Toye whistled in astonishment. ‘Could have been something to do with the Langs, but it ties up with a vanished husband all right. You don’t think the chap could have turned up on the same cruise, though, do you, sir? Being the sort of woman she was, she’d have blown her top on the ship, surely? I can’t picture her keeping it under her hat till she got home, and then starting enquiries. Besides, he’d have recognized her.’
‘We can rule out the Penelope, I’m sure,’ Pollard said. ‘But that’s not to say he hadn’t been on an earlier cruise — if he’s above ground, that is. Suppose there was a photograph of a previous batch of passengers stuck up somewhere, and she spotted him in it, or caught sight of him on a shore trip with a bird in tow?’
‘But if this Donald Vickers sent the chocolates, he must have spotted her as well, and somehow found out where she lived,’ Toye objected with his usual caution.
‘This is true. I know it’s all wild speculation at the moment, but the fact remains that her husband may be alive, and this is something worth looking into. I’ll get on to the Yard right away about tracing Donald Vickers. As you say, if he walked out on his wife he probably changed his name, and is going under an alias, so finding him may be a job. Anyway, if he was in one of the services it’s a starting point.’
Toye went on with his methodical search of the bedrooms, and was presently rejoined by Pollard. After some time they agreed that, short of taking the house to pieces, all possible hiding-places for old diaries and revealing letters had been investigated.
‘Looks as though she was determined to forget the past,’ Pollard remarked as he shut and locked a window. ‘Let’s call it a day, shall we, and go and eat?’
They came downstairs to the sitting-room again, and stood looking about them. It faced west, and the early evening sun was flooding in, lighting up the sombre portraits and other pictures on the walls. Pollard’s eye was caught by an attractive, if hackneyed water-colour of the Amo and the Ponte Vecchio, and he went over to it for a closer look.
‘Pure coincidence, surely,’ he said, ‘but here’s a signature that could be a name on the passenger list. I remember reading it out to the Langs this morning. Bayley. J. Bayley. The less common spelling, and the same initial. Fish out the list, will you?’
While Toye was searching in the file he took down the painting for a closer examination, but it yielded no further information beyond the trade label of a Redbay picture framer on the back.
‘Yes, you’re quite right, sir,’ Toye said. ‘B-A-Y-L-E-Y. Mr John Bayley.’
‘Never ignore a possible lead, however far-fetched it seems. Before we go I’ll just ring the Langs, and ask if the John Bayley on the cruise was the artist who painted this thing here.’
An unresponsive Keith Lang answered the telephone, and unwillingly went to fetch his wife. Pollard rightly deduced that both were now feeling decidedly worried and uneasy. On being asked about the water-colour, however, Drusilla seemed relieved, and talked freely.
‘It’s funny you should ask that,’ she said. ‘It occurred to Aunt Audrey one day on the cruise. She — well, she was given to trying to find links with people, and pounced on Mr Bayley one day when we were out on a shore expedition. She went on and on about it, and he got a bit irritable. The more he said he wasn’t a painter, the more she insisted he was just being modest. You know.’
‘Yes, I see. I gather that she’d never met the water-colour artist, then?’
‘Not as far as I know. I was with her when she bought the picture. It was a few years ago, at an art shop in Florence. There were several Bayley things on sale, but he wasn’t around himself.’
‘Well, thank you very much, Mrs Lang. Sorry to have bothered you.’
He put down the receiver and turned to Toye. ‘That’s that: she doesn’t know of any contact between her aunt and this J. Bayley.’
Later that evening, after a good meal at the Southgate, Pollard and Toye repaired to the room lent to them at police headquarters and brought the case file up to date.
‘Well,’ Pollard remarked, leaning back in his chair and lighting a cigarette, ‘we’ve covered some quite useful ground today. Starting with the Langs, we’ve got the Yard report that Drusilla is Audrey Vickers’ niece, and not her illegitimate child, as old Partridge suddenly wondered, and she is married to Keith. We’ve interviewed the pair, and they hardly seem to fill the bill, but we know that they had the means and the opportunity to put paid to Vickers. Motive’s another matter. Vickers did try to see her lawyer and disinherit her niece as soon as she got home, and I don’t think it could ever be proved that Drusilla Lang knew there’d been a hold-up over this.’
Toye agreed. ‘But we’ve only got her word for it that she wasn’t in touch with Mrs Vickers after they all got back, though,’ he added.
‘This is it. Well, to continue, we’ve combed Lauriston, and found nothing that throws any useful light on Audrey Vickers’ private life. But we do know that there’s no official record of her husband’s death. But fair enough, if he deserted her, he probably changed his name. Anyway, if he’s around as John Smith he’s going to be damn difficult to run to earth, and at present there isn’t a shred of evidence to connect him with his wife’s murder. We’ve found a water-colour signed J. Bayley at Lauriston, but he certainly doesn’t seem to be the John Bayley of the cruise. Finally,’ Pollard paused to expel a mouthful of smoke, ‘I’ve had a Great Thought.’
Toye looked startled.
‘The upshot of it was that just now I rang a lady: Mrs Olivia Strode of Affacombe. She’s coming in to see us at ten o’clock tomorrow morning. You heard me read out her name from the passenger list, and what Mrs Lang said? That day in Athens when Mrs Vickers came over queer, and she tried to lend a hand, was the day of the row between Mrs V and the Langs. With any luck we might get some information about what actually happened. Could anyone else have been involved, for instance?’
‘Funny if Mrs Strode hands us the answer the second time,’ commented Toye. ‘Lucky she’s the reliable sort. Real coincidence she’s turned up again in a case.’
‘Anyway, it gives us the feeling that we’re putting the morning to some use. It’s a bit of a nuisance having to hang around here for the inquest, when we could be checking up on the Langs at Fulminster, or pushing ahead with these various enquiries in town. Let’s pack it in for tonight, shall we? I think I’ll just go and pat Inspector Dart on the back if he’s still here. An arrest within twenty-four hours of that stabbing, the lucky blighter.’
Chief-Inspector Dart was still at his desk, surrounded by papers. He accepted Pollard’s congratulations with intense gratification, imperfectly masked by a show of off-handedness.
‘Tying up the loose ends?’ Pollard asked him. ‘I should have thought you were due for an evening off and a celebration.’
‘This is that ruddy arson business the CC mentioned last night,’ Dart replied. ‘Ten days ago Brede House was burnt down at Roccombe, a little town thirty miles or so from here. They found a body in the wreckage. The forensic chaps were called in, and they’ve reported that it was arson beyond a doubt.’
‘Has the body been identified?’ Pollard asked, trying to show sympathetic interest.
‘No trouble there. It was a local drunk and layabout, with no fixed abode. The place was empty, and it looks as though he was sleeping rough in one of the upstairs rooms. Flat out, I don’t doubt, and was suffocated by the smoke. The inquest’s been adjourned, but it doesn’t look like foul play. I don’t suppose whoever started the fire had a clue he was there.’
‘What do you think was the idea behind the arson? The insurance money?’
‘More likely vandals, the local chaps think. The house had been empty for some time — up for sale, and hanging on hand. The owner wanted to sell to a supermarket chain, who’d have liked to clear the site and expand their present premises, but a preservation order had been put on the house. Picturesque, it was, and full of dry rot, I don’t doubt. Anyway, the owner was out of the country.�
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A voice cut in over the intercom, announcing a 999 call. Dart swore vigorously, and Pollard seized the opportunity to remove himself, and return to the consideration of his own problems.
6
At much the same time that Pollard and Toye drove off from Lauriston, Olivia Strode got a little stiffly to her feet and surveyed the flower-bed which she had just weeded. It was amazing what a state the garden could get into in three weeks, even with Fred Earwaker coming in to cut the grass. All the same she decided to call it a day. Sorting oneself out after a holiday was wearing, and she seemed to have been at it nonstop since arriving home at her cottage at Affacombe on Friday. The only break had been today’s lunch with her daughter-in-law’s parents, to give them all the latest news of the young people and the grandson.
After putting her tools away Olivia stood for a few moments enjoying the warm May evening. The sky was cloudless, its blueness vividly mirrored in the little river Sinnel flowing quietly at the bottom of the garden. To the north the massive moorland shoulder of Sinneldon crowned with its three barrows was bathed in golden light. I’ve been a long way and seen marvellous places, she thought, but it’s good to come back to this. She turned and walked up the path to the back door of the cottage.
Half an hour later, washed and changed out of her gardening clothes, she settled herself comfortably by the french window of her sitting-room, having first assembled various newspapers and a glass of sherry. A pleasant lethargy descended upon her as she sipped and took an occasional glance round, enjoying being back among her own possessions: books, pictures with their associations, photographs, and the companionable desk at which she had spent so many satisfying hours writing her Parish History of Affacombe. The pile of correspondence awaiting attention wasn’t so good, but she’d get down to it in the course of the week…
Presently the feeling that she really ought to catch up with the news made her pick up the Scrutator, her Sunday newspaper. The headlines on the front page reiterated discord and violence abroad and economic malaise at home. She skimmed through several depressing columns, and then glanced at the smaller items at the bottom of the page, the apparently random selection of which always entertained her. This week someone in London had won the £25,000 Premium Bond prize. One person out of the huge seething ant heap. She speculated idly as to the kind of person whose life must have been transformed by an enactment of Ernie’s. Then her eye was suddenly caught by a local place-name.
REDBAY: SCOTLAND YARD TAKES OVER
‘Detective-Superintendent Pollard,’ she read, ‘has arrived in Redbay to conduct the enquiry into the death by cyanide poisoning of Mrs Audrey Vickers last Friday.’
Olivia’s first reaction was incredulity. She read the paragraph for a second, and then for a third time before letting the Scrutator drop. She sat staring out into the garden, aware of a gulf between the world now, and the same world a few moments earlier, before she had acquired this unwelcome information… An accident? Was Audrey Vickers the sort of woman to keep cyanide on the premises for dealing with wasps’ nests? Dismissing the idea as fantastic, she considered suicide… Definitely a possibility for anyone so overwrought — unbalanced, even. There’d been the break with the Langs, too, after that unfortunate day at Athens, and this might have been the last straw. But cyanide? Audrey Vickers would surely have had a supply of sleeping pills?
Reluctantly Olivia faced the remaining possibility, murder, ominously hinted at by the appearance of Scotland Yard. As memory remorselessly assaulted her senses she felt a shiver at the base of her spine. She saw the promenade deck of the Penelope with its pools of light and darkness, and beyond the ship’s rail the comings and goings on the shadowy quayside. The composite smell of oil, salt and timber was once again in her nostrils. And just out of sight, away to her left, the Langs were talking, Drusilla passionately, Keith drily. ‘She can’t stop me getting the money my grandfather left when she does die, and the sooner she does, the better,’ Drusilla was saying with fury.
It all came back so sharply that she could feel again the slight constriction of her leg and foot muscles as she tiptoed away out of earshot…
Surfacing with an effort, Olivia tried to think coherently. There was not the smallest reason, she told herself, to get involved. If Drusilla had poisoned her aunt, Pollard would find out. Anyway, why should the murder — if it really was one — link up with the cruise? Audrey Vickers would have been at home for several days. He wouldn’t concern himself with her fellow passengers.
She sat on for a few minutes thinking about the Langs, and remembered with discomfort that Drusilla lectured in chemistry somewhere. At this point she got up abruptly, feeling that her evening had been wrecked by the sheer bad luck of having noticed the wretched little paragraph in the Scrutator. She’d better have some supper, and try to get the whole thing out of her mind by starting on her letters.
In the kitchen she laid herself a tray, and collected ingredients for an omelette. As she cracked a couple of eggs against the rim of a basin, the saying that you couldn’t make an omelette without breaking eggs came into her mind, and simultaneously the telephone rang.
The sudden irrational certainty that Pollard was at the other end made her hand fumble a little as she picked up the receiver.
‘Leeford 227,’ she said.
‘Mrs Olivia Strode?’ His voice was surprisingly familiar although she had not heard it for several years.
‘Speaking,’ she said noncommittally, to gain time.
‘Good evening Mrs Strode. This is Superintendent Pollard, ringing you from Highcastle.’
‘Oh, er, good evening,’ she heard herself saying rather weakly.
‘You don’t sound surprised at my calling you out of the blue, Mrs Strode.’
The implied question was unmistakable. Anyway, what was the point of playing the innocent?
‘Not really, Mr Pollard,’ she replied. ‘I’ve just seen that paragraph in the Scrutator.’
‘Good. That saves lengthy explanations. I’ll try to be brief. I noticed your name on the passenger list of the cruise Mrs Vickers was on recently, and this morning Mrs Lang told me you had been around when her aunt was taken ill on the Acropolis. For various reasons we’re interested in the events of that day, and knowing what an excellent witness you are, I wondered if you’d see me if I ran over to Affacombe tomorrow morning?’
It flashed through Olivia’s mind that he might not ask her about anything else.
‘Well, if you think I can be of any help,’ she said doubtfully.
‘I do sympathize. It’s extraordinarily bad luck to be caught up in a second police enquiry. Would ten o’clock be too early for you?’
‘No.’ She hesitated for a moment. ‘Actually I was coming in to Highcastle for shopping tomorrow morning. Perhaps it might be better?’
‘Quite. I take your point. I don’t want to revive unhappy memories in your lovely village. Do you know where police headquarters are?’
‘Yes. Shall I come along at ten?’
‘That will be fine, Mrs Strode. I’ll be on the lookout for you. Goodbye, and thank you.’
‘Goodbye,’ Olivia said, and heard the click as he rang off.
She returned to the kitchen, to be greeted by the broken eggs, and stared at them. He’s braced me up somehow, she thought. After all, ghastly woman though she was, Audrey Vickers had a right to life… I do hope it wasn’t those two, though.
At exactly one minute to ten on the following morning Olivia Strode walked into the Highcastle police headquarters, and Pollard stepped forward to greet her.
‘I’m afraid this isn’t up to the standard of your cottage,’ he said a few moments later, showing her into a small room with bare walls, austerely furnished with a wooden table and three upright chairs. ‘I’ve thought about it more than once. Just the sort of place my wife and I hope to retire to one day.’
She smiled at him as she sat down. ‘I’m so glad you like Poldens,’ she told him. ‘I’m quite dotty ab
out it myself. On the cruise some people at our table got a radiogram to say a house they owned had been burnt down. I immediately got into a panic in case Poldens was struck by lightning or suddenly developed defective wiring.’
He looks a bit older, she thought, and a bit more assured and authoritative. Very much the same, though. It surprised her that he made no attempt to respond to this small talk, but looked at her intently.
‘Inspector Dart is enquiring into a recent fire which destroyed a house whose owner was abroad,’ he said. ‘Do you know where the one you mention took place?’
‘I’m afraid I don’t,’ she told him.’
‘What was the owner’s name?’
‘She was a Mrs John Bayley.’
‘Was her husband on the cruise with her?’
‘Yes, he was. They sat at my table, actually.’
‘Were either of them painters?’
‘I don’t think so,’ Olivia replied, mystified. ‘Several people on board painted quite a lot, but I’m pretty sure the Bayleys never did.’
‘Just a case of a possible coincidence,’ Pollard said, smiling at her. ‘I expect you remember Inspector Dart?’
‘Indeed I do,’ Olivia replied with amusement. ‘He regarded me with deep suspicion all through the Affacombe trouble. But why a police enquiry into this fire?’
‘It’s usual, when a house is unoccupied, and there’s no apparent explanation of a fire. And in this case there was a further reason. A man’s body was found in the ruins.’
Olivia gave a horrified exclamation. ‘How dreadful! What can have happened?’
‘The forensic experts have found out that the fire was started deliberately. The man — a local drop-out — seems to have been upstairs, probably sleeping it off, and suffocated by smoke. It looks as though whoever set the place alight didn’t know he was there.’
‘Vandals, I expect. Empty houses seem to draw them like magnets. Where was it? I only got home on Friday, and haven’t caught up with local news yet.’
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