Classic Mistake (20 page)

I blinked at that. ‘An unusual way of going about things.’

‘My father was an unusual man. Anyway, I doubt if he was murdered for the key to King Egbert’s grave. He would never let on where it was, even if he’d found it.’

‘Even to you?’

Keith smiled. ‘Even to me.’

‘So the grave goods are not –’ I realized too late this was a naff question – ‘in this house?’

‘Absolutely not. Want to look round, though?’ he asked me.

I did. How could I resist this witch’s domain?

It proved to be a fascinating place, just made for youngsters, I thought. Staircases short and long popped up in unexpected places, doors revealed rooms so small or so large that opening one was a constant surprise.

‘It would have been a great place to grow up in,’ Keith said rather wistfully, ‘although it terrified me when I was very young and actually living here. Visits were fun when I grew up a bit, exploring dark attics and finding new corners and staircases. And there’s one room you’ll really like.’ He led me round a staircase or two and flung open a door on to a musty dusty room which was completely empty.

Except for one thing. A large painting of a grey Morris Minor 1000, parked on a grassy slope with a younger Ambrose standing by it, one hand possessively on the bonnet. It was painted with loving care.

‘My mother’s work,’ Keith told me. ‘When she died Dad moved it in here because it reminded him too much of her.’

It was so evocative that I wondered whether Ambrose was, after all, the cause of Melody’s presence here. I remembered his outburst: ‘It’s not hers …’

Then it occurred to me that Ambrose’s precise words were: ‘It’s not
her
,’ not ‘hers’. Maybe I had misheard. ‘Just one question,’ I said.

‘Go ahead.’

‘Did your father ever talk about a Frank Watson or the May Tree Shoot-out?’

‘Not that I can remember. Is it important?’

‘It could be.’

With Brandon’s reluctant consent I’d read the police file on Frank Watson. There was little in the file that I could follow up, however. All possible sightings bar one had been dismissed, whether in South America, Australia or nearer to home. I tried Vic Trent’s number to see if he could add anything to Tony’s story but there was no reply.

I came to two conclusions. First, the obvious one: if Frank Watson was back in England he would have changed his appearance (although time alone would have done that) and his name. Second: the only way I was going to get any further was through Jonathan Lamb, who wasn’t going to tell me anything without a struggle, especially about the anniversary lunch. Phone? Drop in?

I duly dropped in on the protector of the Charros’ memory and found him in the outer office. No receptionist today. ‘Just wanted to tell you the Morris Minor has been found,’ I said, beaming.

He wasn’t deceived. An eyebrow was raised. ‘Good of you, Jack. I’d invite you in for another chat but—’

‘The police have the car.’

A charming smile. ‘I’m glad it’s in such safe hands. They’ve been here too. They wanted to know why we were at Wychwood House two days before Ambrose was killed, as I am sure you had mentioned to them.’

‘Unfortunately, I had to.’ I can do charming too.

‘We explained we were discussing the lunch and that Josie wanted to keep an eye on Ambrose so we brought him into the same room as we were.’

‘Did you mention to the police that Frank Watson attends these lunches every year?’ Nothing like a shot in the dark.

The smile vanished. ‘No Frank Watson, and you’re out of bounds, Jack. You’re not the police.’

‘No, but I can set them on to that track.’ I pushed further. ‘It seems strange that you’ve had no contact with him since Neil’s death.’

‘Why? Neil and his father didn’t get on that well.’ A red spot on Jonathan’s cheeks suggested I might be getting warmer – or that he was getting ready to throw me out. Or both.

‘There must have been inheritance issues, for a start.’

‘There weren’t.’

‘Frank Watson had as much reason to dislike Carlos as you did. It’s highly relevant whether he attends that lunch.’

He stared at me for a moment. ‘You’ve made your point, Jack.’ A pause. ‘Let me explain. Neil and I lived together. Frank had grabbed Neil and taken him with him when he left the country in 1978 and went to South America, as all good crooks seem to do. When Neil returned in the late eighties, it was against his father’s wishes. When Neil died, Frank went over the top. Carlos was also in South America by then, but Frank never caught up with him. He couldn’t trace him and nor could we remaining Charros, even if we had wished to chase him across the world. Frank eventually calmed down, and we lost touch.’

‘Then how do you know he isn’t in this country and that his hatred of Carlos didn’t revive again when he discovered that Carlos was back?’

‘Because he had indeed been here in England since Neil’s death. He’d found religion and been ordained.’

I sighed. ‘And where is he now? Priests can lose control like anyone else.’

‘The last I heard he had a church somewhere in Dorset. I don’t know where, but there’s been silence for the last decade or so.’

‘Under his own name?’

‘I don’t know. It’s a common one, so he might have risked using it. He’d be a fair age now, so he’s probably retired. Or possibly,’ he added gravely, ‘dead.’

I
felt envious of Zoe and Len. Zoe was working with loving care on a Lanchester, which was a long-term restoration job, and Len was busy assessing a 1935 Frazer-Nash Colmore. I know that look on his face. It means he is about to mount his speedy white charger on a mission of salvation – except that the word speedy doesn’t apply to Frogs Hill. It was clear my presence was redundant.

The idea of work on the office accounts, which was badly needed, did not appeal to me, although at the moment the Pits represented my sole source of income. Even Melody was no longer missing. As for my non-paid work of private (unwanted, unasked) assistant to Brandon, I was at stalemate. I’d checked with the invaluable
Crockford’s Clerical Directory
and there were several Watsons, none of whom could have been my quarry, and in any case I could hardly imagine a man of the cloth beetling over to Maidstone from the West Country to wreak twenty-year-old vengeance on Carlos. Even if Jonathan had been in touch with Watson, how would the death of Ambrose Fairbourne fit into that scenario, let alone the theft of Melody?

Nevertheless, I had felt obliged to tell Brandon about this possible lead. He gave it low priority, which made me feel even more like a spare wheel.

‘But what connection does Watson have with Ambrose Fairbourne?’ he asked when I rang him.

‘Not known,’ I admitted, ‘except that Fairbourne was present during the 1978 shoot-out.’

‘Actively or passively?’

I was forced to admit I had nothing to suggest that he had taken any active part, and indeed the contrary. ‘Ambrose was into digging stuff up, not helping to pinch it like Watson,’ I told Brandon. ‘Nevertheless, it is a coincidence that he and Mendez both knew the pub.’

A pause, the sort that is full of meaning. ‘I’ll look into it,’ he had finally said.

What he meant was that I could get lost along with my daft theories. So on the Monday morning I had gone to bury my head both physically and mentally in the Pits. It must have worked some magic because when Len and I came up for air from the Frazer-Nash, Zoe actually asked me how the case was going. I told them, including the Frank Watson tale.

Len grunted. ‘Vic told me a lot about that bloke. Don’t see him as a man of the cloth.’

‘That’s just the point, isn’t it?’ Zoe argued. ‘Turning your life around full circle.’

Len fixed her with a beady eye. ‘You can give a Beetle a Porsche engine, but it doesn’t make it a Porsche.’

These words of wisdom dumbfounded us both. Nevertheless, I thought, at least some of the original Frank Watson must remain after his conversion, even if there was plenty of the newly arrived good stuff to make him battle against the idea of murder. The fact that he would have to travel a hundred and fifty miles or so to carry out the murder, if he even knew about Carlos’s arrival, would add more weight to dissuading him from action.

In the afternoon came the good news – or relatively good.

‘Hey!’ Zoe suddenly cried out.

I’d heard a toot on a horn and a car driving up, but had been too busy with the Lanchester to which Len had reverted after delivering his Solomon’s judgement on the Frazer-Nash. Now I realized it wasn’t any old engine arriving. It could be
the
engine. I rushed outside and saw a vision of a pinky-grey Morris Minor 1000 from which a joyful Daisy was leaping out.

‘Got it back, Jack. See, Len? Hey, Zoe. Take a look at this!’

We all duly admired Melody’s curves and grace. At first sight she didn’t seem to have suffered at all either from the thief or the police. If cars could smile, Melody would be beaming.

‘Didn’t get nicked again?’ Zoe joked.

Daisy sighed happily. ‘She’s under twenty-four-hour guard.’

‘Where are you keeping her?’ I asked warily. ‘Not Huggett’s barn, I trust.’

‘No way. We’re going to rent a garage for her, and she’s nailed to our drive till then.’

I was busy examining the lady. ‘She doesn’t seem to have suffered at all,’ I concluded.

‘Bit of a scratch on one of the doors, that’s all. Gran says she’ll pay for it. Justie knows a chap who’ll do it on the cheap.’

I bit my tongue over the wisdom of employing chaps ‘who’ll do it on the cheap’ in connection with classic cars. Melody was a classic – she was a survivor. I even felt privileged to be part of her life.

‘Is Justin still in the picture?’ I asked.

‘’Course he is,’ Daisy said airily. ‘Want to come for a spin in her, Jack?’

Spinning wasn’t quite the verb I’d use about a Minor, with its comfortable cruising speed of forty mph, but I could hardly say no to Daisy’s offer. ‘Where to?’ I asked cautiously. Knowing Daisy we might be off to Scotland.

‘Gran’s place,’ she told me. ‘Got to show her Melody’s really back.’

So off we went for our spin. It was a tonic to be next to Daisy on a summer’s day with the sun actually shining for once. If he played his cards right, Justin was going to have a very happy life ahead. The purr of Melody’s engine, her growl of excitement when she accelerated, was almost hypnotic. I can’t say she was as comfortable as my Gordon-Keeble or even the Alfa, but she provided the comfort of a familiar home – and what more could one ask? She was a happy car. One could slip into her driving seat with the sense of familiarity of a pair of slippers.

Gran Fever was already waiting for us when we drove through the Wormslea Retirement Home Gates. She was dressed as befitted a sunny day in sky-blue trousers, blouse and beret.

‘Very suave,’ I greeted her as we drew up.

‘Coming, Gran?’ Daisy yelled at her.

‘Only if I’m at the wheel,’ she bartered as we got out to greet her.

Daisy’s face fell. ‘Don’t you trust me?’

‘Of course, but it would give pleasure to an old lady.’ Gran performed a mock tremble, and Daisy giggled.

‘And that means Jack won’t have to sit in the back,’ she said.

For which I was truly grateful. This was a two-door model, and my six foot plus a bit wouldn’t fit too easily into the Minor’s rear seating, delightful though Melody is.

‘Where are we going?’ Daisy called out as Gran set off in fine style, scaring not only the horses but me too.

‘Cream tea,’ Gran yelled over Daisy’s screams of delight as we took a corner too fast. Too fast for Melody that is, but luckily nothing was coming in the opposite direction, and in the adjacent field the sheep who had assumed Belinda was making straight for them stopped their mad dash for safety. We drove rather more sedately to an idyllic spot out where a pond surrounded by grass, converted old stables and craft shops provided a venue eminently suitable for a Morris Minor decanting three customers bent on a cream tea at the café.

‘And no one can run off with Melody,’ Daisy said with satisfaction. ‘We can have a table outside and watch her.’

‘I doubt if any car thieves drop by on chance on a Friday mid afternoon,’ I told her.

‘Don’t you believe it,’ Belinda replied. ‘Car thieves don’t come with a special hat on marked “owners beware”. They could be anywhere.’ Her mock sombre tones didn’t go down well with Daisy, who took it seriously.

‘I’m going to have my tea
in
Melody then.’

We dissuaded her, albeit with some difficulty, and settled down to tuck into our scones, jam and cream. I looked round at the assembled mums, chums and retired folk and thought that Belinda was right. We judge too much by appearances. All the same, I’d lay long odds that Melody was safe here.

‘This,’ Belinda informed me rather than Daisy, ‘is a good place to chat about murder.’

Belinda had obviously planned this rendezvous, and I was all attention as to why. All I had to do was wait. I had my own questions ready. ‘Why?’ I asked.

‘Agatha Christie would approve of such a teatime topic.’

‘Murder in general?’

‘Murder in particular. The death of Ambrose Fairbourne. What are the police doing about it, Jack?’

I had expected better of Belinda. ‘Following up leads.’

‘What are
you
doing about it?’

Getting warmer. ‘Following up leads.’

‘Such as?’

I could not allow Belinda to set the pace. Not today. ‘I see why you’re concerned about Carlos’s death,’ I said, adding jam to the butter on my scone with studied concentration, ‘but what’s your concern over Ambrose? Because of Josie’s involvement?’

No disconcerting Belinda. A slight look of surprise. ‘Melody was found at his home, and certainly I’m concerned that Josie might be suspected of having something to do with that.’

‘Melody was also found in Huggett’s barn and then stolen from a car park. Do those interest you too?’

She carefully poured another cup of tea and failed to answer.

So I continued: ‘And the link between Wychwood House and the Charros … Does that interest you too?’ I enquired.