Death at Beacon Cottage

by Betty Rowlands

  ‘Yes, yes, you see to that, Gladys. And don’t forget, Mr Wallis will be here shortly. Did you buy his favourite biscuits?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Greenleaf,’ said Gladys meekly as she followed the two men inside, while the children, realising that the fun was over, reluctantly moved on.

  Before getting down to work, Sukey spent a few moments surveying the scene. It had been a typical smash-and-grab affair leaving little hope that, unless there happened to be witnesses to the crime or identifiable prints on the implement that had caused the damage, there was much prospect of nailing the culprits. She picked up and bagged the iron bar before turning her attention to the items remaining in the window, which included a motley assortment of artefacts and ornaments in china, silver and glass, some of which had been overturned and broken as the thieves reached in to grab what they wanted. Most were scattered over several empty trays that, at a guess, had contained small items of easily disposed of jewellery, but among the shards of glass on the pavement lay the remains of a porcelain vase, probably intended to be part of the loot, that the thieves had dropped in their haste. It might possibly bear the odd fingerprint.

  Once more humming softly to herself, Sukey squatted down to gather up the delicate fragments. As she got on with the task in hand, half her mind was still happily preoccupied with more pleasant things. It was not until much later that she realised that there had been something particularly significant about the scenes she had just witnessed.

  Seventeen

  Sukey had just finished her examination when the constable emerged from the shop. ‘What a pain in the neck!’ he muttered in her ear. ‘Thinks just because he’s shopped a couple of small-time villains he’s entitled to round-the-clock police protection.’ He glanced at the bags of samples she held in her hand. ‘Find anything useful?’

  She shrugged. ‘We’ll have to see. Probably not, but if they didn’t wear gloves and we’ve got their prints on our files, we might get lucky.’

  ‘Well, good hunting!’ He went back to his car, whistling. As he pulled away, a silver-grey BMW drew up in the space that he had just vacated. One of this morning’s important visitors, perhaps. Squatting on the pavement to repack her bag, Sukey noticed the driver bend down as if fumbling with something in the passenger footwell. He had still not alighted from the car when she went into the shop to make her report.

  The interior had a fusty, stale atmosphere. The shelves lining three of the four walls Were crammed with a bewildering assortment of articles in polished wood, brass, copper, china and glass. No attempt had been made to display the stock in any kind of order; apart from a long-case clock just inside the door it seemed to Sukey’s relatively inexperienced eye that there was little of any particular value or likely to appeal to a serious collector. At the far end of the shop was a glass-topped counter behind which stood Gladys, fidgeting with some papers. She looked up with a nervous start as a bell, activated when Sukey stepped on to the mat inside the door, let out a shrill warning. ‘Did you find any clues?’ she asked.

  ‘Maybe one or two.’ Sukey held up the bags of samples. ‘I’m taking these back to the lab for testing and someone will be in touch when we get the results. It’s OK to sweep up outside and get the repairs under way now.’

  ‘Oh right, thank you.’

  The bell sounded again and both women turned towards the door. Sukey stood aside as a tall, bearded man holding a brown paper parcel under one arm approached the counter. ‘You appear to have had a spot of trouble,’ he commented with a jerk of his head towards the shattered window. ‘I have an appointment with Mr Greenleaf, but perhaps I should come back another time.’

  Gladys checked an open diary that lay on the counter beside the telephone. ‘Is it Mr Smith?’ she asked in a brisk, businesslike voice that made a faintly comic contrast to her nervous manner of a few moments ago.

  ‘That’s right. John Smith.’

  Presumably, this was the driver of the BMW. Idly watching him, Sukey had the impression that he was slightly tense. John Smith was quite possibly his real name; there were any number in the telephone book, but just the same… she recalled the comments DI Castle and Sergeant Barnes had exchanged about Henry Greenleaf, and an earlier reference to important visitors, for one of whom special biscuits had to be provided. She found herself making a careful note of the newcomer’s appearance. Was there something vaguely familiar about the thin nose and hollow cheeks? It was impossible to be sure.

  Gladys placed a careful tick against an entry in the diary. ‘Yes, it has been a little upsetting,’ she said, ‘but the police are dealing with the matter and I’m sure Mr Greenleaf will want to keep the appointment.’ She picked up the phone and pressed a key. From somewhere overhead a buzzer sounded. ‘Mr Smith is here,’ she said. A series of sharp barks emanated from the receiver, to which she responded with a deferential, ‘Yes, Mr Greenleaf,’ before replacing it and turning back to the newcomer. ‘Mr Greenleaf will see you right away, Mr Smith. Will you please come this way?’ She lifted a flap at the end of the counter and ushered him through a door. There came a sound of heavy footsteps descending an uncarpeted staircase and a moment later Sukey heard Greenleaf greeting his visitor in an ingratiating manner quite unlike the bullying tactics he used on those he considered his underlings. An unpleasant man, she decided, and wondered why Gladys put up with him.

  As if the woman read her thoughts, she gave a deprecating smile as she closed the door and returned to her position behind the counter. ‘He can be very charming, but he’s easily upset. I suppose it’s because he’s got foreign blood,’ she added. ‘Foreigners do tend to get excited, don’t they?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose they do,’ Sukey agreed. ‘Is Mr Smith a regular customer?’ she added casually.

  ‘I don’t remember seeing him before, but I only work here part-time.’ Gladys shot Sukey an enquiring glance. ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘No special reason – I just wondered. Well, I’d better be getting on to my next job.’

  ‘And I must start sweeping up the mess. If you wouldn’t mind waiting there a second while I go out the back and fetch a broom – just in case someone comes in…’

  ‘Of course.’

  Gladys disappeared through the door behind the counter and Sukey went over and stood by the shop entrance. Through the glass panel she saw a dark red Jaguar with two men in it pull in to the kerb in front of the BMW. The passenger, a sleek, dapper-looking man in a camel coat with a leather briefcase in one hand, got out of the front seat and turned to speak briefly to the driver before slamming the door and striding towards the shop. He stopped outside for a moment, eyeing the debris on the pavement, before entering. The jangle of the bell coincided with the reappearance of Gladys, carrying a heavy broom which she hastily put down at the sight of the new arrival. ‘Good morning, sir,’ she said, looking slightly flustered. ‘Please go straight up, Mr Greenleaf is expecting you.’ She lifted the flap on the counter and stood aside; he brushed past her without returning her greeting or her polite smile of welcome, leaving behind a whiff of an expensive, musky body lotion.

  ‘Another of nature’s gentlemen – I don’t think!’ said Sukey to herself as she made her exit. Her van was parked a short distance in front of the Jaguar, which was the latest model and bore a personalised number plate. The newcomer was evidently a man of substance, the type whom one would not normally expect to patronise a scruffy business in a back street… unless of course police suspicions were correct and the scruffiness was just a facade.

  The driver of the Jaguar, a youngish man with cropped hair and a heavy gold ring in his left ear, was leaning back in his seat, a cigarette in one hand and a magazine spread across the steering wheel. He appeared to take no notice of her as she passed, but when she had finished stowing her gear and was closing the rear door of the van she happened to glance back and noticed that he was sitting bolt upright, apparently gazing straight ahead. His eyes were completely screened behind dark glasses, yet she had the strong impressio
n that he was staring at her. It was not the first time that a stranger, casually encountered, had shown an interest in her, yet something about this man’s attitude, tense and immobile like an animal watching its prey, made her nerve-ends tingle.

  She told herself not to be stupid, got into the van, settled in the driver’s seat and clipped on her safety belt. She reached up to adjust her rear-view mirror and saw that the driver of the Jaguar was studying something that he held in his right hand, something that might have been a postcard or a photograph. As she drove away he looked up, smiled and raised whatever it was in a kind of mocking salute.

  The man calling himself John Smith sat in the dingy office above Henry Greenleaf’s shop and waited with barely concealed excitement while the proprietor and the man introduced to him as Mr Wallis, after some preliminary polite exchanges over the coffee and chocolate biscuits provided by Gladys, bent over the small, gilt-framed picture that he unwrapped with meticulous care and laid almost reverently on the shabby mahogany desk. Neither man commented or showed any reaction; after a preliminary inspection Wallis took out a pocket magnifying glass and began moving it, inch by inch with tantalising slowness, over every detail of the canvas. Now and again he and Greenleaf exchanged glances; from the barely perceptible movements of the head, the pursing of lips and the twitching of eyebrows it was clear to the observer, trying to appear relaxed and confident but inwardly tense and impatient, that unspoken messages were passing between them. At one point, finding the prolonged silence all but unendurable, he remarked, ‘There’s no doubt in my mind that it’s genuine,’ and when there was no response, he added nervously, ‘The frame’s original too.’ Both remarks dropped into the oppressive silence like pebbles into a bottomless well.

  At last Wallis put the glass back in his pocket and helped himself to the last chocolate biscuit. Having eaten it, he wiped his fingers on a spotless white handkerchief before saying casually, ‘Would you mind telling us how you came by this painting, Mr, er, Smith?’

  ‘It’s from a private collection. The owner wishes to remain anonymous… for tax reasons, you understand.’ It was the carefully prepared and rehearsed reply to the anticipated question, yet he had the uneasy feeling that they did not believe him. He began to wonder if his informant had got it wrong. Were Greenleaf and his associate after all law-abiding citizens who would denounce him to the police? His stomach contracted in a sudden attack of panic, but it was too late to have second thoughts now.

  After a further exchange of glances, Wallis spoke again and for the first time his voice betrayed a hint of a foreign accent. ‘No doubt, this, er, anonymous owner has other items that he might consider selling?’

  ‘It’s possible. I can ask him. In the meantime, do I take it that you are interested in making an offer for the Turner?’

  ‘We should like to see the rest of the collection first.’

  ‘So far as I know, this is the only item which my client wishes to sell.’

  The two men at the desk exchanged faintly amused glances. The visitor began to feel uneasy. This was not the reaction he had expected. Haggling over the price, yes; he was prepared for plenty of that before a deal was struck, but not this unexpected reference to a collection. What were they driving at?

  A further unspoken message appeared to pass between the two dealers. After a moment, Wallis said, almost casually, ‘What about the Louis the Fourteenth ewer? Or the bust of Napoleon, attributed to Canova? Or perhaps the little Japanese lacquer cabinet… do I make myself clear?’

  ‘I’m sure Mr Smith understands the situation perfectly,’ said Greenleaf while their victim sat trembling and open-mouthed, aghast at the realisation that his carefully laid scheme had been shot to pieces and desperately trying to figure out where he had gone wrong. ‘And in the meantime,’ Greenleaf continued, ‘we will take good care of this.’ He returned the painting to its wrappings, carried it across the room and opened an old-fashioned metal safe. He put the little parcel inside and relocked it with a heavy iron key. ‘You may tell your “anonymous owner”,’ he said softly, ‘that his precious Turner is in good hands.’

  ‘Excellent,’ said Wallis. He too stood up. ‘Shall we go?’

  The man who had so confidently introduced himself as John Smith passed his tongue over lips gone suddenly dry. ‘Go where?’

  ‘To wherever you have stored the remainder of your haul, of course.’ The tone was no longer bland, but sharp and stinging as a whiplash, the narrowed eyes hard as granite.

  He had walked into a trap. He had no idea on which side of the law these two men stood, how they had come to know the source of the painting or how they knew that he had stolen other items from the collection. In his confused state of mind his one thought was flight. As he rose to his feet, his knees almost buckling so that he had to steady himself with one hand on the desk, his eyes sought the door, measuring the distance and the time it would take him to reach it, realising that any attempt at escape would be futile.

  The three men descended the uncarpeted staircase, Wallis leading the way with Greenleaf bringing up the rear. Sandwiched between them, Smith felt something hard pressing into the small of his back and heard a soft whisper in his ear. ‘No silly tricks, Mr Smith.’ As they passed through the shop, Greenleaf paused to inform Gladys, who was showing an elderly woman how to wind the clock she had just bought, that he would not be back until after lunch.

  ‘You lead the way and we’ll follow,’ said Wallis as they stepped outside, his tone as casual as if they were going on a normal business trip.

  The street was empty. There was no one to whom he could appeal for help, even had he dared. He watched helplessly as the chauffeur held the door open for Wallis to get into the waiting Jaguar before strolling across to the BMW and standing guard behind him as he unlocked it and slid behind the wheel. Greenleaf took off his jacket and casually draped it across his lap, concealing his left hand as he settled into the seat beside him. As with shaking hands he buckled his seat belt and put the key in the ignition, he felt a momentary jab in the thigh.

  ‘No silly tricks,’ Greenleaf repeated softly. ‘Just give us a nice quiet drive to where the stuff is hidden and you won’t get hurt.’

  It was the end of a dream, the start of a nightmare. With despair in his heart, he started the engine and pulled away.

  The chauffeur, whom the others addressed as Marty, kept him covered with the gun while they stripped the cellar of its contents. He watched helplessly as a fortune slipped from his fingers. Precious items were taken from their wrappings, examined, exclaimed over, repacked and carefully transported up the stairs. He pictured them loading the waiting car and wondered if there was a faint chance that a passer-by would see them, become suspicious and raise the alarm. Not that it would be of much help; the spoils of his one attempt at burglary were irretrievably lost and discovery would merely lead to his own arrest and probable imprisonment.

  When they had finished, there was a shout of ‘Marty!’ through the open trap-door. The chauffeur lowered the gun and began to mount the stairs. Nervously, still fearing attack, the prisoner followed. No attempt was made to stop him, but he had taken only a few steps when he saw Greenleaf, who was waiting at the top, pull something from his pocket and toss it down towards him. It flew over his shoulder and he swung round to look as it landed on the floor behind him. He recognised it immediately: a little Victorian brooch in the shape of a love-knot, set with diamonds that glittered enticingly in the light from the ceiling.

  ‘Give that to your girlfriend!’ called Greenleaf. His voice echoed in mockery round the empty cellar. ‘Consolation prize!’

  It was what he had been intending to do. At the sight of it lying there, all that remained of his vision of an idyllic future with the woman he loved, he let out a groan of mingled rage and misery. Half blinded with emotion, he bent to retrieve it, but before his fingers reached it something exploded inside his head and sent him spinning into eternal darkness.

  Eighteen

>   The remainder of Monday passed comparatively uneventfully. Recalling DI Castle’s request to be kept informed on the break-in at Henry Greenleaf’s shop, Sukey attached to her report a brief message about the two well-heeled visitors and left it with Sergeant Barnes for him to note and pass on. She half expected Castle to follow it up later, but there was no further contact with him that day.

  She was on the point of leaving for work on Tuesday morning when the telephone rang.

  ‘Glad I caught you,’ said Jim. The lack of any greeting and a certain staccato harshness in his voice told her something serious had happened. ‘Do you know a village called Parkfield?’

  ‘I’ve heard of it. Somewhere in the Stroud valley?’

  ‘That’s right. We’ve had another killing and I’d like you to come straight here.’

  ‘I’ll need some directions.’

  ‘Fork right off the A46 between Painswick and Stroud. There’s a No Through Road on the left just as you enter the village. It’s the only house along there – Beacon Cottage. Man shot through the back of the head.’

  She grasped the significance immediately. ‘Same MO as—’

  ‘Exactly. Get here as soon as you can. I’ve left a message for George Barnes so he’ll know where you are.’

  ‘I’m on my way.’

  The clouds were beginning to lift after overnight rain and by the time Sukey turned into the steep, narrow lane signposted Parkfield, the sun was beginning to break through. She felt a familiar feeling of apprehension as she approached her destination; since starting the job, she had attended several murder scenes and the sight of a corpse, however little disfigured, never failed to bring on a spasm of queasiness. Not that she was alone in that, she thought with a grim smile as, following Castle’s directions, she took the even narrower turning on the outskirts of the village. She had seen hardened police officers throwing up with the best of them.