Death in Leamington

by David Smith

  *

  Suddenly there was a shout and a whelp and a bark and a splash. Carrie spotted the diving board in the reed banks.

  ‘Look, a real bathing machine.’ she shouted. ‘We must be close!’

  They rounded the corner and spotted a man and a dog in the river, paddling furiously toward the bank.

  ‘It’s Jack and Dan,’ shouted Eddie laughing at the spectacle.

  ‘Mummy, why is Uncle Jack swimming without any costume on?’

  ‘Don’t look, Carrie,’ said Alice, realising that he really was naked. She covered Carrie’s eyes with her hands. ‘Brrr, it must be freezing, silly man.’

  Jack pulled himself onto the riverbank, trying desperately to reach his clothing before the ladies looked round again. Dan was pulling at his trousers with his teeth, making it more difficult for him to get dressed, so that he fell into the rushes with a roar.

  ‘Have you seen a Snark?’ called Carrie from the boat, almost splitting her sides with laughter at Mad Jack’s antics and the sight of his bare bottom in the reeds.

  ‘Not as far as I can tell,’ he replied reluctantly.

  She will carry your life like your mother

  Before, hope filled in her tender eyes.

  She will hold you again and again her

  Very holding extinguishing your cries.

  Her fingers will stroke you with breathless sighs,

  Shaping the cliffs and caverns of your heart.

  While you love and worship her, fall and rise

  The timid delicate and straightened signs

  That dare to curve and dive, fluid innocent lines.

  *

  Back in the office, I was showing Hunter the various coded messages I had received that morning. I was somewhat annoyed that he’d been to see Julia by himself.

  ‘You’re right, it’s a code of some sort,’ said Hunter decisively when he showed up just before eleven. No kidding, Sherlock I thought. ‘Probably just a simple substitution code, it shouldn’t be too difficult to crack, but there’s not enough material here for a decent frequency analysis, we need something longer or a key to decode it,’ he added.

  ‘My cousin works at Codehunters in Banbury, he’s been working on their Hobbits of the Shire online game. I wondered if he could help. He’s into all that sort of stuff, elf language and things. I hope you don’t mind, Sir?’

  ‘Go on,’ he said, cautiously.

  ‘He thinks the flags might denote the end of each word, but like you he said he can’t get to specific letters from the amount of material we have.’

  ‘Well it’s strictly against procedure, but nevertheless quite a good idea,’ said Hunter. ‘Who is this Troyte that the emails came from anyway? Is he the friend of Nariman from the station by any chance?’ Damn, I realised that I had still overlooked assigning one of the team to track him down, despite Hunter’s exhortations yesterday.

  ‘Sorry Sir, I still haven’t had the chance to follow up on that one yet, but yes it could be. He lives in Michigan according to his email address. Isn’t Pearl Taylor from there too?’

  ‘Troyte, Detroit, De-Troyte, I wonder,’ he said, the cogs in his brain almost visibly whirring. ‘We’d better find him as quickly as we can,’ he added.

  *

  After making some basic enquiries I found out that there was no one called Troyte staying in any of the local hotels, but that there was a Mr Troyte who was scheduled to speak that day at an architect’s symposium at the Compton Verney gallery. I contacted them immediately and they gave me some more details. The man was already there and was about to start his lecture. Given Hunter’s instructions, I considered asking one of the local rural PCs to go along to see if there is anything unusual to report, but decided against it. Sitting through a talk on architecture probably wouldn’t go down very well with the local uniformed lads. Instead I gave strict instructions to the gallery receptionist to let me know as soon as he had finished his talk so that I could speak with him on the phone, a decision I would later bitterly regret.

  *

  In the gallery’s imposing Adam Hall, Arthur Troyte stood up to make his presentation to the assembled US-UK architects’ convention. He was conscious that the attention of the whole room was upon him. He was not used to such events, and had only accepted the invitation at the insistence of his old friend. The venue had slightly overawed him, a beautiful eighteenth century Georgian mansion set in Capability Brown parkland, deep in the Warwickshire countryside. It had been the home first of the Verney and then the Willoughby de Broke family for almost 500 years but had fallen into ruin during the last century. It had recently been transformed from a derelict mansion into a gallery of international standing. He had still not heard any news from his friend and half-expected to see him when he arrived at the venue. Without his support, this lecture seemed like a big mistake.

  Troyte was feeling more and more troubled by the soreness he felt below his groin and hoped he had not caught a dose of anything, given his total memory loss from the day before. He wondered if he should have cancelled the talk altogether, but the organisers had sent round a car to collect him and he had scrambled to get ready in time when the driver rang the doorbell that morning. The driver told him about the terrible murder the day before, that spurred all the police activity Troyte had heard, but of course without a name he had not made the connection to his friend.

  He took a deep breath and clicked the button to bring up the first slide of his PowerPoint presentation. His chosen theme was the architecture of Eliel and Eero Saarinen and their influence on city planning in the Midwest – the first couple of slides seemed to go fine and he felt himself relaxing into the task, even beginning to enjoy himself a little, with a little joke or two. The bit where he began to explain how as a young student he had persuaded the great Eero Saarinen to reinstate Jorn Utzon’s designs for the Sydney Opera House was probably a little bit of a stretch.

  ‘You must remember they did not know him as I did,’ he said, but why not boast – as Barnum (never) said, ‘There’s a sucker born every minute’.

  He became a little more concerned however, when the polite mirth at his little jokes began to turn first into an awkward silence, followed by ominous mumblings. By the end of his sixth slide, ripples of laughter moved throughout the crowded room. Arthur put down his paper notes and reading glasses and turned to look at the projector screen. Instead of his carefully prepared slides, the screen was now full of several near-naked dancing girls, performing what could only be described as physically challenging activities on the screen behind him. In addition, the carefully worked words of his script were spinning and reforming randomly into a whole series of increasingly profane words. At the bottom of the screen, large plump ‘stick men’ in the shape of red letter ‘A’s, were bouncing up and down, some waving flags while they danced. This was followed by slides showing two middle-aged men photographed in increasingly compromising positions. As Troyte recognised his image on the screen his heart began to race and his mind searched for some logical explanation for the inexplicable images before him. The terrifying effect on Troyte was so absolute that his face lost all colour and he began to feel the onset of pains in his chest, collapsing on the floor, gasping for breath.

  The beautiful late-registered Afro-American ‘architecture student’, a certain Miss D Troyte, ‘a distant relation’, who sat in the back row of his audience, was enjoying herself immensely. She slipped out at the end and returned to Leamington in the car that had been waiting for Mr Troyte, making some excuse that he had asked her to go ahead and would make his own way later.

  But all those pleasaunt bowers and palace brave

  Guyon brake down with rigour pitilesse.

  Spenser, The Faerie Queene

  *

  There were four players on the two tennis courts where Hugh and Bas were warming up. They had decamped from their normal Sunday real tennis game because of the ladies’ tournament and switched to play the modern game on the public courts.
These courts were situated close to where lawn tennis was first played in the Manor House Hotel down the road. On the court next to them, two older gentlemen were playing a brisk and competitive game of singles. Hugh recognised Sir William Flyte and his near neighbour Richard Baxter – virtual brothers-in-law on account of Baxter’s long-term relationship with Sir William’s cousin Dottie. As they came to the net to spin for first serve, Bas pointed to the next court.

  ‘Isn’t that Claudia’s brother on the court next door with Sir William?’ asked Bas.

  Hugh nodded. ‘Yes, and I’m amazed that Sir William’s here playing tennis given yesterday’s events.’

  ‘Indeed, amazed but not surprised. He’s a cool customer. Anyway, talking about cool, how did you get on with the ice maiden after you left the restaurant last night?

  ‘You really do have a one-track mind, don’t you? OK thanks but she is certainly hard work. Psychology and sculpture are a bit out of my league.’

  ‘What a waste with a body like that.’

  ‘It’s not all bad; she’s into sport as well.’

  ‘So are you seeing her again?’

  ‘She did say she wants to meet up again but I wasn’t convinced. I thought I might challenge her to a game of squash as she said she plays regularly.’

  ‘She’s certainly fit; if she’d warm up a little, she’d be perfect for you,’ he joked. ‘Sounds like you’d better do a bit of sculpture research though as well.’

  Hugh smiled, he had been thinking about her all morning. During the next game he heard his mobile beep – unexpectedly it was a text from Claudia. He had sent a message earlier but was somewhat surprised that she had replied so quickly, and even more surprised that she had suggested he come over to the gallery where she worked that very afternoon. Her text mentioned she was preparing an upcoming exhibition there and could do with some male help.

  ‘Blimey, I think I’ve got a date,’ he said to Bas, showing him the phone.

  ‘Maybe but make sure you go prepared if she’s that keen,’ said Bas, ‘you know what these artists are like.’ Hugh screwed up his face at the comment.

  ‘Anyway, you’ve been unusally quiet about your own evening. How did you get on with Miss Taylor last night?’

  ‘Glad you asked. My, we had one hell of a hot party. After I got her on her own, she was all over me. Strange thing is I can only remember the half of it. I must have had more to drink than I thought. You know I’m normally a one-night stand sort of guy, but this time I can’t wait to see her again. I think I’ll call her hotel later and see if she’s up for a second round.’

  During the succeeding points, Bas related the sordid details to Hugh in a staccato narrative, embellishing wherever his memory was strangely dimmed. For a big man, Hugh was very nimble around the courts, and with Bas strangely unable to move quickly himself, Hugh was soon serving for match point. His serve was returned by a wild volley from Bas that went soaring over the fence into the next court. Hugh opened the gate between the courts to ask the two older men if they could return the ball. As he collected it and closed the door, his interest was tweaked by the subject of their conversation.

  ‘You know that rogue Rohit that used to work for Nadia’s grandfather?’ Baxter was saying.

  ‘Only too well, he’s been bothering Nadia with texts for some time,’ replied Sir William.

  ‘Well, he’s one of my regular literature students. But on top of all the stuff going on in the street yesterday, he only went and half-inched one of my pistols. I’ve had to report it to the police: apparently he’s gone missing now as well.’

  ‘I’ve never trusted him so I’m not in the least surprised. That type is basically unreliable. That’s the kind of thanks you get for teaching him to write in your spare time.’

  So that’s what Hunter was on about, he thought.

  As Hugh and Bas played out the second set, the two older men left the courts and were replaced ten minutes later by Delia and Julia. Bas suggested they abandon their singles game, which he was, in any case, losing badly and instead play a game of mixed doubles together. He partnered with Julia, while Hugh played with Delia.

  ‘Watch out,’ whispered Delia to Hugh, ‘Julia never misses a backhand with that enchanted lance of hers; the secret is to return on her forehand.’

  The first set went to service until they reached the tie-break. The points then followed serve again until Hugh smashed another loose lob return from Bas, a backhand right down the baseline onto Julia’s forehand. Her hurried return landed out and so Hugh and Delia won the set. Bas indicated he’d had enough. Delia hugged Hugh, while Julia took off her tennis cap and came to the net to shake his hand. The sweat was pouring off his face and she wiped his brow with her hand towel. Hugh realised again how pretty she was, the filaments of her golden curls forming a halo around her face against the bright September sunlight. He had seemingly not made any impression on her the previous night. Maybe he should have tried harder to make it work all those years ago when he had the chance. Remarkably, he had a sense that she was thinking exactly the same. Now he realised he really had a dilemma, in thrall to two beautiful women in one weekend.

  *

  After they got back from Snark hunting, Alice found a message on the answering machine. She had been called back to the hospital to help with an autopsy on the actress from the nursing home across the road. There were now suspicions about how she had come to be found dead in the bath last night and whether she did take an overdose or if she could have been drugged. She had been asked to go back in to the hospital to help out with the toxicology analysis.

  *

  Back in the police station, we did not have to wait too much longer for the next message to arrive on my computer. At about 1pm, I called Hunter over from his office to look at my screen.

  ‘Sir, take a look at this.’

  ‘Good, now that’s getting much more interesting. It’s a lot longer and might be enough to start a frequency analysis, but it would still be much quicker if we could find the key to read it.’ He rubbed his hand over his brow, as if trying to come up with a key for the code with his own intellect and concentration.

  ‘Sir, have you seen the message header? The wording is very strange: “WSW. Don’t take clues from Toposcope hounds, blessings and Glory to God!”’

  ‘Toposcope hounds?’ He paused thoughtfully. ‘My God, I hope this isn’t all about Miss Taylor playing some elaborate practical joke on us. Don’t you remember the words of that song she sang for me last night, the phrase that she drew your attention to?’

  ‘Not really sir.’

  ‘Well I remember it clearly as it’s one of my favourites from her last album; it includes the phrase ‘Horoscope Hounds’. ‘Toposcope Hounds’ is so close it’s got to be connected to what these messages mean. Get on to the hotel; we need to interview her as soon as possible.’

  I called straightaway and spoke briefly to the receptionist before turning back to Hunter.

  ‘Sir, she’s not in, they think she’ll be out until late afternoon. Is she a suspect now?’

  ‘I don’t know, that’s a bit strong but get a message out to the patrols to pick her up and ask her to come into the station if they see her, it can’t be that difficult to find a woman like that in Leamington. The more I think about it the more I think we need to take this seriously.’

  ‘But why would a suspect deliberately give us a clue like that?’ I asked and he pondered on this question for a minute.

  ‘Do you know, you’re right, Penny, but then again she may be trying to tell us something. Do you possess walking boots?’

  ‘No, but I have some wellies in my locker, Sir.’

  ‘Well fetch them and meet me in the car park, we’re going for a quick hike up to the Beacon on Newbold Comyn.’ I raised my eyebrows in puzzlement, but seeing how fixed his expression was did not question his instructions.

  *

  ‘Here we are,’ he said as we reached the top of the hill. He rested his hands on t
he newly installed plinth with its perspex cover protecting a metal plaque against the elements. ‘This plate is a representation of all the views that can be seen from the beacon,’ he said. ‘It’s a replica of an original, which was stolen and recently discovered in a car boot sale.’

  ‘But why are we here, what’s this got to do with the murders? I can only see a few hills in the distance.’

  ‘A hunch maybe,’ he said. ‘Look, read this,’ he added, pointing out the inscription affixed to the plinth.

  ‘This Toposcope is after the design of an original by Arthur Troyte Griffith, an architect from Malvern and a close friend of Edward Elgar,’ I read. ‘Arthur Troyte, isn’t that a bit of a coincidence?’ I asked

  ‘It’s a very big one. The original Arthur Troyte Griffith was indeed a close friend of Elgar’s – in fact he was variation number seven I think. His nickname was Ninepin.’

  ‘So is that why we’re here, a British architect with the same name as the American architect?’

  ‘Not intentionally, but it’s certainly adding to the puzzle. No, we’ve come here to search for the key to your code, Penny. Can you read the inscription for me?’ He was looking up at the sky as if waiting for inspiration. I found the words a little hard to read through the condensation under the perspex, but eventually made out most of the letters and filled in the gaps.

  ‘The Earth is the Lord’s and the fullness thereof,’ I read.

  ‘Ah yes of course, that’s Psalm 24, King James Version I believe – the first part of our key perhaps – I believe it continues something like ‘the world and they that dwell therein’ doesn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, it does, Sir. So do I just match the flag men up with the letters in the inscription?’

  ‘Hopefully it might be as simple as that.’

  After a few minutes transcribing the inscription onto my notepad, I had matched up the letters from the Psalm on the Toposcope in order to the symbols of the dancing men on the longer message.

  ‘There are far more symbols than letters in the quotation from the Psalm.’