An Act of Evil Page 18

  “I’m bloody convinced of it. Madden won’t want to believe it — perhaps you don’t — and he may have some difficulty in producing an alibi. But look at him. He’s a very sad, mixed-up human being. He told us he loved Diana and I know exactly what he meant. He worshipped her with the sort of obsessive passion which is very commonly directed towards the famous and the beautiful. She was his fantasy woman and he must have imagined himself doing all sorts of things with her. But in real life he would not have had the courage even to speak to her. Add that to his Vegan beliefs and he’s simply not your murderer.”

  “None of that’s hard evidence.”

  “Perhaps not.” Maltravers lit a cigarette. “And he’s almost certainly got no witnesses to prove where he’s been the past couple of weeks. But don’t try to tell me that pitiful little Welshman killed the woman he loved.

  “It’s none of my business to tell you your job,” he added as Jackson was leaving, “but I hope you go easy on him. It wasn’t his fault you wasted so much time.”

  As the door closed behind Jackson, Melissa and Rebecca came into the room from the kitchen. The little girl ran to Maltravers.

  “Come on, Uncle Gus,” she pleaded. “We’re going to see the fair. You promised.”

  As the police interrogation of Arthur Powell began, his motorcycle and side-car, parked in Punt Yard, were collected by a police van and taken in to be examined for any signs that the vehicle had been used to carry any parts of Diana’s body. Powell, numb and moving like a man in a trance, was taken to an interview room and formally cautioned again.

  “Do you wish to say anything?” Inspector Ruth Barratt asked him. “You are not obliged to say anything unless you wish to do so, but whatever you say will be taken down in writing and may be given in evidence.” The words seemed to make no impression on Powell, his eyes fixed unseeingly on the bare table top.

  “Do you wish to have a solicitor present?” Powell silently shook his head, then after a few moments, quietly spoke.

  “I’ll tell you the truth of it.” As a policewoman took shorthand notes, he spoke for twenty minutes, then was taken to the police station cells and given a meal while his statement was typed and taken to Madden. It fitted in with all Maltravers had said.

  Powell had first become aware of Diana Porter through the nude photograph in the paper and had been captivated by the images — not only sexual ones — which it had conjured in his mind. The letter he had written to her was his own inept and immature way of trying to express himself; the knife he had referred to was just another object of his irrational affection. He had visited Vercaster because he wanted to see her in real life. As far as he was concerned she could have recited the telephone directory in the Chapter House and he would have been satisfied. He had waited in Punt Yard the following afternoon for another glimpse of her until he realised Maltravers had noticed him. After that he had simply gone on holiday.

  For two weeks he had seen no newspapers and heard no radio, living his solitary existence in the emptiest places he could find, feeding his loneliness and rejection of human company with the recollection of having seen Diana Porter, the remote, untouchable and unthreatening substitute for a normal relationship. He had stayed on National Park land where he did not ask anyone’s permission to camp and, although he remembered being seen by occasional hikers, there was no one who could prove where he had been. The shock of reading about what had happened led him instinctively to make his way back to Vercaster as quickly as he could, desperately hoping that someone in Punt Yard would deny it all.

  He had no alibis, no witnesses to his movements. Quietly, relentlessly, constantly, he repeated his innocence of having harmed Diana Porter in any way. Finally he fell into a brooding silence, his mind filled with the darkest shadows and deep personal hatred of whoever it was who had destroyed his private goddess. He signed the statement in a hand that had scarcely developed from the precise and concentrated writing of a child.

  Seeing two weeks of meticulous police work dissolve, Madden was furious and frustrated. The initial report from the examination of Powell’s vehicle said there appeared to be no traces of blood or anything else incriminating. And saliva tests proved that he had not sent the packages to the Dean and the Bishop. Madden gave orders for two officers to fly to Los Angeles, then stalked through to the incident room. Surrounded by files, maps, reports and other miscellaneous paraphernalia of the manhunt for Powell, his team listened in subdued and deflated silence.

  “It appears possible, perhaps even likely, that hundreds of police hours and thousands of pounds of public money have been wasted.” Madden glowered round the room as if he were holding everyone in it personally responsible for the situation. “Unless we can find some hard evidence that Arthur Powell is a very clever murderer indeed, we are left in the position that nearly two weeks after Miss Porter vanished we could be no nearer finding the person or persons responsible. I have been given the personal approval of the Chief Constable to strengthen this inquiry team, if necessary with officers from other forces. However hard you have been working up to now, I expect you to work twice as hard from now on. Inspector Barratt, Sergeant Jackson, Sergeant Neale — my office.” With a final glare, Madden left the room and his audience visibly relaxed.

  When Jackson and the others entered Madden’s office he had his back to them, staring through the window at the passing traffic. They stood in an uncertain line waiting for him to speak.

  “Arrange for Powell’s story to be checked,” he said without turning round. “He has told us where he claims to have been. Request the appropriate forces to see if they can find anyone who can substantiate his story.” He slowly revolved to face them. “Within this room, I am not yet quite prepared to accept that we have been engaged on a monstrous and ridiculous wild-goose chase, though that is exactly what he may have caused.”

  Jackson wondered if Madden was actually contemplating some means of finding a way to charge the hapless Powell with wasting police time.

  “If that is the case, however,” Madden continued stonily, “we are left with only one other known suspect. This man Sinclair. While that is being investigated, there is one other avenue immediately open to us.” He sat down.

  “I want every available plain clothes officer at the Medieval Fair this afternoon and the final performance of these Mystery Plays this evening. Everybody in Vercaster who has been in any way connected with this business will be there, particularly those most intimately connected with Miss Porter.” He hesitated to let the significance of the remark sink in. He was returning to first, reliable principles that dictated that murderers almost invariably knew their victims.

  “I am arranging to be on the official platform to watch the plays this evening. You may rest assured that I shall be as alert and on duty as anyone else. That is all.”

  Having realised that Powell could be slipping through his fingers, still convinced that Sinclair was an unlikely suspect, and faced with no other immediate possibilities, Madden was returning to one name that had never totally left his mind: that of Augustus Maltravers.

  *

  The cathedral meadow was now all noise, bustle, laughter, music and movement. Gleefully clutching a certificate, Little Bo-Peep ran across the grass to her parents.

  “I won, mummy! I won!” She had in fact come second to a little boy dressed as Darth Vader who, Maltravers noted suspiciously, appeared to be the grandson of Councillor Hibbert, but any kind of award was a victory for Rebecca. From a loudspeaker on a pole near where they were standing a metallic voice announced that the knights were about to start jousting and they made their way down towards the riverside arena.

  “I can’t stop thinking about that sad little man,” said Tess. “He’s just another victim of all this.”

  “I wonder if Madden can see that,” replied Maltravers.

  They reached the edge of the roped-off enclosure in which a man was introducing the combatants, divided for maximum effect into the goodies and the baddi
es. They were led respectively by Sir Geoffrey of Leicester, with an air of suitably modest chivalry, and the aggressive and uncouth Black Knight, scowling as he was jeered by the crowd and then taking it out on his dwarfish squire with a gratuitous kick. Their attendant knights battled spectacularly in a skilfully rehearsed programme, then the two principals galloped thunderously towards each other.

  The Black Knight was unseated and ran in fury to take an alarmingly real looking two-handed sword from the side of the arena and brandish it, bawling defiance at his shining opponent. Sir Geoffrey dismounted, armed himself with a matching weapon, and the crowd went quiet as the clang of heavy blades sounded across the arena. What had been a harmless piece of entertainment took on an unnerving air of genuine viciousness.

  “They’ve got him I understand?” a voice said behind Maltravers’ shoulder. It was Jeremy Knowles.

  “Pardon? Oh, yes Powell. How did you know?”

  “I had to go to the police station this morning. The son of a client was on a drugs offence. The place was full of the news. You must be very relieved.”

  “Not really.” Maltravers stepped back from the rope so he could speak to Knowles more easily and started to explain.

  “And you felt quite sure he was telling the truth?” Knowles interrupted.

  “Absolutely. That man’s no more guilty than you or I.”

  “That explains why Mr Madden was looking so ill-humoured when I saw him in the corridor. Where do they go from here?”

  Their voices were drowned by a chorus of boos as the Black Knight perpetrated some further misdemeanour and they both turned to look. The opposing knights were galloping towards each other furiously, the banners that covered their horses flapping wildly. They were only a few yards apart when a giant of a man in a leather jerkin stepped imperiously between them holding a sword aloft and bellowed for them to halt. One horse reared violently, its flying hooves catching the glare of the sun before thudding down within inches of the referee.

  “That was too close for comfort,” said Knowles. “They usually leave a greater margin of safety than that.”

  “You’ve seen them before then?”

  “Oh, yes, they’re a popular attraction around here. My brother’s the Black Knight. Of course it’s all as arranged as a wrestling match — he has to lose at the end.” He smiled sardonically. “Like me tonight.”

  Maltravers looked again at the Black Knight and now saw the family resemblance. When he turned back Jeremy Knowles was walking hurriedly away. In the arena it was being announced that there would be a period while tempers were allowed to cool before a final melee.

  For the remainder of the afternoon they wandered idly about the fair. Maltravers bought Tess a brooch shaped like Talbot’s Tower from the cathedral stall.

  “A souvenir of Vercaster,” he said as he pinned it to her shirt.

  “I’ve got a lot of those,” she replied.

  They were listening to the band from Vercaster’s French twin-town playing beneath its tented awning, the musicians in deep shade amid the brilliant, hot sunshine, when Jackson walked up to them.

  “Has Powell convinced Madden yet?” Maltravers asked him.

  “Shall we say that Mr Madden has severe doubts? We’re still waiting for anything from Wales or the Lake District that might prove his story. But I agree with you. I can’t see that he did it.” A uniformed policeman strolled by and studiously ignored him. “At the moment we’re concentrating our efforts here. As Mr Madden says, all the principals are hereabouts. I’ve seen all the clergy and several other people who were at the performance in the Chapter House.”

  Maltravers looked round and saw the gaitered Dean approaching.

  “Do you think there’s a murderer among them?” he asked Jackson.

  “There’s a murderer somewhere.” Jackson quietly stepped back into the crowd as the Dean reached them, grave and sympathetic.

  “Our celebrations must be somewhat painful for you,” he said.

  “It’s what my sister refers to as ‘being British’.” Maltravers gave the Dean a rueful smile. “You know that Powell’s turned up?”

  “Canon Cowan told me what happened this morning. It’s ironic that what we supposed would resolve everything seems to have somehow made matters worse.” The Dean seemed lost for anything further to say. With a smile for Tess he excused himself and walked away.

  As the afternoon wore lazily on amid the colour and cacophony, Maltravers twice saw Jackson, each time quietly talking to other people whom he supposed were plain clothes officers. He spotted occasional men and women in the crowd who seemed detached from their carnival surroundings, their eyes passing with unnatural keenness over people’s faces; running through the Medieval Fair was a sharp edge of police activity.

  Rebecca started to wilt as the novelty of everything began to pall and tiredness took over so they began to stroll back towards Punt Yard. They passed a gallery of raked seats that had been set up on a platform opposite a wooden stage on the south side of the Refectory.

  “That’s where we are tonight,” said Melissa. “For the Mystery Plays. The seats are for the organising committee and invited guests. Everyone else sits on the grass.” She looked at the empty seats and stage for a moment. “Then it’s all over, thank God.” Distantly, from the far end of the field, there was a roar as the good and bad knights began their final merciless combat.

  When they returned in the early evening, the crowds had gone from the fair and the dusk-washed meadow was spread with its remnants. Boy Scouts were collecting litter, a collapsed marquee was a sprawl of crumpled canvas, stalls were being dismantled again. Everything stopped as the time approached for the plays to begin. The only activity was far off on the opposite bank of the Verta where a handful of people moved about the scaffolding on which were fixed the fireworks that would end everything.

  There was a wide area between the platform bearing the seats and the stage which was filling with people finding spaces to sit on the grass. Maltravers and Tess took their seats immediately behind the Bishop and his wife. The Bishop turned to speak to them.

  “I’ve heard what happened today,” he said confidentially as they leaned forward. “I’m sorry.”

  There was a distinctly uneasy feeling about the gathering on the platform, sitting in an awkward silence in contrast to the chattering people on the grass below. As they waited for the performance to start, conversation became increasingly difficult.

  “It’s a great pity they could not arrange for the plays to be performed by members of the ancient guilds who originally put them on.” The Bishop was doing his best to ease the strain everybody felt by talking to the Dean who sat on his left. “Noah’s Flood was done by the Verta watermen of course and the carpenters did the Crucifixion which was an obvious irony. I can’t remember all the others. The tanners did the Temptation, the weavers the Judgement and the glovers the Adoration of the Magi. Of course the difficulty would be finding sufficient numbers following those trades today. Who was it did the Creation? The bakers I think. That might have been possible to arrange.”

  Maltravers glanced around the seats which were now nearly all full. All the cathedral clergy had arrived and there were several other faces he was sure he had seen in the Chapter House and at the Dean’s garden party. As his gaze passed over them, his eyes paused when he saw Madden towards the back, who gave him a barely courteous nod of acknowledgement. He looked down among the crowd on the grass and thought he could recognise Jackson but, like all the others, the figure had his back to him. The voices went silent as a spotlight, placed on the roof of the Refectory behind them, abruptly threw a pool of light onto the centre of the stage and the plays began.

  Into the light, a crowd of about thirty robed men and women slowly moved in a tight group then parted to reveal Jeremy Knowles in their midst, his costume almost a caricature of the classic image of Satan with pointed tail, curved horns and trident. He crept to the front of the stage like a spider and peered slowly rou
nd all the audience, then swept his trident round in a slow arc embracing them all in a web of evil and smiled knowingly with satisfaction. He whirled and raised his arms aloft towards the group which had formed like a choir behind him, then monstrously conducted them to speak.

  “Crucify Him!” they shouted in obedient unison. The Devil turned back and bowed to his audience, indicating the mastery he had achieved over Man.

  The Vercaster Players, who had impressed Maltravers already, rose to even greater heights as they portrayed the final terrible events of Christian legend. Christ betrayed and abandoned, crying in despair from the Cross, then slumped and deflated in death before striding in triumph from the tomb. But there was still the Devil to pay.

  The plain backcloth of the stage suddenly fell and coloured spotlights danced on painted flames in the midst of which Knowles was coiled like a serpent ready to strike. Between the two principals, a crowd of souls swayed in confusion, now tempted by the Devil’s cunning, now sweeping back to Christ’s promise. Finally, as Knowles’s cajolery turned to threats, they gathered behind Christ, who raised his white robed arms to cast a long shadow that engulfed his enemy. Knowles became berserk, his voice now a shriek.

  “Where is my power?” he screamed, then staggered backwards and collapsed. As every eye was riveted upon him he lay writhing on the floor like a man consumed by a fit. Suddenly the ground gave under him — there was a sheet of canvas covering a hole in the stage — and he vanished down it to an explosion of noise and bursts of crimson and purple smoke out of which emerged the figure of God. It was the dawn of Doomsday.

  Tess, who had been as enthralled as anyone by a piece of spectacular and imaginative theatre, felt Maltravers grip her hand fiercely. She turned to him and he was transfixed with a look of total shock.

  “Christ Almighty!” he said. “Where the hell is he?”

  He leapt to his feet, looked swiftly all around and then roughly barged past people between him and the steps leading down from the platform, ignoring cries of protest and outrage. Behind him Madden rose as well and onstage the man playing God looked uncertainly towards the commotion. Maltravers leapt down the steps in one bound, grimacing when pain shot back into his leg as he landed, then overcame it as he dashed towards the Chapter House and round back into Punt Yard. He hammered at the door which was opened by Jenny. Upstairs he could hear the disturbed Rebecca crying.