The Detection Collection Page 12

  ‘Hugh did, while Brian was away for a night. He had been surfing around all sort of things,’ said Lancelot.

  ‘Where did he go that night?’ asked Patrick.

  ‘Who knows? They think he was with Marigold.’

  ‘If Brian really wants to marry her, I don’t see how they can stop him,’ said Patrick. ‘People do these things, and there’s the rebound factor to consider.’

  ‘My idea is that perhaps we can discover something about her past that will convince even Brian that she’s a schemer who’s set her sights on him. When they got together with their computer dating, or however they met, she must have thought her ship had come in.’

  And the danger of the intrigue, its squalor, could have been part of the appeal to Brian. Patrick knew this; he would explain it to Lancelot later.

  ‘Have you a plan?’ he asked.

  ‘I thought we might call. Or you might. She knows me,’ said Lancelot. ‘You could pretend to be looking for a neighbour – make some excuse. You’re good at that sort of thing.’ Patrick’s curiosity had led to his becoming involved in various episodes in which murders had been solved.

  ‘She’ll be out,’ he said.

  ‘Maybe. But you could ask about her. Enquire next door, that sort of thing,’ said Lancelot.

  ‘Do we know where Brian is today?’ asked Patrick.

  ‘Yes. That’s why we’ve got to act now. He’s in Edinburgh at a charity committee meeting. He’s the chairman. And I’ve got the registration number of his car, in case he turns up suddenly. It’s a Mercedes,’ said Lancelot.

  ‘Hmph.’ Patrick, who liked cars, had a Saab, comfortable and functional but not exciting. He had left it in a large car park near the river. Lancelot also had left his Peugeot there. ‘Let’s have some lunch and think about this,’ he said.

  Over steak and kidney pie in a pub near the river, they talked about other things. Lancelot was writing a book about nautical explorers – Christopher Columbus, Vasco da Gama, Raleigh, Cook – examining their characters as well as describing their expeditions. Patrick had recently published a book about cross-dressing in Shakespeare; it had been well, if modestly, received.

  After they had eaten, there was no avoiding it any longer; they had to find the house where, Amy had assured Lancelot, Marigold lived. Hugh, furious with his father, and mortified, had found the address on Brian’s computer, printing off a map, muttering about employing a private detective.

  The house was in a small close not far from the river. It was one of a row of attractive cottage-style houses, built in pairs, with small gardens and parking spaces in front.

  ‘I’ll wait here. You walk past,’ said Lancelot. He looked nervous, pulling up the collar of his coat in a manner which advertised, ‘Look at me, I’m up to no good.’

  ‘I think you’d better go away,’ said Patrick. ‘Go back to the church and wait for me there.’

  ‘What if they close the church?’ said Lancelot.

  ‘If all else fails, we’ll meet at the Compleat Angler,’ said Patrick. ‘But the church is nearer. Here,’ and he pulled a substantial paperback volume from a poacher’s pocket inside his jacket. ‘That’ll keep you quiet for a bit.’ It was a collection of short stories by several award-winning crime writers.

  Lancelot took it. He had never known Patrick not to have some volume within easy reach, often about his person.

  ‘You have such a fixation on skulduggery,’ he complained. ‘Reading this stuff.’

  ‘If I hadn’t, you wouldn’t have asked for my help now,’ Patrick said. ‘And Shakespeare wrote some pretty good crime stories, don’t forget.’

  Lancelot went off chuckling, which cheered Patrick as they parted. Then, aware that Marigold’s address was number seven, he walked down the road and rang the bell at number two. As he went up the short path to the front door, he could see through the window a narrow strip of garden with some shrubs and a shed at the end. There was no reply, so he moved next door. Here, a small gnarled stone gnome – not a gaudy one but a tasteful, venerable creature, peered at him from beneath a lavender bush near the front step. Patrick made a face at it and rang the bell.

  An elderly woman came to the door. She opened it on the chain and looked suspiciously at Patrick. She’s been advised not to open the door to strange callers, he thought; despite my respectable appearance I might be a thief.

  ‘I’m so sorry to disturb you,’ he said. ‘I’m looking for Mrs Marigold Berowne, but I’m afraid I can’t remember what number her house is.’

  ‘It’s not this one,’ said the woman.

  ‘Do you know which it might be?’ It was the sort of quiet area where neighbours were likely to be on nodding terms, at least, with one another.

  ‘No,’ said the woman. She still held the door on the chain, but her manner was more relaxed and she smiled at him. ‘It’s not next door. They’re the Fosters – they’re both out – and next to them are the Davenports, a very nice retired couple. They might know, I suppose. They’ve been here longer than I have.’

  You’re so careful with your door, but you’ve already told me more than you should to a stranger, thought Patrick. He had learned, in a long life, that when he cared to use them, he had winning ways, though they had not always won him what he most desired.

  ‘I’ll try them,’ he said. ‘Mrs …?’

  ‘Mossop,’ she said.

  What a nice man, thought Mrs Mossop, closing her door, so tall and good-looking with that floppy grey hair. She had almost offered him a cup of coffee, but you couldn’t be too careful these days.

  Patrick reflected that it would be easy to become a conman. And Marigold was probably a conwoman who had trapped Brian at his most vulnerable.

  He walked straight round to the Davenports. They had a trellis, trained with roses, crossing their garden. There were no visible gnomes.

  Mr Davenport came to the door. This was probably an area which drew the retired, or the newly widowed, Patrick decided, estimating Mr Davenport’s age as about seventy. He was small and rotund, with a pleasant face, almost a gnome himself.

  ‘Mrs Mossop thought you might be able to help me,’ he said. ‘I’m looking for Mrs Marigold Berowne and I’m sure this is the right road, but I don’t seem to have her number.’

  ‘Ah!’ Mr Davenport’s door was not on the chain, but he was peering cautiously round it. Now he opened it wider. He looked thoughtful.

  ‘Well, now,’ he said. ‘There are no Berownes in the close. I know that, because I run the Neighbourhood Watch in this area.’ Then he frowned. ‘There’s a house-sitter at seven,’ he said. ‘Tall, red-haired woman. I don’t know her name and she’s been out when I’ve called. Doesn’t do much sitting, if you ask me. She’s been away quite a bit this past month or two.’ He regarded Patrick now in a less friendly manner.

  He doesn’t care for Marigold, thought Patrick.

  ‘I don’t actually know her,’ he said. ‘But as I was coming to Marlow, a friend asked me to look her up. Said he’d known her a few years ago and lost touch.’

  It wasn’t much of a story, but it worked.

  ‘Merry widow, if you ask me,’ said Mr Davenport. ‘She has a few callers when she’s here.’

  ‘Men friends?’ Patrick tried to look worldly.

  Mr Davenport nodded.

  ‘Bit worrying, really, but it’s her business, I suppose. I was more anxious about her being away so much. The Tarrants are in South Africa visiting their family and touring around. They’ll be away for another two months.’

  ‘Is she there now?’

  ‘Yes. Got a new car – she had a clapped-out old Ford,’ said Mr Davenport. A spanking new Honda Civic was parked outside number seven. A present from Brian?

  ‘Well, I’ll go round, then,’ said Patrick. ‘Thanks.’

  He walked slowly past number six, glancing across to look through the window. In the garden, he could see a large raw concrete object in the centre of a lawn. It was too big to be a bird bath; it must b
e a fountain, but how stark it looked. He remembered his sister Jane applying yoghurt to age a stone cupid she had bought to adorn an alcove in her garden. Patrick wasn’t sure about the cupid but Jane had said it would blend in nicely when it had mellowed. All these houses seemed to have long front rooms. Patrick turned into the short entrance to number seven, where the silver-grey Honda Civic was parked.

  This was a squalid business. A man much his own age, suffering the distress of a beloved wife’s mental collapse, had given way to – what? Baser instincts? Grief? Simple need? He had met this Marigold under false pretences; Lancelot was confident that Amy’s research could be relied on. And now Lance expected Patrick somehow to trap her.

  There was no sign of movement in the house as Patrick pressed the front door bell and heard it chime, but she came to the door promptly. She was ugly. That part of the description was accurate, but she smiled at him in welcome. She wore a green knitted dress and a lot of make-up.

  ‘Mrs Tarrant?’ he said, smiling back, disliking her instantly before she had spoken a word.

  ‘Who wants her?’ she asked.

  Patrick gave his true name.

  ‘I’m a former colleague of her husband’s, but I’ve never met her,’ he said. He was about to invent a reason for calling but changed his mind; on the principle of setting a thief to catch one, a confidence trickster might be good at spotting another.

  ‘And I’m a friend of them both,’ said Marigold. ‘I’m staying here while they’re away.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘They’re in South Africa. I’d had to give up my home after my husband died, and they offered me sanctuary here,’ she said.

  She was certainly plausible.

  ‘I’m sorry – I mean, about your loss,’ said Patrick. What a good thing Lancelot wasn’t standing here beside him during this performance. ‘But how fortunate that the Tarrants could help.’

  ‘Yes, and it helps them too. It’s not always wise to leave a house empty for long,’ she replied.

  While this went on, Marigold had summoned a tear to her eye and she dabbed at it with a tattered tissue, at the same time giving Patrick a shrewd, assessing glance.

  ‘Of course,’ he agreed. Then, as if he had been selling doubleglazing door-to-door for years, distinguished academic Patrick Grant moved slightly forward, adding, ‘I am sorry to have upset you.’

  ‘Oh dear, silly me.’ Marigold dabbed at her eyes again, stepping back.

  She’s a bit of a mug, thought Patrick, or is she a sucker for any man? Though his big coat had a poacher’s pocket within its folds, he wore a tie, dark corduroy trousers, and his shoes shone; he must look reassuring. Or even a prospect?

  He was in. She had retreated further into the hall and he closed the door, mumbling something about the draught.

  ‘Can I get you some water?’ he said. Somehow they had moved into the sitting-room while Marigold still looked tearful. This was how she got Brian, he thought, perhaps reinforced by sexual wiles I don’t want to think about.

  ‘Oh, would you? Through there—’ Marigold waved a hand in the direction of the kitchen. ‘There’s a glass somewhere about.’ She sank down on to the large sofa.

  There was a cut-glass tumbler on the drainer, and there was a wine glass containing dregs; there were also a plate, knife and fork, and a used mug. Marigold had not washed up her lunch, nor, possibly, her breakfast. Patrick ran water at the sink, rinsing the tumbler and filling it, and while the tap ran, he wrapped the fork in tissues from a box on the window ledge, slipping it into his useful big pocket. Then he filled the electric kettle and switched it on.

  ‘Here you are,’ he said, offering her the glass, and added, ‘I’ve put the kettle on. I thought you might like some coffee or tea.’

  Marigold had dried her fake tears and was leaning back on the big sofa.

  ‘That would be lovely,’ she said.

  Patrick bustled back into the kitchen; he clattered about looking for cups and saucers or more mugs, and, seeing a dishwasher beside the sink, put the dirty things in it. That would mask his theft. As the kettle boiled, she entered the kitchen.

  ‘You’ve tidied,’ she said. ‘How kind.’

  ‘Not at all,’ said Patrick. He had found a tray and now carried it back into the sitting-room, urging Marigold to precede him. She resumed her seat on the sofa as he set it down on a low table in front of her. Patrick did not dare sit beside her. He chose a chair on the far side of the room.

  Marigold reached out for her coffee and took a quick glance at her watch. She’s expecting someone, he thought. Brian? Back from the airport after his Scottish trip?

  He drank his coffee, talking about Marlow, the river, the two churches. She listened and nodded. Then he rose.

  ‘I must go – I’m taking up your time,’ he said.

  ‘Well, I am expecting someone,’ she answered. ‘A solicitor – business, you know. My husband’s estate. Affairs to settle. So good of him to come here.’

  ‘Yes. Well, I hope things sort themselves out,’ said Patrick, who could not bring himself to wish her well.

  ‘Time heals,’ she said, as she led him to the door.

  Patrick went straight back to the gnome-like Mr Davenport, who came promptly to the door when he rang.

  ‘May I come in?’ Patrick said, without preamble, and he was past the small man in seconds. ‘You’re the Neighbourhood Watch official here?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you have connections with the police? They know you?’

  ‘Yes.’ Mr Davenport beamed. ‘Yes, I do. The co-ordinator, and also Inspector Lovesey. I know him from the Rotary.’

  ‘You seemed a little concerned about the Tarrants’ house-sitter. Could you get on to the inspector? Could you tell him about your suspicions – the men callers – and ask if he could do a fingerprint check?’ Patrick patted his pocket. There’d be DNA, too, on the fork. ‘Say theft is suspected.’

  Mr Davenport’s bushy white eyebrows shot up but he wasted no time. While he talked to the inspector, Patrick saw a car drive past; it stopped outside number seven and a man wearing a raincoat and a trilby hat got out. After Marigold had let her visitor in, Patrick stepped into the road to note the car’s registration number. It was a blue BMW.

  ‘Luckily Lovesey was there. We’re to go round now,’ said Mr Davenport.

  ‘May we collect someone on the way?’ Patrick asked. ‘At St Peter’s Church?’ If Lancelot wasn’t there, they could ring him at the Compleat Angler from the police station and get him to come over. He would lend gravitas to what Patrick would tell the inspector.

  Mr Davenport hadn’t had such an exciting day since he was caught in a blizzard in Cumbria several years before and had to spend the night in emergency accommodation. He recognised Lancelot straight away when he emerged from the church with Patrick.

  The inspector took their story seriously. Lancelot mentioned the painting and the rings; Mr Davenport weighed in with the gentlemen callers. When Patrick produced the fork, Lovesey took it away. He soon returned.

  ‘We’ll go round there,’ he said. ‘She can refuse us entry but that in itself would be suspicious. I can get a warrant if necessary.’

  Patrick and Lancelot, in Mr Davenport’s Rover 25, followed Lovesey and a sergeant who went in an unmarked car.

  ‘What, no sirens?’ murmured Lancelot.

  The BMW was still outside number seven. Lovesey rang the bell and knocked on the door, and the sergeant went round to the rear of the house. He was in time to catch the BMW’s driver as he hurriedly left through the back door, still pulling on his raincoat. From Mr Davenport’s car, the others saw number seven’s front door open at last and Lovesey entered the house. Time passed. Patrick and Lancelot waited on Mr Davenport’s doorstep. They saw the man in the BMW drive away; soon after that the sergeant came along and asked Lancelot to go with him to number seven.

  ‘The inspector says you can identify a painting,’ he said.

  It no longer mattere
d that Marigold would recognise him; she would also know her nemesis. Lancelot went with the sergeant.

  Patrick remained at number five with Mr Davenport. While they waited, Mrs Davenport, who had been at a flower-arranging demonstration, returned. Mr Davenport kissed her warmly, took her coat and said he would put the kettle on. They were clearly devoted. He told her that Patrick was there on a Neighbourhood Watch matter.

  ‘I’ll explain later,’ he said, as his wife excused herself and went upstairs.

  They were all sitting round the kitchen table with cups of tea, eating chocolate cake, when Lancelot returned. He looked tired, asking if he might use the Davenports’ cloakroom. When he joined them in the kitchen, however, he was more cheerful.

  ‘They’ve taken her away,’ he said. ‘And her computer. She had a laptop upstairs. What a beautiful cake,’ he added, accepting the large slice which Mrs Davenport had put on a plate before him. Then he turned to Patrick. ‘She had a record,’ he continued. ‘Soliciting, and blackmail. Theft, too. They found a lot of stuff upstairs. More than she’d taken from Louise. The painting was safe. Amy can have it now.’

  He would tell Patrick the rest later. The prints on the fork had identified her; her real name was Gladys Brown. Lovesey was unlikely to need Patrick as a witness as there were plenty more prints in the house and on other items that were probably stolen.

  ‘I think I’d better get in touch with the Tarrants,’ Mr Davenport said. ‘They’ll have to know.’

  ‘How did they come to employ her?’ asked Patrick.

  ‘She advertised on the Net, and in some magazines,’ said Lancelot. ‘The police haven’t finished checking up on her. They think she made a habit of preying on elderly men and blackmailing them. She overstepped the mark when she went after Brian.’

  They refused Mr Davenport’s offer of a lift back to get their cars, and as soon as they left the house, Lancelot rang Amy on his cell phone. Patrick did not own one.

  ‘I wonder what Brian will do,’ said Patrick.

  ‘He won’t apologise. He might say he was taken in at a time when he was under great stress, but I doubt it,’ said Lancelot. ‘It will all be dusted away and never mentioned again.’