by Eric Brown
‘So when Connaught arrived …’
She gave a thin smile. ‘I would have found Denbigh interesting, whatever the circumstances, but, as it happened, I had recently discovered my husband’s infidelity. Denbigh was relatively young, single and handsome, and we shared an interest in literature and the arts.’
‘Precisely when was this, Lady Cecelia?’
‘We first met in May 1940,’ she replied. ‘And our affair began later that summer.’
‘And lasted for?’
‘Almost a year.’
Mallory laboriously wrote that down; buying himself time, Langham thought, in which to formulate his next question. Lady Cecelia sat stiffly upright, indomitable in her posture, yet vulnerable in her frailness.
‘I wonder if you might tell me how the affair ended?’
She fixed Mallory with her grey eyes. ‘Denbigh walked out on me. He told me he was leaving – he’d requested a posting to a farm in Kent – and departed a day later. I was … I don’t mind admitting that I was devastated. I loved Denbigh. I … I was even thinking of leaving my husband for him. His leaving crushed me, extinguished my dreams. Also …’ she began, and stopped suddenly, staring down at her wrinkled hands. ‘Also, the fact was that Denbigh left me with child.’
Langham looked up from his notebook and stared at Lady Cecelia.
Mallory nodded, smiling compassionately at the woman. ‘Was this the reason for Denbigh’s leaving you?’
‘No … He said he was leaving before I told him that I was bearing his child. I begged him to stay, pleaded with him. Then I did tell him about …’ She shook her head. ‘But he was adamant. Our affair was over.’ She stared down at her clenched hands, then looked up and went on, ‘When my husband discovered that I was pregnant, and obviously not by him, he told me he would be seeking a divorce. A month later I lost my baby. A boy. The effect of this, so soon after Denbigh’s desertion … I am afraid I suffered a nervous breakdown, and I was hospitalized for quite some time.’ She smiled at the men. ‘When I was discharged, I found myself a small apartment in London, put the past behind me and started a new life.’
Mallory nodded. ‘So, all things considered, you had reasonable grounds for disliking Denbigh Connaught – even hating the man?’
Lady Cecelia returned his smile. ‘All things considered, Inspector, one might assume so. However, you would be mistaken. Oh, at the time I resented his desertion, his selfishness – but at the same time I loved the man. Denbigh Connaught is … was … a special person. He was a true artist and incredibly ambitious. I could not find it in me to hate him.’
Gently, Mallory asked, ‘Did he say why he was leaving you, Lady Cecelia?’
She stared into space, smiling sadly to herself. At last she looked up. ‘Not in so many words, no,’ she said. ‘Hard though it is to admit, I think he thought I wasn’t good enough for him, intellectually. I gave him nothing but my … my rather pathetic devotion, and that was not enough. He wanted more … something that, I’m afraid – as he remained single for the rest of his life – I think no woman could give him.’
‘So when he contacted you a little while ago, inviting you down here for the weekend and offering an apology …?’
She regarded Mallory. ‘What is your question, Inspector?’
Mallory smiled to himself. ‘How did you regard the invitation, Lady Cecelia? Were you minded to refuse?’
‘No, young man, I certainly wasn’t. I was intrigued. I had, of course, kept abreast of Denbigh’s career, and read all his novels as they came out, and devoured the infrequent interviews he consented to give to the broadsheets and literary journals. I wanted to see what kind of man Denbigh Connaught had become, and I suppose – you will think me foolish for this – I suppose a small, romantic, silly part of me did wonder if perhaps now, years later, something of what we shared back then might not be rekindled.’ She smiled at the detective inspector. ‘But, of course, I was being unrealistic.’
Mallory read from his notes. ‘I understand that you spoke with Connaught in his study on Saturday morning? Would you care to tell me what he said?’
‘It … it was something of a shock to see him again, after so long. Time had not been kind to him, Inspector. He had gone to seed and gained weight. He had been lean and strong, but he’d … he had bloated, somewhat. And also, I thought, he had lost some of his passion for life, his intellectual curiosity. He seemed like a sad, defeated man. But as for what he said … He spoke fondly of our time together, and said he’d treated me terribly, and that he regretted his behaviour.’
‘And that was the extent of your conversation? He apologized—’
‘He apologized, yes, and went on to say that he understood – and I have no idea how he knew this – that I was living in what might be described as reduced circumstances. I could not deny the fact. I struggle, in these times of privation, to make ends meet. Denbigh knew this, as I said, and went on to say that he intended to make me a gift, a small measure of atonement, he said, and that he would counter no objection.’
‘A gift?’ Mallory echoed.
‘He had a number of paintings that he’d collected over the years, many of which were quite valuable. He said that I could choose a number, to the value of ten thousand pounds, and that he would arrange everything with his solicitor.’
Greaves whistled, then coloured and apologized quickly.
Mallory asked, ‘And you accepted, of course?’
‘I refused, at first. I had my pride, Inspector, and I suppose that small romantic part of me that had wanted more from Denbigh Connaught was indignant at the thought of being bought off, as it were, by this gift. However … well, Denbigh broke down. He wept like a child, almost begging me to take the paintings. I must admit that I was shocked, saddened at the sight of his distress. When he said that I must take them, to save his sanity, I relented and agreed to his offer.’
‘Do you know if he had already approached his solicitor with a view to …?’ Mallory began.
‘No, he had not – he said that he would do so, first thing on Monday morning. Of course, now …’ She looked up. ‘Not that I in any way regret the fact that I will not receive the paintings, Inspector. Beside the fact of what happened to poor Denbigh, that is immaterial.’
Mallory nodded and wrote in his notebook for a minute before looking up. ‘I must ask you about Sunday afternoon, Lady Cecelia. I wonder if you could tell me something of your whereabouts, and movements, between two and four o’clock?’
‘Of course. I finished lunch just before one and spent perhaps two hours in the walled garden with Mansfield Park – Austen is such a solace, I find. A little after three, I think it was, I went for a short walk. I spoke to Pandora briefly on the side lawn, then proceeded down the drive and along the lane for a little way, before returning to my room at some point before four.’
‘And other than Pandora Jade, did you see anyone in the grounds of the house or in the lane?’
She thought about it, then shook her head. ‘No, no one.’
Mallory nodded and finished writing in his notebook. He smiled. ‘Thank you for your time, Lady Cecelia. I might need to chat again at some point, but that’s all for now.’
Lady Cecelia smiled, inclined her head to each of the men in turn, and left the room.
‘Game old bird,’ Greaves said.
‘I’ll say,’ Mallory agreed. He looked from Greaves to Langham. ‘Any thoughts?’
Langham said, ‘Try as I might, I can’t see Lady Cee garrotting Connaught. Or, for that matter, hiring someone to do the job. I think she was sincere when she said she no longer resented him. And anyway, what motive might she have had? He was about to give her ten grand worth of paintings, after all.’
Greaves said, ‘I agree. She’d be the most unlikely strangler I’ve ever come across.’
‘Right,’ Mallory said, regarding his notebook. ‘Who’s next? Let’s have Colonel Haxby, shall we?’
NINETEEN
The old soldier s
tumped into the room and fell into the armchair, his artificial leg sticking out before him. The reek of alcohol filled the room and his right hand was shaking uncontrollably.
‘Don’t suppose,’ he said as he eyed Mallory with his liquid green gaze, ‘that there’s any chance of a teensy-weensy drink, is there? Just to steady the old nerves.’
Mallory said, ‘Nerves?’
‘Manner of speaking,’ Haxby said. ‘Nip before the battle, as it were.’
The detective inspector considered the request, then nodded to Greaves. ‘Just a small one, mind.’
Greaves moved to the bar and poured a finger of Scotch.
‘Appreciate it, old boy,’ Haxby said as he took the glass. ‘Here’s mud in your eye.’
Cognizant of the fact that he was unlikely to get a refill, he took a small sip and smacked his lips. ‘That’s better. Now, how can I help?’
‘You knew Denbigh Connaught back in the thirties, I understand?’
‘I did indeed. Fast friends. Great chums and all that. Salt of the earth, old Denbigh.’
‘When was this, exactly?’
‘Met in’ – he squinted in recollection – ‘in ’thirty-three, I think it was. Savile Club. Great drinker, Denbigh. We hit it off immediately.’
‘And then what happened?’
The old soldier blinked. ‘“Happened”, old boy?’
‘I understand,’ Mallory said, ‘that you had a falling-out over something.’
Haxby shifted uncomfortably, scowling. ‘Long time ago. Water under the bridge.’
‘And yet, according to more than one witness, when you arrived here on Saturday you were prepared to shoot Connaught dead.’
‘Was I? By crikey, I don’t recall …’
‘According to my notes,’ Mallory said, ‘you’re on record as saying, “I’ve come to shoot the yellow belly.”’
‘I am? I said that? Must’ve been blotto, is all I can say. Booze talking, don’t you know?’
‘And then on Saturday, after your meeting with Connaught, you were ready to shoot yourself.’
‘Blue funk. Wouldn’t really have …’
‘Why did Connaught want to see you, Colonel? Why did he summon you down here?’
Colonel Haxby raised the glass to his lips, forgot himself and drained it in one go, then frowned into the empty glass.
‘Well?’ Mallory prompted.
‘Old times’ sake,’ Haxby said. ‘He wanted to catch up—’
‘Don’t talk rot,’ Mallory snapped. ‘Now tell me, why did Connaught wish to apologize to you?’
‘Apologize?’ He shook his head. ‘Long time ago … Can’t rightly recall.’
Mallory nodded, sat back and said almost casually, ‘Do you have any idea, Colonel, what happens to people who obstruct the police in the course of their duties?’
Haxby stared down at his glass; he looked so forlorn that Langham felt sorry for him.
Mallory went on, ‘A few days in the cells, Colonel. And I’m told the only drink you get inside is water and weak tea. Now, in your own time, why did Connaught wish to apologize to you?’
‘As I said, long time ago … Twenty years. The old memory, y’see … a bit vague.’
Mallory turned to Greaves and said, businesslike, ‘Detective Sergeant, is that cell at St Austell currently unoccupied?’
‘Ready and waiting, sir.’
‘What say we continue our little discussion, Colonel, down at the station, with an overnight stay in the cell for afters? Alternatively, I can refill your glass and we can sit here, all nice and cosy, and you can tell me all about what happened back in the thirties.’
For a second, Langham thought that the old soldier would hold out. Then Mallory’s threat hit home and, sheepishly, he held out his empty glass.
‘And make it a big one, Greaves,’ Mallory said. ‘I’m sure the colonel has plenty to tell us.’
Greaves filled the glass and passed it to Haxby, who raised it to his lips with a shaking hand and drank.
‘So, Colonel … Why did you fall out with Connaught back then, and why did he wish to apologize?’
Haxby slumped in his seat, his lips pursed as he stared down at his outstretched leg. ‘We’d had an all-day session at some Soho drinking club,’ he murmured. ‘Must have been eight in the evening when we left. Denbigh had his car. Insisted on driving, even though he was blotto. I was too drunk to object. I lived in Highbury at the time, Denbigh further north somewhere. So off we went.’ He fell silent, staring down at the glass clutched in his right hand. ‘Off we went … I fell asleep, as you do. Warm in the car, a few drinks inside … Next thing, screech of brakes and I hit the windscreen. When I come to my senses, Denbigh’s dragging me across the front seat, lodging me behind the wheel. I was too kaylied to twig. Next thing, a police car pulls up and two constables pull me out and take me into custody. Thought it odd, at the time – no sign of old Denbigh. Next morning, a sergeant enters the cell and charges me with manslaughter while under the influence. Clipped a fellow in Islington, apparently. Poor chap hit the kerb, died instantly. I protested, of course. Told ’em what’d really happened. Days later, before the magistrate, there’s Denbigh, claiming he left the club in a taxi but not before giving me the keys to his car because, he said, I’d claimed I was sober enough to drive. He even had the taxi driver to vouch for him. I got off lightly, all things considered. A year in the Scrubs and a fifty-pound fine. I did eight months in the end … And who invited me round to his place a few days after I was released, all tears and remorse, and a brown paper envelope full of ten-quid notes?’ Haxby stared at his drink, his expression desolate. ‘God help the fool I was, I took the money. Five hundred pounds. Connaught wanted to go back to how things were in the old days, good old drinking chums again and no hard feelings. But I was man enough to tell him to go to hell, and I never saw him again from that day till this weekend. Oh, I dreamed of getting even with him, in the months after I got out. I even thought of killing the swine. But good sense, p’raps even cowardice, prevailed … Then the war came along. And, y’know, I thought I’d found my calling. Never been happier in my life.’ He looked up at Mallory and knocked on his false leg. ‘And then a Jerry landmine did for me.’
Greaves reached out, took the old soldier’s empty glass and filled it up without a word.
‘Much obliged, sir,’ Haxby said, and drained half the measure.
Mallory said, ‘And when you received the letter from Connaught, inviting you down for the weekend and offering an apology? What made you accept, Colonel?’
Haxby considered the question. ‘Curiosity, I think. Wanted to see how the blighter had fared. Wanted to see how he might see fit to apologize, how he could possibly apologize for what happened.’
‘And? What did he say, when you saw Connaught on Saturday?’
The colonel sighed. ‘Must admit I was well cut. Fortified, you might say. Dim recollection of Connaught saying he didn’t know what’d come over him that night. He was deeply, truly sorry. And … and he said he wanted to make it up to me. Said he’d give me a gift – ten thousand pounds, would you believe? Mine, for what I’d suffered back in ’thirty-four …’
‘And did you accept?’
‘D’you know something, sir? I can’t remember. Don’t have a ruddy clue. Thing was, seeing him again, him talking about the accident, what he did … He brought it all back again. Brought back all my anger at the terrible injustice, brought back how powerless I’d been … How powerless I still was, and what a bloody mess I’d made of my life.’ He looked from Mallory to Greaves, and then across at Langham. ‘And all I wanted to do was to end it all …’ He laughed, but without humour. ‘But thanks to you, Mr Langham, thanks to you, I live to drink another day.’ The old soldier lifted his glass in a toast and drank, and Langham was unable to work out whether his gratitude was in any way ironic.
Mallory finished making his notes, then said, ‘On Sunday afternoon, Colonel … if you could tell me where you were between the ti
mes of two o’clock and four.’
The colonel pointed a shaking finger to the chair that Greaves was occupying. ‘Right there, sir, in that very chair. From straight after lunch until later, whenever it was that young Royce found the body. Helped myself to a little snifter or two and snoozed on and off all afternoon.’
‘I take it you didn’t see anyone during those times?’
Haxby closed one eye as he thought back. ‘Big chap, the nancy boy. Elder – that’s the fellow. Pranced in at one point, I recall. Then later everyone came in and the drink flowed.’
‘And you haven’t seen any strangers hanging about the place over the weekend?’
He shook his head. ‘Not that I recall, no.’
Mallory sighed. ‘Right. Well, I think that will be all, Colonel.’
Haxby looked startled. ‘What? You’re letting me go? Scot-free? You’re not arresting me, Inspector?’
Again, Langham was unable to discern if there was a note of irony in the colonel’s words, or whether he was truly surprised at his reprieve.
‘You’re free to go, Colonel.’
The old soldier climbed unsteadily to his feet, swayed, and then snapped a salute at the detective inspector, turned on his heel and weaved his way from the room.
‘Well, there we are,’ Mallory said as the door closed. ‘Someone else with a grudge to bear against Connaught. And a hell of a grudge, at that. I don’t know about you, but I can’t see the colonel overcoming Connaught and strangling him.’
‘How about hiring someone to do his dirty work?’ Greaves said.