‘Every Tuesday evening. We used to alternate between the houses: he came here once a fortnight. Tuesday was the day when Dorothy used to visit our daughter in Gloucester, so we had the house to ourselves. Once Edmund stopped driving, it was no longer easy for him to come here, so I went to him each time we played.’ There was a satisfaction in the set of the mouth as he finished the sentence. Lambert wondered why it should give him more pleasure to visit Craven in his own home every time; had Tall Timbers associations with a long-dead affair for him? Or was a detective’s imagination running riot in a case where there was too little material to exercise it more profitably? Miller brought him abruptly back to reality when he said, ‘The last time I saw him was five days before his death. So you see, I can be of no real help: I wasn’t there when the fatal poison was administered.’
For a moment, both detectives were puzzled. Then Lambert realised that they had given Miller no details of the method of murder beyond the bare fact that it was a poisoning. If Miller knew the full facts, and suspected they had been trying to trap him, he had stepped adroitly clear of the danger. Lambert looked into the brown, impassive eyes for a moment before he said with a little, acknowledging smile, ‘We didn’t give you the full facts, Mr Miller. I have to tell you that your friend was murdered by the systematic application of arsenic in relatively small doses over a period of months. That is why the death passed as being from natural causes at the time. The killer was very cool and totally ruthless.’
Miller looked suitably shaken. His hand was steady as he put his coffee cup back upon the low table, but he watched it with extreme care, as if wishing to assure himself of his control. Then he said softly, ‘I guess I clung to the idea that somehow it might have been accidental, even when I knew it was poison.’ He gazed out towards the thrush they could hear in the silence, innocent and uncaring, as the weak sun lightened the prevailing grey. For a moment he was far away from them, staring out in conjecture or nostalgia at a world they would never know. He looked now like a man of over seventy, saddened by the world. But the mood passed quickly. His strong hands gripped the arms of the comfortable chair; above the comfortable green wool of his cardigan, his face was determined as he said, ‘We must find out who killed him.’
Lambert did not comment on the banality of the statement, or the irony in its utterance to men who had already been trying for two days to do just that. He was merely pleased to see such earnest intent in the man before him. He was briskly businesslike as he said, ‘Right. You were in and out of Edmund Craven’s house every week in the three years before he died. Let us assume for the moment that you are not yourself a murderer. Did you see anyone among those around him who might be?’
Walter Miller took a long breath and looked from one to the other of his interlocutors. Hook suspected that he knew that it was irregular to ask him as directly as this about his fellow-suspects. But he showed no sign of resentment as he said, ‘I’ve known David and Angela since they were children, so it’s difficult for me to be objective. As you put me on the spot, I have to say that I can’t see either of them as a murderer of any sort, let alone of their own father.’
Lambert, sensing that he was about to move on through the list of those around Craven, said, ‘As you’ve known them for so long, you are perhaps in a better position than anyone to tell us about their relationships with their father in his last few months.’ It was not true of course: Margaret Lewis was better qualified to observe the daily evolution of feelings in those fateful weeks because she was constantly in the house, observing all. But it rarely did any harm to stress to a witness his importance to the case, the necessity for him to recall with circumspection anything which might have bearing upon it.
And Miller did give his response much thought. He stood up, smiling a little at Bert Hook’s earnest yeoman features and his ball-pen poised above the page. Then he walked across to the mullioned stone window and looked down the garden for a moment before he spoke. His face was grave with the responsibility of his evidence when he turned back to them, ‘Both the children were affectionate towards their father before they were married. Angela resented the way Ed treated her mother when she was a teenager, but I’ve no doubt she got over that years ago. She was kindness itself to her Dad in his last months.
‘I’m not quite as sure about Ed’s son. David was married and divorced years ago. Nice girl; no children.’ He sounded as though he were enunciating the priorities of his generation. ‘I’ve no doubt Edmund was difficult at times in the last few years. But so was David—and how! Sometimes it seems children are just sent to try us.’ He looked into the fire with a sad smile, so that they wondered for a moment what crosses his own children had heaped upon him.
Lambert, anxious to encourage this revelatory vein in their subject, said gently, ‘We heard something of David’s financial problems from his own lips. I believe his father was planning to revise his will.’
‘So I understood from Edmund in those last days. I think it was more a matter of cutting someone out than making small amendments.’
‘David?’
‘So I assumed. You will understand that I didn’t wish to get involved between father and children. I told him so. I said he should discuss his intentions with them.’
‘And did he?’
Miller paused. ‘I’m trying to recollect things from over a year ago: things that at the time I tried to dismiss as not being my concern. I think Edmund indicated without putting it in so many words that he had discussed it with the people affected.’
Lambert said, ‘As you probably know, no new will was ever made, although we know that one was intended. We obviously have to investigate whether the person who murdered Edmund Craven was trying to forestall a new will. David has already admitted that his father found out about his plans for Tall Timbers and was distressed by them. It would be logical to reflect that in a new will.’
Miller looked troubled. ‘David isn’t my favourite man, by any means. But I don’t want to see him locked up for life.’
Lambert said sternly, ‘If he isn’t guilty, he won’t be. You must realise that it’s your duty to reveal to us anything else that you know.’
Miller nodded miserably. ‘All I know is that he was in trouble financially. He had been, on and off, for years: perhaps Ed indulged him too much when he was younger. The will came as a Godsend to him.’
‘And you think a new will would have cut him out?’
‘I don’t know that.’ His face set stubbornly on the sentiment.
‘Neither do we, Mr Miller. We shall make it our business to find out if we possibly can.’ Lambert waited, but there was as he expected no further reaction from the American. ‘Can you tell us any more about old Mr Craven’s relationships with his daughter?’
Walter Miller grimaced wryly. ‘I was born in the year before “old Mr Craven”, Superintendent.’ Then he smiled more openly, in the relief of moving to a subject on which he could enthuse more happily. ‘He liked Angela, and she liked him, right up to the end. She made arrangements for someone to look after her children on quite a few days during the summer holidays, so that she could be with her father in that last summer.’ Hook looked up sharply at his chief, more sharply than he had meant to do: this was the key period in the poisoning, some two months before Craven’s death.
Perhaps Miller caught the look and divined their thinking, for his face filled with horror and he hastened on. ‘They’d always been close, as father and daughter often are. I think David was closer to his mother—he certainly seemed to lose his way rather after Joan died. Anyway, Angela loved her father. She almost made herself ill by her concern for him and her determination to be near him as he weakened—’
He broke off, aghast again at the implications of what he had intended as words to reinforce her innocence.
Lambert said gently, ‘Until this business is cleared up, the best feelings and actions in all those around the deceased will be subject to this wretchedly warped interpretation. Mu
rder has that effect, I’m afraid. Now, what can you tell me about Mr Craven’s relationship with his grandchildren?’
Miller looked startled by the sudden shift of subject, which was quite deliberate on the part of his interlocutor. But he gave due thought to his reply; perhaps it was a relief to switch away from the children he had known for so many years to the next generation, with whom he was less involved. ‘Ed was delighted when they were born, and very fond of them as toddlers. As he got older, he spoke of them to me less and less. He withdrew into himself in the last year or two, I’m afraid. He didn’t mention them much.’
‘Have you any idea why? Was there any family disagreement?’
‘Not that I’m aware of. He just talked about them less, and I’m afraid I didn’t press him.’ Miller looked uncomfortable, but it seemed rather at his own social omissions that at anything he was concealing. Lambert thought that like most men he would be interested in his own grandchildren, but find those of his friends a bore. He had probably never thought to ask about the Craven grandchildren, never noticed their gradual disappearance from his friend’s conversation. Now he felt guilty about this neglect of his stricken companion. ‘They were at Ed’s funeral. I remember them being quite upset. I suppose Angela thought Ed would have liked them to be there; she made all the funeral arrangements. I think David was too embarrassed—frightened of looking a hypocrite. His plans for the house were becoming more public, and there were those of us at the funeral who thought he had hastened his father’s death.’ Miller stopped aghast. ‘I guess I didn’t mean—’
‘I know just what you meant, Mr Miller,’ said Lambert with a grim smile. It was interesting to see how Walter Miller’s transatlantic origins surfaced under stress among idioms which had for the most part become very English.
‘What about Angela’s husband. Did Mr Craven like his son-in-law?’
‘No.’ The response was surprisingly prompt and certain. ‘I don’t know exactly why. Ed tended to get annoyed if Michael was even mentioned, and he never raised him himself. I kept off the subject.’
‘How long did this hostility between them go back?’
This time Miller did have to think. ‘I don’t think Ed was keen on him even before the marriage, but they were polite enough then. Michael Harrison is a Roman Catholic, of course, and Ed certainly didn’t like that.’ Miller looked up at the faces of the detectives and caught doubt there that this could be the source nowadays of any serious enmity. ‘Religion meant more to my generation than yours. Especially to the British: Americans are used to being a mongrel race. Ed was a staunch Anglican of the old school and certainly not ecumenical. He stopped going to church in Oldford when there was a move towards joint services. And he wouldn’t have the vicar in to see him in those last years when he stopped going out much. He became more bigoted, I think, and those of us who might have felt differently from him just kept off the subject of religion. I’m afraid not many of us become more charitable in our views as we get older.’ He stared into the fire, contemplating the increasing bleakness of the years which lay ahead.
Bert Hook thought that he would be protected as long as that trim, bright woman who had shown them in remained at his elbow. No woman who made such excellent ginger-bread could be other than a benign and liberal influence. He said gently, preparing to turn to a new subject in his notes, ‘You know of no other reason why there should be enmity between Michael Harrison and Edmund Craven?’ He was thinking of the second circle of suspects they would have to move to if their first investigation proved fruitless. Perhaps it was no more than a demonstration to his chief of his alertness: he had already half-decided that their task was to find the necessary evidence to convict David Craven of the murder of his father.
‘No. Ed used to do a little painting in the studio he made at the back of the garden of Tall Timbers. He asked Michael Harrison for his opinion and Michael was rather scathing; I think he might have been a little jealous that Ed had facilities as an amateur that were far better than those he enjoyed himself as a professional. Anyway, Ed took the criticism badly. But perhaps I’ve overstressed the enmity between them. They didn’t see each other much in the last few years, and for all I know Michael Harrison may not have borne any resentment—I’m afraid I hardly know him myself. And after all, his family has done well enough out of Ed’s estate for him to be grateful now.’
It was an attempt to defend the memory of his old friend and Lambert liked him for it. He said, ‘What about Mrs Lewis?’
‘Margaret couldn’t do enough for Ed as he got weaker.’ Again he glanced at both of them quickly to see if they caught the unwittingly sinister implication of his words; this time they were both impassive. ‘I’m glad Ed left her the house in Burnham-on-Sea. She deserves to be looked after. She kept house impeccably for Ed after Joan died, and she became more and more of a friend rather than an employee towards the end.’
Lambert was interested in this outsider’s view of Margaret Lewis, as a counter-balance to the hostility David Craven had not troubled to conceal. He said gently, ‘She looked after Mr Craven’s food and medicines?’
The implication of the question was obvious. Miller said calmly, ‘Yes. I’ve thought about that myself. But unless you are telling me that daily access was necessary, any of us had the opportunity to poison Ed. My money certainly wouldn’t be on Margaret Lewis.’
‘Thank you for being so frank with us, Mr Miller.’ Lambert had risen. He was already impatiently anticipating their meeting with Angela Harrison. ‘Needless to say, your views on the other three people who were close to Mr Craven in those last days will be kept strictly confidential.’ He watched the thrush flitting swiftly from sight in the hushes, wondering if it could have caught his movement through the thick glass.
Miller said simply ‘Four.’ For a man dropping a bombshell, he seemed completely unaware of his effect. He reassembled the empty cups and plates carefully on the big tray and said, ‘If you really asked me to put my money on someone, he would be the one I would choose. Unfortunately for Margaret.’ Hook looked at him carefully to see if he knew he was talking in riddles, and decided that he did not.
Lambert felt very foolish as he said, ‘We were not aware that there were more than four people with easy access to the deceased.’ It at least had the virtue of honesty; he noticed how he lapsed into officialese in his uncertainty. His mind was working through a furious retrospect, he realised that he had taken Margaret Lewis’s list of those who were residents or regular visitors to the house at the time without further check. David Craven had been too occupied with incriminating himself and then denying guilt to concern himself with others.
Walter Miller was genuinely puzzled. ‘I didn’t try to deceive you. I was expecting you to come to him.’
‘No, Mr Miller. You didn’t try to deceive us.’ But someone had: Margaret Lewis. ‘Who is the person we have so far omitted?’
‘The one who had already shown he could be violent. The one who hated Ed and made no bones about it. The one whom I found with his hand in Ed’s medicine cabinet in the bathroom five days before Ed died.’
He was not meaning to keep them in suspense. He had been waiting to tell them this. And they had apparently almost forgotten to ask him: it was inexplicable.
Lambert said heavily, insistently, ‘Who, Mr Miller?’
‘Why, Margaret Lewis’s son, of course!’
10
The PC was feeling aggressive. He had just had an almighty rollicking from the station sergeant and the injustice of it rankled. Policemen not being saints, his reaction was to take it out on the first suitably vulnerable member of the public it was his duty to police.
He got out of the Panda car and pulled his leather gloves on slowly as he strolled across the quiet suburban road. There was a raw breeze sweeping in from the sea, but the temperature had nothing to do with the gesture: he had seen older policemen smooth the leather over their knuckles in this way when they had been menacing groups of young toughs in t
he centre of Bristol. Here the gesture was wholly wasted as a token of menace because the subject of the constable’s attention remained unconscious of his presence.
Though he made sure that his shoes rasped on the tarmac, the denim-clad legs did not react, the torso remained invisible beneath the long black bonnet. A Lotus, PC Davies noticed; envy did not make him more conciliatory. ‘Out here, lad. And fast!’ he said.
The boy was four inches shorter than the constable, even when he stood upright. There was a smear of oil across his cheek. More important, there was fear in his light blue eyes. And when he said, ‘What do you want?’ the fear sneaked into his voice.
Perhaps PC Davies mistook fear for guilt. If he was to bring him in for CID questioning, the boy was almost certainly suspected of some offence. ‘I want you, lad. And I want you now. Get into the car.’ He gestured with his head towards the white police Fiesta behind him, without turning his head. He was keeping his eye on the spanner in the boy’s hand. If it moved at all, he would be in first: effecting an arrest in the face of an offensive weapon would look good on a record that was so far undistinguished.
‘What for? I haven’t done nothing.’ The fear was there again in the voice as the boy put down the bonnet carefully, making no movement that could be construed as aggressive. Fear meant weakness, and the constable felt stronger all the time in this situation where he held all the real weapons. He thought that the boy had probably been in spots like this before, and lost.
‘That’s what you say. You might change your mind when the Super gets at you. You going to waste any more of my time?’ He rubbed the palm of his left hand over his clenched right fist beneath the gloves. The youth was thin and pale: he must be the lighter of the two by three or four stones. From the corner of his eye, the constable watched the big, gleaming spanner.
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