Murder in Advent Read online

  ‘Better if he was asleep. In a way. For him, I mean. But why hit him at all in that case? Oh dear. Poor dad.’ Her eyes had filled with tears again.

  ‘No accounting for what a tearaway will do. When he found there was no money up there. Like as not he just turned to being malicious. Cruel and malicious for the sake of it. No other explanation. Like you said, doesn’t have to be any these days.’

  She dabbed her eyes and then her mouth with a screwed-up handkerchief. ‘And it’s not right anyone goes on thinking Dad did it without permission from someone.’

  ‘Used the heater, you mean? I’ll try to see the Dean again this morning. After I’ve been to the undertaker’s.’ He was even more determined than she was to get it clear – or clear enough – that the old man never did anything without a nod from the authorities. Law-abiding to a fault he’d been. If there was compensation money at stake – and Jakes thought there ought to be – it was risky having suspicion of bare negligence hanging about.

  She sighed. ‘Wish we knew when we can have the service. Doesn’t seem reverent, having to wait.’

  ‘Up to the coroner, then the police. That’s what they told me.’

  ‘Will they delay on the will, too?’

  ‘Shouldn’t think so,’ he answered promptly. He was surprised but glad she’d asked the question. It wasn’t a subject he could very well have raised – much as he’d wanted to. ‘I’ll go to the lawyer first thing if you like.’ And the sooner the better was what he was thinking. They still had no clear idea how much the old man had stashed away in his box at the bank. They knew there was two thousand in the National Savings Bank passbook he’d kept at home.

  ‘At least Commander Bliter gave you the day off.’

  ‘Only because of the others there last night. Stuck-up bastard. Pretending to be the Lord High Everything he was. Good reason, too.’

  ‘How d’you mean?’

  ‘Making out it wasn’t his place to know who was doing what all of the time.’

  She shook her head. ‘I still don’t understand.’

  ‘Your dad’s paraffin heater. He was shifting the blame for that to Duggan.’

  ‘But it wasn’t Mr Duggan’s heater.’

  ‘No, and Duggan was making sure everybody knew it. Not his heater and not his responsibility. Bliter couldn’t have known about it, either, though. That’s what Duggan said. Like it was rehearsed. Something well below the Commander’s range – oh, yes. Except it wasn’t. Nor Duggan’s either.’

  ‘But Dad . . .’

  ‘Duggan knew about the heater. So did Bliter. They were passing the buck, that’s all. By rights they should have stopped Dad using it. Like I tried to unofficially. But they didn’t. Because he could have refused to go on without. Would have meant someone else doing that last shift every day. One of the paid vergers. Like as not summer as well, once Dad got out of the habit.’

  ‘So Mr Duggan just pretended he didn’t know?’

  ‘That’s right. Saying your dad was a law to himself. And he’ll get all the other vergers to back him. What’s the betting money’ll change hands over that?’

  ‘That’s terrible.’

  ‘And it’s not the worst.’ Jakes had got very red in the face and for the moment seemed to have forgotten the tragedy of his father-in-law’s death. ‘Duggan’s not getting money. Duggan’s getting your dad’s job. Bliter’s said so.’

  ‘But that was meant for you. Dad always said. Because the Dean would see to it. When the time came. Oh, that’s awful. You didn’t tell me?’

  ‘Didn’t seem right to tell you. Not last night. Don’t seem right now. All the same, now you know.’ He seemed to be more in control of himself. ‘I’ll take it up with the Dean. As good as promised, it was. “Not suitable work for a gardener,”’ he went on, with a not very good imitation of Percy Bliter. ‘That’s what he said to me. When we were all coming away last night. What he meant was he needed a bribe for Duggan. So he’d keep his mouth shut. Well, there’s plenty can play at that game. Opening mouths as well as closing them,’ he ended darkly.

  Chapter Eight

  ‘Mr Treasure is it? I thought it must be. I’m . . . I’m Ursula Brastow.’

  It seemed to have taken all her courage to present herself in this way. Her plump cheeks continued twitching irregularly as she stood beside the banker in the cathedral near the cloister door.

  ‘Delighted to meet you. I met Canon Brastow last night. I say, isn’t this tomb quite remarkable? Eight hundred years old.’ He nodded enthusiastically at what he’d stopped to examine before she’d caught up with him, then turned to her again, smiling. ‘I hope your husband won’t have minded my slipping in for the tail end of the service.’

  ‘Oh. I’m sure not. I’m quite sure.’

  ‘I came over straight after breakfast. It was earlier than I’d imagined. And I’d quite forgotten there’d be an eight o’clock service. Expect there’s one every morning.’

  Canon Brastow had been the celebrant at the early communion that Treasure had found going on in the Lady Chapel beyond the High Altar. The banker’s presence had increased the size of the congregation by a third.

  ‘Every morning,’ she repeated, then after taking a deep breath went on: ‘I’ve been wondering what you could have thought about my—’

  ‘And I’m Olive Merit. How’s Molly?’ interrupted the Chancellor’s sister, who had just come up behind them and who had also been at the service.

  Treasure looked pleased. ‘So you know my wife?’

  ‘Not seen her for donkey’s years. School chums. That’s all.’

  ‘Well, she’s fine. Filming at the moment. In America. I’ll tell her we’ve met.’

  ‘And give her my regards. Such a celebrity now.’ But was the compliment a touch patronising? Perhaps so, he thought, as she went on. ‘Sporting of you to thicken up our numbers at early service. Especially in a Protestant month.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Clive Brastow is Canon Residentiary in December. Ursula’s husband. The Brastows represent the Low Church element in the close, don’t you, Ursula?’

  ‘I suppose you’re right,’ the other woman almost whispered. But she was evidently grateful that Olive Merit had acknowledged her existence.

  ‘Not great communion-goers, the Prots aren’t. Not much following for Clive and the Holy Eucharist. He packs ’em in at Sunday evensong, though. Powerful preacher. Makes the money-changers squirm. The bankers.’ She fixed the Vice Chairman of Grenwood, Phipps with a lightly accusing grin.

  ‘Canon Merit . . . ?’

  ‘My brother.’

  ‘I see. High churchman, of course.’

  ‘Yes. Anglo-Catholic. Spiky as they come. Like the Dean. And Canon Jones. The wives, too. Clive Brastow never looks right in a chasuble. Like just now. Did you notice? My brother never looks right without one.’ The last observation was punctuated by a disarming and reverberating snort.

  ‘Sad business last night,’ said Treasure.

  ‘You know old Pounder was done in?’ Miss Merit enquired. The three had begun walking towards the door.

  ‘Mr Nutkin told me earlier.’

  ‘Police kept us up till all hours. You, too, Ursula?’

  ‘Quite late, Olive, yes.’

  So much for Nutkin’s confidential word from the superintendent, thought Treasure. Aloud he said: ‘I’m waiting to hear if the Chapter meeting’s still on.’

  ‘The one you came for? It will be,’ answered Miss Merit firmly. ‘Dean’s a stickler for keeping formal arrangements. Good chance you’ll find a policeman in attendance, of course.’ She made the snorting noise again but a very short one. ‘Just your line, Mr Treasure. Weren’t you involved in sudden death recently? In a hotel? Near Hereford?’

  ‘Remotely, yes.’

  Mrs Brastow looked apprehensive.

  ‘Thought so,’ Miss Merit affirmed. ‘Read about it. D’you think this was a hit-and-run job? Or something more sinister? Verger-bashing by demented cleric
perhaps?’

  Olive Merit’s hearty frankness seemed now to be thoroughly unnerving the other woman.

  Treasure wasn’t sure he was comfortable with it, either. ‘I’ve no idea. Inexplicable really. Even the dimmest sort of common thief might have known there’d be no money up there.’ He lifted the heavy latch and swung the huge door open. ‘And the thing of greatest value burnt to a cinder like everything else. Makes no sense at all.’

  ‘Oh, come, Mr Treasure. Makes a lot of sense to the people who wanted the Magna Carta sold but thought you’d stop their game,’ Miss Merit announced loudly as she marched through the door.

  ‘Not all of them, Olive,’ piped Ursula earnestly while scuffling along behind her.

  ‘Oh, don’t be a goose, Urs. I don’t mean you or Clive. Hey, aren’t we waiting for Clive? Ah, here he is. Confounded nuisance having to come this way. Wrong side of the building for all of us.’

  Treasure had been about to close the door when Canon Brastow appeared, hurrying across the transept from the south choir aisle and buttoning his overcoat. ‘Good morning, Mr Treasure. Glad to see you at the service.’

  ‘Only half of it, I’m afraid. Your throat sounds better, Canon.’

  ‘Much, thank you.’

  ‘Don’t you think the murderer could have been someone who wanted the Charter sold? Someone who thought it wouldn’t be, Clive? Because of Mr Treasure? Someone going for the insurance money?’

  ‘Really Olive, that’s a wholly irresponsible conjecture. A man is dead.’

  ‘And that’s a wholly pompous answer, almost worthy of my brother. People die all the time. In any case, our murderer wasn’t out for himself. The cathedral gets the money whichever way you look at it.’

  ‘It was still murder, or so we are led to believe. Something which cannot be condoned. Not in any circumstances. Not by responsible people.’ It seemed Brastow and Miss Merit were quite at ease as conversational belligerents.

  ‘Not even murder by mistake? It could happen. Ask Mr Treasure. He’s an expert.’

  Brastow looked from Olive to the banker in some surprise.

  ‘Nothing of the sort, I’m afraid. And I do wish my voting intentions weren’t seen as affecting what’s happened,’ Treasure offered pointedly.

  The group was outside now, beyond the cloister and on the pathway that led around to the east end of the cathedral. Three of the participants were walking abreast, with Ursula Brastow trailing and attempting to open a fold-up umbrella because a light drizzle had started. It was still not fully daylight.

  ‘But in a positive way your voting intentions did let the non-sellers off the hook,’ Miss Merit persisted. ‘My brother and Miles Nutkin, for instance. Ewart Jones as well.’ She buttoned the collar of her coat.

  ‘That’s not quite true. I told Nutkin on the phone yesterday I’d changed my mind.’

  ‘You intended voting for the sale?’ This was Clive Brastow.

  ‘Mm. But I’ve yet to be persuaded that had any bearing on Pounder’s death. There was nothing confidential about it. I don’t know if Nutkin told anyone else. I meant to ask him.’ Thinking back, he recalled he had asked him.

  Ursula Brastow had the umbrella up. One of its struts was broken so that two limp brown panels hung down in front of her. She was peering worriedly from around them, and made as if to speak but no one noticed.

  ‘Doesn’t affect my premise,’ Miss Merit put in. ‘Not in practice. Non-sellers wouldn’t have gone to the stake to stop the sale. Or, more accurately, put old Pounder to the stake to stop it.’

  Mrs Brastow hurried to come abreast of the others. ‘Really, Olive,’ Brastow remonstrated. ‘You do choose the most . . .’

  ‘You were going to vote for selling the Magna Carta, Mr Treasure? For selling? After all?’ The interruption was so unexpected and the tone so loud and incredulous the others looked around in surprise.

  ‘Yes. Changed my mind, I’m afraid, Mrs Brastow. After a great deal of thought. A very great deal,’ Treasure added while regarding her with increasing embarrassment. ‘I’m sorry, I meant . . .’

  ‘Morning, all,’ a breathless voice sounded from behind. It was Donald Welt in a track-suit with a towel about his neck. He was marking time at the double. ‘Spiritually uplifted, are we? That’s good. Morning, Mr Treasure.’ He and the banker had met briefly the night before.

  ‘Been praying for your immortal soul, Dr Welt,’ Olive Merit observed tartly, ‘but without any lively hope of success.’

  ‘That’s not original, Miss Merit,’ puffed the bearded organist with matching acerbity. He was still running on the spot. ‘Do better to pray for Ewart Jones. He may need it. Coppers arriving at his house when I was passing. Third degree, I should think. Well, mustn’t get cold. See you in church.’ He made off chuckling towards the cloisters, but leaving at least one of his hearers with a new concern.

  Detective Chief Inspector Pride wasn’t enjoying the interview, and a good deal less than the young detective constable seated in the corner of Canon Jones’s study making notes. It wasn’t the constable who was having metaphorically to tread on eggs without breaking shells.

  At nearly fifty, Pride was not young for his rank, nor had he been at the time of the promotion. He had come by that last advancement – and previous ones – in the plodding, hardest way. Heavily built, over-weight, and normally a chain smoker, he had twice reached for his cigarettes in the last few minutes and both times stopped short of taking out the packet. Asking permission to light up and then filling the room with smoke would still further have reduced his narrow margin of moral advantage in the situation.

  ‘So to be quite clear, sir, from what you’ve said, you went to the cathedral twice for the same purpose?’

  ‘That’s right, Mr Pride,’ beamed the diminutive New Zealander from behind his desk. ‘By the way, smoke if you like. Sorry I’ve given up keeping gaspers on offer. They go stale.’

  The Chief Inspector shook his head, an action that reflected stoic self-discipline, and exercised his wide bullfrog jowls. ‘You didn’t mention the first visit. Not when you were questioned last night, sir.’ He spoke slowly, through almost closed lips, and seemed to choose his words with hesitation.

  ‘I could say nobody asked me, Mr Pride.’ The speaker held up his hand to forestall a reply. ‘But I won’t. Fact is I wasn’t exactly compos mentis last night. Consequence of falling arse over elbow down those steps.’

  The constable in the corner looked up briefly, exchanged grins with Canon Jones, and went back to his notes.

  ‘I see, sir,’ said Pride, shifting in his chair. ‘So on the first visit, at approximately ten past six, you entered through the north door.’

  ‘That’s right. Risky. I might have been seen. But quick and easy because that door’s usually still open then. I had my key if it wasn’t of course. The Old Library’s supposed to be closed before that.’

  ‘But it wasn’t? You went up the west-turret stairs. The door was shut and the key was in the lock.’

  ‘Showing Mr Pounder was still inside.’

  ‘You didn’t lock the door and take the key, sir?’

  ‘Certainly not.’

  ‘But you went away without going in?’

  The Canon leant forward, nodding. ‘Didn’t suit my daring purpose.’

  ‘Which you say was to take away the Magna Carta. Take it away secretly and unofficially, sir?’

  ‘I think “quietly purloin” would about fit the case.’

  ‘And this was again what you intended to do on the second visit?’

  ‘Too right. Pity I hadn’t tried it the first time.’ He paused. ‘Might have saved old Pounder’s life. Poor devil. Would have been too late the second time of course, since he was dead by quarter to seven.’

  The Chief Inspector cleared his throat. ‘And you’d have kept the Magna Carta hidden until an appeal was launched? To raise three million pounds for the cathedral?’

  ‘A lot more than we’d have got from selling it.’
r />   ‘That was to be the er . . . the ransom, sir?’

  ‘For the good of the people of the diocese and the country to focus on. To bring them to realising the extent of the responsibility. The one we’d be abrogating with a sale. Would have been the end of that caper, I guarantee. Force of public opinion.’

  ‘How er . . . how was everyone to know about this, sir? About it being ransomed?’

  ‘Anonymous calls to the Daily Express and the BBC.’ The answer came very promptly. ‘That would have done it, don’t you think?’

  Pride frowned but didn’t comment.

  ‘It would also have spelled out the Charter was safe,’ the Canon added.

  ‘Provided the money was raised, sir?’

  ‘Provided the appeal was started. Which it would have been. I’d have returned the Charter after that. After the publicity. When the point had been made. The sale stopped.’ He gave a satisfied grin.

  ‘I see, sir.’

  ‘People would have come to understand that even after flogging a treasure we’d still have had to raise another two million.’

  ‘You didn’t think of it as . . . as a highly irregular operation, sir?’

  The Canon bounced twice on his seat. ‘My dear chap, of course I did. That was the whole idea. How else d’you wake people up these days? But it wouldn’t have harmed anybody.’

  ‘Would have involved a serious police investigation, sir, as like as not.’

  ‘Not, I’d say.’

  The policeman blinked.

  ‘Look, Mr Pride, as a young man, at university, I was involved in rags a lot scarier than this one. All aimed at raising money for good causes. The police never took them seriously.’

  ‘That would have been in New Zealand, sir?’ Worse than British universities by the sound of it.

  ‘Sure. But you have them in this country, too. Plenty. What’s the difference? Everyone would have known this was a jape with a happy ending. Assumed it was being handled by responsible people.’

  ‘There were others involved, sir?’

  ‘No, there weren’t. I was speaking loosely. It was an impulse idea. Came to me yesterday morning. When I was trying to find an angle for the cathedral appeal. Something to attract more money and attention then we’d get by selling the Magna Carta. Confiscating it seemed spot on. Still does.’