Authors: Anthony Horowitz
‘A girl?’ Fraser asked.
‘These would seem to be notes taken down from a telephone conversation,’ Pünd suggested. ‘Mw may stand for something. Note that the w is in lower case. And the girl? Perhaps it is the subject of which they spoke.’
‘Well, he doesn’t seem to have been too pleased about it.’
‘Indeed not.’ Finally, Pünd turned to an empty envelope and next to it the letter that Chubb must have been referring to and which lay at the very centre of the desk. There was no address, just a name – Sir Magnus Pye – handwritten in black ink. It had been roughly torn open. Pünd took out a handkerchief and used it to pick up the envelope. He examined the paper carefully, then replaced it and, with equal care, picked up the letter beside it. This was typewritten and addressed to Sir Magnus Pye with a date – 28 July 1955 – the actual day that the murder had taken place. He read:
You think you can get away with it? This village was here before you and it will be here after you and if you think you can ruin it with your bilding and your money-making you are so, so wrong. You think again, you bastard, if you want to live here. If you want to live.
The letter was not signed. He laid it back on the desk so that Fraser could read it.
‘Whoever wrote this can’t spell “building”,’ Fraser remarked.
‘He may also be a homicidal maniac,’ Pünd added, gently. ‘This letter would seem to have been delivered yesterday. Sir Magnus was killed a matter of hours after it arrived – which is what was promised.’ He turned to the Detective Inspector. ‘I would imagine this relates in some way to the diagrams,’ he said.
‘That’s right,’ Chubb agreed. ‘I’ve put a call in to these people, Larkin Gadwall. They’re developers in Bath and it seems they had some sort of deal with Sir Magnus. I’ll be heading their way this afternoon and you can join me if you like.’
‘You’re most generous.’ Pünd nodded. His attention was still focused on the letter. ‘There is something about this that I find a little peculiar,’ he said.
‘I think I’m ahead of you there, Pünd.’ The detective beamed, pleased with himself. ‘The envelope is handwritten even though the letter is typed. You’d have thought that would be a dead giveaway if the sender wanted to hide his or her identity. My guess is they sealed the letter first, then realised they needed to put the name on the front but it wouldn’t fit into the typewriter. I’ve done the same myself often enough.’
‘You may well be right, Detective Inspector. But that was not the peculiarity that had occurred to me.’
Chubb waited for him to continue but, standing on the other side of the desk, James Fraser knew that he would do no such thing. He was right. Pünd had already turned his attention to the fireplace. He took the pen back out of his jacket pocket and rummaged around in the ashes, found something, carefully separated it from the rest. Fraser went over and looked down at a scrap of paper, barely larger than a cigarette card, blackened at the edges. This was the sort of moment he loved, working with Pünd. It would never have occurred to Chubb to examine the fireplace. The policeman would have taken a cursory look at the room, called for forensics and then been on his way. But here was a clue and one that might crack the case wide open. The fragment might have a name written on it. Even a few letters would provide a handwriting sample which might indicate who had been in the room. Sadly, however, in this case, the paper was blank although Pünd did not seem dispirited. Far from it.
‘You see, Fraser,’ he exclaimed. ‘There is a slight discolouration, a stain. And, I think, it will be possible to discern at least part of a fingerprint.’
‘A fingerprint?’ Chubb had heard the word and came over.
Fraser looked more closely and saw that Pünd was right. The stain was dark brown in colour and his immediate thought was spilled coffee. But at the same time, he could see no obvious relevance. Anyone could have torn up a sheet of paper and thrown it in the fire. Sir Magnus might well have done it himself.
‘I’ll get the lab to have a look at it,’ Chubb said. ‘And they can run their eye over that letter too. It’s just possible I may have jumped to conclusions, thinking about that burglar.’
Pünd nodded. He straightened up. ‘We must find accommodation,’ he announced, suddenly.
‘You’re planning to stay?’
‘With your permission, Detective Inspector.’
‘Absolutely. I believe they have rooms at the Queen’s Arms. It’s a pub next to the church but they do B & B too. If you want a hotel, you’d be better off in Bath.’
‘It will be more convenient to remain in the village,’ Pünd replied.
Fraser sighed inwardly, imagining the lumpy beds, ugly furniture and spluttering bath taps that always seemed to accompany local hospitality. He had no money himself apart from what Pünd paid him and that was little enough. But that didn’t prevent him from having expensive tastes. ‘Do you want me to check it out?’ he asked.
‘We can go there together.’ He turned to Chubb. ‘What time will you be travelling to Bath?’
‘I have an appointment at Larkin Gadwall at two o’clock and we can go straight from there to the hospital and see Lady Pye, if you like.’
‘That is excellent, Detective Inspector. I must say that it is a great pleasure to be working with you again.’
‘Likewise. I’m very glad to see you, Herr Pünd. Headless bodies and all that! The moment I got the call, I knew this was right up your street.’
Lighting another cigarette, he made his way back to his car.
To Fraser’s chagrin, the Queen’s Arms had two rooms vacant and without even going upstairs to examine them, Pünd took them both. They were as bad as he had imagined, too, with sloping floors and windows too small for the walls in which they were set. He had a view of the village square. Pünd looked out over the cemetery but made no complaint. On the contrary, there was something about the view that seemed to amuse him. Nor did he complain about the lack of comfort. When he had first started working at Tanner Court, Fraser had been surprised to discover that the detective slept in a single bed, more a cot really, with a metal frame, the blankets neatly folded back. Although Pünd had once been married, he never spoke of his wife and showed no further interest in the opposite sex. But even so, such austerity in a smart London flat seemed more than a little eccentric.
The two of them had lunch together downstairs, then stepped outside. There was a small crowd of people gathered around the bus shelter in the village square but Fraser got the impression that they were not waiting for a bus. Something had clearly interested them. They were talking in an animated sort of way. He was sure that Pünd would want to go over and see what the fuss was about but at that moment a figure appeared in the cemetery, walking towards them. It was the vicar. That much was obvious from his clerical shirt and dog collar. He was tall and lanky with unkempt, black hair. Fraser watched as he picked up a bicycle that had been resting against the gate and guided it out onto the road, the wheels creaking noisily with every turn.
‘The vicar!’ Pünd exclaimed. ‘In an English village, he is the one man who knows everyone.’
‘Not everyone goes to church,’ Fraser returned.
‘They do not need to. He makes it his business to know even the atheists and the agnostics.’
They went over to him and intercepted him before he could make his getaway. Pünd introduced himself.
‘Oh yes,’ the vicar exclaimed, blinking in the sunlight. He frowned. ‘I know the name, I’m sure. The detective? You’re here, of course, because of Sir Magnus Pye. What a terrible, terrible business. A small community like Saxby-on-Avon cannot be prepared, in any way, for such an event and it is going to be very hard for us to come to terms with it. But forgive me. I haven’t told you my name. Robin Osborne. I’m the vicar here at St Botolph’s. Well, you had probably worked that out for yourself, given your line of work!’
He laughed and it occurred to Pünd – it had even occurred to Fraser – that this was an exceptionally nervous man, that he was almost unable to stop talking and that the words were pouring out of him in an attempt to cover up whatever was actually passing through his mind.
‘I would imagine that you knew Sir Magnus quite well,’ Pünd said.
‘Passably well. Yes. Sadly, I saw him less than I would have liked. Not a very religious man. He came to services all too seldom.’ Osborne drew himself in. ‘Are you here to investigate the crime, Mr Pünd?’
Pünd replied that this was the case.
‘I’m a little surprised that our own police force should need any extra assistance – not of course, that it is in any way unwelcome. I already spoke to Detective Inspector Chubb this morning. He suggested to me that it may have been an intruder. Burglars. You are aware, I’m sure, that Pye Hall was targeted very recently.’
‘Pye Hall appears to have had more than it’s fair share of misfortune.’
‘The death of Mary Blakiston, you mean?’ Osborne pointed. ‘She is resting just over there. I officiated myself.’
‘Was Sir Magnus popular in the village?’
The question took the vicar by surprise and he struggled to find the right answer. ‘There may have been those who envied him. He had considerable wealth. And then, of course, there was the matter of Dingle Dell. It would be true to say that it aroused strong feelings.’
‘Dingle Dell?’
‘It’s a strip of woodland. He had sold it.’
‘To Larkin Gadwall,’ Fraser interceded.
‘Yes. Those are the developers, I believe.’
‘Would you be surprised to learn, Mr Osborne, that Sir Magnus had received a death threat as a direct result of his intentions?’
‘A death threat?’ The vicar was more flustered than ever. ‘I would be very surprised. I’m sure nobody around here would send such a thing. This is a very peaceful village. The people who live here aren’t like that at all.’
‘And yet you spoke of strong feelings.’
‘People were upset. But that’s not the same thing.’
‘When did you last see Sir Magnus?’
Robin Osborne was keen to be on his way. He was holding his bicycle as if it were an animal, straining at the leash. And this last question offended him. It was clear, in his eyes. Was he being suspected of something? ‘I haven’t seen him for a while,’ he replied. ‘He was unable to attend Mary Blakiston’s burial which was a pity but he was in the south of France. And before that, I was away myself.’
‘Where?’
‘On holiday. With my wife.’ Pünd waited for more and Osborne obligingly filled in the silence. ‘We had a week together in Devonshire. Actually, she’ll be waiting for me right now, so if you don’t mind …’ With a half-smile, he pushed his way between them, the gears of his bicycle grinding.
‘I’d say that he was nervous about something,’ Fraser muttered.
‘Yes, James. He was certainly a man with something to hide.’
As the detective and his assistant made their way towards their car, Robin Osborne was cycling as quickly as he could down to the vicarage. He knew he had not been entirely honest: not lying but omitting certain aspects of the truth. It was true, however, that Henrietta was waiting for him and would have expected him some time ago.
‘Where have you been?’ she asked as he took his place in the kitchen. She served a home-made quiche with a bean salad and sat down next to him.
‘Oh. I was just in the village.’ Osborne mouthed a silent grace. ‘I met that detective,’ he went on, barely leaving time for the amen. ‘Atticus Pünd.’
‘Who?’
‘You must have heard of him. He’s quite famous. A private detective. You remember that school in Marlborough? There was a teacher who was killed during a play. He worked on that.’
‘But why do we need a private detective? I thought it was a burglar.’
‘It seems the police may have been wrong.’ Osborne hesitated. ‘He thinks it has something to do with the Dell.’
‘The Dell!’
‘That’s what he thinks.’
They ate in silence. Neither of them seemed to be enjoying the food. Then Henrietta spoke, quite suddenly. ‘Where did you go last night, Robin?’ she asked.
‘What?’
‘You know what I’m talking about. Sir Magnus being killed.’
‘Why on earth would you ask me such a thing?’ Osborne put down his knife and fork. He took a sip of water. ‘I felt anger,’ he explained. ‘It’s one of the mortal sins. And there were things in my heart that were … that should not have been there. I was upset because of the news but that’s no excuse. I needed to spend time alone so I went up to the church.’
‘But you were gone such a long time.’
‘It wasn’t easy for me, Henrietta. I needed the time.’
She wasn’t going to speak, then thought again. ‘Robin, I was so worried about you. I came out looking for you. As a matter of fact, I bumped into Brent and he said he’d seen someone going up to the hall—’
‘What are you suggesting, Hen? Do you think I went up to Pye Hall and killed him? Took his head off with a sword? Is that what you’re saying?’
‘No. Of course not. It’s just that you were so angry.’
‘You’re being ridiculous. I didn’t go anywhere near the house. I didn’t see anything.’
There was something else Henrietta wanted to say. The bloodstain on her husband’s sleeve. She had seen it with her own eyes. The following morning she had taken the shirt and washed it in boiling water and bleach. It was on the washing line even now, drying in the sun. She wanted to ask him whose blood it was. She wanted to know how it had got there. But she didn’t dare. She couldn’t accuse him. Such a thing was impossible.
The two of them finished their lunch in silence.
Sitting in a reproduction captain’s chair with its curved back and swivelling seat, Johnny Whitehead was also thinking about the murder. Indeed, throughout the morning he had thought of little else, blundering around like a bull in his own china shop, rearranging objects for no reason and smoking incessantly. Gemma Whitehead had finally lost her temper with him when he had knocked over and broken a nice little Meissen soap dish, which, though chipped, had still been priced at nine shillings and sixpence.