“Would you like an escort, sir?” Robert asked, “Or do you somehow know the drill? You came in like a homing pigeon.”
“I go into reverse, I take it? First left, first right.”
“I know,” said Caroline. “Sam Webber, the old traitor. Be seeing you, I hope, Mr. Pollard.”
He arrived at the car somewhat breathless. Toye, already established at the wheel, looked at him in surprise.
“The church,” Pollard said, getting in hastily. “Down in the village somewhere. I’ll explain — or try to — as we go.”
As he talked, he had the gratification of hearing a startled Toye crash his gears, swearing briefly and apologise.
“Cor lumme,” he added, and lapsed into a staggered silence as they drew up outside the church.
Preoccupied though he was, Pollard noted the latter’s architectural merits. There was a fine Norman west door, and sturdy Norman pillars at the western end of the nave. The chancel had been lengthened later, and had three beautiful Early English lancet windows… Pity the place was so crowded with monuments to departed Tirles, interesting though some of them were.
His reflections were interrupted by an exclamation from Toye, who pointed to a vigorous and unusually well-preserved fresco of the Last Judgement. As usual, the aghast horror of the damned, struggling out of their coffins to find themselves awaited by gloating devils armed with pitchforks, made the stiff angelic reception of the emergent blessed look tame.
“Enough to give you the willies,” commented Toye.
“Come on,” said Pollard. “We’re looking for a memorial tablet to Oliver Tirle, eldest son of the seventh earl. It’ll be small and somewhere inconspicuous, I fancy.”
In the end he found it himself, tucked away in the north aisle, and obscured by a monstrous eulogistic monument to the second Lady Seton, who had died in childbirth in the late eighteenth century. Its wording could hardly have been more concise.
OLIVER MARCHMONT TIRLE, VISCOUNT LAMBROOKE
1917 — 1937
Killed in an air raid in Spain
1937, he thought, staring at it. And in the autumn of 1937, the chap calling himself Raymond Peplow turned up in the Argentine. My God, what have I unearthed this time? Turning to summon Toye, his eye was caught by the spectacle of the dead rising from their graves.
“Ironic,” he said aloud. “Death on Doomsday.”
“The Old Man,” Pollard said to Jane at a late hour that night, in the tone of one reporting an historic event, “sat bolt upright…”
“Evening, Pollard,” the Assistant Commissioner had remarked from his usual semi-recumbent position behind his desk. “So your chap in the priest’s hole isn’t this Raymond Peplow after all, I gather?”
“No, sir,” Pollard replied. “Confirmation’s come through that he was the chap from the Argentine who’s been calling himself Raymond Peplow for the past thirty years all right, but actually I think he was the lawful eighth Earl of Seton.”
At this point the historic event previously mentioned took place. Pollard saw an expression of pure glee come into the A.C.’s face. A lift of an eyebrow instructed him to proceed. He took a deep breath and plunged.
“So you see, sir,” he concluded, “I think there must have been a chance resemblance between Viscount Lambrooke and Peplow, and that they both landed up in the British contingent of the International Brigade in the Spanish Civil War. From what his sister said, Peplow may have been a convinced Communist. According to the young Tirles, there’s a latent wild streak in the family, and it came out in Lambrooke, who was a natural rebel. He had been expelled from various schools and sent down from Oxford, and might have joined the International Brigade just for the hell of it. As it happens, I read a book on the Civil War not long ago. A good many of the Brigade were completely disillusioned by the spring of 1937, and quite a few managed to desert and get out during the heavy fighting round Madrid. I suggest that the real Peplow was killed, and probably smashed up beyond recognition. Robert Tirle said his uncle had stopped a bomb. Lambrooke saw the chance of making a dash for it, swopped papers, realised that this was the moment to clear out altogether, and fetched up in the Argentine as Raymond Peplow with a valid British passport.”
“Assuming there’s something in this flight of fancy of yours,” said the A.C. thoughtfully, “why do you suppose that Lambrooke should suddenly take it into his head to come over here after an interval of thirty years, and burgle his old home?”
“So far, the only clue to that, sir,” replied Pollard frankly, “is that a crazy thing like that’s in character. He seems to have done outrageous things all the way up. You’ll have seen the bit in the report about his parties over there. But what sparked him off this time’s a mystery up to now.”
“You know, coincidences are really rather extraordinary sometimes. The case has made the Tirles news, of course. I ran across my younger brother yesterday. He was up at Oxford in Lambrooke’s time, and started reminiscing about the chap — whom he assumes dead, naturally. He did do some quite outrageous things, such as rising up in church and forbidding the banns of a female don. He was sent down for that, and for consistently breaking every rule in the book.”
Pollard realised that he was beginning to feel excited, and firmly took himself in hand.
“If we accept the identity swop, sir,” he said, “it brings a new element into the case: motive. Both Lord Seton and Mrs. Giles Tirle had the opportunity to attack Peplow, but now it looks as though his death could have been caused deliberately, instead of being an accident arising from tackling a burglar. What if either of them recognised him? Surely they’d each got a red-hot motive for putting paid to him? Lord Seton stood to lose the title and the estate, and for Mrs. Tirle it meant that her son probably wouldn’t succeed.”
“Imagine it all coming out in court,” mused the A.C. “The cause celebre of the seventies… But let’s face it, Pollard, it could never be proved. If Peplow was buried as an English milord, we could probably get him dug up, even though it was in Red Spain, although I blench at the prospect of the red tape. However, as he was apparently smashed to bits, a few missing teeth aren’t going to be legal grounds for identification. And the autopsy X-rays of Lambrooke don’t show any abnormalities, and they say the teeth fillings are quite recent. To sum up, neither set of remains is going to provide conclusive evidence of identity. Are you proposing to tackle the family, and hope that you’ll startle someone into an admission of having recognised Lambrooke?”
“This is the thing, sir. I’d like to discuss it with you. Could any of them have recognised him after all this time? Beyond doubt, I mean?”
The A.C. took out his cigarette case, helped himself, and extended it to Pollard as an afterthought.
“I’m damned if I know the answer to that one,” he said, accepting a light. “Thirty years is the whale of a long time, isn’t it, and on the far side of the mental watershed of the war into the bargain? All this time the family have accepted his death as an unquestioned fact, and the chap must have practically faded from their minds. And meanwhile — if this identity swop really took place, Lambrooke’s been developing into a middle-aged man who’s spent getting on for the whole of his adult life in a foreign climate and culture.”
“He’d obviously have changed enormously in appearance,” Pollard said meditatively, “and as people never imagine those who are absent as growing older, they wouldn’t be prepared for the change in him. But you don’t only recognise people by their faces, though. There’s a chap’s walk, for instance, and the way he stands.”
“A good point, that. What’s your personal opinion on whether he was recognised by one or more of the family, Pollard?”
There was a pause.
“In some ways the Tirles are the hardest people to size up I’ve ever had to cope with,” he said at last, with apparent inconsequence. “It’s something more subtle than a professional criminal’s expert lying. Difficult to put your finger on. I think it’s a kind of inborn u
nconscious reticence to the outsider, arising from belonging to what is still a closed society to some extent. Anyway, to answer your question, sir… I’ll take Lady Arminel Tirle first. I personally think the way Peplow was standing when she happened to look up and caught sight of him reminded her of her dead brother, and shook her a bit as these things do. But she’s a robust person with plenty of common sense, and likely to forget all about it in a short time. Then the discovery of the body the next morning would probably have brought it back to her mind, and made her feel vaguely uneasy. Then we suddenly turn up with the photograph, and she instinctively jibs at looking at it, just in case… It takes her a minute or two to get herself in hand again. She shrinks from the idea of recognising her brother, even while telling herself it’s impossible, so she’s only too ready to be put off by the unfamiliar face, and says quite honestly that the man’s a complete stranger to her.”
The A.C. nodded. “I’ve never met the lady, but I know the type,” he observed. “I should think you’ve reconstructed soundly there. What about the sister-in-law, late of the Resistance?”
“You could say she’s nearer to the professional, sir. Trained to get herself out of tight corners, and get misleading information across, as I said in my report. I’m positive she knows something, but we haven’t yet established whether she ever knew Lambrooke. She didn’t marry Mr. Giles Tirle until after the war. Of course, she may have been up at Oxford with Lambrooke.”
“I might be able to get a line on that from my brother, to save time. Leaving her on one side for the moment, what about Seton himself?”
“He had much the best opportunity of recognising Lambrooke, sir. He went down into the priest’s hole and examined the body at very close range under a powerful electric light. And he was knocked flat when I told him it wasn’t an accident. But couldn’t he reasonably refuse to give a positive identification? I don’t really feel that it could be expected of him under the circumstances. And what is more, I’m quite sure he’s sorted this out for himself: he’s anything but dim-witted. By the time I saw him on Thursday morning, he was virtually back on an even keel.”
“I entirely agree with all this,” the A.C. said, stubbing out his cigarette. “And even if we could prove that he assaulted the self-styled Peplow, we could never establish that recognition was the motive. Self-defence while tackling a burglar would be an absolutely cast-iron defence. To that extent, I’m afraid this highly ingenious idea of yours will have to go into cold storage. Don’t look so hipped, Pollard. It won’t be the first case shelved in default of legal proof, even if it comes to shelving it. Not worrying about your reputation, are you? What’s your next move to be?”
“We’re interviewing Dick White, the Emmett girl’s boyfriend, down at Warhampton tomorrow, and hoping to get that loose end tied up. If we do, the only option still open for the moment is to work on possible links with the other country house robberies. Meanwhile Longman’s hard at it trying to pick up the Peplow-Lambrooke trail at Heathrow.”
“All very sound, although a bit lacking in dramatic appeal compared with getting up a case against the eighth Earl. On your reckoning he’s the ninth, I suppose? Well, good luck to you, and keep me posted.”
As Pollard slipped his latchkey into the lock Jane came running lightly down the stairs.
“Timed to a second,” she said indistinctly in his arms. “Both of them potted and flat out again. Thank heavens they’ve stopped demanding the ten o’clock feed. Come up and have a look.”
The house was cool and quiet, and smelt of clothes airing, baby powder and roses. It’s like getting out into the country after being in a noisy stinking traffic jam, Pollard thought as he followed his wife upstairs. In two small cots Andrew and Rose Pollard were deep in sleep, their faces healthily sunburnt, and a film of red-gold hair shining on their heads. Andrew heaved a sigh of utter contentment, and thrust up a tiny clenched fist. Rose was dribbling.
“Teething’s imminent,” Jane said, plying a tissue. “They’ve both been stuffing their fingers into their mouths today. Let’s hope for a quiet night — as far as they’re concerned, I mean… Have you eaten, by the way?”
“Ages ago and nauseatingly, at the canteen,” he said, releasing her.
“Come down to the kitchen, then, and I’ll knock up omelettes, and we’ll open a bottle of the rosé. I had some supper about eight, but I’m simply ravenous again, myself.”
Pollard carefully propped open the door of the twins’ room a few inches, and went downstairs after her.
CHAPTER NINE
On the following morning Pollard went down to Warhampton with some reluctance, wondering if he would not have done better to hand over the job of interviewing Dick White to Toye, and concentrated on the files of the other Stately Home robberies himself. He felt sure that confirmation of the Emmetts’ statements would be forthcoming, but little, if anything else could be expected.
The Warhampton police were interested and helpful. Pollard learnt that the Whites were a thoroughly respectable family, and that nothing at all was known to Dick’s disadvantage. After a satisfactory school career he had gone into Crunchaway’s, and had become a long-distance van driver.
“Clean licence, too,” added the Warhampton Chief Superintendent.
Dick White had turned up at the police headquarters on time, and was a freckled young man with a pleasant, open face, at the moment looking unnaturally worried. On being assured that Scotland Yard had no interest in the peregrinations of his van as such, he brightened up to some extent.
“Matter of fact, sir,” he told Pollard, “I’ve been worried stiff, thinkin’ there’s somethin’ I ought to pass on, an’ not wantin’ to get drorn in, because of the job, see?”
Pollard sat up mentally. The hunch that he’d better go to Warhampton could have been sound, after all. “What’s on your mind?” he asked. “We won’t use any of it unless we have to.”
Encouraged by this, Dick White embarked on an unexpected story. He knew the lie of the land at Brent well, having spent several holidays with the Emmetts, and had at once thought of the sandpit as the ideal place for caching the van overnight. It was approached by a rough track with a bend in it, which concealed it from a minor road at the back of Brent park. He had driven down as planned, arriving just before half-past ten on Tuesday night, run the van in, and parked her over on the right, thinking he’d turn by daylight. He had not noticed any other vehicles there, but on coming back at about twenty past five on Wednesday morning, he had been horrified to see a bad dent and scrape low down on the side of the van. He could see tyre tracks coming from behind a clump of bushes at the back of the sandpit, and there were skid marks on a patch of rough ground near the entrance. Dick snorted with indignation. He’d left masses of room for anything to pass.
“Hold on a minute,” interrupted Pollard. “Has the damage been made good?”
“Not. I’ve gotta drive around lookin’ as though I can’t ’andle ’er.”
Much relieved, Pollard despatched Toye to telephone Crockmouth, and ask for an immediate investigation of the sandpit, and also to get hold of a photographer. While they waited for him to come back, he questioned Dick White about his route to Brent, and in minute detail about his night at the Emmetts. The young man’s account tallied with theirs in all respects. He also volunteered a statement that he hadn’t slept too well, being worried about getting off the next morning, and was quite certain he would have heard anyone mucking around during the night. No, he hadn’t seen a soul when he cut through the park on Tuesday night, nor the next morning. He’d tried hard to go off quietly, but Rosalie had let the wicket slam when she was saying goodbye, and they’d had a bit of a giggle, thinking Lady Arminel might take a look out.
So Mrs. Giles did hear a door slam, Pollard thought. That part of her evidence at least was true. He formed a vivid mental picture of her slipping on a dressing gown and going towards the door leading into the public rooms. What did she find? A door unlocked on the ground floor,
or the panel standing open? Or even nothing untoward at all?
His reflections were cut short by the return of Toye with the Warhampton police photographer. Dick White, not looking too happy about the company he was keeping, escorted the party to the nearby Crunchaway premises. The firm worked a five-day week, and there were few people about. Vans were neatly parked in the loading yard. They were highly conspicuous, being painted overall with a design of giant golden-brown crisps and snacks, and bore the name of the firm in huge letters on back and sides. Leading the way to one of them, Dick pointed out the damage, adding gloomily that the garage foreman had created something awful about it.
After a careful inspection they all agreed that the corresponding damage on a car of average size would probably have come just below window level.
“Near side,” emphasised Dick White. “There weren’t no call to back out. Buckets o’ room to turn in the pit.”
There followed careful measuring, recorded by Toye, and photography of the damaged area. Pollard then cautiously removed fragments of paint, and transferred them to a stoppered phial taken from his case.
“We’ll get the boys at the Yard on to these right away,” he said. “It could give us the colour of the car.”
“There’s a microscope back at the station, sir,” the photographer told him hopefully. “You might care to have a look yourself?”
This suggestion was duly carried out. Pollard finally straightened up, detaching himself from the eyepiece. “What do you make of it?” he asked.
The man subjected the material to an intense scrutiny. “I’d say the bash was done by a car with lightish grey paintwork,” he said at last. “Smoke grey’s the trade name of the shade, I think.”
“I agree,” said Pollard. “This was a useful idea of yours: it’ll save time. I’m going to put Crockmouth on to a medium-sized light grey car.”
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