The Tightrope Men / The Enemy (45 page)

Ogilvie was pleased about all that even though it got us no further into cracking the problem of why Benson should kill Ashton. At least we had seen the common linkage and he was confident that by probing hard enough and long enough we - or rather I - would come up with the truth. All the same he coppered his bet by having me do an intensive investigation into the life of Sergeant Benson before he joined the army. Ogilvie was a belt-and-braces man.

So I spent a long time in the West Country looking at school records in Exeter and work records in Plymouth. At Benson’s school I found an old sepia class photograph with Benson in the third row; at least, I was assured it was Benson. The unformed young face of that thirteen-year-old gazing solemnly at the camera told me nothing. Some time in the ensuing years Benson had had his features considerably rearranged.

There were no photographs of an older Benson to be found in Plymouth, but I did talk to a couple of people who knew him before the war. The opinion was that he wasn’t a bad chap, reasonably good at his job, but not very ambitious. All according to the record. No, he hadn’t been back since the war; he had no family and it was assumed there was nothing for him to go back for.

All this took time and I got back to London just as Penny and Gillian were about to leave for America. I drove them to Heathrow myself and we had a drink in the bar, toasting surgical success. ‘How long will you be away?’ I asked Gillian. She wore a broad-brimmed straw hat with a scarf tied wimple-fashion and large dark glasses; style coming to the aid of concealment.

‘I don’t know; it depends how the operations go, I suppose.’ She sketched a mock shiver. ‘I’m not looking forward to it. But Penny will be back next week.’

Penny said, ‘I just want to see Gillian settled and to make sure everything is all right, then I’ll be back. Lummy wants to go to Scotland with me.’

‘So you undermined his certainty.’

‘Perhaps,’ she said noncommittally.

‘Did you arrange for the auction?’

‘It’s on Wednesday - viewing day on Tuesday. We already have a flat in town.’ She took a notebook and scribbled the address. ‘That’s where you’ll find me when I come back, if I’m not in Scotland.’

Gillian excused herself and wandered in the direction of the ladies’ room. I took the opportunity of asking, ‘How did you get on with Ogilvie?’ I had arranged the meeting with Ogilvie as promised. He hadn’t liked it but I’d twisted his arm.

Penny’s brow furrowed. ‘Well enough, I suppose. He told me pretty much what you have. But there was something…’

‘Something what?’

‘I don’t know. It was like speaking in a great empty hall. You expect an echo to come back and you’re a bit surprised when there isn’t one. There seemed to be something missing when Ogilvie talked. I can’t explain it any better than that.’

Penny was right - there was a hell of a lot missing. Her psychic antennae were all a-quiver and she perceived a
wrongness but had no way of identifying it. Below the level of consciousness her intelligence was telling her there was something wrong but she didn’t have enough facts to prove it.

Ogilvie and I
knew
there was something wrong because we had more facts, but even we were blocked at that moment.

I saw them into the departure lounge, then went home and proceeded to draw up an elaborate chart containing everything I knew about the Ashton case. Lines (ruled) were drawn to connect the
dramatis personae
and representing factual knowledge; lines (dashed) were drawn representing hypotheses.

The whole silly exercise got me nowhere.

About this time I started to develop an itch in my mind. Perhaps it had been the drawing of the chart with its many connections which started it, but I had something buried within me which wanted to come to the surface. Someone had said something and someone else had said something else, apparently quite unrelated and the little man Hunch who lived in the back of my skull was beginning to turn over in his sleep. I jabbed at him deliberately but he refused to wake up. He would do so in his own good time and with that I had to be content.

On the Tuesday I went to the Ashton house for the public viewing. It was crowded with hard-eyed dealers and hopeful innocents looking for bargains and not finding much because all the good stuff had gone to the London flat or to Sotheby’s. Still, there was enough to keep them happy; the accumulated possessions of a happy family life of fifteen years. I could see why Penny didn’t want to be there.

I wasn’t there to buy anything, nor was I there out of mere curiosity. We had assumed Ashton had hidden something and, although we hadn’t found it, that didn’t mean it
wasn’t there. When I say ‘we’ I really mean Ogilvie, because I didn’t wholly go along with him on that. But he could have been right, and I was on hand to see if any suspicious-looking characters were taking an undue interest. Of course, it was as futile an exercise as drawing the chart because the normal dealer looks furtive and suspicious to begin with.

During the morning I bumped into Mary Cope. ‘Hello, Mary,’ I said. ‘Still here, then.’

‘Yes, sir. I’m to live in the house until it’s been sold. I still have my flat upstairs.’ She surveyed the throng of inquisitive folk as they probed among the Ashtons’ possessions. ‘It’s a shame, sir, it really is. Everything was so beautiful before…before…’

She was on the verge of tears. I said, ‘A pity, Mary, but there it is. Any offers for the house yet?’

‘Not that I know of, sir.’

‘What will you do when it’s sold?’

‘I’m to go to London when Miss Penny and Miss Gillian come back from America. I don’t know that I’ll like London, though. Still, perhaps it will grow on me.’

‘I’m sure it will.’

She looked up at me. ‘I wish I knew what was in God’s mind when he does a thing like this to a family like the Ashtons. You couldn’t wish for better people, sir.’

God had nothing to do with it, I thought grimly; what happened to the Ashtons had been strictly man-made. But there was nothing I could say to answer such a question of simple faith.

‘It’s not only Mr Ashton, though,’ said Mary wistfully. ‘I miss Benson. He was such a funny man - always joking and light-hearted; and he never had a wrong word for anyone. He did make us laugh, sir; and to think that he and Mr Ashton should die like that, and in a foreign country.’

‘Did Benson ever talk about himself, Mary?’

‘About himself, sir? How do you mean?’

‘Did he ever tell anecdotes - stories - about his early life, or when he was in the army?’

She thought about it, then shook her head. ‘No, Benson was a man who lived in the present. He’d joke about politicians, and what he’d read in the papers or seen on telly. A real comedian, Benson was; had us in stitches a lot of the time. I used to tell him he should have been on the stage, but he always said he was too old.’

A real comedian! What an epitaph for a man whose last macabre joke was to shoot his master. I said, ‘You’d better look sharp, Mary, or some of these people will be stealing the spoons.’

She laughed. ‘Not much chance of that, sir. The auctioneer has Securicor men all over the place.’ She hesitated. ‘Would you like a cup of tea? I can make it in my flat.’

I smiled. ‘No, thank you, Mary. I don’t think I’ll be staying long this morning.’

All the same, I was there next day for the actual auction, and why I was there I didn’t really know. Perhaps it was the feeling that with the dispersal of the contents of the house the truth about the Ashton case was slipping away, perhaps to be lost forever. At any rate I was there, impotent with ignorance, but on the spot.

And there, to my surprise, was also Michaelis. I didn’t see him until late morning and was only aware of him when he nudged me in the ribs. The auctioneer was nattering about a particularly fine specimen of something or other so we withdrew to Ashton’s study, now stripped rather bare. ‘What a bloody shame this is,’ he said. ‘
I
’m glad Gillian isn’t here to see it. Have you heard anything yet?’

‘No.’

‘Neither have I,’ he said broodily. ‘I wrote to her but she hasn’t replied.’

‘She’s only been gone four days,’ I pointed out gently. ‘The postal services weren’t that good even in their palmy days.’

He grinned and seemed oddly shy. ‘I suppose you think I’m making a damned fool of myself.’

‘Not at all,’ I said. ‘No more than me. I wish you luck.’

‘Think I have a chance?’

‘I don’t see why not. In fact, I think you have everything going for you, so cheer up. What are you doing here anyway?’

‘That model railway still interests me. I thought that if it’s broken up for sale I might put in a bid or two. Of course, in model railway terms to break up that system would be like cutting up the Mona Lisa and selling bits of it. But it won’t be broken up and I won’t have a chance. Lucas Hartman is here.’

‘Who’s he?’

‘Oh, everybody in the model railway world knows Hartman. He’s a real model railway buff, but he calls it railroad because he’s an American. He’s also quite rich.’

‘And you think he’ll buy it as it stands?’

‘He’s sure to. He’s up in the attic gloating over it now.’

‘How much do you think it will bring?’ I asked curiously.

Michaelis shrugged. ‘That’s hard to say. It’s not exactly standard stuff - there’s so much extra built in that it’s hard to put a price on it.’

‘Have a try.’

‘For the rail and rolling stock and normal control instrumentation, all of which is there, it would cost about £15,000 to build from scratch, so let’s say it might bring between £7000 and £10,000 at auction. As for the other stuff built in, that’s more difficult to assess. I’d say it’ll double the price.’

‘So you think it will bring somewhere between £15,000 and £20,000.’

‘Something like that. Of course, the auctioneer will have a reserve price on it. Any way you look at it, Hartman will get it. He’ll outbid the dealers.’

‘Ah, well,’ I said philosophically. ‘It will fall into good hands - someone who appreciates it.’

‘I suppose so,’ said Michaelis gloomily. ‘The bloody thing beat me in the end, you know.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, you know those schedules I talked about - I showed you one of them.’

‘The London, Midland and Scottish, I think it was.’

‘That’s right. I compared them against old Bradshaws and got nowhere. I even went right back to mid-1800s and nothing made sense. The system doesn’t seem to compare with any normal railway scheduling.’

‘Not even when those schedules were clearly labelled “LMS” and so on,’ I said slowly.

‘They don’t fit at any point,’ said Michaelis. ‘It beats me.’

There was a picture in my mind’s eye of Ashton’s clenched fist opening to reveal a railway timetable - Stockholm to Göteborg, and it was like a bomb going off in my skull. ‘Jesus!’

Michaelis stared at me. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘Come on. We’re going to talk to that bloody auctioneer.’

I left the study at a fast stride and went into the crowded hall where the auction was taking place. The auctioneer had set up a portable rostrum at the foot of the stairs and, as I elbowed my way through the throng towards it, I took a business card from my wallet. Behind me Michaelis said, ‘What’s the rush?’

I flattened myself against the wall and scribbled on the card. ‘Can’t explain now.’ I pushed the card at him. ‘See the auctioneer gets this.’

Michaelis shrugged and fought his way through to the rostrum where he gave the card to one of the auctioneer’s assis
tants. I walked up the stairs and stood where I could easily be seen. The auctioneer was in mid-spate, selling an eighteen-place Crown Derby dinner service; he took the card which was thrust under his nose, turned it over, looked up at me and nodded, and then continued with hardly a break in his chant.

Michaelis came back. ‘What’s the panic?’

‘We must stop the sale of that railway.’

‘I’m all for that,’ he said. ‘But what’s your interest?’

The auctioneer’s hammer came down with a sharp crack. ‘Sold!’

‘It’s too complicated to tell you now.’ The auctioneer had handed over to his assistant and was coming towards the stairs. ‘It’ll have to keep.’

The auctioneer came up the stairs. ‘What can I do for you - er - ‘ He glanced at the card - ‘Mr Jaggard.’

‘I represent Penelope and Gillian Ashton. The model railway in the attic mustn’t be sold.’

He frowned. ‘Well, I don’t know about that.’

I said, ‘Can’t we go somewhere a bit more quiet while I explain?’

He nodded and pointed up the stairs, so we went into one of the bedrooms. He said, ‘You say you represent the Ashton sisters?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Can you prove that?’

‘Not with anything I carry with me. But I can give you written authority if you need it.’

‘On your signature?’

‘Yes.’

He shook his head. ‘Sorry, Mr Jaggard, but that’s not good enough. I was engaged by Penelope Ashton to sell the contents of this house. I can’t vary that agreement without her authority. If you can give me a letter from her, that’s different.’

‘She’s not easy to get hold of at short notice. She’s in the United States.’

‘I see. Then there’s nothing to be done.’ Something in my expression caused him to add quickly, ‘Mr Jaggard, I don’t know you. Now, I’m a professional man, engaged to conduct this sale. I can’t possibly take instructions from any Tom, Dick or Harry who comes here telling me what to do or what not to do. I really don’t conduct my business that way. Besides, the railway is one of the plums of the sale. The press is very interested; it makes a nice filler for a columnist.’

‘Then what do you suggest? Would you take instruction from Miss Ashton’s legal adviser?’

‘Her solicitor? Yes, I might do that.’ He frowned perplexedly. ‘This all appears very odd to me. It seems, from what you say, that Miss Ashton knows nothing about this and it is something you are taking upon yourself. But if I have written instructions from her solicitor, then I’ll withdraw the railway.’

‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘I’ll get in touch with him. Oh, by the way, what’s the reserve price?’