Murder at the Ashmolean, page 10
‘Where do I find this Quill Club?’
‘It’s in the Broad. Or Broad Street, to give it its proper name. I believe it’s opposite Blackwell’s bookshop.’
‘You believe?’
‘Well, as I said, I’ve never been there, but I’m told there’s no sign outside identifying it, just a gap in some railings and steps down to a black door in the basement area.’
‘Well that’s three names worth looking at,’ grunted Grafton. ‘Anyone else you can think of?’
‘No,’ said Pinker. ‘That’s it for South Africans in Oxford, as far as I know. And Lord Chessington’s English, anyway.’
‘If you do think of anyone else, you can leave a note for me at the Swan Inn. Do you know it?’
‘Just off the Broad.’
‘Good. Thank you for your assistance, Mr Pinker. And remember, not a word to anyone.’
Esther darted back from the door and once again took refuge in the empty office opposite. She waited until Grafton had gone before emerging, then she knocked at the door.
‘Come in!’ called Pinker.
Esther went in, taking the two pages of her interview with Abigail from her bag as she did so.
‘Here you are, Mr Pinker,’ she said. ‘The interview with Miss Fenton, the eminent archaeologist I mentioned to you.’
‘Oh yes, thank you,’ he said, taking the pages. She could tell he was distracted, not giving her his usual full concentration.
‘Miss Fenton has read it and approved it,’ she said. ‘So, there’ll be no legal problems.’
‘Very good,’ said Pinker.
‘Is everything alright, Mr Pinker?’ she asked.
‘Alright? Why shouldn’t it be?’
‘You seem a bit … distracted.’
‘No, no, just things to think about, as always.’
‘Well actually, Mr Pinker, I’ve got something I’d be grateful if you’d think about. It’s for the women’s page.’
‘Oh?’
‘Yes. I was thinking about doing a couple of interviews with titled ladies from local aristocratic families. You know, get them to talk about their clothes, the decor of their houses, their gardens, their families, that sort of thing.’
‘An excellent idea!’ said Pinker enthusiastically, suddenly ceasing to appear distracted. ‘That’s the sort of thing our women readers love! Had you got anyone in mind?’
‘I was thinking of the Duchess of Charlbury and Baroness Whichford,’ said Esther.
‘Even better!’ Pinker beamed. ‘Both claim to be the oldest family around, and if you get one you’re sure to get the other. Both families are great rivals, always trying to outdo the other.’
‘The only problem is I don’t know either of the ladies, so they may not believe I’m interviewing them for the Messenger,’ began Esther.
‘No problem!’ Pinker smiled. ‘I’ll send them both a letter from me, telling them what’s planned. This is the sort of thing we need for the women’s column if we’re going to get them to persuade their menfolk to buy the Messenger regularly!’
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
‘How did you get on with your restorer?’ asked Daniel.
He and Abigail had met up again in the office at the Ashmolean to bring each other up to date with the latest developments.
‘Ephraim Wardle,’ said Abigail. ‘And he was a really nice man. Very talented, and very honest. I’m absolutely sure that he wasn’t involved in any way in Everett’s skulduggery. But he gave me the name of the man who was: Josiah Goddard. He has a place on the edge of town where he works, and, according to Mr Wardle, Josiah Goddard is a crook of the first water. As well as not being very good at what he does. Which is why I suspect it was this Goddard who copied the plate I showed you, using a commercial blue paint instead of the more expensive lapis lazuli.’
‘You’ve got his address?’
‘I have,’ said Abigail. ‘And in this case, I think it might be a good idea if we both visit him, just in case it might be difficult. I know I can handle myself …’
Daniel nodded. ‘But if things got awkward and he produced a pistol … And what about Esther?’
‘Oh, that’s very promising!’ said Abigail. ‘She’s going to talk to her editor about conducting interviews with the two titled ladies most likely to have the so-called Shakespeare play for sale. The Duchess of Charlbury and Baroness Whichford. Both of them fit the bill, according to her.’
‘It sounds very successful,’ said Daniel. He let out a rueful sigh. ‘I have to admit you certainly had more luck today than I did. I hit a brick wall at the Quill Club.’
‘Did you see this man, Vance de Witt?’
‘I did. And there is definitely a South African connection there. He’s from the Orange Free State, which is Boer territory. But he says he didn’t really know Everett outside of the Quill Club. Nor did he have any knowledge of the whereabouts of Eve Lachelle. In fact, in the smoothest and politest of ways, he told me absolutely nothing. Although a man called Joe who works at the club has promised to call later at the Wilton to sell me some information about people close to Everett. But I’m not sure how dependable it will be. I suspect he’ll only be telling me stories for the money he expects to earn from it.’
‘When’s this Joe coming?’
Daniel looked at his watch. ‘In about an hour. I’d better get off so I can be there when he calls.’
‘Perhaps if I tried asking questions at the Quill Club?’ suggested Abigail.
‘Use your feminine wiles on de Witt?’ Daniel smiled.
‘No, I was thinking of the women who work there.’
‘The waitresses who are also possibly prostitutes?’
‘They might talk to another woman.’
Daniel thought it over.
‘It’s possible,’ he said. ‘Although, as soon as you say who you are and why you’re asking questions …’
‘Then I won’t. I’ll use a ruse of some sort.’
‘What sort of ruse?’
‘I’ll pretend I’m looking for Eve Lachelle for some other reason. An inheritance.’
Daniel looked at her, doubt on his face.
‘You’d need something to back it up,’ he said. ‘An inheritance is no small thing.’
‘But it could be,’ she said. ‘Say Everett had left Eve Lachelle a small sum in his will. Twenty-five pounds, say. And it has to be delivered to her personally by me, in cash. I’m sure once we explain to Mr Marriott what we’re doing, he’d agree to put up twenty-five pounds if it finds us this Eve Lachelle and throws some light on the case.’
‘That’s assuming she’s still in Oxford, and that she’s connected to Everett in some way.’
‘We won’t know if we don’t try,’ said Abigail.
‘True.’ Daniel nodded. He looked at her in some surprise. ‘This is a new aspect of you, Abigail. I’ve always thought of you as not being able to tell a lie, yet here you are coming up with this fabrication.’
‘It won’t be a complete fabrication,’ said Abigail. ‘I’ll say I’m a private enquiry agent and I’m representing the people who are handling Mr Everett’s estate. Which is true, in a way.’
Daniel laughed. ‘Only in a very twisted sort of way.’
Daniel was sitting in the reception area of the Wilton when Joe arrived. Daniel gestured him to the empty chair next to him, but Joe stood, looking reluctant to sit down.
‘I’m not sure if this is the right place to talk,’ he said. ‘I’m taking a risk talking to you.’
‘Would you feel happier somewhere else?’ asked Daniel.
‘Your room?’ suggested Joe. ‘There’s less chance of me being seen with you.’
Daniel nodded, then led the way up the stairs to the first floor and to his room. Once they were inside, Joe seemed to relax slightly.
‘If Mr de Witt and Albert knew I was here talking to you, I’d be in big trouble,’ he said. ‘So it’s gotta be worth my while.’
Daniel produced two florins.
‘The first one of these is for you to start talking,’ he said, handing one of the coins to Joe. ‘You get the second if what you tell me is of value.’
Joe hesitated, as if reluctant to take the deal, then he nodded and slipped the florin into his pocket.
‘Like Albert and Mr de Witt told you, mostly Everett kept himself to himself. No particular special friends. But that changed about three months ago. Suddenly he’s bosom pals with one of the other members, Piers Stevens, whereas before they hardly seemed to know one another. But suddenly they sit together, play cards together, and they leave the club together, sometimes with Everett with his arm around Stevens’ shoulders like they’re the very best of pals.’
‘Everett’s arm around Stevens’ shoulders?’ asked Daniel. ‘What about the other way round?’
Joe shook his head. ‘If you ask me, Stevens didn’t appear to like this being so friendly. Not that he says anything against Everett. He laughs and smiles when Everett’s with him, and I notice that Stevens puts his hand in his pocket when it comes to buying the drinks much more than Everett does. And a couple of times when it comes to settling up at the end of a card game, and Everett says he’ll pay what he owes in a day or two, I was sure I noticed an unhappy look on Stevens’ face when he said it. Like that’s where the money was going to come from.’
‘So you think that Everett might have had something on this Piers Stevens?’
‘I don’t know for certain, I’m just going by how things sort of changed. The two of them suddenly being best buddies. Or rather, Everett being Stevens’ best friend, when there was nothing like that between ’em before.’
‘And this change happened about three months ago?’
‘Right.’
‘Any idea what might have brought about the change?’
‘No,’ said Joe.
Daniel remembered what Inspector Pitt had told them about the attack on Eve Lachelle, which had been four months ago, and asked, ‘Was it anything to do with what happened to Eve Lachelle?’
Joe frowned. ‘Why? What did happen to Eve Lachelle?’
‘She claimed she was attacked at the club. Raped. Four months ago, which is the month before Everett and Stevens became such good pals.’
‘That was just before I started working there,’ said Joe. ‘I’d been there about three weeks when Everett and Stevens suddenly got pally. Like I say, before that neither of them had the time of day for each other.’
‘Did you know Eve Lachelle?’ asked Daniel.
Joe shook his head. ‘She left just before I started. I only know about her because I heard some of the girls asking what had happened to her, and where she’d gone all of a sudden.’
‘And where did she go?’
‘No one seemed to know,’ said Joe. ‘Is that worth that other florin?’
‘Yes, I believe it is,’ said Daniel. He handed the coin to Joe. ‘And there’s more if you can find out what happened to Eve Lachelle.’
Abigail loitered outside Blackwell’s bookshop, ostensibly studying the display in the window but, in reality, her attention was on the gap in the metal railings on the other side of the Broad, the entrance to the Quill Club. The sight of two women walking towards the club at a determined pace, showing they weren’t just tourists or casual visitors, piqued her interest. So far very few women had been in evidence in the Broad. She walked across the wide road and caught up with the two women, just as they reached the gap in the railings and looked as if they were about to walk through and descend the stone steps to the basement.
‘Excuse me!’ she called.
The two women stopped and looked at her quizzically.
‘I apologise for troubling you. My name’s Abigail Fenton and I’m a private enquiry agent. I’ve been hired by a firm of solicitors who are administering the will of a Mr Gavin Everett, and one of his bequests is the sum of twenty-five pounds to be paid to a Miss Eve Lachelle of the Quill Club of Oxford.’
At the mention of the name, Abigail saw that the two immediately grew more wary.
‘Unfortunately, I’ve been informed she’s no longer at the Quill Club, and I don’t have an address for her,’ continued Abigail. ‘I saw you going in, so I wondered whether you know where I might find her, so I can give her the money. It’s only a small amount, but it is in Mr Everett’s will, and we do our best to comply with a client’s wishes.’
As the two women leant into one another and began to whisper together, Abigail was aware that the door in the basement area had opened, and a man had come out carrying a rag and a tin of polish. He stopped and looked up at the three women, then turned his attention to polishing the door’s brass ornamentation.
‘Twenty-five quid?’ asked one of the women.
‘Yes,’ confirmed Abigail.
The two women exchanged conspiratorial looks, then the one who’d asked about the money said, ‘We’re not sure, but if we can get a message to her, where can she find you?’
‘I’m staying at the Wilton Hotel in Broad Street. Just ask for Miss Abigail Fenton. And your names are …?’
‘I’m Colette and she’s Deirdre,’ said the woman.
‘Thank you,’ said Abigail.
The two women watched Abigail walk away, then descended the steps.
‘Who was that woman you were talking to?’ demanded Albert, stopping his polishing work.
‘She says she works for some firm of solicitors,’ said Colette.
‘Oh? And what does she want?’
Colette hesitated, then said, ‘She was asking about Eve Lachelle.’
‘What about her?’
‘She says that the bloke who died – Everett – left her some money in his will. She’s trying to trace her to give it to her.’
‘How much?’ asked Albert.
The two women exchanged looks, then Deirdre said, ‘Twenty-five quid.’
Albert’s face grew grim. ‘Don’t have anything to do with her. It’s a con.’
‘How do you know?’ demanded Colette.
‘Trust me, I know,’ said Albert. ‘Did she say who she was?’
‘Yes. She said her name was Abigail Fenton and she’s staying at the Wilton Hotel.’
‘She said she’s a private enquiry agent working for these solicitors.’
Albert nodded. ‘Alright. But remember what I said, don’t have anything to do with her.’
Albert returned to polishing the brass of the door, while the two women went into the club. Once they were in and out of earshot of Albert, Colette whispered, ‘Twenty-five quid. That’s not to be sniffed at.’
Deirdre nodded. ‘I was thinking the same thing.’
‘Trouble is, she’s seen us both now, and she knows it’s neither of us.’
Deirdre shook her head. ‘If we bring in one of the other girls, we’ll have to share it with her.’
‘So, what do we do?’
‘One of us goes along there and tells her she’s Eve, but we say we were wary about saying it at first, because the club had told us not to say anything about her, if anyone asked.’
‘Yeah, that could work,’ agreed Colette. ‘So, who goes?’
‘You,’ said Deirdre. ‘You can carry that sort of thing off better than me.’
Vance de Witt studied the accounts ledger with a quiet smile of satisfaction. The club was in good profit, and once again he thought about the possibility of opening another branch where they could capitalise on the well-heeled local clientele who appreciated the discretion the club offered. London was the obvious choice, but there were already many similar clubs operating there. Possibly Cambridge?
There was a tap at his door, which opened, and Albert entered.
‘A problem,’ he announced, closing the door behind him.
‘Oh?’
‘This woman was just asking questions about Eve Lachelle.’
‘What? To you?’
‘No, I saw her talking to Deirdre and Colette by the railings, so I asked them what she wanted. They said she told them she was a private enquiry agent acting for the solicitors handling Everett’s estate, and he’d left twenty-five pounds for Eve Lachelle, and she was trying to find her.’
De Witt gave a snort of derision. ‘What absolute nonsense!’
‘Yeah, that’s what I thought,’ said Albert.
‘Who is this woman? Did she give a name?’
‘She said she was Abigail Fenton, and she was staying at the Wilton Hotel.’
De Witt frowned thoughtfully, then said, ‘I think she needs to be dissuaded from asking any further questions about Eve Lachelle. Can you arrange that, Albert?’
‘Leave it to me,’ said Albert with a grim smile.
‘But without involving the club,’ said de Witt. ‘So I’d rather you got someone else to – er – talk to her. We don’t want to run the risk of her recognising you at some point.’
‘As I said, Mr de Witt, you can leave that to me. I know the very person.’
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Daniel reread the notes he’d made of his conversation with Joe. The suggestion was that Everett had some kind of hold over Piers Stevens and was blackmailing him. But what was that hold? It seemed to be connected to the attack on Eve Lachelle. So, was it that simple? Had Stevens been one of the men who’d raped Lachelle? But the charges against the men had been dropped, so Stevens had nothing to fear there. Inspector Pitt had said there were men involved in the attack, plural. So why had Stevens been singled out by Everett?
He was just running these thoughts through his mind when there was a tap at the door, which opened, and Esther Maris looked in.
‘Excuse me,’ she said. ‘Am I interrupting?’
‘No, no,’ said Daniel. ‘Please, come in.’
Esther entered and asked, ‘Is Abigail around?’
‘No, she’s out on the case,’ said Daniel. ‘But she told me about the idea of interviewing titled ladies who might be trying to sell the Shakespeare play. I think it’s a clever idea.’
‘So does my editor.’ Esther smiled, sitting down. ‘He’s sending letters of introduction about me to the two we’re going to concentrate on: the Duchess of Charlbury and Baroness Whichford, so we’ll see what happens there. But I wanted to tell her – and you – about what happened at the newspaper offices. That man who was in your room at the Wilton Hotel – Abigail said his name was Inspector Grafton …’
