Least of Evils

 

Recent Titles by J. M. Gregson from Severn House

Detective Inspector Peach Mysteries

DUSTY DEATH

TO KILL A WIFE

THE LANCASHIRE LEOPARD

A LITTLE LEARNING

LEAST OF EVILS

MERELY PLAYERS

MISSING, PRESUMED DEAD

MURDER AT THE LODGE

ONLY A GAME

PASTURES NEW

REMAINS TO BE SEEN

A TURBULENT PRIEST

THE WAGES OF SIN

WHO SAW HIM DIE?

WITCH'S SABBATH

WILD JUSTICE

Lambert and Hook Mysteries

AN ACADEMIC DEATH

CLOSE CALL

DARKNESS VISIBLE

DEATH ON THE ELEVENTH HOLE

DIE HAPPY

GIRL GONE MISSING

A GOOD WALK SPOILED

IN VINO VERITAS

JUST DESSERTS

MORTAL TASTE

SOMETHING IS ROTTEN

TOO MUCH OF WATER

AN UNSUITABLE DEATH

A Percy Peach Mystery

First world edition published 2012

in Great Britain and in the USA by

SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

9–15 High Street, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM1 1DF.

Copyright © 2012 by J. M. Gregson.

All rights reserved.

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

Gregson, J. M.

Least of evils. – (DCI Percy Peach mystery)

1. Peach, Percy (Fictitious character) – Fiction.

2. Police – England – Lancashire – Fiction. 3. Detective

and mystery stories.

I. Title II. Series

823.9'14-dc23

ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-222-1 (ePub)

ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8143-4 (cased)

ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-415-8 (trade paper)

To Pat Ross,

who has supported me ever since I began

this strange exercise forty books ago.

Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

This ebook produced by

Palimpsest Book Production Limited,

Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland.

‘I have often thought upon death,
and I find it the least of all evils.'

Francis Bacon,
An Essay on Death

ONE

T
he man stood looking at the wall in the cold winter twilight. He tried to enjoy this last moment of stillness. This was the point where you gathered your resources for what lay ahead. It was the last moment when you could turn back, if you chose to do that. But he knew that he wasn't going to turn away from this. He'd put in too much preparation. Research, he'd heard it called – but research was far too pretentious a term for a practical man like him.

It gave you a feeling of power, the knowledge you had. And also the knowledge that others didn't have, about you. No one knew he was here. No one knew what he was going to do. The people who dwelt beyond this wall might have all the resources in the world, but at this moment they didn't know that he was here, or what he proposed to do.

The wall was much older than most of the buildings it surrounded. It had been here for a hundred and seventy years, protecting the solid home and the extensive estate of the cotton magnate who had built it. Cotton was king in Lancashire in those days, had remained king for another century and more. Then, after Hitler's war and the end of empire, cotton had sickened and died. The hundred chimneys which had stood like grimy sentinels over the town had fallen one by one.

The man beside the wall knew this. They had told him about it at school, in the days when he had still attended and listened. They had shown him pictures of the old Brunton, with men in cloth caps and women in shawls and clogs looking obediently and stolidly at the camera outside the gates of the mills.

They were well into the twenty-first century now, and the great mansion of the man who had controlled the destiny of these people and made a fortune from their labours had fallen too. A dreadful thing, the local people said, that such a massive and dignified Victorian residence should be demolished and a brash modern palace erected in its stead. But you were only replacing an inefficient residence with a more modern one, the architect argued; what looked raw and ugly now would merge happily into the landscape after twenty years or so.

The planning committee could find nothing against the change and an impoverished council was anxious to bring new money into the town, no matter how it had been gathered. The immediate neighbours of the estate were relieved to see it preserved in its entirety, when they had feared it might have been developed as new housing, which would stretch to their borders and destroy their privacy. And few people got more than a glimpse through high wrought-iron gates at the new property, because the old wall around the estate had been preserved.

The man studied that wall now. He breathed deeply and regularly, gathering his resources for what he was to do, relishing the knowledge that no one inside the place knew of his presence here. Knowledge was power. And ignorance was not always bliss. Then he realized that he was putting off the moment when he would test his nerve and venture into danger. It was time to act.

The wall had been renovated when the huge new house was built. New money demanded privacy, at whatever cost. But the man in the deserted lane outside the wall knew that privacy meant that you had things to hide from curious eyes. Valuable things. From a distance, the repaired wall looked a solid obstacle. But there were a few crevices in the old mortar between the bricks. That was inevitable. It was also very welcome, to a bold and resourceful predator like him.

They had a security system in the big house, of course. A sophisticated one, as you would expect in a place like this. Entry would be impossible during the hours of darkness. Any unauthorized intruder would be arrested, or worse. Perhaps much worse, if you believed the rumours which circulated in the murky underworld where he gathered his information. No one knew quite how the man who had built this new castle had acquired his money, but everyone agreed he was ruthless.

But the system was switched off during the daylight hours, when the outside staff needed to maintain this modern tzardom came and went. No one expected that anyone would be bold enough to attack during daylight. Research again; and the power of original thought on which he prided himself. When you lived by your wits, it was best to keep them sharply honed. He took a final deep breath, looked swiftly up and down the lane, and set the toe of his trainer into the tiny gap in the mortar.

He was on the top of the wall in a second, his slim body tight against the coping stones to be as inconspicuous as possible. Then he dropped swiftly down on the other side, a twig cracking like a rifle shot beneath his foot. It wasn't really so loud, it was just his heightened senses that made it seem so, he told himself. He crouched for a full half-minute beneath the cypress tree where he had landed. Instant concealment; he congratulated himself again on his careful pre-planning.

The winter twilight was dropping in fast on this sunless day. There were lights on already in the house, as he had known there would be. But not in every room. That was the cleverness of it; that was what you gleaned from careful preparation.

The old wing of the early Victorian house had been preserved as part of the planning bargaining. Here there were no lights visible. The man made for this section, gliding swiftly from bush to bush with swift, simian movements. Crouching beneath the last big rhododendron, he paused and glanced at his watch, nerving himself for the real challenge which lay ahead.

Ten past four: exactly the time he had planned to be here. The accuracy of that pleased him.

The temperature was dropping rapidly now, but he wasn't cold. There might well be a frost overnight, if the skies cleared towards morning as the weathermen promised. But he would be away long before then. The whiteness would cover his tracks, not reveal them. He slid his hand within his close-fitting fleece top and closed his fingers on the jemmy. The old tools were the best, when they suited a job so admirably.

The wood in the side strut of the old sash window yielded to the jemmy quietly, almost noiselessly. Thank heaven for listed buildings, imperfect wood, and the opportunities they offered to the resourceful burglar. It was the first time he had allowed himself to use that word. A burglar he was indeed, but a superior one. Not one of those childish opportunists who pinched tellies and computers and stray bits of cash from ordinary folk, but an altogether more sophisticated class of felon. A man who planned and executed his coups expertly. Hadn't his teachers always said he was a bright lad? It was one of the few things those buggers had got right. He levered open the window and eased his slim frame into the building.

This had been the library in the days of the old house, the woman had told him. He glanced up at the high ceiling and its elaborate cornice, letting his eyes grow accustomed to the dim light. He had a torch in the pocket of his fleece, but he wouldn't use it until it was absolutely necessary. There were easy chairs spread in a semi-circle around a big desk, and paintings which he could not distinguish upon the walls. No books here now. Bloody philistines! Typical of the new wealth which had taken over the country. It made it easier to rob them with a clear conscience.

He moved softly to the door, opened it cautiously, and slid noiselessly on to the wide corridor outside. There was a narrow flight of stairs to his right, which must have been a servants' staircase in the great days of the house. It led him to a landing which was thickly carpeted. He flicked his torch on briefly, illuminated the three wide modern doors opposite him, and moved quickly to the furthest one of these, which adjoined the spot where the completely new part of the building met the Victorian wing.

The door opened readily to his touch. He crept into the big room, flashed his torch beam over the door to the en-suite bathroom, then slid it round the room until it located the item he wanted. The dressing table had three drawers on each side of a large mirror. He slid open the bottom-right one of these, found it contained what he had expected, gasped nevertheless at the myriad facets which glittered and winked under the close light of his torch.

The information had been good. Careful preparation again: the basis of success in this dangerous game. There were velvet-lined boxes which should have contained most of the pieces, but the owner had neglected to put her jewellery away when she took it off. Sloppy cow! Serve her right if she lost it – when she lost it. She'd probably inflate her claim when she contacted the insurance people. These people did that. They made bloody sure they didn't lose, even when they were robbed, people like this.