by Alan Hunter
‘And that woman is now your wife?’
‘Mary, yes – I know it sounds preposterous, but that’s exactly how it happened . . .’
His stare was now astonished, now doubting, as though he couldn’t decide whether Gently was being serious.
‘Mary – she was a draughtswoman whom Hannah had met at the office . . . she had a boyfriend at one time, but for some reason they broke up. Hannah took to inviting her out with us . . . honestly, it was none of my doing! At the time, I just looked on Mary as a friend. Then suddenly, it was as though we had always planned it that way . . .’
‘You were still sleeping with Hannah?’
‘Yes, until . . .’
‘Had Hannah ever thought she might be pregnant?’
‘No, we had given up expecting . . .’
Spots were showing in his cheeks again.
‘She more or less arranged things. We didn’t even have lawyers . . . if everything is agreed, it seems you don’t need them. I made over the Tower to her, and she suggested an allowance much less than I was ready to give her. I swear there was no ill-feeling at all. She simply opted out and gave place to Mary.’
‘No suggestion that Hannah had a boyfriend.’
‘No – believe me!’
‘Either at that end – or this?’
Stoven gazed, then shook his head. ‘We knew some people here, but not very well.’
‘Who did you know?’
‘We belonged to the yacht club. We got to know a few members and officials.’
‘For example, a past-commodore?’
‘If you mean Group Captain Riddlesworth, yes, we knew him fairly well. He was interested in the conversion we were doing – the Tower was just a shell when we leased it from the council.’
‘He was friendly with Hannah?’
‘There was nothing like that . . .’
‘Has she ever mentioned him to you, since?’
‘Yes, once or twice! We exchanged letters and cards, though I haven’t actually seen her since we parted. But nothing that might lead one to expect . . .’
‘In May, Hannah had a pregnancy test. Did she make any mention of that?’
‘Good heavens . . . no!’
‘Or of any boyfriend?’
‘Absolutely none.’
But he looked shaken. Perhaps, for the first time, what had happened was seeming real. Behind the stark fact of Hannah’s death there had been circumstances, people . . .
‘Surely, you can’t suspect . . .?’
‘Hannah died at a rendezvous with a lover.’
‘Oh my God . . . the poor girl. How could anyone do such a thing?’
‘Perhaps from jealousy. Or a different motive.’
‘But I don’t see how one could be jealous of Hannah. She was so kind . . . the last person in the world to have provoked an act of violence.’
‘Yet, if she had stood in someone’s way?’
He paled slightly, and sat very still.
‘Is that the idea, then – that I might have done it to save paying out her allowance?’
Was it the idea? Gently had made a pass with it almost as an act of politeness, just to let Stoven know that he had a stake in the case, wasn’t being left out in the cold! But in fact he had already made up his mind. Stoven’s only claim was his non-alibi . . .
‘You say you made over the Tower to her?’
‘Yes. So she wasn’t keeping me out of that. I assume that now it will go to her father . . . though if I could, I would like to see it again.’
‘Then now is your chance. Her father is down there. You had better get along before he locks up.’
‘You mean . . . I can go?’
‘Why not? And many thanks for presenting yourself here today.’
Stoven stared, and then rose. But somehow it must have seemed too much like a brush-off. At the door he hesitated, looking back doubtfully at Gently.
‘The funeral . . . I want to take care of that. I would like to take Hannah home.’
‘You had better discuss that with her father. He may have his own ideas.’
‘But we lived together for six years. I’m sure it’s what she would have wanted. If I’m willing to pay all the expenses, I don’t see why . . .’
‘Hannah’s father is the next of kin.’
He went, and a little later they saw him set out down the street with reluctant steps; it may have been that he didn’t get on too well with Makovrilov and was half-hoping that Gently would hold his hand.
‘So where does that get us, sir?’
Gently grunted and felt for his pipe. Mostly where it had got him was a few steps closer to the secret life of Hannah Stoven. For all they knew, there were several alternatives that might fit the circumstances of the crime, but one only that would fit Hannah Stoven, matching her character at all points. Know her, and the rest would fill in. Yet didn’t he already know her well enough? He had dismissed Stoven practically out of hand, non-alibi, white car and all . . .
‘Think I’ll get along to the Tower too, sir. I’m not too happy about letting out the key.’
‘Are you afraid they may come to blows?’
Leyston said stolidly: ‘I’d sooner that Stoven had accounted for his movements.’
Still that lazy Sunday was unfolding as they drove along the causeway, bright sun, pale sky, no breeze and a sea almost without motion. The bright stillness seemed like a frame enclosing some moments out of time, a picture in which nothing could happen, a sudden shift to a Sunday of childhood. They passed Stoven, now striding out, and the cars of the anglers, the latter stationed along the shingle at precise intervals, each with a rod at the same angle. Did they ever catch anything? Like the sea they seemed to be sleeping at their posts, while down the river a wrinkled sail stood rooted above its reflection. The Tower had its shadow towards them and cut a dark notch in the sky. Beyond it, the spit stretched sunnily, dunes of marram where no shadow was.
‘There’s Makovrilov’s car.’
They parked beside it on a piece of rough ground free from shingle. Across the drawbridge the door stood open, and immediately on entering one smelt cigarette smoke. Claydon . . .! He was squatting on a stool beside the kneeling form of the musician, who had around him a scatter of papers from a drawer in his daughter’s bureau.
‘What are you doing here?’
‘What . . .? I happen to be acquainted with Mr Makovrilov!’
‘He brought you here?’
‘I met him . . . I’d come this way for a stroll.’
Claydon was quivering at once, eyes big and indignant behind the glasses. He was dressed this morning in an open-necked shirt that revealed a scrawny though hairy chest.
‘I thought . . . it was a mark of respect, just a few quiet moments here. It isn’t out of bounds, is it? And then Mr Makovrilov drove up.’
‘He is here with permission, but you are not.’
‘But I know him very well. He invited me in.’
And suddenly he was looking so wretched that Gently merely shrugged, and turned to the musician.
‘Mr Makovrilov?’
‘Wait – wait!’
His bushy head was bent over an exercise book. Looking over his shoulder, one could see writing in Hannah Stoven’s wispy scribble.
‘What have you there?’
‘This is important – it is her diary, written in Czech.’
‘Her diary!’
‘Just so. And it mentions a man . . . I am reading . . .’
His queer, squeezed face was intent, his glinting eyes racing over the page. Then he turned a leaf, but there was no more writing, and he slapped the book shut with a groan.
‘This is no good – no good at all. My daughter is always so poetical! But she had a lover, is it not so, who she used to meet on the bank of the river?’
‘Is that in her diary?’
‘Yes, yes, but I have heard about it before.’
‘Heard about it from whom?’
‘The Gro
up Captain told me– he has offered to point out the very spot. Only the name you do not know, isn’t that right? He cannot tell me, nor Mr Claydon.’
‘The Group Captain offered to point out the spot?’
‘I tell you yes – do the police not know it? But Mr Claydon tells me about this fisherman who saw Hannah’s boat there, and beside it the boat of her lover. So you are searching for him, yes? You have a clue? It is this man who assassinates Hannah? I am her father who is asking you this, who implores justice for his murdered child!’
He had got up from his knees now and begun making vehement gestures at Gently. Leyston was peering at him distastefully while, on his stool, Claydon puffed rapidly.
‘Her mother is dead, she is my only child . . .’
‘What exactly does she say in her diary?’
‘It is what we know, that she has a lover and goes out to meet him in her boat. But my child was a poet . . .’
‘Doesn’t she name him?’
Makovrilov’s hands went to his head. ‘Am I not telling you? She has romantic ideas, calling nothing by its proper name. She calls him Endymion.’
‘Endymion?’
‘You do not know? The shepherd prince? And she visits him according to the moon – which is to say, when the tide is right. So what is that? Have you shepherd princes – is it some farmer keeping sheep?’
‘Endymion was a youth . . .’
‘Young, old, there is nothing in her diary about that. She goes to meet him in her scallop, and he is wafted to her in his. Then they have dreams, and their farewells are softly called across the waters. This is so, it is what she writes. If you wish, I will translate.’
‘What period does it cover?’
Makovrilov snatched up the book.
‘In September thirtieth is the last entry. April twenty-eighth it begins. And all is written in the same style.’
‘And this is the only one?’
‘Look for yourself. The rest is poetry, notes and letters from me. Poor Hannah . . . she is making a romance of everything . . . and in the end . . .’
He covered his face.
‘I . . . I told him what I knew,’ Claydon stammered. ‘I couldn’t see any harm.’
‘What you knew, or what you suspected?’
‘Honestly, I didn’t mention any names . . .’
He seemed almost as upset as the musician, and kept blinking at the furniture, especially the books. Catching Gently’s eye on him, he nodded to the latter:
‘I sold her most of those . . . at cost, of course.’
Meanwhile there were steps on the drawbridge and Stoven entered the room. He paused an instant to glance about him, then hastened to take Makovrilov’s arm.
‘Stefan.’
‘Ach . . . Dennis!’
Makovrilov clasped the architect to him. For a moment it seemed he might kiss his cheeks, but Stoven drew back just in time.
‘I came down as soon as I was able. I thought there should be someone here to take charge.’
‘Dennis . . . why did you let her go?’
‘She wouldn’t stay, Stefan.’
‘Ach, to meet again . . . here . . . and now!’
Clearly Stoven was finding this awkward, and he gently released himself from the other’s embrace. Makovrilov stared at him mistily, then let his hands drop to his sides.
‘Had you not heard from her lately, Dennis?’
‘She wrote me a letter two months ago.’
‘You know she had a lover?’
‘So I have been told.’
‘She did not speak to you of this?’
Stoven shook his head.
‘But is that not strange?’ In Makovrilov’s tone was a trace of sharpness. ‘You talk to each other of these things, yes, they are freely discussed between you?’
‘I . . . would have expected her to tell me.’
‘Yet she does not?’
‘What she wrote about was the Festival. You have seen her yourself since then, Stefan – at least, she said she expected you down here.’
‘The Festival . . . yes.’ He dropped his gaze. ‘And that was the last time, Dennis. Here, in this room, is where I parted from her . . . here, on this very spot.’
‘She didn’t mention to you . . .’ Stoven began, but the musician was no longer paying him attention. His mouth trembling, he was staring at the carpet, a wild look in his hazed eyes.
‘Oh Lord,’ Claydon moaned. ‘If I’d known, I wouldn’t have come in.’
Stoven seemed to notice him for the first time, and turned to frown at the shrinking bookseller.
‘Yes, Stan – why are you here?’
Claydon goggled up at him. ‘I – I met him. He looked upset . . . I don’t know! And I wanted to see . . . just once . . .’
‘What do you know about this?’
‘Me!’
‘Well, you must have seen as much of her as anyone.’
Claydon’s mouth twisted. ‘You too. As though it wasn’t enough that everyone else . . .’ Then he fired up. ‘I’ll tell you what I know! Hannah has left me in a mess I shall never get out of. At the end of the month, you’ll see. I shall be a done man, after that.’
‘That’s utter rubbish.’
‘I haven’t slept all night, trying to work out what she’s done with the books. But it’s the VAT that’s going to finish me – where can I find another five thousand?’
‘What had she to do with that?’
‘She didn’t warn me! It’s been mounting up since before the Festival. What I need is help.’ He puffed furiously. ‘And I can’t see why her connections . . .’
‘Have you been trying to touch Stefan?’
‘No! But where else am I going to turn?’
‘And this is all you can think about?’
‘You don’t understand. I was fond of her too, more than some people.’
‘But now you want to soak her relatives.’
‘Oh Lord, I need help. Perhaps I’d be better off dead too.’
‘I think you are despicable.’
‘If you only knew . . .’
‘I never liked the idea of her working for you.’
Claydon groaned and squirmed on the stool, but his dominating habit proved too strong for him: stained fingers jerked up a fresh cigarette, though they trembled so much that he could scarcely light up.
Stoven watched him with disgust. In his neatness, his dryness, was a touch of felinity.
‘Anyway, you should know something about it. You’ve been seeing her mostly every day.’
‘You’ve no right to say that! All I know I’ve told to the Superintendent here.’
‘I suppose you weren’t the boyfriend?’
‘That’s contemptible!’
‘And of course, she didn’t tell you who he was.’
Jacking himself upright, Claydon spat: ‘And I notice she didn’t tell you, either.’
‘I haven’t been seeing her . . .’
‘You corresponded.’
‘That isn’t quite the same thing . . .’
‘It would be if she’d still thought anything of you – if she hadn’t thrown you on the dust-heap.’
‘Now you’re being contemptible!’
‘Hannah had done with you.’
‘At least, she wasn’t murdered when she worked for me.
Sudden electricity! They were glaring at each other, Claydon’s magnified eyes wide with hostility. Stoven, on the other hand, looked slightly shocked, like a cat who has found a mouse turning on him.
And all the while, Makovrilov stood motionless, his eyes fixed on that spot on the carpet.
At last Claydon’s stare faltered.
‘I didn’t quite mean all that, you know . . .’
‘It’s all the same if you did.’
‘I’m sorry . . . I’m under stress.’
‘Do you think it’s any better for me?’
‘No. But one thing and another . . . I haven’t slept, and this place . . . Honestly, I
don’t know where to turn.’
The fight had ebbed out of him again; he groaned, and applied to his cigarette. Stoven sniffed, but stayed silent. Nevertheless, his eyes were mean. He turned his back and took some steps about the room, pretending to examine Hannah’s little arrangements.
Then Makovrilov came out of his trance with some guttural exclamation in Czech. He stormed up to Gently and, drawing himself tall, made jerky gestures before the latter’s face.
‘Why? Why are you waiting here? Why are you not catching this killer of my child? Is there no law? Am I helpless? Is it like this because we are foreigners?’
‘Be assured we are taking every step.’
‘Hannah – look – this is Hannah!’ He caught up a photograph and shoved it under Gently’s nose. ‘This is my child – my only child – the little girl they placed in my arms, at the same time telling me my wife is dead. Have you no pity in this country?’
‘Oh, my goodness!’ Claydon gulped.
‘She is a fine girl – a beautiful girl. What does she do to deserve that some Englishman shall take her life away?’ He babbled in Czech. ‘And it is six weeks – her kisses on my cheeks as I go to my car . . . and now, no more! In your laboratory she is, and soon – down there, down there, under so much earth. I will go with her. I will not stay here in this cruel country of yours. There is no justice, no pity. And here I brought her from the land she loved . . .’
His tirade rambled into Czech again, and then was choked with sobs. He threw himself down on a settee and lay weeping into his hands.
Claydon too had covered his face. Stoven was looking pale and uncomfortable. Fiddling with a book he’d picked up, he murmured:
‘Stefan has always been emotional . . .’
‘You had better take care of him.’
‘Yes . . .’
‘The Inspector wishes to lock up again.’
‘I’ll get him away.’
But for the moment he didn’t seem quite to know how to handle the assignment.
Leyston said: ‘Shall we take the diary, sir?’
‘I doubt if it can be much help to us.’
All the same, Leyston picked it up and pored over it before dropping it in the bureau drawer.
Finally, Stoven ventured to lay his hand on Makovrilov’s shoulder.
‘Stefan, we have to go . . .’
‘I will stay here! I wish to die where, it is two days, my child is alive.’