Feted to Die: An Inspector Constable Murder Mystery

by Roger Keevil

  “Are we looking for anything in particular, sir?” asked Copper.

  “Frankly, sergeant, I have absolutely no idea,” replied Constable. “But from what I’ve seen and heard so far, Mr. Cope doesn’t seem to have been your ordinary chap who gets bashed on the head for an ordinary domestic reason. Our Mr. Cope was a bit exotic. So let’s just have a poke about and see if we can find out just how exotic he was. We might as well start at the top.” He led the way upstairs.

  The landing at the head of the stairs offered the choice of three doors. Constable opened the one on the right, revealing a sparse bedroom containing a single bed with an oaken bedside cabinet, a small matching wardrobe, a chest of drawers, and little else. A bedside lamp. A photograph of an elderly lady in a silver frame. A sponge-bag on a bentwood chair. An overall air of obsessive neatness.

  “Spare room, sir,” said Copper over his superior’s shoulder. “Mr. Ross’s, I suppose.”

  “Not a lot of personality, is there?”

  “The room or Mr. Ross, sir?”

  “You work it out, sergeant. Have a browse through the cupboards on the off-chance, though, and let me know if there’s anything worth a second look.” And as Sergeant Copper began to open the drawers of the chest, “And if there’s anything other than beige, call the Yard.”

  “Will do, sir.”

  The bathroom next door was a shock. Far larger than the spare bedroom, it was fitted from floor to ceiling in marble, with a free-standing Victorian bath on ball-and-claw feet standing almost belligerently in the centre of the floor. Ornate mirrors in gold rococo frames hung on two walls, reflecting the gold taps and fittings of an extravagant dolphin design. Glass jars held coloured balls of cotton wool. Perfumed soaps from a Piccadilly store lay in porcelain scallop-shells. Enormous peach towels monogrammed “HC” were draped voluptuously across a brocade armchair. “Very footballer’s wife,” thought Constable with a shudder of distaste. A brief glance into the bathroom cabinet revealed nothing more interesting than headache pills, mouthwash, and a tube of ointment whose use the inspector preferred not to investigate too closely. He moved on to the third door.

  After the bathroom, Horace Cope’s bedroom came as no great surprise. The room was dominated by a huge carved half-tester bed draped with opulent curtains in purple and gold, kept barely under control with chubby gold tassels. A cabinet of brass-inlaid rosewood bearing several bottles of extremely expensive after-shave seemed to serve as a dressing-table. A spindly-legged regency sofa, upholstered to match the bed hangings, simpered beneath the window. On one wall hung a mirror in a surround of seventeenth-century stump-work, next to a group of Georgian miniatures. On another, a tapestry of a classical hunting scene. Underfoot, polished floorboards were scattered with a selection of silk rugs which the inspector instinctively felt would have cost him several months’ salary. Behind the door, and occupying the entire wall, a gigantic three-doored Victorian wardrobe held an impressive selection of suits, shirts, and hand-made shoes from well-known London makers. Inspector Constable raised his eyes to the ceiling. It was painted black, with the signs of the zodiac picked out in gold. The design struck a chord in the inspector’s memory, which he struggled for a moment to identify. Then he realised where he had seen it before. In the fortune-teller’s booth – the pattern of the tablecloth across which Horace Cope’s body had been slumped.

  Briskly and professionally, Andy Constable searched through cupboards and wardrobes, with an irritating lack of success. Nothing, other than a flamboyant taste in ties which toned well with the bedroom which housed them, met his eye. He turned his attention to the bed, where a book bound in maroon leather lay on the pillow. “Let’s take a look at Mr. Cope’s bedtime reading,” said Constable half-aloud, and found himself leafing through the pages of what appeared to be a nineteenth-century French novel. The inspector’s French did not do his seven years of study to A-level a great deal of credit, but it was good enough to grasp the main gist, and to tell him that the activities of the book’s heroine would not have been accepted in the best society.

  Dave Copper came into the bedroom and stopped short. “Bloody hell, sir, this is a bit of a contrast, isn’t it?”

  “You might very well say that, sergeant.”

  “Anything, sir?”

  “Nothing I can put my finger on. Other than the fact that I don’t reckon Mr. Cope was the sort of chap I’d have enjoyed having a pint with. Not that that’s any reason for the man to get himself murdered. How about you?”

  “Well, sir …”

  “Copper, you’re looking smug. You really should be careful about doing that. It does not endear you to your superiors.”

  “No, sir. Sorry, sir.”

  “Come on, then, what have you got?”

  Sergeant Copper led the way into the small bedroom and gestured to the bottom drawer of the chest. “Just this, sir. Mr. Ross’s life savings, do you reckon?”

  At the back of the drawer, and half-concealed behind several pairs of meticulously-folded socks, nestled a bundle of banknotes in a rubber band.

  “Why is it always the sock drawer?” sighed Constable. “Has nobody got any originality any more?”

  “Well, at least it saves us checking under the floorboards, sir,” remarked Copper.

  “Touched them?”

  “No, sir. Didn’t want to muck them about. But it looks as if they’re all twenties, so I reckon there must be a good thousand quid there.”

  “More, I should think. Stick them in a bag, sergeant. We’ll get them checked, although there are probably more prints on them than you can shake a stick at. And there may be nothing to it anyway. It’s not a crime to stash a bundle of notes under your socks.”

  “Not unless you’re not supposed to have them, sir. I thought Mr. Ross was meant to be on his uppers, from what he said to you. So who do you think he was hiding them from?”

  “We shall have to ask him, shan’t we?” replied Constable. “Right, you can do the kitchen, then you can get a bag from the car for those, while I take a look in Mr. Cope’s living-room.”

  The sitting-room of the cottage was dominated by a large brick inglenook fireplace taking up one entire end of the room, whose ceiling and walls featured an excess of heavy dark oak beams. On one section of the wall, a glass panel protected an area of painted plaster showing a hunting scene which the inspector was confident dated from the cottage’s early years. Around the rest of the room, the mixture of furnishings dated from every period of the building’s history. A gilt pier table was surmounted by a looking-glass with a surround of palm leaves. A carved cabinet on legs, in the form of a classical temple, had its doors ajar to allow a glimpse of the intricate inlays of coloured marbles decorating the doors and drawers of the interior. Silver candlesticks and dishes gleamed on a table at the back of a monumental tasselled sofa in carved velvet. A glass-topped display cabinet, its sides inlaid with delicate marquetry of sphinxes and lotuses, harboured a sparse scatter of exquisite objects nestling on a bed of artfully-crumpled blue silk – a tiny jewelled prayer-book, a collection of 18th century miniatures, intricately-carved Japanese ivory netsukes, a pair of Jacobean embroidered leather gloves, a silver snuff-box, a Venetian glass bottle. French windows led to a paved courtyard garden in which could be glimpsed a cast-iron table and chairs.

  “Well, Copper, what do you make of this lot?” asked Constable as his colleague reappeared at the foot of the stairs carrying the plastic bag of banknotes.

  “It is my considered opinion, sir,” replied Copper, “speaking as a trained detective who has worked under the best, that our Mr. Cope was not short of a bob or two. I assume it’s all genuine, sir? You’d know that better than me.”

  “Very genuine as far as I can see, and worth a great deal of money. Some of the stuff in this cabinet is very valuable indeed. Mr. Cope obviously had the cash to indulge himself.”

  Dave Copper peered more closely at the cabinet’s contents. “We’re obviou
sly in the wrong job, sir,” he remarked. “Who knew the fortune-telling business paid so well?” A thought struck him. “Just one thing, sir …”

  “And what’s that?”

  “It’s just that … well, it’s not exactly crammed full, is it, sir? I mean, compared with the rest of the house. You’ve got his bedroom and his bathroom, and you can’t move for bits and pieces and knick-knacks. And then you come in here, and the room’s full of stuff again, and yet here you’ve got this little cabinet with all these little things in it, which I’m guessing were his pride and joy, and … well, there’s a bit too much fresh air in it, to my way of thinking.”

  Inspector Constable bent forward over the cabinet. “Copper, there are times when I’m quite proud of you. That is a very intelligent piece of observation. And in fact … yes, if you take a closer look, you can see the marks where there have been other things resting on the material.”

  “Of course, he might just have gone off stuff and sold it, sir,” suggested Copper.

  “Possible. But I get the feeling that Mr. Cope was more of a collector than a disposer, somehow.” Inspector Constable prowled the room in thought. “You’ve got me thinking, sergeant. Look at these gaps on the wall. There ought to be pictures there. You’ve still got the hooks, and if you look very carefully from the side you can see a sort of shadow outline of the frame that used to be there. So that doesn’t seem to fit in, does it?”

  “Sir, take a look here.” Dave Copper gestured to the french windows. Around the catch, there were signs that a recent repair had taken place. Under the dark stain, a new piece of wood had been set into the original oak, and a new brass lock had been fitted. “Mr. Cope seems to have had uninvited callers.”

  “If he has, then that burglar alarm isn’t up to much, is it? Right, anything I should know about in the kitchen?”

  “Not a thing, sir. Shiny and expensive, and nothing much in the fridge except a rather nice looking bottle of champagne and a pint of milk. I get the feeling our dead man didn’t cook much at home.”

  “Then we’d better take a look at Mr. Cope’s office,” said Constable. “With a bit of luck, we’ve saved the best for last.”

  In contrast with the rest of the house, the study was spartan and business-like. Bookshelves lined one wall, bearing a variety of works which would have done credit to the library of a small country town. One section was entirely devoted to books on the occult, spiritualism, clairvoyance, and astrology. Behind glazed doors lay a selection of packs of tarot cards, coloured crystals, figurines of oriental deities, and incense burners. A shelf of box files held several years’ worth of back copies of psychic magazines and newspapers, prominently featuring “Future News” and the Conjurers’ Association “Witch” magazine, together with what was clearly an archive of cuttings of Horace Cope’s columns and articles. A fairly-obviously-hinged modern oil painting of a robed druid at Stonehenge revealed a small wall-safe. And on a chrome and leather desk, the ventilation fan of a desk-top computer hummed quietly.

  “Copper,” remarked Inspector Constable, “it really is uncommonly considerate of Mr. Cope to leave his computer on for us.”

  “He’s on broadband, sir,” replied Copper. “Not worth switching it off. You might almost think he knew we were coming.”

  “Under which circumstances,” said the inspector, “it would be rude not to take a look and see what’s on it. If only it weren’t completely illegal and against all your training. You’d better hope I never find out.”

  “Right, sir.” Sergeant Copper seated himself at the desk. “Mind you, guv, I’m probably on a hiding to nothing. I can’t imagine that he hasn’t used a password.”

  “Then you must just do your best, mustn’t you, sergeant.”

  “I’ll just try a few of the obvious ones, sir. You never know.” Copper clicked various combinations of numbers and letters, without success. “I could be here all day.”

  “How hard can it be, sergeant? You’re the one who did the computer course. All you have to do is start at the beginning of the alphabet and carry on through with every word in the English language until you get to Z.”

  “Hang on, sir.” Dave Copper typed a word, pressed the return key, and burst out laughing. “I don’t believe it! I must be psychic!” The computer screen flowered into action in front of him.

  Andy Constable was impressed. “Well done, Copper. And the magic word is …?”

  “Zodiac, sir. It was the only word I could think of offhand that starts with Z.”

  “Right, sergeant, as you are now the expert, over to you. Any suggestions?”

  “We could have a glance at his emails, sir.” More clicks. “There’s one new one in his Inbox from this morning.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Now that’s interesting, sir. It’s about one of our suspects. It’s from the editor of the Daily Stir. Listen to this … ‘Dear Horace, I was very interested to hear from you about sourcing prophecies on the internet. Not quite sure how this is relevant to The Stir, as we have our own resident clairvoyant, Seymour Cummings, as you know. However, since you say you will be in London next week, and as you seem to feel quite strongly that we should discuss the matter, please call my secretary to arrange an appointment. Signed, Kelvin Hastings.’ What do you make of that, sir? Was our Mr. Cope stirring it up for Mr. Cummings, do you reckon?”

  “It does have that look about it,” replied the inspector. “We shall have to have another word with Mr. Cummings, I think. Right, you carry on having a wander about in the computer, I’ll see if there’s anything in his paperwork.”

  Andy Constable turned his attention to a correspondence folder lying alongside the computer. There were copies of letters accepting invitations to literary lunches, gushing requests to deliver lectures at meetings of psychic investigation societies and spiritualist churches, and lists from publishing companies giving details of forthcoming works, accompanied by unsubtle expressions of hope that a favourable write-up might appear in Horace Cope’s column. One letter, from the Family Records Office at Kew, puzzled him slightly. Obviously in response to an enquiry received from Horace Cope, it referred to an enclosed copy of a certificate of marriage between an Alexandra Justine Thyme and a Rex Lawler Biding, but although the receipt for the charge levied was stapled to the letter, the certificate itself was nowhere to be seen. The letter also stated that the Records Office had been unable to locate the register entry for the death of Rex Lawler Biding on the information provided.

  “Copper,” said Inspector Constable, “let’s see if you can bring your fine police brain to bear on this.” He read the letter to his colleague. “Who on earth are Alexandra Thyme and Rex Biding, and what was Horace Cope doing trying to find out about them? And where’s that certificate?”

  “I suppose the only thing we can do is ask Laura Biding, sir,” replied the sergeant. “He’s obviously some relation of hers. Maybe Horace Cope was doing some family research for her. She said he was an old close friend of the Lawdowns. Perhaps she’s got it.”

  “Hmm.” Andy Constable was not convinced. “Or maybe it’s in that safe. But what would it be doing in there if it’s for Laura? It just smells odd, and I don’t know why.” He put it to one side in his mind. “Anything else on the computer?”

  “Nothing that jumps out at me, sir. Oh, hang on – there’s an icon here for a photos file. It’s just captioned ‘L’. As in …”

  “As in that cutting in Mr. Cope’s wallet.” Constable smiled. “Well, don’t just sit there, Copper – let’s take a look.”

  A series of clicks followed. Dave Copper sighed. “Sorry, sir. Password protected, and it’s not the same password as before. I could keep looking, but I don’t really know what we’re looking for, do I?”

  The inspector made up his mind. “You’re absolutely right. Shut it down, and we’ll just have to rely on good old-fashioned detective work. Let’s have a look in the desk drawer, and then we’ll get out of here and ge
t back to the Hall. We might get a few more answers up there.” He pulled open the drawer. Among a clutter of paper clips, rubber bands, pencils, and a stapler, there nestled a fat brown padded envelope. Inside lay a thick hard-back book whose brightly-coloured dust-jacket seemed to follow a familiar pattern.

  “Well, well,” remarked Inspector Constable. “Now there’s a surprise. ‘Carrie Otter and the Deadly Pillows’, eh? Who’d have thought it. I seem to remember Miss Highwater told us that Horace Cope wasn’t too impressed with her Carrie Otter books, and here he is with one of them stashed away in his desk. Do you suppose he was a closet fan? Come on, Copper, this is more your area than mine. You know all about these books. So is this one of the good ones, or what?”

  “Hang about, sir,” answered Sergeant Copper. “This is the new one. Don’t you remember, Miss Highwater told us that this was the last one, but it doesn’t even come out till next month. There’s been a great big publicity campaign about the launch, because it’s the final book in the series and the publishers have been desperate to keep the press away from it in case they find out what happens. They’ve always done it every time there’s a new one out – I reckon they just do it to bump up the sales.”

  “So how come Horace Cope has got a copy?”

  “I expect Miss Highwater gave him an early copy so’s he could do a write-up, sir. I mean, she did say she’d give me a signed copy.”

  “Yet another question I need an answer to. Let’s get back to the Hall and start rattling a few cages. For a start, I want to talk to the Vicar. I’ve lost count of the number of times that the first person to find a murder victim just happens to be the last person who saw them alive.”

  “But why would the vicar want Horace Cope dead?” asked Dave Copper.