After the Exhibition: A Jack Haldean 1920s Mystery (A Jack Haldean Mystery) (29 page)

‘M’yes,’ agreed Bill in a dissatisfied way.

‘Or he might have planned to tell him at a later date, of course. After all, old Lythewell didn’t expect to die. Don’t forget John Askern took matters into his own hands by bumping him off.’

‘Which is,’ said Bill, rubbing his hands together, ‘something I’ve now got concrete evidence to prove. Those letters Mrs Askern gave you really are dynamite. I’m thoroughly looking forward to seeing Sir Douglas tomorrow.’

‘When are you going to tell Mr Lythewell?’

‘I just don’t know,’ Bill admitted frankly. ‘That’s a decision for Sir Douglas to make. We’ve still got a murder investigation on our hands.’ He waved a hand at the papers on the floor. ‘All this has been fascinating and I honestly can’t congratulate you enough, Jack, but d’you think it has any bearing on Askern’s murder?’

Jack lit another cigarette. ‘It’s difficult to see how it can have. On the other hand, it’s so much money that I really do find it intrusive.’

‘The root of all evil, eh?’

‘More or less,’ agreed Jack. He was about to say more but was interrupted by the shrill ring of the telephone.

With a muttered excuse, Bill picked up the receiver. ‘It’s the chemists, Johnson and Cooke,’ he whispered to Jack, clamping his hand over the phone. ‘They’ve got the results of the analysis of the metal shavings. Yes,’ he said loudly into the receiver, ‘I can pass a message on to Major Haldean.’

Jack saw Bill’s expression alter during the brief conversation. ‘Are you sure? No doubt at all. None whatsoever … I see. Thank you.’

Bill replaced the receiver on its hook and stared sightlessly in front of him for a few moments.

‘Bill?’ prompted Jack. ‘Bill? What is it?’

Bill turned to face him. ‘I’m sorry, old man,’ he said sympathetically. ‘I was sure you were right. I still am sure you got the meaning of that wretched poem worked out correctly, but …’

‘But
what?
’ demanded Jack.

Bill shook his head. ‘Somehow or other, you’ve got it wrong.’ He smiled wryly. ‘I’m sorry to tell you this but the metal’s not platinum but aluminium. And, I’m afraid, it’s absolutely worthless.’

The two men said nothing for a few moments. Outside, the sound of the traffic in Russell Square seemed to get louder as the silence continued, then Jack shook his head with a weary laugh. ‘Game, set and match to old Pop Lythewell,’ he said, going to the sideboard. ‘You don’t mind if I have another, do you?’ he asked, his hand on the whisky decanter.

‘Go ahead, Jack. You deserve it, you poor beggar.’ Bill walked to the sideboard and put a friendly hand on his shoulder. ‘You can give me a top-up, too. But why the devil would old Lythewell go to all that trouble to direct his son to a worthless piece of junk? You’re right about the flagstones and the sonnet. You just have to be right.’ He shook his head wonderingly. ‘I don’t suppose that picture of the chantry – the inlaid picture – lifts out, does it? And the real treasure is hidden underneath?’

‘What, like a coal-hole cover, you mean?’ Jack clicked his tongue. ‘We could look, I suppose, but I don’t honestly think it does. I was looking for a concealed hiding place, you see. That was my first thought. I was pretty pleased with myself when I worked out that the chantry picture itself was the treasure. Only it’s not, of course.’ He sighed deeply. ‘Ah well, at least you don’t have to worry about what you tell Mr Lythewell. We can hardly roll up and say, “Excuse me, we’ve found this wonderful hidden treasure of your father’s that everyone’s talked about for years. By the way, it’s worth about fourpence to a scrap-metal merchant.”’

‘He wouldn’t be very impressed, I agree,’ said Bill. He twisted his head round to read the last line of the sonnet from the paper on the carpet. ‘“The church is your true and worthy treasure”
.
Maybe he’s talking about eternal life, after all. Maybe he meant that the church, the chantry itself, I mean, is the treasure?’

‘In that case, why direct us so precisely to the engraved slab? And where does the “true metal” come into the picture? The chantry’s made of brick, not metal.’

‘That’s a thought,’ said Bill. ‘Actually …’ He frowned. ‘Jack, there’s a metal statue on top of the tomb, isn’t there? Could that be made of something precious?’

‘Not by old Lythewell, it wasn’t. That was Daniel Lythewell’s handiwork. I’ve heard Henry Cadwallader wax lyrical on the topic.’

‘Henry Cadwallader,’ murmured Bill. ‘Jack, I know he’s about a hundred and ninety and as mad as a hatter, but he was young once. He seems to spend his life in the chantry and he’s an artist. Could he have cottoned on to what the slab was, levered it up, and made a replica to go in its place?’

‘What, interfere with his beloved Mr Lythewell’s handiwork and go against his wishes, you mean? I don’t honestly think he would, Bill. He’s as nutty as a fruit cake and fairly tapped on the subject of the late J. Lythewell, but I think he’s honest enough.’ He shook his head. ‘No. I’ll have a look to see if the chantry picture is the entrance to a hiding place, but I don’t think it is.’ He drank his whisky and grinned ruefully. ‘At least it’s not my treasure I was hunting. That really would be annoying.’

The next morning, Jack finished his bacon and eggs whilst reading the account in the
Daily Messenger
by his old pal, Ernest Stanhope, of the arrest of one Nathan Ormskirk, a builder from Ardwick, Manchester, for murdering his wife. He cast his mind back. Mrs Ormskirk had been the body in the trunk found at Euston Station, hadn’t she? Apparently not. Mr Ormskirk, it was alleged, as Stanhope was careful to phrase it, had incorporated Mrs Ormskirk into the foundations of a new public convenience in Deansgate.

That, thought Jack, was interesting. He took his breakfast coffee over to the desk by the window and pinned up on the wall, where the sunlight caught it, the drawing of Josiah Lythewell Mr Cadwallader had copied for him yesterday. Then he picked out from the bookshelf the printed history of Lythewell and Askern he had taken from John Askern’s house.

He was just about to open the book when the telephone rang.

‘Jack?’ It was Bill. His voice was urgent. ‘I’ve got news. There’s been another murder. Henry Cadwallader’s been found dead in the chantry.’

It was as if time stood still. The sunlight still shone on Cadwallader’s drawing of Josiah Lythewell, the drawing he had copied with such pride. It was only yesterday …

‘Jack? Are you there?’ demanded Bill.

Jack shook himself. ‘Henry Cadwallader’s been murdered, you say?’

‘Yes. Mrs Askern found him.’

At least it wasn’t Betty Wingate this time, thought Jack with a surge of relief.

‘I don’t know anything more than that,’ continued Bill. ‘Can you get away? Now, I mean?’

‘Yes, of course. Do you want me to drive you down?’

‘Thanks, Jack. It’ll probably be quicker than the train. Can you pick me up at the Yard?’

‘I’ll be there as fast as I can.’

On the drive down, Bill brought Jack up to date with what he knew, which wasn’t, as he admitted, very much.

Daphne Askern had gone into the chantry early that morning. The time, as nearly as she could judge, must’ve been about quarter to nine. ‘And what,’ said Bill, ‘she was doing in there, I don’t know.’

‘I met her in there yesterday,’ said Jack. ‘That’s when she told me about the letters. She said she’d visited the chantry a lot recently. She’d been thinking about John Askern and old Lythewell.’

‘I see – or I think I do, anyway. Incidentally, Jack, Sir Douglas sends his congratulations to you on getting hold of those letters. It doesn’t explain Askern’s murder, but it fills in some very valuable background detail. Anyway, Mrs Askern went into the chantry and there was Cadwallader, as stiff as a board.’

‘He was murdered, was he? He hadn’t just keeled over?’

Bill shook his head. ‘By the sound of things, there was blood everywhere. He’d had a wallop to the back of his head. And that’s more or less all I know. The local police are meeting me at the chantry, together with the Whimbrell Heath doctor and a photographer. I just hope they’ve had enough sense to leave everything well alone until I get there.’

They were greeted at the door of the chantry by none other than the Chief Constable himself, Commander Pattishall, a grey-haired, broad-shouldered, ex-naval officer, whose beard and moustache gave him the look of King George the Fifth. He was accompanied by a Dr Oxenhall and a twitchy young man called Clough, the town photographer.

‘I’ve arranged for the body to be removed by the local undertakers in about an hour or so,’ said Commander Pattishall. ‘Dr Oxenhall’s agreed to perform the post-mortem.’

Bill nodded. ‘What about Mrs Askern? Where is she now?’

‘Mrs Askern’s being looked after by Mrs Lythewell at Whimbrell House. I’ve already had a word with her, of course, poor lady. I’m afraid it’s going to be some time before you can question her.’ He cocked an eyebrow at the doctor. ‘I had to insist, but you weren’t overly keen on me having a word, eh, Oxenhall?’

Dr Oxenhall shook his head. ‘Mrs Askern was very distressed. Coming on top of Mr Askern’s death, this has been a severe shock to her. I thought it best to give her a sleeping draught.’

‘She didn’t have very much to tell us, in any case,’ put in Commander Pattishall, seeing Bill’s politely unexpressed but obvious annoyance. ‘She came into the chantry shortly before nine this morning, saw Henry Cadwallader’s body, screamed and ran for help to the nearest place she could think of, which is Whimbrell House. Mr and Mrs Lythewell were at breakfast. Mrs Lythewell took care of Mrs Askern and Mr Lythewell telephoned Colin Askern. Together the two men came into the chantry and saw Cadwallader’s body. They locked the chantry and telephoned the police from Whimbrell House. In view of the gravity of the situation, the local man got in touch with me right away. I called Sir Douglas Lynton and here we are.’

‘Do you know if Mr Lythewell or Colin Askern touched anything?’ asked Bill.

‘Nothing more than they could help, apparently. Naturally enough, they ascertained whether poor Cadwallader really was dead, but there wasn’t much doubt about it, I’m afraid, as you’ll see for yourself. I’ve had a look inside, of course, but I left things exactly as they were.’

‘Was the chantry open?’ asked Jack. ‘When Mrs Askern arrived, I mean?’

‘I asked her that,’ said the Commander. ‘She unlocked it with her own key. Anyway,’ he added, smoothing his moustache, ‘I did a little detective work on my own account. Cadwallader had a house in Pincer Lane off Bridge Street, the main street in the village. He lived alone, but a local woman, a Mrs Treadmire, came in and did for him, as the expression is. I’ve spoken to her. She went in twice a day. Once in the morning, to get his breakfast and to clean and wash up and prepare lunch, and again in the early evening to prepare his evening meal, which she’d leave in the oven for him. Cadwallader had a fairly set routine. He was always up at seven, breakfast at eight, and then would either work in his studio, which is at the back of the house, or come here, to the chantry. He’d have his evening meal at six o’clock or so. He’d recently taken to coming back here in the evenings. He wasn’t a communicative man, but Mrs Treadmire says he was excited about a painting he was working on.’

‘That’s right,’ agreed Jack. ‘He spoke to me about it when I last saw him. It was a painting of the chantry. Did he come here last night?’

‘Apparently so, yes. He’d eaten his evening meal but she thinks he must’ve gone out after that and not returned. He invariably had a nightcap of whisky and hot water before he went to bed, but he didn’t last night.’

‘So it looks as if Cadwallader was killed after six o’clock yesterday evening,’ said Bill. ‘You’ll be able to tell us more about that, Doctor.’

‘I haven’t seen him yet,’ said Dr Oxenhall. ‘I’ve been too taken up with Mrs Askern and the other ladies. This business has bowled everyone over. Mrs Lythewell is terribly upset, of course, and so’s Lythewell’s niece, Miss Wingate.’

Commander Pattishall cleared his throat in what Jack could only think of as a marked manner. ‘I understand that it was Miss Wingate who actually discovered John Askern’s body in London?’

‘That’s right, sir,’ agreed Bill.

The Commander’s brow furrowed into a series of straight lines. ‘And it was Miss Wingate who reported the supposed murder of Signora Bianchi, wasn’t it?’

‘Yes, sir. That incident is still under investigation.’

The Commander’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Really? Considering Signora Bianchi is alive and kicking, I wouldn’t have thought there was much to investigate.’ He stroked his moustache into place. ‘Still, no doubt you know your own business best.’ He paused with his hand on the chantry door. ‘It’s interesting how that young woman, Miss Wingate, seems to crop up, isn’t it?’

His meaning was unmistakable, but Jack, with great restraint, refrained from saying anything.

‘Shall we go in?’ asked the Commander, and opened the chantry door. ‘It all looks pretty normal at first, if you can call this place normal. I’ve passed it by hundreds of times, but I’ve never been inside before. Quite extraordinary place. Lythewell and Askern have always been a most well-respected firm, as indeed are the two senior partners themselves. Mr Askern will be a sad loss as he was a very well-thought-of man, but I really do think that old Mr Lythewell must’ve been a little eccentric, to say the least. I never knew him, of course, as he was long before my time.’

He led the way into the main body of the chantry where, sprawled across the empty tomb, lay the body of Henry Cadwallader. His arms were flung wide and the back of his head was matted and dark with blood.

Bill turned to the photographer. ‘I’ll tell you what I need photos of later, Mr Clough. Just keep clear until I say otherwise, yes?’

The photographer, who’d taken one look at Cadwallader’s body, gulped ominously and retreated hastily to a pew at the back.

The doctor drew his breath in sharply and, clearly nerving himself, took his thermometer out and feeling under Cadwallader’s jacket slipped it under his arm. ‘The body’s completely rigid,’ he remarked. ‘That ties in with the idea he was killed after six o’clock last night.’