A Six-Letter Word for Death

by Patricia Moyes

  A SIX-LETTER WORD FOR DEATH

  Patricia Moyes

  FELONY & MAYHEM PRESS • NEW YORK

  This book is dedicated, with great affection, to the Isle of Wight, where I spent two unforgettable years in the Royal Air Force during World War II and many happy vacations subsequently. Carnworth is purely imaginary. However, Ryde, Ventnor, and St. Lawrence are real places, and I am assured that the clifftop path still exists as I remember it. I need hardly say that all the characters in this book are completely fictitious. I stress this particularly where it concerns the officers of the Ventnor Police Force and the Ryde Coroner’s Court.

  CONTENTS

  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

  Born in Dublin in 1923, Patricia (“Penny”) Packenham-Walsh was just 16 when WWII came calling, but she lied about her age and joined the WAAF (the Women’s Auxiliary Air Force), eventually becoming a flight officer and an expert in radar. Based on that expertise, she was named technical advisor to a film that Sir Peter Ustinov was making about the discovery of radar, and went on to act as his personal assistant for eight years, followed by five years in the editorial department of British Vogue.

  When she was in her late 30s, while recuperating from a skiing accident, she scribbled out her first novel, Dead Men Don’t Ski, and a new career was born. Dead Men featured Inspector Henry Tibbett of Scotland Yard, equipped with both a bloodhound’s nose for crime and an easy-going wife; the two of them are both a formidable sleuthing team and an image of happy, productive marriage, and it’s that double picture that makes the Tibbett series so deeply satisfying. While the Tibbett books were written in the second half of the 20th century, there is something both timeless and classic about them; they feel of a piece with the Golden Age of British Detective Fiction.

  Patricia Moyes died in 2000. The New York Times once famously noted that, as a writer, she “made drug dealing look like bad manners rather than bad morals.” That comment may once have been rather snarky, but as we are increasingly forced to acknowledge the foulness that can arise from unchecked bad manners, Inspector Henry Tibbett—a man of unflinching good manners, among other estimable traits—becomes a hero we can all get behind.

  CHAPTER ONE

  LONDON IN AUGUST tends to be hot, sticky, and very dull. Sometimes, of course, it may be wet and stormy, just to make a change. But almost invariably it is dull. And this applies as much to Scotland Yard as anywhere else.

  In his office in the C (for Crime) Division on the fifth floor, Chief Superintendent Henry Tibbett sat at his desk, wishing that he were somewhere else—on holiday, out on a case, or just at home with his wife, Emmy, in their comfortable, slightly shabby Chelsea apartment. As it was, all he had to look forward to was the arrival of the morning mail, and he suspected that it would be as dull as the day.

  Most of it was. But there was one intriguing envelope. It was marked PRIVATE, PERSONAL, AND CONFIDENTIAL, and was addressed to Chief Superintendent Henry Tibbett in a fine italic hand in sepia ink.

  Henry looked at it and sighed. He had, admittedly, been hoping for an interesting case to crop up, but he doubted that this would be it. The combination of the cheap mass-produced envelope and the fancy handwriting added up in his mind to one word—crank.

  He slit open the envelope and found his worst fears were justified. There were two sheets of paper inside, and the first that he unfolded bore the carefully drawn outline of a crossword puzzle. The squares were neatly numbered in sepia ink, although the diagram itself had been traced in black, the solid squares meticulously filled in.

  Underneath the diagram were two clues, also in italic script:

  1 ACROSS: The lake’s missing, to go by one Irish playwright, but another follows up the title. (Two words, 4 & 7)

  3 DOWN: How’s your hearing? Well? The first letter is misplaced, but it sounds all right, and initially is all right. Just construct the vehicle. (Two words, 1 & 9)

  On the second piece of paper, in the same hand, were the words “Chief Superintendent Tibbett. Keep this paper. More clues will follow.” The signature was “A Lover of Justice.”

  Henry’s first instinct was to crumple up both sheets and throw them into the wastepaper basket. However, he knew that even such apparent nonsense as this sometimes led to interesting results, and it happened that he was due to have lunch that day with an old acquaintance, Major George Manciple, whose brother was an expert in solving crossword puzzles. George Manciple was the eccentric Irish-born owner of Cregwell Grange in Fenshire, where Henry had once investigated a bizarre case. It was one of the few he looked back upon with affection, because of the people involved. George Manciple, predictably, hated London and came there only on the rare occasions when his wife, Violet, insisted. This time, his mission was to visit his tailor in Savile Row to be measured for a new suit.

  Henry Tibbett and George Manciple met at the Major’s club in St. James’ Street. Henry noticed that Manciple had changed very little. He weighed a bit more, perhaps, but the iron-gray mustache was as neat as ever and the brown eyes as bright. For his part, George Manciple found himself amazed all over again that this slight, almost insignificant-looking man, with dark blue eyes and sandy hair now streaked with silver, should be one of the Yard’s top detectives. Doesn’t do to underestimate him, though, George remembered.

  It was a pleasant lunch, filled with reminiscences. Over coffee, Henry remarked, “By the way, I’d like to get in touch with your brother, the Bishop of Bugolaland. The retired Bishop, that is.”

  “Edwin? Nothing easier, my dear fellow. Edwin lives with us at the Grange now. He’s getting on, you know, and Violet thinks he needs looking after.” George gave a snort of laughter.

  Henry said, “I remember vividly that he gave me my first lesson in solving crossword puzzles.”

  “That’s right. Trouble is, he has too much time on his hands these days, and he can’t get enough of the really difficult sort—or so he says. Never did understand them myself,” admitted George Manciple cheerfully.

  Henry had had a photocopy made of his anonymous communication. He pulled it out of his pocket.

  “I’d be grateful,” he said, “if the Bishop would look this over and tell me what he thinks of it. He might even be able to solve the clues. You’re going back to Cregwell this evening?”

  “Sooner than that, old man. The three-fifty from Liverpool Street. Home before seven.”

  “Then if Edwin would cast his eyes over that puzzle tonight,” Henry said, “I’d appreciate it if he’d call me at my office first thing tomorrow morning.”

  When Henry arrived for work the next day at half past nine, he was informed by a flustered switchboard operator that somebody had been trying to call him since…well, she had come on duty at eight, and found a message from the night operator that a Mr. Bishop had been trying to get through to Chief Superintendent Tibbett since six o’clock in the morning.

  “It must have been an overseas call, Chief Superintendent,” explained the operator. “Ivy said he kept saying he was from Bugolaland, in Africa, so that would explain the time difference, you see.”

  Henry grinned into the telephone. “It’s more than a
time difference,” he said.

  “You know this Mr. Bishop, then, Chief Superintendent?”

  “Yes, I do. Please get me Cregwell 4789. Yes, Cregwell, in Fenshire.”

  “So there you are at last, Henry!” The voice of Edwin Manciple reverberated down the telephone line. “First thing in the morning, George told me, and here it is nearly ten o’clock. Where have you been?”

  “I’m sorry, Bishop. I’m afraid I don’t usually get to my office until—”

  “Never mind, never mind.” The Bishop was in high good humor. “Quite an ingenious little puzzle you sent me. Where are the rest of the clues?”

  “I don’t know,” Henry said. “I’m told they will be sent in installments. Did you solve the first two?”

  “Of course. Simple—but compiled by somebody who knows his trade. Why are they names?”

  “I’m sorry—why are they what?”

  “Names!” shouted the Bishop, causing Henry to hold the telephone away from his ear. “Both the clues you sent me. Names.”

  “I didn’t know they were,” said Henry. “What are the answers?”

  “Got the puzzle in front of you?” asked Edwin Manciple, lowering his voice to a less earsplitting level.

  “Yes.”

  “Very well, then. One Across is Lady Fanshaw.”

  “Is what?”

  “Lady Fanshaw. I’ve never met her, but you must have heard of the family. Surely you see that the solution to the clue is obvious?”

  “Obvious? I don’t—”

  Edwin was becoming impatient. His voice rose again. “The lake’s missing!” he shouted. “Irish playwright! Two words, the first with four letters!”

  “Yes, I know, but—”

  Suddenly the Bishop lowered his voice to a near-whisper, with devastating effect. “Lady Windermere’s Fan,” he hissed. “By Oscar Wilde. Irish playwright. The lake—Windermere—is missing. So the first word, the four-letter one, is ‘lady,’ and the second word—omitting Lake Windermere—must begin with ‘fan.’ That leaves four letters at the end for another Irish playwright. The obvious answer is ‘Shaw.’ Fanshaw. The only other possibility would be ‘Hyde,’ author of Casadh an tSugain in modern Gaelic, and Fanhyde is not a name I have ever heard, whereas Fanshaw—”

  “Yes,” said Henry. “I’ve heard of the name.”

  “Well, there’s your first clue,” said the Bishop with satisfaction. “That means the second clue—Three Down—begins with a W. What does that tell you?”

  “Not much,” Henry admitted. He was writing the words “Lady Fanshaw” in the space along the top row of the puzzle.

  “Look at the clue, man!” Edwin was getting exasperated again. Henry remembered that the Bishop never suffered fools gladly. He made an effort.

  “‘How’s your hearing?’” he read.

  “Nothing the matter with my hearing, young man,” retorted the Bishop, with spirit. “Ah, yes. The clue. Well.”

  “That’s what it says,” Henry remarked. “Well.”

  “And the first letter is misplaced. The first letter of ‘well’—is W. We know already from Lady Fanshaw that it’s W.”

  “Yes. Yes, I see.” Henry was trying to avoid sinking into the mental morass in which conversation with Edwin Manciple had always engulfed him. “And the first of the two words is just one letter.”

  “Aha!” said the Bishop approvingly. “Now you’re getting somewhere. This second clue refers also to a name—W something. Constructor of a vehicle. The W, which is the initial, can be omitted from the name without changing the pronunciation. The answer—you have it?”

  Henry was thinking. “Vehicle. Bus? Carriage? Car? Cart! Cartwright! Leave out the W, and it’s still pronounced the same!”

  “I told George the first time you came to Cregwell,” said Edwin Manciple graciously, “that you were not as foolish as you looked. I am happy that my judgment has been vindicated. But Henry—why these names?”

  “A silly joke, I suspect,” said Henry. “Anyhow, I shall find out.”

  “And let me have the other clues as they come along,” added the Bishop. “Very frustrating, a puzzle with only two clues.”

  “I’m assured,” said Henry, “that there will be more.”

  Detective Inspector Derek Reynolds showed up in Henry’s office a few minutes later, having been summoned from the canteen, where he was having a cup of coffee. Reynolds, too, was affected by the silly-season boredom of London in early August. He hoped against hope that this call to the office of the Chief might bring something interesting to break the tedium, but he had little real cause to think so. The only cases on his books at the moment were of the dreariest and most predictable sort, and nothing that had come through the Telex gave any prospect of more exciting happenings. The English criminal classes, apparently overcome by the heat and humidity, seemed to have given up.

  Reynolds found Henry Tibbett sitting at his desk, with a piece of paper in his hand and a wry grin on his face.

  Tibbett said, “Ah, Reynolds. Hot, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, sir. It certainly is.”

  “Well,” said Henry, “we seem to have collected another of the weirdos who crawl out from the woodwork in the summer.”

  “Oh, yes, sir?”

  “This one,” Henry said, “is a crossword freak. He—or she, of course, we must be fair—has sent me a blank crossword puzzle with two clues. Here they are. What d’you make of them? You’d better sit down,” Henry added.

  Reynolds did so. He studied the squared diagram and the clues, and finally said, “I’d say we were dealing with somebody educated, sir.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Well, sir—there’s the fancy writing, for a start. Italics, I think they call it. And then, the crossword clues… I’m not a great one for puzzles, but when I do do one, like in the evening paper on the way home, it’s the simple things like, well, ‘domestic animal that purrs,’ three letters, you’d be pretty sure that’s ‘cat,’ wouldn’t you? Unless, of course,” added Reynolds, thinking hard, “it might be ‘tom,’ just to fool you. But you take your large Australian bird, three letters beginning with E—”

  Henry was beaming. “You’re perfectly right,” he said. “I’ve had an expert working on this, and it’s his opinion that the clues were constructed by somebody who knows the trade.”

  “On the other hand,” Reynolds went on, looking at the second sheet, “this anonymous ‘lover of justice’ business smells like a crazy to me. Educated but weak-minded, I’d say.”

  “Or a practical joker,” Henry said.

  “Well,” said Reynolds, “since I, for one, haven’t an earthly idea about the answers to the clues, there’s not much to be done, is there, sir?”

  Henry said, “I told you I’d consulted an expert. The two clues have been solved.”

  “Blimey,” said Derek Reynolds. “You must be joking, sir.”

  “No, I’m not. Both answers are the names of people. One Across is ‘Lady Fanshaw,’ and Three Down is ‘W. Cartwright.’”

  “Sounds potty to me, sir.”

  “I expect you’re right, Reynolds. Nevertheless, having got that far, I think we should check up a little. Start with Lady Fanshaw, will you?”

  Reynolds gave a wry grin. “Think I’ll find her mug in the Criminal Records Office, sir?”

  “I doubt it, but you’d better look anyway. I should think that Who’s Who would be more useful, though. Also Debrett’s Peerage and Burke’s Landed Gentry.”

  Shortly after lunch, Inspector Reynolds was back in Henry’s office with his report. Consulting his notebook, he began, “Fanshaw. Barony, created 1854 by Queen Victoria. Country seat: Fanshaw Castle, near Marksfield, Hampshire. Present title holder: George, 5th Baron Fanshaw, forty-eight years old, inherited seventeen years ago. Wife: Lady Fanshaw, née the Hon. Arabella Tewkhurst, second daughter of Lord Brentwood. Married twenty years ago, age now forty-five. Two sons, one daughter. Address: Fanshaw Castle and 601 Upper Pont Stree
t, London W. Clubs: Junior Conservative, Whites, Royal Yacht Squadron. None of the family known to the police. There’s Lady Fanshaw for you, sir.”

  “Distinctly unpromising,” said Henry.

  “That’s what I thought, sir.”

  “Inherited seventeen years ago,” Henry said thoughtfully. “That means his father’s been dead since then. What about the Dowager Lady Fanshaw—the present Baron’s mother?”

  “Ah.” Reynolds nodded approvingly. “That’s right, sir. Much more to the point. She outlived her old man by fourteen years. Died just over three years ago, aged eighty-nine.”

  “Was she another sprig of the aristocracy?” Henry asked.

  “I doubt it, sir. I haven’t had time to do much research, but I did find an old copy of Debrett in the library, and it seems she was a Miss Clarissa Vanderment of New York City before she married.”

  “Rich,” said Henry.

  “That’d be my guess, sir. In her own right.”

  “The epoch fits,” said Henry.

  “I beg your pardon, sir?”

  “Edwardian England,” Henry explained, “was the heyday of marriages between American heiresses who wanted titles and impoverished English noblemen.”

  Inspector Reynolds stood up. “I’ll go and look into it right away, sir,” he said.

  “Look into it?”

  “The Dowager Lady Fanshaw’s will, sir. That was what you were going to suggest, wasn’t it, sir?”

  “Of course.”

  “No sense in wasting time, then, is there, sir?”

  Under British law, a will, once probated, becomes public property, and anybody may request a copy of it. In fact, however, this is a fairly lengthy proceeding, and even Inspector Reynolds’s standing as a police officer did not enable him to lay hands on Lady Fanshaw’s will until nearly a week later; and by then there had been new developments.

  For a start, Henry had submitted the original note and clues to his handwriting experts, with no results. The paper and envelope were of the cheapest quality, obtainable anywhere. As for the writing—well, said the experts, stylized italic writing was a much more clever device for anonymity than the usual badly written capital letters. The whole point of the script was to iron out individualism, and while it might be possible to distinguish between the writing of one expert and another if samples of both were available, the fine italic hand would bear no resemblance to a person’s ordinary scrawl. All Henry could be sure of was that his correspondent was a skilled calligrapher and had access to a bottle of sepia ink. If there was a reasonably short list of suspects, these facts would surely… Henry replied that there was no list, and went back to his normal duties.