‘All a bit of a waste of time then,’ Chubb concluded. He glanced at his empty glass. ‘Still, the Queen’s Arms serves a decent pint. And I have something for you, Herr Pünd.’ He reached down and produced Mary Blakiston’s diary. Briefly, he explained how it had been found. ‘It’s got something about pretty much everyone in the village,’ he said. ‘Talk about dishing out the dirt! She’s been collecting it by the bucket!’
‘You don’t suppose she was using the information to blackmail people?’ Fraser suggested. ‘After all, that might give someone a very good reason to push her down the stairs.’
‘You’ve got a good point there,’ Chubb said. ‘Some of the entries are a bit vague. She was careful about what she wrote. But if people found out how much she knew about them, she could have had a lot of enemies. Just like Sir Magnus and Dingle Dell. That’s the trouble with this case. Too many suspects! But the question is, was it the same person who killed them both?’ The detective inspector got to his feet. ‘You’ll let me have that back in due course, Herr Pünd,’ he said. ‘I’ve got to get home. Mrs Chubb is cooking her Fricassee de Poulet à l’Ancienne, God help me. I’ll see you gentlemen tomorrow.’
He left. Fraser and Pünd were alone.
‘The inspector is absolutely correct,’ Pünd said.
‘You mean there are too many suspects?
‘He asks whether the same person killed Sir Magnus Pye and his housekeeper. Everything rests on that. Clearly there is a connection between the two deaths but we are no closer to discovering what it is. And until then, we will remain in the dark. But perhaps the answer now lies in my hands.’ He looked at the first page and smiled. ‘Already the handwriting is known to me …’
‘How?’
But Pünd didn’t answer. He had begun to read.
FIVE
Silver
1
Detective Inspector Chubb very much liked the police station in Orange Grove, Bath. It was a perfect Georgian construction, solid and serious yet at the same time light and elegant enough to feel welcoming … at least, if you were on the right side of the law. He couldn’t enter it without a sense that his work mattered and that by the end of the day the world might be a slightly better place. His office was on the first floor, overlooking the main entrance. Sitting at his desk, he could look out of a window that stretched the full height of the room and this too gave him a sense of comfort. He was, after all, the eye of the law. It was only right that he should have a view that was so expansive.
He had brought John Whitehead to this room. It was a deliberate move, to winkle the man out of the false shell that Saxby-on-Avon had provided and to remind him who was in charge. There were to be no lies told here. In fact there were four people facing him: Whitehead, his wife, Atticus Pünd and his young assistant, Fraser. He normally had a photograph of Mrs Chubb on the desk but he had slid it into a drawer just before they came in. He wasn’t quite sure why.
‘Your name is John Whitehead?’ he began.
‘That’s right.’ The antique dealer was sullen and downcast. He knew the game was up. He wasn’t trying to disguise it.
‘And you came to Saxby-on-Avon how long ago?’
‘Three years.’
‘We’ve done nothing wrong,’ Gemma Whitehead cut in. She was such a small woman, the seat looked much too big for her. She was cradling a handbag in her lap. Her feet barely touched the floor. ‘You know who he is and what he’s done. But he’s left that all behind him. He served his time and he was let out for good behaviour. We moved out of London, just to be together somewhere quiet – and all this business with Sir Magnus, that had nothing to do with us.’
‘I think you should let me be the judge of that,’ Chubb replied. Mary Blakiston’s diary was lying on the desk in front of him and for a moment he was tempted to open it. But there was no need. He already knew the relevant contents well enough. ‘On 9 July a certain Arthur Reeve had his home broken into. Mr Reeve used to be the landlord at the Queen’s Arms and is now living in retirement with his wife. A window was broken and he was very distressed to find that his medal collection, including a rare George V1 Greek medal, had been stolen from his front room. The entire collection was valued at a hundred pounds or more although of course it had great sentimental value too.’
Whitehead drew himself up but next to him, his wife had paled. She was hearing this for the first time. ‘Why are you telling me this?’ he demanded. ‘I don’t know anything about any medal.’
‘The thief cut himself on the window,’ Chubb said.
‘One day later, on 10 July, you were treated by Dr Redwing,’ Pünd added. ‘You required stitches for an unpleasant cut on your hand.’ He smiled briefly to himself. In the landscape of this particular crime, two minor byways had just reached a crossroads.
‘I cut my hand in the kitchen,’ Johnny said. He glanced at his wife who did not look convinced. ‘I never went anywhere near Mr Reeve or his medal. It’s a pack of lies.’
‘What can you tell us about the visit Mary Blakiston made to you on 11 July, four days before she died?’
‘Who told you that? Have you been watching me?’
‘Do you deny it?’
‘What’s there to deny? Yes. She came into the shop. Lots of people come into the shop. She never said a thing about any medals.’
‘Then maybe she talked to you about the money that you had paid to Brent.’ Pünd had spoken softly, reasonably but there was something in his tone that suggested he knew everything, that there was no point arguing. In fact, Fraser knew this wasn’t true. The groundsman had done his best to cover his tracks. He had said the five pounds was owed to him, perhaps for work he had done. Pünd was taking a stab in the dark. However, his words had an immediate effect.
‘All right,’ Whitehead admitted. ‘She did come in, nosing around, asking me questions – just like you. What are you trying to say? That I pushed her down the stairs to shut her up?’
‘Johnny!’ Gemma Whitehead let out a cry of exasperation.
‘It’s all right, love.’ He reached out to her but she twisted away. ‘I’ve done nothing wrong. Brent came into the shop a couple of days after Mary’s funeral. He had something to sell. It was a silver belt buckle, Roman, a nice little piece. I’d say about fourth century BC. He wanted twenty quid for it. I gave him five.’
‘When was this?’
‘I can’t remember. Monday! It was the week after the funeral.’
‘Did Brent say where he got it from?’ Chubb asked.
‘No.’
‘Did you ask him?’
‘Why should I have?’
‘You must have been aware that there’d been a burglary at Pye Hall only a few days before. A collection of silver jewellery and coins was stolen from Sir Magnus. It was the same day as Mrs Blakiston’s funeral.’
‘I did hear about that. Yes.’
‘And you didn’t put two and two together?’
Whitehead drew a breath. ‘A lot of people come into my shop. I buy a lot of things. I bought a set of Worcester coffee mugs off Mrs Reeve and a brass carriage clock off the Finches – and that was just last week. Do you think I asked them where they got them? If I went round treating everyone in Saxby like criminals, I’d be out of business in a week.’