Read The Snuffbox Murders Online
Authors: Roger Silverwood
The Snuffbox Murders
An Inspector Angel Mystery
Roger Silverwood
129, Bradford Road, Bromersley, South Yorkshire, UK.
2100 hours. Sunday, 10 May 2009
‘Is everybody here?’
‘Yes, boss.’
‘Right, well close that door and listen up. I’ve got another job.’
There were mutters of approval and enthusiasm from the five men.
‘Right, now settle down. You will have heard of Jack Prendergast. He’s the chairman of Frescati Fashions. He’s
Sir
Jack now. Well, Sir Jack and Lady Prendergast will be at the Fashion Award dinner in London next Saturday evening, May 16th. Their country place, Fanbury House, Lower Widdop, Bucks, will therefore be unoccupied. It is quite isolated, about half a mile from their nearest neighbour, which is a farm. The house and grounds are well covered by CCTV, heat-sensor-operated lights and alarms, so it’s balaclavas, gloves and overalls, all the way, as usual. All right?’
There were mutters and nods of understanding and agreement.
‘Lower Widdop is on a loop road just off the B98406. The west end of that needs blocking up
after
you have entered, to slow down any approach of police traffic from the nearest police station, which is Beaconsfield. I will get Irish John to blow the road up. It pays two grand, and he keeps his mouth shut. It will give us fifteen minutes’ start in the unlikely event of anything going wrong. We will, of course, when leaving the house, turn
right
out of the gates and travel eastwards before turning up north, but we’ll have a rehearsal of all of that before the night.
‘It’ll need someone to climb the telegraph pole that leaves the telephone exchange on the south side at Lower Widdop and cut the main telephone wire at nine twenty-five to block the automatic alarm signal reaching the security company. They’ll get a signal that the connection has been broken, but they won’t know why. They might think it’s the weather, or even that it’s the telephone company pulling the wrong plug out, but they won’t
know
that you are emptying the place. Get that man we used on the Lord Line job, Peter Queegley. Tell him it pays a grand and he keeps his mouth shut, as before.’
‘Right, boss,’ a man said.
‘The time to enter the house is at nine-thirty. Now you may have to saw through a chain securing the main gates to open them, so be there by nine-twenty-five, but don’t attempt to enter the house before nine-thirty as the phone line may not be cut. You’ll go in by the front door. I have had made a copy of the key to the main lock. There’s also a Yale lock to which I haven’t a key. The safe is in the drawing room, behind a dummy screen in a false fireplace under a painting of King Charles II. It’s a Phillips Mark II. Made about 1960. Can you handle it, Alec?’
‘I think so. But I’ll have to blow the lock.’
‘I believe that it’s full of twenty-pound notes. Try not to set them on fire.’
Several members of the gang sniggered.
‘You may already have heard that the house contains all kinds of treasures including a valuable collection of antique gold snuffboxes. I want you to be sure of getting all of them. I’ve got a punter waiting. They are in a very special thick glass case separately alarmed in the library. Second door on the right as you go in by the front door. The house is full of very valuable paintings both downstairs and up. Fill that van. We will have to work quickly. We have only an hour. To be safe we must be out of the house by ten-thirty. Whatever we haven’t loaded by then, we must leave behind. Remember, everything you took to carry out the job, hammers, knives, the gelly wrapping-paper, expired fuses, even toffee papers must be brought back with you. On return, all number plates to be changed before the engines are cold. Old plates to be taken to pieces, spoiled beyond recognition and buried. Vehicles to be re-sprayed white this time. Also there’s to be no smoking, eating or drinking throughout the job. I know that I always say that, but it keeps us out of prison, doesn’t it?’
There was silence.
‘
Doesn’t it
?’ he bawled.
He waited until all five men had replied in the affirmative, then he said, ‘And no talking to anyone. Keep absolute stumm! Especially wives and girlfriends. If there’s so much as a whisper and I find out who it is, they’ll know about it, I can tell you. You understand? You know that I mean it. Do exactly what I tell you and you don’t get caught. All right? Rehearsals, every night this week here at 8 p.m. Next week, Tuesday at 8 a.m. for a dummy run, then at 12 noon, the day of the job, for rehearsals and final briefing. Remember, even for rehearsals, leave all items that can identify you at home, as well as your keys and your mobile phones. You will all be issued with clean mobiles the day of the job. The two outsiders, Peter Queegley and Irish John, will be briefed separately at a place to be arranged, but not here. They are not to be told of the existence of this place, or the target address until you’re on your way there. All right? Secrecy is also our security, so all of you, watch your tongues, or I’ll personally rip them out. Any questions?’
A caravan in Jubilee Park, Bromersley, South Yorkshire, UK.
1330 hours. Bank Holiday Monday, 25 May 2009
Shirley Vance giggled. ‘There’s no need for this charade, Alec really,’ she said. ‘If you want to see me in the all together, I suppose I … well,’ she said putting her head on one side and smiling, ‘I don’t suppose I really mind.’ She maintained the smile and then giggled again.
Alec Underwood might have been titillated by the forwardness of the young woman, but he had a serious plan in mind. He was fifteen years older and in all ways he considered that he was superior to her.
He breathed in noisily through his teeth and shook his head. ‘It’s not like that at all,’ he sniffed. He spoke in an indignant way, as if his adenoids needed extracting. ‘There’s a time and place for everything. You have no artistry in your soul, Miss Vance. I really
do
want to take a mould of your body.’
She liked the thought of that. ‘What for? And when?’ she said, still smiling and looking in the long mirror at herself in the tiny bra and bikini bottom. She liked what she saw and smiled again at the reflection. Alec Underwood looked heavenward for an answer. ‘For posterity,’ he said. ‘But not
now
, anyway.’
‘When?’
‘I’ll tell you when. It’s time you got ready for the parade. They’ll be picking you up at a quarter past two. You will be second after the mayor’s open-top car, on the brewery dray. Look at the time. I’m going to the church to watch the slaughter of the donkey.’
She pulled a face. ‘How horrible. They’re not going to do that, are they?’
He blew out to signify his surprise at her ignorance. ‘They don’t actually slaughter it. They drop it off the top of the church tower.’
She screamed and put her hand across her mouth.
He smiled. He didn’t smile often. He smiled when he heard women scream.
‘Alec,’ she squealed. ‘Don’t say that.’
‘It’s symbolic,’ he said. ‘No. No. No. They don’t throw a
real
donkey nowadays.’
‘Why? What harm has a donkey ever done to anyone?’
‘You must read about it for yourself, Miss Vance, in the carnival programme. It tells you
all
about it.’
She put her beautiful chubby lips together and pouted. ‘Don’t call me Miss Vance. Call me Shirley,’ she said, posing suggestively for him.
He looked at her. He was tempted. His hand almost came out to touch her leg, but he stopped and stood up.
She smiled knowingly. She reached out for a bright pink dressing-gown with a big fluffy white collar.
‘I must go,’ he said. ‘Peter is picking me up in the car. We’ve a bit of business to see to.’
Shirley Vance’s smile went.
‘You haven’t finished telling me about that poor donkey.’
His eyebrows came down. His mouth turned downwards. ‘It’s all in the programme. You should read it. Today is Saint Marmaduke day,’ he began patiently. ‘This is the day Bromersley celebrates the death of Septimus Marmaduke of Lebanon, whose parents it is said originally lived here. And in the twelfth century the date of his death, this day, was celebrated by pushing a donkey off the top of the church tower. That’s all.’
‘Oooo,’ she said, pulling a face of horror.
He smiled.
‘Anyway, these days it’s a symbolic donkey.’
‘What’s that?’
‘What’s what?’
‘A symbolic donkey?’
‘A sack of carrots tied up in a leather strap. They’ve used the same strap for two hundred years. Then they say prayers for the protection and forgiveness of all donkeys.’
She put her hand to her chest and sighed. ‘Thank goodness. I simply love donkeys. But I’m going to miss all that symbolic stuff,’ she said. ‘And what’s the bit of business you and that Peter Queegley have to see to? You know, I’m not too sure about him. I don’t think he’s altogether honest.’
Alec Underwood smiled knowingly. ‘You’re missing nothing, I assure you,’ he said. ‘Now, as the winner of the pageant, you’re going to be looked at and admired by all the young men in the town.’
She blinked, then smiled. ‘Ooh yes,’ she said with a giggle.
‘They’re going to look at you and wish they were … your lover,’ he said with a twist of the lips, the best he could manage for a smile.
‘Ooo!’ she shrieked. Then she screamed again and suddenly said, ‘I have to go to the loo.’ She rushed away.
There was the sound of a car horn. Alec Underwood looked out of the caravan window. ‘Peter’s here now.’
He made for the door.
She turned back quickly. ‘Where shall I see you?’ she said crossing her legs.
‘I’ll see you back here when it’s all over, say six o’clock.’
Her eyes saddened. Her jaw dropped. ‘Won’t I see you before?’
‘Enjoy yourself,’ he said with a big dramatic wave of his arm. ‘You’re their beauty queen. They’ll feed you and fête you. You’ll be all right. Enjoy your Marmaduke pie.’
‘What’s Marmaduke pie?’
‘Carrots
à la croûte
.’
‘What’s that?’
He shook his head impatiently. ‘Just eat it,’ he said. ‘I’m off. Just make sure that crown doesn’t fall off and break. See you later.’
She clenched her fists by her side and pulled a sulky face. ‘Oh, Alec.’
‘You’ll be all right. The driver knows you’re in this caravan.’
‘But, Alec,’ she said, her bottom lip protruding.
‘Stop whining. All you got to do is sit there and look demure.’
‘What’s that?’
He sighed. ‘Pleasant, wholesome, innocent.’
She nodded then suddenly smiled and said mischievously, ‘Sexy?’
‘No. Well, yes, if you like.’
He opened the caravan door. A big car was standing there with the engine running. ‘I’m off.’
He slammed the door.
Shirley dashed off to the tiny cubicle in the corner of the caravan. But she wasn’t happy.
Jubilee Park, Bromersley, South Yorkshire, UK.
1600 hours. Bank Holiday Monday, 25 May 2009
The auctioneer, Mr Pinsley Smith, rose to his feet on the raised platform and looked round the marquee, which was crammed full of people; all the one hundred chairs were occupied and at least another sixty hopeful and curious would-be antiques buyers were standing at the back. As the proceedings began, another twenty or thirty men and women crowded in from the entrance.
Pinsley Smith tapped lightly on the microphone with a finger, heard the drumming, nodded his approval and then said, ‘Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. May I have your attention, please?’
The chattering mostly stopped. A few more people came in through the two entrances. All faces turned to stare at the man in the smart checked sports jacket.
‘I bid you welcome to this very special Marmaduke Day catalogue antiques auction with some very interesting lots. Now today, the first sixty-six lots are on the instructions of the trustees of the estate of Mrs Robinson, late of Hellensmere House, Tunistone, who are clearing the house before offering it for sale. I will have the honour of conducting the sale of that most imposing Georgian house for the trustees sometime in June. Most of the items today are – I think you will agree – quite remarkable. Lot number one is the life-size gold modelled figure of Dorothea Jordan, actress, 1762 to 1816, mistress of the Duke of Clarence, later King William IV, who incidentally bore him ten children. She was reputed to be the most beautiful woman of the day, and on her death in 1816, the duke had a life-size gold-plated figure of her made and placed on a couch in his bedroom. It remained there for the rest of his life, including the period of his reign from 1830 until his death in 1837. Thereafter it was bequeathed to Elizabeth, one of his daughters by Dorothea Jordan, Lady Elizabeth Acton Fitzclarence, and it was later removed to Hellensmere House, Tunistone where her ladyship lived with her husband Lord Acton, until her death in 1856. The gold-plated figure has been there ever since.’
Two men in brown overall coats carefully tilted the shiny gold life-size nude statue of a female figure towards the crowd.
Smith held out an arm graciously in the direction of the statue.
A few people stood up and leaned forward.
There were several camera flashes.
Smith was surprised. He paused a few seconds while he recovered and said, ‘So where do we want to be with an opening bid for this unusual historically interesting figure? Twenty thousand pounds? Ten thousand pounds?’
There were mutterings among the crowd, but nobody seemed much interested.
Smith surveyed the crowd. ‘Five thousand?’
Still nothing. ‘One thousand?’ he called.
There was a girl wearing specs on Smith’s staff, listening on a mobile phone seated just below him at the table. She waved a hand.
He looked down at her. She nodded towards him and muttered something.
Smith’s face brightened. ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘On the phone, I have a thousand pounds.’ He glanced round the marquee. ‘Two anywhere?’
Silence.
‘I’ll take eleven hundred….’
Still no response. He sniffed.
‘Well, it’s here to be sold. Last call. I’m selling.’ He gave a long last look around the crowd then banged down the hammer and said, ‘Sold to the bidder on the phone. The maiden bid of one thousand pounds.’