The Book of the Dead Page 6

  As they made their way down the hill, Maltravers shaded his eyes against the sun, looking along the road away from the town, and realised he could just make out the roof of Carwelton Hall before the land fell away into a dip. It did not look an impossible distance, but would have been an intolerable walk on the foul night he had arrived. He thought he could just make out one of the cars turning into the entrance but it was impossible to tell which.

  *

  In his vicarage, Alan Morris was wracked by nervous excitement and apprehension as he contemplated a final desperate means of escape from a nightmare more serious than he had ever thought possible. Attwater was a wealthy parish and there had been so much money available when his own had begun to dwindle. At first he had always been able to replace it and the various books had always balanced; then the juggling had begun with its crazy transfers from one account to another, running just ahead of the annual audits. But the amounts and the financial adjustments had grown until the whole edifice of deceit had begun to crumble and sway.

  His protection had been years of visible, unquestioned honesty. He subtly drew attention to his probity—when he still exercised it—to maintain that reputation which made any suggestion of irregularity ridiculous. He was naturally trusted now because he had been trustworthy in the past. Only he knew that he had crossed into criminality so long ago that he was now indifferent about how far he went. His delusion was complete and essential to his defence and justification of himself; he could even persuade himself that this afternoon would solve everything.

  *

  Charles Carrington finished checking the conveyancing details of a house purchase he was handling then locked the documents away in his filing cabinet. He put on his overcoat and went into the secretary’s office next to his own.

  ‘I’m off, Sylvia,’ he announced. ‘If Sir Bernard calls again, say I’ll get back to him in the morning.’

  ‘Yes, Mr Carrington. Oh, while you were on the phone, Mrs Quinn rang and asked if you could call her back. I told her you were leaving early this afternoon, but she said it was urgent.’

  The wall clock behind the secretary’s desk showed ten past three. ‘I’m all right for a few minutes. Will you get her for me please?’

  He returned to his office and stood by the window, waiting for the telephone to ring, looking out at the green dome of the Ashton Memorial in Williamson Park that dominated the town.

  ‘Charlotte? It’s Charles. What can I do for you?’

  ‘Thank you for calling back.’ Her voice sounded partly relieved, partly agitated. ‘I have to see you, Charles. As soon as possible. It’s very important.’

  ‘Well, I’m just about to leave for home but I’ll be going straight out again once I’ve changed and won’t be back until late,’ he told her. ‘Can it wait until tomorrow evening? You can come round and have a drink.’

  ‘No…no, not at the house. Somewhere private.’

  He paused for a moment. ‘The house is private Charlotte.’

  ‘I don’t mean that, I mean…’ She caught her breath. ‘I mean I want to see you alone.’

  Carrington sat down and leaned across his desk. ‘Charlotte, what are you talking about?’ There was no reply. ‘Do you mean you want to see me without Jennifer?’

  ‘Yes.’

  There was a silence while he waited for her to continue. ‘Charlotte, what are you trying to say to me?’

  ‘You really don’t know?’

  ‘I’m not certain,’ he replied carefully. ‘But I want you to tell me. Now. On the phone.’

  She sighed very deeply. ‘Charles, you’re not making this any easier for me. You really have no idea what I want to talk about?’

  ‘Possibly, but I don’t want to jump to the wrong conclusion.’

  ‘Stop being a bloody lawyer! You know full well and fine why I’m ringing! Don’t you?’

  There was a silence as Carrington sat very still, then he reached forward and began to rotate the ridged wheels of the perpetual calendar on the desk in front of him.

  ‘I think you’re trying to tell me that Jennifer is having an affair.’ His voice was very bleak and his sense of the inevitable was mingled with a perverse relief.

  Charlotte Quinn’s voice sobbed down the line for a few moments before returning very faintly. ‘When did you know?’

  ‘Know?’ Carrington said. ‘I only know now. But I’ve suspected it for…what? Two months? There is one other thing you can tell me though. Who’s it with?’

  She sniffed then almost whispered her answer. ‘Duggie Lydden.’

  The calendar showed Tuesday May 38, 1947. Carrington stared at the insane date for several seconds, then began to spin one wheel slowly again, the day, month and date staying the same, the years rising until the little window showed 1999.

  ‘Charles? Are you still there?’

  ‘Yes.’ The voice was now a lifeless monotone. ‘I thought it had to be him, but…well, it doesn’t matter, but I think I’d have preferred it to be someone else.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘I was going home to change for a Masonic meeting in Carlisle,’ he replied. ‘But they’ll have to manage without me. I think I’d like to talk to you. Can you come to Carwelton Hall?’

  ‘What about Jennifer?’

  ‘She’s spending the day in Manchester and won’t be back until this evening.’

  ‘What time do you want me to be there?’

  ‘Four fifteen? I’ll be back by then and…’ Carrington hesitated. ‘And thank you, Charlotte, I appreciate how difficult this must have been for you.’

  ‘Oh, Christ, I should have told you before!’

  ‘That doesn’t matter. You’ve told me now and…I’ll see you in about an hour.’

  He rang off before she had time to say anything more and she held the receiver to her ear, listening to the dialling tone. Suddenly she felt weak and sat down abruptly. She had finally done what for so long had terrified her and she began to cry with relief. Charles’s first reaction had been that he wanted to talk to her; they had lost a lot of years, but there could still be more left when this was all sorted out and she had helped him through it.

  In his office, Carrington reached forward and corrected the calendar, as though needing the ability to restore something to normality. He left without speaking to his secretary and within minutes he was on the motorway and driving away from the city.

  As he made the half-hour journey to Attwater, cold numbness and disbelief that his suspicions had been proved gave way to a confusion of emotions. His lack of anger surprised him. He was unable to comprehend Lydden; to betray anyone so maliciously, particularly a friend who had helped you, was unimaginable behaviour. Towards Jennifer there was only a turmoil of feelings whirling through random memories. The first casual chat in his partner’s office; the flowers he had bought for her birthday a few weeks later; hesitantly kissing her for the first time; the shared laughter over their deception in that hotel register in Lytham St Annes. Then later the ridiculous joy of their wedding, his delight at taking her to Carwelton Hall as his wife and introducing her to his friends. Had countless private, personal incidents meant so little—perhaps nothing—to her? The image of her opening the door to Lydden while he was safely absent at work, taking him upstairs, letting him fondle her and crying in ecstasy as their bodies locked together in bed was so appalling that he had to thrust it from his mind.

  He left the motorway and drove through the villages to Carwelton Hall, stopping behind another vehicle in the drive. Glancing at it in surprise, he let himself in to what should have been an empty house. As he stepped through the door, there was a sound from the library across the hall and he walked towards it.

  In Manchester, Jennifer Carrington was selecting a new tie for her husband, asking the assistant if she could recommend somewhere nearby for a cup of tea before going on to a dress shop she knew in Timperley on the south side of the city. Among her shopping was the Kingsley Amis book she had boug
ht for him at Sherratt & Hughes.

  *

  Maltravers pulled the captain’s chair up in front of the fire and took the photocopy of the last, completely unexpected, genuine Sherlock Holmes story out of the envelope. He turned to the first page and began to read just as Charles Carrington entered the library of Carwelton Hall, stopping in bewilderment as he recognised the figure standing by the wall safe. There was a thundering explosion and more than a hundred and fifty shotgun pellets ripped his chest and abdomen to pieces. The force hurled him into the air like a marionette then he crashed to the floor on his back. From a pattern of wounds across the lower half of his face, tiny streams of blood began to trickle and the life went out of uncomprehending eyes. As he died, Maltravers grunted with contentment as the mystery of The Attwater Firewitch began to absorb him.

  AN ENCOUNTER AT BUSHELLS

  Unlike many of his contemporaries, Sherlock Holmes was not a frequenter of the London clubs, whose sociable facilities held little attractions for his solitary nature. However one such club—Bushells, just off the Victoria Embankment—marked the start of one of his last cases.

  We were taken there by Sir David Digby, Principal Under-Secretary at the Foreign Office, at the end of the day during which Holmes had resolved the Franco-Prussian crisis in the summer of 1890. His identification of watermarks on paper and knowledge of the chemical composition of inks had proved that the infamous Mannheim-Stern letters had been forged by a cell of anarchists working out of Hamburg and that the British Ambassador was innocent of any complicity with regard to the political assassinations which had shaken the Continent. Sir David’s relief and gratitude outweighed his amazement at my friend’s methods.

  ‘Mr Holmes,’ he said warmly. ‘Your achievement is nothing less than having preserved the peace of Europe. While the details can never be made public, Her Majesty’s Government owes you an immeasurable debt.’

  ‘Then I trust their gratitude will be reflected in their fee,’ Holmes remarked. ‘However, the matter is now resolved and, if you will excuse us, Watson and I wish to eat.’

  ‘As my guests,’ insisted Sir David. ‘Please accompany me to my club.’

  Holmes shrugged indifferently. He would have been as satisfied with a meal at the nearest artisans’ eating house as dinner at an establishment renowned throughout London. As we walked the short distance from Whitehall, he was in a withdrawn mood I knew well. The demands of an investigation having been met, his mind had relapsed into a condition of inertia. We dined well on Dover sole—then, as now, a speciality of Bushells—before retiring to the lounge. Sir David greeted several members as we walked through and many glanced with interest at the tall, gaunt figure of his companion. We sat by a window affording an angled view of the Thames at a table already occupied by another man to whom Sir David nodded.

  ‘Cedric Braithwaite,’ he explained, then turned to the other. ‘I need hardly introduce Mr Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson, but I can tell you, Braithwaite, that I have today been privileged to observe this gentleman’s powers at first hand and they are astounding indeed.’

  Braithwaite folded away his newspaper and regarded us with keen grey eyes. He was a well-built man of about forty years of age with a strong face, somewhat weather-beaten, and black wavy hair.

  ‘I envy you, Sir David. Like so many, I am only familiar with Mr Holmes’s exploits through the excellent accounts of Dr Watson.’

  I nodded in acknowledgement as he continued. ‘However, from reading those narratives Mr Holmes, it has occurred to me that the powers you utilise are not necessarily unique to yourself. We may all possess them, but lack the ability to use them.’

  Full of admiration for what Holmes had achieved that day, Sir David looked momentarily offended, but my friend spoke before he could utter any rebuke.

  ‘You are quite right, sir,’ he replied. ‘I have said as much to Watson. However few, if any, exploit such gifts and are therefore surprised when another does.’

  ‘Then might I put my theory to the test?’ Braithwaite enquired. ‘I would be interested if you would make any observations about myself and then grant me the opportunity of trying to follow your reasoning.’

  Holmes smiled. ‘Very well, and I in turn will be interested in the results. You are a widower and a member of the legal profession living in the north of England. You own a house with extensive grounds, which you assist to cultivate yourself, and own a large dog. This morning you rose early to come to London and have been closely occupied with whatever affairs brought you here since your arrival. I could add more, but that will suffice.’

  ‘Correct in every particular, Mr Holmes,’ Braithwaite replied.

  Sir David looked astounded and I, while very familiar with my friend’s abilities, was unable to see how he had correctly deduced so much. Holmes, now relaxed after a splendid meal and an encounter with stimulating company, placed his slender fingertips together.

  ‘Now, sir, you have your opportunity to demonstrate that you are not among the great mass of unobservant mankind.’

  ‘I would beg a moment for consideration,’ Braithwaite replied. ‘In you the gift is highly developed and you must allow for those in whom the skill is not so advanced.’

  He surveyed his own figure for a moment, then a look of realisation crossed his face.

  ‘I can follow you in part.’ He held out his right hand. ‘I wear my late wife’s wedding-ring. Were you sitting closer, you would observe it is scarcely worn. She died in childbirth less than a year after our wedding-day. That I am in this club indicates some probability that I am a lawyer but…ah, yes. From where you are sitting this document in my inside pocket with its distinctive red ribbon must be clearly visible. My accent betrays my northern origins, although surely I could possibly now live in London.

  ‘The callouses on my hands, hardly the result of court work, reveal my horticultural activities and I now perceive some hairs on the edge of my coat, which my dog left when I walked him this morning. He is a red setter and they show up against the dark cloth. I did rise early and have been very busy, but there you have the advantage of me.’

  Holmes turned to me. ‘You see, Watson? All possess what gifts I have, few employ them—unlike this gentleman.’

  He returned his attention to Braithwaite. ‘I think you would eventually follow my other conclusions given time. The creased and dusty appearance of your clothes indicates a long train journey, presumably from your native north country; that you have not had time to have them attended to shows you have been actively occupied since your arrival. As in so many instances, it is your shoes that are of interest. A slight amount of clay is adhering to them. Of late, the weather throughout Britain has been dry but, even in London, I have observed a heavy dew in the mornings. This would dampen the clay and make it stick, but only in the early hours.’

  ‘Incredible!’ Sir David exclaimed. ‘Although I am as impressed almost as much by your responses Braithwaite as by Mr Holmes’s original.’

  ‘Prosaic,’ Holmes contradicted then looked at Braithwaite keenly. ‘But would you perhaps care to repeat the operation in reverse?’

  Braithwaite laughed. ‘A most tempting offer! While we have been talking, certain points have occurred to me and I would welcome the opportunity. Very well. You also rose early and breakfasted in haste and some agitation. You spent the early hours in some location where the grass is long. For the rest of the time all your attentions were engaged upon an urgent matter. Dr Watson was with you in the morning, but I cannot speak for the afternoon. However, the doctor is now having second thoughts about his recent decision to change his hatter.’

  ‘Capital!’ Holmes rubbed his hands together in delight. ‘You are a man after my own heart, sir. Now let me see…yes, there is an egg stain on my lapel. Mrs Hudson had cooked breakfast and it seemed churlish to refuse to eat. My haste is self-evident. As for the rest…’ He looked down. ‘Ah, we are back with the morning dew which has left grass stains on the bottoms of my trousers. I spent th
e earliest part of the day in…I cannot be precise about the location, but a certain embassy in London has lackadaisical service in its grounds. My hands still carry ink stains picked up during the afternoon and the fact that I have not had time to remove them indicates the matter was pressing. We came straight here after the completion of the matter.

  ‘Watson’s trousers betray the same grass stains, however he was only present as an observer in the afternoon and there are no signs of what he was doing. I had intended remarking upon his unsatisfactory new hatter myself. The indentation around his forehead is still visible, even though he removed his bowler some time ago. Correct, I think?’

  ‘Naturally,’ Braithwaite replied with a bow. ‘I am honoured to have had the opportunity of matching my poor wits against yours. My legal work as a Crown Prosecutor means it is possible our professional paths could cross. If that were to occur, the challenge would be formidable.’

  ‘And I would need to be on my mettle, sir,’ Holmes exclaimed.

  ‘A compliment indeed,’ said Braithwaite. ‘Now, if you will forgive me, I must retire. I have to make an early start for my journey back to Westmorland tomorrow.’

  With a courteous nod to us all, he stood up and left the room.

  ‘Sir David, that gentleman’s company is the most entertaining I have enjoyed for some time,’ Holmes said heartily to our host. ‘I am grateful to you for introducing us. What do you know of him?’

  ‘Not a great deal,’ the Under-Secretary replied. ‘He operates on the northern circuit and stays at Bushells when in London, which is where we met. He lives in Meldred Hall near Kendal.’

  ‘I partly know the town,’ said Holmes. ‘I was engaged there once on an investigation which Watson found too pedestrian to include in his chronicles. A good deal of my work is of that nature, despite the impression given by his selection of the sensational or bizarre which he says have more appeal to his readers.’

  Holmes smiled at me slyly. ‘However, Sir David, the hour is late and it has been a long day. I must return to Baker Street.’