The Key to the Case Page 18

  I ran to a gentle halt on the forecourt. It was a superbly elegant house, sprawling and sedate. We got out and stood in wonder. The multi-paned windows sparkled in the pallid sunlight, the stone facade gleamed like mellow honey. Francine, I thought, must have rented the place furnished. After all, most of her personal belongings seemed to be back at Aces High.

  I approached the porch—the entrance way—it was too grand and imposing for either word. And, shattering my romantic mental wanderings, there was a plate within the shadows on a side wall with a row of buttons. Flats 1 to 16. Sixteen flats! The rent from one of them would just about pay for cleaning all those windows. It was the stately home of someone whose ancestry included a noble figure closely related to Lord Lacey, no doubt—or related to Mary Queen of Scots—and who was now living cramped in flat 17, tenaciously clinging to tradition and tenure.

  I wasn’t sure what to do. I rang the door bell, heard nothing, but waited optimistically. Eventually, a latch clicked and the door swung open with the ponderous grace of a vault door.

  The man who stood there was elderly, nearly bald but sporting a lively white moustache, a squat and powerful man in his time, now in a blue blazer and grey slacks, a silk scarf at his neck, and wearing carpet slippers.

  ‘Can I help you?’ He was quietly polite.

  ‘I’m trying to locate a Mrs Dettinger, but I don’t know her flat number.’

  ‘Yes, yes I see. She’s staying with Miss Millington. That’s flat seven.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘But you’ll find her, I believe, round at the rear, beyond the paddock.’

  ‘I’m much obliged.’

  ‘No trouble. No trouble at all. She’s practising, I expect.’ The door closed with a gentle sigh.

  I returned to Amelia’s side. ‘She’s round at the back. Practising. Possibly a horsewoman.’

  We made our way round to the rear, which wasn’t as easy as it had sounded. There were outbuildings to steer round, and rows of stables packed with Rover 800s and Volvos to walk past, an orchard to step through, mushy underfoot, and a fence to climb over. I could see no gate, and no horses. But in the middle of the paddock there was visible a solitary figure, a woman, her hair caught in the breeze. She was standing sideways to us, facing a target on a stand, and what she was practising was archery.

  Beyond and below her the Chase stretched away, trees, trees and trees. It was a woodsman’s paradise, a birdwatcher’s dream.

  I know very little about archery, but common sense dictated that you approached an archer at practice in such a way that you would be seen, and you ventured nowhere near the firing line. But she didn’t appear to need much practice. The arrows seemed all to find the red or the gold.

  We approached slowly, and waited until she cared to pay us attention. Then she lowered her bow, the concentration ran from her face, and I saw she was quite beautiful. She would have been around forty, but she was maturing splendidly. Perhaps archery develops the parts of your body relating to stance. Her stance was splendid, challenging but relaxed, feet slightly apart, slim legs clad in black stretch jogging pants, a tight canvas jacket above, and glorious honey-blond hair framing an oval face with each feature placed, as though much testing had been involved, in perfect proportion and disposition. A firm chin, a wide and flexible mouth, and deep, dark-blue, penetrating eyes. She had a quiver at her hip, holding a clutch of arrows.

  ‘Were you looking for me?’

  ‘If you are Francine Dettinger, yes.’

  ‘I’m calling myself Millington now.’

  ‘At the house...’

  She smiled. It was neutral. She was wary. ‘Yes. That’s my sister.’

  ‘She lives here?’

  ‘Oh yes. Isn’t it really splendid?’ Her free hand embraced the complete extent of the view. ‘If you’ve come from him, I don’t want to know,’ she said to the grey, sprawled distance.

  It puzzled her. We were clearly man and wife, so that it would not seem we were anything official.

  ‘I’m not here on your husband’s instructions, if that’s what you mean,’ I assured her. ‘Though it does relate to him in some way. I believe I have something belonging to you. Several things, in fact. From the house, Aces High.’

  She turned back to face me, her eyes at once alight with interest. ‘You don’t mean...did he get them, after all?’

  Now I was lost. ‘Did who get what? Or rather, the other way round: can we establish what you are talking about, then I’ll know we’re on the same wavelength.’

  She stared at me for a moment, then she threw up her head and gave a short, ringing laugh. ‘Oh, this is really marvellous. I wasn’t sure I could trust him.’ Then she turned on her heel and began to walk away towards the target. I was forced to keep in step, though Amelia remained behind. I stood at her shoulder while she recovered her arrows, right hand flat on the target face, withdrawing the arrows with her left. She talked as she did it.

  ‘There was a Chinese bowl. Mine. There was a carved ivory owl. Mine. There was a watch, a very valuable French one. Mine. And a milk glass goblet decorated with yellow flowers. Also mine. I could go into fuller detail, but for now—let’s say they are all very valuable. The furniture...’ She skittered her fingers in the air. ‘That can stay there. It doesn’t matter for now. It saves storing it, and my sister would have me here for ever.’ She sighed. ‘She’s very persuasive. I shall probably agree. Basically, I’m a weak woman, Mr...’ She cocked an eyebrow at me.

  It was strange that she called herself a weak woman, when she clearly wasn’t. There was a coyness there. I was glad I hadn’t come alone.

  ‘Patton,’ I told her. ‘Richard Patton.’

  ‘You’re a friend of my husband?’

  ‘No. I can honestly claim that.’

  ‘He has very few.’ We were walking back slowly now, she staring at her feet. ‘And you say you have these items? In your possession? In your car?’

  ‘In my possession.’

  She flicked an expression at me, startled, suspicious. Everything she did was abrupt and brief.

  ‘You require payment?’ There was cold contempt in her voice.

  I shrugged. ‘I’ve used a little time and a small amount of petrol. We’re enjoying the trip.’

  ‘Yes. Yes, I’m sure.’ As we approached Amelia, she asked, ‘And this is your wife?’

  ‘Amelia.’

  She inclined her head. ‘Amelia, hello.’ She was still uncertain of us. ‘I’m Francine.’

  ‘I know.’ Amelia smiled. She had decided the approach had been friendly.

  Now we stood together as a group. ‘I still don’t understand,’ Francine admitted. ‘How did my personal property come into your possession, may I ask?’

  Straight-faced, I replied, ‘You could say I stole them from the person who’d stolen them from the one who had previously stolen them.’ It was my turn to cock an inquisitive eyebrow.

  She brushed hair from her eyes. She seemed to be wearing no make-up, and the hair hadn’t been styled. This is me, what you see before you. Take it or leave it. Most men would’ve jumped to take it.

  ‘It’s not a good day for archery, the breeze is skittish,’ she said. ‘You stole them I assume, from Ronnie Cope. The dear man, he managed it after all.’

  ‘You mean you...you actually asked him to steal them?’

  ‘Oh yes. Those specific items. My treasures.’

  ‘You asked him to steal from your own house? It is your property, I understand.’

  ‘It is. Freehold. I own it.’

  ‘But why...I mean, if you wanted these things with you, why didn’t you simply go to the house and ask for them?’

  ‘There would have been strong words.’ She nodded, confirming it to herself.

  ‘Oh yes?’

  ‘Most likely violence too.’

  ‘He’d assault you?’

  ‘I mean—I didn’t know if I’d be able to control myself. No, Mr Patton, violence from me. And I hate the thought.
I hate myself for feeling it. Can you understand that? I hate myself for being taken over, overwhelmed is the word, by such a fury, if I set eyes on him again, that it might completely destroy my control. I wouldn’t like that. Control. Do you know that control is at the very heart of archery? Control...physical, mental, psychological control. I treasure my control. I wouldn’t want to lose it, waste it, on him.’

  She turned and stared moodily at the target, a safe hundred yards away.

  ‘You dislike him so intensely?’ I suggested gently. ‘May I ask why?’

  She glanced at me and away. ‘For what he did to my son.’

  ‘Your son. Yes. So...why didn’t you go to the house for your things when Milo was out and Bryan was home?’

  She said something that the skittish breeze chose that moment to waft away.

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘I wasn’t sure what I could say to him.’

  ‘I’ve come for my things, Bryan. Something like that?’

  She turned on me fiercely, and I saw at once what she had meant. There was something in her eyes that I regretted having provoked.

  ‘Damn your facetiousness!’ she snapped.

  ‘My apologies. I see now why you couldn’t have gone to the house.’ Which had never been completely empty. ‘But...Ronnie Cope. Surely you couldn’t know Ronnie.’

  ‘Of course I do! I met him at the club. When Milo first opened it I used to go there. You know what Milo’s like. Yes? Well, I had to show him the ropes. No idea—he hadn’t got any idea at all how to run a business. And it was my money in it. That was where I met Ronnie, me as a kind of unpaid hostess, and Ronnie doing odd jobs on the side.’

  She was now becoming more talkative as she relaxed, more confident.

  ‘You knew he was a crook?’ I asked.

  ‘Well...I knew he’d been naughty.’

  ‘You could call it that.’ The judge hadn’t, though. ‘So you asked him to burglarize your own house?’

  ‘Exactly. For a small fee, of course.’

  I laughed out loud. Amelia caught my eye and turned away. She had seen the point.

  ‘Do you know what a lovely legal situation you’ve raised here?’ I asked Francine. ‘I’m now holding your property as evidence of a burglary. On the same night as Ronnie illegally entered Aces High another burglary was committed elsewhere, and Ronnie was arrested for that. He asked me to find him an alibi, as he knew me from when I was in the police. I found one. He was breaking into your house at roughly the same time. One burglary is the alibi for the other. But now look where we are! Just imagine the legal tangles they’ll get into in court! Ronnie was asked by the owner of Aces High to enter it, and to bring out items belonging personally to that owner. He did that. But was it legally burglary?’

  Amelia said, ‘Surely not.’ Just to help it along. She was enjoying it as much as I was. ‘It couldn’t be.’

  ‘But unfortunately,’ I said, ‘he helped himself to two other items. Two medals, Milo’s. Now that makes it burglary.’

  Francine looked flatly at me, then turned away. She nocked an arrow and took up her stance, legs apart, raising the bow as she drew the string, rock-steady and solid, the fletching beside her chin. There was a fractional pause, then the arrow flew.

  I was standing behind her as the arrow went on its way. I actually saw it swerve out of line, swerve back, steady itself, then plunge into the gold.

  She turned to me, smiling. ‘Then that’s all right.’

  ‘Yes. A gold. Couldn’t be better.’

  ‘I meant for Ronnie. I bought those medals for Milo. You mean the VC and the DFC, don’t you?’ I nodded. ‘I bought those at an auction, as a birthday present for Milo. He likes that sort of thing. Strange. He did nothing to earn them. But I hold the receipt. I now, formally, withdraw my present. What d’you make of that?’

  ‘It gets better and better.’ I grinned at her. ‘Milo will be mad, and the lawyers will go crazy.’

  ‘Won’t they!’ But she didn’t seem amused. ‘Would you like to try?’ She held out the bow. ‘It’s all right. It’s only a thirty-two-pound pull,’ she assured me.

  Amelia grinned at me challengingly.

  ‘Yes. Love to,’ I said. And I wasn’t simply falling in with the distraction she’d introduced.

  ‘You’d better put this on your arm.’ She unfastened the leather guard she was wearing around her left wrist. ‘I know you’re wearing an anorak, but the sleeve’ll pull back and the string could cut your wrist. That’s it. Grip the bow there. Now, this on your right hand, two fingers, or the string will hurt. Nock the arrow. No. You hook two fingers on to the string, above and below the arrow, cock feather outwards. It’s not a feather, it’s plastic, but it’s a different colour. Right. Arrow resting on the knuckle of your left forefinger, and draw. Aim just above the target—and...draw.’

  I drew, as I’d seen her do with apparent ease. My right hand was tucked beside my chin as my left arm was extended.

  ‘Try to kiss the string,’ she said. ‘The arrow might be short for you. No, it’s all right. Hold it like that. Steady. Rock steady.’

  I had watched her draw it, so smoothly, so easily. The muscles of my right forearm, my other wrist, my biceps, my back, and a few I hadn’t known I possessed—all these protested. I couldn’t see the target, then I did. While it was there, I released the string.

  I missed by only ten feet.

  ‘Good,’ she said. ‘A bit of practice...’ She offered me another arrow.

  I eyed her. It didn’t show on her, all that muscle, but by heaven it must have been there. I didn’t dare to try again. She would continue to offer them, over and over, until I collapsed. She laughed lightly.

  ‘Don’t look so glum. It’s only practice you need. It’s all in the stance.’

  And the control, I thought. ‘I’m sure it is,’ I agreed. ‘I aimed,’ I told her apologetically and not quite truthfully, ‘to one side. I saw how your arrow swerved.’

  ‘Oh yes. It’s known as the archer’s paradox. The arrow always weaves, but you aim for the gold anyway.’

  ‘I’m glad to have learned that.’ I was wondering why she’d introduced this distraction at the point where Milo was going to be so furious about the burglary. Perhaps she wished to leave that subject suspended on a happy note. ‘It’s a bit like life,’ I suggested.

  ‘What is? I don’t understand you.’

  ‘Weaving around in all directions, but finishing up exactly where you aim it.’ It didn’t do it for me, but never mind.

  ‘That’s too abstract for me,’ she admitted. ‘But please explain.’

  Her lips seemed thinner, paler. Her voice had held a tone of distant disapproval.

  I shrugged. ‘I’m sorry. I suppose it was. What I meant was that your ploy with Ronnie Cope was obviously intended to produce the greatest possible amount of anger and distress in Milo, but it’s got there in a most tortuous way.’

  She eyed me with uncertainty. It must have been clear to her that I knew more than I’d revealed. ‘If you like to look at it like that.’

  ‘And I’m rather surprised you failed to consider Bryan in all this.’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean.’ Her eyes looked startled. ‘Say it—say it in simple words, so that even I can understand.’

  I could see now that she possessed an unstable temper, but I cheerfully sailed ahead. ‘You sent Ronnie to the house at a time when your son was sure to be there. Surely you ought to have understood—’

  ‘What!’ she barked. ‘What’s this you’re saying?’

  ‘Did you completely ignore the possibility that Ronnie and Bryan might actually come face to face? It would’ve scared the life out of both of them. I mean...’

  She clutched at my arm. She actually shook it in her anger. ‘It’s not true. You’re lying.’

  ‘I assure you—’

  ‘But Milo would’ve had Bryan at the club, to keep an eye on him there. He must have done.’

  ‘No, he did not. You mu
st surely have heard all the details, even if you didn’t go to the inquest.’ This was a tentative dig, but she didn’t react. ‘Your son—hanging in the bathroom—the house virtually impregnable. Milo having to smash his way in by way of the front door. You can’t have failed to hear.’

  She was flailing her arms around, the bow in her left hand waving dangerously around my head. ‘The swine! The utter swine!’

  ‘Are you telling me you haven’t heard all this?’

  ‘He left him? He left him alone in that terrible house?’ she demanded, her eyes wild.

  ‘He left him,’ I said heavily, ‘alone in that house every night. Safely. Locked away. Only someone like Ronnie could have got in. Your son was safe, Mrs Dettinger. Safe.’ Though why the devil I should be pleading Milo’s case I didn’t know.

  ‘He died!’ she shouted, disturbing a bunch of crows in the nearest trees.

  ‘He committed suicide.’

  ‘As though I believed that.’

  ‘Then what did you believe, Francine?’ This was Amelia, gently inserting a word or two, trying to introduce sanity.

  Francine clasped an elbow in each hand, the bow cast away on the ground. She turned away, addressing herself to the distant Chase.

  ‘I believed...yes, I suppose I accepted the suicide. It had to be that. But I also believed he went to the club with Milo every night. He had a little car of his own. I bought him a Fiat. I assumed that someone who knew him had met him at the club...insulted him...made those foul accusations. Accusations! There were letters—filthy! Bryan would be upset—face to face. If they were put to him...at him. He was such a sensitive boy. He would have been deeply hurt. He might have got in his little car and driven home, frightened and depressed...and yes, yes, then he might have committed suicide. I’ve got to accept that, I suppose, and live with it if I can. And Milo—driving after him—I gave Milo credit for that much, you see. Credit where credit is due. I believed that of him, that he would follow, and find the front door bolted against him, and smash it and run upstairs...’