The Case of the Missing Bronte (10 page)

‘And yet he's still not talking.'

‘No. And of course he has every reason not to, if he's been involved in the theft of something as valuable as this manuscript could turn out to be. Stiff gaol sentence — end
of career. But I don't think it's just that: in fact, I don't think it's that at all. You should see the way he's
hugging
himself still. Either he thinks they didn't get it — he could have passed out before they did. Or else he's hoping to get it back again.'

‘He knows who the thugs are, you mean? Or who they're working for? You know, Perry, when you think about it, don't hired thugs seem awfully unlikely?'

‘Sweet innocent little thing. Hired thugs have been a lot commoner than nice little old ladies these twenty years and more. And unemployment doesn't diminish the number. You can live in London and doubt the existence of hired bully boys?'

‘No, of course not. But
here.
I mean, in this sort of case. Lost work of literature, and all that. It's so out of character. I can believe in unscrupulous academics and cracked librarians in this connection, but hired thugs — ?'

‘Perhaps,' I admitted, ‘it is a bit out of keeping. But don't forget that appalling cousin. He's lived and worked in Los Angeles, remember — “there
is
sin, there
is
shame” ' — I imitated his ghastly nasal pulpit pomposity. ‘If there's any sin or shame going, I bet the Reverend Amos Macklehose is in there shamelessly sinning.'

‘That's a point. But he seemed to think it was still in the cottage, didn't he? Perry — have you seen today's papers?'

‘Heavens, no. No time for that. You surely don't want to talk about the latest Gallup ratings of the Social Democrats, do you, Jan? I'm busy, you know.'

‘Don't be potty.
Or
pompous. It's just that in the
Yorkshire Record
there's mention of a millionaire — an American multi-millionaire, a well-known collector. And he's currently in Bradford.'

‘Really?'

‘What on earth would he be doing in Bradford, Perry?'

‘Buying the Town Hall, I would hope,' I said. But I was definitely interested. Bradford was not a Mecca for multimillionaire
aesthetes — if that, indeed, was what the gentleman was, and not just a grabber. I could be interested in a grabber.

‘Any details on what he collects?' I asked.

‘They mention pictures — he's got several Samuel Palmers already in his collection — and a “fine Turner”, they say. But
also
manuscripts of the Romantic poets.'

‘Hmmm. Not spot on, but it could be worth following up. What's his name?'

‘James L. Parfitt.'

‘Fine old English name. Probably spoils it by adding “the third”, or something. Well, thanks, Jan — I must go. I can hear Bradley coming back.'

‘Don't let Nanny find out you've been a naughty boy,' said Jan.

She can be a bit aggravating at times.

Bradley and I had a snack of tomato and cheese sandwiches, and ale that tasted of the can. I rang up Scotland Yard and asked them to get on to the States and see if the FBI had anything on James L. Parfitt. While we were jawing and gobbling Bradley, with a heavy flourish, produced a piece of news.

‘Know who the old girl left her money to?'

‘Who—Miss Wing? No.'

‘Jason Curle. The little blackie.'

I didn't like Bradley's racial attitudes, but I met them often enough day by day to ignore them.

‘We haven't a chance of getting at her will,' I said. ‘How do you know?'

‘That's what they say in the village,' he said, with his dull obstinacy.

‘That's what who says in the village? People say all sorts of things in villages in my experience, and only about twenty-five per cent is anything like truth.'

‘Everybody's saying so. I think it was Mrs Hebden as let it out. Her as was Miss Wing's friend around here.'

‘No reason why she shouldn't leave it to him, anyway,' I said.

‘Nor why she should, if you ask me. Wasn't any relation — just came in to do the garden.' Getting no change out of me, he just looked ahead with that bullish expression on his unintelligent policeman's face (I mean, of course, his unintelligent-policeman's face), and said: ‘I just think it's funny.'

He sounded like the Reverend Macklehose's pearl of great price. If Jason Curle wasn't careful he would find himself the possessor of a tidy little fortune, with everyone for miles around muttering ‘I just think it's funny,' and looking at him with gallows in their eyes.

I said: ‘The woman hasn't got any relatives, her best friend was the one who left her all this stuff. She just likes the boy, that's all.'

‘It's a motive.'

‘If he knew. I bet she didn't tell him. She's too sensible to give him ideas that could only unsettle him. And she could so easily change her mind. Anyway, can you see that sort of injury being inflicted by a thirteen-year-old?'

‘None of the blows was especially hard,' said Bradley. If he
did
get an idea into his head, no power on earth was going to get it out again. ‘And he's pretty spry.'

‘You'd need to be more than spry,' I answered, with comparable obstinacy. But I wasn't as sure as I sounded. You can't be dogmatic about injuries like that. I bet no one thought Lizzie Borden could wield an axe to such good effect.

I chewed over this, and the conversation I'd had with Jan, and I came to two decisions: one, to go to Bradford; two, to drop in on the way on Mrs Hebden. When she opened her front door to me her aspect was very different from what it had been when we were looking for a room. She was, not to put too fine a point on it, flurried.

‘Oh — Mr Trethowan. Oh dear, I thought you might
call. I feel so guilty. You've heard — ?'

‘My constable just told me. Is it true you let something slip about Miss Wing's will?'

‘Oh, the will. Oh dear — I'm afraid I did. Awful of me, but you see Miss Wing did tell me, just after she'd made it. That she was leaving the cottage to little Jason, and a bit of money too. Of course she swore me to secrecy, but somehow with the attack . . . and fearing she would not be coming back . . . I really
am
sorry. The last thing I'd want would be to cause trouble.'

‘Nothing to be done,' I said. ‘I think it might help, since it is round the village, if you made it clear to everyone that Jason Curle knew nothing about it.'

‘Oh, you don't mean they're saying — ?'

‘If Constable Bradley is anything to go by,' I said, turning to go, ‘that is
precisely
what they are saying.'

I chewed over this as I drove back to Bradford, and I chewed over the American millionaire I had decided to go and see. I'd bought the
Yorkshire Record,
but it had little more information in it than Jan had already conveyed, though one did get the distinct impression that the man was rolling in it. And, as a consequence, a very natural person for the thief to get in contact with, assuming that what the thief was after was money. The Yard wasn't much help, though. I had a message over the car radio that the FBI had no sort of file on James L. Parfitt — quite the reverse: the only time he had swum into their ken was when he had come forward voluntarily, when he suspected he might have come into possession of stolen property. Quite the lily-white boy. I told the Yard to cable for all possible details on this episode. I don't trust lily-white boys, when they're millionaires.

Still, I had nothing to go on, as far as Mr Parfitt was concerned. (How incredibly drab that sounds, for an American multi-millionaire: why don't they follow the logic of their society and introduce titles?) He was a
collector, he was in Bradford. Now I came to think about it, away from Jan's eager insistence, it didn't sound ridiculous at all. The North Country has plenty of old family homes, full of old family pictures, old family silver, and old family debts. In economic times like the present there were even more upper-crust gents than usual pathetically in need of the ready. I had no grounds at all for connecting him with the Brontë manuscript. Nor was I enamoured of the figure much loved in fiction of the rich collector who stores up hot property to gloat over it in some private hideaway. Most millionaires like their treasures to be on display. Very much on display, in most cases, to reinforce their millionairedom, so to speak.

On the other hand . . . The Brontë manuscript was not all that hot. If Miss Wing were to die, or never regained consciousness, there would be practically no one around who could identify it with any certainty. I could not, that was for sure, from my brief glance at one page. In two or three years the manuscript could be produced, with a fictitious pedigree . . .

I consulted the AA Book for the two or three best hotels in Bradford, pretty sure that James L. Parfitt would not put up at an overnight joint for commercial travellers. By luck I hit on the right one first time. It was called the Royal Edward, and for once it lived up to its name. The foyer was all white and gold and plush pink, with spotty mirrors in gilt frames; scattered around were pink and gold velvet sofas, on which one could imagine Royal Edward perching his ample frame, perhaps placing his hand on a not-unwilling knee the while, or pinching a be-bustled bottom while whispering an assignation. Through the door to the left I caught a glimpse of an oak-panelled dining-room, where one could imagine him eating one of his piggish meals. It was all rather daunting — as if I'd strayed on to the set of one of those BBC historical serials for television. I mustered what courage I possessed and
strolled up to the desk.

‘Er — Mr James Parfitt.'

‘Oh yes,' said the spruce young picture of efficiency behind the desk, to my surprise. ‘Just take the lift — there — ' he pointed to the far corner of the foyer — ‘up to the third floor.'

I had a feeling I'd been mistaken for somebody else, but not wishing to kick my luck I simply did as I was told. As soon as I emerged from the deep padded silence of the lift I realized I was right. I seemed to have barged in on the early stages of some kind of party. Mr James L. Parfitt had apparently taken over the whole of the third floor of this wing of the hotel. The great wide corridor, hung with prints of dogs and horses and jockeys, was peopled with maids and flunkies, and as I stepped out, more than a little embarrassed, a pretty little thing dressed in apron and starched cap came up with a sweet smile and a drinks tray. This time I felt as if I'd walked into
Upstairs, Downstairs.

‘Whisky, sir? Or sherry? This is dry.'

‘Yes, I'll have a sherry. Er — '

‘Mr Parfitt is through the doorway there, sir, at the moment. I'm sure he'd like you to introduce yourself. It's the sitting-room of the Rose Suite.'

I gulped, and went in the direction she pointed. The sitting-room of the Rose Suite (which was
very
rose) was beginning to get rather crowded, and being both an impostor and an intruder I hung back by the door until I could be sure which of the well-dressed drink-clutchers was Moneybags Parfitt.

It was quite a collection of people he'd got together there: an immense lady with a voice like a foghorn who had obviously tied her horse to a parking meter and was wondering whether its time was running out; a North Yorkshire Duke with a minor post in the government and a stately home twice the size of Sandringham; an Earl
with property in West Yorkshire who had sold the land on which the University of Milltown was built — a gaunt, joyless individual who was reputed to smile only when he went over the estate books which dealt with that transaction; various scions of the local squirearchy — portly, doggy, genial, rather awkward; and a squad of local business smoothies trying to look as if brass had not the remotest connection with muck.

‘Hello, thinking of selling the family pictures?' said a voice from beside me.

‘They're not mine to sell,' I said automatically, and then looked round to see a man in his forties — gentryish, friendly, with a nondescript face and a sardonic downward turn to his mouth.

‘Well, I can't see your getting much for your old dad's manuscripts,' he went on, digging further into my sore spot.

‘Have we met?' I asked, in a dowagerly way.

‘Long, long ago. You were just out of short pants. Witteringham's the name. Frank Witteringham. Frightful name, what? With most people you forget the name and remember the face. With me it's the other way round.'

I remembered, dimly, Frank Witteringham, and shook him by the hand. His people had property near the Co. Durham border of Northumberland, twenty miles or so from Harpenden.

‘Of course,' he went on, with that sublime ignorance of tact so characteristic of his type, ‘I didn't really remember you. I just recognized you from your pictures in the paper.'

‘Yes,' I muttered, internally wriggling.

‘What are you hoping to get out of this gravy-train, eh?'

‘Nothing,' I said. ‘Are most people?'

‘Of course they are. Why do you think they're here at two or three days' notice? Look at that chap — Duke of
Hull. Oh, you recognized him. Should be in the Lords, speaking on the new Rates Act. He's junior minister, after all. ‘Stead of which, he's here. Got something to sell, smells a good buyer. That's why we're all here — what?'

‘Really?' I said. ‘And how did you all know? Were you invited?'

‘Not in so many words. It went round on the grapevine. He'd been snuffling round at Christoby's, and the other big places, and he let it be known that he'd be in Bradford, happy to see anyone with anything of interest — etcetera, etcetera. Jolly good network most of us have. I heard it from my kid brother who works in the City, and he heard it from a chap who works on Debrett, who heard it from a chap who's one of the buyers for Christoby's. So Bob's your uncle, here I am.'