‘I was just coming to that. You might be annoyed with me.’
May’s voice had an edge. ‘Why, what have you done?’
‘Ah, there you are,’ said Maggie, drifting into the room with a candle in her hand. ‘I just introduced myself to the guests. Lord Banks-Marion was very excited to see me again.’
‘Did you talk to the commune?’ asked Bryant.
‘I feel sorry for the flower children,’ said Maggie wistfully. ‘They just want what the rest of us want.’
‘Without having to work for it,’ said May.
‘We’re not all as well equipped as you,’ said Maggie.
May looked down at his trousers in puzzlement.
‘For life,’ she added. ‘They’re lost.’
‘No, they’re at the end of the garden.’ May was growing increasingly agitated by this strange little woman with wild red hair. It was clear that she brought all of his partner’s most irritating traits to the fore. ‘They may also be involved in ritual slaughter,’ he said testily. ‘Did you ask them if they’d heard of the Manson murders?’
‘Of course not.’ She was horrified by the thought. ‘That’s not a good way to get a friendship off on the right foot.’
‘You’re not supposed to be friends with them,’ said May. ‘They’re present at a crime scene.’
‘Very much so, which is why I brought you these.’ Maggie handed over Victoria’s watercolour sketches. ‘One of the girls in the ashram has been drawing everything. They may be able to help.’
May dropped them on to the table dismissively. ‘Arthur, why am I going to be annoyed?’
‘Nobody’s coming today,’ said Bryant.
‘You don’t know that.’ May looked at his watch. ‘It’s nearly one. The road’s probably passable now – why, what have you done?’
Bryant looked at them both with such wide innocent eyes that they knew he was guilty of something. ‘I rang them from the pub and told them to stay away even if the road was navigable.’
‘This’, said May, ‘is the final, final straw. If we were putting everything at risk before, you’ve now destroyed our last chance.’
‘You don’t have much faith in me, do you?’ said Bryant.
‘I did, but you didn’t come up with anything that made sense.’
‘I have now.’ Bryant tapped at the side of his head. ‘I wasn’t thinking clearly before.’
‘About what?’
‘The cause. You know the problem? It’s too simple. I over-complicate everything. Conan Doyle said, “There is nothing more deceptive than an obvious fact.” Alberman said, “They are all guilty.” I know the answer, John.’
‘You know you told me to tell you when you were being annoying?’ said May.
It was then that a crash shook the floor of the room above, sending down a light dusting of plaster.
44
* * *
NOWHERE MAN
They took the stairs two at a time, accidentally slamming a surprised Alberman against the landing wall. ‘Where did it come from?’ shouted Bryant.
‘Mr Hatton-Jones’s room,’ replied the butler, trying to right himself.
‘He was under orders not to leave Lavender.’
May threw his shoulder against the bedroom door, which was unfortunate timing as Monty was just opening it. ‘What’s happening?’ May shouted as Monty was knocked backwards.
‘Someone’s here in the room – over there!’ Monty yelled, swinging an upturned candlestick at his invisible foe.
The afternoon gloom had dimmed the bedroom, but May had learned to keep a torch with him at all times. He could see a figure clearly outlined by the window. ‘Stop,’ he called, slamming the door behind him and leaving Bryant on the wrong side.
For a moment nobody moved. The figure darted left and bounced into the chest of drawers.
‘He has a knife,’ said Monty.
May dropped low and lunged. He grabbed a leg but a boot stamped down on his shoulder, forcing him to let go. When he swung out, trying to connect, he saw a glimmer of metal and felt a sharp sting streak across his left arm. It had the delayed effect of a shaving cut, and he realized that their assailant was holding an open razor.
As May staggered to his feet, there was a slam of wood and the room was suddenly emptier. His torch had been knocked from his hand and had rolled under the bed. Groping for it, he flicked it back on. Monty was on all fours on the carpet, smeared with blood. There was no one else, and the bedroom door was still shut. When he managed to get it open, Bryant fell in.
‘No one came out,’ he said. ‘Where’s he gone?’
‘The servants’ passage,’ replied May. ‘It has to be accessible from this room.’
‘You’re bleeding.’
‘It’s not deep. Monty’s taken another bashing.’
May peered out into the corridor, checking the passageway.
Bryant helped Monty to his feet. ‘I was having a lie-down and when I looked up he was standing there beside the bed,’ Monty said. ‘I threw my brandy in his face but he still got me.’ He felt around his hairline and showed Bryant the damage like a schoolboy revealing a cut to his mother.
‘That’s not so bad,’ said Bryant. ‘It’s just a scratch.’
‘That’s what you said when I got part of my ear shot off.’
‘Well, this is on the other side so it balances out. There’ll be cotton wool and bandages in the kitchen. You know the drill. Then what happened?’
‘I fell off the bed and sprained my wrist.’
‘Over here,’ called May. ‘Some of these panels have been replaced.’
Alberman arrived as the pair searched for an access door. ‘Did you know the closed parts of the servants’ passage had been reopened?’ Bryant asked.
‘They’ve been closed off as long as I’ve been here,’ replied the butler. ‘One goes the full length of the house, right through the middle of it, and another runs behind the sealed-off windows, but they weren’t used much after the old staff left.’
May knocked on the walls again, tracing the path of what he hoped were hollow panels. He ran his fingers around the borders but could find no catch, so he gave up and kicked at it, attempting to split the wood.
Bryant reached over and gently pressed the panel on its right-hand edge. The door popped open. ‘Obviously your father never put in his own kitchen cupboards,’ he said, taking up an oil lamp and climbing inside.
‘Be careful,’ called May. ‘He has a razor.’
The passage was filthy and barely wider than his shoulders. Servants must have been poorly fed in Victorian times to scurry about in here, Bryant thought, raising the lamp. He was at the far end of the corridor, so was forced to turn around and make his way back.
Lights showed through the cracks in the boards at his feet but there was only one other doorway into a first-floor room. Stairs ran in both directions, even narrower, their tread-boards bent from a century of use. He made his way down, pausing to listen for any other movement. So I’m wedged in a secret passage with a razor-wielding maniac, he thought. That’s one for the memoirs.
The stairs disappeared into darkness. On the wall beside him was written in neat penmanship:
1st Floor Willow Larch Elm Oak Beech Mulberry
Ground Floor Snowdrop Lavender Rose Lupin Primrose Iris Hawthorn
It was how staff delivered breakfast trays from the kitchen. He wondered how many of the rooms connected with each other for the purpose of illicit liaisons.
Somewhere below a door slammed, setting him off at a pace.
May stood in the darkness of the first-floor landing and listened intently. He could hear his partner thudding about inside the walls, but where was Monty’s attacker? Whoever it was had to be returning downstairs to provide an alibi. He ran to the central staircase.
The others were still where he had left them. He conducted a panicked head count that left only Monty, Alberman and Mrs Janverley unaccounted for. There was nobody else. The ashram! It had to be someo
ne from there. The members of the commune were hitting back at the titled occupants in charge of their fate. There were eight in all, Melanie, a tall girl, a child, that boy Donovan, others … but which of them?
‘It’s not an Agatha Christie at all, is it?’ said Pamela Claxon, making him start. She had an odd smile on her face, as if she knew a secret.
‘No,’ he agreed, ‘there’s no dagger in the library.’
‘You’ve cut yourself. All this—’ She seemed about to tell him something, but changed her mind and closed her mouth.
They sat in the basement kitchen, among the racks of copper pots and pans that hung in descending order like percussion instruments. The long-suffering Monty had his right arm in a makeshift sling. Mrs Janverley examined the cut on his head and tutted. ‘What a palaver you’re making! It’s barely more than a barber’s nick. You only need a couple of stitches.’
‘I’m appearing in court tomorrow.’
‘If you want to make a decent impression on the judge you’d better wear a hat.’
‘I’m not in the dock, you stupid woman, I’m a witness! I came here for a civilized weekend and I’ll be going home looking like I’ve been in a Peckham gang fight.’ Monty twisted about trying to see what she was doing. ‘Do I really need stitches?’
The housekeeper opened the drawer of her kitchen table and pulled out a small cardboard box. In it were darning needles and thread.
‘Wait, you can’t just do that! There’s no proper light in here.’
‘I’ve worked in lower light than this before. Hold still.’ She swabbed some alcohol on the cut.
‘At least give me something to drink.’
‘Don’t be such a baby. It won’t take long.’
‘I’m serious,’ warned Monty. ‘I need a glass of brandy, a big one. I threw my last one in somebody’s face. I have a terror of needles.’
Mrs Janverley released one of her patented weary sighs. ‘Very well, I have some rum in the still room,’ she said, hauling herself to her feet. ‘Honestly, I’ve never known such a fuss.’
Monty lay back and closed his eyes while she went to find a bottle. The weekend had turned out to be infinitely more disastrous than he had feared, on top of which he had made a ridiculous fool of himself over a girl who wasn’t even remotely interested in him.
He heard the bottle go down on the table behind his chair and was about to sit up for his tot of rum, but the figure that had appeared in his bedroom a few minutes ago was once more standing beside him, and before he knew what was happening had reached forward and put icy hands around Monty’s throat.
Monty threw out his arm and found the handle of a saucepan on the hob beside him. It seared his palm but he still raised it and swung, slamming it into his attacker’s face, showering them both with boiling water and over-salted carrots.
45
* * *
I FOUGHT THE LAW
‘Monty,’ said May, arriving in the kitchen at the same time as his partner. ‘Do you have to keep doing this?’
Hatton-Jones was clutching his scalded face. The floor was slick with water and footprints. A dented copper pan lay on its side.
‘You morons, he was right here!’ cried Monty. ‘I hit him with a saucepan full of carrots.’
‘Carrots?’ said Bryant, unerringly selecting the only unimportant word in the sentence. ‘Where did he go? Wait, the still room. I heard the door slam.’
They ran for the rooms at the far end of the flagstone walk, torch beams illuminating a moth-eaten stag’s head and a display of rusted swords. May tried to pull one free but it was securely bolted to the wall.
‘Have you got any kind of weapon on you?’ asked Bryant.
‘I’ve got a steel comb,’ said May.
They reached the still room and tried the door but it was stuck fast in the jamb. ‘It’s me,’ called Mrs Janverley. ‘Somebody shut me in. Mr Hatton-Jones is alone in the kitchen.’
They left the cook and ran across the corridor. Bryant’s torch, already dim, faded out. ‘You didn’t put new batteries in when you came away?’ asked May, looking back. ‘Unbelievable.’
‘I didn’t know it was going to be this dark during the bloody day, did I? I thought the countryside would be more like Hyde Park.’
Stone steps led up to the wide-open back door. Rain was blowing in and pattering on to the flagstones. Monty stumbled out of the kitchen, pointing. ‘Well, go after him!’
‘Who was it?’
‘Will you stop asking me that? I can’t see in a bloody basement without lights, can I? Someone with thick arms, stocky and strong – probably Pamela Claxon.’
‘Come with me.’ Grabbing Monty by the arm, May frogmarched him upstairs to Iris while Bryant released the housekeeper with another enthusiastic kick of a door handle.
They were now all together in one place, in the reception room. Monty, shot at, bludgeoned, burned and half-strangled, was starting to feel the strain of the past forty-eight hours and all but fell on to an ottoman.
‘Alberman, I don’t want anyone leaving this room until we’re through, do you understand?’ warned Bryant. He looked around the room at eight drawn faces half-lost in the gloomy afternoon shadows. Vanessa and Lady Banks-Marion looked cold. Slade Wilson was anxiously biting his nails. Toby Stafford seemed more alert than the others, and was writing in the notepad perched on his knee. Pamela Claxon sat beside Norma Burke, comforting her. Lord Banks-Marion was a picture of sleepy befuddlement. Only the Reverend Patethric was missing. Even Maggie Armitage found herself a seat and settled beside the detectives.
Bryant turned to address the group. ‘I need to ask you some final questions.’
‘We deserve some answers,’ said Lady Banks-Marion.
‘And you’ll get them, I promise. I’ll tell you everything I know.’ He called to the door. ‘Welcome back, Reverend, you’re just in time. I’m glad you could join us.’
‘I thought I should look in.’ Trevor Patethric, still in his cassock, nodded awkwardly to the others and took his place among them. Alberman closed the door and stood in front of it. The scene had a ghostly chiaroscuro, actors waiting for a rising curtain.
Bryant first addressed the lawyer. ‘Mr Stafford, am I right in thinking that you never met your client, Mr Burke?’
‘That’s right,’ said Stafford, ‘we spoke on the phone and wrote to each other. I’m based in Bristol. It was not convenient to meet.’
‘You recommended Mr Burke to Lord Banks-Marion?’
‘That is correct.’
Bryant turned to Lady Banks-Marion, who watched him warily. ‘Your ladyship, I understand it’s customary to greet the weekend guests upon their arrival, but neither you nor your son did so.’
‘That was the old tradition,’ she said stiffly. ‘If you must know, we were having an argument.’
‘About the sale of the hall and its possessions, is that right?’
‘I had no desire to stay in the house while some businessman was poking about placing a value upon everything we own.’
‘But your son convinced you to remain.’
‘Mother had no choice,’ said Harry. ‘Her signature was needed on the contract.’
‘The end result was that neither of you welcomed Mr Burke or his wife to Tavistock Hall. Miss Harrow.’ Bryant walked over to her. ‘How were you invited by Mr Burke?’
‘By letter.’ She took a cigarette from Pamela Claxon’s packet and lit it, exhaling nervously.
‘Why did you accept?’
‘I wanted to meet him.’
A murmur went around the room.
‘You’re saying that – forgive me – not only were you not his lover, but you had never met Mr Burke?’
‘That’s right. We only ever spoke through his intermediary, Mr Stafford.’
‘Who had not met him either. Mr Wilson, did you meet Mr Burke?’
‘Well …’
‘Tell the truth.’
‘Not exactly.’ The interior decorator fidgeted unco
mfortably. ‘Where is any of this getting us?’
‘Please,’ said May, now realizing where his partner was going with the line of questioning, ‘hear him out.’
‘Monty, you never met Mr Burke either. Yet at one point or other in the weekend nearly all of you said you’d met him or at least implied that you had, including you, Reverend.’
‘I wanted to be sure of securing funds for our roof,’ said Trevor. ‘Our parish needs—’
‘Your parish needs a new vicar,’ said Lady Banks-Marion, ‘preferably one who doesn’t strip the place bare to feed a drug habit.’
‘Then why did you all imply that you knew him?’ asked Bryant. ‘Because it suited you all to have the approval of the millionaire. Which just leaves Miss Claxon and Mrs Burke.’
‘I met him many times over the years,’ said Claxon. ‘And of course Norma was married to him, so I don’t know where you’re going with this line of questioning.’
‘Alberman wrote a card saying “They are all guilty”,’ Bryant replied. ‘But there was one person he couldn’t have known about. Miss Claxon, would you say that it’s common for writers to work under a pseudonym?’
‘Quite common, yes,’ Claxon admitted.
‘Why do they do that?’
‘For several reasons. One is because female writers are not always taken seriously by male publishers, so they use their husband’s names. They may be writing about subjects of a personal nature, or they may simply be producing too quickly and need more than one identity.’
‘Is Claxon a pseudonym?’
‘You sound as if you know it is, Mr Bryant, so why don’t you tell us?’
‘Your real name is Pamela Burke, is that correct?’
‘Yes.’
‘You are related to Donald Burke?’
‘I am his sister. I’m three years younger than him.’
‘You chose not to volunteer this information.’
‘It’s in the front of my first book.’
‘I know. I saw it in the library.’ He turned to Norma Burke. ‘What can you tell me about the Silver Thread?’
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