‘The question still does remain,’ he said, addressing himself to Culpepper who all this time had retained his statue-like pose by the doorway, ‘what, in fact, were you going to do with the money?’
‘I think I ought to clear up something first,’ interjected Davenant. ‘Everyone’s entitled to have all the facts, don’t you think so, Superintendent? I’ve already told you that I was at Brookside Cottage that night. Oh yes. Gasp gasp all round. But I left shortly after seven when all was still well and made my way to dear old Hartley’s pad where we sat sipping his super whisky and talking of matters cultural until – when was it, Hartley, my love? – about half past ten?’
Damn! thought Pascoe. This is what he had been afraid of. He couldn’t understand Backhouse’s policy. Separation of suspects and witnesses was usually as essential to a case as separation of yolks and whites was to a soufflé. Now here was Davenant publicly inviting Culpepper to give him an alibi. Or reminding him of what they had agreed.
But Culpepper’s response could have brought little comfort to Davenant. He stared coldly, almost unseeingly, at him, turned and left the room. Marianne, with a quick perfect-hostess’s apologetic smile at the gathering, followed him.
‘Well now, Mr Davenant,’ said Backhouse. ‘I’m sure Mr Culpepper will be able to confirm your story when he’s feeling better. Or is there anyone else who can help us? Did Mrs Culpepper come home while you were there?’
‘No. No. Not exactly,’ said Davenant. ‘At least, I didn’t see her. For all I know, of course, she came in earlier, heard Hartley and me talking, decided not to interrupt and went up to her room. Now that’s a possibility of course. Oh yes, that’s a very distinct possibility.’
The cocky bastard! thought Pascoe. He’s inventing alibis publicly as he goes along and putting them on display for all to see. Marianne’s not here to hear it, of course. But her boyfriend is. And Davenant knows!
Slowly a picture was forming itself in Pascoe’s mind. It was not yet complete, but its main outlines were clear. And as he examined it and found its composition more and more balanced, the ball of rage in his breast began to swell and swell till it was ready to burst in black hatred.
Against Davenant.
Against Davenant who had turned up at Brookside Cottage on that fatal Friday night. Against Davenant who had sat and talked and drunk with Rose and Colin and Timmy and Carlo. Against Davenant who for reasons still not clear had taken up a shotgun and blasted Timmy and Carlo out of this world. Who had met Rose in the garden and left her lying by the sundial, bleeding to death. Who had pursued and murdered Colin and stuffed his body into a dark oozy culvert for the flies to discover.
Think logically, he commanded himself. Think! All right. Davenant knew Culpepper lived locally, had visited him before on his ‘fencing’ trips. Perhaps he did go to see him that night. Perhaps it was just a useful invention to have in the background in case it was ever needed. And it had been needed. Pressure was on him from all sides. From Yorkshire where Etherege’s little empire was crumbling. And down here where his car had been spotted in the area that Friday night.
So back he comes to Culpepper. He needs two things. An alibi and money. By threatening to reveal their business relationship – fence and receiver – he aims at getting both out of Culpepper. But Culpepper has no money. Borrow it, suggests Davenant. Who from? Why not try Pelman? says Davenant with a significant glance at Marianne. Yes, he would have dug up that bit of information pretty easily. And Pelman’s willing to play ball. Conscience? Fear of scandal? To protect Marianne? Who knows? A detail to be filled in later.
But Davenant’s plan was in jeopardy. The public revelation of Culpepper’s unemployment had thrown the man off balance. Perhaps that had been an element in the blackmail threat also? Certainly it had seemed to matter a great deal to Culpepper, relegating to second place his concern for the immediate future. Now was clearly the time to be talking to him while he was still off balance and before he recovered sufficiently to support Davenant’s story.
But Backhouse did not seem ready to make a move in that direction. He was talking to Pelman, Palfrey and Dixon, none of whom now seemed disposed to leave despite the casual reasons for their presence. The door opened and Marianne Culpepper came in. She looked worried.
‘He’s resting with his porcelain,’ she said to the unspoken question which met her. ‘He was a bit upset. He’s been trying desperately hard for months now to find a new post, but only jobs in selling, or factory accounts offices, that level of thing, were ever available.’
‘You could have helped, got a job yourself,’ said Pascoe sharply, stung by the tone of that level of thing.
Marianne looked at him wearily, dismissively.
‘Mr Pascoe,’ she said, ‘why don’t you piss off?’
The expression uttered in those smooth-vowelled tones, was surprising, almost shocking. And worse, Pascoe felt himself somehow justly reproved.
‘Perhaps you’d take Mr Davenant back into the study and see if you can get an ordered account of his movements from him,’ said Backhouse.
At last he’s woken to the danger, thought Pascoe. And off I’m sent to do the dirty work again.
‘Yes, sir,’ he said.
In the hall by the front door stood Ferguson, drinking a cup of coffee.
‘The old lady made it for me,’ he said defensively.
‘You bring out the mother in us all,’ said Pascoe. ‘Is he still in there?’
He jerked his head at the porcelain room. Ferguson nodded.
‘Good. In here please, Mr Davenant.’
‘Do you ever get a feeling of déja vu?’ asked Davenant as he entered the study once more. ‘As the bishop said in the strip-club.’
‘Let’s cut the comics,’ said Pascoe, closing the door. ‘And you can drop the queer act too.’
‘Don’t you love me any more?’ asked Davenant advancing coyly, hips wiggling, arms stretched out appealingly.
Pascoe poked him in the stomach, not hard, but hard enough to double him up and send him crashing into a chair.
‘Jesus Christ!’ gasped Davenant, holding his arms across his waist. ‘So it really happens! The rubber truncheon bit. I never believed it.’
‘I’m glad we had you fooled. Are you sitting comfortably? Then let’s begin.’
‘What the hell do you want?’ asked Davenant, eyeing the door speculatively. Pascoe was interested to note that his accent and style of speech had changed completely. The long drawn vowels and rising rhythms were gone. What remained was flat, almost monotonous, with a touch of the north in it.
‘How long have you been a fence?’ asked Pascoe, ready for denial and wondering what he would do when it came.
‘About ten years. Six on a regular basis. I started shortly after I accepted my first bribe for mentioning someone’s stinking restaurant in a piece I was doing. You must have noticed how one thing leads to another crime.’
‘You’re being very frank,’ said Pascoe, slightly taken aback.
‘Look, sonny, you’re a frightening man. I reckon you’ve flipped just a bit because of this business. But not so much that you’d beat me up in front of witnesses. I don’t like being beaten up anywhere, so I’ll talk to you. But like your beatings, not in front of witnesses.’
‘How old are you?’ asked Pascoe.
‘Forty-three.’
‘You look younger.’
‘Thank you kindly,’ said Davenant, relapsing momentarily into his old manner. ‘It’s marvellous what fiction and false hair will do for you. Truth is dead.’
But now as Pascoe looked at him he no longer saw the fashionable ageless swinger, cynical and sophisticated, but a middle-aged man dressed up for a costume-party he no longer wants to attend, with lines of worry running from the eyes and the mouth to complement the deeper furrows of age on the brow.
A frightened man. Pascoe knew from observation how easy it was for a frightened man to kill. Just as he knew from experience how easy it was for an angr
y policeman to strike. He clenched his fists in his jacket pockets and tried to keep his voice calm as he asked, ‘Why did you kill them?’
‘For God’s sake!’ said Davenant. ‘What a stupid question!’
‘You mean the answer’s obvious!’
‘No! Yes. Yes, it’s obvious. I didn’t. I’ve told you the truth. I was there. I went on business; you don’t like that, do you? I left at seven. I went to Culpepper’s. When I left there I went straight back to Oxford.’
‘You’re a liar,’ said Pascoe, taking a step forward.
Davenant leapt up in fear, his chair shot backwards and overturned. The door opened and Ferguson’s head appeared.
‘You all right, sir?’
‘Yes. Listen, Davenant, you think you’ve got an alibi, don’t you? Well, we’ll see about that. Nobody’s said a thing yet that supports your story. I don’t think they are going to. Ferguson, stay here and watch him. Don’t be taken in by the whipped poodle expression. The beast is dangerous.’
He turned and left the study, the fury in him burning high now. Culpepper was the key. Without his supporting story, Davenant was done. The group in the lounge seemed to be still in session, which was good. He was better with Backhouse out of the way.
In the porcelain room Culpepper stood between the two huge pseudo-Chinese vases with his back to the door. Lights were on in all the display niches and the pieces of his collection tranquilly radiated their cold beauty.
‘Why not sell them?’ asked Pascoe. ‘That would tide you over for a bit.’
‘What? Oh, Mr Pascoe. Yes, I suppose it would, I suppose it would.’
The words expressed agreement but the tone was the kind used when agreeing with an importunate child.
‘What were you going to do with the money Pelman brought?’
‘That? But you know that already. It was for Davenant.’
This was better than he could have hoped for. He thought of stepping out and fetching Backhouse, but was afraid of breaking the atmosphere.
‘He was blackmailing you.’
‘In a way.’
‘Because some of your collection had come through him?’
‘In a way.’
‘What else did he want from you?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Did he ask you to do anything else? Was he really here that Friday night?’
‘Oh yes, he was here.’
‘And what time did he leave?’
‘I forget.’
‘Come on, Mr Culpepper! He says he was here till after ten. What do you say? Is that true?’
‘Oh no. He definitely left before half past eight.’
Pascoe let out a long sigh of relief. His hunch had been right. Culpepper was in no mood at the moment to play alibis. He might be sorry later, but later would be too late.
‘Thank you, Mr Culpepper,’ he said, turning away. Behind him was old Mrs Culpepper.
‘You going?’ she said.
‘Yes. We won’t bother you much longer.’
‘Oh aye.’ She shook her head, whether in negation or to clear it was not certain.
‘Hold on a moment,’ she said, stepping into the room.
Pascoe watched, impatient to get back to Davenant to present Backhouse with his killer, to go home. Slowly the old woman moved forward and stood behind her son.
‘Yes, Mother,’ he said.
‘The clever policemman’s going, Hartley. Don’t you want to talk to him?’
She said nothing more but stood in silence looking at her son’s unyielding back. Then she did something amazing. She turned and threw all her old weight at one of the Chinese vases. Pascoe leapt forward to catch it as it toppled off its plinth but he was too late.
It hit the ground and exploded into green and blue and white shards. Something lay among them like a gift in a child’s chocolate Easter egg.
A shotgun.
Pascoe moved fast, but the old woman was in the way and the shotgun was in Culpepper’s hands before he could get by her.
‘I’m sorry, son,’ said the old woman. ‘I waited long enough, too long perhaps. You should have told him yourself.’
Pascoe’s mind was spinning. There was no room for fear there, or at least only for the fear that he might never hear the truth.
‘Why?’ he cried. ‘But why?’
‘Your friend was going to tell everybody,’ said Culpepper, his face twisted in a plea for understanding. ‘He had no right. You understand that? And I didn’t realize that everybody knew already. But I never meant … but I never meant …’
In the lounge they heard the almost simultaneous double blasts of the shotgun. For a second no one moved. Then they poured into the hallway and gazed with varying degrees of incomprehension at the scene before them.
Pascoe, old Mrs Culpepper and her son were standing in the porcelain room looking at the damage the double blast from the gun which still smoked in Hartley’s hands had wreaked on his collection.
Some of the pieces were still untouched. Now Culpepper stepped forward and smashed these with the gunbarrel. Satisfied at last, he dropped the weapon and came out into the hall where he stood and gazed unemotionally at his wife who was sobbing rhythmically in Sam Dixon’s arms.
Dixon? wondered Pascoe, surprised at nothing now.
The study door opened and Davenant and Ferguson stepped out.
Davenant looked into the porcelain room and shook his head at the shambles. Then he turned to Pascoe.
‘Pity,’ he said. ‘I hoped he’d blown your bloody head off.’
Chapter 11
Statement of Antony Neville Dick made at Thornton Lacey Police Station, Oxfordshire, in the presence of Detective Superintendent D. S. Backhouse.
I am a free-lance feature writer, working under the name of Anton Davenant. The nature of my work has brought me in close contact with many people connected with art and antiquities and I have from time to time acted as an agent for dealers. At no time have I had reason to suspect that any dealer I worked for did not have full title to the goods I handled.
‘Can he get away with this?’ asked Pascoe, almost in admiration.
‘We can only hope you do a better job of work in Yorkshire than you’ve managed down here,’ said Backhouse.
On Friday September 17th at about seven P.M. I called at Brookside Cottage, Thornton Lacey. My purpose was partly social as I knew the owners, Mr and Mrs Colin Hopkins, and partly business. Mr Timothy Mansfield, a house-guest, had brought with him a figurine which I had agreed to pick up from him and show to a local collector, Mr Hartley Culpepper.
‘Is there anything other than Davenant’s assertion to tie Timmy in with this business?’ asked Pascoe.
‘Circumstantial stuff only.’
‘But you believe it?’
‘It seems probable, that’s all.’
‘And the others?’
‘Customers, perhaps. A couple of things went missing from the cottage at the time of the fire. I suspect Davenant picked them up just to get any evidence out of harm’s way.’
‘He started the fire?’
‘Left a gas tap on, I believe. Eventually the pilot light ignited it. But it’s all beyond proof.’
I had dealt with Mr Culpepper before. Indeed he owed me almost four thousand pounds from a previous business deal, so I was naturally concerned when his name was mentioned in connection with the book Mr Hopkins was working on. Its theme was poverty in the affluent society and it was concerned not so much with breadline poverty as with credit living, conspicuous waste, executive unemployment, that kind of thing. Mr Hopkins had gained access to information from one of the big executive employment agencies and had noticed the name of his new neighbour there. He was intrigued to find that Culpepper was still maintaining the pretence that he was employed by the Nordrill Company and he had hopes of ultimately getting the man’s co-operation in using his experience as material for the book, though no approach had yet been made.
Shortly after seven-thirty I
left Brookside Cottage and called at the Culpepper’s house. He expressed an interest in the figurine but said he had not sufficient cash on hand to pay for it and asked me to add it to the price of his previous debt. In view of the information I had just received, I refused and told him why. He denied it at first, then became very angry and demanded to know how I had found out. I told him about Hopkins’s book and suggested it might be worth his while financially to co-operate with Hopkins, and even offered to act as his agent should he decide to dispose of his porcelain collection. At this he became so incensed that I left and returned to Oxford.
‘And that is all we are going to get out of Master Davenant, I fear,’ said Backhouse.
‘And Culpepper?’
‘A long and rambling statement swinging between self-justification and recrimination. I don’t think you’d care to read it.’
‘No.’
‘It’s pretty clear what happened. He went down to Brookside to protest to Hopkins. Mrs Hopkins had just gone off to the pub. He and Hopkins had a row in the dining-room. Your friend was quite drunk, of course, and perhaps did not realize just what this business meant to Culpepper.’
‘What did it mean?’ asked Pascoe.
‘It meant the shattering of a self-image as well as a public one,’ said Backhouse slowly. ‘He came from a poor background, you know. Achieving the position he had done was his life’s work. More. His life perhaps. Suddenly Hopkins must have seemed the focus of everything that threatened him. He picked up the nearest suitable object, which happened to be the shotgun your friend had borrowed from Pelman, and struck him on the head with it. Half unconscious, Hopkins staggered through the french window into the garden. The other two now came through the lounge to investigate. He brought the gun up and pressed both triggers. At that range you don’t have to be any kind of gunman.’
‘And Colin?’
‘Hears the gun and sets off down the garden into the stream bed, follows the flow of water. He’s on the point of collapse, remember. Culpepper’s only made more furious by what he’s done. Hopkins made him do it – that’s the way he’s thinking. There’s a box of cartridges on the sideboard. He reloads it, sets out after Hopkins. Unfortunately, Mrs Hopkins arrives home at this point and comes round the back of the house to re-enter through the french window. Nothing is going to stop Culpepper now. He shoots her down without a thought and goes after Hopkins. He catches up with him by the culvert.’
Ruling Passion Page 26
