The Woods Murder

by Roy Lewis

  ‘What do you think?’

  Crow looked at her passively. ‘Is it important?’

  ‘I . . . I don’t know.’

  She was confused, and Crow hated the fact that he had to use her confusion, but he had a job to do.

  ‘Perhaps Tennant misjudged Charles Lendon. Perhaps Lendon was trying to make up for the wrong he had done his cousin, your mother, all those years ago. On the other hand, although he has left you his estate, that might have been dictated by the desire to hurt Mrs Bell. Who can tell?’

  He paused, eyeing the girl carefully.

  ‘There’s one thing we do know. He became fond of you.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You’ve told me his attitude towards you was ambivalent. He hadn’t changed much over the years, he was still a roué, a womanizer, but perhaps he really did love your mother in his way. Perhaps he felt pangs of regret for his behaviour towards her, but whatever it was once you were with him at the firm did he not show an unusual attitude, for a principal, towards you? You were puzzled by the way he looked at you, touched you on occasions ‘

  ‘You said he left me his estate.’

  ‘That’s right. Perhaps to hurt Mrs Bell. Or perhaps because he saw your mother in you. Or saw in you the daughter he could have had, but never did.’

  She was shaking her head. It was all too much for her to comprehend and her own emotions were so confused that she was unable to think clearly. Crow continued to press her.

  ‘So I want you to think about it all, Cathy. I want you to think about Charles Lendon and your mother, about your father, about the way they’ve all been bound up together during these years. Arthur Tennant hated Charles Lendon but he saw the sense in accepting Lendon’s offer of a career for you, even though he doubted Lendon’s motives. And Lendon left his estate to you, naming Tennant as his executor. All right, that’s a cruel joke too, in view of Tennant’s hatred of Lendon, but this was the sort of man Lendon was. The fact is, what are you going to do about it now?’

  ‘Do? What do you mean?’

  ‘Are you going to tell us the truth, tell us all you know or will you keep silence?’

  ‘I . . . I don’t know what you mean. There’s nothing . . .’ There were tears now, glittering like sunshine on a river and Crow knew that she was all but exhausted emotionally. But he could waste no time on sympathy, he could give her no time to live again the days she had spent in Lendon’s company in his office, to visualise the way Lendon had looked after her, watched her, regarded her with pride. Crow had to attack, underline the half recognized emotions.

  ‘I want you to think,’ he said urgently, ‘before you say another word. I want you to remember that Charles Lendon loved your mother. I want you to remember that in his own way he tried to make up for what he had done to her by bringing you into his firm. I want you to remember that in his own possessive, strange way he came to love you too, as a father loves a daughter — for that can be the only explanation of his attitude towards you. And I want you to remember the way he died, in agony, with a skewer in his heart. I want you to picture him coughing out his life, alone, at the Old Mill. And I want you to realize, and accept, that anything you hold back, any information you keep to yourself concerning his death will be a protection for the man who murdered . . . not just anyone, not a stranger, not just your employer. You’re protecting the man who murdered Charles Lendon . . . a womanizer, a hard, selfish man, but a person who loved your mother and who tried to atone for his treatment of her, through you!’

  Cathy groaned and closed her eyes. Crow felt sorry for her. She would never know the truth about Charles Lendon. She would never be sure whether he had really tried to atone or whether he was indulging in a bitter joke at Arthur Tennant’s expense, and at Mrs Bell’s expense. But the doubts were there and they would always be there. Charles Lendon might have looked upon her as a man looks upon his daughter. He might have willed her his estate out of affection and love. They were doubts Crow fostered and used. He watched the girl as she put her head back on the chair, despairingly. Then without warning she lurched forward, throwing her hands up to her face. The tears came, violently. Crow nodded to Wilson and the sergeant left the room, to return a few minutes later with a cup.

  ‘Tea,’ Crow said apologetically, putting his bony fingers gently on Cathy’s shoulder. ‘Special; laced with whisky from Wilson’s special bottle. Strictly against regulations.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Cathy said, sniffing. He knew she meant not only the tears, but everything. ‘My handbag.’

  At her nod Crow opened the clip. ‘The letter, in the blue envelope.’

  Crow read it quickly, then again, more slowly. At last he turned to the silent detective-sergeant beside Cathy. ‘Tell the desk sergeant I’ll want Enson brought in here in five minutes’ time. Before that, I want you to take Miss Tennant home.’

  Wilson nodded and left the room. Crow read the letter again. ‘Where did you get this, Cathy?’

  ‘It was pushed on top of the files in the cabinet in the anteroom.’

  ‘You think Lendon must have intercepted it, then pushed it hastily in the filing drawer before leaving the office?’

  ‘I . . . I imagine so. When I saw it I . . . I took it, because . . .’

  ‘Was the envelope with it?’

  ‘No. There was just the paper.’

  ‘Was it Enson who was with you the night you came out of the woods and I met you?’

  She nodded, despairingly, and he stared at her with compassion. Life could be hell when you were young, and love could be worse. He began to speak, but was interrupted by the violent opening of the door.

  It was Wilson, shaken out of his Yorkshire taciturnity.

  ‘It’s Enson, sir. He’s gone. He left headquarters not two minutes after Miss Tennant was brought in here.’

  Chapter 17

  The next ten minutes were hectic. Crow got in touch immediately with the operations room and had a call put out to all patrol cars in the town. A car was dispatched with Detective-Sergeant Turner to Enson’s address and then Crow discussed the possible necessity for road blocks and checks to be made in and around Canthorpe. It wasn’t going to be easy. In the discussion, Crow almost forgot Cathy.

  When he returned to the interview room and saw her face he felt a rush of sympathy. The news had meant as much to her as it had to them: it was possible that Enson would have an explanation for his sudden disappearance from the precincts, but when allied to Cathy’s presence at the station and the letter she had produced, Enson’s action looked suspiciously like the flight of a guilty man. Crow and Wilson thought so, and Cathy’s face told them that she was of the same mind.

  ‘Before I get a car to take you home,’ Crow said in a gentle voice, ‘I should ask you: do you have any idea where young Enson might have gone? Is there any possible explanation, is there any urgent matter that might have arisen?’

  It was foolish, talking in those terms. If there had been any urgency Enson’s natural and logical reaction would have been to tell Crow and ask for permission to leave. But he had just left without a word to anyone. There was also one young constable who had ‘slipped out of the room for a moment’ for a canteen cup of tea who would be on the carpet later that day, thought Crow sourly.

  Cathy was shaking her head. Her face was miserable. ‘I can’t think where he would have gone, other than to his office, or home.’

  ‘We’ve sent cars to both places, and the patrol cars are watching out for him too. But if there’s no help that you can offer on this matter, I think it best that you go home. You’ve had more than enough by way of shocks this morning.’

  ‘I . . . I think 1’d prefer to go back to the office,’ she said after a moment’s reflection. He could guess why: she wouldn’t want to be alone in her flat. She would want the office and work and bustle, to take her mind off Mike Enson and Charles Lendon and the whole ugly mess. She had finally begun to accept the fact that her lover was under suspicion for murde
r. It was a fact she had kept thrust to the back of her mind these last days. Yet she had not destroyed the letter, the link between Lendon and Enson, the reason why Lendon had gone to the Old Mill the night he had died. Even though it obviously incriminated the man she loved she had not destroyed it. Her agony of mind must have been greater than Crow had imagined: it must have been, for her to bear the secret and the knowledge that the letter gave her.

  ‘I’ll get you a car then, and the office it shall be.’

  Wilson entered as Crow walked towards the door. He told Crow that there would be a car waiting and then he went to escort Cathy out of the room. At the door she paused and looked back to the gaunt inspector. Her face was stiff.

  ‘You . . . you said that Mike had a grudge against . . . against Charles Lendon.’

  ‘Of a sort. A long-standing thing. I don’t think we should go into it now.’

  ‘I would like to know. Please.’

  Crow hesitated, then accepted that in a way she had a right to know. She was so deeply involved emotionally that it was only fair that she should be apprised of the whole situation. It would all come out anyway. He nodded.

  ‘Young Enson’s father, Samuel Enson, was a builder. He started a firm in the twenties and was doing quite nicely until the war came along. You’ll be too young to appreciate it all, but the fact was that there were a number of restrictions clamped down then, and in the immediate post-war years. But Sam Enson kept his head above water. The trouble was, he didn’t use, shall we say, entirely ethical means.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘There was a prosecution. It’s all in the police files. It would seem that Sam Enson was well known locally, and had lots of contacts. Nothing wrong in using contacts, of course, but what in fact happened was that he approached certain councillors and made them a proposition, or series of propositions in the 1940s. Thereafter, he had no trouble over his building licences, and certain people had rake offs.’

  ‘But what has all this to do with Mike and . . . and Lendon?’

  Crow shrugged reluctantly.

  ‘The whole thing blew up just two years after Charles Lendon came to Canthorpe. A client came to him with a complaint and Lendon took a look at the Enson company. He soon discovered, or guessed, just what had been going on, and he went straight to the police. He claimed that he was being public-spirited. He claimed that he wanted to remove corruption from public life. Probably, if you will forgive my saying it, he just wanted to make a name for himself locally. He certainly got some publicity out of it and Sam Enson was prosecuted. But his company was not wound up, at least not until after a five-year period. For Lendon persuaded the creditors not to bankrupt Enson. Instead, he suggested that the firm be run by a board of managers in the interim until all creditors were paid in full. The post-war building boom was just around the corner and Lendon knew what he was doing.’

  ‘He got a seat on the board,’ Cathy stated in a flat monotone. Crow nodded.

  ‘And Sam Enson got a two-year term. When he came out it was to find his firm out of the red and running well without him. But within two years it had gone into liquidation — after Lendon had pulled out.’

  ‘I don’t understand . . .’

  ‘Who does? All we know is that everything Enson touched turned sour and he ended a broken man. He was bankrupted. It killed the old man. The shame of a prison sentence and then bankruptcy killed him.’

  ‘But Mike wasn’t involved in any of this.’

  Crow picked up a sheet of paper from his desk. He stared at it for a moment then passed it across to the girl.

  ‘There are three dates there . . . disturbances created by Michael Enson. Seven years ago, the first, the next two six years ago. A long time, I know. But it would seem that Enson hated Lendon for what he felt had been done to his father. He seems to have held Lendon responsible for his father’s troubles. A little unjustified perhaps, though in part there was something in it. Certainly Lendon seems to have behaved towards Sam Enson with a certain ruthlessness. Still, rightly or wrongly, Enson hated Lendon; Lendon knew it, and from the account of the trouble between them, revelled in it somewhat. I have no doubt but that young Enson carried his enmity with him for a long time.’

  Cathy faced Crow squarely, and her chin came up.

  ‘I see nothing in all this to suggest that Mike could have killed Charles Lendon.’

  ‘There is nothing in it. All I am saying is that the two were . . . unfriendly. From that thereafter I discover that you and young Enson are close friends, and that Lendon probably disapproved of the situation. Lendon died at the Old Mill, a lovers’ trysting-place. And you show me the letter.’

  ‘But why would Mike want to kill Lendon? Why now? After all these years?’

  Crow did not reply for a moment but looked steadily at the girl. He watched the puzzlement in her face change to a realization of what his silence meant.

  ‘You mean . . . you mean me?’ she queried in a voice tense with horror. ‘You mean he killed him because of me?’

  There was a short silence and then Crow put his hand out to her, in a compassionate gesture. ‘I think you ought to go now.’

  The agonized expression in her eyes remained with him for the rest of the day. It was a long day too, for he felt ill at ease, frustrated and strangely at odds with himself. He had never met young Enson, but he knew Cathy Tennant. He found it odd that she should have been unaware of the depth of hatred between Lendon and her lover. Yet it would seem to have been deep enough to result in murder.

  And where was Enson? There had been not a sign of him all day. He seemed to have vanished: and Canthorpe wasn’t a big place.

  Just before five in the afternoon Simpson came into Crow’s room. His face was sullen, and dissatisfaction added deep lines to his heavy jaw.

  ‘Hear you got yours on the run.’

  ‘Well, sir, it’s a possible lead. He ran, but we should find him today. He’s not had time to get far.’

  ‘You think he’s the one? For the Lendon killing?’

  ‘It is a possibility.’ The repetition emphasized Crow’s caution. ‘There are signs that—’

  ‘Signs! Don’t talk to me about bloody signs! That’s all I’ve been getting on this Carson killing . . . signs, and not a real bloody track to follow. Eight weeks and we’re where we damned well started. All those statements, all that paper-work and it’s led only to three suspects cleared and not another thing out in the open.’

  It was obvious that Simpson had not come in to discuss the Lendon affair: he was openly bringing in the Carson killing. Crow regarded the big superintendent dispassionately.

  ‘You’ve had a house to house?’

  ‘House to house and door to bloody door! Take a look in the ops room, Crow, and see the mountain of paper. And the press, hell, the press, I wish they’d get the hell out of it!’

  ‘It’ll crack,’ murmured Crow.

  ‘Or I will!’ Simpson’s tone was snappish. He relapsed into a moody silence, staring out of the window, and Crow watched him for a moment. He remembered the last occasion when he had spoken to Simpson: maybe it was the superintendent’s lack of success that had caused him to fly into a rage then. The point was, Simpson had now come to Crow. The inspector took a deep breath.

  ‘Do you mind if I ask you something?’ Crow noted the stiffening of Simpson’s shoulders and there was a truculence in the man’s tones when he replied; nevertheless he invited Crow to pose his question.

  ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘I have no intention of interfering in your investigation, Superintendent, but I will ask you just this one question. Have you looked at John Barnes?’

  The thick eyebrows frowned; the wary eyes held Crow. ‘Barnes? Who . . . what’s there about Barnes? We’ve nothing on him, so why do we look at him?’

  Not an outright refusal, not a throwing back in Crow’s teeth, simply a reluctance that could be accepted as part of the man’s make-up. Crow grimaced.

  ‘You know how it
is in this job, Superintendent. It’s part luck, part hard work and part intuitive experience. I’ll come right out now and say that I have no positive, concrete reason for suggesting that you should look closely at Barnes, no evidence to point to his involvement. But I’ve met him and I’ve got a feeling—’

  Simpson snorted, but Crow continued calmly:

  ‘—I’ve got a feeling about the man. There’s something wrong about him. He told me about the search for the little girl and he obviously felt something compulsive about it. He could no more have stayed away from that search than he could prevent himself from telling me all about it. I can’t explain the impression he made upon me; all I can say is, just once before have I received such an impression and the man concerned turned out to be a psychopath.’

  Simpson was staring at Crow with a contempt that he made no attempt to conceal. He snorted again. ‘This sounds like a Mother’s Corner magazine! Intuition! A feeling about the man!’

  ‘That’s what I said.’ Crow’s reply was quietly phrased, but underlined by stubbornness.

  ‘You’re an experienced officer and you can come out with guff like that,’ Simpson said. ‘It makes me ask myself what the hell we’re doing these days. Intuition is for the birds.’

  ‘You know better than that, Superintendent. You know as well as I that there are times when a man comes before you with a cast-iron alibi and yet you know in your bones he’s as guilty as hell. It will have happened to you: yet you deny me the word intuition. Well, no matter. The thing is, I’ve told you now. I’d have done so earlier—’

  ‘But you thought I’d regard it as meddling. All right, fair enough. But intuition, man, it’s a load of poppycock and you know it.’

  He scraped a horny hand against the rough stubble of his chin. He shrugged suddenly in capitulation.

  ‘Still, I’ll have to check it now. We’ll have taken his statement and that of his sister, and checked it against others but . . . well, I’ll settle for old wives for a few hours, hey?’ He turned to go back but paused at the door as though about to add something. In the event he went out, without speaking. Crow knew their relationship wasn’t sufficiently close for admissions of weakness.