by Roger Keevil
“In that case, inspector,” said Rory, settling herself into the well-worn captain’s chair behind her desk, “you’d better tell me what brings you here.”
“A case of murder, I’m afraid, vicar,” said Constable bluntly.
“In the village?” Rory sounded shocked. “Oh, that’s dreadful. Can I ask who? Is it one of my parishioners?”
“It’s even more serious that that,” responded Constable. “The murder took place up at Dammett Hall last night, and the victim is Mrs. Ronson, the Prime Minister.”
Rory gazed in astonishment at the detectives, her hand halfway to her mouth. Horror was written across her face. “Oh inspector. How appalling. But I was speaking to her only yesterday …” She tailed off, swallowed, and blinked rapidly two or three times. “Excuse me just a moment.” She closed her eyes, and her lips moved silently in prayer. After a few seconds, she took a deep breath and raised her head. “So, Mr. Constable, how can I help?”
“I understand from Gideon Porter,” began Constable, “that Mrs. Ronson was seen coming into the church yesterday afternoon.”
“That’s right,” nodded Rory. “In fact, she was the second of my visitors.”
“Really?”
“Mr. Porter did mention that Mrs. Ronson’s car was parked behind another one, sir,” pointed out Dave Copper.
“So he did, sergeant. Thank you.”
“That’s correct,” said Rory. “I was out at the lychgate, pinning up a notice on the parish noticeboard, when the car drew up. It was one of those large black important-looking ones, and I thought, ‘Who’s this?’, and then out of the car stepped the minister.”
“A government minister, are you saying?”
“Good Lord, yes,” chuckled Rory. “Church of England ministers don’t get to ride in anything so impressive, and especially not if it’s chauffeur-driven. Well, unless it’s one of the grander bishops, but even they are having to pull their horns in somewhat in these days of austerity. Anyway, I digress.”
“So, this minister. Did you recognise who it was?”
“Actually, yes, because I’d seen him on television not long ago. I told him so – we don’t get that many public figures visiting us. There was a programme that caught my eye about the hospice movement versus assisted dying, and he was interviewed on that.”
“And it was …?”
“Dr. Neal. He’s the Health Secretary, isn’t he?”
“He is indeed, vicar. So what brought him to your church, I wonder?”
“He just said that it had caught his eye when passing, and he thought he might come in and have a look around. Lots of people do – there’s nothing really surprising about it. And as I didn’t have anything more pressing to do at the time, I offered to give him the guided tour. Some of the stained glass is quite a rare survival from the middle ages, and some people think our font could well be the Saxon original. It’s certainly battered enough. And the Lawdown monument is very impressive – it’s still got all its seventeenth century original colouring, and everybody seems to be quite intrigued by the line-up of six sons and seven daughters along the bottom of the tomb. They’d all pre-deceased their parents, you see, and the wife had died shortly after the last one was born. Mr. Neal seemed quite touched when I told him the story. He’s a widower, I believe.” A solemn look came over Rory’s face. “Sadly, so many of the associations of a building like this are to do with death. But it never becomes matter-of-fact.”
“And did Dr. Neal enjoy his tour?”
Rory considered for a moment. “I don’t know that enjoyed is the right word. Moved, perhaps. Because when we’d finished, he asked if he could have a few minutes alone. I said of course, and I came back in here to give him some privacy, and the last I saw of him, he was walking up the nave towards the altar.”
“So you didn’t see him after that?”
“See, no. But I heard the door go a few minutes after that, and I thought it must be him leaving, but then I heard him speaking to someone who’d just come in. Which, of course, I now know to have been Mrs. Ronson, although I didn’t realise that at the time. And I was just about to go out to see who it was, but then I caught a few words of the conversation, and it didn’t really sound as if it would have been appropriate for me to intrude.”
“And why would that be, vicar?” enquired Constable. “What were they speaking about?”
Rory hesitated. “This is awkward, inspector. I really don’t know that I ought to repeat a private conversation overheard in my church.”
“I quite see your point, vicar … Rory.” Constable smiled understandingly. “And if the circumstances were any different, I might well agree with you. But this is a murder investigation. I don’t always have the luxury of observing all the niceties. Besides,” he coaxed, “it’s not as if you would be betraying the confidences of the confessional.”
“You’re thinking of my Catholic counterpart at the other end of the village,” said Rory with a faint smile. She sighed. “But you’re absolutely right. And you never know, what they said may be relevant.”
“So what was it exactly?”
“They were talking about death, inspector.”
Constable was somewhat taken aback. “How …? I mean, whose …?”
“It was all rather uncomfortable to listen to,” continued Rory. “It was obvious that Mrs. Ronson had found Dr. Neal in the midst of praying, because I heard her say ‘What’s this, Perry? On your knees seeking forgiveness for your sins?’. And there was a bit of a scrambling noise, which must have been him getting to his feet in a hurry, and then he answered ‘Well, haven’t we all got plenty of those, Prime Minister?’. I think he tried to laugh the remark off, but she said something about not all of them leading to people dying. And then I imagine she must have been looking around at the various memorials dotted about on the walls, because she made a comment about everything ending in death.”
“But this is not so very far from what you and Dr. Neal had been speaking about when you’d been showing him around,” observed Constable.
“No,” said Rory, “but then it got a little more pointed. He mumbled something, which I didn’t catch, and then I could hear footsteps, which must have been Mrs. Ronson walking over to the Lawdown tomb. Because she said ‘Here’s a sad case. All these young lives, and a child and its mother in one fell swoop. Medical incompetence? Who can tell? In those days, doctors could get away with their mistakes. Things could be passed off as natural causes or covered up. Even up until quite recently, in fact. But not any more’.”
“And what did Dr. Neal have to say to that?”
“He stammered something about the work of his department, and about how they were all committed to making sure that things like that could never happen. And she said that, when they did, they had to be rooted out. But she said there would be plenty of time to go into that later. I think he must have taken that as his cue to escape, because I heard him walking up the nave, and then the door slammed after that.”
“So was there anything else?”
“No, not really. I left it for a few moments, and then I went out into the church, to find Mrs. Ronson just standing looking at the Lawdown tomb. I introduced myself, and we had a brief chat about nothing in particular. She mentioned that she was going to be up at the Hall for a meeting with some colleagues, but she didn’t go into any detail. So I pointed out some of the things of interest around the church, but she seemed slightly distracted, and she left not long after that.”
“She didn’t refer to her conversation with Dr. Neal?”
“No, and I didn’t think it was my place to bring it up, especially as it was obviously something that was never intended for other ears. I did ask if she might be joining us for the service on Sunday morning, but she said that she would be long gone by then.” Rory closed her eyes at the realisation of the import of what she had said. “Strangely prophetic words, inspector.”
“Indeed,” said Constable. “Which would appear to close the mat
ter as far as you are concerned.”
“Not quite, Mr. Constable. Any death in my parish gives me cause for concern. I have my responsibilities to all the souls in my care, whether permanently or temporarily. So if there’s nothing more I can tell you, I think I need to go and have a few words with someone else.” Rory stood.
“Sorry, I don’t quite …” Constable caught on. “Ah. I see. Of course. Well, we shall leave you in peace to … er …” He nodded an indication to Copper and, after brief farewell handshakes, the two detectives made their way towards the porch. As they reached the door, Constable glanced back, to see Rory settling herself on her knees at the altar rail.
*
As the police officers emerged into the sunlight of the churchyard, the breeze, which had freshened considerably, was blowing a flurry of tattered old newspaper pages around and amongst the gravestones.
“See if you can grab those, sergeant,” said Andy Constable. “The vicar’s probably got quite enough to do without having to go round picking up litter.”
Dave Copper obligingly scampered after the offending sheets, and eventually succeeded in gathering them up in an untidy bundle, together with half a dozen crisp packets, two beer cans, and an almost-deflated balloon bearing the legend ‘Happy 7th Birthday’. He returned, puffing slightly, to his waiting superior and began to stuff his collection into the waste-bin alongside the lychgate, when something caught his eye. “Hold on a second, guv. Wow! Take a look at this.”
“And this would be …?”
“It’s an old copy of the ‘Daily Globe’, sir. From some time last month. It’s a bit soggy, but look here.” He pointed to an article, somewhat mud-obscured, on one of the pages.
“And what is so interesting about ‘The Daly Report’?” enquired Constable. “Apart from the dodgy spelling. I didn’t think you were that bothered about current affairs.”
“Never mind about the spelling, guv,” retorted Copper. “Look at the picture.” The headline of the article was accompanied by a thumbnail photograph of the author. “It’s him.”
“Him who?” The inspector studied the crumpled paper more closely. The caption to the grainy photograph left no room for uncertainty. Smiling from the page were the newly-familiar features of Seamus Daly.
Constable let out a sound somewhere between a sigh and a growl. He took the paper from his junior and gazed for a moment into the smudged newsprint eyes. “So that’s who he is. I knew there was something about him that didn’t seem right, but I was damned if I could put my finger on it.” A thought struck him. “And that’s what that note I found in the P.M.‘s briefcase was about!”
“Sorry, guv? What note’s that?”
“I didn’t show it to you at the time, because you were busy finding notes of your own. But there was a piece of paper with a cryptic message on it, saying ‘Not everyone is what they appear to be. S.D?’. I thought the S.D. was a signature from Sheila Deare. I was planning to ask her about it when we got back to the Hall. But it was nothing of the sort. I should have paid attention to the question mark. It was a note from somebody warning Mrs. Ronson that Seamus Daly was an impostor. So I’m looking forward to my next conversation with that gentleman. He’s no more a waiter than I am. He’s been planted by his newspaper to try to get some sort of inside story. The man’s a tabloid journalist!”
Chapter 10
Andy Constable pulled in at the foot of the steps to the front door of Dammett Hall, alongside a small white hatchback whose tailgate bore the somewhat perplexing legend ‘Powered by fairy dust’.
“She’s here, then,” observed Dave Copper. And at Constable’s raised interrogative eyebrow, “Una, sir. Um … Sergeant Singleton, I mean. And she obviously took on board what you said about discretion, sir,” he hurried on, blushing slightly. “She’s come in her own car instead of the official wagon.”
“Very thoughtful of her,” remarked Constable, attempting to stifle a smile. “You and I must have a little chat about discretion at some time. But in the meantime … ‘Powered by fairy dust’? What on earth is that all about?”
“Oh, it’s just a little joke they have in the SOCO department. Something about magicking solid evidence out of virtually nothing.”
“Most amusing, sergeant. Let’s hope she’s found a great deal more than nothing here. Shall we go and find out?” Constable led the way into the hall, to find Phil Knightly seated at the ornate Boule reception desk, rummaging through its drawers.
The hotel manager looked up as the detectives entered. “Oh, inspector, it’s you. I hope you don’t mind, but I’m trying to do some detecting of my own. So far I’m having precious little luck in solving my mystery.”
“And what mystery would that be, sir?”
“I can’t find the hotel register. It ought to be here, but there’s no sign of it. I had the thought that I ought to get in touch with people who’ve made reservations to let them know that they won’t be able to come, at least until you’ve given me the all-clear. I’ve got a list of all the reservations on the computer, of course, but I wanted the register to check whether any of them had been our guests before. People like the personal touch, you know. They’re always impressed if you can say ‘I hope you enjoyed yourselves when you were here last June’, or whatever. And the register normally lives here on the desk, but it seems to have vanished.”
“In that case,” said Constable, “let me set your mind at rest. There’s no mystery at all. The register is up in Mrs. Ronson’s room. I noticed it there when we were conducting a search.”
Phil looked puzzled. “Well, that’s another mystery, inspector. What on earth was it doing up there?”
“That I’m afraid I can’t answer, Mr. Knightly. But on the assumption that she had it for a reason, I don’t think I can let you have it back until we’ve had a chance to take a look through it, just in case there’s something instructive to be found. So I’m afraid you’ll have to manage as best you can.” He thought for a moment. “I think it’s not unreasonable to allow you to call these guests of yours, but obviously I have to insist that you be discreet about the reason for the cancellation. Do you think you could devise some excuse involving the plumbing or the electrics, perhaps?”
Phil sighed. “I’ll do my best, inspector. I should have had enough experience soothing ruffled feathers by now.” He stood. “Well, I’d best get on with it. I’ll be in my office if anyone wants me. Oh, by the way, someone from your squad, or whatever it is, arrived not long ago. Miss Singleton. She said she was here on your instructions. Inspector Deare has taken her through to the library.”
“Thank you, Mr. Knightly. We’ll check up on them now.” Constable watched as Phil disappeared through the disguised door into his office, and then led the way into the library, where he found an overall-clad Una Singleton kneeling alongside the body of Doris Ronson, a case of equipment at her side, watched over by a tight-lipped Sheila Deare.
“You’re back then, inspector.”
“As you say, Miss Deare. And I see you’ve been assisting my colleague here to make a start.”
“Well, you know my feelings on that, inspector,” replied Sheila shortly. “So I will leave you to give her whatever orders you see fit.” She brushed past Constable, and the library door closed behind her with a firm thud.
“Not in the happiest of moods, I think,” commented the inspector. “I hope she hasn’t been putting obstacles in your way, Singleton.”
“Not at all, sir. Not that she’s had much of a chance. I’ve not long been here.”
“Well, anyway, thank you for turning out on what I gather was your day off. It’s good to see you again.”
“You too, sir.” Una’s eyes met Dave Copper’s. “Sergeant.”
“Sergeant,” he responded.
“Oh, for goodness sake, enough of the ‘sergeant, sergeant’ business,” said Constable. “I haven’t been a detective for goodness-knows-how-many-years without being able to spot when there’s something going on in front of
my eyes. So as long as the relationship remains entirely professional when it comes to work, I have no interest in delving further. Okay?”
“Okay, sir,” dimpled Una.
“Yes, guv. Er … thanks, guv.”
“So, back to our muttons. What have we got, Singleton?”
“Well, like I say, sir,” said Una, “I’ve not really got going. I was just about to check the murder weapon for prints, but I have to say, I’m not particularly hopeful, on account of that.” She pointed to a white dinner-napkin lying half-concealed under the desk, which looked to have slight traces of red on it. “At a guess, that may have been used to hold the knife, or at least to wipe off the handle after it had been used. And I assume it’s come from those sandwiches up there.” A small plate of sandwiches lay untouched on the library desk. “But that’s as far as I’ve got.”
“Then I think the best thing we can do is leave you to carry on,” said Constable. He glanced uneasily at the body. “Perhaps when you’ve finished the personal examination, it might be a kindness to find something to cover the victim. I can’t help feeling it’s undignified to leave her just lying there. And after you’ve finished here, I think it would be a good idea if you were to turn your attention to Mrs. Ronson’s room upstairs. I expect we can persuade Inspector Deare to show you the way.”
“Leave it to me, sir.” Una turned back to her task.
“Which reminds me, I need to speak to her about something else. I’ll look forward to your report later. Come along, Copper. Let’s let the lady concentrate.” Constable, his junior in tow, returned to the hall, where Sheila Deare, her features still wearing a scowl of disapproval, had taken over Phil Knightly’s chair behind the reception desk. The inspector took a seat in one of the armchairs on the other side of the desk.
“Look, Sheila,” he began in an effort to mollify the security officer, “I know you don’t agree with my bringing in extra personnel, but we are both on the same side in this. It’s in your interests as well as mine to get this wrapped up as quickly as we can, and you know that SOCO would have to be involved sooner or later, so why not make it sooner so that, with a bit of luck, we can present a solution to the problem before it hits the news. Sensible?”
