Murder in Advent

by David Williams

  ‘And he threw in a fistful of fivers for good measure,’ Rory piped up raucously after catching every word. ‘So what does Commander Bliter owe you all of a sudden? Offering Pounder’s job before the guy’s cold. Is it bribery and corruption that’s involved? Are you covering up something for the man?’

  ‘You’re not, are you, Patrick?’ asked Bridget with a convincing show of no confidence.

  ‘Towel, Percy. Pass me my towel,’ commanded Jennifer Bliter from the bath. ‘Why we always find ourselves together in this stupid little bathroom I’ll never know.’

  Bliter provided the towel and pulled up his sagging pyjama trousers. He continued cleaning his teeth, which absolved him from giving the obvious or any answer to her question.

  Jennifer spent a good deal of time in the bathroom. Most particularly she spent the last half-hour of her waking day in the bath itself, nursing the gin and tonic which, with the warmth of the water, she was utterly convinced enabled her to sleep without the help of pills. And she was very probably right since the drink was invariably a very stiff one.

  So unless he got to his own nightly ablutions ahead of his wife Bliter was obliged to join her in the bathroom or wait for up to thirty minutes. Tonight she had taken to the water just before he came home at eleven-thirty.

  It was quite a small bathroom – like the house, which was nearly a replica of the one next door occupied by Dr Welt.

  ‘Margaret Hitt has three bathrooms in the Deanery.’ Jennifer wiped the moisture from her face, then settled in the water again.

  ‘Plumbing there’s pretty Balkan, though. Rather be here. These fittings are barely ten years old.’ He answered almost automatically. He was used to heading off her comparisons with other people’s allegedly superior living conditions, especially Mrs Hitt’s. Jennifer considered herself to be on the same social and intellectual level as the Dean’s wife – a palpably inaccurate conception, at least in the second context, but one which she had persisted with ever since the Bliters had come to Litchester.

  ‘I watched the TV news. On three channels. You weren’t on.’ The statement came as an admonition. She adjusted her shower cap and picked up her glass from the chromium bathrack.

  ‘There was only BBC. They had a broadcast unit in the area. The woman said they’d probably run my interview at breakfast time.’ He wiped the condensation off the washbasin mirror so that he could see to brush his hair, some of which he was training to grow in a new direction.

  ‘Miles Nutkin was on. With the architect.’

  ‘That was earlier. I was busy.’ Curious: she’d quickly lost interest in the damage, the death, the trouble he might have been in.

  Jennifer pulled out the plug and stood up in the bath. With her husband present there was hardly room to stand anywhere else.

  He snatched a glance at her in the mirror. She had worn well, though she had always been thin rather than slim. Physically she was still passable, at the right angle. Not that they much went in for a physical relationship any more. He brushed his hair a bit harder, while considering the depth of the physical relationship he might have been enjoying with Cindy Larks.

  He had literally bumped into Cindy as he had turned into the cloister minutes earlier. It was always embarrassing for him to meet her alone – ever since the time at that crowded party. He had made a mild pass at her then, and got a frighteningly positive response. The temptation to follow up this success had been strong – nearly irresistible. He had resisted all the same. Was it his marriage that stopped him, or her age, or the fact he had guessed what was going on between Cindy and that swine Welt? In fact it was none of those things. Bliter actually preferred fantasy to reality: he wallowed in fantasy.

  There was no possible doubt Cindy found him attractive. She made it obvious – every time he saw her, even fleetingly like tonight. He savoured again the questioning look. There had been no censure in it, only warmth – and a special promise in her eyes.

  ‘It’ll all come out, of course.’

  He started guiltily from his reverie. ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘I sometimes think you’ve gone deaf.’ She pulled off the shower cap and fluffed up her shortish black hair, then stepped out of the bath. ‘The paraffin heater. Aren’t they bound to believe it caused the fire?’ She opened the door and crossed the landing to their bedroom.

  He followed, fantasy firmly dismissed. ‘They believe it already. Suppose it’ll have to be reported formally.’

  ‘And the old fool had it there against regulations?’ The admiral’s daughter was strong on regulations. She dropped a white nylon nightdress over her head. ‘And nobody knew it was there?’

  ‘People might have done,’ he offered carefully. ‘But not consciously.’

  ‘Didn’t it smell?’

  ‘Not from below in the nave.’

  ‘What about anyone else going into the Old Library when it was on? They’d have known.’

  ‘Nobody did go in. Probably not since the time he’d started feeling the cold. Would have been about a week, I’d think.’

  ‘Not anybody? You mean he opened up the place for nothing?’

  ‘In the winter, yes. There aren’t any visitors after evensong. He did it for self-gratification. Made him feel needed.’

  Jennifer got into one of the twin beds. ‘You could still get away with it, then?’

  ‘What d’you mean?’ He stopped in the middle of putting on his pyjama jacket.

  ‘Well, it’s obviously your responsibility to see cathedral employees don’t do stupid things. Difficult to stop what they do in secret, I suppose.’

  ‘Not my direct responsibility, either. In a line way. Not my responsibility at all.’

  ‘There’s a chain of command over that kind of thing?’

  ‘Certainly. If a verger’s doing something wrong it’s up to Duggan, the chief verger, to stop him.’

  ‘That drunk? No one respects him.’

  ‘He knew nothing about the heater.’ Bliter ignored the last comment. ‘He’ll swear to it. So will the other three vergers,’ he added with conviction.

  Chapter Seven

  Treasure liked to breakfast well in a hotel. And he preferred going down for it in the restaurant. That way the coffee and toast were usually hotter and there was a bigger choice of everything.

  At the Red Dragon the meal was a help-yourself affair. Silver serving dishes of hot foods were displayed on a buffet table. There was even a dish of the banker’s favourite kedgeree. It was just after seven-thirty and there was only one other guest present – a short man sitting by himself in a corner.

  ‘What’s happened to all the reporters and camera men?’ Treasure had asked of the large, motherly woman in the black dress in charge of the buffet.

  ‘Overnight wonder, we were,’ she’d smiled. ‘Cathedral didn’t burn down so they’ve pushed off.’

  He had just started on his kedgeree when Nutkin appeared at the dining-room door, looked around pressingly, spotted him – and hurried over.

  ‘Morning, Mr Chapter Clerk. Come to breakfast, have you? Help yourself over there.’

  Despite his own urgent manner the invitation gave Nutkin pause – but not for food. ‘Thank you, no, Mr Treasure,’ he replied, forcing a brief smile to indicate that, while he could humour a whim as well as the next man, breakfast was not a meal a prominent member of the Litchester community could consider taking outside the marital home. ‘Disturbing news, I’m afraid. Thought I should tell you without delay.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear it. Fire ahead. Coffee perhaps?’

  From the tone Treasure sensed his consumption of The Times as well as his breakfast might be up for attenuation. He continued tucking into the peppered haddock while trying not to give the appearance of greed or to precipitate indigestion.

  ‘Pounder may have died of head wounds. Most likely inflicted by . . .’

  ‘The Dean’s mace?’

  ‘Possibly. May I ask how you knew that?’

  ‘I didn’t. Ther
e was something going on late last night, though. Renewed interest by indiscreet bevies of coppers at the cathedral.’ He took a draught of coffee. ‘If he was done in by a blunt instrument, the mace is pretty obviously the front runner.’ He scooped up another forkful of kedgeree – and a fishbone with it.

  ‘The formal post-mortem isn’t till this morning. There’ll be an official police statement after that. The superintendent in charge called me at midnight.’ Nutkin paused for this earnest of his importance to register. Treasure, still busy with the bone, somewhat failed in the acknowledging. The lawyer made the sucking noise that preceded or punctuated a good many of his utterances. ‘Terrible shock. Terrible. Difficult to comprehend.’

  ‘Naturally.’ The banker shook his head.

  ‘It seems death occurred between six-fifteen and a quarter to seven. The likelihood of a burglar or a vandal being responsible is being examined.’

  ‘But not very seriously?’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  The banker wiped his mouth with his napkin. ‘Uncomfortable as the thought may be – for all of us – the Magna Carta going up in flames on the night it did suggests deeper causes. Even sophisticated ones. Or don’t you agree?’

  ‘The thought has crossed my mind, certainly. Except that since murder may be indicated we are forced to the conclusion we are not looking at the work of some disaffected, not to say deranged member of our cathedral community. More likely a common thief. Surprised and resisted probably by a brave old man.’

  ‘Daft thing to pinch. The Magna Carta,’ was Treasure’s immediate response to this appealingly lyrical but somehow over-convenient solution. ‘I mean, how would a thief dispose of it once he’d got it?’

  ‘One hears about unscrupulous London dealers. With international connections.’ The lawyer paused, sucking in air. ‘We cannot ignore that the offer of over a million pounds was known to a number of people. It put a new value, a new attraction on the item.’

  ‘People here talked about the £1.1 million?’

  ‘Not only people here, Mr Treasure.’

  The banker took the point very quickly, as well as the possible reason for the early call and the mention of London dealers. ‘How many people outside Litchester knew of the offer? Say, four weeks ago?’

  ‘Officially? I imagine hardly any.’

  ‘Officially only me?’

  Nutkin’s pale face took on a look of some embarrassment. ‘That’s possible. However . . .’

  ‘I was told by you in a confidential letter which was seen only by me and my totally reliable secretary. I’ve mentioned the offer to one other person. The chairman of Grenwood, Phipps, just before the time last evening when your Mr Pounder got the chop. If there’s been some sort of tip-off that caused a London gang to attempt a snatch, I think you’ll have to look elsewhere for the source.’ Treasure smiled expansively before re-applying himself to his kedgeree.

  Now the lawyer looked distinctly uncomfortable. ‘There’s been a good deal of loose talk here. By people who should have known better. The news could easily have spread that way. Please don’t think . . . by implying the miscreant could be from the outside I was . . .’

  ‘Only pointing to the obvious,’ Treasure cut in. ‘Cathedral cities like this one don’t usually harbour well-organised international crooks. Or even disorganised ones. I understand your point. Did you know the insurance cover on the Magna Carta had been increased to a million since the offer was formalised?’

  Nutkin sucked in his cheeks for marginally longer than usual before replying. ‘I don’t believe I was aware of that. It wouldn’t follow that I should have been told.’ It was reasonably clear, however, that the speaker himself thought he should have been. ‘Are you suggesting the insurance company leaked the information?’

  ‘Certainly not.’ Treasure paused with a coffee-cup halfway to his lips. ‘The action just widens the number of people alerted to the increased value, that’s all. People outside Litchester, too.’ He drank the coffee. ‘But I’d still guess what happened was done by a local. Could be whatever was intended went dreadfully wrong. Out of control. A lot of people might have been choosing to destroy the Magna Carta last night. People who’d never knowingly hurt a human being, let alone commit murder.’

  ‘I don’t follow, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Take anyone who wanted the thing sold who thought it wouldn’t be. Why not arrange for it to be burnt by accident? The cathedral gets a million in insurance. Almost as good as selling to the Americans.’

  ‘The Dean and Canon Brastow have been promoting the sale. It’s difficult to credit . . .’

  ‘My dear chap, I didn’t mean people at that level. Not necessarily anyway.’ He sniffed. ‘You said there’d been a lot of loose talk. Is there anyone of importance attached to the cathedral who hasn’t taken sides? Anyone who didn’t have a theory about how the voting would go this morning? I gather the fact the meeting’s on and why is absolutely common knowledge.’

  ‘You may be right. A relatively enclosed community like this one.’ Nutkin shrugged. ‘It’s difficult to keep things secret for any length of time.’

  ‘I gathered also last night that quite a few people were opposing the sale merely for conscientious reasons?’

  ‘Not because they cared about the document itself, you mean? That may be true. I can’t speak for any of them, naturally, but Canon Merit might come into that category. He and I have been of much the same view.’

  ‘Not wanting the Charter to leave the country?’

  ‘Exactly. Canon Jones was also opposed to selling on a matter of principle. We could all be said to have our attitudes reflected in those of other perhaps less . . . responsible people.’

  ‘But any conscientious objector to a sale might have salved his conscience by staging a fire. Removing the morally difficult artefact and substituting the bland insurance money.’

  ‘It seems far-fetched.’

  ‘Of course.’ And especially so, the banker construed, to a self-professed objector. ‘So your money’s on one of the sellers who thought my vote would block a sale?’

  ‘We are speculating wildly, Mr Treasure,’ Nutkin half-remonstrated, while giving the appearance of someone who rarely speculated at all, and never wildly. ‘For my own part, I still believe Pounder’s death was perpetrated by a callous criminal.’

  ‘And I hope you’re proved right. Incidentally, did you mention my voting intention to anyone?’

  ‘More coffee, sir? Good morning, Mr Nutkin. Can I get you anything?’ The motherly lady was standing by the table.

  Nutkin regarded her for a moment, blinked, then gave her a cautious smile. ‘Good morning, Mabel. Nothing for me, thank you.’ He glanced at the time, then turned his head slowly towards Treasure, except his gaze had become strangely detached. It was focused over the banker’s shoulder where it remained for several seconds while the rest of Nutkin remained unmoving.

  Treasure looked behind him, searching the room. Apart from the motherly woman who was moving back to the buffet, the place was now entirely empty. The banker’s own expression showed a touch of apprehension. ‘Are you . . . ?’

  ‘I fear I must leave you.’ Nutkin blinked again several times as he spoke. ‘A number of other urgent things to see to. At my office in East Street.’

  ‘Is the Chapter meeting still on? Hardly seems any point.’

  ‘I believe it must take place. The Dean could cancel it, of course. No doubt he’ll inform us if he does. But time is short.’ Nutkin was on his feet.

  ‘So I can expect to see you again later?’

  ‘Certainly. Yes. Goodbye for the present, Mr Treasure.’ The lawyer backed into an empty chair, regarded it testily, closed his eyes for a moment, then left with a determined expression if a less than determined step. Treasure watched him thoughtfully, then looked down at the now cold and, despite his best efforts, only half-consumed kedgeree.

  ‘Some nice hot scrambled eggs and bacon instead, sir? I’ll get it for you. There’s p
lenty.’

  He hesitated. ‘Thank you . . . Mabel. Just a little perhaps. With a mushroom or two?’ It really did pay to come down if you enjoyed a good breakfast.

  ‘I’ll be all right, love. I’m better now. Honest. I had a bit of sleep.’ Nora Jakes, fifty-four and only daughter of the late Mr Pounder, poured herself another cup of tea. She was small, frail and usually breathless. Henry, her husband, was sitting across from her at the table in the kitchen of the small Victorian house they would now own. It was in a part of town where property had been cheap when her father had bought the place years before. It was not far from the cathedral, but on the other side of the river.

  ‘Don’t seem natural. Not after all those years,’ said Jakes, staring at the seat normally occupied by his father-in-law.

  ‘Wasn’t natural. I know that now. Knew it from the start, too.’

  ‘How d’you mean?’

  ‘He’d never have knocked that heater over on his own. Even if he was taken ill. Had to be foul play. Thieves. It’s terrible, the way things are today.’

  ‘That’s right.’ He realised they’d been talking at cross-purposes – that she wasn’t herself yet. It had been a shock, a double shock – first to learn her father had died, then four hours later to be told he’d likely been murdered. She wasn’t strong: it was her heart, the doctor said, like her mother who’d died young.

  ‘And how would they know if he was asleep? When he was hit?’

  ‘It’s only what they thought. That he could have been asleep. Or fainted. Expect they can find out things like that. At a post-mortem. He did sleep a lot, of course.’ He’d finished cautiously.

  ‘Only when he was off duty. Like at home. He wouldn’t have dropped off when he was in charge of something. Not when he was in charge of the Old Library, surely?’ But there was uncertainty in her voice.

  ‘He was a very old man, love.’

  ‘You mean if we’re asked we ought to say he could have fallen asleep?’ She caught her breath.

  ‘And no disgrace in that. For someone his age. Not like being careless on purpose.’