Undercurrent (30 page)

No, Watson had been just a vague possibility. Horton said, ‘Has Cantelli got the list of research material Spalding requested from the naval museum library?’

‘I’ll put him on.’

Cantelli came on the line. ‘I was just going to call you. The librarian phoned a few minutes ago. Guess what? She can’t find the file that contains the slips of paper requesting the various research materials. She’s looked everywhere but it’s missing.’

‘I bet it bloody is. Don’t they have any record of it online or has that been erased?’ Horton said sarcastically.

‘They don’t have an online system. Or rather they did but it was worse than useless she says and they disbanded it. A new one is under design.’

‘How convenient.’ Horton quickly thought. ‘Go back to her and ask her if Erica Leyton has ever used the library and if so when. If she doesn’t know or can’t find a record of it, check with the security office. She would have needed to sign in. Give me Felspur’s address. I’ll see if he can remember what material Spalding accessed. He might also remember seeing Erica Leyton.’

‘Hope he’s recovered from his stomach bug.’

Horton hoped so too. And that it had been caused by something he’d eaten rather than being anything contagious.

Felspur’s flat, it transpired, was only three minutes away on the Harley, just off the seafront in a narrow road of tall Victorian terraced houses that had once been the homes of the wealthy and were now popular with students and housing benefit occupants. Felspur lived in the basement flat in one of the shabbier houses. Horton knew that librarians didn’t earn a fortune but he’d have thought that Felspur could have done better than this. Perhaps he was divorced and had a high-maintenance ex-wife and children.

He stepped around the rusting old bicycle, tattered looking pushchair and two wheelie dustbins with carrier bags of discarded food sticking out of their lids and pressed his finger on a bell on the scratched and weather-worn wooden door. There was no immediate answer so Horton tried again, wondering if Felspur had thrown a sickie and gone out. But no, he heard footsteps. The door stuck as Felspur wrenched it open. He started visibly at the sight of Horton, his pale eyes widened with alarm and then clouded with fear. Horton rapidly began to revise his opinion of Felspur. He’d thought of him as being calm, logical, in control, confident – and maybe he was at work – but here he looked weak, vulnerable, sick and terrified.

‘I’m sorry to disturb you, Mr Felspur, but it is important. I wondered if I could come in.’

Felspur swallowed and shuffled his feet. ‘I’m not feeling well.’

‘This won’t take a moment.’ Horton was beginning to get more curious about the slight, nervous man in front of him, who did look rather ill. ‘There’s something I need your help on,’ Horton insisted, gently pushing Felspur aside and stepping inside. He got no further than two paces. He’d seen places like this before. The narrow hallway was crammed with old newspapers and books; they lined either side of the passageway making it almost impossible to negotiate. Felspur was behind him and that suited Horton fine. ‘This is the lounge, I take it,’ he said, turning into a room on his right and halted just inside it. The high-ceilinged room smelt of damp, old books, dust and decay. It was also crammed full of clutter. In a glance Horton took in more old newspapers, stacked everywhere. God knew how far back they dated. Plastic bags, the kind that the supermarket used, had been flattened and laid out in piles around the room. Surrounding the three armchairs were empty cans of baked beans, peas, curry, and more which had been washed out and were heaped on the floor. There were even empty pots of yogurt and foil trays, again washed out, piled on top of each other. And either side of the fireplace on shelves in the alcoves were ornaments, old tools, and nautical memorabilia. Felspur was clearly no ordinary hoarder. The man had a mental illness. He couldn’t bear to see anything discarded.

‘I don’t know how I can help you, Inspector,’ Felspur said anxiously.

Horton picked his way across to the shelves. ‘Fine collection you have here, Mr Felspur.’ There were flags, ship models, bits of naval uniforms, a couple of daggers.

‘Yes, well I pick these things up in junk shops.’ Felspur licked his lips nervously.

‘Very specialist junk shops.’ Horton picked up a piece of very old blue fabric. ‘Why keep this?’

It was a pointless question to ask a hoarder who would keep anything but Horton was rapidly remembering what Julie Preston had told him about some of the items kept in the attics when she’d demonstrated how she and Morden swept the museum after the functions. Several things clicked into place. Julie Preston and Lewis Morden’s assignations; Ivor Meadows’ bleats about museum security; the fact that Felspur had attended every evening lecture in the last four months; Meadows’ short visit to the library after Horton had seen him on Wednesday morning and Meadows’ willingness to meet his killer alone, in a dark isolated place at night.

Felspur shifted position. ‘It’s . . . er . . . just a piece of fabric from an old dress.’

‘A very important old dress, I suspect.’

Felspur looked down and then back at Horton with pleading in his eyes.

‘Did it belong to Lady Hamilton?’ asked Horton gently.

Felspur swallowed and nodded.

Horton picked up another item. This time a brooch. ‘And this?’

‘It was hers too.’

‘You stole them from the naval museum.’

‘No!’ Felspur looked horrified. ‘I just borrowed them.’

Horton cast his eye over several of the nautical items. No doubt they’d all been stolen from the museum. Conversationally he said, ‘When did Ivor Meadows discover that you were slipping away during the lectures and stealing these artefacts?’

‘He didn’t.’ Felspur shifted nervously.

‘You knew that Lewis Morden sneaked upstairs for his assignations with Julie Preston when there was an evening function and that no one would be watching the security monitors. That gave you the perfect opportunity to slip away from the lecture, climb to the attic rooms and help yourself. If the caterers saw you they’d think nothing of it because you were staff.’ He saw he was correct by Felspur’s pained expression. ‘You would just take small things like this fabric, jewellery, pieces of naval uniform, possibly these ship’s bottles which you could put in the pockets of a larger jacket and you’d slip back into the lecture.’

‘I wasn’t doing any harm.’

‘You were stealing,’ Horton said more harshly, drawing a flush of indignation from Felspur.

‘No,’ he protested. ‘I was preserving and exhibiting. I haven’t sold anything. I wouldn’t. I just like to look at them. They’re shut away in that museum in drawers and cases. That’s not right.’

Horton eyed Felspur severely. ‘And neither is bludgeoning a man to death,’ he said harshly.

Felspur flinched. ‘I didn’t do that.’

Horton didn’t believe him but instead of pressing Felspur, he left a short pause and, changing his approach, said in a quieter, almost casual tone, ‘Where were you Wednesday night, Mr Felspur?’

‘Here.’

Horton eyed him interrogatively. ‘Alone?’

‘Yes.’

Horton smiled. ‘Of course. We have to ask these questions. I’m sorry for disturbing you.’

Relief flooded Felspur’s pallid face. ‘You won’t tell the museum about the artefacts, will you? I’d lose my job.’

‘I think you had better return them.’

‘I will. I promise.’

Horton didn’t believe that for one minute. Felspur went ahead to show Horton out but in the passage Horton turned right instead of left. He heard Felspur protest behind him. Ahead was a kitchen and next to it a bedroom. Horton stepped inside, ignoring Felspur’s wailing. There was barely space for the bed and wardrobe. The room once again was crammed with stuff; this time there were old bicycle parts, old bits of metal, and an assortment of tools, some of them clearly ancient, and amongst them Horton’s eyes caught sight of a long cylindrical metal tube rounded off at one end and with a flat oblong shape on the other end. He’d seen something like it before in a drawing that had been emailed him.

‘What’s that?’ he asked, pointing to it as it lay on the floor by the bed.

Felspur shuffled his feet. ‘It’s a Dolly. It was used by riveters in the dockyard for ship building. Drillers used to drill the holes for rivets then the riveters would drive the rivets in by hand using light hammers on long handles.’

Horton said almost conversationally, ‘And is that what you did to Ivor Meadows’ head?’

‘No!’

‘Did Meadows threaten to expose your pilfering? Is that why you had to kill him?’

‘No. I . . .’ Felspur’s body sagged. Horton knew he wouldn’t be able to keep up his denials for long. Felspur wasn’t off sick with food poisoning or a stomach bug; he was sickened by what he’d done. ‘He didn’t understand.’

‘You told him this at the Round Tower, why there?’

‘It was the first place that came to mind. I’d been reading about Henry VIII’s ships sailing through the harbour. He came into the library that morning, Wednesday, after he’d seen you. He was so loud; I was scared the customers and my colleagues would hear. I told him I couldn’t talk there but I’d tell him everything if he agreed to meet me away from the library that night, at ten thirty. I didn’t think he would but he agreed and he came even though he was a little late. I got anxious waiting for him. I was upset; I didn’t know what I was doing.’

Not upset enough to go prepared with a murder weapon though. And Meadows would cockily have agreed because he thought he could handle a weakling like Felspur.

‘I was going to reason with him. Promise not to do it again and to put the items back, then he started to say that he knew I’d killed Dr Spalding and Daniel Redsall because they’d both seen me stealing. I didn’t. It was lies. You’d believe him. I’d be arrested for murder. He wouldn’t shut up; he kept saying it over and over again. I said OK, I’d go with him to the police. Anything to shut him up. He turned but stumbled. I picked up the Dolly where I’d left it on one of the seats and hit him.’ Felspur sank down onto the bed. He looked up at Horton pleadingly and sorrowfully. ‘I love my job and I love that museum. Meadows was going to ruin everything for me. I couldn’t allow that.’

No. Horton eyed the broken man slumped on the bed. There was no need for the handcuffs. He reached for his phone and called Uckfield.

T
hey found traces of blood on the Dolly and Horton had no doubts that it would match Meadows’ blood. Bliss was cock-a-hoop that her team had solved a major murder case. Rumour had it that she had even smiled, a rare enough sight to cause many in the station to stumble around like blinded extras in the filming of
The
Day of the Triffids.

There was no evidence to show that Felspur had poisoned Spalding and Redsall; the team was still going through Felspur’s flat and that would take days given the rubbish that was in it. He denied it strenuously during the interview and Horton believed him, but give it time, he thought cynically, and if the Coroner did rule unlawful killing on Spalding and Redsall then the intelligence services had a ready-made scapegoat to pin both murders on along with a nice neat little motive; Spalding and Redsall had both witnessed Felspur’s jaunts to the attics and, scared he’d be exposed, Felspur had drugged them. They might even say that Felspur had approached Redsall with the aim of trying to sell some of the stolen artefacts, which would explain why Redsall had come to Portsmouth. And if they needed to explain Spalding’s trip to Northern Ireland then the story could be altered. Spalding had traced stolen items to the Centre for Maritime Archaeology at Ulster University and together with Redsall they’d decided to expose Felspur. So Felspur had to dispose of Redsall. Felspur knew the security code for the pontoons at Oyster Quays because of his interest in naval history and his connection with the 1942 MGB 81 motor gun boat moored there. He’d suggested to Redsall that they meet there that night. And the empty rucksack? Redsall had merely carried his food and drink in it, which he’d consumed. Spalding’s briefcase and its contents were in the sea, after Spalding, disorientated from being drugged, had staggered there before falling into the dock. Whichever way Horton looked at it, the intelligence services would have it neatly wrapped up. They’d fit the facts to suit the circumstances.

Horton had asked Felspur about Erica Leyton. He said he didn’t recognize the name but it was possible she had used the naval museum. Did it matter now, Horton thought, heading for home? She hadn’t killed Meadows. And Felspur hadn’t killed Spalding and Redsall – but someone had. And it had nothing to do with stolen naval artefacts. Tomorrow he’d ask the museum library to check their records to see if Erica Leyton had accessed material there. For now he needed sleep. But despite his fatigue, instead of turning into the marina car park he continued along the road, where he pulled over opposite the Institute of Marine Sciences building. Climbing off his Harley and removing his helmet he stepped down onto the pebbled beach and began to throw stones into the sea, letting his mind wander where it wished. It roamed first to Spalding’s body in Number One Dock in the Historic Dockyard, then to Redsall’s body at Oyster Quays near the MGB 81. Neither had been killed where their bodies had been found. Dr Clayton’s words drifted back to him . . .
this is a clever poison and therefore a clever poisoner.
What else had she said? Yes, something about the killer administering the drug knowing that he or she would be a long way from where the victim would be found dead.

Both men had died at the furthermost western edge of Portsmouth, and here, where he was standing, was the furthermost eastern edge of the city. This was about as far away from the bodies as you could get if you measured the city limits from east to west. Horton let the stone fall from his hand as thoughts assailed him. Was it possible?

He spun round and stared at the building across the road. Then his gaze swivelled to his right, to the refreshment stall beside the Lifeboat Station. It was perfect and so very clever. Now he saw what must have happened. Spalding had met Erica Leyton here on Monday after he’d left the university. They’d had lunch at the refreshment stall where during the day tables and chairs were set up overlooking the sea. And she had poisoned him. She was a marine biologist, an expert on sea plants, so equally she could be an expert on land-based plants. And she had access to laboratories where she could manufacture the poison. She’d know exactly what she was doing and how much hyoscine to administer. Spalding must then have walked along the seafront to the dockyard, reaching it in time to prepare for his lecture. And Redsall?