An Act of Evil Page 13

  “I’ll go back to my room,” Tess said. “Just for appearance’s sake.”

  Maltravers remained at the window, watching bubbling rivulets race along the rain-lacquered pavements of Punt Yard from the engorged drains and thought about Diana, still possibly alive, somewhere out in the storm, helpless, mutilated and in endless pain. His face, which had smiled blandly at Hibbert the previous day, was layered with foreboding. It would be a long time before he really found his laughter again.

  The storm moved away to the east, the thunderclaps now faint echoes of the earlier clamour, the rain easing, then ceasing. A sword of sunlight pierced the clouds and moved with surprising swiftness across the landscape of fast-dripping trees, drenched grass and battered flowers. Maltravers opened the window and listened to the gurgling drains and birdsong as the rising heat began to draw a ghostly steam from the ground. Distantly, a racing train gave a sweeping whistle and below him a milk-float jangled onto the cobbles of the yard.

  “Morning!” the milkman shouted as he spotted Maltravers at the window. “Needed that. It’s cleared the air.” Maltravers smiled back at him but said nothing.

  Joe Goldman called after breakfast, his unnatural sombreness, in total contrast to his usual bullying ebullience, another shadow in the aura of gathering gloom. Recordings by Diana of a cassette of children’s stories had been cancelled, another actress had been found for a play at Manchester’s Royal Exchange theatre, Joe’s office was filled with messages of concern and condolence, including one from Zabinski.

  “Still no news then?” Goldman asked.

  “No.”

  “Do you think she’s still alive, Gus?”

  “I don’t know what to think now. Every possibility is terrible.”

  “You won’t believe this, Gus, but yesterday I went to the synagogue. Me in the synagogue? I asked for Rabbi Greenberg but he died twenty years ago. But I prayed for her, Gus.”

  “Thanks, Joe. I’ll keep in touch.” Maltravers recalled Jackson’s remarks about the devastating effects of sudden death and how people had to cope in any way they could. In any other circumstances the thought of Joe Goldman by the Eastern wall would have been ludicrous; the fact that he had actually done it added another subtle shade of darkness to the agony of unknowing.

  The police that morning knew a little more, but not about the elusive Arthur Powell; a report had arrived on the police interrogation of Peter Sinclair in California.

  “He came back just for the sake of spending a few days in England, apparently,” Jackson told Madden. “He cleared it with the studios and was quite open about it. Obviously he read about Miss Porter’s disappearance while he was here but says she was just an old girlfriend he hadn’t seen for a long time. His movements while he was here seem a bit vague. He stayed in his own flat in Islington, casually met acquaintances and went to see a couple of West End shows but in both cases he was alone. As far as I can make out, it’s possible he came to Vercaster but he completely denies doing so.”

  Madden held out his hand for the message from Los Angeles, then read it through for himself.

  “There’s no sense to it,” he said as he finished. “I take it he’s safe in Los Angeles for the time being.”

  “Apparently. The studios are catching up on lost time after the interruption and say it will be several weeks before anyone gets a break now.”

  “I take it he denies being the father of the child?”

  “Absolutely. I rang Los Angeles to check that. He says it’s at least ten months since he saw Miss Porter.”

  “All right. We’ll leave him there for the time being but see if you can find any evidence that he has seen her since. The agent in London might know something. Or Maltravers. I still don’t see this one, sergeant, but until Powell is found we’d better keep an eye on it.”

  Sinclair was an irritant to Madden, a bell ringing out of key that he could not fully silence, a flaw in the pattern that led neatly and logically to Arthur Powell, an irregularity that offended his sense of certainty. But he had no option but to turn some attention to it. Jackson started his inquiries with a visit to Punt Yard where he told Maltravers and Tess of the development.

  “I can’t help you on whether or not he’s seen Diana since the affair,” Maltravers said. “In fact I didn’t even know about that until Joe Goldman told me. Acting’s one of those professions where you might not see even very good friends for long periods. I’d seen a fair bit of her in recent weeks when we were working on her show for Vercaster but there are immense gaps when we were both doing other things. Tess, do you know anything?”

  She shook her head. “I’ve been tied up for months. In fact, this is the first break I’ve had for nearly a year.” She laughed briefly and without humour. “Not the sort of holiday I’d planned.”

  “I can give you some names and addresses of people who might be able to help,” added Maltravers. “And you can try Joe, but as an agent he doesn’t necessarily take much interest in his clients’ private lives unless they start getting in the way of the job.” He produced his diary and Jackson noted the names he read out.

  “Oh, and I’m afraid we’ve been playing at detectives again,” Maltravers said when they had finished. “We went to see Councillor Hibbert.”

  “Obviously I must officially disapprove,” Jackson said straight-faced. “But as long as you lay before me any information which might assist the police, I don’t think there’ll be any trouble.”

  He listened with a widening smile to the extraordinary account of the visit.

  “I don’t think I can see an offence,” he said at last. “You didn’t break in, you didn’t steal anything, and I can’t charge you with bad manners. As for Councillor Hibbert…well there’s no law against such a collection I expect. We certainly wouldn’t get a search warrant on the strength of what you’ve told me. But I’ll bear it in mind if I have any dealings with the gentleman.” He looked at them both closely. “And of course, you will not be telling anyone else about this.”

  “It will be our secret,” said Maltravers. “It still leaves the Latimer Mercy mystery unsolved but I imagine the police are not particularly worried about that at the moment.”

  “Some part of the machinery is ticking it over but, as you know, officially it’s being regarded as unconnected with Miss Porter.”

  “But is it?”

  “There’s absolutely no logical connection at all between the two.”

  “And can you find a logical connection in what’s happened regarding Diana? The Dean was remarking on that the other evening.”

  “That’s a fair point and personally I accept it,” Jackson replied. “But for obvious reasons we can’t do anything more than the bare minimum about the theft; we are totally occupied on a very serious crime. And I honestly cannot see that finding out who stole the Latimer Mercy will help us find Miss Porter.” He stood up. “Thank you for your assistance. I’ll see if any of these people can throw more light on Mr Sinclair.”

  *

  After the dramatic interruption of the storm, summer had re-settled itself and after lunch Tess and Maltravers decided to walk round the extensive remains of the city’s Roman walls. On their way Maltravers bought a large plastic ball for Rebecca and bounced it thoughtfully as they walked in silence. The wall petered out in Hibbert’s Park — named in memory of the founding-father Alderman — where they sat beside the lake in the marbled light and shade of a cascading weeping willow. For two hours they had not mentioned Diana’s name and then Tess broke the tension. “I think I’ve accepted that she’s dead,” she said, keeping her voice very calm. Maltravers remained silent for several minutes, spinning the ball between his hands and staring at it.

  “Let’s walk back by the cathedral,” was all he finally said in reply.

  The approach from the park was up the north-west-facing slope of the hill, giving the classic clear-angled view of the west end of the building which appeared on postcards in every tourists’ shop in the town. They w
alked slowly up the long rise and paused on the broad path outside the door as the clock in Talbot’s Tower sounded three ponderous strokes.

  “It was just here that the Abbot of Vercaster defied Henry VIII’s men during the Reformation,” said Maltravers. “When he started calling down the vengeance of God on the king, they cut him down on the steps. At least that’s the legend. There was a very heavy veil of Tudor propaganda drawn over it at the time.” He looked thoughtfully at the great door with its rusty studs of nail heads. “Bloodshed has frequently stained the Church.” He started idly bouncing the ball again as they continued to walk along the south side of the cathedral and back to Punt Yard. As they passed the flying buttresses of the tower, the ball struck a large flint and bounced behind him; he turned back and stooped to pick it up. As he did so there was a scream from a woman walking towards them with her husband, and a large piece of broken masonry crashed down and caught him on the hip. The glancing impact sent him sprawling across the gravel as Tess, alerted by the woman’s scream, turned and cried his name. He sat up, grimacing with pain and the first thing his eyes focussed on was a painted sign warning passers-by to beware of falling masonry. “It’s all right, it hardly touched me,” he said as Tess dropped down on her knees beside him. “Let me get up.”

  He rose gingerly to his feet, rubbing his thigh where a dark streak ran across his grey slacks, then staggered against Tess. “I’m rapidly going off Vercaster,” he said.

  “You could have been killed!” she cried.

  “But I wasn’t.”

  “Come and sit down.” Tess helped him to hobble towards a wrought-iron seat well away from the tower. The woman who had screamed ran up to them with her husband.

  “I saw it falling!” she cried. “I couldn’t do anything…I just screamed…Oh, God!” She seemed more shattered by the incident than Maltravers.

  “Thank you, I’m all right,” he assured her. “There’s nothing broken.”

  “But it’s appalling!” her husband broke in. “That damned tower’s unsafe. They want scaffolding round it until it’s properly repaired. Anybody could have…” His tirade was brought to a halt by the arrival of the Dean, moving at the closest he could manage to a run.

  “Mr Maltravers!” he panted. “I was just leaving the Refectory and saw everything. Are you all right?”

  “It’s a miracle that he is.” The man was back in full flow. “Look, I’m a civil engineer. I don’t know who you are but you’re obviously connected with the cathedral and I’m telling you the state of that tower is a disgrace. It’s a menace to life and limb. If this gentleman wants a witness as to what happened, I’ll gladly…”

  In pain, surrounded by Tess’s shock, the woman’s hysteria, the man’s bombast and the Dean’s distress, Maltravers decided only he could calm things down.

  “I am all right,” he said firmly. “It’s nothing worse than a bruise. I’m not holding anyone responsible. If you’re a civil engineer, you’ll know how difficult it is to maintain anything that ancient.” He gestured towards Talbot’s Tower. “We had one hell of a storm this morning and part of the fabric must have been loosened. There are warning notices up and I don’t think you can do any more, Dean.”

  “Oh, you’re the Dean are you?” The man exploded again and Maltravers realised he had only given him more ammunition.

  “Well if you and your Chapter spent more time looking after this building instead of sending money to damned terrorists in Africa who call themselves freedom fighters, then…”

  “He’s not real,” Maltravers muttered to Tess.

  “Perhaps we can just go inside for a few minutes until Augustus recovers,” she said firmly, taking Maltravers’ arm. “Can you come with us please, Dean?” She gave the couple an extravagant smile. “Thank you so much. I think it’s more important at the moment that my friend sits somewhere quiet for a little while.”

  Leaving the visitor with his continuing views of Third World aid unspoken, the three of them walked slowly into the cathedral.

  “I cannot apologise too much,” the Dean began. “As if enough has not happened already and now something like this…”

  “Dean, it was an accident that could have happened to anyone. Please do not distress yourself. I think it will be better if I try and walk a bit and a cup of tea would be very welcome.”

  They walked together out of the cathedral and round the cloisters to the Refectory where the Dean, by now as agitated and concerned as a mother hen, made them sit at a table while he brought the tea, the cups rattling and spilling over as the tray trembled in his hands. Reaction was catching up with Maltravers and taking a greater toll than the increasing discomfort in his hip. As Tess suggested they should leave, the Dean suddenly sprang up and asked them to wait, then dashed off to return a few moments later carrying a walking stick.

  “I’ve just borrowed this from Mr Marsh in the tourists’ shop,” he explained.

  Limping awkwardly, Maltravers left with Tess, the Dean insisting on escorting them through the south transept door to Punt Yard. As they reached the house, Michael and Webster approached from the main road.

  “What on earth’s happened to you?” Michael asked.

  “Talbot’s Tower has been throwing things at me. Fortunately with a not very good aim.”

  Michael was clearly as appalled as the Dean but more immediately practical.

  “We’ll have to look into this,” he said. “Odd flints are one thing but this sounds much more serious. Matthew, can you go and check and we’ll find out exactly which section of the tower it’s from and then have someone make a proper examination.”

  As Webster set off, they went into the house where Melissa, accustomed to taking childhood accidents in her stride, produced lint, cotton wool, sticking plaster and witch-hazel.

  “Cold compress for a while,” she instructed Tess. “Then make a pad of lint soaked in the witch-hazel and tape it over the bruise. You’re sure it’s nothing worse?”

  “I’m not broken,” Maltravers assured her.

  By the time he and Tess came downstairs again, the Dean had left with the walking stick and Webster was back talking to Michael.

  “It’s from the old part of the tower below the extension,” Michael explained. “It’s the section that’s caused us most problems. I’m afraid we’ve got a fair collection of bits and pieces which have fallen but Matthew says this is the biggest he has seen for some time. I can only add my apologies, Augustus.”

  “I imagine it was the storm that did it,” he replied. “Act of God you might say.”

  Webster, who was hovering uncertainly, said he had to leave to assist with the preparations for the schools’ concert in the cathedral that evening, panicked briefly when he could not find the spare violin strings he had been carrying earlier, and departed.

  “I’d just been to buy them when I met Canon Cowan,” he said as he left. “Somebody’s always snaps just before the start. Will you be coming this evening?”

  “I think Augustus had better stay home and rest,” said Melissa. “But the rest of us will be there. We don’t want anything to spoil it for the children.”

  Maltravers spent the remainder of the afternoon in increasing pain and rising irritation. By the time the others were preparing to leave he could only move his leg with difficulty.

  “Take a couple of these,” Melissa said, shaking two white tablets from a bottle into her cupped hand. “And just stay still and rest it. And you’d better not have a drink. These are fairly powerful. See you later unless you’re in bed.”

  After they had gone, Maltravers idly picked up the bottle of analgesics, the label of which made no reference to alcohol. Conscientiously, he added extra tonic to his gin.

  Television on a Saturday evening in June, he decided, was clearly part of a Government scheme to reduce the national consumption of electricity. He dozed off a few minutes into an artificially created seaside entertainment when drowsiness overcame the fascination of the spectacularly awful. The
pain in his leg, returning as the effects of the tablets wore off, conjured dreams in his semi-conscious mind which vanished when he was abruptly woken by a car door slamming outside. He blinked for a few moments then cautiously changed his position in the chair, his face creasing with the shots of pain. He took two more tablets from the bottle and washed them down with the remains of his drink, then stared grumpily at the still chattering television, his mind trying to recapture what he had been dreaming. All he could remember was that it was something about Belsthwaite.

  The dream was irrecoverable but his mind wandered back to their visit as he gazed without seeing at the television screen. Elusively dancing in his brain was the thought that they had learned or seen or been told something there that was important; after vainly pursuing it for a while, he let it drift away to be replaced with another gadfly impression that something else had occurred which was also significant. Uneasy sleep overtook him again, this time bringing a dream of Diana, shrieking pitifully like a wild animal in a snare as, his movements becoming slower and slower, he limped towards the sound. It became so terrible that his conscious mind threw him back to wakefulness with a shudder as the front door opened and he heard the voices of the others in the hall.

  From the television screen a news announcer was saying that the hunt for Diana Porter was now being treated as a murder inquiry.

  Chapter Twelve

  “IT’S VERY UNUSUAL when we have no body and we have been careful to say that we are only treating it as a murder inquiry, not that it is one.” David Jackson looked round the impassive faces of his listeners the following morning. “I imagine you find that somewhat semantic but it does make a difference. The point is that there are no reports whatever of Miss Porter being given medical treatment for her injuries and without that the chances of her still being alive are very remote indeed. I’m sorry.”