by Roy Vickers
“Don’t stop him. I’m afraid those men have got too much sense to try a fade-out,” said Curwen gloomily. “What about The Hollow Tree driver?”
“Near blank, sir. He’s a talkative bloke but he hasn’t much to say. She was panicky about catching that train. She was wearing gloves and she only took off the right hand glove to pay him, so he doesn’t know whether she was wearing a wedding ring. I put him through the goose step from the point of his headlight picking out the lockhouse. As his beam shifted off the house he noticed a light in that side-window. He ran on twenty yards for the turn, stopping at the top of the ramp where he could again see the side-window. He saw one head passing the window—the girl’s, because of the scarf—and thought she might be alone. I pressed him on that and he said he didn’t know whether there was a man in the lockhouse as well. Goose-stepping on, it came out—As the girl walked up the ramp he noticed light playing about her feet which must have come from someone flashing a torch from the bottom of the ramp. More.”
“I should hope so, too. What?”
“Neither Stranack nor Canvey mentioned lighting the girl up the ramp.”
“I don’t call that ‘more’,” grunted Curwen. “Even an innocent man might forget to mention that he owned a torch. All right, boy, if there was nothing there, it’s not your fault. Quite right not to doll up your reports to make ’em interesting.”
Curwen was not above a bit of dolling up of his own reports when occasion demanded, as at present. It was a technical dolling, satisfying departmental requirements. Shortly after ten that night he was just finishing off when Benjoy answered a trunk call.
“The Inspector is in conference, Mrs. Brengast. Would you care to tell me? … Oh, very well, I’ll put you through. To Curwen he whispered: “Says it’s urgent and private and so on, sir.”
Curwen nodded and took the receiver.
Chapter Eight
For the inquest that morning, Veronica had braced herself for an ordeal that had turned out to be little more than a formality. The reporters had been tipped that the police would ask for an adjournment after formal evidence. The public had expected the coroner to sit in the afternoon. Her own part was limited to saying “yes” a dozen times and then thanking coroner and jury for expressing their deep sympathy. It was, she thought, a good omen.
When it was over she walked to the station. Her dressing cases were waiting for her in the stationmaster’s office where she was invited to sit until the train arrived. She expected a visit from the police to ask where she was going, but none came.
Lunching on the train she attracted no more attention than usual. Her spirits soared. She was no longer frightened of Sir Edward Maenton.
There was a danger point at the solicitor’s office. Having no appointment she was kept waiting nearly half an hour. She had to restrain herself from composing a speech. “I never choose my words beforehand. I play around until the other man shows his weakness.”
Sir Edward certainly had a weakness, which might be worse now that poor WillyBee was dead.
Edward Maenton was a stocky little man with a large head and a round, shining face. He had married into an established firm and had himself built a reputation in company law. On his wife’s death he had swallowed the firm and now, at forty-five, was a very successful man, occupying the whole of a large house in Lincoln’s Inn Fields, with a dozen junior partners.
Veronica was a little the taller, a fact that did not in the least discourage him. He set her chair where he could contemplate the whole of her while she gave him her version of events in Renchester.
The room stimulated her self-confidence. It was very large, with two windows overlooking the public gardens. She had thought of a lawyer’s office as musty and formidable—this was fresh and welcoming, in spite of the glass-fronted bookcases running round three walls. On the open writing-table there were flowers in a pewter vase, between the telephones. There was one other table covered with current publications. And there was space and height. Her words flowed freely.
By force of habit Maenton assumed that she had been at the lockhouse. But a woman as lovely as all that could get away with a lot, provided she had the right man to guide her. His experience taught him that one client in three will tell lies to his solicitor, as a patient will tell lies to his doctor and for much the same reason.
“Now let’s get down to it!” he said, reminding her of her dentist. “These three hot-headed young blackguards have got themselves into trouble on the grand scale. They’re finished and we needn’t worry about them.”
No reaction. Good! She was not emotionally entangled. If she was at that lockhouse, it was an escapade she wants to forget. Good again! He decided to apply the brandy test.
“What a dreadful day it has been for you! The inquest this morning and the long journey to see me. In spite of the way you look, you must be exhausted. For this sort of emergency, I keep a little old brandy.”
“Thank you—It’s very kind of you, Sir Edward, but I’d really rather not. I was tired when I came in but I’m not tired now.”
The right answer! Sense enough to refuse a drink at three in the afternoon. Might have sense enough to do what she was told.
“Those two men who slandered you to the police—Stranack and—er—Canvey! We’ll leave them alone—they don’t matter. The newspapers are another thing. I’ll keep an eye on them. If they step one inch over the line, we’ll sue them and put the damage pretty high—say, £50,000.”
“As much as that!” Veronica was overawed. “You think in big figures, Sir Edward.”
“It’s easy to be bold in a good cause,” said Maenton. “You see, you get special damages for that particular libel. You don’t have to prove anything. They would have to prove that you were at that lockhouse and in compromising circumstances—which, of course, they can’t! But mind you, they will try. They’ll send a squad of hard-faced ex-detectives to badger you and your sister and everybody who might be able to tell them anything about your movements that could be twisted into some sort of quibble. Having no responsibility they go to lengths the police cannot.” He had already noted the reaction of fear in the restless movements of her hands. “But I don’t think it will come to that. They’ll be too careful.”
“I hope they will,” sighed Veronica. “It would be horrible.”
Maenton was not yet sure of his ground.
“If they say certain things, we shall have no option.” Her hands were still and her face was merely grave. “That’s one of the reasons why I’m glad you came to me at once, to tell me everything. And you have not spared yourself. Speaking as your lawyer—well, you did not behave very wisely in not seeking out your husband in Renchester, did you?”
“I knew at the time that it was foolish of me,” she confessed.
“Then, go the whole hog and tell me why you—scampered off to your sister.”
Veronica knew how to look at a man as if she were searching his soul and deciding to trust him.
“Because I was afraid!” That was a line that never failed. “I had fluffed the time and upset his arrangements and—I was afraid!”
“I understand. I very deeply appreciate your—your courage in telling me.” There was a careful little quaver in his voice—he also had a repertory of sure-fire answers. But his follow-up was spoilt by the telephone.
Veronica used the breathing space to check over what she had said. She decided that Sir Edward was unsuspicious and that everything was going well.
Maenton, in fact, now felt sure she was lying about the incident of the lockhouse. Very sensible of her! If she were stupid enough to admit to him that she was deliberately obstructing the course of justice he would have to advise her to make a full statement to the police. She must juggle the facts about the lockhouse all by herself. He could help her only on the basis that he believed her to be an innocent victim of circumstance. For his own sake, he would have her watched day and night for the present.
Beauty—and plenty of it—in
distress! Beauty that was wholly unbedraggled by widowhood.
“We haven’t finished yet,” he said, as he replaced the receiver. “If I had known you were coming I would have cleared the decks.” He told her a tale of a board meeting which happened to be true, and asked her to dine with him at seven. He made the invitation sound like a piece of legal advice. As soon as she had gone he telephoned a private detective agency and gave them the address of her flat, with appropriate instructions.
He arrived at the Bayswater flat at five minutes to seven and drove her to a sombre little restaurant where eating was taken seriously.
Over dinner they talked mainly of his boyhood and early successes. She was well trained in such conversation and kept him on good terms with himself while his eye rested on her with mature appreciation.
For her part, she observed that when he was sitting down, he looked neither short nor stocky but rather impressive, in a kind way.
“Won’t you come back to the flat for coffee, Sir Edward?”
He would! How clever she was with dress, he thought. It would have been a mistake to look sombre—repellent to look gay. She had found a perfect compromise that suggested a restrained vitality.
In the flat, she ordered coffee from Service; he was pleased with her for not fiddling about with a percolator. From a cabinet she produced a liqueur and a cigar—and he noted that she could bend without spoiling her lines.
Veronica perceived that she was gaining ground.
“I’ve just thought of something!” she said. “I didn’t really understand when poor WillyBee told me about that marriage settlement. Does it mean—now—that when I go out after dark I must always have a chaperone?”
“Good heavens no!” Maenton smiled, but answered conscientiously. “To put it in everyday terms, the settlement came into action on your wedding day. If you had taken a lover during your husband’s lifetime he could have applied to the court to annul the settlement.”
“For instance, if I had really spent the night at that lockhouse?”
This, thought Maenton, was “it”.
“Yes,” he said, admiring her for her pluck. “If you had done so—and if the matter had been brought formally to my notice by a third party—it would have been my duty to apply for annulment—as executor, of course. But I have no duty to watch your movements. Nobody has.”
Veronica relaxed. It suited her better than all that tenseness. But there was something she still wanted to know.
“You will perhaps believe me when I say I am not contemplating taking a lover.”
Maenton was momentarily depressed; he nodded, without conviction.
“I’m wondering about the scandalmongers. That’s what I meant about a chaperone. Do I have to be fearfully careful—I mean back-to-Victoria and that sort of thing?”
“That’s a nightmare of your own!” He was very reassuring. “Tittle-tattle doesn’t matter in the least. If it goes too far, tell me and I’ll frighten them. You’ve nothing to worry about on that score. The only interested party—I use the word ‘interested’ in the legal sense—is your friend, Miss Aspland, as residuary legatee.”
“Oh yes—of course! I had forgotten!” She said it so well that he was inclined to take it at its face value.
“Then forget it again,” invited Maenton. “She was in the thick of it with you with those two men—and the police. Most fortunate! She knows all the facts. I tell you what! If this unhappy affair hasn’t cancelled itself out tomorrow, bring Miss Aspland to our next conference.”
It had come a little too quickly for her.
“I will, if I can,” she said.
So she was anxious to keep Jill Aspland out of it! Might mean little or much—he would know in a day or two. He rose to go, his eyes appreciating her hands. Steady! It was too early in their relationship to keep on looking at her. He gave her no chance to offer a handshake.
“You’ve helped me a lot, already, Sir Edward!”
“It is—and it will be—a great pleasure to help you.” He said it so well that the cliche was given the quality of a confession blurted out with incaution.
He heard the little catch of her breath and guessed that he had been meant to hear it. He had no illusions about his own irresistibility. But experience had justified the belief that he was cleverer at love—in the early stages, anyhow—than most of the women he desired.
When he had gone, Veronica walked about the flat in the afterglow—to be interrupted within a minute by a light tap on the knocker.
She opened the door to a tall man who contrived to look overdressed in a lounge suit of poor material but good fit. He was carrying an attache case. He lifted his hat as one who rarely has occasion to do so.
“Could I have a word with you, Mrs. Brengast?” he asked in a provincial accent and added: “I’m Mr. Roach.”
“I’m afraid I don’t know you, Mr. Roach, nor what you want.” Veronica was puzzled—the man looked respectable and even seemed shy.
“From Renchester,” he explained. “I’ve made this little trip in my own time and paid my own train fare. I was just coming up here when I saw you get out of that car with a gent, so I waited about a bit. Trouble is, I’ll have missed the last train but I expect my brother will put me up. On a night shift at Paddington, he is.”
With nervous garrulity, he was adding some information about his brother, while she weighed the fact that he had come from Renchester and prepared herself for emergency.
“The man who was with me just now was my solicitor,” she said. “I can’t ask you in because I am alone, but at least come into the hall.”
“Thank you, madam,” he said and stepped over the threshold … “You don’t know me from Adam except what I’ve told you, do you?”
He was opening the attache case: he took out a peaked chauffeur’s cap. “Excuse me!” he mumbled and put the cap on. “Doesn’t this make all the difference?”
He posed as he would have posed for a photographer. Veronica was amused but, as yet, unenlightened.
“What sort of difference ought it to make, Mr. Roach?”
“Trouble is, there’s too much light. We’re not giving it a fair chance.” He put his hand on the switch.
“If you’ll pardon the liberty!” he said and switched off the light.
Light from the landing dimly penetrated the glass panel in the front door, red being dominant. Veronica recognised the face beneath the peaked cap. She had last seen it by the street lights of Renchester when this man had driven her from the lockhouse to Wheatley Junction. Thank heavens Sir Edward had left the flat before this man turned up!
“I still don’t remember ever having seen you before,” she said, evenly. “Will you turn on the light, please, and tell me why you want me to recognise you.”
When he had turned on the light his hand lingered, forgetfully, on the switch. He was deflated and at a loss.
“Trouble is, I did recognise you, Mrs. Brengast.”
Veronica knew better than to rush it. She let a silence hang while he fidgetted.
“Oh! Excuse me!” He plucked off the peakcap and put it back in the attache case.
“We got as far as you saying that you recognised me, Mr. Roach.”
“Peasebarrow lock, where I picked you up. That night of the murder, madam. I only saw you in the dark until we were stopped on the light in Renchester. Then I turned round—I was telling you all about the first murder, if you remember.”
“I don’t remember, because I was not in your car and I was not the woman you picked up at the lockhouse. That night I left Renchester by the nine-forty for Wheatley and Salisbury.”
“That puts the lid on, if you’ll pardon the expression. If I tell the police I recognised you just now and then you tell them you weren’t there, they will say I’m a liar.”
“Oh no, Mr. Roach! They would understand that you have made an honest mistake.”
Mr. Roach glowed with self-satisfaction.
“Come to think of it, it isn’t a
lie if I say I recognised you, even if it turns out that I was really recognising another lady. A professional driver like myself has to stand well with the police. Trouble is, I don’t want to do anything that would make it awkward for you, madam.”
“That’s very kind of you, Mr. Roach, but it won’t affect me at all because the police have already satisfied themselves that I was in bed at my sister’s at Salisbury at the time you were driving that girl from the lockhouse. But I quite understand your position, and I think you’re behaving splendidly.”
More sophisticated men than Mr. Roach had believed Veronica when she told them they had behaved splendidly.
“And as you’ve come up to London entirely for my benefit you must allow me to pay for your fare and loss of time. I absolutely insist. Just a minute!”
She left him and returned with a five pound note, making small work of his protests.
He thanked her. He apologised for taking up her time—for recognising her—for some obscure fault concerned with his hat and his attache case—for having to hurry away because of his brother. He hurried away.
She sighed with relief when the door shut him out. Roach at worst was an honest fool. He would ruin the good impression she had made on Maenton—who had much better not know anything about him.
There remained the possibility that Roach might go to the police. The safest course would be to head him off—spoil his tale by telling it first. At the telephone she asked for a personal call for Inspector Curwen. When he answered from the Red Lion she told him of Roach’s call, making much of the business with the hall light.
“He said he recognised me as the woman he had driven from the lockhouse. At the same time, he was quite willing to believe he might be mistaken. He was very polite and considerate.”
“Did he give any reason for coming to see you, Mrs. Brengast?”
“He said he did not want to do anything that would make awkwardness for me with the police. So I paid him his travelling expenses and advised him to report to you. I thought you’d like to know, Inspector. Goodnight!”