Murder Takes a Turn

by Eric Brown

  ‘His sob story?’

  ‘I had this from the old bloke in Kent. Venturi said that Royce told him about how he’d lost his dad when he was a nipper, knocked down in a hit-and-run incident.’

  Langham felt his heartbeat quicken. ‘What?’

  ‘Royce’s pa was killed outright when he was five, run over by a car right outside his house in Islington. Apparently, young Royce witnessed the whole thing.’

  ‘Ruddy hell.’

  ‘I know. Nasty.’

  ‘No, I mean … Listen, Denbigh Connaught was involved in a hit and run back in ’thirty-four. He killed a pedestrian but got someone else, a chum at the time, to take the rap. If Royce saw it happen …’

  ‘Blimey. You don’t think young Royce did Connaught in as payback for his old man?’

  ‘I don’t know. I need to think about this. Good work, Ralph.’

  ‘Oh, one more thing. I don’t know if it means anything, but I found a letter in Royce’s desk. It was addressed to Connaught from a certain Pandora Jade – one of your fellow guests, I take it?’

  ‘That’s right. Go on.’

  ‘Well, she wrote that she’d be coming down for the weekend, and asked if her daughter, Annabelle, would be there.’

  Langham smiled to himself. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘So … Wilson Royce had the letter in his possession, did he?’

  ‘That’s right. Seemed a bit odd, so I thought I’d better mention it.’

  ‘You did right,’ Langham said, and explained the situation regarding Pandora Jade, Denbigh Connaught and Annabelle. ‘Thanks, Ralph.’

  ‘Cheers, Don. Right, that’s me for the day. I’m going to get some fish and chips for Annie and the boys, then it’s down the boozer for me Monday night darts.’

  ‘Have a good time,’ Langham said. He thanked him again and replaced the receiver.

  He sat where he was for five minutes, going over what Ryland had told him and piecing together the facts with everything he’d learned at Connaught House.

  Then he made his way upstairs and knocked on Wilson Royce’s bedroom door.

  ‘Yes?’ Royce called out.

  ‘It’s Langham. I’d like a word.’

  The door opened and Royce stared at him. The young man’s hair was dishevelled and he looked more than a little flustered. ‘Look, can’t it wait? I was just about to take a bath.’

  ‘I think it’s your bath that can wait,’ Langham said, and eased past Royce. The room was a mess, with clothes scattered over the bed and old laundry piled in one corner. The odour of Royce’s eau de cologne filled the air.

  Langham walked to the window and stared out.

  ‘Well,’ Royce demanded, ‘what is it?’

  On the clifftop lawn, far below, Lady Cecelia and Colonel Haxby strolled side by side in the late-afternoon sunlight; it struck Langham as an unlikely pairing.

  He turned to face the young man. ‘I’d like to know why you wrote to Denbigh Connaught, last year, requesting a job.’

  Wilson Royce leaned against the door; he was sweating. In order to hide the fact that his hands were shaking, he placed them behind his back. ‘I don’t see by what authority …’ he began. ‘And for that matter, why were you sitting in on the interviews?’

  Langham crossed the room, pulling his accreditation from an inside pocket. He hung it before Royce’s frightened gaze, then moved to an armchair and sat down. He indicated a second chair beside a small fireplace.

  ‘Take a seat,’ he invited.

  Royce remained leaning against the door. He was staring at Langham in an odd way, as if something had suddenly struck him.

  ‘That first morning,’ Royce said, ‘when you arrived here … I was sure I’d seen you before.’

  Langham nodded. ‘That’s very observant of you. Sit down.’

  ‘The public house in Pimlico … You drove me home!’ He stopped. ‘That bitch Annabelle put you up to this, didn’t she?’

  Langham indicated the chair. ‘I said, sit down.’

  ‘I don’t see why I—’

  ‘It’s really no skin off my nose, either way. Either you answer a few questions now, or Detective Inspector Mallory takes you to Plymouth for a nice overnight stay. Now, what is it to be?’

  Resentfully, Royce pushed himself from the door and sat down across from Langham.

  ‘Now, why did you want to work for Connaught?’

  Royce swallowed. He balled his hands into fists to stop their shaking. His eyes avoiding Langham’s, he said, ‘As I mentioned before, I admired his work.’

  ‘Don’t talk rot, Royce. You hated the man.’

  ‘I …’ He shook his head. ‘What makes you think—’

  ‘Let me tell you why I think you wrote to Connaught,’ Langham said. ‘It was quite simple: you wanted revenge. You wanted to pay Connaught back for what he did over twenty years ago, when you were five.’

  Royce clenched his teeth, his face white. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘You witnessed the accident in which your father was killed,’ Langham said. ‘I can’t imagine how terrible it must have been.’

  Royce looked up. ‘That’s right, Langham, you can’t begin to imagine. You have no conception.’

  Langham murmured, ‘What happened?’

  Royce gazed into space. ‘To have the man you worship taken away so … so brutally and arbitrarily. I still have nightmares.’ He took a long breath. ‘The day after it happened, I was packed off to the country to stay with an uncle and aunt. Before that I was questioned by the police … But I was only five. I didn’t understand what I’d seen. When I became distressed, my mother called a halt to the questioning.’

  ‘What did you see, exactly?’

  Royce stared down at his fists. ‘I was at my bedroom window. I saw my father coming home from work at the Stock Exchange, crossing the road. It was late – perhaps eight or nine – and dark. A car came careering around the corner and … and it struck my father, sent him flying. The car stopped and I saw someone climb out from behind the wheel – a big man with very fair hair. He approached my father, lying there in the gutter, examined him and then, instead of summoning help, he returned to the car and dragged the passenger across the seat and behind the wheel. Then … then he slammed the car door and ran off.’

  Langham leaned forward. ‘Did you tell this to the police?’

  ‘I … I honestly can’t recall. I can’t have done, or … or Connaught would never have got away with what he did. But I was incoherent, according to my mother. Hysterical. I stayed with my aunt and uncle for a time, and when I returned to London, the trial was over and my mother had sold the family house and moved to be closer to her sister in Bromsgrove. It was only years later that I read about the trial, and discovered the name of the man who supposedly killed my father. I read a transcript of the proceedings and discovered that the accused, James Haxby, claimed that Denbigh Connaught had been driving the car. The jury disbelieved him and Haxby was found guilty – but, of course, I knew that it was Connaught who’d killed my father.’

  ‘So you planned to come down here and exact revenge?’

  Royce was silent for a while, staring down at the carpet. ‘Do you know something? I wasn’t sure what I intended when I wrote to Connaught. A part of me was curious. What kind of man was it who had run down my father, and then so cold-bloodedly arranged for someone else – and a friend at that – to take the blame? That was despicable, and I wanted to know how anyone could live with that on their conscience.’

  ‘And did you find out?’

  Royce looked up at Langham. ‘I discovered that Denbigh Connaught was a monster, an unconscionable, egotistical monster who thought only of his own needs and gratification, and everyone else could go hang.’

  ‘And did that make blackmailing him all that easier?’ Langham asked.

  Royce flinched. ‘What makes you think …?’

  ‘Don’t take me for a fool, Royce. You demanded two hundred a month, and he paid up in order
to keep you quiet.’

  The young man shook his head. ‘When I came down for the interview, I casually mentioned the trial, and he said it was a time he had no desire to revisit. Oh, the shock on his face when I told him who I was and what I had seen that evening. I could see he was thinking of the scandal it would bring down on him if I made my knowledge public. Even if I wasn’t believed, and he managed to wriggle out of the charge yet again, he didn’t want that kind of publicity tarnishing his reputation. I demanded that he employ me and pay me a healthy monthly salary.’

  ‘Of two hundred pounds.’

  ‘A small price to pay, I thought, for the crimes of his past.’

  The two men sat in silence for a while in the warm, scented room; beyond the window, sparrows chirped in the wisteria. Langham thought of Maria and Charles in the library, and wished he were with them now.

  ‘And then, Royce, you decided that the price Connaught was paying for your silence was not enough. You decided to steal his prized watercolours, and in such a devious manner that he might never discover your deception.’

  ‘What makes you think—’

  ‘I know all about the gallery owner in Belsize Park, one William Harker.’

  Langham saw, in the young man’s face, the impulse to deny the charge – then he realized the futility of it. He said quietly, ‘Connaught rarely visited the west wing and his collection. He’d never have been any the wiser if …’ Royce shrugged. ‘I had a contact in London, a dealer who knew someone who could make passable copies.’

  ‘How many paintings have you stolen, Royce?’

  The young man could not help but smile with pride. ‘Well over fifty.’

  ‘And what were you paid for each one, on average?’

  ‘Between a hundred and two hundred pounds.’

  Langham whistled. ‘A nice little earner. You must have lived it up on your weekends in the Smoke.’

  That prideful grin again, the eye-tooth showing. ‘I was harming no one, Langham. Connaught could afford the two hundred a month. And the copies of the watercolours were locked in a darkened room, admired by no one.’

  Langham stared at Royce, calculating his next words. At last he said, ‘And then what happened?’

  Royce looked up. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Let me hazard a guess,’ Langham said. ‘Connaught approached you about this little weekend, told you about the various guests he was inviting, and perhaps even why. When he mentioned that he planned to make a gift of some of his watercolours to Lady Cecelia, you saw the writing on the wall. Your little scam would be rumbled when she took possession of the watercolours and had them valued. So Denbigh Connaught had to die.’

  Royce stared at him. He said something, but it was too low for Langham to make out.

  ‘I didn’t quite catch that.’

  ‘I said, I didn’t kill him.’

  Royce sat with his elbows resting on his knees and his head hanging. His blond fringe flopped forward, obscuring his wolfish face. ‘I didn’t kill him,’ he repeated.

  Langham said, ‘Your glove was discovered in the brazier, where you were burning papers on Sunday afternoon. You had ample time, as you passed back and forth, to make a detour to Connaught’s study, and you had the spare key.’

  Royce shook his head, still not looking up. ‘No … You’ve got it wrong. Oh, I don’t deny that there were times when I would gladly have killed him. And then, when I found him dead on Sunday … yes, a part of me exulted.’ He looked up and stared at Langham. ‘But I swear I didn’t kill him.’

  Langham sighed, pressed down on his knees and stood up. ‘Well, it’ll soon be in the hands of the police, so we’ll see how they handle it, shall we?’

  ‘You’re going to inform Inspector Mallory?’

  ‘Of course I am.’

  He moved past Royce and approached the door. ‘Oh, one more thing. A letter from Pandora Jade to Connaught was discovered at your London place. She asked if her daughter, Annabelle, would be present this weekend. What were you planning to do with that piece of information, Royce?’

  ‘I …’ Royce shook his head. ‘I must have picked up the letter by mistake, along with other paperwork.’

  Langham snorted. ‘Likely story, but that’s something else that Mallory can look into.’

  The young man stood suddenly and faced him. ‘Do you know something, Langham?’ he said desperately. ‘I really don’t fear hanging, even if it is for a crime I didn’t commit. The thought that my father is finally avenged … that’s worth far, far more than my futile life.’

  Unable to find a suitable response, Langham nodded and left the room.

  He found Watkins in the hall and asked after the whereabouts of Inspector Mallory.

  ‘I understand that he took Miss Annabelle into the village, sir. You might try the Fisherman’s Arms.’

  Langham thanked him and crossed to the library.

  Maria stood and hurried to him. ‘Donald! What happened?’

  ‘How about a quick one at the Fisherman’s?’ he asked. ‘I’ll tell you all about it on the way.’

  ‘Very well, but what about …?’ She gestured at Charles, who was fast asleep in an armchair.

  He tore a page from his notebook. ‘Leave him a note saying we’ll be back in time for dinner.’

  Her tongue-tip showing, she took the paper and wrote: Charles, we had to dash – see you for dinner. Maria.

  She crossed to the sleeping man, inserted the folded note between his fingers laced across his stomach, and tiptoed from the room.

  ‘What did Ralph say?’ she asked as they crossed the drive to the car.

  Langham opened the passenger door for her, then slipped in behind the wheel. As he drove from the grounds, he relayed what Ralph had told him and described his confrontation with Wilson Royce.

  ‘My word, but …’

  ‘He denied the murder, of course.’

  ‘But do you think he is guilty, Donald?’

  ‘I honestly don’t know. He certainly had the motive, and the opportunity. Oh,’ he went on, ‘there’s something else. We learned while interviewing Pandora that she’s Annabelle Connaught’s mother.’

  He turned to watch Maria’s reaction to the news, and he wasn’t disappointed.

  ‘What?’ She made her eyes huge and her mouth hung open. ‘Sacré bleu! That is incredible!’

  ‘Pandora and Connaught had a fling in the twenties, and Connaught gained custody of the child.’

  ‘But Annabelle doesn’t know about this?’

  ‘No, and Pandora has no desire to tell her.’

  Maria bit her bottom lip. ‘Do you know … earlier, in the library, Pandora was very good with Annabelle. I was thinking how considerate she was in her commiserations. Now I think I understand.’

  ‘Perhaps Pandora is softening in her middle age,’ Langham said, and slowed down as they approached the cobbled harbour. ‘There’s Jeff’s Humber,’ he went on, pulling up behind it.

  Mallory and Annabelle were seated at a table outside the public house; an almost empty pint glass sat before the inspector, and Annabelle was finishing her drink.

  ‘They seem to be getting on well,’ Maria said. ‘I wonder if he’s interviewing her in the line of duty.’

  They left the car and crossed the cobbles to the Fisherman’s Arms.

  Annabelle lodged her sunglasses in her hair and gave Maria a dazzling smile.

  ‘Just in time,’ Mallory said, draining his glass. ‘I’ll get them in.’

  Langham followed the detective inspector into the pub. ‘Developments,’ he said at the bar, and summarized what Ralph had told him over the phone. ‘I confronted Wilson Royce, and he admitted blackmailing Connaught and filching the watercolours.’

  ‘And killing Connaught?’

  Langham shook his head. ‘Claimed innocence.’

  Mallory ordered the drinks. When the barmaid moved off to the pumps, he said, ‘We have a damned strong case against him.’

  ‘I don’t deny tha
t,’ Langham said.

  ‘I sense a “but” coming.’

  ‘But my cavil all along – it needed a hell of a lot of strength to have caused Connaught that injury. And Wilson Royce isn’t exactly Charles Atlas.’

  ‘I’ve been thinking about that,’ Mallory said, picking up his pint and taking a mouthful. ‘How about this? Connaught wasn’t strangled to death – his throat was cut with a knife. That’d explain the severity of the injury—’

  Langham interrupted, ‘But why would the killer go to the lengths of slitting his throat and then making it look as though he’d been garrotted?’

  Mallory said, ‘Precisely to make us think that someone built like a wrestler was responsible – to deflect attention from the fact that the killer wasn’t that big and strong.’

  ‘So … Wilson Royce would fit the bill?’

  ‘It’s a working hypothesis.’

  Langham shook his head. ‘Won’t wash. Presumably, Connaught had his back to the killer, who comes up behind him with a damned big knife and slits his throat … In that case, where was all the blood? Crikey, it would’ve spouted like a geyser. It’d be all over the place.’

  ‘OK, so the killer struck him on the head, causing him to fall to the floor, and then slit his throat. I’ll have the surgeon check for head wounds.’

  Langham thought about it. ‘But why would the killer then drag the body behind the piano?’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Mallory said, ‘Connaught was standing at one end of the piano when the killer clobbered him. It’s entirely feasible that he’d stagger forward a few paces, behind the piano, before falling to the floor.’

  Langham nodded. ‘I’ll give you that, yes.’

  ‘So that’s the line I’ll take when I haul young Royce over the coals.’

  Langham was about to leave the bar with the drinks. ‘Oh,’ he said, ‘Maria asked if you were interviewing Annabelle in the line of duty. I think you’re smitten, Jeff.’

  ‘Well, she is one heck of an attractive woman,’ the detective inspector allowed. ‘She has a place in London, and comes up from time to time. I’m going to suggest I take her out for dinner at some point.’

  ‘Good luck,’ Langham said, leading the way outside.

  They joined the women and sat down at the table. Mallory said to Annabelle, ‘You’re looking pensive.’