Murder on Page One (11 page)

‘I loved this when I was a girl.’ She beamed at Francis.

‘Put it back, please,’ he said stiffly, his accent patrician.

Carefully, Flick slid the old book into its space then turned. ‘You have written an historical crime novel, I believe?’ she said.

‘I have.’

‘Do you have an agent?’

‘What business of yours is that?’

‘We are investigating a series of murders, and we have reason to ask questions of a number of people. The sooner these questions are answered, the sooner people can be eliminated from the inquiry. We would be grateful for your assistance.’

‘I am a busy man.’ He gestured towards the papers in front of him.

‘Did you try to get Lorraine McNeill to represent you?’

‘I do not need to answer that.’

‘What about Jessica Stanhope?’

‘The same.’

‘Denzil Burke?’

He shook his head.

‘Do you realise that we have certain powers? Do you want us to take you down to the police station?’

‘You may have powers, but no grounds, I fancy. So, unless you welcome complaints about police harassment, I would advise you to ask any other questions you might have, then leave.’

Flick stared at him, wondering what she should do. She knew she did not have grounds for detaining him.

‘Possessing an offensive weapon in a public place is a crime, sir.’ Baggo stood by a framed photograph of Francis surrounded by a group of open-mouthed children. He wore chain mail and waved an evil-looking mace. His spectacles added to the absurdity of the scene, which had been pictured in a street.

It was Francis’ turn to stare. His lips twitched with indecision.

‘Daddy, please say my time’s up!’ A child’s tearful voice called from another room.

Flick moved sharply to see what was happening. Another plea came from behind a closed door at the end of the hall. Ignoring Francis’ bluster, Flick threw the door open and, closely followed by Baggo, went in. The room was a bedroom containing a double bed. At the foot of the bed, a boy rather younger than the other one, sat in a Heath Robinson contraption made of wood. Roughly put together, it secured the boy’s feet straight in front of him as he sat on the narrow edge of a plank of wood placed vertically on runners. There were notches along the runners, suggesting that the appliance could be adapted for victims of different height. Flick pulled up the plank securing the boy’s feet. Gingerly, he set them on the ground then stood, rubbing his bottom.

‘Go to your room, Rufus,’ Francis commanded. Hanging his head, the boy slunk out.

‘Mr Francis, this is no way to treat a child,’ Flick said, then was conscious of Baggo’s hand on her elbow.

‘May I, Sarge?’ he asked.

Before she could say no, Baggo addressed Francis. ‘Now, Mr Francis, you have put us in a dilemma. If we were to contact Social Services over you putting your son in the stocks, he is your son I take it, there would be a very great deal of embarrassing attention paid to you and your family.’

Francis glared at him.

‘It is a most unusual case,’ Baggo carried on. ‘It may be that we will decide we do not need to use a sledgehammer to crack a nut, but we shall have to be satisfied that you are a cooperative sort of gentleman. So I suggest that we return to the sitting room where you can answer my sergeant’s questions, after which we might put the whole situation under review.’

Flick asked, ‘How long has he been sitting there?’

Francis blinked. ‘Five minutes.’

‘I think they might prosecute,’ Flick said to Baggo.

Baggo brought out his i-Phone and took photographs of the stocks from different angles.

‘This was the boys’ idea,’ Francis spat. ‘All boys need discipline. They know where they stand and are happy with it. They asked me to build this, so I did.’

‘Why did you put Rufus in the stocks?’ Flick asked.

‘He had spilled some tea this morning and hadn’t wiped it up, so when he came home from school, he faced the consequences.’

‘When did he return from school?’ Flick asked.

Francis’ eyes blinked again. ‘Ten minutes ago, maybe.’

‘Or maybe longer, perhaps?’ Baggo asked.

Francis looked from one to the other. He focused on Baggo’s knuckles and looked thoughtful. ‘I fail to see why my writing could be of the slightest interest to you, but I have nothing to hide,’ he said.

They returned to the sitting room and took their seats. Baggo prepared to write down what Francis said.

He began, ‘Until just under two years ago, I was a lecturer at the University of London, but their short-sighted attitude to the teaching of medieval history forced me to resign. I had always wanted to be an author, to share my enthusiasm for the medieval period as widely as possible. During those centuries, the basics of today’s society were hammered out. Human nature took on a purer form, more primitive perhaps, but more honest. Life was cheaper and men acted on their instincts.’ He sat forward eagerly, his voice full of excitement. Flick cleared her throat. ‘Anyway, I decided to use crime novels as a vehicle for teaching history. My protagonist is a Franciscan friar. Yes, the name attracted me. During the fourteenth century, the friars went round England, living among the poor and helping them. They were decimated by the Black Death, and then, in the fifteenth century, became decadent; they stayed safely in convents, living off rich, gullible men who were desperate for salvation. My hero, Friar Alfred, maintains the Franciscan traditions of poverty and repentance. But he is an educated man. The Wars of the Roses have started, and …’

‘We believe you asked Jessica Stanhope to be your agent,’ Flick cut in.

Francis pursed his lips. ‘Yes,’ he snapped.

‘And she rejected you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did you approach Lorraine McNeill?’

‘The one who wanted a murder on the first page? Yes.’

‘And she rejected you?’

‘Yes. Someone dying of the plague wasn’t good enough for her. There had to be a “proper murder”, her assistant said.’ He snorted.

‘What about Denzil Burke?’

‘Yes, yes, and several others. How did you get my name, by the way?’

‘I don’t need to tell you that,’ Flick said.

‘I’ll find out, and if there has been improper conduct, I’ll …’

‘You should do nothing, sir,’ Baggo said.

‘There has been no improper conduct,’ Flick said firmly. ‘Do you live alone with the boys?’

Francis shook his head. ‘My wife, Matilda, will be back soon. Because the publishing industry has yet to wake up to my worth, she has taken a cleaning job.’

‘Do you have access to a car?’ Flick asked.

‘No.’

‘Can you tell me what you were doing last Friday evening?’

‘I was doing research.’

‘Where?’

‘The streets of London. Among the poor. Trying to help them.’

‘Like a …?’

‘Exactly. Much has changed over the centuries, but the emotions of the suffering poor are the same as they have always been. And no, no one can vouch for me.’

‘What about the evening of seventh December? It was a Monday.’

‘I have no idea. As a writer, one day merges with another, and I don’t keep a diary.’

‘What about Monday eighteenth January?’

‘I can’t help you. I did go off into the hills round the Welsh border about that time, to experience the harshness of winter in the countryside.’

‘Alone?’

‘Of course. I want to make my readers believe they are looking over Friar Alfred’s shoulder, feeling the pain of frostbite as he does.’

Baggo said, ‘He sounds quite like Brother Cadfael.’

Francis became animated, bouncing on his chair and clenching his fists. ‘But with attitude. He’s a good man, not a nice man. Russell Crowe, not Derek Jacobi.’

‘How long were you away from home when you went to the countryside?’ Flick brought him back to the inquiry.

‘A few days. Three or four. I can’t remember.’

‘Where did you stay?’

‘Stay? In a tent.’ He paused. ‘One night I cheated and went to a bed and breakfast place, but I can’t remember what it was called or even where it was. There was a blizzard that night. I paid cash,’ he added, anticipating Flick’s next question.

Flick glanced at Baggo, who shrugged. She said, ‘Well, thank you, Mr Francis. That will be all, for now. We will be back at some time in the future, and if these stocks are still in the house, we will start a full criminal investigation. They are not to be used ever again, do you understand?’

‘How am I supposed to discipline my sons? My sons.’ He emphasised the ‘my’.

‘You are an intelligent man, Mr Francis, so you are well able to explain why the boys should do or not do particular things. You can dock their pocket money, send them to their rooms, ground them.’

‘But not smack them?’

‘You must never behave cruelly towards them.’ She stood. ‘Before we go, I think we should check that there is no other inappropriate punishment appliance here.’ As Francis spluttered protests, Flick carried on, ‘or do you want us to get a warrant and come back with social workers?’

He slumped back in his chair. ‘On you go,’ he said weakly.

The flat was poorly maintained, with shabby furniture. When they entered the elder boy’s bedroom, his face was pressed against the window pane. He turned and Baggo asked him what he was doing.

‘Science. I’m trying to work out how water comes from my breath. Mr Runciman doesn’t explain very well.’

Baggo joined him at the window, noticing the boy move away slightly. ‘I’m Baggo. What’s your name?’ he asked.

‘Harold.’ The boy looked at him curiously.

‘Well, Harold, water can take three forms: ice, which is solid, water, which is liquid, and gas, which is lighter than air. Your breath is air which contains water in its gas form. Your breath is warm, and the warmer air is, the more water it can hold as gas. When it is cold, your breath cools and the water in it goes from gas to liquid. Do you understand?’

‘I think so. Could you repeat it?’

For the next five minutes, Baggo taught Harold about condensation. Flick inspected drawers and cupboards, finding nothing more unusual than a number of plastic swords in the wardrobe. Round all four walls stretched a paper copy of the Bayeux Tapestry. Harold interrupted his physics lesson to gleefully point out the section dealing with his namesake’s painful death. At length, the boy smiled and politely thanked Baggo. ‘But you’re not a teacher, are you?’ he asked.

‘No. I am a policeman.’

‘Dad’s not in trouble, is he?’

‘What makes you think he might be?’

The boy tensed. ‘Nothing.’

‘Harold, how often does he put you or your brother in the stocks?’

Harold looked away. ‘Not often,’ he said, his voice low.

‘Every week?’

Harold shrugged.

‘For how long?’

‘Quarter or half an hour. But we both prefer that to being smacked.’

‘What does he smack you with?’ Flick asked.

‘The flat of his wooden sword, usually.’

Flick put her hands on the boy’s shoulders. ‘Well, Harold, your dad will be in trouble if he puts you or your brother in the stocks again, or smacks you with a sword.’ She handed him her card. ‘Please phone me if anything like that happens. You must.’

Harold welled up. ‘We don’t want to be taken away,’ he said, shaking all over.

Flick said, ‘We’re going to warn your dad, but this can’t continue, and you must tell me if he does it again.’

Harold said nothing, but, dropping the card, turned to the wall and examined a section of the Bayeux Tapestry.

As they left, Baggo wished him luck with his science. The boy ignored him.

In the bedroom across the hall, Rufus seemed to have recovered from his recent punishment and showed the detectives his collection of plastic medieval soldiers. He told them that most nights he and his brother were allowed to have a sword fight before bed.

‘This is intolerable,’ Flick lectured Francis in the sitting room, the door firmly closed. Looking detached, Francis listened. He did not say anything, but when she finished, his lips twisted into a sneer.

When the officers left, they saw Francis watching from a window as they climbed into their car. Flick drove a short way down the road then stopped.

She said, ‘I want to speak to the mother, and I bet he phoned her on a mobile, telling her to stay out of the way till we were gone.’

Five minutes later, as the street lights were coming on, a thin woman, bent with supermarket bags, made her way along the street. A minute after she had entered the flat, Flick rang the doorbell. Francis answered and, seeing who was there, tried to shut the door. Flick had her foot in the way, and Baggo put his weight to the door till it compressed Francis against the wall.

Matilda Francis was fair-skinned and wore no make-up. Her long skirt and woollen jumper were worn and stained. ‘What is it? What’s wrong?’ she asked, her fluted, girly voice and Oxbridge accent uncomfortably out of place.