This was an establishment, Reardon had decided as soon as he stepped through the door into a hushed silence, never in any circumstances to be called a shop. There were few books on display – fewer even than in Murfitt’s shop – but all of them were housed in tall, dignified, glass-fronted bookcases. So discreet was the overall ambience you might have been forgiven for thinking you’d strayed into some gentleman’s comfortable library. Polished parquet surrounded an oriental carpet in subtle tones of faded gold, aged leather chairs with brown velvet cushions stood on it; framed woodcuts and antique maps hung from a picture rail above wood-panelled walls that were painted a dull green. Soft-shaded lamps graced occasional tables. There was a lectern supporting an open book and a desk pushed unobtrusively into one corner, as if to deny that anything so infra dig as ‘trade’ went on here.
Forster listened carefully and without any visible emotion to what Reardon had to tell him, as circumspectly as he could, about Adrian Murfitt, but when he’d finished, the sound of wheezing had become noticeably louder in the small, quiet room. It suddenly stopped and for a horrible, disconcerting moment Reardon thought Forster had actually died. Then it began again, louder and quicker and this time with a whistle to it. His vast bulk collapsed back into his chair, he began to gasp between breaths and his knuckles showed white as he clutched the chair arms. Reardon had already sprung up to go to his aid, but the disagreeable necessity of having to grope under those chins to loosen his collar was averted when he saw with relief that Forster was coming round. His breathing became less stertorous and he was trying to lever himself upright. Reardon helped him. ‘Are you all right, sir?’ Plainly not, but what else did you say in the circumstances? ‘Can I get you anything?’
A manicured hand flapped denial. ‘It’s nothing. Used to it,’ Forster told him on a still-whistling breath, then pointed in the direction of a small table at the back of the room. ‘Brandy.’ And with an immense effort, added, ‘You, too?’
‘A pleasure,’ Reardon lied, simply in the interest of keeping the man alive. But it seemed Forster was not for the other world yet and Reardon was going to be spared having yet another corpse on his hands. At his direction he poured what was evidently the remedy of choice for his attacks and was immensely relieved when it did the trick and he saw colour returning to the pendulous cheeks. ‘But shouldn’t you see a doctor, sir?’
‘Won’t do any good. A minute or two … we can talk then.’
Reardon took as small a sip as he decently could from the meagre contents of his own glass and hoped there’d be a chance of disposing of the rest soon. He couldn’t see any convenient plant pot, so barring accidentally knocking his glass over and spilling the contents on to the possibly priceless Persian, he would either have to leave it or drink it. He loathed brandy – or at least the blinding headache it always gave him. ‘I’m sorry to have brought you such bad news, sir. We can leave the rest if you don’t feel up to it.’
‘A shock, yes,’ Forster admitted. ‘But these things … best got over with. How did it happen?’
The murder of someone you’d known was appalling news for anyone to receive, but the strength of Forster’s reaction to it made Reardon wonder just how well he had known Murfitt. Not knowing the nature of their relationship made him very careful how he told the story, or as much as he felt the man needed to know about how Murfitt had died. Especially was he careful not to let him know the conditions in which he had lived. Forster was obviously a fastidious man and Reardon guessed that to hear such sordid details would be additionally painful.
After another silence, Forster said, ‘And now you need answers to questions, I suppose. That’s what you’re here for.’ His voice had taken on a slightly sardonic note. His affliction did indeed seem to be something he lived with: he was recovering fast.
‘If you feel up to it.’
Forster inclined his head and motioned him to go on. ‘What do you want to know?’
‘You could start by telling me how you came to employ Mr Murfitt?’
‘Employ?’ The word appeared to taste strange on his tongue. ‘He was down on his luck when we were introduced by … a friend he’d met during the war. I presume there is no need to tell you what happened to Adrian in those years? Yes, well, I never held that against him … Every man to his conscience, though not everyone believed that, did they, at the time or afterwards?’ Forster spoke in fits and starts but he was gaining more strength by the second. ‘He was finding it hard to get work, I needed someone to help out here – as you see, my health isn’t all it should be. He was with me for four years, nearly five. We found each other … mutually agreeable.’ After a moment he added, ‘So much so that I gave him to understand he could expect to take over from me when I go.’
The way things looked for Forster, that might not have been too long, Reardon thought. And a nice little inheritance a place like this would have been for Murfitt. Which made the fact that he should have thrown away such an opportunity and taken up that miserable existence in Hinton all the more puzzling.
‘You’re wondering why he left,’ Forster said astutely. ‘But I’m not sure I can tell you – I’m still reeling from the shock, myself. The opportunity presented itself to set up on his own, you see, and he seemed to think it was the chance of a lifetime. A man called Penrose Llewellyn – you know of him?’ Reardon nodded. ‘I couldn’t understand it, to be honest. For one thing, Adrian wasn’t a fool, but mostly, I wanted to know why, if Llewellyn was set on investing in a rare book business, he had to do it out in the sticks. It didn’t seem quite … it seemed not quite in line with his other business interests. Adrian said the question of where the shop was didn’t matter, and of course, to a certain extent, he was right. But why would Mr Llewellyn put money into a set-up like that in the back of beyond, for someone he scarcely knew? To be honest, I had my suspicions. Something fishy about it.’
Probably more than he dreamt of, thought Reardon. There was something decidedly whiffy about the whole business. It was conceivable that Penrose Llewellyn might well have provided the wherewithal to set Murfitt up – as long as it didn’t hurt his pocket too much – but why would the astute businessman he had been all his life have thrown money away on someone he scarcely knew? The bookshop operation was never going to make anyone’s fortune – perhaps might never have broken even.
‘Have you ever been to Hinton Wyvering, Mr Forster?’
When he smiled, Forster’s eyes almost disappeared in folds of fat. ‘Happily, no. The countryside, as someone or other once said, is very promising, at a distance. I prefer to keep it that way.’
‘But you knew Mr Llewellyn. He bought books from you, I understand?’
‘I know both the Llewellyns, yes, I deal with them quite often. Theo has been a client for many years. It’s always been a pleasure to deal with him.’
‘And his brother, Penrose?’
‘I haven’t had so much to do with him. He’s impatient, not like his brother. He buys books like …’ He paused to take another sip of brandy. ‘For all the wrong reasons. He is not a serious collector.’
And that had obviously damned him in Forster’s eyes, if not in Murfitt’s. It was also evident in his use of the present tense that he hadn’t heard of Pen’s death, and why should he, unless Murfitt himself, or Theo perhaps, had informed him of it? In view of Forster’s reaction to being told what had happened to his friend, Reardon was inclined to delay telling him this further news for as long as possible.
The other man was watching him, warily, it now seemed. ‘Do you know yet who it was – the one who was responsible?’
‘Not yet, that’s why I’m down here. We hope to find something in Mr Murfitt’s background that might help us to trace the culprit. Tell me, do your premises here contain a flat, Mr Forster? An attic flat, perhaps?’
Forster blinked. ‘There’s only the floor above this one, where I live. Why do you ask?’
‘We’re looking for the other Llewellyn brother, Huwie.’
‘Another? I was under the impression there are only two.’ His tone noticeably sharpened as he added, ‘What has all this to do with me?’
‘Well, you see, it’s rather odd that you don’t know Huwie Llewellyn. He gave us this as his address.’
For a moment Reardon thought the man might be going to have another attack. ‘Does … does he have something to do with Adrian’s death?’
‘I don’t know, but we need to contact him fairly urgently. Our problem is that he’s disappeared, leaving only this address. But if you can tell me where Mr Murfitt lived before he went to Hinton, it’s possible we might find Mr Llewellyn there.’
Forster didn’t reply. His lips pursed as he looked down at the onyx ring, twisting it on his finger. He shifted in his chair, his flesh wobbling. ‘Adrian lived here,’ he said at last. ‘We shared the apartment above.’
There followed a longer silence.
‘There is something else you should know,’ Reardon said. ‘Penrose Llewellyn is also dead.’
‘Is he indeed? Well, I’m sorry to hear that, but I believe he wasn’t a well man. I understood that was why he retired to Hinton Wyvering.’ Forster looked more closely at Reardon. ‘My God, are you going to tell me his death was suspicious, too?’
‘I’m afraid that’s very much what it looks like.’ He became aware of the street noises outside, the tick of a clock somewhere in the background as the silence lengthened.
‘I told him no good would come of it,’ Forster said at last. ‘But when did anyone listen to good advice when they were bent on destruction?’ Destruction? That seemed a bit strong. Forster, seeing his look, waved a hand again. ‘Not physical destruction, God knows, I never thought it would amount to that.’ He sighed and Reardon waited to hear what else he had to say. Under all that blubber was a kindly, sensitive and sensible man.
‘Adrian was a rather secretive person, you know. He didn’t tell me things – personal things. It made him difficult to live with sometimes. I knew little of how all this business with Pen Llewellyn had arisen and even less of his background. He had a chip on his shoulder for some reason … I imagined he was in some way disadvantaged. He certainly had no money, though I know he’d had a university education.’
Reardon was hearing again the same thing Verity Lancaster had said – a chip on his shoulder. ‘Did you know he was illegitimate, Mr Forster?’
‘No, but it doesn’t surprise me.’ He looked into the distance. ‘I never really believed, you know, that it was Llewellyn who suggested opening the shop. I think it was Adrian who persuaded him. He could, I’m afraid,’ he added carefully, ‘be rather manipulative.’
Like Pen himself, then. But – persuaded? From what Reardon had learnt of Pen, he had not been easily persuadable. He remembered something else he had to ask. ‘Do you by any chance know anything of a loden coat Mr Murfitt owned?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘With a fur collar?’
Forster heaved himself from his chair and crossed to the desk in the corner. He opened a drawer and fumbled inside for a moment, returning with a snapshot. Silently, he handed it to Reardon. It was very clear and the subject was Murfitt – though such a vastly different Murfitt from the man Reardon had met in Hinton that he was momentarily unrecognizable. His hair was brilliantined and sculpted into smooth waves and he sported a small Hollywood style pencil moustache, shaped like a circumflex. He was pictured leaning negligently against the side of a sleek motor car, with one immaculately shod foot on the running board. His elbow rested on the open window and dangling from his hand was a check tweed cap similar to the one Reardon had last seen hanging on the kitchen door in Hinton. The long, fur-collared coat he wore fitted like a glove. Reardon studied the handsome, film star face for a long time. ‘May I borrow this, sir?’
‘No.’
The reply was unequivocal, but after a moment, Forster relented. ‘All right, take it, as long as you let me have it back.’
Reardon promised and gave him a receipt as added assurance. As he took his leave, Forster said heavily, ‘I’ve spent years of my life building this business up – the goodwill, my reputation. I thought it would go on after I’m gone, that Adrian would continue it … It’s been my world and I always thought it was his, too.’
‘You didn’t – er – change your mind about leaving it to him when he left you?’
‘No. Why would I do that? We didn’t quarrel over what he’d done. It was his decision, and I didn’t own him. In any case, I was always sure he would come back, when he’d come to his senses. I was wrong – over that and perhaps a lot more. It seems we shared a relationship, but not a life,’ he finished sadly. Grief welled up in him suddenly, causing him to turn his face away.
Reardon heard the click of the lock as the door closed behind him.
They had parted to go their separate ways after arriving in London, Reardon saying drily to Gilmour that since he knew her so well, he would leave Miss Bannerman and her explanations to him.
The street where she lived was a yellow London-brick terrace of three-storey houses with flat windows and black-painted area railings. Like most of the other houses in the street it had been converted into flats. The card by the door listed the name Bannerman as being on the first floor. There was no bell but the door opened at a push and there was a flight of steps facing him. At the top was a door. Gilmour was sure he’d come to the right one when he saw it was painted a bright canary yellow.
He was in luck – sounds of activity issued from behind the door, but the person who answered his second loud knock wasn’t Sadie Bannerman. She was a little, bent old woman who spoke in a barely audible whisper which Gilmour interpreted as being that Sadie Bannerman didn’t live here any more. He showed his qualifications and quietened her alarm by explaining that he had recently met Sadie and was anxious to get in touch with her again.
Five minutes later he was nursing a cup of tea by the gas fire and the woman he now knew to be Sadie’s grandmother sat in the chair opposite, regaling him with a lot of information he didn’t want about how long she’d been here and what she thought about the other tenants of the house. But Gilmour was patient. She was nowhere near as decrepit as she had at first appeared. He soon discovered her whisper was due to the fact that she was hard of hearing and, like many deaf people, she wasn’t aware that her own voice was barely audible. Gilmour raised his and kept his ears attuned.
The flat was small and cluttered with too much old-fashioned furniture and ornaments, every one of which had a lace doily to protect the highly polished surface it stood on. The claustrophobic feeling was heightened by the gas fire being turned up much too high, but Mrs Bannerman was friendly and talkative and they were getting along fine. Once she’d been assured her granddaughter wasn’t in any sort of trouble (which Gilmour devoutly hoped wasn’t a lie he would need to be forgiven for) she waxed eloquent on the subject of Sadie – halfway to America by now, she said proudly.
‘What?’ So much for Sadie Bannerman then. It had taken all Reardon’s powers of persuasion to be granted permission for both of them to come to London – and now … well, the days of Inspector Dew, following and apprehending the wife-murderer, Crippen, across the Atlantic were long gone, had they ever been likely to apply to such as Gilmour. Even if, however unlikely, Sadie did turn out to be a murderer.
‘She’s got a wonderful job waiting for her over there in New York, my clever little lass,’ Mrs Bannerman told him proudly. ‘Always was bright as a button, and I shan’t half miss her, but as I’ve always drilled into her, you have to take your chances where you find ’em in this life, don’t you agree?’
‘You’re not wrong at that.’
‘I’ve had her since she was five years old, my daughter dying and the poor child never knowing who her father might have been, if you get my meaning.’ She gave him a speculative look from her bright eyes and decided to go on. ‘Well, see, her mother being as she was, despite being brought up right and proper, I’ve seen
to it that my little Sadie didn’t go that way.’ Her eyes were worried as she stirred her tea. ‘To tell the truth, I was worried about her, living on her own up there in that place nobody’s ever heard of. She’s not used to being alone and doing for herself. She’s a good girl but she can be a bit … well, feckless, at times. What’s she been up to that you’ve come looking for her?’ she asked suddenly.
‘Nothing, I hope, Mrs Bannerman. I expect you know that Mr Llewellyn, the man she’d been working for, had died.’
‘Yes, she told me that.’
As briefly as he could, he explained as much of the facts as he thought she needed to know. ‘We only need to talk to her. I know the job in Hinton was only a temporary one, but she left it without leaving a word, you know.’
‘I expect they told her to go,’ she sighed.
‘They?’
‘That law firm she works for. It was them as sent her up there to work for that Mr Penrose and them as got her the job in America. Thought a lot about her, they did. “Gran,” she says, “it’s a wonderful chance for me over there. Before long I’ll be sending for you to join me, just you see if I won’t.” I didn’t say anything. I let her think one day I would.’
‘What law firm are we talking about, Mrs Bannerman?’
She told him. He noted it down without much surprise.
‘It doesn’t make any sense at all,’ Reardon said, tucking into Welsh rarebit in the Lyons Corner House where they’d arranged to meet and compare notes, ‘for Murfitt to leave a cushy number like he had with Forster. He was living very comfortably, thank you very much, and with high expectations for the future and then … he just throws it all away. Why? And assuming Forster was right, how did he manage to persuade Pen – if that’s the right word – into going along with him?’
Despite the large noisy room being so crowded, they’d managed not to have to share a table. They were both speaking with lowered voices, though their conversation was unlikely to be heard above the café music and the continuous loud babble of talk echoing around them.
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