The Book of the Dead

by Robert Richardson

  ‘We’ll have to talk to him. Can you give us his address? And in the circumstances I must ask you to accompany us to the police station so that…no, I’m sorry doctor, Mrs Carrington seems able to give us a statement. You may come as well if you wish.’

  Bryant took her in his car, one of the CID men sitting in the back. She had worked out the dangers of the new situation, but could do nothing about it. She had to blame Duggie Lydden. After she had repeated it in her statement, despite Bryant’s protests, the police said she would have to remain in custody until they made further enquiries. As a policewoman stood by the door, Jennifer Carrington sat in an interview room, sipping a cup of tea impassively. One thing had gone wrong, but with everything else that had been done it could still work.

  *

  ‘Mr Douglas Lydden? My name is Detective Sergeant Donald Moore from Cumbria CID and these are two of my colleagues. We are investigating a serious offence earlier this evening and wish to talk to you about it.’

  Lydden scowled as he looked at the large and forbidding plainclothes men on his front step, shadowy and menacing against the silver-blue neon light of the lamppost opposite. It was nearly half past eleven and he had just returned from a pub. Out of habit, he had made a pass at the barmaid and had been angrily warned off by her boyfriend who he had not realised was standing at the other end of the bar. It had been a humiliating end to a bad day.

  ‘Serious offence?’ His voice slurred. ‘What’s it got to do with me?’

  ‘We would prefer to discuss that inside if you don’t mind, sir.’ Moore’s impassive, patient official courtesy was very calm, but carried tangible irresistibility.

  ‘And if I do mind? Do you know what bloody time it is?’

  ‘We’re fully aware of that, sir. I must advise you that we have a warrant to search these premises.’

  ‘A warrant?’ Lydden looked alarmed. ‘I want my solicitor here.’

  ‘Perhaps we can come in while you call him.’

  For a moment, Lydden appeared ready to argue then stalked back into the house without a word, leaving the door open. When the police entered the front room, he was at the telephone. He swore as he misdialled, then tried again.

  ‘Jack? Duggie Lydden. I’ve got the bloody police here and they say they’ve got a search warrant. Get over here…I don’t give a shit if you’re in bed, I want you here now!’

  The solicitor arrived after quarter of an hour and asked to see the warrant then advised Lydden to cooperate. Before the search began, Moore asked a question.

  ‘Do you own a shotgun, sir?’

  Lydden looked defensive. ‘What if I do?’

  ‘We’d like to see it, please.’

  Lydden glanced at his solicitor who nodded, then he went into the hall and opened the door of a cupboard under the stairs. He stepped inside and almost immediately came out again.

  ‘It’s not there.’ He seemed surprised. ‘Someone must have stolen it.’

  ‘Under the conditions of your firearms certificate, you are required to keep a shotgun in a secure place,’ Moore commented. There was no lock on the cupboard door. ‘Has there been a break-in at this house to your knowledge? No? Very well. When did you last see the weapon?’

  Lydden shook his head, clearing muddled thoughts. ‘About a week ago I think. It’s usually there with the cartridges.’

  ‘So you keep both gun and ammunition together in an insecure place?’ Moore challenged mildly. ‘That is another offence.’

  ‘Sergeant, aren’t you being a little heavy-handed?’ the solicitor objected. ‘Three of you arriving at this time of night for a minor breach of firearms regulations? Really.’

  ‘It’s not a minor breach, but that’s not why we’re here,’ Moore corrected. ‘We are now going to search this house.’

  At one o’clock in the morning, Moore told Lydden he was under arrest and cautioned him. In the loft the police had found a case containing the Sherlock Holmes books and the letters about them which Charles Carrington had also kept in the safe. After Lydden had given a statement about his movements during the day, the police questioned Jennifer Carrington again. Then both of them were held in custody.

  6

  Spread on the invisible grapevine of a close community, news of the death of Charles Carrington raced electrically through Kendal and its surrounding villages the next morning. At Brook Cottage the telephone constantly rang with people excitedly asking Lucinda if she had heard, then almost invariably adding comments of their own. One said it was well known that Charles Carrington had received threats on his life, although she had not the slightest idea who had made them or for what reason. Another insisted—with a distinct air of satisfaction—that Jennifer had already been charged. Three different men were confidently named as the killer; one was even said to have made a full confession. Conflicting explanations involved various combinations of murderers and death by gunshot, knife or strangulation. Maltravers found a certain black humour in it all.

  The first definite information came when Malcolm rang with details from a police press conference.

  ‘They’ve confirmed everything we know,’ he told Maltravers. ‘And someone is helping with enquiries. You know the usual line.’

  ‘Are they saying who it is?’

  ‘No, but you can’t keep something like that quiet in Kendal. The word is that it’s Duggie Lydden. Pick the bones out of that.’

  ‘Duggie Lydden? Christ.’ Maltravers felt disgust. He had hardly known Charles Carrington, but was appalled that someone could have murdered him. That the killer might turn out to be his wife’s lover he found particularly repulsive, a civilised man’s violent death besmirched by an additional sordidness. ‘And what about Jennifer?’

  ‘Mrs Carrington is also continuing to assist the Cumbria CID with their investigation. And I quote. She’s in police custody.’

  ‘Were they in it together then?’

  ‘They’ve pulled them both in quickly enough. No charges yet though.’

  Maltravers thought for a moment. ‘Does Charlotte know all this?’

  ‘I imagine so. Just about everybody else seems to,’ said Malcolm. ‘Hell, she was bitter enough when she left us last night. She’ll go berserk if it turns out that Jennifer really was in it with him. I’ll keep you posted if I hear anything else.’

  Lucinda looked questioningly as Maltravers rang off, then dismay spread across her face as he told her.

  ‘Duggie Lydden! God, I knew he was a bastard, but…’ She shook her head as if trying to dispel something revolting. ‘And Jennifer as well!’

  ‘We don’t know anything for certain,’ Maltravers pointed out. ‘The police haven’t charged either of them yet…but murder is a curiously domestic crime. Most victims are close relatives of their killers.’

  ‘God, it’s sick!’ Lucinda said bitterly. Maltravers watched her walk into the kitchen and start to clear the breakfast things. Suddenly she raised a plate above her head, smashing it down on to the edge of the sink with a cry, then stared at the broken pieces at her feet.

  ‘Just leave me alone, Gus.’ Without looking at him, she held her hand out warningly as he moved towards her from the living-room. ‘I’ll be all right. I just don’t like hating people this much.’

  *

  Unshaven and haggard from a pounding hangover and lack of sleep, Duggie Lydden looked resentfully at Detective Chief Superintendent Brian Lambert across the plastic top of a table in the interview room at Kendal police station. The officer in charge of the murder enquiry was a Falstaffian figure, fingers like sausages and a concertina of jowls rippling below his chin. But his voluminous, clumsy physique swathed in a brown suit containing enough material for a modest tent, smothered the fact that his mind could move as fast as the whippets he bred. Disproportionately small eyes, sharp as shreds of coal, flashed swiftly through two sheets of paper with Lydden’s signature at the bottom. Wary and attentive, Lydden’s solicitor sat at one end of the table across which the other two men faced each
other. Lambert put the papers down.

  ‘Just to go over your statement again, Mr Lydden.’ His voice was like a great engine rumbling in the hollows of a tunnel. ‘You went to Carwelton Hall shortly after one o’clock yesterday afternoon where Mrs Carrington was waiting for you. You went to bed with her then left about an hour later, after which you returned to your shop in Stricklandgate and spent the rest of the afternoon stocktaking. Is that correct?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you wish to add to that statement or amend it in any way?’

  ‘No.’

  Lambert’s wooden chair creaked alarmingly, legs bowing outwards as he leaned back, dropping the statement on the table and rubbing a thumb fat as an egg against the side of his nose.

  ‘Mrs Carrington has informed us that she left Carwelton Hall early yesterday morning, spent the entire day shopping in Manchester and did not return until the evening, by which time the police were at the house,’ he said blandly. The solicitor glanced sharply at his client. ‘Do you have any explanation as to why she should tell us that?’

  ‘She’s lying.’

  ‘One of you certainly is,’ Lambert commented impassively. ‘Have you yet remembered any witnesses to your movements during the afternoon, particularly between about three forty-five and a quarter past four?’

  Lydden shook his head. ‘No. But somebody could have seen my car in the yard behind the shop.’

  ‘Enquiries are continuing, but so far we’ve found nobody who can vouch for your statement,’ Lambert told him. ‘However, I should advise you that Mrs Carrington has been able to produce certain evidence to corroborate her story and, from what we have been able to ascertain at this stage, it appears to be correct.’

  Lydden made no response, but his solicitor shuffled uncomfortably in his seat.

  ‘And do you now have any explanation for…’ Lambert’s body eased forward with the menace of a toppling rock and he picked up the papers again, consulting them briefly and unnecessarily, ‘…the discovery in your house of ten volumes of a book by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and other documents, known to have been the property of Mr Charles Carrington?’ Deceptively bland, pinprick eyes questioned beneath elevated eyebrows.

  ‘I’ve told you already. I don’t know how they got there.’

  ‘And you still have no idea where your shotgun is?’

  ‘The last time I saw it, it was in the cupboard. It must have been stolen.’

  Lambert regarded him in silence for a long time before Lydden’s eyes dropped to the table again.

  ‘Mr Lydden, you could save everybody a great deal of time if…’ Lambert began with exaggerated patience. Lydden exploded into anger.

  ‘I’ve got nothing more to say! I’ve told you the bloody truth and she’s lying! Now either fucking well charge me or let me out of here!’

  The superintendent paused, then leaned heavily on the table top and heaved himself up, collecting the papers as he did so. More than six feet four inches tall, it was as awe-inspiring as seeing a whale slowly raising its mass out of the sea.

  ‘Your solicitor will confirm that the police have a right to hold a suspect for questioning, initially for up to twenty-four hours, Mr Lydden,’ he said. ‘If necessary we can request a further period of police detention. Our enquiries are continuing. I think it will be best if you discuss your situation further with your lawyer.’

  The bleak room seemed suddenly empty as he walked out and went to the office set up for his use, where Moore was waiting with a fax report.

  ‘From Manchester police, sir,’ he said. ‘Further support for Mrs Carrington’s account of her movements yesterday.’

  Lambert took the document and the great wall of his face creased into a humourless smile as he read it.

  ‘If it goes on at this rate, we may have to let that lady go soon,’ he remarked. ‘She looks well in the clear. What have forensic got?’

  ‘Lydden’s are the only fingerprints on the suitcase,’ Moore replied. ‘And there are only his handprints on the loft. It’s the standard square of wood in the ceiling of the landing that you have to push up.’

  ‘What about on the books?’ Lambert asked.

  ‘Most have no prints at all,’ Moore said. ‘But Mrs Carrington says they were hardly ever taken out of the safe. We’ve only found the victim’s on two of them. Carrington’s are also the only prints on the safe door, but there’s evidence of Lydden’s presence in various parts of the house, including the library. Doesn’t prove anything of course. He was there the other evening for dinner and Mrs Carrington is making no secret of the fact he was her boyfriend. We knew that from Mrs Quinn’s statement before she admitted it herself.’

  Lambert’s whole face trembled like a jelly as he shook his head.

  ‘And still nothing to back up Lydden’s story about being in his shop all afternoon? No? Well perhaps he’ll change it for us, particularly if we can find that shotgun. Any luck so far?’

  ‘No, sir. We’re still searching his house, but it could be anywhere.’

  ‘And what about this question of how the safe was opened?’

  ‘We’ve had the manufacturers check the alarm system and it’s working normally,’ Moore replied. ‘We’ve questioned Mrs Carrington, but it seems certain she didn’t know the combination. Carrington’s partner has been able to confirm that. But somebody opened it, because there’s no way it was forced.’

  Lambert’s tiny eyes almost disappeared as the lids squeezed about them. ‘We’ve got to sort that somehow. Lydden’s hot favourite at the moment, but a defence lawyer could drive a bloody coach and horses through a hole like that. See what you come up with.’

  As Moore left, Lambert lowered his bulk into a chair then read through all the evidence again. The forensic report said Carrington had died instantly and more than a hundred and thirty pellets had been extracted from his body during the post mortem; others had been picked out of the frame of the library door and the wall of the hall. In her statement, Jennifer Carrington insisted she had refused to have anything to do with Lydden’s suggestion to steal the books and had forgotten all about it, convinced he had not been serious.

  Thoughtfully plucking at the thick ripples of flesh below his chin, Lambert considered it all. Finding the shotgun could be a critical factor in forcing Lydden to abandon his version of events with its so far unsupported alibi. That was a straightforward matter of searching. But the safe combination…? Lambert didn’t like that. He was not greatly concerned about Lydden sticking to his story at this stage; he had known villains persist in swearing black was white all the way to the judge sending them down for life. But the apparently impossible could plant reasonable doubts in the mind of a jury. It would solve a lot of problems if Lydden simply made a full confession and explained the currently inexplicable. The police’s initial natural suspicion that Jennifer Carrington could have been involved was fading as evidence to prove she had been in Manchester all day was becoming very persuasive.

  *

  Lucinda was teaching again that afternoon and Maltravers was alone in Brook Cottage when Charlotte Quinn rang.

  ‘Have you heard?’ she asked. ‘About Duggie and her?’

  ‘A certain amount,’ he replied cautiously. ‘Although we’re still waiting to see if Malcolm finds out anything more through the paper.’

  ‘Well, it’s obvious, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘She must be behind it all. And he’s such an idiot that he let her go to Manchester for the day so she’d be in the clear.’

  ‘I’m not sure I follow you.’

  ‘Can’t you see? She must have told him he could share her alibi, that she’d tell the police he was with her. Now she’s double-crossed him. She’ll pretend she knew nothing about it and Duggie won’t be able to prove she did. She’ll have made sure of all the witnesses she needs to prove she was miles away. Christ, she’s been clever.’

  ‘But if that had been their plan, the police would have asked all sorts of questions and the possibility they could
have been giving each other an alibi would have been obvious,’ Maltravers argued.

  ‘Jennifer’s intelligent enough to realise that, but she could have persuaded Duggie it would work. You don’t know how stupid that man is.’

  ‘Then what about that safe? Do you think Charles would have told me he was the only person who knew the combination if it wasn’t true?’

  ‘No,’ she agreed reluctantly. ‘But the police will find out how he did it eventually. I just pray they can prove she was in it as well.’

  ‘You want that a lot, don’t you?’

  ‘You don’t know how much. Do you blame me?’

  Charlotte Quinn slammed the phone down, angrily biting her lips to stop herself crying again. She had shed too many tears for too long for Charles and where had it got her? Now, as something began to crawl out of the pit inside her and identify itself, she heard its increasing, insistent voice temptingly whispering the only absolution.

  *

  At six o’clock that evening Maltravers and Lucinda arrived at Kendal police station and asked the desk sergeant if they could talk to someone investigating the murder. They had finally remembered seeing Duggie Lydden’s car while they were on the Treadle the previous lunchtime.

  ‘I’m sorry we haven’t come forward sooner,’ Maltravers apologised to the detective constable in the interview room. ‘With everything else, it went out of our minds. But we understand you are holding a Mr Douglas Lydden in connection with the death of Charles Carrington.’

  The officer looked at him sharply. ‘How do you know that, sir?’

  ‘My husband is editor of the Cumbrian Chronicle,’ Lucinda explained. ‘He was told by one of their contacts. Anyway, everybody in Kendal knows.’

  ‘Very well.’ The acknowledgement was guarded. ‘Mr Lydden is assisting us with our enquiries. What information do you have?’

  When Lucinda had explained, he questioned her closely about the time and if she was certain it had been Lydden’s car.