by Nicola Upson
He gave her the number and replaced the receiver, but the telephone rang again almost immediately and he recognised the long-suffering voice of his superintendent’s secretary. ‘Are you free to come upstairs for a moment?’ she asked in the apologetic tone of a prison warder asking the condemned man to step forward. ‘He’d like to see you right away.’
‘Is there any chance you could have trouble finding me?’
‘Not this time, Archie—sorry. I’m happy to help when I can, but he’s really on the warpath today and I’ve always believed martyrdom to be a very stupid quality. I only popped in to catch up on some paperwork, so if it’s your neck or mine there’s no competition.’
‘All right, I’m on my way.’ He risked another few minutes to consult the collected edition of M. R. James’s ghost stories that had become his constant companion, and turned to the tale he had identified the night before as being potentially relevant to Giles Shorter’s death. ‘The Stalls of Barchester Cathedral’ was unusual in James’s work in that the supernatural elements were really just the backdrop to a good old-fashioned tale of murder and revenge, and he scanned the pages quickly to find what he was looking for. As he climbed the stairs to his superior’s office, he had a smile on his face for the first time that day.
Percy Savage’s door stood open, which Penrose knew from experience to be an ominous sign. ‘I’ve had two complaints about you already this morning,’ Savage said without looking up, ‘and it’s not even twelve o’clock yet. What the hell are you playing at?’
‘Two complaints, sir?’ Penrose said, admitting by implication that he had half-expected one. ‘Might I ask from whom?’
‘Simon Westbury’s widow, for a start. She telephoned first thing to ask—quite reasonably in my opinion—why the person in charge of investigating her husband’s death hadn’t arrested the main suspect yet.’
‘And who does she think the main suspect is?’ Penrose asked, although he knew full well what the answer would be.
‘Albert Goulding, of course. He’s been making inflammatory statements to the press about the justice of Westbury’s murder.’
‘Already? How did he know about it?’
‘That is precisely Mrs Westbury’s point. You wanted this case from Suffolk, Penrose, and now you’re letting the grass grow under your feet on it. You need to get a grip.’
‘I still don’t think Simon Westbury’s death has got anything to do with Albert Goulding—not unless he’s also killed two other men with whom he had absolutely no connection whatsoever. As I outlined in my report, sir, both Westbury’s murder and Stephen Laxborough’s make very clear references to—’
‘Yes, yes—we’ll come to all that in a minute, but let’s get the complaints out of the way before you take us down that road. I know you, Penrose—you can make even the most fanciful scenarios sound plausible if I give you half a chance.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
The superintendent glared at him. ‘That wasn’t a compliment. Now—Robert Moorcroft says you’ve been harassing his wife.’
‘He should know all about that,’ Penrose muttered.
‘What?’
‘There’s no question of harassment, sir. Sergeant Fallowfield and I went to Angerhale Priory last night to talk to Mr Moorcroft because a witness told us that he’d had lunch with Simon Westbury in Felixstowe on the day of Westbury’s death. I don’t suppose he mentioned that, did he?’
‘Well no, actually he didn’t.’
‘Mr Moorcroft was out when we got there but his wife invited us in. We stayed for half an hour, during which time she willingly answered some questions about her husband’s past and his connections with the victims. At no point did she express a wish for us to leave or imply that she wasn’t perfectly happy to be interviewed on an informal basis. On the contrary, she was extremely helpful.’
Savage gave an exasperated sigh. ‘All right, Penrose—why don’t you talk me through whatever’s going on here, as you see it. We’ve got two high-profile murders in a short space of time and we need to be seen to be doing our stuff.’
‘Three deaths I think, sir. I’ve just had the report through on Giles Shorter.’
‘Tell me why you’re so convinced they’re linked. I didn’t understand a word of that fairytale stuff you started talking about.’
Penrose suppressed a smile. ‘Well, sir—all three murders echo very clearly various elements of the ghost stories written by M. R. James. James was Provost of King’s at the time when the three victims so far—and Robert Moorcroft—were all members of the college choir. He had a lot to do with the chapel and was a good friend to the choristers, so it’s reasonable to assume that each man was part of the circle of undergraduates who met regularly in the Provost’s rooms and listened to him read his ghost stories aloud. It was quite a tradition—I went once myself, and it was a privilege to be part of it.’ He noticed the expression of disbelief on Savage’s face and interrupted his account. ‘Is something wrong, sir? Something I haven’t made clear?’
‘No, you’re perfectly clear. I just don’t like the sound of the phrase “the three victims so far”. Go on.’
‘Dr James died in June last year. He’d moved on to be Provost of Eton by then, but Moorcroft told me that a number of former undergraduates went to his funeral. As far as I know, that was the last time they met as a group. Now—the murders. I’ll go through them in the order we became aware of them, starting the week before last with Stephen Laxborough. As you know, he was buried alive in a tomb and there were three steel padlocks lined up on the grass next to it and a photograph of Angerhale Priory inside. We also found a piece of paper in his pocket with the words “What is this that I have done?” scribbled on it—that’s a direct quotation from a James story called ‘Count Magnus’ which was published in his first collection. It’s about a man who travels to Sweden and unwittingly releases the spirit of a long-dead tyrant from a mausoleum—where he’s buried in an elaborate sarcophagus, secured by three identical steel padlocks.’
Encouraged by the superintendent’s silence, Penrose continued. ‘One other interesting thing to note—Laxborough’s housekeeper told me that he tried to take his own life, and he chose to do it while the Christmas Eve carol service was being broadcast from King’s College. I don’t think the timing was a coincidence. For some reason which we haven’t yet discovered, that music brought back a great sadness—a great sadness, or perhaps a great guilt.’
Savage looked sceptical. ‘That last bit sounds like a leap to me but I agree with you about the references to the story. What about Westbury’s murder?’
‘That’s even less disputable. James set a story called “Oh, Whistle, and I’ll Come to You, My Lad” in a fictional town called Seaburgh on the east coast, but Seaburgh was based on Felixstowe. I’ve done some research and apparently he used to go there every year just after Christmas—the bursar of King’s had a house at Cobbold’s Point, just to the north of the town. There was an inn there called The Globe and James based the hotel in the story on that. It’s gone now—the suffragettes burnt it down, I think—but the guest house where Westbury stayed is on the same stretch of beach. The view from his window matches exactly the descriptions in the story.’
‘And what’s that one about?’
‘An academic from Cambridge goes to the coast on a golfing holiday and finds an old whistle in the sand on an archaeological site belonging to the Knights Templar.’
‘Are all the stories about academics meddling in things that don’t concern them?’
‘A fair few, yes. Anyway, he removes the whistle, takes it back to the hotel, cleans it up and blows it out of curiosity. Later, he’s haunted by dreams of being chased along the sand by a strange figure, and when he wakes up the next morning, the sheets on the spare bed in his room are disturbed as if someone else has been sleeping there. The next night, the figure appears in his room—a horrible apparition with a face of crumpled linen.’
In other circumstances, the
expression on Savage’s face would have been amusing. ‘And people like these stories?’ he said.
‘Oh yes. They’re masterpieces of the genre—understated, brilliantly atmospheric, and genuinely frightening.’
‘If you say so.’
‘Anyway, we’re not here to discuss their literary merit. You’ll have spotted all the similarities to Westbury’s murder, as well as the setting itself—the old-fashioned guest house, the disturbed sheets on both beds, the whistle that he was sent in the post. And, of course, the way he died—suffocated by a pillow is a rather ingenious interpretation of a face of crumpled linen. Whoever our killer is, you’ve got to give him credit for imagination.’
‘And there was something to do with Angerhale Priory there as well?’
‘Yes, another picture. This time it had “Who is this who is coming?” written across it. The same handwriting as the note with Laxborough.’
‘From the story?’
Penrose nodded. ‘There it’s inscribed on the whistle. Our killer gave it a more modern twist, I think—that police whistle was meant to taunt us as well as cocking a snook at Westbury’s association with the law. The note might as well have said “catch me if you can”. He’s killed three times now and he’s getting cocky.’
‘But not cocky enough to make a mistake.’
‘Not yet, no.’ They were both quiet for a moment, and Penrose guessed that their thoughts were similar: there was something disturbing and inhuman about these rare cases of serial murder, where the only thing that might get them closer to catching the killer was another crime scene and—if they were lucky—another clue. He remembered Tom Webster’s frustrations at being so helpless in identifying the rapist in Cambridge, and sympathised with him more than ever; whether it was rape or murder, they both seemed to be bartering with a human life in exchange for a little more ground, a little more clarity.
‘So what about Giles Shorter?’ Savage asked.
Penrose went succinctly through the details of Shorter’s death and the dispute over the stair rod. ‘I’m waiting to see if the book was open at a photograph of Angerhale Priory, but there are plenty of other references. The pertinent story is called “The Stalls of Barchester Cathedral”, and it’s about an Archdeacon who murders his predecessor to get the position. Eventually, the Archdeacon himself is found dead at the foot of his stairs with scratches on his face, having been taunted by voices telling him to “take care”. That was the message sent to Shorter a couple of weeks before he died.’
‘So the killer gave him a warning.’
‘Yes, but one which was far too obscure for him to take heed of.’
‘All right, Penrose—you’ve convinced me. Where do we go from here?’
‘For a start, I believe there are other men in danger and we need to make their safety a priority.’
‘How many murders are we looking at—potentially?’
‘Well, if I’m right about this having something to do with the King’s Choir—which, after all, is the only thing that links them—there are eight choral scholars and six lay clerks to consider.’
‘Fourteen bloody men to worry about!’
‘I think we can narrow that down a bit. I won’t bore you with the technical differences between a lay clerk and a choral scholar, but all the men implicated so far are in the latter group.’
‘Eight is quite bad enough, don’t you think?’
‘Yes, but one died in the war and another is terminally ill with cancer.’
‘Thank God for that.’ He looked embarrassed by the outburst. ‘Well, you know what I mean. So three more murders on the cards?’
‘Yes, if we include Moorcroft in that. My most immediate concern is a man called Rufus Carrington. He’s an academic and he’s supposed to be on sabbatical at Corpus Christi College in Cambridge, but when I telephoned Corpus last night to speak to him, the porter told me he left suddenly three weeks ago to go back to his own college in Oxford. The trouble is, Balliol knew nothing of his plans to return and he never arrived. No one knows where he is.’
‘So circulate a description and—’
‘Already done, sir.’ He paused, knowing that the next piece of information he had to impart would be even less palatable. ‘The final man on the list is Richard Swayne. He’s a civil servant, working in the Home Office.’
‘Jesus Christ, that’s all we need—a government connection.’ Savage rubbed his eyes wearily, imagining the repercussions. ‘Have you spoken to him?’
‘Yes, but only briefly. I left several messages and he finally returned my call late last night, but he was very dismissive about the whole thing.’
‘At least it’s on record that you warned him.’ He glanced again through the sheaf of crime scene photographs on his desk. ‘This is good work, Penrose, but where does it get us in terms of finding out who’s doing this?’ It was the same question that Fallowfield had asked twenty-four hours earlier, and Penrose still didn’t have an answer. ‘Could it be one of the others on the list? Perhaps this Carrington chap who’s gone missing? Or Moorcroft? You said if we include him on the list of potential victims—did you mean he could be a suspect instead?’
‘No, I don’t think so. Why would he incriminate himself at every crime scene if he were behind the murders? But he is different, somehow. It’s as if the killer is sending him a message. And he’s frightened, too—that’s obvious. I’m convinced he knows far more than he’s admitting to, but I can’t think of what else to try to make him talk—other than harassing his wife again, of course.’ He gave Savage a wry smile, which the superintendent ignored.
‘Someone’s certainly going to extraordinary lengths to make a statement. Why pick these men off one by one, I wonder? Is it because they’re all wealthy and successful, and someone who hasn’t done so well bears a grudge? Or is it something they’ve done that’s coming back to haunt them? No pun intended.’
‘I don’t know, sir, but there’s a good chance it dates back to the time when they were all in Cambridge. I’ve got someone looking into the local history just before the war.’ He smiled to himself, imagining Savage’s comments if he ever found out that Josephine was the newest recruit to his team.
‘Good. What about the man who’s dying? Perhaps he’ll talk to you.’
‘On the grounds that he’s got nothing left to lose? Yes, perhaps. I’ll get back in touch with King’s and find out where he is. The bursar was quite keen that he should be left in peace.’
‘We’d all like to be left in peace but I think we’re beyond that sort of delicacy, don’t you? There are three men out there who might be finding peace rather quicker than they’d hoped.’ Penrose didn’t say anything and Savage looked at him. ‘What’s on your mind? If there’s something else you haven’t told me, you’d better spit it out.’
‘No, sir, there’s nothing else. It’s just a phrase that James uses at the beginning of “Oh, Whistle”—he talks about “the person not in the story”, and that keeps coming back to me. It’s just a throwaway line to tell the reader that a particular character isn’t important—but it seems to me that’s exactly who we’re looking for here. The person not yet in the story.’
‘I’m afraid you’re losing me now, Penrose. Go out there and get on with it. Speak to the chap on his death bed, try again with Richard Swayne, and keep me posted on the missing academic. And send Fallowfield to speak to Albert Goulding, would you? He’s still not completely off the hook for Westbury as far as I’m concerned. Find out how he knows so much about that murder. I can see you haven’t got time to go yourself, but I need to have something to say next time Mrs Westbury telephones for a cosy chat about police negligence.’
‘But that’s a waste of Bill’s time, too,’ Penrose objected. ‘And don’t you think Goulding’s been through enough? All right, so he’s said things he shouldn’t, but I’d be tempted to carp in his position.’
‘Humour me, Penrose. It’s the least you can do. And lay off Moorcroft’s wife.’
14
Like many of the town’s most distinctive buildings, Cambridge’s University Library was identified by a landmark which could be seen from far and wide, in this case a pyramid-capped tower which had the appearance of a squat cigar, standing on end. Josephine crossed the river by the bridge where Marta had first told her about Phyllis, keeping the tower in view as the lane cut between immaculate college lawns which still held the green of early summer. The weather had turned noticeably colder in the last few days, and yet—in the middle of the day, at least—the sun was bright enough to suggest that the autumnal tints of the trees had come before their time, and she was struck again by the ease with which Cambridge always seemed to linger a few weeks or a few centuries behind the present day.
It surprised her that the library was to be found a little out of town, set apart from significant buildings like St Mary’s Church and the Senate House, which formed the university’s shared ceremonial heart—but she had reckoned without its size. The building that greeted her was a huge, symmetrical expanse of pale russet brick with a low wing on either side of the tower and long, narrow windows running from ground to cornice. It was a recent addition to the landscape, still less than five years old, and to Josephine’s eye the overall design resembled a warehouse, which seemed appropriate in its own way; she liked and admired its individuality, but it must have caused quite a stir in the town and she understood now why the people she had asked for directions all spoke of the ‘new library’ in tones that clearly hankered after the old.
The richly decorated interior made it clear that no expense had been spared. Josephine showed her letter of introduction to the man on duty in the entrance hall and explained what she was looking for. The materials she wanted to consult were naturally held in different rooms, so she decided to execute her promise to Archie first and use whatever time was left for her own research. The attendant directed her up a flight of stairs and through two pairs of heavy bronze doors to the reading room—a beautiful, high-ceilinged space with closely set arched windows and classical details that seemed to belong to a different building entirely from the one she had entered. Earnest young men—interspersed only occasionally with earnest young women—sat at long tables, and every now and then a librarian appeared from a back room with a great pile of books and left them on a central set of shelves ready for collection.