The Nine Bright Shiners (15 page)

Jan frowned, lifting the book closer to the light. She was not mistaken; a light pencil bracket had been drawn in the margin, taking in the whole page, and alongside it was a large exclamation mark.

‘
Tony
! I asked if you wanted more toast?' Angela Rollo gazed at her husband in exasperation. ‘Honestly, I don't know what's got into you. Ever since you came home yesterday, you've been acting like a zombie – I don't think you've heard a word I've said!'

He roused himself with an effort, said automatically, ‘I'm sorry, dear.'

‘Well, do you or don't you?'

‘Do I what?'

‘Want some more toast, for God's sake!'

‘Oh – no, thank you.' He looked with faint surprise at the crumbs on his plate. He'd no recollection of eating. God, she was right – he must pull himself together. But how the
hell
had the police got on to the Commodore business? And what, in the name of heaven, did it have to do with that disreputable tramp they'd found?

Roy had assured him there was no risk. Because it wasn't only the Commodore and Camilla, though in all conscience that was bad enough. Far more potentially damaging was the link with the Bank. That, if questions were asked, could cost him his career. Might even, he thought in growing panic, land him in prison. How could he ever have been so stupid, so criminally reckless, as to have become involved?

In the large house across town, Lady Peel was also having an uncomfortable breakfast. Not in the material sense; she was, as always, propped up in the large bed, with soft pillows at her back and merino blankets over her thin legs. The room, luxuriously feminine, had its usual morning scent of toast and China tea, and the air, even at so early an hour and with snow on the outside sill, was comfortingly warm. Despite the efficiency of the central heating, she had retained her bedroom fireplace, and in this exceptionally cold weather, an open fire, safe behind its guard, burned day and night.

But like Rollo at his kitchen table, her mind was not on the meal. For the double murder, terrible enough in itself, seemed to her the embodiment of a disquiet she had lived with for thirty years. Her greatest fear, now, was that the police would uncover a trail leading back not only to Edward, but to dear Reggie. And how could she bear that?

Strange, she reflected, sipping the almost colourless tea, that Janis should have asked about that expedition. Or perhaps not strange, simply a preordained pattern foreshadowing the final disclosure. Though what that could be, she'd no idea. Reggie had never confided in her, but the secret he'd shared with William and Laurence had, in the end, overshadowed his death. And she knew it was rooted in that third expedition.

She rested her head against the pillows, closing her eyes and letting the memories come, as she attempted yet again to uncover those roots.

At the time, William Langley's illness had been uppermost in their minds, and the edginess she detected in both Reggie and Laurence was explained by that. Even so, since he was over the worst by the time they reached home, their constant trips to Broadminster had struck her as excessive. Then had come the bombshell, the suggestion that they leave their comfortable home in Oxted and move to Broadshire themselves.

She stirred, and the delicate teacup, still beneath her fingers, rattled on its saucer. Gently she pushed the wheeled trolley further down the bed. She had hinted to Janis that

Isabelle's health was a deciding factor in the move; in truth, Isabelle had been as reluctant as herself to be uprooted. But for some reason she'd never understood, both Reggie and Laurence were determined to move closer to William. Her objections to leaving friends, voluntary work, her beloved garden, all had been overriden with uncharacteristic impatience. As Rowena was at boarding-school, her education wouldn't be affected. There was nothing, she was told, to keep them in Surrey.

During those months of upheaval, Reggie had been like a stranger, nervous and irritable, and with occasional outbursts of a febrile excitement that alarmed her. Only after they were installed here in Cajabamba – and how she'd argued against that ridiculous name – had be begun to relax, though the visits to William were as regular as ever.

A tap on the door disturbed her musings, and Edith came in to remove the tray.

‘Have Mrs Coverdale and the children left yet?'

‘No, my lady. Mr Miles is coming for them at ten.'

‘I hope the road conditions aren't too bad. It seems madness to make unnecessary journeys in this weather, but when you're young, such things don't worry you.'

‘No, my lady,' said Edith dutifully, closing the door behind her. Thoughtfully, Lady Peel reached for her bedside telephone.

Miles had hardly spoken since they set out and Jan, in the front seat beside him, wondered if he were regretting his invitation. Even the children sat in silence, watching the snowy landscape; but they'd been quiet ever since Lily's death, and her repeated assurances had failed to comfort them. That much was apparent from Julie's frightened question last night. She really must have a talk with them, and set their minds at rest. If only Roger were here, to advise her what to say.

Shying from thoughts of Roger, she concentrated on the present. At least the main road was clear, but on either side of it the snow, piled into high banks, dwarfed them with its whiteness, seeming to threaten an icy oblivion. She wondered what extremes of temperature Edward and Rowena would be facing.

And at the thought of Peru, her mind switched back to the book, with its story of Inca treasure and the pencilled exclamation mark. Who had drawn it? When, and why? Was it merely a reader's impatience with what he saw as exaggerated claims – emeralds as large as quails' eggs? Or had those marks some deeper meaning?

Miles spoke suddenly, making her jump. ‘Have you ever been to Ringmere?'

‘Once, as a child. But that was in summer.'

‘Then you wouldn't have seen the Bewick's swans.'

Jan turned to smile at him. ‘You sound very knowledgeable!'

‘I've always been interested in birds. It's amazing what they've achieved at these places; by ringing the birds, they've discovered that the same ones return year after year, and there are special breeding facilities for threatened species.'

‘Will there be penguins?' Ben asked from the back seat.

Miles laughed. ‘Afraid not. It might look like the North Pole out there, but we can't rise to penguins.' He added more seriously, ‘It's not a zoo, Ben. These are mainly wild birds, who come here by choice from all over the world.'

‘From Australia?'

‘Yes, there are even black swans from Australia.'

‘Are we nearly there?' Julie asked hopefully.

‘Ten more minutes.' Miles turned off the road at a signpost. ‘You'd better wrap up warmly, it'll be bitter out there.'

‘So why the hell was his name in the diary?' The Detective-Superintendent's bright eyes bored into Webb's, and he shifted his weight on the narrow chair.

‘Because he met Sinclair, who Marriott was watching.

It was clear from the notebooks that he'd been monitoring Sinclair's lunch engagements for some time. Half a dozen or so are listed, all at the Commodore, with the name of the other party noted and the duration of the meeting.'

‘And what do you think was behind it?'

‘Well, sir, since the notes were for Marriott's own use, they aren't too explicit.'

‘But reading between the lines?' queried Fleming, his head on one side.

‘I'd say the lunches had a rather special line in “afters”.'

‘Ha! Go on.'

‘In each case, they were joined by the same young lady at the coffee stage. At least, that's what the timing of her arrival seems to indicate.'

‘And how long did she stay?'

‘Between one and two hours.'

‘Very cosy. Then they all left separately?'

‘Oh yes. Sinclair usually emerged about two-thirty and the other two an hour or so later, with a ten-minute interval between them.'

‘Any names we might know?'

‘Mainly bankers and investment advisers.'

‘Sinclair might well have topped Marriott, if he discovered he was on to him. As to his other activities, no doubt they'll be of interest to Wood Street. Right, Spider, look into him, will you. Managing all right without Bates?'

‘I wouldn't refuse a replacement, sir.'

‘See what I can do.'

The family Rover had been sold during Sir Reginald's last illness, and ever since, Lady Peel, who disliked driving, had hired a car whenever she required transport. She always used the same firm, and having expressed a preference for a particular driver, the firm ensured whenever possible that he was available. Fred Perkins jokingly described himself as ‘Her Ladyship's chauffeur'. He had taken the trouble to note the old lady's whims; the speed at which she liked to travel, that she required a rug over her knees, that she was not averse to small talk unless she indicated otherwise. Today, the old girl had something on her mind, and by the tone in which she returned his greeting, Fred knew this would be a silent ride. Going to see her solicitor, too.

He turned off Broad Street into Monks' Walk. On their right, the Minster Green was green no longer, but lay like a frozen moonscape beneath the snow. With the imposing cathedral soaring behind, the scene resembled a Christmas card. Snow before Christmas was all very well, but once it was over, Fred couldn't be doing with it. Furthermore, despite the fact that Twelfth Night had passed, tired-looking Christmas trees still protruded from wrought-iron balconies above the shop fronts, while on the pavement below hardy shoppers searched for bargains in the sales.

He turned left into George Street and drew up outside the offices of Bradshaw and Campbell. They were on the first floor, but he knew one of the clerks would be on the lookout for his charge to escort her up the linoleumed stairs.

‘Wait for me, Perkins,' instructed Her Ladyship, with sublime disregard for the yellow lines on each side of the road. Fred touched his cap. He'd park in the yard of the cofTee-house opposite – Jack Lindsay was a pal of his. A seat at a window table would enable him to keep a lookout and at the same time warm himself with a cup of coffee. There were worse jobs on such a morning.

‘Good morning, Mr Bradshaw.'

Leonard Hargreaves, senior partner of the firm, bowed over the extended hand with old-fashioned courtesy. He had explained at their first meeting that both Mr Bradshaw and Mr Campbell were long since departed, but if his valued client wished to address him thus, he would not complain. A cup of fresh coffee was produced, and some shortbread fingers.

‘Now, Lady Peel, how can we be of service?'

The old lady hesitated. ‘I hope what I'm about to ask won't infringe any professional ethics, Mr Bradshaw. What I wish to know is whether my late husband left any instructions to be carried out after his death.'

‘No, my lady.'

She fixed him with her pale blue eyes. ‘He didn't, or you're not free to answer my question?'

‘We held nothing for action after Sir Reginald's death. Other than his Will, of course.' Mr Hargreaves hesitated. ‘Now that I think of it, he did lodge a letter with us some years ago, but he later reclaimed it.'

‘Ah!' The old lady's back straightened. ‘When was it deposited?'

‘When Sir Reginald first engaged us to act for him, on his arrival in Broadminster.'

‘In nineteen fifty-six?'

‘It would be about then, yes.'

‘And what were his instructions?'

‘That it was to be delivered three calendar months after the death of the last survivor of himself, Mr Laurence Cody and Mr William Langley.'

Lady Peel gazed at him expectantly. ‘To be delivered to me?'

‘Er – no, my lady. To your daughter, Miss Rowena Peel as she then was.'

That had been a shock, he could see. Uncomfortably, Mr Hargreaves wondered, too late, if the information should have been withheld.

‘And you say he reclaimed it,' she said after a moment. ‘When was that?'

‘After the death of Mr Langley, ten years ago.'

‘Did my husband infer he was going to destroy the letter, or hand it to my daughter himself?'

‘He merely requested its return, my lady.'

She paused, then asked diffidently, ‘Did you by any chance also act for William Langley and Laurence Cody?'

‘No, my lady.'

And if he had, it would have been no help. Answering an innocuous question about her own husband was one thing; inquiries about other clients would have been respectfully fielded.

‘Very well, Mr Bradshaw, thank you. I shan't take up any more of your time.'

As she accepted the arm of the clerk to assist her downstairs, Lady Peel found her curiosity whetted rather than satisfied by her visit. The date that Reggie had deposited the letter suggested it was the result of a joint decision. No doubt Laurence and William had written similar ones. Had they, too, later reclaimed them? If not, Edward, Janis and Miles were due to receive them any day – three calendar months after Reggie's death.

But
why,
she asked herself, as Perkins helped her into the car and arranged the rug over her knees, had Reggie changed his mind? And had he destroyed the letter, or given it to Rowena? She felt certain that whether or not Rowena had received it, that letter would have held the answer to the unexplained mystery of that last shared expedition.

Tony Rollo's breakfast deliberations also resulted in a phone call, though it was mid-morning before he'd the chance to make it. When his secretary finally left him, a sheaf of correspondence in her hands, he pulled the instrument towards him and requested an outside line.

‘Roy?' he said urgently. ‘It's Tony Rollo.'

‘My dear chap! How's the world treating you?'