He picked up the sheets of paper from the floor and, referring to his notebook and numbering the sheets as he went, laid them out on the floor once more. Once he had finished, he stood back. ‘There you are. One sonnet as written by Josiah Lythewell, to be used for reflections on life and the afterlife, with directions to the discovery of treasure thrown in as a bonus. Not bad, eh?’
Stop, my son, to pause and pray for treasure
The doorway’s here to eternal life
That doorway, greater than man can measure
Is opened for you after earthly strife
A far lesser treasure also behold,
Open – look! – to all curious eyes
Not copper, silver, precious stones or gold
But true metal wrought, cast, forged, small in size
In penitence here’s shown the greater whole
Art which is wrested from that evil root
It is yours, O my son, but for your soul
Be wise. Shun greed, let avarice be mute.
Worldly goods will always fade and wither
The church is your true and worthy treasure
Bill stood up and raised his glass in salute. ‘That is brilliant, Jack,’ he said sincerely.
Jack flushed. ‘Come off it, Bill.’
‘No, really. Everyone but everyone, including me, has looked at those flagstones and thought they were nothing more than random lines meaning God knows what, if anything, but you’ve teased the meaning out of them.’ He read through the sonnet once more. ‘Take me through it,’ he said. ‘I think I’ve got the gist of the thing, but poetry isn’t my strongest point.’
‘Okey-doke,’ said Jack obligingly. ‘I think there’s no doubt that it’s addressed to Daniel Lythewell. “Stop, my son, to pause and pray for treasure”, is a real instruction. The doorway, as you guessed before, is the doorway to eternal life or heaven, where old Lythewell clearly thought he was bound for, with no quibbling from the choirs of angels at the back.’
‘And the “far lesser treasure” is the platinum?’ asked Bill with a grin.
‘Yep, that’s how I see it. He tells us it’s not copper, silver or gold, but “true metal”. Then, I think, he registers his claim to enter the heavenly kingdom, as shown in its full splendour in that appalling painting by Henry Cadwallader, by saying that the “true metal” was placed there because he’s penitent.’
‘He wasn’t penitent enough to own up to what he’d done, though, was he?’
‘Steady on, Bill,’ said Jack with a smile. ‘There’s no point overdoing this penitence lark. But you see how he describes his picture of the chantry inlaid into the flagstone? At least, I’m fairly sure that’s what he’s describing, at any rate. “The greater whole” is the chantry depicted by “art which is wrested from that evil root”. The evil root just has to be the love of money, which is the root of all evil, as even Henry Cadwallader saw, turned into art by none other than J. Lythewell, Esquire, and passed on to Daniel Lythewell. “It is yours, O my son”. Now there’s a piece of straightforward parental advice. For the sake of Daniel’s soul, he tells him not to be avaricious or greedy but to be wise.’
‘So Daniel Lythewell can have the treasure as long as he doesn’t get too excited about it?’
‘More or less. I think, to be fair, he’s telling Daniel not to let the treasure take over his life, which is good advice, even if it is old Lythewell giving it. That’s backed up by the penultimate line, “Worldly goods will always fade and wither”, which sounds wonderfully Victorian, if true enough for all that, but I’m sure the last line is a pun or a play on words, at least, where the two sorts of treasure, eternal life and worldly wealth, come together. “The church is your true and worthy treasure” makes a lot of sense if the church is a platinum slab.’
‘A platinum slab,’ repeated Bill in a dazed sort of way. ‘Good grief. My father had plenty of good advice to pass on, but he was a bit short in the platinum slab department.’
‘It’d be worth listening to all sorts of good advice, even from a sanctimonious old beggar like Lythewell, to get your hands on that, wouldn’t it?’
‘I’ll say …’ Bill hesitated, stroking his chin. ‘The thing is, Jack, was it old Lythewell’s to pass on? I mean, we know that his wealth – this wealth – came from his career as a forger.’
‘He was found innocent at his trial,’ Jack reminded him. ‘In the eyes of the law, he was an innocent man.’
‘We know damn well he was no such thing, though.’ Bill indicated the sheets of paper. ‘How come, if old Lythewell was so keen for his son to have the treasure, he hid its location so well? I can see that he’d want to conceal it, to keep it out of the hands of his fellow crooks, but you’d have thought, wouldn’t you, that he might have dropped a hint to his son that there was a fortune in platinum lying on the floor of the chantry.’
‘That’s something I just don’t know,’ admitted Jack. ‘I think that this treasure was something Daniel Lythewell was supposed to inherit.’
‘Well, of course it was. You’ve just explained all that.’
‘What I mean is, it’s something that old Lythewell was perfectly happy for his son to have once he, Josiah, was dead and gone. He obviously didn’t leave instructions in his will, otherwise Daniel Lythewell would surely have followed them and we wouldn’t be having this discussion.’
‘That’s true enough.’
‘Or,’ said Jack, ‘old Pop Lythewell was so far off his crumpet that he expected Daniel to be able to read the sonnet and follow the instructions, but that seems a bit unlikely, I agree.’ He shrugged. ‘You might find, once you tell Mr Lythewell that there’s a fortune in the chantry floor, that old Lythewell did leave instructions that simply weren’t understood.’
‘M’yes,’ agreed Bill in a dissatisfied way.
‘Or he might have planned to tell him at a later date, of course. After all, old Lythewell didn’t expect to die. Don’t forget John Askern took matters into his own hands by bumping him off.’
‘Which is,’ said Bill, rubbing his hands together, ‘something I’ve now got concrete evidence to prove. Those letters Mrs Askern gave you really are dynamite. I’m thoroughly looking forward to seeing Sir Douglas tomorrow.’
‘When are you going to tell Mr Lythewell?’
‘I just don’t know,’ Bill admitted frankly. ‘That’s a decision for Sir Douglas to make. We’ve still got a murder investigation on our hands.’ He waved a hand at the papers on the floor. ‘All this has been fascinating and I honestly can’t congratulate you enough, Jack, but d’you think it has any bearing on Askern’s murder?’
Jack lit another cigarette. ‘It’s difficult to see how it can have. On the other hand, it’s so much money that I really do find it intrusive.’
‘The root of all evil, eh?’
‘More or less,’ agreed Jack. He was about to say more but was interrupted by the shrill ring of the telephone.
With a muttered excuse, Bill picked up the receiver. ‘It’s the chemists, Johnson and Cooke,’ he whispered to Jack, clamping his hand over the phone. ‘They’ve got the results of the analysis of the metal shavings. Yes,’ he said loudly into the receiver, ‘I can pass a message on to Major Haldean.’
Jack saw Bill’s expression alter during the brief conversation. ‘Are you sure? No doubt at all. None whatsoever … I see. Thank you.’
Bill replaced the receiver on its hook and stared sightlessly in front of him for a few moments.
‘Bill?’ prompted Jack. ‘Bill? What is it?’
Bill turned to face him. ‘I’m sorry, old man,’ he said sympathetically. ‘I was sure you were right. I still am sure you got the meaning of that wretched poem worked out correctly, but …’
‘But what?’ demanded Jack.
Bill shook his head. ‘Somehow or other, you’ve got it wrong.’ He smiled wryly. ‘I’m sorry to tell you this but the metal’s not platinum but aluminium. And, I’m afraid, it’s absolutely worthless.’
Fourteen
The two men said nothing for a few moments. Outside, the sound of the traffic in Russell Square seemed to get louder as the silence continued, then Jack shook his head with a weary laugh. ‘Game, set and match to old Pop Lythewell,’ he said, going to the sideboard. ‘You don’t mind if I have another, do you?’ he asked, his hand on the whisky decanter.
‘Go ahead, Jack. You deserve it, you poor beggar.’ Bill walked to the sideboard and put a friendly hand on his shoulder. ‘You can give me a top-up, too. But why the devil would old Lythewell go to all that trouble to direct his son to a worthless piece of junk? You’re right about the flagstones and the sonnet. You just have to be right.’ He shook his head wonderingly. ‘I don’t suppose that picture of the chantry – the inlaid picture – lifts out, does it? And the real treasure is hidden underneath?’
‘What, like a coal-hole cover, you mean?’ Jack clicked his tongue. ‘We could look, I suppose, but I don’t honestly think it does. I was looking for a concealed hiding place, you see. That was my first thought. I was pretty pleased with myself when I worked out that the chantry picture itself was the treasure. Only it’s not, of course.’ He sighed deeply. ‘Ah well, at least you don’t have to worry about what you tell Mr Lythewell. We can hardly roll up and say, “Excuse me, we’ve found this wonderful hidden treasure of your father’s that everyone’s talked about for years. By the way, it’s worth about fourpence to a scrap-metal merchant.”’
‘He wouldn’t be very impressed, I agree,’ said Bill. He twisted his head round to read the last line of the sonnet from the paper on the carpet. ‘“The church is your true and worthy treasure”. Maybe he’s talking about eternal life, after all. Maybe he meant that the church, the chantry itself, I mean, is the treasure?’
‘In that case, why direct us so precisely to the engraved slab? And where does the “true metal” come into the picture? The chantry’s made of brick, not metal.’
‘That’s a thought,’ said Bill. ‘Actually …’ He frowned. ‘Jack, there’s a metal statue on top of the tomb, isn’t there? Could that be made of something precious?’
‘Not by old Lythewell, it wasn’t. That was Daniel Lythewell’s handiwork. I’ve heard Henry Cadwallader wax lyrical on the topic.’
‘Henry Cadwallader,’ murmured Bill. ‘Jack, I know he’s about a hundred and ninety and as mad as a hatter, but he was young once. He seems to spend his life in the chantry and he’s an artist. Could he have cottoned on to what the slab was, levered it up, and made a replica to go in its place?’
‘What, interfere with his beloved Mr Lythewell’s handiwork and go against his wishes, you mean? I don’t honestly think he would, Bill. He’s as nutty as a fruit cake and fairly tapped on the subject of the late J. Lythewell, but I think he’s honest enough.’ He shook his head. ‘No. I’ll have a look to see if the chantry picture is the entrance to a hiding place, but I don’t think it is.’ He drank his whisky and grinned ruefully. ‘At least it’s not my treasure I was hunting. That really would be annoying.’
The next morning, Jack finished his bacon and eggs whilst reading the account in the Daily Messenger by his old pal, Ernest Stanhope, of the arrest of one Nathan Ormskirk, a builder from Ardwick, Manchester, for murdering his wife. He cast his mind back. Mrs Ormskirk had been the body in the trunk found at Euston Station, hadn’t she? Apparently not. Mr Ormskirk, it was alleged, as Stanhope was careful to phrase it, had incorporated Mrs Ormskirk into the foundations of a new public convenience in Deansgate.
That, thought Jack, was interesting. He took his breakfast coffee over to the desk by the window and pinned up on the wall, where the sunlight caught it, the drawing of Josiah Lythewell Mr Cadwallader had copied for him yesterday. Then he picked out from the bookshelf the printed history of Lythewell and Askern he had taken from John Askern’s house.
He was just about to open the book when the telephone rang.
‘Jack?’ It was Bill. His voice was urgent. ‘I’ve got news. There’s been another murder. Henry Cadwallader’s been found dead in the chantry.’
It was as if time stood still. The sunlight still shone on Cadwallader’s drawing of Josiah Lythewell, the drawing he had copied with such pride. It was only yesterday …
‘Jack? Are you there?’ demanded Bill.
Jack shook himself. ‘Henry Cadwallader’s been murdered, you say?’
‘Yes. Mrs Askern found him.’
At least it wasn’t Betty Wingate this time, thought Jack with a surge of relief.
‘I don’t know anything more than that,’ continued Bill. ‘Can you get away? Now, I mean?’
‘Yes, of course. Do you want me to drive you down?’
‘Thanks, Jack. It’ll probably be quicker than the train. Can you pick me up at the Yard?’
‘I’ll be there as fast as I can.’
On the drive down, Bill brought Jack up to date with what he knew, which wasn’t, as he admitted, very much.
Daphne Askern had gone into the chantry early that morning. The time, as nearly as she could judge, must’ve been about quarter to nine. ‘And what,’ said Bill, ‘she was doing in there, I don’t know.’
‘I met her in there yesterday,’ said Jack. ‘That’s when she told me about the letters. She said she’d visited the chantry a lot recently. She’d been thinking about John Askern and old Lythewell.’
‘I see – or I think I do, anyway. Incidentally, Jack, Sir Douglas sends his congratulations to you on getting hold of those letters. It doesn’t explain Askern’s murder, but it fills in some very valuable background detail. Anyway, Mrs Askern went into the chantry and there was Cadwallader, as stiff as a board.’
‘He was murdered, was he? He hadn’t just keeled over?’
Bill shook his head. ‘By the sound of things, there was blood everywhere. He’d had a wallop to the back of his head. And that’s more or less all I know. The local police are meeting me at the chantry, together with the Whimbrell Heath doctor and a photographer. I just hope they’ve had enough sense to leave everything well alone until I get there.’
They were greeted at the door of the chantry by none other than the Chief Constable himself, Commander Pattishall, a grey-haired, broad-shouldered, ex-naval officer, whose beard and moustache gave him the look of King George the Fifth. He was accompanied by a Dr Oxenhall and a twitchy young man called Clough, the town photographer.
‘I’ve arranged for the body to be removed by the local undertakers in about an hour or so,’ said Commander Pattishall. ‘Dr Oxenhall’s agreed to perform the post-mortem.’
Bill nodded. ‘What about Mrs Askern? Where is she now?’
‘Mrs Askern’s being looked after by Mrs Lythewell at Whimbrell House. I’ve already had a word with her, of course, poor lady. I’m afraid it’s going to be some time before you can question her.’ He cocked an eyebrow at the doctor. ‘I had to insist, but you weren’t overly keen on me having a word, eh, Oxenhall?’
Dr Oxenhall shook his head. ‘Mrs Askern was very distressed. Coming on top of Mr Askern’s death, this has been a severe shock to her. I thought it best to give her a sleeping draught.’
‘She didn’t have very much to tell us, in any case,’ put in Commander Pattishall, seeing Bill’s politely unexpressed but obvious annoyance. ‘She came into the chantry shortly before nine this morning, saw Henry Cadwallader’s body, screamed and ran for help to the nearest place she could think of, which is Whimbrell House. Mr and Mrs Lythewell were at breakfast. Mrs Lythewell took care of Mrs Askern and Mr Lythewell telephoned Colin Askern. Together the two men came into the chantry and saw Cadwallader’s body. They locked the chantry and telephoned the police from Whimbrell House. In view of the gravity of the situation, the local man got in touch with me right away. I called Sir Douglas Lynton and here we are.’
‘Do you know if Mr Lythewell or Colin Askern touched anything?’ asked Bill.
‘Nothing more than they could help, apparently. Naturally enough, they ascertained whether poor Cadwallader r
eally was dead, but there wasn’t much doubt about it, I’m afraid, as you’ll see for yourself. I’ve had a look inside, of course, but I left things exactly as they were.’
‘Was the chantry open?’ asked Jack. ‘When Mrs Askern arrived, I mean?’
‘I asked her that,’ said the Commander. ‘She unlocked it with her own key. Anyway,’ he added, smoothing his moustache, ‘I did a little detective work on my own account. Cadwallader had a house in Pincer Lane off Bridge Street, the main street in the village. He lived alone, but a local woman, a Mrs Treadmire, came in and did for him, as the expression is. I’ve spoken to her. She went in twice a day. Once in the morning, to get his breakfast and to clean and wash up and prepare lunch, and again in the early evening to prepare his evening meal, which she’d leave in the oven for him. Cadwallader had a fairly set routine. He was always up at seven, breakfast at eight, and then would either work in his studio, which is at the back of the house, or come here, to the chantry. He’d have his evening meal at six o’clock or so. He’d recently taken to coming back here in the evenings. He wasn’t a communicative man, but Mrs Treadmire says he was excited about a painting he was working on.’
‘That’s right,’ agreed Jack. ‘He spoke to me about it when I last saw him. It was a painting of the chantry. Did he come here last night?’
‘Apparently so, yes. He’d eaten his evening meal but she thinks he must’ve gone out after that and not returned. He invariably had a nightcap of whisky and hot water before he went to bed, but he didn’t last night.’
‘So it looks as if Cadwallader was killed after six o’clock yesterday evening,’ said Bill. ‘You’ll be able to tell us more about that, Doctor.’
‘I haven’t seen him yet,’ said Dr Oxenhall. ‘I’ve been too taken up with Mrs Askern and the other ladies. This business has bowled everyone over. Mrs Lythewell is terribly upset, of course, and so’s Lythewell’s niece, Miss Wingate.’
Commander Pattishall cleared his throat in what Jack could only think of as a marked manner. ‘I understand that it was Miss Wingate who actually discovered John Askern’s body in London?’
After the Exhibition: A Jack Haldean 1920s Mystery (A Jack Haldean Mystery) Page 23
