‘Is that why you’re here, because you live locally?’
She took stock of the plump young man standing before her in an outfit intended for golf, or possibly quoits. ‘You aren’t really a businessman, are you? And I don’t believe for a second that your name’s Arthur Askey.’
‘It’s true that I’m here in a more official capacity,’ Bryant confided.
Pamela’s eyes burned with victory. ‘I knew it! This is about Donald Burke buying the hall, isn’t it, and this mysterious business institute of his. The deal doesn’t feel kosher to me. He’s laundering money or something equally nefarious.’
The penny dropped. Bryant pointed. ‘You’re Pamela Claxon, the crime writer.’
‘Oh dear, recognition.’ She grimaced but was clearly pleased. ‘Don’t worry, I’m not going to ask if you’ve read anything of mine.’
‘But I have,’ Bryant replied. ‘All of the Inspector Trench books, in fact, from A Killer’s Eyes to Hands of the Strangler. I must ask you, is it really possible to murder someone with their own hair?’
‘Robert Browning thought so.’ She sounded relieved. ‘That’s not usually the first question mystery writers get asked.’
‘What’s the usual one?’
‘“Have I heard of you?” It requires a certain level of clairvoyance to come up with an answer to that.’
Bryant laughed. ‘And what’s the worst thing people say?’
‘“I really enjoyed your first book.”’ You smile but you want to stab them with a fountain pen. You’re right, by the way, I live nearby and knew Harry’s father.’ She lowered her voice. ‘The family was on its uppers long before Donald Burke stepped in, you know. Burke’s got absolute pots of money. He’ll be good for this place.’
‘So you think it’s a wise move, selling the house?’
She bit the olive from her Martini and moved him away from the other guests. ‘Tavistock Hall is full of history that could easily be lost for ever. I’m pleased they’ve found someone who’ll stave off the wrecking ball. Even so, Harry and Beatrice are selling the house with all the furnishings included. I think they’re mad. There’s a Stubbs in the hall, did you notice? And a lot of Pre-Raphaelites in the bedrooms, not that they’re worth much these days. The pair of them are anxious to get Burke’s signature on the papers this weekend. That’s why they’re being such generous hosts. Normally you’d be lucky to find any booze here at all. Beatrice doesn’t drink and Harry is a dope fiend.’
‘It seems everyone has an agenda,’ said Bryant. ‘What’s yours?’
‘Truthfully? I’d quite like Burke to finance a book about the hall and its scandalous inhabitants. Something he could leave out as a coffee-table book at his institute. The old lord couldn’t sanction such a thing because they were his relatives, but Burke has no connection with the property. Why are you here?’
Bryant was a terrible liar with a tendency towards unnecessary elaboration, so he avoided the question. ‘Let’s see how the rest of the weekend goes first,’ he said. ‘I’m rather out of my depth in a place like this. I’m not the hunting, shooting and fishing type.’
‘Don’t worry about that, neither is Harry,’ Pamela assured him. ‘He doesn’t approve of hurting animals. But you’ll be hard pushed to avoid the parlour games. Tell you what, let’s team up. Keep an eye out for me and I’ll keep one out for you.’
‘Ah, there you are, Pamela,’ said Trev the Rev, looming over them. ‘Might I have a word?’
As she was drawn aside by the vicar she cast a knowing glance back at Bryant, who found himself secretly delighted to find an ally.
He wandered outside, where Donald Burke’s wife was standing alone in the shadows beneath the wisteria. She had her back turned and a handkerchief in one hand, as if she had been crying.
‘Where’s our mystery man?’ asked May, joining his partner. ‘I was hoping to introduce myself.’
‘He’s elusive, I’ll say that for him,’ said Bryant. ‘I think he upset her. Did you get a look at his hands?’
‘No, why?’
‘He’s wearing white cotton gloves.’
‘Gloves in September?’
‘We’re in the countryside. I guess it gets cold at night.’
‘But white ones?’
‘Maybe his wife packed the wrong pair. It’s suggestive, don’t you think?’
‘Of what?’
‘I thought this assignment would be more straightforward,’ Bryant muttered. ‘I’m surprised Monty didn’t race out there to collar him. What’s he really after, do you think?’
‘Who, Monty? Maybe he’s in debt. I can’t get a straight answer out of him. He just says there has to be a deal this weekend.’ May watched the reflections in the window, checking that no one else was close. ‘I don’t suppose there’s any great secret about what Monty wants; he’s after a guarantor, so that he can provide himself with a safety net when this business with Chamberlain turns ugly. And maybe he really does want to do the right thing. What? You’re shaking your head.’
‘I don’t know, John, he seems a rather unlikely crusader. Doesn’t the old school tie overrule morality?’
‘With respect, Arthur, I think the East End chip on your shoulder is kicking in. On Monday morning Monty is going to stand up in court and betray his oldest friend. That takes a lot of courage. I know he’s an idiot and a racist but let’s give him the benefit of the doubt about Chamberlain for now and remember why we’re here. An East End family died under rubble. We have to get Monty to that court. Chamberlain must be made to pay for what he did.’
Bryant looked around. Monty was standing by himself on the patio, looking out at the gardens, pensively drinking and smoking. ‘Has it occurred to you that he might be playing us both for fools? I wonder what he’s thinking right now.’ He led his partner back inside the house.
Monty Hatton-Jones was thinking about money, how to get it, hold it and spend it. Money was really the only thing that interested him any more.
He breathed in deeply and walked about under the eaves. The evening was chilling down and becoming damp. He could smell grass, lavender, cows. He heard a bongo drum being slapped somewhere inside the walled garden, and another noise: something that sounded like two heavy stones being rubbed together.
A sprinkling of dust sifted down and settled on his shoulders. Puzzled, he looked up and saw a spiky-haired gryphon peering at him.
The gryphon had been carved in Bristol in 1823, and was nearly three feet high, made of granite. Monty might have had time to think that this mythical creature, half lion, half eagle, was the king of both land and air. Or he might simply have noticed that it was leaning further and further out until suddenly it had slipped over the balustrade and was travelling down towards him at great speed.
They heard the crash inside the house.
May was the first to come running out. He found Monty lying face down on the herringbone patio, crimson blossoms opening below his white shirt collar. The gryphon lay in three neat pieces as if it had been prepared for carving: legs, winged body and head. A drop of blood fell from its stone beak on to the brickwork, as if it had fed and was now done with the world.
15
* * *
I HEARD IT THROUGH THE GRAPEVINE
Monty lay immobile. May knelt, checked for vital signs and turned him over. ‘Is there a doctor anywhere nearby?’ he called. ‘He’s still breathing.’
‘Dr Walgrave lives in the old cottage at the end of the lane,’ said Pamela Claxon. ‘I could cycle over.’
‘I think he’s OK. It looks like a surface wound. He must have turned his body in time. It caught him on the shoulder, barely touching his head.’ May opened Monty’s collar and examined his clavicle. The skin was torn off in a two-inch patch and the surrounding flesh was already starting to swell up and bruise, but the bone was intact. The gargoyle had landed a glancing blow.
While May stayed with the victim Bryant ran into the hall and up the stairs, taking them two at a time. A
t the end of the second floor was a steep wooden staircase leading to the servants’ floor and, beyond that, the roof. Reaching the top staircase, he pushed open the unbolted panel above his head and emerged on to a narrow parapet that ran around the sloping tiles.
Up here the wind was fierce and buffeted him. He immediately saw where the gryphon had been displaced. There had been six of them, equally set along the main façade of the house. They were cemented in place, but two were fractured at their bases and one was now missing. He pushed against the other severed statue, but even with one hand planted against each of the creature’s wings he could barely shift it. There wasn’t enough room to get leverage, and there was no way it could have fallen by itself. He realized that the only way to topple it would be by raising his feet against the roof behind and pushing hard with the full width of his back.
In the damp mulch behind the spot where the gryphon had stood was a clear footprint – a man’s shoe, not large, a zigzag pattern on the sole. Bryant hunted around and found the end of a cigarette, a tipped Embassy Filter. Someone had waited for Monty to appear. Bryant pocketed the dog-end and rose.
He ran back downstairs and found that the women had moved Monty inside, and were laying him on a couch. A cold flannel had been compressed on his wound to staunch the blood flow.
Monty tried to sit up when he saw Bryant, but winced in pain and fell back. Pamela removed his shirt while the cook, Mrs Bessel, who told everyone she had driven an ambulance during the war, unrolled a crepe bandage around his shoulder.
‘It’s only broken the skin,’ she said, ‘but it’s badly swollen. There could be a hairline fracture. We’ve had bigger accidents in the kitchen. Hot oil, cleavers.’ She held up her thumbnail. ‘A corkscrew went under there only last week. He’ll live.’
‘How are you feeling?’ Bryant asked. ‘You’re lucky to be alive.’
‘No thanks to you,’ Monty gasped, pulling himself on to one elbow with a wince of pain.
‘I suppose you want to get back to London as soon as possible now.’ Bryant turned to the others, who were keeping their distance, unsure of their roles in the drama. ‘Could you leave us for a moment? We may need to remove his clothes.’
‘Don’t worry, I’ll make it to the courtroom by Monday,’ said Monty once the room had cleared. He seemed pretty sprightly for someone who had just been brained. ‘A few inches over and that damned gargoyle would have split my skull in half. I can’t stay here. It wasn’t an accident. Somebody just tried to kill me. Why haven’t you caught them?’
‘Did you hear or see anything?’
‘Yes, I heard a grinding sound. Like a granite gryphon being pushed over a parapet on top of some poor sod, which is what it bloody was. It’s a good job I looked up when I did.’
‘Please, think carefully. Take me through it.’
‘I stepped outside for some air. I heard something above me and looked up. I saw what I thought for a second was a great bird taking off from the parapet. I moved my head to get a better look and then I realized the gargoyle was moving. I saw a pair of hands pushing at it, a man’s hands.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘I can tell a man’s hands from a woman’s, damn it! Next thing, the creature was falling from the balustrade and hurtling down at me. I moved, not really thinking about the direction, and then I was flat on my back with a terrible pain in my shoulder. The gryphon was in pieces all around me, and I couldn’t raise my head. Someone wants to stop me from testifying. Have you tried contacting Chamberlain?’
‘We can’t do that,’ May explained, ‘not without jeopardizing the case.’
‘I have an idea,’ said Bryant. ‘When the doctor gets here I’ll tell the others that your injuries are more serious than they are, and that you’re confined to your room and can’t have visitors. We’ll deliver your meals until it’s time for you to leave, but nobody else comes in or out. It’s the only way to keep you safe.’
‘So now you want to place me under house arrest as well. No, forget it.’ Monty lowered himself back down on the couch. ‘It can’t be that hard to find out who tried to kill me. Good God, there aren’t that many of us staying here.’
‘Who did you mention your visit to?’ Bryant asked. ‘It was supposed to be a secret.’
‘It doesn’t matter, does it? You two goons were meant to look after me.’ Monty lay back, closed his eyes and thought for a minute. ‘I think I told someone at the club, and Harry obviously.’
‘I need the names of everyone you told.’ He handed Monty his pad and pencil. ‘The doctor’s on his way. Try to stay still.’
‘I need a large brandy,’ Monty moaned, ‘I’m in shock. Make it a triple.’
Bryant pulled his partner aside. ‘I’ve been dying to find out what’s making his bag so heavy. Why don’t I pop upstairs to his room while he’s out of action and have a quick look around?’
May seized Bryant’s arm. ‘No, Arthur, you cannot go nosing through his belongings. He’s a private citizen, not a suspect. He has rights. He could have been killed. We’ve only got one job to do this weekend, and that’s keep an eye on him.’
Bryant was not to be mollified. ‘It’s no good. I have to see for myself. Cover for me. Don’t let him move around.’
Ignoring May’s protests, he slipped out into the hall and made his way to the central staircase. He was about to head upstairs when Alberman appeared on the landing.
‘Can I be of assistance, sir?’ he asked.
‘I was just admiring your skirting board,’ Bryant lied.
‘I should be happy to give you a tour of the hall tomorrow morning after breakfast,’ he said, remaining in position.
‘I thought I’d just get something from my room.’
‘Elsie is turning down the beds, sir. I’ll inform you as soon as she’s finished her present duties.’
‘There’s been an accident.’
‘So I understand. The doctor is being summoned.’
Alberman was not to be shifted. Perhaps it was merely country house etiquette, but Bryant couldn’t shake the feeling that their movements were being carefully controlled. As he walked back along the corridor to the library, he became increasingly indignant. I’m an undercover police officer, he thought, I have every right to investigate. Perhaps there was another way upstairs.
He stopped a waitress with a tray of empty glasses heading for the kitchen. ‘Can I get to the first floor without using the central staircase?’
‘You could go through the servants’ quarters and up the rear stairs,’ she replied, ‘but the guests aren’t allowed—’
‘Oh, don’t worry, I’ve cleared it with Lord Banks-Marion.’ He attempted what he hoped was a winning smile. ‘Which way?’
The waitress pointed to a door that opened into the back of the house.
Bryant tried the handle and stepped inside. Suddenly the fine wallpapers and paints ended, leaving walls of rough grey plaster, bare wooden floors and the lingering smell of cabbage. This was how the serving staff answered calls and made sure that the breakfast trays they sometimes delivered to the bedrooms arrived hot. From the staircase at the rear they were able to reach other parts of the house without bumping into their employers.
The servants’ stairs proved ill lit and confusing. Parts had been closed off. When he finally emerged on the first floor, he found Monty’s room at the far end of the passage. The door wasn’t locked, so he slipped inside.
He had no idea what he was looking for. The bedroom chest of drawers contained some neatly ironed shirts, a scarf and tie, a manicure set, hairbrushes and a cardboard A2 folder.
Bryant began unwinding the cord that bound it.
Downstairs in Lupin, Monty was restless, and May was running out of ways to keep him in the room. ‘What about Vanessa Harrow?’ he asked as Monty stretched his bandaged collarbone, testing it.
‘Let me tell you something about her.’ He winced, sliding the webbing back into place. ‘Vanessa may put on an evening gown to go t
o work at night but she is not a nightclub chanteuse. Whatever she does these days to make so many old men happy doesn’t involve singing “Blue Moon” until four in the morning. I need a smoke.’ He patted down his pockets, looking for his cigar cutter.
‘Are you saying that Burke put her to work as a call girl?’
Monty mutely shrugged.
‘Why would he do such a thing?’
‘Why do rich men enjoy humiliating beautiful women? Because they can.’ He looked inside his lounge jacket. ‘Dammit, I had the thing earlier.’
‘Perhaps you left it in the dining room,’ said May. ‘I’ll get it.’
‘No, it’s in my DJ. We’ll continue the conversation when I come back.’ With that he rose with a cry of pain and hobbled off towards the stairs.
May ran outside and stood beneath Monty’s window. He could not see whether Bryant was still inside, so he stood on a patio bench. The top of his partner’s head briefly appeared and vanished again.
Knowing that Arthur’s investigative technique involved plastering his prints everywhere and throwing everything on to the floor, he could hardly bear to carry on watching.
Bryant sat down on the corner of the bed and opened the folder. Pages of monthly statements cascaded out and landed around his feet. Other sheets contained notes on monthly running costs. He dug out a packet of aniseed balls and began to read.
This was what Monty was going to show Donald Burke? A prospectus for a new company? Disappointed, he turned over more papers: invoices, projections, evaluations, boring lists of typed figures.
From this angle he could see under the chest of drawers. At first he mistook the grey metal container for a cash box, but it was longer and flatter. He tried sliding it out with his foot but it was surprisingly heavy, so he got down on his knees and dragged it. When he tipped the thing no sound came from inside. He shook it and tried raising the lid, but it was wedged shut. Rising with the box in both hands he felt something fall out of his trouser pocket and heard aniseed balls rattle all over the floorboards.
Bryant & May – Hall of Mirrors: (Bryant & May Book 15) Page 12
