A Fête Worse Than Death (8 page)

Left alone in the room, Haldean walked back to the body again, seeing once more how the desperate clutch of the hand had brought down the curtain. Not an attractive-looking character, he thought, even discounting the ghastly evidence of death. A thin, sharp face, made sharper by the dark wisp of moustache. The clothes were new, smart and expensive. Very carefully he turned back the jacket, revealing the label of Sweet and Co. He'd been right about the expense. He crouched down beside the bed. What about the shoes? They showed a high polish under a thin layer of white dust. Unsuitable shoes for the country. Thin soles and a shape that belonged on a London pavement rather than a country road. An odd type to find in a rural inn. He looked as if his natural habitat was Piccadilly and that warren of nightclubs and bars which spawns out from the heart of London. So why had he come to Breedenbrook? If he had merely wanted to see Boscombe he could have done that easily enough in London. So that implied there was some business that the pair of them were engaged on down here. But Boscombe had arrived on Friday. Had Morton caught wind of it and followed Boscombe down? Haldean clicked his tongue impatiently, aware he was running on ahead of facts.

Ashley's entrance made him stand up. ‘I've got the key to Morton's room,' said Ashley, inserting it in the lock. ‘I think you might be right about this . . . done it! Morton's key fits.'

Haldean leaned back against the wall. ‘In that case, let's indulge in a little speculation. Morton knows Boscombe. We'll take that as read. And as he was found in Boscombe's room, it's reasonable to suppose that Morton wanted to see him. Now when you arrived he was having his dinner – yes? So, unless someone told him, he wouldn't know about the murder. So he comes into Boscombe's room and waits for him.'

‘D'you think that's all he did?' asked Ashley. ‘I mean, he could have been the one who pulled the place apart.'

Haldean frowned. ‘He
could
have been, I suppose. In which case our murderer comes into the room, finds Morton in mid-plunder, and shoots him. I must admit I'd thought of it the other way round. That our murderer comes in, finds Morton, shoots him and then starts to search for something. In fact doesn't it have to be like that? Otherwise there'd be nothing stopping Morton coming and giving Boscombe's room the once-over as soon as he arrived.'

‘Not if he was expecting the man back,' argued Ashley. ‘But say he
did
find out in the course of the evening that Boscombe was dead, there'd be nothing to stop him coming in here and searching for something.'

‘True.' Haldean stroked his chin. ‘But in any case we're both agreed that someone, who is either Morton or the murderer, took the place to bits looking for something. What it is, I don't think we can begin to guess at yet, although . . .'

Ashley looked uncomfortable. ‘I'd rather not start guessing anything just yet.'

‘Right you are. So Morton is either sitting here placidly twiddling his thumbs or, on your hypothesis, looting the joint, when in comes the murderer and bang! End of Morton. Now, you locked the room up when? Half-past six? At which time our chap was quietly eating his dinner. Give him half an hour or so to finish it and drink his coffee and brandy and that gets us to seven o'clock or thereabouts.'

‘By which time,' said Ashley in disgust, ‘everyone was busy downstairs. In a place as solid as this it's not surprising no one heard anything. Unless . . .' He eyed the open window. ‘Unless someone was sitting in the garden. They'd have heard a shot, wouldn't they? I'd better get on to that. Now, we're assuming –' He broke off as footsteps sounded on the stairs and Betty, the maid, ushered the doctor into the room.

‘Morning,' said Dr Wilcott briefly. ‘This sort of meeting is getting to be a habit, Superintendent.' He put down his case and jerked his thumb behind him. ‘Your men are downstairs. I asked them to stay out of the way until I'd finished.' He gave Haldean a curious glance. ‘You were at the fête yesterday afternoon, weren't you? I didn't realize you were in the police.'

Haldean hesitated and Ashley stepped in. ‘This is Major Haldean, Dr Wilcott. He's helping us with this investigation.'

Dr Wilcott nodded. ‘Pleased to meet you, Major.' He opened his case and took out his thermometer. ‘Better get down to business, I suppose.' Haldean and Ashley stood to one side while Dr Wilcott examined the body. Haldean noticed Wilcott's abstracted eyes, so oddly at variance with the deft professional movements of his hands, and felt reassured. Whatever Wilcott said, he felt they could trust.

After a few minutes the doctor withdrew the thermometer and held it up to the light, lips moving silently while he worked out his calculations. ‘He's been dead about fifteen hours – maybe fifteen and a half. What's the time now? Just on ten past ten. I'd say he was shot about seven o'clock last night. I can't give you the time to the minute, so there's no point asking. That's as accurate as I or anyone else could be. The cause of death is definitely this gunshot wound to the forehead. There are some powder burns round the wound which indicate the shot was fired from very close range. At a guess rigor set in straight away, as it often does with head injuries.' He stood back from the bed and seemed to look at Morton as something other than a subject for the first time. ‘Poor young devil. I don't recognize him. He's not local, is he?'

‘He's from London,' said Ashley.

‘London, eh? Like the other one. By the way, Superintendent, I've done the post-mortem on Mr Boscombe. I'll let you have my written report, of course, but the only thing of much interest was the fact he must have been fairly drunk. The stomach contained a good deal of alcohol.'

‘That's borne out by our reports from witnesses and the empty hip flask in his pocket.'

‘There wasn't anything else that could have caused his apparent drunkenness, was there, Doctor?' asked Haldean. ‘He couldn't have been fed a drug of some sort, could he?'

Wilcott shook his head. ‘I wouldn't have thought so. There was nothing to indicate it and, after all, when you find a man who has been seen drinking, who appears drunk and has a fair load of whisky on board, then it's a fair supposition that he actually was drunk. Or wouldn't you say so?'

Haldean nodded. ‘Oh yes. I was just checking, that's all.'

The doctor wiped the thermometer and replaced it in its case, but hesitated for a moment before putting it in his bag. ‘That's not a bad question, though. Appearances can be very misleading, Major, as I'm sure you're aware, but you can take it that it was drink, not dope, that Mr Boscombe was influenced by. I'll let you have my report as soon as possible, Superintendent.' He gave another glance at the twisted body on the bed. ‘And let's hope you catch the man soon. Anyone as ruthless as that needs to be out of the way as soon as possible.' He snapped his case shut and picked up his hat. ‘Shall I ask your men to come up?'

‘Please do. And what,' said Ashley as Dr Wilcott left the room, ‘were you getting at with that question about drugs?'

Haldean shrugged. ‘It's just something that occurred to me last night when I was threshing it out with Greg. At first sight Boscombe's murder seemed impulsive. Only someone who saw him go into the tent could have known he was there, which points to the murderer apprehending a sudden danger. But the gun's a problem. After all, a .22 isn't something you take to a fair, and that implies premeditation. Boscombe's condition must have made life a lot easier for the murderer and I did just wonder if it was all his own doing. If he'd been drugged as well, that would have meant the murderer had really thought things out in advance.' He grinned. ‘However, I'm wrong. Now a Sherlock Holmes would take one glance at the body and tell you the murderer was a left-handed manufacturer of artificial knee-caps from Peckham who smoked Trichinopoly cigars and walked with a limp.' He put his head to one side as the tread of official feet sounded on the staircase. ‘I'll be off, Ashley. There's nothing more I can do here and I don't want to be in the way. Er . . . is there any chance you can let me know what happens?'

‘I imagine I'll have to go up to London,' said Ashley thoughtfully. ‘Is your offer of a lift still on?'

Haldean grinned. ‘Just give me the word. By the way, if you do talk to Scotland Yard, Inspector Rackham will be able to reassure you I'm not a complete idiot. Not all of the time, anyway.'

Inspector William Rackham had been very reassuring. In answer to Ashley's telephone call he not only offered the Sussex police any help which he could provide, but testified to Haldean's abilities so warmly that any lingering doubts Ashley had were swept away. The warmth carried over to the next morning when Ashley, having decided to accept a lift up to London, was met at Breedenbrook police station by Haldean at the wheel of a blue and silver and extremely powerful-looking Spyker.

‘I've spoken to Inspector Rackham,' shouted Ashley over the thrum of the engine. ‘My word,' he added, as Sussex slid past, ‘this is some car you've got.'

‘Lovely, isn't she?' agreed Haldean. ‘I won her in a bet. Are we going to meet Rackham at the Yard?'

‘No. We're going to where both Boscombe and Morton used to live. They shared a flat together, so we were right about them being connected. Inspector Rackham'll meet us there.'

‘That's pretty quick work,' said Haldean admiringly. ‘Finding their address, I mean.'

Ashley shook his head. ‘There was nothing to it. Morton had a criminal record. He's been nailed twice for illicit gambling and petty fraud, so he wasn't hard to find. The flat's in a block somewhere in Kensington. Vesey Mansions.'

‘Vesey Mansions! My God, that's going it a bit.' Haldean caught Ashley's expression out of the corner of his eye and grinned. ‘If you were a bit more au fait with London life, you'd know that was a very good address as the house agents say Those flats must cost six guineas a week at least.'

‘Six guineas!' Ashley was temporarily speechless. ‘I'd want Buckingham Palace for that. We might find money's at the bottom of this, after all. Slow down a bit, will you? We're not at Brooklands, you know.'

‘Sorry,' apologized Haldean, watching the needle flicker back down to forty, which was still, as Ashley pointed out, twenty miles above the speed limit. ‘I got carried away. Nice straight road, London on the horizon, not a soul in sight. Didn't anything come out of the post-mortems?'

‘Nothing we couldn't have guessed. Both men were shot with a small calibre pistol – you're probably right about it being a .22 – and the lack of scorching on Boscombe's skin indicates he was shot from a distance, which we didn't doubt anyway. Morton was shot from very close quarters, of course. There were fingerprints all over that room but God knows which ones belong to the murderer, if any. Babes in arms know enough to wear gloves these days.'

‘Did you get anything from the statements?' asked Haldean, gearing down as they approached a village. ‘For instance, did anyone hear the shot that killed Morton?'

Ashley grinned. ‘There was an old buffer of about a hundred and three who was grumbling about “they pikey cars”. Apparently he was in the garden of the Talbot Arms – the Gents is out there – and a car backfired at about quarter past seven. Now, although I didn't contradict him, he couldn't possibly have heard a backfire in the garden so I think it must have been the shot he heard. That was agreed to by a couple of other witnesses. It's funny how people's minds work. I asked did they hear a shot and they said no. Ask if they heard a backfire and they say yes. That's because “a shot” to them means a shotgun, which is a very distinctive sound.'

Haldean nodded appreciatively. ‘You should have been a psychologist.'

‘God forbid. Being a bobby's good enough for me, even if I can't afford a house with a fancy price. Anyway, it looks as if Morton was shot at about quarter past seven, which ties in with the medical evidence. No one at the pub saw anything out of the way and, of the people drinking there, I can't seriously suspect any of them. They're all so ordinary, and local, too.'

‘Which doesn't number them amongst the elect, but I know what you mean. I tried a little experiment last night. I drove to the Talbot Arms, went in the side door, waited around a bit, pinched the key from the office and got to Boscombe's room without anyone seeing me. Being innately honest, I managed to replace the key without being copped. Then, seeing the night was still young, I went outside and shinned up that apple tree to Boscombe's window. It was as easy as falling off a log, if you'll excuse the rather apposite simile. I had to do a pretty decent impersonation of a branch a couple of times as divers rustics crunched past underneath, but no one saw me either going up or coming down. After that I felt I'd had enough amusement for one evening, so I went and had a well-earned pint of bitter. So you see, old thing, anyone could have got into and out of the Talbot Arms without Mine Host being any the wiser.'

‘Or anyone else by the sound of it. Thanks. That's worth knowing. I spent some time going through the statements from the fête. I'm glad to say that your uncle's got a perfect alibi, as have Colonel Whitfield and the vicar, Mr Steadman.'

‘So no murdering ministers, as it says in
Macbeth
?'

‘Er . . . yes. The Colonel and Mr Steadman were watching young Thomas Steadman put a pony through its paces, when they were joined by your uncle. Mrs Verrity arrived and took the Colonel off for a few minutes. He'd promised to lend her some men to clear up the fête and she wanted to get the details sorted out.'

‘Isabelle saw them,' put in Haldean. ‘They were by the side of the cake tent. She said they seemed to be arguing about something.'

Ashley shrugged. ‘I don't know what they could have been arguing about, but if they were by the side of the cake tent they couldn't have murdered Boscombe. It's physically impossible. Your uncle and Mr Steadman say Whitfield and Mrs Verrity were only gone for five minutes, if that. Then Mrs Verrity went to give her casting vote on the cakes and the Colonel continued his conversation with Sir Philip and the vicar about which horse would be suitable for young Steadman. They carried on chatting until the news came that Boscombe had been found dead. And,' he added, ‘I don't mind telling you it's a relief that none of them can be involved. You know how it is with people in that position. If they're guilty there's no saving them, but I'd have to be pretty damn certain of my facts. So who the devil
can
it be? We know he was at the fair. We know he's murdered twice. He'll need strong nerves, a good bit of cunning, the willingness to take risks, a large slice of luck and the ability to brazen things out.'