The Book of the Dead

by Robert Richardson

  ‘My name’s Augustus Maltravers and Mrs Quinn called you from the cottage of friends of mine where I’m staying. She said Mr Carrington had arranged to meet her here this afternoon but when she arrived she saw him through the letterbox. I came back with her.’

  ‘Does Mr Carrington have any family?’

  ‘Only his wife as far as I know,’ Maltravers replied. ‘However, I saw him first thing this morning and he mentioned that she was spending the day shopping in Manchester. He didn’t say when he expected her back.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. My colleague is calling the duty inspector who will inform the CID. They will want statements from you both. For the time being, I must ask you to remain in this room and one of us must stay with you.’

  ‘Of course.’ Maltravers sat next to Charlotte Quinn. She squeezed his hand absently as he took hold of hers, but did not look at him or speak. Maltravers saw an ambulance arrive outside and then two more cars pulled into the drive. There were voices in the hall before another man entered the lounge, tall and broad with a tough, penetrating face beneath a helmet of dove grey, almost white, hair.

  ‘Good-afternoon,’ he said. ‘Detective Sergeant Donald Moore, Cumbria CID. I’ve been told what’s happened and I’d like to speak to you first, madam. Will you please go with this officer, sir?’

  Maltravers smiled encouragingly at Charlotte, then was taken to the dining-room across the hall. Instinctively he looked at the body again, blood hideously splashed across the chest. Carrington’s arms were raised above his head and the two ambulance men were like silent witnesses at a crucifixion. After about fifteen minutes Moore joined him and he repeated his brief story.

  ‘We’ll need full statements at the station, sir,’ the sergeant said when he had finished. ‘But there’s one point you may be able to help us with now. Do you know what Mr Carrington kept in the library safe?’

  ‘The safe?’ Maltravers frowned. ‘He…just a minute! Are you saying that…?’

  ‘I’m not saying anything, sir,’ Moore interrupted. ‘Can you tell me anything about the safe and its contents?’

  Maltravers paused, analysing the question. ‘You’ve just told me an awful lot. That safe contained some books, but not any old books. In fact I doubt if there’s anything in this entire house more valuable.’ He looked at Moore enquiringly. ‘But they’re not there now are they? And that means Charles Carrington was murdered.’

  ‘I can’t comment on that, sir. Tell me about these books.’

  *

  As Maltravers and Charlotte Quinn were taken to Kendal police station, Carwelton Hall was filling with urgent activity, the blinding glare of a photographer’s flashlight, increasing numbers of police swarming through the house, methodically beginning their search, combing the floor of the library, dusting for fingerprints. A man with an open black bag beside him was kneeling by Carrington’s body, holding dead lips around a clinical thermometer.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Maltravers asked quietly as the police car pulled away. Charlotte nodded.

  ‘Just about.’ Her voice was toneless. ‘He’s been murdered hasn’t he?’

  Maltravers could almost feel the policeman in the front passenger seat listening.

  ‘I’m afraid it looks that way,’ he replied.

  They remained silent for the short journey then were taken into separate interview rooms. Maltravers explained about the Conan Doyle books and how he knew that Carrington had kept them in the safe. From the questions he was asked, he pieced together a certain amount of information. No, he did not know if Charles Carrington had owned a shotgun; that took care of the weapon. Yes, he could remember who else had been in the library after the dinner party when Carrington had showed him a copy of the book although, apart from Malcolm Stapleton, they had been strangers. Douglas Lydden, who had a business in Kendal, the Reverend Morris and a man called Geoffrey Howard. However he was certain that other people knew of the existence of the books. They had been in Carrington’s family for a hundred years and there was no suggestion he made any secret about owning them.

  ‘When Mr Carrington opened the safe, did he mention what the combination was?’

  ‘The combination?’ Maltravers’s mind raced as the question triggered suggestions. ‘No, he just opened it.’

  ‘Could you see what the combination was from where you were standing?’

  ‘No, it was on the other side of the room.’

  ‘And was anyone next to Mr Carrington at the time? Or perhaps nearer than you were?’

  Maltravers frowned as he tried to remember exactly where everybody had been standing, then he shook his head.

  ‘Morris was next to me and Malcolm and Howard were discussing some pictures on the wall near the fireplace. Lydden was looking at a book on the other side of the room.’ He paused. ‘You want to know if one of them could have seen the numbers, don’t you? That’s impossible. They’d have needed better eyesight than a hawk. I think I was the only one watching him, and all I could make out was that it was a combination lock.’

  But of course, he told himself, you’re also telling me that the safe had not been forced, so somebody knew how to operate it—or made Carrington do it for them. But that meant…

  ‘Just a minute!’ He stared at Moore in bewilderment. ‘You’re saying the safe had been opened by somebody aren’t you? I’m sorry, sergeant, but that’s impossible.’

  ‘I’m afraid it’s been done, so it can’t have been.’

  ‘Well it is,’ Maltravers replied bluntly. ‘Unless you can explain this. Charles Carrington told me he was the only person who knew the combination for that safe and there was no reason why he should lie about that. And the safe has a duress signal fitted—you must know how they work.’

  ‘Naturally.’ Moore replied cautiously. ‘What do you know about them?’

  ‘It’s an alarm system where if someone forces you to open your safe, you add one number to the combination. The safe opens all right, but the moment you put in the extra number, a bell rings at a central control. There’s no sound in the house of course. The centre immediately calls the police and can tell them exactly where someone is in trouble. It’s very sophisticated. Did you receive such a call?’

  ‘I’d have to check, but I’m not aware of it,’ Moore acknowledged.

  ‘Then you see what it means. If someone had experimented with the dial hoping to stumble across the right combination—and they’d only have one chance in a hundred million of success—the alarm would also go off. On the other hand, Charles would have put in the special number if he was being made to open it. Either way, the balloon goes up.’

  ‘Perhaps he didn’t add the number.’

  ‘Oh, come on,’ Maltravers said disparagingly. ‘There’s no point in having a system like that if you don’t use it.’

  Moore looked thoughtful for a moment. ‘Would you excuse me, please?’

  He left the interview room and Maltravers began to try and think of answers. The alarm would operate down a telephone line and could be cut off by severing the wire—but the police would discover that. Was the system simply out of order? Possible, but that could also be checked. Then would Carrington have told him he was the only one who knew the combination when there was someone else? Maltravers could see no reason to believe that. He was still wrestling with it when Moore returned.

  ‘We received no alarm call,’ he admitted. ‘We’ll examine the safe, but unless the system’s faulty or was cut off, I have to agree with you. So how was it done?’

  ‘Don’t ask me. But I’ll be fascinated to learn the answer.’

  An hour later he signed his statement and was told he could leave; his car had been brought from Carwelton Hall to the police station. Charlotte Quinn was waiting for him in the foyer.

  ‘They told me you wouldn’t be long,’ she said. ‘Will you come back to the flat with me? I don’t want to be alone at the moment.’

  ‘Why don’t you come with me to Brook Cottage?’ he suggested. ‘I must t
ell Malcolm and Lucinda what’s happened and they’ll want to see you. Anyway your car’s still there.’

  ‘Of course it is. I’d forgotten.’

  She sounded weary, as though the simple practicalities of collecting her car were too much to deal with. Maltravers took her arm as they walked to the police station car-park and could feel her trembling. As they drove out of Kendal across the River Kent towards Attwater, she sat with her head bowed, unconsciously folding and opening a handkerchief on her lap. When Maltravers reached across and pressed her hand comfortingly, she looked away and said nothing. Lucinda and Malcolm appeared out of the cottage as they arrived.

  ‘We’ve heard.’ Even in the darkness, Maltravers could see she had been weeping. ‘The reporter doing police calls at the Chronicle picked it up and Malcolm rang me at school. I tried to call both of you, but there was no reply and we guessed you must know something about it when we found Charlotte’s car here.’

  She walked over to Charlotte Quinn and hugged her. ‘I’m so very, very sorry.’ She held her arm around the other woman’s shoulders as she led her into Brook Cottage and through to a chair in the living-room.

  While they listened to Maltravers relate the events of the afternoon, Lucinda made constant quiet gestures towards Charlotte, touching her gently from time to time, consoling with sympathetic, concerned smiles. As he lit a cigarette, Maltravers noticed that his hands were shaking.

  ‘That’s all we know. But there are a few things I’ve worked out from questions they asked me. Charles was killed with a shotgun and there is an unanswerable problem about how the safe was opened.’ He explained about the duress signal and the combination. ‘And something else has occurred to me. If the murderer meant to force Charles to open the safe, not knowing about the alarm, how did they know he was due home early instead of whatever time he usually arrives in the evening?’

  ‘How did you know?’ asked Malcolm.

  ‘Because Charles mentioned it this morning when he dropped off the Sherlock Holmes manuscript. That’s when he said Jennifer was spending the day in Manchester.’

  ‘And did she?’ It was the first time Charlotte Quinn had spoken since they entered the cottage. The rest of them looked uncomfortable.

  ‘What do you mean, Charlotte?’ Lucinda asked cautiously. ‘She would have known Charles was coming back in the afternoon,’ she replied. ‘She could have been there.’

  ‘That’s a big conclusion to jump to,’ Maltravers said quietly. ‘Isn’t it just?’

  An echoing silence followed the remark, then Lucinda stood up.

  ‘I’m going to start supper. Can you give me a hand, dear?’ Charlotte held Maltravers’s gaze defiantly as Malcolm went with his wife into the kitchen.

  ‘And would it really make it any better if it was her?’ he asked.

  She looked away into the fire for a long time. Searing hatred was smothering the grief etched in her face as she turned away from the flames.

  ‘In some ways it would. Except that they won’t hang the bitch.’

  Her eyes went back to the fire to prevent him seeing anything more that was in them. Since calling Charles Carrington, she had been dragged through a swirling rack of emotions; apprehension at finally telling him, relief and rushing renewed hope at his wanting to see her, horror and anguish at the sight of his body. While she had been waiting for Maltravers at the police station, she was aware that something had happened to her. She could not yet identify the sensation now appearing in the dark, convulsive pit of her feelings, but when her numbness and paralysis began to fade she would know it and face it and obey it.

  *

  Jennifer Carrington started as she saw the police car outside Carwelton Hall. She stopped behind it and a policewoman got out and walked up to her car as she wound down the window anxiously.

  ‘Mrs Carrington? I’m sorry, but I’m afraid there’s been an accident.’

  ‘An accident?’ She opened the door, leaving the engine running. ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘One of my colleagues inside will tell you.’

  Confused thoughts tumbled through her mind as she followed the policewoman to the front door, which had been opened while they had been talking. A man was standing in the light; like the police, he should not have been there.

  ‘Dr Bryant?’ She shook her head in confusion. ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘Come in please, Jennifer.’ Bryant led her into the lounge then sat beside her on the settee. Two other men were in the room and she stared at all of them in confusion. ‘These gentlemen are from the police and have asked me to be here because I have some bad news. I’m dreadfully sorry, but Charles is dead…all right, I’ve got her!’

  Jennifer Carrington slumped into his arms with a moan as the policewoman leapt forward.

  ‘Bring my bag,’ Bryant said as he supported her. ‘On the table.’

  The policewoman held Jennifer Carrington while he filled a hypodermic from a small phial of colourless liquid.

  ‘This won’t knock her out, but it will calm her.’ He pumped the syringe to remove any air. ‘She’ll be able to answer your questions. Give me her arm.’

  He pushed up the wide coat sleeve and was about to make the injection when Jennifer Carrington’s eyelids fluttered and she straightened up.

  ‘It’s all right, I…’ She pulled her arm away. The pretence of fainting had given her time to think, but she did not want any sort of drug in her. She needed to keep her mind clear while she discovered exactly what had gone wrong.

  ‘I’m sorry. Just a moment.’ She breathed very deeply. ‘That’s better. I don’t need anything. Just…just tell me what’s happened.’

  ‘Mr Carrington was found dead this afternoon, madam. It appears he was murdered. We were told you were spending the day in Manchester and had no means of contacting you. We’re sorry to have to question you at a time like this, but this is a very urgent matter.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said hesitantly. ‘Yes, of course. But who found him?’

  ‘A Mrs Quinn. She called us immediately.’

  ‘Charlotte?’ New, urgent questions raced through Jennifer Carrington’s brain. ‘But what was she doing here? What time was this?’

  ‘Mrs Quinn called us shortly after four-fifteen. She had come here to meet your husband.’

  Why? Jennifer Carrington was about to ask more then decided too many questions might be dangerous. She would have to be very careful.

  ‘I’ll try to help you,’ she said. ‘But can I have a drink please?’

  By the time Bryant had poured it for her, she had prepared herself. She answered calmly as one officer asked questions while the other took notes. She had last seen her husband shortly before half past seven when he had left for the office and she had set off for Manchester herself half an hour later. Everything had been normal. He had been due back in the afternoon to change for a Masonic lodge meeting in Carlisle. His secretary would know what time he left the office and it would have taken him about half an hour to reach Attwater. Then the police asked about the safe in the library.

  ‘The safe?’ She looked puzzled. ‘What’s the matter with it?’

  ‘The safe was empty when we found your husband’s body, Mrs Carrington. We believe the murderer must have stolen the contents.’

  They were approaching the moment Jennifer Carrington had rehearsed over and over again, but now the script had been altered. She took another sip from her glass, trying to decide how to play the new scenario. She had to make some comment about the safe.

  ‘Charles kept some very valuable books in there,’ she said.

  ‘Who knew about them?’

  ‘All sorts of people.’ Jennifer Carrington shrugged and looked helpless. ‘You knew didn’t you, Dr Bryant? About the Sherlock Holmes books? Lots of our friends did. Charles’s partner and…there must be others. I can’t tell you them all.’

  ‘We’ll need to know everyone you can remember Mrs Carrington. Nothing else appears to have been taken, although we’ll
need your assistance to confirm that. Perhaps if you could come…’

  The CID man stopped as Jennifer Carrington suddenly cried out; she had decided it was too risky trying to change her story at the last minute. This had to come out now as planned.

  ‘No!’ Bryant, who was still sitting next to her, jumped as she screamed, dropping her glass and leaping to her feet. He stood up and took hold of her arm, but she shook him off violently. ‘No, he can’t have! I never thought he…oh, God!’

  The policemen looked at each other sharply as she started to cry hysterically. A pool of whisky from the lead crystal tumbler at her feet seeped into the carpet. Bryant and the policewoman made her sit down again. The CID officers waited silently.

  ‘Who can’t have what, Mrs Carrington?’ one of them asked finally.

  There was no reply as she sat with her head lowered; she appeared numbed, but she found that her mind was now working with surprising clarity. Bryant put his hand under her chin and raised it.

  ‘Jennifer, you must tell them everything you can,’ he said. ‘You know something don’t you? What is it?’

  Her face was guilty as she turned to the police again.

  ‘I’ve been having an affair,’ she said tonelessly. ‘With…with a man called Duggie Lydden. And he once talked about stealing those books.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘I’m not sure…a few weeks ago, perhaps more.’

  ‘Do you know if this person owns a shotgun?’

  ‘A shotgun? Do you mean…?’ She looked appalled. ‘I’m not sure, but…yes I think he does.’

  ‘And how did Mr Lydden plan to steal the books?’

  She bowed her head again and began to turn the engagement-ring on her finger abstractedly. Then she reached down and picked up the fallen glass, putting it on the occasional table beside her.

  ‘I’m not sure he actually planned it, he just talked about it. He owes my husband money and I know he was having difficulty keeping up the repayments. He’d said things were getting very serious and…’ She hesitated. ‘I’m sorry, perhaps I’m wrong. I told him at the time not to be so stupid. But when you said you wanted me to tell you everybody who knew about the books, I suddenly remembered…I could be dreadfully wrong…I thought he was just joking. He must have been.’