Clerical Errors

by D M Greenwood

  ‘I’ve got one thing to tell you and one favour to ask of you,’ Ian said to Julia the minute they got back to the Amy Roy. ‘The favour is that we don’t tell the police immediately about the car number plate. It’s Sunday today. If I haven’t made any headway by Tuesday morning, I’ll go to the police and tell them about the plate. How about it?’

  ‘Well,’ said Julia, ‘it depends on what else you have to tell me. And of course what I want to know most of all is why Paul’s number plate happened to be in Lord Cumbermound’s stable.’

  Ian hesitated and then said slowly, ‘The number plate links Paul to Geoffrey Markham, Cumbermound’s youngest son.’

  ‘The boy we saw driving out in the Mercedes tourer. Rosa’s owner? How do you know? It could be anyone at Cumbermound’s house.’

  ‘All right then. It’s only intuition. But say there is a link between Paul and Markham, what would the link most likely be?’

  ‘How on earth should I know?’ Julia cried in irritation. ‘I gathered it was you who had a previous acquaintance with him.’

  ‘It wouldn’t be sex, Markham never had any “problems” in that direction, so to speak. With him it’s likely to be money in the end.’

  ‘How “in the end”?’

  ‘Well, something might lie between.’

  ‘Like?’

  ‘Candles,’ said Ian thoughtfully.

  ‘I don’t see it.’

  ‘Neither do I at the moment,’ Ian admitted. ‘But before I go I’ll have a look at the one I found in the asylum and the one Theodora got from Paul’s church.’

  ‘Go?’ said Julia. ‘Go where? Where are you going?’

  ‘Rosamund Coldharbour’s.’

  ‘Miss Coldharbour’s? What on earth are you going there for?’

  ‘Both Markham and Paul figure on Wheeler’s hit list don’t they?’

  ‘So? Williams and Jefferson are on it too.’

  ‘But Jefferson and Williams have had no opportunity to have their hands in the Cathedral till. If my financial researches are right I have to say the most likely suspect for that particular activity is Wheeler.’

  Julia nodded.

  ‘If I’m right and the link is money, who knows most about Wheeler’s financial affairs?’

  ‘I suppose she would.’

  ‘Say Markham is paying Wheeler or Wheeler is paying Markham for services rendered and say Paul was implicated either way, might not Rosamund know about it, if it involved money going into or out of any of Wheeler’s accounts?’

  ‘I suppose so,’ said Julia. ‘But would she tell you if she did know? She’s terrifically loyal to Canon Wheeler.’

  ‘That will depend on how clever my questioning is and on how frightened she can be made to feel either for herself or on Wheeler’s behalf.’

  ‘And it depends on what her relations with Wheeler are,’ said Julia with gathering interest.

  ‘And no one quite knows the answer to that one, do they? Reason enough for me to try my luck with her.’

  Half an hour later Julia agreed the police should not be told about the number plate until Tuesday.

  ‘I don’t think there’s the least danger to you,’ said Ian reassuringly as they parted.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Thine Adversary the Devil

  Tallboy rang the bell of 27, Markham Terrace. One of these tubular affairs, he noticed, ever so discreet. He curbed a wish to kick his boot against the bottle-glass panels of the front door. The house was one of a row of nineteenth-century brick artisan dwellings whose neat and harmonious proportions were now being ruined as recent prosperity allowed the enlargement of windows and the addition of porches, complete with brass carriage lamps and, Tallboy thought vindictively, bloody tubular bells. He raised his fist and was about to hammer on the door when he heard sounds. A moment later there was a rattling of chains and locks and the door swung open.

  Tallboy was confronted by a very tall man of considerable girth who looked like a retired all-in wrestler. His thick, almost grey hair appeared to be worn without a parting and stopped at the lobes of his ears. He wore a light-blue, Fair Isle pullover, fawn slacks and grey trainers.

  ‘Mr Jefferson?’

  The man smiled slowly and in no hurry at all replied softly, ‘The very same.’

  ‘I’m Inspector Tallboy of Medewich CID. I’m engaged in investigating the murder of the Reverend Paul Gray. We have your statement taken earlier this week by Sergeant Bison. But I wondered whether I could ask you one or two further questions?’

  The man continued to smile and then, with a quick, balanced movement, which in so bulky a man was nimble, he moved backwards andsideways to allow Tallboy through the narrow porch into the house. The Inspector edged down the confined passage into the living room which looked out on to a neat back garden. French windows stood open leading on to a strip of highly polished, red tiled terrace.

  The room was carpeted in a very thick fawn carpet with a wave-like configuration in its pile. The furniture of the 1930s was beautifully preserved. Over the mottled beige tiled mantel piece, with its brass jar filled with coloured spills, was a glass case of military cap badges mounted in wooden frames. Tallboy eased himself into the atmosphere. When he saw the cap badges he felt himself to be on home ground. He might not know much about the Church, but with this terrain he was thoroughly familiar. He knew what he’d find in the wardrobe upstairs if he ever had to search the place. He did not need to look at the single shelf of books to know they would have titles like A Pilot’s War Memoirs or Regiments of the Burma Campaign.

  ‘Would you like to sit out on the patio?’ The question was gently, even softly asked by his host.

  They took their seats on canvas chairs which were placed side by side on the strip of red tiling, as if they were about to be photographed or to review a marching column. Tallboy moved his seat slightly out of symmetry so that he could see the three-quarter face of Jefferson. He consulted his notebook.

  ‘How long did you know Reverend Gray, Mr Jefferson?’

  Again Jefferson appeared to be in no hurry to answer the question. He allowed his eyes to review the column of chrysanthemum seedlings in the pots arranged beside the small greenhouse. It was clear that the pace of the interview was going to be determined by this slow, strong man. Finally he said, ‘Three years.’

  ‘So you knew him when he was a curate at Narborough?’

  ‘Quite right, Inspector.’ The tone was hard to interpret. Patronising? Sarcastic?

  ‘How did you first meet him?’

  ‘We shared,’ said Jefferson deliberately, ‘an interest in the morals of the younger generation. Youth work, Inspector, in a structured context.’

  Tallboy was baffled. Where did Jefferson get phrases like ‘structured context’ from? ‘Isn’t that a young man’s field, Mr Jefferson? I always thought youth workers finished at thirty.’ Tallboy was jocose.

  Jefferson didn’t bother to offer him any eye contact, let alone any response to his jocularity. ‘No,’ he said, ‘youth work has to be properly organised. Resources are necessary. You need leadership. That comes with experience.’ He swung round to look at Tallboy and raked him up and down with his eyes. ‘Fit leadership,’ he repeated as though the word ‘fit’ might not just be what the Medical Officer looked for. Tallboy shifted in his chair. It was a bit like listening to a sermon.

  ‘And you helped Paul Gray to provide that fit leadership?’

  ‘Yes. He needed help. He lacked organisation. And objectives. You’ve got to know what your objectives are.’

  ‘And what are your objectives in youth work, Mr Jefferson?’

  ‘Winnowing. Chaff from grain. Know what I mean, Inspector?’ His tone suggested that he did not pin much faith in this being the case. ‘You’ve got to face young lads with themselves. Help them to see what they’re made of. See if they can deal with their own fears and frailties, as it were. That’s the objective.’

  Tallboy knew just enough of the probable training of youth w
orkers to feel this might not be quite what the social studies lecturer had said. ‘You were in the services, were you, Mr Jefferson?’ he asked.

  ‘Twenty-two years in the Medewich Light Infantry.’

  ‘You can’t have been in the last war,’ said Tallboy invitingly.

  ‘My privilege was Suez and Cyprus.’

  Again Tallboy found it hard to judge the tone but if pressed he would have said it was sarcy. ‘A good thing, National Service, would you say, Mr Jefferson?’ Tallboy asked apparently idly.

  ‘Made men of some of those youngsters. Gave them a broader outlook, if you know what I mean. Gave them a chance to test themselves. Death as well as life. Not so different, a soldier’s job, from the clergy when you think of it.’

  ‘You’ve always been’ – Tallboy wasn’t sure how to phrase this one – ‘interested in the Church have you?’

  Jefferson allowed the words to hang in the air. ‘Interested,’ he said after a moment. ‘Yes, that’s about right. I’ve always been interested. We had some very good padres in the service. Men,’ he said heavily, ‘of integrity.’ He stared at the chrysanthemums.

  ‘And was Reverend Gray a man of integrity?’

  There was a longish pause and then Jefferson said, ‘Murder has to be punished. It’s a matter of balance. Equal amounts of things. Everykilled life by another killed life. We shouldn’t stand in the way of the forces of justice, should we, Inspector?’

  Tallboy himself was not without sympathy for this apocalyptic vision but it occurred to him to wonder who Jefferson thought the forces of justice were. ‘So who murdered Paul Gray?’

  ‘It’s your job to find out, Inspector, and then see they’re properly punished. Only you can’t do that now, can you?’

  ‘Do what?

  ‘Punish them properly. Hang them by the neck until they’re dead.’

  The Inspector swallowed hard. ‘Could we look at the night of the murder, last Thursday?’ Tallboy consulted his notebook. ‘It was Mr Gray’s custom to pick you up from Medewich and take you out to Markham cum Cumbermound. Why was that? Don’t you drive?’

  ‘Yes, I drive all right but I prefer a motor bicycle. I can’t carry equipment for a youth club on my bicycle, so Paul used to pick me up in his car.’

  ‘Equipment?’

  ‘Well, I service one or two youth clubs, particularly church clubs in the area and they share my equipment. Weights for lifting, bats and balls and that sort of thing. Sharing is a good use of resources.’

  ‘So you had the equipment assembled for Mr Gray on this particular evening, yes? But he didn’t come?’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘Could I look at the equipment?’

  ‘What?’ For the first time Jefferson appeared taken aback.

  ‘Just routine.’

  The ex-soldier rose easily from his chair and Tallboy followed him. In the corner of the living room behind them Jefferson indicated two boxes and a couple of canvas hold-alls. Tallboy examined the mass of weights and balls. There was nothing odd in the stuff, as far as the Inspector could see. They returned to their seats on the patio.

  ‘What time did Mr Gray usually pick you up?’

  ‘About seven.’

  ‘And what did you do when he didn’t turn up on that Thursday?’

  ‘I gave him half an hour and then I went for a spin.’

  ‘Bike?’

  ‘Motorbike.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Round and about.’

  ‘Could you be more precise?’

  ‘Round the bypass up to the airport. I had one or two acceleration problems I wanted to sort out.’

  ‘He didn’t ring you to cancel the club?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why didn’t you ring Mrs Gray to find out where Paul had got to when he didn’t turn up?’

  There was a long pause. ‘I got the impression Mrs Gray was not in favour of our work together.’

  ‘Weren’t you worried that he didn’t turn up?’

  ‘He wasn’t always reliable. Like I told you, he wasn’t organised. That’s why he needed help.’

  ‘Why didn’t you go by bike to Markham cum Cumbermound’s club?’

  ‘I just said. You couldn’t rely on him. If he’d cancelled the meeting, there’d be no point in me spending the petrol biking out there, would there? And without equipment too.’

  ‘And you got back, you said in your first statement, at … ?’

  ‘Ten o’clock, Inspector, just in time for the news and cocoa.’ Tallboy was at a loss to know whether the big man was mocking him or not with these innocent tastes. I’ll give him one more opening, he thought.

  ‘Mr Jefferson, in your opinion, is there anyone who would have a reason to want to kill Mr Gray?’

  ‘We’ve all got to die, Inspector.’

  ‘He was twenty-nine.’

  ‘I know lads who got theirs at eighteen in Cyprus.’

  ‘But was there any particular person with a grudge against Mr Gray? Any of the parents of the Youth Club for example?’

  The tall soldier smiled down at him. ‘Let’s just say we had a lot of satisfied customers amongst those young lads. Some of them were coming along fine. I know how to handle them. I’ve got the relevant experience, you see. And I care for them, of course.’

  Mrs Thrigg plumped the coffee and home-made biscuits down on the low table beside the sofa in Mrs Baggley’s drawing-room and stumped out like a stage char. The Archdeacon’s wife motioned to Theodora from her reclining position on her sofa by the window.

  ‘Pour out, my dear, would you?’

  Theodora did as she was asked.

  ‘It is so good of you to look in on an old invalid when you must be so very busy at the office – what with the Dean’s compost heap yielding such unwholesome remains.’ Mrs Baggley was clearly avid for news.

  Theodora had lodged in the attic flat of the Archdeaconry now for three years. It was a handsome building. She liked the Archdeacon, though she was slightly impatient of his apologetic manners. But she was aware that perhaps she underestimated his acceptability to the parochial clergy, who were not threatened by his gentleness. About his wife she had no reservations: tough and vital, the life force flowed through her even as the cancer – which she would acknowledge to no one, and certainly not to her husband – extended its grip on her. She listened now as Theodora retailed the to-ing and fro-ing of the clergy and police: the poor Dean, the remote Bishop, the worried Chief Constable, Mrs Gray.

  ‘And the girl who seems to have the misfortune to be continually confronted by pieces of poor Paul Gray? How is she standing up to it all?’

  Theodora considered. ‘She’s really doing rather well. She’s both sensitive and tough. Oddly enough, I think her main troubles come rather more from not being English and not always being able to place people.’

  ‘She finds the clergy a pain?’ said Mrs Baggley acutely.

  ‘Well, I think she finds the hierarchy surprising. Her instinct is to relate to everyone in the same way. She’s truthful and spontaneous without being at all pushy or loud. But, of course, many clergy can’t cope with that. They need reassurance, deference even.’

  ‘Especially the ones higher up.’

  ‘The senior clergy,’ said Theodora quoting with a smile.

  ‘So Charles bullies her?’

  ‘I don’t think he does in any special way. Just in the same way he bullies everyone below him. He tends to pick on new people a bit at first to bring them into line. Once they’ve made their submission he generally lets up.’

  Mrs Baggley made a moue of distate. ‘Not my favourite gentleman,’ she said. She drew her engagement ring down her fine finger and pushed it back again preparatory to making a move in a game. ‘You know he was making rather a set at Paul Gray.’

  Theodora noted the slang so typical of her mother’s generation. ‘Charles?’ she responded. ‘I rather gathered he might have been. Though since Gray was new in the diocese and a Bishop’s favourite, I’
m not surprised. Charles doesn’t care for sibling rivals for the Bishop’s favour.’

  ‘You’re a very noticing young woman,’ said Mrs Baggley with affection. ‘Yes, Bishop Thomas does rather proceed like King Lear at times, and of course it’s tough on the family. I fear his son’s death left an enormous gap. But I can’t say I approve of his method of filling it. Having favourites turns the diocese into a Jacobean court – they all start plotting to do each other down.’

  Theodora listened with interest to this colourful picture of the Bishop’s managerial style.

  ‘However,’ Mrs Baggley resumed, ‘I rather wonder whether Charles wasn’t leaning very heavily indeed on Paul. I wonder if there wasn’t something specific this time?’

  Theodora looked alert and waited.

  ‘You know Charles had Paul round several times recently, usually on Thursday evenings. In fact I rather gather he saw Paul the night he died.’

  ‘Thursday evening? Do the police know?’

  ‘I thought it best not to mention it,’ said Mrs Baggley in a queenly fashion.

  Theodora groaned inwardly.

  ‘Of course, I see everything from my window.’ Mrs Baggley was complacent. ‘But I didn’t actually see him myself on that particular evening. Mrs Thrigg’ – Mrs Baggley had no shame in revealing her sources, all was grist to the mill. She leaned forward dramatically and her fine theatrical eye bore into Theodora – ‘Mrs Thrigg did see him or at least heard him. She says there was a row. She happened to have dropped in to Charles’s to leave some shopping on her way over here. She says you could hear Canon Wheeler all down the stairs.’

  ‘Saying what, exactly?’ Theodora inquired with interest.

  ‘Well, of course, Mrs Thrigg isn’t much of a word-merchant so it’s difficult to get anything exact out of her. She picks up tones and drifts rather than actual words. She says they were quarrelling over money and women.’ Mrs Baggley examined the disbelief in Theodora’s eye before she went on, ‘I’m not sure how much Mrs Thrigg is influenced here by the theme of the novelettes she devours. She has a rather histrionic outlook on life sometimes. Is a little inclined to fantasise,’ Mrs Baggley ended with a judicious air. Theodora hid her smile. ‘But apparently,’ Mrs Baggley returned to her previous committed tones, ‘one phrase used by Canon Wheeler did strike her.’ Mrs Baggley paused.