The House on the Fen

by Claire Rayner

  “Darnell. Harriet Darnell. Please, will you ask Mr. Peters if he will see me now— because if he can’t, I’ll have to—”

  The were all looking at her now, and Harriet began to feel angry. She knew little enough about solicitors in all conscience, but surely it wasn’t all that unusual for people to arrive at their office wanting help? Or maybe it was. Maybe she should turn and run, forget the whole thing—

  The glazed door at the end of the room opened, and the three men immediately dropped their heads and began to work industriously again.

  A deep voice with a marked Scottish accent made Harriet turn from the girl to stare across the room. “Jennifer, where in the name of all that’s holy did you hide that Cantrell file? I’ve told you a dozen times, I’ll not have this office run like a second-rate bazaar—”

  The man at the door was tall, and thin, an very neat, his jacket lying smoothly across his shoulders. He had very dark red hair, cut brutally short but not so short that all the natural curl in it had disappeared, for the light caught his head, showing tight ridges across the crown. He had deep clefts in each cheek, and a down-turned mouth that accentuated them, and he was wearing heavy dark-rimmed glasses behind which his very brown eyes looked hard. As she stared at him, at the expression of irritation on his face, Harriet felt even more like turning to run; a more difficult person to talk to she couldn’t imagine.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Peters,” the girl said breathlessly. “I was just finishing it, and then this lady came in, and—”

  “Don’t blame me!” Harriet let her fear and nervousness spill over into anger. “All I did was come and ask to see a solicitor, and what I got was stone-walling. Well, you look for your wretched file, and tell your Mr Peters—” and she threw a withering stare across the room at the all redheaded man in his heavy glasses “you tell him I’ll find another solicitor somewhere— and thank you for nothing—”

  “Here— just a minute—” The redheaded man moved swiftly, almost without appearing to make an effort, and came to stand beside her.

  “No one but myself is allowed to talk to my staff like that, madam! Who might you be, and what right have you to talk to my secretary so rudely?”

  “I’m a client— or that was what I came in here to be!” Harriet said furiously, enjoying the luxury of a lost temper, letting the dammed-up emotion go with it. “But since you obviously don’t want new clients, I’ll go elsewhere.”

  “You’re jumping to conclusions, aren’t you?” the redheaded man said. “Who said I don’t want clients? No one did, of that I’m certain. Not that I do, mind, if it’s a divorce lawyer you’re looking for—”

  “I am not looking for a divorce lawyer!” Harriet sad furiously. “I’m looking for someone to help me with a murder—”

  The room became even more silent than it had been, only the plopping of the gas fire in the corner breaking it.

  “One that has been committed or one that you’re planning?” the man said after a pause.

  “That’s not funny,” Harriet said, her anger now seemingly more childish petulance than genuine rage in the face of this calm, cold man.

  “It wasn’t meant to be,” he said drily. “But I’m an accurate man and you said you wanted someone to help you with a murder. Just what did you mean?”

  Harriet shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. I’ll go—” And she put her hand on the door.

  “You’ve already wasted a deal of my staff’s and my time, madam, so you might as well stay and finish what you began. I can assure you our time is very valuable.”

  “And so is mine,” Harriet snapped. “I— I’ve been looking for someone to advise me, and I though you would. I saw your window from outside, so I can up. I see I was wrong—”

  “Oh, come away in, madam and stop havering in this fashion. I can give you a few minutes—”

  “Don’t bother,” Harriet flashed at him and turned and ran down the stairs, her face flaming. How anyone could be so unpleasant, so gratuitously rude, she thought bitterly, and call himself a solicitor—

  She pulled open the door at the foot of the stairs and almost went into the street— and then shrank back.

  On the curb, right opposite the door, there was a policeman— a big strong man, standing well back on his heels, his hands behind his back— and he was staring right at her. And the sight of him so startled her that she pushed the door shut again and turned, almost deciding to run back up the stairs, preferring the ill-mannered Peters rather than that heavy figure of the law— and turned straight into Peters.

  The impact of her sudden move sent him rearing backward, tripping over the last step. She fell heavily against him, so that he had to help her to her feet before he could get up himself and stand dusting his coat with slapping motions of the leather gloves he was holding.

  “It would appear that it is myself you are about to murder, madam,” he said dryly. “Can you never make your mind up? Are you coming or are you going? Just let me know, and I’ll make my own movements accordingly.”

  “I’m going— I mean, I was, but there’s a policeman out there—”

  “Policemen are often to be found in London streets.” He peered at her in the gloom of the narrow stairway. “What is so strange about a policeman? Are you afraid of him?”

  “Yes— I mean, no, not him, but—”

  “In the name of good sense, madam, can you never give a clear answer to a question?” Peters said. “Are you or are you not afraid of him?”

  “Yes!” Harriet almost shouted back. “I am.”

  “Why?”

  “That’s none of your concern.”

  “Look, madam, I am well aware of that. I don’t want you as a client if you don’t want to be one. You’re wasting my time, as I’ve already had cause to tell you, and the more you waste, the bigger the investment I’ve made in you. Now, either you go away, right now, and leave me in peace, or you tell me what you want and let me deal with it.”

  “I— I—” And once again, Harriet found herself crying, and the angrier she get with herself for crying, the worse it became. All I’ve done for the past two days is weep, she thought, furiously rubbing her face, and wanting to slap the man standing in front of her, looking at her with an expression of chilly disdain on his dour face.

  “Since you’re clearly not fit to decide for yourself what to do, I’d better decide for you,” he said irritably, and turned his head to roar, “Jennifer!” up the stairs.

  “Sir?” The girl appeared at the top of the stairs to peer down at them in surprise.

  “Ring Cantrell— tell him I can’t manage lunch. Got an urgent case, it seems, looking at this lady here. I’ll call him later—”

  “Yes, sir,” and Jennifer disappeared.

  “Have you lunched?” Peters said sharply.

  “No, thank you— and you needn’t bother about me—” Harriet had recovered her composure now.

  “I’m not concerned about your lunch as much as I am for my own. I’m hungry. If you don’t want to eat, you can watch me. Come along now, and you need not worry about the policeman. Policemen don’t interfere with me or my clients.”

  And he held the door open, so that she had to go out in front of him. He walked beside her and slightly ahead of her, so that she almost had to run to keep up with him, not that he seemed to notice or even care whether she was able to do so or not.

  A few yards along the road, he stopped beside a public house and held the door open for her. She went in, very aware of her red eyes and probably shiny nose, conscious that she looked merely sulky now that she had managed to stop crying.

  The pub was very full, with men in heavy dark suits standing at the bar or sitting at tables with sandwiches and beer in front of them. Several of them nodded at Peters as he went toward the small dining room at the end of the bar, and he nodded crisply in return.

  Harriet stopped at the doorway, and Peters passed her without a word and led the way to a
table in the far corner, holding a chair for her with such an expression of impatience in his face that she had to sit down. She realized full well that he could be as rude to her here in a crowded restaurant as he had been in his own office, and did not want to draw any attention to herself. Carefully he hung up his coat, and then sat down, equally carefully hitching his trousers at the knee as he did so.

  “Now, madam,” he said, “perhaps you will tell me your name, since you have the advantage of me there, and then I can order some lunch. If you want some lunch too, say so now, for I want to eat soon. They do a good steak and kidney pie I can recommend.”

  “No, thank you,” Harriet said stiffly.

  “No need for sulks, madam. Now, from the look of you, I’d say you’d not eaten lunch yet— or breakfast come to that. Your face looks as bleak as a moor. Aye— I thought so—” for Harriet had not been able to prevent herself gazing with some interest at a tray of pie a waitress carried past at that moment. “Your name, madam, I asked you?”

  “Harriet Darnell.”

  “Mrs. or Miss or other title?” And he seemed to Harriet to speak with exaggerated patience.

  “Mrs. Are you always so damned rude?”

  “Rude? Me?” He sounded genuinely surprised. “I’m never rude! I just don’t be doing with haverers, that’s all. And while I may be a bit sharp with women who get into a state, it’s for their own good. Now— we’ll have some lunch, and you can tell me of this murder of yours— and you needn’t look like that. There’s no one can hear you here, and they’re making too much noise themselves to be concerned with anything you may have to say. And when you’ve had some food, maybe you’ll be calm enough to talk some sense. I hope so. I must say you don’t look like the average hysterical female.”

  And he ignored the way she opened her mouth to make a retort, and crooked an imperious finger at the waitress who came hurrying over with her order pad.

  Chapter Seven

  They are in silence, he with a tidy concentration she found fitting, matching as it did his general manner. It was a very good steak and kidney pie, and she ate hers with more enjoyment than she would have thought possible, demolishing with equal relish the Camembert cheese he ordered to follow it, without having asked her whether she wanted it or not. He did not offer a drink, but demanded coffee from the waitress when they had finished eating, and then sat back and looked at her.

  “Right. Now we’ll here this story of yours.”

  “I’m not sure I want to tell you.”

  “That’s neither here not there. I’m a busy man, Mrs. Darnell, and I’ve used too much time on you already. You’ll tell me about this murder of yours, and you’ll tell me now. Right now.”

  So she did. It wasn’t that she was frightened of him so much, though there was an element of that in her feelings, but that there was nothing else she could do.

  He listened, his face quite expressionless, making brief notes in a small notebook he took from his pocket. When she reached the point of explaining how she had left Thaxham that night, after seeing the impostor in her house, he raised his head and stared at her.

  “Are you telling me you did nothing? You just up and ran, without making any effort to find out who was this woman you saw?”

  She nodded.

  “That was very stupid, wasn’t it? A very odd thing to have done?”

  “If you’d been married to Jeffrey, you wouldn’t have thought so,” she said sharply.

  “Never having been married at all, I’m no authority on the stresses and strains of the arrangement,” he said dryly. “What’s so very dreadful about living with this particular spouse?”

  “He was— hateful,” Harriet said. “I wanted to get away. I’ve wanted to for— years, and this— this peculiar impostor gave me the chance. So I took it.”

  “Was hateful?”

  “He’s dead now,” she said flatly.

  “Hmmph.” He sounded very Scottish indeed, peering at her over his heavy glasses. “When did that happen? And how?”

  “I— yesterday— I mean the day before— I think. Look, I went back to Thaxham yesterday. Found him— in the bathroom. He was— he was— his throat had been cut, and—”

  She felt sick suddenly, as the memory of how he had laid sprawled in the brilliantly lit bathroom rose before here eyes. But Andrew Peters seemed unmoved by his distress.

  “Why did you got back to Thaxham yesterday? And how did you get there?”

  “I beg our pardon?”

  “You ran away the night before, glad to be free, you said. And you had no money so you stole a train journey— and no one saw you leave as a result. Right. Why then did you go back to Thaxham, and how did you get there? Where did you get the money for the journey?”

  She hadn’t meant to tell him about Marcus, not at all. She wanted Marcus kept out of her story, for this, after all, was the whole point of this present exercise— to see the police and keep Marcus clear.

  “I— I just went,” she said lamely.

  “You’re asking me to believe a lot, Mrs. Darnell,” Peters said, sounding irritable again. “Look at it from my point of view. You tell me an involved tale about an impostor, about seizing a God-given opportunity to leave your husband, who you admit to hating— and then you say you ‘just went back,’ just like that, and found his dead body. How would that sound to you, in my place?”

  She looked at him, miserably, biting her lips.

  “Like a pack of lies,” she said at length. “But it is true— about the impostor, and leaving him—”

  “But not about going back.”

  “Not— not exactly—” Suddenly, she had another reason for not wanting to tell this sharp-eyed man about Marcus. It wasn’t just the wish to keep Marcus’ name out of the mess, but a sudden awareness of how it would sound if she told him.

  There was this man who picked me up, whose flat I stayed in, with whom I fell in love, who took me there, who is so wonderful I want to protect him as he protected me— that would sound really choice, wouldn’t it?

  He broke into her thoughts. “Mrs. Darnell. It is now one-thirty. I have an appointment at three and work to be done before that. So, will you please stop this havering and tell me the facts of this case? I can’t act for you if I don’t have the truth—”

  “You’re willing to act for me?”

  “I wouldna be sitting here listening to this melodramatic tale if I were not—”

  “It’s not a— a tale,” She was getting anfry again.

  “Ah, whisht! Don’t go throwing another of your paddies, now—” And he smiled suddenly, so that his face looked quite different, younger. He’s not much more than thirty, Harriet thought, startled.

  “I’m sorry,” she said and managed to smile herself. “It’s true, that’s all. And I suppose you’ll have to know about Marcus. But, please— could you keep his name out of this, when we go to the police?”

  “Marcus? And who might he be?”

  She explained, trying not to show that she was aware of the irregularity of picking up strange men and falling in love with them. But he listened without comment or any change in facial expression, except that he nodded in brief approval when he heard about Sue’s presence at the flat.

  “That makes sense now— why you went back, I mean. This man would appear to have a little more wisdom than yourself, though not much, if I may say so—”

  “Oh, say so by all means,” Harriet said, with a spurt of sudden amusement. “Why be tentative about your insults at this stage?”

  He ignored that.

  “The first thing, as you must understand, is to go to the police with this story. You’ll tell them about this man Cooper, for course—”

  “No,” she said flatly.

  He looked at her, his brows together slightly.

  “That’s very high-minded of you, no doubt,” he said. “But I found your tale about returning to Thaxham yesterday hard to swallow without knowing this man insisted you s
hould and that he accompanied you. The police will no doubt be as skeptical as I was. Furthermore, he is the only confirmation you have. If he can say, in court, that he was with you when you found the body of your husband. I will be a lot better for you—”

  “In court?” she said frightened again. “You mean— they’ll charge me? Think I killed Jeffrey?

  “No. They can’t charge you without evidence. But there will be a coroner’s case made of the death, of course. You’ll probably have to give evidence then. The decision of that court will decide what happens thereafter. Look, Mrs. Darnell. I’m willing to represent you in this matter, but only if you tell me the whole truth— and I think you have so far—”

  “Thank you—”

  “I’m not offering compliments, merely a statement of fact,” he said. dampeningly. “I think you have so far — and as I say, you must continue to do so, and you must tell the police the truth as well.”

  She shook her head stubbornly.

  “Mrs. Darnell, I must tell you something here and now. If you refuse to allow me to act for you on my terms— which are fully legal, of course— you are not a client of mine. Right? Right. If you are not a client of mine, I am not in law expected to protect your interests by keeping silent on any matter that concerns you if— and this is important— if such protection goes against my legal responsibilities as a citizen.”

  “I don’t follow you—”

  “It is my duty, as a citizen, to bring to the attention of the law that any crime of which I may have cognizance. If I do not do so, I am not only failing in my legal duty, I am compounding a felony. I become an accessory after the fact. And I am damned if I will allow you to protect another man, who has already become an accessory, at my personal expense. Do I make myself clear?”

  She stared at him, at his cold face, the hard brown eyes behind the gleaming heavy spectacles. “I don’t think I like you very much,” she said after a moment, aware of the inadequacy of the statement.

  “That, madam, is neither here not there. So. Do you become my client, or do you not? If you decide so to do, on my terms, I can assure you of my best efforts on your behalf. If you are disappointed in those efforts, you have recourse to the Master of the Rolls who will investigate any complaint made by clients—”