by Eric Brown
‘Well, I couldn’t very well have left you down there.’
‘I appreciate it. You’re a scholar and a gentleman, sir.’
The colonel took a liberal mouthful of Scotch, swilled it around his gums like mouthwash, then said, ‘I hope you don’t have me down as a buffoon, Langham.’
‘Perish the thought.’
‘Only … Dammit, spent years serving the King, and then Rommel blows me to bits. On the scrapheap at forty. Hard to take. Army doesn’t want cripples. Offered me a desk job, I’ll give ’em that. Did I want to spend the rest of me days pen-pushing? Like ruddy hell I did!’
Langham sipped his drink. ‘What did you do?’
Colonel Haxby smiled. ‘Went into insurance. Ended up pushing a pen. Then last year wangled early retirement on account of the old pin. Or lack of.’
‘Well done,’ Langham said. He paused, then said, ‘About yesterday …’
‘If you’re going to ask me what passed between me and Connaught, Langham, don’t bother. Water under the bridge. I want to forget about it. Move on.’
‘Understood,’ Langham said. He gestured towards the group near the window. ‘Shall we join them?’
‘Lead the way.’
Charles was in full spate, describing his ineptitude, as a youth, in the Officer Training Corps at Winchester. ‘I tried – oh, how I tried – but the knack of keeping in step with the rest of my platoon was quite beyond me – an affliction that has followed me throughout my life, I might say.’
Wilson Royce glanced at his watch. ‘Gosh, it’s almost six thirty. I wonder what’s keeping his nibs?’
‘Whatever it is,’ the colonel muttered, ‘I’m not complaining. Quite pleasant without him, what?’
‘Even so, I’d better go and fetch him.’ Royce excused himself and slipped out through the French windows.
The colonel sniffed. ‘Is it me, or is something on fire?’
‘I do detect a certain singed odour in the air,’ Charles agreed.
Pandora said, ‘That’ll be Royce. I saw him burning papers in a brazier round the back this afternoon. Prodding at it with a long stick like a little boy.’
The colonel gestured to everyone’s glasses. ‘Drink up. That’s the spirit. I’ll do the honours. Three G and Ts, a sherry for Lady Cee and Scotch for me and Royce.’
‘I’ll say this for Connaught,’ Pandora said, ‘he doesn’t keep a lock on the drinks cabinet.’
‘Well, he can afford to be generous,’ the colonel said. ‘Those books of his sell in their thousands.’ He moved to the bar.
Langham glanced through the French windows. He was surprised to see Wilson Royce standing on the lawn, staring into the drawing room, a hand raised to his forehead. He looked as if he was about to be sick or pass out.
Langham touched Maria’s hand and murmured, ‘Back in a tick.’
He slipped through the French windows and approached the young man. ‘Wilson, what the devil …’
Royce looked stricken, his face pale. ‘I … I think you’d better come.’
‘What—’
Behind him, he heard Charles call out, ‘Is everything all right, my boy?’
Before Langham could reply, Royce took his arm and almost dragged him away from the house. ‘It’s Connaught,’ he said, his voice cracking.
In silence, the two men hurried across the lawn and around the boxwood hedge.
FIFTEEN
They approached Connaught’s study and Royce pointed to the open door. ‘In there,’ he said needlessly.
Langham stepped inside and looked around. What he expected to see, and didn’t, was Denbigh Connaught, and his absence seemed to fill the room.
Langham turned to Royce. ‘I don’t see …’
Wilson Royce was sitting on the step, holding his head in his hands. He almost moaned, ‘Behind the piano.’
Then Langham did see Connaught, or rather saw his head, and he wondered how he’d managed to miss it initially.
The novelist lay on his side in the narrow space between the piano and the wall. Something was caught around the man’s neck – a thin wire terminating in two loops, where presumably the killer had gripped the wire with such ferocity that Connaught’s throat appeared to be sliced through to the spine. His face was horribly white, drained of the life blood which had spilled across the polished parquet in a great crimson slick as if a paint pot had been overturned.
‘I say,’ Charles called from outside, ‘what is it, my boy?’
Langham returned to the entrance. Beside Charles, Maria had her fingertips pressed to her lips, her eyes wide. The colonel frowned, clutching his drink. Pandora Jade was frowning at Royce, who still sat on the step with his head in his hands.
‘I’m afraid Connaught is dead,’ Langham said. ‘Royce, back to the house quick-smart and ring the police, would you?’
Wilson Royce remained frozen on the step, as if deaf to Langham’s command.
Maria said, ‘I’ll go.’ She turned and hurried back across the lawn.
‘I think the rest of you should return to the drawing room,’ Langham said. ‘The police will be here shortly and they won’t want people milling around.’
‘Dead?’ Pandora said, staring at him. ‘What happened, Langham?’
‘Heart attack, I shouldn’t wonder,’ Colonel Haxby opined. ‘The old boy did like the good life, and he could put it away with the best of us.’ Suiting action to the words, he drained his glass.
Pandora said, ‘But why should the police be called if—’
Charles interrupted, ‘I think we should heed Donald’s suggestion and repair to the house.’ He shepherded Pandora and the colonel away from the study.
Pandora stood firm. ‘Just how did he die, Langham?’
Royce looked up at her. ‘Connaught was murdered,’ he said.
‘What?’ Pandora exclaimed with horror.
‘If you’d all kindly return to the house …’ Langham suggested.
This time Pandora allowed herself to be led away as if in a daze.
‘Good God!’ the colonel declared, clutching Charles’s arm as they moved off. ‘I never cared for the fellow, but murdered?’
Langham checked his wristwatch, then looked down at Wilson Royce. ‘Was the study door locked when you came to summon Connaught – what? – five or six minutes ago?’
‘Of course,’ Royce said. ‘He always keeps it locked. I knocked a few times and called his name. When there was no reply … It’s most unlike him not to respond – that is, on the few occasions I’ve had to summon him.’
‘So when there was no reply, you unlocked the door?’
‘That’s right.’
He looked at the young man. ‘But I thought you said yesterday that the spare key was kept under the stairs?’
‘It is, but it’s on the same keyring as his old study key, and as I was clearing out the study this afternoon’ – he pulled the keyring from his pocket to show Langham – ‘I still had it in my pocket.’
‘Look,’ Langham said, ‘I’d join the others if I were you and fix yourself a stiff drink.’
Royce stirred himself. ‘Yes. Yes, of course.’
Langham watched the young man as he stood and wandered off towards the house, clearly in shock.
He turned and surveyed the study. The piano with the corpse lodged behind it was positioned at two o’clock, relative to where he stood at the door; diametrically opposite, at eight o’clock, was a small two-seater settee, two wicker chairs and a coffee table bearing a portable typewriter. A faded, threadbare Persian rug covered the parquet floor.
All the windows were closed, and none appeared to have been forced. The skylight was closed too. The killer could only have entered through the door. So the killer had a copy of the key, or had managed to take it from Wilson Royce’s possession and return it without his knowledge. Alternatively, Connaught might have let the killer in himself.
He moved to the piano, knelt and examined the corpse. The gap between the piano and
the wall was about two feet wide; there appeared to have been no struggle. Connaught must have been standing behind the piano with his back to his killer when the latter approached, looped the wire over his head, and strangled him. The corpse had not been moved after the attack, as there was no blood in evidence anywhere else on the parquet or the rug.
Connaught’s left arm was pinned under his body, his right arm outstretched above his head. His fingertips were unbloodied, which suggested that death or unconsciousness must have been swift, leaving him with little or no time to fight off his attacker.
What was striking was the obvious force with which the killer had committed the deed. This was no mere strangulation, but a severing of the windpipe and jugular. Blood was splashed across the back of the piano and across the timber-board cladding below the window: the killer must have been covered with the stuff, too. Also, he must have worn gloves to ensure that his hands had not been sliced by the looped wire of the garrotte.
He reached out and touched Connaught’s cheek and then his brow. The flesh was still warm. He estimated that Connaught had been dead for perhaps two or three hours.
He stood and stared out at the sparkling sea in the distance. He could just make out the muted drone of the electric motor, somewhere beneath the study, which turned the structure as slowly as the hour hand of a clock.
Fifteen minutes later, he heard voices outside and turned to see Wilson Royce leading a plain-clothes officer and a uniformed constable across the lawn. The constable stationed himself outside the study while the officer stepped inside, nodded at Langham, and examined the body.
He introduced himself as Detective Sergeant Greaves, a small man in his thirties with a pencil moustache and a trilby perched on the back of his head. ‘And you are?’
Langham displayed his private investigator accreditation. ‘I happen to be a guest at the house,’ he explained. ‘Nothing’s been touched or disturbed. Wilson Royce, Connaught’s business manager, discovered the body at approximately six thirty. The door was locked and Royce used his own key to enter when Connaught failed to reply.’
Greaves nodded. ‘A detective inspector’s on his way from Plymouth,’ he said. He moved around the back of the piano and stared down at the corpse. ‘Christ, whoever did this certainly meant business. A man, by the look of it. Damned near took the chap’s head off.’
‘A strong woman might have done it,’ Langham said. ‘That’s piano wire.’
‘Gone through his flesh as if it were cheese. Lord, you see some sights in this job.’ He shook his head. ‘Just wait till the press gets to hear about this. Have a field day, they will.’
He backed out from behind the piano. ‘Right, let’s get back to the house and see what the guests have to say for themselves.’
Everyone was gathered in the drawing room, with a police constable stationed outside the door. According to Royce, Watkins and the cook had been given the Sunday off: dinner was to have been a cold collation, set up by the cook the previous night. Royce himself had taken a selection of meats and salad from the refrigerator and larder at five.
He told everyone this as they sat around on armchairs and sofas before the empty hearth. He was white-faced and shaking, and was evidently still in shock. Langham moved to the bar and poured himself a Scotch; Maria joined him.
‘Drink?’ Langham asked.
‘Just a tonic water,’ she said. ‘Poor Wilson. He’s beside himself. He hasn’t stopped talking since we got back here.’
‘Shock,’ he said.
They returned to the little gathering, where Detective Sergeant Greaves was addressing the group. ‘I’d like to get the groundwork done before the big guns get here. There’s a library next door, so I’ll see you in there one by one.’ He consulted his notebook. ‘Right, I’ll start with Mr Wilson Royce. If you’d kindly follow me.’
Royce rose to his feet like an automaton and the two men left the room.
Lady Cecelia, seated on a sofa beside Charles, stared through the French windows and dabbed at her eyes from time to time with a silk kerchief. She alone was without a drink.
Pandora looked up from her gin and tonic. ‘You said he was murdered, Langham?’ Her round, powdered face, with its painted lips and mascaraed eyes, looked grotesque.
He stirred himself to reply. ‘That’s right.’
‘But how? I mean, did someone shoot him?’
He looked at the woman. ‘I don’t think Greaves would thank me if I divulged that.’
‘Poor Annabelle!’ Pandora said. ‘Someone must tell her. I need to go and see her …’
‘No doubt the police will see to that,’ Langham assured her.
The colonel occupied an armchair with his artificial leg stretched out before him. ‘Let’s face it,’ he said, knocking back his whisky, ‘we all detested the rogue. I know I did. I admit it. Detested the man.’
‘I didn’t.’ It was the first time that Lady Cecelia had spoken since Langham had entered the room.
She looked at them one by one, smiling bravely. ‘Oh, I know Denbigh could be difficult. But one must make allowances, mustn’t one? He was a great novelist, a great man despite … despite his frequent anger, and he was very generous.’ She sighed. ‘And now, if you don’t mind, I will have a drink. If someone would be so good as to pour me a small sherry …’
Langham did the honours, and had just delivered the drink when Sergeant Greaves appeared at the door and called his name.
The interview was over in five minutes. He gave his name, profession and his connection to the dead man: he explained that he’d come down with his wife, a literary agent, here on business. Greaves asked him where he was between the times of one and five that afternoon, and he told the sergeant that he’d been with his wife and Annabelle Connaught, the dead man’s daughter, from noon until a little after five o’clock. He confirmed that Wilson Royce had found the body at approximately six thirty and that he, Langham, had been the second person on the scene of the crime. Greaves thanked him and he returned to the drawing room.
The sergeant interviewed everyone in the course of the next half hour, and at seven thirty a black car, accompanied by a police ambulance, drew up beside the house. Langham moved to the French windows and watched as Greaves greeted the new arrivals and led two plain-clothes officers, a police photographer, a doctor and a forensic scientist towards the study.
Maria joined him. ‘I don’t think they’ll get much out of the colonel.’
Langham looked at the old soldier. He was almost horizontal in the armchair, snoring quietly. Someone had taken the empty glass from his loose fingers. Pandora was seated beside Lady Cecelia, doing her best to comfort her. Wilson Royce hunched forward on his chair, hugging himself, his eyes shut.
In due course, Greaves and the two plain-clothes men from Plymouth appeared from behind the hedge and approached the house. The trio entered the drawing room by the French windows and paused, discussing the case as they regarded the suspects. Langham had never felt more like a goldfish.
The detectives crossed to the group and the tallest man introduced himself as Detective Inspector Harper and his deputy as Detective Sergeant Shaw. ‘Same procedure as Greaves put you through, I’m afraid. Same order as before, in the library. Mr Royce …’
Wilson Royce opened his eyes as if startled, then stood and followed the men from the room.
This round of interviews, as was to be expected, lasted longer than the first; it was twenty minutes before Wilson Royce returned, somewhat dazed, and crossed to the bar. Langham smiled at Maria and left the room.
Detective Inspector Harper was a tired-looking, thin-faced man in his sixties, with a manner that suggested he’d investigated so many murders in his time that one more, even that of a distinguished novelist, left him unmoved.
Langham repeated everything he’d told Greaves about the discovery of the body, and then Harper said, ‘And my colleague mentioned that you’re a private investigator.’
Langham explained that althou
gh he was here to accompany his wife, he was also being employed by Annabelle Connaught to investigate Wilson Royce.
‘Royce? What does she suspect him of?’ Harper asked with a slight Cornish burr, glancing at his deputy.
‘That’s the thing – she doesn’t know. She merely had the suspicion that, as her father’s business manager, Royce was up to something.’
‘And what do you think?’
‘I’ve only been on the case a couple of days, and I must admit I’ve found nothing untoward as of yet.’
Harper nodded and said to Detective Sergeant Shaw, ‘I take it that Connaught’s daughter has been informed?’
‘That’s right, sir. The locals saw to that.’
‘I’ll see her in the morning, find out what she has against Royce.’
Langham said, ‘The dead man’s brother, Monty Connaught, was staying in the village—’
Harper interrupted, ‘Sergeant Greaves was aware of the fact, apparently, and made arrangements for Connaught to be informed.’ He closed his notebook. ‘Very well, that’ll be all for now. Ask Mr Elder if he’d come along, would you?’
Langham slipped from the room, drawing the door behind him but not fully closing it. He heard Harper sigh. ‘Do you know what I’m tempted to do, Shaw?’ the detective inspector said.
‘What’s that, sir?’
‘We’re on a sticky wicket here. Connaught’s famous, and if we don’t get a result, and soon, Super’ll drag us over the ruddy coals. When we’re done here tonight, I’ll suggest we get in the big guns from the Yard, OK? Dump the lot in their lap.’ He yawned. ‘Christ, I’m retiring in three weeks and I don’t like the idea of falling at the last hurdle.’
The younger man said, ‘Feather in your cap if you did wrap it up, though.’
‘Shaw, you get to my age and you don’t give a tinker’s damn for the Super’s pat on the back. Give me my pipe and a pint and I’m a happy man. Right-ho … Now who’s this Elder chappie?’
‘Charles Elder,’ Shaw said. ‘A fruit, according to Greaves. Some kind of literary agent.’
Langham hurried back to the drawing room and gave Charles the nod.
At nine, with everyone interviewed, the world-weary Harper returned to the drawing room and stood before them like a headmaster about to give his end-of-term address.
