The Room on the Second Floor (22 page)

‘No enemies at all, officer. She was … is, a lovely girl. I can’t think of anybody.’

‘What about friends, Mr Scott? Any of your staff particularly close to her? Who was with her just before the incident?’ Duggie was able to point the policeman at Ben from the gym.

In spite of his muscular frame, the lad looked deeply shocked. ‘I was, officer.’ The policeman took down his details and asked about her movements prior to the attack. She’d just arrived on the dance floor. Whereabouts on the dance floor?

‘We were just squeezing in over there, right beside Professor Dalby.’

The policeman noted the spot on a simple sketch. His colleague was just beyond, studying the gaping windows through which the cold winter night was returning to dampen their spirits and chill them all.

‘When you say, “beside” Professor Dalby, which side do you mean?’

As the policeman asked the question, both Roger and Duggie were simultaneously hit by the same horrific thought. She had been directly in a straight line from the window to Roger. So, in all probability, she had not been the intended target. Duggie spoke out, a fraction of a second before Roger himself. The logic was inescapable.

‘Officer, I am afraid it would appear that the poor girl had the misfortune to be in the line of fire of a would-be assassin. Somebody was outside the window, trying to succeed in doing what he already tried to do a month or two ago. She wasn’t the target. Roger… the professor was.’

Clearly the startled policeman had no knowledge of the brake-line cutting incident and they had to explain it all to him. The name of Chief Inspector Cocker brought home to him that he was involved with something more sinister than an unfortunate Christmas accident. He looked across to Roger, who was nodding.

‘Do you agree with this version of events, professor?’

It was Linda who answered, her face pale from the realisation that she had so nearly lost her beloved Roger.

‘It was as he gave a little bow to Tessa. His head dipped and the shot missed him by a fraction and hit her.’

‘It also missed you by a fraction, Linda.’ Roger was equally sobered by events.

As the younger officer went for a careful look around outside, his colleague spoke urgently on his radio. Duggie looked across at his friend, and voiced the concern they all felt.

‘Somebody is still out to get you, Rog.’

Chapter 37

Two days after Christmas, Roger was trying the huge bunch of keys uncovered in the grandfather clock by Jasper. Apart from the one which had successfully opened his uncle’s desk, and a few internal door keys, there were another dozen or so still to be identified. In particular, he was fascinated by the three hefty, long shaft keys, each of which was almost the length of a fountain pen, and a lot heavier.

Linda had gone round to her mother’s for the morning. The rest of the staff had gone their separate ways for the Christmas break. Henri, alone, was somewhere in the building. He had refused to leave, denying the existence of any family, either in the UK or back in France.

Thought of families reminded Roger of his meeting with Tessa’s mum the previous day. The poor lady was understandably distraught. They had met at the hospital where, mercifully, Tessa’s condition was described as much improved. The bullet, luckily only calibre 0.22, had gone in through her ear. It had torn her earlobe to pieces, but missed anything vital, before lodging in the inside of her jaw. The operation to remove the bullet had been successful and the prognosis was good. The handsome middle-aged lady, so similar to Tessa in appearance, was naturally terribly worried, and also seriously perplexed. Roger was both of those things himself.

He had accepted the logic of the assumption that he had been the original target of the attempted shooting. The thought of a potential assassin sneaking about in the shrubbery was frightening, not least as there was a lot of shrubbery around the manor for somebody to sneak about in. He had to accept the fact that, in all probability, it was the person responsible for sabotaging his brakes a few weeks earlier. But who on earth could it be?

All in all, it was a very worrying time. In fact, it was only as long as he promised to stay away from windows, that Linda had been prepared to leave him on his own that morning. She had gone, with some trepidation, to discuss wedding arrangements with her mum. She had given him strict instructions to keep Jasper at his side at all times and not to open the door to anybody, till she returned with lunch.

He started with his big bunch of keys at the top of the building. He tried every door on the way back downstairs. The security door at the entrance to the Salon defeated him. He reminded himself yet again to get the code from Duggie. After all, there might be a fire or some other emergency. He checked the rooms down the corridor on the other side of the stairwell. This was the east wing. They were all unlocked and open. None of his keys fitted any of the doors. The decrepit state of these rooms indicated a lot of work would still be needed to bring them up to scratch. He drew a similar blank on the first floor. Finally, back downstairs in the kitchen, he sat down at the big central table and scratched Jasper’s ears. He tried dangling the big keys in front of the dog’s nose and commanding, ‘Search.’ But to no avail. The dog licked them along with his hand, but made no appreciable effort to hunt anything out.

‘You are useless, dog.’ He chided the big hound, but elicited no more than a wag of the tail. He removed the three large keys from the rest of the bunch, so he could study them closely. No clues as to their identity were visible. He thought about making a cup of tea. Then, mindful of Linda’s instructions, he decided not to hang around down there. There was always the risk that the would-be murderer was lurking in the rhododendrons. So, instead, he and Jasper walked back up to his uncle’s old study on the first floor. He unlocked it, and set about hunting through all the old papers in the hope that he might find some reference to some other building. Maybe his uncle had owned another house somewhere, which had gone unnoticed.

After a long, but fruitless, search he stood up and went over towards the window. Remembering Linda’s instructions, he stood back a few feet from the glass, so as to be less visible from outside. Even so, he still had a clear view. Outside in the gardens, a wintry sun had finally broken through the clouds. Steam was coming up from the borders and beds around the house, as the sunlight gently warmed them. Although all the leaves had by now dropped from the deciduous trees, there was still a lot of greenery all around. Holly trees produced occasional bursts of colour. Huge clumps of mistletoe hung from the tallest trees on the boundary some half a mile away. If he stood on tiptoe, he could just make out the shape of the cathedral beyond. It was a magnificent view. He fully understood why Thomas of Toplingham had chosen this very spot for his home.

Then, suddenly, through the light mist seeping up from the bushes, he noticed something for the first time. At the far end of the car park, towards the area where the groundsmen kept an enormous compost heap, he spotted what might have been a construction. It was a square shape, and just visible through the bare branches of an overgrown clump of trees and bushes. He and Jasper rarely walked up there now, since the time Jasper had decided to chase a rabbit into the compost. He had emerged the colour and texture of a grow-bag, and had received a good talking-to, followed by a bath. Now, as the hard frost of the last couple of weeks had finally removed the last of the leaves, it really did look as though there was something there, in the little copse. Roger looked at his watch. It was only mid-morning. He was on his own and bored.

‘Jasper, old chap. We are going for a walk.’

He neatly side-stepped the charge of the excited dog, whose understanding of that particular word was instantaneous. The fact that he had been expressly forbidden to leave the house was something he conveniently forgot. He trusted that he would be able to go out, investigate and return before Linda reappeared from her mother’s. What the mind doesn’t know, the heart doesn’t grieve over.

He locked the desk, grabbed a jacket and headed for the door, the bunch of mystery keys in hand. Outside it was a fine afternoon, with no sign of would-be assassins. The sun had done enough to make the temperature almost pleasant – as long as you were wearing a thick coat and avoided the shade.

‘Do not, under any circumstances, go in the compost heap.’ He spoke to the dog sternly, in the hope that the message would sink in. Together, they peeled off the track and pushed through a rhododendron bush, in the general direction of whatever it was he had seen. It was quite clear that nobody had been along here for months, or years. Even Jasper had to struggle to make headway through the damp brambles and nettles. Within seconds, Roger was soggy and cold from the knees downwards, but he had started, so he’d finish. He pushed on behind the dog, who was in his element. At last, on the other side of a particularly resistant holly bush, he found it. He came face to face with a squat, low building. He stopped and took stock.

It was a pillbox. One of those hefty concrete constructions built during the war that still litter strategically important parts of southern England. It was little taller than his head. From the wedge-shaped opening facing him, it was clear that the walls had been designed in the probably vain hope of deflecting fire from a Tiger tank. The outside was almost completely covered by a thick coat of ivy and brambles. A layer of grass, small bushes and even an optimistic fir tree grew out of the flat roof.

He started to make his way around the outside, in the hope of finding a door. Within a minute or two, he made two discoveries. The first was that there was a doorway just around to his right. The second was that the area in front of the opening was clear of brambles. A faint, but nonetheless discernible, path led off from it. Clearly somebody else knew of the existence of the pillbox. He scrambled through the last of the brambles into the clearing, and took a close look at the door.

The entrance went in and turned sharply, presumably to reduce the risk of enemy bullets coming straight through the door. The door itself, although showing distinct signs of age, was clearly of very solid steel construction. More interestingly, there was a large keyhole, whose general dimensions and shape looked a good match for one of his keys. And such was the case. The second key he tried turned the lock. He pulled the door open. It opened outwards, easily and noiselessly. The key, when he withdrew it from the lock, was sticky with fresh grease. Curiouser and curiouser. He stepped aside, and let the dog lead the way into the dark interior. He then followed, stopping just inside the entrance, to let his eyes acclimatise to the gloom within.

As his eyes adjusted, he saw that a certain amount of light was creeping in through three slits in the walls. There was a long, low horizontal slit, facing south towards the sea. It did not take too much effort to imagine a gunner sitting in there, apprehensively listening to the rumbling of enemy armour, coming up from the coast. The other two slits were quite familiar to anybody who had studied medieval warfare. They were narrow, vertical slits cut, wedge-like, into the concrete. They were no doubt designed for use by men with rifles, or other small arms. It was damp and musty but, to his considerable surprise, it was absolutely full to bursting with furniture. He surveyed the shapes around him. Soon he began to make out elegant dining chairs, a couple of lovely Regency tables and a number of cupboards, chests and dressers. Almost all the pieces served to support cardboard boxes, which had been stacked on top of them.

Bemused, he went over to one of the boxes and pulled it open. The sticky tape put up very little resistance, as the damp had already got to it. He reached in and pulled out a handsome soup tureen, made of blue and white porcelain. Holding it towards the light of the doorway, he quickly made out the familiar crossed anchors of none other than McKinnon Marine. Beneath it, the box was packed with plates, all the same design and sporting the McKinnon Marine crest. The next box was the same, as was the one beyond. It would appear that a considerable part of the contents of the manor had found their way here. For protection, for storage or maybe for less worthy purposes?

Just at that moment, the dog suddenly let out a growl, followed by a volley of barking. As they both turned towards the door, it slammed shut. Roger lunged towards it, catching his foot on a heavy oak chest as he did so.

As he fell, his ankle was twisted to an impossible angle. There was a sickening crack, and a stab of pain. His head hit the corner of the chest and he was knocked unconscious.

Chapter 38

‘What a view.’

She was flushed and panting. Duggie knew that look. But this time they weren’t in the bedroom. Today they were on top of Dartmoor. The idea of a winter stroll had come to him on impulse earlier that morning.

‘It’s so clear today, we can even see the manor.’ Tina followed his outstretched arm. Sure enough, in the far distance, a tiny white blob indicated the presence of
Toplingham Country Club
. He spared a thought for what might be going on there. As it was a bank holiday, the place would be closed.

‘Stop thinking about work, Duggie.’ She reinforced her words by grabbing him and kissing him.

‘Me, thinking about work?’ He affected a scoffing tone, but neither of them was fooled. ‘Mind you, Tina, I don’t think I’ve ever been so caught up with a job.’ He hesitated. That wasn’t strictly correct. ‘At least not since my time in the regiment.’

Tina said nothing. Over the past few weeks he had started to talk about his time in the SAS. She knew that most, if not all he told her, had not passed his lips since he left the service. But now, he was talking, and she could sense him healing from the inside as the words came out. She squeezed his arm and waited.

‘We used to come up here for training exercises.’ He sat down on a granite boulder and pulled her down beside him. He curled his arm around her shoulders and she burrowed against him. ‘Dartmoor and the Falklands are almost indistinguishable. But Dartmoor and Iraq?’ She was reassured to hear his tone still light. Then it became more sombre. ‘Monty’s up here, you know.’