“Mr Glover, you have my word that the book is in mint condition and will be delivered on time.” He fought back irritation because he realized Glover’s predicament. Mott had decided that Men of Courage should be kept in a bank till the morning of the sale and it was asking a lot for Glover to advertize it unseen. All the same, Glover was a pompous, self-important ass and it would do no harm to deflate his dignity. Tucked away in Tom’s mind was a piece of information which could ruin Mr Glover and tarnish the Foden’s reputation. He had no wish to use the knowledge, but the weapon was there.
“Your word, Mr Mayne, is a very good word, but you must consider our point of view.” If an elephant could speak Tom imagined it would sound equally pompous and pedantic. “My brother-in-law, a rather common sort of man I’m sorry to say, manages a public house near Epsom and has similar problems to face. He would benefit by cashing cheques for his better class of customers, but if he did so, all the local riff-raff would try to follow suit. You are attempting to put the gallery in a similar predicament Mr Mayne, and I’m afraid that I must refuse.” Glover had no trunk to swing, but Tom pictured him swinging one. “You will appreciate that the request is hardly ethical and you cannot expect the Foden to get involved in anything of a dishonest nature.”
“No, I suppose not.” A car backfired in the street and Tom started slightly. Mott’s warnings that the killer would strike again seemed very real. Everyone who spoke to him, every sudden movement or noise, seemed like a threat and his nerves were like raw wounds. He had done what Mott asked him to do, not even discussing the plan with Janet, and the trap was almost sprung. Only this pompous elephant – No, not an elephant, they are supposed to have a sense of humour. This bone-headed water-buffalo of a man stood in his way.
“Of course not, my dear chap. Why, in almost a hundred years of business, Foden’s have never been mixed up in anything underhand or shady.” A loud creak came from the desk and Glover raised his buttocks up from it. He didn’t mind breaking the so-called Sheraton, but a fall would be a blow to his dignity, and it was time to show this persistent young man that the interview was over. He pulled a gleaming half-hunter watch from his pocket and glanced meaningfully at the dial.
“Just think what you have asked me to do, Mr Mayne. To advertize a book in our next catalogue without even examining its condition or putting the thing on view. No, no that’s quite impossible.”
“But I have promised you that the book is in excellent order and will get to you in good time.” Tom was reaching the end of his tether, because the man really was a buffalo. A great, self-righteous, pompous buffalo, browsing suspiciously beside some muddy stream.
“ ‘Pollicitis dives quilibet esse potest.’ As Ovid said, anyone can be rich in promises, and the reserve you wish to place on the item; two thousand pounds.” Glover raised a flabby, white hand to emphasize the sum. “An absurd amount and I know that there’s something fishy about the prices those Men of Courage have reached in the last few months. Something very suspicious, which the Foden Gallery cannot be party to.” He moved slowly towards the door and Tom suddenly imagined himself in a Mottish role. Buffaloes are probably the most dangerous beasts in the jungle. Even a lion steers clear of them, but one accurate shot through the brain . . .
“But don’t think I’m accusing you of dishonesty, Mr Mayne. You are merely the agent of some eccentric client who is trying to prey upon your youth and inexperience.” Glover paused with his hand on the doorknob. “If you are still gullible enough to continue with this scheme, approach another firm of auctioneers. Somerlees of Reaker and Smith might agree, though personally I doubt it.”
“But Bronte or the Countess of Hertford would, Mr Glover.” The buffalo was in range now and Tom prepared to squeeze the trigger. “Yes, I came to you because we’re friends, Mr Glover, and I wonder what that prayer-book was finally sold for. A thousand, or more?”
“Nothing like that, and the countess was perfectly satisfied with the total proceeds.” The hunted had scented the hunter and was uncertain whether to charge or beat a hasty retreat. “And you were satisfied, Mr Mayne. You said so at the time and I gave you two hundred quid for the tip-off. You wouldn’t, you couldn’t, be base enough to betray me.”
“I might be, Mr Glover.” Tom saw that the buffalo had decided that discretion was the better part of valour and Glover pulled out a notebook and a fountain-pen. “One copy of Men of Courage numbered ‘twelve’, Raeburn Press, limited edition 1958. Make it the last lot of the day and don’t forget the reserve.” Tom watched Glover write down his instructions and thought of another transaction completed three years ago.
One couldn’t blame the Countess of Hertford or her librarian for not noticing that the prayer-book was inscribed. They wanted to make room on their shelves for other volumes and five hundred goats found their way to the Foden.
Not a bad set of goats and one member of the flock had a message on the flyleaf. Tiny handwriting as though somebody was trying to copy out the Lord’s Prayer on a postage stamp. Even Tom was confused at first, but he consulted Glover and Glover consulted a member of the Bronte Society. The prayer-book was withdrawn from the auction and sold privately and without the countess’s knowledge. She got a pound, Tom got two hundred pounds and God only knew what Glover received.
A little leather-bound book of devotion with two lines of faded, cramped writing to give it value; “To Charlotte, from her loving Sister Emily.”
Eleven
“Evil, Mr Molden-Mott? Nay, it’s not for me to explain how the Prince of Darkness spins his web, but I will say this.” James Gourlay, proprietor of the Moorcock Inn at Glengyle paused impressively. “The Reverend Glyde was a very fearsome man.”
“Fearsome is not an exact description of character, so please amplify your statement.” Mott leaned against the bar and downed his third double whisky. “How did David Glyde inspire fear, Mr Gourlay? Any definite instances?”
“Well, let me think for a moment, sir.” Gourlay eyed his guest with mixed feelings. He hadn’t liked the look of Mott when he arrived, well after closing time last night, and demanded a room. He’d resented being threatened with legal action if a room was not provided. He had disliked being treated as Mott’s hired servant and told that the bed was damp, the accommodation too small and the breakfast inedible.
Only during the last half hour had his opinion started to alter, for there was no denying that Mott was a good listener. Everything that happened at Glengyle seemed to interest him and Jimmy Gourlay liked to talk. “Badness is a difficult thing to identify, sir. I mean, if you rob me till for gain, you deserve to be punished, but if you steal for the fun of depriving me, that’s a different matter.
“Call a man raca and you’re in danger of the judgement. Call him a fool and you face hell-fire. And David Glyde is in hell now, if Christ is any judge.”
“Instances, Gourlay. Concrete examples of Glyde’s perversity, and get me a refill while you think about them.” Mott drained his glass and pushed it across the counter. “Any cruelty to animals, children or old people for instance?”
“Not to animals or bairns, sir, but there was that shockin’ affair regarding Mary Mollinson, and the way he treated Sir Roland.
“Abominable, what he did to Mary. She’d been the old vicar’s housekeeper for nigh on thirty years and the manse was the only home she knew. But Glyde said she wasn’t up to her work and she’d have to go.
“She did in a sense. Telephoned Dr Angus to come over and he found her in the kitchen with a knife through her breast. You may not believe this, sir, but when the doctor told Glyde she was dead, he just grinned.
“Sir Roland, Mr Mott? That could have been almost as bad, but Roland Rawson was a harder nut to crack.” Gourlay had refilled the glass and placed it on the counter. “He threatened to take a horsewhip to Glyde if he repeated those hellish rumours and might have done given the
chance. But Glyde was lying at the bottom of Ben S’Gurr with his head stove in when Sir Roland got back to Scotland.”
“Murder?” Mott leaned forward. Everything that discredited Roland Rawson interested him and he knew what the rumours were. Three men had died on that mountain and a fiend was responsible. “Was Rawson suspected of killing Glyde?”
“Oh no, and what an idea!” Gourlay shook his head. “Sir Roland has a wee croft up the glen which he uses for holidays and suchlike, but he wasn’t here when Glyde was found. Up in the Arctic Circle Sir Roland was, looking for a rare species of the great white whale.”
“Which I did discover, Gourlay, and the skull is now lodged in the Natural History Museum, London.” Gourlay had been overheard and the discoverer strutted into the bar. “And you – you’re here, Mr Mott. What a coincidence! We haven’t met for years. Not since the day I saved your life from that lion in Africa.” Sir Roland Rawson was shorter and less bulky than Mott, but he looked equally formidable and was dressed in an anorak, bright yellow trousers and a pair of climbing boots. “Yes, I will have a drink as you’re kind enough to ask.” He accepted an offer which had not been made and clambered up onto a bar stool. “A pint of bitter please, Gourlay, if your beer’s not off again.”
“My beer’s never off, Sir Roland,” Gourlay muttered, but Rawson didn’t hear him. He beamed at Mott and then prodded him in the ribs with a finger. “Good grief. You’re putting a bit of weight on, old chap. Getting very flabby. Have to do something about that, and you’ve come to the right place. I’m on my way to have a bit of a scramble on Ben S’Gurr and would be delighted if you’d join me.”
“Go scrambling with you?” Mott’s hand trembled as he lifted his whisky glass. He’d come to Scotland to expose a murderer and the murderer was there at the bar beside him. A cold-blooded killer had invited him to climb the very mountain on which he had once taken three human lives and now hoped to take his own. “No, I’m sorry, Rawson,” he said. “But I’m rather busy today.”
“You’re not busy, but scared, old boy.” Sir Roland had distinctly read his thoughts. “Gourlay’s been talking and you’ve been listening, eh? You believe those rumours spread about by our vile, unlamented parson. You think I pulled those blighters off the East Face, and could do the same to you.” He started to lift his pint pot and then laid it down on the counter. “No, Sir Roland Rawson does not drink with cowards or fools and you appear to be both those things, Mr Molden-Mott.”
“Nobody can call me a coward and get away with it, Rawson.” Mott flushed with rage and knocked back his Scotch. “Finish your beer and I’ll be changed and ready to join you in ten minutes flat.”
Though he was too angry to know it, Mott might soon be changing his clothes for a shroud.
“Implications – insinuations – unfounded poppycock.” They had left Rawson’s Land-Rover at the end of the glen and while toiling up the scree Sir Roland talked. “I saw through our spiritual advisor the moment I clapped eyes on him, Mott, and the Revd Mr Glyde was a wrong ’un.
“Tried to filch my good name, but I had the evidence to prove him a liar. After those three chaps went for a Burton, I kept the rope and it’s still hanging up in my cottage. The ends show that the strands snapped twenty feet from my shoulder, and you can have a squint for yourself.
“If I don’t decide to tug you off first of course, and add to my list of misdeeds.” They had reached the crags and Rawson paused and chuckled. “To think that you, an old friend and admirer, could imagine that I was a callous murderer.
“Well, your act fooled me, old boy. The joke was at my expense and let’s get going.” He removed a nylon line from his shoulder and started to unfold the coils. “Bit of a breeze blowing up, so watch out for those belays on the face. All pretty rotten and crumbling as my pals learned to their cost.
“Alternative pitches, or do you want me to lead all the way?”
“Alternative, Rawson.” Mott tied on the rope and tried to control his expression. He no longer believed that Rawson was a murderer, but to be considered an admirer rankled considerably. “Get rid of this Scotch first, though. Won’t be a second.” He urinated noisily against the rocks, but Rawson was already on his way. Feet planted firmly on every hold, hands reaching for supports and body correctly balanced. The man might be an insolent beast, but there was no denying that he was an excellent climber.
But so had Glyde been, apparently. Mott thought about what Rawson had told him in the car. The old boy was well over 60 but he had scrambled over the hills like a ruddy cat on the tiles.
Why? Why does a man climb a mountain? “Because it’s there,” said George Mallory. Mott echoed the thoughts of Inspector Pounder to Tom. “Because I have had a dream,” said Sherpa Tensing Norgay. “For Germany,” replied Toni and Adolf Schmidt, the Bavarian cyclists and perhaps the greatest of them all. “For the glory and honour of J. Molden-Mott and to run down a mass murderer,” thought Mott, as the rope tugged. Rawson had completed the first pitch and was waiting for him to follow.
“Good exercise, old boy? No real difficulties yet.” Rawson was seated on a ledge with the rope securely belayed to a pillar. “The next stage veers to the right and ends up under the chimney. Only fifty-five feet, but have a bit of a breather first. You look shagged out, and I don’t want another death on my conscience.”
“I am perfectly fit, thank you, and will proceed.” Mott moved out onto a flake. The route was clearly marked by the old scratches of climbing boots and the breeze was his only problem. A gusty wind had blown in from the Atlantic which tugged his anorak, but caused no real trouble. In under five minutes he was tied up to a belay below the chimney and bellowing for Rawson to join him.
“Lovely view, ain’t it?” To Mott’s disgust, Rawson appeared with a cigarette dangling between his lips. “Nothing but the Isle of Lewis between us and the Nantucket Light. The chimney’s rather a sweat but nothing to worry about. The worries start later.” He spat out the cigarette and started the sweat. An almost classical chimney over eighty feet long, but just the right diameter. With his back against one wall and his feet on the other, Roland Rawson was in no danger unless he suffered a heart attack, and Mott paid out the rope and consulted a climbing guide.
The East Face of Ben S’Gurr presents few difficulties apart from the last two pitches which gives the climb a rating of Very Severe. This was established during a tragic triple accident in 1952.
After leaving the Great Chimney, the route turns to the right and proceeds up an exposed and almost vertical wall of a hundred and fifty feet in length. At eighty foot, the leader may decide to belay, but as there is no adequate stance and the rocks are loose and crumbling, it is better to complete the climb and treat the pitches as one. Sea bird droppings are at times a nuisance, and the leader cannot be adequately protected by his Number Two below.
“Come on, old boy. I’m ready.” The leader bellowed and Number Two tucked away the book and began to mount the chimney. He took his time about it, and not because of physical exertion or natural hazards. Vertical and exposed walls, loose rocks and sea-bird droppings meant nothing to a man like him, but there was the human element to consider. Rawson – Sir Roland Rawson, a suspected murderer. Just a tug, a twitch on the rope and J. Molden-Mott would go crashing down to death and the scree.
“Ah, there you are at last, Mott.” The suspected murderer beamed at him. Rawson was securely attached to the chockstone which straddled the chimney, and he didn’t look like a killer. He looked like a hearty, middle-aged man who was thoroughly enjoying himself.
“A sweat, as I said, but now the troubles start and the wind’s increasing.” He looked through the gap below the wedged stone and shrugged his shoulders. “Can’t promise to hold you if you fall, so shall I take on from here again? You’re clearly worn out and look slightly seedy, but I’m in the pink of condition and know this cliff like the back o
f me hand.”
“Clearly worn out” – “slightly seedy” – “pink of condition” – “back of me hand”. The words might or might not have been insolent, but Mott felt insulted and he checked that the bowline around his waist was tightly knotted.
“I am perfectly capable of completing this pitch, Rawson,” he said, “and I intend to do so now.”
“Then watch your step, old boy,” Rawson advised, but the advice was not taken. Mott had already stepped through the gap and was on the wall.
Rawson had noticed that the wind was increasing and he was right. The author of the guide-book had explained the difficulties and Mott couldn’t deny them. The cliff was hellishly exposed and seemed to be craned out over the sea. The rock was loose and rotten and the angle was damn near vertical. Every foothold seemed to be coated with sea-bird droppings and the birds themselves whirled, screeching around him like harpies. Probably they imagined he was after their nests, but that did nothing to cheer Mott on. The rope connecting him to Rawson sagged and tugged in the gale. Once a lump of stone gave way between his fingers and vanished into space. Once his boots almost slipped from a ledge, but at last he found a resting-place.
The guide-book reported that the first belay had not enough stance to rely on and should be ignored. But there was an overhanging rock above his head to provide a hold and he slipped a line round it and clipped it to his rope with a carabina. Just a few seconds’ rest, he thought. Just a couple of minutes to get my breath back. He closed his eyes for a moment and then turned and looked out to sea. Nothing of interest except a boat, dipping and rolling on the swell five hundred yards away from the shore.
A Book of the Dead Page 10
