Four Thousand Days, page 16
‘Mrs Inkester must be distraught.’
‘Dear Elspeth. Any man’s death diminishes her, of course, but why Norman’s in particular?’ The professor frowned.
Blunt smiled and looked knowingly at Crawford. ‘A little bird, Professor,’ he said. ‘I’m sure that, as a zoologist, you are familiar with their habits?’
‘Er … what?’
‘Some of them talk, don’t they?’ Blunt leaned back in his chair. ‘And fascinating tales some of them have to tell, indeed.’
‘Inspector, I …’
‘One of those tales is that the late Dr Minton was … shall we say … close to your wife.’
‘What rot!’ Inkester snapped. ‘That is a slanderous concept totally without foundation.’
‘Yes,’ growled Blunt, ‘and I’m a Boer’s left bollock … oh, begging your pardon, Professor … testicle. Where were you on Tuesday night?’
‘Um … Tuesday? Tuesday? Let me see. Nightjars.’
Crawford stopped in mid-notetake. ‘Nightjars?’ he repeated.
‘Yes. That’s all one word, if you were wondering. Caprimulgus europaeus, if you would prefer the Latin. I’m carrying out a survey at the moment. There’s quite a little colony in Hyde Park but increasing habitations in several London squares. Normally, they’ve migrated by August, but there are signs of a change. Must be the climate.’
Blunt blinked. ‘Are you telling me you were wandering about London looking for birds in the dark?’ he asked.
‘Well,’ Inkester chuckled. ‘Put like that, it does seem rather silly, doesn’t it? But yes, in a nutshell, that’s exactly what I was doing.’
‘Can anybody vouch for that, sir?’ Blunt asked. ‘In the avian community, perhaps?’
‘No,’ Inkester said. ‘No. I invariably carry out my research alone.’
‘Tell me, sir, do the little birdies you were hunting inhabit, say, Bloomsbury Square?’
‘Indeed they do. Very distinctive song, you see.’ And he proceeded to give the officers of the law a demonstration of the whirring chirrup of a nightjar.
‘So, you were around the corner from this very building on the night in question.’
‘Yes, I suppose I was.’
‘Did you actually enter the building, sir? On your nightly prowling, I mean?’
‘No, I … Wait a minute. Yes, yes, I did. It had turned quite chilly, so I nipped in for my hip flask.’ He rummaged in a drawer of his office desk and produced it. ‘Keeps out the cold.’
Blunt folded his arms with the air of a man who was about to close a case. ‘What time was this, Professor?’ he asked. ‘Approximately.’
‘Oh, I don’t know. One … two o’clock? I really can’t remember. You’d have to ask old Jenkins.’
‘Nightwatchman?’ Crawford checked.
‘That’s right. Man was asleep when I arrived, of course, but he muttered something to me as I left.’
‘Constable,’ Blunt turned to Crawford. ‘You know this building tolerably well.’
‘Tolerably, sir.’
‘How far would you say it is from the department of Zoology to the department of Archaeology?’
‘As the nightjar flies, sir, two minutes.’
Blunt smiled and stood up. ‘I’d like you to come with us, please, Professor.’
‘What? Where to? I’m expecting a wildebeest …’
‘Scotland Yard, sir. We can continue our conversation there.’
‘But I’ve got a lecture in half an hour.’
‘You did have,’ Blunt said, and waited while the professor got his coat.
Margaret Murray hung her coat up on the antlers screwed at a rather rakish angle to the wall and turned to the girl intent on a book at the far side of the table.
‘Did I just see your young man escorting Walter Stinkster out of the building?’
Angela nodded. She had stopped telling people that Adam Crawford was not her young man. The truth was self-evident whenever they were within sight of each other. ‘Yes,’ she said, closing her book but keeping her finger in the page. ‘Apparently, Blunt has it in mind that he killed Norman.’
‘The Stinkster? Why?’
‘It is a well-attested fact, according to Blunt, that Norman and Mrs Inkester were more than just good friends.’
‘Well, yes, everyone knows that. It’s been going on for years.’
Angela’s eyes nearly fell out of her head. ‘Norman?’ she said. ‘Why Norman?’
‘You’ve seen Mrs Inkester, I assume? At functions.’
Angela shook her head.
Margaret held her hand some way above her own head, puffed out her cheeks and mimed a bust like a rolltop desk. ‘She’s quite an intimidating lady,’ she said, letting out her held breath with relief. ‘Rumour has it that Walter was looking for a silverback gorilla for his stuffed animal collection and settled for Elspeth when one wasn’t available.’
Angela cast her mind back and nodded. ‘I do know her. I see what you mean, but I think what I meant was, why Norman? Rather than why did Norman choose Mrs Inkester.’
‘Any old professor in a storm, I suppose,’ Margaret said, sitting down and arranging her notes for the forthcoming tutorial. ‘If you had a choice between being bored to death, no pun intended, by Norman or sharing a bed with someone who spends much of his day up to his elbows in exotic animal innards, who would it be?’
Angela shrugged. ‘Not easy,’ she said. ‘Apparently, he’s waiting for a wildebeest.’
Margaret gestured over her shoulder. ‘No, it’s here. He met it on the stairs. He got quite aerated about it, apparently, but Blunt wouldn’t take “Wait, that’s my wildebeest” for an answer.’
‘I dare say someone in the department will …’ Angela didn’t know what one did with chilled wildebeest. ‘Will …’
‘Yes, dear. I dare say they will. Meanwhile, how would you and the detective constable like to come to tea today?’
‘Not today, I’m afraid,’ Angela said. ‘Not that there’s an agenda in your invitation, I’m sure. Tomorrow, though. I’ll make sure that Adam … Constable Crawford … is off duty. Would supper be all right if we can’t make it at teatime?’
‘Even better,’ Margaret said. ‘Mrs Plinlimmon likes company in the evening.’
Walter Inkester had never really noticed the headquarters of the Metropolitan Police before. It stood alongside the Embankment, watching the river with one eye and the Houses of Parliament with the other. Athelgar Blunt had let the zoologist sit all day, filling in the paperwork which was the lot of a detective at the dawn of a new century. He barely had time to nip down to the Clarence to wet his whistle before he nipped back to pursue his enquiries.
It irked him that Crawford was his number two on this one. It irked him even more that he was only there because that interfering busybody Reid had thrown his weight around. It didn’t help that, all around him, the cult of St Edmund was still very much in evidence. They’d be putting up a blue plaque next.
‘Right.’ Blunt had lit his pipe. Now he blew smoke into the suspect’s face. ‘Let’s talk about Mrs Inkester, shall we? How long had she and Norman been at it like weasels?’
‘What?’ Inkester had been kept waiting for hours. He was not in the best of moods.
‘Oh, I thought you would appreciate the analogy,’ Blunt smirked, ‘you being of the zoological persuasion and all.’
‘I find you offensive, Inspector,’ Inkester snapped. ‘That you have the barefaced audacity to infer …’
‘I’m not inferring, sunshine,’ Blunt said. ‘I’m saying it straight out. It’s common knowledge at the college that the late Dr Minton, otherwise boring old fart that he was, was slipping your wife one.’
Inkester was on his feet, fuming.
‘Sit down, Professor,’ Crawford said. He didn’t like Blunt and he didn’t like his methods, but he did take the queen’s shilling and he had a job to do.
Inkester sulked back into the chair.
‘You see,’ Blunt said. ‘My thinking goes something like this. The late lamented and your good lady are enjoying a bit of how’s your father. You found out and … what? Confronted her? We have yet to find out. But you certainly confronted him – on the night in question, while pretending to be birdwatching or whatever – and things got ugly.’
‘No, I …’
‘You argued. Maybe he swung a punch, or tried to. You saw the statuette on his desk through the red mist and wallop! One less philandering bastard in the world. Happens all the time, even in the best academic circles. Now, are you going to come clean, or what?’
TEN
There was no doubt about it; Thomas was about to excel himself. From the wine to the doilies via the canapés, he had forgotten nothing, skimped on nothing. This evening’s soirée did not come out of University College’s hospitality budget, so it all devolved on Margaret Murray. But she had chosen her guests well and tonight she hoped for some answers.
She had hired the Senior Common Room, the fire was crackling in the grate and the college servants had been given the night off. Thomas was literally head cook and bottle washer, but he liked it that way, a jack of all trades and master of them all.
‘Thomas.’ Margaret was folding napkins. It gave her something to do before the guests arrived, even if it was encroaching on Thomas’s domain.
‘Yes, Prof?’ Thomas was holding up a wine glass to the light, twisting it critically this way and that.
‘Can I put a hypothetical case to you?’
‘Hype away,’ Thomas said, huffing on the glass and polishing away a recalcitrant speck with his cloth.
‘Imagine someone came across a box, a box that did not belong to them but a box that was locked and looked intriguing. As a man of the world, which I know you to be, what might be inside, do you suppose?’
Tom laid out the glasses just so, lining them up by eye. ‘Would that be the box you showed me the other day?’ he asked her. ‘At the Bentham?’
‘It might be,’ she said, pulling out the centre of a waterlily with practised fingers. ‘It might be.’
‘Nice.’ He pointed to her handiwork and she nodded, pleased. She had always been clever with her hands and it always paid to have something up one’s sleeve, should archaeology ever fail to please her. ‘Hmm.’ He closed his eyes, the better to remember the dimensions of the box. ‘Six by ten,’ he said, ‘give or take.’ He looked at her. ‘Street value’s difficult,’ he said, ‘and the fence’s role is vital. If the contents are lifted, selling on the open market’s risky. And of course, if the contents are well known, even if just to experts such as yourself, then the riskier it becomes.’
Instinctively, Margaret’s mind was focusing on hoards. ‘Gold,’ she said. ‘Coins. Probably first century.’
‘Top of the market,’ Tom nodded. ‘But coins are specific, aren’t they? Got kings’ heads or whatever on ’em. For that, or silver, come to that, you’d need – and you didn’t hear this from me – Lemmy Izlebit of Old Jewry. Failing him – and some people have – Isaac Farben, off of Bevis Marks. The Chosen People have got the precious metals market pretty well sewn up.’
‘What about diamonds?’
The archaeologist was out of her depth already, but gems were not called the killing stones for nothing and it seemed that at least two people, perhaps three, were dead as a result.
‘I reckon that’ll be Gregorius Hendrick, New Bond Street. Or, at a pinch, Wyndham’s.’
Margaret was horrified. ‘Wyndham’s?’ she repeated. ‘But they’re a reputable auction house.’
Tom tapped the side of his nose. ‘And I’m Joan of Arc,’ he said. ‘Trust me, Prof. You show me an honest auctioneer and I’ll show you a good time – oh, begging your pardon, of course.’
‘We might be thinking too literally here, Thomas,’ Margaret said. ‘What if the box contained something of other value? Not intrinsic. It could be parchment, wood, paper, even. But it could be priceless.’
‘Well, that’s where I’d have to bow out, Prof,’ Thomas said, counting the forks and allowing for extras. ‘How do you mean?’
‘Well, the Rosetta Stone wouldn’t fit into the box I have in mind, but it opened the ancient world to us in a way that makes it absolutely unique.’
‘Is that a diamond?’ Thomas asked. ‘A sort of Koh-i-Noor of Koh-i-Noors?’
Margaret smiled. ‘No, it’s a block of marble, but it carries vital translations, from Latin back to Greek and to Egyptian hieroglyphs. That’s how we can read the tomb art of the various dynasties.’
‘It might be how you can!’ Thomas laughed.
‘The stone was found at Rosetta by archaeologists working under Champollion.’
‘Get away!’
‘And he in turn was working for General Bonaparte.’
‘Ah.’ Thomas clicked his fingers. ‘Now him, I have heard of – the man who gave the world Chicken Marengo!’
They both laughed this time.
‘But if I’m right about the content of the box’ – Margaret was thinking aloud – ‘what could it possibly be?’
Thomas swept away in search of menu card holders. ‘Well, it could be the Holy Grail,’ he said. ‘What’s that Old Testament thing? The Ark of the Covenenant.’
‘Am I right,’ Margaret asked, ‘in believing there are collectors out there? Men – and women, I hasten to add – who would pay a small fortune for the right article?’
‘Oh, yes,’ Tom nodded. ‘It’s just a matter of finding ’em. A lot of your millionaires have private collections they’ve paid through the nose for; the Rothschilds, the Carnegies, Rockefellers, all that crowd. I happen to know that old man Dietrichson has the finest collection of erotica outside the Vatican. And you can’t get that stuff at the Army & Navy’s – I know, I’ve tried.’
There was a knock at the door and Margaret answered it. ‘Inspector.’ She smiled as a squat, bearded man swept off his hat.
‘I’m not late, I hope,’ he said.
‘Dear me, no; in fact, you’re the first. Will you have a sherry?’
Edmund Reid’s smile froze when he saw the waiter, but not as quickly as the waiter’s froze when he saw the inspector.
‘Hello, Tom,’ Reid said through clenched teeth. ‘Nice to see you out.’
‘Mr Reid,’ Tom said, a rictus grin on his face. ‘It’s been a while.’
‘It has,’ Reid nodded. ‘Lord and Lady Adderley’s, ninety-three.’
‘That was ninety-four,’ Thomas corrected him. ‘And if you remember, nothing proved. You’re thinking of that bracelet lay in ninety-three.’
Reid clicked his fingers. ‘Of course I am,’ he agreed. ‘But what I remember in the Adderley case is that the magistrate on that occasion was older than God and didn’t really understand the question. You got off lightly.’
‘Well, bygones, eh?’ Tom’s laugh was brittle, largely because Reid’s memory was long.
‘I assume, Dr Murray,’ the inspector said, ‘from the fact that he’s standing here, that you know this reprobate.’
Margaret tutted. ‘Reprobation is in the eye of the beholder, Inspector,’ she said. ‘I take it that you gentlemen have something of a history?’
‘You could say that,’ Reid nodded, and took the glass gingerly from Tom.
‘It’s not poison, Mr Reid,’ Margaret said. ‘Thomas, take the inspector’s hat.’
‘And make sure I get it back,’ Reid growled.
‘You will,’ Tom muttered. ‘It wouldn’t be worth the shoe leather taking it down to uncle.’
‘Boys! Boys!’ Margaret chuckled and settled down by the fire with Reid.
‘This is very pleasant.’ The inspector raised his glass. ‘To crime,’ he said.
‘God rot Arthur Evans,’ she riposted. ‘But, funnily enough, crime is why I invited you.’
‘And I thought it was for my charm and after-dinner chat.’
‘Inspector Dier,’ Margaret gushed, ‘you are one of the most charming men I’ve ever met. And you can talk about what you like after dinner. Pre-prandially, however, can we focus on the late Helen Richardson and the late Emma Barker?’
Reid nodded. ‘Back in the day,’ he said, ‘I’d be looking at a baize wall at the Yard. It would be covered in little pieces of paper which a minion would move about on my command. There’d be lots of tea and cigar smoke and I’m afraid the language could get quite colourful.’
‘Well,’ Margaret smiled, ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to do with sherry for the moment. And as for the bits of paper, they’re in my head, I’m afraid, along with a great deal of irrelevant rubbish. As to the language, well, the night is young.’
She crossed the room and topped up their sherries. ‘Imagine I’m a minion,’ she said, ‘a detective sergeant, perhaps. No, make me a constable. Make it simple for me.’
Reid laughed. ‘I don’t think that’s necessary, is it, Margaret?’ he said. ‘But all right. I’ll play along. Helen and Emma. What’s the common ground, apart from the fact that they’re both dead, of course?’
‘Both women,’ Margaret said. Clearly, she was taking her role as rookie constable very seriously.
‘Both archaeology students.’ Reid was sharpening the focus.
‘But from different colleges,’ Margaret came back at him. ‘And Helen was very much part time. Only attended the Friday lectures for the general public.’
‘How is that different from the regulars?’ Reid wanted to know. ‘What do full-timers get that part-timers don’t, apart from the hours, of course?’
‘Part-timers don’t attend tutorials or write essays or undertake research. They also don’t go on digs.’
‘Whereas Emma did, hence the goings on at Hampton.’
‘Precisely.’
‘Would their paths have crossed?’ Reid asked. ‘In the general scheme of things?’
‘Unlikely.’ Margaret shook her head. ‘It is possible for students of other colleges to attend Friday lectures, but it’s not usual. What about Helen’s other calling? What we should rather inaccurately call her day job?’
‘I’ve been looking into that,’ Reid said. ‘Or rather, one of my Yard contacts did it for me. She really was a telephonist, at the Exchange. We’d have to call soliciting her twilight job, I suppose.’
