by Eric Brown
They found Detective Inspector Mallory in the tap room. The big, fair-haired South African was propping up the bar with a full pint of Bass bitter before him. They shook hands. ‘Good to see you both,’ Mallory said. ‘You’ll be thirsty after the drive. What’ll it be?’
He ordered two more bitters and they moved to a table before the open fire.
‘About Bryce,’ Langham began, taking an inch from his ale.
Mallory held up a hand. ‘First, I want to hear all about what happened last night. I’ve read Detective Sergeant Riley’s report, and a transcript of the interviews, but I’d like to hear what you made of the affair.’
Langham began with Maria’s arrival at the office bearing the invitation from Maxwell Fenton, and proceeded to tell Mallory about the next few hours in great detail.
The detective listened with his lips pursed, his long legs stretched out towards the open fire. He nodded and frowned from time to time but refrained from interrupting.
When Langham finished, Mallory picked up on the obvious disparity between Maxwell Fenton’s threats and his subsequent suicide. ‘In my opinion, for what it’s worth, it’s too easy an option to ascribe insanity. I’d rather work on the theory that Fenton was sane and try to make sense of his motives from there. Right, as much as I could stay here all day …’ He finished his pint and climbed to his feet. ‘I hope you two have strong stomachs.’
‘Grisly?’
‘Ever seen a hanged man?’ Mallory asked.
Langham shook his head. ‘This’ll be my first.’
Ralph said, ‘I’ve come across a dozen or so over the years.’
‘Ever seen what hanging by the neck can do to a sixteen-stone man?’ the detective asked grimly. ‘Not a pretty sight.’
As they followed the detective from the tap room, Langham wished he’d refrained from wolfing down two pork pies on the journey from London.
He turned up his overcoat collar against the biting wind as they walked along the main street and past the church. They turned down a narrow, high-hedged lane and continued for twenty yards until they arrived at an old farmhouse set back on a well-kept lawn.
Mallory led them down a cinder drive and around the house, and pointed to an outbuilding across a cobbled yard. A navy-blue Morris Commercial van stood outside the building, and members of the forensics team moved back and forth between the two.
The outbuilding had evidently been used as a garage, as its flagstoned floor was patched with oil, and several petrol cans and a toolkit stood against the wall. It was not these, however, that caught Langham’s attention as they entered the building.
The portly Dr Bryce was hanging by the neck from a rope tied to a high oak beam. His fleshy face was almost black, his mouth agape in a rictus of agony, his eyes protuberant. A small wooden stepladder stood close to his dangling brogues. As if to add indignity to injury, the corpse had suffered a leakage common in such cases, and the stench was appalling.
Langham kept his distance and his breathing shallow. A police photographer moved around the body, his flash periodically illuminating the scene.
‘He was found by his housekeeper who comes in at nine every morning. The surgeon says he was hanged in the early hours, between midnight and five.’ Mallory looked at Langham. ‘What time did you say you left Winterfield?’
‘It can’t have been much after ten. Say five past.’ Langham squinted up at the corpse’s shirt front. ‘Those stains?’
‘Whiskey,’ Mallory said. ‘He’d been drinking heavily before this happened.’
Ralph moved closer to the corpse, grimacing up at the tortured face.
Langham said, ‘And you think he was murdered?’
As he said the words, a terrible thought occurred to him. Maria was one of those whom Maxwell Fenton had threatened last night.
Mallory said, ‘It’s the surgeon’s opinion that he was too drunk to have hanged himself. He had help. Shall we go into the house?’
On the way out, Mallory waylaid one of the forensic officers. ‘You can cut him down now, and I’d like a report on my desk first thing tomorrow.’
They crossed the cobbles to the back door of the farmhouse and stepped into what Langham thought of as a typical farmhouse kitchen boasting an Aga cooker, a flagstoned floor and low beams.
Mallory indicated an almost empty bottle of Irish whiskey and a shot glass standing on the scrubbed pine table.
‘Looks cut and dried, doesn’t it? Doctor Bryce comes home after witnessing a particularly nasty incident, hits the bottle and in a bout of melancholy decides to end it all. It’d fit with his profile. Bryce had a history of mental instability, and he had a drink problem. There’s something else, though I don’t know whether it has a direct bearing on his death. For ten years he worked as a police surgeon at Colchester – until he was removed from his post.’
‘Removed?’ Ralph said. ‘What’d he done?’
Mallory moved to the table and stared down at the empty glass, his hands on his hips. ‘Falsified some evidence against a suspect the police knew to be guilty. Bryce just helped the case along. But it came to light, internally. The incident was hushed up, though he was asked to leave.’
‘What makes you think he was murdered,’ Langham asked, ‘other than his being incapable of hanging himself?’
Surprising Langham, Mallory crouched and squinted along the length of the tabletop. ‘You won’t be able to see it from where you are, but look at it from this angle.’
Langham and Ralph did so, and Mallory pointed to a very faint circle on the timber, directly across the tabletop from the empty glass. ‘Forensics think there were two people drinking here last night.’
Mallory crossed to a wall cupboard and opened the door. ‘They’ve taken away the glass for analysis, but look.’ He indicated a sheet of lining paper, which was marked by a damp circle beside a line of half a dozen inverted glasses.
‘My guess is the killer was known to Bryce. They share a whiskey and the doctor gets sozzled. The killer replaces his glass, helps Bryce to his feet and steers him out to the garage.’
‘If so,’ Langham said, ‘it was planned and set up in advance. The stepladder, the rope …’
Mallory nodded. ‘Oh, it was premeditated, all right. And well in advance, I’d say.’
Ralph peered at the detective. ‘How’d you reckon that?’
‘This way.’
Mallory led them from the kitchen, down a low corridor, to a room overlooking the front lawn. This was evidently the doctor’s study, with bookcases bearing medical journals and textbooks, and a desk situated before the window.
Mallory pointed to an envelope on the desk. ‘It’s all right – it’s been examined for fingerprints. Clean, of course.’
Langham opened the envelope and withdrew a card bearing the image of a single white lily. ‘With sincere sympathy,’ he read. He opened the card; it was blank. He passed it to Ralph.
‘Someone intended to put the frighteners on him,’ Mallory said.
‘The envelope is typewritten,’ Ralph said, ‘and postmarked Marylebone, two days ago.’
Mallory took the card and slipped it into an evidence bag. ‘Someone had it in for Bryce, and wanted him to know it. Then, in the early hours, he did the job.’
Langham leaned against the wall. ‘Maxwell Fenton threatened his guests in various ways.’ He looked at the two men. ‘Surely it can’t be coincidence?’
‘How about this?’ Mallory said. ‘He has an accomplice. Someone he paid, or coerced, to carry out Bryce’s murder after his own suicide.’
Langham pointed at Mallory. ‘The butler. He skedaddled pretty sharpish after the shooting.’
Ralph grunted a humourless laugh. ‘It were the butler that did it, guv.’
‘We need to trace the chap,’ Mallory said. ‘Could you supply a detailed description of him?’
‘Of course,’ Langham said. He hesitated. ‘If we’re right, and someone is carrying out Fenton’s threats, then the remaining five g
uests are in danger.’
‘Maria,’ Ralph said, only just cottoning on.
Langham nodded, feeling queasy.
‘We might be barking up the wrong tree, of course,’ Mallory said. ‘But to be on the safe side, we’ll contact the guests and inform them—’
‘Can you offer police protection?’ Langham interrupted.
‘I’ll get on to my Super and see what can be done.’
Langham looked around the study, searching for a phone. ‘I need to contact Maria right away.’
Mallory said, ‘There’s a phone in the hallway near the front door.’
Langham hurried from the study and down the hall. He found the telephone, snatched up the receiver and leaned against the wall. His fingers were shaking as he dialled the local operator, then gave the London number of the literary agency.
The receptionist, Molly, answered with a breezy, ‘Hello, the Charles Elder Literary Agency. Molly speaking; how can I help?’
‘Molly, Donald here. Is Maria there?’
‘She is. I’ll put you through.’
Langham blew with relief.
Maria said, ‘Donald, this is a surprise.’
He’d already planned what he was going to say. ‘Maria, I thought it might be nice if we had a break.’
‘A break. What do you—?’
‘Listen to me. Leave the office now, book into a small hotel, then ring Pamela to tell her where you are. Understood?’
She gave a puzzled laugh. ‘Donald, what is all this about?’
‘Just do as I say. And don’t go home on the way to the hotel, all right? Go straight to the hotel, then phone Pamela and tell her where you are. I’ll meet you there later.’
A silence, then she said, ‘I am in danger, aren’t I? What Fenton said last night …’
‘I’ll explain everything later – I’m down at Lower Malton at the moment.’ He hesitated. ‘Maria, you’ll be fine. But please do as I say – understood?’
‘Oui. Yes, of course.’
‘I love you,’ he said.
‘Love you, too, Donald,’ she said, then hung up.
His heart hammering, he made his way back to the study.
‘Manage to get through?’ Ralph asked.
‘Told her to book into a hotel.’
There was a tap on the door, and a uniformed constable, his helmet lodged under his arm like a rugby ball, ducked into the room. ‘Ah, there you are, sir. There’s a woman in the kitchen, a Miss Kerwin, a neighbour. Says she saw someone here last night, late on.’
They followed the constable back to the kitchen, where they found a frail old woman in a tweed two-piece seated at the table, nervously fingering a gold crucifix necklace.
Miss Kerwin looked up as they entered, her eyes concerned. ‘Is it true? I’ve only just heard the rumours. Is Doctor Bryce …?’ She could not finish the question, and looked from one to the other of the men as if to have her fear dispelled.
Mallory introduced Langham and Ralph as colleagues, then sat across from the woman. Langham leaned against the wall.
‘I’m afraid Doctor Bryce is dead,’ Mallory said. ‘I understand you saw someone at the house last night?’
The old woman fanned herself; the constable brought her a glass of water.
She took a gulp, then fixed Mallory with tear-filled eyes. ‘I did, Inspector. It was at twelve thirty, and I was calling for Mr Baldwin.’
‘Mr Baldwin?’ Mallory said.
‘My tabby,’ Miss Kerwin said. ‘I don’t like him staying out at night. The foxes, you see.’
‘Quite,’ Mallory said. ‘Now, this person?’
‘I saw her leave in a car. I live just across from the doctor, so naturally I see everything that goes on. Of course, it’s not uncommon – Doctor Bryce, for all he was a gentlemen, was a bit of a rogue, you know.’
‘A rogue?’
‘Oh, many’s the time he had his ladies call and stay the night, though this one left at twelve thirty.’
‘And you saw the woman? Can you describe her?’
Miss Kerwin frowned. ‘I’m afraid I can’t, Inspector. It was dark, and I must admit that I wasn’t paying very much attention. I was more concerned about Mr Baldwin. I saw the woman walk along the side of the house to her car and then drive away.’
‘Are you absolutely sure it was a woman?’ Mallory asked.
‘Oh, absolutely. She had long dark hair, and the way she walked – it was very definitely a woman.’
‘Was she tall, small? Well built or slight?’
‘She was small. Petite, I think the word is.’
‘And the car? Could you possibly describe it, the make?’
The old woman shook her head. ‘I’m sorry, Inspector. As I said, it was dark, and I’m not very good with cars.’
‘I don’t suppose you’ve seen the same vehicle before at Doctor Bryce’s?’
‘I’m afraid I couldn’t say, Inspector.’
Mallory thanked Miss Kerwin and asked the constable to show her out.
When they were alone, Ralph whistled. ‘Well, blow me down. A woman!’
‘So much for the butler,’ Langham said, ‘though they might be in it together.’
Mallory shook his head. ‘But would a petite woman have the strength to assist a sixteen-stone man across to the garage and up a stepladder, presumably against his will?’
‘Touché,’ Ralph said.
‘How about this?’ Langham said. ‘There were two of them – the woman might have been joined by the butler at some point – and they did it together.’
‘The sooner we trace the butler, the better,’ Mallory said. He rose and moved to the door. ‘Right, I’ve just about finished here. I’m going back to the White Lion to compare notes with my sergeant.’
They left the house, and Mallory had a last word with the forensics team before walking back into the village.
Outside the pub, Mallory turned to Langham. ‘By the way, Caroline sends her best wishes.’
‘Still going strong?’
‘From strength to strength,’ the South African said. ‘I wasn’t going to mention this, but last week I screwed up the courage and popped the question.’
‘You did? You old dog! What did she say?’
Mallory grinned. ‘Well, when she stopped crying, she accepted. We’re having a small register office do just before Christmas. You’re all invited, of course.’
Langham shook the South African’s hand and Ralph made a caustic comment about a lifetime of servitude.
‘Don’t listen to that cynic, Jeff. Wait until I tell Maria,’ Langham said. ‘Which reminds me, I’d better phone Pamela.’
Mallory said goodbye and entered the pub, and Langham crossed the lane to a phone box and hauled open the door. He got through to the office and Pamela answered instantly.
‘Pamela, did Maria—?’
‘A minute ago,’ she said, ‘and it’s all arranged. Only, there’s been a change of plan.’
‘There has?’
‘Rather than go to the expense of booking a hotel room, Donald, I suggested she cancel the room – you can both stay at my place in Bermondsey. Maria’s meeting me here in an hour. There’s a spare room, and you’d be more than welcome.’ She hesitated. ‘Can I ask what’s—?’
‘Later,’ he said. ‘It’s a long story. I’ll tell you both when I get back.’ He thanked her and rang off.
‘Everything tickety-boo?’ Ralph asked.
Langham told him what Pamela had said.
‘Sounds like a good idea to me. The girl has her head screwed on tight. What now?’
Langham thought about it. ‘Seeing as we’re here, what say we go and take a poke around Fenton’s old pile?’
‘Lead the way,’ Ralph said.
They climbed into the Rover and drove through the village.
EIGHT
Langham drew to a halt in the drive and stared out at Winterfield’s ruined facade.
The old house appeared even bleaker now, seen
in the weak winter sunlight. Most of the windows in the east and west wings were shattered, save for those of the sitting room where the guests had gathered the night before. A thick growth of ivy covered most of the brickwork, and several of the tall chimney stacks were missing bricks; some had collapsed entirely, the masonry piled precariously in the eaves.
Ralph jumped from the car, approached the front door and tried the handle. ‘Locked.’
‘Thought it would be,’ Langham said. ‘But there’s more than one way to skin a cat.’
He led the way along the front of the house and around the gable end to the conservatory. Sunlight picked out panes of mildewed glass and several more reduced to jagged shards. He pushed through the rotting door and indicated the portraits leaning against the far wall.
‘Maria and I found these last night,’ he explained, ‘after we’d chased the fleeing butler. Look.’ He pointed to the slashed canvases and knelt to examine them more closely.
He fingered the ripped edges. ‘These have been cut recently. See the edge of the tear, there? It’s white. Do you have a penknife handy?’
Ralph dug around in his jacket pocket and passed Langham a knife. He opened it, moved to the portrait of Hermione Goudge, and sliced the margin of the canvas. He considered the result. ‘The same white edge.’
‘So the paintings were slashed recently,’ Ralph said, fingering his straggling ginger moustache. ‘Yet according to what he said last night, he’d nursed his grudges for a while.’
Langham stood and led the way to the door to the west wing.
As they moved down damp, cobweb-festooned corridors, Ralph whistled. ‘It’s like the set from a ghost film, Don. Christ, what a criminal waste.’
‘Piles like this cost a packet to keep up. It’s a wonder Fenton didn’t resort to torching the place for the insurance.’
They moved through the ground-floor rooms one by one. It was impossible to tell what function they had originally served, as room after room was vacant, the floorboards rotting and, in one or two cases, missing altogether. Rats and mice had taken up residence, and growths of mould and fungus coated walls and ceilings.
