“Have read them, sir? I read them over and over again and they seem to get fresher and more exciting every time. Look for yourself.” With the air of Puss in Boots presenting the Marquis of Carabas with his own riches, she tilted a lamp towards the bookcase and a line of Mott’s gaudy volumes glinted back at him. Miss Marley wasn’t a crone or a battleaxe, he decided, but a most charming and intelligent woman.
“And, Mr Mott, in spite of my rudeness, I wonder if you would do something terribly kind for me. I know how a man in your position must be pestered by his public, but it would give me so much pleasure if . . .”
“If I would sign a couple for you, dear lady. But of course, Miss Marley.” Mott moved towards the case, feeling like the lost heir suddenly revealed – the exiled prince returned to his adoring subjects. In reality his smug smirk bore far more resemblance to that of a tame ape being rewarded with a banana for selecting the longest stick in a pile, but neither he nor his hostess knew that.
“And now, what shall I write?” He pulled out The Ascent of Mount Mott and the Yeti and considered the problem. “Yes, to Miss Elsie Marley, an ardent admirer. For Elsie Marley, with friendship and affection.” He signed both inscriptions with a flourish and handed them to her.
“Mr Mott, this is one of the proudest moments of my life.” She looked at the words as though they were from Holy Writ. “No, the very proudest and won’t my friends be jealous. You have several admirers in the village and when they see this, they’ll . . .”
“Go green with envy, I expect.” Mott beamed at her and then glanced at an oil painting above the fireplace. A tall man in naval uniform, gazing into space. “Who is that gentleman, Miss Marley? Looks familiar somehow.”
“Oh, only my father, Admiral Archibald Marley. A pleasant man, though cursed with a rather malicious sense of humour, like all my family. He thought it was a joke to christen me Elsie. At school, how I suffered from that vulgar Geordie song and my own name.
“But, here I am chattering about myself and quite forgetting my duties as a hostess. Would you care for a glass of sherry, Mr Mott? There should be a decanter on the sideboard over there.”
“Some sherry would be most welcome, Miss Marley.” Mott poured out two generous measures. As a rule, he disliked sherry as a drink, but Elsie Marley really was a charming woman. He handed her a glass, pulled up a chair and quite forgot his reason for calling. Miss Marley listened with rapt attention, Horatio, the dog, still snored peacefully and Mott discussed the three topics which really interested him; himself, his exploits and the fate which usually befell his enemies.
“I’ve known fear, dear lady, what really brave man hasn’t, but somehow I’ve always managed to shrug it aside.
“The others fled and you can’t blame ’em, but I stood my ground. The beast weighed over three tons and was travelling at twenty miles an hour but that didn’t daunt me. Got him with my trusty forty-five Mannliche, slap through the middle of his tiny brain.
“Blackjack – one of the worst hoodlums in North Africa. Took him by the seat of his pants and tossed him onto the dock. Bust his neck in the fall, and a damn good riddance.”
Yes, Mott really enjoyed himself and so did Miss Marley for she thought Mott a fine man; far, far superior in real life to her wildest imaginings. A real British gentleman of a type which had seemed to die out years ago. Miss Marley’s early reading had been confined to the hero cult as typified by the writings of Messrs Buchan, Sapper and Rider Haggard and Mott fulfilled all these authors’ requirements to the letter. The clock had struck nine when they remembered their business.
“The book you called to collect for Pike, Mr Mott. Yes, I have it all ready for you, though I suppose you’re more a customer of Pike’s than a friend, and are merely doing him a favour.
“I thought that might be the case, though Pike seemed quite an educated man for a dealer. You’ll find the copy on the left of the second shelf, over there.”
“Thank you, Miss Marley. Thank you very much indeed.” Mott felt a wave of triumph as he inspected the volume, for he’d gone a step forward at last. This was the real McCoy and a mint specimen; not a stain on the vellum cover and no mutilations inside. Every page and illustration was in place and with any luck, they’d tell him what he wanted to know.
But they didn’t and his luck had run out, though he couldn’t really complain. He had only skipped through the damned book and forgotten most of the contents, but a glance at the index told him he was wrong.
No chapter devoted to the K. 107, and no picture of its designer, Mr J. R. Price, or a hero who had rushed to help the injured. Not a single mention of any mutilated victims or grieving relatives, which was a pity.
Mott had enjoyed the idea of some horribly maimed figure hounding Pike into the grave, of a door opening, and of a hoarse voice croaking, “Don’t you recognize me, Mr Price?” Of a charred hand tearing off the mask which concealed some gruesome facial deformities. “What a shame, sir, because you made me what I am and now you’re going to feel me.” Of the German dagger coming up and Pike going down.
“A ruddy sell-out,” Mott thought. “But how curious,” he said, struggling to conceal disappointment. “This is quite a rare book, Miss Marley, so how did you manage to acquire two of them.”
“Oh, didn’t Pike tell you, Mr Mott?” The question seemed to surprise her. “They belonged to my cousin, the Rev’d David Glyde. David worked for the Raeburn Press, as what they call an outside reader, till the firm went out of business.
“Only part-time and as a sort of hobby of course, but I presume he must have been presented with, or got hold of, a couple of copies at some time.
“Poor David! We were never close friends, but it came as a surprise when I heard he had died and left me his library. A nuisance too, as I have very little space, but the vicar, a most helpful man, gave me Pike’s address and he came in a taxi and took the lot away. Only paid me fifty pounds, but I was glad to see the back of them.”
“But not this copy, dear lady.” Mott had finished collating the book and laid it aside. “What happened exactly, Miss Marley?”
“Something you’ll scarcely believe, Mr Mott.” A trace of Miss Marley’s grim expression returned. “Only a week ago, Mrs Shirley Jackson, my daily help; Shirl as she wishes to be called, came in and popped the book back on the shelf without a word of apology. “Just borrowed it for a good read, miss, and forgot to return it till now.”
“How stupid and careless the lower orders have become, Mr Mott. No respect for their betters or their property whatsoever.”
“I entirely agree, my dear lady, but tell me more about your cousin.” Mott had no interest in Shirl’s reading material, but felt he was on a more interesting scent. “Why should David Glyde want two copies?”
“Only God knows and I take His name seriously, Mr Mott. David was a very perverse character and a clergyman, which made matters worse. There were rumours – horrible rumours, which I don’t entirely believe.
“People complained that he’d repeated what he was told in the confessional and joked about them. No, not like my father, Mr Mott.” She saw that he was eyeing the admiral’s portrait and frowned. “My father had an unfortunate sense of humour, but basically he was on the side of the angels, whereas David . . .” She lowered her voice though there was no eavesdropper to hear the words.
“Schadenfreude is the only word to describe David Glyde’s lust, Mr Mott. He was possessed by the Devil.”
Nine
Schadenfreude – joy derived from another person’s despair. Backwards and forwards, deep in thought, Mott paced the floor of his den. A study which might have been decorated by a maniac. Trophies of the chase hung on the walls between archaic, primitive weapons and pictures of the pursuer, and a human skull fitted as a lampshade glowed on the desk.
Schadenfreude. A German word with no real English equivalent,
but it told him a lot about the Revd David Glyde. The man really could have been possessed by the Devil, as Miss Marley suggested.
Mott had no faith in the Miltonian conception of Satan. Lucifer, the fallen star of the morning, was a rather noble figure, somewhat like himself, but true evil was small and cruel and vicious. Kipling described the quality well and Mott quoted loudly, though slightly inaccurately, from the Pict’s song:
“Mistletoe killing an oak,
Rats gnawing cables in two,
Moths biting holes in a cloak, but
How they must love what they do.”
And David Glyde had loved his work all right, especially after the confessional. No direct revelations, of course, and no names mentioned directly. Just hints that certain anonymous individuals suffered from certain objectionable cravings would have been enough to satisfy poor Dave’s Schadenfreude.
But one stalwart penitent had had such a craving and heard it mentioned by the confessor and sniggered about. The penitent hadn’t wasted any time. He’d talked to the rural dean, the rural dean had spoken to the bishop and the sun started to set on the Reverend Mr Glyde.
Not enough evidence to sack or defrock him of course, and why wash dirty clerical linen in public? “Transfer the fellow. Make him resign his living in Kensington and offer him another where he can do no harm, Canon Fodder.”
“Got it, Mr Lord. Just the place, and the patron, Lord Dunsinane, is a very close, personal friend of mine.”
So the unjust steward was given a choice and he took it and went north. Very far north to the parish of Glengyle near the tip of Scotland. Glyde couldn’t get up to any mischief there, surely. The population were mainly Presbyterians or Roman Catholics and the few C of E members were low church and they didn’t believe in confession. The Revd Glyde should have rotted quietly among the rocks and the heather, following his part-time occupation as a publisher’s reader and so he did till he died. But he left his cousin a legacy.
And there was nothing to be learned from the damned book – nothing at all. Mott had searched the pages a dozen times and found not a single incriminating thing, though some of the illustrations were slightly interesting. “The last moments of the frigate River Madoc and the rescue tug Sam. This picture was taken from the Sam’s lifeboat just before the start of her epic voyage home.”
“The bodies of the three climbers who fell from the East face of Ben S’Gurr in 1947. The only survivor of this accident was Sir Roland Rawson who despite severe personal injuries crawled fifteen miles to summon help.”
Mott hated Roland Rawson and that photograph had interested him at first, but there was nothing in it to tarnish Rawson’s unfortunately untarnished reputation. There was nothing sinister in Levin’s death book, though he wasn’t sure what he was looking for. Some suggestion of a crime committed years ago perhaps – some hint of a family skeleton which could drive an unbalanced mind to mass murder. He turned to the chapter on his enemy Rawson again and frowned at the text.
The East face of Ben S’Gurr is a seven hundred foot wall starting from Lob’s Chimney. I was the last member of the team and securely attached to a flake of rock inside the chimney. I could not see the rest of the party above because of an overhanging chockstone. The rock of the wall itself is loose and treacherous however and I can only assume that Hal James, the leader, fell near the crest and pulled Wakefield and West from their belays.
The rope parted with the force of their triple descent and broke my collar bone and fractured three ribs, but . . .
But with superhuman courage and fortitude Roland Rawson had ignored his own injuries and climbed down the chimney alone. He had examined the dead bodies of his companions and set off, staggered off and crawled off to summon help.
Possible, Mott supposed. Though he disliked Rawson intensely, he couldn’t deny that the fellow was a tough cookie, but . . .
But had the leaders fallen or were they pulled? Rawson could have untied the rope, administered a sharp tug and down would have come cradle and baby and all.
Yes, that was possible. Anything was possible where characters like Rawson were concerned. But why, what rational motive could he have for killing three apparently inoffensive human beings? Gain, no. Roland Rawson was an independently wealthy man. Blackmail possibly, if one of the party had discovered something discreditable about him. Mere pique – sheer ill-temper; that was the most probable cause. Mott fancied he could read Rawson’s character like a book and the man was a dirty book and subject to ungovernable rages. Any unfortunate joke at his expense might have triggered off anger and sent the party hurtling down to the scree. Rawson could have slipped in the chimney himself and cracked those ribs and his collar-bone during the fall, but where did the book fit in?
Dawn was up, the sun was shining and Mott switched off the skull lamp and carried the volume over to a window. The picture of the three corpses was too small to show much detail, but if the photograph was blown up and magnified, if the enlarged print proved that the rope had not snapped but been untied, he’d hold Sir Roland Rawson in the palm of his hand.
A pleasant thought and he considered the blighter’s career, for he and Rhino Rawson had been rivals since boyhood. At school each striving for the title victor ludorum and cheating on the way. At university each struggling to place chamber-pots on a higher steeple than the other before being sent down by a long-suffering but exasperated authority.
The final break had come ten years ago when both claimed to have discovered the source of a certain African river. As it happened, both claims were proved wrong by a French helicopter pilot, but Rawson got the credit and a knighthood, before the truth was revealed. Mott had never forgiven him for that and he wasn’t allowed to forget the title, either. Every Christmas a vulgar card arrived bearing greetings to Mister Molden-Mott from Sir Roland-Rawson KCMG.
Yes, it would be very pleasant to reveal Rhino as an insane murderer and have him locked away in The Village of Irons. Mott grinned at the thought and then frowned as the telephone rang.
“J. Molden-Mott speaking.” He lifted the receiver and recognized Tom’s voice. “Yes, Mayne, I have the book, but it’s no use to us at the moment and this is what I want you to do.” His smile returned because an idea had occurred to him. “Is there a reputable public auction in London next week?
“Thursday at the Foden Gallery. Yes, that should give us time and here are my instructions. Put Men of Courage up for sale at Foden’s and see that it’s well advertised. Also make sure that there’s a thumping reserve on the price. A couple of thousand should be adequate.” A contemptible trick really, like shooting a sitting bird, he thought, but if Rawson swallowed it, they’d have him on toast. Mott would have much preferred a more dramatic denouement, but one needed a long spoon to sup with a devil.
“Yes, my copy of Courage is in mint condition, Mayne, and you can rely on that.
“What are you trying to tell me?” He listened to Tom’s account of his early adventure. The car charging under the flyover, mounting the pavement and turning aside at the last possible moment. “No, old boy, I don’t think some drunk lost control of his vehicle for a moment. The driver was your executioner all right and he didn’t change his mind or have a twinge of conscience. A rum thing that he didn’t kill you then and there, so take care of yourself till next Thursday. My bank will look after the book, in the meanwhile.
“Yes, until Thursday morning. This is one of the very few copies still in existence and our pal will not get his grubby hands on it before I give the word.” He banged down the phone and returned to the window. A pleasant day and the long-range forecast was favourable for at least a week. Ample time to bring his murderer to bay without the sales-room deception.
An objectionable murderer and an objectionable blackmailer. Old David Glyde had run through the proofs and the illustrations and seen that the rope had not been c
ut, but untied. As his cousin said Mr Glyde was possessed by the Devil, and the Devil was a strong tempter.
Though not as powerful as J. Molden-Mott, God was always on the side of the just and God and Mott were acting together. They would see that justice was done, but first things came first. Photostat the book and magnify the illustrations, lodge the copy in his bank and then off to the wilds of Scotland.
Ten
“No – no – no, Mr Mayne. Not on your nelly!” Gordon Glover, manager and chief auctioneer of the Foden Gallery and Sales Rooms, frowned at Tom’s request and lowered his rump against what had been described to him as a genuine Sheraton writing-desk: a desk which creaked in protest and he wouldn’t have cared if it had fallen apart. One glance inside the drawers had proved that whatever the owner might say, the thing was a fake and a pretty poor fake too. He would see that it was returned COD that very afternoon. The Foden was not a place to suffer junk gladly.
“Quite out of the question, I’m afraid – most irregular.” Glover wore a black suit, relieved by a dove-grey tie, and had an air of immense dignity: the kind of man one associated with Masonic functions, and after-lunch speeches of interminable length; of hearty platitudes directed against the younger generation; the kind of man one would like to see sit down on a tack.
“You should know us well enough by now, Mr Mayne. You can be sure that we would help if it were possible. Hold back a cheque for a few days, arrange for a private view and the Foden would always, always be sympathetic towards a good and valued customer.
“But this scheme is preposterous and smacks of fraud or criminal intent. I’m surprised that you should have made such a request. To ask a firm with a reputation built up over three generations of fair dealing and respect to offer a book which we have never even seen or collated is tantamount to . . .” Like a river in flood, the platitudes rolled grandly out till Tom intervened.
A Book of the Dead Page 9
