Embarrassment of Corpses, An (23 page)

“I can't believe Tradescant's the ultimate target,” Oliver commented. “Imagine it from the murderer's perspective—you spend weeks researching your victim, you discover one pattern to distract the police from your actual motivation, you discover another pattern to distract them from the first pattern, you gather the equipment you need, you set up a set of meetings, you execute one, two, three bizarre murders, and after that, when your true target is finally in your crossbow sights, you miss! I think the last thing you'd do is blandly go ahead with the next two murders, while Edmund Tradescant walks free.”

“So that leaves us five and six—Vanessa Parmenter and Archie Brock,” Mallard commented.

“Would it be the last one in the series?” Susie asked. “Isn't that too obvious? The killer achieves his aim, so he stops. Wouldn't he do at least one more?”

“That's what I thought,” said Mallard, throwing his napkin onto the table. “So today—my last day on the case—I'm going to look for someone who wanted to kill Vanessa Parmenter, the travel agent from Kingston.” He got up from the table, kissed Susie warmly on the cheek, and headed for the door. Oliver followed, draining his tea-mug. Susie started to gather their dirty plates, with a resentful glare at the ketchup skidmarks on Oliver's.

“Hold it!” cried Geoffrey suddenly. He remained in his seat, arms folded, as if seeking a parent's approval for good behavior. “I've been thinking.”

“And I thought it was an air-lock in the pipes,” said Susie.

“What is it, Geoffrey?” asked Mallard with interest. Although he often felt that the young man's belt didn't go through all the loops, he also respected his intellect.

“This is nothing personal, you understand,” Geoffrey continued doggedly, “but every time you've come up with some solution to these crimes, you've found the murderer one jump ahead of you. What if he's still playing with you? You're looking for the true target among his six victims. You just rejected five of them, on very logical grounds. But what if that's what the murderer wanted you to do?”

“Go on,” said Mallard thoughtfully.

“You rejected victim number six, because he was the last in the series, and too obvious. But you may have tumbled to the jury connection sooner than the murderer expected. Might he not have been planning a number seven and a number eight? If so, number six wouldn't have been last.”

“Well, Archie Brock was the last in the unbroken sequence of zodiac signs, but we'll check on him, too.”

“That's not all. Oliver said number four couldn't be the ‘real' victim, because the murderer continued to kill after hitting the wrong man. But what else could he have done? Surely the killer's best bet would be to push on with the murders as planned until you spotted the jury connection. Then he'd seem to have a reason for coming back and killing Tradescant.”

“Edmund Tradescant is back in the picture,” said Mallard. “Any more?”

“'Fraid so,” said Geoffrey apologetically. “Your zodiac murders took place on a daily basis. One, two, three days—that's not too long for a murderer to cover up his or her guilt until the police stop looking for personal motives and start hunting for a mythical serial killer. If I remember rightly, you didn't really think Sir Harry Random's death
was
a murder until after you'd already reached victim number three. You never even started to wonder if Ambrose or Lorina or anybody else had a motive to kill him. You only arrested Oliver.”

“So you're saying Uncle Tim should investigate
all
the victims individually?” asked Susie. Geoffrey nodded glumly, causing Oliver to slam his fist unexpectedly against the wall where he was standing.

“Damn it, Geoffrey, don't you understand?” he shouted. “We don't have time to widen up the field again! Uncle Tim has to find this killer today!”

“It's okay, Oliver,” Mallard cut in softly, resting a hand on his nephew's shoulder. “Geoffrey's been very helpful. Very helpful indeed.”

“But you don't have time, Uncle!” Oliver wailed. “Not to go through all of them. Not by the end of the day.”

“I'm not going to go through all of them. I don't need to. I believe I still know where to look.”

“Despite what Geoffrey said?” asked Susie.

“Because of something Geoffrey said,” Mallard replied steadily, with a warm smile that somehow failed to convince them that he was content with the idea. “But I need a little time to think about it.”

“Would you like me to come with you today?” Oliver offered.

“No, no, you go to work this morning—we've used enough of your time for this case. I'll call you later if I get anywhere.”

“Will you let us all know?” Susie inquired insistently.

“If I make an arrest this afternoon,” Mallard said, “you can all be there.”

Chapter Eleven

At ten o'clock that Tuesday morning, an elderly man cautiously read the name of Woodcock and Oakhampton, stenciled on the reeded glass of their office door. Then he pushed the door open and crept inside, in time to see Oliver, who had been half-heartedly composing a letter of explanation to Effie, crumple several pages of laser-printed text in disgust and hurl them unsuccessfully toward the wire waste-paper basket.

The man cleared his throat. “Mr. Woodcock, perhaps?” he enquired. Oliver assumed the best greeting face he could manage, although his mind was filled with thoughts of Mallard and Lorina and, above all, Effie.

“These are indeed the offices of Woodcock and Oakhampton,” he rattled off distractedly. “How can I help you, sir?”

The man seemed perplexed. He was short and slight, and wearing all three pieces of an ill-fitting blue serge suit, which was at least one piece too many for the outside temperature. His oversize tie-knot was almost as wide as his neck.

“Well, I suppose I'd like to see either Mr. Woodcock or Mr. Oakhampton, if that's at all possible,” he said timidly.

It was possible, because it was one of the days when both partners had turned up at Cromwell Road. However, Oliver had strict instructions to protect his employers from any caller who wasn't a potential client. It had not been a challenge to maintain a flawless record.

“Do you have an appointment?” Oliver asked casually, pretending to call up a calendar on his computer screen, although he actually flipped to his shopping list for the weekend.

“No,” said the man. “I really called on the off-chance, Mr.…?”

“Swithin,” said Oliver reluctantly, already seeing it on a promotional ballpoint pen or key ring or whatever personalized premium the man might use to support his sales pitch. “Mr. Woodcock and Mr. Oakhampton are both very busy today, sir, but if you'd care to leave a brochure describing your services, I'm sure we'll get back to you if we're interested.”

He flashed the man a tight smile and deleted “condoms” from his shopping list to suggest the encounter was over. The little man hesitated and then cleared his throat.

“I'm not sure you quite understood me, Mr. Swithin,” he quavered. “I'm not selling anything. I'm enquiring about engaging the firm's services.”

Oliver's fingers slipped off the keyboard and landed in his lap. He stared at the visitor.

“You're a client?” he gasped.

“Er, possibly.”

Oliver had rehearsed the drill hypothetically on numerous occasions—usher the man unctuously into Mr. Woodcock's office and then prepare coffee using the silver service that had been gathering dust in a creaky filing cabinet. But his curiosity was too great.

“What do you think we can do for you?” he asked, hoping for an answer to the mystery of Woodcock and Oakhampton's brand of business consulting. The man seemed taken aback.

“I was hoping you could tell me,” he confessed. “You see, I'm thinking of starting a business. I want to manufacture Trilons.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Trilons. Ladies' panty hose with three legs.”

“Not too many ladies have three legs.”

“No, no, Mr. Swithin. They're to be worn by ladies with two legs, of course. You see, with a standard pair of hose, if a lady gets a run in one leg, the pair must be thrown away. With Trilons, she always has a spare leg to stand on. In, I mean. There are three different ways that two real legs can occupy three panty hose legs, you know.”

Effie would have known that, Oliver reflected, and the thought caused a physical sensation in his stomach. Should he telephone her?

“Anyway,” the man continued, “I was passing your building, musing on this, and your brass plaque was so encouraging that I called to see if you could offer me some assistance.”

Oliver blinked. “Have a seat,” he said, indicating a maroon chesterfield near the door. He hurried to Mr. Woodcock's door and tapped on the panel. Woodcock listened to him in amazement, threw down his
Independent
crossword puzzle, and bolted for the door.

The visitor was quickly conducted into Mr. Oakhampton's office and the door was firmly closed behind them. For five minutes, there was silence. Then Oliver heard a long bray of hysterical laughter. His first thought was that the little man had undergone a transformation into a murderous maniac, plucking a meat cleaver from the ample folds of his waistcoat; then it dawned on him that the sound was the unfamiliar voice of Mr. Oakhampton, expressing glee.

The door opened again and the visitor came out, mopping his face with a red handkerchief. He looked at Oliver strangely and then dashed out of the offices. Next came Mr. Woodcock, oddly downcast, followed by the lean form of his partner, who was grinning broadly. Woodcock plucked his wallet from the depths of his trouser pocket, drew out a banknote, and passed it to Oakhampton. Then he went into his office and slammed the door behind him.

“A fine day, Mr. Swithin,” Oakhampton called cheerfully. Oliver, amazed that his employer knew his name, nodded pleasantly.

“A client at last, Mr. Oakhampton,” he replied. Oakhampton winked.

“‘At last' is correct,” he said. “He's the last client in every sense.” He chuckled to himself.

Oliver seized the opportunity. “Mr. Oakhampton, what do we actually do here? I mean, specifically.”

“We do nothing.”

“I know, but what are we supposed to do?”

“Nothing.”

Oakhampton sat on Oliver's desk and twirled the rotary stand designed to hold ink-stamps. “Let me explain,” he said affably. “Woodcock and I have known each other all our lives. We're rather well off and since we have a lot of time on our hands, we make the occasional wager. Well, we were discussing the merits of advertising one day, and I bet him that if we set up a company with a totally nondescriptive name, rented a set of offices, hired a staff, put ourselves into the telephone book, but undertook no publicity whatsoever, then sooner or later, someone would march in and try to engage our services. And so, we created Woodcock and Oakhampton, Ltd. to find out. You've just seen our first real client, which means I won the bet.”

“How much did you win?” Oliver asked in amazement.

“Ten pounds,” Oakhampton replied proudly. He hauled himself to his feet and jerked a thumb in the direction of his partner's office. “Woodcock's taken it bad. He rather enjoyed his time as a company director. Better leave him alone for a while.”

“When did you make this particular bet?”

Oakhampton thrust his hands into his pockets. “I think it was 1968,” he said. “May have been '69. Ah well, fun while it lasted.”

He headed into his own office and closed the door. Then he opened it again and put his head out.

“By the way, Swithin, you're fired,” he said amicably.

Oliver found himself staring curiously at the telephone for several seconds before he realized it was ringing. He picked up the receiver as if in a trance.

“Last call for the train to Woodcock and Oakhampton,” he intoned.

“Oliver? It's your uncle. Can you get some time off work after all?”

Oliver shook himself into a higher level of awareness.

“As much as I want, apparently,” he said.

“Good. I want you to join me. I know who the murderer is.”

***

Big Ben was striking five o'clock when Oliver scooted across Trafalgar Square. For the first time in weeks, the square was not bathed in brilliant sunshine at this hour, and its monuments and bollards cast only dim shadows. During the last hour, the cloud coverage had thickened ominously, and waves were slopping over the fountain's rim. There were few pedestrians on the square apart from the group clustered around Mallard.

“Sorry I'm late,” Oliver gasped. He surveyed the group. Some he expected to see—his uncle, Detective Sergeant Moldwarp, Detective Sergeant Welkin on crutches. Effie was there, but she did not look at him. Susie Beamish, Geoffrey Angelwine, Ben Motley—well, Mallard had promised they could be present for the grand unveiling. But Lorina too, presumably still unaware of the heartache she had caused him? And Ambrose Random, looking ridiculous in a caftan. My goodness, Constable Urchin has made a reappearance. And Dworkin. And there was Edmund Tradescant again. But who was that hefty type handcuffed to Moldwarp?

“You'll be late for your own funeral,” said Mallard humorlessly. He, too, was dodging Oliver's gaze. “I think the one person you don't know is Clifford Burbage, there in the bracelets,” he added. Oliver nodded amiably, but Burbage seemed preoccupied with avoiding Welkin's continual glare.

“Thank you all for coming,” the superintendent announced. “However, I have to say that one of you is going to regret accepting my invitation. Before we leave this place, I plan to arrest the zodiac murderer, as we persist in calling him.”

He allowed the group time to react. “Him?” echoed Ambrose over the general murmurs of surprise.

“We've been using ‘him' as shorthand. I'll keep that up for now, but we'll soon see if the male truly embraces the female.”

Mallard began to wander through the small audience. “Untangling this case has been like peeling back the layers of an onion,” he said. “We think Sir Harry Random's death in this fountain is an accident, but it isn't. We think Nettie Clapper's murder is an isolated mugging, but it isn't. Then we think we have a serial killer using the signs of the zodiac, but there's more. We find a jury, but maybe that's not the solution either. Now we're looking at the murders individually, but we have no clue where to start. Oh, we're dealing with a very clever murderer here.”

He paused, allowing his gaze to sweep across all their faces. Then he slowly stretched an arm toward Edmund Tradescant.

“But the fact that Mr. Tradescant is still with us is living proof that the murderer, while clever, is not perfect,” Mallard continued. “And I've come to realize that the shooting of Gordon Paper in Piccadilly Circus was by no means the murderer's only mistake. Let's see some more evidence of his failings.”

He walked to the fountain and pointed at a statue that rose from the water—an open-mouthed merman, clutching two dolphins, with water streaming from their mouths into the overflowing basin.

“Sir Harry Random died here, near that waterspout. When we looked for a connection to Harry's birth sign, Pisces, we found it in those fish.”

Ambrose Random snorted suddenly.

“Fish?” he echoed, in a voice that, in one syllable, moved from baritone to falsetto and back again.

Mallard turned to him. “Something wrong, Mr. Random?” he asked innocently.

“Anyone with an atom of intelligence can tell you that a dolphin is a not a fish.”

“He probably thinks it's a bird,” Oliver whispered to Ben.

“A dolphin is a mammal,” Ambrose announced smugly, looking around for approval.

“So you're saying this statue is not the most accurate representation of Pisces?” Mallard asked. “I agree. If anything, it works better as Aquarius, the Water-bearer. But the Aquarius death happened the next day at Sloane Square station, near the duct that carries the River Westbourne across the railway line. This second murder was flawless. The only trouble is, poor Nettie Clapper, the Aquarian victim, wasn't really an Aquarius. Like Oliver, she was born in the blurry boundary between two birth signs known as a cusp. But most newspaper and magazine horoscopes would put her birthday, January 20, in Capricorn. On that day in 1932, when she was born, the sun was definitely in Capricorn. So why select Nettie for the Aquarius death, when there were two other jury members available who were decidedly Aquarian? I suggest the answer is carelessness.”

He took a folded sheet of paper from his pocket. “Let's move on to death number three. This is the letter that was sent to the Capricorn, Mark Sandys-Penza. It invites him to a meeting at the ‘Tropical House' in Kew Gardens. We rather slavishly picked up the killer's terminology, thinking the name ‘Tropical' was our link to the birth sign, as in the Tropic of Capricorn. But I checked this afternoon with the Royal Botanic Gardens. There's no such place as the Tropical House. It's actually called the ‘Temperate House.'”

Mallard paused, but there were no comments from the group. All except one, they were mentally willing him to continue, to present the solution to the mystery.

“Death number four was the biggest mistake of all, which we've already acknowledged: The murderer killed the wrong man. Death number five, in contrast, was immaculate—although our genius had to dredge up an ancient connection between Scorpio and an eagle to make it work. There are scorpion images in London, as Oliver himself discovered.

“And victim number six, the Libra, was found outside a library. A nice verbal link, which Sergeant Strongitharm spotted first. Except the word ‘library' takes its root from the Latin word
liber
, meaning a book, while
libra
is a different Latin word, meaning a balance. The similarity between these two words is a phonetic coincidence. You can trace them all the way back to their Indo-European roots, and you won't find any connection.”

“Would you count that as an error?” asked Lorina.

Mallard paused, looking at her carefully. “There are two or three big mistakes, there are perhaps insignificant lapses. My point is that our killer is not as clever as we thought he was. In fact, I could argue that every single murder was flawed in one way or another. Rather a second-rate job.”

“This is getting too complicated for me, Uncle Tim,” Susie complained, “and poor Geoffrey's little brain is getting decidedly fuzzy.” Geoffrey scowled at her.

“Bear with me, Susie, I'm nearly finished,” Mallard said. “We come now to the biggest lapse of all—biggest, because it affected all the murders. The killer was working the wrong way through the zodiac,
backward
not forward. That remains a conundrum. After all, there was a continuous sequence of six birth signs among the jury members—Libra to Pisces. Why go backward? Oliver's explanation, which we were quick to accept, was that Pisces is traditionally the last sign of the astrological year. But what if there's another explanation? What if the killer had no choice over his first victim? It had to be Sir Harry Random, here in Trafalgar Square.”