by Roy Lewis
Peters hesitated for a moment, then crossed to his desk and reached for the telephone.
‘I think it’s time I contacted my solicitor.’
Crow nodded casually, stroking his lugubrious chin.
‘I wondered whether you’d get around to that soon. This article I speak of, it was written about a year after you got married wasn’t it? But about three years after you first got engaged, isn’t that so?’
The hand clamped on the telephone made no attempt to lift it from the receiver. Peters stared at Crow; he remained quite still for a moment and then in a strangled voice he said,
‘Make no attempt to involve my wife in this, Crow- I’ll have your hide, if you do!’
‘Friends in high places?’ Crow laughed openly. ‘Don’t you realise they don’t count for much when a murder investigation is in the wind? They won’t want to know you, Dr Peters, when that becomes apparent.’
‘You’ve got nothing to link me with Miss Harland’s death.’
Crow’s eyes were fixed on the whitening knuckles above the fingers grasping the telephone. After a short silence Peters noted the direction of Crow’s gaze and reluctantly he released the telephone and sat down. Crow bent over his notes.
‘You married Miss Sarah Fine-Jensen in 1963. You were engaged to her in the summer of 1962. You obtained several directorships after your engagement and you started a management consultancy firm — with money and backing from Sir William Fine-Jensen, who was only too keen to look after the financial interests of his son-in-law. He’s not too well these days, I understand. How old is he now, eighty? Time gets on . . .’
Peters sat rigidly behind his desk. There was an open animosity in his eyes now, but the other things were there too, the wariness, the watchfulness, the lurking fear. For that was what it was, Crow could see now; fear. Crow still needed to discover what prompted it, which of the needles he had slipped into the man had caused the fear to be displayed nakedly in this way.
‘Yes . . . you married Miss Sarah in 1963 after what might be described in her circles as a whirlwind courtship. The chinless wonders usually take longer than you did, but then you had some good red blood didn’t you? Red blood, and a burning desire to get on in the world, fast, and you had experience too. Experience of women, I mean. For your engagement to Miss Sarah in 1962 — it wasn’t the first time you’d been engaged, was it?’
‘Crow—’
‘You’d been engaged once before, about eight months before you hooked Miss Sarah Fine-Jensen! You’d been engaged to another girl, a Miss Valerie White. What happened to that lady, eh? Not enough money? Not enough prospects? What happened to her, eh, what happened to her?’
Antony Peters had turned white. He stood upright again and the violence of his movement sent the chair rocking backwards, swinging wildly. His teeth were clenched and the look he directed towards the police inspector was compounded of anger and hatred. His voice was thick and his tone nasal.
‘I’ll tell you what happened, Crow! I’ll tell you exactly what happened! Valerie was killed, do you understand? She was in a car, stalled on a railway crossing, and she was hit by an express train travelling at almost ninety miles an hour! Now, is that what you wanted to hear? Well, is it?’
Wilson sat very stiffly in his chair and Crow was silent. He had received an answer, but not the one he had expected and momentarily it reversed their roles, with Peters as the aggressor. And with reason, perhaps. But Crow could not allow the flicker of sympathy he felt for the rector to blind him to the other facts in his possession, to make him hold back from his questions. Doggedly he went on, refusing to acknowledge the sickness that rose to his throat.
‘No. It isn’t what I wanted to hear. I wanted to hear you’d thrown her over in favour of a better prospect.’
Peters was still standing and he was stiff with indignation; his fingers were reaching for the telephone again.
‘I’ll have your skin for this, Crow.’ His tone was scored with a sudden malevolence. ‘I’ll have you stripped of your rank.’
‘No you won’t. You’ll have too much explaining to do. Too much explaining about Rosemary Harland.’
Again the hand wavered over the telephone; yet again it was withdrawn. There was a break in Peters’s voice when he spoke. ‘What the hell are you getting at?’
‘Perhaps it’s time I began to put some of my cards on the table. I’ve been delving into your background for a reason, Dr Peters, a reason connected with this investigation into the girl’s death. And what do I find? I find a man who would seem to have an impeccable background but who would also seem to have used strange methods to get where he is. A man who’s always had an eye for the main chance; a man who gave up academic honours for cash; who sold out to a higher bidder when the market hotted up, and got a directorship for his betrayal; a man who used his position as the son-in-law of a wealthy industrialist to burrow into respectable fields of endeavour — education, where he could earn pin-money and have a great deal of community respect and perhaps one day even make the House of Lords as a solid citizen! Oh yes, I know why you used Fine-Jensen to push you onto Royal Commissions. You and your wife, you’ll have more money than you can use once the old man’s dead. You’ve never been keen on industry, but education — that’s another matter! A backwater, free from strife, plenty of delegation to the people who’ll do the real work. What’ll be next? Vice-Chancellor of a University — or the House of Lords, as I suggested?’
‘Crow—’
‘No, let me finish! The shadows I saw in the past, the Munson Chemicals, the Cambridge affair—’
‘You can’t prove any of that; it’s just not true!’
‘I wouldn’t have to prove it — that’s why you never sued the writer of that article in 1964. Proof is irrelevant, for a mere slander action in court would be enough to make some of the smears stick and that’s the sort of publicity you wouldn’t want. And the girl, too, the girl you were once engaged to, you wouldn’t want that to become common knowledge because it wouldn’t suit your image.’
‘There was nothing in that . . . situation that reflected any discredit on me.’
Peters passed a hand over his forehead and ran a finger down one side of his nose. He was blinking and frowning, as though troubled with something. Crow made no allowance for the man’s distress, but pressed on ruthlessly.
‘All these questions, these shadows from your past, they helped me build up a picture of a man who wanted to climb in the world, and who had done so. A man who had an eye for the main chance, who was prepared to do what he felt necessary in order to achieve what he wanted. And now he’s got it: a splendid marriage, money behind him, an academic post of distinction — and I ask myself what would he do if it were all threatened? To what lengths would he go if the whole edifice around him were in danger of crumbling?’
‘I don’t understand what you mean.’
Peters’s voice was thick and strangled. He turned away from his desk and stumbled past Wilson’s chair as the sergeant rose, looking towards Crow. The detective-inspector rose to his feet also, doggedly, his glance staying on Peters’s white face.
‘And why did I ask these questions? I’ll tell you, Peters, after you tell me where you were the night Rosemary Harland died.’
Peters had his hands on a water jug.
Crow’s last words were followed by a rattling, clinking noise: an involuntary shaking of Peters’s hand caused the jug to clatter against the metal tray. He turned an ashen face towards Crow.
‘I’ve already told you! I left the college here at about eight-forty. I drove home—’
‘And didn’t arrive until eleven-fifteen.’
‘But I explained to you! I had a flat tyre. I tried to change the wheel, but the nuts were too tight and it took me over an hour to get the damn thing done. I shoved the deflated tyre into the back and then drove home, after stopping for a drink and wash-up in the Blue Anchor.’
‘Your story’s been checked, Dr Peters. That deflat
ed tyre — there was no gash, no hole in it. The publican of the Blue Anchor, well, he saw you, but not until ten forty-five. He doesn’t remember you appearing at all dirty or unkempt.’
‘I’d washed by then, and was having a drink.’ Peters’s voice had risen a key in protest and he passed a hand across his forehead again as though brushing away cobwebs of uncertainty. ‘But I don’t in any case understand why you should be bringing all this up again.’
He turned his back to Crow and poured himself a glassful of water. Crow watched him impassively, waited until the rector walked back across to the desk and sat down. Then Crow said in a level and expressionless tone:
‘Your story as to your whereabouts sounds thin. Your background shows you might well take desperate measures to achieve your ends. You might even get very dangerous if your life’s ambitions were threatened.’
‘Threatened?’ Peters shook his head contemptuously and opened the drawer in front of him. ‘I don’t understand. What threat was being made, and who was making it?’
‘Rosemary Harland?’
Peters had taken a small white box from the drawer. Now in the act of opening it he stopped, staring at Crow with a mouth slack with surprise.
‘You must be mad!’
‘I’ve now had a preliminary lab report on the girl, and on her clothing, and on an article which was found in the college. Have you seen this before?’
Crow gestured towards Wilson and the sergeant pulled out of the briefcase a man’s driving glove, leather-backed, string-faced. Peters stared at it. He made no reply.
‘Miss Harland,’ Crow said harshly, ‘wore make-up, a foundation cream which she had applied to her face and throat. The lab report tells me that there are traces of a similar cream impregnating the string of that glove. It is suggested that the killer of Rosemary Harland, the man who killed her, wore that glove.’ He paused, weighing his words carefully, and watching Peters’s face. ‘I have reason to believe that this glove belongs to you.’
Peters began to shake his head slowly.
Crow forestalled his next words.
‘We found its companion in the glove compartment of your car.’
Peters was still staring at the glove in Wilson’s hand. His face was grey, his breathing difficult and there was a pained frown on his face. Almost automatically he fumbled in the little box with a forefinger and thumb.
‘Just because that glove belongs to me, you can’t—’
‘The glove is yours, and your whereabouts at the relevant time, the time she died, are unsubstantiated.’
‘But there’s no reason, no reason on earth why I should want to kill her.’
‘The lab report points out two more things. The first is that she died of a broken neck and a skull injury caused by a heavy blow on the side of the head. She didn’t die in the lift, she was dragged there.’
‘All right, all right, but I don’t see why or how you connect this with me!’
‘You’re a married man; your wife and your father-in-law are rich; you hold an eminent position in the community; you had a great deal to lose. Rosemary Harland was your secretary.’ Crow paused reflectively. ‘The lab report also tells me that Rosemary Harland was pregnant.’
‘What!’
Peters stood up slowly, his amazed glance travelling from Crow to Wilson and back again. Then he was suddenly smiling, but it was a mirthless, death’s-head grimace that lacked humour or joy.
‘You’re mad! Mad! You’re actually suggesting that I seduced my secretary, got her pregnant, and then murdered her to keep the whole thing quiet.’ A spasm of annoyance crossed his features and he brushed the back of his hand against his nose again.
‘Something like that, sir,’ Crow said quietly.
Peters gave him a look that should have shrivelled him on the spot but Crow had received worse and survived. There was a moment’s silence, then Peters reached for the telephone, for the third time. This time he picked it up.
‘Margaret? Get me Mr Andrews, of Andrews, Martin and Sweet. As soon as you can.’
He replaced the telephone and glared at Crow, his eyes brilliant with dislike.
‘I should have done that as soon as you came bursting in here. I’ve telephoned for my solicitor.’
‘That’s your privilege, sir. I take it you’re not prepared to make any answer to the questions I raise?’
‘They’re so damned silly they won’t need answering,’ Peters replied with spirit, taking a small capsule from the box in his hand and reaching for the glass of water. ‘I tell you, Crow, I’ll break you into little pieces for this, for the things you’ve said to me in here this morning.’
He shot a malignant, triumphant glance towards the detective-inspector, sipped at the glass of water, swallowed and then placed the capsule angrily in his mouth, clamping down on it. He was raising the glass to his mouth a second time when he suddenly choked, gasped, and with a strangled exclamation threw the glass away from his lips. It shattered on the table edge, showering water over the carpet. Peters gave a hissing, throaty sound.
Next moment he fell forward across his broad polished desk, one hand clutching at his mouth.
Chapter 3
He was spitting violently and crying out in pain. Wilson was already leaping forward and he reached Peters before Crow could stumble to his feet. Wilson was grabbing at Peters’s face and twisting his head around as the remains of the half-bitten capsule were ejected on the desk.
‘Burning of the mouth,’ Wilson said urgently. ‘Corrosive poison of some sort.’
‘An emetic?’
‘For God’s sake no, sir! Salt, in water.’
He was pushing Peters back into a chair, and Crow rushed to the door, shouting to the girl to get as much salt as she could, and quickly. He returned to Peters and Wilson; the rector lay back in his seat, moaning, and Crow saw the staining around his mouth. He glanced at Wilson and the sergeant shook his head quietly.
‘Not serious, sir. Nasty burns, but I don’t think he’s really swallowed any of the stuff.’ Peters was glaring at them both and holding his mouth wide open as though seeking air to cool the burns that he had suffered inside his lips. Crow leaned across the desk and looked at the small capsule lying on the blotter. It had been half-bitten through and some of the contents must have caused the burning of the rector’s mouth. He stood staring at it silently until Margaret came in, her eyes wide with fright, bearing a small block of cooking salt. Her eyes widened still further as she caught sight of Peters’s anguished face. ‘Oooh! What’s happened to Dr Peters?’
Wilson was already dissolving some of the salt in the jug of water and within moments he forced Peters to drink the water, straight from the jug, without ceremony. Half of the liquid spilled on the rector’s jacket and he was spluttering for breath but Wilson doggedly forced him to continue.
‘I’ll get him through to the washroom now,’ he said to Crow, and the Inspector nodded. Margaret fluttered her hands unhappily as Wilson dragged Peters to his feet and led him across the room, half stumbling, to the door leading to the washroom, while Crow remained staring at the capsule on the desk.
‘What’s happened, sir?’ she asked.
‘An accident,’ Crow said shortly. ‘Ring the doctor at once, will you, and get him to come—’
‘There’s one on the campus this afternoon, sir. Shall I get him?’
‘At once.’
‘He’s carrying out some student medicals,’ she explained nervously as she waited to be connected by telephone. ‘He and the vicar, they come once a week.’
A fateful combination, thought Crow to himself. He waited until she had contacted the doctor and stressed the urgent necessity for his presence and then he pointed to the box of capsules on the desk.
‘What are those?’
‘Those capsules? They’re Dr Peters’s — he suffers from some sort of allergy, gives him nose trouble, you know, gets all stuffed up, especially when he’s tired, or overworked.’ Or subjected to stress, thou
ght Crow. The girl hesitated, then continued slowly, ‘He takes them to get rid of the congestion, you know. It . . . it isn’t them that’s made him ill, is it?’
‘No,’ Crow said reflectively, ‘they haven’t made him ill.’ He slid a sheet of paper from the desk under the half-bitten capsule and turned to the girl. ‘Have you got an envelope?’
* * *
The following Monday morning Crow called a conference in his office. Wilson sat immediately in front of Crow’s desk, square-shouldered, quiet; on his left sat Framwell, the detective-constable who had been sent out to look through Rosemary’s things and speak again with her parents; on Wilson’s right was Detective-Constable Gates, who had been doing the foot-slogging check upon times and dates and explanations of where particular people had been at particular times during the previous week. Crow understood the nervous tension suffered by Gates and Framwell: they were based with the Sedleigh division and this would be their first experience of working with a man from the Murder Squad.
‘All right, Gates, what have you got?’
Detective-Constable Gates leaned forward in his chair. He had a young, fleshy face that tended to emphasize that his raw-boned frame could well undergo a metamorphosis in time.
‘Which do you want first, sir?’
‘No matter.’
‘Well, Svensson then, sir. I checked with the Anglo-Norwegian Club and it looks as though Svensson’s in the clear. On the night the girl died he was at the Club all right, most of the evening. He left at about ten and walked home.’
‘Where was the meeting held?’
‘Elton Road.’
‘That’s what — about ten minutes’ walk from Burton Polytechnic?’
‘Yes, sir. I suppose there’s just the outside chance that Svensson could have left the meeting, walked back to the Polytechnic and killed the girl. The lab’s approximation of the time of death, I understand, is sufficiently unspecific to allow for the possibility.’