Rooted in Evil:

by Ann Granger

  Chapter 9

  ‘Dear me,’ said Edgar Alcott, ‘this is very distressing news, Superintendent Carter.’ He tapped his fingertips together and for a moment seemed lost in thought.

  Carter cleared his throat. ‘It has been reported in the press and on television news programmes. I’m surprised you haven’t seen it anywhere.’

  Alcott looked up sharply at the sound of Carter’s voice. ‘I do not possess a television set!’ The older man spoke as if the very idea was unacceptable. ‘And I only ever read the financial press. Tabloid journalism, Superintendent, is not to my taste.’

  Carter and Phil Morton were seated in Alcott’s minuscule drawing room in an unwished proximity. There was nothing that could be done about that, due both to the size of the room and to Morton being a little over six foot tall and a rugby player. Carter, who was nearly the same height and solidly built, was aware that, even both seated, they dwarfed their host.

  Alcott, however, appeared by no means intimidated by their presence. He sat neatly before them, his ankles crossed, so they could see he wore pale blue silk socks with his custom-made shoes. He appeared in every way as perfect as a doll freshly taken from its cellophane wrapping. But these were not a doll’s blank eyes, thought Carter. They gleamed with a malicious kind of intelligence. Their sharp scrutiny was disconcerting.

  When Carter informed him of Finch’s death, however, Alcott had cast his eyes down and, at the same time, raised manicured fingers to touch his mouth. Only when his expression was fully under his control had he looked up again.

  ‘Poor Carl dead, you say?’ he murmured now. He gripped his small white hands. ‘No, no, I had not seen the news anywhere and I am very shocked. He was a young man and appeared very fit.’

  ‘He was murdered, sir,’ said Morton from the armchair in which he was uncomfortably wedged. ‘Shot.’

  Alcott had been ignoring Morton, but now turned his head to look straight at him. He considered the sergeant at leisure, studying him from top to toe, with the curiosity of a visitor to a zoo who has been presented with some previously never seen animal. But both Carter and Morton knew instinctively that Edgar Alcott had faced the police before; when and in what circumstances they did not yet know. But both of them sensed Alcott’s underlying defensive wariness, despite the band-box appearance and old-maidish calm.

  ‘Even more unbelievable,’ he said. ‘I am extremely sorry to hear that. Why?’ He leaned forward on the last word, and raised his eyebrows.

  With this simple question he successfully threw both his visitors momentarily off balance.

  ‘We don’t yet know why, Mr Alcott, or by whom or, indeed, exactly where. We only know where his body was discovered. That is why we are conducting these enquiries,’ Carter managed.

  ‘And they have brought you to me. Dear, dear . . .’ murmured Alcott. ‘I cannot imagine why. Or, indeed, how.’

  Carter chose to ignore the invitation to explain their presence.

  A slight expression of annoyance passed across Alcott’s face and was gone almost at once. Carter thought of a wisp of cloud scudding across the face of the sun. ‘I can tell you nothing!’ Alcott said firmly.

  ‘We understand Mr Finch recently visited you here, in Oxford.’

  ‘Now, who told you that, I wonder?’ Alcott’s eyebrows twitched again. But he had himself well under control this time and no cloud appeared. His tone was almost benign.

  You are a tricky old devil, thought Carter. And you are quick on your feet – or whatever the relevant expression for thought is.

  ‘We are very anxious, you see, to trace Mr Finch’s recent movements. We find ourselves rather in the dark, frankly, and we would be very grateful for any light you could shed on his state of mind.’

  ‘Well, he did come to see me, yes. It was a social call. I have no idea about his state of mind.’ Alcott waved both hands, palms outward. ‘I can only say he seemed much as usual. I wish I could suggest some explanation for this awful event, but I’m afraid I can’t. Was it a mistake, do you think? Or a dreadful accident? One hears of victims shot in error. Guns are such dangerous things. I simply can’t imagine why anyone should want to kill that poor boy.’ Alcott shook his head sorrowfully.

  Carter resisted the urge to remind his host that Finch had been in his forties and not, by any description, a boy. But Alcott, he guessed, was really quite old, and being well preserved didn’t quite disguise it. On the other hand, he had known enough ageing crooks in his time to be aware that drawing the old-age pension is not necessarily incompatible with a life of crime.

  ‘We understand he owned a Renault Megane,’ Carter said aloud. ‘Did he drive it to Oxford, park it outside this house, perhaps?’

  ‘He came by train,’ said Alcott promptly. ‘Parking is never easy in Oxford, even in residential streets. I have no idea what kind of car he drove. I myself do not drive. He really was murdered, you say? Forgive me if I continue to doubt your news, but it does sound extraordinary, so one has great difficulty in absorbing the fact. There is no chance he committed suicide?’ For the first time, Alcott sounded less than confident.

  ‘No, sir, someone definitely shot him,’ said Morton.

  Alcott threw up his white hands but not quickly enough to hide the relief in his eyes. ‘Oh! Dreadful! I have no idea who could have done such a frightful thing, or why. What a world we live in! Can you wonder that I prefer to stay here with my books and other treasures?’ He shook his head. ‘It takes a lot to tempt me out of my little home.’

  Carter had not come here to discuss the state of the world. ‘Could you tell us how you came to know Mr Finch? And for how long?’

  ‘I met him almost four years ago.’

  ‘In Oxford?’

  ‘Oh, no, at an auction house in London, in the saleroom. The sale was devoted to books and maps of the ancient world. I have an interest in the classical world, so I took courage and boarded a train, something I rarely do. One is sealed in with germs, awful. I had a sore throat for a week afterwards.’ He must have noticed his visitors becoming restless and continued more briskly: ‘There were a couple of items in the catalogue that interested me. I did not, however, buy either of them, in the end. I was outbid. It is important, Superintendent Carter, when one goes to auction sales, to have an idea in one’s mind what one is willing to pay. Otherwise, you know, one can get quite carried away.’

  ‘Are you, or were you, connected with the university?’ Carter asked curiously.

  Alcott sighed with what appeared a genuine regret. ‘Alas, no, I have never had the scholarship to aspire to an academic career. It is a happy man who is able to combine his personal interest with the way he earns his living. I was never able to do that.’

  ‘What did you do, sir?’ asked Morton. ‘For a living, I mean.’

  Alcott clearly thought the question rather blunt. He frowned and cast a reproachful glance at Morton. When he replied, he addressed himself to Carter.

  ‘In the course of a busy working life I had interests in various businesses. In the latter years I had a part interest in several health spas, in London and in Manchester. I am not, as you will have realised, a person who chooses to spend his day mixing with all and sundry. The spas were all run by managers, and all were above board, I assure you.’

  If Morton had wanted revenge for being snubbed, he clearly thought the moment had come. He had acquired the look of a keen terrier that had just spotted a rat.

  ‘These health spas, sir, would they be what some people might call massage parlours?’

  ‘Some people might, Sergeant,’ said Alcott coolly. ‘You yourself might, I dare say. I cannot prevent you thinking whatever you wish. But I insist that nothing took place that was in the slightest improper on any of our premises. As the Romans put it, mens sana in corpore sano. That, Sergeant Morton, means “a healthy mind in a healthy body”. It was our guiding principle. They were private clubs and used by respectable businessmen. We kept out riffraff and undesirables.’

 
‘Never raided, sir?’ enquired Morton, not releasing his grip on his prey.

  Alcott reddened. ‘Once or twice, Sergeant, but never resulting in any prosecutions. False accusations had been laid against us by business rivals.’

  Carter glanced at Morton and took back control of the conversation. ‘Was it a profitable line of business, sir?’

  ‘Oh, yes, Superintendent. The stress of modern living is nowhere more apparent than in our great cities.’

  ‘So, what brought you to Oxford?’

  ‘Ah, now!’ Alcott suddenly livened up. ‘I was able to take a fairly early retirement from business. I wanted to move out of London. It is not a healthy place. I am asthmatic, you know. I had decided I would like to spend my declining years in one of our university cities. I finally found this little house in Oxford, and it suits me down to the ground. I now devote myself to my interest – hobby, you might call it – in classical history and culture.’

  ‘And was Carl Finch interested in classical culture?’ Carter asked incredulously.

  ‘He knew nothing about it whatsoever!’ was Alcott’s prompt response.

  ‘So, how did he come to be in that saleroom?’

  Again, Alcott became more animated. It was as if anything to do with his hobby really was all that mattered to him. ‘I arrived late at the sale and there wasn’t a free seat. I stood at the back of the room at first, but it was inconvenient and I couldn’t see well. There was a man seated at the end of the back row, just in front of me. He was a well-built chap with rather long blond hair; so much I could see from where I stood. He must have noticed me enter and realised I had not found anywhere to sit. So he stood up and offered me his seat. I was very glad to accept it. After the sale, I offered to buy him a cup of tea by way of thanks. He appeared quite pleased to accept. I soon found out why. He had, he said, some old books on classical history. They had belonged to his late father. He had wondered if they had any value and he’d come to the saleroom that day to see what sort of prices old books on that subject fetched. He wanted to sell them, if they were worth anything.’

  ‘And were they?’

  ‘Oh, yes. When he told me what he had, I could scarcely believe my ears.’ Alcott’s pale cheeks flushed. His voice quivered with the remembered excitement of the moment. ‘He had a complete early set of volumes of Edward Gibbon’s History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire. I couldn’t believe my ears. Have you any idea, Superintendent, how rare such a find is? And complete! Occasionally, one or two volumes of the original or an early edition turn up, but to have a complete set, in good condition, had long been my dream. I told him I would need to view them, of course. But yes, I was most definitely interested!’

  ‘Did you ask how his late father had come by them?’

  ‘I certainly did. With antiques of any nature, provenance is important. It seems his family had lived in the same house for generations. The house was – still is – called the Old Nunnery and is in Gloucestershire. No one in the present family had any interest in old books. The Gibbon volumes had been removed to an attic some years before and left up there in a box with some other volumes, neglected and forgotten. People are such philistines.’

  ‘And he did bring them to you, for you to examine them?’

  ‘Yes, he brought them here to this house. They were in a very fair condition, considering they had been many years in an unheated attic. They had suffered a little from damp, but they were complete. I had no hesitation in offering him six thousand pounds on the spot.’

  ‘Six thousand!’ exclaimed Carter and Morton together.

  For the first time, Alcott smiled, albeit briefly. ‘You may think I took advantage of his ignorance and underpaid. But I assure you I was scrupulously fair in my discussion with him. I told him frankly that, should he take the books to the right auction, or even to another private buyer, he might get much more. The gamble would be that he might not, or that he would have to wait. For my part, I was prepared to give him six thousand that very day. He accepted.’ Alcott paused. ‘I had the impression he was in need of money rather urgently.’

  Alcott waved a white hand gracefully at a glass-fronted walnut bookcase. ‘The books are in there. You may see them yourself.’ He smiled contentedly. ‘“Faithful mirrors that reflect the minds of sages and heroes.” The words are Gibbon’s.’

  Morton cast his eyes up to the ceiling, but Carter needed no urging. He jumped to his feet and went to the bookcase. When he came back to his chair, he asked, ‘Did he sell you any other books?’

  ‘Just the one, and nowhere near as valuable. It is a sketchbook belonging to a naval officer, dating from the 1820s and ’30s. Young gentlemen in those days, long before photography, very often sketched interesting sights on their travels. This particular officer had been in the Mediterranean and made watercolour sketches at various sites of classical antiquity. As amateur watercolours go, they have a naïve charm. I gave him a couple of hundred pounds for it. He was always in need of money, poor Carl.’

  This gave Carter the entry he sought. ‘Did you ever lend him any money, or have any other business dealings with him, apart from purchasing the books you’ve mentioned? Forgive me, Mr Alcott, but it puzzles me that you and Finch had anything in common, once the business with the books was done. But if you were in the habit of lending him sums of money when he was short of cash . . .’

  Alcott hesitated for a moment. Then he appeared to decide that frankness was the best road to follow. ‘Our friendship continued, even though no more old books were involved. But I did not lend him money, Mr Carter, in the way you suggested. Once or twice I made small investments at his suggestion and received a modest but welcome return on my money.’ Alcott sighed. ‘He was a dear boy. Foolish, of course, in pursuing a lifestyle he couldn’t afford. You might say I took a benevolent interest in him.’

  ‘If I could return to these investments, made, as you say, on Finch’s recommendation, what is the situation now, at Finch’s death?’

  Again Alcott hesitated, but spoke firmly in answer. ‘Am I out of pocket? Yes. That is to say, I followed his advice – not for the first time, as I mentioned – and invested some money in a consortium developing a luxury holiday complex on a small island in the Caribbean.’

  ‘May I ask how much?’ Carter sounded his politest, but Alcott was not misled.

  His eyelids flickered. ‘Eighty thousand pounds,’ he said.

  Morton whistled softly under his breath.

  Alcott made a gesture with both hands, spreading them out to either side. ‘Sadly, it turned out that the project had not been sufficiently thought through. Oh, the costs and the potential were all well researched. But there has been considerable local opposition, quite unexpectedly. You would think a boost to the depressed local economy would be welcome but, alas, it is apparently not so. To make things worse, it now appears there is some kind of rare turtle that lays its eggs on the principal stretch of beach . . .’ Alcott waved his hands. ‘Think of it, a turtle! The best-laid plans, Superintendent Carter, of mice and men, as the poet wrote, are apt to go wrong, and we have been undone by a turtle.’

  ‘So,’ Carter said, ‘on his last visit to you here, Carl Finch and you must have discussed this failed—’

  ‘Oh, not failed, not entirely!’ protested Alcott. ‘But things are held up and, when that happens, you know, investors get jittery and want to get their money out.’

  ‘And you, sir, you wanted your money back?’

  Alcott dusted an invisible blemish from his jacket lapel. ‘It would have been nice. But I quite understood the situation. I did not blame Carl. Please believe me, in no way did I hold him responsible. Carl advised me to wait. Things could be sorted out.’

  ‘And you believed this? You, a businessman of many years’ experience?’

  ‘I did not want to make things worse than they were for Carl, poor boy.’

  Barely audibly, Morton murmured, ‘You fancied him!’

  But Alcott had heard and turned fir
st scarlet and then white with rage. ‘Can you not control your sergeant, Superintendent Carter?’

  ‘I apologise for Sergeant Morton’s remark. It was uncalled for.’ Carter looked at Morton. ‘Sergeant!’

  ‘Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.’

  ‘It was both uncalled for and untrue!’ Alcott rose to his feet. Two red patches had appeared on his pale face, each glowing on a cheekbone, increasing his doll-like appearance. ‘I think it is time for you both to leave!’

  ‘I’m very sorry, sir,’ said Morton abjectly when they were outside. ‘I hadn’t meant to say it aloud. It sort of slipped out. The old fraud gave me the creeps. Benevolent interest, be blowed!’

  Carter laughed. ‘Oh, that was nonsense, of course. But more importantly, Alcott is not the sort of man who overlooks bad advice in a business affair that costs him money. We’ll pass on the enquiry into this investment project in the Caribbean to the boys who know more about that sort of thing.’

  ‘Fraud squad? You think it was a scam?’

  ‘Not necessarily. Alcott is a sharp old fellow and I don’t think he would invest without making his own enquiries first. It could have been a legitimate project that’s run into unforeseen difficulties. That detail about the turtle . . .’

  ‘I don’t believe it,’ said Morton sapiently. ‘I mean, strange or what?’

  Carter smiled. ‘Strange enough to be true, Phil. At any rate, Alcott made no attempt to deny his interest in the scheme, and he won’t be the only one likely to have lost his investment.’

  ‘So there must be quite a list of people with a grudge against Finch, all furious about losing their cash!’ muttered Morton. ‘Any one of them could have followed him to those woods and blasted him away.’

  Carter looked unconvinced. ‘We’ll have to consider it but, remember, without Finch, who was their link with the company behind the deal to set up this millionaire’s playground, the investors will all have lost their direct contact with the widowed lady who, we’re told, is the moving force behind it.’