blood.”
Anastasia Hardy had been gazing at the open window. Now she swung round, taking a notebook from her capacious handbag. “So what have we got, Calthwaite? A man falls from a window and there’s a scream as he falls. Everyone assumes it’s an accident… or even suicide. Then the doctor ruins it all by saying he was already dead when he fell, killed by a stab wound. He didn’t stagger round the room, injured then tumble out of the open window. He was already well and truly dead. He was alone. The room was locked and the only key was on him when he fell so the killer couldn’t have escaped and locked the door behind him. I assume that door is the only way in.”
“Apparently, ma’am.”
“And the stains on that sword certainly look like blood so that could be our murder weapon. I don’t suppose…” The inspector and the constable exchanged looks. “The killer might still be in here… in the…” They both focused their eyes on the suit of armour.
“I’ll check, ma’am.” Gingerly, PC Calthwaite took the helmet in both hands and lifted it up. It was heavier than he had anticipated but it revealed no guilty face within. The armour was empty. But there was nowhere else to hide in the room. Calthwaite looked round again slowly and sniffed the air. There was a smell, something altogether more homely than the chemicals on the table, more in keeping with the surroundings. It would come to him in time.
A large, faded tapestry hung to the right of the armour, giving relief to the stark white of the walls. Anastasia examined it and lifted the edge carefully, as though she expected it to disintegrate at her touch. “Well, well. Look what I’ve found.” She said triumphantly. Then she dropped the tapestry as though it had become red hot. “There’s some kind of room behind here. The killer might still be in there,” she mouthed.
“I’ll have a look, ma’am,” the constable whispered, suddenly nervous. The killer no longer had the murder weapon but Joe Calthwaite didn’t relish the thought of coming face to face with a desperate murderer on a dull Wednesday morning.
Happily his fears were groundless. The tiny room concealed by the tapestry contained nothing more alarming than a pile of superfluous publicity material, a few lengths of red silken rope used to keep the public from wandering where they shouldn’t, and a trio of wooden signs bearing bossily pointing fingers. But this room hadn’t always been used as a storeroom. It had once had another, more dignified, function.
The altar was still there at the far end, draped in a dusty white cloth and topped by an elaborately framed painting of a plump Madonna and Child. Two sturdy, unused candles on high wrought iron stands stood at the side of the room and three more candles with white, unburned wicks had been placed on the altar. It was a small chapel and it had probably been used for its proper purpose in the not-too-distant past. Joe Calthwaite could still smell candles, the waxy odour of sanctity. He had smelt them in the tower room too, mingled with the stench of Jonathan Pleasance’s chemical cleaners.
“There’s nobody in here, ma’am,” he said, turning to Anastasia who was standing behind him, her head bowed as though in prayer.
She looked up. “You’d better make a thorough search in case there’s some hidden cupboard or priest hole or something. Dead men don’t throw themselves out of windows. Someone or something was up here with him at nine forty when he fell.”
Joe Calthwaite nodded. A priest hole, a secret passage: it was obvious. With renewed enthusiasm he began to search; tapping walls, lifting altar covers, looking behind paintings and seeking out suspicious floorboards. However, the priest hole theory rapidly lost its appeal: there was no hiding place either in the tower room or the tiny chapel. And yet the door had been locked and the only key had been found on the body. Joe Calthwaite frowned in concentration as he stared down at the tower room floor. Maybe the killer had escaped through some sort of trap door. But the shiny oak floorboards lay there, mockingly even and undisturbed. Then he spotted a tiny lump of some solid substance on the floor near the middle of the room, interrupting the rich gloss of the wood. He knelt down and touched it with his finger.
“Have you found something?” asked Anastasia, who had been staring out of the window down onto the courtyard in search of inspiration.
“No, ma’am. I don’t think so,” he replied uncertainly.
He followed her down the narrow stairs. When they reached the point where they met the elaborately carved main staircase, Anastasia turned to him and sighed. “I suppose we’d better ask some questions. Where shall we start?”
It was virtually unanimous. Jonathan Pleasance was a man to avoid. Not that he worked at Bickby Hall full-time: he was only there two mornings each week, which seemed to be more than enough for most of the staff.
The Hall’s publicity office had once been an impressive bed chamber. Two people worked there: Jenny was a solemn dark haired young woman dressed in black as though in permanent mourning. Mark, in contrast was an effeminate young man wearing a startling purple shirt. They were reluctant at first to speak ill of the newly dead. But gradually they grew more relaxed in Anastasia’s motherly presence and began to voice their true opinions. Jonathan Pleasance was an unpleasant, spiteful man, full of his own importance. He had made barbed comments about Mark’s sexual preferences and had made an arrogant pass at Jenny during the staff Christmas party. Mark and Jenny, seemingly united in their contempt for the dead man, provided alibis for each other. They had seen and heard nothing suspicious, and the first they knew of Pleasance’s death was when Muriel Pablos had burst in, breathless, to call the police after the schoolboys had seen the body hurtle down into the courtyard. Mark and Jenny displayed no emotion, spouted none of the routine cliches of grief. It was almost as if Jonathan Pleasance’s violent death didn’t surprise or bother them in the least.
Anastasia decided to question the catering and cleaning staff next. None of them had had much to do with Jonathan Pleasance but the interviews weren’t a complete waste of time. The chattiest of the cleaners was only too keen to reveal that the chapel was still used occasionally for special services: the last time had been a fortnight ago when the local vicar had christened the curator’s baby son there. Most of the staff had been invited, apart from Jonathan Pleasance who had complained about having to clear his equipment from the tower room for the happy occasion. Joe Calthwaite sat behind the inspector with his notebook on his knee, pondering this interesting snippet of information. Could the aroma of burning church candles linger for a fortnight? He doubted it.
The inspector looked at her watch. It was time to speak to the top man, the curator himself. She liked to see witnesses on their own territory: the more relaxed they were the less they guarded their tongues.
If the curator’s secretary, Mrs Barker, had been wearing a starched uniform she would have resembled an old fashioned nanny. As Anastasia and Calthwaite entered her small, well ordered office, she was holding a tiny tape recorder aloft in triumph. “The dictating machine… I’ve been looking for it everywhere, and it’s been hidden under the in-tray all the time.”
Mrs Barker smiled warmly at the newcomers and appeared to be enjoying the drama of the situation. “I’ve never had much to do with Mr Pleasance… and I can’t say I wanted to. I heard he was one for the ladies,” she said meaningfully with a wink which bordered on the cheeky. “In fact,” she said almost in a whisper, “he was… er… friendly with my boss’s sister and he let her down rather badly by all accounts. But of course it’s terrible that he’s dead,” she added as a righteous afterthought. “Was it an accident, do you think?”
Anastasia made no comment. “Where were you at nine this morning, Mrs Barker?”
“Mr Samuels and I were in here from half past eight working on an important report. Why?”
Before Anastasia could answer, a man emerged from the inner office. Petroc Samuels, curator of Bickby Hall, was a good looking man in his early forties. His body had lost the slender contours of youth and his dark hair was streaked with grey but his brown eyes sparkled with enthusiasm. He invited Anastasia and Calthwaite into his office and sat back in his swivel chair, relaxed, as the inspector began her questions in a deceptively gentle voice.
“I won’t pretend I liked Pleasance. He was good at his job but he wasn’t what
