‘You would say so?’
‘Of course I’d say so.’ He wished he were as confident about his right to have reported official timings and uncertainties even though Henry had passed them on like the weather report.
‘Thank you, Mark,’ she said quietly. ‘You’ll take food from the kitchen? It’s all prepared . . .’
Treasure shook his head. ‘Not for the moment. I’d rather be listening to your story—from the beginning.’
She rolled the cold glass across her forehead. ‘From the beginning the air charter business was a failure. We were broke. Worse, we were getting deeper into debt. From that time, also, our marriage was failing.’ She looked up. ‘The air accident was a golden opportunity. Ralph took it, and then there was no turning back.
‘Oh, the plane crashed—disappeared as I told you, but Ralph wasn’t in it. He felt unwell at the last minute and decided to stay over after all. The flight was from a private airstrip. The pilot had got official clearance for Ralph and himself and he’d never altered it. They were both eventually reported killed.
‘Ralph had tried to ’phone me but couldn’t get through. He spent the night in a rooming-house, heard about the freak storms on the radio—including reports of a Mayday call from an American charter plane with two people in it. He checked anonymously by ’phone later in the day and heard he had been reported missing. There was a search over several days but they found nothing.’
‘He didn’t try to reach you again?’
‘I thought he was dead until he called me three weeks later from Brazil. He begged me to go along with the plan he’d made. And it was so simple. It meant we could collect on the insurance and start again somewhere. No, not here, but somewhere—together. Perhaps to build our marriage again.’
She took a sip from her drink. ‘Ralph thought fate or something owed him that much—the airlines because he was passed over for promotion so many times—me because I was sick of life at the level we’d had to lead it. I guess he’d been afraid of losing me . . . now he could . . . he could buy me back.
‘Ralph is . . . was not a strong character. He needed me. I don’t know whether I ever needed him.’ There was a longish pause. He thought the tears might be returning but she swallowed hard and continued evenly. ‘When he decided to stay dead he had a hundred thousand American dollars on him—delivery payment on the plane he’d ferried down. He knew there’d be no claim about the money. It was a side deal in cash on the plane—to save the seller some tax. You understand?’
Treasure understood. ‘Quite a windfall. And the insurance?’
‘Was not so easy or so quick. They finally paid me two hundred and fifty thousand dollars on Ralph’s life a few months ago. I guess they needed to be certain.’
As a director of two insurance companies—chairman of one of them—Treasure nodded wistfully. He asked the name of the insurance company. She told him. ‘I expect you received an advance to keep you going.’
‘That’s right. By then I’d been here some time. We arranged that. It wasn’t intended Ralph and I settle here. Obviously that would have been too risky. We’d figured to end up in France—in Provence. Here it was credible for me to come for a while. Somewhere I didn’t need to build from nothing—where life wasn’t a whole lie.’
‘And became less and less of a lie, perhaps?’ Treasure did not wait for a reply. ‘And Henry?’
‘Was not as you guessed. Sure I knew he was rich. I knew also about Hutstacker’s from Edgar Crabthorne.’ For the first time a faint if fleeting smile showed on her face. ‘It was a very chaste affair. Edgar likes to talk about his business—but by assignation and candlelight!’ She looked down. ‘Henry wanted to help. He’s dear and sweet. He insisted on lending me the money for the gallery and . . . well . . . we just drifted together in this father-daughter relationship as I thought.’
‘Until he asked you to marry him.’
‘Which was well after Glyn Iffley had come into my life.’ The regret in that sentence was too marked to ignore.
‘Meantime your husband?’
Anna sighed. ‘Ralph came to England in October from Brazil through Frankfurt, Dublin and, I think, Belfast. That’s a route where you don’t show your passport, only wave it—provided you stay in transit and have no luggage. He had to risk using his own passport still, until he got to this country when I could arrange the new one. You guessed right about that. Dai Rees was very obliging—and very innocent.
‘Ralph had plenty of money and a new identity. I was all right here. We’d figured not to meet for two years, or until we felt it was safe. Ralph was to buy a place in France at the end of this summer . . .’ Her voice trailed away.
‘So the plan had worked,’ Treasure put in, ‘except . . .’
‘Except I’d fallen out of love with my husband, that I’d become infatuated with Glyn, too involved with Henry . . .’
‘And expert in dealing with stolen pictures?’
She shook her head. ‘They’re not stolen. It’s to do with avoiding capital tax. At the start I thought they were genuine discoveries Glyn made doing his cover job as a dealer. Does that sound ingenuous? Probably—but it’s true. Later he told me how it works. It’s not dishonest. The people who sell the pictures are the real owners but they don’t want the sales traced back to them. Of course, it’s a strictly cash business. I have to keep a lot of money here.’
‘Of course,’ the banker answered lightly. On any other occasion he would have felt obliged to straighten out the morality just expounded. As it was, he merely savoured in passing the piquant thought that squads of impoverished ‘honest’ Welsh gentry had been trundling out their lesser-known old masters to exchange for ready cash at the door with a detective-inspector of Police.
Judging by the number of good pictures that appeared to be passing between Anna’s gallery and New Hall it seemed Iffley was not relying entirely on the fruits of his own house-calls: no doubt there were established middlemen in the sensitive business of this kind of tax evasion. Certainly the Inspector was well organized—not least in having Anna’s funds at his disposal; cash flow and ownership problems solved on request by Henry Nott-Herbert.
‘Glyn wants to resign from the police.’ And who could blame him? ‘At one time we planned to run the gallery together, perhaps to marry.’ Anna added: ‘That was before Henry proposed to me.’
‘Iffley was willing to wait in line of course until in due time you became Henry’s widow.’ Treasure was beginning to dislike Inspector Iffley more and more, so much so he had difficulty stifling the thought that perhaps the man might not be beyond accelerating the demise of Judge Nott-Herbert once he was married to Anna. She had not reacted to his last comment before he asked. ‘When did you tell Iffley the truth about your husband?’
‘When we became lovers. It would have been impossible otherwise.’ These came as straight statements without elaboration. ‘Ralph had taken a service apartment in London. We talked often by telephone. At the beginning of November I told him there was no point in going on. That I had met someone else. That we should go our own ways. He was desolate. He begged to see me. Stupidly I gave in. I agreed he could come here for one night. He hired a car and arrived after dark. No one need have seen him. It’s simple to get from a car into this house.’
‘There was no street light outside then,’ Treasure added absently. ‘Did Iffley know he was coming?’
‘Yes. He was against it, but he knew. I arranged it for a night he had to be away on police work to avoid . . . a confrontation. Otherwise he might have been here when. . .’ She faltered. ‘Ralph was ecstatic to be with me. I think also heart-broken that seeing him meant nothing to me. He pleaded . . . begged me to go back to him.’ She shook her head. ‘It was no good, of course. We were arguing still when the terrible thing happened.’
‘To your husband? To Ralph?’
‘No. At around eleven-thirty there was an awful crash outside, a cry for help —a hideous shout I shall never forget. We rushed
outside—what anyone would do. It was the Captain—Captain Ogmore-Davies.’
Treasure understood. ‘It was the night he died.’
‘His heart, you understand. He must have grasped for the wall, then fallen down the steps. We had to help—or try to. It was instinctive. The house opposite is empty in winter. There was no one else about . . .’
‘Except Constable Lewin,’ said Treasure slowly. ‘Shortly he came. Too late. We were all too late. The Captain was dead.’
‘And Lewin?’
‘He heard me call Ralph by his name. I didn’t know if he’d realized it was my husband. That night there was nothing to do except have the body taken away. Lewin said he would come next day to take statements. Thank God Glyn Iffley telephoned at one in the morning. I told him what happened. He said Ralph should leave right away and that he’d square Lewin first thing. He did. Lewin was here for over an hour next day, here in this room taking my statement. Neither of us mentioned there’d been another . . . another witness.’
‘So no one ever knew Ralph was with you?’
Anna nodded. ‘And that was the last time I saw him.’
‘But Lewin knew he was alive.’
‘He guessed after a while but he didn’t make trouble. Glyn promised to help him get promotion. I think he paid him a little too.’ She saw Treasure’s eyebrows rise. ‘He has a bad life . . . with his wife. He is not corrupt, I think. And he has helped me. When you live a lie . . .’
‘It helps to have the support of your friendly neighbourhood policeman.’ There was a touch of acidity in his tone. ‘So of course Lewin knew perfectly well who Mrs Ogmore-Davies saw that morning on the boat.’
Anna coloured. ‘Glynn telephoned him later. Yes . . . I’m sorry.’
‘And you knowingly let Henry get me down here on a wild goose chase thinking there was no chance of my . . .’ He paused. ‘Oh well. We’ll let that one pass. I’m more interested in knowing why your husband was here yesterday—and why he chose to travel with me.’
‘He chose to be here when you were here. He didn’t mean to travel with you. Maybe he was scared . . . of Glyn.’
‘He knew Inspector Iffley was the other man. How did he know I was coming?’
Anna sighed. ‘For months he’s been telephoning nonstop. At the beginning he is still trying to make me change my mind. Then he accepts what is to happen and he needs to know about the money. Glyn said I should offer him half. He’s not content with that. He wants three-quarters. He tries to persuade me to go to London to discuss the split. Glyn is against this. Then Ralph says he’s coming here to talk to both of us without enmity, to make a civilized agreement, and to pick up his share . . .’
In the few minutes more it took Anna to unfold the story Treasure became convinced murder had been done—and he thought he knew by which of the three prime suspects.
Spring had certainly known or sensed he was in danger—before the assault on the train. He had refused to tell Anna on what day he was coming to Panty—only that he would travel incognito and telephone on arrival. He had been warned about Treasure’s visit and broadly the purpose of it, yet he had chosen to come at the same time. It had been coincidental the two had travelled in the same compartment but Anna was sure Spring had thought Iffley would be more circumspect with Treasure about.
Iffley had used his authority to have Spring’s movements checked each morning in London since the day he had said he was coming to Panty. It had been simple enough to have him under temporary surveillance as a suspected drug-trafficker.
So the Inspector had known on the day how and when Spring was travelling— also how he was disguised. He had told Anna he proposed boarding the train himself at Llanelli for a pre-emptive, man-to-man discussion with her husband. Instead he had sent the two hooligans to get the passport for use as a bargaining device. They were only to threaten violence—at the most to ‘rough up’ the victim. He denied giving them a gun but he had supplied the British Rail corridor key that should have kept the carriage isolated for the few seconds required for the assailants to do their work and get away.
A variety of contingency plans had been made in case Spring had decided to take lunch on the train, including rifling his unattended luggage and, if necessary, waylaying him between carriages. What had not been allowed for was Treasure’s early return from the dining car.
Iffley had been powerless to extricate his fumbling accomplices when they escaped on the wrong side of the station with the level-crossing gates closed to road traffic. Instead he had used the initiative with which Treasure had earlier credited him by appearing on the scene at the same time as the local police. Indeed he had been ahead of them, waiting in a side street to pick up his stooges, but he had delayed a decent interval after hearing the police broadcast.
It had been a simple job for Iffley to succeed where the others had failed: he had palmed the passport himself while officially going through the contents of Spring’s case. Observing a two-month-old rule not to dally in Panty, and especially not to approach Anna’s house in daylight, he had then carefully taped the passport in the folds of the box, stopped at the first pay-phone beyond St David’s, and told Anna to retrieve it—which accounted for her prompt appearance at New Hall.
There had been enough ready cash in Anna’s small safe to pay Spring the £100,000: it appeared there was always enough cash in Anna’s safe. Nor was she prepared to dispute her husband’s right virtually to all the insurance money as well as the return of the passport. Iffley had opposed all this, but to no purpose in the face of what had clearly been Anna’s rocklike determination. She had considered the assault inexcusable and Spring’s retribution justified. She was in any case tired of Iffley’s haggling: in view of her intended marriage to Henry the listener had found this view entirely reasonable.
Anna had also insisted that Spring’s over-cautious arrangements at the cathedral should be observed, that she should hand over the money herself, and that Iffley should not be present. It had been her intention to leave the picture-selling to the other helpers and at 8.20 to move to the appointed seat in the back row.
The unheralded arrival of the Crabthornes had of course totally jeopardized the plan. Anna had no way of reaching her husband. Between drinks and dinner at New Hall she had tried to telephone Iffley without success. In desperation she had ’phoned Constable I
Aware that even the lack-witted Lewin must have sensed drama in her tone, Anna had reasoned there would be no extra risk and possibly great advantage in enlisting his further help—with circumspection. She had asked him as a favour to stand near the cathedral door from 8.15 in the hope he could waylay a clergyman with an Australian accent—description supplied but name unknown—with the news that a number of unexpected American friends were attending the recital: she had no way of knowing that Spring had abandoned disguise.
The Constable had predictably failed in his mission, but had shown no surprise nor questioned the propriety of his being recruited. Perhaps he believed such favours brought promotion nearer.
It had been Treasure, after the recital, who had unknowingly calmed Anna’s worst misgivings. Clearly Spring had seen the danger for himself and got away from it—or so Anna believed at the time.
The account of the early telephone call that morning had completed Anna’s story. She was sure it had been a woman’s voice. Before Treasure had told her Spring was dead she had been prepared to hand over the case with the money and passport at 3 o’clock.
‘You were never aware Albert Crutt knew your husband?’ Treasure asked. He was standing beside a small desk near the bedroom door. It supported a typewriter, a telephone and a big address book. He was leafing through a section of the book. ‘Crutt’s never mentioned it to you?’
Anna answered from the kitchen where she was preparing coffee. The two had eaten a little: he more than she. ‘I didn’t know they’
d met. Ralph may have flown him around the plants that time. As for Mr Crutt mentioning it to me: we met for the first time yesterday. Henry never asks him to Panty.
Treasure glanced up. He was sure he had found the masked entry he wanted—and in about twenty seconds. It was in the crypto-logical place and form he had expected Anna would use: the London exchange was the same as his own.
He walked back to where they had been seated. Anna was placing a coffee tray between them. ‘Tell me. You’ve taken me at my word. I do want to help you—as much as I can. But you’ve told me more than a lawyer would advise you to tell—particularly about your relationship with Iffley. Why . . . ?’
‘Because that relationship is over.’ Her voice was even, the delivery slow and considered. Now she stood tall and quite still except for her eyes which were searching his for a reaction. ‘Because I believe Glyn Iffley murdered my husband.’
‘I’m not sure I agree,’ Treasure said gravely, ‘but you know, there’s only one way we’re going to find out.’
CHAPTER 20
‘Lucy Cramphom. Never any good in a draughty bed. Same goes for Wendy Cussons.’ Henry Nott-Herbert emitted these promising calumnies as commonplaces. ‘Put ’em up against a wall though—either of ’em— marvellous. Perform differently in the Home Counties. Down here they need coddling.’
‘Cuddling?’ Treasure corrected tentatively.
‘If you like,’ the other replied. He turned about, leading the banker from the broad south terrace, around the house, to the front drive.
The Judge was sporting a deerstalker hat, belted Norfolk jacket and matching knickerbockers, the ensemble he considered proper for garden openings and which would have served as well for a day out with a genteel Victorian Cycling Club. In truth his appearance was as eccentrically distinguished as he intended it to be distinguishing. This year he was determined not to be mistaken for one of his own gardeners: again. And the hazard was increasing since what had once been an army of outside retainers had latterly been reduced to one Italian, part time, who on these occasions tended to dress and behave like a successful film director.
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