by Eric Brown
‘That’s right. I’m trying to trace the artist’s old acquaintances.’
‘And did you say that you’re a private detective?’
Langham sat up. ‘That’s correct.’ He took a gamble. ‘I understand that you knew Maxwell Fenton?’
A silence, followed by, ‘I … Yes, I did, but it was a long time ago …’
Yes!
‘I wonder if we could speak in person?’ he went on.
‘What is this about, Mr Langham?’
‘We’re attempting to trace the whereabouts of Mr Fenton. If we could meet and discuss—’
‘Very well, but … but not today. I’m very busy at the moment. But possibly tomorrow.’
Ralph appeared at the door, drawn by the prolonged conversation, a beer bottle in one hand and his eyebrows raised.
Langham gave a thumbs up sign. To the woman, he said, ‘Tomorrow will be wonderful. I’ll motor down in the morning and see you around … say, eleven?’
‘The afternoon would be more convenient.’
‘The afternoon it is, then. Would one o’clock suit?’
‘Very well, yes. I’ll see you at one.’ The line went dead as she replaced the receiver.
‘Bingo!’ Langham said, copying the woman’s address from the phone book, then clinking beer bottles with Ralph.
‘Good work,’ Ralph said. ‘How about a celebratory pint or two round the Bull?’
‘Lead on, my man.’
One or two pints led to five, and it was after ten o’clock when Langham drove back to Kensington.
He sat in his armchair in the glow of the standard lamp, the telephone cradled in his lap. He fumbled with his address book, found the number of the Grange and dialled.
He wondered if he would be too late, and if everyone at the hotel would be in bed. He wanted to hear the sound of Maria’s voice, ensure that she was settled in and comfortable, and tell her all about his day.
He was about to give up and replace the receiver when a peremptory voice said, ‘Yes? The Grange.’
‘I would like to speak to Maria Dupré, please. Donald Langham here. I’m her husband.’ He muffled a belch and hoped he didn’t sound too drunk.
‘It is rather late, sir.’
He squinted at his wristwatch. ‘It’s just … just ten thirty. If you could find my wife and tell her that I’d like a quick word.’
The woman drew a breath and a long silence ensued.
He stared through the open window. A streetlight glowed in the darkness, illuminating the incessantly falling rain. He hoped the woman hadn’t had to rouse Maria from sleep. She wouldn’t be best pleased …
‘Darling?’ She sounded anxious.
‘Maria. It’s lovely to hear the sound of your voice.’
‘Donald, you’re drunk!’
‘No, not drunk. Not really. Just … just a little tight.’
‘Are you at home?’ she asked. ‘Have you been drinking all by yourself?’
‘Yes and no. I’m at home, but I’ve just got back from the Bull after a session with Ralph. And you? Have you settled in? What are you doing?’
‘Pamela and I have just finished a game of Scrabble. I’m about to go to bed.’
He told her about his day, the meeting with Crispin Proudfoot and the endless telephone calls culminating in the tracking down of one of Maxwell Fenton’s old lovers.
‘But are you all right, Maria? You and Pamela. Do you feel safe?’ He stared at the bookcase across the room, his vision swimming.
‘Very safe. The officers are the epitome of conscientiousness.’
‘The epitome of …’ He tried to repeat the phrase but failed. ‘That’s good. Very good.’
‘They have a room at the end of the hall and will take it in turns to patrol the landing.’
‘Have you been working, reading your …?’
‘This morning I did nothing but read, Donald, and then this afternoon Pamela and I went for a walk up the hill behind the hotel to the folly. Do you remember the folly, darling? We had a picnic there that afternoon.’
‘How could I forget? It was a beautiful day.’
The last sunny weekend, he recalled, of summer.
‘I’m missing you, Donald.’
‘And I’m missing you. But we’ll soon have this ghastly business done and dusted, and just as soon as we have … I know, I’ll come and stay. We’ll have a break, a little holiday.’
‘That sounds wonderful.’
‘And I’ll beat you at Scrabble,’ he said optimistically.
‘You’ll try!’ She laughed. ‘You have been signally unsuccessful so far, my darling!’
They talked for a little longer, tiredness catching up with him, and when he yawned for the third time, Maria said, ‘Off you go to bed, Donald. Sleep tight.’
He said goodnight and replaced the receiver.
He poured himself a nightcap, another large whisky, and at midnight dragged himself to bed.
TWENTY-THREE
The summons of the telephone bell woke him at seven.
He sat up, wondering at first what the sound was, then rolled out of bed and staggered into the sitting room. Bright winter sunlight cascaded through the bay window. He blinked at the dazzle and slumped into the armchair, holding his pounding head.
‘Langham here. Speaking?’ His first thought was that it might be Maria and that something was amiss.
He was relieved when he heard Mallory’s baritone. ‘Donald? You sound rough.’
‘Just a little. Thick head. I’m fine.’ He peered across the room at the wall clock. ‘Why the blazes are you ringing at this ungodly hour?’
‘I’ve been up since five,’ Mallory said. ‘Anyway, you were wrong.’
Langham blinked. ‘Come again.’
‘About Fenton’s modus operandi. You doubted that we’d find anything at Winterfield.’
Langham swore.
‘My team unearthed a corpse around nine last night,’ Mallory went on, ‘just after I’d knocked off. I’m heading down there now.’
‘Do you know if it’s male or female?’
‘Male.’
‘Any idea who it might be?’
‘Not yet. There’s a team down there as we speak, examining the remains.’
Langham rubbed his face and tried to marshal his thoughts. ‘Look here, we’re heading down that way later today.’ He told Mallory about having located Prudence Forester. ‘We could drop by Winterfield this morning and swap notes.’
‘That sounds like an idea. See you there. Oh, there is one other thing. Will you thank Ralph for his suggestion yesterday, about the lack of security at Proudfoot’s place?’
‘I’ll do that. You’ve drafted more men in?’
‘I went to take a look-see last night, and I didn’t like the set-up. As Ralph said, anyone could have got in there. And that flat roof was an open invitation. I considered getting a couple more officers to guard the house.’
‘I sense a “but” coming.’
‘But to be honest I didn’t want to endanger my men. I decided to get Proudfoot out of there and take him up to the Grange. I reckoned everyone would be safer there, all round.’
The phrase ‘all your eggs in one basket’ suddenly occurred to Langham, but he dismissed the thought.
‘Are you any closer to locating where Fenton might be holing up?’ he asked.
‘We’ve traced a London flat he rented for his occasional trips to the capital, but that was two years ago,’ Mallory said. ‘Right, duty calls.’
Langham thanked him and rang off, then got through to Ralph at home and arranged to meet him outside the office at eight thirty.
He made himself a quick coffee, decided against a slice of toast, then left the flat and drove to Earl’s Court. He was sitting in his car outside the Lyons’ tearoom thirty minutes later when Ralph climbed in beside him.
‘Beautiful morning, Don. How’s the old head?’
‘Old. And thick.’
‘What have I told you, mate?’ Ralph s
aid as Langham started up and pulled out into the flow of traffic. ‘Always have a pot of strong tea after a session, before you turn in. But you didn’t heed my wise words, did you?’
‘I had a whisky instead. I didn’t feel like sleeping.’
‘A whisky? You’re a glutton for punishment. No wonder you look like death warmed up. I’m surprised you didn’t go for the hair of the dog.’ He peered at Langham. ‘You didn’t, did you?’
‘Well, when I saw the whisky bottle on the table this morning … I was tempted. But I fought the urge.’
‘Good man. So what did Jeff say about this stiff they dug up at Winterfield?’
As they drove from London, Langham recounted the little that Mallory had reported earlier that morning.
‘I’ll tell you what,’ Ralph said, ‘I’m glad I didn’t know this Fenton geezer back in the thirties. Odds on I’d’ve got on his wrong side and ended up in his little black book.’
‘What I don’t understand,’ Langham said, ‘is why, if Fenton was in the habit of murdering his enemies and burying them at Winterfield, he suddenly decided to change his method now and stage the little theatre the other night – then bump off his victims one by one with the help of the woman?’
Ralph shrugged. ‘I dunno. P’raps he was getting a bit bored with simply killing his victims without warning, so he decided to ring the changes? He wanted the thrill of his victims knowing they were for the chop.’
‘And as he was too ill to carry out the killings by himself, he roped in the redhead?’
‘You’ve got it in one, Don.’
They drove on through open countryside basking in the unseasonal winter sunlight.
‘Did Jeff know if any of Fenton’s friends or acquaintances have been reported missing?’ Ralph asked.
‘He didn’t say, but I’m sure he has his team looking into it. And Jeff asked me to thank you for tipping him off about the security at Muswell Hill. He took a gander himself yesterday and decided to move Proudfoot to the Grange.’
‘Sounds like a sensible idea.’ Ralph touched the rim of his trilby. ‘Glad to be of service, Cap’n.’
They passed through Lower Malton and took the lane towards Winterfield, coming to the gate and turning into the long driveway. Storm clouds were massing in the east, threatening rain later. For the time being, bright sunlight illuminated the dew-wet rhododendrons and, when it came into view, the dour facade of the country house.
Jeff Mallory’s Humber and three police cars stood before the building, and a uniformed constable was stationed at the front door. Langham crossed to him, showed his accreditation and said that Detective Inspector Mallory was expecting them.
‘He’s with his team in the grounds half a mile behind the house, sir. Follow the track, then turn right down the pathway.’
They walked around the house, crunching over the gravel, and took the rutted track that cut through a plantation of pines. In the distance, the blue forensics van was parked at the end of the pathway. They reached it and turned down the path, Langham batting away wet fronds of undergrowth.
They came to a clearing a hundred yards into the forest. On the far side, scaffolding boards had been laid out around the grave in a grid pattern, and the forensics team and a police photographer were at pains to use the boards as a walkway so as not to trample the surrounding ground. Two men in boiler suits knelt to examine the corpse.
With the sunlight streaming through the evergreens and birdsong in the air, it would have made an idyllic setting for a picnic. Then Langham caught a sudden, brief whiff of putrescence and grimaced.
Mallory saw them, lifted a hand in greeting and crossed the clearing.
Langham said, ‘I assumed, when you said you were ordering the search, that if you found anything, it’d be from years back. But the corpse is more recent, isn’t it?’
Mallory nodded. ‘He’s been dead a month, maybe two.’
‘Any idea who it is?’ Ralph asked.
Mallory gestured towards the grave. ‘The dentist is doing some preliminary work, though the fingerprint chap doubts he can lift anything from the corpse.’
‘How did he die?’ Langham asked.
‘A single gunshot to the head,’ Mallory said.
He was interrupted by Detective Sergeant Venables, who turned from the grave and beckoned to Mallory.
‘Half a minute,’ Mallory said, joining his colleague. They conferred in lowered tones, the big South African nodding from time to time.
Then Langham heard Mallory exclaim incredulously, ‘What?’
Ralph said, ‘What the hell?’
Mallory gestured for Langham and Ralph to join him. They crossed the clearing and stepped on to a scaffolding board, and Langham stared down at the corpse.
The man had been old, if his iron-grey hair was any indication. The flesh of his lean face had the silver-green sheen of putrescent meat, and maggots had made a home in the remains of his right eyeball. A neat bullet hole showed as a dark circle at his left temple.
‘What is it, Jeff?’ Langham murmured.
Mallory pointed to the corpse as the police photographer took a series of shots from various angles. ‘I was pretty damned sure it was one of Fenton’s old cronies,’ he said. ‘Another poor sod who’d fallen foul of his vengeance.’
‘And it isn’t?’
Mallory shook his head. ‘Dental records confirm that the corpse is that of Maxwell Fenton.’
‘Fenton?’ Langham felt the odd urge to laugh at the improbability of the idea. ‘There must be some mistake?’
Mallory shook his head. ‘It’s Fenton all right.’
Ralph said, ‘And you say he’s been dead for a month or two?’
Mallory nodded.
‘But that means …’ Langham began.
He saw a fallen tree trunk a few yards away, crossed to it and slumped down. Ralph and Mallory joined him.
Ralph lit a cigarette and pulled on it. Mallory knelt before Langham, his arms on his knees like a rugby prop forward posing for a team photograph.
Langham said, ‘If Fenton’s been dead for a month or more, then he can’t have killed Bryce, the Goudges and Holly Beckwith – or arranged for Benedict to shoot himself.’
‘And he can’t have had anything to do with that piece of theatre here four nights ago,’ Mallory said. ‘Benedict was contacted, via the Kersh agency, just over two weeks ago.’
‘So … let’s get this straight,’ Langham said. ‘If he didn’t set it up or kill these people, then who might be behind the murders? The redhead, right?’ He looked from Ralph to Mallory. ‘But why would she have a grudge against all these people, Fenton included, and why did she kill Fenton – if indeed she did?’
He’d been so convinced that Maxwell Fenton was behind the killings, out for sadistic revenge, that the sudden need to reassess everything he had assumed about the man was too much to take on board.
Ralph asked, ‘Are we assuming that the same person – the redhead – killed Fenton and the others?’
‘Isn’t that a fair guess?’ Mallory asked. ‘Surely it’s too coincidental otherwise.’
‘Very well,’ Langham said at last, ‘how about this: we go back to our original hypothesis, for argument’s sake. Fenton did plan that piece of theatre the other night – he did want the guests to die one by one. But he was too ill to go about it himself.’
Mallory looked sceptical. ‘So he hired the woman, then shot himself, or had himself shot and buried by the redhead, who then goes on a murder spree?’ He shook his head. ‘Why would she willingly do that? And it isn’t as if Fenton had the cash to pay her to go through with it. It’s just too fantastic.’
‘Maybe he didn’t need to pay her,’ Langham said.
Mallory frowned. ‘What do you mean?’
‘What if the woman had her own reasons for wanting these people dead, and killed Fenton to frame him?’
Ralph flicked his cigarette into the undergrowth and shook his head. ‘There’s a flaw in that argument
, Don. Everyone who was a guest that night – including Edgar Benedict – had at some point angered Fenton: they’ve admitted as much themselves. So how likely is it that the redhead would bear grudges against the same group of people and want them all dead? It doesn’t wash.’
‘No, you’re right,’ Langham said. ‘It’s just too coincidental.’
Mallory gazed across at the activity around the grave in brooding silence.
‘What now?’ Langham asked.
‘I’m staying here,’ Mallory said. ‘The team has been through the house from attic to cellar, but after finding Fenton … I should take another look. You?’
‘We’ll motor up to Great Dunmow and have a chat with this Prudence woman – she had an affair with Fenton back in the thirties, and might even have had his child, though apparently it died in infancy.’
‘Do you know if she was in recent contact with Fenton?’ Mallory asked.
‘I don’t, but I’ll ask. She might be able to shed a bit more light on Fenton.’
‘You don’t think the woman herself might be …?’ Mallory began.
‘What? Our killer?’
‘The redhead?’ Ralph said.
Langham smiled. ‘She was described as being young, in her twenties. This woman would be in her mid-forties now, even older.’
‘Appearances can be deceptive,’ Ralph said. ‘I’ve seen stunning forty-year-olds who could be mistaken for girls.’
Mallory smiled. ‘Maybe Fenton treated her so badly she has resented him ever since, took the opportunity to kill him – and then framed him by killing the guests one by one? But I seriously doubt it.’
He led the way from the grave and back through the forest. They said goodbye outside the house just as the storm clouds unleashed a sudden downpour. Mallory sprinted into the house and Langham and Ralph hurried across to the Rover.
Ralph looked at his watch. ‘Half eleven, Don. We could drive up to Great Dunmow, find a quiet pub and have a spot of lunch. How’s the petrol?’
Langham peered at the gauge. ‘A quarter full. It should be enough to see us home.’
He started the engine and drove away from Winterfield, through the village of Lower Malton, and took the road north.
TWENTY-FOUR
