Faithful unto Death

by Caroline Graham

  Actually, asking members of the public for their assistance, though routine by now in the matter of serious crime, was undoubtedly a mixed blessing. Occasionally it could be a godsend. Much more frequently the procedure would prove to be a waste of precious time and resources. All manner of people fancied being attached to the fringe of an official inquiry. Most were ordinary, honest citizens who genuinely thought they had seen or heard something that would help the police. But the rest—they were something else.

  You got to recognise them after a while. The same old sad sacks plainly believing they were important characters in a larger than life drama. This quaint conceit would lead to endless posturing, embroidery and exaggeration. Struggling to say what they thought the police wanted to hear, some of them ended up spinning a tale worthy of Hollywood at its most inventive. Anything to be in the movie. Then there were the anonymous tipsters who were often utter liars acting either from motiveless malice or to wrongly accuse some real or imagined enemy. None of these people could be safely ignored.

  Barnaby turned his mind to the next item on his mental list, Messrs J. Coutts. These bankers to the great and the good had, naturally, been chary about revealing details regarding the person in receipt of Hollingsworth’s weighty cheque. They would not even tell him if the name described an individual or an institution. However they did agree to inform the owner of the account in question of the present situation and pass on to him DCI Barnaby’s telephone number.

  And so it was, at around four o’clock, shortly after Barnaby had despatched a car to collect Gray Patterson, a call came through on his direct line from a Mr. Kurt Milritch. A courteous, softly spoken man with an accent that Barnaby thought was possibly Polish, he described himself as the director of the jewellers F. L. Kominsky of Bond Street and asked how he was able to assist. Barnaby explained the situation.

  Mr. Milritch remembered the cheque, indeed the whole transaction, very well. The piece in question, an emerald and diamond necklace, was extremely beautiful with a most unusual clasp, a pair of chased silver swans which linked magnetically. The purchaser asked for the piece specifically, not wishing to look at anything else. After the necessary checks to confirm that the funds to cover the purchase were available, the necklace was locked into its case and handed over.

  “I asked if the customer needed to insure the jewels on his home journey—a covering note—but he declined,” continued Mr. Milritch. “We offered him tea—I presumed he would be waiting for a car—but he merely slipped the necklace into his briefcase and left. I watched him on the pavement hailing a taxi and I must say my heart was in my mouth until he got safely into it. Two hundred thousand pounds is a lot to be swinging casually from one’s wrist in a busy London thoroughfare.”

  “Indeed it is,” said Barnaby. “You’d remember Mr. Hollingsworth by sight, would you, sir?”

  “I believe I would, yes.”

  “We’ll send a photograph. Perhaps you’d be kind enough to give us a ring just to confirm that it is the man in question.” Barnaby took down the fax number, still talking. “Had he been in the shop before?”

  There was a slight hiss from the other end of the line which proved to be the entente cordial icing over. Barnaby, at a loss to understand the reason, was quickly enlightened.

  “Certainly I don’t recall seeing him at any other time in our showrooms.” Shop? Shop! “However, when the photograph arrives, I will be glad to show it to my colleagues, if you think that will help.”

  Barnaby assured him that it would. “The reason I ask is that it is surely unusual for anyone to buy something so valuable within moments of first seeing it.”

  “Oh, we get a lot of impulse buys,” said Mr. Milritch breezily. He might have been speaking of a box of matches. “Anyway, that doesn’t mean the party for whom it was purchased hadn’t seen it. She might have been here on several occasions, looking round. Whittling items of her choice down. They have the time to spare you see, the ladies.”

  Barnaby decided also to fax a picture of Simone but without much hope of success. Although she’d certainly had plenty of time to look around and whittle, he couldn’t imagine her being let off the leash for long enough to do so. He was about to thank Mr. Milritch for his help and ring off when the salesman spoke again.

  “Of course she could always have seen a picture of the necklace. In Harpers.”

  “Where?”

  “The magazine, Harpers and Queen. A full page. February issue. It looked breathtaking. We had heaps of inquiries. Nothing,” concluded Mr. Milritch firmly, “stimulates feminine interest like a well-faceted diamond.”

  “Still a girl’s best friend then?” Barnaby got another earful of chill in return for such levity. He thanked Mr. Milritch and rang off.

  The Chief Inspector was still reflecting on this conversation when Sergeant Troy came back from the jakes, the only place where smoking was now allowed. The scent of high tar tobacco drifted in with him. Virginia’s finest.

  “That’s better,” he said, falling into a tweedy air chair. “Keep me going for a bit.”

  “Just the opposite, I’d have thought.”

  “You can live like a monk for years then get run over by a bus.”

  “In a monastery?”

  “So.” Troy, bored with any conversation that did not immediately present him in a good light, changed the subject. “Anything fresh come in?”

  “I’ve found out who F. L. Kominsky is.”

  Barnaby went over his conversation with the salesman, or gem consultant as he was no doubt termed around the shebeens of Mayfair. Troy listened closely, both impressed and bewildered. Impressed by the amount of money involved; bewildered by the use to which it had been put.

  “Unbelievable,” he said when Barnaby had finished. “You could get a brand new Ferrari for that.”

  Barnaby had made a note of the date. Almost three months ago. It seemed significant to him for a reason other than the purchase of the necklace. He frowned, teasing his memory.

  “Give a lot to know where it is now, eh, chief?”

  “Indeed. One thing’s certain, either she took it with her, along with the engagement ring, or it had already gone by the time she disappeared.”

  “Is that a fact?”

  “Hollingsworth would hardly have fought his way through all that misery with Blakeley if he could just have gone to Kominsky’s and flogged the necklace back.”

  “Whoever tries to unload it will have their work cut out. Your average High Street jeweller, he’d be very wary. The top end of the trade would certainly ask questions. And a receiver will only divvy up a fraction of what it’s worth. And that’s assuming the man who did the snatch is savvy enough to find one.”

  “We’ll get some feelers out. See if anyone’s heard anything.”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised if we’re talking collusion here, chief.”

  “What?”

  “I reckon this chap she was meeting in Causton, or wherever, asked her to bring the necklace along.”

  “She’d have to be pretty dim not to be suspicious.”

  “But she thinks they’re running away together, see? Starting a new life and that.”

  “Mmm.”

  Sergeant Troy sprang out of his chair then and walked towards the window for he hated being still, or even in one place, for long. Forgetful of the heat, he laid his hand on the glass, then snatched it away. He said, “Reminded me of something said at Nightingales, you mentioning that magazine.”

  “What? Scenes of Crime?”

  “Them or Parrot. Hang on a sec.” Troy frowned. Now he, too, surfed the memory bank, though making much more of a show of it.

  Barnaby watched his sergeant. Troy would be longing to produce an intelligent and really helpful comment. And if the one he was genuinely seeking didn’t come to mind, he would make one up. Anything rather than be found wanting.

  Troy sighed and his frown deepened. Tell the truth, as the magazine’s connection to the present situation con
tinued to elude him, he was starting to regret having mentioned it at all. He should have remembered what it was before he had spoken out. Then he could have simply dropped the perceptive insight into the conversation, all casual like. If commended, he would conceal his delight and shrug it off.

  All this Barnaby understood and, up to a point, sympathised with. Perhaps the most touching aspect of it all was that Troy had no idea he was so transparent and would have been mortified had it been pointed out to him.

  “I know.” Relief and satisfaction slackened the tight, frowning mouth. The tips of his ears rosied up. “It was old Polly. On the landing. Said there was a stack of magazines in the spare room, one with a page torn out. What d’you bet that was the advert for the necklace?”

  “Easy enough to check. See to it, would you?” Then, because in a couple of hours he would be going back to Joyce and Arbury Crescent where there would be asparagus and salmon and salade Niçoise, and because he was in the giving vein that day, Barnaby added, “That was very sharp, Gavin.”

  Troy’s sallow cheeks glowed. Immediately he began to recount the scene to his even greater advantage. The old man—great in his time, of course, but his memory isn’t what it was—said he didn’t know what he’d do without me. Yeah, his very words. Relying on me more and more.

  Problem was, who to recount it to. Certainly nobody round the station. Troy might not win prizes for self-awareness but he wasn’t that stupid. Maureen would only fall off the settee laughing. His mum had always dinned it into him that self-praise was no recommendation, so she was out. That left Talisa-Leanne. Only three, admitted, but very intelligent. Also she listened when he spoke to her. Which was more than you could say for the rest of the world.

  Fawcett Green could talk of nothing but the unexplained death of Alan Hollingsworth and the possible fate of his wife. The news of Simone’s kidnapping, released by the door-to-door team in pursuance of their investigations, spread through the village like wildfire. People rang other people the minute they had had what Mrs. Bream referred to as their turn. Becky called it “being done” as if it was a vaccination.

  What sort of thing did they ask you? I hear they’re calling in the Yard. They didn’t ask me that. I never believed that story about her mother. You know they found her cat? I thought it was his mother. Poor thing, thrown into a ditch and left to die. People who flash their money about are asking for trouble. I heard it had turned up in Gerrard’s Cross. Well, they won’t have to look far for the prime suspect. With some kittens. Getting his own back, isn’t he, Patterson? His cash, more like.

  It was cleaning day at Arcadia. By now Heather had become, at least in her own evaluation, a key witness. After going over the fateful bus journey at least twice for the police, she was now going over it all again for the benefit of the assembled company.

  “I’d commented on her bag—ever such a nice raised beaded design. Then I said it must be a bugger to clean, pardon my French, Mrs. M. She just smiled then looked out the window for the rest of the journey though I chatted away to her. I said to the Bill, if I’d known it was going to be fatal I’d have been a bit more probing like.”

  Mrs. Molfrey, who had long since switched off her hearing aid, nodded. Cubby, in the kitchen shelling broad beans, had simply tuned out.

  “The stress is really getting to Colin Perrot. I met his wife when I was collecting our Duane from playgroup. They’ve been horrible to him, that flash lot from Causton.”

  There was a knock at the door heard only by Heather who opened it, admitting Avis Jennings. Avis was carrying a cream patisserie tart smothered in cherries, freshly picked from her orchard. And a tiny parcel of newly candied angelica of which Mrs. Molfrey was very fond.

  “We must have a morsel, toot sweet,” cried Mrs. Molfrey as she unwrapped it.

  Cubby, hearing only the last two words and assuming they were addressed to himself, put his head round the door.

  “Yes, my love. What is it?”

  “A confection without parallel, Cubs. Pop the kettle on and we’ll all have a nibble.”

  Heather, already hardly able to shoehorn her rear end into size twenty tracksuit bottoms, decided to pass on this one. Her mum sometimes picked up one of Mrs. Jennings’ confections at the WI so Heather knew them of old. She made her excuses, said, “Ta-ra then,” and lumbered off.

  Answering Avis’s opening question, Mrs. Molfrey admitted she had not yet experienced her door-to-door visit. “I expect,” she continued, “that nice Mr. Barnaby will be calling personally.”

  Avis, inexperienced though she was in the ways of the upper reaches of the CID, thought this a touch unlikely and murmured something to this effect.

  “Not at all.” Mrs. Molfrey firmly justified her flight of fancy. “He gave me his direct telephone number. In case I remember what it is I’ve forgotten.”

  “What was that then, Elfie?” Avis spoke absently as she went into the kitchen for plates and some cake forks.

  “All I can tell you is that it’s something to do with a sound,” shouted Mrs. Molfrey. Like a lot of deaf people, she found it difficult to pitch her voice accurately when people moved even a small distance away. “Unexpected, wrong or not there at all.”

  “I see.” Avis knew better than to attempt a shared glance of amusement at these quaint juxtapositions with Cubby. Years ago she had learned that the slightest trace of jocular condescension would evoke a very cool response. She guessed that what others saw as elderly foolishness became transmuted, in his affectionate regard, to charming eccentricity. She watched him pour the fragrant tea then float some marigold petals in Elfrida’s beautifully painted, shallow, gold-rimmed bowl.

  “It happened on the day Simone went off,” added Mrs. Molfrey.

  Plainly she had not yet picked up the news of the kidnap. And Avis had no intention of distressing her by passing it on. When they were all sitting round eating, Avis, thinking back to Elfrida’s previous remark, said, “Would it be something to do with our bell-ringing practice, Elfie?”

  “In what wise?”

  “If you remember, we’d been asked to do Oranges and Lemons for Mr. Rouse’s funeral. That might be called a wrong sound. A bit jolly for such a solemn occasion.”

  “I don’t think it was that. Although the word ‘chimes’ reverberates somewhat.” Mrs. Molfrey frowned. She speared a cherry with a shining green sliver of angelica and sucked on it. “I expect it will come to me suddenly at dead of night. Or when I’m in the bath, like Archimedes.”

  “You must write it down,” said Avis. “Before it goes again.”

  “I shall shout Eureka!” cried Mrs. Molfrey. “And then I shall write it down.”

  “Some more tea, my love?” asked Cubby.

  “It occurred to me yesterday,” said Mrs. Molfrey, handing over her dish, “that Simone may not even know that Alan has died. It is all so mysterious and distressing. Especially when one remembers how happy they were.”

  Avis, who knew all about Simone’s bruises and her need for the occasional tranquillising dart, remained silent. Naturally any such conversations with her husband never became public property. Aware now that her friend was becoming genuinely upset, Avis, rather clumsily, tried to change the subject.

  “I was wondering if the Brockley girl had gone on holiday.”

  “Brenda? I’ve no idea.” Mrs. Molfrey dabbed at her cyclamen lips with a whisp of embroidered lace. “Why do you ask?”

  “I haven’t seen her walking Shona for a day or two.”

  “I had noticed,” said Cubby hesitantly, not wishing to be thought a gossip, “that her car is missing.”

  “Iris hasn’t been out either. I usually spot her in the post office in the early part of the week.”

  “I’ve seen her staring out of the bedroom window,” said Mrs. Molfrey. “Several times, actually.”

  Aware of the Brockleys’ collective yearning for anonymity and passion for not drawing attention to themselves, all three fell unaccountably silent.

 
Then Cubby said, “I did too, about half past five yesterday morning.”

  “I hope there’s nothing wrong,” said Avis. She spoke with absolute sincerity, for enough sorrow washed through Dr. Jennings’ surgery to more than satisfy the normal human impulse to take pleasure in the misfortune of others.

  “I think perhaps we should call.”

  “They won’t like that, Elfie,” said Avis.

  “But if we contrive an ‘accidentally on purpose’ meeting?” suggested Mrs. Molfrey. “What about when he next goes into the garden? One doesn’t wish to pry but sometimes the very people who need help and support the most are the least able to ask for it.”

  Cubby, feeling rather awkward and embarrassed, made a noncommittal “mm” sound. He recalled the solitary figure at the window and it now seemed to him that there had been both desolation and yearning in Iris’s face. For no reason, he felt she had been standing there for a very long time. A little later, walking along the herringbone path with the milk, Cubby had glanced up again. This time Reg was standing next to his wife with something—a cup or mug—in his hand. She seemed to be ignoring him.

  “I will if you really wish it, Elfrida.”

  As if this small decision had already been acted on, and that successfully, Mrs. Molfrey beamed at everyone. By the time Avis left, (carrying a second cardboard box), she was asking for another helping of patisserie and some more angelica.

  The second cherry tart was for Sarah Lawson. Avis did not make a habit of such bountiful behaviour. In fact it was the first time she had gone to Bay Tree Cottage bearing a gift of any sort. The truth was she felt awkward calling without a reason. It struck her suddenly that this was the only house in the village where such strictures might apply.

  What was it about Sarah? Avis put her carton down on the parched grass and heaved the gate back into position. Her off-putting neutrality, perhaps. Neither friendly nor unfriendly, kind or unkind, Sarah was the sort of person with whom, as the saying went, you never knew where you were. Like most people, Avis was uncomfortable with that.