by Kate Charles
‘But that’s incredible! It really does give him a motive for murdering Mavis, if she’d found out about it, and was blackmailing him about it.’
David shook his head sadly. ‘That’s what I thought, but unfortunately it didn’t happen that way. It would seem that we’ve – I’ve – been barking up the wrong tree all along, so to speak: Mavis wasn’t the blackmailer.’
Daphne, on the way to the table with the plate of food, stopped in her tracks and stared at him. ‘Not the blackmailer? How on earth do you know?’
He sighed and took the plate from her. ‘That’s what Gabriel was in a flap about this morning. He’s had another blackmail letter, and it obviously didn’t come from Mavis.’
Daphne sat down at the table. ‘I think you’d better start again. Gabriel’s had another blackmail letter?’
‘Yes, today. And it was very clearly from the same person who’d written the first one. So that means Mavis couldn’t have written either one.’ He looked a bit sheepish. ‘It’s my fault – I was the one who assumed she was the blackmailer. I just jumped to the wrong conclusion, that’s all. So all this business about Miles has been in the nature of a wild goose chase.’
‘In other words, the blackmailer is still alive.’
‘And has nothing to do with Mavis’s death.’
Daphne chewed on her lip for a moment, thinking. ‘So where do you stand now? What does Gabriel want you to do?’
‘He wants me to find the blackmailer. And there isn’t much time – the deadline he’s been given is Wednesday.’
‘This Wednesday?’
‘I’m afraid so. The Feast of the Assumption.’
‘Can you tell me what it’s all about, or would Gabriel rather you didn’t?’
David smiled. ‘I told him that you and I work as a team, and if he wanted my help, he got yours as well.’
She returned his smile, gratified. ‘Thanks, partner. So what is it about?’
He thought about how to begin. ‘As I told you last week, the letter was about something that happened before Gabriel came here. Just before, in fact. There was a boy in Brighton – his name was Peter Maitland – who drowned. Gabriel had . . . known him. Gabriel has reason to believe that the boy committed suicide, though the verdict of the inquest was accidental death. I think he felt in a way responsible – he might have been able to prevent the boy’s death, but didn’t. I think it upset him more than he’s willing to admit.’
Daphne nodded gravely.
‘After that, he was anxious to leave Brighton, and got the living here through some connections he had, quite quickly. But apparently someone has found out about what happened – someone at St Anne’s.’
‘What is the threat?’
‘That unless he resigns from St Anne’s and from the priesthood, he’ll be exposed. The letter said that they would inform the Bishop, the national press, and . . . Emily.’
She raised her eyebrows and whistled soundlessly. ‘The national press. After the smear job they did on Norman Newsome, Gabriel wouldn’t have a chance. Just a hint of a juicy scandal like this, even if it’s ten years old, and they’d be howling for his blood.’
‘Poor old Norman Newsome only had a few fantasies about choirboys, and look what they did to him,’ David mused. ‘I can just imagine the meal they’d make of Gabriel.’
‘Right,’ said Daphne, businesslike. ‘What have we got to go on? Who could have known about this boy?’
‘That’s the difficult bit. Gabriel says he never told anyone, and I have no reason to disbelieve that. I don’t know who he would have told, anyway.’ He added, so quietly that she almost didn’t hear, ‘He didn’t tell me, and I knew him better than anyone. At least I thought I did.’
With a quick look of sympathy, she went on. ‘Then the boy must have told someone. He must have mentioned Gabriel’s name to a friend, a relative, a teacher . . .’
‘Yes, that’s what I thought. Before, that is. Before Mavis died, and I got side-tracked down that blind alley.’
‘And did you find anything? You went to Brighton, didn’t you?’
He frowned, trying to remember. ‘I thought it was Miles,’ he said. ‘Funny, isn’t it? Poor old Miles! I keep trying to pin everything on him!’
‘Why did you think it was Miles?’
‘I found a death notice in the local paper. It implied that Peter Maitland had been a student at Selby Cathedral School, even that he’d been a chorister there. Naturally I thought of Miles – I thought that Peter must have confided in him. I was all ready to tell Gabriel that I’d found his blackmailer, then the next day Mavis was killed, and Miles didn’t seem relevant any longer.’
‘Did you get a copy of the death notice?’
‘Yes, if I can remember what I did with it . . . I don’t suppose I threw it away.’
‘Well, finish your meal, and then you can look for it. Anything else?’
‘There was a newspaper report of the drowning, and an item about the inquest. Not a great deal to go on.’
‘So what we’re looking for is a connection between this boy Peter Maitland and someone at St Anne’s,’ Daphne summarised.
‘Exactly. And we have three days to find it.’
‘Tomorrow morning is Mavis’s inquest, so we can’t do much till after that.’
‘Mavis. I’d forgotten about that. Well, that has nothing to do with us now.’
‘You’ll have to go, you know. They’ll want you to give evidence, pinpointing the time when you saw her alive.’
‘Bloody hell. Well, I suppose it can’t be helped.’
‘Anyway,’ said Daphne, ‘you’re forgetting something else. You know that Mavis was murdered, because of the missing ledger sheet. You weren’t the last person in that sacristy. So even if Mavis’s murder had nothing to do with this blackmail . . .’
‘She was murdered! Well, I’ll just testify about the ledger sheet being missing, and then it will be the police’s business to find who killed her.’
Daphne leaned back in her chair. ‘So we’ll forget about Mavis, and concentrate on the blackmailer.’
A few minutes later, David had located the photocopies of the newspaper articles, slipped into the pocket of his briefcase for safe-keeping over a week ago.
Daphne read them in silence, concentrating on every detail that might be of importance. ‘Are you quite sure that Miles isn’t involved? It does say Selby,’ she pointed out.
‘I’m not sure about the timing, but it doesn’t look promising. I’m sure Miss Somers said that Miles had been at Selby for four years, and she would be very precise about things like that. If he’s been here at St Anne’s for five years, that would mean that Peter left Selby before Miles arrived.’ He frowned, remembering. ‘In fact, I spent a great deal of time studying the board with the list of past organists at the cathedral, and I’m positive that Miles didn’t start there till the year after Peter died. Unfortunately.’
‘Then Miles is out. Again.’
‘It looks that way.’
Daphne scowled. ‘Croydon,’ she said. ‘Do you know anyone in Croydon?’
Something teased at David’s mind. ‘I can’t think. There’s someone who’s recently mentioned Croydon to me.’
‘Maybe it will come to you, if you don’t try too hard.’
‘I’m just not thinking very clearly tonight. I’m sorry. Do you think I could have that drink now?’
‘Of course. Help yourself.’ She looked at him intently. ‘Are you all right, David? You really do look unwell.’
He poured himself a drink and sat down. ‘It’s been a long day. I’ve driven two hundred miles, and have had rather too much to drink. I’ve had a row with Gabriel, and . . . oh, hell. You don’t want to hear my problems.’
‘Of course I do.’ She dropped the clippings and came over to him, bending over him clumsily. ‘Tell Auntie Daphne all about it,’ she urged with a self-deprecating smile. ‘My shoulders are very broad – along with the rest of me.’
Oh, why not, he thou
ght. It would be good to tell someone about it. And Daphne had always been a good listener.
‘It’s about Lucy,’ he began. ‘Lucy Kingsley.’
Daphne sat down across from him and leaned forward. ‘Yes?’
‘I . . . well, as you know, I’ve spent rather a lot of time with her since I’ve been here.’ Daphne nodded. ‘She’s a beautiful woman, we have a lot of interests in common, and I’ve enjoyed her company. Last week, before I went to Selby, I thought . . . well, I thought that maybe it would be an idea for me to marry her.’
Daphne’s face remained impassive, and David, looking into his glass, didn’t see that she gripped the arm of her chair. ‘Yes?’
‘I thought about it a lot while I was gone. It seemed like a very good thing to do. I hate living on my own, you know. And even though I . . . well, I thought the other things wouldn’t matter so much.’
‘Did you ask her?’
‘Yes, I sent her some roses, and on the card I . . . But today . . . well, when I was talking to Gabriel, he said that he’d heard rumours about us – about me and Lucy.’ Daphne nodded; she too had heard the gossip. ‘He tried to talk me into marrying her, said it would be a good idea, that I needed a wife. That’s when I knew I couldn’t do it.’
‘I see.’
‘Do you see?’ he demanded passionately. ‘Do you really? Gabriel – that was the one thing I couldn’t cope with. Gabriel. After everything we’d . . . been to each other. I know it was a long time ago. I know he’s got Emily now. But damn it, how could he tell me I should find myself a wife?’
Daphne bit her lip and resisted the impulse to reach out and touch him. ‘So what did you do?’
‘I went to see Lucy. To tell her.’ He sighed deeply. ‘It was all for nothing in the end. She said that she wouldn’t have married me anyway. I don’t suppose I ever had any reason to think she would. After all, what on earth would I have to offer to a woman like that?’ Laughing bitterly, he added, ‘I’m pretty hopeless, aren’t I? I’m a failure as a detective – haring all over the country on a false trail. And I’m a failure as a . . . lover – I couldn’t even manage a proper renunciation scene.’
Daphne swallowed, cleared her throat, and asked quietly, ‘Do you love her?’
‘That’s the damnedest part of it. I think I do.’
‘And have you told her so?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then why wouldn’t she marry you? Doesn’t she love you?’
He closed his eyes, remembering. ‘She made a long speech about marriage not being an escape from anything, not even from loneliness. About not wanting to make the same mistake twice. It all made sense, but it hurt like hell.’
‘It sounds to me like she’s a very perceptive and sensible woman,’ said Daphne. ‘You weren’t going to marry her, anyway,’ she added reasonably.
‘No, but . . . oh, I don’t know, Daphne. None of it makes any sense at the moment. Give me some good advice. You can tell me now to forget about her, and get on with my life.’
The expression in her eyes was unreadable. ‘No, I won’t tell you that. I don’t think you should burn your bridges, not just yet.’
‘That’s funny. That’s almost exactly what Lucy said. I’m not sure what it means.’ He took a gulp of his drink. ‘Thanks for listening, Daphne. You’re a real friend.’
Unable to meet his eyes, she leaned over and patted his hand awkwardly.
CHAPTER 40
The ungodly are froward, even from their mother’s womb: as soon as they are born, they go astray, and speak lies.
Psalm 58.3
The room where the inquest was being held was not large, and it was nearly full when David and Daphne arrived, a few minutes before ten. Although the case was not a sensational one, it was sufficiently bizarre to have attracted a fair crowd of thrill-seekers, in addition to the interested parties.
When they’d found seats, David spent the remaining minutes before the opening of the inquest studying the crowd. Venerable Bead was there, of course, in the front row: fairly bursting with self-importance, he continually turned around to see who else was there. Cecily Framlingham, dressed in black and looking fairly subdued, sat with Mary Hughes near the back. And David was not surprised to see Teresa Dawson there with her mother. Teresa had also dressed in black for the solemn occasion, but she looked anything but subdued: she was virtually licking her lips in anticipation. David didn’t see Craig Conwell, but assumed he’d be there.
‘Did you see Teresa?’ Daphne whispered.
David nodded. ‘She’s enjoying herself already.’
‘So is Venerable Bead.’
‘But where is Beryl Ball?’
‘Oh, she’ll be here. She wouldn’t miss a show like this.’
But she hadn’t arrived when the inquest opened. Craig Conwell was the first witness to be called. He came from the back of the room, hands in his pockets and shoulders hunched, and when he was seated he seemed ill at ease. The questions he was asked were of a perfunctory nature, attempting mainly to establish his mother’s frame of mind before her death.
‘She seemed OK to me.’ He shrugged. ‘Just like usual. Of course she was always getting worked up over something, but that was the way she was.’
‘And was she “worked up over something”, as you put it, that morning?’ asked the coroner.
Craig shrugged again. ‘Oh, just some bill in the post. I think it was the phone bill. She said she couldn’t afford to pay it.’
‘And when exactly was this?’
‘Saturday morning, early. About eight o’clock.’
‘She left the house shortly after that?’
‘About half past. To go to that church fête. She was a big shot at the church.’
‘That was the last time you saw your mother, when she left the house at half past eight on Saturday morning?’
His eyes darted around the room at the watching faces. ‘Yeah, that’s right.’ David wondered if he had cultivated the Americanised drawl, or if it was just a reflection of a television-influenced youth.
‘Thank you very much, Mr Conwell.’ Craig returned to his seat at the back.
Next the coroner called David to give evidence. This, too, was fairly routine. He was asked to verify his statement to the police, particularly regarding the time that he’d left Mavis. This line of questioning had just begun when the door opened and Beryl Ball walked into the room. David saw that she was dressed entirely in pillar-box red, except for the green moon-boots. He stopped in mid-sentence; people became gradually aware of her as she made a stately but purposeful progress up the centre aisle. She nodded and waggled her teeth knowingly at Craig Conwell as she passed him, then headed straight for the coroner’s chair. She thrust her hand and her teeth out simultaneously; taken totally aback, he took her hand and shook it cordially. She turned to David with an exaggerated wink, then hobbled to an empty chair in the front row and sat down with a flourish.
The coroner regained his composure, and the attention of his audience, after a brief struggle. ‘So, Mr Middleton-Brown, you left Mrs Conwell in the sacristy at approximately four forty-five.’
‘No later than that, certainly. Possibly a few minutes earlier.’
‘And you are satisfied with your statement as it now stands?’
David hesitated. ‘With the statement, yes. But there’s something I’d like to add – something that I think is rather important.’
‘Yes, Mr Middleton-Brown?’
‘I was asked by the police to look around and confirm that the sacristy was as it was when I left it. In fact, something was missing from the room, but I only realised that later.’
‘And what was that?’
‘The ledger sheet on which Mrs Conwell had recorded the hourly totals for the money she was counting. It was on the table when I was there, and I assumed that the police had it, along with the money. But I . . . was told later that no ledger sheet was found.’
‘Is that all?’
‘Yes, but –’<
br />
‘Thank you, Mr Middleton-Brown. You’ve been most helpful.’
People were becoming anxious for what was undoubtedly the centrepiece of the day’s proceedings – Venerable Bead’s testimony. There was a noticeable stir of interest as Percy Bead’s name was called. Teresa Dawson was leaning forward so far in her seat that she was in danger of falling off.
‘Mr Percy Bead?’
‘That’s right.’
‘I’d like to ask you a few questions about that Saturday afternoon, the fourth of August. What was your business in the sacristy?’
‘I was getting ready for Evensong.’
‘Doing precisely what?’
‘Well, I was going to put out some fresh candles. I’m not the Sacristan, you understand, but . . . well, I like to help out when I can. And I saw that the candles were getting rather low.’
‘Interfering old busybody,’ Daphne muttered.
‘And Father Gabriel likes me to lay his cotta out for him – sometimes I give it a quick press before he comes in.’
‘So what time was it precisely when you went to the sacristy?’
‘Just after half past five. I looked at my watch, and wondered when the organ recital would finish. Evensong starts at six, and I like to be ready in plenty of time.’
‘You found the door locked, I understand. Were you expecting it to be locked?’
‘No. It usually is, of course, but I assumed that with Mrs Conwell in there . . .’
‘And you have a key.’
‘Yes, of course.’ He looked affronted at the question. ‘I have a position of great responsibility at St Anne’s.’
‘Could you describe what you saw when you entered the sacristy?’
Teresa Dawson’s eyes glowed as Venerable Bead launched with great relish into his description of the lolling head, the blue lips, the staring eyes, the limp body.
‘And you knew that she was dead?’
‘Yes, of course I did.’
‘You didn’t touch or move the body?’
‘No.’
‘What did you do?’
‘I went immediately to the vicarage to fetch the Vicar. I thought he’d know what to do.’
‘Going back a bit, Mr Bead. The . . . object around Mrs Conwell’s neck. How would you describe it?’