Sir Mordred. It all came down to Sir Mordred. He could have taken his antique pieces. It would not even have been stealing; they belonged to him. He could certainly have planted them to implicate poor Bob. He could have sold them, and he could, in some cases, have retrieved them. He was virtually the only one who could, easily, have made the tiny copies. But why would he have gone to all that trouble? If he needed money, why not just sell some of the collection?
Because he didn’t want anyone to know what was going on. I’d been right the first-time. Because he hoped to put the objects back before anyone noticed. Because—it was coming—because there was something shameful or dishonest about the use to which he was putting the money.
The idea made me slightly dizzy. Respectable little Sir M.? Knighted for his service to his country’s arts? What dark secret could he have? My head spun.
Or perhaps it was spinning because I was hungry. It was after eight and I’d had no dinner. Neither had the cats. I remedied both situations and sat at the table, musing as I ate.
I think best on paper. I pulled a pencil and pad toward me and began a list of dubious activities that require quite a bit of money.
Gambling
Drugs
Bribery
Gang connections
Prostitution
The mind boggled at that last in connection with anyone as prissy as Sir Mordred. It boggled at all of them, to tell the truth. Gambling is an obsession, and people seldom nurse two obsessions at once; Sir Mordred’s was miniatures. I had never seen any sign of his taking drugs, and as for gangs, the very idea was ludicrous. Bribery? Whom would he bribe, and why?
How about art theft? Was he stealing some of his dollhouses, or buying them from an unscrupulous dealer? Maybe, but why, then, would he at the same time be selling some of their furnishings?
I gave it up. I was tired. Morning would do for more thinking, and in the afternoon—calloo, callay!—I could talk it all over with my husband the chief constable, who knew a thing or two about crime. Meanwhile the night was cold and my blankets warm. I was going to bed.
With a book, of course. I hadn’t bought any new books lately, so I perused my mystery shelves for old favorites and pulled down Agatha Christie’s Cat Among the Pigeons. There is nothing so soothing as reading an excellent mystery for the fifteenth time. I pulled the covers up to my chin, settled myself comfortably between two warm cats, and began the story of intrigue, kidnapping, blackmail, and triple murder in a girls’ school, falling asleep just as the mistress of French was hit on the head . . .
18
I had planned to do more thinking in the morning, but by morning I didn’t have to. Really, I was going to have to stop insulting the theory of subconscious problem-solving, because I woke, not only with the beginnings of a bad cold, but with all the details of a brilliant solution lined up in my somewhat stuffy head.
Well, all the details but one. I still couldn’t figure out why. Why the whole thing got started, that is. But I knew who the murderer was, and why the victims were killed, and why the miniatures were stolen and put back, and who the mysterious woman on the bicycle was, and how it all happened.
Of course, I had no proof. And I really wanted to have the whole thing neatly laid out for Alan when he came home. That didn’t leave me any too much time. I had to make some fast plans.
Plans, however, don’t come to order, and I don’t think very clearly when I feel awful. How was I going to get proof? My murderer had been very careful. I would get nowhere by flinging accusations all over the place; they would simply be denied, and the murderer would be warned. I sniffled and reached in my pocket for a tissue.
I had put on the same slacks I’d worn the day before, and there in my pocket was the rusty-looking, blood-stained tissue I’d used to mop up my hand after Sam scratched it. I was about to throw it away when I looked at it again and yet another lightbulb went off. Good grief, whatever I was going to do, I’d better do it soon or the best piece of evidence would be gone—if it wasn’t already.
If it were done when ’tis done, then ’twere well it were done quickly . . . I shivered, brushing away the uncomfortable analogy.
This was going to be tricky. If I went out willy-nilly and put myself in danger, Alan would have some very pointed remarks to make, just when he seemed to be accepting the idea of my involvement in matters criminal. I’d better be sure of my ground before I did anything. It might even be better to wait until Alan got back, and we could plan out something together.
But how was I going to keep that evidence from being destroyed? I couldn’t very well just go and steal it, partly because it would be much more useful to the police in situ, partly because, if I were caught—that didn’t bear thinking about.
Get hold of yourself, Dorothy. It’s the police who need that piece of evidence. It will be important to their case. Stop playing Nancy Drew and turn this over to the people who can do something about it properly.
I called the police station and asked to speak to Inspector Morrison.
“I’m sorry, madam, Chief Inspector Morrison is not in the building. May I give him a message?”
“Is there someone else working on the Brocklesby Hall murders I could talk to?”
“Concerning what, madam?”
“I have some information that may be useful.”
“I see. I will be happy to let someone know, when they return, if you will tell me your name and the nature of your information.”
I sat silent for a moment, fuming. My name? Risk involving Alan without his knowledge? And did I want to tell just anyone the nature of my information? Most of Belleshire’s police force, under Alan’s administration, were extremely competent, but there might be one blabbermouth in the outfit who could spoil everything.
“Are you still there, madam?”
“Yes. Thank you, but I’ll call back later.”
I replaced the receiver, picked it up again, and called Alan.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Martin,” said Betty’s soft, melodic voice. “He has meetings scheduled for nearly the whole morning, right up until he leaves. Shall I interrupt him?”
“No . . . no. But when he does surface, tell him I need to talk to him before he leaves for home. I may not be reachable; it depends on when he calls. If I’m not, tell him not to worry.”
After I’d hung up I realized that telling someone not to worry was exactly like telling children not to put beans in their ears. Too late now.
It might also be too late, now or soon, to save the vital clue. What to do, what to do, without the police help that wasn’t going to be forthcoming for a while?
Aha! I picked up the phone again, looked up a number, and waited while Richard Adam’s phone rang and rang.
Was I doomed to frustration at every turn? Was there nothing I could do? Richard could have put the evidence in a safe place for me, probably without incurring any suspicion. I’d simply have to find him, but there was one thing more to check, meanwhile.
The phone call was successful, this time. I tried Sotheby’s first, and was shunted around from one expert to another before finding the right one.
“Yes, madam, we frequently have dolls’ houses and their furnishings offered for sale. We had quite a nice lot in just recently, as a matter of fact—let me just check.” Various subdued noises for a while, and then the woman came back on the line. “I’m very sorry. That lot seems to have been removed from the catalog.”
“Oh, dear. Were those from Sir Mordred Brocklesby’s collection, by any chance? I particularly wanted to see them; we seldom see anything of that quality in America.”
“What a pity! They were, as a matter of fact. But items from his collection do turn up from time to time. Would you like me to send you a catalog when we next have some in?”
“No, I’m going home soon, so I’ll have to get back in touch with you. Thank you very much.”
The people at Christie’s said much the same thing. Confirmation of my theories, useful, b
ut incomplete without more proof.
I tried Richard Adam again, with no success. I was sitting with my hand on the phone, debating, when it rang and startled me. I picked it up, eagerly.
“Alan?”
“’Ullo. Is this Mrs. Martin? Dorothy Martin?”
“Yes, I—”
“This ’ere’s Ada Finch.”
“Ada! I haven’t talked to you in a long time. How nice to hear from you.”
“I wouldn’t bother you at ’ome, madam,” she said, oddly formal on the telephone, “only as ’ow that Bob, ’ee’s took off, an’ I thought you might’ve seen ’im. ’Ee ain’t fit to be drivin’, nor yet walkin’, if it comes to that, an’ ’oo knows where ’ee might fetch up! ’Ee ain’t been round your ’ouse, ’as he?”
“No, Ada, I haven’t seen him. He’s drinking, then?”
“Like to drown hisself.” She sounded despondent. “If you see ’im, I’d be obliged if you’d send ’im ’ome. ’Ee has the devil’s own luck when ’ee’s right pissed, but ’is luck ’as to run out sometime.”
“Ada, I’m sure he’ll be fine. The Lord takes care of fools and drunkards, you know.”
Ada muttered something that sounded like “one too many times.”
“I’ll keep my eyes open, I promise, but try not to worry. I’ll call—er—ring you up if I see him.”
Well, that made my mind up for me. Bob could very well be out at the Hall, but if he wasn’t, he was busy getting into trouble somewhere else. If he was driving, it was only a matter of time before the police stopped him, and he’d lose his license for a long time—and with it his livelihood. And on the whole, that was the least serious thing that could happen.
Bob needed to be found, and this mess needed to be cleared up. I was going out to the Hall. I’d be careful, but I couldn’t just sit around and do nothing, with critical issues at stake. I really will be careful, Alan, I promised him in earnest thought waves.
I donned the chrysanthemum hat for moral support, stuffed a wad of tissues in my purse to deal with my cold, and climbed in the car.
It was actually easier than I had feared. When I got to the parking lot at Brocklesby Hall, Richard was working in one of the gardens, digging and mulching and obviously preparing it for winter. Winter seemed rather far away; the day was gray, but warmish, and many of the plants were still growing with apparent vigor.
“That looks like warm work,” I commented, approaching him.
“It is that, but this is a good day for it. I like your hat.” He grinned at it and went on with his work.
“Richard, I don’t want to bother you, but Bob Finch hasn’t been around, has he?”
The gardener rested on his shovel. “Haven’t seen him. I could use him, today, but he hasn’t turned up.”
“That’s bad. His mother called me, very upset, though she tried not to show it. He’s on a real bender, and she thinks he might be driving. I’d hoped he might have ended up out here.”
“Not today. I’ll watch for him. I could always bed him down at my cottage, give him a place to sleep it off. He’s a good man, Finch, if he does have a weakness.” He picked up his shovel and levered a clump of irises out of the ground.
“I’m glad you think so. He needs a friend right now, and until these crimes are cleared up, he doesn’t have many. So I’m doing my best, and there are some other things I need to know, but I can see you’re busy. Can you talk and work at the same time?”
“Why not?”
“Well, most men I know can’t. What I want to know”—I lowered my voice and looked around—“what I want to know is, what was the bicycle woman wearing?”
“A skirt, I told you. That’s how I knew at first she was a woman.”
“And a scarf. I know. But what about details? Was the skirt light, dark, long, short? What kind of coat did she have? Et cetera.”
“The police asked me all those questions.”
“I’m sure they did. But I need to know, and I can’t ask the police right now.” I fumbled for a tissue and blew my nose.
He looked at me appraisingly (and stopped work again as he did so).
“It was dark, you know. A moonlit night. And she was down by the front gate. I couldn’t make out details. She was wearing something dark with a skirt. I could see her legs, quite distinctly, because they were pale. The skirt couldn’t have been all that long or I wouldn’t have seen her legs at all from this angle. It certainly wasn’t a mini; I’d have noticed that.”
“I’ll bet you would.”
His eyes glinted at me, but he didn’t smile. “Her scarf was light, and I think patterned. Colors get washed out in the moonlight, you know. I’m sorry I can’t tell you more.”
“How about shoes?”
He considered. “Not high heels. She didn’t walk that way. I can’t remember anything else.”
He began to dig again, oblivious, manlike, to the fact that he had stopped.
It wasn’t a lot to go on, but I supposed I couldn’t have hoped for more. Even if I could find what I was looking for, though, it wouldn’t provide definitive proof, not with a vague description like that. I had to go ahead with the other thing.
“Richard, there’s one more thing I wish you’d do for me.”
“And what would that be?”
A noncommittal soul, this man Meg was so devoted to. Not given to rash promises. “I want to take a look at some of the tools in Sir Mordred’s workshop. The ones he was cleaning so assiduously the other day.”
He rested on his shovel and studied me closely. “I’m sure he would be happy to show you his tools. He’s proud of his workshop.”
“I don’t want to ask him.”
“I see.”
I had the feeling he did, and in any case, I didn’t intend to explain further. “What I hoped you could do was take them to your cottage. Just for a little while. You could say—you could say you had something that would clean them properly, get rid of the rust.”
He considered that for a long time, or what felt like a long time. “Very well,” he said finally. “I’ll see if I can manage to take them away. It may be some time before he’ll leave and let me get at them, you know.”
“He’s working in his workshop now?”
“So far as I know. He usually is.”
“Richard, I don’t want to say too much, but I think it might be important to examine those tools as soon as possible. When does he have his lunch?”
“Sometimes not at all, when he’s working. He’s fussy about his work, forgets to take his meals.”
“Well, then, could Meg think of some excuse to get him out of the way for a while? It could be important,” I repeated.
His face set. “I’ll not involve Meg.” It was an ultimatum, but he continued to fix his eyes on mine.
“Is it a police matter?” he asked
“It may be. The trouble is, I can’t seem to reach anyone who could do something about it. I’ll keep trying, but time matters, Richard!”
My urgency got through, finally.
“Very well.” He scraped his hand along his jawline. “I can create a distraction. Sir Mordred hates fire, won’t ever let me burn rubbish. If I started a fire of the brush I’ve been clearing out, it’d smoke pretty badly. He’d come out of his shop for that, I’ll be bound. And I could nip in and make off with a few tools. Not many, mind. He’ll come looking for me, to tear me off a strip.”
“Thank you! I particularly want that vise he was cleaning when he felt ill on Wednesday. You know, the biggest one? It does unclamp from the bench, doesn’t it?”
“It’s screwed on, I think, but yes, I can remove it. Anything else?”
I thought quickly. “Anything heavy and portable. A monkey wrench, if he has a big one.”
Richard looked blank.
“I mean a—a spanner, a—oh, what do you call them? A big heavy wrench—spanner, I mean, that has adjustable jaws—you use them for some kinds of plumbing, I think—”
I waved my
hands frantically, trying to communicate in a foreign language. Richard smiled slightly and nodded understanding.
“An adjustable spanner. I doubt he has a heavy one, but I’ll have a quick look. I’ll be off now to build a bit of a fire.” He thrust his shovel into the ground, its handle quivering, and brushed off his hands. “Wait here.”
I had no intention of waiting there. I watched until he was out of sight, blew my nose again, and then, carefully avoiding the workshop, walked through the front door of Brocklesby Hall.
19
It’s all right,” I told the girl at the ticket desk. “I’m just going to the library. I’ve been helping Meg and Susan with their work.”
That was almost true, but the important thing was the air of assurance with which I breezed through the entrance hall into the great hall and turned in the right direction for the library. The young woman accepted what I had said and turned back to her book, business being slow today, and I strode past the library to the magnificently ugly main staircase.
I thought what I was looking for might be in the attic. It wasn’t in Mrs. Lathrop’s rooms; I’d already searched them, and so had the police, much more thoroughly. I didn’t think it would have been left in one of the dust-sheeted, disused rooms, because finding it there, by chance, would have given the police much cause for speculation. Too much cause. No, on the whole, the attic was the most reasonable place.
I climbed.
And climbed, and climbed. Brocklesby Hall ran to high ceilings, and there were three occupied, or once occupied, floors below the attic floor.
On the third floor, what the English would call the second, I got lost. The stairs came to an end, and I had to hunt for attic access. I wandered through the senseless maze of corridors, wishing I’d been smart enough to look at a floor plan of the house before setting out. At this rate I could be here all day, at greater risk of being discovered every extra moment I remained. Once, when I heard footsteps coming up a flight of steps I couldn’t even see, I blundered into a closet in sheer panic, but the steps went away after several thousand years, and I persevered.
Malice in Miniature Page 19
