The Woods Murder

by Roy Lewis

  ‘You say I’m wrong in suggesting that a motive for murder would lie in Lendon’s pressure upon Barstow?’

  ‘Not wrong. Half right only.’ Gillian Kent’s face was stiff, her brilliant eyes hard. ‘You see, the price for release of the pressure had already been paid.’

  Wilson raised his head to look at her. Crow suddenly felt cold. Gillian Kent’s face was expressionless. The two policemen almost involuntarily looked towards Dr Barstow, but his face told them nothing except that he seemed as puzzled as they.

  ‘Perhaps, for the sake of the record, you’d better tell us what happened,’ Crow said. Wilson bent over his pad.

  ‘It’s quickly told,’ Gillian Kent replied with her head held proudly. ‘I fell in love with Paul Barstow and I thought he loved me. It accounts for my conduct later. We had an affair. We knew nothing about Charlton’s enquiries, we thought no one knew the truth about us until, out of the blue, Charles Lendon visited me. Then he saw Dr Barstow, and gave him rather more detail than he had furnished me with. There was silence for almost two weeks, during which time . . . Dr Barstow became ever more anxious. Then he asked me to go to see Lendon, plead on his behalf, explain we were in love. I didn’t want to go . . . but I did. And received Lendon’s proposition.’

  She paused, faltering slightly, before continuing in an emotionless tone.

  ‘Lendon told me he admired me, and said that exposure would destroy Dr Barstow’s career. He said that Dr Barstow would be saved if I agreed to his suggestion. Lendon promised that he would write to my husband and tell him there was no evidence of a liaison, provided . . . provided I agreed to become Charles Lendon’s mistress.’

  Crow’s glance shifted towards Dr Barstow. The man was sitting upright, glaring at Mrs Kent in a wild incomprehension. It was backed by a nervous fear that suddenly made his hands shake.

  ‘I refused,’ continued Mrs Kent. ‘Lendon seemed not the slightest abashed. I formed the impression that he was not seeking a permanency: he desired me, and this was a way of satisfying his desire. I think he also found the method of pursuit satisfying in itself, it gave him a kick of some sort to put pressure on me, and humiliate Dr Barstow. It was like a game to Lendon. I received several telephone calls from him . . . I was beside myself with fear and anxiety . . . but in the end, one night . . .’

  ‘Gillian!’

  Barstow’s voice was hoarse and he sat stiffly, his hands clenched in his lap. Mrs Kent paused and for just one moment her resolve crumbled. Then she rallied again and continued.

  ‘I went to Lendon. I slept with him, eventually.’

  Crow heard Wilson’s involuntary indrawn breath, but he was watching Barstow’s face. The man’s mouth seemed to crumple, like a child taking an undeserved beating.

  ‘Dr Barstow didn’t know.’ Gillian Kent’s tone was now quite impassive, as though spoken in a dream. ‘But his anxiety had cut me to the quick, and his unhappiness so upset me that when Lendon suggested this short affair I finally gave in. I met Charles Lendon several times. He took me to dinner. He was courtesy itself: he didn’t rush things. We . . . we finally slept together on about five occasions.’

  ‘Can you give me dates?’

  ‘I can. Our later meetings took the form of afternoon visits to my flat. The last occasion was . . . was the day he died.’

  Crow glanced significantly towards Wilson. They now knew where Lendon had been spending his time during the periods not accounted for in his diary. Crow hesitated. ‘And that evening? The night he died?’

  ‘I was at my flat. Alone. Trying to telephone Dr Barstow. I couldn’t get through to him. I . . . I was desperately unhappy. Next morning I heard that he . . . Charles Lendon was dead, and with an immense relief I ran round to see Dr Barstow. I didn’t catch him in then, but when I finally met him at his surgery he seemed in no way pleased to see me. I told him I thought that now everything would be all right for us. But he guessed that . . . that this would happen, that the information would come into your possession. Me . . . all I could think of was that my sleeping with Lendon had achieved nothing, after all. It was all going to come out in any case.’

  Gillian Kent’s eyes were blurred now, glistening with tears that lay at the back of her lids. But she sat with her head high and Crow reasoned she had some cause for pride: she had sacrificed herself to Lendon to save Barstow.

  ‘Do you have anything to add?’

  Barstow shook his head. He seemed stunned as he continued to stare at Mrs Kent. Her eyes avoided his as though she feared to see contempt in them. There was no contempt, only the dawning of a realization. Crow sensed that Barstow had not known how deeply Gillian Kent had loved him — now he knew.

  ‘I shall have to ask you for a statement nevertheless. Sergeant Wilson will take it from you.’

  Mrs Kent sat with her head lowered and Barstow put out his hand. The weakness had left his mouth and there was a determined glint in his eyes. Crow had seen it happen before, but never as clearly as this. The man who had taken, and indulged his sensual whims, was suddenly accepting his responsibilities. As his hand touched hers Mrs Kent looked up and she too saw what lay in his eyes.

  Crow rose to his feet and walked towards the door. Time now to see Cathy Tennant: he wasn’t looking forward to the interview. But at least, he thought, Lendon’s death had achieved something. Barstow might well be struck off the medical register, but he had in a sense found his own manhood. The humiliation that Gillian Kent had suffered for him would be something he could never turn his back on.

  Love, Crow thought, could be a painful experience. It had been for Mrs Kent, and now Barstow was feeling the birth pangs. But Crow’s guess was that it would work out well.

  He was not so confident of the result of the interview he was about to conduct.

  Chapter 16

  ‘Take a seat, Miss Tennant.’

  She had changed since Crow first met her. Her eyes were evasive, and shadowed as though she had spent more than one sleepless night. She seemed to have taken little trouble with her appearance, and her hands displayed an uncharacteristic nervousness and instability. Crow wondered whether it was merely anxiety occasioned by the fact she had information that she was holding back, or whether there were other causes. Arthur Tennant would not have spoken to her: Crow had demanded the promise from him before he left, so she could hardly be aware of the contents of Lendon’s will. Unless Lendon himself had told her previously.

  Crow rose to his full height and stretched. He smiled apologetically at Cathy. ‘Sometimes I think I should have been a farmer. Sitting behind a desk never did suit me. My joints creak after a bit.’

  There was no answering smile from the girl. She sat on the edge of her seat and she did not meet his eyes. Wilson remained quietly at the other table. Crow eyed him briefly, went back behind his desk and levered himself into a reasonably comfortable position. He placed his bony hands on the desk and leaned forward sympathetically.

  ‘Don’t you think that it’s time you told us?’

  The way her eyes leapt to his reminded him of the image of a startled fawn at the advent of the dogs. She was frightened . . . more, she was terrified. But not for herself, he was sure. For herself Cathy Tennant would not display such naked panic.

  ‘Ever since we first met,’ Crow said gently, ‘I’ve had the feeling that you have information to impart to us, but for reasons of your own . . . loyalty, perhaps . . . you’ve kept that information back. I’ve waited, as Wilson will tell you, in the belief that your own common sense would finally tell you that you must impart it to us. You haven’t yet done so. Why not now, Miss Tennant?’

  She shook her head in simulated bewilderment. She was too honest to be a good actress.

  ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘Come off it, Cathy. You don’t mind me calling you that, Cathy? I have a regard for your intellect: I’d be somewhat distressed if you didn’t pay me the same compliment. I know that you’re holding something back.’

  Again
she shook her head. Her expression remained blank.

  ‘I’m afraid I’ve nothing to tell you. I just don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  Crow sighed, but remained gentle.

  ‘Look, Cathy, let me put it to you like this. Charles Lendon was murdered, quite brutally, at the Old Mill. You knew him. I think you respected him. There don’t seem to be many who have a good word to say for him, but I’ve not heard you criticize him. You took him with his faults . . . you judged him by his conduct towards you. Now, bearing that in mind, do you think it’s right that you should do anything to shield his murderer?’

  He saw that he had hit the right note. Her panic increased, but she was still shaking her head.

  ‘I’m not hiding anything, it’s got nothing to do . . . I don’t know who murdered him.’

  ‘But you do have information which might have some bearing on the case. Something you’ve kept back from us.’

  ‘I don’t, I don’t. I have no information that—’

  ‘It’s Michael Enson, isn’t it?’

  ‘What?’

  He had shocked her; her worried eyes were meeting his for the first time and she was sitting bolt upright. Two bright spots of colour burned in her cheeks.

  ‘I think that the information you have is damaging to your young friend Enson. That’s why you’ve not given it to us. It’s the only explanation for your conduct. It must concern someone of whom you’re fond: I’ve seen Arthur Tennant and it doesn’t involve him. There’s only one other person close .to you, and that’s Enson. And I think you know something about him, something to connect him with what happened at the Old Mill. You know he had a grudge against Lendon—’

  ‘Grudge? What grudge?’

  ‘—and I know you must have quarrelled with him over something. That’s why you ran away from him in the woods . . .? That’s it, isn’t it, why you’ve not seen him just recently — we’re not blind fools, Cathy — and that’s why the knowledge that you’re keeping something from us is burning you up. You’re caught out in conflicting loyalties — towards Lendon, and towards us, and towards Michael Enson. But it can be resolved only one way, Cathy, even if it hurts. Our way. It’s the only way in the long run.’

  He could see the agonizing struggle that she was having with her conscience. The pain that it caused her was reflected in her face. But even as he saw the pain he knew that he had lost the battle right from the start. She could not tell him the truth: it would cost her too much in the telling. Her sense of what was right was inevitably being overridden by her love. He glanced across to Wilson and read the same thought in the Yorkshireman’s expression. She wasn’t going to speak. Her next words only served to emphasize it all.

  ‘I really can’t help you, Inspector.’

  Her voice was quiet, and almost resigned in quality.

  It was as though she had reached a final decision. But for Crow it couldn’t be final; he had to make her go back on that decision. And there was only one way, only one method. The direct and brutal method. He stared at her coldly for a long moment and then, with a deliberately induced harshness, he changed his tack abruptly.

  ‘Did it ever occur to you that Charles Lendon loved you?’

  He had the painful satisfaction of seeing the shock of the question drive out what colour was left in her face.

  ‘I. . .what on earth makes you . . .’

  ‘I repeat: did you know that he loved you? Did he ever give you cause to think so?’

  ‘No! Never!’

  ‘What was his attitude towards you?’ She was flustered, and annoyed. She shook her head in angry desperation.

  ‘His attitude? It was . . . well, it was ambivalent.’

  ‘Ambivalent? What the hell is that supposed to mean? Was he fond of you?’

  ‘Well, yes, I suppose he was in a way, but—’

  ‘How did he show it?’

  ‘Well, the way he looked at me sometimes, and once in a while he would touch my shoulder as though . . . really, Inspector, I don’t see what all this has to do with—’

  Crow put up a hand; the fingers were thin and predatory, the gesture peremptory.

  ‘Don’t tell me my job, Miss Tennant. All I want from you is answers, not questions, or comments. You tell me you found Charles Lendon’s attitude towards you ambivalent. On his side, at least, they were obviously clear-cut.’

  She was eyeing him a little warily. She leaned forward in her chair, her face chased with emotions of conflicting puzzlement, curiosity and fear.

  ‘Clear-cut? I don’t know what you’re driving at, Inspector.’

  ‘Then I’d better spell it out for you, Miss Tennant. I take it that you were aware that Lendon had . . . shall we call it, an affection for you? But you were not, of course, aware that he intended leaving most of his estate to you.’

  ‘What?’

  Crow made no effort to repeat the statement. There was adequate testimony to the fact that she had heard clearly the first time. She was riveted to the chair, unable to move, her face expressive of complete surprise, shock and bewilderment. It was also testimony to the fact that she could not previously have known of the terms of Charles Lendon’s will.

  Some moments elapsed before Cathy recovered from her surprise. ‘You . . . you can’t be serious. You can’t say that this was his intention—’

  ‘His intention,’ Crow replied with cold precision, ‘and his action. You are the main beneficiary under Charles Lendon’s will. He left little to anyone else, apart from an annuity to Mrs Bell, with whom he has been virtually living for the past seven years.’

  Cathy looked stunned. She seemed incapable of comprehending the situation, but she made an effort to pull herself together.

  ‘I can’t believe it,’ she murmured. ‘I never thought . . . why could he possibly want to do that?’

  ‘He also made Arthur Tennant his executor, to administer the estate and hand it over to you.’

  She obviously found this information equally puzzling. ‘But Dad hardly knew Charles Lendon, if he knew him at all. And Dad never told me that he was to be Lendon’s executor.’

  ‘For the simple reason that he himself did not know until this week.’

  Cathy was completely lost now, and vulnerable. Crow had delivered the opening cannonade: it was time to press home the advantage, to break down her defences and emphasize the point, which Crow hoped would finally make Cathy see sense. He took a deep breath.

  ‘I want to tell you a story now, Miss Tennant. An old story, twenty-five years old. A story about three people, living not far from here. One was a young girl: she was about eighteen, pretty, lively, a little vain perhaps, but what pretty girl at her age isn’t? Ever since she was thirteen she’d been friendly with a young man five or six years older than she and it had become accepted that one day they would marry. When she was eighteen, they became engaged.’

  Cathy was inattentive, only half listening: her mind was still spinning around the facts he had already given her.

  ‘Her fiancé was a steady chap, he had a good job locally, and he was a dependable man. But he had always been around and he lacked glamour. Then she suddenly found just that.’

  Cathy was nervous. She opened her mouth to speak but Crow forestalled her.

  ‘Please hear me out. This young girl knew little of men, and when her cousin came to stay briefly with the family she was overcome by him. He was in his thirties, handsome, capable, worldly, intelligent. He swept her off her feet, she was wildly in love with him, a young, new love, and he took advantage of the situation. He seduced her. They became lovers.’

  She was listening to him now. Stories of love for lovers were always of fascination.

  ‘She was mistaken about him. Perhaps she believed the things he said, perhaps she read more into the situation than she should have done. Whatever it was, it became quite obvious he intended no permanency. He tired of her and left the area. Within two weeks of discarding her, breaking off the affair, the girl found herself
pregnant. It’s impossible to say what she felt, or what motivated her but she ran away from the village, took a job in another town . . . and later, when the time came, she had her baby in a nursing home. It was stillborn.’

  Crow paused. Cathy was wide-eyed.

  ‘She might have stayed there, alone, unhappy, but her fiancé sought her out. One can look only with considerable regard upon that man. He sought her out, persuaded her to marry him. And I think he might have made her forget her unhappiness, for they had three years together before she died, in childbirth.’

  Cathy was an intelligent girl; Crow had her attention and saw the flicker in her eyes. ‘The child was a girl. He brought her up, lavished affection on her, and she grew into a beautiful woman. But as she grew she became more and more a drain on him financially, and though he had a good job he wasn’t wealthy and he wanted the best for her. He wanted her settled in a profession and when he received a communication from a solicitor in Canthorpe it came as a surprise, but not an unwelcome one, for all its unpleasant associations.’

  ‘Charles Lendon.’ Her voice was quiet, and tense.

  ‘Charles Lendon. The man who seduced his own cousin all those years ago now wanted to help in the education of his cousin’s daughter.’

  ‘But why? Why?’ Crow shrugged.

  ‘I think there were many conflicting reasons. Lendon knew about the stillborn child, the marriage of his cousin to Arthur Tennant, the birth of a daughter . . . you. Your father, well, I think he had hated Lendon all these years, but when Lendon wrote to him he agreed to talk. Your father told me that Lendon said he’d look after you professionally, bring you on in the firm. Tennant didn’t believe Lendon when he said that this was his way of making up for the wrongs he had done his cousin, but then, there’s no reason why Arthur Tennant should feel charitably towards Lendon.’