An Act of Evil Page 17

  Tess gently squeezed Maltravers’ arm as he glared at the obscene councillor.

  “Ignore him,” she said softly. “He’s making a fool of himself.”

  “He’s getting back at me,” Maltravers replied. “He’s a very nasty little man.”

  Hibbert’s insensitive behaviour brought about the last thing he would have wished, the departure of his audience. There was a notable movement towards the exit in which a clearly embarrassed Mayor and Mayoress joined. They waited outside the door and spoke to Tess and Maltravers as they were leaving.

  “It was very kind of you to come,” said the Mayor. “I feel I should perhaps apologise for what happened in there just now. I don’t understand it at all.”

  “I think I do, your Worship,” Maltravers replied. “But it doesn’t matter.”

  The Mayoress offered her cheek to Maltravers to say good-night.

  “I shouldn’t say this,” she whispered as their faces lightly touched, “but I’ve always thought Ernie Hibbert was a little turd.” When she pulled her face away, it was that of a woman who would not know the word, let alone say it.

  “You nearly made me smile then,” Maltravers said. “That’s not easy at the moment.”

  Over her shoulder he saw Jeremy Knowles give him a brief nod of farewell before leaving with other members of the Vercaster Players.

  In the silent, late-night streets, as the four of them walked back to Punt Yard, workmen were erecting steel barriers along the route that the jousting knights and the rest of the medieval procession would follow to the fair the next day. They turned into the yard off the main road and saw a police car standing outside the house. Instinctively they quickened their steps and, as they approached, David Jackson stepped out.

  “Your babysitter told me where you were and what time you’d be back. I couldn’t see any necessity for disturbing you.”

  “Nothing dramatic then?” There was a note of disappointment in Maltravers’ voice. Now any news was better than no news.

  “Nothing dramatic. I’d just like another word about Sinclair.” He and Maltravers went into Michael’s study and Tess brought them coffee.

  “The more we test Sinclair’s story, the more suspicious we get,” Jackson said. “In fact, the problem is the big parts of it we can’t test. We’ve got nearly three and a half days he can’t or won’t account for. He knows by now the way we’re starting to think but he still can’t produce any evidence to substantiate his story. Quite simply, if it isn’t Powell then Mr Sinclair may find himself on his way back here much sooner than he expected.”

  He went over the details of Sinclair’s story and the contradictions the police had uncovered.

  “He may not be lying about not having seen Miss Porter for a year but it’s not unreasonable to think he would have at least noticed her at one of the two events we now know they both attended. You knew her as well as anyone, better than most. Can you think of anything at all regarding Peter Sinclair? Mr Madden wants to give more time to tracing Powell before taking action, but I’m getting the feeling that somebody from here will be on their way to Los Angeles eventually. If you can think of some piece of evidence — or someone who might supply it — then possibly Mr Madden will act sooner.”

  “I’ve thought about it as much as any other aspect of this whole thing,” Maltravers replied. “I’ve rung friends of hers that I know collect odd bits of gossip. If anything had come out I’d have told you. Do you think he’s lying about what happened while he was here?”

  “I don’t think he’s telling us the whole truth. The question is, what’s he hiding?” Jackson sat in silence for a few moments staring into his coffee cup.

  “The problem is that things have become so complex and extraordinary that we may have lost touch with some basics,” he said finally. “You start any murder investigation by considering two simple things — motive and opportunity. In Powell’s case motive is impossible to decide because God knows how his mind works. Opportunity is certainly there though. He was in Vercaster and access into the Dean’s garden through the trees at the bottom would have been simple. The same reasoning applies to Sinclair. Again an unknown motive but until we know where he was from Sunday lunchtime onwards we don’t know that he was not here. A possible motive, of course, is jealousy. Was he the type to nurse a grudge after being rejected?”

  “He’s conceited, he’s arrogant and he thinks he’s God’s gift to women,” Maltravers replied. “But if all the men who think like that were homicidal maniacs you’d be very busy indeed. The problem remains as to why he should be attacking the Dean and the Bishop. And us of course.”

  “The same applies to Powell. But until we know what the motive is behind all this we’re just guessing in the dark. The other thing about Sinclair that must not be overlooked is that he knew Miss Porter and most killers know their victims. Is he a good actor?”

  “Not as good as he thinks but quite competent. Why?”

  Jackson rubbed his eyes and yawned. “Oh, I was just thinking about knowledge of make-up and disguise, which he would know more about than most people. The fact that nobody saw him here doesn’t necessarily mean much if you look at it that way.”

  Maltravers recalled Tess’s successful imitation of a Yorkshire-woman in Belsthwaite. Sinclair did not have her talent but he could have enough to fool people who were not watching for him — and nobody had been watching for him. Odd, half-remembered faces from the reception in the Refectory floated into his mind and he wondered if they had all been what they appeared to be. The fact that Sinclair had opportunity was certain; whether or not he took it remained to be proved. Certainly Sinclair himself was doing nothing to refute it.

  Jackson looked at his watch. “God, is that the time? I must get some sleep.” He stood up and stretched. “Well at least the festival finishes tomorrow. It would be nice to think that everything else might finish as well.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  THE AFFLICTED VERCASTER festival was to end on the longest day of the year.

  Early in the morning, rich with rising sunshine and the promise of a day of high summer, people began to filter onto the broad green slope of the cathedral meadow. The wide quietness was peppered with the sound of hammers as stalls were erected for the Medieval Fair and there was a growing murmur of voices. By the banks of the River Verta, flags hung limp and still around the jousting field for the mock tournament of the knights. From the refreshment marquee came the clatter of crockery and the chatter of attendants. In the middle of one open space a jester in chequered green and gold practised juggling with wooden balls, watched by a silent, fascinated little girl with her thumb in her mouth. Barrels of beer were tapped and the contents experimentally tasted. At the entrance to the fenced-off enclosure, a man fastidiously counted his float money.

  Colour began to spread across the grass as the sounds of activity increased. Banners were erected, decorations put up, goods displayed. As the scene filled with more and more people, anticipation and excitement began slowly to grow. There was a burst of ribald laughter as a man grasped a girl dressed as Nell Gwynne from behind, squeezing her breasts, and she playfully slapped his face, her screams of pretended protest heard all over the field. On the top of Talbot’s Tower a verger raised the standard of St George, then looked down through the battlements on the diminutive figures far below. A woman appeared holding a mass of helium-filled balloons, rising from her hand in the shape of a gigantic, multicoloured ice-cream cone. A bright green one slipped loose and soared swiftly into the clear sky to the shouts of delighted children.

  *

  Just after nine o’clock, the woman with the black hair saw her children off with the German au pair girl to go for their riding lesson. As she went back into the house the telephone rang and she answered it on the bedroom extension. The call was from Los Angeles.

  “Peter, how lovely to hear from you! I was wondering when you’d call.” The excessive sweetness of her voice was laced with bile. “I’ve been expect
ing to hear from you for ages.”

  “You know what’s happened then?” Sinclair’s voice was tense.

  “The theatre grapevine’s talking about nothing else, darling. Policemen popping up all over the place asking questions like The Mousetrap gone mad. Somebody was telling me they’ve even been talking to you.”

  “They’ve got good reason to, haven’t they, although I’ve told them I haven’t seen her during the last year.”

  “Oh come on, darling, there’s no point in lying about that too, especially since someone’s bound to talk.”

  “What do you mean?” Sinclair snapped.

  “How about the Variety Club Lunch? I saw her there.”

  “You did? Well I didn’t. I’m not lying about that.”

  “Oh, Peter,” the woman said reproachfully. “I mean, I believe you, but do you really think the police are going to? Anyway, it probably doesn’t matter because all the papers here are full of this man Powell. After all, he’s the murderer, isn’t he?”

  “If they decide he’s not, they’re going to keep coming back to me. If you give me an alibi, then…”

  “You listen to me, little boy!” The lacing of bile had suddenly spread to become the entire fabric of her tone. “You’re not getting me mixed up in this. If you try that I’ll stitch you up so tightly you’ll never get out. Understand?”

  “You bloody little…”

  “Now, Peter, you really mustn’t call me horrid names.” The abrupt return of her former treacly tones sounded perversely sinister now. “I could make life very difficult for you.”

  Sinclair began to sound desperate. “But I’ve got no excuse for coming back! I’ve got no alibis, there are no witnesses. The police don’t believe me!”

  “And nobody else is going to either. I mean, the truth really can’t come out, can it?”

  “They keep asking me about Diana’s pregnancy. I expect everyone knows about it by now.”

  “Oh, yes, that’s been in all the papers. Of course, I never listen to salacious gossip — unless my husband happens to tell me some secret of the consulting room and, of course, I always keep that to myself…don’t I.”

  “You couldn’t wait to tell me.”

  “Well, sweetie, after all the things you’ve said about Diana I was sure you’d want to know her good news. I thought you’d want to send her a card or something.” A sudden thought occurred to her. “Of course, the police don’t know that I told you about it right at the beginning. Now that’s something they would be very interested in, isn’t it.”

  “But you’re not going to tell them, are you?”

  “If you try to drag me in for the alibi you’re so desperate for I might have no alternative, darling. So you’re going to be a good boy and not make Auntie Vickie cross, aren’t you? I’m sure you’ll manage to think of some story they’ll believe. Sleep well. Bye.”

  Smiling to herself, she rang off and ran her fingers softly across the top of the phone, thinking for a few moments. Then she turned the bedside radio on while she dressed.

  “And if you’re anywhere near Vercaster today, watch out for traffic diversions because of the Medieval Fair they’re holding this afternoon,” the disc jockey was saying. “Sounds like a lot of fun if you’re thinking of going. Knights on horseback, sideshows, plenty of fun for the kids. And what a lovely day for it as well. Might even pop along myself. Now, with the time just approaching nine minutes past nine o’clock, here’s Neil Sedaka.” The woman sang along with the record.

  *

  The tangible air of unreality in Punt Yard was amplified by Rebecca, who had insisted she should put on her Little Bo-Peep fancy-dress costume as soon as she got out of bed. She paraded proudly around the house in poke bonnet, frilled skirt and leggings tied at the ankles, with her miniature crook decorated with a blue satin ribbon. She sang the nursery rhyme endlessly in a piping, off-key treble, constantly breaking off to ask how long before the fair began.

  Sitting in the lounge with Tess, Maltravers was becoming increasingly resentful of the growing carnival atmosphere outside. The sense of gaiety callously ignored the grim events which had hung about the city for so long and paid no respect to any thoughts of Diana. Suddenly and viciously he told Rebecca to shut up and the startled child ran crying to her mother.

  “That was unforgivable,” said Tess crossly. “Stop taking it out on her. Go and tell her you’re sorry.” Melissa looked up at him reproachfully as he entered the kitchen.

  “I’m sorry, darling,” he said to Rebecca who was hiding her face in her mother’s lap. “Uncle Gus isn’t feeling very well this morning. Come on, we’ll see what’s happening outside.” She peeped at him uncertainly for a moment, then held out her hand in forgiveness.

  On the front step they stopped and Rebecca crowed with amazement as a man went unsteadily by on stilts, his height exaggerated by long red and white striped trousers. He heard her and smiled and raised his ridiculously tall hat in greeting. Maltravers was pulling the door closed behind them when a man ran up and grabbed his arm. It was Arthur Powell.

  For a moment Maltravers did not recognise him. It was not the face of the photograph. He had several days’ growth of beard and tears were staining his cheeks. In one hand he held a silver crash helmet.

  “Diana!” he cried. “She’s not dead! Tell me she’s not! She can’t be!” His fingers dug deep and painfully into Maltravers’ wrist. “Tell me it’s not true! It’s all lies in the papers!”

  Passers-by, many dressed in medieval costumes, stared towards the sound of his shouting, indelibly Welsh voice. Maltravers became aware that Rebecca’s tiny hand had tightened its grip on his.

  “Go back to mummy, darling,” he said without looking at her. The front door was still open and she scampered back into the house. Powell was still staring at him beseechingly.

  “Is everything all right?” A man had crossed from the opposite side of Punt Yard to see what was happening.

  “Pardon?” Maltravers finally found his own voice. “Yes. Yes. It’s all right.” He turned back to Powell. “I think you’d better come in.”

  As he stepped to one side to let the distraught man enter first, Tess appeared down the hall and stared at Powell in disbelief as Maltravers followed him in.

  “Call Jackson,” he told her, then led Powell through to the lounge as Tess dashed into the study. Powell collapsed into a chair and began to sob bitterly as Melissa rushed into the room, freezing as she saw him.

  “Augustus!”

  “Go back and stay with Rebecca. The police are on their way.” At that moment, Jackson and two constables were bundling into a car, its siren erupting into a piercing wail as it lurched forward.

  Maltravers sat down in front of Powell, who raised his grief-twisted face towards him. His voice had broken into a painful croak.

  “She’s all right, isn’t she?” he pleaded. “Please say she’s all right.” His emotion racked him again and he began rocking backwards and forwards, moaning.

  “Where have you been?” Maltravers asked gently. He felt no emotion, least of all anger, towards the shattered man before him.

  “Camping. On holiday.” Powell sniffed noisily. “In Wales and then by Wast Water.” It was the bleakest and loneliest spot Maltravers knew in England.

  “You didn’t hear anything about what happened?”

  Powell shook his head violently. “Nothing. It was only early this morning when I saw an old paper in a cafe. I keep myself to myself you see. Then I came straight here.” He looked at Maltravers searchingly. “But it is true, isn’t it?”

  Maltravers nodded and Powell finally crumpled with a whimper, then began to repeat Diana’s name over and over. Tess had come into the room and was kneeling by Maltravers. She reached across and touched Powell’s hand.

  “You didn’t hurt her did you?” she asked softly.

  “Hurt her!” Powell stared back in horror. “I would never have hurt her! Don’t you see? I loved her! I loved…” Choking tears ove
rcame him again as there was the sound of screeching car brakes outside, followed by an urgent pounding on the front door. Tess went and opened it.

  “Where is he?” Jackson snapped at her. She pointed wordlessly towards the lounge and he ran to it, followed by the two policemen. The sight of Maltravers and Powell, quietly sitting facing each other in easy chairs, was not what he had expected.

  “Are you Arthur Wynn Powell?” he demanded brusquely.

  Powell raised his face in bewilderment and blankly nodded. Jackson leaned down and took hold of his elbow.

  “Arthur Wynn Powell, I am an officer with the Vercaster constabulary and have reason to believe you may have been concerned in the abduction of Miss Diana Porter. I am arresting you on suspicion of this offence. You are not obliged to say anything unless you wish to do so, but what you say may be put in writing and given in evidence.”

  Powell swayed in the chair, then flopped forward as Maltravers moved to support him. Jackson tightened the grip on his arm and pulled him to his feet. He was as helpless and obedient as a child.

  “Come along,” he said and there was an unexpected note of compassion in his voice. As he turned to lead him away, Maltravers was staring at Powell’s feet.

  “Just a moment,” he said, then turned to Tess. “I said there was something we found out in Belsthwaite. Look at his shoes.” Everybody’s eyes, including Powell’s, swivelled downwards.

  “They’re made of plastic, aren’t they?” Maltravers asked and Powell dumbly nodded. “Like the sandals the supermarket manager showed us. After we were told you were a strict vegetarian. In fact, you’re a Vegan, aren’t you? Of course you are.” He sighed and stood up. “I’m sorry, David, but this isn’t your murderer. A true Vegan will not knowingly have anything to do with the taking of life under any circumstances. They won’t even wear leather.” He looked at Powell. “I know you didn’t kill Diana. I don’t know who did, but it wasn’t you.”

  Jackson handed the passive Powell to the two constables. “Wait in the car,” he said, then watched as Powell was led away before turning to Maltravers. “You really believe he’s innocent?”