The Nine Bright Shiners (18 page)

‘Nothing whatever.' The man's eyes held his, and Webb sensed a battle of wills. He was also sure Cody was lying. But he allowed his eyes to drop first.

‘Very well, sir. Perhaps Mrs Coverdale can help us.'

‘If I can't, I don't see how she can.'

‘It's worth a try. Sorry to have troubled you.'

They came out of the Mews and stood on Clarence Way, turning up their collars as the cold north wind buffeted them. ‘We'll leave the car where it is and walk,' Webb said. ‘Which, come to think of it, is what Marriott did. Question is, where did he walk to?'

‘You mean somewhere like this, where there's no parking?'

‘A tempting thought. I don't trust Cody, but I'm damned if I see what connection he had with Marriott. And don't forget the Bank was within walking distance of the car park, too. Anyway, we'll call in at Cavendish Road and see how the lab boys are doing.'

At Rylands, they found the forensic team completing their examination. ‘No reason why the family can't move back,' the senior man told Webb. ‘We've got all the samples we can find, and you'll have the results within a couple of days.'

At the Peel household, both Janis Coverdale and Lady Peel denied knowledge of a book, though the old lady seemed shaken by the question.

‘A book!' she repeated, but it was a statement rather than a query, as though it offered a solution to some puzzle. ‘Why do you ask?' she added after a moment, and Webb again explained about the magazine.

‘How extraordinary. I never thought of a book. And his son knows nothing about it?'

‘He says not.'

She looked up at him. ‘If it came to light, would the families have a chance to read it before publication?'

‘It could be arranged, but there's no one left to confirm or deny the contents.' He paused. ‘Lady Peel, were you expecting something to come to light after your husband's death?'

She met his eyes. ‘Yes, Chief Inspector, I believe I was.'

‘Could you tell me why?'

She was silent for a moment, looking down at her clasped hands. Then she said quietly, ‘Until nineteen fifty-five, my husband had no secrets from me. He was not a secretive man.'

‘And after that?'

‘After that, there was something. I'd hoped he might have left me a letter, to explain – apologize.'

‘And he didn't?'

‘No.' Lady Peel straightened her back. ‘I may as well tell you – in any case you'd find out – that I went to see my solicitor yesterday, specifically to ask that question. And he told me a curious thing. When we first came here from Surrey, my husband did indeed deposit a letter with him, but it was addressed to my daughter, not myself. It was to be delivered three calendar months after the last of them had died. As it happened, Reginald himself.'

‘So it's awaiting her return from Peru?'

‘No. My husband withdrew it, ten years ago.' She glanced across at Jan. ‘After the death of Mr William Langley.'

‘And did he give it to your daughter?'

‘I don't know. It was never mentioned in my hearing.'

‘So you've no idea what it contained?'

‘None whatsoever.'

‘What about you, Mrs Coverdale? Have you received any notification from your father's solicitors?'

She shook her head, her wide eyes on his face, and Webb turned back to the older woman. ‘Did your solicitor act for the others, by any chance?'

Lady Peel smiled. ‘No, I ascertained that much, after which my hands were tied; but yours won't be. Chief Inspector, do you think this is connected with the murders?'

‘Yes, Lady Peel, I do. In fact, I intend to fly out to Peru next week, to see Mr and Mrs Langley. If you can advise me the best way of contacting them, I'd be very grateful.'

The old lady paled, and Jan broke in, ‘But you don't think
they've
anything to do with it?'

‘As I explained before, Mrs Coverdale, your half-brother is certainly implicated, though whether voluntarily or not I can't say.' He paused. ‘Don't forget he was still in the country at the time of the first death. Do you know where they are at the moment?'

Jan swallowed. ‘Not accurately. Somewhere between Cuzco and Cajabamba.'

‘Well, no doubt once we get out there, we can contact them by radio.'

She shook her head. ‘Radios are useless in the jungle. VHF only works for about five miles, and high frequency sets are too heavy. They need a charging engine and an experienced operator, and Edward says they're not worth the trouble. But he'll have left a rear party in Cuzco. They'll be able to help you.'

He was about to rise, but she put out a hand to detain him. ‘Chief Inspector, there's something else I've been meaning to tell you. My mother-in-law phoned on Thursday. She'd tried to ring me the day before, when we were in London.'

Webb stiffened. ‘Yes?'

‘Mrs Carr answered the phone.'

‘What time was this, Mrs Coverdale?'

‘About lunch-time, she said. She couldn't be more definite.' Jan paused. ‘Is it any help?'

‘It's useful confirmation. We've established lunch-time as the most likely time of death. A few minutes either way will only make a difference if someone has an alibi.' He stood up, nodding to Jackson. ‘Thank you for passing on the information. I'll be in touch again before we leave for Peru. In the meantime, the lab has finished at the other house. You and the children are free to go back.'

After the policemen had gone, Jan brought
Treasures of the Incas
down from her bedroom, and showed the pencil mark to Lady Peel.

‘Have you any idea what that means?' she asked.

The old lady read through the page. ‘I can't imagine, dear.'

‘Did Sir Reginald ever mention these particular jewels?'

‘Not that I remember. He'd hoped to find some treasure at Cajabamba, though he knew it was unlikely. As he told me, the Incas had been so sure of their supremacy and the honesty of their subjects that they didn't worry about security. Consequently when their Empire fell, everything was there to be taken.'

‘Not quite everything, it seems,' Jan answered thoughtfully.

It was eight o'clock when Webb let himself into his flat, grateful for its welcoming warmth. God bless central heating, specially after a day in the January cold.

And thank God, also, for fish and chips. Usually, he enjoyed preparing his meal, but this evening he was impatient to get down to some sketching.

Having deposited his supper in the oven, he went to the living-room, pausing at the window as he always did to look down the hill to the town nestling at its foot, its thoroughfares easily identified by orange lamps strung in the darkness.

It was a ritual now, a conscious relaxation, to distance himself visually as well as mentally from his working life. Tonight, the sodium lights turned the snow beneath them to gold, and it looked like some strange desertland out there. There was desert in Peru, as well as jungle and mountains.

So much for the shedding of work, he told himself ruefully. The thought of the coming trip exhilarated him, though he was also apprehensive. For the first time he wouldn't be operating on home ground, and the advantage of knowing the territory would belong not to him but to Edward Langley. As a detective, he knew the importance of this.

He needed therefore to clarify his thoughts by setting them on paper, hoping that this visual method, as so often in the past, would lead him in a new direction. To begin with Marriott, an investigative journalist makes enemies, but whose secret was important enough to kill for? Find the motive, and you find the murderer. Sometimes.

He drew the curtains and poured himself a drink, aware of the growing need for pencil and paper. This usually came later in a case – they were only six days into this one – but there were so many disparate threads that he needed to draw them into a composite picture.

He ate quickly and without enjoyment, a mere stoking up of energy for the task ahead. As soon as he'd finished, he removed the tray and set up his easel, his mind already slipping into overdrive.

First, the
dramatis persona,
and here his skill as a cartoonist helped, each figure instantly recognizable beneath his pencil. In pride of place was the dead man, Guy Marriott, and, circling him, the owners of the wallets: Rollo, Cassidy, Cody and Langley. Next, like artefacts buried with dead Pharaohs – and for all he knew, dead Incas too – he drew the tools of their trades: a cheque-book for Rollo, a calculator for the accountant Cassidy, an easel for Cody and for Langley, a long, narrow oblong representing Peru.

Then he stared broodingly down at them, tapping his pencil on his thumbnail. Langley they'd not so far questioned, but the other three denied knowing Marriott. Was one of them lying?

And how far was Sinclair involved? Was he also connected with Cody and Cassidy? The report from London should provide some answers. Thoughtfully, he sketched in associated locales: the hotel where the lunches were held, a building to denote the squash club, the Chedbury lay-by and its fallen tree. And following on that, those early inconsistencies – a shabby jacket with sequins on its lapel and a bandage which might or might not represent a mummy. Was there a hidden message there, and did it lead back more than thirty years?

Attempts to trace the clothes were proving difficult. He reckoned they were most likely bought in November, which was the date of the scraps of newspaper clinging to them, but so far inquiries at jumble sales throughout the county had proved negative.

He let the sheet drop to the floor and, selecting another, drew as faceless men those he'd never seen, the explorers whose long-past expedition overhung the case; and, beside them, the women of the family – Lady Peel, Rowena Langley, and Janis Coverdale. Then he sketched an envelope, intended for posthumous delivery, but withdrawn from safekeeping. Had it been the only one? He'd checked with Cody, who, like Mrs Coverdale, denied receiving a letter. And why had Sir Reginald withdrawn his? Because of Langley's death?

Webb studied the sketch of Lady Peel. She was an intelligent woman, capable of setting her mind to a mystery that intrigued her. Was it only now, after more than thirty years, that her curiosity was roused? How feasible was it that she'd uproot herself and move house, as Mrs Coverdale had said, with no reasonable explanation?

Shaking his head, Webb progressed to the plainer features of Lily Carr. An avoidable death, that one, due, surely, to unlucky chance. If she'd left the house with the Coverdales, she'd be alive today. And the only common factor between her death and that of Marriott was Edward Langley. His wallet, and his house.

The hours ticked away and Webb remained engrossed, training his concentration on one after another of the likenesses before him. The murderer was there, he felt sure. He was searching for some clue in the faces, some sign which his subconscious had noted but his conscious eye had missed. A weakness of character, an imbalance, which had led not to one murder, but two.

Perhaps, after all, he'd not enough to go on. He stood up, easing his aching back, and noted with surprise that it was past midnight. Still, the hours had not been wasted. They'd brought a more intimate understanding, a clearer awareness of virtues and weaknesses, and that could be the first step to unmasking the killer.

The next morning, Jan and the children went back to Rylands, but not to stay; Lady Peel had been insistent on that.

‘It's not safe, dear, till this nasty business is cleared up. And if, as the police think, the burglar didn't find what he was looking for, he's likely to try again, especially now the scientists have gone. Do please be sensible.'

‘But it's too much for you,' Jan protested, ‘having the children rushing round all the time.'

‘Nonsense. They're perfectly well-behaved, and I'd be under considerably more strain worrying about you if you weren't here. I don't even like your going now, but I appreciate you need more things. Shall I ask Miles to go with you?'

‘No, really, we'll be all right.'

Jan hadn't seen Miles since his sudden kiss on Friday, and to her annoyance was apprehensive of their next meeting. She'd no wish to colour like a seventeen-year-old under his mocking gaze.

And there was another reason why she didn't want his company. She intended to examine Rowena's wardrobe, and find if there was any truth in the children's story.

The snow was at last melting, its crystal purity turned to sandy-coloured slush. Ben, boy-like, walked in the gutters, kicking the soft mounds ahead of him with his boots.

The clock on the tower of St Benedict's chimed eleven as they turned into Cavendish Road. The last time they'd walked along here, Jan thought, was on their return from London, to find Lily dead. Could it really be only four days ago?

Julie's voice broke into her thoughts. ‘We should have brought Lotus with us. She'll be getting homesick.'

‘She's more settled at Cajabamba than we are,' Jan replied. ‘Edith spoils her – she's quite happy.'

‘Lily spoiled her, too,' said Julie with quivering lip, and Jan, contrite, took her hand.

The house seemed unaffected by its experience. Any mess the lab men had made had been tidied away, and apart from a faint smell, chemical in origin, it was as it had always been. But Jan knew she would not, ever again, look inside Edward's study.

They stood in a little group in the hall. Above them on the half-landing, the large, stained-glass window glowed softly in the winter sunshine.

Intercepting her thoughts, Ben said, ‘Shall we have a go at the wardrobe?' He had left his boots on the doormat, and stood in stockinged feet, one on top of the other.

‘All right. Show me exactly what happened.'

The entire ambience of the room had changed since her parents' day. A pale carpet in duck-egg blue replaced the old patterned one on which she had sat as a child. A chintz chair stood in the window, beside a low table bearing the ornaments about which Rowena had spoken: the cool greys and blues of Copenhagen porcelain, exquisite mounds of glass etched with the images of owls and otters.