Little Knell

by Catherine Aird

  He drew up outside one of the stylish old houses which were a reminder of the prosperous waterborne trade of former times. Where once merchants had lived in some splendour, offices now held sway. Those of Pearson, Worrow and Gisby, Chartered Accountants, were workaday in appearance but by no means in bad order.

  Sloan enquired of the receptionist if Mr Pearson would see him. The girl picked up a telephone. ‘That you, Jim?’ she asked with a notable lack of formality. ‘Cheryl here. An Inspector Sloan would like a word.’

  A door at the far end of the corridor opened and Jim Pearson ushered someone out of a room. Against the light as that someone was, it took Sloan only a moment or two to make out the short stocky outline of Howard Air, a long-time member of the local magistrates’ bench. Howard Air recognized Sloan immediately, although his usual punctilious greeting of the policemen was somewhat muted.

  ‘Terrible business at the museum, Inspector,’ he said. ‘Terrible. Even worse for Jim here, of course, because he knew the poor girl. At least Marcus Fixby-Smith didn’t, although he’s still in a pretty poor state. Didn’t sleep at all last night.’

  Jim Pearson, seeming much older than the last time Sloan had seen him, looked as if he, too, had had a sleepless night. ‘First David Barton with his life hanging by a thread for weeks and weeks, and now Jill Carter dead.’ He sounded dazed. ‘I can’t believe it.’

  ‘Barton is a victim of a road traffic accident,’ said Sloan, remembering his chat with Inspector Harpe. He added tautly, ‘Jill Carter has been murdered.’

  ‘Yes, yes, I know, Inspector,’ the accountant protested, ‘but they are both people.’

  ‘So,’ said Sloan, before Pearson could move on to John Donne’s sonorous ‘any man’s death diminishes me’, ‘I’m afraid we are going to have to take statements from you and your staff.’

  ‘Then I’ll be taking my leave, Jim,’ murmured Howard Air, looking older and greyer, too, than when Sloan had last seen him. He moved towards the outer door and, waving a farewell at Sloan and Crosby, said huskily to Pearson, ‘Thanks for all your help, Jim.’

  Inspector Sloan watched the businessman go and then said casually to the accountant, ‘Is Mr Howard Air one of your clients, then?’

  Jim Pearson smiled ruefully. ‘I only wish he was. His company must be about the biggest in Berebury.’ He jerked his thumb in the direction of the other side of the river. ‘No, it’s our upmarket rivals over the way who benefit from auditing the accounts of Messrs Air and Air, Fruit Importers Limited.’

  ‘So…’ Sloan knew which firm he meant. Ickham and Grove were at the very top of the local league of accountants, and knew it. They were also quite concerned that everyone else in the county of Calleshire knew it, too.

  ‘So you want to know what Howard Air was doing here?’ Pearson relaxed a fraction. ‘That’s easy, Inspector. We handle the financial affairs of the animal rescue outfit over at Edsway.’

  ‘The Kirk sisters.’

  ‘And their offshoot in Lasserta, the Lake Ryrie Reserve. All done for love, I may say. Howard’s their patron, and it’s no secret that he’s a very generous one, too. They’re lucky to have him do it, but I’m told he’s a softie for anything on four legs.’

  Sloan, who hadn’t forgotten that Colonel Caversham had had a weak spot for quadrupeds too – equine ones, anyway – got back to the business on hand. He said, ‘My constable here will be taking statements from all your partners and staff here with especial reference to the last time they saw Jill Carter alive.’

  He would look into Howard Air’s connections later. In his book and at this moment anyone who was involved with the Calleshire animal rescue set-up was worth a second look, just in case there was more in Horace Boller’s baskets of fish than fish.

  Something else worth a closer examination was the ownership of the beautiful old Bentley sitting outside the museum. When they were finished here at the accountants, Crosby could make quite sure that the classic car belonged to one of the few men in Calleshire whom he knew could easily afford it: Howard Air.

  And if not him, then he could find out who.

  ‘And I,’ said Detective Inspector Sloan, ‘would like to talk to the partners myself.’

  This meant Nigel Worrow, since the only Gisby in the firm now was a callow youth called Kenneth who was still struggling with his examinations. Sloan gave every appearance of accepting this last information at its face value. He saw no need to remind anyone at the accountants that it was quite often callow youths who murder young girls, especially if the affections of those young girls are patently engaged elsewhere with rival suitors.

  Nigel Worrow contrived to be courteous, brisk and solemn all at the same time. Like Jim Pearson he also looked tired and worried.

  ‘A very sad business indeed, Inspector. We’ve never ever had anything like this happen in the firm before. Jill seemed such a pleasant girl – a good worker, too, and heaven knows, we need one. We’re desperately short-staffed, what with our senior audit clerk having been out of action for so long. Did Jim tell you? His life’s still hanging by a thread after all these weeks and poor Jill had been doing some of his work.’

  Something in this caught Detective Constable Crosby’s wayward attention. He said from the sidelines, ‘And now you haven’t got Jill Carter either.’

  ‘Quite so,’ said Worrow, visibly clamping his jaws together. ‘Quite.’

  ‘So when did you last see her?’ Sloan hastened into more official-sounding phrases. The work that the dead girl had been doing would need to be looked at by someone to whom accounts were not a closed book, but not at this minute.

  ‘Last Friday,’ said Nigel Worrow.

  ‘The day she disappeared,’ observed Crosby.

  ‘As it would seem, yes.’ Worrow appeared unperturbed. ‘I happened to drop into the Ornum Arms on my way home to Edsway and she was there with a young fellow. He looked as if he was on the point of leaving as I arrived.’

  ‘Do you go there often?’ asked Sloan, conscious of a certain triteness.

  ‘Only on Fridays, Inspector. Johnny Hedger’s an old client; and,’ he gave a tired smile, ‘sometimes actually reaching the end of another working week seems to merit celebrating.’

  ‘Did you speak to her?’

  ‘Just in passing. The man she was with really did go just after I spotted her.’

  ‘Had they been having a row?’ asked Crosby.

  Worrow looked surprised. ‘Not that I saw or heard.’

  ‘Would you be able to describe what she was wearing, sir?’ enquired Sloan.

  Here, Nigel Worrow revealed himself as the unobservant male, par excellence. He said he couldn’t, but thought vaguely that she might have been wearing something green. And, yes, he had gone straight home to his wife and supper as usual after he’d left the Ornum Arms. The weekend he’d spent on his boat, sailing off Kinnisport. Also as usual, he added before Sloan asked.

  ‘By the way,’ said Sloan as the two policemen were leaving at the end of what had turned into a protracted enquiry session at Pearson, Worrow and Gisby, ‘did your firm happen to act for the late Colonel Caversham of Whimbrel House?’

  ‘We did indeed,’ said Nigel Worrow without hesitation. ‘For years and years.’

  ‘And that included,’ chimed in his partner, ‘keeping any creditors happy while he was poking about in Egypt for months at a time.’

  ‘What about the extended family?’ asked Sloan, casually. ‘Peter, for instance?’

  Jim Pearson’s face changed, his expression becoming suddenly wary. ‘Oh, you know Peter Caversham, do you? Yes, as it happens, we act for him, too.’

  ‘Some clients don’t like using their local firms,’ supplemented Nigel Worrow.

  ‘Too close for comfort?’ suggested Crosby.

  ‘The colonel was a decent old boy,’ interrupted Worrow swiftly, ‘except that he never did come to grips with inflation. Thought an old half-crown could still buy you most things.’

  ‘The generation gap,
you might call that,’ said Jim Pearson, smiling weakly.

  * * *

  ‘I’m afraid, Inspector,’ said Simon Puckle, ‘that neither Fixby-Smith nor I worried about not leaving fingerprints on anything when we were here yesterday.’

  The solicitor had decided that his responsibilities as executor and trustee required him to be present when Sloan and Crosby eventually reached Whimbrel House. Or, decided Sloan, it might have just been simple curiosity. After all, lawyers are only human, too.

  ‘Our forensic people will take care of that,’ murmured Sloan absently. ‘They’ll be asking you to give us your prints presently.’

  ‘And Sid Wetherspoon and that young lad he had with him, I suppose,’ said Puckle. ‘They must have handled absolutely everything.’

  ‘Them, too,’ agreed Sloan. He didn’t think it necessary to mention that the police probably had Wayne Goddard’s fingerprints on file already. ‘Who else has had the keys since the colonel died?’

  The policeman on guard duty outside had already indicated to Sloan that there were no very obvious signs of breaking and entering about the house. The Scenes of Crime people would make absolutely sure. They were on their way now with the police photographers. Sloan was still debating in his mind whether or not Whimbrel House had actually been the scene of the crime. It would be for forensic science to establish if there were traces of blood on this or any carpet in the house.

  ‘Only Sid Wetherspoon,’ Simon Puckle was saying. ‘He collected them on Tuesday so he could see which size of van he would need and make sure that there wasn’t anything here that they couldn’t handle.’

  ‘Right,’ said Sloan, hoping that there wasn’t going to be anything about the murder of Jill Carter that the police couldn’t handle. ‘What about Peter Caversham? Was he ever here much as a young man?’

  ‘As a boy, probably,’ said Puckle, ‘but not since. Latterly the colonel insisted that he could only come in the house over his dead body.’

  ‘Like that, was it?’ Detective Inspector Sloan automatically put an interview with Peter Caversham even higher on his list of priorities.

  Detective Constable Crosby stirred. ‘Didn’t like the idea of it going to him?’

  ‘Didn’t like the idea of dying either,’ said the solicitor.

  ‘One of those who thought the world would come to a dead stop when he did?’ said Sloan, who had met plenty of people like that. It was a concept that accounted for a lot of short-termism in public and private affairs.

  ‘If our clients only appreciated,’ said Simon Puckle feelingly, ‘that they, too, were going to die, they’d make a will sooner rather than later.’

  ‘And where there’s death there’s hope,’ remarked Crosby to nobody in particular.

  Detective Inspector Sloan sniffed, very much aware that the house had that curious smell of a building that had been empty for too long.

  The solicitor must have sensed the same airlessness. ‘What this place needs are some open windows.’

  ‘Not yet,’ Detective Inspector Sloan said. ‘That will have to wait. Now, Mr Puckle, if you would just stay here in the hall, my constable and I need a proper look over the building.’

  Whimbrel House at Staple St James, too, had been built in the more spacious days of yesteryear. Then, large families and dependent relations and the live-in servants to care for them all had called for many rooms. On the other hand, this ancient retired cavalry officer and explorer had clearly had his being in his study, an old army-style camp bed in the corner serving him as a bedroom à la Duke of Wellington in his last days at Walmer Castle.

  Most of the rest of the furniture had gone, making the task of the two policemen easier. It was a simple matter to look first through empty attics, and then the bedrooms where once the ladies of the household had dressed for dinner. The fine drawing room and even finer dining room were similarly devoid of anything in the nature of goods or chattels and even the study, scene of most of the activities of Sid Wetherspoon and Wayne Goddard, only had the scattered remnants of packing materials in it.

  ‘Should have tidied up before they went,’ muttered Crosby, opening the door of a butler’s pantry and shutting it again after he saw it was completely bare.

  ‘Somebody tidied something away, Crosby,’ said Sloan astringently, ‘and we’ve got to find it, wherever it is.’

  In the event it was Detective Constable Crosby who did. He opened the door of a broom cupboard in the lobby of the great kitchen and jumped swiftly back as a bound and bandaged figure toppled forward to the stone floor at his feet.

  ‘Dr Rodotheptah, I presume,’ said Detective Inspector Sloan. ‘Stand well back, Crosby, and don’t touch. Remember, Dr Dabbe says such men are dangerous.’

  Chapter Nine

  Loose

  ‘Don’t touch the mummy, Sloan,’ ordered Superintendent Leeyes equally swiftly; but for different reasons.

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘And notify the coroner before you do anything else at all.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘He isn’t going to catch us out twice.’

  ‘No, sir.’ He decided it was no use trying to explain to the superintendent that Mr Locombe-Stableford hadn’t actually caught the police out the first time; or that Her Majesty’s Coroner for East Calleshire had patently been manipulated just as the police had been by some person or persons unknown – and both from motives that were still obscure to Sloan.

  ‘And neither is anyone else, Sloan,’ growled the superintendent. ‘Remember that.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘All the same, it seems to me,’ Leeyes pronounced weightily, ‘that someone somewhere is having a very good try at catching us out a second time.’

  Sloan didn’t attempt to deny this. He simply said, ‘We’re going over to see the boyfriend next.’

  ‘Quite right, Sloan.’ The superintendent was a great believer in the fact that murders were usually family affairs.

  ‘And,’ went on Sloan, well aware of this, ‘we’re trying to get a lead on a man called Peter Caversham, in Luston.’

  ‘Don’t forget to see Jill Carter’s employer again, too,’ Leeyes reminded him. ‘The one who was the last person to say he’d seen the girl alive. Nigel Worrow.’

  ‘I won’t forget,’ promised Sloan. ‘There could well be something funny going on at his place.’ As far as he was concerned, accounts could cover a multitude of sins any day of the week. Even the Calleshire Constabulary’s own income and expenditure accounts listed buns and bribery under one single heading so that no one ever knew exactly how much was really spent on informers. The last person to query this had very swiftly been reminded how Sir John Falstaff had got it in the neck for his ‘but one half-pennyworth of bread to this intolerable deal of sack!’ and been sent on his way no wiser.

  The superintendent was still speaking. ‘Surely the colonel’s house over at Stable St James isn’t all that far from The Ornum Arms, as the crow flies?’

  ‘No, sir,’ replied Sloan, ‘it isn’t, but no one saw anything in the pub car park the night the girl went missing. Crosby checked.’

  ‘Doesn’t mean a thing.’ His superior officer sniffed. ‘Negative evidence in both senses.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ agreed Sloan, since this was true.

  Leeyes grunted. ‘As I remember too, Sloan, Whimbrel House is a bit on its own, isn’t it?’

  ‘Quite isolated, sir.’

  ‘Then they were lucky not to have had squatters in there, seeing it was empty for so long.’

  What Sloan wanted to check was that they hadn’t had drug distributors in there. Large, empty and isolated houses were ideal for the calculated division of big consignments of heroin into smaller, marketable amounts; and as he would have been the first to agree with the man from Customs and Excise, this work had to be done somewhere. And safe houses were hard to come by these days. He wondered how they had got to hear about it.

  If they had.

  ‘By the way, Sloan,’ said L
eeyes, ‘you might make sure in passing that the coroner’s officer does his share of the work.’

  ‘Certainly, sir,’ promised Detective Inspector Sloan with alacrity, as he put the telephone down. He turned to Detective Constable Crosby and said, ‘There’s one more call I want to make and then we can get going.’

  * * *

  The resources of the Calleshire Constabulary extended well beyond the county’s boundary. They included instant access to specialists in matters far removed from the usual run-of-the-mill policing. The expert to whom Detective Inspector Sloan was now speaking was attached to a famous Fraud Squad, where she enjoyed the role of forensic accountant.

  ‘Do call me Jenny,’ she said.

  ‘Yes, miss,’ said Detective Inspector Sloan automatically. He must pull himself together. Somehow, he’d expected forensic accounting to be man’s work. He was getting out of touch.

  ‘And what exactly is it – er – Inspector, that you want to know about money-laundering by drug dealers?’ She had a deliciously deep voice with a suspicion of a gurgle in it. ‘Tell me…’

  ‘I’d like some background, please, miss…’ If she was expecting him to tell her his own Christian name she would be disappointed.

  ‘Oh, Jenny, please.’

  ‘Jenny.’ He swallowed and started again. ‘I’d like some background, particularly on the sort of scam we should be looking out for here in Calleshire where we know we have heroin coming in and dealers operating.’ He must remember, too, that money-launderers as well as accountants could be female. After all, traditionally, women had always washed everything else, hadn’t they?

  A very feminine little laugh came trilling down the telephone line. ‘Oh, it won’t be a scam that you should be looking for, Inspector. Not if they really know what they’re doing, that is.’