Hall of Mirrors

by Christopher Fowler

  In his palm were a pair of needles, glistening and sinister, wrapped in a handkerchief. ‘When I entered the church I noticed that the walls were bare and the silver plate was missing from the sacristy. I talked to the verger, and he allowed me to search the room. How long have you been a heroin addict, Reverend?’

  Trevor Patethric dropped his head in his hands.

  ‘Reverend?’ May tried. ‘Help us to clear the air.’

  ‘You have no idea what it’s like,’ he murmured in a voice so low they could barely hear him.

  ‘Perhaps you could tell us.’

  ‘I was working with youth groups, trying to help them. To do that I had to know what they were going through. I needed to understand.’

  ‘And you got a little too close,’ said Bryant. ‘You caught their habits. And you sold the fittings from the church to pay for drugs.’

  ‘A few trivial pieces of plate and some inferior hangings, nothing of use to the community. They needed them and then I needed them. I tried to find the money that would help them. I couldn’t talk to anyone. Obviously, the diocese was no help, and there are no organizations to aid us with something like this. In London, perhaps, but not here in the countryside. The pleas I made to the bishop fell on deaf ears …’

  ‘“They are all guilty”,’ May reiterated, looking at the slip once more. ‘What interested me was not so much the wording on the card, but how it found its way to me. The only people who hear and see everything are the staff, and they have no voice. Mr Alberman, perhaps you could explain why you wrote this card and slipped it in with the others?’

  27

  * * *

  ALL ALONG THE WATCHTOWER

  No change of expression crossed the butler’s face. He sat impassive, waiting for the detectives to finish speaking. Rainwater dripped steadily through a damp patch in the corner of the ceiling, hitting the floorboards like the ticking of a clock.

  ‘They,’ said May. ‘Written by an outsider. The guests were informed that we were officers, but not you. How did you know who we were? And if you had something to say, why not come to us and say it?’

  ‘How could I?’ Alberman replied. ‘I am supposed to see nothing; I am supposed to hear nothing. My opinion does not and should not count.’

  ‘Then why write it?’

  ‘Because of him.’ Alberman pointed at the Reverend Patethric. ‘I am a God-fearing man, sir. My father was a butler, and so was my grandfather. We asked no questions. We attended church on Sunday evenings, after our duties in the great house were finished. We had one afternoon off a week and we always did as we were told.’

  He nodded gravely towards Lady Banks-Marion. ‘My employer is a fine lady, one of the last. But she is surrounded by those who mean her harm. This vicar told us we were wrong, that our image of God was outdated and should go. He denies almost every Christian doctrine and joins his friends from the ashram, performing lewd acts and taking drugs in his own churchyard. And Lord Banks-Marion, with his messages of peace and love, dances about in his garden full of concubines, playing the fool while this house collapses about his ears.’

  ‘Who else, Mr Alberman?’ asked May. ‘Who else is guilty?’

  Bryant looked about the room. There was a sense that the gathering was collectively pressing itself into the back of its chairs, like air passengers braced for further turbulence.

  Alberman studied each of them in turn, unable to conceal his disgust. ‘All of these people are only here to prey upon my lady’s good nature.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Look at them. The writer of bad mysteries, the legal parasite, the pederast artist, they come here to complain about the house and the food and the staff, but they eat and drink and lie to her ladyship’s face because they are nothing more than leeches. They came to beg money from Mr Burke and now he is dead.’ He stabbed his finger at them. ‘My lady is from Olympus and you are all from the gutter. You should be grateful she opens her doors to you, every one.’

  As if in response, rain-laden wind smacked at the windows like a spiteful child.

  ‘Well, that was quite a speech,’ said Pamela Claxon, applauding cheerfully. ‘I’m jolly glad you told us what you really think, Alberman. I have a feeling Inspector Trench would have quite a lot to say about the poor quality of the staff service at Tavistock Hall.’

  The butler ignored her, addressing only his employer. ‘I’m sorry, your ladyship. I had no right to speak out of turn. I have disgraced myself. I have broken the first rule of my profession, for which I can only offer a profuse apology.’

  ‘I’m glad you spoke your mind, Alberman,’ she said softly.

  ‘So you knew we were policemen?’ asked May.

  ‘Of course. Servants know everything. You talk. We listen. Ladies, gentlemen, if you will excuse me.’ He rose, dipped his head and slipped silently from the room.

  The meeting broke up shortly after.

  Nobody was leaving, not while tanks rumbled near the lane and shells splintered the trees at the end of the meadow. Even the starlings and blackbirds had finally fled from the roof. A heavy grey vapour, part mist, part military, was drifting across the fields and gardens, removing the contours from the clipped hedges. A partially denuded topiary of a rearing horse now loomed out of the mist like a funerary sculpture. The house now felt like a ghost ship, lost and rudderless.

  Bryant took his pipe outside and waited under the eaves for his partner to join him. ‘I thought that cleared the air a bit,’ he said.

  ‘If by cleared the air you mean poisonous accusations and enough admissions of sin to keep a clergyman busy for a month, yes, I suppose so,’ said May. ‘What now?’

  ‘I honestly don’t know.’ Bryant released a curl of perfumed smoke into the wet air. ‘I’m not equipped for this. These people – it’s like looking at a series of funhouse mirrors. No one is who they appear to be.’

  As he drew on his pipe, a florin-sized raindrop fell from above and put it out with a sizzle. It felt like an omen. ‘Do me a favour and stay close to Monty, would you? His injury isn’t serious and he’s talking about getting out. Now that he has no reason to stay he’ll either make a dash for it or remain at risk here. Either way, we need to keep a careful eye on him.’

  ‘We could call Gladys again,’ said May. ‘She can keep trying to get hold of someone.’

  ‘It means we’ll lose the case if she does,’ said Bryant. ‘We didn’t just fail to protect our source, we somehow allowed a murder to take place on the premises. Sir Charles Chamberlain’s defence attorneys will argue that Monty can’t appear as a material witness because he’s technically under suspicion of murder in a separate investigation.’

  ‘But that’s ridiculous.’

  ‘I can’t think of a better way to get crucial evidence discounted, can you? It goes without saying that the effect on us will be disastrous. The unit is already close to being disbanded. Roger Trapp will never be able to keep it going after this.’

  ‘Arthur, what you’re suggesting is unthinkable. We can’t simply hide a murder.’

  ‘Therein lies the paradox,’ said Bryant, with a crafty little tilt to his head that suggested he had an alternative route planned in his head. ‘But there is a way out of the problem.’

  ‘I’ve a feeling I’m not going to like this.’

  ‘We close the investigation ourselves and get Monty back to London alive and in one piece by Monday morning.’

  ‘How do you propose to do that?’

  ‘I don’t, you will. You’re our secret weapon, John. I’m the ideas man. You know how to talk to people. I always put my foot in it, but you have the gift of the gab. You can worm the truth out of everyone. Look at what we’ve already uncovered: a call girl, a blackmailer and a drug addict, not to mention Lord Banks-Marion’s exposure as a seducer of underage girls. I have no idea where to head next in a case like this, but it’s right up your street, all this talking to people about their feelings. Heaven knows I’ve tried but Homo sapiens are a c
losed book to me. I don’t understand their emotions. You can do it, but we have to be ready for the fallout.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Bryant stared out into the garden, where Fruity was cheerfully bagging leaves, oblivious to the rain. ‘If the case is solved, everything will fall apart. The house sale will be withdrawn and the scandal will kill what’s left of this house and its family. But if we handle it rather than the Canterbury CID, we may be able to limit the damage.’

  ‘I don’t understand you,’ May admitted. ‘Why do you care about what happens to any of them? I thought you hated them all.’

  ‘I don’t hate anyone,’ Bryant replied, ‘but I abhor their boringly predictable weaknesses. Monty was right: when they heard that a millionaire would be in attendance this weekend they turned up at the trough right on cue. Unfortunately Burke was the one who ended up in it.’ He picked up a twig and scraped out the bowl of his pipe. ‘So, as we have nothing left to lose, are you and I in agreement?’

  ‘I suppose when you put it like that we have no choice. We’ll just have to give it our best shot.’

  ‘If anybody asks I’ll hold the party line, that no one from outside can get here until tomorrow. You and I will need to make sure that they don’t. We’ll keep Stafford here where we can watch him. I suppose the vicar is expected to hold services tomorrow. You’d better make sure that Alberman and Miss Harrow don’t do anything rash. I didn’t like that exit line of hers about whatever happens next being our fault.’

  ‘Oh God, you’re right.’

  May sprinted back inside the house and ran upstairs to the first floor. The door to Vanessa Harrow’s room was locked. He knocked, then hammered on the panels with his palm. No sound came from within.

  Parchment was slumped on the bench of his wooden alcove at the end of the corridor. He was leaning against the wall of the planked box and looked dead. In his hands were knitting needles and three-quarters of a hideous striped scarf.

  ‘Mr Parchment?’ May gave him an experimental shake.

  The old man sat up with a start, his eyes wide. ‘Is there another fire?’

  ‘No. Are you all right?’

  The old man looked down at his scarf and needles. ‘Sorry sir, sometimes I knit and think. Sometimes I just knit.’ He set aside the knitting and turned up his hearing aid. ‘Can I help you with something?’

  ‘Do you have a set of room keys?’ May asked loudly.

  Parchment fumbled in his desk drawer and handed over a set to him. ‘I ask the guests not to lock their bedrooms,’ he said, still coming round. ‘They have a habit of taking souvenirs. We lost a set of taps once.’

  May ran back to the bedroom door and unlocked it.

  Vanessa Harrow was lying on her bed asleep, but when May shook her she did not awaken. A small brown bottle lay beside her on the coverlet. He picked it up and read the label: ‘Nembutal’.

  A partially drunk bottle of Gordon’s gin stood on the bedside table, along with a half-filled water glass. He thought, Get her awake, make her throw up, walk her around, but first he held a hand over her mouth and nose.

  That was when he realized she was no longer breathing.

  28

  * * *

  ALBATROSS

  Lieutenant Coultas wiped his clouded spectacles and searched the rainswept field.

  There was no part of him that was not soaked. A handful of sodden, shell-shocked sheep cowered by a shattered hayrick. Great clods of earth had been torn from the pasture all around them, leaving loamy craters across the landscape. Several hawthorn bushes had been blasted apart and a roll of barbed wire had been unspooled across a ha-ha. One could be forgiven for thinking that the Germans had finally invaded this corner of Kent.

  Captain Debney had been crouching under a maple tree when Coultas found him. Debney pretended he was doing something important with a pair of secateurs and a field telephone. ‘Can you warn the farmer that his fences have been knocked down, Coultas?’ he said, going on the offensive. ‘I suppose the French understand that we’re not actually meant to engage in combat?’ He picked up his field glasses and trained them on the terrified livestock. ‘It’s not a good idea to frighten sheep, you know,’ he said ruminatively. ‘They tense up and it spoils the meat. You can’t eat clenched lamb. Has anyone reached the objective?’

  ‘No sir, but some lads took a wrong turn and shelled the safari park at Dimmington. They damaged a wall – nobody hurt, but a few of the animals got out. There’s an ostrich running around here somewhere. I’m trying to find out what else they’ve lost. The keepers are very upset. They’re doing an inventory.’

  ‘I hope nothing rare has gone missing. You know what the French are like. If they come across something exotic they’ll try to eat it. You’d better send off the usual letter of apology. Use the one we sent to the old people’s home.’

  ‘And we’ve had some intelligence that there are people in the old hall, sir,’ Coultas added. ‘They’ve been seen in one of the nearby meadows.’

  Debney put his glasses down. ‘Hell’s bells, how did that happen? You’re telling me we have civilians in the middle of a battlefield, surrounded by men using live ammunition?’

  ‘That’s about the size of it, sir. We tried to contact them but their line is out of order.’

  ‘The local exchange is probably getting comms interference from us. You’d better send someone over in a jeep and get them out.’ Debney rose and cracked his knees.

  ‘I suppose we could do that, sir,’ said Coultas hesitantly. ‘But they may not like being moved out. If push comes to shove they could kick up a frightful stink. It would be easier to inform the battalions to stay below this point here and keep out of range.’ He tapped the boundary line of the field on his carefully refolded Ordnance Survey map. ‘If we make sure that the road between Knotsworth and Crowshott stays free of fire they’ll be able to come and go in safety.’

  ‘So we don’t tell them?’ said Debney. ‘I say, that’s a bit underhand. I suppose we can’t allow a bunch of civvies to bugger up an exercise as important as this, eh? Just make sure that nobody gets blown to bits. We don’t want a repeat of what happened in Richmond Park. Ducks all over the place. I sincerely hope I never have to pull another goat out of a pond.’

  ‘We’ll keep a watch on the hall, sir, don’t worry,’ Coultas promised. ‘If we see anyone else heading across the fields I’ll put out a ceasefire order.’

  ‘Jolly good,’ said Debney, only half listening. ‘The menu for tonight’s Hands Across the Water dinner has already gone up the Swanee. We had terrible trouble getting hold of courgettes and now I hear there’s no custard available. I don’t want anything else going wrong. These are international war games. We can’t afford to have anyone hurt.’

  Lady Banks-Marion wandered from room to room, lightly touching the silver-framed photographs and the backs of armchairs, trailing the tips of her fingers across the polished surfaces of gate-legged tables, recalling histories in everything. Here was the gigantic brass peacock from which Harry had fallen and split his lip as a three-year-old. There was the portrait of Ellen Terry given to her mother by the great actress herself. Each room had a hundred stories to tell, but now it felt as if these memories were bleaching away in the cruel glare of the modern world.

  She headed back towards the library where Norma Burke sat at the window watching the incessant autumnal rain.

  ‘This is the only room where I can find peace now,’ she said, seating herself and leaning her head back against her armchair’s lace antimacassar. ‘I feel like a spirit preparing to vanish with the sale of the house.’ Water patterns dashed down the walls of green silk damask. The fat leather spines of books surrounded her, weighing down the house with their remembrances.

  Norma Burke was a good listener. She had learned to remain silent and respectful around her husband. Settled in a nearby armchair with a shawl around her shoulders, she brought calm to the room, and being practical by nature very little panicked her. Ra
ther, she sought practical solutions.

  ‘I do not understand what happened to this family,’ Beatrice continued.

  ‘What was the house like when you first came here?’ asked Norma.

  ‘Everyone always wants to know that,’ said Beatrice wearily. ‘When people ask about the past, it’s a sure sign that the present is disappointing. Our parties never lasted more than forty-eight hours, but there were so very many of them.’ Her ladyship clasped one bony hand in the other, as if holding herself together. ‘My husband would invite dignitaries from the Foreign Office, and I had the Duchess of Portland to talk to. There were always too many people trying to be clever. Brightly burning flames that never lasted. The furniture fifty years out of date, the tricks in the kitchen to make the food go further, so much hospitality on show. The hunts and the shooting parties, and musical evenings, too much forced gaiety and far too much dressing up. Chinese lanterns in the garden, electroliers in the gathering rooms – the lights could be seen for miles. The villagers removed their hats. Deference and respect. All gone. This is the last weekend we shall ever hold, which I suppose makes it memorable.’

  ‘I’ll remember it as the one at which my husband was killed,’ replied Norma quietly.

  ‘Oh my child, I’m so sorry.’ Beatrice reached over and clasped her arm. ‘One becomes so isolated in a place like this, only thinking of oneself. Your poor husband. You must be utterly distraught.’

  ‘Not as much as I thought,’ Norma replied, gently removing her hand. ‘Donald left long ago. We hadn’t been close for a number of years. There was always too much work to be done. But I shall miss him. People never really understand what couples do for each other.’

  ‘My husband left us nothing except this old house and his debts.’ Beatrice looked up at the damp patches on the ceiling. ‘It was his life. A home, a garden, a horse, a wife: that was the preferred order. I don’t need to tell you how much of a disappointment his son was to him. A weak, silly, easily led child. This is an age that tests such people and exposes their flaws to the light.’