Mr. Matheson looked abashed. “I’ve a black thumb, Rose. God didn’t see fit to make botany one of my talents, as you know.”
“I do,” Rose said fervently.
Barbara said, “I’d be happy to help as we talk.”
Rose appeared delighted with this suggestion. “Would you?” She dropped back to her knees on the car rug. Barbara thought she was about to offer a prayer of thanksgiving upon the occasion of the Lord’s sending her a helper. Instead, she plucked a hand rake from among the tools and handed it over, saying, “We’ll work the soil first. Loosen initially, fertilise secondarily. That’s how one makes things grow.”
“Right,” Barbara said. She didn’t have the heart to reveal the fact that her own thumb was more coal-coloured than green. The heavenly gates were doubtless decorated with the hundreds of plants she’d sent to their just rewards over the years.
Mr. Matheson joined them on the rug. He began tearing out the ornithogalum and tossing its remains onto the lawn. While they worked on either side of Barbara, the couple chatted amiably about the fête. It was a yearly event—the yearly event if their enthusiasm was anything to go by—and they used it as a means of raising money to replace the windows in the church. “We mean to go back to stained glass,” Mr. Matheson explained. “Now, some of the wardens accuse me of being too High Church because of those windows—”
“They accuse you of popery,” Rose said with a gentle laugh.
Mr. Matheson waved off the accusation by flipping a trailing stem of ornithogalum over his shoulder. “But when I have those windows in place, they’ll think differently, just wait and see. It’s all in what one is used to. And when our present doubting Thomases become used to the way the light changes, the way both contemplation and devotion are absolutely and irrevocably altered in the more subdued light…a light like nothing they’ve ever seen…unless, of course, they’ve been to Chartres or Notre Dame—”
“Yes, pet,” Rose said firmly.
Her words brought the vicar round. He blinked, then chuckled. “I do go on, don’t I?”
“It’s nice to have a love of something,” Barbara said.
Rose was industriously weeding among the ranunculi. “Indeed,” she said, and yanked at a particularly well-rooted dandelion. “But one does sometimes wish Mr. Matheson’s loves were more generally Anglican in nature. He was rhapsodising about the west facade of Reims Cathedral in the presence of the Archdeacon two weeks ago, and I thought the poor man would have a stroke.” She deepened her voice. “‘B-b-but my good Matheson, it’s a Papist structure.’” She clucked. “Such a scene Mr. Matheson caused.”
Barbara made the appropriate tsk-tsking noises, then brought them to the subject of the fête again. She was interested in the jumble stall, she explained. An article of clothing, a school uniform that was tied to a murder investigation, had been found in a rag bag that had come from that stall.
Mr. Matheson rose from his efforts with the ornithogalum. He said disbelievingly, “Murder investigation?” as his wife said, “School uniform?” with an equal amount of disbelief.
“The little girl who was found in the canal Sunday evening. In Allington. You’ve heard?”
Of course they had heard. Who hadn’t heard? Allington wasn’t a stone’s throw away, and the hamlet was part of Mr. Matheson’s parish.
“Right,” Barbara said. “Well, it was her school uniform that was found in the rags.”
Rose thoughtfully plucked at a weed that, under Barbara’s observation, didn’t look much different to the plants growing next to it. She frowned and shook her head. “Are you sure it was her uniform?”
“It had her name sewn into it.”
“All in one piece?”
Barbara looked at her blankly, assuming she was referring to Charlotte’s name. She said, “Pardon?”
Was the uniform in one piece, Mrs. Matheson wanted to know. Because, she explained, the rags themselves would not have been. Rags were by their definition…well, rags. Any clothing that was found unacceptable for sale as clothing was cut into squares and placed into bags and offered as rags for sale at the jumble stall during the fête. But there would have been no uncut garment among her rags, Mrs. Matheson said. Prior to the fête, she and her daughter—whom she referred to in an Austenian fashion as “the young Miss Matheson”—had gone through the jumble one piece at a time and they did all the cutting themselves. “So as not to offend any of the parishioners,” Rose confided. “If they knew that one of their neighbours might be making a judgement about the suitability of their offering…Well, they probably would stop giving altogether, wouldn’t they? So we do it ourselves. We always have done.” Therefore, she concluded, attacking a patch of clover with vigour, a school uniform in good condition would not have passed through her hands and ended up among the rags. And if it had been in bad condition, it would have been cut into squares like the rest of the unsuitable garments.
This was an interesting turn of events, Barbara thought. She dug round a plant with her hand rake and mulled over the information. She said, “When was the fête, exactly?”
“Saturday last,” Rose said.
“Where was it?”
Right in the church grounds, they told her. And everything for the jumble stall had been collected in cardboard boxes in the church vestibule over a period of four weeks. Mrs. Matheson and her daughter—the aforementioned young Miss Matheson—had dealt with it every Sunday night right there in the church crypt.
“That’s when we did the cutting,” Mrs. Matheson said. “It’s easier to take it one week at a time than to wait till the end and do it all at once.”
“Organisation is the key to a successful fête,” Mr. Matheson confided. “We made three hundred and fifty-eight pounds and sixty-four pence on Saturday, didn’t we, Rose?”
“Indeed we did. But there was, perhaps, a tiny bit too much grease on the coin toss plates. Not enough prizes were won at that booth and people got a wee bit miffed.”
“Nonsense,” her husband scoffed. “It’s all in a proper cause. With those windows in place, the congregation shall see—”
“We know, pet,” Mrs. Matheson said.
Assuming that the uniform was not among the jumble as originally seen by Mrs. Matheson, Barbara asked who had access to the discarded clothing once it was already sorted, cut, and bagged.
Mrs. Matheson crawled into the flower bed on the trail of a creeping weed that was speckled with tiny yellow flowers. She said, “Access to the jumble? Anyone, I suppose. We kept it in the crypt, and the crypt’s not locked.”
“Church isn’t locked either,” Mr. Matheson added. “I won’t hear of it. A place of worship should be available to the penitent, the mendicant, the wretched, and the sorrowful at any hour of the day or night. Totally absurd to expect one’s congregation to feel prayerful on the vicar’s schedule, wouldn’t you say?”
Barbara told them she would say. And before the vicar could expound further on his religious philosophy—which she could see he was warming to do since he abandoned the ornithogalum and rubbed his hands together—she asked if they’d seen any strangers in the area in the days prior to the fête. Or even, she added, on the morning of the fête.
The Mathesons looked at each other. They shook their heads. Of course, Mr. Matheson added, at the actual fête there were always people one didn’t know since the event was advertised in every nearby hamlet and village, not to mention in Marlborough, Wootton Cross, and Devizes. For that was one point of a fête, wasn’t it? Besides raising money, one always hoped to return another soul to the Lord’s safekeeping. And what better way to do it than to encourage lost souls to mingle among the already saved.
This complicated matters, Barbara realised. Worse, it left the field wide open. “So,” she said, “anyone could have got to those rag bags, opened one of them, and stowed the uniform inside. Either in the crypt before the fête or sometime during the fête itself.”
During the fête was unlikely, Mrs. Matheson said.
Because the stall was manned, and if a stranger had opened one of the bags, surely she would have seen him doing so.
Did she run the stall herself, then? Barbara asked.
She did, Mrs. Matheson replied. And when she wasn’t there, the young Miss Matheson was. Did the sergeant wish to speak to the young Miss Matheson?
Barbara did, so long as she didn’t have to twist her tongue round “the young Miss Matheson” more than once. But she wanted to have a picture of Dennis Luxford in her hand during the conversation. If Luxford had made a more recent sojourn to Wiltshire than his month-ago visit to Baverstock School indicated—if he’d been prowling round Stanton St. Bernard within the past week—someone somewhere was likely to have seen him. And what better place to start looking for that someone than right here?
She told the vicar and his wife that she would return with a photograph for them to inspect. She told them she’d want to have their daughter take a look at it as well. What time did the young Miss Matheson finish school for the day?
The Mathesons tittered. They explained their tittering with the information that the young Miss M wasn’t in school, at least not any longer, but thank you for thinking we’re still youthful enough to have a school-aged child. One shouldn’t be prideful about one’s appearance, but the sergeant wasn’t the first person to remark upon the astounding youthfulness of this couple who had given their lives to God. The truth was that when one devoted a life to serving the Lord and got a decent amount of fresh air as they were doing now—
“Right,” Barbara said. “Where can I find her?”
At Barclay’s in Wootton Cross, Rose said. If the sergeant wanted the young Miss Matheson to look at a photo before the end of her workday, she could take it by the bank. “Just ask for Miss Matheson in New Accounts,” Mrs. Matheson said proudly. “It’s quite a proper job.”
To which the vicar added earnestly, “She even has her own desk.”
Winston Nkata took the call from Sergeant Havers, so Lynley heard only one side of it, most of which consisted of “Right…Brilliant, that move, Sarge…He was at Baverstock when?…Ooooh, nice, that…And what’s the word on the narrow-boats?” When the conversation ended, the DC told Lynley, “She needs a picture of Luxford faxed to Amesford CID. She says she’s got a noose round his neck and it’s tightening fast.”
Lynley turned the car left at the first opportunity and began to weave northward towards Highgate and the Luxford home. While he drove, Nkata brought him up-to-date on the sergeant’s activities in Wiltshire. He concluded with, “Interesting that Luxford never mentioned it to us, him being in Wiltshire last month, don’t you think?”
“It’s a remarkable omission,” Lynley agreed.
“If we can tag him hiring a narrow-boat—which is what the sarge’s honey is up to at the moment, then—”
“‘The sarge’s honey’?” Lynley clarified.
“That bloke she’s working with. Don’t you hear her voice get fuzz all over it when she says his name?”
Lynley wondered what a voice with fuzz on it sounded like. He said, “I haven’t been aware of voice fuzz.”
“Then you’re wearing earmuffs. Those two are sweet on each other, man. You just mark my words.”
“A conclusion you’ve drawn from the sound of the sergeant’s voice?”
“Right. And it’s natural. You know what it’s like when you work close with someone.”
“I’m not certain I do,” Lynley said. “You and I have been together for several days now, but I’m feeling no particular longing for you.”
The other man laughed. “All in good time.”
In Highgate, Millfield Lane had become an encampment of journalists. They clung round the front of the Luxford home like a host of unshakeable bad memories, and accompanying them were news vans, cameramen, banks of television lights, and three neighbourhood dogs who were snarling over possession of the journalists’ discarded mealtime rubbish. Across the street, pedestrians, neighbours, and assorted gawkers had assembled to the east of the Highgate ponds. And as Lynley’s Bentley parted the crowd in front of the Luxford driveway, three bicyclists and two Rollerbladers lurched to a stop and joined in the confusion.
A police presence at the bottom of the driveway had so far managed to keep the press at bay. But as the constable in charge moved the sawhorse to one side, a reporter dodged past him with two photographers on his heels. They raced for the villa at the top of the slope.
Fingers on the door handle, Nkata asked, “Want me to put the collar to that lot?”
Lynley watched them dash in the direction of the portico. One of the photographers began shooting pictures of the garden. “They won’t get anything useful,” he said. “You can bet that Luxford isn’t answering his door.”
“Getting a dose of his own though, with this lot sharking through the waters like they are.”
“It’s a nice little irony,” Lynley acknowledged, “if you like that sort of thing.”
He pulled to a stop behind the Mercedes. At his knock, a constable opened the door. The reporter shouted past Lynley, “Mr. Luxford! Answer a few questions from the Sun? What’s your wife’s reaction to this morning’s—”
Lynley grabbed the man by the back of his shirt collar. He thrust him at Nkata, who seemed only too pleased to shove the reporter back in the direction of the street. Upon cries of “Bleeding police brutality,” they entered the house.
The constable said tersely, “You got our message?”
Lynley said, “What message? We were in the car. Winston was on the phone.”
The constable said in a low voice, “Things are breaking. There’s been another call.”
“From the kidnapper? When?”
“Not five minutes ago.” He led the way into the drawing room.
The curtains were closed to keep the Luxfords at peace from telephoto lenses. The windows were shut to keep them safe from prying ears. But the result was a close and tenebrous atmosphere that even broken by illuminated table lamps felt tomblike and unnaturally still. Evidence of meals largely uneaten lay on coffee tables, ottomans, and the seats of chairs. Cups of film-topped tea and ashtrays coughing up cigarette ends and burnt tobacco crowded the surface of a grand piano, where an unfolded copy of that day’s Source shed its pages onto the floor.
Dennis Luxford sat, head in his hands, in an armchair next to the telephone. As the police crossed towards him, he raised his head. Simultaneously, DI John Stewart—one of Lynley’s divisional colleagues at the Yard and the very best man for any job requiring meticulous attention to detail—came into the drawing room from the other direction. He was wearing a set of headphones round his carrot-thin neck and speaking into a cordless phone. He nodded at Lynley, said into the phone, “Yes…Yes…Blast. We’ll try for more next time…Right,” and snapped the mouthpiece closed. He said to Luxford, “Nothing, Mr. Luxford. You did your best but there wasn’t enough time,” and to Lynley, “You’ve heard?”
“Just now. What was it?”
“We’ve got it on tape.” He led Lynley to the kitchen. On a centre island that stood between a work top and a stainless steel cooker, a taping system had been set up. It consisted of a recorder, a half dozen spools of tape, earphones, flex, and wiring that seemed to run everywhere.
DI Stewart rewound the tape and then played it back. Two voices spoke, both ostensibly male, one of them Luxford’s. The other sounded as if the caller were speaking from the throat and through completely clenched teeth. It was an effective way to distort and disguise the voice.
The message was brief, too brief to be able to trace the call itself:
“Luxford?”
“Where’s my son? Where’s Leo? Let me talk to him.”
“You got it wrong, fucker.”
“Got what wrong? What are you talking about? For God’s sake—”
“Shut up. And hear me good. I want the truth. The story. The kid dies without the truth.”
“I wrote it! Haven’t you seen the paper? It?
??s on the front page! I did what you asked, exactly as you asked. Now, give me my son or—”
“You wrote it wrong, fucker. Don’t think I don’t know. Do it right by tomorrow, or Leo dies. Like Lottie. You got that? Tomorrow or he dies.”
“But what—”
The tape ended as the phone went dead.
“That’s it,” Stewart said. “Not enough time for a trace.”
“What now, Inspector?”
Lynley turned towards the voice. Luxford had come to the kitchen door. He was unshaven, he looked unwashed, and his clothes were the same that he’d worn the previous day. The cuffs and the open collar of his white shirt were grimy with his body’s perspiration.
“‘You got it wrong,’” Lynley said. “What does he mean?”
“I don’t know,” Luxford said. “As God is my witness, I do not know. I did what he told me to do, to the letter. I don’t know what more I could have done. Here.” He was carrying a copy of the morning’s Source, and he extended it to Lynley. He blinked rapidly, eyes red-lidded and bloodshot.
Lynley looked at the paper more closely than he had done upon seeing it earlier that day. The headline and the accompanying photograph were all the kidnapper could have hoped for. They barely required the reader to consume the story that they illustrated. And anyone with the reading skills of a seven-year-old would have been able to comprehend the prose that Luxford had used in assembling his article, at least on the front page. Lynley skimmed it, seeing that the first paragraph alone contained the pertinent answers to who, where, when, why, and how. He did not read on when he came to the end of what the front page held.
“That’s what happened as best I remember it,” Luxford said. “I may have got some detail wrong. I may have left something out—God knows I don’t remember the room number in the hotel—but everything I could remember is in that story.”
“Yet you got it wrong. What could he mean?”
“I don’t know, I tell you.”
“Did you recognise the voice?”
“Who the hell could have recognised the bloody voice? It sounded like he was talking with a gag in his mouth.”