Murder by Numbers

by Eric Brown

  ‘That’s about the long and the short of it, Don.’

  ‘And if she denies—’

  Ralph interrupted. ‘Then believe her, you bloody fool, and get on with it.’ He stood up and took his trilby from the hatstand.

  ‘I’m going stir-crazy in here, Don. What say we tootle off and pay a call on Mr Proudfoot?’

  ‘I thought you were about to suggest a pint,’ Langham said.

  ‘When Fenton’s behind bars,’ Ralph said, ‘I’ll stand you a gallon. Righty-ho. Your car or mine?’

  ‘How’s your tank?’

  ‘Running on empty.’

  ‘Then we’ll take mine,’ Langham said, and led the way down the steps and into the enveloping fog.

  He consulted his notebook before they set off. ‘The Gables, Highlands Rise, Muswell Hill.’ He smiled. ‘The poet of Muswell Hill. It sounds like something from Chesterton.’

  He drove slowly through the fog, heading north.

  ‘Never met a poet before,’ Ralph said. ‘You read his stuff?’

  Langham shook his head. ‘Can’t say I take to verse. Maria’s up on it, though.’

  ‘You think he makes a decent living?’

  ‘Doubt it. Few poets do. He’ll turn out hackwork on the side – reviews, articles. He might even read for publishers, do a little copy-editing.’

  ‘Nice work if you can get it.’

  Langham shook his head. ‘Soul-destroying, believe me. I’ve done it.’

  ‘So what’s he like, this Crispin? From what I saw of him the other morning, he looked a right—’

  ‘Drip,’ Langham finished. ‘Yes, you said.’ Langham accelerated through a set of traffic lights about to turn red. ‘What’s he like? Oddly enough, he conforms pretty much to the stereotype of your average fin-de-siècle poetaster – imagine an up-to-date version of Swinburne.’

  ‘Sorry, guv, you’ve lost me.’

  ‘In other words, he’s effete, privileged, no doubt public-school educated – and probably never done a day’s work in his life. And the poor chap’s frightened to death. Which, in the circumstances, is quite understandable.’

  ‘What’re the chances we’ll find him butchered?’

  ‘You have a sick sense of humour, Mr Ryland.’

  They came to Muswell Hill ten minutes later. Langham turned on to Highlands Rise and drove up a steep hill lined with respectable Victorian semi-detached villas.

  They pulled up on the slope and parked behind an unmarked police car. Langham climbed out and showed his accreditation to the officer in the driving seat of the Wolseley.

  ‘The boss said to expect you.’ The officer indicated the tall, turreted mock-gothic pile set back in its own grounds and looking sepulchral in the fog.

  ‘Proudfoot has the attic flat. You’ll find Sergeant Wells in the grounds. We’re taking it in turns to patrol the place.’

  ‘Good man,’ Langham said. ‘We just want a quick word with the chap.’

  The officer smiled. ‘A quick word? If you can get in, you mean.’

  ‘If we can get in?’

  ‘You’ll see,’ the man said with the smug privilege of prior knowledge.

  They made their way through a wrought-iron gate and down the front path.

  Langham hammered on the front door, and it was two minutes before a tall, grey-haired woman answered and peered through her pince-nez at them. ‘Yes? And who might you be?’

  Her patronizing manner riled Ralph, who flapped his accreditation before her horsey face and snapped, ‘Police.’ He pushed past the woman before she had time to stand aside. ‘Proudfoot at home?’

  ‘If you are referring to Mr Crispin, then he has informed me that he will not be receiving callers.’

  ‘We’re not callers,’ Ralph said, peering up a flight of gloomy steps. ‘Like I sez, we’re the Bill. Top floor, I understand?’

  Ignoring the woman’s feeble protests, Ralph led the way up three flights of steps, Langham smiling at his friend’s brusque insolence when dealing with those he considered ‘up themselves’.

  They came to the third-floor landing and Langham knocked on the door.

  Ralph leaned against the woodwork and lit up a Capstan. Langham knocked again, then moved closer to the door and called out, ‘Crispin, it’s Langham. I’d like a word.’

  Still no sound issued from within. Ralph raised his ginger eyebrows. ‘Maybe I was right and Fenton’s already got at him.’

  ‘If he has, then Jeff’s not going to be pleased with the guard detail.’

  He knelt and applied his eye to the keyhole, but a key inserted from the other side obscured the view.

  He knocked again. ‘Come on, Crispin. Open up. It’s Langham.’

  ‘I’ve got an awful feeling, Don.’

  Langham nodded. He was beginning to share Ralph’s premonition when a frightened, reedy falsetto sounded from behind the door. ‘How do I know it’s you?’

  Ralph wiped his brow. ‘The poet lives.’

  Langham smiled. ‘Crispin,’ he said, ‘we met the other day, outside the Tivoli Mansions. We had coffee in that café across the road and I gave you my number, remember?’

  ‘There’s someone with you. I heard you talking.’

  Exasperated, Langham said. ‘It’s my partner, Ralph Ryland. We’d like a word. Come on, Crispin, open up. There’s a good fellow.’

  A silence ensued, followed by the sound of the key turning and a bolt being shot.

  The door opened a reluctant inch and a pale grey eye focused on Langham. ‘Come in. Quickly!’

  Langham slipped inside, followed by Ralph, and Proudfoot lost no time in slamming the door, turning the key in the lock and shooting the bolt.

  He looked terrible as he collapsed against the door, his normally pale face a shade whiter and his brow speckled with sweat. He wore a lemon-yellow silk shirt and a pale-green cravat beneath his non-existent chin, and looked as if he’d just stepped from the set of an Aldwych farce. Langham was alarmed to see a small pistol clutched in his right hand.

  ‘You’ve no idea how terrible it’s been!’

  ‘I think I can guess,’ Langham said.

  He looked around the odd-shaped room, crammed in under the sloping eaves. It was sparsely furnished with a battered armchair, a coffee table and a bookshelf bearing slim poetry editions which he guessed Proudfoot had brought with him.

  Ralph moved to the only window and peered out. ‘I hope the rozzers realize someone could easily climb up here.’

  This had the effect of raising a strangled cry from the poet. ‘What?’

  ‘I mean, look at it,’ Ralph went on, pointing. Langham joined him and looked out. Grey tiles sloped from the dormer window to a flat roof, and a monkey puzzle tree extended its tortured limbs to within a few feet of the roof’s guttering.

  ‘Someone could easily shin up the tree, jump on to the roof, climb up the tiles – and in through the window. Bob’s your uncle!’

  Proudfoot joined them and wailed something unintelligible.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Langham said. ‘I’m sure the officers are well aware of the risk. Anyway, I’ll mention it on the way out.’

  Ralph pointed to the gun in the poet’s palsied hand. ‘Is that thing loaded?’

  ‘Of course. Do you think I’d be fool enough to protect myself with an empty weapon?’

  ‘Then be a sport and put it down, OK, while we have a little chat.’

  As if fearing a trick, Proudfoot glanced at Langham, who nodded. The poet collapsed into the armchair and slid the revolver on to the coffee table.

  Ralph leaned against the wall and Langham found a squat, barrel-shaped pouffe and sat down.

  Proudfoot looked from Ralph to Langham. ‘You’ve come about Beckwith, haven’t you?’

  Langham stared at him. ‘How do you know?’

  The poet’s face contorted into a rictus of agony. ‘There! I knew it.’

  Ralph stepped forward and leaned menacingly over the poet. ‘How the hell do you know about the ac
tress, chum?’

  Proudfoot almost wept. ‘Don’t you see? And you’re supposed to be detectives! Doctor Bryce was killed first, and the following day the Goudges joined him. The actress was destined to be next. Our invitation cards were numbered, as were the seats in the library. One, two, three, four. And four days have elapsed since Bryce’s death! Beckwith is dead, and I’m next!’

  Langham glanced at Ralph, unsure how much to divulge to the poet.

  ‘Tell me!’ Proudfoot cried. ‘How did she die?’

  ‘The killer overpowered the officers detailed to guard her.’

  ‘Overpowered?’

  ‘It won’t happen again, Crispin. The police won’t be caught a second time.’ He hoped, for the young man’s sake, that his calming words would prove correct.

  ‘How … how did she die, Mr Langham?’

  ‘That doesn’t matter—’

  ‘Tell me!’

  ‘You heard what he said,’ Ralph snapped. ‘It doesn’t matter. The poor woman’s dead. Just leave it at that.’

  Now Proudfoot did weep. He hung his head and wailed, ‘But who’s doing this?’ He looked up. ‘That night, Fenton threatened us before he killed himself. He’s hired someone to carry out his wishes from beyond the grave, hasn’t he? An assassin. A cruel, ruthless assassin! I’m right, aren’t I?’

  ‘Maxwell Fenton is the killer,’ Langham said, silencing the distraught young man.

  Proudfoot opened his mouth, but no words were forthcoming. He shook his head, incredulous, and at last found his voice. ‘What?’

  Ralph said, ‘It wasn’t Fenton who died that night. It was an actor he hired to play the part. Fenton’s still alive.’

  ‘Fenton?’ It was almost a whisper, uttered with an almost pantomime expression of disbelief. ‘That’s impossible!’

  ‘Wish it were, chum,’ Ralph said. ‘So in a way you’re right. He is responsible, but not from beyond the grave. He’s alive in the here and now.’

  Langham rose from the pouffe and stood by the window. Down in the overgrown grounds, he made out a burly figure stalking around the house. The officer looked up, saw Langham and saluted. He returned the gesture.

  He turned and said to Proudfoot, ‘We’d like to ask you a few questions about Maxwell Fenton.’

  Still attempting to process the news of Fenton’s return from the dead, the poet nodded distractedly. ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘You were the last person, of the six invited to Winterfield that night, to have known him. What, five years ago?’

  ‘Something like that – before I left for Paris.’

  ‘Do you know if he had a place in London at the time – a flat, or a hotel or guest house he preferred to stay at, or someone he stayed with?’

  ‘I really don’t know. Fenton did come up to the capital occasionally, on business, but for the most part he avoided the place like the plague.’

  ‘Did he have friends in the capital, do you know?’

  ‘At the time I knew him, he had few friends. He’d alienated people over the years, you see.’

  ‘And yet he befriended you?’

  Proudfoot gave an insipid smile. ‘I suppose I was young, just twenty at the time. I wasn’t of the generation who’d betrayed him – and he did profess to like my work.’

  ‘What did you talk about?’

  The poet waved a languid hand. ‘The arts. Poetry. The degeneracy of modern art and the sad decline of culture under the Labour government after the war.’

  Langham refrained from arguing. ‘Do you know if Fenton had a lover at the time?’

  ‘A lover?’ Proudfoot blinked.

  ‘I know he had women by the bushel-load in the thirties, but what about more recently?’

  The poet shook his head. ‘No, there was no one. He struck me as a very isolated, lonely figure.’

  Langham nodded. ‘Now, back in the thirties … Did he ever talk about those times?’

  ‘Very little, and then only to bewail those he considered his enemies.’

  ‘Did he mention a woman called Prudence? Her surname might have been Foster or Forster, or something similar.’

  ‘No, he never mentioned old lovers. I’m sure I would have recalled his mentioning someone called Prudence.’

  ‘Are you sure? You see, we believe that she might have been the mother of his child.’

  He looked startled at this. ‘Fenton had a child? Well, he said nothing about one to me.’

  ‘We can’t be absolutely sure. There were rumours, talk at the time. Did anything in his conversation about life in general suggest that he might be a father?’

  Proudfoot smiled. ‘We never spoke of anything like that,’ he said. ‘As I said, our conversation revolved around the arts, culture and, occasionally, politics.’

  Langham looked across the room at Ralph and raised his eyebrows. ‘Anything else, Ralph?’

  ‘I think you’ve covered everything.’ Ralph pointed to the armchair situated before the window. ‘You don’t use that, do you?’

  The poet blinked at the object. ‘Sometimes. Why?’

  ‘Don’t. Or if you do, move it away from the window. We don’t want Fenton taking a pot shot at you, do we?’

  Proudfoot gulped and said. ‘Very well, yes. I’ll certainly move it.’

  Langham rose to his feet. He indicated the revolver on the table. ‘Do you know how to use that thing, Crispin?’

  ‘Ah, no. Not really. I borrowed it from a friend.’

  ‘I hope you never do need to use it, but if you do, then there are one or two things to bear in mind.’

  Proudfoot nodded, pathetically eager.

  ‘Hold it in your shooting hand,’ Langham said, ‘with your non-shooting hand bracing your wrist, like this’– he demonstrated –‘and don’t make the mistake of aiming for the subject’s head. You might think it’s the obvious target – but it’s relatively small and easy to miss. Aim for the torso; it’s a much larger target. If possible, wait until the subject is within feet of you – that is, presuming he too isn’t armed – and fire off two shots in quick succession, then roll right or left, seeking cover, and take aim and fire again.’

  He moved to the door.

  The poet stared at the gun on the table as if it were a viper. ‘Thank you. Yes, I’ll remember that.’ He smiled up at Langham. ‘And I appreciate your coming here today.’

  Langham opened the door and stepped from the room. ‘We’ll talk again soon,’ he said.

  Ralph tipped his hat at the poet and joined Langham on the landing as Proudfoot locked and bolted the door behind them.

  They made their way down the three flights of stairs, ignored the landlady hovering in the hall and emerged into the fog.

  Ralph laid a hand on Langham’s arm. ‘I don’t like it, Don. The set-up here.’

  ‘You don’t think two men are enough?’

  Ralph held up his hand and stuck out a thumb. ‘First off, two aren’t enough. Second, the front door was unlocked and anyone could get in. Third, Proudfoot might lock and bolt the door, but did you notice the door itself? Thin as matchwood. A chap with an axe would be in there in three blows. Or he’d simply put his shoulder through it. The place is a death trap.’

  He gestured for Langham to follow him, then stepped off the path and through the undergrowth. They walked across to a low fence and Ralph peered over into the neighbouring garden. He shook his head. ‘Anyone could sneak in there, wait till the patrolling rozzer has passed by, then make for the house. He could be up the tree, on the flat roof and into the attic in three minutes flat.’

  They moved along the length of the fence to the back of the garden. Langham made out a dense spinney beyond. Ralph led the way to the monkey puzzle tree and looked up into its branches.

  He clutched the lowest and tutted. ‘Easy as pie,’ he said. ‘Even I could climb the ruddy thing.’

  They made their way to the front of the house and down the path to the gate.

  Ralph indicated the police car. ‘Just a jif
fy while I have a word in his shell-like,’ he said, moving to the Wolseley and tapping on the window.

  Langham returned to the Rover and watched Ralph and the officer in animated conversation. Ralph joined him a minute later.

  ‘Told him it was a murder waiting to happen,’ he said, ‘and suggested he get on to Mallory and ask for reinforcements.’ He peered through the fog at the house, frowning. ‘I reckon they need at least four men to guard the place, Don.’

  ‘Let’s hope these two are a bit more savvy than the pair last night,’ Langham said as he started the engine and set off back to Earl’s Court.

  Ralph had the bright idea of laying in a few bottles of Double Diamond from the off-licence on the corner when they returned. While he was doing that, Langham bought four pork pies from the butcher’s around the corner.

  They spent the next two hours in the office, going through the list of names and telephone numbers and getting nowhere. Once, after hearing Ralph chatting for a minute or two, he called through the communicating door, ‘What was that?’

  Ralph laughed. ‘An old biddy wanted to know if being a private detective was anything like a Raymond Chandler novel.’

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I told her it was more like a Dorothy L. Sayers – dull and boring.’

  ‘Didn’t know you read Sayers.’

  ‘I don’t, but Annie likes ’em. I tried one once, but give me a Western any day.’

  Langham took ten minutes off, opened another beer and ate his second pie, then picked up the phone again. It was almost four o’clock and getting dark outside. He’d try another ten numbers and then call it a day.

  As it happened, he struck lucky on the second call, a Prudence Forester from the village of Wilton near Great Dunmow in Essex.

  ‘Donald Langham speaking,’ he said, by now tired of the sound of his own voice, ‘of the Ryland and Langham Detective Agency. I’m sorry to bother you, but I’m attempting to trace acquaintances of the artist Maxwell Fenton.’

  He heard the catch in the woman’s voice as she said in a refined Home Counties accent, ‘I … I beg your pardon?’

  He repeated his introduction.

  The woman said, ‘Maxwell?’