Murder Takes a Turn

by Eric Brown

  ‘Not at all,’ Mallory said, leaning forward and offering a light from his Zippo.

  ‘Thank you.’ Connaught leaned back and blew smoke into the air.

  As he watched the man smoke, Langham realized that the mutilated claw served to point up his quiet strength: he was broad across the shoulders, with a thick, well-muscled neck. Not for the first time, he wondered how Monty Connaught had come by his injury.

  Mallory said, ‘I won’t keep you, Mr Connaught. I know you’ve accounted for your whereabouts yesterday afternoon to my colleague here’ – Mallory indicated Greaves – ‘but if you don’t mind, I’d like to go over the same ground.’

  ‘I quite understand, Inspector.’

  ‘So you can confirm that between twelve and six yesterday you were in the Fisherman’s Arms?’

  ‘Or close by, yes. I spent the morning here, going through some old books, and at noon hitched a lift into the village with Donald and Maria. From then on I was with a few friends. We spent around three hours in the Fisherman’s, then went for a wander. I wanted to show them around my ketch in the harbour.’

  ‘And you were with them until …?’

  ‘We went back to the Fisherman’s at four and had another couple of pints, then they left around six. I had a sandwich in the tap room and chatted with a few locals until about eight. I had an early night, went up to my room in the pub and read for an hour. Constable Hampton woke me at eight this morning with the news.’

  ‘I’m sorry. It must have been something of a shock.’

  Connaught pulled on his cigarillo and considered Mallory’s words. ‘If I’m to be perfectly honest, Inspector, I wasn’t that shocked. Saddened, yes, and upset. But, you see, the way my brother treated people, it’s little wonder that someone held a grudge and did what they did.’

  ‘We’ve heard all about his past … indiscretions, shall we say.’ Mallory hesitated. ‘How would you describe your relationship with your brother?’

  ‘I’m not so sure that we had a relationship, as such. I hadn’t seen him for about ten years.’ He shrugged disarmingly and smiled. ‘When we were younger … There was a five-year age difference, which didn’t help. Denbigh was always dictatorial, somewhat arrogant. He found it hard to relate to people he felt were his inferior, and as he considered most people inferior …’ He smiled again. ‘I fell into that category. I was always more practical than academic, unlike my brother, and I think he resented me for that.’

  ‘As the older brother, he inherited the house, I presume?’

  ‘That’s right. When my father died back in ’thirty-eight, the house and its contents went to Denbigh.’

  ‘How did you feel about this?’

  Connaught shrugged his broad shoulders. ‘It was no more than I’d expected. I’ve never been materialistic: I didn’t want the tie of a big house. My father left me two thousand pounds, which allowed me to buy my first boat, which in turn led to my first book.’

  ‘You didn’t resent your brother?’

  ‘For what? His inheritance or his success as a writer?’

  ‘Both.’

  Connaught smiled. ‘Neither, Inspector. As I said, he was welcome to the house, and the fact that he’s lauded as a fine writer doesn’t bother me in the slightest. He’s a better writer than I am; he deserves … deserved … the plaudits.’

  Mallory referred to his notes. ‘I understand that you received a telegram last week. Your brother wished to see you urgently?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘That’s what I wanted to know. The summons was something of a surprise. As I said, I hadn’t seen my brother for ten years. So why the urgency now?’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And at two o’clock yesterday afternoon, in that ridiculous spinning study of his, he told me he was dying.’

  Mallory sat up, staring at the man. ‘Dying?’

  Langham sat back in his chair, taking this in.

  ‘Apparently, he’d been diagnosed with lung cancer last year,’ Connaught went on, ‘and just a month ago he was told that it had spread. His specialist gave him a matter of months – three at the most. He wanted to see me about his will. He told me he was leaving me ten thousand pounds.’

  ‘Do you know if he’d already altered his will to that effect?’

  Connaught smiled. ‘He said he was due to see his solicitor later this week, but had wanted to ensure first that I was satisfied with his bequest.’

  ‘And were you?’

  ‘I considered it very generous, Inspector, and told him so.’

  ‘Do you know the details of his most current will?’

  ‘No, I’ve no idea. I presume the house will go to Annabelle, which is only right, after all.’

  Mallory nodded. ‘Very well … I think that covers everything for the time being, Mr Connaught. Thank you for your time.’

  ‘Don’t mention it.’

  Langham watched Monty Connaught lift his rangy frame from the chair and stride from the drawing room.

  ‘Well,’ Mallory said as the door clicked shut, ‘Denbigh Connaught’s illness explains why he summoned those he’d slighted over the years. He wanted to make amends, apologize while he still had the time.’

  ‘I wondered at his uncharacteristic volte face on that score,’ Langham said.

  He considered what Monty Connaught had told them about his brother’s promise of ten thousand pounds. To Mallory he said, ‘Pandora Jade told me that she’d seen Monty leave the study yesterday with a face like thunder.’

  Mallory frowned. ‘Jade might have misinterpreted his expression. He was probably brooding over his brother’s illness.’

  Langham agreed. ‘That’s certainly possible.’

  Mallory looked at Greaves. ‘Monty Connaught’s alibi for yesterday afternoon – cast iron, is it?’

  Greaves nodded. ‘I questioned Monty Connaught’s friends at the Fisherman’s. Connaught was with them all afternoon. The publican backed up his story, too.’

  Langham said, ‘And anyway, what would his motive be? He stood to inherit ten grand from Denbigh in a few months.’

  Mallory sighed. ‘Right, let’s get this over with. Greaves, run along and fetch Annabelle Connaught, would you?’

  Greaves left the room.

  ‘You’re not going to tell Annabelle about Pandora being her mother, are you?’ Langham asked.

  ‘God, no. I don’t see the relevance, at the moment. If we find anything that might lead us to believe otherwise, then I’ll think again.’

  In due course, the door opened and Greaves ushered Annabelle Connaught into the room.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  On the way to Belsize Park, Ryland stopped at the office in Wandsworth to pick up his service revolver, but left it unloaded. The mere sight of the shooter would be enough to put the frighteners on Mr Harker.

  By the time he pulled up outside the gallery, he had a pretty good idea what kind of scam Wilson Royce might be pulling.

  He just needed Mr Harker to confirm his suspicions.

  Pamela was doodling in a sketchpad when he entered the gallery.

  ‘Nice,’ he said. ‘You’ve got talent. Before you know it, your work’ll be hanging next to this lot.’

  ‘You think so?’ The girl held up her drawing of an elephant. ‘Thing is, it’s quiet here and I get bored, so I’ve got to fill my time doing something. Here, what you said the other day – about that job … You weren’t kidding me?’

  ‘Scout’s honour,’ he said. ‘I’ve been thinking about it. As soon as we move premises. I’ll be in touch.’ He pointed towards the office. ‘Harker in?’

  She nodded. ‘And he’ll be pleased to see you.’

  ‘You’re joking, right?’

  ‘I’m joking. He was in a right tizz when you left the other day.’

  ‘Well, he’ll be in an even bigger tizz when I’ve finished with him this time.’

  She made her lips into the shape of a loose elastic band and crossed
her eyes. ‘Eek!’

  He laughed and crossed to the office door. He knocked, then entered without waiting for a reply.

  ‘Oh,’ Harker said, looking up, ‘it’s you.’

  This time, rather than standing up for the interview, Ryland made himself comfortable. He sat down across the desk from Harker. ‘Developments,’ he said. ‘I thought you’d like to know that your chum, Wilson Royce, he’s just gone and got himself involved in a murder, he has.’

  ‘As I said on Saturday, I hardly know—’

  ‘Shut it, Harker,’ Ryland snapped. ‘I had enough of your lies last time. You know Royce well enough – and I know you introduced him to Signor Venturi.’

  Harker blanched. ‘You’ve no proof.’

  ‘For Christ’s sake,’ Ryland muttered to himself. ‘You know something, Harker? You’re not a good liar. You try, oh, you try so desperately, but the fact is you can’t act. You’re so full of fear that instead of playing it cool, you’re shitting yourself. Don’t want to do another spell in the slammer – is that it?’

  Harker stared at him. ‘What do you want?’

  Ryland sat back in his seat, smiling. ‘That’s better. That’s what I like to hear – a little cooperation. Now listen very carefully to me, Harker, because I don’t like repeating myself. I’m going to ask you a few questions, and you’re going to answer them like a good fellow. Understood?’

  ‘Go on.’

  Ryland crossed his legs, shot his cuffs and said, ‘Why did Wilson Royce pay Venturi a fiver a pop to make copies of eighteenth-century watercolours?’

  Sweat appeared on Harker’s bald pate. ‘I’ve no idea. You should ask Royce—’

  ‘Wrong answer. You know very well. Now, I suggest you tell me what I want to know, or I’ll get nasty. Do you know what that means, Mr Harker?’

  The gallery owner moved his hands from the desktop and hid them on his lap so that Ryland was unable to see them shaking. ‘You can’t threaten me.’

  Ryland sighed. He pulled the revolver from his jacket and laid it on his knee, casually.

  Harker regarded the gun, his eyes wide. ‘You wouldn’t dare …’

  ‘What? I wouldn’t dare shoot you in your great fat gut? You know something, Harker, you’re very right. I wouldn’t. I wouldn’t be so bloody stupid, would I? But do you know what I would do?’

  He nodded across the room to a landscape hanging on the wall. ‘Now, I assume you’ve got that little piece in here because you’re fond of it, right? Also, it’s probably pretty valuable into the bargain. But it’d lose its value if I were to shoot a hole right through it, agreed?’

  ‘You wouldn’t …’ Harker stammered.

  ‘Oh, I would, Harker. And the story I’d give the boys in blue is this: I confronted you with your wrongdoings, and you lost your rag and attacked me. So in self-defence I fired off a warning shot and, oh deary me, I just happened to perforate a work of effing art.’

  He raised the revolver, aimed at the painting, and smiled at Harker.

  ‘Now, this is what I’m going to do. I’m going to ask you a few questions, and you’re going to answer truthfully. Get the gist?’

  Harker swallowed.

  Ryland snapped, ‘I said, you get the gist?’

  Harker nodded.

  ‘Very good. Now,’ Ryland said, resting the revolver on his knee but still directing it at the oil, ‘what I think is going on is this. Your chum, this Mr Wilson Royce, is a bit of a wide boy. Fingers-in-every-pie sort of fellow – dirty fingers and very dirty pies. Now, he makes enquiries in certain quarters and finds out you’re bent, done time for shady dealing and all that, and he comes to you wanting to sell a watercolour, eighteenth century, valuable. You ask him where he got it, and he gives you the old maiden aunt tale. You don’t believe a word, but you don’t say no, do you? Greed gets the better of you, especially when he tells you there are many more where this one came from. So you make a suggestion. To make sure the theft isn’t discovered, you suggest exchanging the original for a copy. And you know just the dupe who can make the copy – poor old Signor Venturi, who sold his watercolours to you back when you were starting out in this lark. And you suggest that Royce goes to Venturi with a colour plate of the watercolour, rather than the original, so’s not to arouse his suspicion. So Venturi duly makes the copy, and Royce takes it and swaps it for the original, which he gives you. You sell it for a pretty penny and split the profit with him. He does the same with another fifty or so, and between you both, you make a tidy little sum.’ He lifted the revolver and took aim at the painting. ‘Now, this is where you nod if I’ve got the story more or less right, ain’t it?’

  The art dealer stared at him, sweat beading his brow.

  ‘Well?’ Ryland snapped.

  After a delay of five seconds, Harker nodded his head minimally.

  ‘Now that wasn’t so painful, was it?’

  Harker licked his lips, found his voice and said, ‘You said … you mentioned a murder?’

  Ryland slipped the revolver into his pocket. ‘Looks like young Mr Royce might’ve gone and done in a writer chappie called Connaught. I reckon you’ll have the rozzers crawling all over this place in a day or so, I do.’

  Harker went white and stared at Ryland in silent alarm.

  Ryland climbed to his feet and moved to the door. Then he turned and nodded at the painting on the wall. ‘You don’t really have me down as a desecrater of artworks, do you? Tut-tut, Mr Harker. Be seeing you.’

  On the way out, he paused beside Pamela’s desk. ‘I feel a bit guilty, I do. I reckon Mr Harker will be out of business, once the cops know what he’s been up to. Tell you what …’ He fished a business card from his breast pocket and passed it to the girl. ‘Give me a bell when this place goes belly-up, all right?’

  Pamela stared at the card. ‘Ryland and Langham. Blimey … I always wanted to be a private dick.’

  Ryland saluted. ‘See you later, Pamela.’

  He left the gallery and crossed to his car.

  All in all, another good day’s work.

  Now to phone Don with all the sordid details …

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Annabelle Connaught was subdued as she took the armchair opposite Mallory, although she did give the detective a tremulous smile of greeting. Her golden hair and lambent skin seemed to irradiate the room.

  ‘This is just a formality, Doctor Connaught,’ Mallory said. ‘I’m attempting to build up, as best I can, a comprehensive picture of what happened on Sunday afternoon.’

  ‘Of course.’

  Mallory looked down at his notes. ‘Now, I understand that your father was ill?’

  ‘That’s right. He was diagnosed with lung cancer last year, just before Christmas.’

  ‘And the prognosis?’

  ‘To begin with, it was fairly sanguine. The specialist at Plymouth gave him two or three years. However, a few weeks ago it was discovered that the cancer had metastasized, spread from his lungs to his spine and liver. At that point, the specialist gave him no more than three months.’

  Mallory nodded, arranging his features in an appropriately sombre expression. He asked, ‘And presumably it was this – the knowledge of his illness – that made him look back on his life and decide to make … reparations to certain people?’

  Annabelle nodded. ‘I think, on reflection, that it might have been.’

  ‘But he made no mention of this decision to you?’

  ‘No, not a word.’

  ‘Do you know if many people, other than your father, you yourself and his doctors, were aware of his illness?’

  ‘He didn’t publicize his condition, Inspector. He didn’t want the sympathy or the attention it would have engendered. He was stoical in the face of the inevitable, at least to his doctors.’

  ‘And privately, to you?’

  Annabelle furrowed her brow. ‘He feared death, and feared that he might die in pain, though he tried to protect me from these fears. He was not a man to open up and admit to them
. I …’ She paused, considering. ‘I sometimes wonder if his later reserve was assumed in order to protect me, or merely that he did not wish to be seen as weak.’

  ‘And have you come to any conclusion?’

  She laughed, but without humour. ‘I’d like to think it was the former, Inspector.’

  Mallory turned a page in his notebook, then looked up and asked, ‘On Wednesday you hired Donald to investigate the activities of your father’s business manager, Wilson Royce, but you were rather vague as to your reasons. You told Donald, at the time, that you thought Wilson Royce was corrupt – although you admitted that you were going on nothing more than intuition.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘I hope you don’t mind my asking if that wasn’t a rather flimsy pretext for hiring a private investigator?’

  ‘I think not,’ she said. ‘I set great store by my intuition.’

  ‘And do you have an intuition regarding Wilson Royce’s possible involvement in what happened to your father?’

  Annabelle’s eyes widened, as if in surprise. ‘I … I wouldn’t put anything past Wilson,’ she said, ‘though I must admit I’d be hard-pressed to see what motive he might have had.’

  Mallory cleared his throat. ‘I have one more question, and I hope you don’t think it indelicate. I believe that you were at one time romantically involved with Wilson Royce?’

  Annabelle coloured suddenly and looked down at her fingers. ‘That was a long time ago, Inspector – last year – and I ended it after a few weeks.’

  ‘On the grounds that …?’

  ‘That I found I didn’t care for the man.’

  ‘Quite,’ Mallory said, closing his notebook. ‘There is one more thing. I understand your father owned a small collection of paintings.’

  ‘A rather large collection, actually. Over a hundred valuable watercolours, mainly eighteenth century.’

  ‘Where are they kept?’

  ‘In his old study, which is locked for most of the time. My father worked there until he built his outdoor place.’

  ‘I wonder if you could show us the collection?’