The Diamond Rosary Murders

by Roger Silverwood

  Angel had committed the basic mistake of making an assumption. It was all to do with the Astra Agency. Now that his subconscious had overridden his supposition, allowing his mind to explore all the options, it had found the only one that perfectly fitted the situation, and – hey presto! – out had popped the explanation. The mystery was solved. His mind then darted from one point to the next, finding explanations of all the details that had previously baffled him.

  Everything was now as clear to him as a bottle of Booth’s.

  But he had to prove the case. Absolutely essential so that he could wrap it up, pass it on to the CPO and have a tranquil Christmas at home with the ever-delightful Mary, untroubled by more demanding murder inquiries.

  Proving the case in a court of law might be difficult. Then it came to him.

  He believed that there was conclusive evidence in the locked bedroom of Mrs Lydia King, the late mother of Haydn King, that would put away the murderer of Haydn King and Reuben Paschal for life.

  His heart thumped as solidly and regularly as the big drum in the Salvation Army. He was over the moon, and he simply could not stay in bed, but he didn’t want to wake Mary. He listened motionless for a few seconds to her slow, regular breathing, then gently peeled back the duvet. He found his dressing-gown, went downstairs and made himself a drink of tea in a beaker. He brought it back upstairs and went quietly into the bathroom. He was soon shaved, washed and dressed. He left a note for Mary under the magnet on the fridge door and went out.

  It was 8.30 a.m. and Angel had been in his office at Bromersley Police Station for more than two hours, busy writing up the case for Mr Twelvetrees of the CPS in his quest to put the two current cases to bed and have his desk clear by Christmas Eve.

  He looked at his watch. It was 8.35 a.m. He reached out for the phone and tapped in the number of the SOCO office.

  DS Taylor answered.

  Angel said, ‘Pick up your bag, Don, and meet me at the rear door. I want you to come with me. I think the key that will lead us to the murderer of Haydn King and Reuben Paschal lies in Mrs Lydia King’s bedroom. I need to get in there to solve this mystery.’

  ‘Right, sir.’

  Ten minutes later Angel was driving the BMW along Pine Avenue, through the wrought-iron gates into the grounds of the mansion of the late Haydn King. As he swerved round the bend in the drive and passed the screen of lime trees he saw a man on a bicycle pedalling along in front. The cyclist must have heard the approach of the BMW because he pulled over to the left and waved the car on.

  As Angel overtook him, he recognised the rider.

  ‘It’s Mark Rogers,’ Taylor said. ‘Presumably going to work.’

  Angel said, ‘And if he’s chauffeuring for Vincent Fleming, he’s late.’ He rubbed his chin, then added, ‘Funny, isn’t it, incongruous, a chauffeur going to work on a bike?’

  Taylor smiled wryly.

  Angel parked the BMW at the front of the house, and the two men got out. Taylor went round to the car boot and took out his big yellow bag containing sterile sample containers, fingerprinting equipment and other forensic paraphernalia.

  Meanwhile Rogers caught up with the car, stopped and said, ‘If you are looking for Mr Fleming, Inspector, he’ll be out at the moment. He will have gone to his office in town. But he’ll be back later this morning, though, I expect. Anything I can help you with?’

  ‘Not just yet, Mr Rogers,’ Angel said. ‘Not just yet. Thank you.’

  The chauffeur frowned, then pressing down on the cycle pedal with one foot and pushing himself off the gravel with the other, he rode off to the end of the house and round to the garages.

  Angel and Taylor then went up the steps to the front door and rang the bell.

  They waited for what seemed to be a long time. It was suddenly opened by Mrs Johnson who was red in the face and panting. She looked at them, disappointed. ‘Oh it’s only you,’ she said. ‘Good heavens. Who do you want to see?’

  Behind her, Meredith came rushing into view. He looked down at the chubby housekeeper as if she was a fly in the cook-house slop bucket at Strangeways. ‘I was just coming, Mrs Johnson. There was no need for you to attend.’

  She glared at back him and rushed away.

  Meredith turned to Angel and Taylor and said, ‘Good morning, gentlemen. Sorry about that. Mr Fleming is out at the moment. Can I be of service?’

  ‘Yes,’ Angel said. ‘We want to take another look in Lady Lydia’s bedroom. Would you unlock it for us?’

  ‘Of course, sir. Please come in.’

  As they crossed the hall, Harry Saw came out of the study carrying a briefcase the size of a Black Maria and almost ran into them.

  ‘I do beg your pardon,’ Saw said, taking a backward step.

  ‘That’s all right,’ Taylor said.

  Angel’s eyes narrowed as he watched Saw hurry across the parquet floor lugging the heavy briefcase towards the front door.

  Meredith pressed the button to summon the lift and took Angel and Taylor up the one flight.

  At the door of Lady Lydia’s bedroom, Meredith produced his keys, unlocked the door, opened it and followed the other two gentlemen inside. ‘Will you be long, sir?’

  ‘I am not sure,’ Angel said.

  ‘Well, please ring when you’ve finished. There’s a bell push at the side of the bed.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Meredith.’

  He went out and closed the door.

  It was almost an hour later that Angel rang the bell while Taylor finished packing up his bag of forensic samples and equipment and closing the zip.

  Angel looked pleased with himself as he looked round the room to check that everything was tidy and in place.

  Meredith tapped lightly on the door and came in. ‘Have you finished, sir, and is everything satisfactory?’

  ‘Yes, thank you, Mr Meredith,’ Angel said.

  The door suddenly opened and Vincent Fleming came in. He glared at each of the three men in turn. His eyes were bright and piercing, his face pastier than usual.

  ‘What’s happening, Meredith?’ he said.

  ‘The Inspector expressed a wish to take a further look at Lady Lydia’s room, sir,’ the butler said. ‘He has just finished and the two gentlemen were about to leave.’

  Fleming looked at Angel and said, ‘I hope you have everything you need now, Inspector Angel. I can’t have you popping in and out of my house whenever you feel like it, as if it was a railway station.’

  Angel breathed in and filled his lungs. He pursed his lips, then said, ‘The investigation into your uncle’s death is now completed so I don’t think that will be necessary. Good day.’

  Vincent Fleming’s jaw dropped.

  Taylor picked up his bag and the two policemen went out of the room and down the stairs. They let themselves out of the front door and made straight for the BMW and Bromersley Police Station.

  When they arrived at Angel’s office door, he turned to Taylor and said, ‘Let me have those results as soon as you can, Don.’

  ‘Yes, of course, sir,’ Taylor said and he disappeared down the corridor.

  Angel went into his office. And as he took off his overcoat, without realizing it, and for no explicable reason, he began to whistle The Teddy Bears’ Picnic.

  There was a knock on the door. He stopped whistling. It was Ahmed. ‘Good morning, sir. Did you know the super was looking for you earlier?’

  Angel’s face creased. It wasn’t news he enjoyed hearing. He sighed and said, ‘Right, lad. I had better go up then.’

  ‘He’s not in now, sir. He got an urgent call from that costume hire place at the back of the Town Hall.’

  Angel looked up into Ahmed’s eyes. He was thinking that it must be something really serious to cause the superintendent to attend personally.

  ‘Why, what’s happened?’ he said earnestly. He could see his quiet Christmas at home in jeopardy.

  ‘I understand that it’s to try on a Father Christmas suit for the children’s part
y, sir,’ Ahmed said.

  Angel’s mouth dropped open.

  Suddenly the office door opened and Superintendent Harker himself appeared in overcoat, scarf and hat, his nose glowing redder than usual. He looked round, saw Ahmed, and ignored him, then he saw Angel and his eyebrows shot up.

  ‘Ah, Angel,’ Harker began. ‘There you are. Have you been looking for me?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  Harker frowned. ‘Oh? Had to go out. Something very urgent arose. Come on up. I want a word.’

  ‘Right, sir,’ Angel said.

  Harker went out, leaving the door open.

  Ahmed grinned, looked at Angel and said, ‘Do you want me for anything, sir?’

  Angel saw his face, but he wasn’t amused. ‘No, lad,’ he said. ‘Buzz off. You’d still be laughing if your backside was on fire, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Yes, sir. No, sir. I don’t know, sir,’ he said in quick succession.

  ‘Get out of it,’ Angel growled.

  Ahmed went out, laughing quietly.

  Angel switched off the desk light, closed the office door and made his way up the corridor.

  ‘Come in, lad,’ Harker said as he dragged off his scarf. ‘Sit down.’

  There was the sound of a click followed by a tinny rattle and a waft of air as he switched on the antique convector heater he kept out of sight under the desk.

  ‘It’ll soon warm up.’

  Angel considered it quite warm enough.

  Harker hung his hat and coat on a hanger in a locker behind his chair and sat down behind the cluttered desk. ‘Now we can get on,’ he said.

  The superintendent was being so remarkably polite and affable that Angel peered at him and wondered what he was up to.

  Harker rubbed his chin then said, ‘Erm, so, that woman, Mrs Lin. You went to see her again?’

  ‘Yes, sir. In view of our discussion, I had to.’

  ‘And erm, what did she say?’

  Angel said, ‘I was shown the entry of the appointment of Haydn King in the appointment diary. It was at that same time and date that you said you were with him.’

  Harker frowned. He rubbed his chin. ‘And so I was. An entry in a book proves nowt, lad.’

  ‘That’s right, sir, but the point is that she had spoken to him several times before and knew him, whereas you didn’t know him.’

  ‘What are getting at, lad?’

  ‘Well, it was not Haydn King you saw that night, sir. You were deliberately fooled by an actor, Reuben Paschal.’

  Harker blinked several times. ‘But I had a letter from King, I was shown into his study, in his house, by his butler. He told me confidentially about his recurrent dream.’

  ‘It was a set-up, sir. It was a plot, conceived by Angel’s butler, Nicholas Fitzroy Meredith and carried out by him with the assistance of Reuben Paschal, an out-of-work actor who had a record. Clever, don’t you think, to involve a senior police officer and plant the totally fictitious tale about a repeated nightmare before the murder so that when the victim’s body was found, “suicide while the balance of his mind …” would immediately be thought to be a factor in the cause of death?’

  Harker was thoroughly annoyed. He screwed up his face and said, ‘You are barking up the wrong tree, lad.’

  ‘Paschal was a similar build to King and had a distinguished black beard. At a distance one could easily be mistaken for the other. You had never met King before, sir, had you?’

  Harker blinked then said, ‘Well, er no.’

  ‘So you wouldn’t know that it wasn’t Haydn King you were seeing. You see, Meredith knew that King was changing his will in his favour. But also knowing how fickle King was, he wanted to be sure of inheriting before King changed his will back again. He knew that he had an appointment at his solicitor’s on Monday to sign the new will. However, he had assumed, wrongly as it happened, that he kept the appointment. You see, that was the day King had a touch of gout, so he cried off and went to the doctor’s instead. Meredith wasn’t to know that that attack of gout caused Haydn King to cancel his appointment with his solicitor, so the will remained in favour of his nephew, Vincent Fleming, and King’s millions were never to come to within Meredith’s grasp.

  ‘It was Meredith who phoned the Astra Agency, having selected Paschal from their website online because he looked similar to King.’

  Harker sniffed, his watery eyes wavered like a needle in a marine compass as he listened attentively.

  ‘For a while,’ Angel said, ‘I thought it was King who had engaged the actor as his double for some reason, and it threw me completely off the track. Anyway, we learned from his sister that Paschal was desperately hard up and that he had told her that the new job would enable him to buy his own place and set himself up for the future.

  ‘King was actually killed by being struck on the head with a common or garden house brick. There are miniscule fragments in the wound. I believe the injury was intended to simulate an injury he might have suffered had he dived badly and landed on his head on the pool edge. But the murder was actually executed in King’s bedroom, probably while he was asleep. There is some brick dust there, and forensic supports this. Then the two men changed King into his swimming trunks, transferred him to his late mother’s wheelchair, transported him in the lift down to the swimming-pool and tipped him in. A book about dreams was placed at the side of his bed by Meredith to persuade us that King was greatly disturbed by the nightmares he was supposed to be having. His prints and the prints of Mrs Selina Johnson, the housekeeper, are on it, but not King’s, which was obviously significant. And that’s what made me first suspect Meredith.

  ‘After the murder, Meredith saw Paschal out of the house then phoned triple nine. However, a few days later, when Paschal found out King’s inheritance would go to his nephew, Vincent Fleming, he realized that he would not be paid the fortune promised and that he had been involved in a pointless murder. He may have threatened to go to the police if Meredith didn’t cough up. Who knows? But they must have had the most rancorous quarrel. So much so that it seemed necessary to Meredith to dispose of Paschal before he was betrayed by him. So he killed Paschal in the same way he killed Haydn King. Then, when he was dead, because Paschal looked so much like King, he hastily cut off his beard so that we would not notice the similarity. Then in the night, Meredith transferred the body … using the wheelchair again … into the boot of one of King’s cars and drove him to the canal and dumped him there. I expect to have confirmation shortly that the tread of one of the wheelchair tyres, which we thought was from a bicycle, matches the track left in the mud at the side of the canal where the body was tipped in, also that there are recent fingerprints of Meredith on the wheelchair. There are minute particles of a house brick in the skulls of both King and Paschal, the wounds are approximately in the centre of the skulls, and they were both dumped in water after they had been killed. I believe that the case against Meredith for the murder of Paschal will then be conclusive, and, as the MO is exactly the same, the jury will bring in a verdict of guilty against Meredith for King’s murder as well.’

  Harker nodded, then frowned and said, ‘How could Meredith be certain that King would be out of the house when I called?’

  ‘King had kept five consecutive weekly appointments at Mrs Lin’s on Tuesdays at 8, why wouldn’t he keep the sixth? There’s something else, sir. Haydn King was a proud man. He didn’t want it known that he had need to seek the services of a psychiatrist, and a woman psychiatrist at that. He didn’t even make an entry in his appointments diary for prying eyes to read. But he told one person, the one person he thought he could trust, his butler. King would have had to tell him, to avoid being locked out of the house and so that he knew what time to serve his bedtime cocoa or whatever.’

  Harker nodded.

  Angel continued. ‘So Meredith chose that date and time, confident that nobody knew he was consulting a psychiatrist. However, Haydn King phoned Mrs Lin on his mobile on Thursday, December 1st. We don’t kno
w what the call was about, but if my team hadn’t followed up her number and I hadn’t interviewed the lady, we might never have discovered the truth.’

  Harker held out his hands, his fingertips touching intermittently in a rhythm only he would have understood. His half-open eyes looked downward, but saw nothing. ‘You’d better get a warrant and get Meredith arrested,’ he said.

  Angel looked up at him and said, ‘It’s in hand, sir. Got a warrant from Dr Leigh and I’ve sent a patrol car to pick him up.’

  Harker blinked. ‘Mmm. I hope we are not going to be housing and feeding him for long.’

  ‘I completed the paperwork earlier this morning, sir. He can go up before the magistrates this morning and be away to Armley or Durham tomorrow.’

  ‘And he can stay there until the new year. Good riddance. What about Marcia Moore, when are we getting shot of her?’

  ‘GSL are collecting her anytime now, sir, for New Hall.’

  Harker nodded approvingly. ‘All nice and tidy for Christmas. You’d better crack on, then, lad,’ he said.

  Angel came out of the superintendent’s office and made his way down the corridor in time to hear the shrill sound of a female voice from the direction of the cells. It was Marcia Moore.

  ‘What’s all this?’ she was yelling. ‘I don’t want to wear those again. They hurt my bloody wrists. Don’t push. What’s happening?’

  ‘You’re being moved to New Hall,’ a female voice replied.

  Angel recognized the voice was that of PC Leisha Baverstock.

  ‘What for? Where’s that?’ Marcia Moore said.

  ‘It’s a woman’s prison, about ten miles away.’

  ‘Oh. I don’t want to go. I don’t want to go. I am not going.’

  ‘You have to go, Marcia. And you’ll be far better off. It’s in the countryside. You’ll be better off there, Marcia. They have far more facilities than there are here.’

  ‘Oh? I hope there’s a shop there. Anybody got a cigarette? I say, anybody got a cigarette?’

  Angel reached his office. He closed the door and returned to his desk. He had just sat down when the phone rang.

  It was Taylor. ‘You’ll be pleased to know, sir, that Meredith’s fingerprints were all over the wheelchair, and that the tread on the right-hand tyre matched exactly the track mark we found at the side of the canal.’