‘He’s off sick.’
Horton silently cursed. ‘Nothing serious, I hope.’
‘No, just a stomach bug. Something he ate, he thinks.’
But Horton didn’t need Felspur in particular; maybe the library assistant could help. He asked if she was able to pull together the list of research material Douglas Spalding had consulted over the last year.
‘I’ll do my best, but I’m on my own today so it depends on how busy we are. I’ll email it over as soon as I have it.’
Horton knew from his previous conversation with Felspur that it would only present a snapshot of what Spalding might have been researching, but at least it was a start. Back at the station Cantelli began the laborious process of approaching local naval associations and historical societies to find out if Spalding had contacted them. He’d also contact the university library. But as he’d said in the car that would all take time and Horton was growing increasingly frustrated by the delay and by the fact that he didn’t have the resources. In addition, Walters was making heavy weather of cross-checking the naval careers of the Crossleys, Meadows, Jonathan Redsall and Spalding because the Admiralty were dragging their heels over giving them access to the records. Horton thought he knew why, though there was a niggling doubt that he might be getting a little paranoid and obsessed. The deaths could have nothing to do with an intelligence service cover-up. The motive could be far simpler: greed, love, lust, revenge, fear. Or the deaths, excluding Meadows, could be suicide in both Spalding’s case and Redsall’s, said the small voice at the back of his mind. They had enough crime that wasn’t in any doubt to keep them going for a century, so why waste time on this? Because it was murder. He couldn’t let it drop, not yet.
He told Walters to add Dr Deacon to his list for checking. The fat detective went into shock and sought comfort in another packet of sandwiches and an extra bar of chocolate. At the rate he was going, Horton thought they’d have to lift him out of his seat with a crane. He wished he had Trueman working on it because he was a genius when it came to research, but that meant Uckfield knowing what Horton was doing and Trueman had told him that on receipt of Dr Clayton’s findings, Uckfield had indeed declared the drugs to have been self-administered and he was sticking to that until, and if, the Coroner found any differently. Horton knew he wouldn’t. Trueman had said there was no fresh evidence on Meadows’ murder. No one had come forward to say they’d seen him or his killer.
Horton paced his office; it was raining heavily and his brain felt sluggish. He was finding it hard to concentrate. At the back of his mind Quentin Amos’s words nagged away at him and he itched to get on with his enquiries into Jennifer’s disappearance, but that would distract him from the murders of Meadows, Redsall and Spalding. If they didn’t find some evidence soon, evidence that Uckfield and ACC Dean couldn’t sweep under the carpet, then the deaths would be neatly filed away and forgotten in the case of Redsall and Spalding. He doubted if Beatrice Redsall cared very much about the outcome of her nephew’s death. She was certainly near the top of the list as far as suspects were concerned. But Jacqueline Spalding, her children and Douglas Spalding’s father deserved better than that. Those children shouldn’t have to go through life feeling guilty, hurt and angry, believing their father had killed himself.
And Meadows’ murder? Horton knew they’d find someone to pin that on. Into his mind came the image of that battered and bloody body. He stopped pacing and stared out of the window without seeing the rain bouncing off the roofs of the cars in the car park, or the police officers escorting villains from patrol vehicles into the rear of the station. Instead he saw the ancient fortifications in Old Portsmouth guarding the entrance to Portsmouth Harbour where Meadows’ body had been discovered. He couldn’t stay here. He couldn’t think. He picked up his jacket and helmet and made his way through CID, telling Cantelli on the way that he needed some air. He felt Cantelli’s worried eyes follow him out.
Fifteen minutes later he was parking the Harley in front of the ancient stone walls. The area was no longer sealed off but the heavy rain was deterring the usual walkers and tourists. He had the place to himself which suited him fine. Alone on the top of the Round Tower he stared at the choppy, swirling dark grey sea. The tide was racing in and he could see a couple of optimistic and bedraggled fishermen at the end of the short pier down to his left and further along the beach. He watched the Wightlink ferry sail out on its way to the Isle of Wight, thinking of Agent Eames and her father Lord Eames in the yacht club where he’d met Professor Madeley. Madeley had to be a member otherwise he wouldn’t have suggested meeting there. Or was he? Perhaps he had been the guest of someone who was a member.
His thoughts returned to Ivor Meadows. Why had Meadows chosen this as a meeting place for his rendezvous with the killer? And even if he hadn’t chosen it, why had he agreed to come here at the killer’s request? OK, so Meadows had been pompous and cockily confident that he could handle himself, but it was a risk meeting someone in such a dark and deserted place at that time of night. But what if he didn’t know this person was a killer. Perhaps this person had told Meadows they had some highly sensitive information they wanted to give him which could expose a major crime. No one must know his identity, it was a lie to lure Meadows here and kill him because this person was afraid Meadows knew something damaging. Yes, Meadows would have fallen for that. And recalling his first conversation with Meadows, when he’d made known his very strong views about women, Horton knew that Meadows would firmly believe he could handle anything a woman could throw at him. So, he thought, gazing across the harbour, if this woman had approached Meadows afraid he knew too much and had to be silenced then she had known how and where to get hold of him.
He considered this fact. Think, he urged his weary brain; put this into some kind of order. Brenda Crossley had attended Spalding’s previous lecture in May and Meadows had been there. He might have recognized her but had thought nothing of it until Horton had mentioned the name Redsall. Then Meadows had made the connection between her and Jonathan Redsall. Maybe they’d had an affair. Meadows had approached her. Brenda, afraid that he might expose her affair or some more serious misdemeanour that Jonathan Redsall and others had covered up, had agreed to meet Meadows here and had killed him.
Then there was Beatrice Redsall. Equally Meadows could have agreed to meet her here. Beatrice Redsall had told Horton she’d assisted her brother in his career after his wife had died; perhaps she knew something about her brother that she was desperate to hush up. Desperate enough to kill three men for?
Horton wiped a hand across his wet face as he considered this and continued with his theories. He’d earlier dismissed Erica Leyton but perhaps he shouldn’t have done. Cantelli had suggested she might have used the naval museum library for her research into HMS Challenger; perhaps she’d met Ivor Meadows there. He could check if she’d signed in there and when. He consulted his watch; the museum library would still be open. He hurried down to his Harley. His phone rang on the way. It was Walters.
‘Dr Deacon didn’t serve in the Navy. He came from a practice in Devon to Portsmouth four years ago.’
So that ruled him out, but Horton knew it hadn’t been Deacon.
‘And Simon Watson has never been in the Navy and he didn’t go to the same university or school as Spalding or Redsall or live in the same area.’
No, Watson had been just a vague possibility. Horton said, ‘Has Cantelli got the list of research material Spalding requested from the naval museum library?’
‘I’ll put him on.’
Cantelli came on the line. ‘I was just going to call you. The librarian phoned a few minutes ago. Guess what? She can’t find the file that contains the slips of paper requesting the various research materials. She’s looked everywhere but it’s missing.’
‘I bet it bloody is. Don’t they have any record of it online or has that been erased?’ Horton said sarcastically.
‘They don’t have an online system. Or rather they did but it was worse than useless she says and they disbanded it. A new one is under design.’
‘How convenient.’ Horton quickly thought. ‘Go back to her and ask her if Erica Leyton has ever used the library and if so when. If she doesn’t know or can’t find a record of it, check with the security office. She would have needed to sign in. Give me Felspur’s address. I’ll see if he can remember what material Spalding accessed. He might also remember seeing Erica Leyton.’
‘Hope he’s recovered from his stomach bug.’
Horton hoped so too. And that it had been caused by something he’d eaten rather than being anything contagious.
Felspur’s flat, it transpired, was only three minutes away on the Harley, just off the seafront in a narrow road of tall Victorian terraced houses that had once been the homes of the wealthy and were now popular with students and housing benefit occupants. Felspur lived in the basement flat in one of the shabbier houses. Horton knew that librarians didn’t earn a fortune but he’d have thought that Felspur could have done better than this. Perhaps he was divorced and had a high-maintenance ex-wife and children.
He stepped around the rusting old bicycle, tattered looking pushchair and two wheelie dustbins with carrier bags of discarded food sticking out of their lids and pressed his finger on a bell on the scratched and weather-worn wooden door. There was no immediate answer so Horton tried again, wondering if Felspur had thrown a sickie and gone out. But no, he heard footsteps. The door stuck as Felspur wrenched it open. He started visibly at the sight of Horton, his pale eyes widened with alarm and then clouded with fear. Horton rapidly began to revise his opinion of Felspur. He’d thought of him as being calm, logical, in control, confident – and maybe he was at work – but here he looked weak, vulnerable, sick and terrified.
‘I’m sorry to disturb you, Mr Felspur, but it is important. I wondered if I could come in.’
Felspur swallowed and shuffled his feet. ‘I’m not feeling well.’
‘This won’t take a moment.’ Horton was beginning to get more curious about the slight, nervous man in front of him, who did look rather ill. ‘There’s something I need your help on,’ Horton insisted, gently pushing Felspur aside and stepping inside. He got no further than two paces. He’d seen places like this before. The narrow hallway was crammed with old newspapers and books; they lined either side of the passageway making it almost impossible to negotiate. Felspur was behind him and that suited Horton fine. ‘This is the lounge, I take it,’ he said, turning into a room on his right and halted just inside it. The high-ceilinged room smelt of damp, old books, dust and decay. It was also crammed full of clutter. In a glance Horton took in more old newspapers, stacked everywhere. God knew how far back they dated. Plastic bags, the kind that the supermarket used, had been flattened and laid out in piles around the room. Surrounding the three armchairs were empty cans of baked beans, peas, curry, and more which had been washed out and were heaped on the floor. There were even empty pots of yogurt and foil trays, again washed out, piled on top of each other. And either side of the fireplace on shelves in the alcoves were ornaments, old tools, and nautical memorabilia. Felspur was clearly no ordinary hoarder. The man had a mental illness. He couldn’t bear to see anything discarded.
‘I don’t know how I can help you, Inspector,’ Felspur said anxiously.
Horton picked his way across to the shelves. ‘Fine collection you have here, Mr Felspur.’ There were flags, ship models, bits of naval uniforms, a couple of daggers.
‘Yes, well I pick these things up in junk shops.’ Felspur licked his lips nervously.
‘Very specialist junk shops.’ Horton picked up a piece of very old blue fabric. ‘Why keep this?’
It was a pointless question to ask a hoarder who would keep anything but Horton was rapidly remembering what Julie Preston had told him about some of the items kept in the attics when she’d demonstrated how she and Morden swept the museum after the functions. Several things clicked into place. Julie Preston and Lewis Morden’s assignations; Ivor Meadows’ bleats about museum security; the fact that Felspur had attended every evening lecture in the last four months; Meadows’ short visit to the library after Horton had seen him on Wednesday morning and Meadows’ willingness to meet his killer alone, in a dark isolated place at night.
Felspur shifted position. ‘It’s . . . er . . . just a piece of fabric from an old dress.’
‘A very important old dress, I suspect.’
Felspur looked down and then back at Horton with pleading in his eyes.
‘Did it belong to Lady Hamilton?’ asked Horton gently.
Felspur swallowed and nodded.
Horton picked up another item. This time a brooch. ‘And this?’
‘It was hers too.’
‘You stole them from the naval museum.’
‘No!’ Felspur looked horrified. ‘I just borrowed them.’
Horton cast his eye over several of the nautical items. No doubt they’d all been stolen from the museum. Conversationally he said, ‘When did Ivor Meadows discover that you were slipping away during the lectures and stealing these artefacts?’
‘He didn’t.’ Felspur shifted nervously.
‘You knew that Lewis Morden sneaked upstairs for his assignations with Julie Preston when there was an evening function and that no one would be watching the security monitors. That gave you the perfect opportunity to slip away from the lecture, climb to the attic rooms and help yourself. If the caterers saw you they’d think nothing of it because you were staff.’ He saw he was correct by Felspur’s pained expression. ‘You would just take small things like this fabric, jewellery, pieces of naval uniform, possibly these ship’s bottles which you could put in the pockets of a larger jacket and you’d slip back into the lecture.’
‘I wasn’t doing any harm.’
‘You were stealing,’ Horton said more harshly, drawing a flush of indignation from Felspur.
‘No,’ he protested. ‘I was preserving and exhibiting. I haven’t sold anything. I wouldn’t. I just like to look at them. They’re shut away in that museum in drawers and cases. That’s not right.’
Horton eyed Felspur severely. ‘And neither is bludgeoning a man to death,’ he said harshly.
Felspur flinched. ‘I didn’t do that.’
Horton didn’t believe him but instead of pressing Felspur, he left a short pause and, changing his approach, said in a quieter, almost casual tone, ‘Where were you Wednesday night, Mr Felspur?’
‘Here.’
Horton eyed him interrogatively. ‘Alone?’
‘Yes.’
Horton smiled. ‘Of course. We have to ask these questions. I’m sorry for disturbing you.’
Relief flooded Felspur’s pallid face. ‘You won’t tell the museum about the artefacts, will you? I’d lose my job.’
‘I think you had better return them.’
‘I will. I promise.’
Horton didn’t believe that for one minute. Felspur went ahead to show Horton out but in the passage Horton turned right instead of left. He heard Felspur protest behind him. Ahead was a kitchen and next to it a bedroom. Horton stepped inside, ignoring Felspur’s wailing. There was barely space for the bed and wardrobe. The room once again was crammed with stuff; this time there were old bicycle parts, old bits of metal, and an assortment of tools, some of them clearly ancient, and amongst them Horton’s eyes caught sight of a long cylindrical metal tube rounded off at one end and with a flat oblong shape on the other end. He’d seen something like it before in a drawing that had been emailed him.
‘What’s that?’ he asked, pointing to it as it lay on the floor by the bed.
Felspur shuffled his feet. ‘It’s a Dolly. It was used by riveters in the dockyard for ship building. Drillers used to drill the holes for rivets then the riveters would drive the rivets in by hand using light hammers on long handles.’
Horton said almost conversationally, ‘And is that what you did to Ivor Meadows’ head?’
‘No!’
‘Did Meadows threaten to expose your pilfering? Is that why you had to kill him?’
‘No. I . . .’ Felspur’s body sagged. Horton knew he wouldn’t be able to keep up his denials for long. Felspur wasn’t off sick with food poisoning or a stomach bug; he was sickened by what he’d done. ‘He didn’t understand.’
‘You told him this at the Round Tower, why there?’
‘It was the first place that came to mind. I’d been reading about Henry VIII’s ships sailing through the harbour. He came into the library that morning, Wednesday, after he’d seen you. He was so loud; I was scared the customers and my colleagues would hear. I told him I couldn’t talk there but I’d tell him everything if he agreed to meet me away from the library that night, at ten thirty. I didn’t think he would but he agreed and he came even though he was a little late. I got anxious waiting for him. I was upset; I didn’t know what I was doing.’
Not upset enough to go prepared with a murder weapon though. And Meadows would cockily have agreed because he thought he could handle a weakling like Felspur.
‘I was going to reason with him. Promise not to do it again and to put the items back, then he started to say that he knew I’d killed Dr Spalding and Daniel Redsall because they’d both seen me stealing. I didn’t. It was lies. You’d believe him. I’d be arrested for murder. He wouldn’t shut up; he kept saying it over and over again. I said OK, I’d go with him to the police. Anything to shut him up. He turned but stumbled. I picked up the Dolly where I’d left it on one of the seats and hit him.’ Felspur sank down onto the bed. He looked up at Horton pleadingly and sorrowfully. ‘I love my job and I love that museum. Meadows was going to ruin everything for me. I couldn’t allow that.’
No. Horton eyed the broken man slumped on the bed. There was no need for the handcuffs. He reached for his phone and called Uckfield.