‘His wages?’ asked Sergeant Munson.
‘Yes. The day after he took the Crossley out, a bearded bloke came in and said that Bert had found a better place and could he have his wages? He’d asked this bloke, the one who turned up, to get them for him. You remember that, don’t you, boss?’ asked Crutchley, turning to Mr Bellweather.
‘I do indeed. I sent him away with a flea in his ear. If Faraday wants his money, he can come and get it himself.’
‘What did this bearded man look like?’ asked Munson, concealing his excitement.
Mr Bellweather frowned. ‘I’m not much of a hand at descriptions. I didn’t really pay much attention to him because I was annoyed at having been let down.’
‘Yes, I can see that, sir,’ said Munson. ‘This Crossley which Mr Smith hired. Is it in the garage by any chance?’
‘It is, as a matter of fact,’ said Mr Bellweather. ‘Do you want to see it?’
‘If you don’t mind, sir.’
Mr Bellweather led the way out on to the forecourt to where a large, dark blue Crossley was standing. ‘This is it, officer.’ He looked on with interest as Sergeant Munson, taking a piece of paper and a block of graphite from his case, knelt down and took an impression of the tyres. ‘Is there something special about the tyres? They’re just ordinary Michelins as far as I know.’
‘It’s just a matter of routine, sir,’ said Munson, completing his impression.
A bearded man and diamond-patterned Michelins on the Crossley. Sergeant Munson noted down Gilbert Faraday’s address and left, feeling he’d done a really good afternoon’s work.
‘The driver’s disappeared?’ asked Jack. After a day at the magazine offices, he had called in to Scotland Yard to see if there was any progress with the long-winded hunt for the garage. ‘I don’t like the sound of that at all, Bill.’
‘No more do I,’ agreed Rackham. ‘Especially with Craig turning up the next day. It’s clever, isn’t it? Because the garage owner assumed Faraday had left him in the lurch, he was annoyed but not suspicious. God knows where Faraday is now. The only bright spot is that we haven’t had any unidentified bodies turn up, which is something. We’re searching for him, of course, and I just hope we have a stroke of luck. Incidentally, I went back to the Balmoral. Lord, I loathe that man who’s in charge. I wouldn’t trust him an inch. Apparently a Mr Smith stayed with them – he sounds like Craig – but there was no Miss Kirsch that he owned up to. Mr Smith left the hotel the evening you were attacked. And that, Jack,’ he said drumming a pencil on the desk, ‘is that. I’m damned if I know what to do next.’ He looked up hopefully. ‘Any ideas?’
‘None, I’m afraid,’ said Jack, running his hand through his hair. ‘I won’t have much time to think about it either for the next couple of days. It’s Isabelle’s wedding this weekend.’
‘Well, that’s something for you to look forward to, anyway,’ said Rackham getting to his feet. ‘Give them my best, won’t you?’
Mark Stuckley escorted his grandmother to a pew halfway up the church, retrieved his sister’s bag and assured his mother that he would be back in plenty of time before what he irreverently termed ‘the kick off’. Composing his features into what he hoped was a mixture of sobriety and devotion, he walked to the east door of the church. He had seen Arthur disappear round a handy buttress with Jack at his side. Arthur, thought Mark with a grin, as he saw the two men, hardly looked as if he were about to embark on the happiest day of his life. ‘Are you nervous?’ he asked.
‘What do you think?’ said Arthur, pulling at a cigarette as if it were his last one before he was marched before a firing squad.
‘At least it’s not St George’s, Hanover Square,’ said Jack.
‘No,’ said Arthur with a shudder. ‘No, thank God.’
Mark Stuckley patted his pocket. ‘I’ve got a hip flask with me if that’s any help.’
Arthur ran his tongue over his dry lips but shook his head regretfully. ‘I’d better not.’ He finished his cigarette and threw away the butt. ‘Hadn’t we better get into the church? You’re sure you’ve got the ring, Jack?’
‘All safe and sound, old man. Relax, Arthur, it’s going to be fine.’
They took their places in the church. Yes, thought Jack, he was glad Isabelle had decided to get married in the village church. The organ played softly and the spring sunshine streamed in through the porch, painting bars of gold on the worn flagstones and striking deep, warm life from the oak pews, rich after centuries of care.
It illuminated the brass tablet commemorating the life of Augusta Rivers, wife of Sir John Rivers, Bart., of Stanmore Parry of the County of Sussex, drowned off the coast of Bombay, July 3rd, 1830. A dutiful and obedient wife and loving mother, whose virtues were, apparently, too many to enumerate. And her children shall rise up and call her blessed. Jack wondered. ‘Augusta’ had a discouraging air about it. Maybe they called her ‘Gus’ in private.
His eyes wandered on to the next tablet and he swallowed. Second Lieutenant Frederick Staples, Gunnery Officer, HMS. Tiger, died at the battle of Jutland of wounds received 31st May 1916. And the sea shall give up her dead. He hadn’t thought of Freddy for years. He’d been a stammering, curly-haired boy with a passion for wildlife who had the best collection of birds’ eggs in the village. They had once spent a whole night crouched in Hesperus woods, watching a family of badgers. Now all that was left of Freddy was a memory and a brass plate in Sussex. Jack shivered.
‘I know,’ whispered Arthur, misinterpreting the emotion. ‘This waiting’s awful.’
‘Don’t worry.’ His gaze drifted round the church once more. Fine collection of hats . . .
The sun glinted through the stained glass window, gift of Sir William Rivers, 1852, jewelling John the Baptist’s cloak in deep ruby. Christ being baptized jostled for position with Christ subduing the Sea of Galilee and presiding over the miraculous draught of fishes. Noah, at the bottom of the window, leaning out of an ark that looked exactly like a canoe with a house on top, had released a dove, that, olive twig in mouth, flew away over the waste of waters. The dove reappeared as the Holy Ghost further up the picture.
They were all sea pictures; that was to be expected this close to the coast. The window was a replacement for a medieval one that had attracted the attention of Cromwell’s men. Fortunately the rood screen, damaged as it was, had escaped Sir William’s zeal for restoration. Some seventeenth century iconoclast had taken a carpenter’s chisel and gouged off the faces of the saints that had ornamented the panels. Anonymous now they stood, martyrs of the Civil War, known only unto God, silent witnesses of a time when religion inflamed men’s passions and wasn’t simply a thing that must never be discussed at dinner parties. It was funny to think of violence in this setting. Yet there was the memorial to Freddy . . .
The organ music swelled and Isabelle, with her father beside her and her two friends – Bubble and Squeak Robiceux, the bridesmaids – following behind, entered the church.
Arthur turned round and gave a little gasp of pleasure. Jack saw the nervousness go out of him. The two men stood up and walked to the steps of the altar.
Mr Simpson, the vicar, who had known Isabelle since her cradle, gravely informed them that marriage was not to be entered lightly or unadvisedly – no one seeing Arthur’s face would suspect him of that for a moment – nor that he was wantonly thinking of satisfying his carnal lusts and brute appetites; which was another possibility which had occurred to the authors of the Book of Common Prayer. After checking that there was no impediment – Arthur’s four-year-old nephew coughed at this point, causing an outbreak of shushing three-quarters of the way up the church – Arthur Christopher agreed, according to God’s holy ordinance, to take Isabelle Alice to be his wedded wife. Isabelle Alice, for her part, agreed to obey, serve, love, honour and keep Arthur Christopher, and Jack, who had been listening with delight to the dignity of the words and looking with enormous affection at Isabelle Alice, suddenly froze.
He
had it! All the pieces of the puzzle whirled and settled in his mind. He saw a quick succession of images; the burnt-out Rolls-Royce, the ruby and sapphire of the stained glass window, the rug in the car and Isabelle herself; they all settled into one seamless pattern. But if he was right . . . His stomach felt as if he were going down in a lift.
‘The ring, Jack,’ hissed Arthur. ‘We need the ring.’
With an apologetic smile, Jack pulled the ring from his pocket and forced his mind back to the ceremony.
The photographer, standing in the ballroom at Hesperus, emerged like a Jack-in-the-box from his black shroud and beamed insincerely on Master Alan Rutherford, whose four-year-old charm had done so much to enliven the proceedings. ‘Just move in a little closer, young man . . . that’s it.’ Magnesium flared and Master Rutherford, released from his father’s grip of iron, was a free agent once more.
Jack, separated from the bride and groom by a crush of relatives, found a small, hot hand slipped into his.
‘You’re Uncle Arthur’s friend, aren’t you? You played lions with me at Christmas. Uncle Arthur’s got married now and I’ve got to call her Aunty Isabelle and be good.’
‘Quite right, old son. I’d like to see your Uncle Arthur but there’s too many people around.’
‘I want to see Aunty Isabelle. She’s with Uncle Arthur.’ Master Rutherford surged confidently through the sea of legs towering over him, hauling Jack behind him. The crowd magically parted and Alan tapped Isabelle on the hand. ‘You’re Aunty Isabelle, now. You’ve got a pretty dress.’ Beaching Jack, he disappeared into the crowd once more.
‘That child’s got a future as a tugboat,’ grinned Jack. ‘And he’s quite right. You have got a pretty dress. You look lovely, Belle.’ He kissed her. ‘I know you’ll be very happy.’
‘Thanks, Jack. What happened? With the ring, I mean. You were as white as a sheet.’
‘I’m sorry about that. Something suddenly occurred to me.’
‘Not your speech?’ said Arthur anxiously. ‘The speech for the wedding breakfast, I mean? You’ve got it ready, haven’t you? I’ve been tearing my hair out over mine.’
‘Absolutely, I have. Don’t worry.’
The speeches, together with the wedding breakfast, came and went. The bride and groom left for Southampton en route for Egypt amid a flurry of good wishes and, after all the fuss had died down, Jack sought out Mark Stuckley.
‘Mark, I’ve got an idea about the fire at your party but I need your help to prove it. Are you free on Monday?’
‘As it happens, yes,’ said Mark, looking curious. ‘What’s it all about?’
‘I’ll tell you later. I need to get some details worked out, but I’m on to something.’
‘Right-oh.’
No one noticed the best man slip away to the telephone, but on the other end of the line, Ashley listened in mounting bewilderment. ‘You want to do another speed trial? But what for? We’ve proved it doesn’t work.’
‘I don’t want to say too much on the telephone, but meet me tomorrow and I’ll explain.’ Ashley could hear the wry amusement in his voice. ‘That is, if I don’t get nicked for burglary in the meantime.’
THIRTEEN
Superintendent Ashley, pipe in hand, sat in the shade of an alder tree on the grassy bank of Stour Creek, watching the midges dance over the still water. It was an idyllic spot in the sort of landscape he loved, but despite his outward calm, he was too tense to appreciate his surroundings. He glanced at his watch once more. One hour and four minutes. Their time limit was seventy-five minutes. Eleven more minutes to prove the impossible possible.
He narrowed his eyes, looking down the shaded, sun-dappled waters of the creek beneath the bridge. Surely there was movement on the water? His heart gave a leap of triumph as he saw the rippling light catch the blade of a paddle. Seconds later, a narrow, pointed canoe cut through the water towards him. The man on board, who had been kneeling up in the boat, sat back, and, with a lazy dip of the blade, brought the frail craft to the shore.
Mark Stuckley got out of the canoe and, with a broad smile, pulled it on to the bank. ‘My word, that was a trip and a half. I’m going to get one of these little beauties. They go like the clappers. What was the time?’
‘Sixty-five minutes,’ said Ashley enthusiastically. He looked to where the white wall of Vaughan’s garden ran down to the creek. ‘Say another minute to get to the boathouse and that’s sixty-six in all. That’s well within our limit.’
Mark Stuckley stretched his shoulders and lit a cigarette. ‘Old Jack’ll be pleased.’
‘I should damn well think he will.’
He was. It was over a quarter of an hour later when they heard the engine of the Spyker on the road above the bridge. They scrambled up the bank and, as Jack saw Mark Stuckley, he looked an anxious question.
‘Sixty-six minutes,’ said Stuckley in triumph.
Jack sat back in the seat of the Spyker and breathed a deep sigh of relief. ‘Wonderful. Absolutely wonderful. Mark, old son, you’re a marvel. Let’s get the canoe back into the boathouse, then I’m going to take you both to the pub. I want to celebrate.’
It was still early in the evening and they had the snug of the Fisherman’s Rest to themselves. ‘Congratulations,’ said Jack, raising his pint of bitter. ‘I can’t help thinking it should be champagne, but congratulations. And especially to you, Mark.’
Stuckley grinned. ‘I enjoyed it. But come on, Jack, you were blinking mysterious earlier on. All I really knew was that I had to go like a bat out of hell and that somehow or other that would tell you what had happened at the fancy-dress party.’
‘Okey-doke,’ said Jack, with a look at Ashley. ‘It is all right, isn’t it?’
‘That’s fine, Haldean. I’m sure Mr Stuckley realizes that this is all in confidence.’ He smiled. ‘Besides that, he must know or have guessed so much already, it seems churlish to hold out on him.’ He picked up his bitter. ‘And, speaking for myself, I’ve got the broad outlines of the thing, but I’d like to hear you put it together.’
‘Right-oh.’ Haldean lit a cigarette and blew out a reflective mouthful of smoke. ‘We’ll start with what happened at Vaughan’s, the day of your party, Mark. Now Vaughan, as you know, is a keen amateur archaeologist, and he’d received a letter from one Adler Madison, a New York dealer in art and antiquities, saying he knew the whereabouts of a lost city, an undiscovered Nabatean site, in the Arabian desert.’
‘That’d get him going,’ commented Stuckley. ‘I’ve heard old Vaughan carry on about the Nabateans before. No one else has ever heard of them, as far as I can make out.’
‘As you say. Vaughan invited Mr Madison over to England, his idea being that he’d fund an expedition to the Hejaz if Madison told him where they were heading for. He also, as he wanted to get the ball rolling as quickly as possible, and without reference to Madison, invited Durant Craig to make a third at the meeting and organize the practical details of the expedition. OK?’
‘I’m with you so far. Go on.’
‘Now unfortunately, unbeknownst to Vaughan, Craig and Madison – Madison wasn’t his real name – were old enemies.’
‘Madison’s real name was Von Erlangen,’ put in Ashley. ‘He was an evil brute. A real swine.’
Jack flicked a quick glance of gratitude in his direction. He didn’t want to explain about Von Erlangen. ‘To put it mildly, the meeting didn’t go according to plan. Durant Craig rumbled who Madison was and they had a real set-to. The quarrel ended in murder.’
Stuckley gaped at him. ‘I say, Jack! Murder? And this was at Vaughan’s house?’
Jack nodded. ‘That’s right. I don’t know who did the actual deed, but Vaughan was in the soup and no mistake. He could have yelled for the police, but that would mean giving up his expedition. He might have been subject to some sort of persuasion, but his subsequent actions shows he was in it up to his neck. At the very least he’s guilty of covering up murder.’
‘The devil,�
� breathed Stuckley. ‘I never liked him, you know. If he wanted something enough, I don’t think anything would stand in his way.’
‘Events prove you right, Mark. Anyway, our Mr Vaughan had a body to dispose of. He was due at your party that evening and time was limited. He couldn’t afford not to go. That would mean drawing attention to himself by changing his plans. And then, I imagine, the party gave him the idea how he might carry it off. You remember his costume, don’t you?’
Stuckley nodded. ‘Yes, of course I do. He came as Rasputin with a whacking great beard. It was nearly as good as mine.’
‘Exactly,’ said Jack with a grin. ‘I bet it was the beard which gave him the idea. Ashley and I nearly got the truth of this first crack out of the box. We suspected Vaughan disguised himself with his false beard, drove over to the Hammer Valley early in the evening, smashed the car into a tree and arranged the body in the driver’s seat. Then, at your party, we believe he slipped away to the car, laid a trail of petrol, nipped back up to the terrace and struck a match.’
Stuckley stopped with his beer halfway to his mouth. ‘So it was Vaughan we have to thank for the fire? Damn it, he nearly set the house ablaze!’
‘I don’t suppose that was his intention, but yes, you can blame Vaughan for that. Anyway, as I said, we thought Vaughan’s part in the proceedings was a bit rum, but it seemed impossible he could have been involved. It was totally impossible if the car had crashed when it was supposed to have done, and even granted there were some shenanigans beforehand, it was still impossible. I simply couldn’t see how Vaughan had arranged the smash and got back to his house in the time allowed.’
‘So when did you click?’ asked Mark. ‘When did you work it out?’
Jack grinned. ‘I don’t know if you noticed or not, but I nearly gave poor old Arthur a heart attack at his wedding by being late with the ring.’
A Hundred Thousand Dragons Page 19
