The Baker Street Jurors (24 page)

Nigel and Lucy and Mrs. Peabody all looked at each other. Nigel shrugged. So did Lucy. Then—

“Well,” said Mrs. Peabody. “The insurance salesman fellow was an insurance salesman, so of course there's that. But I can't for the life of me think of any reason anyone would want to harm Mr. Armstrong. And as for Mr. Siger—well, he struck me as an odd duck, but nothing anyone would get upset about.”

“Other than the fact that he was one of us,” said Lucy. “A juror. On this trial.”

“Well, yes, there's that, of course,” said Mrs. Peabody. “But anyway—what happened next after Mr. Armstrong died is that we drank tea and fell asleep, but it wasn't the fault of my tea. And when we woke up, Mr. Bankstone was gone—and so was the body of Mr. Armstrong.”

Wembley looked at Nigel for confirmation, who nodded.

“And then,” said Nigel, “we found unusual tire tracks outside the door. We followed those tire tracks, and they led us down to the beach. Right down to the surf line. We saw the sea tractor, and we saw Mr. Bankstone get dumped into the surf. We were too late to save him.”

“Did you see the driver?”

“No,” said Nigel. “Not close enough to recognize.”

“It had to be someone Bankstone trusted though, don't you think?” said Lucy. “Otherwise, he would never have gone along.”

“You got a good look at the tracks?”

“Yes,” said Nigel.

“Range Rover? Hummer? Could you tell?”

“Larger,” said Nigel. “Much larger. And with a clearance of at least two feet.”

Maggie, behind the bar, glanced over when Nigel said that. She stopped what she was doing, went to the front door, and looked out—and then she came over to the group seated in front of the fire.

“The sea tractor is coming across now,” she said. “It should be out front in about five minutes.”

“The sea tractor?” said Wembley. He was the only one of the group who had never seen it before, and so the only one who had to ask. Maggie pointed at the photo of it that hung on the wall behind the bar. “Ah,” said Wembley. “The sea tractor.”

Maggie went back to the kitchen. She returned a few moments later with three full breakfast plates. She put one down in front of each of the jurors.

The front door opened, a blast of cold wind blew in, and Bert with it. The bailiff and the barristers all turned to look. So did the judge. And so did the chief inspectors from both jurisdictions, the sergeant, and all three living and present jurors.

“Whew,” said Bert to Maggie, as he walked directly up to the bar. “That's still not a pleasant trip in this weather, I don't mind telling you.”

Bert suddenly turned his head in the other direction, pulled a checkered flannel cloth out of his coat pocket, and sneezed into it.

“Gesundheit,” said Maggie.

“Thank you,” said Bert.

Maggie nodded in the direction of the police officials. Bert turned toward them and then came directly to their table. His attitude was almost touching in its eagerness. “I've been up and down the coast on the near side of the island three times,” said Bert. “I've been clear around the whole thing once, and I explored the creeks on both sides, and it was no easy thing, what with the heavy mud runoff. Never seen anything like it. But I found nothing. I'm sorry, lads. But there's just no trace of the juror that's still missing. Not a trace at all.”

No one said anything in response. Suddenly Bert heard the silence, and was unnerved by it. “What?” said Bert.

“Sit down and join us for a moment,” said Wembley.

Nigel watched Bert's face, and saw his expression turn from eager self-congratulation to suspicious fear.

“What?” said Bert again.

“Just sit down, Bert.” said Chief Inspector Rutledge.

Bert very cautiously took a seat.

Rutledge leaned in toward Bert and looked him right in the eye, which was the local inspector's very best move, and said, “Bert, we've got one juror suspiciously dead from the Scout camp. We've got one suspiciously dead from the surf. And we've got one still missing. Suspiciously. If that juror is still alive, and you know anything about it, the time for you to tell us about it is right now.”

“But I don't, guv! I looked all over the island for him, just as I said. I didn't make him go missing, guv. And I didn't do anything to the others, either!”

“You're a betting man, aren't you, Bert?”

“I … yes, I play the lottery. I do.”

“Like your sports, too, don't you?”

“Why, sure. Manchester United is my team.”

“That's football,” said Rutledge.

“Um … yes.”

“We're talking cricket here.”

“All right then,” said Bert.

“Got any bets down on cricket?”

“No.”

“What?” said Rutledge. “Do you mean to tell me you aren't heavily into the bookmakers on the upcoming cricket championship?”

“Well, no, guv, I'm not. That would be a fool's game now, wouldn't it? Given how up in the air everything is?”

“Don't play with me, Bert.”

“I'm not, guv. I wouldn't.”

Rutledge sighed and sat back.

Wembley stood and tapped Rutledge on the shoulder.

“Don't go anywhere, Bert,” said Rutledge. “I still want to talk to you.”

“I won't, guv. I promise.”

The two chief inspectors walked several paces away, toward the back of the pub, and then Wembley spoke in a low voice. “It doesn't matter whether Bert personally has a bet on the match,” he said. “His bookie could already be heavily invested himself on odds that he set before McSweeney was even arrested. So if Bert is heavily in debt to a bookie, and the bookie wants to influence the match by cocking up the jury, then the bookie's motive becomes Bert's motive, get me?”

“Of course. I knew that. I'm just taking my time about it. Sneaking up on him, as it were. We haven't even read him his rights yet.”

“All right then. It's your jurisdiction.”

“Right. It is.”

The two inspectors returned and sat down in front of Bert again. “Here's the situation, Bert,” said Rutledge. “You've been seen drinking pints and otherwise fraternizing with known bookies. You've acknowledged placing bets, and we'll know soon enough just how deeply in debt you are. So that's motive. We know the sea tractor was the only vehicle for miles around that could have gotten up to that camp during the storm. We know the tracks from that vehicle led from the Scout camp right down to the shore where this Mr. Bankstone drowned in the surf. And we know that you are the only person authorized to drive the sea tractor. And I think you know what that means.”

“But I couldn't have done it!” cried Bert. “I was here at the pub. Maggie can tell you that. And the sea tractor was there at the island. So how could I possibly get there?”

“Ah,” said Rutledge. “That's where you thought you were being clever, all right. But not clever enough, lad. You've been talking for years about there being a secret monks' tunnel from here to the island. We believe you found it. That's how you got to the island.”

“But there is no tunnel,” said Bert. “I never found it!”

“So you say now, Bert. But I'm a betting man myself, and I'll wager that you did. And if you found it, so can we. We'll get the entire archeological team of the British Museum out here if we have to, but we'll find it. And when we find the tunnel, we'll find your fingerprints, and your shoe prints, and maybe even some sweaty DNA of yours on something. And then we'll have you dead to rights.”

Bert's distress eased a bit now—and began to sound something like defiance. “Guv, I didn't do it. But if you think I did, and finding that tunnel is what you're basing it on, I'm not worried. Because that tunnel ain't there. So you better just start looking for somebody else to pin this on, because you'll never put it on me.”

“So you say,” said Rutledge. He glared at Bert, seeming to mull the situation over. “Tell you what, Bert,” said the inspector, finally. “I'm going to let you stew on this for a bit. Give you a chance to get out in front of it, so you don't make things worse for yourself. I've got no grudge against you personally, and I know where to find you. You come clean, I'll cut you every break I can.”

“I didn't do it.”

“You think it over, Bert, just like I said. I'll be in touch.”

Chief Inspector Rutledge went toward the exit now, and Wembley accompanied him. Rutledge stopped at the door. “This is how we do things here locally, Inspector Wembley,” he said, so loudly that even Nigel and the other jurors, seated by the fire, heard him clearly. “We have our ways.”

“And good ways they are,” said Wembley.

“Glad to hear you say so, Wembley. Cheers.”

Rutledge exited, and Wembley returned to sit near the jurors at the fireplace.

All eyes were now on Bert. The entire pub was silent for a moment. Then Maggie spoke from behind the bar. “This is a rough go, Bert,” she said. “But you stay right there. I'm going to serve you up the biggest breakfast you've ever had, just in case you end up—well, I mean, just in case.”

The judge turned to Mr. Walker. “Go outside and check with emergency services. Make sure they're still looking. Make sure they're still treating this as a search and rescue. If you get any sense they're doing otherwise, let them know they'll answer to me.”

The bailiff nodded and then walked toward the exit with a stride that clearly said he was ready to knock heads if need be. And just in case anyone had doubts about it, he actually did bump into Bert on the way out. And he didn't even bother to excuse himself.

Wembley was studying Nigel closely. “You know, Heath,” said Wembley after a moment, “you'll get kicked off the jury when I tell the judge you summoned me out here. He can even find you in contempt for that if he wants to.”

Nigel looked back at Wembley.

“This jury is done anyway,” said Nigel. “But are you saying one of us contacted you?”

“A telegram, actually. Don't get many of those anymore. It said ‘Come at once,' and it was signed simply ‘A McSweeney trial juror.' The local inspector got one last night as well. I thought it had to have come from you.”

“It wasn't me,” said Nigel.

“And then when we got here, we found a note.”

“That said what?”

Wembley shook his head.

“If you really don't know,” he said. “I guess I'd better not tell you.”

“What did the note say?” asked Nigel again.

Wembley shook his head again, and sat back in his chair.

“Wait for it, then,” he said. “Wait for it.”

 

25

On the golf course behind the pub, the rain had begun to ease—but it was still flowing in rivulets wherever it could find the slightest slope, and forming water hazards in places where water hazards had never been seen before or wanted at all.

One of those ambitious hazards was beginning to form right now at the border between the golf course and the pub's back lawn. A brief gap in the clouds allowed the sunlight to hit it—just as there was a major disturbance in the two-inch-deep water.

The disturbance was from underneath. And suddenly all the water in that one particular little pool began to rush and gurgle through a brand new opening, as rapidly as if someone had pulled a plug.

Immediately after, a human noise, like cursing in a cavern, came from below. “Damn!”

Now, with the little pool drained, a rectangular patch of mud and green grass suddenly raised itself at a 45-degree angle—and then flopped completely back on the ground behind it, as precisely as if on a hinge.

Which it was.

A head with a cap on it appeared in the opening, and gray eyes peeked over the grassy edge. Then narrow shoulders appeared as well, and then hands gripped the sides of the opening—and then Siger pulled himself halfway out of the tunnel.

His cap and shoulders were soaked and muddy from the drained pool. But beyond that, he looked no worse for wear. He looked quickly about to confirm again that no one was watching. Then he climbed out completely, stood on the soggy ground, and calmly took a moment to survey his surroundings.

He already had a reasonable sense of the distance between the tunnel opening and the pub, because he had emerged from the tunnel once before. But that had been several hours earlier, in the dark of night, and in the pelting rain.

Now he wanted to make sure in daylight of the hiding place that he would use.

And he desperately needed a moment to get the kinks out of his back and legs. Apparently ninth-century monks were not very tall. If they ever had it in mind to cause lower back pain for possible Nordic pursuers, that tunnel would certainly have accomplished that goal.

Siger stretched his back and looked to the west, where the clouds had lifted and the island was visible once more, freshly green and damp, with the hotel glistening in white contrast. The tide was ebbing, and patches of sand were appearing where waves had been crashing earlier.

To the south—just about fifty yards or so—was the back of the pub, and beyond that the car park. Just a few yards to the north was the golf course, the fence that separated it from the pub land, and, just on the other side of the fence, a tailored, grass-covered mound next to a sand trap.

Siger looked down at the concealed trapdoor that he had forced open. It was not quite so concealed now—but with the water and mud and generally disturbed landscape all around, it could still be reasonably restored to its disguise—at least until someone got near enough for close inspection.

So he put the cover back in place. He pushed the mud and loose grass and water around a bit to help out. Then he stooped under the loose wire fence, walked several yards onto the golf course, and positioned himself in the sand trap behind the grassy mound.