‘I’ve been thinking about that...’
‘I bet you have,’ Pollard interrupted with a grin. ‘Anything on wheels with an engine. Let’s have it.’
‘He’d got to get here and get away again,’ Toye said, unruffled. ‘If he was up to something shady I don’t see him risking a crowded country bus on a Saturday afternoon. He’d have come by car, like the other visitors and parked up there.’ They had paused at the point where a branch of the main drive led off to the visitors’ car park on the right. ‘Suppose he was the bloke Peck turned out? Either he picked up his car and drove off, or if he was also the bloke who’d come to steal the portrait, he got back into the house and hid. He’d need the car later in the night. Where was it in the meantime?’
‘You could have got something there,’ Pollard conceded. ‘The obvious place for something is often the best way of avoiding attention, isn’t it? Let’s go and have a look at the visitors’ car park.’
They walked up a short and moderately steep length of drive flanked by trees and shrubs, and came out into a fairly level expanse on the hillside below Fairlynch Manor which overlooked a small tributary of the Spire. The surface had been asphalted and marked off into parking spaces. Pollard looked around him carefully.
‘If you parked on the side next to the house you couldn’t be seen from any of the windows,’ he said.
Toye agreed. Here the hillside rose steeply, and only the chimneys of the Manor were visible from where they were standing. A small ticket office in rustic oak stood by a gate from which a flight of steps led upwards to the gardens.
‘Suppose you’d been over to see the gardens and this “Pictures for Pleasure”,’ Pollard went on, ‘and were one of the later visitors last Saturday afternoon. When you came down to get your car and drive home, would you pay much attention to another car still in the park? Well, I daresay you would. Notice its make, or even go and snoop to see what mileage it had done, but my guess is that all most people would be thinking about at that stage would be getting home for a nice cuppa.’
Toye conceded this further point. ‘There’s another thing,’ he said, as they retraced their steps. ‘The slope’s downhill, all the way to the road, and the road itself’s downhill for a bit going north and away from the village.’
‘Meaning that anyone could coast down in neutral and get clear of the house and the lodge before starting up the engine? Yes, you could do it all right with a bit of shoving to get yourself started, I should think. And that would explain why the pair at the lodge didn’t hear a car pass — if there was a car, that is. All this is theorising, of course, but it’s a useful idea to have in reserve. Let’s go and sit somewhere in the garden and try to clear our minds.’
They found a seat on one of the lower terraces and sat down in the last of the evening sun. The wind had dropped and the air was still, warm and full of birdsong. Fragrance came drifting across from a bed of wallflowers. Pollard stretched out his long legs, clasped his hands behind his head, and gave himself up to sheer enjoyment. A faint rustling came from a nearby hedge. Toye gave a startled exclamation and hastily drew in his feet.
‘What the devil is it?’ he demanded, as a small spherical brown object appeared.
‘Good Lord, haven’t you come across a hedgehog before?’ Pollard asked with amusement. ‘Flea-ridden, but perfectly harmless, and the gardener’s friend. They eat slugs and whatever.’
Toye eyed the advancing hedgehog dubiously. Moving silently and at surprising speed it went past without acknowledging their presence.
‘Not unlike this ruddy case,’ Pollard commented, ‘which bristles all over with problems. What library key did X manage to get hold of? Why did he choose to operate on Saturday night at the Manor under considerable difficulties instead of breaking into the lodge when it was empty last January? What’s the link between the ex-lady of the Manor and the mystery man in an old duffle coat who seems regrettably lacking in public spirit? Can she be near-broke and out for the insurance money for the portrait? What sort of a fence is prepared to handle anything so easily identifiable as this portrait? There’s a few problems to start with, anyway. Where shall we go from here?’
They discussed the case at some length, deciding on their priorities. Because of Mrs Ridley’s odd stonewalling, and in default of a better lead at the moment, the obvious step seemed to be to try to pick up the trail of the man in the duffle coat. Some of the people viewing “Pictures for Pleasure” in the later part of the afternoon might have noticed him, or even witnessed his ejection by Francis Peck after being caught on the stairs. Or better still, his subsequent return to the Manor to hide. On the other hand, he might have been seen in or near Wellchester during the evening. Help from the local police in questioning car park and petrol pump attendants, traffic wardens, cafe owners and pub landlords would be needed over this. A related issue was the state of Mrs Ridley’s finances, involving a dicey interview with her Bank manager.
‘Of course this entire lead may turn out a dead end,’ Pollard argued, ‘so we’d better get going in other directions. There are the people at that party on Saturday night, especially the chap who drove Peck and young Alix Parr home. Gilmore, wasn’t he called? He was the last person to see Peck alive bar the killer, as far as we know. Then I’d like this Professor Chilmark’s views on the art robbery aspect. Let’s hope he’s still around. No shortage of jobs, in fact. Let’s push off now, shall we?’
They had left their car on the terrace in front of the Manor, but before getting into they walked round to have another look at the back of the house. Beyond the top of the steps leading down to the gate from the car park were greenhouses, and in one of these a light was visible.
‘It might be Basing,’ Pollard said. ‘It would save time to see him now. I don’t suppose he can tell us any more about finding the body, but he was probably around on Saturday afternoon.’
As they opened the door of the greenhouse the warm moist air was almost overpoweringly sweet with the scent of flowers. A man looked up from a sheaf of narcissi and gave them a searching glance.
‘Evening gentlemen,’ he said. ‘You’re from Scotland Yard, I reckon?’
‘Quite right,’ Pollard replied, ‘Chief Superintendent Pollard and Inspector Toye. Are you Mr Basing, the Fairlynch head gardener, who found Mr Peck’s body on Sunday morning?’
‘Yes, I am. I’ll not forget it to my dying day and that’s a fact. If you’d care to take a seat, sir, you’ll find the bench there’s quite clean.’
‘We’ve seen the very clear statement you made to Inspector Rendell, Mr Basing,’ Pollard told him. ‘I don’t think there’s much point in going over the ground again. What we’ve come to ask you about is last Saturday afternoon. Were you up here then?’
Tom Basing explained that normally he did not work on Saturdays, but always put in an appearance on Opening Day. He was on duty in the greenhouses and at the shed where plants were sold to visitors.
‘We’ve had reports of a chap whose movements we’re interested in, and wonder if he came along here. Someone about your age. No hat, and wearing an old fawn duffle coat. A bloke rather given to nosing about.’
‘Ay, I saw a chap that matches up to that,’ Tom Basing replied with a gleam in his eye. ‘He stood about, sizing the place up as if he was planning to make an offer.’
‘Can you add anything to the description I’ve given you?’ Pollard asked with sharpened interest.
Tom Basing reflected, leaning against the bench at which he had been working.
‘Clean-shaven,’ he said at last. ‘Bit bloated. I reckon he lifts his elbow. Thin lips — a mouth like a rat trap my dad would’ve said.’
‘This is our chap all right. Lucky for us that you’re so observant, Mr Basing. Now, can you remember what time it was when you saw him?’
This proved more difficult. In spite of the late spring and the cold wind there had been a surprising lot of visitors. Coming and going all the time, and old friends wanting to talk about
their gardens, and what to buy to fill in the gaps left by the ’76 summer drought. Finally Tom Basing thought that the chap must have been around somewhere between a quarter and half-past four.
‘When did you knock off yourself?’
‘Five-thirty, we close the greenhouses and plant stall. Say another ten minutes shutting up. Then I went up to the Manor to hand in the money I’d taken for plants to Mr Peck... God Almighty, do you reckon the bastard who did for him was hiding somewhere in the place all the time we were talking?’
‘It looks rather like it... That’s a very beautiful spray you’ve made. It’s for Mr Peck’s funeral tomorrow, I expect?’
‘That’s right. It’s the family’s tribute. Mrs Peck asked for me to do it. When Mr Ridley went, ’twas in the autumn, two years back last November, and we gave him chrysanthemums. Our own, of course. A real tragedy it was, his going so young.’
‘You’ve been here a long time, haven’t you?’ Pollard asked.
He learnt that Tom Basing had come to Fairlynch as a gardener’s boy on leaving school in 1934, returning after his war service and working up to be second gardener. Then in 1960 Mr Ridley, doubtless with his plans for the future of the estate, had fixed up for him to work at Kew for a year, and soon after his return he had taken over as head gardener. Mr Ridley had been one in a thousand, Tom Basing averred, and his lady was another. And when Fairlynch was handed over to Heritage of Britain you couldn’t have had a nicer gentleman put in charge than Mr Peck. A gentleman who knew his job, and how to leave alone people who knew theirs and let them get on with it.
Pollard led the conversation round to Mrs Ridley, but nothing but praise of her was forthcoming. It was quite a step down from living at the Manor to living at the lodge, Tom Basing said, and everybody admired the way she’d taken the change, and was still ready to help in the gardens just as she did when Mr Ridley was living...
‘After all that,’ Pollard remarked as they drove back to Wellchester, ‘it’s difficult to imagine Mrs R. involved in some shady business with a dubious-looking stranger. All the same, I’m pretty certain she did meet the chap on Saturday afternoon, and if so, why lie about it? Did you notice that it was after Alix had said that he arrived at the ticket office at “a quarter past three, or just after” that Mrs R. stated that she’d got back to the lodge at ten past? It ought to be quite easy to get the names of a few people who were in the exhibition, say between two-forty five and three o’clock, and try to check up when she left.’
Inspector Rendell was out when Pollard and Toye arrived back at Wellchester police station, but they were informed by the duty sergeant that Superintendent Maynard was in his office, and could see them if it would be helpful.
‘No hard feelings, apparently,’ Pollard muttered sotto voce as they were escorted along the corridor. ‘Our personal charm must have worked.’
Drinks were produced from a cupboard, and Superintendent Maynard listened with unconcealed interest to an account of the ground covered during the visit to Fairlynch, his eyebrows rising slightly at the suggestion that Mrs Ridley could be involved in anything questionable. When Pollard’s narrative came to an end there was a short pause during which the listener was obviously debating something in his mind. Finally he thumbed through some papers on his desk and selected one.
‘I don’t suppose this report that’s come in from Brynsworthy ties up with your bloke in the duffle coat,’ he said rather defensively, ‘but there’s no harm in passing it on. First of all, we had the usual joy-ride car thefts here on Saturday night. Both the cars were found abandoned in the neighbourhood, one in Brynsworthy, and none the worse except petrol used. Brynsworthy had a car pinched sometime between eight and ten: the owner can’t put it nearer than that. It was in a head-on collision with a lorry on the London road, and the driver was killed outright. There were no passengers.’
Pollard was gripped by overwhelming if wholly unjustifiable certainty.
‘What time was the smash?’ he asked, as casually as he could.
‘Ten thirty-three,’ Superintendent Maynard replied. ‘Like me to ring Brynsworthy for further details?’
Details of the dead man were quickly forthcoming. He was five feet eight in height, with dark hair beginning to go grey, dark eyes, a ruddy complexion and thin lips. His clothing included a well-worn fawn duffle coat. A passport recently renewed by the British consul in Johannesburg gave his name as George Palmer, his age as fifty-one, and his birthplace as London. He had entered Britain six weeks earlier, but no address in this country was on him. He was carrying twenty-six pounds and some loose change in various pockets, the money including one ten-pound and two five-pound notes. He had no luggage of any kind. He had been drinking, and the alcohol content of his blood was above the permitted level for the driver of a motor vehicle. Enquiries into his identity were proceeding in this country and in South Africa.
Pollard, who had been listening in on an extension, put down the receiver, and grinned at Superintendent Maynard.
‘Thanks for yanking us off a wild goose chase before we waste any more time on it. Soon after ten thirty on Saturday night Francis Peck was just being dropped at Fairlynch Manor by his host, having said goodnight to Alix Parr at the lodge a few minutes earlier, according to your report. And according to the PM he didn’t die before midnight at the earliest.’
Superintendent Maynard, plainly gratified at his own acumen in passing on the report from the Brynsworthy police, grinned in response.
‘Who’d be a poor bloody policeman?’ he asked.
Chapter 6
‘As we’ve been barking up the wrong tree ever since we got going,’ Pollard remarked as he and Toye returned to their temporary office, ‘we’d better have a go at another one. As I said earlier on, I think a chat with Heritage of Britain’s art adviser bloke might pay off. Let’s see if we can run him to earth.’
The telephone number of Professor Chilmark’s friends near Wellchester was in the case notes handed over by Inspector Rendell. Pollard put through a call and found that the art expert was still with them, although leaving for London on the following day. An invitation to drive over with Toye after supper was accepted.
By tacit consent the case was given a break as they had their own meal. Pollard devoted the surface layers of his mind to a crossword puzzle, while Toye perused the columns of used cars for sale in the Wellchester Evening News. Afterwards there was a brief encounter with newsmen who were lurking in the hotel lounge. By a quarter to nine the Rover was on the road heading for the village of Great Westcombe, ten miles to the south of Wellchester.
The house where Professor Chilmark was staying was easily found, and they were greeted by an elderly man with a neat grey beard and impressively high forehead. He escorted them to his host’s study borrowed for the occasion, where a selection of bottles had been set out in readiness.
‘I thought you people might contact me,’ the Professor said, pouring out drinks after enquiring into preferences.
‘Not that I can be of much help, I’m afraid, beyond what I could tell Inspector Rendell when I went over all unsuspecting to see the exhibition on Sunday, as previously arranged. Is it in order to ask if anything came of the Yard’s enquiries into the activities of known art thieves over the weekend?’
‘Quite in order,’ Pollard replied. ‘The answer is nil. All the likely lads can be crossed off the list.’
Having provided his visitors with their drinks, Professor Chilmark came and sat down.
‘Cheers,’ he said, raising his glass. ‘From your tone I deduce that you, like me, are not surprised?’
‘Not in the least. The lack of expertise stands out like a sore thumb, doesn’t it? A highly unsuitable painting to fix on, unnecessarily difficult circumstances for carrying out the job, and sheer blind panic when interrupted.’
‘My own sentiments exactly, Superintendent. I thought Inspector Rendell’s reaction was an interesting one: seconds acting for a principal. The snatching up of a mixed ba
g of portable pictures before making off looks rather like an attempt to justify anyway a reduced fee, to my mind. But on the other hand, an experienced crooked dealer would surely have employed more competent people. And no dealer who knew his stuff would want to get involved with a portrait of that sort.’
‘This is one of the things we’d like to talk to you about,’ Pollard said. ‘Just how valuable is this Ridley portrait, and how saleable?’
Professor Chilmark put down his glass and settled back in his chair.
‘At the present moment it’s insured for eight thousand. Last Sunday I advised Mrs Ridley to raise the cover to ten thousand, partly because auction prices are still rising, and partly because of all the public interest in the portrait that has been aroused. Of course, auction prices are always unpredictable, but if she put it on the market at the moment, I should expect it to fetch ten thousand at the least. This answers your question in terms of cash value, and saleability at public auction or to a private purchaser. What a fence would pay for it is a different matter.’
‘What fence would handle it?’ Pollard asked. ‘It’s easily identifiable, surely, and there’s no question of who it belongs to.’
Professor Chilmark looked at him speculatively.
‘It’s certainly easily identified — you’re quite right. It’s a good example of Copthorne’s work. Not of his highest achievement in portrait painting, perhaps, but good enough for favourable mention in standard studies of his work. And it is known to have been commissioned by the Ridley family and in their possession ever since. I grant you all that.’ He paused. To Pollard’s surprise a mischievous and slightly coy expression came over his face. ‘I’ll come clean, Superintendent,’ he went on. ‘I read detective fiction — selectively, of course. The solutions sometimes seem far-fetched, but in a good yarn they are perfectly sound logically. And if the long arm of coincidence gets a bit over-stretched, well, astounding coincidences do happen in real life.’
Change For The Worse Page 8
