by Bill Kitson
I was about to mention this possibility to Eve but, before I had chance to do so, movement close to the front door of the museum indicated that proceedings were about to get under way.
Having spent a good deal of my formative years as a journalist covering such events, I’d found that studying the crowd formed an effective antidote to boredom that was often induced by the frugal public speaking ability of the chosen celebrity. There was no doubt that the speaker on this occasion was better than many whose tedious platitudes I’d had to endure in the past –probably due to his many radio appearances and the TV documentary series he hosted – but however professional his delivery, the content was understandably bland. Had I not allowed my attention to wander, I might not have seen the stranger from the train yet again.
The man who had intrigued me on two previous occasions was standing on the fringe of the throng, as if unwilling to become involved, or to be drawn into conversation. His attitude was curious too. He was standing with his head slightly bent and to one side. Was that because he was listening intently to the speaker, I wondered, or because he didn’t want anyone to make eye contact with him? He certainly wasn’t looking at those on the platform.
Once more I was struck by the feeling that he seemed somehow familiar. Had I seen him prior to leaving the train in York? Or did he simply remind me of someone? If the latter was true, I was foxed, because I couldn’t think of anyone who bore a resemblance to him.
I diverted my attention when I saw the stranger glance in my direction, focusing instead on the official party accompanying the celebrity art historian. Included in their number I managed to identify the MP for the Dinsdale constituency, alongside his bitter political rival, the town’s mayor. Even if I hadn’t been able to identify his face, the chain of office would have been sufficient to mark him out. Equally distinguishable was the lady mayoress, who also qualified for a similarly gaudy piece of regalia. She hadn’t stopped there, however, and had opted to don a hat that was certainly attention-grabbing, although only she could have considered it appropriate for the occasion. Perhaps she had mixed up the invitations and imagined she was going to Royal Ascot.
My game of ‘spot the dignitary’ was given unexpected assistance when Johnny Pickersgill appeared alongside us. His whispered commentary was highly enlightening, although had it been recorded, he would have faced several potentially ruinous slander cases. His opinion of several of the distinguished figures could hardly have been lower if he’d spoken them from the bottom of a mine shaft – a very deep one.
Having cast aspersions on the MP, the mayor and a couple of councillors, Johnny turned his attention to a suave-looking, smartly dressed individual at one end of the group. He singled that man out for his worst character assassination. ‘That’s Scott Martin,’ he told us, ‘a solicitor by trade. He was born in this area, vanished for a long time and then reappeared five years ago.’ I noticed Johnny hadn’t used the word ‘profession’. This, it seemed, was a deliberate oversight. ‘He’s a solicitor by trade and a thief by inclination. If you shake hands with him, you’ll be wiping them on your handkerchief afterwards to remove the slime, and remember to check you still have your jewellery.’ Johnny paused and added, ‘You might also be advised to count your fingers.’
‘I take it you don’t think much of Mr Martin. Why is that? Has he committed some sort of crime?’ Eve asked.
‘The fact that he’s breathing is a crime as far as I’m concerned.’
‘Yes, but anything specific?’
Johnny shook his head sorrowfully at my question. ‘Nothing we can prove, unfortunately. There have been some dodgy property deals and some very unlikely planning applications that have gone through. He handled them, and I know for a fact that he and the chairman of the planning committee are members of the same golf club. They probably both have the same funny handshake too.’
‘Being a golfer and a Freemason is hardly proof,’ I objected.
‘True, but added to that, he represents some very suspect characters around here, and I know for a fact that he charges hefty fees for his advice, fees that include special expenses.’
Johnny’s emphasis on the word ‘special’ intrigued me. I asked what he meant by it.
‘The sort of expenses that have witnesses suddenly developing amnesia, or becoming struck down by a morbid claustrophobia that only occurs when they enter a courtroom.’
‘You’re suggesting he bribes witnesses?’ Eve sounded horrified, which amused both Johnny and me.
‘Certainly not,’ Johnny responded. ‘That would be unethical. He sends someone else to do it for him. There is very little that guy won’t stoop to, if he sees a profit in it. I reckon the nearest Scott Martin has been to the straight and narrow is when he picked up a ruler.’
Having vented his spite and frustration at Martin, Johnny was somewhat more forgiving about others he identified. His scurrilous remarks about various other local dignitaries were delivered with far less spleen. They did, however, leave us with no great regard for some of the names, and shed light onto Johnny’s fount of knowledge, rumour and gossip.
‘The best of the bunch on that platform is Uncle Tom,’ Johnny gestured discreetly to the man at the opposite end of the line-up to the solicitor he’d just vilified. ‘He used to be a good copper until he joined the criminal fraternity.’
I recognised the man he referred to as ‘Uncle Tom’
‘I thought Tom Fox was a councillor?’ I asked.
‘Yes, that’s what I meant by “joining the criminal fraternity”.’
‘Johnny, I’m shocked that you should think so badly of our elected representatives.’
He grinned. ‘It would take a heat-seeking missile to shock you, Adam.’
Eventually the tiresome official proceedings ended. Before the throng moved inside to check out the new exhibits there was a short period of respite from the formal timetable, giving attendees the chance to mingle. The schedule had indicated that light refreshments would be available in the museum foyer before the second part of the entertainment, when the opening of the extension built to house the art gallery was to be conducted by the celebrity guest.
‘I’m really surprised that Casper isn’t here,’ Johnny remarked as we watched the gathering disperse towards the food. ‘Mind you, there are enough villains present without adding one more.’
‘Who’s Casper?’ Eve asked.
‘He calls himself Casper Harfleur but his real name is Charles Harvey. Apparently that didn’t have a sufficiently artistic ring to it for someone who believed himself to be the next Rembrandt. The problem was that although he changed his name, Casper was unable to improve his talent. That isn’t to say he isn’t proficient. Casper can paint almost as good a Rembrandt as Rembrandt did; similarly with Van Dyke, Matisse and a lot of other famous artists. Sadly his ability didn’t extend beyond imitating other people’s work.’
‘You’re saying that this man Casper is a forger?’
‘He is – or rather he was until he got found out. After that the only things he painted for a while were the walls of his prison cell. He’s been out a couple of years now, and swears he isn’t up to his old tricks. So far, it seems he’s behaved himself. I saw him in Dinsdale last month and he mentioned that he might come along, but perhaps he changed his mind. Maybe Casper thought that if people saw him here they might be nervous about how genuine the paintings on show were.’
Notwithstanding his disparaging comments, I got the impression that Johnny didn’t dislike Casper. Perhaps respect for Casper’s ability softened his mistrust. As it turned out, Johnny was wrong in one respect. Casper was there – and was about to make a suitably dramatic appearance.
At that moment DS Holmes signalled to Johnny to join him. As he left, Eve and I crossed the turf to speak to Michael, Chloe and the others.
To anyone watching we must have seemed like a really romantic couple, with Eve clinging onto my arm in devoted fashion. That would have been a misleading impression, for
there was nothing amorous in her tone as she whispered to me, ‘You might have given me some warning beforehand that I would have to walk across acres of lawn. If I’d known I’d never have put these stiletto heels on.’
Chapter Seven
I was still struggling to work out why I was to blame for Eve’s unsuitable footwear when we met up with the vicar, his mother and fiancée. Chloe introduced us to David and Valerie Kershaw. The couple, although amiable enough, were less than forthcoming, and we moved on before the situation became awkward.
Elsewhere, conversation quite naturally centred on the new building and the excitement generated by the prospect of the town housing one of the prime exhibition spaces of its type in the region. The other talking point, equally understandable, surrounded the terrible death of the former curator. Opinion on Mark Bennett seemed unanimous. He was well liked by everyone, it appeared, although some hinted that the ladies had found him more attractive than was perhaps proper. Few seemed in doubt that Bennett had been murdered by either a jealous rival or a rejected partner, and one or two hinted that despite his release, the police didn’t need to look much further than David Kershaw as the culprit.
To our surprise, one of those making that assertion was a member of the official party: the solicitor recently maligned by Johnny Pickersgill.
Scott Martin introduced himself, and when I attempted to reciprocate waved that aside. ‘I know who you are, Mr Bailey. I used to watch your TV dispatches assiduously. I admired your accurate and unbiased summaries of difficult situations and the politics surrounding them. Assessment of the facts and the ability to remain impartial are two qualities vital to lawyers.’
Martin smiled slightly before including Eve in his next comments. ‘More recently I’ve been fascinated and impressed by you and your wife’s careers, if you can categorise them as such. It seems that your combined talents have created a pair of super-sleuths in our midst.’
He invested the words with heavy irony before continuing, ‘However, I don’t think your detective talents will be stretched to the extreme to solve our most recent violent event. I’m referring of course to the demise of the former curator of this establishment. Sadly, that seems to be an open-and-shut case. It seems that Bennett was a victim of his own predilection for dalliance, shall we say. My only hope is that David Kershaw doesn’t call upon me to represent him. Defending Kershaw would probably be the most challenging case I’ve ever handled.’
‘It does seem to be the general opinion that Kershaw is guilty,’ I responded, without going as far as to agree Martin’s point, ‘but there must be an element of doubt, surely, otherwise the police wouldn’t have released him from custody?’
‘There is a vast difference between being released on bail and being innocent,’ the lawyer replied. ‘I believe a shortage of evidence is the prime reason they haven’t yet laid charges against him.’
Martin’s theory, and that of several others in the throng, was severely tested within minutes of him having uttered it. We had finished our conversation and moved into the foyer, where I was eyeing a particularly tasty-looking gateau when the new curator of the museum called on the crowd to be silent, and asked the distinguished historian to cut the ribbon signalling the opening of the art gallery.
Many people pressed forward, keen to be among the first to view the new building. This, for most of those present, would be the most interesting part of the proceedings. Nobody could have guessed that their interest would be superseded by high drama.
I had no great wish to be among them. For my part, the building would be as exciting in half an hour as it was right then. The gateau was still occupying my complete attention when we heard a piercing scream that emanated from the art gallery. The predominantly glass structure helped magnify and echo the sound, which, with the double doors open, reverberated through the foyer to the museum part of the building.
Almost simultaneously, we saw the gallery disgorge several art lovers who emerged in what I could only describe as a disorganised rabble, their faces registering shock, fear and horror in equal measure. Among the leaders of the pack was the owner of a café in the town whom I knew slightly. I managed to detain him by grasping his arm to ask him what was wrong.
‘There’s a body,’ he gasped. ‘A dead body. In the fountain. There’s blood everywhere.’ Having imparted this dreadful news, he set off to join the others.
In the shocked silence that followed I heard the voice of David Kershaw nearby. ‘Time to go, I think. Valerie, Chloe, come along.’ His tone didn’t invite argument or even discussion. As they moved outside I noticed Johnny heading for the main entrance; his obvious intention was to stop anyone else from leaving. He signalled to us to join him. He looked very upset, to put it mildly. We made our way over.
‘I was wrong,’ he told us bluntly. ‘Casper was here, but somebody stuck a knife in him. He didn’t deserve that. He might have been a rogue, but there was no harm in him. Casper was too gentle, wouldn’t hurt a fly.’
‘Someone told us he was in the fountain, is that right?’
Johnny nodded as he announced, ‘Ladies and gentlemen, could I have your attention, please? I am Constable Pickersgill and I ask that you all remain where you are until my colleagues arrive. We will not detain you longer than necessary.’ He turned to me. ‘Holmes wants you to go inside, if you wouldn’t mind.’ He looked at Eve as if wondering whether she would object, but she’s made of sterner stuff. Besides which, she’d seen far worse. ‘I’ll join you in a minute,’ he added, ‘if I can find a replacement sentry for this exit. I’ll see if Uncle Tom will help me out.’
We made our way through into the gallery, threading our way through the guests. Some stood open-mouthed and gawping while others stood in small groups muttering to each other and casting sidelong glances through the window. The ornamental fountain was in the middle of the lawns that formed the centrepiece of the gardens to the rear of the art gallery. That placed it directly opposite the large plate glass windows that had been designed to allow as much natural light as possible into the building. The fountain re-used the water from the pond at its base and the enclosed recycling system had one drawback that even the most far-sighted designer could not have foreseen. In other circumstances the pink rainbow effect might have appeared attractive. It was certainly eye-catching, but knowledge of what the hue comprised, and the sight of the victim’s lifeless body lying face down in the basin, made me shudder. I was still coming to terms with the horrifying scene when Johnny arrived and began ushering the onlookers through into the foyer.
DS Holmes was elsewhere, presumably on the phone making a string of calls, when Eve said, ‘The gallery must have been a hive of activity prior to today’s event so it seems unlikely the killing took place in here, or during daylight with so many people about.’
I backed up her theory. ‘Yes, if the victim had been killed in here, the killer would have to take the body outside and drop it in the fountain. I can’t see any sign of drag marks or blood on the floor. If he’d been dead before he hit the fountain, the heart would have stopped pumping and that amount of blood ...’ – I pointed to the spray – ‘... would not have been as visible.’
Johnny was still pondering the implication of my comments when Holmes joined us. ‘Sorry, I had to find a phone. I’ve had to summon forensics and notify my superiors.’ While he was talking, Holmes left the gallery, returning almost immediately with a pile of stacking chairs. He placed them across the archway. ‘I daren’t risk some over-zealous cleaner wiping any evidence away,’ he explained.
‘I hope that asking us in here isn’t some sneaky way of inveigling us to become involved in your investigation,’ I told him, ‘because I thought we’d made it clear the other day that we wanted some time to ourselves.’
‘I simply thought it would be useful to have the benefit of your combined experience. You’ve seen more crime scenes than either Johnny or me. In fact, the only murder sites I’ve been to are the ones you were involved in. I w
anted to ensure we didn’t miss anything important.’
Holmes’ remarks led naturally into Johnny bringing him up to speed with Eve’s and my comments, which in itself more or less confirmed the sense in his decision to ask us to check the site over.
‘That seems to point to it having taken place during the night. I reckon we’ll have to wait for the pathologist to give us an estimate of the time of death,’ he said.
‘That might not be as straightforward as it sounds,’ I pointed out, ‘because of the time the body has been immersed in water, and the possible temperature variations. Getting an accurate time of death could be difficult, if not impossible.’
‘The other interesting question is why was he murdered? Was he trying to break in or did he perhaps foil an attempted robbery?’ Eve commented. ‘You need to check if an alarm system was active, and if so, why didn’t it go off if there was an attempt at intrusion. I imagine there must be an alarm given the value of many of the exhibits in here.’
‘You’ve certainly given us lots to think about.’
Holmes’ reply encompassed us both, but it had been Eve who had come up with all the ideas.
As he was speaking, two constables arrived and, at the sergeant’s instruction, began taking the details of the guests before allowing them to leave. I realised at that point that some of them were obviously not as disturbed by the incident as was first implied. They couldn’t have been – they had finished off the gateau.
When the first of the forensic officers arrived, Eve and I took the excuse to leave. We promised to contact Holmes or Johnny if we had any further ideas and went outside. The area in front of the museum that had been crowded only a short time earlier was now all but deserted. The only remaining members of the audience were one or two officials and several people whose morbid curiosity lent more excitement to the occasion than they could have hoped for.
