Buried in the Past

by Elizabeth Lemarchand

  ‘Edmund Catchpole, M.A., F.R.Hist.S., F.S.A.,’ he read aloud to Toye, ‘Archivist to the City of Alchester.’

  Toye blinked behind his horn-rims.

  ‘Looks as though your idea of Lister’s coming down here to see somebody in the same shop could be right on the beam, sir.’

  ‘Corbury’s a good thirty miles from Alchester, and the branch line’s been closed. Lister hadn’t got his car, remember. Still, I suppose he might have been mugged in Alchester on his way to see this bloke, and the corpse carted over here. But you’d think this Catchpole chap would have come forward if Lister hadn’t turned up for an appointment, with all the publicity there’s been. Here, finish your coffee and we’ll go and see what he’s got for us — if anything.’

  Edmund Catchpole was an elderly man with a neatly trimmed, small grey beard. He shook hands formally and expressed a hope that Pollard and Toye had finished their dinner.

  ‘I enquired for you at the police station,’ he said, ‘and was directed here. I may say that I’m approaching you with considerable diffidence.’

  ‘Please don’t feel like that, sir,’ Pollard told him. ‘At this stage in a homicide enquiry, any piece of information may turn out to be valuable.’

  Mr Catchpole looked anxiously round the hotel lounge.

  ‘What I have to say is highly confidential. Perhaps we are rather public here.’

  Pollard suggested that they should go and sit in the car, wondering what could be coming.

  When they were settled, Mr Catchpole cleared his throat in the manner of one about to deliver a lecture.

  ‘While it may have no relevance to the late Mr Bernard Lister’s untimely death,’ he began, ‘as his body was found under such — er — unusual circumstances, I felt that it was my duty to inform the authorities that he had recently achieved a breakthrough in an important piece of historical research relating to Corbury. But perhaps I am telling you what you already know from investigations in his flat at Warhampton?’

  ‘No, sir,’ Pollard assured him. ‘Carry on, please.’

  ‘You are probably aware,’ the archivist resumed, ‘even if this is your first visit to Corbury, that the borough plans to celebrate its alleged Millenary in August. I say alleged, because its claim to have received a charter from King Edgar in the year 973 has been discredited for some time by serious historians. The original document — if it ever existed — has disappeared. In the middle of the fifteenth century, however, a charter embodying its alleged provisions, together with those of subsequent early charters whose originals are also missing, was enrolled — registered, that is — at the Chancery Office and received the Royal Seal. It is now in the Alchester archives. To cut a long story short, Mr Bernard Lister recently established beyond any reasonable doubt that this document is a forgery perpetrated by the leading citizens of Corbury of that time.’

  ‘Super!’ Pollard exclaimed, carried away by this absorbing piece of local history.

  ‘I presume you are referring to Mr Lister’s achievement, although I admit that the persons involved showed remarkable enterprise and ingenuity. And the whole affair is an interesting sidelight on administrative conditions during the Wars of the Roses. However, I mustn’t digress. I need hardly point out that Mr Lister’s discovery came at a singularly awkward moment for Corbury.’

  Pollard, who had been listening with keen interest, exchanged a quick look with Toye.

  ‘Awkward is the word,’ he agreed. ‘It would have made the Millenary celebrations look silly, and possibly involved local traders in quite considerable commercial loss.’

  ‘Exactly,’ Mr Catchpole replied reluctantly. ‘And that, I’m afraid, is just what Mr Lister was hoping to do. He invited me to lunch with him immediately after his discovery. I — er — did not enjoy the meal, which he treated as a kind of celebration. He ordered champagne and, while in no sense the worse for drink, was uninhibited on his dislike of Corbury, where I gathered he had spent an unhappy childhood. He positively gloated over the disclosure he was now in a position to make. I really felt most uncomfortable.’

  ‘Can you remember the date of this lunch?’ Pollard asked, suddenly visited by an idea.

  ‘It was on Thursday, 28 September, last year. Mr Lister had come down to Alchester on the previous Sunday, and been working in the Record Office each day.’

  There was a short silence, broken by Mr Catchpole’s once again clearing his throat.

  ‘Perhaps you will think that this is a trifling matter to raise during an investigation into a murder,’ he said, ‘but whatever Mr Lister’s motives were in researching into the Corbury charters, he should certainly receive posthumous recognition for his work. Can you tell me if anything in writing on the subject has been found in his flat?’

  ‘I can’t at the moment,’ Pollard told him. ‘I haven’t yet been to Warhampton. Inspector Toye and I plan to go there tomorrow. I’ll make enquiries as soon as I can, and let you know. But, as I expect you read in the papers, whoever broke into the flat tore up a lot of typescript as part of making hay of the study.’

  Mr Catchpole looked appalled.

  ‘I must have missed that. Incomprehensible vandalism, isn’t it? I suppose one has to accept that it’s a recurrent historical phenomenon.’

  ‘Unless the vandals were exceedingly thorough, it should be possible to do some reconstruction. You could probably suggest someone familiar with that kind of subject?’ Pollard asked.

  The archivist felt sure that he could, and the interview ended on a more cheerful note, Pollard reiterating his promise to look into the matter and report to Alchester in due course.

  ‘Decent old fellow,’ he remarked, as they watched an elderly Morris drive off. ‘What price his nice peaceful job, with office hours? The only documents I’m ever likely to study are case files. We’d better get down to this one, and put off Mrs Stanton until tomorrow morning. I’ll go and ring her for a date.’

  Chapter 7

  At nine thirty on the following morning Pollard and Toye arrived at Edgehill Court, to keep an appointment with Shirley Stanton made over the telephone on the previous evening.

  ‘Picture, isn’t it?’ Toye remarked, as they walked across the gravel sweep to the front door and rang the bell.

  Before Pollard could reply the door was opened by a tall, dark man, spruce in appearance and assured in manner.

  ‘Superintendent Pollard? I’m Gerald Stanton, Mrs Shirley Stanton’s husband. Do come in.’

  ‘You’re a solicitor, and the Town Clerk of Corbury, I think?’ Pollard said as they shook hands. ‘This is Inspector Toye, who is working with me on the case.’

  Gerald Stanton acknowledged Toye pleasantly.

  ‘I see you’ve got us all taped,’ he said with a smile. ‘My wife’s in here.’

  He led the way into a large room on the left, which Pollard immediately thought one of the most beautiful of its kind that he had ever seen. As they entered, a fair woman with a marked resemblance to her brother got up from a chair.

  ‘Won’t you sit down?’ she invited, when the Yard men had been introduced.

  As they settled themselves Gerald Stanton, perched on the arm of a settee, glanced at his watch.

  ‘Do forgive me,’ he said. ‘I know this isn’t according to the book when Scotland Yard pay one a visit, but I’m due in court in half an hour, and there’s something involving myself I’d like to tell you, Superintendent. May I go ahead?’

  ‘By all means,’ Pollard replied, concealing his surprise.

  ‘It arises out of a phone call from my brother-in-law last night, after you had seen him at the Pottery.’ Gerald Stanton crossed one foot over the other, and sat with folded arms. ‘According to him, you people now think that 14 December may be the operative date in this extraordinary disappearance of Bernard Lister from Warhampton. Of course, down here we only see the national papers, and a rehash of the week’s news in our local rag. Perhaps there was fuller reporting in the Warhampton area. But the impression I
, at least, formed was that the police were working on the theory that he had gone off on holiday, and vanished while away.’

  ‘Looking back on it now,’ Shirley Stanton said, ‘I can see that I rather took that for granted, too. The fact that the description of Bernard was so widely circulated, and appeals made for anyone who had seen him anywhere to come forward did suggest it.’

  ‘I haven’t yet studied the Press coverage at the time,’ Pollard told them, ‘but from what you say, it sounds as though your deduction was a perfectly understandable one. How do you come in, then, Mr Stanton?’

  Gerald Stanton met his eyes and grinned.

  ‘I was in Warhampton for the best part of 14 December last. Very fully occupied in defending a client in the Crown Court, but there I was. He was a local chap, up on a dangerous driving charge, George Phillips by name.’

  ‘That seems a very convincing reason for your presence. Did you by any chance encounter Mr Bernard Lister?’

  ‘I did not. At least, to be strictly accurate, I’m not at all sure that I should have recognised him if I had, after all this time. We were in the same age group, to use the current jargon, but naturally I didn’t see as much of him as my wife and her brother for example, did. She and I weren’t even engaged when he vamoosed. Shall I fill in a bit, for the record? It might save time later.’

  ‘Please do, Mr Stanton. It’s helpful of you to have let us know about this now. Sooner or later your being in Warhampton would have come out, and we are following up all the links with Corbury, of course.’

  Gerald Stanton clasped his hands behind his head, and closed his eyes briefly.

  ‘I went up for the day,’ he said, opening them again. ‘We were very busy at the office just then, and it’s less disrupting than being away for the night. Our case was perfectly straightforward, and I got the lowdown on our position on the list. Warhampton’s a hundred and forty miles odd, a bit over three hours if you’re lucky with traffic and weather. I reckoned that if I got there by ten I’d be perfectly safe. My wife nobly gave me breakfast at half past six, and I left here at seven, and got in at ten past ten. I parked at the Grand Central Hotel — do you know Warhampton, by the way?’

  ‘No,’ Pollard said. ‘I’m about to pay my first visit today.’

  ‘Well, the hotel’s about three minutes’ walk from the court, so it seemed the best thing to leave the car there, as Phillips had said he’d book a table for lunch. The case before ours was getting through nicely when I arrived, but it dragged on a bit and we didn’t get under way until after twelve. Then there was the break for lunch, and I began to wonder if I might have to stay up overnight. However, we were through by a quarter past four and I managed to see to everything and dash off by half past. I downed a quick cuppa at the Grand Central and was driving down the main street by five to five. There’s a hideous clock tower on an island, so I can be sure of the time. I must own to belting along a bit on the way home, but some friends were coming for the night. My wife says I turned up at five past eight.’

  ‘We’d just started dinner,’ Shirley Stanton said. ‘I’d spun out drinks as long as I could, but felt I couldn’t hold up the meal any longer.’

  ‘To round off my statement in the approved style,’ Gerald Stanton added, ‘the friends were a Colonel and Mrs Hayter, from Longstaple.’

  ‘A full day,’ Pollard commented. ‘Thank you. It’s a useful bit of help.’

  ‘Having done my duty as a citizen in one capacity, I’d better be off and do it in another, before the local Bench, Superintendent. I do hope this wretched business isn’t going to be very protracted. It’s decidedly unpleasant for all of us. Of course, we’re known locally, and so is the long break with Bernard Lister, but we can’t help feeling a bit, well, conspicuous.’

  ‘I quite realise that it must be very disagreeable for you indeed,’ Pollard replied. ‘I can assure you that the investigation is going ahead with all possible speed.’

  ‘I’m sure it will, more especially now I’ve met you. Goodbye, and all possible good luck.’

  As the door closed behind her husband, Shirley Stanton suggested coffee. Pollard thanked her, and politely refused, saying that he and Toye must be on the road to Warhampton.

  ‘I needn’t keep you long,’ he said. ‘It’s just a question of a formal statement of how you spent 14 December, say from midday onwards.’

  ‘I started thinking back when my brother rang last night,’ she told him, ‘and remembered how tiresomely things had worked out, with my husband having to chase up to Warhampton, and visitors arriving for dinner’

  As she talked, Pollard observed her with interest. More brains than Mark, he thought, and much more enterprise. Where he’s dug in, so to speak, she’s moved with the times and widened her horizons. Thrilled to bits with fetching up here as a grande dame.

  ‘...Pensioners’ Christmas Tea in the Town Hall. It really was most inconvenient with the Hayters arriving — I do all my own cooking, even now — but I felt I simply must go. You see, the LeWarnes, who lived here for centuries, were to all intents and purposes Lords of the Manor of Corbury, and dear old Sir Miles who left me the Court knew that I’d do my best to carry on the family tradition. He was my godfather, you know, and a very old friend of my parents, so I do take this sort of responsibility rather seriously. However, I don’t mind admitting that I came away as soon as I felt I could, and got home to put the last touches to the dinner before the Hayters turned up about half past five. They’re old friends, and have a standing invitation to break their journey here if they’re driving down from London or from their married daughter in Suffolk, but really they hit on a most awkward evening. I’d hoped Gerald would be back in good time, but when he hadn’t appeared by eight we started on the meal, as I said just now. We had hardly begun when I heard his car at the door. All this was when we were still at Edge Crescent, of course. Then after dinner we had a chatty sort of evening and went up to bed about eleven, as far as I remember. I hope this is the sort of thing you want?’

  Pollard assured her that her statement was perfectly adequate.

  ‘Just two more points,’ he said. ‘Have you at any time been in touch with Mr Bernard Lister since he cut himself off from the family?’

  Shirley Stanton looked him in the face with complete frankness.

  ‘Never at any time,’ she replied emphatically. ‘If he had made any advance he would have got no change whatever out of me. I always disliked him, and feel very strongly about his behaviour to my parents.’

  ‘And have you ever heard any rumours of his having revisited Corbury at any time during the past twenty-two years, isn’t it?’

  ‘No rumours. Nothing so well-founded, if that makes sense. My niece, Belinda Plowman, once said she thought she’d seen him in the High Street, but as they had never met, other than her having once been to a lecture he gave, I frankly didn’t take her seriously. To be honest, I thought she was trailing her coat to see how I’d react. My brother is still rather rabid about Bernard, and to her it’s all old hat and quite absurd.’

  ‘When was this, Mrs Stanton? Some time ago, or recently?’

  ‘Oh, quite recently. Last summer, when we were still at Edge Crescent. I can’t remember exactly when, but it must have been during her vacation. I have an idea it was not long before she went back to college.’

  ‘Well, many thanks,’ Pollard said. ‘I don’t think there are any further points, so Inspector Toye and I had better be getting off: At this time of day I doubt if we’ll make quite the time your husband did on the Warhampton run.’

  ‘He drives much too fast,’ she said, as they went out into the hall. ‘I don’t want to be repetitive,’ she added, pausing at the top of the steps, ‘but as my husband said just now, this really is grim for us. The local paper full of our photographs, and the past all raked up. It’s so unfair.’

  Pollard glanced at the angry resentment in her face, accentuated by the patches at her cheekbones.

  ‘I understand how y
ou are feeling,’ he replied with truth, ‘but I can only be repetitive myself. We shall do everything possible to investigate Mr Lister’s murder, and bring the person or persons responsible to justice with the absolute minimum of delay. Goodbye...’

  ‘Lady of the Manor stands on the terrace to see the coppers off,’ Toye remarked. ‘Quite spoils her set-up, having a murder in the family, doesn’t it?’

  In the driving mirror Pollard saw Shirley Stanton break her pose with an abrupt movement, and go back into the house.

  ‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘Most untimely from her point of view. Extraordinarily pleased with themselves, that couple. People who look at you with rueful smiles and implied mutual understanding.’

  ‘Wallowing in their ruddy alibis, weren’t they? The Crown Court, and Colonel thingummy, and the Pensioners’ Christmas Tea, and whatever. People of our sort always help the police, don’t they?’

  ‘They have got you hipped,’ Pollard said with amusement. ‘We’ll have their ruddy alibis put under a microscope, but it sounds as though they’ll be supported by cohorts of witnesses all along the line. Alchester and Thomas had better investigate the Pensioners’ Tea and whatever, and interview the Longstaple couple. The Warhampton chaps can get cracking on Stanton’s movements on 14 December. Yes, I absolutely agree that collectively they’re an unattractive lot, although I’m sorry for Mrs Mark. He can’t be easy to live with. It’ll be interesting to see what the girl Belinda is like. D’you know, Toye, I’ve got a hunch that she did see Lister in Corbury. If it was late in her vacation, it could tie up with the time he put in at the Alchester archives. If he came over, what for? There’s just a chance she might be able to put us on to something: she’s high on our list of priorities at Warhampton.’

  Toye, cautious by temperament, remarked that if the girl thought she’d seen Lister in the High Street, it wouldn’t be much of a lead.