Faithful unto Death Page 13

“That would really hit the spot. Thanks very much.”

  After the cold drinks had turned up and instructions given for his calls to be held, the accountant got up from his chair and stood facing his visitors. There was something rather defensive about the movement. And about the way he leaned forward, balanced by fingertips resting on the edge of his desk. He looked a bit like a goalie bracing himself for a deceitful kick from a sharp left-winger.

  “So.” A deep breath. “Found dead was all we could get out of Verity. Once we’d brought her round, of course.”

  “Mr. Hollingsworth’s body was discovered mid-morning yesterday but we think he died late Monday evening.”

  “Good God.”

  “An overdose.”

  “Suicide?” It was one long groan. He put his head in his hands. The burnished bald spot glowed less emphatically. “The insurance’ll never pay out. God, what a mess.”

  “There’ll be an inquest when our preliminary inquiries are complete, Mr. Burbage. I should wait for the coroner’s verdict before rushing to conclusions.”

  “There are several full-time workers here, you know.” Burbage had rushed on well before the Chief Inspector finished speaking. “People with mortgages, families, dependants. What is going to happen to us if the business folds?”

  This lack of distress at an employer’s demise was to be found in all the interviews carried out at Penstemon. Alan Hollingsworth, while not actually disliked, certainly did not seem to evoke much warmth of feeling amongst his staff.

  A second later, when Mr. Burbage had caught up with Barnaby’s suggestion about the coroner’s verdict, an amazed questioning possessed him. The Chief Inspector wasted several minutes getting the interview back on the rails.

  “I assume Mr. Hollingsworth was in touch with the office while he was away?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “What reason did he give for his absence?”

  “Summer flu.”

  “Was that like him?”

  “Absolutely not. Never had five minutes off since I’ve been here.”

  “Did you speak to him yourself?”

  “Naturally. There were various things to discuss. Ongoing problems.”

  “Money problems?”

  All expression vanished from Mr. Burbage’s cool, pale eyes. “I really couldn’t say.”

  “How did he sound?”

  “Not well at all. And he was also rather . . . wound up. If I didn’t grasp what he was saying straightaway he started to shout, which was also unlike him. He was usually very courteous.”

  “Was there anything untoward about his last day here?”

  “Only that he went home early. Around five fifteen.”

  “Did he say why?”

  “It may have been something to do with a phone call Verity put through. She said it was from his wife.”

  “I see. You appear to be a small concern,” said the Chief Inspector, looking round. “Or is this perhaps not the only branch?”

  “No, Wysiwyg.” Faced with bewilderment, he elaborated. “Computer speak. What you see is what you get. As to your question . . .”

  Ted Burbage hesitated. Barnaby recognised the wish to be helpful struggling with the professional money man’s ingrained habit of close-mouthed caution. “Small but stable. This is a thriving time in the industry. We can’t all be Bill Gates but when the big boys thrive there’s always a nice helping of crumbs for the little boys.”

  As an example of appearing to say something while in fact saying nothing it was pretty neat. Barnaby nodded. Even he had heard of Bill Gates.

  Troy also nodded, in accord. Not that Burbage would have noticed. The sergeant was sitting in a wide leather armchair, the position of which, slightly behind and well to the left of the accountant, had been chosen deliberately. Though Troy’s note-taking was both rapid and discreet—often he would cover several pages while hardly seeming to glance at his book at all—he was aware that seeing their spoken words written down could really throw some people, even cause them to dry up. Hence, whenever possible, he would play the invisible man.

  The chief was asking now how well Burbage knew the firm’s late owner.

  “That’s difficult. I didn’t know all that much about him but whether that was because he chose to conceal things or because there wasn’t much to know I couldn’t tell you. He talked about work all the time but men do of course. And those who are hooked on computers are the worst of the lot. I felt sorry for his wife.”

  “Did you ever meet her?”

  “No. She didn’t come here and Alan didn’t go in for socialising. At least not within the firm.”

  “You’re not aware then that she left home several days ago?”

  “Left . . . ? No, I certainly wasn’t.”

  “Did he ever indicate—”

  “Look, you’d be far better off putting questions about Alan to . . .” Burbage floundered into silence and stared out of his picture window at the double-glazing company’s fascia across the road. Barnaby could not have asked for a sweeter segue.

  “We shall be talking to Gray Patterson later, Mr. Burbage.”

  “Sorry?” The accountant frowned now as if trying to remember where he had heard the name before. Barnaby did not help him out. “Ah, Gray, of course, yes. He’d perhaps know more about it.”

  “Perhaps you can fill me in with a bit of background regarding the trouble between the two men.”

  “Ohhh, that.” Pause. “Rather technical, I’m afraid.” Mr. Burbage spoke with crisp, dismissive brevity, plainly regretting his earlier slip of the tongue. From now on Barnaby judged the interview would be unembellished by any bits of gossip or private opinion as to the personalities involved. Never mind. With a bit of luck there would be some gleanings along those lines in the outer office. Wearing an expectant, interested expression he waited, maintaining eye contact. He was good at that.

  “Something to do with creating a new language,” said Mr. Burbage so grudgingly one would think he was giving away a shameful secret. “One where you can write an application, run it on any machine and also transfer stuff straight from the Internet on to your own computer.”

  “I understand,” fibbed the Chief Inspector. “Did they found Penstemon together—Hollingsworth and Patterson?”

  “I’m not sure about that. But Gray has certainly been involved from the very beginning.”

  “What was their relationship?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Were they friends?”

  “I’ve no idea.”

  “Oh, come on, Mr. Burbage.” Barnaby allowed himself a flare of irritation. “Half a dozen people work here at very close quarters. You must—”

  “As far as I know it was just business.”

  “So how did all this drama come about?”

  “You should ask Patterson.”

  “There’s always more than one side to any story. And I’m never going to hear Hollingsworth’s.”

  “That’s true.” A respect for balance, a proper equilibrium, prompted him to continue. “Well, as I’ve already explained, they’d got this new micro system going. And after almost a year things had got to the stage where Gray felt they were ready to talk about marketing. Alan said he wanted to develop the package a stage further feeling that this would push it into the really big league. ‘Worldwide’ was what he actually said. Gray had come to a full stop on it and naturally asked what direction Alan thought this further stage would take. Alan was evasive, saying he needed more time to clarify his ideas. About a month went by—”

  “Bringing us to?”

  “Oh, early March, I suppose. Anyway, Gray started pressing him again. You must understand, Inspector, that this world is intensely competitive. With everyone always desperately looking for an inventive edge, time is absolutely of the essence. Days, even hours sometimes, can count. Though he trusted his colleague, never having had cause to do otherwise, Gray’s anxiety about this evasiveness led him to try and access the file. You und
erstand what I mean by this, Chief Inspector?”

  “Vaguely,” replied Barnaby. He certainly knew it had nothing to do with filing cabinets, those cumbersome metal objects without which no office had once seemed complete.

  “It couldn’t be found. Gray checked twice then looked for the back-up. But the floppy had also gone. Alan professed puzzlement. He appeared upset but not nearly as upset as Gray who was absolutely distraught. We’re talking about months of very hard, creative work here. Not devastatingly original perhaps—most of the new stuff is designed on the shoulders of what’s gone before—but, as far as they knew, well ahead of the race.

  “There was a certain amount of acrimonious exchange which ended with nothing resolved then things seemed to settle down somewhat. We thought Gray had simply accepted the fact that, due to some dreadful carelessness on someone’s part, Celandine—that was the project’s code name—had been accidentally wiped. But we were wrong. The mildness of Alan’s reaction to the disaster had made Gray suspicious. He borrowed Alan’s keys on some pretext or other and got the one for Nightingales copied. One afternoon, when Mrs. Hollingsworth was presumably known to be elsewhere, he got into the house, plugged in to Alan’s personal computer and discovered that Celandine had been sold to a company called Patellus for two hundred thousand pounds.”

  Barnaby allowed himself to look impressed, which wasn’t difficult. He said, “Are Patellus one of the big boys you mentioned earlier?”

  “Ish. Not in the league of Lotus or Novell but on the way. Gray drove straight back here, stormed into Alan’s office, locked the door and set about him. It was appalling. The noise . . .” Mr. Burbage shuddered with distaste. “I called the police. I had to. I thought they were killing each other. Gray got a suspended sentence, as I expect you know.”

  “Indeed. But he won’t leave the matter there surely?”

  “Oh, no. He’s taking us to court for loss of earnings. Although—” Burbage broke off, looking quite put out. Plainly, for the duration of his narrative, he had forgotten that the owner of Penstemon was no more. “What will happen now I don’t know.”

  “I assume the company can still be sued?”

  “Alan was the company. We’re not Plc. There are no shareholders. And I can tell you that there is no way we could find two hundred thousand pounds, let alone court costs. That is,” he added hastily, “in the strictest confidence.”

  “So one could say that Hollingsworth’s death was very much to Gray Patterson’s disadvantage?”

  “I suppose so. Yes.”

  “Do you have any idea how much of the work on Celandine each man put in?”

  “Not really. I doubt if even they did to any precise degree. These things are very difficult to quantify.”

  “Or why Hollingsworth should suddenly have needed such a large amount of money?”

  “None at all.”

  “Could I ask if the name Blakeley means anything to you?”

  “Freddie Blakeley? He’s our bank manager. At Nat West.”

  “Thank you. And, I wonder, do you have the name of the Hollingsworth family solicitor?”

  “Jill Gamble at Fanshawe and Clay. They are Penstemon’s solicitors also.”

  “And, one last question. Someone should be notified that Hollingsworth has died. In the absence of his wife, who is presumably his next of kin, do you know of any close relation?”

  “He has a brother in Scotland. Alan described him once as a very pious man, full of rectitude and a pillar of the community. I’m not sure that he’s not a minister.” Mr. Burbage allowed himself a smile of wintry satisfaction. “They weren’t close.”

  “Well, thank you, Mr. Burbage.” Barnaby got up.

  The accountant, with a wheeze of relief, did the same.

  “If we could have a word now with the rest of the staff?”

  Gamely Mr. Burbage escorted them into the outer offices where he stayed, as chaperon, for the duration of their inquiries. He even gave up the keys to Alan’s office without demur and stood by as it was locked. Plainly an unhappy man, he then went outside to wave them off.

  Chapter Five

  “I need some smokes,” said Sergeant Troy. Walking down the lane on the way back to Nightingales, they were just passing Ostlers. “Do you want anything, chief?”

  Barnaby was ravenous. It was now nearly four o’clock. Seven hours since he had eaten—for no reasonable person could describe the mess of pottage dished up in the Goat and Whistle as food.

  He followed Troy into the cool whitewashed interior, ducking his head to avoid the beams and looking eagerly about him. He needed something filling and tasty which did not have to be irradiated by way of making it edible.

  The choice was not uplifting. Fruit, chocolate, cheap biscuits of an unfamiliar brand. A baker’s tray lined with grease-spotted paper held a few tired buns and several strange-looking domed tarts covered with shreds of coconut. Next to these was a single sausage roll which, in style and finish, looked morbidly familiar.

  “Hey,” beckoned Troy. “Look at these.”

  Lying across the ice-cream unit was a wooden board supporting several small, wheyey cheeses, each placed carefully on individual mats of slatted straw surrounded by laurel leaves. One of the cheeses was concealed beneath a charming hinged pewter mould shaped like a hedgehog.

  “Isn’t it cute?” There was a metal loop in the centre of the creature’s back. Troy slipped his little finger through and lifted up the mould. “My mum’d love one of them.”

  Unsupported, the cheese slowly collapsed, spreading downwards and outwards into a lumpy, cream-coloured puddle.

  At that moment the multicoloured strips of plastic at the rear of the shop slapped and fluttered and an extraordinary figure appeared.

  A large woman in a long, dun-coloured dress. The soft pieces of leather wrapped round her feet were secured by narrow thongs. Her brown, hirsute legs were bare. She had on a cotton bonnet of the type worn by milkmaids in musical comedies and a wide white ruff of the type worn by the aristocracy in Holbein portraits. She moved smoothly, as actors sometimes do in Victorian drama on television, as if on concealed roller skates.

  Weird, decided Sergeant Troy. He did not relish the idiosyncratic.

  “So, gentles all.” She sat behind the till with a bestowing air, as if her customers had just been accorded a rare treat. “How can I assist you?”

  Troy, who had positioned himself in such a manner as to conceal the collapsing cheese, said, “Forty Rothmans, please.”

  “Sir Walter’s friend?” She took down the cigarettes. “Virginia’s finest.”

  “Thank you.” Troy couldn’t stop staring. Awkwardly placed for handing over the money, he gazed around him, pretending interest. “Unusual place.”

  “You admire the Tudor period?”

  “Oh yeah.” The sergeant was fervent in agreement. He struggled to recall a single relative fact without success, settling for, “Been to Windsor Castle.”

  “But that’s ancient. Hardly sixteenth century.”

  “That a fact?” Troy changed the subject. “Lovely day.”

  “Peradventure. That will be two ninety-five, please.”

  The sergeant looked around for his chief who was polishing an apple on his sleeve and sussing the cold drinks layout.

  “No doubt you’re intrigued as to the manner of my appearance?”

  “You could say that,” agreed Sergeant Troy.

  “I’m off shortly to give an illustrated talk to the Townswomen’s Guild on the making of cheese in Elizabethan times, hence the garb. Look behind you and you’ll see my samples.”

  The words had a ring of bright confidence. Touching really, thought Troy as he duly turned and looked behind him. The runny stuff had been almost totally absorbed by the straw mat. Turning his back and hoping to conceal the precise details of his move, the sergeant replaced the mould in its original position.

  “Ah, ah!” cried Mrs. Boast. “Mustn’t touch. They may not be quite set.”

/>   “Sorry.” At ease now that the moment of hazard was past, Troy smiled, sauntering over to pay for his ciggies. “Do a lot of this sort of thing?”

  “Oh yes. Schools, clubs, institutes. My specialties are still-room receipts, baking and dairy crafts. Hubby lectures on flag-wagging and mediaeval armour. Martial swashing on demand.”

  “Is that a fact?”

  “At weekends we fight.”

  Tell me about it, thought Sergeant Troy.

  “With the Civil War Society. I could give you details.”

  But Troy was saved as his boss came alongside, laying a blister pack of cherry Genoa, an apple and a Lion bar on the counter and wondering aloud if there was such a thing to be had as a can of Seven-Up.

  “We say ‘tin’ at Ostlers,” chided Mrs. Boast. “It’s a little way we have. A little discipline. Perpetuating classical English.”

  “Do you have a tin of Seven-Up?” asked the Chief Inspector politely.

  “Never stock it.”

  Barnaby added a Diet Coke to his pile and offered a ten pound note. Mrs. Boast, no doubt already in character and only truly at home with the doubloon, appeared put out.

  “Haven’t you anything smaller?”

  “I’ve got some change, chief.”

  As his Sergeant paid, Barnaby fished out his warrant card and explained what their business was in the village. He asked the shopkeeper what she knew of the Hollingsworths.

  Mrs. Boast stretched her neck like a rooster then settled back into her ruff. This was necessary from time to time as it was rather prickly. Her head, resting atop the concertinaed white pleats, reminded Barnaby of a certain sort of religious painting, the ones where, at the end of a banquet, the head of a malcontent is borne in on a platter along with the fruit and nuts.

  “I never met Alan. He ordered a stack of frozen individual meals just after she walked out but that was by telephone. Used his credit card and hubby delivered. Simone would come in from time to time or I’d see her occasionally ringing someone from across the way.” She nodded at the plate-glass window through which the British Telecom box was clearly visible.

  “Surely they had a phone at home?” asked Troy.