Death of a Raven (12 page)

“Are you a detective in a real life?” she asked in a mock serious whisper.

“No — I write. But sometimes it can amount to the same thing. My curiosity, for instance, makes me ask you why you said ‘real life’.”

She wrinkled her nose in a way that must have proved too captivating for red head to resist. “Parties are so artificial. I’m sorry — I shouldn’t have said that.”

“It’s not my bash,” I told her. “As a matter of fact, I agree with you.” 

Carol carefully examined an orchid, a breathtaking creation of purple, cream and brown with leopard spots in its throat. “I was hoping to have a word with Robin on his own this evening — no, it’s Terry isn’t it? — I’ve had no opportunity until now. D’you think …” She tried again. “If you said you’d like to see him for a moment he’d come, wouldn’t he? Oh dear — this all sounds so dreadful.”

I had already decided that she wasn’t the kind of girl to betray red head’s trust in her. “I’ll fetch him for you if you want me to,” I said.

Her round brown eyes stared into mine, assessing me. “It’s about something that happened at work. I know he’s been hired to protect DARE. I thought of talking to the other one — he called in the other day and I think he’s Terry’s boss — but I couldn’t quite pluck up the courage and I haven’t seen him here tonight.”

I said, “The last I heard he was taking on all-comers at arm wrestling in the rumpus room. Don’t be put off by appearances. Underneath he’s like Paddington Bear — complete with a craving for marmalade. We’ll go and find him if you like, if there’s anything to be said it ought to be said to him.”

“It’s probably nothing at all,” she said with a shrug. “I’m sure people will say it’s because I don’t like Margaret Howard. But that’s not true. Now I’m not all that sure I saw what I thought I did.”

“Look, Patrick won’t eat you,” I said, standing up. “And no one will know what you’ve said to him. If you want me to I’ll stay within range and hit him if he even breathes hard on you.” The levity, I knew, must have sounded forced. I was too tired and had too much on my mind to be convincing.

Still uncertain, Carol followed me to the door. “I’d like you to be the judge of it first, though. I know that you’ll keep it to yourself.”

I turned and faced her. “You can confide in me or him — it doesn’t matter. We’re married. Does what you have on your mind involve the possibility of murder?”

The question broke through her reserve. “It might. The day that Paul was taken ill Margaret brought in blueberry muffins for the mid-morning break and offered to make the coffee. It wasn’t like her really — she hadn’t done it before. I went to help her take the mugs around and just as I arrived I saw her drop something in Paul’s mug. At the time I thought she’d made a mistake and given him a sweetener — both David and Earl Lawrence take sweeteners in their drinks but Paul takes sugar, two spoonfuls, he has an awfully sweet tooth.”

“Did she see that you’d noticed?” I asked, my pulse beating like a drum in my head.

“No. At least, I don’t think so. I was wearing flat shoes — they don’t make any noise.”

“Did she then put sugar in Paul’s?”

“Not while I was there. I didn’t like to stand over her watching.”

We left the conservatory and I put the key back in my pocket. Then, not hurrying, I found Terry and issued the instruction that he should check on Paul and stay with him until ordered otherwise.

Thus, unwittingly, I ensured the death of two men that night.

Chapter 13

I have never been to a cockfight but the scene in the basement of Ravenscliff as I descended the stairs with Carol brought to mind one I had seen in a film. But for the absence of the birds all was the same: an air 6f tense expectancy, sweating humanity crammed together, hoarse shouts and a lot of money changing hands.

The spotlights which illuminated the room had been adjusted to direct the beams into the centre of the room, creating a pool of light like a small stage in which had been placed a small table and two chairs. These were at present occupied by Leander Hurley and a man I knew to be a neighbour of the Hartlands. To a chorus of cheers and groans Hurley smacked the other’s fist back on to the table.

Carol nudged me and indicated with a discreet index finger. She had already caught the mood, her face tight with suppressed excitement. This was understandable. She had unburdened herself of something that had up until then spoiled her evening, and the information she had divulged had not been laughed at.

Our quarry lounged with his back against the wall in one corner, the darkest one I couldn’t help but notice, a tankard of beer in one hand. He had removed his sweater and rolled the sleeves of his shirt up to the elbows. Despite the gloom I could see that the thin cotton material was soaked with sweat and that his hair curled on his neck and forehead in damp ringlets. There was not the slightest chance of reaching him without drawing the attention of the entire gathering.

Critical of the lax state of security I then observed that his shoulder holster was hanging within reach and when he moved into the circle of light to take the seat vacated by the loser he removed the gun from it and tucked it into his jeans pocket. Tangibly, the excitement of those watching mounted.

“Hiya Major Freddie!” roared Hurley despite his opponent’s nearness. He seemed unlikely to die of thirst within the next few moments. “Shall we do some gardening right now? I might even prune your balls for you sonny boy.”

During the roar of laughter that this produced Patrick leaned across and said something in Hurley’s ear. Hurley didn’t believe what he had been told and became helpless with laughter which was just as well, Patrick had taken a decided risk that he would impart the knowledge to the room at large.

“Hurley only arrived a short while ago,” McAlister said quietly to me. “We insisted that he work his way up through the rest of us like your husband had to and now there’s just the two of them.”

“Was he as drunk as that when he arrived?” I enquired.

“Don’t imagine that he’s as drunk as he looks. From what I’ve seen of him he acts pretty crazy when he’s only had one or two. I should like to be able to warn the Major about that.”

There was no need, I thought, Hurley was sitting opposite one of the British army’s most exalted interpreters of the human condition.

“Twenty dollars Gillard loses,” offered Earl Lawrence, rudely leaning across Carol.

“Are you speaking to me or Drew?” I demanded, wondering if he had postponed flying home to Montreal for the weekend because of the party.

“Fifty,” said Nelson Redding’s voice from somewhere nearby before McAlister could reply. “You give me fifty if he wins.”

“Done,” said Lawrence, ignoring me. 

“Yes,” McAlister said thoughtfully into the hush that settled over the room. “I’ll make it fifty too.”

“That’s a lot of money,” I heard Mark whisper to Jon.

“Don’t look at me, friend,” said Jon sadly.

I nudged Carol. “Tell Mark I’ll back him.”

The two men seated at the table clasped hands, sheer beef-cake versus lean wiriness. For a few moments nothing happened and then Hurley went in for surprise tactics, a sudden ferocious burst of strength that knotted the magnificent muscles of his back. Patrick’s arm went about six inches from the vertical and then righted as Hurley relaxed. They smiled at each other with teeth only across their raised hands.

I tried to evaluate how much Patrick had had to drink. Watching him move and remembering how he had walked to the table I found myself smiling. He was merely drunk on his own body chemistry. Hurley didn’t stand a chance.

So it proved to be. Inch by inch, Hurley lost. He sweated and swore, panted, raved and sweated again. Inch by inch his arm was forced backwards on to the table, three times, the final bout an indignity, a walkover for the winner.

“I must admit that I don’t understand,” said McAlister, nevertheless delighted with his handful of money. “Hurley is so incredibly muscular.”

“It seemed more like hypnotism to me,” Carol said breathlessly.

But I didn’t want to enter into a discussion of how looking at Patrick makes some women feel weak. Nor for that matter that there was a lot in what she had said. Weasels do it too.

I said, “I’ve a notion that Hurley pumps iron for an hour or so a day. There’s nothing to indicate that he comes from a long line of men who could crack walnuts with their fingers. And Patrick had to rely on the strength of his arms and hands to haul himself around when he was recovering from his injuries.”

I caught Carol’s eye but no one was moving to disperse. Chris Fraser struggled through the throng holding aloft a can of beer and gave it to Patrick. He drank it straight from the can this time, with hardly a pause. Then he removed his shirt entirely, used it to dry off some of the sweat then rolled it into a tight ball and threw it overarm at Mark.

“I withdraw,” said Mark, tossing it back.

“Out here,” Patrick ordered, smiling.

“Now what?” I said, desperate to go to bed and sleep for a week.

“Ah,” said Drew’s soft brogue. “Well, it seems that young Mark was denied tuition on certain aspects of unarmed combat on the grounds that he was not strong enough. He begs to differ so your other half has told him that if he can hang from that beam by his hands for five minutes he will concede. As you might imagine, people are betting on the outcome.”

The basement at one time had been fitted out as a gymnasium and the beam, a smooth piece of maplewood set several inches below the ceiling, had been incorporated into the building and so could not be removed. Everyone settled themselves as comfortably as possible, a few of the women laughing loudly at Patrick when he dusted the top of the beam with his long suffering shirt and then dropped it on the floor.

Mark slowly went forward, round-shouldered, hands in pockets.

“He won’t do it if he doesn’t want to,” I heard Emma say, and I turned to locate her. She was sitting at the top of the stairs behind me and was obviously quite unable to tear her gaze from Patrick’s naked torso. Perhaps, after all, she was only a lonely, rather silly woman, with good and bad points like everyone else, who found solace for her loneliness and boredom in the arms of any willing man.

Patrick approached Mark who miraculously ceased to kick his heels and then removed his shirt as requested in case the seams cut into him. It was agreed that Fraser be made responsible for time keeping.

“I suppose this will do wonders for his drawing ability,” said David Hartland when his son had been in position for a minute without the slightest sign of strain.

Patrick fielded the remark. “Of course. Any exercise that strengthens the fingers and wrists must improve manual accuracy.”

“This seems to me to be more of a feat of endurance.”

“I shall take him down before any damage is done.” Patrick said patiently. “And that’s also why I’ve forbidden him to take any cash inducements.”

“So what does he get out of it?”

“I promised I’d show him how to knock a man over with his feet.”

But Hartland wasn’t finished. “Can you do this?”

“Three minutes,” called Fraser.

Patrick began to show irritation. “I never ask people to do things that I can’t. As a one time naval officer you ought to know that it’s one of the golden rules of command.”

“Oh God,” sighed Emma, displaying for the first time how much gin she had consumed that evening. “Aren’t people who take themselves seriously bloody tedious?”

Don’t throw him that kind of opportunity, I inwardly warned her. You’ll get more back than you bargained for.

Mark’s fingers began to slip and on Patrick’s advice he changed his grip, one hand at a time. But he was in trouble, breathing in grunts.

“Come down,” Patrick told him softly. “Before you fall down. You’ve already done better than I thought you would.”

“Four minutes,” Fraser said.

Mark silently appealed for a few more agonised moments and then let go of the beam. Grimacing with pain from his cramped fingers, he acknowledged the loud applause.

“Cash inducements!” announced Leander Hurley, and those who had been moving towards the stairs ceased to do so.

“He’s not really an extrovert,” I whispered to myself. “Leave him alone — he only played along to make the party go well.” Seemingly of their own volition my feet were taking me down into the pool of light.

“Ten dollars you can’t do it,” drawled Hurley.

Patrick appeared to give it serious thought. “I already earn more than that in five minutes,” he said finally.

“Surely not,” I murmured, still carrying on a one-sided conversation and by now standing at the front. Then, louder, I said to Hurley, “Don’t turn him into a sideshow.”

Hurley glanced at me. “Ma’am, I wouldn’t dream of it. This is a business transaction.”

“Damn you,” I retorted but the remark was lost in the response he knew his words would have. From all sides offers were thrown at Patrick, a clamour, not particularly pleasant to listen to, the real frenzy of a cock fight.

I understood that no man with red blood in his veins could walk out of the room without facing up to the challenge. After the Freddie fiasco, and the fact had to be faced that from the point of view of an undercover operation this was what it had been, Patrick had won back a lot of respect just by being himself. Anyone heading a security mission needs all the respect and co-operation he can get from those around him. Therefore he had no choice but to offer himself as a sideshow.

He rubbed his palms down the sides of his jeans and relied on his left leg to provide impetus to jump up to grip the beam. Chris Fraser hurriedly looked at his watch.

During the first three minutes, which passed amazingly quickly, Patrick accepted a total of sixty-four dollars for five minutes, someone’s mother-in-law for two seconds over that time and a pick-up with all four wheels missing for a minute on top of that.

Well into the next five minutes he swopped the mother-in-law for a jar of peanut butter and gave the pick-up to one of Mark’s friend’s girlfriends, whose father was a scrap merchant, in exchange for a kiss. Not from Daddy though, he emphasised, just smiling at the girl who had called out that she had an old lorry to dispose of and what would he give her for that?

At eleven minutes Hartland said, “Two hundred you can’t stay there for twenty.”

“I’m not taking bets,” Patrick told him. “You give me two hundred to stay here.”

“That’s my offer.”

“Makes it more interesting,” Hurley said.

“This is getting too crazy,” Marie said to me in an undertone, “I wish I hadn’t opened my big mouth.”

“Twelve minutes,” Fraser intoned into what had been a long silence.

“On my terms then,” Patrick said. “Two thousand for twenty-five.”

“Done,” Hartland replied, and this really set it alight.

At fifteen minutes all business seemed to be over with Patrick due to gain or lose four thousand three hundred and forty dollars. This settled he removed one hand at a time from the beam to wipe the sweat from his eyes. I was trying to remember the final figure on our most recent bank statement.

Fraser had just called nineteen minutes when Patrick’s right hand began to slip. He immediately changed his hold as he had advised Mark, so that his palms faced him instead of the backs of his hands. I didn’t try to catch his eye, no more than I did when someone gave him hell with an electric cattle prod during interrogation resistance training sessions.

The more sensitive members of his audience regretted their lighthearted offers during the following four minutes. By this time I was sweating with him, almost feeling the racking pain in wrists, forearms and shoulders. No, he wasn’t doing it for the money.

There was one minute to go when Bryce and Rab Gaspereau shoved their way down the stairs.