THE SWEEPING BRANCHES of the weeping willow trees in the pub garden were only now losing their delicate, lance-shaped leaves. They still provided a pleasant shade from the suddenly fierce October sun. At one time, autumn had been his favourite of all the seasons, Rafferty mused, as he sipped his half of bitter. The ‘season of mellow fruitfulness’, as some dead poet had it; the time of bright Indian summer skies when, as today, the sun, as if guided by some Old Master's hand, burnished the rusts, russets and ambers of the dying leaves to glowing life. But, he had long ago realised that this appearance of vivid life was counterfeit. Like the photo of the young and long-dead Carstairs and his laughing friend, it served more as a reminder of one's own mortality. Because, once the fruit was harvested, the glow faded, and even the most beautiful autumn was merely the precursor to the death and decay of winter.
Rafferty was a realist, and as the childhood indoctrination that there was an afterlife of heaven and hell and soaring angels that he, as a Catholic, had a duty to believe in, had transmuted to a vague hope of something to follow, he had transferred his allegiance to spring. To a policeman who had to deal with yet another sudden and violent passing, spring, with its vigorous renewal, was an infinitely more comforting season.
Still, it was a glorious day, he acknowledged as he leant back against the bench; he was getting used to snatching relaxation when he could get it. The recent prolonged rain had filled the sluggish River Tiffey after the long drought-ridden summer, and it sparkled with the lustre of a thousand love-bright solitaires in the sunshine. Running fast and sweet, it had shaken off any lingering summer odours.
Llewellyn was just coming towards him across the grass with his second half of Elgood's, and he sighed contentedly, silently congratulating Maureen for convincing Llewellyn of the superiority of pub lunches. He felt pleasantly full, having just got outside a particularly generous plateful of ploughman's—fish being off the menu today, unfortunately; he could still taste the crusty bread, the great wedge of mature cheddar served with a pickle with the bite of a Doberman. Apart from finding the solution to the case, what more could any man want?
'We ought to make this the last, sir,' Llewellyn remarked, bringing, along with Rafferty's beer, the unwelcome reminder that, in spite of an abundance of suspects, he had yet to solve the case.
Rafferty wished, not for the first time, that his sergeant was less the dutiful Methodist, less into keeping both their noses firmly fixed to the grindstone, and more into indulging in the occasional bout of hookey. It remained to be seen whether his introduction to Catholicism and possible entry into the Rafferty family would loosen him up a bit. If it ever came off, that was. Llewellyn's cautious streak seemed to come from the bone. If she wanted to marry his sergeant, Rafferty realised Maureen might have to do the proposing herself, and then kidnap her bridegroom as they used to do with well-dowered brides of centuries’ past.
Llewellyn murmured, 'I don't mean to rush you, sir,' as he watched Rafferty resignedly pick up his glass. 'Only I've just realised something that could have an important bearing on the case.'
'Oh yes? What's that then? The name of the murderer?' he suggested sardonically before draining his glass.
'Maybe.'
Llewellyn's answer nearly made him choke on his bitter. Slowly, he lowered his glass and stared at the Welshman.
'I've just realised the identity of one of the boys in that old film that Moon had hidden in his ward. 'If I'm right, I believe it gives one of our suspects a very good reason for wanting Moon dead.'
Chapter Fourteen
LLEWELLYN WAS RIGHT. It was Carstairs in the old film of the homosexual lovers that they'd found hidden in Moon's wardrobe.
After studying the film four times, smothering equal measures of repugnance and embarrassment, Rafferty rewound the film and began to watch it through again. 'Now I know why, every time I saw that veritable gallery of photographs Sarah Astell has of him, I had a feeling of familiarity. Of course, the film's very poor quality, and he's much younger.' Rafferty excused his own lack of observation. 'So much for his lady-killer reputation—that and his marriage must have made a pretty effective smokescreen for his real preferences.' He froze the film and nodded at the screen. 'And now I recognise the other young man, too. It's Nat Kingston. Mrs Astell told us he and her father had been close friends.'
'Whether or not the other youth is Kingston is hardly significant,' said Llewellyn briskly, as if reluctant to accept that his hero had other human weakness, apart from the reluctance to visit a doctor that he had already admitted to. 'But what is significant is my conviction that, after her cold-shoulder treatment, her abusive and threatening telephone call must have been the last straw for Moon. And he retaliated by issuing a threat of his own—to make this film public and turn her homosexual prejudices back on herself. He must have contemplated doing something of the sort even before she made that telephone call, otherwise why have four DVD copies made? Her phone call just provided that extra spur to a decision already more than half made.' Llewellyn paused for a moment, and then added, 'And if, as I suspect, Carstairs had been the great love of Moon's life that young man in The Troubadour mentioned, it would explain his possession of this film. Carstairs was good-looking, sophisticated, experienced, travelled – and, as we now discover – homosexual. Moon would have been dazzled if Carstairs paid him attention. Moon was a good-looking young man himself, on the spot, living in Carstairs' house.' Llewellyn's sallow skin positively glowed as, with an unaccustomed vigour, he laid out his arguments.
'If I'm right, it must have been Moon's first serious love affair; we can discount his half-hearted male-female romances. They were simply attempts at convincing himself he was other than homosexual. And then he discovered Carstairs had another lover in Nat Kingston; a relationship with a distinguished man of letters that had endured for years. Can't you just imagine how devastated Moon would feel, the acrimony of the split when Moon found out that he had been little more than a plaything to Carstairs?'
Rafferty tried to break in, but Llewellyn hurried on. 'Don't you see? It would explain why Moon had this film. Carstairs seems the type who would have taunted him with it, thrown his love and the film in his face when Moon challenged him. Probably Moon took the film to torment himself, to remind him – should he ever forget – that great love often brought great pain, and to stay clear of it in future. Moon was very young, sensitive about his own homosexuality, probably fearful about it becoming common knowledge. He must have felt a terrible sense of betrayal when he discovered that Carstairs had been cheating on him. And being so young, he was probably even more prone to melodrama then than he was when he reached middle aged. It would explain everything, including why he left Carstairs' employ.’
Rafferty had listened to Llewellyn's impassioned theorising with growing astonishment. When he finally got a chance to get a word in, all he could find to say was, 'My God, you're a bit of a drama queen yourself, aren't you? I never suspected.'
Llewellyn flushed. 'If you read the classics rather than those trashy novels, you'd have more understanding of deep love and its passions. It can change history, start wars, bring death, destruction. You must have heard of Helen of Troy, Tristram and Isolde, Romeo and Juliet. Surely, even you can see that the homosexual world also has its great love stories?'
It was Rafferty's turn to flush. He supposed he should be grateful that Llewellyn had stopped short of accusing him of being wilfully blinded his own prejudices.
'Could be one reason why Moon finally settled on Christian Farley as his partner rather than one of the gilded youth he could have chosen. You said yourself Moon's choice surprised you.'
Rafferty frowned. He suspected he knew in which direction Llewellyn's mind was going. And, in spite of the Welshman's eloquence, he still thought Ellen Hadleigh the more likely suspect. But, this time he didn't attempt to interrupt.
'We know Sarah Astell disliked Moon even before she learned of his assault on Terry Hadleigh. Obviously, she never susp
ected when she threatened Moon that he had this film of her adored father, or she wouldn't have dared anger him. You must admit, Moon's possession of this film gives Sarah Astell a strong circumstantial motive for murder. It's not as if it's the only copy. We know he had more made. We also know he sent her a DVD on the evening of his death.'
Rafferty conceded the point. 'But I still can't see her killing him. It would be more believable if she persuaded Astell to kill him for her. But that scenario also strikes me as unlikely. I can't see Astell committing this particular murder. It simply doesn't fit his character.'
'But it fits hers,' Llewellyn insisted. 'You said yourself that it was a spur-of-the moment murder. She's just the type of highly emotional woman to act in such a way. No rational male – and Astell's certainly that – would be prepared to risk his livelihood over an ancient scandal that would be no more than a five-minute wonder. Most of Sarah Astell's money went to pay for her commitments at Lloyds. Even if his wife refused to face it, Astell would know that their future financial security rested with Moon. They needed his friendship.
‘Once tempers had cooled Astell would have been likely to persuade his wife to eat humble pie and apologise to Moon—any other course of action would have been foolish.' Llewellyn paused, before he added softly. 'Of course, the difficulty would be getting Sarah Astell to agree. She's capable of ignoring the financial angle to protect her father's reputation. She had the motive. She also had the opportunity, as she was almost certainly alone for some time that evening. Even if Astell and Mrs Moreno came in and discovered her missing, they would assume she was in the bathroom. But even if Astell did check on her, as he claimed, and found her gone from the sitting room, how likely is it he would have betrayed her? He agreed with her alibi readily enough. He's been trying to protect her, can't you see that?' Llewellyn took a breath and went on.
'There's something else. I didn't mention it before, but while I was talking to the people from the taxi firm, I learned that one of their drivers moonlights from his regular job driving for the bus company. He remembered picking up a middle-aged woman from the stop outside the Astells' house at around 8.05 p m that same night. It's only a five-minute drive to the High Street. She got off at the stop outside The Psychic Store, and stood gazing in the window till the bus moved off. He noticed her particularly, because even though it was such a wet night she didn't seem in any rush to get out of the rain. Said she seemed all hunched up and furtive.' Llewellyn ventured another opinion. 'I wondered if it might not have been Sarah Astell on her mission to murder Moon.'
Rafferty raised his eyebrows. 'So why didn't you mention this before?'
Llewellyn shrugged. 'What was the point of mentioning this woman when I didn't have anything to connect her with the case? You'd have pooh-poohed me, if I'd said she might be Sarah Astell. After all,' he conceded, 'she could have been anybody.'
'Still could, for that matter. Anyway,' Rafferty pointed out, 'Sarah Astell's not exactly middle-aged. She's no older than I am. There's the first flaw in your argument.'
Wisely, Llewellyn made no comment regarding Rafferty's maturity—or otherwise and merely pointed out, 'but she looks a lot older than her years. The driver says this passenger was bundled up in scarves, so he didn't get a good look at her face, but Mrs Astell doesn't move like a young person, does she? The driver could have easily thought of her as older because of her slow gait.'
'Surely Astell would have seen her going out the front door? It's at the end of the hall opposite the kitchen.'
'But she didn't need to use the front door,' Llewellyn pointed out reasonably. 'Her sitting room is at the side of the house and has French windows. She wouldn't even have needed to walk down the illuminated driveway as she could simply have walked through the shrubbery surrounding the house. It continues right up to the gates at the front, which had been opened for the guests. Then, all she had to do was wait for the 8.05 p m bus.'
Rafferty shook his head. 'Bit risky. What if someone had recognised her?'
'Unlikely. She rarely goes out, so who would be likely to recognise her? Even when Mrs Moreno returned for her gloves, she wouldn't have passed the stop as she lives in the opposite direction. It was a wet, chilly night, not many people about. Astell said it was her custom to spend a period alone on the night of her father's anniversary. She would feel herself safe for some time. She presumably wore an old coat over her dress and carried an open umbrella well down over her face to protect her hairstyle from the wind. You remember forensic picked up an inside-out umbrella from the gutter outside The Psychic Store. I wonder if it was hers.'
Rafferty still wasn't convinced, but he conceded that point. 'I'll get a description of it out, and see if anyone recognises it. But I still don't think you're on the right track. The woman's a semi-invalid, after all. And she's so nervy; she'd jump at her own shadow. It was an appalling night. I can't imagine that someone who took her ailments as seriously as Sarah Astell does would consider venturing out in such stormy weather. Apart from anything else, do you really think she had the mental or physical strength to kill Moon?'
'I know that everyone, including herself, behaves as if she was an invalid, but that doesn't make her one. As Juvenal warns us in his Satires, "Fronti nulla fides": Never judge a book by its cover,' he quickly translated as he noted Rafferty's expression.
'If you must throw these endless quotes at me, could you at least manage to drag yourself a bit nearer the current century? There's something from Gilbert and Sullivan that might suit. "Things are seldom what they seem, skim milk masquerades as cream". Though, according to you, in Sarah Astell's case, it should be the other way around—full-bodied cream pretending to be something weak, thin and far less deadly.'
'Exactly.'
'Come on, Dafyd. She's had poor health for years, we know that. It's not something she's just invented to help her get away with murder.'
'I'm not saying she has. But Astell himself said the doctors had been unable to diagnose what was the matter with her. Perhaps that's because, as Ginnie Campbell implied, there was nothing much to find. She wouldn't be the first woman to find ill health convenient. How much more convenient it would be if she could use it to get away with murder.' Pointedly, Llewellyn reminded him, 'You were the one who said that police officers should suspect everyone.'
'All right, all right. I take your point. There's no need to hammer it home. But now's not the time to change the habits of a lifetime and go rushing off half-cocked.' Rafferty grimaced. 'That's my role, remember? Besides, the evidence of this film brings up another suspect. One we hadn't really considered before. Let's face it; if Moon used this film to expose Carstairs and hurt his daughter, he would also expose—'
'Not Nat Kingston,' Llewellyn protested at what he believed was a slur on the reputation of his literary hero. 'I thought you agreed that he—'
'No,' Rafferty agreed. 'Not Kingston. Although this film exposes his homosexuality as well as Carstairs', it's debatable whether he would greatly care how he's judged by a world he is, anyway, soon to leave. He seems to have developed a fine contempt for it and its petty concerns. Besides, even if he did care, he's obviously far too ill to do anything about it.
‘No, I was thinking of someone in their prime, someone who would care and care enormously if Kingston's reputation was tarnished by cheap sensationalism about his youthful sexual exploits—Kingston's zealous, over-protective secretary, Eckersley. Neither of us even thought of asking him for an alibi.' He took the film out of the machine and handed it to Llewellyn. 'Maybe we ought to find out whether or not he has got an alibi before we tackle either of our favourite suspects.'
IT WAS ONLY A SHORT drive to Nat Kingston's home. They arrived to find the gates wide open and an ambulance parked at the front door. Rafferty pulled up outside the gates and waited. Five minutes later, the front door opened and the ambulance crew appeared carrying a stretcher. Its occupant was obviously dead, as the blankets covered the face. And after seeing a shattered looking Eckers
ley trailing the little procession, Rafferty didn't need two guesses as to who lay under the blankets. Now was obviously not the time to question the secretary.
After glancing at Llewellyn's shuttered face, Rafferty sat and watched, without speaking, as Eckersley climbed in the back of the ambulance. The doors closed, and it made its way at a suitably funereal pace out through the gates.
Rafferty crossed himself in an involuntary Catholic obeisance to the dead. He only realised he'd done so when, out of the corner of his eye, he saw Llewellyn follow his example. Some of his grim mood lifted as he realised that his Ma's religious indoctrination of the Welshman was bearing fruit.
They sat for a few more moments, paying their respects, while the sea, crashing on the rocks far below, paid its own more thunderous homage. Then, Rafferty turned the car round, and they returned to town.
RAFFERTY STILL FELT that Ellen Hadleigh was their strongest suspect. And although Llewellyn had laid out a good case for Sarah Astell being the murderer, he remained unconvinced and was determined to pursue his own line before any other. Llewellyn raised no objection when Rafferty told him his decision; Kingston’s death had affected him deeply, and he had not said a word all the way back to town, not even to criticise Rafferty's driving.
Unfortunately for Rafferty's theory, no-one who had seen her on the night of the murder had been able to recall what Mrs Hadleigh had been wearing. It seemed she had an assortment of nondescript dresses which she wore for her work and they all looked much the same; dark, drab and practical. There was no help for them there. But, he thought, before he went cap in hand to Bradley to have the council tip searched, he wanted another go at getting the truth out of her. As he'd already discovered, telling lies didn't come easily to her. Maybe – if she had killed Moon – the strain of having to tell more could prove her undoing.
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