‘The Old Oast-house? Oh yes, it’s just as his sister left it when she died last year. Chock-a-block with wartime souvenirs and relics – you’d probably find enough to get him cashiered retrospectively. Key at the Post Office Stores – say I sent you. I shall want your bank details – drop back to the vicarage for a sherry.’
‘Will do. Though I think, Charters, we ought to find Margaret first. I’m getting rather worried.’
‘Never fear, Caldicott. Mrs Mottram will find us – at the first chink of the vicar’s decanter.’
Charters and Caldicott collected the key from the village shop but it turned out to be unnecessary. The Old Oasthouse was unlocked. ’That’s of no particular significance,’ said Charters, a rural resident himself. ‘Country folk are very lax in these matters.’
In spite of this reassurance, Caldicott pushed open the front door very slowly. His caution was justified. Someone had been there before them and ransacked the place. Papers were scattered everywhere, drawers had been pulled out and emptied, regimental paraphernalia and German souvenirs examined and discarded, furniture overturned and pictures torn from the walls.
‘Very lax,’ said Caldicott.
‘Yes, well we know who’s been here, do we not?’
‘Fortunately we also know that she hasn’t found what she’s looking for,’ said Caldicott, wandering round straightening ornaments and picking up papers from the floor. ‘Though what use Jock’s will would be to her, now that we know she isn’t the real Jenny Beevers, I can’t readily fathom.’
‘But do we know it, Caldicott?’
‘We’ve proved it, old boy. Why do you think she fled? Because the real Jenny Beevers must have recognised her own father’s ex-mistress-cum-secretary.’
‘Who’s to say she didn’t recognise her – and murder her?’
Caldicott turned this possibility over in his mind. ‘All right – then why should she go through the charade of swopping places with her, when simply by coming forward as herself, she could have inherited a fortune?’
‘Ah, but you see she doesn’t stand to inherit a fortune, unless the later will is destroyed. I’ll tell you why she changed places with Helen Appleyard, Caldicott. She hoped to keep the dead girl’s husband, Gregory, in the dark long enough for her to unearth the will unmolested. Easy enough then to resuscitate herself and claim the inheritance.’
‘Not so easy if she really did murder Helen Appleyard.’
‘Then perhaps she didn’t.’
‘But you just said she did.’
‘Only on the assumption that she is, after all, the real Jenny Beevers.’
‘But according to you, old chap, she is the real Jenny Beevers.’
Charters glowered. ‘I said she could be. If you’ve any more plausible theory, Caldicott, I should be delighted to hear it.’
‘I’ve no theory, Charters.’
‘Very well then.’
‘I’m as foxed as you are.’
‘I’m not foxed, Caldicott. I’ve just produced as rational an explanation of this entire case as you’re likely to hear. If it seems to you flawed, I apologise.’
Such furniture as remained upright was covered in dustsheets. Huffily Charters plumped himself down in a swathed armchair. Dust swirled upwards and settled gently over him. Caldicott sat in another chair and maintained a brief, sulky silence.
‘I say, Charters,’ said Caldicott, who had been brooding.
‘What is it, Caldicott?’
‘Jock’s letter. You might let me see it.’ Charters handed it over silently and Caldicott glanced through it. ‘This is an odd sort of rigmarole, isn’t it?’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Charters stiffly.
‘But it is odd, Charters. All this stuff about school cricket.’
‘Seems perfectly straightforward to me.’
‘But what he says about half last year’s averages being wrong – he can’t be serious.’
‘Never more so,’ said Charters, relenting slightly. ‘The record as set forth in Wisden doesn’t reconcile with the analysis in the school year-book. He wishes us to correct the error. What’s so extraordinary about that?’
‘Wisden wrong? It’s unheard of!’ said Caldicott, scandalised.
‘It’s not Wisden that’s wrong, Caldicott, it’s the school year-book.’
‘Oh, I see.’
‘They’ll have to send out gummed errata slips.’
‘It is rather a mish-mash, isn’t it? “For R.H.L. Johnson as captain, read N. Orton, whose innings figure should be the same as Larkin’s – Boyd-Mason’s average should be reversed with that of T.P. Cowling,”… wonder if he’s the grandson of Four-eyes Cowling?’
‘Highly unlikely – unless there’s a cricketing strain on the boy’s grandmother’s side.’
‘“A.N.D. Weston’s bowling average of 17.43 has been omitted altogether, and the number of runs scored off L.G. Palmer’s bowling should be one hundred less than the total given.”’ Caldicott looked up. ‘There’s something wrong here, Charters.’
‘There’s a great deal wrong, Caldicott! I’ve never come across such slapdashery.’
‘I wasn’t talking about that. Johnson did stand down as captain, having smashed his wrist, but the chap who took over wasn’t called Orton or anything like it.’
‘You’re right, Caldicott,’ said Charters, beginning to take an interest at last. ‘Name of a racecourse, that was it. Ascot.’
‘Braintree. As for this fellow with the 17.43 bowling average – I’ll swear there was no one of that name in last year’s team.’
‘Yes – who was that again?’
‘Weston A.N.D.’
‘Orton and Weston,’ said Charters thoughtfully. ‘They sound like a couple of wireless comedians.’
‘Are you sure they weren’t? Their names positively don’t appear on the school fixtures list, yet there’s something familiar about them. Orton and Weston.’
Charters was beginning to see light. ‘N. Orton, A.N.D. Weston – Norton and Weston. Norton and West!’
‘That lemonade factory in Oldham we keep hearing about!’
‘Caldicott, this is another of Jock Beevers’ teasers. That letter is in code – give it here!’ Charters reached over and snatched it from him.
‘Really, Charters, you might give a fellow a chance,’ Caldicott began indignantly. Suddenly Charters froze, put a finger to his lips and pointed. In the gap under the front door they could see something moving. Charters tiptoed across and threw the door wide. Cecil St Clair stood there, holding a gun. He took a final bite out of an apple and tossed the core into the garden.
‘By the way, I am quite an authority on codes. Allow me,’ said St Clair, reaching forward and taking the Letter.
Charters put his hands up and retreated before the gun.
‘Now I am very surprised at you, gentlemen, to have left your old friend’s home in such a state. It is not very nice, you know.’
‘Do you dare suggest we’re responsible for this, St Clair? More your line of country, I’d have thought,’ said Charters.
‘No. I should have been tidier.’
‘How did you find this place, St Clair, and what do you want here?’ Caldicott demanded, refusing to be intimidated by the gun.
‘It is not difficult to trace the addresses of prominent persons, you know. I recommend a volume called Who’s Who. As to why I am here, I think you know very well we are looking for the same thing. The crock of gold.’
‘Then you’re out of luck, old chum. This isn’t the end of the rainbow either.’
‘As to that, I believe you are wrong.’ He produced a flashy, crocodile-skin pocket-book and tucked the letter inside it. ‘Can you follow the instructions in this letter?’
‘No. It’s complete double Dutch,’ said Charters defiantly.
‘Permit me to say I don’t believe you.’
‘Then you’ll have to do the other thing, won’t you,’ said Caldicott.
‘Have you ever bee
n shot in the kneecap, Mr Caldicott? It is a very painful experience, by the way. However, let me go on to say that for me, violence is the method of last resort. I make a proposal. Co-operate with me fully and we’ll split the gold fifty-fifty.’
Charters snorted. ‘You don’t really believe that El Dorado tale about a sunken U-boat, do you, St Clair?’
‘I say, careless talk, old chap,’ said Caldicott. ‘He may have less gen on the subject than he pretends.’
‘The submarine was the City of Hamburg. Her commander was Captain Kühlner. The cargo was gold bullion worth perhaps twenty millions of pounds at present values, destined for South America,’ St Clair recited wearily. ‘Hamburg was intercepted by a United States anti-submarine patrol on 12th of April 1945, escaped but was badly damaged and later scuttled. Her crew was picked up by the Americans. Captain Kühlner was repatriated at the end of the war but subsequently arrested for illegally possessing a gold ingot.’
Caldicott still wasn’t convinced. ‘If you know so much about the saga, why don’t you know where the U-boat is sunk?’
‘My dear Caldicott, until only recently nobody knew where the U-boat is sunk. Captain Kühlner is dead. Colonel Beevers and Colonel Pokrovski had only half the information each.’
‘How is that possible?’ Charters asked.
‘That is how the bargain was made. In exchange for Kühlner’s freedom, Beevers should have the longitudinal bearing and Pokrovski the latitudinal, so that neither could trace the gold without the other. They made the arrangement that when they should have enough money to finance a dredging operation they should put their two pieces of information together – don’t you know, like the two halves of a banknote. But then, you see, Colonel Pokrovski suddenly relinquished his half to Colonel Beevers.’
‘Why?’ Caldicott asked.
‘Shall we say, he was persuaded.’
‘By whom?’
‘By whom do you think, Caldicott?’ said Charters, his eye on the gun. ‘I believe now I know who you are, St Clair, as you style yourself. I shall be very surprised if you’re not the son of Captain Kühlner.’
‘But you see you are wrong. I am the son of Colonel Pokrovski.’
‘Nice try, Charters,’ Caldicott smirked.
‘Near enough, I thought.’
‘You see, I used to do some buying and selling in Moscow, of a kind that was not quite legal,’ St Clair continued.
‘Black market,’ said Charters.
‘I was about to be arrested, and you know, I would certainly have been executed. That was not very nice. And so we explained the problem to Colonel Beevers who smuggled me out of the country.’
‘And your old dad coughed up his half of the secret,’ said Caldicott. ‘Did you kill Colonel Beevers?’
‘Why should I do that when he alone knew where to find the golden submarine? No, on the contrary – I hoped he would live into his dotage and then spill the beans. I am afraid I was rather a nuisance to him.’
‘Pestered him, I suppose – and after he’d saved your miserable life,’ said Caldicott contemptuously.
‘I wanted and still want no more than the Pokrovski half of the gold. I have searched high and low for his document, which I knew must exist – I aril most grateful to you.’ St Clair put his pocket book with Jock’s letter down on a table.
‘Now I shall ask you to perform one more service and decipher the code.’
‘Do it yourself, St Clair,’ said Charters.
‘If necessary I shall, but you can save me hours of labour. By the way, I can be very persuasive. Which knee, Mr Caldicott?’ St Clair pointed the gun at him. ‘You see, I give you a choice.’
The front door was flung open and Margaret dashed in. Oblivious of St Clair, she burst out, ‘The little bitch gave me the slip but I’ve got a nice offer of a pre-lunch sherry from…’ She took in the full cast and stopped as suddenly as she’d started.
‘By the way, you are only just in time, Mrs Mottram. The floor show is about to commence,’ said St Clair, turning towards here. ‘If you would sit…’
St Clair’s attention had been momentarily distracted by Margaret’s entrance. Charters saw his chance, raised his stick and brought it crashing down on St Clair’s outstretched arm. ‘Get the letter, Charters,’ Caldicott shouted, grabbing the gun as it fell at his feet. But before Charters could reach it, St Clair seized it, leaped behind Margaret and took hold of her arms.
‘Shoot by all means, my dear Caldicott,’ said St Clair, retreating to the door with Margaret as a shield. In the doorway he let her go and ran for it.
‘There goes our murderer, Caldicott,’ said Charters as they watched the fleeing figure from the front door.
‘Time to put Inspector Snow in the picture, I think. Margaret, where would you say the nearest phone is?’
‘The same place as the free sherry.’
‘Hello, what’s to do?’ said Charters as they passed by the churchyard on their way to the vicarage. A cluster of villagers had gathered at one end and seemed to be staring down into an open grave.
‘Mothers’ Union meeting breaking up, I shouldn’t wonder,’ said Caldicott.
The Reverend Adam Lamb detached himself from the group and hurried down the path towards them. ‘Ah, Vicar, we were just on our way to see you,’ said Charters. ‘I wonder if we could use your phone.’
‘Sorry. I should think the line’s going to be busy for some considerable time,’ said Lamb and continued on his way.
Puzzled, the three moved closer to the source of interest.
They found themselves staring down at the body of St Clair, blood still oozing from his back where he’d been stabbed. His empty crocodile-skin pocket-book lay discarded on a pile of earth. Charters and Caldicott slowly removed their hats.
‘Any more theories, old chap?’ said Caldicott.
CHAPTER 13
In the Club library, silence was broken only by an occasional gentle snore. Charters dozed fitfully in one armchair; Caldicott was fast asleep in another. Before weariness had overcome them, they had been trying, with the aid of memory and Wisden’s Cricketer’s Almanack, to crack Jock Beevers’ code. But a substantial lunch, followed by generous brandies and fat cigars, had been their undoing.
Caldicott surfaced first, yawned and picked up Wisden, his notebook and a fountain pen from a table at his elbow. ‘I’ll tell you what, Charters.’ Charters stirred and grunted. ‘We might get on better with the school year-book.’
‘What?’ Charters mumbled.
‘School year-book. Which Jock’s letter claimed didn’t reconcile with Wisden.’
Charters woke up properly. ‘Yes, but Jock’s letter also mentioned one N. Orton as substitute captain – when, as we’ve confirmed from Wisden, the captain was Lingfield.’
‘Braintree.’
‘Plus the non-existent bowling average of the non-existent A.N.D. Weston. All he was doing, in his Jock-like elaborate way, was drawing our attention to that wretched lemonade factory.’
‘Norton and West – I know that, Charters. But what about all that other stuff about so-and-so’s innings total and suchand-such’s batting average? What else was he trying to tell us?’
‘Obviously the figures, if we could remember them, form a cipher.’
‘One equals A, two equals B?’
‘Nothing as simple as that, knowing Jock. If we still had the letter that would help.’ Charters picked up his copy of The Times and went back to the crossword, prepared to wash his hands of Jock’s games.
‘So should the school year-book. Otherwise why mention it? If Jock wanted us to fiddle about with the batting averages to decode his message, why didn’t he just say it was Wisden that was wrong?’
Charters’ pen halted in mid-clue. ‘Because that would have been an absurdity, old man. Wisden is never wrong.’
‘Then he must want us to refer to the school year-book.’
‘Very well. Do you have a copy?’
”Fraid not. It only goes to over
seas old boys these days, unless one specifically applies for it.’
‘Which you failed to do.’
‘What about you?’
‘No – I was never sent a reminder. Yes, Barstow?’
The Club porter tiptoed over and whispered into Charters’ ear the unwelcome news that Inspector Snow was once again on the premises and asking to see them. Charters looked pained. A few minutes later, Charters and Caldicott exited, with furtive speed, via the area steps and the tradesmen’s entrance.
‘Did you observe the state of that still-room, Caldicott?’ said Charters as they scuttled away down the street to the sound of the siren on Snow’s departing car. ‘I shall write to the kitchen committee.’
‘I shouldn’t do that, old boy. They’ll want to know what we were doing below stairs.’
‘You really think this is wise, Caldicott?’ Charters asked, as they bounced through the London suburbs, crouched in the back of a very small minicab. They had decided to track the school year-book to its source, experience of the inspector’s investigative techniques encouraging them to combine prudence with research.
‘We could go by train if you prefer, but I warn you it means changing at Bletchley.’
‘I was referring to our avoiding friend Snow in this fashion. We’ve got to face him sooner or later.’
‘But preferably later rather than sooner. When we’ve unravelled Jock’s latest brain-teaser.’
‘You were all for facing the music earlier, until St Clair was found dead.’
Caldicott glanced warningly at the driver and murmured, ‘I say – pas devant le domestique.’
‘Oh, that’s all right. They barely speak English, these minicab drivers. Famous for it.’
‘Yes, I was forgetting that.’
‘There’s something else you’re forgetting, Caldicott. Now that we’re in a position to name the murderer, we have a duty to do so.’
‘You mean the girl who’s been calling herself Jenny?’
‘I’m now convinced that she’s the real Jenny.’
‘Then I’m even more convinced that she didn’t do it, old man. Jenny is after the will – so that she can destroy it and inherit from the previous will. Agreed?’
Charters and Caldicott Page 14
