An Act of Evil Page 12

  “Certainly not up to earlier this evening.”

  “Well, the evildoer will be punished,” Webster said quietly. “The Lord will find his instrument.”

  Maltravers wondered how the self-sufficient Madden would feel at being the handservant of the Almighty, whom he probably regarded as a sort of elevated Chief Constable who should let His agents carry out the duties of retribution after He’d laid down the broad general policy.

  “I wanted to give you something,” Webster went on. “It may be of some help. If you have a moment…?”

  They followed him into the house, a narrow, disproportionately high building sandwiched between the Dean’s and another equally imposing structure in the terrace. The small front room was sparsely furnished with an old-fashioned bookcase against one wall. Webster went to one shelf and realised he was still carrying the bottles. He put them down and pulled down a brown leather-bound volume and handed it to Maltravers. It was a copy of the Vercaster Mystery Plays.

  “You may know they were written by the monk Stephen of Vercaster,” he said. “The current productions are only an adaptation but the originals are of real merit. They were written to be performed by ordinary people and to remind them that our everyday lives and what we do in them cannot be separated from God’s purpose and the path that Christ showed us.” He looked at Maltravers earnestly. “There are meanings and there are reasons for everything that happens in the pattern that God has ordained. I take great comfort from that and from trying to follow God’s intentions even though they are a great mystery. I think you might find it of help to dwell on those thoughts.”

  “Thank you,” said Maltravers, slightly uncomfortable in the face of such sincerity. “I’ll read them with interest.”

  “It really is very kind of you, Matthew,” Melissa said tactfully. “But if you’ll forgive us we must be getting back. I’m expecting a telephone call from Canon Cowan.”

  They said goodnight and continued their short walk back to Punt Yard.

  “I’m sorry about that,” Melissa said. “Matthew always means well but you didn’t need all that at the moment.”

  “Odd, isn’t it?” said Maltravers. “The Dean never mentioned God once but I got much more from him than from our young friend’s religious overkill. And I’m afraid I’ve got too many black thoughts about Diana to accept his assurances of God’s purpose behind all this. He can have his convictions. I just want Powell found…and ten minutes alone in a locked room with him.”

  “Come on, stop that,” said Tess. “Those are bad-vibe thoughts and won’t do anything to help Diana. Revenge won’t do any of us any good.”

  “I’m not in the mood for liberal humanism at the moment. Don’t worry, I expect I’ll get back to it.”

  Chapter Ten

  REPORTED SIGHTINGS OF Arthur Powell — all of them erroneous when checked — were reaching the Vercaster incident room at an average of four an hour but Madden accepted them with no sense of frustration. They represented a methodical process of police co-operation from which escape was unthinkable. Every force in Britain would respond to a Madden-inspired request for assistance as long as the hunt for Powell and Diana Porter continued. It was a period between the crime and the inevitable arrest which brought its own satisfactions. Inquiries had shown that Powell’s passport had expired two years previously and had not been renewed, so he was somewhere in Britain, where millions of people had been made familiar with his face. Even though Diana’s hand had been sent from London two days earlier, Madden unswervingly authorised checks on sightings in the remotest spots; explanations could be sorted out later when Powell was arrested and in the meantime textbook procedures would be followed.

  As Madden read the reports from as far apart as Grasmere and Birmingham, Brighton and York, a teleprinter message was being received in Scotland Yard from Los Angeles and was immediately transmitted to Vercaster where Jackson watched it spell itself out. When it was complete, he took it from the machine and read it through again. There had been a break in the filming of the television series in which Peter Sinclair was appearing, following an accident to one of the leading members of the cast. For several days he had not been required and had flown back to Britain. He was now back in America and the Los Angeles police wanted to know if they should question him further. Jackson took the message through to Madden.

  “Returned to Heathrow early on Saturday morning, flew back Wednesday evening our time,” he said. “You say this was an unexpected interruption?”

  “That’s how I understand it, sir. He would not have anticipated the opportunity.”

  “So that means he suddenly decided, faced with the completely unexpected, to return to England, murder a woman he hadn’t seen for a year, nail one hand to a door then post the other to the Dean on his way to the airport. We have no reported sightings of him in Vercaster where Maltravers at least would have recognised him. Doesn’t look very promising, sergeant.”

  “No, sir. What reply shall I give Los Angeles?”

  Madden pondered for a few moments. “Request that they interview him again,” he said finally. “He must know what has happened if he was here. Let’s see what his story is about why he came back and what he did. But I don’t think we need concern ourselves unduly with this, sergeant.”

  “No, sir. Thank you, sir.” After the previous day’s experience following Maltravers’ visit to Belsthwaite, Jackson was keeping his behavioural nose scrupulously clean. He returned to the incident room and arranged for Madden’s request to be sent to Los Angeles, then started helping with the endless mountain of paperwork. The investigation had reached a curious stage where Vercaster was the one place virtually nothing was happening; they were currently the receiving post for the scattered information coming in, waiting for that brief moment of elation in the midst of the repetitive tedium when someone, somewhere, found and arrested Arthur Powell.

  *

  Full of misgivings about the wisdom, legality and possible success of the venture, Tess was discussing their proposed visit to Hibbert with Maltravers. Following Jackson’s broad hint, he was determined to do it. His suggestion, which he readily admitted was half-baked and riddled with faults, was that they should simply turn up at Hibbert’s house, introduce themselves, evince an interest in ancient books, rely on Hibbert’s reported willingness to show off his collection and have Tess somehow lure him out of the room while Maltravers tried to get into the locked cupboard.

  “Don’t examine it too closely,” he said. “It won’t stand careful scrutiny.”

  “But even if we manage to do all that, he probably keeps the key on him,” objected Tess. It was the latest of many irrefutable objections which Maltravers had brushed aside.

  “But perhaps there’s a spare somewhere. The point is we don’t lose anything by trying. Even if there’s no connection with Diana, it could sort out the theft business. If I can get into the cupboard and the Latimer Mercy is there I can tell Jackson and the police will have to do something then. Look, suppose…just suppose…there is a connection with Diana. You surely don’t want to risk missing an opportunity of helping to find her?” He let the question hang in the air and Tess had no answer.

  Hibbert lived in a large 1930s house set in its own grounds on the northern borders of Vercaster. When they arrived he was at home, his business activities now consisting largely of regular negotiations with his accountants to avoid the worst excesses of the tax system while his two sons took care of day-to-day matters. Maltravers apologised for calling unannounced and introduced Tess and himself.

  “We’ve been told about your book collection,” he said and noted the instant spasm of pride and condescension that flickered across Hibbert’s florid face. “If it’s not inconvenient, we would greatly like to see it. We can come back another time if you wish, of course.”

  “Not at all, not at all.” Hibbert spoke as though addressing a visitation of humble and suitably obsequious ratepayers. “I was only reading through the Finance Committ
ee minutes, but they can wait. Come in.”

  Having indicated that, while all his leisure moments were occupied by turning his benevolent mind to the interests of Vercaster and its citizens, a sense of attentive courtesy was still the hallmark of his behaviour, Hibbert led them through to his library. It was a staggering treasure house of fine leather and the printed word.

  From floor to ceiling, virtually all round the walls, were ranked the rows of books. The sheer number of them, their spines in varying shades of golden brown, plum, stark black, rich green, all glinting with gold tooling, was remarkable in a private house. The south-facing room with its wide bow window was light and elegant, its furniture consisting only of a large polished table with a reading lamp in the centre, mahogany leather wing-chairs, a small bureau in the window alcove and the corner cupboard to which their eyes instantly flew. It was of polished oak with a curved front and a decorated brass keyhole and looked, quite illogically, locked.

  “I don’t know what your particular interests are,” said Hibbert, “but let me show you this first of all.”

  This was an edition of Holinshed’s Chronicles, an impressive start by any standards, and was followed by a clearly regularly displayed selection including Foxe’s Booke of Martyrs, rare editions of Virgil, Homer and Horace, an original edition of Byron’s Childe Harold, signed first editions of the Waverley novels and Johnson’s Dictionary. Maltravers observed that the offerings did not include the esoteric or obscure; Hibbert’s pleasure was not to boast to specialists but to reasonably educated people. His visitors made suitably appreciative noises indicating that the mere possession of such works enhanced their host’s reputation, while seeking an excuse for the diversion they needed. Tess finally found it with a work by Repton on landscape gardening.

  “I was admiring your garden when we arrived,” she said ingenuously. “Is it as superb at the back of the house?”

  “My dear, it is unique,” Hibbert replied pompously. “It contains every flower or plant mentioned by Shakespeare. As an actress, I’m sure…?”

  “How wonderful!” Maltravers controlled his features as Tess went spectacularly over the top. “Every one? Could I see it?” She had touched correctly, if by chance, on another of Hibbert’s sources of self-importance. “It must be remarkable.”

  Hibbert’s gesture of self-deprecation only served to magnify his conceit. “Of course. It will be my pleasure. Mr Maltravers?”

  Maltravers suddenly took a great interest in a set of bound copies of the Spectator, admitted a quite true ignorance of or interest in gardens and asked if he might be allowed to browse instead.

  “Examine anything you wish,” insisted Hibbert. “Miss Davy, if you would come this way.”

  Tess gave Maltravers an idiotic grimace behind the councillor’s back and they left the room. Maltravers listened to Hibbert’s voice receding down the hall and then stepped swiftly to the cupboard, grasped the handle and pulled. It was locked, but the temptation to see how kind the fates were being was irresistible. He glanced round the room for a place where the key might be kept.

  The central table had a single drawer but it contained only a few sheets of paper and a magnifying glass. The only other immediate possibility was the bureau in the window. It was unlocked. It was also depressingly tidy — Maltravers held that excessive tidiness was the sign of a sick mind — and only a few moments showed there was no key of any sort in it. The two drawers below held nothing more than a collection of book catalogues and writing paper. Maltravers closed the lower drawer and stood up, staring at the bureau for a moment before turning to look round the room again as a distant bell of recollection sounded in his brain. He frowned as his eyes searched for any other possible hiding place, then he whirled round to stare at the top of the bureau again. Across the top was carved a row of small wooden knobs, each about half an inch high; towards the right hand end one was significantly lower than the rest. Maltravers was mentally thrown back to his childhood, to the home of a long-dead uncle and a regular delight for Melissa and himself when they visited him. He pulled the bureau open again and stretched his hand to depress the irregular knob which had been worn down with use. With the slight click of a hidden spring, a small panel fell open on invisible hinges.

  “God bless you, Uncle Donald, wherever you are,” he breathed.

  He reached inside the secret compartment behind the panel and pulled out a small key. For a second he gazed at it in amazement, then crossed the room and pushed it into the lock of the corner cupboard. It was the right key.

  The cupboard contained about thirty volumes but an immediate glance showed there was nothing as big as the Latimer Mercy.

  He stretched his fingers to feel behind them but there was nothing hidden. Deflated with disappointment, he glared angrily at the shelves for a moment, then one title caught his eye. He pulled down the volume and flicked through it hastily then returned it and took another at random as a smile of surprise filled his face. He took out half a dozen other volumes and looked at them rapidly, pausing occasionally when he came to an illustration.

  “Well, well, well,” he muttered to himself. Suddenly he became aware that time was passing, returned all the books to their places, relocked the cupboard and put the key back in its hiding place. As Tess, laughing unnecessarily loudly, as a warning, returned with Hibbert, he was apparently engrossed in one of Addison’s essays.

  “Miss Davy was saying that you have a luncheon appointment,” said Hibbert and Maltravers rightly concluded that some excuse for retreat had become desirable. “But if you would care to call again?”

  “That’s most kind,” Maltravers told him. “We’re very grateful for your hospitality but we must be off. I think I’d have to go to a stately home to see anything to rival this.” His waving arm embraced the library and Hibbert almost visibly swelled even more.

  “I don’t wish to be immodest, but I think you’re right,” he said. He was a man who would suffer from immodesty in nothing.

  “Who started the collection?” Maltravers asked as they prepared to go.

  “My grandfather, Alderman Horatio Hibbert, began it in a small way but it was my father who really established it. I’ve added where I can but it was virtually complete at the time of father’s death.”

  “Of course, your family’s been in Vercaster for some time.” To Tess’s mystification Maltravers appeared to have a sudden interest in the subject.

  “Since 1855 when the family business was established. We were originally Suffolk yeomen and my grandfather came here determined to make his fortune.” Hibbert smiled graciously. “I think we can say he succeeded. Mind you, our motto has always been service to the community. Grandfather was elected to the council in 1884 and there has been a Hibbert on the council virtually ever since.”

  “Remarkable,” said Maltravers, demonstrating a correct level of awe. “I think I saw your grandfather’s tomb in the cathedral. A most impressive list of achievements.”

  “A family tradition,” Hibbert maintained stoutly. “Our policy has been integrity in business, service to the community and morality in conduct. Sounds a bit old-fashioned today perhaps but I personally mourn the loss of the decency which my grandfather epitomised.” Maltravers noticed the look of glazed disbelief spread across Tess’s face but made one final remark.

  “Very different today I fear.” It was a sure touch and brought the response he expected.

  “My grandfather would have been appalled with what has happened, Mr Maltravers!” Hibbert was close to actually shouting. “I tell you, this city and this nation would be infinitely better if it followed his standards. My father maintained them and so do I, but the licentiousness of behaviour today is undermining the very fabric of the society we have built up. If I had my way in such matters, I…”

  “Good heavens, is that really the time?” Maltravers interrupted before Hibbert could reach the full force of his flow of righteous indignation. “Please excuse us, but we do have that lunch appointment.”
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  As they were leaving, Maltravers remarked on the portraits in the hall, obviously of the two previous generations of upright Hibberts, the Alderman bearded and patrician, his son smooth, confident and correct, robed as Mayor.

  “Great men,” Hibbert said simply. “Of unblemished reputation and faultless behaviour.” He smiled with family pride. “They were Hibberts.” The surname was pronounced adjectivally, incorporating all manner of virtues, and his visitors looked at them again with suitably polite regard before they left.

  “Well?” demanded Tess as she slammed the car door.

  “Just a moment. Wave to Councillor Hibbert, he likes to be waved at.”

  Tess turned and gave Hibbert a dazzling smile as he stood self-importantly on his own doorstep and Maltravers turned the car on the gravel drive.

  “Did you find the key?” she said through smile-gritted teeth.

  “Oh, yes, I found the key.” Tess turned to him, her entire face a question. “And I looked in the cupboard. But I didn’t find the Latimer Mercy.”

  Tess’s face flopped with disappointment. “We went through all that to find nothing.”

  “I wouldn’t say that. I did find what is in that cupboard and why he keeps it locked. It contains what polite people call erotica but may be bluntly termed upmarket hard porn with very specific illustrations.” He smiled in vulgar recollection. “Councillor Hibbert may not be our thief, but he is a dirty old man. And it appears to run in the family.”

  Chapter Eleven

  IN THE EARLY hours of Saturday morning Maltravers and Tess were woken by a crash of thunder like an oak tree falling on a slate roof as a summer storm, boiled by the long spell of hot weather, erupted over Vercaster. They went to the bedroom window and looked out at the panorama of tumbling, muscular black clouds seething beyond the grey pinnacle of Talbot’s Tower. Sheets of lightning spasmodically lit the tower and cathedral with blinks of ice-coloured glare as the rattle of rain thrashed the two ancient Cedars of Lebanon that stood by the Lady Chapel. Dawn had long broken but the June sun was invisible, burning impassively somewhere above the turbulent breakers of cloud rolling back and forth across the city. Another clattering explosion right above the house made them jump and in the comparative silence that followed they heard Michael and Melissa’s voices, then the click of a bedroom door and footsteps crossing the landing and descending the stairs.