The Trebelzue Gate

by Anna Fitzwilliam

  ‘And what about the woods?’

  ‘The woods, Good Lord no. My husband rather liked them, he used to take the boys on camping expeditions when they were young. Peter adored it. I’m not so sure about Nicholas, I expect he was always worried about getting bitten by something and whining to come home. Felicity, you must go over there surely, with your little chicks and so on.’ She turned to Monica ‘My daughter-in-law is quite dedicated, she looks after them all by herself, don’t you Felicity?’

  ‘Madam?’ Monica turned to the younger woman.

  ‘I don’t go across that often. The pheasant pens are still on this side of the estate, they’ve not been released into the woods yet. And yes, I do look after them all myself. Come along, I’ll show you over to the office.’

  She took them into a corridor leading to the back of the house. There were several glass cabinets filled with lead soldiers, precisely arranged on the square.

  ‘An impressive collection,’ said Monica.

  ‘My husband, not able to put away childish things. Unfortunately, toy soldiers don’t generate an income,’ she replied.

  To one side of the corridor a door stood open on a room of gun cabinets. Felicity Haig-Mercer turned back to Sergeant Bee

  ‘Just in case you are wondering, those are all correctly secured, sergeant. A rather ponderous constable comes up once a year to check our licences.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it, madam,’ he replied evenly.

  They passed through the large cream painted kitchen. In the wide chimneypiece a Rayburn radiated warmth, above it linen cloths dried on the ceiling rack. One long wall was occupied by a built-in dresser. The dog Titus and a black Labrador were sharing a blanket covered and lop-sided sofa. The back door stood open onto a large courtyard.

  Mrs Haig-Mercer gestured towards the door, ‘You’ll find the secretary over there, in the old stable block,’ and she turned back down the corridor.

  ‘Right, well, we’ll consider ourselves dismissed via the tradesmen’s entrance, shall we Sergeant?’ said Monica, smiling.

  ‘Looks that way, M’am,’

  The estate office smelled of carpet tiles and the ink from the photocopier. The walls were hung with photographs of shooting parties and animals in show rings and antiquarian maps of the estate. In one corner a modern staircase led to the upper floor, once the hayloft. The woman sitting behind the desk was plump with dark permed hair. She wore a navy-blue Crimplene dress and a white cardigan and a three-strand necklace of grey-blue toned pearls. Her large round eyes were pale grey and heavy lidded. She introduced herself as Lydia Lyons, her voice was soft with a high pitch and a sing-song quality.

  ‘How can I help?’ she asked, ‘It’s such a terrible business, we don’t expect anything like this to happen, not here.’

  ‘Mrs Haig-Mercer said that you would be able to tell us whether the holiday cottages are occupied at the moment. The victim’s car was last seen by the woods, we are hoping that someone might have noticed it – or her - on Tuesday evening.’

  ‘Neither of the cottages are let out at the moment. There’s no bookings now until mid-July, once the school holidays have started.’

  ‘Do you run this office by yourself, Miss Lyons?’

  ‘I do, yes. Years ago, there was a full-time agent and a number of other staff, now most of the time it’s just me, with Mr Haig-Mercer, of course. He has the office upstairs, but he’s not here at present.’

  ‘Away, is he?’ asked the sergeant.

  ‘He’s not here at present,’ she repeated.

  ‘I see.’ Monica had taken out her glasses and was studying one of the maps. ‘We visited the tenants of the cottage in the woods this morning, Mrs Harvey and her son.’

  ‘Yes, poor Mrs Harvey, she has had a hard life. Mr Haig-Mercer has been doing all he can to get them into the new council accommodation, in St Columb Major.’

  ‘If their cottage is this one, here on the map, what would this be, further on?’

  Lydia Lyons and the sergeant both drew closer to the map.

  ‘Here, you see,’ Monica pointed at a rectangular shape shaded in pink ink. The ink had once perhaps been red.

  ‘Where?’ asked the secretary, ‘I can’t quite make it out …’ she screwed up her eyes and then ‘Oh that, it’s probably the old canal surveyor’s house.’

  ‘Canal?’

  ‘Yes, in the eighteenth century there was a scheme to build a canal across Cornwall, from Charlestown in the south to Padstow in the north. The Haig-Mercers’ ancestor invested quite heavily in it, they were bringing the canal right through the estate woods. A house was built, for the surveyor of works, and the digging started, but then the scheme was abandoned and it all came to nought. The house is probably long gone. That part of the woods isn’t open anymore, it hasn’t been for years. I tell you what, I can give you an up to date map, we have had one designed to show the planned routes for shooting parties.’

  She stood up and opened a drawer in the grey steel filing cabinet and took out a photocopied plan of the woodland, not to scale. Areas of cover were named and marked and at the top of the page there was a cartoon-like depiction of a shooting party.

  ‘We’ll leave you to get on, Miss Lyons, thank you for your time.’

  An archway led back to the front of the house, as they walked towards the car they saw Dorothy Haig-Mercer standing under the portico.

  ‘I say, Sergeant,’ she called.

  ‘You’d better go, you’ve been summoned,’ said Monica. The sergeant was led back into the sitting room. There was no sign of Felicity Haig-Mercer.

  ‘My guest list, I’ve copied it for you,’

  She held out a sheet of writing paper.

  ‘Thank you, madam, that’s most helpful.’

  ‘I noticed that you were looking at the painting just now, Sergeant? Do you admire it?’

  He sergeant looked uncomfortable, ‘It’s very striking …’

  ‘Yes, striking is an apt term. I think it’s hideous, but my late husband set great store by it. The sitter was his aunt, you see, Sonya, she was a White Russian, with the sort of rackety lifestyle that young men find quite irresistible. The artist is highly regarded in some circles – Goncharova, Natalia Goncharova.’

  He turned to the pastel portrait, ‘And this one, are these your sons, Mrs Haig-Mercer?’

  ‘They are. That is Peter, on the right. He was by far the more able of the two. The estate would have fared very differently in his hands.’ She turned away from the painting, ‘I hope that the list will be of use to you.’

  ‘What did you make of them?’ asked Monica as they drove back to the air station.

  ‘No love lost between the women.’

  ‘Indeed. What about the secretary?’

  ‘Not sure, but far more sympathetic than those two.’

  ‘Yes, pretty genuine I thought, but did you notice when we asked her about Mr Haig-Mercer she said he’s not here at present, not he’s away, like the wife did, but it could have just been a figure of speech I suppose.’

  ‘I’ve got a friend works in the archive of the Cornish Guardian, they’re bound to have sent a photographer to the fête. I could take a look?’

  ‘Good idea, let’s see who was on her list for the lunch,’ she scanned the sheet of writing paper.

  ‘Presumably this is the great and the good of the county, we’ve got a bishop, an M.P. and a J.P., the Chairman of the Old Cornwall Society, the station commander from RAF St Mawgan …’

  ‘What about “Lady B”?’

  ‘Not here, perhaps she was too busy bashing out yet another historical romance and masquerading it as literature.’

  Monica was back at her desk when WPC Jones tapped lightly on the half open door.

  ‘Call for you M’am, he just says he’s an old friend from London. I’ll put it through, shall I?’

  ‘Monica, how are you?’ Anthony Sheldon accentuated the ‘how’ as though they had not spoken recently.

  ‘Well, thank yo
u, Anthony,’

  ‘Good, good. Now, to our soldiering friend, your instincts were correct, he was doing something rather interesting in the border lands. However, I’m afraid he had a bit of a crack up, worked himself far too hard, hence the return to England. Can’t be too specific about what happened next, but I suggest you might like to have a word with your confrères at Kensington and Chelsea, for something a little bit juicy, last year.’

  ‘I will, thank you.’

  ‘My pleasure. Might I ask for a tiny favour in return?’

  ‘Of course, what can I do?’

  ‘Your victim - such a lovely looking girl, by the way - on the off chance that anything of interest to me and mine turns up, would you mind letting me know first, even before you and yours?’

  ‘Certainly, but why – do you think it will?’

  ‘Highly unlikely, but belt and braces, post Mr Markov on Waterloo Bridge and all that, you know.’

  In the duty room DC Toy was speaking on the telephone, lounging on his chair which was tilted back onto two legs. When Monica entered he set the chair back and sat up straight.

  ‘The station, M’am, they’ve tracked down the Trenant campsite complaints for us, about Harvey.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Nothing to go on as far as our victim is concerned. There were three complaints all told, one was a couple of nurses from Sheffield, they got back from a night out and found Harvey hanging about by their caravan, they thought he had his flies open. Next one was from the handyman who looks after the site, he said he caught him in the shower block, Harvey said he just wanted to use the W.C. Last one came from a woman who was having a birthday party for her little girl, the kids were playing some party game in a circle and she saw him standing watching, just staring at them. That’s it I’m afraid.’

  ‘At least we can rule Amanda Shute out of that. Now, I’d like you to get on to one of the Met stations, Kensington and Chelsea, you can mention my name, I used to have a DC Studholme on my team, he’s stationed there now. Ask him what they’ve got on an incident last year involving Captain Simon Nyland. I think he was brought in for something, but I don’t know exactly what.’ She returned to her office.

  When the call was connected Keith Studholme was initially unhelpful, he made a disparaging remark about country police forces and referenced a song by The Wurzels. However, when Toy mentioned Monica he immediately became friendlier and more engaged; the two men spoke for three quarters of an hour. DC Studholme closed their call with a reminder ‘And remember, if ever she gives you any grief, just casually drop the word Sunningdale into the conversation, you got that? Sunningdale.’

  Toy, grinning, was about to share the London detective’s words with his colleagues when Monica returned.

  ‘I was just about to come through to your office, M’am,’ he said, ‘The Captain Nyland business, I’ve been onto the London boys and they were very helpful, very helpful indeed. The captain was pulled in last year, March time, following a report of an attempted rape. The complainant was a Miss Penelope Tooth, the incident was supposed to have taken place at her flat, after she’d been to some regimental do with him. At first he denied it all, then he changed his story, but just as he was about to come clean some Army doctor turned up and insisted on taking him away. They said he’d only just come returned from BAOR, on medical leave, and that he wasn’t fit to be detained. That was it, they slapped a D Notice on the case and there was nothing more to be done. DC Studholme says he’ll send through the notes on the interview, as far as it went, by signal.’

  ‘So, now we have a second potential attacker with a military background. Speaking of, is there any news of our appointment with the Americans, Jones?’

  ‘Not so far, M’am, I’m still waiting for Lieutenant McLean to reply, but I did eventually get through to the bunker, Peter Goodchild made some enquiries for us and he said that Captain Nyland will be coming off shift and going back to the mess ...’ she looked up at the clock … ‘in about twenty minutes…’

  ‘Right, Sergeant Bee, you get up to the officers’ mess, see if you can find out any background, I’ll follow you up as soon as the signal’s come through from the Met …’

  She found the sergeant waiting in the mess foyer. The reception desk stood in front of a partition of blue glass tiles. There was an arrangement of artificial flowers in a shell shaped vase of cream pottery. A middle-aged man with a calico coloured jacket and the discreet but knowing solicitude of an accomplished waiter introduced himself as Bill Eddy, head steward. He said that the Captain had just returned, ‘I’ll put a call across to the batman for his accommodation hut, to let him know you’re on your way.’

  As they waited Sergeant Bee asked about the effects of the exercise. Mr Eddy said that it was always swings and roundabouts with a TACEVAL, on one hand they were likely to be landed with extra officers at short notice but, as the bars all had to be closed for the duration, it was the ideal chance to catch up on the stock taking. Then he inclined his head and raised a hand slightly to indicate that his call had been answered. When he had replaced the receiver he said ‘Hut Number 4, the Captain will be waiting for you in the common room.’

  The officers’ accommodation huts were sited on a grassy slope beyond the main mess building. Pathways of striated concrete led to the entrance porch of each hut. Inside, there were bedroom doors, painted a shiny tobacco brown and bearing a brass number. At the end of the corridor was a large sitting room with tub armchairs and small round tables, the legs formed by bands of wood curved to an Art Deco cast. A guitar with a folkweave strap was propped in a corner, there was a bookcase of paperbacks and a television set. Affixed to one wall were a number of unframed pencil portraits. Captain Nyland stood with his back to the room, looking out of the window. He turned to acknowledge their entrance. He was tall with grey eyes and light brown hair, he was frowning. There was a slight stoop to his shoulders which they saw that he consciously corrected every so often by straightening his spine.

  Monica said ‘I’m glad we’ve been able to catch up with you, Captain.’

  ‘Yes, I’ve been rather busy.’

  ‘The TACEVAL, of course. Shall we talk here?’

  ‘Yes, I’ve told the batman that we shouldn’t be disturbed.’

  ‘Very well, shall we sit down?’

  He appeared resistant to sitting down. Monica waited and he took the chair opposite her.

  ‘As I am sure you are aware, Captain, we are investigating the death of Amanda Shute. We understand that Miss Shute attended your Russian classes?’

  ‘She did, yes.’ The frown had not relaxed. He avoided making eye contact and fidgeted the fingers of his right hand, one by one, on the arm of the chair.

  ‘Did she attend the class on Tuesday last?’

  ‘She did, yes.’

  ‘And at what time does the class finish?’

  ‘At a quarter to seven, I set the homework assignment and then we disperse.’

  ‘And did Miss Shute leave straight away?’

  ‘No, as a matter of fact she didn’t. We went for a drink afterwards, it was at her suggestion.’

  ‘Are you sure about that?’

  ‘I am absolutely sure about that, Chief Inspector, yes.’

  ‘Where did you go for a drink, Captain?’

  ‘Just up to the mess.’

  ‘What did you have to drink?’

  ‘What did I have to drink for goodness’ sake!’

  ‘If you could just answer the question, sir,’ put in the sergeant. The Captain looked away, towards the wall with the pencil portraits, then with a visible effort turned back to look at them.

  ‘Sherry, I had a glass of sherry, Miss Shute had a Britvic fruit juice.’

  ‘Are you in the habit of taking your pupils for a drink after the class, Captain?’

  ‘Of course not. This was a one-off, special circumstances.’

  ‘Really? Why was it special?’

  He hesitated, ‘Miss Shute asked me not to say
anything to anybody, but I suppose that all goes by the board now…’

  ‘I am sure I don’t need to remind you that this is a murder enquiry, Captain.’

  ‘No, well, Miss Shute told me that she was leaving, going away, that she wouldn’t be coming to the class anymore. She said that she would like to buy me a farewell drink.’

  ‘Had you become close then?’

  ‘Absolutely not. But we had developed a rapport, if you like – a teacher student rapport.’

  ‘Where was she going?’

  ‘She didn’t say. I didn’t ask.’

  ‘Did it upset you, Captain, when she told you she was leaving?’

  ‘Upset me? No, of course it didn’t upset me, though, admittedly I was sorry to be losing such a bright pupil. Miss Shute was an intelligent young woman, good potential as a linguist. She ran rings round those lumpen stodgy airmen I’m supposed to be teaching, week in week out.’

  ‘Are you sure you weren’t upset?’

  ‘Positive, I’ve told you. Why on earth would I be upset?’

  ‘Because you don’t seem to like it when young women tell you that it’s time to say goodbye, do you Captain?’

  ‘What precisely are you implying, Chief Inspector?’

  ‘The incident last March, Captain,’ Monica opened the cardboard folder she was holding on her lap.

  ‘We have been in touch with our colleagues at Kensington and Chelsea police station. They have made us privy to the notes of an interview they conducted with you. The substance of these notes indicates that you have a tendency to become a little volatile with young women, in certain situations. Is that a fair assumption, Captain?’

  The captain shifted in the tub chair.

  ‘That … that was all wrong …’

  Monica took the thin sheet of paper from the folder and laid it on the round table.

  ‘Was it, sir? Was it really? You see, these are the notes from the interview at the police station at No 2 Lucan Place, London SW3 dated 5 March 1978. You had been arrested at 01.30 hours following an allegation of assault and attempted rape at a flat in Swan Court, Chelsea. The complainant was a Miss Penelope Tooth.’