by Amy Myers
Wendy’s café was crowded when I reached it on Saturday morning, but this gave me time to take an objective look at both Wendy and Monksford life. It was an innocuous scene, full of pleasant-looking people, no doubt each with his or her own troubles hidden behind their public faces. Sam West had asked me to let him know the result of my Hatchwell researches, so I had decided to come here and see Wendy too. I managed to find a table for two by the window, however, and staked my claim to it in the hope that Wendy could join me in due course.
I watched her flying to and fro from the kitchen with plates of food, wearing the same pleasant, if harassed, expression she always had while serving customers. She too had a public face and a private one, and it was interesting to watch the public one in action. Her astonishment at seeing me was real enough and so I think was her pleasure, which made my reason for being here tricky.
She came right over to me. ‘What can I get you, Jack?’
I ordered a Welsh rarebit and asked her to join me when she could. She hesitated over this, however. ‘Is it going to take long? I could come over to Frogs Hill tomorrow.’
‘I can’t manage that,’ I said. Sunday was the day Louise had off, and no way could I forgo my first whole day with her.
It was half an hour before the café cleared sufficiently for Wendy to join me, and she was reluctant even then. I attacked head on. ‘Why did you tell me you had no idea that Geoffrey Green was Philip Moxton?’
For a brief moment I thought I saw another side to Wendy, the cornered rat. It was so brief, however, that I could have imagined it. This case, I realized, was getting to me in a big way. I’d grown quite fond of Wendy and my personal feelings were becoming mixed up with the professional ones. Not good.
‘Care to explain?’ she asked icily.
‘You were seen at Staveley twice, on the open day and before.’
She took one look at me and shrugged. Well and truly caught. ‘The truth is that I caught a glimpse of Geoffrey’s passport on that Bayreuth trip I told you about. The name on it wasn’t Geoffrey Green, but I didn’t recognize it. That set me thinking that he might be a master criminal so I tackled him about it and he came clean. He asked me not to tell anyone else, and I didn’t.’
‘And that’s why he left you all that money?’
Another withering look from her. ‘I was his friend, and if he wanted to leave me a nest egg I don’t see it’s any business of yours.’ She reconsidered this. ‘Sorry. Of course it’s your business and police business too. I didn’t know he’d left me anything, though he said he might.’
Not off the hook yet. ‘You heard that he planned to change his will and leave his estate to a foundation?’
A split second pause. ‘Yes. Timothy told me at the barbecue.’
‘Not before?’
‘No. And if Geoffrey had signed another will I wouldn’t have got another penny. Which is what I expected anyway.’
She was regaining ground inch by inch, but she still wasn’t there yet. ‘And the visit to Staveley?’
‘Female curiosity. I wanted to see the place and I thought I might get in to see the grounds if I charmed the lodge keeper.’
‘No hope of that.’
‘So I discovered. He was at the barbecue, wasn’t he? He didn’t seem pleased to see me there either.’
‘Didn’t you think it odd that Philip said he might leave you a nest egg but then decided to give all his money to a foundation?’
‘Yes,’ she said defiantly, ‘but I’ve only heard all about that after he died. And now I’ve met the Herricks and Geoffrey’s daft son I can see why he did it. He was sick of the lot of them.’
Nice one, I thought. The trouble is that in my job I have to see the worst side of everybody; they could be guilty until proved innocent. I had to apply that to Wendy too and I was faced with the fact that she was still on the list of those who would benefit very nicely from Philip Moxton’s speedy death. The fact that I liked most of them could not stand in my way. Even Wendy, and even though we parted on bad terms – her choice, not mine.
Sam West counted as light relief after Wendy. I found him busily employed in autumn pruning, but he broke off with great pleasure. ‘My wife was the expert,’ he told me. ‘I’m just a hacker. So tell me about this robbery.’
He led me indoors to his small conservatory and listened intently. ‘That was Donald Moxton for you. Half rascal and half brilliant financier.’
‘Could he have had anything to do with the robbery itself and that’s how those rumours in the City about the Moxtons began?’
He considered this. ‘It’s hard to tell. It would make a wonderful story, wouldn’t it? A bank robber turns up ten years later and buys the bank he robbed. But you know how rumours develop out of control. That one’s neat though. Any truth in it?’
‘I’d like to think so, but I can’t see how it would have worked. There were witnesses who saw someone leaping into the car, and some must have seen Donald Moxton plod back to town after he was thrown out of the car. He couldn’t have carried any of the blocks of notes with him and the car wasn’t found for a while. If the robber took all the cash with him, he’s hardly likely to honour any agreement to pay hush money later to a mere boy like Donald even if he had provided inside information. Anything’s possible, but it would be a sophisticated operation for either of those teenaged boys. I grant you it might have given Donald the idea about buying the bank later.’
‘More likely he learned what it’s like to play with money,’ Sam agreed, ‘and then taught his son.’
‘Philip Moxton wasn’t backing the big merger though.’
It was a casual remark, but Sam answered it seriously.
‘No. Timothy went through a bad time, but Moxton’s death has brought it to an end. Merging with the Europeans is going to give the group all it needs to broaden the private banking arm product into new markets. Tim’s sitting pretty now. He’ll be chair himself shortly and won’t need to bother with the Herricks and the game.’
‘He told you about that?’ He was even more of a central player than I had thought.
‘Yes. The revelation that Philip Moxton had been living here under an assumed name came as a great shock to him as it did to me. He knew him so much better, though, that he must have felt betrayed, as he had considered himself a personal friend of the Moxtons. He was on good terms with the sister, he told me. He also told me about this game when the news about Philip broke and I’m sure it was he or perhaps it was Wendy after she had attended that barbecue who talked about a Game Book which someone kept to record each step. Perhaps it was Philip himself.’
What had happened to that, I wondered? ‘Financial moves?’ I asked. ‘Over the sale of the Packard?’ Weird, but then so was the game.
‘I wouldn’t know. I doubt it. I had the impression that the game was more important to all of them as a personal rivalry, though I’m not saying money didn’t come into it.’
What was now clear was that it drew Timothy closer into the Herrick-Moxton circle than I’d realized. When – if – Dave Jennings came up with the information on the Packard’s previous ownership, that might cover some of the ground that this Game Book held. I toyed with the notion that it recorded the proceeds of the bank robbery, how they were split between Gavin and Donald and what happened thereafter, but then I came down to earth. No one in their right senses would leave a fortune in one pair of hands while the rival hands held nothing – or if they did, it most certainly wouldn’t have been for seventy-odd years. I toyed with the idea that Gavin had shares in Moxtons – but if so the Met would have dug that information out long ago and so, I thought with some amusement, would the Herricks. Every detail of Gavin’s estate would have been examined.
So where did that leave me? Answer: with a conviction that the chess game was far from over, but I was beginning to see my strategy. Queen Gwen had done her best but it wasn’t checkmate yet. This game was still ongoing.
TWELVE
Even as I joined
the London-bound train at Ashford on Tuesday I still had doubts about attending the memorial service for Philip Moxton. It had not escaped my attention that from the Herrick and Moxton families only Barney had suggested I might like to attend. I doubted whether Wendy would be there. For me, though, it would be another excellent opportunity to see the clans gathered and, anyway, I had had a genuine liking for Philip on the few occasions I had met him. Did that give me a moral right to attend? A barbecue yes, but a memorial service was in a different category. I thought back to my meetings with Philip, my liking for him and my horror at the way that someone had removed him from this world. He deserved at least that his murderer should be found and if by being present I stood the slightest chance of getting further forward on this front, I should go.
There was another element too. This was the second time that Barney had urged me to attend such a gathering. Did he, I wonder, hope that I would pick up that missing piece of the jigsaw, a piece that as a family member himself he would be unwilling to supply in more direct ways? It was a piece on which I was increasingly focusing but it hadn’t yet taken enough form to even call it a theory. Alternatively, Barney could be deliberately pointing the finger away from himself with this invitation.
I was still basking in the glow of the day Louise and I had spent at the seaside – Eastbourne, which is stony but stylish even on a blowy October Sunday. I suspected she was glad not to be able to come with me today. She was still worried about the Herricks and attending the service would make that worse for her, especially if Emma were there.
The service was being held at St Clement Danes in the Strand and the church was full, whether by invitation or not. I had difficulty getting in, but the magic word ‘police’ and the flash of an ID card achieved wonders. I was allotted a place as deferentially as though I were the Chief Commissioner of the Met. It was strange seeing everyone gathered in such formal circumstances and moving like automata to the demands of the day. Timothy spoke eloquently of Philip Moxton’s genius, Barney of him as a father. His speech showed a different side of Philip as well as betraying a sophistication of phrase and humour that I had not hitherto appreciated. I’d realized there must be hidden depths to Barney but to hear them revealed here was moving. I told him so after the service as we congregated outside the church. I had watched him greeting people as they came out of the church, admiring his technique, which consisted of a simple hello to all and sundry. The tone did not vary for anyone, whether wearing City attire or for those who were family or friends. Though friends of whom? I wondered. Geoffrey Green or Philip Moxton? I saw Joan emerge, though there was no sign of John Carson. Nor could I see Emma. I did spot Wendy but when she spotted me she walked off.
‘Who invited her?’ I asked Barney curiously.
‘I did. My father liked her so she had to be here.’
A simple reasoning, although I doubted whether Joan or the Herricks saw it that way.
I could see a lot of press people around, although Pen wasn’t amongst them. Perhaps she was deliberately lying low, pursuing a line of her own in order, she hoped, to blast the case wide open – no matter whether in the right or wrong direction.
Barney told me there was to be a reception afterwards in the Savoy, to which I was of course invited. I liked the ‘of course’ – and the venue. The Savoy isn’t my usual stomping ground and I made my way there with pleasure.
There’s usually an unspoken programme for gatherings following funerals and memorial services; the welcome drink, the greetings and condolences, and then come the glad hellos to friends or colleagues as guests reaffirm their own place in the world. Then follows a gradual thinning out, first of colleagues and then friends, leaving the family alone to face a different future.
And so it went today. Timothy Mild was talking to Wendy, apparently civilly. Tom and Moira were with Joan, their backs stiffly towards Wendy. Timothy’s conversation with her was short-lived as he noticed me, however, and came over so purposefully I could tell that he had a mission.
‘What’s going on, Jack?’ he demanded. ‘I can’t get a word out of the Met or your chap Brandon?’
My chap Brandon – I liked that phrase. It was flattering and doubtless meant to be. The Timothys of this world have polished phrases in their armouries ready to suit every occasion.
‘Not much from him,’ I rejoined. In fact I had heard from Brandon only yesterday. Some depressingly unhelpful forensic results had at last filtered through. Wendy’s fingerprints were found inside the house, the blood was only Philip’s. Nothing on the garage doors, save Philip’s own prints. Nothing had as yet gelled therefore, especially as there was still no trace of the Volkswagen. There had been only one glass on the table; this had revealed Philip’s DNA, but four matching expensive glasses in the cupboard suggested the sixth could have been taken away by his murderer. That meant he must have taken it before pinching the Volkswagen, but that didn’t seem to add up either.
Brandon had asked me hopefully whether the Packard line was leading anywhere, and so I had given him the details of the robbery to cheer him up and he was indeed pleased.
‘Pursue it, Jack,’ he had told me.
‘What about Dave’s side of things? I haven’t heard from him.’
‘You will.’
‘Is that about the Volkswagen or the Packard?’
‘You’ll see.’
Thanks, I had thought. No forward movement in that direction, but there was another chance here. I could see Timothy was not happy with my reply so I pushed ahead on another front. ‘Things on course at the bank?’
I received no more than I expected: the stock reply. Fair enough. I’d given him one. ‘Philip’s a great loss of course,’ Timothy said, ‘but we’re pushing ahead.’ A big smile indicated that subject was closed too. ‘Unlike your investigation, it seems,’ he then smoothly added.
‘Early days,’ I said dismissively. ‘By the way, I looked into that bank robbery rumour.’
He lost some of his suavity. ‘So I heard. A good joke, eh? The great Donald being hijacked. Amazing you dug that up.’
‘Did he joke about it himself?’
‘Donald? How old do you think I am?’ A forced laugh. ‘He was fading out of Moxtons when I was coming up. I met him of course. Nice chap. Nothing like Philip.’
‘But you got on well with Philip?’
‘Of course. Except over this merger business. Nothing secret about that. But that didn’t affect our friendship.’
‘Yes, I gather you know all about the game. Was it you who kept the Game Book?’
The big smile vanished. ‘What on earth is that?’
‘Some sort of record of it, possibly financial.’
He frowned, and the frown took a long time to manifest itself into speech. ‘It’s true I sometimes found myself piggy in the middle between the Herricks and Moxtons, but this Game Book is nothing to do with me. It couldn’t have anything of significance in it anyway.’
‘I thought it might have been part of your piggy in the middle role if it contains the results of polite blackmail over the robbery for example.’
The frown became a glare. ‘Are you implying it could have impacted on Philip’s death and that I was involved? Just because his death gave Moxtons the push it needs, doesn’t mean that I helped the push in any way at all. How could it? Can you see me creeping over one dark evening to Monksford, breaking his back window, finding a kitchen knife and stabbing him, thus covering myself in blood, after which I drive home to my wife? No way, Jack. Doesn’t stack up.’ He looked rather pleased with himself now.
‘It doesn’t,’ I agreed. ‘Especially as you claim not to have known where he was living or anything about his pseudonym.’
‘Precisely.’ He glared even harder at me.
‘Although you do know Monksford, Sam West and Wendy.’
He seemed not to hear me but, in Lewis Carroll’s immortal words, softly and silently vanished away, leaving me to track down Moira Herrick. She was stylishly clad i
n a charcoal-coloured jacket and skirt, and still managing to convey the impression that she was the queen of the occasion.
‘So pleased to hear about you and Louise, Jack.’
‘Thanks,’ I said cordially. ‘We’re happy too.’
This guarded exchange over, she got down to brass tacks and I reckoned it wouldn’t be long before the game was mentioned and if she didn’t bring it up I would. I’d been led around the maze too many times and I was fairly sure now that I knew the way to the centre.
‘We were so relieved we Herricks were welcome here today,’ Moira cooed at me. ‘Joan was marvellous about it. It really does mean the end of that wretched game.’
To me it seemed there was still another set to play in division of the spoils from Barney’s inheritance, but even as the thought crossed my mind, she raised it herself. ‘And in case you’re wondering, Jack, Tom and Gwen have agreed with Barney to have a cooling off period until probate is granted and the tax position sorted. So that really does mean it’s over and thank heavens for it. It’s been hanging over Tom and me all our married lives and for poor Tom and Gwen long before that.’
Promptly on cue, the man himself arrived. ‘What’s all this about poor Tom?’ he joked.
‘I was telling Jack about our agreement with Barney, darling.’
Tom looked uneasy. ‘Oh. Yes … he’s a good fellow, young Barney. Just as well it’s sorted out, eh? Philip wouldn’t have wanted this wrangling to go on.’
‘No?’ I tried not to sound too disbelieving. It seemed to me that Philip was ensuring it did go on by his plans for a foundation. Throwing down this gauntlet would mean the game’s financial basis, whatever it was, would be well and truly scuppered, as well as removing any basis for the murder he had feared. Nice one, Philip, I thought. But it went wrong, seriously wrong.