Chapter 14
Alec returned to the King’s House. He walked by way of the fatal stairs, not that he expected to learn anything new, but to refresh in his mind the lie of the land. At the top, he turned and looked down.
Even in the now-bright sunshine, the steep, narrow flight of eighteen or so steps looked dangerous.
If it weren’t for the partizan, Crabtree’s death would surely have passed as an accident.
So why use the damn thing? The only possible reason that suggested itself was an attempt to throw suspicion on the victim’s fellow warders, which, in turn, suggested that the murderer was not a warder.
He went on. Before knocking on the front door, he stopped to contemplate the balcony, the flat roof of a single-story excrescence filling the angle between the south and west wings of the Tudor building.
It appeared to be an afterthought, adding a little extra space to the ground floor.
The railing and the drop, though Daisy might balk at tackling them, would present no great challenge to anyone of moderate athletic ability.
On the other hand, climbing back in would be difficult without a ladder or assistance from above. He couldn’t imagine the Resident Governor taking anyone into his confidence on such an errand, but had he dismissed the Carradine sisters too quickly?
The front door opened. Webster came out, taking two or three steps before he noticed Alec.
“Oh, there you are,” he said irritably. “The Governor sent me to find you. I got through to the Constable at last and he wanted a full report on your investigation. What little we were able to tell him did not satisfy him, so now General Carradine wants a report he can pass on.”
Alec took the wind out of his sails. “That’s exactly why I was on my way to you.
I thought it was about time I brought General Carradine up-to-date.
” Not that he had the slightest intention of providing a “full” report, given that members of the household were still under suspicion.
However, all senior police officers had to be expert at giving little away while making people—especially nosy reporters and self-important members of the upper classes—believe they’d heard a great deal.
They went into the house and up to the study. Carradine was sitting at his desk, staring morosely through the window at the site of the scaffold on the far side of the Green. He turned his head as Webster ushered Alec in.
“Oh, there you are, Fletcher. I hope you’ve some progress to report.”
“Only of a negative kind, I’m afraid, sir.” He explained that a fairly large number of people had been eliminated from their enquiries. “Your Special Constables have been of invaluable assistance,” he added.
Carradine’s temperament was naturally sanguine. “They’re a good lot, on the whole,” he said, brightening. “They wouldn’t be here otherwise. I’m glad they’ve been helpful. But negative progress—that doesn’t sound promising.”
“Come now, sir, ‘Reculer pour mieux sauter’? In your profession, you have the strategic retreat. In mine, we often have to clear away a lot of deadwood before we can see the trees for the forest, if you see what I mean.”
“Yes, I think so. Yes, of course.”
“Every suspect we eliminate makes it easier for us to concentrate our attentions on those remaining.” No need to mention that the most promising suspect was out of the picture.
Nor that, with Rumford cleared of murder, the likelihood was very much increased that he was the intended victim, thus propelling the Resident Governor and his daughters to positions near the head of the list.
“Ah, yes, that sounds like progress, doesn’t it, Jeremy?”
“Indeed, sir.” Webster’s gaze, as always difficult to read because of his glasses, seemed to Alec to be tinged with scepticism.
Alec hoped the secretary wouldn’t feel obliged to point out to his employer just how little had actually been said.
The general started to ask, “Who—?” He frowned as a heavy tread on the stairs interrupted him, then asked again, but with a different object: “Who—?”
A short, plump gentleman burst in without announcement or invitation. “Carradine, I really must protest. . . . Oh, who’s this?”
“Our sleuth from Scotland Yard, Sir Patrick.” Carradine seemed more amused than annoyed. “Allow me to introduce Detective Chief Inspector Fletcher. You met his wife here the other evening. Mr. Fletcher, Sir Patrick Heald, the Keeper of the Regalia.”
Sir Patrick scowled at Alec and said irately, “So you’re the one responsible for . . . Mrs. Fletcher? She’s married to a policeman?” He glanced back at the general. “But didn’t you say . . . ? Sorry, old chap, no offence. Charming little lady.”
Alec managed to preserve the impassive face proper to a policeman, but behind it his thoughts echoed Macleod’s words: Supercilious bastard.
“My wife is a very well-respected journalist,” he said in a tone that suggested agreement, although he knew perfectly well that what Sir Patrick referred to was not Daisy’s writing ability, but her noble birth.
“Yes, well, I showed her the Regalia myself, didn’t I, Webster?”
“You did, sir.” Webster didn’t appear to care for the Keeper any better than Macleod did.
“Which I don’t for your everyday scribbler, I assure you. But what’s all this about not being allowed to leave the Tower, my dear fellow? Carradine tells me it was on your advice that he closed the gates.”
“That is correct, sir. In a murder case, it’s usual to request that all possible witnesses remain within reach until we have had time to make the necessary enquiries.”
“I can see that’s appropriate for the rank and file, but—”
“I’d have thought, sir, in your official capacity, you’d wish to set an example to others who might find it inconvenient or distasteful to have their movements restricted.”
“I suppose, if you put it like that . . . Oh, very well! But I have an engagement at my country place tomorrow evening that I don’t care to miss.”
“I expect we’ll have everything cleared up in good time, sir,” Alec said untruthfully.
“Very well. Carry on. You’ll keep me informed, Carradine?”
“Of course, Sir Patrick. I can’t apologise enough for the misunderstanding this morning.”
With a disgruntled grunt, the Keeper departed.
“To be fair,” said Carradine, “he’s been quite patient and forbearing.
My chaps at the Byward Tower told me he drove along to the gate at the usual time of opening and was quite put out to find it locked.
He’s not involved in the administration of the Tower, of course, and no one had thought to inform him of Crabtree’s unfortunate demise. My fault entirely.”
“At that time, sir,” Webster pointed out, “we were scarcely beginning to comprehend the fact ourselves.”
“True. I can’t think why he had to leave so early, today of all days! I suppose he had an engagement in the country—golf, luncheon, who knows. Well, one must expect to be inconvenienced by murder.”
“In any case,” said the secretary doggedly, “I was not aware that Sir Patrick was in residence last night.”
“Nor I, nor I.”
“Are you aware, General,” said Alec, “that your Yeoman Gaoler is in the hospital?”
“Good gad, no! Was he attacked, too?”
“Only in the lungs, by the fog.”
“Poor chap.” Carradine’s commiseration was perfunctory. “Did you know, Jeremy?”
“Dr. Macleod sent over the regulation chit this morning. I put it on your desk, but you haven’t had much opportunity to deal with everyday business today.” Webster was soothing without being sycophantic.
He was probably a good secretary in spite of his peculiarities, Alec decided.
But if he was more competent than first appearances suggested, might he not also be more athletic than his thick glasses implied?
Consider the prodigious leaps performed by fat little goggle-eyed frogs.
Back on the list went Mr. Jeremy Fisher.
Carradine was regarding his paper-strewn desk with aversion, which metamorphosed unexpectedly into thankfulness. “I usually visit any of our men who land in sick bay, but in the circumstances, I hardly think . . .”
“You won’t be missed, sir,” Alec assured him. “The doctor has Rumford under heavy sedation.”
“Excellent, excellent.”
“You’ll want to speak to the Constable, sir, to bring him up-to-date on Mr. Fletcher’s ‘progress.’ ”
Webster’s sarcasm was obvious to Alec, but the general ignored or failed to notice it. “Yes, the sooner the better,” he said. “See if you can get hold of him, Jeremy.”
Alec slipped out quickly before that inconvenient “Who . . . ?” question could raise its head again. That had been much easier than his report to Superintendent Crane was going to be.
He met Tom and Ernie at the Guard House.
Tom had nothing useful to report from questioning the Hotspur NCOs. Several had known Crabtree before he retired from the regiment, and they were unanimous that he wasn’t the sort who made enemies.
Ernie had obtained the key to the Yeoman Gaoler’s House from Webster and searched it, as well as Crabtree’s.
In the latter, he had found signs of the making and clearing up of toasted cheese.
Assuming he had eaten it immediately after the Keys ceremony, the autopsy should be able to time his death pretty accurately.
“And at Rumford’s?” Alec asked. “A nice list of names? An account book or bankbook with unexplained deposits?”
“No such luck, Chief.”
“Ah,” said Tom. “That don’t really surprise me.
These noncoms, they aren’t writers. I mean, they’re literate, but it’s not automatic to write everything down like it is in the force.
On the other hand, they have a phenomenal memory for names and faces.
They’re in charge of keeping all those privates in order, and they don’t want to have to stop and think ‘What’s that bloke’s name?
’ before they yell at him. I reckon Rumford’d rely on his memory for who he had his hooks into. ”
“Not even a nice hoard of banknotes, I suppose?” Alec said unhopefully.