The Auction Murders
Page 19
He crossed the road, turned through the gap in the wall on to the narrow path in the park. He could not hear or see any movement. He stood motionless in the middle of the path and listened. All he could hear was his heartbeat. It was louder than the drums at the Edinburgh Tattoo. A double-decker bus passed on the road behind him. The light from the upstairs windows briefly illuminated the path and he suddenly saw the outline of Mrs Gorman ahead of him. She was moving rapidly towards the Ogmore memorial. Angel decided it was too risky for him to follow her closely. His footsteps might be heard. He would approach it from a different direction. Stepping on to the grass, he ran along the turf to the bandstand to approach the Ogmore memorial from the far side. He saw her again in silhouette as a heavy vehicle on Park Road illuminated her briefly from the far side. She still appeared to be heading for the statue.
He moved down towards the memorial from behind, along a sweep of grass. He recalled that there was a bench in front of the statue where, at the height of summer, visitors sat and enjoyed the bank of flowers the parks department cultivated and planted out. He was fifty yards away now and could see the outline of his lordship standing on a plinth wearing a frock coat as solid as black bronze could make it. Tiptoeing very slowly, he measured every step before moving his body weight on to the next foot. He could hear whispering. Elspeth Gorman had obviously kept her nightly rendezvous with Selina Bailey. The two witches were sitting on the bench in front of the statue. He pulled the camera out of his pocket, removed the lens cap, pulled it up to his eye to rehearse the action then lowered it. He was all set, but he had to be certain to come upon them before they realized they were being observed. He was now near enough to hear earnest whispering including the eerie predominant whistle of the letter ‘s’, but he could not make out any of the words. Slowly he closed in. He was only a few feet behind the plinth. Pulling the camera up to his face, he stepped forward and said, ‘Good evening, ladies.’
There was a gasp. Both women turned towards him.
The camera flashed.
They leapt up from the bench.
The camera flashed again.
‘Good evening. It’s Detective Inspector Angel from Bromersley Police. Do you remember me?’
Neither replied.
The camera flashed again.
They upped and ran wildly and silently across the park like phantoms in the night. His jaw stiffened as he lowered the camera and rubbed his chin. He sighed as he remembered his father.
*
It was 8.28 a.m. the following morning, Tuesday, 17 May.
Ahmed closed the door.
Angel pointed to the camera. ‘I took three photographs last night, lad. I think one will show the two women distinctly. They are Selina Bailey and Elspeth Gorman. Will you print it off smartly for me?’
‘Yes sir.’
‘Off you go, then. Take the camera with you. Bring the snap in as soon as you’ve done it. Chop chop.’
Several minutes later, Ahmed appeared, carefully holding the colour print between thumb and forefinger. He placed it on Angel’s desk. ‘Careful, sir. The ink’s still wet.’
Angel look down at the photograph and beamed. ‘Ah! That’s just what I wanted. Yes lad. I’ll keep this. I want my wife to see it. This will surely convince her,’ he said grandly.
Ahmed went out.
The rest of the morning passed with minimal interruptions and Angel had been able to reduce substantially the pile of papers on his desk. He looked up at the clock. It was 2 p.m. Leaning back in the chair, he rubbed his eyes. He felt the need for some fresh air. There were no appointments or commitments that afternoon, and he recalled his several promises to drop in on Mrs Buller-Price. Also, coincidentally, the CPS had been pressing him to check the engraving on the silver tea set she had bought at auction from the Ogmore estate. If the pattern matched that on the handles of the stilettos, it would strengthen the case against Lady Ogmore and would show the source of the murder weapons. Angel decided he could kill two birds with one stone: he could partake of a piece or two of her excellent Battenberg and check out the silver tea set at the same time.
He pushed away from the desk, put on his coat and made his way down the bottom corridor to the rear entrance. The air outside smelled good. Summer was on its way. He pulled the car away from the station and was soon on the Huddersfield Road out of Bromersley. A little way along, he came to a stop. There was a traffic jam ahead. Nothing moved for half a minute, then the car in front edged forward and Angel engaged gear and let in the clutch. Selina Bailey’s house was on the left and the reason for the hold-up appeared to be the presence of a removals van outside her house. As Angel got nearer to it, he could see the old witch herself in the doorway, directing two men carrying a round dining table down the garden path towards the van. He slowed to observe as much as possible and saw a handmade poster in the downstairs window. It read: ‘House for sale. Apply Wade and Son. Telephone 203760.’
Angel nodded with satisfaction, changed gear and sped away. He hoped that that was the last he would hear of Selina Bailey and Elspeth Gorman.
Soon he was approaching the hill down to the Victoria Falls roundabout. A sign in the road slowed him down: ‘Slow — Workmen ahead.’ He had not had notice of roadworks and had not heard of any RTAs, so he wondered what was ahead. As he reached the roundabout, he saw a red lorry with the words ‘Bromersley Borough Council, Highways Department’ painted on the cab door. The lorry was parked on the roundabout itself, next to the pool wall. There was no water spraying out of the fountain, but the road surface around was being washed by water about a quarter of an inch deep. Two men in dayglo yellow coats were fishing in the pool with long-handled nets. On the many occasions he had driven past the monument Angel had never known this happen before. He pulled on the handbrake, wound down the window and called across to them.
‘I’m inspector Angel from Bromersley Police. What’s the trouble?’
One of the men let go of his net and ambled across to the car window, pleased to have an excuse to break off. ‘Somebody’s bunged up the bottom of the pool with all sorts of junk,’ he said grumpily. ‘It’s choked up the pump.’
‘Oh?’ Angel frowned.
The man pulled a miserable face. ‘Yes. You wouldn’t believe it. Dresses, skirts, gloves and bottles. Must have thrown them in the pool as they drove past … as if it was a coconut shy.’
Angel’s eyes glowed. ‘Oh? Hmmm,’ he said knowingly. ‘Are those bottles vodka bottles by any chance?’
‘Eh? I don’t know. Just a minute,’ the man said. He went over to the lorry and lifted a bottle out of the back and brought it across. It was a clear-glass bottle with a red and silver label stuck to it, which read, ‘Minska. Pure vodka. Bottled in Warsaw. 1 litre.’
‘I want you to save all that stuff for me? Bring it to the police station when you’ve done. Ask for DS Gawber.’
‘Right, mate.’
Angel took off the handbrake and sailed up the hill and passed Ogmore Hall and Lady Emerald’s bungalow without even a glance. He reached the signpost to Tunistone in about three minutes and continued on the main road towards Manchester. Two hundred yards later, he slowed down, turned hard right and pointed the bonnet up the steep single track towards the television mast on the top of the mountain. Halfway up was a wooden sign swinging at a tipsy angle, no doubt having recently suffered a blow from a 1986 Bentley. The sign read: ‘Buller-Price Farm.’ He turned through the open gate and travelled bumpily along an unmade track down the side of a field to another gate into a farmyard. There were three barns next to each other and the farmhouse beyond. He stopped the car at the front door of the house and got out. As he slammed the door five dogs came running from behind a barn barking and yapping and kicking up dust. They charged towards him, just as Mrs Buller-Price appeared wearing a big white apron over a voluminous brown coat and carrying a dangerous-looking hay rake. She looked anxiously at the car and then beamed with delight when she saw Angel standing beside it.
&n
bsp; ‘Steady chaps. Steady,’ she called. ‘You remember Inspector Angel. He’s a friend of ours. He’s all right.’
The brindle Alsatian immediately returned to Mrs Buller-Price’s side; the other four assorted mongrels slowed their gait and surrounded him wagging their tails and sniffing at his shoes and hands. He smiled down at them as he locked the car door.
She trundled up to him. ‘There you are, inspector. At last. This is indeed a great pleasure. Come along into the house. I’ll soon have the kettle on.’
‘Thank you. I can’t stay long, Mrs Buller-Price.’
She shook her head stubbornly, leaned the hay rake against the wisteria around the farmhouse door and went inside. Angel stooped slightly and followed her into the hall.
‘I have been eager to christen my new silver tea service, and you’ll be having a slice or two of my Battenberg,’ she said firmly.
The dogs dashed in behind, piling on to each other in the scrum.
‘You know your way. Do make yourself comfortable.’
Settling on the sitting-room floor, the dogs instantly pretended to be asleep.
‘Sit down there, inspector,’ she said, indicating a big easy chair facing the fireplace. ‘Tony Curtis always sits there. What a day!’
She went into the kitchen.
Angel took the big chair and looked round the small sitting room, comfortably furnished with a huge old sideboard heaped with newspapers, letters and magazines. He could see The Farmer’s Weekly, The Pig Breeder’s Gazette and Jersey Milk spread untidily; also a pair of rubber gloves, a bottle of Black Rum and a glass. An assortment of large, easy chairs, each loaded with two or three cushions of various shapes and sizes, faced the big fireplace, which had a small fire glowing in it. Ten dusty-blue rosettes, as big as dinner plates and with ‘1st Prize’ printed in the middle of each, hung limply from the mantelpiece. The room was untidy, dusty and warm, and he could smell cut flowers, dogs and freshly baked bread.
‘It is nice to see you here at last, inspector,’ she called from the kitchen. ‘You come on a perfect day, although I have been very busy. I’ve never stopped and am quite ready for a sit-down. I was up at five, you know, and I had to milk my Jerseys, and roll the churn up the lane.’
She returned with a tray and put it on the table. ‘There we are,’ she said and flopped into the chair next to Angel.
Angel looked across at the three-piece silver tea service on the tray with great interest.
She noticed his attention.
‘Yes inspector. This is the tea set I bought at the auction; the actual tea set given to Lord Arthur and Lady Alice Ogmore on their wedding day in 1842 by Queen Victoria and Prince Albert. It is a bit battered, but I have given it a thorough polish. It’s come up well, hasn’t it? I have been waiting for someone to call so that I could actually use it. I have had no one to share that pleasure with so far. I am so glad it’s you.’
He noticed a small dent in the spout as he peered more closely at the chasing on the side of the teapot, the milk jug and the sugar basin. It was a long sword with a snake twined round it and a head of a lion at the top, the same emblem as on the stilettos and the plaques at Victoria Falls.
‘It takes two and a half minutes to mash.’
He smiled at her agreeably.
There was a pause, then Mrs Buller-Price pressed her chins on to her chest and said, ‘I heard on the radio that you’ve charged Lady Emerald with those horrible stabbings. That was a shock to the system, I can tell you. I suppose there’s no possibility of a mistake, inspector?’
‘Oh no. She’s virtually admitted it.’
‘Mmmm.’
‘Do you believe, inspector, that the pot the tea is brewed in, affects the taste?’
‘I certainly do,’ he replied. ‘This should have a very superior taste, shouldn’t it?’
She looked at her watch. ‘Ah. We shall see.’ She picked up the teapot and tilted the long spout over her best Royal Doulton cups.
Angel looked on.
Nothing happened. Nothing came out. She tilted the teapot further. Still nothing happened. No tea appeared. ‘Oh?’ she said and looked across at Angel. Shaking the teapot vigorously, she then opened the lid and peered inside. ‘Looks all right.’
‘Hmmm. Try again.’
‘Might be an air lock. Not been used for a year, you know.’
She tilted the teapot to an extreme angle; still no tea arrived.
Angel put down his plate. ‘May I look?’
She handed it to him. He stood up and took it into the kitchen and up to the sink. He opened the teapot lid and peered inside. ‘There must be a blockage. We will have to lose the tea, I’m afraid.’
Mrs Buller-Price came up behind him. ‘Yes, of course.’
As he tipped up the teapot, the tea and teabags dropped into the bowl.
‘I need something long and thin.’
Mrs Buller-Price rummaged in the sink unit drawer and offered him a long-handled wooden spoon. He looked at it, nodded approvingly and eased it down the spout. It met an obstacle about five inches down. He gave the spoon a smart tap with the palm of his hand and something gave way. Then he withdrew the spoon handle, turned the teapot upside down over the draining-board and shook it. A brown soggy dollop tippled out. It looked like a big teabag. Angel’s jaw dropped as he looked down at the steaming lump.
‘Whatever is it?’ Mrs Buller-Price asked, her hand to her mouth.
‘Scissors,’ Angel said briskly.
She quickly found some and handed them to him.
He stabbed into the hot little pouch and made several snips to reveal a single, clear, glittering stone the size of a plum.
Mrs Buller-Price’s eyes shone. Her hands went up in the air. ‘It’s the Ogmore diamond!’ she whooped.
THE END
OTHER BOOKS BY ROGER SILVERWOOD
YORKSHIRE MURDER MYSTERIES
Book 1: THE MISSING NURSE
Book 2: THE MISSING WIFE
Book 3: THE MAN IN THE PINK SUIT
Book 4: THE MORALS OF A MURDERER
Book 5: THE AUCTION MURDERS
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