Murder by Numbers
Page 1
Table of Contents
Cover
The Langham and Dupré Mysteries by Eric Brown from Severn House
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
EPILOGUE
The Langham and Dupré Mysteries by Eric Brown from Severn House
MURDER BY THE BOOK
MURDER AT THE CHASE
MURDER AT THE LOCH
MURDER TAKE THREE
MURDER TAKES A TURN
MURDER SERVED COLD
MURDER BY NUMBERS
MURDER BY NUMBERS
A Langham and Dupré mystery
Eric Brown
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
This first world edition published 2020
in Great Britain and the USA by
SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of
Eardley House, 4 Uxbridge Street, London W8 7SY.
Trade paperback edition first published
in Great Britain and the USA 2021 by
SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD.
eBook edition first published in 2020 by Severn House Digital an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited
Copyright © 2020 by Eric Brown.
The right of Eric Brown to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-9077-1 (cased)
ISBN-13: 978-1-78029-712-5 (trade paper)
ISBN-13: 978-1-4483-0433-2 (e-book)
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents
are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Except where actual historical events and characters are being described
for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are
fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,
business establishments, events or locales is purely coincidental.
This ebook produced by
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To the memory of
Beth Dunnett,
with love
ONE
The grey December afternoon found Langham at his desk in the Ryland and Langham Detective Agency, eating a cold pork pie and reading the manuscript of his latest novel. In the outer office, beyond the communicating door, Pamela was tapping away on the upright Remington.
Between crossing out purple passages in the manuscript, he contemplated living in the country after spending the past ten years in London. He and Maria had booked a second viewing of the property they hoped to buy in Suffolk, though he knew it was just a formality. Maria had fallen in love with Yew Tree Cottage at first sight.
The rattle of the typewriter ceased, followed by a tentative tapping at the door. Pamela poked her head through. ‘Another cuppa, Donald?’
He gulped down the last of his pie. ‘You’ve read my mind.’
She took his empty mug and withdrew to put the kettle on.
Life in the country after London … He was tired of the city, the constant noise, the increasing traffic and insufferable smog. The village of Ingoldby-over-Water boasted a decent pub and a cricket team, and was only an hour and a half’s drive from the city. In his enthusiasm, he’d even promised Maria that he’d consider getting a dog.
His reverie was interrupted by Pamela’s return. She placed his mug on the desk and hesitated, biting her lip as she regarded him.
‘I wonder if I might have a word, Donald?’
‘Fire away.’
She hesitated again, frowning. She was a tall, slim girl in her early twenties, whose piled blonde hair, coral-pink cashmere cardigan and pearls gave her an appearance of sophistication belied by her Cockney accent – which she could switch on and off to order. Her phone manner suggested a Mayfair debutante.
‘I was wondering,’ she said at last, and winced as if anticipating a rebuff, ‘if you and Ralph might consider promoting me?’
Langham picked up his mug and stared at her. ‘Promoting?’
‘Well, you see … I know I deal with clients, and write up the reports, but I have quite a bit of free time. I just thought it might be better spent helping you.’
‘Helping in what way?’
She lodged herself side-saddle on the edge of the desk, twining a strand of hair around her forefinger. ‘You see, it was while I was typing up one of Ralph’s reports – the one about the vicar’s stolen parrot – and I thought, “I could do this.” Investigate the case, I mean – not steal his parrot. I could talk to the vicar, his neighbours. It didn’t exactly take Sherlock Holmes to work out what had happened to the bird, did it?’
Langham smiled. ‘No, I suppose not.’
‘So, you see, if I handled the smaller cases, did some of the interviewing and what-not, that’d leave you and Ralph free to concentrate on the more important jobs, wouldn’t it?’
‘I suppose it would, yes; you have a point there.’
‘I wouldn’t be asking for any more money. I’m happy with what I’m getting at the moment. It’s just that … well, sometimes I get a bit bored, and I’d like to be out there, helping you.’
She slipped from the desk and smiled at him. ‘It was just a thought,’ she added tentatively.
‘I’ll run it past Ralph when he gets back, OK?’
She beamed. ‘Thanks a bunch.’ She returned to the outer office, closing the door behind her.
Langham sat back and sipped his tea.
Pamela certainly had initiative. She sometimes sat in on their discussions, occasionally making valuable contributions. But the fact was that there was only just enough work, in the quiet period leading up to Christmas, for him and Ralph. Maybe after the New Year, when things began to pick up again, they could think about putting some of the interviews and minor cases her way.
The phone shrilled in the outer office and Pamela answered in her poshest voice. The intercom on his desk flashed and he flipped a switch. Pamela said, ‘Donald, it’s Maria. I’ll put her through.’
Langham picked up the phone, wondering why Maria was ringing from work.
‘Darling?’
‘Donald. Would it be OK if I popped round to see you?’
‘Now?’ He was surprised. His immediate thought was that the estate agent ha
d contacted her to say that someone else had put an offer in for Yew Tree Cottage. ‘Is it—?’
Maria anticipated the question. ‘The cottage? No. I’ll tell you when I see you. Love you, Donald.’
She cut the connection and Langham was left staring at the Bakelite receiver, wondering at her worried tone. He resumed reading his manuscript.
Fifteen minutes later the outer door opened and he climbed to his feet, expecting Maria. Instead he heard Ralph’s chirpy tones as he asked Pamela to put the kettle on, then his partner breezed into the office, tossing his trilby at the hatstand in the corner and, as usual, missing.
‘How goes it with Major Bruce’s stolen diamonds?’ Langham asked.
‘Piece of cake,’ Ralph said, retrieving his hat from the parquet and hanging it on the stand.
‘Solved it?’
‘Almost. It was the valet – stands to reason. Only bod with the opportunity. I’ll stake out his gaff at Barking tonight. I reckon either he’ll leave with the sparklers and meet with a fence, or he’ll have someone come to his place for a gander. Bob’s your uncle. Anything doing here?’
‘Quiet as a tomb,’ Langham said. ‘Oh’ – he thumbed towards the outer office – ‘Pamela’s asked for promotion.’
Ralph’s weasel face exhibited pantomime surprise, and Langham recounted their secretary’s case for active duty.
He fell silent as Pamela entered the room with Ralph’s mug of hot, sweet, milky tea. When she departed, Ralph said, ‘I suppose she could do a bit of legwork – maybe after Christmas. Routine stuff, nothing too complex. I mean, she’s a young slip of a thing.’ He slurped his tea. ‘I’ll tell her we’ll think about it in the New Year.’
Maria arrived five minutes later and Langham could tell, from her brief peck on his cheek, that she was more than a little worried.
‘Ralph,’ she said, pulling off her thick sheepskin gloves, ‘you look freezing cold.’
He was warming his hands before the two-bar electric fire. ‘You bet. Perishing out there.’
‘Your trouble,’ she said, ‘is that you don’t dress for the winter.’
Langham smiled to himself. Ralph wore a thin polyester suit, summer and winter, and continually whined about the cold.
‘I’m a poor gumshoe,’ he replied, ‘and I can’t afford an overcoat. I should be a literary agent, like you.’
She smiled at Langham. ‘Maybe we should buy Ralph a thick winter coat for Christmas, oui?’
‘Rather have a warming bottle of Scotch,’ Ralph muttered. ‘Anyway, I’ll make myself scarce. No doubt you two want to natter in private.’
Maria said, ‘No, please stay, Ralph. I’m here on business.’
Ralph flashed Langham a look, then pulled two straight-backed chairs up to the desk.
Maria sat down, opened her handbag – which Langham always thought defied the laws of physics as it appeared tiny yet contained all manner of irrelevant paraphernalia – and pulled out a small white envelope.
‘I received this by second post today, addressed to me at Charles’s office.’
She passed it to Langham. He opened the envelope and withdrew a white card edged in black.
Maria said, ‘Go on, read it.’
He read the brief message out loud. ‘Maria Dupré, you are invited to attend a death at six p.m. on the third of December. Maxwell Falwell Fenton, Winterfield, Lower Malton, Essex.’
He passed the card to Ralph, then examined the envelope. The address of the Charles Elder Literary Agency was typed, and the Marylebone postmark was dated the day before.
‘Maxwell Falwell Fenton,’ Langham said. ‘The artist? Do you know him?’
Maria bit her lower lip. ‘I did, seventeen or eighteen years ago. He was a regular at my father’s soirées at the French embassy before the war. Fenton was a big name then.’
‘I’ll say,’ Ralph put in. ‘I’ve heard of him, so he must’ve been.’
‘This was before he served as a war artist in Europe,’ Maria said. ‘Even before that he was always a little unbalanced, but I’d heard rumours that the war pushed him over the edge. When he returned to England, he became reclusive and stopped painting. I hadn’t heard anything about him for many years, and to be honest I assumed he was dead.’
Langham indicated the card that Ralph was still holding. ‘Apparently not,’ he said.
Ralph tapped the card. ‘The third, Don. That’s today.’
Langham took it and read the brief typed message again. He saw something he’d missed earlier. On the top right-hand corner, outside the black-lined border, was a tiny handwritten numeral: 6.
He showed this to Ralph, then to Maria, who said, ‘Maybe he numbered the people he was inviting? But what should we do about this?’ she went on. ‘Call the police?’
Ralph frowned. ‘They’d send us away with a flea in our ear. It’s not exactly a crime to send out cards like this.’
‘But we cannot just …’ she began.
Langham regarded his wife. ‘What do you suggest?’
She shrugged, avoiding his gaze. ‘I don’t know … I was wondering – perhaps we should go down there, see what all this might be about?’
He read the card again. ‘You are invited to attend a death …’ He shook his head. ‘Bizarre, to say the least. In your opinion, Maria, is this Fenton chap someone who’d be likely to kill himself?’
She shrugged. ‘I really cannot say. He was always unpredictable, highly strung. I thought him a little mad. So I suppose …’ She made a pretty moue with her lips and looked worried. ‘What do you think we should do?’
He bit his lip, considering. ‘I don’t like the sound of it,’ he said. ‘If he is unbalanced, then who knows what he might be planning?’
Maria hesitated, looking down at her hands. ‘I … I think he is planning to kill himself.’
‘So you think we should go down and try to prevent him?’ He shook his head. ‘I don’t know. I don’t like it one bit. I think we’d be better off just informing the police.’
She looked up, her expression suddenly defiant. ‘Then, if you will not accompany me, Donald, I shall take the car and drive down there myself.’
Langham looked from Maria to Ralph, who took the hint and snatched up his mug. ‘Think I’ll make myself another cuppa,’ he said.
When the communicating door had closed, Langham leaned forward and said, ‘Maria … there’s something you’re not telling me.’
She swallowed and looked down at the gloves she was fiddling with on her lap, her mouth half open as if about to say something.
He asked, dreading the answer, ‘I know you said, back there, that you didn’t know him well. But you were more than just casual acquaintances, weren’t you?’
She winced. ‘You must remember, Donald, that I was young. Just eighteen. Fenton was a famous artist … and charismatic.’
He nodded, swallowed and asked, ‘What happened?’
It was a second before she replied. ‘I met him at one of my father’s parties, as I said. I was flattered by his attention. I’d just left school in Gloucestershire, and I think I was dazzled by the social life I found in London. And then a feted artist started paying me compliments.’
He hesitated, then said, ‘Did you reciprocate?’
‘I …’ She paused, twisting her gloves. ‘I was – what is the phrase? – starstruck, I think. I met him on three or four occasions at the embassy, and then he asked me to accompany him to an expensive restaurant. I was not sure that my father would approve – Fenton was in his forties at the time – so I didn’t tell him and slipped away one evening.’
‘And?’
‘Fenton was charming. Of course, I’d heard rumours about him, about how he treated women. But all I could say was that, on that occasion, he treated me like a princess.’
‘On that occasion?’
‘At the end of the evening, he praised my beauty – “speaking from the perspective of an artist, of course,” he said. Then he asked me if I would care to
sit for him. He had a studio in London, as well as one down at Winterfield.’
‘He lived in the sticks back then?’
‘Winterfield is his ancestral home,’ Maria said. ‘It’s been in the family for something like three hundred years.’
‘You agreed, of course – to sit for him?’
‘I was young and impressionable. And flattered. There I was, fresh from school, and this handsome, world-renowned artist said I was beautiful and asked me to sit for him. Of course I agreed.’
‘What happened?’
‘I sat for him. He painted me.’
‘In London?’
‘To begin with, yes. I sat for two or three sessions at his Chelsea studio, but he professed himself dissatisfied with something – I can’t recall … the light or the setting or whatever. So he invited me down to Winterfield. He said that if he could paint me over the course of a weekend, he was sure the portrait would be a masterpiece. There was only one problem.’
‘Your father?’
‘There was no way my father would have agreed – so I lied. I arranged for a schoolfriend to invite me to her house, then packed a bag and took the train to Chelmsford.’
‘You didn’t wonder if Fenton had ulterior motives?’
Maria thought about that. ‘Donald, it was so long ago. I really was a child, and naive. I knew nothing. Perhaps, to be honest, a little part of me was hoping that what he saw in me was not only a subject fit for a painting, but something more. You do understand, don’t you, Donald? I was young and ridiculously romantic.’
He swallowed. ‘Of course I understand,’ he said. ‘So … he painted you?’
‘He painted me all that first day, a Saturday. And then he had his cook prepare a wonderful meal. I never usually drank, especially wine, but that night …’
‘My God,’ he said, fearing where this might be leading.