Strange Tombs

by Syd Moore

Sam was sitting on the table opposite, a little hunched over. The afternoon sun filtered through the round stained-glass window, shining onto the curve of his back, making a little patch of red there.

  ‘Hello,’ said Monty, when he noticed me hovering in the doorway. He pushed off from the filing cabinet, removed his hands from his pockets and straightened up, ever the gent. ‘How lovely to see you looking so radiant my dear.’ Then he treated me to a wide grin that showed his perfect teeth. ‘When Sam told me what happened last night, I really did not think you’d appear as glowing. But, dear gal, you have most certainly bounced back remarkably well.’

  He was regularly this charming and well-mannered, happy to use flattery as a means to an end. But he was definitely one of the good ones.

  ‘Thanks,’ I said and went and took a seat. Usually I’d be mortified to be seen without my make-up and my bang-ontrend wardrobe. But today, I simply couldn’t be bothered. And Monty said I looked all right, so …

  ‘How are you feeling?’ asked Sam and sprang off the table. As he cantered round to my side I saw he had lines across his forehead. I wasn’t sure if they were due to my appearance or if they still lingered from whatever conversation he had been having with our friend.

  I told him I was okay.

  He offered me a cup of tea and I accepted and asked what they’d been talking about.

  Monty produced a square plastic bag from behind the stuffed owl and waggled it. The object within clanged. ‘Sam’s brought me up to speed with developments at Ratchette Hall. I’m so sorry to have got you involved in all this. One can never anticipate these things. What first appeared to be a case of purely allaying fears has turned into something more …’ he looked up into the stained glass for inspiration, ‘… more sinister. But,’ he continued, placing the bag square on the table. It made a muffled clanking noise. ‘We’re hoping that this bell may yield prints that go some way to solving our little mystery.’

  ‘Uh huh,’ I said and pulled the teapot over and lifted the lid. Everything inside looked treacly brown and very well stewed. I pushed it over to Sam. ‘It’s not a little mystery is it? Not really?’ I had been thinking about this in the shower. ‘Two dead – Graham Peacock and Cullen Sutcliffe – and two in hospital who may not survive. It’s turning into a massacre.’

  Monty looked at the floor then glanced up again at Sam. ‘Just to give you a bit of a heads-up, Rosie – I’ve already relayed this to Sam – we know that Mr Sutcliffe was murdered. The toxicology results indicate sedatives and an excess of potassium chloride.’

  Sam finally took the hint with the teapot and picked it up and went into the kitchen. ‘I’m putting the kettle on.’ Then, before he disappeared through the arch he paused and explained, ‘Potassium is naturally occurring in the body, but in excess it can cause cardiac arrest.’

  Monty ambled over to the table and pulled a chair out. It squeaked on the parquet as he sat down, lifted his trousers then crossed his legs. ‘We think that the sedatives were injected into the neck.’

  It was more or less what the ME had suggested via Scrub. ‘And they left what looked like fang marks? So we’d think it was from the escaped snake?’

  Monty smiled. ‘From a very odd snake, but yes, that’s an option we can’t yet rule out. Another implement may have been used to make the puncture wounds larger, more noticeable.’

  Sam returned with three fresh mugs and a steaming teapot.

  I bit my lip and tried to concentrate. ‘So, whoever found Cullen would see the marks and assume it was a snake. As we’d almost been set up to expect that, or certainly prepared for it, with the news about the escaped python and all the phobias about snakes and serpents in the Greatest Fears workshop.’ I shook my head. It didn’t add up. ‘But whoever injected him would have to know that there would be tests done. That the game would be up. So why go to all that effort to make it look like a bite?’

  ‘For show? At that very moment of discovery,’ suggested Monty.

  ‘But why?’ I wondered out loud. ‘The illusion that the snake did it has lasted no more than a day. The murderer can’t be very bright.’

  ‘Unless they had another reason? The idea of snakes in the nest at Ratchette Hall would no doubt considerably increase stress and anxiety among the remaining occupants. We know, because of the nature of the course, that they all have fertile imaginations. Aunt Tabby’s is terrific,’ Monty said and popped out a proud smile. ‘But anyway, Rosie. Here’s a point you should know: the average IQ of the serial killer is, well, average.’

  Blimey, I thought, a serial killer. Is that what we’re looking at? But I didn’t voice it. Instead I said,‘Is it?’ It wasn’t the case on TV. The famous ones like Hannibal Lecter, Dexter Morgan and Kevin Spacey’s John Doe were all seemingly intelligent, able to elude the police and sustain their dastardly plans for ages, hatching elaborate and cunning plots.

  Monty leant forward towards the table. His head dipped into a pool of amber light from the window, which gave his skin a lovely tone. ‘There’s a study that’s been done which puts the mean, the average, at around ninety-four. The average citizen of the British Isles hovers at around one hundred.’

  ‘Is that so?’ I said then whistled and wondered what mine would be.

  Monty shook his golden head. A little beam of light caught on his forehead and shined. It was where his black glossy hair was starting to thin. Didn’t look bad on him though. I quite liked it. ‘It’s a misconception to think serial killers are all young, white, male and intelligent. They’re not.’

  I nodded. That was a point to take on board.

  ‘In many cases,’ he went on and pinned me with those fossil-grey eyes that sometimes let me glimpse within profound and quick-witted acumen. ‘Murder often comes hand-in-hand with passion. And both passion and anger are not rational. Passion and anger make mistakes.’

  I mulled it over and came up with another possibility. ‘Or the killer doesn’t care about being found out. Or they think they’ve been so careful they won’t be caught.’

  ‘Sounds about right,’ said Sam, who had now pulled up another chair next to me. ‘Don’t arrogance and murder go hand in hand too?’

  ‘Not generally in crimes of passion,’ Monty told him.

  ‘But this isn’t one, is it?’ I said, trying to figure out some sort of logic myself.

  ‘Don’t assume it not to be the case.’ Monty wagged a finger at me.

  ‘Okay,’ I said, summing up. ‘Well, there’s definitely strange stuff going on at Ratchette Hall. It’s not just the murders, but the noises in the garden, by the woods. We know someone was out there last night.’ I glimpsed my goat-footed god darting between the trees and Dorcus with his elastic face. Man, what a trip aconite was.

  I shook the images from my head. Best not to be distracted again.

  ‘One must assume that these sound effects are there to capitalise on the superstitions that we’ve learnt are connected to the woods – the Devil, god of the witches, the walkabout knights – and so freak the writers out. Sam, you said this kind of thing happened all the time in the war, didn’t you?’

  Monty raised his eyebrows at my colleague and bent his head towards him.

  ‘Well,’ said Sam, as if protesting. ‘It’s true. You know that, Monts. Belief in UFOs, satanism – you can’t dodge the fact that your department has been involved. There was that nasty stuff in Northern …’

  Monty’s eyes flashed with warning.

  Sam paused and then ventured tentatively, ‘All executed to manipulate people. No doubt for the greater good, but come on – you can’t deny it’s been going on for decades. Centuries even. And it’s much easier to manipulate in an atmosphere of insecurity and tension.’

  Monty shrugged and avoided answering. ‘Tabby has agreed there is a sense of besiegement and fear among the residents.’

  Sam laid the pot of tea on a cork coaster on the table. ‘And staff,’ he added.

  ‘Yes,’ I agreed. ‘And it’s been increased this mor
ning with the discovery of Imogen and Robin. I have a hunch that’s all part of the plot. Someone directed them to pick the flowers.’

  ‘Could have. Could also be an accident.’ Monty nodded. ‘Though think about the former and work out who that might be.’

  ‘I think,’ Sam piped up, ‘from our recent experience the “who” usually comes when you’ve worked out the “why”?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, thinking aloud. ‘And talking about “the why” … there’s something that’s been bugging me since Sam told me about Imogen and Robin. You know – one of the victims is clearly the odd one out. All of them have been participants on the course – apart from Graham. We’ve been looking for links from them to him. But what if his death was actually the accident?’

  Sam stopped pouring the tea and put the pot on the table. ‘You mean he was mistaken for someone else?’

  ‘Something like that,’ I said.

  Monty stood up. ‘Keep thinking along those lines. That’s good work. Now, I’m afraid I can’t stay for another cuppa – I promised to look in on Tabs while I was here. I have an early Christmas present for her which I think she’ll quite like.’ He tapped his nose. ‘Acquired it on the hush-hush. Aunt Tabby has taken a keen interest in self-defence.’

  I stood up abruptly. ‘Well good. We might need it,’ I said. ‘And I’ll follow you. We’ve got to set up for tonight anyway.’

  ‘Not a stake-out?’ Monty asked. ‘There’ll be police outside, of that you can be sure.’

  ‘Rosie,’ said Sam and came and touched me on the shoulder. ‘I’m not convinced that you’re up to it?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said and made my voice firm. ‘I am. I’ve got a feeling that things may come to a head tonight.’ Then as I was going through the door, I called, ‘Sam you clear up and bring more tapes. I’m just going to pack, and of course I must get my clothes on.’

  As I ducked round the wall I heard one of them say, ‘Well truly, isn’t that a shame.’

  But I wasn’t sure who.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  We reached Ratchette Hall about forty-five minutes after Monty, which was pretty good going and only achieved because I had agreed not to straighten my hair. I had negotiated with my curator and brought my straighteners with me instead. So now they were packed in my pull-along suitcase with my sleeping bag and pillow and vanity case and make-up and toiletries and toothbrush and small freestanding mirror with magnifier on one side and faux fur throw. All of which I stowed discreetly in the study, after several trips to and from the car. A girl has priorities you know.

  Once I had set up my equipment, I went off to find Sam and was told by a burly looking officer positioned outside the seminar room that he had joined Detective Brown and Sergeant Scrub inside. When I asked to be admitted I was denied, which then provoked some rather loud argy-bargy until Sue Scrub stuck her head out and asked, ‘What’s all this going on here then?’ and gave me access.

  I hadn’t been inside this room before.

  It was another pleasant space with a lovely peaceful vibe. Or the potential to have such a feel to it, if it hadn’t instead been filled with people who were rather prickly and wired.

  Large Georgian windows looked out over the front lawns. It wasn’t very nice out there. Rain had broken again, and the wind was whipping it up and smashing it against the windows.

  Desks and PCs were positioned at one end of the seminar room. Down the other an interactive whiteboard and rows of chairs. Sam was in one of them, but he’d turned it round so he could face Chris Devlin, who was standing, leaning against the wall between the windows. For the first time since I’d met him, the best-selling writer seemed to be exhibiting symptoms of anxiety: his hands kept straying to the toggle on his aviator jacket, which he played with when he wasn’t pulling the longer hair at the back of his curly mullet. Plus he was flushed. Very.

  There was another man, in plain clothes, who I didn’t recognise, sitting on one of the desks, eyeing Devlin with a face that might as well have had ‘suspicious’ tattooed on the forehead. He was lanky and very dark-skinned, maybe with sub-Saharan roots. When I entered with Sergeant Scrub, he cast his gaze at me. It was so fierce and scorching that for a moment I wondered if I had any unpaid parking tickets that he knew about. He just had that look. He could see through you into your guilt.

  Scrub introduced me and said, ‘This is Constable Bobby Brown.’ Then looked with meaning at Devlin and said, ‘One of the best.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said and grinned at the stranger. ‘Bobby Brown. Cool. Like the make-up?’

  Constable Brown looked at me and without smiling said, ‘No.’ He swivelled back to Devlin, crossed his arms, and then, as if he had nothing better to do, carried on glaring at him.

  ‘Now where was I?’ Scrub asked.

  Brown pushed off and walked over to the author. He stopped just a foot from where Devlin was leaning and proceeded to inspect the writer’s face whilst answering his boss’s question. ‘You were suggesting Mr Devlin take the opportunity to clear up any misunderstandings that might have taken place regarding his statements so far.’

  Wind squeaked through a crack in the windows and stirred the long curtains either side.

  Scrub nodded and pulled one of the chairs next to Sam up closer to where Devlin stood. Now he was hemmed in on all sides by the detective and sergeant.

  It might sound quite odd but seriously, if you could have felt the energy in Bobby’s gaze you would not want to be the hypotenuse to that triangle.

  In his chair, Sam squirmed, I think, out of empathy.

  I tried not to make a sound and went and sat next to him.

  Despite the fact that the skin on his nose and above his lip was glistening, Devlin was trying desperately to put on a poker face.

  It wasn’t working.

  I knew it, Sam knew it. And if we knew it, Scrub and Constable Brown definitely knew it too.

  ‘I told you,’ Devlin bleated. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  Constable Brown clicked his tongue and slowly shook his head back and forth.

  Scrub crossed her legs and said, ‘So you say Mr Devlin. So you say.’ She sat back and crossed her arms to match, then she eyeballed him, almost as fiercely as Officer Brown and said, ‘Or should we call you, Mr Cumberpot?’

  On our chairs, a fitting audience, Sam and I gasped.

  ‘What?’ I said. ‘You mean he’s not Chris Devlin?’ I swung round to Sam. ‘Do you know what – I thought he was a bit low in the old IQ department. And the stuff he came out with when he was describing the “angel” thing – it was dreadful. Not a decent writer by any means.’

  The imposter sniffed and let go a little groan.

  ‘Oh he’s Chris Devlin, all right,’ said Scrub. ‘But he entered the country on a passport registered to Rodney Cumberpot.’

  ‘Oooh,’ I said, and whispered to Sam. ‘Yeah, I can see why he might want a pen name.’

  The man, who was not an imposter but actually the writer Chris Devlin, however, was looking even more spiky. ‘My friends used to call me Rod, actually,’ he said, and with a defiant toss of his hair, turned his gaze on me. ‘Ramrod.’

  I sucked in the giggle that was threatening to explode out of my mouth. Of course he was ‘Ramrod’. Of course he was.

  ‘Can you explain then, Ramrod,’ Scrub demanded through tight crinkly lips. I think she was finding it all ridiculous too. ‘Can you explain how you entered the country on Saturday but failed to turn up to the course residence until Wednesday? We understand from Sophia Adams-Braithwaite that you reported your flight was delayed. And yet Los Angeles International has confirmed that Flight VS 0090 arrived at Heathrow on Saturday on time.’

  At that moment the door opened and in trotted Monty. He clocked the look on the writer’s face, which bore much in common with rabbits unaccustomed to headlights. ‘Has he confessed yet?’ he asked the coppers.

  Bobby Brown shook his head, but kept his eyes glued onto Devlin’s. ‘’Fraid n
ot, Agent Walker. We’re going to have to work him harder.’

  The concept of Officer Brown working him harder appeared to be more than Devlin could bear. ‘Okay, okay,’ he said and put his hands up. ‘I was with a woman.’ He gave a little headshake, and sneaked a congratulatory smile, thus confirming his virility to all those there. ‘Oh yeah and what a woman, she is.’ God, that man could over-write.

  ‘Oh yeah?’ Scrub sighed. ‘Name?’

  ‘Oh, I can’t tell you that,’ said Devlin. He stuck his chin up high and out in a display of noble defiance.

  ‘Fine,’ responded Scrub. ‘Bobby, arrest him for obstruction, will you?’

  Constable Brown took a half step closer and cleared his voice. ‘Rodney Cumberpot, I am arresting––’

  ‘Clarkeson. Angela Clarkeson,’ Devlin volunteered immediately. ‘That’s Clarkeson with an “e”. C.L.A.R.K.E.S.O.N.’

  Boy, was he a gentleman.

  ‘Forty-five Farthing Lane, Sidcup,’ he sang, canary-like.

  That figured. Sidcup was on the way from the airport if you flew into Heathrow. It wouldn’t present much of a detour.

  ‘I would appreciate it if you exercised discretion,’ Ramrod went on, recovering his composure. ‘My wife wouldn’t be very happy if she found out I’d seen Angela.’ He turned to Constable Brown and winked. ‘She’s an old flame.’ But his voice had lost all the cocky bravado that we had become accustomed to.

  Constable Brown continued his most excellent glaring without a single blink. He was amazing.

  Scrub took out a notebook and flipped it open. ‘And this Angela Clarkeson will be able to confirm your whereabouts on the nights in question, will she? Or else I’m afraid you have a great deal of explaining to do.’

  I didn’t hear Devlin’s answer because a neuron had flared in my memory zone. ‘That morning, we were in the garden,’ I whispered to Sam. ‘Devlin said he had angels on his mind, remember? Angels – Angela?’

  Sam nodded. ‘He could be telling the truth,’ he said. ‘But if he was in the country, he’s back in the frame for Graham Peacock’s murder.’