Hall of Mirrors

by Christopher Fowler

  ‘Yes, he was heading home on his bike. Tomorrow’s Sunday. He’ll be needing to—’

  ‘Write his sermon, yes, I know.’

  Back in Lupin, there was a new commotion.

  ‘It’s Pamela,’ said Wilson. ‘She’s fainted.’

  May found the others standing around her at the edge of the French windows. ‘I’m fine,’ Claxon said, accepting an arm and hauling herself up. ‘I just felt a bit dizzy for a minute. Smoking too many of these damned things.’ To the consternation of Lady Banks-Marion she flicked her cigarette out on to the grass.

  They waited in the flickering darkness for Monty to return.

  ‘Just – try to look after each other,’ said May, feeling any semblance of control fast slipping away from him. ‘I’ll be back in a few minutes.’ He went into the hall with his pocket torch. A flight of stone steps took him to the basement, which held the kitchen, the wine cellar, the china room, the butler’s pantry, the silver safe and the still room, where drinks and jams were made.

  He shone the torch around but found nothing. The ground-floor rooms were all empty so he headed up the great staircase to the first-floor bedrooms. When he reached Monty’s room and pushed down the handle, the door would not open.

  ‘Monty?’ he called. ‘Are you in there?’ Pressing his ear to the wood, he could hear nothing inside.

  May shone his torch along the carpet runner and then up the walls of the corridor. He sensed the figure rather than seeing it. There was a displacement of air and a darker form was caught in the edge of his beam. It started in surprise and immediately broke into a run.

  ‘Hey!’ May shouted, pounding along the corridor. The figure’s movement was suggestive of a woman. It turned left at the end of the landing, running past bedrooms on the easterly side of the house.

  May was fast and quickly closed the gap. He had familiarized himself with the layout of the house when he arrived, and knew that the next left turn ended in a solid wall with nowhere else to go.

  Making a leap for the fleeing figure he slammed into a narrow side table, dashing a crystal bowl filled with dried flowers to the floor. The momentary delay was enough to allow for an escape. As May swung around the corner, he was startled to find the end corridor empty. There were no doors on either side, and only a tall panel of wood stood before him. At its centre was a painting of an incredibly plain woman on a horse.

  He could see wet footprints leading from the water spilled by the smashed bowl, but they ended in mid-stride. Whoever he had been chasing had vanished. He returned to Monty’s room and shouldered open the door.

  He found Monty Hatton-Jones lying like an axed tree on the Egyptian rug beside his bed.

  Toby Stafford was seated in an oval pool of light at the table, still working when Bryant knocked. ‘I’m sorry to disturb you,’ he said. ‘May I come in?’

  ‘Ah, Mr Askey. No, what was it – Bryant?’ Stafford removed his spectacles and dropped them on to an immensely detailed floor plan of Tavistock Hall that covered the table-top. He was still in his pinstriped suit and tie, ever the lawyer. ‘I wasn’t expecting anyone at this time of night.’

  ‘You’re studying the house?’ asked Bryant.

  ‘I have to finish the job,’ said Stafford wearily. ‘Even with Mr Burke gone. There’s an outstanding issue with the surveyor’s report.’

  ‘I wonder if I could ask you a few questions?’

  ‘I suppose so. I must say I didn’t buy the “Askey” thing. New at this game, are you? Please, make yourself comfortable.’ He rubbed the bridge of his nose. ‘It must be important for you to venture down here.’

  ‘In the absence of being able to talk to Mr Burke, I thought you could shed some light for me. Are you still in his employ – I mean, technically?’

  ‘Is this a formal interview?’

  ‘No, just a chat.’

  ‘Very well.’ Stafford settled back in his chair. Rain pattered on the window behind him. ‘He’s still my client, in that I continue to represent his interests until somebody tells me not to.’

  ‘How long have you been handling his affairs?’

  ‘For the past eighteen months or so. By the way, I’m not a blackmailer. Lady Banks-Marion misread my intentions—’

  ‘Not interested right now, Toby. Why was Mr Burke’s nightclub put in your name?’

  If Stafford was surprised by the question he was careful not to show it. ‘He thought I should invest in it, so that when it turned a profit and we came to sell it I could pass the shares to his wife.’

  ‘Why did he want you to do that?’

  Stafford donned his glasses and studied him with acuity. ‘Mr Bryant. You’re not married, are you?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘In this country women don’t have equal pay and their rights are still curtailed by government legislation, and that’s the way the old boys’ network would like to leave it. Donald Burke loved his wife very much and wanted to protect her, so for the past few years he’s been putting those protections into place. She may have no interest in running his empire but she does not deserve to be discriminated against. Mr Burke was not an easy man to deal with, but I felt him to be an honest one.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘In my profession you get a feeling for these things. He donated privately to charity; he treated his employees fairly and behaved responsibly. I don’t need to tell you that in the City of London this is fairly unusual behaviour. We are no longer benevolent Victorians, setting up charitable societies for the improvement of the nation.’

  ‘What’s your connection to Mr Hatton-Jones?’

  Stafford gave a rueful smile as he tapped out a Pall Mall and lit it. ‘Our families knew one another. He wanted to find a job for Miss Harrow.’

  ‘You didn’t disapprove?’

  ‘It was not my concern.’

  ‘So you got her a job at the club. And that was where she met Mr Burke.’

  ‘I assume so.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘It’s not something we ever had cause to discuss.’ Stafford sat back. ‘I don’t see your point, Mr Bryant.’

  ‘I’m sorry if I’m being obtuse. If Mr Hatton-Jones lost his girlfriend to Mr Burke, it would give him a reason—’

  ‘Ah, I see. A crime passionnel. I find that unlikely. Mr Burke’s reclusiveness extended beyond the realm of business.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean that not only could he not touch or be touched by other people, he was not bedding down with Miss Harrow. He held his wife in too much respect.’

  ‘And how would you know such a thing?’

  ‘Because he once confided in me frankly.’

  ‘How frankly?’

  Stafford folded away the house plans as he considered his answer. ‘He explained that he could no longer bear the thought of intimacy on any level. I am given to understand that it was an after-effect of his …’

  ‘His breakdown,’ said Bryant. ‘Do you have any corroboration for this, from his wife perhaps?’

  ‘I saw Mr Burke’s medical report. You’re not the only one who’s suspicious, Mr Bryant. When I hear that a man has been disposed of so effectively that he can only be identified by chunks of his flesh, I start to think that perhaps I’ve been had, and that man isn’t dead after all.’

  This is interesting, Bryant thought. The same idea had crossed his own mind. ‘But why would Donald Burke fake his own death? His businesses were thriving, he was happily married, he had everything he could want.’

  ‘I didn’t say that I believe it to be true. As it turns out, Norma Burke was not the only person to identify her husband’s remains. I am given to understand that Miss Claxon also viewed the body and identified the, ah, artefacts, while you were out of the house. In fact, I was the one who suggested she should do it.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ said Bryant. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because as you pointed out yourself, the chemicals in the tank are probably removing any possibili
ty of future identification. I thought it was important to get a corroborating opinion.’

  ‘You did the right thing,’ Bryant admitted, wishing he had thought of it. ‘Do you have any idea who killed him?’

  ‘I have my own theory, as it happens,’ said Stafford. ‘I don’t believe there is a murderer.’

  ‘That’s impossible. There would have to have been too many coincidences—’

  Stafford pointed paired fingers at him. ‘Exactly, Mr Bryant. In a court of law, coincidence is the striking occurrence of two or more events at one time, apparently by mere chance. And that is precisely what we have here. I believe Donald Burke decided to take his own life, and could not have been thinking clearly or he would never have selected such a gruesome method. We know that he had been ill before. He had developed phobias and underwent bouts of depression. As for Mr Hatton-Jones, he unfortunately suffered an accident in a very old house that is falling apart. Alberman told me there have been more than a dozen mishaps over the last few years, so many in fact that the more superstitious villagers believe the house is jinxed when it is merely in need of repair.’

  ‘And Miss Harrow?’

  ‘She is highly strung and thinks emotionally, and accidentally overdosed herself.’

  ‘But you trusted her enough to recommend her for a job with Mr Burke.’

  ‘As a nightclub singer, Mr Bryant. It’s hardly brain surgery. People make mistakes in tense situations.’

  ‘Somebody cut the power to the house tonight, and damaged all the cars.’

  ‘Forgive me: you’re in the business of creating a narrative that fits these events, except that you cannot,’ said Stafford. ‘You’ve failed to explain anything – you said so yourself. Ask the servants about accidents, or if the power has ever failed in a rainstorm before, or even deaths. I think you’ll reach the same conclusion pretty quickly.’ He rose and opened the door. ‘If you’ll forgive me I really must get on. There are still surveyors’ documents that need checking before I can process any paperwork on the house.’

  ‘So the sale goes ahead.’

  ‘I am given to understand that this is the wish of both parties. I’ll see you at the house in the morning when our business can be concluded, barring any further unforeseen problems.’

  As Bryant drove back from Knotsworth in Celeste’s car, he thought about everything that Stafford had told him. For the first time he began to get a clearer picture of Burke’s death, and he was sure it most certainly did not involve suicide.

  Two scenarios presented themselves. Burke arranged to meet someone in the barn, overcoming his reluctance to do so because of the urgent necessity of the meeting. The person he went to see was either standing above him on the makeshift wooden walkway that Harry had constructed, or waiting for him on the ground. If they had been above, in the course of their conversation this other person had stepped forward and reached out to touch him. Burke had reacted violently, lurching back, and had gone through the railing. Not murder perhaps, but manslaughter. If they had met him on the ground, then Burke had been knocked down and attached to the block and tackle, and fed into the machine while unconscious but alive. Murder with extreme prejudice.

  He arrived back at Tavistock Hall, crunching gears and spraying gravel across the lawn. The lights were still out. In the lamp-hung hall he stopped and listened, but heard nothing unusual. What a mess, he thought. I only hope John’s been able to keep the peace.

  35

  * * *

  TURN! TURN! TURN!

  ‘It’s just a bump,’ said May. ‘You’ll live.’

  ‘A bump? It’s the size of a bloody duck’s egg!’ Monty had changed into a maroon silk dressing gown and would have looked like an extremely dissipated version of Noël Coward if he hadn’t had a rivulet of blood running down the left side of his face. He gingerly touched the back of his head. ‘I heard him come up behind me and turned just in time. A few seconds slower and he’d have cracked open my skull.’

  ‘That’s the second time you’ve been lucky.’

  ‘If that’s your idea of luck I’m never going to Aintree with you.’

  ‘What did he hit you with?’

  ‘Something so big that he had to swing it. It felt like a … you know, road menders have them.’

  ‘A shovel.’

  ‘No – sledgehammer.’

  ‘Then he could only have caught you a glancing blow. Monty, you’re indestructible.’ May had searched the floor of Monty’s bedroom and found no weapon of any kind. ‘You’d better find somewhere to sit down,’ he warned. ‘You probably have concussion.’

  ‘I’m getting a bit fed up with being …’ He had to stop and think for a minute. ‘Attacked.’

  ‘I told you not to leave the room, didn’t I?’

  ‘It should be easy to work out who was …’ The word evaded him for a moment. ‘Missing?’

  ‘I don’t know. Half the candles were out.’ May shrugged. ‘I couldn’t see everyone.’

  ‘It’s ridiculous, he couldn’t have just vanished,’ said Pamela Claxon, sticking her head around the bedroom door and raising a lantern. ‘Where are these footprints?’

  They went back to the end corridor. May shone the torch down at the floor. The boards were still wet from the smashed vase, but the marks were barely readable now as prints.

  ‘He must have passed right by you,’ said Monty.

  ‘Nobody got past me,’ said May.

  Claxon bent down and rubbed the water between her fingers. ‘Rubbish, you weren’t concentrating. Whoever it was must still be on this floor somewhere. The bedrooms are empty because the guests are downstairs. We’ll have to search everywhere.’

  ‘I’ve done it before,’ said May. ‘It doesn’t make any difference. Monty, why did you come upstairs?’

  ‘My collarbone was aching. I wanted to take …’

  Claxon and May waited for him to finish. ‘Poison?’ Claxon suggested.

  ‘Some aspirin, and then I decided to change.’ He clutched his head. ‘I feel – unusual.’

  ‘Listen, old chap, you’d better take it easy for a while. We could probably fetch the doctor back if you like.’

  ‘That quack? No thank you. Ooh.’ He sat down very suddenly on the side table. ‘I usually hear when anyone walks past. The floorboards creak. I keep hearing your partner clickety-clacking past like he’s auditioning for a musical. Ever since you two circus clowns got here nothing has gone according to plan. When I get back to London I’m going to …’ He lost the words again.

  ‘Be more forgiving?’ May suggested.

  ‘Have you reduced to traffic wardens,’ snapped Monty.

  ‘Why don’t we all go downstairs now?’ Claxon suggested. Somewhere outside an owl hooted, making them jump.

  Guiding the complaining businessman between them, they made their way back to the main staircase, reaching the hall to find Bryant just returned.

  ‘Did I miss something?’ Bryant asked. ‘What’s wrong with Monty?’

  ‘Someone hit him on the head. Possibly with a sledgehammer.’

  Bryant’s blue eyes widened. ‘And he’s still in one piece? Wow. You’re lucky he only hit your brain. I assume he got away.’

  Of course he bloody did,’ cried Monty vehemently. ‘You two couldn’t catch a – what are those things with stripes?’

  ‘A badger?’ said Bryant.

  ‘A zebra?’ Claxon offered.

  ‘A cold.’ Monty stuck a finger in his ear and wiggled it. ‘I mean, what was the point of winning the war? Are there any Germans here? Steady the Buffs.’

  ‘I think we’d better get the doctor back,’ said May.

  ‘John, can I have a word with you?’ Bryant asked, leading his partner aside to Hawthorn, the flickering drawing room behind the library. Alberman’s dexterity with lamps suggested that the house was no stranger to blackouts. ‘I talked to Toby Stafford. He put forward an interesting idea. What if Burke isn’t dead?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

&n
bsp; ‘Suppose he set up this entire weekend to fool everyone into thinking he’d died?’

  ‘Why would he do that? What would he gain from it?’ He peered back at the doorway, where Monty was being led towards the library by the solicitous novelist.

  ‘I suppose it would get him out of having to spend millions on Tavistock Hall. I saw Stafford poring over a floor plan of the house. Suppose there’s subsidence or something?’

  ‘He’s buying it for a song, Arthur. It’s being sold at below market value.’

  ‘It’s not just this place. The tenancies are tied to the property. In order to have them vacated he has to buy out over twenty leases and untangle rights on all sorts of land parcels. Suppose he knew that the land was going to drop in value. Say, if the government was planning to build a motorway through it?’

  ‘So he tells no one, not even his own wife, plants a misleading note for Vanessa, then throws some of his belongings into the sewage treatment plant and somehow Norma still manages to positively identify his remains, including his own ear? Instead of pursuing the matter through legal means, something of which he’s had considerable experience? I suppose Norma could have made a mistake under the circumstances, seeing how we put her under pressure to identify him because you wanted the matter resolved before anyone else could take over the investigation.’

  Bryant was affronted. ‘You’re saying it’s my fault?’

  May shook his head. ‘It just doesn’t make any sense, Arthur. I’ve just thought of something simpler. Having fenced all the valuables from his church, our friend Trev the Rev realizes he’s soon going to be under investigation by his diocese. In a state of panic he arranges to meet Burke to beg for a loan, and is turned down. As a desperate junkie facing the loss of his livelihood and a jail sentence he loses his temper, and bingo. Realizing to his total horror that he is now out of control, he strikes at anyone who crosses his path.’

  ‘Not by lashing out at them,’ said Bryant, ‘but by climbing up to the roof and waiting for Monty to nip outside for a fag before pushing a gargoyle on top of him, which not only requires stamina but clairvoyance. And by the way, Trev the Rev has muscles like knots in bits of string. I don’t think he’d have the strength to tip one over. I tried and could barely shift it. Let’s not stop here, though. While you’re at it, how about laying the blame on his lordship? Discovered in flagrante delicto with hippy chick Melanie, Harry slaughters Burke and prepares to feed him to his pet pig, until Monty threatens to give the game away and has to be retroactively bludgeoned with a mythical stone creature. What about Slade Wilson? Upset by Burke’s choice of pastel paintwork and co-ordinating curtain material he despatches him, not with a nice piece of broderie anglaise lacework but by shoving him into a grinder that wouldn’t be out of place in a slaughterhouse.’