Trick of the Mind

by Cassandra Chan

  Out of the hundreds of calls that had come in response to their appeal to the public for information about the Hampstead Shooter, a tentative identification of the man had been made. He was believed to be one Richard Denby and a bulletin had been put out with orders for his immediate detainment if and when he was spotted. A couple of uniformed policemen had been sent to the address on Denby’s driver’s license, but no one was at home there.

  “And who the hell is this Denby?” demanded Carmichael. “He’s not a jewel thief, is he?”

  “Not that we know of,” said Inspector Hollings. “We haven’t got much on him, though. I’m working on his employment record right now.”

  O’Leary had tracked down Bradley Johnson, and he was on his way in from his home in Enfield.

  “And I’ve found Tom Gerrard, the witness who saw Gibbons that night,” added O’Leary. “He’s off work today, and said he’d come round.”

  “That’s good,” said Carmichael. “With the two cabbies and Gerrard, we should get this sorted. I don’t know, to be honest, how we came to make such a mistake.”

  “Well, sir,” said O’Leary, “when you hear that one man was trailing another, it’s only natural to assume the chap doing the following is the policeman. I know I would have.”

  “I suppose so,” said Carmichael, still displeased with himself. “You realize what this means, of course?”

  O’Leary nodded. “Yes, sir. Since we now know he wasn’t following anyone, it means we still don’t know why Gibbons went to Walworth that night in the first place.”

  “Right enough,” said Carmichael, scowling. Then he shook off the expression and sighed. “Well,” he said, “one thing at a time. Let’s have all our ducks in a row on this go-round. Have we got a picture of Gibbons to show this lot? A good one, I mean, not the awful stuff from the CCTV footage.”

  “I should be able to dig one up out of files,” said O’Leary. “I’ll just run have a look—oh, and I’m still waiting to hear back from the lads in Scotland.”

  Carmichael nodded and let him go, turning to Lemmy, who stood waiting his turn.

  “We’ve found the fellow who was following the sergeant, sir,” he reported. “We’ve got him entering the Camden Town tube station a few seconds behind Sergeant Gibbons, so he must have followed him from there. The pictures aren’t the best—the blighter was obviously trying to avoid the cameras—but there are a couple of good possibilities. Markham’s working on cleaning them up right now.”

  “Good, good,” said Carmichael. “Bring the photos up to my office as soon as you’ve got them, will you, Constable? I want to know if it’s this Denby character.”

  “Oh, it’s not him, sir,” answered Lemmy. “The shots are blurry, but I would have recognized Denby.”

  Carmichael, poised to go, frowned and paused. “How can you be so sure?” he asked.

  “I have a photographic memory, sir,” answered Lemmy, his voice tinged with pride. “It’s why I thought I might be good at detective work. I didn’t recognize Denby because I’ve never seen him before, but if the man following Sergeant Gibbons is anyone with a picture in the case file, I’ll be able to pick him out.”

  For a long moment, Carmichael simply stared at him, torn between astonishment and exasperation. Then he began to laugh.

  Lemmy shifted uncomfortably, not certain of the source of this humor.

  “Go on, lad,” said Carmichael at last, overcoming his mirth. His tone was probably the kindest Lemmy had yet heard from him. “You’re doing brilliantly—just get those photos clear for me, and I’ll see you shortly.”

  Lemmy nodded and moved off while Carmichael shook his head bemusedly, at last enlightened as to the reason for the constable’s presence in the detective division.

  “He’ll do well enough in the CCTV surveillance department,” he said to himself as he turned back toward his office. “I must speak to Evans about it.”

  But the thought of CCTV footage brought him back to the business at hand, and he frowned over Lemmy’s declaration that Denby was not the one who had followed Gibbons to Walworth on Tuesday night. He wondered if there was any hope that Gibbons might recognize his pursuer once they had a decent photograph of the man. He would have to go round to the hospital, Carmichael decided, once he was done here; indeed, he felt an urge to talk all the new developments over with his sergeant. But it would have to wait until Lemmy and Markham had finished their work, and in the meantime he had best concentrate on finding out what connection Denby had with the case.

  Upon reaching his office, he picked up the telephone and dialed James’s office number. Vivian answered the telephone in her smooth contralto voice, and remembering her levelheadedness the night before, Carmichael decided on the moment to question her first.

  “Denby?” she repeated thoughtfully. “It is a familiar name, sir. If I could just—oh!”

  “Oh?” asked Carmichael.

  “But it can’t be,” she said, and he heard the clack of her computer keys in the background. “I’m certain he was sent up for at least twenty years. Yes, here it is: Carl Denby, sentenced to thirty years for armed robbery and assault with a deadly weapon. That was only three years ago, Chief Inspector—he can’t be out yet.”

  “Probably not,” agreed Carmichael. “This bloke’s name is Richard Denby. Does Carl have any relations?”

  Vivian began to reply, but then broke off and Carmichael heard the resonant tones of James in the background.

  “Excuse me a moment, sir,” said Vivian. “Mr. James apparently has something to say that won’t wait.”

  Carmichael did not mind the interruption in the least, as he was already turning to his own computer and bringing up Carl Denby’s police record.

  “Damn,” he murmured when he saw it. “Miss Entwhistle?” he said, and then repeated the name more forcefully.

  “Yes, Chief Inspector, I’m here,” she said at last, though he could still hear James talking in the background.

  “Miss Entwhistle, those anonymous letters you gave me last night—do you remember when you received the first of them?”

  “I believe it was about three months ago,” Vivian replied. “I can look up the exact date for you—”

  “No, no,” said Carmichael, staring at his computer screen. “Never mind. I think it’s pretty clear what happened, though of course I won’t know until we track this Denby down.”

  “Vivian,” James bellowed so loudly that Carmichael could hear him clearly, “let me speak to the chief inspector, damn it all. Anybody would think you were the one who got shot at.”

  “Chief Inspector?” said Vivian. “Mr. James wants a word if you’ll speak to him.”

  Her tone conveyed clearly that she thought this would be a monumental mistake on Carmichael’s part, and he grinned.

  “Certainly, Miss Entwhistle,” he said, “I’d be very happy to speak to Mr. James.”

  “Chief Inspector?” came James’s voice, once again perfectly under control. “Vivian seems to think you suspect Carl Denby of shooting at me last night? I really don’t think that’s possible.”

  “Neither do I,” Carmichael assured him. “Carl Denby is dead.”

  There was a stunned silence.

  “Dead?” asked James. “Not in prison?”

  “He was in prison,” said Carmichael. “He apparently died about three and half months ago of a congenital heart defect, previously undiagnosed.”

  “Well, that’s a corker,” said James.

  “According to my records, however,” continued Carmichael, “Carl had a younger brother with whom he was very close.”

  “Oh, yes, the puppy,” said James. “I remember now—well, of course you do, Viv, he was slobbering all over you at the trial.”

  “The puppy,” said Carmichael, raising his voice to attract James’s attention, “is likely the one who shot at you last night, and also the author of the threatening letters you’ve been receiving. As I remember, they accused you of harm to a loved one.”r />
  “Did they?” asked James, sounding surprised. “Wait a moment—how did you get them? Vivian …”

  “Miss Entwhistle gave them into evidence last night,” said Carmichael. “As was quite proper, Mr. James. You didn’t even mention them.”

  “Well, why would I have?” demanded James. “I thought they were pure bunk. I still can’t quite believe … Oh, all right, Vivian, have the damn phone.”

  “Chief Inspector?” came Vivian’s voice. “I’d like to thank you very much on Mr. James’s behalf for clearing this matter up so quickly.”

  “It’s not cleared up altogether,” warned Carmichael. “We haven’t got Denby yet, and until we do we can’t be sure this explanation is the right one. It certainly seems to fit all the facts, but other explanations might do that as well.”

  “You’ve still accomplished a remarkable amount in such a short time,” said Vivian. “We’d appreciate it very much if you could let us know once Richard Denby has been captured.”

  “Of course,” said Carmichael. “Thank you for your information about Mr. Denby. You’ve been most helpful, Miss Entwhistle.”

  And with these mutual compliments, they rang off.

  Carmichael sat with his chin sunk on his breast for several minutes after he had replaced the receiver in its cradle. It was all very neat, and on the face of it seemed a straightforward case. If it had not been for James’s involvement with the other matter, Carmichael would have felt relatively sure he had the case wrapped up. But as it was …

  Colin James was a very clever man, and Carmichael did not put it past him to have arranged this distraction, with or without his secretary’s complicity. Until he had Richard Denby’s confession in his hands, Carmichael was taking nothing for granted.

  23

  The Executor

  In the morning, Bethancourt’s inspiration of the night before seemed less brilliant, but he determined to follow it up anyway, the more so as he could think of nothing else he could do. If Colin James was guilty, Carmichael would have him to rights soon enough.

  He was almost sure he had written down the name of the nursing home Ned Winterbottom lived in, so while he had his morning coffee he went through the bits and pieces of paper he regularly turned out of his pockets at night and piled on the dresser. Eventually he discovered it scrawled on the back of a torn receipt: Southgate Beaumont.

  The day was bright but chilly as Bethancourt negotiated the Monday traffic on his way north. Southgate Beaumont proved to be a lovely old manor house off Cannon Hill, hidden from the road by a belt of trees. Bethancourt sat for a moment after he had parked the Jaguar, just admiring it.

  “It wouldn’t be a bad place to be when we get old and feeble, eh, Cerberus?” he said. “Well, let’s have a look at the inside.”

  The entry was as grand as the outside with classical murals, a beautifully painted ceiling, and fine antique furnishings. Bethancourt asked for Ned Winterbottom, gave the receptionist his card with the message “Re: Haverford Estate” written on it, and was asked to wait.

  Eventually an aide appeared to escort him to Winterbottom’s apartment. They chatted amiably about the architecture of the manor house as she guided him up the staircase and down a long gallery until they reached a door bearing a discreet brass plaque that read “Mr. Edward Winterbottom.”

  The aide knocked briskly and then opened the door without further ceremony.

  “Mr. Winterbottom?” she said. “Here’s Mr. Bethancourt for you.”

  Ned Winterbottom was a wizened old man with a fringe of pure white hair running around the edges of his otherwise bald pate and clothes that hung loosely on his emaciated frame. He wore largeframed glasses through which he peered up at Bethancourt.

  “Hmph,” he said.

  “It’s very good of you to see me, sir,” said Bethancourt.

  “I’ll leave you to it, then, shall I?” said the aide, a little overbrightly. “Just ring if you want anything.”

  Winterbottom waited until she had shut the door behind her before speaking.

  “So what have you got to do with Miranda’s estate?” he demanded, somewhat querulously. “You’re not a solicitor or a policeman.”

  “No,” admitted Bethancourt. “I’m a private citizen. I’ve only come into it at all because a friend of mine who was investigating the robbery was shot.”

  “I heard about that,” said Winterbottom in a less confrontational tone. “I hope the young man is recovering well?”

  “Yes, very well, thanks,” said Bethancourt.

  “Hmph,” said Winterbottom again. “Well, sit down, can’t you? It’s putting a crick in my neck looking up at you.”

  Bethancourt sat down obediently in a second armchair. He was not entirely sure what to make of Winterbottom, or what approach to take with the old man.

  “I assume,” said Bethancourt, “that Mr. Grenshaw has been keeping you abreast of matters related to the case?”

  “He’s been popping in and out of here like a jack-in-the-box, bleating at me as if I’d stolen the bloody jewels myself, if that’s what you mean,” said Winterbottom. “God knows what he expects me to do about it.” He narrowed his eyes. “Or what you expect, either,” he added.

  “I only wanted to ask you a question,” said Bethancourt, keeping his tone pleasant. “As I understand it, you and Miss Haverford were very close.”

  “Yes, we were,” snapped Winterbottom. “You could have asked that over the phone. I may be old, but I do know how to use a telephone.”

  “So do I,” replied Bethancourt. “But I wanted to see you. And that was by way of being a prelude, not the question I came to ask.”

  “Thank God,” muttered Winterbottom. “Maybe you’re not such an idiot after all.”

  Bethancourt eyed him, wondering if he had been wildly mistaken in thinking Winterbottom might know anything, if perhaps he had in fact been quite mistaken about everything. But then he caught a gleam in the old man’s eye, which made him ask simply, “When did Miss Haverford sell the last of her jewels, do you know?”

  And Winterbottom broke into a delighted cackle, rocking back and forth and clapping his hands. He looked back at Bethancourt with an entirely different expression in his rheumy eyes.

  “I was wondering if anyone would ever figure it out,” he said. “I was beginning to think not. Did you come up with it yourself? Or was it your policeman friend who sent you round?”

  “It was an idea I had last night,” said Bethancourt. “I was talking to the insurance investigator on the case, and he happened to mention that one of his contacts recollected seeing a stone very like the Golconda diamond from the Haverford brooch, only that had been a number of years ago. Why did you not tell Grenshaw?”

  Winterbottom scowled. “That ass? Why should I have? It was much more entertaining watching him scurry about like a rat in a maze. At my age,” he added loftily, “there’s not so very much entertainment to be had out of life. You have to take what you can get.”

  Bethancourt laughed. “And you weren’t going to tell me anything, either, were you?” he said. “You had your crotchety old gentleman persona firmly in place when I came in—what made you change your mind?”

  “Oh, I was never going to lie about it,” answered Winterbottom. “If anyone had bothered to ask me what I knew about the jewels, I would have told them. I just didn’t see any reason to volunteer the information.”

  Waiting, thought Bethancourt, for someone to treat him as a serious participant. And in the meantime thoroughly enjoying the irony in the fact that the answer to the mystery was so easily available, if only anyone had thought to ask an elderly man for it.

  “Will you tell me about it now?” asked Bethancourt.

  Winterbottom shrugged. “Not much to tell,” he said. “It should have been obvious to any idiot from the condition of the property that Miranda was very hard up indeed. Where else was she going to get money?”

  “But how did you come to know of it?” asked Bethancourt. “
Did Miss Haverford confide in you at the time?”

  “Well, naturally,” said Winterbottom. “She hadn’t the least notion how to go about selling the stuff on the quiet, she needed my help. I did try to persuade her,” he added, “to put it all up for auction. I explained that she would make double, maybe even triple the money that way, but she wasn’t having any.” He sighed. “She was always stubborn. And proud—that was the problem, you see. She couldn’t bear that anyone should know that the Haverford fortune was gone.”

  “So no one knew but you?” asked Bethancourt.

  “Rose, her housekeeper, knew,” replied Winterbottom. “I don’t think anyone else did. And it didn’t all go at once, you know. At first she thought she’d get by with just selling off some of the less spectacular pieces. ‘After all,’ she told me, ‘I’m old—I won’t last much longer.’” He laughed. “That was some ten or fifteen years before she died. You never know what span the Lord has in store for you, and so I told her. But she wouldn’t listen.”

  “So how did you sell them?” asked Bethancourt.

  “Mostly to private collectors,” said Winterbottom. “I expect you already know about my spot of bother?”

  Bethancourt shook his head. “No,” he said. “No one’s mentioned anything to me.”

  “Ah.” Winterbottom looked a little embarrassed. “Well, I suppose you had better know. I once did a stint in prison for embezzlement. It was after the war,” he added, rather apologetically, in explanation, “when my family’s finances had pretty much gone south, and my brother—well, never mind about that. Anyway, I met many unsavory characters in jail, some of whom I kept in contact with afterward. One of them was a dealer in stolen jewelry, and he was happy to supply me with buyers for Miranda’s jewels for a commission.”

  “I see,” said Bethancourt. He paused for a moment in thought. “What about the Colemans?” he said. “Did she tell them? It was rather their business, after all.”