The Book of the Dead Read online

  ‘I expected that.’ Maltravers was still watching Jennifer, but her face was now immobile. ‘But it opens up more possibilities as well, doesn’t it? I know Duggie Lydden had read the book, but so had others.’

  ‘So I understand. Do you know any of them, Mrs Carrington?’

  ‘Pardon?’ Moore’s question seemed to startle her. ‘I’m not sure. Stephen Campbell and Dr Bryant and some others, but I don’t know all their names.’

  ‘I can add another,’ said Maltravers. ‘Alan Morris, the vicar of Attwater. He told me so.’

  ‘Alan?’ Jennifer Carrington shook her head in rejection. ‘But he’s like Stephen and Dr Bryant. Nobody could suspect him. Surely the point is that Duggie had read it.’

  ‘We’ll need everyone you can remember,’ Moore told her. ‘We have to eliminate them. Can you both follow me back to the station, please?’

  He closed the safe again and they returned to their cars. As they drove back along the main road to Kendal, Jennifer glanced towards the lane leading to Attwater.

  ‘He can’t be serious about people like Alan Morris, can he? Or Stephen. It’s ridiculous.’

  ‘There’s a number of fish in the net apart from Lydden,’ Maltravers said. ‘They’re going to have to check them all out.’

  At the time neither of them knew that the case against Lydden had already hardened. The police had spent all of Friday at his house on a still uncompleted estate on the outskirts of Kendal, examining loose floorboards, probing among the rafters. They had searched the garden looking for freshly disturbed earth, stripped the garage, even drained the water tank in the roof, but had found nothing. Then men with dogs had started covering the rest of the site.

  Late in the afternoon one of the dogs had begun to sniff excitedly at the unfinished floor of a house about two hundred yards from Lydden’s. When its handler lay down and stretched his arm as far as he could beneath the floor cavity, his fingers touched something which moved slightly. Several boards were pulled up to reveal a double barrelled shotgun with the initials DKL engraved on a brass plate on the stock. Lydden had identified it as his. With mounting evidence to support Jennifer Carrington’s story of having been in Manchester all day, Lambert had authorised her release and applied for authority to hold Lydden for a further twelve hours when his initial twenty-four expired, taking him to one o’clock on Saturday afternoon.

  Forensic tests had proved that the hidden shotgun had killed Charles Carrington. Lydden, whose fingerprints were the only ones on the gun, continued to deny the murder or know how the gun had got where the police had found it. The major problem Lambert and his team had been left with was the question of the safe combination, and now Maltravers was handing them the answer on a plate. After Moore had reported to him, Lambert went to see Maltravers and Jennifer Carrington himself. He fired a series of sharp questions, then Maltravers saw the satisfaction on his face as he left the room, his massive bulk just squeezing through the doorway.

  ‘I don’t have time for amateurs normally,’ Lambert remarked when Moore joined him again. ‘They’re usually as much use as a sick headache. But that Maltravers has got a sight more nous than the average Londoner. I think he’s just given us what we needed.’

  ‘Do we charge Lydden then? It looks like it’s worth a run.’

  Lambert rubbed his hand across his mouth, twisting rubbery lips into a grotesque shape.

  ‘Not yet,’ he said cautiously. ‘I’ll apply for a special magistrates court to hold him for another sixty hours. That gives us time to talk to anyone else who’s read that book. In the meantime we’ll let Lydden stew. But unless something unexpected happens, I think we’ll be hauling him up at the regular court on Monday morning and charging him. Take those names from her statement and get on with it.’

  Lambert’s face folded in a grimace of contentment as Moore walked out. His faint reservations about Lydden’s guilt in the light of repeated, angry denials were rapidly fading. Nothing had emerged to support his story for the day of the murder and, while that collapsed, evidence to prove his guilt had mounted up. Admittedly, Maltravers’s explanation about the safe combination meant that other people could have known it—but they were not the owners of the murder weapon and had not been caught with the stolen goods in their house. Lambert rang the Clerk to Kendal magistrates to request a special court so he could apply to hold his suspect pending further enquiries; he felt they were academic, but the police had to go through the motions.

  *

  ‘Behold the detective marvel of the age.’ Maltravers grinned at Malcolm and Lucinda from the steps into the kitchen. He turned his face through ninety degrees before lowering his head, presenting the top of it to them. ‘Full face, profile and plan.’

  ‘I take it the combination worked?’ Malcolm said drily.

  ‘O ye of little faith.’ Maltravers crossed to where packets of cereal were still on the kitchen table; his breakfast had gone by the board earlier, although Malcolm and Lucinda had eaten. ‘It was a brilliant denouement executed in the library in the best tradition.’

  ‘What did the police think of it?’ Lucinda asked.

  Maltravers filled a bowl and added milk and brown sugar. ‘My reward will probably arrive in the morning post. I have the impression they’ve got more on Lydden than they’re letting on and the combination could clinch it—although we’re still left with the question of Jennifer being in it with him.’

  ‘You still think that’s possible?’

  ‘Yes.’ He chewed thoughtfully on a mouthful of muesli. ‘There was something about her reaction when Moore opened that safe. She looked too satisfied.’

  ‘She would do,’ Malcolm argued. ‘It proved Duggie Lydden could have opened it, which was the problem.’

  ‘But it also meant somebody else could have done. Somebody else who must have read that book—which isn’t many people. I know Lydden isn’t bright, but if Jennifer was in it with him, why didn’t he just blow the whole thing when she double-crossed him? He might not have been able to prove anything, but he could make life difficult for her. Instead, we have this story about meeting her at lunchtime. So colour him stupid, but the more I learn about all this, the more I’m convinced there’s someone very clever behind it.’

  ‘Like you of course.’ Lucinda grinned. ‘We’re very impressed about that code.’

  ‘Put your admiration on hold. I have the uneasy feeling I could have missed something.’

  In the living-room, Malcolm noticed The Attwater Firewitch, which Maltravers had dropped on to the settee when he came back. ‘Didn’t the police want to keep this?’ he asked as he picked it up.

  ‘They’ve got the books so the photocopy isn’t vital. I told Moore I hadn’t finished it. I knew you wanted to read it.’

  Maltravers sat on the chesterfield with that week’s edition of the Cumbrian Chronicle. After a few minutes he looked across at Malcolm, who had started to read. Faintly in his mind was a suggestion, and the most curious thing was that he kept thinking of Sherlock Holmes. The notion faded as he pursued it and he went back to improving his scanty knowledge of the activities of the Lakeland livestock market.

  *

  Moore reported back to Lambert that afternoon. ‘This link between the safe combination and the book, sir. Mrs Carrington can only name five people who’ve read it apart from Lydden. One is Carrington’s partner, a respectable lawyer who was in court all Thursday afternoon. Another bloke’s been in bed with a temperature of a hundred and two for a week. That leaves…’ He flicked over a page of his notebook. ‘Charlotte Quinn, who found the body, and the Reverend Morris at Attwater. The fifth is a member of the Conan Doyle Society who returned it this week. He was at a meeting in Norwich all day. After that, Carrington passed it on to Maltravers, who was reading it at the time of the murder.’

  Lambert’s lower lip pushed out like a piece of raw liver sliding off the edge of a plate.

  ‘Can’t see it being Mrs Quinn or the vicar,’ he commented. ‘Can you?’r />
  ‘No, sir,’ Moore replied. ‘Mrs Quinn was a very old friend of Carrington’s—the word is she was in love with him. Drover’s seeing Morris at the moment, but he doesn’t look likely either. He’s been the vicar of Attwater for donkey’s years and has no motive we can see. And are either of them really the type to suddenly become a murderer who frames an innocent man at the same time?’

  Lambert grunted in agreement. ‘Keep at it. We’ve got the names of Carrington’s known friends and associates from his secretary and his personal address book. Some of them could have read the book. But unless we find someone pretty damned quick, our Mr Lydden will be charged on Monday, however much of a fuss he and his lawyer kick up.’

  As Moore turned to leave, Lambert stopped him then shuffled through some of the notes on his desk.

  ‘Just a minute,’ he said, then picked up a piece of paper. ‘What about the people at the dinner party at Carrington’s place? We thought one of them could have seen the safe being opened. Who was there? Lydden, Morris, this chap Maltravers, Stapleton who’s the editor of the Chronicle and someone called Howard.’

  ‘No go,’ Moore replied, shaking his head. ‘Maltravers was absolutely certain nobody in the room could have seen. We’ve tried it ourselves and if everyone was standing where he says, there’s no chance. Someone would have had to be at Carrington’s elbow when he opened it and nobody was. It looks as though Maltravers must be right that you could only guess that code from having read the book. And that cuts out Stapleton, Maltravers at the time and Howard, who had apparently just come back from Africa. Which leaves us with Morris and Lydden. And let’s face it—it really only leaves us with Lydden.’

  *

  Alan Morris smiled as he opened the door and recognised the figure on the front step.

  ‘Ian Drover!’ he exclaimed. ‘I haven’t seen you since…well not for a long time. Come in, come in.’

  The detective constable appeared uncomfortable as he entered the vicarage. ‘I’m sorry to trouble you, Mr Morris, but as you know I’m with the CID now and…’

  ‘Your mother was telling me only the other week.’ Morris led Drover through to his study. ‘She’s very proud of you—as we all are in Attwater. It seems no time at all since you used to come to Bible class and I remember your confirmation as though it were only yesterday. But you’ve not come to talk about the past. What can I do for you?’

  He sat down at his desk and smiled smoothly at Drover, looking increasingly unhappy in the chair opposite.

  ‘I’m sorry, vicar, but I’m one of the team investigating the murder of Mr Carrington and when my sergeant said we wanted to talk to you, I offered to come.’ He paused uncertainly. ‘I’m sorry, but there are some questions I must ask you.’

  Alan Morris leaned forward earnestly. ‘Questions, Ian? What about?’

  ‘About the afternoon of the murder. We’re checking on people’s movements. I’m sorry, but…’

  ‘Stop apologising,’ Morris told him sharply. ‘That’s the fourth time you’ve said sorry since you arrived. You’re here to do your job and the fact that I’ve known you all your life doesn’t come into it. So you want to know what I was doing the day Mr Carrington was so tragically killed? Well immediately after lunch, I went to…’

  Having given an account of his movements on Thursday afternoon, Morris waved to the detective constable’s disappearing car with a sense of relief; another police officer might have been less accommodating. Ten minutes later, he arrived at Carwelton Hall.

  ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t come sooner,’ he said as Jennifer Carrington stepped back from the front door to let him enter. ‘The police have just been to see me about Thursday afternoon.’ He put his arms around her. ‘You must be very brave.’

  9

  On Sunday morning Maltravers went into Attwater for a newspaper, then drove round narrow, twisting back lanes, re-joining the main road near Carwelton Hall. He parked beyond the bend, then stood by a wall, staring across low rolling fields, chill, sullen and miserable under the dank and motionless October mist. He tried to guess if what he could see in the distance was a crow or a rook; there was a country legend that if you thought it was one it was always the other and he was little better at identifying birds than cars. He was convinced it was not a raven, as there was no bust of Pallas, pallid or otherwise, anywhere in sight. Absently and irrelevantly, he began to quote the poem to himself, but stumbled in verse twelve.

  ‘Fancy unto fancy linking,’ he repeated in irritation. ‘No, thinking. Or is it…? Oh, sod it.’

  It was not just losing his way in the brooding, relentless metre of Poe that frustrated him. Elusive and mocking, his own fancies tormented him and he could not shake off their taunting that he was missing things blatantly obvious. As he returned to his car in annoyance, the jackdaw flew off across the fields.

  At the cottage, Maltravers picked up The Attwater Firewitch again. Everything about the code for the safe made sense—but he knew that—and there was nothing else that he could see. In any case, it was preposterous to imagine that Conan Doyle’s fantasy could throw any light on a real murder a century later. Why did he keep thinking it might? He put the book down and began to read the views of a Sunday Times critic who had caught up with Tess’s play at Chester, expressing amazement that an actress of her ability should be appearing in such second-rate dramatic tat. Maltravers knew that the reviewer concerned had been trying unsuccessfully to persuade anyone to stage a play of his own for several years and drew his own conclusions.

  *

  ‘What doth the Lord require of thee, but to do justly, and to love mercy, and to walk humbly with thy God?’

  The vicar of Attwater repeated the words of the morning Lesson from the eighth verse of the sixth chapter of Micah then closed the Bible and gazed gravely round his congregation in silence for a few moments.

  ‘Since the terrible events in this parish on Thursday, those words have been constantly with me,’ he said . ‘A dear friend of this church—a dear friend of so many of us here today—was cruelly murdered and in our grief and despair it is understandable that we feel tremendous anger against whoever was responsible for his death.’

  He drew himself upright. ‘But at such times, we must remember that God repeatedly tells us to embrace our feelings. A desire for vengeance must give way to a determination for justice. Mercy and forgiveness must temper our actions. The arrogance of judgement must be replaced with a humble acceptance of our unworthiness to judge. Love must conquer hatred, however difficult that may be.’

  Alan Morris leaned forward, surpliced arms resting on the edge of the pulpit. ‘Because when we are repulsed by another’s sin, we must remember that we are all sinners. All of us, myself no less than the rest. And if we cannot find it in our hearts to forgive the sinner, then it will surely go hard with us on that dreadful day when we seek forgiveness for ourselves from the last terrible judge of all.’

  It was a sonorous old-fashioned sermon, rich with Biblical admonitions, delivered by a man whose own secret sins would have appalled his flock. In the front pew, with the rest of the worshippers trying not to look at her too blatantly, Jennifer Carrington sat with her hands clasped about her Prayer Book, unreadable eyes never leaving Morris’s face.

  *

  Lambert reviewed the final report from the Manchester police that morning. Three of the assistants in Timperley confirmed that Mrs Carrington had arrived late in the afternoon; one said it must have been shortly before five o’clock because they had Radio One on and she had been in the shop for some time before the music was interrupted by the hourly news bulletin. Statements from the couple she had visited in the evening said she had arrived just after six o’clock and stayed for more than two hours. Lambert thrust a pudgy hand inside his jacket, produced a pen and started making notes.

  Carrington had left his office in Lancaster at three fifteen; he should have reached Carwelton Hall no more than half an hour later. Charlotte Quinn had called the police at fou
r twenty-five, having discovered the body about ten minutes earlier. Which meant…Lambert juggled with calculations…which meant that theoretically Jennifer Carrington could have returned to Carwelton Hall from Manchester in the morning, met Lydden as he claimed then waited until her husband returned and killed him with Lydden’s shotgun which she had stolen earlier. Then she could have escaped before Charlotte Quinn arrived and been in Timperley by…Lambert scribbled through the figures. Putting aside the time she would have needed to hide the gun and put the books in Lydden’s house, it was more than eighty miles in under an hour. She would have needed a Formula One racing car and to have shattered every speed limit to do it. She would also have needed to open the safe. Carrington’s partner Campbell had confirmed the conversation in which Carrington had said he was the only one who knew the combination and Maltravers’s statement included the fact—supported again by Campbell—that Jennifer had not read The Attwater Firewitch.

  Abandoning the possibility as ludicrous, Lambert turned to Drover’s account of his visit to Alan Morris. The vicar had been on parish business all afternoon and various witnesses broadly confirmed his movements. Unless the police very quickly learned of anybody else suspicious who had read the Conan Doyle story, being able to guess the safe combination remained a devastating piece of evidence against Duggie Lydden—among a good deal more—however much he protested.

  *

  Tess Davy was the only passenger off the train at Oxenholme just after half past four on Sunday afternoon. There was no Maltravers waiting on the platform as she carried her case through the subway and out of the exit on the other side of the line. The small car-park was empty and she looked at the bleak view of a high black stone wall directly opposite, feeling deflated and irritated after a tedious journey. Glowing in a balloon of moisture in the gloomy raw dusk, murky rays of a street lamp gleamed on the sheen of her oxblood calf-length leather coat with high-heeled black suede boots peeping below. A circular fake fur hat framed a face Raphael would have portrayed as a very worldly Madonna, although mixing the paint for her astonishing green eyes would have stretched even his creative abilities. After a few minutes she took out her purse and was looking for change for the phone box next to the exit when Maltravers’s car appeared round the corner.