by John Creasey
Later, Burke was to learn that O’Ray had thought Mary Brent knew, definitely, of his connection with the murders; he had sent Graydon to make sure she didn’t talk. Yet as it happened, Mary had never suspected O’Ray. And Burke told himself—and others—that O’Ray had made his biggest mistake, there; for it was tracing Graydon—or Wigham—to the Granton fields that had brought the end of the affair. Burke and Patricia talked very little about this, however...
It was with Craigie, later that night, that Burke discussed it all. They were in Burke’s flat, and Craigie removed his pipe from thoughtfully-pursed lips to say:
“It amounted to this, Jim. O’Ray saw his game was failing, and killed Fordham and Brent in an effort to save the position. After that, the other killings were efforts to cover himself. Curson went because he had talked once and might talk further. As Graydon’s chief clerk, Curson knew of most of O’Ray’s activities including his fight with Fordham. The man Prettle went because he knew O’Ray was connected with the changeover of servants at the Brake Street flat: he discovered Broomfield—who ordered the servants—and O’Ray, discussing the affair. Broomfield, we know, was Fordham’s secretary, and O’Ray bribed him over. Broomfield had the key that enabled the flat to be raided on the night of the murder, but it was one of the hired gunmen who actually shot Fordham. Anyhow—Broomfield was killed at your flat—here—because, again, he would have talked. All the time, you see, O’Ray and Graydon were trying to save themselves from proof of their complicity.”
“Two charming fellows.” Burke grimaced his disgust.
“Very,” said Craigie. He surveyed Burke’s bandaged arm and scarred face. “Sure you’re all right, Jim?”
“I feel fine.” Jim Burke grinned lopsidedly: ‘Carry on, man!”
“Well, I needn’t tell you it was the fight between O’Ray and Fordham that started the killing; I needn’t tell you it was a coal and oil monopoly both of them wanted—although Fordham fought fair, and O’Ray wanted to get the Granton Company under his control, to stir up trouble. You probably know what happened at Granton’s, before the strike? Graydon brought men down from the north—paid agitators—and when they’d done their job, he sent them back again. He booked them under the name of Smith, and he actually stayed sometimes at a pub——”
“I know all about him,” Burke growled. “And if you want to know how agitators work, ask a man named Pickering.”
“I’ve seen Pickering” Craigie told him. “I saw him while you were—asleep, Jim.”
Burke grinned.
“I’ll throw you out of that chair!”
“Thanks.” Craigie smiled back. “But let’s get back a bit. One thing puzzled us, at first, and that was Brent’s murder. Well, now I know that John Brent was in Fordham’s confidence. Brent knew of the fight with O’Ray, and knew O’Ray had threatened violence. O’Ray had to make sure both men were dead. And O’Ray, of course, had the perfect blind in the shape of the Ranian attitude. It nearly caught us——”
“Nearly,” murmured Burke, “is a good word.”
Craigie smiled again. “Well, in any case, the Ranian concession did catch O’Ray. He tried to get it, and worked the neat plan of replacing the genuine Katrina Fordham with the false. By the way,” he digressed. “O’Ray and the woman you saw at Brake Street were engaged to be married. That’s why O’Ray went back to the mine; she was there—he’d thought the village was safe from suspicion. He went to get her.”
“A patch of white,” Burke commented dourly, “on a very black cloak.”
Craigie nodded. He did not try to understand the many different patches on the cloak that was Sir Marcus O’Ray. “Well—remember that Katrina Fordham wasn’t well-known. The other woman—her name is Temple, by the way—was like her in build, and very like her in features. The make-up was an easy job, for an expert. That was how the deception went, Jim—the false Katrina was to sign the concession over to O’Ray, in front of reputable witnesses, and the real Katrina would have died. It was clever, that she was exiled from her country, her husband was dead—it’s possible no one would ever have known that Katrina, ex-Princess of Rania, was dead.”
“Why didn’t they kill her at once?”
“They thought she was safe at the pit-head, during the strike, and they thought it best to have her alive while the concession was being transferred. Or so Graydon says.”
“I’d like to hear more about that little man,” said Jim Burke, coldly. “But first—” he grinned, suddenly: “First, I’d like a very mild whisky. Sam!”
Pete Carter, beaming complacently, doubled into the room, doubled with the whiskies, and doubled out again.
“That’s good,” Burke announced, after a pause. “Yours all right?”
“Fine, thanks.” Craigie set his glass on a side-table, and went on:
“The woman Temple was a small-part actress with a surprising talent for make-up. She did the job of hoodwinking you, both times and with a man of Graydon’s peculiar complexion—strange, in a dark-haired man—it was easy to give him freckles, and build his nose into a snub. A good wig did the rest. So Graydon was Wigham. He began to be Wigham when Brent first went to Cottesdon. He stayed at the Boar, grew friendly with Mary, and was welcome at Brent’s house. He was thus able to know just when Fordham visited Brent. As Wigham, he was continually trying to get at Mary, but you kept him away—your intuition and distrust being completely justified. The grapes, by the way, were pierced at the stalk, and the arsenic injected.”
Craigie puffed at his pipe, and Burke told himself grimly that he would like half an hour with Graydon alias Wigham.
“You know pretty well all the rest,” Craigie resumed. “Of course, the new servants were listening, when we talked at Brake Street. The moment you discovered the deception there, the Temple woman was told—and ran. She went straight to O’Ray, and he promptly sent her to Wales.” Craigie shrugged. “So—” and returned to his pipe.
“Oil” Burke protested. “There’s lots more to come yet, Gordon. What happened at Cottesdon?”
“Good Lord!” Craigie looked surprised. “I’m sorry! Well—Broomfield and Graydon were at Cottesdon Graydon shot Brent, and waited for the girl. They’d been watching her, and they planned to keep her quiet for a while—but not to kill her. It wasn’t until we got well after them that they went berserk. It was no accident, of course, that O’Ray, was in Cottesdon that night. He’d been waiting in Cottesdon to learn how the affair with Brent went off. He’d actually called at his own place, down there—so he had an alibi for the Fordham murder, if he wanted one. The gunman who killed Fordham, by the way, got into the flat while Katrina was at a theatre. Broomfield had seen to it that the original servants would be in, that night.”
Craigie poked at the bowl of his pipe.
“But Cottesdon,” he remembered. “You know we wondered why O’Ray would take Mary to London? Well, it seems glaring enough, now. He wanted to make his alibi perfect. Obviously no man would go to the flat of another man, recently murdered at his own instigation. That was O’Ray’s game: he was going to ‘look after’ Mary Brent—and she’d have been among the missing. But at the crucial moment, he funked it—realised it was asking for trouble, to risk pulling the bluff. So he gave Braddon’s name——”
“Nice man, Braddon,” Burke murmured, thinking of the real one and speaking sincerely.
“I’ve seen him,” Craigie nodded. “Yes, he’s a good type. Well—that’s that. Oh, except for one other thing.”
Burke wrinkled his brow as he thought, for a moment. Then he shook his head.
“I’ll buy it,” he offered.
“Well,” said Craigie, slowly. “I’d have accepted O’Ray’s terms, at the pit, and given him a twelve-hour start. He would probably have gotten away. You didn’t let him, Jim—and as a result, we had the full story, plus Graydon’s statement, to ladle out to the press. The miners read it; the Ministry of Mines talked it to the Union leaders, and the strike was settled. The men have managed t
o get some of what they were after, and they’ve accepted the slower progress in improving conditions generally——”
“It will be a long, long time before they get me down a mine again.” Burke shivered. “God! It was——”
He didn’t finish; there was no need to. Craigie nodded, gravely.
“Well, Jim. If you hadn’t gone down—taken the chances you did—we’d have been on the edge of a general strike, by now——”
“If you’re going to talk like that,” grinned Burke, stopping him, “I’m going to bed. And that reminds me—what about the Lavis angle?”
“Just what it seemed to be.” Craigie shrugged. “Graydon sent the threats to Lavis, trying hard to scare him off. Remember the clause in the Granton Company’s agreement? A unanimous decision was needed in everything of importance. So they had to get Lavis’s vote. They nearly did—the attack while he was at the window almost finished him. Those gentlemen from America were good shots.”
Burke nodded.
“They usually are,” he said, soberly. “How did they get over here, in the first place?”
“Graydon brought them over—found them through a crook lawyer in Chicago.” Craigie smiled dourly. “Things were getting tight for them over there, just then, so they were ready enough to come.”
Carefully, Craigie tapped out his pipe, stretching the moment. But at last he stood up, smiling a little sadly.
“Well, Jim. I’ll leave you to it. It’s your last round with the Department, isn’t it?”
Burke nodded. He didn’t return the smile. If there were regrets in Jim Burke’s mind, he’d never talk about them.
“Yes,” he said simply, as they shook hands. “The last round.”
It was June, and Surrey was at its lovely best. In the dark days of January, Graydon and O’Ray had been given life sentences, and the woman Temple, seven years. But the dark days were forgotten, now.
Burke was strolling from the cottage—where the garden was an unbelievable blaze of glory—to the riding school. His wife was with him. They reached Dick’s place at last to find Bruno and Meg ready saddled, and Dick’s weatherbeaten face wreathed in smiles.
“Seen you coming down the hill, Mr Burke,” he said proudly. “Thought I’d surprise you, like.”
“Thanks, Dick,” Burke grinned. He patted Bruno’s neck. “I suppose you wouldn’t consider selling——”
“What? Sell Bruno?” Dick looked indignant. “Now listen, Mr Burke—Bruno’s promised, like I told you.” He guffawed, suddenly, slapping his thigh in delight at Burke’s obvious disappointment. “Promised meself I’d give him to you,” he crowed, “the day you wedded Miss Pat—Missus, begging your pardon. And I keeps me promises. And Meg seems to fit you, Miss—Mrs Pat. You’ll make an old man happy if you’ll accept ’em.”
There was a pause, while their eyes said many things.
“Then Dick,” Burke told him, deeply touched, “we’re all three happy.”
“Dick,” Patricia added, “you’re a darling!”
“I’ll be helping you up, Miss Pat,” he offered.
“I’m up!” Patricia laughed—and vaulted smoothly, gracefully, into the saddle. The clatter of hooves rang for a few moments through the riding-school. And soon, the thud of them was echoing across the fields....
THE DEATH MISER
John Creasey
THE DEATH MISER
Two large hands, which were the exclusive property of the Hon. James Quinion, cupped themselves gently round the small, smooth-skinned face of Lady Gloria Runsey. Two humorous and quizzical eyes matched their speckled grey with hers.
‘My dear aunt,’ said the Hon. James. ‘In the last hour at least two more wrinkles have grown on your forehead. It’s a positive and unforgivable sin, and if you let it happen again I shall rate you a square for ever.’
Lady Gloria laughed.
She was sitting in a deep arm-chair by the open French windows of Runsey Hall, whilst the lazy warmth of a late September sun lulled the aching of her frail body. For many years she had sat in the chair by the window when the weather had been kind, looking at the world in which she had been wont to wander willy-nilly before paralysis had robbed her legs of their strength and made her a captive. She had spent those years cheerfully, and much of her near-happiness she owed to the laughing, carefree nephew who now stood over her.
Quinion took an Egyptian cigarette from a gold case and lit it with great care. He was a vast man, uncommonly broad of shoulder and long of limb, but his clothes—at the moment he wore a suit of silver greys—fitted him too perfectly. They spoke of affectation, and the perfumed cigarettes, the scented oil that he used for his hair and the complete correctness of every small item of his everyday apparel bespoke the dandy. In a small man these things might have passed unnoticed, but in the huge Quinion they were incongruous to a point of repulsion.
Of these things Lady Gloria Runsey had been thinking and talking for the past hour, and her companion had been Colonel Cann, a fact which James Quinion had noticed without approval. Colonel Cann, a man’s man and no nonsense, held harshly unpleasant views on Quinion, and considered that his—the colonel’s—sister was all kinds of a fool for putting up with him; in fact, he believed she encouraged him. Quinion tweaked her ear lightly, pulled a hassock to her feet and, squatting on it, spoke with little respect for his uncle.
‘I take it that the great Colonel Damn has been blasting me. I don’t think that he would think life worth living if he couldn’t slate me once a day and twice on Sundays. What’s his latest effort? Or does he think I’m beyond redemption?’
Once again Lady Gloria laughed. This utter absurdity of Jimmy’s was infectious; a man who could make a butt for humour of his own habits and discuss his faults with such complete applomb was surely less of a fool than he looked. Only—Lady Gloria sighed mentally—why did he make himself look such a fool?
Quinion went on.
‘If it would please him, of course, I could pop overseas and pot some lions, or drive a hovercraft, or spend six months in Moscow. Or he might like me to enter the world of commerce, or adopt a cause in the name of action. All of which things might appeal to some people, but they leave me stone cold; in fact, they leave me freezing.’ He was laughing now, and his firm white teeth gleamed between his masculine lips, creating the appearance of a man who was a man. His sizeable jaw swept round masterfully, ending in a cleft chin which added to the impression of strength already lent to his countenance by clear eyes and healthily tanned skin.
‘I think,’ she said slowly, ‘that he would be satisfied if you didn’t look quite so … useless … sometimes.’ She eyed her companion squarely, refusing to respond to his laughter. ‘You do slide through life, don’t you, Jimmy?’
Quinion stood up, tossing the Egyptian cigarette through the open window and watching the spiral of smoke which curled lazily upwards, losing itself in the deep blue of the sky.
‘Life,’ he said finally, looking straight at Lady Gloria, ‘is taken far too seriously. I have youth, money and the gift of fair words; with them I can take things easily and enjoy living. All the Colonel Damns in the world wouldn’t make me take up a career. Apart from that, there is a suggestion in the air that I’m not capable of looking after myself’—his expression was half serious and half humorous, revealing a side of his nature at which Lady Gloria had only guessed before—‘and, if it weren’t for the fact that I rather like the dear old Colonel Damn, I’d resent that suggestion. You see’—he pressed her thin fingers between his own, and the tone of his voice became strangely purposeful—‘it doesn’t do to put all your cards on the table … and things are not always what they seem.’ He grinned again, slipping back into his old, familiar, inconsequential manner. ‘Satisfied?’
Lady Gloria Runsey nodded slowly, half-smiling.
‘I wish I knew where you go for your holidays, Jimmy.’
Quinion placed one large hand beneath her chin, and shook the other half an inch from her nose.
An hour later a large-limbed, clear-eyed young man strode rapidly across the Sussex Downs from the direction of Runsey Hall towards Runsey village. He was clad in a disreputable sports jacket, a pair of flannels that would have disgraced an under-gardener, down-at-heel brogues and an open-necked shirt. Between his firm, white teeth he gripped an old and much-charred pipe, and in spite of the fact that he had taken a cold shower less than twenty minutes before, his dark, wavy hair was bared to the cool breezes of the Downs.
Many folks would have commented on the likeness between the young man and the Hon. James Quinion; few would have believed that it was Quinion himself; none the less, it was.
He was looking ahead as he walked, and appeared to be thinking with far more concentration than most people gave him credit for. He possessed many traits which were not generally known. He was, in fact, thinking of a telegram which he had received an hour before.
Telegrams of similar nature had often come to him during the four preceding years, and directly after them he had taken a holiday from England, and spent a week, a month, or even longer in what Colonel Cann described as ‘women, wine and perdition’. Colonel Cann would have been a much surprised man had he known that those frequent ‘holidays’ had been spent in working for an organization which even the most confirmed fighting man held in considerable awe, and which the man in the street knew of, vaguely, as the Secret Service. Life with Quinion was certainly seldom exactly what it seemed.
For the first time, however, the telegram had given instructions which would keep him in England; it was this which puzzled him as he turned the wording of it over in his mind.
Watch Thomas Loder Cross Farm near Runsey report daily and give names of visitors.