The Temptation

by Vera Morris

  ‘He’s being very cooperative. It must have been all the bacon sandwiches I gave him,’ Mabel said.

  Stuart puffed on his pipe. ‘Frank told him we were going to have another look at the Harrops’ house. He didn’t object but asked to be informed if we found anything of interest. Said he couldn’t see it as they’d been through it with a fine toothcomb. He’s certainly playing along, which I didn’t think would happen.’

  ‘Revie doesn’t mind using us if it helps him climb the greasy pole. As long as we don’t let on to the top brass that we’re working together, he’ll be cooperative.’ Frank turned to Mabel. ‘I’m sure the bacon butties were the winning factor.’

  ‘Flatterer,’ Mabel said.

  Laurel told them about Tucker and his invitation to lunch the next day.

  ‘It could be useful, Laurel,’ Dorothy said. ‘We haven’t any idea what happened to David. If something awful is happening at the school, that’s a reason for David not wanting to go back there, but it doesn’t help us find him.’

  ‘I feel sorry for his parents; it must be awful not knowing what happened to him. Even finding his body, although that would be the end of hope, would be better than nothing,’ Mabel said.

  ‘Where does Tucker live?’ Frank asked.

  Laurel passed him the sketch map and instructions Tucker had given to her.

  ‘It’s out of the way,’ Frank commented. ‘Anyone been there?’

  The rest shook their heads.

  ‘Can I see?’ Dorothy asked. Frank passed the piece of paper to her, and Mabel, who was sitting on the sofa next to her, looked at it as well. ‘It’s quite close to the Maltings.’ Dorothy got up and left the room and came back with an Ordnance Survey map of the area. ‘Look, Laurel, if you take the B1069 to Snape, keep going past the Maltings, then soon after, take the right fork down a narrow road to Blaxhall, and then another right to his house. If you get to Tunstall you’ve missed it.’

  ‘Thanks. Can I borrow the map?’ Laurel asked.

  Frank put out a hand. ‘Can I see?’ He studied it for a few minutes, tapped on part of it and passed it to Stuart.

  Stuart pursed his lips. ‘Laurel, his house isn’t far from Chillingworth School. Three, or four miles at the most along narrow roads.’ He frowned. ‘Any possible connection?’

  Laurel slowly shook her head. ‘None whatever. Except for the art connection with David. He was open about inviting me, and if I can interest these arty friends it may be of some help. I know it’s a tentative hope, but as we haven’t got any other way of finding David at the moment, a long shot is better than nothing. What do you think, Frank?’

  Frank rubbed his chin; it’d been smooth after his morning shave but now the bristles irritated him. Would he ever discover a decent razor? ‘It just seems a bit of a coincidence his house being so close to the school, but, as you say, there’s nothing else to connect him with the case. We know where you’ll be. What time will you be back?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’ She pulled a face, presumably adding up the time. ‘Say by four at the latest. Will you still be at the Harrops’?’

  Frank looked at Stuart. ‘Who knows? You could call in on your way back; go to Aldeburgh instead of heading for Dunwich.’

  Laurel nodded. ‘OK, I’ll do that.’

  The phone in the hall rang. Frank jumped up.

  ‘Frank Diamond speaking.’

  Revie’s Birmingham accent twanged in his ear. ‘It’s Revie here. I’ve got some interesting news for you.’

  ‘Yes?’ Come on man, spit it out.

  ‘We’ve got copies of the two death certificates.’

  ‘Yes?’ God, Revie was enjoying this.

  ‘Peter Mobbs and the other boy, Roy Franks.’

  ‘Yes? Come on, Revie, stop farting around.’

  There was a wheezy chuckle on the other end of the line. ‘My mother said I enjoyed power.’

  ‘If you don’t cough up soon, I’m going to crawl down this phone line, get hold of your tonsils and turn you inside out!’

  More wheezy laughter. Then silence. ‘I shouldn’t be laughing. The man was a disgrace to his profession.’

  ‘Who was?’ He knew, but he needed to have it confirmed.

  ‘Dr Samuel Harrop. His name is on both death certificates.’

  When Frank told them they sat in shocked silence. Both Laurel and Stuart had half-expected the news, but Dorothy and Mabel were stunned.

  ‘Who can you trust if you can’t trust doctors?’ Mabel asked. ‘Does that mean those boys were murdered?’

  ‘Possibly,’ Frank said, ‘but it will be difficult to prove. They were both orphanage boys and both bodies, Revie tells me, were cremated.’

  ‘So now we have the connection between Harrop and the school, plus the connection between Luxton and the school. Harrop knew he was dying and possibly wanted to confess, Luxton was almost having a nervous breakdown, he nearly told Laurel why he was scared; he’d have been a danger to someone,’ Frank said.

  ‘Who do you think that someone is?’ Laurel asked the others.

  ‘Someone at the school?’ Dorothy queried.

  ‘Baron, the headmaster, was at the back of the hall when Luxton collapsed. He’d have seen how frail and nervous he was,’ Stuart said.

  ‘Baron’s lifestyle: his collection of art work, his clothes and watch, suggest someone with an income far above that of a headteacher of a small school. Did you find out any more about his background, Stuart?’

  ‘I put out a few feelers; asked round some of my ex-colleagues. Haven’t heard anything back yet.’

  Frank stood up. ‘I’m off for an early night. Want a lift, Stuart?’

  ‘No, I’ve got my car here, thanks. But before you go, Frank, Mabel and me, we’ve got some news for all of you.’

  Frank stopped at the door and smiled at him. ‘Good news, I hope?’

  Stuart went to Mabel and took her hand and she stood up beside him. He nudged her.

  ‘Stuart and me, we’ve set a date. We’re getting married on Saturday, 29th May, and you’re all invited, so I don’t want any more murders or suicides round that date. It’s not quite definite as we don’t know if the church will be free. We’d like to get married here, at Dunwich.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Dorothy said, ‘I’ll talk to the vicar, it’ll be free!’

  Laurel laughed. ‘Dorothy Piff, you’re a bully.’

  Frank walked back into the centre of the room. ‘I think I’ll forget the early night, this calls for a celebration. Got anything interesting, Dorothy?’

  Dorothy squared her shoulders. ‘I always keep a bottle of bubbly on ice, just in case something special comes along.’

  ‘And if it doesn’t?’ Laurel asked.

  ‘Then I’ve been known to invent a happening. Sometimes it’s good to celebrate the first snowdrop, a returning swallow, or the first log fire of the winter.’ She marched to the kitchen.

  ‘Frank,’ Stuart asked, ‘would you do me the honour of being my best man?’

  Frank bit his lip, then rubbed his finger over it. ‘Stuart, I’d be honoured. Thank you.’

  ‘You’ll have to wear a suit,’ Laurel said and Mabel laughed.

  ‘I’ll wear tails, if it’ll make you both happy.’

  Dorothy returned with a bottle and five champagne glasses. Frank pushed up the cork and toasted Mabel and Stuart. Champagne wasn’t his favourite drink, but the liquid bubbles scoured his tongue and helped to partly erase the foul taste of young lives wasted.

  Chapter 24

  Wednesday, 17th March, 1971

  Frank unlocked the front door of the Harrops’ house; he should think of it as Nancy’s house now. He was sure she’d never want to live in it, and because of its recent history he couldn’t imagine anyone else would. He pushed open the heavy door, half-expecting to see the hanging body of Clara Harrop in front of him. He turned and held the door open for Stuart, who was carrying a shopping bag.

  ‘Mabel packed us some sandwiches and a thermos o
f coffee,’ he said.

  ‘All’s well that ends well?’

  Stuart smirked. ‘I feel a new man. I can tell you she put me through the wringer, but I think we’ll be all right now.’

  ‘Women, eh?’ Frank said, pulling a face.

  Stuart stared at him. ‘What about, you know … Mrs Pemberton? Is that all finished?’

  Frank closed the door behind them. ‘Yes. As far as I’m concerned, but who knows what might happen if she chooses to be vindictive? I was a fool, or to more precise, I let lust win over common sense.’

  ‘You’re only human, and she is a cracker.’

  ‘I let my infatuation with her cloud my judgement. I took an instant dislike to her husband for no good reason, and because of that I may have missed some vital clues. We’re no nearer to finding David, or what happened to him, than at the beginning of the investigation.’

  They went to the kitchen and Stuart placed the shopping bag on the table. ‘I don’t know, we’ve got a connection between the school, Harrop and Luxton, and we think we know why David didn’t want to go back there. Hopefully Revie will be able to search the school. Who knows what he may find?’

  ‘Let’s hope it’s not dead bodies. At least some of the children may be saved from molestation, or even death. I wish we’d known when we went there.’

  Stuart grimaced and struck his right fist into his left palm. ‘Too right. From what you told me, that Gary Salmon is a nutcase.’ He peeped into the shopping bag. ‘Not sure if I feel like having a picnic in this house.’

  Frank nodded in agreement. ‘I’m with you there. We’ll search the house from the proverbial top to bottom, and break for lunch at the Cross Keys when we’ve finished upstairs. Or we can picnic on the beach?’

  Stuart shuddered. ‘Too cold. We can eat the sandwiches in the car on the way home. I daren’t take them back. Got to keep in her good books.’

  Frank looked at his watch. ‘Right, it’s ten o’clock. Let’s make a start.’ He passed a pair of cotton gloves to Stuart. ‘I promised Revie we’d wear these. He was pretty scathing, said if we found anything of value he’d buy the five of us a slap-up lunch at The Wentworth.’

  ‘That’s made my eyesight sharper. By the way, what are we looking for?’

  Frank blew out his lips. ‘God knows, I certainly don’t.’

  Laurel drove past The Maltings at Snape; it was a wonderful setting for the concert hall: close to the river Alde and surrounded by marshes. She must book and go to one of the concerts at the Music Festival in June. She took a right-hand fork into a narrow lane, wide enough for one vehicle. The dense, overhanging hedgerows were bare, except for stretches of blackthorn blossom. She slowed down and turned right between two brick pillars into a short, tarmacked drive with mown grass on each side. At the end was a Georgian house; its regimented architecture didn’t appeal to her, but it had its admirers, and Tucker must be one of them. A Land Rover and a Mercedes sat on a parking space in front of the house, which she had to admit was handsomely proportioned. There was an imposing central door, with two long windows on each side. The house was topped off with a gently sloping tiled roof with chimneys at each end. The art business must be good.

  As she walked to the door it was opened by Hager, Tucker’s assistant. He bowed slightly. She felt like the visiting lady from the next-door manor.

  She held out her hand. ‘Hello, Mr Hager.’

  He gave her a brief and painful handshake. She felt the bones crunch.

  ‘You don’t know your own strength, Mr Hager.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Miss Bowman. Did I hurt you?’

  He didn’t sound sorry. ‘Hardly at all. Where is Mr Tucker?’

  ‘This way, please.’

  He led her into a marble-floored hall, sparsely furnished with three hall chairs and a two-tiered hat and coat stand. A wide central staircase led to the first floor. He opened a door on the right.

  ‘This is the parlour. Please take a seat, Mr Tucker will be with you in a few minutes.’

  The ceiling was high, and the two sash windows made the room light and airy. The mahogany furniture matched the period of the house: a tall bookcase, three settees and a couple of armchairs on either side of a marble fireplace. Over this was an oil painting; it showed a young boy playing a musical instrument – a lute? He was dark-haired with peachy skin, his ruby-red lips half-open. The light from an oil lamp lit his face and created shadows. A man, half-hidden, watched him. It was beautifully and skilfully painted, but disturbing.

  ‘Miss Bowman, Laurel, I see you’re admiring my Caravaggio.’

  She hadn’t heard him come into the room. ‘Mr Tucker, Ben. Is it really a Caravaggio?’

  He laughed. ‘I wish it was; it’s a good copy, not modern. Perhaps by one of his followers.’

  It was the only painting in the room, but there were light patches on the walls where other paintings had hung. ‘Are you changing your collection here as well as Aldeburgh?’

  ‘Ever the detective, eh? Yes, I’ve moved some to my gallery in London. My collection is an ever-changing scene. I might keep a painting for a few months, a few years, then if the price is right I sell it.’

  She wondered where the other guests were. There was no sign of any one else. ‘Are your guests in the garden?’

  ‘I have to apologise, Miss Bowman, my friends had to leave this morning. Such a pity. I tried to phone you but couldn’t get through. However, I have briefed them about David and his particular style. They’ve promised to let me know immediately if they come across any of his work. If they do, I’ll get in touch with you or Mr Diamond.’

  Prickles of suspicion raced down her backbone. Why hadn’t he been able to phone her? The telephones were working at Greyfriars.

  ‘That’s a pity. Perhaps, if you don’t mind, I’ll not stay for lunch. I need to meet Mr Diamond and Mr Elderkin in Aldeburgh.’

  He pulled a distressed face. ‘Oh, but you must stay, poor Hager has spent all morning preparing the food. He’ll be dreadfully hurt if you go, and I won’t be able to eat everything. Please stay.’

  ‘I didn’t realise Hager was also your cook as well as your assistant in the gallery.’

  ‘He’s a wonder, can turn his hand to anything.’

  Including trying to break my hand, she thought.

  ‘You will stay, won’t you? Oysters from Orford for the first course,’ he said, looking like a schoolboy who wanted his favourite catapult returned.

  She laughed. ‘Thank you, I will.’ What harm was there in a few hours eating delicious food? Frank would be jealous when she recited the menu.

  ‘Thank you. Let’s go to the eating room, to give it it’s Georgian title.’ He led her to the room opposite the parlour. It was a similar size and again filled with mahogany furniture: an elegant table and six dining chairs, a sideboard displaying silver dishes and a wine cooler holding two bottles of wine. The table was set with silver cutlery and sparkling glasses.

  Dining at Greyfriars was always civilised, but this was over the top for a casual lunch. She was pleased she was wearing her best blue suit and high heels.

  ‘Goodness, Mr Tucker, this is very impressive. The table looks beautiful.’

  ‘Thank you. I do like having guests, especially one whose beauty matches the surroundings. It’s my weakness – beauty.’

  Laurel smiled at him, not sure what to say. Was that his right temptation? Beautiful objects? Somehow, although he’d paid her a compliment, she didn’t get the feeling women would interest him. Would men? What was his relationship with Hager? She couldn’t see it herself – Hager wasn’t ugly, but she didn’t find him attractive.

  He pulled out one of the chairs for her, and Hager appeared carrying two oyster dishes. Frank would be mad.

  He placed one of the dishes in front of her. His animosity seemed to seep across the air between them. He was not happy playing at waiter.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Hager. They look delicious. A real treat.’

  He nodded curtly, serve
d Tucker, and took one of the bottles from the wine cooler. The ice clinked against the lead liner. He poured some into her wine glass.

  ‘Thank you, not too much, I’ve got to drive back to Aldeburgh.’

  He didn’t reply, poured wine into Tucker’s glass and left the room.

  She chewed on an oyster, savouring its unique flavour, then took a sip of wine. Goodness, that was good. She looked at Tucker who was tipping an oyster down his throat: a swallower, such a waste.

  ‘I’m not sure of the wine; it isn’t Muscadet, is it?’

  Tucker wiped his chin with a napkin. ‘Certainly not, Sancerre, a much better match.’

  She looked forward to re-educating Frank. ‘I thought Mr Hager would be eating with us.’

  Tucker, an oyster on its way to his mouth, paused. ‘He’s been too busy in the kitchen. My cook is on holiday, Hager’s cooking is a temporary measure, but he has enough basic culinary training to fill in for a time.’

  This was why the house seemed empty, Tucker and Hager the only occupants. A house this size would need a housekeeper, a cook, and certainly a gardener. It looked well-maintained so the lack of staff must be recent. It was unsettling, no one else in the house but herself, Tucker and Hager, the missing pictures, the copy of the Caravaggio with the boy looking at you with knowing eyes. But the oysters were delicious.

  Tucker chatted away as Hager came back to clear the plates and then brought each of them a grilled Dover sole, sauté potatoes and some spinach. The flesh slid away from the bones and was perfectly cooked. Ten out of ten to Hager.

  ‘I’m afraid Hager’s culinary skills don’t rise to puddings, so the last course is cheese,’ Tucker said, as Hager, face like a frozen cod, placed a wooden board with several cheeses on it, in front of her. She cut two pieces, Camembert and a blue cheese. Hager was getting on her nerves and she noticed Tucker giving him an old-fashioned look and a slight shake of the head. What had she done to annoy him so much?