S.R. Hardie Watchmakers Scotland had been a fixture of the city for well over ten years. The ageing Mr Hardie was a stickler for precision and routine, as could reasonably be expected from a man who worked with timepieces. Miss Simpson usually passed his shop at five to eleven in the morning, on her way to the weekly lunch meeting of the ornithological society. When she did, he was invariably sitting at his desk by the window, hunched over a mechanism of one sort or another. Very occasionally, he would be working on a casing. She always looked in and, on those occasions, when Hardie noticed her, they would exchange nods. So, she was surprised and somewhat concerned to note, on that morning when she was passing, that he was not in his usual place.
Deciding she could spare a couple of minutes, Miss Simpson went into the shop. A bell jangled loudly above her. “Just a moment,” came a voice from behind the curtain at the back. Less than a minute later, a young man in his thirties came out, straightening his jacket.
“You’re not Mr Hardie,” Miss Simpson said.
“No,” said the man. “Well, that is, in fact yes, I am, but not the one you know. Tom Hardie. Pleased to meet you.”
“Gail Simpson,” said Miss Simpson. “Likewise. Is Mr Hardie well?”
“Oh yes,” Tom said. “Uncle Mac is fine. Strong as a horse. I’m sitting in for him this morning. He’s off buying some faces for a set of carriage clocks.”
“I see,” Miss Simpson said. “Do you help him like this often?”
“From time to time, but it’s no bother. I’m very glad to be able to help. What else are family for?”
“What indeed.”
“Did you need to speak to him personally?”
“Oh, no, thank you. I was just concerned as to his wellbeing. He’s a familiar face, if you know what I mean.”
Tom smiled. “Indeed I do. Well, while you’re here, Uncle Mac does actually have something rather special in stock at the moment. A vintage table clock with the most exquisite mother-of-pearl fronting. A lady of your obvious refinement would find it rather enchanting, I think.”
Miss Simpson felt her eyebrow arching, and fought it back under control. “Well, I suppose that I can have a look at least.”
Tom directed Gail’s attention to a table at the far end of the counter. Several pieces stood on it, including the clock in question. It was a genuinely lovely piece. The elegant fronting was quite something to behold, glimmering attractively. The hands looked to be made of gold but edged with jet or basalt, so that they were clearly delineated against both the face and the hour markers. The rest of the case was a mix of gold and clear crystal, giving a tantalising glimpse into the mechanisms inside.
“It certainly is handsome,” she told him. “However, I’m not sure that I – ”
He named a price which must have been fifty per cent of the clock’s value at the very most. “You’d be doing Uncle Mac a good turn,” he said. “The liquidity would be really useful this morning.”
“I’m afraid I can’t,” Miss Simpson replied. “I must get to my meeting.”
“Of course,” Tom said, looking disappointed. “It was a pleasure. I’ll pass on your concerns when Uncle Mac gets back.”
“Thank you,” she replied.
As soon as she left the shop, Miss Simpson looked up and down the street. Spotting a police officer heading away, she hurried over, calling to him as she got close.
“Officer. Officer! I fear that something is terribly wrong at Hardie’s Watchmakers. Please, you must hurry!”
– Using your skills of language and comprehension, why is Miss Simpson concerned? How is the scene likely to have evolved if she eventually paid the true asking price of the vintage table clock?
SAVAGE was late. Raybould sipped the last of his Black Russian. He would give the man five more minutes, then depart. He had better things to do than sit in the bar of Grant’s restaurant waiting for some young chancer who couldn’t read a watch.
Two more minutes passed, then the door from the street opened and a man with close-cropped, almost white hair and striking pale, blue eyes emerged into the foyer. He looked around, a faint smile playing over his lips. Raybould recognised Bryan Savage at once from the photo he had sent. He raised a hand to draw his attention.
“Mr Raybould?”
“Mr Savage. You know you are over an hour late?”
“I’m sorry.” The man had a surprisingly deep, mellifluous voice. “I was researching in the library and lost track of time.”
“I trust you have no objection to dining straight away?”
“Of course not.”
Raybould stood. He nodded to the waiter who had appeared discreetly at the door to the restaurant. “Evening, Andre.”
“Good evening, Monsieur Raybould. Your usual table is ready for you.”
TWO
GRANT’S restaurant was large and genuinely old, with low ceilings and thick oak beams. As well as the main dining area, which was about half-full, there were several smaller rooms leading off. Raybould’s table was in an alcove in one of these. Privacy was guaranteed by thick drapes on three sides, and a curtain that could be pulled on the fourth.
Andre handed them two leather-bound menus. “An aperitif, Monsieur Raybould?”
“Have you any more of that excellent sherry – the Amontillado?”
“Bien sȗr, monsieur. And for your guest?”
“Whatever,” Savage said airily. Raybould frowned. Clearly this young man had little appreciation of the finer things. Still, no doubt he had more pressing concerns. Well, no time like the present, he thought.
“So, Mr Savage, perhaps you’d like to explain your proposition, and how it may be worth five million pounds to me.”
“Certainly.” Savage looked relieved to be getting down to business. “Three years ago, I was on a trekking holiday in Peru. A friend had told me about the Inca Trail, and I decided I must see it for myself. The trail follows the ancient road that originally linked Cuzco and Machu Picchu, the mysterious ruined city of the Incas.”
THREE
ANDRE arrived with the sherries. Savage remained silent till he had left, then he pulled the curtain shut. He took a large swig of sherry, then continued: “I followed the trail from Huayllabamba to the Pass, and onward into the jungle. And it was there, near an Inca ruin called Sayacmarca, that I was taken captive.” Savage paused dramatically, but the effect was marred by a cough from outside the alcove. Raybould pulled back the curtain.
“You are ready to order, Monsieur Raybould?”
“I am. Mr Savage?”
Savage stood up suddenly. “I must make a call,” he said. “Would you order for me?”
Raybould watched quizzically as Savage strode back to the foyer. He turned to Andre. “Young people today – always in such a rush. I’ll have your excellent brazil and cashew nut roast with chestnut stuffing and red wine sauce, accompanied by potato galette with baby vegetables.”
“Oui, monsieur. And for your guest?”
Raybould shrugged. “The same. And a bottle of your best Montrachet, please.”
Andre nodded and departed. Raybould smiled to himself. He hoped Savage enjoyed vegetarian food. Though on the evidence so far, Raybould wondered if he would even notice.
FOUR
SOME ten minutes passed before Savage returned. Seated again, he resumed his story. “I was alone in the ruins as night fell. Suddenly I was surrounded by six native tribesmen, naked apart from daubings on the face and body. Their leader indicated that I should go with them, and I wasn’t going to argue; they carried stone knives and axes which looked as though they could cause serious damage.
“We walked by moonlight for what seemed like hours. I was pretty shaken, of course, but I kept a mental note of our route. Though I say it myself, I have a good sense of direction. We eventually arrived at their village, deep in the heart of the jungle.”
Just then Andre arrived with the food. The aroma was delectable, and Raybould paused to savour it. Savage, however, simply piled in, filling his fork, and shovelling the fine ingredients down. If he noticed the absence of meat, he made no mention.
“Anyway,” he said, through a mouthful of potato, “I found out the tribe was called the Araka. They had no contact with civilisation, and their elders had made the decision to capture one of these strangers who passed through their territory. Supposedly to find out what made us tick. They kept me prisoner in a hut which was always guarded.”
Savage paused to cram more food into his mouth, then continued: “I was fed on a diet of nuts and berries. I must have lost about forty pounds in weight. But I survived, and after a while I began to take an interest in their customs and, in particular, their religion. Opposite my hut, you see, was a much grander one which I realised was their temple. Whatever was inside, the tribesmen treated it with the deepest respect.
“I found out the Araka worshipped a god called Manco Capac. Now, I’d done a bit of reading, and I knew that Manco Capac was the son of Inti, the Inca Sun God. The ancient records mentioned a fabulous golden statue of Manco Capac, but it was believed to be lost forever. Now, just possibly, I realised I might have stumbled upon it.”
Again, Savage paused, this time to attack the nut loaf. Still chewing, he raised his glass and downed most of the Montrachet in one. “After a few months,” he continued, “I’d learned some of their language, and I knew the next day was the festival of Manco Capac. I’d managed to bore a small hole in the wall of my hut, and through it I could see the temple door. I had to find out what was in there, to see if my suspicions were correct.
FIVE
“At sunrise I was woken by low chanting. I peered through the hole and saw the temple door open. Then, with great ceremony, a shimmering, life-sized gold statue was brought out on a golden carriage. It could only be the lost statue of Manco Capac. I reckoned it must be worth a million pounds, and since then I’ve discovered it’s at least ten times that. But, of course, it was no good to me unless I could escape.
“By now, though, I had a plan. Over the next few weeks, I saved some berries and crushed them in a pot to which I added water. As I hoped, the mixture started to ferment. It tasted revolting, but it sure had a kick to it. So, one night I invited the guard into my hut, to have a drink. Of course, to allay his suspicions I had to pretend to drink as well, but he had most of it. Finally, he finished the booze, belched loudly, and sank to the ground. Within a few minutes he was snoring loudly.
“That was my chance. I climbed over his sleeping body and out of the hut. There was no one around, so I headed into the jungle. I’d have taken the statue with me, but speed was essential. Nearly a year after I was captured, I found my way back to the main trail. There I joined up with a party of Germans who were walking back to Cuzco.”
Savage paused to clear his plate. “So that’s my story, Mr Raybould. The lost statue of Manco Capac is out there, but only I know where. It’s worth at least ten million, and I’ll split that with you fifty-fifty. All I need is a hundred thousand to assemble a small expedition. Write me a cheque, and I’ll start tomorrow.”
Raybould sipped his wine thoughtfully. Savage seemed genuine, and his story appeared plausible. Of course, the thought of stealing the statue from the natives was unpalatable: but did they really have any more right to it than he did? His mind made up, Raybould reached for the jacket pocket.
Savage suddenly started to cough. He put a hand to his throat. His eyes bulged. As Raybould watched, the young man’s face began to swell.
SIX
“ANDRE!” Raybould shouted. “Ambulance, quick!”
The ambulance arrived within five minutes. The paramedic administered adrenalin, and the swelling immediately started to subside. Savage was rushed to hospital, and it appeared he would survive.
Afterwards, Raybould shook his head. To think he had been about to write the man a cheque there and then. Well, he knew now that Bryan Savage was a liar and a con man. He wrote a cheque to the restaurant, including a good tip, and headed for the door.
– Raybould decided not to fund the project, having found out in the nick of time that the supposed adventurer was a con man – but how did he know?
. Appendage
– Panoramic view of Huayllabamba and surrounding area. It was here that Bryan Savage followed the trail to the jungle
– Use your crime-solving skills to solve who murdered Leonard Harvey in this whodunnit conunundrum
THERE was a good reason, Inspector Denton thought, why most wills remained confidential. Leonard Harvey had called his family together to inform them of changes he was considering to his last will of testament. Specifically, he informed each of them of how much they were due to receive under the current will, and then gave them until the following morning to justify that amount. If he didn’t like their answer, he would leave their portion to a local charity which looked after homeless cats.
He was dead within ninety minutes, from a potent cocktail of poisons.
The bereaved were still in varying degrees of shock the following morning. Denton’s first interviewee was Harvey’s business partner, Peter Fulton. A few years younger than Harvey, he had come along to the family meeting at Harvey’s express request.
“I tried to talk Len out of it,” Fulton told Denton sadly. “But he was determined to put them on the spot. I can’t help thinking that if I’d done more . . . But Len wanted to see their faces, you see. They didn’t know that there was no way to pass the test. He’d already decided to give it all to the cats no matter what. He just wanted to watch them squirm and try to justify themselves, and then rip up the old will in their faces. An unworthy urge perhaps, but he’s paid a very high price for it now. He was a good friend to me, and I’ll miss him. I stayed at the house until the end of the meeting, but I left immediately afterwards, and went straight to my club. I was there until midnight. Just all a bit too much for me.”
Sheila Harvey was Len’s third wife. Some thirty years his junior, she had taken the events of the previous evening particularly hard. “I just don’t understand,” she said. “I loved Len. Why would he do something like this to me? Was it all some sort of peculiar ruse? What will happen to me now?”
Inspector Denton gradually managed to help her understand that he himself had no answers to any such questions and brought her back to the details of the evening.
“I had no idea what the meeting was about,” she said. “Then he dropped his bombshell, and left us to it. I don’t think I moved from my seat for so much as a moment until David came shouting that Len was dead. That was a little after nine. Gail, the maid, was there in case we needed anything, and she stayed with me. The others were in and out, apart from Mr Fulton, who was gone almost before Len finished. David kept me company for a while. He’s very kind.”
David Harvey was Len’s son by his first wife. Just a few years younger than Sheila, he lived in lavish apartments in the city. “Do? I suppose you could say that I’m an art appreciator, Inspector. I have a passion for beauty. Yes, I was taken aback by father’s declaration. He was an odd bird, though, always given to whimsy and calculated cruelty. A bit like those damned cats, I suppose. I significantly doubt that any answer I could produce would have been sufficient for the old coot – except that one, perhaps. Hm? Maybe a little worried, I suppose, yes. I’ll probably have to talk to a pal and get set up in business of some sort. A bother. After father’s speech, Clare and I went into the billiards room. We had a bit of a catch-up. The butler was there, I think. Anyway, she wanted to get a snack from the kitchen, so I came back to the library to see how poor Sheila was doing. She’s rather lovely, don’t you think? Like a porcelain angel. I sat with her for a while, but she was quite out of it. When I went looking for father, I found him quite dead.”
Clare Davidson was David’s full sister. Two years younger than her brother, she was married to the son of a local papermill baron. “He was a nasty old fool,” she said. “I never liked him, and I most certainly won’t miss him. I’m glad he’s dead, in fact. The only time he paid attention to me was when he had just inflicted some emotional hurt or other. It’s a shame, though – I was looking forward to telling him that I neither needed nor wanted his money, his time, nor anything else to do with him. Once he’d finished his juvenile stunt and doddered off, I had a bit of a chinwag with David, in the billiards room. Then I popped down to the kitchen and shared a couple of glasses of sherry with Mrs Beechwood, the cook. She’s always been the sanest person in this dashed madhouse.”
Afterwards, Inspector Denton went to stroll around the ornamental rose garden, so that he could smoke a pipe and ponder the specifics of the case.
He had been there about ten minutes when an officer bustled up with a report. Analysis suggested that Harvey had ingested the poison some three hours before his death.
Denton immediately brightened: “That clears it all up nicely,” he said.
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