Ten Lords A-Leaping

by Ruth Dudley Edwards

  ‘Hold on,’ said Amiss. ‘Who were the suspects you were hinting darkly to me about the other week, Bertie, when you routed me out of the library for a drink?’

  Stormerod looked embarrassed. ‘Sorry, Robert. That turned out to be a bit of misinformation from a source I’d rather not mention who thought that old fool Gordon had a small militia that might be blowing up our side to discredit the bill. Turned out there was nothing in it. Should have told you.’

  ‘As I was saying,’ said the baroness impatiently, ‘antihunting is now out of the question unless they’ve totally lost their marbles, since to rub Bertie out at this juncture would set up such a wave of public sympathy that hunting would probably become compulsory. Am I right?’

  ‘Not if they’re mad,’ said Pooley.

  ‘We know they’re mad, but they’d have to be stupid. Keep it simple, young Ellis. Your trouble is that you’re a complicator. Focus for the moment on Bertie, and only on Bertie.’

  She gazed straight at Stormerod. ‘We’ve established, have we not, Bertie, that there are no wronged women in your life who would wish to secure a terrible vengeance? You’ve ravished no virgins. You are not noted in either Inverness or Buttermere for a propensity to exercise your right to droit du seigneur. And you haven’t cast any mistresses off like soiled gloves.

  ‘And since additionally for a politician you’re extraordinarily enemy-free, it must be down to loot—in which you are rolling. So we’ve got to look again at the likely-to-be-disinherited cousin.’ She waved at a passing waiter and commanded more champagne. ‘Nonsense,’ she said when Stormerod protested. ‘We have much to celebrate. We’re all alive.’

  She hushed him with a gesture. ‘Now, I accept that the cousin simply can’t have done it. His alibi’s solid and he’s not the type. But what about his son the engineer? He mightn’t be such a moral giant as his father. He might feel pretty bad about missing out on the chance to inherit such an extraordinary basket of goodies.’

  ‘Sorry, Jack.’ Pooley was smug. ‘I thought of that. I checked out his and even his sister’s alibis. They’ve been going to work every day throughout this carry-on.’

  ‘Hitmen,’ said the baroness, causing the approaching waiter to start. ‘No, no, I’m not talking about you, Walter. Yes, please. Top us up.’

  ‘No, for two reasons,’ said Pooley firmly. ‘He would need an enormous amount of money—which he hasn’t got—and he would put himself in a position to be blackmailed for the rest of his life.’

  ‘You’ve left something out.’ She sounded equally smug. ‘The brother.’

  ‘But Will wouldn’t inherit unless he knocked off both his own brother and his nephew in addition to Bertie.’

  ‘But think what he stood to gain indirectly from a generous brother, guilty about being the elder twin. And—if he was doing it in collusion with his nephew the heir—he would do even better.’

  ‘Jolly good, Jack,’ said Amiss. ‘This is a fine foray into Ellis’ usual territory.’

  She ignored him. ‘What do you know about the brother, Bertie?’

  Stormerod was looking uneasy. ‘Nothing much, to tell the truth. I’ve never had any reason to meet him, and I didn’t want to because he’s always been very thick with his mother and I’ve never been able to stick her.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Bit of a tartar.’ He looked embarrassed. ‘And greedy. It was after they married that Cousin George started writing for money, and it was all too obvious whose was the guiding hand.’

  ‘Do you actually know her?’

  ‘Only met her once—at her wedding to George when I was a kid. We all thought her the worst kind of stereotypical unpleasant Scot—hard, hatchet-faced, acquisitive. So I always avoided any invitations.’

  ‘And they never came to see you?’

  ‘My old father wouldn’t have them. Said it was bad enough having to disgorge money, but he was damned if he was going to put up with their company as well. When I took over and realized Amelia couldn’t have children, George was dead, and I felt I should get to know my heir, so I established this relationship with nice Fred. He came over a few times, but I never saw the other two.’

  ‘So what does the brother do?’

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘And the son. What do you know of him?’

  ‘Very little. Seemed pleasant enough—ambitious, hard-working. Can’t read murder into that, Jack.’

  Pooley looked serious. ‘I should check them out. But when we discover all these people are sitting safely in America, tending to their families, will you be satisfied?’

  ‘Probably not. I’ll think of something else. But this must be checked out. Now.’

  ‘I’ll have to have a word with Jim first.’

  ‘Nonsense. It’s Bertie I want to check it out. Bertie. Off you go and ring your cousin.’

  ‘How do you suggest I approach it? “Excuse me, Fred, but do you think Will might be trying to murder me?”’

  She shook her head testily. ‘My God, to think you’re supposed to be the most subtle brain in the Conservative Party. That fall must have addled your wits.’ She adopted a tone and pace suitable for a nervous and slow learner. ‘Ring up and say you want to be the first to tell him about this new murder attempt but that you think everything’s over now and the police have it all in hand. Still, a brush with death leaves one anxious to bond with one’s nearest and dearest, which is why you’re having a chat with him. And you’d like the phone numbers of his mother and brother whom you feel remorseful for having neglected over the years. Have you got that?’

  ‘I’ll feel ridiculous doing that. But, yes, if I must. I’ll ring him from home. His number’s there.’

  ‘Do it now. Ellis, scamper off and extract the number from directory enquiries.’

  ‘I’ve got it here in my Filofax.’

  ‘Excellent. Right, Bertie. Go for it. And remember, in the guise of solicitude, to extract the maximum amount of information from your cousin about his brother.’

  ‘Such as,’ said Amiss helpfully, ‘if he’s a well-known serial killer.’

  ‘Exactly. Poor old Bertie,’ she said, as Pooley shepherded him away to find a discreet telephone. ‘This’ll be real agony for him. It goes right against a gentleman’s grain to spy on his family. But needs must when the bullets fly, and he should take care of himself for the sake of that attractive piece of aristocratic crumpet he’s taking off with.’

  Pooley came back. ‘He’s got through. It’s a bit of luck it’s a holiday in the States, so Fred’s at home.’

  ‘It seems impolite to ask,’ said Amiss, ‘but while he’s out of the room, is it true the shot was deflected by his passport? And, if so, why was he carrying it?’

  ‘Quite true about the passport,’ said Pooley. ‘It’s not the first time that’s happened.’

  ‘Of course, it was the old passport,’ said the baroness. ‘That nasty new red plastic thing that we’ve been dished out since we joined the wretched European Union wouldn’t deflect a missile from a pea-shooter—another powerful argument against that frightful institution.’

  ‘I’ll say for you Jack,’ said Amiss, ‘that there is nothing, but nothing, that doesn’t fuel your prejudices.’

  She beamed.

  ‘But why was he carrying it?’

  ‘I didn’t like to ask that,’ said Pooley. ‘It wasn’t our business.’

  ‘I did,’ said the baroness.

  ‘Naturally. And?’

  ‘He’s going to get married to his beloved Georgiana…Now, this is a big secret and nobody’s to tell because he doesn’t want the press to know, so I’ll personally strangle both of you if it comes out.’

  ‘Yes, yes, get on with it,’ said Amiss.

  ‘The day after we finish our fox-hunting business, they are going to fly straight to Thailand for a honeymoon. He was bringing his passport down to London so he could pop into the Thai Embassy, fill in the forms, and leave it with them. He certainly has the luck of the Storme
rods—they were always known for it. Didn’t look like it when Amelia died, but it’s obviously picked up again.’

  ‘Unless,’ said Pooley, ‘it’s him who’s been behind the murders all the time which was why he was out of harm’s way at the right times.’

  ‘That’s a brilliant idea, Ellis,’ said the baroness. ‘Presumably he arranged for his own shooting as well in the full confidence the sniper would hit him exactly on target and the passport wouldn’t fail?’

  Pooley looked slightly crestfallen. ‘Sorry. I didn’t quite think that one through.’

  Stormerod appeared and walked slowly across the saloon. He sat down wearing the impassive expression so well known to his colleagues at party meetings.

  ‘Well?’ asked the baroness impatiently.

  He spoke slowly. ‘It appears that the object of your suspicions is not at present available for a reconciliatory chat since he and his mother are on a lengthy world tour.’

  ‘How lengthy?’

  ‘He’s been gone for five months.’

  ‘And where is he now?’

  ‘Somewhere in southeast Asia.’

  ‘Any proof?’

  ‘Just that they rang a couple of weeks ago and said they were in Singapore.’

  ‘With modern communications that means nothing. They could be in Dakota or they could be in London. What else?’

  ‘Fred doesn’t have much to do with Will.’

  ‘Because?’

  ‘Because—the term he used was “redneck”. He said he was sorry to say his brother was one of those redneck Republicans always bragging about his gun collection. He didn’t want him to get close to the children.’

  ‘Another bottle of champagne,’ said the baroness.

  ‘Easy on, Jack,’ said Stormerod. ‘It’s much too early to celebrate. Wait until we see if there’s any more to your hunch than this coincidence.’

  ‘Of course there is. It’s plain as the nose on your face.’

  Stormerod grinned. ‘Only you would be tactless enough to say that to me.’

  Pooley had jumped up and was impatiently moving from foot to foot. ‘I’ve got to go.’

  ‘Hold on, hold on. What are you planning to do?’

  ‘Well, start checking him out. Wire for photographs. Check passport controls. All that sort of thing.’

  ‘OK. Get cracking. Bertie, will you stay and have dinner here with me and Robert? We’ve got to work out how they got access to the Lords and who helped them. Now before you go, Ellis, have you forgotten Brother Francis’ research assistant?’

  Pooley made a face. ‘I had. And I shouldn’t have.’ He turned and ran.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  ‘He came to Britain. And unless he left illegally, he’s still here. But she didn’t.’

  ‘Odd,’ said Milton.

  ‘Maybe she’s providing cover by sending postcards from around the world.’

  ‘But his brother told me when I talked to him just now that they didn’t send any postcards. His mother said they preferred to talk to their dear ones in person on the phone and that they’d share photographs with them later.’ There was silence for a moment as they both thought intently. Then simultaneously Milton said, ‘Maiden name,’ and Pooley said, ‘British citizen.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. The duke said she was Scots. Maybe she never changed her citizenship.’

  ‘Wait.’ Milton pressed the redial button. ‘Chief Superintendent Milton again, I’m afraid. I’m very sorry, Mr Sholto, to have to trouble you once more, and I know I must be causing you distress, but I have to clear up all loose ends.’

  ‘You’ve got your job to do, sir. Just ask and I’ll try to help.’

  ‘May I have your mother’s maiden name, please?’

  ‘Hartley. Mary Agnes Hartley.’

  ‘And was she a British citizen?’

  ‘She was, sir. That is, she is. She always said she saw no reason to change.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Sholto. Goodbye. OK, Ellis. Mary Agnes Hartley or Mary Agnes Sholto. British citizen.’

  ***

  It was midnight. Amiss was sitting in an armchair in his flat trying to read, but hopelessly distracted by a hundred speculations and by the rasping purr of Plutarch who was happily ensconced on the rising and falling stomach of the snoring baroness. Not for the first time, he found himself resenting his friend’s ability to sleep whenever the opportunity presented itself. The bell rang at last, and he rushed to the door.

  ‘I thought you’d never come.’

  ‘It’s a miracle we did.’

  Both policemen collapsed on the sofa and Amiss kicked the baroness awake. With a final loud snort, she jerked into full consciousness.

  She sat up bolt upright, dislodging Plutarch, who growled menacingly, but then grudgingly resettled herself on the baroness’ lap. ‘Good evening, gentlemen. I was right, wasn’t I?’

  ‘Get me a Scotch for God’s sake,’ said Milton.

  ‘And me,’ said Pooley.

  ‘And me,’ said the baroness.

  ‘Plutarch?’ asked Amiss politely.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘Plutarch will pass. She’s had quite enough already.’

  While Amiss busied himself about his duties, Milton looked at the baroness. ‘Possibly.’

  ‘Oh, sir, I mean Jim. Probably.’

  ‘Well, to tell the truth,’ said Milton. ‘I’d be astounded if you’re not.’

  Her joyful beam so transfigured her whole face that the others followed suit. The baroness’ moods were contagious.

  ‘OK, spill the beans.’

  ‘The airlines and passport control yielded the information that they left Miami on the fifth of August. She was travelling with a British passport under her maiden name. They landed in London, and there’s no record of them having left.’ Milton observed Pooley wriggling impatiently. ‘All right, Ellis. You continue.’

  ‘She got a job in the House of Lords as a waitress.’

  ‘How? She’s pretty old, isn’t she?’

  ‘Very well-preserved, lied about her age, they’re not very well-paid jobs and she had excellent references.’

  ‘Didn’t they check them?’

  ‘They checked the most recent, which was from a William Sholto, who described himself as manager of a highly regarded Cotswolds hotel. They wrote to him there and asked for confirmation. He was a guest there at the time, the letter went to him, and he duly confirmed the reference.’

  ‘Supposing they’d telephoned?’

  ‘Still might have gone to him or the deception might have been found out, in which case they’d have had to think of some other method of infiltration.’

  ‘They’re quite smart, these people,’ said the baroness.

  ‘You haven’t heard the half of it,’ said Milton. ‘Next thing we know is that about four or five weeks after Mary Agnes Hartley—or Agnes as she’s known at work…’

  ‘Agnes!’ said Amiss and the baroness simultaneously.

  ‘Of course, you’d know her. I hope you didn’t like her.’

  ‘You’ve nothing to worry about there,’ said Amiss.

  ‘So Brother Francis finds himself visited by an American in his late forties called William Heston who claims to be doing research on the British constitution and asks if he can be his research assistant. He doesn’t want any money, he’s prepared to type and help a bit on clerical jobs, and he produces references from some Midwest university of which no one’s ever heard saying he’s a good egg, a worthy mature student who’ll be no trouble. Why not? thinks Brother Francis, especially since the guy declares himself to be a great fan and someone who—though coming from a hunting background—has been converted by Brother Francis’ eloquence to the cause of animal rights.’

  ‘And of course there’s nothing as attractive as a convert,’ said Amiss.

  ‘Precisely,’ said Milton. ‘So Heston/Sholto gets his pass, but rarely turns up in the Lords. He’s studying hard, he explains, and prefers to work from home�
�a service flat in Kensington. But as well as proving obliging and useful, he also begins to take religious instruction from Brother Francis, which involves attending the Masses he says in his home and occasionally his office.’

  ‘So,’ said Pooley, ‘of course Brother Francis invites him down to his Sanctuary, where he has a chance to observe Dolamore’s great meeting.’

  Amiss frowned. ‘But wasn’t he laying himself open to being too easily identified?’

  ‘Egomaniacs and lunatics rarely notice those around them,’ said Milton. ‘And besides, he was disguised. But we’ll come to that later.’

  ‘I don’t think I’d have the patience to be that kind of murderer,’ said the baroness reflectively. ‘I would have been inclined simply to take a pot shot at Bertie. The more you complicate, the more you’re likely to fuck up.’

  ‘Yes, but taking a pot shot at Bertie would have led to an absolute focus on the family. Anyway, this was Sholto’s view of things. So what he intended was to muddy the waters to the degree that the Loch Ness Monster could be buried for all time undetected. So, so far he had motive and means, but he was looking for the right opportunity.’

  ‘Why is Agnes still in her job? I don’t quite see her role in all of this.’

  ‘Nor do we quite yet, but presumably she was some kind of intelligence gatherer. Probably marked Brother Francis out in the first place as a likely stooge and got Sholto to do what he later did.’

  The baroness wrinkled her forehead. ‘Come again?’

  ‘Keep listening,’ said Pooley. ‘So then Sholto did his worst with the stun-gun, but the quarry escaped.’

  ‘Is this fact or hypothesis?’ asked Amiss.

  ‘A mixture,’ said Milton. ‘We know from Fred that he had told his mother about Bertie’s pacemaker operation. Otherwise, so far our main source is Brother Francis, who of course never suspected that his spiritually minded helper might have anything to do with this frightful happening until said helper tells him he wishes him to swap tabernacles.’

  ‘Aha,’ said the baroness. ‘The empty one goes out and the full one comes in.’

  ‘“Why?” asks Brother Francis. “Ask me no questions, and I’ll tell you no lies,” says Sholto. “Just something I want done.” Even Brother Francis smelled a rat at this juncture and said he didn’t like the sound of it and was having no part of it. “Oh, I think you will,” says Sholto, “or I’ll tell them about Friday and all the other days.”’