by Roy Lewis
Tennant tamped at the tobacco in his pipe. ‘I still don’t see where I fit in.’
‘It’s like this.’ Crow remained patient. ‘Your daughter worked for Lendon. Now Lendon is dead. You’ll appreciate that it’s our job to discover precisely what relationship existed between Lendon and the people in the office, and all the people who had social contact with him.’
‘Relationship?’ Tennant spoke quickly, and with a curious twitch of his eyebrows. ‘Just what do you mean by that?’
Crow waved a lean hand diffidently.
‘How well people knew Lendon, whether they met him regularly and so on. . .’ He paused. ‘Was that your wife?’
Crow was nodding in the direction of the photograph on the mantelpiece. It showed a young woman in a long cotton frock. She was squinting into a bright sun, and there was little to be made of her features, but the set of her head and her stance as she faced the camera certainly reminded Crow of Cathy Tennant.
‘Ay,’ Arthur Tennant said in a soft voice. ‘That was my wife — Cathy’s mother.’
‘I can see Cathy in her.’
‘You can? Ay, they are very alike. Cathy took very much after her mother. You know, as she grew up I could see the resemblance. You see, I watched Katie grow up, as I watched Cathy later. I was five or six years older than Katie and I was aware of her, you know? Aware of her sort of blossoming in her teens.’
‘You knew your wife a long time before you were married?’
‘Oh yes, a long time. We grew up in the same village. Grew up together, and there was a sort of understanding grew up between us too, but I never pushed things, not until she was old enough to know and understand and make up her own mind. When she did that, made up her mind I mean, we got married. We . . . we weren’t married long . . .’
‘What happened?’
‘Katie died.’ Tennant shrugged. ‘She died when Cathy was born. Funny thing, really. When Katie died in childbirth and I saw that little mite in her blankets I thought that I’d call her the same name, Katherine, you know, but the registrar he got it spelt wrong and it came out Catherine. So it was Cathy.’
Tennant remained slumped back in his chair, and watched the blue smoke curl up from the pipe. He was silent for a moment and Crow left him to his memories, briefly. At last, with an apologetic smile, Tennant glanced at Crow and said:
‘You must forgive me. You’ll not want to know the story of my short marriage or the tale of Cathy growing up.’
‘On the contrary, I would, for I have no little regard for your daughter. She’s a bright girl. She has a rare judgment. When did she decide that she wanted to read law?’
Tennant leaned forward; he was obviously only too pleased to launch himself on the subject of his daughter, and his affection for her was plain.
‘Well, I don’t know that it ever happened just like that. As you probably know, I’m a woodwork master up at the grammar school and I knew the value of a good education. Cathy went to the school and I knew from my colleagues that she was bright. They wanted her to go to university and so did I, but she wasn’t keen for some reason. I think she felt she wanted to get out, do a job of work. Anyway, we discussed it, and she didn’t seem to know what she wanted to do, and I pointed out that if she were to read Law it’d be a good idea.’
‘So you wrote to Lendon.’
‘That’s right,’ Tennant said after a slight hesitation.
‘How well did you know him?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘The question is simple enough.’
‘I didn’t know him very well.’
Crow raised his bushy eyebrows. ‘You surprise me.’
Tennant’s pouched eyes glared at his pipe as he tamped it with a darting finger. ‘I don’t know why you’re surprised, Inspector.’
‘Well, if you say you knew him only slightly, why is it that he named you as the executor to his will?’
Tennant froze. Something new lay in his eyes now, an expression of real fear. ‘His executor? Me?’
‘You are named as his first executor — and you didn’t know?’
‘I . . . I . . .’
‘It’s usual for an executor to be asked for his consent so to act before the will is drawn.’
‘He didn’t ask me!’
‘And you weren’t friends?’
‘Never!’
There was a violence in the answer that gave Crow the hint he needed to confirm his suspicions. But he had to be sure.
‘Tell me . . . is your daughter a good girl?’
The implied sneer in his tone brought Tennant from his chair. His face began to mottle in anger.
‘What the hell do you mean?’
‘It’s quite simple. Is Cathy a good girl — in the old-fashioned sense of the word?’
Tennant was shorter than the inspector but he stepped forward, his head raised belligerently and his fists were clenched.
‘Are you suggesting—’
‘You must have heard about Lendon’s reputation,’ Crow said mildly. ‘I’m just asking you whether your daughter might have become his mistress. Otherwise—’ He glanced at the papers in his hand—’perhaps you could give me one good reason why the lecherous Charles Lendon should have left the bulk of his not inconsiderable estate to her.’
Chapter 15
The following morning Crow and Wilson were seated in the interview room, reading through the files which Turner had left for their perusal. They included the material that Lendon had kept on Dr Barstow and Mrs Kent, and Crow was just finishing the papers that Simpson’s constable had produced on Michael Enson’s father when the chief constable entered the room after a perfunctory knock. Crow rose to greet him.
The chief constable’s chubby face was serious as he looked up to Crow. He prodded the file he carried in his hand.
‘I’ve got the papers that Charles Lendon kept on his partner Philips. This chap Philips, he wasn’t one of the world’s gentlemen, was he?’
‘You could put it like that, sir.’ Crow permitted himself a faint smile.
‘Well, it looks as though Lendon more or less drove Philips into signing over his share of the firm; at least, it looks that way from the account you included of the interview you had with him, and in a way it was Philips’s own fault; indeed he could have got worse and ended up struck off the roll. And he did agree to leave the firm; still, there’s not much that can be done about that. I imagine Lendon would have been too much of a lawyer to make the agreements with Philips less than watertight. The other stuff, of course, we’re still very much concerned with.’
‘You mean the company matters?’
‘Mmm. I’ve had a word with our legal gentlemen and they’ve asked for the file to be sent up: it looks very much to me as though a prosecution will have to be mounted. There’s certainly been some sort of shenanigans going on, and Philips looks up to his neck in it. I think it’ll have to be followed through.’
The chief constable peered quizzically at Crow, and puffed out his round cheeks. ‘Where does it all leave Philips as far as you’re concerned?’
‘With regard to the Lendon enquiry? Well, sir, we’re not sure yet.’ Crow had no desire to offend the chief constable, but he was not prepared to go into details concerning the investigation, not at this stage in the proceedings.
‘I’m afraid that Mr Philips must remain on our list of suspects: he would seem to have had the motive for removing Lendon, he certainly disliked and feared him, he did have a quarrel with him, and his account of his whereabouts on that evening is unsubstantiated. I don’t think we can take him at face value, even though he seems colourless and indeterminate.’
‘You think he might have acted violently at the Old Mill?’
‘It’s a possibility.’
‘Mmm. By the way, any trouble with the press?’
‘I gave a short press conference this morning at ten. The usual stuff. They’ll be back, no doubt.’
‘You can count on that! All right, I’ll
get this Philips file sent on. The gentleman will be hearing from us.’
Once Rogers had gone Wilson asked whether they should proceed with the interviewing, but before Crow could answer there was a tap on the door and Detective-Sergeant Turner appeared.
‘I thought you’d better see this at once, sir.’
Crow took the sheet of paper and read it slowly. It was a statement from a man living on the council estate near Lendon’s home.
‘Wilson, I believe I’m right when I say that Mrs Carson corroborated her husband’s account of his movements on the night Lendon died?’
‘That’s right. They were both at home.’
Crow’s voice was sad.
‘According to William Stevens of Pavick Street, on the night Lendon died Stevens passed the time of evening with James Carson not two hundred yards from the Bear Inn, where Stevens had been drinking. Turner, get me a map, will you? Not the chief superintendent’s, if you please!’
Crow stared thoughtfully at Wilson.
‘I must be getting old. Time was when I instinctively knew when a man was lying. A man like Carson, anyway. But if Stevens is right, both Carson and his wife have lied.’
He didn’t enjoy the thought. He liked them both; he had been sorry for them. His judgment had been clouded by compassion; he had too easily and too swiftly accepted what they had to say.
At times this job could be hell.
Turner came into the silence of the room with the map in his hand. Crow spread the map on the table and his bony finger traced the distance from the Bear Inn to the Old Mill.
‘About a mile. Carson could easily have walked it in the time available.’ ‘But why should he walk across to the Bear after killing Lendon?’
‘Assuming he did kill him, perhaps he was thinking of fixing an alibi. Clumsy. Perhaps he’ll have an explanation. Meanwhile, we’d better get on with these others. We’ll start with Mrs Kent and Dr Barstow.’
When they came into the room they avoided contact and they didn’t look at each other. It was a curious situation: they’d been lovers, Crow knew, and yet they kept up this pretence of being virtual strangers even though she had been a patient of the doctor’s.
‘You’ll know why I’ve asked you here.’
‘On the contrary!’ Barstow’s reply was swift and harsh. ‘We’ve no idea what you want. If it’s anything to do with the Lendon murder I can’t imagine why we’re here. In any event, I think we should have legal representation at once.’
‘If you feel you’re on such insecure ground, in spite of the fact that this is merely a preliminary enquiry, by all means call a solicitor. Here’s the phone.’
Crow waited, staring at Barstow. The doctor was a handsome man, broad-shouldered, dark-haired, carefully dressed. His eyes were rather fine, his mouth a little sensual, a little weak. And Mrs Kent . . . slender, tense, as anxious as Barstow, she was unable to hide her feelings or control her emotions. This could be one of the reasons why they found themselves here now. The lovely brown-eyed Mrs Kent might have let herself love too deeply for Dr Barstow’s comfort. He might have wanted the excitement of an affair, but not the professional consequences.
A flush arose above Barstow’s collar as the silence lengthened. The quick glance he directed at Mrs Kent suggested to Crow that the doctor certainly was laying the blame at her door. He nodded.
‘So you decide against legal representation. All right, I’ll go right ahead. I’ve information which suggests that Charles Lendon developed more than a passing interest in Mrs Kent. Perhaps you could give me details.’
Mrs Kent seemed to freeze momentarily, but she reacted swiftly enough, with a look of utter disbelief, when Barstow snapped:
‘I don’t see what that has to do with me!’
Crow regarded him carefully then turned to Gillian Kent. ‘Mrs Kent?’
She seemed unable to speak. Her large, beautiful eyes flickered from Crow to Barstow and back again. Barstow was aware of her glance but refused to meet it and his hands gripped the side of his chair, fiercely, as he glared stonily at Crow’s desk. Crow waited, then said:
‘Mrs Kent’s husband asked Lendon to place a watch on his wife to obtain evidence for a divorce. He engaged Raymond Charlton; the private enquiry agent duly reported to Lendon. The solicitor never passed the gist of that report to Kent. Instead, he told Kent that Mrs Kent had committed no improprieties. Yet Lendon’s own files show quite clearly a liaison between Mrs Kent and Dr Barstow. The details were kept in a file on Dr Barstow, and were in fact duplicated in Charlton’s own files kept at his home.’
Barstow had crumpled. His eyes were glassy, his fingers relaxed. He was a frightened man. Mrs Kent was unable to drag her eyes from him and her features were distressed. She put out a hand, but he seemed hardly aware of her. He was, thought Crow sourly, thinking about a medical career that was drifting away from him forever. Crow himself had other matters to think about.
‘What I want to know is this. Lendon had evidence connecting you two as lovers. He was acting for Mr Kent. Yet he suppressed the information. Why?’
Silence greeted his question. Gillian Kent was still staring at Barstow; the doctor’s gaze was still averted. He was trembling slightly, but otherwise he might not even have heard Crow’s question.
‘All right,’ Crow continued with heavy patience, ‘I’ll put it like this. Charlton followed you two to your assignations, often it would seem at . . .’ he consulted the papers ‘. . . at Rains Point. It is quite obvious that he had enough information to more than satisfy Mr Kent. Charlton handed this material to Lendon about last November. Lendon paid Charlton’s fees and that was that as far as Charlton was concerned. More than this of Charlton’s part, we don’t know. But after Charlton tendered his report there is a gap, a period when nothing seems to be happening. That period ends when Lendon suddenly writes to Kent, telling him that there is nothing to report. What I want to know now, is this: why the delay? And what happened to make Lendon write in this manner to Mr Kent?’
Gillian Kent turned her head towards Crow; she seemed about to say something, but bit her lip. Barstow still sat staring at the floor. Crow waited patiently. The silence grew around them like a physical thing, pressing in on them, and it was Gillian Kent who finally found the strain intolerable.
‘Oh, for God’s sake, Paul, we’ll have to tell them!’
Barstow came alive. His handsome eyes flared angrily and he turned on the woman at his side.
‘Shut your damned mouth, you fool! Can’t you see they still know nothing?’
She started back in her chair as though struck in the face, but Barstow appeared not to notice. He was completely wrapped up in his own thoughts, his own problems, and whatever part Gillian Kent had once played in his calculations she played no part now: Barstow was fighting on his own and if her interests clashed with his, she would have to go by the board. Perhaps, at that moment, Gillian Kent realized this also: Crow gained the impression it had been something that had lain at the back of her mind during the last few days and Barstow’s coolness towards her now only confirmed a suspicion. It was time to push the boat along a little, he thought; with his lip curling slightly in distaste Crow tossed the file across towards Barstow.
‘If you think I’m bluffing, Dr Barstow, take a look for yourself. I want answers and I can call your bluff. If you don’t provide answers, then I put the worst interpretation on your silence. And very damaging it will be, too.’
‘What do you mean?’ Barstow stared at the file as though unwilling to read it. His lips twitched nervously.
‘Simply this. At the moment there’s enough detail in that file to get you into deep trouble. It shows that you have been having an affair with a woman who was also your patient, and a married woman. You took advantage of your professional position. It’s enough to get you struck off the medical register. That’s what’s worrying you at the moment. Forget that worry: there’s not a thing you can do about it, now. Think about the next cause of anxiety.’
Barstow raised his head. Gillian Kent was still watching him with eyes that stared as though she were seeing him for the first time, through eyes unclouded with love. Barstow seemed hardly aware of her presence; a palpable nervousness oozed from his pores, and his handsome face was pale.
‘What anxiety?’
‘The anxiety you should be feeling at the thought that you, and Mrs Kent here, could have a murder charge to answer.’
‘Murder!’ Barstow gasped. Mrs Kent turned her head quickly towards Crow as the inspector continued:
‘Yes, murder. Wasn’t Lendon putting pressure on you? Wasn’t he threatening to expose you? Couldn’t you have killed him, to prevent him telling the world about your affair? Where were you, Barstow, the night Lendon died?’
‘I . . .’
Barstow’s eyes flickered towards Gillian Kent. Their glances met, and held, and as Crow saw the beseeching look in Barstow’s eyes he felt his stomach churn unpleasantly. But for Gillian Kent everything snapped at that look. It was almost the first time he had recognized her presence and it was to plead with her to lie for him. It was more than her pride could stand. With a cold deliberation she said:
‘No. Dr Barstow was not with me on the night Charles Lendon died.’
Barstow’s eyes widened and he opened his mouth to protest. The protest died as he saw the expression on her face. He shook his head.
‘I . . . I was out. I was worried, I took a drive up in the hills, and I walked, I don’t know how long I walked. Hell, I just can’t remember, I’m all confused. Gillian. . .’
‘He was not with me,’ she replied calmly to Crow. She was suddenly over a hill, past a barrier she had been unable to cross. ‘We hadn’t met in about three weeks, or a month.’
Crow nodded. ‘I see. But Lendon was pressing Dr Barstow?’
‘No. He wasn’t.’
Crow caught the quick, uncomprehending glance that Barstow threw in her direction. The inspector regarded Mrs Kent: she was sitting very straight, and there was a flush on her cheek. She seemed to have a complete disregard for the effect her words might have on the man on her right and Crow felt that he understood her reaction. She was accepting an inevitable situation, the fact that Barstow was more concerned about saving his precious career than he was in thinking of her.