Star Fall

by Cynthia Harrod-Eagles

  Slider pondered. Five thousand was a good enough incentive for some people, but hardly enough to warrant stealing-to-order. It might have been opportunism: it was there to hand and could be slipped into a pocket. But there were other pocketable things in the room. Why that? Did it mean something, or nothing? ‘Did he keep something in it, perhaps?’ he asked.

  ‘I’ve no idea. I never looked.’

  ‘And you said you didn’t notice that anything else was missing from the house.’

  He looked wary, perhaps sensing a trap. ‘Well, I wasn’t really looking, of course. And I only went into the drawing room.’

  ‘Quite so. Are there valuable things in the other rooms?’

  ‘Some paintings in the dining room, some silver and ceramics. None of it particularly valuable. The nice stuff was all in the drawing room.’

  ‘There was a painting, I believe, by someone called Maurice O.’

  Lavender looked stonily blank.

  ‘A painting of a girl doing her hair.’

  His eyes remained stationary for a moment longer, then he raised his eyebrows and said, ‘Oh, the Morisot.’ He pronounced it very French, with a good glottal roll of the ‘r’. ‘Berthe Morisot. La Fille au Toilette – the girl at her toilette,’ he translated kindly. ‘What about it?’

  ‘It’s missing,’ Slider said.

  He frowned. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes, quite sure. Was it valuable?’

  ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Well.’ He paused. ‘It was quite an early one. Not terribly accomplished. Not really an important painting. Morisot was in any case only in the second rank of Impressionists. Women painters never really achieve the prominence of their male colleagues.’

  ‘What would it be worth, in your estimation?’

  ‘It’s hard to say. At auction, on a good day, perhaps ten to fifteen thousand.’

  ‘Worth stealing, then.’

  Lavender made no response. His carved face gave nothing away.

  ‘Is it possible Mr Egerton sold it himself?’

  Lavender shook his head slowly. ‘I doubt it. Not without telling me. In fact, if he’d wanted to sell it, I would have handled the sale.’ He searched Slider’s face. ‘It must have been stolen by whoever killed him.’

  The painting, on the other hand, Slider thought, couldn’t have been slipped into a pocket. Was it possible the intruder was stealing it to order, and killed Egerton when he got in the way, pocketing the box on impulse? But unless he had acquired a key, Egerton would have had to have let him in. And would anyone steal a fifteen-thousand-pound painting to order? Hardly worth getting out of bed for.

  Lavender seemed to have been waiting for an answer to his last comment. Now he asked, rather as if it was being forced out of him, ‘How do you know the painting is missing, anyway?’

  ‘Mrs Bean heard about the death on the news and came to see if she could help. We had her look round the room, and she spotted it at once.’

  He looked uncomfortable. ‘Mrs Bean!’ he muttered.

  ‘Do you trust her?’ Slider asked.

  ‘Oh – she’s been with us for years. And there’s never been any trouble.’

  ‘But?’

  He shrugged it away. ‘She can be a bit nosy, that’s all. I’m sure she’s honest – I mean, she wouldn’t steal things.’

  ‘What might she do, then?’

  A pause. ‘Well, she was the only other person with a key. And one doesn’t know who her friends are.’ He seemed to think better of it. ‘But I don’t know anything against her character,’ he said briskly. ‘Forget what I said, please. I’m sure Mrs Bean is a hundred per cent trustworthy. I don’t mean to suggest there’s anything wrong about her.’

  Which, thought Slider, meeting Atherton’s eye, was exactly what he had done.

  THREE

  Men Behaving Baldly

  Hollis came to Slider as he entered and said, ‘Bob Bailey rang, guv. There’s no green and gold box or painting like you described in any of the other rooms. Also, deceased’s wallet is in his bedside drawer, with cash and credit cards in it.’

  That accorded with the watch and ring not being taken – it was not a simple burglary.

  ‘And the old lady, Mrs Bean, says there’s nothing else missing as far as she can tell.’

  ‘Well, that’s a start,’ said Slider. ‘But we’ll have to check everything against the computer record anyway. That’s a nice job for someone.’

  Hollis nodded. ‘Swilley’s bringing the computer in when she’s done there,’ he said. It was standard practice these days.

  ‘Anything on the next of kin?’ Slider asked.

  ‘The Henley police have been on,’ Hollis said. ‘They went round the Sholtos’ house but there was no-one in. A neighbour reckoned they were away on holiday. She didn’t know where, but she thinks they’re coming back tomorrow or Saturday.’

  ‘Right. Ask them to let us know as soon as they’re back,’ Slider said. He looked round. ‘What’s going on over there?’

  Mackay was at the site overseeing the canvass, and Swilley was going through Egerton’s office, but the rest were grouped round Connolly’s desk, watching her monitor. She looked up and said, ‘I pulled up one of your man’s old shows. It’s a total gas.’

  He went over and joined them. He recognized the look of Antiques Galore! though he had never consciously watched it. But it was one of those Sunday afternoon shows you had always known about, and passed through when channel-hopping for something to beguile the long dark teatime of the soul. The format was familiar from numerous forerunners and comedy skits: members of the public bringing their antiques or other treasures for experts to identify and value.

  Any amusement the show offered came from the potato-faced couple being told the vase they’d bought for a pound at a jumble sale and used as a door stop was a rare piece of Ming worth fifty thousand pounds. Occasionally, there was a Schadenfreude bit where some eager smart-arse was told his Sheraton side-table was a repro from Heal’s. Otherwise the show proceeded at a gentlemanly, not to say soporific, adagio, with the public-treasures-experts theme interspersed by a bit of history of the venue and the area, presented by a wafer-thin ex-newsreader in dangly earrings.

  Connolly said, ‘Wait’ll I run it on a bit till your man comes on.’

  And there he was, Rowland Egerton, still alive; exquisite in a pale grey suit, with a yellow tie with cranberry spots and a crimson-streaked yellow carnation in his buttonhole. His lean, handsome, lightly tanned face looked the epitome of the aristocrat, his silver hair was swept back in a leonine mane that gave him a look of thrilling power, and his hands, when the camera panned in to see him handling the treasures, were elegant, long-fingered, and beautifully manicured. Slider recognized the gold and emerald ring. He didn’t approve of men wearing jewellery, but he had to admit the hand was worthy of decoration, and the ring looked venerable and innocent of bling.

  The hands were examining a miniature, lifting it from the green baize that covered the table and tilting it expertly for the camera. And the voice making the commentary was a pleasing tenor, musical but manly, the accent cultured, the tone firm with expert assurance, yet hinting at a warm friendliness that transcended class. Slider noted that he talked to the owners with no hint of de haut en bas, his manner suggesting they knew all this as well as he did and that he was only repeating it for the sake of the viewers at home. And when the camera showed their faces, it was clear they were entranced by him, smiling and flattered by his attention, pleased with themselves as partners in this benign conspiracy.

  ‘He’s good,’ Slider commented.

  ‘It’s queer seeing him there in the whole of his health,’ Connolly said, ‘when you’ve only seen him dead.’ She came originally from Contarf, and ten years of living in London had barely touched her Dublin accent. ‘You can see now he was attractive. Fierce posh, but still a bit of a Bob. And look at all them eejits in the background. He’s not even talking to them, and they’ve grins on them like Labr
adors at the dinner table!’

  Slider was amused – the smiles of the onlookers had just that wholesome, ingratiating quality. ‘He seems to have a big following,’ he said.

  ‘He’s got brains, too,’ said McLaren, his voice clotted with chocolate. He was eating a Crunchie bar, and he liked to suck the chocolate off first before biting down with a sound like splintering teeth. ‘He did that “Royal Palaces” programme. Blimey, the things he knew! Not just about the pictures and the furniture, but all the history, going right back.’

  ‘Have you had the results back on that dog that bit you?’ Connolly enquired witheringly. ‘It was a script, you plank! Did you really think your man knew all that stuff himself?’

  McLaren swallowed a lump whole. ‘Why not?’ he defended himself, irritated. ‘You don’t know he didn’t.’

  Connolly addressed herself to Slider. ‘I’ve looked him up on Wiki,’ she said, clicking away and bringing up the page. ‘Seems he’s written books, as well. There’s a kind of art-for-idiots yoke, one about how to go collecting antiques, and one about the Pre-Raphaelites. That one might be serious – the others are coffee-table books.’ She looked up. ‘Kind o’ thing you buy someone for Christmas when you don’t like ’em much but want to impress ’em.’

  ‘I get the picture,’ Slider said.

  ‘But there’s virtually nothing about his personal history,’ she said. ‘That’s quite unusual. He must have been careful all his life, because once something’s out there, it’s out there, and the Wiki compilers’ll pick it up.’

  Slider’s phone rang at that moment, and he went through to his office to answer it.

  It was Freddie Cameron. ‘Thought you’d like to know as soon as possible,’ he said. ‘It looks as though the paperknife was the weapon. The dimensions match the wound, and we recovered traces of blood and tissue from it. I’ll send them off to the lab to compare with the victim’s, but I think you can take it as read.’

  ‘Thanks, Freddie. Anything else?’

  ‘I haven’t done the post-mortem yet. I just thought you’d like to be reassured about the weapon. I’ll do the full PM tomorrow, but from superficial examination there’s nothing to add. No other wounds, no sign of drug use. He was pretty fit for his age. And exquisitely clean. For which mercy, much thanks.’

  ‘Right. Thanks, Freddie.’

  Slider went back through, to see Swilley arriving carrying a box of papers brought from the house, followed by a uniform with his arms full of computer.

  ‘There doesn’t seem to be anything out of the ordinary,’ she said, seeing Slider’s look of query, ‘but I’ve brought some stuff so I can go through his finances and his correspondence. There’s another box coming – fan mail. Might be something interesting there.’

  Connolly looked excited. ‘I was thinking the same thing,’ she exclaimed. ‘With him being so famous, what’s the bet it was one of the window-lickers whacked him?’

  ‘Why would any of his fans kill him?’ Gascoyne objected.

  ‘Have you never heard of stalkers?’ Swilley said.

  ‘Sure, they’re all mad as cats in a blender,’ said Connolly. ‘They start feeling he knows them like they know him. Suppose some header found out where he lived, talked their way in, declared true love, and, when he wouldn’t shimmy, lost it?’

  ‘Anything’s possible,’ Slider said, ‘but his partner says he would never let a stranger in.’

  ‘Sayin’ it doesn’t make it true. And wouldn’t it make sense of the green box going missing? Grabbed for a souvenir before doing a legger.’

  ‘But that doesn’t explain the painting being missing as well.’

  ‘It was Lavender, for my money,’ McLaren said. ‘Never mind all this toss about fans.’

  ‘Toss, you call it?’ Connolly said dangerously.

  ‘Toss,’ he repeated defiantly. He was much more confident with his female colleagues since he’d started going out with Natalie. ‘Lavender’s got a key, we know he was there at the right time, he found the body, and it’s always the nearest and dearest that done it.’

  On cue, Atherton walked in. ‘All done,’ he said. ‘Prints, swab and statement. And his clothes are packed up and sent off. Uniform’s taking him home in a car – unless you want him for anything else?’

  ‘Not at the moment,’ Slider said.

  ‘Anything new?’ Atherton asked.

  Slider told him about the paperknife.

  ‘I wonder why chummy didn’t take it away with him.’

  ‘Maybe he wanted to make everything look normal,’ said Swilley.

  ‘Normal – with a dead body on the floor?’ Connolly said.

  ‘You know what I mean.’

  ‘It’s not that big. You could just about put it in your pocket and walk out,’ said Gascoyne.

  ‘What if he didn’t walk out?’ said McLaren. ‘If it was Lavender, he can’t put it in his pocket. Can’t leave it where it is – got his fingermarks on it. Can’t hide it anywhere – even more suspicious when it gets found. What’s he going to do? Wipe it and put it back.’

  Swilley looked at him. ‘Maurice, take it easy. You know talking sensible gives you a headache.’

  ‘Putting it back on the table and thinking we’ll never examine it – that’s just stupid,’ said Connolly.

  ‘He’d wiped it clean – so he thought,’ Atherton said. ‘If he’d put a few new fingermarks back on it the ruse might even have worked. But you can’t expect them to think of everything.’

  ‘I think putting it back makes it look more like Lavender,’ Swilley said. ‘Sort of instinctive, when it’s your own home. An intruder wouldn’t care.’

  ‘And Mrs Bean did say he was fussy,’ Connolly admitted.

  ‘But Lavender doesn’t explain the missing objects,’ said Atherton. ‘The painting and the Fabergé box. It’s got to be a burglary.’

  ‘But there was no break-in,’ Swilley pointed out.

  ‘Well,’ said Atherton, ‘there’s always Mrs Bean. Even if she’s honest, you don’t know who else she knows. Anyone who knew where she worked might take her key and get it copied.’

  Slider nodded. ‘We’ll have to look into her, of course. Check her background. And find out where she kept the key and who knew where it was. I don’t think she would steal anything herself, after all this time, but she may have a son or neighbour who’s suddenly fallen on hard times. And yet,’ he pondered, ‘how would someone like that know what to take? And why those things? It still doesn’t make sense.’

  ‘Lavender knows what everything is and what it’s worth,’ McLaren pointed out.

  ‘He didn’t have to kill your man to steal those things,’ Connolly objected. ‘He could have taken them any time. And why would he want to? They’re there for him to enjoy anyway.’

  ‘I must say, I hope it wasn’t him,’ said Atherton. ‘I rather like the old duck. So old-school, and Egerton was such a mayfly. Talk about the odd couple. Eternally playing Watson to Egerton’s Holmes would try the patience of a saint.’

  ‘Let’s not get too far ahead of ourselves,’ Slider said. ‘If someone came out of the house, with a bit of luck someone passing will have seen them. Let’s see what the canvass brings up.’

  ‘What now, boss?’ Swilley asked.

  ‘There’s plenty to do. We’ll have to check the house contents against the computer file, see if anything else is missing. Get an independent valuation of the box and the painting. Find out if anyone’s trying to sell them. Look into their finances. Find who their friends were.’ He sighed. With no obvious leads, there was nothing to guide the investigation one way or another. They were all looking at him. He glanced at the clock – it was late. ‘Finish your reports and go home,’ he said. ‘Nothing more we can do tonight. Tomorrow there’ll be plenty for everyone.

  ‘Let’s hope to God there are some eye witnesses,’ he added to Atherton, who followed him to his room.

  ‘Or some good spatter on Lavender’s clothing. It would make it all so much
easier if it were him. Are you going home?’

  ‘Just some things to finish up. Half an hour,’ said Slider, sitting behind his desk. He looked up. ‘Want to come and have supper with us?’

  Atherton hesitated.

  ‘It’d do Joanna good to have company.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Not seeing people can get to be a bad habit.’

  ‘All right, then. Thanks.’

  She met them in the hall. ‘Nice to see you, Jim,’ she said, lifting her face for his kiss. He thought, with a pang, it looked thinner, and there were shadows under the eyes. ‘What would you say to a drink before supper?’

  ‘I’d say, “Don’t get too comfortable in that glass.”’

  She smiled. ‘Gin and tonic?’

  ‘I’ll get it,’ said Slider.

  ‘Make yourself at home,’ said Joanna to Atherton. ‘I’ve just got to check how we’re doing.’

  But he followed her into the kitchen, where she pulled a big dish out of the oven. He recognized one of her staples – chicken pieces cooked over rice, with onions, peppers, olives and chunks of lemon. All those good juices soaked into the rice. It was simple but tasty. His stomach gurgled like a retort in a mad scientist movie. ‘That smells good,’ he said.

  She tested the chicken with a skewer and put the dish back in. ‘Half an hour,’ she said.

  He blocked her way as she turned and said, ‘How are you?’

  ‘I’m OK,’ she said neutrally.

  ‘Really? You look like hell.’

  ‘Thanks.’ She shrugged. ‘I don’t say it wasn’t upsetting, but these things happen. I wasn’t the first and I won’t be the last. You have to get over it and get on with your life, don’t you?’ He looked at her steadily, but she didn’t shift. He could see how such stoicism could be hard for a fond husband to cope with. As if she read his thought she went on, ‘I’m worried about Bill. He seems really down.’