Trapp viewed the canvas with a new respect. ‘If it is a Vandyck it’ll fetch enough to rebuild the Youth Club in …’
‘Several youth clubs, wherever you want them,’ interrupted Miss Goodbody firmly, ‘but in the first place we don’t know it’s a Vandyck and in the second place, even if it is, it won’t be yours.’
‘I don’t see that that follows,’ said Trapp loftily. ‘I found the thing; it’s part of the vicarage … so to speak. Must have been here for years. Dammit, mice could have eaten it before now and who’d have been the wiser?’ He finished with less assurance in his voice than had been evident at the start. This was the kind of argument he had used on parochial church councils, archdeacons, and once on an ecclesiastical court, on different occasions since he had become a priest, always to justify the exchange of passive impedimenta for active good works. ‘There’ll be problems, of course,’ he added lamely.
‘And the first one involves getting the picture cleaned properly,’ said Miss Goodbody, briskly rising to her feet. ‘Have you got an Oxford telephone directory upstairs?’ Trapp nodded. ‘Then I’m going to ring a friend of mine who works at the Ashmolean. He might be willing to come out here tonight or tomorrow – and anyway he can tell us what to do about the bit you’ve cleaned already … we don’t want that dissolving overnight.’ She was already half way up the stairs, with Bach close behind, hoping to be involved in the preparation of dinner.
‘Thelma?’
‘Yes, Timothy?’
‘Could you sort of get your friend to keep the thing secret and … er … could you not tell anyone else here about it yet?’
‘Yes, Timothy.’ She hesitated on the top step, leaning back over the banister to give Trapp a reassuring, conspiratorial grin. The retriever, prevented from making further progress on the narrow stairway, settled on the step below, and adopted a bored expression. The girl went on, ‘And I’ll help you work out a more convincing story than the Bristol one too – but this isn’t quite the same, you know. If that really is Sarah’s picture, then it’s not church property; it belongs to the Moonlights.’
Trapp reflected on this remark and decided he would rather argue the merits of rebuilding a burnt-out youth club with Arthur Moonlight than with any diocesan board of finance he had yet had the misfortune to encounter.
The human object of Trapp’s charitable thoughts lowered himself into a wing chair in the Dower House study. ‘So it’s murder all right – and a harmless chap like that.’
‘Yes, Arthur, but, as I said, the police are satisfied no one from here could have been involved – nor from the Hall either so far as I know.’
Moonlight lifted his eyes. ‘I wonder, Mark. I wonder.’
‘Oh come, I know you don’t much care for Scarbuck, but I doubt he’s a murderer,’ said Treasure lightly. ‘Anyway, he was probably right here in this room at the time of the crime.’
‘Yes, and he left pretty sharply too.’
Treasure hesitated. ‘D’you have any reason to suppose that Scarbuck was involved? Because if you do we ought to tell the police.’ Moonlight shook his head. ‘And there’s nothing going on here – that you know of – that could harm you or Elizabeth if it came out?’
‘What an extraordinary question – and the answer is certainly not.’
‘Good,’ replied Treasure. ‘Then there’s something I have to tell the police right away. I was threatened early this afternoon outside the Hall gates by a blond young man who drove away in a yellow VW.’
‘Threatened? In what way threatened?’
Treasure related the details of his brief encounter. ‘I think the chap must have mistaken me for Scarbuck – though I can’t imagine why.’
‘Were you dressed as you are now?’
‘Yes, I changed for lunch if you remember …’ Treasure’s voice trailed off as his hand went to the white tie he was wearing to complement the dark blue shirt and blazer – the blazer he had worn for the meal and exchanged for a red sweater before his walk afterwards. Speke-Jones, on first acquaintance, had appeared to assume that Treasure might be, as he had put it, ‘one of us’. The banker now realized he might inadvertently have given rise to this assumption through his appearance – red sweater, white tie, blue shirt. If Speke-Jones had jumped to the conclusion that Treasure had adopted the colours and the cause, then the belligerent stranger might well have made the worse error of taking Treasure for the leader of Forward Britain.
‘So that’s it all right,’ said Moonlight. ‘You enjoyed the dubious privilege of being mistaken for Scarbuck. But what did the chap mean about an accident, d’you suppose? If there had been an accident here this morning we’d have known about it.’
‘We do know there was a murder, though. Arthur, the boat-house in Old Windsor to which the body was taken … it belonged to Canwath-Wright.’
‘Freddy? Good God!’
‘You know him pretty well?’ Treasure measured his words carefully.
‘Of course I do, and so does everybody else who’s worth a damn in archaeology … What are you getting at? Mark, are you suggesting this involves me with Worple’s death, because if you are you can think again. Anyway, there’s somebody much more closely associated with Freddy …’ Moonlight stopped in mid-sentence, then, after a pause, he continued. ‘Mark, I think you should tell the police about the chap who accosted you, and you can certainly tell them about my knowing Freddy Canwath-Wright – tell ’em myself, come to that. As it happens, I haven’t seen or talked to Freddy for more than a year.’
‘And you don’t know anyone associated with Scarbuck in business or …’
‘No, I do not, and why the hell should I? As far as I’m concerned Scarbuck’s the outsider who bought the Hall. I know nothing about him or his friends, and the sooner I can get him out of the Hall the better.’
Treasure found most of what Moonlight had said more than necessarily defensive, but in general he was relieved at what he had heard. Much as he would have liked to press his friend on who it was that owned a closer association with Canwath-Wright, he had more important questions to put, and Moonlight’s last remark reminded him of the promise he had made earlier in the day.
‘I’m sorry, I did my best to corner Scarbuck this afternoon, but things didn’t work out. We arranged to play golf, but he became a casualty early in the game.’
‘Nothing trivial, I hope,’ Moonlight muttered sourly. ‘Surprised the chap knows one end of a golf-club from the other.’
‘As a matter of fact he doesn’t … Tell me, when he paid you for the Hall in the first place, was the cheque drawn on Scarbuck Construction?’
‘No, it wasn’t. I noticed it because that was one cheque I couldn’t afford to have bounce … more’s the pity it didn’t, though.’ Moonlight paused. ‘It was drawn on Forward Britain Incorporated or Consolidated …’
‘Forward Britain Enterprises?’ Treasure interrupted eagerly.
‘That’s it … Thought it was odd at the time, but didn’t question the chap – like looking a gift horse in the mouth. At least it was the way I felt then.’
‘And what’s really happened to alter your view, Arthur? Dammit, the man couldn’t have been any more attractive then than he is now, though I admit he doesn’t improve on acquaintance.’ Treasure watched his host as he phrased the next question. ‘Is it anything to do with the death of that old lady in the churchyard?’
It was easy to see that Moonlight’s emotional reaction to this went deeper than mild surprise. ‘Mark, you’re a very observant chap – you’re also a very old friend so you’ll oblige me by accepting I can’t answer that question.’
There was a stony silence in the room as both men considered the ambiguity in Moonlight’s reply. Treasure eventually gave a sigh of resignation and glanced at his watch. ‘Well, if I’m going to bare my soul to the police before dinner I’d better get moving. One other thing, Arthur: did Scarbuck know I was going to be here today?’
Moonlight rose, gathering up some books and
a small parcel he had deposited earlier on a side table. ‘Yes, he did. When you said you were coming I rang him last evening and invited him over for coffee this morning … mentioned you might be here; idea was to have you assess the chap before you set about doing my dirty work for me.’ He gave Treasure an acutely embarrassed glance. ‘It wasn’t true what I said earlier about my intending to make him an offer myself – I was sure you’d be better at handling him. It didn’t work, though; he left just before you arrived.’
Treasure nodded. So Speke-Jones could have been telling the truth about the reason for his own presence at Mitchell Stoke.
The two men moved towards the door of the study. Treasure put a hand on Moonlight’s shoulder. ‘Cheer up, Arthur. It’s possible – just possible – Scarbuck will have to sell you back the Hall. I can’t tell you more at the moment, in fact it’s a breach of confidence to tell you anything at all, but friend Scarbuck may be in a pack of trouble. What you’ve told me about the cheque could be important.’
‘You mean there’s something phoney about this Forward Britain outfit?’
‘Something like that.’
‘And I really am sorry the thing slipped my mind when we talked earlier, Inspector.’
‘Oh, better late than never, Mr Treasure. Perhaps a talk with Sir Arthur on his return helped to jog your memory.’ Inspector Bantree delivered this piercing verbal shaft with disarming equanimity. The two men were standing beside Bantree’s Ford which was parked behind an official police car outside the gates of Mitchell Hall.
‘You’d recognize the man again, sir?’
‘Without question.’
‘And you say he’s not known to Sir Arthur whom you very sensibly consulted on the matter before coming to see me?’ Treasure nodded to the question and fought against the withering sense of guilt produced by the Inspector’s words, despite the wan smile that accompanied them. ‘And I expect you asked Sir Arthur whether he knew of anyone called Stacey, sir?’
‘I did, as a matter of fact – and he doesn’t.’ Treasure attempted to imply that his precautionary talk with Moonlight had been conducted in a spirit of earnest helpfulness. He had not mentioned his host’s friendship with Canwath-Wright.
‘Well, that saves me troubling Sir Arthur –’ Treasure sighed inwardly – ‘at the moment, sir. Now we’ll have to find out whether anyone else in the village got a sight of your blond chap.’
For a moment Treasure had the distinct impression that the Inspector had reservations about the veracity of the whole story – and a quite irrational feeling that the policeman suspected it had been invented, and not simply delayed, in order to protect Moonlight.
‘Yellow Volkswagens are pretty common, sir. You didn’t by any chance notice the licence number?’
‘No, Inspector.’
‘No, sir.’ Bantree nodded understandingly.
‘But Miss Goodbody may have noticed it … She saw the car, and so did the people driving the funeral cars this afternoon.’ Treasure plunged further into the detailed corroboration that had suddenly occurred to him. ‘And Miss Goodbody thought the same car passed us, heading for the M4, on the far side of Pangbourne this morning.’
‘At about what time, sir?’
‘Oh, around eleven – perhaps a bit before.’
‘She didn’t notice a body in the back, sir?’ The tone was matter-of-fact; not breathlessly expectant.
‘No, but I see what you mean, Inspector – the time fits, doesn’t it?’
‘Pretty precisely, sir,’ replied Bantree in the manner Treasure felt he would use for humouring infants. ‘Now is there anything else you feel you’d like to tell me at this point, sir?’
Treasure swallowed. ‘Look, Inspector … no, no there’s nothing more. I really am sorry about being so dilatory. But the man said quite distinctly he’d be staying around.’
‘I noted that, sir. Most helpful. Well then, I needn’t delay you further.’ Following a friendly nod to soften an almost curt dismissal, Bantree moved towards the police car which was occupied by a single uniformed constable.
Treasure walked back to the Dower House with a considerably lighter step, and not simply because he wanted to get out of the rain which had just begun to fall in defiance of the forecast. His concern that Moonlight might somehow be connected with the murder had evaporated – nor did he have any misgivings about what he had omitted to tell Bantree. During the conversation it had suddenly occurred to him who else it was – being worth more than a damn in archaeology – who could very likely claim acquaintance with Canwath-Wright. But for the first time he was given to wondering why Moonlight appeared almost studiously to ignore the presence of Eustace Dankton at Mitchell Stoke. By all accounts, the two men had a great deal in common, and it would have been natural for Moonlight to befriend – even to court – such a reasonably celebrated fellow scholar.
The fact that Dankton was in the employ of Scarbuck might have coloured Moonlight’s attitude to some degree, but the man was so evidently out of sympathy with his employer that this fact alone hardly explained why Moonlight appeared not to acknowledge his presence.
Chapter Thirteen
‘Now, Bishop, you know Mark Treasure already, and this is Miss Goodbody who’s a friend of Timothy’s.’ Elizabeth Moonlight in a simple black angora dinner gown was escorting Bishop Wringle and his wife around the company assembled and sipping sherry in the comfortable drawing-room of the Dower House.
‘How d’you do, my dear,’ said the diminutive ecclesiastic in a high-pitched voice that both betrayed and nicely complemented his eighty years. He grasped Miss Goodbody’s hand in both of his, showing no inclination to release it again. ‘Staying at the vicarage, are you?’ He beamed approvingly at Trapp across the room.
‘No, Bishop,’ replied Thelma Goodbody, promptly to confirm – in particular to a bishop – that Trapp’s moral rectitude was above suspicion in at least one context. ‘I’m at The Jolly Boatman.’
‘What a waste,’ said Clarence Wringle, though it was not clear to the others whether this was a reproof to Trapp or a comment on the girl’s anatomy. Miss Goodbody looked crisp and becoming in a pink blouse, a wide black belt, and a long, dark green skirt.
‘And this is Mrs Wringle,’ went on the hostess firmly. The Bishop still held Miss Goodbody’s hand.
‘Call me Clara, please,’ protested the tall, stout lady in a solid baritone. ‘My turn to shake hands, Clarence,’ she boomed in her husband’s ear. The Bishop released his grip, gave his wife a pained look, and adjusted his hearing aid.
Although retired some ten years before, and after nearly half a century in the mission fields of Africa, neither the Bishop nor his wife looked spent. They were as oddly matched in appearance as they had been well suited in life. The tiny, bald prelate wore gaiters – a habit he affected on formal occasions in England even though he had never owned such distinguishing garments in all the time he had worked abroad; he found them warmer than trousers. His wife personified what a pillar of the church should be, morally by example, and physically by chance – though some thought by divine intent. She was draped in a floral silk gown of generous cut and uncertain vintage which added to its owner’s already regal air; this in turn served to give her gaitered consort the appearance of a superannuated page.
The Wringles had settled at Mitchell Stoke sentimentally because the Bishop had been born at the vicarage, and gratefully because the cottage they occupied had been leased to them on very generous terms by Arthur Moonlight.
‘Thelma is busy proving that Shakespeare put on As You Like It in our garden,’ said Elizabeth, who was determined that the subject of murder should not be the main topic of the evening.
‘We were wondering if you’d ever come across anything that might throw light on the subject, Bishop,’ volunteered Trapp.
‘I’m not as old as all that,’ replied Wringle with a high-pitched cackle, ‘but there are pointers, yes, there are pointers. Anything come out of those diaries, Arthur?’
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br /> ‘What diaries?’ questioned Trapp and Miss Goodbody simultaneously.
The Bishop put a hand to his mouth in mock dismay. ‘My dear Arthur, have I disclosed a secret?’
‘Not a secret exactly,’ Moonlight replied, and then, addressing the company in general, ‘Before we broke up the library when we moved here, I put aside some bound manuscripts that later turned out to be the diaries of Sarah Moonlight. Some years are missing but they cover roughly the period just before the Commonwealth, her time in exile – or some of it – and then from 1660 to the middle of ’65.’
‘Unique documents,’ observed Mrs Wringle solemnly.
‘Unique in the sense they’re original and unpublished, but there were a great many more observant diarists of the period. Someone in the family obviously considered they were worth preserving – the bindings are early nineteenth-century. Unfortunately, whoever it was forgot to have them titled, and in consequence they’d been sitting unnoticed in the library all through my lifetime, and I’d guess my father’s too.’
‘Arthur was good enough to let me peek at some of them,’ the Bishop interrupted. ‘Fascinating, fascinating … She was … er … quite a girl, as they say.’
‘She was no saint,’ said Moonlight bluntly, ‘and certainly unworthy of an apparently faithful and devoted husband.’
‘One of Charles the Second’s mistresses while he was abroad,’ said the Bishop with authority and evident glee. ‘Pepys said he had seventeen, though I’ve never been able to understand how he was able to be so specific about the number.’ He stared at the bottom of his empty sherry glass as though he expected illumination from that source.
‘And Charles was not the only one in receipt of her favours,’ continued Moonlight almost savagely, indicating that he, at least, was concerned for the honour of his Royalist ancestor. ‘That’s why the diaries are of so little historical use; they read more like a whore’s log-book.’
Unholy Writ Page 11
