Little Knell

by Catherine Aird

  ‘But not a lot when you’re as wily as our Horace.’

  ‘I suppose not, sir.’ He turned and rose as there was a tap on the door. He came back reading from a message sheet in his hand. ‘I don’t believe it…’

  ‘What, Crosby?’ Detective Inspector Sloan watched as the detective constable stood stock-still in the middle of the office floor.

  Whatever Sloan had been expecting it wasn’t this.

  ‘We have just had a reply from vehicle registrations at Swansea about that Bentley we saw in the museum car park.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And it doesn’t belong to Howard Air.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘It’s registered in the name of Marcus Alan George Fixby-Smith.’

  ‘It is, is it?’ Sloan sat back in his chair. ‘Well, well, I wonder what his story will be?’

  ‘Must have cost a bomb,’ offered Crosby.

  ‘Money doesn’t mean anything in the drugs world,’ said Sloan, newly primed. ‘The only problem the dealer has is how to use it without it showing too much and getting noticed.’

  ‘Classic Bentleys show,’ insisted Crosby. The detective constable was only able to balance his own meagre finances with much contriving. He said, as one propounding a simple fact, ‘That’s why people have them.’

  ‘If Fixby-Smith is caught up in the drugs racket,’ said Sloan, thinking aloud, ‘it would explain the letter to the coroner that made sure the mummy case was opened there and not at Whimbrel House.’ This was something that he still couldn’t understand.

  Crosby frowned. ‘I reckon that’s one of life’s little mysteries.’

  ‘That’s only if someone wanted us to be sure of finding it at the museum.’

  ‘And nowhere else,’ contributed the detective constable.

  Sloan frowned. ‘They – whoever they are – might have thought they could keep tabs on what was discovered there.’

  ‘Perhaps they just didn’t want it found at Whimbrel House, sir.’

  ‘That, too,’ he agreed. Perhaps Crosby was learning to think at last. ‘Anything else?’

  Crosby screwed up his brow in thought. ‘Or needed to control exactly when it was found.’

  Sloan gave a quick nod. ‘Timing seems to have been of the essence, although I can’t quite make out why yet. Not for certain, anyway.’

  Detective Constable Crosby sighed. ‘Like they say, sir. There are only two things in the world that are certain: death and taxes.’

  * * *

  ‘Fascinating, quite fascinating, Inspector,’ declared Professor Miles Upton, rubbing his hands. ‘I am happy to see that Rodoheptah is in such an excellent state of preservation.’

  ‘Really?’ said Sloan politely. He was looking down over the top of a surgical mask at what seemed to him a confused jumble of petrified coconut matting. Even looked at more closely, it didn’t appear like flesh at all. More like old and worn brown leather.

  ‘A first-class example of its period.’ The palaeopathologist, who was clearly an enthusiast as well as a specialist, peered happily at the remains on the mortuary slab.

  From what Sloan could see over the top of the detective constable’s mask, Crosby looked as dubious as he himself felt.

  ‘That should make your own work more interesting,’ said Sloan civilly. The condition of the mummy didn’t make it more interesting for him. He didn’t care how the man called Rodoheptah had met his end. Crime at Ra’fan – then or now – was not his problem.

  Who had killed Jill Carter was his problem.

  And why.

  And why her body had been sent round to the museum in place of the poor muddled agglomeration of posthumous fragments that should have been delivered there. And where Mr Granville Locombe-Stableford, HM Coroner for East Calleshire, came into the picture.

  If he did.

  Whether the Kirk sisters’ late nephew Derek had come into a very large sum of money in cash dishonestly or not was his problem, too.

  And so was the identity of the person for whom that consignment of heroin in Horace Boller’s lobster creel had been meant. And exactly how the money which the sale of that selfsame heroin would have generated could have found its way into the legitimate local economy.

  But his most pressing problem was finding out exactly who had responded so speedily to the signal on his patio that bribery might divert or even halt his, Sloan’s, proper investigation. It was a presumption for which someone somewhere would have to pay very heavily or he, Detective Inspector Sloan, upholder of the peace, would know the reason why.

  ‘What would really help,’ the Professor was saying, ‘is a CT scan.’

  ‘Computed tomography would be very useful,’ agreed Dr Dabbe, one professional to another.

  ‘But I’ll do an endoscopy first,’ said Professor Upton, turning to his black bags. He produced a long black flexible tube. ‘I expect you’ve got a fibre optic light source and monitor here somewhere.’

  Dr Dabbe said that equipment wasn’t a problem.

  ‘Don’t worry, anybody,’ said the professor. ‘It’s minimally invasive.’

  Detective Constable Crosby might have been masked but the doctor must still have seen his rolling eyes because he added reassuringly, ‘We use an industrial instrument for this, not a human one.’

  Crosby looked anything but reassured as the two doctors inserted the thick tube through what remained of the mummy’s mouth, peering at the screen withal. This venture into the interior showed a confused picture that meant nothing to Sloan.

  ‘Gets to the parts other beers don’t reach, doesn’t it?’ said Crosby uneasily.

  ‘Ah,’ said Dr Dabbe at one point. ‘Do you see that? There. I’ve always found the jejunum empty at death.’

  ‘I’ll do a biopsy there,’ said Miles Upton. ‘And down here.’

  ‘Now, that’s interesting, too.’ Dr Dabbe pointed to the screen.

  ‘What would that be?’ enquired Sloan.

  ‘Not my field, Sloan,’ said Dr Dabbe, ‘but it looks remarkably like Anobium punctatum to me.’

  ‘Sounds nasty,’ said Crosby from the sidelines.

  ‘Adult woodworm,’ said Miles Upton.

  ‘A lot of it about,’ said Dabbe in much the same way as did doctors to the living.

  ‘We’ll be getting some of the histological sections from these tissues rehydrated and processed. Then, Inspector, we’ll be able to tell you more,’ said Professor Upton in much the same way as Dr Dabbe usually did.

  * * *

  The arrival of the police search party at the Calleshire Animal Sanctuary at Edsway produced nothing but an open invitation to look wherever they wanted.

  Jennifer Kirk waved a hand round the place and added with a rough laugh that they could do whatever they liked as long as they didn’t frighten the horses.

  ‘Thank you, miss,’ said Crosby primly. ‘We shan’t be doing that.’

  ‘Something has,’ she retorted. ‘They’ve been very unsettled all day today.’

  ‘And the dogs,’ said her sister.

  ‘Horace been here yet?’ asked Sloan.

  Alison shook her head. ‘He’s tidal, is Horace. But he’ll be along, never worry.’

  ‘Would you be looking for anything in particular?’ asked Jennifer as the men got ready.

  ‘We’re just trying to make sure that nobody’s been using your premises for something they didn’t ought to,’ said Detective Crosby colloquially. ‘While your backs are turned, of course,’ he added hastily, catching a glint in the elder Miss Kirk’s eye.

  Jennifer nodded her comprehension. ‘I can tell you one thing and that’s if there’s any funny business going on round here, we don’t know about it.’

  ‘And we’d tell you if we did,’ said Alison Kirk flatly.

  Jennifer gave an earthy chuckle. ‘We wouldn’t be as skint as we are if we weren’t more honest than most. Now, then, where do you and your people want to start?’

  Detective Inspector Sloan stationed himself outs
ide the back door of the house and watched as his men fanned out over the animal sanctuary.

  ‘Tell ’em to look out for the swan,’ advised Jennifer Kirk at his elbow. ‘It may have a broken wing but the other one’s in excellent working order.’

  ‘And not to let the badger out,’ said her sister. ‘He’s not well enough to go back to the wood yet, poor thing.’

  ‘Old Brock’s one of our success stories,’ remarked Jennifer Kirk. ‘We thought he was beyond aid when they brought him here, but with a bit more tender loving care he’ll be as right as rain again in another week or two.’

  Sloan wasn’t really listening. He was watching. Which was how he noticed the changed demeanour of Detective Constable Crosby as he emerged from the shed that sheltered Dunce the donkey. He hadn’t got straw behind his ears, but there was plenty round his boots and he was still clutching an absurd handful of the stuff.

  The constable was trying to shout something to Sloan as he ran across the yard, but whatever it was was drowned by the braying of the donkey which was now cantering companionably along by the policeman’s side.

  ‘Sir,’ he said breathlessly. ‘Sir, can you come? I’m afraid we’ve found … something.’

  ‘Something?’

  ‘Someone,’ he said urgently. ‘Under the donkey’s straw.’ Crosby jerked his shoulder away as Dunce gave him a playful nip. ‘Get off! No, not you, sir, the donkey. This way, sir. Mind your head. You’ll have to bend it to get in. And it’s a bit dark. Look there, sir. Over in the corner.’

  The person lying half under the straw was, unlike Brock the badger, not only beyond human aid but beyond tender loving care as well.

  Well beyond.

  And he wasn’t going to be as right as rain again.

  Ever.

  ‘Wayne Goddard,’ said Detective Constable Crosby.

  ‘Last seen alive by us slipping out of the Ornum Arms,’ said Detective Inspector Sloan sombrely.

  ‘And who helped Sid Wetherspoon move the mummy from Whimbrel House to the museum,’ said Crosby.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Backstrip Missing

  ‘Same song, second verse, I take it, Sloan,’ commented Superintendent Leeyes when the news was relayed to him.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ agreed Detective Inspector Sloan, deeply conscious of failure. One of the primary objects of catching murderers was to stop them repeating the exercise.

  ‘The missing link, you might say.’

  ‘The death of Wayne Goddard would seem to link up with Jill Carter’s murder,’ said Sloan cautiously. ‘Although it is not clear how.’

  ‘And are we to suppose that when Wayne Goddard visited Whimbrel House in the course of his employment, he noticed something to do with drugs had been going on there…’

  ‘I think that is part of the story,’ began Sloan in measured tones. ‘But only part.’

  ‘… and was unwise enough to act on what he had seen?’

  ‘A distinct possibility, sir. It would account for his swift elimination.’ Sloan didn’t really like using gangland language but it fitted this scenario only too well.

  ‘The trouble with this case,’ said Leeyes profoundly, ‘is that there are no lines in the sand.’

  ‘The rules don’t seem to apply to drug dealers,’ said Sloan, answering the thought rather than his superior’s words. ‘Or drug takers, come to that.’ Sometimes there was a distinction between the two; sometimes there wasn’t. Some of the takers dealt, some of the dealers took. But not all. It was pretty nearly certain that Mr Big, the man the police wanted most of all, didn’t take drugs. Mr Big would need all his wits about him … all the time.

  ‘It’s the old, old, story,’ said Leeyes sapiently. ‘One gains and the other loses.’

  Sloan nodded. In his book Peter Caversham was one of the losers. Even if he were to inherit the Caversham settled estate.

  ‘But none of this explains the death of the girl,’ said Leeyes. ‘She was a loser.’

  ‘Or where the Kirk nephew’s money came from,’ said Sloan. He wouldn’t like to have to say whether Derek had been a winner or a loser.

  ‘Or the museum curator’s Bentley,’ said Leeyes thoughtfully. ‘They were always a good car, you know, Sloan.’

  ‘Or,’ said Sloan, ignoring this tempting byway and coming to the nub of the matter, ‘how the drug money is laundered; but I intend to find out.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘And exactly who it is,’ said Detective Inspector Sloan, with quite a different note coming into his voice, ‘who has been trying to bribe me.’

  ‘Mouths have been stopped with gold before now, Sloan, even police ones,’ Leeyes said. ‘You’ve been posted as being on annual leave from Monday. And Sloan…’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Watch your step,’ said the superintendent gruffly.

  * * *

  ‘Don’t just do something, Crosby,’ commanded Sloan quixotically as he came back from talking to the superintendent. ‘Sit there.’

  The constable sat down.

  ‘And think.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ This was clearly proving more difficult for him because, instead, Crosby glanced repeatedly across the yard of the animal sanctuary to where one police officer was methodically erecting tape barriers round the place where the body had been found and another was standing on guard outside the donkey’s stable, keeping out all and sundry. The second man’s only challenge was coming from the donkey. Dunce was making it clear with nips and tugs that he did not like being kept out of his own domain.

  ‘Something here doesn’t add up,’ said Sloan.

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Wayne Goddard was at Whimbrel House this week,’ said Sloan. ‘Probably more than once.’

  ‘Tuesday and Thursday,’ said Crosby, adding conscientiously, ‘that we know about. He may have been there other times, too.’

  ‘And we have evidence that Whimbrel House was being used as a distribution centre for drugs – most probably heroin coming ashore at Edsway.’

  ‘So Scenes of Crimes say, sir.’ He sniffed. ‘Scenes of two crimes, you might say.’

  ‘Although we don’t know yet whether the heroin landed off Edsway was parked somewhere here at the sanctuary en route for Whimbrel House.’

  ‘Nice and handy, if it was,’ remarked Crosby.

  ‘Which could have happened quite easily without Alison or Jennifer Kirk knowing about it.’

  ‘Easily,’ agreed Crosby. ‘It’s near enough to the shore to bring it on foot.’

  ‘And we still haven’t discovered how the Kirk sisters’ nephew Derek got his hands on that cash,’ murmured Sloan.

  The Kirk sisters had retreated to their kitchen and the teapot. Today, someone else was watching out for the arrival of Horace Boller and his fish.

  ‘Derek died this week,’ Crosby reminded him.

  ‘Now Wayne’s been murdered, too,’ said Sloan pensively. He must do his thinking now, aware as he was that soon, very soon, there wouldn’t be any time to think; not after the Scenes of Crime outfit and their various camp followers arrived at the animal sanctuary. Thought would very quickly give way to action then.

  ‘Looks like it, sir. Not an accident, anyway, not from the looks of him.’

  ‘Nothing’s been an accident, Crosby.’ Sloan stopped suddenly. ‘Wait a minute, wait a minute. There’s been one accident, hasn’t there?’ His old friend, Harry Harpe of Traffic Division, had been the first to tell him about it: an accident to David Barton, the senior audit clerk of Pearson, Worrow and Gisby, Chartered Accountants, who had been lying unconscious in hospital ever since.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘I’m still thinking, Crosby,’ he said. And he was. Jill Carter had been given some of David Barton’s work to do at Pearson, Worrow and Gisby; and she had been murdered even before Wayne Goddard. Derek, the wayward nephew, had merely died, but had become inexplicably and suddenly rich before he popped his clogs.

  ‘Very well, sir.’ The constable sat silent and
still.

  ‘Crosby,’ said Sloan presently, ‘do you remember saying that some professional people charge you even when you sneeze?’

  ‘Yes, sir. There’s nothing ever comes free from the dark suits brigade.’

  ‘And naturally if they’re going to charge you for something then they will have to make a note about it, won’t they?’ At some later date he would explore the semantic differences between the dark suits of Crosby’s homespun philosophy and the black-coated workers so favoured in the terminology of the sociologists, but not now. There wasn’t time.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ agreed the constable stolidly.

  ‘Crosby, I think we’ll have to pay Pearson, Worrow and Gisby another visit in the very very near future. Like now.’

  * * *

  ‘But it’s Saturday morning, Inspector,’ protested Jim Pearson. ‘That’s why I’m here at home. There’s nobody in the office today.’ He paused to listen. ‘Yes, of course, there could be if I call staff in. Who? Nigel? No, not him. Yes, yes, Inspector, I quite understand that it’s something important and that you wouldn’t do it otherwise, but it’s never any use trying to get hold of Nigel at the weekend. Why? Because he’ll be at sea already, that’s why. He always takes the Berebury Belle out first thing Saturday morning. I dare say he won’t be back now until late tomorrow evening. Where’s he gone? I don’t know but he and his wife like exploring all the little inlets along the coast. Oh, all right, then, if you insist. I’ll get straight in there. And my people?’ He sighed audibly. ‘Exactly who else do you want to talk to? The office manager and our telephonist. I’ll see what I can do.’

  Jim Pearson replaced the telephone receiver a very worried man indeed.

  * * *

  ‘I know it’s a Saturday morning, Howard,’ began Marcus Fixby-Smith plaintively, ‘but do you think you could possibly come in to the museum today?’

  ‘I expect I could if it was important,’ sighed Howard Air wearily, ‘though it’s my morning for a lie-in and I’m still in bed. What’s the problem now?’

  ‘My aunt.’

  ‘Your aunt?’ echoed the other man cautiously. ‘Marcus, this business with the girl and the mummy hasn’t sent you off your head, has it?’

  ‘I can’t help it, Howard,’ wailed the curator, ‘if I had a rich aunt, can I?’