Treasure by Degrees Page 13

  ‘Certainly I don’t think the Dean had any right to take us in there. I told you I felt like a trespasser.’

  ‘Mm, that was a pity – if you’d stayed you might have noticed if the thing was still there when you all left.’ Bantree hesitated. ‘The Dean said Mrs Hatch was the only one actually to handle it. The Bursar chap’s not sure or he was too drunk to remember. Shame we’ve exploded the suicide idea – it fitted that nicely.’

  ‘But the murderer must have known you’d . . .’

  ‘Get on to the drugging? Probably, but not necessarily. People have blank spots. Anyway, we don’t know for sure the murderer knew about the doped rum.’

  Treasure looked surprised. ‘You mean there could have been two people doing down Mrs Hatch unknown to each other?’

  ‘Two or more – some a great deal more earnest than others. You must have figured that for yourself, Mark. There are at least half a dozen people who in your own hearing spoke out against the Funny Farms project . . .’

  ‘But they’re not all murderers.’

  ‘They don’t have to be to make my job more difficult. And there are some who haven’t shown their hands. What about the awful warnings – the sheep’s head and the other uncooked offerings?’

  ‘Student protests like the fireworks.’

  ‘Well, you can cross off the fireworks for a start. Those kids were put up to doing what they did.’

  ‘You know that?’

  ‘No, not for certain, but I can smell a true testimony from a cover-up a mile off. There’s altogether too much owning up in the student statements. Everybody’s taking the blame for everything. And don’t forget the anti-Arab bit. Was the bomb hoax part of the murder plan or a completely independent firm? The only common thread is a determination to keep this College the way it is. We could be dealing with a lot of little people or one cunning, pathological intellect – ’ Bantree sighed – ‘or both. And there’s no shortage of brilliant intellects amongst this lot. What have you got, Alan? Hot outside, is it?’

  Inspector Treet had entered the room looking like an overweight long-distance runner facing the last lap. He flopped into a convenient chair making some attempt to mend his untidy appearance. ‘Flat tyre in the village.’

  ‘Should have left the driver to change it.’

  ‘I did.’

  Bantree chuckled. ‘Well, you could have fooled us. Come on, what’d you get from the doctor? Co-operative, was he?’

  ‘Not uncooperative – just unsystematic. No file cards, no records of any sort so far as I could see; ought to be a law.’ He was recovering his breath. ‘Anyway, he doesn’t give strong sedatives to students on principle; fobs ’em off with low-strength tranquillizers in small quantities – very small. Doesn’t mean they don’t get stronger things in the holidays, of course.’ He treated Bantree and Treasure to a meaningful look; Treet and the doctor evidently shared a considered suspicion about the depths of student depravity and duplicity.

  ‘What about the staff?’ asked Bantree.

  ‘Different story entirely; dishes out drugs like Smarties. Far as I can see people practically write their own prescriptions. There’s someone – he wouldn’t say who – hooked on cough mixture containing morphine. Can’t sleep without it. But there are only two other serious insomniacs – they get chloral hydrate. Here’s the proprietary name.’ Treet produced a crumpled piece of note-paper from his pocket and handed it to Bantree. ‘He didn’t want to tell me the names of the patients at first – or he’d forgotten them. Anyway I came the heavy policeman and he eventually coughed up. One isn’t technically a member of the staff – I asked him first only for the names of staff members on the stuff.’

  ‘Well, who are they?’ Bantree was showing uncharacteristic impatience.

  ‘Mr Ribble – that’s the Dean – and Mrs Daniel Goldstein.’

  CHAPTER XIV

  TREASURE GLANCED at his watch; it was nine-fifteen. He walked across the hall to examine the plan of the College interior exhibited near the main entrance – this in preference to asking someone the way to the guest suite. The internal arrangements of old houses interested him as much as their exteriors; outsides were for looking – insides for living. Grandiose romantic or classical façades usually involved hideous inconvenience for the high as well as the lowly who had elected or been chosen to dwell behind them. In a great house such as Itchendever fallen to institutional use he enjoyed deducing unaided the former designation of rooms put to purposes that the original owners would have found bizarre or incomprehensible. Here was one – on the first floor – ‘Careers and Moral Guidance’, a combination which, after the words of Noel Coward, might have been calculated specifically to damp the fun of some former eldest son: a guest bedroom no doubt, but not for a guest of consequence, placed as it was at the maximum distance from stair-head and the nearest water-closet.

  The plan was more difficult to decipher historically than most of those Treasure had come across. The ground floor in particular seemed to have more small rooms than he had expected. Doubtless there had been latter-day subdivisions; perhaps he would cheat and go over the thing with the Vicar. It was then, quite inconsequentially, that he remembered why the name Hassock had been familiar to him: he must ask about that too. Meantime, the room he was looking for . . .

  ‘Mr Treasure – has Faisal made it all right for Peter?’

  ‘Hello, Fiona.’ The girl was evidently agitated. ‘Yes, I think so.’ She was pretty; strange, when young, her father had borne a distinct physical resemblance to an elderly elk; nowadays he looked like a middle-aged elk; attractive wife probably – Treasure had never met the lady. ’I gather you smoked him out. Good thing you did.’

  ‘He was hiding on purpose – it wasn’t difficult to guess where.’ Treasure considered that a knowledge of Itchendever mating habits was probably the first essential of College communications. ‘Are they bringing Peter back? – he hasn’t done anything; honestly.’

  ‘He’s getting a free ride home, I believe.’ Treasure said this lightly and to avert any suggestion of prison vans and manacles. ‘The Superintendent has some questions to put to him – but I wouldn’t worry.’

  ‘He was just upset because . . . well, because I let on to Miss Stopps about his mother. I put my foot in it, didn’t I, telling the policeman . . . you see, I thought they knew – that they were after Peter because of the money he’ll get. But he’s not going to take it — that’s the whole point. Oh God, I am a twit.’

  ‘No, you’re not. It would have come out in the end anyway – better to get it all cleared up. Peter’s accounted for at the critical times – assuming the medical evidence proves he swallowed enough of that dope to have been unconscious from about six o’clock – and I think it does. So cheer up.’ He smiled. ‘Are you very fond of him?’

  ‘We’re going to be married.’

  ‘Father approve?’

  ‘He will when I tell him; he’s a darling.’ The lovable, middle-aged elk.

  Treasure had an idea; Witaker could wait for a bit. ‘D’you know the JCR President? – Clark, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes. Philip.’

  ‘Could we find him? – I’d like a word.’

  ‘He’s in his room with the others — I just left them. They’re having a council of war. Come on, I’ll show you.’

  Philip Clark’s room was two staircases along from Prince Faisal’s in the Stable Quad. They passed a uniformed constable on the way, vigilantly drinking coffee under the arch to the quadrangle, while metaphorically closing the stable door.

  Brief introductions were completed by Fiona to the four occupants of the room. There followed an embarrassing silence while Treasure considered how best to bridge the generation gap after accepting the only comfortable chair, vacated in deference to his seniority. He carefully examined the Lamb’s Navy Rum poster. ‘Listen,’ he said, ‘I’m not a policeman.’

  ‘He’s a banker,’ offered Fiona from the bed where she had positioned herself next to Roger D
ribdon. Sarah Green and the short, dark girl (the latter’s Arabian night disappointingly foreshortened) were seated on the floor.

  Treasure addressed himself to Philip who was sitting across from him in a creaking, wickerwork armchair. ‘I do have a semi-official connection with the College and . . . you may find this difficult to believe but I don’t entirely disapprove of the demo tonight.’ The atmosphere perceptibly lightened. There was an encouraging creak as the JCR President slackened his upright position. Only the short dark girl found it difficult to concentrate; she was wondering about Faisal’s future intentions – assuming he had any – and whether she should start taking the Pill; the supply she had was more than a year old – they might have gone off. ‘I probably shouldn’t be telling you this but the police don’t believe you’ve entirely come clean with them.’ Shades of Humphrey Bogart; try again. ‘They think you may be holding something back – probably with the best of intentions. Now they’re pretty thorough, you know, and this is a murder investigation, so they’ll probably get to the truth in the end.’

  Treasure paused and looked around at the faces. Roger Dribdon wore a wooden expression, but Sarah and Philip exchanged glances that at least registered comprehension. ‘What they think,’ he continued, ‘is that the demo was perhaps not entirely your own inspiration – that someone else was involved – not a student. If that’s so, then it could be as much in that person’s interests as your own for the truth to come out now.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Roger.

  ‘Well, let’s assume the demo had nothing to do with the murder.’

  ‘It didn’t.’ Again this was the JCR Secretary.

  ‘Fine; but the police can’t be sure of that until they have all the facts – until they do, the demo will be a loose end and they’re not going to leave it dangling.’

  There was another pregnant pause broken appropriately by the short, dark girl. ‘Philip, I think we should . . .’

  ‘Shut up, Dolores,’ Roger cut in. ‘If we told you there was someone – and I’m not saying there was – but if that someone hadn’t known what form the demo would take, wouldn’t even have approved, just sort of suggested there should be some kind of protest during the fireworks about the Funny Farms business, and put up the cost. I mean someone who couldn’t possibly have had anything to do with the murder . . .’

  ‘All the more reason you should tell the police – or me.’

  ‘And you’d use your discretion about whether to pass it on or not?’

  The banker nodded. Philip Clark, as though suddenly conscious of his status as putative head of the student body, leant forward earnestly to the accompaniment of loud creaks. ‘I think we should tell you. It was . . .’ He looked around at the others. ‘It was Miss Stopps.’

  Treasure burst out laughing.

  ‘Come in.’ Witaker willed himself to look composed. ‘Oh, Mr Treasure, I’m glad to see you. I thought it might be the Dean.’

  ‘I’ve just dropped in to see how you’re coping – to see if there was anything more I could do. Did you get through to the States all right?’

  ‘Surely. I’ve alerted all the necessary people. A terrible shock to everyone, of course. I fear the media . . .’

  ‘Will have a field day.’ Treasure nodded. ‘I have our own public relations people standing by. The police are being very helpful. Superintendent Bantree held up the official announcement as long as he could, but with so many people in the know . . .’ He shrugged his shoulders, ‘The Bursar is sobering up by the minute; he should be capable of handling awkward callers later tonight.’

  ‘Wretched man. If it hadn’t been for him we’d never have . . .’

  ‘I know exactly how you feel. Anyway, this place is private property and the police have instructions not to let reporters and cameramen through the gates – not that any have shown up yet. You shouldn’t be harassed tonight.’ He glanced at the house telephone on the bedside table. ‘That’s not an outside line. The police are manning the switchboard so all calls are being routed through them. Now, you look as though you could use a drink.’ Treasure’s unspoken view was that the man could use a week in a rest home; he looked desperately worn and haggard.

  Witaker had been warned not to mix tranquillizers with alcohol – but the relative sense of well-being the drug had already produced served to weaken his resistance. ‘There’s nothing I’d like more.’

  ‘Come on then; I can’t leave Itchendever until Bantree does and I should think that means an hour at least. There are several pubs in the village. Let’s pile into my car and honour one of them with a visit; do us both good to get away from this place for a bit.’

  Witaker was glad enough to fall in with this plan — as glad as the Superintendent had said he would be.

  The big bosom heaved in exasperation. Mrs Hunter-Smith removed her gaze from the shame-faced figure of her husband and sought solace in the Peter Scott reproduction framed over the fireplace. ‘So,’ she said deliberately, addressing the leading duck, top left of the picture, ‘you explained to this Inspector that while you probably didn’t do the murder, you can’t be sure because you were drunk at the time.’

  ‘Nothing of the sort, my love – you’re twisting my words.’ A man could surely expect sympathy and understanding from his own wife at a time like this.

  ‘You told him you were drunk?’

  ‘He knew I was a bit cut when he interviewed me, and anyway the others had said . . .’

  ‘Others – what others?’ She examined the rest of the ducks accusingly.

  ‘Well, the Dean for one – he was angry about the locked door.’ Why should he be standing here like a corporal on report? He had slaved and plotted for this half-colonel’s daughter – a half-colonel who had incidentally never made colonel, and ended up dependent on him. ‘I said I’d been busy in my office from after tea, had one or two, and then went to look for Mrs Hatch.’

  ‘Who was found with her throat cut soon after.’ The eyes now closed, but not in sleep. Daddy had said the man was a fool – after they were married. ‘Why did you say you were looking for Mrs Hatch? There were at least three hundred other people you could have been looking for and none of them was murdered.’

  ‘Because it was the truth – honesty’s the best policy.’

  ‘You mean you were too drunk to think up a convincing lie. And you saw no one at all – except for . . .’

  ‘Not that I can remember,’ he interrupted. ‘I looked in the SCR but it was empty, then I went up to the Dean’s room and he wasn’t there . . .’

  ‘And that’s when you left the letter saying you were fed up with UCI and leaving for Torchester?’ Her mother had said she could do better if she waited; twenty-eight had been no age for a girl with her attributes. Mrs Hunter-Smith steeled herself again to regard the man she had married: he flinched under the withering glare.

  ‘It was what we’d agreed. You said I should stop Mrs Hatch . . .’

  ‘I didn’t say you should cut her throat.’

  ‘I didn’t cut her throat.’

  ‘No, but the police obviously think you did.’

  ‘I meant to tell her I’d lost confidence in UCI and she’d be better putting her money into Torchester. Dammit, it was I who brought her to Itchendever in the first place; she seemed to like me – she might have taken my advice.’

  ‘And if she hadn’t taken your advice, you might have got fighting drunk . . Mrs Hunter-Smith had no real doubts about her husband’s innocence; for one thing, she harboured the unjustified belief that he lacked guts. What troubled her was that he had probably spoiled the next move in what could only charitably be described as his career pattern – this time before even he had made it. And to thunk that if she had stayed single and in the Army . . .

  Why did he have to suffer a hangover and humour a harridan? ‘Look, the police can’t really suspect me. I had no motive to kill Mrs Hatch. Now she’s dead the money won’t go to UCI or Torchester.’

  ‘I didn’t know that – w
hy should they think you did?’

  ‘I’ve told you – it was common knowledge.’

  Mrs Hunter-Smith ignored all common things. ‘And if Torchester had cancelled your job because the money was coming here – I suppose that wouldn’t have given you a motive?’ The same thought had occurred to Inspector Treet.

  ‘Of a sort, yes, but . . .’

  ‘But you were too drunk to think it through.’ She glared at the ten-year-old, black-and-white television receiver; she had set her heart on seeing the Royal Tournament in colour next year.

  ‘Look, I’ve got to go back. I only came over to shave and change. I’m supposed to deal with reporters and people – God knows when I’ll be finished.’

  ‘Well, make sure you tell that policeman about who you saw skulking in the dark on the SCR terrace.’

  ‘He wasn’t exactly skulking.’

  ‘Well, that’s what it sounds like to me. What business did he have there anyway? I’ve always thought he wasn’t to be trusted; none of that sort are.’ Mrs Hunter-Smith’s prejudices, like her social ambitions, had withstood the test of time.

  ‘That’s not very charitable, my love.’

  ‘Neither is murder.’ Specified genocide or euthanasia in a good cause and on a big enough scale would not have prompted such heavy condemnation.

  He climbed the stairs feeling as though a lead weight was pressing on his head. He would have given anything to be going to bed. While he waited for the Alka-Seltzer to dissolve in the glass on his dressing-table he was consoled by a flicker of pride as he regarded the five medals framed in their case on the wall. One had a clasp; it witnessed that he had been mentioned in dispatches for an act of bravery. While leading a reconnaissance patrol before the Battle of the Bulge he had stabbed to death two German sentries – because shooting them would have been too noisy. He had been drunk that night too.

  CHAPTER XV

  TREASURE HAD chosen The Rod and Fly because it proudly proclaimed its status as a Tree House’ on an appendage to the inn sign outside. As a child he had always imagined that such designation indicated that drinks were dispensed gratuitously to all comers. Age had brought enlightenment along with disenchantment in this as in so many other contexts. Nevertheless, given choice and opportunity, he preferred to apply his limited bar custom to that diminishing group of pubs that did not owe allegiance to any particular brewer. This at once gave him the feeling that he was supporting private enterprise in one of its most basic forms as well as securing the widest choice of branded intoxicants. Since he invariably drank either Carlsberg Lager or Ballantine’s Whisky – depending on the time of day – the benefit of selection was largely an academic consideration. Since no one had yet succeeded in nationalizing licensed premises it was questionable also whether the powerful brewers did not provide a better defence against state encroachment than a handful of freehold publicans.