Taken totally by surprise, she could only stare back.
‘I rang Pen for your address,’ he said. ‘I have to speak to you.’
‘But — I’m coming home tomorrow.’
‘That’s just it — I might not be there.’ And, at her widening eyes, he added quickly, ‘I might have to go up to Scotland. I wanted to explain — and also about Sunday.’
She said steadily, ‘Your “colleague”?’
He flushed. ‘So you did see her. I wasn’t sure, when you didn’t say anything. But there was no reason why you shouldn’t have met; it was a stupid reaction on my part.’
Helen was in no mood for let-out clauses. ‘Pure instinct, I’d have thought, keeping us apart.’
‘Helen, she’s a trainee valuer. Her name’s Charlotte Marsh and I’m taking her round to show her the ropes.’
‘Is she your mistress?’
He looked startled. ‘For God’s sake, I didn’t —’
‘Is she, Andrew?’
‘It was a business trip. How many more times do I have to tell you? Phone the office, if you don’t believe me.’
‘But you have slept with her?’
His colour deepened. ‘This really is pretty irrelevant, you know. All right, damn it, I might have slept with her a couple of times. But it didn’t mean anything.’
‘Not to you, perhaps.’
‘Nor her. She —’
‘I was thinking of myself,’ Helen cut in. ‘Is she here now?’
‘Yes, it’s a follow-up to Sunday. But that doesn’t mean — Look, it was only a couple of times. Three at most. We’re not —’
She made a sudden movement with her hand. ‘I don’t want to hear any more.’
He looked at her, brows drawn together, assessing her volte-face. ‘Then perhaps you can tell me who that chap was with you and Pen?’
‘I did tell you — one of the lodgers at the Seven Stars.’
‘And nothing more? He was eyeing me up pretty carefully.’
‘I haven’t slept with him, if that’s what you’re asking.’
Andrew flinched. ‘Helen, I really am sorry, but as you said yourself, we’re going through a difficult patch.’
‘I didn’t realise how difficult.’
He put a hand out and let it fall. ‘The last couple of weeks have been pretty bleak, you know. I’ve missed you.’
She gave a choked laugh, and his face darkened. ‘I tell you I have. Damn it, let’s keep things in proportion. I’m not having an affair with Charlotte, there’s no commitment.’
‘What were you doing here on Sunday?’
‘Something was nicked from the museum last week. They asked me to call when the place was closed, to keep disruption to a minimum.’
‘So it was nothing to do with the Stately Homes?’
‘For once, no. Incidentally, Pen told me you’d been staying at the Seven Stars in the thick of it and helped to wind up the case. Quite the little sleuth, aren’t you?’
She didn’t reply, and after a moment he went on: ‘Still, to get back to us, I appreciate that Sunday was enough to throw everything into the melting pot, just when we’re supposed to be taking stock.’
‘I’ve certainly been doing that these last few days.’
He took her hand. ‘It’s made me realise what a bloody fool I’ve been. I want you back, darling, and I swear I’ll try to make it work, if you’ll give me half a chance. Will you?’
Despite their linked hands, she felt at a distance from him, apart. ‘I don’t know, Andrew. I really don’t know.’
He released her hand. ‘Well, you know how I feel. I love you, and I want our marriage to continue. Will you bear that in mind during your deliberations?’
She nodded.
‘If I don’t get home tomorrow, I’ll give you a ring.’ He paused, searching her face. ‘You will wait for me, won’t you?’
‘I’ll wait till you get back,’ she said. Which, for the moment, was as far as she’d commit herself.
*
The sorting office closed at twelve-thirty on Saturdays, and there had still been no takers for the parcel. The Nymphenberg shepherdess which had cost Lord Cleverley his life lay unclaimed in its cardboard box, and the frustrated detectives drove home.
*
‘It’s hellish bad luck, when we’re within inches of closing the case,’ Webb said to Hannah that evening, as they sat over dinner in her flat. ‘Poor Chris is tearing his hair out, but there’s damn-all we can do.’
Hannah poured more coffee. ‘Do you think it will ever be claimed?’
‘God knows. Each passing day makes it more unlikely, in my opinion. We did wonder if he’d surface again after the murder, but when he phoned, we thought we had it made. Didn’t expect a slip-up at this stage of the game.’
‘It’s a pity this last item is one of the less valuable ones.’
‘And we still haven’t a clue why he wants them. Even the thieves don’t know — they just stole to order.’
‘Perhaps he’s playing a game with you.’
‘Oh, he’s doing that, all right,’ Webb said grimly.
‘What’ll happen to the rest of them?’
‘Hardy will go down for five years, possibly ten, the girl much the same if she can get away with manslaughter. Failing that, life.’
Hannah shuddered. ‘And the other lot?’
‘The two women aren’t being charged. I should think Warren will get five years, Cain possibly less, since he wasn’t so involved.’
‘I wonder if they think it’s worth it. How many have they done altogether?’
‘Ten country houses, with a few others probably also down to them. At least we know why everything they took was easily portable; it had to be collected from some post office. So much for our theory of the goods being flown out of the country the same day. There they were all the time, wrapped in brown paper and sitting in bloody pigeon-holes in Dewsbury and Liverpool and Clacton-on-Sea.
‘It beggars belief, doesn’t it? Ming vases and antique silver, taking their chances alongside a parcel of books or some kid’s birthday present. Suppose there’d been a hiccup and little Joey had ended up with a diamond-studded picture of Queen Victoria!’
‘Worth more than a train set, I should think, even if some of the stones were missing! But he’d probably have swapped it for —
‘What did you say?’ Webb’s smile had faded.
‘I said he’d probably —’
‘About the stones?’
‘There were some missing; didn’t you know?’
‘I knew,’ Webb said. ‘How did you?’
She stared at him. ‘It was in the paper.’
‘Oh no. We kept that little detail to ourselves. Hannah, for God’s sake — this could be important. Where did you hear about the missing stones?’
She thought for a moment. ‘I was with someone — Monica, I think. Yes, that’s right — it was at Hatherley Hall, at the party.
‘The Rudge place?’
‘Yes, we —’ She broke off, her eyes widening at the expression on his face. ‘David, you’re not thinking what I think you’re thinking?’
‘It was Sir Clifford who mentioned them?’
She moistened her lips. ‘Yes; we were talking about the miniature, and I said I’d read that the frame was studded with diamonds and would that add to the value?’
‘Go on. Tell me exactly what he said.’
‘He just said some were missing, that’s all. Oh God, David, not Sir Clifford!’
But he was already on his way out of the room, snatching up his mobile phone which he’d left on the hall table.
‘Ken? Sorry to drag you away from the bosom of your family, but duty calls. Urgently. I’ll pick you up at your gate in ten minutes.’
*
A uniformed maid answered the door and looked at them inquiringly.
‘DCI Webb and Sergeant Jackson, to see Sir Clifford Rudge.’
‘Is he expecting you?’
; ‘Probably not.’
‘Will you wait in the hall then, while I tell him you’re here?’
She walked over to the large double doors on the left of the hall. Quite a place, Webb thought, looking at the curving staircase with the gallery at the top. So this was where Frobisher brought Hannah, when she should have been in Paris with him. Still, since her being here had provided the last piece of the puzzle, he was prepared to forgive him.
Jackson shifted from one foot to the other. ‘Taking his time about admitting us, Guy.’
‘He’s an old man, Ken; not likely to abscond out of the window, if that’s what you’re thinking. Probably having a glass of brandy. He must know why we’re here.’
The door opened at last, the maid beckoned them and they walked across the hall and through the doorway into what was obviously the drawing-room. It was a long, beautiful room in shades of grey and pale blue, warmed with splashes of coral in curtains, rug and cushions.
Sir Clifford was standing in front of the fireplace, his wife, frail and elegant, seated on a sofa to his left. He came quickly forward to shake their hands, which, in the circumstances, Jackson found embarrassing. It was hardly a social call.
‘Chief Inspector — and Sergeant, is it? A cold night to be out.’
The man’s face and voice were familiar from television programmes. No wonder he whispered over the phone.
‘Sir Clifford, I’m here to arrest you on —’
‘Yes, yes, my dear chap, I know. We don’t need to go through it, surely?’
‘Then I must caution you —’
‘Very well, Chief Inspector, you’ve done your duty. Now perhaps we can be civilised about this, and sit down? Could I get you a glass of brandy? No? Coffee, then?’
‘I’ve just had some, thank you. Sir Clifford —’
The old man raised his hands in a gesture of resignation. ‘All right, since you won’t be diverted, we’ll get straight down to business. To be frank, I’ve been debating whether to come and see you. Things started going wrong with that girl on the course; she was staying at the Seven Stars. Pure fluke, of course, but it gave me quite a turn. I began thinking of her as a kind of nemesis.
‘But what really clinched it was Bertie Cleverley’s death. I was as responsible for it as if I’d dealt the actual blow, and he was one of my oldest friends.’
‘Which didn’t stop you robbing him, sir.’
The old man smiled ruefully. ‘You’re quite right, I’ve no call to wax sentimental.’
Jackson stirred. ‘This house was also broken into, wasn’t it, sir?’
‘It was indeed, Sergeant. A double bluff, in the shape of my Georgian wine-taster. I was extremely thankful to have it back safely, via Wolverhampton sorting office.’
Lady Ursula spoke for the first time. ‘It’s no good, Clifford, I can’t let you do it.’
‘My dear —’ He started towards her.
‘Chief Inspector,’ she went on rapidly, ‘it was I who was the instigator, not my husband.’
The old man’s face crumpled. ‘Oh, Ursula,’ he said sadly.
‘He made all the arrangements, of course, but he loathed every moment of it. It was I who coveted those things, and pestered him till he obtained them for me. And it was my greed that caused Bertie’s death, my desire for the little shepherdess. Well, I shall never own it now.’
Sir Clifford cleared his throat. ‘It’s an illness with her, Chief Inspector — she can’t help herself.’
‘But it was you, sir, who made the arrangements.’
He sighed. ‘Yes, and of course I knew it was wrong, but I could never deny my wife anything.’
‘Let me try to explain.’ Lady Ursula leant forward, her hands clasped. ‘I was born into an old, titled family, Chief Inspector, “Lady Ursula” from birth, but there were times I hated that. My school friends taunted me with it, because by then, you see, we were almost destitute.
‘My father was the last male heir — a charming, feckless man whom we all adored. But he gambled and drank away the family inheritance and bit by bit everything had to go. My earliest memories are of my mother weeping as she collected together some pieces of jewellery or a treasured miniature to pay his debts. Possessions came to represent security and I began to steal at an early age, to ensure my survival. It became a compulsion.’
‘But your husband’s a wealthy man, ma’am —’
‘Which should have satisfied me? I know.’ She looked round the lovely room, at the rosewood writing table, the original paintings, the rich tapestries. ‘But no matter what Clifford said, I couldn’t regard any of this as mine. I needed something of my own, something secret, that no one could take away from me.
‘In the early days, he pleaded with me to stop, but dearly as I loved him, I couldn’t. As he said, it was an illness by that time. So, rather than let me take risks — and make no mistake, I should have gone on stealing — he insisted on doing it for me.’
She gazed reflectively into the fire, twisting the emerald and diamond ring on her finger. Webb stooped suddenly to take her thin, mottled hand in his, turning it so that the jewels blazed in the firelight.
‘You recognise it, of course,’ she said sadly. ‘I stole it from the cloakroom at Randall Tovey’s. I have no shame, you see, my friends are not exempt. I even covet their personal trinkets; souvenirs with happy memories I regard as talismans.’
She paused and Sir Clifford took up the story. ‘For many years we kept to one object every eighteen months or so, mainly from jewellers and auction houses. It kept Ursula happy and I told myself that such items were covered by insurance. She locked them away, and every now and then she would take them out and handle them. They gave her the security which my love could not.’
Lady Ursula reached up and took hold of his hand. ‘Then, one day,’ she continued, ‘we heard about Nicholas Warren and his success in retrieving that brooch. You know what I’m referring to?’
Webb nodded.
‘It seemed the ideal solution, a master planner and a daring thief to carry out the plan. If we could persuade these people to act for us, Clifford need no longer put himself at risk and a whole world of treasure would open up for us. As, indeed, it did.’
She looked up at Webb. ‘No doubt you’d like to see our ill-gotten gains. Let me show you.’
She rose and, crossing the room, tilted one of the large pictures and pressed a button behind it. The wall slid soundlessly back to disclose a space about eight feet square, and Webb and Jackson, close behind her, moved forward and looked inside.
One wall was given over to a selection of paintings — a Renoir, a Matisse, two small Corots. The others were lined with shelves and glass-fronted cabinets containing bronzes, enamels, silver and a prodigal heap of jewellery, among which Webb recognised a ruby and diamond necklace belonging to a European princess, stolen from her bedroom at the Savoy.
His eyes went slowly round, registering one after another of the objects from their circulated descriptions: vinaigrettes, carriage clocks, plaques, and, given equal prominence, the inexpensive trifles whose taking had so puzzled him but whose possession he now knew was supposed to guarantee happiness.
Jackson touched his arm, and with a nod of his head indicated the Victorian miniature with its missing stones which had been Sir Clifford’s downfall.
It was as they stood looking at it that two dull, muffled plops sounded in the room behind them. The detectives spun round and dashed back to the fire. It was, of course, too late. The two old people, hands tightly linked, sat side by side on the sofa, each with a small, neat hole in the chest, from which an ugly stain was spreading. Below Sir Clifford’s right hand lay a small gun, the half-open table drawer indicating its hiding place.
Webb knelt to feel for pulses, knowing in advance the uselessness of it, and got back to his feet with a shake of his head.
‘God, Guy, we shouldn’t have fallen for that.’ Jackson’s voice was shaking.
Webb didn’t reply, and the ser
geant glanced at him curiously. Or perhaps, he thought suddenly, the Governor hadn’t fallen for it? Had he guessed Sir Clifford’s intention and taken no steps to thwart it? It was not a question he could ask, but, staring down at the two old faces, he couldn’t regret the outcome.
As though reading his mind, Webb sighed and turned away. ‘I reckon it’s all for the best, Ken,’ he said.
If you enjoyed reading The Seven Stars you might interested in Shades of Death by Aline Templeton, also published by Endeavour Press.
Extract from Shades of Death by Aline Templeton
Prologue
The scary, awful screaming and howling seemed further away now, though it was hard to tell because of the echoes.
Snuffling and choking in terror, with her hand over her mouth to stifle the noise of her uncontrollable sobbing, she groped her way along in the impenetrable dark, still too frightened to use the small blue torch she had in the pocket of her thin summer dress. Her fat feet in their Start-rite sandals kept stumbling over rocks and into potholes she couldn't see; she couldn't remember how many times she had fallen, but her fleshy knees and her hands were sticky with blood.
She was lost now. She hadn't gone far — she couldn't have, moving so slowly — but she didn't know which way she was facing and in the caves there were these huge horrible holes you could just fall down and then they would never even find your dead body. She'd been well warned never to go in; she always just said, 'Oh, Mum, don't go on about it', but was she ever wishing now she'd done as she was told!
It was really creepy, walking in the dark like this, but it would have been worse to let them catch her. It was the darkness that had let her escape, just like she was invisible or something. She'd cowered down, watching the flares and the lights from their torches flickering, casting giant shapeless shadows on the walls of the passage beyond, heard them yelling like savages as they rushed past. Hunting her…
Yes, the noise was definitely further away now. She let out a long, shuddering sigh and put up her hand to wipe her eyes. Her cheeks felt stiff where the salty tears had dried.
The Seven Stars Page 19
