Hollow Crown (32 page)

‘Oh, Williams,’ Edward said as unthreateningly as he could manage, ‘have you any idea who took the rat poison from your shed? I gather you didn’t keep it locked so it
could have been anyone.’

‘That’s right, my lord,’ the gardener said, grudgingly. ‘As I told the police, anyone could have got at it.’

‘But who knew you had it? Did Mr Scannon know?’

‘Yes, sir. The rats had got into the house and he told me to deal with them.’

‘When was that? Was it the weekend Mrs Harkness died? We all saw a rat on the billiard table. Gave us quite a shock, I don’t mind telling you.’

‘Yes, my lord. That were it. He called me in – on the Monday it was – and told me to buy some poison and get rid of them. Mr Pickering was there when he told me.’

‘Was anyone else there?’

‘Mr Carstairs and Mr Keen – I think that’s the gentleman’s name – the Parliament man.’

‘Sir Geoffrey Hepple-Keen?’

‘Yes, sir. That’ll be him.’

‘And you killed the rats?’

‘I killed two, both males.’

‘And you destroyed the corpses, I suppose?’

The gardener looked uneasy. ‘Speak up, man,’ Edward said testily. ‘Did you or didn’t you?’

‘I dunno, sir, to tell you the honest truth. I put them on the compost heap and then I forgot about them. I has plenty to do in this garden without bothering my head about dead
rats.’

‘But you remembered about them eventually?’

‘Yes, my lord. I did. I was afraid my dog might have got chewing on them. He’s a devil for rats.’

‘And had he?’

‘No, my lord. That’s what was queer. When I got to thinking I should burn the vamints, they was gone.’

‘Gone? What do you mean?’

‘They was gone, sir. Someone, or some animal, had taken them.’

‘When was this?’

‘On the Thursday. That was when I remembered them.’

‘And you never saw them again?’

The gardener looked worried. ‘I saw one of them again, sir. On the Monday. Mr Pickering gave it me. He said it had been found in one of the ladies’ beds. I don’t know how it
got there, my lord. I reckon it may have been a practical joke, like . . . by one of the gentlemen.’

They mounted their motor bikes and rode off, with a final wave to Ruth Conway who suddenly looked rather forlorn standing alone outside the front door. Just before they left,
Edward asked her what had happened to Mrs Scannon’s Pekinese, expecting her to say it had accompanied the old woman to hospital.

‘Horrible little dog,’ she said viciously. ‘I had it put down. I had been wanting to do it for ages.’

Verity had been anxious to leave Haling as quickly as possible and put several miles between it and the object she was hugging to her chest – nothing less than Scannon’s missing
diary. She was on tenterhooks to examine it properly. She would show Edward her sleuthing was not to be sneezed at.

As he bucketed over the pot-holed lanes, Edward went over in his mind what he knew about the circumstances of the two murders at Haling. He was beginning to get the feeling that he ought to know
who had killed Molly but there were still a number of things which puzzled him. He had a feeling that her murder had been the result of panic. Why would one
choose
such a time and place to
commit murder? Surely, it would have been easier to break into her flat in Trevor Square and kill her as she slept. After all, Molly had said her flat had been burgled and there was no reason to
disbelieve her. He made a mental note to ask Lampfrey if he had investigated who occupied the other flats in the house, but he knew he must have done and he would have heard if any of Molly’s
neighbours had been suspicious characters.

At Haling, the home of an influential Conservative MP, Molly’s death was bound to attract more attention than if it had occurred in London and the list of suspects was far fewer which
should, in theory, have made the killer easier to identify. Or had the murderer wished to confuse the issue by indicating that, because Molly met her death at Haling, it necessarily had to do with
the theft of Mrs Simpson’s letters? Perhaps the motive for murder was quite different. Leo Scannon’s murder, on the other hand, was planned coldly and deliberately and had been carried
out by someone who knew his victim’s habits and had almost certainly stayed in the house as a guest. The murderer, Edward was convinced, had at some time or other seen Scannon open the
tantalus and pour himself and his guests whisky. He – or she – knew that Scannon was the sort of employer who did not trust his staff not to drink his spirits. The murderer was sure
that, at least during the week, the only person who would drink from Scannon’s tantalus was the man himself.

When they had gone half the distance back to Mersham, Verity waved Edward down. She could wait no longer to show him her trophy. As they got off their motor cycles, Edward told her about
Williams and the lost rat – the rat which had turned up in her bed. Verity spluttered, with laughter and a touch of indignation. She had been the victim of a practical joke and she normally
hated practical jokes; they were usually cruel and seldom funny but she couldn’t be too angry. She had knowingly entered among her enemies and had probably got off lightly enough in the
circumstances.

‘So what have you got there?’ Edward inquired, as she removed her leather jacket and extracted the exercise book from beneath her jersey.

‘Tra-la! Be a good boy and beg!’

‘For goodness sake, V, give it here. Is it what I think it is?’

‘It is indeed,’ she said, holding it just out of his reach. ‘But, before you can examine it, you must grovel and and tell me all sorts of flattering but completely true things
about how clever I am.’

Edward threw himself at her and promptly fell over her bike which she had propped against a hedge. Laughing, she led him puckishly through a gate and into a field. Edward, complaining loudly and
rubbing his shins, followed her.

‘Don’t damage it,’ she warned, suddenly serious, as Edward once again made a grab at her. ‘Here it is.’

He opened the book, his hands fumbling the pages in his excitement. He had guessed what it was Verity had found but had no idea how she had discovered it. As he began to read he said, ‘You
are quite certainly a genius, my companion in crime. Hey, but what’s this?’ He looked in consternation at the black streak his fingers had left on the white page. ‘Is this stuff
soot? Where did you find it . . . up a chimney?’

‘You’ve got it in one, and you can’t go up chimneys without getting sooty. While you were talking to the gardener, I had a quick look at the bedrooms. Molly’s, which was
also mine, your old room, and the one the other side, Mr Harbin’s, and . . . ’

‘And . . . ?’

‘And I found nothing. I took a few photographs but I don’t expect they will come out. The light wasn’t good enough. Then I asked Pickering if I could look in Mr Scannon’s
bedroom. He was dubious but I put on all my charm and, at last, he said he supposed there was no reason why I shouldn’t. Again, I found nothing but, just as I was about to leave, I remembered
what you had told me about the ledge in the fireplace in your room and I wondered if
all
the fireplaces had them. And – open sesame – there it was.’

‘Did Pickering see you?’

‘No. Fortunately, he had left me alone for a minute so he saw nothing.’

‘But I don’t understand,’ Edward said, rubbing his forehead, ‘Why didn’t the police find this? Pride is very thorough, whatever else one might say about
him.’

‘The reason’s obvious, dummy. It was only lodged there after the police had completed their search.’

‘Yes, or maybe they just
did
miss it. Was it hidden? I mean, would anyone looking up the chimney have seen it?’

‘No,’ Verity said consideringly. ‘Not unless they ran their hand along the ledge as I did, I suppose.’

‘Perhaps the murderer, after poisoning the whisky downstairs, decided to search Leo’s bedroom. He found what he was looking for and then was disturbed. He heard footsteps,
let’s say, and stuffed the diary, which was too bulky to conceal easily, in the chimney, planning to come back for it later. By the way, how did you smuggle it out?’

‘Why do you think my blouse is ruined, fathead? I slipped it under my jersey.’ She lifted up her jersey and he saw her white shirt was covered in soot.

‘Golly! Well done, Watson. Very well done. Your sacrifice shall not be in vain.’

Verity considered complaining at being cast as Watson but then couldn’t be bothered.

‘Hey, let me look at that blouse,’ Edward said and, not waiting to be told he should keep his distance, he took her in his arms and kissed her.

A whole range of emotions overwhelmed Verity. She had kissed him, of course, but that had been the result of some kind of fit – a madness – the nature of which she could now hardly
remember. Now he was kissing her, as though he had a right to kiss her. She struggled, cross at being taken for granted, but she was feeling weary after so much excitement and drained of her usual
combativeness. Really, it was rather nice being kissed. She relaxed a little. She felt all at once a deep sense of relief – almost of healing – as though her will had been overcome by a
stronger. She began to enjoy herself. If she had a criticism of Edward, it was that, by comparison with her ex-lover, the American novelist Ben Belasco, he was too much the gentleman. He let good
manners get in the way of action. Good manners were fine in their way – rather restful after Belasco, who had the manners of a pig – but, in the end, a girl wanted a little of the
Tarzan.

Just as she was wondering when she would need to stop kissing him and draw breath, out of the corner of her eye she saw, trotting purposefully towards them, a black bull, the size of a small
house. It was like some Donald McGill postcard, as she said afterwards. She tried to remove her lips from Edward’s to warn him but he, interpreting her squirming as encouragement, held her
ever more tightly. At last she managed to twist him round so that he, too, could see the interloper now clearly determined that there was to be no spooning in his field without he was doing it
himself.

Releasing her in his arms with a cry of alarm, Edward looked for the gate, saw it a hundred yards away and shouted, ‘Run!’

As he helped Verity over the gate, she tore her stockings and swore. And Edward, as he scrambled over after her, managed to fall in a patch of stinging nettles and he too swore vigorously. These
cries of pain and frustration seemed to irritate the bull, which peered over the gate at them with small, angry eyes.

‘Look,’ Verity said, gasping, ‘he only wanted to play. Didn’t you, diddums?’ She poked the bull on the nose which, he indicated by rolling his eyes, was an
impertinence. She turned to her companion and a huge grin covered her face. ‘Oh, Edward, I wish you could see yourself!’

‘What about you!’ he rejoined.

Verity was now laughing so hard she could hardly stand. That made Edward start and, had anyone come down the lane, they might have been taken for dangerous lunatics. Dirty, dishevelled, their
clothes torn, their faces red and Verity’s make-up streaked across her face so she looked more like a Red Indian in the Gene Autry films she liked so much than a nice middle-class girl who
had just been kissed. It was a good five minutes before they recovered themselves and Edward could ask, ‘You’ve got the diary?’

‘No, haven’t you got it?’

‘You’re joking, V. Please say you’re joking.’

I’m not joking. You must have dropped it.’

Edward went over to the gate and stared. The bull stared back. Yes, there was the diary. He could see it, about fifty yards behind the bull, its white pages waving in the wind.

‘So, what do we do now?’ Verity asked, trustingly.

‘There’s only one thing for it,’ Edward said grimly. ‘I’ll have to get over the gate and distract the bull, while you go and pick up the diary.’

‘Gosh, you do remind me of Ben. He took me to a bullfight once and the bull escaped and he left me to fend for myself while he chased it.’

‘Shut up, V. I really don’t want to talk about your lovers at this particular moment – or, for that matter, at all.’

‘Oh?’ she said, bridling. ‘And I don’t want to hear about yours.’

They stared at each other, Verity with her hands on her hips, ready for a fight.

Then Edward, taking in her appearance, burst out laughing again. ‘I’ve always wondered about that expression “pulled through a hedge backwards” but now I see what it
means.’

Verity, also seeing the funny side, tried to scrape down her hair, ‘Well, get on with it then. And I hope the bull catches you.’

Ten minutes later, puffing and panting, Edward was safely back. ‘I haven’t run like that since I won the hundred yards my last year at Cambridge,’ he said, rather pleased with
himself. ‘That bull was quite outclassed and he knew it.’

‘Huh!’ said Verity, unimpressed. ‘Stop congratulating yourself and come and look at this.’

Companionably, they pored over the diary.

‘Here, let me see,’ he said, shuffling through the pages. ‘The important thing is: did Scannon put the name of his murderer in his diary? No, damn it, that would have been too
easy.’

Two pages had been torn out just where the writing ended.

Verity took the diary and started reading: ‘ “As soon as I entered the room, I saw it. I put it in my pocket and I don’t think anyone . . .” The last words he wrote
killed him,’ she said grimly.

‘Damn and blast!’

‘Yes, but look. There are indentations on the pages immediately after the tear. Do you think your friend, Professor what’s-his-name, might be able to make out something? What we
can’t see with the naked eye, perhaps he . . . ’

‘Brilliant, Verity. You’re a genius! That’s it! If anyone can read it, Davidson can. May I kiss you again?’

She looked at him critically. ‘If you must,’ she said at last. He did so and then kissed her again and this time she made no objection.

Monday afternoon he dropped Verity in the King’s Road and went on to Albany. After refuelling on a mutton chop washed down with a glass of champagne, he went in search of
Carstairs but before he did so he telephoned Dr Davidson at Hendon’s Forensic Laboratory and made an appointment to see him on the following day. Davidson had been understandably chary about
meeting him when he heard what he was being asked to do, but Edward was quietly insistent.