A Crowded Coffin Read online

  ‘I thought about scuttling his boat with him aboard, somewhere mid-Channel, but the practicalities were against it. How could I have got back myself, for a start? I could have staged an “accident” and been washed up, but it was too risky and I didn’t want anyone to sniff out a connection between us.’ He frowned suddenly. ‘I was quite keen on the idea of disposing of him at the pig farm just up the road, but again it simply wasn’t practical. I made some enquiries when I was away from home, but although pigs are omnivorous, you’d actually need to dismember a body before getting it into the mincer and I’m much too squeamish, I’m afraid. No, the solution I came up with was absolutely foolproof.’

  He was rummaging around in the cavity, reaching right back into the little wall safe. ‘Ha! What’s this?’ It was a small wallet of rotted leather and when he gently pulled it apart a tiny bundle wrapped in waxed silk was revealed. Delicately inserting his knife he sliced through the covering and a ring tumbled out. It was the ring Dame Margery was wearing in her portrait.

  He stared down at it with surprise and pleasure and glanced across at the picture. ‘Oh well, not all a waste of time, then.’ Looking at Harriet, he stuffed the ring in his pocket and smiled ruefully. ‘Where was I? Bit of a classic, this, isn’t it? The murderer’s confession; but luckily for me, you’re no Miss Marple. Oh yes, once I’d decided how Gillian was to meet her end it was beautiful, I could kill two birds with one stone.’

  He started to prowl round the gallery again, restlessly fingering the little emerald ring, the gun swinging nonchalantly from his fingers. Harriet moved slightly so that she was still in his line of sight; Rory leaned back in his chair looking exhausted but not, she narrowed her eyes, not quite as ill as he had appeared ten minutes or so ago. They were both carefully avoiding the window.

  ‘It was brilliant, you know, bloody brilliant.’ The carefree laugh rang out, striking chill into his listeners’ bones, and reminding Harriet once more of Avril and her list of characteristics of a charismatic psychopath. You got it right, Avvie, she thought with a sigh. No mistake about this one.

  ‘I played the grieving widower to the hilt and alternately wept manly tears or displayed an even more heroic stiff upper lip, according to my audience or comforter. Then, as a way of paying my last respects, I insisted on having her coffin at home the night before the funeral. Oh, they argued against it, said it would be too upsetting, but no-one could quite bring themselves to say outright that it was morbid, and not one of them felt able to deny a grieving husband, and him a clergyman, the privilege of a last vigil. It made it so easy.’

  He hugged his memory to himself exultantly, straying perilously near to the window. Harriet moved casually in the other direction and, as she had hoped, his eyes followed her, anxious to tell her how clever he had been. It made frightening listening; this detailed confession didn’t bode well for herself and Rory for surely there was only one conclusion to draw when John had told them everything.

  ‘Our unexpected meeting was a blessing,’ he continued, still in that cheerful, conversational manner. ‘There were a few errands I had to do in Winchester and while I’d planned to ring him, it was safer this way. I told him I’d had a tip-off that Interpol were onto him and he was to get over to Locksley so I could help him get away. He was agreeable, a new start suited him and he’d no family and no real friends, only pub acquaintances, so I told him to wait in the church till the old biddies had stopped turning up at my door with their quiches and cakes and casseroles. There’s a path between the vestry door and the back door to the vicarage, so he slipped in unnoticed as I was seeing off the last couple of sympathizers. I’d told them I wanted to be quite alone, you see, and they were all pussy-footing around, respecting my grief.’

  With no idea what, if anything, might be happening outside, Harriet prayed desperately that John Forrester’s vanity would keep him in confessional mood.

  ‘I got Colin drunk,’ he was saying. ‘I waited till he passed out on the sofa and used the syringe on him. I just used the same method again yesterday in the cathedral. Why change the plot?’ He didn’t even notice their involuntary gasps, Harriet realized, he was so deeply absorbed in his story. ‘I unscrewed Gillian’s coffin, ripped out the padding and lining, and managed to squash him down on top of her. He wasn’t a big guy but though it was a tight squeeze, I managed it in the end.’ There it was again, that light, amused laugh. ‘It was quite funny, really. I ended up having to sit on the coffin to get the lid screwed on, like a slapstick comedy, sitting on a bulging suitcase. Next day was the funeral and the coffin never left my sight, not for a moment. I even insisted on following it through at the crematorium and watching it as it was consigned to the flames. One of the perks of office,’ he chuckled. ‘Even though they all clearly decided I’d flipped by then, but I wasn’t risking some fly operator doing a last-minute sweep for jewellery, or running a used-coffin racket.’

  ‘That took some nerve,’ Harriet ventured, trying to keep him pleasant, to show appreciation of his cleverness. It seemed to work.

  ‘Didn’t it just?’ he agreed. ‘The next day I had a bonfire of Gillian’s oldest clothes. I’d helpfully insisted on packing all the decent stuff into her suitcases and asked various village ladies to take them to charity. Poor dear vicar.’ He grinned at her, inviting her complicity. A tremulous half-smile, which was all she could summon up, seemed to do the trick.

  ‘It was easy to slip Colin’s bag and the coffin lining into the flames and I dug the ashes into the garden, round the roses, with a generous helping of bone meal and chemical fertilizer mixed in with compost, just to make sure it couldn’t be traced. The urn, containing the ashes of the dear departed, I scattered at sea in an ostentatious service of commemoration. No forensics there, you see, and it made such a good impression on the village worthies, stiff upper lip, heroic tears hastily mopped.’

  He took another turn round the gallery while Harriet braved a swift glance in Rory’s direction. Oh dear, he was looking even worse now, sweat beading on his forehead, his hand clutching at his damaged ribs and his left eye beginning to look discoloured from one of John’s earlier blows. Harriet’s own head was throbbing so badly it was almost blinding and she was only too aware that a badly injured Rory, along with a woman over sixty with an outsize in headaches, was no match for a fit man in his prime. She could only pray for deliverance.

  ‘All those detective stories,’ he suddenly surprised her, ‘where the murderer has to boast about what he’s done … I never believed that, it seemed plain stupid, but would you believe it? Old Agatha was right. I’ve been longing to tell someone. It’s amazing, like the best sex ever and you can’t tell, but lucky me, here you are and now you both know. I’ll let you go – maybe.’ His glance flickered away from Harriet and she felt a chill of despair. ‘By the time you’ve told everyone else, I’ll be reading all about it in the papers in some unnamed foreign refuge.’

  He straightened up and Harriet’s despair deepened as she registered his cold, practical expression. Without taking his eyes off them he reached into his bag and pulled out a pair of handcuffs, flourishing them at her with a brief return of his charming smile.

  ‘Astonishing what you can find in an English vicarage,’ he remarked lightly. ‘These came down the dining room chimney with a load of soot when I had the sweep in. Whatever do you suppose my predecessor did with them? Here.’ He snapped them on Rory’s wrists and shoved a cloth into the younger man’s mouth. ‘That ought to keep you out of trouble. Get on your feet.’

  Harriet felt her stomach churn. This was it. John Forrester beckoned her to him. ‘Give him a hand up onto the roof,’ he ordered. ‘I’m not risking gunshots, the sound carries, and I left the syringe at home. You go first.’ He shoved Harriet unceremoniously up through the narrow door in the wall and manhandled the now shackled and gagged Rory after her so that Harriet, breathing an incoherent prayer, had no option but to reach back and grab Rory’s shoulders. The vicar scrambled after them and up on t
he leads Rory shot a frantic, wide-eyed stare at her. Harriet grabbed at him, terrified he might slip and take them both down; she had a poor head for heights at the best of times and this wasn’t one of them. The best of times, the worst of times, the words rang foolishly in her head as she clung grimly to a railing.

  Then it happened.

  ‘What the….’ Harriet looked up as John let out a strangled gasp. ‘But – but he was dead.’ John Forrester was losing it now. His eyes bulged in appalled surprise as he stared down into the stable yard. ‘He was dead, I know he was. I killed him.’

  She had time – a few seconds only, of complete and utter anguish – to stare down at her cousin Sam who was innocently riding an ancient bicycle across the cobbles before John Forrester whirled round to scream at her and Rory.

  ‘You bastards!’ There was a cold fury in his face as he turned on them, all his precarious mental harmony destroyed in a moment. ‘You’ve been stringing me along.’

  He reached for the gun and fired downwards, again and again, more and more wildly, his control lost, and his captives sagged in horror as Sam Hathaway crashed into the doorway of the stable. As Harriet, completely distraught, opened her mouth to scream and scream there was a loud beating sound immediately above them. A huge shape, silhouetted dark against the bright sunrise and with outspread wings flapping, flew out of nowhere straight towards the vicar of Locksley. Harriet, beside herself with grief, goggled in terror as Rory, who was shaking almost uncontrollably, managed to summon the last dregs of strength. He landed a lucky kick on the other man’s shin.

  With a scream, first of rage and then increasing terror, John Forrester lost his balance and slipped, bouncing on the slates and then, to their impotent horror, plummeting to the cobbled surface of the stable yard while the great winged creature whirled away.

  chapter fifteen

  Sam and Harriet stood a little to one side, watching the Attlins – Walter, Edith and Rory – as they clustered round the short, plump, fair-haired man who was closely examining one of the portraits, that of the sixteenth-century Richard Attlin, reluctant father-in-law to the nun, Margery. Professor David Porter, Rory’s boss, was almost crooning with delight as he turned the portrait this way and that, tossing his coat onto a chair and even taking off his steel-rimmed glasses to peer at a detail.

  ‘I think you could be right, Rory,’ he said in a stunned voice. ‘I honestly think you could be right.’ His eyes were shining as he turned to them.

  Penelope Attlin had stayed downstairs. ‘I’ll go up in my own good time,’ she said firmly, so Walter, Edith and Rory had escorted the expert up to the gallery, with Harriet and Sam in tow, determined not to miss a thing.

  Harriet was heavy-eyed and drawn, haunted during the day and in her fitful sleep by the memory of those long, agonizing minutes when she believed Sam was dead. Even now, two days later, she had to clutch at him frequently, tears springing to her eyes with no warning.

  He put an arm round her now, and hugged her. Undemonstrative as they were by nature, both cousins were shaken to the core and Harriet thought she would never hear a sound more welcome than Sam’s voice yelling up at her from the stable yard. She shivered and he tightened his embrace.

  ‘It’s only …’ she murmured, leaning her head on his shoulder for a moment. ‘Oh, Sam….’

  ‘Shh.’ He too was speaking quietly, so as not to disturb the discussion on art history. ‘I’ve told you, several times, when the first bullet hit the bike I had no idea what it was, only that I had to shift myself pretty damn quick. Good job I’m still pretty fit and knew enough to roll out of harm’s way.’ He hestitated, then gave her a gentle shake. ‘The sight of you trapped up there with that madman … well, I can only thank God it ended the way it did.’

  She pulled herself together. ‘Oh well, we’d better catch up with Walter and the kids.’ Her tone was matter of fact but the affection in her eyes was heartfelt.

  ‘Mr Attlin.’ The others were hanging on the expert’s words as David Porter addressed his host. ‘At this stage I can only offer conjecture, and there’ll have to be extensive tests, of course, but I can say that I think – only think, mind – that this portrait, of a sixteenth-century Richard Attlin, could be an early Holbein, probably painted before he became court painter to Henry VIII, and as such it should be in the National Portrait Gallery. It’s a very significant find, if I’m right, and I’m pretty certain I am.’

  He smiled at his open-mouthed audience. ‘It’s not one of his best and looks as though it was dashed off in a hurry to make the rent money, possibly with several other people giving a hand, but even so, if I’m correct, we could be talking about some very serious money indeed. Here, take a look.’ He pulled out his BlackBerry and showed them some images.

  His explanation of style, brushwork, colour, all went over their heads. With the exception of Rory they were all stunned. Even Edith, who had joked about a Leonardo in the attic, was silenced; this was beyond her wildest conjectures.

  ‘Would you like me to get in touch with the appropriate people?’ David raised the matter with Walter Attlin who beckoned Sam to his side to support him. ‘I realize it’s Rory’s discovery and naturally he’ll get full credit, but this is a bit out of our league.’

  ‘What about security?’ wondered Sam. ‘It’s been perfectly safe here getting on for five hundred years. Another night or two won’t hurt, will it?’

  They settled that the professor should take charge and Edith was about to suggest a drink downstairs to celebrate, when David Porter took another turn round the gallery, stopping now and then to inspect a portrait.

  ‘Rory? Any views on this lady here?’ He was standing in front of Dame Margery whose painted eyes gazed serenely at him.

  ‘I did wonder,’ Rory joined him, followed by the rest. ‘I just wondered about Lavina Teerlinc,’ he suggested, looking diffident.

  ‘Oh-ho, that was my first thought.’ To everyone’s annoyance the two artists said no more as they took a closer look. Edith tugged at Rory’s sleeve and David Porter turned to her, looking apologetic.

  ‘What? Oh yes, sorry. Levina Teerlinc was a Flemish artist, very distinguished family. Hang on, I’ll look her up.’ He flashed some more images under their noses. ‘Yes, here we are. She’s known to have painted a few miniatures of Queen Elizabeth I and she was even employed as court painter early in Elizabeth’s reign. There’s something about this picture that recalls her style and the dates would fit. Margery would be around fifty by then so it could be an early Teerlinc.’

  Walter Attlin looked at his ancestress and smiled. ‘I don’t think I even need to consult Edith on this one,’ he remarked. ‘We couldn’t possibly allow Margery to leave the farm, however valuable her painting turns out to be.’

  Edith slipped an arm through his and gave him an affectionate hug, nodding agreement.

  ‘The other portrait, though,’ Walter continued, ‘I’m more than happy to have you investigate that. If it turns out to be genuine I wouldn’t want it to be sold abroad so maybe we could come to some kind of agreement about that. As long as we have enough to secure the fabric of the building for the future and maintain what land we have left, as far as is humanly possible, that would be an enormous relief. Other than that, we’ll see. But Dame Margery – no, she stays here.’ He exchanged glances with the lady and gave a short, embarrassed laugh. ‘I saw her, you know, when I was young. Just the once but she was quite clear.’

  Rory turned startled eyes upon Edith. ‘But I thought … a side effect of the medication I’m on is known to be hallucinations. You really …?’ He faltered into silence and Edith left her grandfather’s side to give Rory’s arm a squeeze.

  Professor Porter had been talking to Harriet, asking questions and now he spoke to Walter. ‘This jewel, Mr Attlin,’ he said. ‘Would it be possible for me to take a look at the replica of Aelfryth’s Tears? I’m no expert on antique jewellery but it sounds a fascinating piece. What a pity the original is lost.’

/>   As Rory went downstairs to fetch the small silver box Harriet became aware of an extraordinary expression on her cousin Walter’s face. Amusement, guilt and mischief mingled as he stood back and allowed Rory to show off the copy.

  ‘What is it, Grandpa?’ Edith had noticed it too. ‘Why are you grinning like that?’

  Everyone turned to stare at him as he fished in the pocket of his old tweed jacket and pulled out a soft leather pouch. ‘I hadn’t thought of this for years,’ he said, with maddening deliberation, as he extracted a small, silk-wrapped object. ‘I dug it out this morning to show you, and then forgot all about it. This was a fob on my grandfather’s watch chain.’

  On the palm of his hand lay Aelfryth’s Tears, unmistakable as he set it down beside the copy. The original workmanship was superior in every line, the gold knotwork immaculately done, the pearls and the great garnet glowing at its heart and the runic symbols, although they couldn’t read them, were not the random markings of the copy. He touched the spring and there was the rock crystal that covered the recess containing the drops from the Virgin’s eyes.

  ‘It was always known that there was a copy,’ he said. ‘But they thought this was it. I’m certain nobody for generations ever realized there was that secret store behind the panelling and it was supposed that the door on the roof had been long out of use, particularly as it was sealed up.’

  Edith spoke into the awed silence. ‘You mean this has been knocking around for years, in all that junk of your father’s that you keep in your bureau?’

  He nodded, looking very like a naughty schoolboy. ‘I’ve been meaning to sort that out for years,’ he confessed. ‘It was always too big, far too ornate for Father, but my grandfather was a flamboyant old Edwardian and liked a bit of glitz.’

  ‘But—it’s priceless, Grandpa.’ Edith was still struggling with the idea. ‘Harriet, you’re the historian, tell them what we found out.’