Feted to Die: An Inspector Constable Murder Mystery (5 page)

“Now that,” said Dave Copper appreciatively, “is what you call a very nice bit of real estate.”

“You could say that,” responded the inspector. “The lady’s done very well for herself, hasn’t she?”

“Not the old ancestral home, then?” enquired Copper.

“The Lawdown family, yes. They’ve been here for centuries. But of course, her ladyship’s only a Lawdown by marriage, isn’t she? Not actually landed gentry herself, although you’d never know it to look at her. As you are about to find out.”

Sergeant Copper drove the car to the foot of the steps of the front door, parking between a small smart open-top sports car and the police doctor’s rather grubby Volvo estate, as an attractive young woman emerged from the Hall to greet them.

“Good afternoon, Inspector … Constable, isn’t it? How do you do?” She shook hands.

“Good afternoon, Miss. This is Sergeant Copper.” The two officers proffered their warrant cards. “And you are …?”

“Sorry, inspector, I should have said. We’re all a bit upside down at the moment. My name’s Laura Biding – I’m Lady Lawdown’s daughter. You’d better come inside.”

“Your car, miss?” enquired Copper, with envious eyes on the sports car.

“Yes, sergeant,” said Laura. “Why, will it be in the way there?”

“Not at all, miss.”

Laura led the way through the door into a lofty hall painted in muted shades of grey and cream, into which afternoon sunlight streamed from a central domed skylight. Doors opened to left and right, and an elegant staircase led to the floor above. The Lawdowns of former generations looked down on the visitors.

“So, inspector, what would you like to do first?” asked Laura. “Do you want to see … where it happened … or do you want to talk to people? Everybody’s in here in the drawing room.”

“I think we’d better find out exactly what’s happened first, miss, if you could show us the way.”

“Yes, of course. It’s through here.” Laura turned to the left through a green baize door which led into a short corridor, at the end of which the officers passed through a small room containing shelves, a sink, and a clutter of wellington boots, raincoats, watering cans, vases and flowerpots, and then out on to a paved terrace. Through an arch and down a flight of stone steps, the group emerged into a small enclosed garden, surrounded on all sides by brick walls covered with a selection of roses, honeysuckles, and other climbing plants. There was a discreet wooden door in the wall to the left, which appeared to lead in the direction of the main grounds. Low box hedges surrounded minute flower beds and a tiny central lawn, on which was pitched an incongruously-garish striped canvas tent, through whose entrance a plump jolly-looking man was just emerging.

“Beaten you to it again, Andy!” he cried. “You really are going to have to be quicker off the mark!”

“And good afternoon to you too, Doctor,” smiled Constable. “It never ceases to amaze me how a spot of violent death always puts you in a good mood. I take it we do have a violent death, otherwise what are we doing here?”

“Oh, this one’s a beauty,” replied the doctor. “I’ve never seen one like this before. Do you want to come and have a look?”

“Inspector, do you really need me for this?” interposed Laura.

“No, of course not, Miss Biding,” said Constable. “Sorry, I should have thought. Copper, would you take the young lady indoors to join the others. Ask them to stay put for the moment, and then come back out here.”

“Righty-ho, guv. After you, miss.” Laura Biding and Sergeant Copper disappeared through the arch in the direction of the house.

“I am going to have to stop Copper reading cheap 1930s detective stories,” sighed the inspector. “He is beginning to sound like a cliché sidekick. Anyway, who have we got?”

“Local man by the name of Horace Cope,” responded the doctor. “Something of a celebrity, I gather.”

Inspector Constable groaned. “We all know what that means. Trouble. What sort of celebrity? I’ve never heard of him.”

“That,” replied the doctor smugly, “is because you read the wrong sort of papers. He’s a bit of an odd mix – well, was. He’s a clairvoyant.”

“You’re kidding!”

“Have you ever known me to joke, inspector?” chuckled the doctor. “I’m surprised you don’t know the name, because he crops up on TV from time to time. I think he’s even done some work for the Met when they’ve been having one of their more touchy-feely alternative-methods moments. Load of rubbish, of course – never any scientific basis. And he’s got a “Your Stars” column in the Evening Sin – you know the usual tosh about journeys over water and tall dark strangers. I never read them myself.”

“No, of course not,” smiled Constable. “No scientific basis.”

“Hmm, yes … right.” The doctor cleared his throat. “Anyway, apart from that, he’s a literary critic – does a weekly column in one of the Sundays, which I have been known to read. Not what you’d call a man who’s easily impressed – in fact, he specialises in hatchet jobs.”

“So someone’s done their own hatchet job on him, have they?”

“Not quite.” And as Sergeant Copper re-emerged into the Secret Garden to join them, “Come and take a look.” The doctor held back the entrance flap of the tent and gestured the two detectives inside.

The interior of the tent was gloomy, with two squat flickering candles on stands making hardly any impression on the low light level. The air was still heavy with the smell of incense from joss sticks which had burned out on a side table, whose top was also scattered with packs of cards, what appeared to be small bone tokens, a carved wooden block, and a bundle of sticks decorated with Chinese symbols. Tucked alongside the table, and almost concealed by it, a suitcase.

The body of Horace Cope was sprawled forward across a small table covered with a black velvet cloth bearing a design of signs of the zodiac. He wore an exotic wide-sleeved robe in bright blue and gold, whose matching turban lay discarded on the ground to the side of the table. His face could not be seen – the back of his head was a very different matter. In a mass of blood and matted hair, through which Constable thought he could also see white splinters of bone, a large globe of some dark kind of glass nestled.

Inspector Constable had seen violent death in many forms, but even he had never been greeted with a spectacle quite like this.

“What the hell’s that?” He gestured towards the dead man’s head.

“That, I think you’ll find, is Horace Cope’s crystal ball. Looks to me like obsidian – that’s a sort of volcanic glass, very expensive and very heavy.”

“How heavy?”

“Oh, not so heavy that it couldn’t be used by a man or a woman, if that’s what you’re getting at. Quite effective as a murder weapon though, by the look of it. Standard part of the fortune-teller’s stock-in-trade, I believe. Gaze into the crystal, see what’s in the future.”

“Well, it doesn’t look as if he saw that coming, did he, sir?” put in Sergeant Copper. “He’s definitely got his ball in his brains, hasn’t he?”

“Yes, thank you for the humorous take on the situation, Copper,” said the inspector. “If we want jokes, we’ll ask for them.” Turning to the doctor, he enquired, “I take it there’s not much doubt as to the cause of death?”

“None at all, in my opinion,” agreed the doctor cheerfully, “but I’ll let you know if it’s any different once I’ve taken him away and had a good look at him.”

“Time of death?”

“Oh, you don’t need me for that. I gather he’d only just arrived at the Hall about half an hour before he was found just before One. Right, I must get on. Nothing else I can do here for now, so if you can get him sent round to my mortuary I’ll get him on the slab and see if there’s anything else I can get out of him.” The doctor chuckled. “You know they always open up for me.”

“Doctor,” remarked Constable, “you are an extremely ghoulish man! You really do enjoy death, don’t you?”

“It’s a living,” grinned the doctor, and with a cheery wave, he was gone.

“Right, Copper,” said Constable briskly. “Let’s get sorted. For a start, you can get on the phone, get Mr. Cope taken away, and find out where SOCO are. Somebody should have been here by now, unless they want us to do the whole job by ourselves.” And as the sergeant reached into his pocket, “While you’re at it, hold back that tent flap. This place smells like a tart’s boudoir, and I can’t see a damn thing in here.”

While Dave Copper was murmuring into his mobile, Andy Constable slowly circled the dead man’s body. Horace Cope’s head was turned slightly to one side as it rested on the table, and as the inspector leaned forward to look more closely, he was met with a dull gleam from one still-open eye beneath an eyebrow seemingly raised in surprise. Plump almost lady-like hands, with a modest single gold signet ring on the left little finger, lay relaxed on the tabletop.

“Everybody’s on their way, guv,” said Copper as he re-entered the tent. “About ten minutes. So, what do you reckon?”

“It looks to me as if he was taken completely by surprise,” said Constable. “Look at those hands. He’s obviously made no attempt to defend himself. Plus, whoever did this must have been standing behind him, and it’s not as if they could have sneaked up on him, because there’s only the one entrance to the tent. So I reckon they knew each other. Right, let’s see what else we’ve got.” He turned his attention to the items lying on the side table.

“Do you know anything about this clairvoyance business then, sir?” enquired Copper.

“Only enough to know that it could get you hanged for witchcraft a few hundred years ago. But all these bits and pieces are nothing special – you can get them in any of these new-age arty crafty shops. Look here – you’ve got tarot cards … chinese fortune-telling sticks … these little things are runes … oh, now that’s rather nice.”

“What is it, sir?”

“That, sergeant, is a zodiac chart. Plots your future through the stars. Very Nostradamus. Very nicely-drawn constellations, loads of Latin notes all over it, but if I had to guess, I’d say it was probably French, sixteenth century.”

“Valuable, sir?”

“Unfortunately not. Just a modern reproduction from the original woodcut.”

Dave Copper was impressed. “Here, guv, you really do know a lot about this stuff, don’t you?”

“The benefit of having had a half-decent education,” smiled Constable. “Which is why I am a detective inspector, and you are but a humble sergeant. Right, get hold of that suitcase, and we’ll see if there’s anything helpful in there.”

Copper knelt to open the suitcase. “Not a lot in here, sir. Little plastic box – it’s got crayons in it, by the look of it. Why on earth would he want crayons? Anyway … velvet bag ….” He passed it to the inspector, who emptied the contents on to the side table. The facets of the coloured stones gleamed in the candlelight.

“Bloody hell, sir! Are those jewels?”

“Don’t get your hopes up, Copper. They’re just crystals – semi-precious stones. I would tell you what they all are, but you’re too easily impressed, and there’s a limit to the amount of adulation I can take in one day. I think they use them for healing or adjusting your chakra or some such nonsense. Just another of Mr. Cope’s tools of the trade.”

“So not an attempted robbery that went wrong, then?”

“Not so far. What else is in there?”

“Just a jacket with … a wallet in the inside pocket.”

“Containing …?”

Dave Copper opened the wallet and browsed through. “A hundred quid in twenties plus an odd fiver … couple of bank cards … store card for Harridges … driving licence … “Crystal Cottage, Sloe Lane”.”

“That’s useful to know,” remarked Constable. “We’ll go along there and take a look round if we can’t find much here. Is that it?”

“Hallo, hallo, what’s all this then?”

“Copper, if you do that one more time, you are definitely back to traffic duty! What have we got?”

“A rather interesting newspaper cutting, sir,” beamed the sergeant. “I think our Mr. Cope had a few naughty little secrets. Take a look at that.” He handed the cutting to his colleague.

The small greyish piece of paper appeared to have been cut from the classified section of a newspaper. The column was headed “Personal Services”, and invited interested readers to telephone a main number followed by an access code in order to contact the various advertisers. Amongst the services on offer were Discreet Massage from a Lady at your Home or Hotel; A Personal Trainer offering to Work on your Body (Gareth – Press-ups a Speciality); and a French Lady who would provide Language Lessons in a Disciplined Atmosphere. One entry was circled in green ink. It read, “Escort and Photo Model. Full escort service for very demanding gentlemen. Souvenir photos also available. Call ‘L’.”

“How very interesting,” commented Constable. “Now the question is, was Mr. Cope an existing customer or was he in the market for a bit of extra spice in his life?”

“They reckon some men develop odd tastes after they pass forty, sir,” said Copper in an elaborately matter-of-fact voice. “Mid-life crisis, apparently.”

“Traffic duty, sergeant?”

“Sorry, guv. Only kidding.”

“Or …” Inspector Constable paused. “Now here’s a thought. Maybe Mr. Cope wasn’t a customer at all. Maybe ‘L’ was somebody he knew. Maybe it wasn’t his secret, but somebody else’s.”