Murder by the Book (26 page)

He tried to get through to Mallory again, but the receptionist said he was still out on a case. Langham swore to himself and said he'd be in touch.

Next he rang Ralph Ryland.

‘Don,' Ryland quipped, ‘twice in one day. You must really like me …'

‘Fancy a spin in the country?' Langham asked.

‘If it's business and I can put it on expenses …' Ryland said.

Langham explained the situation and Ryland said, ‘I'll bring the shooter. Be faster if I pick you up. Be there in … say twenty minutes, tops.'

‘Good man,' Langham said, and put the phone down.

He paced up and down in considerable agitation for fifteen minutes, tried phoning Mallory twice – each time to no avail – then hurried from his flat and spent an anxious few minutes looking up and down the street for Ryland's decrepit Morris Minor.

Eighteen minutes after their telephone conversation Ryland – as good as his word – braked before the kerb and Langham jumped into the passenger seat. Ryland took off, burning rubber and exceeding the speed limit. They headed west through light traffic. Langham looked at his watch. It had just turned two.

Ryland said, ‘I reckon we'll be in Berkshire by three. Where's the old bird live?'

Langham gave the name of the village. ‘About five miles north of Bracknell.'

Ryland glanced at him. ‘You say a motorbike trailed her all the way from Ealing?'

‘Apparently. But, God willing, it might have been a coincidence, as Amelia said.'

‘Never had you down as a believer, Don.'

Langham grinned. ‘Slip of the tongue due to stress,' he said. ‘I like Amelia, and I hate to think …' He trailed off, telling himself that everything would be fine; they'd get to Castle Melacorum, find Amelia in high dudgeon and willing to be moved
only
if they promised to chauffeur her to the very finest hotel in Cheltenham …

They were bowling through Ealing twenty minutes later. Ryland put his foot down and they left London behind them and sped into the country.

‘Just like being on ops again, Cap'n.'

Langham glanced across at his driver. ‘Do you miss Madagascar?'

Ryland pursed his lips. ‘Madagascar? No. I miss the … what d'you call it …? The camaraderie, the adrenaline rush. Tailing suspected philandering husbands isn't quite the same. You?'

Langham stared out at the passing countryside. ‘The same. The intensity of the experience out there cemented relationships. Looking back, I realize I had a good war. Thing is, I feel guilty for admitting that.'

Ryland nodded. ‘I know what you mean.' He glanced across at Langham, then said, ‘You're doing it again, Don.'

‘Doing what?' he asked, mystified.

‘This,' Ryland said, and with his left hand he mimed fingering an imaginary scar on his forehead.

Langham quickly lowered his hand and smiled. ‘Oh … apparently it's something I do without realizing.'

‘You recall the night that happened?'

‘Vaguely, but to be honest all the ops have merged into one, in retrospect.' He thought about it. ‘It was the first push into Antananarivo, wasn't it? Midnight. A recce on a coastal Vichy post.'

Ryland said, ‘I was pinned down. I'd been bloody stupid and gone ahead against orders. You found me, dragged me back, and somewhere in there we came under fire. Saved my life, Don.'

‘Rubbish. You'd have lain low until we reached you anyway.'

Ryland shook his head. ‘With that sniper picking us off? You did for him like a bleedin' commando.'

It was not a memory Langham was comfortable with, and now he just said, ‘Water under the bridge, Ralph. Lived to fight another day. And look at us now.'

Ryland laughed. ‘Riding to the rescue of some damsel in distress.'

‘Well, I'd hardly describe Dame Amelia as a damsel.'

They bypassed Bracknell and headed north into the countryside towards the village of Bradley Hinton. Amelia Hampstead's country pile was on the outskirts of the village. Langham had been there once, many years ago, when Amelia had thrown a fête to celebrate winning the Silver Dagger award.

Five minutes later, a little over an hour after setting off from London, they passed through Bradley Hinton and motored down the lane towards Castle Melacorum.

Ryland gave vent to a prolonged whistle when the tower rose into view over a line of ash trees to their right. ‘How the other half live, eh, Don?'

‘Certainly is impressive,' Langham said.

All that remained of the thirteenth-century castle was a round corner tower, to which thirty years ago Amelia had added a rambling thatched cottage built from the original honey-coloured stones. The courtyard of the old castle, retained by three tumbledown walls, she had transformed into a riotous cottage garden.

Langham scanned the lane and the surrounding fields for any sign of a motorcyclist. Ryland slowed to a crawl and turned down a gravelled driveway. The countryside was still, almost silent, stunned by the heat of the day.

Ryland braked suddenly before a timber bridge that approached the castle's tower. He leapt from the car and bent to examine the gravel. Langham joined him, his heart in his mouth. ‘What is it?'

Ryland pointed to a narrow trench in the gravel. ‘I'm no expert, Don, but I'd say that was made by a motorbike.'

Langham swore and hurried over the bridge that crossed the moat, its waters green with algae. He came to the tower's arched doorway and stopped. The door stood ajar, the timbers around the lock shattered.

‘It's been shot open,' Ryland said. ‘What's that?'

He pointed to a stone positioned to one side of the door. It was a huge sandstone block bound securely by a thick rope; a thick cord extended from the stone and ended in a noose.

‘Oh, Christ,' Langham said.

Ryland slipped his pistol from inside his jacket and stepped forward. He eased the door open, paused on the threshold and listened. He stepped inside cautiously and Langham followed, wishing that he too was armed.

They crossed a large timbered hallway. To their right was a staircase rising up the tower, and to the left an open doorway giving on to a long sitting room that occupied the length of the cottage. At the far end of the room, French windows were flung open on to the abundant garden.

Stepping carefully and looking right and left as he went, Ryland led the way into the room. A small bookcase and a coffee table had been overturned, and Langham stared with mounting dread at the books spilled across the parquet flooring.

Ryland hurried to the open French windows just as Langham heard a faint cry. ‘Donald? Donald, is that you?'

Langham felt a surge of relief. ‘Amelia has her study in the tower,' he said, turning back into the hall.

‘I'll check out here,' Ryland said, stepping tentatively into the garden.

‘Dame Amelia?' Langham called up the stairs.

‘Donald! I'm in the tower. The wretch tried to abduct me!'

Langham took the stairs two at a time, more than a little amazed that Amelia had survived the encounter. He rapped on the massive timber door to the study, which Amelia unlocked. He slipped inside.

Dame Amelia was almost six feet tall, but looked all the more imposing for having a silver-grey bouffant beehive hairdo that added another twelve inches to her height. She grasped his hand and said, ‘Never in my life have I been as grateful to see a friendly face.'

‘What happened?' He hurried across to a mullioned window and peered out at the garden.

‘The miscreant shot his way into my castle!' Amelia cried. ‘I was downstairs, in the process of calling the police when I heard the shots. I nearly succumbed on the spot, Donald!'

In the garden Langham caught sight of Ryland, pistol poised, as he moved around a stand of topiary in the shape of a cockerel.

He turned and stared at Amelia. She had scooped a small dog from the floor and was hugging it to her considerable chest.

‘I was frozen to the spot, Donald. Frozen! A man entered the hallway, saw me and raised a pistol! I don't know what came over me but I let out a bellow and threw the first thing that came to hand. Luckily it was a marble statuette – and with beginner's luck I hit the devil in the chest. By this time Poirot joined in the attack.'

Langham blinked. ‘Poirot?'

Amelia held up the dog, a jet black ball of fur with a pointed muzzle. ‘My little Belgian Schipperke, Poirot.'

On cue, the dog yapped at him.

He laughed. ‘Does Agatha know that you've named him after her detective?'

‘Of course she does, and she thinks it a positive
hoot.
Anyway, Poirot launched himself at the intruder, latched on to his hand and wouldn't let go. Drew blood, I'm proud to report. And I took the opportunity to attack him with my walking stick!'

‘He met his match when he tried to mess with you, Amelia.'

‘While he was on the floor, Poirot and I made a beeline for the study and locked ourselves in here.' She drew a deep breath and smiled at him. ‘And minutes later I heard the sound of your car in the drive. Oh, the relief, Donald, the relief!'

‘I think you've done jolly well on your own,' he said.

‘But what I don't understand is why, if this awful little man is so intent on bumping off us scribblers, he didn't take the opportunity to shoot me when he had the chance.'

Langham shook his head. ‘I don't know, Amelia.' He recalled the bound stone on the threshold of the castle, obviously pre-prepared and brought here for a reason …

‘Can you describe him?' he asked.

Amelia's vast, powdered visage pulled a pained expression. ‘The appalling little man wore a balaclava, goggles, and a scarf concealing the lower half of his face. All I can say about him was that he was short and rather dumpy.'

He heard the dull report of a gunshot, followed closely by another. He whirled towards the window and stared out. He saw Ryland and his heart leapt. His friend was flat on his belly, and at first Langham thought he'd taken a hit. Then, as quick as lightning, the detective sprang to his feet and ran into the insubstantial cover of a rose-covered pergola. He took aim and fired.

At the far end of the garden Langham made out the small figure of the interloper. He ducked as Ryland fired, climbed a tumbledown section of wall and vanished from sight. Seconds later he heard the catarrhal cough of a motorcycle engine being kicked into life.

Down below, Ryland lost no time in giving chase. He sprinted back into the house and seconds later Langham heard the detective clatter across the wooden bridge. The car engine sounded, gravel crunched, and Ryland's ancient Morris Minor sped off in pursuit of the motorcyclist.

Dame Amelia flopped into an armchair still clutching her dog. ‘If it were not for you and your brave friend …' she began.

‘Don't underestimate your own contribution,' Langham said, ‘or Poirot's.'

‘But why,' she pleaded, ‘is the evil little man doing this? Why target us, Donald?'

Psychological motivation had never been the strongpoint of Amelia's whodunits. He shook his head. ‘Someone with a grudge, a deep-seated pathological envy of those he considers more successful than himself? I don't really know, Amelia. But I hope we find out soon.'

She stared at him. ‘Do you think it's one of our colleagues?'

‘It's a possibility. Or someone within the trade …' He stopped when he heard the sound of a car's engine approaching, and moved to the window overlooking the drive.

Seconds later Ryland's Morris hove into view. The detective leapt out and hurried to the tower. Langham opened the door and called out, ‘Up here, Ralph.'

Ryland appeared seconds later, out of breath. ‘Bastard gave me the slip at a crossroads!' He saw Dame Amelia and bobbed his head. ‘'Scuse me French, m'am.'

‘I have been employing the vernacular to describe the man, so no apologies needed on that score.'

‘You all right, Ralph?' Langham asked.

‘Right as rain. The bloke's no marksman, Don. But I'm getting rusty. He surprised me. I was a sitting duck at one point down there, but he didn't take his chance. If that'd been the Vichy in Madagascar …' He shrugged. ‘For my part, I could only get off a couple of shots, but he was a moving target.'

‘You did exceptionally well in chasing the blackguard away,' Dame Amelia opined. ‘And for that you have my eternal gratitude.'

‘Right,' Langham said. ‘There's little we can do around here. My advice, Dame Amelia, would be come with us to London and book into an out-of-the-way hotel for a week or so.'

‘That sounds like an eminently sensible suggestion, Donald. Would you give me a minute to pack a few essentials?'

‘Quite a character,' Ryland said as she swept from the room, Poirot lodged under her arm.

‘Wait till you hear how she beat off the gunman,' Langham said, and recounted Dame Amelia and Poirot's concerted attack.

Ralph looked puzzled. ‘But why didn't the geezer just shoot her dead?'

‘Recall the stone down there? I think he brought it with him with the express purpose of drowning Dame Amelia in her own moat.'

Ten minutes later they departed Castle Melacorum. Amelia fussed about leaving the castle unlocked, but Langham said he'd call a locksmith just as soon as they reached London. Their first priority was to see Dame Amelia lodged in a hotel off the beaten track.

‘And I know just the place,' she said. ‘A
chi-chi
little establishment in Belgravia I've used many times in the past.'

‘Which,' Langham said, ‘is exactly why I don't want you going there now. There's a decent place in Highgate.'

He gave the address to Ryland, who nodded and glanced at Dame Amelia in the passenger seat. ‘Don told me all about you attacking the gunman, Dame Amelia.'

She trilled a laugh and, as they approached the capital, gave an exaggerated account of the mêlée at the castle. Langham smiled to himself and had no doubt that the episode would find its way into her next best-seller.