To which Peggy Hammer said, “Sir,” in meek compliance.
They left the incident room. Hanken was fuming that all they could “bloody well do now” was wait for WPC Hammer and the DVLA to come up with the information they needed, and Lynley was wondering how best he could turn the spotlight onto Julian Britton, when a departmental secretary tracked them down to tell them that Lynley was being asked for in the reception area.
“It's Mrs. Maiden,” she said. “And I ought to warn you, she's in something of a state.”
She was. Ushered into Hanken's office a few minutes later, she was panic personified. She was clutching a crumpled piece of paper in her hand, and when she saw Lynley, she cried out, “Help me!” And to Hanken, “You forced him! You wouldn't leave it. You couldn't leave it. You didn't want to see that he'd eventually do something …. He'd do … Something …” And she brought her fist with the crumpled paper in it up to her forehead.
“Mrs. Maiden,” Lynley began.
“You worked with him. You were his friend. You know him. You knew him. You must do something, because if you don't … if you can't … Please, please.”
“What the hell's going on?” Hanken demanded. He had, obviously, little enough sympathy for the wife of his number-one suspect.
Lynley went to Nan Maiden and took her hand in his own. He lowered her arm and gently removed the note from her fingers. She said, “I was looking … I went out looking … But I don't know where and I'm so afraid.”
Lynley read the words and felt a chill of apprehension.
I'm taking care of this myself Andy Maiden had written.
Julian had just finished weighing Cass's puppies when his cousin came into the room. She'd evidently been looking for him, because she said happily, “Julie! Of course. How silly of me. I should have thought of the dogs at once.”
He was using the aniseed oil on Cass's teats, readying her puppies for the twenty-four-hour test of their sense of smell. As harriers, they had to be excellent trackers.
Cass growled uneasily when Samantha entered. But she soon settled when Julian's cousin adjusted her voice to the soothing tone that the dogs were more used to.
Sam said, “Julie, I had the most extraordinary encounter with your father this morning. I thought I'd be able to tell you at lunch-time, but when you didn't turn up … Julie, have you eaten anything today?”
Julian hadn't been able to face the breakfast table. And his feelings hadn't much changed by lunch. So he'd busied himself with work instead: inspections of some of the tenant farmers’ properties, researching in Bakewell what hoops one had to jump through when making changes in a listed building, throwing himself into the myriad chores in the kennels. Thus, he'd been able to ignore everything that wasn't directly related to whatever he designated as the immediate task in hand.
Sam's appearance inside the kennels made any further efforts at distraction impossible. Nonetheless, in an effort to avoid the conversation he'd promised himself that he'd have with her, he said, “Sorry, Sam. I got caught up in work round here.” He tried to sound apologetic. And, in fact, he felt apologetic, when it came down to it, because Sam was working her heart out at Broughton Manor. The least he could do to demonstrate his gratitude, Julian thought, was to show up for meals in acknowledgement of her efforts.
He said, “You're holding us together, and I know it. Thanks, Sam. I'm grateful. Truly.”
Sam said warmly, “I'm happy to do it. Honestly, Julie. It's always seemed such a shame to me that we've never had much of a chance to—” She hesitated. She seemed to sense the need to change gears. “It's amazing when you think that if our parents had only mended their fences, you and I could have—” Another gear change. “I mean, we're family, aren't we. And it's sad not to get to know the members of your very own family. Especially when you finally do get to know them and they turn out to be … well, such fine people.” She fingered the plait that hung long and thick over her shoulder. Julian noticed for the first time how neatly it was braided. He saw that it very nearly caught the light.
He said, “Well, I'm not always what I should be when it comes to saying thanks.”
“I think you're great.”
He felt himself colour: the curse of his complexion. He turned from her and went back to the dog. She asked what he was doing and why, and he was grateful that an explanation of aniseed oil and cotton swabs provided them a means to get past an awkward moment. But when he'd said all there was to be said about Pavlov, conditioning, and how the association of an unpleasant scent with their dam's milk could be used to test the puppies’ developing sense of smell, he and his cousin were back in that awkward moment again. And again Samantha was the one to save them.
She said, “Oh Lord. I've completely forgotten why I wanted to talk to you. Your dad. Julie, it's remarkable what's happened.”
Julian rubbed the oil on Cass's last swollen teat and released the dog to her puppies. He recapped the bottle as his cousin related what had occurred between herself and Jeremy. She concluded with “It was every bottle, Julian. Every bottle in the house. And he was crying as well.”
“He did tell me he wants to give it up,” Julian said. And out of strict fairness and a resolve to be truthful, he added, “But he's said that before.”
“Then you don't believe him? Because he was … Julie, really, you should have seen him. It was like desperation came on him all at once. And, well, frankly, it was all about you.”
“Me.” Julian replaced the aniseed oil in the cupboard.
“He was saying that he'd ruined your life, that he'd driven off your brother and sister—”
That was certainly true enough, Julian thought.
“—and that he'd finally come to understand that if he didn't mend his ways, he'd drive you off as well. Of course, I told him that you'd never leave him. After all, anyone can see you're devoted. But the point is that he wants to change. He's ready to change. And I've been looking for you because … Well, I had to tell you. Aren't you pleased? And I'm not making up a word of what happened. It was bottle after bottle. Gin down the drain and bottle smashed in the sink.”
Julian knew at heart that there was more than one way to look at what his father had done. True as it might be that he wanted to get off the drink, like all good alcoholics he could also be doing nothing more than positioning his players where he wanted them. The only question was why he might be positioning his players at this precise moment. What did he want and what did wanting it now mean?
On the other hand, what if this time his father actually meant what he said? Julian wondered. What if a clinic and whatever it was that could follow a clinic would be enough to cure him? How could he—the only child Jeremy had left with enough concern to do something about the situation—begin to deny him that opportunity? Especially when it would take so damn little to obtain the opportunity for him.
Julian said, “I'm finished in here. Let's walk back to the house,” in a bid for time to gather his thoughts.
They left the kennels. They started down the overgrown lane. He said, “Dad's talked about giving up booze before. He's even done it. But he only makes it for a few weeks. Well … once it must have been three and a half months. But apparently now he's come to believe—”
“That he can do it.” Samantha finished the thought for him and linked her arm with his. She squeezed gently, “Julie, you should have seen him. If you had done, you'd know. I think that the key to success this time round is if we can come up with a plan that will help him. Obviously, it's done no good in the past to pour out the gin, has it?” She gave him an earnest gaze, perhaps seeking to see if she'd somehow offended him by pointing out what he'd previously done to attempt to wean his father from the piss. “And we can't exactly stop him going into an off-licence, can we?”
“Not to mention barring him from every hotel and pub from here to Manchester.”
“Right. So if there's a way … Julian, surely we can put our heads together and come up with something.”
Julian saw that his cousin had just given him the perfect opportunity to speak to her about money for the clinic. But the words that went with that opportunity were large and unpalatable, and they stuck in his throat like a piece of rotten meat. How could he ask her for money? For that much money? How could he say Could you give us ten thousand quid, Sam? Not lend us, Sam—because there wasn't a snowball's chance in the Sahara that he'd be able to repay her anytime soon—but give us the money. Lots of it. And soon, before Jeremy changes his mind. Please make an investment in a yammering drunk who's never kept his word in his life.
Julian couldn't do it. Despite his promises to his father, he found that face-to-face with his cousin, he couldn't even begin to try.
As they reached the end of the lane and crossed the old road to make for the house, a silver Bentley pulled round the side of the building. It was followed by a panda car. Two uniformed constables emerged first, peering round the grounds as if they expected ninja warriors to be lurking in the bushes. Out of the Bentley climbed the tall blond detective who'd first come to Broughton Manor with Inspector Hanken.
His cousin laid a hand on Julian's arm. Through it, he could feel how she'd stiffened.
“Make sure the house is secure,” DI Lynley said to the constables, whom he introduced as DCs Emmes and Benson. “Then do the grounds. It's probably best to start with the gardens. Then go on to the kennel area and the woods.”
Emmes and Benson ducked inside the courtyard gate. Julian watched, astonished. Samantha was the one who said, “Hang on, you lot,” and her tone was angry. “What the hell are you doing, Inspector? Do you have a warrant? What right have you to barge into our lives and—”
“I need you inside the house,” Lynley told her. “Quickly. And now.”
“What?” Samantha sounded incredulous. “If you think we're going to jump just because you say so, you'd better think again.”
Julian found his voice. “What's going on?”
“You can see what's going on,” Samantha said. “This twit has decided to search Broughton Manor. He's not got a single reason in hell to tear things apart, aside from the fact that you and Nicola were involved. Which, apparently, is some sort of crime. I want to see your warrant, Inspector.”
Lynley came forward and took her by the arm. She said, “Get your hands off me,” and tried to shake his grip.
He said, “Mr. Britton's in danger. I'd like him out of sight.”
Samantha said, “Julian? In danger?”
Julian blanched. “In danger from what? What's going on?”
Lynley said that he'd explain everything once the constables had ascertained that the house was safe. Inside, the three of them retired to the Long Gallery, which was, Lynley said when he saw it, an environment that could be well controlled.
“Controlled?” Julian asked. “From what? And why?”
So Lynley explained. His information was limited and direct, but Julian found that he couldn't begin to absorb it. The police believed that Andy Maiden had taken matters into his own hands, Lynley told him, which was always a risk if a member of a police officer's family became the victim of a violent crime.
“I don't understand,” Julian said. “Because if Andy's coming here … here to Broughton Manor …” He tried to come to terms with the implication behind what the inspector had told him. “Are you saying that Andy's coming after me?”
“We're not certain whom he's after,” Lynley replied. “Inspector Hanken's seeing to the safety of the other gentleman.”
“The other … ?”
“Oh my God.” Samantha was standing next to Julian, and immediately she dragged him away from the Long Gallery's diamond-paned windows. “Let's sit down. Here. The fireplace. It's out of sight from the grounds, and even if someone barges into the room, we'll be too far from the doors … Julie … Julie. Please.”
Julian allowed himself to be led, but he felt dazed. He said, “What are you saying, exactly?” to Lynley. “Does Andy think I might have … Andy?”
Absurdly, childishly, he wanted to cry. Suddenly the last six terrible days since—heart brimming with love—he'd asked Nicola to marry him came crashing down like a landslide and he could not bear another thing: He was utterly defeated by this final fact that the father of the woman he'd loved might actually believe he had killed her. How strange it was: He hadn't been defeated by her refusal when he'd offered marriage; he hadn't been defeated by the revelations she'd made to him that night; he hadn't been defeated by her disappearance, his part in the search for her, or her actual death. But this simple thing—her father's suspicion—was for some reason the final straw. He felt the tears coming, and the thought of weeping in front of this stranger, in front of his cousin, in front of anyone, burned in his throat.
Samantha's arm went round his shoulders. He felt her rough kiss against his temple. “You're all right,” she told him. “You're safe. And who bloody cares what anyone thinks. I know the truth. And that's what matters.”
“What truth is this?” DI Lynley spoke from the window, where he appeared to be waiting for a sign that the police constables had completed their securing of the house. “Miss McCallin?” he said when Samantha didn't answer.
“Oh stop,” she returned acerbically. “Julian didn't kill Nicola. Neither did I. Neither did anyone else in this house, if that's what you're thinking.”
“So what truth is it that you're talking about?”
“The truth about Julie. That he's fine and good and that fine and good people don't go about murdering one another, Inspector Lynley.”
“Even,” DI Lynley said, “if one of them is less than fine and good?”
“I don't know what you're talking about.”
“I expect Mr. Britton does.”
She dropped her arm from his shoulders. Julian could feel her searching his face. She said his name more hesitantly than she had yet done, and she waited for him to clarify the detective's remarks.
And even now he could not do so. He could see her still—so much more alive than he himself had ever once been, grasping life. He could not speak a single word against her, no matter the cause he had for doing so. In the measure and judgement of their everyday world, Nicola had betrayed him, and Julian knew that if he told the tale of her London life as she'd revealed it to him, he could call himself the deeply wronged party. And so he would be seen by everyone he and Nicola had known. There was indeed some satisfaction to be taken from that. But the truth of the matter would always be that only in the eyes of those who possessed the mere facts could he ever be seen as a man with a grievance. Those who knew Nicola as she truly was and had always been would know he'd brought his grief upon himself. Nicola had never once lied to him. He'd merely blinded himself to everything about her that he hadn't wanted to see.
She wouldn't have cared half a fig if he told the real truth about her now, Julian realised. But he wouldn't do so. Not so much to protect her memory but to protect the people who had loved her without knowing all that she was.
“I don't know what you're talking about,” Julian told the London detective. “And I don't understand why you can't leave us alone to get on with our lives.”
“I won't be doing that until Nicola Maiden's killer is found.”
“Then look somewhere else,” Julian said. “You won't find him here.”
At the far end of the room the door opened and a constable escorted Julian's father into the Long Gallery. He said to Lynley, “I found this one in the parlour, sir. Emmes has gone on to the gardens.” Jeremy Britton disengaged his arm from DC Benson's hand. He looked confused by the turn of events. He looked frightened. But he didn't look drunk. He came to Julian and squatted before him.
He said, “You all right, my boy?” and although the words were ever so slightly slurred, it occurred to Julian that the enunciation was prompted by Jeremy's concern for him and not the result of his addiction to drink.
This realisation made his heart suddenly warm. Warm to his father, wa
rm to his cousin, and warm to the connections implied by family. He said, “I'm okay, Dad,” and he made room for Jeremy on the floor by the fireplace. He did this by scooting closer to Sam.
In response, she returned her arm to his shoulders. “I'm so glad of that,” she said.
CHAPTER 30
arbara chose a venue that Matthew King-Ryder would know intimately: the Agincourt Theatre, where his father's production of Hamlet was being mounted. But after Nkata passed this message on to King-Ryder from the phone box in South Kensington, he made it clear that he wasn't about to let his fellow DC meet with a killer alone.
“Are you a convert to King-Ryder-as-killer, then?” Barbara asked her colleague.
“Seems like only one reason he'd know the number of this phone box.” Nkata sounded mournful, however, and when he went on, Barbara understood why. “Can't think why he'd go after his own dad. Makes me wonder, that.”
“He wanted more lolly than his dad left for him. He saw only one way to get it.”
“But how'd he come by that music in the first place? His dad wouldn't've told him, would he?”
“Tell your own son—tell anyone, in fact—that you're plagiarising your old mate's work? I don't think so. But he was his dad's manager, Winnie. He must have come across that music somewhere.”
They walked to Barbara's car in Queen's Gate Gardens. Nkata had told King-Ryder to meet him at the Agincourt half an hour from the moment he rang off. “You're there too early and I'm not showing my face,” he had warned King-Ryder. “You just thank your stars I'm willing to negotiate on your own turf.”
King-Ryder was to see to it that the stage door was unlocked. He was also to see to it that the building was unoccupied.
The drive into the West End took them less than twenty minutes. There, the Agincourt Theatre stood next to the Museum of Theatrical History, on a narrow side street off Shaftesbury Avenue. Its stage door was opposite a line of skips serving the Royal Standard Hotel. No windows overlooked it, so Barbara and Nkata could enter the Agincourt unobserved.
In Pursuit of the Proper Sinner Page 66