by Mike Ashley
“Really?” Anastasia smiled to herself. “So you can vouch for her good character?”
“Oh yes. She’s a brilliant history teacher. And I know Mrs Pablos too, but not very well. Her daughter, Francesca and I were in the same class at school. Francesca works at the museum now.” A secret smile played on the constable’s lips and Anastasia suspected that he’d once had a soft spot for Francesca Pablos.
“I think we’d better talk to the school party first then. They’ll be causing a riot if they’re shut up in that Great Hall for much longer.”
“Actually ma’am, they’re looking round the house. Mrs Pablos asked me if she could show them the other wing . . . the parlour, the kitchen and a few of the bedrooms. I didn’t think it could do any harm.” He looked worried, as though he might have made some dreadful mistake.
“You did the right thing, Constable. As long as they don’t go near the murder scene it’ll keep them out of mischief.”
“Here we are, ma’am . . . top of the tower.”
“Good,” said Anastasia. The climb had left her breathless. She told herself she should join a health club, take more exercise . . . if she could ever find the time.
PC Joe Calthwaite drew a large iron key from his pocket and placed it in the lock of the ancient door. It turned and the door opened smoothly.
The tower room was larger than Anastasia had expected; a square, spacious chamber lit by a huge window that stretched from floor to ceiling. A section of the window stood open, like a door inviting the unwary to step out into the air.
“Dangerous to leave that window open,” Anastasia commented. “Anyone could fall out.”
“Someone just has, ma’am.”
“And the doctor said he’d been stabbed . . . he’d been dead at least half-an-hour when he fell. Which means somebody threw or pushed the body out . . . not difficult . . . the window reaches to the floor.”
“But the door to this room was locked and the only key was in Pleasance’s pocket. He was locked in here alone. How does a dead man throw himself from a window in full view of a pair of spotty schoolboys? And he screamed, ma’am. Don’t forget they heard a scream.”
They stood in the middle of the room, looking round, noting every item, usual and unusual. A massive oak table with sturdy, bulbous legs stood against the wall opposite the window. On it lay piles of leaflets advertising the delights of Bickby Hall and other local attractions. In contrast, a large modern work table stood in the middle of the room. A painting, a portrait of a man in eighteenth-century dress, lay at its centre surrounded by an assortment of trays containing cleaning fluids and materials.
The curator of Bickby Hall had already told one of Calthwaite’s colleagues that the dead man cleaned and restored paintings. Jonathan Pleasance had divided his time and skills between the museum in the town centre and the various stately homes and art galleries round about. An evil smelling wad of cotton wool lay, marking the cheap plywood of the table: Pleasance must have been working, removing years of grime from the portrait, just before he died. Calthwaite sniffed the air. The chemical smell was strong. But there was something else as well.
Against the far wall stood a suit of armour, the kind found in stately homes and second rate ghost movies. As Calthwaite stared at it, it seemed to stare back. It leaned on a sword and the young constable’s eyes travelled downwards to the tip of the blade. “Ma’am. That stain on the sword. Looks like blood.”
Anastasia Hardy had been gazing at the open window. Now she swung round, taking a notebook from her capacious handbag. “So what have we got, Calthwaite? A man falls from a window and there’s a scream as he falls. Everyone assumes it’s an accident . . . or even suicide. Then the doctor ruins it all by saying he was already dead when he fell, killed by a stab wound. He didn’t stagger round the room, injured then tumble out of the open window. He was already well and truly dead. He was alone. The room was locked and the only key was on him when he fell so the killer couldn’t have escaped and locked the door behind him. I assume that door is the only way in.”
“Apparently, ma’am.”
“And the stains on that sword certainly look like blood so that could be our murder weapon. I don’t suppose . . .” The inspector and the constable exchanged looks. “The killer might still be in here . . . in the . . .” They both focused their eyes on the suit of armour.
“I’ll check, ma’am.” Gingerly, PC Calthwaite took the helmet in both hands and lifted it up. It was heavier than he had anticipated but it revealed no guilty face within. The armour was empty. But there was nowhere else to hide in the room. Calthwaite looked round again slowly and sniffed the air. There was a smell, something altogether more homely than the chemicals on the table, more in keeping with the surroundings. It would come to him in time.
A large, faded tapestry hung to the right of the armour, giving relief to the stark white of the walls. Anastasia examined it and lifted the edge carefully, as though she expected it to disintegrate at her touch. “Well, well. Look what I’ve found.” She said triumphantly. Then she dropped the tapestry as though it had become red hot. “There’s some kind of room behind here. The killer might still be in there,” she mouthed.
“I’ll have a look, ma’am,” the constable whispered, suddenly nervous. The killer no longer had the murder weapon but Joe Calthwaite didn’t relish the thought of coming face to face with a desperate murderer on a dull Wednesday morning.
Happily his fears were groundless. The tiny room concealed by the tapestry contained nothing more alarming than a pile of superfluous publicity material, a few lengths of red silken rope used to keep the public from wandering where they shouldn’t, and a trio of wooden signs bearing bossily pointing fingers. But this room hadn’t always been used as a storeroom. It had once had another, more dignified, function.
The altar was still there at the far end, draped in a dusty white cloth and topped by an elaborately framed painting of a plump Madonna and Child. Two sturdy, unused candles on high wrought iron stands stood at the side of the room and three more candles with white, unburned wicks had been placed on the altar. It was a small chapel and it had probably been used for its proper purpose in the not-too-distant past. Joe Calthwaite could still smell candles, the waxy odour of sanctity. He had smelt them in the tower room too, mingled with the stench of Jonathan Pleasance’s chemical cleaners.
“There’s nobody in here, ma’am,” he said, turning to Anastasia who was standing behind him, her head bowed as though in prayer.
She looked up. “You’d better make a thorough search in case there’s some hidden cupboard or priest hole or something. Dead men don’t throw themselves out of windows. Someone or something was up here with him at nine forty when he fell.”
Joe Calthwaite nodded. A priest hole, a secret passage: it was obvious. With renewed enthusiasm he began to search; tapping walls, lifting altar covers, looking behind paintings and seeking out suspicious floorboards. However, the priest hole theory rapidly lost its appeal: there was no hiding place either in the tower room or the tiny chapel. And yet the door had been locked and the only key had been found on the body. Joe Calthwaite frowned in concentration as he stared down at the tower room floor. Maybe the killer had escaped through some sort of trap door. But the shiny oak floorboards lay there, mockingly even and undisturbed. Then he spotted a tiny lump of some solid substance on the floor near the middle of the room, interrupting the rich gloss of the wood. He knelt down and touched it with his finger.
“Have you found something?” asked Anastasia, who had been staring out of the window down onto the courtyard in search of inspiration.
“No, ma’am. I don’t think so,” he replied uncertainly.
He followed her down the narrow stairs. When they reached the point where they met the elaborately carved main staircase, Anastasia turned to him and sighed. “I suppose we’d better ask some questions. Where shall we start?”
It was virtually unanimous. Jonathan Pleasance was a man to avoid. No
t that he worked at Bickby Hall full-time: he was only there two mornings each week, which seemed to be more than enough for most of the staff.
The Hall’s publicity office had once been an impressive bed chamber. Two people worked there: Jenny was a solemn dark haired young woman dressed in black as though in permanent mourning. Mark, in contrast was an effeminate young man wearing a startling purple shirt. They were reluctant at first to speak ill of the newly dead. But gradually they grew more relaxed in Anastasia’s motherly presence and began to voice their true opinions. Jonathan Pleasance was an unpleasant, spiteful man, full of his own importance. He had made barbed comments about Mark’s sexual preferences and had made an arrogant pass at Jenny during the staff Christmas party. Mark and Jenny, seemingly united in their contempt for the dead man, provided alibis for each other. They had seen and heard nothing suspicious, and the first they knew of Pleasance’s death was when Muriel Pablos had burst in, breathless, to call the police after the schoolboys had seen the body hurtle down into the courtyard. Mark and Jenny displayed no emotion, spouted none of the routine clichés of grief. It was almost as if Jonathan Pleasance’s violent death didn’t surprise or bother them in the least.
Anastasia decided to question the catering and cleaning staff next. None of them had had much to do with Jonathan Pleasance but the interviews weren’t a complete waste of time. The chattiest of the cleaners was only too keen to reveal that the chapel was still used occasionally for special services: the last time had been a fortnight ago when the local vicar had christened the curator’s baby son there. Most of the staff had been invited, apart from Jonathan Pleasance who had complained about having to clear his equipment from the tower room for the happy occasion. Joe Calthwaite sat behind the inspector with his notebook on his knee, pondering this interesting snippet of information. Could the aroma of burning church candles linger for a fortnight? He doubted it.
The inspector looked at her watch. It was time to speak to the top man, the curator himself. She liked to see witnesses on their own territory: the more relaxed they were the less they guarded their tongues.
If the curator’s secretary, Mrs Barker, had been wearing a starched uniform she would have resembled an old fashioned nanny. As Anastasia and Calthwaite entered her small, well ordered office, she was holding a tiny tape recorder aloft in triumph. “The dictating machine . . . I’ve been looking for it everywhere, and it’s been hidden under the in-tray all the time.”
Mrs Barker smiled warmly at the newcomers and appeared to be enjoying the drama of the situation. “I’ve never had much to do with Mr Pleasance . . . and I can’t say I wanted to. I heard he was one for the ladies,” she said meaningfully with a wink which bordered on the cheeky. “In fact,” she said almost in a whisper, “he was . . . er . . . friendly with my boss’s sister and he let her down rather badly by all accounts. But of course it’s terrible that he’s dead,” she added as a righteous afterthought. “Was it an accident, do you think?”
Anastasia made no comment. “Where were you at nine this morning, Mrs Barker?”
“Mr Samuels and I were in here from half past eight working on an important report. Why?”
Before Anastasia could answer, a man emerged from the inner office. Petroc Samuels, curator of Bickby Hall, was a good looking man in his early forties. His body had lost the slender contours of youth and his dark hair was streaked with grey but his brown eyes sparkled with enthusiasm. He invited Anastasia and Calthwaite into his office and sat back in his swivel chair, relaxed, as the inspector began her questions in a deceptively gentle voice.
“I won’t pretend I liked Pleasance. He was good at his job but he wasn’t what you’d call a nice man. In fact I discovered what sort of person he was when my sister got involved with him about a year ago. But if we all murdered people we didn’t like, the population would halve overnight,” Samuels said with a nervous laugh.
“Where were you at nine forty when the body was found?”
“Here with my secretary.”
“We think he died about half an hour before that. Where were you then?”
“Here in the office. Mrs Barker and I came in early to work on a report.”
“Did you hear the scream when Jonathan Pleasance fell?”
“I heard nothing. I’m rather confused, Inspector. How could he have fallen from the window if he was already dead?”
“That’s what we’re trying to establish, sir. Did he always lock the tower room door when he was working?”
“Yes. Always. He gets . . . er, got . . . extremely annoyed when he was disturbed. The chapel’s used for storage and from time to time people needed to go in there.”
“Who stores things in the chapel?”
“Mark and Jenny from publicity; the guides; myself and my secretary. At first he would let people in very grudgingly, but a couple of months ago he decided that he was sick of interruptions so he locked himself in and refused to open the door at all. But as he only worked here two mornings a week it wasn’t a major problem.”
“Did anyone go up there this morning?”
“If anyone had attempted to knock at that door, Inspector, someone would have heard Pleasance hurling his usual quota of abuse. People learned to steer well clear on the mornings he was in.”
“Did Pleasance keep the key to the tower room?”
“No. There’s only one key and it’s kept in the cupboard by the staff entrance. Pleasance always picked it up on his way in. He’ll have been locked in that room alone, Inspector,” said Samuels convincingly.
“Pleasance died at around nine o’clock. What time do your staff arrive?”
“Most of them come in at eight forty-five but the guides arrive a little later, about quarter-past nine. All the staff sign in: you can check if you like.”
“And Pleasance?”
“He usually came in just before nine o’clock. And before you ask, I didn’t see him this morning.”
“Was the key in its cupboard when you arrived at eight-thirty?”
“I’m sorry, I’ve no idea.”
Anastasia Hardy stood up and slung her handbag over her shoulder. “Thank you for your help, sir.”
After Petroc Samuels had seen them to the door, all cooperation, the good citizen anxious to help the police, Anastasia marched swiftly away from his office and down the magnificent staircase, thinking fleetingly how satisfying it would be to sweep down those stairs in an elegant period costume. She turned to Calthwaite who was trailing behind, deep in thought. “I think it’s time we spoke to those children, Calthwaite. Do you know where they are?”
“They should be back in the Great Hall by now.” He hesitated. “Er . . . do you mind if I go and have a word with the car park attendant, ma’am. I noticed him outside when we arrived. It’s just an idea I’ve got.”
“In that case I’ll have to tackle 8C on my own,” she said, hugging her handbag defensively to her chest. “Don’t be long will you.”
As Anastasia reached the bottom of the stairs, the noise which oozed from the Great Hall sounded like the relentless buzz of bees in a particularly busy hive. She had found 8C.
She took a deep breath before she entered the Hall. She had faced murderers and armed robbers in her time but the prospect of facing thirty exuberant adolescents played havoc with her nerves. As she walked in she could tell that 8C were in high spirits, chattering merrily; the newly broken voices of some of the boys echoing up to the great hammer-beam roof. Anastasia made straight for their teacher who was standing by the massive stone fireplace talking to a middle-aged woman in Elizabethan costume.
“Mrs Vine? I’m so sorry you’ve had to wait,” Anastasia said with a disarming smile. “I’ll get one of my constables to take names and addresses then you’ll be able to go.” Vicky Vine looked relieved as she glanced at her restless charges.
The costumed woman standing beside her fiddled nervously with the jewel which hung around her neck. “Muriel Pablos?” asked Anastasia. The woman nodded. “
I’m afraid we need a statement from you. We’re interviewing all the staff: it’s nothing to worry about.”
PC Joe Calthwaite chose that moment to march into the hall and the children fell silent for a few short moments at the sight of a uniformed police officer.
Anastasia watched Vicky Vine greet the constable like an old friend. “Joe. You do look smart,” she said, touching his blue serge sleeve. “Enjoying the police force are you? It’s what you’ve always wanted to do isn’t it . . . ever since you discovered who started that fire in the school chemistry lab. Joe was one of my prize pupils, Inspector,” she told Anastasia with professional pride as the young constable blushed.
Joe grinned modestly and turned to Muriel Pablos. “Hello again Mrs Pablos. I didn’t have a chance to ask you earlier. How’s Francesca?” Muriel Pablos smiled weakly but didn’t answer.
Anastasia’s attention began to wander and her sharp eyes spotted a huddle of conspiratorial boys standing near the window. They were up to something. And it wasn’t long before she found out what it was.
“Miss,” said a whining female voice from the centre of the room. “Darren’s got matches, miss . . . and a candle.”
“I found them, miss,” Darren cried in his defence. “I found them in that window seat. I wasn’t going to keep them, miss.”
Vicky Vine confiscated the objects of desire with a weary sigh and handed them to Muriel Pablos; a small box of matches and a chubby, half-burned church candle with a blackened wick . . .
Joe leaned towards Anastasia and whispered in her ear. “Ma’am, can I have a quick word outside?”
Watched by thirty pairs of curious eyes, Anastasia followed the constable into the entrance hall, intrigued. “Ma’am,” he said as they stood beneath a pair of watching statues. “I’ve just spoken to the car park attendant . . . he told me something interesting.” He paused. “I think I know who killed Jonathan Pleasance. And now I think I know how they did it.”
