by Nicola Upson
‘Probably. I’m expecting some colleagues from Scotland Yard—perhaps you’d be kind enough to point them in the right direction when they get here?’ She nodded and began to close the door but he stopped her. ‘Mrs Moorcroft, is there somewhere you can take the children until this is all over? Somewhere safe, perhaps with your family?’
‘I don’t have any family here—they’re all in America. Anyway, I don’t want to frighten the children. It’s best if we keep things as normal as possible—and surely we’ll be safe here? It’s Robert who’s involved in all this—have any of the other men’s families been harmed?’
‘No,’ Penrose admitted. He could understand her preference to stay, but still it bothered him. Perhaps he was simply allowing his liking for Virginia Moorcroft to cloud his judgement, but it seemed to him that her husband was the odd man out in this story, taunted and frightened while the men around him were ruthlessly eliminated; it was as if even the cruellest of deaths was too merciful a punishment, and he wouldn’t have put it past the killer to use Moorcroft’s family against him. ‘Please reconsider,’ he said gently. ‘I can’t guarantee your safety here, but I’d be happy to arrange somewhere for you all to stay if you don’t want to go to America. Will you at least think about it?’
She agreed reluctantly, and he set out down the path she had shown him without any great hope of her changing her mind. The gardens at Angerhale showed the same flair for beauty and comfort as the house. Even at this time of year, it was easy to see a design of skilfully judged contrasts: the formal and the flamboyant; the wild and the managed; precise, geometric lines and sweeping, open landscapes. Under different circumstances, the walk would have been a delight. He was soon at the river, which formed a natural boundary to the north of the estate, and the long, straight ribbon of water led his eye to the mill in the distance. As he drew closer, he saw that the house and outbuildings which formed a courtyard to the side were blackened by fire and derelict. Perhaps it was the knowledge of what awaited him inside, but the scene in front of him seemed to hold a tangible melancholy, as if the fire had simply finished a natural process of waste and desolation which began in the human spirit.
He showed his warrant card to the officer standing by the bridge, then crossed the river to the old mill gates. The spot was isolated, hidden from the Priory by a thick band of woodland and approached from the opposite direction along a cart track through open fields. The killer had chosen shrewdly: as well as its proximity to Angerhale and similarity to the location in James’s story, the spot was eminently suited to the disposal of a body—unused, private, remote. Its selection was deliberate, and suggested a familiarity with the area. He glanced through the open door of the mill, where the shafts and grinders were still in place, then walked over to the derelict house. The trapdoor led down from the room which had obviously once been a scullery. Penrose pulled it back, and saw a set of wooden steps leading into the blackness. A musty smell rose up to greet him—the stale, bleak smell of neglect—but the intense stench of death which accompanied the earlier stages of decomposition was mercifully absent.
He took a torch from his pocket and began to descend the steps, weighed down by an uncharacteristic sense of dread. The room was desperately cold, lined with brick and about twelve feet square. In the limited light, he could see that the dead man was sitting with his back towards the steps at what looked like an old school desk. The black parson’s cloak which the corpse in James’s story wore had been replaced here by a college gown, and the effect was surreal; the man’s head lolled slightly to one side, but otherwise it would have been easy to believe that the figure might stand and turn at any moment. Penrose’s torch picked out dark stains on the floor under the chair, and the sheer volume of blood told him that Rufus Carrington—if this was Carrington—had been killed where he sat. The cellar was, quite literally, a chamber of horrors, and he couldn’t help but contrast the comfortable thrill of a ghost story with the brutal reality in front of him.
He walked slowly towards the body and forced himself to direct the circle of soft yellow light at the dead man’s face, remembering the description he had circulated for the missing academic: of medium build, with wavy dark brown hair and brown eyes, and a beard worn to cover a distinctive strawberry birthmark on his left cheek. But what Penrose saw before him was barely recognisable as human, let alone identifiable. Most of the soft tissues on the face and neck had been eaten away by scavengers, leaving the sinews and tendons exposed and the mouth pulled back in a sinister rictus grin. The victim’s eyes were long gone, and the wide, empty sockets joined with a gaping jaw and prominent teeth to create an impression of surprised amusement, as if his fate had proved so absurd and so unexpected that the only response left to him was to laugh. His hands were tied to the arms of the chair, and Penrose noticed that the skin was heavily discoloured and leathery, where the process of mummification had begun. Suddenly, he longed for the innocent horror of James’s dry, cobwebbed skull, and he could only begin to imagine the pictures which would haunt Teddy Moorcroft and his friend in their dreams.
He turned his attention to the items on the desk: an old briar tobacco pipe, a tin of Sun Dew tobacco, a whisky bottle and a soda siphon—so incongruous in their current setting. There was a blank, unsealed envelope propped against the bottle, labelled simply ‘To whom it may concern’. Penrose picked it up and took out a small slip of paper. The only thing written on it was a series of five punctuated numerals: ‘11.3.34’. They looked like a date of birth, and had he not read ‘The Tractate Middoth’—in which a series of numbers also appeared—he would never have considered that they might be the library reference number for a book. In the story, the book in question had been found on the shelves of the University Library and held the key to the whole mystery; with a surge of excitement, Penrose wondered if the volume to which these numbers belonged would do the same.
He made a note of the five digits and put the envelope back by the bottle for the scene of crime photographs, then turned to look again at the body. There was a natural order to everything, Alastair Frost had said: assuming that this was Rufus Carrington and that the murder had taken place shortly after his disappearance, then his death was the second in the sequence, after Giles Shorter and before Stephen Laxborough. Why was the pattern of killing so important? Penrose wondered. And what sort of person was behind it? These murders were among the most audacious crimes that he had ever come across. The systematic elimination of four men would, in itself, require nerve, discipline and careful planning, but there was another layer to every death: the symbolism and the careful staging of each crime scene, the confident taunting of the police along the way—this was the work of someone highly intelligent, someone driven to the point of obsession by hatred or by an acute sense of injustice and retribution.
When he was sure that he had noted everything, Penrose climbed back up towards the light, pleased to be breathing fresh, clean air again. In the distance, he could see Fallowfield and Spilsbury turning onto the river path and he raised his hand in greeting. ‘I’m sure it’s Rufus Carrington,’ he said, when they were close enough to talk. ‘But we’ll have to rely on dental records to prove it.’
Fallowfield raised an eyebrow. ‘That bad, eh?’
‘Oh, he’s surpassed himself this time,’ Penrose said with feeling. ‘There’s a whole stage set in there. The floor’s covered in blood, Bernard, so my guess is that his throat was cut, but I’d be grateful for a time and cause of death as soon as possible.’
‘When wouldn’t you, Archie?’ Spilsbury said wryly. ‘So a relatively swift death compared to our Hampstead friend?’
‘Yes, although there’s no way of telling how long our killer might have played with him before using the knife. Whatever happened, the rats are finishing what he started.’
‘Have you spoken to Moorcroft?’ Fallowfield asked.
‘No, only his wife. He’s upstairs, sleeping off a heavy session.’
‘And we believe her?’
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The comment wasn’t meant to be accusatory, but Penrose realised suddenly that he hadn’t so much as questioned what he had been told and Bill was right: he should have checked for himself. He had only his instincts to prove that Virginia Moorcroft wasn’t playing a very clever game, pretending to be frightened of her husband while actually protecting him—and Penrose was honest enough to admit to himself that his instincts were unusually biased where the lady of the house was concerned. For all he knew, Moorcroft might have left the country days ago. ‘Of course we believe her,’ he snapped. ‘Why would she lie?’ Fallowfield said nothing, but exchanged a ‘what did I tell you?’ look with Spilsbury, and Penrose guessed that his ears should have been burning during their drive up from London. ‘I’ll go and see him on my way out,’ he added defensively, ‘and we’ll question him formally tomorrow, when he’s sobered up. By then, I’m hoping to have a bit more information to play with.’
Fallowfield looked at him curiously. ‘Right-o, sir,’ he said, as good-naturedly as ever, ‘but where are you going?’
This time it was Penrose’s turn to look smug. ‘I’m off to the library, Bill,’ he said. ‘I think at last we might be getting somewhere.’
19
Penrose stood in the foyer of the University Library, waiting impatiently for the attendant to return with the book he had requested. According to the library’s files, the numbers found with Rufus Carrington’s body belonged to a publication called Byways in British Archaeology by Walter Johnson, which dated back to 1912. The title was unpromising, but Penrose had never expected the book’s significance to lie in its subject matter; Walter Johnson was, no doubt, a greatly respected authority on archaeology, but he was far more interested in any recent additions that might have been made to the book—something tucked inside its pages, perhaps, or annotations to the printed text added by a second, anonymous author. He looked for the umpteenth time at the vast clock behind the desk, which told him that he had been waiting for nearly fifteen minutes, and caught the attendant’s eye. ‘Is the archaeology section in a very distant part of the library?’ he asked, worried now that the book might be missing. ‘If the volume I need is on open shelves, I’m more than happy to go and fetch it myself.’
‘That won’t be necessary, sir,’ the attendant said, glancing behind him to the first-floor corridor which ran past the catalogue room. ‘I think I can hear Mr Duncan coming now.’
Sure enough, the librarian soon appeared at the top of the steps, his modest frame burdened by a pile of eight or ten books. Quite reasonably, he had collated a number of requests together on a round-trip of the book stacks, but Penrose could cheerfully have strangled him for every wasted moment. ‘Here you are, sir,’ Duncan said, handing him the larger of two volumes bound in red cloth. ‘Byways in British Archaeology.’
‘Thank you.’ Penrose tried not to snatch the book from his hand. He took his prize over to one of the leather chairs by the library’s revolving doors and set about examining it. In the story of ‘The Tractate Middoth’, the secrets which the book held—a missing will—were inscribed on the flyleaves, so he looked there first but they were blank. He flicked slowly through the five hundred or so pages, but there seemed to be nothing tucked between them except dust and a comprehensive exploration of burial customs, churches built on pagan sites and the folklore of yew trees. Convinced that he must have missed something, he repeated the process and then, in frustration, held the book by its outer covers and shook it up and down to see if anything fell out. The carpet at his feet remained obstinately bare, and he noticed that the librarians were beginning to stare at him as if he were a lunatic shaking a defenceless child. He smiled apologetically and turned back to the book. Had someone got there ahead of him, he wondered? Walter Johnson’s particular brand of scholarship seemed to be out of fashion—the dates on the title page showed that Byways in British Archaeology hadn’t been borrowed for five years—but anyone consulting the book in the library could have tampered with it. Or had he misread the situation completely? Perhaps the piece of paper was nothing more than a reference to the story, an empty stage prop left there for one reason only—to send anyone investigating the murders on a wild goose chase. If that was the case, it had worked to perfection.
Bitterly disappointed, he decided to borrow the book anyway. He might have missed something, and after his earlier excitement—not to mention his smugness with Fallowfield—he couldn’t bear to leave empty-handed. ‘I’d like to take this out, please,’ he said to the librarian who had fetched it for him. ‘Thank you for your help.’
‘Do you have borrowing rights, sir?’ Mr Duncan asked politely, and Penrose didn’t know whether to be charmed or irritated by the institution’s insistence on protocol, even in the face of a police investigation. He gave his college and year of matriculation, and waited while the register was consulted; when his request was deemed to be in order, the volume was duly stamped and given over to his custody for a period of two weeks.
Penrose went back to his car, tossing the book onto the passenger seat with a lack of ceremony which would have sent the librarian to new heights of indignation. He sat there for several minutes, fighting the despair which had begun to overwhelm him when he realised that the clue on which he had briefly relied—the first possibility of moving forward with the case—was nothing of the sort. He had hoped to have something new to put in front of Robert Moorcroft when he next sat down to question him, but he was back where he started and he needed to clear his head. On a whim, he drove to the nearest telephone box and dialled Josephine’s number.
Five minutes later, he saw her walking down St Clement’s Passage to meet him as he parked his car near Jesus Green. Perhaps it was the sober, dark coat or the resonance of the poppy pinned to its lapel, but she looked thoughtful and reflective, scarcely more content than he was himself, and he felt the weight of a day which held sadness for them both. ‘I’m sorry not to be more hospitable,’ she said as he got out to open the door for her, ‘but we can’t talk properly in the house at the moment. In fact, the house is turning into a bit of a nightmare. I’ve managed to hire Marta the daily woman from hell and the decorators are currently building to some sort of crescendo on the first floor. They’ll be leaving soon, but until then I can’t even hear myself think.’
‘You’ll be glad to get back to Inverness for some peace and quiet.’
Josephine looked sceptical. ‘That rather depends on the daily woman. Just my luck to end up with someone who’s got relatives in my home town. She’s determined to get to the bottom of me, but I’m afraid it’s a rather doomed effort.’ She must have seen his look of bewilderment, because she smiled. ‘I’m sorry, Archie—it’s a long story and it’s not why you’re here. Shall we go somewhere in town and talk there?’
‘Do you mind if we just stay here? It’s been a bit of a day already and I’m at my wits’ end with people. I came close to hitting a librarian earlier, and a waitress might send me over the edge.’
‘That’s not like you.’
‘A lot of things aren’t like me at the moment, but I still seem to be doing them.’ He wound down his window and rummaged for a packet of cigarettes in the glove compartment. ‘I’m sorry, Josephine. The front seat of a car on a drizzly November evening isn’t very glamorous.’
‘Oh, I don’t know. It’s got a B-movie charm.’ She took a cigarette and waited for him to light it. ‘What’s the matter, Archie? Why are you so unsettled?’
He hesitated, scarcely knowing how to answer such a straightforward question, or to explain that he had simply wanted to see a friendly face on a day when nothing—least of all his own feelings—seemed to make sense to him. ‘It’s this case I’m working on,’ he said eventually. ‘Four people have been killed and two are still in danger, and I’m no wiser now than I was five weeks ago.’
‘Is that all?’ Josephine looked surprised, as if she had been expecting him to say something else. ‘I don’t mean it isn’t important—it sounds terribl
e and you must feel completely helpless—but I thought there was something more personal troubling you. You seem . . .’ She paused, trying to put her finger on it. ‘Well, you seem unhappy. Unhappy, and angry with yourself.’
‘Do I?’ He smiled at her, comforted by how well she knew him. ‘I’m not really unhappy. Disappointed, perhaps—in myself, you’re right about that—but even that’s not quite the right word. To be honest, Josephine, I’m not sure how I feel.’
‘So what’s happened? You were distracted like this the other night, too. Is it about Bridget?’
‘Yes, I suppose it is—indirectly.’ He stared out of the window, watching families trying to make the best of the weather at the Armistice fair. The light had faded, replaced by flickering dots of yellow and orange as the stallholders brought out lamps and torches, adding a warmth to the scene which had so far been absent. In the distance, he could hear the first, nostalgic notes of a brass band. ‘She’s been away a long time now. We speak on the phone, but sometimes we’re strangers to each other—and I think Bridget feels that, too.’
‘She’s back in Cambridge, Archie. I bumped into her this morning.’
‘Is she?’ He stared at her in surprise. ‘I wasn’t expecting her for another week or so. She must have finished her work early.’
‘But she didn’t tell you she was coming home.’
Any curiosity that he might have felt about Bridget’s silence was lost in a sudden, overwhelming surge of relief which took him completely by surprise. ‘No, she didn’t, but that’s wonderful. Now things can get back to normal, without all these distractions.’
He began to regret ever starting the conversation, but Josephine seemed reluctant to let it drop. ‘What distractions?’ she asked. ‘I’ve never known you to think of work as a distraction—just the opposite—so what else has been getting in the way?’ He felt himself flush, and she noticed immediately. ‘Or should I say who?’