Treasure by Degrees Read online

  ‘Perhaps the kitchen door . . .’ Treasure had just returned with Witaker from an outside search for Mrs Hatch.

  ‘Is bolted from the inside,’ said Ribble tersely while still attempting to dislodge the key that was blocking the entry of the one in his hand.

  ‘What about the windows?’ asked someone loudly.

  ‘All locked apparently, someone’s been to check,’ Hassock volunteered. He was standing beside Miss Stopps who was occupying the only available chair in the vast, dome-topped hall.

  ‘Impossible . . . utter . . . utter . . . quite impossible. Doors locked . . . windows locked . . . no one inside . . . stands to reason. ’Scuse me.’ Hunter-Smith elbowed his way through the crowd in an evident state of intoxication. He breathed heavily into Ribble’s face; this was the last straw.

  ‘Major Hunter-Smith . . .’ Ribble began in a remonstrating tone.

  ‘At your service, Dean.’ The Bursar attempted to click his heels together, succeeded only in crossing his legs, lost his balance and was obliged to grasp Ribble by the shoulders to prevent himself falling over. ‘Whoops,’ he exclaimed, treating all in the vicinity to an ingratiating smile. ‘Want to watch these floors, Dean. Now, if you’d let the dog shee the . . . the whatsit.’ He produced his own set of keys from his pocket and attempted to select one from a dauntingly large bunch.

  ‘I have an SCR key in my hand,’ said Ribble, maintaining patience for the sake of appearances.

  ‘’S’no good in the hand. Wants to go in the lock. Want to get the door open.’ Hunter-Smith attempted to steer his own key in the general direction of the keyhole.

  ‘He’s right, you know,’ Treasure turned to Witaker. ‘One of the windows has to be unlocked, or the thing’s an impossibility. Let’s go and look. Vicar, you game for a forced entry?’

  ‘Ha – there’s hardly a lock in this building I haven’t raped in my time. Lead on.’

  The SCR occupied the second bay to the east of the northern porch to Itchendever Hall. The room was served by five tall Venetian windows of such a depth that their sills were almost flush with the paved way that separated the building from the gravel drive. Four of the windows were sash operated, but the lower half of the centre one was a casement. ‘My grandfather had that put in to save his gouty legs,’ said Hassock. ‘Room was the library in those days; heaven knows why – most of the family were illiterate.’ He shook the casement – they had already discovered that the other windows were firmly secured by their hasps. ‘Ho, ho – the march of progress, there’s what looks like a Yale lock on the inside; used to be a latch and bolt arrangement. No keyhole on this side, though.’

  ‘So people can get out but not in,’ said Treasure.

  ‘Ha, the contrivance of some houseproud female wanting to keep the floors clean. Got a credit card on you?’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘I have a Diner’s Card, Mr Hassock.’ Witaker produced a small plastic oblong from his bill-fold.

  ‘They do this on television all the time – let’s see if it works.’ The Vicar pushed the card through the jamb of the doors and level with the lock on the inside. ‘Like cutting through cheese,’ he said. ‘Voila, burglars of the world unite, you have nothing to lose but remission.’ The right half of the casement stood open before them.

  Treasure entered the room, pushing aside the closed curtains. The place was in darkness except for a glow from the fire. ‘Hang on, the light switches are by the door.’ Hassock pushed past but before he could reach his objective the double-doors burst open. Either the Dean or the Bursar had succeeded in dislodging the inside key and inserting another from the outside. The room was flooded with light; people began pouring in.

  ‘Stop. Stay where you are – don’t move, anybody.’ Treasure issued these streaming injunctions at the top of his voice from where he was standing a few feet from the fireplace. He had turned his back on what he had seen, the better to shield the sight from those who were coming in at the door.

  The figure of Amelia Hatch was slumped in an armchair to one side of the fireplace. A dagger – its handle delicately traced with gold – lay on the carpet nearby. But it was not the figure, or the chair, or the dagger that was to freeze the scene in Treasure’s memory – only the blood; the blood that was everywhere. Amelia’s throat had been cut from ear to ear, and she had bled copiously – bled like a pig.

  CHAPTER XI

  TREASURE SPOKE into the telephone in the Dean’s study. ‘Colin, I’m most dreadfully sorry, but obviously I can’t leave. Apologize to Audrey for me, won’t you? . . . The Inspector? Yes, Detective-Inspector Treet, he’s with me now . . . Oh, ten minutes ago . . . Yes, extremely quick. Well, the Inspector had just arrived to tidy , up the remains of a bomb scare we had earlier . . .’ He took the phone from his ear and handed it to the heavily built, tousled-haired man in the crumpled check suit. ‘Colin . . . er, that is, the Superintendent would like a word with you.’

  ‘Treet here, sir.’ The youthful Inspector was predictably not on Christian name terms with more senior police officers – even recently promoted ones.

  But for the startling and horrifying death of Amelia Hatch, Treasure would shortly have been on his way to the West Meon home of Detective-Superintendent Colin Bantree of the Hampshire CID. The two had struck up an enduring friendship since their first meeting in the spring of the previous year. Bantree’s transfer from the Thames Valley Force a few months earlier had been indirectly instigated by Treasure. The Superintendent’s doctor wife had been offered a place in a group medical practice in Winchester run by a college friend of Treasure’s. Bantree had applied for and obtained a Chief Inspectorship in Hampshire, and promotion had quickly followed. Treasure had welcomed the visit to Itchendever because it had given him a convenient opportunity to take up a long-standing invitation to spend a night with the Bantrees in their new home.

  ‘Got to assume murder, sir, but it could have been suicide. Knife’s on the right-hand side of the body . . . Half an hour at the most, I’d say, she’s pretty warm still . . . That was a hoax, sir, but it might have been a diversion; there was no bomb . . . Important Arab, a Crown Prince, I think . . . Mr Treasure, sir? I’ll ask him.’ The Inspector looked across at Treasure. ‘The Superintendent would like to know if you’ve been alone at all during the last hour, sir . . . I mean, have you been with other people the whole time?’

  ‘Tell the Superintendent I know exactly what he means,’ said Treasure wryly. ‘I’ve been with the Vicar of Itchendever since just before six, and we’ve neither of us murdered anyone since then.’

  ‘Thank you very much, sir.’ The embarrassed Treet again addressed himself to the telephone. He had some further short exchanges with Bantree before replacing the receiver. ‘The Superintendent’s arranging to be put in charge of the case, sir. He’ll be here shortly. Now if you’ll excuse me.’

  The Inspector left the room – and Treasure to the thought that in police work as well as banking it was prudent to be sure one’s friends were above suspicion; simply, bankers were less overt in the way they handled such matters.

  ‘It is impossible that your friend Mr Gregory does not have a passport, my son.’ Sheikh Al Haban stood calmly in the centre of his son’s sitting-room. The operation he was directing required intense mental concentration from himself – and a good deal of physical effort from others.

  ‘Father, I have looked everywhere in his rooms – it is not to be found.’

  ‘Then look again.’

  Prince Faisal shrugged his shoulders. ‘Even if we find it, his condition will be questioned. The plan is complicated and dangerous. I don’t mind for myself, but for you, Father, if there were a scandal . . .’

  Al Haban gazed gravely at his son. ‘What we are planning is the least we can do for such a service. The young man may have been misguided but it is clear he was acting in our interests. Do you suggest that we now leave him to the consequences? If he survives his attempt at self-destruction the British law will be harsh. They are
keeping him on his feet next door?’

  The Prince sighed in resignation. ‘Yes, Father.’

  ‘The pilot and crew are alerted, and the doctor will meet us at the airport?’

  ‘Yes, Father. The pilot cannot guarantee clearance at such short notice but the plane is ready.’

  ‘Then tell them to take Mr Gregory down to the car. But continue looking for the passport.’

  ‘Father, there is another way. If I stay here – I could hide for a couple of hours – Peter could travel as me, as your son. He could wear my clothes. If you say he’s ill there will be few formalities . . .’

  ‘But what of you? You cannot disappear for ever.’ But the Sheikh did not sound dismissive.

  ‘A misunderstanding, too complicated to explain in detail. The authorities may be displeased but they can hardly do anything to me. The important thing, as you said, is to get Peter away now while there is still a chance. If you think that’s what we must do I believe my plan is best.’ Out of respect for his father, Faisal did not add that he thought the whole scheme was in any case a mistake.

  The Sheikh pondered for a moment before replying. ‘Very well. So you must, as you say, disappear immediately. Give Hassan some of your clothes – your formal robes – we can dress Mr Gregory in the car. Quickly then.’

  A,few moments later the semi-conscious Peter Gregory was carried from his rooms down the staircase and into the waiting Cadillac. Before the car had left the quadrangle Prince Faisal had mounted an adjacent staircase and was knocking on the door of the room occupied by the short, dark girl who served on the JCR Committee. ‘Can I stay here for an hour or two?’

  ‘Oh Faisal, you can stay all night if you want.’ She experienced a nervous but altogether enjoyable tremble as the young Prince locked the door behind him.

  The police constable at the main gate of Itchendever Hall had strict instructions to let no one leave. Both he and Inspector Treet, who had issued the order, were well aware that preventing egress at this and the two other road entrances to the College offered no .guarantee that people would not be leaving in droves, if they wished, across the several miles of lightly-fenced perimeter. Such escape would nevertheless be difficult for motor vehicles of any size – and the Cadillac he had just waved to a halt was very sizeable indeed. He noted the absence of a front number plate, also the official pennant that fluttered above the nearside wing.

  The uniformed driver lowered his window. ‘’Is Royal ’ighness the Crarn Prince of Abu B’yat – an’ if I wus you, mate, I wouldn’t keep us waitin’ long,’ he observed cheerfully. The Cockney accent was at least reassuring; the other four occupants of the car looked, to the constable, foreign and distinctly uncommunicative.

  ‘You can’t leave – nobody can.’

  ‘I wouldn’t carnt on it – we got diplomatic immunity.’ The driver leant out of the window and lowered his voice. ‘I told you, ’ee’s a bleedin’ Crarn Prince, mate. You creatin’ a international hincident or somethin’ ?’

  Before the policeman could decide what to do next, a window was lowered at the rear of the car and a white-robed arm beckoned him. He moved the several necessary paces to draw level, then decided to salute the arm’s imposing owner.

  ‘Officer, we are now leaving. Should your superior wish to reach me he can do so through the Abu B’yat Legation. Drive on.’ The constable stepped back quickly to avoid having his toes crushed as the sleek black car slid away into the night. He noted the Washington DC registration plate and started pumping the call button on his hand radio transmitter.

  So it was that the curiously and hastily attired Peter Gregory was spirited away from UCI in a state of total somnolence, and quite without his own knowledge or consent. The action was perpetrated by those convinced he had committed murder; the effect was soon to produce the same conviction in others – and all because Prince Faisal had observed his tutor leave the SCR by the casement window shortly before the fireworks began. It was the same anxious pupil who, following the bomb scare and the news of Mrs Hatch’s bloody end, had rushed into Gregory’s rooms to find the owner stretched out in a coma on the bedroom floor.

  It was the young Prince’s father who had deduced Gregory’s culpability in a highly convenient homicide — too convenient for the House of Abu B’yat for there to be much doubt that it had been an act of extreme loyalty on the part of one charged with the special care and instruction of a cherished son. Gregory had been well aware of the threat Mrs Hatch offered to Al Haban’s own plans for greater involvement in the College. The Sheikh had not appreciated the extent of the man’s concern but the proof of it had come more as a satisfaction than as a surprise to the mind of a Middle Eastern princeling well used to hazardous expressions of regal devotion. The probability that after his selfless action this fine young man had sought sanctuary in suicide rather than in Abu B’yat had featured as the only illogical part of the affair. The possibility existed, of course, that Gregory had another and private reason for plotting his own demise and that he had seen the the elimination of Mrs Hatch as a favour to his friends which he could thus conveniently afford. In any event, the simultaneous discovery of a fairly strong pulse beat and an empty bottle of sleeping tablets had offered hope as well as elucidation. There was no way that the Arabs could have known that the bottle had been empty for several months, and that it was totally without current significance.

  Al Haban was well aware that medical attention should not be delayed; equally he knew sufficient of pharmacology and the natural resistance of healthy bodies, even to severe abuse, to have coolly calculated the best ordering of priorities. Since Gregory had survived so far, artificial stimulation to his limbs would probably sustain him on the short drive to London Airport. Once aboard Al Haban’s private jet aircraft, life – and liberty – could almost be guaranteed. The Harley Street consultant hurriedly summoned should be well able to cope. The Sheikh was pleased that the discreet and competent doctor of his choice had been so promptly available. In fact the summons had been nearly as inconvenient as it was certainly going to be lucrative. The doctor had made it clear that he was on call to no one save another oil Sheikh installed at a private London clinic for no better reason than that he enjoyed blanket baths – a penchant that made any requirement for real medical assistance fairly remote. The blunt offer of 5000 dollars cash for some airborne resuscitation and a return to London the next day had seemed irresistible to his ‘night secretary’ – neither had she taken it amiss that he had found it even more so when she had transmitted the message to him over the shower curtain in her Mount Street flat.

  ‘Suicide would be much the most convenient explanation.’ Treasure shrugged his shoulders. ‘Though for the life of me I can’t . . .’

  ‘Suicide’s always the most convenient explanation for murderers, insurance companies and lazy policemen, Mark.’ Detective-Superintendent Bantree, tall, slim, his dark hair still as unfashionably short as it had been when he had first met Treasure, gave his friend an understanding smile. The two were sitting in the Bursar’s Office which, together with the outer secretary’s room, Bantree had appropriated as his temporary headquarters. The rooms were conveniently placed on the ground floor of the Hall close to the south entrance. ‘Anyway, unless the pathologist’s report throws up anything startling, suicide is what it could be. I’ve known coroners come to that verdict on flimsier proof.’

  ‘The fingerprints on the dagger .. ,’

  ‘Are certainly the victim’s. The thing was in her hand this afternoon so she could easily have pocketed it. Nobody claims to have locked or bolted those doors, and nobody was seen to leave by the only possible way out. So – ‘ Bantree brought his hands together as if in prayer – ‘your Mrs Hatch hurried away from the student demo, locked herself in the Common Room, settled herself in front of the fire, and slit her throat, leaving us no note telling us what she did with her hat and coat. Well, no doubt they’ll turn up in some cloakroom.’

  ‘But they haven’t yet.’
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br />   ‘No, and somehow I don’t think they’re going to either. Mark, the timing’s altogether too tight. A lot of other people were trying to get into that room moments after Mrs Hatch came into the Hall. She just wouldn’t have had time to go and powder her nose even in the cloakroom next to the Common Room and get there ahead of the crowd.’ The policeman drummed his fingers on the desk where he was sitting. He looked up at Treasure. ‘You don’t think it was suicide, do you? And if you’re right, somehow I don’t think you’re going to be giving me a golf lesson in the morning.’

  Bantree had arrived at Itchendever over an hour before. In the interim he had capably supervised the activities of what Treasure considered the dauntingly large team of police and officials gathered at the College. Photographers, the police doctor, fingerprint experts, an ambulance crew – all had come, and some had gone, completing their allotted tasks with cold, impersonal efficiency. Suicide or murder: the question was of consuming, cold, professional interest. Treasure’s concern went a good deal deeper. ‘There’s simply no reason in the world why the old girl should suddenly have decided to do herself in – and here of all places. Ask the others – well, of course, you are asking the others.’

  Bantree glanced at his watch. ‘Yes, but there’s an awful lot of ’em. By the time we’ve got statements from everybody we should have the first autopsy report – oh, and the lab test on that glass.’