A Grave Case of Murder

  Bello:

  hidden talent rediscovered!

  Bello is a digital only imprint of Pan Macmillan, established to breathe life into previously published classic books.

  At Bello we believe in the timeless power of the imagination, of good story, narrative and entertainment and we want to use digital technology to ensure that many more readers can enjoy these books into the future.

  We publish in ebook and Print on Demand formats to bring these wonderful books to new audiences.

  About Bello:

  www.panmacmillan.com/imprints/bello

  About the author:

  www.panmacmillan.com/author/rogerbax

  Contents

  Roger Bax

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty One

  Chapter Twenty Two

  Chapter Twenty Three

  Chapter Twenty Four

  Chapter Twenty Five

  Chapter Twenty Six

  Chapter Twenty Seven

  Chapter Twenty Eight

  Chapter Twenty Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty One

  Chapter Thirty Two

  Chapter Thirty Three

  Chapter Thirty Four

  Roger Bax

  A Grave Case of Murder

  Roger Bax

  Roger Bax is the pen name of Paul Winterton (1908–2001). He was born in Leicester and educated at the Hulme Grammar School, Manchester and Purley County School, Surrey, after which he took a degree in Economics at London University. He was on the staff of The Economist for four years, and then worked for fourteen years for the London News Chronicle as reporter, leader writer and foreign correspondent. He was assigned to Moscow from 1942–5, where he was also the correspondent of the BBC’s Overseas Service.

  After the war he turned to full-time writing of detective and adventure novels and produced more than forty-five books. His work was serialized, televised, broadcast, filmed and translated into some twenty languages. He is noted for his varied and unusual backgrounds – which have included Russia, newspaper offices, the West Indies, ocean sailing, the Australian outback, politics, mountaineering and forestry – and for never repeating a plot.

  Paul Winterton was a founder member and first joint secretary of the Crime Writers’ Association.

  Chapter One

  It was William Appleby’s hundredth birthday, and five generations of Applebys by birth and marriage were assembled on the lawn of Monks Farm in honor of the occasion.

  A more appropriate setting for a centenary celebration would have been hard to imagine. Not that Monks Farm itself was particularly old—the farmhouse was actually early Georgian, and the only old bits were the remnants of ancient monastery wall that had been built into its structure. But it was all comfortably mature, with here and there an aroma of great age. Ivy covered the mellow red bricks; the elm trees that William’s grandfather had planted between the house and the road were fantastically curved and gnarled; fragments of lichen-clad masonry outcropped in the grounds, memorials to the anonymous monks who had chosen the elevated site with such care and wisdom a thousand years ago. There was a felt of moss on the gray sundial and an ancestral vine in the conservatory. Flower beds and shrubberies had a look of settled permanence. At the bottom of the gently sloping garden, the tower of the parish church rose in picturesque dignity above the yews and headstones of the churchyard. Beyond and below stretched the flat Fenland fields, hazy in the warmth of a September afternoon. About the whole place there was an air of timelessness and tranquillity that made living to be a hundred in its shadow seem the most natural thing in the world.

  The lawn was crowded, for the sense of family was strong in the Applebys, and William was no ordinary centenarian. Even Marion, his granddaughter, who had organized the party, hadn’t expected quite such a response. Those members of the family who had lived on in East Anglia had naturally turned up in strength, but so had others who had settled much farther afield. Stouthearted Aunt Eleanor, William’s only surviving child, had made the journey from Wales despite her seventy years. Uncle Charles had traveled down from Aberdeen, and second cousin Henry up from Devonshire, and the Doncaster Applebys had arrived en masse. It was very gratifying.

  By now, of course, the various branches of the family had little in common except blood, and pride in William as the Grand Old Man. Even the soil was no longer a link, for only a few had carried on the farming tradition. Many had gone into the towns, into trade, into the professions. Some had moved up in the world, some down. Some spoke with broad provincial accents, some like B.B.C. announcers. But whoever they were and wherever they came from, they all looked and sounded very pleased with themselves today as they made or renewed acquaintance, sorted out their relationships, gossiped about family matters, and divided their congratulations between William and his great-granddaughter, Barbara Rutherford, who was going to be married in a fortnight’s time. Bright frocks and striped umbrellas over the tea tables gave color to the scene, and innumerable romping children gave it life.

  William himself occupied the chair of honor in the shade of a spreading cypress. Sitting there like a tribal chief, with his progeny around him, he looked every inch the patriarch. At Monks Farm he was affectionately referred to as the Ancient, and ancient he certainly appeared. It wasn’t possible to see much of his face because of the tufty white eyebrows and the thick white mustache, and the white spade-shaped beard that covered his once-massive chest like a bib; but wherever the purple-veined skin showed, it was as wrinkled as a walnut. Yet, although ancient, he was far from being senile. His slow, shrewd countryman’s eyes missed very little that they wanted to see; his mind was as alert and his big Roman nose as domineering as ever. He was smart today in a Panama hat and a white alpaca jacket, from the breast pocket of which two long cigars protruded defiantly. In his lap lay a sheaf of congratulatory telegrams which he had read without assistance.

  He sat up very straight, clasping the arms of the chair to steady his slightly shaking fingers, his eyes focused on nothing in particular. He looked benevolent and peaceful. At his age there was no point in talking for the sake of talking, and now that due homage had been paid to him he preferred to conserve his strength.

  From his appearance, it might have been supposed that he was lost in reverie. Thinking back over the years, perhaps, trying to recall where he had last seen the vaguely familiar faces that were all around him? Taking pleasure from the thought that most of them owed their very existence to him? Reflecting how dominant were certain physical features of the Applebys—the aristocratic noses and the red hair? Priding himself on the fact that he had reached his century with none of his faculties seriously impaired, and that, in a part of the country famous for longevity, he was outstanding?

  In fact, he wasn’t thinking at all. He had just finished his tea—an excellent tea—and was sitting contentedly with a fallow mind, absorbing the country sounds and scents, barely aware of the chattering reminiscent voices around him. At times he even dozed a little.

  Thomas Appleby, grandson to William and active head of the Monks Farm household, had a slumbering grievance; it was that he was always in partial
eclipse when the old man was around. Thomas was tall, but not majestic like William. He was well built, but too much sedentary work had made him slightly flabby, which William had never been. His red hair would never turn snowy-white like William’s, for it was already receding across his high, smooth skull. On official forms he described himself as a farmer, as William had done, but his five hundred acres of first-class corn land were in the charge of a manager, and Thomas himself hardly knew barley from oats.

  Outside the family circle, he was a distinguished and respected figure. He was chairman of the Judiford Bench, chairman of the governors of the local public school, chairman of the Drainage Board, chairman of the Conservative Association, and an influential member of a dozen other bodies. In his own world his manner was genially authoritative. When William was about, however, it seemed to shrink into defensive self-importance and pomposity. Without wishing William any harm, Thomas had felt for some time that longevity could be carried to excess.

  At the moment, he was having a quiet tête-à-tête with Aunt Eleanor at a table a little removed from the rest. The old lady looked very stately in black watered silk, her iron-gray hair piled high on her small head. In her youth she had been both pretty and willful, and her manner now combined the conscious charm of the woman who knows her femininity will get her what she wants, with the imperiousness of age. Over her hated spectacles she studied Thomas with care.

  “You’re still putting on weight, Thomas, I see. Surely it’s not necessary—you’re only fifty, aren’t you? That’s much too early to give up the struggle.”

  Thomas, resplendent but undeniably portly in white flannels and a striped blazer, stroked his comfortable waistline. “Fifty-three,” he said. “I’m a busy man, you know. I’m afraid I don’t get much time for exercise.”

  “Rubbish,” said Aunt Eleanor. “You should make time. What you need, as I’ve told you before, is a wife. She’d keep you up to the mark. I’m surprised William hasn’t insisted on it!”

  Thomas winced inwardly. It was all very well for Aunt Eleanor to treat the old man’s bossiness as a joke, but she didn’t have to put up with it day in and day out. Thomas hadn’t gained control at Monks Farm without a long, hard struggle, and William was still capable of behaving as though he ran the place himself.

  “But that,” Aunt Eleanor went on, “wasn’t really what I wanted to talk to you about. Tell me, who is this young man Barbara’s got hold of? How did she meet him, and what does he do?”

  “He’s a writer,” said Thomas. “Or perhaps I should say he hopes to be. He came down here from London about six months ago. He’d been looking for a quiet spot where he could work on a book, and Osier Cottage had been advertised to be let furnished. He liked the place, so he took it. Barbara happened to run into him one morning when she was out with the dogs. At least, that’s what she says. Between ourselves, I don’t think the encounter was altogether accidental—I think she was curious. At any rate, before we knew where we were, they were engaged. It was a case of love at first sight, according to them, and they’ve certainly been completely wrapped up in each other ever since.”

  A sentimental expression softened Aunt Eleanor’s shrewd eyes. “How romantic! And how very like Barbara! She was always impulsive. But he’s extraordinarily good-looking, and his manners are charming. What do you all think about him, Thomas?”

  “Well, I haven’t seen as much of him as I’d have liked,” said Thomas, “because he’s been working pretty hard on this book of his, but he seems to me a very sound chap. I was a little disturbed at first when I heard he was one of these writer fellows, but he doesn’t go to extremes—no long hair and sandals, or anything like that. He’s quite a serious young man. This book he’s working on is a sort of military history, I gather —Balkan Campaigns throughout the Ages.”

  “It sounds an ambitious project.”

  “It does, doesn’t it? Apparently he knows the Balkans well—he was in the Middle East for several years during the war, and I think he was in Greece and Yugoslavia. Something very hush-hush in Intelligence, I understand, but quite creditable. He can’t talk about it even now, but Barbara’s seen a glowing letter he got from Middle East Headquarters after it was all over.”

  “Indeed!” Aunt Eleanor peered through the crowd in an effort to catch another glimpse of Barbara’s interesting fiancé. “Isn’t he rather young to have done such responsible work?”

  “Oh, not in wartime. Anyhow, he’s older than he looks. He’s a little over thirty.”

  “Is he really? Well, I suppose that isn’t a bad thing. I’ve always maintained that a bridegroom should be at least seven years older than his bride. The French have a saying—what is it, now?—something to the effect that the woman should be half the man’s age plus seven years. A man’s idea, of course—they give themselves the best of the bargain. But men always do seem to wear better than women—it’s the easy lives they lead.”

  “Oh, come now, Aunt Eleanor!”

  The old lady gave him a teasing smile. “I must say,” she continued after a moment, “Barbara does Marion and you great credit. Who would have thought that that awkward, leggy little girl who came to you after Alston and Margaret were killed would turn into such a beauty? She’s really most distinguished-looking. And of course, she’s very fortunate. Doesn’t she inherit Alston’s money now that she’s twenty-one? She’s sure to get a great deal from William, too. That makes her quite an heiress by modern standards.” Aunt Eleanor’s eyes were shrewd again—the Applebys hadn’t built up their estates on romance alone. “I take it the young man has other resources besides what he may earn by writing?”

  “Oh, indeed yes,” said Thomas, in a tone suggesting that such matters could safely be left to him. “Of course, in these days when young people are so independent it’s difficult to make the formal inquiries that used to be customary. They like to make their own arrangements. However, in the circumstances I did intend to ask Neville about his prospects, but it wasn’t necessary—he took the initiative himself. He asked to see me privately just before the engagement was announced, and he said he was worried because he gathered Barbara was rather well off, and he wished she wasn’t. He didn’t actually put it in so many words, but I think he was concerned lest anyone should imagine he was fortune-hunting. It seems he has ample private means of his own. His parents are dead, but they must have been quite solid people. They were a South African family, and his father left him substantial gold-mining interests. Neville went so far as to say he would be glad if Barbara’s money could be tied up in some way so that only she and her children could touch it.”

  “He must be well off,” said Aunt Eleanor.

  “I thought it was a rather decent gesture—the sort of thing I’d have done myself in his place. I told him that Barbara’s affairs were out of my hands now that she was no longer a minor, and he said he’d talk to her about it. I must say I was impressed. I liked his frankness—shows breeding, you know. Yes, I believe he’s a good type—and I think I can claim to be a reasonably good judge of character after all my experience.”

  “If you’re not, Thomas, there must be a lot of people in prison who oughtn’t to be there! So what happened about it in the end?”

  “Oh, Barbara wouldn’t hear of it. She was very angry about it, as a matter of fact—seemed to think the idea had come from me. She’s a real Appleby—very quick-tempered, and resents any hint of interference by her family.”

  “All Applebys interfere,” said Aunt Eleanor complacently, “and they all hate to be interfered with. Barbara will be able to look after herself, I’m quite sure of that. She has spirit. She takes after William.”

  Thomas grunted. That, he thought, was one of the troubles about Barbara.

  “And I’ve no doubt at all,” the old lady added, “that they’ll be very happy. At least you won’t lose sight of them. Marion tells me that they’re planning to spend some time down here after the honeymoon.”

  “Yes, they propose to stay on at O
sier Cottage for six months or so. It was Barbara’s idea. She doesn’t want to leave William too abruptly.”

  “The dear child, how sweet of her! Of course, she knows how much she means to William, and she’ll be such a solace to him in these last days. It’s very considerate of her fiancé, too—he must be a nice man. Does William like him?”

  “Oh, William would never admit that anyone could be good enough for Barbara. He behaves as though he’s the only one who’s fond of her. It’s really quite absurd.”

  “Dear William! You must make allowances.” Her glance strayed across the lawn again and she gave a sigh. “I wish I could be here for the wedding. I’ve seen the trousseau and the presents, and I’m sure it will all be quite delightful.”

  “We shall certainly see that everything is done properly,” said Thomas with dignity.

  In another corner of the garden, Marion Appleby—Thomas’s sister—was having a chat with Cousin Amy, an Appleby by marriage and the young-looking grandmother of the fifth-generation baby.

  Marion was a red-haired spinster of fifty, and a tireless Lady Bountiful in the district. She was small and slightly built, but she gave off energy like the dynamo of the bicycle on which she whizzed from committee to committee. As a girl, when her features had been plumper and less birdlike, her exuberant vitality had attracted several young men, but they had been killed one after another in World War I, and marriage had since passed her by. Instead of bringing up a large family of her own, which she would have loved to do, she had devoted herself first to William and Thomas and then, with maternal affection, to the orphaned Barbara, keeping house at Monks Farm in the thorough fashion of a bygone century and throwing herself with gusto into every kind of local activity. She was the sort of woman without whose organizing ability hospitals would never have fetes, flags would never have days, comforts would never be knitted and fruit would go unbottled.

  Amy, an old confidante of hers, was enthusiastic over the success of the centenary tea party and, as usual, full of admiration for Marion’s drive. “I just don’t know how you do it, my dear. You’re the nearest thing to perpetual motion I’ve ever come across.”