Death Out of Season

by Meg Elizabeth Atkins

  ‘Who? Oh, Benjamin … gosh, much as anyone did.’

  He was expert at conveying the most scrupulous degree of charm and reassurance. ‘That’s all then. I’ll see you when you get back. Cheerio.’ But watching, as she put her car in gear and moved off. Yes, Annette and Collier had been right. There was something.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  It was a dripping day, everywhere in Clerehaven had the sheen of old pewter; but when he left his car on the unmade road outside Ferns, and walked down the drive amongst crowding conifers and high, secretive shrubs, he had the sense of something brooding in darkness. The house was almost a relief in all its grandiose dottiness, making him smile, before amusement yielded to momentarily uneasy thoughts of mad wives in attics, bodies in cellars …

  Miss Nella Lynchet, short, beautifully dressed, overweight, plain as a pug dog, was plainly taken by surprise, and gave the overwhelming impression of being far too busy to see him. They stood in a spectral hall of worn, shadowy elegance. From the depths of the house a vacuum cleaner hummed. Hunter had no intention of leaving. Her resistance, like her disagreeably high manner, might have been habitual; if it was specific he intended to find out why.

  ‘Really not convenient … So occupied … Scarcely knew her … ’

  He registered the surprise of a man totally misinformed. ‘Really? I understood that you and Mrs Turner had been friends since childhood — ’

  ‘Most certainly not. I don’t know what gave you that impression.’

  ‘No, I can’t think how it has happened,’ he spoke solicitously, conferring on her an importance she clearly felt was her due. ‘We had better clear this up, hadn’t we? It wouldn’t do to have the record incorrect in a matter like this. Shall we … ’ he looked hopefully around the hall.

  ‘Oh, very well … ’ She marched ahead of him into a room furnished with severe good taste and not much comfort, sat in a heavily carved, straight-backed chair, placed with its back to the wide bay window. She gestured him to a matching chair facing her. He had a view beyond her of weeping, dense foliage, a depressed winter garden with no exuberance of berries or coloured leaves; the greyness of the day clamped over the glass. He could read nothing of her expression; a light would have helped, there were several statuesque lamps arranged throughout the room, but she made no effort to switch one on. In the short transition between hall and drawing-room she had shifted from incomprehension to attack. ‘I must register my protest, Chief Inspector, er … ’

  ‘Hunter.’

  ‘ … at being subjected to the indignity of being spoken about by all and sundry.’

  ‘All and — ’

  ‘Discussed. My name bruited abroad. Vulgar opinion canvassed as to whom I do or do not know.’

  He was on autopilot, taking out his notebook, gravely consulting it. They said of him that he trusted his memory, his intuition, but he was a swine for writing everything down. He didn’t believe it possible that any living soul could utter the words ‘bruited abroad’, wondered if he dared write them down.

  ‘Mrs Hope,’ he said, looking into her set, pudgy face. ‘Mrs Bryant. Miss Barber.’

  Her glance turned, reassessing; these were her friends, her social equals. ‘I can’t believe they would gossip.’

  ‘Gossip. Miss Lynchet, may I remind you this is a murder enquiry which we, the police, are charged with the duty of investigating. I must also remind you that it is an offence to knowingly withhold any information that may assist — ’

  Taken down, but not prepared to give ground, she waved a pudgy hand. ‘Yes, yes. I know it’s every citizen’s duty to … and I’m sure that my friends intended not to in any way … I am prepared to overlook your … ’ She went on, unstoppably: she was under pressure, being so busy (too busy, it seemed, to complete a sentence) with her late brother’s concerns. ‘His name … a household word … and only myself to handle his career … All day yesterday in London … an onerous responsibility, Inspector, er …

  She had forgotten his name — again — and demoted him, to put him in his place; if he sat there much longer he’d be a DC. An impossible woman: high-handed, self-obsessed, finding consequence in the importance of her brother’s meretricious fame. For how long? Till the ratings dropped, a new fad displaced the appalling Toddies, then what would she have?

  She paused to draw breath. He said, ‘So what you are telling me is that you were not friendly with Mrs Turner.’

  ‘Certainly not.’

  He waited.

  ‘I knew her. Clerehaven’s a small place, everyone — mixes. To a certain extent. So in that respect, communally, I did come across her from time to time … ’ She shifted, uneasy beneath his gaze, glanced at her watch. ‘And now, I must really — ’

  ‘Is there anything you can tell me about any enemies she might have had? Did she mention — ’

  ‘I knew nothing about her private life,’ she snapped. He might as well have made an improper suggestion. Perhaps he had.

  ‘In that case … ’ He stood up.

  She was on her feet at once, ushering him out, with what perhaps, for her, passed for graciousness, murmuring something about his waste of time, but then, he must be accustomed … in the line of duty …

  The house had been built in the days when ladies in crinolines surged through the front door, side by side by the width of it. Now it opened to nothing more impressive than Nella Lynchet’s dumpy figure — and the flood of vaporous light on her face. Nothing could be read on it but the satisfaction that no doubt always followed a recital of her brother’s achievements — and the passing relief of ridding herself of an unwelcome visitor.

  Pausing between one stride and the next, he said thoughtfully, ‘Ah, yes … I understand a Mr Benjamin Wright is known to you.’

  She had been making to close the door. ‘Goodness, Benjamin?’ She was distracted, urgent matters awaited her, she could not be expected to give her attention to something so trivial. ‘I haven’t thought of him for, oh, I don’t know how long. He can’t possibly have anything to do with your enquiries. He went away — ages ago.’

  ‘Went away?’ Hunter said pleasantly.

  ‘Yes, he was our guest, only for a short while. An old school friend of my brother’s.’

  ‘Do you have an address?’

  She shook her head, smiling with dismissive forbearance. ‘Address? Benjamin was someone who appeared and disappeared. Eccentric. Very much a nomad. No, he could be anywhere. Now, if you’ll excuse — ’

  ‘Would Mrs Turner have known him?’

  ‘Most unlikely.’

  ‘Why is that?’

  ‘She’s a newcomer.’ If the abrasiveness had not returned, it was hovering. One thing was plain — Jaynie Turner was someone she would rather not know. Because she had involved herself in something as unseemly as murder? Or just personal dislike?

  ‘You mean … ?’ He smiled, politely persistent.

  ‘He’d gone long before she moved here.’

  ‘Ah, I see. How long?’

  ‘What? Oh, seven, eight years. I can’t remember.’

  ‘Thank you. Good morning, Miss Lynchet.’ The blandness of his manner concealed his brief frustration: what the hell were they wasting their time on, pursuing a man who had disappeared from the scene long before the murder?

  And nothing could be discerned in the blandness of her face as she wished him a sharp good morning. She turned away. The light flashed on the pebble lenses of her spectacles revealing, for an instant, the gimlet gaze of her eyes.

  Not once had she expressed even a token regret about Jaynie Turner’s death.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Monday found Hunter knee deep in administrative matters; he was a hands-on copper, reacting to paperwork like a tethered animal, and as the years passed the paperwork increased in swarms. A series of meetings kept him at divisional headquarters, increasing the pressure to get on with the job — how can I when I can’t get out of the building for sodding accountants? At last he was ba
ck on the road, ready to pick up where he had left off.

  Darkness had already fallen by the time he reached Cremorne. His course through the gardens was tracked by security lights flicking on and off at each separate house; beaming on an antique door, a driveway, a segment of border. Beyond their glare, the massive trunks of old trees stood like guardian ghosts, lamplight shone from friendly windows. He had never been a man for trampling, but here, surrounded by the eerie beauty of a place designed for tiptoeing, whispering, he was excruciatingly aware of his presence and walked softly on grass verges.

  At Inez’s house the hall light was on; he knocked and waited, knocked again, wincing as sound crashed through the delicate silence, waited, and at last turned away. As he let himself out through the gate of her small front garden, the door of the next house opened and the figure that emerged was instantly recognisable as the absent-minded professor.

  ‘Ah, you’re the policeman, I saw you here last — er — or was it on TV appealing for — er — yes. I say, is Inez all right?’

  ‘Perfectly. I just needed to have a chat with her, but it seems she’s — ’

  ‘Is it Monday?’

  Hunter responded to this apparent non sequitur patiently; a master of them himself, he knew the chances were they could lead somewhere, eventually. ‘Yes.’

  ‘The One-eyed Rat. Come this way.’

  ‘The one-eyed rat,’ Hunter repeated carefully, resigned to being introduced to a visually challenged rodent. Perhaps his inward sigh communicated itself. The professor gazed at him for a puzzled moment before murmuring, ‘It’s a pub, you see. I shall give you directions.’ They were extensive, baffling, the professor led him by the arm to the gates and stood gesticulating, explaining, eventually pointing him bodily in the right direction.

  If it was the right direction. Somewhere in Hunter’s mind there stirred long-buried fairy tales from childhood where the traveller, no matter that he can see the enchanted castle in the distance, always finds himself walking away from it.

  *

  The minute he crossed the threshold he knew himself at home. Inez was sitting near the fire, reading a newspaper. He said, ‘Hallo,’ quietly and saw, as she looked up, the surprise and guilt and relief on her face. ‘I’ll go and get us a drink.’

  ‘Oh, no thanks.’ She indicated an almost full bottle of wine on the table. ‘Do have some of this.’

  ‘I think I’ll try the local brew. What’s it like, do you know?’

  She looked shocked. ‘Good God, I’m not man enough to drink that.’

  ‘Sounds just about right.’

  He returned from the bar with a pint that gave off fumes of ambrosia; he had also bought — without asking for and somewhat to his bewilderment — a crackly bag of something. ‘The landlord said I’d be wanting this. I don’t … Do you?’

  ‘No, but so kind.’ She put the bag on the floor beside her. There was a blur of movement. The bag disappeared.

  ‘Urn … ’ Hunter, taking a seat, leaned sideways, trying to peer beneath the settle.

  ‘Oh, it’s all right,’ Inez said. ‘Just the armadillo.’

  ‘Armadillo. Yes, of course. Silly of me.’

  ‘How did you know I was here?’

  ‘Your neighbour, Professor Brainstorm.’

  ‘He knew it was Monday?’ Inez murmured.

  She poured herself more wine then sat gazing at her glass while he studied her.

  After a few moments he said, ‘You’ve got something to tell me.’

  She gave a small sigh. ‘Your truffle hounds are charming, and very polite, but I had a feeling I hadn’t put them off the scent.’

  Nobody, as far as he knew, had ever called them truffle hounds; he could imagine Annette’s yell of delight when he told them.

  ‘But, after all, it might not matter in the slightest, it’s only, I was worried … ’ She looked towards the door. ‘My best friend is Dora Hope, sometimes she comes in and we have a drink and a chat. If she does come in, I’ll have to change the subject, you understand?’

  It was the end of a long day; he couldn’t enjoy anything more than the peace and comfort of the One-eyed Rat, the superb brew, her company, some intriguingly unknown creature beneath the settle. There was no hurry, she’d get round to it eventually, whatever it was.

  ‘Dora and I trust one another absolutely, but I have this — secret. I regard it not as my own, but someone else’s, you see.’

  ‘I will when you tell me,’ he said pleasantly. ‘It’s about Benjamin.’

  ‘The disappearing man.’

  ‘Mmm. I don’t know how much anyone’s said to you, to be honest there’s really very little anyone can say. I can only tell you what I’ve heard.’ As he listened, he checked off what she told him against what he already knew: that Benjamin Wright and Alfred Lynchet had been friends since they attended the local grammar school together; that when they grew up, Alfred never married — but Benjamin did. That was new, no one, as far as he was aware, had mentioned that. For what it was worth.

  Inez said, They lived here in Clerehaven, they had a baby and then, when it was no more than a few months old, Benjamin just — deserted them. Took off. No one knew where, or why. And he never came back.’

  As far as Hunter was concerned, this was all academic. Benjamin Wright had been and gone; for some reason his trajectory was important to Inez, otherwise she would not have concealed it from Annette and Collier, or be trying, clumsily, and with some disquiet, to explain to him now.

  ‘But he did, didn’t he? Come back.’

  She nodded.

  ‘To the Lynchets.’

  ‘Yes. All this is only what I’ve heard, Mr Hunter.’

  ‘My name’s Sheldon.’

  ‘Is it? How jolly nice. I’ve never known a Sheldon.’ Diverted, she cheered up for a moment. ‘I’m Inez.’

  ‘A beautiful name. I’ve never known an Inez personally, only historically, she was — ’

  ‘Lenin’s mistress.’

  ‘Yes.’ Looking at her in her bright, flowing clothes — the richness of turquoise silk, something rust-coloured, the texture of tweed — he could not think of any other woman who would make such a daring mix of colours and fabrics, but she had the confidence to do it. And her serene face … the face of a generous and troubled woman. ‘He never bloody deserved her.’

  ‘Well. There you are.’

  ‘Meanwhile, back at the Lynchets’.’

  ‘Yes. Suddenly, he just turned up there. Apparently he’d been settled in Rhodesia, he was a civil engineer, I think. Then things fell to bits so he came back to England. He wasn’t here long. Funny little man, nervous and withdrawn. But Alfred was his friend and he did the right thing by him, gave him somewhere to stay, till I suppose he’d pulled himself together. Then he just drifted off, again no one knew where, but that was his way. Honestly, he was so insignificant scarcely anyone knew he was here or noticed when he had gone. But now, you’ve been asking about him so I assume it must be something to do with Jaynie’s death.’

  ‘We won’t know that till we can talk to him, although I doubt — ’

  She interrupted him, intent on following her line of thought. ‘I can’t see what on earth the connection could be, she never even knew him. What it is, when you find him — if you do — will it all come out? About the past, abandoning his family?’

  As things stand, I can’t think of anything more irrelevant. But would it matter? To you?’ ‘Not to me, no. My friend Sam.’

  ‘The young man … the shopping trolley.’

  ‘Yes. He’s Benjamin’s son.’

  ‘I see. And does he know where his father is?’

  ‘Sheldon,’ she said helplessly. ‘Sam doesn’t even know he is his father.’

  Hunter didn’t need to ask, his face said it for him: Then how do you know?

  ‘I told you I inherited my cottage from my cousin, Mary Weller. She lived in Clerehaven all her life, and she’d always been friends with Sam’s mother, Letty — she wa
s a gentle, helpless little creature, I did meet her once or twice, in passing, so to speak, I can’t say I knew her. She was devastated, being left in the lurch like that, but she pulled herself together for the sake of her baby, and quite soon she met a nice chap who wanted to take care of them both. They moved to Chatfield, set up house and in due course she divorced Benjamin and they were married, very quietly.’

  ‘Happy ending.’ But he was alert to nuances. ‘Why quietly?’

  ‘Because Sam was of an age then to notice things. And Letty had never told him that the man he called Dad was really his stepfather.’

  ‘That situation isn’t altogether uncommon. Sometimes, not always, it’s done from the best of motives.’

  ‘This was. Sam adored his dad, he was everything a dad should be — made toys for him, taught him to fish, took him to football matches. It was a dreadful blow when he died, and Sam was only twelve. But the relationship had given him a lot — steadiness, strength. He found a mature consolation in the knowledge that he could never have had a more loving father.’

  ‘And his mother couldn’t tell him the truth.’

  ‘She couldn’t bear to, it would be like taking all that past happiness away from him. And she felt guilty, his real father had been a rotter, she saw that as all her fault — although it wasn’t, the wrong people are marrying each other all the time, aren’t they?’

  They certainly are,’ Hunter — acrimoniously divorced, estranged from his daughter — said neutrally. ‘I doubt any of this is going to surface, there’s no reason why it should … ’As he spoke his mind explored possibilities he judged it best to keep to himself for the present. Inez seemed to have taken it for granted that she was the only person to know of her friend’s parentage. But Clerehaven encompassed a small area where memories had a long range; Sam’s ignorance of his own vulnerability would be pretty thin protection if someone wanted to make mischief. Why anyone should, it was impossible to say, but Hunter had all too often encountered the torrents of the past swirling up in a murder enquiry. ‘You said it’s not your secret … but surely the Lynchets must know.’