‘Going back to how Gregory found out about his birth parents, you said it was “kind of a coincidence”. What exactly did you mean by that?’
‘Well, it all concerns that young man Ben.’
‘Ben Milne? The one who’s making the television documentary?’
‘Yes, him.’
Amy felt an inward shudder. Too many details were coming together, and all pointing in the same direction. ‘So how was Ben involved?’ she asked in a resigned voice.
‘He contacted me about some research he was doing.’
‘Recently? Research about the Admiral Byng?’
‘Ooh no, this was a long time back. Last May it was. I remember because the day he rang me was the sixth anniversary of Ritchie’s death.’
‘So what was he ringing you about?’
‘Another programme he was working on. Something to do with people’s family history.’
‘Skeletons in the Cupboard?’
‘Yes, I think that was it. Finding out about what celebrities’ ancestors got up to. I tried watching it once. Didn’t like it, all seemed very… what’s the word? “Snide”? Yes. Keen on digging up the dirt, if you know what I mean.’
‘I know exactly what you mean. And was Ben researching a programme on Gregory?’
‘Oh, good Lord, no. Gregory’s not a celebrity. No, Ben was researching the background to one of my much earlier pupils, one of the first intake I taught. Cheeky little boy called William Sayers.’
‘Willie Sayers, the MP?’
‘Yes, that’s who he is now.’
‘So Ben came down to Crabwell to interview you about him?’
‘Not in person, no. He sent a girl to talk to me. She called herself a researcher.’
‘That would figure. And were you able to tell her much about Willie Sayers?’
The old woman chuckled. ‘Not really. I just remembered him as rather naughty. I met his parents when they came to the school, but I didn’t know them. And I certainly didn’t know anything shameful about his ancestors. I don’t think I was much help to the poor girl.’
‘Did she ask you about anything else? Like Gregory’s birth parents?’
‘No, Gregory’s name wasn’t mentioned. I don’t think she knew I had a son.’
Amy looked puzzled. ‘But you said it was through Ben that Gregory found out about his birth parents.’
‘Yes, but not directly from me. This researcher girl asked me if there was anyone else who knew Willie Sayers well, who might have some information on his family background. And I mentioned Fitz at the Admiral Byng, because I’d heard the two of them had been friends at some point. So maybe she went and talked to him.’
‘Did you suggest she contacted anyone else?’
‘I mentioned Griffiths Bentley, the solicitor.’
‘Why?’
‘Because he knew everything about the inhabitants of Crabwell.’
‘Oh?’
‘He’d acted for most of them in some capacity or other. House purchase, conveyancing, wills, that kind of stuff.’
‘But surely all that would have been confidential, between solicitor and client?’
Rosalie Jepson smiled wryly. ‘I gather you don’t know Griffiths very well. He’d spill the beans about anything if the money was right.’
‘Really?’
‘Oh yes. Not a great credit to the British legal system, that one. He also had an unhealthy interest in people’s family histories, was always keen to dig up the dirt.’
‘With a view to blackmailing them?’
The huge shoulders shrugged. ‘I have no proof of that, but why else would he be interested?’
‘So you put the researcher in touch with him?’
‘Yes.’
‘And do you reckon she would have paid him for information of the kind she was after?’
‘I’m sure she would have done. She offered me money.’
‘Did you take it?’
Rosalie Jepson looked affronted. ‘Of course I didn’t. I hadn’t got any information of the kind she wanted about Willie Sayers. And even if I had, I wouldn’t have taken her money for it.’
‘When you say “her” money, you mean Ben Milne’s money?’
‘I assume so, yes. Or money from the television company he works for.’
‘Yes.’ What Amy had just heard put a new complexion on things. If Griffiths Bentley was a repository for all of Crabwell’s grubby secrets and was prepared to sell the information for hard cash, the list of people who might want to murder him had suddenly been enlarged. ‘So, going back to how Gregory found out about his birth parents. Did that happen last year… when’s Ben’s researcher was making her enquiries in Crabwell?’
‘No. It happened very recently. The weekend before last it was, the Saturday.’
‘Just a couple of days before Fitz died?’
‘That’s right. I had a call from Griffiths Bentley.’
‘Was that a surprise? Had you had any professional dealings with him before?’
‘Oh yes. He’d sorted out a will for Ritchie and me.’
‘Which presumably left everything to Gregory?’
‘Yes.’ A throaty chuckle. ‘As if he needed our pathetic inheritance. But Ritchie and I weren’t the kind to leave stuff to a cats’ home.’
‘No. So what did Griffiths say?’
‘He told me he knew who Gregory’s birth father was.’
‘And did he ask you for money in exchange for his keeping quiet about it?’
‘He tried that, but I pretty soon made it clear he wasn’t going to get anything out of me. I told him I already knew who Gregory’s father was.’
‘Did he believe you?’
‘Yes – even to the point of doing something rather stupid.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘He mentioned Fitz’s name. Assuming I already knew it, which needless to say I pretended I did.’
‘He didn’t say who the birth mother was?’
‘Didn’t mention that. Which makes me think he probably didn’t know her identity.’
‘Did he say anything else?’
‘He was quite rude to me, annoyed that I wasn’t about to play ball with him. He said that he knew other people who would be prepared to pay for the information.’
‘I suppose it would be too much to ask whether he mentioned names…’
Rosalie Jepson grinned. ‘Far too much. He just told me that Fitz’s name was going to come out anyway. Soon it’d be all over the television, and everyone would know. I think he was hoping the threat might make me change my mind and cough up. Which of course I didn’t. I told him I didn’t give a damn who knew the name of Gregory’s birth father. I knew it wouldn’t change the relationship I had with my son.’
‘Hm.’ Amy nodded thoughtfully. She was intrigued by what Rosalie had said about Fitz’s name being ‘all over the television’. She didn’t want to raise the suggestion with the old woman, but she thought it might well mean that Griffiths Bentley would next try to sell the secret to Ben Milne. The presenter had a track record of paying for scurrilous information. And maybe he had been planning that his documentary on the Admiral Byng wouldn’t turn out so differently from the programmes he had made in the Skeletons in the Cupboard series. He’d intended to expose the scandal of Fitz’s illegitimate child, but then been offered a much better story when the old boy was murdered.
‘And, Rosalie, was it you who told Gregory about Fitz being his father?’
‘Yes. I rang him as soon as I’d put down the phone from speaking to Griffiths. If the truth was going to come out anyway, I wanted him to know about it as soon as possible.’
‘And how did Gregory react?’
‘He seemed to take it quite coolly. But clearly it affected him, because pretty soon after he made over the two million to his birth father.’
‘Yes. And presumably that was why he went to see Fitz on the Monday?’
Rosalie nodded. ‘And it was then that the Admiral told h
im who his birth mother was.’
‘Amazing that both of them ended up in Crabwell.’
This did not seem to impress the old woman much. ‘I’ve seen so much coincidence happening in real life that nothing surprises me anymore.’
Amy had a lot of new information to digest, but she also felt that she wasn’t going to get much more out of Rosalie Jepson. She thanked her hostess for her co-operation and said she’d better be on her way. As she stood up she looked at the telescope in the window bay.
Rosalie Jepson read her thoughts. ‘And in answer to your unspoken question,’ she said, ‘yes, I do sometimes look through it. Not very often, but occasionally at night. I don’t sleep so well these days, not since Ritchie passed.’
‘And did you by any chance happen—?’
‘Yes,’ the old woman interrupted her. ‘I did happen to be looking out over the beach the night that Fitz died.’
And Rosalie Jepson told Amy exactly what she had seen.
On her way back to the pub, Amy rang the Crabwell Surgery. Among other things, she asked, because she frequently picked them up for him, whether there was an outstanding repeat prescription to be collected in the name of Geoffrey Horatio Fitzsimmons. The answer came back that there wasn’t.
The crowd had thinned considerably when she got back to the Admiral Byng. And if DI Cole and DC Chesterton had taken the opportunity to ask questions about Griffiths Bentley’s murder, they hadn’t spent long on the task. There was no sign of them. Meriel Dane, who was rather resentfully serving free drinks from the bar – she reckoned such drudgery was beneath her – said they had been in briefly. And no, they hadn’t gone up to the Bridge.
‘Oh, and that woman with the ridiculous name…’ Meriel went on. Amy’s brow wrinkled in puzzlement. ‘The resident, one with the dyed blonde hair…’
‘Ianthe Berkeley?’
‘That’s the one.’
‘Anyway, she’s demanding “Room Service”.’
‘What?’
‘She teetered up to her room about twenty minutes ago, saying she wanted Room Service to bring her a bottle of vodka and an ice bucket. I told her you’d sort it out when you got back.’
‘Thank you very much,’ said Amy with considerable edge. ‘She doesn’t seem to have taken on board that this is a pub with rooms, not a five-star hotel.’
Meriel shrugged. ‘I said you’d sort it,’ she repeated as she returned to what she regarded as her proper domain, the kitchen.
Amy knocked on the door of Ianthe Berkeley’s room, but a moment or two passed before it was opened. The blurry expression in the publisher’s eyes suggested that she had just been woken from a deep – and probably inebriated – sleep.
There was no love lost between the two women, and Amy had no compunction in saying quite forcefully, ‘I gather you’ve been asking for Room Service. We don’t do Room Service in the Admiral Byng. If you want a bottle of vodka and an ice bucket, you can order it at the bar and bring it up here yourself!’
‘Oh. All right.’ Ianthe was still too fuddled to come back with her customary asperity.
And Amy suddenly realised that, given the way her suspicions were now moving, this was the perfect opportunity to pump Ianthe for information.
‘The night Fitz died,’ she demanded baldly, ‘were you with Ben Milne?’
‘Was I with…? Are you meaning did I spend the night with him?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, I…’ Ianthe Berkeley tried to reassemble her fractured memory. And suddenly, for no good reason, the events of that Monday night, up until now so fuzzy, came back to her with dispiriting clarity. ‘No, I didn’t,’ she replied. ‘I mean, obviously he came on to me and suggested that I should cross the landing to his room.’
‘Of course,’ said Amy, not believing a word of it. ‘And did you?’
‘No. Well, I mean I had known him at uni. I certainly wasn’t planning to have sex with him…’
‘No,’ said Amy, still unconvinced.
‘But I thought it might be nice to have a chat over old times, mutual acquaintances, you know…’
‘Yes,’ said Amy. ‘So you did “cross the landing to his room”?’
‘I did.’ Ianthe sounded defensive now.
‘Any idea what time that might have been?’
‘Not really. One in the morning perhaps…?’
‘And how long did you stay with him?’
‘No time at all.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I knocked on his door. There was no reply, so I thought he was probably asleep. I pushed the door open, but…’ Ianthe raised her hand to her forehead as if to wipe away a persistent headache.
‘But what?’
‘Ben wasn’t there. His bed hadn’t been slept in.’
Amy found him in the Mess, ensconced in a corner. He had claimed one of the bottles of Shiraz from the wake and was working his way down it.
‘Ben,’ she said, ‘we need to talk.’
CHAPTER TWENTY
When she had finished talking to Ben, Amy went back to her cottage and sent emails to Ianthe Berkeley, Bob Christie, Victoria Whitechurch, Meriel Dane and DI Cole. Since she didn’t have an email address for them, she phoned Greta Knox and Alice Kennedy. She also rang Rosalie Jepson, asking her to pass a message on to Gregory. She would have liked to contact Willie Sayers, but she had neither phone number nor email address for him.
The contents of the message were the same for all of them. They were invited to a meeting in the Bridge at ten the following morning, ‘to talk about recent events at the Admiral Byng’.
‘Blues and twos,’ Detective Inspector Cole told his assistant.
‘Too bad,’ Chesterton responded, trying to sound sympathetic, thinking he was about to hear about Cole’s latest bout of depression. They’d been driving for some time towards Crabwell without a civil word being spoken. The boss had been fiddling with his iPhone as if it were a string of worry beads. Maybe he wanted to stop at a chemist’s for some medication.
‘I said blues and twos. Don’t you watch TV, college boy? Switch on the bloody alarm!’
‘Sorry.’ Chesterton may have heard the phrase at Police College, but it had gone over his head. He activated the flashing lights and ear-splitting siren, and shouted, ‘What’s the emergency?’
‘Only this,’ Cole tried to make himself heard. ‘A text from the assistant commissioner herself. She’s called in the Yard.’
‘Shakespeare?’ Chesterton yelled, wide-eyed with wonder.
‘The Yard, not the Bard. Scotland bloody Yard. She thinks two corpses in Crabwell is more than you and I can handle. They’re sending Allingham.’
‘Who’s he?’
‘Give me strength. Detective Superintendent Allingham, their top man, known as the Casecracker. He’s a legend in London.’
‘Bit insulting, isn’t it?’ Chesterton shouted back, mainly to rile Cole. ‘I thought we’d got it sorted.’
‘Can’t hear you,’ Cole replied. ‘Turn the bloody thing off and put your foot down.’
Chesterton was glad to oblige. Little else was on the roads to make way for them. ‘I was saying it’s unnecessary, sending some super sleuth from London when we’ve cracked the case already.’
‘It’s all about reputations,’ Cole said. ‘He’ll march in and reach the same conclusion we have, and take credit for another Scotland Yard success.’
‘The suicide of the Admiral and the murder of the solicitor?’
‘Two mysteries solved. So it’s up to us to get there first and put the case to bed before Allingham shows up.’
‘How?’
‘By calming everybody down. A word to that interfering coroner will help. He’s still doubtful about the Admiral’s suicide. Then we collar the killer of Griffiths Bentley and make sure the media know about it before Allingham gets here.’
‘Have we worked out who did it?’
‘You should know. You questioned all the suspects at the wake.’
‘But we don’t even know how he was murdered, do we?’
‘That’s a side issue. Doesn’t matter at all. The post-mortem this afternoon will answer that. Bullet through the heart, bump on the head, knife in the belly, or strangling. It’ll be obvious when he’s stretched out on the slab. Who’s your murderer?’
Chesterton swallowed hard. ‘I’m not sure, sir.’
Cole was silent for some time, deeply disappointed in his young colleague. He’d banked on him coming up with a name. ‘I don’t think you’re cut out for CID.’
‘Who is it, then?’
Cole hadn’t a clue, but he had more face than the Sphinx, so he hinted at superior knowledge. ‘Elementary, my dear Chesterton. If you can’t work it out, I’m not going to tell you.’
‘Are we about to make the arrest?’
‘Yes, but in a professional fashion. Do you know the words of the official caution?’
‘We had to learn it by heart at Police College.’
‘Good. You’ll need it. We’ll do this on our own terms, at a moment of our choosing.’
‘When’s that?’
‘The sooner the better,’ Cole said. ‘However…’
‘Is there a problem?’
‘I just found an email sent last night by the bossy broad who runs the pub.’
‘Amy Walpole.’
‘Her, yes. She’s had the gall to invite most of the village – well, all the regulars plus you and me, would you believe? – to “talk about recent events at the Admiral Byng”. I could tell she was trouble the minute I set eyes on her. And I wouldn’t mind betting the TV man, Ben Milne, is in league with her.’
‘What are they up to?’
‘Muddying the waters. This is a police investigation, not the last chapter of some old-fashioned detective novel. Their suggestion might make good television, but it’s not the real world.’
‘Are we going to join them?’
Cole was incensed. ‘Are you completely off your trolley?’
‘I thought if all the suspects are there, we might hear something we can latch onto. Maybe I could put in an appearance, somewhere at the back of the room, and record it all.’
‘You’ll do no such thing. You could compromise my whole investigation. You and I are going to the grave to look for the shoeprints of Bentley’s killer. The final piece of the jigsaw.’
The Sinking Admiral Page 24