After the Exhibition: A Jack Haldean 1920s Mystery (A Jack Haldean Mystery) (11 page)

So Colin Askern had been looking round the chantry, had he? That, thought Jack uncomfortably, could be significant. He could have been looking for a hiding place …

‘He’s always on some money-making scheme or other,’ continued Cadwallader. ‘He’s always wanting to bring in new ideas and new ways of working. He’d do better concentrating on the firm and how we’ve always done things. The firm did very well when Mr Lythewell was in charge.’

Jack looked across the chantry floor. Another engraved flagstone caught his eye. ‘This talks about treasure, too,’ he said, walking over to it. ‘
A far lesser treasure also behold.
What does that mean, I wonder?’

Henry Cadwallader looked blank. ‘It’s a sentiment,’ he said. ‘A funeral sentiment. Mr Lythewell wrote it.’

‘Yes, but what does it mean?’

From Cadwallader’s expression it was obvious he didn’t expect a sentiment, however funereal, to mean anything.

Jack cast around for the next flagstone. It was a few feet away. ‘
Be wise. Shun greed, let avarice be mute
,’ he read
.
‘Well, it’s good moral advice, I suppose.’

‘Moral advice, you say?’ said Henry Cadwallader in satisfaction. ‘That’s exactly what I’d expect of Mr Lythewell. He always had a word in season for those who were failing. See here,’ he added, pointing to another flagstone. ‘That’s a warning, that is.’

‘
Art which is wrested from that evil root
,’
read Jack. ‘I can’t say I can exactly see what it’s warning against, but it could mean the love of money.’ Henry Cadwallader looked blank again. ‘Money is supposed to be the root of all evil,’ explained Jack. ‘St Paul says as much.’

‘Oh,’ said Cadwallader, enlightened. ‘Scripture. Well, that’s fitting, isn’t it?’ He looked dubiously at Jack. He had obviously expected more enthusiasm and fewer questions. ‘Anyway, you need to see the rest of the chantry.’

It took a good three-quarters of an hour for Henry Cadwallader to show Jack the rest of the chantry. Fortunately, Cadwallader took Jack’s keen – even minute – interest in any place that could possibly conceal a body as evidence of his overwhelming enthusiasm for the chantry, Mr Lythewell and all his works. Eventually, with a promise to return, Jack was able to make good his escape.

Bill was sitting on the bench under the oak tree outside the Brown Cow, smoking his pipe and reading the paper. With half a pint of bitter by his side he looked the picture of content. ‘Miss Wingate’s gone back to Whimbrell House,’ he said, shading his eyes from the sunshine. ‘It’s been very quiet. Your Spyker’s received some admiring glances but nobody’s paid me the slightest bit of notice. I saw Askern earlier on but I don’t think he spotted me.’

Jack paused, his hand on the car door. ‘Are you sure, Bill?’

‘Fairly sure,’ said Bill, climbing in. ‘He certainly didn’t say hello if he did see me, and there’s no reason why he shouldn’t.’

‘Unless he is our man, of course.’

‘If he is, he’d surely want to know what I was doing here. My real concern is that old fossil back at the chantry will tell everyone that Miss Wingate was there together with you and me.’

‘Don’t worry about that,’ replied Jack, climbing into the driver’s seat. ‘I don’t think he really registered you were there at all.’ He started up the car. ‘He’s what you might call single minded, is our Mr Cadwallader, and, in my opinion, a bit cracked on the subject of the late Mr Lythewell.’

‘He liked him, did he?’

‘I’d say worshipped would be the precise verb,’ said Jack with feeling. ‘You may laugh, but it’s a bit wearing after a time. Is there anywhere else you want to go, or do we head back to civilisation?’

‘London for me, Jack. I want to have a word with Sir Douglas Lynton about what we’ve found. I don’t mind telling you that those hairs trapped in the sofa and the silk caught on the wheelbarrow made quite an impression on me.’

‘So you do think Signora Bianchi was murdered?’ said Jack, letting in the clutch and pulling out onto the road.

‘I think it’s looking that way. Incidentally, I did see you put that photo of Askern’s into your pocket, didn’t I?’

‘Absolutely you did,’ said Jack. He took a hand off the wheel and, fishing the photo of Signora Bianchi out of his pocket, handed it to Bill. ‘I can’t help wondering if I’ve come across Signora Bianchi somewhere,’ he said. ‘She looks vaguely familiar.’

‘Does she?’ said Bill with interest. ‘That might be useful.’

‘Only if I can put my finger on where it was I saw her. I’ve been racking my brains, but I can’t place her.’

Bill studied the photo for a few moments. ‘She’s certainly a good-looking woman.’ He bit his lip and sighed. ‘Askern’s a fool to get involved with a woman like that. She looks like trouble to me.’ He put the photograph down and drummed his fingers on his knee thoughtfully. ‘I hope that’s all there is to it – an affair, I mean. I could see you working out how Askern could be our man back at the cottage, and I must say I have to agree he’s a possible.’ He sighed once more. ‘However, that’s some way down the road.’

‘Quite a long way, I’d say. Incidentally, Bill, you know Colin Askern is fairly keen on money?’

‘He’s not unique in that respect.’

‘No, I daresay he isn’t, but according to my pal Henry Cadwallader, there’s a rumour old Mr Lythewell left some buried treasure and Askern would love to get his hands on it.’

‘Buried treasure?’ repeated Bill sceptically. ‘You’re having me on.’

‘No, I’m not. Apparently old Mr Lythewell was loaded. Absolutely bursting with money, so it was said, but when Mr Daniel Lythewell came to inherit the firm, it had all – or most of it anyway – mysteriously disappeared.’

‘Money does that,’ said Bill with a grin.

‘So I thought, especially if you’re given to building temples to an overwhelming ego with religious leanings.’ Bill looked puzzled. ‘That’s what the chantry is, Bill. Nothing more or less. However, apparently the chantry money is all accounted for and there’s still a massive hole where the dibs should be.’

‘That’s interesting. I can’t see where it gets us, though.’

‘No, me neither,’ said Jack, giving the steering wheel a twiddle to avoid a straying hen. ‘However, there’s something about the thought of huge amounts of vanishing cash that always shouts, “Motive!” at me.’

‘I can’t see it’s any sort of motive for bumping off Signora Whosit.’

‘Not at the moment, no. We might come up with something, though.’

‘We
might,
’ said Bill guardedly. ‘Did you spot anything interesting in the chantry? I know you thought it might be a good place to leave a body. And why is it called the chantry, anyway?’

‘I asked Henry Cadwallader that. I don’t suppose anyone ever went and chanted in it. No, it’s called a chantry because it’s a nice, medieval-sounding word that Mr Lythewell liked. The place was never consecrated because the local vicar had a bit more sense than Mr Lythewell bargained for. As far as spotting anything, the quick answer is I didn’t. However, with Mr Cadwallader constantly at my side, I wasn’t able to lift paving stones and tap walls.’

‘No, I can see how you’d be hampered. It can’t involve too much effort, though. Our chap didn’t have unlimited time to dispose of the body.’

‘No … What do we think actually did happen that night?’

Bill clicked his tongue. ‘I think the set-up is probably something along the lines of what you suggested back in Chandos Row. X, the murderer, waits until Signora Bianchi has said she’s going to be away for an unspecified time, then gets her to come back to the cottage on some pretext or other. Then, knowing that her absence won’t cause any sort of stir locally, he has days, if not weeks, to dispose of the body.’

‘That’s the local angle, certainly. However, where did Signora Bianchi stay when she went away? If it was a hotel, we might be stumped. She’d merely leave the hotel to return home and no one would be any the wiser, but if she was staying with friends, they’d notice she was missing.’

‘They’ve kept pretty quiet about it if they have.’

‘M’m, yes. Depending on who her friends were, they might not like the idea of contacting the police.’

‘They were on the wrong side of the law, you mean?’

Jack shook his head. ‘Not necessarily. As she was Italian, they could be Italian too, with limited English and a distrust of authority. Or, damnit, she could’ve just told them she was off home and therefore they wouldn’t have any cause for alarm.’

‘These are all paths we’ll have to explore. I’m glad you picked up that photo. That’ll make a search much easier.’

‘A picture’s worth a thousand words, as they say. There’s one thing that I think is fairly certain. Our killer is a local man. The way the body was disposed of more or less proves that. I doubt anyone from outside the area would think of loading a body into a wheelbarrow and taking it across the fields.’

‘I think you’re right.’ Bill scratched his chin. ‘Jack, I know you had hopes for the chantry, but I’m not so sure. You can’t get a car down Pollard Wynd to Signora Bianchi’s cottage, but that field path is a fairly direct route to a proper road. What if the killer had a car waiting on the road by the field gate?’

‘He could’ve done,’ agreed Jack. ‘He could easily have done. If that’s the case, with any luck, someone will have seen it. I wonder if Lythewell and Askern employ a night-watchman? He might’ve seen something.’

‘Again, that’s something we’ll have to chase up. I’m trying to get the sequence of events clear.’

‘Okay. The killer lures the Signora to the cottage, chloroforms her and then bumps her off. The chloroform tells us this is a planned murder, not an assignation that went tragically wrong, by the way. I don’t believe anyone walks round with chloroform in their pocket just on the off-chance.’

‘No, you’re right there,’ agreed Bill. ‘So far, so good. Then poor Miss Wingate comes on the scene. She gets chloroformed in turn, while the killer does what?’

‘He leaves the body in the pigsty. That could be because he was arranging an alibi.’

‘Or moving his car into position.’

‘Or, as you say, moving his car.’ Jack drove for a couple of minutes in silence. ‘It could be a lot simpler than that, of course. Say Miss Wingate is right and it was about half past nine when she was attacked. That’s still fairly early in the evening. At this time of year it’s still dusk. The killer might have been waiting until he thought it was safe to move.’ He clicked his tongue in irritation. ‘There’s too many ifs, Bill. I’m not sure what our next step should be.’

‘I know what mine is,’ said Bill. ‘I’m going to speak to Sir Douglas Lynton. What’s more, I’ll be very surprised if he doesn’t want to have a word with you, as well.’

The next day, Jack received an invitation to call on Sir Douglas Lynton at Scotland Yard. When he was shown into Sir Douglas’s office, he wasn’t surprised to see Bill Rackham there.

‘Come in, Haldean,’ said Sir Douglas hospitably. ‘I gather you’ve found an entirely new way for my chief inspectors to spend their days off. Help yourself to a cigarette, by the way. The box is on the table.’

Jack pulled up a chair and took a cigarette with a grin. ‘I’m sorry, sir. I hope we didn’t tread on any official toes.’

‘Not exactly,’ said Sir Douglas, ‘although I had to be fairly diplomatic on the telephone this morning with Commander Pattishall, the Chief Constable of the Surrey force.’

‘Very good of you, I’m sure, sir,’ muttered Bill.

‘Just a little oil to keep the wheels turning, you understand,’ said Sir Douglas. ‘It’s difficult enough to get the local constabulary to refer matters to us at the best of times, without charging in and inventing murders for them.’

‘Inventing, sir?’ asked Jack.

Sir Douglas shrugged. ‘The supposed crime is the murder of Signora Bianchi. Leaving aside the self-confessed report of trespass by Miss Elizabeth Wingate, which is hardly our concern, the Surrey police have no record of any crime. However, Pattishall’s a sound man. I’ve met him a few times and, once I’d reassured him that there was no possible slur upon him or his men, he was prepared to listen. Like you – and I must say I share this view – he finds the evidence that you and Mr Rackham gathered yesterday disturbing. He could think of no good reason for anyone to transport expensive silk in a gardener’s wheelbarrow. Added to the strands of hair you found caught up in the frame of the sofa and Miss Wingate’s account of what she saw, it has, he agreed, an ugly suggestiveness about it. Therefore, gentlemen, I am pleased to tell you that Commander Pattishall has agreed to call us in.’ He raised an eyebrow in Jack’s direction. ‘Do I take it you want to continue to be involved in the case?’

‘Absolutely, I do,’ said Jack. ‘I warned Archie Keyne, my editor, that I was going to be otherwise engaged for the next few days. This has the makings of a really meaty problem. Not only is there a disappearing body, there’s disappearing treasure, too.’

Sir Douglas hid a smile. ‘Disappearing treasure? Yes, Rackham told me about that. You’ll probably find that the taxman’s had it all.’

Jack grinned. ‘That’s very cynical, sir. It takes all the thrill out of discovery.’

‘Cynical, eh?’ said Sir Douglas with a laugh. ‘No, Haldean, just realistic. If the taxman didn’t take his cut beforehand, then he’ll certainly have it afterwards. Now, I gather you think the murderer is a local man. I agree. Rackham told me of your concerns as to Miss Wingate’s safety. Naturally, that’s a concern I also share. Granted that our first priority is to ensure Miss Wingate’s safety, there should be no doubt in anyone’s mind that a full investigation is underway. I think the best way to achieve that is to go to Whimbrell Heath openly and make a proper search of Signora Bianchi’s cottage.’

‘Sir Douglas arranged a search warrant this morning, Jack,’ put in Bill. ‘You won’t need to sweet-talk the charwoman this time.’

‘I didn’t hear that remark,’ said Sir Douglas with a smile. ‘The other thing we can do is to find as much information as we can about Signora Bianchi. If she’s an Italian national, as seems to be the case, she must have a passport, for instance. I want to know who she is, who saw her last and who her associates were. You know the drill.’