‘The second time it was someone else. But you were there all right to get back that envelope.’

  ‘But why …?’

  ‘On the strong chance that by six last evening enough interested people knew the importance of the original. That one of them might have decided to do something about destroying it.’

  ‘I couldn’t have known.’ Still the voice was quiet, uncertain.

  ‘Something better than intelligent surmise on your part. Anyway, the thing’s gone. You’re too bright to miss chances — especially ones you can engineer for yourself.’

  ‘Chances?’

  ‘Your friend Louella had trusted you with her secret. By lunch-time yesterday even Sims’s assistant knew what she was doing. You made it your business to spread the word. You scared stiff all the people likely to benefit from the Sandy Lane development. Except Denis Pitty. Once he’d got his money, of course, both of you knew it made no sense to support Louella.’

  She was stroking her brow with both hands as though trying to relieve the tension there. ‘I didn’t go into the cottage. I didn’t get the letter back. Denis promised to get it today but …’

  ‘You didn’t have your own key to the cottage?’

  ‘Never. It’s why I couldn’t get in. If I’d smelled the gas I’d have switched it off. I couldn’t have turned it on. I know Jacks thought it was turned on later …’

  ‘Denis told you?’

  She nodded. ‘If there’s an investigation … because Jacks died. If it comes out I was there.’ She shook her head slowly. ‘I would have saved Louella’s life, but I never had the chance. I never could have harmed her. People will think I went in. I always went in. But this time I couldn’t, don’t you see?’

  ‘Because the key had gone already. The one under the flower-pot,’ Treasure confirmed.

  The relief on her face was instant. The tears in her eyes this time were genuine enough. ‘You know that? Oh thank God. You can prove it? Tell them if it comes up?’

  He nodded but knew he yet lacked the justification.

  ‘Thank you, thank you.’ The weeping was now uncontrolled. Then, in a single spontaneous movement she folded her arms around his neck and pressed her cheek to his. He could feel her whole body quiver with each great sob. He tasted the salt in the tears as she kissed him, not particularly expertly, but with feeling. People had different ways of expressing their gratitude after all: he decided it would be churlish to seem insensible.

  Chapter Eighteen

  ‘Evening, Mr Treasure, sir. Thought it must be you.’

  ‘Hello, Mr Stock. Late patrol?’

  The banker had earlier parked his car on the rough verge some distance from the Trings’ house to stop any noise disturbing the Canon. He was glad he had done so, particularly since he had stayed longer than he’d intended. The policeman, pushing his bike, had come up to him as he was unlocking the car door.

  ‘Ah, well, it’s a bit tricky, sir. Why I’m out. Glad of your help.

  It’s this envelope, see?’ He withdrew the object from under his cape. ‘Addressed to Lady Brasset from Mrs Tring, it is. The one my wife came on this morning, at the cottage.’ Cp

  ‘That disappeared in the hall?’

  ‘That’s the one, sir. Well, it didn’t. Disappear I mean. The wife’s that ashamed. Put it in her pinny — the pocket of her pinafore — meaning to put it on the hall table. Had it on her all the time. She was in such a rush to be back to get my dinner. That was the trouble. Football being early, see? She’s not usually out on a Saturday morning. Routine all to pieces, that’s what it was.‘ He paused. ‘Oh dear, she’s that upset.’

  ‘And she’s just found it?’

  ‘Few minutes ago. She was sorting out the wash for Monday.’

  ‘Well, there’s no harm done, surely?’

  ‘Could have been. If it had gone in the machine. And Mr Pitty’s been looking for it. Like I said, I’d meant to ask Mrs Tring if she’d taken it back. Then I heard the Canon was poorly so I didn’t like to bother her. Same as now. Don’t know whether I should knock or push it through the letter-box or what. I telephoned Mr Pitty. No answer. I see you just come out, sir. How is the Canon?’

  ‘Not too well. Needs to sleep. Best not to risk waking him. About the letter. Can we walk down to your house? You won’t book me for parking here?’

  The constable smiled. ‘No, I won’t do that, sir. You’re well off the thoroughfare, and a Rolls-Royce adds a bit of tone to the village.’ He nodded approvingly at the car as the two walked away together. ‘You were saying about the letter, sir?’

  Ten minutes later Treasure was sitting in the kitchen of the Stock home, consuming excellent hot chocolate and buttered homemade speculo biscuits under the approving gaze of Matilde.

  ‘It’s irregular, sir. It’s irregular without any doubt,’ said Stock, pulling on a bushy eyebrow. ‘If what you say is right, I should be getting on to the Station. CID work this is, and no mistake.’

  ‘But if I’m wrong, a lot of police time is going to be wasted, plus a lot of law-abiding people may be put under suspicion. A lot of them friends of ours.’

  ‘I see that too, sir. What you’re asking is …’

  ‘We delay reporting you’ve found the letter till tomorrow morning.’

  ‘A few hours only, Clifford. That’s all monsieur demands. And really it’s ’is letter anyway,’ put in Matilde. She had heard only part of what Treasure had said to her husband, and she was unclear about why the CID should be involved over her stupidity. One thing she knew for sure: Treasure — who looked like all her favourite actors rolled into one — said Lady Brasset had told Eddy to send what was in the envelope to him in London.

  Matilde was happy to accept the word of an obvious English gentleman in such a matter. It also made her feel a good deal less guilty.

  ‘And if we opened the envelope, sir, you know exactly what we’d find in it.’ Stock was weighing his words while considering the short time left before his retirement.

  ‘A copy of a letter in Lady Brasset’s own hand. Yes. But I don’t suggest we open it. Or do anything that might be considered in the least unlawful or improper.’

  ‘There,’ uttered the constable’s wife. It followed whatever Treasure said was in the envelope was surely so.

  Opening it would have been not so much unlawful as a challenge to integrity.

  ‘Could I have some more chocolate, love?’ Stock’s tone signified preoccupation with more important matters without reflecting on the quality of the beverage. He turned to Treasure. ‘And phoning these people, then you and me sitting it out, as you might say. You reckon that’ll be according to Judge’s Rules?’

  ‘Undoubtedly,’ replied Treasure. He had the slimmest memory of the rules referred to but worked always on the premise that any law which didn’t comply with common sense could ultimately be challenged with impunity. ‘All we’re doing is deciding not to wake the Trings to tell them we’ve found a letter Mrs Tring hasn’t even reported lost.’

  ‘Ah, there is that,’ put in Stock with a speculo half way to his mouth. ‘I could have just shoved it through the letter-box, though.’

  ‘It may be splitting hairs, old chap, but in the circumstances —’ he smiled at Mrs Stock who beamed broadly in response — ‘I don’t believe it’d be characteristic of you to have done that. You’d want to explain how the thing turned up.’

  ‘Without doubt, Clifford,’ agreed Matilde with a pointed sigh.

  ‘That’s right enough, sir. Take it round in the morning, I would.’

  ‘So, that’s settled. And you and I can spend an off-duty hour or so sitting in Lady Brasset’s grounds.’

  Stock showed less contentment on this point, but his mouth was too full of buttered biscuit for immediate disputation.

  ‘Let’s say we’re going badger-watching,’ added the banker hurriedly, ‘That’s every poacher’s excuse, sir — and burglar.’ But the comment came lightly.

  ‘And we could hardly be mistaken for either. Now if you’d rather I made the calls from the box up the road …’

  ‘Not at all, sir. They’re only local anyway. Phone’s in my office at the front.’

  Matilde went ahead and had carefully polished every part of the instrument, and the seat beside it, with a new duster, before Treasure was allowed to begin his calls.

  ‘Apparently, Mrs Stock said you were looking for it this morning. She’s very embarrassed, her husband said,’ Treasure explained.

  ‘It’s just that Cynthia mentioned it. I said I’d pick it up. I don’t think it’s important,’ Pitty replied in an over-casual tone on the other end of the line. ‘On the mantelpiece in the living-room, you say?’

  ‘That’s right. Mrs Stock thought she’d put it in the hall. She remembered later it was the living-room.

  ‘Good of you to let me know. I’ll pick it up in the morning.’

  ‘Could I meet you there? Shall we say nine-thirty?’

  ‘If you like.’ The lawyer sounded surprised, and not in the least enthusiastic.

  ‘How was Brighton?’

  ‘Er … windy. Only got back a minute ago.’ It was ten to eleven.

  ‘I know. I tried you earlier’ — but only a few minutes earlier. It was fairly certain Pitty hadn’t been in touch with Cynthia — unlikely he would telephone at this hour and disturb the Canon.

  ‘You called on the Trings. How was Algy?’

  ‘Poorly. I had a long chat with Cynthia.’ Treasure paused. ‘A pretty frank chat.’

  ‘I see.’ The uncertainty in the voice implied the speaker was awaiting rather than enjoying illumination.

  ‘About the copy letter in that envelope. Lady Brasset meant it for me. She told Jacks to post it to me.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I don’t follow.’

  ‘Jacks told me so himself.’

  ‘You saw Jacks?’

  ‘We had a confidential talk this morning, yes. Before lunch. Before he came to you. I gave him a certain amount of advice. I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you when we talked. Not without risk of compromising others.’

  There was a long pause. ‘I think I owe you an explanation,’ offered Pitty eventually.

  ‘I think so too. It’s why I suggested we meet in the morning.’

  ‘Tonight would be …’

  ‘Less easy for me.’ He could make what he liked of that. ‘Good night.’

  Treasure had replaced the phone before the lawyer’s collected thoughts had found proper expression. Next he called the Petworth number. Tony Quaint answered.

  ‘Has Ali left yet?’ Treasure asked.

  ‘Just going. He’s washing his hands. D’you want him?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You put the cat among the pigeons there, all right. Something he’s not letting on about too. Something about the sale of the Round House. Is that insurance company on the up and up?’

  ‘I think that’s Seawell’s business, don’t you?’

  ‘I suppose so,’ though there was no disguising Quaint didn’t mean it.

  ‘There’s been a development with the Marshford letter. The one you said didn’t exist. Well, it does. At least the copy Lady Brasset made.’

  ‘Or dreamed up. How does it read? She was old enough to get the style right, I suppose. Probably went to school with all the Marshford daughters.’

  ‘She wasn’t quite that old. Anyway, I can’t vouch for the style, or anything else in the letter yet. I haven’t seen it.’

  ‘Has anybody else?’

  ‘It’s in the living-room of Lady Brasset’s cottage. In an envelope addressed to her. It’ll have to stay there till the morning. I’m picking it up then with Denis Pitty, the lawyer.’

  ‘You said the original’s lost. That’s assuming there ever was an original.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Must you have a lawyer around when you get this copy?’

  ‘Yes, as it happens. Remember it’s not addressed to me.’ It was tempting to add the lawyer in question would be as happy as Quaint himself to see the document quietly destroyed.

  ‘How did it get where it is? In an envelope. Wasn’t it supposed to have been stuffed in her coat pocket? Jumped out, I suppose. That gardener didn’t see it.’

  ‘It was put there later, in error.’ Treasure lied in a good cause.

  ‘Sounds fishy to me.’

  ‘We’ll see when I’ve read it tomorrow. What effect it’ll have on the DoE.’

  ‘Oh my God,’ came as a sort of muted, hopeless supplication for divine partiality in the cause of Roxton International.

  ‘Sorry, didn’t catch that.’

  ‘My back’s hurting.’

  ‘Bad luck. Talk to you in the morning. Good night.’

  Treasure wondered how well Tracy was doing. He had called her first.

  ‘Are you sure it’s OK for me to go, Mr Daws? It’s only quarter to.’

  ‘Absolutely, Tracy, you captivating creature.’ The proprietor of the Beachcomber leered at her from the customer’s side of the bar. ‘I’ll lock up the booze. Another drink, either of you?’

  Daws was addressing the Commander and Mr Elderberry. Both had drifted in during the previous hour as they sometimes did on ordinary Saturdays in winter. This Saturday in a curious way encouraged clannishness. Looking on the bright side, none of those present might need to endure the bleakness of Sandy Lane night-life for even one more week.

  ‘Is Mrs Daws all right?’ asked Tracy as she emptied the till. The takings were small. There had been seven people in the dining-room for dinner — including the Misses Catchready-Taunton. All had since left. There were just the four of them in the bar.

  ‘Esta all right? Oh, tip-top, thanks, love.’

  ‘She hasn’t gone to bed?’

  ‘No incentive with me still here, eh?’ He glanced about for appreciation. The others hadn’t been listening. ‘No, she’s in the office. She’ll put that in the safe.’ He nodded at the small pile of notes, coins and one Visa slip. ‘Unless she throws caution to the wind, rushes out and paints the town red with it.’ He wrinkled his brow in a sign of despair. ‘Who’d run a seaside hotel, eh? I’d make more with a jellied eel stall. Might do that next.’

  ‘It’s just she looked a bit upset …’

  ‘When you came back from talking to Mr Treasure, sweetie,’ Elderberry chipped in. ‘We were all a bit upset. Perhaps it’ll all come right, though.’

  ‘As I see it, whatever’s in that letter of Louella’s, Seawell are committed to buying us out on Monday,’ said the Commander.

  ‘But Treasure said he’d be handing it over to the DoE,’ put in Daws.

  All three men exchanged pointed glances.

  ‘He doesn’t really have any option.’ This was the Commander.

  ‘Being an honourable man,’ commented Elderberry.

  ‘Being an honourable man’s all very well if you’re a rich banker with no mortgage and no pile of debts dragging you down,’ Daws mourned.

  ‘Well, good night, Mr Daws, Lancelot. Don’t wait up, Daddy. I’m going for a blow along the front. May drop in on Sally for coffee.’ Sally was a friend who lived at the other end of town.

  ‘Wrap up, and take a stick,’ ordered the Commander.

  ‘In case I have to beat a handsome man into submission!’ she joked as she left the room.

  Tracy crossed the empty hall, and made for the office behind the reception desk. The door was closed, but she heard the ting of the telephone being replaced. She knocked and entered without waiting for a summons. Mrs Daws was sitting at the desk. She was holding a crushed handkerchief to her nose. Her eyes were red with weeping.

  Treasure hadn’t purposely collected Dung. The brown dog had joined him unexpectedly in the bushes opposite the front door of the cottage, refusing to be sent away. They were crouched together, waiting for action. Specifically, it was Treasure who anticipated stirring events: Dung simply harboured a vague expectation about a newly conceived mealtime. The relationship between man and dog had become easier when Dung spotted the Thermos flask and moved downwind of the banker to be close to it. Dung had been in a cow field: quite recently.

  Constable Stock was some distance away. He was waiting behind a low, well-spread young oak, its leaves withered but not yet fallen. The tree was close to the drive exit high on Treasure’s left.

  The Rolls was parked out of sight behind Stock’s house.

  The policeman’s bicycle was hidden at the side of the cottage.

  The rain had held off, and there was a strong breeze. And suddenly there was Tracy Mane in the middle of the drive.

  ‘Cuckoo! Cuckoo!’ she cried, looking about her.

  ‘Shut up, you’re out of season,’ called Treasure in a low voice, parting the cover in front of him. ‘Come in the bushes, quick.’

  ‘I’ve had better propositions,’ she giggled. ‘You should be ashamed, luring innocent young girls …’

  ‘Keep your voice down.’

  ‘Aye, aye, sir.’ She cuddled up beside him. ‘Your dog pongs.’

  ‘He’s not my dog. His name’s Dung.’

  ‘You’re kidding?’

  ‘I’m not. How did you get here?’

  ‘Last bus. Stops at the crossroads.’

  ‘Anyone you knew on it?’

  ‘Only Bill Watts, the driver. It was empty.’

  ‘You needn’t have come.’

  ‘I guessed you’d be here. Fancied a ride home in the Rolls.’

  ‘It may be a long wait.’ He zipped up the weatherproof golf jacket. ‘Mr Stock is at the far gate.’

  ‘I know. He came out and waved while I was cuckooing.’ She pressed up even closer to him. ‘Anyway, I’m the only one with a key to the cottage. You might need one.’

  ‘How d’you come to have …?’

  ‘Our back door key …’

  ‘Fits this front door. I’d forgotten. Your father did tell me. Did you get the story over to everybody?’

  ‘Mmm. Including Daddy.’

  ‘I didn’t mean …’

  ‘I know you didn’t. But he ought to have as much chance as everyone else to prove he’s straight.’

  ‘That’s a point.’

  ‘It isn’t just for the letter, is it? There’s more. It’s more serious than the letter.’ The unusual, earnest note remained in her voice.

 

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