‘Soldier on, Joe, soldier on. Meanwhile, what about a copy of the will?’
‘I’ve left that bit till last, sir. There isn’t one.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Every drawer’s been emptied. All his personal papers are here, in this stack – everything on that side is business. It’s funny … he was a bit of a stickler for keeping things in order, I’d have said he’d be sure to have a copy. If so, most likely it’s in the safe.’
‘And the safe key’s with the others which have miraculously disappeared. Wonderful. Well, never mind that for now. It seems I’ve been having a more interesting afternoon than you. Let me enlighten you.’
Half an hour later, he had filled Gilmour in with what had happened during his meeting with Carey Brewster and Jack Douglas, and afterwards with Verity Lancaster, and what Kate Ramsey thought she’d seen. He’d just finished when Mrs Knightly came in, triumphantly dangling a bunch of keys.
‘So they were in one of his suits, after all?’
‘No, they weren’t. I got Mrs Harris to get everything out of the shed where she stores the jumble, and it was all still in the same boxes we’d packed it into. I went through every pocket again. Not so much as a bit of fluff left in any of them. But still … it’s been bothering me all afternoon and just now I went upstairs to have another look. Just in case, somehow, you know … And there they were, right at the back of the wardrobe, behind the shoe rack! You know what a monster that piece is, but I still can’t see how I could have missed them.’ An indignant flush mantled her face. ‘I dusted everything out after we’d finished, everything!’
Reardon recalled the wardrobe, a massive affair with a central bank of drawers surmounted by a cupboard, with two hanging sections, one either side, the whole mounted on a sturdy plinth. Mrs Knightly, flustered and indeed highly affronted at the implication of any oversight she had made, wouldn’t thank him for the suggestion that the bunch of keys could easily have slipped back into the dark recesses of one of the hanging sections and not been seen. ‘Thanks for your efforts, Mrs Knightly. How they got there doesn’t matter so much as the fact that they’ve been found.’
‘If you say so.’ She didn’t look convinced, but he left it at that, having no wish to plant in her mind the suggestion that the keys could have been appropriated before Pen’s body was discovered – and later replaced.
When the door had shut behind her, Reardon held up the keys and waved a hand towards the pile of Pen’s personal papers. ‘You’re thinking what I’m thinking.’
‘Somebody pinched them, to get a dekko at the will copy. To see if he’d changed it in favour of Mrs Douglas? And killed him afterwards when they found he hadn’t, before he could get round to it?’
‘Which rules out Theo. If he drew up the will, he’d have no need to look. But I’d rather see the copy than ask him for details of it, as yet. Let’s get that safe open.’
There was no key to the safe on the ring with the others.
FIFTEEN
Reardon slept uneasily that night. Tossing and turning on the lumpy mattress, he couldn’t rid himself of the nagging suspicion that something about this enquiry was escaping him. The time they’d spent here, though short, hadn’t exactly been wasted, and on the face of it everything he’d learnt had confirmed his original gut feeling that they were on a hiding to nothing: he was going to have to prepare Cherry, his detective superintendent, for the fact that it was by no means beyond the bounds of possibility that they might never find the identity of Penrose Llewellyn’s killer.
Yesterday, when he’d telephoned in a report of what had transpired so far, the extension line in the office had been infuriatingly scratchy, resulting in an altogether less than satisfactory conversation and, as he dressed the next morning, Reardon decided he owed the super a face-to-face explanation. Cherry, with whom Reardon had worked for a long time, was a reasonable man, not the sort of superior who demanded instant results regardless, but he liked to feel he had had his finger on the pulse of every case, and he always wanted everything cut and dried – and the ultimate responsibility for this investigation did rest with him, after all.
He watched the sergeant’s face light up as he told Gilmour of his decision to drive over and see Cherry, which would allow Gilmour to pop in and see how Maisie was doing. ‘Then we’ll tootle over to Brum to see this lawyer chap, this Mr Harper. He’s the man to make sense of all this paper he seems so fond of.’ Harper, Kingdom and Harper were the Birmingham solicitors who had taken care of the business affairs of Llewellyn Holdings for years, where all these documents had originated. ‘I dare say Cherry will want most of it packed up anyway and sent over to HQ. Which should give the legal eagles something to do.’
Gilmour beamed at the load being lifted from his shoulders, but he felt bound to add, ‘In fairness, sir, not everything in the desk was generated by the lawyers. The household accounts are in there, too. Deeds, insurances, things such as plans and sketches for that new garden and such … And there’s bills and receipts for everything he’s ever bought, I should think – you wouldn’t credit the amount he spent on those old books! They must be worth a pretty penny on their own. Most of them bought locally, too, from that bookshop across the way. Adrian Murfitt, the chap with the Jack Russell.’
The books Pen had never intended to read. Bought as an investment, Claudia Llewellyn had said. A concept Reardon found it hard to sympathize with, though it was probably no worse than buying anything else to sell for profit at a later date. And difficult as it was to comprehend, her husband Theo was, according to Claudia, a knowledgeable collector. ‘We’ll go across and have a word with him, as soon as we’ve finished breakfast,’ he decided.
It was a very small shop, situated almost directly opposite the Fox, a mere slice of a building not much wider than the narrow passage which separated it from the corn chandler’s next door.
The bell clanged as Gilmour pushed the door open, and the little dog he’d previously encountered leapt from his basket in the corner and began a series of short, staccato barks. ‘No,’ said the man seated at a paper-strewn table, without looking up. ‘No,’ he repeated more sternly, and this time the perky, bright-eyed little Jack Russell terrier, white with black and tan markings, went obediently back to his basket, where he sat up with an expectant air, tensed to spring out again at any sign of encouragement.
‘Mr Murfitt?’
‘Yes.’ Murfitt looked up and blinked, then frowned, as if an actual customer was a disturbance rather than a welcome event. Nor did he get up from where he was sitting. ‘Were you looking for anything in particular, or do you just want to browse? Take your time, don’t mind me.’ He wafted a hand towards the shelves and went back to the writing he’d been occupied with when they entered.
The educated accent was at odds with his appearance: a man of forty-odd, with thick dark hair touched with grey, wearing a collarless shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and over it a knitted Fair Isle slipover. His scruffy corduroys had the pile worn off at the knees.
‘We’re not here to buy, Mr Murfitt,’ Gilmour said.
‘Like most of those who come in here then,’ he replied indifferently. This wasn’t hard to believe. The wonder was that anyone would want to step beyond the threshold, once they’d glimpsed the interior. The whole place was an affront to anyone who loved books. Bookshops should, in Reardon’s opinion, be veritable Aladdin’s caves, whereas here was an uninviting collection of what appeared to be mostly shabby second-hand books ranged haphazardly on the shelves, with a few new ones in brightly coloured dust jackets between, almost as a concession. There had been no attempt to display the stock to advantage – or what stock there was. More than that – owing to the cramped dimensions of the interior, the shelves were few, and yet so sparsely filled that many of the volumes, having no others to support them, leant drunkenly to one side.
Gilmour bent to fondle the dog. ‘Nice little dog you have. What’s his name?’
‘Tolly.’
<
br /> ‘Dolly?’
‘No, Tolly. Short for Autolycus – a snapper-up of unconsidered trifles.’ Obviously accustomed to the blank looks this received, he explained in a bored voice, ‘He’ll eat anything – Jack Russells are famous for it, he’ll even scavenge from dustbins, given the chance. Give him a biscuit and you’re his friend for life.’
People did give their pets weird and wonderful names, for all sorts of reasons, but this was a new one on Gilmour, on Reardon too, he suspected. But Reardon merely remarked drily that unfortunately they didn’t have any biscuits.
‘So, what can I do for you then? I don’t buy, unless you have something in the antiquarian line.’ His tone as he looked them up and down didn’t suggest he thought that likely.
‘We’re not here to sell, either.’
‘Then may I ask why are you here?’ But something in his manner changed. He had realized who they must be. It wasn’t easy for a policeman to remain incognito, somehow it always showed, even if you weren’t unfortunate enough to have red hair like Gilmour, but in any case, even Murfitt, for some reason reminding Reardon irresistibly of a spider hidden in its dusty web, must surely have heard something about the enquiry going on at Bryn Glas, and the possibility that Penrose Llewellyn had died of something other than a mere heart attack.
‘We’re making enquiries into the death of Mr Penrose Llewellyn,’ Gilmour said. ‘I believe you knew him?’
‘Yes, I was sorry to hear he’d died. But I didn’t know him well.’ He threw them a sharp look. ‘I don’t see why I—’
Reardon held up a pacific hand. ‘We’re talking to everyone who had any connection with him. And it seems he bought most of his books from you, the antiquarian ones, at any rate.’
‘He was a good client.’
‘I can see he might have been – don’t suppose you have many local customers, do you?’
‘That’s true, as it happens, but my business doesn’t depend on local custom, which is just as well. Natives not friendly, you know,’ he added with a sarcastic smile. ‘I sell mostly old books – rare ones, first editions, collectables … usually by catalogue. Don’t be misled by this,’ he said, flapping a hand to take in most of the shelves, ‘my real stock is too valuable to be left lying around. I keep it locked up.’ He jerked his head in the direction of a door on his left.
‘Interesting. So what brought you to Hinton, Mr Murfitt? It’s not very accessible for your line of business, surely?’
‘Doesn’t make much difference, actually. Let’s just say I was sick of life in London. It’s cheaper to live here, for one thing – and quieter, what’s more, so I can work here.’ Perhaps sensing they found this a less than adequate explanation, he added, though his hand automatically covered the page he’d been writing on, ‘I’m a poet, or try to be. As many of us were, we who refused to join in the Great Fight. Which without doubt you know applies to me … the old tabbies’ tittle-tattle round the village pump having been passed on to you.’ His mouth twisted, his dark, almond-shaped eyes sparked a challenge. He was actually very good-looking in a sulky-mouthed way, thick brown hair, high cheekbones and a determined chin.
He was not to know that the information about him had not been conveyed as a piece of idle chat, but received incidentally in regard to Verity’s disappearance. However much the landlady at the Fox enjoyed a gossip and was a mine of information on all things Hinton, she wasn’t malicious, and whatever she thought about the young man who owned the bookshop across the street hadn’t been voiced.
Murfitt saw neither policeman rising to his challenge, and went on more moderately. ‘But I also know about books, and I care about them – though I’ve no time for most of the modern stuff,’ he added dismissively. ‘I worked for a long time for an antiquarian bookseller down the Charing Cross Road before coming here. And that, in case you’re wondering, is how I met Pen Llewellyn and came to Hinton. He used to come into the shop, we talked, he learnt of my ambitions to run my own business and when he heard this place was empty he let me know.’
‘Your sort of books seem an odd thing for Mr Llewellyn to buy. Not a bookish fellow, from what we’ve gathered.’
‘Collectors come in many guises, I’ve found. He began through his brother, who is a serious buyer.’
‘Mr Theo Llewellyn, you mean? How serious?’ Theo’s wife hadn’t been exaggerating then, inferring her husband was knowledgeable on the subject, when she’d poured scorn on his brother’s reasons for trying to emulate him.
It seemed Adrian Murfitt might actually share this view. ‘I’m sorry to say Pen Llewellyn bought books for the wrong reasons, hoping to make money out of reselling. If that was how he looked on it, he was going to be sadly disappointed, as I warned him. It doesn’t work like that. One thing Theo Llewellyn and I have in common – he has nothing but contempt for anyone who looks on beautiful old books merely as saleable commodities.’
‘And that “anyone” included his brother?’
‘Possibly. But who was I to quibble? I’m a dealer, with my bread and butter to earn. I would much rather see books going to those who appreciate them for what they are, but, well …’ His gaze sharpened. ‘Actually, I should like the opportunity to buy back those I sold to Penrose. Most of what he has is run-of-the-mill stuff, but he did buy a few interesting items.’
‘If you speak to his brother, I’m sure something can be arranged,’ Reardon told him. ‘He may want to keep them, of course, as he’s a collector himself.’
Murfitt smiled. ‘I doubt it. Like every other wise collector, Theo Llewellyn specializes. He’s passionately interested in music and music history, and he’s a genuine bibliophile, he loves his books for their own sake. Books on composers and their work, rare and out of print, mostly early German composers – Bach, Handel and so on. He goes for anything to do with music history – old letters, correspondence even – and it can take years to find anything, and at the right price, but it’s the only way to gather a respectable collection. One makes the odd mistake but that’s all part of the game … and Theo has a good eye.’
‘He buys old manuscripts? They can be worth a mint, I’ve heard?’
‘And therefore bought by millionaires or great libraries and universities, sergeant.’
Gilmour reddened. Reardon didn’t like the patronizing tone either. But all this was throwing a new light on Lawyer Llewellyn. Music, books. He seemed to know his stuff. It seemed that Murfitt did, too. He’d lost some of his belligerence and grown quite loquacious, seeming glad to get off the subject of Pen and on to one more in tune with his interests. Which begged the question of how – and more importantly why – he had set himself up here. Did he have money? It would have been needed – to rent, if not to buy the premises, for one thing. To purchase stock. Money to live on. How many books did he sell, and how much profit did he make? How many customers would come to this place searching him out?
This last question was answered by Murfitt himself saying shortly that if they’d finished with him, he had to get a parcel to the post office in Wyvering. ‘My business depends on mail order. Can’t let the customers down.’
‘Wyvering? Presumably you have a motor car.’
‘What? Well, yes, if you can dignify it by that name. She’s an old Tin Lizzie, getting on in years, but the old girl’s managed to get me around … until recently.’ He flashed a quick smile that gave a whole new aspect to his countenance. It was possible to see there might be quite another side to him. ‘She’s been playing me up lately and it looks as though she might have to go.’
Gilmour kept his face averted from Reardon. Nothing was guaranteed to annoy the boss more than men who called their cars ‘she’. Unless they called them Gertrude, or Florence …
Reardon didn’t seem to have noticed, or wasn’t showing it, and Murfitt was saying, ‘However, getting a new motor – or the money for it … doesn’t grow on trees, does it?’
‘If it does, I’ve never noticed. But Miss Lancaster’s very obliging in helping y
ou out with driving, isn’t she?’
He stiffened. ‘Occasionally, yes. I haven’t seen her recently.’
‘All right, Mr Murfitt, we won’t keep you any longer. We’re staying just across the road at the Fox, so if you think of anything else that might be useful, you know where we are. Hope you get your parcel to the post office in time.’
As the doorbell clanged behind them, and they began to cross the road, Gilmour, still stung by Murfitt’s patronizing attitude, muttered, ‘Conchie or not, can you wonder he’s not liked. Autolycus, would you credit?’
It was a comment Reardon had every sympathy with but he said, ‘It took guts to do what he did, Joe.’
Gilmour grunted a reluctant acknowledgement. By the time the war had reached its bloody conclusion, a lot of people had been forced to accord a certain amount of respect to those objectors who had stood so staunchly for their beliefs, even to imprisonment and the threat of being shot for cowardice. If Murfitt had gone through all that, he was no coward. ‘All the same – it’s a bloody silly name for a dog.’
When the two big men who had used up too much of the space in his shop for the last half hour had finally left, Adrian Murfitt felt able to breathe. Flopping back in his chair, he watched them out of his dusty window as they crossed the Townway. His arm hung over the chair and his hand scratched the head of Tolly, who’d come to sit beside him. His eyes closed. The parcel destined for the post office in Wyvering sat disregarded on the corner of the table. It would have to wait – he wasn’t up to coping with the vagaries of his temperamental old motor, not at this moment, and he certainly wasn’t going to try and get round Verity, obliging as she’d always been, in every way, until lately.
‘Time to depart, Tolly?’ he muttered, ‘Time to depart?’
It had probably been time to go a few weeks after he’d arrived in this benighted spot. He would never be admitted here. He’d been a fool, too, not to take into account that in those of limited country mentality, the hatred for conscientious objectors who refused to fight in the war hadn’t yet gone away. Yet he’d only come here, after all, to seek what was his by rights.
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