An Act of Evil (13 page)

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.”