Death Out of Season

by Meg Elizabeth Atkins

  ‘That Benjamin married, yes, and deserted his family, yes. But I can’t see how they could possibly make a connection between him and Sam. Don’t forget, Letty left here when Sam was a babe in arms; she changed her name on her remarriage. And the Lynchets would never have concerned themselves with her, they were too, in their own estimation — ’ she gave a polite cough — ‘exclusive.’

  ‘Snobbish.’

  ‘You’re catching on.’

  He could scarcely fail to, having met Nella. ‘Anyway, whatever Grandmother and Alfred might have known, I’m sure they wouldn’t have told Nella — and she’s the only one left now.’

  ‘You know. Would Benjamin have been aware of that?’

  ‘I don’t see how he could possibly have been. He never knew my cousin Mary, or that she knew Letty, that … No.’ She shook her head. ‘It was all so long ago.’

  He asked, as if by afterthought, ‘Is Sam’s mother still in Chatfield?’

  ‘Oh, no, there’s no danger of her hearing the initials of her first husband, even by chance.’ She tried, unsuccessfully, to repress a smile. ‘She married again, not long ago. For a helpless, retiring little thing she didn’t do too badly collecting husbands. She lives in Spain now with number three. There’s no reason any word of this could get to her. Sam goes to see her quite often but what he tells her is just general gossip — especially if it’s about someone she might have known when she lived here. But that’s a long while ago; even if he did tell her about Jaynie’s murder, it would just be something sensational that had happened here. Ah … ’ She stopped speaking, looked beyond him, smiling.

  With the unassuming attractiveness and dignity of her age and class, Dora managed to astonish Hunter. Reaching the table, she inclined towards them, lowering her voice to a dramatic undertone, ‘I say, do I belong to that famous French family the de trops?’

  ‘Don’t be so bloody daft,’ Inez said equably. Dora winked at Hunter, went to the bar, returned with a glass and a crackly packet which she put on the floor beside Inez. It disappeared at once. Dora said, ‘Hallo,’ to no effect. ‘Suit yourself, then.’

  Hunter attempted once more to peer beneath the settle. ‘Is it — er — ’

  ‘I should leave him till he’s finished that, if I were you, otherwise he’ll have your hand off,’ Inez said, smiling. She poured wine into Dora’s glass.

  Dora said, ‘Is he arresting you?’

  ‘Gave myself up.’

  ‘You always do. Are you talking secrets?’

  Hunter replied, to save Inez the embarrassment of deceiving her friend, ‘Stocking up on local gossip. If I get enough I might have some idea what Jaynie Turner was up to.’

  ‘I shouldn’t think you’d have a shortage of volunteers — gossipwise. Everyone knows everyone’s business here.’

  ‘Not all of it.’

  ‘No,’ she said sombrely.

  ‘Mostly,’ Inez said, ‘what Jaynie was up to was pursuing her obsession. Getting her own back on the Lynchets for not being related to them.’

  Hunter’s smile said Tell … This was, after all, Clerehaven, where convolutions and eccentricities abounded, he was more than content to listen. And earlier he would not have thought his time more pleasantly spent than in a genuine pub in the company of a charming woman. Now there were two charming women, laughter ready behind their words, bantering in their friendly, expressive voices, calling each other Index and Door. He didn’t ask why.

  And they talked. About everyone, everything, unaware how subtly he directed them. They said nothing careless or malicious, never passed off as fact what could be fiction, and they paid him the unspoken compliment of their singular honesty: they would speak like this between themselves, to him because of his function — but never to anyone else.

  The armadillo eventually chose his time to emerge from underneath the settle. He sniffed round Hunter’s feet thoroughly, and with dignity, then made himself comfortable on them.

  ‘Chuck him off if it bothers you,’ Inez said.

  ‘No, it’s rather … a bit like a hot water bottle. Does he always do this?’

  ‘Only if you pass some mysterious test — don’t ask me what it is.’

  The friendly face looked up, then snuggled down again. ‘Well,’ Hunter said, ‘I suppose this makes my evening just about complete.’

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Collier drove through Clerehaven’s winding streets while Annette checked her notes. They were following any lead from Jaynie Turner’s diary of the previous year — the year she had moved into Clerehaven. Annette said, ‘Mrs Hanks, 7 Regatta Terrace.’

  ‘I know. And?’

  ‘Just “See Mrs Hanks.” No cross-reference. Doesn’t seem very hopeful.’

  ‘What does?’ James said gloomily. The likeliest contacts — family, regularly seen acquaintances, nearest neighbours — had all been interviewed. Jaynie, it would appear, lived a blameless life, what could be seen on the surface was what there was of it; no whispers, no scandals … and yet, in some corner, or broadly exposed to unknowing gaze, her murderer walked.

  And it was their job to track him with nothing more to go on than a network of hints, allusions, tenuous — possibly meaningless — connections. Unless her murder was a random, motiveless act — and no one believed that.

  ‘It could be worse,’ Annette said darkly. She didn’t need to spell it out, at least they had not been assigned the mind-stunning job of going through the labyrinth of rubbish Jaynie had called her research.

  7 Regatta Terrace, narrow and tall, with steep steps straight up from the pavement, had a gentle shabbiness, duplicated by its owner, who glanced at their warrant cards and welcomed them into her warm, comfortable back room. She hobbled badly, had a bright, friendly expression and a small dog that looked distinctly odd to Annette, whose parents had always had Dalmatians. This one might be of unidentifiable pedigree but it was as friendly as its owner and inspected their feet thoroughly and with great politeness.

  ‘What can I do for you youngsters? Will you have a cup of tea — you look froze, it’s biting out there. And you’re much too thin, miss, but they all are these days. Don’t take no notice of him, it’s just his way.’

  The armadillo had gone to the toy box next to his bed, selected a battered rubber dumbbell and given it to Collier.

  ‘I say, that is … thanks,’ Collier said.

  ‘Just put it down, he’ll not bother you more,’ Mrs Hanks said comfortably, as the armadillo settled himself on her feet.

  Not daring to look at Annette, Collier said, ‘He didn’t bark when we knocked.’

  ‘Never does, except at people he doesn’t like. That tells me, you see, be on my guard, then I don’t open the door. It’s about that poor lady, I suppose, folk say you’ve been asking everywhere. But, really, much as I’d like to help, I knew nothing of her.’

  ‘She had a note of your name and address in her diary, a year last September. You understand, we have to follow up even the most … ’ Annette spoke on, gently explaining, knowing well how perfectly innocent people were startled out of their wits to be associated with a violent event.

  Mrs Hanks sat with her gaze fixed, listening, frowning in concentration. ‘Yes,’ she said, after a short silence. ‘Got it now, love. But it were nothing.’

  And it was nothing. Mrs Turner had appeared on the doorstep one day (Mrs Hanks had no telephone), with a notebook and gold pen, seeking information for some research she was doing. Yes, it probably was autumn — the last one or the one before, it scarcely mattered at Mrs Hanks’ age. ‘What she were asking was something to do with her folk years gone back. And I’d worked with a cousin or something of hers at Lett’s, the greengrocer … ’ There followed the detailed and irrelevant tale Annette and Collier had become accustomed to: who had lived where, married who, prospered, failed — most of this dating back to before the Second World War, or beyond.

  And then, of course, I knew her grandfather — chopped wood at Belham’s yard for a li
ving. That wasn’t what she wanted to know by look on her face — but he fed his family, and you can’t put that lightly by, not the way things were then. They were only ordinary folk, like all of us. Not that it wasn’t terrible what happened to her, such a very … ’ Mrs Hanks paused, searched for words. ‘Glamorous person, like you see on telly. But I wouldn’t … ’ She came to a halt, thought for some time, looked down at the inoffensive dog. ‘He barked, you see, so I wouldn’t let her in — but, well, young Sam were here. “All right, Mrs Hanks,” he said. “You stay there, I’ll see who it is.” Then he talked at the door, and brought her in, so I knew it were all right. And then he left, and we talked …’

  ‘Sam who?’ Annette asked, notebook ready.

  ‘Why, Inez’s friend. You know Mrs Bryant, don’t you? I thought she said she’d spoken to someone official, but p’raps I was mistaken. Takes him out for his walk. Every day, regular as clockwork. Lovely lady. Well, her and young Sam are friends. And whenever Inez is away, he comes and takes him.’ Mrs Hanks sat back, folded her hands contentedly. ‘Are you sure you’ll not have a cup of tea?’

  They asked, of course, as they left, if the name Benjamin Wright meant anything. She looked at them from the unplumbable depths of innocence. ‘Who?’

  On the step she gave them Inez’s address and Sam’s. ‘I can’t get about, you see, through my legs, but they’re always busy all over the place, and they know everyone, they can tell you lots of things,’ she said generously, wondering, as she closed the door, if she should add that they could neither of them stand the sight of Jaynie Turner, nor could any folk with sense. It wasn’t the kind of thing you could say of a person recently come to a tragic end.

  Not that it would have made any difference to Annette and Collier, they had at least a new name, linked to Inez. Collier said, ‘I thought Hunter was going to see her — to find out what it was she didn’t want to tell us? He hasn’t said anything, has he?’

  ‘She’s been away for a while, he couldn’t make contact till yesterday evening, after the briefing. He hasn’t said anything yet, not to me, anyway. Probably another dead end. Now we can cross Mrs Hanks off our list and what’s the betting this one’s going to turn out to be a waste of time. Honestly, James, what are we doing with all these names … ’ She reeled off a list of them, impatiently. These are just people who know one another. People do.’

  ‘Yes, right. Cool it, we’re getting nowhere except madder and madder. But let’s just — just — follow this one. How will we know unless we try?’ And the truth was, they both dearly wanted something to take to Hunter for the evening briefing, for their own sakes, because they were ambitious, and for his, because they knew him well, and sympathetically enough to sense his frustration at their lack of progress with the investigation. ‘Cheer up, Annette. Most people are coming home from work now, we might just catch him.’

  They did, he still had his coat on, opening the door of his small Victorian Gothic house and standing warily back in its shadow until they introduced themselves. ‘Police. That’s a relief, I thought you were Jehovah’s Witnesses. Come in.’

  *

  It was after the evening briefing that Hunter telephoned Inez.

  ‘Sheldon.’ Her pleasant voice was restrained, obviously with effort, and not without incoherence. ‘You said, you promised, and I told you it was — and you said it probably had nothing — but still, you sent them — to Sam — ’

  ‘Calm down, Inez. I didn’t send them to interview Sam, I didn’t even know until just now that they had. Now listen, I didn’t let you down, I didn’t break my promise. Are you listening?’

  She drew breath audibly and said yes in a subdued way.

  ‘I have to follow up everything, no matter how remote, that might provide a lead. These are two intelligent detectives out on the street. They’re out there detecting.’ He spoke with gentle emphasis. ‘It’s what they’re about. I don’t know what they’re doing every minute of the day. If they pick up a word, a hint, if they decide it justifies further enquiries, that’s what they do. It’s their job.’

  ‘Yes,’ she agreed, sounding, to his relief, like herself. ‘But, honestly, talk about tenuous … To be honest, I’d forgotten Jaynie went to see Mrs Hanks last autumn — if I ever knew. Sam probably forgot it himself. Surely it was a waste of time?’

  ‘Absolutely. That’s how it goes.’ Hunter, intending briskness, sounded glum.

  ‘Oh, dear, sorry. Well, not a complete waste, there’s nothing Mrs Hanks likes so much as a chat and offering people tea. I nearly had a heart attack when Sam phoned and said the police had been to see him. He sounded perfectly all right, though — ’

  ‘He was, wasn’t he?’

  ‘Oh, yes. He thought it was a bit of a lark. Well, you’ve interviewed everyone else, he was beginning to feel left out.’

  Hunter was tired, jaded, he had beaten through the necessary, grubby, dispiriting pattern of the day; he needed to eat, he needed a drink, and here was unexpected refreshment of the spirit, her good humour, the sweet tone of her voice, her sideways view of the world and its delights. He said, ‘Inez, you told me in confidence about Sam’s paternity — did you really think I would — ’

  ‘No,’ she said, in a rush. ‘No, sorry. It’s just that I felt cornered. Having that knowledge that even he doesn’t, and having to tell you. Really, to protect him, if I can … ’

  It surprised him, how much it mattered that he had her trust, her good opinion. He would, officially, have told anyone if it furthered his investigation — but he would never let her know that he had. Whatever Annette and Collier had reported at the briefing would be put on HOLMES — this might not be essential to the detection of the crime, but it could have its place in the overall pattern that led to its resolution. This, too, was something she did not need to know.

  *

  Jaynie’s funeral was held the following day in Chatfield, at the church where she had been married and her children christened. The congregation was large: friends, relatives, acquaintances. Jaynie would have approved their numbers and overall elegance.

  Several Clerehaven residents were there, many from the Friends of Clerehaven, including Inez, Dora, Evelina. But not Nella.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Hunter had highly selected pubs, held dear through unchanging years. To the confusion of many he insisted on calling them all the Frog and Nightgown, nobody knew why. (Any more than they knew why, when he went purposefully about his official business, he instructed his driver, The sewing circle. And drive like hell.’)

  He could find enjoyment with the rowdiest when the mood took him, but Frog and Nightgowns were off the common ruck, refuges where fruit machines and karaoke were unknown; places with excellent ale and quiet contemplative corners.

  The Crown and Mitre ranked as such: a Victorian edifice, dignified as a gentleman’s club. There weren’t many of them left in the city, you had to know where to find them — and Hunter did. In side streets, off quiet squares, havens of polished wood and red leather where the devoted clientele read their papers, murmured conversations, then processed into the restaurant to dine on substantial English fare: steak and kidney pudding, succulent roasts, apple pie and custard, perfect cheeses.

  Annette and Collier sat in the bar with Hunter. Authorities on his lairs, they knew — or thought they knew — how to track him through the city by his favourite pubs. This one reduced them to helpless laughter: Shouldn’t we tell them Khartoum’s fallen? … Somebody died under The Times last week, they just keep dusting him …

  Often, the whole team would drink together, signing off from a punishing day with sometimes exuberant relief — if nothing much had happened, nothing cataclysmic had happened, either. But this was the kind of evening they sometimes shared: a quiet rounding-off drink, then they would go about their separate concerns; three singles, no one at home waiting for them, although there were occasional affairs.

  This evening Annette had managed to convey hurriedly to Collier on th
e way in from the car park, that Hunter had given her to understand that after their drink his evening was occupied. ‘Occupied,’ she muttered. ‘Do you think he’s got a date? Who with?’ ‘With whom. Accusative after preposition,’ Collier hissed back. ‘Effing pedant,’ Annette said vaguely, distracted by Hunter’s private life. She was deeply interested in it, long ago claiming (to Collier) a passionate, hidden love. ‘You’re just a silly, romantic girl,’ Collier said. ‘So are you, sometimes.’ ‘Yes, but I’m not in love with my boss.’ She had her doubts about that.

  From the bar, the swell of measured conversation, the occasional bark of gentlemanly laughter reached their corner. Collier asked, ‘Did you see Mrs Bryant, guv? You remember, what we thought … Was she holding out on us?’

  As Hunter had said nothing at the evening’s briefing they had not asked, assuming he had his reasons. Which might be personal, Annette thought, speculating anew on ‘occupied’. Inez Bryant was a wonderfully attractive woman.

  ‘Yes, but it’s not likely to take us anywhere.’

  Some disappointment, more persistence. They had specifically asked him to see her. When they did that, for whatever reason, they were curiously possessive about his response: he owed them his judgement, they wouldn’t let go until he told them.

  He had given thought to that. He didn’t intend telling them the whole truth, but he was adept at manipulating enough of it to sound sincere and apologetic at the same time.

  ‘She did recognise the initials — ’

  ‘Ah — ’ Collier murmured.

  ‘ — and came up with the same name as Miss Barber.’

  ‘Benjamin Wright.’

  ‘Yep, long gone and completely irrelevant. It was a compliment, though,’ he said, teasing and diverting them.

  They looked utterly lost. After a while Annette asked tentatively, ‘Um … what was?’