The Diamond Rosary Murders (10 page)

Angel noted the shapely, manicured, sun-tanned fingers and pink-painted nails. Also, on her wrist she wore a gold bracelet with many charms hanging from it. It rattled at the slightest movement.

‘Yes. That’s her, Inspector,’ she said, eyes shining. ‘That’s the one.’

‘Did she stay in the hotel the night of Wednesday 7th?’

Mrs Fortescue hesitated. ‘She did not
book
into the hotel, Inspector, but I can’t say for certain that she didn’t stay the night, can I? I may be misjudging her, but I mean, she looks the sort that … well, you know.’

‘Yes, I know,’ Angel said. ‘But we don’t
know
that do we? Is that the woman who came into this office the following morning asking for Mr Domino?’

‘Oh yes. That’s her,’ she said. Then she added, ‘Who is she?’

Angel pursed his lips. ‘Just somebody we need to speak to,’ he said, trying to sound casual. He wasn’t going to say that she was a member of the gang who stole the Rosary once owned by Queen Mary 1 of England. The newspapers and television were full of it and Mrs Fortescue might not be able to contain herself.

‘If she turns up again,’ he said, ‘let me know.’

‘I certainly will,’ she said.

Angel nodded. He took back the photograph of Marcia
Moore and offered her the one of James Argyle. ‘Have you seen this man before? Did he stay here that Wednesday night?’

Mrs Fortescue rattled her charm bracelet and took the
photograph
. She peered at it closely.

Angel watched her, lightly massaging his chin between two fingers and a thumb.

Eventually she said, ‘He didn’t stay here on Wednesday night, but I do believe I have seen him … even spoken to him, recently.’ She looked at Angel and said, ‘Do you know, I believe he’s a Scot, Inspector. If it’s the man I think it is he speaks with a Scottish accent.’

Angel’s face brightened. There was nothing on the photograph to have given away that information.

‘He is certainly from Scotland, Mrs Fortescue,’ he said, ‘but I don’t know about his accent.’

She handed the photograph back to Angel.

‘Can you remember where and when you saw him?’ he said. ‘It could be vitally important.’

‘I have seen him … spoken to him sometime recently. But I can’t be more exact, sorry. He must have asked me a question or I had reason to address him about something.’

‘Or maybe you heard him speaking to somebody else? Can you really stretch your memory and pinpoint the time and place?’

‘I’ve done all that, Inspector. I can’t. I’m sorry.’

Angel nodded. ‘All right, Mrs Fortescue. Thank you very much,’ he said as he put the photograph back into his briefcase.

‘Is there anything else I can help you with?’ she said.

‘Yes, as a matter of fact there is … there are a couple of points. You said that Mr Domino booked two single rooms and he specifically wanted the penthouse on the top floor.’

‘That’s right. It’s actually a family room, but he wanted it for himself, and he wanted the other room for Mr Memoré to be immediately beneath his.’

‘That would be the fourth floor?’

She rattled her bracelet and said, ‘Yes.’

Angel lowered his eyebrows. ‘Did he say why?’

‘No he didn’t. It seemed very important to him, so I assured him that I would arrange it.’

‘Mmm,’ Angel said. He rubbed his chin. ‘You had a Mr Wiseman staying here that night as well, where was his room?’

She blinked in surprise. ‘I didn’t know that you knew Mr Wiseman, Inspector?’ she said as she turned back the pages of the huge booking planner.

He didn’t reply.

‘Mr Wiseman was in room 212, Inspector. He was on the second floor, two floors below Mr Memoré.’

‘Was he directly below?’

‘Yes, he was,’ she said. ‘Why?’

‘I just wondered.’

She looked at him closely, smiled and in a confidential tone said, ‘You know what this is all about, Inspector, don’t you?’

‘One or two ideas developing, Mrs Fortescue. Nothing
definite
,’ he said.

‘I recognize you now,’ she said. I thought I knew the name. Never out of the papers. You’re that well-known detective … that Inspector Angel. The man who always gets his man, like the Mounties, aren’t you?’

He gave a slight shrug. He didn’t like the celebrity status the media had given him. ‘I suppose so,’ he said. ‘There’s just one more thing I’d like to ask you to do for me, Mrs Fortescue.’

Her eyes shone, she leaned forward and said, ‘Yes, Inspector, what is it? Do say. Anything.
Anything
at all.’

‘Tell me when the hotel’s dustbins were last emptied and the rubbish collected?’

Her jaw dropped open. ‘Dustbins? … Emptied?’ she said. She shook her head in surprise. Eventually she said, ‘They are
scheduled
to be emptied every Wednesday morning, early, I
understand.
Why do you want to know that?’

‘Thank you,’ he said. He wasn’t going to explain. The time matched what Don Taylor had discovered and explained why SOCO was not able to recover any evidence from discarded waste from Domino’s and Memoré’s rooms.

‘Thank you very much, Mrs Fortescue. You’ve been most helpful.’

‘Have I really? It’s a pleasure, Inspector Angel,’ she said. ‘Please feel free to call anytime.’

Angel stood up. ‘That’s very good of you. There’s one more question, before I go, if you don’t mind?’

She looked at him and beamed.

‘It may sound strange, but I have a good reason for asking, I assure you,’ he said. ‘Did you have any animals – for whatever reason – in the area at the back of the hotel on Tuesday or Wednesday last week?’

Her face changed. She sat upright in the chair. ‘Animals?’ she said, her face as scarlet as a judge’s robe. ‘Whatever do you mean, Inspector? Certainly not. Good gracious me. Occasionally a visitor may have a dog with them and.…’

‘No. I don’t mean pets, Mrs Fortescue. I mean cloven-footed animals such as sheep, cows, goats, deer or pigs. Ungulates, I understand is the umbrella term.’

‘No, Inspector Angel, we did not. This is a hotel, not a zoo. We do not accommodate ungulates with or without umbrellas. The
accommodation
is one star rated and is designed for civilized human beings only.’ She stood up and crossed to the door. ‘I’m sorry, you will have to leave now. I have an important appointment shortly … at five o’clock and I have to prepare for it. You will excuse me.’

Angel frowned. He wondered what had happened to her. He noticed that the clock said 4.52. He was tired. It was almost the end of an imperfect day.

‘Good afternoon,’ she said without conviction.

The door closed behind him.

He returned to the BMW parked on the busy road in front of the King George Hotel to find the windscreen with a layer of frost across it. He looked around at the dark grey and sparkling white scene, with street and shop lights shining out across the pavements, and passing car and bus headlights reflecting the frost as they slithered along.

He got into the car, started the engine, switched on the screen wipers and the lights, and glanced at the dashboard clock. It was 4.55 p.m. He had planned to see Harry Wiseman, but he was greatly tempted to go home. He would have been happy to get the car out of the weather and into his garage but he was also eager to see Wiseman’s reaction to the photograph of Marcia Moore.

He was parked only fifty or sixty yards from the Feathers, so he decided to walk that short distance. Accordingly, he switched off the car lights, the wipers and the ignition, reached out for the briefcase and got out of the car.

Five minutes later, he was knocking on room number 202 in the Feathers.

Wiseman opened the door and gave him a welcoming smile. ‘Come in, Inspector Angel. And what can I do for you? Oh dear. You look very cold. Here, let me offer you a drink, a whisky perhaps?’

‘No, Mr Wiseman. Thank you. I shall only be here a couple of minutes.’

‘Well at least sit down. Tell me, have you found the body?’

Angel looked at him thoughtfully, opened the briefcase, produced the photograph of Marcia Moore and offered it to him. ‘Have you seen this woman before?’ he said.

Wiseman looked at it carefully, holding it in both hands. His mouth dropped open. He looked across at Angel. ‘Where did you get this?’

Angel looked back at him deadpan.

Holding the photograph in one hand, Wiseman pointed at it with the other and said, ‘That’s her. That’s the dead woman. Who is she, Inspector? And how did you get this photograph?’

‘Are you sure, Mr Wiseman?’ Angel said. ‘Because I must tell you that later that same morning, a witness told me that that same woman came up to her and spoke to her, and she was very much alive.’

Wiseman shook his head several times, then closed his eyes to think.

Angel waited a few moments then said, ‘You told me you only saw the body for a few seconds.’

‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘That’s right. I suppose if I was on oath, I would have to say that the body I saw was very, very similar. Same mop of blonde hair … same clothes … same long, slim, bare legs … but covered in blood.’

‘You wouldn’t be able to judge her height, lying down in the alley like that?’

‘No, but I was sure it was her.’

‘You said there was a lot of blood?’

‘It was all over the place. The dress was soaked. It was the same lace dress and coat as this. I
still
think it is the same woman, Inspector, or maybe there are two women who look alike.’

‘You mean twins?’

‘Could be,’ Wiseman said.

Angel wrinkled his nose. He didn’t think so. It was a mystery all right. It was a real humdinger. But he’d sorted mysteries out before. It was his business. He really couldn’t imagine two lookalike sirens wearing the same clothes being in the same building, one alive and one dead. Someone was lying or mistaken. But why would Harry Wiseman or Mrs Fortescue lie?

Anyway, he could not shake Harry Wiseman’s statement so he thanked him for his attention and courtesy, came away, returned to his car and went home.

I
t was 8.30 a.m. the following day, Tuesday, December 13th, another very cold morning, when Angel drove the BMW along Pine Avenue, through the big gates and up the late Haydn King’s drive to the front of the mansion. He kept the engine running to keep him warm while he tapped out SOCO’s direct number on his mobile phone.

DS Taylor answered. ‘Good morning, sir. I know exactly what you’re phoning about. You want to know about that book
, The Interpretation Of Dreams.’

‘Spot on, Don.’

‘I have it here, sir. Fortunately it was a new book in virtually pristine condition. There were three partial sets of prints. There was Nicholas Fitzroy Meredith, that’s that butler chappie, Selina Johnson, the housekeeper, and very clear thumb and first finger prints of one other on the cover which we are unable to identify.’

‘Don’t those last ones belong to Haydn King?’

‘Oh no, sir. His prints are nowhere at all on the book.’

Angel raised his head. His eyes flashed in surprise. In that fact, there was much food for thought. ‘Thank you, Don,’ he said.

He cancelled the call, put the mobile back in his pocket, got out of the car, walked up the front four stone steps to the door and rang the bell. He was still thinking about the fingerprints when Meredith answered the door.

Angel explained that he wanted to ask him a few questions,
whereupon the butler suggested that they retire to the small sitting room which they had used before. This exactly suited Angel’s purpose. He sat down in the well-upholstered chair by the fire facing the door, and Meredith sat opposite him.

‘There are just a few questions that I need to clarify, Mr Meredith,’ Angel began. ‘Firstly, that book about dreams, found on Mr King’s bedside table. Where did it come from?’

‘I really don’t know, sir. It just … well, it arrived. I noticed it by the side of his bed about a week before he died.’

Angel rubbed his chin. ‘He died on the 9th, so you must have seen it about the 1st of the month?’

‘Yes, sir. Something like that.’

‘And you have no idea where he had bought it from?’

‘No idea, sir.’

‘There’s something else,’ he said. ‘Mr Fleming had dinner with his uncle the evening before his tragic death, didn’t he? Were you present?’

‘Indeed I was, sir. I waited at table and served the meal to them both.’

‘You could hardly avoid hearing what they were talking about.’

‘You are perfectly correct, Inspector, but I am not in the habit of repeating the bits of conversation I may overhear between my employer and his guests, particularly when the guest is a member of the family.’

‘Nevertheless in this instance, Mr Meredith, I trust you will break the habit? It
could
have a bearing on your late employer’s frame of mind only hours before his death. If I know that, it may assist me in discovering who murdered him.’

Meredith lowered his eyebrows, pursed his lips, rocked his head to one side and then the other and then gave a very slight shrug.

‘Yes, sir,’ he said. ‘You are quite correct. This is an occasion when one should break the rule.’

‘I’m glad you agree.’

‘Well, the fact is, it was not exactly a pleasant evening.’

Angel’s eyelids shot up and then came down quickly. His antenna told him he was about to hear something that might be the key to solving the case.

‘Of course I didn’t hear every word,’ Meredith began. ‘I was in and out of the room, taking dirty plates and cutlery to the kitchen and returning with food. And I can say that the ill-tempered
argument
and squabbling did not greatly interfere with the serious business of demolishing most of a small turkey with the trimmings and a goodly proportion of several tureens of vegetables.

‘Mr King was not his usual avuncular self. The disagreement seemed to stem from Mr King having discovered that Mr Fleming had recently seen Miss Savage again, that is to say he had visited her several times since Mr King’s divorce and Mr King took the view that Mr Fleming was being grossly disloyal towards him. Mr Fleming’s defence was that the visits were purely of a commercial nature. She had all her insurance policies with his company and she needed some special travel insurance for herself for a forthcoming journey to America, also some insurance of some valuable paintings. Mr King took the view that Mr Fleming was not that much in need that he had to go touting for business from his ex-wife. Mr Fleming countered with something about business being frightfully difficult, that Mr King knew about his circumstances, and that Mr King had been holding back from putting
his
insurance business with him for long enough even though – Mr Fleming said – he had bent over backwards to give Mr King the best possible deal. I thought that at that point Mr King was going to throw the cranberry sauce boat at him, but instead, he banged it down on the table and spilled almost half of it, and it does so stain white linen cloths, you know, sir. He called him an “ungrateful little bastard” I believe the phrase was.’

‘What happened next?’

‘I am not certain, sir. I thought it would be discreet if I left the room, so I went down to the kitchen with the soup dishes and some tureens. When I returned, there was obviously an
atmosphere.
I don’t know what had been said, of course, but they both suddenly seemed to be aware that I was present. They ate in silence, except for asking for more wine.’

‘Then what?’

‘Unusually, after a small portion of summer pudding, Mr Fleming declined the offer of coffee and brandy, instead he stood up, thanked his uncle for the meal – rather abruptly – and went out of the room. I followed him to the hall to assist him with his overcoat and hat. He didn’t make any comment to me about the meal or the weather or anything else. Again, that was unusual. As I opened the front door and bid him a goodnight he merely grunted in reciprocation and dashed off.’

‘What about Mr King?’ Angel said. ‘Was there any subsequent reaction?’

‘When I went back into the dining-room, he wasn’t there. He had moved to the television lounge with a glass of brandy. I took the coffee pot, his cup and the decanter through. I asked him if he wanted anything else. He asked me if Mr Fleming had gone. I said that he had. He called him – if you will excuse me, sir – “an
arrogant
little bugger”. Then he said he didn’t need me any more that evening, so I said goodnight, cleared the dining-room, set it for breakfast, checked the downstairs windows and doors, and retired to my room.’ He sighed and added, ‘And that was the last time I saw him alive.’

Angel nodded. ‘Yes indeed,’ he said, rubbing his chin.

He wondered if the quarrel (and what may have been said afterwards, out of Meredith’s hearing) had been really sufficient to provoke Vincent Fleming into murdering his uncle. He was also considering whether Fleming knew the contents of King’s
will at the time, and perhaps more importantly, whether he was aware of the proposed changes.

‘Thank you, Mr Meredith,’ Angel said. ‘I would like to see Mr Saw if that’s possible and then Mrs Johnson.’

‘Right, sir. I saw him pop in a few minutes ago. He’ll be in Mr King’s study if he’s still in the house. And I’ll have Mrs Johnson standing by.’

Meredith left and closed the door.

A few moments later, Harry Saw knocked, came in carrying a bundle of account books, letters and other office paperwork under his arm. He looked surprised.

‘You wanted me, Inspector?’ he said, with eyebrows raised.

‘Yes. Come in, please,’ Angel said. ‘Sit down. ‘I just need to ask you a few questions.’

‘Right,’ Saw said. He sat down in a chair opposite him.

‘There was a book about dreams on the table at the side of Mr King’s bed. It’s called
The Interpretation of Dreams
by Sigmund Freud. Do you know how it got there?’

Saw frowned. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I don’t know anything about it. I work mostly in his office at the brewery and in his study here. I rarely have reason to go to any other part of the house.’

‘Yes, but as his secretary, I thought you might have bought it for him, or at least that you might know where it had come from … even that you would know his usual supplier of books.’

‘I’m sorry. I don’t know anything about it, Inspector.’

Angel blinked. It was an all-encompassing reply that couldn’t have been more unhelpful. He moved on.

‘The last time we spoke,’ he said, ‘you told me that Mr King was a man of method.’

Saw nodded. ‘That’s right, yes.’

‘Did he keep a note of appointments, meeting times and so on?’

‘Absolutely,’ he said, ‘most meticulously.’ Then Saw’s face
suddenly brightened. ‘As a matter of fact, Inspector, I have his appointments diary here.’

Angel’s eyebrows went up.

Saw shuffled through the office bumf he had brought under his arm and pulled out an A4-size plastic covered book. It had the words ‘Appointment Diary’ embossed in gold on the cover.

He passed it over to Angel. It confirmed what the secretary had said. All the entries were in the same small handwriting. Meeting times, the location, and a telephone number were carefully entered. Angel quickly looked up Tuesday, 6 December. That day it seemed that King had spent the day in his office. There were very few entries.

Angel looked up at Saw. ‘I don’t see an entry for the
appointment
he had between Mr King and our Superintendent Harker.’

Saw frowned. ‘Oh? When was that?’ he said.

Angel pointed at the page. ‘8 p.m., in the house, here.’

‘I don’t know anything about that, Inspector. He didn’t tell me about the meeting. Most unlike him.’

‘Forgive me, Mr Saw, but Mr King wasn’t obliged to tell you about the meeting, was he?’

‘No, but he always did. So that I knew what was happening. To keep me in the loop, as they say. Also, it is strange, almost unheard of, that he didn’t enter it in the diary. What was it about, anyway?’

Angel pursed his lips. ‘Did it often happen that he kept something like that from you?’

‘It must be the first time in years. I don’t understand it. We had a good working relationship. What was the meeting about, Inspector? Do you know?’

‘I shouldn’t worry about it, Mr Saw.’

But the secretary
was
worried about it. And Angel saw that he was.

Angel thanked him and Saw went out, still shaking his head.

As he closed the door, Angel couldn’t help but think that Harry Saw was hiding something from him.

Almost immediately there was a knock at the door.

It was Mrs Johnson the housekeeper.

‘You wanted to see me, Inspector?’ she said, sitting down in the chair opposite him. ‘You want to ask me more questions, I expect. I hope you don’t think I had anything to do with Mr King’s murder, just because I didn’t really get on with him. I mean, the job was all right. The money was good. Well, it needed to be for all the lip I took from him about one thing and another. As long as I did what he said, he was bearable. It was just that he was a stickler for everything being just so. He didn’t like change. Everything had to be the same. Once after vacuuming in the little lounge one day, I didn’t put his chair back quite where it had been so that he had to move it six inches himself …
six inches
…he gave me such a rocket the next day. I know how Miss Savage must have felt when she was married to him. He must have driven her daft. Now if I’d been married to him, I wouldn’t have stood for all that finickityness, I really wouldn’t. I don’t blame her divorcing him. I really don’t.’

‘It’s not about that, Mrs Johnson. It’s about the cleaning of his bedroom.’

‘There’s nothing wrong with it, I hope? If there’s any dust under the bed, it accumulates like you wouldn’t believe. I do it every Friday, when I do all the bedrooms thoroughly. I even get down on bended knees and go round the skirting boards with a duster, and I wash them, rinse them and wipe them off, whenever they need it.’

‘No. No. It’s about the bedside cabinet. There was a book on there about dreams. What do you know about it?’

‘Was there? I don’t know anything about it. I never interfere with his papers, letters or books in the house. Them things is private.’

‘You didn’t know there was a book there about dreams?’

‘I never touch his books, I’ve told you.’

‘Your fingerprints were found on it.’

Her jaw dropped. Her eyes flashed in alarm.

Angel could see that she was floundering round for an
explanation.
‘Ah well,’ she said at length. ‘I would have to pick it up to dust it, wouldn’t I?’

‘But you didn’t open it?’

‘Of course not, Inspector. I told you, such things might be private.’

He licked his bottom lip with the tip of his tongue. ‘Well, tell me,’ he said. ‘How did your prints get onto the pages of the book?’

Her eyes flitted hither and thither, her mind in disarray.

‘If I dropped it on the floor, the pages might fall open,’ she said, watching him closely. ‘I think I remember doing that. Yes, that’s what happened.’

Angel shook his head. His lips tightened back against his teeth. ‘Your prints were on more than fifteen pages,’ he said. ‘You must have been reading it.’

Her cocky voice turned into a whine. ‘I was only glancing through it, Inspector. To tell the truth it wasn’t very interesting. Surely
that’s
not a crime.’

‘That’s not a crime,’ he said, staring at her. ‘But I’ll tell you what
is
a crime, Mrs Johnson.’

He paused. He had her full attention.

‘Lying to a police officer when he’s asking questions in a murder case,’ he said. ‘
That’s
a crime.’

Her face went scarlet. ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Oh dear.’ She didn’t know what to say next. ‘I’m very sorry, I’m sure. I didn’t mean to …’

Her voice trailed away.

He shook his head. He wasn’t pleased. He stared at her. ‘Can we start again?’ he said.

She didn’t reply.

His jaw muscles tightened. He looked as if the smell of the gravy from the cookhouse at Strangeways had wafted under his nose.

Eventually he spoke. ‘I said
can we start again
?’