The Nine Bright Shiners

by Anthea Fraser

  Miles’s willingness to endure the children’s company surprised Jan, and she was touched by the measure of his concern. ‘That’s a very kind thought,’ she said warmly, ‘we’d be delighted.’

  ‘Forgive me if I don’t join you,’ Lady Peel murmured. ‘This cold weather is a trial, and I’m happier by my own fire. But by all means go out and enjoy yourselves. Heaven knows, you’ve earned a respite.’

  Dr Stapleton, who was based at the Royal Broadshire, again conducted the post mortem, and this time there were no surprises. Death was caused by a blow to the back of the head, consistent with being hit with the heavy, sharp-edged ashtray which had been found at the scene. Tests would almost certainly match the blood on it to that of the dead woman. Time of death would be established after analysis of the stomach contents, but was most likely between midday and two p.m.

  ‘Lunch-time,’ Webb said gloomily. ‘Not easy to check alibis during lunch-time.’ He thought again of the bank-manager, who lunched at the Commodore Hotel. When he’d been to the hospital, they’d pay him another visit.

  Bates was lying propped up on pillows, with a sinister assortment of tubes disappearing under the bedclothes. He opened his eyes as Webb approached with the requisite bunch of grapes, and automatically struggled to straighten himself, stopping with a grimace of pain.

  ‘I’m sorry, Skipper!’ he began, before Webb could speak. ‘What an infernal thing to happen, right in the middle of a case!’

  ‘By the look of you, that’s the least of your worries. I’m not denying we could use you, but we’re just about coping.’ He seated himself gingerly on the chair beside the bed. ‘The important thing is, how are you feeling?’

  ‘Not too good, to be honest, but it’ll be better once the poison drains away. Never mind all that, how’s the case going?’

  Absolved from further solicitous inquiry, Webb gladly changed the subject and brought him up to date on developments. ‘I don’t mind telling you, you put the wind up us!’ he added with a grin. ‘We thought you’d been attacked while inspecting the grounds. Got a search under way – hopeless, really, in all that snow. Then Doc Roscoe phoned and put us in the picture.’

  Bates smiled weakly. He seemed to be tiring, and Webb wondered if he should go. But then he said, ‘So now you’re off to see this Rollo chap again?’

  ‘That’s right – he’s got a bit of explaining to do. Oh, and we had a response to that picture you organized. Cafe-owner down here recognized Marriott. Said he’d been in for lunch before Christmas, so we want a word with him, too.’

  ‘Too bad I can’t do my stint. I’m no use to anyone, cooped up here.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it; just concentrate on getting better.’ He paused. ‘Family been in?’

  ‘The wife and son, yes.’ Bates gave a faint smile. ‘At least it’s nearer for them to come here than if I’d been in Shillingham. Might as well look on the bright side.’

  ‘You live actually in Heatherton?’

  ‘Just this side of it. Twenty minutes’ drive.’ He hesitated. ‘Will they get you another replacement, Skip?’

  ‘I don’t know, Stan. Depends how long you’re likely to be laid up. Alan Crombie’s away three months.’

  ‘Sorry to let you down like this.’

  ‘Don’t be daft,’ Webb said gruffly. ‘I must be on my way now, but I’ll look in again and keep you posted. Take care, and don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.’

  The last time he’d been in a hospital, he reflected, walking back along the shiny corridors that smelled of disinfectant was when he’d called in with Jackson to see Millie and the twins. Once this case was over, he must go round to see his godson.

  The cafe-owner was willing to help but had little to offer. He was at least certain of the date, since it was the day he put up his Christmas tree, and Marriott had commented on it. ‘Never do it till a week before Christmas,’ he explained, ‘and down it comes straight after New Year. Can’t be bothered with all the clutter, to be honest, but the customers seem to expect it.’

  ‘He didn’t say where he was going, or ask for directions?’

  ‘’Fraid not, sir. He just passed the time of day, like, then got on with his omelette and chips. I did ask, when he mentioned Christmas, if he’d got any kiddies, and he laughed and said not on your life.’

  ‘You say he arrived just after two. How long was he here?’ The man shrugged. ‘About an hour. The rush was over, so we didn’t need his table. When he’d finished his meal, he got out a pad and spent some time writing. And he had two cups of coffee. Seemed to be filling in time, probably till he had to meet someone.’

  ‘So he left here about three?’

  ‘That’s right, mate, give or take a few minutes. Poor bloke, I little thought he was going out to his death. Gave me quite a turn, seeing his picture in the News’

  Webb unfolded a street map and spread it on the counter-top. The Golden Pear was in the High Street, not far from where Marriott had left his car. Presumably it was on his route, but that left open three-quarters of Broadminster.

  ‘Well, thanks for your help, Mr Brown.’ Webb made a play of patting his pocket. ‘Must get myself some cash before the banks close. Have you a branch of the National nearby?’

  ‘Yes, mate. Other side of the road, just past the Market Street turning. You can’t miss it.’

  ‘Thank you.’ So that could easily have been Marriott’s destination. Turning up their collars, they went out into the snow.

  Mr Rollo was not pleased to see them. He showed them into his office with controlled impatience and said curtly, ‘I’ve already helped you all I can, gentlemen, and I have an interview with a client in five minutes.’

  Webb watched him as he shuffled papers on his desk. He had a heavy face, early good looks having coarsened to the blurred outlines of middle age. There were incipient bags under the dark eyes, and the black, un-English hair was sprinkled with grey.

  ‘We won’t detain you longer than necessary, sir,’ Webb said smoothly, ‘but we have a point to clear up. When we saw you on Tuesday, you assured us you hadn’t heard of Guy Marriott.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Well, sir, we have reason to believe that wasn’t the truth.’

  The man’s sallow face flushed, ‘I’m not used to being called a liar, Officer,’ he said stiffly.

  ‘You still maintain you didn’t know the gentleman?’

  ‘Of course I do.’

  ‘Could you tell me then, sir, what you were doing on –’ he made an unnecessary reference to the notebook in his hand – ‘Thursday, 6th November?’

  ‘Good God, that’s more than two months ago. Without consulting my diary, I’ve no idea.’

  ‘Perhaps I can help you, sir. You had lunch at the Commodore Hotel in London. With Mr Marriott.’

  The man stared at him and little beads of sweat broke out on his forehead. Webb sat in silence, waiting.

  ‘I do go to London occasionally,’ Rollo said at last. ‘And I may well have lunched at the Commodore. But not, I assure you, with Mr Marriott. As I told you, we never met.’

  Webb’s face remained impassive, but he was puzzled. Something about that lunch engagement caused the man acute anxiety, yet his voice when he denied all knowledge of Marriott had the ring of truth.

  ‘Perhaps you’d tell us, then, who you did meet?’

  Again that flash, deep in the dark eyes – of wariness? Fear?

  ‘It was a business engagement.’

  ‘Ah, so you do remember?’

  Rollo said drily, ‘It’s coming back to me,’ and Webb felt a grudging admiration. Seeing that a name was awaited, the man added reluctantly, ‘I believe that was the day I lunched with Mr Roy Sinclair, of Lee Charterhouse.’

  ‘The stock-brokers?’

  Rollo swallowed nervously. ‘That’s right. We first met at a financial conference a couple of years back.’

  ‘You must have had a lot to talk about.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

>   ‘It was a long lunch, wasn’t it? Twelve-fifteen till four o’clock?’

  The heightened colour drained away, leaving Rollo’s skin even more sallow and emphasizing his Italian ancestry. With an effort, he said, ‘We’d some business to discuss.’

  ‘I see. And where were you at lunch-time yesterday?’

  The man looked at him blankly. His mind was obviously still on the previous question. ‘Yesterday? I was here, of course.’

  ‘Surely you went out to eat?’

  ‘Oh – yes. I go home for lunch, Chief Inspector. As you know, I live close by.’

  As Webb had remarked, lunches were notoriously hard to verify. And Mrs Rollo, if appealed to, would back her husband, whether he were there or no.

  The phone sounded on the desk. Rollo put out a hand and flicked a switch.

  ‘Mrs Brewster’s here, Mr Rollo.’

  ‘Thank you. Tell her I shan’t keep her a moment.’ He sat staring down at the phone, then wrenched his eyes back to Webb. ‘Is that all you need to know?’

  Webb returned his gaze, and it was the bank manager’s eyes which fell first. ‘For the moment, Mr Rollo, but we know where to find you.’

  Outside, a blueness was seeping into the afternoon and it was freezing hard. ‘What do you make of all that, Ken?’ Webb asked, turning back towards the car.

  ‘Beats me, Guv. You think he really didn’t know Marriott?’

  ‘It rather looks like it.’

  ‘But Marriott knew him. It’s in his diary. Though why he should make a note about two other people meeting for lunch is beyond me – not to mention how long it went on.’

  ‘Marriott was an investigative journalist,’ Webb said drily, ‘and as you know, Ken, they move in mysterious ways. Still, we have his notebooks for November – they may give us a clue. If Rollo was up to some private hanky-panky, it’s no skin off our nose. All that concerns us is whether he was connected with Marriott’s death. If he wasn’t, he’s welcome to take all day over his lunches.’

  Jan had persuaded the children to play outside that afternoon, and for an hour or so, making their first snowman, they’d forgotten the cloud that hung over them. They had come in rosy and bright-eyed, and it wasn’t till bedtime that a measure of fear returned. Julie, having had the first bath, was first into bed, and when Jan sat down to wait for Ben, she reached for her mother’s hand.

  ‘What is it, darling?’

  ‘He wouldn’t really try to kill us, would he, Mummy? The man who killed Lily?’

  ‘Julie! How could you even think such a thing?’

  ‘Ben said he would, if he found out we knew.’

  ‘Then Ben had no right to frighten you.’ She paused. ‘Knew what?’

  Julie glanced at the door, but it remained half-shut. ‘Where it is,’ she said in a whisper.

  Jan frowned. ‘Where what is?’

  Belated caution flushed the child’s cheeks, but since her mother was waiting, she reluctantly answered, ‘What he’d come for.’

  ‘But he couldn’t “find out”, because you don’t know, do you? So there’s nothing to worry about.’

  But if we did?’ Julie persisted, her fingers gripping Jan’s hand. ‘Then would he?’

  ‘Darling, stop worrying! There’s nothing to be frightened of, I promise.’

  The child started to say something, but broke off as Ben came into the room. It wasn’t the time to chastise him, but she’d have a word with him tomorrow about frightening his sister. Jan kissed them both good night, and went downstairs.

  ‘Could you lend me something to read?’ she asked Lady Peel, when it was time for them, too, to go to bed. ‘I was browsing through a book on Peru, but I left it at Rylands.’

  Lady Peel smiled. ‘If you want another, there’s plenty of choice. Reggie’s books are all as he left them, in his study.’

  ‘May I borrow one? I’d take great care of it.’

  ‘My dear, help yourself.’

  Sir Reginald’s study, unlike Edward’s, was on the ground floor, a large, oak-lined room with heavy leather furniture and books all round the walls. One entire section was devoted to Peru, and Jan, spoilt for choice, almost abandoned the daunting rows of shelves for another subject. But after flicking through one or two volumes, she finally selected Treasures of the Incas. If, after all, she felt too tired to read, she could at least look at the colour plates.

  By the time she was ready for bed, however, she was too drowsy even for pictures. Deciding to leave the book till the next day, she was laying it on the table, when she noticed a slip of paper barely visible between the leaves. Curious, she picked the book up again, opening it at the marked page.

  It is a cause of frustration to chroniclers [she read], that two of the Incas’ greatest treasures have never been found. More priceless than any that were seized by the Spaniards, they were removed from Cuzco by Manco Inca when he fled to Vilcabamba, and despite diligent searches over the centuries, have never been recovered.

  The first of these objects was the Punchao, the original golden image of the sun, which contained a powder made from the hearts of dead Incas. It was thought at one time that the Spaniards had captured this, but it later proved to be only a copy, of which many were found.

  The image was said to be surrounded by golden medallions so arranged that, when struck by the sun, they dazzled the beholder, ensuring that no one could look on the idol itself.

  The second prize to elude capture was the legendary emerald collar belonging to Cura Ocllo, wife of Manco Inca. This magnificent piece was described in detail by Juan Pizarro, younger brother of the Governor, who met his death at the hands of Manco Inca and his supporters during the siege of Cuzco in May 1536. He claimed that the nine unflawed emeralds were as large as quails’ eggs and mounted in intricate gold filigree. It was reputed to be the crowning achievement of Inca craftsmen.

  Jan frowned, lifting the book closer to the light. She was not mistaken; a light pencil bracket had been drawn in the margin, taking in the whole page, and alongside it was a large exclamation mark.

  CHAPTER 9

  ‘Tony! I asked if you wanted more toast?’ Angela Rollo gazed at her husband in exasperation. ‘Honestly, I don’t know what’s got into you. Ever since you came home yesterday, you’ve been acting like a zombie – I don’t think you’ve heard a word I’ve said!’

  He roused himself with an effort, said automatically, ‘I’m sorry, dear.’

  ‘Well, do you or don’t you?’

  ‘Do I what?’

  ‘Want some more toast, for God’s sake!’

  ‘Oh – no, thank you.’ He looked with faint surprise at the crumbs on his plate. He’d no recollection of eating. God, she was right – he must pull himself together. But how the hell had the police got on to the Commodore business? And what, in the name of heaven, did it have to do with that disreputable tramp they’d found?

  Roy had assured him there was no risk. Because it wasn’t only the Commodore and Camilla, though in all conscience that was bad enough. Far more potentially damaging was the link with the Bank. That, if questions were asked, could cost him his career. Might even, he thought in growing panic, land him in prison. How could he ever have been so stupid, so criminally reckless, as to have become involved?

  In the large house across town, Lady Peel was also having an uncomfortable breakfast. Not in the material sense; she was, as always, propped up in the large bed, with soft pillows at her back and merino blankets over her thin legs. The room, luxuriously feminine, had its usual morning scent of toast and China tea, and the air, even at so early an hour and with snow on the outside sill, was comfortingly warm. Despite the efficiency of the central heating, she had retained her bedroom fireplace, and in this exceptionally cold weather, an open fire, safe behind its guard, burned day and night.

  But like Rollo at his kitchen table, her mind was not on the meal. For the double murder, terrible enough in itself, seemed to her the embodiment of a disquiet she had lived with for thirty year
s. Her greatest fear, now, was that the police would uncover a trail leading back not only to Edward, but to dear Reggie. And how could she bear that?

  Strange, she reflected, sipping the almost colourless tea, that Janis should have asked about that expedition. Or perhaps not strange, simply a preordained pattern foreshadowing the final disclosure. Though what that could be, she’d no idea. Reggie had never confided in her, but the secret he’d shared with William and Laurence had, in the end, overshadowed his death. And she knew it was rooted in that third expedition.

  She rested her head against the pillows, closing her eyes and letting the memories come, as she attempted yet again to uncover those roots.

  At the time, William Langley’s illness had been uppermost in their minds, and the edginess she detected in both Reggie and Laurence was explained by that. Even so, since he was over the worst by the time they reached home, their constant trips to Broadminster had struck her as excessive. Then had come the bombshell, the suggestion that they leave their comfortable home in Oxted and move to Broadshire themselves.

  She stirred, and the delicate teacup, still beneath her fingers, rattled on its saucer. Gently she pushed the wheeled trolley further down the bed. She had hinted to Janis that

  Isabelle’s health was a deciding factor in the move; in truth, Isabelle had been as reluctant as herself to be uprooted. But for some reason she’d never understood, both Reggie and Laurence were determined to move closer to William. Her objections to leaving friends, voluntary work, her beloved garden, all had been overriden with uncharacteristic impatience. As Rowena was at boarding-school, her education wouldn’t be affected. There was nothing, she was told, to keep them in Surrey.

  During those months of upheaval, Reggie had been like a stranger, nervous and irritable, and with occasional outbursts of a febrile excitement that alarmed her. Only after they were installed here in Cajabamba – and how she’d argued against that ridiculous name – had be begun to relax, though the visits to William were as regular as ever.

  A tap on the door disturbed her musings, and Edith came in to remove the tray.

  ‘Have Mrs Coverdale and the children left yet?’