Murder for Treasure Page 10

  After making the second ’phone call, he was satisfied they had not been aiming to kill him on the train—just frighten him off. Even if they were lying they had the best of all reasons to keep him alive now. He had said that if he was not back in London after the weekend a letter would be posted immediately to Scotland Yard.

  He wished he had floated that idea earlier. It happened not to be true but if he had known what he was running into coming here for a showdown it was exactly what he might have arranged.

  As he unpacked the new blue shirt, he wondered who he might have trusted with such a letter. The sick feeling in his stomach came to match the bitter realization: there was no one—not any more.

  In less than an hour he would be rich, and safely on his way to a secure future—but knowing he would gladly trade it all if there was some way out of this whole lousy deal. If only he knew a way back to square one.

  Bitterly he thought back to the one other visit he had made to this place six months before. Such hopes he had nurtured then, such faith in his power to rekindle a relationship the ashes of which had blown in his face. And then that gruesome thing—to happen that night of all nights: the risk, his flight, the whole stinking episode.

  Money-wise he was coming out on top, but it was no use fooling himself: he had lost the only thing that mattered in his whole life because he had trusted and been betrayed: because when he thought he was following he had just been left behind.

  Positive thinking worked till the pills wore off: he had lost the whole bottle with his bag, and the chemist in Haverfordwest had refused to sell him more without a prescription.

  He swallowed another neat Scotch and checked the time: it was just before eight. He had said he would be in the cathedral by 8.25 in the back row on the end seat next to the right-hand aisle. The whole row was reserved for ushers but wouldn’t be used—like the six or seven rows in front. He had checked earlier when he had bought his ticket for the recital which began at 8.30. The acoustics were bad in that section of the nave and the seats never used at low attendance events.

  Whoever brought the money would be in position by 8.20, two seats away from his with an unlocked attaché case on the vacant chair between them. The case would contain £100,000 in one hundred packs of £20 notes, plus the passport.

  The recital would last over an hour and he had made the point he intended to count the money bill by bill. In fact he had other plans, knowing it was scarcely in their interests to try swindling him now. He knew they had that kind of cash on hand and he had given them enough notice on three-quarters of it. The caper on the train was costing them £25,000, which meant they might have to raid the pretty cash: hard cheese.

  The whisky was providing the much needed fillip to his confidence.

  He had the perfect rendezvous—a private but visible section of a public place with enough potential witnesses around to underwrite his safety.

  They would figure he’d be staying in the cathedral for the half-hour at least it would take to count the money. In fact he had just arranged with his unlikely accomplice to be driven away at 8.30 on the dot. The car would be just about as close to the cathedral door as you could get. He had done his reconnaissance.

  In five minutes he would leave his room and pick up the taxi he had ordered to take him to the recital. He was leaving his bag and the unwanted possessions—including the stick—to imply he was returning. He had paid for a night’s stay in advance. In the manner of hoteliers he would not be missed until noon the next day—hours after he had been driven to Bristol Airport in time for the early plane.

  This time there would be no hitches, no waylayings, no knowledge of his plans or intentions. He was paying enough for the confidential service and for the protection—too much, perhaps, but there was everything at stake.

  He looked at his watch again. He wouldn’t enter the cathedral until 8.25 but it would make sense to be near the entrance soon and watch who was going in. He could do that incognito by just being himself!

  For the third time that day he studied his new appearance in a mirror. The well-tailored suit had been sponged and pressed. The new shirt and tie were not exactly Bloomingdale’s but they’d do. Above all he was through with clerical collars, wigs, false moustaches and phoney eye-glasses. He still missed the natural beard he had worn for years, but the short hair-cut suited him, and with £100,000 in his pocket . . . He smiled at himself and said aloud, ‘Welcome, Mr Dylan Rees. Welcome to Provence.’

  ‘For a cathedral that was destroyed in 645, sacked by Danes in 1078, burnt down in 1088, and fell down in 1220, I guess it’s held out pretty well.’ Patience Crabthorne was standing with Treasure and her husband at the top of the thirty nine steps that led down to the very much intact St David’s Cathedral and its broad, lawned close.

  ‘You forgot the earthquake in 1248.’ Treasure was also managing without reference to a guide-book. ‘Quite breathtaking, don’t you think? From the west end to the High Altar wall I imagine it’s substantially the same as at the end of the twelfth century, allowing for replaced breakages and some nice east-end additions.’

  ‘Isn’t that something?’ Crabthorne was visibly impressed.

  The steps commanded the perfect, elevated view of the cathedral from the south and east, together with the ruins of the old Bishop’s Palace beyond to the west.

  Treasure found it immensely moving to be gazing down on such a medieval gem in the deep hollow of the river valley where the Patron Saint had founded his church in the sixth century.

  ‘I gather the inside is powerful and beautiful too. The outside I find almost muscularly Norman.’ This was Treasure again.

  ‘Inside it’s awesome. There’s no other word.’ said the practised docent from West Virginia. ‘I just let it humble me this afternoon when Edgar and his friends were indulging in the pleasures of the flesh. Shall we go down?’

  Treasure had purposely arranged to join the Crabthornes in their limousine on the short journey to the cathedral. Anna had gone ahead alone because of her involvement in the recital, but not before trying to dissuade the whole company from attending what she insisted would be a very boring occasion. For practical reasons the Judge ultimately chose to accompany the Crutts in their Jaguar Coupe.

  On Patience’s instruction Grouch, the driver, had deposited his passengers at The Popples, the wide pebble-stoned precinct at the end of the main street. Cars were parked there against the ancient wall that had originally and totally enclosed the cathedral area below. This gave the three the finest first vista of the cathedral but also the longest walk via the steps and a long path to the south porch.

  Treasure had looked without success for Anna’s white Honda among the parked cars. What he did note with amused surprise was Inspector Iffley’s unmistakeable Mini-Estate. He assumed this was more an indication of the owner’s predilection for Bach than the likely presence of dope fiends on ecclesiastical premises. He understood too it was possible to reach the main entrance to the building more closely by car on approach roads that descended from the populated hill-top. These skirted the cathedral area to the north and the south before finishing close to the west end where parking was restricted. He had heard the Judge instruct Albert Crutt to take the north road ‘and park by the Deanery’ to save his legs.

  Nott-Herbert had perhaps considered it more tactful as well as physically less taxing to leave Treasure alone with the Crabthornes on the scenic route. He had needed persuading, though, to join the Crutts, having at first threatened to drive his own car to the recital on the score that it was well-known to the police and thus easier to park in prohibited areas.

  He had made it fairly plain at dinner that he held Crutt and Crabthorne in equal low esteem. Since common courtesy suggested there was a larger obligation to suffer even an unwanted visitor than to humour a kind of employee, he had largely ignored Crutt and been grudgingly indulgent to the American.

  Neither Anna nor Crabthorne had seemed pleased about their unexpected encounter.<
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  In contrast to her husband’s attitude Patience Crabthorne had been especially warm towards the younger woman, sympathetic about her misfortune, and full of praise about the success attending her new life. She handled the news of the engagement with all the understanding and sensitivity the delicate circumstances demanded, earning the admiration as well as the gratitude of Mark Treasure.

  The banker was sure that whatever damage Cmtt’s intervention might have presaged to the progress of the business negotiations had been spiked by Mrs Crabthorne’s civilizing influence. He firmly intended to put the Judge’s mind at rest as quickly as possible about the unintentionally frightening presentation of Hutstacker plans retailed by Crabthorne, evidently at Crutt’s instigation.

  It was certainly intended to phase out the relatively small Rigley & Herbert manufacturing plant in South Wales, and while it was true that few employees would be interested in moving to London, all were to be guaranteed first choice of jobs with the pharmaceutical and veterinary wholesale company already established by Rigley & Herbert at Llanelli and ripe for further development.

  Encouraged by Treasure, Crabthorne had belatedly begun extolling the virtues of these plans at the end of dinner but at the time when the Judge was giving his complete attention to showing Patience how he could make a full glass of water covered by a napkin magically pass through a solid mahogany dining-table. Sadly this had soon involved Nott-Herbert in having to retire to change his trousers and Crabthorne had had no later opportunity to return to the subject.

  Tactfully but firmly Treasure had made it clear in the car that it might be best to leave him to complete the job he had been asked to do with the Judge. Patience had boldly supported this suggestion, though it was clear that Crabthorne needed no encouragement about concurring.

  ‘Mark, we’re just here on vacation,’ he commented with great bonhomie as the three strolled down the wide steps.

  The cathedral, a hundred yards ahead and below them, was bathed in evening sunlight. The clock on the three-tiered square tower showed 8.20. People in surprising numbers were making their way towards the south porch where pathways from several directions converged.

  ‘A creditable turn-out for an amateur organist,’ Treasure observed as they drew near the entrance.

  ‘It won’t be oversold, and we’ve got reserved seats,’ said Patience confidently. ‘Go ahead. I’ll follow in a moment,’ she added stepping off the path on to the grass some yards short of the porch and making towards one of several ancient and crooked headstones: picturesque reminders of the ground’s past usage, they served to punctuate the sward and probably to obstruct the labours of those employed to keep it trim. ‘There’s an epitaph here I saw earlier and meant to copy,’ she called. ‘Hey, don’t get mowed down.’

  Treasure glanced over his shoulder in the direction Patience was looking. The steps and path behind had suddenly become overrun by a rapidly advancing hoard of small, excited people.

  Two coachloads of earnest and determined Japanese tourists were running late, chronologically and physically. They had arrived at the Sunfun Hotel at 7.30 instead of 5 o’clock and it was only thanks to the perseverance of the Sunfun Fulfilment Hostess (‘available at all our locations’) that they had been de-bussed, roomed, fed, watered and re-bussed in time to reach the cathedral, their next scheduled stop, not only at the original appointed time but with minutes in hand for many of them to employ taking photographs of almost all of them.

  Although the cameras were in the main of the still kind, the photographers were moving, usually backwards, and it behoved anyone in the way not wishing to be involved in involuntary oriental group eurhythmies to stand aside or to move forward briskly. Treasure and Crabthorne increased their pace.

  The banker was in front of the American when he came nearly face to face with the clergyman from the train. He recognized the man immediately despite the absence of the wig, the unconvincing moustache and any clerical accoutrements. Nor did it take the wound on the forehead to confirm the identity. It was the eyes.

  The terrified expression in the eyes that Treasure remembered when he had found the fellow on the floor of the compartment—that same expression was there again, as if it had never left. The man staring at Treasure was beside himself with fright.

  The entrance to the porch was only a pace away. There were two or three people between Treasure and a fellow being he charitably assumed was in need of help.

  He stepped forward with his hands extended first to create a gangway and then to grasp the other man who appeared now to be pushing towards him.

  The next moment Treasure found himself falling, toppled not by Japanese from behind but by two matron ladies maliciously as well as indecorously thrust into his open arms by the frightened man, and with such great force that Crabthorne too was brought down in the melee.

  Treasure was able to catch sight of his late travelling companion turn about and run away from the upset of people he had created. With visual evidence of flailing bodies ahead at the very entrance to the cathedral the Japanese rushed to the conclusion that all seats were taken, including theirs: they also rushed the door.

  Having already been deprived of a promised happy hour of huddled delight in a twelve-foot whirlpool, plus a complimentary drink, not to mention whatever part of their dinner had been intended to provide it with the gourmet status advertised, one hundred and twenty paid-up packaged travellers from Osaka did not intend to go short on plighted organ music. With cameras secured and the youngest members to the fore they advanced at the canter on a front both broad and deep.

  Treasure was too concerned for the well-being of upset matrons either to note the ultimate departure route of the bogus clergyman (he had to be an imposter after pushing over old ladies), the disappearance of Crabthorne, or the immediate whereabouts of Mrs Crabthorne.

  Some two minutes later the scene had changed. The last of the Oriental music lovers, still moving well, had vanished inside the still largely empty cathedral, a tribute to the motive power of group solidarity if not to the reliability of mass perception.

  The toppled matrons were again making their way in the same direction none the worse for their shared tumble in the arms of a handsome protector but murmuring calumnies for the sake of appearance.

  A straggle of genuine late-comers for the recital hurried past Treasure as Patience Crabthorne appeared beside him. ‘What happened to Edgar?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m not sure . . . at least. . .’ she hesitated deliberately. ‘Let’s go in or we’ll be late.’

  CHAPTER 12

  Pushing the old women at Treasure had been a reflex action—in the split second when he realized who he was facing. He had to get out fast and unrecognized. The money could wait. All the money in the world could wait if he could just get away without that man seeing him.

  He wheeled around and ran: ran for his life. He followed the path across the west end of the towering cathedral, crossed the narrow river by the small stone bridge, leapt down the steps on the far side and veered right at the comer of an outbuilding. Ahead was the road with the cars parked alongside the high wall on the left. Thank God there wasn’t a single person in sight except the one he needed—standing as arranged by a white, two-door car under the tree on the right. He glanced back: there was no one following him, at least not yet.

  ‘Quick. It’s gone wrong. Got to get away.’ His lungs were bursting. ‘Had to leave the money. Tomorrow.’

  The raincoated driver nodded, seeming to understand. A gloved hand opened the passenger door. The seat was already tipped forward. ‘You’d best get in the back. Here, let me help.’ Still the stage Welsh accent.

  Too late he saw the sleeved weapon lift above his head. The sandbag cosh smacked across his temple flattening on impact and diffusing the damage of the devastating blow. With a rough heave the body was thrust face downwards into the back of the car.

  The driver put the front passenger seat back in place, spread the rug over the still figure
, slammed the door, then paused and looked around before walking to the other side of the vehicle. There was no one in sight nor again a few moments later when the car drove away from the cathedral and St David’s, entering a familiar route of high-hedged lanes and cart tracks that in minutes would fetch up at the sea.

  The figure who had stopped abruptly by the bridge in the shade of the outbuilding was bewildered but not alarmed at what he had witnessed. His eyesight was poor at the distance and he was not wearing his glasses. It seemed the car had been waiting under the tree, and the driver had helped the man get in. He was certainly too far away to pick up any of the conversation and instinct had warned him to remain where he was, unseen.

  The conclusion he was drawn to was preposterous, he warned himself as the car sped away. Even so, if asked about the passenger’s state of health, his reply might have been bizarre if not ambivalent.

  ‘Let me take that.’ Treasure indicated the bulging folio case that Anna Spring had just succeeded in zipping together.

  She smiled gratefully. ‘It’s not really heavy. Just awkward. We sold more than a dozen drawings.’

  The two were standing by a display table near the cathedral exit. As Anna had explained earlier, she had organized a sale of drawings donated by local artists to supplement the money raised at the recital for the organ restoration. This was why she had needed to arrive ahead of the others and why, the recital over, she and Treasure were nearly the last to leave the building.

  ‘Were you sitting at the back? I couldn’t see you.’ He held the door for her.

  ‘Mmm, we were still giving change from Japanese travellers’ cheques when the music started. By the way, Henry took a lift with the Crutts, and I’m to drive you home. You enjoyed the recital?’

  ‘Well enough, yes, but that organ certainly needs restoring. Albert Crutt sidled in at half-time. Whispered he had trouble parking the car, and I would guess finding a pub.’ He snorted good-humouredly. ‘They were sitting just in front of us with Henry who dozed off during “Sleepers Awake”. Very droll. Ah, this is a new way for me.’