He pulled his notebook out of his pocket. ‘I copied down the inscriptions from the chantry flagstones, as you know. There’s frequent references to My son in those inscriptions. I think Lythewell wanted his son, Daniel, to have the treasure and so hid it from the gang to keep it safe.’
Bill looked at him quizzically. ‘Which is all very interesting, Jack, but hardly helps with trying to decide if there’s enough proof to proceed against Mr Askern for bigamy.’
‘No, but I was wondering if there was another crime hidden in Mr Askern’s ramblings. Do you remember what he said? I did it for Carlotta. She never knew what I’d done, and so on?’
‘I can’t say I do, but he’s certainly said words to that effect since. Goodness knows what he’s talking about.’
‘Can’t you guess?’ asked Jack quietly.
Bill put his hands wide. ‘Search me. I tell you, the man’s got a bottle of whisky beside him and he seems half-seas over most of the time. I haven’t a clue what he’s going on about.’
Jack sat upright and put his pipe and glass on the table with a sharp click. ‘Okay, let me tell you what I’ve got in mind.’ He leaned forward and ticked the points off on his fingers. ‘Point one. Old Lythewell, as we now know, had money. How much money is anyone’s guess but let’s say it was a lot. It sounds as if it was a lot. Point two. In order to keep the money out of the hands of his former gang, he hid it. Point three. He hid it, so it’s believed, in the chantry.’
‘So what?’
‘Where, Bill, it could be discovered and stolen, yes?’
‘I suppose so, if anyone knew where it was,’ said Bill with a shrug. ‘We didn’t get a sniff of it and you can’t say we didn’t look. You can’t tell me Mr Askern discovered and stole it. I told you, he’s never been well off and, what’s more, before he married Daphne Banks, as she was then, in 1921, he was even less well off.’
‘Agreed.’
‘Besides that, if John Askern did find the treasure, old Lythewell would kick up a dickens of a fuss about it. He wouldn’t just calmly sit back and let his young assistant, as John Askern was then, walk off with the loot.’
‘Exactly,’ said Jack with a grin. ‘Unless – and this is point four – what happened?’
Bill looked at him blankly. ‘Unless old Mr Lythewell was dead.’
‘Exactly,’ repeated Jack. ‘And, to quote Mr Askern once more, I did it for Carlotta. She never knew what I’d done. Doesn’t that sound like a guilty conscience to you?’
Bill gaped at him. ‘Hold on. A guilty conscience? Are you telling me you suspect John Askern of murder?’
Jack nodded. ‘Of murdering old Mr Lythewell, yes.’
Bill shook his head and gave a dismissive laugh. ‘Come off it, Jack. You haven’t got a shred of proof. Old Mr Lythewell could’ve died of anything. Heart disease or TB or pneumonia or something.’
‘That’s what I thought,’ said Jack. ‘So I paid a visit to the Newspaper Library and looked up Josiah Lythewell’s obituary. He made it into The Times, you know. He died as a result of a fall down the stairs.’
Bill hesitated, then picked up his glass. ‘That’s interesting,’ he said slowly. ‘Where was John Askern when old Lythewell died? I don’t suppose that was in The Times was it?’
‘No, but there was a very full account in the local paper, The Whimbrell Heath and Broomwater Intelligencer. Josiah Lythewell’s body was discovered by none other than our old pal, Henry Cadwallader, but John Askern was in the house all right. It said as much in the local paper.’
‘That’s very interesting, but it doesn’t prove anything.’
‘No, but it could explain things. Look at it this way. I think John Askern was driven nearly demented by Carlotta Bianchi. She would come back to him, so he thought, if he had money. That’s a pretty powerful motive. What’s more, it makes sense of John Askern’s ramblings, doesn’t it? He’s knows he’s guilty, but he doesn’t really think he’s guilty of bigamy. What he knows he’s guilty of is murder; a totally pointless murder, carried out in desperation to allow him to get his hands on Lythewell’s treasure. He believed in that treasure. Virtually no one else did. Two dead crooks did and Henry Cadwallader does, but who’d listen to Henry Cadwallader? Daniel Lythewell can return from New York, inherit his father’s estate, and John Askern can hang on to the loot without anyone being any the wiser.’
‘So why isn’t John Askern rich?’ demanded Bill.
‘It’s obvious, isn’t it?’ said Jack, picking up his pipe once more. ‘He didn’t find the treasure, any more than we did.’ He looked at his friend’s expression and smiled. ‘C’mon, Bill. Stop being so cautious. I can’t prove anything but it does make sense.’
Bill took a deep breath and sat back in his chair. ‘You’re right,’ he said eventually. ‘It does make sense. I’ve just been going over in my mind what John Askern’s actually said to me and yes, it makes sense.’ He relapsed into thought once more. ‘I’m not sure what to do, and that’s a fact. I can hardly charge John Askern with a crime no one suspected and, granted how long ago it was, can’t even prove happened. In fact,’ he added, with a cynical smile, ‘this bigamy business is a relief. At least we know that has happened, unlike Signora Bianchi’s murder and your idea about Josiah Lythewell’s untimely end. What do you want me to do about it?’
‘Keep it in mind,’ said Jack, relighting his pipe. ‘I know there isn’t any proof and, I agree, after all this time I doubt if there ever will be any, but as long as you’ve got it in mind, it might help you to piece together what John Askern’s talking about. You could just try asking him,’ he added brightly.
‘Not unless I want to be accused of bullying a suspect,’ said Bill. ‘There are rules.’ He sipped his whisky broodingly. ‘I’ll tell you something that unsettles me, though,’ he added after a time. ‘A man who’s committed a murder and got away with it, a man who has, to all intents and purposes, gone on to lead a successful life – I’d say that man was dangerous. You think Joan McAllister was murdered in Signora Bianchi’s cottage, don’t you?’
‘I think it’s possible,’ said Jack.
Bill grinned. ‘Now who’s being cautious?’
‘All right, I think it’s more than possible. I think it’s likely.’
‘And John Askern knew Signora Bianchi was away and therefore her cottage would be untenanted.’
Bill finished his whisky, got up from his chair and, going over to the sideboard, poured himself another drink. ‘I’ve been after him for bigamy,’ he said. ‘You think he could’ve bumped off Josiah Lythewell. However, we know – really know – that something untoward happened in Signora Bianchi’s cottage that night and both of us think it’s murder. John Askern was there when Joan McAllister fainted outside the exhibition. You think that’s because she recognised someone. I wonder if it was John Askern. He’s clearly guilty of something. He’s told me that, if he’s told me nothing else. I’m beginning to wonder if there’s a much more recent murder than that of Josiah Lythewell’s on his conscience and I’ve been asking him the wrong questions.’
Jack looked at Bill. His friend was suddenly grimly determined. ‘So what are you going to do, Bill?’
‘In the first instance, have a word with Sir Douglas. And then, perhaps, start asking the right questions.’
Three days later Colin Askern called into Scotland Yard to see Bill Rackham. ‘I want this police persecution of my father to stop,’ he said without preamble. ‘For heaven’s sake, it’s driving him mad.’
Colin Askern’s handsome face was so strained, he obviously wasn’t the only member of the Askern family feeling the pressure.
‘I’d hardly call it persecution,’ said Bill. ‘When I’ve called in to ask him a few questions, you’ve been present, his solicitor was there on one occasion, and yesterday Mr Lythewell turned up.’
‘But damnit, Rackham, what are you looking for? You know as well as I do there was nothing in that stupid story of Betty’s. My mother’s alive, for heaven’
s sake.’
‘There is the question of bigamy,’ said Bill, ignoring Colin Askern’s snort of disbelief.
‘But that’s nonsense! I asked the solicitor and he explained how the law stood. When he married my stepmother, Dad thought my mother was dead.’
‘Did he? After all, your mother knew exactly where your father was living. She obviously knew he wasn’t dead.’
‘That doesn’t prove my father knew she was alive. Askern’s not a common name and my father hasn’t been in hiding. I didn’t know my mother was alive until she turned up in Whimbrell Heath.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Certain.’ Colin Askern met his gaze squarely, then his mouth quivered and he buried his face in his hands. ‘Just leave us alone, will you? Ever since Betty came to you with that fanciful tale, you’ve been determined to prove there’s been a murder. When it became obvious my mother wasn’t the victim, you’ve been trying to prove some unknown woman was murdered instead. For some extraordinary reason of her own, Betty believes it’s that woman who keeled over outside the art exhibition. We’ve all tried to reason with her, but she just won’t have it. Can’t you see what this is doing to my father? It’s as if you think he might be a murderer.’
Bill said nothing.
‘This is ridiculous!’ Colin broke out. ‘If my father was going to murder anyone, he’d have murdered my mother, not a complete stranger. You know he didn’t murder my mother, but at least you can see there’d be a reason for it. But this? This is complete and utter nonsense from beginning to end. I’ve told Betty so, but I don’t know what’s got into her recently.’
Bill traced an abstract pattern on the desk with his forefinger. ‘Can you think of any reason why Miss Wingate should make up such a story?’
‘God knows,’ said Colin, with another snort of impatience. ‘I’m not a psychologist but I’m beginning to think she needs one. I used to think Betty was a nice, straightforward girl. I used to feel sorry for her, for Pete’s sake! I don’t feel sorry for her any longer. She’s either subject to nightmares or she’s looking for attention.’ He gave a little shiver. ‘To be honest, it scares me a little, she’s so determined. She … well, she can’t have had such an easy time of it with Mrs Lythewell. I don’t know. Maybe she really does just want attention.’
Bill thought of Betty Wingate. She must be having a hard time at home. ‘We did find evidence that there’d been a crime.’
Colin Askern made a dismissive noise. ‘So Betty says, but I’d like to know exactly what evidence there was. I don’t see how there can be any.’ Bill was aware that Askern was watching him very closely. ‘There isn’t any real evidence, is there?’ said Askern acutely. ‘None that Betty couldn’t have put there herself.’
Although Bill could’ve sworn his expression had given nothing away, Askern smacked his fist down on the desk in triumph. ‘I knew it!’ He pushed his chair back and, standing up, rubbed his tired eyes with his hand. ‘Look, when I said I felt sorry for Betty, I meant it. She’s had a rotten run of luck and it can’t be easy, living at her Aunt Maud’s beck and call. It wouldn’t be surprising if it did drive her mental. Maybe she really does need a psychologist. I could understand that, but what I can’t understand is why my father’s being hounded. I want it to stop.’
Bill put his head to one side. ‘I don’t think you’re in a position to tell me what to do.’
Askern drew a deep breath. ‘Maybe not. But I’ll tell you this. Betty didn’t understand the true facts about the relationship between my mother and myself. I hardly like to say as much, but she thought there was an affair of sorts going on.’
‘Almost everyone did think that, as far as I can make out,’ said Bill dryly.
Askern had the grace to look abashed. ‘All right, but I’d told Betty there was nothing to worry about. If the silly girl had only taken me at my word, she’d have saved herself a lot of heartache.’ He rubbed the side of his nose in embarrassment. ‘Don’t you understand? Betty was jealous. Despite everything I’d said, she was jealous of my mother.’
‘And?’
‘Jealous women are capable of just about anything. As I said, God knows what’s going on in Betty’s mind, but she could’ve seen exactly what she wanted to see and have trumped up some so-called evidence to prove it when no one believed her. It’s possible, you know.’
Was it possible? Just about. Perhaps.
Askern saw the question in Bill’s eyes and pressed home the advantage. ‘My father’s not a strong man. If you’re going to formally charge him with bigamy, then charge him. At least he’ll have something concrete to fight. But this cloud of suspicion has to be lifted, otherwise there’s every chance you’ll send him over the edge.’
‘Are you going to charge Mr Askern with bigamy?’ asked Jack, when Bill reported the conversation to him. ‘It sounds suspiciously like a challenge or a diversion to me.’
‘I don’t see how we can, unless we’ve got some hard evidence.’ Bill paused. ‘How d’you mean? A challenge or a diversion?’
‘To take your eye off the real crime, dumb-bell.’
‘If there is a real crime,’ Bill said gloomily. ‘Askern was quite right, you know. There wasn’t anything we turned up in Signora Bianchi’s cottage that Miss Wingate couldn’t have placed there herself.’
Jack laughed dismissively. ‘Come off it, Bill. That didn’t occur to you before you spoke to Askern.’
‘As a matter of fact, it did. When Miss Wingate first told me her story, I did wonder how much of it was real and how much imagined.’
‘You’ve changed your mind since then, though.’
Bill sighed. ‘I had. If only we could find the body, Jack. That would make all the difference. You can’t argue with a body. At the moment, we can’t do a damn thing. It’s all suspicion and hearsay and ifs, mights and buts. I’m tired of the whole wretched business.’
‘Cheer up,’ said Jack encouragingly. ‘You never know what tomorrow might bring.’
The next day, Miss Betty Wingate, letter in hand, walked into the small lobby of Dorian House, the block of flats that straddled the corner of Ransome Gardens and Buchanan Street. The hum of traffic from Tottenham Court Road faded as the door closed behind her. There was a porter’s desk and chair in the lobby, but the chair was empty. On the desk was a bell with a notice beside it: Please ring for attention.
Betty reached out her hand, then hesitated, looking at the letter once more. The instructions in the letter were perfectly clear and she wanted a few moments to compose herself.
Flat 22. Three o’clock. Knock and enter.
She didn’t really need anyone to show her the way to the second floor, did she? And she was grateful for these last few moments to gather her thoughts, to think exactly what she was going to say, without interruption.
Flat 22. Three o’clock. Knock and enter.
Miss Betty Wingate mounted the stairs.
Eleven
It was twenty past six when Jack’s telephone rang.
‘Jack?’ It was Bill Rackham. ‘I’m at 22, Dorian House. It’s a block of flats on the corner of Ransome Gardens and Buchanan Street. Do you know it?’
‘Buchanan Street? Near Tottenham Court Road?’
‘That’s the one. Can you get over here? Now, I mean? It’s important.’
Jack mentally rearranged his evening. Bill’s voice sounded urgent. ‘Yes, of course. What’s happened?’
‘I’d rather not say over the phone. Just get here as fast as you can.’
What the dickens was all this about? There was a police constable on duty in the lobby of Dorian House who politely directed him upstairs, but who equally politely refused to give him any details.
It has to be murder or a death at least, Jack thought, as he took the stairs two at a time. Nothing else would warrant the constable’s bland, official secrecy, and surely – surely – it had to do with what he had privately labelled the Chantry Case. But where did Dorian House fit into that?
Dorian House was a good, solid Victorian building divided into good, solid apartments which, judging from the lobby, stairs and hallways, were kept up to a high standard. The rents probably ran to six or seven pounds a week. They were the sort of flats where he’d expect the occupants to have a maid or a man-servant. To the best of his knowledge, no one had ever mentioned Dorian House before.
The door of number 22 stood ajar and Jack could hear voices coming from the flat. He pushed open the door and went along the hallway to the sitting-room.
Bill was standing to one side of the room, beside a chintz-covered armchair. With him was a man Jack recognised, the police surgeon Dr Roude. Beside him, packing away his camera, was a police photographer, three uniformed constables and two plain-clothes officers, who, from their briefcases, Jack thought were probably the fingerprint men.
‘Jack!’ said Bill as he came in, stepping away from the armchair.
In the chair, sitting with his head thrown back, a man was slumped. Round his throat, wrapped very tightly, was what looked like a woman’s blue silk scarf with a knotted fringe. His posture seemed that of sleep, but the utter rigid stillness of his hands on the arms of the chair told its own story.
Jack stopped short. ‘It’s John Askern,’ he said incredulously. He gazed at Bill in bewilderment. ‘John Askern? But damnit, that’s impossible.’
‘Impossible or not, here he is.’
‘But Bill, we’d had him pegged as a likely murderer, not a victim.’ He glanced at Dr Roude. ‘It is murder, isn’t it? I mean, it looks pretty unlikely, but there’s no chance he could have committed suicide, is there? I could’ve believed that.’
Dr Roude shook his head. ‘None whatsoever, I’d say, Haldean. Inspector Rackham asked me the same question.’
‘It has to be murder,’ said Bill. ‘You can see for yourself, Jack, that a man simply couldn’t commit suicide in that position.’
‘Could he have been moved after he died? Could he have been put in the chair?’
After the Exhibition: A Jack Haldean 1920s Mystery (A Jack Haldean Mystery) Page 18
