Treasure in Roubles, page 21
‘Sounds callous but I don’t believe she’s going to miss him. Obviously it’s been a shock, but I’m certain she didn’t care for him. Not any more. Not for a long time. And never so much as for her horses and children. He had too many girl friends for one thing. And I’m certain she knew. Everybody else did. And about his very earthy tastes in that connection. If your Mrs Lloyd was one of his string she’d have been at the upmarket end of it.’
‘Could Felicity have known what he was up to here?’
‘Not a possibility,’ Molly answered firmly. ‘She’s totally straight and not very bright.’
‘A useless confederate?’
‘And a dangerous one. He wouldn’t have trusted her. Such a devious man. Once he’d sold the painting of course he could spend what he liked on Wander Hall. There’s a fortune needed for the refurbishing.’
Treasure frowned. ‘A laudable intention. One should give him that. Rescuing the stately home. Making it fit for sightseers to trample round. Or on.’
‘Except it was his fault it was left to fall down in, the first place. He’d talked about restoration but totally neglected it for years. Then they got a modest offer from a rich American. Felicity wanted them to accept. She was telling me this yesterday morning. He refused to sell because the offer gave him the idea he could get much more. That’s if he did restore the place. But the cost to date has practically bankrupted them, apparently.’
‘Is the American offer still on?’
‘I gather, yes.’
‘So now she’ll sell?’
‘And go on living in the little dower house. Quite happily too, I imagine. So it’ll all come out right. Deep down he must have been a loathsome creature. I’m sure she’ll be much better off without him.’
Molly’s last words stayed in Treasure’s mind as they crossed the road to the hotel. He pondered why anyone doubted the generalisation that a too easy pragmatism governed female character assessment. At that moment the gleaming, phallic Admiralty spire caught his eye again. Catherine the Great would no doubt have been one of the few women man enough to concede the point—but only because if she conceded anything she had done it with total impunity.
Two hours later the thirteen remaining members of the Baroque Circle were boarding the coach for the airport. As he walked out of the Astoria, Canon Emdon gave an extravagant performance of sniffing the fresh air denied him since the day before. Mrs Vauxley, just as pointedly, leaned heavily on the arm of Amelia Harwick in punishment for having been deprived of her normal support. Candy Royce was standing at the coach door checking documents with Valya Sinitseva who was looking pert and efficient in her black leather coat. Candy winked at Miss Harwick as they both helped the older woman who was making heavy going of the steps. A stony-faced Felicity Wander followed, accompanied by Molly and Nigel Dirving. The actor was clearly aiming to please, carrying the hand baggage of the other two, dancing attendance at the steps, addressing pleasantries to Candy and Valya.
‘Nothing more from the British Embassy?’ Treasure enquired of Grinyev who had just, joined him where he had been waiting on the pavement outside the hotel. The banker had himself spoken by telephone to the Counsellor in charge at the Embassy an hour earlier.
The colonel gave his nervous smile. ‘It seems they’re a lot more concerned about the accidental death of a British aristocrat than the murder of an ordinary British subject.’
‘Only because they’re relieved it wasn’t a British subject who was murdered.’
Grinyev looked doubtful. ‘The doctor is still coming from Moscow. To see Wander’s body. Now he’s to be accompanied by an attaché. A lot of trouble over a thief and a murderer,’ he added, but the tone was nearly apologetic. ‘I’m glad Lady Wander is leaving. It’s best for her.’
They watched the Blintons emerge and cross the road to the coach. Sol stole a glance at the colonel, and lifted a hand tentatively in greeting. The gesture was returned, but just as tentatively.
‘You’ve got a nerve,’ whispered Gloria to her husband when they were well out of earshot.
‘And I’ve also got the letter,’ replied Sol, inwardly delighted at winning the last round, but outwardly solemn to show his contrition.
‘Why did Wander use Blinton’s knife to do the murder?’ Grinyev asked Treasure suddenly.
‘Quite simply I think he was ready to sacrifice the old boy.’
‘But there are four million Russians in Leningrad, and quite a lot of them were at the opera that night.’ The colonel had been carefully studying his shoes again. Now he looked at Treasure with lips pursed.
‘And not one of them with the remotest interest in doing away with Frenk the imposter who’d never been here before. Who had a brand-new British passport which the real Frenk has conveniently denied all knowledge of. If Vasilefski had evidently been killed by a Russian it would surely have involved much more strenuous searchings into his antecedents. Or so it would have appeared to Wander.’
‘And he’d have been right. I believed it must be one of your party. Not Blinton necessarily, but one of you.’
‘And it was much less of a problem to the USSR if it was.’
‘Correct.’ The KGB man nodded. ‘So, Wander got it right in theory but wrong in practice. Once he’d got the painting he aimed to rid himself here of an expensive liability. Also an enduring risk.’
‘Now shall you tell me, Colonel, why Mrs Vauxley’s stick wasn’t taken apart when you searched her along with everyone else?’
A heavy, dejected expression suffused the other man’s countenance, the weight of it reflected in the sudden droop of the shoulders. ‘Because she was sitting on it. While she was waiting to be searched. While they went through her handbag. It didn’t occur to anyone.’
‘We’re all human, Colonel.’
Grinyev seemed to consider the point, then his whole frame began to shake with the laughter that sounded from the back of his throat but hardly showed on his face. ‘You think the woman officer responsible should be court-martialled for incompetence?’ he asked, still grunting with amusement.
Treasure hesitated.
‘Of course you do,’ Grinyev answered for him. ‘And so do I. I’m throwing the book at her. Because I’m human too.’ He began to laugh again.
Edwina came hurrying out of the hotel—the last of the group and looking very glamorous. She waved to Treasure before boarding the coach. He wondered what diversionary part she might have agreed to play for Dirving, at the airport coming in, if Sol Blinton hadn’t proved more suitable and been substituted at short notice. The actor had needed someone for that vital role: Treasure had reluctantly deduced it must originally have been Edwina. And did that signify her larger involvement in the whole scheme—or just a romantic one with Dirving? Treasure hadn’t pressed for confirmation or enlightenment on this—only he disliked Dirving the more for endangering the girl’s safety.
None of this was strictly fair, but it fitted the banker’s feelings both towards Edwina and the man who claimed to be her lover. It also coloured Treasure’s final question to Colonel Grinyev.
‘If Wander hadn’t killed himself, you’d have allowed him to leave?’
‘Naturally. That was our deal. Like you, I wanted the satisfaction of knowing the name of the murderer.’ The Russian shrugged. ‘But the victim was someone of so little account. Compared to the gravity of the crime.’
‘The murder, you mean?’
‘Certainly not. I mean the theft of the Raphael. You don’t believe I’d have let your aristocrat go?’
‘On the contrary, Colonel, I find it much easier to believe you than not.’
The other man smiled softly. ‘Ah, so like many in the West you are finding that to trust us is the same as not to mistrust us? But much friendlier?’
‘I didn’t say quite that.’
‘You have reservations?’
‘The attitude has to be mutual.’
‘As it was between you and me.’ Grinyev gave a contented grunt. ‘Please visit the USSR again, Mr Treasure. You and your charming and talented wife.’
Treasure shook hands, then turned on his heels and crossed the road to the coach.
David Williams
Stuart David Williams was a writer best known for his crime novel series featuring the banker Mark Treasure and police inspector DI Parry.
After serving as a Naval officer in the Second World War, Williams completed a History degree at St John’s College, Oxford, before embarking on a career in advertising. He became a full-time fiction writer in 1978.
Williams wrote twenty-three novels, seventeen of which were part of the Mark Treasure series of whodunnits which began with Unholy Writ (1976). His experience in both the Anglican Church and the advertising world informed and inspired his work throughout his career.
Two of Williams’ books were shortlisted for the Crime Writers’ Association Gold Dagger Award, and in 1988 he was elected to the Detection Club.
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