Magpie Murders

by Anthony Horowitz

‘It would be helpful if you could remain a little longer,’ Pünd replied. ‘We will not take up too much more of your time.’

  The three of them went into a small hallway with two doors, a corridor and a flight of stairs leading up. The wallpaper was old-fashioned, floral. The pictures were images of English birds and owls. There was an antique table, a coat stand and a full-length mirror. Everything looked as if it had been there for a long time.

  ‘What is it you want to see?’ Brent asked.

  ‘That, I cannot tell you,’ Pünd replied. ‘Not yet.’

  The downstairs rooms had little to offer. The kitchen was basic, the living room dowdy, dominated by an old-fashioned grandfather clock. Fraser remembered how Joy Sanderling had described it, ticking away as she tried to make an impression on Robert’s mother. Everything was very clean, as if Mary’s ghost had just been in. Or perhaps it had never left. Someone had picked up the mail and piled it on the kitchen table but there was very little of it and nothing of interest.

  They went upstairs. Mary’s bedroom was at the end of the corridor with a bathroom next door. She had slept in the same bed that she must have once shared with her husband: it was so heavy and cumbersome that it was hard to imagine anyone bringing it here after he had left. The bedroom looked out over the road. In fact none of the main rooms had a view back to Pye Hall as if the house had been purposefully designed so that the servant would never glance in the direction of her employers. Pünd passed two doors that opened into bedrooms. Nobody had slept in them for some time. The beds were stripped, the mattresses already showing signs of mould. A third door, opposite them, had been broken, the lock forced.

  ‘The police did that,’ Brent explained. He sounded unhappy about it. ‘They wanted to go in but they couldn’t find the key.’

  ‘Mrs Blakiston kept it locked?’

  ‘She never went in.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I already told you. I come here lots of times. I fixed the damp and laid the carpets downstairs and she was always calling me in. But not this room. She wouldn’t open the door. I’m not even sure she had the key. That’s why the police broke it down.’

  They went inside. The room was disappointing: like the rest of the house, it was utterly stripped of life with a single bed, an empty wardrobe and a window cut into the eaves with a work table below. Pünd went over to it and looked out. There was a view through the trees and he could just glimpse the edge of the lake with the threatened woodland, Dingle Dell, beyond. He noticed a single drawer in the middle of the table and opened it. Inside, Fraser saw a strip of black leather forming a circle with a small disc attached. It was a dog collar. He reached forward and took it out.

  ‘Bella,’ he read. The name was in capital letters.

  ‘Bella was the dog,’ Brent said, unnecessarily. Fraser was a little annoyed. He might have guessed as much.

  ‘Whose dog?’ Pünd asked.

  ‘The younger kid. The one who died. He had a dog but it didn’t last long.’

  ‘What happened to it?’

  ‘It ran off. They lost it.’

  Fraser put the collar back. It was so small – it must have belonged to a mere puppy. There was something inexpressibly sad about it, sitting in the empty drawer. ‘So this was Tom’s room,’ Fraser muttered.

  ‘It would seem possible, yes.’

  ‘I suppose it would explain why she locked the door. The poor woman couldn’t bear to come in here. I wonder why she didn’t move.’

  ‘She may not have had a choice.’

  Both of them were speaking in low voices, as if they were afraid of disturbing ancient memories. Meanwhile, Brent was shuffling around, anxious to be on his way. But Pünd took his time leaving the house. Fraser knew that he was not so much searching for clues as sensing the atmosphere – he had often heard him talk about the memory of crime, the supernatural echoes left behind by sadness and violent death. There was even a chapter in that book of his. ‘Information and Intuition’ or something like that.

  Only when they were outside did he speak. ‘Chubb will have removed anything of interest. I am keen to know what he found.’ He glanced at Brent who was already shuffling into the distance, making his way back towards the manor house. ‘And that one, also, he told us a great deal.’ He looked around him, at the trees pressing in. ‘I would not wish to live here,’ he said. ‘There is no view.’

  ‘It is rather oppressive,’ Fraser agreed.

  ‘We must find out from Mr Whitehead how much money he paid to Brent and for what reason. Also, we must speak again with the Reverend Osborne. He must have had a reason to come here on the night of the murder. And then there is the question of his wife …’

  ‘He said that Mrs Osborne was afraid.’

  ‘Yes. Afraid of what, I wonder.’ He took a last look back. ‘There is something about the atmosphere of this house, James. It tells me that there is a great deal to fear.’

  5

  Raymond Chubb did not like murder. He had become a policeman because he believed in order and he considered the county of Somerset, with its neat villages, hedgerows and ancient fields to be one of the most ordered and civilised parts of the country – if not the world. Murder changed everything. It broke the gentle rhythm of life. It turned neighbour against neighbour. Suddenly nobody was to be trusted and doors, which were usually left open at night, were locked. Murder was an act of vandalism, a brick thrown at a picture window and somehow it was his job to put together the pieces.

  Sitting in his office in the Orange Grove police station in Bath, he reflected on his current investigation. This business with Sir Magnus Pye had not got off to an inauspicious start. It was one thing to be stabbed in your own home – but to be decapitated with a medieval sword in the middle of the night was quite simply outrageous. Saxby-on-Avon was such a quiet place! Yes, there had been that business with the cleaner, the woman who had tripped up and fallen down the stairs, but this was something else again. Could it really be true that one of the villagers, living in a Georgian house perhaps, going to church and playing for the local cricket team, mowing their lawn on Sunday mornings and selling home-made marmalade at the village fête was a homicidal maniac? The answer was – yes, quite possibly. And their identity might well be provided by the book sitting on the desk in front of him now.

  He had found nothing in Sir Magnus’s safe of any interest. And it had looked as if the Lodge House was going to be a waste of time too. And then, an eagle-eyed constable, young Winterbrook, had made his discovery amongst the cookery books in Mary Blakiston’s kitchen. He was going to go far, that boy. He just needed to show a more serious attitude and a bit more ambition and he’d be an inspector in no time. Had she hidden it there deliberately? Had she been afraid of someone coming into the house – her son, perhaps, or Sir Magnus himself? Certainly, it wasn’t something she’d want to leave lying around, containing as it did malicious observations on just about everyone in the village. There was Mr Turnstone (the butcher) who deliberately short-changed his customers, Jeffrey Weaver (the undertaker) who was apparently cruel to his dog, Edgar Rennard (the retired doctor) who took bribes, Miss Dotterel (the village shop) who drank. Nobody seemed to have escaped her attention.

  It had already taken him two whole days to go through it all and by the end of that time he felt almost sullied. He remembered seeing Mary Blakiston, glassy-eyed at the bottom of the stairs at Pye Hall, already cold and stiff. At the time he had felt pity for her. Now he wondered what had motivated her as she shuffled round the village permanently suspicious, permanently on the look out for trouble. Couldn’t she, just once, have found something good? Her handwriting managed to be cramped and spidery yet very neat – as if she were some sort of accountant of evil. Yes! Pünd would like that one. It was exactly the sort of thing he might say. Each entry was dated. This volume covered three and a half years and Chubb had already sent Winter
brook back to the house to see if he could find any earlier editions – not that he didn’t have plenty enough to be getting on with.

  Mrs Blakiston had two or three special favourites who turned up on page after page. Curiously, despite the acrimony between them, her son Robert wasn’t one of them although Josie – or Joy – had become an object of disdain the moment she had been introduced. She really hated the groundsman, Brent. His name kept on appearing. He was rude, he was lazy, he arrived late, he pilfered, he spied on the Boy Scouts when they were camping in Dingle Dell, he drank, he told lies, he never washed. It seemed that she had shared her thoughts with Sir Magnus Pye; at least, that was what she suggested in one of her last entries.

  28 July

  Finally, some sense! Sir M has asked Brent to leave his employ. It happened last night up at the hall. Brent not at all happy. Scowling this morning and deliberately tramped through a bed of aquilegia. Saw him with my own eyes and mentioned it to dear Sir M who told me that it didn’t matter as he was going anyway. And about time too. I’ve told him often enough. Sir M didn’t mention reason but there could be so many. Plenty of young men looking for work in the area, I said, and a good thing too. Suggested advertisement in The Lady but Sir M prefers agency as more discreet. More expensive too – not that it would matter to him, I suppose.

  A day later, she had been dead. And a week after that, Sir M had died too. A coincidence? Surely the two of them hadn’t been killed on account of a trampled bunch of flowers.

  Chubb had marked seven more entries, which, he thought, might somehow relate to the case. All but one of them were recent and so more likely to be relevant to the murder of Sir Magnus. Once again he flicked through them, reading them in the order that seemed to make most sense.

  13 July

  An interesting talk with Dr Redwing. How many thieves can there be in one village? This is very serious. A drug has been stolen from her surgery. She wrote down the name for me. Physostigmine. She says a large dose could quite possibly be fatal. I told her she should go to the police but of course she doesn’t want to because she thinks she’ll be blamed. I like Dr R but I do sometimes question her judgment. Having that girl working there, for example. And she isn’t quite as careful as she thinks. I’ve been into the surgery lots of times and I could have just walked in and helped myself. When did it happen? I think Dr R is wrong. Not the day she says but the day before. I saw her coming out and I knew something was wrong. I saw it in her face. And the way she was holding her handbag. The surgery was empty (absolutely no sign of the girl) when I went in. She’d definitely been there alone and the medicine cupboard was left open so could easily have taken contents. What would she want it for? Pop it in her brother’s tea – maybe revenge. Can’t be happy being number two! But I have to be careful. I can’t make accusations. Something to think about.

  9 July

  Arthur Reeve too upset to talk. His medal collection gone! A horrible thing to happen. The thief broke in through the kitchen window – cut himself on glass. You’d have thought that would be a big enough clue but the police weren’t interested, of course. They said it must have been children – but I don’t think so. The thieves knew exactly what they wanted. The Greek Medal alone was worth a tidy sum. Typical how nobody cares any more. I went in and had a cup of tea with him. Did wonder if our friend might be involved but didn’t say anything. I’ll have a look in and see – but careful. Leopards and spots! Terrible to have someone like this living in the village. And dangerous? I really should have told Sir Magnus. Hilda Reeve not even interested. Not helping her husband – says she can’t see what all the fuss is about. Stupid woman. Can’t think why he married her.

  11 July

  Visited Whitehead in his shop while his wife was out and told him what I knew. Of course he denied everything. Well, he would, wouldn’t he? I showed him the piece I’d found in the newspaper and he said that was all behind him, actually accused me of trying to make trouble for him. Oh no, I told him. You’re the one making trouble here. He said he’d never been anywhere near Arthur’s home. But his shop is stuffed with all manner of bits and pieces and you have to wonder where he gets it front. He dared me to go public. He said he’d sue me. We’ll see!

  Chubb might have ignored both these entries. Arthur Reeve and his wife were an elderly couple and had once run the Queen’s Arms. It would be hard to imagine anyone less likely to be involved in Sir Magnus’s death – and how could the theft of his medals have any possible relevance? The meeting with Whitehead made no sense. But tucked into the back of the diary he had found a newspaper clipping, faded and brittle and it had forced him to think again.

  GANGLAND FENCE RELEASED FROM JAIL

  He achieved brief notoriety as part of the Mansion Gang – a network of professional burglars who targeted mansion blocks in Kensington and Chelsea. Arrested for receiving stolen goods, John Whitehead was released from Pentonville Prison after serving just four years of a seven-year sentence. Mr Whitehead, who is married, is believed to have left London.

  There was no picture but Chubb had already checked that there was indeed a Johnny Whitehead living with his wife in the village and that it was the same Johnny Whitehead who had once been arrested in London. There had been plenty of organised criminals operating in the city during and after the war and the Mansion Gang had been notorious. Whitehead had been their fence and now he ran an antique store no less! He looked again at the two words in Mary Blakiston’s handwriting. And dangerous? The question mark was certainly apposite. If Whitehead was an ex-criminal and she had tried to expose him, could he have been responsible for her death? If she had talked about him to Sir Magnus, might he have been forced to strike again? Chubb carefully set the newspaper article aside and went back to the diary.

  7 July

  Shocking. I always knew there was something about Rev Osborne and his wife. But this!!!! I wish old Montagu had stayed. Really, really don’t know what to say or do. Nothing, I suppose. Who would believe me? Dreadful.

  6 July

  Lady Pye back from London. Again. All these trips she makes, everyone knows what’s going on. But nobody will say anything. I suppose these are the times we live in. I feel sorry for Sir Magnus. Such a good man. Always so kind to me. Does he know? Should I say something?

  The last entry that Chubb had selected had been written almost four months earlier. Mary Blakiston had written several entries about Joy Sanderling but this one followed their first meeting. She had written it in black ink, using a much thicker nib. The letters were splattered onto the page and Chubb could almost feel the anger and disgust as her pen travelled across the paper. Mary had always been a fairly impartial observer. Which is to say, she had been equally spiteful and unpleasant about everyone she encountered. But she seemed to have a special reserve for Joy.

  15 March

  Tea with little Miss Sanderling. She says her name is Josie but ‘call me Joy’. I will not call her that. There is no joy in this marriage. Why can’t she understand? I will not let it happen. Twelve years ago I lost my first son. I will not allow her to take Robert away from me. I gave her tea and biscuits and she just sat there with that stupid smile on her face – so young, so ignorant. She prattled on about her parents and her family. She has a brother with Down’s syndrome! Why did she have to tell me that? Robert just sat there, saying nothing, and all the time I was thinking about this awful sickness infecting her family and how much I wanted her to leave. I should have told her then and there. But she’s obviously the sort of girl who won’t listen to the likes of me. I will talk to Robert later. I won’t have it. I really won’t. Why did this stupid girl have to come to Saxby?

  For the first time, Chubb felt a real dislike for Mary Blakiston, almost a sense that she had deserved to die. He would never actually say that about anyone but he had to admit that the whole diary was pure poison and this entry was unforgivable. It was the reference to Down’s syndrome that
most upset him. Mary described it as ‘an awful sickness.’ It wasn’t. It was a condition, not an illness. What sort of woman could see it as a threat to her own bloodline? Had she really pulled up the drawbridge on her son’s marriage simply to protect future grandchildren from some sort of contamination? It beggared belief.

  Part of him hoped that this would turn out to be the only volume of Mary Blakiston’s memoirs. He dreaded having to wade through any more pages of misery and resentment – didn’t she have anything good to say about anyone? But at the same time, he knew he had stumbled on too valuable a resource to ignore. He would have to show it all to Atticus Pünd.

  He was glad that the detective had turned up in Somerset. The two of them had worked together on that case in Marlborough, a headmaster who had been killed during the performance of a play. This business had many of the same hallmarks: a tangle of suspects and different motives and not one but two deaths that might or might not be related. In the privacy of his own home, Chubb would admit the truth, which was that he couldn’t make head or tail of it. Pünd had a way of seeing things differently. Maybe it was in his nature. Chubb couldn’t help but smile. All his life he’d been brought up to think of the Germans as his enemy. It was strange having one on his side.

  It was equally strange that Joy Sanderling had actually brought him here. It had already occurred to Chubb that she and her fiancé, Robert Blakiston, had the most compelling reason for wanting to see Mary Blakiston dead. They were young and in love and she had wanted to stop the wedding for the very worst and most hateful of reasons. For a brief moment he himself had shared their feelings. But if they had planned to kill her, why would they have tried to get Pünd involved? Could it have been an elaborate smokescreen?

  Turning these thoughts over in his mind, Raymond Chubb lit a cigarette and went through the pages again.

  6

  In his masterwork, The Landscape of Criminal Investigation, Atticus Pünd had written: ‘One can think of the truth as eine vertiefung – a sort of deep valley which may not be visible from a distance but which will come upon you quite suddenly. There are many ways to arrive there. A line of questioning that turns out to be irrelevant still has the power to bring you nearer to your goal. There are no wasted journeys in the detection of a crime.’ In other words, it did not matter that he had not yet seen Mary Blakiston’s diary and had no idea of its contents. Although he and Inspector Chubb were taking two very different approaches, it was inevitable that eventually they would meet.