‘Dr Newman’s hunch that the murders were carried out some distance from the place the bodies were found looks spot on. With Berrick’s murder they used a wheelchair to transport the body through the gallery, and with Thursk they drove the cherry-picker. I don’t suppose you’ve found any CCTV footage of a vehicle close to the gallery on Wednesday morning?’
‘Afraid not. There’re no cameras close by. Whoever committed the murders must have transported Berrick’s body to the gallery in the early hours, but I don’t think it would help much if we could get some footage. The person responsible for these crimes wouldn’t let anything slip. The number plate would be obscured. They would be disguised.’
‘So what about this Francis Arcade character?’
‘Yes, him. I’m pretty convinced he knows a great deal about what’s going on, but he shows no interest in sharing anything with us.’
‘Could he be our killer?’
‘I don’t think so, ma’am, though he certainly hated the two victims. He’s never disguised that fact. You’ve seen the podcast?’
‘Yes. Pretty incriminating if you ask me.’
‘He has an alibi.’
‘And it checks out?’
‘Unfortunately, yes.’
‘In that case we’ll have to let him go.’
‘I know. I’ll leave it to the last second, though. There is one other thing. I had a chat with Sammy Samson.’
‘That old wreck? I don’t understand why you bother with him.’
‘Actually, he’s been pretty useful before now,’ Pendragon said defensively.
‘Okay, Jack. I’ll take your word for it. What golden nugget has he given you this time?’
Pendragon gave the Super a wan smile. ‘He tells me our Mr Kingsley Berrick was involved with the local gangs.’
‘And you believe him?’
Pendragon paused for a moment and took a deep breath. ‘I think it’s worth following up.’
Hughes looked intently at him and decided to concede the point. ‘Yes, you’re right, Jack. We can’t leave any stone …’ She was interrupted by a rap on the door. It was Turner. He looked excited.
‘Sorry to interrupt, ma’am,’ he said, looking directly at the Super. ‘Just had a call. We’ve got another one.’
Chapter 25
To Mrs Sonia Thomson
14 October 1888
June was a very busy month. I was obliged to organise my family affairs in Hemel Hempstead, bury my father, and help the authorities with their investigation into the fire at Fellwick Manor. I was aware of a few suspicious voices being raised, but nobody came out with any clear accusations and there was no evidence to incriminate Yours Truly. Naturally, I played the role of grieving son beautifully. My father had few friends and we had no remaining family connections. His unmarried elder brother had died of cholera some ten years ago, and Mother, like myself, had been an only child. I inherited everything.
After an appropriate length of time I was able to escape to Oxford where I had still to attend to the matter of satisfying my professors that I was worthy of a good degree. You may wonder why on earth this would matter to me; but, you see, I’m one of those people who, once something has been started, likes to finish it in style. This I succeeded in doing, and in June, I was ready to make my farewells to the university town that had opened up so many new opportunities for me.
But, for some reason, I could not quite bring myself to board the train. I lingered for two days. Most of the students had left and the place began to feel unnaturally quiet. Before dawn on the third morning, as I lay in bed, I realised what it was that was holding me back. I packed a bag with some bread and a bottle of ale, and headed south past Christ Church and over Folly Bridge.
The sun had been up for an hour by the time I reached Boars Hill and the day was already warming up. After leaving the track at the edge of the city and passing into the fields close to Boars Hill, I neither saw nor heard another soul. The only sound was the buzzing of insects. Clancy Hall was surrounded by a fence on three sides and a wall on the other. The driveway was gated but I found a way over the wall to the east of the gate, close to a copse of trees, and traipsed across a patch of knee-high grass that led me to the edge of the carefully manicured gardens close to the house.
I sensed the place was deserted long before I reached the double front doors and tried the bell. The windows were shuttered; the driveway empty and freshly raked. I tried the bell a few more times without really knowing why and then took a few paces back to the far edge of the driveway, to stare at the blank walls and shutters.
I was crossing the lawn to leave when I saw a solitary figure some fifty yards away: a gardener working on one of the flowerbeds. He was wearing steel-capped boots and had thrust his spade into a heap of soil stacked high in a wheelbarrow. Arching his spine, he pushed back his cap, wiped his weathered face with a scrap of cloth and turned to watch my approach.
‘Good day,’ I said.
He gave me a suspicious look, his thick grey eyebrows knitting together. ‘Sir,’ he said, touching the front of his cap.
‘I’m a friend of the owner,’ I said, and nodded back towards the house. ‘My name is Mr Sandler.’
‘Pleased to meet you, sir.’
‘I was surprised to see it all boarded up.’
‘Well, perhaps you haven’t been around for a bit, sir,’ the gardener said mildly. ‘Been this way for a while now.’
I was about to reply, but checked myself. I wiped my own sweaty brow with the sleeve of my jacket. ‘Any idea where Mr Oglebee has gone?’ I asked, staring the gardener directly in the eye.
‘Mr Oglebee?’
‘Yes, man,’ I snapped. ‘Mr Oglebee.’
The gardener shook his head slowly and I could feel the anger building up inside me. He clicked his tongue. ‘Don’t know about a Mr Oglebee, sir. Clancy Hall is owned by Lord and Lady Broadbent. Or at least it was. They died a few years back. Their son Charles is master of the estate now. But he lives in South Africa. Hasn’t been back for, oh … at least three years.’
I looked into the old man’s eyes, trying to see if there was any trace of artifice, but there was none. I simply thanked him, turned and walked back to Oxford.
Later, following the porters out through the gates of Exeter College and on to the Turl, I could not snap out of the puzzled reverie I had found myself in since leaving Clancy Hall. There was no one in Oxford to whom I could put the conundrum, and something inside told me that even if I were to mention what I had discovered, I would receive no satisfactory form of response. It was a little while later, as I sat alone in the train carriage allowing myself to be lulled to sleep, that I began to see the funny side of it and to accept what an amusing
I had been to London on several occasions prior to that, always with my father. They had been solemn affairs; silent train journeys with me obediently tagging along. All those trips were to the more salubrious parts of the capital, on visits to lawyers and meetings with Father’s religious brethren. My plans now were very different.
The train pulled into Paddington Station with its usual cacophony and billows of steam. I followed the porter through a concourse milling with early-evening travellers. We stopped at Left Luggage and I gave the man a good
