The Mammoth Book of Best British Mysteries

by Maxim Jakubowski

  “How did you get into Pargiter’s house? Does he not keep it locked?”

  Warren looked furtive. “I have a key. Margaret gave it to me, a few years ago.”

  A short while later, Chaloner went to see the last of his witnesses. Rector Bretton was more welcoming than the others, and offered him wine and a seat by the fire. He was clearly under the impression that the liaison forced on them by the Lord Chancellor meant he was exempt from suspicion, and was surprised when Chaloner started to ask questions.

  “You can refuse to answer,” said Chaloner. “But the Lord Chancellor will want to know why. Everyone else has cooperated, although not always with good grace – people don’t like Archbishop Juxon very much, and you should have chosen me a more popular master.”

  “He is a saint,” said Bretton in surprise. “Who doesn’t like him?”

  “Margaret,” prompted Chaloner, deciding he had better change the subject before he landed himself in trouble. Francis was right: Juxon was a creature of the Court. “Tell me about her.”

  Bretton stared unhappily into the flames. “All right. Yes, I was Margaret’s lover. I think I was more important to her than the others, but perhaps I flatter myself. I was with her when she died.”

  “When was she put in her coffin?”

  “The morning after her death. Francis had ordered a lead-lined box, and we put her in it together. We left it open for another day, then Pargiter and I sealed it before taking it to the charnel house. I know the others said someone could have put the stranger in at that point, but it isn’t true. I stood vigil until her funeral – although I never told them that – and I’d have noticed anything untoward.”

  “The stranger was named Henry Raven,” said Chaloner.

  Bretton stared at him. “The tall man with the stoop? He came to see Warren around the time of Margaret’s last illness, although I have no idea why. During one visit, he told us he disliked close contact with women, because he was afraid of catching the plague. He was an odd man.”

  “Who was the last person to visit Margaret, before the casket was closed?”

  “Pargiter. He asked for a moment alone, and when I returned, he’d placed the lid across her and we nailed it down together. But this happened in Margaret’s bedchamber, and unless Raven’s body was hidden under the bed . . .”

  Chaloner stood. “Will you summon the others? I think I know what happened now.”

  It was an uneasy company that gathered in Bretton’s home. Warren and Pargiter claimed they were too busy for nonsense they never wanted started in the first place, and Eleanor and Francis said the investigation should have finished when Chaloner learned Raven’s name. Only Bretton said nothing. The spy began his analysis.

  “At first, I assumed Warren was the culprit. He recognized Raven’s charm, and it was obvious they’d known each other. They discussed sugar investments, and the debate might have ended in violence. But it was Warren who asked for Margaret’s grave to be opened, and he isn’t so desperate for funds that he’d risk hanging for murder to claim them.”

  “But he was deeply unhappy about the exhumation,” Bretton pointed out. “His reaction wasn’t that of an innocent man.”

  “That’s because he was one of Margaret’s past lovers, too,” explained Chaloner. “He said she gave him a key to the Pargiter house a few years ago – she would not have done that without good reason. And he still harbours an affection for her. He was torn between a selfish need for money and leaving her undisturbed.”

  Warren hung his head. “It’s true – I did love Margaret. But I didn’t kill Raven. Why would I? He gave me some good advice.”

  “Who is the culprit, then?” demanded Eleanor. She turned to the rector, who was regarding Warren with open-mouthed horror at the confession. “Bretton? Perhaps he was afraid Raven would take his place in my mother’s heart – that he didn’t come to discuss sugar with Warren, but to court her.”

  “Bretton didn’t kill Raven, either,” said Chaloner, cutting across the rector’s spluttering denial. “He knew – from Raven himself – that the man spurned any kind of physical contact, because he was afraid of catching the plague. Thus there was no need for jealousy, and Bretton was more concerned with tending Margaret on her deathbed than in dispatching imaginary rivals.”

  “Well, I didn’t do it,” said Pargiter, when the others regarded him accusingly. “I didn’t even know him. You say he was in my house, but I never saw him there.”

  “Warren invited him when you were away, hoping Raven would think the mansion was his,” said Chaloner. “But Raven was killed in your house – and he was certainly stuffed in the coffin there.”

  “How can you know that?” demanded Pargiter in disbelief.

  “Because Bretton was in constant attendance once Margaret’s casket was in the charnel house. Therefore, Raven was hidden before you and Bretton closed the lid. At the same time, the killer removed the lead lining, to disguise the additional weight. I suppose he concealed it under the bed, or spirited it out of the house when everyone was asleep – we may never know. But although you lied about the coins, it proves you didn’t kill Raven.”

  “I don’t see how –” began Francis, while Pargiter gaped in astonishment.

  “Pargiter claimed he put his bag of gold under Margaret’s head,” explained Chaloner. “But if that were true, he would have noticed Raven, who was already there – and he certainly would have said something. Instead of placing the coins beneath her, he tossed them over her in an act of defiance.”

  “I didn’t –” began the goldsmith indignantly.

  “You resented the amount of money Margaret spent; you said so yourself,” Chaloner continued. “You hurled the gold at her, no doubt adding a taunt about her not being able to fritter it away now.”

  Pargiter regarded him with dislike. “I didn’t anticipate that we’d have to reclaim it in the pouring rain or that there’d be another corpse to consider while we did so.”

  “And that leaves you two,” said Bretton, looking at Francis and Eleanor. “Did you kill Raven and defile your mother’s grave?”

  Chaloner addressed Francis. “You disliked your mother’s liaisons, and you loathed the men who took advantage of her. But you loved her, and you’re the only one who stalwartly defends her reputation – everyone else acknowledges her indiscretions.”

  “Indiscretions is putting it mildly,” muttered Pargiter. “She was flagrant.”

  Chaloner’s attention was still fixed on Francis. “You said you’d never met Raven, and that’s probably true. But you were so hostile to your mother’s men that you were more than willing to dispose of the corpse of one of them – especially when it was to help someone else you love.”

  Francis licked dry lips. “This is pure fabrication. You have no proof.”

  “You’re a man of fierce passions, who either loves or hates – there’s no middle way for you. When someone told you Raven was one of your mother’s beaux, you were only too happy to get rid of his body. At first, I thought you were the killer – you objected to the opening of the coffin, and you didn’t agree to my investigation until Eleanor said it was a good idea. But you’re a follower, not a leader, and you hid the body because you were obeying instructions.”

  Eleanor gazed at him, then started to laugh. “I hope you’re not implying that I killed Raven!”

  Chaloner nodded. “I know you did. You see, you jumped to the wrong conclusion about Raven – you assumed he’d come to tarnish your mother’s reputation because he visited when your father was out. But poor Raven had come to discuss sugar with Warren. You killed him because you misjudged Margaret. By this time, she was in love with Bretton, and had forsaken all the others.”

  Francis rounded on Eleanor. “You said he was—” He faltered when she glowered at him.

  “Eleanor told you the man she had killed was another of your mother’s conquests,” surmised Chaloner. “And you believed her – which is why you were startled when I mentioned that Rave
n wasn’t interested in women. You realized then that Eleanor had stabbed an innocent man.”

  “But it was Francis and I who offered to pay you if you discovered Raven’s identity,” said Eleanor with a bemused smile. “Why would we do that, if we were the ones who’d killed him?”

  “For two reasons. First, you were confident that you’d left no clues – especially ones that could be unearthed by a mere digger of graves. And second, you knew everyone would think you were innocent because you’d financed the investigation.”

  “And how did I kill Raven, exactly?” demanded Eleanor with a sneer. “A small woman against a tall, powerful man?”

  “If you never met him, how do you know he was tall?” pounced Chaloner. Eleanor did not reply. “You killed him with one of Francis’s carpentry tools, which he leaves lying around for his children to play with. Raven’s wound was oddly shaped, and will almost certainly match the chisel – and the chisel is sharp, because his son cut himself on it today.”

  Rector Bretton regarded Eleanor with cold, unfriendly eyes. “Don’t you remember the Latin I taught you? Fossor means a digger, or a man who delves. And that’s what this Fossor has done – delved until he found the truth.”

  “I loved my mother,” said Eleanor quietly. “And she was dying. I didn’t want the gossips saying that she’d entertained lovers in her last hours on Earth – and Raven came to our house when Father was out, so who can blame me for thinking what I did?”

  “You admit it?” cried Bretton in horror.

  “No,” said Pargiter sharply. “She doesn’t. Fossor has no real evidence, only supposition. But if she confesses to the crime, she’ll hang. Conversely, if she keeps her mouth shut, no one can prove anything. We may have had our arguments in the past, but I’ll not see my daughter on a gibbet.”

  He went to stand next to her, gazing defiantly at Chaloner. Francis hurried to her other side, and Warren was quick to join them.

  “You won’t repeat what you’ve heard today, Bretton,” said Pargiter softly. “You won’t want Margaret’s name dragged through the courts – nor her beloved daughter swinging on a rope. And who’ll take Fossor’s word over a family of wealthy goldsmiths and the King’s chaplain?”

  Bretton hung his head, and Chaloner knew Raven’s murder would never be avenged. Pargiter was right: without a confession, there was not a jury in the country that would convict Eleanor.

  The rain had abated by the following morning, and the sun glimmered faintly through thin clouds. Eleanor and her father stood side by side at the empty chasm that had been Margaret’s tomb.

  “Fossor came very close to discovering the real reason why I killed Raven,” she said softly. “That Raven only visited Cousin Warren because he wanted to spy on our family; that his real objective was to confiscate our gold and give it to the government. Do you think Fossor will try to do the same – for whichever churchman he is working for now?”

  “If he does, I’ll call on your services again,” replied Pargiter. “Only this time, don’t ask Francis to help. He’s too stupid for games of deceit, and almost gave you away.”

  Eleanor smiled. “But Warren played his role well. He was very convincing as the desperate debtor, and is more than satisfied with what you paid him.”

  Pargiter was less complacent. “What about Bretton? Do you think he was convinced by what Fossor deduced?”

  Eleanor shrugged. “He seemed to be. And why not? He loved Mother very deeply, and Fossor’s erroneous conclusions made it look as though I was desperate to protect her reputation as she lay dying. As far as Bretton is concerned, I’m a dutiful daughter, prepared to kill a man and hide his body to save his Margaret from ridicule and gossip.”

  “Well, now the spectre of a murdered government spy is truly dead and buried, you can come to live with me again,” said Pargiter, placing an arm around her shoulders. “I’ve missed you these last three years. Francis can live in self-imposed poverty – he’ll never love me as you do – but there’s no longer any reason for you to endure leaking roofs and smoking chimneys.”

  Both jumped when someone emerged from the shelter of the churchyard yews.

  “I heard you,” said Bretton in a strangled voice. “You didn’t murder Raven to protect Margaret’s name, but to defraud the government. That’s treason!”

  “Rubbish,” said Pargiter scornfully. “It’s business. And if anyone ever claims otherwise, we shall blame the whole affair on Margaret – say she demanded to be buried with the gold as a way to stop the Royalists from getting at it.”

  “I’ve been such a fool,” Bretton went on brokenly. “Three years ago, you paid for my roof to be mended – not out of kindness, but to pretend to your Goldsmith’s company that you were a reformed man after they fined you for coin-clipping. The repairs included fine new lead drainpipes – lead drainpipes. You used the lining from Margaret’s coffin, didn’t you?”

  “It seemed a pity to waste it – lead is expensive,” replied Pargiter with a careless shrug. “And we could hardly sell it as it was! People have admired those drainpipes, so don’t pretend you haven’t enjoyed showing them off . . .”

  The rector suddenly shoved Pargiter towards the grave. With a sharp cry, the goldsmith toppled inside the hole, where his head hit the remains of the coffin. He lay still. Eleanor tried to run, but Bretton grabbed her and hurled her after her father. She spat dirt from her mouth and tried to stand. Bretton struck her with a spade, and she dropped to all fours, dazed.

  “I don’t want Margaret associated with any more scandal – or her liaisons discussed in a way that make her sound like a whore,” said Bretton brokenly. “I still love her, and I shall protect what remains of her good name. If you’re dead, you can’t harm her, can you?”

  He gripped the shovel and began to fill in the hole.

  Note

  Robert Bretton was chaplain to Charles II and rector of St Martin’s Ludgate. John Pargiter was a goldsmith, whom the diarist Samuel Pepys considered a “cheating rogue”. Pargiter was fined several times by the Goldsmith’s Company for persistently shoddy workmanship and coin clipping, and his name was removed from the list of aldermen in 1668, presumably because of his fondness for dubious practices. A merchant called Francis Pargiter also lived in London in the 1660s, although it is not known whether he and John were kin. Thomas Warren was a merchant who traded overseas.

  Shortly after the Restoration of the monarchy in 1660, there were many tales of exiled Royalists returning home to retrieve hoards they had secreted years before – some found them undisturbed, others did not. One man was alleged to have chosen his wife’s coffin as his hiding place, and was reputedly delighted when he excavated her and found his money just as he had left it.

  THE SIXTH MAN

  Bill James

  The thing about Assistant Chief Constable Desmond Iles, as many knew by now, was that at funerals he could get really a bit out of proportion. This one coming up today after the crossfire killing: dicey, dicey, dicey, Harpur thought. It had big overtones and Iles loved overtones, danced and dreamed to them. Consider: a middle-aged, born-again factory worker, out ardently slipping salvation gospel tracts through people’s letter boxes on his afternoon off, gets somehow in the way of a motorized turf battle between drugs firms and picks up two .38 bullets in the back. And a spread of spent bullets around, as well as those that hit him. Iles would scent chaos: this victim, born-again but dead. Did it look like salvation? Harpur himself scented chaos. Iles would love to sound off to folk in funeral pews a bit about chaos, and more than a bit.

  As an additional element, sure to disturb the Assistant Chief, this shooting took place very close to the spot where a young, cheery, ethnic girl, rather favoured by him, had her beat, and he would fret in a very Iles style of fretting about the danger she, also, might have been in. Iles used to meet her down there on waste ground now and then, in change-every-time, by-the-hour hire cars, for anonymity. Part of Harpur’s job was to know about anonymities.

 
At certain funerals following criminal violence, a police presence might be necessary as a public relations duty. It indicated concern and sympathy. Harpur always hated going with the ACC, whether the service happened at a church or chapel or the crematorium direct, but felt he must be handy in case some kind of restraint were needed against Iles so as to preserve reasonable calm. After all, Harpur considered it more or less obvious that funerals should have dignity, decorum. They could be ticklish events for him. Although only a Detective Chief Superintendent, he might be required to curb and lull a superior officer while eyed aghast by the congregation and minister, possibly in parts of a church that would reasonably be considered special, such as the pulpit.

  Actually, “such as the pulpit” would not really do in describing these crises. If Harpur had to reach him, and apply a degree of quietening, repressive force, it would nearly always be because Iles had decided to bulk out the proceedings with a personal, extra sermon, and had somehow taken over the pulpit – or its equivalent in fundamentalist meeting halls. Then, at least until Harpur’s intervention with muscle and/or pleas for sense, the Assistant Chief could not be persuaded out and/or silenced. Now and then at tragic funerals he would weep thoroughly; weep blatantly and noisily before he gave an address. Today’s was unquestionably a tragic funeral. There’d been bloodied tracts on the pavement. Sometimes during these episodes, Iles would slander the Home Secretary for the national state of things leading to the death, or the Prime Minister, or the Trinity, or his mother and aunts, or school attendance officers, or all of the above, or permutations. Often he slandered himself and, of course, Harpur. Generally, these onslaughts came over impressively via a pulpit microphone and amplifying system. Failing these, Iles bayed.

  Naturally, he would try to fight off Harpur, or anyone else who turned physical in an attempt to suppress him: say, a vicar, if he/she thought Iles’s behaviour had become too wild. The ACC was not big, but possessed craftiness and knew head-butting well from way back in his career. Always, it had seemed especially unkempt to Harpur for someone to head-butt in a place of worship, whether he, Harpur, was on the end of it, or somebody else. Against anyone who opposed or attacked him, Iles could summon an abnormal weight of momentary but true loathing, especially against Harpur, on account not just of immediate irritation, but that past chapter with the ACC’s wife. These reserves of hatred seemed to help increase Iles’s hideous strength and, more often than not, gave his lips true froth during tussles. He usually went to funerals in full dress uniform, and that made him additionally ferocious, unhinged and malevolent, as though convinced he should live up to the high-grade cloth, Queen’s Police Medal ribbon, superb black lace-ups and insignia of his rank.