Murder Comes To Call: three Inspector Constable murder mysteries (The Inspector Constable Murder Mysteries Book 4)

by Roger Keevil

  Copper cleared his throat. “Only me, guv. It's a bit dark in here, isn't it? Do you want a bit more illumination?” He reached for the light switch.

  Constable opened his eyes and smiled slowly. “Do you know, sergeant, I really think that I have just about enough.”

  Copper recognised the expression on the inspector's face. “You're not talking about the light level at all, are you, sir? You've done that thinking-things-through thing of yours again, haven't you?”

  “I have.”

  “And I don't need to ask what you want next, do I, sir?”

  “Probably not, sergeant.” Constable got to his feet, and his manner became immediately brisker. “But let's go through it anyway. No time like the present, no place like here. I don't suppose Lady Ellpuss will object if, in her absence, we use her dining room.”

  “The locus in quo, sir, as you were no doubt about to say,” grinned Copper.

  “I can see that you are intending to drive me mad, quoting that against me at every opportunity,” replied the inspector with a smile. “But yes, exactly that. So, off you go – round up our group of party guests, and tell them I'd like a further word with each of them here in, say, thirty minutes. With a bit of luck, none of them will have gone far. Don't take no for an answer. And let them believe I want a one-to-one - don't let on to them that everyone's invited to the party. We'll keep that as a little surprise for when they arrive. Off you go.”

  Without another word, Copper headed off on his mission.

  *

  Andy Constable entered the dining room, to find a group of people seated in silence around the dining table, under the watchful eye of Dave Copper. Six faces viewed him with varying degrees of puzzlement and apprehension.

  “I still don't see, inspector, why you have called us here in this fashion.” Professor Plump seemed to have elected himself spokesman for the group. “Your sergeant asks me if I can spare a moment to speak to you, but gives no clear reason as to why. Then when I arrive here, I discover that you have summoned all these other people as well, and again your sergeant declines to provide any explanation of what is going on. Why all this secrecy?”

  “Secrecy,” mused Constable. “Do you know, professor, that is an excellent choice of words. In fact, secrecy is at the heart of this whole matter. Because each of the people seated around this table has a secret which, if exposed in a sensationalist Sunday newspaper, could ruin their reputation, or worse. They may have hoped to conceal these secrets, but some secrets are not to be hidden so easily.”

  The level of unease around the table increased palpably, and sidelong glances were exchanged.

  “And since the professor chose to speak up,” continued the inspector, “why don't I begin with him? The position he holds is a very lofty one – he is a thoroughly respected academic in a thoroughly respected institution. But there is such a concept as too much of a good thing, and that highly impressive and highly colourful array of certificates displayed on his wall made me wonder just a little. That, put together with a letter which came accidentally into our possession, from an overseas college of which I personally have never heard, couched in rather oblique terms on the subject of qualifications, made me wonder a little more. And I have no evidence at all for my supposition, but what if Mr. Plump's career were based on the fact that his first dubious qualification was not earned, but purchased from an extremely dubious foreign establishment? What would be wrong with a good old-fashioned British degree? Or perhaps the alleged professor does not have one. Could he not succeed in getting a degree in the U.K.? Why might somebody fail their exams? Incompetence? Cheating?”

  Edwin Plump had grown steadily redder in the face as Constable had proceeded. Now he rose to his feet, quivering with emotion. “Inspector, this is insupportable. You do not have the slightest justification for these ludicrous assertions.”

  “Not at the moment, sir. You're absolutely right. Everything I have said is the wildest speculation. How fortunate then that my sergeant here enjoys nothing more than conducting a little research on the internet. And when we return to the station, I have no doubt that some further investigation will reveal the truth. I imagine you'll be quite happy with that arrangement, sir?” Constable held Plump's eyes steadily, as the latter slowly subsided into his seat.

  The inspector turned to the woman seated alongside Edwin Plump. He smiled in a friendly fashion. “Do you know, when I first heard the name Scarlatti, I couldn't place it. I knew it rang a bell, but it was too far in the back of my mind, and certainly nothing to do with this university. Obviously just a coincidence, I thought. Then suddenly, a little earlier, as I was sitting quietly, something clicked. I'm sure you all have instances where you are trying desperately to remember something, and then, when you're thinking about something entirely different, it comes to you unbidden. And this afternoon, for no absolutely no reason, I suddenly remembered a case which was in the headlines when I had only just joined the C.I.D., younger even than Sergeant Copper here.

  “I think, Miss Scarlatti, that it was the fact that in our conversations, you so often referred to your family. The word was obviously circulating in my brain. And, all unexpectedly, the thought popped up, what if she is spelling that with a capital F? What if she is related to the infamous Don Luigi Scarlatti, the head of one of the most notorious crime families in Sicily, who was eventually captured and imprisoned some years ago? The case became extremely celebrated, particularly because there was considerable mystery over who had assumed control of his organisation. So again, I speculate without a single shred of evidence, but remembering Miss Scarlatti's remark that her nephews usually do what she suggests, I simply wondered if perhaps the lady might be the heir, perhaps the granddaughter, of the notorious don. And if that were so, and the facts somehow became known to Lord Ellpuss, the news story which that would fuel might have had spectacular benefits to his newspaper's circulation.”

  Miss Scarlatti displayed not a flicker of emotion. “I really think, inspector, that you should be very careful what you say,” she said calmly. “My family has access to some extremely talented lawyers.”

  Constable declined to be intimidated. “I'm sure they have, Miss Scarlatti. In fact, I should be highly surprised if they hadn't. So perhaps I should have prefixed my remarks with an all-embracing 'allegedly'.” His voice hardened. “But the sort of activities such organisations specialise in are often best conducted in the dark, and we in the police have some very powerful spotlights. Which we may well now employ. Just a piece of friendly advice, you understand.”

  The Reverend Grey was beginning to squirm with discomfort, even before the inspector's attention fell on him. “I really hope this isn't going to take very much longer, Mr. Constable. My time is not unlimited, you know, and I do have services to prepare for.”

  “I have no doubt that you do, Reverend,” replied Constable. “And in fact, the services which you conduct in your chapel would, I am sure, have been of great interest to Lord Ellpuss. We have heard from Evan Ellpuss of hints of some kind of revelation regarding the college chapel, and you yourself have told us of your fondness for unconventional medieval practices. So I think we have a number of very interesting jigsaw pieces which, when put together, provide a fascinating picture. And speaking of pictures, all in the context of an extremely graphic fresco of the last judgement of sinners, we have the black candles by the altar in your crypt – the fact that some of your friends keep a goat, the mention of which caused Lord Ellpuss considerable mirth – His Lordship's reference to 'the naked truth' – and an advertisement which my charmingly innocent sergeant here took to refer to a forthcoming performance by rock band Black Sabbath, lead singer Ozzy Osbourne. I don't believe that particular group will be appearing in your chapel any time soon, Reverend – but I have a strong suspicion that you and your acolytes might well be enjoying the celebration of your own Black Sabbath.”

  The chaplain clutched at the chain around his neck as if seeking reassurance. “There's not a wo
rd of truth in it,” he protested. “My friends and I, we were simply dabbling in historical theory – it's harmless research into medieval popular belief, that's all – surely you couldn't think that I ...” His voice died away under the astonished gaze of all those seated around the table.

  “Ah, but it's not what I think that matters, is it, Reverend?” explained Constable. “It's what Lord Ellpuss believed. And with a journalist skilled in innuendo, the sort which thrives on the staff of the 'Splash', putting the above elements together, it is clear that here is a front page story beyond the wildest dreams of most newspaper proprietors. The scandal would have been immense. You might even have ended up being unfrocked – that is to hope that there is not even more to discover, and to assume that you were actually frocked in the first place.”

  Andy Constable took a deep breath, and moved on to the individual sitting across the table from the chaplain. “And so we come on to you, sir. Colonel Lewis Muskett, D.F.C., Retired. A pillar of the community, and a man with a military anecdote for every occasion. Oh dear, oh dear, sir. You weren't very good at this, were you? Because although Lord Ellpuss may have been initially deceived by your self-generated reputation locally, his wife with her family military connections was not, and I imagine she would have been happy to point out the truth to her husband. And it's not as if you didn't make it easy for her. Even the most amateur impostor ought to know that army colonels do not normally get decorated with the D.F.C. - the Distinguished Flying Cross. So perhaps you should have stuck to peeling spuds at Aldershot.”

  Muskett seemed about to protest but, crimson with embarrassment, instead subsided in his seat, eyes flicking from side to side, harrumphing ineffectually and muttering under his breath.

  “Mrs. Wright.” Constable looked at the glamorous woman seated alongside Muskett, her head held high, her eyes sparkling, a coat with a deep white fur collar thrown back from around her shoulders. He smiled broadly. “Lady Mayoress, I suppose I should say. Mrs. Wright, I have to say, speaking in a strictly personal capacity, I like you very much.” The inspector was conscious of a barrage of curious stares from around the table. “And I get the impression that so did Lord Ellpuss.”

  “He was a sweet old boy,” agreed Mrs Wright. “And I've never been afraid of gossip. Goodness knows, there was enough of it when my two husbands died suddenly, but they held a post-mortem on both of them, thank goodness, and both of them were proved to be natural. That should have been enough to silence the wagging tongues, but you know how unpleasant some people can be.” She cast an accusing look at her companions. “But people can say what they like – I plan on carrying on in my own sweet way.”

  “I wish every suspect in every case I have to investigate were like you.” Constable could not prevent himself chuckling. “And the reason for that is that, although I spoke earlier of secrets, you are a woman whose secret is that you do not appear to care whether you have any secrets at all. Your life is an open book – in fact, if I might suggest, if you were to turn it into a book, you could very possibly end up with a best-seller. Perhaps entitled 'Fifty …' - well, I'll leave the choice of title to you. And as you told us, Lord Ellpuss knew all about your history, and was highly amused by it. In fact, if the possibility of becoming an author doesn't appeal to you, a woman with as many men in her past as you seem to have had would probably stand more chance of getting her own television talk show series than being shamed in the Sunday papers. The loss of a powerful friend like Lord Ellpuss has dimmed rather than improved your prospects.”

  Mrs. Wright shrugged philosophically. “A girl can always make her way, Mr. Constable,” she twinkled roguishly. “Watch this space.”

  “Which brings us to our final person, Mrs. Pocock,” said the inspector. “Ostensibly one of the most responsible here, since she is charged with handling considerable amounts of money as Financial Secretary to the Trust. An honorary position, she helpfully informed us – one which carries no salary. Here again, we had to assemble a jigsaw puzzle of various small pieces of information. There was a snippet of overheard conversation which seemed to relate to horse-racing. That went hand-in-hand with the fortunate discovery of a discarded losing betting slip for a very large stake – an anonymous slip, it is true, but the holder of account 'EP108' was not hard to guess, and could be easily verified with the firm of bookmakers concerned. And with no income to finance the losses of what is evidently a significant gambling habit, what better way to fund the activity than a constant supply of cheques made out to Camford Academy Strategic Holdings – or, as it is so often referred to, C.A.S.H.?”

  Mrs. Pocock looked haughtily at Andy Constable. “Well, inspector, you seem to have made a very successful job of intruding into the private life of each of us. I'm sure that all of us are appropriately embarrassed. But I cannot see that all of this has brought you any closer to identifying whoever was responsible for Lord Ellpuss's murder.”

  “Oh, I think I know that very clearly,” responded the inspector. “And I'm sorry to have to say that the person who was the means of the death of His Lordship was in fact you, Reverend Grey.”

  “Me?” The chaplain goggled with incredulity. “Inspector, you don't know what you're saying. As if I could possibly have killed Lord Ellpuss … I'm a man of peace … I could never ...”

  “Relax, sir.” Constable cut short Reverend Grey's expostulations. “I am not accusing you of being a murderer. But I do say that you provided the means whereby His Lordship was poisoned. That little bottle which we found in your crypt when we went visiting, the week-killer labelled 'Grey's Eliminator', is my short-priced favourite as the culprit. Our lab will soon confirm my guess. But did you administer it? No, I don't think so.

  “Granted, you and the others here all had a secret and, as Mrs. Pocock pointed out, each of you could be considerably embarrassed, with careers or reputations put in jeopardy. But for one of you, the risk was more immediate – prison. Because that is where a person convicted for fraud will usually end up. And as Mrs. Pocock is only too well aware, she has perpetrated a monumental fraud, and was on the brink of discovery. Clearly, by some means or another, Lord Ellpuss had stumbled on the truth. We can only speculate how – perhaps a conversation with one of his many wealthy contacts concerning a donation which had somehow never reached its intended destination. But for whatever reason, Lord Ellpuss had demanded that an account of the Trust's funds be made available for the meeting, and Mrs. Pocock was simply unable to provide this. Perhaps she managed to stave off the reckoning at the meeting by some sort of obfuscation as a delaying tactic, but this was only temporary. Judging by Lord Ellpuss's words after the meeting, the story was about to reach the media, and therefore the police. She was doomed, and she had to act quickly after His Lordship started to drop ever-broader hints at the party.

  “We are told that everybody knew about the Reverend Grey's little scientific experiments in the chapel crypt. He was obviously proud of his weed-killer – he was perfectly happy to tell us about it. I imagine that Mrs. Pocock was also aware of it, and believed that it might provide a solution to her problem. We know that at some point she slipped out of the party, since she was seen in the vicinity of the chapel by the college gatekeeper. I'm guessing that she made her way to the crypt and quickly helped herself to some of the week-killer, which she poured into the smallest of the various ornamental glass bottles to hand. Concealing this about her person, she returned to the party and added the poison to her own glass of sherry. She then entered into conversation with Lord Ellpuss and, with a sudden clumsy gesture, contrived to spill His Lordship's drink so that she could replace it with her own glass containing the poisoned draught. That was the point at which everyone else in the room was witness to a murder.” A muted collective gasp greeted his words. “And then all Mrs. Pocock could do was wait, and hope that her plan would work. And tragically, it did.”

  In the ensuing hush, all eyes fell on Elizabeth Pocock. “I was so sick of people looking down on me,” she said quietly,
almost reflectively. “Particularly Lord Ellpuss, and that viperish wife of his. He was quite content to use my abilities with figures, but she never liked me, and she never took the trouble to conceal the fact. And when my husband died, I was left very badly off – his pension died with him, and I would have lost my house, my position, everything. I hoped I could make my way by gambling – that was the start. But of course, only a fool relies on beating the odds – I should have known that from my previous job - but I was a fool. I and my money were soon parted. I was drawn steadily deeper. So I thought, those people with everything won't miss a little of so much, and with my easy access to the C.A.S.H. funds, the temptation was simply too great. And then when I was faced with discovery and utter humiliation ...” She took a deep breath and turned to Constable. “Oh, inspector, I'm sure all this isn't necessary. Can't we just get it over with?”

  Constable took a decision and addressed the group seated at the table. “Ladies and gentlemen, I don't think that I need to keep any of you any longer. I'm sure that you all have some thinking to do, and perhaps in some cases some phone calls to make or letters to write. You are all free to leave.” He held the door open in an unmistakeable indication of dismissal, and those present rose uncertainly and, each seeking to avoid the gaze of the others, sidled from the room The front door closed behind them. In the silence which followed, Constable nodded to Sergeant Copper.

  “Elizabeth Pocock, I am arresting you on suspicion of the murder of Lord Ellpuss.” While the sergeant recited the customary formula, the inspector watched through the window at the dispersal of the departing group, observing that fresh heavy snow was falling on the quadrangle outside and beginning to blot out many of the traces of the day's activities.

  As Copper completed the formalities, the front door was heard to open again, accompanied by a ringing cry of “Eileen, I'm back. Tea, please, I think,” and Lady Ellpuss appeared in the dining room doorway.