The Twelve Clues of Christmas (22 page)

“And my friend Darcy O’Mara. I know he’d want to come along too.”

“This isn’t a blooming bright young things’ charabanc outing,” he snapped, then seemed to remember to whom he was speaking and checked himself. “I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to fly off the handle like that. But if you want my advice, my lady, the fewer people who know about this, the better. If the murderer is lurking around here, word will get back to him somehow or other and it may put more people in danger. I agreed to taking you, because you’ve figured it out, but no more. And I’d be grateful if you didn’t mention our excursion to anybody.”

I took a deep breath. “All right, I suppose.”

“I’d best be getting along, then. Another long day and the missus isn’t pleased. Says we’ve had no Christmas at all this year. But that’s the nature of the job, isn’t it? I told her she knew what she was getting when she married me. For better or worse, eh?”

I escorted him up to Johnnie Protheroe’s bedroom, where he took several medicine bottles. Then I accompanied him to the front door.

“Remember now.” He wagged a finger at me. “Nobody else is to know at this stage. All right?”

I closed the door and went to join the others for sherry. I could hardly contain my excitement. Finally we were getting somewhere, and I was being allowed to join in. I was no longer the annoying amateur. It was quite satisfying. It was only as I entered the salon and saw Darcy’s back, as he talked with Monty and Badger, that I felt the full implication of leaving him out of the next day’s little jaunt. I reasoned that he hadn’t really shown much interest and was all for leaving the investigation to the police. But I still didn’t like the thought of going off without telling him. How was I going to explain this away?

He seemed to sense my presence and came over to me. “What did the inspector say? Was he impressed with your detective abilities?” he asked, drawing me aside so that we couldn’t be overheard above the buzz of conversation.

“He was.” I managed a bright smile. “And he’s found that Mr. Klein is staying with his daughter. He’s going to see him tomorrow.”

“Splendid,” Darcy said. “Now I hope you’re satisfied. I said it was a good idea to leave this to the police.”

I attempted a bright smile, but I felt too sick and worried at dinner to eat much of the delicious leg of lamb and golden syrup pudding.

Chapter 35

D
ECEMBER 30

Lovely day so far. Going to see Mr. Klein and excited at the chance of this horrid riddle finally being solved. I just hope he can set us on the right track before someone is killed today.

In contrast to the previous day’s damp and gloomy fog, the weather was sparkling and clear. Remnants of snow still clung to the top of Lovey Tor and the sky looked as if it were made of blue glass, with the bare bones of trees etched upon it. I dressed, grabbed a hurried breakfast and then set off down the drive, having told Lady Hawse-Gorzley that I wished to visit my grandfather.

I was nearing the front gates when someone stepped out in front of me, barring my way. It was Wild Sal and she was staring at me with those strange bright green eyes.

“You’re still here, are you?” she said. “You’ll leave right now if you know what’s good for you.”

“Why is that?” I stared back defiantly.

“You’re not wanted in these parts. Outsiders like you only cause trouble. You’re the one who set the police on me, aren’t you? You got me locked up in that little cell.”

“I only told the police that I’d seen you up near where the master of hounds disappeared, that’s all,” I said. “I was asked if I’d seen anybody and I could hardly lie. Besides, you saved me from falling into the bog. I told them that too.”

She looked at me strangely. “He went into the bog, and good riddance too,” she said. “Hunting poor defenseless foxes.”

“Did you string the wire that tripped up his horse?”

“Me? Why would I want to harm a horse? I love all creatures, except humans, that is.”

“But you saw him fall off his horse?”

“No, but I saw someone putting him in the bog.”

“Who was it?”

“Couldn’t tell you that. Big bloke, all wrapped up, wearing some kind of hood. And I reckon the other one was already dead, ’cos he just lay there and let the bog suck him up.”

“Why didn’t you get help?”

“Too late by then. Once the bog gets you, you goes down fast, and like I said, I reckon he was already dead.”

“Why didn’t you tell this to the police?”

“I did, but they weren’t interested. I couldn’t describe the bloke, see, couldn’t tell if he was young or old or anything. Just that he were a big, strapping chap.”

“And you saw that van go off the road, too?”

“No, I heard the noise and I got there too late. It was already smashed to bits down in the stream.”

“So you didn’t see the same man there?”

“Didn’t see nobody,” she said.

I phrased my next question carefully in my head. “Sal, do you know anyone in these parts, anyone at all, who would do terrible things like this?” I gave her an appealing look. “He has to be stopped before he kills more people.”

“I don’t have much dealings with people. Keep myself to myself, that’s what I do,” she said. “They don’t trust me and I don’t trust them. But there’s plenty of folk don’t deserve to live.”

“But you might be in danger too. You might be next.”

“Not me,” she said. “No one around here would ever dare touch me. They’re afraid of the Lovey Curse.”

“I’m going with the inspector today,” I said. “With any luck we’ll know who is doing this by tonight.”

I saw her look at me strangely and I found myself wondering if she was the killer after all. Hadn’t she just said that there were plenty of people who didn’t deserve to live? But how had she managed to cover so much ground? How could she possibly have known about the butcher driving on the road from Newton Abbott, or got to a farm on the other side of Bovey Tracey? And how would she be strong enough to drag a body into the bog?

As I went to take my leave, another thought struck me. “Sal, on the night that the old lady at the big house died, you went to the kitchen for food, didn’t you? You didn’t see anyone else, did you?”

“When I was leaving, I did see Willum,” she said. “He was going round the side of the house to their back garden.”

I paused, digesting this. “Did you speak to him? Did he say what he was doing?”

She shook her head. “No. I didn’t speak to him. I just went my way and left him to it. Willum often does jobs for people.”

“I must go. I’m supposed to be meeting people,” I said.

“Remember what Sal just told you,” she said. “You watch yourself, miss. And you had any sense, you’d go home now, before it’s too late. Sal sees danger in your future.”

I was still strangely shaken by the time I arrived at the cottage and found the inspector and my grandfather standing together beside the big black police motor. Granddad and I got into the backseat while the inspector rode in the front, next to his driver.

“It should be a nice ride to Torquay today,” the inspector said. “Better than driving in that awful fog yesterday.”

“I hope your meeting went well,” I said.

“Have you been keeping tabs on me?”

“Of course not.” I flushed. “Your constable said you’d had to go for a meeting.”

“Of a sort,” he said. “The prisoner they recaptured in Birmingham has just been returned to Dartmoor Prison. I went to talk to him.”

“And did you learn anything?”

“Not a dicky bird. He still maintains that they split up as soon as they reached the road, and he thought the other two were both heading for London. As for how he made it to Birmingham and where he got his civilian clothes, he’s just not talking.”

“You won’t get convicts to squeal on each other, unless there is something in it for them,” Granddad said.

“I just met Wild Sal,” I said. And I told them about her seeing the body dragged into the bog and the fact that she’d seen Willum in the Ffrench-Finches’ back garden.

“Willum? The simple-headed one?” The inspector stroked his chin. I noticed he’d shaved that morning. “I can’t see him having the wit to pull off crimes like these. He’s like a big kiddie. No, I think we’ll find we’re dealing with a real smart aleck, the sort of man who thinks he’s the cat’s whisker and that society hasn’t appreciated his talents. You know, the quiet bank clerk who feels that he’s been overlooked. Probably doesn’t have friends. Probably spent months or years planning this.”

“Rather like the man you described to us, then,” I said. “You said one of the escaped convicts was a bank clerk, had brains and was ruthless.”

“Yes, I did.” Inspector Newcombe considered this. “But he’d have no reason to stick around these parts. And what’s more, I’m sure he doesn’t have any local connections either. No, my betting is that he’s safely back in London.” He turned to look out the window as we swung around a hairpin bend on the hill. “But there are plenty more like him. The Great War turned some of them cuckoo, didn’t it? Came home from the trenches and were never the same.”

We reached the crest of the hill and had a lovely view ahead of green fields and copses, farms nestling in hollows and in the far distance a sparkling line of sea. The road dropped from the moors until we were driving through the tamed landscape of the coast. Torquay looked positively Mediterranean in the sparkling sunshine. There were palm trees along the front and couples strolling, taking me back to my time in Nice. But the couples here were bundled in great coats and scarves, betraying that the weather here was not exactly balmy. We left the expensive hotels and souvenir shops until we reached a more humble backstreet with semidetached houses and children playing on the pavement outside.

My heart was racing as we walked up the front path and the inspector rapped on the door.

“Mrs. Goldblum? Detective Inspector Newcombe, Devonshire Constabulary. I telephoned you last night,” he said. “Your father is still here, I hope?”

“Yes, he’s here, but I don’t want him upset.” The thin and rather gaunt-looking middle-aged woman frowned at us. “That robbery has quite unnerved him. He fled from persecution in Russia as a young man, you know. He remembers the Cossacks burning his village and killing his parents. He said he has felt safe in England until now.”

“I quite understand,” Inspector Newcombe said. “Let us hope that we will soon apprehend the person who did this and he can feel safe again.” He saw her looking at us. “This gentleman is a former detective from Scotland Yard, who I hope can help solve this quickly.”

“And I’m his granddaughter,” I said quickly, before anyone could give my full name and title.

“I don’t know why it might take all these people to solve a simple robbery.” She was now glaring at us suspiciously.

“It might turn out to be not so simple,” the inspector said. “It may be tied to other crimes in this area. So if we could please speak with your father?”

She stood aside to let us into a narrow front hall. “He’s in the back parlor. It’s easier to heat. I’ll make us some tea.”

We went through to a small room crammed full of furniture. Mr. Klein was sitting in an armchair beside a roaring fire. He got to his feet, looking at us nervously.

The inspector held out his hand. “Mr. Klein. Detective Inspector Newcombe. We met the other day in connection with your robbery. And these are two acquaintances who have been helping me.”

“Good of you to come, Inspector,” Mr. Klein said. “Please, take a seat, all of you. I recognize the young lady from my shop the other day. Any news on the robbery yet?”

“Not yet, I’m afraid, but we may be closer to solving it.”

We sat, I perched on an upright chair away from the fire, leaving the two men to sit close to Mr. Klein.

“I’d be so happy if you could find out who broke into my shop,” he said. “I haven’t slept a wink since, you know. If someone had smashed a window and grabbed a few items, it would have been one thing. But letting himself into the store with no sign of a break-in and then opening my safe—well, that’s something else entirely, isn’t it? I won’t feel safe again until he’s found and arrested.”

“That’s exactly what we hope to do, Mr. Klein. And we have reason to suspect this wasn’t just a simple robbery. It may be linked to a chain of crimes, some of them murders. So in many ways you’re lucky to be alive. And I suggest you stay with your daughter until we tell you it’s safe to go home.”

“Goodness me.” Mr. Klein put a hand to his heart. “You have your suspicions then, do you, Inspector?”

“We’re hoping you can help us, Mr. Klein. We suspect there must be some kind of vendetta motive behind this, so I’m asking you to think. Has there been anyone with whom you’ve crossed swords, anyone who has written you a nasty letter? Anyone who might want to punish you in any way?”

“Because I’m Jewish, you mean?”

“Not at all. None of the other victims was a Jew.”

“Well, that’s a relief, anyway. I always told myself that was one thing I could count on in England. And as to your question—no, I can’t think of any enemies. I keep myself to myself. Don’t make trouble. Don’t get involved in town politics. Never had a nasty letter that I can remember.”

I moved toward the edge of the sofa. “Mr. Klein, do any of the following names mean anything to you?” And I began to recite them. He shook his head after each of the first few.

“Gladys Tripp. Now, that name rings a bell. Where have I heard it recently?”

“She was the telephone switchboard operator who was killed last week.”

“In a fire at the exchange, wasn’t it? That’s right. I remembered her name from before.”

“Before what?” Inspector Newcombe asked.

Mr. Klein frowned. “Maybe I’ve run into her around town? Go on. What were the other names?”

“The next person was the master of the local hunt. Major Wesley-Parker.”

Mr. Klein looked up suddenly. “Dapper little man with a mustache like that dreadful Hitler fellow? Thinks a lot of himself?”

“That’s right,” I said.

“Oh, I remember him all right,” he said. “I served on a jury with him several years ago. He was an officious person. Took charge from square one. Bossed us all around. Wanted everything his way.”

“A jury?” Inspector Newcombe exchanged an excited look with us.

“That’s right. Come to think of it, that telephone lady must have been on it too. At least, there was some woman who chattered nonstop, inane stuff. I believe her last name was Tripp.”

“Think carefully, Mr. Klein,” Inspector Newcombe said slowly. “Who else can you remember on that jury?”

“Let me see. A refined older lady who locked horns with your hunting chap. There were a couple of people who never said a word—a large countrywoman, I remember, who looked distinctly out of place and uncomfortable. Did her knitting all the time. Click of knitting needles was most annoying. Then there were a couple of younger men who wouldn’t take anything seriously. That Major Whatsit did get annoyed with them. ‘You’re a disgrace to the county set,’ he said.” And Mr. Klein chuckled.

“Freddie Partridge. Johnnie Protheroe?” I asked.

“I really can’t remember names, if I even knew them. You don’t ever want to get too friendly with fellow jurors. It’s such an unreal situation that you just want to do the job and get out of there. At least, that was the way I felt. And most of them ignored me. I’m the sort that people overlook.”

The inspector cleared his throat. “Mr. Klein, what was the nature of the case? And the name of the defendant?”