Their eyes met. Pollard raised a quizzical eyebrow. James Westlake responded with a rueful grin.
‘Right,’ he said, getting to his feet.
Strip lighting overhead flooded Evelyn Escott’s small kitchen, illuminating the various objects on the table.
‘It’s a dead cert, sir,’ Detective-Constable Neale told Pollard. ‘You’ve only got to look at this glove under the mike. See where a thread’s been pulled in the first finger where it’s caught on something rough? Now take a look at the blow-up of the dabs on the door handle your chap did... Bit mucky, with the three lots, but the pattern and that pulled thread stand out like a sore thumb, don’t they?’
Pollard and Toye looked, as requested, and agreed. After some further discussion Constable Neale reluctantly departed.
‘Where do you propose going from here?’ James Westlake asked Pollard, leaning against the sink with hands thrust into his trouser pockets.
‘We’d better have a quick look round, I think, in case there’s some clue to where Miss Escott’s gone. Do you mind waiting?’
‘Not in the least. I’ll stay in here and keep out of the way.’
A glance into the refrigerator disclosed eggs and fats but no milk or cooked food. Remarking that this suggested a return before very long, Pollard led the way into the tiny hall and stood looking round. The house was scrupulously clean and tidy but upstairs, in Evelyn Escott’s bedroom, there were signs of a hurried departure. Drawers were not quite shut and garments had been bundled into a hanging cupboard.
Leaving Toye to investigate further, Pollard went down to the sitting room. Utilitarian, like the rest of the house, he thought, groping for the right adjective. Everything rather depressingly sensible and hardwearing. Colours that didn’t show the dirt. He had a quick vision of Jane removing small fingermarks form the white paint, which contributed so much light and brightness to their very ordinary suburban house. Here there wasn’t the vestige of a frill. The few pictures were standard reproductions, too well known, and inevitably including Van Gogh’s Sunflowers. It was difficult to feel that Evelyn Escott found them inspiring. A modest TV set was the nearest approach to an outlay for enjoyment. The whole set-up was the home of someone accustomed, over the years, to count every penny.
He turned his attention to the books. The English classics were in evidence, and there were standard reference books and well-known semi-popular works on aspects of social history. A run of thin, paper-covered books attracted his attention and he pulled out a few. They were intermittent publications by members of the Ramsden Literary and Scientific Society, on subjects relating to the town and the surrounding countryside of Glintshire. Vestigial Frescoes in the Church of St James the Less, Marlingford, he read. The Eglington Earthwork, Pillow Lavas in the Parish of Great Bidding, the Last Polecats of Glintshire...
Wrenching himself away from this fascinating investigation, Pollard replaced the booklets while reflecting that more and more about less and less had its attractions. In micro-activity of this sort you must surely be able to feel that you really had covered the ground.
The solid writing table in the window had two drawers. In one he found an indexed file of household documents, stationery and some personal letters from acquaintances in London, of no great degree of intimacy. Pollard noted down the writers’ addresses and looked through a sparsely filled address book. The right hand drawer was locked. He took a bunch of keys from a pocket and found one which opened the drawer. Evelyn Escott’s bank statements showed a steady credit balance of just over £200 since the payment of what must have been the expenses of her move to Ramsden six months earlier. There were neatly docketed personal papers, ranging from Evelyn’s birth certificate to a copy of a short, simple will, in which she left everything to the Ramsden Literary and Scientific Society ‘founded by my great-great-uncle, the late Evelyn Escott’.
It struck Pollard that there was something rather formidable as well as pathetic about her single-mindedness. He replaced the contents of the drawer, and was relocking it when Toye came in.
‘Not a thing for us upstairs,’ he said. ‘Not one to spend where she needn’t, is she?’
Pollard agreed. ‘Nothing down here, either, apart from a few addresses in London, which we can put the Yard on to. I shouldn’t think she’s likely to be at any of ’em. Does she seem to have taken much with her?’
Toye was of the opinion that little more than basic requirements and a change of clothes were missing.
Pollard got up. ‘We may as well pack it in, I think,’ he said, adding, sotto voce, ‘we can’t talk here.’
In the tiny hall space he glanced at the telephone, remarking that it seemed rather surprising that Miss Escott had gone to the expense of putting one in.
‘Sorry to have kept you hanging about, Mr Westlake,’ he said, going into the kitchen. ‘There’s really nothing to show for it, either. Miss Escott seems to have gone away in a bit of a hurry, not taking much with her, which looks as though she’ll be back soon. Just one thing you might know: is she a stamp collector?’
James Westlake looked both surprised and interested. ‘Not that I know of. She hasn’t shown up at any meetings of the RLSS Philately Section, anyway. I go along to those, being a collector in a small way, myself.’
Pollard subsided on to a chair. ‘Has the Society got a collection of its own?’ he asked, as casually as he could.
‘No, but we’ve got books on philately for local enthusiasts.’
Damn, Pollard thought. Another dud lead... ‘You know,’ he said, ‘it’s impossible not to feel that this odd visit of Miss Escott’s to the Athenaeum must be connected with the Society in some way. You’re the Chairman. You can’t, I suppose, put forward any suggestions? No impending crisis, for instance, that she might have been worrying about?’
James Westlake shook his head. ‘I’ve been sitting here racking my brains about why she went round. To the best of my knowledge and belief there’s absolutely nothing out of the ordinary in our affairs at the moment. I—’ He broke off as Toye appeared at the kitchen door, holding the telephone directory.
‘Excuse me, sir,’ Toye said, addressing Pollard. ‘I noticed a marker sticking out of this and had a look. It was in at “Hotels” in the yellow pages, and there’s one with a tick beside it.’
‘“Bella Vista Private Hotel, Beach Road, Southcliffe”,’ Pollard read aloud. ‘Sounds quite modest. Southcliffe’s about twenty miles from here, isn’t it? It’s worth a long shot, I think. Ask for — say — a Mrs Westcott, Toye, and pull out again by apologizing for having rung the wrong hotel.’
As they waited for the call to go through, it struck him that James Westlake was looking preoccupied. It was very quiet, and within seconds of Toye’s dialling they could hear the ringing tone at the other end of the line.
‘Mrs Westcott,’ Toye enunciated clearly. ‘W-E-S-T-C-O-T-T, Mrs... No, that’s not the name, I’m afraid. I’ve rung the wrong hotel... So sorry to have troubled you...’
He put down the receiver and joined them. ‘They say a Miss Escott is staying in the hotel,’ he reported, with characteristic caution but an air of satisfaction.
The others were congratulatory.
‘Inspector Cook asked me to get on to him if we ran Miss Escott to earth,’ Pollard said. ‘Her handbag’s been brought in. Naturally, we’ve got to see her ourselves. I think we’d better suggest that he ring the hotel and say he’s sending a car tomorrow morning to bring her up here to identify her property. When she’s done that, we say we want a word with her.’
James Westlake frowned slightly. ‘She’s having a pretty harrowing time, one way and another. Would there be anything against my standing by in case she wants any advice or help?’
‘None at all,’ Pollard replied. ‘I think it’s a very sound idea.’
After some further discussion, all three men left the house, James Westlake to drive to his home, and Pollard and Toye to the police station.
‘You didn’t let on about those stamps in
her bag,’ Toye said, as they waited at traffic lights.
‘No. I’ve got a hunch, you know, that there’s somehow a link with this blasted Society and the Athenaeum, and if I’m right, Westlake’s got a sort of vested interest as Chairman of the set-up. It seemed better to keep mum for the moment.’
Much to Pollard’s relief, both Superintendent Daly and Inspector Cook were off duty. Acting-Inspector Harris, who was in charge, showed signs of being overawed by having to deal with the Yard, and no questions arose about how Evelyn Escott had been located. He rang her at the Bella Vista Hotel, and reported that she seemed properly thrilled when he told her about the bag and its contents, and would be glad to come up and claim them the next morning.
Pollard thanked him and returned to Toye, who was characteristically reducing the papers on the table in their room to a degree of order. The two men settled down to write up their notes for the case file.
‘Thank the Lord that’s done!’ Pollard said, half an hour later. ‘Some day! I simply must knock off for a bit... You look as though a great thought’s hit you.’
‘I wouldn’t be surprised if Mr Westlake doesn’t end up by getting sweet on Miss Escott,’ Toye remarked decorously.
Pollard stared at him incredulously.
‘How do you know he isn’t married?’ he demanded.
‘I chanced to pick up one of those glossy County magazines over in the library,’ Toye told him. ‘There was a full page photo of him, under “Personality of the Month”, and a paragraph about all his public service underneath. It said he was a widower.’
‘Becoming the Yard’s number one romance expert, aren’t you? I refuse to join you in idle speculations, unworthy of a police officer. Here, buzz off and eat, and go to the movies to clear your head. I’m going to ring Jane first, then get a spot of exercise and fresh air when I’ve had some grub.’
The interlocking complexities of the inquiry into Annabel Brown’s death vanished at a stroke as Jane’s voice came over the line.
‘Plenty of minor roads leading nowhere in particular,’ he told her, using their private motoring code.
‘Don’t tell me you aren’t enjoying the driving,’ she said. ‘It sticks out a mile from your tone of voice. It’s art for art’s sake, of course.’
‘Shut up! We all have our better moments.’
‘Well, this definitely isn’t one of mine. The twins started chickenpox this morning... No, not really ill... Rose is a bit low this evening. Andrew has exactly six spots, and has scratched the lot... No, not on his face, fortunately... Yes, an awful bore, but it’s something to get it over before they start real school, and they’ve at least synchronized...’ The conversation became purely domestic.
When they finally rang off Pollard made for the hotel grill room. He emerged, sometime later, feeling considerably restored and had his coffee brought to a quiet corner of the lounge. He drank several cups, but found that it was not contributing much to clarity of thought about the latest developments in the inquiry.
Topics such as the mortgage on the Wimbledon house, and the pay differential between mere Superintendents and Chief Superintendents drifted through his mind like a procession of fair weather cumulus clouds. Then the recent conversation with Jane led him to consider once again his attitude to his professional reputation. Was he really becoming obsessed by his public image, the product of a string of successes in cases blown up by the news media? Jane was almost uncomfortably perceptive... Anyway, he thought, I can still get hooked on a job like this one, without a hope of a headline-hitting solution...
At last he took up the file of the case and began to digest the considerable body of information, acquired to date. Progress was slow, owing to the overwhelming desire for sleep that now descended upon him. Eventually he abandoned the attempt, fetched a coat and went out.
The fog had lifted. It was a cold, frosty night, with stars overhead and a light wind. Almost without thinking, he threaded his way through the streets to Abbot’s Green. Here he stood for a time looking at the Athenaeum, and remembering what Alastair Habgood had told him about its history. A sort of repository of centuries of human activity and experience, he thought. The mediaeval gatehouse and the eighteenth-century mansion. Old Escott’s vision and inflexible purpose and pig-headedness. The accumulated wealth of men’s knowledge and creative achievement on the shelves. The years of decline and dust and the fantastic discovery of the Donne manuscript. And now, violence and death and a frightened boy. History repeating itself, probably, from the time when the gatehouse was functional...
The sound of a car turning into the Green broke into these reflections. Acting on a unexplained hunch Pollard stepped back and stood behind some shrubs in the central area. Confirming his hunch the car, a sports model, drew up outside the Athenaeum. The two people inside sat talking for a minute or so, then a young man got out and went round to open the passenger door. Clare Fenner emerged.
Pollard felt glad she had had an evening out, away from the inevitably tense atmosphere of the Habgoods’ flat. He watched a restrained farewell and decided that the acquaintance was at an exploratory stage. The young man was not invited in; and after the door had closed behind Clare, he returned to the car and drove off.
The curtained windows of the Habgoods’ flat glowed cosily. Pollard realized that he was getting cold, and turned away, making for the hotel. On arrival he capitulated to weariness and, after a quick drink in the bar, went up to bed. He was asleep within minutes of switching off his beside lamp.
He awoke in a state of stress, struggling out of a dream in which he hunted desperately in a darkened building for an unknown object. At last he knew that he was on the brink of finding it, but in the moment of discovery was suddenly engulfed by disaster...
He raised himself, blinked and looked at his watch. It was a quarter to six, and he felt rested and remarkably clear-headed. Fortunately a chronic staff shortage had led the hotel management to provide tea-making facilities in bedrooms. He got up, brewed himself a pot and returned purposefully to bed with the file of the case.
Chapter 8
Two hours later Pollard descended to the hotel dining room, where he found Toye already at breakfast.
‘Damn all,’ he replied to an inquiry about ground covered on the previous evening. ‘My brain simply cut out, so I went for a stroll and then to bed. I slept like the dead until nearly six, since when I’ve been chewing over the file.’
Toye registered interest.
‘I can’t expound at the knife and fork stage,’ Pollard complained, spearing a sizeable length of sausage. ‘We can sit for hours over coffee, from the look of things.’
It was Sunday morning and the dining room, laid up for comprehensive breakfasts, was empty apart from themselves. A waitress who brought a fresh supply of toast looked at them with mingled resentment and curiosity. She hovered briefly, then disappeared through the service door, which closed automatically behind her with a small thud. Finally Pollard pushed his plate aside and poured himself a second cup of coffee.
‘If I had to come up with a printable adjective for this job we’re on,’ he said, taking a piece of toast, ‘I’d call it overclued. It’s positively lousy with clues. To begin with, there’s the unusually complicated setting of Annabel Brown’s death: a combined semi-public library, which is the HQ of an active local society, and the home of the librarian and his wife. Twenty-four hours or so before she died, about 130 people were milling all over it. Then there are people involved with the set-up, in various ways which may or may not tie up with the inquiry, like the Habgoods’ niece and the wretched Ernie Dibble’s mother and Professor Thornley. So, while I was sitting up in bed and swilling cups of tea just now, I tried to ignore all this detail for the moment and concentrate on the basic question: what are we here for? Sounds a bit like the title of a series of sermons, doesn’t it?’
Toye, a pillar of his parish church, looked slightly askance, and Pollard hurried on.
‘Well,’ he said,
spooning marmalade on to his plate, ‘in case it’s escaped your notice, we’re here to find out what made Annabel Brown fall down the spiral staircase in the library at the Athenaeum and kill herself. The pathologist and the forensic chaps are Don’t Knows. No marks of violence on the body, or evidence of heart failure or whatever. No grease or slippery mud on her shoes or the stairs; no structural defects in the staircase. Nothing whatever on the treads to cause a slip. The obvious explanation is that she was started by Ernie’s dropping the latch, dashed for the top of the staircase and somehow stumbled. Why don’t we send in a report to that effect, Watson?’
‘To start with, she’d no call to be there at all,’ Toye replied promptly. ‘She came in by a door she couldn’t have expected to be open, unless she’d done it herself. And there’s the funny business of her hiding behind the oil tank, and crawling around on the floor. Then there’s X, who went in ahead of her, bust open the cupboard and made off with valuable books.’
‘And, of course, she’d helped herself to some, too,’ Pollard took up. ‘The ones Cook’s chaps found on the floor with her dabs on ’em. There’s also the mysterious visit of Y, sometime after midnight. Y appears to be a respectable maiden lady with a fixation on this Society, who carries very valuable stamps about in a handbag and gets herself mugged.’
‘The mugger being this lad Ernie, who makes an unlawful entry into the building, and gives out that he made a clatter and heard scuffling inside the library, somebody calling out, then a crash.’
‘Don’t forget,’ Pollard said, ‘that he says he also heard a door shut, quiet like, and was afraid to beat it at once because he thought he heard a car outside. When he did cut and run, he didn’t see any car. Nor did he see anybody come out of the building or the yard, though he hung around in the bushes until Clare Fenner arrived at five minutes past seven.’
Toye considered these points. ‘I don’t see that Ernie’s not having seen anybody come out means much,’ he said. ‘If X pushed Brown down the staircase he could have waited in the boiler house until he thought the coast was clear. It could’ve been then that he sat by the boiler and the chair made those marks on the floor. And if the boy really heard a door closing, it could have been the camouflaged one, when X went through to the boiler house.’
Step in the Dark Page 10
