Saturday afternoon (continued)
“I’m an onion, that’s what I am, Mr. Mallard,” Thigpen announced, lying back in the armchair. “I have layers.”
“And he makes me cry,” said Culpepper.
“It was all my idea,” Thigpen continued, addressing Effie. “All them diseases. So I could use the makeup, you see. I’m a master of disguise. Man of a thousand faces.”
“If you’d just gone to South America or South Africa,” sighed Culpepper, nervously pacing around the room.
“We know why you didn’t go abroad, Reg,” said Mallard, “but how did you wind up here?”
Thigpen shot a scathing look at Culpepper. “You’ve heard the expression ‘Be careful what you wish for’? In exchange for not being Reg Thigpen, the Captain’s mob promised me any life I wanted. So I said I wanted to stay in England and be a ‘Lord of the Manor’ somewhere. They found me Furbelow Hall. But then they told me I couldn’t leave it in the daytime.” He sniffed. “That’s why I invented the Vampire of Synne.”
“You couldn’t just have plastic surgery, like anyone else,” muttered Culpepper.
“Hey, it was my cover story, and it worked. Layers, as I said. On top, the vampire, attracting attention maybe, but that layer’s easily peeled. Underneath, you find the poor XP sufferer, enough for most people in the village to say ‘what a pity’ and ask no more questions. But then, for the persistent, we have yet another layer, that of the unlikely modern-day leper. A triple bluff, which trapped Dennis Breedlove like a fly in…what’s that oozy stuff?”
“Treacle?” Effie suggested.
“Amber.” Thigpen looked more closely at the large bruise on Culpepper’s cheekbone. “You been in the wars, Captain C?” he asked. “And what’s all that pink stuff round your neck?”
“Calamine lotion,” grumbled Culpepper. “For nettle rash.” Effie smiled.
“Thought you’d been at my makeup.” Thigpen waved an arm in the direction of the dressing table. “It only takes a few minutes. Mainly dried rubber cement and flour, with a lot of Leichner number five greasepaint. I pretend to need surgical gloves because of my condition, but it’s really so I don’t have to make up the hands as well.”
“Is there any chance that Dennis Breedlove got through that last layer and discovered your true identity?” Mallard asked.
Thigpen shook his head. “That’s the beauty of the onion. Old Uncle Dennis was so pleased with himself at reaching the leprosy level, it actually stopped him probing any further. Even he couldn’t pluck out the heart of my mystery.”
“So I take it, Captain Culpepper, that Mr. Thigpen is in some form of witness relocation program?” Effie asked.
“Something like that.”
“They don’t do a bad job, though,” Thigpen piped up. He spread his arms. “They done up this whole floor nice—this room, bedroom, a little kitchen, bath. And Captain C does take care of me. I only have to snap my fingers and he’s round, with a bag of chips or a new video. It’s like having your own Jeeves.”
“I must say, though, Cap’n,” Effie remarked to Culpepper, who was glaring at Thigpen, “that letting your prime charge wander around the countryside at night dressed as Friar Dracula isn’t my idea of keeping him out of the public eye. It certainly attracted the attention of the local blackmailer. Who’s then found dead in suspicious circumstances. Is that why you were demoted to a mere sergeant?”
Culpepper lowered himself onto the ottoman. “I was a copper for several years, Coventry CID, before my department recruited me. When Breedlove was found dead, we didn’t want too many questions about the Vampire of Synne, so I was asked to resume my role of a local police investigator and manage the situation. It all went through official channels.”
Effie glanced at Mallard, but he signaled his lack of knowledge of the arrangement.
“Did you ‘manage’ Breedlove up that tree with the skipping rope?” she asked. Mallard growled a wordless caution.
“Effie, you have my department confused with some other government entity,” Culpepper replied. “If we had the ethical laxity to actually kill British citizens for our purposes, Reg would have died for real in that Derbyshire bus and none of this charade would be necessary.”
“Oi,” protested Thigpen.
“But this is not a matter of national security,” Culpepper persisted. “This is politics, and my masters don’t want blood on their hands.”
Effie looked past him, gathering her thoughts as if he hadn’t spoken. “I mean, this whole business seems to be about subverting a general election, telling lies to win the ruling party another five years of power. Everything is bent for England. Yes, you may spare Reg’s life to achieve your ends, but what’s the life of one inconvenient eighty-year-old blackmailer when there’s a national scandal to keep under wraps?”
“That’s enough, Sergeant,” Mallard interjected, but Culpepper raised a hand, like a priestly blessing.
“It’s okay, Superintendent,” he said calmly, never taking his dark-brown eyes from Effie’s face. “Nobody from my department had any involvement in Breedlove’s death, Sergeant Strongitharm.”
“But you’d known for a year that he was a blackmailer?”
“Obviously.”
“Did you know he had other victims?”
Culpepper shrugged. “We never tried to find out. We just needed him to keep quiet about Angus Snopp, so we paid him. And then we left him alone.” He placed his long hands on his knees. “His murder has been a distinct inconvenience.”
Effie’s eyes narrowed. “Then he was murdered? Oliver’s been right all along?”
“Yes, your boyfriend was right,” Culpepper conceded, after a brief hesitation. “Breedlove was murdered. It was impossible for him to hang himself like that. In fact, the pathologist is pretty sure he was dead before he was hauled up that tree. Throttled first, then hanged to cover it up. But I wanted the world at large to think it a suicide.”
“After all, Uncle Dennis was only a filthy blackmailer, he’s better off dead,” Effie snapped, remembering Oliver’s anger when he thought he was facing the same official indifference. “The killer’s a hero, doing us all a favor. So who cares if this murder is unsolved? Does that account for the law’s delay, in this case?”
“You didn’t let me finish. I wanted his death to be seen as a suicide until we had the murderer under lock and key. A public investigation risked drawing too much attention to Reg, as you and Superintendent Mallard have already proved.”
“That’s why you told Oliver to stay out of it. You knew it would make him even more determined to find Breedlove’s murderer, while you hid in the background and waited for an amateur detective to do your job for you.”
Culpepper was already shaking his head, amused at the outburst. “No, I told Oliver to stay out of it because I wanted him to stay out of it.”
“Then why did you show him that letter?”
“Having the body discovered by two Scotland Yard detectives presented a challenge. I couldn’t risk your getting too involved in the investigation. The letter was vaguely worded, like so many blackmail notes, and didn’t name names. I thought if I could convince you and Mr. Mallard that it was written to Breedlove and not by him, then you’d believe he’d topped himself and leave everything to me. I was really showing the letter to you, Effie. The inquisitive Oliver just happened to be there.”
“So who was it sent to?”
“It wasn’t sent. I really did find it on Breedlove’s desk.”
“But you hid the envelope. You know who it was really meant for.”
“There was no envelope.” Culpepper studied his long fingers. “Look, I apologize for deceiving you, but it was necessary.”
“Well, more fool you anyway, because despite your attempts to wrong-foot him, Oliver still got to the truth about Breedlove.”
“Has he identified the murderer?”
“He’s found all the blackmail victims, which is more—”
“Has he identified the murderer?” Culpepper repeated, holding her gaze with his dark eyes.
“No,” she admitted.
“Then maybe this is as good a time as any to remind you and Mr. Mallard that, as serving police officers, you’re bound by the Official Secrets Act. And if ever there was an Official Secret, this is one.” He leaned forward. “You can’t tell Oliver anything.”
Effie took in the instruction, already aware of a growing urge to shout this particular official secret to the entire world. “Was it you, then, who attacked Oliver outside the house?” she asked.
“No. And I don’t know who did. Honestly.”
Mallard stood up, buttoning his jacket. “Since Breedlove was murdered, Captain, do you have any idea yet who was responsible?”
Culpepper seemed relieved that Mallard had shifted the focus of the conversation. “We got some prints off those cut-off skipping rope handles, although we haven’t found a match yet. But I’m not convinced that one of the blackmail victims would suddenly turn on Breedlove after steadfastly paying up for two, three, four years. And I can personally assure you that Reg is innocent.”
“That’s the first time I’ve heard that from a copper,” said Thigpen.
“He’s not a copper,” said Effie, stone-faced. “‘Captain Culpepper’ sounds more like a pirate.”
Culpepper smiled. “I’ve been following some other leads,” he continued. “Dennis Breedlove was a member of a shadowy organization known as the Priory of Synne.”
“Really?” said Mallard, checking his watch.
“There are reports of its existence as far back as sixteenth-century France. Perhaps Breedlove ran afoul of some ancient protocol and was, uh, suspended. There’s something a little ritualistic about being hanged from an ancient gibbet, after all. We believe one of the Priory’s present-day operatives has been in the area recently, although nobody seems to know the man’s name or what he looks like. They choose their people well.”
Effie had guessed from Mallard’s fidgeting that he was running late for his last rehearsal before that evening’s performance. She stood up, ignored Culpepper, and extended a hand to Thigpen. “A pleasure to meet a true historical figure, Mr. Thigpen.”
“Yes, Reg,” said Mallard, “it’s been nice seeing you again.”
“You haven’t seen the last of me today, Mr. M. Or should I say I haven’t seen the last of you. Captain C told me you were performing at the RSC tonight, so I insisted he get us tickets. Front row!” He smiled graciously at Culpepper, who scowled in return.
“I know every word of Hamlet,” Thigpen went on. “Hey, maybe I should have that plastic surgery, after all. If I looked a bit more like Laurence Olivier, I could take to the stage and leave Angus Snopp behind.”
“A consummation devoutly to be wished,” muttered Culpepper.