CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Hunter said, ‘I should like to talk to you about your brother’s typewriter, Miss Lynchet.’
Beside the cowed and silent Mr Jelks, Nella, alert, immaculate, launched herself into what Hunter and Annette had come to recognise as one of her monologues: lengthy (if given the chance) and, in view of her circumstances, inappropriately self-satisfied.
‘He was a meticulous craftsman. He always said the creative stage was not only cerebral, there was a tactile dimension — the energy from brain to pen. I often make a point of that in my talks on his technique. He never used the typewriter until everything was complete, ready to be — ’
Annette said, ‘I understand when Benjamin Wright first came to stay with you, your brother encouraged him to join in various local activities.’
‘You must stop interrupting me, young woman. However, yes, Alfred was kindness itself. All wasted, Benjamin was just not — socially — ’
Resolutely, Annette interrupted, ‘Like the writers’ group. Alfred encouraged him to write as a kind of therapy.’
Nella pursed her lips then, resigned, answered, ‘Well, again he might just as well have saved his time. Benjamin never — ’
‘Exactly how did he encourage him? Did he read his work? Comment on it? Did they work together in the study?’
‘Let me … ’ She put her hand to her brow. ‘Let me try to remember, it was so long — ’ Hunter said, ‘Not so long ago, Miss Lynchet. You are an authority on your brother’s working methods.’
‘Indeed. I am widely known — ’
‘You told me it was eight years since Benjamin left. Why did you say that?’
She frowned, shook her head. ‘I must have had my mind on something else.’
‘It wasn’t true, was it?’
‘I can’t be expected — ’
‘Your brother’s typewriter — it was more or less a family heirloom — belonged to your parents.’
‘Yes.’
‘It isn’t in the study now.’ When she said nothing, he went on. ‘How do you account for that?’
She would have worked something out since the last interview, but she made a show of pondering. ‘I think … yes, I recall my grandmother saying … Alfred gave it to Benjamin when he went away. As a kind of keepsake, an encouragement. A generous gesture typical of my brother.’
Having allowed her to complete a sentence, Annette said with interest, ‘Really? But when Mr Hunter asked when Benjamin left, you got the time wrong. Because it was too long ago for you to remember accurately. Now you can remember, quite clearly, something that was told you at the time. Don’t you think that’s rather — ’
‘I will not be directed to think anything by you,’ Nella said tartly.
‘Benjamin never went anywhere, except to the crematorium,’ Hunter said. ‘It was your brother who took the Remington away with him. To Brite Caravan Park, that’s where we found it. In the caravan your brother has been living in, calling himself Benjamin Wright.’
‘I know nothing of any caravan park.’
‘Yes, you do. The address was in the address book you removed from Mrs Turner’s when you called there. Late. In the dark.’
‘You can have no possible grounds for these accusations — ’
‘Her address book has been found in your study.’
‘I don’t care what that wretched woman has written where, nothing would ever induce me to read a word. If you have found — whatever — I can only assume it was because you put it where you could find it.’
‘That’s a serious accusation, Miss Lynchet. I would advise you to reconsider it. Meanwhile … ’ Hunter looked down at the papers on the table before him. Amongst them was DS Warren’s report; no one except himself and Chief Superintendent Garrett had read it yet. ‘Brite Caravan Park. You’ve been sending money there every month since your grandmother became too incapable to manage her affairs. Before that, she saw to the payments.’
Annette made the slightest movement which only Hunter could interpret as: I knew you had something up your sleeve, you old hound.
Nella was silent for a long moment before saying, ‘You can prove nothing.’
No, they couldn’t … Hunter studied the papers before him. DS Warren’s first rapid assessment of some seemingly innocent figures had been confirmed by the Lynchets’ bank. Shortly after Alfred’s death, monthly withdrawals, in cash, from Mrs Lynchet’s account, had increased by eight hundred pounds. Allowing for extras incurred by funeral and legal costs and suchlike, the pattern remained constant. Before Mrs Lynchet’s death handling of all finances passed solely to Nella. Her change of lifestyle was evident in a leap in expenditure, a corresponding leap in income — but still the pattern continued.
You can prove nothing … Mr Jelks, having despairingly inclined towards Nella, recoiled from her glare … furthermore, I cannot believe that Mr Travis, who has been our bank manager for twenty years, would allow you examine — ’
‘He was obliged to, Miss Lynchet, once we obtained a warrant. I did wonder why you settled for paying Benjamin a generous amount of money, every month. After all, you didn’t owe him anything.’ He paused. ‘Or did you?’
She turned from his gaze, stared at nothing.
‘You believed, you had to believe, that as long as you went on paying him he would stay where he was. Very likely he would have done. Until Jaynie started making waves. Then you were both heading for exposure, weren’t you? You, and your brother. Jaynie had written to him, he knew trouble was on the way. So he contacted you, didn’t he?’
She sat as if she could not hear.
‘He wouldn’t phone, you’d recognise his voice, no matter how long it’s been. So he wrote to you — “Benjamin” wrote to you. Told you to get rid of Benjamin’s original manuscripts, plot summaries — anything. It must have given you quite a jolt when the letter arrived — recognising the lettering of the Remington — you know it so well.’ Hunter put his pen down carefully, aligning it with the side of the paper nearest Annette.
Annette said, ‘We have had a comparison made of the letters on the Remington — it’s a distinctive old-fashioned type called pica — and your brother’s manuscripts. The type matches, all the characteristics of wear and use match.’ In a contained, stubborn way, Nella said, ‘I told you, Grandmother gave Alfred’s typewriter to — ’
‘Of course,’ Annette said, ‘he would have phoned Jaynie — to arrange a meeting. She wasn’t familiar with his voice, hadn’t heard it for years. He wouldn’t be so reckless as to put anything in writing to her.’
Hunter said thoughtfully, ‘But in your study there was nothing in his handwriting. We have specimens for comparison — his signature on contracts, notes he made on letters to his agent. But the first drafts of manuscripts — no, there’s nothing handwritten.’
She refused to look at him. ‘Why should there be? His output was prodigious, he couldn’t keep every scrap of paper.’
‘Oh, I understood you to say he had. Your files contained — what was it? Plots, outlines, synopses? Which you said only a few moments ago he wrote by hand.’ Consideringly, he picked up his pen, made a note.
Annette said, ‘Benjamin was a withdrawn man, wasn’t he, Miss Lynchet? After an initial attempt, he stopped mixing, avoided people altogether. He was content to be quiet at Ferns, gardening, reading, writing, listening to music, the radio — he disliked television, would never watch it, would he?’ Primed by Hunter, she had not understood the significance of the question until now. Nella appeared not to have heard it.
Hunter said, ‘So he didn’t know anything about the Toddies, did he?’ He placed no emphasis on the name but it was as if a whisper moved on the air, a despairing credulity that something so shoddy should generate violence, progress through fraud, murder and deception, to cause the death of a silly, innocent, meddling woman. ‘He would have known, eventually, it was only a matter of time before he found out. That Alfred had stolen his creation, passed it off as his
own, that your grandmother colluded in this. Benjamin became an embarrassment; he could pull the rug out from under the fantasy. Benjamin became expendable. Didn’t he?’ Hunter finished quietly.
Her voice subdued, Nella said, ‘This is your fantasy, Mr Hunter — ’
‘No, it’s yours now. Your grandmother told you about the plagiarism, you couldn’t see you had any choice except to continue it. Now it’s grown into your whole life.’
Increasingly shaken, Mr Jelks intervened. ‘I really must have a word in private with my client.’
Hunter said, ‘Miss Lynchet. Do you wish me to suspend the interview?’
She sat like a rock. But he knew her by now, knew by a darting in the eyes that would not meet his that her brain was busy.
She began to speak, still subdued, but matter-of-fact. ‘I have admitted from the outset that I was forced to kill Benjamin Wright, a double murderer, in defence of my own life and for the good of society. I shall pay the penalty the law requires — Mr Jelks has assured me it will not be too harsh, in view of the circumstances. But I am familiar with the insatiable interest of the public; when I am at liberty Ferns will be besieged, I shall be — doorstepped, I believe is the expression. I shrink from publicity. It will be necessary for you to provide some protection … ’
Annette sat briefly dazed until her mind nudged into a mental replay of her arrival at Ferns with the murder team. A beautifully turned-out, dignified, if shocked Nella waited … It hadn’t registered then, in the urgency of the moment: Nella had given herself time to destroy papers, lock others away, but she had done more than was necessary to protect herself, she had set the scene, even dressed for it. Waited … to give an audience.
*
Later, outside in the corridor, Annette was vehement. ‘Can I believe what I heard? Does she expect us to believe all that — that playacting — that — ’
‘Calm down, girl,’ Hunter said gently.
‘Guv, how can you be so — This is how she’s going to try and get off. That business — how dare she — about us planting Jaynie’s address book on her.’
‘You’ve got her measure, she’s going to accuse us of just about everything except sexual harassment — hang about, probably that. She knows just what to admit to, what to deny.’
‘Yes, and think what a clever brief can do with it — she’s admitted to murder and — and — turned herself into a heroine.’
‘No, she’s claimed self-defence and turned herself into a heroine. There’s a hell of a difference between that and admitting Alfred faced a criminal charge for strangling a prostitute because he was impotent, ran down a friend and stole his identity, lived off the proceeds of his efforts and then murdered a harmless woman who had no idea what she was doing.’
‘Look, she tried to rig the evidence before we got to Ferns — she didn’t even do that properly — ’
‘Of course she didn’t, she was too shocked. She had been betrayed for years by Alfred, her whole existence was in jeopardy. She did a damage limitation — not enough; she thought she was being clever, but she wasn’t clever enough. She’s desperate and pathetic and close to the edge. I pity her, but I’m not going to let her get away with anything. Come on, Annette, we’ve got a job to do.’
CHAPTER THIRTY
Inez had a phone call from Mrs Hanks’ sister. ‘Her cold’s that much worse, she’s taken a really bad turn. It’s her breathing.’
‘Oh, I am sorry, I’m afraid I’ve been rather — ’
‘They’ve got her in St Luke’s. So I told her I’d ask you — ’
‘Of course, I’ll — ’
‘She worries about that dog. She said you’d not mind. Having him. Only it’s my husband, never been able to abide dogs … ’
He’s not the only one. Inez’s mind went into hold while she received instructions, eventually managing to send her best wishes and promise to visit Mrs Hanks. Then she got out her car and drove up to Regatta Terrace. The kitchen door was unlocked; the armadillo rushed out into the back garden; he’d been shut in for some time. When he came back and was greeting her in a quiet, fretful way, she collected his bed, his box of toys, his bag of doggy food and his brush. ‘Come on, old chap, everything’ll be all right, you’ll see. You’re going to be my lodger for a while.’
Back at her cottage, she settled him in. The phone began to ring. She ignored it, she was fed up with the phone ringing. News of the sensational events at Ferns had reached Joe’s relatives — mercifully quiescent of late — who were cramming her answering machine with demands to know everything and should several dozen of them pop along to keep her company? As the only possible response to that was I’d rather kill myself she just kept deleting the messages. Clerehaven was reverberating with wild stories that were not, Inez reflected ruefully, anywhere near as wild as the truth — whatever that was, she was no longer sure herself. She had to keep making the effort to adjust her mind to the grotesque image of old Mrs Lynchet, with her eagle-beaked face and black clothes, upright as a monument, looking at Benjamin’s dead face and declaring him to be her own son. If only Hunter had not told her, but she understood why he had; with that knowledge she had no choice but to agree to identify Alfred.
One welcome call was from Dora, still at the Wirral. Inez hadn’t phoned, not wanting to bother her, and she was still obviously very upset about her lost grandchild. They talked for a while, sadly. When everything necessary had been said, Inez asked, ‘About Nella — do you want chapter and verse, Door?’
‘No, you can tell me all about it when I get back. I just rang to make sure you’re all right, Index. It must be awful for you.’
‘No, honestly. I’m OK.’
‘Sure? I’m not there to regulate you, but you’ve got Sam.’
‘Yes.’ Due back from his course today. If she could work out what today was.
‘And Evelina.’
‘Absolutely.’ Evelina’s large house was bursting with relatives staying for some anniversary. ‘Don’t bother about me, Door, I’m fine.’
She had a cup of tea, and the armadillo a saucer of milk with a colouring of tea and a chocolate biscuit as a treat. He ignored it. ‘Listen, you’re something of a hero. You made a citizen’s arrest or something. Well, nearly. You might get a medal. How about that? Oh, all right … Well, I can tell you, I’m not having much of a time myself. What about we go and see if Sam’s home?’
When they turned into the street of neat Victorian houses where Sam lived, the armadillo’s head went up and his tail gave something like a wag; but Inez could see a car had approached from the other direction and pulled up outside Sam’s house. She paused and stood in the shelter of a large holly, unseen. James Collier got out of the car and Sam’s door opened; from the look on his face he wouldn’t have seen her if she’d been doing handstands in the middle of the road. ‘Oh, well, we’ll make ourselves scarce for the present, maybe phone later … ’ she said to the armadillo.
They went for a walk, turning for home as the short day drew to a close and Clerehaven settled to a winter evening of lamplight and firelight, sherry and supper and television. The telephone rang as Inez took off her coat. She had no intention of playing back her messages but just to settle her conscience and in case it was something important, she picked up the phone.
‘Hallo, Inez,’ Hunter said.
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