An Act of Evil (18 page)

“
None of that’s hard evidence.”

“
Perhaps not.” Maltravers lit a cigarette. “And he’s almost certainly got no witnesses to prove where he’s been the past couple of weeks. But don’t try to tell me that pitiful little Welshman killed the woman he loved.

“
It’s none of my business to tell you your job,” he added as Jackson was leaving, “but I hope you go easy on him. It wasn’t his fault you wasted so much time.”

As
the door closed behind Jackson, Melissa and Rebecca came into the room from the kitchen. The little girl ran to Maltravers.

“
Come on, Uncle Gus,” she pleaded. “We’re going to see the fair. You promised.”

As
the police interrogation of Arthur Powell began, his motorcycle and side-car, parked in Punt Yard, were collected by a police van and taken in to be examined for any signs that the vehicle had been used to carry any parts of Diana’s body. Powell, numb and moving like a man in a trance, was taken to an interview room and formally cautioned again.

“
Do you wish to say anything?” Inspector Ruth Barratt asked him. “You are not obliged to say anything unless you wish to do so, but whatever you say will be taken down in writing and may be given in evidence.” The words seemed to make no impression on Powell, his eyes fixed unseeingly on the bare table top.

“
Do you wish to have a solicitor present?” Powell silently shook his head, then after a few moments, quietly spoke.

“
I’ll tell you the truth of it.” As a policewoman took shorthand notes, he spoke for twenty minutes, then was taken to the police station cells and given a meal while his statement was typed and taken to Madden. It fitted in with all Maltravers had said.

Powell
had first become aware of Diana Porter through the nude photograph in the paper and had been captivated by the images — not only sexual ones — which it had conjured in his mind. The letter he had written to her was his own inept and immature way of trying to express himself; the knife he had referred to was just another object of his irrational affection. He had visited Vercaster because he wanted to see her in real life. As far as he was concerned she could have recited the telephone directory in the Chapter House and he would have been satisfied. He had waited in Punt Yard the following afternoon for another glimpse of her until he realised Maltravers had noticed him. After that he had simply gone on holiday.

For
two weeks he had seen no newspapers and heard no radio, living his solitary existence in the emptiest places he could find, feeding his loneliness and rejection of human company with the recollection of having seen Diana Porter, the remote, untouchable and unthreatening substitute for a normal relationship. He had stayed on National Park land where he did not ask anyone’s permission to camp and, although he remembered being seen by occasional hikers, there was no one who could prove where he had been. The shock of reading about what had happened led him instinctively to make his way back to Vercaster as quickly as he could, desperately hoping that someone in Punt Yard would deny it all.

He
had no alibis, no witnesses to his movements. Quietly, relentlessly, constantly, he repeated his innocence of having harmed Diana Porter in any way. Finally he fell into a brooding silence, his mind filled with the darkest shadows and deep personal hatred of whoever it was who had destroyed his private goddess. He signed the statement in a hand that had scarcely developed from the precise and concentrated writing of a child.

Seeing
two weeks of meticulous police work dissolve, Madden was furious and frustrated. The initial report from the examination of Powell’s vehicle said there appeared to be no traces of blood or anything else incriminating. And saliva tests proved that he had not sent the packages to the Dean and the Bishop. Madden gave orders for two officers to fly to Los Angeles, then stalked through to the incident room. Surrounded by files, maps, reports and other miscellaneous paraphernalia of the manhunt for Powell, his team listened in subdued and deflated silence.

“
It appears possible, perhaps even likely, that hundreds of police hours and thousands of pounds of public money have been wasted.” Madden glowered round the room as if he were holding everyone in it personally responsible for the situation. “Unless we can find some hard evidence that Arthur Powell is a very clever murderer indeed, we are left in the position that nearly two weeks after Miss Porter vanished we could be no nearer finding the person or persons responsible. I have been given the personal approval of the Chief Constable to strengthen this inquiry team, if necessary with officers from other forces. However hard you have been working up to now, I expect you to work twice as hard from now on. Inspector Barratt, Sergeant Jackson, Sergeant Neale — my office.” With a final glare, Madden left the room and his audience visibly relaxed.

When
Jackson and the others entered Madden’s office he had his back to them, staring through the window at the passing traffic. They stood in an uncertain line waiting for him to speak.

“
Arrange for Powell’s story to be checked,” he said without turning round. “He has told us where he claims to have been. Request the appropriate forces to see if they can find anyone who can substantiate his story.” He slowly revolved to face them. “Within this room, I am not yet quite prepared to accept that we have been engaged on a monstrous and ridiculous wild-goose chase, though that is exactly what he may have caused.”

Jackson
wondered if Madden was actually contemplating some means of finding a way to charge the hapless Powell with wasting police time.

“
If that is the case, however,” Madden continued stonily, “we are left with only one other known suspect. This man Sinclair. While that is being investigated, there is one other avenue immediately open to us.” He sat down.

“
I want every available plain clothes officer at the Medieval Fair this afternoon and the final performance of these Mystery Plays this evening. Everybody in Vercaster who has been in any way connected with this business will be there, particularly those most intimately connected with Miss Porter.” He hesitated to let the significance of the remark sink in. He was returning to first, reliable principles that dictated that murderers almost invariably knew their victims.

“
I am arranging to be on the official platform to watch the plays this evening. You may rest assured that I shall be as alert and on duty as anyone else. That is all.”

Having
realised that Powell could be slipping through his fingers, still convinced that Sinclair was an unlikely suspect, and faced with no other immediate possibilities, Madden was returning to one name that had never totally left his mind: that of Augustus Maltravers.

*

The cathedral meadow was now all noise, bustle, laughter, music and movement. Gleefully clutching a certificate, Little Bo-Peep ran across the grass to her parents.

“
I won, mummy! I won!” She had in fact come second to a little boy dressed as Darth Vader who, Maltravers noted suspiciously, appeared to be the grandson of Councillor Hibbert, but any kind of award was a victory for Rebecca. From a loudspeaker on a pole near where they were standing a metallic voice announced that the knights were about to start jousting and they made their way down towards the riverside arena.

“
I can’t stop thinking about that sad little man,” said Tess. “He’s just another victim of all this.”

“
I wonder if Madden can see that,” replied Maltravers.

They
reached the edge of the roped-off enclosure in which a man was introducing the combatants, divided for maximum effect into the goodies and the baddies. They were led respectively by Sir Geoffrey of Leicester, with an air of suitably modest chivalry, and the aggressive and uncouth Black Knight, scowling as he was jeered by the crowd and then taking it out on his dwarfish squire with a gratuitous kick. Their attendant knights battled spectacularly in a skilfully rehearsed programme, then the two principals galloped thunderously towards each other.

The
Black Knight was unseated and ran in fury to take an alarmingly real looking two-handed sword from the side of the arena and brandish it, bawling defiance at his shining opponent. Sir Geoffrey dismounted, armed himself with a matching weapon, and the crowd went quiet as the clang of heavy blades sounded across the arena. What had been a harmless piece of entertainment took on an unnerving air of genuine viciousness.

“
They’ve got him I understand?” a voice said behind Maltravers’ shoulder. It was Jeremy Knowles.

“
Pardon? Oh, yes Powell. How did you know?”

“
I had to go to the police station this morning. The son of a client was on a drugs offence. The place was full of the news. You must be very relieved.”

“
Not really.” Maltravers stepped back from the rope so he could speak to Knowles more easily and started to explain.

“
And you felt quite sure he was telling the truth?” Knowles interrupted.

“
Absolutely. That man’s no more guilty than you or I.”

“
That explains why Mr Madden was looking so ill-humoured when I saw him in the corridor. Where do they go from here?”

Their
voices were drowned by a chorus of boos as the Black Knight perpetrated some further misdemeanour and they both turned to look. The opposing knights were galloping towards each other furiously, the banners that covered their horses flapping wildly. They were only a few yards apart when a giant of a man in a leather jerkin stepped imperiously between them holding a sword aloft and bellowed for them to halt. One horse reared violently, its flying hooves catching the glare of the sun before thudding down within inches of the referee.

“
That was too close for comfort,” said Knowles. “They usually leave a greater margin of safety than that.”

“
You’ve seen them before then?”

“
Oh, yes, they’re a popular attraction around here. My brother’s the Black Knight. Of course it’s all as arranged as a wrestling match — he has to lose at the end.” He smiled sardonically. “Like me tonight.”

Maltravers
looked again at the Black Knight and now saw the family resemblance. When he turned back Jeremy Knowles was walking hurriedly away. In the arena it was being announced that there would be a period while tempers were allowed to cool before a final melee.

For
the remainder of the afternoon they wandered idly about the fair. Maltravers bought Tess a brooch shaped like Talbot’s Tower from the cathedral stall.

“
A souvenir of Vercaster,” he said as he pinned it to her shirt.

“
I’ve got a lot of those,” she replied.

They
were listening to the band from Vercaster’s French twin-town playing beneath its tented awning, the musicians in deep shade amid the brilliant, hot sunshine, when Jackson walked up to them.

“
Has Powell convinced Madden yet?” Maltravers asked him.

“
Shall we say that Mr Madden has severe doubts? We’re still waiting for anything from Wales or the Lake District that might prove his story. But I agree with you. I can’t see that he did it.” A uniformed policeman strolled by and studiously ignored him. “At the moment we’re concentrating our efforts here. As Mr Madden says, all the principals are hereabouts. I’ve seen all the clergy and several other people who were at the performance in the Chapter House.”

Maltravers
looked round and saw the gaitered Dean approaching.

“
Do you think there’s a murderer among them?” he asked Jackson.

“
There’s a murderer somewhere.” Jackson quietly stepped back into the crowd as the Dean reached them, grave and sympathetic.

“
Our celebrations must be somewhat painful for you,” he said.

“
It’s what my sister refers to as ‘being British’.” Maltravers gave the Dean a rueful smile. “You know that Powell’s turned up?”

“
Canon Cowan told me what happened this morning. It’s ironic that what we supposed would resolve everything seems to have somehow made matters worse.” The Dean seemed lost for anything further to say. With a smile for Tess he excused himself and walked away.

As
the afternoon wore lazily on amid the colour and cacophony, Maltravers twice saw Jackson, each time quietly talking to other people whom he supposed were plain clothes officers. He spotted occasional men and women in the crowd who seemed detached from their carnival surroundings, their eyes passing with unnatural keenness over people’s faces; running through the Medieval Fair was a sharp edge of police activity.

Rebecca
started to wilt as the novelty of everything began to pall and tiredness took over so they began to stroll back towards Punt Yard. They passed a gallery of raked seats that had been set up on a platform opposite a wooden stage on the south side of the Refectory.

“
That’s where we are tonight,” said Melissa. “For the Mystery Plays. The seats are for the organising committee and invited guests. Everyone else sits on the grass.” She looked at the empty seats and stage for a moment. “Then it’s all over, thank God.” Distantly, from the far end of the field, there was a roar as the good and bad knights began their final merciless combat.