An Unholy Shame Page 20

  ‘Hmm. And we already know that Celia Gordon’s church is in a wealthy and upper crust area,’ Jason reminded her. ‘And Clive went to a public school, you’ll notice.’ He tapped the piece of paper listing Clive Simmond’s CV.

  ‘I dare say that’s how he could afford his habit,’ Flora said bitterly. ‘Mummy and daddy kept him in funds.’

  ‘No wonder Sir Andrew opposed the marriage so fiercely,’ Jason said, real pity in his voice now. ‘What father wants his daughter to marry a drug addict?’

  ‘He was supposed to be clean, sir,’ Flora pointed out the social reports on Clive Simmonds, but without much enthusiasm. ‘Drug rehab, regular doctor’s check-ups. His family were convinced he was cured. So, obviously, was Sandra Jane Courtenay.’

  Jason said nothing. No doubt, Sir Andrew too had had his doubts. He’d even disinherited Sandra in an attempt to make her see reason. And still she’d married her drug addict. In Celia Gordon’s church. With Celia Gordon presiding.

  ‘Let’s go,’ he said grimly, leading the way, not to Sir Andrew’s study, as she’d expected, but to the kitchens.

  There all was organized bedlam, not surprising when Flora realized how close it was to dinner time. The smells were delicious, the staff harried, but Jason ignored it all. He beckoned Rory Blundell across to him. The head chef cast the two police officers an impatient and jaundiced look, but turned away from the hollandaise sauce he was overseeing and met them in the doorway. He glanced at his watch speakingly.

  Jason ignored him. ‘Can you tell me if it’s usual for Sir Andrew to be in and out of the kitchens often during the course of a normal working day?’ he asked, his voice bland and casual, but causing shivers of unease to ripple through the chef.

  ‘I suppose so,’ Rory Blundell said reluctantly.

  ‘Was he in and out on Saturday?’

  ‘Yes,’ the reply was terse in the extreme. ‘But I never saw him near the sponges, if that’s what you’re after,’ he added aggressively.

  Jason had expected the belligerence and didn’t take offence. ‘Of course not, you’d have told us at once if you had, wouldn’t you?’ he agreed mildly.

  Rory didn’t bat an eyelash. ‘Anything else? As you can see, I’m busy.’

  Jason shook his head and felt the chef’s eyes boring into his back as he turned and pushed open the swing doors.

  This time he went to the squire’s study and knocked loudly. After a moment he heard a summons and pushed open the door. Sir Andrew was seated behind his desk, listlessly fingering a paper knife. He looked up dully as they walked in and motioned them to a pair of chairs, then nodded towards the drinks cabinet. ‘Sherry? Port?’

  ‘No thank you, Sir Andrew.’ Jason sat down, and got straight to the point.

  ‘Is it true that Celia Gordon was the vicar who married your daughter Sandra Jane to Clive Simmonds nearly three years ago?’

  Sir Andrew slowly nodded. He didn’t look surprised, or make any startled movement. He didn’t even look annoyed. ‘Yes. She not only married them, she actively encouraged Sandra in her choice of groom. His parents were cronies of hers, or so I understood. The Simmonds are big in Bath apparently,’ he added with a strange, sad smile.

  ‘And you knew all this?’ Jason prompted, not angry, but not elated either.

  ‘Of course,’ he shrugged, as if it was all so unimportant now. ‘In the beginning, when she first announced her engagement, Sandra and I were still speaking. It was only after I learned about Clive and saw for myself what kind of a useless and dangerous bastard he was, that I put my foot down. Sandra pointed out how respectable his family was and how even their vicar spoke up for him. Sandra thought that Reverend Gordon was … well, she looked up to her. Admired her,’ Sir Andrew said helplessly. ‘What could I do?’

  ‘I see. And Celia Gordon took Sandra’s part when you objected to the marriage?’

  Sir Andrew nodded. ‘Oh Yes. She would, wouldn’t she? The Simmonds were significant donors to her various pet projects and they saw their son’s marriage as another, vital step towards getting him to “settle down” and keep on the straight and narrow.’

  ‘I see. So you were lying when you said you’d never met her?’ Jason accused, wondering what he’d say to this.

  But Sir Andrew merely sat there, looking at him in a vaguely puzzled way. ‘Did I say that?’

  Flora stirred restlessly beside her boss.

  ‘Sir Andrew, I think at this point, I should warn you …’ and Jason recited the legal warnings he was duty-bound to give when questioning a suspect. Flora very carefully wrote it all down. Sir Andrew listened to the warning in silence. He didn’t look particularly alarmed. Nor even interested. As he made no demur, Jason carried on quickly, before he had a chance to change his mind.

  ‘Sir Andrew, did you blame Celia Gordon for encouraging your daughter to marry Clive Simmonds?’

  ‘Of course I did.’

  Even Jason was a bit surprised by this blank admission. Did the man have no conception of how bad this all sounded for him? ‘And you resented her even more for performing the ceremony?’

  ‘Yes. I wasn’t present at the wedding, naturally, but I heard it was quite a social event in the city.’

  Jason was getting a bit worried about Sir Andrew’s attitude. His voice was absolutely toneless. It was like talking to a robot. And the way he kept turning the paper knife over and over in his hands was also distracting and worrying. Jason would have bet any amount of money that the squire wasn’t even aware that he had anything in his hands. He began to wonder if he should call in a medic of some kind; someone with specialist psychiatric experience – or the police surgeon at the very least. On the other hand he didn’t want to interrupt the momentum of the interview.

  ‘Did you know that Celia Gordon was among those invited to this particular conference, Sir Andrew?’ he asked, and tensed, thinking that surely now the man would put up some kind of defence. But it didn’t happen.

  ‘Yes. They always send me a guest list in advance. It helps us to make sure everything runs more smoothly,’ Sir Andrew explained patiently.

  Jason glanced at Flora, reassured to see that she was getting it all down.

  ‘And how far in advance were you aware of Celia Gordon’s imminent arrival? A few days?’

  ‘Something like that,’ Sir Andrew agreed. He was looking straight at the Chief Inspector as he spoke, but Jason had the uncomfortable feeling that he wasn’t seeing him at all. Perhaps it was shock? Some murderers, when confronted with the sudden possibility of being found out, went into a kind of numb disbelief.

  ‘So you knew Celia Gordon was due to come to your home. By your own admission you hated her and blamed her for your daughter’s death. Is that so?’

  Sir Andrew sighed heavily. ‘If it hadn’t been for Celia Gordon, Sandra might not have married that bastard. I might have been able to bring her around. She never was very strong-willed, you know. If she’d had less support from those around her at the time …’ Sir Andrew shrugged helplessly again.

  ‘And on the Saturday morning, the first full day of the conference, were you present when the waiter who’d served Celia Gordon commented on her being allergic to nuts?’ Jason asked.

  And then at last – and for the first time – he saw something flicker in the squire’s eyes besides indifference. Sir Andrew Courtenay seemed to stiffen, just slightly in his chair. His eyes widened a little in surprise. ‘Sorry?’ he said, his voice definitely holding a note of surprise now. ‘Was I what?’

  Jason was glad the monotone was gone, even if it did signal the possible end to Sir Andrew’s obliging answers. ‘Did you know that the Reverend Celia Gordon was allergic to peanuts?’ Jason repeated clearly.

  Sir Andrew flushed a slow, creeping tide of red. His mouth opened, but no sound came out.

  ‘I understand you’re in and out of the kitchens all day,’ Jason pushed on. ‘You were in the dining hall that morning. The morning Celia Gordon rather loudly proclaimed her fatal alle
rgy to nuts. Did you know about that, Sir Andrew?’ Jason demanded, being careful to keep his voice clear and calm.

  Sir Andrew’s flushed face paled to a strained greyish-yellow. His look went from the scribbling Flora to her superior, back to Flora and then finally rested on Jason. ‘Bloody hell,’ he gasped. ‘You think I killed her?’

  He sounded absurdly surprised.

  ‘Please answer the question, Sir Andrew,’ Jason said ignoring the shaft of worry that was now slithering down his spine. He reminded himself that the squire might be a brilliant actor, or that the stunned disbelief was indeed real, but not as a result of his innocence, but just at his inability to believe that Jason would have the temerity to accuse one of his rank of murder.

  ‘I think,’ Sir Andrew said, beginning to sound angry and just a little shaken, ‘that I shall take your earlier advice and have a solicitor present.’

  And with that he reached for the phone.

  Beside him, Jason heard Flora sigh with regret and realized that his sergeant, at least, had no doubts that they’d got their man, even if she was sympathetic towards him. And who could blame her for that belief? Sir Andrew had a proper motive. He’d had plenty of time to plan the killing, or if not plan it, at least to work himself up into a state whereby he’d be ready and willing to commit the ultimate crime. He’d had access to the kitchens. In fact, it all fitted nicely into place.

  So what was wrong with it?

  Because Jason, instead of feeling relief at having a prime suspect and some real hard evidence to build on at last, was beginning to feel downright uneasy.

  ‘I think you should ask your solicitor to meet you at the police station in Kidlington, sir,’ Jason said, interrupting the squire’s terse conversation on the telephone, and standing up slowly. Although he had enough to go on to charge Sir Andrew then and there, he rather thought he’d leave it until they got to Thames Valley HQ.

  Besides, he needed to have a word with his own superiors. It didn’t take a genius to know that they were not going to like this.

  Any of it.

  That night the killer prepared for bed in a state of near exhaustion and emotional collapse. It needed an extraordinary display of iron clad self control and will power to carry on and look as if everything was all right.

  How could things have gone so wrong again? It was almost as if Divine providence … No, I mustn’t think like that. I mustn’t be defeatist.

  I just have to try again, that’s all. The conference will break up soon, so it has to be tomorrow. And this time, it can’t be anything fancy. I’m just going to have to get the job done, whatever it takes.

  As the killer climbed into bed, mind whirling, time seemed to drag as a feverish, desperate mind dreamt up scenarios and was forced to disregard them.

  How can I do it? When? With what?

  The task ahead loomed as large as a mountain, but it was impossible to plan anything specific. And as the hours dragged, the killer realized that it simply boiled down to watching and waiting for an opportunity.

  And the determination to succeed, no matter what the risk.

  Tuesday morning and Heyford Bassett awoke to a storm of disbelief and dismay. Phyllis Cox, the owner of the village shop was, as always, first with the news and soon the entire village had learned of the arrest of Sir Andrew Courtenay for the murder of Celia Gordon.

  Graham came back with the news grim-faced and tight-lipped, and told Monica all about it.

  ‘But Graham, they can’t,’ she said, aghast. ‘I mean, well, obviously they can, but … why?’

  Graham shook his head worriedly. ‘Phyllis hadn’t got all the details. Give her time,’ he added wryly.

  Monica sat down with a bump onto the settee and shook her head. Sir Andrew? She’d never even considered him. He wasn’t even on her mental list of possible suspects. Suddenly she was aware of how big the gulf must be between what she knew, guessed, surmised or suspected, and what the police must know.

  Could it be possible?

  There was nothing, really, apart from her shock and natural disinclination to believe it, that said that Sir Andrew wasn’t the killer. And unless she came up with a better theory, and one, moreover, that could be proved, who was to say that the police hadn’t got their man?

  Graham watched his wife’s face, seeing the shadows and thoughts flickering behind her lovely blue eyes and sighed. He knew that she wanted to be alone to think. And he didn’t doubt that his wife could think very well indeed when she needed to.

  ‘I’ll be in the study,’ he said quietly. There was nothing for him to do right now. Sir Andrew had no immediate family in need of support or counselling, and the last thing Graham wanted at this point, especially considering his own role in the affair, was to get under Jason’s feet.

  Jason was, at that moment, sitting in the murder room, moodily watching some constables packing things away.

  Last night he’d laid all the facts before his immediate superior, who’d had a hurried phone call with his superior, and had finally been told to go ahead and make the formal arrest. Jason had done so, in the presence of Sir Andrew’s grim-faced lawyer. The squire was to be up before the courts later on that day in an effort to obtain bail. Jason supposed he’d have to be there, but had already decided to wriggle out of it and delegate that privilege to a junior. Delegation was one of the few perks that went with a promotion, as he’d quickly discovered.

  Besides, if nothing else, there were still some loose ends that he needed to tidy up here. Not least of which was the manuscript/calligraphy expert’s report on the St Bede’s manuscript.

  All Sir Andrew’s legal team needed to find out was that the police had another hot suspect, with another compelling motive, and all legal hell would be let loose. Besides, Jason still wasn’t sure that they had the right man. Not that he’d be willing to say so out loud.

  ‘Sir, Professor Carter is here,’ Flora said, walking in then stepping aside to allow a surprisingly young-looking man to precede her.

  He rose and held out his hand. ‘‘Professor Carter.’

  ‘Are you Chief Inspector Dury? The man I spoke to on the phone yesterday?’ He glanced around the office-cum-country-house-study and smiled rather sadly. ‘Nice place this. Never met Sir Andrew,’ he added vaguely.

  ‘Did you get a chance to study the manuscript last night, Professor Carter?’ Jason asked, in no mood for pleasantries.

  ‘Yes indeed. A most remarkable forgery,’ he said at once, watching the Chief Inspector closely for his reaction.

  Jason nodded. ‘I see,’ he said keeping his face bland. ‘You’re sure of course?’ he asked smoothly.

  ‘Oh as sure as I can be without the chemical analysis to back it up. But I have no doubts whatsoever that the tests will eventually confirm my findings. The forgery is first class, mind you, but I have no doubts at all that it is a forgery. You can have a full written report in due course, naturally.’

  Jason, not wanting to have to field any awkward questions, rose quickly to his feet. ‘Well, thank you very much for doing this on such short notice, Professor. I hope it hasn’t inconvenienced you too much?’

  ‘Oh not at all, not at all. Always glad to look at new material. Even fakes. In fact, sometimes the fakes are downright more interesting than the real thing!’ he laughed, and beaming widely, the Professor left.

  ‘You want to see Simon Grade again, sir?’ Flora said, more as a statement than a question.

  Jason nodded, and Flora dispatched a constable to pick him up. She only hoped that he hadn’t done a runner when he’d realized that they were on to him. Sometimes they did that, and the more inoffensive and respectable the perp seemed, the more likely he was to bolt.

  ‘Sir,’ she began, a nervous quality in her tone making him look at her intently. ‘You don’t think … well, this isn’t going to throw a spanner in the works when it comes to our case against Courtenay, is it?’

  Jason rolled his shoulders, not surprised to feel them tense and aching
. ‘I don’t know. I don’t see why it should. There are still more factors pointing to Sir Andrew than to Grade. For instance, how would Simon Grade know that Celia was allergic to peanuts? He wasn’t at the breakfast when she announced it to the world. And during the afternoon he was in the hall with his precious manuscript. When would he have had a chance to reconnoitre the kitchens?’

  Flora nodded, apparently satisfied.

  Jason just wished that he could be so sure.

  Graham looked up as a soft tap came on the study door. ‘Come in, darling.’

  Monica walked in, smiling broadly. ‘And how did you know I wasn’t old Mrs Thistlewaite, come to tell you her dreams about angels again? What would she say to being called “darling”?’

  ‘She’d be over the moon,’ Graham said drolly, pushing aside the book he’d been reading.

  Monica was dressed in jeans that hugged her figure like a Latin lover and a plain white T-shirt. She had her hands slipped into the jeans’ pockets and her shoulders were slightly hunched forward. She also looked a trifle shamefaced, a little excited, but mostly worried.

  Graham sighed and got up, walking around to meet her in front of the desk. He leaned back against it and held out his arms. Instantly she came into them and rested her cheek against his shoulder.

  ‘You think you know who did it, don’t you?’ he asked softly. Against his breast, he could feel her head nod. He sighed. ‘It’s not Sir Andrew?’ The head shook. He felt the tension slowly ease out of him. Then, ‘Is it anyone we know?’ he asked, holding his breath.

  ‘Oh Graham,’ she merely said helplessly.

  ‘What do you want to do?’ he asked simply.

  Monica sighed and pulled her head away to look at him. Her blue eyes were troubled, but resolute. ‘Well, first I just want to go and see someone … no it’s all right, they’re in the village. It’s broad daylight and I’m not going to do anything silly. I’m not going to confront anyone or anything. I just need to be sure of something first.’