The funeral took place the day after the inquest. A lot of people turned up, most of whom I knew but a lot I didn’t. All the people from Hay Tree Farm were there, including Madge and Jack Edgecombe who had come back from Jersey. The service was short, but even so I was glad when it was over and I could get away from all those sympathetic people. I had a word with Jack Edgecombe before I left. ‘I’ll see you up at the farm; there are things we must discuss.’
I drove to the farm with a feeling of depression. So that was that! Bob was buried, and so, presumably, was Niscemi, unless the police still had his body tucked away somewhere in cold storage. But for the loose end of Niscemi’s hypothetical accomplice everything was neatly wrapped up and the world could get on with the world’s futile business as usual.
I thought of the farm and what there was to do and of how I would handle Jack, who might show a countryman’s conservative resistance to my new-fangled ideas. Thus occupied I swung automatically into the farmyard and nearly slammed into the back of a big Mercedes that was parked in front of the house.
I got out of the car and, as I did so, so did the driver of the Mercedes, uncoiling his lean length like a strip of brown rawhide. It was Fallon, the American Nigel had pointed out at the Cott. He said, ‘Mr. Wheale?’
‘That’s right.’
‘I know I shouldn’t intrude at this moment,’ he said. ‘But I’m pressed for time. My name is Fallon.’
He held out his hand and I found myself clutching skeletally thin fingers. ‘What can I do for you, Mr. Fallon?’
‘If you could spare me a few minutes — it’s not easy to explain quickly.’ His voice was not excessively American.
I hesitated, then said, ‘You’d better come inside.’
He leaned into his car and produced a briefcase. I took him into Bob’s — my — study and waved him to a chair, then sat down facing him, saying nothing.
He coughed nervously, apparently not knowing where to begin, and I didn’t help him. He coughed again, then said, ‘I am aware that this may be a sore point, Mr. Wheale, but I wonder if I could see the gold tray you have in your possession.’
‘I’m afraid that is quite impossible,’ I said flatly.
Alarm showed in his eyes. ‘You haven’t sold it?’
‘It’s still in the hands of the police.’
‘Oh!’ He relaxed and flicked open the catch of the brief-case. ‘That’s a pity. But I wonder if you could identify these photographs.’
He passed across a sheaf of eight by ten photographs which I fanned out. They were glossy and sharp as a needle, evidently the work of a competent commercial photographer. They were pictures of the tray taken from every conceivable angle; some were of the tray as a whole and there was a series of close-up detail shots showing the delicate vine leaf tracery of the rim.
‘You might find these more helpful,’ said Fallon, and passed me another heap of eight by tens. These were in colour, not quite as sharp as the black and whites but perhaps making a better display of the tray as it really was.
I looked up. ‘Where did you get these?’
‘Does it matter?’
‘The police might think so,’ I said tightly. ‘This tray has figured in a murder, and they might want to know how you came by these excellent photographs of my tray.’
‘Not your tray,’ he said gently. ‘My tray.’
‘That be damned for a tale,’ I said hotly. ‘This tray has been used in this house for a hundred and fifty years that I am aware of. I don’t see how the devil you can claim ownership.’
He waved his hand. ‘We are talking at cross purposes. Those photographs are of a tray at present in my possession which is now securely locked in a vault. I came here to find out if your tray resembled mine at all. I think you have answered my unspoken question quite adequately.’
I looked at the photographs again, feeling a bit of a fool. This certainly looked like the tray I had seen so often, although whether it was an exact replica would be hard to say. I had seen the tray briefly the previous Saturday morning when Dave Goosan had shown it to me, but when had I seen it before that? It must have been around when I had previously visited Bob, but I had never noticed it. In fact, I had never examined it since I was a boy.
Fallon asked, ‘Is it really like your tray?’
I explained my difficulty and he nodded understandingly, and said, ‘Would you consider selling me your tray, Mr. Wheale? I will give you a fair price.’
‘It isn’t mine to sell.’
‘Oh? I would have thought you would inherit it.’
‘I did. But it’s in a sort of legal limbo. It won’t be mine until my brother’s will is probated.’ I didn’t tell Fallon that Mount had suggested selling the damned thing; I wanted to keep him on a string and find out what he was really after. I never forgot for one minute that Bob had died because of that tray.
‘I see.’ He drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair. ‘I suppose the police will release it into your possession.’
‘I don’t see why they shouldn’t.’
He smiled. ‘Mr. Wheale, will you allow me to examine the tray — to photograph it? It need never leave the house: I have a very good camera at my disposal.’
I grinned at him. ‘I don’t see why I should.’
The smile was wiped away from his face as though it had never been. After a long moment it returned in the form of a sardonic quirk of the corner of his mouth. ‘I see you are... suspicious of me.’
I laughed. ‘You’re dead right. Wouldn’t you be in my place?’
‘I rather think I would,’ he said. ‘I’ve been stupid.’ I once saw a crack chess player make an obviously wrong move which even a tyro should have avoided. The expression on his face was comical in its surprise and was duplicated on Fallon’s face at that moment. He gave the impression of a man mentally kicking himself up the backside.
I heard a car draw up outside, so I got up and opened the casement. Jack and Madge were just getting out of their mini. I shouted, ‘Give me a few more minutes, Jack; I’m a bit tied up.’
He waved and walked away, but Madge came over to the window. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’
‘That seems a good idea. What about you, Mr. Fallon — would you like some tea?’
‘That would be very nice,’ he said.
‘Then that’s it, Madge. Tea for two in here, please.’ She went away and I turned back to Fallon. ‘I think it would be a good idea if you told me what you are really getting at.’
He said worriedly, ‘I assure you I have absolutely no knowledge of the events leading to your brother’s death. My attention was drawn to the tray by an article and a photograph in the Western Morning News which was late in getting to me. I came to Totnes immediately, arriving rather late on Friday evening...’
‘...and you booked in at the Cott Inn.’
He looked faintly surprised. ‘Yes, I did. I intended going to see your brother on the Saturday morning but then I heard of the... of what had happened...’
‘And so you didn’t go. Very tactful of you, Mr. Fallon. I suppose you realize you’ll have to tell this story to the police.’
‘I don’t see why.’
‘Don’t you? Then I’ll tell you. Don’t you know that the man who killed my brother was an American called Victor Niscemi?’
Fallon seemed struck dumb and just shook his head.
‘Didn’t you read the report on the inquest this morning? It was in most of the papers.’
‘I didn’t read the newspaper this morning,’ he said weakly.
I sighed. ‘Look. Mr. Fallon; an American kills my brother and the tray is involved. Four days before my brother is murdered two Americans try to buy it from him. And now you come along, an American, and also want to buy the tray. Don’t you think you’ve got some explaining to do?’