He wove a meandering path across the room. Charles followed, opened the door for him, and bellowed, 'Mrs Griffiths. Henry's not well. See to him, will you?'
He shut the door behind Henry without bothering to see if his order was obeyed. He was a man used to getting his own way. He walked back and came to a halt before the portrait of his father. After gazing thoughtfully at it for some moments, he turned and commented. 'They say history repeats itself, Inspector. It seems they're right. Did you know my father was murdered when I was fifteen?' Rafferty nodded and Shore added, as though the information was of much less consequence, 'Two months after my mother died from cancer.'
'Yes,' Rafferty murmured. 'A tragic loss.'
Shore's expression was as hard to read as a poker player's and he told them, without any trace of emotion, 'My father was blown to bits, Inspector. The force of the explosion sent parts of the vehicle a hundred yards away. As for my father...' He broke off and a muscle tightened in his jaw as he added, 'Let's just say there wasn't a lot to bury. It isn't difficult to believe someone could hate my father enough to kill him. He could be a hard man when crossed ... hard, even when he wasn't. But why would anyone want to murder Barbara? I know you said you don't think it was the Suffolk killer, but...' He shook his head and muttered, as if trying to convince them as much as himself, 'It must have been a madman.'
'You didn't get on with your father, Mr Shore?' Llewellyn queried.
Shore stared hard at him, as if he considered the question impertinent, but then he shrugged. 'I fail to see what relevance that has to your investigation, Sergeant, but, since you ask, no, I didn't; my sister was always his favourite. He was the sort of father who expected a lot from a son. You feared him, respected him, obeyed him; he wasn't interested in such a mealy-mouthed emotion as liking. He believed that softness bred weakness. He always used to say to me, "It's a hard world out there, Charles, and you have to be hard to survive." He told me that by giving me - and Anne, to a lesser extent - proper, English names, royal names, and by sending us to the right schools, he'd done his bit. The rest was up to us.'
He smiled bleakly and, for a moment, Rafferty glimpsed the vulnerable child beneath the powerful man; he imagined what it must have been like to be Charles, as a small boy, at the "right" school, but with the pushy, un-English father and the wrong background. Pretty unpleasant, was his conclusion. He wouldn't have got much sympathy from Maximillian Shore, who had survived far worse.
Shore turned back to the portrait and Rafferty could no longer see his face. 'Of course, he had a terrible time in his youth, so it wasn't surprising that he should feel that way. He refused to accept that the more subtle forms of Jew-baiting and class hatred to be found in this country couldn't be overcome, if one were strong enough.'
'It seems he was right,' Rafferty murmured. 'Such obstacles didn't stop your father getting rich.'
'My father got rich in spite of his background,' Shore asserted, with a frown, as if Rafferty had just uttered a particularly vile blasphemy. Then he sighed. 'Perhaps, in a funny way it was because of it. His parents died at the hands of the Nazis when he was a teenager. It caused him to be all the more determined to make his mark. With hard work and more hard work, he prospered. And wealth brought him acceptance - of a sort, even if, as children, it failed to do the same for Anne and me. Now, of course, I'm grateful for his training.'
And what of Shore's sister? Rafferty wondered. How had Maximillian's school of hard knocks affected her? He seemed to remember, from the reports at the time of her father's death, that she'd married Henry when she was eighteen. To get away from her father? Rafferty wondered. Emboldened by curiosity, he asked, 'And your sister? Does she feel she has reason to be grateful, too?'
'Anne? Probably not. Especially as our father cut her out of his will when she insisted on marrying Henry. They were only reconciled a few months after Maxie was born. Unfortunately for her, father was killed before he could reinstate her - if such was his intention.'
This time, Rafferty had a glimpse of another side to that lonely boy. For a second, Shore's expression was cruelly self-satisfied, as if, even so many years later, he got immense pleasure from the knowledge that the more favoured sibling had unwisely thrown away her pre-eminance, and with it had discarded money, status, success. All the things that Shore relished and possessed in large measure.
'But then she was always headstrong. Insisted on marrying Henry before she had any qualifications. Of course, a baby was soon on the way and it didn't take her long after that to realise she'd made a poor choice. Nothing would make her admit it, of course. I've had to support her all these years - her and Henry and the boy.'
He gave a short, malicious laugh. 'Give Anne her due, she stuck it out. They only split a few years ago - her choice, of course. She should have divorced years ago, because by the time she got round to it she had - other problems to contend with.' He smiled with a certain grim satisfaction, but didn't elaborate.
There was a small, uncomfortable silence after that. God, this family, thought Rafferty. What was the matter with them all? In mitigation, Rafferty reminded himself that, if not as appalling as his father's youth, Charles Shore, too, had survived a hard boyhood. The trouble was, of course, that not only did such miserable early experiences often stunt the gentler emotions of the sufferer, they had a knock-on effect on his immediate family as well.
Feeling as if he had disturbed dusty family ghosts, Rafferty cast round for an avenue of escape. Gesturing at the quantity of books on the shelves, he enquired, 'Were they your father's?'
Shore nodded. 'Most of them. Of course, I and some of the rest of the family have added to them, but the bulk were his. He read voraciously, always about other people's lives.' He paused, and when he continued, his voice had lightened, even held a touch of mockery. 'Did you know he wrote his own autobiography? You should find it behind you. They're all in alphabetical order.'
Rafferty turned, and his fingers traced along the spines until he came to it. It had a curious title - A Phoenix Life. Gently, he eased it from the packed shelves and flipped through it.
Like Henry, Charles Shore seemed to be in the mood for looking back. 'My father discovered a taste for writing after that. Tried his hand at intellectual theorising. Fancied himself something of an expert on a number of topics - you name it, and he had a theory about it; crime and the habitual criminal, marital breakdown, success, failure, poverty. He collected quite an impressive number of statistics, too. And when he'd been turned down by everyone else, he decided to publish his theories himself.'
'And did he?' Rafferty asked, peering again at the shelves from which he'd taken Shore's autobiography.
'No.' The younger Shore's face tightened. 'He was murdered before he got the chance.'
This brought another uncomfortable silence. To break it, Rafferty asked conversationally, 'And where are they now. All his papers?'
Shore shrugged. 'God knows. Probably thrown out with the rest of the rubbish. My father was a terrible hoarder, Inspector, and we had a grand clear out after the funeral. If they're still about and you're that interested, Mrs Griffiths might know where they are.'
'Ah yes, your housekeeper. That reminds me. I'd like a word with her about that telephone message she took for Mrs Longman.'
'Certainly. If you think it'll be helpful.' He went to the door and shouted for her. 'She'll be along directly.'
Mrs Griffiths must have taken the shouted summons to indicate an order for coffee, for several minutes later, she struggled in carrying a loaded tray. The ever-gentlemanly Llewellyn relieved her of it and placed it on the table by the window, earning himself a rare smile.
Mrs Griffiths had begun to pour when Shore told her, 'Leave that. The Inspector wants to hear about the telephone message you took for Mrs Longman.'
After inviting her to sit down, Rafferty asked her, 'Perhaps you could start by telling me exactly what the message said?'
Evidently irritated at being expected to face this three
man interrogation squad, her reply was short and abrupt. 'All he said was that Cyril Thomson was about to plough up the wild flowers in Tiffey Meadow and she should get there directly. He asked would I be sure and pass on the message to Mrs Longman and I promised I'd do so straightaway.'
'Did you recognise the voice?' he asked, with little hope of receiving an affirmative.
'No.' She shot him a sharp-eyed look. 'Not at the time, but now that you mention it, there was something vaguely familiar about it. But the voice was muffled, as if the caller had a sore throat, or as if he was calling from a long way away.'
'You said you recognised the voice. Are you sure you don't have any idea who he was?' He wondered if she might be trying to protect someone?
'I said it sounded familiar.' The housekeeper's lips compressed, as though she had already had enough of his questioning, without having to correct his misinterpretations of her answers. 'I didn't say I recognised it. I told you, I don't know who it was. Something about it struck a chord, that's all. He gave me a name, of course, but I really can't be expected to remember now if he called himself Jack or Jim or Joe. I know it was something like that,' she defended herself. 'But he must have been a friend of Mrs Longman's. How else would he have known the telephone number? It's unlisted. He said he was with the Conservation Society, so you shouldn't have any difficulty in finding him and asking him yourself.'
'He actually said he was with the Society?' Rafferty pressed her. 'Or did he merely imply it?'
Mrs Griffiths looked sharply at him, as if she had just realised the possible significance of all these questions. 'Are you saying you think whoever made the call killed her?'
'I don't think anything in particular at this stage, Mrs Griffiths,' Rafferty assured her. 'I just want to get things clear in my mind, that's all.'
If the housekeeper was upset by the possibility that she had spoken to Barbara Longman's murderer, she gave little sign of it. But then, as Rafferty had already concluded, she wasn't the type to have hysterics. Still, she appeared grateful for Llewellyn's solicitude, as he poured her a cup of her own coffee. She sipped it quietly while Rafferty resumed the questioning.
'Can you tell me what this man's actual words were, Mrs Griffiths? It could be very important. Cast your mind back to just before the call if it helps.'
She nodded. Rafferty was glad to see that the shock, and the strangeness of sipping coffee in her employer's library, seemed to have softened her manner. The resemblance to Mrs Danvers faded. 'I was busy making the season's last batch of raspberry jam, and I wanted to get back to it. Those two boys, Maxie and Edward, had been in and out of the kitchen a little earlier and I was nervous about leaving such a big pot on the stove in case they came back and caused an accident. Especially as the day before I'd caught young Maxie messing about with my previous batch. Anyway, I returned to the kitchen after taking the message, and I was too relieved to see my jam was safe to think any more about it. Fallgold variety it were. Admittedly, not as well-flavoured a raspberry as the early Mallings, but still pleasant.'
Shore gave a hrmph of impatience at this meandering explanation, and Mrs Griffiths took the opportunity to get in an obviously much felt grievance. 'Of course, if I could have relied on that Carlotta, who was supposed to be helping me, I might have been able to spare more attention for what he said, but half my mind was on the jam, as I wouldn't trust her to watch grass grow.'
'Carlotta?' Rafferty queried.
'The Italian au pair,' Shore supplied tight-lipped. 'One of Barbara's less successful ideas, wasn't it, Mrs G?'
Whatever effect he might have on the rest of his staff, it seemed Mrs Griffiths wasn't in awe of her employer. In fact, it now appeared they shared the familiarity and frankness of old sparring partners, as her agreement was vociferous. 'It certainly was. Au pair, she calls herself. All I know is, that she spends more time making eyes at young Maxie's holiday tutor than she does helping me. If she was any use I'd have had all the jam made the day before and no need to worry about it being ready. But I'd promised Mr Shore only that morning that I'd let the local Tory party have some for their bring and buy sale and I was anxious about getting it finished. It was unfortunate that I'd already given all the jam I'd made the day before to Mrs Shepherd, the mother of Maxie's friend, Tom, especially as she wasn't a bit grateful. Said it had given her lad the stomach ache. Cheek of her. As if my jam would...'
'Yes, yes.' Shore burst in. 'I really don't think we need to go into all that now, Mrs Griffiths. The Inspector wanted to know what the man said,' he reminded her testily.
'Yes, well, I'm sure I'm doing my best.' She sniffed. 'All this upset - how am I supposed to remember?' She smoothed a few whispy bits of hair back into her greying bun. 'He said... now let me see. He said something like, "Can I speak to Barbara?" And I told him she wasn't available and asked if I could take a message. He said, "My name's Jack",' or Jim or Joe, Rafferty silently supplied. 'The line went a bit crackly then, but I'm almost certain he said he was from the Society. Anyway, he said something about the Society,' the housekeeper insisted, with a look that implied Rafferty had tried to make a liar out of her. '"And did Mrs Longman know that Cyril Thomson had a tractor with a plough hitched up to it and was about to plough up Tiffey Meadow" - it's protected you know, because of the rare flowers,' she added. 'Anyway, he was very insistent that I pass the message on to her straightaway and I promised I would.'
Shore broke in. 'That farmer chap, Thomson, would stand looking into, in my opinion. Surly individual.'
'You went to see him when Mrs Longman hadn't come home that evening?' Shore nodded, his olive skin flushing, and Rafferty guessed that the farmer had been less than deferential. 'What did he have to say?'
'Said he hadn't seen her since their last run-in earlier this year. Denied he'd ever intended to plough up the meadow when I taxed him about it. Told me that was the last thing he'd be likely to do. Said he couldn't care less if Barbara had rounded up a dozen of her conservation friends and staged a sit-in for a month to stop him planting in it.' Shore's jaw tightened and Rafferty heard his teeth grinding together. 'The idea that she might do just that even seemed to amuse him. Told me to go and look round the meadow myself if I was that concerned, as he had better ways to spend his free time.'
Rafferty sat up straight and looked sharply at Shore. 'And did you?'
Shore shook his head. 'I looked over the fields from the road, and called her name, that's all, but there was no sign of her. I didn't see any point in blundering about. I assumed she would have answered if she'd been there.' Suddenly, his expression was grim. 'I was looking for a live woman, Inspector, not a dead one. Besides, I didn't really expect to find her.'
Slowly Rafferty nodded. It was a few seconds before he resumed the questioning. 'You didn't see her car? We found it parked up that lane at the side of the meadow.'
'No. The lane's the other side of the meadow and I didn't go that far. I parked on the main road, so her car might have been there, but, as I said, if it was, I wouldn't have seen it. That's when I returned home and rang you.'
Llewellyn asked, 'Is there any reason why Mrs Longman's husband didn't contact us himself? I would have thought...'
Shore's gaze narrowed and fixed steadily on Llewellyn. 'That's Henry for you. Always likes someone else to make his decisions for him. He was reluctant to contact the police even when I arrived home and established that she was missing.'
Rafferty and Llewellyn exchanged surreptitious glances as Shore went on. 'I insisted, of course. He left it to me to try to get hold of someone at the Conservation Society's offices, as well as the caretaker of the hall, and that farmer. They all said they hadn't seen her. I even asked the caretaker to search the hall and outbuildings, just in case she'd got shut in somewhere.'
Mrs Griffiths broke in. 'Can I go now? Only I do have work to do.' She sounded put out. Apparently, she liked being ignored even less than she liked being questioned.
Rafferty did his best to soothe her ruffled fea
thers. 'Of course. Thank you Mrs Griffiths. You've been very helpful. There is just one other thing. I don't know whether you can explain it, but Mrs Longman was wearing a rather unusual dress. Do you...?'
'Oh that.' She tutted disparagingly. 'They were having a dress rehearsal in the Church Hall. They're doing Shakespeare.'
Although hers wasn't a particularly expressive face, it was clear she considered the great Elizabethan playwright vastly over-rated. Rafferty hadn't yet got around to adding Shakespeare to his book list, so he couldn't comment.
'It was Mrs Charles's idea,' she told them, with a glance at Shore. 'She used to be an actress, of course.'
Rafferty got the impression that she regarded anything to do with the entertainment world as no better than it ought to be, whether it was Shakespeare or the sleaze-pots of Soho. Perhaps, he mused, as he caught the faintest lilt of a Welsh accent, she had been brought up a strict Methodist, like Llewellyn? It would certainly explain her demeanour. 'You said it was Mrs Charles's idea,' he commented. 'Wasn't she in it as..?'
Shore interposed again. 'My wife wasn't interested in taking part in a tin-pot village production, Inspector.' The idea seemed to amuse him. 'I imagine she only suggested it to get the children from under her feet during the school holidays. Not that she's ever here for long enough to have to worry about that, anyway.'
'I see.' Rafferty nodded at Mrs Griffiths. 'Please go on.'
'Mrs Longman was playing Titania, queen of the fairies or some such,' she continued. 'As Mr Shore says, all the children are in it, though the boys aren't too keen. Not to be wondered at really. What boys want to parade around a stage wearing tights, especially in this heat?' A ghostly smile lightened the housekeeper's sallow features. 'Little devils, they knew what time they were expected to be ready, and had made themselves scarce. Of course, when I told Mrs Longman, she couldn't waste time getting changed again to look for them. Told me to send the boys on to the Church Hall when I saw them.'
Down Among the Dead Men Page 6