Skeleton Key

by Robert Richardson

  *

  There was no message from Peter when they returned and Maltravers stretched himself out in front of the television in the upstairs sitting room just as the England batsmen were walking out. Tess actually watched for a few minutes during which absolutely nothing seemed to happen, then gave up in despair.

  ‘See you later,’ she said. ‘Peter told me of a longish walk that avoids the tourists so I may be a while. I hope they score lots of goals. Bye.’

  Maltravers grunted, already too absorbed to notice Tess’s parting sideswipe, and she walked out of the house and up Bellringer Street alone. From his office window, York saw her enter the park and immediately turn right along the old stagecoach road from London that now wound almost deserted through the farmlands that lay about the house. It was an area used by very few people, leading to small lanes between the fields. As she vanished out of his sight, sand-shower of hair bouncing above her slender figure, he began to think again as unexpected opportunity danced before him.

  ‘Good shot,’ Maltravers murmured as an England batsman glanced the ball between slips and gulley, wielding his bat as delicately as a fly-fisherman. Achieving ninety-two more runs engrossed him totally for another twenty minutes before somebody attempted a dangerous single and was left hopelessly stranded between the wickets as a fielder hurled the ball in from deep extra cover to run him out. Maltravers cursed and watched the replay, grudgingly admiring the accuracy of the fielder’s throw. He remembered the similar effort by Alister York during the Town v. Estate match and two things suddenly made a ridiculous connection in his mind. He frowned at the suggestion for a moment, then stood up and opened the window, looking first across and slightly to his right down Bellringer Street at the Darbys’ house, then leaning out to confirm that York lived almost opposite. So it could have been done, but what sense did it make? He straightened up, staring at the tower of St Barbara’s facing him, like someone trying to imagine a complete picture from a fragment. Why did the dead butler in the Pembury chapel keep coming back, insisting there was something important there? He went over the curious story Tess had told him but could see nothing. Then he remembered saying something about it being a very odd skeleton in…

  ‘Dear God!’ he said aloud. ‘That can’t be true!’ Within a few minutes he had persuaded himself that it could and his face went very cold.

  *

  All that Tess could hear was scattered birdsong, the crisp throb of crickets and the susurration of growing things; the ceaseless technological clamour of the twentieth century from an endless variety of engines had completely faded. Such moments were rare in the densely populated area of the Home Counties and she stood in the pavilion of sky and sunshine that seemed to brim over the edges of Edenbridge Park, rejoicing in it. It lasted for about thirty seconds before the drone of an aeroplane crept distantly in from one corner. She smiled ruefully and moved on, grateful for the fleeting benison of quietness. Less than a mile from where she was walking, Edenbridge House was surrounded by visitors and their commotion; few would wander far from the area immediately adjacent to the house and discover the peace and solitude of the rest of the park.

  She reached a point where a lane branched off at right angles from the road and paused. Peter had told her that the turning offered a route through some of the most unspoilt areas of the Edenbridge estate and a challenging set of stepping stones across a stream in the woods. She was starting to feel hot and the promised shade of trees was attractive. She passed first between high hawthorn hedges that gave on to parallel low wooden fences on either side, one stretch restricting the nomadic instincts of a herd of cows. The lane curved slightly to the left and for another blessed moment the silence came again. She leaned against the fence soaking in the calm tranquillity after the traumas of death, birth and mystery. She remembered Simon, his gallantry and his confusion and the terrible thought of his dead body. Luke Norman she had hardly spoken to but had instinctively liked; could he really have killed the man he loved? Then the image of Joanna York’s horror-graven face came back, merging in and out with the cruel stare of her husband. Tess looked down at the long stem of grass she had plucked, idly splitting it with her thumbnail. What was that man doing to her? What had that man done? As she wrestled with it, she heard the sound of a car approaching along the lane where she had just walked, still invisible round the bend.

  Tess was satisfied there was space for the vehicle to pass as it appeared in her view and she heard the gears drop. There was a vicious roar as the accelerator was slammed down and the vehicle leapt forward. Tess’s annoyance at the stupidity of anyone driving so fast in such circumstances was instantly transmuted into the realisation that there was something wrong. There had to be a reason for such a senseless action and she abruptly knew what it was; the driver was going to run her down deliberately.

  She neither froze nor screamed. Boosted by an internal torrent of adrenalin, she somersaulted over the fence, half propelled by the rush of air as the car swept past terrifyingly close. She bumped her head as she landed then rolled, slightly dazed, for several feet, breath pounded out of her lungs. A nearby cow lumbered clumsily and hastily away. As she lay on the ground, inconsequentially reflecting that acting is a profession that keeps you fit, she heard the screech of brakes. Still winded, she heard a car door open and someone climb over the fence then a man appeared above her, head a gold-haloed silhouette against the brilliant sun. She tried to look up at him, but her eyes crinkled against the brightness.

  ‘Miss Davy! Are you all right?’ The voice somehow sounded as if he would prefer that she was not.

  ‘No thanks to you!’ she gasped. ‘You nearly killed me!’

  ‘It would have been an accident. I didn’t expect there to be anybody on this road. Here, let me help you up.’

  Fear overcame physical discomfort as Alister York leaned forward, large menacing hand extended. Tess scrambled to her feet and stepped back several paces.

  ‘Don’t you touch me!’ she shouted. ‘I am going straight to the police about this and I’ll make them listen to me! You tried to kill me because I’ve been talking to your wife didn’t you?’

  ‘And why should I be bothered about that?’ he asked softly.

  ‘Because you’re doing something dreadful to her and I’ve seen it.’

  ‘Seen it? Seen what?’ The question was suddenly urgent. ‘What has she shown you?’

  Tess looked at him closely. ‘What’s in her face…What do you think she’s shown me?’

  For a moment York did not answer. Tense with the emotion of anticipated murder, he had been caught off guard by what Tess had said. When he had failed to run her down, he had decided to explain it away as a near accident; now he realised he had revealed too much.

  ‘Perhaps she hasn’t shown you anything, Miss Davy,’ he said. ‘But I’m afraid you now may know too much.’

  Tess had become aware that the solitariness of the park, so welcome moments before, was suddenly dangerous. Nobody was in sight and what was about to happen would be witnessed only by the now composed cow, staring at her soberly, grass spilling over the edges of its chewing mouth.

  ‘Why did you kill Simon?’ she demanded.

  ‘Did I kill Simon?’ York smiled mockingly. ‘Nobody seems to think that I did. Why do you?’

  ‘Because if you didn’t kill him, then what the hell is happening? What’s wrong with your wife?’

  York took a long stride to his left to block her cautious movement towards the fence as she spoke and he saw the spasm of fear that flashed through her eyes.

  ‘That is my business, Miss Davy,’ he said. ‘It was very foolish of you to make it yours.’

  *

  The England number eight flashed his bat high across his faceguard as the bouncer rose up to him, sending it soaring towards the long leg boundary. Millions of television viewers watched anxiously with the crowd as the Australian outfielder sprinted across the grass, calculating the curve of its descent for the critical catch. Augus
tus Maltravers stared at the screen and saw nothing as he desperately tried to find some flaw in the insanity of something he did not want to be true. As the running fielder held the catch, Maltravers stood up in agitation because the unspeakable would not go away.

  ‘This is sick!’ All those who knew him as the most easy-going of men would have been startled by the naked, trembling anger in his voice. Downstairs the phone rang and he went to answer it.

  ‘Gus? Peter. I’ve just heard from Harry Matthews and the police have identified fingerprints on the cricket ball.’

  ‘Of course they are,’ said Maltravers when Peter told him. ‘I’d already worked that out. Thanks for letting me know.’

  He went back upstairs and tried to consider the position more calmly. Somehow he had to discover for himself if his repulsive theory was right. He decided to wait until Tess returned; he did not relish doing what had to be done on his own. However uncomfortably, he would just have to wait for her.

  *

  Tears of panic ran down Tess’s face as she backed away, frantically looking round for help. She was fit enough to run but the tall, athletic York would catch her again in seconds.

  ‘Please, I won’t tell anyone!’ she begged. ‘I don’t care what’s happening between you and Joanna. I’m nothing to do with this place. I’ll just go away.’

  ‘I’m not stupid, Miss Davy. You know I just tried to kill you. I don’t believe you won’t tell somebody that.’

  ‘I won’t! I promise! Please don’t…’ She was standing like a creature petrified by the approach of a snake. As he sprang at her, hands open towards her throat like claws, she screamed.

  What happened next happened very swiftly. All York saw was a flash of flying sky and then he was lying on his back squealing with pain, his left arm limp and useless by his side. Tess’s face, which had inexplicably vanished just as his hands closed on her neck, reappeared above him. She was panting slightly and pushed back tumbled hair with one hand.

  ‘You have just witnessed one of my lesser ad lib performances as the helpless little woman,’ she told him crisply, wiping away the remains of created tears. ‘I imagine you think we’re all like that. When I was a student, I had a flat in an area of London where it was not advisable for young women to walk alone at night. I knew those self-defence lessons would come in useful one day.’

  York groaned and tried to sit up, but she pushed him down again painfully with a foot against his injured shoulder.

  ‘Don’t do that,’ she advised. ‘It’s only dislocated, but I’m quite prepared to break it if necessary. Move slowly and it won’t hurt too much. Now I’ve got to run.’

  And run she did, taking the shortest route back across the fields, cows scattering as she raced between them, towards the road that led back to Bellringer Street. Tourists stared in surprise as she sprinted past them, out through the arch of the gateway and back to the Penroses. She burst into the kitchen and dashed upstairs to where the television was still on and Maltravers was still not watching it. She leaned against the door frame, gasping with exertion.

  ‘Alister York!’ Her chest heaved for air. ‘He did kill Simon!’

  ‘No he didn’t,’ said Maltravers quietly. ‘Luke Norman did. Peter got it all from Harry Matthews. Luke’s fingerprints are all over that ball. They match God knows how many the police have collected in his flat. They’ll have taken them from his body as well. I told you that where the ball was found meant that only the case against Luke made sense.’

  ‘What?’ Tess gulped and flopped in the nearest chair, trying to grasp what Maltravers said and remembering that York had not actually admitted her accusation. ‘Then why did he just try to kill me?’

  ‘Kill you?’ Maltravers leapt to his feet and crossed to her. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Yes, of course I am.’ Tess shook his hand off her shoulder impatiently. ‘I dislocated his arm with some rusty judo. But if Luke killed Simon, what the hell is happening between Joanna and York?’

  Satisfied that she was unharmed, Maltravers looked at her sadly. ‘That puts it awfully well, I’m afraid. It must be very like hell for her.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘I warn you, you’re not going to like this,’ he said.

  Disbelief, dismay and revulsion invaded Tess as he explained what he had worked out. When he finished she shook her head in violent rejection.

  ‘No! Nobody could do that! God, it’s…’ She shuddered.

  ‘But it fits a lot of unrelated facts together,’ Maltravers said. ‘I don’t like it either, but we’ve got to find out if it’s true.’

  ‘Then let’s just tell the police,’ said Tess.

  ‘Oh, no,’ said Maltravers. ‘Not yet at least…and possibly never at all. I’ve had time to think about this. First of all I want to prove it for myself and then…I want to see if we can keep it quiet. No questions, there isn’t time. How far will York get with that arm?’

  ‘As far as he wants, but not very quickly. He certainly won’t be able to drive.’

  ‘Right. Then we get to her before he reappears. She’s in even worse danger now.’

  They hurried down Bellringer Street and rang the front door bell of the Yorks’ house. As they waited, Maltravers pointed at the still unpainted new putty round the window they had seen the estate workman repairing the morning after the murder.

  ‘But we didn’t take any notice at the time, did we?’ he remarked as Joanna York opened the door and looked immediately afraid.

  ‘What do you want?’ she asked in agitation. ‘My husband isn’t in and…’

  ‘We want to come in,’ said Maltravers.

  ‘What? You can’t!’ She stepped back, her fear amplifying.

  ‘Please,’ Maltravers insisted gently. ‘We want to help you.’

  ‘Help me? What do you mean? I don’t want…Go away.’

  ‘Joanna.’ Tess stopped the girl’s protests with the firmness of her voice. ‘We know.’

  Maltravers slapped his open hand against the door to stop Joanna York slamming it closed against them. For a moment she pushed helplessly, then the door flew open as she turned and fled into the kitchen and was fumbling with the bolt on the back door as Maltravers ran through and took hold of her.

  ‘Go away!’ She struggled in his arms as she pleaded. ‘Please! He’ll hurt me! He’ll make me…’ Her voice was swamped by choking sobs as he turned her round and led her into the small front room and sat her down. Tess knelt in front of her and took hold of both her hands.

  ‘Joanna,’ she said softly. ‘He won’t hurt you again. He’ll never do anything to you again.’ Her voice stumbled momentarily. ‘You see, we know what he’s been doing to you. That was very cruel of him.’

  Joanna York looked at her beseechingly.

  ‘You know about…?’ The brittle voice faded in disbelief as Tess nodded. ‘But how can you? I never told…I couldn’t…I…’ She stopped as emotion tore through her and when her voice returned it was very faint. ‘I’m so ashamed…ashamed…please leave me alone.’

  ‘I’m going upstairs,’ Maltravers said to Tess. ‘That’s where it will be.’

  In such a small house, it took him only moments to find the main bedroom and he went to the wardrobe in the corner, pausing a long moment before the impassive door, certain now beyond all disbelief that he was right. He stiffened himself, then took hold of the handle and pulled the door open.

  Inside was the skeleton of Tom Bostock, Dunford’s Vincent’s tie grotesquely knotted beneath the scoffing skull. Pushing down his revulsion, Maltravers leaned forward and peered at the grey, scabrous teeth and saw a slight smear of pink on two of them.

  ‘Sweet Jesus,’ he murmured as tears of pity pricked his eyes. He was the third person to see that corruption and, at whatever risk to himself, he wanted to be the last.

  The problem was, how could that be accomplished? He closed the wardrobe door again, frantically going over a scheme, certainly illegal but just possibly fea
sible, when he heard a key in the front door below him. He dashed down and reached the bottom of the stairs in the corner of the room as Alister York stepped awkwardly into the house. Tess leapt to her feet and stood protectively in front of Joanna, eyes blazing.

  ‘You are the most evil man I have ever met in my life.’ Her voice was quiet with icy fury. ‘You are disgusting! They taught me how to kill people on that course and if you go anywhere near this girl, that’s exactly what I’m going to do.’

  ‘Tess,’ Maltravers said warningly and her face was bitter as she turned to him. ‘Just take Joanna up the hill. I’ll handle this.’

  Tess softened again as she put her arm round Joanna’s shoulders and helped her to her feet. Then she led her out of the house, placing herself between the woman and her husband. York looked at them both contemptuously, then stepped aside to let them pass, closing the door behind them with his good arm.

  ‘I expect you’ve called the police,’ he said to Maltravers.

  ‘No.’ Maltravers stepped off the final stair. ‘I want to talk to you.’

  ‘Well there’s nothing I wish to discuss with you.’

  ‘Oh I think there is,’ said Maltravers. ‘Just think for a moment. We could have rung the police as soon as Tess got back from the park and laid a charge of attempted murder against you. Hasn’t it occurred to you to wonder why we came here instead?’

  York regarded him suspiciously. Finding Maltravers and Tess in his own house—where he had painfully made his way because there was nowhere else to go—had surprised him. After getting away with so much, he knew he had made a critical mistake. He had assumed he would find the police waiting for him, not Maltravers and the woman he had tried to kill. He sensed that something was being offered to him.