A Willing Victim (3 page)

‘Sounds as if they were quite pally. What was that you said earlier about a secret brotherhood, sir?’

Stratton grimaced. ‘Let’s just get on with it, shall we?’

Lloyd’s desk yielded a heavy book, like a ledger, in which were copied hundreds of aphorisms, none attributed.
In order to be what you are, you have to come out of what you are not
, Stratton read, and
Among thousands of men, one perchance strives for perfection; even among those who strive and are perfect, only one perchance knows
Me
in truth . . .

Some of them he recognised as biblical, but where the others might have come from, he had no idea. They were obviously meant to be inspirational or, he thought, to be sucked on like sweets, to offer comfort. ‘A real spiritual pick-and-mix.’

‘Spiritual junk shop, more like.’ Canning surveyed the room. ‘This is going to take all bloody day.’

After half an hour or so of fruitless pawing through the contents of the room, they heard a noise from downstairs, and a moment later PC Standish appeared in the doorway. ‘Someone come to see Mr Lloyd, sir. Padre.’

Relieved to abandon the airless chamber with its dusty clutter of scholarship, Stratton followed him down the stairs. The padre, whom Mrs Linder had ushered into her beaded and brocaded front parlour, turned out to be the visiting Catholic priest she’d mentioned to Canning. His church, popular with the female relatives of local Italian restaurateurs and coffee bar proprietors, was, Stratton recalled, dripping with gilt and crammed with garishly coloured statuettes. Elderly Father Shaw, small, gimlet-eyed, subfusc and drily unsentimental seemed, mercifully, to be the human opposite of the place of worship over which he presided. ‘I was concerned about Mr Lloyd, Inspector,’ he said, when Stratton asked the nature of his visit. ‘I wasn’t altogether sure that he
was right in the head. I’ve frequently observed that overmuch lay interest in theological matters can be a prelude to insanity.’

This, thought Stratton, perking up a bit, was admirably frank. ‘What form did it take?’ he asked.

‘Wanting to lecture me on points of doctrine, most of the time.’ Father Shaw sighed. ‘He was writing a book, you see. Or so he said.’

‘So I gather. We haven’t found it yet.’

‘He talked about it a great deal. Kept it in a briefcase – always carried it with him. I’m sure you’ll find the case in his room.’ Father Shaw shook his head sadly. ‘To be honest, I shouldn’t be in the least surprised if it turns out to be nothing more than random jottings.’

‘He attended your church regularly, did he?’

‘Oh, no. He came two or three times to mass, once for confession.’

‘So . . .’

‘So why visit him? I suppose, Inspector . . .’ Father Shaw stopped and considered, concentrating as if about to negotiate a tricky set of stepping stones in a fast-moving river. ‘I felt . . . responsible.’

‘Oh? Why was that?’

‘Well, for one thing, he was a convert to the Faith. In his youth. It does,’ he added wryly, ‘have a certain attraction for the artistic temperament.’

‘Do you mean,’ asked Stratton, straight-faced, ‘that he liked the . . . er . . . millinery?’

Father Shaw’s mouth twitched. ‘I believe that is sometimes a factor, but not, I think, in this case. Lloyd was never vain of his appearance. Certainly, he took pleasure in the ceremonial side, but I think the attraction was more to do with the traditions of the Catholic Church – learning and art and so forth. He’d aspired to the priesthood – unusual for a convert, but not unknown – but unfortunately he was deemed unsuitable.’

‘Why was that?’

‘I imagine – and he did not tell me this so anything I say must, of necessity, be mere conjecture – that it was because his interest was largely, at least on the surface, to do with dogma and a great deal to do with self-aggrandisement. Not that he wasn’t a kind person, and he certainly wasn’t selfish or concerned with material wealth, but I cannot imagine there would have been much interest in the
souls
of others, no fineness of purpose or vocation – and certainly not for missionary work. He was too argumentative, Inspector. Unstable. Difficult. The fact is that from an early age he believed himself to be marked out for great things. He said the mark had been put upon him – the port wine stain, you know.’ Father Shaw tapped a finger to his left cheek. ‘It surprised me that he could regard such an affliction as an indication of divine favour, but there it is. His parents, I understand, believed him to have some talent for music – the piano – and encouraged him, but, despite their paying for him to study at a conservatoire in France, it came to nothing. He was very bitter about this, and expressed the view that his teachers’ lack of appreciation for his talents was occasioned by jealousy and spite. It was after this disappointment that he turned his attention to religion.’

‘And what happened after he was rejected for the priesthood?’

‘Some form of mental breakdown, apparently. He said little about it other than that he’d absconded from the sanatorium where he was being treated.’

‘Where did he go?’

‘I’m not sure. He told me he’d been taken in by people who’d cared for him, but not their names. He mentioned Ambrose Tynan,’ Father Shaw winced as if he’d bitten on a bad tooth, ‘the novelist. Said Tynan had helped him a great deal – giving him books, introducing him to like-minded people and so on . . . I’m not sure about the . . . degree . . . of friendship – to be honest, I thought he might have exaggerated it in order to make himself
seem important, but I can’t say it was the sort of connection I’d have encouraged.’

‘Why not?’

Father Shaw pursed his lips. ‘Those books of his . . . Sensationalist nonsense.’

‘Did Lloyd go in for black magic and that sort of thing?’

‘Oh, no. But his interest was rather too . . . wide-ranging, shall we say. Lacking in coherence.’

‘I can’t imagine that many people would take Tynan’s books seriously,’ said Stratton, hoping to God that Lloyd hadn’t.

‘I don’t suppose so, but in poor Jeremy’s case . . .’ Father Shaw sighed heavily.

‘Easily influenced, was he?’

‘Yes, I’d say so. He wanted to find a meaning in everything, Inspector, and that was the sort of thing that attracted him. I told him that faith is – or ought to be – a simple matter.’ Father Shaw looked weary, and Stratton imagined that he must be recalling a series of long and exhausting wrangles over everything from the more obscure points of theological dogma to the meaning of life.

‘Did he mention any family?’

‘Estranged, I’m afraid. His parents had made little difficulty about his conversion, but they were adamantly opposed to his joining the priesthood. When his rejection was followed by nervous trouble, they – understandably, if inaccurately – blamed the Church. It was they who placed him in the sanatorium. He didn’t contact them afterwards. This was, I believe, nine or ten years ago, and I learnt recently that both parents have since died.’

‘Who told you this?’

‘His aunt. I was most anxious that he should be reunited with his family and begged him for the name of a relative with whom I could correspond – neither of us knew at that point that the
parents were dead. He refused to contact his aunt himself, but he gave me her address and I wrote to her.’

‘What was his response when you told him of his parents’ deaths?’

Father Shaw’s face was a drooping mixture of kindness and despondency that made Stratton think of a solitary raindrop making its slow way down a windowpane. ‘I never had the chance,’ he said. ‘I wrote to Mrs Prentice – Lloyd’s aunt – last week, and received the answer this morning. That’s why I came today. She was most concerned about him. The family solicitor had been trying to contact him to deliver a bequest from his parents, but to no avail, and Mrs Prentice asked me to pass on this information. I have the letter here.’ He reached into his jacket pocket and passed a square of lavender-coloured notepaper, folded in four, to Stratton. Opening it, he saw an address in Roehampton written in uncertain, arthritic handwriting in the top right-hand corner.

‘Thank you. We’ll contact her. However, as she won’t have seen her nephew for some years, I wonder if you might be able to provide identification . . . ?’

‘Of the body? Of course, Inspector. And I would welcome the opportunity to say a prayer, if I may.’

Seeing that the clergyman was about to rise, Stratton said, ‘Before you leave, can you tell me if Mr Lloyd had any enemies that you know of?’

‘Specifically, no. I’m afraid, when he spoke of enemies, I considered it to be a symptom of his rather, shall we say,
inflated
view of himself. Enemies of Truth, he called them. I should have questioned him more closely about them, but . . .’ Father Shaw’s eyes flicked momentarily upwards, ‘I did not take him entirely seriously. I should have been more vigilant, because one of these enemies caused his death, didn’t they, Inspector?’

Harry Wintle turned up for his lunch as Stratton and Canning were going through the contents of Lloyd’s meagre wardrobe. Leaving Canning examining a threadbare jacket that smelt strongly of camphor, Stratton interviewed Wintle in his room. Around thirty, stout and ham-faced, dressed in paint-splashed overalls and steel-capped boots, with a grubby bandage wound inexpertly round the end of one finger, he’d received the news of his fellow lodger’s demise with violent raisings of his eyebrows and huffing noises made through pursed lips, accompanied by bulging cheeks. After a moment, clearly feeling that he’d reacted enough, he turned his back on Stratton and set about heating up a tin of tomato soup on his solitary gas ring.

‘Can’t say I knew him well. We didn’t have a lot in common, did we?’

Looking round Wintle’s spartan accommodation, which was entirely devoid of books and decorated exclusively with film stars torn from magazines with ‘come hither’ eyes and breasts jutting provocatively from swimsuits or low-cut gowns, Stratton had to agree. ‘Did he tell you that he was writing a book?’

‘Told everyone. Kept it in a briefcase, didn’t he? Pages and pages in there . . . you never saw him without it. Never showed
me, though, or anyone else so far as I know. Wouldn’t surprise me if the whole lot was blank.’

‘Why do you say that?’ asked Stratton, remembering what Father Shaw had said.

‘He was a bit of a crank, wasn’t he? Harmless enough, though, and he’d have given you his last penny if you’d asked. Can’t see why anyone would have wanted to do away with him. For one thing, he never went out, and he never saw anyone, either, unless you count that padre.’ Judging from his expression, Wintle clearly didn’t. Then he frowned, and peered into his saucepan as if seeking inspiration – or perhaps confirmation – before adding, ‘I did think something might have scared him, though.’

‘Why?’

Wintle glared at the soup again, so intently and for so long that Stratton half expected a miniature hand with a sword to rise out of the viscous orange puddle, then said, ‘He give me a photograph, didn’t he? It’s on there.’ He jerked his head towards the mantelpiece, where, among a litter of string, tools, a half-bald shaving brush and a cracked saucer, was a large brown envelope. There was no writing on it, and it looked new.

Inside was a photograph of a very attractive woman who looked to be about twenty-five, standing on a lawn, with part of a tree – Stratton could see the white candelabra of a horse chestnut – and the corner of what looked like a large building behind her. Turning it over, Stratton saw the initials
L.R
. written on the back. ‘Did he tell you who she was?’

‘No. And I’d remember if I’d seen her. Smasher, ain’t she?’

She certainly was, and looked as if she knew it. Dark-haired, with sculpted features and enormous eyes, black and liquid, there was an assured sexiness about her that, despite the demure frock, rivalled the flashier beauties on Wintle’s walls.

‘Did he say anything about her at all?’

Wintle shook his head. ‘Just that I was to keep it. Then he said
I might not see him again. When I asked if he was leaving he just said he’d try to contact me. “In another way” was what he said. Then he went off back to his room.’

‘He said he’d try to contact you in another way?’

‘Those exact words. I didn’t know what he was on about, unless he meant a letter, because there’s no telephone in this house. To be honest, I didn’t think nothing more of it. He was always a bit mysterious – acting like he’d got some secret the rest of us didn’t know . . . Like I said, a crank. Come to think of it, that was the last time I saw him.’

‘When was that?’

‘Couple of days ago. Hold up . . . Saturday, it was. I remember that because it’s the day I did this.’ He held up the bandaged finger. ‘Got a splinter, didn’t I? Big bugger. I was trying to get it out when he come in, so I didn’t pay too much attention . . . Still in there, some of it, and now it hurts like hell.’

‘Were you here last night?’

Wintle nodded. ‘Wasn’t back till, oooh . . . half past eleven, twelve, something like that. Took my girl out, didn’t I? She thinks I ought to see the doctor about this.’ He cradled his injured finger in the other hand. ‘I was working in a place where they’ve had horses and she’s worried about tetanus.’

Stratton took the photograph downstairs, where he found Father Shaw still there, sitting with a baleful-looking Mrs Linder. He was obviously attempting to comfort her, although Stratton thought that by the looks of him it should have been the other way round. Neither of them recognised the woman, and nor, when he went up to Mrs Hendry’s garret, did she. PC Canning, having given the photograph a careful once-over and a low whistle, told him that he hadn’t come across any photographs in Lloyd’s room at all, nor any reference to a name with the initials L.R.

‘What about a briefcase?’ said Stratton. ‘Or anything that looks like a manuscript?’

‘Nothing like that, sir. I’ve looked everywhere – the only place left is under the bed.’

‘Fair enough.’ Stratton got down on his knees and lifted up the edge of the candlewick bedspread, where he found a pair of dirty sheets, rolled up, and a large wooden box with a padlock.