‘He came to Britain. And unless he left illegally, he’s still here. But she didn’t.’
‘Odd,’ said Milton.
‘Maybe she’s providing cover by sending postcards from around the world.’
‘But his brother told me when I talked to him just now that they didn’t send any postcards. His mother said they preferred to talk to their dear ones in person on the phone and that they’d share photographs with them later.’ There was silence for a moment as they both thought intently. Then simultaneously Milton said, ‘Maiden name,’ and Pooley said, ‘British citizen.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. The duke said she was Scots. Maybe she never changed her citizenship.’
‘Wait.’ Milton pressed the redial button. ‘Chief Superintendent Milton again, I’m afraid. I’m very sorry, Mr Sholto, to have to trouble you once more, and I know I must be causing you distress, but I have to clear up all loose ends.’
‘You’ve got your job to do, sir. Just ask and I’ll try to help.’
‘May I have your mother’s maiden name, please?’
‘Hartley. Mary Agnes Hartley.’
‘And was she a British citizen?’
‘She was, sir. That is, she is. She always said she saw no reason to change.’
‘Thank you, Mr Sholto. Goodbye. OK, Ellis. Mary Agnes Hartley or Mary Agnes Sholto. British citizen.’
***
It was midnight. Amiss was sitting in an armchair in his flat trying to read, but hopelessly distracted by a hundred speculations and by the rasping purr of Plutarch who was happily ensconced on the rising and falling stomach of the snoring baroness. Not for the first time, he found himself resenting his friend’s ability to sleep whenever the opportunity presented itself. The bell rang at last, and he rushed to the door.
‘I thought you’d never come.’
‘It’s a miracle we did.’
Both policemen collapsed on the sofa and Amiss kicked the baroness awake. With a final loud snort, she jerked into full consciousness.
She sat up bolt upright, dislodging Plutarch, who growled menacingly, but then grudgingly resettled herself on the baroness’ lap. ‘Good evening, gentlemen. I was right, wasn’t I?’
‘Get me a Scotch for God’s sake,’ said Milton.
‘And me,’ said Pooley.
‘And me,’ said the baroness.
‘Plutarch?’ asked Amiss politely.
‘No,’ she said. ‘Plutarch will pass. She’s had quite enough already.’
While Amiss busied himself about his duties, Milton looked at the baroness. ‘Possibly.’
‘Oh, sir, I mean Jim. Probably.’
‘Well, to tell the truth,’ said Milton. ‘I’d be astounded if you’re not.’
Her joyful beam so transfigured her whole face that the others followed suit. The baroness’ moods were contagious.
‘OK, spill the beans.’
‘The airlines and passport control yielded the information that they left Miami on the fifth of August. She was travelling with a British passport under her maiden name. They landed in London, and there’s no record of them having left.’ Milton observed Pooley wriggling impatiently. ‘All right, Ellis. You continue.’
‘She got a job in the House of Lords as a waitress.’
‘How? She’s pretty old, isn’t she?’
‘Very well-preserved, lied about her age, they’re not very well-paid jobs and she had excellent references.’
‘Didn’t they check them?’
‘They checked the most recent, which was from a William Sholto, who described himself as manager of a highly regarded Cotswolds hotel. They wrote to him there and asked for confirmation. He was a guest there at the time, the letter went to him, and he duly confirmed the reference.’
‘Supposing they’d telephoned?’
‘Still might have gone to him or the deception might have been found out, in which case they’d have had to think of some other method of infiltration.’
‘They’re quite smart, these people,’ said the baroness.
‘You haven’t heard the half of it,’ said Milton. ‘Next thing we know is that about four or five weeks after Mary Agnes Hartley—or Agnes as she’s known at work…’
‘Agnes!’ said Amiss and the baroness simultaneously.
‘Of course, you’d know her. I hope you didn’t like her.’
‘You’ve nothing to worry about there,’ said Amiss.
‘So Brother Francis finds himself visited by an American in his late forties called William Heston who claims to be doing research on the British constitution and asks if he can be his research assistant. He doesn’t want any money, he’s prepared to type and help a bit on clerical jobs, and he produces references from some Midwest university of which no one’s ever heard saying he’s a good egg, a worthy mature student who’ll be no trouble. Why not? thinks Brother Francis, especially since the guy declares himself to be a great fan and someone who—though coming from a hunting background—has been converted by Brother Francis’ eloquence to the cause of animal rights.’
‘And of course there’s nothing as attractive as a convert,’ said Amiss.
‘Precisely,’ said Milton. ‘So Heston/Sholto gets his pass, but rarely turns up in the Lords. He’s studying hard, he explains, and prefers to work from home—a service flat in Kensington. But as well as proving obliging and useful, he also begins to take religious instruction from Brother Francis, which involves attending the Masses he says in his home and occasionally his office.’
‘So,’ said Pooley, ‘of course Brother Francis invites him down to his Sanctuary, where he has a chance to observe Dolamore’s great meeting.’
Amiss frowned. ‘But wasn’t he laying himself open to being too easily identified?’
‘Egomaniacs and lunatics rarely notice those around them,’ said Milton. ‘And besides, he was disguised. But we’ll come to that later.’
‘I don’t think I’d have the patience to be that kind of murderer,’ said the baroness reflectively. ‘I would have been inclined simply to take a pot shot at Bertie. The more you complicate, the more you’re likely to fuck up.’
‘Yes, but taking a pot shot at Bertie would have led to an absolute focus on the family. Anyway, this was Sholto’s view of things. So what he intended was to muddy the waters to the degree that the Loch Ness Monster could be buried for all time undetected. So, so far he had motive and means, but he was looking for the right opportunity.’
‘Why is Agnes still in her job? I don’t quite see her role in all of this.’
‘Nor do we quite yet, but presumably she was some kind of intelligence gatherer. Probably marked Brother Francis out in the first place as a likely stooge and got Sholto to do what he later did.’
The baroness wrinkled her forehead. ‘Come again?’
‘Keep listening,’ said Pooley. ‘So then Sholto did his worst with the stun-gun, but the quarry escaped.’
‘Is this fact or hypothesis?’ asked Amiss.
‘A mixture,’ said Milton. ‘We know from Fred that he had told his mother about Bertie’s pacemaker operation. Otherwise, so far our main source is Brother Francis, who of course never suspected that his spiritually minded helper might have anything to do with this frightful happening until said helper tells him he wishes him to swap tabernacles.’
‘Aha,’ said the baroness. ‘The empty one goes out and the full one comes in.’
‘“Why?” asks Brother Francis. “Ask me no questions, and I’ll tell you no lies,” says Sholto. “Just something I want done.” Even Brother Francis smelled a rat at this juncture and said he didn’t like the sound of it and was having no part of it. “Oh, I think you will,” says Sholto, “or I’ll tell them about Friday and all the other days.”’
‘What did the poor old sod do on Fridays that he shouldn’t?’ asked the baroness sadly. ‘Pass the bottle over here, Robert.’
‘Leather-clad lady with whip, male slaves running round her house in pinnies doing her housework, licking her kitchen floor with their tongues and being beaten at regular intervals.’
‘God, I’m so glad I didn’t go to public school,’ said Amiss.
‘We didn’t all end up like that,’ said Pooley stiffly.
Milton continued: ‘The poor devil said he used to flog himself a bit in the monastery for penitential reasons. When he came out into the world the urge to find someone to do it for him became too great so he phoned up one of those people whose ads are plastered all over telephone kiosks: Madam Dominatrix this one was called. Dom for short.’
‘And rather than have this revealed he was prepared to allow murder to happen?’
‘You do see things in such a black-and-white way, Jack,’ said Amiss. ‘We’re talking about a holy fool, for God’s sake. I bet he just chose not to know what was happening.’
‘Of course,’ said Milton. ‘He said what really worried him was the possibility of sacrilege, but he convinced himself that if he deconsecrated and reconsecrated the tabernacles all would be well and that maybe what was being transported—as Sholto claimed—was a bit of harmless contraband.’
‘Like what?’ asked the baroness.
‘Brother Francis barely knew what contraband meant. He certainly wasn’t thinking about antipersonnel mines.’
‘So the notion of Sholto being a murderer never crossed his mind?’
‘He says not until the bombs went off and he read about how small they were.’
‘Are you telling me he’d never looked at the contents of the tabernacle he brought into the Lords?’
‘Sholto had the key.’
‘And nobody tried to search it?’
‘It’s not the sort of thing people search, especially when it’s being carried by a priest.’
‘Why didn’t the bombs show up when it went through the security screen? Oh, sorry.’ The baroness snapped her fingers. ‘I’d forgotten. The bombs were encased in plastic, so of course they wouldn’t show up.’
Amiss interrupted. ‘Now let me get this right. When Plutarch and I ran into him, he had realized a) that the contraband had disappeared, b) that so had his research assistant, and c) that this holy of holies had been used to transport instruments of death? So what he was doing was taking it home to disinfect it in case it had traces of explosives and then reconsecrate it.’
‘It didn’t occur to him to report all this to the police?’ The baroness sounded impatient.
Milton shook his head. ‘No, because before he left, Sholto told him if he told anyone he’d make him such a laughing stock that his movement and his order would be forever discredited and that anyway he was going out of his life and there was nothing more to worry about and no further harm would be done. That was the straw at which the petrified rabbit grasped.’
‘And the stun-gun? How did that get into the Lords in the first place?’ asked Amiss.
‘Security was almost nonexistent on peers before all this started,’ said Milton. ‘Brother Francis—who is now frantically cooperating—fears he might have inadvertently imported it in a bag of golf clubs which Sholto left at his flat after Mass and then asked him to take in and leave in his room.’
The baroness gave a mighty yawn. ‘Very good. Now if that’s all, I think I’ll be going home to Myles. Call me a cab, Robert.’
‘Mind you,’ said Milton, ‘we haven’t caught them, we haven’t proved anything, and lots of this is speculation.’
‘Don’t be daft,’ she said. ‘It’s an open-and-shut case. If I were you, I’d hurry up and find the Sholtos.’
‘Thanks, Jack. Now that you’ve pointed it out, I suppose that’s what we should do next.’
***
‘How did they find them so quickly?’
‘Easy. Yesterday afternoon some spark of intelligence illuminated what one might loosely call Brother Francis’ brain and he volunteered that though it was true that he didn’t know where Sholto lived, he remembered he might have his telephone number somewhere in his office. By the time he’d been taken there and found it, and British Telecom produced the address, Jim and his mob were able to get to the Sholto flat just as mother and son were sitting down to dinner. They were a bit upset, apparently, but since Sholto’s arsenal was in another room, they had little option but to go quietly.’
Deptford’s usual calm was ruffled. ‘’E murdered all them poor buggers just to get Bertie? Never ’eard anything like it. What a pestilential son of a pontry-maid!’
‘Who? What?’ asked the baroness.
‘Jorrocks,’ explained Amiss.
‘So who were the Animal Avengers?’
‘Our friend Agnes composed those letters to focus suspicion on to the animal activists. Apparently, she was inspired by a book of Edgar Wallace’s.’
‘Blimey. I knew Agnes was a pill, but this! Violet. Another round, please, luv.’
‘Mind you,’ said Amiss, ‘you have to admit she was unusually devoted to her family.’
‘Like a Roman empress,’ interjected the baroness.
‘Or that American who murdered her daughter’s main rival for cheerleadership of the high-school football team.’
‘It’s beyond everything. Poor old Bertie. ’E must really be upset.’
‘He was, but it’s been a huge relief to him that neither his heir nor the heir’s son had anything to do with it.’
‘Are the cops sure of that?’
The baroness nodded. ‘Will Sholto confirmed that it was a private entrepreneurial venture to instal the high-minded Fred as duke and then wallow in luxury along with him? Seems looking forward to that was all mother and son had been living for for years. Fred’s announcement that Bertie might get married drove them wild.’
Deptford shook his head again. ‘Thanks, Violet,’ he said absently. ‘Has Agnes said what she actually did?’
‘Oh, yes. Since they pleaded guilty, apparently they’re bragging about how clever they were. Her main contribution was to suss out peers she thought might be vulnerable, whom sonny then followed to see if there was any dirt on them. In nominating Brother Francis, she showed herself a good judge of character. And then she stayed on in the hope of picking up useful gossip. For instance, she overheard Jack talking about our planned meeting in committee room 4.’
‘Oh, dear,’ said the baroness. ‘Still, if she hadn’t got us one way, she’d have got us another, no doubt.’
Deptford scratched his head. ‘Am I bein’ stupid? Wasn’t she taking a big risk that Bertie might recognize her?’
‘They hadn’t met for over forty years, and anyway, like her son, between coloured contact lenses, wig and God knows what else, she was well disguised.’
The baroness banged the table. ‘Let’s cheer up. There is much to celebrate, including the news I received from Bertie this morning before he took off abroad that he is to become a father.’
‘Why, the old goat!’ Deptford smiled with male complicity. ‘And them not even married yet.’
‘They will be next week. But don’t be misled, Sid. This was not a result of unbridled lust. Surely by now you know the ways of the aristocracy. This time he wasn’t going to get married unless he was sure the girl could whelp.’
‘On that delicate note, shall we go in to lunch?’ asked Amiss. ‘May I remind you that you are due to spend this afternoon with Littlejohn hammering out the final details of the deal you and Bertie did with him yesterday.’
***
The media had been excited when the four young members of a far-left group had been charged with sending letter bombs to defenders of field sports. The news that relatives of the Duke of Stormerod had pleaded guilty to nineteen murders was sensational. The leak that Sholto’s exotic weapons had been acquired with the help of Ulster Protestant paramilitaries added an extra frisson. And the journalists’ cup of joy ran over when it emerged that Brother Francis had been charged with being an accessory after the fact. There followed a stampede of press revelations about the highjacking of the animal rights movement by violent elements in society.
It was a propitious time for Baroness Troutbeck and Lord Littlejohn to announce that the Lords had amended the Wild Mammals Bill in a way that was satisfactory to the majority of people on both sides. The clauses banning wanton cruelty remained, as did the prohibition of hare-coursing, but a huge majority of their lordships agreed it should remain legal to hunt those animals—like foxes and mink—that were themselves predators.
It behoved the sensible people of Britain, explained the baroness over the airwaves, to demonstrate their rejection of the disruptive and violent lunatic fringe. The British treated their animals better than anyone else in the world, and it was their job to be evangelists abroad for the decency which characterized their society. Rather than worrying about such minor matters as fox-hunting, the job of the general public was to bombard members of the British and European parliaments with letters demanding that British standards prevail in Europe.
Like the great British public, MPs were terrified of anarchy and the blessed English word compromise was on everyone’s lips. So when the bill, duly amended, went back to the Commons, it was backed by the government and passed in its emasculated form with scarcely a fight.