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He pursed his lips. ‘I don’t know if this is relevant, but Harry Hannaford told me a couple of days ago that an American had made Bob an offer for that tray – you know, the one they found was so valuable.’
‘Where did this happen?’
Nigel flipped his hand. ‘In here! I wasn’t here at the time, but Harry said he heard the whole thing. He was having a drink with Bob at the time.’
I said, ‘Do you know this American?’
‘I don’t think so. We get a lot of Yanks here – you run a place as old as the Cott and you’re on the culture circuit. But we didn’t have any Americans staying here just then. We have one here now, though; he arrived yesterday.’
‘Oh! What kind of an American?’
Nigel smiled. ‘Oldish – about sixty, I’d say. Name of Fallon. He must have a lot of money, too, judging by the telephone bill he’s run up. But I wouldn’t say he’s a suspicious character.’
‘Getting back to Hannaford and the other Yank,’ I said. ‘Can you tell me anything more?’
‘There’s nothing more to tell. Just that the Yank wanted to buy the tray – that’s all Harry said.’ He looked up at the clock. ‘He’ll be in soon, as like as not, for his midday pint. He usually comes in about now. Do you know him?’
‘I can’t place him.’
‘All right,’ said Nigel. ‘When he comes in I’ll tip you the wink.’
The sandwiches arrived and I took them to a corner table near the fireplace. When I sat down I felt suddenly tired, which wasn’t surprising considering I’d been up all night and subject to a hell of a lot of tension. I ate the sandwiches slowly and drank some more beer. I was only now coming out of the shock that had hit me when I found Bob, and it was beginning to really hurt.
The pub started to fill up and I saw one or two faces I knew, but no one bothered me, although I intercepted some curious glances from eyes that were quickly averted. But there’s a basic decency among countrymen which forbade them overt curiosity. Presently I saw Nigel talking to a big man in tweeds, then he crossed to me and said, ‘Hannaford’s here. Want to talk to him?’
I looked around the crowded bar. ‘I’d rather it wasn’t here. Have you a room I can use?’
‘Take my office,’ said Nigel promptly. ‘I’ll send Harry in after you.’
‘You can send a couple of pints, too,’ I said, and left the bar by the back door.
Hannaford joined me in a few minutes. ‘Main sorry to hear about Bob,’ he said in a deep voice. ‘Many’s the laugh we’ve had here. He was a good man.’
‘Yes, Mr Hannaford; he was.’ It was easy to see the relationship between Hannaford and Bob. When a man is a regular caller at a pub he strikes up an easy and casual acquaintanceship in those four walls. More often than not it goes no further than that and there may be no meeting outside the pub. But for all that there need be no shallowness to it – it’s just uncomplicated and friendly.
I said, ‘Nigel tells me there was an American wanting to buy the tray from Bob.’
‘That there was – and more’n one. Bob had two offers to my knowledge, both from Americans.’
‘Did he? Do you know anything about these men, Mr Hannaford?’
Hannaford pulled his ear. ‘Mr Gatt was a real nice gentleman – not at all pushy like a lot of these Yanks. A middle-aged man he was, and well dressed. Very keen to buy that tray from Bob was Mr Gatt.’
‘Did he offer a price – a definite price?’
‘Not straight out he didn’t. Your brother said it was no use him offering any price at all until he’d had the tray valued, and Mr Gatt said he’d give Bob the valuation price – whatever it was. But Bob laughed and said he might not sell it at all, that it was a family heirloom. Mr Gatt looked mighty put out when he heard that.’
‘What about the other man?’
‘The young chap? I didn’t relish him much, he acted too high and mighty for me. He made no offer – not in my hearing – but he was disappointed when Bob said he wasn’t set on selling, and he spoke pretty sharpish to Bob until his wife shut him up.’
‘His wife!’
Hannaford smiled. ‘Well, I wouldn’t swear to that – he showed me no marriage lines – but I reckon it was his wife or, maybe his sister, perhaps.’
‘Did he give a name?’
‘That he did. Now, what was it? Hall? No, that’s not it. Steadman? Nooo. Wait a minute and I’ll get it.’ His big red face contorted with the effort of remembering and suddenly smoothed out. ‘Halstead – that was it. Halstead was the name. He gave your brother his card – I remember that. He said he’d get in touch again when the tray was valued. Bob said he was wasting his time and that’s when he lost his temper.’
I said, ‘Anything else you remember about it?’
Hannaford shook his head. That’s about all there was to it. Oh, Mr Gatt did say he was a collector of pieces like that. One of these rich American millionaires, I expect.’
I thought that rich Americans seemed to be thick on the ground around the Cott. ‘When did this happen?’ I asked.
Hannaford rubbed his jaw. ‘Let me see – it was after they printed about it in the Western Morning News; two days after, to my best recollection. That’ud make it five days ago, so it was Tuesday.’
I said, ‘Thank you, Mr Hannaford. The police might be interested in this, you know.’
‘I’ll tell them all I’ve told you,’ he said earnestly, and put his hand on my sleeve. ‘When’s the funeral to be? I’d like to be there to pay my respects.’
I hadn’t thought of that; too much had happened in too short a time. I said, ‘I don’t know when it will be. There’ll have to be an inquest first.’
‘Of course,’ said Hannaford. ‘Best thing to do would be to tell Nigel as soon as you’re sure, and he’ll let me know. And others, too. Bob Wheale was well liked around here.’
‘I’ll do that.’
We went back into the bar and Nigel caught my eye. I put my tankard on the bar counter and he nodded across the room. ‘That’s the Yank who is staying here now. Fallon.’
I turned and saw a preternaturally thin man sitting near to the fire holding a whisky glass. He was about sixty years of age, his head was gaunt and fleshless and his skin tanned to the colour of well worn leather. As I watched he seemed to shiver and he drew his chair closer to the fire.
I turned back to Nigel, who said, ‘He told me he spends a lot of time in Mexico. He doesn’t like the English climate – he thinks it’s too cold.’
IV
I spent that night alone at Hay Tree Farm. Perhaps I should have stayed at the Cott and saved myself a lot of misery, but I didn’t. Instead I wandered through the silent rooms, peopled with the shadowy figures of memories, and grew more and more depressed.
I was the last of the Wheales – there was no one else. No uncles or aunts or cousins, no sisters or brothers – just me. This echoing, empty house, creaking with the centuries, had witnessed a vast procession down the years – a pageant of Wheales – Elizabethan, Jacobean, Restoration, Regency, Victorian, Edwardian. The little patch of England around the house had been sweated over by Wheales for more than four centuries in good times and bad, and now it all sharpened down to a single point – me. Me – a grey little man in a grey little job.
It wasn’t fair!
I found myself standing in Bob’s room. The bed was still dishevelled where I had whipped away the blankets to cover him and I straightened it almost automatically, smoothing down the counterpane. His dressing-table was untidy, as it always had been, and stuck in the crack up one side of the mirror was his collection of unframed photographs – one of our parents, one of me, one of Stalwart, the big brute of a horse that was his favourite mount, and a nice picture of Elizabeth. I pulled that one down to get a better look and something fluttered to the top of the dressing-table.
I picked it up. It was Halstead’s card which Hannaford had spoken of. I looked at it listlessly. Paul Halstead. Avenida Quintillana 1534. Mexico City.
The telephone rang, startlingly loud, and I picked it up to hear the dry voice of Mr Mount. ‘Hello, Jeremy,’ he said. ‘I just thought I’d tell you that you have no need to worry about the funeral arrangements. I’ll take care of all that for you.’
‘That’s very kind of you,’ I said, and then choked up.
‘Your father and I were very good friends,’ he said. ‘But I don’t think I’ve ever told you that if he hadn’t married your mother, then I might have done so.’ He rang off and the phone went dead.
I slept that night in my own room, the room I had always had ever since I was a boy. And I cried myself to sleep as I had not done since I was a boy.
TWO (#ulink_232389fd-2e28-528e-a1bd-69da785a8c3c)
It was only at the inquest that I found out the name of the dead man. It was Victor Niscemi, and he was an American national.
The proceedings didn’t take long. First, there was a formal evidence of identification, then I told the story of how I had found the body of Niscemi and my brother dying in the farmhouse kitchen. Dave Goosan then stepped up and gave the police evidence, and the gold tray and the shotguns were offered as exhibits.
The coroner wrapped it up very quickly and the verdict on Niscemi was that he had been killed in self defence by Robert Blake Wheale. The verdict on Bob was that he had been murdered by Victor Niscemi and a person or persons unknown.
I saw Dave Goosan in the narrow cobbled street outside the Guildhall where the inquest had taken place. He jerked his head at two thick-set men who were walking away. ‘From Scotland Yard,’ he said. ‘This is in their bailiwick now. They come in on anything that might be international.’
‘You mean, because Niscemi was an American.’
‘That’s right. I’ll tell you something else, Jemmy. He had form on the other side of the Atlantic. Petty thieving and robbery with violence. Not much.’
‘Enough to do for Bob,’ I said viciously.
Dave sighed in exasperated agreement. ‘To tell you the truth, there’s a bit of a mystery about this. Niscemi was never much of a success as a thief; he never had any money. Sort of working class, if you know what I mean. He certainly never had the money to take a trip over here – not unless he’d pulled off something bigger than usual for him. And nobody can see why he came to England. He’d be like a fish out of water, just the same as a Bermondsey burglar would be in New York. Still, it’s being followed up.’
‘What did Smith find out about Halstead and Gatt, the Yanks I turned up?’
Dave looked me in the eye. ‘I can’t tell you that, Jemmy. I can’t discuss police work with you even if you are Bob’s brother. The super would have my scalp.’ He tapped me on the chest. ‘Don’t forget that you were a suspect once, lad.’ The startlement must have shown on my face. ‘Well, dammit; who has benefited most by Bob’s death? All that stuff about the tray might have been a lot of flummery. I knew it wasn’t you, but to the super you were just another warm body wandering about the scene of the crime.’
I let out a deep breath. ‘I trust I’m not still on his list of suspects,’ I said ironically.
‘Don’t give it another thought, although I’m not saying the super wont. He’s the most unbelieving bastard I’ve ever come across. If he fell across a body himself he’d keep himself on his own list.’ Dave pulled on his ear. ‘I’ll give you this much; it seems that Halstead is in the clear. He was in London and he’s got an alibi for when he needs it.’ He grinned. ‘He was picked up for questioning in the Reading Room of the British Museum. Those London coppers must be a tactful lot.’
‘Who is he? What is he?’
‘He says he’s an archeologist,’ said Dave, and looked over my shoulder with mild consternation. ‘Oh, Christ; here come those bloody reporters. Look, you nip into the church – they won’t have the brazen nerve to follow you in there. I’ll fight a rear-guard action while you leave by the side door in the vestry.’
I left him quickly and slipped into the churchyard. As I entered the church I heard the excited yelping as of hounds surrounding a stag at bay.
The funeral took place the day after the inquest. A lot of people turned up, most of whom I knew but a lot I didn’t. All the people from Hay Tree Farm were there, including Madge and Jack Edgecombe who had come back from Jersey. The service was short, but even so I was glad when it was over and I could get away from all those sympathetic people. I had a word with Jack Edgecombe before I left. ‘I’ll see you up at the farm; there are things we must discuss.’
I drove to the farm with a feeling of depression. So that was that! Bob was buried, and so, presumably, was Niscemi, unless the police still had his body tucked away somewhere in cold storage. But for the loose end of Niscemi’s hypothetical accomplice everything was neatly wrapped up and the world could get on with the world’s futile business as usual.
I thought of the farm and what there was to do and of how I would handle Jack, who might show a countryman’s conservative resistance to my new-fangled ideas. Thus occupied I swung automatically into the farmyard and nearly slammed into the back of a big Mercedes that was parked in front of the house.
I got out of the car and, as I did so, so did the driver of the Mercedes, uncoiling his lean length like a strip of brown rawhide. It was Fallon, the American Nigel had pointed out at the Cott. He said, ‘Mr Wheale?’
‘That’s right.’
‘I know I shouldn’t intrude at this moment,’ he said. ‘But I’m pressed for time. My name is Fallon.’
He held out his hand and I found myself clutching skeletally thin fingers. ‘What can I do for you, Mr Fallon?’
‘If you could spare me a few minutes – it’s not easy to explain quickly.’ His voice was not excessively American.
I hesitated, then said, ‘You’d better come inside.’
He leaned into his car and produced a briefcase. I took him into Bob’s – my – study and waved him to a chair, then sat down facing him, saying nothing.
He coughed nervously, apparently not knowing where to begin, and I didn’t help him. He coughed again, then said, ‘I am aware that this may be a sore point, Mr Wheale, but I wonder if I could see the gold tray you have in your possession.’
‘I’m afraid that is quite impossible,’ I said flatly.
Alarm showed in his eyes. ‘You haven’t sold it?’
‘It’s still in the hands of the police.’
‘Oh!’ He relaxed and flicked open the catch of the brief-case. ‘That’s a pity. But I wonder if you could identify these photographs.’
He passed across a sheaf of eight by ten photographs which I fanned out. They were glossy and sharp as a needle, evidently the work of a competent commercial photographer. They were pictures of the tray taken from every conceivable angle; some were of the tray as a whole and there was a series of close-up detail shots showing the delicate vine leaf tracery of the rim.
‘You might find these more helpful,’ said Fallon, and passed me another heap of eight by tens. These were in colour, not quite as sharp as the black and whites but perhaps making a better display of the tray as it really was.
I looked up. ‘Where did you get these?’
‘Does it matter?’
‘The police might think so,’ I said tightly. ‘This tray has figured in a murder, and they might want to know how you came by these excellent photographs of my tray.’
‘Not your tray,’ he said gently. ‘My tray.’
‘That be damned for a tale,’ I said hotly. ‘This tray has been used in this house for a hundred and fifty years that I am aware of. I don’t see how the devil you can claim ownership.’
He waved his hand. ‘We are talking at cross purposes. Those photographs are of a tray at present in my possession which is now securely locked in a vault. I came here to find out if your tray resembled mine at all. I think you have answered my unspoken question quite adequately.’
I looked at the photographs again, feeling a bit of a fool. This certainly looked like the tray I had seen so often, although whether it was an exact replica would be hard to say. I had seen the tray briefly the previous Saturday morning when Dave Goosan had shown it to me, but when had I seen it before that? It must have been around when I had previously visited Bob, but I had never noticed it. In fact, I had never examined it since I was a boy.
Fallon asked, ‘Is it really like your tray?’
I explained my difficulty and he nodded understandingly, and said, ‘Would you consider selling me your tray, Mr Wheale? I will give you a fair price.’
‘It isn’t mine to sell.’
‘Oh? I would have thought you would inherit it.’
‘I did. But it’s in a sort of legal limbo. It won’t be mine until my brother’s will is probated.’ I didn’t tell Fallon that Mount had suggested selling the damned thing; I wanted to keep him on a string and find out what he was really after. I never forgot for one minute that Bob had died because of that tray.
‘I see.’ He drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair. ‘I suppose the police will release it into your possession.’
‘I don’t see why they shouldn’t.’
He smiled. ‘Mr Wheale, will you allow me to examine the tray – to photograph it? It need never leave the house: I have a very good camera at my disposal.’
