all right?’
‘A possible hairline fracture in his collarbone but he seems to have taken it in his stride.’ He slowed down to allow Metcalf to catch up.
‘Several of those old stone things are cracked, and the sewage plant is downright dangerous. The whole house is falling apart. I should have checked. I let you down, Mr Bryant.’
‘Monty told too many people he was coming here,’ said Bryant. ‘If we leave the house now we’ll lose our only chance of catching the culprit. All I can do is make sure he’s not left alone.’ He hopped over a puddle, only to land in another.
‘But if it’s one of them—’
‘A dilemma, I agree. Is it possible for anyone to sneak in from outside?’
‘I suppose so,’ said Metcalf. ‘The main gates are bolted but it’s easy to enter through the orchard or the servants’ gate. There’s only a low wall around that part of the property.’
‘Do you have any theories about Donald Burke? If you can think of anything that would help …’
‘Anyone with a secret is always open to blackmail.’ Metcalf examined the glowing end of his cigarette. ‘Perhaps it was Mr Burke who was doing the blackmailing. He could have arranged to meet someone in the barn. It’s the last place anyone would have expected him to go.’
‘What did you make of him?’ Bryant asked.
‘Oh, I didn’t get to meet him,’ Metcalf answered. ‘I stay well out of the house and its affairs. The old lady and her son are always fighting. I hear them from the gatehouse. As for the rest – well, they don’t venture outside much. I’ve been keeping a close eye on your friend, though.’
‘Did you see him go anywhere near the barn?’
‘No, sir. Didn’t see Mr Burke for that matter. Lady Banks-Marion wanted me to rake up the leaves at the front of the house.’
‘But he must have come up the lane from Crowshott. You didn’t see him arrive?’
‘No, but I was back and forth quite a bit. And I was more concerned with being able to see Mr Hatton-Jones through the windows.’
‘Why is there a walkway in the barn above that ridiculous machine?’
‘I believe his lordship put it there so he could clear blockages in the blades. It’s too risky to lean over the sides of the chopper.’ Metcalf scratched at his old woollen hat, thinking. ‘Not being rude, sir, but perhaps it’s time for a local team to take over?’
‘No offence taken,’ Bryant sighed.
They arrived in Crowshott, making their way past the stone cross dedicated to the fallen of the Great War, and headed around the rain-stippled duck pond into the little village high street. Bryant pushed open the door to the public bar of the Goat & Compasses and stamped out the rain on the flagstones. As usual, the barman was standing behind the counter cleaning the same dimple mug. ‘Af’noon, gentlemen.’
Metcalf nodded. ‘Afternoon.’
‘Do you have a police constable stationed here?’ Bryant asked.
‘No, there’s one who comes over from Little Pethering on his bicycle some days.’ The barman pointed up the lane. ‘The last time I saw him was about eighteen months ago, after someone threw a meat pie at the verger. It was one of the parishioners, old Mrs Davenport. She wasn’t happy with his grave-tidying. They managed to keep it out of the papers. Apart from that, there’s only PC Stanley Wermold, but he’s still off with his feet. They’ve been playin’ him up something chronic.’
‘Where’s the nearest criminal investigation unit?’
The barman laughed. ‘Won’t be finding one of them anywhere between here and Canterbury, or even Hastings. They’re a rough lot down there, squaddies mostly, not that I’ve ever been. We’ve only got Stanley and he’s not working at the moment. He’s here.’
‘Where?’ asked Bryant.
The barman pointed around the corner to a spot beside the fireplace. A corpulent elderly man in half of a policeman’s uniform lay across an armchair snoring lightly. ‘He’s celebrating his retirement. Six pints of cider, four large whiskies. He’ll be out for the rest of the day.’
‘When does he retire?’ Bryant asked.
The landlord checked the calendar. ‘Nineteen seventy-four.’
‘Do you have a telephone we can use?’
‘No.’
‘We need to get hold of somebody in authority,’ said Metcalf.
‘And you can after tomorrow lunchtime, when the road is open again,’ the barman replied. ‘The phone box there is free for 999 calls. You newcomers are always in such a rush. I’ve heard about that there “Swinging London” and all, and I can tell you, there’s nothing like that going on down here. You can’t wear miniskirts and kinky boots standing in a field. All those layabouts in military jackets. The Beatles want putting in uniform.’ The paradox of the argument escaped him.
‘Ah yes, the Beatles,’ Bryant agreed. ‘Who knows how much damage those soothing lyrical harmonies could do to youthful minds. Come on, Fruity, the phone box. I hope you’ve got lots of change.’
When Sir Giles Gilbert Scott designed the red telephone box he had not imagined it covered in graffiti and filled with cards advertising buxom blondes in leather corsets. Tendrils of decadence were already spreading out from Swinging London, it seemed, reaching down into the pristine dells of Kent
. Bryant left Fruity outside, waited for the pips, shovelled in coins and quickly outlined the morning’s events to Gladys Forthright.
‘Can’t you get Monty out of there?’ she asked. ‘Roger will go crackers when he finds out what’s happened.’
‘Then it’s your job to make sure he doesn’t,’ Bryant warned. ‘We’ve lost our only advantage; they know we’re police officers now. Worse than that, Monty told others about his plans, so it’s possible that one of the guests is an imposter and killed Burke by mistake, thinking it was him.’
‘That means he’s still in danger.’
‘He’d be in just as much danger if he tried to leave, Gladys. He’d never make it on foot. Vehicles have to take the only road out, and it sounds as if it passes right through the centre of the battlefield. Have you managed to get hold of anyone in charge of the manoeuvres?’
‘No luck so far. It’s a secure military exercise. The whole point is to ensure that there’s no contact with the outside world. Do you want me to see if I can get someone in to you?’
‘You’ll need to track down a team in Canterbury, assuming they work on Saturdays.’ Bryant thought for a minute. If he was being honest, he hated the idea of bringing in an outsider and losing the case to them. ‘I’ll call you again when I get a chance.’
He hung up and fell in beside Metcalf. ‘Let’s look in at the church while we’re here, and do a little checking behind the good reverend’s back.’
St Stephen’s had a Gothic perpendicular spire and an ancient, uneven cemetery with plenty of leaning tombs covered in crows. Over one of its fallen headstones a mangy dog sacrilegiously squatted, its haunches trembling. For a building dedicated to the joyful worship of the Lord, it had the punitive, melancholy atmosphere of a prison.
Leaving Fruity to finish a fag under a tree, Bryant pushed open the church door and entered. He had never felt comfortable in the houses of God, associating them with gruelling rites of childhood: saying farewell to dead grandfathers and the observance of distant, obscure ceremonies involving hushed prayers, peculiarly phrased bible passages, muffled tears and shamed repentance. However, the north and south transepts boasted fine stained-glass scenes, of Adam and Eve and the Tree of Knowledge, and King Arthur and Sir Lancelot. The air smelled of burned candles, lavender polish and damp wood. A collection box featured prominently. Bryant gave it a rattle. It sounded empty.
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