The Auction Murders Read online

  THE AUCTION

  MURDERS

  An enthralling crime mystery full of twists

  (Yorkshire Murder Mysteries Book 5)

  ROGER SILVERWOOD

  First published as “Mantrap”

  Revised edition 2019

  Joffe Books, London

  www.joffebooks.com

  First published as “Mantrap” 2006

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organisations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental. The spelling used is British English except where fidelity to the author’s rendering of accent or dialect supersedes this. The right of Roger Silverwood to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  ©Roger Silverwood

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  Table of Contents

  1

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  3

  4

  5

  6

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  8

  9

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  11

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  1

  ‘Little finger touching the little finger of the person sitting next to you, please,’ the tiny old woman, Selina Bailey, said in a small, high-pitched voice. ‘To make a circle. Palms downwards. Everybody. Thank you. That’s it. Now, there are seven of us, and seven is the ideal number. Yes. So, when I switch off the light, do not break the circle, and please maintain absolute silence until I am asleep, and my control takes over. It will only take a minute or so. I must tell you that the spirits do not always come, but if they get in touch with you, please speak up quickly or the power may go and they will fade away. I hope that tonight, you all make contact with that special somebody. Your friends in the spirit world may manifest themselves as you had been used to seeing them, or maybe only part of them will appear, usually head and shoulders, or in the form of ectoplasm from me, or simply in the form of vapour. Also, a spirit may be visible to one person and not to another. You may see nothing. In fact, unless you are specially gifted, you probably will see nothing. If you do see anything, don’t be afraid. It would be absolutely normal. The spirits would never do you any harm. One more thing, … I may stay in a trance, faint or fall asleep, but I will awaken naturally in due course, so please leave me be … I have done this many times. I will be perfectly all right. You will know when the spirits have gone … then, please gather up your things, leave the house and drop the latch. Now, if you are ready, absolute silence please.’

  The three men and three women visitors looked expectantly round the table at each other. The lady opposite little Mrs Bailey was licking her lips and her eyes were darting in all directions. The man next to her pressed hard on her little finger with his, and smiled reassuringly. Mary Angel felt a little tremor in her stomach. Her husband, Michael Angel, an inspector in the CID, sniffed and wondered what on earth he was doing there.

  ‘Everybody hold that position please,’ Mrs Bailey said. She stood up, crossed to the lights switch by the door. The room was plunged in darkness.

  Somebody gasped.

  ‘Quiet! Please!’ Mrs Bailey squawked sharply as she returned to the table and shuffled back into her seat. ‘Absolute silence, please. I have a feeling this is going to be a very good night. Yes. Now, little fingers touching please. Somebody is not completing the circle … Mrs Haig? … that’s it, thank you. Now absolute silence, please.’

  Everything went quiet. Nobody could see a thing and all that could be heard was the rich ticking of the grandfather clock at the side of the fireplace.

  After a few seconds, Angel felt Mary’s finger quiver nervously against his. He pursed his lips. This sort of thing wasn’t his idea of entertainment. He didn’t believe in all this hocus pocus. Shuffling in his chair, he noticed his feet felt very cold; and that was odd. He recalled the saying, ‘he’s got cold feet’, but he didn’t feel afraid of anything. When you’ve been in the police force thirty years, there’s not a lot left to be afraid of. But his feet were certainly cold and getting colder. He sniffed. He thought he could smell something sickly sweet … violets or lilies or something. The woman on his left smelled of something uncertain from a bottle. And then there was an indistinct rustle … somebody was behind him or were they in front? It was nothing. His mind was playing tricks.

  Suddenly he heard deep breathing coming from across the table in the direction of Mrs Bailey. As it got louder, it was like snoring. Then it stopped and a chirpy, deep manly voice erupted from her. ‘I’ve got a gentleman here eager to contact ‘his lad’, as he calls him.’

  Angel wished he could see something … anything.

  Mrs Bailey in the chirpy man’s voice said, ‘Yes, he says his name is Ernest?’

  Angel’s eyebrows shot up. He heard Mary gasp. She nudged him. ‘Go on,’ she whispered urgently. ‘Go on, Michael. Tell her. It’s your dad!’

  Angel’s father’s name had certainly been Ernest, but he reckoned it couldn’t be him.

  ‘Go on. Before he goes away,’ Mary whispered more urgently.

  ‘He wants to talk to his son, Michael,’ the medium said. ‘Is there a Michael here?’

  Surely, it couldn’t be his father, could it? He didn’t like talking to someone he couldn’t see. ‘Er yes. It could be me …’ he heard himself saying.

  ‘He says it’s all right about Cyril Sagar. You are not to worry about it any more. He says it was his fault entirely. They’ve met up and are now bosom pals.’

  Angel’s jaw dropped.

  ‘He also says your mother, Betty, and your aunt Kate are chinning away; they never stop talking. And Aunt Kate no longer needs a stick. He’s fading. He’s fading. He’s gone.’

  Mary’s hand reached out for his. She held on to it tightly. Angel sighed. He sat in the dark, speechless — his mouth wide open.

  *

  Michael Angel drove the car home in silence. Mary’s eyes were shining. She chattered animatedly about the message from her father-in-law, the reference to her husband’s late, great-aunt’s stick, the floor being so cold in the presence of ‘spirits’, and the spirit in the form of a cloud they saw in the corner of the room in front of a big vase on a pedestal, at the end of the session when the light was switched on again. The experience had had an unexpected, profound effect on her and she said so, repeatedly. Angel sat quietly and appeared to be concentrating on driving the car. She had expected an analytical and practical explanation of everything from him, but he returned only a few monosyllabic responses to her outpouring.

  When they arrived home, they switched on the lights and she made herself a mug of coffee and went into the sitting-room. Angel had poured himself a small Scotch and was sitting in an armchair. ‘Well, what did you think?’ she asked. ‘You’ve hardly said a word.’

  He sipped the drink, pursed his lips and said, ‘Yes, well …’ He shrugged.

  She stared at him. ‘Hearing from your dad after all these years?’

  He shook his head. ‘That wasn’t my dad.’

  ‘Sounded like it to me.’

  He shook his head again. ‘My father wouldn’t have done anything wrong to anybody, and he certainly wouldn’t go around telling people about it … like that.’

  ‘Who was this Cyri
l Sagar anyway?’

  ‘Dad told me about him, years ago.’

  ‘You never mentioned him.’

  ‘He joined the force about the same time Dad did. Goes back to the fifties. Before I was born. For years they were mates. My mother was none too happy about him; he was a drunk. I met him once or twice. He came to the house. I don’t know all the details, I was only a tot, something to do with Dad trying to cover for him and it going wrong. Sagar got drummed out of the force. And later he took his own life.’

  Mary shuddered. ‘Oh. How?’

  ‘They’d just finished building a stretch of the Ml near here somewhere. Sagar had had a skinful of ale, had a row with his wife and he jumped off it.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘Sometime in the sixties.’

  ‘Did you ever meet his wife? I wonder what she was like.’

  ‘No, I never did. Anyway, that wasn’t my father there, talking to me. He wouldn’t have brought that up. He would have been talking about my mother, or fishing or the garden or Superintendent Foster.’

  ‘You don’t know that.’

  ‘You don’t know it was him, either. You didn’t know him that well.’

  ‘He knew your mother’s name was Betty. Did your mother and your aunt Kate have a lot in common? Your father said they never stop chinning.’

  ‘I suppose so. I hardly remember Aunt Kate. But Dad wouldn’t have used a word like ‘chinning’.’

  ‘And what’s this about your aunt Kate not needing a stick?’

  ‘I don’t know. I reckon it’s Mrs Bailey’s vivid imagination.’

  ‘But you had an aunt Kate?’

  ‘Yes. Great-aunt Kate. We’ve photos of her somewhere with my grandad. Lived at Ackworth. She died when I was a lad. I can just remember her. Smelled of mothballs. Needed a shave.’

  ‘Was she lame?’

  ‘Can’t remember.’

  ‘Well, if she had a gammy leg, it’s now healed!’

  ‘If you like,’ he said patiently. ‘But her gammy leg is in a box six foot down in Mawdsley cemetery. I shouldn’t think it’s any better today than when it was put down there with the rest of her forty years ago.’

  ‘Oh!’ she replied impatiently. ‘You don’t believe in anything.’

  ‘I do. I do. There’s more in the universe than we’ll ever understand, but I don’t believe there are any explanations to be found from Mrs Bailey.’

  ‘She seemed honest enough. Straightforward. No dramatics. What about that spirit just disappearing as the light went on. You said you saw it. How do you explain that? I think most people there saw it. Mrs Haig said she saw a woman’s face in it. Her husband saw it too.’

  He nodded and wiped his hand across his face. ‘Yes. I did see it. Like a cloud. I didn’t see any faces though.’

  ‘The light would frighten the spirit away, I suppose. You admit there was something? You admit Mrs Bailey isn’t a fraud then?’

  ‘No. I don’t admit anything of the sort.’

  ‘But you can’t explain away the spirit in the corner dissolving right in front of your eyes, can you?’ Mary said stubbornly.

  Angel’s jaw stiffened. ‘It was only … er, a sort of mist.’ He shook his head irritably and stood up. ‘Mary, I’m going to bed,’ he announced.

  She smiled. She knew he would have stayed and argued if he had been certain of his facts. She felt she had won a minor battle.

  He turned to go into the kitchen.

  ‘Just a minute, love,’ she called. ‘You’ve some fluff or something on the back of your jacket.’

  He stopped in the doorway and waited. She came over and picked it off. ‘Oh,’ she said, her eyes glowing. ‘Oh,’ she added excitedly, her eyes and mouth opening wide. ‘Look at that.’ She held the item safely cupped in both hands. ‘Do you know what that is, Michael?’

  He peered into her hands and said, ‘Yes. A little white feather.’

  ‘Do you know what it means?’ she said earnestly, her eyes shining.

  ‘No,’ he said, stifling a yawn.

  ‘It means we’ve been in the presence of angels!’

  *

  The smiling, brassy-faced auctioneer brought the gavel down triumphantly. ‘Sold to Mr Enderby for £110. Thank you, sir. Thank you. Now the next sixty lots, ladies and gentlemen, are sold on the instruction of Her Majesty’s Customs and Excise following the untimely death of Lord Archibald Ogmore. The first lot then is lot number 121: silver teapot, sugar and milk. Weight 62 ounces. Assayed in London in 1841. Reputed to have been used originally by Queen Victoria at Windsor Castle and given by her and Prince Albert to Lord Arthur and Lady Alice Ogmore on the occasion of their marriage in 1842. Was in regular use in Ogmore Hall until a short time ago. Has been repaired … still, highly desirable. Who will start me off at two thousand pounds? … A thousand pounds then? … Well, five hundred?’

  The big white-haired lady in the front row waved her purple pot-handled walking stick and said, ‘Two hundred and fifty pounds.’

  ‘Ah.’ He sniffed. ‘Thank you, Mrs Buller-Price. That’s a start anyway.’ He surveyed the room. ‘Three hundred anywhere?’

  A hand waved at the back of the room. ‘Thank you, sir. Three hundred.’

  The auctioneer peered expectantly at Mrs Buller-Price.

  She pursed her lips and then said, ‘Three hundred and twenty pounds.’

  ‘Three hundred and twenty,’ he announced and looked to the back of the room. ‘Three hundred and forty? … No? All done. I’m selling.’ He brought the gavel down with a flourish. ‘Sold to Mrs Buller-Price for three hundred and twenty pounds. Thank you, madam. The next lot is lot 122. Pair of brass candlesticks.’

  She nodded, smiled, leaned on her stick and stood up. Her mountainous size filled out the grey waterproof raincoat like a barrage balloon. She shuffled through the side aisle to the cashier’s office, where she stood in line behind two people. Eventually she reached the counter, paid the money and collected the tea service, then made her way out through the swing doors, across the crowded car park to her 1986 Bentley. She unlocked the boot and was stowing the tea set safely, when a tall man in a light-coloured raincoat approached her from behind.

  ‘Mrs Buller-Price?’ he said in an educated voice.

  She turned round to face him. ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’ve just bought that tea service?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It’s badly knocked about, you know.’

  ‘I had noticed,’ she said smiling. ‘It wouldn’t have gone so cheaply if it had been in perfect condition.’

  ‘The teapot has been repaired.’

  ‘Yes, but each piece is hallmarked silver, and if it was used by Queen Victoria, it has quite a provenance.’

  He smiled. ‘Oh I’m sure that it was used by her. Are you a dealer?’

  ‘Good gracious, no. What’s your interest, young man?’

  ‘I’ve poured many a gallon of tea out of that pot, madam. Let me introduce myself. My name is Sanson. Geoffrey Sanson. I was butler to Lord and Lady Ogmore.That teapot is an old friend of mine.’

  Mrs Buller-Price smiled. ‘Really? How interesting!’

  A limousine glided up noiselessly next to the Bentley.

  Sanson glanced at it and then turned quickly away. ‘I must go,’ he muttered.

  He scuttled off, darting between other people loading their cars, and was soon out of sight.

  Two well-fed men with ponytails slid quickly out of the cream leather seats of the limo. They slammed the doors and, fastening the middle button of their double-breasted Savile Row suits, rushed off in a cloud of cigar smoke in the direction of the saleroom doors.

  She stood for a few seconds and watched them go, then turned and climbed laboriously into the Bentley.

  Another car raced into the car park. It was an open-topped white sports job driven by a fair-haired glamour piece in her thirties. She was wearing a tight-fitting powder-blue top and trousers. Mrs Buller-Price peered over the steering wheel; she t
hought the outfit inappropriate: more suitable for a nightclub or the theatre or even the bedroom. At first, she didn’t recognize the slim young woman. Then it came to her. ‘Of course, Lady Ogmore!’ she muttered. The young beauty, who had recently been widowed.

  The woman ran in high heels to the saleroom doors, pulled one open and dashed inside.

  At the same time the two men with the ponytails appeared from the auction room. They were coming towards Mrs Buller-Price in a hurry.

  She tried not to let them notice her and fiddled unnecessarily with the dashboard controls and then her hat as one of them walked up the side of her car. She noticed he had a red gold signet ring on his pinky and both sported the new fashion of designer facial hair, favoured by ageing gigolos and fading football stars.

  The men were soon in the car. It reversed into the aisle, then on to the main road and left towards Bromersley town centre.

  She was about to start her car when she saw the woman in blue, Lady Ogmore, come out of the saleroom. She saw her run to the white sports car and belt off in the same direction.

  Then suddenly a torrent of people — a hundred or more, their eyes shining and mouths open — poured through the double doors, arms in the air, flooding across the car park while making for the main street or their cars.

  Her jaw dropped. She got out of her car and stood holding the door. A woman was rushing past. She called out to her, ‘What’s the matter? Is there a fire?’

  ‘Don’t go in there,’ she screamed, her eyes like saucers. ‘A man has just been stabbed.’

  ‘Stabbed? Oh. Oh dear,’ she said. Her Adam’s apple bounced twice. ‘Then I must go in. See what I can do. I’m a qualified nurse.’

  ‘Too late. He’s dead. He’s been murdered!’ she wailed and ran off.

  2

  Three days after DI Angel had attended the seance with his wife, and two days after he had assisted DS Gawber and DC Scrivens to arrest four men in the local three star hotel, The Feathers, where he had in the fracas received an injury from a boot and had needed a surgical operation on his knee, Angel, with the aid of aluminium elbow crutches, shuffled out of the chief constable’s office.