Past Imperative [Round One of The Great Game]

by Dave Duncan

  "You would have been embarrassed if anyone had found the two of you in the kitchen at that hour of the night?"

  "Mildly embarrassed,” Edward conceded, realizing that the conversation was coming around to—

  "Was that why you locked the door?"

  "We didn't.” He must not reveal what Ginger Jones had told him about missing keys. He must not show any interest in keys.

  "You say your memories of the night's events are foggy, and yet you recall a detail like that? You would testify under oath that neither you nor your companion locked the kitchen door?"

  "I would testify that I do not recall locking it or seeing Bagpipe lock it—neither that night nor any of the half dozen or so times we had been there under similar circumstances before. I do remember people beating on the door later, trying to get in, so somebody must have locked it.” It was hard not to smile at that point.

  "Or bolted it."

  "There's no bolt on that door ... is there?"

  Leatherdale smiled placidly. “I'll ask the questions, if you don't mind."

  He continued to send down simple balls and Edward continued to stonewall them. He had recalled quite a lot in the past two days, but it was patchy—Bagpipe showing him to his room, the talk of war over the port, Bagpipe coming to chat, Bagpipe raving about The Lost World.

  The inspector reached out and took the book off the bed table and eyed the title. “Sir Arthur Conan Doyle? Good man. Liked what he wrote about the war and those Boers. Well, it would be his Mr. Sherlock Holmes we would be needing now, wouldn't you say, sir?” With his homely, West Country voice he might have been discussing the prospects for the harvest, but he was not fooling Edward.

  "Run through the clues for me, Inspector, and I shall solve the case lying here in my bed."

  "I hope you do.” Leatherdale twirled his mustache and somehow made that commonplace gesture seem sinister.

  Edward resolved to make no more jokes.

  If what Ginger Jones had reported was correct, then there was no chance of Edward Exeter being kept under unofficial arrest much longer. At the end of this interview he would ask to be moved out of solitary. A ward full of other men would be infinitely preferable, even if they were all farmers and tradesmen. At least there would be the crisis to talk about. The order mobilizing the army was going to be signed today. Belgium had rejected the German ultimatum. If the Prussian jackboot came across that border, then Britain would be in the war. Meanwhile he must be nice to the rozzer....

  "Had the rest of the household retired to bed?"

  "I don't remember, sir."

  "What exactly did you do in the kitchen?"

  "All I recall of the kitchen is what I already..."

  The sensation was oddly like being called to walk the carpet, but he had not been in serious trouble at Fallow since his wild youth in the Upper Fourth, and he knew the stakes now were considerably higher than a breeching or a few hours’ detention. His neck was growing devilish stiff. He addressed his next few answers to the ceiling, aware that the foe was still watching him and he could not see the foe.

  Of course the most likely explanation of the tragedy was that the two of them had blundered into a gang of burglars and tried to be heroes. In the resulting fracas the intruders had stabbed Bagpipe, thrown Edward down the stairs, and departed. But if Ginger's information was correct, they had not escaped out the back door, which had been bolted, but had gone through into the main house, locking the door and taking the key. Although Ginger had not mentioned the front door and other means of escape, there must be a possibility that the killer or killers had not been intruders at all, but someone in General Bodgley's household. As Bodgley was practically lord of the manor around Greyfriars, this investigation must be much more than a routine for Inspector Leatherdale. He would be under terrific pressure; he would play every trick he knew. Even a romantic, starry-eyed idealist knew the googlies must start soon.

  The voices droned, the constable's pen squeaked, and faint sounds of carts and motors drifted in through the open window. Visitors’ voices wandered up and down the corridor, and Leatherdale continued to use up Edward's visiting hours. Quite possibly Ginger Jones or others might be cooling their heels outside there somewhere, waiting to be admitted.

  "But you had never seen this woman before?"

  "I'm not sure I even saw her then, Inspector. I have only a few very vague images. She may have been a delusion.” Should he have admitted that?

  "You threw something at your uncle yesterday?"

  Googly!

  Edward turned to look at Leatherdale quizzically, and then reached up to the bedside table.

  "No. I did heave this dish, or one just like it."

  "Why?"

  He resisted the temptation to say, “I didn't know what else it was for.” Instead he explained calmly, “I threw it at the book he was holding. Had I wanted to hit him instead, I would have hit him. I can hit a sixpence at the far end of a cricket pitch.” He raised the dish. “Choose any flower in the room and I'll hit it for you, even lying flat like this."

  "That won't be necessary. Why did you throw the dish at Dr. Exeter?"

  "I didn't."

  "Why did you throw the dish at the Bible, then?"

  "Because my uncle is a religious fanatic. I'd say a religious maniac, but I'm not qualified to judge that. For years he has been trying to convert me to his beliefs, and he is absolutely unstoppable when he gets going. I could not leave, and the only way I could think of to get rid of his ranting was to make a scene. So I made a scene."

  "You did not just ask him to leave?"

  "I did try, sir."

  "You could have rung for a nurse and asked her to show him out."

  "He is my legal guardian and a well-known divine. He would have resisted and probably won."

  "Trying to convert you from what?” Leatherdale changed topics like a juggler moved balls.

  "From believing what my parents believed."

  "And what is that?"

  "My father told me, ‘Don't talk about your faith, show it.’”

  "You refuse to answer the question?"

  "I did answer the question.” What on earth did this have to do with Bagpipe's death? “I was taught that deeds count and words don't. The guv'nor was convinced that rabid, bigoted missionaries like my uncle Roland did incalculable harm to innumerable people by thrusting an alien set of beliefs and values on them. They finish up confused and adrift, with their tribal ways in a shambles and no real understanding of what they are expected to put in their place. He used to quote..."

  May be used as evidence ... Even if Leatherdale himself was broad-minded and tolerant—and there was no evidence of that—the average English jury would certainly contain some dogmatic, literal-minded Christians. Edward took a long breath, cursing his folly at letting his tongue run away with him. “He believed a man should advertise his beliefs by making his life an example to others and to himself and to whatever god or gods he believed in. You don't really want a sermon, do you, Inspector?"

  "And this provoked you to throw the dish?"

  Another curved one! “He insulted my father.” As Leatherdale was about to speak, Edward decided to get the words on the record. “He accused him of worshiping Satan.” Try putting that before twelve honest men and true!

  "Those exact words, ‘worshiping Satan'?"

  "Close enough. How would you react if someone—"

  "It is your reactions we are investigating, sir. Do you normally become violent when someone makes an insulting remark about your father?"

  "I don't recall anyone else ever being such a boor."

  As the interrogation continued, Leatherdale's West Country growl seemed to be growing broader and broader. Edward wondered if his own public school drawl was also becoming more marked. He ought to try and curb it, but he had no spare brain cells to put in charge of the attempt. He had also realized that the policeman disliked him for some reason, and was enjoying this.

  "Why woul
d your uncle have made such an accusation?"

  Edward rubbed his stiffening neck. “Ask him. I do not understand my uncle's thinking."

  "In his youth he was a missionary himself."

  "I know that much."

  "Where were you born, Mr. Exeter?"

  What did this have to do with Bagpipe's murder? “In British East Africa. Kenya."

  The questions jumped like frogs—Kenya, Fallow, the Grange. Any time Edward questioned a question for relevancy, Leatherdale would change the subject and then work his way back again. The ceiling could do with a coat of paint.

  "And how did your father treat missionaries in Nyagatha?"

  "I have no idea. I was only twelve when I left there. I was only twelve when I last spoke to my father. Boys of that age barely regard their parents as mortals, let alone question them on such topics."

  "That was not what you said earlier."

  "That's true,” Edward admitted, angry with himself. “I know what he said to me about missionaries, but I don't know what he did about them in practice. I remember missionaries visiting the station and being made welcome."

  "Can you name any of them?"

  "No. It was a long time—"

  "And the Reverend Dr. Exeter is your father's brother?"

  "Was my father's brother. My father died when I was sixteen."

  Leatherdale twirled his mustache. “Your father's younger brother?"

  "Hardly! Much older."

  "Have you any evidence of that, Mr. Exeter?"

  "I knew them both very well."

  "Any documentary evidence?"

  Edward stared. “Sir, what does this have to do with what happened at Greyfriars Grange?"

  "Answer the question, please."

  "I expect the guv'nor's age is recorded on my birth certificate. I don't remember. I don't read my birth certificate very often."

  Manners! He was growing snippy. Was that a glint in Leatherdale's eye? He was against the light, so it was hard to tell.

  "When a British subject is born in the colonies, who issues the birth certificate?"

  "The nearest district officer, I expect."

  "So your father made out your birth certificate?"

  "Perhaps he did. I'll look and see when I get out of hospital."

  "I was asking about your father's age. Have you any evidence handy at the moment—a photograph, for instance?"

  Impudence! Unmitigated gall! The bounder had gone through Edward's wallet when he was unconscious! The urge to try and take him down was becoming dangerously close to irresistible.

  "I have a photograph."

  "Will you show me that photograph, please?"

  Glowering, Edward opened the drawer and took out his wallet. “Be careful of it, please. It is fragile and it is the only picture of my parents I have."

  Leatherdale hardly glanced at it.

  "This shows you and your parents in Africa?"

  "Yes. It was taken by a visitor who had a portable camera. He sent it to us just before I left."

  "So it was taken around when?"

  What the devil was all this leading to?

  "In 1908. I would be eleven, almost twelve."

  "And how old would you say the man in this picture is, sir?"

  Without releasing it, Leatherdale held the photograph out for Edward to see.

  "Around forty, I suppose. Not fifty. More than thirty.” It was hard to tell. The image had always been blurred, and six years in his wallet had worn it almost blank, as if a heavy fog had settled on that little group on the veranda. His mother's face was in shadow. He was standing in front of his parents, his father's hand on his shoulder, and he was grinning shyly.

  "Your father was Cameron Exeter, son of Horace Exeter and the former Marian Cameron, of Wold Hall, Wearthing, Surrey?"

  Edward was completely at sea now. He had a strange sensation that the bed was rocking. This was worse than a geometry exam. Prove that angle ADC equals angle DCK....

  "I think so. I don't know where they lived, except it was somewhere in Surrey. I'm not even certain of their names."

  Leatherdale nodded as if a trap had just clicked. “Their eldest child, Cameron, was born in 1841, Mr. Exeter. That would make him sixty-seven in 1908. How old did you say this man seems to you?"

  Edward desperately wanted a drink of water, but he dared not reach for one in case his hands shook. “Forty?"

  "His mother, your grandmother, died in 1855, almost sixty years ago."

  "You've made a mistake somewhere. Tricky stuff, maths."

  "Has your uncle seen this picture?"

  "I have no idea. I may have shown it to him when I first came Home. I don't recall."

  "Try."

  "It was a long time ago. I really don't remember, sir. What are you suggesting?"

  "I am suggesting that the man in the picture is either not your father or else your father was not who he said he was."

  This conversation made no sense at all! It must be a ruse to rattle him. Bemused, Edward ran a hand through his hair and realized that it was soaked—he was soaked. He turned his head to ease his neck, and watched the sergeant finish writing a sentence, then look up, waiting for more.

  He turned back to Leatherdale, who was impassively twirling his mustache again. That, apparently, was a bad sign. But the man could not possibly be as confident as he was pretending.

  "You've been busy, Inspector!” He was ashamed to hear a quaver in his voice. “Unfortunately, you've been misinformed. Yesterday was Bank Holiday. I suppose you telegraphed to Somerset House first thing this morning, or the Colonial Office, perhaps? Whitehall must be in turmoil just now with war about to break out. Someone has blundered."

  "I obtained the information from your uncle."

  Oh, Lord! Edward reined in his tongue before it ran away with him. “I suggest you obtain confirmation of anything he says. Check with the Colonial Office."

  "Ah, yes. Can you give me the name of someone to get in touch with there, sir?"

  With a rush of relief, Edward said, “Yes! Mr. Oldcastle. I'm sorry I don't know his title. I always wrote to him at his home."

  "His full name?"

  "Jonathan Oldcastle, Esquire."

  "And do you remember his address?"

  "I should do! I've written to him every week or two for the last couple of years. The Oaks, Druids Close, Kent."

  Leatherdale nodded and eased himself on the chair. “That was the address in the school records, Sergeant?"

  Pages rustled. “Yes, sir,” said the sergeant.

  "And this Mr. Oldcastle replied to your letters, sir?"

  "Religiously. He was very kind—and generous."

  Again the thick fingers caressed that gray mustache. “Exeter, there is nowhere in Kent called Druids Close. There is nowhere in Great Britain by that name."

  "That's impossible!"

  "Sergeant, will you confirm what I just told the witness?"

  "Yes, sir."

  After a moment Edward said, “I think I need a glass of water."

  From then on it got worse, much worse. Having succeeded in rattling him, Leatherdale gave him no chance to recover. Suddenly they were back in Greyfriars Grange—

  "Did you stab Timothy Bodgley?"

  "No!"

  "You're sure of that? You remember?"

  "No, sir, I don't remember, but—"

  And back in Africa—

  "Who is ‘Jumbo'?"

  "Who?” Edward said furiously. Bounder! The letter!

  "Is there anyone in England now who knew your father?"

  "I don't know."

  And back in the Grange—

  "Had you ever been down in the cellar before?"

  "No, sir. Not that I remember."

  "Would a schoolboy forget visiting a fourteenth century crypt?"

  "Probably not. So I suppose I never—"

  "You heard people banging on the door while the woman was still screaming? How long did she scream at you? How long did you hold h
er off with the chair?..."

  Eventually, inevitably, Edward blundered.

  "Do you recognize this, Mr. Exeter?"

  "Oh, you found it!” Oh, you muggins!

  Leatherdale pounced like a cat. “You knew it was lost?"

  "That's a key. I don't know what it's the key to, though ... No, I don't recognize it.... Lots of keys look like that, big and rusty...” Avoid, evade, distract ... “I assumed that since you asked earlier about the door...” It was hopeless. In ignominious defeat, the suspect told of the message Ginger had sent him. Traitor! Snitch! Nark!

  Leatherdale followed up his victory, slashing questions like saber blows.

  "Why did you kill him?” “Why did you argue with him?” “Why were you shouting?” “What were you shouting?” “What secret had he discovered about you?” “Describe the kitchen."

  "Big. High. Very old. Why?"

  "How high? How high is the ceiling?"

  Edward wiped his wet forehead. “How should I know? Fifteen feet?"

  "Twenty-one. Do you remember the shelves on the wall under the bells?"

  "I remember shelves, and dressers, I think bells...” A long row of bells, one for every room in the house.

  Leatherdale smiled grimly. “Yes, this is the key to the kitchen quarters at Greyfriars Grange. We found it, Mr. Exeter, in a pot on the topmost shelf."

  "Oh."

  "Twenty feet up in a poor light. There were no marks in the dust on the lower shelves, Mr. Exeter. What do you say about that?"

  "What do you say about it, sir?"

  "I say that the only way it could have been put in that pot was to throw it up there and bounce it off the wall just under the ceiling. Whoever managed to do that first try in a poor light must be a very expert thrower indeed. A bowler, perhaps?"

  When at last the ordeal ended, Edward watched in misery as Ginger's books were impounded as evidence, along with his cherished photograph, the most precious thing he possessed in the world. The policemen departed.

  He had not confessed. He had not been charged, either, but obviously that was only a matter of time now.

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  28

  ELEAL HAD ENDURED A SECOND DAY IN HER LONELY prison, plucking chickens. Her fingers were worn raw. She had done the work conscientiously because anything else would have just brought her more hunger and perhaps a beating. She had been given boiled chicken and chicken soup to eat. She never wanted to see another chicken ever again.