by S. T. Haymon
‘And Sergeant Ellers! This is nice!’
‘Beautiful as ever, Mollie,’ declared the little Welshman, taking the woman’s hand in both of his, and looking her soulfully in the eye. ‘You and me both!’
‘Still full of your jokes!’ Mrs Toller was all blushes and smiles. ‘I’m sure I don’t know what the Inspector ’ll think.’
‘Same as Jack here,’ Jurnet assured her gallantly. ‘While the rest of us have been growing old and grey, you’ve found the secret of eternal youth. Especially,’ he added with elaborate concern, ‘as you’ve just had one of your turns.’
‘One of my –’ Mrs Toller stopped abruptly: then said, in a voice that was a little too emphatic, ‘Oh, I’m quite over that, thank you.’
She led the way through the hall into a bright room where flowers rampaged over carpet, curtains and wallpaper; swarmed across cushions and upholstery, crammed into vases, bloomed in pots. ‘Make yourselves comfortable while I tell Perce you’re here. You’ll have a cup of tea? Soon as I’ve told him I’ll put the kettle on.’ She waited a second before adding, as if in anticipation of a question she had already deciphered in the police officers’ eyes: ‘My auntie left me the bungalow, Mr Jurnet. Principal of Rackworth Primary. Never married. And a nice little bit of money to go with it.’
‘Why haven’t I got an auntie like that?’ the detective demanded. Then: ‘No need to tell me, Mollie. As if I didn’t know that on Percy’s ill-gotten gains you’d be lucky to be living in the hut at the bottom of the garden.’
The woman’s gratitude and relief were lovely to see.
‘Then it is just a social call! Percy told me he’d asked you over, but I said you’d never come, just like that. Not socially.’
‘He didn’t tell you what he told me about your Victoria sponge.’ Jurnet skilfully dodged the question. ‘Matter of fact, I’ve been hoping to run into Percy at the Hall again, but no luck.’
‘You can thank me for that.’ Instantly on her guard again, Mollie Toller declared: ‘There were some jobs to do about the house, couldn’t be put off any longer.’
Summoned from his grove of Academe, Percy Toller came in vociferous with welcome, and – while Mollie busied herself in the kitchen – showed his two visitors over the bungalow, expatiating on the beauties of fitted carpets and low-flush loos – ‘Two of ’em, Mr Jurnet, think of that!’ – and the unparallelled convenience of fitted cupboards, every one of which he flung wide for inspection.
Detective-Inspector Benjamin Jurnet addressed himself to the question of why Percy Toller should think it advisable thus to lay bare the intimacies of his household arrangements. Charitably, he was ready to accept that so might any retired villain behave, eager to demonstrate that he no longer had anything to hide. Except that every sentence begun and left dangling, every embarrassed silence, made it only too apparent that Percy Toller had something to hide.
Only in his study, a small room furnished with a desk and chair and bookshelves of which only a shelf or two was occupied, did the ex-burglar relax, touching his books and papers with little pats at once comical and touching.
‘Mr Jurnet,’ he declared, with the air of imparting great news, ‘you can’t imagine how much there is to learn in the world! Have you ever thought about it, Mr Jurnet?’
‘Can’t say I have, Percy. Leave it to university students like you.’
The little man beamed.
‘There’s no end of it! Even s’posing you could manage to learn it all, which you couldn’t possibly, next day there’d be a whole new lot, and the next, and the day after that –’ He broke off, awed by the tremendous prospect. ‘Makes you think, Mr Jurnet, don’t it?’
‘Just so long as you mug up enough for that doctorate –’
‘Mr Jurnet!’ squirming with pleasure. Then, serious: ‘What you have to do, see, is specialise. I –’ Percy announced proudly – ‘am doing Humanities.’
‘Oh ah. You’ll have to translate for us ignoramuses.’
‘Culture, Mr Jurnet! All the things that make us civilised –’
‘Don’t tell me Perce is off on his hobby horse again!’ Mrs Toller poked her head into the little room to announce that tea was ready. ‘That man!’ she asserted fondly, leading the way back to the sitting room. ‘Sometimes I think, if he stuffs his head with one more fact he’ll burst like a ripe melon.’
Seated with Ellers on the couch, Jurnet drank several cups of good, strong tea, and pronounced the Victoria sponge all and more than Perce had promised. Mollie dimpled and protested at the praise. But it still wasn’t a party. There was a wariness in the air, a nervous apprehension of what was to come.
So that when, leaning back against the flowery cushions, Jurnet wiped his mouth on the floral paper napkin with a sigh of contentment, and remarked: ‘Beats anything at the Corytons’ party,’ it was almost as much a relief as a fear realised. ‘And they had it professionally catered!’
‘Can’t beat home-made,’ Sergeant Ellers offered jovially. Percy Toller stayed silent. Mrs Toller said, in a hurt way, as if an unfair advantage had been taken: ‘I didn’t know you were there, Mr Jurnet.’
‘Quite by chance. Ran into the curator – the retiring one, I mean – and he asked me. Half the reason I said yes was the thought of seeing you the belle of the ball.’ As there was no response to this, the detective tried a new tack. ‘Terrible thing about Mr Shelden.’
Percy Toller said: ‘It don’t hardly seem possible.’
‘It was that all right! You should ’ve seen him when we fished him out of the moat after those bloody eels – oh, pardon! No need to upset you with the gory details.’ Getting down to the nub: ‘What I want to know from you, Percy, is why you and Mollie weren’t at the party after all. From what you told me, you’re tickled pink to be part of the Bullen crowd – so why stay home from the big do of the season?’ Ending, after a moment, with: ‘If staying home’s what you did.’
The little man spilled some of his tea into the saucer.
‘I told you! Mollie had one of her turns.’
‘Seen a doctor, has she?’ The other shook his head. ‘Know something, Percy? I don’t believe you ever intended to go to that party. Would you have asked me back to tea if you had, with Mollie needing time to put on her glad rags and the war paint? It stands to reason. Can’t expect me not to find it all a bit fishy.’
With a feeble attempt at his old self, Toller contradicted: ‘Fishy? It was ham.’
‘So it was,’ the other agreed unsmilingly. ‘Ham which, in this heat, you said, you always bought fresh to eat on the same day. You’d never be having a ham tea, knowing you were going on straight after to a big blow-out, with the eats laid on – now, would you?’
Percy Toller seemed to have regained something of his humour.
‘I must say,’ he exclaimed, ‘it’s the first time I’ve been grilled by the dicks about not being at the scene of the crime!’
‘Who’s talking about crime? No crime was committed at the party, unless you mean the speeches. A good time was had by all. Just can’t understand why you decided to give it the go-by. Of course –’ as if the thought had just that moment occurred to him – ‘there was a break-in over at Itteringham that same night. Some very nice antique silver, so they tell me. From all I hear, a very clever job.’
‘Not mine then, that’s for sure! Think I’ve become a Raffles in my old age?’ The little man added, in an editorial undertone: ‘The Amateur Cracksman, author, Ernest William Hornung, 1866–1921.’
‘I don’t know.’ Jurnet kept a straight face. ‘You’ve been studying. No saying what they teach you at university these days. Open University – how to open a safe, for all I know.’
‘Humanities!’ The little man shouted. ‘Culture and civilisation!’ He banged a hand down on the tea table, and the cups and saucers with their full-blown roses jumped as if they might shed a petal. ‘How many times I got to say I’m retired before you believe me?’ Percy Toller drew himself up with a bruised d
ignity that made Jurnet feel a little ashamed of himself. ‘You hurt me, Mr Jurnet. You really do. I honestly believe I’d rather you thought I bumped off Mr Shelden than that I’m still thieving.’
‘I could, just as well. Anyone tells a lie, like you have, only has himself to blame if the police come along asking questions. To our way of thinking, a bloke who isn’t straight with us over one thing, who’s to say he’s straight with us over anything?’
Percy Toller repeated, on a rising note of despairing obstinacy: ‘I told you. Mollie had one of her turns.’
Chapter Nineteen
The road through the village ended, a little past the church, at a five-barred gate with the name ‘Bullen Hall’ painted on it in black.
Jurnet leaned on the top bar, taking in the leafy parkland beyond, the rutted track curving off into the distance.
‘Must be the back entrance. Wonder how far it is to the house, this way.’
Sergeant Ellers stared.
‘You’re not suggesting our pocket-size Perce could’ve tossed a big boy like Chad Shelden over the battlements?’
‘He’s not the only one connected with the Hall who lives in the village. The Corytons hang out here as well, somewhere. And, incidentally, don’t underestimate Percy. He’s a Karate black belt.’
‘He’s never!’
‘It’s the truth. Once told me he took it up to be sure of getting away from any rozzer who tried to arrest him. Only thing was, whenever it actually came to the point, he never could bring himself to, in case he hurt us. Knew us all too well for the lovely bunch of buggers we are.’
‘Hardly sounds like your cold-blooded murderer.’
‘No such animal. Murders are done in hot blood, not cold.’
‘If you say so.’ But the chubby Welshman still looked unconvinced. ‘I still can’t see old Percy as an angel of death.’
‘Maybe we should suspend judgement till we find out the real reason why he stayed away from the party.’ Turning back to the prospect before him: ‘Tell you what.’ While I’m rustling up the Corytons, if they’re home, why don’t you take yourself back to the Hall by the tradesmen’s entrance. Let me know where the path comes out in relation to the house. Time how long it takes you. Keep your eyes skinned for anything that may be there to be seen.’
Jack Ellers frowned.
‘Need a ruddy tractor to clear that hump. Take the Rover down there, we’ll be lucky to finish up with a back axle to call our own.’
‘Who said anything about the car? I meant, walk it.’
‘In this heat!’
‘Good for your waistline.’ The detective straightened his lean length and moved away from the gate. ‘See you back at the house, then.’
The little Welshman called after him: ‘Tell Rosie my last thoughts were for that leg of lamb with rosemary she’s got laid on for dinner.’
‘Better than that,’ the other returned heartlessly. ‘I’ll eat a few slices myself in your memory. Rosemary for remembrance. What’s for afters?’
Passing by the church, Jurnet noticed with a mixture of annoyance and professional concern that the oak door with its iron latch was slightly ajar. Concern, because he had already taken in the announcement on the notice board to the effect that the building was open for services only one Sunday in four: annoyance because, ever since his Baptist boyhood, with its bleak little chapel where the spirit of God descended without the aid of stained-glass windows and angels spreadeagled against the roof, churches had always made him feel uncomfortable. Since, in addition, setting in train the apparently interminable process of becoming a Jew, he liked them even less: accusatory reminders that, the way some people did their sums, God came out, not one, but three.
Probably some old bag giving the brasses a rub up.
Just the same, concern won out, as it was bound to. The detective pushed open the wooden gate splotched with lichen, went up the path and into the church.
It was deliciously cool after the inferno outside, but with the damp coolness of a cellar, smelling of fermentation. Its small, high windows were embedded deep in the plastered walls like arrow slits, the sturdy pillars of the nave marching towards an oak table where a brass cross was set between bowls of roses that had seen better days. There was a stone font carved with a frieze of headless figures, a Victorian pulpit heavy with the weight of sermons, and rows of pews with seat-pads of a faded red and carved poppyheads at the ends.
In one of the pews Jane Coryton was down on her knees.
At sight of her, Jurnet came to an abrupt halt, grateful for his noiseless shoes. Before he could beat a retreat, the woman raised her head and inquired pleasantly, her voice resonating between the high, narrow walls: ‘How on earth did you guess I was here?’
She rose unhurriedly, sat back on the pew bench, smoothing her striped cotton skirt.
‘Do sit down,’ she invited, as one making comfortable a guest in her own sitting room. ‘I’ve been wondering when you’d get round to us.’
‘I’m sorry if I interrupted your praying.’
‘You didn’t,’ she answered smilingly. ‘I don’t. Pray, that is. I believe in God.’ Observing the detective’s look of bewilderment, she added kindly, but in the slightly impatient way of one explaining the obvious: ‘Believing in Him, naturally I believe He knows best. To plead for something He hasn’t seen fit to bestow unasked would be a kind of blasphemy.’
‘But – forgive me – you were down on your knees –’
‘So I was.’ The smile broadened. ‘Women do tend to make a habit of it, don’t they? If they’re not scrubbing the floor, they’re looking for the needle they dropped on the carpet, or even assuming one of the less dignified positions for performing the act of love. What I was doing just now, if you want to know, was thinking about Chad Shelden. I suppose you still haven’t found out who killed him?’
‘Early days.’
‘Not really.’ The woman shook her head, her eyes troubled. ‘Early for you, perhaps. Late for us, the Bullen people, looking each other up and down and wondering which of us has it in him – or her – to end a human life.’ Then: ‘Elena did give you the key?’
‘The one to the fateful drawer with the Anne Boleyn letters?’ Jurnet nodded. ‘I don’t mind admitting I took a look. Put me properly in my place. Could just as well have been Chinese for all the sense I could make of them.’
‘You have to get your eye in to read Tudor handwriting. After that, it’s easier than most of the scrawls that go by the name of letters nowadays.’ Jane Coryton hesitated, then went on, a little tentatively: ‘Did Elena also let you know that Francis has quite genuinely come to the conclusion he isn’t the right person to do the book?’
‘She said you’d persuaded your husband in bed that same night it wasn’t for him.’
Mrs Coryton laughed.
‘I did it in the car on the way home. Otherwise it would have had to wait till morning. All that excitement, I couldn’t wait to get upstairs and get my head down. I was out like a light the minute it touched the pillow.’
‘And Mr Coryton the same, I don’t doubt.’
‘We were both flaked out. It was all he could do to take the dog out before turning in.’
‘And were you awake when he came back?’
Jane Coryton stood up.
‘This really won’t do,’ she said crisply. ‘You’re trying to get me to incriminate my husband.’
Jurnet protested: ‘All I did was ask a straightforward question which could be answered yes or no.’
‘So you did.’ The woman’s habitual good humour returned, only modulated to a minor key. She put a hand across her eyes, and rubbed them, as if they troubled her. ‘You need to know all about us, don’t you? Which is difficult, because we don’t begin to know ourselves.’
She showed Jurnet over the church, much as Percy Toller had shown him over the bungalow, with as much pride, but less hyperbole. She explained that she was a churchwarden, which also explained her presence in the place.
They had to keep the church locked for fear of vandals, but she had a key and could come and go as she pleased. She took him into a side chapel he had not noticed, crowded with tombs of bygone Appleyards.
‘Luckily for the village, they buried George Bullen in the Tower,
under the altar of St Peter-ad-Vincula. Three days later they prised
up the stones again, and shoved Anne Boleyn down beside him.
Did you know there’s a story that Henry was so wild with the two
of them he had them crammed into an old arrow chest, body to
body and the two heads pressed together in a kiss? Sick, wasn’t
it, if it was true – but I don’t find it horrible, do you? Just very
sad.’ Mrs Coryton considered for a moment, then resumed brightly:
‘Well! Can you imagine, if they’d brought them back here! The
coaches ploughing up the lane, the litter on the green –’
Jurnet asked: ‘What about Appleyard of Hungary? Isn’t he in
here with this lot?’
‘In his will, bless him, he left instructions that he was to be
cremated and the ashes strewn from the roof of Bullen Hall. All
that’s here is a plaque Elena had put up. Not enough, thank heaven,
to be worth going out of your way for.’
The tablet, gold letters on black marble, stated merely:
To the undying memory of Lazlo Appleyard
Appleyard of Hungary
A Hero of our Time
1926–1973
Jane Coryton said: ‘Francis and I hadn’t come to Bullen then, of course, but, from all I’ve heard, the funeral rites were quite hairy. Elena went up on the roof to scatter the ashes, and, being her, I don’t suppose she’d ever noticed that the wind sometimes blows from one direction, sometimes from another. Anyway, she opened the box containing the ashes facing the way the wind was blowing from. Instead of drifting away over the grounds, which was the whole idea, they blew back against her, plastering her from head to foot. Mr Benby, who was there, says she screamed. Elena screaming – can you imagine! He says he scraped as much of the ash off her clothes as he could, back into the box, and tipped it over the balustrade, but he didn’t like to touch her face, of course, and she just stood there screaming, her face, her lips and eyelashes, grey with ash.’
