This Private Plot (22 page)

Chapter Twenty-seven

Saturday morning (continued)

Oliver found his brother once again among the tourists in the chancel of Holy Trinity, gazing at the Shakespeare burial site with its doggerel curse.

“Will's will,” he said in Toby's ear.

“Will's will's what?” Toby seemed sleepy and irritable. His clothes were muddy from the dig, and he pulled awkwardly on the oversized cricket sweater he insisted on wearing despite the warm weather.

“You know what I'm talking about,” Oliver went on in a low voice. “The last will and testament of William Shakespeare of Stratford-upon-Avon, which you brought up the other day. It mentions a famous second-best bed and quite a lot of other things. Including the crucial evidence that links Stratford Will to London Will. Evidence that you claim doesn't exist.”

“Go on.”

“London Will had three great friends, his lead actor Richard Burbage and the actors John Heminges and Henry Condell, who assembled the First Folio of his plays after his death.”

“What about them?”

“They're mentioned in Stratford Will's will!” Oliver's voice echoed off the stone walls. A group of Japanese tourists looked at him with curiosity. He continued quietly. “He left them each twenty-six shillings to buy memorial rings. You must have known that. It completely undermines your thesis that there's nothing to connect Stratford Will to the London playwright.”

“Contrariwise, it's a key piece of evidence that supports it.”

“Explain.”

“That bequest was written into the will between the lines, in a different handwriting and at a later date. It wasn't initialed by Stratford Will or by the witnesses, which was the usual practice. As you say, these were London Will's greatest friends—the actor who first played Hamlet, Lear, Othello, and Richard III, and two men who devoted themselves to preserving his Complete Works for posterity. And they're merely an afterthought, in a will made just a month before Shakespeare's death? Isn't it more likely that this is yet another clumsy postmortem attempt to dress the upstart Stratford Will in London Will's feathers?”

Oliver could not resist a glance up at the memorial on the wall. The polychrome effigy of Shakespeare, quill in hand, gazed into the mid-distance.

“And I'll tell you something else,” Toby added. “The will has another late bequest. Hamnet Sadler's name was written in, replacing the name of another man. Now, this Sadler was a friend of Stratford Will's parents. Will had known him all his life and even named his only son after him. Sadler was also a witness to the will. So you'd think Will, of all people, would know how to spell the name Hamnet. But in the addition to the will's text, it's written as ‘Hamlet.' Rather a crude and, if I may say, obvious attempt to forge a connection to the playwright.”

“Yes, but in that First Folio of London Will's plays, there's a poem by Leonard Digges. It mentions this memorial, to Stratford Will.” Oliver pointed to the effigy. “Doesn't that prove that Heminges and Condell knew the author of the plays came from Stratford?”

Toby laughed softly. “No, the only question is what did Heminges and Condell know and when did they know it. Digges, interestingly, was the stepson of one of the will's overseers.”

“Are you suggesting they were
all
part of the conspiracy to elevate Stratford Will?”

“Maybe it suited their purposes, for some unknown reason.”

“Careful, you're getting perilously close to my Alan Smithee theory.”

“As if I wouldn't remember that London Will was real enough to be a Groom of the Chamber to King James,” Toby snorted. “Along with Burbage, Heminges, and Condell, incidentally.”

Oliver gazed down at the tomb. A rope barrier swagged across the chancel a foot or so in front of the altar rail. Toby's shoulder bag was slumped against a brass pole at one end.

“Why didn't you mention the suspicious amendments to the will at the dinner party?” he asked.

“What am I guilty of now—précis? You remember the audience that night. Most of them couldn't follow your little essay on bananas.”

“Did you discuss these issues with Dennis Breedlove?” Oliver continued, hoping to make the transition sound casual.

“Yes. He didn't keep interrupting the way you do.”

“When you had these chats, did Dennis ever ask you anything about the family? Mother, the brigadier, Uncle Tim, or Aunt Phoebe? Even me?”

“Sorry to disappoint you, Olivia, but I don't remember your name coming up. Nor any other relative.”

“So Breedlove didn't get you to admit something that, in retrospect, you wished you'd kept quiet?”

“Nothing that he'd blackmail me for, since that's clearly where you're going with this.”

“But there was something he got out of you?”

Toby glanced around the chancel. There were no tourists within earshot, apart from an old, balding man with his back to them, who was studying the choir stalls. Toby didn't seem to notice him.

“The last time I spoke to Uncle Dennis,” he whispered, “we'd just discovered that priest-hole in the cellar across the river. I may have let it slip that we were keeping it a secret from the Town Council. But if he'd threatened to sell us out, we'd probably have called his bluff. Today's our last day on the project anyway, and we haven't found anything interesting.” He pulled ruefully on his muddy cricket sweater. “As you can see, I've been doing my fair share of digging the dust.”

What had the blackmail letter said? Oliver asked himself.
You don't want others to dig up the past
.…It fits, but as Toby said, scarcely worthy of blackmail. And where, then, is the “family secret”?

Chapter Twenty-eight

Saturday afternoon

The long room on the upper floor of Furbelow Hall never received direct sunlight, but any hint of gloom had been chased away by a warm, light-toned décor, bright upholstery on the sofas and armchairs, and several well-positioned lamps. A massive flat-screen television hung over the seventeenth-century stone mantelpiece, trailing wires that led to a satellite box, a Blu-ray player, and several types of video game consoles. An iPad had been left on an ottoman. Glass-fronted bookcases were well stocked with recent best-selling thrillers and DVDs. In one corner of the room was a small dressing table with a lighted mirror, strewn with boxes and tubes of theatrical makeup.

“Not quite how I pictured Dracula's lair,” Effie remarked, after “the vampire” had ushered them merrily into the room and disappeared again with promises of a “nice cuppa tea.” She dropped onto a window seat. “Who is he?” she asked.

“His name's Reg Thigpen.”

“That's the name of the bus driver who was shot during the Undercroft Colliery strike,” she said with a frown. “A couple of years ago in Derbyshire. Well, you knew him. You'd had him for burglary, years earlier. You're not telling me you know two people called Reg Thigpen?”

Mallard shook his head. “Just the one.”

“But Thigpen's dead! He's probably the most famous dead person we've had in this country. Angus Snopp, alias the Vampire of Synne, can't be Reg Thigpen. Unless…”

She stopped, horrified by the words she was about to utter.

“It was a con,” she breathed. “His death outside that mine was faked. And now he's hiding out here in Synne.”

“That's the way it's looking.”

Thigpen came into the room, carrying a tray crammed with tea-making equipment and plates of snacks. Over tea, he was perfectly happy to tell his story, as if he relished an audience. How after a lifetime of petty crime in the London area, he had left prison for the fourth or fifth time and was looking for a job (“bent or straight”) when one day, a well-dressed man approached him in the street and invited him to lunch at a nearby, expensive restaurant.

“My first thought was ‘Hello, what's your game?' Still, I was hungry. And then over lunch, he asked me if I wanted a whole new life—basically, I could live anywhere in the world, at his expense. Well, I was more convinced than ever that he was a sausage jockey with a taste for a bit of rough, pardon my French, Sergeant Strongitharm. So I was going to give him the bum's rush, prawn cocktail or no prawn cocktail. But it turns out he just talked that way because he was a toff.”

“And what would you have to do for this life of ease?” Mallard prompted.

“What I did, Mr. Mallard. Stop being Reg Thigpen for the rest of my life. Well, I was all on my own, no close family. Hadn't seen most of my friends for years, because I'd been inside. And one more thing. Something I have in common with Inspector Mallard here.”

“I'm a superintendent now,” Mallard told him, leaning back in the comfortable sofa. “And I know you won't take this the wrong way, Reg, but I can't think what we might have in common.”

Thigpen grinned. “Acting!” he declaimed. “We both like a touch of the old theatricals, don't we? I remember we had quite a chat about it, that time I was handcuffed to you in the back of the police car. So last time I was in the Scrubs, I joined the theater group. Me and ten harry hoofters, doing
Follies
. Happy days!”

“And this ‘toff' wanted you to perform the role of a man being shot in the head?”

“Not just that one gig,” Thigpen protested. “I had to
be
a scab bus driver for several weeks. That took some preparation, I can tell you. It goes against my true nature to stand counter to my brothers in the union, Mr. Mallard.”

Mallard sipped his tea, suppressing the observation that Thigpen was unlikely to have ever been a member of a trade union, since he'd never worked a day in his life.

“And your performance continues, as the Vampire of Synne,” Effie said.

“Yeah, I do like doing that posh voice,” Thigpen said excitedly. He let his Cockney-ish accent slip away and resumed the deep tones of Angus Snopp. “I bid you welcome to my dank and unworthy abode, Sergeant Strongitharm. Of course,” he added, back in his true voice, “they had to write me some brainy lines for the character. I didn't know they'd 'alf-inched a few from Bram Stoker, as you pointed out. Can't trust anybody these days.”

“Yes, who are ‘they'…?” Effie began.

“But why are you here, Reg?” Mallard interrupted. “Still in England, I mean, where you may be recognized? Aren't you supposed to be in Punta del Este, flashing your
pesos
and surrounded by tanga-clad
chiquitas
?”

Thigpen looked uncomfortable and took a bite from a slice of Battenberg cake before answering. “Yeah, that was the idea. But when Captain C—he's my minder—started listing all the places I could go, I realized I couldn't speak the lingo, and I didn't like the food. Eventually, I said I wanted to stay in England.”

“Didn't that throw a spanner in the works?” asked Effie.

“Oh, it was too late by then. I was already dead and in hiding, in a safe house in Chiswick.”

While Thigpen's attention was drawn to Effie, Mallard emptied his teacup into a potted plant. “Could I get some more tea, please, Reg?” he asked. Thigpen reached for the teapot.

“Maybe a fresh pot?” Mallard prompted.

“I'll put the kettle on again.” Thigpen headed out of the door.

“We could be in trouble here,” Mallard said, prowling around the room and peering into vases and under lampshades. “That's why I stopped you asking who's behind this.”

“The company that owned the colliery, I suppose,” said Effie, watching him with curiosity. “A clever plot to turn public opinion their way and get what they wanted: the closure of a money-losing pit, without union resistance. That surely leaves them with deep enough pockets to promise Reg a life of luxury.”

“Maybe. But remember, that was what the government wanted too. That U-turn of public opinion after Reg's murder helped them win an election. And here's old Reg talking about ‘safe houses' and ‘minders.'” He ran a finger around the edge of a picture frame. “Let's not forget, Eff, faking a very public death requires a lot of inside assistance. No, this smacks of Whitehall. I just don't know which Ministry.” Mallard paused in front of the window, noticing a black car parked beside his Jaguar.
How long had that been there?

Thigpen returned with a steaming teapot.

“Are we bugged?” Mallard demanded.

“Not at all.”

“Then how come we have company?”

Thigpen glanced out of the window. “Oh, that'll be my minder, Captain C. I called him when you first showed up.” He grinned. “You'll like him, Mr. Mallard. He's very tall.”

There was a brief rap on the door, and without waiting for an answer, Simon Culpepper stepped into the room.

Chapter Twenty-nine

Saturday afternoon (continued)

Chloe's bicycle had twenty-one gears, but none of them could get Oliver out of a ditch. Which was ironic, because fiddling with the gears had caused him to ride off the road in the first place.

Susie had thought of pitching the bike onto the roof-rack of her car, so Oliver had a way to get back to Synne as soon as his meeting with Toby was over. He'd agreed, not admitting that it had been years since he'd attempted to cycle anything more challenging than the half-mile along Kensington High Street to the Harrods food hall. Still, the ditch incident had provided some amusement for the trio of overheated workmen in the large hole across the road, who had paused to lean on their spades and make insulting comments.

The hole they were standing in was the reason why buses hadn't been passing through the village for a week or so. Most tour companies had been warned about the obstacle—only one or two fifty-foot motor coaches had been forced to beep their way slowly backwards for two miles along the dusty Synne road to its junction with the A3400.

Oliver mounted the bicycle again, determined to complete the last half-mile of his ten-mile journey without any further loss of dignity. Arriving at the Swithins' house, he drank several glasses of water and then went upstairs to collapse onto his vestal bed. He was just considering, in his own mind—as well as he could, for the hot afternoon made him feel very sleepy and stupid—whether the pleasure of guzzling a lunchtime beer would be worth the trouble of getting up and going downstairs to the fridge, when suddenly a Jefferson Airplane ringtone began to play close by him.

It was Effie's phone, on the bedside table. She must have forgotten to take it with her. Oliver reached over and checked the identity of the caller—a Birmingham telephone number. He was going to explain that Effie wasn't there, but the squeaky voice started before he could speak.

“D.S. Strongitharm? This is Tyler, in the crime lab. It's urgent.”

Oliver swallowed. Did he dare? “Yes, Tyler?” he said, in a soft falsetto.

“Sergeant Strongitharm?” Tyler hesitated. From his voice, Oliver could tell that he sported a bad haircut.

“Yes,” Oliver said again. He felt guilty—he was, after all, committing a crime by impersonating a police officer—but he reflected it was only like taking a message.

“I'm sorry, ma'am,” said Tyler, “but I think I've made a big mistake. You remember that those two sets of prints you collected didn't match?”

“Yes.” Keep it short, Olive thought, and I may get away with this. Tyler was referring to the fingerprints taken from Sidney Weguelin and Oliver's midnight attacker.

“You said that wrapped up the case. But I forgot to cancel the DNA test. The preliminary results just came back. Only I think I've got it wrong. We have a perfect initial match between the specimens.”

“What?”
Oops, dangerously low.

“Bless you, ma'am. Yes, but that can't be, can it? I must have accidentally analyzed the same specimen twice. I'm sorry.”

“That's all right, Tyler. Better luck next time.”

“Erm, Sarge?”

“Yes?”

“I hope your boyfriend's recovering from the attack. From the way you spoke about him, it's clear he's a great guy who means the world to you.”

Oliver paused, wishing now that he'd left the phone alone. Love is a mystery, but as long as Effie loved him, it was a mystery that could remain unsolved. “He's doing fine,” he said huskily.

“I only hope when I get to his age that I can still inspire the same sort of adoration. There can't be too many wheelchair-bound men in their late fifties who…”

What?
“Yes, thank you, Tyler, heck of a job,” Oliver spluttered. So Effie had charmed young Tyler by implying that she might be back in play as a merry widow, huh? He let his voice rise to a comically high level. “Are you still there?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Next time I see you, dear boy, I'm going to give you a great big sloppy wet kiss! You hold me to that. Goodbye.”

Oliver closed the phone and dropped it as if it were on fire. It had to be a mistake, of course: Sidney and the attacker couldn't possibly have different fingerprints but identical DNA. That doesn't happen.

Does it?

He sat upright, thought for ten seconds, and then ran out of the room, down the stairs, and out of the house. It took thirty more seconds to traverse the Square, curvet onto the main road, and sprint the hundred yards or so to the front door of the Weguelins' house. He hammered on the door.

Footsteps inside. The door opened. Sidney—silly beard, bad haircut, pointy nose, glasses. No bruises.

“Mr. Weguelin,” Oliver gasped. “I know everything!”

Sidney stared at the young man panting on the doorstep.

“You'd better come in then,” he said.