‘So that’s how I came to be coping with the rubbish,’ Clare put in.
Pollard smiled at her. ‘And made the find of the year, didn’t you? Now, what I want to check on is the last time anyone from this household went to that dustbin.’
Laura Habgood looked at him with a hopeless little shrug. ‘I’m afraid,’ she said, ‘that nobody has opened it since last Wednesday morning’s collection. It’s like this. Flo Dibble’s last job each day is to take the rubbish out — ours, from up here, and the stuff from the public rooms. Last Thursday morning she never got that far, of course, and hasn’t been here since, as the place was closed. And Clare and I are quite certain that we haven’t taken out any waste paper. Most of it comes from the office, and my husband hasn’t been doing his normal work.’
‘Wasn’t there any from the library when you cleaned it yesterday?’ Pollard asked.
‘Only a few scraps your people must have dropped into the baskets. It didn’t seem worth taking out so little, so I tipped it into the office basket, to deal with this morning. We’ve been to the other bin several times, with household waste and dead flowers. It couldn’t be more unhelpful, I’m afraid.’
‘Well, we’ll try another tack,’ Pollard said. ‘Access to the yard. Is it possible to work out when the doors have been standing open?’
‘Starting on Wednesday evening,’ Alastair said, after a pause, ‘they must have been open until Annabel took her car out at about twenty to six and again from — say — a quarter to, until after Clare had arrived soon after seven. Then they blew open sometime during the night. Did either of you hear them?’
Laura and Clare shook their heads.
‘We were all so rattled on Thursday morning that I never thought about them until Inspector Cook said he’d shut them, and they mustn’t be opened until further notice,’ Laura said. ‘They stayed shut until after supper on Friday. You remember you said it didn’t matter anymore, just before you left.’
‘I’m kicking myself in retrospect,’ Pollard replied. ‘Can you draw up any sort of timetable for the weekend?’
After some discussion one was put together, and taken down by Toye, who had joined them.
Day — Friday
Doors Open — About 8-10.30 pm
Whereabouts of Household — Visit to friends (Rev. J. and Mrs Masters at Rectory).
Day — Saturday
Doors Open — About 9.30 am-3.30 pm
Whereabouts of Household — Morning shopping. Lunch with Mr and Mrs Colin Escott.
Day — Sunday
Doors Open — About 10.30 am-4.00 pm
Whereabouts of Household — Morning cleaning of library. Dead flowers, etc. taken out. Lunch with Mr Westlake.
Pollard took Toye’s notebook and studied the times.
‘It looks wide open at first,’ he said, ‘but I’m pretty sure we can narrow it down. You see, anyone on foot, or even on a bicycle, would be noticeable if he was toting around that bundle of books, and cars are likely to be remembered. I can’t see anybody turning up at intervals on the chance that the doors might be open. Did you mention your weekend plans to anyone?’
The Habgoods agreed that they had told the Rector and his wife about their lunch invitations.
‘I suppose it’s possible they passed it on,’ Alastair said. ‘But it would only have been to mutual friends.’
‘We didn’t tell the Escotts that we were going over to Mr Westlake’s on Sunday, though,’ Laura reminded him.
‘Why not?’ Pollard asked. ‘Prearranged silence on the subject for some reason?’
‘Well, yes,’ Alastair replied. ‘Colin Escott is one of the Trustees, and he and Mr Westlake don’t always see eye to eye. Also, I’m an employee, and it isn’t good policy to appear on too intimate terms with one’s Chairman, you know.’
Clare Fenner cut into the conversation so abruptly that Pollard glanced at her in surprise. The happiness in her face had vanished, and she looked worried. ‘Excuse me,’ she said hurriedly, ‘hadn’t I better go and open up downstairs, if I’m not needed here any longer? It’s just on ten.’
She coloured up as she spoke. The incident struck Pollard as oddly out of character.
‘May she go?’ Alastair asked him. ‘We’re anxious to get the place ticking over normally this morning.’
‘By all means,’ Pollard said, ‘and I needn’t keep Mrs Habgood any longer, either. Thanks for all your help, both of you. Shall we go back to the office and see how the finger printing’s going?’
Clare had already slipped out of the room. ‘Let Clare have your latchkey to the flat, Alastair,’ Laura said as they got up. ‘I want to go out and get the shopping done early. You run into fewer people.’
In the office they found Detective-Constable Neale, pink and enthusiastic; they examined the results of his work.
‘Lovely dabs, sir,’ he told Pollard. ‘Beauties under the handle on top of the lid, where the chap had lifted it, and the same ones on the package. That shiny wrapping’s taken them a treat. Rubber gloves, he was wearing.’
Pollard glanced inquiringly at Toye, who nodded. ‘X’s all right, I’d say, sir. Of course we’ll be checking up at the station,’ he added hastily.
‘Nice job, Neale,’ Pollard said later, as the young detective finished his tests. ‘We’ll have to hang on to the books for a bit, I’m afraid, Mr Habgood, but I’ll be personally responsible for seeing they’re kept under proper conditions. Inspector, make out a receipt for them, will you?’
As he spoke, out of the corner of his eye he caught sight of a figure vanishing into the library. A possible, if astonishing, solution to Clare Fenner’s recent behaviour suddenly flashed into his mind. Telling Neale to parcel up the books again, he left the office and went into the library himself. It was apparently empty. He stood for a few moments in front of the fireplace, contemplating old Evelyn’s portrait. Then he turned and faced the room.
‘Are you in here, Miss Fenner?’ he called.
The silence that followed was marginally excessive. There was a slight sound, then she emerged from a bay, looking flushed and guilty.
‘Did you want me, Mr Pollard?’ she asked, with forced brightness.
‘Yes, Miss Fenner,’ he said. ‘I want to ask you a couple of questions. When you lunched with Mr and Mrs Escott on Saturday, was their son Peter one of the party?’
He watched her realize that anything but the truth would be futile.
‘Yes, he was,’ she replied, with an attempt to sound surprised.
‘And did you tell him that you and Mr and Mrs Habgood were going over to lunch with Mr Westlake yesterday, either then or when you were out with him on Friday evening?’ As she hesitated, a young man in corduroy trousers and a polo-necked sweater walked out of the bay from which she had just come, and stood beside her.
‘Yes, she did,’ he said briefly. ‘OK, I nicked the bloody books and I put ’em in the dustbin yesterday, when everybody was out. But if you think I pushed Annabel Lucas — Brown — down that contraption over there, you’re wrong. I never set eyes on her.’ There was a short tense pause.
‘We must ask you to come with us to the police station, Mr Escott,’ Pollard said, ‘and answer a number of questions.’
Peter Escott declined to send for a solicitor. ‘Not unless you’re going to charge me with manslaughter or murder,’ he said, folding his arms and staring steadily across the table at Pollard, ‘neither of which I’ve committed, as it happens.’
Pollard, meeting his challenging but wary eyes, recognized the likeness to old Evelyn. This lad’s got brains, too, he thought, but no real purpose in life. Partly the times we live in, of course...
‘Whether we finally decide to charge you, Mr Escott,’ he said, ‘depends on the account you give of your activities on Tuesday and Wednesday nights of last week, and if you can substantiate it. I suggest that you begin on it now.’
Peter Escott, who had blinked at the mention of Tuesday, considered, ‘Not on,’ he said. �
�It’s up to you to make the going.’
‘As you like it. We’ll begin with the centenary party at the Athenaeum last Tuesday evening, when you took Professor Thornley up to the Habgoods’ flat to look at the ceilings.’
Peter Escott lowered his eyes and studied the table.
‘We have evidence,’ Pollard went on, ‘that this visit to the flat was at your suggestion. As it was essential to Wednesday’s break-in, no doubt you had other pretexts for going there, in case Professor Thornley turned down the idea.’
‘Not true. Taking him up there just came into my head as a way of getting him away from my parents, who were making asses of themselves. I was getting hot under the collar.’
‘So when did the idea of borrowing the key of the boiler house, and all that followed, come into your mind?’
‘When we were looking at the ceiling in the Habgoods’ bedroom and I spotted the key board behind the door.’
‘You say that the whole elaborate plan for getting into the library and stealing the books occurred to you for the first time at that precise moment?’ Pollard asked sarcastically. ‘You’re a quick thinker, Mr Escott.’
With a sudden convulsive movement, Peter Escott shifted his position.
‘I didn’t say anything of the sort. You’re twisting things, the way the police always do. What I mean is that I’ve often thought it would be a good giggle to stir up the whole damn show. The blah that goes on about this potty little provincial hobbies club my great-great-grandfather founded, under an idiotic pretentious name, makes me sick. Anyway, the Athenaeum and everything in it ought to belong to us. He’d no right to chuck away family money like that.’
‘You don’t seem to be a very clear thinker,’ Pollard remarked. ‘You were annoyed with your parents for not sharing Professor Thornley’s view of the Ramsden Literary and Scientific Society, yet, at the same time, write it off as a potty little provincial hobbies club. However, we’ll let that pass. Having been suddenly inspired by the sight of the key board, what did you do next?’
Peter Escott relapsed into sullen silence.
‘Very well, I’ll tell you,’ Pollard said. ‘As Founder’s kin, you no doubt know the building well. Professor Thornley’s wish to make some sketches made it easy to leave him in the sitting room while you went off on the pretext of looking for a pamphlet for him. You took the key, went out of the flat and the front door, through the yard — which was open for car parking — and unlocked the door of the boiler house. In a couple of minutes or so you were back again, replaced the key, and reappeared in the sitting room, saying that you had unfortunately not been able to get hold of a copy of the pamphlet. It was quite simple to unbolt the door on the inside. You merely stayed behind — rather uncharacteristically, it seems — to help clear up the library after the party. You dealt with the stacking chairs, and slipped through to the boiler house from the storage space where they are kept.’
Pollard paused. Peter Escott had reverted to staring at the table, but the nervous flicker of his eyelids showed his mounting tension.
‘We now have an interval until five o’clock on Wednesday evening,’ Pollard resumed. ‘It gave you plenty of time to work out your plan in detail. Your firm’s office closes at five. You knew that the yard doors would be open until five-thirty, when Annabel Brown left in her car. You had ample time to get to the Athenaeum and into the boiler house from the yard. In fact, there was time to fill in until you felt it was safe to start breaking open the cupboard where the valuable books are kept. There was no point in being uncomfortable, so you took one of the stacking chairs and settled down by the boiler.’
This small domestic detail had the effect of making Peter Escott violently thrust back his chair and half rise to his feet. Almost simultaneously Toye was at the door, with his back to it.
‘Sit down,’ Pollard ordered brusquely. ‘Do you admit these facts I’ve stated?’
Peter Escott subsided slowly and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand.
‘Yes,’ he said hoarsely, ‘though God only knows how you’ve found it out. It’s — it’s what happened next you’ll never believe.’
‘I’m prepared to listen. Don’t waste my time with a pack of lies, though.’
By means of a series of questions, Pollard went on to establish that Peter Escott had waited in the boiler house until six o’clock before moving. By this time, he judged that neither of the Habgoods was likely to come into the library again that night. He did not know that Alastair was in bed, nor that the yard doors had been reopened, and had no anxiety about anyone discovering that the door of the boiler house was unlocked. He opened it a little, on the unlikely chance of having to leave quickly, and went up the spiral staircase to the gallery. Forcing the lock of the cupboard proved much more difficult than he had expected. He was handicapped by having to work by the light of an electric torch and by fear of making a noise that might penetrate to the flat. Eventually he managed it, and selected eight books.
‘Why didn’t you tidy things up instead of leaving the cupboard wide open?’ Pollard asked.
Peter Escott, now very white, replied that he had thought he heard a movement downstairs.
‘I waited a bit, then decided to scram, using as little light as possible.’
‘Did you see anyone or hear any more?’
‘No.’
‘Were you surprised to find the yard doors open?’
‘I was scared stiff,’ Peter Escott replied with feeling. ‘I felt sure somebody was about and could have seen me. There’s a beastly street lamp just outside.’
‘What time was it?’
‘God, I don’t know. I was much too het up to bother about the time.’
The timing’s vital, Pollard thought. This noise could have been Brown arriving about half-past six. If he’s the chap Ernie saw making off about five minutes later, we can wash him out...
‘Where was your car all this time?’ he asked.
‘In the office car park. All I wanted to do was to get back to it and clear off home.’
‘Did you notice what time it was when you did get back to it?’
‘Just on seven.’
Then he surely couldn’t have been Ernie’s chap, Pollard thought. He couldn’t have taken twenty-five minutes to do a fifteen-minute walk, especially if he was stepping out. He proceeded to question Peter Escott minutely on the exact route he had taken, and became more and more convinced that he was not getting the whole truth.
‘You’re obviously lying,’ he rapped out. ‘You didn’t go straight from door to door. Where else did you go?’
Finally Peter Escott admitted, with embarrassment, to having hidden in the garden of one of the Abbot’s Green houses, in the hopes of shaking off anybody who might be following him.
‘Did you see anyone?’ Pollard demanded.
‘Nobody came along after me, so I got going again after a bit.’
The story aroused Pollard’s suspicions. Was it an attempt to account for time actually spent in the library with Annabel Brown? But a later departure from the Athenaeum would have meant a later arrival at Escott House. He questioned further but Peter Escott stuck to his statement that he had arrived there just before seven. Several clocks had struck the hour as he got to his car.
‘What time did you get home?’
Peter Escott eyed him uneasily.
‘Twenty-five-past seven.’
‘In a TR4?’ Pollard exclaimed incredulously.
‘She wouldn’t start at first ... her plugs were dirty.’
‘Have you a witness to your return home?’ Pollard inquired.
‘Everybody was out. I can’t prove it, if that’s what you want.’
‘Very well. Are there any witnesses to the time you arrived at Escott House?’
‘Of course there aren’t!’ Peter Escott suddenly shouted. ‘There’s nobody there at that hour. And I didn’t meet anybody I knew, either. Making it easy for you to prove I’m a murderer, isn’t it?’
‘What we’re trying to do,’ Pollard replied, ‘is to get at the truth about the time when you left the Athenaeum. You see, we know the time of Annabel Brown’s fall...’
‘He refused to contact his people, or the office,’ Pollard told Superintendent Daly and Inspector Cook. ‘He’s supposed to be inspecting a country property, so his absence won’t raise any questions. We’ve left him putting a statement of his movements on Wednesday evening into writing.’
‘Well, we’re spared Colin Escott coming round like a roaring lion for the moment,’ Daly replied, looking worried. ‘Gives us a chance to check up on any patrols who might have seen the chap going through the streets or on the road home. What do you make of him?’
‘I’m not sure,’ Pollard said slowly. ‘The fact that he swears he left the Athenaeum in time to hang about, then still arrive at Escott House by seven, does suggest that he knows the time when Brown fell down the staircase — and is trying to prove he wasn’t there. He’s undoubtedly got some brains. On the other hand, bits of his statement do tie up with things we accept: Brown’s arrival, for instance, and the chap with the briefcase Ernie saw. And Toye says he did clean the plugs of his TR4 on Sunday afternoon. One reliable bit of corroborative evidence would settle the whole business. Let’s hope your people get on to something. Have you got on to Mr Westlake yet about the books?’
‘Yeah. We asked him to come along and identify the one that’s his. He’ll be bowled over when he knows young Escott’s in it up to the neck. He’s always been hooked on the Ramsden Literary and Scientific set-up, and of course the Escott family’s been in on it ever since the old chap founded it, just a hundred years back. That his car coming into the park, Cook?’
James Westlake came striding in triumphantly to recover his property, but the sight of the three men who looked up at him brought him to a sudden halt.
‘What’s up?’ he demanded.
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