Treasure by Degrees Read online

  ‘The fingerprint exercise isn’t very popular.’

  ‘Never is. The British like having their fingerprints taken as much as they like means tests – which is not at all. But somebody drank rum from that glass we found, and it wasn’t Mrs Hatch. Whoever it was probably nicked the half-bottle as well – which is why no one’s owned up. Silly, really; why get suspected of murder when all you’ve done is pocket a few tots of Lemon Hart ?’

  ‘They’re sure the bottle was there?’

  ‘Absolutely. The maid put it out with the sherry decanters ready for the influx after the fireworks. It was two-thirds full, and only to be offered to Mrs Hatch – droit de seigneur or dame perhaps. Apparently it was borrowed from the JCR before lunch.’

  Treasure smiled. ‘Rum is . . . was Amelia’s tipple. She took our butler by surprise yesterday by demanding rum and water. I remember her joking about taking it in equal parts – with a lot of water!’

  ‘Well, according to this American lawyer chap, what’s his name?’

  ‘Witaker.’

  ‘Witaker. According to him she had a quick one to warm up before going out to view the Hall by moonlight – and without water because there wasn’t any handy. She wasn’t a lush, was she – I mean she wasn’t knocking them back at every opportunity?’

  ‘Certainly not – at least not to my knowledge. And she couldn’t have been drunk this evening.’

  ‘How d’you know?’

  ‘Well, the admirable Miss Stopps would have noticed. She hasn’t said anything, has she?’

  ‘I don’t know, I’ve hardly spoken to the lady. Treet is interviewing her now. No, people sometimes do themselves in during a drunken depression. That reminds me, there ought to be another dirty glass.’

  ‘The one Mrs Hatch used? Couldn’t it be the one they’ve found, with her fingerprints obliterated by someone else’s?’

  ‘Tenable; even likely if the other drinker was doing it on the quiet — but the set of prints we’ve got here are absolutely clean, which suggests the glass was too before he or she used it. No, I think there has to be another glass – but it may not be important. That maid’s not very bright so she could have cleared it away earlier and forgotten – or Mrs Hatch could have put it down in the hall, or even taken it with her. Hey, I’m glad the Foreign Office have got that Sheikh off my back – wherever he may be.’

  Bantree had been irritated shortly after his arrival to learn that a whole caravan of Arabs had been allowed, as it were, to fold their tents and quietly steal away. Fortunately, he had conferred with Treasure before ordering the instant apprehension of the Cadillac and the detention of its passengers.

  On Treasure’s advice the Superintendent had personally telephoned the Chief Constable of Hampshire who had personally telephoned the Duty Officer at the Foreign Office, thereby goading that highly gifted and ambitious young man into welcome and creative activity. Within minutes the Abu B’yat Legation had been gratuitously informed that Her Majesty’s Government had declared the person of His Royal Highness Sheikh Al Haban to be more than usually inviolate. The Security Officer at London Airport was next instructed that the Sheikh’s aircraft – expectedly waiting for clearance – was to be searched for reported hidden bombs until after the time the airport closed for the night. .The task completed, and the desired result underwritten, the Duty Officer at the Foreign Office only delayed returning to the letter he had been composing to his mother long enough to draft a minute about his action for the ultimate approval of the Permanent Under-Secretary — who happened to be his uncle.

  ‘You could hardly hold a Crown Prince on a charge of impudence,’ said Treasure, ‘Incidentally, I gather he took his son with him.’

  ‘So I’ve been told – which means there’s no one around who can tell us anything about the dagger. I suppose it did come from that wall collection.’ Bantree glanced at the list of names before him. ‘There’s a don called Peter Gregory who they say is always in and out of Prince Faisal’s rooms; he might be able to shed some light but they can’t find him.’

  A white light on the Bursar’s internal telephone began blinking: Bantree picked up the receiver. ‘Mm. All right, put him through . . . what? On the other phone, OK.’ He glanced at Treasure as he exchanged receivers. ‘They have twelve telephone lines into this place plus an internal system . . . Hello, yes, speaking.’ He put his hand over the mouthpiece, ‘It’s our saw-bones.’ He listened intently for some moments. ‘You’re sure? . . . Yes, I know, but you see the importance . . . Let me write that down.’ The Superintendent scribbled two words on the pad in front of him. ‘And the drug could have been lethal by itself? . . . No, I understand – stupid question. . . Fifteen to thirty minutes . . . All right, Doctor . . . I’m very glad you did . . . Of course not, that’ll do in the morning . . . Oh, there’s no possible doubt? Forgive me . . . No, fine, fine . . . Thank you again, and congratulations on the fast work. ’Bye.’

  ‘Something dramatic?’ The expression on Bantree’s face made Treasure’s question unnecessary.

  ‘Your Mrs Hatch had a stomach cancer – reason enough to contemplate suicide if she knew about it. Trouble is, when she had her throat cut, she was probably fast asleep.’

  ‘Asleep?’

  ‘Drugged to the world on a massive dose of chloral hydrate. Someone laced that rum with a delayed action Mickey Finn – enough to kill a person of that age and condition, apparently.’

  CHAPTER XII

  THE FIRST CONSCIOUS sensation that Peter Gregory experienced was the feeling that he was floating. Then the crushing weight on his head and the difficulty he seemed to be experiencing in breathing prompted him to the quite detached and unalarmed conviction that someone was holding him under water. If this was so then he stoically charged himself to put up with the inconvenience. Some time later – he could not estimate how long – he fell to ruminating that drowning was a much slower process than he had imagined. The pressure on his head was becoming less severe. Next it seemed that his legs and arms were moving in an involuntary way: he was not commanding the movements of his limbs, but they were moving all the same. Perhaps some underwater current was exercising his extremities. The sensation was not altogether displeasing.

  It was the way the driver braked the car sharply at the bottom of Egham Hill that sent Peter sliding off the seat. The two bodyguards quickly lifted him back and returned to pumping his arms and legs.

  ‘Fools!’ The exclamation registered in his mind. He tried to open his eyes; they persisted in remaining closed. Perhaps if he wrinkled his brows: his wrists and ankles seemed to be set in clamps.

  ‘It’s not easy, Highness.’

  You can say that again, whoever you are: say it again – play it again – where’s Fiona? Naughty Fiona; tell-tale-tit; don’t be vulgar: pull yourself together; on the command – wait for it – eyes open. His eyelids parted a fraction; God, he was in a shroud – a bloody long white shroud. Perhaps he was dead already. No, he wasn’t dead. Did they think he was dead? They were going to bury him. ‘Fools,’ he echoed weakly.

  ‘Ah, he is coming round.’ Al Haban peered over from the other side of the rear seat. ‘Hold him still for a moment.’ The Palestinian kneeling on the floor at Peter’s feet was only too glad to rest from his awkward labour; his partner – the one who had been pumping the arms – leant back into the far corner of the seat. ‘Mr Gregory, can you hear me?’

  ‘Hearing you.’ The Sheikh just cought the faint, slurred words. ‘Where I am – am I – where am I?’

  ‘You are in my car, Mr Gregory. We are taking you to London Airport. A plane and a doctor await us. You will have treatment and be in safety. Do not distress yourself.’

  In your long white shroud, do not distress yourself; not much. The eyes opened wider. He found he could swivel the eyeballs; were they really bathed in treacle — in tar: see through a glass darkly; dimly. It was getting better; but he needed to play it cool – cool, man, cool. For what foul purpose was he being transported to air
ports and doctors? Who got him into this state anyway? Faisal’s father; this was Faisal’s father’s car – couldn’t say that quickly; think it though – and this was Faisal’s father whispering in his ear. Up to no good; Daniel Goldstein had said it.

  ‘Where’s Faisal?’

  ‘My son is not with us. He is in hiding until we get you out of the country. He will make a less convenient captive than you, don’t you think?’ The remark, which was intended to reassure, registered as distinctly sinister. So he was a captive; like hell he was. The eyeballs were moving now quite freely. He tried flexing his shoulders; the response was satisfactory. He wiggled his toes – no one could see; all clever stuff. He needed to get rid of the gorilla on his right.

  ‘Could I have a bit more seat?’ He made the voice weaker than he felt.

  ‘Surely, Mr Gregory. Hassan, Abdul — unfold the centre seats. You can stop the manipulations.’

  To hear is to obey; well, not this baby. Now where’s the door-handle? He saw a signpost as the car slowed at a road junction: ‘London Airport 11/2 Miles’.

  ‘In the matter of the American Mrs Hatch – we have acted on the assumption . . .’

  He hardly heard the rest of the words. That was it – the rum; Mrs Hatch’s flaming fire-water – that’s where it had all gone wrong. ‘Bloody woman can drop dead,’ he muttered with some venom.

  Al Haban caught only some of the words – but those were enough. ‘Quite – quite so, Mr Gregory. I think it would be best if you say nothing as we pass through the airport. I will explain that you have been taken ill. If you would like to feign unconsciousness?’

  Or alternatively no doubt we can arrange to have you knocked on the head right now; Gregory was in fairly full command of all his capacities, mental and physical. He dreaded having to put them to the test but a lightning breakaway into the arms of the first policeman in the airport building . . . ‘If our Ambassador has been able to arrange it, we may be permitted to drive directly to the aircraft.’

  Collapse of stout breakaway: the car halted behind a small hotel baggage van waiting to join the traffic streaming out of the airport tunnel on to the big roundabout. It was now or never. The door flew open to his touch and weight. He paused only to slam it shut – on the fingers of the first Palestinian; he marvelled the man did not appear to cry out but he remembered the vacant, hurt expression. Praise be, his legs responded to the need for instant speed. He was clear of the Cadillac and on to the back of the open van as it began to move away. The driver was concentrating too hard on accelerating into the only gap offered in the traffic to notice the impact of Peter’s weight. Cars and other vehicles closed in behind, marooning the Cadillac at the front of the queue on the slip road. He was safe – at least for the time being; he was also feeling unpleasantly dizzy.

  The van on which the Australian was travelling took the eastern exit from the roundabout, speeding up the hill beyond: nor was it obliged to stop at the next junction. Any notions its unauthorized passenger might have had of leaping off were scotched by the considerable speed at which he was being propelled, by consideration of his own condition and – decisively – by the reappearance of the Cadillac which was now closing up quickly to the rear.

  The van swung round in a half-circle and stopped beneath a canopy. Peter leapt to the ground. ‘Welcome to the Heathrow Hotel’ said the notice; the Cadillac was stopping too. He rushed the glass doors, hitting his head because they failed to open on his thrust; then they slid aside automatically. He squeezed through a second set when the panels were barely parted. There were no policemen – only travellers; tourists – there seemed to be hundreds of them in the huge foyer. ‘Help me; I’m being kidnapped.’ The Japanese smiled and bowed; he had never met an Arab before. The two bodyguards were almost upon Gregory.

  ‘Info-mation desk ova that side of loom.’ The Japanese was trying to be helpful. Peter moved in the direction indicated. His head was hurting; he was feeling sick as well as dizzy.

  ‘Mr Gregory, I think you should come with us.’ The first of the bodyguards reached out towards him. He began to run towards the information desks – the empty information desks. He glanced backwards; his intended kidnappers were following at a more decorous pace. People were giving him curious glances; that was it; be conspicuous. He raced through the elevator lobby. ‘Help!’ A small boy with a towel was holding open one half of some wide double doors. There were steps and suddenly it was much warmer. He went down the steps, the weight on his heels. The floor was wet. There was water everywhere. The pain in his head was excruciating. ‘Watch it, sir.’ The waiter with the tray of drinks was immediately ahead of him. He swerved, tried to adjust the head-dress that had fallen over one eye – and slipped. He felt his legs collapsing under him, and then he was falling. There was a loud splash – he felt the water envelop him; this was where he had come in.

  The dark-skinned girl must have towed him to the side of the swimming pool. She was very pretty and the badge pinned to her bikini-top bore a legend: ‘We make you feel good all over.’ The two gorillas were standing at the top of the steps near the door. One nodded at the other; they both turned and left. ‘D’you drop in often?’ asked the girl with a giggle.

  Miss Stopps swept a concentrated gaze around the small lecture room, then fixed her eyes on those of Detective-Inspector Treet. ‘It’s so difficult to fix events with the certainty you require.’ She leant forward before adding earnestly, ‘I do understand the importance, oh, believe me I do.’

  Treet was not in the least disappointed with the testimony of the witness; the old girl was slow, but her powers of memory and observation seemed to be in no way impaired. He had been prepared to make allowances for the effect of an emotional upset. There was no doubt that Miss Stopps had been shattered by events but she was in remarkable control of herself — much better control than some of the people he had seen. ‘If we could just recap on a few points. You and Mrs Hatch left the SCR at exactly five-thirty?’

  ‘Of that I am quite sure, Inspector. It was by arrangement, as you might say. The fireworks were due to begin at six o’clock, and I had remarked to Amelia – that is Mrs Hatch – during tea that we should allow ourselves the half-hour.’ Miss Stopps let out a brief sigh. ‘She was so anxious to make the little tour I had suggested – to see the Hall with the night reflections; so beautiful, you know.

  I believe they would have nothing like it in America – indeed Amelia said as much. But yes, it was half past five when we set off – I remember referring to my watch.’ She produced the half-hunter from her bag. ‘Here it is – it keeps most excellent time.’

  ‘And there was no one else in the room except Mr Witaker?’

  Miss Stopps nodded firmly. ‘That is correct, Inspector. There had been eight or nine for tea – such a jolly occasion. The others had dispersed. Mr Witaker was not inclined to join us on our walk.’ She paused to ponder the propriety of her next remark. ‘In truth I believe he may have welcomed the short respite – to be alone, you understand.’

  Treet attempted the blunt approach. ‘You mean he’d had enough of Mrs Hatch’s company? Not the best of friends, were they?’ Too blunt by far, and. he had put a leading question.

  ‘I should impute nothing of the kind.’ The tone was quite stern. ‘I meant simply that Mr Witaker might have chosen to spend some moments by himself rather than accompany two decrepit and garrulous old ladies on a sightseeing tour. Mrs Hatch and Mr Witaker appeared to me to be on excellent terms. He was very close to her late husband; a trusted family adviser.’

  ‘About the glass of rum.’ Treet changed the subject. ‘The three of you didn’t take a drink?’

  Miss Stopps shook her head. ‘Only Mrs Hatch; she noticed the cold, you know – it is cold for the time of year. Being used to a warmer climate, she was most careful to keep well wrapped up. The maid brought sherry and glasses after clearing away the tea – the Dean likes to entertain guests to sherry after the firework display; a traditional event, you might say. But
one does not presume on hospitality.’

  ‘You didn’t take a drink?’ Miss Stopps nodded. ‘And the half-bottle of rum was brought in with the sherry for Mrs Hatch?’

  ‘Not necessarily for Mrs Hatch at that moment but for her eventual consumption, yes. But since we were going out. . .’

  ‘And since it was cold, she took a nip there and then.’

  ‘That is correct, Inspector.’ Miss Stopps did not volunteer her views on the degree of presumption permitted to rum drinkers as opposed to those who consumed sherry. Treet thought it unnecessary to ask. ‘Neat,’ she added.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘She drank it neat. There was no water available. I offered to obtain some but she would not hear of it.’

  ‘Mr Witaker didn’t volunteer to get the water?’

  ‘He was some little distance away . . .’

  ‘Sitting on the other side of the room. And so far as you remember she replaced the empty glass on the table?’

  ‘I assume that to be the case, Inspector. As I explained, I left to get my coat and when I returned Mrs Hatch was standing near the table.’

  ‘But she didn’t have the glass with her when she left the room?’

  Miss Stopps appeared confused. ‘Why should she have taken the glass with her? Oh, I see. No, I don’t believe so.’

  ‘Nor the bottle?’

  ‘Certainly not the bottle.’

  Treet nodded to the detective who had been taking notes at the end of the short table where they were all sitting; the man closed his book and left the room, ‘And nothing Mrs Hatch said or did while she was with you suggested abnormal depression – or the sense that she was under any kind of threat?’

  ‘Nothing at all. We spent a most enjoyable half-hour. She was so absorbed and appreciative we were very nearly late for the fireworks.’ Miss Stopps paused. ‘Had we been earlier . . . nearer the front of the gathering, surely she would not have been first to reach the Common Room? I do so blame myself – and my stupid fall . . ,’