by Nicola Upson
The detective looked at Penrose, understandably curious to know why the Metropolitan Police might be interested in an open window, then turned back to his boss. ‘That wasn’t me, sir, as it turned out. If you remember, you asked me to go out and check on it, but then we had that false alarm with the woman in George Street and I sent DC Bailey instead.’
Clough tutted with impatience. ‘False alarms—that’s all I bloody hear these days.’ He looked at Penrose. ‘The woman came in from the shops and heard someone upstairs, so she called us in a panic. Turned out it was her husband, who’d come home early from work with the flu. They must think we’ve got all the time in the world. I’m surprised she didn’t ask us to call in and get the bloody tissues on the way.’ Penrose stifled a smile and caught Webster’s eye. ‘All right then, Tom—go and find Bailey for me and send him up here.’
‘Bailey’s on leave this week, sir. That’s why we’re so stretched.’
‘Of course he bloody is. Oh well, I don’t suppose there’s much more he could have told you.’
‘No, probably not.’ Penrose stood up, keen to get on with his business. ‘In any case, I’ve got everything I need for now. You’ve been very helpful.’
‘Well, we’ll do whatever we can, and by all means take DI Webster with you to see Moorcroft if it would help to have a local man in on the conversation.’
Penrose’s heart sank. He had nothing against Webster and didn’t want to be rude, but he had been deliberately vague when making the appointment with Robert Moorcroft and wanted to catch him off-guard with the reason for his visit; while he hated pulling rank, there was little doubt in his mind that a call from Scotland Yard about a murder enquiry would focus Moorcroft’s attention more effectively if it wasn’t diluted by a local officer. To his relief, Webster seemed even less enthusiastic about the idea than he was. ‘I haven’t really got time, sir. I was just off to the hospital to talk to the latest victim. The doctor says she’s well enough to be questioned.’
‘Then let one of the women do it—that’s what they’re here for. Send WPC Brown instead—she’ll probably get more out of the girl than you will.’
Clough’s reasoning made sense, even if it was built on a dubious lack of regard for the role of female police officers, but Penrose stepped in to support Webster. ‘I’m happy to go on my own,’ he said. ‘If these attacks were my responsibility, I’d want to question the victims myself and I’ve taken up enough of your time already.’
‘Very well, if you’re sure.’
‘Quite sure. I’ll be in touch.’
Penrose took his leave, and Webster walked down to the front desk with him. ‘Thanks for that, sir,’ he said. ‘I appreciate it. If the Super had talked to some of these girls himself, he might take what’s going on here a bit more seriously.’
‘I don’t think he’s treating it lightly,’ Penrose said diplomatically, ‘but the higher you get, the more you have to play the politician.’ Webster looked sceptical and Penrose regretted sounding more patronising than he had intended. ‘At least—that’s what my boss keeps telling me. One day I’ll believe him.’ He smiled, restoring the alliance between them. ‘Are you walking to Addenbrooke’s? If so, I’ll come part of the way with you. My car’s at Downing.’
Webster nodded and led the way out to the street. ‘You sound like you know the town, sir. Were you up at college here?’
‘That’s right. I came up in 1912. What about you?’
‘No, nothing like that. I was here as a boy for a bit, then I moved away and didn’t come back until I got my first promotion five years ago.’
‘And you’ve been on these assaults since they started?’
‘Yes, back in the summer. The first one was a burglary—he went for the money and thought he’d have a little extra while he was there, but he’s really got a taste for it now. Nothing’s been taken the last couple of times—well, nothing that can ever be replaced. He’s hell-bent on hurting them, and there doesn’t seem to be a thing that we can do to stop him.’ Penrose listened, wondering if Webster’s zeal was simply down to a natural wish to prove himself at a crucial stage in his career or to something rather less cynical; he seemed to be genuinely angered by the crimes he was investigating, and Penrose found himself reminded of his own attitude towards the early cases he was given. ‘Do you know what I really hate?’ Webster continued. ‘Apart from the violence, I mean.’
‘The helplessness? The fact that he has all the initiative and you’re sitting around waiting for his next move in the hope that he’ll make a mistake?’
‘Exactly that. And he could be anybody. Somewhere in this town there’s a man who has a home and a job, who drinks in the pubs and goes out with his friends, and he’s probably so ordinary that you wouldn’t look twice at him. The sort of bloke you sit next to on the bus and instantly forget. We could be walking past him right now and we’d never know.’
‘Are there really no connections between the victims?’
‘Not that I can see, and I’ve looked at it from every angle I can think of.’
‘So how does he choose them? Does he pick a street and watch until he’s confident he’s found a woman on her own, or do they go to him?’
In spite of his determination not to be distracted, Penrose was becoming increasingly interested in the case and Webster seemed pleased to have a fresh ear to talk to about it. ‘Go on,’ he said. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, does he have a job that might bring him into contact with them? Is he a taxi driver or a waiter or a barman? Does he take the coats at one of the dance halls or read the meter for the gas board? Anything that might get him into conversation with these women in the natural course of his work.’ He smiled at the expression of weariness on Webster’s face. ‘Sorry. I’m not really narrowing things down for you, am I?’
‘No, but at least you don’t look at me as if I’m wasting your time.’ He shook his head in exasperation. ‘And I’m sure the Super’s got this one wrong.’ Penrose felt duty-bound to argue again, but Webster began to explain before he could object. ‘The public can really relate to these crimes. Every one of these girls is someone’s neighbour or work colleague. People read the stories in the newspapers and they think about the friend they met for lunch or the woman they talked to while they were queuing for the pictures—it could be them next. If we’re not seen to be taking these assaults seriously and doing everything we can, people will start getting angry and it’ll be the police in the firing line, not the rapist.’ He paused and grinned, embarrassed by his own outburst. ‘Is that political enough for you?’
‘Impressively so.’
‘It’s a good idea, though. I’ve been through the obvious things with the victims and they didn’t use any of the same pubs or cafes on a regular basis, but I haven’t asked them about taxis or gas men. I’ll look into it.’
‘It’s worth a try.’ As they reached Downing College, the sun was shining lazily onto the yellow stone of the porters’ lodge. Penrose stopped by the car parked nearby and held out his hand. ‘It’s been very good to meet you,’ he said truthfully, ‘and I hope you get a stroke of luck soon. There are people I care for very much in this town, so I know how it feels to worry about their safety, politicians or no politicians.’
‘Thank you, sir. And I hope you get what you need from the Priory.’ Webster touched his hat and walked away, too discreet or too intent on his own mission to ask what that might be.
5
Angerhale and its grounds straddled two villages a few miles to the east of Cambridge. It was set on the edge of remote fen country and, as he drove, Penrose tried to imagine the lives of those early Augustinian monks, isolated here under the vast fenland skies, quietly marking their days from morning prayer to compline. He slowed at the village sign, keen not to miss the entrance, and soon saw the lodge house up ahead, dwarfed by black studded gates and imposing stone pillars. The gates were pulled back and the driveway led him through gentle open parkland, graced now with
sunlight and dotted here and there with a giant redwood tree. Half a mile or so on, a pair of smaller gate piers marked the beginning of an enclosed, wooded area, and the densely planted cedars and elm kept the house hidden infuriatingly from view; eventually, at the very last moment, a left-hand curve in the road gave him his first glimpse of the distinctive chimneys and stonework which were instantly recognisable from the photograph found with Laxborough’s body.
He parked in a gravelled area on the Priory’s north side, dark and forbidding from the canopy of trees. It was still early afternoon, but already he could see lights on through the leaded windows and, as he walked up to the porch, he noticed that several of the interior walls were hung with tapestries in muted colours, giving the rooms a medieval atmosphere in keeping with the original parts of the house. His knock was quickly answered, and a sharp-faced woman whom he took to be the housekeeper invited him in. The entrance hall was actually a long gallery with a vaulted ceiling and five low-hanging lanterns which led the eye to a plain stone spiral staircase at the far end, but he was whisked quickly through to the living room. ‘If you’ll just wait here, sir,’ the housekeeper said, ‘I’ll tell Mr Moorcroft you’ve arrived.’
She disappeared, leaving him in peace to appreciate one of the most tastefully furnished rooms he had seen for some time—a light, open space which instinctively married aesthetics and comfort. The room was at the front of the house—the aspect pictured in the photograph—and enjoyed wide-ranging views over the lawns and parkland beyond. Someone in the Moorcroft family was obviously a shrewd collector: among the paintings on the wall, Penrose identified a seascape by Gainsborough and a watercolour which had the subtlety of Bonington, and the rugs and furniture—eighteenth-century chairs and cabinets in a richly coloured walnut—were of the highest quality. In most rooms, the great stone fireplace would have dominated; here, it took its place quietly among the gilded mirrors and pale walls, and the focal point was the fire itself; together with a sun which hung low in the sky, it gave the room a comfortable, drowsy warmth. Penrose walked to each window in turn, soon arriving at one which showed signs of recent mending; a bureau stood within easy reach of it, offering valuable rewards to a burglar chancing his arm—and yet Clough said that nothing had been taken. Perhaps the intruder had been disturbed, or had simply lost his nerve.
‘I was expecting you at two, Chief Inspector.’
Penrose turned and glanced defensively at the ornate clock on a nearby cabinet; it was precisely five minutes past the hour, but he decided not to antagonise his host by quibbling. ‘I’m sorry to keep you waiting, sir,’ he said. ‘Thank you for agreeing to see me.’
‘Did I have a choice?’ Robert Moorcroft might have been a cricketing blue in his younger days, but the intervening twenty-five years had not been kind. He was still a commanding figure, but his height was less noticeable now than the weight of middle age, and his face had a florid puffiness which suggested a liking for the good things in life and the means to enjoy them to excess. His features seemed inclined to petulance, a natural preference which was not improved by Penrose’s obvious interest in his windows. ‘I’m sure Scotland Yard isn’t wasting its time on broken catches now, so let’s get on with it, shall we?’ he said. ‘And it might have been more useful to us both if you’d given me some indication of what you wanted to talk about. That way, I could have prepared whatever you need.’
Or got your story straight in advance, Penrose thought. ‘The questions I have are very straightforward,’ he said, masking his dislike with a professional civility. ‘I don’t think you’ll find them too taxing.’
Moorcroft frowned at him, trying to decide whether the words were sarcastic or genuine, then sat down on one of the sofas by the fireplace, gesturing to Penrose to take the one opposite. ‘I’m investigating the murder of Dr Stephen Laxborough,’ he began, raising his voice slightly to compensate for the distance between them. ‘He was killed in Hampstead last week, and I wondered if you knew him?’
‘I thought that might be it.’
Penrose waited for him to continue, but was forced to break the silence himself. ‘So you did know Dr Laxborough?’
‘I knew a Stephen Laxborough, but it was many years ago now. We were at King’s together just before the war.’ He leant forward and brushed a smudge of ash from the carpet. ‘I was a freshman and Laxborough was in his final year, so we didn’t have much to do with each other.’
‘But you think it was the same man? You’ve obviously read about his death in the newspapers.’
‘The Laxborough I knew was a music scholar, so yes, it’s reasonable to assume it was the same man. In fact, that was the only thing that ever brought us together—we were both in the choir.’
Penrose tried and failed to picture the man in front of him as one of the fresh-faced choristers he remembered from his own experience of the Christmas Eve services in King’s College Chapel. ‘And after university?’
Moorcroft shrugged. ‘I went to war in my second year, and I never went back to take my degree. I’ve no idea what Stephen did when he left.’
‘You haven’t seen him since?’
For the first time, Moorcroft hesitated. ‘Once, just over a year ago, although I fail to see why that might be relevant to your investigation. It was very brief and we hardly spoke to each other.’
‘What was the occasion?’
‘Monty’s funeral. A few of us went.’ When Penrose looked blank, he added impatiently: ‘Montague Rhodes James? The writer? He was Provost of King’s when we were there. A wonderful man and a great supporter of the choir.’
‘Yes, I remember him,’ Penrose said, feeling stupid for not making the connection sooner. James had been a prominent figure during his own Cambridge years, a respected medieval scholar and former director of the Fitzwilliam Museum. Like most people, though, Penrose had known him for his famous ghost stories, widely read now but originally written to entertain a handful of friends and students in his college rooms on Christmas Eve. Those yearly readings were legendary, and Penrose had been lucky enough to attend one himself at the invitation of a friend. He would always remember the thrill as the writer emerged from another room, manuscript in hand, and proceeded to blow out all the candles but one, by which he seated himself to read. It was the atmosphere he remembered rather than the tale itself, which had been something about an ancient whistle that could summon mysterious winds and a malevolent apparition, and although he had read a few of the stories in subsequent years, nothing could quite match the frisson of fear and dread that the author had managed to conjure in those shadowy, oak-panelled rooms.
‘You’re a Cambridge man?’ Moorcroft asked, and Penrose was amused to note that his presence at a particular university still gained him more respect in certain circles than his rank and impeccable record as a detective.
‘That’s right. Medicine at Downing, although—like you—I let war get in the way.’
Moorcroft nodded, and Penrose was content to let him find an affinity between them which he doubted would ever exist. ‘So you went to M. R. James’s funeral. When was that?’
‘June last year. He was back at Eton by then, which was where I first met him—he left Cambridge immediately after the war. The service was in the chapel. Beautiful sunshine and all the music he would have loved.’
‘Can you remember what you talked about with Stephen Laxborough?’
‘We swapped pleasantries, nothing more.’
‘And that was the only time you’ve had contact with him since your college days?’
Moorcroft sighed impatiently. ‘Yes, Chief Inspector. I’ve already told you that. Now—if that’s all? I’m really not sure why we couldn’t have discussed this over the telephone. A chance connection a quarter of a century ago and a brief meeting at a funeral hardly seem enough to justify your coming all the way from London.’
‘I haven’t quite finished yet, sir. There is a more recent connection that I need to ask you about, and one I find harder to
explain. A photograph of your house was found with Stephen Laxborough’s body. Can you think of any reason why that might be?’
Penrose was expecting a reaction, but even he was surprised by the sudden transformation in Moorcroft’s demeanour. The colour drained from his face, and he stared at Penrose in astonishment. ‘A photograph of Angerhale? Of course I can’t think of a reason. It makes no bloody sense whatsoever. Are you sure?’
‘Quite sure. It’s only a fragment, but enough to identify the house without any doubt.’
He took an envelope from the inside pocket of his jacket and got up to pass it to Moorcroft. There was a long silence in the room as he removed the picture and tried to make sense of it, and Penrose let it stretch out between them, undisturbed except for the crackle of a log on the fire and the ticking of a clock. Moorcroft recovered himself eventually, but his immediate reaction could not be entirely erased and, when he spoke again, some of his former arrogance had vanished. ‘I’m sorry, Penrose, but I really don’t understand why a man I barely knew would have gone to his death with a photograph of my house. I can see now why you wanted to talk to me, but I honestly can’t help you any more than I have already.’
‘Thank you, sir. I hope you’ll also understand now why I have to ask you some rather more delicate questions.’
Moorcroft stood up and took a cigarette from a silver-gilt tobacco box. ‘Go on.’
‘Where were you on Sunday the fourth and Monday the fifth of October?’
‘Where was I? Here, of course, as my wife and household will testify. Surely you don’t think that I actually killed the man?’
‘I’m not making any assumptions at the moment,’ Penrose said evenly, ‘but I do need to ask these questions, and the next one is very important, so please think carefully before answering. Is there anyone who might want to harm you? Anyone with a grudge against you who might also have known Stephen Laxborough?’