Worried? Already her eyes were full of it, her lips working. But I thought it would be better like this, coming from me. Better for her. And I was reaching for anything...
‘You see,’ I explained gently, ‘Charlie Pinson could well have seen a light in the cottage, but the DCI would suggest the light was in fact Joe’s. No...let me say it. You can’t argue that such a thing wouldn’t be logical, because it sounds so damned likely. Joe having a look round on his own, working out what had to be done to the cottage, and what was feasible — and maybe wondering what to do about that staircase. So...Pinson seeing the light, puts his nose in...and before you know where you are, they’re finishing off the row that started in the pub.’
‘No!’ cried Jennie.
‘Richard!’ said Amelia, a warning note in her voice.
‘But Amelia love, isn’t it better to come from me, rather than from Phillips?’
‘I’ll have to go to Joe!’ cried Jennie frantically.
‘Now, Jennie...ask yourself. Would that help?’ I asked. As though that mattered to her! ‘Quite frankly, you’d help more by staying right here.’
‘How?’ demanded Amelia.
Jennie flapped her arms on her thighs. ‘How can I do anything for him, when I’m stuck here?’
‘You’d help him by telling all you know to Phillips.’
‘I don’t want to speak to that man.’ More flapping.
‘Listen!’ I waited until she was silent and more composed. ‘Had Joe ever been inside that cottage before yesterday?’
This was more practical. She was slightly more calm. ‘No. Not with me, anyway.’
‘And when we went up to there, the group of us, you were using Paul’s key. Remember?’
‘Oh yes. Yes.’
‘Good. Then Joe wouldn’t even have known there was a spare key under the flowerpot?’
She stared at me blankly for a moment, then her eyes opened wide and bright. ‘Oh...yes!’ she cried. ‘Of course. I see now.’
‘You told me there was a spare under the flowerpot...remember?’
‘Yes...yes.’
‘But at that time Joe was walking around looking for boundaries, or something.’
‘Yes. I remember that. I showed it to you.’
‘There you are, then. If he didn’t know about the spare key, how could he have been inside when Charlie Pinson came nosing around? All right. So there’s another possibility, but that’s not valid, either. If Pinson was the first one there — and Joe told a bit of a lie about that — and they had a fight, then why did Joe lock up afterwards, or why didn’t he simply leave the door open, or lock it and leave the key in? Why would he take it away — or throw it away?’
There was silence. Then: ‘Throw it away?’ asked Paul. ‘The key?’
‘Well, it’s disappeared.’
‘It certainly wasn’t there when I got up to the cottage this morning,’ put in Jeremy, showing no shame at all for having done so.
‘Exactly,’ I agreed.
‘Exactly what?’ asked Amelia. She was now rather suspicious of my intentions.
I shrugged. ‘It all goes to show that Joe couldn’t have done it. And if Jennie was to go and explain it to the DCI...that’s the chap lounging in the drawing-room, Jen...if you go and tell him that Joe had got a reason for being around there, and for not wasting time looking round the cottage, because he was waiting for you — hopefully, and had a reason for expecting you to come along there...’
She flushed. Her hand went to her mouth. ‘It’s too...too silly.’
‘It’s what Joe told them,’ I explained. ‘His explanation of why he was there. Frankly, I think Mr Phillips accepted it. He said it was too ridiculous to be anything but the truth.’
‘Ridiculous?’ asked Jennie, offended.
‘Well...if you don’t mind my saying so...you’re neither of you sloppy teenagers. And to walk all the way up through those trees at night...I’m afraid Phillips can’t remember when he was young and sexy. So if you told him, Jen, then it might persuade him that Joe had a personal reason for being there.’ I looked at her with my head tilted. ‘I can believe it myself. Frankly, if I was in Joe’s shoes, I’d have waited every evening, rain or snow or fog...’
‘Richard!’
‘It’s all right, love. Just making a point.’
‘And you think I ought to tell him?’ asked Jennie, biting her lip, her resolution crumbling.
‘To help Joe, yes,’ I said.
Without another word, she turned, walked out, and we heard her talking to the DC in the hall. A door opened. It closed.
‘Well...Richard!’
‘There’s a reason, love,’ I said quietly. ‘Phillips skated round it.’
‘Round what?’ Amelia was suspicious.
‘The fact that Joe really needs an explanation for his presence there. A peaceful reason, something non-aggressive. I’m not sure Phillips was pleased with what I told him. Maybe — from Jennie — it’ll sound feasible.’
‘I’m sure of one thing,’ said my wife.
‘What’s that?
‘You never cease to surprise me, Richard.’
I hoped she meant this as a compliment. ‘Just trying to help. And, talking about that, isn’t there something else?’ I turned to look at the other two. ‘Have you told him, Paul?’ I asked, nodding towards his brother.
‘What’s this?’ demanded Jeremy suspiciously, so Paul clearly hadn’t.
It seemed as good a time as any to settle the business of the pictures and the books. And it would take their minds from the murder for a few minutes.
‘Have you mentioned it to your mother?’ I asked Paul.
‘What is this?’ demanded Jeremy.
I shrugged. ‘It’s just a minor issue.’ Oh, but it wasn’t! ‘It’s simply that Paul said your father always considered this library here to be part of his art collection. Did you know that, Jeremy?’
‘I don’t know. I suppose so. He was always pontificating. Thought he was a patron of the arts or something, did dad. “One of these days,” he used to say, “I’m going to donate this library to the British Museum.” Or some nonsense like that.’ He gave a harsh little laugh.
‘I trust that he didn’t.’
‘No. Not him. He was a show-off. Anybody here for the evening — and in those days there’d be dinner parties — he’d bring ‘em in here and say he was giving all this to the nation. As though they’d want to put one finger on anything in here!’
‘Perhaps he knew what he’d got,’ I suggested.
Jeremy looked puzzled. I explained. ‘The point at issue is that your mother inherits the balance of the estate after all the other bequests have been dealt with. Does she, in other words, inherit this library and its contents, or is it included in the phrase, art collection?’
‘Dad always thought so,’ put in Paul. ‘He’d show people round. “Let me show you my art collection,” he’d say. And he’d bring ‘em in here as well as into the gallery next door.’
‘Puffed-up idiot!’ said Jeremy.
There had certainly been no affection crackling between Jeremy and his father.
‘And what’s it matter?’ Jeremy added.
‘I’m getting to that. If it’s so, as you say, then the contents of this room would be legally distributed between you and Paul, the oil paintings to you, and the remainder to Paul.’
Jeremy shrugged. ‘So what? There aren’t any oil paintings.’ Paul laughed.
‘Show him, Paul,’ I said.
Then Amelia and I stood and watched with amusement while Paul demonstrated the truth of the paintings. He unhooked them from their supports and spread them out, nicely cleaned by me, on the table. Then he produced the folder I’d already explored.
Jeremy stared blankly at the small pictures. ‘They’re mine?’
‘Subject,’ I said warningly, because I didn’t want any misunderstandings, ‘to being able to establish that this room, within the meaning of your father’s will, is inclu
ded in the description: art collection.’
‘They don’t seem much to me,’ said Jeremy, pouting.
Paul slapped him on the back. ‘They’re previously unknown paintings, sketches if you like, by some of the French Impressionists. Jerry, they’re worth a fortune.’
‘Gerraway.’
‘It’s right.’
‘I don’t believe it. They’ve been done by some kid, a learner. Done ‘em all.’
‘You’d better try to believe it,’ I told him. ‘Everything to prove their genuineness is in that folder. They’ll go mad over the things at the auction rooms. Put ‘em all in as one lot, including the letters, and Jerry, you’ll be rolling in the stuff you’re so short of at this time.’
‘All but two,’ Paul warned. ‘They’re pastels. That makes those mine. But I’m not going to sell those. Oh no.’
‘You’re not?’ Jeremy wasn’t actually burning with delight. So far, the reality had not been assimilated. He merely smouldered gently. He was even suspicious. ‘Why not?’
‘I’ll want ‘em to look at. Sell them to a collector, and nobody ever sees them again. Locked away. An investment. No — I’ll have ‘em on my walls. Wherever my walls turn out to be.’
‘Weren’t you going to have the watercolours on your wall?’ I asked.
‘Well, sure. The Degas pastels — I’ll have those with them. Lovely.’
‘None of your own?’
‘What? I wouldn’t dare. Not those and mine in the same room! I’d be ashamed. Anyway, mine are for selling.’
‘Sold many?’
He gave me a distorted grin. ‘Not yet. I haven’t really tried.’
‘There’s one up there in the cottage I’d like to buy from you,’ I told him.
‘You what? Oh no. Not on your life. You can take what you like, Mr Patton, when you...’ He looked suddenly puzzled. He had forgotten the present overriding situation. ‘When you leave.’
‘Well...thank you,’ I said. I smiled at Amelia. ‘Isn’t that generous, love?’
She nodded, lips pursed, eyes aglow. But we didn’t know when we would be able to get away, and there was no point in considering it while the police had full occupation of the cottage.
The two brothers seemed temporarily to have forgotten about this. Their respective financial situations were now becoming more clear, and more satisfying. They stared at each other, then they grabbed at each other’s arms and thumped shoulders, dancing around, as though there had been no anger between them, no bubbling antagonism and fury.
‘We’ll sell the Olmec masks,’ gasped Paul, out of breath. ‘Split between us. Then we don’t have to keep arguing about where they are, and where they ought to be.’
‘Yeah, yeah.’ Jeremy punched his shoulder, his principles suddenly awry.
Amelia tugged at my arm. I looked round. She was smiling her delight. All was blessed harmony.
Then, as they cooled a little, as they stood panting and grinning, I said, ‘That’s not the end of it, is it?’
They were instantly still, suspicious.
‘Now what?’ demanded Paul, his head lowered, staring at me from beneath his brows.
‘You, Paul — so clever, claiming that Jerry saw only the books and not the pictures! But what about you, eh? What did you see? Only the pictures and not the books.’
‘The books? What books?’
‘First editions, Paul, that’s what I’m talking about. Last night, my wife borrowed something to read from here, and she found herself looking at a first edition of Pride and Prejudice. Now think about that. Would you consider that to be valuable?’
‘You’re having me on.’
‘No. Not a bit of it. You’re here, and the stuff’s all round you. Why don’t you look for yourself?’
‘I wouldn’t know what to look for. I know nothing about books.’ Paul’s face was set, his mouth firm, as though I might have laid him a trap. ‘First editions, you say? Are they valuable? Oh well, I suppose they could be. But I can’t imagine...’ He waved vaguely around at the dusty and unorganised miscellany around him.
The previous night I had restored the ones I’d looked at to their rightful home — the shelves — but in one batch, so that I could readily find them again. I now went round and lifted them out, one at a time for maximum effect, and placed them on the table surface.
‘Roderick Random,’ I said, ‘by Tobias Smollett — 1748. Surely that’s worth a packet to somebody. And here’s Ouida’s Under Two Flags, first edition, 1867.’
‘Hey!’ said Jeremy. ‘I’ve read that. When I was...oh, a teenager. All right, I thought. A bit old-fashioned, though.’
‘This particular copy?’ I asked.
‘Oh sure. I used to grub through these shelves for anything readable.’
‘And you never realised they were valuable in themselves?’
‘Why would I?’ Jeremy shrugged. ‘I was after something worth reading.’
‘Wuthering Heights?’ I asked, placing it beside Ouida. ‘Ellis Bell, 1847. Did you read that?’
Jeremy frowned. ‘Couldn’t get on with that. Too heavy for me.’
‘Ellis Bell?’ asked Paul. ‘Never heard of him.’
‘It’s not a man. It’s Emily Bronte. Her pen name.’
‘Oh.’ He thought. ‘I suppose somebody might like to have it.’ I nodded. Somebody most certainly would.
‘That’s just from a quick look around,’ I told them. ‘Imagine how many more valuable first editions there must be. Have a search through the shelves. Go on, why don’t you find out what you’ve been living with all your lives?’
Then Amelia and I stood around and watched the other two get on with making themselves filthy and nearly choking themselves with dust. From time to time there would be shouts of: ‘What about this, Mr Patton?’
But I couldn’t really help unless it was an author I recognised. Amelia wasn’t saying anything, just watching with a vague smile of pleasure.
They discovered some Dickens, clearly old — Pickwick Papers. I didn’t really know about that. Weren’t they published in magazine form first? Did it matter? The same with Conan Doyle, The White Company. I was reasonably certain that it had been published in one volume. If so, there it was. It was going to need an expert to assess all this stuff. But — The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes...I was certain those had appeared first in the Strand Magazine.
But, although Amelia exclaimed at each recognition of an author’s name, there was no way any of us could estimate values and rarities. At their end of the table, beneath the window, the promising stacks of volumes grew. Paul became increasingly excited.
‘Hey! Look at this.’ And: ‘What d’you say to this, then?’
By this time their hands were black. They had smudges on cheeks and forehead, Paul on the end of his nose.
‘I think that’ll do,’ I said, at last. ‘It was only so that you’d both see what your father meant. You’ll have to get an expert in here, Jeremy. Somebody who knows what they’re worth. You might as well leave things as they are for now. And you’d both better go and get cleaned up.’
‘Hey!’ said Paul, staring at the book in his hand. ‘Look at this. Lady Chatterley’s Lover. I never did get to read this. Think it’s a first...’ He turned to the title page. ‘No! It’s in French. Paris, 1929, it says. And...hello, that’s strange. It’s in English.’
Jeremy snatched it out of his hand. He’d gone very pale, grey-white against his smudged cheeks. He stared at it, and flipped it open, then he slammed it shut. His eyes were suddenly wild.
‘Yargh!’ he shouted, a choked sound of revulsion, then he threw it away from him.
I assumed this to be the action of a rather prudish person, distressed by the language he thought to be unprintable. Yet it had been printed. Paris 1929 meant that we had here a copy of the first print, the very first unexpurgated version in English. It was probably priceless, as it had been illegal, at that time, even to bring it into this country. And Jeremy saw fit to consid
er it only for its contents!
I watched it sliding the length of the table, when a fall to the floor might split the spine, and thus detract considerably from its value to a genuine collector — who would probably never dream of reading one word of it. I think I shouted out. I could not have reached the far end of the table in time.
The door opened, and Mary stood there. As usually happens in the split second of realisation, she reacted, put her hands forward, and caught it.
‘Oh...well fielded!’ I cried, aware that this revealed my tension.
Mary stood still, shocked at this sudden assault by a flying book. For a moment she smiled in pleasure, that she had accomplished such a feat. Then, still smiling, she looked down at what she had in her hands, and became very still. She opened it, flipped over a page here and there, put it down firmly on the surface, and clutched at the table, it seemed to support herself.
‘Mary?’ whispered Amelia.
I thought Mary was about to faint. The blood had run from her face, and she swayed. Then she turned, fumbled open the door, and ran into the hall. She didn’t pause to close the door behind her. I could clearly hear her stumbling feet on the parquet, then abrupt silence as she took the carpeted stairs.
Amelia caught my eye. She was startled, and was herself pale. ‘I’ll go to her,’ she said. ‘Richard...what is it?’
I shook my head. I didn’t know. The reactions of both Mary and Jeremy had been far too extreme, and I couldn’t understand the reason.
‘I’ll go to her,’ she repeated.
‘Yes, love. You do that. Where do I find you?’ I meant that I didn’t know where Mary’s room was.
‘She’s two doors past us.’ Then, after one quick, worried look around, she hurried after Mary.
The book was beneath my right hand, but it was Jeremy and Paul whom I was considering. They were standing so still and stiff that I felt they would never move.
I said casually, ‘What was all that about, then?’
Paul shook his head. His face was completely blank of any expression. ‘God knows.’
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