That St Albans exists is beyond dispute; that Vercaster bears a marked resemblance to that city is acknowledged; that the characters and incidents of this book are imaginary is certain.

Chapter One

“REBECCA, MY DEAR,” said Augustus Maltravers, “you are a child to make one contemplate the possible attractions of celibacy.”

This reasonably well turned aphorism, which he had spent some minutes mentally constructing, was totally ignored by his three-year-old niece who contentedly continued to dismantle his retractable ball-point pen which had proved a greater attraction than a scattered and rejected collection of ingenious toys marrying education with entertainment. There was a slight twang as the spring jumped out, much to her delight, and, quite inexplicably, a further streak of ink appeared on her hand; the exit of the spring appeared to trigger a total self-destruct mechanism and the entire pen collapsed into its component parts. Her mother, Melissa, came back into the kitchen, instantly comprehended the scene and took appropriate action. In a single maternal movement she scooped Rebecca up with one arm, planted her in the middle of a previously demolished yellow plastic construction and stepped expertly through the various pieces of debris to the sink.

“Don’t give her things like pens, Augustus,” she said. “At this age everything ends up in the mouth.”

Maltravers retrieved what he hoped were all the dismembered parts and began the formidable task of reassembly in the proper order. His wife, with whom he had shared a physically satisfactory but otherwise hollow brief marriage, had once remarked that he only just understood the principle of the hammer and that he approached anything more technical than replacing a light bulb with caution and a profound sense of the hostility of the inanimate.

“Isn’t it time to go and collect Diana?” asked Melissa, and Maltravers realised from her tone of dissolving patience that he had failed to fulfil the role of avuncular child-minder as surely as he would never make a manufacturer of pens.

“She’s not due for nearly an hour,” he countered cautiously.

Melissa’s back made subtle but eloquent movements plainly indicating that that was not the required response and Rebecca’s coincidental demands of a lavatorial nature convinced him that his departure would be prudent. Like all people without children, he found their basic natural functions threatening.

“I’ll wander round to the cathedral,” he said.

“What an excellent idea. Oh, and you can buy some avocados while you’re out. They’re for dinner before we go tonight.”

Suitably instructed on the correct methods of assessing avocados, Maltravers set off into the streets of Vercaster. As a residentiary cathedral canon, his brother-in-law Michael occupied a handsome, if tied, Georgian house in the cathedral precincts of Punt Yard, conveniently central but constantly plagued by the cars of tourists and shoppers. The only possibility of punting lay on the lethargic waters of the River Verta, nearly a quarter of a mile away in the hollow of the valley which the cathedral and its compact city had once dominated; before, that is, late Victorian development brought by the railways, and the questionable pleasure of commuting the twenty miles or so into London, had spread the stain of urban growth about the adjacent land.

What Maltravers irreverently — and to Michael’s mild annoyance — referred to as God’s desirable detached property loomed to his left as he stepped through the front door, the end of the Lady Chapel almost opposite him. Vercaster Cathedral owed its existence to a Saxon peasant girl, its splendour to sheep and its survival to tobacco. Etheldreda, an otherwise unremarkable child, had fallen into a transported fit one day on the hill where it now stood, crying that she could see hosts of angels and hear the sound of bells. Shortly afterwards, she died in a similar state of ecstasy and the contemporary authorities, with an eye to their vulnerable immortal souls, had erected the first church on the site of her experience. The Normans had developed the building but their work had been gloriously overtaken in the fourteenth century when Flemish immigrants, combining their weaving skills with the abundant supply of wool, created vast local wealth coinciding with the soaring burst of Perpendicular architecture. The result was an ascending masterpiece of Man praising God in stone and stained glass, with the particular magnificence of the Chapter House by the south transept. Its incredibly delicate stone tracery cascaded in a dome of lace-like interlocking triangles of woven masonry above eight burning windows of polychromatic glass. After the Benedictine monks had been summarily evicted to provide Henry VIII with some much-needed cash, the structure had declined until the early nineteenth century when one Thomas Reade, a son of the city who had made his fortune in the plantations of Virginia, had paid for its complete and intelligent restoration, saving it from the later ham-fisted attentions of the Victorians.

Architecturally it was marred only by an external folly, the hundred and forty foot tower at the west end whose height had been increased in 1620 to make it theoretically visible throughout the diocese. The additional weight thus imposed had caused dramatic but inelegant flying buttresses to become necessary at its base. The whole enterprise had suffered an unfortunate start when the aging Bishop who was to dedicate the extension collapsed and died while climbing the additional stairs. He had been granted the post mortem compensation of having the entire tower named after him and in distant parts of the diocese the rhyming couplet, When Talbot’s Tower’s by morning seen/ Then rain will come before the e’en had formed part of local weather lore ever since with its alternative, When Talbot’s Tower you cannot see/ It’s raining cats and dogs on thee completing the inevitable meteorological logic of such phenomena.

Maltravers turned left out of the house, away from the main road at the opposite end of Punt Yard, and followed the silhouette of his shadow towards the south transept door. He was a tall, angular man whose movements fell just short of clumsiness. Beneath erratic brown hair was a long face which seemed to have lived only the summers of his thirty-four years; what had been irritatingly youthful features ten years earlier were becoming increasingly advantageous with the passage of time. He was in Vercaster for the city’s resurrected Arts Festival, an event originally started to celebrate Victoria’s Diamond Jubilee but which had gone into a marked decline and eventual death after being left during the 1930s in the care of an elderly citizen whose exclusive passion for pastoral dance had first limited, then totally suffocated, its appeal. It had now been reborn to mark the 400th anniversary of a visit by Elizabeth I to grant the city’s charter. The cost of feeding her camp-followers had regrettably bankrupted the first Earl of Verta; happily for the family his great-grandson had restored their fortunes after the Restoration by prudently supplying his sister as a mistress to Charles II.

Arrangements augured well for the reborn festival. A respectable string quartet, symphony orchestra and jazz composer of whom even the Bishop had heard, were to perform; a poet with some claim to rival Larkin was to give a reading; the not unaccomplished Vercaster Players’ amateur dramatic society had dusted off and adapted the city’s ancient Mystery Plays cycle, which had lain dormant for more than a century, and other sundry local artistic talents were to add to a fortnight of general activity. The climax was to be a Medieval fair on the long green slope that ran down from the cathedral to the river, with the final Mystery Plays being performed in the evening and fireworks to bring the whole affair to what it was hoped would be a satisfactory conclusion.

Maltravers was involved that first Saturday evening, following a request from his sister who was on the organising committee. About a year previously he had had a trilogy of plays called Success City put on by Channel 4 with a hitherto unknown actress called Diana Porter in the lead. While critically successful, the plays had not posed any threat to the audience figures enjoyed by endless narratives of life in the North of England or South of Texas, and Diana had been quite happy to accept an invitation to put on a one-woman show in Vercaster. Thereafter things took an unexpected turn when she appeared in an iconoclastic production of Hedda Gabler, including a full-frontal nude scene which Ibsen had inexplicably overlooked. This experimental and obscure theatrical event might have passed unnoticed had not a Fleet Street paper of flimsy content but ludicrously high sales obtained a picture of the scene and published it under the words “Hedda Liner!” in the size of type one would have anticipated them reserving for an elopement from the Vatican.

Several million readers, previously unaware of Mrs Gabler, Mr Ibsen and even the general location of Norway, were briefly titillated and Diana became the legitimate target for gossip columnists and news editors looking for a new personality to pursue in the interests of a free Press. She accepted the benefits of such abundant publicity with cynical amusement and exploited them to some considerable financial advantage; she could rely on her acting talent to carry her through once the silliness had passed.

The Vercaster Times, while acting with restraint as a local paper in a polite cathedral city and not actually publishing the notorious photograph, drew attention to Diana’s proposed appearance at the festival, causing murmurs of discontent in civic and clerical circles. Matters were redeemed, however, when she appeared in a Sunday evening religious television programme, reading extracts from the works of Julian of Norwich with intelligence and impeccable taste, wearing a demure and becoming dress not dissimilar to one owned by the Bishop’s wife. A further performance in a “traditional” — Old Vic circa 1936 — production of Macbeth attracted critical approval in papers with smaller circulations but of the quality to be found in clergymen’s households. Having established there would be no repetition of the Gabler incident in Vercaster, the popular press went off to be a nuisance somewhere else and the festival was able to benefit from a more acceptable level of publicity. Melissa, originally appalled, was delighted and awarded Maltravers the ultimate household accolade of a hero biscuit.

As Maltravers approached the south transept he observed a new addition to the local scenery in the shape of a uniformed policeman standing outside the door. The presence of the constabulary, or their fellow conspirators the traffic wardens, was not uncommon in Punt Yard where the love of God took second place to the carved tablets of parking restrictions, but clearly this representative of law and order was performing some manner of guard duty.

“Good morning,” Maltravers said cheerfully as he reached him.

“Good morning, sir. I’m afraid that if you have business in the cathedral you can’t go in.”

Maltravers raised an eyebrow. “My business might be going in to pray.”

Clearly uncertain as to the powers of secular authority with regard to the obstruction of such a blameless activity, the officer was caught off balance and looked uncomfortable.

“Yes, sir. Well…I’m afraid there’s been a bit of trouble,” he said.

“Trouble? What sort? Human sacrifice? Black Mass at the High Altar? Surely not naked nuns?”

The policeman felt he was being mocked in the course of his duty which, while falling short of actual interference, was still to be deplored.

“I’m very sorry, but I can’t allow you to go in,” he said stiffly, having noticeably dropped the “sir” from his address.

“But I do have a rather important appointment with Canon Cowan,” said Maltravers. “It’s in connection with the festival.” This was totally untrue but his curiosity had been aroused and he was determined to gain entry. “Is it just this door that’s cut off?” He had correctly assumed that it was unlikely that all the entrances to the cathedral would have their own separate uniformed guardians.

“Canon Cowan is with Detective Sergeant Jackson,” the policeman replied, with the obvious feeling that he had played an untrumpable ace of argument.

“Then he’ll certainly want to see me. I’m his solicitor.” Having started lying Maltravers could see no reason for not carrying mendacity as far as necessary.

“I don’t think it’s a matter that…” began the policeman but Maltravers became unnervingly authoritative.

“I must be the judge of that,” he snapped and walked swiftly round the obstacle and straight through the door reflecting that when the young constable later discovered that he had been outmanoeuvred he could use the experience to future benefit.

He strode through the transept, past the tourists’ shop and bookstall, without having any idea where Michael and the law might be. Almost immediately he saw them standing to his left by the north wall of the nave, in front of a small display case with a flat glass top which stood near the organ. The Detective Sergeant, broad shouldered and with a thick brown moustache, was writing in a notebook as Maltravers reached them.

“What exactly was it called, sir?” he was asking.

“The Latimer Mercy,” Michael replied. Maltravers looked at the empty display case.

“The Latimer Mercy?” he echoed. “What’s happened to it?”

“It’s been stolen,” said Michael.

“That,” said Maltravers, “is offensive.”

“We call it criminal, sir,” said the detective. “I’m sorry, I don’t know who this gentleman is.”

“Oh, it’s my brother-in-law, Mr Maltravers,” explained Michael. “The writer. He’s here for the festival.”

“I see, sir,” said Jackson. “Now, you were saying, sir, that it’s the Latimer Mercy. What exactly is that?”

“Well, it’s…you must be new to Vercaster.”

“I joined this force from Lincolnshire a month ago,” Jackson replied patiently. “I assume that if I’d been here longer I would know all about the Latimer Mercy.”

“Well, it’s a considerable treasure of the cathedral. How can I explain? Have you heard of the Merry Bibles?”

“No, sir. Is that something else I should know?”

“No, but you probably would know if…” Michael, who was excellent at addressing the captive audience of a congregation with a prepared sermon, found question and answer situations trying. “Augustus, perhaps you…?”

“The Merry Bibles were a misprinted version of 1546,” Maltravers explained briskly. “They were printed in Vercaster and many were destroyed after the error was noticed. It was in Psalm 25, verse 10, where it read ‘All the paths of the Lord are merry and truth unto such as keep his covenant and his testimonies’. Frankly, I think it gains something through the mistake.”

“And so this was a Merry Bible?” said Jackson, indicating the empty case.

“Yes, but a very special one. In this edition the misprint had been corrected with the word ‘merry’ crossed out and ‘mercy’ written in the margin with the initials ‘HL’ alongside it. The legend is that the correction was made by Bishop Hugh Latimer, hence the Latimer Mercy.”

Jackson’s next question was surprising. “When was it done?” he asked.

“That’s difficult to say,” Michael put in. “It was presumably here last night and the theft was…”

“No, I don’t mean that. When was the correction made?”

Michael looked confused both by the nature of the question and the fact that it was made. “I don’t think anybody knows. Augustus?”

“I couldn’t even guess.” Maltravers looked keenly at Jackson. “But I’m interested in why you should ask.”

“It’s just that Latimer preached in my home town of Stamford in 1550 — November, I think — and he could obviously have passed through here on his way.” Jackson smiled slyly at Maltravers before speaking to Michael. “I imagine I’ll learn things like that about Vercaster when I’ve been here a little longer.”

Michael, who found criticism, however subtly put, disquieting, looked slightly annoyed, but Maltravers returned Jackson’s smile with a grin of admiration.

“Touché, sergeant,” he said. “And your theory’s interesting as well. However, this is a very disturbing affair for the cathedral.”

“Of course,” Jackson replied, recognising he could communicate better with Maltravers. “What would be the value of the Bible?”

Maltravers pulled a face. “I’m no great expert, but any Bible before about 1580 would fetch a fair price. A Coverdale of 1535 brought thirty thousand dollars in New York a couple of years ago, although a Matthews Bible of 1537 brought only six thousand the same year. The Latimer Mercy was rebound in the last century, which would greatly diminish its worth.”

“What effect would the misprint have?” Jackson asked.

“On its value not a great deal,” said Maltravers. “People think they’re going to retire when they come across a Breeches Bible, but that was published, with one or more editions a year, over thirty years. On the other hand, the correction makes the Latimer Mercy unique. It’s not just going to crop up at Sotheby’s or Christie’s.”

Jackson nodded then lifted the lid of the case, which Maltravers could see had been forced open with a screwdriver or similar instrument.

“You didn’t protect it very well, sir,” he commented.

Michael looked uncomfortable. “We have a somewhat radical Dean who feels excessive security has no place in the church,” he explained. “If he had his way, I imagine he would leave the entire building unlocked day and night.”

“I think you’d find we’d disapprove of that. The average villain isn’t noted for his piety.” Jackson sniffed and closed the lid. “Very well. On the face of it, we may assume it was taken for, or by, a specific person. When did you discover it was missing?”

“About ten o’clock this morning. One of the ladies who serves in the tourists’ shop noticed it. As far as we know, it was there last night.”

“And the cathedral was locked overnight?”

“Certainly,” said Michael, making it clear he did not approve of the Dean’s open-house preferences.

“No sign of a break-in to the building?”

“Not as far as I’m aware.”

“An inside job,” put in Maltravers adding an unnecessary note of drama to his voice. Jackson smiled seriously.

“Possibly,” he said in the tone of a professional being patient with an amateur. “What time does the cathedral close in the evening?”

“About eight o’clock at this time of year.”

Jackson’s next questions were thoughts spoken aloud. “So, possibly late in the evening…nobody would have specifically checked? No…or this morning after the cathedral opened…or during the night.” He paused for a moment, thinking silently. “Very well. We’ll need to talk to everyone who has a key for any of the doors.”

Michael looked horrified. “But some of them are very senior clergy,” he protested. “You’re surely not suggesting…”

“Everyone who has a key,” said Jackson impassively. “Perhaps one has been stolen,” he added, to defuse Michael’s indignation. “We’ll also want to talk to all the staff who work in the cathedral. They might have seen something suspicious. You have guides?”

“There are no guided tours as such, except for parties who make their own arrangements,” said Michael. “But there are a number of people who walk around the building and explain things to visitors.”

“Are they told to keep an eye out for anything untoward?”

“They’re not formally told, but I’m sure they understand that they should.”

“Right,” Jackson closed his notebook and slipped it into his pocket. “You have a rota showing who was on duty yesterday afternoon and this morning?”

“Yes,” said Michael. “It’s on a notice-board in the shop. I’ll show you.” All three of them turned back towards the south transept.

“Of course,” said Maltravers. “Any suggestion as to the motive would be a great help.”

“Yes, sir,” said Jackson. “But lacking any definite evidence, that’s a matter for speculation. In the meantime, we’ll have to follow the usual channels of inquiry.”

Jackson collected the constable who was still standing guard at the transept door and told him to take the names from the guides’ rota list. A small, slightly globular man carrying a small case walked in and joined them.

“Morning,” he said. “Higson. Fingerprints. Where?” Long sentences were clearly not his habit.

“Just round that corner,” said Jackson, pointing. “Wooden case on the left. You can’t miss it.” Higson, without further expenditure of words, walked briskly on.

“I would have thought that case would have been smothered in fingerprints,” said Maltravers helpfully. “People have a habit of poking at such things.”

“Procedures,” Jackson said briefly. “We’ll need a statement from you as well, Canon Cowan. Perhaps you could come to the station later today?”

“Well, yes, although I don’t know that I can…”

“And of course the person who first discovered the theft,” Jackson interrupted. “Is she still here?”

“No, she was rather upset by the incident and I sent her home.”

“Well, we don’t need to trouble her immediately, but perhaps you could bring her down when you come later.”

“Yes, of course,” agreed Michael, as legal authority overcame ecclesiastical dignity. “After lunch?”

“Thank you, sir, that will be fine. Just ask to see me when you arrive. Mr Maltravers.” With a brief nod Jackson departed.

“I must go and tell the Dean what has happened,” said Michael. “What did you want anyway?”

“Nothing, I was just passing the time,” Maltravers replied. “Diana and Tess are due in about an hour and I’m going to collect them.”

“Oh. Yes, of course.” The imminent arrival of expected guests seemed to take on the proportions of great misfortune for Michael with common larceny breaking out on hallowed ground. “I’ll see you all at lunch.”

After he left, Maltravers walked back to where the taciturn Higson was performing the mysteries of his art on the empty display case and watched him thoughtfully. His instant reaction of feeling offended was still with him; while he quite regularly disputed accepted religious beliefs, he respected anything enriched by antiquity and found the traditions of the church in language, architecture, ceremony and behaviour, attractive. The Latimer Mercy had been printed in Henry VIII’s final infected years and corrected — if Jackson’s interesting theory was correct — before Spenser, Marlowe or Shakespeare were born, and possibly by the man whose ringing words of certainty as the flames ate his body five years later, were a clarion call of faith triumphant which Maltravers could not share but did respect. It belonged to no man because it belonged to all men and its removal dismayed him; putting aside all other considerations, it was a book and to Maltravers a book was a holy thing. But why, he reflected, had it been taken? He had an uneasy feeling that the motive was sinister.

The same thought, but this time as only one among several possibilities, was going through the mind of David Jackson as he drove the short distance back to Vercaster’s main police station, his mind revolving about what had happened and what had to be done. Check with county headquarters to see if the theft fitted an established pattern of crimes; extend inquiries to other police forces for the same thing. But this was a very specific theft, probably with a customer waiting. All air and sea ports would have to be alerted and Customs told to watch for it. On balance, it was probably going out of the country so Interpol would need to be informed. It was an odd one. Petty theft and major bank robberies shared common factors of recognisable greed, following obvious patterns which made up nearly all of police work. Anything that would not fit the norm had its own unique reasons behind it, and there lay difficulties. Jackson’s great virtue as a detective was that he kept his mind open; the wealthy secret collector was one obvious theory but was there something else? Strange crimes, he reflected, were done by or for strange people for unknown and very personal motives. How strange and how personal was impossible to fathom and in such darkness anything might lie.

Chapter Two

CLUTCHING A BAG of what he hoped were satisfactory avocados, Maltravers watched one of the regular London trains draw into Vercaster station, quite certain that, by the mysterious laws which govern such things, he was standing on that part of the platform farthest removed from the carriage out of which Tess and Diana would alight. In a changing and unreliable world, he was reassured to discover that he was right when two figures appeared as far north along the platform as he was standing to the south.

Tess, he observed as he walked towards them, was wearing an unaccustomed hat, presumably because of memories from her childhood when for a woman to enter a church with her head uncovered brought sidelong glances which were the metaphorical equivalent of being stoned as an adulteress. Her relationship with Maltravers went back to a dinner party where a well-meaning hostess had thoughtfully paired them off individually with two other people and had been quite upset to discover that her ability to read personalities was appalling. Like Diana, Tess was also an actress, but without the innate flair or inclination for fortuitous publicity; she looked rather like Billie Whitelaw. Diana, carrying with difficulty a suitcase of amazing proportions for an overnight stay, was dressed as A Well Known Personality if not Actually A Star, in a purple billowing dress with her long blonde hair looking as casual as only great expense and trouble could make it.

“Augustus, darling!” she cried excessively. “Have you been waiting awfully long?”

“Stop playing the grande dame, silly woman,” Maltravers replied equably. “They’ve got more sense in the provinces.”

“Sorry.” And the Diana Porter Maltravers had great faith in immediately surfaced. “God, I’ve got to learn to stop it.”

“And you’d better stop saying ‘God’ as well. The company you’ll be keeping doesn’t throw Him around so casually.”

“I shall be pious and pure as a nun.”

“That,” said Maltravers, kissing her briefly on the cheek and stepping round her to greet Tess, “will be a remarkable performance even by your standards.”

He took Tess’s case and Diana’s modest portmanteau and staggered ludicrously for a few paces.

“Thank God it’s only a one-woman show,” he remarked.

“Now you’ve said it,” said Diana accusingly.

“What? Oh, God. Yes, well it doesn’t matter with me. There’s a general feeling that I’m beyond redemption anyway. But you have a reputation to live down.”

In the taxi back to Punt Yard, Maltravers told them about the Latimer Mercy theft.

“What a senseless thing,” said Tess.

“That’s how it appears, but I think there may be a very strange sense behind it,” Maltravers replied.

“What do you mean?”

“It’s so pointless, there has to be a point,” he said. “It can’t be sold, so why steal it?”

“Obviously some eccentric wants to keep it in his private collection and pore over it in secret.”

“Then may his soul and his progeny rot,” said Maltravers fiercely. “He’d be the sort of specimen who would make me want to believe there really is a Hell.”

“It worries you, doesn’t it?” said Tess.

“It…offends me.” Maltravers used the word again with growing layers of feeling behind it. “And, yes, it worries me in a way. Putting aside the nutty collector theory, I find it…disturbing.”

Diana, whose affection for and knowledge of Maltravers fell only just short of Tess’s, was equally sensitive to his feelings and changed the conversation to the festival as they completed their journey.

Melissa, with the miraculous gifts of a housewife, had transformed her home from the semi-disaster zone Maltravers had left earlier into neatness commensurate with its Georgian elegance, reassembled Rebecca into a presentable infant and herself into a Canon’s wife.

“Hello, you must be Diana,” she said as she opened the front door. “Come in and I’ll show you your room and you can change.” With businesslike hospitality, Diana was escorted upstairs. “Hello, Tess,” Melissa called backwards. “Augustus will look after you.”

Tess watched Melissa disappear upstairs. “Your sister still doesn’t approve of me,” she remarked.

“She disapproves of us both,” said Maltravers. “Divorce is regarded in clerical households as contrary to the Almighty’s scheme of things and adultery is generally frowned upon. We are in separate rooms.”

“Separate rooms, for God’s sake!”

“Not so loud. They are next to each other — and Melissa arranged that.”

Tess gave a ladylike grunt of grudging approval.

“I expect there’s grace at mealtimes,” she added as a final sideswipe.

“Yes. And in any man’s house I will respect his feelings.”

“Don’t be pompous. Let’s go upstairs and ...”

“Enough, woman!” shouted Maltravers. “There is a child in the house.”

Rebecca, the child in the house, was the catalyst of an unexpected revelation. Diana, whom Maltravers had never associated with children, sat on the floor with her, full of genuine interest and Rebecca, clearly deciding that anyone who looked like a fairytale princess was to be instantly trusted, responded at once. While Melissa completed the preparations for lunch, Maltravers and Tess observed the pair of them with amazement until Michael returned.

“At this point in the play, a cleric enters the room,” said Maltravers as he did so. “He looks concerned.”

“Good morning, Tess,” said Michael, ignoring him. “And I presume this is…?”

“Oh, hello. I’m sorry I can’t get up but, as you see, I’m rather busy,” said Diana from the floor.

“This is not a role I expected you to play,” said Maltravers.

“No, not many people do,” Diana replied with an odd smile and returned all her attention to Rebecca.

“And how did the Dean take the news?” Maltravers asked Michael.

“Very badly. He does not want the church highly protected because he feels it does not finally matter if anything is taken…”

“After all, you can’t steal God,” Maltravers put in.

“Quite. But he’s still shocked when something disappears, particularly if it’s one of the cathedral’s treasures. Anyway, we’d better have lunch. I have to see the police with Miss Targett.”

“You’re joking!” Maltravers laughed.

“Of course I’m not. You were with me when that man Jackson asked us to go.”

“No, no, no. I mean there isn’t really someone called Miss Targett is there?”

“To make matters worse,” said Melissa entering the room, “there are two of them. The Misses Targett. Come on through, lunch is ready.”

Over a collection of cheeses, cold meats and salad, conversation turned to Diana’s performance in the evening. It was to be held in the Chapter House and was called “The Cross on the Circle”. Maltravers and Diana refused to be drawn when they were asked what the title meant.

“You’ll have to wait and see,” Maltravers said.

“I would have thought it was fairly obvious,” said Michael, fishing fastidiously in the remains of the salad. “The circle is the world and the cross is Christianity on top of it.”

“A most shrewd interpretation,” said Maltravers, keeping his face immobile and Diana kicked his ankle under the table, just as the meal was interrupted by the sound of the doorbell.

“That will be Miss Targett,” said Michael glancing at the clock.

“She whom I must meet,” said Maltravers. “I’ll go, and I promise to restrain myself.”

When he opened the door a young and concerned looking clergyman stood on the step.

“Not Miss Targett, I presume?” said Maltravers.

The cleric’s face gave a twitch of bewilderment. “I beg your pardon?”

“I’m sorry. We were expecting someone else. You obviously want to see Canon Cowan.”

“If it’s convenient,” said the young man. “I’m sorry to arrive unexpectedly, but…”

“Not at all, although I’m afraid he’s going out shortly.” Maltravers pulled the door fully open. “Please come in and I’ll let him know you’re here.”

The visitor’s immediately obvious concern had rapidly transmuted into positive distress. Maltravers noticed the nervous trembling of his fingers; his face, which had clearly never known plumpness, became increasingly unsettled. He ran a hasty, agitated hand across his neatly-cut black hair and seemed uncertain what to do.

“Oh, if he’s going out…I don’t wish to…I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” Maltravers decided that firmness was needed to prevent him spiralling into virtual hysterics.

“I insist,” he said. “This is obviously important.”

“Well, if you’re quite sure…” Plainly the cleric was not sure of anything. Feeling that actually hauling him inside the house would be excessive, Maltravers extended a friendly arm which caught him in an invisible scoop of hospitality.

“I am quite sure. Come in,” he said briskly. “I think the study would be best,” he added, having landed his frightened fish. “I’ll go and fetch the Canon.”

He herded the visitor into Michael’s study which lay immediately off the hall, by the front door, then paused as he returned to the kitchen.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “But you are…?”

“Matthew Webster. The cathedral Succentor.”

“Of course,” said Maltravers, although there was no of course about it, and went to inform Michael.

“Off Targett, as it were,” he said as he re-entered the kitchen. “One Matthew Webster to see you and I have the distinct feeling it’s urgent.”

“Matthew Webster?” said Michael. “What on earth does he want?”

“That I didn’t discover but he’s in your study.”

“Didn’t you tell him I was busy?”

“No. You’re not, and even if you were I would have suggested that you see him. He is a very anxious young man.”

Michael made some ill-defined sound of impatience, a loose alliance of a sniff and a grunt, and went out of the room.

“What’s troubling Matthew now?” said Melissa with the air of a woman who has been much tried.

“It’s obviously nothing trivial,” replied her brother. “The man’s on a knife-edge.”

Melissa sighed. “He frequently is. He’s very…earnest is Matthew. Everything is taken very seriously. He lives in a state of perpetual drama. Even the Bishop finds his sincerity trying at times.”

“You’re making him sound like a saint,” said Maltravers. “And I’ve always thought they must have been a pain in the neck to live with. Who is he anyway? I don’t remember meeting him before.”

“He’s our Succentor — the first time we’ve had a deputy Precentor. The Bishop appointed him after finding when he ordained him that Matthew has a particular talent for music. He’s a very good organist as well and is unofficial deputy to old Martin Chamberlain, which is invaluable at the moment because Martin’s been in hospital for weeks.” She sighed. “But his faith can be somewhat over-fervent. Whatever he’s come about it’s probably only of burning importance to himself.”

Further speculation was interrupted by the actual arrival of Miss Targett, a wispy lady well struck in years, with the manner of one who would quite welcome her maiden sensitivities being offended, as though she would whisper very naughty words with a thrill of excited horror. Melissa brought her into the kitchen, having explained Michael’s absence, and the briefest of introductions was sufficient for her to treat three complete strangers as lifelong intimates.

“Oh, my dears,” she began in excited tones as she sat down and pulled off decorative summer gloves of fine white cotton. “What a business this all is! The Latimer Mercy gone and me being the first to notice it! Well, I don’t know what made me even look, it’s not as though I make a point of these things. After all, I must have passed it hundreds of times without even a glance but, you know, something made me take notice and what do you think? Gone. Vanished. Stolen. Well, I didn’t know what to do. Nobody in sight and at that time of the morning who could I tell? However, I...”

“What time was it?” asked Maltravers, daring the torrent of words.

“Pardon? The time? Oh, it must have been…let me see. I was just a little late setting off because Sebastian that’s my little cat — had gone wandering off and I was looking for him to make sure he was safely locked up. Then on the way I met Miss Templeton — oh, Melissa, my dear, have you heard that her niece has had another little baby? That’s the fourth. Who would have thought it from such a tiny thing? Well, we had quite a chat about all that, then I said I must be getting on and I went straight to the shop — of course I was still there before that wretched Morgan woman — and opened up and checked the till and everything. Then I spoke to one of the vergers… no, I tell a lie, there were two people who came in and bought some cards…then I spoke to the verger. What was it about? Oh, I don’t recall. Then the Morgan woman arrived and, of course, insisted on checking the till again so I watched her do that (then there couldn’t be any arguments) then I went for a quick walk round. I always like it in the cathedral when it’s so quiet and peaceful. Now, let’s see…I went round by the Lady Chapel because the window always looks so gorgeous with the morning sun behind it, then…yes, I must have walked all the way round the building before I reached the display case, so…” Miss Targett smiled brightly at four faces suspended in expressions of polite attention. “…it must have been about half past ten,” she concluded. “Or so.”

“Half past ten,” repeated Maltravers, filled with anticipatory sympathy for the elaborate narratives Jackson would have to endure in pursuit of a statement.

“Well, yes, although now I think about it…” Miss Targett began again.

“No, no, that will be fine,” Maltravers interjected hastily. “A reasonable approximation will suffice. Obviously, there wouldn’t be a great many people around at that time. The cathedral opens at what time?”

“Nine o’clock,” replied Miss Targett with unaccustomed brevity.

“Nine o’clock. Then…no it could obviously have been taken last night and nobody noticed it until you did. Tell me…” Maltravers broke off as Miss Targett became suddenly excited.

“Oh!” she cried. “You’re…you’re…oh, I know you…you’re…” She was staring with wide eyes across the table.

“Diana Porter,” said Diana.

“Of course! Oh my dear, my apologies for not recognising you at once. I saw you on the television. Your readings from Julian of Norwich were so beautiful. You know I keep a copy by my bedside and read them every night, but you put so much meaning into them. I’m so delighted to…” And Miss Targett fluttered her hands eloquently, finding even her own powers of speech inadequate.

“Thank you, Miss Targett,” said Diana. “It’s always a great pleasure to find that one’s work is so appreciated.”

Miss Targett, one of the countless thousands to whom those who appear on television are thought of as some form of rare and elevated beings and whose attention is as overwhelming as that of actual Royalty, brimmed with pleasure.

“Oh, my dear,” was all she could say, but the cadences of the three words and subtle touches of body language acknowledged a deep sense of her unworthiness for such thanks. Maltravers fondly imagined her subsequent retelling of the moment, embroidered with happy, if untrue, embellishments, to the awe and envy of her acquaintances.

“Of course, Miss Davy is also an actress,” he put in.

“Oh, really,” said Miss Targett, reluctantly pulling herself away from the magnetic charm of Diana’s courtesy. “I don’t think I’ve seen…?”

“I do most of my work on stage,” said Tess, rightly calculating that the locations and nature of her work were not within Miss Targett’s sphere of interest.

“Oh, well, never mind, perhaps one day you will…” she responded graciously and Maltravers cut short her progress down a rather dangerous conversational route by deliberately knocking over a carafe of water. The resulting minor chaos saved Miss Targett from receiving the icier edges of Tess’s tongue and covered the sound of Michael closing the front door after the departing Webster.

“What did Matthew want?” asked Melissa as he returned to the kitchen.

“Oh, he’s very concerned about the theft,” he replied. “You know what he’s like.”

Melissa clearly did, but Maltravers grasped the opportunity of inquiring in order to avoid further conversational problems with Miss Targett about total theatrical nonentities who languished in the obscurity of the West End.

“Well, he’s very sincere,” Michael explained. “He’s quite appalled that something like this should happen in the cathedral.”

“But he has no responsibility, has he?”

“None at all. His job is the cathedral music. But he has a very strong sense of the dignity and holiness of the church generally.”

“I would hope his fellow clergymen shared it,” Maltravers observed.

“Well, of course,” said Michael, who was in no mood to rise to another session of religious baiting from his brother-in-law. “But Matthew can be…” He sought the word.

“Excessive,” said Melissa.

“Yes…zealous…over-dedicated might be better. I’m afraid this business has upset him dreadfully. I’ve spent the last few minutes trying to calm him down and comfort him. He said he was going to the cathedral to pray. He does that a lot.”

“I thought you all did,” said Maltravers mischievously. “It’s part of the Contract of Employment isn’t it?”

“At the moment, Augustus, I have too much on my mind to enter into another futile discussion on matters about which you know little but say a great deal,” said Michael loftily. “Miss Targett, I think we should be on our way.”

Miss Targett’s attention had irresistibly rotated back to Diana, feeding itself with discreet glances. Blatant staring had been exorcised as bad manners in a long-ago childhood. Her disappointment at being summoned from the Presence was instant and obvious, but immediately covered by polite behaviour. She was consoled by an inner hope that further meetings might occur while Diana was in Vercaster. Their departure was briefly delayed by the arrival of a reporter and photographer from the Vercaster Times whose cathedral contacts had tipped them off about the Latimer Mercy theft long before the official police announcement. Michael was clearly annoyed by their inopportune if enterprising appearance and Maltravers diplomatically took over, ushering them both into the study. The reporter was young and enthusiastic, the photographer, many years his senior, resigned to waiting through the entire interview before he could start work.

“I’m sorry, but I don’t know who you are,” the young man began with commendable frankness.

“I’m actually Canon Cowan’s brother-in-law, but I know quite a lot about this. My name’s Augustus Maltravers.”

“Oh, the writer,” said the reporter and Maltravers acknowledged his cognizance. “I’m going to write a book one day.”

“Most of your tribe are,” said Maltravers. “Some of my best friends in Fleet Street want to be writers; in fact most of them have been talking about it for years. Now, what do you want to know?”

The information was gathered in an eccentric mixture of scribbled longhand and shorthand outlines unknown to Pitman, although the questioning was impressively thorough. The photographer, who appeared to have mastered the art of silent, and hopefully profitable, meditation, lumbered to life when the question of a picture was raised and Maltravers despatched them to the cathedral, mendaciously assuring them that the Canon had indicated approval of their activities.

“Oh, and how old are you?” the reporter asked as they were leaving.

“I can’t see that’s of the slightest relevance,” Maltravers told him. “However, Canon Cowan is sixty-eight and carries his years remarkably well. You may quote me on that. Goodbye.”

Grinning ridiculously to himself, Maltravers went to the living-room where Diana and Tess were expressing increasing amazement and dismay at the varying fortunes of their contemporaries.

“You’re joking!” Tess was exclaiming as he entered the room. “He could only have landed a part like that by sleeping with somebody and I don’t dare think who it was.”

“This is no conversation for a cathedral city,” said Maltravers. “You will corrupt the Godly. Anyway, we must go and look at the Chapter House.”

The building was closed to the public for the day while a low circular wooden stage was set in its centre, surrounded by tiered rows of chairs. The work had been finished by the time they arrived and they had the place to themselves. Diana stepped onto the temporary platform and gazed all around her.

“Augustus, it’s beautiful!” she exclaimed.

“Well, I tried to describe it, but it’s one of those places you have to see to believe,” he said. “The only thing to exceed it is probably Henry VII’s chapel at Westminster which was built around the same time. More to the point, the acoustics are very good, although they probably didn’t plan that.”

“Can we run through part of it?” Diana asked.

“Yes. I assumed you’d want to. Let’s try the opening and the end. We’ve got plenty of time and nobody is likely to come in because they’ve put signs up.”

Maltravers and Diana had rehearsed the performance previously in London with only Tess for an audience. She and Maltravers sat in silence for half an hour watching the final result.

“What do you think?” asked Diana as she finished.

“What I’ve thought for a long time,” said Tess. “You won’t just do this on one night in Vercaster.” She turned to Maltravers. “Why don’t you write things like this for me?”

“Because, my love, you are not Diana. And you know it. Come on, I’ll show you the rest of the geography.”

They left the Chapter House and walked down a short passage to another door which opened onto a covered corridor running at right angles. Facing them was a series of stone arches which looked onto the quadrangle of the cloisters.

“This, you will be fascinated to learn, is the slype,” said Maltravers. “It’s a passage linking the south transept up to the right there with the Chapter House and the cloisters. I would impress you with the derivation of the word, but I don’t know it. Now we go this way.” He turned to the left.

They walked down the slype and went through the left door of two facing them in the end wall. It led into a small, plain, bright room filled with afternoon sun pouring through the window which looked down to the Verta over the slope of the Abbey hill.

“You can, of course, draw the curtains in the evening and, wonder of wonders, behold, modern plumbing,” said Maltravers as he pulled open the door of a built-in cupboard to reveal a washbasin and mirror. “The lighting’s not marvellous, I’m afraid, but excessive making up will not be necessary. Anything else you need?”

Diana smiled and shook her head swiftly. “No, that’s fine.” She fluttered her hands betraying some inner excitement. “That Chapter House is magical, you know the feeling? It’s going to work, Gus.” She suddenly threw her arms around him like a happy child.

“Come on,” he said. “I’ll show you the rest of the cathedral while we’re here.”

He took Tess’s hand as they returned down the slype towards the south transept, smiling with pleasure at Diana’s joy. As they passed through the cloister arches, a man walking on the opposite side heard their voices and glanced across at them. His eyes caught sight of Diana’s fair hair shining in the sunlight and he stopped and stared fixedly at her until they disappeared from sight.

Chapter Three

THE THREE FACES of the Chapter House to the south and west flamed as the early evening sun pulled down all the colours of the world. The grey armour of St George shone like silver amid a mosaic of ruby, emerald and gold; the shell-pink features of the child-saint Etheldreda glowed about eyes of periwinkle blue; the mazarine robes of the Virgin were shot with light. The colours were held in the windows which, pitted by centuries of weather, no longer permitted them to flood to the inside, which received only a pale, bright lemon haze. Over the hour and a half of Diana’s performance the light would imperceptibly fade, the audience’s eyes adjusting without notice until they were watching the climax in lavender gloom. Maltravers had counted on the additional dramatic effect, with its changing emphasis on glass and stone, which he had first observed some years earlier when he and Melissa had sat in the Chapter House one evening, quietly talking about the death of their father. Melissa had warned him that it depended on the vagaries of the weather but he had remained confident.

“There are no Test matches on the day so rain is highly unlikely,” he had said. “Anyway, I’m sure that you and Michael can put in a word to the Almighty.”

As the audience gathered in the cockpit of chairs, he nudged Melissa’s arm and nodded to the vivid windows.

“Thank you for your prayers,” he whispered.

“Don’t be irreverent. You know how Michael is,” she hissed back.

“I’m just going to check with Diana. Keep my seat.”

He made his way out through the entering people and walked down the slype, safely cut off by ushers. Subconsciously, he trod softly as he approached the door. He opened it to see Diana sitting on a straight wooden chair, very still and with her eyes closed. Shutting the door quietly, he stepped past her to the window and looked through a gap in the curtains across the gravel path and down the Cathedral Field into the golden and powder blue summer evening. After a few moments he heard Diana relax behind him and he turned and smiled at her.

“You know you could play this audience on two cylinders,” he said.

“But I can’t play me on two cylinders,” she replied. “And you can’t do anything less than beautiful in a building like that. What are they like? The audience.”

“Plentiful and anticipatory. And distinguished in Vercaster. Full turn out of clergy, of course, and I just saw the Mayor and his stunningly beautiful wife arrive with… prepare yourself…Lord Verta himself. But don’t worry, I’m sure he’s deaf.”

Maltravers was being deliberately flippant. Diana had a routine of behaviour before any performance which was not superstition and certainly not affectation. Even an audience of the least discerning would receive a little bit of Diana Porter unique to the occasion. The tension needed to prepare for that offering had to be created and controlled by touchstones of established ceremony. And one of them was a few moments’ inconsequential talk just before the start.

“How do you think they’re going to take it?” she asked, checking her appearance finally in the mirror.

“They will certainly not be bored,” he replied. “And don’t worry about the quality out there. Vercaster is a fairly cultivated place within the ambience of London. What peasantry there may be will have been put off by the price of the tickets.”

“Did my fee horrify them?”

“It raised the eyebrows but I soon explained the facts of life to them. Anyway, it’s an absolute sell-out so they’ve covered their costs and made a profit to boot. Right.” He glanced at his watch. “Theatre in the round here you come. Just wait here for a moment.”

Maltravers went and checked with the ushers that the audience was seated then told them to close the Chapter House door. He returned to Diana and together they walked through the slype until they reached the door through which the murmur of polite voices could be heard. He took Diana’s hand and looked inquiringly at her. She nodded briefly, then he opened the door and walked along the aisle left between the seats and stepped on to the stage. The voices were mixed with hesitant applause, which he stilled by beginning to speak.

“My Lord Bishop, Dean, your Worship, Lord Verta, distinguished guests, ladies and gentlemen,” he said briskly. “It is my great pleasure to present the first event in the reborn Vercaster Festival. Will you please welcome into this beautiful building, in a special one-woman performance…Miss Diana Porter.”

As he finished speaking, his eyes turned back towards the open door through which Diana walked towards him, smiling brilliantly. The applause echoing round the walls, he took her hand as she mounted the dais, then stepped back to resume his seat. Diana, her wheat-coloured hair swirling against her high-necked loose evening dress of black raw silk, with a ruby brooch at her throat, walked in a swift circle round her stage before sitting on a tall stool set in the centre. She clasped her hands in her lap and lowered her head as the applause faded to a silence that centred on her still figure.

“Has it ever occurred to you where Woman came in God’s list of priorities?” she asked in a quiet voice that still carried like a bell to the peak of the ceiling. “First there was Heaven and Earth, then Night and Day, then He divided the waters and made the land and the sea, then grass and herbs and trees yielding fruit.” She ticked the items off on eloquent fingers. “Then the sun, moon and stars, great whales and cattle, then all the creepy crawlies. Then along comes Adam, but of course he’s busy for a while because God wants him to give everything a name.”

Her voice suddenly deepened into that of a male adult losing patience with a child. “No, Adam, you can’t call that a hippopotamus, we’ve already got one of those. How about calling it a toad? No? You don’t like that? All right, have it your way, we’ll call it a giraffe. Now what about this spotted thing with the long neck? No, that’s silly, it just doesn’t look like a hedgehog. And you can’t just say that ‘bird’ will do for all that lot with feathers…now come on and concentrate.”

Diana’s normal voice returned. “Heaven knows how long it took to sort it all out. And then what? Adam has absolutely nothing to do except wander round the Garden of Eden, keeping his sticky little fingers off the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil, and has dominion over every living thing. And what does God decide? He needs a helpmeet.” She stared in amazement. “What on earth for? Anyway, God decides he’s going to have one and at last we have Woman…the last thing God made.” Diana paused and looked thoughtful as the observation went home. “Of course, after all that practice, He must have been getting quite good at making things,” she added reflectively.

She stepped off the stool and walked to the edge of the stage to stand directly in front of a row of senior clergy and their families, put her head on one side and stared straight at the Bishop’s wife.

“But of course,” she added slyly, “Adam hasn’t just got a helpmeet…he’s now got someone to blame.”

The two women looked at each other for a moment, then the Bishop’s wife gave the slightest smile and nod of agreement. Maltravers, who had been watching her reaction intently, breathed a long and quiet sigh.

“It’s working,” he muttered.

“You’re my clever brother,” Melissa whispered back.

The cross on the circle had been revealed, not as Michael’s image of Calvary on the globe, but the biological symbol for the female and Diana proceeded to take her audience through well-known country, regarded from a significantly different and telling viewpoint. She told the story of Samson and Delilah in the way Delilah saw it (“Long hair never did suit him”), redrew Ruth as a merry widow in the field with Boaz with an eye to the main chance, and produced a whole panoply of Biblical women — Salome, the Queen of Sheba, Lot’s wife, Martha and Mary and the rest — now flippant, now bitter, here cynical, there compassionate. It was a performance balanced on the finest of lines and she played it to perfection.

The final scene was the most delicate of all. Crumpled and broken with grief, she knelt in the centre of the stage and whispered the last words of Mary Magdalene to the crucified Christ, a long wail of anguish without self-pity which had nothing to do with the salvation of Mankind but everything to do with love and death. As her audience watched in tense silence, they shared with her the helpless bewilderment and agony of the extremities of human sorrow. Maltravers, who had spent weeks wrestling to capture the words she spoke, was as enthralled as anyone. At the end she left the most fleeting of pauses before lifting a face stretched with emotion and wet with tears to cry, “Why hast thou forsaken me?” in a final shout of ultimate misery that filled the entire Chapter House before she sank into helpless sobbing in the silence. As the first handclap cracked out like a pistol shot — Maltravers noticed with pleasure that it was the Bishop who made it — Diana stood, then descended into a deep curtsey as applause rolled about her. She bowed to all sections of her audience before swiftly walking off the way she had entered. The applause intensified and she returned, recovering all the time, to smile and bow again. She pulled a reluctant Maltravers on stage to share her triumph before making a final exit which no demands would reverse. People settled back in their own release from emotion; then began a ragged but orderly exit through to the Refectory for coffee. Melissa turned to her brother.

“Augustus, that was wonderful,” she said. “You understand women better than any man I know. Even Michael’s going to have to think about that.”

“Thank you,” he replied as she kissed him. “But it was the word made flesh that really did it. That was the finest performance I’ve ever seen her give.”

“She’s coming through for coffee, isn’t she?” Melissa asked anxiously. “I must congratulate her.”

“Of course she is, but you’ll have to give her a few minutes. You go on and Tess and I will go and see how she is.”

As they walked towards Diana’s room, Tess squeezed Maltravers’ arm but did not speak.

“I know,” he said simply. “Let’s go and bring her down to earth.”

Diana had opened the curtains and was standing by the window staring at the darkening landscape as they entered. Maltravers crossed the room and put his hands on her shoulders. “You do my work more honour than I fear my work can bear,” he said.

“Thank you,” she said. “It was good, wasn’t it?”

“That’s one way of putting it. Miraculous would be nearer.”

Diana turned and looked at Tess. “What do you think?”

“That I may as well quit now,” she replied.

“You’re being ridiculous and you know it.” Diana laughed and held her hands out to both of them. “But I’m so glad it was special and that you two approve.”

She threw her arms around Maltravers and he felt the tension flow out of her.

“Come on,” he said. “Your public is waiting in the Refectory and they were a very good audience.”

“Weren’t they marvellous? You know what the moment was that made it start to work? That bit right at the beginning about Adam having someone to blame. I thought that woman would never react! Who was she?”

“The Bishop’s wife.”

Diana pulled an exaggerated face of mock horror. “I was that near to dying on a Saturday night in Vercaster?”

“I nearly went with you. I knew who she was.”

The three of them made their way round the Refectory where, to Maltravers’ amusement, Diana gave another finely judged if minor performance of the persona meeting her public. There were repeated congratulations, now effusive, now more tellingly brief, until they reached the group of principal guests where Maltravers introduced her to the Bishop, a small delicate man with light grey hair above a florid and cheerful face.

“Miss Porter,” he said, giving the nearest gesture possible to a bow without diminishing the dignity of crook and mitre. “I find it difficult to express the pleasure you have given this evening. At my age I do not expect to have to re-examine long-held beliefs but you have given many of us food for thought. Let me introduce you.”

Maltravers stepped back and collected his coffee while, looking engagingly like a proud father with his glittering daughter, the Bishop ushered her round his attendant group. As he watched, Maltravers felt a touch on his sleeve and turned round to find it was Jackson.

“Hello,” he said. “On or off duty?”

“On. I just thought it possible I might spot somebody or something here that might throw light on the theft.”

“And did you?”

“No,” Jackson smiled. “But I got to see Miss Porter so it was well worth it.”

“I take it there have been no developments?”

Jackson shook his head. “Nothing at all so far, although it’s early days yet. There’s no known pattern it fits into that we can see. I’m just hoping we’ve closed all possible exit routes out of the country.”

Maltravers’ attention was distracted by the Bishop calling his name and he joined him and Diana. They were standing with the Mayor and Mayoress and assorted clergy.

“I understand you wrote tonight’s work, Mr Maltravers,” the Bishop said.

“With a little help from the Bible, Bishop.”

“Well, we must congratulate you as well. Some very remarkable interpretations. Tell me, have you ever considered entering the church yourself?”

Maltravers heard Melissa, who was standing nearby, splutter into her coffee.

“No,” he replied. “I think I would have difficulty with some of the teaching.” To his relief, the Bishop did not pursue the point. Even though Maltravers had spent many years deliberately arguing with, trying to undermine and even mocking his brother-in-law’s beliefs, the Bishop was not family. The Dean, who had just joined the group, began congratulating Diana, which gave Maltravers the opportunity to withdraw.

“Very self-controlled,” Melissa murmured. “The Bishop is much too gentle a Christian for your astringency.”

“He approved of what I wrote,” said Maltravers.

“Yes, but you trod very softly for once. Incidentally, don’t look now, but there’s a man just behind you to your right who keeps staring over this way. By the door. I’ve been watching him for several minutes and he can’t seem to keep his eyes off Diana.”

“Well, she is the star attraction,” said Maltravers. “You know what people are like with the famous. Remember Miss Targett.”

“Yes, but it’s…I don’t know. I just don’t like the way he keeps looking.”

“I take it you don’t recognise him.”

“No. I’m sure he’s nothing to do with the cathedral. I wondered if you might…oh, damn, he’s gone.”

Maltravers turned instinctively and looked towards the Refectory door which had been left open.

“What did he look like?” he asked.

Melissa shrugged. “Oh, quite ordinary. I was probably imagining things. Didn’t like it though. More coffee?”

It was nearly eleven o’clock when they left the cathedral for the short walk through a velvet summer night back to Punt Yard, where they had a final drink before going to bed.

“When do you have to leave tomorrow?” Melissa asked Diana.

“Oh, sometime in the afternoon. What time are the trains? As long as I’m back in town by Monday morning.”

“Fine. Michael’s taking morning service at St John’s tomorrow, so perhaps you three would like to take Rebecca out while I do lunch. And you are coming to the Dean’s garden party in the afternoon?”

“Of course,” said Diana. “He was very insistent. It doesn’t matter which train I get back.”

Maltravers and Tess stayed up after the rest had gone to bed and talked.

“She crossed a few frontiers tonight,” Tess remarked.

“She did indeed. And just think what she’s got to do. Desdemona, Juliet, Cleopatra, Ophelia. She’s going to find things in there that even the blessed William didn’t imagine.”

Tess looked at him as he stared reflectively into the empty fireplace, still attracting the gaze even without winter coals, and knew his mind was full of rich imaginings. For nearly three years she had felt secure with him because she had learned that one part of him would always be under the witchcraft of words, written or spoken, and had recognised she must not invade that private world. And these feelings she could share; she was an actress herself and had seen her art performed at the highest level by a woman who was also her friend. They sat for a while recalling Diana Porter’s greatest performance, then went to bed.

Chapter Four

PLUMP AND WELL-FED ducks paddled at the water’s edge as Tess, Diana and Rebecca dropped torn pieces of bread into an ill-mannered splatter of beaks. A quarter of a mile away the cathedral bells rang mathematically, their tones mixing discordantly with the electric chimes of an ice-cream vendor’s van playing a syncopated snatch of Greensleeves as it drew to a halt in the car-park at the edge of the Verta’s water meadows. While Rebecca laughed at the antics of the ducks, a kestrel hovered against crystalline blue, high across the river, while swifts flashed low over the surface of hammered silver water.

“The world is charged with the grandeur of God,” remarked Maltravers. “I cannot share the unhappy Gerard’s beliefs, but I’m with him there.”

They had attended morning service in the cathedral among a congregation filled with turning heads, nudges and whispers as they took their places. Michael was still at the distant St John’s and Melissa was producing dishes concomitant with various beds of rice.

Tess took Maltravers’ arm and a now adoring Rebecca held Diana’s hand as they walked upstream to the remains of a derelict Saxon church, abandoned when the cathedral was built. Misshapen sections of wall still stood, including one entire arch which must have encompassed the door. Once through it, there were enough remains to assess the dimensions and general shape of the original building.

“It was very tiny,” said Diana.

“Well, between the Romans departing and Etheldreda coming all over in a religious faint, Vercaster was not exactly a metropolis,” said Maltravers. “You could probably have accommodated about eighty people in here which would have been quite adequate.”

“Is it still hallowed ground?” Tess asked.

“It may be. I’m never sure how one dehallows places. Or is it unhallow? It’s certainly still on cathedral land but with great lumps of the Roman wall of the city remaining, it doesn’t even rate as a tourist attraction.”

They sat on the grass with their backs against the remains of one wall and Diana made a daisy chain for Rebecca, placing the tiny circlet of flowers on her brown shining hair.

“One for you as well,” Rebecca demanded.

“All right. Go and find some more daisies.”

Maltravers watched the attractive proceedings with interest. “This maternal instinct is something new,” he said. “I’ve never known you take any interest in children before.”

“I’m very fond of them,” Diana replied, carefully poking one daisy through the split stem of another. She turned to Rebecca. “And if I ever have a little girl, I’m going to call her after you. There.” She placed the completed chain of flowers on her hair. “Titania, perhaps?” Distantly they heard the cathedral clock.

“I shall forgo the obvious quote, but it’s time we were getting back for lunch,” said Maltravers. “Then it’s the Trollopian gathering at the Dean’s.”

Over lunch he speculated on finding a Slope, Proudie or Septimus Harding at the event.

“You will behave,” Melissa told him sharply. “You are our guest.”

“Yes, big sister,” he replied meekly.

“And I’m not your big sister. I’m five years younger.”

“Perhaps. But you always seemed like one.”

The Dean’s house was in Cathedral Close which ran parallel with Punt Yard from opposite the Chapter House. Maltravers waited on the front doorstep for the others before they set off for the short walk and noticed a man on the opposite side of the Yard looking closely at the house. He had thinning, swept back hair and wore an open-necked check shirt. He suddenly realised Maltravers was staring back at him and walked briskly away towards the main road at the opposite end of the Yard from the cathedral.

“Queer bird. I wonder who he was?” Maltravers said as Tess joined him.

“Who?”

“Chap just going round the corner. Another of the Vercaster starers.”

“He’s just a tourist. The place is full of them. Come on, here are the others.”

They were greeted by the Dean’s formidable wife, a woman, Maltravers whispered to Tess, of remarkable bosom who shepherded them straight through the house and out of the French windows into the garden, already adorned with sundry clerics either stationary or moving with slow and seemly tread. The garden was enormous — Maltravers learned later that it was nearly three quarters of an acre — with a massive, impeccable lawn between two lines of towering dark rhododendron bushes set behind flower beds. Other smaller bushes and beds dotted the grass which ran down to an assorted collection of mature trees and associated undergrowth that had been left to its natural devices and formed the last third of the garden. The whole effect was of total privacy, the similar adjacent gardens behind the terrace of homes quite invisible. Maltravers pondered its possibilities as a suitable gathering place for Vercaster nudists and amused himself by mentally stripping its present occupants of cassock, purple waistcoat or dignified gaiter but stopped abruptly when his gaze reached the Dean’s wife.

As he had anticipated, the occasion was Barchester revisited, the conversations polite and muted, the acknowledgements of clerical seniority subtly observed. He and Tess spent some time talking to a very young curate and his wife who suddenly confessed a nervous craving for a cigarette but feared the wrath of the Dean’s wife at a stub despoiling the pristine perfection of the grass. Maltravers sympathetically suggested a stroll to the sanctuary of the woods at the end of the garden and they made their way through the trees to the boundary fence which looked over some twenty yards of river bank to the Verta. They returned to be separated by the Dean’s wife who clearly held the darkest suspicions about what they had been up to. Tess and Maltravers were firmly escorted to meet the rector of a distant parish who had apparently expressed a desire to talk to them, while the curate’s wife was withered by a look that augured little prospect of her husband’s advancement in the diocese. As they talked, Maltravers saw Diana, escorted by their host, circulating among the guests, each group opening up with released anticipation as she approached. Wherever she went laughter filled that part of the garden.

“Such a charming young woman,” said a voice at Maltravers’ elbow and he turned to face the horizontal mountains of his hostess. “We are so delighted she could attend. Are you enjoying yourselves?” There was no time to reply; having acknowledged their presence as the unavoidable price to pay for having Diana there, the Dean’s wife moved formidably on.

Tea was naturally served in fine and thin china, with slender sandwiches with sliced summer fillings carried on matching plates. It was an exquisitely mannered, civilised gathering of clerical gentlefolk which Maltravers, although he might later mock it unmercifully, found thoroughly enjoyable.

“The only thing that puzzles me is, isn’t this your working day?” he asked a rector who was juggling cup, saucer and plate with some dexterity. “I know the Founder made it a day of rest but don’t you all have to go and preach somewhere or some-thing?”

“Yes. Most of us have evensong and some of those who have to travel a fair distance have already left.” Maltravers realised that the numbers had been slowly thinning out.

“In fact,” the rector gulped his remaining tea with unseemly haste from such a container, “…if you will excuse me, I’d better be off.”

Evensong at the cathedral was at half past six and by five past the garden was deserted again, its occupants having left no visible trace of their presence. Tess, Maltravers, Michael and Melissa were on the terrace saying goodbye.

“Thank you so much, Dean,” Michael said. “It has been delightful but I really must get over to the cathedral.”

“Of course,” replied the Dean. “But I must say goodbye to Miss Porter. Where is she? I had to leave her a little while ago when the Bishop left and…” He looked at them with polite inquiry and there was an air of slight puzzlement as their glances swept over the empty garden.

“I saw her a few minutes ago,” said Tess. “She was down there.” She pointed towards the trees at the bottom of the garden.

“Who was she with?” asked Maltravers.

“I don’t know. I think she was on her own but I didn’t really notice.”

“Perhaps she’s in the house,” said the Dean’s wife briskly. “No, you stay here and I’ll go and find her.”

As they waited on the terrace, a bank of cloud drifted across the slow-falling sun and brightness went out of the garden. Tess took Maltravers’ arm and shivered slightly.

“Chilly,” she said with a small smile.

“Well, she’s not in there.” Returning through the French windows, the Dean’s wife sounded slightly put out; one of her guests was behaving badly.

A search of the gardens by Maltravers and an increasingly impatient Michael revealed nothing and finally, with suitable apologies, they left, the Dean dismissive and understanding, his wife clearly far from pleased.

“Where the hell is she?” Maltravers demanded as they left the house.

“Perhaps she’s gone back to Punt Yard,” said Tess.

“Not without saying goodbye,” he said firmly.

Diana was not at Punt Yard although her suitcase, ready packed for her return to London, was still in the hall. One of Melissa’s friends, who had brought her own daughter round to play with Rebecca while they were out, had not seen her. They waited for a quarter of an hour before Maltravers became impatient and set off to look without having any real idea of where to go. He walked round to the cathedral but the verger on the west door assured him that Diana had not been there. Then he went back to the river and the ruined church. Diana had never been to Vercaster before and there were very few places she had seen.

“This is getting ridiculous!” he snapped when he returned to Punt Yard and found she had not turned up in his absence.

“Where’s Diana?” Rebecca asked suddenly, looking up from where she was playing on the floor.

“Did Diana say bye-bye to you?” Melissa asked her.

“No,” said the child simply and the three adults stared at each other.

Maltravers took a drink proffered by his sister and lit a cigarette, exhaling the smoke noisily and agitatedly through his teeth.

“Now, let’s get this straight,” he said. “You say you saw her, Tess, standing near the trees at…what?...sometime after six o’clock. None of us saw her after that. And you say there was nobody with her.”

“I don’t remember seeing anyone. But they could have been hidden by the trees.”

“What was she doing?”

“Just standing there.”

“Talking?”

Tess thought for a moment. “No. But if there had been someone I couldn’t see, she might have been listening.”

“All right,” said Maltravers. “Can she have gone back to town? Her case is still here.”

“She had her handbag,” said Tess. “Her train ticket was in there along with her purse.”

“So…no that’s stupid. She’s not said goodbye to anybody. Not even Rebecca. Where the devil is she?”

Nobody had any answers and Diana’s disappearance lay about them as Rebecca was put to bed. Michael returned and they ate a cold supper at the end of which Maltravers announced he was going to ring Diana’s London flat. He returned after a few minutes to say there was no reply.

“Do you think we should tell the police?” Melissa asked.

“What are they going to do? Not launch a manhunt for what appears to be no more than inexplicable bad manners.”

“Her case is still here,” observed Tess.

“Precisely. She could just be wandering round the town somewhere. It’s totally unlike her, but I don’t think the police are going to get too excited.”

They spent the rest of the evening watching television in an abstracted sort of way with Maltravers making regular calls to Diana’s flat and various friends without success. Finally, at nearly midnight, he did call the police.

The duty sergeant listened to everything he had to say, then asked a series of questions which took them over the same ground again.

“Have you tried all her friends?” he asked.

“Well, that’s a lot of people and I don’t know them all. I’ve tried about a dozen so far.”

“I think that’s the best thing to do at the moment, sir,” said the sergeant. “Just a minute. You say she came up by train. Have you checked at the station?”

“No, I hadn’t thought of that.”

“Well, we can do that, sir. Can you tell me what the young lady was wearing?”

“Oh, God, I don’t know. Hang on.” Maltravers called Tess to the phone who supplied the details then handed the receiver back to him.

“Right, sir, you keep trying her friends and I’ll let you know if there’s any news from the station. If you can give me your number.” Maltravers read it from the dial. “All right. Thank you. I don’t imagine there’s anything to worry about but I’ll pass this on. You just make what inquiries you can for the time being.”

As he rang off, Maltravers realised it was no time of night to be ringing people to see if they knew where Diana was, but decided to try anyway. He managed three calls, met with varying degrees of politeness, before the sergeant came back to him to say there had been no sign of Diana at the station.

“I’m sure the young lady will turn up quite safe, sir, but let us know first thing in the morning if there’s no news. I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about. Goodnight, sir.”

After reluctantly going to bed, Maltravers lay in the darkness thinking. His bedroom door opened quietly and Tess came in.

“Move over,” she said, crossing to the bed. “Damn the proprieties, I’m not leaving you on your own tonight.” She settled down and put her arm around him. “She’ll turn up. It will be all right in the morning.”

But it wasn’t. Maltravers rang Diana’s flat again first thing but there was still no reply. He tried a few other calls without success, then rang the police again. It was the same sergeant on duty.

“Nothing at all, sir? Just a moment, I’m putting you through to the duty Inspector. She knows the background.”

As various clicks sounded down the line into Maltravers’ ear, Diana’s disappearance ceased to be a minor problem and became a police matter, sweeping Maltravers and the others along on the rising tide of an official investigation. The Inspector, female, crisp and businesslike, took what little new information there was then told Maltravers to remain at the house until an officer arrived; in fact it was Jackson again. Maltravers, who had imagined that the police would take little interest in an adult who had disappeared for less than twenty-four hours, was at first impressed, then alarmed, by the level of their activity.

“A few years ago it might have been different,” Jackson told him. “Now we press the panic buttons much sooner.”

He began close questioning Maltravers and Tess as the people who knew Diana best. Had she seemed depressed? Unusually excited? Was she worrying about anything? Had she ever talked about taking her life? Maltravers stared at him.

“Don’t be stupid,” he snapped.

“It’s not stupid. It’s an obvious line of inquiry. Can you give me her exact address in London please.”

“What for?”

“We’ll want to talk to the neighbours. And we’ll want to get in there.”

“What the hell do you expect to find?”

“We expect nothing. But we might find Miss Porter.”

“She’s not there. I’ve told you how many times I’ve rung.”

“Perhaps she can’t answer the phone,” Jackson said levelly.

“Why not, for Christ’s sake?”

Jackson paused, sighed and shook his head.

“I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to spell this out,” he said. “Miss Porter is a well-known person, but in these circumstances we’d do the same whoever it was. She has disappeared without explanation and we have to look at all the possibilities. You say she didn’t appear suicidal but some people don’t give any indication. I don’t want to add alarm or distress to the situation because I appreciate that you are increasingly worried, but the simple fact is that she may be in her flat and unable to answer the phone because she has taken her own life. I don’t expect you to accept the possibility but it is one that the police have got to consider.”

“You can’t just break into her flat,” Maltravers objected.

“We can with a warrant. And, believe me, in these circumstances we’ll get one.”

Maltravers slumped back in his chair, defeated by police procedures and Jackson’s reasonableness. He remembered Diana’s elation after her performance, her laughter at the garden party, her total air of being relaxed and happy. But that was meaningless to the police; people who vanished followed certain statistical patterns of behaviour offering a finite series of options. He realised that all he could do was to co-operate.

“I’ve just remembered something,” he said. “Diana had an appointment in London this morning. I don’t know where but her agent will. Shall I ring him?”

Jackson nodded with an air of excessive patience.

“If you would,” he said.

Joe Goldman metaphorically leapt at Maltravers down the phone.

“Gus!” he shouted. “Where the hell’s Diana?”

“You’ve not heard from her?”

“No! We’re due at the BBC in ten minutes. I’ve tried her flat but she doesn’t answer. Vanished? What do you mean vanished? Suddenly she’s a conjuring act? Jokes I don’t need, Gus.”

“It’s no joke. We’ve got the police up here.”

“The fuzz? Diana Porter disappears at a vicarage garden party and now the police are in on it?” His voice began to rise through uniquely Jewish octaves. “It’s big break country at the BBC, Gus! Today’s visit cost me three lunches. Find the bloody stupid cow!”

Maltravers, his own emotions rising, did all he could to calm him down but without effect.

“You find her and I want to be the second person to know,” yelled Joe. “I’ll put the Beeb off with some story but get her here!” The phone slammed down at the other end.

When Maltravers returned to Jackson another policeman had arrived.

“You said that was Miss Porter’s case in the hall? This officer will need a piece of her clothing from it for the dogs.”

“Dogs? What dogs?”

“They’re at the Dean’s at the moment and are starting a search of the garden, although with the numbers of people there I’m not too optimistic.” Jackson noticed the look of amazement on Maltravers’ face. “There’s a team of frogmen on their way to the Verta as well,” he added. “Miss Davy, would you be so kind as to open Miss Porter’s case for this officer and find something suitable?

“The only other thing at the moment,” he continued, “is are you aware of any threats that may have been made against Miss Porter?” Maltravers shook his head. “All right, we’ll see if there’s anything in her flat or if her neighbours know anything. We’ll need full statements from you and everybody else who was at the garden party. Try to remember everything, who she talked to, anything she said. And in your case, anything from the time she arrived in Vercaster up to the time she disappeared. However insignificant, it might help. You don’t happen to have a picture of her do you?”

“Not here. Why?”

“Well, we’re obviously going to have to release this to the Press, although they probably have pictures on file anyway.”

“Look, aren’t you going a bit overboard on this?” asked Maltravers.

“It’s like your Latimer Mercy,” said Jackson. “We’re going to warn all ports to watch out for her, we’re going to inform other police forces. What do you want us to do? Shrug our shoulders and hope she’ll turn up and then discover we’ve made some dreadful error of judgement? We get a lot of stick for doing that. If it turns out that we’ve over-reacted there’s nothing lost. But there’s going to be a lot of egg on our faces if it turns out we failed to take the proper steps.”

The rest of the morning was resonant with the increasing crescendo of the proper steps: an outraged Dean’s wife as her garden was invaded by large boots and trotting paws, balanced by a concerned and sympathetic Dean; curious sightseers watching the frogmen ruffling the slow waters of the Verta; the relentless ringing of the telephone; Joe Goldman increasingly agitated and unreasonable; Miss Targett alarmed and inquisitive; the Bishop shocked; reporters who had somehow traced Maltravers; never news of Diana.

To provide their official statements, Maltravers and the others searched their memories for details of events they had hardly noticed, while the same process was going on throughout the diocese with all the rest of the Dean’s guests. By mid-afternoon, frustrated by his own inertia in the midst of all the activity, his initial mystification about Diana’s disappearance climbing a rising scale of worry, Maltravers was pacing the house and chain smoking.

“What about loss of memory?” Tess said suddenly. “It happens.”

“Now there’s something we haven’t tried,” he said. “She could be anywhere. Checked in under a false name in a Frinton guest house. Caught a plane to Outer Mongolia. Entered a bloody nunnery.”

“I’m trying to help!” Tess snapped.

“What sort of goddamned help is loss of memory?”

“Stop it, the pair of you!” Melissa interrupted. “I know Diana was your friend and you’re both worried, but she was also a guest in our home and, even though we hardly knew her, we happened to like her very much. This is bad enough for everyone without you two starting a slanging match.” She glared at them as they both apologised. “That’s better. Now, it may not seem very important to you at the moment, but the festival is still going on and it’s the first of the Mystery Plays tonight. You both said you’d come and you may as well let it take your minds off all this for a while and let the police get on with their job. Now just find something to do for a couple of hours.”

Tess went to wash her hair and have a bath while Maltravers looked in Michael’s study for a book to occupy his mind. Passing over the shelves of religious and ecclesiastical volumes, he picked up a copy of Brewer’s Phrase and Fable and flicked idly through until he spotted a section on misprinted Bibles. The Latimer Mercy theft had been completely driven from his mind but, as he read the list of variously erroneous editions, he turned over the possibility of a connection between the theft and Diana’s disappearance but could see none. His mind was still considering it as he told Melissa he was going for a stroll round the cathedral.

He was pounced on by Miss Targett, who leapt out from behind the tourists’ shop stall as he entered the south transept, the phrases of concern, heightened by her brief meeting with Diana, rushing at him like a torrent. As he made suitable responses in what fleeting intervals she afforded him, he glanced round for a means of escape and suddenly saw the Succentor.

“Mr Webster!” he called in desperation and relief. “If you have a moment? If you’ll forgive me Miss Targett, I really must…” and he made a swift retreat to where Webster was looking towards him in a puzzled manner.

“Sorry about that,” he said as he reached him. “You were a passing means of salvation from Miss Targett.”

Webster smiled understandingly. “She can be a little trying,” he said. “Let’s go this way.” They walked towards the Lady Chapel end of the cathedral, out of sight of Miss Targett.

“I’ve just been giving a statement to the police about Miss Porter,” Webster continued. “I remember talking to her at the garden party but I don’t think I was able to give them any useful information. This must be dreadfully worrying for you all. What with this and the Latimer Mercy business I don’t think there have ever been so many policemen about the cathedral.”

“I’m afraid this latest business is causing a great deal of upset all over the place,” Maltravers replied. Then, as the reason for his going to the cathedral was to try and stop dwelling on the subject of Diana, he turned the conversation back to the Latimer Mercy.

“I’ve just been reading about misprinted Bibles and I didn’t realise there were so many,” he said. “I knew about the Wicked Bible which left ‘not’ out of the seventh Commandment, giving divine approval to adultery, but I’ve never heard of the Wife Hater Bible of 1810 which quoted…Luke was it?...as ‘If any man come to me and hate not his father and his mother, yea and his wife also’ instead of ‘life’; or the one which said ‘sin on more’ instead of ‘sin no more’. Actually the one I liked best was the Printers Bible which had David complaining ‘Printers have persecuted me without cause’ instead of ‘Princes’. I thought it would go rather well on the desk of the Editor of the Guardian.”

Webster smiled thinly. “Yes, I expect so, although the Bible is the word of God and personally I feel that misprinted editions are regrettable.” Maltravers, remembering his reputation for sincerity, decided that further conversation on the topic would be impolite. He found clerics who could not laugh at their faith difficult.

Their conversation drifted into less contentious areas concerning the festival until they reached the north transept where Webster said he was going to see the Bishop. Maltravers continued his walk round the cathedral, pausing to read the excessive sentiments carved in marble for the ancient dead, reflecting on the singular and apparently unsullied virtues of past generations. He continued all the way round the building, passing the south transept hastily to avoid another confrontation with Miss Targett and finally sat for a while in the Lady Chapel, staring impassively at the great window of Christ enthroned that filled most of the end wall, letting the still quiet calm him. Distantly, he heard the clock in Talbot’s Tower strike six and decided it was time to go back. In order to avoid the still lurking Miss Targett, he was going to leave through the north transept and walk round the outside of the cathedral but as he stood up he noticed a small door in the south wall of the Lady Chapel which, he reasoned, must be almost directly opposite Michael and Melissa’s front door and would serve his purpose if it was not locked. It wasn’t and did indeed stand in the relationship he had assumed, although his view of the Punt Yard house was impaired by a police car parked on the double yellow lines outside. When he went inside Jackson was waiting for his return.

“Officially, I’m not here,” he said. “But I thought I’d call on my way home and bring you up to date. Miss Porter is not in her flat and there’s nothing we can find there that helps. We’ve spoken to most of the people who were at the garden party but nothing significant has emerged and the only relative we’ve been able to trace — her brother in Bristol — hasn’t seen her for several months. I think you know her parents are dead?” Maltravers nodded.

“So she’s just vanished without trace?” he said.

“Apparently. And more importantly without a reason.” Jackson paused and bit his lower lip. “Look, I don’t want to add to your worries but the longer it goes on like this the more serious it becomes. She’s well known and she had a business appointment she would obviously keep. Twenty-four hours without anything at all is a long time in these circumstances.”

“We’ve been thinking about loss of memory,” said Maltravers. “She’s never suffered from it as far as I know but it is possible.”

“We know it happens but it doesn’t make people invisible,” Jackson commented. “Her passport’s still in her flat so we can assume she’s not gone abroad. Anyway, if it’s any comfort, you can rest assured we’re doing everything we can. The Standard’s carried a story with a picture in the late editions this evening and television will probably have it tonight. Tomorrow’s national papers should as well, they’ve certainly been asking enough questions. I gather news is a bit slow at the moment, which is to our advantage.”

“Thanks for calling,” said Maltravers.

Jackson stood up to leave. “I never actually met Miss Porter but I saw her performance in the Chapter House and was very moved by it. I can’t make promises but I’ll try to keep you informed on a slightly less official basis than usual. All right?”

They shook hands and Maltravers saw him out as Tess came downstairs. They went through to join Michael and Melissa in the kitchen. Maltravers told them Jackson’s news — or lack of it — then Michael turned on the radio just as the item they were interested in was finishing.

“…where she had been taking part in the Vercaster Festival.” The announcer paused momentarily then continued, “At the London Divorce Court today a man was jailed for contempt after firing a catapult at a judge. Unemployed company director Stanley Thackery from South London said he was protesting at the amount of alimony Mr Justice Hereward had ordered he should pay to his estranged wife. The judge, who was not seriously injured, told him…” Maltravers turned the set off.

“Slow news day indeed,” he remarked. “Anyway, we didn’t miss anything we don’t already know. Let’s see if your Mystery Plays can take our minds off our own mystery.”

Performed in the Great Hall of Vercaster’s Edward VI Grammar School, a stubborn survivor in an age of more egalitarian education, the plays did entertain and occupy them. The evening was taken up with the first three plays of the cycle, the Fall of Lucifer, the Creation and the story of Adam and Eve, and Noah’s Flood. The Vercaster Players destroyed all Maltravers’ dark misgivings about the horrors of amateur theatre, showing themselves well rehearsed, imaginatively directed, capable of ingenious effects and entertainingly inventive. They treated the works of the monk Stephen of Vercaster with intelligent adaptation, abandoning antique and incomprehensible references for modern interpretations in modifications by the school’s senior English master. They also tellingly extended the role of the Devil, introducing him throughout every play as a counterpoint to God, now evil, now mischievous, terrifying or amusing. He fell from grace with maniacal and sinister laughter, watched the creation of Adam and Eve with mouthwatering anticipation of the possibilities of corruptible innocence and caused total and hilarious havoc during the building of the ark and the loading of the animals. As the wives of Shem, Ham and Japheth tried to shepherd the children dressed as all the beasts of the world into some sort of order, the Devil constantly moved among them — he explained in an aside to the audience that he was invisible — shouting contradictory instructions until there was complete chaos. As offstage thunder rolled and Noah and his family bewailed the violence of the storm, he calmly stood to one side of the stage sheltering under a red umbrella and when the little girl dressed as the dove made her exit after delivering the olive leaf he maliciously tripped her up.

After God had bestowed his blessing upon Noah and promised mankind no further elemental wrath, the Devil watched them depart rejoicing. Then, alone on the stage, he turned to the audience to deliver his sinister valediction:

The end is come of storm and rain

But Lucifer will here remain.

About this world I here will stay

Until the dreadful judgement day.

His eyes glittered malevolently with fiendish relish of what was to come. Then a burst of crimson smoke enveloped him and the stage plunged into darkness.

Melissa took Maltravers and Tess backstage to meet the cast and Maltravers sought out the Devil, now emerging from costume and make-up as Jeremy Knowles, a hatchet faced local solicitor whose natural expression was inescapably evil.

“You should have gone into the profession,” Maltravers told him.

“You’re very kind,” he replied. “But I think the Vercaster Players and the local magistrates’ court are as far as I want to go.”

“I assume we’ll be seeing more of you in the rest of the cycle?”

“Oh, yes. In Trevor’s adaptation I’m hardly ever off the stage. We’ve taken a lot of liberties, but I think they’ll work. Incidentally,” he added, “I saw Miss Porter on Saturday night. Is there any news of her?”

However much he tried to put it to the back of his mind, Maltravers thought, Diana’s disappearance sounded like a constant keynote. He explained briefly then returned to Tess who had been identified as an actress and was signing autographs for some of the children in the play.

“Are you an actor?” demanded a freckled redheaded boy.

“No. I’m a writer.”

“Oh,” said the child and managed to combine disinterest, dismissiveness and contempt in the single syllable as he turned away. Writing, as Maltravers very well knew, was not a glamorous calling. But he felt slightly deflated by the incident. What had been a strangeness the previous afternoon had grown like an emotional cancer into a concern, a worry and now a creeping fear.

Waiting for Tess to finish, he crossed to a window and looked out over that part of Vercaster which lay below the hill on which the school stood. Over to the right, on its own higher hill, Talbot’s Tower rose against a sky washed in blue-black ink, faintly glowing with street lights. His eyes passed casually over the irregular mosaic of slate and tiled roofs broken by glimpses of road or open space. Below one rooftop lay a cheaply furnished bedroom with slime green paint and cheap wallpaper aged to the colour of an old dishcloth in which, the previous night, Arthur Powell had slept, his precious picture of Diana Porter on the stained and cracked varnish of the table by the bed. Maltravers’ gaze passed idly over it and on to the edges of the city where he could see the moving lights of distant motorway traffic.

“Goodnight!” a voice called behind him.

Maltravers turned and saw Jeremy Knowles, his face slashed by a smile that unnervingly made him look more wicked, looking towards him.

“See you again,” he added, then swiftly turned and was gone.

Chapter Five

DETECTIVE CHIEF SUPERINTENDENT William Madden’s head appeared to be constructed only of skull and skin without any living humanity of flesh; his hair was the colour and texture of an old tennis ball left out in all weathers. He rarely smiled, laughed only with bitterness and was so totally a professional policeman that his very plain clothes seemed as much a uniform as the one he had ceased to wear.

On Tuesday morning he sat at his desk reading the summary of the investigation into Diana’s disappearance while David Jackson stood, stiff and uneasy, before him. Madden’s reputation extended beyond his own force and into national police legend — ruthless, methodical, unsympathetic and very good — and Jackson had arrived at Vercaster apprehensively anticipating their first encounter. Madden, his body still, as if carved in granite, read swiftly and silently, then put the papers down and reached to adjust the position of a file tray that was fractionally out of line with the edge of his desk. Jackson waited patiently while he thought.

“Absolutely nothing? Anywhere?” he demanded.

“No, sir. We’re still waiting for final reports from two of the South coast ports in case she took out a temporary passport but it doesn’t seem likely.”

Madden squeezed the end of his nose hard between thumb and forefinger and breathed in and out deeply; it was his only observed physical peculiarity.

“Right,” he said. “Either someone’s hiding her — possibly without realising it if she’s in some remote hotel or something — or she’s dead.”

Jackson felt he was making conclusions too soon but knew better than to argue. Madden worked on the principle that co-ordinated police procedures were infallible because he was convinced that he was infallible and he expected all other police officers to be the same. He also had an impressive track record of being right.

“The problem is that we’re dealing with the acting profession,” Madden went on. “Emotional. Irresponsible. Artistic.” He had standard definitions for nearly all classes of society, each one rarely using more than three pejorative adjectives; somehow he imagined that all life was as orderly as his desk .

“This man Maltravers. He was the one who brought her to Vercaster and was among the last to see her.” He looked sharply at Jackson. “Thoughts?” he demanded, revealing that he had already thought the matter through, reached his own conclusions — which by definition must be right — and wanted to see if his subordinate could follow the same process.

“I take your point, sir, that he knows Miss Porter very well,” Jackson began. Madden’s logic was obvious and rooted in established patterns. If Diana Porter had been murdered it was statistically likely that the murderer was someone who knew her. Add to that the link with her presence in Vercaster, discount the possibility that unusual and therefore non-statistical forces were involved, and you ended up with Augustus Maltravers. Having reached that point, the next step was simple. Question Maltravers with increasing intensity until he gave himself away or cracked under pressure and confessed.

“But I can’t see him as a potential murderer,” Jackson went on, adding incautiously, “always assuming that Miss Porter has in fact been murdered.” The possibility of Diana being murdered was attractive to Madden. The alternative of her hiding out with unpredictable friends meant time-consuming and irritating police inquiries; a simple murder according to oft repeated and established patterns of human behaviour was infinitely preferable, statistically more likely and greatly more convenient.

Jackson decided it would help their future working relationship if he made his feelings clear on the matter.

“In fact, to be quite blunt, I think that the possibility of Mr Maltravers killing Miss Porter is total crap,” he said. “Sir,” he added.

Madden’s face rose like that of a very old turtle and stared at him like a basilisk. Jackson drew in his breath quietly and resisted the temptation to add anything that would seem to qualify and, by implication, apologise for his statement.

“Indeed?” Madden said the word quietly but with a whiplash of rising inflection, then stretched Jackson’s nerve with a resonant interval of several seconds’ silence which he stubbornly refused to break. Madden lowered his gaze back to the papers on his desk.

“Very well,” he said. “Keep me informed on any developments.” He handed back the summary impassively.

“Thank you, sir,” said Jackson and left Madden’s office. “That,” he muttered to himself as he walked down the corridor outside, “was a damned close-run thing.”

Maltravers was reading to Rebecca in the living room at Punt Yard when the telephone extension from Michael’s study rang at his elbow. It was Joe Goldman.

“Gus, has she turned up?” he demanded. “She’s got to be found.”

“Joe, everything possible is being done. As soon as…”

“Do you know who called me?” Goldman interrupted excitedly. “Clive Zabinski. Yes, Zabinski, the Hollywood super-brat. He’s in London, someone shows him a video of Success City and he wants to talk to Diana. Of course I tell him to ignore everything in the papers. It’s all a misunderstanding I tell him. Of course we’ll be at the Dorchester tomorrow, Mr Zabinski. Gus, when Zabinski calls you don’t say the actress he wants for a new movie can’t be found! Nobody says that to Zabinski!”

“Joe, calm down will you? We’re all worried sick up here.”

“You’re worried? I’ll do you a favour — I’ll worry for everybody. You just find her and get her back to London by tomorrow!” The line went abruptly dead.

“Where’s Diana?” asked Rebecca, still sitting on her uncle’s knee. He ruffled her hair.

“I think Diana’s playing a game of hide-and-seek,” he said. “She’s playing a joke on us.”

“But I heard Mummy crying this morning,” objected the child. “Not laughing.”

“Look, the Wild Things are having a Wild Rumpus,” said Maltravers picking up the book again. “They’re not frightening at all, are they?”

“I wasn’t frightened of them,” Rebecca said simply. Maltravers finished the book and glanced at his watch.

“Come on,” he said. “There are some appalling computer cartoons on television.” Rebecca scrambled down, crossed the room and turned on the set and Maltravers went into the kitchen where Melissa was at the table peeling mushrooms.

“What’s all this crying about?” he asked. “Rebecca heard you.”

“Oh, you know me. The bad thoughts just got too much.”

“Come on, she’s just mysteriously vanished. It’s all this police activity that makes it seem worse. And this morning’s papers didn’t help.”

Faced with the standard problem of having to fill space with little sensational material, Fleet Street had practised its customary excesses, with each paper trying to outdo its rivals in imaginative headlines, eye-catching design and impact vocabulary. Diana’s irrelevant nude appearance featured prominently in all the stories and her disappearance was variously a mystery, a riddle or a fear. The police in turn were baffled, concerned or involved in a search of international proportions. Maltravers usually observed such antics of newspapers obeying Frayn’s Law — that journalists write for other journalists — with detached amusement, but his personal involvement on this occasion made him acutely aware of the distress such insensitive behaviour could cause.

“I know I’m being silly,” said Melissa. “I’m just trying to keep busy and not think about it. What are you doing today? I’m taking Rebecca to some friends for lunch and we’ll probably be there most of the afternoon. Can you amuse yourselves? Don’t forget it’s the cathedral concert this evening.”

“We’ll find something to do,” he said. “We’ll have lunch out and be back later.”

Maltravers and Tess spent the rest of the morning buying presents for Rebecca and their hosts, then went to a pub called the Saracen’s Head where a Crusader’s lunch was the alternative title of the standard ploughman’s. They were discussing the previous night’s Mystery Plays when Jeremy Knowles approached their table bearing food and drink and asked if he might join them.

“Talk of the Devil,” said Maltravers as he shuffled along the dark oak settle to make room for him.

“It’s odd I should run into you,” said Knowles as he sat down and arranged his lunch on the table. “Canon Cowan was telling me last night about the theft of the Latimer Mercy and this morning I had a very strange letter in the post. Here, have a look.”

He produced a pale blue envelope, addressed to him at his office, which had been posted in Vercaster the previous day. It was marked “Strictly Personal” and was typed, unsigned and without any address shown at the top. While Knowles began his lunch, Maltravers began to read, passing each sheet to Tess as he finished it.

“For reasons that will become obvious,” he read, “this letter has to be anonymous. It concerns the theft of the Latimer Mercy Bible from the cathedral which I read about in this morning’s Times. The police seem to think it may have been taken abroad, but I suspect it is much nearer home. For personal reasons which I cannot go into, I do not want to approach the police directly as any information I give might be traced back to me. Of course, they will take no notice of an anonymous letter, but if you, as a local solicitor, were to approach them it would be a different matter.

“I would suggest that the Bible was stolen by (or at least for) Councillor Ernest Hibbert who, as you probably know, is a great collector of antique books. Most of them are on display in the library at his home but I happen to know that the corner cupboard in that library, which he always keeps locked, also contains a number of books which he never shows to anybody. It does not matter how I discovered this but you can take my word that it is true. I would most urgently suggest that the police search that cupboard. If Councillor Hibbert objects to such a search, it will indicate his guilt.

“I have been a worshipper at Vercaster Cathedral all my life and am outraged and disgusted at this theft, particularly if, as I strongly suspect, it has been carried out by a man who considers himself a paragon of virtue in our community.

“I apologise for involving you in this matter but I have indicated my reasons above. My only connection with you is that some years ago you acted in a legal matter for me and I was impressed by your efficiency, courtesy and integrity. I regret that I now have to be discourteous and not add my name to this letter, but I am sure you will readily appreciate the position I am in.”

“Any idea who it’s from?” asked Maltravers as he finished reading.

“Not in the least,” said Knowles through a mouthful of lasagne. “I’ve been in practice here for more than fifteen years so it could be any one of hundreds of people.”

“Who’s Ernest Hibbert?” asked Tess.

“Ernie Hibbert?” Knowles wiped the remains of the sauce off his lips. “Of course, you’re not from Vercaster. The Hibberts are arguably the leading family in this city. Made their money in greengrocery, with property as a very profitable sideline.”

“I bought some avocados from them the other day,” Maltravers recalled. “They have a shop in the High Street.”

“They’ve got about a dozen shops all over the county,” said Knowles. “Plus owning several old Victorian houses which have been converted into very expensive flats. Ernie Hibbert is possibly the richest man in Vercaster. He was mayor a few years ago and his father and grandfather held the office before him.” He indicated the letter. “If what that says is true, it’s going to be a massive local scandal. Another drink?”

While Knowles was at the crowded bar, Maltravers read the letter again. It resurrected the nagging thought that the Latimer Mercy theft and Diana’s disappearance might be connected but he shook his head as the idea disintegrated the more he considered it.

“What are you going to do?” he asked as Knowles returned.

“I’m not quite sure,” he said, resuming his seat. “Those are serious allegations about a serious crime but, frankly, it’s dynamite in Vercaster. If the police obtain a search warrant on the strength of that letter and the Latimer Mercy isn’t in Hibbert’s secret cupboard heads will roll all over the place. It won’t do my practice any good either if it’s traced back to me in any way. Perhaps you could let Canon Cowan see it.”

“Do you know David Jackson?” Maltravers asked. “He’s a fairly new sergeant here.”

“Name rings a bell, but I haven’t met him.”

“Let me show it to him. If you want, I won’t say it came from you, which will keep you out of it.”

Knowles shrugged. “As long as you tell Canon Cowan as well. Personally, I’ll be happy to be rid of it.”

Their conversation moved back to the Mystery Plays and other aspects of the festival until Knowles had to return to his office.

“There’s something bothering you,” Tess said after he had gone.

“I haven’t the remotest logical argument, but I still keep wondering if there’s some sort of connection between the Latimer Mercy and Diana. Both happened at the weekend, both connected with the cathedral. But that’s all. Anyway, I’ll try and contact Jackson. Wait here a minute.”

Maltravers rang the police station from the pub’s public telephone and was put through to Jackson who listened to the news about the letter.

“Can you bring it over?” he asked. “I’d like to have a look at it.”

While he was waiting for them to arrive, Jackson checked on what progress had been made in the Latimer Mercy inquiry but found that nothing had materialised. At the same time the two South coast reports he had been waiting for came in; there was no record of Diana Porter or anyone like her having been through those ports. When Maltravers and Tess arrived, he took them into an interview room and read the letter for himself.

“Where’s the envelope?” he asked.

“If you don’t mind, I’d rather hang onto that. The person it was sent to would rather his name were kept out of it.”

Jackson sighed. “For an intelligent man, you can be remarkably stupid at times, Mr Maltravers. We’re not playing games, this is a serious matter. Come on.” He held out his hand, adding as Maltravers hesitated, “We can be discreet.” Maltravers handed over the envelope.

“Thank you. We’ll have a chat with Mr Knowles and for the time being we’ll check this for fingerprints to see if anything emerges. If this is true, it gives a motive for the theft.”

“I understand that Councillor Hibbert may be very heavy going,” said Maltravers.

“Leave us to worry about that. Incidentally, I’m afraid there’s still no news on the more important matter of Miss Porter. Obviously you’ve heard nothing?” They shook their heads. “All right. Thank you for bringing this in. Let me show you out.

“I shall probably see you tonight,” he added as they reached the police station entrance. “I assume you’ll be at the cathedral concert.”

“You’ll be there as well?” said Maltravers. “Duty or pleasure?”

“Pleasure. The programme looks very good. Of course, it all depends on nothing dramatic happening but I certainly hope to make it.”

Goldman phoned just before they set off that evening, his agitation giving way to fatalistic resignation.

“So she blows it,” he said. “Zabinski finds somebody else and her career nosedives. You know the rules, Gus. Breaks like this only happen once.”

“That’s the last thing on my mind at the moment. I just want Diana found.”

As the four of them walked round the outside of the Chapter House on their way to the West Door entrance of the cathedral, they met the Dean, his wife and Webster walking up from Cathedral Close. The Succentor was carrying a green leather music case.

“Of course, you’re playing the organ tonight,” said Melissa. “I would have thought you knew it all by heart by now, Matthew.”

“Just about,” he said. “But I’m not so good that I can rely completely on memory.”

After they had entered the cathedral, Webster went off to the organ and the rest made their way to their reserved seats. Maltravers spotted Jackson arrive and beckoned him to a spare seat next to them and, as they waited, listening to Webster’s playing, he pointed out various members of the audience.

“That’s the Bishop and his wife with one of the other residentiary canons. Forgotten his name but he shares the duties with my brother-in-law. Oh, and there’s the Dean. Do you know him?”

“Yes. In fact I took his statement about the garden party. And his wife’s.” Jackson looked rueful.

“The Vercaster galleon,” Maltravers grinned. “I’m afraid I don’t know most of the lesser clergy, but I recognise them from the party. Oh, and there’s Knowles, the solicitor who received the letter about Hibbert. Have you spoken to him yet?”

Jackson looked across the aisle to where Maltravers was indicating Knowles, engrossed in his programme.

“I don’t know. I’m not handling that.” Jackson regarded Knowles with interest. “That’s not a face I’d relish confronting across a courtroom,” he added.

“It’s a face that only a mother could love, isn’t it,” Maltravers replied. “But he’s perfectly amiable when you meet him. I’ll introduce you later if we get the chance.”

After a few moments Jackson stood up and gazed around, then resumed his seat.

“Where’s the organ?” he asked.

“You must have seen it. It’s against the south wall near where they kept the Latimer Mercy.”

“That’s what I thought but they’re obviously going to have the choir and soloists in front of the choir screen and I can’t see how the organist can see the conductor.”

“Ah, modern technology,” explained Maltravers. “Look at the right hand end of the top of the choir screen. See it? It’s a closed circuit television camera. When the choir is in its traditional place behind the screen, the organist can see the choirmaster through a mirror, but when they’re on this side they use the camera. All highly ingenious.”

The lights in the nave were dimmed as the four guest professional soloists — soprano, alto, tenor and bass — took their places in front of the assembled choir and the conductor raised his baton towards the camera. The organ paused, then crashed in again on the conductor’s beat and all the voices burst into “Zadok the Priest” from Judas Maccabeus and the concert was under magnificent way. The programme, which ran without any interval, combined expressions of religious belief in superlative music, using the individuals, choir and occasionally the congregation, who were all in the nave. The transepts and back of the cathedral were closed for the evening. The moment that caught Maltravers’ delight was the soloists’ unaccompanied singing of “God so Loved the World” from Stainer’s Crucifixion, the four voices woven in perfect harmony; as they finished the organ returned with the opening bars of “Praise, my soul, the King of Heaven” in which everybody joined. Finally, choir and soloists sang the “Hallelujah Chorus” in a great shout of triumph and adoration that soared through arcade, triforium and clerestory, filling the entire building with exultant sound, the repeated words interlocking in a passion of glorification. The applause rose as they finished and the conductor beckoned through the camera for Webster to join the singers in acknowledging it.

“Who said the Devil has all the best tunes?” Maltravers remarked to Jackson.

Melissa leaned across him and invited Jackson for coffee just as Maltravers noticed Jeremy Knowles leaving. Jackson stayed with them and they were among the last to leave the cathedral, accompanied again by the Dean, his wife and Webster, who all declined a similar invitation. The two groups parted by the Chapter House and, as they entered Punt Yard, Maltravers, uplifted by the music and slightly light-headed after gins in the evening following wine at lunchtime, began to sing.

“And He shall reign for ever and e-ever! And He shall reign for ever and e-ever!” His voice echoed about the high walls of the silent yard.

“Be quiet!” snapped Michael, who disliked any excess.

“God save the King!” Maltravers blithely ignored him. “God save the King! Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Hallelujah!” He stepped in front of them and onto the doorstep.

“Augustus, shut up!” laughed Melissa.

Maltravers raised his voice in one more “Hallelujah!”, then made a ridiculous bow. Michael looked irritated but the others joined Melissa’s laughter as he produced a key from his pocket and made an extravagant gesture of welcome.

“Allow me!” he cried and turned dramatically towards the door, with the brass key glinting in his hand. Then his body suddenly froze.

“Jesus Christ!”

The shocked and horrified tone was more shattering than the blasphemy. The rest of them instinctively followed his transfixed stare to the front door, which stood in deep shadow, until they could make out what he had seen.

There were a few seconds of silence then Melissa screamed a terrible scream. Over the lock was nailed a severed human hand. Tess retched.

Chapter Six

“STAND STILL!” JACKSON’S shout had an imperative edge as Maltravers instinctively moved back in horror towards the door. He stopped and then Melissa screamed again.

“Rebecca!” She leapt forward but Jackson grabbed her fiercely by the arm.

“It’s all right Mrs Cowan. It’s not a child’s hand.” She struggled frantically but he dragged her back. “Canon Cowan. Would you help here, please?” Michael, his face stunned, obeyed automatically and put his arm round his sobbing wife.

“That door must not be touched,” said Jackson. “Is there another way into the house?”

“There’s the garden gate. We’ve just walked past it,” said Michael. “We can get in through the kitchen at the back.” Still holding Melissa, he fumbled in his pocket and held out a key to Jackson.

“Right. Come along.” Jackson firmly shepherded all of them towards the gate. “I presume there’s somebody else in the house. You have a babysitter of course?”

“Yes,” said Michael. “She’s probably watching television,” he added irrelevantly.

Once inside the house Melissa rushed upstairs to the sleeping Rebecca.

“You’d better go with her, Canon,” said Jackson. “Miss Davy, will you go to the babysitter please? Just tell her there’s been an accident and we want her to stay here for a while. Mr Maltravers, you check through the house — don’t go near the front door — and see if there’s anything untoward. If there is, don’t touch anything. I’m going to phone for a Panda car immediately but then I’ll have to wait outside until they arrive.”

Tess visibly pulled herself together and went through to the living-room.

“It’s a woman’s hand, isn’t it?” said Maltravers.

“I didn’t have time to see,” Jackson replied briefly. “Where’s the phone?”

Punt Yard was empty as Jackson returned to the front door and examined the grisly object upon it. The hand was fixed palm downwards with a six-inch nail penetrating between the metacarpal bones into the green painted wood; most of the nail was still protruding. There was surprisingly little evidence of blood. Anyone could have walked past the door without necessarily noticing the hand in the shadow, but its position over the lock made it impossible for anyone entering the house to miss it.

Only a few minutes passed before he heard an approaching police siren whose notes rose in intensity before the vehicle, its light flashing, appeared round the corner into the yard. The two officers told Jackson that Madden had been informed and was on his way. He left them on guard at the door then returned into the house where the others had gathered in the lounge with Jenny, the babysitter, an overweight and vacuous looking teenager whose face was fighting a scattered and spasmodic battle with acne. Jackson spoke first to Melissa.

“Is your little girl all right?” She nodded. “Did you find anything, Mr Maltravers?” He shook his head. “I imagine you all need a drink. I can’t because I’m now on duty. Detective Chief Superintendent Madden is on his way. As this will be Mr Madden’s inquiry, we had better wait until he arrives.”

Jenny’s startled and inquisitive eyes were scanning them, picking up the vibrations of their shock.

“What’s goin’ on?” she demanded. “I told me mum I’d be straight home and she’ll be gettin’ worried.”

“I’m afraid there’s been an accident,” said Jackson.

“That’s what Miss Davy said. What sort of accident?”

“Did you hear anything during the evening?” Jackson asked. “A bang or something?”

Jenny shook her head slowly. “No. What sort of a bang?”

“As though somebody knocked hard on the front door.”

“No.”

“The television was on, of course?”

“Yes. That was all right wasn’t it Mrs Cowan?”

“Of course it was Jenny,” said Melissa. “This gentleman is a policeman. He just has to find certain things out.”

“Surely we can tell Jenny what’s happened,” said Michael.

“I’m afraid I can’t allow that, sir,” said Jackson.

“Good God, you’re not suggesting…?”

“I’m not suggesting anything, sir, but this is a police matter and I must ask you for your complete co-operation. Perhaps you could telephone this young lady’s mother and say she’s all right and you will get her home as soon as possible. Just say there’s been an accident. Nothing more.”

“As you wish,” said Michael tersely. “I’ll use the phone in the study.”

“Mr Maltravers, would you come through to the kitchen with me for a moment please?” said Jackson. “I’d just like a private word.”

“I’m coming as well,” said Tess firmly. Jackson glanced at her for a moment then nodded his agreement.

“I think it’s only fair to tell you,” Jackson began when they had left the living-room, “that as far as I can make out it appears to be the hand of a young woman.”

“Oh, my God,” said Tess.

“I know what you must be thinking,” Jackson continued. “All I can say is that it would be premature to jump to any conclusions before we have some definite evidence. I’m afraid we’ll just have to wait until Mr Madden arrives. Until he’s here my hands are tied…” Jackson stopped suddenly and closed his eyes. “I’m sorry… that wasn’t the best way of putting it. You know what I mean. Let’s just go back and join Mr and Mrs Cowan.”

They all sat in uncomfortable silence for about ten minutes before they heard another car draw up and the sound of a voice directing someone to the garden gate.

“That’s Mr Madden,” said Jackson. “Just wait here for a moment.”

Jackson met Madden in the kitchen and explained what he had done. Madden listened without making any interruption.

“Very well,” he said finally. “I collected the police surgeon on the way here and he’s outside at the moment. You noticed that it’s a woman’s hand I take it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“So it looks as though we might have found at least part of Miss Porter.”

“That’s the obvious conclusion, sir.”

“I’m glad you agree with me this time,” Madden said tersely. “I’ve told the car to radio for every available man to start house to house inquiries. Neale is on his way here as well and can help take statements. Where are the others?”

Madden glanced disapprovingly at the drinks when he entered the living-room. He was brusque, efficient, cold and detached and they were too shocked to protest. It was the start of a growing nightmare and they were all being helplessly swept into it.

Jackson himself took Maltravers’ statement. No, he had seen nothing suspicious. The Yard had been full of cars when they left for the cathedral, but it obviously would be. Yes, he was positive the hand had not been on the door when they set off. No, there had been no phone calls, no letters.

“I’d have bloody well told you that,” he snapped.

“I know. But we need everything for a formal statement. I know I’ve asked you this before, but do you know of any threats that have been made against Miss Porter?”

Maltravers looked up. “It is Diana’s hand then?”

“Until we know otherwise, it’s a possibility we have to consider,” Jackson replied evenly.

Maltravers took out a cigarette, lit it and exhaled the smoke slowly.

“What you are asking me to accept,” he began quietly, “is that somebody has cut off Diana’s hand and nailed it to the goddamned door!” His voice ended in a near shout. “I don’t want to know that!”

Jackson remained very quiet for a moment while Maltravers stared at the floor.

“Do you know of anyone who has made threats against Miss Porter?” he repeated, quietly.

Maltravers shook his head without looking up again. “No. And I wasn’t shouting at you.”

“I know that. It doesn’t matter. I’m sorry, I can’t think of anything to say.” Jackson got to his feet and held out his hand. “I’ll still try to keep you informed.”

“Thank you,” said Maltravers and they shook hands. “What happens next?”

“The hand has been photographed where it was found and taken to the mortuary.” Maltravers winced at the word. “Look,” Jackson continued hastily, “I know this is difficult for you, but obviously fingerprints will produce the answer very quickly. We could find something in Miss Porter’s flat but that will take time. Is there anything here which only she is likely to have touched? Something in her room?”

Maltravers took him upstairs to Diana’s room where Jackson saw a bedside lamp with a smooth, glazed pottery base. He unplugged it from the wall, put a handkerchief on the edge of the shade and carefully lifted it.

“Theoretically, this should be perfect,” he said. “It’s unlikely that anyone else touched it after her arrival and I imagine your sister cleaned everything beforehand. I’ll let you know what we find out.”

Jackson returned to the police station where he was told that Madden was with the police surgeon in the mortuary next door. He found them together, the surgeon a Scot broad in shoulder and accent whose Harris tweed sports jacket smelt as if woven out of tobacco leaf. The hand lay between them on a stainless-steel-topped table.

“You’ll perceive it’s a woman’s hand,” the surgeon was saying. “It would be a most extraordinary man who kept his fingernails in that condition.” The nails were finely manicured and glistening with a faint silver varnish.

“Anyway,” the surgeon continued, “if you’re going to argue that some men have funny habits, they don’t get pregnant as well.”

“Pregnant?” snapped Madden. “How can you tell?”

“Look here.” The surgeon lifted the hand and pointed to a tiny red dot with fine lines running from it about two millimetres across. “Spider naevus. They appear after about three months.” He turned the hand so they could see the ends of the wrist bones.

“From the condition of the radius and the ulna, I’d estimate someone in her early to mid-twenties but X-rays might throw more light on that. There’s no pitting of the nails, so she didn’t suffer from psoriasis and, for what it’s worth, she wasn’t a mongol. The palm creases for that are unmistakable.”

“How was the hand cut off?” asked Madden.

“Not by a skilled surgeon at any rate. The bones are cut clean through and, if you want a guess, I would suggest a meat cleaver or something similar. It certainly wasn’t sawn off.”

“Was she alive when it was done?”

The surgeon shrugged. “That’s difficult. Most of the blood has flowed out, which might indicate that she was alive or it had been done very soon after death, while the blood was still fluid. But the clotting process is reversed after a while by bacterial activity which makes the blood fluid again. I can’t say anything else until I’ve done more tests.”

“Thank you, doctor,” said Madden. “Before that, we’ll want to take fingerprints though. See to it will you, sergeant?”

“Yes, sir. I’ve brought this from the house.” Jackson held up the bedside lamp and explained. Madden grunted with qualified approval.

“That should save time,” he acknowledged. “Let me know the results immediately.”

Jackson waited while Higson, his vocabulary reduced to virtual silence by being called from his bed, checked the lamp with prints taken from the hand. After peering intently at the results for a few moments, he looked up.

“Yes,” he said briefly. “Anything else?”

Jackson shook his head and Higson packed up without a further word and left. Jackson returned the hand to the mortuary then went back to the police station. As he walked along the corridor to Madden’s office he passed an open door on which a sign saying “Incident Room” had been newly fixed. Inside he could see filing cabinets and telephones being put into place and there was a tangible air of activity emanating from it; William Madden was in his element again.

In his own office, the Chief Superintendent heard with evident satisfaction that the fingerprints proved it was Diana’s hand; it was not yet a murder but it was a crime of eminently satisfying seriousness.

“The other line of investigation, of course, is the father of the child,” he said when Jackson had finished. “Mr Maltravers, perhaps?” His silence and narrowed eyes invited Jackson to follow him down an avenue of thought.

“Mr Maltravers has a girlfriend, sir. Miss Davy. I think his relationship with Miss Porter was a professional one with no more than ordinary friendship.” Jackson was declining to take even the first step. The possibility that Maltravers might be the father of Diana’s child was a link in the chain of Madden’s mind; sex and murder, like love and hate, were common companions.

“In any case, sir, even if he were the father, he certainly could not have nailed the hand on the door. He was with three other people when he left the house and for most of the evening I was with him. We all left the cathedral together and I was only a few feet behind him when we discovered the hand. He’s one of quite a number of people who can be ruled out.”

Madden pondered the point.

“You’re sure he never left you?” Jackson nodded. “Then…the question is, did whoever nailed that hand to the door choose his moment because he knew they were all out of the house? In which case he either saw them leave…or saw them in the cathedral and left before they did.”

“Both are possible,” said Jackson. “A great many people left before we did.”

Madden pinched his nose, then shook his head briskly.

“A great many holes, sergeant. We’ll need a lot more evidence yet.” The phone on his desk rang. “Right,” he said after listening for a moment, then rang off. “The incident room is ready. Come with me for the initial briefing then I want you to go back to Punt Yard and tell them it is Miss Porter’s hand. And see if they can throw any light on the father of the child. This way.”

With his customary efficiency, Madden had organised nearly twenty officers in the incident room which was already virtually fully equipped to deal with the anticipated mass of information which would eventually come in. Jackson joined the rest and they sat or stood in a rough semi-circle as Madden spoke.

“First of all, it has been established that the hand discovered earlier this evening is that of Diana Porter, the actress who disappeared on Sunday,” he began. “Inquiries into her disappearance have yielded nothing so far. As you know, I’ve already ordered checks to be made with all hospitals and doctors in the immediate area to see if they have treated anyone for a severed hand. These inquiries will be extended to other forces if necessary.

“At present this is obviously not a murder inquiry but until we find that she has received medical treatment it will be regarded as one, body or no body.” Madden turned to where a hastily blown-up map of the area immediately surrounding the cathedral had been pinned to the wall and pointed to a red sticker.

“This is where she was last seen in the Dean’s garden at about six o’clock on Sunday afternoon. The hand was discovered on the door of Canon Cowan’s house here, about a hundred yards away. Not a great many people live in the immediate area but there are a lot of tourists passing through it. Every home is to be visited. I want notices put up here, here…and here.” He indicated the entrance from the main road into Punt Yard, the alleyway that ran from the north transept to the city centre shops and a point outside the Chapter House. “People who have been there in the past couple of days may visit again and I want them interviewed. Anything suspicious. Anyone behaving strangely. Anyone even remotely answering Miss Porter’s description. Sergeant Neale has arranged enlargements of the photographs issued to the press when she went missing.

“I’m detailing officers to make inquiries in London. This woman had a great many friends in the acting profession. I want everything they know. Any threats, professional jealousies. And, most important, boyfriends. She was pregnant.” His tone implied no moral condemnation, although he was known to be puritanical in such matters; in these circumstances, Diana’s pregnancy was nothing more than a line of investigation.

“Her only known relative is a brother and the police in Bristol will be talking to him.” He looked round the attentive group. “Any questions? Right. Keep in constant touch with this room. Inspector Barratt will be in day-to-day charge. I’ve arranged a press conference for first thing in the morning. I don’t like newspapers but publicity may be of assistance.” Madden’s icy gaze swept his audience again. “Don’t waste time. Follow procedures. I want results.” He turned towards the door. “All leave cancelled,” he added and left the room.

It was gone midnight when Jackson returned to Punt Yard but there was still a light showing from the living-room window. He spoke briefly to the constable Madden had left stationed outside the house, then rang the bell. While he was waiting for someone to come to the door, he looked at the nail hole above the lock. It was quite shallow; obviously whoever it was had risked only one quick blow to avoid unnecessary noise. Michael opened the door and led him through to where the others were gathered with their shock. His look erased any lingering hopes they had been clinging to.

“I’m very sorry,” he said. “It is Miss Porter’s hand.”

Melissa put her face into her hands and began to weep as Tess, her features contorted with controlled grief, slipped her arm around Maltravers.

“We’re grateful to you for coming to tell us, sergeant,” Michael said quietly. “This must be very difficult for you as well.”

“Thank you, Canon,” said Jackson. “There is something else as well which we need to know about. Did Miss Porter tell you she was going to have a baby?”

They stared at him. “How the hell…?” Maltravers began.

“There was something about the hand which showed it. I can’t remember the word the police surgeon used but it’s definite. Miss Porter never mentioned it?”

“Not a word,” said Maltravers. “But it does explain her relationship with Rebecca. I never noticed any signs though.”

“Well, apparently, it might only have been about three months so it would not have been all that visible. But that was a very loose dress she wore at the Chapter House.”

“Everything she wore was like that,” added Tess.

“The question is, have you any idea who the father might be?” asked Jackson.

Tess and Maltravers looked at each other, then both shook their heads.

“Diana has plenty of boyfriends but none in particular as far as I know,” said Maltravers.

“Very well. I won’t trouble you further at the moment but if you do find anything about who it might be please let us know. I’m sorry to have had to tell you the worst news. We’ll let you know as soon as anything happens. Goodnight.” Jackson turned to leave the room, then paused. “Oh, just one other thing. The basic facts of what happened tonight are being released to the Press Association. I’m afraid you will find the publicity distressing but it may help us to find Miss Porter, which is the most important thing at the moment. It’s all right, Canon, I’ll let myself out.”

As they heard the sound of Jackson closing the front door, Melissa lifted her eyes from the handkerchief which she had been crumpling between her fingers on her lap.

“I know you don’t think much of this sort of thing, Augustus,” she said, “but I’m going upstairs to say some prayers.” She stood up and held out her hand to Michael. “Will you come with me please, darling?” They left the room together.

“Come and sit down,” Tess said to Maltravers and he sat on the chair by the fireplace while she curled up at his feet holding his hand. For a few minutes he sat impassively then his face suddenly crumpled and he began to cry with a terrible adult intensity. Tess knelt up and put her arms around him, rocking him gently back and forth as tears streamed down her own cheeks.

In the incident room, Madden’s team had checked with nearly forty hospitals, including most of the London ones. There were no reports of anyone being treated for a severed hand.

Chapter Seven

REBECCA WOKE EARLY in the morning and the house was suddenly filled with childish laughter and demands and an unreal edge of normality as Press, television and radio reports exploded their private horror into public awareness. Just before nine o’clock Joe Goldman rang.

“Gus? I’ve heard. It’s really true?”

“I’m afraid so. It was too late last night to call you. Sorry.”

“Don’t apologise. How’s Tess? How are you? Hell, what sort of questions are those? Look, can I do anything?”

“The police will almost certainly want to see you. One thing they’re obviously asking is if anyone ever made any threats against Diana. Do you know of anything?”

“Possibly. That’s why I’m at the office early. I heard the radio first thing and remembered something and I’ve just been checking it. I think you’d better pass it on to them. You remember that Hedda Gabler business? Diana had a lot of fan mail after that, often asking for signed photographs. Most of the letters came through here. It was all a joke to her of course but she signed the pictures putting silly messages on most of them. I told her it was stupid but she insisted. Anyway one guy wrote back and it was a bit weird so I kept the letter. Listen to this.

“‘Dear Diana, I have received your signed photograph which I am keeping by my bed with the picture from the newspaper. I look at them both a lot and think a lot of things which I couldn’t tell my mam about.’ So we all know what he’s doing in bed, don’t we? But the next bit is worrying. ‘I keep them with my razor sharp Commando’s knife because they are the things I treasure most.’ See what I mean?”

“Christ Almighty! Who is this character?”

“Arthur Powell, twenty-seven Sebastopol Terrace, Belsthwaite. That’s Yorkshire somewhere, isn’t it?”

“It’s near Halifax. All right, thanks Joe. I’ll tell the police. I’m no detective, but don’t handle that letter any more than you have to. They’ll be checking it for fingerprints.”

“Gus, did I do the wrong thing?” Anguish suddenly entered Goldman’s voice. “I should maybe have told the police when it arrived. I mean, it was just a nutty letter. I never thought. Maybe if I’d…”

“Stop it, Joe!” Maltravers interrupted. “You weren’t to know. What’s important is that you kept the letter.”

“But Gus, Diana’s dead!”

“We don’t know that. All we know is that she’s been injured. Now just stay at the office and wait for the police to arrive.”

Goldman’s information was passed to Madden immediately Maltravers phoned it in. Madden had arranged for a camp-bed to be set up in his office for the occasional and inadequate periods of sleep he took during a major inquiry.

“You and Neale go to Belsthwaite at once,” he told Jackson. “I’ll contact the police there and have them hold Powell until you arrive. I want him back here at once.”

As they left, Madden contacted the incident room and ordered a search of police central records for anyone called Arthur Powell and despatched a man to London to collect the letter from Goldman. He then rang the police in Belsthwaite and requested the immediate arrest of Arthur Powell on suspicion of kidnapping and assault occasioning grievous bodily harm.

“Let me know personally as soon as you have him,” he said. “My men should be there by noon. They’ll take over from there.”

While the bleak northern thoroughfare of Sebastopol Terrace was suddenly filled with the wail of sirens and the screech of brakes as men leapt out of cars to hammer at a front door, Madden sat and quietly read a report from the Chief Constable on drug abuse in the county, his eyes narrowing at his superior’s thoughts favouring the possible legalisation of cannabis and his mouth making a pout of distaste at the recorded reduction of fines and sentences; for twenty minutes neither Diana Porter nor Arthur Powell entered his mind until the phone rang again with a return call from Belsthwaite. Arthur Powell could not be found.

Madden made brief notes on his pad as he listened to the flat Yorkshire narrative. Powell was not at home and inquiries at the supermarket where he worked in the stock room revealed that he had gone on holiday the previous Friday. Nobody knew where but it was believed he had gone camping. A description of his motor cycle and sidecar would be sent to Vercaster as soon as possible and further inquiries were being made with neighbours and the supermarket staff.

“Inform sergeants Jackson and Neale when they arrive,” Madden said. “All further reports to go directly to the incident room. Thank you for your assistance.”

He walked from his office to the incident room itself and crisply reported what he had been told to the officer collating information, then turned irritatedly to an Inspector from the public relations department.

“What is it?” he snapped.

“The Press, sir. The conference was due to begin ten minutes ago.”

Madden made no comment but picked up the latest summary of the situation from the desk in front of him.

“Five minutes,” he said and, as he rapidly digested the current information which contained nothing of significance except what he already knew about Powell, composed his mind to deal with the Press.

When he entered the conference room exactly five minutes later he was businesslike but cordial. Ignoring the statement which had been prepared before the information came in about Powell, he outlined the case in spare, clear sentences finishing with the news of what was happening in Belsthwaite.

“We are seeking a man called Arthur Powell who we have reason to believe may be able to help us with our inquiries,” he said baldly. He did not reveal the address or anything about Powell’s letter to Diana. When it was clear he had finished, a barrage of questions erupted around the room.

“I will only take questions one at a time,” he said sternly. “The gentleman at the front.”

“Chief Superintendent, who is this man Powell? What is his connection with Diana Porter?”

“We’re not certain. We only know that he wrote to her.”

“What did the letter say?”

“We can’t reveal that at present.”

Calmly and methodically, Madden continued to stonewall, producing an amazing series of variations on “No comment”. Personal questions about Diana could not be answered; the Press would have to inquire elsewhere. No (this with the slightest facial flicker of contempt for the questioner) it would not be possible to take a picture of the severed hand. No (this with an air of genuine regret) there were no pictures of Powell at present but these would be supplied as soon as possible if he was not traced. Yes (this with an edge of diffident acknowledgement) he was the officer in charge of the investigation. Madden with two d’s, first name William. No (and this must be clearly understood) he was not conducting a murder inquiry.

“All we are certain of is that Miss Porter is missing and that she has received a very serious injury. We are very anxious to trace her and have reason to believe Mr Powell may be able to assist us in this. We will, of course, be very grateful for any assistance you can give in the way of publicity. I’m sorry but I can add nothing more at this stage but you will be informed of any significant developments. Thank you for your co-operation.”

The Press were far from satisfied but Madden’s intention was to use them, not accommodate them. But they had more than enough to go on. The bloody happenings at Punt Yard connected with a beautiful and well-known actress were rich and delectable to the insatiable appetites of the front page and the screen. As knots of gossiping women gathered in Belsthwaite, as Maltravers sat with his growing aches of fear, as Vercaster went about its business, as the machinery of the police rolled relentlessly on, the slick and predictable phrases, occasionally enlivened by an imaginative adjective or dramatic observation, began to gather and form.

“Police are hunting the butcher who has savagely maimed actress Diana Porter…a city is living in terror after a mangled and mutilated hand was found cruelly nailed to a door in the shadow of its cathedral…there are fears for the life of one of Britain’s most dazzling talents…one terrible question is haunting the police — will Diana’s other hand be found?...people knelt and prayed in Vercaster Cathedral today for a beautiful young woman they had grown to love…Diana Porter is the helpless, terrified prisoner of a monster…London’s theatre world was shattered today by the news that…” With the facts they had at their disposal, the most prosaic of journalistic talents could work wonders.

Maltravers agreed to speak to the Press on behalf of everyone at Punt Yard, controlling his feelings and keeping his patience even when one reporter asked for the spelling of Hedda Gabler. They pressed him relentlessly about Diana’s pregnancy — which Madden had mentioned — demanding what he knew about her boyfriends. Having convinced them that he was certainly not one, he was unable to offer any suggestions.

“What about this guy Powell?” one asked.

“Well he certainly wasn’t a boyfriend. As far as I know, Diana didn’t even know him.” Jackson had passed on specific instructions from Madden that he was to say nothing about Powell beyond the police statement.

“Did he cut off her hand?”

“I don’t know. Ask the police.”

“Come on, we’ve tried that. They’re not saying. Give us a break on this.”

“They’re not saying because they don’t know!” Maltravers, his patience rapidly vanishing, looked hard at the journalists gathered round the front step of Punt Yard. “I don’t give a damn who cut off Diana’s hand. It’s been done. And I’m more interested in finding her than in who did it. Anybody who cares for Diana just wants her found and given proper medical treatment. We’re grateful for the coverage you’ve given to the fact that she went missing. Now, for God’s sake try to help find her!”

In Belsthwaite, Jackson and Neale were coming to the conclusion that they were hunting an invisible man. Powell had worked at the supermarket for three years without making any friends either there or among his neighbours in Sebastopol Terrace. He was quiet, efficient, unambitious and colourless. His flat, when they entered it, was bleak and functional, the furniture belonging to the landlord with little to reveal anything about the tenant’s personality. There were no pictures or posters on the wall, no personal letters from family or friends. There was a collection of paperback books but the mixture of war novels, science fiction and thrillers was the sort that anyone might casually accumulate. There were also two books on health foods. In a drawer Jackson found a collection of large-scale Ordnance Survey maps of Wales and the West Country with dates going back several years written on various remote locations. As he examined them Neale made a grunt of discovery, having reached under the bed and pulled out a cheap plastic suitcase which contained several photograph albums each filled with colour prints, taken with little or no sense of composition, of desolate countryside. Under each one was written a location and a year. Borrowdale, 1973. Exmoor, 1974. Sutherland, 1975. The chronology jumped a couple of years then picked up again without any discernible pattern until Snowdonia the previous summer. They compared the photographs with the annotated maps and found they tallied. All the locations were for remote parts of Britain.

“Look at this,” Jackson said. He had opened the last album to reveal more photographs, this time of Scandinavia, dated 1976 and 1977, the missing years from the previous albums. “He could be abroad then,” he commented. “Let’s see if there’s a passport anywhere.”

There was no sign of one nor indeed of any official communications apart from some brief correspondence with the Department of Social Security for a period of illness some six months previously and an envelope containing Powell’s pass book for the Halifax Building Society with just over eleven hundred pounds in the account. The deposits had been a regular ten pounds a week with only major withdrawals of about £200 each July, tying in with the dates of his holidays.

“He’s two dimensional,” said Jackson. “I always worry with people like this. It makes you wonder what the other dimension is.” As he spoke, that dimension, or at least something suggesting it, was emerging.

Belsthwaite police had taken Powell’s fingerprints — there was only one set anywhere in the flat — and had checked with criminal records. The result was waiting for Neale and Jackson when they returned to Belsthwaite police station. Twenty years earlier, Arthur Powell had been jailed in his native South Wales for attempted rape with violence and had used a knife on the girl he had attacked. There was also a message from Madden that they were to return to Vercaster immediately.

By the time they got back, Madden had received a full report on Powell. The attack had been on a neighbour’s sixteen-year-old daughter when he was living with his parents in a mining village near Swansea. He had given himself up and made a full confession, claiming that he had only used the knife to frighten her and had cut her in the neck when she started screaming. He had been jailed for six months during which he was a model prisoner and had undergone psychiatric treatment. The psychiatrist’s report told of a markedly introverted character with difficulties over relationships with women. His father was a miner who had been pensioned off after contracting pneumoconiosis. This had caused the family financial difficulties resulting in his mother becoming a hostess at a Swansea nightclub, supplementing her income by casual prostitution. But the report noted that she had remained loyal to her husband, who had colluded with her activities, and the truth had been kept from the boy Arthur. Only when the psychiatrist had pushed him towards acknowledging what had been happening did he show any hostility, totally rejecting the suggestion about his mother as offensive and ridiculous. So extreme had his rejection been that the report concluded he had known the truth but refused to accept it. He had never married and there was no evidence that he was homosexual. Since that experience, Powell had apparently gone totally within himself, taking various unskilled jobs in different parts of Britain, always merging with the background and leaving no trace when he moved on. He had allowed nobody to come close to him.

There was one other development before Jackson and Neale reached Vercaster. The Belsthwaite police obtained a picture of Arthur Powell taken at the retirement of the previous supermarket manager and wired it down to the Vercaster incident room. Madden was examining it when they reported to his office.

“On the extreme left,” he said and handed the photograph to them.

It showed an overweight, totally bald man in the centre, smiling ridiculously and holding an automatic tea-maker in a most unnatural pose, surrounded by about a dozen men and women in supermarket uniforms. Powell was standing towards the back, somehow giving the impression that he would have preferred not to be in the picture. Jackson looked at the face closely: pinched, narrow, furtive, expressionless amid smiles. Mentally he tried to stop selecting the adjectives which would fit the suspicions, but it remained a face which created a sense of unease. And there was something familiar about it.

“Copies are being issued in time for this evening’s main television news,” Madden continued. “In the meantime, take one round to Punt Yard and see if anyone there recognises him.”

“Yes, sir.” Jackson paused and looked at the picture again, frowning. “It’s just that …I think I know him…I think…” He shook his head.

“Know him?” snapped Madden.

“I’ve got the feeling I’ve seen him. In Vercaster. But I can’t remember where.”

“Take it to Punt Yard,” said Madden. “Perhaps it will come back to you.” There was the slightest edge in his voice indicating that he expected it to.

The recollection remained frustratingly elusive as Jackson drove to Punt Yard and he sat in the car outside the house for several minutes vainly chasing it, an image in the corners of his memory. Maltravers suddenly appeared by the car door.

“I saw you through the window,” he said as Jackson stepped out. “Have you found him?”

“I’m afraid not,” said Jackson. “But I’ve got a picture I want you all to look at. I’ll explain inside.”

They listened in silence to Jackson’s news, then he handed them the photograph without indicating which one was Powell. “Just tell me if there’s anyone you recognise,” he said.

“Him.” Maltravers and Melissa spoke instantly and together and then looked at each other in surprise.

Jackson stood up and took the picture back. “Which one are you referring to, Mrs Cowan? The man on the left. Mr Maltravers? The man on the left. Very well. Mrs Cowan, when and where have you seen him?”

“He was at the reception after Diana’s performance. Don’t you remember Augustus, I said he was staring in a funny way? But you didn’t see him! He’d gone when you turned round. How do you recognise him?”

“Because I saw him the following day,” replied Maltravers. “He was the chap staring at the house when we set off for the Dean’s garden party. But you weren’t with me then so you didn’t see him.”

“Are you both positive?” asked Jackson. They nodded their heads. “Very well, so Arthur Powell was in Vercaster on Saturday evening…” He stopped and snapped his fingers. “And that’s where I saw him! In the Refectory! I’m sorry but I deliberately hadn’t told you I thought I had seen him somewhere. And you say he was still here on Sunday afternoon.”

“And now he’s disappeared,” said Maltravers. “Just like Diana.”

For a moment all five of them were silent, reflecting on the implications of what had emerged.

“May I use your telephone, Canon?” said Jackson. “I want to speak to Mr Madden. Thank you.”

Jackson could mentally see Madden making his precise notes as he related what had happened.

“Did you notice anything strange about his behaviour in the Refectory?” Madden asked when he had finished.

“Not really. It was just that he was one of the few people there who seemed to be on their own, talking to nobody, and that made him catch my eye.”

“Take statements. Establish the times. Report back to me as soon as you return.” Madden rang off abruptly.

The statements were brief, neither Melissa nor Maltravers having taken any great notice of Powell. Maltravers remembered he wore a checked shirt but was vague about the colour.

“And he was staring at this house?” said Jackson.

“Yes, but I expect a lot of people do. It’s Georgian and tourists look at Georgian houses. When Tess said that was probably what he was I didn’t think about it again.”

“If you recall anything else, let us know,” said Jackson and looked perceptively at their concerned faces. “I realise that this is not making things any better for you. Believe me, we’re doing all we can to find Powell but he seems to have a habit of taking his holidays in remote places and if he is hiding somewhere he knows the sort of places to go. But don’t worry, we’ll find him.”

“And Diana?” asked Maltravers quietly.

“I hope we can find her first,” said Jackson. “We still have no reports of her being treated for her injuries but that doesn’t mean it’s not been done.”

“No body, no murder,” Maltravers said cynically.

Tess closed her eyes. “Shut up, Gus,” she said and Jackson felt the vibrations of raw emotions breaking through the surface of their calm.

“I realise the worst thing is not knowing,” he said as he stood up to leave. “Believe me we’ll keep you fully informed. I’ll see to that.”

“Thank you, sergeant,” said Melissa. “We’re very grateful. We’re going to the string quartet concert this evening so that may help to take our minds off things.”

“The festival is still going ahead then?”

“Yes. The Dean came to see us today and wanted to cancel it but my brother insisted we should carry on. Most of our events have completely sold out and, as he said, Diana would want things to continue.” Melissa smiled at Maltravers. “And we think it’s best that we are seen to behave as normally as possible. We’re being…very British. It’s silly, but it’s one way of getting through.”

Decent behaviour was observed in the Chapter House that evening as well, the room tangibly tense, the audience speaking in whispers and averting their eyes away from the group to which they were irresistibly drawn, the musicians sombre, the applause polite but muted. There was another gathering in the Refectory afterwards with strained good manners polluting the air until it had the quality of poisoned jelly. The Dean apologised for the Bishop’s absence.

“He’s taking this very badly,” he explained. “I don’t need to tell you how impressed and attracted he was by Miss Porter. He asked me to convey his greatest sympathy. My wife and I feel a sense of responsibility as well. Miss Porter was a guest in our home and if we had taken greater notice, then…”

“That’s very kind but quite unnecessary, Dean,” Maltravers interrupted. “There was nothing any of us could have done.”

Affected by the atmosphere, people began leaving early and Maltravers and Tess were preparing to follow them when he felt the sleeve of his jacket plucked. It was Miss Targett.

“Oh, Mr Maltravers,” she began and tears sprang to her eyes as she overcame the obstacle of speech. “This is a very, very wicked thing. Miss Porter was so...” Her kindly little face suddenly shivered into grief and Maltravers swallowed hastily as her emotion caught him.

“Thank you, Miss Targett,” he said. “We do appreciate your feelings.”

“But she was your friend!” Miss Targett’s voice cried with simple anguish. “Such a dear, kind, lovely girl…” She began to sob helplessly and Maltravers and Tess gazed in embarrassment, unable to find anything to do or say in comfort. They were saved by the arrival of Webster, the Succentor, who put his arm round the old lady.

“Come along, Miss Targett,” he said gently. “Let me take you through to the Lady Chapel for a few minutes.” As she turned with childlike obedience, he smiled slightly at Tess and Maltravers to indicate he would handle things and walked away with his arm still about Miss Targett’s shoulders.

“It’s not just us, is it?” said Tess as they watched them go. “There are all sorts of people being hurt by this. The Bishop, Melissa and Michael, Miss Targett. All those people who identify with the famous. Even the Dean’s wife. Dear God, let Diana be found soon.”

Chapter Eight

THE STING OF Miss Targett’s distress and the image of her cheerful and animated face distorted by horror moved restlessly about Maltravers’ mind all through the night. The Dean’s feelings of responsibility added irrational echoes. It was Maltravers who had brought Diana to Vercaster, the archetypal cathedral city where bad things did not happen. The feeling began to grow in him that he could not just allow things to go on without trying to do something. As morning light seeped through the bedroom curtains he lay and stared at them.

“Are you awake?” Tess’s arm stretched across his body.

“I can’t remember being asleep. There’s something Hardy wrote — in The Mayor of Casterbridge I think — about there being an outer compartment to the mind into which terrible thoughts come uninvited. Mine’s very over-occupied at the moment.”

“I know. I keep trying to tell myself the reality won’t be as bad. But I don’t believe myself.”

“I’m going to Belsthwaite,” he said.

Tess raised her head. “Belsthwaite? Why?”

“Because I might find something out. Because it’s something to do.”

“The police are doing everything they can.”

“I know that, but I just might…I don’t know…I might find something they’ve missed. Perhaps someone will talk to me because I’m not a policeman. Perhaps…I can’t just stay here and do nothing.”

Tess looked at him for a moment. “All right. But I’m coming with you. Don’t argue. You’re not the only one who needs something to do.”

Maltravers did not argue or even reply but put his arm around Tess and pulled her closer to him. They lay in silence until they heard the sound of the morning paper arriving through the letter box.

Arthur Powell’s thin face, slightly blurred after being enlarged from the original photograph, stared impassively from the grey columns of the Daily Telegraph. Maltravers stood in the hall reading the accompanying story, a cold informative narrative, inevitably detached from the reality of the experience. There was a description of Powell’s vehicle — like himself it was nondescript — and a warning from the police that he should not be approached. The story added that he had been seen in Vercaster at the weekend but the official position was still that he was wanted for nothing more specific than to assist with police inquiries. Maltravers suddenly found the iron laws which curtailed reporting in such circumstances slightly absurd. The suspicions against Powell were overwhelming and his disappearance a tacit confirmation of his guilt, which would be increasingly reinforced the longer he failed to come forward. At the end of the story about Powell was a separate short piece about the Latimer Mercy which included a quote by Madden that the police were not connecting the incidents.

Over breakfast Maltravers told Melissa what he and Tess planned to do.

“I can’t see what you’ll achieve,” she said. “But I can’t see what anything will achieve. Michael’s taking Rebecca to his parents in Sussex for a few days and will stay overnight but I’ll be here to take any messages.”

“You’ll be all right on your own?”

“Yes. Don’t worry. I’ve got people coming round. You’ll be back tonight?”

“Of course, but it might be late. We’ll call you before we set off. And we’d better get going now.”

Their departure was delayed by a telephone call from Joe Goldman.

“Have they found this bastard yet?” he demanded.

“Not as far as we know and I’m sure they’d be in touch with us if they had. How are things with you?”

“You wouldn’t believe it, Gus. It’s death in the family time. I’ve had grown men crying on the phone.”

“Joe, there’s no proof Diana’s dead.”

“You said that before but what comfort is it that she might be alive with her godammed hand cut off? Sorry, Gus, I know it must be worse for you but this is getting to a lot of people here. Anyway, that’s not why I called. There’s something worrying me and I wanted to talk to you about it.”

“About Powell?”

“No something else. It doesn’t make much sense but I can’t stop thinking about it. Do you remember Peter Sinclair? He was in Success City.”

Maltravers had to think a moment before Sinclair, an actor with the facial looks of an Action Man toy whose conceit far outweighed his talent, came back to him. His part in the trilogy had been a minor one; he died halfway through the first episode.

“What about him?”

“You know he and Diana had an affair? Nothing serious for her, she was just playing the field, but he really got in deep. When she finished it he became the classic rejected lover, flowers, phone calls, the lot. If you met him all he talked about was Diana. Anyway, the next thing is he’s going into hate, stupid threats that he’ll get even. You wouldn’t believe what he was like. You remember that cat Diana had?”

“Who doesn’t? She was besotted with the thing. It disappeared, didn’t it?”

“Yes…and a couple of days later its tail was pushed through her letter box. Next thing is Sinclair’s saying he’s had his revenge. The guy’s a weirdo, Gus.”

“Did she ask him about the cat?”

“He just laughed it off. But you see what I’m thinking? There’s only one problem. He’s in California.”

“California! Since when?”

“About three months ago. He landed a part as an English chauffeur in some new American TV soap opera.”

“Come on, Joe, you know what those shooting schedules are like. How does he find time to get back to England?”

“I don’t know. It just keeps nagging me. If he did cut up the cat he’s nutty enough for anything.”

“Just a minute. When was this affair? When did it end?”

“It started when they were shooting Success City.”

“When was that?”

“Just over a year ago. It lasted about three months. Why?”

“It’s all right, it doesn’t fit. You knew Diana was pregnant?”

“Yes, I read it in the paper…Oh, I see what you’re driving at. No, it can’t have been him. She’d have had it by now.”

“Any idea who it might have been? The father?”

Goldman grunted down the phone. “No one comes to mind. She was kicking around with two or three guys but there was nothing serious as far as I know.”

“OK, Joe, thanks for telling me about Sinclair. I’ll keep in touch.”

“Do that, Gus. Love to Tess, you know? A lot of people have asked me to say that.”

Maltravers thought over what Joe had told him as they prepared to leave for Belsthwaite. The continuous pattern of rehearsals and shooting for a long-running series left nobody any time to get away and there would probably be contractual limitations on Sinclair’s movements as well. But he still decided the police should know. He called Goldman back to ask the name of the studios, then called Jackson.

“I take your point that it seems highly unlikely,” Jackson said when he had finished. “But we’ll check it out just in case. Incidentally, we’ve had the usual crop of reported sightings of Powell since his picture appeared but none has turned out to be him so far. It always happens. If he does turn up I’ll call you as soon as I can.”

“Thanks. Actually I won’t be here for the rest of the day but my sister will be at home,” Maltravers replied. “Tess and I are going to London.”

Maltravers felt ridiculously guilty as they left Vercaster heading north, imagining that Jackson would see them and stop the car. He had no rational explanation for what they were doing; his reasons for going to Belsthwaite were deep, personal and irrelevant to everybody and everything except himself.

Belsthwaite lay in the remains of what must have been a beautiful Yorkshire dale, its lower reaches now savagely scarred by the merciless urban development spawned by the industrial explosion which had supported the world’s last and greatest Empire. As they crested a hill it appeared below them, a dark sluggish river coiling out of its unlovely brickwork which climbed unevenly towards the tops of the valley ridges. A silent mill dominated one side of the town, long disused and with windows like tombstones staring blankly across the cramped back yards and alleyways of what had been the homes of its workers. On the opposite side of the river, post-war development had planted some newer industries and brighter houses scattered amid worn, patches of green. Sebastopol Terrace, with its parallel companions of Inkerman, Balaclava and Crimea itself, instantly admitted its origins in far-away battlefields. The houses stood in long, stark rows like the very brigades they silently commemorated and the brilliant sun only served to exaggerate their bleakness.

Number twenty-seven was one of many which had been converted into upper and lower, obviously cramped, flats. There were no front gardens. The step up from the pavement was of porous sandstone, now leprous with age, and the narrow strip of diamond-shaped black and white tiles beyond it was cracked and discoloured. There were two doorbells, one unmarked and the other with a yellowing strip of paper beneath it, in a dirty clear plastic holder, bearing the name Powell.

“Not much point in trying that,” said Maltravers and pressed the alternative. There was no sound.

“Does it work?” asked Tess.

“Who knows? Bells that you can’t hear from outside are always infuriating.”

They had discussed where they would start as they drove north, deciding that gossip of their visit would spread more quickly from the supermarket and might provoke police interest, which could interfere with calling in Powell’s neighbourhood.

“Although asking questions is no offence in law,” Maltravers had remarked.

“But it’s not advisable when the police are involved,” Tess had replied.

Maltravers peered through one of the matching mottled-glass panes in the front door, his hand cupped above his eyes.

“I think there’s someone coming,” he said and moments later the blurred outline of a figure became visible on the inside. After a fumbling of lock the door opened slightly and a face peered out suspiciously.

The resulting conversation became so bizarre that Maltravers later regretted that he did not have the opportunity to record it. Having established that they were not from the landlord, the council, or any one of several hire-purchase companies; were not social workers, Jehovah’s Witnesses or itinerant sellers of any manner of goods; did not want to lend or borrow money; had no intention of offering cut-price decorating; did not wish to discuss the purchase of unwanted jewellery or other valuables; were not conducting any form of consumer survey; had no connection with Authority (particularly the police) in any way, shape or form; and meant, in short, no harm, expense or embarrassment, the occupier opened the door more fully to reveal himself as a man of advanced years and sullen manner with braces and a shirt without a collar.

“What do you want then?” he demanded.

“Well, actually, we’re inquiring about your neighbour, Mr Powell,” said Maltravers with the greatest amiability he could manage after so relentless a grilling.

“Don’t know ‘im,” said the man and closed the door before even the fleetest foot could have stopped it. Maltravers, his mouth still open to continue what he had to say, stared in amazement and Tess suddenly giggled.

“We’re not very good at this,” she said.

“I’ve always thought they were mad in Yorkshire,” said Maltravers. “This never happened to Lord Peter Wimsey.”

“Perhaps not. But he never came to Belsthwaite.”

Calls at the immediately adjacent houses were equally unprofitable. Nobody was at home in one case and at the other house there was a lady of remarkable deafness, a handicap made more difficult by the fact that she carried a perpetually yapping Yorkshire terrier. Gesturing meaninglessly at her, Tess and Maltravers admitted defeat and returned to the car.

They were about to drive away when Tess pointed out a small corner shop at the end of the terrace, a surprising survivor of changing shopping habits. Maltravers said it would be little use as Powell would obviously buy his groceries at the supermarket where he was employed but Tess said she would try it.

“It’s an obvious gossip mine,” she said. “Since the publicity in the papers and on television everybody will be talking about Powell. You stay here and I’ll go and have a chat.”

“And what makes you think they’ll talk to a complete stranger?” he asked.

“They’ll talk to anybody. Particularly someone who talks broad Yorksheer. Rest thissen here lad, and I’ll see what’s oop.” She stepped out of the car.

Maltravers watched her disappear into the shop, its tinny bell sounding outside in the street, and admiringly noticed that her long-legged walk gave the indefinable impression of being a Yorkshirewoman; good acting always starts with the feet. While he waited, he looked through all the morning papers they had bought on the motorway during the journey, following the irresistible urge to read again and again in print what they knew so well. The tabloid front pages contained little else but Powell’s face, combining journalistic high drama and the desired effect of making it familiar to millions of readers. They also had pictures of Diana — showing some sense of restraint by not using the nude one — and had all reached for their most spectacular typefaces and emotive language. “Is this Diana’s butcher?” screamed one headline, with cavalier disregard for possible libel actions should Powell unexpectedly turn out to be innocent, and all included excitable prose padded out with such strange irrelevances as the Vercaster District Council motto — “Serve God and people” — and the date of the Chapter House, variously given between eleventh and thirteenth centuries. Maltravers read them all, his occasional twitches of distaste counterbalanced by the awareness that they should hasten the discovery and arrest of Arthur Powell and, hopefully, the rescue of Diana; he clung, limpet-like, to the belief that she was still alive.

Tess returned after about twenty minutes carrying chocolate and crisps.

“I had to buy something,” she said as she got back into the car. “And the only problem was stopping her talking. Powell bought his papers there and she’s the sort who would make a Trappist monk speak. Most of it was just chit-chat but she’s obviously been searching her memory since the police called. I had the feeling that she wasn’t very happy about telling them too much. Apparently he always called in on Friday to pay his bill and last week said he was going on holiday. We know that, of course, but old Mrs Whatever-her-name-is asked him where he was going and he said he was off to spend a couple of days in London and then to the mountains.”

“Just the mountains?”

“Unfortunately yes. Wales?”

Maltravers frowned. “Or the Lake District. Or Scotland. Or even abroad. Jackson told us they couldn’t find his passport. Still it rules out some places like Devon and Cornwall which is something. I’ll tell Jackson when we get back. Come on, let’s try the supermarket.”

They decided the only thing they could do was admit they were friends of Diana and hope for the best. As it turned out the new manager, eager and trying to hide his youth behind an immature moustache, was quite unconcerned that their inquiries were not official and took them straight through to his office, hauling assorted boxes off chairs so they could sit down.

“We still can’t believe it,” he said. “Nobody was really a friend of Arthur but nobody disliked him. He’s the sort who wouldn’t hurt a fly. Nobody here can ever remember him even losing his temper.”

“Do you know anything about him? He seems indefinable.”

Their conversation was interrupted by the manager being called to sort out a dispute on a check-out. When he returned he was accompanied by a stout, jolly woman whom he introduced as one of his supervisors. He explained the reason for Maltravers and Tess’s visit.

“How would you describe Arthur, Mildred?” he asked her.

“Very close. Always polite, mind, but never used two words where one were enough. Never gave change in conversation. Mind, you could say nowt against him. Only thing that sticks in my mind is he were faddy with his food.”

“Faddy? What do you mean?”

“One of them vegetarians. I told ‘im there were nowt worth eatin’ in rabbit fodder but he were very particular. Wouldn’t even eat a boiled egg sandwich and where’s the harm in that?”

“Did you ever see him with a Commando knife?” asked Maltravers. Sudden recollection broke over Mildred’s face.

“Ay, I’d forgotten that. One of them big things in a leather sheath. Now that were his pride and joy. Always had it with him and had one of those stone things for sharpening it on. He used to cut up the boxes in the storeroom with it.” She frowned as she thought back. “Now I think about it, he seemed…I don’t know…happy somehow when he were doing that.”

Maltravers and Tess exchanged disturbed glances. After a few more minutes’ conversation it became clear that neither Mildred nor the manager would recall anything else; Powell had kept himself to his secret self very carefully, even among the people with whom he worked.

As they were about to drive out of the car park, they heard a shout and saw the manager running towards them carrying something.

“I just remembered,” he said as Maltravers wound down the car window. “Arthur always changed into these when he came to work. He kept them in the storeroom.”

He held up a pair of cheap plastic sandals, cracked and worn with use.

“I suddenly thought, perhaps the police ought to have them.” He looked at Maltravers, illogically seeking his approval.

“I expect it would be best,” he replied. “Although I don’t see how they can help. They’ve been through his flat. I suggest you give them a call. Thanks again for your help.”

He pulled away and turned towards the town centre.

“Is there anywhere else we can try?” asked Tess.

“Not that I can think of. Oh, Christ, what a bloody waste of time! What on earth did we come for?”

“Because you needed to,” said Tess quietly. “It has occupied your mind. Come on, let’s find somewhere for lunch.”

They found a town centre pub which served food and, while Tess was ordering at the bar, Maltravers rang Melissa.

“Augustus! Thank God you’ve called! How soon can you be back? Diana’s other hand has been sent to the Dean through the post.”

Chapter Nine

As THEY RETURNED south, they heard the news on the car radio. Melissa, her face drawn with shock, told them the details when they reached Punt Yard.

“It arrived in the second post,” she said. “Just a small brown cardboard box addressed to the Dean.”

“Was there any message?” Maltravers asked.

“No. It was just the hand. Apparently it was posted somewhere in London yesterday but the postmark is so smudged it’s impossible to tell where. The police have got it now of course.” Melissa suddenly threw her arms around her brother. “Oh, Augustus, this is so awful!” She began to weep. “The Dean’s wife came round. She was so kind and you know what she’s usually like. They want you to go and see them as soon as you can. The phone’s never stopped with people saying all the right things and…and Michael’s been on. And the Bishop. And the bloody Press. Augustus, they’ve got to find this dreadful man!”

Maltravers clung tightly to his strong, calm, capable, level-headed sister, broken and battered by the terror that had invaded her orderly and certain world.

“Come on,” he said. “We’re back now. I’ll take any more phone calls. Why don’t you go down to Sussex?”

Melissa shook her head through her sobs. “No. It’s better now you’re both back and there’s still the festival. I’m still being British however much it hurts. Stupid isn’t it?”

“Yes,” he said. “It’s stupid. But the alternatives are stupider.” He paused and frowned. “Stupider? Is there such a word? You know what I mean.”

With excessive fastidiousness, Madden lifted the cardboard box with his fingertips, even though it had already been examined for prints. One end bore the remains of a label showing that it had originally been used for packing bars of chocolates. Inside there was a dark-brown stain where blood had seeped into it. The gummed label bearing the Dean’s name and address was typed.

“Sort of thing they have in supermarket stockrooms,” he observed.

“Yes, sir,” said Jackson. “Although they’re not difficult for anyone to get hold of.”

“And five sets of fingerprints.”

“Yes. We’ve eliminated the Dean, of course, and Higson is at the Vercaster sorting office collecting prints from the postman and sorting clerks. The trouble is that it’s impossible to say which office it went through in London at the moment. The lab’s doing its best with the postmark but it looks fairly hopeless. What is certain is that we can’t find Powell’s prints on it. The best bet will be the saliva tests on the stamp and the label.”

“Do we have saliva records of Powell?”

“No. But when we get him we’ll be able to prove if he sent it.” Madden raised an eyebrow. “If? Do we have any real alternatives?”

“There is this man Sinclair we now know about. We’re still waiting to hear from Los Angeles.”

“Long shot, sergeant. Very long.” Madden was not to be diverted into investigating remote possibilities when Powell was fitting so exactly into the sort of pattern he liked best. “Any news about Powell?”

“We’ve had reports back from sightings in Borrowdale and the Peak District but they’re negative. And there’s still no trace of him having left the country.”

“And still no reports of Miss Porter being treated for her injuries?” Jackson shook his head and a spasm of dissatisfaction tweaked across Madden’s face; what was otherwise emerging as a very satisfactory investigation was hourly becoming closer to murder but still could not be neatly classified as such. He found that an annoying shortcoming as he contemplated the fugitive Powell trapped in a closing police net.

“And how’s our Mr Maltravers?” he inquired mildly.

The unexpected polite and irrelevant question sounded instant alarm bells in Jackson’s mind. Madden had dismissed his initial suspicions of Maltravers once Powell had appeared in the case and it was totally out of character for Madden to take any interest in him now.

“I haven’t seen him today,” he answered cautiously.

“Really? Where’s he been?” There was the slightest suggestion of a cutting edge beneath the question this time and Jackson suddenly knew he was being led into dangerous ground.

“He told me he was spending the day in London, sir.”

“And did he?”

“I presume so.”

“You presume so. I see.” Madden picked up the cardboard box and handed it back to Jackson. “If the lab have finished with that, have it labelled and filed. Thank you, sergeant.” Jackson, aware he was caught in the coils of something he was ignorant about, but unable to make any comment, picked it up and turned to go as Madden started to read some of the papers on his desk.

“And I want Mr Maltravers — and Miss Davy — in this office within the next half hour,” Madden added without looking up. Jackson turned back to ask a question but thought better of it.

He returned the box to the incident room and phoned Punt Yard from an empty office where he could not be overheard.

“What the hell have you been up to?” he demanded.

“Up to? What do you mean?”

“Madden wants to see you and Miss Davy immediately and he’s playing games with me. He knows something I don’t. Were you in London today?”

“Oh, that’s what it is. Sorry. We went to Belsthwaite.”

“You went to Belsthwaite.” Jackson’s voice was full of disappointment and resignation. “Do me one favour will you? Both of you come over here. Now. I’ve been giving you all the consideration I can and I’d like you to get me out of this.”

They arrived at the police station within ten minutes and Jackson, without a word, took them through to Madden who was pedantically correct.

“I received a phone call at,” he consulted his notepad, “fourteen seventeen hours today from the police authorities in Belsthwaite. They allege that two people fitting your descriptions and giving your names were making inquiries within their area of authority. These inquiries were in connection with a Mr Arthur Powell who, as you are fully aware, is the subject of an official police investigation in connection with the disappearance of Miss Diana Porter. Were these persons yourselves?”

“Yes,” said Maltravers.

Madden nodded as if to himself. “I see. You are aware I take it that interference with the police in the course of their duties is an offence?”

“We weren’t interfering. We thought it might possibly help.”

“We thought it might possibly help.” Madden wrote the remark down as he slowly repeated it. “I see. Do you have any comment to make Miss Davy?” Tess shook her head and Madden leaned back in his chair and regarded them thoughtfully.

“Despite the impression given by sensational fiction, the investigation of serious crime — of all crime — is a matter for the police,” he said. “We do not seek, we do not require and we do not approve of interference — and that is what this is — by unqualified amateurs. Arthur Powell will be caught by the police and if your meddling today turns out to have caused any delay in this operation it will be noted in the official report on the matter. If it is repeated, the consequences for yourselves will be very serious indeed. That is all.” Having delivered his lecture, Madden sat in silence waiting for them to leave. Jackson, acutely uncomfortable throughout, stiffly saluted Madden and turned to go but Maltravers remained in his chair.

“First of all, I wish to make it clear that neither Sergeant Jackson nor anyone in your force knew of our intention,” he said. “In fact I deliberately lied to Sergeant Jackson this morning. Secondly, I can see no way in which what we did could be construed as interference. You obviously learned about this after the supermarket manager took a pair of Powell’s sandals to the police in Belsthwaite, which was something I advised him to do. Had we learned anything of value that too would have been reported to your officers. Unless you can prove interference, then we have broken no law.” His eyes, which had remained fixed on Madden’s face, hardened. “So don’t treat us like two bloody schoolkids who’ve been caught in the orchard with pockets full of apples! Your official investigation happens to concern the horrendous injuries and possible death by now of a very dear friend of ours and if there is anything I can do that I think might just possibly help to find her I am going to do it and you can stuff your regulations. And until and unless I break the law I am not going to be browbeaten by you or anybody else. Now you can make a note of that and add it to the godammed file you’ve probably opened on me!”

Jackson’s eyes were closed as though in prayer. Tess sat very upright and calm, her hands clasping her bag. Madden remained impassive. The silence gathered and froze about them.

“That will be all,” Madden repeated stonily and this time Maltravers stood abruptly then stepped back to let Tess precede him out of the room with Jackson, who silently ushered them into an interview room.

“All I ask is one favour,” he said. “Don’t do that to me again. I deserve better.”

“Madden started it, I finished it,” snapped Maltravers.

“I’m not talking about just now. You lied to me and left me in an impossible position with a man who is my superior and with whom I have to work, whatever you think of him. Being as detached as I can in the circumstances, you were actually right in there. You haven’t broken any law and you almost certainly haven’t interfered with what we’re doing. But I need a professional, working relationship with that man in the interests of solving crime. If you’d told me you were going to Belsthwaite, I’d have understood and I wouldn’t have tried to stop you even if I could. But at least I’d have known and could have acted accordingly.”

“You’d have told Madden.”

“Let’s just say I’d have covered myself. All you have achieved today is to make life difficult for me within weeks of joining this force. I don’t care if you and Madden hate each other’s guts but I have my career to think about.” Jackson was biting with anger.

“Oh, I am his Highness’s dog at Kew,” Maltravers said savagely. “Pray tell me, Sir, whose dog are you?”

“If you two don’t stop this instant, I am going to start screaming the place down.” Tess’s face was stiff with tension as they instinctively turned to her. Her voice began to break as she continued. “You do realise, don’t you, that while you’re both showing how macho you are, Diana is out there somewhere dying in agony? Christ, you make me sick.” She started to cry angrily.

Her bitter accusation made them both wince uncomfortably and it was Jackson who began to retrieve the situation. He went over to Tess and took her hand.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “We’re both sorry. Murder — and whatever we say officially that’s how we’re all reacting to this is like any form of violent death, like losing a wife or husband in a car crash. Until you face it, you cannot know what it’s like. It stretches emotions beyond anything else that people have to face and if it happens you just have to hack it as best you can. And nobody goes through it without going out of control at some point.”

“But you’re not emotional,” said Tess. “You’re a policeman. It’s just part of your job.”

Jackson smiled sadly. “That’s right. I’m a copper. Collecting clues, following procedures, enforcing the law. I’m not paid to be emotional.” He paused for a moment then continued very quietly. “When I was sixteen years old my kid sister was raped and strangled. There’s another thing about violent death. The scars never go away.”

Tess swiftly wiped away fresh springing tears with her hand. “Oh, God, you’re a lovely man,” she said. Jackson squeezed her hand and stood up.

“That’s another thing about detective stories,” he said. “Have you ever noticed that hardly anybody cries? In real life, it’s not just solving murders, it’s people breaking up. Anyway, as you’ve been playing at detectives, did you find anything out?”

Maltravers shook his head. “No, we didn’t. Oh, the sandals turned up.” He briefly explained what had happened. “But I can’t see they’re going to help you. Look, I’m sorry we didn’t tell you we were going but if we do do anything else — and I meant what I said to Madden — then I promise I’ll let you know. And I’m sorry I got mad at you.”

“That’s all right. I think we understand each other a little better. Have you been to see the Dean? When I went there this morning I know he was very anxious to talk to you.”

“We’re going with Melissa after dinner,” said Maltravers.

“Is she all right?”

“Coping.” Maltravers pulled a wry face. “Like the rest of us.”

Jackson escorted them back to the main entrance of the police station, then stopped them as they turned to leave him.

“Oh, I nearly forgot,” he said. “Councillor Hibbert and the anonymous letter. I’m afraid it’s been stamped on by very high authority. The word has come down that it is not to be investigated.”

“Any reason given?”

“No. The level of authority is such that it does not have to give reasons. And nobody argues. I still think there might be something in it but I’ve got enough hassle at the moment without sticking my neck out.

“And of course,” he added, “the Latimer Mercy theft is in no way connected with the investigation into the disappearance of Miss Porter.” He gave them a look of exaggerated innocence. “Very proud of his collection, Councillor Hibbert. Always happy to show it to people, I’m told.”

Maltravers stared at him. “You’re a bloody funny copper,” he said.

Jackson returned his stare reproachfully. “Can’t think what you mean. You brought the letter to us and I’m just informing you of the official position. I think you’re entitled to know that. Well, if you’ll forgive me I’ve got a lot to do. Give my compliments to the Dean. Goodnight.”

The Dean’s wife opened the door to Maltravers, Tess and Melissa, her formidable presence softened by shock and sympathy.

“How kind of you to come,” she said as they entered the hall. “We have both been most concerned for you. Please come through.”

They went into the room at the rear of the house where the French windows gave on to the evening garden. The Dean rose as they walked in, kissed Melissa and Tess and shook Maltravers’ hand with both of his and held it for a long moment.

“I wish I could find words of comfort,” he said. “We are so dreadfully, dreadfully sorry.”

“We’re very sorry about what happened this morning. In the post.”

The Dean let go of his hand and made a gesture of dismissal.

“It was dreadful, of course, but I am much more concerned for Miss Porter. And for yourselves. Please. Sit down. A sherry, perhaps?”

When the drinks had been distributed, the Dean clearly wished to talk about what had been going through his mind during the day.

“I cannot understand the actions of this man,” he began. “I have worked from the assumption that he must be in some way mad, but even madness must have some manner of insane logic. Whatever his reasons for abducting Miss Porter, what are his motives for what has happened since? The terrible business of the hand on the door may have been some sort of perverted action against you and Miss Davy, who are Miss Porter’s friends. But I have no connection with Miss Porter at all except for our very brief meetings at the weekend. I’ve been racking my brains to try and find some sort of connection which would link everything together. Perhaps if that can be found it would assist, although quite frankly, I cannot see how. And of course any speculation is meaningless when the most urgent matter is to find Miss Porter. I understand the police are still not treating this matter as a murder inquiry? I’m sorry, that was not a tactful question.”

“That’s all right, Dean,” said Maltravers. “It’s something that we are having to face. There are no reports that she has been treated for her injuries.”

As regret and sympathy flowed from the Dean’s silent response to his remark, Maltravers reflected on what he had been saying. Now that the Dean had been directly involved there appeared no sense whatever in what was happening. And if Powell were not caught, would it stop with the Dean? Maltravers shook his mind loose of that dark and threatening alley of his thoughts in which lay all manner of possible evil.

They stayed for an hour of shared condolence and concern, Maltravers’ mind constantly returning to the contrasting image of the hard neon light, steel desks and ordered efficiency of the police station where the matter which encompassed them in strained and painful politeness was the focal point of ringing telephones, accumulating paperwork and dispassionate routine. The two perceptions of the same reality were irreconcilable.

“I still have no adequate words of comfort,” the Dean said as they rose to leave. “And I do not think there are any. That’s not the sort of confession senior clergymen should make I’m afraid, but in these circumstances I feel that anything I try to say might sound patronising and hollow. All I can say is that Miss Porter is constantly in our prayers.”

They thanked their hosts and left, affected by their distress and compassion. As they turned out of the gate from the Dean’s, they heard the chink of glass from the house next door and saw Webster on the front step with two milk bottles in his hand. They waited as he walked down the short path to them.

“I’m glad I’ve seen you,” he said. “I know about what happened this morning of course and want to express my sympathy. I thought you might like to know that I hold a weekly prayer meeting in my house and tonight we said prayers for Miss Porter. Miss Targett was with us and I think it helped to comfort her.”

“Oh, yes, Miss Targett,” said Tess. “Thank you for what you did in the Chapter House the other evening. I’m afraid there was nothing we could find to say to her.”

Webster smiled. “There is nothing, however dreadful, that cannot be eased by knowledge of the love of God. I am sure the Dean must have told you that.”

“Not in so many words,” said Maltravers. “But we are very grateful for all the help people are giving us at the moment.”

“Is there any news about this man the police are looking for?” Webster asked. He suddenly became aware that he was still holding the milk bottles and looked uncertain what to do with them.

“Certainly not up to earlier this evening.”

“Well, the evildoer will be punished,” Webster said quietly. “The Lord will find his instrument.”

Maltravers wondered how the self-sufficient Madden would feel at being the handservant of the Almighty, whom he probably regarded as a sort of elevated Chief Constable who should let His agents carry out the duties of retribution after He’d laid down the broad general policy.

“I wanted to give you something,” Webster went on. “It may be of some help. If you have a moment…?”

They followed him into the house, a narrow, disproportionately high building sandwiched between the Dean’s and another equally imposing structure in the terrace. The small front room was sparsely furnished with an old-fashioned bookcase against one wall. Webster went to one shelf and realised he was still carrying the bottles. He put them down and pulled down a brown leather-bound volume and handed it to Maltravers. It was a copy of the Vercaster Mystery Plays.

“You may know they were written by the monk Stephen of Vercaster,” he said. “The current productions are only an adaptation but the originals are of real merit. They were written to be performed by ordinary people and to remind them that our everyday lives and what we do in them cannot be separated from God’s purpose and the path that Christ showed us.” He looked at Maltravers earnestly. “There are meanings and there are reasons for everything that happens in the pattern that God has ordained. I take great comfort from that and from trying to follow God’s intentions even though they are a great mystery. I think you might find it of help to dwell on those thoughts.”

“Thank you,” said Maltravers, slightly uncomfortable in the face of such sincerity. “I’ll read them with interest.”

“It really is very kind of you, Matthew,” Melissa said tactfully. “But if you’ll forgive us we must be getting back. I’m expecting a telephone call from Canon Cowan.”

They said goodnight and continued their short walk back to Punt Yard.

“I’m sorry about that,” Melissa said. “Matthew always means well but you didn’t need all that at the moment.”

“Odd, isn’t it?” said Maltravers. “The Dean never mentioned God once but I got much more from him than from our young friend’s religious overkill. And I’m afraid I’ve got too many black thoughts about Diana to accept his assurances of God’s purpose behind all this. He can have his convictions. I just want Powell found…and ten minutes alone in a locked room with him.”

“Come on, stop that,” said Tess. “Those are bad-vibe thoughts and won’t do anything to help Diana. Revenge won’t do any of us any good.”

“I’m not in the mood for liberal humanism at the moment. Don’t worry, I expect I’ll get back to it.”

Chapter Ten

REPORTED SIGHTINGS OF Arthur Powell — all of them erroneous when checked — were reaching the Vercaster incident room at an average of four an hour but Madden accepted them with no sense of frustration. They represented a methodical process of police co-operation from which escape was unthinkable. Every force in Britain would respond to a Madden-inspired request for assistance as long as the hunt for Powell and Diana Porter continued. It was a period between the crime and the inevitable arrest which brought its own satisfactions. Inquiries had shown that Powell’s passport had expired two years previously and had not been renewed, so he was somewhere in Britain, where millions of people had been made familiar with his face. Even though Diana’s hand had been sent from London two days earlier, Madden unswervingly authorised checks on sightings in the remotest spots; explanations could be sorted out later when Powell was arrested and in the meantime textbook procedures would be followed.

As Madden read the reports from as far apart as Grasmere and Birmingham, Brighton and York, a teleprinter message was being received in Scotland Yard from Los Angeles and was immediately transmitted to Vercaster where Jackson watched it spell itself out. When it was complete, he took it from the machine and read it through again. There had been a break in the filming of the television series in which Peter Sinclair was appearing, following an accident to one of the leading members of the cast. For several days he had not been required and had flown back to Britain. He was now back in America and the Los Angeles police wanted to know if they should question him further. Jackson took the message through to Madden.

“Returned to Heathrow early on Saturday morning, flew back Wednesday evening our time,” he said. “You say this was an unexpected interruption?”

“That’s how I understand it, sir. He would not have anticipated the opportunity.”

“So that means he suddenly decided, faced with the completely unexpected, to return to England, murder a woman he hadn’t seen for a year, nail one hand to a door then post the other to the Dean on his way to the airport. We have no reported sightings of him in Vercaster where Maltravers at least would have recognised him. Doesn’t look very promising, sergeant.”

“No, sir. What reply shall I give Los Angeles?”

Madden pondered for a few moments. “Request that they interview him again,” he said finally. “He must know what has happened if he was here. Let’s see what his story is about why he came back and what he did. But I don’t think we need concern ourselves unduly with this, sergeant.”

“No, sir. Thank you, sir.” After the previous day’s experience following Maltravers’ visit to Belsthwaite, Jackson was keeping his behavioural nose scrupulously clean. He returned to the incident room and arranged for Madden’s request to be sent to Los Angeles, then started helping with the endless mountain of paperwork. The investigation had reached a curious stage where Vercaster was the one place virtually nothing was happening; they were currently the receiving post for the scattered information coming in, waiting for that brief moment of elation in the midst of the repetitive tedium when someone, somewhere, found and arrested Arthur Powell.

Full of misgivings about the wisdom, legality and possible success of the venture, Tess was discussing their proposed visit to Hibbert with Maltravers. Following Jackson’s broad hint, he was determined to do it. His suggestion, which he readily admitted was half-baked and riddled with faults, was that they should simply turn up at Hibbert’s house, introduce themselves, evince an interest in ancient books, rely on Hibbert’s reported willingness to show off his collection and have Tess somehow lure him out of the room while Maltravers tried to get into the locked cupboard.

“Don’t examine it too closely,” he said. “It won’t stand careful scrutiny.”

“But even if we manage to do all that, he probably keeps the key on him,” objected Tess. It was the latest of many irrefutable objections which Maltravers had brushed aside.

“But perhaps there’s a spare somewhere. The point is we don’t lose anything by trying. Even if there’s no connection with Diana, it could sort out the theft business. If I can get into the cupboard and the Latimer Mercy is there I can tell Jackson and the police will have to do something then. Look, suppose…just suppose…there is a connection with Diana. You surely don’t want to risk missing an opportunity of helping to find her?” He let the question hang in the air and Tess had no answer.

Hibbert lived in a large 1930s house set in its own grounds on the northern borders of Vercaster. When they arrived he was at home, his business activities now consisting largely of regular negotiations with his accountants to avoid the worst excesses of the tax system while his two sons took care of day-to-day matters. Maltravers apologised for calling unannounced and introduced Tess and himself.

“We’ve been told about your book collection,” he said and noted the instant spasm of pride and condescension that flickered across Hibbert’s florid face. “If it’s not inconvenient, we would greatly like to see it. We can come back another time if you wish, of course.”

“Not at all, not at all.” Hibbert spoke as though addressing a visitation of humble and suitably obsequious ratepayers. “I was only reading through the Finance Committee minutes, but they can wait. Come in.”

Having indicated that, while all his leisure moments were occupied by turning his benevolent mind to the interests of Vercaster and its citizens, a sense of attentive courtesy was still the hallmark of his behaviour, Hibbert led them through to his library. It was a staggering treasure house of fine leather and the printed word.

From floor to ceiling, virtually all round the walls, were ranked the rows of books. The sheer number of them, their spines in varying shades of golden brown, plum, stark black, rich green, all glinting with gold tooling, was remarkable in a private house. The south-facing room with its wide bow window was light and elegant, its furniture consisting only of a large polished table with a reading lamp in the centre, mahogany leather wing-chairs, a small bureau in the window alcove and the corner cupboard to which their eyes instantly flew. It was of polished oak with a curved front and a decorated brass keyhole and looked, quite illogically, locked.

“I don’t know what your particular interests are,” said Hibbert, “but let me show you this first of all.”

This was an edition of Holinshed’s Chronicles, an impressive start by any standards, and was followed by a clearly regularly displayed selection including Foxe’s Booke of Martyrs, rare editions of Virgil, Homer and Horace, an original edition of Byron’s Childe Harold, signed first editions of the Waverley novels and Johnson’s Dictionary. Maltravers observed that the offerings did not include the esoteric or obscure; Hibbert’s pleasure was not to boast to specialists but to reasonably educated people. His visitors made suitably appreciative noises indicating that the mere possession of such works enhanced their host’s reputation, while seeking an excuse for the diversion they needed. Tess finally found it with a work by Repton on landscape gardening.

“I was admiring your garden when we arrived,” she said ingenuously. “Is it as superb at the back of the house?”

“My dear, it is unique,” Hibbert replied pompously. “It contains every flower or plant mentioned by Shakespeare. As an actress, I’m sure…?”

“How wonderful!” Maltravers controlled his features as Tess went spectacularly over the top. “Every one? Could I see it?” She had touched correctly, if by chance, on another of Hibbert’s sources of self-importance. “It must be remarkable.”

Hibbert’s gesture of self-deprecation only served to magnify his conceit. “Of course. It will be my pleasure. Mr Maltravers?”

Maltravers suddenly took a great interest in a set of bound copies of the Spectator, admitted a quite true ignorance of or interest in gardens and asked if he might be allowed to browse instead.

“Examine anything you wish,” insisted Hibbert. “Miss Davy, if you would come this way.”

Tess gave Maltravers an idiotic grimace behind the councillor’s back and they left the room. Maltravers listened to Hibbert’s voice receding down the hall and then stepped swiftly to the cupboard, grasped the handle and pulled. It was locked, but the temptation to see how kind the fates were being was irresistible. He glanced round the room for a place where the key might be kept.

The central table had a single drawer but it contained only a few sheets of paper and a magnifying glass. The only other immediate possibility was the bureau in the window. It was unlocked. It was also depressingly tidy — Maltravers held that excessive tidiness was the sign of a sick mind — and only a few moments showed there was no key of any sort in it. The two drawers below held nothing more than a collection of book catalogues and writing paper. Maltravers closed the lower drawer and stood up, staring at the bureau for a moment before turning to look round the room again as a distant bell of recollection sounded in his brain. He frowned as his eyes searched for any other possible hiding place, then he whirled round to stare at the top of the bureau again. Across the top was carved a row of small wooden knobs, each about half an inch high; towards the right hand end one was significantly lower than the rest. Maltravers was mentally thrown back to his childhood, to the home of a long-dead uncle and a regular delight for Melissa and himself when they visited him. He pulled the bureau open again and stretched his hand to depress the irregular knob which had been worn down with use. With the slight click of a hidden spring, a small panel fell open on invisible hinges.

“God bless you, Uncle Donald, wherever you are,” he breathed.

He reached inside the secret compartment behind the panel and pulled out a small key. For a second he gazed at it in amazement, then crossed the room and pushed it into the lock of the corner cupboard. It was the right key.

The cupboard contained about thirty volumes but an immediate glance showed there was nothing as big as the Latimer Mercy.

He stretched his fingers to feel behind them but there was nothing hidden. Deflated with disappointment, he glared angrily at the shelves for a moment, then one title caught his eye. He pulled down the volume and flicked through it hastily then returned it and took another at random as a smile of surprise filled his face. He took out half a dozen other volumes and looked at them rapidly, pausing occasionally when he came to an illustration.

“Well, well, well,” he muttered to himself. Suddenly he became aware that time was passing, returned all the books to their places, relocked the cupboard and put the key back in its hiding place. As Tess, laughing unnecessarily loudly, as a warning, returned with Hibbert, he was apparently engrossed in one of Addison’s essays.

“Miss Davy was saying that you have a luncheon appointment,” said Hibbert and Maltravers rightly concluded that some excuse for retreat had become desirable. “But if you would care to call again?”

“That’s most kind,” Maltravers told him. “We’re very grateful for your hospitality but we must be off. I think I’d have to go to a stately home to see anything to rival this.” His waving arm embraced the library and Hibbert almost visibly swelled even more.

“I don’t wish to be immodest, but I think you’re right,” he said. He was a man who would suffer from immodesty in nothing.

“Who started the collection?” Maltravers asked as they prepared to go.

“My grandfather, Alderman Horatio Hibbert, began it in a small way but it was my father who really established it. I’ve added where I can but it was virtually complete at the time of father’s death.”

“Of course, your family’s been in Vercaster for some time.” To Tess’s mystification Maltravers appeared to have a sudden interest in the subject.

“Since 1855 when the family business was established. We were originally Suffolk yeomen and my grandfather came here determined to make his fortune.” Hibbert smiled graciously. “I think we can say he succeeded. Mind you, our motto has always been service to the community. Grandfather was elected to the council in 1884 and there has been a Hibbert on the council virtually ever since.”

“Remarkable,” said Maltravers, demonstrating a correct level of awe. “I think I saw your grandfather’s tomb in the cathedral. A most impressive list of achievements.”

“A family tradition,” Hibbert maintained stoutly. “Our policy has been integrity in business, service to the community and morality in conduct. Sounds a bit old-fashioned today perhaps but I personally mourn the loss of the decency which my grandfather epitomised.” Maltravers noticed the look of glazed disbelief spread across Tess’s face but made one final remark.

“Very different today I fear.” It was a sure touch and brought the response he expected.

“My grandfather would have been appalled with what has happened, Mr Maltravers!” Hibbert was close to actually shouting. “I tell you, this city and this nation would be infinitely better if it followed his standards. My father maintained them and so do I, but the licentiousness of behaviour today is undermining the very fabric of the society we have built up. If I had my way in such matters, I…”

“Good heavens, is that really the time?” Maltravers interrupted before Hibbert could reach the full force of his flow of righteous indignation. “Please excuse us, but we do have that lunch appointment.”

As they were leaving, Maltravers remarked on the portraits in the hall, obviously of the two previous generations of upright Hibberts, the Alderman bearded and patrician, his son smooth, confident and correct, robed as Mayor.

“Great men,” Hibbert said simply. “Of unblemished reputation and faultless behaviour.” He smiled with family pride. “They were Hibberts.” The surname was pronounced adjectivally, incorporating all manner of virtues, and his visitors looked at them again with suitably polite regard before they left.

“Well?” demanded Tess as she slammed the car door.

“Just a moment. Wave to Councillor Hibbert, he likes to be waved at.”

Tess turned and gave Hibbert a dazzling smile as he stood self-importantly on his own doorstep and Maltravers turned the car on the gravel drive.

“Did you find the key?” she said through smile-gritted teeth.

“Oh, yes, I found the key.” Tess turned to him, her entire face a question. “And I looked in the cupboard. But I didn’t find the Latimer Mercy.”

Tess’s face flopped with disappointment. “We went through all that to find nothing.”

“I wouldn’t say that. I did find what is in that cupboard and why he keeps it locked. It contains what polite people call erotica but may be bluntly termed upmarket hard porn with very specific illustrations.” He smiled in vulgar recollection. “Councillor Hibbert may not be our thief, but he is a dirty old man. And it appears to run in the family.”

Chapter Eleven

IN THE EARLY hours of Saturday morning Maltravers and Tess were woken by a crash of thunder like an oak tree falling on a slate roof as a summer storm, boiled by the long spell of hot weather, erupted over Vercaster. They went to the bedroom window and looked out at the panorama of tumbling, muscular black clouds seething beyond the grey pinnacle of Talbot’s Tower. Sheets of lightning spasmodically lit the tower and cathedral with blinks of ice-coloured glare as the rattle of rain thrashed the two ancient Cedars of Lebanon that stood by the Lady Chapel. Dawn had long broken but the June sun was invisible, burning impassively somewhere above the turbulent breakers of cloud rolling back and forth across the city. Another clattering explosion right above the house made them jump and in the comparative silence that followed they heard Michael and Melissa’s voices, then the click of a bedroom door and footsteps crossing the landing and descending the stairs.

“I’ll go back to my room,” Tess said. “Just for appearance’s sake.”

Maltravers remained at the window, watching bubbling rivulets race along the rain-lacquered pavements of Punt Yard from the engorged drains and thought about Diana, still possibly alive, somewhere out in the storm, helpless, mutilated and in endless pain. His face, which had smiled blandly at Hibbert the previous day, was layered with foreboding. It would be a long time before he really found his laughter again.

The storm moved away to the east, the thunderclaps now faint echoes of the earlier clamour, the rain easing, then ceasing. A sword of sunlight pierced the clouds and moved with surprising swiftness across the landscape of fast-dripping trees, drenched grass and battered flowers. Maltravers opened the window and listened to the gurgling drains and birdsong as the rising heat began to draw a ghostly steam from the ground. Distantly, a racing train gave a sweeping whistle and below him a milk-float jangled onto the cobbles of the yard.

“Morning!” the milkman shouted as he spotted Maltravers at the window. “Needed that. It’s cleared the air.” Maltravers smiled back at him but said nothing.

Joe Goldman called after breakfast, his unnatural sombreness, in total contrast to his usual bullying ebullience, another shadow in the aura of gathering gloom. Recordings by Diana of a cassette of children’s stories had been cancelled, another actress had been found for a play at Manchester’s Royal Exchange theatre, Joe’s office was filled with messages of concern and condolence, including one from Zabinski.

“Still no news then?” Goldman asked.

“No.”

“Do you think she’s still alive, Gus?”

“I don’t know what to think now. Every possibility is terrible.”

“You won’t believe this, Gus, but yesterday I went to the synagogue. Me in the synagogue? I asked for Rabbi Greenberg but he died twenty years ago. But I prayed for her, Gus.”

“Thanks, Joe. I’ll keep in touch.” Maltravers recalled Jackson’s remarks about the devastating effects of sudden death and how people had to cope in any way they could. In any other circumstances the thought of Joe Goldman by the Eastern wall would have been ludicrous; the fact that he had actually done it added another subtle shade of darkness to the agony of unknowing.

The police that morning knew a little more, but not about the elusive Arthur Powell; a report had arrived on the police interrogation of Peter Sinclair in California.

“He came back just for the sake of spending a few days in England, apparently,” Jackson told Madden. “He cleared it with the studios and was quite open about it. Obviously he read about Miss Porter’s disappearance while he was here but says she was just an old girlfriend he hadn’t seen for a long time. His movements while he was here seem a bit vague. He stayed in his own flat in Islington, casually met acquaintances and went to see a couple of West End shows but in both cases he was alone. As far as I can make out, it’s possible he came to Vercaster but he completely denies doing so.”

Madden held out his hand for the message from Los Angeles, then read it through for himself.

“There’s no sense to it,” he said as he finished. “I take it he’s safe in Los Angeles for the time being.”

“Apparently. The studios are catching up on lost time after the interruption and say it will be several weeks before anyone gets a break now.”

“I take it he denies being the father of the child?”

“Absolutely. I rang Los Angeles to check that. He says it’s at least ten months since he saw Miss Porter.”

“All right. We’ll leave him there for the time being but see if you can find any evidence that he has seen her since. The agent in London might know something. Or Maltravers. I still don’t see this one, sergeant, but until Powell is found we’d better keep an eye on it.”

Sinclair was an irritant to Madden, a bell ringing out of key that he could not fully silence, a flaw in the pattern that led neatly and logically to Arthur Powell, an irregularity that offended his sense of certainty. But he had no option but to turn some attention to it. Jackson started his inquiries with a visit to Punt Yard where he told Maltravers and Tess of the development.

“I can’t help you on whether or not he’s seen Diana since the affair,” Maltravers said. “In fact I didn’t even know about that until Joe Goldman told me. Acting’s one of those professions where you might not see even very good friends for long periods. I’d seen a fair bit of her in recent weeks when we were working on her show for Vercaster but there are immense gaps when we were both doing other things. Tess, do you know anything?”

She shook her head. “I’ve been tied up for months. In fact, this is the first break I’ve had for nearly a year.” She laughed briefly and without humour. “Not the sort of holiday I’d planned.”

“I can give you some names and addresses of people who might be able to help,” added Maltravers. “And you can try Joe, but as an agent he doesn’t necessarily take much interest in his clients’ private lives unless they start getting in the way of the job.” He produced his diary and Jackson noted the names he read out.

“Oh, and I’m afraid we’ve been playing at detectives again,” Maltravers said when they had finished. “We went to see Councillor Hibbert.”

“Obviously I must officially disapprove,” Jackson said straight-faced. “But as long as you lay before me any information which might assist the police, I don’t think there’ll be any trouble.”

He listened with a widening smile to the extraordinary account of the visit.

“I don’t think I can see an offence,” he said at last. “You didn’t break in, you didn’t steal anything, and I can’t charge you with bad manners. As for Councillor Hibbert…well there’s no law against such a collection I expect. We certainly wouldn’t get a search warrant on the strength of what you’ve told me. But I’ll bear it in mind if I have any dealings with the gentleman.” He looked at them both closely. “And of course, you will not be telling anyone else about this.”

“It will be our secret,” said Maltravers. “It still leaves the Latimer Mercy mystery unsolved but I imagine the police are not particularly worried about that at the moment.”

“Some part of the machinery is ticking it over but, as you know, officially it’s being regarded as unconnected with Miss Porter.”

“But is it?”

“There’s absolutely no logical connection at all between the two.”

“And can you find a logical connection in what’s happened regarding Diana? The Dean was remarking on that the other evening.”

“That’s a fair point and personally I accept it,” Jackson replied. “But for obvious reasons we can’t do anything more than the bare minimum about the theft; we are totally occupied on a very serious crime. And I honestly cannot see that finding out who stole the Latimer Mercy will help us find Miss Porter.” He stood up. “Thank you for your assistance. I’ll see if any of these people can throw more light on Mr Sinclair.”

After the dramatic interruption of the storm, summer had re-settled itself and after lunch Tess and Maltravers decided to walk round the extensive remains of the city’s Roman walls. On their way Maltravers bought a large plastic ball for Rebecca and bounced it thoughtfully as they walked in silence. The wall petered out in Hibbert’s Park — named in memory of the founding-father Alderman — where they sat beside the lake in the marbled light and shade of a cascading weeping willow. For two hours they had not mentioned Diana’s name and then Tess broke the tension. “I think I’ve accepted that she’s dead,” she said, keeping her voice very calm. Maltravers remained silent for several minutes, spinning the ball between his hands and staring at it.

“Let’s walk back by the cathedral,” was all he finally said in reply.

The approach from the park was up the north-west-facing slope of the hill, giving the classic clear-angled view of the west end of the building which appeared on postcards in every tourists’ shop in the town. They walked slowly up the long rise and paused on the broad path outside the door as the clock in Talbot’s Tower sounded three ponderous strokes.

“It was just here that the Abbot of Vercaster defied Henry VIII’s men during the Reformation,” said Maltravers. “When he started calling down the vengeance of God on the king, they cut him down on the steps. At least that’s the legend. There was a very heavy veil of Tudor propaganda drawn over it at the time.” He looked thoughtfully at the great door with its rusty studs of nail heads. “Bloodshed has frequently stained the Church.” He started idly bouncing the ball again as they continued to walk along the south side of the cathedral and back to Punt Yard. As they passed the flying buttresses of the tower, the ball struck a large flint and bounced behind him; he turned back and stooped to pick it up. As he did so there was a scream from a woman walking towards them with her husband, and a large piece of broken masonry crashed down and caught him on the hip. The glancing impact sent him sprawling across the gravel as Tess, alerted by the woman’s scream, turned and cried his name. He sat up, grimacing with pain and the first thing his eyes focussed on was a painted sign warning passers-by to beware of falling masonry. “It’s all right, it hardly touched me,” he said as Tess dropped down on her knees beside him. “Let me get up.”

He rose gingerly to his feet, rubbing his thigh where a dark streak ran across his grey slacks, then staggered against Tess. “I’m rapidly going off Vercaster,” he said.

“You could have been killed!” she cried.

“But I wasn’t.”

“Come and sit down.” Tess helped him to hobble towards a wrought-iron seat well away from the tower. The woman who had screamed ran up to them with her husband.

“I saw it falling!” she cried. “I couldn’t do anything…I just screamed…Oh, God!” She seemed more shattered by the incident than Maltravers.

“Thank you, I’m all right,” he assured her. “There’s nothing broken.”

“But it’s appalling!” her husband broke in. “That damned tower’s unsafe. They want scaffolding round it until it’s properly repaired. Anybody could have…” His tirade was brought to a halt by the arrival of the Dean, moving at the closest he could manage to a run.

“Mr Maltravers!” he panted. “I was just leaving the Refectory and saw everything. Are you all right?”

“It’s a miracle that he is.” The man was back in full flow. “Look, I’m a civil engineer. I don’t know who you are but you’re obviously connected with the cathedral and I’m telling you the state of that tower is a disgrace. It’s a menace to life and limb. If this gentleman wants a witness as to what happened, I’ll gladly…”

In pain, surrounded by Tess’s shock, the woman’s hysteria, the man’s bombast and the Dean’s distress, Maltravers decided only he could calm things down.

“I am all right,” he said firmly. “It’s nothing worse than a bruise. I’m not holding anyone responsible. If you’re a civil engineer, you’ll know how difficult it is to maintain anything that ancient.” He gestured towards Talbot’s Tower. “We had one hell of a storm this morning and part of the fabric must have been loosened. There are warning notices up and I don’t think you can do any more, Dean.”

“Oh, you’re the Dean are you?” The man exploded again and Maltravers realised he had only given him more ammunition.

“Well if you and your Chapter spent more time looking after this building instead of sending money to damned terrorists in Africa who call themselves freedom fighters, then…”

“He’s not real,” Maltravers muttered to Tess.

“Perhaps we can just go inside for a few minutes until Augustus recovers,” she said firmly, taking Maltravers’ arm. “Can you come with us please, Dean?” She gave the couple an extravagant smile. “Thank you so much. I think it’s more important at the moment that my friend sits somewhere quiet for a little while.”

Leaving the visitor with his continuing views of Third World aid unspoken, the three of them walked slowly into the cathedral.

“I cannot apologise too much,” the Dean began. “As if enough has not happened already and now something like this…”

“Dean, it was an accident that could have happened to anyone. Please do not distress yourself. I think it will be better if I try and walk a bit and a cup of tea would be very welcome.”

They walked together out of the cathedral and round the cloisters to the Refectory where the Dean, by now as agitated and concerned as a mother hen, made them sit at a table while he brought the tea, the cups rattling and spilling over as the tray trembled in his hands. Reaction was catching up with Maltravers and taking a greater toll than the increasing discomfort in his hip. As Tess suggested they should leave, the Dean suddenly sprang up and asked them to wait, then dashed off to return a few moments later carrying a walking stick.

“I’ve just borrowed this from Mr Marsh in the tourists’ shop,” he explained.

Limping awkwardly, Maltravers left with Tess, the Dean insisting on escorting them through the south transept door to Punt Yard. As they reached the house, Michael and Webster approached from the main road.

“What on earth’s happened to you?” Michael asked.

“Talbot’s Tower has been throwing things at me. Fortunately with a not very good aim.”

Michael was clearly as appalled as the Dean but more immediately practical.

“We’ll have to look into this,” he said. “Odd flints are one thing but this sounds much more serious. Matthew, can you go and check and we’ll find out exactly which section of the tower it’s from and then have someone make a proper examination.”

As Webster set off, they went into the house where Melissa, accustomed to taking childhood accidents in her stride, produced lint, cotton wool, sticking plaster and witch-hazel.

“Cold compress for a while,” she instructed Tess. “Then make a pad of lint soaked in the witch-hazel and tape it over the bruise. You’re sure it’s nothing worse?”

“I’m not broken,” Maltravers assured her.

By the time he and Tess came downstairs again, the Dean had left with the walking stick and Webster was back talking to Michael.

“It’s from the old part of the tower below the extension,” Michael explained. “It’s the section that’s caused us most problems. I’m afraid we’ve got a fair collection of bits and pieces which have fallen but Matthew says this is the biggest he has seen for some time. I can only add my apologies, Augustus.”

“I imagine it was the storm that did it,” he replied. “Act of God you might say.”

Webster, who was hovering uncertainly, said he had to leave to assist with the preparations for the schools’ concert in the cathedral that evening, panicked briefly when he could not find the spare violin strings he had been carrying earlier, and departed.

“I’d just been to buy them when I met Canon Cowan,” he said as he left. “Somebody’s always snaps just before the start. Will you be coming this evening?”

“I think Augustus had better stay home and rest,” said Melissa. “But the rest of us will be there. We don’t want anything to spoil it for the children.”

Maltravers spent the remainder of the afternoon in increasing pain and rising irritation. By the time the others were preparing to leave he could only move his leg with difficulty.

“Take a couple of these,” Melissa said, shaking two white tablets from a bottle into her cupped hand. “And just stay still and rest it. And you’d better not have a drink. These are fairly powerful. See you later unless you’re in bed.”

After they had gone, Maltravers idly picked up the bottle of analgesics, the label of which made no reference to alcohol. Conscientiously, he added extra tonic to his gin.

Television on a Saturday evening in June, he decided, was clearly part of a Government scheme to reduce the national consumption of electricity. He dozed off a few minutes into an artificially created seaside entertainment when drowsiness overcame the fascination of the spectacularly awful. The pain in his leg, returning as the effects of the tablets wore off, conjured dreams in his semi-conscious mind which vanished when he was abruptly woken by a car door slamming outside. He blinked for a few moments then cautiously changed his position in the chair, his face creasing with the shots of pain. He took two more tablets from the bottle and washed them down with the remains of his drink, then stared grumpily at the still chattering television, his mind trying to recapture what he had been dreaming. All he could remember was that it was something about Belsthwaite.

The dream was irrecoverable but his mind wandered back to their visit as he gazed without seeing at the television screen. Elusively dancing in his brain was the thought that they had learned or seen or been told something there that was important; after vainly pursuing it for a while, he let it drift away to be replaced with another gadfly impression that something else had occurred which was also significant. Uneasy sleep overtook him again, this time bringing a dream of Diana, shrieking pitifully like a wild animal in a snare as, his movements becoming slower and slower, he limped towards the sound. It became so terrible that his conscious mind threw him back to wakefulness with a shudder as the front door opened and he heard the voices of the others in the hall.

From the television screen a news announcer was saying that the hunt for Diana Porter was now being treated as a murder inquiry.

Chapter Twelve

“IT’S VERY UNUSUAL when we have no body and we have been careful to say that we are only treating it as a murder inquiry, not that it is one.” David Jackson looked round the impassive faces of his listeners the following morning. “I imagine you find that somewhat semantic but it does make a difference. The point is that there are no reports whatever of Miss Porter being given medical treatment for her injuries and without that the chances of her still being alive are very remote indeed. I’m sorry.”

Maltravers shifted awkwardly in his chair as the pain in his leg narrowed and bit.

“But it is still possible,” he insisted. “She may have been treated by someone you don’t know about.”

“Believe me, I would like to think you’re right but I feel it’s only proper that I should explain the official viewpoint quite clearly. We can say without doubt that she has not been in any established or regular hospital or seen by any reputable doctor. The chances of her being treated by some unauthorised medical practitioner are very slim. And we have no indication that Powell could render her assistance, even assuming he wanted to.”

“If it is Powell,” said Maltravers.

“He’s still the principal suspect, in fact he’s really the only one.” Jackson paused uncertainly for a moment. “I’m afraid this is additional distress for you, but the police surgeon is unable to say definitely whether either hand was severed while she was still alive or shortly after death. What he is certain of is that without treatment she must by now have died.” He made a slight gesture of sympathy. The last time Diana had been in that room she had been alive and laughing and playing with Rebecca and in the silence that surrounded them were echoes of that moment.

“I would like to say on behalf of us all, sergeant, that we greatly appreciate your coming here this morning to tell us this,” said Michael. “It is very unpleasant for you as well. I think, however, that we would probably all prefer to cling on to what little hope may remain .”

After Jackson had gone, Melissa left to drive down to Sussex and bring Rebecca back and Michael went out on cathedral business. The day had the timeless quality of an English Sunday with its images of empty streets, shuttered shops and stillness in places of activity. Deciding that cautious exercise would be better for his leg than sitting still, Maltravers, leaning on a stick borrowed from Michael, walked with Tess down to the Verta again. They instinctively turned the opposite way from the path that would lead them to the ruined church where they had been with Diana the previous week and walked down river to where the Verta spilled over a weir and the shouts of laughter from the gathered children mingled with the rushing sounds of cascading water. The normality of the scene was painfully alien to their mood.

In the afternoon they sat in the garden, Tess reading and Maltravers stretched on a sun lounger. Clouds of greenfly speckled the sunlit air and cushions of pinks near where they sat were heavy with the drone of bees. Maltravers idly watched a butterfly flicker near them until it finally settled on Tess’s auburn hair and stayed there for several moments until she turned to look at him.

“How’s your leg?” she asked.

“Much better.” He stretched it experimentally and a spasm of pain crossed his face. “It’s the waiting that’s worse.”

The sense of inertia was becoming intolerable. Maltravers had frequently imagined being faced with a crime that baffled the police and solving it with some brilliant flash of deduction; it was not an uncommon human fantasy. The reality, he now knew, was not like that. It was the police, not eccentric gifted amateurs, who investigated and solved murders. His total contribution so far had been a ridiculous and unprofitable journey to Belsthwaite, the net result of which had been a row with Madden. And yet, as he tried to see straight through his confusing emotional involvement, the insistent impression remained of knowing certain things which he was quite unable to recognise. The fanciful genius of his daydreams was turned to a sense of inadequacy and despair by what had actually happened. The garden gate opened and Rebecca trotted happily across the lawn to them, followed by Melissa.

“Nana brought this,” said the little girl and thrust a glove puppet of an attractively stupid-looking duck at her uncle. Maltravers put it on his hand and accompanied his manipulations with quacking noises. Tess went into the house to make a cup of tea and Melissa took her place on the rug.

“I’ve been thinking while I was driving,” she said. “Why was the hand actually put on our door? Obviously whoever did it was taking the risk of being seen when he could have sent it through the post as he did with the Dean. Who do you think it was meant for?”

“Possibly all of us,” said Maltravers, making Rebecca giggle as he pinched her nose with the duck’s beak.

“But suppose it was specifically one of us?”

“Tess and I knew her best, so we’re the obvious targets.”

“Yes, but just suppose it was Michael. There is a clear link between him and the Dean and the cathedral and if this man Powell has something against the Church it could make some sort of perverted sense. Do you know anything about that?”

“No. As he’s Welsh, I assume he’s probably a Methodist or one of the Nonconformist sects.”

“The Primitive Methodists are very narrow minded,” said Melissa.

“Maybe so, but we go back to your first point. Why didn’t he send it to Michael through the post and avoid the risk of discovery?” Maltravers put the puppet on Rebecca’s hand and watched her as she toddled away, clumsily working it. “It’s as good a theory as any but until the police find Powell it’s just another guess.” He looked at his sister and smiled oddly. “The only thing that can be said about the hand on the door is that it removes suspicion from me.”

“You?” Melissa had obviously never considered the possibility. “The police can’t suspect you.”

“Yes they can. David Jackson’s never said it but it’s a well-known fact that murderers almost invariably know their victims. They’ve obviously considered the possibility. However, equally obviously I couldn’t have nailed the hand to the door. David Jackson himself is a witness to that.”

Melissa was offended that such a thought had ever entered anyone’s mind.

“I expect the same goes for me as well.”

“For all of us. And for a number of other people. The Dean for example.”

“Oh, Augustus, this is ridiculous! You can’t be serious.”

“I don’t imagine we’re high on the list of suspects. Powell’s actions — particularly the fact that he hasn’t come forward — make him the obvious line of investigation. But if it turns out not to be him…well, where do we go from there?”

“There’s nobody else. Apart from this Sinclair person.”

Maltravers shook his head. “I can’t see it. And at the moment I don’t think the police can either. It just seems a very odd coincidence that he came back.”

First thing on Monday morning, Miss Craven, the Bishop’s secretary, efficiently tackled the post, slitting open each envelope with a long slender paper-knife shaped like a sword. She stopped and thrust her fingers into one foolscap envelope and could feel nothing inside. Frowning, she turned it upside down, squeezed the sides slightly and shook it experimentally. A long lock of fair hair spilled onto the lime-green blotter on her desk, followed by a small piece of paper which fluttered to the floor. She picked it up and turned it over to read the typewritten message on the other side:

And ye, in any wise, keep yourselves from the accursed thing, lest ye make yourselves accursed.

As the daughter, granddaughter and niece of clergymen, Miss Craven prided herself on her knowledge of the Bible, but the quotation was not immediately familiar. She read it again then casually examined the lock of hair with a puzzled and slightly vexed expression. Anything other than the most correct and regular of correspondence was almost unheard of at the Bishop’s Palace. Finally she crossed the room and took a Concordance from the bookshelf in which she discovered that the passage was part of the eighteenth verse of the sixth chapter of Joshua, which settled the irritation in her mind. She carefully put the hair and its enigmatic message to one side and calmly continued with the rest of the mail, sorting it into piles of relative importance and urgency. All the envelopes were put together to have their stamps removed later to help raise funds for the Red Cross. Precisely as the clock on the mantelpiece chimed half past nine she picked up all the mail and walked through to the Bishop’s study, knocking discreetly on the door before entering.

“Good morning, my Lord,” she said. “Quite a deal of post today including a reply from the Archbishop. There’s also one from Downing Street and a most charming letter of thanks from…” She stopped in mid-sentence as a look of horrified realisation filled her face. “Dear God!” She was staring at the hair and its note which she had kept separate from the rest of the post. As the Bishop looked at her with concern she dumbly held them out towards him.

“I think you had better call the police, Miss Craven,” he said.

Monday morning’s post was, fortunately, the lightest of the week for the Bishop and there were only twenty-two envelopes to sort out. Half of them bore some printed indication to connect them with their contents, three were handwritten and could be similarly identified and another three were in distinctive italic typewriter face. The remaining five were sent in separate polythene bags for examination in conjunction with the note itself. The note did not bear any fingerprints. As police were sent to Diana’s flat again, this time to see if they could find any samples of her hair, consideration was given to the wording.

“Joshua,” Madden said tersely, “fought the battle of Jericho of course.”

“Yes, sir,” said Jackson. “In fact the walls come tumbling down a couple of verses later.” Madden looked at him in surprise. “There’s a Bible in the station, sir. I looked it up.”

“You amaze me,” Madden said drily. “I trust there’s not about to be a similar occurrence in this investigation. Anyway, what do you make of it?”

Jackson shrugged his shoulders. “Nothing really, sir. It’s just another inexplicable…” He stopped abruptly as Madden’s flattened hand slammed hard on the top of his desk.

“It is not inexplicable! Nothing is inexplicable. We are just not seeing the explanation.” Madden pinched his nose so hard that red pressure marks remained when he let go. “I am beginning greatly to dislike this case. A diligent and methodical hunt has failed to discover the whereabouts of our chief suspect and I am being constantly faced with events which are regarded as unconnectable mysteries. There are links which we are failing to identify.” He raised his hand and itemised points on his fingers. “One, Maltravers brings Miss Porter to Vercaster. Two, Powell is seen in Vercaster. Three, Miss Porter meets the Dean and the Bishop among others and then disappears as does Powell. Four, parts of her body reappear in Vercaster and now we may assume some of her hair has done so as well. Now, what can we possibly deduce from this latest incident?”

Jackson was beginning to feel a certain sympathy for Madden, whose considerable reputation had been built on a long series of textbook investigations which unfailingly followed the rules. He had once relentlessly caught a child-killer by fingerprinting the entire population of a village. But this case required imagination and a flair for the bizarre in which patient, professional police routine was not producing results.

“On the basis that it is Miss Porter’s hair,” he began cautiously, thinking as he proceeded, “it seems to follow that she is the accursed thing. The Bishop would appear to be being warned to have nothing to do with her.”

“He can’t have anything to do with her if she’s dead.”

“There have been prayers said for her safety in the cathedral. Admittedly not by the Bishop but he’s obviously connected with them.”

There was a knock on Madden’s office door and another detective sergeant came in.

“We’ve had a report from the lab, sir. They’ve identified the envelope. It was posted second class in Islington on Friday afternoon.”

“Thank you, sergeant,” said Madden. “Fingerprints?”

“Being done now, sir.”

“Right,” said Madden as the door closed behind him. “Is that where Powell is hiding? With a little elementary disguise it could serve as well as anywhere.”

“Sinclair’s flat is in Islington, sir.” Jackson reminded him.

“Sinclair?” For a moment Madden looked blank. “Oh, our friend in America. But he went back…when was it?...Wednesday. This thing to the Bishop was posted on Friday.”

“Accomplice possibly. Perhaps an unwitting one who just agreed to post a letter for him? Sergeant Neale’s still checking his story but as far as I understand there’s nothing so far to positively exclude him as a suspect.”

Madden remained silent for a moment then pressed a switch on the intercom on his desk and asked for Inspector Barratt to come in. By the time the Inspector had joined them, he had marshalled his thoughts.

“I want all those principally concerned to be interviewed again,” he said. “See if they can remember anything else. I want Neale’s report on Sinclair’s movements while in Britain as soon as possible and a full report on fingerprints on that envelope. I take it we have the secretary’s and the postman’s. And check anything you find connecting it to the Islington sorting office with anything found on the package sent to the Dean. Even without the postmark that may confirm it also came from there. That will be all.”

After they returned to the incident room, Inspector Barratt told Jackson to return to Punt Yard to talk to Maltravers and the others again.

“I’m afraid this investigation is proving somewhat irregular,” said Jackson, as he turned to go. “It’s not to Mr Madden’s liking.”

“No it’s not, sergeant. And he doesn’t like having me in charge of this room either. Mr Madden just does not like senior women police officers but I was the only one available when this thing began. However,” she looked up at him from her desk, “Mr Madden likes lack of results even less so we’d all better get on with it.”

Patiently Maltravers and the rest went over their statements again, desperately trying to remember details of inconsequential conversations and casual events, small incidents and gestures, but nothing seemed to emerge.

“When will you know if it’s definitely Diana’s hair?” Maltravers asked.

“When we find something in her flat,” said Jackson. “The chances are there’ll be something on her pillow or somewhere.”

“And there’s a possible link with Sinclair?”

“It may just be a coincidence that he happens to have a flat in Islington but in our business coincidences are not just shrugged off. Until something removes him definitely from the picture we’re keeping an eye on him. At the moment, things keep happening to push him further into our line of vision.”

Maltravers gently changed his position to relieve the ache that was starting to creep down his leg. Jackson noticed the movement.

“What’s happened to you?”

“Oh, just a fleeting contact with a collapsing cathedral. It’s much better today.” He was interrupted by the phone ringing next to him. He picked it up, listened for a moment then said, “Yes, he’s here. Hang on.” He proffered the receiver to Jackson. “It’s for you. Inspector Barratt.”

Jackson listened for several seconds then said, “Good God, where the hell have they been?” He listened again, then asked for an address which he wrote in his notebook. “All right,” he said, “I’ll be there in a few minutes.” He rang off.

“Where the hell have who been?” asked Maltravers.

“The couple that Powell stayed with in Vercaster a week ago on Saturday. They’ve just rung the station.”

“What? Why haven’t they been in touch before?”

“Been on holiday apparently. We all assumed that Powell probably camped somewhere when he was down here, particularly when nobody said he had stayed with them. We checked the hotels and boarding houses but there are dozens of places in Vercaster that do bed and breakfast unofficially during the tourist season.” He consulted his notebook. “Do you know Acacia Street? It doesn’t matter, I’ve got a map in the car. Stay where you are, I’ll let myself out.”

Acacia Street reminded Jackson of Sebastopol Terrace except that the houses had the added benefit of small front gardens. It was exactly the sort of drab, anonymous area that would appeal to Powell. As he unlatched the gate of number nineteen the curtain shifted slightly at the window and the front door was opened as he approached it.

“Mrs Dunn? Sergeant Jackson, Vercaster CID.”

“Come in please. Here in the front room.” He followed the sun-tanned woman with the excessively precise hair-style through to the room where the first thing that caught his eye was an enormous imitation sombrero hooked over the back of a dining-chair.

“I understand that Mr Arthur Powell stayed here a week ago Saturday,” he said formally.

“Yes, he did. Here, sit yourself down. My husband’s just upstairs but he’ll be down in a minute. I didn’t know what to think when I saw it in the paper. I mean, the man’s a murderer isn’t he?” Mrs Dunn seemed concerned that her own reputation would suffer from having had such a person beneath her roof.

“We just want him for questioning at the moment. I think it will be best if we start at the beginning. When did he arrive?”

Mrs Dunn settled and composed herself. Her narrative was refreshingly succinct.

“He arrived on the Saturday lunchtime — about half past twelve,” she said. “At first I said we couldn’t put him up because we were going away the next morning but he said it would only be for the one night and…well, he was such a pleasant person so I agreed. He was hardly in the house. He went out in the afternoon to look round the cathedral. I said he could watch television with us in the evening but he said he was going to a performance at the Chapter House. He assured me he would not be late and I said it would be all right as long as it was before eleven. And on Sunday morning he left.”

“And you knew nothing about what happened afterwards?”

“Not a thing. We flew to Benidorm on the Sunday lunchtime and only got back last night. It was only when I managed to have a look at the Times this morning that I saw his face. So of course I rang your people at once.”

Jackson was thrown for a moment by the newspaper reference then realised she was talking about the Vercaster Times; it had not struck him as the sort of household in which the better known variety would be found.

“Did you have any conversation with him?”

“Very little. He was very polite and quiet — just the sort of person we prefer. But we really had hardly any time to talk.”

From upstairs there came the sound of a lavatory being flushed, followed by the sound of someone descending. Then Mr Dunn, a neat and compact little man, entered the room. His wife introduced Jackson.

“I was just asking if your guest might have said anything that could assist us,” Jackson said.

“I’ve just been thinking about that,” Dunn replied and Jackson kept his face impassive as the image Dunn’s remark created sprang into his mind. “He asked for directions.”

“Directions? Where to? When?”

“When he was leaving. I saw him off and wished him a good journey. He asked which was the best road that would lead him towards Wales.”

“Wales.” Jackson smiled gratefully at Dunn. “That’s a very useful piece of information, sir. Very useful indeed.”

“No it’s not. Not now.” Dunn smiled knowingly. “You see I asked him if that’s where he was going and he said just for a few days then he was moving on. And this was just over a week ago. So he won’t be there now.” Having neatly demolished the possibility he had set up, Dunn smiled cheerfully at Jackson and sat down in an armchair by the fireplace.

“It could still assist us,” said Jackson. “If we can find where he was in Wales we may be able to trace him from there. I just want to radio this information into the police station then I’d like to see the room he used please.”

Mrs Dunn was waiting in the hall when Jackson returned from the car.

“It’s exactly as he left it,” she said as they went up the stairs. “I glanced in on the Sunday morning after he’d gone and it was perfectly tidy so I decided to leave it until we came back. Of course I haven’t been in it since I read the papers.”

The Dunns did not take excessive trouble over their accommodation for visitors. The room was long overdue for decorating and the furniture was at best shabby. Jackson remarked that the bed had been made.

“He must have done that,” said Mrs Dunn. “Very considerate.”

“Did he have any luggage?”

“Just a few things in his sidecar. He only brought his pyjamas and a towel in. I think his tent was in there as well.”

Leaving room, perhaps, for a body, Jackson reflected.

“Can this room be locked?”

“Oh, yes. We always give guests the key then there can be no misunderstandings. You know what I mean.”

“I must ask you to lock it as we leave and nobody must come in here until my colleagues arrive from the police station. They should be here fairly soon. In the meantime, I’ll need formal statements from you and your husband.”

As they turned to leave, Jackson glanced swiftly round the room. There was no evidence at all that anybody had ever stayed in it. The anonymous Powell had passed through and, typically, had left no trace of his personality behind.

The Dunns’ statements added nothing to what they had already told him. Powell had left first thing after breakfast on the Sunday morning and Dunn assumed he had set straight off for Wales.

“He said nothing about staying in Vercaster for part of the day?” Jackson asked.

“Not a thing. It’s a fair journey and I suppose he’d want to get going as soon as possible.”

As Jackson was completing the statements, Higson and other officers arrived to start their investigation of the bedroom. Dunn, who appeared to have something on his mind, followed Jackson to the front gate.

“I think we’ve behaved quite properly in reporting this as soon as we could,” he said.

“Indeed. We’re very grateful.” Jackson could feel some motive behind the remark.

“It’s just that we do return our income tax forms to the Inland Revenue’s satisfaction.” Dunn gave a significant wink. “I’m sure you understand, sergeant.”

Jackson realised that the fact he might have had a murderer in his house for whom there was a nationwide search following a particularly hideous crime was less important to Dunn than the money he obviously denied the income tax man.

“I’m investigating a murder, sir,” he replied. “I’ve no interest in anything else.”

The lock of hair and the note posted in Islington also brought fresh evidence. To nobody’s surprise, it was Diana’s hair, and one set of fingerprints on the envelope, belonging to someone in the Islington sorting office, was also found on the package containing Diana’s hand which had been sent to the Dean. Saliva tests further showed that both items had been sent by the same person. But there were no available saliva samples from Powell to clinch the matter. The police felt they had taken a significant step forward but until the final pieces fell into place the picture was still maddeningly unclear.

Monday evening saw the second performance of the Mystery Plays, this time in the Vercaster Players’ own theatre. For Maltravers it was at least another diversion to occupy his mind with something else. The plays went from the Nativity — engagingly performed by a cast of children — through to the Temptation of Christ in the Wilderness. The Shepherds’ Play was a delight, with an hilarious scene in which they became increasingly drunk, pulling an endless collection of ingeniously contrived long-lost local delicacies from their sacks until the stage was littered with scattered offal. The contrast with their wonder and adoration as the angels appeared was effective and moving.

But once again it was Jeremy Knowles’s Devil who dominated everything, wielding a bloody and vicious sword through the Slaughter of the Innocents, attending the Wedding at Cana as a sly and malevolent guest, peering resentfully round the side of the cave from which the resurrected Lazarus emerged. Christ’s steadfast rejection of his seductive worldly inducements was no more than a temporary setback in his progress towards eventual triumph. He spat his parting words like venom:

Long in patience, I shall wait

Till we meet at Hell’s dark gate.

Flamed and awful, red with blood,

Evil then shall master Good…

He stopped with his voice on a rising, uncompleted note, then strode unnecessarily across the stage, losing the sense of direct conflict with Christ.

“He’s forgotten his lines,” Maltravers murmured sympathetically to Tess.

“Death triumphant…” a voice said from the wings and Knowles appeared to recover himself.

“Death triumphant…” he began but it was obviously not enough. Before the prompter could come in again he was riskily ad libbing.

“Death triumphant loud shall sing.” There was the fraction of a pause which many of his audience did not notice but which was recognisable to anyone who had acted as a moment of pure terror.

“Praising the accursed thing.” He finished and swiftly made his exit. For a moment Christ looked confused; it was not the right line. Then he recovered himself and spoke his own final words which Maltravers did not hear. Jackson had told him what the note to the Bishop had said. He also remembered the sergeant’s remarks about coincidence.

Knowles was cleaning off his exaggerated make-up when Maltravers went up to him backstage.

“Don’t tell me,” said Knowles looking at Maltravers behind him in the mirror. “You of all people must have noticed.”

“I’m afraid we did although a lot of people wouldn’t have. You got out of it very well. But they obviously weren’t the right lines.”

Knowles rubbed a rough towel over his face. “No they weren’t,” he mumbled through it then pulled his face clear and examined it again in the glass. “It should have been ‘Death triumphant then shall reign, Endless night and endless bane’. God knows what mental fail-safe device threw out what I actually said. I’m afraid the fact that we’re amateurs showed up rather badly there.”

“Don’t let it worry you,” said Maltravers. “The only actor who never forgot his lines was Harpo Marx.”

Knowles grinned and Maltravers was again conscious of the fact that humour somehow amplified the inescapable wickedness of his features. The fact that Knowles had shown him the letter about Hibbert and the Latimer Mercy came unexpectedly back into his mind. Nothing had come of it but it could have diverted the police’s attention. And there was no proof that the letter had been genuine. Certainly its allegations had been found to be untrue.

“Let’s hope I don’t do the same thing on Saturday night,” Knowles added. “That really is my big scene, even though I lose.”

Knowles’s apparently spontaneous but disturbing ad lib nagged at Maltravers’ mind as they drove back to Punt Yard where Jenny the babysitter said that David Jackson had called and asked that Maltravers should ring him at home.

“We can’t get Sinclair’s story to add up,” Jackson said when he answered. “There’s a couple of points you might be able to help us with. According to Sinclair, he hadn’t seen Miss Porter for nearly a year but one of the people he saw when he was back here has shown us a picture of them both at a party two months ago for the opening of a new London nightclub called the Seventh Heaven. According to our informant, you were there as well. Can you remember it?”

“Oh, God, yes. Dreadful place. I only went there by chance because I was mixed up with some crowd or other that evening. I can’t recall much about it.”

“Did you see Sinclair and Miss Porter there?”

“I remember talking briefly to Diana but she was with some other people. I can’t remember seeing Sinclair but there were so many free-loaders and the usual riff-raff about I didn’t take much notice. I only stayed about an hour and the place was packed out.”

“Well, he certainly was there because he’s in the picture so we’ll have to ask him to explain that. The other thing is, do you know a Mark Kenyon?”

“Mark Kenyon? Yes, he’s a freelance cameraman. Was he there as well?”

“He can’t have been because he left the country a couple of weeks previously and still isn’t back. He’s working on some series or other in Australia. But we’re told he was Diana’s boyfriend and at least two people reckon he’s the father of the child.”

“They know more than I do,” said Maltravers. “I told you that our lives drifted apart a great deal. Anyway it’s more significant surely that Sinclair’s lying.”

“Yes. We’ve asked Los Angeles police to talk to him again. The problem is that his movements can only be confirmed up to the lunchtime of the Sunday Miss Porter disappeared. After that he says he was in the flat until his flight from Heathrow on the Wednesday. He claims he had eaten something that upset him at lunchtime on Sunday and was ill for two days.

“There’s one other thing that makes me think. He spent that Sunday lunchtime in a wine bar off Shaftesbury Avenue and the man who met him there told us that they talked about Miss Porter’s appearance at the festival. He remembers Sinclair saying ‘Fancy dying on a Saturday night in Vercaster’.

“Now I know what that sort of remark means in the show business world but it’s an odd thing to say when you think about what’s happened, isn’t it?”

Chapter Thirteen

To MADDEN’S INTENSE annoyance, Powell’s camping spot in Wales remained undiscovered. Reported sightings were marked on the incident room map with red pins, replaced with yellow when they had been checked; the land mass beyond Offa’s Dyke took on the appearance of a pig with an unpleasant skin disorder. Madden’s irritation was compounded by the news on Sinclair, having assumed inquiries in London would clear him. He read the report gloomily.

“After Sunday lunch, when he says he was at home being ill, he’s not got a story we can substantiate?”

“No, sir. According to what he has told the Los Angeles police,” Jackson glanced at the papers he was holding, “he went to another show on the Tuesday after he had recovered but, as on the Saturday, he says he was alone.”

“Seventy-two hours he can’t account for. That’s quite a long time.”

“And it happens to cover the most vital period, sir.”

Madden looked at the report on Sinclair again with evident distaste. It was planting seeds of doubt in his mind which interfered with the smooth pattern that led to Arthur Powell.

“Do you want someone from here to go and see Sinclair, sir?” Jackson asked.

Madden shook his head vigorously, rebutting the suggestion and stamping on his doubts at the same time.

“I can see no justification for sending officers to California at the public expense on the strength of what we have so far. One chance return visit to England, some quarrel with Miss Porter a long time ago and a period he has no alibi for do not add up to a substantial case. Continue inquiries in London. Check with the theatres he says he visited. If he’s an actor they may remember him being there. In the meantime the search for Arthur Powell continues.”

The holes in Sinclair’s story remained. The two shows he had been to see were among the most successful in the West End, drawing packed houses almost every night. The managers at both theatres were apologetic when the police called but it was impossible to remember who might have been there apart from the most well-known public faces. One produced a virtual Who’s Who of names from the worlds of show business, politics and sport who had been his patrons but did not recognise Sinclair when shown his photograph.

“There are a great many minor actors,” he said condescendingly. “There are members of the cast in this theatre I wouldn’t know in the street.”

In America Sinclair stuck to his story. He agreed he had been at the nightclub opening but could not remember seeing Diana there. He violently denied being specifically in her company. His remark in the wine bar was a casual comment without any meaning. He could offer no further information about his movements after Sunday lunchtime or suggest anyone who could vouch for him. The police report added that he was becoming increasingly agitated by their investigation and the producer of the television series had made a complaint about the interruptions their inquiries were causing. Jackson examined the night-club photograph again. There were several people in the crowd between Sinclair and Diana and no indication that they were in fact together. So far the police had been able to contact only one person in the picture, a show business hanger-on who did not know anybody or anything. They had been unable to establish even the names of several of the group grinning inanely at the camera.

The only line of inquiry remaining was to talk to Mark Kenyon, allegedly the father of Diana’s baby, but he was not due back in London until early on Thursday morning. Two officers were detailed to meet his plane when it arrived at Heathrow.

On Wednesday Maltravers remembered the odd incident of what Knowles had said in the Mystery Plays; it had been driven out of his mind by the news concerning Peter Sinclair. He rang Jackson.

“I’ll make a note of it,” Jackson sighed patiently. “But unless you’ve got something useful like a motive don’t expect us to do anything too drastic. You do realise, don’t you, that we’re in the middle of one of the biggest man-hunts this country has ever seen for a man we have every reason to suspect, is known to have been in Vercaster at the appropriate time and has now apparently vanished off the face of the earth? Plus this Sinclair business. Do you know how much sleep I’ve had in the last ten days?”

“I can make a guess. It’s nothing more than an odd remark but I said I’d let you know anything that might be of use.”

“Thank you.” Jackson sounded very tired. “Find Arthur Powell. That will be of use.”

Wednesday was market-day in Vercaster and it seemed that most of the population of the surrounding county was drawn to the city following some ancient impulse of race memory. The stalls appeared to sell unremarkable goods which could easily be purchased without the necessity of travelling several miles into the city and battling to find somewhere to park, but there was a sense of social occasion about the event.

Maltravers and Tess took Rebecca for a walk round as another way of passing the time. He was searching through some old books on one of the stalls in the faint hope of finding something of real value when Hibbert appeared through the door of the nearby Town Hall and saw him.

“Mr Maltravers,” he said, crossing the cobbled space between them. “There’s something I want to tell you. I’ve just been speaking to the Editor of the Vercaster Times. It will be in this week’s edition.” Hibbert paused pompously, leaving a dramatic moment before his announcement. “I have offered a reward for anyone giving information leading to the apprehension of Miss Porter’s murderer. A thousand pounds.” From Hibbert’s entire demeanour, Maltravers realised that he anticipated effusive thanks for such benevolence. A thousand pounds, he reflected, was a substantial sum, excellently balanced between parsimony and tasteless flamboyance. The credit accruing to Hibbert for such a gesture would make it money well spent.

“We’re grateful for anything that will help sort this business out,” he replied, dropping his response well below the level of gratitude Hibbert was hoping for.

“Yes,” Hibbert continued slightly uncertainly when it was clear Maltravers was taking his thanks no further. “I imagine they’ll be contacting you for some comment on the matter.”

Maltravers noticed the Rotary badge glinting in Hibbert’s lapel and wondered if the Vercaster Times Editor was also a member; he felt certain he was. Councillor Hibbert’s offer would be handsomely reported.

“I imagine they will,” he said evenly. The prospect of the insufferable Hibbert benefiting from Diana’s horrendous fate was unspeakably offensive. Casually he indicated the box he had been looking through. “There might be something of interest to you here,” he said mildly. “Although I think it’s only their covers that are dirty. Good afternoon, Councillor.” Hibbert watched him walk away with a look of bemused offence on his face.

A reporter from the Vercaster Times rang Maltravers at Punt Yard the following morning.

“Are you and Miss Davy staying in Vercaster until the end of the festival?” he asked.

“Personally, I’m staying here until Diana is found. This was the last place she was seen and I’m not leaving until we discover what happened to her.”

“Obviously you’re hoping she may still be alive?” Maltravers saw the angle he was looking for and gave him the reply he wanted.

“I don’t care if the police say it’s murder,” he said. “Until I see Diana’s body, I shall hold on to the belief that she may not be dead. We all know she’s been terribly injured but there is no proof that she may not still be alive somewhere. However terrible the thought is, that’s what is keeping us going.” He could visualise the scribbling down of his eminently quotable comments but wondered bitterly if they had any real meaning or were just a continuing self-delusion. Did he really want Diana found, butchered like Lavinia but with a tongue to relate her torture?

“Thank you very much, Mr Maltravers,” the reporter was saying. “We’re checking with the police of course, but you don’t know of any particular developments do you?”

“Nothing special. Do you know of anything?”

“No. There was some talk in the office about a reward yesterday but the Editor says it’s not happening now.”

“Really? Well, I don’t think it would have been of much help at this stage.” Maltravers had a feeling of satisfaction that his barbed remark to Hibbert had struck home.

One other thing was in fact happening, although nobody in Vercaster was aware of it. That morning an expensively dressed woman with raven black hair and a handsome, slightly hard face was thinking as she watched her children playing in the swimming pool in the garden of her home. She had just received a call from an actress friend in London who had casually mentioned the police interest in Peter Sinclair and his visit to England. She knew exactly what he had been doing from the Sunday lunchtime up to when he left to return to California. And she knew why he was lying about it.

When Mark Kenyon stepped off the plane from Sydney he was tired, jetlagged and had a streaming cold.

“What the hell’s all this about?” he demanded when the police took him to an interview room. “I’m not smuggling anything.”

“Do you know Miss Diana Porter, sir?”

“Di? Of course I do. Why?”

“I’m sorry to have to inform you sir, that Miss Porter has been missing for nearly two weeks and we have reason to believe that she may have been murdered.”

Kenyon sneezed messily into a sodden mass of paper handkerchiefs. For a moment he sat catching his breath and looked at the officers with a mixture of weariness and bewilderment.

“What? Di murdered?” He shook his head as if to clear it then sneezed again. “When? Who by? Why are you talking to me?”

“Miss Porter was expecting a baby, sir. We have reason to believe you may have been the father.”

Groping his way through a mental fog of infection and exhaustion, Kenyon began to comprehend what was being said to him.

“I didn’t know that,” he said. “But it’s what was supposed to happen.”

“When did you last see her?”

“The night before I went away. When was that? About ten weeks ago. She didn’t say anything about it then.”

“It’s probable she didn’t know at the time, sir. I’m afraid we’ll have to ask you to give us a full statement about your relationship with Miss Porter.”

Kenyon was overcome by another series of explosive sneezes. He fumbled in his pockets for a less useless wad of tissues.

“Look,” he said as the paroxysm subsided. “Does this have to be now? I’m in no state to talk to anyone. Let me go home and get some sleep, then you can ask me anything. At the moment I can’t even take in what you’re saying to me.” The two officers looked at each other. “For God’s sake, I’m not going anywhere. But anything I say at the moment will be gibberish. I can hardly stay upright.”

One officer nodded almost imperceptibly to the other.

“We have a car outside, sir.” he said. “We can take you home.”

Kenyon slumped in the back seat of the car and was asleep before they had left the airport. They roused him when they reached his house in Wimbledon and helped him out of the car as he fumbled for his keys.

“Look,” he said as he opened the door. “Don’t get me wrong but I just can’t take in what you’re saying. You said that Diana’s been strangled?”

“We didn’t actually say strangled, sir, because we don’t know. But we do believe she’s been murdered.”

Kenyon rubbed his hand across his forehead. “Funny, I thought you said strangled. I can’t think straight at the moment.”

“Do you mind if we wait here while you have a rest, sir?”

“Do what the hell you want,” Kenyon said, stumbling up the stairs. “As long as I get some sleep you can end the world for all I care. Just don’t make too much noise.”

While Kenyon slept, more inquiries were made with the television crew he had been working with. There was not the slightest possibility of him having left Australia in the previous ten weeks. His apparent lack of concern at the news of what had happened to Diana Porter and his reference to her having been strangled were put down to the state he was in on his arrival, until the police could question him further. He slept for nearly eight hours, then reappeared in the room where the two policemen were playing cards.

“You weren’t a dream then?” he said. “Let me get a coffee and tell me all that again.”

“I’ll make it, sir,” said one of the officers and went into the kitchen. The other picked up an envelope that was lying on the table.

“We saw this among your post, sir,” he said. “It’s not been tampered with in any way but it does appear to be a woman’s handwriting. Can you say if it’s Miss Porter’s?”

Kenyon took the envelope and stared bleary eyed at it, then nodded.

“If you could open it, sir, it might be of assistance to us.”

Kenyon sat down and blew his nose, then ripped open the flap of the envelope. The letter inside was written on one side of a single sheet of pale blue notepaper. He read it through then handed it across to the policeman without a word.

“Dear Mark,” the note said. “I’ll be away by the time you get back but I wanted you to know as soon as possible that it’s been confirmed today that I’m pregnant. I’m very happy and very well and should be a mother by Christmas. I’ll see you when I get back. All my love, Diana.” It was dated four days after Kenyon had flown to Australia. The policeman looked inquiringly at him.

“She wanted to have a baby,” he said in reply to the unspoken question. “But she didn’t want a marriage. It’s not altogether uncommon. I met her at a party and we liked each other very much. She was perfectly honest about it. Obviously she wanted to feel…some affection for the father but the baby would be hers. I accepted her terms.” He pressed a handkerchief to his running nose. “That’s all there is to it really. Now what the hell’s all this about her being murdered?”

“You’ve not heard what’s happened at all?”

“Not a thing. I’ve been somewhere in the outback of beyond most of the time.”

The policeman told him of the events surrounding Vercaster. Kenyon listened unemotionally as he finished, then accepted the coffee brought through by the other officer.

“I’ll probably react to all that later,” he said. “It’s a lot to take in all at once. I’m sorry I can’t play the grief-stricken lover if that’s what you expect. I was very fond of Diana but I’m not going to pretend I was madly in love with her. That wasn’t part of our arrangement. But I can’t see how I can help you.”

“You said something earlier about her being strangled. We never said that.”

“I knew you’d pick that up. You’ll just have to believe me that I didn’t know my own name when I got off that plane. I saw Diana about ten weeks ago and she was alive and well and that’s how I left her. Don’t try and pin a murder on me for some meaningless remark.”

“There’s just one thing you might be able to help with. Do you know a man called Peter Sinclair?”

“Sinclair?” Kenyon thought for a moment then it came back to him. “Oh, that prat. Depends what you mean by know him. We’ve been in the same studio. Why?”

“Did Miss Porter ever talk about him?”

“She talked about a lot of people. Let me think. They’d appeared in something together once she told me. What was it? No, it’s gone…but we saw him once…where was it? That’s it, it was a Variety Club Lunch for someone or other. He was sitting with…what’s her name?...Vicky Price, that black-haired cow who quit acting a while back and married some smart Harley Street doctor. They were at a table on the other side of the room. Diana said something about him being the most evil man she’d ever known.” Having pieced together the picture out of his memory, Kenyon suddenly saw the nature of it.

“Are you saying that he did it?” he exploded. “Why haven’t you got him yet?”

“We have no evidence, sir, and in fact Mr Sinclair may well have an alibi. Do you know why Miss Porter said he was evil?”

“No. But I know she meant it. And Diana did not like disliking people.” Suddenly he sneezed again.

“We’d like to take your statement now, sir.”

The Variety Club Lunch had taken place three weeks before Kenyon went to Australia. Sinclair, who had claimed not to have seen Diana Porter for more than a year, was now known to have been twice in the same company within the previous four months and the long unfilled period of time remained in his visit.

Chapter Fourteen

MADDEN SAT ALONE in his office on Friday morning and wrestled with the problem of the continuing absence of Powell and the lack of an adequate alibi for Sinclair. All his experience and instincts still centred on Powell, whose failure to come forward was tantamount to an admission of guilt. He found it unbelievable that Powell could not know the police were looking for him. Never before had Madden faced an inquiry in which the known facts stubbornly refused to fit a recognised pattern. While Maltravers might only dream of solving crimes, Madden knew from long experience how they should be investigated and settled, but the very discipline of proper inquiries, which had never failed before, was now a fatal handicap. At his centre, William Madden had one terrible human failing — he could not admit that he might be wrong.

It was now, he considered, only a matter of time before Powell was arrested and the lack of an alibi for Sinclair would become academic. But how long could he afford to wait before taking direct action on Sinclair? Forty-eight hours, he decided. Until then he would put these irrational misgivings down to overwork. Certainly for most of the previous fortnight no police officer in Britain had worked longer or more conscientiously in the hunt for Diana Porter and her killer.

Maltravers now had all his waking moments — and many of his sleeping ones — haunted by dread of inescapable abominations. He was finding it almost impossible to think clearly about everything that had happened in the now forlorn hope of identifying some key piece of information that would lead to the solution, however horrible it might be. More than anyone he wanted Diana to be found — dead or alive — and was quietly furious with his own impotence to do anything.

Grim faced, he walked again round the cathedral and the Chapter House. A note had been put on the case which had contained the Latimer Mercy explaining that it had been stolen and he gazed at it thoughtfully. It seemed an impossible length of time since he had first met David Jackson at that spot, when the only crime to be investigated was the esoteric theft of an old misprinted Bible. That was something he could have played with in his imagination, a pleasing intellectual exercise in which he might demonstrate the incisiveness of his analytical brain. Now his mind was stultified with grief, worry and anger. He paused by the organ and noticed his own face in the mirror which the organist used to watch the choirmaster; his features were chillingly like those of his father in the last dreadful weeks before he died. He sat in the Chapter House, trying to recall faces he had seen there on the night of Diana’s performance. While he was wrapped in his thoughts someone quietly sat down beside him. It was Miss Targett.

“I’ve been here almost every day since…” She smiled at him apologetically. “I don’t know why. Whenever I sit here and think about all the dreadful things that have happened, one phrase keeps coming to mind.” She paused then quoted softly: “All shall be well and all shall be well and all manner of thing shall be well.”

Maltravers looked slightly surprised. “T. S. Eliot,” he said. Little Gidding would not have struck him as being Miss Targett’s sort of poetry.

“Pardon?” she said. “Oh, no. Dame Julian of Norwich. I remember Miss Porter speaking those words on television. But I’m afraid I cannot see how things can possibly be well now.”

Unlike the last time he had seen her, Miss Targett was now composed but Maltravers still acutely sensed that the little old lady, her life previously settled and secure within a framework of innocence, had been irreversibly affected by being brought into contact with violence and wickedness. Her understated sorrow was all the more potent for her aura of dismay. He stood up and offered her his arm.

“May I walk you home, Miss Targett?”

She smiled gratefully. “That would be very kind.”

Miss Targett’s cottage was the end of the terrace at the corner of the alleyway leading from opposite the north transept to the city centre. When they reached the door she invited him in but he said he had to return to Punt Yard.

“Please give my love to Miss Davy,” she said. “Tell her that you are both in my thoughts a great deal. Oh, and how is your leg incidentally? You don’t seem to be limping.”

“No, it’s much better, thank you.” Maltravers looked at her slightly puzzled. “But how did you know about it?”

Miss Targett frowned to herself. “I can’t recall who told me about it. I think it was Mr Knowles after morning service on Sunday. I assumed that everyone knew about it. They really will have to do something about Talbot’s Tower I fear. Somebody could be seriously injured.” She extended her small hand. “Thank you so much for seeing me home. God bless you.”

As he walked back to Punt Yard, Maltravers met the Dean and Webster by the Lady Chapel.

“Still no news?” the Dean inquired. “Oh this is intolerable. Every day I fear there will be some further outrage. Oh, forgive me. Your concern can only be for Miss Porter. Is there still any hope that she…” He was unable to finish the sentence.

“I don’t know,” said Maltravers. “All I want now is for it to be over.”

“It may not be much longer,” said Webster. “All our prayers are with you.”

The Vercaster Times was lying on the hall table when he went back into the house. Half the front page was given over to Diana’s disappearance and the police hunt but there was no mention of Hibbert offering his reward. Maltravers’ outraged offence in the market place two days earlier had given way to a pitying contempt for the vain, glory-seeking councillor and he wondered if he should have curbed his tongue. The offer of a reward would have done no harm, even though it seemed unlikely to have done any good.

There was a reception in the Town Hall that evening to which Maltravers and Tess had agreed to accompany Michael and Melissa. It had been planned as an occasion of thanks and congratulation on the eve of the final day of the festival but instead was a gathering of unrelieved tension. The Mayor made a speech, dutifully acknowledging the work that had gone into the event and touching on some of the highlights of the previous fortnight. Everyone listened in polite silence, many staring into their wine glasses, but his words had an inevitably hollow ring.

“Finally and most unhappily,” he concluded, “I must express on behalf of everyone in Vercaster our sense of regret and horror at the dreadful events which have cast such a terrible shadow over all our endeavours. We have with us this evening some of the friends of Miss Diana Porter, whose performance in the Chapter House so magnificently launched our festival. We extend to them our deepest sympathies over the awful mystery of her disappearance and all that has happened since. We can only hope that even now Miss Porter may be found alive and the man who has perpetrated this wicked deed arrested.”

The gathering coagulated into separate groups, each talking in hushed and uncomfortable tones. Maltravers was approached by a man he vaguely recognised who introduced himself as the producer of the Mystery Plays.

“I’ve seen you backstage but we haven’t spoken,” he said. “I’d just like you to know that we greatly appreciate your attending our performances. It can’t have been easy for you.”

“I’ve been grateful for something to do,” said Maltravers. “And both Miss Davy and I have been very impressed by the standards you have achieved.” He paused momentarily, then forced himself to add, “I’m sure Diana would have shared our opinion.”

Slowly and inevitably he was beginning to think and speak about Diana in the past. He was the last one who would fully accept the fact of her death without absolute proof. The producer made no comment but smiled sympathetically and walked away.

Across the room Maltravers caught Hibbert’s eye. The councillor immediately turned away and began talking in an unnaturally loud voice.

“Of course we mustn’t lose sight of the fact that it has been an absolutely marvellous festival,” he said. “Tremendous credit to Vercaster. Let’s not forget that.”

Several people turned and stared at him in disbelief but he was impervious to their looks. He walked across the room and started talking to the Mayor about how the event should become an annual occasion.

Tess gently squeezed Maltravers’ arm as he glared at the obscene councillor.

“Ignore him,” she said softly. “He’s making a fool of himself.”

“He’s getting back at me,” Maltravers replied. “He’s a very nasty little man.”

Hibbert’s insensitive behaviour brought about the last thing he would have wished, the departure of his audience. There was a notable movement towards the exit in which a clearly embarrassed Mayor and Mayoress joined. They waited outside the door and spoke to Tess and Maltravers as they were leaving.

“It was very kind of you to come,” said the Mayor. “I feel I should perhaps apologise for what happened in there just now. I don’t understand it at all.”

“I think I do, your Worship,” Maltravers replied. “But it doesn’t matter.”

The Mayoress offered her cheek to Maltravers to say good-night.

“I shouldn’t say this,” she whispered as their faces lightly touched, “but I’ve always thought Ernie Hibbert was a little turd.” When she pulled her face away, it was that of a woman who would not know the word, let alone say it.

“You nearly made me smile then,” Maltravers said. “That’s not easy at the moment.”

Over her shoulder he saw Jeremy Knowles give him a brief nod of farewell before leaving with other members of the Vercaster Players.

In the silent, late-night streets, as the four of them walked back to Punt Yard, workmen were erecting steel barriers along the route that the jousting knights and the rest of the medieval procession would follow to the fair the next day. They turned into the yard off the main road and saw a police car standing outside the house. Instinctively they quickened their steps and, as they approached, David Jackson stepped out.

“Your babysitter told me where you were and what time you’d be back. I couldn’t see any necessity for disturbing you.”

“Nothing dramatic then?” There was a note of disappointment in Maltravers’ voice. Now any news was better than no news.

“Nothing dramatic. I’d just like another word about Sinclair.” He and Maltravers went into Michael’s study and Tess brought them coffee.

“The more we test Sinclair’s story, the more suspicious we get,” Jackson said. “In fact, the problem is the big parts of it we can’t test. We’ve got nearly three and a half days he can’t or won’t account for. He knows by now the way we’re starting to think but he still can’t produce any evidence to substantiate his story. Quite simply, if it isn’t Powell then Mr Sinclair may find himself on his way back here much sooner than he expected.”

He went over the details of Sinclair’s story and the contradictions the police had uncovered.

“He may not be lying about not having seen Miss Porter for a year but it’s not unreasonable to think he would have at least noticed her at one of the two events we now know they both attended. You knew her as well as anyone, better than most. Can you think of anything at all regarding Peter Sinclair? Mr Madden wants to give more time to tracing Powell before taking action, but I’m getting the feeling that somebody from here will be on their way to Los Angeles eventually. If you can think of some piece of evidence — or someone who might supply it — then possibly Mr Madden will act sooner.”

“I’ve thought about it as much as any other aspect of this whole thing,” Maltravers replied. “I’ve rung friends of hers that I know collect odd bits of gossip. If anything had come out I’d have told you. Do you think he’s lying about what happened while he was here?”

“I don’t think he’s telling us the whole truth. The question is, what’s he hiding?” Jackson sat in silence for a few moments staring into his coffee cup.

“The problem is that things have become so complex and extraordinary that we may have lost touch with some basics,” he said finally. “You start any murder investigation by considering two simple things — motive and opportunity. In Powell’s case motive is impossible to decide because God knows how his mind works. Opportunity is certainly there though. He was in Vercaster and access into the Dean’s garden through the trees at the bottom would have been simple. The same reasoning applies to Sinclair. Again an unknown motive but until we know where he was from Sunday lunchtime onwards we don’t know that he was not here. A possible motive, of course, is jealousy. Was he the type to nurse a grudge after being rejected?”

“He’s conceited, he’s arrogant and he thinks he’s God’s gift to women,” Maltravers replied. “But if all the men who think like that were homicidal maniacs you’d be very busy indeed. The problem remains as to why he should be attacking the Dean and the Bishop. And us of course.”

“The same applies to Powell. But until we know what the motive is behind all this we’re just guessing in the dark. The other thing about Sinclair that must not be overlooked is that he knew Miss Porter and most killers know their victims. Is he a good actor?”

“Not as good as he thinks but quite competent. Why?”

Jackson rubbed his eyes and yawned. “Oh, I was just thinking about knowledge of make-up and disguise, which he would know more about than most people. The fact that nobody saw him here doesn’t necessarily mean much if you look at it that way.”

Maltravers recalled Tess’s successful imitation of a Yorkshire-woman in Belsthwaite. Sinclair did not have her talent but he could have enough to fool people who were not watching for him — and nobody had been watching for him. Odd, half-remembered faces from the reception in the Refectory floated into his mind and he wondered if they had all been what they appeared to be. The fact that Sinclair had opportunity was certain; whether or not he took it remained to be proved. Certainly Sinclair himself was doing nothing to refute it.

Jackson looked at his watch. “God, is that the time? I must get some sleep.” He stood up and stretched. “Well at least the festival finishes tomorrow. It would be nice to think that everything else might finish as well.”

Chapter Fifteen

THE AFFLICTED VERCASTER festival was to end on the longest day of the year.

Early in the morning, rich with rising sunshine and the promise of a day of high summer, people began to filter onto the broad green slope of the cathedral meadow. The wide quietness was peppered with the sound of hammers as stalls were erected for the Medieval Fair and there was a growing murmur of voices. By the banks of the River Verta, flags hung limp and still around the jousting field for the mock tournament of the knights. From the refreshment marquee came the clatter of crockery and the chatter of attendants. In the middle of one open space a jester in chequered green and gold practised juggling with wooden balls, watched by a silent, fascinated little girl with her thumb in her mouth. Barrels of beer were tapped and the contents experimentally tasted. At the entrance to the fenced-off enclosure, a man fastidiously counted his float money.

Colour began to spread across the grass as the sounds of activity increased. Banners were erected, decorations put up, goods displayed. As the scene filled with more and more people, anticipation and excitement began slowly to grow. There was a burst of ribald laughter as a man grasped a girl dressed as Nell Gwynne from behind, squeezing her breasts, and she playfully slapped his face, her screams of pretended protest heard all over the field. On the top of Talbot’s Tower a verger raised the standard of St George, then looked down through the battlements on the diminutive figures far below. A woman appeared holding a mass of helium-filled balloons, rising from her hand in the shape of a gigantic, multicoloured ice-cream cone. A bright green one slipped loose and soared swiftly into the clear sky to the shouts of delighted children.

Just after nine o’clock, the woman with the black hair saw her children off with the German au pair girl to go for their riding lesson. As she went back into the house the telephone rang and she answered it on the bedroom extension. The call was from Los Angeles.

“Peter, how lovely to hear from you! I was wondering when you’d call.” The excessive sweetness of her voice was laced with bile. “I’ve been expecting to hear from you for ages.”

“You know what’s happened then?” Sinclair’s voice was tense.

“The theatre grapevine’s talking about nothing else, darling. Policemen popping up all over the place asking questions like The Mousetrap gone mad. Somebody was telling me they’ve even been talking to you.”

“They’ve got good reason to, haven’t they, although I’ve told them I haven’t seen her during the last year.”

“Oh come on, darling, there’s no point in lying about that too, especially since someone’s bound to talk.”

“What do you mean?” Sinclair snapped.

“How about the Variety Club Lunch? I saw her there.”

“You did? Well I didn’t. I’m not lying about that.”

“Oh, Peter,” the woman said reproachfully. “I mean, I believe you, but do you really think the police are going to? Anyway, it probably doesn’t matter because all the papers here are full of this man Powell. After all, he’s the murderer, isn’t he?”

“If they decide he’s not, they’re going to keep coming back to me. If you give me an alibi, then…”

“You listen to me, little boy!” The lacing of bile had suddenly spread to become the entire fabric of her tone. “You’re not getting me mixed up in this. If you try that I’ll stitch you up so tightly you’ll never get out. Understand?”

“You bloody little…”

“Now, Peter, you really mustn’t call me horrid names.” The abrupt return of her former treacly tones sounded perversely sinister now. “I could make life very difficult for you.”

Sinclair began to sound desperate. “But I’ve got no excuse for coming back! I’ve got no alibis, there are no witnesses. The police don’t believe me!”

“And nobody else is going to either. I mean, the truth really can’t come out, can it?”

“They keep asking me about Diana’s pregnancy. I expect everyone knows about it by now.”

“Oh, yes, that’s been in all the papers. Of course, I never listen to salacious gossip — unless my husband happens to tell me some secret of the consulting room and, of course, I always keep that to myself…don’t I.”

“You couldn’t wait to tell me.”

“Well, sweetie, after all the things you’ve said about Diana I was sure you’d want to know her good news. I thought you’d want to send her a card or something.” A sudden thought occurred to her. “Of course, the police don’t know that I told you about it right at the beginning. Now that’s something they would be very interested in, isn’t it.”

“But you’re not going to tell them, are you?”

“If you try to drag me in for the alibi you’re so desperate for I might have no alternative, darling. So you’re going to be a good boy and not make Auntie Vickie cross, aren’t you? I’m sure you’ll manage to think of some story they’ll believe. Sleep well. Bye.”

Smiling to herself, she rang off and ran her fingers softly across the top of the phone, thinking for a few moments. Then she turned the bedside radio on while she dressed.

“And if you’re anywhere near Vercaster today, watch out for traffic diversions because of the Medieval Fair they’re holding this afternoon,” the disc jockey was saying. “Sounds like a lot of fun if you’re thinking of going. Knights on horseback, sideshows, plenty of fun for the kids. And what a lovely day for it as well. Might even pop along myself. Now, with the time just approaching nine minutes past nine o’clock, here’s Neil Sedaka.” The woman sang along with the record.

The tangible air of unreality in Punt Yard was amplified by Rebecca, who had insisted she should put on her Little Bo-Peep fancy-dress costume as soon as she got out of bed. She paraded proudly around the house in poke bonnet, frilled skirt and leggings tied at the ankles, with her miniature crook decorated with a blue satin ribbon. She sang the nursery rhyme endlessly in a piping, off-key treble, constantly breaking off to ask how long before the fair began.

Sitting in the lounge with Tess, Maltravers was becoming increasingly resentful of the growing carnival atmosphere outside. The sense of gaiety callously ignored the grim events which had hung about the city for so long and paid no respect to any thoughts of Diana. Suddenly and viciously he told Rebecca to shut up and the startled child ran crying to her mother.

“That was unforgivable,” said Tess crossly. “Stop taking it out on her. Go and tell her you’re sorry.” Melissa looked up at him reproachfully as he entered the kitchen.

“I’m sorry, darling,” he said to Rebecca who was hiding her face in her mother’s lap. “Uncle Gus isn’t feeling very well this morning. Come on, we’ll see what’s happening outside.” She peeped at him uncertainly for a moment, then held out her hand in forgiveness.

On the front step they stopped and Rebecca crowed with amazement as a man went unsteadily by on stilts, his height exaggerated by long red and white striped trousers. He heard her and smiled and raised his ridiculously tall hat in greeting. Maltravers was pulling the door closed behind them when a man ran up and grabbed his arm. It was Arthur Powell.

For a moment Maltravers did not recognise him. It was not the face of the photograph. He had several days’ growth of beard and tears were staining his cheeks. In one hand he held a silver crash helmet.

“Diana!” he cried. “She’s not dead! Tell me she’s not! She can’t be!” His fingers dug deep and painfully into Maltravers’ wrist. “Tell me it’s not true! It’s all lies in the papers!”

Passers-by, many dressed in medieval costumes, stared towards the sound of his shouting, indelibly Welsh voice. Maltravers became aware that Rebecca’s tiny hand had tightened its grip on his.

“Go back to mummy, darling,” he said without looking at her. The front door was still open and she scampered back into the house. Powell was still staring at him beseechingly.

“Is everything all right?” A man had crossed from the opposite side of Punt Yard to see what was happening.

“Pardon?” Maltravers finally found his own voice. “Yes. Yes. It’s all right.” He turned back to Powell. “I think you’d better come in.”

As he stepped to one side to let the distraught man enter first, Tess appeared down the hall and stared at Powell in disbelief as Maltravers followed him in.

“Call Jackson,” he told her, then led Powell through to the lounge as Tess dashed into the study. Powell collapsed into a chair and began to sob bitterly as Melissa rushed into the room, freezing as she saw him.

“Augustus!”

“Go back and stay with Rebecca. The police are on their way.” At that moment, Jackson and two constables were bundling into a car, its siren erupting into a piercing wail as it lurched forward.

Maltravers sat down in front of Powell, who raised his grief-twisted face towards him. His voice had broken into a painful croak.

“She’s all right, isn’t she?” he pleaded. “Please say she’s all right.” His emotion racked him again and he began rocking backwards and forwards, moaning.

“Where have you been?” Maltravers asked gently. He felt no emotion, least of all anger, towards the shattered man before him.

“Camping. On holiday.” Powell sniffed noisily. “In Wales and then by Wast Water.” It was the bleakest and loneliest spot Maltravers knew in England.

“You didn’t hear anything about what happened?”

Powell shook his head violently. “Nothing. It was only early this morning when I saw an old paper in a cafe. I keep myself to myself you see. Then I came straight here.” He looked at Maltravers searchingly. “But it is true, isn’t it?”

Maltravers nodded and Powell finally crumpled with a whimper, then began to repeat Diana’s name over and over. Tess had come into the room and was kneeling by Maltravers. She reached across and touched Powell’s hand.

“You didn’t hurt her did you?” she asked softly.

“Hurt her!” Powell stared back in horror. “I would never have hurt her! Don’t you see? I loved her! I loved…” Choking tears overcame him again as there was the sound of screeching car brakes outside, followed by an urgent pounding on the front door. Tess went and opened it.

“Where is he?” Jackson snapped at her. She pointed wordlessly towards the lounge and he ran to it, followed by the two policemen. The sight of Maltravers and Powell, quietly sitting facing each other in easy chairs, was not what he had expected.

“Are you Arthur Wynn Powell?” he demanded brusquely.

Powell raised his face in bewilderment and blankly nodded. Jackson leaned down and took hold of his elbow.

“Arthur Wynn Powell, I am an officer with the Vercaster constabulary and have reason to believe you may have been concerned in the abduction of Miss Diana Porter. I am arresting you on suspicion of this offence. You are not obliged to say anything unless you wish to do so, but what you say may be put in writing and given in evidence.”

Powell swayed in the chair, then flopped forward as Maltravers moved to support him. Jackson tightened the grip on his arm and pulled him to his feet. He was as helpless and obedient as a child.

“Come along,” he said and there was an unexpected note of compassion in his voice. As he turned to lead him away, Maltravers was staring at Powell’s feet.

“Just a moment,” he said, then turned to Tess. “I said there was something we found out in Belsthwaite. Look at his shoes.” Everybody’s eyes, including Powell’s, swivelled downwards.

“They’re made of plastic, aren’t they?” Maltravers asked and Powell dumbly nodded. “Like the sandals the supermarket manager showed us. After we were told you were a strict vegetarian. In fact, you’re a Vegan, aren’t you? Of course you are.” He sighed and stood up. “I’m sorry, David, but this isn’t your murderer. A true Vegan will not knowingly have anything to do with the taking of life under any circumstances. They won’t even wear leather.” He looked at Powell. “I know you didn’t kill Diana. I don’t know who did, but it wasn’t you.”

Jackson handed the passive Powell to the two constables. “Wait in the car,” he said, then watched as Powell was led away before turning to Maltravers. “You really believe he’s innocent?”

“I’m bloody convinced of it. Madden won’t want to believe it — perhaps you don’t — and he may have some difficulty in producing an alibi. But look at him. He’s a very sad, mixed-up human being. He told us he loved Diana and I know exactly what he meant. He worshipped her with the sort of obsessive passion which is very commonly directed towards the famous and the beautiful. She was his fantasy woman and he must have imagined himself doing all sorts of things with her. But in real life he would not have had the courage even to speak to her. Add that to his Vegan beliefs and he’s simply not your murderer.”

“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.

When they returned in the early evening, the crowds had gone from the fair and the dusk-washed meadow was spread with its remnants. Boy Scouts were collecting litter, a collapsed marquee was a sprawl of crumpled canvas, stalls were being dismantled again. Everything stopped as the time approached for the plays to begin. The only activity was far off on the opposite bank of the Verta where a handful of people moved about the scaffolding on which were fixed the fireworks that would end everything.

There was a wide area between the platform bearing the seats and the stage which was filling with people finding spaces to sit on the grass. Maltravers and Tess took their seats immediately behind the Bishop and his wife. The Bishop turned to speak to them.

“I’ve heard what happened today,” he said confidentially as they leaned forward. “I’m sorry.”

There was a distinctly uneasy feeling about the gathering on the platform, sitting in an awkward silence in contrast to the chattering people on the grass below. As they waited for the performance to start, conversation became increasingly difficult.

“It’s a great pity they could not arrange for the plays to be performed by members of the ancient guilds who originally put them on.” The Bishop was doing his best to ease the strain everybody felt by talking to the Dean who sat on his left. “Noah’s Flood was done by the Verta watermen of course and the carpenters did the Crucifixion which was an obvious irony. I can’t remember all the others. The tanners did the Temptation, the weavers the Judgement and the glovers the Adoration of the Magi. Of course the difficulty would be finding sufficient numbers following those trades today. Who was it did the Creation? The bakers I think. That might have been possible to arrange.”

Maltravers glanced around the seats which were now nearly all full. All the cathedral clergy had arrived and there were several other faces he was sure he had seen in the Chapter House and at the Dean’s garden party. As his gaze passed over them, his eyes paused when he saw Madden towards the back, who gave him a barely courteous nod of acknowledgement. He looked down among the crowd on the grass and thought he could recognise Jackson but, like all the others, the figure had his back to him. The voices went silent as a spotlight, placed on the roof of the Refectory behind them, abruptly threw a pool of light onto the centre of the stage and the plays began.

Into the light, a crowd of about thirty robed men and women slowly moved in a tight group then parted to reveal Jeremy Knowles in their midst, his costume almost a caricature of the classic image of Satan with pointed tail, curved horns and trident. He crept to the front of the stage like a spider and peered slowly round all the audience, then swept his trident round in a slow arc embracing them all in a web of evil and smiled knowingly with satisfaction. He whirled and raised his arms aloft towards the group which had formed like a choir behind him, then monstrously conducted them to speak.

“Crucify Him!” they shouted in obedient unison. The Devil turned back and bowed to his audience, indicating the mastery he had achieved over Man.

The Vercaster Players, who had impressed Maltravers already, rose to even greater heights as they portrayed the final terrible events of Christian legend. Christ betrayed and abandoned, crying in despair from the Cross, then slumped and deflated in death before striding in triumph from the tomb. But there was still the Devil to pay.

The plain backcloth of the stage suddenly fell and coloured spotlights danced on painted flames in the midst of which Knowles was coiled like a serpent ready to strike. Between the two principals, a crowd of souls swayed in confusion, now tempted by the Devil’s cunning, now sweeping back to Christ’s promise. Finally, as Knowles’s cajolery turned to threats, they gathered behind Christ, who raised his white robed arms to cast a long shadow that engulfed his enemy. Knowles became berserk, his voice now a shriek.

“Where is my power?” he screamed, then staggered backwards and collapsed. As every eye was riveted upon him he lay writhing on the floor like a man consumed by a fit. Suddenly the ground gave under him — there was a sheet of canvas covering a hole in the stage — and he vanished down it to an explosion of noise and bursts of crimson and purple smoke out of which emerged the figure of God. It was the dawn of Doomsday.

Tess, who had been as enthralled as anyone by a piece of spectacular and imaginative theatre, felt Maltravers grip her hand fiercely. She turned to him and he was transfixed with a look of total shock.

“Christ Almighty!” he said. “Where the hell is he?”

He leapt to his feet, looked swiftly all around and then roughly barged past people between him and the steps leading down from the platform, ignoring cries of protest and outrage. Behind him Madden rose as well and onstage the man playing God looked uncertainly towards the commotion. Maltravers leapt down the steps in one bound, grimacing when pain shot back into his leg as he landed, then overcame it as he dashed towards the Chapter House and round back into Punt Yard. He hammered at the door which was opened by Jenny. Upstairs he could hear the disturbed Rebecca crying.

“Has anyone been here? Have you heard anything?” The urgency in his voice dumbfounded the girl who shook her head blankly.

“Damn him!” Maltravers looked helplessly round the yard.

“Don’t open the door again,” he ordered and raced back towards the south transept.

His pounding footsteps echoed round the slype as he ran to the door leading into the Chapter House. He turned the handle and pushed violently but it was locked. He went back through the silent cloisters and burst into the south aisle of the cathedral itself, the massive vaulted nave empty and hollow as he looked desperately around, panting for breath. In the turmoil of his mind he now knew there was no logic in his search. There was nobody in sight as he sped through the nave and out of the west door, stopping at the top of the cathedral steps. Impatience and frustration were feeding his rage as he surveyed the emptiness outside. He was about to run back to where the plays were continuing when he heard a creaking sound behind him. On one side of the porch was the door leading to the top of Talbot’s Tower. Normally it was kept locked, now it shifted slightly on its ancient hinges.

He scrambled up the narrow staircase that corkscrewed through the stonework, his shoulders spasmodically bumping against the walls. The steps had deep concave impressions worn by centuries of use and several times he stumbled, swearing. He passed the point where a small plaque marked the spot where Bishop Talbot had collapsed and died. At the top of the steps was a low wooden arched door with a latch operated by a ring of rusty twisted iron. He grabbed it and turned, then hurled the door open and stepped, gasping for breath, onto the wooden platform which capped the top of Talbot’s Tower.

From the rope of the flagpole in the centre hung Diana’s head, tied by its long hair. On the opposite side of the battlements a figure crouched in a crenellation with its back to him.

“You evil bastard!” Maltravers forced the shout from his aching lungs.

Matthew Webster turned his head, his face livid with madness and fury.

“Evil?” he shrieked back. His arm shot out and pointed a quivering finger accusingly at Diana’s head. “She was evil! She mocked God in His own house and spoke the words of your blasphemy!”

Maltravers slumped against the side of the door as a great weariness overcame him. He felt sick. For a long moment the two men looked at each other across the twenty feet between them.

“Give yourself up,” said Maltravers. He pushed himself upright and stepped slowly towards the flagpole, an immense sadness on his face. Webster gave him a final look of total vindictiveness and was gone. Maltravers leapt across to the edge of the tower and looked down to see him crash face upwards onto one of the flying buttresses on the north side and heard the crack as his back broke. For a few seconds his body lay there like a rag doll, then slowly slid down the incline of the buttress to the ground. Maltravers heard a scream from behind him. Tess was standing in the doorway, her face frozen in horror at what she saw. As he crossed to her she wrenched her eyes away and clasped her hands over them. He took her in his arms and gently stroked her hair.

“It’s all right,” he said quietly. “It’s all over now.”

Below them the Mystery Plays had ended and five hundred voices began joyfully to sing Blake’s Jerusalem. Across the Verta came the crackle of igniting fireworks and three great rockets streaked upwards to explode in white chrysanthemums of light.

“Go on down.” Maltravers turned Tess so she could not see the flagpole. “I’ll follow you in a moment.” She stepped back through the door and began slowly to descend the stairs.

Maltravers untied Diana’s hair then carefully wrapped her head in his jacket. As he turned to follow Tess a piece of stone with a flint embedded in it about the size of a tennis ball caught his eye. He picked it up and took it down with him. Halfway he met Jackson who looked at his face, then turned back without a word. In the porch Maltravers handed the jacket to the sergeant.

“Don’t open it here,” he said. “Where’s Tess?”

“She went into the cathedral. What’s that?”

Maltravers glanced at the piece of stone he was holding, then went to where the fallen masonry from the tower was kept. The piece that had hit him was on top. He looked at it, turned it over, then placed the piece he was holding into a gap in its edge.

“You were asking me about this when something interrupted us,” he said. “He tried to kill me as well.”

As Maltravers entered the nave, Tess was a lonely bowed figure sitting on a chair by the aisle. He walked softly up and sat down next to her. She was holding in her fingers the Talbot’s Tower brooch, which she had unpinned from her shirt, savagely bending it backwards and forwards. It suddenly snapped in two. She gazed at the pieces for a moment then buried her head in Maltravers’ shoulder as he put his arm round her. The silent building was filled with the sound of her sobbing.

Chapter Sixteen

ON THE TOP floor of Matthew Webster’s home was a small locked room, inside which the police found the mutilated remains of Diana Porter. Pinned to her dress was another type-written Biblical text, this time from Exodus Chapter 22, Verse 18: “Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live”. By the body was a meat cleaver on the wooden handle of which were found traces of her blood.

On the table by Webster’s bed, along with his Bible and a book on the Revelation of St John the Divine, was his diary. The entry for the Sunday on which Diana disappeared read: “The woman is dead. Thanks be to God in whose eyes His servant is obedient.” The only other entries were for appointments connected with his work or the festival. At the end of the garden which, like the adjacent Dean’s, was thick with trees, police found a ready-dug shallow grave. The awful picture was completed with swift and sudden finality.

“There is only one matter which we may still need to investigate,” said Madden. His eyes flickered across the attentive faces of Barratt and Jackson. “Did Webster actually jump off the tower? There were no independent witnesses as to what happened.”

“Mr Maltravers is quite emphatic in his statement,” Barratt replied. “He assumed that Webster thought he was going to attack him. He knew he was caught without any means of escape so he decided to take his own life.”

“When Mr Maltravers suddenly…” Madden paused, then spoke the next words contemptuously, “solved the crime, he immediately decided to take matters into his own hands instead of informing the police.”

“He saw that Webster had gone and was anxious to find him before he could do whatever he was planning and get away with it. He said there was no time to explain his suspicions and if we had just discovered Miss Porter’s head on the flagpole we might never have found who did it.”

“You believe this…somewhat fanciful explanation of how he suddenly realised it was Webster?”

“He was right, sir. I’m sure he had not deliberately kept anything from us. He was more anxious than anyone that Miss Porter should be found. He feels guilty that he didn’t realise the truth sooner.”

Madden made no comment. Every aspect of the case annoyed him. The pointless manhunt for Powell, the wasted cost of sending two men to Los Angeles to question Sinclair, the massive police operation which had achieved nothing. And finally the solution coming from the one man who had never left his mind as a suspect. His mind was tormented by not knowing what happened on the top of Talbot’s Tower.

“A report will be sent to the Director of Public Prosecutions,” he said. “He will decide if further action is necessary. All officers to return to normal duties.”

In the incident room a policewoman was methodically plucking the coloured pins marking reported sightings of Arthur Powell from the map of Britain and carefully dropping them into small cardboard boxes.

In Los Angeles, Peter Sinclair, who had been told that two police officers were flying from England to talk to him, received a phone call saying the interview had been cancelled because Diana’s murderer had been found. He immediately made a transatlantic call.

“Just to let you know, sweetie, that they’ve found whoever it was,” he said when the woman answered. “So now I don’t need an alibi and I’m going to let everyone know what I was really doing. You can lie through your teeth now but I’ll make damned sure your husband gets the message that you screw around.”

The line went abruptly dead and she stood holding the receiver as her husband entered the room.

“Who was that?” he asked.

“Wrong number.”

His face drained and grey, the Bishop looked an old and fragile man. He personally opened the door to Maltravers and Tess as they arrived at the Palace following his request to see them before they left Vercaster. He took them through to the lounge where his wife served coffee. Maltravers traced the floral pattern of the easy chair with his finger as the Bishop spoke.

“There is nothing I can say, except that we share your grief. I wanted to tell you that again before you left us. Matthew was a tortured and unbalanced young man but none of us realised it. I am very conscious of the fact that it was I who brought him to this cathedral.” There was an uncomfortable silence which the Bishop finally broke himself. “I’m still not altogether clear as to how you finally realised it was him.”

Maltravers sat forward in the chair, his coffee held in both hands.

“One odd thing triggered it all and at that instant I saw everything. I’ve had to consciously piece it together again since and what appals me most is that I knew so much but didn’t realise sooner. Perhaps if I had…”

“Mr Maltravers you must not reproach yourself,” the Bishop interrupted. “What did you know?”

“I expect it started right at the beginning. The first thing I was told about Matthew Webster was that he was zealous, over religious. It seems blindingly obvious now what the effect of Diana’s performance would be on such a person. I had written it to stimulate, to put accepted beliefs in a different light. He was appalled by it and the fact that it was performed in the Chapter House made it more offensive to him. Then, to make matters worse, he saw people like yourself and the Dean congratulating Diana and me afterwards, praising what he could only see as blasphemy.

“The process was repeated at the Dean’s garden party the following afternoon, everyone congratulating her again. It’s fairly clear what must have happened. He went back to his own house next door and must have called Diana to the fence from his own garden when he saw her standing alone after most of the other guests had left. Whatever happened then would have been hidden by the bushes but they found a wound on her head indicating that she had been struck.” The Bishop closed his eyes as if in pain.

“By now he was seeing himself as God’s instrument of revenge,” Maltravers went on. “That was the phrase he used to us when we were talking about the hunt for Powell. He had killed Diana but other people had to suffer. We were the next when he nailed her hand to the door in Punt Yard.”

“But how could he have done that?” objected the Bishop. “That is one thing I cannot see. The Dean told me that he and his wife walked with Matthew from Cathedral Close and met you on the way to the cathedral. For the entire evening Matthew was at the organ and there was no interval. He came straight back into the nave at the end and you all left together.”

“The first point is that nobody could see him from the nave,” explained Maltravers. “His communication with the conductor was through the television camera. There wasn’t an interval but the soloists sang the piece from Stainer’s Crucifixion unaccompanied. I’ve timed it since on a recording Michael has and it lasts just about three minutes. That would have been time for him to leave the organ and go out through the door in the Lady Chapel on the south side. I used it myself once and it’s directly opposite the front door of Michael and Melissa’s house. The nail holding the hand was not hammered home. It wasn’t so much a case of him not wanting to make too much noise, it was that he had time for only one quick blow before going back. There was no audience in the transepts or anywhere behind the choir screen so the chances of him being seen were minimal.

“One other thing is that when we met him on our way to the cathedral he was carrying a music case. Melissa remarked that she thought he would have known what he was going to play by heart. Diana’s hand and the hammer and nail were in that case; the police have found bloodstains on the inside. Sending the other hand and the hair through the post was no difficulty. It only takes about half an hour to reach North London by car.”

Despite his grief and shock, the Bishop was becoming interested in Maltravers’ explanation.

“You said you knew other things?”

“One thing that seemed totally irrelevant at the time but which now appears significant is the conversation I had with him about misprinted Bibles. I was making a joke of it all but he said something about such things being regrettable as it was the word of God. I let it go out of my mind at the time but it was another indication of his narrow views.”

“Are you saying he also took the Latimer Mercy?”

Maltravers shrugged. “There’s no sign of it in his house but it’s the obvious conclusion. Its presence in the cathedral — remember it was kept near the organ where he would frequently have seen it — would have been offensive to him. Perhaps the approaching festival and the fact that even more people than usual would see it made him do something. That must have been the start of it all. One thing that Jackson and I discussed more than once was the possibility of a link between the Latimer Mercy theft and Diana, but we couldn’t see one.”

“Do you think he destroyed it?”

“I’m not sure. He’d have had to balance the fact that it was misprinted against the fact that it was a Bible. I don’t think any of us could understand how his mind worked so we can’t know what he would have decided.” Maltravers finished his coffee and carefully placed the cup and saucer on the table beside him. “It doesn’t matter anyway. What does matter is that at one point he gave himself away and I didn’t see it.”

“Neither did I, nor Michael,” Tess said quietly. “And you were in no state to notice things.” The Bishop looked quizzically from one to the other.

“Tess is talking about the day he tried to kill me with a lump of masonry he threw off Talbot’s Tower,” said Maltravers. “The piece I found on top of the tower on Saturday night must have broken off as he pushed it over. We came up to the cathedral from Hibbert’s Park and we would have been clearly visible from some distance away. He must have seen us approaching, grabbed one of the collection of pieces that had fallen previously — the one he chose isn’t as heavy as it looks — and taken it up to the top. After throwing it at me he went down the tower staircase and back into the cathedral relying on the obvious fuss outside to give him cover. He then must have gone out of the north transept and along the alleyway that leads to the town centre.

“The people in the shop where he bought the violin strings say they remember he spent quite a while in there and drew particular attention to the time. It would have been an alibi if he needed it. He then walked back round the other way to enter Punt Yard from the main road end. I think he might have been planning to call at Michael and Melissa’s house on some pretext and make a point of saying he was on his way back from the shop. In fact, he coincidentally met Michael on the way.

“The mistake he made — and got away with — was when Michael told him to go and investigate the fallen stone.” Maltravers paused. “He never asked where it had happened. It could have been any one of three sides of the tower and how could he have known which one?”

“You’re making him sound a very callous and deliberate murderer,” the Bishop remarked. “I regard him more as an irrational young man. Would he really have been so calculating?”

“He had a sense of mission. He was carrying out what he saw as the will of God. I find that so irrational and self-deluding in the light of what he did that I think cunning would have been a part of it.

“The only thing that seems out of character is that he used Talbot’s Tower at the end, although it occurred to me that technically the extension might not actually be consecrated. Bishop Talbot died on his way up to perform the service.”

The Bishop shook his head. “No. That service would have been one of dedication and acceptance of the extension. Perhaps it was never carried out later but the land on which all parts of the cathedral stands is consecrated and nothing can alter that.”

“I wonder if Webster realised that?” said Maltravers. “It seems that the tower would have served his purpose as the final act of vengeance on as many people as possible who had approved of what happened in the Chapter House. He was obviously going to haul the rope up and horrify them with the sight. The man had turned evil with madness.” He was about to add more but Tess shot him a warning glance and he remained silent about the awful things men did in the name of a carpenter’s gentle and mysterious son.

“There is a particular matter I wish to raise,” the Bishop said after a pause. “The Dean has made the suggestion and I said I would ask you. If there are no objections from her family, it would…give us some comfort if Miss Porter were to be buried in the cathedral precincts. I don’t know how you both feel about it.”

Maltravers’ emotional reaction was too confused for him to reply but Tess spoke for them both.

“Diana was entranced by your Chapter House and gave her greatest performance there,” she said. “Whatever we may feel, I think she would have wanted it. It’s very kind of…” Her voice suddenly broke on a hiccup of emotion and her hand flew to her mouth. “Excuse me. I’m sorry.” She stood up and walked swiftly from the room, followed by the Bishop’s wife. The Bishop, half risen from his seat, sadly watched the door close.

“I feared the suggestion might cause you distress,” he said apologetically. “It’s just that we feel a sense of responsibility and want to…I’m sure you understand.” Maltravers nodded.

“There’s only one other matter,” the Bishop added. “At the start of our conversation you said there was something odd which — what was your phrase? — triggered it all in your mind.”

“Oh, my Road to Damascus at the Mystery Plays.” Maltravers gave a curious smile. “It was something you said, Bishop.”

The Bishop’s eyebrows went up. “Something I said? I remember trying to make some sort of conversation with the Dean because the atmosphere was so painful, but I can recall nothing of significance or even relevance.”

“You were talking about the ancient craft guilds which traditionally performed the plays. Among others you referred to the Judgement — and that is important — and said it was done by the weavers. Just as the plays were ending, I remembered that the old name for the weavers was the websters.” Maltravers held out his hands in a gesture of comprehension.

The Bishop shook his head sorrowfully. “His mind must have become very strange indeed to take that for a sign. We must go and find my wife and Miss Davy.”

The Bishop’s wife was sitting with Tess in the hall, holding her hand comfortingly. Tess went to the Bishop and took his hand, blinking tear-reddened eyes.

“I’m sorry to react like I did,” she said. “It’s a gesture Augustus and I appreciate very much. Thank you.”

The Bishop kept her hand in his as they walked to the front door. Maltravers and Tess paused on the step to say goodbye.

“Whatever dreadful things afflict people,” the Bishop said, “a clergyman can usually find something in the Bible that will bring some manner of comfort.” His wife had gently taken his arm as his eyes turned to look straight into Maltravers’. “I shall pray for you both. And for Diana. And for Matthew.”

Tess turned and walked down the path to stand by the front gate as the two men regarded each other in silence. Then Maltravers lowered his head slightly.

“Thank you,” he said.

Tess’s hands were gripping the black wrought-iron top of the gate as he reached her and she was staring at the cathedral opposite.

“Isn’t it terrible when kindliness can hurt so much?” she said. As they walked back to Punt Yard, the clock in Talbot’s Tower boomed the hour over Vercaster.

Two weeks later, the remains of Diana Porter were buried within the cathedral cloisters beneath a small, flat, marble stone bearing her name, the year she was born, the year she died and the single word “Actress”. An inquest into the death of Matthew Webster recorded a verdict of suicide while the balance of mind was disturbed. His body was cremated and, at his parents’ request, his ashes scattered on the waters of the River Verta. Three months afterwards, Arthur Powell hanged himself in his flat; the burnt remains of Diana’s pictures were found in the grate. When the cathedral organ was renovated, the Latimer Mercy was found inside, wrapped in newspaper. It is no longer on display. The Vercaster festival was never held again.

SKELETON KEY

Table of Contents

Author’s note

Those who know—and particularly those who live in—Fore Street and the neighbourhood of Old Hatfield, Hertfordshire, should be assured that only some local architecture and geography have been borrowed. All the events of this book are invented and the various characters who experience them are of imagination all compact.

Breaking off from idly pecking at the ground, an iridescent, bejewelled peacock raised its head and surveyed Augustus Maltravers with disdain, before turning its back and walking dismissively away with the hauteur of a Duke who has been approached by some upstart to whom he had not been introduced. Watching the bird’s slightly tatty Argusian tail sweep the ground like a train in its wake, Maltravers felt that such behaviour embodied attitudes no longer appropriate as noble and time-hallowed families clung doggedly to their Stately Homes of England. Peacocks were now kept as an additional attraction for paying visitors, not as ornamental and suitably toffee-nosed pets of the wealthy, titled and privileged in their private gardens. He looked beyond the bird at a further manifestation of such diminished glories; the impressive seventeenth-century pile of Edenbridge House, formidable focus of the twelve hundred acres of Edenbridge Park, principally farmed but still patched with residual rustic woodlands and open fields.

‘One day, my boy,’ he promised, ‘all this will be somebody else’s.’

Ten-year-old Timothy Penrose was unimpressed.

‘Please can we have an ice lolly?’ he asked, generously including his younger sister Emma in the request.

‘A modest enough demand. Here you are.’

Maltravers produced coins from his pocket and the children raced off towards a nearby ice-cream van, their enthusiasm for Martian Monsters of singularly sickly flavour vastly exceeding impossible dreams of very upmarket real estate ownership. Left with Tess Davy, the established natural lady in his life, Maltravers returned his attention to the home of the Earls of Pembury.

‘Now that’s just the sort of little place in the country I’d like, please,’ Tess told him as they admired its domed square towers and redbrick Gothic chimneys thrusting upwards above regular grids of windows with diamond-patterned lead lighting, each crowned with a classical ornamental moulding. ‘I was made for the lifestyle.’

She whirled round and the professional actress in her conjured up the instant impression that pencil-thin jeans and floppy T-shirt had been transmuted into a less practical but greatly more elegant crinoline. Her startling green eyes shimmered impishly before her pre-Raphaelite cascade of russet hair and Gainsborough face dipped in mock obeisance.

‘Welcome to our simple home, my Lord.’ The trace of huskiness in her everyday voice had disappeared, replaced by slightly over-genteel cadences belonging to another woman held in the graceful half-curtsey. Certain attitudes, however, remained intact. ‘My parents are away but they bade me make you welcome—my room’s the fourth along on the first floor.’ She raised her lowered head and looked at him again, a face of virtuous innocence framing eyes glittering with knowing carnality.

‘I may stay for some time,’ Maltravers replied. ‘I think I’m going to like this place.’

‘You’d better believe it,’ Tess told him tersely, the invisible crinoline cast off as swiftly as it had been created as she straightened up and looked back at the house. ‘How much do you think it would cost?’

‘More than any writer of my level of success will ever make,’ Maltravers told her. ‘Jeffrey Archer could just about afford the down payment on the outhouse, assuming they have such a thing. The Earl of Pembury would make the average millionaire look comparatively penniless.’

Maltravers was right to a degree, in that the recently elevated twelfth Earl did not lie awake at night worrying about the odd hundred thousand pounds here or there, but the sublimely balanced architectural geometry and discreet grandeur of Edenbridge House disguised the fact that it had been undergoing a financial earth tremor as rising taxes and other troublesome fiscal legislation threatened it sorely. The roots of the problem had been planted by the eleventh Earl, who had survived for a formidable ninety-seven years, stubbornly insisting on passing the last of them in the same secure and pleasant manner as he had enjoyed the first. Subtle accountants had repeatedly tried to persuade him of the advantages offered by the law in the form of tax havens, allowable expenses and other cunning loopholes, but he had loftily dismissed them from his presence and only agreed to open his home to the paying public when forced to do so by unforgiving necessity. He had surveyed the invasion of the masses with distaste, before grumpily retiring to the West wing with his memories to devote his remaining years to the completion of his autobiography From Enfant Terrible to Éminence Grise; in a somewhat pedestrian life, he had failed to fulfil either role, but the title had come to him one day and he adamantly refused to abandon it. Increasingly reclusive and resentful, he had resolutely regarded the Chancellor of the Exchequer and all his works as not worthy of the attention of an English gentleman, and Edenbridge’s cash crisis had grown with his years. When death had abruptly turned off the old man’s heart while he was shaving one morning, his son felt sorrow but also considerable relief that some very pressing matters could finally be given overdue attention. A brief reading of the uncompleted life story offered little prospect of profitable publication and it was despatched to the less accessible regions of the Edenbridge archives. Having placed his father (fully shaved) in the family vault with proper ceremony, the new Lord Pembury had speedily called back the accountants to put his ancient house in order.

Thus, while in the guidebooks Edenbridge House remained a great stately home, saturated with treasure and heavy with history, it was now in effect the head office of a limited company with Lord Pembury occupied with much the same sort of business decisions as the managing director of a boot factory. The previously token gift shop in the old kitchens had been massively enlarged, selling everything from elegant cut glass to tacky kitsch plastic place mats (tourists’ tastes covered a range as wide as their means and all had to be catered for) and plans were in hand to establish a safari park in the grounds. Meanwhile, death duties, the inescapable companions of the event itself, were still metaphorically standing at the gate, sternly demanding satisfaction in connection with the latest reduction in the family numbers. Negotiations concerning the State’s acceptance of the great Rubens at the turn of the stairs were at an advanced stage, with the Canaletto in the library under consideration to make up the balance. The Pemburys, who had dined for a hundred years ignoring the growing spectre of Socialism at the feast, were demonstrating great skill at learning the precautions required to hang on to the family silver.

The children returned, each happily clutching a repulsive icy amalgam of water and disgusting artificial flavouring in vivid maroon.

‘There’s a joke on the stick,’ Timmy announced delightedly, then sucked the obscene object with juvenile rapture, revealing that what taste he had did not extend to his mouth. Maltravers sighed; the general level of wit on lollipop sticks was dire and it seemed unjust that his generosity to his friends’ children should result in him being subjected to it.

‘Come on, let’s get you home,’ he said. ‘We should arrive just in time for those things to have ruined your appetite for lunch.’

They turned away from the house and made their way through the crowds of visitors wandering about the park and gardens. Serious and efficient Germans consulted their guidebooks and meticulously ticked off items of interest they had seen; perpetually cheerful Japanese, festooned with cameras of incredible complexity though small size, looked endlessly polite over a heritage that was comparatively recent by their culture; well-padded and flamboyant Americans were vaguely overawed by so much antiquity but found the local variety of the hot dog criminally deficient; the English, who are generally appallingly ignorant about their history, were unmoved by such a richness of it. All of them looked overcooked in the burning midday sun that hammered down on the stable yard with its cafeteria and toilets, casting slate-edged shadows on brick walls like the lining of a furnace. Everybody moved slowly between the immense dark green yew bushes that lined the drive leading to the house and the roofs of the multi-coloured patchwork of vehicles in the car park were crowned with a trembling film of heat.

‘Are you going to the concert tonight?’ Timmy asked as they passed through the dark-shadowed, two-storey brick arch of the Bellringer Street lodge gate; a middle class upbringing had included proper instruction in the manners of polite conversation.

‘Yes,’ said Tess. ‘Are you?’

‘No way. It sounds awful,’ the boy replied, twisting his head at an unnatural angle to capture an escaping lump of rapidly melting ice. ‘I’m going to watch Superman II on the video again. It’s dead good.’

‘There are those who think Old English music is dead good,’ Maltravers observed. ‘Although they usually express it rather more elegantly.’

‘It’s boring,’ Timmy pronounced conclusively. ‘There’s no beat.’

‘Well, it’s not quite Duran Duran country,’ Maltravers admitted. ‘But it does have its points.’

The boy regarded him with renewed and unexpected interest. On previous occasions when they had met, he had found the tall, loose-limbed man with the amused blue eyes in a face drawn in long, vertical lines passable company for someone so old—Maltravers was thirty-five—but it had never occurred to him that he might have some familiarity with contemporary rock bands. Despite his serious reservations about someone who actually quoted poetry in everyday conversation, he was favourably impressed.

‘Do you like them?’ he asked.

‘I prefer Tears for Fears, but Duran are very good,’ Maltravers told him. Timmy returned his attention to his lollipop, still unconvinced of the qualities of Old English music but becoming vaguely aware of the possibility that the company of some grown-ups might not actually be a total waste of time.

They passed through the huge wooden lodge gates and back into the blinding heat, with St Barbara’s parish church on their left and the hundred yards of parallel terraced houses that made up Bellringer Street dropping steeply down the hill in front of them. The street was frequently loosely described as Georgian but in fact contained a range of styles from late Regency to post-Victorian. The bricked-in archway in the wall rising to their right had once been an entrance for stage coaches when the twenty miles or so from Capley to London had been a day’s journey and the building, now converted into flats, was one of eight hostelries which the street had contained to cater for their passengers. Now only the ghosts of the pubs remained, immortalised in a verse written by one of their long-dead customers—

Candlestick, Kingmaker,

Arms of the baker,

Sun in the morning

And parson’s retreat.

Cricketer, virgin

And coach driver urging,

These are the taverns of Bellringer Street.

Maltravers found it an agreeable thought that at one time a pint in every one—Candlestick, Earl of Warwick, Baker’s Arms, Rising Sun, Pulpit, Batsman, Maid’s Head and Coach and Horses in inebriated descent down the hill—would have resulted in a very pleasantly accumulated hangover. Lamentably, all were now converted into private houses with the exception of the Batsman which remained about halfway down to pursue its decent calling and—thanks be to God—the noble efforts of those dedicated to the preservation of real ale ensured that it still served beer infinitely more drinkable than the hideous chemical urine mass-produced in an evil flood by the giant brewery combines. The double-sided sign, suspended from the ancient, swirling iron bracket protruding at right angles above the pub door, portrayed the patriarchal image of W. G. Grace and, whether looking up or down the hill, the cricketing doctor surveyed the most expensive and select of residences. Bellringer Street was now a very good address in the estate agents’ league table; its assorted collection of weathered bricks, imposing front doors, occasionally plastered façades, varied windows and rippled roofs of tiles or slate increasing in value almost between the rising and setting of each day’s sun. Even the absence of front gardens, which meant stepping from each house on to paving slabs cracked, battered and patched like a crude jigsaw, was presented to potential purchasers as further evidence of a unique and enviable lifestyle.

For Bellringer Street was now in Old Capley, a name jealously guarded by its residents to disassociate themselves from the post-war Capley New Town which had been gracelessly stuck on to the western edges of the original. A distant prospect of its high-speed motorway, high-rise flats and high-intensity shopping centre was visible from the top of Bellringer Street, but ancient and modern maintained somewhat separate existences, each darkly suspecting the other of either well-heeled snobbishness or a deplorable habit of not bathing regularly. Both attitudes were seriously flawed, but class prejudice is a two-way street—or avenue.

With the commercial activity of the town moving westward with the new development, Old Capley had become something of a pleasant residential backwater, although a handful of local shops still survived in the square at the bottom of the hill, including a mail order establishment catering for those with a taste for erotic underwear and bedroom attire not conducive to a quiet night’s sleep. This undertaking was regarded ambivalently. While it was clearly deplorable that persons of irregular sexual habits should apply to an address in Old Capley for their supplies of peep-hole bras or black suspender belts, the proprietor of the enterprise, a quietly-spoken, middle-aged man with teenage daughters of unquestioned purity, was both a sidesman at St Barbara’s and a visible supporter of the Conservative Party. That both the Church of England and Tory Central Office might have numbered several of his customers among their members had occurred to Maltravers on previous visits, but he had prudently not voiced such an outrageous suggestion. For no particular reason, he was contemplating the intriguing possibility again as they walked away from the lodge gates and Timmy came up with an unexpected question.

‘How do you stop a rhinoceros charging?’ The Martian Monster had been devoured and the legend on its stick exposed.

‘I have the dreadful feeling you’re going to tell us,’ Maltravers replied.

‘Take away his credit cards!’ Timmy hooted with laughter, revealing an interesting familiarity with modern finance in one so young.

‘Not bad by lollipop standards,’ Maltravers admitted. ‘Come on, Emma, let’s get it over with. What does yours say?’

The little girl was examining her stick in some mystification. ‘I can’t read it,’ she announced, and offered it to Maltravers who peered at it gravely.

‘Help. My name is Lord Lucan and I am a prisoner in a lollipop factory,’ he said, straight-faced.

‘Give it to me,’ said Tess. ‘Right. What goes quack and has water coming out of its head?’

‘She said it, she actually said it,’ Maltravers muttered in disbelief.

‘What?’ demanded the children.

‘Moby Duck.’

‘What might be called a children of Ishmael joke,’ Maltravers commented, and was contemplating the possible commercial rewards in a singularly odd field of creative writing as they entered what had once been the entrance to the public bar of the Warwick Arms, now the kitchen of Peter and Susan Penrose’s home. Standing on the corner of a rough-stoned right of way opposite the church gates, it was a house curiously piled upwards from capacious cellar, through kitchen and dining room on the ground floor, sitting room and bedroom one floor up and the two remaining bedrooms upstairs again. As they walked in, Susan, a walking advertisement for motherhood and Laura Ashley, was producing some sort of lunchtime organisation out of comfortable chaos and Peter was engrossed in the Araucaria crossword in the Guardian.

‘In game, I am gen,’ he announced runically, looking up at Maltravers. ‘Two words of six and ten letters, second word begins with a V.’

‘I noticed that before we went out.’ Maltravers looked at the puzzle over Peter’s shoulder. ‘I have been giving it considerable thought during our walk and still haven’t the remotest idea.’

The two men had originally met while working together as reporters on the Worcester Evening Echo, sharing a passion for cricket, crosswords and similar indecent ambitions regarding the body of Susan in the accounts department. Observing where Susan’s preferences lay, Maltravers had diplomatically withdrawn his attentions and had subsequently been best man at their wedding. Although their careers had drifted apart—Maltravers into enough success as a playwright to pay most of the bills and now a first novel and Peter into something mysterious with the BBC World Service—they saw each other regularly. The current visit followed Maltravers’ completion of his book and also the end of the run of a play in which Tess had been appearing. Their plans for the week centred mainly on driving into the neighbouring countryside in search of historic buildings, preferably with attendant decent pubs, and Maltravers had also agreed to turn out for the Edenbridge Estate side in their annual cricket match against the Capley Town team. His appearance had been requested at the last minute following an incident involving an Estate player, stepladders and a greenhouse roof, which had resulted in the smell of broken glass and a liberal application of plaster to his person. It was some years since Maltravers had played, but he reasoned that the standards would not be such as to embarrass him.

They settled variously around the table, Maltravers regarding Susan’s burstingly pregnant form with misgiving as she lowered herself into a chair. The arrival of the third Penrose seemed alarmingly imminent and his knowledge of what to do in such circumstances was as limited as his understanding of how his car worked; a microscopic advance from nil. Susan had earlier said that the event was still two weeks away but such a further period of abdominal inflation seemed inconceivable. Had his own dismantled marriage produced children, Maltravers would have been better informed but, as it was, close encounters with prodigious female ripeness caused him unease. He fervently hoped that the infant would at least have the decency to wait until they had finished eating.

With four—strictly speaking, four and a half—adults, two children, and a Golden Labrador puppy of excitable temperament occupying the kitchen, polite conversation became difficult and Maltravers joined Peter in further consideration of the uncompleted crossword.

‘In game, I am gen,’ he repeated thoughtfully. ‘Some reference to game birds perhaps? Grouse has six letters if that’s any help.’

‘Enigma Variations,’ Tess said from the other end of the table. ‘Pass the couscous please, darling.’

Maltravers stared at her. ‘Pardon?’

‘The couscous. It’s right by you.’

‘No, not that. How did Elgar suddenly get in here?’

‘It’s the answer,’ Tess said simply. Both men regarded her blankly. ‘The answer to the clue…in the crossword.’

‘We know where the clue is,’ Maltravers said. ‘But we don’t understand your reasoning.’

‘The words “In game” and “I am gen” are both anagrams of “Enigma”,’ she explained patiently. ‘So they’re both variations, aren’t they? Now can I have the couscous please?’

Peter turned back to the crossword in surprise and filled in the solution as Maltravers passed the bowl across, looking wonderingly at Tess as though she had suddenly started speaking in fluent Greek.

‘Madam, I have known you in all meanings of the word for a long time,’ he said. ‘Now I find you can solve crossword clues. You’ve never shown the slightest interest in them before.’

‘Of course not. I can never understand why you waste your time with them. Thank you.’ Tess accepted the bowl and put her tongue out at him.

‘How do I love thee?’ Maltravers asked. ‘Let me count the ways. You’re marvellous in bed and now I find I can talk to you about crosswords afterwards. Children, you didn’t hear that.’

Difficult questions from Timmy or Emma about earthy interpretations of Elizabeth Barrett Browning were averted by the wall-mounted telephone ringing next to where Peter was sitting. Occupied with his meal and further wrestling with the labyrinthine workings of Araucaria’s mind, Maltravers was only half aware of Peter’s end of the conversation, although he gathered that some manner of unlikely news was being imparted. Peter’s ‘You’re joking!’ followed by inquiries as to why and when something was to happen sounded vaguely interesting.

‘Who was that?’ Susan asked as he rang off.

‘Frank Dunham. He says that Lady Pembury wants Tom Bostock buried—and would you believe in the family vault?’

‘After all these years?’ Susan was visibly amazed. ‘What on earth’s come over her?’

‘Conscience, it seems.’

Maltravers rapidly considered this exchange and found it wanting. Bodies, in his experience, were generally buried or become part of the smoke nuisance over crematoria reasonably soon after decease; leaving them lying around was inconvenient, untidy and unhygienic. But it seemed that the body of Tom Bostock—whoever he was—had remained undealt with for a period measurable in years. Surely someone should have stepped in and attended to its disposal before the latest Lady Pembury made it her business? He remained silent, awaiting enlightenment.

‘Well, the tourists won’t like it,’ Susan added.

‘Nothing’s going to happen until after the house closes at the end of the season in October,’ Peter told her. ‘They’ll reprint the guidebook for next year and there’s no reason why they can’t still sell the postcards, unless Lady Pembury thinks even that’s out of order. Frankly, I’m not that surprised. Tom was a member of the family even if he was a bastard.’

All in all, Maltravers found this raised more questions and afforded no answers. The references to Lady Pembury, tourists and guidebooks clearly appeared to locate matters in Edenbridge House—where they must also sell postcards—but none of this was helpful. And did Peter mean ‘bastard’ in the literal or pejorative sense? Whichever the case, a final resting place among the great and the good of the Pemburys in their private chapel in St Barbara’s seemed a curiously excessive gesture.

‘Surely it won’t be a proper funeral though?’ Susan queried.

‘Apparently that’s what her Ladyship wants,’ Peter replied. ‘She feels that the family owes a duty to old Tom—she’s concerned about his immortal soul. You know what she’s like.’

Susan’s nod showed that she evidently did. ‘Well, it will be interesting to see how many mourners turn up…Gus, more of anything?’

‘Nothing more to eat, but a little explanation would be welcome,’ said Maltravers. ‘You do realise your conversation has had a rather Pinteresque quality don’t you? As I understand it, Lady Pembury wants to organise a funeral for someone who died some time ago. Right?’

‘He was hanged in 1778,’ said Peter.

‘That,’ Maltravers conceded, ‘is some time ago. What was the hold-up? Wouldn’t the coroner release the body?’

‘Haven’t you ever seen Tom Bostock when you’ve been here before?’ asked Susan.

‘From what I’ve just heard, I’m sure I’d remember if I had,’ Maltravers said with conviction. ‘Meeting a 200-year-old corpse would tend to stick in the memory.’

Peter leaned back in his chair and pulled open the drawer of the stripped pine Welsh dresser behind him. He rummaged about for a moment then produced a thin booklet, flicked through the pages and handed it open to Maltravers.

‘Read that. It explains everything.’

The booklet, called Capley: No Ordinary Town, was a potted history written by the editor of the local newspaper, and the page Peter offered Maltravers was part of the section on Edenbridge House and the Pemburys, illustrated with a picture of a full-size skeleton in an open coffin.

‘Undoubtedly the most unusual feature of the house is the skeleton of Tom Bostock in the cellar,’ he read. ‘He was born about 1750, the illegitimate son of the third Earl and the daughter of one of his tenant farmers, from whom he appears to have inherited a rebellious nature. Incensed at being denied the privileges afforded his legitimate half-brother, later the fourth Earl, he left Capley at about the age of fourteen to pursue a criminal life in London. He returned to the area some ten years later and became a notorious highwayman, terrorising the stagecoach traffic which then regularly passed through the town. There was little of the romance or glamour frequently associated with such activities about him and the fourth Earl, who had by then succeeded to the title, called him “an abominable ruffian and disgrace to the family name”.

‘Having escaped capture on a number of occasions, Bostock appears to have become remarkably foolhardy and was finally arrested in the Maid’s Head public house in Bellringer Street in June, 1778, where he was in bed with his mistress. Trapped in the room by the authorities, he leapt from the window but injured himself in his fall.

‘Tried and convicted at the Autumn Assizes, he was hanged in Capley Marketplace after which his body was placed in an iron cage by the side of the London road on the outskirts of the town as a warning to others. When only the skeleton remained, the fourth Earl claimed possession of it and, it was assumed at the time, had it buried. In fact he instructed that it be kept in the cellar of Edenbridge House and throughout his lifetime drank an annual toast over the coffin to the damnation of Tom Bostock’s soul. After the fourth Earl’s own death, the family were in some embarrassment as to what they should do with the remains and in fact did nothing. The skeleton remained in its coffin in the cellar for nearly two centuries.

‘When Edenbridge House was opened to the public, it was decided to include the coffin and its contents as part of the guided tour. Despite the grisliness of the relic and the questionable conduct of the fourth Earl, Tom Bostock’s skeleton has proved a popular attraction at Edenbridge and the coloured postcard of him (see illustration) has consistently been the best seller in the tourists’ shop.

‘It is a strange irony that Tom Bostock, denied any rights in Edenbridge House in his lifetime, today enjoys more fame there than either his father or legitimate half-brother.’

Maltravers finished reading and passed the booklet across the table to Tess.

‘What can a mere writer of fiction do against a story like that?’ he asked. ‘Oddly enough I’ve never been in the house—it’s usually been closed for the winter when I’ve been before—so I’ve never seen him. However, I must make a point of doing so before he disappears. But why does Lady Pembury want him buried all of a sudden?’

‘Lady Pembury comes from a family that always does the right thing,’ Peter explained. ‘Making money out of the dead they would consider tacky, and denying them a Christian burial is very bad form. She couldn’t do anything while the old man was alive, but now she is mistress of Edenbridge House and can follow her conscience.’

‘But of course we will wait until after the current tourist season is over,’ Maltravers remarked somewhat cynically. ‘Business before conscience. However, it’s all splendidly ridiculous and I may make a point of attending the…good Lord! It’s another anagram.’

His attention had switched back to the crossword in the paper, still lying folded on the table in front of him.

‘Do you know that “Contaminated” can be reshuffled into “No admittance”? How very appropriate.’

Maltravers had been about to say that he might attend Tom Bostock’s funeral for the novelty value of the occasion. When he eventually did so some months later, he was to experience a sense of sorrow he could not have imagined that summer afternoon.

The oboe poured a pure, plaintive top C through the Great Hall of Edenbridge House. It held for seven and a half quavers then the fine-spun thread of sound tumbled through B and A natural and wandered down in the minor key until it reached the C an octave below the first. The final two notes were repeated, then the instrument glided into the flowing theme of Greensleeves, the reedy, mellifluous notes placid as slow-moving water beneath overhanging leaf-laden trees.

From his seat by one of the high windows, Maltravers gazed out into the gleaming evening. The music evoked a romantic legend of the past in which the manifest inconveniences—indeed, the downright nastinesses—of Tudor life were replaced by false but seductive images. A great Queen and her witty court (all stinking to high heaven in truth) and a cheerful population of country folk living contented merry lives and drinking good ale (in fact, generally starving and dying from revolting diseases) were conjured up by gentle melody. Maltravers was quite prepared to suspend knowledge of the reality and bask in the deception as dwindling twilight seeped through the graceful, oak-panelled, marble-floored hall with the six musicians gathered in a pool of electric yellow at one end.

His pleasure was not shared by Lord Pembury, the possessor of an unrivalled private collection of original New Orleans jazz recordings, who found the proceedings tedious. He had only agreed to the concert taking place in the interests of Edenbridge Estates Ltd, with particular reference to the safari park scheme, which called for a number of prerequisites of which land, finance negotiated at suitable rates and appropriate livestock were but three; there was also the question of planning permission from Capley District Council. While the park would be on Pembury’s private property, he could not just replace the cows and fallow deer currently grazing there with much less docile beasts as it suited him. Ever mindful of the welfare of its ratepayers, the council would at least wish to ensure that security met required standards; people being chewed up by escaped lions was considered contrary to public health regulations. While totally above bribery and corruption—the family motto was ‘The sword never rusts’—the Earl had a prudent eye towards the right people. When the chairman of the council had tentatively suggested the use of Edenbridge House to stage a concert in aid of his appeal for a hospice for the dying, Lord Pembury had readily agreed. Looking after his father, whose pestiferous longevity had been painfully expensive, made him sympathetic to such an institution and he reasoned it could be advantageous to scratch the back of the town’s first citizen in the hope that the members of the planning committee might collectively scratch his in return. The result was that the dulcet melodies of Tanis and his sixteenth-century contemporaries were now being heard within the same walls that had once throbbed to the cornet of Louis Armstrong leading his band as they pounded out ‘Mamma Don’t Allow’ during a private concert four hundred years later. Maltravers found the contrast exquisite.

The music faded into polite applause and well-bred murmurings of aesthetic appreciation (others had roared, stamped and leapt to their feet for Satchmo) and a man of alarming height, wearing a precariously balanced toupee as conspicuous as melted cheese poured over a cauliflower, stood up and began thanking everyone in sight. His chain of office identified him as the council chairman, a man who, Peter had told Maltravers earlier, had now abandoned his youthful Marxist convictions for secret hopes of at least an MBE. He earned several Brownie points with fulsome comments on the ‘great generosity of Lord and Lady Pembury’—a phrase Maltravers counted six times with slight variations—before Lady Pembury rewarded him with a somewhat strained smile and invited everyone through to the Long Gallery where wine and coffee were being served. Maltravers and the others joined the throng shuffling through corridors of understated, casual opulence.

‘I say, this is rather splendid,’ Maltravers observed as they entered the gallery. Nearly one hundred and fifty feet from end to end with windows all down one side facing floor-to-ceiling bookcases on the other, it was broken in the centre by an immense fireplace crafted from enough marble to provide tombstones for most of the population of Old Capley and topped with a larger-than-life statue of Charles II. Fruit, flowers and heraldic devices swept among the swirling plaster-work of the ceiling and the floor was covered along its centre with what was claimed to be the largest Indian carpet in the world.

‘Long enough to have a bowling alley in the back,’ Maltravers added approvingly. ‘I could get quite used to this sort of thing.’

They collected their wine and went to look out of one of the windows from which they could see the long, double line of decorative chestnut trees marching down what had for centuries been the main entrance to Edenbridge House, now fallen into decayed disuse. What had formerly been the formidable approach to the might of the Pemburys, along which at least seven monarchs and their courtiers had travelled, looked neglected and strangely sad. Current plans had most of the area earmarked for a coach park.

‘Good evening, Peter,’ a voice said behind them.

They turned towards a pale man of about thirty whose good looks would have been effeminate had it not been for an indisputably masculine construction of the jawline and an athletic leanness of body indicating muscular strength. Maltravers noticed the most fleeting expression of discomfort flicker across his face as his eyes caught Susan’s and she rather obviously turned her back on him and looked out of the window again.

‘Hello, Simon,’ said Peter. ‘I didn’t realise you were here. This is Gus Maltravers and Tess Davy who are staying with us for a few days. Gus is filling in for Ian in the Town match tomorrow.’ He turned to Maltravers. ‘Lord Dunford, who will eventually inherit all this lot. But he answers to Simon.’

The handshake Maltravers received from the slender fingers momentarily squeezed with crushing pressure and he frowned slightly as he looked at Dunford’s albescent, symmetrical features.

‘Simon,’ he repeated, as though trying to link some connection in his mind. ‘And the Pembury family name is Hawkhurst…and so you must be Simon Hawkhurst who got a cricket Blue at Oxford and played for Middlesex for a couple of seasons. Am I right?’

Dunford smiled. ‘I’m very flattered you remember. I didn’t use the title in those days.’

‘Peter, if this is the standard of your Estate team, you might have let me know,’ Maltravers said reproachfully. ‘I’d have thought twice about appearing in such company. At one time they were talking about Simon as an England opener.’

‘A long time ago,’ Dunford corrected. ‘You’ve nothing to worry about. Most of the Estate side are like Peter here—all cross-bat swipes and beer guts.’

He prodded Peter’s stomach, which gave under his fingers like a beach ball.

‘Susan, you’re feeding him too well.’

The innocuous remark carried the finest edge of forced cordiality, underlined by Dunford’s uncertain glance at Susan’s back as he made it. She did not turn round but her shoulders stiffened as she drew in her breath as though controlling herself. Her ill manners and Dunford’s discomfort were becoming noticeably tangible.

‘Anyway, I’m sure Alister and I can hold the rest of you together,’ Dunford added, hastily covering Susan’s resonant silence. Tess looked from one to the other, picking up vibrations and trying to identify them.

‘Who’s Alister?’ Maltravers asked as Tess raised one fine eyebrow at him quizzically.

‘Alister York, my father’s secretary,’ Dunford explained, turning to face him as though grateful for the opportunity to cover Susan’s rudeness. ‘First-rate batsman. Played in the Minor Counties league a few years ago and…’

Only Peter seemed unaware of Susan’s hostility as she suddenly turned round and interrupted.

‘Simon, you do realise this is Tess Davy the actress, don’t you?’ The words were an introduction, the entire tone a curt reprimand. Maltravers reflected that it was certainly not the way in which a member of the English aristocracy was accustomed to being spoken to in his own home—or anywhere else for that matter. The remarkable thing was that, far from being offended, Dunford was instantly apologetic.

‘No, I…I’m dreadfully sorry, Miss Davy. I should have recognised you at once. How unforgivable.’

Tess had the immediate impression that Dunford was not apologising to her. For a moment he was not even speaking to her, but looked straight at Susan as though seeking some sort of forgiveness.

‘I saw you as Judith Paris on television last year,’ Dunford added, turning his attention from Susan, giving the suggestion of being relieved that she had at least acknowledged his presence. ‘You were marvellous. You made me read all the Herries Chronicles again.’

‘Thank you,’ Tess said, then glanced at Susan, waiting to see what she would say next. She said nothing but lowered her face towards the glass in her hands and Tess was standing close enough to see that she was biting her lip.

‘Are you…er…appearing in anything at the moment?’

Maltravers appreciated Dunford’s innate good manners as their host, doing what he could to alleviate an incomprehensibly brittle atmosphere.

‘I’ve just finished in Major Barbara at the Bristol Old Vic,’ Tess told him. ‘When I get back to London I start rehearsals for School for Scandal.’

‘Really?’ said Dunford. ‘Did you know that Sheridan was a regular visitor to Edenbridge? As a politician rather than a playwright though—the family were active Whigs in those days. We fell out with him over his opposition to the Combination Acts which outlawed trade unions. We have some very interesting letters of his from around that time. Perhaps you’d like to see them—in fact would you like to see round the house? I’d be very happy to show you.’

Dunford was playing it very well, Maltravers felt, keeping up polite conversation in the teeth of Susan’s silent aggression which was enveloping them all. The least he could do was respond to the invitation.

‘That would be very enjoyable, but surely you have to attend to your other guests?’

‘They’ll be leaving soon. Please stay. It will be my pleasure.’ Dunford’s obvious sincerity—even suggestion of eagerness—made it difficult to refuse him.

‘Well, Gus and Tess might enjoy it, but we’ve been round the house dozens of times.’ Susan’s tone implied further unwarranted criticism of Dunford, as though a private tour escorted by the heir to Edenbridge was faintly boring. ‘You two can stay if you want, but Peter and I are going home.’

She looked at Dunford almost defiantly and Peter glanced at her sharply, bewildered at her behaviour and conscious of her bad manners.

‘It’s not all that late,’ he said. ‘Surely we could stay for…’

‘Peter, I want to go home!’

There was an embarrassed silence as Susan immediately appeared aware that something had come too near the surface.

As they all looked at her uncomfortably she pressed her lips together as though on the brink of bursting into tears.

‘I’m sorry.’ Her voice was only just under control, then she walked hurriedly away, pushing her abdomen between the other guests like a galleon driven by a gusting wind. There was an awkward pause.

‘You’d better go after her, Peter,’ Tess said quietly. ‘I think she must be tired.’

‘Yes, of course.’ Peter frowned in annoyance as he watched his wife make her way towards the doors. ‘I don’t know what’s the matter with her. This baby seems to have given her more trouble than Tim and Emma. I apologise for her.’

‘There’s no need for that, Peter,’ Dunford demurred.

‘Yes there is. She was bloody rude and she knows it. Anyway I’ll take her home. I gave you a key for the side door, didn’t I? Let yourselves in and I’ll see you tomorrow…Goodnight, Simon.’

‘See you at the match,’ Dunford called after him as Peter walked away, then he turned and smiled at Tess and Maltravers. ‘That’s not like Susan at all. Pre-natal tension I expect. I’m sure she’ll be all right. Look, just let me speak to a couple of people then I’ll be with you.’

‘If you’re sure it’s no trouble,’ Maltravers said.

‘Not in the least. I like showing people my home. I won’t be long. Do help yourselves to more wine.’

Tess looked sceptical as Dunford crossed the room and approached the council chairman and his wife who were standing by the fireplace.

‘Pre-natal tension,’ she repeated disbelievingly. ‘Of which there was not the slightest sign until he appeared. What do you think?’

‘I can’t start to guess, but it was bloody obvious whatever it was all about,’ said Maltravers. ‘The strange thing is that I thought they were good friends.’

‘That’s what Peter told me on the way here,’ said Tess.

‘They’ve known Simon more or less ever since they moved into Capley. Apparently he doesn’t make a big thing about being a belted Earl, or whatever he is, and has a number of friends in Bellringer Street. Peter talked about him in exactly the same way he talks about you.’

‘And what did Susan say?’

‘It didn’t strike me at the time, but in fact she said nothing at all, which seems significant in the light of what’s happened. It was as though she almost hated him.’

‘It certainly seemed strong enough for that,’ Maltravers acknowledged. ‘But my impression of him was of a perfectly nice guy. How did he strike you?’

‘He’s very attractive and…’ Tess paused, considering. ‘And gallant, I think is the word…no, not quite that…courteous in a way you don’t meet very often. There’s something…Put it this way, I think I would like him the more I got to know him.’

‘Well, we’ll find out more about him shortly. Come on, let’s get another drink.’

Nobody approached them as they waited for Dunford to return. They were unknown in Capley and the English sense of impropriety about talking to strangers meant they received nothing more than polite, uncertain smiles from those who passed near them, although occasional glances lingered on Tess as though trying to place her. They amused themselves by examining the contents of the gallery which included souvenirs of distinguished visitors to Edenbridge House over the previous century, an intriguing collection of leading members of the Liberal party mixed at random with the founding fathers of jazz. It must have been the only place in the world where signed photographs of Gladstone and Lloyd George appeared on the same table as Bix Beiderbecke and Jelly Roll Morton. As the last remaining guests trickled out of the gallery, Dunford joined them again.

‘I assume you’ve looked round here, so I’ll show you the rest.’ They followed as he led them out of the far end of the gallery and along a high, panelled corridor.

‘You know, I’m appallingly ignorant about your family,’ Maltravers confessed. ‘How far does the title go back?’

‘To just after the Restoration,’ Dunford replied. ‘Samuel Hawkhurst was involved in the sale of Dunkirk back to the French after Charles II returned to the throne and is credited with negotiating a good deal. The King granted him the Earldom and the Edenbridge lands go with it. That was in 1663 and the house was completed about ten years later. We like to claim that Wren may have been involved in the design but frankly that’s a bit hazy. We’ve certainly got an Inigo Jones fireplace though. Come on, we’ll start in here.’

For more than an hour, Maltravers and Tess were given a private and very personal view of a house drenched in art, exquisite furniture and unique artefacts of three hundred years in still noble rooms rich with seductive magnificence. On an oyster-shell walnut table stood a gift glittering crystal from George III; nearby were a pair of silver embossed duelling pistols, one of which had nearly ended the intemperate young life of a future Prime Minister. There were incredibly detailed miniatures by Henry Bone; a Goya portrait that would have been the prized centrepiece of an art gallery hung indifferently in a corridor; a jasperware vase fashioned by Wedgwood himself; sumptuous, mellow tapestries that covered entire walls; Chippendale bearing Sèvres; exquisite Florentine statuettes accompanying rare Chinese porcelain. From ornate ceilings, down lush curtains to polished oak floorboards and priceless carpets, taste and history held conference in colours faded pale by time that could be measured in generations. And as he escorted them round, knowledgeable about everything he showed them, Dunford’s affection for it all became increasingly apparent.

‘Do you ever tire of all this?’ Tess gestured helplessly round the ivory and old gold perfection of the morning room.

‘Never,’ Dunford replied simply. ‘We may have to share it with the tourists now, but this happens to be my home. Come here.’

He took her hand and led her to the edge of a long, sage green curtain which he took in his hand and softly rubbed it against her cheek.

‘That’s 200-year-old velvet,’ he said. ‘Would you tire of something as beautiful as that?’

Tess smiled and shook her head. ‘It feels like moleskin. But who are you going to ask to share it with you one day? Peter mentioned to me that you aren’t married yet.’

Dunford let go of the curtain and turned away unnecessarily to arrange it back into place.

‘We’ll have to see,’ he replied. ‘As you say, there’s no Lady Dunford yet. Perhaps you’re available, Miss Davy?’ He looked back at Tess, part-quizzical, part-amused.

‘Oh, that’s awfully tempting, but I’m afraid not.’ For a moment they both looked at each other and then laughed. Standing on the other side of the room examining a pair of enamelled French watches, Maltravers glanced at them both with interest. Dunford’s joking mild flirtation did not concern him, but he was intrigued by something he had caught in his voice when he had said there was no Lady Dunford. There had been the slightest undertones, so subtle that Maltravers had not been able to identify them with certainty. Melancholy? Regret? Apprehension? The moment vanished as swiftly as it had appeared, but left traces of curiosity in his mind.

‘Anyway, that’s about everything,’ Dunford said. ‘The only part you haven’t seen are the family residential quarters in the West wing, but frankly they’re rather modern and boring.’

‘What about Tom Bostock?’ Maltravers asked, gently replacing one of the watches on its stand. ‘We only learned about him this afternoon, but I’d hate to miss him before he’s buried.’

‘The family bastard? I’d forgotten him. I’ll take you out through the cellars where we keep him.’

‘Do you agree with your mother?’ Maltravers asked as Dunford led them out of the morning room and down some back stairs into a narrow, stone-flagged corridor. ‘I understand it’s her wish that he should be buried after all this time.’

‘Absolutely,’ said Dunford. ‘I don’t think we’ve behaved all that well towards old Tom, however big a villain he was. He did nothing more than cause the family some temporary embarrassment—and after all he couldn’t help being the bastard son of the third Earl. Wishing him eternal damnation then cashing in on his remains seems excessive. If he did disgrace the family name, I think he’s paid his debt now.’

‘Do you know much about him?’ asked Tess.

‘Not a great deal. Highwaymen were fairly commonplace around that time of course and there was nothing special about him. We’ve got an exhibition down here, based on what we’ve been able to find out, which includes a broadsheet about his execution complete with a contemporary illustration. Several people have said he looked rather like me. Anyway, you can see for yourselves.’

He opened a door at the end of the passage and they entered the wide, low cellar at the far end of which stood a plain wooden coffin resting on trestles behind a red rope looped between metal poles. Dunford turned on the lights.

‘When you consider all there is to see in Edenbridge House, it’s ridiculous that this is so popular,’ he commented as they crossed the room. ‘However, in a few weeks…hell’s teeth! Where is he?’ He froze like a statue as they reached the rope.

‘Perhaps he pops out for a drink on Friday nights,’ Maltravers suggested as all three of them gazed into the completely empty coffin.

The sketch of the execution of Tom Bostock was sickening. Around the focal point of the gibbet and its victim surged a sea of Hogarthian features, feverish with brutal frenzy, jeering at the sight of the highwayman’s grotesquely distorted face as life was agonisingly throttled out of him. Maltravers examined the observations of the unknown artist with grim interest. A plump young child, held up by its father to see better, pointing in fascinated and innocent delight at the dangling puppet of a dying man; a cleric looking as pitiless as a torturer; a pickpocket removing the watch from the embroidered waistcoat round the brandy-glass belly of a fat, engrossed and self-righteous nobleman; a mother suckling her baby; a boy cruelly and ignorantly mocking a human being’s violent death throes by holding his neckerchief above his head and sticking his tongue out crookedly; helpless in the crowd, just one woman—Bostock’s mistress perhaps—bowed in weeping despair, her hands clasped over her eyes. Maltravers sourly approved the small detail in the bottom corner where a cat and a dog sat at a small table drinking sherry; they were not the animals in Capley Market Square that day.

‘And when the House of Commons debated bringing back capital punishment, one MP said he was prepared to be the hangman,’ he remarked drily. ‘I imagine if he had his way, he’d go the whole hog and show it on peak-time television. And he’d get a bloody audience.’

He turned in distaste from the picture, part of the Tom Bostock exhibition which covered two walls of the cellar, and walked back to examine the unoccupied coffin again.

‘It must be a joke,’ said Tess. ‘Who on earth would want to steal a skeleton?’

‘Impoverished medical student perhaps?’ suggested Maltravers, peering closely into the empty box to see if anything was available for a little amateur detection. ‘Apart from that slender possibility, it’s a very uncommon case of common larceny.’

They were alone with the mystery, Dunford having asked them to wait while he went to find Alister York, whose secretarial duties to Lord Pembury included security matters at Edenbridge House.

‘What’s equally incomprehensible is how somebody got away with it,’ Maltravers continued. ‘I can imagine some of the things we’ve seen this evening vanishing into pockets and handbags, but someone walking out of Edenbridge House with a full-size skeleton under their arm would presumably have been asked to explain themselves.’

There was a sound of approaching footsteps along the stone-flagged corridor outside and Dunford reappeared through the door followed by Alister York. The secretary was a formidably large man with thick, wiry black hair and extraordinarily deep violet eyes set in a face tanned and creased like weathered leather. He was naturally stern, professionally correct and now looked concerned. Somewhat academically he crossed the cellar and looked into the coffin for himself.

‘When did you last see him, Alister?’ Dunford asked.

‘Not for some days.’ The voice was as dark as the man, bass notes on a bassoon. ‘I don’t come down here that often. However there was no guide on duty in here today.’

‘Why not?’ Dunford snapped.

‘Three of the guides were off ill and four extra coachloads of tourists arrived unexpectedly,’ York explained. ‘I had to make emergency arrangements and took…what’s his name?…Humphreys out of here to show some of them round the house.’

‘So people were wandering around here unsupervised?’ said Dunford.

‘From about two o’clock, yes.’ York was meeting Dunford’s clear annoyance with a catalogue of circumstances beyond his control. Maltravers gained the distinct feeling that the secretary did not like being reprimanded, the sort of man who would carefully cover all his actions so that if anything later went wrong he would have all his answers ready—and if necessary be able to blame someone else.

‘I was just wondering how whoever it was got away with it.’

Maltravers did not like the glare York shot at him as he spoke, as though he was interrupting some conversation which did not concern him. He bounced back the look with a slightly contemptuous expression, underlining the fact that he was Dunford’s guest and York was his employee before continuing. ‘I can’t understand how nobody noticed them.’

The secretary hesitated before replying, as though resisting the inclination to tell Maltravers to mind his own damned business, then apparently deciding that his presence in the cellar had some connection with Dunford.

‘Visitors arrive with all sorts of containers,’ he said, like an adult impatiently explaining something to a dull-witted child. ‘Full-sized rucksacks are not uncommon—as you would know if you had anything to do with the house. I trust that answers your question.’

‘Perfectly…thank you.’ Maltravers said with over-emphasised politeness, reflecting that Alister York was a man remarkably easy to dislike on short acquaintance.

‘Do you wish me to call the police, Lord Dunford?’ York asked.

‘Pardon? No, not yet.’ Dunford shook his head as he thought. ‘The publicity will do us no good at all. It’s almost certainly some ridiculous joke. Make inquiries among the house staff and the guides but tell them they are not to say anything. And check with the coach operators who were here today to see if it’s turned up in one of their seats…Have you a key for this room?’

‘Not with me, but there’s one in the office. We don’t usually keep it locked.’

‘Well, lock it now,’ Dunford instructed then turned to Tess and Maltravers. ‘I must go and tell Lord Pembury about this, but I’ll see you out first.’

All of them went back upstairs to the main entrance hall where York went into his office to collect the cellar door key and Dunford let his visitors out through the huge front door: great panels of oak studded with iron heads of nails the size of crown pieces.

‘May I ask you to keep this to yourselves for the time being?’ he asked.

‘Of course,’ Maltravers agreed. ‘Although if Bostock doesn’t turn up pretty sharpish, won’t you have some difficulty in keeping it quiet? You’ll have more tourists arriving tomorrow expecting to see him.’

‘We’ll keep the cellar closed and put them off somehow,’ said Dunford. ‘There’ll be complaints, but we can handle that.’ He held out his hand. ‘It’s been a great pleasure meeting you both. I’m sorry we haven’t had the opportunity to talk more about your career, Miss Davy. Perhaps we’ll be able to at the party after the match tomorrow? I’ll see you then.’

‘Thank you for showing us your home,’ said Maltravers. ‘It was fascinating, even without the disappearing skeleton. Incidentally, how do we get out of the park at this time of night?’

‘There’s a small door with a Yale lock cut into the Bellringer Street gate,’ said Dunford. ‘Just make sure it’s secure behind you.’

He smiled and closed the great door, leaving them at the top of the wide semicircle of steps that fell like the train of a gown from the terrace on to the gravelled drive. Residual luminescence from the vanished sun washed the night sky with mother-of-pearl, with silhouettes of pipistrelle bats flickering across it, their high-pitched squeaks the only sound in the gloaming stillness.

‘Interesting evening,’ Maltravers remarked as they walked away from the silent purple-shadowed mass of the house, footsteps on the crisp foam of the gravel path loud in the silence. ‘I thought body snatching went out with Burke and Hare.’

‘That’s just a stupid joke,’ Tess said dismissively. ‘What was much more interesting was Susan’s behaviour when Simon appeared. I still can’t get over that.’

‘She certainly didn’t make much effort to hide her feelings, whatever was causing them,’ Maltravers agreed. ‘Or perhaps they were so strong that she was unable to control them. Peter just looked confused about it. Anyway, unless she wants to talk about it, it’s none of our business.’

They passed under the arch of the Bellringer Street lodge through the door in the gate. From the top of the hill they could see the tangled skeins of orange street lights of the New Town, but Old Capley was dark under the stars, the drop of the street illuminated only by two pools of light cast by ancient lampposts. Just out of synchronisation, the clocks of St Barbara’s church and Edenbridge House sent out twenty-four answering strokes to mark the hour. When they entered the Penroses’ kitchen they found a note from Susan on the table.

‘Sorry about tonight,’ they read. ‘I don’t know what was the matter with me. You know where everything is if you want to make yourselves a drink. See you in the morning. Love, Susan.’

‘Are we back to pre-natal tension then?’ asked Maltravers.

Tess looked at the handwriting, scribbled and agitated, a hasty and duty note of apology to explain away an embarrassing indiscretion.

‘If Simon thinks I’m that simple, he’s out of his tree,’ she replied caustically. ‘That was his explanation but don’t ask me to believe it.’

They went quietly upstairs and Maltravers was in bed reading when Tess returned from the bathroom.

‘By the way,’ he said casually. ‘I gained the distinct impression that the heir to the Edenbridge millions was making a pass at you earlier this evening.’

‘Was he?’ Tess smiled and blinked with exaggerated innocence. ‘Well, I’m afraid he’s not the first one, darling. Do you mind?’

Maltravers looked back at her sardonically. ‘I see. The prospect of being the mistress of Edenbridge House appeals, does it?’

She stared at him for a moment then slipped her nightdress off her shoulders, letting it fall to the floor before climbing into the bed beside him.

‘For an intelligent man, you can be amazingly stupid sometimes,’ she told him. ‘Come here.’

Afterwards, as they lay half-awake, they heard footsteps of someone walking down the hill past the house, whistling softly; Alister York was going home.

‘Now what the hell’s happened?’ demanded a mystified transatlantic voice. ‘The guy didn’t even hit the goddamned ball and those little bits of wood are still standing up. Why’s he out?’

‘Lbw,’ Maltravers explained.

‘L. B. who?’

‘Leg before wicket. His leg stopped the ball hitting the stumps.’

‘I thought that was the general idea.’

‘It is, but you can’t just stand there with your legs together to prevent it happening.’

Milton Chambers II looked further confused. In the six months he had lived in England, occupying a house in Bellringer Street owned by the British satellite of a Philadelphia engineering company, his natural anglophilia had flourished. He had traced his family ancestry back to a village within a hundred miles of Boston Stump (virtually next door by American standards) and the hallowed shades of the Pilgrim Fathers, and was now contemplating paying several thousand pounds to acquire the title of Lord of the Manor of Compton St Peter in Dorset, a distinction which would have allowed him to graze his sheep on the ancient Lord’s Pasture had not the county council inconsiderately run the village bypass straight through it. But such efforts, he was convinced, would be seriously deficient unless he somehow managed to comprehend the curious summer game which obsessed the true Englishman. He knew what was not cricket—making a pass at another man’s wife, cheating at cards in the club—but the rules and occult subtleties of the real thing eluded him. He was attending the Town v. Estate match in the manner of an eager novitiate and had attached himself to Maltravers, obviously an advanced expert.

‘Legs together,’ he repeated. ‘Is that something to do with that maiden thing you were telling me about? Hell, I didn’t realise sex came into this.’

‘A maiden is an over—that’s six deliveries of the ball from either end—in which no runs are scored,’ Maltravers repeated patiently. ‘Lbw is something the batsman does wrong which means he is out. There is no sex in cricket.’

‘You said something about goolies,’ Chambers reminded him suspiciously.

‘Googlies,’ Maltravers corrected firmly and hastily. ‘That’s an off break delivered with an apparent leg break action or vice versa, like that chap just bowled. There is also a Chinaman which is an off break from a left-handed bowler to a right-handed batsman.’ He smiled at the American sympathetically. ‘But I don’t think you’re ready for that yet.’

Chambers, who was finding the whole course of instruction as incomprehensible as Sanskrit, silently agreed. Maltravers privately recalled the story of the great Groucho Marx sitting in the Long Room at Lords having the game explained to him while a match was in progress. He showed a ready grasp of the basic principles then surveyed the proceedings for several minutes before demanding: ‘So when do they start?’ Maltravers had experienced similar difficulties with the rules of American Football, a game which appeared to him to be some manner of semi-organised public riot.

‘What’s the score?’ Chambers inquired; the combination of seemingly unrelated numbers on the scoreboard made no sense to him.

‘Twenty-seven for one,’ Maltravers replied. ‘The two batsmen in now are Lord Dunford and Alister York, who are the best in the side, so we ought to start seeing some action.’

‘What about you?’ Chambers asked, convinced that anyone who could talk about the game so expertly must be a gifted player as well.

‘Merely a replacement brought in at the last moment,’ Maltravers said dismissively. ‘With a bit of luck, I won’t even be called upon to bat.’

Maltravers had felt it polite to offer to go in at number eleven, hoping to avoid having to do very much. The tension round the waistband of his white flannels was a permanent reminder that several summers had bloomed and faded since he had last played. As he stretched out in a deckchair under the mottled shade of a copper beech tree, Tess lay face down on the grass beside him, absorbed in a book. When she had first fallen in love with Maltravers, she had wanted to show an interest in all his passions and had spent an entire day with him at the Oval suffering a rising sense of total disbelief. When told that the proceedings would continue for another two whole days—and already looked like ending in a draw—she had smiled nervously and announced that she really had to go and see her aunt in Broadstairs. Maltravers later discovered that such duty visits were only marginally less disagreeable to her than cleaning the oven and had drawn his own conclusions. Even the prevailing circumstances of a blazing Saturday afternoon and an almost lyrically perfect setting for the game—wide swathe of smooth grass against a backdrop of variegated jade trees with the square tower of the parish church peeping above—were not enough to engage her attention.

Accompanied by the drowsy chatter of the spectators, Dunford and York settled down to build the foundations of a decent score and for a quarter of an hour garnered runs almost as they pleased. Then York rashly slashed at a delivery turning away from him, clipping it into the grateful hands of first slip (a piece of field-placing terminology which had caused Chambers much fascination) who had been placed there precisely for such an indiscretion.

‘Silly bugger,’ someone sitting near them remarked feelingly. ‘He should have left it alone.’

York appeared to share the same opinion, pulling his gloves off angrily as he left the wicket and hurling his bat to the ground by the boundary rope before walking away. Out in the field, the Town captain encouraged his side with shouts and handclaps; all he had to do now was keep the bowling away from the experienced Dunford and pick off the rest of the side like a sniper. Maltravers watched gloomily as wicket after wicket fell to the most hapless of batting. He buckled on his pads as number nine went in and survived only three balls; number ten, a petrified, pimply youth, was clean bowled by the next delivery, his stumps splayed out like a broken fan, and Maltravers walked out with the bowler on a hat trick to finish the Estate innings. As he reached the wicket, Dunford strolled across and spoke to him.

‘Two balls left in this over,’ he said. ‘Try and block him and I’ll keep strike after that.’

Maltravers nodded, then went to the striker’s end and took guard, casually glancing round as the field moved in like wolves on wounded prey. Twenty yards beyond the opposite stumps, the Town’s pace bowler polished the ball on his flannels with quiet, deliberate menace. Maltravers settled, tapping the end of his bat softly on the ground and looked straight at him as he thundered in.

Anyone who thinks cricket is a slow game should experience facing a fast bowler in full cry. No sooner do you see his arm arcing through his delivery action a mere twenty-two yards away, than a very hard missile is suddenly in your immediate neighbourhood, unnervingly hissing past your head if the pitch is firm and the bowler is in an unfriendly frame of mind. Not that anything so hostile as a bouncer was called for on this occasion; on a hat-trick, confident that the final Estate batsman would prove as incompetent as his predecessors, the bowler felt that simple speed and accuracy on middle stump would be elementary overkill. Dunford looked uneasy as he raced in. He was a bare couple of paces short of releasing the ball when Maltravers dropped his bat and turned away, clasping a gloved hand to his face.

‘Sorry!’ he shouted.

Thrown off momentum, the bowler lost his direction and the ball streaked harmlessly through to the wicketkeeper as Maltravers tugged out a handkerchief and applied it to his eye which contained nothing more than a wicked glint. Dunford suddenly found the face of his bat strangely interesting. The bowler glared down the pitch as Maltravers replaced the handkerchief, retrieved his bat and waved an apologetic acknowledgment.

‘All right,’ he called down the pitch. ‘Sorry about that.’

As their bowler stalked back to his mark, the Town fielders exchanged suspicious glances; Maltravers had either bottled out or used an old trick of gamesmanship (the morals of cricket were sometimes not quite so squeaky clean as Chambers felt them to be). But it would not work a second time—and the hat-trick was still on. Even Tess, who had condescended to watch while Maltravers was batting, could sense the gathered hostility now concentrating on his tall, tense figure.

By any standards, the next delivery was an excellent one, hurled at maximum speed, low and laser straight on Maltravers’ stumps. Jerking up his right elbow as he stretched forward, he met it with the full face of his bat and it bounced harmlessly into the covers. The Town side deflated with disappointment as Dunford looked at Maltravers then turned away, intrigued and slightly surprised.

Furious at being thwarted, the bowler failed to notice what Dunford had seen; Maltravers’ classic forward defensive stroke had revealed an unexpected touch of real quality. The final ball of the over had a fatal additional anger about it which flawed its control, causing it to turn just fractionally to leg. Maltravers stepped smoothly back and right and whipped the blade of his bat at it, hooking it viciously straight at the head of short square leg, who dropped to the ground, seemingly determined to examine the grass at his feet as closely as possible. Maltravers’ caustic nod at him as he straightened up and the streaking ball banged against the metal scoreboard, the umpire somewhat academically signalling a four, advised him to find a safer place to stand. As the field changed over, the Town side looking at Maltravers guardedly, Dunford walked down the wicket and spoke to him again.

‘As captain of this side, I must formally reprimand you for your trickery with that first ball,’ he said, poker-faced. ‘However, I also want to know what the hell you’re doing coming in at number eleven.’

‘I’m only a guest player,’ Maltravers reminded him. ‘It seemed discourteous to go in ahead of the regular team members.’

‘Well, it’s a relief to have you here at last.’ Dunford glanced across at the scoreboard. ‘Eighty-three with nine overs left. Let’s see if we can top the hundred, shall we? They’ve got to bring their spinners back in a couple of overs which will help.’

In the following hectic three quarters of an hour, the final fifty-four balls produced a further hundred and twenty runs, the spectators cheering constantly as the two men mercilessly slaughtered the bowling, skilfully altering their tactics to outwit the permutations of defensive fieldings tried by the increasing frantic Town captain. Maltravers considerately took only a single off the penultimate delivery, allowing Dunford the pleasure of cavalierly leaping down the pitch to meet the final ball, bat swinging like a broadsword, to send it soaring back over the dejected bowler’s head for a last, satisfying six. As the Town side joined the applause rattling all around, Dunford threw his arm round Maltravers’ shoulders as they walked off.

‘Not one for the purists, but bloody marvellous!’ he exclaimed. ‘All right, where did you learn to bat like that?’

‘My father,’ Maltravers replied with a nostalgic smile. ‘He got his cricket Blue at Oxford as well and turned out for the Gentlemen against the Players a couple of times. But frankly I’m out of practice.’

Dunford nodded in agreement. ‘You were damned lucky with a couple of those square cuts. Anyway, you’ve given us the first chance of winning this match that we’ve had for years. You’ve earned a beer.’

They joined the rest of the players at the trestle tables bearing barrels and sandwiches, which had been set up under the trees.

‘Any news about the skeleton?’ Maltravers asked quietly as they turned away with their drinks. Dunford shook his head as he lowered his face towards the sun-sparkling foam bubbling over the rim of his glass.

‘Not a thing,’ he replied, withdrawing from the froth and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘None of the guides saw anything and, as you know, it was not the most organised of days. We’ve contacted various coach operators, but no luck there either.’

‘So are you going to tell the police now?’

‘Not yet,’ said Dunford. ‘We’re still taking the view that it’s just some sort of joke and he’ll turn up fairly soon.’

‘Do you think anyone might demand a ransom for him?’ Maltravers asked unexpectedly. Dunford stared at hire in amazement.

‘What an extraordinary idea…still, I expect it’s just possible. After all, someone stole poor old Charlie Chaplin from his grave for the same reason, didn’t they? But I can’t see it. My father would be very disinclined to pay money to get Tom Bostock back.’

‘But Lady Pembury might think differently,’ Maltravers observed. ‘As I understand it, she feels it’s a matter of family honour that Tom Bostock should be properly buried. That could be a persuasive point if he’s been…’ He frowned briefly. ‘Is kidnapped the right word in this situation?’

Dunford looked at him thoughtfully for a moment.

‘You know, you may have a point,’ he said finally, then shook his head in immediate rejection. ‘But it’s ridiculous. At the moment not all that many people know what was being planned about the funeral, and I can’t accept that any of them would do what you’re suggesting. The trouble with you is that you’ve got the hyperactive imagination of a writer.’

‘I’ve also got the experience of a journalist,’ Maltravers added. ‘And that taught me there are few things—however bizarre—that somebody will not actually do.’

‘We’ll see,’ said Dunford. ‘In the meantime, I’d still like you to keep it to yourself. It may leak out eventually, but we’d much rather keep it quiet and hope that he just turns up again. Excuse me, I must go and talk to the visiting captain.’

As Dunford walked away, Maltravers became aware of someone hovering at his side. He turned to see a young woman, strikingly like a pretty, timid bird, offering him a plate of sandwiches.

‘Would you like one of these?’ She sounded very apprehensive about making the offer.

‘How very kind,’ he replied. ‘I didn’t expect to be waited on.’

The girl—he had instantly decided it was unsuitable to describe her as a woman although she appeared to be in her mid-twenties—smiled nervously and raised the plate towards him like a frightened acolyte serving the High Priest. He took a sandwich and she scuttled away before he had time to say anything more, leaving him with an impression of crucifying shyness.

‘Hell, that was more like it!’

The enthusiastic voice of Milton Chambers II burst in upon Maltravers again like a man who has just seen the Grand Canyon for the first time. ‘You and Lord Dunford really took ‘em to the cleaners. Is it always like that? Kinda slow at the start and all the action at the end?’

‘Limited over games usually are,’ Maltravers admitted. Chambers grinned at him crudely.

‘And you tell me cricket’s got nothing to do with sex? Come on.’

‘Mr Chambers, that is heresy and if you repeat it, I must warn you that we’ll have to come over and take Yorktown back,’ Maltravers told him sternly. ‘The great thing to remember about cricket is that it is not a game. It is a morality.’

‘Ignore him, Mr Chambers.’ Tess had joined them with Peter and Susan. ‘Gus is insufferable when he gets pompous. Shut up, darling, and eat your sandwich.’

‘And very good it is,’ said Maltravers, cheerfully unabashed. He had reached the happy stage of life where embarrassment over his actions was a youthful memory. ‘Although I can’t imagine why the young lady who gave it me seemed terrified that I was going to bite her.’

‘Small girl, china-doll face, long black hair, wearing a yellow dress?’ Susan inquired. Maltravers nodded in some surprise through a mouthful of asparagus rolled in brown bread. ‘I thought so. Joanna York. God, I want to shake her sometimes.’

‘Alister York’s wife,’ Peter explained. ‘You’ve met him of course.’

‘Yes, last night after you left.’ Maltravers had not felt it necessary to observe Dunford’s request to keep the disappearance of Tom Bostock secret to the extent of not telling his hosts. ‘Anyway, why do you want to shake her?’

‘She’s so…obedient.’ Susan sounded exasperated. ‘It’s unreal the way she just obeys Alister like a child. She’s a poppet when you get to know her but she makes me furious.’

‘Funny thing marriage,’ Maltravers remarked. ‘Some women like being treated that way.’

‘Well I like to think that one day she’ll learn better,’ said Susan. ‘It’s grotesque. She’s the only woman I know who doesn’t breathe a word of criticism against her husband, even when she’s with a group of other wives. It’s as though she can’t even talk without his permission.’

Further comments on Joanna York were prevented by Dunford returning to introduce Lord and Lady Pembury, who had been watching the match from garden chairs set up beneath a canvas sun umbrella. They were accompanied by a man Maltravers did not recognise but whose looks suggested a possible relative.

‘A splendid innings, Mr Maltravers,’ Pembury said as they shook hands.

The twelfth Earl’s manner was bone-deep aristocracy; centuries at the heart of the English establishment creating a demeanour of tangible polite condescension to the lower orders of society, which in his case began with the viscounts. Repeated marriages within a limited circle had laid down the family’s anaemic looks; the blood may have been of the deepest blue, but was probably insipid. He and his wife resembled fine Dresden figures, their delicate physiques reflected in both Dunford and the stranger.

‘I just can’t understand Alister,’ Pembury continued. ‘Most unlike him to play a shot like that. Where is he by the way?’

Everyone instinctively looked round as if Pembury’s inquiry about the whereabouts of his secretary carried the implied instruction to find him; the legacy of generations of having orders obeyed without question.

‘I saw him walking back towards the house after he was out,’ said Peter. ‘Probably checking that everything was all right.’

As the absent York was forgotten, Maltravers observed the young man with the Pemburys, dressed in a smooth, cream linen suit with a mustard-coloured silk handkerchief erupting out of the top pocket. He gave the impression of being totally bored by everything and everyone around him.

‘Oh, this is my cousin Oliver Hawkhurst,’ Dunford said. ‘Oliver, Augustus Maltravers. The writer.’

‘Really?’

Maltravers rarely made snap judgements of people, particularly on the evidence of only one word, but he was prepared to make an exception in this case. Hawkhurst had managed to inject disinterest, superciliousness and even a slice of contempt into his reply, and seemed to think that even looking at Maltravers was really too much trouble. Dunford had caught the unmistakable tone and glared at his cousin in undisguised annoyance.

‘A distant cousin?’ Maltravers inquired mildly, which was as far as he could go in the circumstances, but he had the satisfaction of seeing Hawkhurst’s sneering face flush with anger before turning away. Dunford grinned and appeared to appreciate the implied insult.

Hawkhurst remained with his back turned as Lord and Lady Pembury talked to Susan about the baby—it struck Maltravers that she seemed unusually reluctant to discuss the subject and wondered why—and Milton Chambers appeared momentarily uncertain as to whether a potential Lord of the Manor should bow when introduced to a Peer of the Realm and the correct form of address consistent with a great republican heritage. After a few minutes, Dunford and Maltravers left the group as the match restarted.

‘I’m afraid cousin Oliver showed his usual charming manners just now,’ Dunford remarked as they followed the umpires out. ‘He’s like that with most people and I find it offensive. I liked your return of service though—that got up his snotty little nose.’

Maltravers found the remark revealing; in a family like the Pemburys, whose tribal loyalty would rival that of a Mafia clan, overt criticism of a member, especially to a stranger, was almost unknown. Obviously Dunford had very little time for this particular relation.

‘Is he really a distant cousin?’ he asked.

‘Far from it. After me he’s the heir to Edenbridge. He’s making one of his regular visits to see how I am. It always disappoints him to discover that I haven’t contracted something fatal. Cousin Oliver has an unhealthy desire to get hold of this place and turn it into some appalling Disneyland…Anyway, enough of him. Are you a bowler as well?’

‘No, I am not,’ Maltravers said firmly. ‘Stick me out on the boundary where I won’t do any harm.’

Dispirited by the score amassed against them, the Town side put up a feeble resistance. Alister York made up for his earlier batting error with a thirty-yard throw of pinpoint accuracy to run out their opening batsman and Maltravers amazed himself by taking a flying one-handed catch just inside the boundary rope, falling backwards and thumping to the ground just in front of Tess in the process.

‘Remember your age, darling,’ she called out. Maltravers scowled at her.

The Town’s innings closed more than a hundred short of their target and Dunford led his side off to the delighted applause of the spectators, only the more elderly of whom could remember the Estate’s last victory in the fixture. As the Estate side celebrated their success with the remains of the beer, an odd incident marred the atmosphere when an irate tourist appeared in their midst demanding to see Lord Pembury who had, in fact, left immediately the game had finished.

‘We want our money back,’ he demanded, loudly enough for everyone over a wide distance to hear him. ‘It’s bloody disgusting, scaring little children out of their wits.’

‘Excuse me,’ Dunford murmured, replacing his glass on the table. ‘I’d better see what all this is about.’

He went across to the man, skinny and aggressive with a good deal of pink perspiring flesh protruding from short-sleeved shirt and Empire-builder shorts.

‘Perhaps I can help,’ he said courteously. ‘I’m sorry that Lord Pembury isn’t here, but I’m Lord Dunford.’

The aggrieved paying customer looked slightly uncertain for a moment; asking for someone with a title was one thing, being suddenly confronted with one appeared to be quite another.

‘It’s your ghost,’ he said grumpily. ‘Frightened the life out of our Sue-Ellen.’

Maltravers added the child’s name to his personal collection of Darrens, Waynes and Jasons who seemed to inhabit his local supermarket. Spawned, named and dressed out of the television age and with ice cream now occupying a fair proportion of her singularly plain face, she seemed totally recovered from whatever had happened to her.

‘There is no ghost in Edenbridge House,’ Dunford assured her father. ‘I don’t know what your little girl…’

‘Are you calling me a liar?’ The mildest suggestion of contradiction had instantly rekindled the tourist’s wrath. ‘We found her screaming the place down.’

‘Where was this exactly?’ Dunford asked.

‘Over there.’ The man pointed irritatedly to the West wing of the house. ‘Anyway, it doesn’t matter where it happened.’

‘But those are the private family quarters,’ said Dunford. ‘They’re not open to the public. How on earth did your child get in there?’

‘It doesn’t matter.’ The man remained pugnacious, although now possibly apprehensive that his child may have trespassed where she was forbidden. ‘We heard her screaming and found her crying in a corridor.’ He decided to support a suddenly shaky case with a second line of protest. ‘We’d already complained when they said the cellar where you keep the skeleton was closed. That was the main reason for coming here. Sue-Ellen was looking forward to that.’

The party, never stout in the first place, was collapsing rapidly and visibly. His announcement of Sue-Ellen’s morbid juvenile hopes sounded almost pleading.

‘Well, I can only suggest that she may have seen a member of the household staff,’ said Dunford. ‘If that terrified her, it seems best that she did not see a human skeleton. I’m sorry if she was frightened, but it really must be your responsibility to look after your own child.’

Surrounded by witnesses to his own confession that he had been in the wrong in letting his daughter wander unsupervised around the house and his argument about not seeing Tom Bostock turned back on him, the tourist gave instant indications of raising his level of protest to avoid humiliating retreat. Dunford hastily defused the situation.

‘However,’ he added, as the man’s face started to go through a spectrum of red as he remustered his aggression, ‘in the circumstances, perhaps your little girl would like a doll from our tourists’ shop. With our compliments of course. Perhaps that will make her feel better.’

The rush of blood spontaneously dissipated into a reluctant grunt of acceptance.

‘Right then. Who do we see?’

‘This gentleman will take care of it.’ Dunford gestured to York who was standing nearby. ‘Alister, will you take this lady and gentleman and their little girl to the shop, please? I think she would like one of our Victorian-style dolls.’

People looked away, hiding their amusement as the little man kept what tattered dignity he could in outmanoeuvred retreat.

‘God preserve us from the British public,’ Dunford said feelingly as he re-joined Maltravers and Tess. ‘Well, at least it will get rid of one of those hideous mock-Victorian monstrosities that no one will buy.’

‘What do you think she saw?’ Maltravers wondered.

‘Certainly not a ghost,’ Dunford replied firmly. ‘That is one thing Edenbridge House doesn’t have. Not even Tom Bostock haunts the place and he’s got more reason to than anyone.’

‘Well, she’d have terrified any ghost with that scream,’ Tess remarked as Sue-Ellen’s screech comfortably crossed the increasing distance between them. ‘I wonder what brought it on again?’

Sue-Ellen, infant and inarticulate, was screaming in terror at the tall, forbidding man who was walking in front of her father.

‘I trust you’ll be at the party tonight,’ Dunford said to Maltravers as they walked away from the cricket pitch with the Penroses.

‘We’re told it’s part of the traditions of the match,’ he replied. ‘Where is it again?’

‘Trevor and Evelyn Darby’s, the enormous house just over the road from us,’ said Peter. ‘Trevor’s President of the Town club. It usually goes on until breakfast time for those who can last the pace.’

‘What about you?’ Dunford gestured towards Susan’s body hesitantly, as though somehow embarrassed at the evidence of her advanced pregnancy.

‘Oh yes, we’ll be there, Simon.’ She looked down at herself ruefully. ‘Although this year I think I’ll be leaving early.’

Maltravers noticed that Dunford seemed somehow relieved. It was unlikely that it was because Peter and Susan would be at the party; more likely he was grateful that there had been no repetition of her inexplicable behaviour towards him at the concert the previous evening.

‘Marvellous, I’ll look forward to…’ Dunford stopped suddenly, his eyes flashing towards a white MG, driving through the crowds in the park rather too fast and noisily dropping a gear before sweeping round the side of Edenbridge House towards the family’s private entrance. His face hardened and for a moment it was as if nobody else was there, then he turned to them again.

‘Anyway, I must be getting back. I’ve got a great deal to do. See you all later.’

It was not, Maltravers reflected, the politest of withdrawals as Dunford turned abruptly and walked swiftly towards the house. Despite the heat of the day, the MG had not had its roof down and Maltravers had been unable to see who had been driving it, but he or she was clearly not a welcome visitor as far as Dunford was concerned. Watching Dunford go, Susan felt a sense of relief that she had managed to speak to him normally; she was still furious with herself for allowing things to come so dangerously near the surface when he had unexpectedly appeared after the concert. Dunford’s mind was filled with the anticipated difficulties of an angry and emotional encounter with his lover.

While it did not immediately appear to be one, Old Capley had in many ways reverted to its original existence as a village. Distinctly separated from the New Town by the railway line to London and what had at one time been part of the Great North Road, it had become an official Conservation Area, clustered about the skirts of St Barbara’s which floated high above its rooftops. There was a village gossip, a drunk, even at one time the scandalous suggestion of a local whore, several candidates for the position of resident idiot and a yearly pattern of events around which the social calendar revolved: the Spring Flower Festival at the church, the Conservative Party Summer Dance, Autumn Fair and Christmas Bazaar for the deserving poor of the parish. There was also Trevor and Evelyn Darby’s annual party after the Town v. Estate cricket match which, in its time, had achieved its own legends. At least four marriages, several affairs and two divorces could be traced back to it and an impromptu inebriated attempt at Kent Treble Bobs on the church bells still lived in the memory, as unforgettably as it had once clangingly disturbed the peace at three o’clock in the morning. But this was to be the last party before Trevor Darby took up the position of chief executive of a multinational bank in Saudi Arabia where the average account exceeded the gross domestic product of several Third World countries. Floated on a tidal wave of alcohol and with enough food to solve Oxfam’s global problems for a week, the evening was calculated to strip away all normal inhibitions of English reserve and leave a legacy of thundering hangovers and vague misgivings of half-remembered indiscretions.

When Maltravers and Tess arrived with Peter and Susan shortly before nine o’clock, nearly a hundred fully paid-up members of the middle classes were concerned with nothing more than endless discussion of their concerns. As they stepped through the front door, the seething clamour of talk was like a curtain of sound blown into their faces.

‘Nine hundred overdrawn and this snotty letter arrives from the manager’…‘For God’s sake, I found contraceptive pills in her bedroom. She’s only fifteen’…‘You can’t just say that bringing back National Service will solve everything’…‘Then he had the nerve to say he’d bring the union in’…‘Of course we feel guilty about it, but comprehensive schools just haven’t worked. The fees go up again next term as well.’

Weaving like a barrage balloon with faulty controls, Susan was led through to a chair by Evelyn Darby as Peter and Maltravers were joined by some members of the Estate team. Tess stood next to them, irritatedly sipping her first glass of wine too quickly, wondering if it was possible to escape the wretched game anywhere in the house. Surrounding them on the walls of the large square hall immediately inside the front door were photographs of teams long past, statically posed Victorians in moustaches and sepia, the ruffled casualness of the 1930s, the slick Brylcreemed hair of the post-war years. There were framed cartoons of famous players with immense heads on diminutive bodies; an ancient, scarred bat treasured in a long glass case; the county cap won by Darby’s father. Listening to incomprehensible references to leg glances and sticky wickets, Tess looked for any avenue of relief. Strangers regarded her with discreet uncertainty, half recognising the face but either unable to place her or hesitant to approach. She was considering going up to a couple obviously engaged in an excited ‘Do you know who that is? I’m sure it’s…wasn’t she in…you know, with that chap who was in the other thing?’ discussion when the front door opened again and Dunford walked in with his cousin Oliver and a man Tess did not know. As Trevor Darby welcomed them, Dunford smiled at her and she noticed his eyes flashed approvingly up and down her soft green, flowing dress. It was the sort of look with which she was very familiar and was usually followed by a pulling-in of stomachs, a casual discarding of inconvenient wives and a familiarity with little-known but excellent restaurants in town should she ever be free for a quiet dinner with adultery for dessert. The couple, who had just decided to approach her under the impression that she was someone else entirely, looked disappointed as Dunford stepped across the hall and joined her.

‘Good evening, Miss Davy. May I say that you look very lovely?’

‘Thank you, kind sir.’ Tess gave a slight bogus bow and returned his look equivocally. She was amused, but instinctively cautious.

‘Let me introduce Luke Norman.’ Dunford half turned towards the stranger. ‘He runs an antique shop in Richmond in which I have an interest. Luke…well, I don’t think I need explain who Tess Davy is.’

‘Of course not. Simon said you would be here. It’s a great pleasure to meet you.’

Tess later wondered why she had not realised certain things at that moment. Luke Norman was…the only word that came to her was beautiful. Black hair, pewter-grey eyes with a natural grace about his movements and the very way he stood. At one time she could have been very foolish about a man with such looks. Please don’t be a cricketer, she thought—and say something else, I like your voice.

‘Simon was telling me that you’re a friend of Gus Maltravers, the writer.’

‘Yes, he’s…’ Tess turned to where Maltravers had been standing next to her, but he had wandered across the hall with Peter and the other men to examine some photographs on the wall. She sighed. ‘I’m afraid he’s talking cricket at the moment.’

‘There’s a lot of it about,’ Norman observed mordantly, glancing round the hall. ‘Personally, I’ve detested the game ever since they made me play it at school.’

Tess smiled in consoled gratitude. ‘You I like. I’ve had the damned game inflicted on me all day. You weren’t at the match were you?’

‘No, but I gather they won.’

‘Yes. Gus has been talking about nothing else since.’

‘Simon’s been virtually the same,’ said Norman as a fellow sufferer, glancing at Dunford. ‘We’ll have to make sure they both…behave this evening.’

The simultaneous arrival of someone with a tray of drinks and Maltravers’ return covered the slight edge in Norman’s voice which Tess caught but did not hold for long enough to think about. The four of them started to chat about antiques, including some of the treasures of Edenbridge House, while the barrage of talk rolled on around them.

‘But the gypsies have got to live somewhere’…‘Of course he won’t be prosecuted because he’s a member of the Cabinet’…‘Then I decided to try the five iron’…‘I used lumpfish roe and honestly you can’t tell the difference.’

Alister York’s mask of cold politeness covered his contempt for Oliver Hawkhurst as he diplomatically avoided revealing anything to him about the affairs of Edenbridge House, suggesting that certain questions could only be dealt with by Lord Pembury personally. It indicated the extent of Hawkhurst’s financial crisis—York knew all about the imminent collapse of the property company and the bailiff’s notice on the door of the ludicrous nightclub—that he would probe the possibilities of salvation by his uncle by approaching his secretary at the party. Edenbridge money had been provided in the past for previous boneheaded indiscretions but there would be no more. Lord Pembury had tetchily authorised the last £60,000 a year earlier with a warning that any further commercial disasters his nephew created would be his own problem. Now Hawkhurst, who had blatantly used the Pembury connection to conjure up six-figure loans, appeared unable to grasp the situation. The merchant bankers, to whom he now scathingly referred as usurers, had become icy and hard-eyed, but Lord Pembury was indifferent about a member of the family appearing in the bankruptcy court. Hawkhurst had tried asking his cousin and his bitterness and resentment at being born just outside the charmed circle of family wealth had deepened to hatred when Dunford had also refused to help.

As he bit on the humiliation of having to approach York, the censorious and patronising secretary, in a last desperate effort to extract something from the Pembury wealth, Dunford walked past with Luke Norman and Tess and Maltravers. Seeing them disappear into the garden at the back of the house through the door of the crowded sitting room, Hawkhurst’s hatred was fuelled by the ever-recurring thought of how agonisingly and impotently near he was to becoming heir to the title, the house, money and salvation. He frequently played out in his mind the scene where he would dangle that prospect in front of his persecutors, and watch them turn to fawning sycophants, prurient at the prospect of the smallest fraction of one of the greatest fortunes in England. But the dream was always destroyed by meeting the man who stood in his way; not yet thirty, depressingly healthy and surely soon to produce the wife and inevitable son, pushing Hawkhurst irreversibly down the line of inheritance, an embarrassing, impoverished and finally irrelevant and excluded relative.

York watched Dunford walk past as well, distastefully noting how he held Tess’s arm as he guided her between the guests and out of the house. He had been planning to murder him for so long that further evidence of his casual liaisons with women was academic.

It was a long garden with high walls, stained by countless changing seasons to a patchwork of old rose and rust brickwork. Three steps led up from a paved terrace to the start of a lawn, cut off towards the far end by a wooden trellis fence smothered with Dorothy Perkins roses. Many of the guests had made their way outside, the sound of their still-incessant voices drifting upwards into the limpid lemon evening air.

‘Isn’t that a Vincent’s tie?’ Maltravers asked, nodding towards Dunford as they walked up the steps.

‘Yes. Not many people recognise it.’

‘Is it something special?’ Tess looked at the pattern of small gold crowns on a dark blue background.

‘Oxford Blues—or those who get near enough—can wear them,’ Maltravers explained. ‘My father got one for cricket as well. The Cambridge equivalent is the Hawks tie, which…’

Tess’s smile coupled excessive sweetness with incipient insanity and she used his full first name, a standard sign that their relationship was not working at that moment.

‘Augustus, if you mention that bloody game again, I am going to throw up! Right?’

Dunford laughed. ‘Then I’ll rescue you from it. There are people here who would love to meet you and I shall personally hit anyone who uses the word. Come with me.’

They merged with the guests ebbing through the garden and the rooms of the house like water trickling between rocks, accompanied by the racing torrent of talk.

‘Changed his tune of course when I told him I knew the Chief Constable personally’…‘Make it Tuesday and it’s on my expenses’…‘I don’t know who he’s screwing but if he gets Aids he’ll get no sympathy from me’…‘Forty to the gallon on a long run.’

Tess was never quite sure how she found herself alone with Dunford. For a couple of hours there had been a series of people talking to her about her career, endless bottles of wine kept appearing and there was a well-mannered mêlée around the food tables. Back in the hall, Dunford introduced Norman to a man who wanted to buy some Regency glassware and Maltravers had been pinned in a corner by a woman who did a ‘little modest writing’ and wanted to know what motivated a true professional; she was quite disillusioned when he said money. The flashing lights and throbbing rhythms of a disco completed the disintegration of polite behaviour loosened by alcohol, and people grouped and regrouped constantly. Dunford asked Tess to dance as the DJ played Chicago’s haunting ‘If you leave me now’ and put both his arms around her as they swayed together in the darkened room, lit only by the slow red, yellow and blue blinks of the lights. She had drunk enough to be carelessly relaxed and was only half aware that he did not change the way he was holding her or how they were dancing when the tempo quickened with the next record. When it finished he said he wanted to show her something and took her hand as she followed him out of the room. She smiled at Norman who was still in the hall talking to the man about Regency glass and wondered why he looked back at her so resentfully.

Dunford led her out of the house again and down the night-covered garden, the sounds of the party fading behind them, until they reached the private stillness beyond the trellis, its honeysuckle silence amplified by the muffled music and voices from the house. Tess warily marshalled her defences to deal with the pass she felt was inevitably coming.

‘You were asking me about my family last night,’ Dunford said unexpectedly. He indicated a wooden door in the end wall of the garden. ‘We can get through to the church this way. I’ll show you the Pembury mausoleum.’

‘Surely they keep the church locked at night?’

‘I’ve got the key for our private chapel,’ he replied, opening the door. ‘I promise you it’s fascinating.’

Tess, who had stopped several paces behind him, reflected that being chased round a tomb by a randy aristocrat who conveniently brought the chapel key to a party would certainly be fascinating. But it had all been so charmingly done that she could not imagine him turning unpleasant; if he did, she knew several ways of bringing tears to his eyes. She stepped through the door as Dunford held it open for her and they walked towards the moon-grey church, looming up against the stars in front of them.

Observing the high proportion of guests whose adolescence would have begun in the age of wide skirts, shoestring ties and milk bars, the DJ lined up a series of records which would trigger their memories and make them temporarily forget the physical limitations of creeping middle age. For thirty minutes the room was filled with the formative rocking beat of their generation. Presley’s ‘Jailhouse Rock’; Chubby Checker twisting again; Jerry Lee Lewis; Bill Haley; The Ramones; the Stones’ ‘Satisfaction’ and ‘Brown Sugar’; the ‘Good Vibrations’ of the Beach Boys; the Beatles’ raw ‘Twist and Shout’ and joyous ‘I wanna hold your hand’. As the DJ let them down with McCartney’s wistful ‘Yesterday’ and Simon and Garfunkel’s ‘Bridge over Troubled Water’, the dancers collapsed against each other, breathless, laughing and exhilarated. It would be worth the aching backs and stiffened joints of the morning to have danced again with the years of Espresso coffee, Mary Quant and the glittering, betrayed Camelot of living Kennedys.

Maltravers had finally got rid of the woman whose ‘little modest writing’ had turned out to be poetry of the greetings card and pokerwork school, without actually committing himself to promising an opinion on her dire rhyming couplets. Peter and Susan had left and he wondered where Tess was. He could not see her anywhere on the ground floor of the house but realised that the party had spread itself to the first-floor living rooms as well and went up the wide stairs from one corner of the hall to the balcony landing above to explore. The last room he reached was Trevor Darby’s study, which was also used for cricket club committee meetings. Two men were settling an argument about record fourth-wicket stands in Test matches between England and the West Indies from the almost complete collection of Wisden Cricketers’ Almanack that filled one bookcase; the accumulation of recondite statistics was among the many aspects of the game that Tess found meaningless. Standing apart from them, Luke Norman was looking out of the window.

‘Hello again,’ said Maltravers as he joined him. ‘You haven’t seen Tess anywhere about, have you?’

‘Miss Davy? No. I think she’s with Simon.’

There was unmistakable annoyance in Norman’s reply. The two men left the room to celebrate the settling of their argument with another drink.

‘If you find them you might tell Simon I’m up here and would like to talk to him,’ Norman added, still gazing through the window at the nearby houses on the opposite side of Bellringer Street. Maltravers found it interesting that he was clearly not prepared to go and look for Dunford himself. It seemed childish, a condition possibly brought on by too many glasses of wine; Norman was speaking with artificial precision as though not confident that he had complete control of his tongue.

‘Of course,’ Maltravers said. ‘I don’t imagine they’ve run off together.’

The look of fury Norman flashed towards him at this immaterial piece of banter, before turning away again, was vivid. Maltravers left the room, reflecting that certain suppositions he had made earlier appeared to be correct. He noticed another set of stairs near the study door, presumably used by the servants in an earlier age of the house, and went down them to find they led to the kitchen, its table covered with still substantial reserves of wine in bottles and boxes and the room filled with another swarm of guests. As he refilled his glass someone spoke to him and he was drawn into the talk again.

‘The BBC? It’s nothing more than an annexe of the Kremlin’…‘He knows as much about the menopause as I do about his blasted Masons’…‘Don’t talk to me about people offering to lay a garden path’…‘Been living with the chap for two years and now she wants me to pay for a white wedding.’

Tess’s laughter rippled through the high, still silence of St Barbara’s, echoing off walls pierced with tall, narrow windows of muted stained glass which let in the only gloomy illumination. The sound came from the Pembury chapel on the south side of the altar, ringing across dark oak pews and fading into shadows of Saxon and Norman stone.

‘Simon, you’re joking!’ she protested.

Dunford grinned as he shook his head in denial.

‘I promise you I’m not,’ he insisted. ‘Hubert, the fifth Earl, was absolutely barmy. He was convinced he could fly, leapt off the roof of Edenbridge House to prove it and landed right on top of his mother-in-law who was visiting them. She was killed—after all, she was nearly ninety—but he survived, dashed back upstairs and tried it again. This time he killed the butler who had gone to help her. The family had the devil of a job keeping it quiet.’

Tess shook her head disbelievingly. ‘You’re making it up.’

‘Believe me, it’s all in the family papers. Even the bribes they had to pay to various people to keep it hushed up. Look at this.’ He led her to where a small plaque was set in the wall and pointed to the inscription as he read it aloud.

‘“Obediah Bottomley, 1740—1813. Died in the service of the family”. Now how does a family retainer, however faithful, end up in the family vault? Only because the sixth Earl felt so guilty about his death that he wanted to make the gesture. The story’s not in the guidebooks—for obvious reasons we’d rather keep quiet about insanity in the family—but I assure you it’s absolutely true.’

‘Then if you’d prefer to keep it quiet, why are you telling me?’ Tess’s voice added several layers of interrogation to the question.

‘Oh, it’s not all that secret,’ Dunford replied indifferently. ‘It’s a curiosity I like to share with certain people.’

Tess wondered how certain people were selected—and how many other available women had been entertained with the incredible story on the same private tour.

‘And are any more of you mad?’ she asked casually.

‘Not in the conventional sense. A few eccentrics here and there, but otherwise quite normal.’ Dunford paused and looked at her quizzically. ‘There are no hereditary problems or anything like that, I’m happy to say.’

It was, Tess felt, a much more subtle line than the one used by a television producer at a first-night party when he had explained how successful his vasectomy had been. And it was, at last, something that could be recognised as a line. For the previous half-hour she had felt as safe as if she had been with her own brother, which was not what she had been anticipating. She was puzzled and mildly disappointed; it would have been interesting to see how one of the most eligible bachelors on the matrimonial hit lists of several titled families operated. Now, perhaps…but Dunford had turned away from her, almost as if he was uncomfortable about the implications of his remark.

‘We ought to be getting back,’ he said. ‘I’ve monopolised you much too long.’

As they returned through the silent and darkened church-yard, the faint clamour of the party growing louder as they approached the gate in the garden wall, Tess could make no sense of their private excursion. Dunford had blatantly flirted with her while they danced and had deliberately taken her to where they would be alone together in a setting with at least a touch of Gothic romance. He had been attentive, amusing and flattering and then—she smiled to herself as the parallel struck her—he really had just shown her his etchings. Now he seemed strangely quiet as if his mind was occupied with something. Just outside the gate he stopped by an unremarkable gravestone, obviously old and neglected, tilting like an ever-falling domino. ‘This is the other member of the family.’

Tess glanced at him sharply. In the church he had joked about his ancestors; now he sounded immensely sad. The tombstone was half in shadow and she had to crouch down to read the worn lettering: Susannah Hawkhurst, 1835-1858. No quotation, no indication of affection, no grief of loss, just the baldest record of a name and twenty-three years of a woman’s life.

‘Why isn’t she in the family vault?’ she asked as she straightened up.

‘Susannah was the youngest daughter of William, the eighth Earl,’ Dunford replied softly. ‘In Capley they borrowed the nickname of the Duke of Cumberland and called him Stinking Billy. It had been arranged that she should marry the second son of the Duke of Fennimore. There may have been a nastier man in Victorian England but I doubt it. She was in love with a captain in the eleventh Hussars. She had spirit and pleaded with her father but it was no use. She and the officer ran away together but were captured as they were boarding the Dover ferry just before it left for Calais. He was cashiered and she was brought back to Edenbridge House and confined to her room until the wedding. It sounds like a Victorian melodrama now, but such things really did happen.’

Tess stiffened as an angry bitterness entered Dunford’s voice.

‘The night before the ceremony, they heard her screaming in her room for hours,’ he continued, and it was as though the tragedy had just happened. ‘Then she stopped. In the morning they found she had torn her wedding dress into strips and woven them into a rope and hanged herself. Only her mother’s pleading allowed her to be buried in consecrated ground. Her father refused absolutely to place her in the chapel, although given the influence of the Pemburys that could probably have been arranged. For Christ’s sake, they were prepared to arrange everything else in her life for her.’

Dunford turned to look at Tess and the moonlight caught the anger and sorrow staining his face.

‘Her mother kept the note she left and it’s still in the archives. All it said was, “I cannot do my duty”.’ He sighed as Tess looked at him with a questioning frown. ‘No, you don’t understand. Very few people do. When you’re born into a family like mine, duty is the iron they put in your soul. There’s a terrible fear that our citadels will crumble if one of us doesn’t obey. That’s what killed Susannah.’

Tess had to stop herself from mocking him, reminding him that it was now the late twentieth century and women had the vote. Dunford was rational and intelligent—and now tormented by something she could not understand.

‘That was more than a hundred years ago,’ she gently reminded him.

He smiled without humour. ‘They have a saying in Old Capley that when you walk through the gates of Edenbridge Park you should put your watch back two hundred years. It doesn’t matter how up to date we are in some ways—running the estate with computers, making videos to show to potential tourists in America—certain things simply never change. The first thing I can remember being told as a child was that one day I would be Lord Pembury. Ever since, it’s been constantly hammered into me that I have no choice about it.’

‘Yes you have,’ objected Tess. ‘You could refuse the title. Others have.’

‘It’s happened with a few minor titles,’ Dunford acknowledged. ‘But not in one of the really ancient families like mine. The only thing that it’s like is being brought up as a devout Catholic. You can reject it as much as you want…but on your deathbed you beg for a priest. When my father dies, I must take the title and pass it on to my own son.’

‘And some people would envy you,’ said Tess. ‘A beautiful home, money, a privileged lifestyle. There are worse fates.’

‘Yes, I expect there are. But those who envy me don’t have to pay the price—and there always is a price. It’s called duty and it comes before everything else.’ Dunford gestured towards the grave. ‘It killed Susannah.’

A burst of sound suddenly surged over the wall as the party guests raucously joined in the chorus of the most inane pop song. Whooping, half-drunken voices were mixed with the screech of party whistles and the explosion of balloons. In another world of St Barbara’s silent, grey churchyard, Tess sympathetically leaned forward and kissed Dunford’s cheek. She could feel the anguish surrounding him, even though she was unable to comprehend it. But what confused her most was why he had decided to reveal something so private and painful of himself to her; she was convinced that had not been his intention when he had taken her out to the church.

With her hair wound in two tight coils against her ears, Joanna York looked slightly old-fashioned, like a telephone operator left over from an old black and white film, but was at least becoming increasingly animated. Maltravers, who had found her standing on her own in one of the quieter rooms of the house, had persevered after several false starts to their conversation—she had seemed almost petrified when he had first approached her—then had chanced to ask her something about the history of Old Capley and a completely different woman had emerged. She was well-informed and as she talked, prompted by only occasional remarks from him, her confidence grew. For nearly twenty minutes he found her entertaining, even witty company, making shrewd and faintly caustic observations on various past worthies of the parish and holders of the Pembury title. Suddenly she abruptly stopped as if embarrassed.

‘I’m sorry,’ she apologised hesitantly. ‘I’m…I talk too much sometimes.’

Maltravers sensed that a lot of barriers had dropped sharply back into place and had spotted her apprehensive glance behind him just before she stopped speaking. He glanced round and saw that her husband had entered the room.

‘Excuse me,’ she said and was gone. Maltravers watched her walk straight over to York as if his very appearance had been an unspoken summons and raised his eyebrows disparagingly. He found such submissive behaviour unhealthy, particularly in a woman who clearly had a personality of her own, however stultified it may have become.

The party had changed into its after-midnight gear; about half the guests had left and the ones that remained were slowing down. Maltravers strolled out to the door leading into the garden as Tess and Dunford walked back towards the house.

‘We were just about to send search parties,’ he remarked.

‘Sorry. I’ve been showing Tess the family vault,’ said Dunford. ‘I couldn’t see you around anywhere or you could have come with us. I hope you don’t mind.’

Tess’s eyes flickered warningly, cutting off any comment Maltravers might have made.

‘Not in the least,’ he replied equably. ‘However, Luke’s been wondering where you’d got to. He was upstairs in the study when I last saw him. Said he wanted to talk to you about something.’

Dunford looked uneasy. ‘I expect I’d better go and see what he wants…You’re not leaving yet, are you?’

‘Not for a while. It’s a very good party…and I want to dance with Tess.’

‘I’ll see you shortly then.’ As Dunford walked past them towards the hall, Maltravers looked at Tess closely as she watched him go.

‘Another drink?’ he suggested mildly. ‘There still appear to be copious gallons left.’

She nodded absently. ‘Yes, please…That was all very strange.’ She turned and smiled at him. ‘I’m sorry, darling, I didn’t realise how long we’d been gone. You weren’t worried, were you?’

‘In the circumstances, there was hardly anything for me to worry about, was there?’ Maltravers raised his eyebrows, blandly interrogative.

‘What do you mean by that?’

Maltravers looked surprised that she did not understand him. ‘Don’t be obtuse, darling. You were perfectly safe with Simon. Surely you knew that?’

It still took her several seconds to realise what he meant then she closed her eyes and tapped her fingers against her forehead as though trying to send a message through to her brain.

‘Of course!’ She shook her head, reprimanding herself for her lack of perception. ‘You stupid cow! When did you know?’

‘It crossed my mind when they arrived together,’ said Maltravers. ‘When I spoke to Luke a short while ago I was certain.’

‘Then…’ Tess frowned as she reassessed what had happened in the church. ‘Then what was all that about? I thought he was going to make a pass at me and at one moment he almost did. What was he playing at?’

‘I don’t know, but if you want an educated guess, I think it may be crunch time for Simon,’ said Maltravers. ‘Whatever his personal inclinations are in matters sexual, he’s going to have to change his ways fairly soon. The time is rapidly approaching when he’s going to have to marry and produce an heir. He doesn’t really—’

‘—have any choice,’ Tess interrupted, finally understanding a great many things. ‘And that’s what he meant about Susannah. I cannot do my duty.’

‘Susannah? Who’s she?’ Maltravers looked mystified.

‘Get me that drink and I’ll tell you all about it. Our little trip to the family vault suddenly becomes very interesting indeed.’

Having failed to make any progress in his conversation with York, Oliver Hawkhurst had indulged in his customary habit of seeing what sexual action might be available at the party. A woman whose husband had walked out on her after ten years of marriage was offering distinct possibilities. She was overeagerly interested in any man who paid her any attention and was not greatly particular over who she found to occupy the empty desert of her double bed. Hawkhurst was finding it almost embarrassing for matters to be so easy as Dunford walked past them in the hall and went upstairs.

‘Actually I never stopped taking the Pill,’ the woman remarked casually, looking at Hawkhurst archly. ‘After all…well, you never know, do you?’

‘No, you don’t.’

After that it was only a matter of establishing which front door in Bellringer Street would be on the latch when he discreetly left a short while after she did. His wife and three children were as irrelevant to her as they were to him. Only their motives differed: in her case, a matter of eating when you happen to be hungry, in his the common practice among certain husbands who buttress flimsy egos by deluding themselves that women—preferably younger women—sleep with them because they are irresistible. The woman gave him a lascivious look of promise as she went out of the front door. He was the third prospect she had tried that evening and his smug self-satisfaction would have been fatally undermined had he known that she regarded him as only a marginally better alternative than another night spent alone with Edna O’Brien and a very large gin.

Dunford hesitated outside the closed door of the study, trying to wade through the emotions that were washing about him. The interlude with Tess in the church had compounded his confusion and the inevitable image of Susan Penrose that came into his mind only made the whole thing a bigger and more tormenting mess. Luke’s refusal to accept the situation by simply turning up at Edenbridge House again had thrown him off balance just as he had thought he was beginning to sort himself out. There were too many pressures, too many complications and Dunford was rocking helplessly between what he wanted to do and what he knew he would be forced to do.

As he pushed the door open, Norman was sitting at Trevor Darby’s desk holding one of a pair of cricket balls, commemorating some distant and forgotten victories, that rested on small plinths in front of him. He glanced up cynically as Dunford entered then returned his attention to the battered blood-red sphere in his hands.

‘And was the lovely Miss Davy satisfactory?’ he asked. ‘You always did swing both ways, didn’t you darling?’

Dunford closed the door behind him. ‘Nothing has happened with Miss Davy.’

Norman tossed the ball a few inches into the air and caught it again.

‘Wouldn’t she play? Or couldn’t she turn you on?’

‘If you’re just going to be crude, Luke, there’s no point in talking to you. If you think I owe you an apology, then I’m sorry that I used Tess to try and make a point to you. You’re going to have to accept that it’s got to finish between us. I’ve told you enough times that I don’t have any choice about getting married.’

Norman looked at him bitterly for a moment then stood up and crossed the space between them.

‘Which is exactly what you told Harry, isn’t it?’ he demanded. Dunford looked away uncomfortably. ‘Oh yes, he told me all about that. He said he believed you until you turned up with me three weeks later. And how long did it last with him? Two years? It’s our second anniversary next month.’

He was standing so close that Dunford could smell the whisky on his breath as he moved past him and went over to the window.

‘All right, it was just an excuse for Harry, but it’s the truth for you.’ He spoke with his back to Norman. ‘My father has tolerated my behaviour up to now but he has made it quite clear that it’s got to stop. If I were to die without producing an heir everything would go to Oliver—and that happens to matter a lot.’

He turned to face Norman, urgently pleading.

‘For Christ’s sake, Luke, can’t you see the position I’m in? I don’t have complete freedom about what I do with my life. I’ve even been told who I’m expected to marry. There are only three choices and two of them I can’t stand. It would be exactly the same if I’d spent the last ten years screwing every woman I could find. At the end of it I’d have to ditch them for a wife.’

‘Balls, Simon,’ snapped Norman. ‘Your father was over forty before he married, you’re just using this as an excuse. You could play the gay scene for years and that’s exactly what you’re going to do. I know all about that Guards officer while I was away in Hanover. Is he the one you’ve got lined up to take my place?’

‘Listen!’ Dunford was suddenly angry with exasperation. ‘I’ve spent the last year trying to come to terms with this. As you so charmingly put it, I swing both ways and I happen to find both satisfactory—it hasn’t just been men in the past year. I’ve sorted out what I want, now get off my back!’

‘What you want?’ Norman shouted. ‘You bloody, titled bastard! Do you think this is still the Middle Ages when the Lord of the Manor can have it off with any peasant he fancies? How many of us are there? Ten? Twenty?’

As Norman screamed at Dunford, there were suddenly three men in the house who wanted to kill him, one for greed, one for vengeance and one for love.

Half-lit by the flickering disco lights coming through the open French doors, Maltravers and Tess sat on the low wall by the steps of the terrace in the warm darkness. The figures in the room were silhouettes, the arabesques of their lazy movements picked up in a slow kaleidoscope of shadows appearing and vanishing on the walls. Peggy Lee sang the sentimental story of the folk who lived on the hill. The party was fading away like a glowing fire.

‘So what do you think?’ Maltravers asked when Tess had finished recounting her confusing visit to St Barbara’s and the tombs of the Pemburys with Dunford.

‘That he is very unhappy, that he’s probably still in love with Luke Norman but knows it’s hopeless. The way that Luke looked at me when Simon and I went out of the house together means he’s angry about it. And…’ Tess screwed up her lips as if trying to unravel something. ‘And I can only assume that Simon started out meaning to make a pass at me to…I don’t know. Prove something to himself?’

‘That’s possible. But you say he didn’t.’

‘No…but I’m sure he wanted to. There was something in his face in the chapel when he looked at me, as though…’ She shook her head in her own confusion.

‘As though his life would be so much easier if he wasn’t Lord Dunford—and all that means—and wasn’t gay,’ said Maltravers. ‘It’s perfectly obvious why he identifies with the unhappy Susannah.’

Tess glanced at Maltravers inquiringly. ‘Why does he have to get married? For God’s sake, Edenbridge House will survive if he doesn’t. It’s been there long enough.’

‘That’s not the point,’ he replied. ‘Edenbridge represents something, it’s part of a dynastic process. We are dealing with the ancient aristocracy who do not operate by our standards. Lord Pembury cannot understand my sense of values any more than I can understand his. I can’t imagine what it’s really like to have the responsibility of owning Edenbridge House or how important it would be that my son should inherit it. But I can imagine that it might matter a great deal.’

‘But if Simon doesn’t have children for any reason, it will still stay in the family. Didn’t you say his cousin is next in line?’

‘Yes, but Lord Pembury may not relish the prospect. Simon has been brought up to be Lord Pembury and run Edenbridge in a certain way. Cousin Oliver apparently wants to turn it into a funfair. When you’ve got pictures on the walls of ancestors who could have known Pepys, you have a special perspective of such things. And when you die you leave a great deal more than a suburban semi-detached and a few life insurance policies. You’re caught up in an historical process.’

He finished his drink and stood up.

‘Anyway, if we can’t understand it, there’s little point in speculating about it. It would seem that Simon is now having to select the next Lady Dunford—which is certainly not likely to be you, my love—and Luke Norman is not best pleased. A fascinating glimpse into the lifestyle of the very upper classes, but nothing to do with us. A last dance and we go?’

They left their glasses on the wall and stepped into the lounge, two more shadows in the gloom now wrapped in Nat King Cole’s timeless ‘Unforgettable’. The clockwork spring of the party had almost completely unwound from its earlier frantic tension. Apart from the dancers, a group of guests in the kitchen were examining the remaining bottles, a couple on the stairs were earnestly discussing God, a young man had passed out in the lavatory and Joanna York was refusing to dance with a member of the Estate cricket team as she waited for her husband to reappear. As Luke Norman slipped out of the front door without saying goodnight to anyone, Trevor and Evelyn Darby were telling each other it had been a wonderful farewell party. On the floor of the study, Dunford’s dead and sightless eyes were fixed on the ceiling as blood surged from a massive, battered cavity in his head and soaked into the carpet, darkening from vivid scarlet to black.

Nat King Cole faded away and a very young Sinatra announced that it was a lovely way to spend an evening.

Alister York found that he could think surprisingly clearly as he looked down at the body. He had certainly not planned it this way, but his mind was able to grasp the situation then race through what would follow, identifying the obvious problems. He even smiled as a particularly clever touch occurred to him, then he unhesitatingly knelt down. It took less than a minute to accomplish what he wanted to do then he paused only briefly to make sure he had made no mistakes before hurrying out of the room and down the back stairs to the kitchen where Trevor and Evelyn Darby were saying goodnight to Maltravers and Tess.

‘Trevor!’

Darby turned, startled by the sharp urgency in York’s voice. ‘What’s the matter?’

‘Can you come upstairs please? Now.’

‘Hang on a minute, Alister. The place isn’t on fire, is it?’ York strode across the kitchen, his agitation slicing through the air of tired inertia as people stared at him.

‘Come upstairs,’ he repeated. ‘Lord Dunford’s been murdered. In your study.’

Standing nearby, Joanna York dropped her glass, its shattering tinkle mingling with her muted scream; only her husband noticed. Darby stared at him as if he had cracked a distasteful joke.

‘Alister, are you drunk?’ he demanded.

‘Just come with me,’ York replied grimly, stepping to one side and implicitly inviting Darby to go up first. Darby hesitated for a moment, looking at York’s face closely, then crossed towards the door leading to the stairs.

‘Just wait here, dear,’ he called back to his wife. ‘I’ll sort this out.’ He gave the clear impression that he simply did not believe what York had told him.

‘I’m going too,’ Maltravers murmured as the two men went out of the kitchen. ‘See if you can find Luke Norman anywhere.’

‘What for?’ Tess asked.

‘I sent Simon up to the study because Luke wanted to talk to him. Just see if he’s around.’

As Maltravers entered the study, York and Darby were standing on the far side of the desk staring at the floor. Darby knelt down and was feeling in vain for a pulse in Dunford’s wrist as Maltravers crossed the room and saw for himself. As he took in the shock and ugliness of the crushed head, he was struck by the suggestion that there was something about the body that was wrong, something…he was still trying to identify it as Darby stood up.

‘He’s dead. Good God.’ He shook his head in disbelief. ‘I’ll call the police…I’m sorry I didn’t believe you, Alister. How long ago did you find him?’

‘Only a few minutes. I came straight down to tell you.’

‘And how did you happen to find him?’ Maltravers asked quietly and saw the spurt of anger cross York’s face before he replied.

‘My wife and I were about to leave and I was looking for him to say goodnight,’ he replied curtly, making it clear he did not think it was Maltravers’ place to question him. ‘I couldn’t see him downstairs so I came up here because I knew people had been using this room during the evening.’

York drew in his breath and looked straight at Maltravers, challenging him to probe further.

‘That doesn’t matter at the moment,’ Darby interposed. ‘I’ll lock this room and call the police from the phone downstairs.’

‘And we’d better make sure nobody else leaves the house,’ York added. ‘I don’t think this happened very long ago.’

Maltravers and Darby looked back at the body where the still-throbbing blood emphasised York’s comment—and this time Maltravers grasped what did not make sense.

‘Where’s his tie?’ he asked.

‘Was he wearing one?’ Darby said.

‘Oh, yes. It was his Vincent’s tie. I commented upon it earlier.’

Darby shrugged. ‘He probably took it off because it was warm.’

‘And left his top shirt button fastened?’ Maltravers objected. ‘That hardly makes sense. Is there any sign of it anywhere?’

As all three men turned and looked round the study, the front door opened downstairs and Oliver Hawkhurst slipped away into the night.

‘Just a minute!’ exclaimed Darby. ‘The ball’s gone! That must be what…They’ve both gone!’

He gestured towards the top of the desk where both the plinths for the pair of cricket balls now stood empty.

‘Trevor, we’re not here to play detectives,’ York said impatiently. ‘Call the police and I’ll go and stand by the front door to make sure that nobody leaves.’

‘What about the garden?’ Maltravers asked. ‘I understand there’s a way out into the churchyard…It’s all right, leave that with me.’

The immediate oddities of Dunford’s murder rattled about Maltravers’ mind as he dashed downstairs, grabbed Tess and took her out with him into the garden to stand at the top of the terrace steps where they could see anyone who left through the back of the house.

‘Any sign of Luke Norman?’ he asked urgently.

‘Not that I can see. Unless he’s upstairs.’

‘Possibly, but I don’t think so. And if he’s left the house then I think he’s going to have some explaining to do. He was in the study when I spoke to him before you and Simon came back from the church…What time is it? Nearly twenty past one…so it must have been under an hour ago. When you came back, I told Simon he was there and wanted to talk to him. Now he’s vanished. It looks very persuasive.’

‘Then Simon really is dead?’ As Maltravers turned to Tess he could see sudden shock and grief gathering in her eyes.

‘Yes, I’m afraid he is,’ he said gently, putting his arm around her and drawing her close to him comfortingly. ‘I’m sorry. I liked him as well.’

‘How was he killed?’

‘He was hit very hard on the head, apparently with a cricket ball. The odd thing is that two of them appear to be missing which doesn’t make much sense…and there’s something else that’s curious as well.’ He explained about the Vincent’s tie.

‘He certainly had it on when I was with him,’ said Tess. ‘Why should he have taken it off?’

‘You’re assuming that he did. Supposing the murderer removed it?’

‘What on earth for?’

Maltravers lit a cigarette, expelling the smoke slowly and thoughtfully. ‘A souvenir of an old affair? These foolish things remind me of you and all that.’

Tess shuddered. ‘That’s sick! Would Luke Norman do something like that? Would anybody?’

‘We don’t know what Luke Norman was like, we only met him this evening and hardly spoke to him,’ said Maltravers. ‘But if he was jealous or possessive enough to murder Simon so that nobody else could have him, let’s not start looking for rational behaviour anywhere else. From what we know, it doesn’t take much imagination to suppose that Luke Norman had a motive for killing Simon and he certainly had the opportunity. Now he’s vanished. All circumstantial, but very heavy indeed. The business of the tie makes a perverted sort of sense if that’s the case.’

‘And I suppose we have to tell the police all this?’ Tess appeared hesitant.

‘Too right,’ said Maltravers firmly. ‘This is no time for woolly liberal ideas about forgiving crimes of passion or not making accusations without proof. Simon was a nice man and I want to see whoever it was nailed for his murder. I’m not saying it was Luke Norman, but it looks very much that way.’

Distantly, from the direction of the New Town, they heard the two-note blare of a police siren, dramatic but unnecessary on empty night roads, fading and growing again as it weaved into Old Capley and howled up Bellringer Street before dying away; like Chesterton’s wood, the garden was suddenly full of two policemen. Trevor and Evelyn Darby’s final party had ended and something hideous had begun. As the police rounded up the guests—including the befuddled young man in the lavatory who had slept though the commotion—and herded them together in one room, Maltravers noticed there was no sign of Luke Norman. As they all waited uncomfortably, trying to catch what the police were saying out in the hall, it also occurred to him that he could not see Oliver Hawkhurst either.

The police realised very quickly that the situation facing them was both delicate and complex. Delicate because, while Death ticks off the names of down-and-outs and millionaires with equal indifference, the body of an aristocrat with his head murderously smashed in is not the same thing as a dipsomaniac tramp found stiff in a ditch. Complex because there were twenty-seven people in the same house as the corpse. Statements had to be taken from them all as the scene-of-crimes officer began his meticulous examination, collecting the fragments of possible evidence—many probably irrelevant—which could form the underpinning of an arrest and charge. As photographs were taken, adhesive tape pressed on the study carpet to collect dust, fingerprints searched for and all the minutiae collected, the guests were asked what they could remember about an evening during which they had had no reason to notice what was going on. Unless they were offered an emotional confession on a plate, the police were concentrating on the two natural questions: opportunity and motive. The first was impossible. Guest after guest could only give the vaguest indication of their movements at any time of the evening and it rapidly became clear that virtually any one of them could have slipped upstairs and committed almost any number of murders. But investigation into motive was more interesting—and pointed in two different directions.

People were summoned one at a time into the two rooms the police had taken over for questioning the guests as more officers arrived at the house. As Maltravers was led through to the sitting room, he saw a man who he supposed was the doctor being let in the front door and taken upstairs. He gave his name and address and a brief account of his own movements during the party as far as he could recall them over more than four hours.

‘There is something else I want to tell you,’ he added. ‘Although I must stress that I have no proof whatever that it may be significant. I am pretty certain that Lord Dunford may have been having a homosexual affair with a man called Luke Norman who was here earlier. I also think that Lord Dunford wished to end the relationship and Mr Norman was angry about it. I spoke to Mr Norman in the study sometime after midnight and he asked me to send Lord Dunford up there. About an hour later, when I saw Lord Dunford again, I told him.’

Detective Sergeant David Parry, one of the first CID officers to arrive at the house, looked at him thoughtfully.

‘And do you know where Mr Norman is now?’ he asked.

‘No—and I have not seen him here since Lord Dunford’s body was discovered. As far as I know, he is staying at Edenbridge House for the weekend and I rather think you will find that he drives a white MG.’

Parry excused himself and left the room, giving Maltravers time to consider the implications of what he had said. It was an uncomfortable feeling to have suggested that a man he did not know—to all intents, a complete stranger—could be a murderer, but he could not see that he had any alternative. Luke Norman was the last person Maltravers had seen in the study; Dunford had been killed there; Maltravers strongly suspected that Luke Norman had motive and now he had disappeared. If Norman turned out to be innocent, Maltravers would feel guilty about this suggestion, but if he said nothing and Norman got away with it he would feel worse. It was not a happy position to be in. Parry, who had sent two officers to Edenbridge House to see if they could find Luke Norman, returned.

‘I appreciate that what you have told me is supposition on your part,’ he said. ‘However, I would like you to repeat it for an official statement. I would also like to know how well you personally knew Lord Danford and Mr Norman.’

‘Hardly at all. I met Lord Dunford for the first time last night after the concert at Edenbridge House, although I knew of him from his cricketing career, of course. We played together in the cricket match between the Estate and Town teams and I spoke to him at the party—which is where I met Mr Norman for the first time.’ Maltravers smiled comprehendingly. ‘I take the point of your question, Sergeant, but I’m not a very likely suspect, am I?’

‘We have to keep an open mind, sir,’ Parry replied flatly. ‘However, as long as you tell us where we can contact you again if necessary, I don’t think we need detain you after you have given your statement and been searched.’

‘May I wait until you’ve finished with Miss Davy?’

‘Yes—unless we have reason to detain her of course.’

‘I don’t think you will, although she may be able to add to what I have told you. We’re both staying with Mr and Mrs Penrose across the road at number ten for the next few days. If this matter isn’t cleared up by the time we leave, I’ll let you know where you can contact us.’

Maltravers gave his statement, then was taken out into the hall where a policeman carried out a north-to-south search of him, an elementary operation in the hunt for the murder weapon being taken with all the guests before they were allowed to leave. He was told he could wait for Tess in the hall, and as he sat beneath a signed photograph of Bradman he saw Alister York being taken through to give his statement. After a few minutes, Parry reappeared out of the interview room and spoke to an officer standing near Maltravers, who just overheard the name of Oliver Hawkhurst before the policeman left the house. Craning his neck as discreetly as he could, Maltravers looked through the window on his left and saw him using the radio in one of the police cars parked outside. Back in the interview room, York was enlarging on what he had said.

‘You will almost certainly discover this for yourselves in any event. The simple fact is that Mr Hawkhurst is in considerable financial difficulties over which Lord Pembury—and I believe Lord Dunford—had refused to assist him. With Lord Dunford’s death Mr Hawkhurst becomes the heir to the title, Edenbridge House and everything that goes with it.’

‘And Mr Hawkhurst was at the party?’ Parry confirmed.

‘He was. He spoke to me—and that conversation, incidentally, was connected with his financial problems and the possibility of Lord Pembury helping him—then I noticed him talking to a woman in the hall sometime after midnight. I do not know when he left the house.’

‘Who was the woman?’ Parry asked.

‘A Mrs Harper…I think her first name is Harriet. She lives somewhere towards the bottom of Bellringer Street but I’m not certain which number.’

‘Mrs…Harper,’ Parry repeated as he swiftly read through the list of the guests the police had found in the house. The name was not on it. ‘And when was Mr Hawkhurst due to leave Edenbridge?’

‘As far as I know, on Monday morning.’

‘Thank you, Mr York. Another officer will take your statement.’

Parry left the room and radioed CID headquarters from his car with a message for Chief Superintendent Keith Miller who would be in charge of the inquiry.

‘Inform Mr Miller that there are two possible leading suspects, neither of whom are in the house,’ he said. ‘Efforts are being made to locate them.’

Neither the Vincent’s tie, nor either one of the missing cricket balls, nor anything else that might have been used as a weapon emerged as the guests were searched; and when Parry learned that neither Norman nor Hawkhurst had returned to Edenbridge, the process of people being allowed to leave speeded up. With uncomfortable words of sympathy for their shattered host and hostess, the guests hurried away, anxious to escape the stunned atmosphere. Apart from the first police siren, the murder had caused little disturbance in Bellringer Street which remained silent as dawn seeped into the eastern sky. As Maltravers and Tess crossed the road to the Penroses, the song of an early blackbird bubbled through the early-morning quietness from a tree in the churchyard. They let themselves in by the kitchen door and Tess started to make a cup of tea.

‘I don’t feel like bed,’ she said. ‘And anyway, we’d better stay up and tell Peter and Susan what’s happened. When did they leave?’

‘While you and Simon were at the church,’ said Maltravers. ‘Sometime after eleven I think. Pity we didn’t go earlier as well, it would have saved a lot of hassle.’

‘Well, at least we were able to put the police in the picture about Luke Norman,’ said Tess, peering into a collection of tins on the work surface to discover where Susan kept the tea bags.

‘Yes, but are we right? Somebody else—and I’m fairly positive it’s Alister York—may have brought cousin Oliver into the picture. Remember him at the match?’

Tess, who had just had one surprise when she discovered that tea-bags lived in a tin marked mustard, turned to him inquiringly.

‘It was only something I half overheard,’ Maltravers explained. ‘But that chap Parry appeared to be giving instructions to find Oliver. And that ties in with something Simon told me: on his death, Oliver is next in line.’

‘Are we wrong about Luke then?’

‘Possibly. After all, we could only tell the police what we knew which, on the face of it, seems highly persuasive. But there was no sign of cousin Oliver anywhere about the place after Simon’s body was discovered and—’

‘Yes there was,’ Tess interrupted. ‘I saw him when I was looking for Luke Norman after you went upstairs. He was just going out of the front door.’

‘Was he, by God? Well, well, well.’ Maltravers rocked back on the kitchen chair and gazed at the ceiling. ‘He actually left the house just after Alister York said he had found the body.’

‘Yes, but he might not have known about it,’ Tess objected. ‘We only knew because we happened to be in the kitchen with Trevor and Evelyn when York came down. The word was beginning to spread but not that fast.’

‘Nonetheless, Simon had not been dead for very long when York found him—I know that from seeing the body myself— so it is quite possible that Oliver did it. York didn’t say to Trevor or me that he had seen anybody near the study…but perhaps he told the police that he saw Oliver. Interesting.’

Tess squeezed the tea bags against the sides of the mugs with a spoon, deep in new thoughts.

‘If it was Luke, he did it for love…or jealousy,’ she said. ‘If it was Oliver he did it for money.’

‘Classic motives all round,’ observed Maltravers.

‘Unless there’s somebody else of course.’

‘Three potential murderers in one house? Don’t you think that’s overkill? Sorry, I wasn’t trying to be funny.’

For the next hour they sat in the kitchen discussing the murder and trying to conjure up theories about the stolen tie and why both cricket balls should have disappeared. Outside, from across the road, they heard the occasional sound of the Darbys’ front door opening and closing and faint footsteps as people made their way down Bellringer Street. Beneath the limp calm of the morning the shockwaves of bloody murder were spreading with uncanny softness, a trickle of snow accumulating relentlessly towards an avalanche. Old Capley did not know the horror it would wake up to. It was seven o’clock when the silence of the house was distantly pierced by the brisk cheeping of an alarm clock, cut off after only a few seconds, before there was the sound of movement from the bedroom above their heads. Maltravers and Tess looked at each other uneasily as footsteps descended the stairs and Peter appeared in the doorway.

‘God, are you still up?’ he said in sleepy surprise. ‘Is the party still going on?’

‘The party finished some hours ago,’ Maltravers told him. ‘I’m afraid we’ve got some bad news.’

Peter, who had been shuffling instinctively towards the electric kettle, stopped and looked at him sharply.

‘What’s the matter? You’re both all right, aren’t you?’

‘We’re fine,’ Maltravers assured him. ‘But I’m afraid that Simon is dead. He’s been murdered.’

Peter stared at him for several seconds as though waiting for him to say something else then looked suddenly depressed. ‘Jesus, you’re not joking, are you?’

‘I wish I was. Sit down and we’ll tell you about it.’

Peter listened in silence while Tess made more tea and Maltravers quietly recounted the events of the previous few hours.

‘Thank you,’ he said distantly, as Tess placed a mug in front of him.

‘I’ve made one for Susan,’ Tess said gently. ‘I think you’d better go up and tell her.’

Peter shook his head as if to dispel some sort of trance.

‘Pardon? Oh, yes, I’ll…Christ Almighty!’ It had all sunk in, but he appeared unable to comprehend it as he stared into space in disbelief. ‘I’ll be back down in…’

He left the kitchen looking as though he was trying to find some explanation that would make it all go away. After a few moments Tess and Maltravers winced as they heard Susan’s cry from upstairs and a few minutes later she came down, Peter protectively holding her arm. Tears were running down her shock-crinkled features.

‘Come and sit down,’ Tess said firmly and led her like a child to a chair. Susan’s reaction was different from her husband’s; where Peter had been numbed, she appeared gripped by some sort of panic, eyes gazing wildly and trembling violently. After a few seconds she looked round at them all as though seeing them for the first time, half pleading, half desperate.

‘Don’t you think you’d better go back to bed?’ Tess suggested. ‘We’ll take care of the children’s breakfast.’

‘No…no.’ Susan spoke like an automaton. ‘I’ll do that…I’ll have to…I must…’ She started to stand up, one hand pressing against the immense swelling at the front of her nightdress.

‘Darling, the baby…’ Peter began, stepping towards her.

The words had an eruptive effect. Susan gave a scream of anguish, slapping her hand over her mouth to stop it as she backed away from him. Peter moved swiftly to her side and tried to put his arm round her shoulders but she shook him off savagely.

‘Don’t touch me! Go away!’

‘Come on,’ he said soothingly. ‘Let’s get you upstairs and—’

‘Let me go!’

Her reaction was now so violent that for a moment they all froze as she stared at her husband in horror, oblivious of the presence of Maltravers and Tess.

‘Don’t you realise?’ she shouted at him. ‘Don’t you? It’s not yours! It’s Simon’s!’

She stared round at them all, like someone seeing the desolation of their life, then ran out of the room, faster than seemed possible in her condition. Peter suddenly pulled himself together and followed her without a word. As Tess and Maltravers stood like statues there was the sound of small footsteps and Emma appeared from her bedroom in the cellar, sleepily clutching a brown-and-yellow knitted hedgehog.

‘What’s the matter with Mummy?’ she asked. ‘Why is she crying? Is the baby coming?’

With the portraits of twelve generations of his ancestors as mute witnesses, Lord Pembury heard without any betrayal of emotion that his only son had been murdered from two policemen in the library of Edenbridge House at two-thirty in the morning. He thanked them for informing him, then told the butler, who had let the officers in, to see if either Hawkhurst or Norman were in their rooms. When they were not, Pembury assured the police that he would inform them immediately if either man returned to the house, and gave their home addresses. When the police had left, Pembury instructed the butler to waken his wife’s personal maid and then go back to bed. The rest of the household staff could be told later in the morning. While waiting for the maid, he telephoned the senior partner of the family’s solicitors at his home and asked him to come to Edenbridge House immediately. When the maid came into the library, he explained what had happened and that her mistress would need her. Then he went upstairs again and for more than an hour was alone with his wife.

Dawn had broken when he dressed and left Edenbridge House to walk out into the park and stand alone by the gate of the field in which he had watched his son ride his first horse. Overlapping images of an inquisitive, chuckling infant, coltish adolescent, hare-brained student, graceful cricketer, and beloved young man flickered in and out of his memory like fragments of a film. Occasionally his mouth gave a bitter twitch as recollection dripped acid on raw, exposed wounds, but when he returned to the house he was completely composed and throughout the rest of that day and all the weeks that followed the grief that had ripped through him never showed itself in his public face. Protected by the same awful control, his wife personally replied to more than four hundred letters of condolence, taking as much care with those clumsily written on cheap notepaper as those postmarked from the House of Lords, several bearing Royal seals and the one signed simply Cantuar; a lifetime of learning how to do the proper thing until it was second nature held father and mother together with steel bands of correct behaviour. Those who said it was abnormal did not understand the deep-rooted English aristocracy; and none of them knew of the many nights, in the darkness and privacy of their separate rooms, when Lord and Lady Pembury wept tears of rage, disbelief and helplessness.

The atmosphere in the Penrose household was as fragile as burnt paper. Susan had angrily told Peter to leave her alone and he was sitting in the kitchen looking dazed, as Tess and Maltravers tactfully took over the demands of the children. The little boy was happily showing Maltravers his collection of machines for miniature inter-galactic warfare in plastic and Tess occupied Emma by asking her to help find things for their breakfast.

‘But when is the baby coming?’ the little girl asked eagerly. ‘I’ve made it a present.’

‘Not yet, poppet,’ Tess replied. ‘But it won’t be very long. Now, where does Mummy hide the cornflakes?’

They endured an eternity of the vibrations trembling through the room, smothering them as best they could, until the mother whose turn it was to take a collection of children for their Sunday morning riding lessons arrived. She bounced into the kitchen through the side door, normality in jodhpurs and check shirt, and was mercifully discreet.

‘Come on you two,’ she ordered briskly. ‘Got your riding hats? Crops? Gloves? Heads? Right, into the car. We’re running late again.’

As the children scampered outside, she turned to Peter.

‘I’ve heard,’ she said simply. ‘The kids don’t know? Right, I’ll keep quiet about it. One of mine knows but I’ve warned him that if he breathes a word the pony goes straight to the glue factory. It’s best they hear it from you or Susan; they were very fond of Simon. Bye.’

Her raised voice, boisterously laying down the law to a car full of chattering children, floated in through the window, then a door slammed and the car drove away. Apprehension, drained emotions and weariness settled amid the frozen silence in the room.

‘Would you like me to talk to Susan?’ Tess asked quietly. Peter looked at her gratefully.

‘Would you? She won’t talk to me. She just told me to get out. I don’t—’

‘I’ll take her another cup of tea,’ Tess interrupted. ‘We can’t just leave her up there on her own.’

Susan was back in bed, staring without seeing out of the window, when Tess opened the door. She did not look round as Tess put the teacup on the bedside table and sat down on the duvet.

‘The children have gone riding,’ she explained.

For a moment Susan did not react, then turned and smiled thinly out of a face tarnished with tears, shiny without make-up and chestnut hair uncombed.

‘Thank you…I’m so sorry about all this.’

‘Do you want to talk about it? I think you should.’

‘God, I’ve kept it bottled up inside me for so long.’ Susan leaned back against the pillow and sighed. ‘There’s been nobody I could…do you mind?’

Tess shook her head and Susan pulled another Kleenex from the box beside her, blew her nose inelegantly, then crumpled the tissue in her fist. She looked out of the window again as she spoke.

‘It was when Peter was away last year. It was half term and the children were staying with my parents. I was making some new curtains for the bathroom one evening when Simon arrived. He was upset about something and said he’d had a row with Luke Norman…You met him at the party didn’t you? I don’t know what it was about.’

Tess said nothing as she filed away the implications of the remark.

‘Anyway, I’d opened a bottle of wine and offered him a glass. I knew he’d had some before, but Simon never became objectionable.’ Susan swallowed nervously. ‘He stayed and we opened another bottle then he started getting maudlin. He said he needed the love of a good woman. Honestly, Tess, he was as corny as that. I knew I’d drunk too much, but I took hold of his hand and he said something about Peter being very lucky. Then he kissed me and I suddenly realised how much I liked him. Peter was away…and things hadn’t been too good between us. I should have stopped him, but I didn’t.’

Her voice had gone very faint and she looked down at the shreds of the tissue which she had been absently tearing to pieces.

‘I shouldn’t have…’ She began to weep, easily and guiltily. Tess took her hand and squeezed it softly.

‘But you went to bed?’ she coaxed. Susan gave a little bitter laugh.

‘Oh, no. My conscience wouldn’t let me use the bed.’ A trace of hysteria entered her voice. ‘We did it on the settee like a couple of teenagers. Christ, it was uncomfortable. Somehow it sobered us both up and he apologised and left when I told him to.’

‘And that was it?’ Tess asked. Susan nodded. ‘And what happened when Peter came back?’

‘Oh Tess, I made love to him like it was going out of style. I felt so bad and it wasn’t his fault and I wanted him so much and…’ She shivered slightly. ‘Then I found I was pregnant.’

‘But how long was it before Peter returned?’ Tess demanded.

‘A couple of days…and I know, I know. I’ve kept telling myself the baby’s his because I’ve got to believe that it is. But the thought’s always been there and it’s been nearer and nearer the surface as the time’s approached. I just couldn’t handle it when Simon turned up after the concert, then when I heard what had happened this morning something cracked and I became convinced it really is his. I was so shocked I didn’t know what I was doing or saying down there. When Peter said something about the baby, it just came out.’

Tess looked at her with something like a motherly sternness.

‘Now let’s get this straight, lady,’ she said. ‘Gus told me before we came here that you and Peter were among the happiest married couples he knows and I’ve seen enough in a very short time to agree with him. Good marriages can survive worse things than a casual lay that didn’t even amount to a one-night stand.’

‘You’re not married,’ Susan replied. ‘You wouldn’t say that if you were.’

‘All right, I’m not married,’ Tess agreed. ‘But if I was, and if I really loved my husband, it would take more than a drunken tumble that didn’t mean anything to make me let go. You love Peter or you wouldn’t be feeling the way you do. You’ve been carrying this like a hair shirt for all these months. For God’s sake—no, never mind God—for your sake, for Peter’s, for Timmy and Emma’s sake, start getting it sorted out. I know what Simon was like, hundreds of women would have fallen for that boyish charm approach. Did you talk to him about it?’

‘Yes. He was dreadfully upset and said he’d stop seeing me and Peter but I told him not to be silly. We’ve known him ever since we moved to Old Capley and he’s an old friend…was an old friend. I said we should just…’ Susan gestured helplessly. Tess let go of her hand and stood up.

‘I’m going downstairs to tell Peter you want to talk to him,’ she said firmly. ‘Don’t argue, you’re going to tell him. You owe him.’

Susan’s automatic protests stopped in mid-sentence.

‘All right. Thank you. I just needed someone to tell me that, that was all. It will be all right, won’t it?’

Tess pursed her lips. ‘Marriages don’t come with guarantees, you have to make them work yourself. If they get broken, you can throw them away or try to mend them. I think this one is worth mending. Go for it.’

As she was leaving the room, Susan called her back.

‘But what about Simon? I’ve been so…I haven’t been able to think about that. He’s been murdered? Why? Who by?’

‘Nobody knows at the moment,’ said Tess. ‘The police are sorting it out. But that’s not very important to you and Peter just now.’

As Tess re-entered the kitchen, Peter and Maltravers stopped talking and looked at her: Peter anxious, Maltravers inquiring.

‘Susan wants to talk to you,’ she announced. ‘She wants to tell you what she’s just told me.’

As Peter stood up and went to walk past her, Tess took hold of his arm.

‘She’s very pregnant, very confused and very unhappy. Just listen.’ She watched him go, trying to assess his mood. ‘How is he?’

Maltravers lit his twelfth cigarette since they had returned to the house. ‘Disorientated is the word, I think. So what happened between Susan and Simon?’

‘Not a great deal when you get down to it,’ said Tess. ‘We’d better get some sleep while they talk it out. I’ll tell you upstairs. We’ll leave a note and set the alarm for lunchtime.’

With murder and marital mischance spinning through their minds, Maltravers and Tess fell asleep just as Oliver Hawkhurst was waking up. For a few moments he looked at the unfamiliar bedroom ceiling, grimacing through a relentless timpani drummer who had taken a lease on the inside of his head, his mouth feeling as though he had consumed vast quantities of very old blotting paper. It had been a night of over-frantic coupling, ungracious, ungainly and finally unsatisfactory; when he had flopped on to his back and started snoring within minutes of its grunting, deficient culmination, his companion had regarded him with acute distaste and decided that a repeat performance was not worth the effort involved. The anticipated pleasures of illicit passion had now left nothing more than a smell of stale sweat and a mutual realisation of the inanity of meaningless fornication, which had earlier seemed such an alluring prospect.

She remained asleep as Hawkhurst quietly slipped out of the bed and gathered up his clothes, scattered across the floor when the excitement of new flesh had been at its height; the broken threads from two lost shirt buttons were all that remained of the eager lust of the small hours of the night. He dressed hastily, feeling sticky and uncomfortable in the crumpled clothing, then showed a meaningless touch of consideration before he left. He had to think for a moment until he remembered her name, then half roused her with his hand on her naked shoulder.

‘Harriet, I’ve got to go,’ he whispered. Groggy with residual alcohol and exhausted by frustrated physical effort, she made a low, irritated, growling noise at the back of her throat; the stuff of which the poets sing ended on that faint animal sound.

Hawkhurst sluiced away the worst of the roasted salt permeating his mouth with a glass of water from the sink in the back kitchen, noticing there was a door leading out into the small, paved, courtyard garden behind the house, which offered a more discreet exit than skulking out of the front. The garden, like the Darbys’ higher up the street, also had a door in the end wall, but this time leading on to a narrow, stony alleyway running behind several houses. He followed it up the hill and found his way into a corner of the churchyard and through there to another way out by the Bellringer Street lodge. A few people arriving for morning service took no notice as he passed near them and walked on into Edenbridge Park. He had decided that his appearance, crumpled, unwashed and unshaven, would only lead to difficult questions at the house and he made his way round to the private car park, intending simply to drive home and telephone with some sort of explanation later.

As he crunched across the gravel he stiffened as he saw two uniformed policemen standing next to his car. He thought about turning away, but they had already seen him approaching, keys visible in his hand. All he could do was pretend to ignore them as if their presence could have nothing to do with him; it required a considerable effort.

‘Mr Oliver Hawkhurst?’ one of them asked as he reached the car.

‘Yes. What do you want?’ He made his voice sound brusque and impatient, a gentleman not accustomed to being accosted by the police.

‘We are officers with Capley police, Sir, and would like you to accompany us to the station.’

Hawkhurst looked the constable up and down coldly, the mask of his face covering panic-riddled thoughts; there was more than one matter in his life in which he would rather the police did not take too close an interest.

‘What the devil for?’ he demanded, with as much cocksure arrogance as he could gather together.

‘Your cousin, Lord Dunford, has been found murdered, sir, and we have reason to believe that you may be able to assist with police inquiries into this matter.’

Both policemen later reported that Oliver Hawkhurst went very white at that moment.

Maltravers and Tess entered the kitchen again cautiously to find their friends going through the motions of living their lives.

‘Oh, why didn’t you stay in bed?’ Susan was sorting out the contents of the kitchen rubbish drawer as though the tedious occupation was very important to her. ‘You must be worn out.’

‘We’re all right,’ Maltravers assured her. ‘We can catch up on some sleep tonight.’

‘Then are you hungry? I’m sorry, I haven’t thought about lunch.’

‘Don’t bother for us,’ Tess said. ‘We’re going down to the pub to grab something.’

‘Are you sure? It’s no trouble…I’ll have to…’ Susan looked at them hesitantly. ‘We thought you might not want to stay now.’

‘Would you like us to?’ asked Maltravers.

Susan looked at Peter, who was filling in the o’s in the headlines of the Sunday Times.

‘If you don’t mind,’ she said. ‘We…think it might help. But…’

‘Then we stay,’ said Maltravers firmly. ‘Apart from anything else, an abrupt departure might give the police the wrong impression at the moment. I told them we were staying here for a few days and if they find we’ve gone they might jump to all sorts of conclusions. Of course, you don’t know the full story yet do you?’

‘We know.’ Peter threw down his pen, suddenly provoked by the meaninglessness of what he was doing. ‘The Old Capley grapevine is firing on all cylinders. The latest scuttlebutt is that Oliver Hawkhurst has been arrested.’

‘And charged?’ Maltravers asked sharply.

‘Don’t know. He was seen being driven out of the park in a police car earlier this morning. However there’s also a rumour that Luke Norman has vanished and the police are looking for him as well.’

‘Then you know just about everything that we do,’ said Maltravers. ‘Once they decide which one it is, it should be an open-and-shut case. We’ll be back later.’

As they walked down Bellringer Street to the Batsman, two police cars were still outside the Darbys’ house and the street contained several groups of people taking carefully disguised interest. Opposite the cars a man on a stepladder was repairing a broken window.

‘Heard about it then?’ he asked as they reached him. ‘About Lord Dunford being murdered?’ His day had clearly been considerably enlivened by the events and he was prepared to talk about it even to complete strangers.

‘Yes, we’ve heard,’ Maltravers replied briefly.

‘Bad business,’ the workman commented feelingly. ‘I liked Lord Dunford, he was a good boss.’

‘You work for the Estate then?’

‘Yep. Lord and Lady P’s very cut up about it and they’ve pulled in Mr Oliver for questioning. Never did like ‘im.’ The man’s tone indicated that this personal dislike of Hawkhurst had been instantly transmuted into a conviction of his guilt. Maltravers was disinclined to discuss the matter with a garrulous and morbidly fascinated workman standing opposite the house where it had occurred.

‘What happened to the window?’ he asked as they prepared to move on.

‘Bloody drunks from the pub.’ The man gave the unlikely impression that hard drink was unknown to him. ‘It’s always bleeding happening.’

‘The Estate owns this house then?’

‘Yeah. Mr York and his wife live here. He sent me down to fix it.’

Maltravers reflected that a broken window would have been a quite unnecessary added annoyance for Lord Pembury’s secretary in the circumstances, but at least the Edenbridge workforce could be called on to replace it on a Sunday.

Run by a landlord with the attractive Pickwickian name of Juggins, the Batsman had survived more than two centuries of changing drinking habits without undue damage. The brewery chain that now owned it had renovated the premises without the tacky introduction of Space Invaders, jukebox, polystyrene mock beams, hideous plastic padding round the bar or half a ton of brass wrought into imitation horse decorations and suspended against every upright surface. Polished wooden settles, honoured with time and fellowship, had been preserved, although they now stood on fitted carpet rather than congealed sawdust, and decrepit, pungent latrines had been replaced by modern plumbing. Maltravers’ only complaint was his standard one, that he had to ask for his pint to be served in a traditional dimpled jug rather than the ubiquitous straight glass which he regarded, like electric organs, as part of the continuing curse of Cain upon mankind. He ordered their food, then carried his pint and Tess’s whisky and water to where she was sitting by a striking stone fireplace, recently rescued from behind a Victorian plastering operation carried out for no apparent reason. The pub was full of talk and the talk was of nothing but murder.

Half-listening, Maltravers gathered that Hawkhurst’s widely reported departure in a police car appeared to be regarded as much more significant than the parallel search for Luke Norman. Several slanderous remarks made by the customers in the lounge bar indicated that killing for financial gain was a very plausible motive, which cast a revealing light on the mores of Bellringer Street. Their food was brought to their table and they had just started eating when they were approached by a young man with the face of a starving ferret.

‘Excuse me,’ he said. ‘I’m from the Sun.’

‘Welcome to our planet,’ Maltravers replied cordially. ‘Have a drink.’

‘Pardon?’ The reporter seemed to be working out whether or not he had been insulted. Maltravers wondered how many more of his breed had been despatched at high speed to Old Capley for sensational, seamy and preferably sexy titbits that could be blown up out of all proportion. The excesses of parts of his previous profession had been something he had been very happy to leave behind.

‘I don’t think we can help you very much,’ he added. ‘We’re strangers round here.’

‘Oh.’ Terrified that the opposition were even then working on an exclusive angle he had missed, the journalist feared another blind alley of inquiry. ‘You don’t know about the murder then?’

‘We know there’s been a murder,’ Maltravers admitted. ‘And I heard somebody mention that the man who runs the local sex shop has been arrested.’

Tess choked on a mouthful of Stilton as the reporter’s face lit up like a man offered the Holy Grail of a Page One by-line. ‘What sex shop?’ he demanded eagerly.

‘I presume it must be the one in the square at the bottom of the hill,’ Maltravers replied. ‘Sells kinky underwear and that sort of thing.’

‘Who told you?’ There was a hint of anxiety in the question.

‘Someone at the bar mentioned it a few minutes ago.’ Maltravers was keeping his lying within the bounds of plausibility. ‘A chap from…which paper was it, darling?…the Mirror, I think, went off with him. I think they—’ He stopped and grinned wickedly as the reporter fled with a frantic yelp of thanks.

‘That was very unkind,’ Tess protested, still half laughing.

Maltravers distastefully watched the running outline of the journalist flash past the window of the pub and down the hill.

‘On the day the Belgrano was sunk off the Falklands,’ he remarked, ‘the Sun gave a prize of a fiver and a tin of corned beef to a schoolboy who’d sent in a joke about Argentinians being killed. People who choose to work for papers like that deserve everything they get. He’ll find out that it’s a false lead soon enough.’

He turned his attention back to his beer and Sunday ploughman’s lunch. ‘However, I fear that Bellringer Street and its neighbourhood are going to become acutely aware of the disadvantages of a free Press over the next few days. Upper-class murder, middle-class respectability and— it’s certain to come out—homosexuality. What more could any News Editor ask for in the silly season?’

It is a fact universally acknowledged among policemen that, having executed their crime, murderers do not then considerately take the trouble to search out a perfectly clean, smooth surface at the scene and carefully press all their fingers and thumbs on it to leave a convenient set of pristine prints; indeed, even single good impressions are not always found. However, finger-marks from various parts of the hand are usually revealed by a visitation of aluminium dust, and the room in which Dunford had been killed contained nineteen such different marks, offering confusion rather than possible leads. The sticky tape on the carpet had garnered a considerable collection of dust and other fragmentary bits and pieces, any one of which might prove invaluable, but only when the police had a definite, chargeable suspect.

On Sunday afternoon Detective Chief Superintendent Keith Miller surveyed the results of the forensic examination impassively, then turned to the medical report drawn up after the post-mortem. Stripped of its medical jargon, it said that Dunford had died after being hit a number of times—probably four—with a hard object on the left side of the head, damaging flesh and bone sufficiently to cause fatal damage to the brain; the pathologist noted that the skull had been markedly thinner than average. Detailed examination of the wound had revealed ridged patterns on the skin corresponding to the stitching round a cricket ball and the angle of blows suggested someone at least as tall as the deceased. The strength that would have been required indicated a man or an unusually powerful woman.

Miller leaned back in the chair that seemed too big for his bantamweight frame—he had only qualified for the police by a fraction of an inch in his height—and his narrow, inverted triangle face somehow managed to contract even further as he considered the situation, the pencil-thin moustache almost bridging the space between his cheeks. Three of the party guests had already indicated their intention of calling in their lawyers, and one had complained to the Chief Constable about the manner in which police inquiries at the house had been conducted. None of this concerned Miller; having served for a period on the Fraud Squad he was accustomed to outbursts of defensive outrage from allegedly respectable citizens when their affairs came under police scrutiny; the complaint he would just have to live with.

‘So what have we got?’ he said to David Parry. ‘Mr Hawkhurst is denying everything and his lawyer—Lord Pembury’s family solicitor no less—is becoming increasingly tetchy. That gentleman must be handled carefully, incidentally. Meanwhile our Mr Norman has done a runner. What do you think?’

The fourth son of a Parks Attendant with Capley District Council, Parry had been born, bred and conditioned by life in the New Town and regarded Old Capley as an alien world populated by toffee-nosed, stinking-rich snobs. A constant lack of money in his childhood had made that commodity very important to him.

‘It’s got to be Hawkhurst,’ he said positively. ‘He had opportunity, motive and he ran.’

‘Not very far,’ Miller observed. ‘His story is that after the party he spent the rest of the night having it off in a house less than thirty yards away—we’ll have to see what the lady concerned has to say about that—then he walked straight into us. As for opportunity, just about everybody in the house had that.’

‘Yes, but he’s skint,’ Parry argued. ‘He’s up to his ears in debt and now he stands to inherit a fortune.’

‘And it’s all a bit obvious, isn’t it?’ objected Miller. ‘If he really wanted to kill Dunford—and I accept he’s got reason to welcome his death—wouldn’t he have planned it a bit better? He’s not all that bright but is he such a complete wally? If I’d committed murder, I wouldn’t jump into bed with some randy bit I’d only just met and hope she’d give me an alibi. I’ll reserve judgment until we find out what Mrs Harriet Harper, has to say, but I don’t see Hawkhurst as our man at the moment. Someone’s seeing her now, aren’t they?’

‘Sergeant Home’s round there,’ Parry confirmed. ‘But if it isn’t Hawkhurst, it must be this poof Norman.’

Miller sighed. ‘Sergeant, there are at least three senior officers in this county’s force who are, to my knowledge, what you refer to as poofs and I’ve heard you speak very highly of two of them.’

Parry looked resentful as his superior casually exposed another facet of his prejudices.

‘However, Mr Norman does interest me,’ Miller continued. ‘This doesn’t look like a murder that was planned in advance and a fit of passion after too much to drink looks very possible. And Mr Norman certainly appears to have done a runner.’

As the two men spoke, reports had been received by Capley CID saying that Norman, whose MG had gone from Edenbridge House by the time the police arrived, was not at his flat above the Richmond antique shop and efforts to trace him were continuing.

‘What do we do then?’ Parry asked.

‘Keep collecting evidence,’ Miller said simply. ‘We’ve not got enough to charge Hawkhurst—or anyone else for that matter—at the moment. We should have a statement from this Harper woman fairly soon and in the meantime we concentrate on finding those missing cricket balls. There’s no sign of them in the house or the garden and we’ve started searching the churchyard, right? Keep me informed.’

Parry left the room unsatisfied. His basic hostility towards the rich and privileged had been amplified by Hawkhurst’s imperious behaviour—the smooth London lawyer had thrown in some belittling remarks about provincial police forces as well—hardening it into a desire that he should be guilty. He was privately inclined to coax a confession out of him by methods generally frowned upon by the defenders of civil liberties. He returned to the incident room to read another report that continuing inquiries among Luke Norman’s family and known friends had still not traced him.

‘This is intolerable!’

Sunday-school teacher, parish councillor and primary-school governor Harriet Harper glared at Sergeant Kate Horne with inflamed fury.

‘Sergeant, I must warn you that if the police repeat such an offensive suggestion, then I shall seek legal advice and take the most serious action. I do not casually go to bed with men I happen to meet at parties!’

She sat in the high-backed wicker chair, arms folded defensively in front of her as Kate Horne looked back impassively.

‘I’m sure you appreciate that we must investigate what Mr Hawkhurst has told us, Mrs Harper,’ she said. ‘He is being questioned in connection with a murder and claims he was with you in this house at the time. If that is true, it could eliminate him from our inquiries. Are you saying that he never came to this house last night?’

Harriet Harper turned away evasively, biting her lip in fury. Hawkhurst had been a gauche and incompetent bed partner; now he was using the incident to provide himself with an alibi. After a moment’s hesitation, she looked at the sergeant again defiantly.

‘He did not!’

‘I see. Thank you.’ Kate Horne pulled a notebook out of the pocket of her suit. ‘And are you prepared to make an official statement to that effect, Mrs Harper?’

‘If it’s absolutely necessary, yes,’ she snapped.

‘Very well.’ The sergeant paused as she took out her pen and unscrewed the top. ‘Of course you realise that if Mr Hawkhurst continues to claim he was here, the police may have to send forensic experts to examine your bedroom? Just to settle the matter beyond argument.’

Harriet Harper stared at her. ‘Are you saying the police will not accept my word?’

‘In the circumstances, I’m afraid not. If Mr Hawkhurst persists with his story, his lawyer will certainly insist we investigate in any event.’

The woman looked at her apprehensively. ‘Surely I could object?’

‘Yes, but we would secure a warrant if necessary. I’m sorry, Mrs Harper, but the police would have no choice in the matter.’

‘And what would you expect to find?’

Kate Home shrugged. ‘A number of things. Hair on the pillow, fingerprints perhaps, traces of sweat…’ She smiled innocently. ‘And other secretions. We would of course notice if all the bed linen had been changed.’

For several seconds the two women stared at each other, then Harriet Harper lowered her eyes in defeat.

‘Mr Hawkhurst came to my house after the party. Is that enough for you?’

‘Thank you, Mrs Harper, we don’t need all the details. Your private life is not the concern of the police.’ Kate Home held her pen against a page of the notebook. ‘Can you tell me what time he arrived?’

‘One-fifteen.’

The sergeant looked up sharply. ‘Are you quite certain of that, Mrs Harper?’

Harriet Harper gestured towards a mahogany grandmother clock in the corner of the front room where they were sitting.

‘It had just chimed the quarter hour when he came in,’ she said.

‘And how long before that did you leave the party?’

‘I’m not certain. About twenty minutes, perhaps half an hour.’

‘And Mr Hawkhurst was still in the house when you left?’

‘Yes.’

Kate Horne reported back to the inspector in charge of the incident room an hour later.

‘She admitted it finally,’ she said. ‘But didn’t we get the first call about the murder at one-eighteen? I thought so. Then according to Harper’s statement, Hawkhurst could have been in that house up to only a few minutes earlier. It doesn’t look much of an alibi to me.’

Early on Sunday evening, the police released a photograph of Luke Norman, which they had found in his flat, to the media. Despite a carefully-worded statement that they only wanted to question him in order to eliminate him from their inquiries—the customary oblique phrase they would use if they wanted to talk to Hitler about World War II—the press devoured it hungrily. One of London’s most famous homosexuals made a good deal of money tipping off several reporters about Dunford’s hitherto unsuspected private life and, unfettered by someone being inconveniently charged (which would have severely restricted their behaviour), the tabloids deliriously plunged into a sea of scandal. ‘Queer peer’s boyfriend in murder hunt’ was one of the more restrained headlines.

Alister York was not mad, but he had been hideously damaged by a father who recognised no other way to bring up his children than by brutality. Childish tears of disappointment, poor marks at school, the playful waywardness of a small boy, had all brought the same vicious physical reprisals. The buckle end of a belt, a stinging cane across the knuckles, deliberate slaps across the head, had hammered York into a distorted shape. He did not hate his father; the pain and terror had been warped into an unquestioning acceptance and respect. He was contemptuous of those who paraded similar terrors from their childhood and wanted sympathy; they had been broken and had not deserved the advantages of a strong parent. Where others had hatred and bitterness, he had a perverse admiration and could now joke with the retired senior Civil Servant in Hastings about moments of rage and assault that had become the twisted remembered joys of infancy. Father and son now shared the same attitudes; simple bullies who could see only virtue in their savagery. York’s mother’s suicide they could only comprehend as the ultimate weakness of a woman who could not cope with reality. As secretary to Lord Pembury, York was conscientious, honest and diligent; to those who worked under him he was demanding but efficient; to his friends he was cordial but cold; to his wife he was an iron tyrant.

On Sunday evening, Joanna York became aware that her husband was staring at her as she embroidered tiny, meticulous stitches into a pattern of leaves on a linen tablecloth. Feeling the weight of his eyes across the room, she looked up inquiringly.

‘What is it?’ she asked, and when the stony expression on his face did not change, she felt apprehensive. Somehow she had displeased him and her best defence would be not to argue, which would only inflame his displeasure into terrifying, crushing temper. She could not imagine what she might have inadvertently done.

‘I was just thinking how well you’re controlling your feelings,’ he said.

‘My feelings?’ she said cautiously, looking down as she started to weave her needle in and out of the cloth again. ‘What about?’ Her mind was racing, trying to work out what he meant.

‘About the death of your lover, the handsome Lord Dunford.’

The needle twitched and a spot of blood dropped on to the emerald stitching. It was a reaction of shock and amazement, but York regarded it as proof; it took him less than an hour to break her.

A few doors away in Bellringer Street, Maltravers and Tess felt that they were stepping with extreme care around a great hole as Peter and Susan gingerly probed the gaping wound that had appeared in their marriage. The difficulties caused by almost every casual remark carrying suspected overtones had been curiously relieved by Dunford’s murder; gently telling Timmy and Emma that Uncle Simon was dead was actually preferable to trying to behave normally before the children went to bed. Maltravers turned on the television and the four of them saw Luke Norman’s face staring from the screen as the voiceover said that police were still looking for him.

‘Have they released Oliver then?’ Peter wondered.

‘Well they certainly haven’t charged him,’ said Maltravers, ‘or they wouldn’t be looking so hard for Luke. It looks like they have two high-level suspects and spot the red herring. Even if they have released cousin Oliver they can always pull him in again. It will all depend on what Luke has to say when he turns up.’

‘Which one do you think it was?’ Susan asked.

Maltravers shrugged. ‘My first instincts were that it was Luke because of what we knew, and his disappearance tends to convince me I’m right. But I’m not about to produce brilliant Marpellian theories about stolen ties and missing cricket balls which will neatly explain everything.’

‘You must have thought about them though,’ said Tess. ‘It’s like some obscure crossword clue that would appeal to you.’

Maltravers produced one of the rare smiles seen in the house that evening. ‘All right, I’ve tried. I have the feeling that if those odd matters could be explained a lot more would become clear. But I’m sure the police will sort it out with mundane questioning and procedures. Eccentric speculation will play no part in it. I know truth can be stranger than fiction, but most of the time it’s much less interesting.’

Drained by her own denials, Joanna York sat numbed and defeated, driven almost to believe the lies that had warped her innocence into guilt. She sat like a rabbit in the shadow of a great dog as York loomed over her.

‘That’s better’ he said quietly. ‘I knew you’d confess it in the end.’

Her head shook feebly; she had confessed nothing because there had been nothing to confess. In her weary submission, she felt a final flicker of defiance as her sense of shame became intolerable. She summoned up some last reserve of anger.

‘No!’ she cried bitterly. ‘No, no, no! It wasn’t like that! He only…Oh God, I hate you!’

Alister York hit her. Not in rage but with the casual indifference a man would use to swat a fly. As the shocking sting of the blow crashed through her head, the last glimmer of Joanna’s resistance died.

‘You’re lying,’ he said dismissively. ‘Aren’t you? Admit it.’

As her spirit crumbled, Joanna York actually began to believe that she might have been lying. The warm memory of Dunford paying her attention and being kind before that meaningless kiss under the Christmas mistletoe at Edenbridge House had become twisted into something shameful and dirty.

‘I’m sorry,’ she whimpered. ‘I didn’t mean…’ The remnants of her voice faded. It will stop now, she thought, now I’ve admitted it. Don’t let him hit me again.

‘Very well,’ said York. ‘It’s time we went up to bed.’ It had not stopped, it had only just begun.

It was half past three in the morning when Maltravers gave a series of Cro-Magnon grunts as Tess urgently shook him awake.

‘Gus!’ she insisted. ‘Wake up!’

Maltravers’ consciousness began to emerge hazily through a further collection of inarticulate sounds.

‘What is it?’ he demanded tetchily.

‘The baby. It’s on the way. Get up. I’m going back to help.’

Satisfied she had roused him beyond retreat back into sleep, Tess left the room and Maltravers blinked owlishly at the ceiling for a few moments before rolling out of bed and pulling on his dressing gown. He had grasped the situation and did not like it. He paused on the landing where the sound of anxious voices and mysterious activity from Peter and Susan’s room convinced him that his presence there would be both useless and inconvenient. Downstairs in the kitchen he filled the electric kettle, turned it on and was listening to its rising murmur with growing misgivings as Tess reappeared.

‘What on earth are you doing?’

‘Boiling water of course,’ he said. ‘I’ve never known what it’s for, but I understand it’s required in large quantities at such times.’

‘Well, if you want to scald the poor thing to death it might be useful,’ said Tess. ‘Don’t you know anything about babies?’

‘Enough to recognise one at fifty paces which had always seemed a safe distance,’ he replied, then waved uncertainly at the kettle. ‘Anyway, don’t things have to be sterilised or something?’

‘It’s too late for that,’ Tess told him. ‘Junior’s arrived.’

‘Arrived?’ Maltravers looked round in alarm, as though expecting the diminutive Penrose to appear through the kitchen door at any moment with demands of post-natal attention. ‘Where’s the ambulance? Why hasn’t she been taken to hospital?’

‘It’s a bit late for that. He’s here and he’s fine.’ Tess kissed him on the cheek. ‘Anyway, you can make us all a cup of tea. I do love you when you’re being helpless.’

Peter and Susan’s third child had arrived with what Maltravers later held to be indecent haste. When Susan had punched her husband awake about half an hour earlier to say the baby was coming, he had automatically got up and started dressing to take her to Capley General Hospital. He had just pulled on his underpants when Susan had sharply added that she had meant exactly what she had said—the baby was not only coming, he had virtually arrived. Having witnessed the births of both his other children and with an ability in practical matters which Maltravers did not share, Peter had grabbed towels from the airing cupboard and set to work. Woken by the disturbance, Tess had joined in with encouraging noises and her hand had been squeezed very tightly as the population of Old Capley increased by a male child, weighing, as it later transpired, a healthy seven and a half pounds.

Maltravers entered the bedroom carrying a tray with some trepidation, anxious lest he should tread in something unidentifiable and probably slippery. Back in bed from her delivery on the floor, Susan was clutching the baby protectively in a blanket with Tess sitting beside her. Peter had gone downstairs to telephone the doctor.

‘Come and see him, Gus. He’s beautiful,’ Susan said.

Maltravers cautiously crossed the room and looked down at a tiny head which appeared to have been carved from a beetroot by a reasonably accomplished child and wondered if so much hair was usual.

‘Beautiful,’ he repeated obediently.

Susan was making no effort to hold back her tears and there was relief and joy in her voice as she looked at her second son.

‘He’s Peter’s,’ she said. ‘It looks just like him. You can see that, can’t you Gus?’

Maltravers recalled that when Lewis Carroll was asked for an opinion by doting parents of the very young, he would peer intently into the bassinet then announce, ‘Ah, now that is a baby’, an anodyne formula that appeared to satisfy everyone.

Normally he would personally venture no further, but when Susan looked at him he knew what he had to say.

‘Yes, it looks like Peter. Does he have a name?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Susan. ‘I haven’t thought about that, just about…’ She broke off and gulped emotionally. ‘Perhaps we’ll call him Augustus. After all, you were here when he was born.’

‘Hardly,’ Maltravers contradicted. ‘I was taking evasive action. Think about it later.’

Susan’s eyes flashed past him to the door as Peter returned.

‘Doctor’s on the way,’ he announced. ‘He’s arranging an ambulance to take you both to hospital but I’ve told him everything’s fine. How is he?’

He crossed to the bed and Susan held the baby towards him and he took the bundle of warm, fluffy towel from her.

‘Daddy didn’t make a bad job of helping you arrive, did he?’ he said.

It was, Maltravers felt, a singularly happy place to be as Peter cuddled his son and tears of anything but unhappiness ran down his wife’s face. Their marriage was on the mend and there was no more sleep for any of them that night.

Joanna York did not sleep either, but for very different reasons.

On Monday morning, his inappropriately smiling photograph staring from the front pages of some fifteen million copies of national newspapers, Luke Norman’s face was temporarily among the best known in Britain. Awareness of him was constantly multiplied by regional evening papers and inescapable, repeated flashes on television screens. Unbelievably, more than twenty people failed to recognise him as he left a flat in Chiswick and walked the hundred yards to his car. The flat belonged to one of his former lovers who was on holiday and to whom Norman had omitted to return the key when their affair had ended; it had been a secure, brief sanctuary while he tried to sort out the turmoil in his mind.

The previous evening he had sat and watched the television with a sense of numbed disbelief as he looked at his own face and half heard the news reporter describing his appearance and his car. The bare essentials of the police wanting to question him about Simon’s murder were all that remained in his memory; the shots of the closed antique shop and the carefully phrased comments on his life and sexual tendencies he had forgotten as unimportant. Now he wanted nothing more than to go somewhere where he could be alone with his torment. The police would certainly be tracing his known associates, so the flat would have to be abandoned. As he drove round the M25 circling London towards the M4 and the West Country, the dead man he had loved was a spectral presence in the passenger seat; in the car’s glove compartment was a programme for La Cage aux Folles, a heart-twisting reminder of a night out together.

The motorway unwound before him, a tedious strip of streaming road as successive southern counties approached and retreated. He stopped for petrol and to buy some sandwiches at Leigh Delamere service station—another group of people who looked at him with indifference if at all—then he drove on through Somerset and Devon and into Cornwall as if only the final end of land would make him stop and face the nightmare of it all. The simple act of driving was an escape into another escape until there would be no more escape left.

The motorway ended and he went on westwards, through market towns and villages, brushing past holiday resorts, across moors and between low, swelling hills. The road took him into Penzance with St Michael’s Mount glowing like terracotta in the early evening sunshine, then he followed the narrowing way along the final ragged edges of the peninsula, through Newlyn and Mousehole, now taking every dwindling turn that offered him the promise of further road. He dropped down the steep approach to Lamorna Cove and finally stopped in the little car park overlooking the sea. He had been driving mindlessly for so long that the enforced cessation of movement momentarily confused him and he sat with the engine still running, staring blindly at the shallow waves of the Atlantic lapping softly over the stones on the beach. He was four hundred miles from Bellringer Street but there was no deliverance. As a hawking seagull landed on the wall in front of him and turned its cruelly-beaked face towards the car, Luke Norman leaned against the steering wheel and wept.

Despite their apparent health, Susan and the baby had been taken into hospital for checks and Tess had volunteered to take on the household while she was away. As Maltravers walked with her down Bellringer Street to the butcher’s shop in the square, complete strangers, somehow already aware of the news, stopped them with constant questions. The innocence of a new baby was balm to the wounds of shock, distaste and discomfort Old Capley was feeling in the light of that morning’s papers. Trying to remember a whole series of names of people sending congratulations, they joined the queue in the shop. Maltravers smiled and said good morning to Joanna York who was a couple of places in front of him, but she ignored him.

In an age of anonymous meat sealed in shining plastic wrappings, the Old Capley butcher still displayed his red and cream joints and carcasses on cold marble or hung from steel hooks. Such offerings remained a matter for discussion and critical appraisal and the woman at the front of the queue was examining a piece of silverside like a judge at Cruft’s assessing a potential best in breed. Tess found it restful and rather quaint; Maltravers was mentally recording the conversation as the sort of dialogue that he rarely heard.

As the butcher waited, patient and attentive, the piece of meat was weighed in the hand, its fat content criticised, its capacity to serve six people questioned, its pedigree as first-class beef put under suspicion. Perhaps there was something else? A hand of pork? Possibly a crown roast? The butcher smiled and produced further offerings; it was not a shop for people in a hurry. Tess picked up a leaflet from a display stand and was asking Maltravers if he could think up an ingenious slogan—in not more than ten words—about the joys of eating sausages so that they could win a holiday in Florida, when Joanna York cracked. Everybody in the shop looked surprised as the girl whirled out of her place in the queue and almost ran out of the door, stifling a cry. Other customers seemed startled, even offended at such excessive public behaviour, but Maltravers and Tess glanced at each other in alarm then went after her as she hurried across the square back towards Bellringer Street. Maltravers caught her up within half a dozen paces and touched her shoulder.

‘Are you all right?’ he asked.

Tess reached them both as Joanna York turned to face him, tears pouring from eyes haunted not by grief or shock but what looked like stark terror. In an ordinary young woman outside a parade of shops on a summer’s morning, it was like seeing death in a child’s nursery.

‘Go away! Please!’ Joanna York choked out the words as she shook Maltravers’ hand off her shoulder and turned away, now running as fast as she could up Bellringer Street. They stood and watched her as she reached her house and fumbled with the key, then the sound of the slamming door came down the empty street to them.

‘What the hell’s the matter with her?’ said Maltravers. ‘She looks as though she’s going mad.’

‘I’m going after her,’ said Tess.

‘No.’ Maltravers took hold of Tess’s arm to prevent her. ‘We hardly know the woman and if she’s that upset, she’s not going to welcome strangers turning up on her doorstep.’

‘But we can’t just leave her like that,’ Tess protested. ‘We’re not strangers. You told me you talked to her at the party. For God’s sake, Gus, she looks ready to kill herself! We’ve got to—’

‘Just take your angel-of-mercy hat off for a moment and we’ll compromise,’ Maltravers interrupted. ‘Go and see her later on. She’s too upset at the moment, but she may have calmed down in a while.’

Tess looked back up the hill, fighting her instincts.

‘All right,’ she said finally. ‘But we don’t leave it too long.’

‘No, we don’t,’ Maltravers agreed. ‘There’s something very wrong there and I’d like to know what it is.’

Anticipating various combinations of death, there were several defined lines of inheritance for the Pembury estate. Both of Lord Pembury’s brothers were dead and his sister was unmarried and past child-bearing, leaving his nephew the only direct descendant after his son on his side of the family. Thereafter various members of Lady Pembury’s family could inherit, but a direct male line stretching back to the return of the Stuarts was not to be broken unless absolutely unavoidable. In the circumstances, Sir Gerald Piers-Freeman found it most unsatisfactory that Oliver Hawkhurst should remain under police suspicion.

‘Obviously your nephew could not inherit should he be found to be in any way implicated in Lord Dunford’s death,’ he told Lord Pembury. ‘While clearly his innocence is presumed at this stage, it makes the position somewhat…delicate.’

‘What would you advise?’ asked Pembury.

‘As there appears to be…’ Sir Gerald’s smile was like a razor cut across paper, ‘…forgive me, no question of your own death being in any way imminent, Lord Pembury, I would suggest that we wait. Hopefully Mr Hawkhurst will be exonerated—or found guilty, we must accept that I’m afraid—which will clarify the situation. If that happens fairly speedily, matters should resolve themselves without any undue complications.’

Pembury swivelled round in his study chair and looked out of the window at part of the formal gardens of Edenbridge House. His grief rigidly controlled, he was accepting his responsibilities of securing the future. He had been brought up from childhood with the insistence that the great house and all that it represented were his only in trust; the family was greater than any individual member of it. While he had never particularly liked his nephew—and now was reluctantly forced to consider the possibility that he might conceivably have murdered his son—he recognised the need to make certain arrangements as inescapable.

‘Very well,’ he agreed at last. ‘And what is the precise position at present with regard to the police and my nephew? When will he be released?’

‘Ah…’ Sir Gerald’s smooth, correct and professional manner was momentarily ruffled. ‘There appears to be a difficulty, temporary I am sure. Mr Hawkhurst told the police in my presence that he went to…visit another person in a house nearby after the party. Unfortunately, it transpires that the person concerned is adamant that he arrived at a time which would not have made it totally impossible for him to have committed the crime. It’s most unfortunate, but I’m sure matters will soon be clarified. I have, of course, made it quite clear that unless the police prefer charges and bring Mr Hawkhurst before a magistrate by the appropriate time, I shall insist on his release.’

Alister York, who was sitting on the other side of the desk, noticed that Lord Pembury’s eyes were hooded beneath the lids, a well-known indication that he was growing angry.

‘I see,’ he said after a long pause. ‘Thank you for your advice, Sir Gerald, and for your representation of my nephew.’

The solicitor recognised the note of conclusion and tapped a sheaf of papers together on the desk top before replacing them in his briefcase. ‘My impression is that the police have nothing substantive in the way of evidence,’ he added. ‘There is nothing more than a supposed and quite outrageous motive. However…’ he snapped the briefcase closed and looked at Lord Pembury blandly, ‘…it has occurred to me that the police do not appear to have had to make extensive inquiries to discover the extent of the financial difficulties with which Mr Hawkhurst is faced. In fact, they appear to have known about them almost from the beginning of their investigation, which…leads one to consider who might have informed them so quickly, don’t you think?’

Sir Gerald removed his half-moon glasses and slipped them into a soft leather case as he looked interrogatively at Lord Pembury—then turned his bland gaze on York who stared at him for a moment before looking back cautiously at his employer.

‘What are you suggesting, Sir Gerald?’ Pembury asked.

‘Merely that, if that is the case, it is something to which I might feel it necessary to draw the attention of the police once Mr Hawkhurst has been cleared of any involvement. It would be…interesting to know the motives of whoever afforded them the information.’

York detested the man with his hyper-polished manner, probing suggestions and oh-so-smooth delivery; he lacked the courage to deliver his implications directly but was using York’s presence in the room to wheedle something out like a rat worrying at a can on a trash heap. His insinuations made York decide to bring it into the open.

‘Lord Pembury, I told the police about Mr Hawkhurst.’

Sir Gerald’s smile became that of an Inquisition priest hearing the dragged-out confession of a heretic.

‘You told the police what about Mr Hawkhurst?’ Pembury’s hooded eyes were now almost closed.

‘About his financial problems, that he had been refused further help from yourself and that on Lord Dunford’s death he became your heir.’ York had no intention of giving Sir Gerald any further satisfaction by saying anything that could be construed as an apology for what he had done.

‘And why did you think that was necessary?’

York could almost feel Sir Gerald squirming with pleasure as Pembury put the next question. He turned and looked defiantly at the solicitor before replying.

‘Because they would eventually have found it out—and because it was clearly possible that Mr Hawkhurst could have committed the crime. He had every reason to—that very evening he had approached me about what help the Estate might still give him—and every opportunity. If I had not spoken, I could later have been accused of withholding relevant information. I’m sure Sir Gerald can appreciate the legal position that could have left me in.’

The lawyer turned his face away with the dismissive expression of a politician who does not choose to acknowledge a valid point made by the other side.

‘Why have you not told me this before?’ Pembury asked quietly.

‘I’ve not had the opportunity. I’m sorry, but…’ York cursed himself for using the word, but it was too late, ‘…I was in a position in which I had no alternative. Naturally I trust that Mr Hawkhurst is innocent.’

‘Oh, naturally.’ Sir Gerald’s whisper was so soft it was difficult to be sure that he had spoken.

‘Please be so good as to inform me in future of any further action you may feel…obliged to take in this matter. Thank you, Alister, that will be all for the moment.’

The study clock ticked ten times in the silence before York stood up and left the room. Back in his office he slammed the file he was carrying on to his desk and stood by the window, angry, heaving breath clouding the glass. He had been so certain that suspicion would fall on Hawkhurst, so convinced that what he had told the police would result in a murder charge. And it was still possible. From what the lawyer had said, Hawkhurst’s alibi had been found wanting and he was not yet in the clear. York’s mind wrestled with the problem of what further evidence he might be able to produce that would damn him—and wipe the sneering smile off Sir Gerald’s haughty face.

Maltravers and Tess went to the Batsman again for lunch, where the previously unknown relationship between Dunford and Luke Norman had given the bar-room regulars considerable material for discussion, revealing an interesting mixed reaction towards such behaviour. The prevailing view appeared to be that anyone who played a decent game of cricket could be forgiven certain private habits, although you should keep an eye on them in the shower room after the match. Luke Norman, on the other hand, was too damned pretty for a man, was not known to be a cricketer and had more or less admitted everything by going into hiding. Waiting to be served, Maltravers listened, half-amused, half-appalled.

‘The clever money seems to be on Luke now,’ he remarked as he re-joined Tess. ‘Although prejudice is running riot all over the place.’

‘I’m not too concerned about that at the moment,’ Tess replied. ‘I’m more worried about what’s the matter with Joanna York.’

‘It could, of course, be just that she’s upset at Simon’s murder, but…’ Maltravers thought back and shook his head in rejection. ‘No, it was more than that. Even if there had been something between them—which is quite possible from everything we now know about Simon—why should she look so terrified? Unless, of course…Alister York?’ Tess nodded as he looked across the table at her inquiringly.

‘Oh, yes,’ she said. ‘I’m ahead of you. He’s highly over-possessive and certainly the jealous type. It wouldn’t have taken much of a flirtation by Simon to make him angry—and I think he could be very angry indeed. Which means that he could have done it and now she’s terrified because he’s told her and she’s too scared to go to the police. Christ, it’s plausible Gus.’

‘Horribly plausible,’ agreed Maltravers. ‘You’re not ahead of me, you’ve just said what I’ve been thinking. But what the hell can we do?’

‘Go to the police.’

‘But the trouble is we don’t know anything,’ Maltravers objected. ‘We’ve come up with a theory after seeing Joanna York suffering from some sort of terminal panic, but that doesn’t mean we can start accusing her husband of murder. We’ve already pointed the police in Luke Norman’s direction. They’re going to start getting ideas about us if we come up with somebody else as well without some hard evidence.’

But Maltravers knew the theory was disturbingly persuasive. York had found Dunford’s body—or at least had said he had, which was a well-known smokescreen—and it was irresistibly possible that he could have killed him. Maltravers recalled that York had said he was looking for Dunford to say goodnight when he found him dead; the story suddenly sounded very thin. He took a pensive mouthful of bitter.

‘How can we find out anything more?’ he wondered.

‘I’ll go and see her and try and get her to talk,’ said Tess.

‘It’s worth a try. Do you want me to come too?’

‘No. I don’t think she’s very comfortable with men. No woman with a husband like that would be. And two of us would probably frighten her as well. It’ll be best if I go on my own.’

They finished their lunch hastily and walked back up Bellringer Street, where Tess stopped for a moment outside the York’s house until Maltravers had disappeared round the corner at the top of the hill before she rang the bell. There was no reply at first, but she was convinced Joanna York was still in the house and kept ringing until the curtains at the front window moved slightly, then the door was opened a couple of inches.

‘Yes? What is it?’

Only part of the girl’s face was visible, apprehensive and enquiring. Tess said nothing; had she asked to go in, she was sure of instant refusal and the slender opening she was being offered would close. She summoned up every feeling of sympathy she could find and put it across in her silent face; for several seconds the two women looked at each other, then the door opened just a fraction more.

‘I’m all right,’ Joanna said, but there was no conviction in her voice. ‘I wasn’t well this morning. I’m sorry if I…’

Softly, softly, thought Tess. ‘Don’t apologise. You’re looking much better now. We were just a bit concerned, that’s all.’

Joanna York was not looking better. Her make-up was fresh and her hair was combed—but what Tess and Maltravers had seen earlier remained in the eyes.

‘If you’re not feeling well, I’ll be happy to get your shopping for you,’ she added. ‘You obviously wanted something from the butcher.’

‘No, it’s all right…I’ll do it later.’ She was rapidly backing off.

‘Well, if you’re sure. It’s really no trouble.’ Tess tried the only opening she could think of. ‘Actually I’m getting to know your local shops. You’ve heard about Susan’s baby I suppose?’

Now she was just someone calling with a piece of village news, not an intruder. But the door did not open any further. ‘No. What’s happened?’

‘He arrived in the middle of the night. Great dramas.’

‘Oh. How nice. Give them my love. Thank you for telling me. Would you excuse me? I’ve got something on the stove.’

Wrong, lady, all bloody wrong, thought Tess as the words rattled meaninglessly out, the smile flashed automatically and the door swiftly shut. No woman—and not many men—would dismiss such an announcement so hastily. No questions, no interest, no surprise, just a big, fat nothing. Don’t try and tell me you’re all right. For a few moments she stared at the door in frustration then hurried back to the Penroses.

‘Well?’ Maltravers asked urgently as she walked into the kitchen. ‘Did you find out anything?’

‘Nothing and everything,’ she replied. ‘You can’t get through to her. I told her about Susan’s baby and it was as if I’d said there was something good on television tonight. We are on to something, darling.’

‘Yes, but what? It could be that…I don’t know…that she’s been told she’s got cancer or something. We’ve got to accept that there are other possibilities— perhaps more likely ones—than that her husband is a murderer.’ Maltravers sighed. ‘But it’s still possible…Perhaps we could talk to a friend of hers?’

‘From what Susan told us, she doesn’t appear to have all that many,’ said Tess. ‘Susan might know but…look, Simon was murdered when? The early hours of Sunday morning. Today we see Joanna York looking like a madwoman. All right, the two things may not be connected, but it’s one hell of a coincidence. Susan’s in hospital and we don’t know anyone else in Old Capley to talk to about Joanna York. We have a perfectly realistic theory that says her husband could have killed Simon. What do we do?’

Maltravers made a sound of frustration. ‘The best thing I can suggest is that you try again later, but…let me think a minute…you can’t just go back with the obvious intention of wanting to make her talk, we need some excuse for you to get into the house. Any ideas?’

‘I’ll find something,’ Tess promised him. ‘Believe me. Because the more I think about it, the more certain I am that we really have come up with someone else with a motive to kill Simon.’

‘I know we have,’ said Maltravers. ‘And I wish I could find some reason to stop thinking that we’re right. Because if we are, it also means that Joanna York is in danger.’

Dunford was dead and Alister York knew his career at Edenbridge House had finished, but he would conscientiously continue to carry out his duties until the end of his final day there. Having placed the death notice in The Times and discussed the funeral arrangements with the vicar of St Barbara’s and the local undertaker, he drafted out the wording of an invitation. While it was certain that the church would be packed for the burial of Lord Dunford, only certain selected people would be invited back to the house; the strictest conventions of etiquette walked with the Pemburys to the grave. He wrote the draft swiftly, his fountain pen—he abhorred ballpoint pens—sweeping in a strong, italic script over the paper; thirty years earlier his father had forged those classic pothooks by standing behind him, chillingly tapping a steel ruler against his hand as his son agonisingly practised and perfected them.

Lord Pembury looked up coldly as York knocked softly on the study door and walked in with the draft in his hand. He took it without a word, read it through in silence then handed it back.

‘Arrange for one hundred to be printed once the date has been confirmed,’ he said. ‘I shall let you have a list of those to whom they are to be sent.’

‘Yes, Lord Pembury.’ York opened a desk diary he had brought with him. ‘I was unable to discuss this while Sir Gerald was here. You have appointments on Wednesday and Thursday, one at Edenbridge, the other with the Liberal leader at the House of Lords. Do you wish me to cancel them?’

‘No. However, Lady Pembury will not be meeting engagements for the time being. The household staff are to wear mourning until after the funeral, but that does not apply to the tourists’ guides. If they wish to wear black ties or something similar, that is a matter for them. The flag will be flown at half-mast until Lord Dunford has been buried. His body will remain in the chapel of the house after its release by the coroner until it is taken to the church. Only family flowers will be accepted at the house, all others must be sent to the undertakers.

‘Once the date of the funeral has been settled, advertise that Edenbridge House and Park will be closed for the day. The police must also be advised of those attending for whom security precautions will be necessary. The family and principal mourners will walk to the church.’

York made rapid and neat notes as Lord Pembury dispassionately gave instructions regarding the burial of his son; personal tragedy dealt with by duty and tradition. Edenbridge House had seen many deaths and the machinery for dealing with them was unalterable.

‘These letters have arrived which require your attention.’ York passed across a leather folder as Pembury finished speaking. ‘I assumed you would wish to deal with them. I will of course handle all household matters unless something urgent arises.’

Pembury placed the folder on his desk. ‘I’ll read them later and draft replies. Is there anything further?’

‘No, Lord Pembury.’

‘Thank you.’

Pembury returned his attention to a biography of Joseph Kennedy, another man who had buried sons. York hesitated as if to say something else, then turned and walked towards the door.

‘There was an advertisement in Horse and Hound last week for a personal secretary to the Duke of Bray,’ Pembury said without looking up. ‘I don’t know if you noticed it.’

York paused for half a step then walked on without responding. It was a very gentlemanly way of being fired.

Coincidentally, at around the same time, Miller and his murder team were bouncing ideas round in their incident room as statements from everybody at the party—confused, half-remembered and generally useless—were collated and fed into a computer.

‘Lateral thinking time,’ said Miller. ‘Chummy’s alibi from the lady doesn’t stand up but we’ve got nothing strong enough to hold him on and he’s being released with his lawyer’s assurance that he will be available if we want to talk to him again. There’s still no sign of the elusive Mr Norman. Question: could it have been somebody else? There were twenty-seven people in that house when we arrived, remember.’

‘What about this chap…what’s his name?…York?’ said one detective. ‘He couldn’t wait to point the finger at Hawkhurst, could he? Not the sort of thing you’d expect from a faithful private secretary. And he’s the one who found the body.’

Miller frowned all over his face. ‘Definite possibility. Frankly, my money’s still on Norman, but until we find him and see what he has to say for himself it’s a good point…just keep an eye on Mr York.’

Maltravers and Tess looked through the immense wrought-iron gates of St Barbara’s as they left the Penroses for a walk in the park. The gates were guarded by a uniformed policeman and inside they could see more men, several with dogs, probing between the gravestones and in the bushes.

‘Hunt the cricket ball, I presume,’ said Maltravers. ‘If one of those turns up complete with tell-tale fingerprints all our questions may be answered. One assumes it must have been the weapon. But who wielded it?’

‘I’d like to go in the church again,’ said Tess. ‘Where Simon took me. I suppose we can’t at the moment.’

‘I don’t think they’ll take kindly to tourists just now. But it shouldn’t take them long to finish in there—it’s not all that big.’ Maltravers started walking towards the Bellringer Street gate into the Park. ‘Tell me about that visit again.’

Tess found the memory painful. Only hours before he had died, Simon had been amused and amusing and had revealed to her something of his secret self; when she was able to go back into the church it might be a catharsis.

‘I told you most of it;’ she said. ‘Oh, except for one silly story.’

Maltravers listened in amusement to the strange tale of the dead butler killed by a free-falling Earl of Pembury.

‘What a very odd skeleton in the cupboard,’ he remarked. ‘Which reminds me, I wonder if there’s any news about the lost remains of Tom Bostock? Probably not, there are much more serious matters now. What about that other grave that Simon showed you? Susannah or somebody? Where’s that?’

‘Just near the door to the Darbys’ garden. That was just horrible.’

‘She was a very unfortunate girl,’ he agreed. ‘And now we know exactly why Simon identified with her.’

‘But for God’s sake, it was different for him,’ objected Tess. Maltravers shook his head.

‘Not really. Simon suffered the dreadful burden of primogeniture. Everything—the title, the wealth and the privileges—must go to the eldest son and in his case he was the only son. And he would have had to marry and produce an heir to follow him.’

‘Tell me, what date do they have on the damned calendars at Edenbridge House?’ Tess demanded angrily. ‘Do they know it’s the twentieth century? You’re describing a bloody feudal system.’

‘Perhaps, but it works. Without it, the great estates and houses of England would have been splintered within a few generations. There’d be nowhere like this,’ Maltravers gestured all around as they entered the lodge gates to the park, with the house visible through the trees. ‘No Longleat or Beaulieu or any of them. The monarchy works on the same principle. We’d have a king for every county if everything had to be divided up fairly between the children all the time. It’s nothing to do with fairness, it’s a matter of preservation. Simon recognised it and was trapped by it.’

‘But now some other member of the family—possibly Oliver—will inherit and the result’s the same,’ said Tess. ‘Simon said he couldn’t refuse the title but he could have done if he’d really wanted to. Edward VIII gave up the throne—and he did it for love, remember.’

‘And look what happened,’ said Maltravers. ‘He alienated his family, nearly wrecked the system and forced his brother to take on the burden for him: a burden that eventually killed him. Very romantic, but very wrong according to the rules. Simon was a stronger man than that. It hurt him, just like it hurt Susannah all those years ago, but he would not let the family down. You may think it’s stupid—a lot of people would—but it’s an honourable stupidity.’

‘Susannah Hawkhurst killed herself because of that honourable stupidity,’ Tess said bitterly.

‘As I said before: ancient aristocracy, different rules.’ Maltravers took Tess’s hand sympathetically. ‘How very strange it all is. Right, which way shall we go?’

‘Not too far. I want to get back to try and see Joanna York again. I’ve got an excuse which I think will work.’

‘Let’s just stroll up and look at the house again then. That won’t take long.’

Edenbridge Park was crowded again, although there were fewer people about than when they had been there the previous Friday or during the cricket match. Maltravers was taking some photographs of Tess with Edenbridge House in the background when he suddenly lowered the camera and looked beyond her.

‘Hello,’ he said. ‘It’s the ‘orrible Oliver.’

Tess turned and saw Hawkhurst getting out of a taxi in front of the house.

‘So the police must have released him,’ she said. ‘Does that mean he’s in the clear?’

‘Maybe. Or it could just mean they haven’t charged him and can’t hold him any longer or…I wonder? Have they found Luke Norman? Come on, let’s get back and see if there’s anything on the radio about it.’

They were just about to go back into the Penroses’ house when Maltravers stopped and looked across at the church again.

‘What was that story Simon told you about the butler?’ he asked.

‘Butler?’ said Tess. ‘You remember, he was killed when Lord Pembury fell on him. Why?’

‘There was something…’ Maltravers’ eyes narrowed as if he was trying to catch something floating out of his mind, then he shrugged dismissively. ‘No, it’s gone. It can’t have been important.’

They found they were in between radio bulletins so Maltravers rang a friend of his at the Press Association news agency to see if they had heard anything about Luke Norman being found.

‘Apparently not,’ he said as he replaced the receiver. ‘He said he’d check and call me back if there was anything but it doesn’t appear likely or PA would know about it. Oliver must have told the police where they can find him if they need to. The fact he’s been released doesn’t necessarily mean they’ve finished with him.’

‘Well I’m going to see Joanna York,’ said Tess. ‘Wish me luck.’

Joanna York was on the landing when the front-door bell rang. For a moment she leaned against the bannisters breathing deeply, then forced herself to go downstairs. Somehow she had to come to terms with what was happening to her, putting on a normal face to the rest of the world who must never be allowed to suspect the truth. She braced herself as she stood by the door then opened it, a smile stitched across her face with an effort. ‘Hello again.’

What was her name? She was the woman who had called earlier—the friend of that man Maltravers who had seen her in the square. Oh, please go away. Don’t try to help. Nobody can help me.

‘Look, I’m dreadfully sorry to be a nuisance, but could I possibly use your telephone? Peter and Susan’s is on the blink and I’ve simply got to ring my agent in London. I don’t know where the local phone boxes are and it will only take a moment.’

Tess stood on the step, a smiling, unthreatening visitor asking a small favour. It was as if the incident outside the shop had never happened. Joanna York was so relieved that she appeared to have forgotten it and was treating her like a normal human being that it was as disorientating as sudden relief from pain. She had to stifle a gasp of pleasure.

‘Of course, please come in. It’s just by the door.’

‘That’s awfully kind of you.’ Tess, all politeness, was looking for signs of what she had seen before. ‘It’s only to London, it’s a local call from here.’

The front door opened straight into the tiny downstairs combined living and dining room with the stairs running up behind a wall in the corner. As Tess picked up the phone and dialled the number of her own flat, Joanna York went through into the kitchen extension on the back of the house. Tess played out a short rehearsed conversation with a ringing tone for a few moments, leaving the pauses at her end as brief as possible in case Joanna heard it, then hung up.

‘Thank you. I must give you the money,’ she called through to the kitchen where she could see Joanna standing by the sink. ‘Have you any change?’

‘It doesn’t matter.’ Joanna York turned to her, picking up a tea towel to dry her hands. ‘It’s only coppers…If you need it again, just ask.’

Tess noticed the embarrassment and discomfort in the gesture that accompanied the offer, the hands nervously crumpling the towel, the smile artificial. In only a few hours Joanna York had gone from near total hysteria to apparent normality. Does not compute, thought Tess, and decided that a frontal attack might go straight through the slender defences.

‘It seems all wrong worrying about silly things like business appointments at the moment, doesn’t it?’ She saw the flicker of apprehension in the girl’s eyes. ‘It’s so awful about Simon being murdered.’

Oh, you poor kid, I’ve got you in one, she told herself as all the racking emotion she had seen earlier erupted back into the hesitant, nervous face. Joanna dropped her head very quickly, but too late to hide it. Tess crossed the small room and gently put her hand under her chin, lifting it like a child’s.

‘What is the matter?’ she asked softly. ‘You don’t know me and I don’t know if I can help, but you are so unhappy aren’t you?’

In certain states of mind, gentleness is a devastating and irresistible force and Joanna York crumpled under it. She threw her arms round a woman she hardly knew, her body convulsed with sobbing. Tess held her very firmly until the spasms subsided then led her to a chair by the large brick fireplace that filled half of one wall and made her sit down.

‘Come on,’ she said coaxingly. ‘What is it?’

Joanna’s breath stuttered for a few moments then she tried to speak but her voice was an inarticulate croak.

‘Take your time,’ Tess said. ‘Hang on, I’ll get some water.’

She grabbed a cup from a wall rack in the kitchen and was filling it when she heard the front door open and Alister York came into the house. As Tess turned to see him, the figure of his wife flashed between them and there were frantic footsteps running up the stairs. Tess and York stared at each other as water overflowed from the cup she was still holding and gurgled down the drain.

‘What are you doing here?’ he asked stonily.

The water splashed on to Tess’s hand and she put the cup down quickly and turned off the tap. The action gave her time to grasp the feeling that she should be very careful.

‘I’d called to use your phone because Peter and Susan’s is out of order,’ she said, turning back to face him. ‘Your wife seemed…unwell and I was just getting her some water.’

York’s eyes flashed upstairs and there was the wrong sort of concern in them.

‘Well as I’m here now there’s no need for you to be troubled any further,’ he said. ‘I’ll take care of it.’

His voice labelled Tess as an intruder in his house. As she hesitated, he stepped to one side, tacitly directing her out through the front door, still standing open behind him.

‘If my wife is unwell, I must go to her. Will you please leave now?’

Tess could think of no arguments that she could possibly use to remain and York’s look convinced her that it would be advisable to get away from him as quickly as possible.

‘Of course.’ She crossed to the door warily, eyes never leaving his face as the distance between them diminished. ‘I hope she’s soon better.’

‘I’m sure it’s nothing serious,’ he replied.

The space between York and the wall was narrow and Tess paused fractionally in front of him, their eyes meeting at close range. She was instantly reminded of when she had been a drama student and Sir Ralph Richardson had frighteningly demonstrated how he conjured up evil with just the expression of his face; but the man she was looking at now was not acting. As York’s burning eyes ordered her out, she felt scared of him.

Even before she was down the two shallow steps to the pavement outside, the door slammed behind her. She whirled round and looked at it helplessly for a moment then ran back up Bellringer Street like someone who has seen a child drowning and is unable to help. Inside the house, York put his briefcase on the table, picked up the telephone and dialled the Penroses’ number; when Maltravers answered, York put the receiver down without a word then went upstairs. Her back and shoulders shuddering with crying, his wife was lying face downwards on the bed. ‘What did you tell her?’ he asked quietly.

There was no reply, just a muffled sound from her mouth pressed against the bedclothes, a whimper for mercy. He took hold of her arm and savagely pulled her upright.

‘What did you tell her?’

Joanna York’s head shook mutely and helplessly, sobs and gasps choking out of her. York began to drag her like a doll across the room and she struggled violently in his grip before she fainted and lay crumpled at his feet.

Maltravers had just put down the telephone, dismissing the call as someone’s ill-mannered response to dialling a wrong number, when Tess burst into the kitchen, face frozen, and ran straight past him into the dining room. When he followed her, she had opened the drinks cabinet and was agitatedly pouring herself a whisky, the decanter rattling against the rim of the glass. She crashed the decanter down and took half the drink at one swallow.

‘What the hell has happened?’ he demanded.

Stung by the shock of the alcohol, Tess shook her head violently as if to dispel terrible images. Maltravers crossed the room and put his hands on her shoulders.

‘Tell me,’ he said firmly.

‘I can’t describe it. He came in just as I thought I was going to get her to talk. He…’ She turned to Maltravers urgently. ‘Gus, he’s mad! I know he is! We can’t just leave her there with him, we’ve got to help!’

Maltravers looked at her for a moment. ‘You’re not telling me. Come and sit down and start from the beginning.’

They sat on adjacent chairs by the large circular oak dining table and he listened impassively as Tess pulled herself together and related everything that had happened.

‘And what do you think?’ he asked when she had finished. Tess sat for a moment, looking at the glass cupped on her hands on the table, analysing and finding her conclusions. ‘There’s no other explanation. He must have killed Simon,’ she said finally. ‘We’re right, I’m positive we are…Christ, it’s like waking up in a Hammer movie. Give me a cigarette.’

‘You’ve given up.’

‘I’ve just started again. This is worse than the risk of cancer.’

She was still embroiled in her thoughts as she dipped the end of the cigarette into the flame of Maltravers’ lighter, drew deeply then blew out the smoke with a grimace of revulsion.

‘God, it tastes awful.’ She took another mouthful of whisky. ‘That’s better. Gus, we’ve got to tell the police what’s happening.’

Maltravers leaned back in his chair and regarded her gravely.

‘And what do we tell them?’ he asked. ‘We’ve still got nothing more than an hysterical woman, a domineering husband and an unprovable guess. No…’ He held up his hand to prevent Tess’s protests. ‘We don’t have a single, solid fact and it’s very likely that your visit may have put her into a state where she won’t talk to anybody, including the police. At the moment they have two leading suspects and are not likely to be interested in theories without hard evidence to support them. Believe me, I feel as badly about this as you do, but the police do not take kindly to people shouting bloody murder from the housetops because of a half-baked idea. We need proof.’

‘And how do we find it?’ Tess looked at him pleadingly. ‘Because I’m sure we have got to.’

Maltravers sighed. ‘I don’t know. I wish to God I did. Perhaps if the police could get Oliver and Luke Norman out of the way, then they might—’

The telephone rang in the kitchen. When Maltravers answered, it was his contact at PA calling back.

‘Where do you get your tips from, then? We’ve just got reports coming in that there have been two sightings of Luke Norman driving towards Penzance.’

‘How definite are they?’ Maltravers asked.

‘The police are apparently taking them seriously enough to have half the force in Cornwall looking for him. At least that’s what the local stringer tells us and he’s reliable enough. We’re just putting out a wire service rush on it.’

Maltravers mentally visualised the dwindling triangle of the county where England tapered off into the sea; if Norman was beyond Penzance there were very few ways out.

‘If it’s true, they won’t need many road blocks to catch him then,’ he commented. ‘Thanks for calling back. I owe you a drink.’

Absently swirling the last half-inch of whisky around in the bottom of her glass, Tess looked drawn and worried as Maltravers returned to the sitting room.

‘It looks as though the police may be closing in on Luke Norman and it may not take them very long to catch him.’ He explained what he had just been told. ‘I think that for the time being we may have to leave Joanna York alone. If they find Luke and it turns out that he killed Simon, then whatever’s happening down the hill may be totally unconnected. There appears to be something very wrong there, but we don’t know what it is—and can we make it our business if it’s nothing to do with the murder? At the moment we can really only wait and see what happens. All right?’

Tess’s abstracted nod was only token agreement. She was convinced that a few minutes earlier she had stood face to face with Simon’s killer and that there had to be some other explanation for Luke Norman running away.

‘No, it’s not all right,’ she said. ‘And you know it isn’t. I just hope to God that Bellringer Street doesn’t end up with another murder on its doorstep because everyone’s running round in circles looking for the wrong man.’

Stars blinked and twinkled in an ink-black sky and the sea was black, dancing silver, licking gently against the rocks at the foot of the cliffs a hundred feet below where Luke Norman sat on the narrow, grassy path between Lamorna and Porthcurno. Exhausted, drained of fear and panic, he stared at the jagged, shining blade laid across the water by the moon, his mind filled now only with regret and remembered love. He had been there for nearly five hours after leaving his car and walking along the coast path until he had suddenly decided to stop and try to think. In the whispering darkness he watched a fishing boat slowly cross the light-path of the moon, reliving another warm night in Greece when he had first met Simon. He lowered his head on his knee and started to rock slowly backwards and forwards as he wept.

The police were within a hundred and fifty yards of him when he heard them, a crackling voice on a radio carrying through the silence. He looked to his left in terror and saw two torchlight beams, glow-worm flickers like sparks creeping along burnt wood. There was nothing visible to his right. Cautiously he stood up and moved away, half crouching, invisible against the deep grey headland rising behind him. The path was rough and twice his foot slipped as he climbed upwards, stumbling against small boulders in the twilight. After about a quarter of a mile, the path divided and he hesitated, looking back to see the quivering torchlights edging closer, before taking the way downwards. As the police reached the high point behind him, they saw the silhouette of his moving figure against the polished backdrop of the sea where the land dropped away beyond, and shouted.

Luke Norman began to run wildly and suddenly there was loose, sliding scree beneath his feet. He fell clumsily face downwards, grabbing at the short coarse grass, his feet scrabbling for firm ground. They found it and he pushed himself upwards with his hands just as his foothold betrayed him, his weight wrenching a small rock out of the earth. His arms swung crazily as he fought to regain his balance then he toppled backwards, his head striking another stone, half stunning him as he rolled down the steep slope towards the pewter mirror of the sea. A chatter of small pebbles gathered as they slid down with him until they began to tumble over the cliff edge. Luke Norman fell among them and they rattled off the barbed surfaces of the huge pointed rock sticking up like a crude arrowhead that split his body open. He died during the half-hour it took the police to climb down and find him.

The story broke too late for the morning papers but Maltravers and Peter heard it on Breakfast Time television while Tess was taking the children to school. Self-conscious of the presence of the cameras, a customer from the curiously named Lamorna Wink pub told how he had walked down to the cove after closing time to gain brief and meaningless fame as the man who discovered Luke Norman’s car. The picture changed to library film shot from a plane flying along the rough-torn edges of the Cornish coast.

‘Police recovered the body from the rocks on a small inlet about half a mile from the popular holiday beach at Porthcurno,’ the commentary reported. ‘Officers from Capley are expected here later this morning. At this stage, the police are treating the death as accidental. A spokesman said that Mr Norman appeared to fall off the narrow, treacherous path as he was trying to run away.’

The screen blinked again to show a reporter standing in front of Penzance police station.

‘Luke Norman was wanted for questioning in connection with the murder at the weekend of Lord Dunford, the heir to Lord Pembury of Edenbridge House. After the murder…’

‘So where does that leave everyone?’ Maltravers asked as he turned away from the set. He and Tess had decided not to share their suspicions about York with anyone until they had something solid to go on.

‘With a murderer, presumably,’ said Peter. ‘Nothing else makes sense.’

‘But where’s the actual proof?’ Maltravers argued. ‘Luke Norman could have been over-distressed at Simon’s death and terrified that he was a major suspect. All that’s happened could have been the result of blind panic. There’s no way the police are going to wrap it all up yet. It still could have been Oliver. I’d like to know how the police are treating it, but I can’t see any way we can find out at the moment.’

‘I know somebody who’ll be able to tell us,’ said Peter.

‘Who?’

‘Harry Matthews on the Capley Citizen. He’s an idle bugger of the old school but he’s got marvellous police contacts and they tell him all sorts of things off the record. He owes me a favour for tipping him off about a bank raid in the New Town.’ Peter glanced at the clock. ‘Can’t try for a while though. Harry thinks it’s indecent to arrive for work before half past ten. Better still, he’s always in the office pub at lunchtime. I’ll try him there on my way to see Susan. Come with me if you want. It’s quite an experience meeting Harry.’

Keith Miller received the report from the officers he had sent to Penzance gloomily. There was no question but that the body was that of Luke Norman and would have to remain in Cornwall until the inquest had been held. Norman’s car had not contained either of the missing cricket balls, Dunford’s tie or a convenient note of confession. Miller tossed the message back on to his desk in irritation.

‘Fuck it,’ he said unemotionally to Parry. ‘I needed this like a sick headache. I’m even more convinced now it was him, but how do we prove it? He could have tossed a cricket ball away anywhere between here and the West Country. We can’t search the whole sodding M4.’

‘And the M5,’ Parry added. Miller scowled at him. ‘But he might not have done that, Sir. He could have dumped it when he ran off from the house.’

‘All right, but where? We’ve done everything in that churchyard except dig up the graves and there’s no sign of either of the damned things there or in the Darbys’ garden.’

‘His car was parked at Edenbridge House,’ Parry pointed out. ‘He could have chucked it somewhere in the park as he drove off.’

Miller pulled a face, contemplating the wide spaces of Edenbridge Park which Norman could have driven through as he escaped from Old Capley.

‘All right,’ he said resignedly. ‘I’ll try and get more men and you see how many reliable civilians you can round up to help. God, it could take weeks—and even then it might not prove anything.’

‘There’s still Hawkhurst,’ Parry added and Miller noted the hopeful tone of his voice.

‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘But it’s much the same position isn’t it? Proof, Sergeant, we need some bloody proof, any bloody proof and we need it in a hurry. The Chief Constable is not best pleased at the moment. The most notorious murder that this force has had to deal with for fifty years is playing havoc with his ulcer and he wants results. Oh, get on with it.’

After Parry left, Miller made a series of phone calls to senior officers in both his own and neighbouring county forces and managed to collect another twenty men. Then he picked up the report from Penzance again, read it sourly and once again regretted that his annual leave had not started a week earlier. All his instincts were telling him that Luke Norman was his man. Everything—motive, opportunity, his escape from the scene, his fatal running away in the night when the police reached him—every aspect pointed in that direction. Had they caught Norman, Miller was sure he would have confessed; now he was a body on a mortuary slab with his secret. Hawkhurst? Miller shook his head impatiently. Too obvious…and yet the alibi he had offered had fallen apart at the first touch. York? A tiny muscle in Miller’s left cheek twitched slightly, which often happened when his brain was trying to tell him something.

Oliver Hawkhurst heard the news about Luke Norman with much less dissatisfaction than Miller. The police suspicion of his cousin’s lover had taken a great deal of pressure off him and, being a latent queer-basher among his other unlovely habits, the prospect of Norman being jailed for life had appealed to him. As far as Hawkhurst was concerned, Norman must still be the obvious suspect—and now could it ever be proved that he didn’t do it? As he drove to Edenbridge House for a meeting with Lord Pembury and Sir Gerald, he wondered what the police did in such circumstances. Unless something else came to light, they presumably lost interest in the matter after sufficient time had elapsed. Not a completely satisfactory position from Hawkhurst’s point of view, but better than the alternatives. The immediate question was, where did it leave him in relation to inheriting Edenbridge? The meeting with his uncle and his lawyer should clarify that. As the butler led him along the corridor to the study, Hawkhurst adjusted his newly-bought black tie and composed his face into an appearance of suitable solemnity and regret.

‘Ah, Oliver,’ Pembury said as he was let into the room. ‘I don’t think you know Sir Gerald.’

‘No, but I know Sir Gerald’s reputation.’ As Piers-Freeman acknowledged with a gracious smile, Hawkhurst congratulated himself on a good start. He sat down opposite Pembury and looked across the desk expectantly. When he left Edenbridge House two hours later he was furious and would happily have strangled both Lord Pembury and his lawyer.

Sir Gerald had at first been apologetic. It was to be deplored that Mr Hawkhurst should remain the subject of police inquiries. Clearly some confirmation that Luke Norman had been the murderer was greatly to be desired. However—Sir Gerald had gestured elegantly—for the time being, his advice must be that it would not be correct for Mr Hawkhurst to be officially recognised as the heir. Doubtless this most unsatisfactory situation would eventually resolve itself, but…Mr Hawkhurst understood? Oliver Hawkhurst found it intolerable, but remained silent.

Then Lord Penbury had spoken. He accepted the legal advice, but saw no reason for not acquainting his nephew with certain facts about the ownership of Edenbridge which he felt sure would eventually devolve to him. Hawkhurst controlled his sense of elation, a feat which became increasingly easy as Pembury outlined the incredibly strict controls that would be placed on him by the Edenbridge Trustees. As far as he could make out, he would not be able to go out and buy a newspaper without first obtaining their permission. Quite simply, Edenbridge was locked for all time in a legal straitjacket and all future holders of the title would in effect be tenants in their own ancestral home. A junior accountant with a firm in London would have more power over the Pembury wealth than Oliver would ever have—if it ever became his. For all the good that Dunford’s death had done him, he might as well have lived.

Oliver Hawkhurst had not recognised that very old money was kept in very strong boxes and other people held the keys. Lord Pembury had never thought that his nephew was very bright and found their direct blood connection rather unfortunate. But he was the only possible heir—unless he turned out to be a murderer, a prospect Lord Pembury did not choose to consider.

Harry Matthews flopped against the bar with the elegance of a beached walrus. He looked as though he had slept in his suit and would need to check his diary to see when he had last changed his shirt. His hair had settled around the back of his head with a few strands stubbornly remaining in the centre of his forehead, swept back across his crown like fine pencil lines. The pint glass looked minute in his massive paw of a hand and Maltravers watched in admiration as more than three quarters of its contents disappeared into his mouth almost as swiftly as they could have been poured into a bucket. There was a legend on the Capley Citizen that when Harry had once gone on the wagon for a month, the biggest brewery in the county had been forced to lay off the night shift.

‘Thanks, Peter,’ Matthews grunted. ‘Needed that.’ He burped resonantly and removed the froth from his thick, lank moustache with a downward movement of his hand, as though squeezing any escaping drops of beer on to his upper lip. ‘Anyway, what brings you in here? Thought you only drank with the nobs in the Old Town.’

‘We’d like a bit of information, Harry,’ Peter said. ‘Incidentally, this is Gus Maltravers, a friend of mine.’

Matthews made some indecipherable sound of greeting then turned back to Peter. ‘Information about what?’

‘Whatever the police are saying off the record about this Luke Norman business. Do they still think he killed Dunford?’

Matthews sucked in his breath through blubbery lips, making a noise like a child dragging the last drops of a drink up through a straw. Maltravers sensed that information would require more lubrication before it started to flow.

‘Another pint?’ he suggested. ‘You’ve done considerable damage to that one.’ The speed with which Matthews finished his drink and pushed the glass across to the barmaid was incredible in a man who looked as though he would even sneeze in slow motion.

‘Same again, Betty,’ he said, then glanced at Peter again. ‘So what do you want to know?’

‘Anything you can tell us. You must have been checking it out this morning.’

‘Had a chat with a couple of contacts,’ Matthews admitted. ‘Not much I can tell you though. There’s nothing to prove Norman did it and Keith Miller’s ordered a search of the park for the cricket balls. The medical evidence proves that’s what was used to kill him. That’s about it.’

‘But is he still the chief suspect?’ Maltravers pressed.

‘He is as far as Miller’s concerned. Dave Parry says he still thinks it could have been Dunford’s cousin but they’ve released him for the time being.’

‘And there’s nobody else?’

Matthews looked at Maltravers sharply as he put the question. Somewhere inside the overweight ruin of a journalist, idling out the end of his career with the barest minimum of effort, were the rusting remains of a first-class reporter.

‘Should there be?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Maltravers. ‘I thought you might.’

Matthews turned off again when he realised he was not about to be given a tip without having to make any particular effort.

‘Not that I’ve heard of,’ he said. ‘And I’d have heard. Let’s have a couple of those meat pies, Betty. What about you gents?’

They remained with Matthews for an hour during which he did not buy a single drink although the occasion later appeared on his expenses as a meeting with two local councillors and cost his editor seven pounds. Maltravers found the burned-out newspaperman, who had let his talent rot in the provinces because he lacked the ambition to climb higher, entertaining company. If he ever decided to use only half his ability and experience he would leave the brash young Turks on the Capley Citizen for dead. And his contacts in the police, among them senior officers with whom he had drunk as raw, beat bobbies, were impeccable. By the time they left, Maltravers was sure he could have found out no more about the inquiry into Dun-ford’s murder if the police had offered him the freedom of the incident room.

‘He’s one of a dying breed, isn’t he?’ he remarked as Peter drove him back into Old Capley before going on to visit Susan and the baby. ‘And I admire his local knowledge, even if it doesn’t tell us very much. How big is Edenbridge Park?’

‘I’m not sure,’ said Peter. ‘Several hundred acres.’

‘Possibly containing one cricket ball that…Just a minute…There could be dozens of lost cricket balls out there…I nearly hooked a couple across that short leg side boundary.’

‘Believe it or not, I’ve done it myself,’ said Peter. ‘The local kids turn them up long after a match—and usually keep them.’

‘Which means that if Luke threw the ball away somewhere near the cricket pitch, somebody could already have found it and it could be anywhere by now,’ said Maltravers, thinking through new possibilities. ‘Would he have driven near there on his way out?’

‘He could have done. There are several ways in and out of the park, but as far as I know only two gates are left open all night. If he used the main gates he would have driven right past the pitch, or he could have gone out through East Sutton, which is a hamlet right over the far side of the park. Luke could know about it from previous visits and it’s a more private exit than the main entrance.’

‘How far is it from the house?’

‘To East Sutton?’ Peter mentally calculated for a moment. ‘Certainly more than a mile, possibly a mile and a half. Then it’s country lanes for another couple of miles until you reach the A1 into London.’

‘That’s an awful lot of country to lose any number of cricket balls in,’ Maltravers observed. ‘I don’t envy the police the search. But that’s where the murder weapon could be.’

‘And what about the second cricket ball?’ Peter queried. ‘And the tie?’

‘Among life’s little mysteries,’ said Maltravers.

Tess had driven into London after dropping the children off at school to buy a present for Susan’s baby—one look at the New Town shops had convinced her she would find nothing she liked there—and was still not back when Maltravers returned to Bellringer Street. He noticed that the police had disappeared from the churchyard and decided to walk round and see if he could find Susannah’s grave among the ancient dead of the parish. Its obscurity meant that it took him nearly half an hour of bending down to read faded inscriptions, including one to a woman who had buried seven children before mercifully joining them herself. As he was standing by the lonely stone to the unhappy daughter that the Pembury family had ruthlessly cast out of their lives, he saw Joanna York walking in through the church gates, her arms filled with Enchantment lilies and carnations. He was sure that she had noticed him because she hesitated for the briefest moment before walking quickly on and disappearing into the church. After a few minutes he followed her.

There was no sign of her at first, then he spotted her arranging the flowers in a vase near the altar. He dropped some coins in a box by the door and helped himself to a pamphlet on the church’s history before casually making his way down the, aisle, apparently looking for various features to which visitors’ attention was drawn. It was impossible to move completely quietly in the hollow vault of the building, but he noticed that she never turned round to see who had come in and he had almost reached her before he spoke.

‘Good afternoon. It’s Mrs York, isn’t it?’

‘What?’ She turned as if startled that someone had crept up on her. ‘Oh, Mr…Maltravers. What are you doing here?’

‘Playing at tourists.’ He waved the pamphlet as evidence then indicated the vase. ‘Do you always do this?’

‘Pardon? Oh, the flowers. There’s a rota and it’s my turn this week. We put fresh ones in the church nearly every day.’

‘How nice.’ Maltravers smiled. ‘Can you tell me…I’ve just been reading about the Pembury chapel, but I’m not sure where it is. Is it open to the public?’

‘Oh, yes…it’s over there.’ She gestured to her left. ‘Anybody can go in.’

‘Thank you. You see, I remember you were telling me about the history of Old Capley. At the party. You were saying something about…which Earl was it? The second? The one who was the father of Tom Bostock the highwayman.’

Something flickered through her eyes and she looked away. ‘No, the third.’

Maltravers felt like a fencer, circling an opponent, gingerly probing for an opening.

‘Of course, I should have remembered…I presume he’s buried there?’

‘Yes.’ She turned back to the flowers.

‘Thank you. This way you said?’ Maltravers moved a few paces away but kept his eyes on her visibly nervous back.

‘How tragic that the next man to be put there should be so young,’ he added. ‘You must have known Lord Dunford quite well, with your husband working at the house…Did you know him quite well, Mrs York?’

Joanna York froze, holding a long-stemmed, ghost-white lily at the lip of the vase, and there was a very long silence. Maltravers waited, then, without warning, she turned and ran down the aisle, the sound of her flat shoes on the stone floor of the nave slapping round the walls.

‘Joanna!’ Maltravers shouted after her, and his voice was amplified by the stones so that it hammered through the entire, silent building like a booming gong. ‘What’s the matter? I want to help you!’

The door at the far end of the church slammed and the impact crashed through St Barbara’s swamping the fading echoes of Maltravers’ shout then died away itself to leave an icy hush.

‘If you prick us, do we not…scream?’ Maltravers murmured.

At the church door he picked up the lily which Joanna York had dropped as she ran away, its stem twisted and crushed as though it had been squeezed very hard in the hand. He was carrying it as he entered the Penroses’ house and found that Tess had returned.

‘Been stealing flowers?’ she asked. ‘Or aren’t I worth a whole bunch?’

‘It’s from the church,’ said Maltravers. ‘I’ve just had another encounter with Joanna York and it only took one gentle push from me for her to fall over.’

He laid the lily on the table. ‘I don’t know what’s festering there, but it stinks more than these ever would. Incidentally, the police still think it was Luke.’

That evening Maltravers peered at Susan’s baby sleeping in the Perspex cot beside her bed in the maternity ward.

‘Golden the light on the locks of Myfanwy, Golden the light on the book on her knee,’’ he intoned. ‘‘Finger-marked pages of Rackham’s Hans Andersen, Time for the children to come down to tea.’’

‘Gus, what on earth are you doing?’ Susan demanded.

‘Anything I say to him at this stage will be gibberish,’ he replied. ‘So it may as well be first-rate gibberish. With a little luck, some of it may sink in. There will be no “Diddums then?” from Uncle Gus.’

‘Idiot. We are still going to call him after you,’ Susan said. ‘If it had been a girl, she’d have been called Tess. You two have been marvellous.’

‘I’ll sympathise with you when you’re older,’ Maltravers told his namesake. ‘Just be grateful that my father didn’t let his passion for Gibbon saddle us both with Tiberius or Caligula. Good night, sweet prince, and flights of angels sing thee to thy rest.’

He sat on the edge of the bed and listened to an incomprehensible conversation between Tess and Susan relating to the feeding and general maintenance of the very young. Tess had said as they drove to the hospital that she intended raising the question of Joanna York with Susan—without telling her everything—but the infant Augustus took priority. Finally Tess edged towards the subject, underplaying her concern.

‘It may not be important, but we’ve had…what is it?…three instances now where she seemed to be terribly upset about something,’ she said. ‘We’re wondering if it might help if she talked to somebody, but we don’t know who the best person might be. Has she any particular friends who could help?’

‘Joanna’s on everyone’s fringes,’ Susan replied. ‘Not having children means she doesn’t share a lot of things with the rest of us and she’s very shy as well. And Alister keeps her on such a tight rein that I sometimes think she has to ask his permission to get out of the house. If she’s with a group of the girls, she just sits there mumchance while the rest of us are rabbiting on. Everybody likes her, but, frankly, we get impatient with her. I don’t think she has any real friends, just people she knows.’

‘But women always make friends,’ Tess objected. ‘They’re better at it than men.’

‘Not Joanna,’ Susan insisted. ‘I think that Alister sees to that.’

Maltravers jumped in alarm as the baby woke beside him with a tiny cry.

‘Dinnertime,’ said Susan. ‘Pass him over, Gus. Don’t worry, he won’t bite.’

Maltravers gingerly pulled back the open weave blanket like a bomb disposal expert on a trying day and looked hesitantly at what appeared to be an impossibly small and fragile body.

‘Just hold him firmly,’ Susan instructed. ‘You’re a lovely man, but God, you’re helpless.’

Apprehensively, Maltravers closed his hands around the baby and lifted him up, trying to calculate the balance between holding firmly and squeezing to death, and offered Susan her son as if presenting her with a cup she had won.

‘There, that wasn’t so bad was it?’ she said. ‘You’ll be better when you have some of your own. You can stay if you want, but this will take a while.’

Slickly and expertly, Susan cradled her son in one arm and started to pull the top of her nightgown open.

‘I’ll take Gus away.’ Tess stood up and started to close the curtains around the bed. ‘Natural functions trouble him. We’ll see you again before we go.’

‘When are you leaving?’

‘In a couple of days. You’ll be home then and you certainly don’t want us cluttering up the place. We’ll come back for the christening.’

Susan reached out with her free arm and took hold of Tess’s hand. ‘No speeches, just thank you. Sorry it’s been such a rotten visit.’

‘Forget it.’ Tess leaned down and kissed her. ‘Just look after yourself, you hear. We’ll be in touch.’

Maltravers instinctively felt that Peter and Susan’s very personal problems, brutally torn open by Dunford’s murder, were showing distinct signs of repair. He winked at her as he lowered his head and kissed her; out of the little raver in the accounts department all those years ago, a very strong lady had emerged.

‘Thank God it wasn’t Simon’s baby,’ Tess said as they walked down the hospital corridor. ‘She couldn’t have stood that.’

‘I bow to the mysterious knowledge of women in such matters,’ said Maltravers. ‘Actually, I thought the one in the next cot looked exactly the same. But we’re no further forward with the Joanna York matter.’

‘No,’ Tess said resignedly. ‘It worries me sick that we might have to just walk away from it.’

The limited parking space in Bellringer Street was occupied by residents, visitors and pub customers when they returned and Maltravers could only find a space for his car near the bottom of the hill. As they walked up past the Batsman, they reached the Yorks’ house and instinctively glanced in through the front window. Alister York was sitting at the table just inside and looked straight back at them, his face hardening when he recognised Tess. Caught off guard, the thoughts that obsessed her remained on her face for a fraction of a second before she switched on a glassy smile and walked on. York remained staring out of the window across the empty street at the corner of the Darbys’ house opposite and a look of vivid loathing seeped across his features. A few yards up the street, Tess shuddered as she took Maltravers’ arm and held it very tightly.

Damp, fat, biscuit-coloured mushrooms plopped into the shallow wooden trug basket as Mrs Sarah Hickson meandered through Edenbridge Park, the sheen of dew staining stout sensible shoes. The park would not be open to the public for another three hours, but Mrs Hickson knew the Bellringer Street gatekeeper and was allowed a special dispensation to go in early whenever she wished. And while collecting her breakfast in the shimmering, moist morning she found the cricket ball that had killed Dunford.

Mrs Hickson was an extremely private person, living a retired, almost reclusive existence centred on the church, memories of her late husband and a succession of Burmese cats. Convinced, like the late Lord Pembury, that the world had become a violent and tasteless place, she had as little to do with it as possible. She rarely watched, read or listened to the news and, if she did, she would shake her head sorrowfully and dismiss such awful things from her gentle mind. Although nearly eighty, she was small, sprightly and independent, polite to her neighbours but never happier than when she was alone in her small house next door to the Penroses, surrounded by the souvenirs of her life and minding her own business. She did not know certain things because she did not wish to know them. She had heard about the murder with great shock, but had then rejected it as something unpleasant, so she was the only person in Old Capley who was unaware that the police were looking for a cricket ball. Even seeing them search in the churchyard as she walked back up Bellringer Street from the shops had not excited her curiosity, because she had no curiosity. She picked the ball up and laid it carefully to one side of the mushrooms before making her way out of the park and going home. At that time in the morning, there was no one about to see her. Fortunately she liked young Timothy next door, whom she regarded as a very well brought-up little boy.

It was ten o’clock when the front door bell rang and Maltravers answered.

‘Is Mrs Penrose in?’ asked Mrs Hickson.

‘I’m afraid not…she’s had a baby you know.’

‘Really? I didn’t know.’ Maltravers realised from the reply that the little bird-like lady on the step was certainly not the local gossip. ‘However,’ she continued. ‘All I wanted was to give her this. I know that young Timothy enjoys a game of cricket. It’s a bit dirty, but I’m sure it can be cleaned.’

Maltravers stood very still indeed as she held out her hand towards him. It was not dirt sticking to the ball she was holding; it looked very much like strands of hair stuck in some deeper red than the leather surface.

‘Where did you find that?’ he asked cautiously.

‘Oh, in the park. You often come across them near the cricket pitch. I usually leave them with the gatekeeper but he wasn’t about this morning and I don’t think the cricket club will miss just one, will they? It seems quite old but Timothy can use it.’

Maltravers stepped back slightly.

‘Would you come in for a moment, please?’

Mrs Hickson looked reluctant. ‘No, I’ll just leave it…’ She jumped as Maltravers reached forward, took hold of her arm and dragged her into the house. ‘Let go of me, young man! What do you think—?’

‘Come in,’ he interrupted firmly, steering her into the kitchen where Tess looked up enquiringly from the washing up of a late breakfast. ‘It’s quite all right, but there are a number of things you really ought to know. I’ll take that, thank you.’

To Mrs Hickson’s consternation, he grabbed hold of a kitchen towel and very carefully took the cricket ball out of her hand.

‘This lady is Miss Davy who will explain everything,’ he said. ‘I’ve got to make a phone call. Darling, this lady’s found the bloody thing.’ Mrs Hickson looked offended; bad language on top of abduction. As he dialled the number of Capley police station, Maltravers was staggered by the element of farce in it all.

By the time the police arrived a few minutes later, Tess had managed to reassure Mrs Hickson that she had not fallen into the clutches of a maniac but that she had become an unsuspecting part of a murder inquiry.

‘Did you really not know the police were looking for a cricket ball?’ Tess asked in disbelief. ‘It was the murder weapon.’

‘I did not.’ Mrs Hickson appeared to find the question faintly offensive. ‘We don’t all pry into other people’s business.’

Maltravers and Tess looked at each other helplessly, unable to think of any adequate response.

One policeman took Mrs Hickson back to her cottage for a statement while another placed the ball in a plastic bag and drove back to Capley police station, warning both Maltravers and Tess that statements might also be required from them. After they had all left, Maltravers rang Peter at his office.

‘Old Sally Hickson found it?’ Peter roared with disbelieving laughter. ‘God, she could have kept it for weeks and never thought about it. It’s lucky she didn’t throw it away. Are you sure it’s the right one?’

‘I could see what looked like human hair and dried blood on it,’ Maltravers told him. ‘The question is, are there fingerprints? And whose are they? I think we need Harry Matthews again.’

‘I’ll call him,’ said Peter. ‘I’ll tip him off that the ball’s been found on condition that he lets me know the results when somebody tells him. It’s press day on the Citizen so he should be very grateful for a front-page lead handed him on a plate. Call you when I hear anything back.’

Maltravers put the phone down and stared at the wall thoughtfully for a moment before turning to Tess.

‘It looks as though we’ll know—at least unofficially—fairly soon,’ he said. ‘But you realise what all this means, don’t you? Mrs Hickson told us she found the ball on the far side of the cricket pitch, about a quarter of a mile from the house. Harry Matthews said Oliver’s story is that he went straight from the party to spend the rest of the night with some woman in Bellringer Street and then he was picked up by the police at Edenbridge House. If that’s true, he can’t have put it there. And there’s no way that York could have. He found Simon’s body and would have been searched like the rest of us before he left the Darbys’. I know he’s a cricketer and a strong man, but he can’t have leaned out of that study window just across the road and thrown it—what?—perhaps half a mile right into the park. It’s got to have been Luke.’

Tess paused for a moment, then shook her head impatiently.

‘But York could be lying about coming straight downstairs after he found Simon’s body,’ she argued. ‘He could have left the house first, thrown away the ball and then come back. Couldn’t he?’

‘Darling, you’re grasping at straws and you know it,’ Maltravers told her. ‘What sort of sense does that make? There’s no way he would have left the body hoping nobody would find it while he went into the park and dropped the ball in the grass—and surely he’d have found a better place to hide it than that—and came back to the house. Why would he do such a thing? We’ve got to accept that everything is pointing to Luke at the moment, and if that’s the case Joanna’s behaviour presumably has nothing to do with the murder.’

But as Tess failed to find flaws in Maltravers’ logic, he had the nagging feeling that he was missing the significance of something he had just said.

There was no call back from Peter with news from Harry Matthews for the rest of the morning and Maltravers left the Ansaphone connected while they went to the Batsman for lunch again. It seemed that nobody in the bar had heard of Mrs Hickson’s discovery and Dunford’s murder had been replaced as a general topic of conversation by discussion of the finely balanced test match at Trent Bridge that was to end that day. Even without any confirming evidence, Luke Norman’s running away and death—suspected by some not to have been accidental but deliberate—had settled the matter as far as most people were concerned. Maltravers and Tess sat in a corner of the bar, quietly going over what they knew.

‘When do you think this Matthews man will call?’ Tess asked.

‘It could be any time. First of all he’s got to get his contacts to talk—although that won’t take him long—then he’s got to catch his deadline,’ said Maltravers. ‘He’ll let Peter know all right, but I rather suspect that he’ll make himself a bit of money by tipping off the nationals first.’

‘Well, I’m not staying in all afternoon waiting,’ said Tess. ‘If there’s nothing from Peter when we get back, let’s leave the Ansaphone on and go for a walk in the park.’

Maltravers looked offended. ‘Darling, England are more than a hundred behind with four wickets left. The final session’s on television this afternoon.’

Tess looked at him crossly. ‘This bloody visit started with cricket and now it’s going to end with it? Oh, all right, if it’s that important. I expect there’s nothing else to do—but you watch it on your own and don’t tell me all about it afterwards. And, incidentally, I shall expect a very good dinner out when we get back to town.’ She paused and smiled wickedly. ‘Langan’s I think. And I mean the Brasserie. And I mean downstairs.’

Maltravers flinched. Downstairs at Langan’s was for international superstars and others of the very rich and his previous visit there with Tess was still appearing on his credit card demands.

‘All right,’ he agreed reluctantly. ‘But it counts as a treat for your next three birthdays.’

As they were eating, Alister York was sitting in his office in Edenbridge House, his mind obsessed with the image of Tess Davy. He had dismissed the possibility that Maltravers’ answering the Penroses’ phone had meant it had only been taking incoming calls; the woman had simply lied in order to get into his own house and talk to his wife. Joanna had repeated insistently that she had told her nothing, but York did not completely believe her. The Davy woman could only have come to the house because she suspected something was happening—God only knew how—and would she leave it alone? If Joanna had even hinted…Once again Alister York returned to the relentless conviction that the woman’s interference threatened him with exposure. And exposure was unthinkable.

His chair squeaked as he spun it round and looked out of his window through which he could see the Bellringer Street gate of the park in the distance. Just beyond that gate was the house where Tess Davy was staying and it was as if his narrowed eyes were trying to pierce the solid brickwork to see her and read her thoughts. As he concentrated, tense with gathering anger, his thick-muscled right hand unconsciously closed around an apple he had taken for his lunch. There was a sudden squelching sound as it split under the pressure and his fingers were covered with crushed pulp.

There was no message from Peter when they returned and Maltravers stretched himself out in front of the television in the upstairs sitting room just as the England batsmen were walking out. Tess actually watched for a few minutes during which absolutely nothing seemed to happen, then gave up in despair.

‘See you later,’ she said. ‘Peter told me of a longish walk that avoids the tourists so I may be a while. I hope they score lots of goals. Bye.’

Maltravers grunted, already too absorbed to notice Tess’s parting sideswipe, and she walked out of the house and up Bellringer Street alone. From his office window, York saw her enter the park and immediately turn right along the old stagecoach road from London that now wound almost deserted through the farmlands that lay about the house. It was an area used by very few people, leading to small lanes between the fields. As she vanished out of his sight, sand-shower of hair bouncing above her slender figure, he began to think again as unexpected opportunity danced before him.

‘Good shot,’ Maltravers murmured as an England batsman glanced the ball between slips and gulley, wielding his bat as delicately as a fly-fisherman. Achieving ninety-two more runs engrossed him totally for another twenty minutes before somebody attempted a dangerous single and was left hopelessly stranded between the wickets as a fielder hurled the ball in from deep extra cover to run him out. Maltravers cursed and watched the replay, grudgingly admiring the accuracy of the fielder’s throw. He remembered the similar effort by Alister York during the Town v. Estate match and two things suddenly made a ridiculous connection in his mind. He frowned at the suggestion for a moment, then stood up and opened the window, looking first across and slightly to his right down Bellringer Street at the Darbys’ house, then leaning out to confirm that York lived almost opposite. So it could have been done, but what sense did it make? He straightened up, staring at the tower of St Barbara’s facing him, like someone trying to imagine a complete picture from a fragment. Why did the dead butler in the Pembury chapel keep coming back, insisting there was something important there? He went over the curious story Tess had told him but could see nothing. Then he remembered saying something about it being a very odd skeleton in…

‘Dear God!’ he said aloud. ‘That can’t be true!’ Within a few minutes he had persuaded himself that it could and his face went very cold.

All that Tess could hear was scattered birdsong, the crisp throb of crickets and the susurration of growing things; the ceaseless technological clamour of the twentieth century from an endless variety of engines had completely faded. Such moments were rare in the densely populated area of the Home Counties and she stood in the pavilion of sky and sunshine that seemed to brim over the edges of Edenbridge Park, rejoicing in it. It lasted for about thirty seconds before the drone of an aeroplane crept distantly in from one corner. She smiled ruefully and moved on, grateful for the fleeting benison of quietness. Less than a mile from where she was walking, Edenbridge House was surrounded by visitors and their commotion; few would wander far from the area immediately adjacent to the house and discover the peace and solitude of the rest of the park.

She reached a point where a lane branched off at right angles from the road and paused. Peter had told her that the turning offered a route through some of the most unspoilt areas of the Edenbridge estate and a challenging set of stepping stones across a stream in the woods. She was starting to feel hot and the promised shade of trees was attractive. She passed first between high hawthorn hedges that gave on to parallel low wooden fences on either side, one stretch restricting the nomadic instincts of a herd of cows. The lane curved slightly to the left and for another blessed moment the silence came again. She leaned against the fence soaking in the calm tranquillity after the traumas of death, birth and mystery. She remembered Simon, his gallantry and his confusion and the terrible thought of his dead body. Luke Norman she had hardly spoken to but had instinctively liked; could he really have killed the man he loved? Then the image of Joanna York’s horror-graven face came back, merging in and out with the cruel stare of her husband. Tess looked down at the long stem of grass she had plucked, idly splitting it with her thumbnail. What was that man doing to her? What had that man done? As she wrestled with it, she heard the sound of a car approaching along the lane where she had just walked, still invisible round the bend.

Tess was satisfied there was space for the vehicle to pass as it appeared in her view and she heard the gears drop. There was a vicious roar as the accelerator was slammed down and the vehicle leapt forward. Tess’s annoyance at the stupidity of anyone driving so fast in such circumstances was instantly transmuted into the realisation that there was something wrong. There had to be a reason for such a senseless action and she abruptly knew what it was; the driver was going to run her down deliberately.

She neither froze nor screamed. Boosted by an internal torrent of adrenalin, she somersaulted over the fence, half propelled by the rush of air as the car swept past terrifyingly close. She bumped her head as she landed then rolled, slightly dazed, for several feet, breath pounded out of her lungs. A nearby cow lumbered clumsily and hastily away. As she lay on the ground, inconsequentially reflecting that acting is a profession that keeps you fit, she heard the screech of brakes. Still winded, she heard a car door open and someone climb over the fence then a man appeared above her, head a gold-haloed silhouette against the brilliant sun. She tried to look up at him, but her eyes crinkled against the brightness.

‘Miss Davy! Are you all right?’ The voice somehow sounded as if he would prefer that she was not.

‘No thanks to you!’ she gasped. ‘You nearly killed me!’

‘It would have been an accident. I didn’t expect there to be anybody on this road. Here, let me help you up.’

Fear overcame physical discomfort as Alister York leaned forward, large menacing hand extended. Tess scrambled to her feet and stepped back several paces.

‘Don’t you touch me!’ she shouted. ‘I am going straight to the police about this and I’ll make them listen to me! You tried to kill me because I’ve been talking to your wife didn’t you?’

‘And why should I be bothered about that?’ he asked softly.

‘Because you’re doing something dreadful to her and I’ve seen it.’

‘Seen it? Seen what?’ The question was suddenly urgent. ‘What has she shown you?’

Tess looked at him closely. ‘What’s in her face…What do you think she’s shown me?’

For a moment York did not answer. Tense with the emotion of anticipated murder, he had been caught off guard by what Tess had said. When he had failed to run her down, he had decided to explain it away as a near accident; now he realised he had revealed too much.

‘Perhaps she hasn’t shown you anything, Miss Davy,’ he said. ‘But I’m afraid you now may know too much.’

Tess had become aware that the solitariness of the park, so welcome moments before, was suddenly dangerous. Nobody was in sight and what was about to happen would be witnessed only by the now composed cow, staring at her soberly, grass spilling over the edges of its chewing mouth.

‘Why did you kill Simon?’ she demanded.

‘Did I kill Simon?’ York smiled mockingly. ‘Nobody seems to think that I did. Why do you?’

‘Because if you didn’t kill him, then what the hell is happening? What’s wrong with your wife?’

York took a long stride to his left to block her cautious movement towards the fence as she spoke and he saw the spasm of fear that flashed through her eyes.

‘That is my business, Miss Davy,’ he said. ‘It was very foolish of you to make it yours.’

The England number eight flashed his bat high across his faceguard as the bouncer rose up to him, sending it soaring towards the long leg boundary. Millions of television viewers watched anxiously with the crowd as the Australian outfielder sprinted across the grass, calculating the curve of its descent for the critical catch. Augustus Maltravers stared at the screen and saw nothing as he desperately tried to find some flaw in the insanity of something he did not want to be true. As the running fielder held the catch, Maltravers stood up in agitation because the unspeakable would not go away.

‘This is sick!’ All those who knew him as the most easy-going of men would have been startled by the naked, trembling anger in his voice. Downstairs the phone rang and he went to answer it.

‘Gus? Peter. I’ve just heard from Harry Matthews and the police have identified fingerprints on the cricket ball.’

‘Of course they are,’ said Maltravers when Peter told him. ‘I’d already worked that out. Thanks for letting me know.’

He went back upstairs and tried to consider the position more calmly. Somehow he had to discover for himself if his repulsive theory was right. He decided to wait until Tess returned; he did not relish doing what had to be done on his own. However uncomfortably, he would just have to wait for her.

Tears of panic ran down Tess’s face as she backed away, frantically looking round for help. She was fit enough to run but the tall, athletic York would catch her again in seconds.

‘Please, I won’t tell anyone!’ she begged. ‘I don’t care what’s happening between you and Joanna. I’m nothing to do with this place. I’ll just go away.’

‘I’m not stupid, Miss Davy. You know I just tried to kill you. I don’t believe you won’t tell somebody that.’

‘I won’t! I promise! Please don’t…’ She was standing like a creature petrified by the approach of a snake. As he sprang at her, hands open towards her throat like claws, she screamed.

What happened next happened very swiftly. All York saw was a flash of flying sky and then he was lying on his back squealing with pain, his left arm limp and useless by his side. Tess’s face, which had inexplicably vanished just as his hands closed on her neck, reappeared above him. She was panting slightly and pushed back tumbled hair with one hand.

‘You have just witnessed one of my lesser ad lib performances as the helpless little woman,’ she told him crisply, wiping away the remains of created tears. ‘I imagine you think we’re all like that. When I was a student, I had a flat in an area of London where it was not advisable for young women to walk alone at night. I knew those self-defence lessons would come in useful one day.’

York groaned and tried to sit up, but she pushed him down again painfully with a foot against his injured shoulder.

‘Don’t do that,’ she advised. ‘It’s only dislocated, but I’m quite prepared to break it if necessary. Move slowly and it won’t hurt too much. Now I’ve got to run.’

And run she did, taking the shortest route back across the fields, cows scattering as she raced between them, towards the road that led back to Bellringer Street. Tourists stared in surprise as she sprinted past them, out through the arch of the gateway and back to the Penroses. She burst into the kitchen and dashed upstairs to where the television was still on and Maltravers was still not watching it. She leaned against the door frame, gasping with exertion.

‘Alister York!’ Her chest heaved for air. ‘He did kill Simon!’

‘No he didn’t,’ said Maltravers quietly. ‘Luke Norman did. Peter got it all from Harry Matthews. Luke’s fingerprints are all over that ball. They match God knows how many the police have collected in his flat. They’ll have taken them from his body as well. I told you that where the ball was found meant that only the case against Luke made sense.’

‘What?’ Tess gulped and flopped in the nearest chair, trying to grasp what Maltravers said and remembering that York had not actually admitted her accusation. ‘Then why did he just try to kill me?’

‘Kill you?’ Maltravers leapt to his feet and crossed to her. ‘Are you all right?’

‘Yes, of course I am.’ Tess shook his hand off her shoulder impatiently. ‘I dislocated his arm with some rusty judo. But if Luke killed Simon, what the hell is happening between Joanna and York?’

Satisfied that she was unharmed, Maltravers looked at her sadly. ‘That puts it awfully well, I’m afraid. It must be very like hell for her.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘I warn you, you’re not going to like this,’ he said.

Disbelief, dismay and revulsion invaded Tess as he explained what he had worked out. When he finished she shook her head in violent rejection.

‘No! Nobody could do that! God, it’s…’ She shuddered.

‘But it fits a lot of unrelated facts together,’ Maltravers said. ‘I don’t like it either, but we’ve got to find out if it’s true.’

‘Then let’s just tell the police,’ said Tess.

‘Oh, no,’ said Maltravers. ‘Not yet at least…and possibly never at all. I’ve had time to think about this. First of all I want to prove it for myself and then…I want to see if we can keep it quiet. No questions, there isn’t time. How far will York get with that arm?’

‘As far as he wants, but not very quickly. He certainly won’t be able to drive.’

‘Right. Then we get to her before he reappears. She’s in even worse danger now.’

They hurried down Bellringer Street and rang the front door bell of the Yorks’ house. As they waited, Maltravers pointed at the still unpainted new putty round the window they had seen the estate workman repairing the morning after the murder.

‘But we didn’t take any notice at the time, did we?’ he remarked as Joanna York opened the door and looked immediately afraid.

‘What do you want?’ she asked in agitation. ‘My husband isn’t in and…’

‘We want to come in,’ said Maltravers.

‘What? You can’t!’ She stepped back, her fear amplifying.

‘Please,’ Maltravers insisted gently. ‘We want to help you.’

‘Help me? What do you mean? I don’t want…Go away.’

‘Joanna.’ Tess stopped the girl’s protests with the firmness of her voice. ‘We know.’

Maltravers slapped his open hand against the door to stop Joanna York slamming it closed against them. For a moment she pushed helplessly, then the door flew open as she turned and fled into the kitchen and was fumbling with the bolt on the back door as Maltravers ran through and took hold of her.

‘Go away!’ She struggled in his arms as she pleaded. ‘Please! He’ll hurt me! He’ll make me…’ Her voice was swamped by choking sobs as he turned her round and led her into the small front room and sat her down. Tess knelt in front of her and took hold of both her hands.

‘Joanna,’ she said softly. ‘He won’t hurt you again. He’ll never do anything to you again.’ Her voice stumbled momentarily. ‘You see, we know what he’s been doing to you. That was very cruel of him.’

Joanna York looked at her beseechingly.

‘You know about…?’ The brittle voice faded in disbelief as Tess nodded. ‘But how can you? I never told…I couldn’t…I…’ She stopped as emotion tore through her and when her voice returned it was very faint. ‘I’m so ashamed…ashamed…please leave me alone.’

‘I’m going upstairs,’ Maltravers said to Tess. ‘That’s where it will be.’

In such a small house, it took him only moments to find the main bedroom and he went to the wardrobe in the corner, pausing a long moment before the impassive door, certain now beyond all disbelief that he was right. He stiffened himself, then took hold of the handle and pulled the door open.

Inside was the skeleton of Tom Bostock, Dunford’s Vincent’s tie grotesquely knotted beneath the scoffing skull. Pushing down his revulsion, Maltravers leaned forward and peered at the grey, scabrous teeth and saw a slight smear of pink on two of them.

‘Sweet Jesus,’ he murmured as tears of pity pricked his eyes. He was the third person to see that corruption and, at whatever risk to himself, he wanted to be the last.

The problem was, how could that be accomplished? He closed the wardrobe door again, frantically going over a scheme, certainly illegal but just possibly feasible, when he heard a key in the front door below him. He dashed down and reached the bottom of the stairs in the corner of the room as Alister York stepped awkwardly into the house. Tess leapt to her feet and stood protectively in front of Joanna, eyes blazing.

‘You are the most evil man I have ever met in my life.’ Her voice was quiet with icy fury. ‘You are disgusting! They taught me how to kill people on that course and if you go anywhere near this girl, that’s exactly what I’m going to do.’

‘Tess,’ Maltravers said warningly and her face was bitter as she turned to him. ‘Just take Joanna up the hill. I’ll handle this.’

Tess softened again as she put her arm round Joanna’s shoulders and helped her to her feet. Then she led her out of the house, placing herself between the woman and her husband. York looked at them both contemptuously, then stepped aside to let them pass, closing the door behind them with his good arm.

‘I expect you’ve called the police,’ he said to Maltravers.

‘No.’ Maltravers stepped off the final stair. ‘I want to talk to you.’

‘Well there’s nothing I wish to discuss with you.’

‘Oh I think there is,’ said Maltravers. ‘Just think for a moment. We could have rung the police as soon as Tess got back from the park and laid a charge of attempted murder against you. Hasn’t it occurred to you to wonder why we came here instead?’

York regarded him suspiciously. Finding Maltravers and Tess in his own house—where he had painfully made his way because there was nowhere else to go—had surprised him. After getting away with so much, he knew he had made a critical mistake. He had assumed he would find the police waiting for him, not Maltravers and the woman he had tried to kill. He sensed that something was being offered to him.

‘Then why did you?’ he asked guardedly.

‘Just sit down for a minute,’ said Maltravers. ‘I still don’t believe what I now know and I’d like to check my thoughts with you. Then we might have something to talk about.’

Weary with pain, York took a chair next to the door and Maltravers went across the room and looked upwards through the window at the first storey of the Darbys’ house on the other side of the street.

‘When you found Simon’s body over there—incidentally, I know you didn’t kill him, even though I’m positive you meant to—you took his tie off. You then wrapped it round the other cricket ball that was still on the desk and threw it straight across the road through this window. Simple enough for a cricketer of your ability. Later you had one of the estate workers repair the window and said it had been broken by vandals. Right?’ York made no reply.

‘That explains the odd loose ends about the murder,’ Maltravers continued. ‘Luke Norman had taken the ball he used to kill Simon with him and threw it away in the park—the police have it now but that’s irrelevant. The question is, why would you do such a thing? And I worked that out this afternoon from something I remembered saying to Tess about the butler in the Pembury chapel. The skeleton in the cupboard.’

‘While you’re getting to the point, I’d like a drink,’ York interrupted. ‘It’s in the cabinet over there. Whisky straight for me and you may as well help yourself.’

Maltravers poured the drinks, disinterested in the intellectual satisfaction of unravelling something so awful. He still had his back to York when he spoke again.

‘Not many people know the weird story of the woman who had a son in India, do they?’ He turned to York with the glasses in his hand and passed him the whisky. ‘It’s very fragmentary, but basically she received a letter from him asking her to find someone to make him six shirts for some unknown reason. He added that whoever did it must be someone without any cares in the world. The mother was understandably mystified, but did as he asked and eventually found a woman who seemed perfect. But when she went to see her, the woman took her upstairs and showed her a human skeleton in a cupboard. It was her former lover…and her husband made her kiss it every night.’

Maltravers glanced upwards as he continued. ‘The mother wrote back to her son with this news and he replied that he had been convinced that everyone in the world had their troubles—his that he was to be hanged. His letter ended, ‘Mother, mother, there is a skeleton in every cupboard!’’

Maltravers took a sip of his gin and looked at York with something like sympathy.

‘I can’t remember meeting anybody else before who knows the story behind the old saying. And, dear God, you must be the only person who would act it out again.’

York looked away from him.

‘And I’ve just thought of something else,’ Maltravers went on. ‘Let me think it through…You were out to an untypically bad stroke in the cricket match weren’t you? You knew Dunford would stay at the wicket…giving you time to go back to the house to steal his tie or something like it prior to killing him. You wanted to really ram it home to your wife who that skeleton represented. That little girl said she had seen a ghost in the family quarters, and to small children a ghost is something white…like a man in cricket flannels. Am I right there as well? Oh, forget it, it doesn’t matter. Nobody in their right minds would believe a word of it anyway. Stealing Tom Bostock’s skeleton was no problem for someone like you who worked in the house. But you had to do it quickly because of the plans to bury him.’

‘When you said you wanted to talk, I didn’t realise you just wanted to demonstrate your cleverness,’ York said sarcastically. ‘I can’t see why I should be subjected to your self-satisfaction but, if it pleases your conceit, you’re quite correct. Now you’ll be able to impress everyone with your remarkable intelligence, won’t you?’

‘No,’ said Maltravers. ‘I just wanted to make sure I’d got it right—conceit if you wish—but I don’t want to tell anybody else about this. I want to offer you something instead.’

‘There’s nothing I want from you,’ York replied curtly.

‘What about freedom? And avoiding the contempt people will have for you if it all comes out? Doesn’t that matter?’

‘Does it matter to you?’

‘In your case, no,’ Maltravers told him bluntly. ‘In your wife’s case, a great deal. Listen. Your attempt to murder Tess will not be reported to the police if you agree to leave Joanna and never—and I mean never—see her again. You’ve had your vengeance, now let her go. That’s between you and your conscience, but wouldn’t you prefer that your family and friends never knew about it?’

Maltravers noticed York’s eyes flash past him at something in the other corner of the room. He turned and looked but could see nothing that seemed significant. On the wall was a framed photograph of York’s father who he knew would eradicate his son from his life if he ever learned what had happened. Correct, strong and mercilessly unforgiving, he would accept as normal that his son had dominated his wife; that he had broken the law and brought disgrace upon himself would be contemptible. Irreparably scarred by his father’s treatment and conditioning of him, York could not bear the thought that having grown to admire him—even perversely to love him—he might lose him.

‘What about…?’ He gestured with his glass towards the upstairs of the house.

‘That’s my part of the deal,’ said Maltravers. ‘Leave it with me. I’ll be very careful. I don’t want the police asking me difficult questions.’

York was silent again, absorbing all that Maltravers had said, recognising the escape route it offered him.

‘Don’t expect any thanks,’ he said finally. ‘I find your sort pitiful. You’re weak, filled with ludicrous kindness. Too many people think that kindness is important. It’s not. I will accept your offer, but don’t delude yourself that my conscience will trouble me. What I did was right, although you will never be able to understand that.’

‘Let’s face it, you and I may as well be from different planets,’ said Maltravers. ‘You find me pitiful, I think you’re an obscenity. But sod all that. I’m doing this for your wife. If I could find a way of protecting her and dragging you through hell at the same time, I’d happily take it. Let’s just hope for both our sakes that you and I never have anything to do with each other again.’

The two men stared at each other for a moment, then both turned away, each with disgust, but one with a certain sorrow.

Alone in the house, Maltravers contemplated the bizarre, incredible and potentially disastrous situation in which he had placed himself. A few minutes earlier York had left for the hospital in a taxi to have his arm attended to, Tess and Joanna were at the Penroses, Maltravers was left to deal with the remains of a dead highwayman, twice abused for human hatred. He could conjure up in his mind the strange image of the fourth Earl of Pembury keeping his secret appointment year by year, candle-cast shadows on the cellar wall as he raised his glass in a cruel and mocking toast; history gave that some sort of grotesque perspective. What he could not conceive was the picture of what had been happening in the past couple of days, a young, pretty and vulnerable woman pressing her lips against a skull’s rictus smile, warm and living flesh on dead bone.

He shuddered and went back upstairs, forcing control into himself like someone steeling their stomach to clear up vomit. The sight of Dunford’s tie again made him retch momentarily, then he carefully removed it and placed it in his pocket. In the bathroom airing cupboard he found a sheet and spread it out on the bedroom floor, then, using his handkerchief to avoid leaving fingerprints, he lifted the skeleton off the hook from which it was suspended and laid it in the centre of the sheet, pulling the corners together to form a rough sack.

He peered cautiously out of the front door before leaving the house. Two women were standing talking towards the bottom of Bellringer Street, but otherwise there was nobody in sight. As he walked swiftly up the hill, the constant clicking from the bundle he was carrying sounded frighteningly distinct and he could only hope that anyone who saw him from a distance would assume he was carrying a bag of washing back from the launderette in the square; certainly no one would imagine the truth.

‘Is that you Gus?’ Tess’s voice from the dining room as he entered the house sounded relieved. ‘We’re in here.’

‘Just a minute,’ he called back then went upstairs and pushed the clattering bones of Tom Bostock under their bed. When he went down again, Joanna York was looking more composed, although the dried tears which had smeared her make-up across her face made her look like a melting and helpless wax doll. He sat down next to her and took hold of her hand encouragingly.

‘It’s all right,’ he said firmly. ‘I’ve talked to him and he’s agreed to certain things…No, just listen to me.’

Small frowns flickered across her face like a bewildered child listening to the explanation of something very difficult as Maltravers told her the agreement he had made with York.

‘But that’s not right,’ she protested when he had finished. ‘Tess has told me that he tried to kill her and…what he did to me. You’re letting him get away with it. You mustn’t.’

‘Yes we must,’ Maltravers contradicted. ‘Joanna, if all this comes out and Alister is punished, what will happen to you? Every newspaper in the country will run this story, everybody will pity you, but a lot will despise you. Isn’t it worth him getting away with it to stop that happening?’

Joanna looked at him like someone drowning staring at a lifeline thrown from nowhere. ‘But how can…? It would mean…You can’t do it, it’s too dangerous for you.’

‘Not that dangerous.’ Maltravers leaned forward, reinforcing what he was saying. ‘And we will make you a promise. Tess and I will never tell anyone what has happened.’

They both watched her carefully through a very long silence. Battered with torment, unbalanced by the relief of rescue, she was shakily trying to find some stability. When she spoke again, her voice was soft and deliberate as she appeared slowly to accept.

‘I hear what you’re saying to me and I think I understand it. I’m sorry, but I can’t cope with it all at the moment.’ She breathed in very deeply and straightened up in the chair. ‘I’ll try. I owe you both that.’

‘Good girl,’ said Maltravers. ‘First of all, is there anywhere you can go?’

‘My parents.’ Joanna York spoke with growing reassurance. ‘They never liked Alister and will accept that I’ve left him.’

‘Where do they live?’ Maltravers asked.

‘Ramshill…it’s about twenty miles away, but I don’t drive.’

‘We’ll take you,’ said Maltravers. ‘You’ll need some things but you’re not going back into that house, even while your husband is away at the hospital. Tell Tess where to find them and she’ll—’ He suddenly stopped and looked guilty. ‘Christ, I closed the door behind me! And you’ve not got your handbag. How do we get back in?’

Joanna York reached up to the neckline of her dress and pulled out a slender chain with a key dangling from it.

‘Mummy made me do this when I was little,’ she said. ‘I still do it in case I forget.’

She spoke as if the habit was perfectly normal, but Maltravers and Tess were shaken to see the little girl who lived in the woman’s body, the child who had cried in the terror of the night.

‘My make-up’s upstairs,’ Tess said, standing up. ‘You can fix your face while I collect what you want.’

The offer caught Maltravers unawares and he was unable to stop Tess taking Joanna to the room where he had hidden the skeleton, but reassured himself that it would not be visible. She had never asked about it and was probably trying to remove it from her memory. He heard Tess leave the house and when she returned about twenty minutes later he was still in the front room looking out at the church.

‘You do realise what we’ve got ourselves into, don’t you?’ she asked, putting Joanna’s case down by the door.

‘Just about.’ He turned and faced her. ‘But I imagine we’ll survive and I’m bloody sure Joanna won’t if it all comes out. We’re the only chance she’s got…so that’s all right, isn’t it Best Beloved?’

‘Oh, yes, it’s just so furiously insane that I’m still coming to terms with it. What did you do with that damned skeleton?’

‘Well, purely as a temporary measure…’ Maltravers stopped as Joanna came back, the ravages across her face at least cosmetically masked. He smiled at her. ‘You look better already. Let’s get you home.’

Joanna remained silent in the back of the car during the journey and neither Tess nor Maltravers could think of anything to say. They drew up outside the house and Tess turned round in her seat as Maltravers went to take the suitcase out of the boot. She handed the girl a piece of paper:

‘My address and phone number,’ she said. ‘Call me whenever you want, particularly when the blue meanies strike. God made shoulders for crying on.’

‘I’ve been thinking,’ said Joanna, taking the paper and folding it in her hands. ‘I can understand why he wanted to kill Simon, he thought there had been something between us. He was wrong, but he’s so possessive he really would have done it. Thank you for assuring me he didn’t, that helps. I don’t know what to think about the last couple of nights except that he must be mad in some way. He had a very strange childhood and has some funny ideas. What I can’t forgive him for is that he tried to kill you when all you had tried to do was help me. That was dreadful.’

‘Forget it, because it doesn’t matter,’ Tess told her. ‘I’m not bone china and I looked after myself. What matters is you picking up the pieces again. Don’t let him win.’

Tess paused, uncertain about raising something she could not understand and wanted to know.

‘Why did you marry him?’ she asked gently.

Joanna looked surprised. ‘Why? Because I loved him. I loved him very much indeed. Why else should I have married him?’

‘Sorry,’ Tess said apologetically. ‘Stupid question.’

Joanna got out of the car and Maltravers handed her the case. ‘I can’t think of anything to say to you,’ she said. ‘I’m too confused. But I know you’re taking an enormous risk to help me. I’m just so scared that I might let you down.’

‘I don’t think you will,’ he told her. ‘After all, you never let Alister down and he didn’t deserve that. I hope you think we do.’

As he watched the slender figure walk away from him up the garden path, he felt it had been a thought worth planting. The problems he would have with the police if she cracked and blurted it all out to her parents were irrelevant; the danger to her self-respect, perhaps even her sanity mattered much more. He climbed back into the car and they drove away without speaking. After a few minutes, Maltravers turned on the radio.

‘…Emburey seven not out. England won by one wicket. After the match, the England captain Mike Gatting spoke to…’

Maltravers leaned forward and switched the set off. ‘Funny, that seemed important earlier this afternoon. Strange how life goes on in the middle of everyone’s crises.’

The normality of finding Peter and the children at home when they returned was almost unnatural. Full of questions about her new baby brother, Emma showed Tess a picture she had painted at school, a vaguely female shape labelled ‘Mummy’ with a tiny stick figure coming out of its distended stomach.

‘And that’s the baby,’ she explained excitedly. ‘And that’s his cot and that’s his teddy and this is his hot water bottle and this is…’

Tess smiled and nodded helplessly.

‘What have you been doing with yourselves then?’ Peter asked as he handed Maltravers a can of beer from the fridge.

‘Nothing special. Tess went for a walk while I watched the cricket for a bit then we went for a drive.’ As he ripped open the seal and poured the drink into a glass, Maltravers reflected that, apart from a few salient details, it was a perfectly accurate summary. He took a much-needed swallow. ‘Anyway, at least it looks as though Simon’s murder has been cleared up.’

‘Harry says the police appear satisfied,’ Peter confirmed. ‘They had Luke’s prints from his flat and they’re very clear on the ball. I must say you didn’t seem surprised when I told you.’

‘It was obvious, nothing else made sense.’ Maltravers took another mouthful before adding a question of his own. ‘What are they doing about the other ball and the tie?’

‘According to Harry, they’re not too bothered. They reckon anyone could have nicked the ball during the party and is too scared to admit it and the tie is just an odd loose end. They’ll keep the file open in case anything happens, but that’s about it.’

‘They’re probably right,’ said Maltravers. ‘I can’t see any way in which those other items matter.’

Somehow the evening passed. They entertained the children and sent them off to bed before Peter returned with a Chinese takeaway after visiting Susan. They listened to him talking about his second son, his wife and his marriage without betraying the moments of abstraction when the events of the afternoon flooded back into their minds. Local gossip would swiftly inform Bellringer Street that Joanna York had left her husband, but the collapse of a marriage which most people had thought strange would not surprise anyone or hold their interest for long. York had every reason to keep quiet and Maltravers would have been interested if he had known that while they were talking the secretary was typing out his letter of resignation to Lord Pembury, wincing in discomfort and rekindled frustration as movement sent shots of pain down the arm in a sling.

When they went to their room, Tess flopped in full-length exhaustion on the bed.

‘Do you remember how drained I was after playing Brecht at Chichester? It was a breeze compared to this. Thank God we’re leaving in the morning.’

‘Yes, but there is still the little matter of Tom Bostock to deal with,’ Maltravers reminded her. She sat up, abruptly re-animated.

‘Shit! I thought you sorted that out. Where is he?’

‘Under the bed.’

‘Under the bed,’ Tess repeated tonelessly. ‘The bed on which I am now sitting. Of course he is. Where else would he be? What shall we do with him? I know, let’s take him home with us. A little souvenir of the holiday. Marvellous conversation piece at dinner parties. “Oh, it’s just a little thing we picked up in Old Capley. Amazingly cheap. It only cost us our sanity and a man’s…”’ The nonsense and deliberate rising tone of artificial hysteria in her voice were not enough to hold off the swarming emotions of the sudden return to the knowledge of all they had been through. The protective layer of acting fell away and was replaced by a look of anguish.

‘Oh Christ, stop me joking about it, Gus! Simon’s dead and Joanna’s nearly been destroyed and I’m the big super girl who can look after herself and…’ She started to cry.

Maltravers crossed the room and sat with his arms around her as the tears washed out everything that had been building up inside. After a few minutes he felt her pull herself together and relax as she sat up again and leaned back against the headboard of the bed.

‘I’m all right now,’ she told him. ‘So what are you going to do about…?’ Her eyes glanced downwards.

‘I’m taking him home. It should be safe enough in about a couple of hours. I’ve worked it all out.’

‘Before you tell me, just take him from underneath the bed,’ Tess interrupted. ‘I’m too tired to get off and I don’t want him that close to me.’

Maltravers knelt on the floor and carefully pulled out the sheet and its contents. Tess shuddered as a corner fell away, revealing a glimpse of the skull, and turned away in agitation. ‘Cover him up. He’s too horrible.’

Maltravers lifted the sheet and placed it by the bedroom door, as far out of Tess’s line of vision as he could manage. Then he told her what he meant to do.

‘Do you think it will work?’ she asked.

‘I think there’s a reasonable chance. As far as we know, the theft has never been reported and there’s been enough drama at Edenbridge House in the past couple of days. I think they’ll want to avoid any more. With a bit of luck, they’ll just take him back in, keep quiet about it and eventually bury him as Lady Pembury wants. Even if they do call in the police, they’re very unlikely to connect it with the murder—or with me.’

‘What about Alister York? He’ll realise what you’ve done.’

‘Of course he will, but he’ll want to keep it quiet more than anybody else.’

Tess looked at her watch; it was nearly midnight. ‘What a weird vigil. It’s crazy of course, but so is everything else about this.’

At first they tried to read, but it was no use; concentration on the words was constantly vandalised by the silent presence in the corner of the room. Finally, they just sat side by side, each wrapped in their own thoughts as the night crept away. When the church clock struck its single note for half-past one, Maltravers could stand it no longer.

‘It’s as safe now as any time,’ he said.

‘How long do you think it will take?’

‘No more than half an hour I hope.’

‘Do you want me to come with you?’

‘No, I can manage on my own. If I’m not back by half-past two, start praying.’

He rolled off the bed and crept quietly across the bedroom floor, picked up the sheet very carefully then tiptoed out of the room and downstairs. Tess sat still for a few minutes, then reached down and found her handbag from which she took her manicure set and occupied herself in unnecessarily attending to her nails.

Above St Barbara’s a racing moon swam between silvered flotsam of cloud and the trees in the churchyard whirred softly in the crisp whisper of the night breeze. A shadow among shadows, Maltravers made his way through the gravestones, carrying death between the dead in its strange winding sheet. He passed beneath the dark mass of the building and round to where a low wall formed the boundary with Edenbridge Park. He was just able to reach over and place his burden with a faint rattle on the ground the other side before cautiously scrambling after it. A hundred yards in front of him was a small copse of trees with the outline of the house, about a quarter of a mile away, just visible beyond them. As he hesitated before crossing the first open space, a fox coughed in the distance; the trees were full of tiny nocturnal noises as he crept among them. Emerging into the open again, an owl, swift and soundless, swooped out of the gloom and brushed the top of his head. There was a clatter of bones as he ducked in panic and for a few moments he crouched there, heart almost erupting and momentarily faint.

‘This is ridiculous,’ he muttered as his breath gasped back, then he remembered Joanna York’s face and moved on towards the turrets of the house, slates gleaming like blue ice in spasmodic moonlight. He had forgotten the gravel approaches and the crunch of every step sounded to him like a shriek in the silence; he kept stopping, convinced he had heard a sound which would mean discovery and almost comically dropping Tom Bostock with a splintering crash as he fled. But there were no sudden shouts of outrage, no terrifying appearance of approaching lights as he stepped off the gravel and climbed the wide semi-circle of steps, keeping close to the wall.

Finally he reached the front door where he and Tess had last stood when Simon had said goodnight to them after the concert—and had then gone to tell Lord Pembury about the disappearance of the skeleton. Delicately, Maltravers laid the sheet down on the flagstones and opened it out; the bony remains of the wandering highwayman shone with a faint phosphorescence in the cold white light. Using his handkerchief again, he placed his hand against the top of the skull and inched the skeleton out. The empty eye sockets stared up at the infinite spaces of the sky. Maltravers was about to go when he remembered something. Kneeling down again, he moistened a corner of the handkerchief with his tongue and carefully wiped away the traces of Joanna’s lipstick from the front teeth; then he stood up and looked for the last time at the mortal remains of the man whose adventures in death had been so rare and hideous.

‘Requiescat in pace,’ he murmured. ‘Both you and Simon.’ Then he folded the sheet and stole away, leaving Tom Bostock awaiting admittance at the door of his ancestors.

Five hours later, a maid opened the front door of Edenbridge House and her scream streaked like an arrow across the morning peace of the park before she fainted. Lord Pembury was summoned and gave immediate instructions that Tom Bostock should be replaced in his coffin and the cellar door locked. It had all been a tasteless prank, he decided, and gave strict orders that his staff were to say nothing whatever about it. Once the burial of his son was over, the matter would be dealt with as arranged.

Tom Bostock was to make one last journey to Bellringer Street, carrying with him a secret unguessed and unguessable.

‘You’re looking tired.’ Peter looked at Maltravers carefully as they shook hands. ‘Are you all right?’

‘I’m fine. I just didn’t sleep very well for some reason.’

‘I thought I heard you moving about in the night. Sure there’s nothing you want? Paracetamol or something?’

‘I’m OK, don’t worry. Probably just a bit of reaction. It’s been a funny few days one way and another.’

Peter looked apologetic. ‘Come again. Susan will be sorry to have missed you and…you know.’ His look covered words he could not find.

‘I know,’ Maltravers assured him. ‘Give her our love and take care of yourselves.’

The children were suddenly all about, excitedly saying goodbye with Emma holding out some soft toy that had to be kissed, then there was a waving of retreating hands as Maltravers and Tess drove away. He stopped at the T-junction at the bottom of Bellringer Street to let another car pass.

‘Did you notice that old framed map on Peter and Susan’s staircase?’ he asked. ‘It shows where all the pubs were in Bellringer Street in the old days. The Yorks’ house used to be the Maid’s Head, which is where Tom Bostock was arrested with his mistress. Strange to think that he may have been kissed in that room before.’

Tess made no reply but stared out of the window as Maltravers drove on, catching a glimpse of the shop where they had first seen Joanna York crack up. She found the inevitable sign above the window ironically painful. It said ‘Family Butcher’.

Varnished with rain, gold, fire-red and cinnamon leaves flecked the grey gravestones of St Barbara’s churchyard or lay in piles like dank rag rugs under their parent trees and along the edges of pathways shining with a damp film. Their autumn livery and the faded green of the grass seemed to hold the only colours in a monochrome world as a fine spray oozed down on to the leaden church out of seamless charcoal clouds. The quietness was only broken by the muffled tolling of a single bell, the dull repeated notes striding relentlessly from the flint tower of the church and vibrating down the canyon of Bellringer Street like the retreating drum of an army of the dead. In the gloom of the late October afternoon, the mourners shuffling behind the coffin of Tom Bostock were figures cut from black paper, moving slowly through the seeping curtain of drizzle. Lord and Lady Pembury led them, followed by Oliver Hawkhurst and his wife, the new Edenbridge House secretary and a handful of estate workers. Drawn out of macabre curiosity, a small group stood by the main gate watching the strange procession for the very private funeral pass up the path to where the vicar of Capley—another sable figure—waited in the porch. As the coffin reached him, he bowed solemnly then turned and led them all into the building, his fading voice intoning the Christian incantation for a human soul of whom all will be forgiven.

‘I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live: and whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die…’

The doors closed and only the wet, whispering sounds of the smearing rain remained. Standing alone to one side by the door of the vestry beneath a black umbrella, Augustus Maltravers was immobile with recollection of poisonous events. After a few moments’ contemplation that so much had finally reached its end, he brought himself back to normality and walked towards where the little crowd of the curious was dispersing. As he neared the gates, he saw Joanna York looking impassively at the church. She smiled slightly as he walked up to her.

‘I didn’t expect to see you here,’ he said.

‘I wasn’t going to come at first, but then I thought it might lay some ghosts.’

‘And has it?’

‘I don’t know.’ Slender shoulders shrugged slightly under her olive-green tweed coat. ‘Perhaps. I’ll have to see.’

Her saddened eyes went back to the church for some final contemplation then she appeared to pull herself together again.

‘Thank Tess for her letter,’ she said. ‘I’ll reply before I leave in a couple of weeks.’

‘Where are you going?’

‘New Zealand. My sister lives in Wellington. She always was the strong one. She’ll look after me. It’s…about as far as I can go.’

‘And Alister?’ Maltravers ventured cautiously.

‘That’s just between the solicitors now. He’s agreed to a divorce after two years’ separation and I don’t think he’ll go back on that.’ She looked up at him. ‘I don’t expect I’ll see you again. It sounds inadequate, but thank you for everything you both did. I won’t let you down. Give my love to Tess.’

There was nothing else to say as they faced each other, two people in the rain at the top of Bellringer Street in the dying light of the dripping melancholy day.

‘Goodbye,’ Maltravers said gently and leaned down towards her. She pulled away abruptly.

‘No…I’m sorry. I don’t like being kissed any more.’

The flash of sadness and pain in her face caught him before she turned and walked rapidly down the hill. He watched until she vanished from sight round the corner opposite the square, then crossed the road and rang the Penroses’ bell. Susan opened the door, smiling with her infant son in her arms.

‘What a day for a funeral,’ she said. ‘Come on in.’

Maltravers lowered his umbrella and shook it on the step before entering.

‘You look awfully sad.’ Susan looked at him closely. ‘What on earth are you so upset about Tom Bostock for?’

‘I just found it rather moving.’ Maltravers took off his coat and hung it on the pillar at the foot of the bannisters. ‘Here, give him to me and I promise not to drop him.’

Susan passed the baby over and Maltravers looked at him seriously.

‘“In everyone there sleeps a sense of life lived according to love. To some it means the difference they could make by loving others, but across most it sweeps as all they might have done had they been loved.” A very perceptive man called Philip Larkin wrote that.’

The baby squinted at him, then pushed a tiny hand clumsily against his face, unable to comprehend the gibberish that grown-ups talked.

THE BOOK OF THE DEAD

Table of Contents

Author’s apology

Having writers as friends means they may borrow your neighbourhood, your village or even your home as the setting for a book; in this instance, all three have been used. It must be stressed, therefore, that here are no real people or actual events, but imaginary wickedness connected with a surprising appearance of Sherlock Holmes. The only reality lies in the backdrop of the Lake District locations, although Attwater does not exist under that name.

Leaden October light was dying over the coastal plain of Lancashire as a menacing Valkyrie sky marched in from the sea, iron-black fists of cloud spuming out of a cauldron of lurid sulphur. Driving north along the M6, Augustus Maltravers apprehensively watched its approach for half an hour until, just beyond Lancaster, the storm rushed in and detonated above him. His car gave its initial hiccup as a scatter of rain hurled glistening sequins across the windscreen and almost instantaneously he was engulfed in a pelting downpour, the silver beams of his headlights picking up the crashing torrent as it hammered the motorway ahead and bounced back violently. He optimistically ignored whatever had caused the momentary splutter and pressed on, windscreen wipers clicking from right to left in frantic arcs. Above the kettledrum tattoo on the car roof, he heard a booming groan of thunder stride across the sky as his engine stumbled again. By the time he entered what he still thought of as Westmorland, despite the county having regained its ancient name of Cumbria, he was peering through saturated darkness and conditions beneath the bonnet were becoming critical.

Protesting constantly, the car staggered off at the Kendal exit and finally expired on an empty stretch of unlit country road midway between two villages. Maltravers swore comprehensively and looked gloomily out of the window. To his right, the rise of a hill vanished into a curtain of rain and to his left a field of dark wet emptiness stretched beyond a Lakeland stone wall. The earlier violence of the torrent had eased, but the relentless downpour that persisted would do wonders for shares in the ark-building industry. As far as he could calculate, he was about four miles from Brook Cottage. Any garages still open would have sent their mechanics home and calling out the AA—a rescue organisation without whose protection he would not venture a mile on any road—would mean an indefinite and probably lengthy wait.

The only option appeared to be walking to the village some distance ahead where there should be a telephone from which he could ring Malcolm and ask him to come to his rescue. As Maltravers stepped out, the rain made a quite unnecessary extra effort and it was like standing under a high pressure shower as he fumbled to haul things from the boot. By the time he had found his raincoat, the back of his blazer was soaked through to his shirt and short brown hair was plastered to his head like seaweed on a wave-washed boulder. He dragged out his suitcase and umbrella, slammed the boot shut, then paused to wipe the worst of the rain from a lean face that would have been handsome except for a fractional lop-sidedness about the axis of a Grecian nose. Polished cornflower blue eyes squinted with philosophical resignation as he trudged off towards the village, a tall, slightly ridiculous figure in the night.

After a few minutes he heard a car approaching from behind and raised his umbrella plaintively, but the vehicle swept past, hissing through a puddle which swelled out into a shell-shaped cascade, soaking him from knees to ankles. Maltravers looked dejectedly at his sopping trousers and sighed, accepting that it must be St Christopher’s night off. He noticed an old milepost half hidden in the long grass by the roadside and crouched down to read the legend carved into the stone: Attwater 3 miles. At least there was the village before that, although there was no sign he was yet anywhere near it. He straightened up and plodded soddenly on, indifferent to the possibility of meeting a river he would have to ford; it was inconceivable that he could be made any wetter.

Two other passing cars ignored him before a high wall loomed out of the murkiness as the road curved to his left. He followed it to a pair of iron gates with a brass plate bearing the name Carwelton Hall screwed to the brickwork. There was no indication that what appeared to be an old manor house had now become the headquarters of the electricity board or some similar undertaking and lights were shining in the downstairs rooms thirty feet beyond the gates. Clearly such premises must contain a telephone and he could surely persuade the occupants that he was genuinely in need of help and not a passing homicidal maniac. One of the gates squeaked as he opened and closed it behind him, then he squelched along the drive and up ten wide, curved steps. The front door looked at least a hundred years old, but there was a modern bell push which sounded a strident ring when he tried it.

As he waited, wild nocturnal elements and mock Gothic architecture conjured up in his mind several possible welcomes he might receive. An old, twisted and clearly mad woman still serving meals to the corpse of her husband, rigid in wing collar and frock coat, in his chair at the candlelit dining-table; a forbidding butler, accompanied by a savage dog, peering uncertainly at him before hysterically crying that the Young Master had returned; a sinister figure in full evening dress unnervingly assuring him that he was expected and really must see the cask of amontillado in the cellar. Maltravers’s embryonic writer’s imagination had been fed and fattened in his youth by an endless diet of classic horror stories.

Then the door opened and he found himself faced by a slender redhead wearing designer jeans and a cream silk shirt with a chunky necklace of wooden beads the size of acorns. She looked at him for a moment then smiled sympathetically.

‘Oh dear, you are wet aren’t you?’

‘Very,’ he replied. ‘And trying to say that drily is as near as I can manage to the condition. I’m sorry to trouble you, but my car’s broken down and I want to call the people I’m visiting so they can collect me. Can I possibly use your telephone?’

‘Who is it, Jennifer?’ The man’s voice came from beyond an open door off the brightly lit hall.

‘Someone who needs the phone,’ she called back. ‘His car’s packed up.’ She smiled at Maltravers again. ‘You’d better come in.’

Leaving his dripping umbrella and case in the porch, Maltravers stepped inside and was wiping his soaking shoes on the mat as the man appeared. He appeared to be about sixty, his hair swept back from his forehead in waves of coal and slate above a strong, direct face, dark flesh like bunched muscles with a blue-grey shadow of evening stubble. The open-necked shirt, casual slacks and espadrilles would have looked bizarre on most men his age, but he retained a vigour preserved from his youth which carried it off.

‘This is no night to be out in is it?’ Fox brown eyes flickered with commiseration.

‘It’s not one I’d have chosen given the chance,’ Maltravers agreed. ‘It’s very kind of you to help. My friends only live in Attwater so they can be here in a few minutes.’

‘Attwater?’ The man sounded interested. ‘We know several people there. Where exactly?’

‘Brook Cottage. Malcolm and Lucinda Stapleton.’

‘Malcolm and Lucinda?’ There was unexpected recognition in the repetition. ‘You’re not Augustus Maltravers, are you?’

Maltravers stared in surprise. ‘Yes, but how do you know that? Or does everyone know who’s having visitors in the country?’

‘No, but you’re having dinner here tomorrow evening.’ He smiled at Maltravers’s further look of confusion. ‘Malcolm told me you were visiting them and I insisted that you all come. I think I’ve read everything you’ve written and I’ve wanted to meet you for a long time.’

‘Thank you,’ Maltravers said. ‘Long arm of coincidence I suppose.’

‘Something like that.’ The man held out his hand. ‘I’m Charles Carrington and this is my wife Jennifer.’

As they shook hands, Maltravers automatically glanced at the girl again. Seen properly in the full light of the hall, she was strikingly attractive, the elfin face with thin, deep pink lips framed by polished copper hair parted in the centre and flicked outwards at her shoulders. She was certainly no older than he had first supposed, which was considerably younger than her husband.

‘My second wife,’ Carrington added, catching the expression that flashed across Maltravers’s face. ‘Most people look surprised.’

Maltravers felt uncomfortable. ‘I’m sorry, but I did rather suppose…’

‘That she was my daughter perhaps?’ Carrington interrupted. ‘Don’t apologise, I’m quite used to it. However, there’s no need to call Malcolm out on a night like this. I can run you up to Brook Cottage.’

‘That’s putting you to too much trouble…’ Maltravers protested.

‘Not at all,’ Carrington insisted. ‘Wait here and I’ll bring the Land Rover round. We’d offer you a drink, but I imagine you’d rather get straight to the cottage and change.’

He disappeared through a door leading to the back of the house, leaving Maltravers with the second Mrs Carrington. He glanced round the panelled hall, dominated by a massive staircase with huge family portraits rising above mahogany banisters. Pale lemon Regency wallpaper and white painted ceilings alleviated heavy, dark brown woodwork. The electric lights were modern, but their shining brass fittings had been tastefully chosen to blend with their setting.

‘Lovely house you have,’ he commented. ‘Have you lived here long?’

‘Oh, Charles’s family has been here for ever,’ she replied. ‘But it’s only been my home since we married eighteen months ago. You should have seen it when I arrived. I’ve had a lot of fun cheering it up.’

‘It looks as if it could have been the sort of place which would have had a Mrs Danvers waiting to greet you,’ Maltravers observed wryly.

Jennifer Carrington laughed. ‘No, but it was like a tomb. All I wanted to do was put some life back into it.’

‘Really? Why had the life gone out?’

‘There had been too much death in it.’ She looked apologetic. ‘Oh, God, doesn’t that sound melodramatic? Anyway, you don’t want to hear family history. Are you up here on holiday?’

‘Partly, although I’ve also been commissioned to do an interview for the Independent with a retired actress who lives at Bowness, which means I’m getting paid for coming,’ he replied. ‘Then I’ve got to finish a new play to meet my agent’s deadline. After that, it’s a holiday.’

‘Charles really has been looking forward to meeting you. He was delighted when Malcolm told him you were a friend of theirs.’

‘I’m always flattered to discover fans. They’re in short supply and…’ Maltravers was interrupted by the sound of a vehicle on the gravel outside. Jennifer Carrington opened the door again to reveal a Land Rover, canvas hood glistening with rain in the light from the hall, waiting at the foot of the steps.

‘I’ll ring Brook Cottage and say you’re on your way,’ she promised. ‘I’m sure you’ll be drier when you come tomorrow.’

‘That won’t be difficult.’ Maltravers looked at the small pool of rainwater gathered around his feet on the parquet floor. ‘Sorry about that. Thank you, and I look forward to meeting you again.’

He pushed his case and umbrella into the back of the vehicle then climbed in and sat next to Carrington.

‘Where did you abandon your car?’ he asked as he drove into the road through another gate leading to a modern double garage next to the Hall.

‘About a mile or so back towards the motorway,’ said Maltravers. ‘I’ll call a mechanic out in the morning. It’s probably nothing serious, but all I know about cars is that you put petrol in one end and an ignition key in the other.’

After a few minutes Carrington wiped condensation off the inside of the windscreen with the back of his glove, peering through the rain and darkness for the village signpost at the turn just before Brook Cottage. He saw it and drove past then spun the wheel and the Land Rover rocked through the farmyard leading to the tiny unmarked lane no stranger would have discovered. Branches of dripping hedges rising over stone walls brushed the sides of the vehicle as they drove up the hill towards the cluster of homes in a hollow of the land. Carrington stopped by a small circular green with a patch of pampas grass surrounded by a ring of low box hedge at its centre. Opposite was the white pebbledash wall of Brook Cottage with its narrow strip of front garden which formed the boundary of the lane, a light glowing in the gable-end porch over the door.

‘Incidentally, I’ve got something to show you tomorrow night,’ he said as Maltravers thanked him and started to get out. ‘Malcolm told me you’re a great fan of detective fiction. I’m sure you’ll be interested in a Sherlock Holmes story by Conan Doyle you’ve never read.’

Maltravers paused and glanced at him in surprise as he reached into the back for his case and umbrella.

‘More than interested, I’d be amazed. I’ve read all of them.’

‘Not this one,’ Carrington said with conviction. ‘There’s an odd story behind it. Anyway there’s Malcolm. See you tomorrow.’

Maltravers stepped out then stood watching the Land Rover disappear back down the lane, rear lights like fire in rubies as Carrington braked for the bend. A new Sherlock Holmes…?

‘Now you’ve got this far, you can surely manage the last five yards,’ Malcolm called from the lighted doorway. ‘I told you last time you were here it was time you changed that car of yours.’

Maltravers picked his way between puddles, an academic exercise in his condition. Lucinda appeared behind her husband, holding a glass which she held out towards him.

‘Hot toddy, and we started running the bath when Jennifer rang.’

Maltravers took the drink and cautiously leaned his dripping figure forward to kiss her.

‘God bless you, lady,’ he said. ‘You have just saved the life of a minor literary talent, which is just as well because I haven’t finished my complete works yet.’

Three quarters of an hour later, bathed and changed, Maltravers went downstairs and into the low, square living-room. Outside, the wind had re-gathered and rain was impotently battering three foot thick granite walls that would have been indifferent to a hurricane. Pairs of red-shaded lights gleamed warmly in brass brackets fixed to rough white plaster and logs crackled and spat in the iron fire box of the open grate, the gale occasionally blowing back plumes of brown smoke as it curled up through the hammered steel chimney hood. The furniture included a baby grand piano, open top catching the light, a plump chesterfield sofa and matching easy chairs with cream linen loose covers patterned with leaves and a polished oak captain’s seat which Maltravers secretly coveted. Rugs lay like islands of dark moss and rust in the grey sea of the flagged floor. Malcolm took his empty glass and went to the deep, well-stocked drinks cupboard built into one wall.

‘The first one was medicinal,’ he said as he handed the tumbler back. ‘This one is social. Good to see you again.’

Maltravers’s only complaint about his hosts was that they lived too far from London for him to accept their standing invitation to visit whenever he wished more frequently. He had met Malcolm Stapleton during his journalistic career as a reporter in the Manchester offices of the Daily Mail. Malcolm had been offered a job several times on Fleet Street—as it then was—but had chosen to stay in his native north of England, becoming editor of the weekly Cumbrian Chronicle in Kendal. Stockily built with a mane of hair still packed thick as the bristles of a new brush, his square, cheerful face was permanently weathered by walks on the fells. He was also the most gifted amateur pianist Maltravers knew. He and Lucinda had two grown-up sons, the emerging craftsman Adrian at college studying furniture design and Simon training to be a building society manager.

‘It’s nice to be here.’ Maltravers raised the glass briefly as he went and stood by the fire. ‘Although I’ve had better journeys.’

‘Odd that you should have stopped at Carwelton Hall,’ said Malcolm. ‘Did Charles mention we’re going there tomorrow night?’

‘Yes. But I’ve never heard you talk about them and I thought I’d met most of your friends up here.’

‘We only got to know Charles and Jennifer about a year ago.’ Lucinda appeared at the top of the three shallow steps from the living-room into the kitchen, where she had been finishing off Lancashire hot pot and jacket potatoes. ‘You’ll have noticed that they’re not the average married couple.’

Maltravers grinned at the overtones in her voice. The daughter of a successful Manchester businessman, Lucinda Stapleton combined all the sophistication of a city-bred childhood with the acquired common-sense abilities of an adopted countrywoman. Part-time teaching, involvement in countless village activities and the social side of being an editor’s wife would have left lesser women exhausted; with her ash blonde hair folded back like a bird’s wings about her crisp, intelligent face, in her corduroy skirt and flowered shirt, she looked quite capable of either setting off for a ten-mile hike or arranging an instant dinner party for a dozen unexpected guests.

‘Not only did I notice, I’m afraid it showed,’ he replied. ‘She must be—what?—at least thirty years younger than him.’

‘Plus VAT,’ said Lucinda. ‘Come on, dinner’s ready. We’ll tell you about them while we eat.’

Maltravers suspected that the hot pot contained at least half a cow and the product of a small vegetable patch; the muscular appetites of the north always defeated him and he refused a second helping after he had worked his way through the first with difficulty as he learned more about Charles Carrington. His first wife had died some years earlier, the first of a shattering series of personal tragedies. His son had been killed while climbing in the Cairngorms less than a year after his mother’s death, then his daughter had moved to Manchester, where she had become fatally caught in the city’s drug culture. She had been jailed twice, helplessly sliding from cannabis to cocaine to mainlining heroin. She had died from an overdose and her poisoned body had rotted in a squat in a filthy flat in the Moss Side district for a week before it was discovered.

Carrington had brought his daughter home after she was first released from prison, but when she ran away again and went back on drugs he had refused to have anything more to do with her. The last time he had seen her was when he had identified her corpse, but he had not regarded the body in the police mortuary as Gillian; it had been a stranger, totally unconnected with the child he had loved. He had used his legal influence to persuade the coroner to accept his evidence in writing so that he would not have to attend an inquest into the death of someone he had ceased to know. He had never even tried to discover what the verdict had been.

Embittered by her behaviour following the two deaths that had already almost broken him, he had obsessively absorbed himself in his legal work, becoming almost a recluse at Carwelton Hall which his family had owned for more than three centuries. Then a girl called Jennifer Lloyd had arrived in his life.

‘It was before we got to know him, of course,’ Lucinda said, offering an alternative between meringues and Bakewell tart for a dessert which Maltravers could not even contemplate. ‘He’s told us that she was very sympathetic and understanding and they were married within six months.’

‘All very romantic,’ commented Maltravers. ‘But can crabbed age and youth live together?’

‘He’s not that old,’ Lucinda corrected. ‘In fact he’s very well preserved for sixty-odd. But…well there is gossip.’

‘There would be,’ Maltravers said sourly. ‘Whether or not there was any substance to it.’

‘Ah, but there is substance,’ Lucinda glanced across the table at her husband. ‘Isn’t there?’

‘I’m afraid so,’ Malcolm confirmed. ‘Jennifer is having an affair.’

‘Really?’ Maltravers raised his eyebrows caustically. ‘How very boring and predictable. Do you know who with?’

‘Someone called Duggie Lydden,’ Lucinda said. ‘He runs a not very successful interior design business in Kendal. That is when he can spare time from his girlfriends. He’ll go for anything wearing a skirt.’

‘Then he should avoid Scotland,’ Maltravers remarked. ‘How long is this supposed to have been going on?’

‘I became certain about three months ago, but it’s probably more than that. According to somebody I know, it started not all that long after the marriage.’ Lucinda stood up. ‘Come on, we’ll have coffee in the other room.’

As they went through, Maltravers reflected that on very brief acquaintance, Charles Carrington had struck him as a decent man; after what he now knew he had suffered, he deserved better than a young wife who jumped into bed with a lover at the first opportunity.

‘Does Carrington know what’s going on?’ He dipped into the dish of Kendal mint cake on the table beside him as Lucinda handed him his cup.

‘I’m not sure.’ She sat down next to Malcolm on the chesterfield, kicking off her shoes and tucking long legs beneath her.

‘Husbands can be terribly blind about these things. One of Duggie’s other affairs has been going on for ages.’

Maltravers sipped his coffee. ‘You know, you’re quite destroying my faith in the innocence of country living. There’s quite enough of this sort of thing in London without it breaking out here as well.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Malcolm told him. ‘I bet you can quote what Sherlock Holmes had to say about that.’

‘“It is my belief, Watson, founded upon my experience, that the lowest and vilest alleys of London do not present a more dreadful record of sin than does the smiling and beautiful countryside”,’ Maltravers said on cue. ‘From The Copper Beeches…and that reminds me. As he was dropping me off, Charles said something about a Holmes story by Conan Doyle I’ve never read. Do you know what he was talking about?’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Malcolm. ‘You’re not going to believe this. It goes back to the period after Conan Doyle temporarily killed Holmes off. You probably know the dates.’

‘The story of him and Moriarty allegedly falling into the Reichenbach Falls locked in each other’s arms was published in 1893. I can’t remember the exact gap, but it was about ten years later that Doyle raised him from the dead. But you still haven’t answered the question.’

‘Prepare yourself for a shock,’ Malcolm warned him. ‘Conan Doyle was a close friend of Dr Samuel Carrington, who was Charles’s grandfather. They’d met as medical students and he often visited Carwelton Hall. In 1894 he stood godfather to Dr Carrington’s son—who later became Charles’s father—and his christening present was a brand new Holmes story. Ten copies, privately bound. It’s never been published.’

‘What?’ Maltravers spluttered as misdirected coffee sent him into a paroxysm of coughing. Malcolm looked amused as he choked, staring at him in disbelief as though he had casually announced he had stumbled across the genuine Van Gogh’s Sunflowers at a church jumble sale and the Japanese had a twenty-three million pound print hanging on the wall.

‘You’d better slap him on the back,’ he told his wife.

Lucinda stood up and hit Maltravers between the shoulder blades with a blow that would have dented metal.

‘Enough!’ he gasped. ‘How many ways do you two want to kill me? Shock or a broken spine?’

He collapsed back in his chair and gulped as he recovered.

‘Now let me get this straight,’ he said finally. ‘The man who gave me a lift here tonight actually has an unknown Sherlock Holmes story, written by Conan Doyle himself for God’s sake! That’s like saying the Titanic has just docked safely at New York!’

‘Come on, Gus,’ Lucinda objected. ‘It’s only a book—and quite a short one at that.’

‘It’s only a book in the same way that Everest is only a large hill,’ he corrected. ‘Publishers would kill to get hold of it. It’s worth…God, you can’t put a price on it. Why has it never been published?’

‘Conan Doyle didn’t want it to be,’ Malcolm explained. ‘Charles’s grandfather suggested it after he brought Holmes back, but he insisted it was a private gift just for his godson and the family.’

‘Can Carrington prove its authenticity?’

‘Every copy signed by Doyle and volume one containing a handwritten personal message to his godson,’ Malcolm told him. ‘Plus the letters the family exchanged with him when they asked him about publication and he insisted it was just for them. Amazing isn’t it?’

‘It’s bloody miraculous,’ Maltravers said feelingly. ‘But Doyle died in 1930, so Charles Carrington could only have known him as a child, if he ever met him at all. Why does he still feel bound by something he said nearly a hundred years ago?’

‘Charles certainly met Doyle,’ Malcolm confirmed. ‘He’s shown us a photograph of himself as a toddler sitting on his knee. All he can remember is a very old man with a thick moustache. But as far as he’s concerned, Doyle said the book was just for the family and that’s all there is to it. Gentleman’s word and all that sort of thing.’

Maltravers shook his head wonderingly as he stared into the fire, unable to make any adequate comment. The house he had left a couple of hours earlier contained the equivalent in crime fiction of another Mozart symphony or an undiscovered Jane Austen novel.

And its owner was keeping it, not for reasons of possessiveness, but out of respect for the wishes of a man who had been dead more than fifty years; meanwhile, his wife operated on a very different code of behaviour.

Late autumn had frosted the edges of Cumbria and it would not be long before winter lay snow like nuns’ white caps on the tops. Great blocks of bottle green conifers stood amid deciduous trees, their leaves stained all the shades of sherry and beer. Far below where Maltravers leaned against a wooden gate, Windermere reflected bruised clouds still swollen with unfallen rain, its waters a tongue of rough-cut slate along its long hollow in the hills. Away to the west, the peaks of Harrison Stickle and Pike o’Stickle rose mistily above the Langdale valley. The only sound was the faint, trembling bleat of a sheep floating down from the fellside behind him. A newspaper with offices in the noisy and noisome City Road had actually paid him to come here and conduct one of the most entertaining interviews of his life; he decided he would reward it by breaking the first rule of journalism and put in only genuine expenses for the trip.

Maltravers had spent a wonderful morning in the company of Dame Ethel Simister, the outrageous grande dame of the English theatre, living out her seventh age in a small hotel, memories unimpaired and wit wicked, who had regaled him with a series of scandalous anecdotes and acid comments. A great many paid no respect to the laws of libel, but there were enough for his piece and several others left over which he would delight in repeating privately. He laughed aloud, recalling one particular story as he watched a kestrel hover on vibrating wings above the field in front of him. There were many worse ways of earning a living. A spurt of wind threw a drift of rain into his face and he went back to his car to return to Brook Cottage. The previous night’s problems had been caused, he had been informed, by worn points, an affliction which he thought only inconvenienced ballet dancers.

As he drove away, the kestrel dipped its beak and fell soundlessly and there was a little death in the grass.

They were the last to arrive at Carwelton Hall that evening, Maltravers adding his car to the end of the line of vehicles curved in a semi-circle on the drive in front of the house. Charles Carrington opened the door and led them through to the lounge, where the other guests were already gathered. Maltravers heard Lucinda draw in her breath sharply as they entered the room.

‘I think you two know everybody,’ Carrington said. ‘But I must introduce…Gus isn’t it? Fine.’ He turned to the group sitting round the open fire. ‘This is Gus Maltravers, the writer I’ve been telling you about. My partner Stephen Campbell and his wife Sophie, Charlotte Quinn, Alan Morris our local vicar, and Duggie Lydden.’

Maltravers instantly understood Lucinda’s reaction as Carrington continued. ‘And this is Geoffrey Howard, an old friend of Jennifer’s who has just come back from Nigeria.’

Campbell was completely bald and the smooth skin of his face seemed as tightly stretched as the dome of his skull; when he raised his eyebrows, which he did frequently, a grid of deep parallel creases appeared across his forehead. He was dressed rather formally for the occasion, gold links of a watch-chain glinting across his waistcoat. With permed hair carrying a stain of henna and too much rouge on her vulpine face, his wife looked like a barmaid who had married well. Howard was tall and powerfully built with a naval-style full set of black beard and moustache and a crescent of old scar tissue pushing down the flesh over his right eye. The uncollared Reverend Morris was clearly comfortably removed from church-mouse poverty, with Savile Row in every expensive stitch of his suit. His face was long and aesthetic, the eyes narrow and penetrating, pencil lines of hair streaked back from the high forehead. In his early fifties, he looked out of his time, like the younger son of a titled nineteenth-century family who had taken the traditional path of entering the church as a suitable profession for a gentleman rather than from any sense of vocation. Charlotte Quinn was handsome and elegant in a burgundy cocktail dress black patterned tights and low-heeled patent leather shoes with a glint of gold metal at the heels. Maltravers nodded at them all as he was introduced, then observed Lydden more closely as he sat down.

He appeared an unprepossessing lover, below average height now becoming exaggerated by creeping excess weight, partly disguised by a double breasted pearl grey suit. A vivid green tie clashed hideously with a blue shirt and Maltravers remembered Lucinda saying that his business was not very successful; if that was an example of his colour sense, it was not surprising. The face held some remains of what must have been good looks several years earlier, suggesting cunning rather than intelligence, and the pale ginger hair was combed forward in an attempt to cover its retreat. He seemed perfectly at ease as a dinner guest of one of his mistresses’ husbands; Maltravers sourly admired the man’s gall, but felt that Jennifer Carrington could have shown better taste. As Carrington handed him his drink, she walked into the room, wearing an apricot dress matched to the flame of her hair. Lydden’s eyes flashed at her, briefly but hungrily; catching the look, Maltravers glanced quizzically at Lucinda who pursed her lips in silent cynicism.

‘Hello,’ said Jennifer Carrington. ‘Everyone’s arrived then? Dinner’s nearly ready. Finish your drinks and then we’ll eat.’

She sat down between Maltravers and Geoffrey Howard.

‘You look much better than you did last night,’ she commented. ‘I hope you’ve not caught a cold or anything?’

‘Not so far,’ Maltravers replied. ‘And thank you again for helping me out. I hate to think how much worse it could have become.’

‘You don’t know Geoffrey, do you?’ she said. ‘We met years ago and he just turned up out of the blue.’ She moved her chair back slightly so that the two men could talk to each other.

‘Out of the blue from Nigeria,’ Maltravers observed.

‘Yes, I’m a civil engineer and was working on a dam project,’ Howard replied. ‘I only came back a few weeks ago and decided to look up some old friends. Someone told me who Jennifer had married and I rang up and was invited to dinner.’

‘Have you come far tonight?’

‘From just outside Manchester, but it only takes an hour or so on the M6,’ Howard said. ‘Charles has been telling us all about you, but I’m afraid I’ve never read anything you’ve written. I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t apologise,’ Maltravers told him. ‘You’re in a majority. I don’t do five hundred page sagas with regular outbreaks of bodice ripping, spy fiction or crime, which doesn’t leave much of an audience. What’s it like building dams in Africa?’

Maltravers gave the appearance of listening to Howard on a subject in which he had neither expertise nor interest, which allowed him the opportunity of examining Lydden again from time to time. Charles Carrington was sitting next to him and, as they talked, Jennifer went to sit on the arm of her husband’s chair, resting her hand on his shoulder. Maltravers was wondering if it was a further act of deception or perhaps an oblique message to Lydden that she was tiring of their affair, when he saw Carrington move her hand away without looking at her. There was no reason for it and Jennifer appeared momentarily startled, glancing at her husband with concern before standing up abruptly and announcing that dinner was ready. Maltravers was still thinking about the incident and what, if anything, it might mean as they crossed the hall to the dining-room, high and gracious with the deep brown mirror surface of a long rosewood table catching the lights from a pair of silver four-stemmed candelabra, glittering on silver cutlery set by sage green leather place mats with a coat of arms embossed in gold leaf in the centre. Maltravers had been put between Morris and Charlotte Quinn. She could look back on forty but the figure in the wine-dark dress with a loop of pearls at the neck was still that of a young woman and tousled, deep auburn hair was only faintly touched with cobweb grey. He noticed a wedding-ring, but it was worn on her right hand.

‘We’ve not had a chance to speak,’ he said as he held the ladder-back dining-chair for her. ‘I remember the name but don’t know what you do or anything.’

‘I run a gift shop in Stricklandgate in Kendal,’ she replied. ‘I’m almost embarrassed to say I called it Quintessence.’

‘Ingenious, but you could have used Quinquereme,’ Maltravers replied, as he took his place next to her. ‘Although the apes and peacocks might have caused the odd crisis in the stockroom.’

Her laugh was low pitched, in key with her contralto voice. ‘You’re quick and that’s very clever. I might use it for the new shop I’m planning in Keswick. Would you mind?’

‘Not in the least, I’d be flattered,’ he replied as she passed him a bowl of grated parmesan. ‘You sell the usual souvenirs I suppose?’

‘Dear God, no,’ she replied firmly. ‘There’s enough second-rate tat about for the tourists without me adding to it. I leave Lakeland tea-cosies and Wordsworth’s wretched ‘Daffodils’ printed on tea-cloths made in Taiwan to the others. You must call in sometime and see for yourself.’

‘I’ll do that,’ he promised. ‘Is it your own business?’

‘Yes. After my husband left me, Charles lent me the money to set it up. I’m glad to say I’ve paid him back now.’

Maltravers began to scatter the cheese on his minestrone.

‘I guessed you were divorced from the wedding-ring. I’ve been through that myself, but at least it involved just the two of us. Did you have children?’

He realised he had made a mistake as he casually turned to her again and a spasm of recollected pain flashed across eyes of uncertain colour, like pools of oil. The deep red petals of the lips, which had parted in laughter only moments before, stiffened as though she was controlling herself.

‘Both my children died of a congenital heart disease before they were twelve,’ she said. ‘My husband went off with someone I thought was a friend three months after our daughter’s funeral.’

‘Oh, Christ.’ Maltravers looked apologetic. ‘I’m sorry. That was very clumsy of me.’

‘You weren’t to know,’ she told him. ‘I’m afraid you caught me off guard with a lot of defences down. I’m usually more careful when strangers ask me things like that because I know how much it can embarrass them.’

She touched his arm with a gesture of forgiveness. ‘Anyway it was a long time ago now, and I’d rather have had my children and lost them than never had them at all.’

Maltravers could think of nothing to say that did not sound either patronising or meaningless, then the moment between them was broken by an incongruous outburst of laughter from the other end of the table.

‘Gus has a much better one than that,’ Malcolm was saying. ‘Tell them about that MP you interviewed once. The one with the talking parrot.’

For a while conversation around the table became general then settled down into smaller groups again and Maltravers started talking to Alan Morris. Urbane and cultivated company as a dinner guest, the widowed vicar of Attwater was obviously not inclined to throw open his vestry to the poor. If the Church of England was indeed the Tory party at prayer, Morris would be the perfect cleric to preach the sermon, assuring them that a rich man could enter the kingdom of Heaven with no difficulty, despite the founder’s warnings to the contrary. His conversation was highly secular and, when the subject turned to literature, displayed a familiarity with books whose contents bishops are expected to deplore. Maltravers, who had no illusions about Holy Orders producing automatic Becket-style conversions, felt that if he had been following his calling around the time Carwelton Hall was built, Morris would have been a classic pluralist and very worldly agent for the Almighty. He finally abandoned his entertaining company to talk to Charlotte Quinn again.

‘I understand Duggie Lydden has a shop in Kendal as well,’ he said. ‘Anywhere near yours?’

‘Two doors away,’ she replied and he was struck by the undisguised hostility in her voice. ‘At least it was still there when I set out this evening. I expect it to go bust any time. When you look at that shirt and tie, what can you expect?’

‘It is a rather eccentric colour combination,’ Maltravers agreed, intrigued by her instantly revealed animosity. ‘Do I gather you’re…not exactly the best of friends?’

‘I wouldn’t spit in Duggie Lydden’s mouth if his teeth were on fire,’ she said, the startling bluntness accompanied by a bland smile. ‘Does that answer your question?’

‘I think I grasp the general drift,’ Maltravers replied evenly. ‘I seem to be saying all the wrong things to you, don’t I?’

‘Don’t worry. I’ve reached the stage in life where I don’t care what I say or what anyone thinks about it. It shocks some people, but you look as though you can handle it.’ She smiled apologetically. ‘No, I’m sorry. I’ve had one drink too many tonight and some things have come too near the surface.’

Maltravers caught her distasteful glance towards Jennifer Carrington.

‘I’m being rather slow, aren’t I?’ he commented mildly. ‘How long has Charles been a friend of yours?’

One eyebrow arched as Charlotte Quinn gave him an appreciative but warning look.

‘Now that’s being too clever. You’re so sharp, you’ll cut yourself, as my grandmother used to say.’

‘Not all that clever,’ he contradicted. ‘You’re not making much of an effort to put a polite face on certain things.’

It had not taken any particular brilliance for him to reach obvious conclusions about Charlotte Quinn’s feelings. He was about to say something else when Carrington stood up and spoke to his wife.

‘Geoffrey has asked to see round the house,’ he said. ‘Can you take everyone else back to the lounge for coffee? Unless anybody else would like the guided tour?’

‘Actually, I’ve never seen the Hall properly,’ said Malcolm.

‘Perhaps you’d like to join us,’ Carrington said to Maltravers. ‘There’s something in the library you’ll certainly want to see.’

Duggie Lydden and the Reverend Morris stayed with them, but Campbell and his wife went with the other three women as Carrington began to escort them through his family home. Rebuilt in the nineteenth century, but with roots going back to the Restoration, the house was a fine example of its period, but Maltravers had little taste for Victorian style. Its unremitting ponderousness always struck him as the product of the highly righteous and privileged section of a society convinced that God was an Englishman who would let his chosen people rule the world for ever and they should accordingly build their homes and furniture like their monuments, solid, uncompromising and permanent. He took only polite interest in what Carrington showed them—which was more than Lydden did—while Howard seemed endlessly fascinated and well informed and Malcolm and Morris made intelligent comments. But Maltravers’s interest rose considerably when he heard Carrington mention the library as they went downstairs and he followed the others through another door off the hall. Hurrying to catch up, Maltravers banged his head painfully on the top of the lintel as he entered the room.

‘Sorry, I should have warned you,’ Carrington apologised. ‘That door’s ridiculously low. However, this will take your mind off it.’

He crossed to what appeared to be a cupboard next to one of the bookcases, but behind the wooden door was a wall safe with a combination lock. Carrington operated the dial then pulled it open and Maltravers could see that it contained a pile of identical books and some papers. Carrington took out one of the slender volumes and turned to offer it to him.

‘Here you are,’ he said with a smile. Maltravers accepted it and read the title embossed in gold leaf on the leather spine: The Attwater Firewitch. Underneath was Arthur Conan Doyle’s name and the Roman numeral I. Opening it with almost reverential care, he read the fading ink of the handwritten inscription on the flyleaf: ‘For my godson, William Redmond Carrington, on the occasion of his Christening, December 18th, 1894. From his most affectionate godfather, in the hope that in later years he will enjoy reading the final adventure of Sherlock Holmes and Dr John Watson.’ Underneath was Conan Doyle’s signature. Maltravers turned another page and saw the title of the first chapter—AN ENCOUNTER AT BUSHELLS—then closed the volume reluctantly but firmly.

‘I’m very tempted to start reading and then I wouldn’t want to stop,’ he said, offering the book back. ‘But thank you for letting me see it. I can still hardly believe the story of how you come to have it. Malcolm explained it all last night.’

‘I wouldn’t be so unkind as to let you do no more than just see it.’ Carrington took the book and returned it to the safe. ‘From what Malcolm’s told me about your enthusiasm for detective fiction, that would be unforgiveable. I’ll lend you the photocopy I’ve made of the text, although I’m afraid I can’t do that immediately. There’s only the one copy and it’s with a great Sherlockian at the moment, but I’m expecting it back in a day or so. All I ask is that you return it before you leave or send it back by registered post.’

Maltravers frowned at him. ‘You lend out a copy? Somebody could go off to a publisher with it.’

‘I’m careful who I lend it to,’ Carrington replied. ‘And I’m sure I can trust you as much as the others. Anyway, without the letters from Conan Doyle, which are also in the safe, it could be nothing more than a clever pastiche, so nobody can get away with anything.’

Morris, who was standing next to Maltravers, nudged him.

‘Believe me, you’ll enjoy it,’ he said. ‘I’m another of the chosen few who’ve read it. You have as well, haven’t you Duggie?’

‘What?’ Lydden turned from leafing through a book he had taken from the shelf on the opposite side of the room. ‘Oh, yes, it’s quite good.’

‘Quite good,’ Carrington echoed slightly caustically, then smiled at Maltravers before joining Malcolm and Geoffrey Howard who were examining a set of water-colours of Borrowdale above the mantelpiece as Jennifer Carrington walked into the room.

‘Your coffee’s going to be stone cold,’ she said. ‘Haven’t you finished yet?’

‘We’re just coming,’ Carrington replied, but Maltravers saw he was not looking at his wife. The instant she had appeared he had turned straight towards Lydden. ‘This is, if Duggie can tear himself away from that book.’

‘What?’ Lydden appeared startled. ‘Oh, yes. It’s just some poetry by a chap called Herrick. He was one of the Lake poets wasn’t he?’

‘Hardly,’ corrected Carrington. ‘Two centuries earlier.’

‘Never been keen on poetry anyway,’ Lydden said indifferently, replacing the book on the shelf. ‘I just thought he was local.’

Maltravers inwardly despaired at another manifestation of the average Englishman’s ignorance of his literary heritage, but was much more interested in Carrington’s reaction when Jennifer had appeared. Coupled with the incident before dinner, he was now certain that Carrington was not as unaware about what was going on as Lydden—and perhaps his wife—believed. Lydden had not looked round until Carrington had spoken to him, so he might not have noticed anything, but Jennifer could hardly have missed it. She had turned and walked out of the room almost the moment Carrington had spoken. Maltravers wondered whose idea it had been that Lydden should be among the guests. If Carrington himself had suggested it, perhaps he had done so to give himself an opportunity of confirming something he suspected. And he would not do that unless he intended acting on any evidence; Maltravers wondered what he would do if he ever had proof.

Back in the lounge, Lucinda and Charlotte looked relieved as the rest of the party re-joined them. Campbell was telling some faintly funny and lengthy legal story which he obviously thought hilarious; his wife’s face was set in the fixed smile of a mother listening to her child performing their inadequate party piece on the piano.

‘Did Charles show you the famous Sherlock Holmes book?’ Jennifer asked Maltravers as she handed him his coffee. ‘I expect I really ought to read it myself sometime.’

‘Haven’t you done that already?’

‘I keep suggesting it, but she’s not interested.’ Carrington, who was sitting next to Maltravers, smiled rather patronisingly at his wife. ‘Jennifer’s passion is for incredibly long historical romances.’

‘Well, putting aside its literary value, it’s almost certainly the most valuable thing your husband owns,’ Maltravers told her, then turned to Carrington. ‘You won’t allow it to be published even now?’

Carrington shook his head firmly. ‘Not under any circumstances. Conan Doyle didn’t want it to be and that’s all there is to it.’

‘No matter how much you were offered?’ asked Maltravers. ‘They say that every man has his price.’

‘That depends on what you’re trying to buy,’ Carrington replied simply. ‘Or at least it should.’

In a world which judged everything by its potential monetary value, where people were constantly ready to ditch moral obligations or betray personal confidences to make a fast and sordid buck, Carrington’s attitude would be considered risible, but Maltravers found it reassuring that some people could still not be bought.

‘Then what about its literary importance?’ he pursued. ‘You’re denying millions the pleasure of reading it. That seems very selfish.’

Carrington shrugged. ‘Then Conan Doyle was selfish and there’s nothing I can do about it. You’re not the first to try that argument, Gus, but it won’t change my mind.’

‘And what happens when you die?’ Maltravers added. ‘What guarantee have you got that whoever inherits it will have your…moral squint?’

Carrington hesitated, as though deciding whether to say something.

‘I’ve made certain arrangements about that,’ he said finally, then smiled. ‘Any more questions, Mr Journalist?’

‘Only an occasional journalist now,’ Maltravers corrected. ‘But bad habits die hard. If I was still a reporter, I’d be looking for an angle on how secure your safe is in the circumstances.’

‘Four figure combination with the standard hundred numbers on the dial,’ Carrington replied. ‘Which gives a hundred million permutations if anybody wants to try and find it by chance. If they get it wrong too often, an alarm sounds in the offices of the firm I bought it from, who would call the police. I’m the only one who knows the right numbers.’

‘Duress signal?’ Maltravers enquired. Carrington looked impressed.

‘Yes—not many people know about those.’

‘I only do because a disgustingly rich friend of mine in London has a safe with one. He suggested I should have one fitted, but then the most valuable thing in my house would be the safe. Hardly worth it really.’

‘It is in this case.’ Carrington stood up. ‘Excuse me, but I’ve forgotten the liqueurs.’

Maltravers watched him cross to the drinks cabinet, asking everyone what they would like. Presumably, with both his children dead, Jennifer would inherit the books; her track record of faithfulness did not suggest she would have any compunction about selling to the highest bidder. Did Carrington’s ‘certain arrangements’ take care of that? Maltravers’s eyes went casually back to Jennifer, now talking animatedly to Lucinda and Morris; Howard and Lydden were in conversation with the Campbells and Malcolm was flicking through a copy of Country Life he had taken from the magazine rack by his chair. It was a perfectly normal after-dinner scene, but one which decently ignored the fact that their hostess was an adulteress, a social solecism overlooked because it was bad manners to draw attention to it. Previous generations did not discuss certain things in front of the children or the servants; for all their outspokenness, their modern descendants were not greatly different.

It was turned midnight when they left, skeins of stars bright and cold as the gathering frost glittering like diamond fragments scattered in soot. Smoke from roaring exhausts billowed yellow in the glare of headlamps as they scraped a crust of ice from car windows and shouted goodnight to each other. Campbell waved to Howard, Morris and Maltravers to back up so that he could negotiate round Lydden’s car which was parked in front of his, then they all moved towards the gates.

‘Executrix,’ Maltravers murmured as he pulled away.

‘What?’ said Malcolm.

‘Nothing important. Just something I was trying to work out.’ He glanced at Lydden’s car as he drove past it. ‘It looks as though Duggie’s been invited to stay for a nightcap. Interesting.’

‘He must be…’ Lucinda turned round to look through the rear window, but the front door of Carwelton Hall was closed. ‘No, he’s not coming. What’s going on?’

Maltravers turned left on to the main road, following the others. ‘I spied with my little eye something beginning with S. Suspicion. And if turns into C for certainty it could become D for divorce. O for and done with. Sorry about that.’

‘Do you mean Charles knows?’ asked Malcolm.

‘He’s getting there I think—which is more than Campbell and Howard are incidentally. Why are they going this way? The motorway’s in the other direction.’

‘Turning right out of Carwelton Hall on that blind bend can be fatal,’ Malcolm explained. ‘You go left and turn round in the lay-by just up here. There they go.’

Maltravers flashed his lights at the two cars as they and Morris passed them.

‘It also seems that Duggie was the first to arrive this evening,’ he added. ‘His car was parked at the front of the queue. Revealing comment on modern etiquette. Screw the wife, then turn up early so the husband can serve you what we might call cuckold’s gin.’

‘Duggie Lydden’s a conceited pig,’ Lucinda said bluntly. ‘Tonight was just the sort of thing that would appeal to his warped sense of humour.’

‘Well he and Jennifer may soon have to stop laughing,’ Maltravers commented. ‘I also had an interesting chat with Charlotte Quinn. What do you know about her?’

‘Ah, that’s quite another story.’ Lucinda leaned forward from the back seat to talk to him. ‘Things would have been very different for Charles if she’d had her way.’

‘That I’d worked out. He could have saved himself a lot of grief if he’d married that lady. What went wrong?’

Jennifer Carrington leaned over the banisters halfway down the stairs trying to hear the conversation in the library, but the door was closed. She thought of standing outside the door, but would look foolish if it was unexpectedly opened. Carrington had suggested she should go to bed while he and Duggie Lydden talked about business. Frustrated, she went back upstairs and lay fully dressed on the bed, staring at the ceiling.

Downstairs, Lydden watched Carrington guardedly as he poured him another drink. The request to stay as the others left had been made discreetly but with an air of anticipated acceptance. Jennifer had shrugged at him behind her husband’s back, indicating that she was as mystified as he was. As he waited for Carrington to speak, Lydden remained as calm as he could.

‘It’s about the shop, Duggie,’ Carrington said as he handed him the glass. He had not poured one for himself. ‘The bank’s been on to me.’

Lydden maintained his impassiveness as he accepted the gin and tonic, but felt instantly alert and defensive.

‘Business is quite good,’ he said casually. ‘What’s the problem?’

‘Repayment of the loan.’ Carrington sat down behind his desk. ‘You’ve cancelled your standing order.’

‘Oh, that was just a temporary thing because of a cash flow problem,’ Lydden protested. ‘There’s no real difficulty.’

‘Nothing has been paid for six months.’ Carrington gazed at him across the flame of his gold lighter as he lit a thin cigar. ‘The bank advised me after three and I told them to let me know if it reached this stage. That doesn’t sound like a temporary cash flow problem.’

‘Six months?’ Lydden covered his sense of being trapped with a tone of disbelief. ‘That’s ridiculous. I wrote to the bank after only a month to tell them to start it again. They can’t have received my letter.’

‘And you didn’t notice the repayments hadn’t restarted when you did your books?’ Carrington left a silence after the observation, examining the glowing end of the cigar. ‘However, I’m afraid I must ask for the full arrears to be cleared immediately and normal repayments reinstated. I’m sorry, Duggie.’

‘What do you mean by immediately?’

‘By the end of this month at the latest.’

Lydden shifted uncomfortably in his chair. Being faced by an outraged husband would have been considerably easier to deal with.

‘Well, I’ll do my best,’ he said evasively. ‘It could be a bit of a stretch though.’

‘Really?’ Carrington said mildly. ‘You just told me things were going well. Anyway, I’m sure you don’t want to put me in a position where I have to send the receivers in. I’m quite entitled to do that under the terms of our agreement. The bank has already suggested it, but we’ve been friends a long time Duggie and…well, fellow Masons always do the right thing by each other don’t they?’

Lydden’s discomfort grew as Carrington looked at him very directly.

‘I’ll sort it out,’ he said. ‘Don’t worry.’ Without thinking what he was doing, he finished his drink too quickly.

‘I’ve got nothing to worry about,’ Carrington stood up. ‘At least not about business matters. Sorry to end the evening like this, but I wanted to raise it as soon as possible. I’ll see you out…Jennifer will be wondering what’s keeping me.’

As he drove away, Lydden’s mind raced. This was not just a matter of hastily retreating from another affair. Jennifer Carrington meant more than casual sex, she could provide the answer to certain problems. It was a dangerous answer, but Carrington’s demands for repayment moved them from the urgent to the critical. He would have to talk to her.

Jennifer Carrington breathed deeply as she heard Lydden’s wheels spin violently on the gravel drive and her husband come upstairs. She had undressed, sprayed herself with cologne and put on a pair of Chinese-style pyjamas. When Carrington walked in, she smiled brilliantly.

‘What on earth have you two been talking about, darling?’ she asked. ‘I thought you were never coming to bed.’

Several buttons running down from the Mandarin collar of the silk jacket were unfastened and a curve of soft flesh was provocatively visible beneath the material’s sheen of jet with its fiery pattern of jacaranda flowers.

‘Just something I wanted to straighten out.’ He walked towards the adjacent dressing-room. ‘Nothing important.’

As she listened to him through the half-open door, undressing and cleaning his teeth, Jennifer Carrington took off the jacket and left it sprawled across the bed then pulled the duvet up to her chin. Carrington showed no reaction when he reappeared and climbed in beside her, switching off his bedside light. After a few moments, she slithered towards him, an affectionate, suggestive purr at the back of her throat.

‘Sorry, darling, do you mind? I’m rather tired.’

He turned away and Jennifer Carrington stared at his back in dismay. It was the first time he had ever refused to make love to her. She was suddenly afraid that she was losing control.

Five minutes after Charles Carrington left for work the next morning, the telephone rang in Carwelton Hall and Jennifer leapt at it.

‘Thank God! I was just going to call you,’ she said. ‘Charles knows what’s going on.’

‘Are you certain? Has he said anything to you?’

‘He doesn’t need to. I know. Believe me.’

‘Might he do anything before Thursday?’

‘Perhaps, but we can’t move until then can we?’ There was a note of panic in her voice.

‘Of course we can’t, but it’s only a couple of days. Call me if anything happens, but otherwise I’ll see you then. And keep calm.’

‘Will you come and see me before?’ She sounded pleading.

‘No. Charles could be having you watched. Just hang on.’

‘All right.’ She sobbed suddenly. ‘Christ, I never thought it would be this bad. I’m terrified.’

‘Stop panicking, I’ll look after you. You always did need an older man. It’s going to work.’

In Brook Cottage, Maltravers wrote up his piece for the Independent, saving the Features Editor several tricky decisions by omitting certain stories which would have caused a number of actors to start screaming dramatically for their lawyers. Malcolm was at work and Lucinda out teaching, so when he finished he drove into Kendal to post his copy and have lunch. He parked in the market square opposite the old Working Men’s Institute, now rather inappropriately painted pink and white, then walked down Stricklandgate to the main post office. As he made his way back up the hill, looking for somewhere to eat, he found he was passing Quintessence and examined the window. Charlotte Quinn’s comments about her stock had been right. What he could see included elegant wooden and silver ornaments, first-class porcelain—thankfully not crafted into impossibly perfect animals, winsome children or nauseatingly lovable tramps—fine woollens and striking fabrics. The shop would have graced Covent Garden, but the prices were considerably less than those demanded and paid in WC2. An old-style shop bell suspended from a curve of sprung metal tinkled as he opened the door and moments later Charlotte Quinn appeared from the back of the premises.

‘I’m sorry, but we’re just…’ She stopped as she recognised him. ‘Oh, hello again. I’m afraid I was about to close for lunch. But if you’ve already decided on something I can let you have it.’

‘No, I was just going to browse,’ he said. ‘It’s the sort of place I ought to bring Tess to. She’s the one with the real taste. I just supply the money.’

‘Your wife?’ she queried.

‘Not yet, but she’s working on it,’ he replied with a grin. ‘I only escaped last Leap Year by being out of the country on the twenty-ninth of February. She’s the actress Tess Davy. She’s due here at the weekend after the play she’s in ends its provincial tour in Chester. Then she’s got a free week before they start rehearsals for London. I’ll come back with her. Anyway, let me buy you lunch. I assume you know a decent place.’

‘I usually go to the Wheatsheaf just across the road,’ she said. ‘Their menu plays havoc with the diet but what the hell? All right, thank you. I’ll be with you in a moment. Turn the sign on the door to Closed, will you?’

He examined a rack of silk ties while he waited, then they left the shop and crossed over Stricklandgate and into the pub. They were just ahead of the lunchtime rush and managed to find themselves a table by the window overlooking the busy main street.

‘According to the book of conversational gambits, I should ask if you enjoyed yourself last night,’ Maltravers commented as he returned from the bar with their food and drinks. ‘However, I think that would be as tactless as asking Mrs Kennedy if she liked her day in Dallas.’

‘Something like that,’ Charlotte Quinn agreed. ‘It was loathsome, but I’ll curb my tongue. Coming from the south, you’re not used to people speaking their minds.’

‘I lived in Manchester for more than a year, so I know something about northern bluntness,’ he replied. ‘And I think you were offended by…the presence of one guest in particular and his connection—how’s that for polite Home Counties euphemism?—with our hostess?’

She laughed. ‘Oh, very circumspect—I said last night you were too clever. You pick things up very quickly. How much do you know about what’s going on there?’

‘Lucinda and Malcolm have told me a good deal,’ he admitted. ‘I know that Jennifer Carrington and Duggie Lydden are having an affair…and something about yourself and Charles.’

‘Yes, but you don’t know all of it.’ Maltravers followed her gaze out of the window to where a shop with Lakeland Interiors above the window stood on the opposite side of the road next door but one to her own. Charlotte Quinn kept looking at it as she continued.

‘Three years ago that place nearly went to the wall. The bank was about to foreclose when Duggie Lydden went crawling to Charles for help. They knew each other through the Masons but they go back further than that. Charles put up twenty thousand pounds and saved him. Duggie has paid very little of it back. And how does the little sod show his gratitude? By screwing his wife and then going to his house to laugh in his face in front of his friends.’ She turned back to Maltravers. ‘Any more questions?’

‘Why did you accept the invitation?’

‘I’ve known Charles an awfully long time and, dear God, I’ve done my best to accept Jennifer, despite what I think of her,’ she said. ‘I’ve kept going to Carwelton Hall since the marriage because of my feelings for him. But I didn’t know Duggie was going to be there last night. I don’t know how I controlled myself.’

‘You did it very well,’ Maltravers assured her. ‘And from what I’ve been told, Jennifer is just one of a small crowd. It seems that any woman who isn’t green with two heads has a chance with Duggie.’

‘That’s about it,’ Charlotte confirmed. ‘He made a play for me once, but I made it quite clear that I wasn’t going to join his collection of easy lays. By the time I’d finished, I’d verbally castrated the randy little bugger.’

Maltravers felt certain that Charlotte Quinn’s acid tongue would have made a comprehensive job of the operation.

‘How long have you known Charles?’ he added.

‘Nearly twenty years. When I was married, we all used to go on holiday together. I remember how he nursed Margaret while she died of cancer by inches. Christ, that was terrible. Then David was killed and Gillian was destroyed by drugs—do you know anything about all this?’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Charles seems to have been a very unfortunate man.’

‘And it’s still happening to him,’ she said bitterly. ‘Jennifer set out to get him and nothing could stop her. He was dreadfully vulnerable and didn’t stand a chance. Some of us tried to warn him, but he was besotted. It’s the most stupid thing he’s ever done.’

She finished her wine at one swallow. ‘Can I have another please? No, I’ll pay if you’ll collect them. Here you are.’

She took a purse from her handbag and gave Maltravers the money. While he was waiting at the bar to be served, he decided he may as well probe her feelings further; she was obviously in the mood to talk.

‘As far as I can work it out, there must have been about ten years between Charles’s wife dying and when he met Jennifer,’ he said as he sat down again. ‘Were you divorced at that time?’

‘I was divorced in 1975.’ She sighed wearily. ‘And yes, that’s what really hurts. You don’t have to be a genius to work that out. I loved him very much—I still love him—but somehow I just couldn’t…I don’t know. I just messed it all up.’

They had finished their meal and she accepted a cigarette when he offered his packet, looking at her thoughtfully.

‘Why are you telling me all this?’ he asked. ‘This is only the second time we’ve met and you’re pouring out your life story.’

She exhaled smoke slowly, as though trying to explain it to herself.

‘Last night I wanted to scream,’ she said finally. ‘What was happening in that house was sick and I had to go through the pretence of behaving as though nothing was wrong. It’s been building up inside me all morning and my assistant’s off today so there was nobody I could talk to. If I hadn’t met you, I’d probably have blurted it all out to some customer in the shop. Sorry to use you like a member of the Samaritans. I only hope I’ve got it right that I can trust you.’

‘Completely,’ Maltravers assured her. ‘None of this will go any further. I’m glad we bumped into each other.’ He paused for a moment. ‘Charles may have been stupid over Jennifer, but he’s still an intelligent man. Do you think he knows about the affair—or at least suspects something?’

She shrugged as she stubbed out the hardly smoked cigarette. ‘I often wonder about that. He’s never said anything to me to indicate that he does, but I can’t believe he could be so unaware—although there’s no fool like an old fool is there?’

‘Stop putting him down,’ Maltravers told her. ‘He deserves better than that from you. I think he may at least have guessed about Lydden, but if he hasn’t then somebody who says they care for him ought to tell him instead of carrying a torch and wallowing in their own misery.’

Charlotte Quinn’s face flashed angrily, then she looked remorseful.

‘Ouch,’ she said. ‘That hurt. You did learn to call a spade a spade in the north didn’t you? You’re quite right of course, but I’ve been through that hoop lots of times. I persuade myself that I don’t want to hurt him, then my conscience tells me that I’m deceiving him as well by staying quiet. But perhaps it’s really because I don’t trust my own motives. If I break up the marriage, am I doing it for him or me? Shakespeare said that conscience makes cowards of us all.’

‘In the occasional gaps in an active sex life, Shakespeare managed to say something about virtually everything,’ commented Maltravers. ‘But I don’t think deathless verse is of much help at the moment. None of this is my business, but you should talk to him. Whether he suspects or not, you can’t lose anything and it’s the least he deserves from you.’

‘Perhaps.’ Charlotte Quinn shrugged in indecision then smiled apologetically. ‘And you just came into town for a quiet lunch, not to have some inadequate woman unburden her soul to you. Sorry.’

‘Now you’re knocking yourself,’ he said. ‘Don’t. You’re not inadequate.’

‘Aren’t I?’ she replied cynically. ‘Tell me about it. If I’m not inadequate, how did I lose a husband and then fail to get the one man I wanted and could have made happy? Let’s face it, Gus, I was seen off by another woman and a much younger one at that. I must be very stupid.’

‘No,’ Maltravers corrected. ‘Charles may have been stupid in fact it looks very much as if he was—but that wasn’t your fault.’

‘I’d like to think that.’ Charlotte Quinn appeared unconvinced as she stood up. ‘Thanks for lunch and for listening, but I must get back.’

They parted outside the pub with Maltravers promising to return to Quintessence with Tess. He watched Charlotte Quinn cross Stricklandgate and unlock the shop door then went back to his car and drove out into the Langdale Valley. He parked by the pub at the foot of Stickle Ghyll and walked up the rough path of boulders laid alongside the beck as it tumbled down in a series of bubbling, foaming waterfalls from the tarn in the hills. Drained now of all rain, the sky was a translucent autumn blue with drifting meringue clouds casting slow-moving shadows over the wide plain of the valley and the air was clean and cold. As he sat on a rock by crashing white water, Maltravers thought about the dinner party. It might not need Charlotte, or anyone else, to talk to Charles Carrington; if the odd incidents he had noticed really meant anything, the situation at Carwelton Hall would resolve itself one way or another.

‘Is anything the matter, darling?’ Jennifer Carrington put the question cautiously as her husband sat opposite her reading the paper that evening.

‘Should there be?’ The paper was not lowered as he replied, but she instinctively knew he was listening to her carefully.

‘No, you just seemed a bit…distracted,’ she said. ‘I thought something might be on your mind and we could talk about it.’

The newspaper rustled as Carrington turned the page but remained behind it.

‘Nothing for you to worry about.’

In the silence that followed the dismissive reply she returned her attention to the television, watching its images without seeing or listening. Duggie had told her about the conversation the previous evening and she felt nervous. Carrington’s rejection of her in bed, now coupled with his obvious determination not to talk to her, had destroyed her confidence that she could always mould him the way she wanted. And that was something she had to keep doing. She had to stay calm while she completed the last stages of her part in his murder. She realised that she had finally used the word in her mind; before it had always been ‘dealing with Charles’ or just ‘doing it’. Now that she had grasped the proper word herself, it somehow seemed less terrifying, an acceptance of the inevitability of what had been planned.

‘I’m going shopping in Manchester on Thursday,’ she said casually. ‘I could try in Sherratt & Hughes for that Kingsley Amis novel you want.’

She felt relieved as he folded the paper and finally looked at her.

‘Thank you. I never seem to have time to get it in Lancaster. Are you spending the whole day in town?’

‘Probably,’ she replied. ‘What time will you be back from Carlisle?’

‘Midnight at the latest. The meeting should be over about ten.’

‘Then I’ll probably call and see Angela before coming back, but I’ll be home before you. I’ll wait up.’

‘There’s no need. Excuse me, there are some papers I must look at.’

As he walked out of the room, Jennifer Carrington became apprehensive again. The tone of his voice belonged to the office, not to their home and their life together. She stood up and turned off the television then stood in front of the fire, arms folded defensively across her chest as she thought. However strong Charles’s suspicions about Duggie were—and everything pointed to them being very strong indeed—it was still all right as long as he didn’t come straight out with it. And in two days, he would not be able to do anything.

In the library, Carrington unlocked his briefcase and took out several pages of notes in his precise handwriting. A lifetime as a lawyer had ingrained the practice of putting everything into words on paper. He still had the diary he had kept when his first wife was dying; now, for very different reasons, he was doing the same thing with Jennifer. But the language of the law was detached and unemotional, helpless to capture love, unable to embrace grief, too controlled to express fear. And the rule of the law demanded proof before anyone was guilty. Until that proof came—and he knew that he kept putting off pursuing it—then Jennifer had to be innocent. The law said so.

Duggie Lydden violently punched the buttons on his calculator again to see if entering the figures in a different permutation would somehow miraculously conjure up a less horrendous answer. When the same result inevitably appeared, he swore and looked resignedly at the account books spread across his desk in the office at the back of his shop. The disastrous five numbers were only black on the calculator’s display; his bank manager would regard them as being in the deepest red.

Among the documents was his latest credit card demand which included the bill for a hotel in York. Adding on the entry for the necklace he had bought as well, he reckoned the weekend had cost him over a hundred pounds for each time he had coupled with the highly cooperative student from the wine bar. Her insatiable enthusiasm and sexual inventiveness appeared to have been a very costly indulgence; her suggestion that she now thought she might be pregnant was all he had needed. The choice between maintenance or the cost of an abortion was academic; he could afford neither. His best hope there was suggesting that someone else was the father. He kept crudely telling other customers in the wine bar that more men had been up her than Helvellyn.

Lydden picked up his latest statement to check what he already knew; the chances of repaying Carrington by the end of the month were non-existent. At his last tetchily polite meeting with the bank manager, the spurious promise of an anticipated contract for refurbishing a cottage in Grasmere bought by a Kensington yuppie as a second home had postponed certain consequences. Now that his over-priced tender had been rejected, there were no delaying tactics left. He was trapped between a grossly exceeded overdraft arrangement and Carrington’s ultimatum.

He pushed the papers away peevishly and again wondered about the unspoken but palpable motives behind Carrington’s conversation with him after dinner. Having the power to bankrupt your wife’s lover would be an attractive situation to any husband. But the answer could now be within his reach. When he had spoken to Jennifer on the phone that morning, she had appeared less unwilling than before to go along with the plan; at least she had said she would think about it. Lydden had always been convinced that a woman ready and willing to start playing around only months after her wedding-day was not going to care overmuch about what else she did to her ageing and malleable husband. And if they succeeded there would be no problems—apart from the minor matter of then getting rid of her. The number of women who could be deceived with a constant stream of facile promises had long since ceased to surprise him. As he thought, the telephone on his desk rang.

‘Duggie? When are you coming? I told you Ivor is due back from Sweden tomorrow. I was expecting you hours ago.’

‘Sorry, got held up by something. I’m on my way.’

Lydden rang off, put away the books and turned off the lamp before going out through the back door of Lakeland Interiors into the small walled courtyard where he parked his car. He stopped at an off-licence for a bottle of wine then drove out of Kendal towards Windermere and an isolated, exclusive house set in the hills. Three on the go at the same time, he reflected; it was certainly a personal best.

In her flat above Quintessence, Charlotte Quinn sat in an Edwardian rocking chair, unconsciously stroking the Persian cat on her lap. The room was lit by only a standard lamp as she listened to Sondheim on the record player, a song by an older man deluding himself as he desperately tried to defend his hollow marriage to a much younger wife. One line—Her youth is a sort of present, whatever the price—reminded her of Noel Coward’s observation about the potency of cheap music. Her mind went back over the time when she had visited Carwelton Hall every day, watching Charles Carrington grow old and broken as the disease had remorselessly gnawed Margaret’s body to a pitiful skeleton wrapped in parchment skin. A few days before her death, she had beckoned Charlotte to bend down and catch her weak and straining voice.

‘Make him happy for me please, Charlotte,’ she had whispered. ‘I know you love him. Promise.’

Slow tears ran down Charlotte’s face as she remembered what had happened to the children afterwards and how Charles had turned inward upon himself and she had been unable to reach him. Then, when so much time had passed that she had thought it would never happen, the new wife had appeared. But she had not been an older, mature woman, but an excited girl, over-eager to please Charles’s friends with assurances that she really loved him and only wanted to bring him happiness. And now—the tears changed to a scowl of disgust—she laughed at him behind his back with Duggie Lydden.

The record had moved on and now a woman sang about sending in the clowns, Sondheim’s brilliant portrayal of confused lovers as painted fools. There was nothing cheap about this music, it was real and cruel and intolerably agonising. Agitatedly, Charlotte Quinn pushed the cat off her lap and crossed the room. There was a harsh scratch as she pulled the needle off, then she went to the window, leaning her forehead against the cool glass, the pane straining with the pressure. Since her spontaneous outpouring to Maltravers over lunch, she had been constantly tormented by his suggestion that she was one of the few people who could tell Charles the truth, however much she dreaded doing it.

Maltravers poured his own gin and peered into the empty cold bucket in the drinks cupboard.

‘I’m just going out to get some ice,’ he murmured, walking towards the kitchen. ‘I may be some time.’

Lucinda looked puzzled as Malcolm laughed then she grasped it for herself.

‘Very good, Gus,’ she called after him. ‘Original or stolen?’

‘Not only original, but just used for the first time,’ he said as he reappeared. ‘I’ve been saving it for the right occasion and, remember, you were there.’

He stretched out on the chesterfield, long legs protruding over one of the arms. ‘I had lunch in Kendal with Charlotte Quinn today and ended up suggesting she spoke to Charles about Duggie and Jennifer. She was just waiting for someone to tell her to do it and I happened to be in the neighbourhood.’

‘It’s a good job you were. Charles is a friend of ours and we’ve been deceiving him as well by not saying anything.’ Lucinda put in the last stitch and bit through the cotton, holding up the results to examine it. ‘That’s been worrying me. Do you think she’ll do it?’

‘Yes,’ said Maltravers. ‘Not perhaps for a while, but she’ll tell him all right. You know him better than I do. How will he react?’

‘He’s very correct and disciplined,’ Lucinda replied. ‘He won’t break down or start being insanely jealous, he’ll just do whatever’s necessary to sort it out.’

‘Will he try to save the marriage?’

‘No,’ Lucinda said positively. ‘Jennifer peeled away a lot of layers he’d built up around himself after everything that had happened. He trusted her enough to let her remove his protection and he could never forgive her for hurting him again. We’ve always known if this business about Duggie Lydden ever came out, Jennifer would have no way back.’

‘And she must know that as well,’ Malcolm added. ‘Which is something to think about. She starts an affair with the most overworked sex maniac in Cumbria and is bloody careless about disguising the fact. Makes a perverted sort of sense doesn’t it?’

‘It certainly does, Ollie,’ Maltravers agreed. ‘She deliberately wrecks the marriage, and admitting adultery doesn’t make people cross you off their invitation lists these days. If it did, the newspaper social columnists would be queuing up for the dole. Then she screws Charles—in a different sort of way—for a great deal, possibly even half the value of the house. Who’s a clever girl then?’

‘Are you two serious?’ Lucinda demanded.

‘Why not?’ asked Maltravers. ‘Marriage laws are ideal for fortune hunters these days. For better, for worse, in sickness and in health till alimony do us part, when I will be richer and you will certainly be poorer. I’m surprised it doesn’t happen more often. Perhaps it does.’

‘Why doesn’t she just wait for Charles to die? She could have everything then.’

‘Half what Charles is worth today is enough and probably preferable to waiting—what? ten years or more?—for the other half,’ said Maltravers. ‘Jennifer doesn’t strike me as the patient type. She wants it now please—and I don’t think she’s bothered about how she gets it.’

A pale sun had just risen on Thursday morning as Maltravers worked on Malcolm’s word processor—conveniently compatible with his own—completing the final draft of his last act. He had started early and was the only one in the house who was up when the front doorbell rang. Charles Carrington was standing in the porch holding an envelope.

‘I saw you through the window, so I can give this to you personally,’ he said. ‘It arrived back yesterday.’

‘The Sherlock Holmes?’ Maltravers looked delighted as Carrington handed him the envelope. ‘You didn’t need to bring it round at this hour of the morning.’

‘I thought I’d make a detour on my way to the office,’ Carrington explained. ‘Jennifer’s spending the day shopping in Manchester or she’d have dropped it in.’

‘Thank you very much,’ Maltravers said. ‘I should finish writing this morning, so I’ll keep Conan Doyle as a treat for later on. Don’t worry, it will be perfectly safe.’

‘I know it will,’ said Carrington. ‘I’ll be interested in what you think about it. Anyway, I must be off. I want to get to work early because I’m leaving this afternoon to get ready for a meeting. Goodbye.’

‘By the way,’ Maltravers added as Carrington turned back towards his car. ‘I had lunch with Charlotte Quinn in Kendal the other day. She’s a very nice lady.’

‘Charlotte?’ Carrington looked slightly reflective. ‘Yes she is, isn’t she? She’s been a very good friend to me.’

He momentarily juggled his car keys in his hand then smiled slightly and walked to his car without another word. Maltravers watched him drive away then stepped back into the cottage and closed the door.

‘You let something show there, Charles,’ he murmured to himself. ‘You’re having regrets, aren’t you?’

Half an hour later, Jennifer Carrington drove out of Carwelton Hall towards the M6, stopping for petrol at the village filling station.

‘Where are you off to then, Mrs Carrington?’ the girl on the till asked.

‘Manchester. All day.’ She gave the assistant a conspiratorial grin. ‘My husband’s letting me loose with the cheque book in all those shops.’

‘Lucky you,’ the girl said enviously. ‘My old man goes hairless if I buy anything for myself.’

‘You’ve not got him trained properly.’

‘Have a nice time,’ the girl called as Jennifer walked out, then watched her drive off. ‘Good looks and a rich husband. Why not me, God?’

Charlotte Quinn was standing by her kitchen window finishing her breakfast coffee, looking out over the yards behind the Stricklandgate shops. She saw Duggie Lydden drive in and park his car. He climbed out whistling then glanced up and waved.

‘Lovely morning, but a bit nippy!’ he shouted.

Charlotte Quinn smiled back and nodded automatically, then stared into what was left in her cup as he disappeared into his own shop. She realised that the fleeting, meaningless incident had finally precipitated something. She felt self-disgust at even acknowledging Lydden’s existence, let alone indicating some normality of behaviour towards him. The man she had just smiled at was cynically betraying the man she loved and she had reacted as though nothing was wrong. Conscience suddenly inflamed her self-reproach and bitterness; however difficult it would be, however much it hurt him, Charles had to know.

Late in the morning, Maltravers judiciously considered five variations of the same sentence he had put on the screen, selecting the best curtain line. In both his novels and plays, he worked on the well-tried principle that if he put enough effort into making sure the beginning and ending were right, his characters could somehow be relied upon to take care of the middle. He made his decision and four alternatives disappeared then he pushed the necessary buttons to save the final completed version, satisfied that more than a dozen rewrites of the last act had finally come right. Writing, as he so often had to explain to non-writers, consisted mainly of pounding out words in the hope that some percentage would actually be usable. If anyone asked him about ‘inspirational writing’, he questioned how their boss would react if they waited for inspiration before doing their job. From the living-room the telephone rang and then Lucinda answered it and spoke for a moment before calling across the hall to him.

‘Gus! It’s Tess. She’s in a call box.’

He went through and picked up the receiver. ‘Hi. How’s it going?’

‘Apart from darling Andrew not appearing on cue in the second act the other night, fine. I was on stage on my own for more than half a minute before they dragged the little prat out of the dressing-room. He bought me very expensive roses as an apology and I warned him if he does it to any of us again I’ll stick them somewhere vital and very uncomfortable then sent him off to apologise to the others. Anyway, I’ve checked the trains and can get to a place called Oxenholme about half past four on Sunday afternoon. They say it’s the nearest station.’

‘Yes, I know it,’ he told her. ‘I’ll pick you up. Incidentally, I’ve just finished and you were right about what she’d do when she discovers the child was protecting the headmaster.’

‘Of course I was. Any woman would have behaved like that. Well done and I look forward to reading it when…’ Her voice disappeared for several seconds beneath a stream of electronic pips. ‘Damn! I’ve got no more change. Love to Malcolm and Lucinda and I’ll see you Sunday. Bye.’

Maltravers rang off then went into the kitchen. ‘How about a walk? I haven’t breathed fresh air for the past two days.’

‘Love to.’ Lucinda put down her pen. ‘It’s only the weekly letter to Simon and I can finish it later. Let’s go up the Treadle.’

The Treadle was a hill rising more than five hundred feet out of the land about half a mile across the fields from Brook Cottage. A rough, narrow path wound through bracken and tough, twisted gorse trees before climbing to the summit topped with an old triangulation point and the remains of a wall, built for no discernible purpose. As they reached the exposed peak, the force of the gusting wind made them stagger.

‘Enough fresh air for you?’ Lucinda shouted above the blast.

‘Too much of this could be fatal!’ Maltravers gasped as they dropped down into the shelter of a small hollow. The view circled from distant Yorkshire dales, round to the outskirts of Kendal to the north then on to the coast twenty miles away, where thin sunlight picked up a gleam of water like a horizontal needle at the estuary by Grange-over-Sands. In front of them ran the road from Kendal to the motorway with the railway line from London to Scotland beyond it; as they sat on the grass a train clattered past. The houses of Attwater lay beyond the railway; although Brook Cottage and its neighbours shared the address, they were isolated more than a mile from the village itself.

‘Is that Alan Morris’s church?’ Maltravers pointed to a dark grey spire on a low hill south of the village.

‘Yes,’ Lucinda replied. ‘You can just see the roof of the vicarage next to it.’

‘How long’s he been here?’

‘Oh, ages—certainly more than twenty years.’

‘As long as that?’ Maltravers sounded surprised. ‘I thought bishops shuffled the pieces round the diocese fairly regularly.’

‘Things don’t change as often in places like this,’ Lucinda told him. ‘Alan’s never wanted to move, not even after his wife died.’

‘Well if it’s a living that pays for three hundred pound suits, I don’t blame him,’ Maltravers said. ‘My brother-in-law’s a residentiary cathedral canon, but Oxfam chic is the best he usually manages.’

‘St Mark’s is worth peanuts,’ Lucinda corrected him, ‘but Mary—that was his wife—was the only daughter of a clothes manufacturer in Kendal and she and Alan had no children. Whatever the church pays him is pocket money.’

Maltravers looked at the church again. ‘He gave me the impression of being unusually worldly the other evening. What does his congregation think of having a vicar storing up treasures on earth? Decent poverty and social conscience are expected these days.’

‘Not in Attwater,’ Lucinda replied. ‘They want a nice comfortable figurehead who tells them they’ll all go to Heaven as long as they put something in the collection for the Bible Society and promises not to inflict the new communion service on them. They’re very conservative.’

‘And what do you think?’ Maltravers asked. ‘Is it a case of when in Rome…hardly the appropriate phrase, but you know what I mean.’

‘I don’t mind,’ she said. ‘A few of us get impatient sometimes, but we don’t make waves. Alan gives the majority of them what they want.’

‘Well, it’s a broad church,’ said Maltravers. ‘It accommodates more secular types than Alan Morris.’

They sat in silence for a few minutes, then Lucinda pointed at the road below them. ‘There’s Duggie Lydden’s car.’

Maltravers strained his eyes as he peered down and saw three cars, at that distance no bigger than a child’s toys, on the road far below.

‘How can you tell at this range?’ he demanded. ‘Or do you know more about cars than I do as well?’

‘Gus, everybody knows more about cars than you do. Anyway, he’s got the only Golf GTi with that metallic finish around here. I’m positive it’s him.’

They watched as the vehicles went on towards the motorway, Maltravers still unable to distinguish between them.

‘Shouldn’t he be at his shop?’ he asked.

‘Half-day closing in Kendal.’ Lucinda glanced at her watch. ‘Some shops stay open but a lot of the smaller ones still shut. Come on, it’s turned one o’clock. Let’s go back and have lunch.’

As they made their way down the hill, Maltravers shaded his eyes against the sun, looking along the road away from the town, and realised he could just make out the roof of Carwelton Hall before the land fell away into a dip. It did not look an impossible distance, but would have been an intolerable walk on the foul night he had arrived. He thought he could just make out one of the cars turning into the entrance but it was impossible to tell which.

In his vicarage, Alan Morris was wracked by nervous excitement and apprehension as he contemplated a final desperate means of escape from a nightmare more serious than he had ever thought possible. Attwater was a wealthy parish and there had been so much money available when his own had begun to dwindle. At first he had always been able to replace it and the various books had always balanced; then the juggling had begun with its crazy transfers from one account to another, running just ahead of the annual audits. But the amounts and the financial adjustments had grown until the whole edifice of deceit had begun to crumble and sway.

His protection had been years of visible, unquestioned honesty. He subtly drew attention to his probity—when he still exercised it—to maintain that reputation which made any suggestion of irregularity ridiculous. He was naturally trusted now because he had been trustworthy in the past. Only he knew that he had crossed into criminality so long ago that he was now indifferent about how far he went. His delusion was complete and essential to his defence and justification of himself; he could even persuade himself that this afternoon would solve everything.

Charles Carrington finished checking the conveyancing details of a house purchase he was handling then locked the documents away in his filing cabinet. He put on his overcoat and went into the secretary’s office next to his own.

‘I’m off, Sylvia,’ he announced. ‘If Sir Bernard calls again, say I’ll get back to him in the morning.’

‘Yes, Mr Carrington. Oh, while you were on the phone, Mrs Quinn rang and asked if you could call her back. I told her you were leaving early this afternoon, but she said it was urgent.’

The wall clock behind the secretary’s desk showed ten past three. ‘I’m all right for a few minutes. Will you get her for me please?’

He returned to his office and stood by the window, waiting for the telephone to ring, looking out at the green dome of the Ashton Memorial in Williamson Park that dominated the town.

‘Charlotte? It’s Charles. What can I do for you?’

‘Thank you for calling back.’ Her voice sounded partly relieved, partly agitated. ‘I have to see you, Charles. As soon as possible. It’s very important.’

‘Well, I’m just about to leave for home but I’ll be going straight out again once I’ve changed and won’t be back until late,’ he told her. ‘Can it wait until tomorrow evening? You can come round and have a drink.’

‘No…no, not at the house. Somewhere private.’

He paused for a moment. ‘The house is private Charlotte.’

‘I don’t mean that, I mean…’ She caught her breath. ‘I mean I want to see you alone.’

Carrington sat down and leaned across his desk. ‘Charlotte, what are you talking about?’ There was no reply. ‘Do you mean you want to see me without Jennifer?’

‘Yes.’

There was a silence while he waited for her to continue. ‘Charlotte, what are you trying to say to me?’

‘You really don’t know?’

‘I’m not certain,’ he replied carefully. ‘But I want you to tell me. Now. On the phone.’

She sighed very deeply. ‘Charles, you’re not making this any easier for me. You really have no idea what I want to talk about?’

‘Possibly, but I don’t want to jump to the wrong conclusion.’

‘Stop being a bloody lawyer! You know full well and fine why I’m ringing! Don’t you?’

There was a silence as Carrington sat very still, then he reached forward and began to rotate the ridged wheels of the perpetual calendar on the desk in front of him.

‘I think you’re trying to tell me that Jennifer is having an affair.’ His voice was very bleak and his sense of the inevitable was mingled with a perverse relief.

Charlotte Quinn’s voice sobbed down the line for a few moments before returning very faintly. ‘When did you know?’

‘Know?’ Carrington said. ‘I only know now. But I’ve suspected it for…what? Two months? There is one other thing you can tell me though. Who’s it with?’

She sniffed then almost whispered her answer. ‘Duggie Lydden.’

The calendar showed Tuesday May 38, 1947. Carrington stared at the insane date for several seconds, then began to spin one wheel slowly again, the day, month and date staying the same, the years rising until the little window showed 1999.

‘Charles? Are you still there?’

‘Yes.’ The voice was now a lifeless monotone. ‘I thought it had to be him, but…well, it doesn’t matter, but I think I’d have preferred it to be someone else.’

‘What are you going to do?’

‘I was going home to change for a Masonic meeting in Carlisle,’ he replied. ‘But they’ll have to manage without me. I think I’d like to talk to you. Can you come to Carwelton Hall?’

‘What about Jennifer?’

‘She’s spending the day in Manchester and won’t be back until this evening.’

‘What time do you want me to be there?’

‘Four fifteen? I’ll be back by then and…’ Carrington hesitated. ‘And thank you, Charlotte, I appreciate how difficult this must have been for you.’

‘Oh, Christ, I should have told you before!’

‘That doesn’t matter. You’ve told me now and…I’ll see you in about an hour.’

He rang off before she had time to say anything more and she held the receiver to her ear, listening to the dialling tone. Suddenly she felt weak and sat down abruptly. She had finally done what for so long had terrified her and she began to cry with relief. Charles’s first reaction had been that he wanted to talk to her; they had lost a lot of years, but there could still be more left when this was all sorted out and she had helped him through it.

In his office, Carrington reached forward and corrected the calendar, as though needing the ability to restore something to normality. He left without speaking to his secretary and within minutes he was on the motorway and driving away from the city.

As he made the half-hour journey to Attwater, cold numbness and disbelief that his suspicions had been proved gave way to a confusion of emotions. His lack of anger surprised him. He was unable to comprehend Lydden; to betray anyone so maliciously, particularly a friend who had helped you, was unimaginable behaviour. Towards Jennifer there was only a turmoil of feelings whirling through random memories. The first casual chat in his partner’s office; the flowers he had bought for her birthday a few weeks later; hesitantly kissing her for the first time; the shared laughter over their deception in that hotel register in Lytham St Annes. Then later the ridiculous joy of their wedding, his delight at taking her to Carwelton Hall as his wife and introducing her to his friends. Had countless private, personal incidents meant so little—perhaps nothing—to her? The image of her opening the door to Lydden while he was safely absent at work, taking him upstairs, letting him fondle her and crying in ecstasy as their bodies locked together in bed was so appalling that he had to thrust it from his mind.

He left the motorway and drove through the villages to Carwelton Hall, stopping behind another vehicle in the drive. Glancing at it in surprise, he let himself in to what should have been an empty house. As he stepped through the door, there was a sound from the library across the hall and he walked towards it.

In Manchester, Jennifer Carrington was selecting a new tie for her husband, asking the assistant if she could recommend somewhere nearby for a cup of tea before going on to a dress shop she knew in Timperley on the south side of the city. Among her shopping was the Kingsley Amis book she had bought for him at Sherratt & Hughes.

Maltravers pulled the captain’s chair up in front of the fire and took the photocopy of the last, completely unexpected, genuine Sherlock Holmes story out of the envelope. He turned to the first page and began to read just as Charles Carrington entered the library of Carwelton Hall, stopping in bewilderment as he recognised the figure standing by the wall safe. There was a thundering explosion and more than a hundred and fifty shotgun pellets ripped his chest and abdomen to pieces. The force hurled him into the air like a marionette then he crashed to the floor on his back. From a pattern of wounds across the lower half of his face, tiny streams of blood began to trickle and the life went out of uncomprehending eyes. As he died, Maltravers grunted with contentment as the mystery of The Attwater Firewitch began to absorb him.

AN ENCOUNTER AT BUSHELLS

Unlike many of his contemporaries, Sherlock Holmes was not a frequenter of the London clubs, whose sociable facilities held little attractions for his solitary nature. However one such club—Bushells, just off the Victoria Embankment—marked the start of one of his last cases.

We were taken there by Sir David Digby, Principal Under-Secretary at the Foreign Office, at the end of the day during which Holmes had resolved the Franco-Prussian crisis in the summer of 1890. His identification of watermarks on paper and knowledge of the chemical composition of inks had proved that the infamous Mannheim-Stern letters had been forged by a cell of anarchists working out of Hamburg and that the British Ambassador was innocent of any complicity with regard to the political assassinations which had shaken the Continent. Sir David’s relief and gratitude outweighed his amazement at my friend’s methods.

‘Mr Holmes,’ he said warmly. ‘Your achievement is nothing less than having preserved the peace of Europe. While the details can never be made public, Her Majesty’s Government owes you an immeasurable debt.’

‘Then I trust their gratitude will be reflected in their fee,’ Holmes remarked. ‘However, the matter is now resolved and, if you will excuse us, Watson and I wish to eat.’

‘As my guests,’ insisted Sir David. ‘Please accompany me to my club.’

Holmes shrugged indifferently. He would have been as satisfied with a meal at the nearest artisans’ eating house as dinner at an establishment renowned throughout London. As we walked the short distance from Whitehall, he was in a withdrawn mood I knew well. The demands of an investigation having been met, his mind had relapsed into a condition of inertia. We dined well on Dover sole—then, as now, a speciality of Bushells—before retiring to the lounge. Sir David greeted several members as we walked through and many glanced with interest at the tall, gaunt figure of his companion. We sat by a window affording an angled view of the Thames at a table already occupied by another man to whom Sir David nodded.

‘Cedric Braithwaite,’ he explained, then turned to the other. ‘I need hardly introduce Mr Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson, but I can tell you, Braithwaite, that I have today been privileged to observe this gentleman’s powers at first hand and they are astounding indeed.’

Braithwaite folded away his newspaper and regarded us with keen grey eyes. He was a well-built man of about forty years of age with a strong face, somewhat weather-beaten, and black wavy hair.

‘I envy you, Sir David. Like so many, I am only familiar with Mr Holmes’s exploits through the excellent accounts of Dr Watson.’

I nodded in acknowledgement as he continued. ‘However, from reading those narratives Mr Holmes, it has occurred to me that the powers you utilise are not necessarily unique to yourself. We may all possess them, but lack the ability to use them.’

Full of admiration for what Holmes had achieved that day, Sir David looked momentarily offended, but my friend spoke before he could utter any rebuke.

‘You are quite right, sir,’ he replied. ‘I have said as much to Watson. However few, if any, exploit such gifts and are therefore surprised when another does.’

‘Then might I put my theory to the test?’ Braithwaite enquired. ‘I would be interested if you would make any observations about myself and then grant me the opportunity of trying to follow your reasoning.’

Holmes smiled. ‘Very well, and I in turn will be interested in the results. You are a widower and a member of the legal profession living in the north of England. You own a house with extensive grounds, which you assist to cultivate yourself, and own a large dog. This morning you rose early to come to London and have been closely occupied with whatever affairs brought you here since your arrival. I could add more, but that will suffice.’

‘Correct in every particular, Mr Holmes,’ Braithwaite replied.

Sir David looked astounded and I, while very familiar with my friend’s abilities, was unable to see how he had correctly deduced so much. Holmes, now relaxed after a splendid meal and an encounter with stimulating company, placed his slender fingertips together.

‘Now, sir, you have your opportunity to demonstrate that you are not among the great mass of unobservant mankind.’

‘I would beg a moment for consideration,’ Braithwaite replied. ‘In you the gift is highly developed and you must allow for those in whom the skill is not so advanced.’

He surveyed his own figure for a moment, then a look of realisation crossed his face.

‘I can follow you in part.’ He held out his right hand. ‘I wear my late wife’s wedding-ring. Were you sitting closer, you would observe it is scarcely worn. She died in childbirth less than a year after our wedding-day. That I am in this club indicates some probability that I am a lawyer but…ah, yes. From where you are sitting this document in my inside pocket with its distinctive red ribbon must be clearly visible. My accent betrays my northern origins, although surely I could possibly now live in London.

‘The callouses on my hands, hardly the result of court work, reveal my horticultural activities and I now perceive some hairs on the edge of my coat, which my dog left when I walked him this morning. He is a red setter and they show up against the dark cloth. I did rise early and have been very busy, but there you have the advantage of me.’

Holmes turned to me. ‘You see, Watson? All possess what gifts I have, few employ them—unlike this gentleman.’

He returned his attention to Braithwaite. ‘I think you would eventually follow my other conclusions given time. The creased and dusty appearance of your clothes indicates a long train journey, presumably from your native north country; that you have not had time to have them attended to shows you have been actively occupied since your arrival. As in so many instances, it is your shoes that are of interest. A slight amount of clay is adhering to them. Of late, the weather throughout Britain has been dry but, even in London, I have observed a heavy dew in the mornings. This would dampen the clay and make it stick, but only in the early hours.’

‘Incredible!’ Sir David exclaimed. ‘Although I am as impressed almost as much by your responses Braithwaite as by Mr Holmes’s original.’

‘Prosaic,’ Holmes contradicted then looked at Braithwaite keenly. ‘But would you perhaps care to repeat the operation in reverse?’

Braithwaite laughed. ‘A most tempting offer! While we have been talking, certain points have occurred to me and I would welcome the opportunity. Very well. You also rose early and breakfasted in haste and some agitation. You spent the early hours in some location where the grass is long. For the rest of the time all your attentions were engaged upon an urgent matter. Dr Watson was with you in the morning, but I cannot speak for the afternoon. However, the doctor is now having second thoughts about his recent decision to change his hatter.’

‘Capital!’ Holmes rubbed his hands together in delight. ‘You are a man after my own heart, sir. Now let me see…yes, there is an egg stain on my lapel. Mrs Hudson had cooked breakfast and it seemed churlish to refuse to eat. My haste is self-evident. As for the rest…’ He looked down. ‘Ah, we are back with the morning dew which has left grass stains on the bottoms of my trousers. I spent the earliest part of the day in…I cannot be precise about the location, but a certain embassy in London has lackadaisical service in its grounds. My hands still carry ink stains picked up during the afternoon and the fact that I have not had time to remove them indicates the matter was pressing. We came straight here after the completion of the matter.

‘Watson’s trousers betray the same grass stains, however he was only present as an observer in the afternoon and there are no signs of what he was doing. I had intended remarking upon his unsatisfactory new hatter myself. The indentation around his forehead is still visible, even though he removed his bowler some time ago. Correct, I think?’

‘Naturally,’ Braithwaite replied with a bow. ‘I am honoured to have had the opportunity of matching my poor wits against yours. My legal work as a Crown Prosecutor means it is possible our professional paths could cross. If that were to occur, the challenge would be formidable.’

‘And I would need to be on my mettle, sir,’ Holmes exclaimed.

‘A compliment indeed,’ said Braithwaite. ‘Now, if you will forgive me, I must retire. I have to make an early start for my journey back to Westmorland tomorrow.’

With a courteous nod to us all, he stood up and left the room.

‘Sir David, that gentleman’s company is the most entertaining I have enjoyed for some time,’ Holmes said heartily to our host. ‘I am grateful to you for introducing us. What do you know of him?’

‘Not a great deal,’ the Under-Secretary replied. ‘He operates on the northern circuit and stays at Bushells when in London, which is where we met. He lives in Meldred Hall near Kendal.’

‘I partly know the town,’ said Holmes. ‘I was engaged there once on an investigation which Watson found too pedestrian to include in his chronicles. A good deal of my work is of that nature, despite the impression given by his selection of the sensational or bizarre which he says have more appeal to his readers.’

Holmes smiled at me slyly. ‘However, Sir David, the hour is late and it has been a long day. I must return to Baker Street.’

‘The Cabinet will be made aware of what you have done at the first opportunity,’ Sir David promised. ‘It is regrettable that there can never be any public acknowledgement.’

‘I leave such honours to politicians,’ Holmes replied. ‘Mine is a more self-effacing business.’

THE FIREWITCH LEGEND

Towards the end of the following March I called at Baker Street to find Holmes completing a late breakfast. Virtually all his post had been tossed to the floor, indicating it was from the sort of time-wasting eccentrics who frequently discommoded him, but one letter was engaging his attention.

‘Good-morning, Watson. Do you recall our meeting with Cedric Braithwaite at Bushells last year?’

‘Very clearly. Do I infer you have heard from him?’

‘Yes, and a very curious letter it is. See for yourself.’

As I took the note, Holmes went to the bookcase and, while I read, consulted a number of volumes. The address ‘Meldred Hall, Attwater, Near Kendal’ was printed at the top of the letter which was dated the previous day.

‘Dear Mr Holmes,’ I read. ‘This is being dispatched before I catch this morning’s train for London where I shall stay the night at Bushells. I pray you will be available to see me tomorrow morning so that I may place before you a matter of the utmost seriousness. It seems that my life may be in the gravest danger and I now fear also for my sister. The most incredible aspect is that there appears to be a connection with the family legend of the Attwater Firewitch. I regret approaching you with such scant courtesy on the basis of our brief meeting with Sir David Digby, but beg you to believe that I am desperate to know where to turn. Cedric W Braithwaite.’

I finished reading and looked up at Holmes. ‘What do you make of it?’ I asked.

Holmes did not reply as he continued examining one of his books. He turned the page and read on, then closed the volume sharply and replaced it on the shelf.

‘We know the measure of this man, Watson,’ he said. ‘He is clearly capable of handling most matters for himself. He would not consult me upon a trifle and his evident agitation amplifies the seriousness of the matter. I am also intrigued by this family legend.’

‘I have always believed you regarded legends as merely the products of fanciful minds,’ I remarked.

‘They are,’ he replied. ‘But there is invariably some grain of truth behind the web of tales spun around it . However, none of my books refers to such a legend and I am puzzled by the term Firewitch.’

‘Surely it indicates the manner of her death?’ I suggested.

‘I think not. While witchcraft was regarded as a heresy in Scotland and on the Continent, bringing death by burning, in England it was a felony and those found guilty of it were hanged.’

‘Perhaps she dealt in fire in some manner?’

‘Possibly, but the front doorbell indicates that our anxious visitor has arrived and will be able to furnish us with the answers himself.’

Moments later Braithwaite entered. There was little resemblance to the man I remembered. He was highly nervous and confused, but the most shocking thing was several deep scratches, partly healed, down both sides of his face.

‘Mr Holmes, thank God you are here!’ he cried, then staggered forwards as Holmes leapt to his side to prevent him from falling.

‘This way.’ He led our visitor to a chair. ‘Watson, the brandy.’

I poured the drink which Braithwaite accepted with trembling hands. As he gulped it down, I was appalled that the confident and capable man I had last seen should have been reduced to such a pitiful condition. Holmes took a seat opposite him and waited until he had recovered some manner of composure.

‘I had anticipated this was a serious business,’ he finally said quietly. ‘But I clearly have underestimated its gravity. Please tell me everything that has occurred when you are able.’

‘Thank you,’ said Braithwaite and finished the brandy at a swallow. ‘I hardly know where to start. Since leaving Meldred Hall, I have been haunted by the fear there will be some further outrage in my absence.’

‘Pray compose yourself,’ Holmes told him. ‘As recent events have evidently caused you great distress, might I suggest you begin with this legend to which you refer? That is clearly in the past and you may find it easier to talk about first.’

‘Yes, of course.’ Our visitor appeared to make an effort to regain his natural demeanour. ‘The legend of the Attwater Firewitch is little known outside our neighbourhood of Westmorland. It began in the time of my ancestor Thomas Braithwaite, who built the original Meldred Hall in the sixteenth century. There was a woman in the district named Margaret Seymour who had the reputation of being a witch. In our rational and scientific age, it appears preposterous that people could believe in such things, but then they had great potency. You may be familiar with Mr Harrison Ainsworth’s excellent account of the Lancashire witches, events that took place just across the county border not far from my home around the same period.’

‘I have heard of the book, but its nature is not such as to engage my interest,’ Holmes commented. ‘Please continue.’

‘In the autumn of 1548, Margaret Seymour called at Meldred Hall begging for food,’ Braithwaite went on. ‘She was turned away somewhat curtly and was later seen gathering herbs from a hedgerow near the house. Shortly afterwards, Thomas’s daughter fell ill of an ague and the Seymour woman began to boast that she had placed a spell on her. I should add that she had a familiar in the shape of a strange bird, a matter of which you will shortly see the significance.

‘As a Justice of the Peace, Thomas had her brought before him. She at first denied her claims but, when faced with witnesses who had heard her words, defiantly admitted them. She was sent for trial at Lancaster Assizes accused of witchcraft. The contemporary reports indicate that her incarceration had unhinged her mind and she rambled like a madwoman in the dock. She was found guilty and sentenced to hang.

‘In the meantime, all efforts to alleviate the daughter’s condition had failed and, the night before Seymour’s execution, Thomas visited her cell to beg her lift the supposed spell. He was accompanied by a priest who wrote an account of the occasion.’

Braithwaite produced a piece of paper from his pocket. ‘This has been copied from the original, although some of the more antique phraseology has been modernised.’

Holmes glanced through it then passed it to me, asking Braithwaite to wait until I had read it for myself.

‘At the request of Thomas Braithwaite, Gent,’ I read, ‘I did accompany him to the Lancaster prison, to see the witchwoman Margaret Seymour, under sentence of execution, that he might persuade her to lift the Devilish enchantment placed upon his daughter, Jane, at that time lying unto extremity of death.

‘The woman lay on a heap of straw in one corner and we could clearly see Satan’s mark upon her, a gross protuberance upon her chin with several hairs springing therefrom. She was silent as Thomas Braithwaite beseeched her, for pity’s sake, to spare his innocent child and I enjoined her to reject the Devil and all his works at peril of her immortal soul but to no avail. Then did Thomas Braithwaite fall into a great rage, crying that he would pursue her through all of Hell in his vengeance. I called down for the Mercy of God at such blasphemy and pulled him away and as I did so she spat at him. But it was not spittle that landed on his cheek, it was the woman’s blood.

‘As I dragged him from the room, the woman spoke, making strange passes with her hands, which struck fear into my heart. She said:

“The bird will fly, the bird will land,

The fire will come at its command,

The flames will burn with scorching breath,

The fire will ever bring you death.”

‘Then did Thomas Braithwaite’s rage increase greatly. He broke away from me and cried at the woman that he would bring fire upon her and it was with the greatest trouble that I did lead him from the cell.’

I handed the curious narrative back to Braithwaite.

‘The story thereafter is briefly told,’ he continued. ‘The morning after the visit, Margaret Seymour was taken out to be hanged, but as she was being led to the scaffold Thomas and a party of his servants rode up and abducted her. They took her back to his estate and locked her in a barn which they then set ablaze. As her cries faded, a great bird was seen to rise out of the conflagration. That night it reappeared on the roof of Meldred Hall and the daughter began to scream that she was burning. She died within minutes and the bird flew away. The curse of the Attwater Firewitch had come to pass.’

As our visitor completed his strange narrative, Holmes leaned forward in his chair and looked at him piercingly.

‘A melodramatic tale,’ he remarked. ‘But one which a man of your abundant intelligence would treat as nothing more than a historical curiosity exaggerated by added romantic imaginations. It is more than this which has brought you to me.’

Braithwaite looked at him desperately. ‘Much, much more Mr Holmes. I have known that legend since childhood and it has never caused me concern. But now…’

He shuddered and his eyes went wild again. Holmes glanced an instruction at me and I went to pour another brandy. As I did so, Mrs Hudson entered and said that a porter from Bushells was at the door with an urgent message for our visitor. Holmes told her to bring him in. He was obviously a retired military man, well suited to the club’s blue and grey uniform for its servants.

‘Beg pardon, sir,’ he said. ‘But Mr Simpson, the club secretary, took receipt of this telegram and felt that it should be delivered to Mr Braithwaite without delay. He had mentioned he was coming here, sir.’

‘Thank you, my man.’ Holmes took the telegram and gave the messenger sixpence. As he saluted and walked out, Holmes handed it to Braithwaite who tore it open then leapt to his feet with a cry.

‘My God! Eleanor!’

Before either of us could move, he had dashed from the room and we heard his footsteps pounding down the stairs and the crash of the front door. We leapt to the window and saw him frantically hailing a cab and jumping into it.

‘We must follow him at once!’ I cried.

‘There is no urgency,’ said Holmes calmly. ‘There are no trains back to Westmorland until this afternoon.’

‘Is he returning there then?’

‘Of course. A telegram of such importance could only have come from his home and its contents have clearly destroyed what capacity for logical thought he currently retains.’

He turned from the window then crossed the room and picked something up from the floor.

‘His telegram,’ he remarked. ‘His dropping it underlines the agitated condition of his mind.’ He read the message and his face darkened. ‘This is no fanciful legend, Watson,’ he said grimly.

I took the telegram from his outstretched hand. It said: ‘YOUR SISTER ATTACKED BY GREAT BIRD. RETURN AT ONCE.’

A JOURNEY TO THE LAKE DISTRICT

We were greeted at Bushells, where we had expected to find Braithwaite, with the news that he had already left to catch an earlier train to Manchester from where, we could only conclude, he would complete his journey on horseback.

‘And a few hours’ patience would have resulted in his being there at least as quickly,’ Holmes remarked. ‘When a rational man loses all touch with plain common sense, Watson, he is being driven hard. We will follow him this afternoon, using the train he has so impetuously abandoned. Are you at liberty to accompany me?’

‘I have only to inform my wife and pack,’ I replied. ‘I have recently engaged a junior partner and the experience of dealing with the practice on his own will be a salutary one.’

‘At Euston station then.’ As I turned to go, Holmes called back to me. ‘Include your revolver in your luggage.’

We purchased hampers of cold ham and chicken from the London and North Western Railway for our seven hour journey north and secured a compartment to ourselves. Holmes was disinclined to discuss the business towards which we were heading; theorising without data he left to dreamers. I tried to engage him in conversation about various reports in the late afternoon edition of the Star, but his interest was only aroused with an account of a double murder in Hammersmith. He listened attentively as I read the details concerning the discovery of the bodies of a man and a woman, both of whom had the letter ‘X’ carved into their foreheads.

‘The man was a minor clerk with a shipping agency and the woman the agent of a Mediterranean state with whom he had become entangled,’ he told me. ‘The arrival of a merchant ship from Naples a week ago sealed their fates and nothing could prevent it.’

The conversation reminded me of something I had meant to raise with him previously.

‘I have often wondered why you were not involved in the infamous Whitechapel murders back in eighty-eight,’ I remarked. ‘They remain unsolved and I would have thought that the authorities would have called upon your services.’

He gave me a curious look. ‘Of course they did, Watson, although by that time I had investigated the killings of my own volition.’

For a few moments he remained silent, gazing through the window at the landscape as I waited for him to continue.

‘I spent several nights in the area in a disguise so impenetrable my own brother Mycroft would not have recognised me,’ he said finally and there was a very sombre tone in his voice. Reflected in the glass of the carriage window, his face had become grave. ‘At the end I had proved that the conclusions I had reached following the murder of Martha Turner in George Yard Buildings were correct in every detail.’

He turned to face me, and I was startled by his countenance. He looked like one recollecting the most terrible evil.

‘You and I are in agreement, Watson, that certain stories like the Runnymede Cobra or the Casket of the Medicis must never be told. Better they were shouted from all the rooftops of London than that the identity of the Ripper and the full explanation behind his atrocities should ever be revealed.’

I find it impossible to convey how much his reply shook me. The cases to which he referred involved persons and matters of the greatest consequence; exposure of the details of either would be calamitous. I found it incredible that a series of sordid murders of common women of the streets could be connected with matters of greater magnitude. But I can recall few occasions when my friend spoke with more gravitas.

Because of the severity of the gradients, the main line bypassed Kendal and we left the train at the small halt of Oxenholme some distance from the town. It was too late to go straight to Meldred Hall and we secured the services of a dogcart which took us to a travellers’ hotel. Holmes asked the youth who showed us to our rooms if he knew the Braithwaite family.

‘Yes, sir,’ he replied. ‘I help with the harvest on the estate each year. But ‘tis terrible what has happened to Miss Eleanor.’

‘You have heard of that then?’

‘All Kendal has. She was attacked by the bird of the Firewitch. Some say she is dead, but I think that be just rumour. I pray it is anyway.’

Holmes thanked the youth and instructed him we would require an early breakfast the following day before dismissing him.

‘This Firewitch still has her believers locally,’ he commented. ‘Any strange incident connected with Meldred Hall over the past three hundred years will doubtless have been attributed to her. An attack by a great bird, as the telegram says, would be natural fodder for folklore. Let us hope that the boy’s prayers for Miss Braithwaite are answered.’

The next morning we hired horses and took the direction indicated to us. Within little more than half an hour, we reached Meldred Hall, an imposing black Lakeland stone house behind a high wall on the road from Kendal to Sedbergh, hard by the village of Attwater. The house stood on the edge of a wide valley with the mountains rising about two miles to the west. The Hall had been built (I later discovered) some thirty years earlier in the Gothic revival style with mullioned arched windows and steep, gabled roof. Holmes presented his card to the butler and we were taken to the morning-room where Cedric Braithwaite joined us.

‘Mr Holmes! Dr Watson! What miracle has brought you here?’ His face even more drawn and haggard than the previous day.

‘Nothing more miraculous than the steam engine.’ Holmes produced the telegram. ‘You left this in your haste. How is your sister?’

‘Sleeping, thank God, but her experience has been terrible. I should never have left her. There is devilry in this place!’

‘Then I am confident it will prove to be Man’s rather than Satan’s,’ Holmes commented. ‘You left us yesterday with your story incomplete. Will you now tell us of more recent events?’

Braithwaite paused in his pacing by the fireplace and gazed at the flames leaping from the logs.

‘The first real occurrence was on the sixteenth of January,’ he began. ‘I was walking through the woods about a mile from the Hall in the evening when a woman appeared about fifty yards ahead of me. She was bent and old and dressed in rags. She raised her stick and waved it at me in a gesture of threat. Then she hobbled away. I ran to the spot but there was no sign of her, despite the fact that she was too aged to have made away with any speed.

‘I dismissed the matter from my mind, but about a month later I was again on the outskirts of the same woods in the evening with Prince my dog when he suddenly ran ahead of me. He stopped some distance off and began to paw at the ground and then…’ Braithwaite turned from the fire and there was terror in his face. ‘And then, Mr Holmes, a huge bird, the like of no creature I had ever seen before, swept out of the trees. I heard Prince yelp in agony as it settled on him. I raced to the spot and began to strike at the creature with my stick. But it would not be driven off and one of its great wings knocked me to the ground.

‘As I lay there, the creature plunged at Prince again then rose with something in its claws and flew back towards the trees. I scrambled to my feet and went to Prince. The poor animal had been torn to pieces. As I bent over his body, I heard a hideous laugh and looked up to see the same old woman at the edge of the woods holding a lighted brand above her head. I ran towards her, but once again she vanished.’

‘What description can you give me of this bird?’ Holmes asked.

‘Of immense size and of no colour I could discern in the gloom,’ Braithwaite replied. ‘But it bore two horns upon its head. I know of no such creature with such things.’

‘Two horns?’ Holmes repeated thoughtfully. ‘An interesting detail. What happened next?’

‘Up to the attack on Eleanor, the most horrible thing, which was what drove me to seek your aid. A week ago, again in the evening and near the woods, the same woman leapt out of a bush in front of me as I was returning to the Hall from my customary walk. She grasped hold of my coat and spat directly into my face then was gone. For a moment I stood stunned by the incident, then raised my hand to wipe my cheek. There was something red on my fingers and I realised it was blood. Then I heard a rush of wings and a great shape was upon me.

‘It was the same bird, its talons tearing my face. I fought as best I could, but its strength was terrifying. In the struggle I fell to the ground, then the bird suddenly flew away again. I returned to the house and ordered a search of the area but nothing and nobody was discovered.’

Holmes had become very grave as he listened to Braithwaite’s story. ‘And your sister’s ordeal while you were in London?’

‘Almost identical to mine,’ Braithwaite said grimly. ‘She had visited one of our tenant farmers whose child is sick and was riding back across the estate when the same woman ran out of the trees and dragged her from her horse, then lashed her across the face. My sister is certain she screamed ‘Beware the Firewitch!’ before vanishing, then the hideous bird attacked. Mercifully, it flew off after only a few seconds as Eleanor fainted. When the horse returned without her, an alarm was raised and she was found, injured but alive, thank God. She was unconscious when they brought her back, but recovered sufficiently to tell her story before the doctor sedated her.’

Braithwaite looked at us with an expression of despair. ‘What is the explanation for these atrocities and how long will it be before this bird brings death on its wings?’

‘Compose yourself, sir,’ Holmes said sternly. ‘The terror of your experiences has affected your usual sense of judgement but I am not to be affrightened by the sudden recreation of ancient legend.’

For a few moments, my friend stared at the ceiling in meditation.

‘Your household staff,’ he said finally. ‘Has there been any recent addition to it?’

‘The groom Johnson was hired last autumn, but apart from him the most recent appointment was the Scottish kitchen maid McGregor who has been with us some three years. Four of my staff have been here since my father’s day.’

‘And has anyone left your employment recently?’ Holmes pursued.

‘I dismissed Adams, the under butler, shortly after Christmas.’ Braithwaite indicated a decanter on the side-board. ‘He had been stealing my whisky. He was not aware of the care with which Painter notes the level each evening. He denied it, but there were no other suspects and since his departure there has been no repetition of the thefts.’

‘And what have you discovered about him subsequently?’ Holmes asked. ‘You would obviously have enquired.’

‘He sailed from Liverpool for America a month after he left here,’ Braithwaite replied. ‘He had secured a position as ship’s steward.’

‘Then we must look elsewhere,’ Holmes said. ‘Can you accommodate Watson and myself at Meldred Hall?’

‘Gladly,’ Braithwaite said feelingly. ‘I shall feel greatly comforted by your presence.’

Holmes turned to me. ‘Return to Kendal and arrange for our things to be brought here, Watson. Now, Braithwaite, with your assistance I will commence my investigation into this curious and malevolent bird.’

ELEANOR BRAITHWAITE’S NARRATIVE

I am obliged at this point to relate certain matters which took place during my absence. As I departed for Kendal, Holmes asked Braithwaite if his sister was sufficiently recovered that he might talk to her. Enquiries revealed that she had awoken and he was taken to her room.

Eleanor Braithwaite was twenty-three, dark haired and athletic with strong and beautiful features highlighted by deep brown eyes. However, when Holmes first saw her, there were several savage gashes upon her face, one of which had only just missed her right eye. He solicitously asked after her health and if she felt able to answer his questions.

‘If they will help to solve this hideous business, I will make every effort, Mr Holmes,’ she replied weakly. ‘Although I do not know what I may be able to add to what my brother will already have told you.’

‘We shall see,’ Holmes told her gently. ‘Let us begin with the woman who pulled you from your horse. Did you see her face?’

‘Only the merest glimpse just before she struck me,’ she replied. ‘It was filthy and of someone of about sixty years of age I should think. I did not recognise her.’

‘And with what did she strike you?’

‘I’m not certain. A stick I fancy, but it felt sharp.’

Holmes tenderly moved her head to one side. The principal wounds on her face ran downwards, but there were several other deep scratches running from her left ear towards the mouth.

‘A bramble perhaps,’ he observed. ‘Very well. After the bird flew away, can you remember anything before you fainted?’

She shook her head. ‘I remember hearing my horse running and the hoot of an owl, but thereafter knew nothing until I woke up in this bed.’ She paused. ‘Oh, yes, of course! I heard the sound of laughter.’

Holmes looked at her sharply. ‘Laughter has many voices. Can you be more specific?’

‘Cruel laughter,’ she replied. ‘High pitched and vindictive.’

‘Like that of an old woman?’ he asked.

‘Exactly like an old woman.’

Holmes rose and took her hand comfortingly. ‘Rest now. You are safe here and your brother will have all the protection I can give him.’

He left the young woman with her maid and asked Braithwaite if he could interview the man who had led the search for her. This was the butler Painter, who had also dispatched the telegram. He was a grizzled man well struck in years, having been in the service of the family since before Braithwaite’s childhood, but remained vigorous and alert.

‘Henry the stable boy raised the alarm, sir, and we knew which route Miss Eleanor would have taken back from Lowman’s Farm,’ he explained. ‘Past the mere, through Witch’s Wood then across the meadows.’

Holmes shot him a glance. ‘Witch’s Wood?’

‘Yes, sir. It is so named because Margaret Seymour the Firewitch, lived in a hovel there. It was she who…’

‘I am familiar with the legend,’ Holmes interrupted. ‘I was not aware the woods had a connection with her. Complete the story of your search.’

‘We were approaching the wood when I heard Henry, who was some distance ahead, call my name,’ Painter continued. ‘He was kneeling over Miss Eleanor lying by the bridle-path. We carried her back and summoned the doctor. It was too late to send a telegram to Mr Braithwaite that night, but that was done first thing the following morning.’

‘You have mentioned the stable boy joining in the search,’ Holmes added. ‘Who else accompanied you?’

‘Bates the gamekeeper, who was at the Hall that evening,’ the butler explained. ‘There were no other men available.’

As the butler left, Holmes made several notes in his pocketbook, then turned to Braithwaite who had been present during the interview. ‘Your groom joined you comparatively recently. What do you know of him?’

‘He was trained in the stables of Sir Henry Goodman near Coniston,’ Braithwaite replied. ‘Sir Henry recommended him after my previous groom died. He’s a married man with a cottage on the estate and his work here has been of the highest order. Do you imagine…?’

‘My unalterable habit is deduction, not imagination,’ Holmes corrected somewhat tersely. ‘I would like to speak to him next.’

They found the groom saddling the horse Braithwaite had hired at Lancaster on his journey from Manchester, in order to return it. He was a sallow faced, wiry individual, his spine bent like a shallow bow. Holmes asked why he had not been present to assist in the search for Eleanor Braithwaite.

‘I was on my way home to my cottage,’ the man replied. ‘I knew nothing about it until I came back this morning.’

‘And who would have attended Miss Braithwaite’s horse had she returned without mishap?’ Holmes enquired.

‘Henry, the stable lad. It would only have needed unsaddling and putting back in its stall after so short a ride.’

‘And where is your cottage on the estate?’ Holmes added.

‘About half a mile in that direction.’

‘Towards Witch’s Wood?’ Holmes remarked. ‘I see. Did you observe anything suspicious in that vicinity during your journey home?’

The groom shook his head. ‘It was dark, but I saw nobody about.’

Holmes nodded and appeared satisfied, but as he and Braithwaite were leaving the stable yard, he turned back to Johnson.

‘Upon which merchant vessel did you sustain the injury to your back?’

‘The SS Leonora, sailing out of Whitehaven,’ Johnson was clearly surprised, but Holmes strode away before the groom could demand how he could have known the fact.

‘I was unaware Johnson had been a seaman,’ Braithwaite remarked as they walked back towards the Hall.

‘There was a nautical skill about the knots in that rope by the stable door,’ Holmes replied. ‘His short stature would have precluded enlistment in the Royal Navy, therefore his experience must have been as a merchantman. His present condition would have rendered him unsuitable for enrolment, so he was fully fit when he joined and suffered some mishap during his service.

‘His maritime background may possibly be of relevance, but I was more interested in acquainting at least one member of your household with my methods. Johnson will tell the others, and if this mischief lies on your own doorstep, the culprit may make a false move out of apprehension. Now I wish to see the locations of these recent incidents.’

Braithwaite took him first to the spot where his sister had been found. Holmes examined the ground, but the rescue party had obliterated anything that might have been of value. Straightening up, he looked towards a low belt of trees some distance away.

‘Witch’s Wood I presume,’ he commented.

‘Yes. Beyond it is the mere on the shore of which is Lowman’s Farm.’

They went next to where Braithwaite had first seen the old woman in the woods. The area was overgrown with high dead bracken and bramble bushes. Working from the place at which Braithwaite said the woman had vanished, Holmes discovered a piece of cloth caught on a twig.

‘Cheap cotton material woven on a mechanical loom, almost certainly in one of the Lancashire mills,’ he remarked. ‘Of possible consequence.’

A search of half an hour yielded nothing more, then they emerged out of the trees and the mere spread before them. It was a shallow oval, four hundred yards at its widest point and rather more than half that in breadth. Gorse and heather grew round its circumference. Holmes followed its edge for some distance then produced his glass to examine several shoeprints in the soft ground.

‘Dunlop soles, size seven,’ he murmured. ‘Made by a woman or a small man, possibly even a child, certainly running. They disappear as the ground becomes more firm and could have continued round the lake or gone off towards the hills.’ He made a sketch of the pattern. ‘A commonplace design, but it may be of value if we can locate the shoe that made it. I have limited experience of ghosts, but am not aware that they favour footwear manufactured in Northampton more than three centuries after their death. We are dealing with the living here, Braithwaite, although it may be as deadly as malignant spirits. Our last port of call will be Lowman’s Farm.’

Farmer Lowman himself was out completing the spring sowing, but his wife answered Holmes’s questions. She had no recollection of any strangers in the area and was sure her menfolk would have commented if they had. After giving her attention to their sick daughter, Eleanor Braithwaite had left about seven o’clock and the time it would have taken her to reach the point of her attack tallied with the period it would have taken the horse to gallop back to Meldred Hall. Holmes finally asked Mrs Lowman if she had heard any reports of an unusually large bird seen flying in the locality.

‘No, sir,’ the woman replied shaking her head. ‘We see occasional buzzards in the hills, but they rarely come down here into the valley.’

They thanked her and returned to Meldred Hall, which is where I found them on my return and am able to continue my account as a first hand observer and participant.

Frantic knocking erupted through Brook Cottage, hammering blows mixing with ceaseless electric chimes as somebody held down the front doorbell at the same time. Seconds earlier, absorbed in reading, Maltravers had not registered the screech of tyres scattering stones on the path outside and the slamming of a car door. Irritated by the interruption, he put down The Attwater Firewitch and went to answer it. Face distorted with horror, Charlotte Quinn stood in the porch.

‘Thank God you’re in!’ she gasped. ‘I must use the phone!’

Before he could speak she pushed past him and ran into the cottage. When he followed her, she was in the centre of the living-room, looking around in agitation.

‘Where is it?’ she shouted. ‘The telephone!’

‘On the piano…what the hell’s the matter? What’s happened?’

She leapt at the phone without replying, then stood with her hand on it, gulping with exertion and emotion.

‘Who are you calling?’

‘The police.’ She suddenly sobbed, the sound half caught in her throat. ‘They must get into Carwelton Hall!’

‘Police?’ Maltravers put his own hand on top of hers to prevent her lifting the receiver. ‘Hold it right there! Tell me first.’

Charlotte Quinn’s hand strained beneath his for a moment, then he felt it slacken. Her face was haggard as she turned to him.

‘I rang Charles at his office this afternoon and told him about Jennifer and Duggie Lydden.’ Her voice shook again. ‘He said he wanted me to meet him at Carwelton Hall as soon as he got home. His car was in the drive, but there was no reply. Then I looked through the letterbox and saw him on the floor near the library door.’ She shuddered and began to weep. ‘Gus, I think he’s dead!’

Maltravers stared at her. ‘Dead? How could you tell?’

‘He was just lying there! I shouted but he didn’t move. There was blood…’ her voice croaked as she sobbed violently.

‘Did you try to get in?’

‘Of course I did!’ Anger flared out of her frenzy. ‘I wouldn’t be here otherwise would I? Stop asking stupid questions.’

She thrust his hand aside and snatched up the phone, continuing as she began to punch the 9 button. ‘He must have killed himself because of what’s been happening. He suspected it before I told him and…police! Quickly!’

She waited a few seconds then repeated part of what she had just told Maltravers. She hung up and stood very still with her shoulders bowed, then suddenly threw back her head and screamed. Maltravers put his arms round her and she trembled against him like a child in the arms of its mother woken from a nightmare.

‘What did the police say?’ he asked as she grew calmer.

‘They want me to go back and meet them there.’ There were tears of desperation in her eyes as she looked at him pleadingly. ‘Come with me, Gus! I can’t go…I can’t…Oh, God!’

‘Of course I’ll come,’ he assured her. ‘We’ll use my car, you’re in no condition to drive.’

Moments after Maltravers turned on to the main road at the bottom of the lane, they heard the hysterical soprano whoop of a siren before a police car appeared behind them over the rise from the direction of Kendal, headlights blazing and blue alarm light flashing on the roof. It swept past and Maltravers accelerated after it. As he skidded to a halt on the gravel drive of Carwelton Hall, two policemen were at the top of the front steps, one crouched at the letterbox. He straightened as Maltravers and Charlotte Quinn dashed up to them. Balloon fat and pencil thin, the policemen had an irresistible resemblance to Laurel and Hardy, an insane touch of comic farce.

‘Mrs Quinn?’ the fat one asked. Charlotte nodded. ‘I can see him. We’ll never force this door though. Is there any other way in?’

‘No. I tried the back but it’s locked.’

‘It’s a window then.’

He ran down the steps and took a hand axe from the car boot. The front windows were set several feet off the ground and Laurel had to climb on Hardy’s shoulders to smash the pane and reach for the catch before scrambling inside. Seconds later the front door opened. Maltravers held Charlotte Quinn’s arm as they followed the second policeman into the house. She waited with him just inside the front door as the officers knelt by Charles Carrington on the far side of the hall. He was lying face upwards in the doorway of the library, head and shoulders on the floor.

‘I’m afraid he’s dead.’ The fat one laid down Carrington’s wrist. ‘An ambulance is on its way. Can you come with me please?’

Still supporting Charlotte Quinn, rigid with shock, Maltravers followed him into the lounge. The other policeman had returned to the car.

‘Is it all right if I give this lady a drink?’ Maltravers asked. ‘I know where it’s kept.’

The officer nodded and Maltravers went to the cabinet. ‘Here you are,’ he said gently and she sipped obediently, then sat with the glass clenched between white-knuckled hands on the tweed skirt of her suit.

‘Mrs Quinn’s in no state to talk at the moment,’ Maltravers said. ‘I’ll tell what little I can though.’

‘First of all, I’d like to know who you are, sir.’

‘My name’s Augustus Maltravers and Mrs Quinn called you from the cottage of friends of mine where I’m staying. She said Mr Carrington had arranged to meet her here this afternoon but when she arrived she saw him through the letterbox. I came back with her.’

‘Does Mr Carrington have any family?’

‘Only his wife as far as I know,’ Maltravers replied. ‘However, I saw him first thing this morning and he mentioned that she was spending the day shopping in Manchester. He didn’t say when he expected her back.’

‘Thank you, sir. My colleague is calling the duty inspector who will inform the CID. They will want statements from you both. For the time being, I must ask you to remain in this room and one of us must stay with you.’

‘Of course.’ Maltravers sat next to Charlotte Quinn. She squeezed his hand absently as he took hold of hers, but did not look at him or speak. Maltravers saw an ambulance arrive outside and then two more cars pulled into the drive. There were voices in the hall before another man entered the lounge, tall and broad with a tough, penetrating face beneath a helmet of dove grey, almost white, hair.

‘Good-afternoon,’ he said. ‘Detective Sergeant Donald Moore, Cumbria CID. I’ve been told what’s happened and I’d like to speak to you first, madam. Will you please go with this officer, sir?’

Maltravers smiled encouragingly at Charlotte, then was taken to the dining-room across the hall. Instinctively he looked at the body again, blood hideously splashed across the chest. Carrington’s arms were raised above his head and the two ambulance men were like silent witnesses at a crucifixion. After about fifteen minutes Moore joined him and he repeated his brief story.

‘We’ll need full statements at the station, sir,’ the sergeant said when he had finished. ‘But there’s one point you may be able to help us with now. Do you know what Mr Carrington kept in the library safe?’

‘The safe?’ Maltravers frowned. ‘He…just a minute! Are you saying that…?’

‘I’m not saying anything, sir,’ Moore interrupted. ‘Can you tell me anything about the safe and its contents?’

Maltravers paused, analysing the question. ‘You’ve just told me an awful lot. That safe contained some books, but not any old books. In fact I doubt if there’s anything in this entire house more valuable.’ He looked at Moore enquiringly. ‘But they’re not there now are they? And that means Charles Carrington was murdered.’

‘I can’t comment on that, sir. Tell me about these books.’

As Maltravers and Charlotte Quinn were taken to Kendal police station, Carwelton Hall was filling with urgent activity, the blinding glare of a photographer’s flashlight, increasing numbers of police swarming through the house, methodically beginning their search, combing the floor of the library, dusting for fingerprints. A man with an open black bag beside him was kneeling by Carrington’s body, holding dead lips around a clinical thermometer.

‘Are you all right?’ Maltravers asked quietly as the police car pulled away. Charlotte nodded.

‘Just about.’ Her voice was toneless. ‘He’s been murdered hasn’t he?’

Maltravers could almost feel the policeman in the front passenger seat listening.

‘I’m afraid it looks that way,’ he replied.

They remained silent for the short journey then were taken into separate interview rooms. Maltravers explained about the Conan Doyle books and how he knew that Carrington had kept them in the safe. From the questions he was asked, he pieced together a certain amount of information. No, he did not know if Charles Carrington had owned a shotgun; that took care of the weapon. Yes, he could remember who else had been in the library after the dinner party when Carrington had showed him a copy of the book although, apart from Malcolm Stapleton, they had been strangers. Douglas Lydden, who had a business in Kendal, the Reverend Morris and a man called Geoffrey Howard. However he was certain that other people knew of the existence of the books. They had been in Carrington’s family for a hundred years and there was no suggestion he made any secret about owning them.

‘When Mr Carrington opened the safe, did he mention what the combination was?’

‘The combination?’ Maltravers’s mind raced as the question triggered suggestions. ‘No, he just opened it.’

‘Could you see what the combination was from where you were standing?’

‘No, it was on the other side of the room.’

‘And was anyone next to Mr Carrington at the time? Or perhaps nearer than you were?’

Maltravers frowned as he tried to remember exactly where everybody had been standing, then he shook his head.

‘Morris was next to me and Malcolm and Howard were discussing some pictures on the wall near the fireplace. Lydden was looking at a book on the other side of the room.’ He paused. ‘You want to know if one of them could have seen the numbers, don’t you? That’s impossible. They’d have needed better eyesight than a hawk. I think I was the only one watching him, and all I could make out was that it was a combination lock.’

But of course, he told himself, you’re also telling me that the safe had not been forced, so somebody knew how to operate it—or made Carrington do it for them. But that meant…

‘Just a minute!’ He stared at Moore in bewilderment. ‘You’re saying the safe had been opened by somebody aren’t you? I’m sorry, sergeant, but that’s impossible.’

‘I’m afraid it’s been done, so it can’t have been.’

‘Well it is,’ Maltravers replied bluntly. ‘Unless you can explain this. Charles Carrington told me he was the only person who knew the combination for that safe and there was no reason why he should lie about that. And the safe has a duress signal fitted—you must know how they work.’

‘Naturally.’ Moore replied cautiously. ‘What do you know about them?’

‘It’s an alarm system where if someone forces you to open your safe, you add one number to the combination. The safe opens all right, but the moment you put in the extra number, a bell rings at a central control. There’s no sound in the house of course. The centre immediately calls the police and can tell them exactly where someone is in trouble. It’s very sophisticated. Did you receive such a call?’

‘I’d have to check, but I’m not aware of it,’ Moore acknowledged.

‘Then you see what it means. If someone had experimented with the dial hoping to stumble across the right combination—and they’d only have one chance in a hundred million of success—the alarm would also go off. On the other hand, Charles would have put in the special number if he was being made to open it. Either way, the balloon goes up.’

‘Perhaps he didn’t add the number.’

‘Oh, come on,’ Maltravers said disparagingly. ‘There’s no point in having a system like that if you don’t use it.’

Moore looked thoughtful for a moment. ‘Would you excuse me, please?’

He left the interview room and Maltravers began to try and think of answers. The alarm would operate down a telephone line and could be cut off by severing the wire—but the police would discover that. Was the system simply out of order? Possible, but that could also be checked. Then would Carrington have told him he was the only one who knew the combination when there was someone else? Maltravers could see no reason to believe that. He was still wrestling with it when Moore returned.

‘We received no alarm call,’ he admitted. ‘We’ll examine the safe, but unless the system’s faulty or was cut off, I have to agree with you. So how was it done?’

‘Don’t ask me. But I’ll be fascinated to learn the answer.’

An hour later he signed his statement and was told he could leave; his car had been brought from Carwelton Hall to the police station. Charlotte Quinn was waiting for him in the foyer.

‘They told me you wouldn’t be long,’ she said. ‘Will you come back to the flat with me? I don’t want to be alone at the moment.’

‘Why don’t you come with me to Brook Cottage?’ he suggested. ‘I must tell Malcolm and Lucinda what’s happened and they’ll want to see you. Anyway your car’s still there.’

‘Of course it is. I’d forgotten.’

She sounded weary, as though the simple practicalities of collecting her car were too much to deal with. Maltravers took her arm as they walked to the police station car-park and could feel her trembling. As they drove out of Kendal across the River Kent towards Attwater, she sat with her head bowed, unconsciously folding and opening a handkerchief on her lap. When Maltravers reached across and pressed her hand comfortingly, she looked away and said nothing. Lucinda and Malcolm appeared out of the cottage as they arrived.

‘We’ve heard.’ Even in the darkness, Maltravers could see she had been weeping. ‘The reporter doing police calls at the Chronicle picked it up and Malcolm rang me at school. I tried to call both of you, but there was no reply and we guessed you must know something about it when we found Charlotte’s car here.’

She walked over to Charlotte Quinn and hugged her. ‘I’m so very, very sorry.’ She held her arm around the other woman’s shoulders as she led her into Brook Cottage and through to a chair in the living-room.

While they listened to Maltravers relate the events of the afternoon, Lucinda made constant quiet gestures towards Charlotte, touching her gently from time to time, consoling with sympathetic, concerned smiles. As he lit a cigarette, Maltravers noticed that his hands were shaking.

‘That’s all we know. But there are a few things I’ve worked out from questions they asked me. Charles was killed with a shotgun and there is an unanswerable problem about how the safe was opened.’ He explained about the duress signal and the combination. ‘And something else has occurred to me. If the murderer meant to force Charles to open the safe, not knowing about the alarm, how did they know he was due home early instead of whatever time he usually arrives in the evening?’

‘How did you know?’ asked Malcolm.

‘Because Charles mentioned it this morning when he dropped off the Sherlock Holmes manuscript. That’s when he said Jennifer was spending the day in Manchester.’

‘And did she?’ It was the first time Charlotte Quinn had spoken since they entered the cottage. The rest of them looked uncomfortable.

‘What do you mean, Charlotte?’ Lucinda asked cautiously. ‘She would have known Charles was coming back in the afternoon,’ she replied. ‘She could have been there.’

‘That’s a big conclusion to jump to,’ Maltravers said quietly. ‘Isn’t it just?’

An echoing silence followed the remark, then Lucinda stood up.

‘I’m going to start supper. Can you give me a hand, dear?’ Charlotte held Maltravers’s gaze defiantly as Malcolm went with his wife into the kitchen.

‘And would it really make it any better if it was her?’ he asked.

She looked away into the fire for a long time. Searing hatred was smothering the grief etched in her face as she turned away from the flames.

‘In some ways it would. Except that they won’t hang the bitch.’

Her eyes went back to the fire to prevent him seeing anything more that was in them. Since calling Charles Carrington, she had been dragged through a swirling rack of emotions; apprehension at finally telling him, relief and rushing renewed hope at his wanting to see her, horror and anguish at the sight of his body. While she had been waiting for Maltravers at the police station, she was aware that something had happened to her. She could not yet identify the sensation now appearing in the dark, convulsive pit of her feelings, but when her numbness and paralysis began to fade she would know it and face it and obey it.

Jennifer Carrington started as she saw the police car outside Carwelton Hall. She stopped behind it and a policewoman got out and walked up to her car as she wound down the window anxiously.

‘Mrs Carrington? I’m sorry, but I’m afraid there’s been an accident.’

‘An accident?’ She opened the door, leaving the engine running. ‘What’s happened?’

‘One of my colleagues inside will tell you.’

Confused thoughts tumbled through her mind as she followed the policewoman to the front door, which had been opened while they had been talking. A man was standing in the light; like the police, he should not have been there.

‘Dr Bryant?’ She shook her head in confusion. ‘What’s happened?’

‘Come in please, Jennifer.’ Bryant led her into the lounge then sat beside her on the settee. Two other men were in the room and she stared at all of them in confusion. ‘These gentlemen are from the police and have asked me to be here because I have some bad news. I’m dreadfully sorry, but Charles is dead…all right, I’ve got her!’

Jennifer Carrington slumped into his arms with a moan as the policewoman leapt forward.

‘Bring my bag,’ Bryant said as he supported her. ‘On the table.’

The policewoman held Jennifer Carrington while he filled a hypodermic from a small phial of colourless liquid.

‘This won’t knock her out, but it will calm her.’ He pumped the syringe to remove any air. ‘She’ll be able to answer your questions. Give me her arm.’

He pushed up the wide coat sleeve and was about to make the injection when Jennifer Carrington’s eyelids fluttered and she straightened up.

‘It’s all right, I…’ She pulled her arm away. The pretence of fainting had given her time to think, but she did not want any sort of drug in her. She needed to keep her mind clear while she discovered exactly what had gone wrong.

‘I’m sorry. Just a moment.’ She breathed very deeply. ‘That’s better. I don’t need anything. Just…just tell me what’s happened.’

‘Mr Carrington was found dead this afternoon, madam. It appears he was murdered. We were told you were spending the day in Manchester and had no means of contacting you. We’re sorry to have to question you at a time like this, but this is a very urgent matter.’

‘Yes,’ she said hesitantly. ‘Yes, of course. But who found him?’

‘A Mrs Quinn. She called us immediately.’

‘Charlotte?’ New, urgent questions raced through Jennifer Carrington’s brain. ‘But what was she doing here? What time was this?’

‘Mrs Quinn called us shortly after four-fifteen. She had come here to meet your husband.’

Why? Jennifer Carrington was about to ask more then decided too many questions might be dangerous. She would have to be very careful.

‘I’ll try to help you,’ she said. ‘But can I have a drink please?’

By the time Bryant had poured it for her, she had prepared herself. She answered calmly as one officer asked questions while the other took notes. She had last seen her husband shortly before half past seven when he had left for the office and she had set off for Manchester herself half an hour later. Everything had been normal. He had been due back in the afternoon to change for a Masonic lodge meeting in Carlisle. His secretary would know what time he left the office and it would have taken him about half an hour to reach Attwater. Then the police asked about the safe in the library.

‘The safe?’ She looked puzzled. ‘What’s the matter with it?’

‘The safe was empty when we found your husband’s body, Mrs Carrington. We believe the murderer must have stolen the contents.’

They were approaching the moment Jennifer Carrington had rehearsed over and over again, but now the script had been altered. She took another sip from her glass, trying to decide how to play the new scenario. She had to make some comment about the safe.

‘Charles kept some very valuable books in there,’ she said.

‘Who knew about them?’

‘All sorts of people.’ Jennifer Carrington shrugged and looked helpless. ‘You knew didn’t you, Dr Bryant? About the Sherlock Holmes books? Lots of our friends did. Charles’s partner and…there must be others. I can’t tell you them all.’

‘We’ll need to know everyone you can remember Mrs Carrington. Nothing else appears to have been taken, although we’ll need your assistance to confirm that. Perhaps if you could come…’

The CID man stopped as Jennifer Carrington suddenly cried out; she had decided it was too risky trying to change her story at the last minute. This had to come out now as planned.

‘No!’ Bryant, who was still sitting next to her, jumped as she screamed, dropping her glass and leaping to her feet. He stood up and took hold of her arm, but she shook him off violently. ‘No, he can’t have! I never thought he…oh, God!’

The policemen looked at each other sharply as she started to cry hysterically. A pool of whisky from the lead crystal tumbler at her feet seeped into the carpet. Bryant and the policewoman made her sit down again. The CID officers waited silently.

‘Who can’t have what, Mrs Carrington?’ one of them asked finally.

There was no reply as she sat with her head lowered; she appeared numbed, but she found that her mind was now working with surprising clarity. Bryant put his hand under her chin and raised it.

‘Jennifer, you must tell them everything you can,’ he said. ‘You know something don’t you? What is it?’

Her face was guilty as she turned to the police again.

‘I’ve been having an affair,’ she said tonelessly. ‘With…with a man called Duggie Lydden. And he once talked about stealing those books.’

‘When was this?’

‘I’m not sure…a few weeks ago, perhaps more.’

‘Do you know if this person owns a shotgun?’

‘A shotgun? Do you mean…?’ She looked appalled. ‘I’m not sure, but…yes I think he does.’

‘And how did Mr Lydden plan to steal the books?’

She bowed her head again and began to turn the engagement-ring on her finger abstractedly. Then she reached down and picked up the fallen glass, putting it on the occasional table beside her.

‘I’m not sure he actually planned it, he just talked about it. He owes my husband money and I know he was having difficulty keeping up the repayments. He’d said things were getting very serious and…’ She hesitated. ‘I’m sorry, perhaps I’m wrong. I told him at the time not to be so stupid. But when you said you wanted me to tell you everybody who knew about the books, I suddenly remembered…I could be dreadfully wrong…I thought he was just joking. He must have been.’

‘We’ll have to talk to him. Can you give us his address? And in the circumstances I must ask you to accompany us to the police station so that…no, I’m sorry doctor, Mrs Carrington seems able to give us a statement. You may come as well if you wish.’

Bryant took her in his car, one of the CID men sitting in the back. She had worked out the dangers of the new situation, but could do nothing about it. She had to blame Duggie Lydden. After she had repeated it in her statement, despite Bryant’s protests, the police said she would have to remain in custody until they made further enquiries. As a policewoman stood by the door, Jennifer Carrington sat in an interview room, sipping a cup of tea impassively. One thing had gone wrong, but with everything else that had been done it could still work.

‘Mr Douglas Lydden? My name is Detective Sergeant Donald Moore from Cumbria CID and these are two of my colleagues. We are investigating a serious offence earlier this evening and wish to talk to you about it.’

Lydden scowled as he looked at the large and forbidding plainclothes men on his front step, shadowy and menacing against the silver-blue neon light of the lamppost opposite. It was nearly half past eleven and he had just returned from a pub. Out of habit, he had made a pass at the barmaid and had been angrily warned off by her boyfriend who he had not realised was standing at the other end of the bar. It had been a humiliating end to a bad day.

‘Serious offence?’ His voice slurred. ‘What’s it got to do with me?’

‘We would prefer to discuss that inside if you don’t mind, sir.’ Moore’s impassive, patient official courtesy was very calm, but carried tangible irresistibility.

‘And if I do mind? Do you know what bloody time it is?’

‘We’re fully aware of that, sir. I must advise you that we have a warrant to search these premises.’

‘A warrant?’ Lydden looked alarmed. ‘I want my solicitor here.’

‘Perhaps we can come in while you call him.’

For a moment, Lydden appeared ready to argue then stalked back into the house without a word, leaving the door open. When the police entered the front room, he was at the telephone. He swore as he misdialled, then tried again.

‘Jack? Duggie Lydden. I’ve got the bloody police here and they say they’ve got a search warrant. Get over here…I don’t give a shit if you’re in bed, I want you here now!’

The solicitor arrived after quarter of an hour and asked to see the warrant then advised Lydden to cooperate. Before the search began, Moore asked a question.

‘Do you own a shotgun, sir?’

Lydden looked defensive. ‘What if I do?’

‘We’d like to see it, please.’

Lydden glanced at his solicitor who nodded, then he went into the hall and opened the door of a cupboard under the stairs. He stepped inside and almost immediately came out again.

‘It’s not there.’ He seemed surprised. ‘Someone must have stolen it.’

‘Under the conditions of your firearms certificate, you are required to keep a shotgun in a secure place,’ Moore commented. There was no lock on the cupboard door. ‘Has there been a break-in at this house to your knowledge? No? Very well. When did you last see the weapon?’

Lydden shook his head, clearing muddled thoughts. ‘About a week ago I think. It’s usually there with the cartridges.’

‘So you keep both gun and ammunition together in an insecure place?’ Moore challenged mildly. ‘That is another offence.’

‘Sergeant, aren’t you being a little heavy-handed?’ the solicitor objected. ‘Three of you arriving at this time of night for a minor breach of firearms regulations? Really.’

‘It’s not a minor breach, but that’s not why we’re here,’ Moore corrected. ‘We are now going to search this house.’

At one o’clock in the morning, Moore told Lydden he was under arrest and cautioned him. In the loft the police had found a case containing the Sherlock Holmes books and the letters about them which Charles Carrington had also kept in the safe. After Lydden had given a statement about his movements during the day, the police questioned Jennifer Carrington again. Then both of them were held in custody.

Spread on the invisible grapevine of a close community, news of the death of Charles Carrington raced electrically through Kendal and its surrounding villages the next morning. At Brook Cottage the telephone constantly rang with people excitedly asking Lucinda if she had heard, then almost invariably adding comments of their own. One said it was well known that Charles Carrington had received threats on his life, although she had not the slightest idea who had made them or for what reason. Another insisted—with a distinct air of satisfaction—that Jennifer had already been charged. Three different men were confidently named as the killer; one was even said to have made a full confession. Conflicting explanations involved various combinations of murderers and death by gunshot, knife or strangulation. Maltravers found a certain black humour in it all.

The first definite information came when Malcolm rang with details from a police press conference.

‘They’ve confirmed everything we know,’ he told Maltravers. ‘And someone is helping with enquiries. You know the usual line.’

‘Are they saying who it is?’

‘No, but you can’t keep something like that quiet in Kendal. The word is that it’s Duggie Lydden. Pick the bones out of that.’

‘Duggie Lydden? Christ.’ Maltravers felt disgust. He had hardly known Charles Carrington, but was appalled that someone could have murdered him. That the killer might turn out to be his wife’s lover he found particularly repulsive, a civilised man’s violent death besmirched by an additional sordidness. ‘And what about Jennifer?’

‘Mrs Carrington is also continuing to assist the Cumbria CID with their investigation. And I quote. She’s in police custody.’

‘Were they in it together then?’

‘They’ve pulled them both in quickly enough. No charges yet though.’

Maltravers thought for a moment. ‘Does Charlotte know all this?’

‘I imagine so. Just about everybody else seems to,’ said Malcolm. ‘Hell, she was bitter enough when she left us last night. She’ll go berserk if it turns out that Jennifer really was in it with him. I’ll keep you posted if I hear anything else.’

Lucinda looked questioningly as Maltravers rang off, then dismay spread across her face as he told her.

‘Duggie Lydden! God, I knew he was a bastard, but…’ She shook her head as if trying to dispel something revolting. ‘And Jennifer as well!’

‘We don’t know anything for certain,’ Maltravers pointed out. ‘The police haven’t charged either of them yet…but murder is a curiously domestic crime. Most victims are close relatives of their killers.’

‘God, it’s sick!’ Lucinda said bitterly. Maltravers watched her walk into the kitchen and start to clear the breakfast things. Suddenly she raised a plate above her head, smashing it down on to the edge of the sink with a cry, then stared at the broken pieces at her feet.

‘Just leave me alone, Gus.’ Without looking at him, she held her hand out warningly as he moved towards her from the living-room. ‘I’ll be all right. I just don’t like hating people this much.’

Unshaven and haggard from a pounding hangover and lack of sleep, Duggie Lydden looked resentfully at Detective Chief Superintendent Brian Lambert across the plastic top of a table in the interview room at Kendal police station. The officer in charge of the murder enquiry was a Falstaffian figure, fingers like sausages and a concertina of jowls rippling below his chin. But his voluminous, clumsy physique swathed in a brown suit containing enough material for a modest tent, smothered the fact that his mind could move as fast as the whippets he bred. Disproportionately small eyes, sharp as shreds of coal, flashed swiftly through two sheets of paper with Lydden’s signature at the bottom. Wary and attentive, Lydden’s solicitor sat at one end of the table across which the other two men faced each other. Lambert put the papers down.

‘Just to go over your statement again, Mr Lydden.’ His voice was like a great engine rumbling in the hollows of a tunnel. ‘You went to Carwelton Hall shortly after one o’clock yesterday afternoon where Mrs Carrington was waiting for you. You went to bed with her then left about an hour later, after which you returned to your shop in Stricklandgate and spent the rest of the afternoon stocktaking. Is that correct?’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you wish to add to that statement or amend it in any way?’

‘No.’

Lambert’s wooden chair creaked alarmingly, legs bowing outwards as he leaned back, dropping the statement on the table and rubbing a thumb fat as an egg against the side of his nose.

‘Mrs Carrington has informed us that she left Carwelton Hall early yesterday morning, spent the entire day shopping in Manchester and did not return until the evening, by which time the police were at the house,’ he said blandly. The solicitor glanced sharply at his client. ‘Do you have any explanation as to why she should tell us that?’

‘She’s lying.’

‘One of you certainly is,’ Lambert commented impassively. ‘Have you yet remembered any witnesses to your movements during the afternoon, particularly between about three forty-five and a quarter past four?’

Lydden shook his head. ‘No. But somebody could have seen my car in the yard behind the shop.’

‘Enquiries are continuing, but so far we’ve found nobody who can vouch for your statement,’ Lambert told him. ‘However, I should advise you that Mrs Carrington has been able to produce certain evidence to corroborate her story and, from what we have been able to ascertain at this stage, it appears to be correct.’

Lydden made no response, but his solicitor shuffled uncomfortably in his seat.

‘And do you now have any explanation for…’ Lambert’s body eased forward with the menace of a toppling rock and he picked up the papers again, consulting them briefly and unnecessarily, ‘…the discovery in your house of ten volumes of a book by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and other documents, known to have been the property of Mr Charles Carrington?’ Deceptively bland, pinprick eyes questioned beneath elevated eyebrows.

‘I’ve told you already. I don’t know how they got there.’

‘And you still have no idea where your shotgun is?’

‘The last time I saw it, it was in the cupboard. It must have been stolen.’

Lambert regarded him in silence for a long time before Lydden’s eyes dropped to the table again.

‘Mr Lydden, you could save everybody a great deal of time if…’ Lambert began with exaggerated patience. Lydden exploded into anger.

‘I’ve got nothing more to say! I’ve told you the bloody truth and she’s lying! Now either fucking well charge me or let me out of here!’

The superintendent paused, then leaned heavily on the table top and heaved himself up, collecting the papers as he did so. More than six feet four inches tall, it was as awe-inspiring as seeing a whale slowly raising its mass out of the sea.

‘Your solicitor will confirm that the police have a right to hold a suspect for questioning, initially for up to twenty-four hours, Mr Lydden,’ he said. ‘If necessary we can request a further period of police detention. Our enquiries are continuing. I think it will be best if you discuss your situation further with your lawyer.’

The bleak room seemed suddenly empty as he walked out and went to the office set up for his use, where Moore was waiting with a fax report.

‘From Manchester police, sir,’ he said. ‘Further support for Mrs Carrington’s account of her movements yesterday.’

Lambert took the document and the great wall of his face creased into a humourless smile as he read it.

‘If it goes on at this rate, we may have to let that lady go soon,’ he remarked. ‘She looks well in the clear. What have forensic got?’

‘Lydden’s are the only fingerprints on the suitcase,’ Moore replied. ‘And there are only his handprints on the loft. It’s the standard square of wood in the ceiling of the landing that you have to push up.’

‘What about on the books?’ Lambert asked.

‘Most have no prints at all,’ Moore said. ‘But Mrs Carrington says they were hardly ever taken out of the safe. We’ve only found the victim’s on two of them. Carrington’s are also the only prints on the safe door, but there’s evidence of Lydden’s presence in various parts of the house, including the library. Doesn’t prove anything of course. He was there the other evening for dinner and Mrs Carrington is making no secret of the fact he was her boyfriend. We knew that from Mrs Quinn’s statement before she admitted it herself.’

Lambert’s whole face trembled like a jelly as he shook his head.

‘And still nothing to back up Lydden’s story about being in his shop all afternoon? No? Well perhaps he’ll change it for us, particularly if we can find that shotgun. Any luck so far?’

‘No, sir. We’re still searching his house, but it could be anywhere.’

‘And what about this question of how the safe was opened?’

‘We’ve had the manufacturers check the alarm system and it’s working normally,’ Moore replied. ‘We’ve questioned Mrs Carrington, but it seems certain she didn’t know the combination. Carrington’s partner has been able to confirm that. But somebody opened it, because there’s no way it was forced.’

Lambert’s tiny eyes almost disappeared as the lids squeezed about them. ‘We’ve got to sort that somehow. Lydden’s hot favourite at the moment, but a defence lawyer could drive a bloody coach and horses through a hole like that. See what you come up with.’

As Moore left, Lambert lowered his bulk into a chair then read through all the evidence again. The forensic report said Carrington had died instantly and more than a hundred and thirty pellets had been extracted from his body during the post mortem; others had been picked out of the frame of the library door and the wall of the hall. In her statement, Jennifer Carrington insisted she had refused to have anything to do with Lydden’s suggestion to steal the books and had forgotten all about it, convinced he had not been serious.

Thoughtfully plucking at the thick ripples of flesh below his chin, Lambert considered it all. Finding the shotgun could be a critical factor in forcing Lydden to abandon his version of events with its so far unsupported alibi. That was a straightforward matter of searching. But the safe combination…? Lambert didn’t like that. He was not greatly concerned about Lydden sticking to his story at this stage; he had known villains persist in swearing black was white all the way to the judge sending them down for life. But the apparently impossible could plant reasonable doubts in the mind of a jury. It would solve a lot of problems if Lydden simply made a full confession and explained the currently inexplicable. The police’s initial natural suspicion that Jennifer Carrington could have been involved was fading as evidence to prove she had been in Manchester all day was becoming very persuasive.

Lucinda was teaching again that afternoon and Maltravers was alone in Brook Cottage when Charlotte Quinn rang.

‘Have you heard?’ she asked. ‘About Duggie and her?’

‘A certain amount,’ he replied cautiously. ‘Although we’re still waiting to see if Malcolm finds out anything more through the paper.’

‘Well, it’s obvious, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘She must be behind it all. And he’s such an idiot that he let her go to Manchester for the day so she’d be in the clear.’

‘I’m not sure I follow you.’

‘Can’t you see? She must have told him he could share her alibi, that she’d tell the police he was with her. Now she’s double-crossed him. She’ll pretend she knew nothing about it and Duggie won’t be able to prove she did. She’ll have made sure of all the witnesses she needs to prove she was miles away. Christ, she’s been clever.’

‘But if that had been their plan, the police would have asked all sorts of questions and the possibility they could have been giving each other an alibi would have been obvious,’ Maltravers argued.

‘Jennifer’s intelligent enough to realise that, but she could have persuaded Duggie it would work. You don’t know how stupid that man is.’

‘Then what about that safe? Do you think Charles would have told me he was the only person who knew the combination if it wasn’t true?’

‘No,’ she agreed reluctantly. ‘But the police will find out how he did it eventually. I just pray they can prove she was in it as well.’

‘You want that a lot, don’t you?’

‘You don’t know how much. Do you blame me?’

Charlotte Quinn slammed the phone down, angrily biting her lips to stop herself crying again. She had shed too many tears for too long for Charles and where had it got her? Now, as something began to crawl out of the pit inside her and identify itself, she heard its increasing, insistent voice temptingly whispering the only absolution.

At six o’clock that evening Maltravers and Lucinda arrived at Kendal police station and asked the desk sergeant if they could talk to someone investigating the murder. They had finally remembered seeing Duggie Lydden’s car while they were on the Treadle the previous lunchtime.

‘I’m sorry we haven’t come forward sooner,’ Maltravers apologised to the detective constable in the interview room. ‘With everything else, it went out of our minds. But we understand you are holding a Mr Douglas Lydden in connection with the death of Charles Carrington.’

The officer looked at him sharply. ‘How do you know that, sir?’

‘My husband is editor of the Cumbrian Chronicle,’ Lucinda explained. ‘He was told by one of their contacts. Anyway, everybody in Kendal knows.’

‘Very well.’ The acknowledgement was guarded. ‘Mr Lydden is assisting us with our enquiries. What information do you have?’

When Lucinda had explained, he questioned her closely about the time and if she was certain it had been Lydden’s car.

‘Absolutely,’ she insisted. ‘Well, put it this way, nobody else I know of in this area has one like it. It could have been a stranger passing through, but it would have been a great coincidence.’

‘And you saw the vehicle too, sir?’ the officer asked Maltravers.

‘I saw a car which Mrs Stapleton identified for me,’ he corrected. ‘However, I can only distinguish between a Rolls-Royce and a Reliant by counting the wheels, and even then I have to remember which of them only has three. But Mrs Stapleton was quite certain.’

‘Then I don’t think we need bother with a statement from you, sir.’ The policeman sounded condescending, as though ignorance about car identification indicated some unfortunate mental short-coming. ‘Mrs Stapleton can include in hers the fact that you were together.’

They left with a warning that the police might wish to call them as witnesses at some future court hearing, but when Lucinda’s statement was taken to Lambert he was dismissive. It only confirmed Lydden had been in the neighbourhood of Carwelton Hall at lunchtime on the day of the murder; as he did not deny that—although he still insisted Jennifer Carrington had been there as well—eyewitnesses were academic, unless they had seen him leave and return to his shop and remain there.

‘I expected a better reaction to what you told them,’ Maltravers remarked as he turned up the lane to the cottage. ‘What you saw could be important. Unless of course they’ve got a confession out of Lydden.’

‘Do you really think he could have done it?’ she asked.

‘I just find it…I’m not sure.’ Maltravers looked dubious. ‘I knocked down Charlotte’s theory about him and Jennifer being in it together and I’m still positive she’s wrong. But there are still things that don’t make sense, apart from the safe business. For instance, why would Lydden…?’

‘Good God!’ Lucinda jumped as they reached Brook Cottage and the reflection of Maltravers’s headlights glittered off a scarlet Fiesta parked by the green. ‘That’s Jennifer’s! What’s she doing here?’

‘We’re about to find out,’ said Maltravers. ‘But the widow Carrington doesn’t appear to be helping with police enquiries anymore.’

‘Charlotte found his body at four fifteen!’

The sentence had been waiting to leap out of Jennifer Carrington as her fingers nervously twisted the coiled ivory flex of the telephone in Carwelton Hall, waiting for an answer. After her release on police bail, she had extracted more information from her solicitor as he drove her home.

‘What!’ The man’s voice shouted down the line at her. ‘What was she doing there?’

‘God knows. She might even have seen you.’

‘No, there was nobody about, but…you know what it means?’

‘Of course I do! I’ve been thinking about nothing else. The police have only just let me go.’

‘What about Lydden?’

‘They’re still holding him, but he hasn’t been charged yet. My solicitor told me he’d heard the police found the books all right. But what if he manages to come up with an alibi?’

‘He can’t have done so far…calm down.’ He could hear her sobbing. ‘It’s working. When can you have the books back?’

‘Not yet, but if they charge him they apparently might be prepared to let them go.’

‘Well they should find the gun eventually, which ought to be enough for them. Once you get the books you can bring out the safe thing. We just carry on the way we planned.’

‘Come here,’ she pleaded.

‘Not at the moment, but I’ll be there soon.’

‘But I can’t stand it on my own!’

‘Then go and see somebody.’ He sounded impatient. ‘Act naturally. People will expect you to want to talk about it. Tell them about Lydden. The more people who think he’s guilty the better. Call me tomorrow.’

He rang off abruptly because he wanted to think, not listen to Jennifer’s anxiety. Had Charlotte Quinn seen him? No, because she would have certainly told the police if she had. But her inexplicable arrival could prove disastrous. If the police would just charge Lydden and release those books…then he could decide what to do.

As Lucinda and Maltravers entered the room, Jennifer Carrington was sitting on a high-backed wooden chair by the fire, an untouched drink on the table beside her. Face pinched and without make-up, brazen hair hastily and carelessly brushed, arms clasped protectively in front of her, she looked like a frightened child.

‘Hello.’ Her voice was thin and brittle. ‘I’m sorry, but I had to come somewhere and you were the only people I could think of. I hope you don’t mind. Malcolm said it was all right.’

‘When did the police release you?’ Maltravers asked.

‘A couple of hours ago. I went back to Carwelton Hall because I had nowhere else to go. I’ve got friends in Manchester, but I couldn’t face driving there after what’s happened. It was all right at first, but then I turned the Ansaphone on.’ She started to cry.

‘Some people have been jumping to conclusions,’ Malcolm explained. ‘Jennifer’s told me that one even said that she now had everything she wanted. They didn’t leave their name.’

The girl raised her head pleadingly to Lucinda, face wet with tears. ‘They were all so cruel! I had to get out. You didn’t know Charles before I met him and I thought…’ She took hold of the arms of the chair as if to stand up. ‘I shouldn’t have come. Perhaps you…’

‘No, it’s all right,’ Lucinda interrupted firmly. ‘We’re not going to throw you out. You can tell us what’s happened if you want to.’

Lucinda’s face was expressionless as she sat down next to Malcolm. Maltravers remembered the incident in the kitchen when she had smashed the plate after hearing that the police were holding Jennifer and Lydden. Her feelings then would not be instantly shaken off.

‘Gus and I would like a drink as well, please,’ she said and Malcolm went to the cupboard in the wall.

‘How are you feeling?’ Maltravers asked.

‘Fairly bloody.’ Jennifer Carrington gave a sickly smile. ‘You know the police wouldn’t let me go at first, don’t you? They were all right about it and my solicitor was there, but they kept asking questions and I became confused. Then they released me, although I must let them know where I am.’

‘But are they still holding Duggie Lydden?’

There was a sudden flash of anger. ‘God, I hope they are! After what he’s done!’

‘You think he killed Charles?’

‘There’s no other explanation.’ For a moment she stared into the fire before looking directly at Malcolm and Lucinda. ‘Can I get one thing straight? If it offends you, I’ll go, but I want it out in the open right from the start. Duggie and I were having an affair.’

She looked defiant, as if expecting some reaction of offence.

‘Jennifer, we’ve known that for a long time,’ Malcolm told her.

‘What?’ She sighed. ‘And I thought we’d kept it secret.’

She took a sip from her glass, then continued with controlled calm.

‘I’m not going to apologise for what I did, even after what’s happened. You know how much older Charles was and…well our physical relationship wasn’t enough for me.’ She looked at Lucinda. ‘You’ll understand. I was frustrated. I loved Charles but I needed…all right, I needed sex.’

Lucinda nodded noncommittally. Jennifer Carrington dropped her eyes. There was a touch of bravado as she continued.

‘Anyway, I did it and I don’t care what anyone thinks because it didn’t mean anything. I knew there would be no emotional involvement with Duggie. I tried to be discreet, although if you knew perhaps I wasn’t very good at it. That was all there was to it, but I never dreamed where it would lead to. Dear God, I didn’t.’

‘Let me tell you what we know,’ Maltravers interrupted. ‘Charles called here early yesterday morning to drop off the Conan Doyle photocopy and said you were spending the day in Manchester. In the afternoon Charlotte went to meet him at Carwelton Hall and found his body. She came here to call the police and I went back with her.’

‘The police told me about Charlotte.’ Jennifer Carrington brushed a fleck of dust from her skirt. ‘Do you know why she was meeting Charles?’

‘He wanted her to for some reason,’ Maltravers replied evasively. ‘I didn’t ask her why at the time and it didn’t seem to matter later.’

He knew he could rely on Malcolm and Lucinda not to add anything as he continued. Jennifer Carrington was listening to him very closely.

‘Anyway, we were there when the police broke in and had to give statements. We gathered from what they asked us that the books had been stolen. Later we heard you and Duggie were in custody. That’s about it.’

Jennifer Carrington pushed back a stray strand of hair and sipped her drink again. She had not realised how involved Maltravers had been and was becoming aware that he was taking in everything she said; catching the flutter of leaping flames from the firelight, his very blue eyes never left her.

‘Malcolm was telling me why you’ve just been to the police,’ she said. ‘You saw Duggie driving towards Carwelton Hall.’

‘Lucinda saw what seemed to be his car on the main road from Kendal,’ Maltravers admitted. ‘But we can’t be certain where he was going.’

‘Oh, he’s not denying being at the Hall.’ She paused, as if sorting out what to say. ‘Let me tell you what’s happened. When I got home, the police told me about Charles and that the books had gone. I can’t remember everything, but I blurted out that Duggie must have done it.’

The blue eyes narrowed. ‘Why did you say that?’

‘Because he’d suggested it to me. He actually said I should take the books and go off with him and we could make a fortune.’

‘That’s ridiculous,’ Malcolm objected. ‘As soon as he tried to publish those books he’d have been arrested.’

‘Of course he would.’ Maltravers lit a cigarette. ‘But there are other possibilities. There are rich collectors who are not particular about how they obtain priceless items for their private pleasure. There would be no shortage of unscrupulous buyers for the Mona Lisa if it ever fell off the back of a lorry. On the other hand…’

He stopped, although he had not meant to continue. He wanted to let Jennifer Carrington guess at what he was thinking and see if anything came out. If she had been mixed up in the murder with Lydden, but had double-crossed him—as Charlotte had suggested—then the books could eventually become hers and there would be nothing to stop her publishing them. Certainly not conscience. There was also the matter of the safe combination; he wanted to find out how much she knew about that.

‘Anyway, what did you tell him?’ he added.

‘Not to be stupid.’ She looked at them appealingly. ‘He was changing the rules. I would never have done something like that to Charles! Oh, I know what you’re thinking. If I could sleep with another man then why should I have any feelings for my husband? Everyone gets so moralistic about it. But it wasn’t like that.’

‘Preaching morals is a risky business for most people,’ Maltravers commented. ‘Anyway, that’s irrelevant. The point is that when you heard the books were gone, you suspected Lydden. Have you any idea what happened when the police talked to him?’

‘Oh, yes and I don’t know whether to laugh or be sick,’ she replied resentfully. ‘When they came back to check his story with me, he’d said he had been to Carwelton Hall at lunchtime, met me there and we’d made love before he left at about two o’clock.’

‘But you were in Manchester all day.’ Maltravers stretched forward and flicked ash into the fire. ‘Weren’t you?’

Jennifer Carrington looked at him sharply as he sat down again. His face was blank and it was impossible to tell if there were any suspicions behind the casual question.

‘That’s what the police wanted to know and at first all I could think of was that I’d stopped for petrol at the garage in the village near the M6,’ she replied. ‘But even I realised that only proved I’d set off. Then they asked about what I’d done in Manchester and I showed them receipts for the things I’d bought. I mentioned I’d drawn some money from a cash dispenser at a bank on Deansgate and they wanted to see the receipt for that as well. Did you realise they have the time on as well as the date?’

‘I’d never noticed.’ Lucinda sounded surprised.

‘Well they do, and it showed ten twenty-nine,’ Jennifer Carrington continued. ‘I went straight from there to Sherratt & Hughes to buy a book for Charles and paid with my credit card, so the shop must have the copy of the Visa form I signed. After that I had coffee in St Ann’s Square and wandered round Debenhams on Market Street for a while before lunch.

‘In the afternoon, I did some more shopping in the city centre—I bought Charles a tie among other things—then drove to a shop in Timperley and spent quite a while there looking at dresses. After that I went to a friend’s house and I know it was six o’clock when I got there because she said something about arriving just in time for a drink. They gave me a meal and I left about half past eight.’

‘And people will remember you in the shops?’ The inflections of Maltravers’s voice made the question ambivalent.

‘I’m not sure about the bookshop or Debenhams because they were both busy. But they’d certainly remember in Timperley because they know me there and I chose a dress they’re altering for me.’

‘Well the cash dispenser and credit card receipt seem to take care of the morning,’ Maltravers acknowledged. ‘And Lydden is still saying he met you at Carwelton Hall at lunchtime? Why?’

‘God knows,’ she replied. ‘I told him I was going to Manchester yesterday. The only thing I can think is that he’s trying to drag me into it with him. He can be very vindictive. He might be assuming I’d not be able to prove where I was.’

‘How did he get into Carwelton Hall?’ Malcolm put in.

Jennifer Carrington looked remorseful. ‘I gave him a key after he let me have one to his place. That was when it was all a bit silly. I’d forgotten all about it. I’ve lost the one he gave me.’

She rubbed her hand down the front of her leg as though she was cold. ‘But there’s another thing. My solicitor learned that the police found Charles’s books hidden in Duggie’s house.’

‘And have you any idea how he’s explained that little difficulty?’ Maltravers asked. ‘Is he suggesting you put them there?’

‘Not as far as I know,’ she replied evenly. ‘But if he can tell the police what he’s told them about me meeting him at Carwelton Hall, he could come up with any crazy explanation…except for one thing. I can’t see how he opened the safe, because Charles was the only person who knew the combination and it…’

‘And it had a duress signal built in.’ She glanced at Maltravers in surprise as he completed the sentence. ‘Charles told me about that after dinner the other evening and I pointed it out to the police.’

‘So that’s why they asked me about it. They wanted to know if I knew the combination.’

‘And do you?’

His persistent questioning was beginning to make her nervous. Instead of simply accepting that she did not know, he turned it back on to her.

‘No, and I didn’t want to. If I have a couple of drinks I chatter on about anything and I knew how important those books were to Charles. I’d have felt dreadful if something had happened because of me. It came up when Stephen Campbell visited us once and his wife asked about it. Charles explained about the alarm and told her my feelings. He said nobody but himself knew the combination now, but it was in a sealed envelope with his will in a strongbox at the office which was only to be opened on his death.’

‘What did he mean by saying nobody knew it now?’ Maltravers asked.

‘It had always been known in the family, but Margaret—his first wife—and the children were dead. There was nobody else.’

‘Certainly not Duggie Lydden,’ Maltravers remarked. ‘So how was the safe opened? Campbell could have had access to the strongbox.’

‘Stephen?’ Jennifer Carrington sounded incredulous. ‘Even if he had he would never have looked in it. I used to be his secretary. He’s absolutely honest.’

Maltravers threw his cigarette end in the fire. ‘There’s something else I don’t understand. How could Duggie have known Charles was due home early yesterday afternoon, if his idea was to force him to open the safe? Who told him?’

‘I certainly didn’t.’

‘I’m not suggesting you did. But who else knew?’

Jennifer Carrington paused for a moment. How many more could she suggest? ‘His secretary of course, and other people in the office. He might have mentioned it to someone at the Masonic lodge he was visiting. There could be others.’

‘Including me, because I saw Charles in the morning,’ Maltravers remarked drily. ‘And I’ve got a lousy alibi. Sitting alone in this house reading, with no witnesses until Charlotte arrived after the murder. But it wasn’t me…and would Charles have told Duggie Lydden?’

‘He might have done.’ Jennifer Carrington spoke as if something had just occurred to her. ‘I don’t think he was going to the meeting, but Duggie’s a Mason as well.’

‘And if he did, Duggie would have known you were in Manchester because you told him, and the house would be empty when Charles came back,’ Maltravers commented thoughtfully. ‘Yes, that’s possible.’

He suddenly decided to say nothing more. Finishing his drink, he went to pour more for all of them. As he put water in Malcolm’s whisky in the kitchen, he was forced to accept that, whether Lydden had acted alone or Jennifer had been in it as well and was now double-crossing him, everything foundered on the question of how the safe had been opened. Her story about Campbell and his wife being present when Carrington had said he was the only one who knew the combination could be checked easily enough. And it was unimaginable that Carrington would have told Lydden. Maltravers stared at his reflection in the darkened, uncurtained window over the sink in front of him. The vision of the open safe was like some incredible conjuring trick; the impossible performed before your eyes. If he could only see the secret compartment, the hidden mirror, the ingenious machinery in the box…but this was not magic, it was human cunning. As he returned to the living-room, Lucinda was insisting that Jennifer should stay.

‘You’re not going back to Carwelton Hall at the moment,’ she said firmly. ‘And we’re certainly not letting you spend a night alone in a hotel. You can think again in the morning.’

She overrode feeble protests, but Maltravers felt Lucinda’s offer was tinged with reserve. They kept up some sort of conversation throughout a meal which Jennifer Carrington picked at, then she went to bed in the second spare room with night things Lucinda lent her. Maltravers and Malcolm were finishing the washing-up when she came down again.

‘And what do you make of all that?’ Maltravers waved around a glass he had just dried, looking for somewhere to put it.

‘Just leave it on the table,’ Lucinda told him. ‘Well, I’d never do to my husband what she did to Charles, but I expect some women would. I’ll keep my opinion to myself.’

‘It doesn’t matter if she’d been screwing her way through the Kendal telephone directory in alphabetical order,’ Maltravers told her. ‘But was she involved in murdering Charles?’

‘Do you think she was?’

‘Everything she’s told us about Lydden is ridiculous,’ he replied. ‘He’s got motive and opportunity coming out of his ears, but instead of coming up with even a half-decent alibi, he claims he met Jennifer at Carwelton Hall after she’d apparently told him she was going to be more than seventy miles away in Manchester, and it seems she can prove it. On a scale of stupidity from one to ten, he’s scoring eleven.’

He replaced the towel on its wooden rail fixed to the kitchen door.

‘But look at her story for a minute. She draws the money from the cash dispenser about half past ten and goes to Sherratt & Hughes. The shop’s only a few minutes’ walk from Deansgate, so the whole process would take about quarter of an hour at most. She then drives back to Carwelton Hall, arriving around noon. After meeting Lydden like he says, he goes off, she gets back in the car and can be in Timperley on the other side of Manchester by the time she says. It’s possible, although…’

Lucinda gave him a pitying look as she interrupted. ‘Oh, brilliant, Gus. I know dozens of women who’d break off in the middle of a day’s shopping to make a hundred and fifty mile round trip for a quickie. I’ve got very mixed feelings about Jennifer at the moment, but I can’t see her doing that. And even if that happened, what does it prove? Duggie could still have gone back to the Hall later.’

‘Back to the drawing board, I think,’ Maltravers agreed. ‘But why hasn’t he simply denied being anywhere near Carwelton Hall yesterday and produced some story to back that up?’

‘We may not have been the only people who saw his car,’ Lucinda pointed out. ‘Perhaps somebody else did and he knows it, which is why he’s not risking saying he never went there at all. And remember what Jennifer said about thinking he was trying to drag her into it as well. Duggie Lydden can disguise it when it suits him, but if we use your same scale of stupidity for nastiness, he’d score twelve.’

‘She’s right,’ Malcolm added. ‘Duggie’s made a lot of enemies, and not just by fooling around with other men’s wives. He can be a very unpleasant little bastard. But we’re still left with that combination. How could either Jennifer or Duggie have known it? Or anyone else for that matter?’

Maltravers shook his head. ‘That, Watson, is clearly a three pack problem.’

‘Three pipe surely, Holmes,’ corrected Malcolm.

‘Not in my case, I smoke cigarettes. Which reminds me. There’s a book upstairs I must finish.’

Maltravers looked at the photocopy of The Attwater Firewitch for a long time before opening it. It was eerie. A private book about the greatest of fictional detectives and an imaginary mystery had become a focal point of a real murder in the same house a century later. He reflected grimly that if Charles Carrington had been less conscientious about a family obligation to Conan Doyle and allowed the book to be published, he might not have died. And Maltravers had misgivings about Jennifer being able to produce a seemingly watertight alibi for the whole day; people’s lives were not usually so conveniently organised by chance. She had cheated her husband who was intelligent; could she also have cheated her lover, who was apparently stupid?

He turned to where he had reached when Charlotte Quinn’s arrival had interrupted him and became engrossed again in harmless fiction.

THE MELDRED HALL STAFF

After luncheon, I joined Holmes as he interviewed the remainder of the household, beginning with Mrs Broom, the plump and excitable cook.

‘‘Tis the Firewitch!’ she interrupted immediately Holmes began. ‘Margaret Seymour has come back again!’

‘Again?’ Holmes queried mildly. ‘Have there been previous visits by this apparition, then?’

‘Of course there have, sir. Anyone born and bred round here knows about her wicked ghost.’

‘Most fascinating,’ Holmes said, giving me a secret wink. ‘However, I wish to know about your involvement the evening Miss Eleanor was attacked.’

‘I was just giving Bates the gamekeeper a bite to eat,’ she replied. ‘He’d called on his way home to see Alice McGregor—I think there’ll be news from that quarter soon—but she’d begged me to let her go to Kendal to visit a friend of hers. There was little to do, Mr Braithwaite being away, so I let her leave when she’d finished the washing-up.

‘Bates and me were chatting in the kitchen when we heard a horse gallop into the stable yard. We thought it strange Miss Eleanor should ride it so hard, but before we had time to see what was amiss, the stable lad ran in, saying it had returned alone. Mr Painter and Bates went off with the lad.

‘I was in such a state while I waited! They carried her in to the kitchen and I cleaned those wounds on her poor face with my own hands. The doctor said I’d done well.’

Mrs Broom folded her arms, indicating her story was complete.

‘At what time had you last seen Johnson the groom that day?’ Holmes asked. The cook’s brow furrowed thoughtfully.

‘He came in for his midday meal which he always has at the Hall. Then I saw him in the afternoon when I went out into the yard for a breath of air. I can’t recall after that.’

Before dismissing her, Holmes asked if Bates was expected at the Hall again that evening. Mrs Broom confirmed it was his regular practice to call after completing his duties. Holmes then asked her to send in the two kitchen maids. Both were greatly distressed, with Alice McGregor still lamenting her absence when she might have assisted in attending to Miss Braithwaite and her colleague Janet Hemsdale, a local girl, almost hysterical.

‘People say the bird breathes fire!’ she insisted at one point. ‘Lord save us all from the Firewitch!’

‘If you avoid the area around the woods, no harm will come to you,’ Holmes assured her.

‘We are safe nowhere!’ she protested. ‘There is a curse on the Hall!’

‘This is the first I have been told of it. What has happened?’

‘Ill luck.’ Hemsdale shuddered as she replied. ‘Alice cut her hand when she fell out walking the other week. Cook dropped a whole set of plates in the kitchen. And Simpkins broke one of Miss Eleanor’s favourite pieces of china while she was dusting.’

‘A series of minor household mishaps do not amount to a curse,’ Holmes told the girl sternly. ‘Such nonsense can be of no assistance to anyone.’

‘Forgive her, Mr Holmes,’ said McGregor. ‘Janet’s always been of an excitable nature.’

‘Then you and your colleagues must urge her to temper it. Your duty is to support your master and Miss Eleanor, not indulge in stupidities. That will be all.’

Holmes sighed as the door closed. ‘One would expect some degree of apprehension in this house, but such childish superstition as that girl Hemsdale is showing is intolerable. It is clear that the womenfolk among the staff are unlikely to be of much assistance.’

His comment was confirmed by the upstairs and downstairs maids. One solemnly warned him that the great bird could make itself invisible and would attack anyone who angered its mistress. As they left, he made a sound of amused frustration.

‘A necessary exercise, but of little value,’ he said.

‘Little progress then,’ I observed.

‘My investigation thus far has not been without accomplishment,’ he corrected. ‘The footprints by the mere locate this mischief in this mortal world and there are certain points concerning these attacks.’

He enumerated them on his fingers. ‘One, they all occurred in the vicinity of Witch’s Wood. Two, they all took place in the hours of darkness or closely approaching them. Three, Braithwaite and his sister were each attacked by the woman before the bird appeared. Four, the bird withdrew after a relatively short time, causing the death of the dog, but leaving its human victims injured but still alive. There is a space of about a month between the first three attacks, then the fourth takes place within a few days. Pieces of the picture, Watson, imperfect at present, but emerging.’

He looked reflective for a moment. ‘And we must not, of course, overlook the business of the under butler.’

‘Adams?’ I asked in surprise. ‘Did he not join the ship at Liverpool?’

‘We can have every confidence in Braithwaite’s ability to ascertain so elementary a fact correctly. Adams is as innocent of these attacks as he was of stealing the whisky from the decanter.’

‘How can you be certain of that?’ I demanded. ‘And if it was not him, who was the culprit?’

‘As under butler being trained by Painter eventually to assume the senior position, we may safely conclude Adams had ready access to the cellar and its contents,’ Holmes replied. ‘If the man had a propensity for an illicit drink, he would not have needed to steal it from a decanter where his theft would become so evident.

‘I do not know who did steal the whisky, but there is no evidence it was consumed by anyone in the household. The inferences from that are obvious and possibly of the first importance.’

Holmes spent an hour in Braithwaite’s library, then I accompanied him to the cottage where Johnson the groom lived. His wife confirmed he had returned about six o’clock on the evening of the attack on Miss Eleanor then had gone out after supper for his regular game of cribbage at the nearby public house in Attwater.

‘Where are you and your husband from originally?’ Holmes asked.

‘Johnson was born and bred in Whitehaven. After his accident, he joined Sir Henry’s stables, which is where we met. I worked as a scullery maid at Coniston Manor, having been brought up in the village.

‘Mind you,’ she added, ‘my husband’s grandmother on his father’s side was a Kendal woman and he still has kin in the town. We always go and see them on his monthly day off.’

With apparent casualness, Holmes extracted further details regarding Johnson’s connections with the locality, including the address of his cousin, then we rose to leave. By the front door, I remarked on a fine brass telescope in its case on a table.

‘A souvenir of your husband’s former career,’ I commented.

‘Yes, sir,’ said Mrs Johnson. ‘He misses the sea and often walks out to the mountains across the valley from where he can watch the ships through it. He says that…’

Mrs Johnson was interrupted by a violent knocking on the cottage door. Henry the stable lad was standing outside, clearly in some agitation.

‘Mr Holmes, sir!’ he panted. ‘The master asked me to find you. Can you come back to the Hall at once?’

‘What has happened?’ Holmes demanded urgently.

‘I don’t know, sir, but Bates the gamekeeper has just arrived unexpected.’

THE MESSAGE FROM THE WOODS

We found Braithwaite in his study with the gamekeeper, florid faced and stockily built, wearing rough tweeds and workmanlike boots. He carried a thumb stick favoured by Westmorland shepherds.

‘Bates found this on the far side of Witch’s Wood,’ Braithwaite explained, proffering a piece of paper to Holmes. ‘He thought it might be of importance.’

I looked over Holmes’s shoulder as he examined the paper, crumpled and discoloured as though it had lain in the open for some time. It bore the handwritten numbers 16, 21, 18, 16, 15 and 19.

‘The numbers mean nothing to me, although I have been…’ Braithwaite began, but Holmes interrupted.

‘Splendid work, Bates. I am gratified one member of the household staff can act with intelligence. Is anyone else aware of your discovery?’

‘No, sir. I brought it directly to Mr Braithwaite.’

‘Excellent,’ Holmes told him. ‘You will doubtless be asked the reason for your arrival. You are to say nothing except that you have found some important evidence and are under strict instructions from myself not to discuss it. Is that clear?’

‘You can rely on me, sir.’ Bates touched his forelock and left us.

‘Is this important then?’ Braithwaite asked.

‘I cannot immediately say,’ Holmes replied. ‘But once it becomes known Bates has found something of alleged significance, it may give certain persons pause for thought. His discretion is to be trusted?’

‘Absolutely,’ Braithwaite said with conviction.

‘Good,’ said Holmes. ‘Then let us consider these numbers. You say they convey nothing to you?’

‘Nothing at ‘all,’ said Braithwaite. ‘But could they be some manner of code? If they are the numbers of the letters of the alphabet, they spell PURPOS. Almost a word but what can it mean?’

‘From the word “purpose” almost anything could follow,’ Holmes observed. ‘In any event, the explanation is too facile. Only the most simple of minds would use so juvenile a code which could be unravelled in seconds and we are not dealing with villainy of low intelligence.’

‘Perhaps the code is more subtle then?’ I suggested.

‘Possibly.’ Holmes examined the paper, then shook his head. ‘We can discount seven commonly used numerical permutations, unless you can perceive any relevance in the word “ginger” which one produces.’

‘May I examine it again?’ Braithwaite asked and Holmes handed the paper back to him. ‘Could it be the scores in some game? If so then it clearly appears immaterial, and…’

‘Cribbage!’ I cried triumphantly. ‘We have just learned that your groom plays cribbage in the village pub. What do you think, Holmes?’

‘That it is difficult to perceive a connection between a regular evening of cards over a modest glass of beer and these outrages,’ he commented. ‘In any event, Watson, your knowledge of the game is deficient. A score of nineteen is impossible in cribbage and progress is marked on a peg board, not by writing down the scores.’

He smiled as I looked deflated.

‘A sprightly effort, but not I think, correct. However, the possibility it is a code leads to the conclusion that more than one person is involved, one within the household and the second outside; persons working together would not need to communicate in writing.’

‘And why should any communication be in code?’ Braithwaite asked.

‘The note could have been left in the woods to be picked up later,’ said Holmes. ‘A code would mean that its discovery by another would not reveal anything. Unless of course it can be deciphered.’

‘Can you do that?’ Braithwaite asked.

‘Given sufficient time,’ Holmes replied. ‘The problem is that no more than two words could be accommodated in the message, giving little material to work from. But such brevity may be indicative of urgency which could be revealing…just a moment! The note again if you please.’

Braithwaite handed the paper to Holmes who examined it again. ‘I was idle in trying only seven combinations. An eighth produces “Kirkby”. Does that mean anything to you?’

‘Kirkby Lonsdale is only a few miles away, near the Yorkshire border,’ said Braithwaite.

‘A meeting place?’ Holmes suggested. ‘Our arrival will have given the culprits cause for concern. A village some miles away would be suitable for a council of war. We will visit Kirkby Lonsdale, Watson and see if there are reports of strangers in the vicinity.’

‘We can scarcely knock on every door,’ I objected.

‘If you were to meet someone in a small village, where would you choose as a trysting place? The church? The local public house? Outside a municipal building? The choices are restricted. Tomorrow we leave for Kirkby and in the meantime Bates will say he has presented us with something undefined but of importance and we may indicate that the net is closing.’

‘You hope to trick the culprits into some hasty indiscretion,’ Braithwaite commented.

‘Precisely,’ said Holmes. ‘We only have a signpost to Kirkby. Our visit will not necessarily produce the answers we seek.’

As we waited for Braithwaite in the study before dinner that evening, Holmes was silent and absorbed in thought.

‘I do not relish forcing the pace, Watson,’ he announced suddenly. ‘But I have no choice. Did you see The Times today?’

‘Only very briefly.’

‘There was a report from Marseilles concerning a murder in that city. When Braithwaite brought this mystery to us, I had been urgently engaged for some time on serious matters and only a temporary lull in certain proceedings allowed me to accommodate him. But I must return to London within the next few days.’

‘Can this mystery be resolved in that time?’ I asked.

‘I pray so,’ he replied. ‘It has been a strain for me to take on this case and I fear I may not have been at the peak of my form. This matter is terrible for Braithwaite and his sister, but if I fail in what I am engaged in elsewhere it will be terrible for half the civilised world.’

‘Then return to London immediately,’ I suggested. ‘I will continue here as best I can.’

‘And a good best it would be,’ he said with a quiet smile. ‘But there is no need yet. I have made certain arrangements which mean I will be summoned instantly should the need arise.’

Braithwaite’s arrival prevented me from questioning him further, but his sombre and doom-laden mood remained with me.

Holmes deliberately turned to our host at dinner as Painter, assisted by one of the maids, was serving the meal.

‘Watson and I will need two horses tomorrow,’ he said. ‘I must make enquiries which I am certain will bring me to the solution.’

I noticed a look of interest cross Painter’s face. Holmes’s request would quickly become common knowledge in the household.

‘That should suffice,’ Holmes remarked as the servants left us. ‘It will be interesting to see what results it may produce.’

We left early the following day and rode over the Devil’s Bridge into Kirkby Lonsdale at noon. We went to the principal tavern for luncheon, where Holmes engaged the landlord in conversation. Encouraged by my friend’s questions about fishing, the publican became increasingly forthcoming, their conversation interrupted only by his greeting every customer by name.

‘You know your clientele well,’ Holmes remarked.

‘After sixteen years I should do, sir,’ the man replied. ‘There are few people who walk through that door who are strangers to me. You’re the first I’ve not known for a twelvemonth.’

‘Remarkable,’ said Holmes. ‘However, we must be on our way, landlord. Thanks for your hospitality.’

As we walked away, Holmes shook his head. ‘That was clearly not the meeting place. We must divide our forces. You go to the church while I make enquiries elsewhere. We are seeking the presence, within the past few days, of a man and a woman, unknown to the villagers.’

‘A man and a woman. How can you be certain?’

‘Braithwaite and his sister each saw the woman and the accomplice is not likely to be other than a man I think. Meet me back here in two hours.’

My own enquiries were fruitless. I found the verger but he afforded me nothing, then I chanced upon an elderly woman—clearly the village gossip—whose cottage overlooked the old Norman church. It was clear that the vantage point of her home meant no stranger could have been in the vicinity of St Mary’s without her being aware. I was treated to a detailed account of everything that had occurred in the area during the past several weeks before I was able to excuse myself. Returning to the rendezvous point with Holmes, I hoped he had enjoyed more success, but the look on his face when I saw him approaching dashed my hopes.

‘My trail is cold, Watson,’ he announced grimly. ‘You do not give the appearance of a man who has enjoyed any more success.’

‘All I have learned is that on the fourteenth a travelling circus passed through the town,’ I replied. ‘Otherwise there are no reports of any strangers in the…’

Holmes slapped the heel of his hand against his forehead. ‘What an imbecile I have been!’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Just because a line of reasoning is ingenious, Watson, does not mean that it must be right,’ he replied. ‘But its cleverness flatters our conceit and we are in danger of closing our minds to the truth because it is, by comparison, pedestrian. My ingenuity—of which you frequently speak so warmly—has prevented me from observing the simple. We must return to Meldred Hall.’

‘But I cannot see…’ I began.

‘Neither could I, Watson,’ he interrupted. ‘When you are seeking the needle, you must first ensure you are looking in the right haystack.’

As we rode back, I was at a loss to understand how Holmes could suddenly be so satisfied, but he remained uncommunicative and I could not untangle the knot for myself.

Johnson hurried out to meet us as we reached Meldred Hall shortly after seven o’clock.

‘Mr Holmes! You must go to the Hall immediately.’

‘What has happened?’ Holmes demanded.

‘The Firewitch has struck again!’

Holmes leapt from his horse. ‘Your master and Miss Eleanor. Pray God they have come to no further harm!’

‘They are both well, sir,’ Johnson assured him. ‘It was one of the maids she attacked.’

‘What new mischief is this?’ Holmes muttered as we ran from the stables to where Braithwaite was waiting on the front steps.

‘It’s Alice McGregor,’ he said in answer to Holmes’s questioning look. ‘She was attacked this afternoon.’

‘By the bird?’

‘No, by Mad Meg, a simpleton of the village. The girl can tell you everything.’

He took us to the servants’ wing at the rear of the house, where McGregor was being tended by Mrs Broom. The edge of a bruise was visible beneath a bandage applied to the maid’s head. Despite her injury, she was able to tell Holmes what had occurred.

‘I’d gone out to feed the poultry,’ she said. ‘As I was returning, Mad Meg appeared in front of me and struck me with her stick. As I fell, I heard her say she was the Firewitch.’

‘What were her precise words?’

The girl thought for a moment. ‘“The Firewitch will have you all”.’

Holmes glanced at Braithwaite. ‘Has this woman been located?’

‘The police have gone to her cottage in Attwater, but she is nowhere to be found. I have told them to bring her here as soon as they can.’

‘Very well,’ said Holmes, then he turned back to the girl in the bed. ‘You must rest. You have been very brave.’

Downstairs Holmes spoke to other members of the staff. None of them had seen Mad Meg near the house that day, but said she was a frequent visitor, begging for food or old clothing. When he had finished, my friend was alone with Painter for some time.

‘Almost there, Watson,’ he remarked as he re-joined me in the sitting-room. ‘We will now await the apprehension of Mad Meg.’

He warmed his hands at the fire. ‘Have you observed how chilly it is in the servants’ quarters?’ After this runic remark he said no more, but there was a gleam of satisfaction in his eyes.

Some three hours later, a police sergeant and constable brought Mad Meg to the Hall. The pitiful creature was well named, dressed in the foulest rags with lank hair falling about her wrinkled face. Her eyes stared wildly about the kitchen where all the staff were gathered. Her dribbling mouth twitched as she mumbled incoherently, gnarled fingers twisting some wild flowers she had picked. From my medical knowledge, I felt certain we would get no sense out of her.

‘So this is the Firewitch,’ Holmes said reflectively. ‘What can you tell me of her, sergeant?’

‘A local idiot, Mr Holmes. Mad Meg’s lived in these parts all her life. She’s backward, but up to now has been harmless. She wanders about chattering away to herself, talking to the birds and the like. It seems her mind has taken a turn for the worse.’ He looked at us significantly. ‘There’s talk in Attwater that she claims to have been visited by the spirit of Margaret Seymour and has been given her powers.’

‘Most conclusive,’ Holmes nodded approvingly. ‘May I suggest she be confronted by her latest victim?’

‘Exactly my thinking, sir,’ the man replied enthusiastically. ‘If the poor lass is up to it.’

‘Our presence will reassure her she is in no danger.’

Alice McGregor, led into the kitchen on the arm of a solicitous Mrs Broom, recoiled in terror when she saw the madwoman.

‘Do not be afraid,’ said Holmes. ‘Is this the woman who attacked you?’

‘Yes,’ the girl replied timidly.

Mad Meg glowered malevolently, then suddenly spat.

‘God help me!’ Alice screamed, frantically rubbing her bodice where the spittle had landed. ‘The Firewitch has cursed me!’

‘That’s enough!’ the sergeant cried. ‘Don’t you worry, young woman, no harm will come to you now.’

As Mrs Broom comforted the sobbing McGregor, the officers pulled Mad Meg to her feet. Holmes stepped across the room and stood in front of her for a moment then bent down and looked closely at her wizened face.

‘Do your duty, sergeant,’ he said. ‘It is a sad business, but the law must decide if this woman’s mental condition places her outside its restrictions. Meldred Hall need have no further fear.’

‘But what about the bird?’ asked Braithwaite.

‘The sergeant has already answered that,’ Holmes replied. ‘Mad Meg has a reputation of talking to the birds and who knows what rare and unsuspected powers of control her strange mind may have over them? There are buzzards in this neighbourhood and all hunting birds can be trained. Am I not right, sergeant?’

‘Absolutely, sir.’ The man looked pleased. ‘Always had a way with animals has Mad Meg.’

As the wretched woman was led away, Holmes turned to Braithwaite. ‘You see, nothing supernatural, just a degenerate madwoman who had become dangerous. You must tell your sister of the conclusion of this matter. Watson and I will await you.’

Holmes and I left the kitchen and went to Braithwaite’s study where my companion closed the door firmly behind us.

‘That woman may make no better sense in the morning,’ he remarked. ‘But at least she may be more amenable when the effects of the drink so evident on her breath have subsided. What a fine old farce we have been witness to!’

‘Then Mad Meg is not the culprit?’ I exclaimed.

‘Watson, do not disappoint me,’ Holmes said impatiently. ‘This tarradiddle may fool the police and the local incredulous, but surely you are not deceived as well?’

‘It has some persuasive factors. If they locate this buzzard…’

‘There is no buzzard,’ Holmes interrupted dismissively. ‘That was only my contribution to this deception. However, we must maintain the appearance of having been misled by a scheme devised specifically for our benefit. Braithwaite alone we can take into our confidence.’

A few moments later our host re-joined us. ‘Mr Holmes, I have spoken to my sister, but I am far from satisfied at this stage that…’

‘Of course you are not satisfied,’ said Holmes. ‘Our intelligence has been insulted by this ridiculous act of desperation concocted to deflect me from my purpose. Virtually the entire picture is now clear. Just a little more information, and I know where to look for it. Advise Painter that Watson and I will be leaving for London in the morning, our business here having been completed.’

‘London?’ Braithwaite cried. ‘How is the answer there?’

‘It is not,’ said Holmes. ‘And neither shall we be. We shall leave the train at Manchester, and return as soon as possible. Can you advise us of a small inn within a few miles of here—to the west, by the by—where we might pass ourselves off as innocent visitors? With false names, we should not be recognised.’

Braithwaite suggested a suitable place and Holmes took directions as to how we could reach it.

‘That appears ideal,’ he said. ‘Watson, I must ask you to take on the guise of a naturalist who has come to the Lake District to catalogue the early spring flowers. Braithwaite, expect to hear from me by the post. I cannot say when, but you must carry out any instructions it contains absolutely. To quote a distinguished son of these parts, we have gone from a find to a check and now may proceed to a view and a kill.

He gazed into the fire, a look of keen anticipation on his face.

‘However, perhaps we might pass our time discussing legal matters. As one of Her Majesty’s Crown Prosecutors, you must have been involved in several cases in which I would find points of interest.’

Looking rather surprised, our host agreed, and for the rest of the evening Holmes asked about Braithwaite’s career, without making any reference to the matters which had brought us to Meldred Hall.

THE DOOM OF THE GREAT BIRD

‘Rumour will now be our ally, Watson,’ Holmes gestured out of the carriage window as our train pulled out of Oxenholme the following morning. ‘Word of Mad Meg’s arrest will spread like a bushfire and her guilt unquestionably concluded. After all, the great Sherlock Holmes is satisfied she was the Firewitch, so what other suspicions can remain?’

I did not question him further. It was invariably my friend’s habit to be elliptical when on the brink of the solution to a mystery, while still lacking the absolute proof of the concluding details.

In Manchester we bought suitably rustic clothes in the city’s Oxford Street, then made our way to the nearby University where we obtained some basic scientific equipment and reference books to give credence to our intended roles. Holmes also purchased a pair of powerful binoculars. Camouflaged by our disguise, we returned north from the capital of King Cotton and installed ourselves in the small, but clean and comfortable Lyth Valley Inn in the shadow of the peaks westward of Meldred Hall. Our works of English flora and specimen boxes seemed to satisfy the landlord and his wife that we were indeed researchers of natural history and we set off the following morning filled with advice as to where several rare species of plants might be found.

‘Our paths divide here, Watson,’ Holmes announced as we left the tiny hamlet and reached a stream chuckling over rocks. ‘You must continue and collect enough specimens to support our story. I will meet you at the tavern this evening.’

He forded the shallow stream and struck off in the direction of the hills ahead of us. I watched his tall figure rising up the greensward until it was almost invisible then began my duties as an imitation botanist. By the afternoon, I had collected a fair number of samples and made my way back to the inn in the early evening. Holmes had still not returned and I was sitting in the warmth of the tiny snug bar when he arrived. He asked the landlady if she could provide him with a meal then brought his ale and joined me on the oak settle by the fireside.

‘The lady is most impressed with what you have collected,’ he remarked with a grin. ‘You have quite hoaxed her. I have been equally successful, but have nothing tangible I can display. But I found what 1 was seeking in the mountains. I have also discovered a route to Meldred Hall that avoids the road.’

‘Have you been there? To the Hall?’

‘Only to observe it from a distance,’ he replied. ‘Then I found a village which boasts a small post office from where I was able to write to Braithwaite. The trap closes, Watson, and there will be no escape.’

We quitted our accommodation next morning, announcing our intention of going further towards the coast, but instead made our way up into the mountains. Holmes showed me the shepherd’s tracks he had discovered the previous day and soon we were high over the wide, flat valley with Meldred Hall faintly visible in the distance. Holmes stopped at one point and directed his binoculars towards the Hall.

‘Braithwaite has done his work,’ he commented but did not explain how he knew that to be the case.

We descended to the level pasture land and another hour’s walk took us past the mere by Lowman’s Farm and into Witch’s Wood. We pitched camp at the edge of a clearing in the undergrowth and ate the food we had purchased from the inn prior to our departure. In the late afternoon we heard someone approaching through the trees.

‘Mr Holmes?’ a voice whispered and moments later Braithwaite appeared through the bushes at the edge of the clearing.

‘Over here,’ Holmes called softly and Braithwaite joined us in the protective cover of dead bracken. ‘You have done exactly what I asked?’

‘Yes, although it has caused my household immense distress. That I should be selling Meldred Hall and dismissing more than half of them at such short notice has appalled them. Mrs Broom was in tears and my heart ached to comfort her by explaining it was all a ruse of your devising.’

‘I am relieved that you controlled your tenderer feelings,’ Holmes said drily. ‘They must all believe without question that you are serious. They are all aware of your apparent intentions?’

‘I called the entire household and stable staff to my study this morning,’ Braithwaite replied. ‘I had Bates the gamekeeper brought to the hall for the meeting. Only the tenant farmers remain to be informed.’

‘And at what time did you say you were leaving the Hall this evening to do that?’ Holmes asked.

‘I told Painter I would set off at seven o’clock to go straight to Lowman’s Farm first then on to the others. Doubtless he will have told the other staff.’

‘And what of your sister?’ Holmes enquired.

‘I have said she is aware of my plans but they are on no account to mention it to her in her present condition.’

‘Excellent,’ Holmes said. ‘Do not concern yourself over what will happen next. We will both be with you, even if you cannot see us.’

There was a sharp frost that evening and I was glad we had bought substantial woollen clothing while in Manchester; lighting a fire was out of the question. As darkness fell, we made our way to the edge of the woods and crouched in the bushes, peering in the direction towards which Meldred Hall lay. Just after six o’clock, a figure I could not recognise hurried past in the gloom within yards of our hiding place.

‘The bait is taken, Watson,’ Holmes breathed.

An hour later we heard the sound of hooves and a glimmer of light appeared, bouncing up and down in the blackness. As we watched, the shadowy figure of Braithwaite and his horse trotted past, flitteringly lit by the shining lantern fastened to his saddle. We crept out and followed him and I was grateful for my army experience as we proceeded with infinite caution, keeping some hundred yards behind. I carried my old service revolver in my hand. Braithwaite rode through and out of the woods until he was skirting the mere, a mirror of cold silver in the white moonlight. It was eerily silent as we followed, falling further behind as our cover lessened and we waited in each clump of bushes to ensure that the coast was clear before moving swiftly to the next hiding place. Suddenly we saw a burst of orange flame rise from the undergrowth beside the horseman ahead of us.

‘Quickly, Watson! We have them!’ Holmes cried and we began to run.

The light was a blazing torch which its bearer, indistinguishable in the darkness, thrust into the face of Braithwaite’s horse. The animal whinnied and reared, throwing its rider to the ground. Immediately, the figure leapt upon him as Holmes shouted a warning, then I tripped on something and brought Holmes down with me as I fell. As we scrambled to our feet again, the figure hurled the torch to one side and dashed away along the edge of the mere. We raced on towards Braithwaite then my blood and body froze as some huge bird, larger than anything I had ever seen, swooped silently and terribly across the still waters of the lake and landed on his inert form.

‘Your revolver, Watson! Shoot, for the love of God!’ Holmes shouted.

I raised the weapon, but in the gloom the squirming turmoil of screaming man and screeching bird was too confused to risk an immediate shot. As I ran on, I heard the hoot of an owl. Immediately the bird rose, hovered above its victim for a moment, then swept back over the mere. In the blackness it was immense and hideous and I could clearly see two great curved horns rising from its head against the cold light of the moon. In a great emotion of rage, I raised my gun again and blasted away at the loathsome apparition. By some chance—I take no credit for any marksmanship in the situation—one bullet found its target. The bird squawked and spun round then crumpled and fell like a broken kite into the freezing waters below. From the far side of the water came a howl of anguish.

Holmes was crouching over Braithwaite as I rushed up to them. Down the side of his face was a savage cut, deeper than the gashes caused by the talons of the bird.

‘Thank God, he is not seriously hurt,’ Holmes said. ‘He is a brave man indeed to have risked himself that this devilry might be exposed.’

He looked across the lake to where a dark mass of feathers was floating, concentric circles of ripples spreading across the shining water towards the shore.

‘A notable shot, Watson,’ he commented. ‘That abused and dangerous creature had to be destroyed.’

‘Pure chance,’ I said. ‘But what of its human agents?’

‘They will not get far. I shall ride back on Braithwaite’s horse and sound the alarm. Attend to him until I return with assistance.’

‘But who are they?’ I demanded as he rose to leave.

‘The so-called Alice McGregor and her brother,’ he replied as he mounted into the saddle. ‘They were enacting a terrible revenge for a dead man.’

BROTHER AND SISTER

Holmes returned with Painter and Johnson the groom and together we carried Braithwaite back to Meldred Hall. While I treated his wounds—the cut was deep, but the rest little more than superficial, the bird having retreated within seconds of striking—word reached us that farmer Lowman, aroused by my shots, had hurried out and found Alice McGregor and her brother trying to take two of his horses. He and his two sturdy sons had taken them captive and were holding them until they received further information. Holmes ordered that they should be kept secure and brought to Meldred Hall in the morning when the police would be called.

Shortly after dawn, the stable lad was dispatched to Kendal for the constabulary and Holmes instructed Johnson to retrieve the remains of the bird from the mere. He returned with Lowman, his shotgun pointed at the guilty couple. Alice McGregor was dressed in shabby rags and her face was streaked with dirt; she had made herself look artificially old with theatrical make-up. Her brother, some years her senior, was a sour-looking bearded individual, face narrow and furtive, wearing what had once been a gentleman’s Norfolk jacket.

Holmes turned his attention first to the bird which Johnson had laid in the yard outside the kitchen. The groom had also brought a wooden cage which he had discovered—as Holmes had suggested—near the edge of the lake.

‘A golden eagle.’ Holmes knelt down and removed the sodden leather hood with the horns of a ram attached which had been fixed to its head. ‘A noble bird used for an ignoble deed.’

We went back into the Hall where Braithwaite was in the sitting-room with his sister who had insisted on being present. Holmes told Lowman to bring the criminals in.

‘There is your bird of the Firewitch,’ he told Braithwaite grimly, showing him the hood. ‘Trained to attack at the smell of blood by this man in a crime planned with his sister.’

‘But Alice McGregor has been…’ Braithwaite began. Holmes held up his hand and interrupted him.

‘Not Alice McGregor,’ he corrected. ‘Alice Fleming and her brother Duncan, next of kin of Stuart Fleming, the murderer who was executed in Carlisle four years ago after you led for the prosecution.’

He swung towards the couple standing before us with heads bowed.

‘Do you dispute this? Then your silence confirms it.’ He turned back to Braithwaite. ‘When I learned in our conversation the other evening that it was among your cases, the last pieces of the puzzle fell into place. When you first told me of this strange great bird, I wondered if it was some exotic species with a large crest resembling horns in the darkness. An examination of the reference books in your library contained nothing in world ornithology that fitted and then my mind turned to other possibilities. The largest bird in these islands is the great golden eagle, most commonly found in Scotland. Even then I did not see my way clearly until I remembered that this Scotswoman who called herself Alice McGregor joined your household three years ago. When you told me Fleming was one of a large family, the picture became complete.

‘These two planned to have their vengeance on you for your part in their brother’s conviction. The first stage was when she came to Meldred Hall and would have learned the story of the Attwater Firewitch and together they hatched this diabolical scheme. Fleming here must have taken an eaglet from its nest in the Highlands and trained it as it grew to maturity. It would attack anything that smelled of blood but would return when he gave the signal—the hoot of an owl, which you, Miss Braithwaite, heard just before you fainted.

‘Nothing could be done until the bird was trained, which is why the so-called Alice McGregor remained as a satisfactory servant for the period that would take. Then Fleming himself moved to the district, living rough somewhere in the foothills of the mountains. My enquiries among the hill shepherds revealed that they had seen an eagle in recent months. The cage was his means of transporting it to the woods.

‘The disappearance of whisky from your decanter—for which the luckless Adams was blamed—was also the work of this woman. Apart from a Scotsman’s natural affinity for the drink, it would have been of great assistance to her brother as he lived out in the winter cold.’

As Holmes was speaking, I observed increasingly resentful and bitter looks filling the faces of the guilty brother and sister.

‘All the attacks of the bird had to be preceded by the victim being brought into contact with blood,’ my companion continued. ‘In the case of your dog, some creature had been left in the grass—a rabbit perhaps—to which it ran when it caught the scent. Fleming then released the bird and it killed the dog in order to get the original prey. In the other instances, Alice always struck first, leaving blood on your faces. In your case, Braithwaite, she adopted the legendary manner of the Firewitch in her cell. The blood she held in her mouth was from the self-inflicted cut on her hand, explained as the result of an accidental fall. Your sister, she struck with a bramble.’

Braithwaite looked at the couple with revulsion.

‘But why did they call the bird off?’ he said. ‘They could have left it to kill either of us.’

‘I do not pretend to understand their minds fully,’ Holmes replied. ‘There are dark sides to many human souls comprehensible only to those whose bodies they inhabit. Anyone capable of planning and executing such a crime will be irrational in other of their attitudes.’

Eleanor Braithwaite leaned forward in her chair.

‘Alice, look at me,’ she said softly. The woman raised her eyes sullenly. ‘In this house you have received nothing but kindness. How could you do this dreadful thing to us?’

The servant’s face flared with hatred.

‘What kindness did this man show in that courtroom?’ she cried, pointing at Braithwaite. ‘Our brother was hanged because of what he said that day. He had no mercy then and we can never forgive him.’

‘He was carrying out his duty as a Crown Prosecutor under the law,’ Holmes said sternly. ‘Your brother was rightly convicted of the murder of a defenceless man in pursuit of theft and deserved his fate. You cannot set yourself above such things.’

‘Love is above such things,’ the woman replied defiantly. ‘And we loved our brother.’

‘I love my brother,’ Eleanor Braithwaite responded gallantly. ‘But if he were guilty of a wicked crime then I also would have to condemn him.’

‘Then heaven help you for a heartless…’

‘Enough!’ cried Holmes. ‘You will not compound your iniquity with insults against this lady in my presence. Deliver them to the police, Lowman.’ He watched the pair leave the room, then turned to Eleanor Braithwaite. ‘I was not happy about you being present this morning. There was no need for you to face such creatures.’

‘I cannot comprehend her,’ she replied, shaking her head. ‘Of what manner of love does she speak?’

Holmes shrugged. ‘It is among the emotions to which I am a stranger, but I have had occasion to observe its power more than once. And it has been my conclusion that love destroys as often as it blesses. In this instance, we can only conclude that their feelings for their brother led them to want to extend their own sense of suffering to you both, not by causing your deaths but by perhaps driving you to madness.

Holmes’s face, which had grown very grim, took on a sudden smile.

‘However, it is now over and you can advise your staff, Braithwaite, that you intend to continue living here with them all around you.’

‘There will be great joy when they hear it,’ he replied feelingly. ‘But why did you wish me to suggest that I was leaving?’

‘When Alice McGregor heard she was to be dismissed, I calculated that she and her brother would arrange one final—probably murderous—attack. I told you to give all of them a day’s liberty after breaking the news, which would allow her time to communicate with him and make the arrangements. Then it only remained for you to announce your intention of riding to Lowman’s Farm in the evening and the trap was set. I was satisfied that the presence of Watson and myself would ensure your safety. I greatly regret that we were not able to reach you before the bird actually struck.’

‘My injuries are nothing compared to my sense of relief,’ Braithwaite assured him. ‘If you will excuse us, I will summon my staff.’

Eleanor Braithwaite left the room with her brother and a short while later we heard a cheer from the direction of the study.

‘And Johnson the groom was quite uninvolved,’ I remarked.

‘As much as poor Mad Meg,’ Holmes replied. ‘They faked the attack by her, in which Fleming must have struck his own sister, to deflect suspicion when I announced I was nearing the solution.’

‘And the paper that Bates discovered was irrelevant,’ I commented.

‘On the contrary, it was of critical importance,’ said Holmes, ‘although the suggestion that it was a code led me in the wrong direction when my own ingenuity deceived me. By chance, the word “Kirkby” could be unravelled from the numbers and I was immediately persuaded that was the path to follow . Only when you told me that there had been a passing circus in the town on the fourteenth of the month did I realise that the numbers were simply dates. In fact they are the dates in each month since last October which Painter later advised me were Alice Fleming’s days off. I knew that it was Braithwaite’s practice to give his staff a day off each month because Mrs Johnson said she and her husband visited his relations in Kendal on his. Alice must have written down her free days and given the paper to her brother who inadvertently lost it in the woods.

‘Remember also something that Mrs Broom told us. On the afternoon Eleanor Braithwaite was attacked, Alice begged for additional time off. She did not of course visit friends, but perpetrated the attack upon Miss Braithwaite.’

‘But how did she communicate with her brother on that occasion?’ I asked. ‘He would not have expected her to be available until her next day’s leave.’

‘You will remember that her room is at the rear of the house,’ Holmes replied. ‘When we saw her there after the alleged attack by Mad Meg another occasion when she had to summon her brother unexpectedly of course—you may have observed that the room was singularly cold. I commented on the fact to you later. As on previous occasions, she had left her window wide open for most of the day, a visible signal to anyone in the mountains using a telescope, just as Johnson watches passing ships looking in the opposite direction towards the coast.

‘As we made our way here, Watson, you will remember that I stopped to look at Meldred Hall through the binoculars. As I had anticipated, the window of her room was open again and I knew Braithwaite had carried out my instructions and his intentions had been believed.’

Braithwaite and his sister invited us to stay at Meldred Hall for as long as we wished, but Holmes insisted he must return to London.

‘This case has meant that I have had to allow other most urgent matters to go unattended,’ he told them. ‘While I have been away, a certain Professor of my acquaintance will not have been idle.’

He spoke lightly, but now, as I mourn my greatest friend and one of the most remarkable men England ever bore, I constantly reproach myself for not being more alert to the ultimate danger he was facing. On the twenty-fourth of the following month he asked me to accompany him on that fateful journey to the Continent. The mystery of the Attwater Firewitch was his last investigation before the final, deadly encounter with Moriarty at the Reichenbach Falls.

It was half past one before Maltravers turned off the light and lay in the darkness, the spell of The Attwater Firewitch fading to be replaced by the returning, tantalising facts surrounding Charles Carrington’s murder. Faced with such a case, Holmes would have made some runic comment about an apparently irrelevant scrap of evidence and later demonstrated how it solved everything: ‘I draw your attention to the curious incident of…’ Maltravers told himself he was being fanciful and went to sleep.

In the morning his half-awake mind dangled an idea in front of his consciousness. He stared at the bedroom ceiling, trying to piece it together like fragments of a dream, then sat up abruptly and grabbed the manuscript, flicking through it urgently. After a few moments he lowered the pages and smiled.

‘Could that really be it? If it is, thank you, Sherlock.’ He leapt out of bed, pulled on his dressing gown and hurried downstairs to the kitchen where Lucinda was preparing breakfast and Malcolm was opening the post.

‘Where’s Jennifer?’ Maltravers asked.

‘She’ll be down in a minute,’ Lucinda replied. ‘What are you so excited about?’

Maltravers held up The Attwater Firewitch. ‘I think I know the code for that safe.’ He turned to Malcolm, staring at him with a half-opened envelope in his hands. ‘Have you ever read this?’

‘No. I was going to when you’d finished. Why?’

‘Look here.’ Maltravers put the photocopy on the table as Jennifer Carrington entered the room. ‘Good. I won’t have to explain this twice.’

He pointed to a paragraph. ‘One of the clues Holmes solves in this involves a series of numbers. There are six of them, but isn’t it possible that Charles used the first four for the safe combination? He’d have had to choose something.’

They looked at the passage he was indicating.

‘Which means that if he did…’ Malcolm paused as he began to grasp it for himself.

‘Which means that only someone who had read the book would have been able to try these numbers.’ Maltravers waited for them to catch up.

‘I don’t understand. Is this important?’ Jennifer Carrington appeared confused.

‘It could be critical,’ Maltravers told her. ‘If I’m right, it’s a very damning piece of evidence against Duggie Lydden. The night Charles showed me this book, Lydden admitted he was one of the people who’d read it. Which means he could have guessed the combination and tried it.’

‘What should we do?’ Jennifer asked, looking again at the numbers as though still unable to grasp their significance.

‘I thought of going to Carwelton Hall and testing them for myself,’ said Maltravers. ‘But if I’m wrong, off goes the alarm, someone calls the police and they get tetchy. Tempting though it is, I think I’d better go straight to them with it.’

‘Can I come with you?’

‘Give me five minutes to get dressed.’

In Kendal police station, they were taken straight through to Moore after Maltravers had explained the reason for their visit. The sergeant listened carefully, then asked to examine the photocopy himself.

‘How did you work this out?’ he asked.

‘I have nothing to confess but my genius,’ Maltravers replied. ‘But I’m quite prepared to be exposed as an idiot when you try it.’

‘It’s certainly worth trying.’ Moore looked up at him and smiled. ‘I take it you’d like to be there.’

‘Very much.’ Having had more time to think, Maltravers had become determined to find a way of being present when the police operated the dial; he wanted to see Jennifer Carrington’s reaction. Moore followed them in his own car to Carwelton Hall.

‘I’ve advised the safe makers to ignore any alarms from here in the next half-hour,’ Moore said as he consulted the photocopy in the library. ‘We don’t want unnecessary panics. Right, first four numbers.’

He took hold of the dial and began to turn it. ‘Sixteen…twenty-one…eighteen…and back to sixteen.’

There was a rattle of tumblers then Moore pushed down the handle and pulled the door open. Jennifer Carrington reached forward and touched it in disbelief. Maltravers had placed himself so he could see her face and visible triumph flickered across it and vanished. Triumph over what?

‘Congratulations, Mr Maltravers,’ Moore said appreciatively. ‘First you point out the problem, then you solve it. We’ll need another statement from you of course.’

‘I expected that.’ Maltravers was still watching Jennifer, but her face was now immobile. ‘But it opens up more possibilities as well, doesn’t it? I know Duggie Lydden had read the book, but so had others.’

‘So I understand. Do you know any of them, Mrs Carrington?’

‘Pardon?’ Moore’s question seemed to startle her. ‘I’m not sure. Stephen Campbell and Dr Bryant and some others, but I don’t know all their names.’

‘I can add another,’ said Maltravers. ‘Alan Morris, the vicar of Attwater. He told me so.’

‘Alan?’ Jennifer Carrington shook her head in rejection. ‘But he’s like Stephen and Dr Bryant. Nobody could suspect him. Surely the point is that Duggie had read it.’

‘We’ll need everyone you can remember,’ Moore told her. ‘We have to eliminate them. Can you both follow me back to the station, please?’

He closed the safe again and they returned to their cars. As they drove back along the main road to Kendal, Jennifer glanced towards the lane leading to Attwater.

‘He can’t be serious about people like Alan Morris, can he? Or Stephen. It’s ridiculous.’

‘There’s a number of fish in the net apart from Lydden,’ Maltravers said. ‘They’re going to have to check them all out.’

At the time neither of them knew that the case against Lydden had already hardened. The police had spent all of Friday at his house on a still uncompleted estate on the outskirts of Kendal, examining loose floorboards, probing among the rafters. They had searched the garden looking for freshly disturbed earth, stripped the garage, even drained the water tank in the roof, but had found nothing. Then men with dogs had started covering the rest of the site.

Late in the afternoon one of the dogs had begun to sniff excitedly at the unfinished floor of a house about two hundred yards from Lydden’s. When its handler lay down and stretched his arm as far as he could beneath the floor cavity, his fingers touched something which moved slightly. Several boards were pulled up to reveal a double barrelled shotgun with the initials DKL engraved on a brass plate on the stock. Lydden had identified it as his. With mounting evidence to support Jennifer Carrington’s story of having been in Manchester all day, Lambert had authorised her release and applied for authority to hold Lydden for a further twelve hours when his initial twenty-four expired, taking him to one o’clock on Saturday afternoon.

Forensic tests had proved that the hidden shotgun had killed Charles Carrington. Lydden, whose fingerprints were the only ones on the gun, continued to deny the murder or know how the gun had got where the police had found it. The major problem Lambert and his team had been left with was the question of the safe combination, and now Maltravers was handing them the answer on a plate. After Moore had reported to him, Lambert went to see Maltravers and Jennifer Carrington himself. He fired a series of sharp questions, then Maltravers saw the satisfaction on his face as he left the room, his massive bulk just squeezing through the doorway.

‘I don’t have time for amateurs normally,’ Lambert remarked when Moore joined him again. ‘They’re usually as much use as a sick headache. But that Maltravers has got a sight more nous than the average Londoner. I think he’s just given us what we needed.’

‘Do we charge Lydden then? It looks like it’s worth a run.’

Lambert rubbed his hand across his mouth, twisting rubbery lips into a grotesque shape.

‘Not yet,’ he said cautiously. ‘I’ll apply for a special magistrates court to hold him for another sixty hours. That gives us time to talk to anyone else who’s read that book. In the meantime we’ll let Lydden stew. But unless something unexpected happens, I think we’ll be hauling him up at the regular court on Monday morning and charging him. Take those names from her statement and get on with it.’

Lambert’s face folded in a grimace of contentment as Moore walked out. His faint reservations about Lydden’s guilt in the light of repeated, angry denials were rapidly fading. Nothing had emerged to support his story for the day of the murder and, while that collapsed, evidence to prove his guilt had mounted up. Admittedly, Maltravers’s explanation about the safe combination meant that other people could have known it—but they were not the owners of the murder weapon and had not been caught with the stolen goods in their house. Lambert rang the Clerk to Kendal magistrates to request a special court so he could apply to hold his suspect pending further enquiries; he felt they were academic, but the police had to go through the motions.

‘Behold the detective marvel of the age.’ Maltravers grinned at Malcolm and Lucinda from the steps into the kitchen. He turned his face through ninety degrees before lowering his head, presenting the top of it to them. ‘Full face, profile and plan.’

‘I take it the combination worked?’ Malcolm said drily.

‘O ye of little faith.’ Maltravers crossed to where packets of cereal were still on the kitchen table; his breakfast had gone by the board earlier, although Malcolm and Lucinda had eaten. ‘It was a brilliant denouement executed in the library in the best tradition.’

‘What did the police think of it?’ Lucinda asked.

Maltravers filled a bowl and added milk and brown sugar. ‘My reward will probably arrive in the morning post. I have the impression they’ve got more on Lydden than they’re letting on and the combination could clinch it—although we’re still left with the question of Jennifer being in it with him.’

‘You still think that’s possible?’

‘Yes.’ He chewed thoughtfully on a mouthful of muesli. ‘There was something about her reaction when Moore opened that safe. She looked too satisfied.’

‘She would do,’ Malcolm argued. ‘It proved Duggie Lydden could have opened it, which was the problem.’

‘But it also meant somebody else could have done. Somebody else who must have read that book—which isn’t many people. I know Lydden isn’t bright, but if Jennifer was in it with him, why didn’t he just blow the whole thing when she double-crossed him? He might not have been able to prove anything, but he could make life difficult for her. Instead, we have this story about meeting her at lunchtime. So colour him stupid, but the more I learn about all this, the more I’m convinced there’s someone very clever behind it.’

‘Like you of course.’ Lucinda grinned. ‘We’re very impressed about that code.’

‘Put your admiration on hold. I have the uneasy feeling I could have missed something.’

In the living-room, Malcolm noticed The Attwater Firewitch, which Maltravers had dropped on to the settee when he came back. ‘Didn’t the police want to keep this?’ he asked as he picked it up.

‘They’ve got the books so the photocopy isn’t vital. I told Moore I hadn’t finished it. I knew you wanted to read it.’

Maltravers sat on the chesterfield with that week’s edition of the Cumbrian Chronicle. After a few minutes he looked across at Malcolm, who had started to read. Faintly in his mind was a suggestion, and the most curious thing was that he kept thinking of Sherlock Holmes. The notion faded as he pursued it and he went back to improving his scanty knowledge of the activities of the Lakeland livestock market.

Moore reported back to Lambert that afternoon. ‘This link between the safe combination and the book, sir. Mrs Carrington can only name five people who’ve read it apart from Lydden. One is Carrington’s partner, a respectable lawyer who was in court all Thursday afternoon. Another bloke’s been in bed with a temperature of a hundred and two for a week. That leaves…’ He flicked over a page of his notebook. ‘Charlotte Quinn, who found the body, and the Reverend Morris at Attwater. The fifth is a member of the Conan Doyle Society who returned it this week. He was at a meeting in Norwich all day. After that, Carrington passed it on to Maltravers, who was reading it at the time of the murder.’

Lambert’s lower lip pushed out like a piece of raw liver sliding off the edge of a plate.

‘Can’t see it being Mrs Quinn or the vicar,’ he commented. ‘Can you?’

‘No, sir,’ Moore replied. ‘Mrs Quinn was a very old friend of Carrington’s—the word is she was in love with him. Drover’s seeing Morris at the moment, but he doesn’t look likely either. He’s been the vicar of Attwater for donkey’s years and has no motive we can see. And are either of them really the type to suddenly become a murderer who frames an innocent man at the same time?’

Lambert grunted in agreement. ‘Keep at it. We’ve got the names of Carrington’s known friends and associates from his secretary and his personal address book. Some of them could have read the book. But unless we find someone pretty damned quick, our Mr Lydden will be charged on Monday, however much of a fuss he and his lawyer kick up.’

As Moore turned to leave, Lambert stopped him then shuffled through some of the notes on his desk.

‘Just a minute,’ he said, then picked up a piece of paper. ‘What about the people at the dinner party at Carrington’s place? We thought one of them could have seen the safe being opened. Who was there? Lydden, Morris, this chap Maltravers, Stapleton who’s the editor of the Chronicle and someone called Howard.’

‘No go,’ Moore replied, shaking his head. ‘Maltravers was absolutely certain nobody in the room could have seen. We’ve tried it ourselves and if everyone was standing where he says, there’s no chance. Someone would have had to be at Carrington’s elbow when he opened it and nobody was. It looks as though Maltravers must be right that you could only guess that code from having read the book. And that cuts out Stapleton, Maltravers at the time and Howard, who had apparently just come back from Africa. Which leaves us with Morris and Lydden. And let’s face it—it really only leaves us with Lydden.’

Alan Morris smiled as he opened the door and recognised the figure on the front step.

‘Ian Drover!’ he exclaimed. ‘I haven’t seen you since…well not for a long time. Come in, come in.’

The detective constable appeared uncomfortable as he entered the vicarage. ‘I’m sorry to trouble you, Mr Morris, but as you know I’m with the CID now and…’

‘Your mother was telling me only the other week.’ Morris led Drover through to his study. ‘She’s very proud of you—as we all are in Attwater. It seems no time at all since you used to come to Bible class and I remember your confirmation as though it were only yesterday. But you’ve not come to talk about the past. What can I do for you?’

He sat down at his desk and smiled smoothly at Drover, looking increasingly unhappy in the chair opposite.

‘I’m sorry, vicar, but I’m one of the team investigating the murder of Mr Carrington and when my sergeant said we wanted to talk to you, I offered to come.’ He paused uncertainly. ‘I’m sorry, but there are some questions I must ask you.’

Alan Morris leaned forward earnestly. ‘Questions, Ian? What about?’

‘About the afternoon of the murder. We’re checking on people’s movements. I’m sorry, but…’

‘Stop apologising,’ Morris told him sharply. ‘That’s the fourth time you’ve said sorry since you arrived. You’re here to do your job and the fact that I’ve known you all your life doesn’t come into it. So you want to know what I was doing the day Mr Carrington was so tragically killed? Well immediately after lunch, I went to…’

Having given an account of his movements on Thursday afternoon, Morris waved to the detective constable’s disappearing car with a sense of relief; another police officer might have been less accommodating. Ten minutes later, he arrived at Carwelton Hall.

‘I’m sorry I couldn’t come sooner,’ he said as Jennifer Carrington stepped back from the front door to let him enter. ‘The police have just been to see me about Thursday afternoon.’ He put his arms around her. ‘You must be very brave.’

On Sunday morning Maltravers went into Attwater for a newspaper, then drove round narrow, twisting back lanes, re-joining the main road near Carwelton Hall. He parked beyond the bend, then stood by a wall, staring across low rolling fields, chill, sullen and miserable under the dank and motionless October mist. He tried to guess if what he could see in the distance was a crow or a rook; there was a country legend that if you thought it was one it was always the other and he was little better at identifying birds than cars. He was convinced it was not a raven, as there was no bust of Pallas, pallid or otherwise, anywhere in sight. Absently and irrelevantly, he began to quote the poem to himself, but stumbled in verse twelve.

‘Fancy unto fancy linking,’ he repeated in irritation. ‘No, thinking. Or is it…? Oh, sod it.’

It was not just losing his way in the brooding, relentless metre of Poe that frustrated him. Elusive and mocking, his own fancies tormented him and he could not shake off their taunting that he was missing things blatantly obvious. As he returned to his car in annoyance, the jackdaw flew off across the fields.

At the cottage, Maltravers picked up The Attwater Firewitch again. Everything about the code for the safe made sense—but he knew that—and there was nothing else that he could see. In any case, it was preposterous to imagine that Conan Doyle’s fantasy could throw any light on a real murder a century later. Why did he keep thinking it might? He put the book down and began to read the views of a Sunday Times critic who had caught up with Tess’s play at Chester, expressing amazement that an actress of her ability should be appearing in such second-rate dramatic tat. Maltravers knew that the reviewer concerned had been trying unsuccessfully to persuade anyone to stage a play of his own for several years and drew his own conclusions.

‘What doth the Lord require of thee, but to do justly, and to love mercy, and to walk humbly with thy God?’

The vicar of Attwater repeated the words of the morning Lesson from the eighth verse of the sixth chapter of Micah then closed the Bible and gazed gravely round his congregation in silence for a few moments.

‘Since the terrible events in this parish on Thursday, those words have been constantly with me,’ he said . ‘A dear friend of this church—a dear friend of so many of us here today—was cruelly murdered and in our grief and despair it is understandable that we feel tremendous anger against whoever was responsible for his death.’

He drew himself upright. ‘But at such times, we must remember that God repeatedly tells us to embrace our feelings. A desire for vengeance must give way to a determination for justice. Mercy and forgiveness must temper our actions. The arrogance of judgement must be replaced with a humble acceptance of our unworthiness to judge. Love must conquer hatred, however difficult that may be.’

Alan Morris leaned forward, surpliced arms resting on the edge of the pulpit. ‘Because when we are repulsed by another’s sin, we must remember that we are all sinners. All of us, myself no less than the rest. And if we cannot find it in our hearts to forgive the sinner, then it will surely go hard with us on that dreadful day when we seek forgiveness for ourselves from the last terrible judge of all.’

It was a sonorous old-fashioned sermon, rich with Biblical admonitions, delivered by a man whose own secret sins would have appalled his flock. In the front pew, with the rest of the worshippers trying not to look at her too blatantly, Jennifer Carrington sat with her hands clasped about her Prayer Book, unreadable eyes never leaving Morris’s face.

Lambert reviewed the final report from the Manchester police that morning. Three of the assistants in Timperley confirmed that Mrs Carrington had arrived late in the afternoon; one said it must have been shortly before five o’clock because they had Radio One on and she had been in the shop for some time before the music was interrupted by the hourly news bulletin. Statements from the couple she had visited in the evening said she had arrived just after six o’clock and stayed for more than two hours. Lambert thrust a pudgy hand inside his jacket, produced a pen and started making notes.

Carrington had left his office in Lancaster at three fifteen; he should have reached Carwelton Hall no more than half an hour later. Charlotte Quinn had called the police at four twenty-five, having discovered the body about ten minutes earlier. Which meant…Lambert juggled with calculations…which meant that theoretically Jennifer Carrington could have returned to Carwelton Hall from Manchester in the morning, met Lydden as he claimed then waited until her husband returned and killed him with Lydden’s shotgun which she had stolen earlier. Then she could have escaped before Charlotte Quinn arrived and been in Timperley by…Lambert scribbled through the figures. Putting aside the time she would have needed to hide the gun and put the books in Lydden’s house, it was more than eighty miles in under an hour. She would have needed a Formula One racing car and to have shattered every speed limit to do it. She would also have needed to open the safe. Carrington’s partner Campbell had confirmed the conversation in which Carrington had said he was the only one who knew the combination and Maltravers’s statement included the fact—supported again by Campbell—that Jennifer had not read The Attwater Firewitch.

Abandoning the possibility as ludicrous, Lambert turned to Drover’s account of his visit to Alan Morris. The vicar had been on parish business all afternoon and various witnesses broadly confirmed his movements. Unless the police very quickly learned of anybody else suspicious who had read the Conan Doyle story, being able to guess the safe combination remained a devastating piece of evidence against Duggie Lydden—among a good deal more—however much he protested.

Tess Davy was the only passenger off the train at Oxenholme just after half past four on Sunday afternoon. There was no Maltravers waiting on the platform as she carried her case through the subway and out of the exit on the other side of the line. The small car-park was empty and she looked at the bleak view of a high black stone wall directly opposite, feeling deflated and irritated after a tedious journey. Glowing in a balloon of moisture in the gloomy raw dusk, murky rays of a street lamp gleamed on the sheen of her oxblood calf-length leather coat with high-heeled black suede boots peeping below. A circular fake fur hat framed a face Raphael would have portrayed as a very worldly Madonna, although mixing the paint for her astonishing green eyes would have stretched even his creative abilities. After a few minutes she took out her purse and was looking for change for the phone box next to the exit when Maltravers’s car appeared round the corner.

‘Sorry,’ he said as he got out. ‘Close encounter with a wandering cow in the lane. I’ll never make a rustler. Been waiting long?’

‘Five minutes going on three hours,’ she replied as he kissed her. ‘The train was freezing and waiting for the connection at Warrington didn’t improve matters.’

‘Not exactly Fun City, Western Europe,’ Maltravers acknowledged. ‘But I once saw Slough on a rainy night in February and prayed for Betjeman’s friendly bombs to start falling. Come on, I’ll get you to the cottage.’

Tess climbed into the passenger seat, carefully folding her coat away from being caught in the door.

‘What’s all this about a murder up here?’ she asked as Maltravers turned the car round. ‘There were a couple of paragraphs in the paper this morning which didn’t tell me much, except that it must have happened quite nearby.’

‘Very,’ he confirmed. ‘And I seem to have become quite mixed up in it one way and another.’

Tess listened as they drove back, a deepening frown filling her face. He finished as they pulled up outside Brook Cottage.

‘And you’re not satisfied are you?’ she said.

‘True, O Queen,’ he replied. ‘You’re becoming much too good at reading my mind. There’s something…’

Going through it all right from the beginning abruptly precipitated Maltravers’s gathering frustration as phantom suggestions flitted again in the corners of his brain. Tess looked startled as he slammed his fist against the steering wheel.

‘What is it, for Christ’s sake? There’s some stupid little thing that doesn’t make sense. I know there is but I can’t bloody well see it!’

‘My God, it is getting to you, isn’t it?’ Tess sounded concerned. ‘Is it as bad as that?’

‘Yes, because…’ Maltravers paused, trying to analyse something. ‘Because until I can identify it, I can’t convince myself that it’s not important.’

‘But you worked out the safe combination,’ Tess argued. ‘Isn’t that enough for you?’

‘It should be. Malcolm and Lucinda were very impressed and the police obviously think it’s important. I’ve got gold stars all over the place for it.’ Maltravers turned off the engine and they got out of the car. He looked at her across the metal roof. ‘But it’s as though it was just waiting for someone to find it.’

‘Like it had been put there deliberately?’ Tess suggested. Maltravers stared at her for a moment then nodded. ‘I wonder if that’s it? Oh, there’s wisdom in women, as the poet has it.’

‘Do you mean knowing the combination doesn’t matter?’

He shook his head. ‘No, it’s got to matter. But perhaps not in the way we all think it does.’

Tess was made welcome then went upstairs to change. In the bedroom she saw The Attwater Firewitch and glanced through it briefly, its presence underlining Maltravers’s misgivings. She came down again wearing a Greenpeace T-shirt, jeans and white leather sandals. Shaken free from the close-fitting hat, long rippling hair glowed like dark honey filled with sunlight. Malcolm and Lucinda were in the kitchen and Maltravers was sitting in the captain’s chair, one long leg hooked over the wooden arm; he appeared wrapped in the same sort of abstraction usually brought on by a new idea about something he was writing.

‘Penny for them,’ Tess offered.

‘Not worth it,’ he replied absently. ‘Not even with inflation.’

‘Let it go,’ she told him. ‘You’re only getting uptight.’

‘I know I am.’ He sighed and stood up. ‘Whisky on its way.’

‘The trouble is that you’re hung up on Sherlock Holmes,’ Tess said as he crossed to the cupboard in the wall and took out the bottle. ‘It’s not really…’

‘Of course!’ Maltravers stood very still, his hand still holding the half-closed door. ‘The dog didn’t bark in the night.’

Tess looked mystified. ‘You haven’t said anything about a dog.’

Maltravers turned to face her, shaking his head impatiently. ‘It’s just the same principle. And that means…just a minute, I’ve got to work this all out.’

Tess watched as new tumbling thoughts were reflected in his face then he gave her a smile like a swallowed sun.

‘What is it?’ she asked.

‘I’ve just found the needle,’ he announced. ‘I was looking in the wrong haystack. Just like Sherlock Holmes.’

‘The wrong haystack,’ Tess repeated cautiously. ‘Darling, what are you burbling about?’

‘He’s talking about The Attwater Firewitch.’ Malcolm had stepped in from the kitchen and heard the conversation. ‘I only know that because I’ve read it as well. But he’s going to have to explain.’

For a few moments they waited as Maltravers stood by the drinks cupboard, wrestling with his thoughts. Then he smiled again.

‘But after that, of course, the dog did bark in the night when it shouldn’t have done.’ He was speaking aloud to himself. ‘Which means…well, what does it mean?’

Lydden’s solicitor looked uncomfortable as he faced Moore in Kendal police station.

‘The police must act as they see fit, of course, but do you really have sufficient grounds to bring charges against my client?’

‘Mr Lambert is satisfied,’ Moore told him. ‘There is very substantial evidence against him and we have no other suspects.’

‘Not at this stage,’ the lawyer corrected. ‘My client still insists that he is innocent.’

‘Then we’ll have to see what the magistrates make of it, won’t we?’ Moore observed. ‘As far as the police are concerned, we have a case to present to them.’

‘Only a circumstantial one as far as I can see. I shall request an immediate dismissal and if that fails, I shall certainly make an application for bail.’

‘And the police will oppose you.’ Moore shrugged. ‘We’ve both got our jobs to do. Let’s see who the magistrates agree with.’

The lawyer left the room and returned to the police cell where Lydden leapt up in anticipation as he entered.

‘Well?’ he demanded. ‘Have you made them see sense?’

‘They’re taking you before the magistrates in the morning and will press charges of murder and other offences.’

Lydden stared in outrage. ‘The bastards! Christ, I’ll sue them when this bloody thing is over! I’ll wreck that Lambert’s career. I’ll make him eat dirt. I’ll…’

‘Duggie,’ the solicitor interrupted warningly. ‘At the moment, all I want from you is some evidence—any evidence—that I can produce to the court in the morning. And keep your mouth shut when you appear. You’re in enough trouble without shouting threats all over the place.’

Lydden regarded him with disgust. ‘Then you can piss off. You’re no bloody use to me if you think I’m guilty as well. You do, don’t you?’

‘You’re telling me you didn’t do it, Duggie,’ the solicitor replied. ‘I’ll represent you as best I can, but I need some ammunition.’

‘Like what?’

‘Frankly, like anything,’ the lawyer told him wearily. ‘I can’t see that they’ve got enough to prove anything absolutely at the moment, but if they can cast doubts on your seeing Jennifer Carrington at Carwelton Hall on Thursday—and they’ve made no secret about being confident over that—then it’s going to be very heavy going. And knowing that safe combination…’

‘But I don’t know it!’ Lydden protested. ‘I read that book God knows how long ago and Charles never told me about using the numbers in it.’

‘Well put it this way, Duggie. It seems that whoever opened that safe knew the combination, which they could have worked out from the book. The police say they’ve checked everyone else who they know has read it and are satisfied they’re in the clear. Any suggestions?’

Lydden turned away. The suggestion he wanted to scream was that Jennifer Carrington had virtually agreed with him that they could steal the books, if they could only find a way of opening the safe. But there had never been any question of murder in Lydden’s mind. Now he did not know what was happening and was terrified of admitting something that might be forged into more evidence against himself in the face of her lies. Just one witness—anybody—who had seen him at the shop that afternoon could put him in the clear. Until that happened, he could only struggle in the web that had been woven around him. He hated Jennifer Carrington with a searing intensity; she was the only woman who had been too clever for him and he could not see how she had done it.

Tess, Malcolm and Lucinda remained silent as Maltravers finished. As he looked round at them all, they appeared dubious.

‘Come on,’ he invited. ‘Don’t applaud, just throw money.’

‘It’s very ingenious, Gus,’ Malcolm acknowledged uncertainly. ‘But you’ve built up an entire murder plot from precious little. You could have got the whole thing totally round your neck.’

‘Possibly—you have another explanation?’

‘But it’s got gaps all over the place,’ Lucinda objected. ‘There are all sorts of questions you need answers to. How will you do that?’

‘I met someone called Jack Bradshaw at a party about a year ago,’ he replied. ‘He’s a former copper who now runs a private detective agency. I talked to him for quite a while and he seemed very good. I’ll ring him in the morning.’

‘But he might come up with nothing at all,’ Tess objected. ‘You’re just shooting in the dark with hardly anything to go on.’

‘And it won’t hurt to try,’ Maltravers argued. ‘All right, I’m only guessing at the moment, but let’s see if Bradshaw comes up with anything and take it from there.’

‘Gus, why don’t you just tell the police all this?’ Lucinda asked. ‘They could check it out much more easily than you can.’

Maltravers shook his head firmly. ‘Not yet. I’m positive I could be on to something, but I’m not absolutely sure it’s a murderer. There could be another explanation. If I do manage to find out enough to clinch it, I’ll hand it all over to them. And if I don’t manage to confirm anything, I’ll have to forget it.’

‘This could take you some time,’ Malcolm remarked. ‘Are you sure it’s safe to wait before telling the police? If you’re right…’

‘Another day or so won’t matter,’ Maltravers said indifferently. ‘The murder’s been done and the only one suffering at the moment is Lydden. From what I know about him, he deserves to sweat a bit.’

In Carwelton Hall, Jennifer Carrington sat at her glass-topped dressing table, an engraved silver jewel box open in front of her. She picked up a ruby and emerald necklace which had belonged to Carrington’s first wife, the facets of the stones hard and reassuring under her hand; she had never worn it. She needed the comfort of touching it, knowing its value and dependability, as the fact that things had gone wrong almost from the moment Charles had died kept coming back. It was no good being told not to worry as long as Duggie was still held by the police. Charlotte Quinn had come on Thursday afternoon—God alone knew why—which could ruin everything. Jennifer Carrington’s fingers tightened round the necklace as she faced again the terrifying fact that she could be left alone and exposed, her lies torn to shreds, her guilt laid bare. But she could prove somebody else had lied as well.

The girl who answered the telephone next morning sounded bored and faintly irritated that she had been made to do some work.

‘Bradshaw’s Enquiry Agency.’

‘Is Mr Bradshaw there?’ Maltravers asked.

‘Yeah. Do you want to speak to him?’

‘No. I’m just wasting time and money on a long distance phone call to check on his movements.’

‘You what?’

‘Never mind, just put me through…hello? Gus Maltravers. We met at Laura Mazur’s party in Lancaster Gate last year. Remember? That’s right. I’ve got a job for you. If I give you the registration number of a car, can you find the name and address of the owner?’

‘Unless the vehicle licensing centre at Swansea has gone on strike,’ Bradshaw replied. ‘It’ll cost you though.’

‘I’m not worried about that. And once you’ve found it, I want some more information about the owner. How long would that take?’

‘Depends how much you want to know. There are a lot of computers. I can give you his credit rating instantly, but if you’re asking for his life history from his first measles jab to how much he’s earning in his current job and what his mortgage is, it takes longer. Twenty-four hours to be on the safe side.’

‘That’ll be fine, but don’t bother with too much detail. All I really need to know is how long he’s been at his present address, where he was before and what he does for a living.’

‘What’s the car number?’ Bradshaw sounded disappointed that the request was not more challenging.

‘XCX 345X,’ Maltravers told him, ‘I don’t know what make.’

‘That doesn’t matter. Where can I get back to you? Got it. I’ll call tomorrow morning.’

Lucinda raised her eyebrows at Tess as Maltravers rang off. ‘And this is the man who positively boasts of his ignorance about cars? How on earth did you remember that number?’

‘Pure chance,’ he replied. ‘On long journeys I often pass the time by playing the old game of making up words from number plates. The rule is that the letters must occur in the same order, but not necessarily together. The XCX combination caught my eye because it was a tough one and you may remember me saying ‘executrix’ as we left Carwelton Hall the other night. The 345 and the final X were easy after that and…’

He was interrupted by the phone ringing. It was Malcolm with the news that Duggie Lydden was appearing in court that morning.

‘They’re charging him.’ Maltravers put the receiver down. ‘The evidence must all be circumstantial, but it’s bloody strong and they daren’t let him go. He’s been very cleverly stitched up.’

He looked at bright autumn sunshine biting through the living-room window, then turned to Tess. ‘Anyway, there’s nothing I can do for the time being and it’s a perfect day for a drive round the Lakes. There’s a shop in Kendal I want to take you to as well.’

Half an hour later, Charlotte Quinn was obsessed with restless, acid thoughts when the shop bell tinkled. She steeled herself to face another customer, somehow acting as though everything was normal, when she saw it was Maltravers with a woman she did not know.

‘Hello, again,’ he said. ‘I promised I’d come back with Tess.’ Charlotte smiled with relief. At least with him she would not have to clamp a total strait-jacket around her emotions.

‘Of course you did. Are you interested in anything particular?’

‘A good deal, I imagine,’ Tess replied, looking round the shop. ‘I think I can do half my Christmas shopping here.’

She and Maltravers wandered round while Charlotte Quinn served other customers, but the shop was empty again as they went to pay for the things Tess had chosen.

‘That’s a hundred and fifty-four pounds thirty.’ Charlotte smiled thinly. ‘Call it a hundred and fifty.’

‘Discount on top of your prices?’ Tess commented in surprise as she handed over her credit card. ‘I’ve already saved a small fortune. Do you know how much this sort of thing costs in London?’

‘I could never charge that up here.’ Charlotte turned to Maltravers. ‘Anyway, I owe you a great deal. I don’t know how I’d have coped on Thursday afternoon if you hadn’t been there.’ Her face went bitter. ‘The pity is I didn’t meet you before and have you tell me I should talk to Charles. If I’d found the courage to do that sooner, it might never have happened. That’s what’s so awful. I keep telling myself…’

‘Then don’t,’ Maltravers interrupted firmly. ‘You’ve nothing to blame yourself for.’

‘Yes there is,’ she contradicted savagely. ‘You don’t know how much. Nobody does. Now it’s something I’ve got to…do you know what I can’t get out of my mind? What Sherlock Holmes says towards the end of Charles’s book. “Love destroys as often as it blesses.” You don’t expect lines like that in detective stories.’

While Charlotte Quinn had been talking, she had been absently playing with Tess’s credit card in her hand; now she automatically reached for the machine to process it. Maltravers and Tess felt uncomfortable as they watched tears slipping down her face as she completed the sale and put Tess’s purchases into green and gold Quintessence carrier bags. When she looked at them again, her eyes were empty and she seemed much older.

‘It’s been nice meeting you,’ she said to Tess. ‘I’m sorry I…’ She gestured helplessly, smearing her make-up as she rubbed a tear away.

‘Don’t apologise,’ Tess said gently. ‘Gus has told me about you and Charles. There’s nothing adequate to say, is there?’

‘No.’ Charlotte drew herself upright. ‘Thank you for not trying. People always feel they have to say something when they should just shut up. This is my problem and I’ll deal with it my way. Goodbye.’

As they walked away from Quintessence, Stricklandgate was full of the everyday bustle of the main street in a Lakeland market town. Traffic crawled noisily up the hill, people mingled on the pavements, a baby cried in a pram left outside a supermarket. Murder had inflicted drama, but they were all safely removed from its pain. Tess looked concerned as they made their way back to the car-park.

‘That is one very unhappy woman,’ she said. ‘Why didn’t you tell her what you think you could be on to?’

‘For one thing, I could be wrong,’ Maltravers replied. ‘But there’s more to it than that. When I first met Charlotte she was resentful, now she’s bitter. If it turns out I am right, I certainly don’t fancy telling her because then she’s going to be very angry indeed.’

They drove up to Keswick for lunch then went out of the town past Derwent Water into Borrowdale. Maltravers stopped in the shadow of the forbidding mass of Great Gable and they climbed its slopes until they could see the valley spread out before them, mottled greens and bracken browns, alternately lit and darkened by sunshine and scudding clouds. Tess lay back on short, tough, sheep-cropped grass beneath a crag of rock with Maltravers sitting beside her.

‘What do you think Charlotte will do if you’re right?’ she asked.

‘What would you do?’

Tess was silent for a moment. ‘First I’d weep. Then I’d wait until they released Jennifer Carrington. I wouldn’t care how many years it was.’

Maltravers twisted his head round and looked down at her.

‘And then?’

‘Then I think I’d kill her.’

‘That would be a long time to carry hate.’

‘I’d have a lot of hatred to carry.’

Late that afternoon, Charlotte Quinn stood in the drizzle outside a newsagents in Stricklandgate, reading the Lancashire Evening Post report of Lydden’s court appearance by the light from the shop window. People milled about her, but she was oblivious of their existence. A placard reading ‘Kendal Man on Murder Charge’ stood by the doorway. She felt the numbed unreality that accompanies the experience of seeing something dreadful in a newspaper about someone you know. The Post had pushed the reporting restrictions of the Criminal Justice Act as far as it dared.

‘Company director Douglas Keith Lydden, 44, appeared before Kendal magistrates today charged with the murder of Lancaster solicitor Charles Carrington.

Wearing a blue suit and open-necked shirt, the accused appeared in the dock between two police officers. No plea was entered, but when asked by chairman of the bench, Colonel Brian Harrison, if he had anything to say, Lydden replied in a clear voice: “I did not do it.”

Lydden, of 27 Ruskin Close, Kendal, who owns an interior design shop in Stricklandgate, was further charged with the theft of ten books and a number of papers from Mr Carrington’ s home at Carwelton Hall, Attwater and with possession of a shotgun without a current firearms certificate.

An application for bail was refused and the accused was remanded in custody for seven days after Mr Michael Imeson, prosecuting, told the court that police enquiries were continuing. Committal proceedings to the Crown Court are expected to begin next week.

Mr Carrington, 61, was found dead at his home from gunshot wounds last Thursday. He had been in practice as a solicitor in Lancaster for more than 30 years. His wife Jennifer was questioned by police after his death, but later released.’

Accompanying the report was a picture of Charles Carrington taken from a larger group photograph at a Lancashire Law Society dinner the previous year. Charlotte Quinn remembered the original, with Charles happily standing next to a smiling Jennifer in the middle of a group in evening dress. Now some sub-editor had brutally cut him out of the picture, separating him from the rest as the dead were removed from the living. As she started to read the report again, as though to convince herself that it was true, a couple walked out of the shop behind her.

‘Fancy that nice Mr Lydden being accused of murder!’ the woman said. ‘We bought those curtains from him only a few weeks ago. Let’s go and look at his shop. It’s just down this way.’

Charlotte Quinn quivered with fury as she watched them stop under the street lamp outside the closed door of Lakeland Interiors, peering through the darkened window. She wanted to run after them and physically shake them, screaming that ‘nice Mr Lydden’ was not fit to clean up vomit and had callously betrayed the man who had saved his business by jumping into bed with his tart of a wife. Let them think about that as they told their friends about who sold them their wretched and probably tasteless curtains. As the couple pointed in fascination at something in the window, glamorising pedestrian lives with someone else’s tragedy, she almost started to go after them.

‘Excuse me. Are you all right?’

Another man had come out of the newsagents and seen her, shuddering with emotion and face twisted with rage. She glared at him then ran back across the road to Quintessence. Her assistant looked up in alarm as she burst in, barging a customer aside as she rushed through and dashed upstairs to her flat. She slammed the door behind her and leaned against it, the newspaper crushed in her hand. She threw it down like something unclean as she clapped her hand to her retching mouth then ran into the bathroom and was sick.

Pale-faced, she returned to the living-room and poured a drink. As she sat recovering, swarming emotions began to overwhelm her. Not against Duggie Lydden; the courts would deal with him. It was the inescapable image of Jennifer Carrington that tortured her and boiled her anger. The woman who had wormed her way into the affections of a man she had then coldly cheated would now become the owner of Carwelton Hall. Charlotte Quinn’s gnawing resentment began to consume her with unforgiving loathing.

She remained in the flat until her assistant came up and said she had closed for the night. Dismissing questions about what was the matter, Charlotte sent the girl home then went down into the shop. On one shelf was a collection of hunting knives. It was a line she had not wanted to stock, but there had been repeated requests from tourists and at least she had bought the best. The one she selected was Swiss, its end fashioned like the curve of a quarter moon to a needle-sharp point. She stared for a long time at the six inches of tempered steel, shining slightly with a smear of oil, scraping her thumb against the honed fineness of the blade’s edge. The feeling that had been born when she saw Charles’s body was now fully formed and possessed her. She thrust the knife back into its stitched leather sheath and took it upstairs.

Telephone wedged between chin and shoulder, Maltravers scribbled swift notes as he listened to Bradshaw on Tuesday morning.

‘Geoffrey Martin Howard, aged thirty-five, address 307b Palatine Road, Didsbury, Manchester,’ he said. ‘Lived there for the past six years, immediate previous address his parents’ home in Stockport, Cheshire. Civil engineering student at the University of Manchester, Institute of Science and Technology but dropped out half-way through the course. Went to Africa for a year—there’s a smell of smuggling about that period—then came back. A couple of part-time jobs as a petrol station attendant and barman, but registered unemployed since 1983.’

‘Unemployed?’ Maltravers queried. ‘He looked affluent enough when I met him.’

‘He would,’ Bradshaw said caustically. ‘Naughty boy, your Mr Howard, with a nice little earner. He doesn’t need his dole money.’

‘What is it?’

‘Drug pushing. But my mate in Criminal Records says he’s too clever to be caught. He doesn’t deal with the street junkies any more—too fly for that. He supplies the respectable middle classes who think it’s all frightfully daring and a bit of fun. Stupid buggers.’

‘So he’s got the sort of customers who can look after him if necessary,’ Maltravers remarked.

‘You’ve got it,’ said Bradshaw. ‘They almost had him once but some high-powered city councillor—who’s also a JP incidentally—put a stop to it with a few words in the right ears. Howard’s been keeping him and his wife high for years. Anyway, that’s the guts of it. I didn’t bother with medical records or anything like that, but if you want…’

‘No,’ Maltravers interrupted. ‘You’ve given me more than enough already. Send your bill to me in London. Thanks a lot.’

He gave Bradshaw his home address then rang off and stood by the phone looking back through his notes. Tess tried to read them over his shoulder but his shorthand frustrated her.

‘Well?’ she asked.

‘He’s a clever liar. He used things that he’s actually done to provide a cover story. And Bradshaw’s just told me something else I didn’t expect, which…’ Maltravers idly corrected an outline, then turned to Lucinda. ‘When did Charles’s daughter die?’

‘Gillian? Five or six years ago.’

‘That’s too vague. I need the year and the month and the date as well if possible. Who’d know?’

Lucinda looked unsure. ‘People who’d been friends of Charles’s longer than us, but I don’t know many of them. Except Charlotte of course. She’d certainly remember.’

‘I’d rather not ask her. What about Alan Morris, your vicar? He’d known Charles for years hadn’t he?’

‘Yes, and…’ Lucinda stopped and gave a gesture of realisation. ‘You don’t need to ask anybody. You can read it for yourself on the gravestone. Gillian’s buried in Attwater churchyard.’

‘Buried? I thought all old village churchyards were full these days.’

‘There’s a Carrington family plot going back to who knows when,’ Lucinda explained. ‘There’s room for at least two more bodies in it.’

‘Whereabouts in the churchyard is it?’ Maltravers asked.

‘By the wall on the north side,’ Lucinda told him. ‘Right next to a monstrosity with weeping angels. You can’t miss it. But how is it going to help you?’

‘Because once I’ve got that date, Tess and I are going to Manchester to look something up,’ he replied. ‘I can’t be sure it’s going to work, but it’s worth a try.’

‘You’re still not going to tell the police?’ Lucinda asked.

He shook his head. ‘Not yet. Lydden’s been charged, which must mean the police are fairly certain of their ground and a new theory from me, which is not absolutely complete, is hardly likely to fill them with joy. They’ll have to investigate, but official procedures could take time. By this afternoon I could have tied up the loose ends and can hand the whole thing over to them.’

‘But aren’t you withholding evidence or something?’ Lucinda argued.

‘If I am, it’s still shaky evidence,’ he replied. ‘By the end of the day, it could be definite. A few enquiries in Manchester will sort it out and nothing’s lost in the meantime. Nobody’s going to run away while the police still have those books.’

In his office at Kendal police station, Lambert looked discontented as his slouched figure overflowed the sides of his chair.

‘I know Lydden’s type,’ he told Moore. ‘Guilty as Old Harry, but screams his innocence in the hope that some sharp defence counsel will get him off on a technicality.’

‘His lawyer keeps protesting it’s circumstantial, sir.’

Lambert grunted. ‘They only had circumstantial evidence that Nixon knew about Watergate. Anyway, we’ve got at least to give the impression that we think it still could be someone else, though God knows who it could be. How’s it going?’

‘The lads are checking on the names and addresses of all Charles Carrington’s known friends and associates which we drew up from his private address book, his secretary and his wife. They’ve been told to pay particular attention to anyone who says they’ve read this Sherlock Holmes book. I can’t see anything else we can do.’

‘Bloody waste of time. The sooner we can drop this and get more men on that rape enquiry in Penrith the better.’

Detective Constable Ian Drover was one of six officers assigned to further enquiries among Charles Carrington’s friends. As he drove to the first address, his mind constantly returned to his interview with the Reverend Morris. That morning he had almost asked Moore if he could speak to him and explain that…Drover shook his head in rejection. It was unthinkable. Among his earliest childhood memories was having tea at the vicarage and when his mother had been ill, Mr Morris had called in almost every day. It didn’t matter that…Drover reached his destination and pushed his worries to the back of his mind, but they haunted him throughout the rest of the day.

Eternally piled in strata of coffins, six generations of Carringtons lay in the double plot beneath a wind-blasted blackthorn tree against the granite wall of the little Attwater churchyard. Somewhere at the bottom was Emily Faith, who died in childbirth the year of the Great Exhibition; near the top lay Gillian Zoe, dead from another agony more than a century later. The column of corpses was a mute record of social change, the very names changing with the lifestyles. Immediately above Gillian’s name was that of her brother David which followed their mother. The grave was well tended, and Maltravers felt that Carrington had almost certainly paid some villager to keep it in order. It would have been an agony for him to have come to the spot which contained the bodies of so many he had loved, memories of vibrant lives shared made intolerable by carved records of tragic deaths.

‘Gillian died on her birthday,’ he commented as he and Tess looked at the gravestone. ‘She would have been twenty-four—which means she was actually older than Jennifer.’

‘And presumably Charles will be buried here as well.’ Tess shivered. ‘God this is depressing. Let’s get away from here.’

As they walked back to where Maltravers had parked in the lane, Alan Morris watched them from the front room of the vicarage. He recognised Maltravers, but Tess was a stranger and he wondered why they had been taking an interest in that particular grave.

‘Where first?’ Tess asked as Maltravers drove down the slip road on to the southbound carriageway of the M6.

‘Deansgate,’ he replied. ‘The Evening News offices to see what we can find there, then Sherratt & Hughes.’

It took less than an hour and a half to reach the city centre and Maltravers parked in the multi-storey near the Crown Court building. They walked past the old northern offices of the Daily Mail, now closed since the computer age and the accountants had moved all production to London, and into the Manchester Evening News where Maltravers asked to see Peter Harris, a colleague from his own earliest reporting days, now the paper’s Medical Correspondent. Having a contact short-circuited the system and they were taken straight to the editorial library where an assistant loaded the viewer for them with the microfilms for July and August 1984.

‘She died on the twenty-second of July and the inquest should have been during the next few weeks,’ Maltravers said as he wound the handle and the pages flickered across the screen. ‘Keep your eyes peeled.’

He only had to check through one edition to work out the editorial pattern, skipping past the national and foreign news, sport and feature pages and concentrating on the northern news sections. The first reference was a single paragraph stating that an inquest on Gillian Carrington had been opened and adjourned, then they found the full report three weeks later. Maltravers instinctively glanced at the final sentence; verdicts invariably appeared at the end.

‘Death by misadventure,’ he said, then went back to the beginning as Tess reached forward and pointed half-way down the column.

‘There he is.’ For a few moments they read in silence.

‘Same address Bradshaw gave me,’ Maltravers commented. ‘Described himself as an unemployed barman and last saw Gillian two weeks before they found her body. He knew she’d been an addict for some years.’

‘That’s it then,’ Tess said.

‘Just about,’ Maltravers agreed. ‘Let’s check Sherratt & Hughes.’

The shop was crowded when they walked in and Maltravers watched the transactions at the cash desk as they both idly flicked through books they took from the shelves. He selected the new Mary Wesley and went to pay for it with his credit card.

‘What do you think?’ Tess asked as they left.

‘It’s only negative proof, of course,’ he replied. ‘But that’s all I expected. If we can confirm the link, that’s it.’

‘Which means my little starring role,’ said Tess. ‘Let’s have lunch somewhere first.’

They drove out of the city centre to a restaurant in Didsbury which Maltravers remembered from his time in Manchester. After they had eaten, Tess went to the ladies room and Maltravers smiled appreciatively as she reappeared. She had wound her hair up in a bun style she never wore and her features had been flattened by skilfully applied make-up. She spoke to the waiter as she crossed the room and her natural London voice had totally changed, not to obvious broad northern but to the accent of the Cheshire county set, vowels subtly widened, the ‘G’ at the end of the present participles faintly audible.

‘The rehearsal went well,’ Maltravers remarked, nodding at the waiter as she sat down again. ‘He’s trying to work out why I’m having lunch with two different women.’

‘So you don’t think anybody will recognise me?’ Tess asked.

‘Darling, I don’t recognise you,’ he replied. ‘Come on, let’s get to Palatine Road.’

As Maltravers had expected from the address, the detached house in the suburbs was a typical home of an Industrial Revolution businessman, originally big enough to accommodate an entire Victorian family and servants, now converted, like its neighbours, into flats. The garden at the front had been concreted over to provide car-parking, but the rest of the property was well preserved with new maroon paint on the woodwork and the front door’s flower pattern of leaded stained-glass intact.

‘Upmarket flats,’ he commented as they looked at the house from the opposite side of the road. ‘Too many of these places haven’t been looked after properly. All right, know your lines?’

‘Naturally,’ Tess replied. ‘I’m looking up an old friend called Jennifer Davenport and this is the last address I’ve got for her. When he says he’s never heard of her, I ask if he knows of anyone called Jennifer who’s lived here because she might have got married and have a different surname. After that, I hope for the best.’

‘Not a plan with any guarantee of success, but he might let something slip out and it’s worth trying as long as we’re here,’ said Maltravers. ‘I’ll wait round the corner past those traffic lights. I don’t want to risk him seeing me. Good luck.’

Tess got out and heard Maltravers drive away as she crossed the road and walked up to the house. There were five bells set in a two-way intercom next to the front door and she pressed the one with Howard’s name beside it on a strip of card. There was no reply. She tried twice more without success then examined the rest of the names. One of the cards looked much older than the rest and when she pressed the button a voice echoed out of the loudspeaker.

‘Who is it?’ Distorted and tinny, the voice still sounded friendly. Tess leaned forward.

‘I’m sorry to trouble you, but…’

More than an hour and a half later, an increasingly anxious Maltravers saw her appear round the corner. He reached across and let the passenger door swing open as she approached.

‘You are aware that soliciting is an offence are you, sir?’ She looked stern as she bent down and peered at him. ‘I am a plainclothes police officer and…’

‘Stop clowning about. I was getting worried.’

Tess climbed in beside him and he looked at her enquiringly.

‘I’ve been talking to a retired headmistress called Miss Ashton,’ she explained. ‘She’s eighty-three years old and has a Pekinese called Loo-Che, smokes Capstan Full Strength, would you believe, and serves Bath Olivers and Earl Grey to complete strangers. She’s marvellous.’

‘Fascinating,’ said Maltravers caustically. ‘I’m delighted you enjoyed yourself. Did you happen to find anything out as well?’

‘Oh, yes,’ Tess told him with affected casualness. ‘She knows that Geoffrey Howard has gone to London for a few days because he asked her to keep his post for him…and she remembers his girlfriend very well. But she doesn’t think she was called Jennifer Davenport. Something like Boyd, she thinks it was.’

‘Lloyd,’ said Maltravers triumphantly. ‘We’ve cracked it. But what’s he gone to London for?’

‘According to Miss Ashton, he often goes there on business. He’s connected with Far Eastern imports in some way.’

‘Imports of white powder in plastic bags.’ Maltravers glanced at Tess. ‘Do you think your Miss Ashton realises that?’

‘No,’ Tess said firmly. ‘She thinks he’s a very charming young man. I quote. He must put up a good act.’

‘He does,’ Maltravers confirmed. ‘I’ve seen it.’

Tess leaned across and kissed him on the cheek. ‘All right, who’s a clever boy then? Now stop looking so damned smug. Let’s go back and tell it all to the police and they can give you a putty medal.’

‘I think we might make one final call before that,’ he replied. ‘Just for the fun of it.’

Tess glanced at him sharply. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘I’ll tell you on the way back.’

As Maltravers drove over the soaring motorway bridge crossing the Manchester Ship Canal, they heard a radio traffic report that a lorry had shed its load south of Preston and there were already long tailbacks building up ahead of them. They wound through coils of overlapping roads spun round the edges of the city before joining an endless line of traffic which crawled with agonising slowness before everything stopped; the radio announced that queues were now stretching back for six miles and drivers should try alternative routes. Maltravers swore.

‘We’ll go off at the next exit, assuming we ever reach it,’ he said. ‘It’ll be slower through the towns, but at least we’ll keep moving.’

‘How long will it take?’ Tess asked.

Maltravers stepped out of the car and peered as far as he could along the stationary vehicles ahead of them. He glanced at his watch as he got back in.

‘We should make it by about eight o’clock with a bit of luck,’ he said. ‘Good job there’s no panic.’

Standing rigidly to attention, Ian Drover was petrified as Lambert slouched behind his desk like a brooding Buddha, silently considering everything he had now been told about the interview with Alan Morris. Next to his chief, Donald Moore looked grim.

‘One whole hour from three thirty he won’t tell us about?’ Lambert repeated. He sounded like someone who had just learned that Margaret Thatcher had turned up after a secret flight to Moscow and confessed to having been a lifelong agent for the KGB. ‘Says it was confidential? And you accepted it?’

‘It was a private matter involving one of his parishioners,’ Drover explained. He was too nervous to see that Lambert’s apparent calm was on a hair trigger. ‘He told me he gave his word that he would never divulge anything about it to anyone, sir.’

Lambert looked at the young constable as though he could not believe he existed. ‘Somebody come down with AIDS have they? Or is the Reverend Morris having his end away with the verger’s wife? Or one of the bloody choirboys?’ His voice exposed the edge of anger as it emerged out of his incredulity that any CID officer could be so naive and disobedient.

‘Mr Morris is…’ Drover looked helplessly at Moore for support but the sergeant stared back icily. ‘You’re not local, sir. Anyone will tell you what sort of a man he is. He’d never do anything that…he’s a member of the Rotary Club!’

‘I don’t care if he’s on first name terms with the Princess of bloody Wales!’ Lambert bellowed. ‘He’s got a bleeding great gap in his movements at the time of the murder! And you let him get away with trying to bring the sanctity of the confessional into it! Why the hell didn’t you report this before?’

Lambert glowered like a raging bull re-gathering strength for another charge as Drover looked down at his shoes.

‘I didn’t think it was important,’ he mumbled.

‘You didn’t think it was important.’ Lambert let every word drop separately, like bricks on a tin tray. Drover flinched and stepped back as the superintendent stood up like the wrath of God. For a moment he thought his boss was going to physically assault him.

‘There is a man in the nick the police have brought charges against and now I find there could be another suspect.’ Lambert’s voice was a fuse hissing towards dynamite. ‘But because Mr Morris used to pat you on the head after church when you were a kid, you decided he has to be innocent. You’ve deliberately ignored evidence because you don’t want to believe it. How the hell did they let you into the CID, Drover?’ A very short pause followed the question, then the dynamite exploded. ‘Because you’re not bloody well staying there! You’re suspended! And if they ever let you back, you’ll be lucky if they put you in charge of a fucking school-crossing patrol on a Sunday! Now get out of here!’

The shattered detective constable looked as though he had been hit by a falling house as he instinctively saluted in nervous terror and left. The door closed and Lambert crashed back into his chair, putting his head in his hands.

‘Why did you send him to see Morris?’ he asked bleakly.

‘I’m sorry, sir.’ Moore looked uncomfortable. ‘He volunteered and I thought a local man might be best. He’s fairly new to the CID, but he’s got a good record and I never thought that…’

‘Then think next time,’ Lambert’s face appeared wearily from behind the great hams of his hands. ‘Never send a villager to the village. And if that little prat’s religious beliefs have landed us in it, then St Michael and all his bloody angels won’t be able to save him from me.’

‘But what sort of motive is there for Morris?’ Moore argued. ‘He’d known Carrington for years and it can’t have been money because…’

‘They pay us to find out things like that, sergeant,’ Lambert interrupted. ‘And even the Archbishop of Canterbury doesn’t get away with lines like Morris is using. See him again—and you go this time. Either he comes up with a full explanation of what he was up to for that hour or he’ll have to come here and have a little chat with me. I want you back here in an hour, either with him or a satisfactory story.’

As Moore was leaving the office, Lambert spoke again.

‘I still think it’s Lydden,’ he said. ‘And I don’t want to have made a mistake and have him able to come up with a charge of wrongful arrest.’

In Stricklandgate, Charlotte Quinn sat in her flat, slowly turning the pages of a photograph album on the table in front of her. The hunting knife lay alongside a bell-bottomed ship’s decanter from which she steadily drank neat vodka. There were pictures of herself and her family on holiday with the Carringtons in the Algarve fifteen years earlier; the children in the swimming pool; herself and her husband on the beach with Margaret; Charles laughing at the camera as he was caught off guard eating a watermelon on the patio of the villa. Six of those people in the pictures, all of whom she had loved in different ways, were now dead while Jennifer Carrington was still alive, young, happy and about to become very rich. She would be as indifferent to her lover being jailed for life as she was to him having murdered her own husband; Lydden had been a meaningless sex object and she had never been a wife in any sense Charlotte Quinn could accept.

She slammed the album shut as bitter memories and coruscating resentment became unbearable. Wracked by all-consuming, disorientating hatred, she moaned and bent forward, hands clutched to her abdomen.

‘Charles,’ she whispered. ‘Oh my darling, darling Charles.’

She raised weeping eyes to where the unsheathed blade of the hunting knife shone like a sacrificial dagger on the altar of demanding gods.

‘Reverend…Morris.’ Lambert’s voice dropped an octave between the title and the surname as he examined Moore’s report without looking up. ‘When I was at school, they taught us about something called benefit of clergy. Very useful it was. If you could read, they didn’t hang you.’

Lambert raised his enquiring, bullfrog of a face, the ball-bearing eyes piercing like lasers.

‘However, I happen to remember my teacher telling me it was abolished in 1827, so it doesn’t concern us. What were you doing between half past three and half past four last Thursday afternoon?’

‘I have already explained to your sergeant that I can see no reason to tell you, superintendent.’ Morris returned Lambert’s stare without flinching. ‘You have my assurance that it was not connected with the murder of Charles Carrington. That ought to be sufficient.’

Lambert leaned across the desk, his fingers interlocking.

‘It would be for some. It satisfied DC Drover.’ Morris looked away. ‘But, you see, I’m a Methodist. Now we’ve got a number of options. I could arrest you on suspicion and haul you up before a magistrate. We could call your solicitor so that he can explain the law to you. I could waste time making enquiries in Attwater…or you could tell me.’ Lambert smiled. ‘Let’s go for that.’

Morris sighed and closed his eyes. He had had nightmares about this moment.

Lowry’s industrial Lancashire of smoking mills, corner tripe shops and cramped back-to-back terraces where the front room was kept ‘for best’ or ham sandwich funerals had almost disappeared. As they drove through the old cotton towns, Maltravers found the functional tower blocks and endless anonymous estates with a token presence of trees and the mustard glare of street lights on concrete posts in many ways more depressing than what they had replaced. The indigenous echoes of George Formby’s ukulele and Gracie Fields’s soprano had faded completely, swamped by electronic disco music in dazzling multi-coloured neon caverns, indistinguishable from a thousand other towns. A gritty north country individuality had been lost in carbon copy modern shopping centres with homogenous supermarkets and bleak new pubs where Muzak seeped out of flocked wallpaper. There had been a harsh, tough romance about wooden clogs clattering along cobbled back alleys and tin baths in front of the black lead grate in the kitchen; however grim it had been, it had at least had a personality. Now there was hot and cold water from cheap chromium taps, colour television and the mill girls’ granddaughters played bingo in Majorca.

‘Charles Carrington’s last journey,’ he remarked as they re-joined the M6 beyond Lancaster. ‘Of course, nobody was supposed to find the body until Jennifer got home in the evening, but Charlotte must have arrived minutes after it happened. They must have been worrying about that. The idea was that Duggie Lydden would have needed an alibi to cover several hours, which can be almost impossible. Having the murder pinned down to within half an hour or so was very different.’

‘But he still can’t have had one.’

‘Obviously not, but murder plans that go adrift right from the start don’t make for peace of mind.’

‘Are you sure about what you’re doing when we get back?’ Tess asked uncertainly. ‘You’ve got everything you need to go to the police.’

‘Of course I’m going to the police,’ he said. ‘Eventually. But after all I’ve done, I think I deserve the satisfaction of trying to dig out a confession myself first. There’s no risk. Trust me.’

There were lights showing as they passed Carwelton Hall and Jennifer Carrington’s car was in the drive.

‘Malcolm and Lucinda will have been wondering how we’ve gone on, so we’ll tell them first then come back,’ Maltravers said. ‘After that the police can have the whole lot with my compliments.’

Malcolm had just returned from working late at the office and he and Lucinda listened in fascination as Maltravers explained how he and Tess had confirmed the final pieces of the story.

‘This is going to be one hell of a court case.’ Malcolm shook his head in disbelief as Maltravers finished. ‘Would you write a backup piece for the Chronicle when it’s over?’

‘I think I’d like to do that,’ Maltravers agreed. ‘And I may be able to make it an even better read with one last thing. Jennifer is still at Carwelton Hall and I’m going to see her.’

‘What?’ Malcolm sounded alarmed. ‘You’re not going to face her with it are you?’

‘Of course not, the police can do that,’ Maltravers assured him, straight-faced. ‘But it would be interesting to see if an idle chat reveals anything to fill in the odd corner.’

‘But what’s your excuse?’ Malcolm argued. ‘She’ll be suspicious if you just turn up for no reason.’

‘I’ve got the perfect reason. I promised Charles Carrington I would return The Attwater Firewitch and I’m giving it back to his widow. It’s presumably her property now. Tess can come with me and we’ll see what happens…if anything.’

Maltravers parked on the road beyond the bend outside Carwelton Hall half an hour later.

‘There’s no point in taking the car in, we won’t be staying long,’ he remarked as they walked back.

‘For the last time, I think you’re mad,’ Tess said warningly as he opened the gate and they stepped on to the drive. Ahead of them, several downstairs lights were on and there was a glow from behind the curtains at a bedroom window. ‘We should be going straight to the police. Your taste for the theatrical will get you into trouble one day.’

‘But not this evening,’ he said confidently. ‘Howard’s in London, probably collecting another consignment of drugs, while Jennifer waits for Duggie Lydden to be sentenced then they take off with the loot. I think I’ve earned tonight’s little indulgence.’

Jennifer Carrington looked nervous as she opened the front door, then invited them in and took them through to the sitting-room.

‘We’re going back to London at the weekend,’ Maltravers added after he had introduced Tess. ‘I wasn’t sure how long you’d be here, so I thought I’d better return this to you while I had the chance. I promised Charles I’d bring it back.’

‘Oh, of course. I’d forgotten you had it,’ Jennifer Carrington took the envelope containing the Conan Doyle photocopy. ‘The police still have the books, but my solicitor says I should get them back soon…would you like a drink?’

‘Thank you.’ Maltravers watched as she walked across to the drinks cabinet. ‘One of Malcolm’s reporters has heard that Duggie Lydden’s shotgun has been found. Did you know?’

Jennifer Carrington paused fractionally, but did not turn round. ‘No. Where was it?’

‘Hidden somewhere near his house apparently. The fact that they’ve charged him suggests they must have proved it was the murder weapon…’ Maltravers shrugged. ‘Perhaps he’ll tell the truth eventually.’

‘I hope so.’ She poured the drinks and handed them their glasses. ‘I never knew anyone could hate as much as he does. He seems determined to mix me up in it somehow.’

‘What are you going to do?’ Tess asked. ‘When it’s all over. Will you stay here?’

‘I don’t know at the moment. I’ve got a lot of good memories in this house, but…’ she gestured helplessly. ‘I’ll have to think about it.’

‘I was wondering if you might go back to Manchester,’ Maltravers said. ‘You must have friends there.’

‘Not many…and nobody special.’ Jennifer Carrington turned away to put her glass down as she replied. ‘I might leave England altogether and try to start again.’

She appeared guarded as they talked casually for another few minutes, then Maltravers finished his drink and stood up.

‘We must go,’ he said. ‘We just came to return the manuscript while you were here and say goodbye.’ He held out his hand. ‘I haven’t had the chance to tell you how sorry I am about what’s happened. I hardly knew Charles, but I liked him.’

Jennifer Carrington lowered her head as she took his hand, touching only the ends of his fingers.

‘He was a wonderful man,’ she said softly. ‘I loved him very much.’

‘Could I ask one thing before we leave?’ Tess said. ‘Gus has told me about how he worked out the combination for the safe. May I see it?’ She looked hesitant. ‘No, I’m sorry. It will upset you and…’

‘It’s all right,’ Jennifer Carrington interrupted. ‘I’m very grateful to him for that. It’s something I couldn’t have known. Come on through.’

They followed her across the hall and into the library where Maltravers demonstrated how the figures from the Sherlock Holmes story unfastened the lock. But this time it did not work.

‘I must have got one of the numbers wrong,’ he said. ‘Could you get the manuscript? You left it on the table in the other room. As long as I open this quickly enough, the alarm won’t go off.’

As Jennifer Carrington walked out, he rapidly spun the dial and opened the safe, putting something from his pocket on the shelf before relocking the door. When she came back, he went through the pantomime of consulting the manuscript and repeating the operation.

‘Quod erat demonstrandum,’ he said to Tess, opening the door again. ‘Which means that Duggie Lydden must have read…hello, what’s this?’

He reached inside the safe and took out the envelope he had placed there moments before, turning to Jennifer Carrington quizzically.

‘Surely the police would have noticed this,’ he said. ‘Or did you put it there yourself afterwards? It has your name on.’

‘What? But it was empty when…let me see that.’

She snatched the envelope from him and tore it open then read the single sheet of paper inside.

‘What does it say?’ Maltravers asked quietly.

‘“It has long been an axiom of mine that the little things are infinitely the most important”.’ Jennifer Carrington stared at him in bewilderment. ‘What does it mean? How did it get there?’

‘I put it there,’ he said. ‘The quotation is from Conan Doyle, who keeps cropping up.’

There was sudden alarm in Jennifer Carrington’s face.

‘What are you talking about?’ she demanded.

‘Murder of course,’ Maltravers replied quietly. ‘And a very clever murder at that. Whose idea was it in the first place?’

‘What do you mean, whose idea?’ Jennifer Carrington’s alarm was deepening to panic. ‘You know that Duggie killed Charles. For God’s sake you helped to prove it.’

‘Yes, I did, didn’t I?’ he agreed. ‘With my brilliant discovery about this safe combination. That was one of the things you were counting on wasn’t it? If I hadn’t done it, you’d have had to find another way to bring it out. However, I’ve now seen my mistake.’

Jennifer Carrington controlled herself with a visible effort.

‘Look, I don’t know what you think you’re doing. But I’ve been through more than enough the past few days with people being unkind to me without sick jokes. Now just get out of here and leave me alone. Both of you.’

She stalked to the library door and stood next to it, implicitly ordering them out. Neither of them moved.

‘It’s no good, Jennifer,’ Maltravers told her. ‘We know that Duggie Lydden didn’t kill Charles…and we also know who did.’

For a moment she stared at him coldly then turned to Tess. ‘Will you make him leave?’

‘There’s no point,’ Tess told her. ‘We know an awful lot.’

‘Even that it all started a long time ago when Geoffrey Howard met Gillian Carrington,’ Maltravers added.

Jennifer Carrington’s eyes flashed back to him in horror then her face flared with anger.

‘You’re mad!’ she shouted. ‘Now just get out!’

Maltravers glanced at Tess then picked up the telephone on the desk beside him. ‘We’re wasting our time. I’ll ring the police from here.’ As he lifted the receiver, Jennifer Carrington screamed.

‘Geoffrey!’

The sound of footsteps racing down the stairs mixed with the clatter of Maltravers dropping the instrument.

‘I thought you said he was in London!’

He pushed Jennifer Carrington roughly to one side as he leapt across to the doorway and tried to slam it closed but it flew open, sending him staggering backwards as Howard burst in. Jennifer Carrington ran to his side, throwing her arms round him. Seeing what he was holding, Maltravers moved to stand by Tess.

‘What’s going on?’ Howard demanded.

‘We were just having a little chat about murder,’ Maltravers replied with as much calmness as he could manage. ‘I wish I’d known you were here or I’d have been more careful.’

‘What’s he talking about?’ Howard asked Jennifer.

‘He’s guessed something somehow.’ She sobbed in terror. ‘He was just going to call the police.’

‘For God’s sake, I warned you we shouldn’t have come here,’ Tess murmured. ‘That thing looks real.’

Standing next to the slight figure of Jennifer Carrington exaggerated Howard’s formidable build and the menace was heightened by the revolver in his hand. Maltravers had never been threatened with a gun before—he could not even remember ever having seen one—and he found that the blue-black end of the barrel carried a hypnotic fascination. Simply going straight to the police would have been considerably safer and more sensible. Geoffrey Howard and Jennifer Carrington had already committed one carefully planned and premeditated murder and were now in an isolated house with no witnesses, where they could kill again and run. If it had not been so terrifyingly real, it would have been a farcical recreation of a moth-eaten cliché.

‘How much do you know?’ Howard asked him.

‘Enough.’ Maltravers’s mind raced as he indicated the revolver. ‘And that won’t help you. I’ve told Malcolm and Lucinda Stapleton and they know we’ve come here tonight. If the police find two more bodies in this house you won’t be able to explain them away.’

He waited anxiously, reflecting that it sounded like another ancient formula, as Howard remained silent. It could be an hour or more before Malcolm and Lucinda became concerned. He stiffened as Howard worked that out for himself.

‘We won’t be here.’ He turned to Jennifer Carrington. ‘Go and pack and we’ll catch a night flight from Manchester. We’ll be miles away before they find these two. Hurry up.’

‘And leave the books behind?’ Maltravers was frantically grasping at any argument he could think of. ‘That was the point of all this.’

‘Of course it was.’ Howard shrugged. ‘But we can’t do anything about that now can we? We’ll settle for the jewellery. That’s worth enough.’

Maltravers felt Tess take hold of his hand and squeeze it very hard; he realised that their palms were sweating. As he tried to think, his mind was insanely screaming that both of them were within minutes of death. He was obsessed with the thought that the situation was the result of his own conceit and he had only himself to blame; but Tess, who had tried to warn him, would die as well, which was intolerable.

‘Think a minute,’ he said urgently. ‘You planned Charles’s murder and you can still get away with it—we’re in no position to stop you now. But do you really want to risk two more murders? You could lock us up somewhere in this place and still give yourselves time to get away.’

Howard looked at him for what seemed a very long time, then turned to Jennifer Carrington. ‘Is there anywhere?’

‘They wouldn’t be able to get out of the cellar,’ she said. ‘And we could tie them up.’

Had Maltravers been more detached, he would have had time to be fascinated that in such circumstances the mind of an agnostic could farcically throw up the name of St Barbara, patron saint of those in danger of sudden death. Waiting for Howard to decide, he put it down to some form of internal hysteria, but slipped in some sort of jumbled prayer.

‘All right,’ Howard said finally then turned to Jennifer Carrington. ‘But we’ll make absolutely sure. Get my stuff from upstairs.’

‘What stuff?’ Maltravers, who had felt a swarm of relief as Howard had agreed, had a sick feeling that he knew.

‘Heroin. Not enough to kill you, but you’ll be in no state to talk to anybody for a long time. Don’t worry.’ Howard smiled sourly. ‘I know what I’m doing. You’ll be all right—eventually.’

‘Oh, Christ,’ Tess whispered.

Maltravers had a hideous image of Howard holding the revolver against Tess’s head as Jennifer Carrington made the first injection into his own arm. What it would be like after that was impossible to conceive but, faced with the threat of death, he discovered that you leapt at anything that offered survival. He was desperately trying to think of some argument to change Howard’s mind when the front doorbell rang.

‘Don’t answer it,’ Howard told Jennifer Carrington sharply. ‘They’ll go away.’

‘I doubt it,’ Maltravers put in hastily. ‘Her car’s in the drive and there are lights on all over the place.’

‘They’ll go away,’ Howard repeated confidently.

At least it bought them time; Howard would surely not shoot while there was someone outside who might hear. As they waited in silence, Maltravers moved slightly so that Tess was on his left. If he could push her to one side then dive at Howard’s feet, perhaps the bullet would go wide and he could…Howard gestured slightly with the gun, indicating they should move apart and stepped back, leaving an impossible distance between himself and Maltravers. The bell rang again.

‘Are you expecting anyone?’ Howard asked quietly. Jennifer Carrington shook her head. ‘All right, they’ll get fed up eventually.’

Maltravers began to wonder how calm Howard really was. The hand holding the gun had twitched fractionally at the second ring of the bell. Would whoever it was outside hear if he shouted loudly enough? It would almost certainly mean Howard would shoot him, but in the panic that would follow Tess might somehow escape. Permutations of possible results rattled through his mind. Would Howard shoot Tess immediately then rush out to deal with the visitor in the same way? Or would he dash straight to the front door first? Howard raised the revolver and held it towards them, extended hands clasped rigidly in front of him. Suddenly he seemed chillingly controlled.

Silence stretched through the room then it was broken by the bell again, but this time it rang endlessly. The shrill single note drilled on and on, seeming to grow louder and more insistent as it filled every corner of the house. After half a minute, Howard became agitated.

‘For fuck’s sake get rid of them!’ he snapped. ‘Go on!’

Jennifer Carrington left the library and closed the door. The bell kept ringing. Howard mouthed the words ‘keep quiet’ at Maltravers then swung the gun in a slight arc towards Tess. He would shoot her first. In the hall the relentless noise abruptly stopped and there was an echoing quiet. They heard voices but the words were muffled, then a woman shouted and there was the sound of something falling as Jennifer Carrington screamed Howard’s name again.

Maltravers tensed as Howard jerked his head round, keeping the gun raised. Almost immediately there was another shriek, this time of pain. Howard grabbed hold of the door and opened it; Jennifer Carrington was on the floor of the hall, struggling to free herself from another figure. Howard hesitated for a second then dashed towards them and Maltravers leapt through the library door after him, hurling one leg forwards to trip him up. He was half aware of the gun clattering across the parquet floor and Tess racing past as he clawed at Howard, then he was desperately trying to grab hold of the man when there was a thundering explosion and huge shards of clattering glass cascaded down from the frame of a portrait on one wall. A bullet hole piercing his neck, Sir Francis Carrington, JP stared impassively at the tableau of shocked and paralysed figures. Maltravers scrambled to his feet and ran over to Tess.

‘Noisy but effective,’ he grasped, glancing up at the portrait as he took the revolver from her limp and shaking hand. ‘Good shot.’

‘Don’t be stupid!’ Her voice was trembling. ‘The bloody thing just went off!’

Maltravers whirled round and pointed the gun at Howard as he heard him start to move.

‘I haven’t much idea about how these things work, but at this range the odds are against you,’ he warned, fervently hoping Howard would not call his bluff. If he had to shoot, he could end up hitting anything or anybody, including himself. ‘Tess, call the police and we’ll need an ambulance as well.’

As Tess went back into the library, Maltravers crossed to Charlotte Quinn, lying dazed just inside the front door. He stooped and removed the hunting knife from limp fingers. Jennifer Carrington groaned on the floor next to her, clasped hands trying to staunch the blood flowing from her thigh. Watching Howard carefully, Maltravers helped Charlotte to a chair. She glared at him resentfully.

‘Why didn’t you let me kill her? She’s going to have everything.’

‘No she’s not,’ he promised. ‘She’ll never get Carwelton Hall or anything in it.’

Howard had moved next to Jennifer, cradling her head in one arm, vivid crimson spreading through the handkerchief he was holding against her wound. Tess came back into the hall.

‘See if you can find some bandages,’ Maltravers told her. ‘Try in the bathroom.’ Howard looked up at him with loathing as Tess went upstairs.

‘All right, you clever bastard. How did you get on to us?’

‘Just two little mistakes,’ Maltravers told him. ‘And you made both of them. Sherlock Holmes helped me see them.’

‘I’m not in the mood for jokes,’ Howard snapped.

‘None of us is,’ said Maltravers feelingly. ‘However, I’m not joking. It happened after dinner the other evening, although I didn’t spot anything at the time. When you walked in front of me through that library door, you didn’t bang your head like I did, and you’re taller than I am. How did you know you had to duck if you hadn’t been here before? Charles can’t have warned you or he’d have called the same thing to me. Then, as you were leaving, you went left out of the gates instead of right towards the motorway. You can learn a lot during ten years in Nigeria, but not the safest way to turn out of Carwelton Hall because of the bend.

‘The door was like the dog in Conan Doyle’s story Silver Blaze, where Holmes makes the famous observation that it failed to bark in the night—something that should have happened but didn’t. When you left, you did it in reverse. Something you shouldn’t have done, you did.’

Tess came downstairs with a roll of bandages and gave it to Howard who tore open Jennifer Carrington’s skirt from the gash the knife had made and began to wind the material round the cut. She had fainted. Tess crossed the hall and put her arm around Charlotte Quinn. Howard ripped the end of the bandage apart and tied it before raising his face to Maltravers defiantly.

‘Is that all you’ve got?’ he asked scornfully. ‘Accusing me of murder because I didn’t bang my head and how I drove out of the gate? You’re out of your mind.’

‘Believe that if you want,’ Maltravers replied indifferently. ‘You’ll find out how much more I know eventually. In the meantime you’d better start thinking up an explanation both for threatening to kill us just now and that heroin you’ve got upstairs.’

He turned to Charlotte Quinn. ‘You shouldn’t have come here tonight. Would it have made things any better?’

‘It would for her,’ Tess told him sharply. ‘I’ve done the wrong thing for the right reasons before now. Anyway, she saved our lives. We shouldn’t have come either.’

‘I know,’ Maltravers agreed. ‘But Howard might have killed her if we hadn’t done.’

Alan Morris had discovered that, planted in forgotten childhood, some deep-rooted personal belief in what constituted sin denied him the final shield of untruth. Whatever else he could do, he was finally unable to lie. Lambert’s professional instincts had recognised the weakness and relentlessly exploited it, cutting off each avenue of prevarication and escape until defeat was wearily accepted. As the whole story poured out with increasing willingness and a perverse sense of relief, the room had turned into a confessional.

Once the barriers were breached, Morris appeared compelled to confess everything. Eyes glittering with increasing excitement, he began with the four horses backed in an accumulator bet on the afternoon of the murder, the winnings from one passing on to the next. First a winner at 100-8, then another at evens, followed by a terrifyingly close 15-4 by half a length. Then the 20-1 outsider, agonisingly trailing in fifth as Morris had listened to the commentary in a betting shop. Five thousand desperate pounds, multiplying with ecstatic promise of deliverance until it vanished in the mud of Doncaster. The all-consuming thrill had possessed Morris again as he talked, the compulsion to re-taste the intoxication of what might have been growing irresistible. For another hour he went back over years secretly filled with alternate elation of victory and growing despair of loss. He had stopped abruptly, staring at Lambert in disbelief as though unable to grasp what had happened. It had taken the suspicion of being a murderer to drive him to admit that he was a compulsive gambler, that the respectable, correct vicar was the helpless victim of a terrible sickness. His façade had crumbled and Lambert was left facing a bewildered man stripped of his reputation, withered by his weakness. The vicar had looked at his confessor in supplication, but there could be no absolution.

‘Whose money was it, Mr Morris?’

There was a very long silence.

‘I think I would like to make a statement.’

With its immediate comprehension of the situation, Lambert’s quietly-spoken question had torn away the last shreds of Alan Morris’s spurious self-delusion; the tired reply had acknowledged his own destruction.

He had been released with a warning that there would be further police enquiries and Lambert’s incredulity had been mixed with an overwhelming relief that Duggie Lydden was still his man. As he learned about the events at Carwelton Hall, he began to rumble like a volcano. Jennifer Carrington had been taken to hospital where the police were waiting until she could be questioned. The others were giving their statements and the spectre of wrongful arrest reappeared.

‘That bugger again?’ he exploded when he heard Maltravers’s name. ‘First he tells us about seeing Lydden’s car and then comes up with the story of the safe combination. Now this. Is he a private detective or something?’

‘No, sir. He’s a writer,’ Moore told him.

‘What of? Bloody fairy-tales?’ Lambert’s giant goblin features, never attractive, twisted into hideous fury. ‘Where is he?’

He rolled tank-like through the corridors to the interview room where Maltravers had just completed his statement. The gargantuan detective picked it up and read it for himself then looked at him with distaste.

‘You’ve been putting yourself about a bit haven’t you?’ he said. ‘How did you find all this out?’

‘Inspiration, guesswork and luck,’ Maltravers replied. ‘Some of the details you’ll have to get from Geoffrey Howard and Jennifer Carrington, but I’ve filled in as much as I can.’

‘And you’re saying they killed Charles Carrington?’ Lambert’s tone defied him to agree.

‘Yes. And they fitted up Lydden as what our American friends call a patsy beforehand. I inadvertently helped strengthen the case against him by seeing the connection between the safe combination and the Sherlock Holmes book.’

Lambert sank into a chair like a half-set jelly. ‘You’ve got a gift for theories, my friend. Just go over this little lot for me. We’ve got all night if necessary.’

‘It won’t take that long,’ Maltravers assured him. ‘It began when Howard met Gillian Carrington in Manchester. Probably he was her supplier. She must have told him about the Conan Doyle books and the safe combination. After she died, Howard decided to get those books.

‘I don’t know how long he’d known Jennifer, but he was certainly her boyfriend before she became a secretary at Carrington’s firm. Obviously the first part of their plan was that she should marry him if possible, which turned out to be easier than they expected. She then started the affair with Lydden because he was stupid enough for what they wanted.’

Lambert sat with the stillness of a soporific gorilla, but needle sharp eyes burned as he listened.

‘The murder was very intricate,’ Maltravers went on. ‘Jennifer set off for Manchester all right, but returned shortly afterwards. She may have driven to Forton services on the M6 where Howard could have picked her up and brought her back in his car in case anyone spotted her red Fiesta. He’d spent the first part of the morning in the city buying things at busy shops and using her cash card at the bank to start building up her story that she’d been there all day.

‘When Lydden arrived at Carwelton Hall at lunchtime she was there just as he said and they went to bed. That would have given Howard time to go to Lydden’s house—Jennifer obviously lied about losing the key he gave her—and steal his shotgun. At the same time, he could have hidden the Conan Doyle books there.’

‘Just a minute,’ Lambert interrupted. ‘How do you know where the police found the books? We haven’t revealed that.’

‘Jennifer Carrington told me. When she came to Brook Cottage after you released her, all sorts of things came out, almost certainly aimed at putting her in the clear and making things difficult for Lydden.’

Lambert grunted, temporarily retreating as Maltravers continued.

‘After Lydden left Carwelton Hall, Howard took Jennifer Carrington back to wherever her car was and she really went to Manchester. On her way to Timperley she called at Sherratt & Hughes and bought the book for Charles, using her credit card. She claimed that she went straight there after drawing the money from the bank in the morning, didn’t she? I was in that shop today and it’s so busy that the chances of the staff being able to remember if any one customer called in during the morning or afternoon can’t be very great. It was a risk, but have you been able to confirm exactly what time she was actually there?’

Maltravers shrugged when Lambert did not reply. ‘Fair enough, it’s not my place to ask you questions. However, Howard waited at Carwelton Hall for Carrington to return and killed him with Lydden’s shotgun. I don’t know exactly where the police found it later, but I’ll bet it was somewhere highly suspicious where he might have hidden it himself. When Jennifer pointed you in Lydden’s direction, he insisted he had met her at Carwelton Hall that lunchtime when she was apparently able to prove she had been in Manchester all day. Do you mind?’

Lambert’s coconut head wobbled agreement as Maltravers produced his cigarettes; the superintendent declined one, but lit a pipe, the fallout from which manifested a serious breach of smoke pollution regulations.

‘Then I came up with the point that Lydden could have guessed the safe combination from reading The Attwater Firewitch.’ Maltravers looked apologetic. ‘I’m afraid that misled you, but it seemed such a good idea at the time. They must have been counting on it as the final piece of evidence against him and it also deflected any suspicion from them. Charles himself told me Jennifer had never read the book and an old friend of hers who allegedly had never been to Carwelton Hall before the dinner party couldn’t have, could he? If I hadn’t worked out the significance of the murderer reading the book, they could have relied on the police realising it themselves eventually or found some other way of drawing it to their attention.’

Maltravers tapped cigarette ash into a saucer on the table. ‘That’s all I know, but you can find out the rest yourselves. What happened at Carwelton Hall tonight proves I’m right in any event.’

Lambert stood up and asked Maltravers to wait. He returned after about ten minutes.

‘According to Mr Howard’s statement, you and Miss Davy went to Carwelton Hall this evening and accused Mrs Carrington of murder without any evidence,’ he said. ‘He was holding you at gunpoint prior to calling the police himself when Mrs Quinn’s arrival caused a disturbance and you overpowered him.’

‘Balls.’ Maltravers gestured disparagingly. ‘That’s desperation country. See what Jennifer’s story is, they haven’t had time to collude on this. And ask him about being a civil engineer in Nigeria for the past ten years, which was his story at the dinner party. My statement includes the name and address of a retired headmistress who has a flat in the same house in Manchester as he does and remembers meeting Jennifer Lloyd, as she then was, more than once within the last three years. Let him explain that lot away for starters.’

‘You’ve been very busy, Mr Maltravers.’ Lambert’s pit-bottom voice had an accusing edge. ‘Why didn’t you come to the police with all this at once instead of playing at amateur detectives?’

Maltravers looked regretful. ‘I’ve got no excuses for that. I wanted to prove I was right, but if I’d realised what Mrs Quinn was planning I’d have come to you immediately. Now I’ve had to give a statement as a witness to an assault as well as evidence of a murder. I’m sorry.’

‘Not just assault,’ Lambert corrected sternly. ‘Mrs Quinn may be charged with attempted murder and you could face charges as well. Withholding information from the police which could be of assistance in a murder enquiry is a very serious offence.’

Maltravers looked at the impassive, unforgiving face of the law and sighed. ‘Can I ask for my presence at Carwelton Hall tonight to be taken into consideration? If I hadn’t been there, Howard would probably have killed Charlotte Quinn when she attacked Jennifer and then they’d have made a run for it. I may have prevented a second murder.’

‘That’s a matter for the Chief Constable,’ Lambert replied stonily and walked out. In his office he read the statements with growing resignation. There was a great deal the police would have to confirm, but Maltravers’s story had a bizarre persuasiveness and the superintendent grudgingly accepted that it could actually be true.

‘Bloody hell!’ he groaned as he contemplated the prospect and consequences of being obliged to release Duggie Lydden.

A pale, moist dawn was forcing reluctant light into the sky by the time Maltravers and Tess left Kendal police station. The air was raw, the town was still and empty with a low mist smothering the River Kent as they drove through the silence across the grey stone bridge on their way back to Brook Cottage. They passed the hospital where Jennifer Carrington had recovered sufficiently for the police to begin questioning her; she was trying to blame Howard for the murder, claiming that he had said he only intended stealing the books. Iron-faced and numbed, Charlotte Quinn was being charged with grievous bodily harm as a holding operation. Lambert said the attempted murder charge could wait.

‘Congratulations.’ Malcolm raised his glass as they sat round the fireplace in the lounge of Hodge Hill Hotel near Newby Bridge that evening. Maltravers had taken them all for dinner to the fifteenth-century manor house he regarded as the finest restaurant in Cumbria. ‘But for God’s sake, you could both have ended up dead last night.’

‘Don’t remind me,’ Maltravers admitted sourly. ‘I don’t know if Tess will ever forgive me. And if I hadn’t decided to go off and do my own thing, Charlotte might not have tried to kill Jennifer. Now I could end up helping send her to jail. I can’t forgive myself for that.’

Lucinda reached across from her chair and squeezed his hand. ‘Crime of passion perhaps? The courts might not be too hard on her. Stop blaming yourself, you weren’t to know.’ He looked far from convinced.

‘Lucinda’s right,’ Tess added. ‘We survived and they might have got away with it if you hadn’t worked it all out. I thought you’d gone mad when you started talking about dogs not barking in the night.’

‘But that was only the start,’ Maltravers remarked. ‘It was The Attwater Firewitch that helped me to think straight.’

‘How?’ Malcolm asked.

‘You’ve read it. Remember when Holmes is misled by what he thinks is a code and dashes off on a wild goose chase to Kirkby Lonsdale? After he realises his mistake, he says something to Watson about ignoring a simple truth because you’ve come up with some ingenious deduction which is so brilliant that you’re dazzled by it.

‘I did exactly the same thing. I was so self-satisfied about working out the numbers Carrington used for the safe and stitching up Lydden with it, that I didn’t think it through. If he’d really stolen the books, he would have closed the safe behind him and nobody would have known about the theft until it was opened again. By then it would have been impossible to say when they had been taken and Lydden would not have been an automatic suspect. And he certainly wouldn’t have waited for Charles to return home and shot him. What would have been the point?’

‘When you put it like that, it’s obvious,’ said Malcolm.

‘As obvious as the fact that those numbers on the paper in The Attwater Firewitch were dates,’ Maltravers agreed. ‘But just like Holmes, I was looking in the wrong haystack.’

‘One thing I don’t understand is why Howard was there for dinner that night,’ Tess remarked. ‘Surely Charles might have remembered him from Gillian’s inquest.’

‘He didn’t attend Gillian’s inquest.’ Maltravers stretched forward to replace his dry sherry on the low table in front of them. ‘Malcolm and Lucinda told me that the night I arrived here. As far as Charles was concerned, he ceased to have a daughter from the moment he saw her dead. There was no risk of Howard being recognised, and I think he must have worked out that he had to go to Carwelton Hall and be seen there. He must have known that after the murder, police forensic experts would be digging up the drains in the library and those guys can tell your life story from the mud on your shoes. They’d have almost certainly found indications of the presence of everyone at that dinner party. If they’d come up with something specifically tied to Howard, it could have been explained by his having been among the guests.

‘On top of that, there must be evidence all over the house of Howard being there from his previous visits to see Jennifer. Remember he was the one who asked Charles if he would show him round, which would have covered that as well.’

‘But if the police had got on to Howard, they’d have found everything we discovered,’ Tess objected.

‘Of course they would, but with the case building up against Lydden they had little reason to suspect anyone else,’ Maltravers replied. ‘They haven’t shown any interest in any of the rest of us who were there that night as far as I know.’

‘I haven’t even been asked to give a statement,’ Malcolm put in.

‘Precisely,’ Maltravers said. ‘On the other hand, if the police had chanced to find something which pointed to a man who should never have been at Carwelton Hall in the first place, they’d have become very suspicious. The chances weren’t great, but they existed and Howard was intelligent enough to realise it. Crazy like a fox.’

A waitress arrived to say their table was ready and they went through to the low, dark-panelled dining-room with its ancient black beams, oil-paintings and fire crackling in the immense open grate.

‘What will happen to those books now?’ Malcolm wondered as they began their meal.

‘Well Jennifer certainly won’t get her hands on them,’ Maltravers replied. ‘You can’t benefit under your husband’s will if you’ve been involved in killing him. Did Charles have any other family?’

‘Not that we know of.’ Malcolm glanced at Lucinda for confirmation. ‘He had an older brother, but he was killed in the Normandy landings and wasn’t married.’

‘Lot of deaths in that family,’ Maltravers observed, dipping his fork into his seafood cocktail. ‘Then he may have left everything to Jennifer, but she can’t have it. Perhaps The Attwater Firewitch will finally be published. That would be an ironic sort of happy ending.’

The ending if any sequence of life involving love and death can be said to have such a thing—evolved over the next few weeks. Geoffrey Howard and Jennifer Carrington were jailed and, greatly to Maltravers’s relief, Charlotte Quinn received a suspended prison sentence after her defence counsel made an impassioned plea to an understanding judge. For his part, Maltravers received a slap-on-the-wrist note from the Deputy Chief Constable of Cumbria, advising him that the police had decided not to take proceedings against him for failing to tell them what he had discovered immediately, but warning him that such actions constituted a very serious offence and any repetition of such behaviour would et cetera. The framed letter had joined his collection of bad reviews and rejection slips on the lavatory wall. Then Malcolm Stapleton wrote to him.

‘It’s a good news week on the Chronicle,’ he read. ‘Alan Morris—you remember our local vicar?—has been sent down for twelve months for ripping off the funds of several church charities. Apparently he’d been gambling on the horses for years and was up to his ears in debt to half the bookies in the north of England. Is nothing sacred? Several ladies of the parish are inconsolable.

‘The other big story is Charles Carrington’s will. He left everything to Jennifer, apart from some paintings for his old school and an edition of Cranmer’s Book of Common Prayer which goes to Attwater church. The personal beneficiaries include Charlotte Quinn, who gets all the jewellery that belonged to his first wife. As we know, Jennifer can’t inherit, but that should be covered by a standard clause under which everything was to be sold and the proceeds donated to a charity for drug addicts if she did not survive him by twenty-eight days.

‘But the tragedy is The Attwater Firewitch. Charles left specific instructions that all ten volumes and the relevant letters were to be destroyed on his death (I quote from the will), “to ensure that Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s wishes that the book should not be published will never be betrayed”. I’ve checked with Campbell, who was his executor, and he says it’s been done; rather appropriately he burned them. At least we read it.’

Maltravers smiled reflectively as he passed the letter across the breakfast table to Tess.

‘Charles told me he’d made “certain arrangements” about it,’ he said as she finished and looked at him sympathetically. ‘He didn’t trust Jennifer. Anyway, there was an appalling mistake in it.’

‘Mistake? What?’

‘For all practical purposes, eagles have no sense of smell. It would have been impossible to train one to hunt the way it happens in the book. But Conan Doyle moved Watson’s wound from his arm to his leg—or perhaps it was the other way round, I can’t exactly remember—in different stories and that didn’t seem to matter either.’

‘And what about the photocopy?’ Tess asked mildly. ‘Nobody knows you put it back in your pocket that night, do they? Apart from me.’

Maltravers raised a surprised eyebrow. ‘You watch me too closely, madam. I didn’t think anybody noticed.’

‘I had a feeling you weren’t going to let it go. Your promise was that you would return it to Charles Carrington, not Jennifer.’

‘Exactly. I wanted to…I’m not sure. Not just to have it, although that’s part of it of course, but to remind myself of a man who couldn’t be bought. I don’t meet many of them.’

‘What are you going to do with it?’

‘Charles lent it to me because he trusted me. I’d certainly never try to publish it and the proof that it’s the genuine article has been destroyed anyway.’ Maltravers shrugged. ‘It’s just a literary curiosity now…perhaps I’ll leave it to the grandchildren.’

‘Grandchildren?’ Tess echoed innocently. ‘Don’t children come first? And doesn’t marriage…?’

Abruptly aware of the implications of his remark, Maltravers imitated generations of (usually mendacious) newspaper reporters offered sexual favours while working on a vice ring exposé; he made an excuse and left. Tess’s laughter followed him out of the room.

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